Preparing for the Upcoming (which is what I’ve decided to call my daughter until she is born) is, as most parents know, a bummer. Shopping, planning, nesting, preparing said nest for nesting, is no fun. Perhaps my girlfriend (and definitely my mother) would disagree, but that’s where I am on the issue. It’s time-consuming, murderously boring, and devastatingly expensive.

So I’ll take any help that I can get. For example, the other day I was visiting a friend’s house and he told me that someone in his building had just put a crib outside to be thrown away. Kid had just moved into the toddler bed and they didn’t need it anymore.

I went outside side, and luck of luck, the crib was in excellent condition, all the pieces there, hardware in a plastic bag, paint still intact, nothing wobbly. Yahtzee! I just saved myself several hundred bucks and god only knows how many hours of shopping. I threw the thing in my car, took it home, dumped it in my bedroom, and there it has sat ever since, waiting for me to put it together.

Without instructions.

Now, I’m not entirely clueless when it comes to things around the house. I can change a light fixture, install a ceiling fan, do a bit of basic carpentry, but I am far from handy, and the site of this crib, in pieces, waiting for me, daring me to put her together on my own, has rendered me inert.

Perhaps, in a better world, the real Dad–the one with the workshop out back, the one who lives on planet Suburbia and has all those neat power tools–will come along and tell me how to put the fucker together. Until then, I will procrastinate.

In the annals of history, few exhortations have been as universally stirring to mankind as the words that DadWagon’s own Christopher Bonanos composed yea this very afternoon. After a week in which he said “Meh” to Father’s Day and “mush” to a children’s classic, after throwing in the towel in the millennia-old gender wars, he turned his attention to the most vital of human endeavors—diaper advertising—and raised a sonorous cry to the heavens. Quoth this Greek: “Bring on the brown!”

But once the brown has been brought, what then do we do with the do, dear brothers? Why, we call up Theodore, who declared himself useless except when it comes to cleaning up feces. He was perhaps being a little unfair to himself, as he possesses other skills, such as making fun of that poor schmo Jon Gosselin and finding the sunny side of the divorce battle that has torn his life apart. A talented man, that Mr. Ross.

Nathan, meanwhile, spent the week glued to the television, tearing himself away from a Stanley Cup (right?) match only long enough to tease stormsweeper with the prospect of a Father’s Day handjob, then turning right back to the boob toob in anticipation of some hot gay daddies (on CNN). And then, without a trace of irony, he wondered whether all his gadgetry, Twittery and bloggerizing were distracting him from the business of fatherhood.

While some might criticize this form of LCD OCD, I prefer to think Nathan’s simply following the government’s advice on being a good father, which I recently unearthed (in order to mock). I guess I was in a mocking mood, because I also laughed at my daughter’s cataclysmic tumble on a Chinatown sidewalk (no wonder she pretends not to know me), the almost-sale of a baby at Walmart ($25), and the Taiwanese government’s attempt to convince its citizens to procreate.

The four of us also Tantrumed over some chick’s declaration of the “End of Men,” and although we came to no clear resolution, I think we can all agree that while men haven’t ended, this week has. See you on Monday!

Look, it’s easy to dismiss Father’s Day. An artificial holiday, crafted by Hallmark, endorsed by the United Tie, Sock and Gadget Makers of America, celebrating the men who already pretty much dominate the country anyway. Who needs it?

Me, for one. I need it.

It’s not that I crave recognition for my fatherly efforts, or that I want to claim time to myself (to go running, or drink with friends, or whatever) by saying Daddy needs a day off. I don’t expect presents or cards—I don’t get the same thrill out of such things as some people.

But what I need in my life is structure. As a lazy-ass travel and food writer, I can do just about whatever I want, whenever I want. Which means editors have no qualms about sending me off to, say, Tunisia at the drop of a straw fedora. I leave, I come back, I go off again, with virtually no consideration for the days of the week or the months of the year.

The thing is, I like being with my wife and kid, and Father’s Day lets me tell editors (and myself): No, no travel, I need to be here for that day. Yes, it’s an arbitrary celebration. No, it will not be much different from any other Sunday. But, like Mother’s Day and various other birthdays and anniversaries, it’s a day I can claim back from my otherwise insane and pointless work schedule.

Plus, hey, Jean and Sasha gave me a tie! Neat.

When I contemplated fatherhood—long, long ago, for a couple of minutes—I never imagined myself as that guy. You know, the one obsessed with big-boy toys like boats and cars, the one who showers his gadgets with more love than he does his children, the one for whom ostentatious displays of wealth often substitute for simply taking the kid down the street to the playground.

Then I saw this:

Forget about the neo-Art Deco styling, the 52-inch flat TVs inside, the multiple staterooms. It is a freaking yacht with its own freaking custom car inside! Would you like me to put it another way? How about this: It is a freaking cool-ass car that has its own bad-ass goddamn yacht it rides in!

And so, Jean, if you happen to be reading this during an off-hour at work, and if you want to make me happy for a very long time to come (also very poor for the rest of our lives), please get me a Strand Craft speedboat for Father’s Day. Just make sure to kick in the extra $300 for the onboard paper shredder.