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Father's Day has always been a difficult time for me. It isn't that I don't have a father; rather, it's that, every year at about this time, from the sky descends a giant fixed template of American Dad-dom, which, alas, fits my father very poorly. We've never been to a ballgame together. We've never tossed the old pill around in the back yard. We've never had a couple of beers, or even one beer. We've never been hunting or fishing or camping. We've never worked on cars, or done anything else involving a tool kit. He has never offered me homespun advice that was no less true because it took the form of familiar bromides. He is not, in truth, even a regular guy. Although he ...