Mac DeMarco is my dad because he is. Because he’s 24 and I’m not so that makes sense. Because he has a gap in his front teeth and I had braces before. Actually he can stick a cig into the space and I’ve done that with my upper and lower lip when I’m drunk. Mac is my dad because my last name is McClure and those two are too similar for him not to be. Because he showered while pooping and I’ve done both of those things separately. Because it seems he doesn’t bathe ever and I’m a shower guy anyway. Because he wears knit caps to hide his dirtiness and I used to wear those when the weather called for something else. Mac is my dad because dads — the good ones — are cool and funny and talented and he’s most of those things. He’s my dad because he called his studio Jizz Jazz and I know what one of those means.
Mac DeMarco is my friend because a good dad is a friend. He’s my friend because he made Salad Days and that record has “Chamber Of Reflection” on it. That track is good because the verses and refrains are Hemingway-simple. He’s my friend because he knows I like simple because I might be simple. That track is about being alone and I get that feeling sometimes and it’s nice. He’s my friend because he likes friends but privacy too and I do too. He’s my friend because he takes me places like on his China tour or to my imagination or to my weird side. And that’s what good friends do. They take you to China unless you can’t go. Then just go to your imagination or your weird side. It’s fun and Mac knows this because he’s fun. I think you’ll like him but don’t be alarmed when he farts on your hand. That means he just doesn’t hate you and maybe he’ll like you. He’s my friend because he riffs on stupid stuff until it’s no longer stupid.
Mac DeMarco is my relief because he googled Teen Slut when he was eight and I googled something more embarrassing last night. He’s my relief because he tells jokes like Mitch Hedberg did and that dude was funny and weird and unbathed too. He’s my relief because he hates Chipotle and I eat it so often that I should hate it. He’s my relief because he once said he wants to make out with Jerry Seinfeld and I want to make something with Jerry Seinfeld. He’s my relief because he self deprecates and that doesn’t go out of style. Mac is my relief because he made a love song about his smokes and I love love songs most of the time. He says “I’ll smoke you ’til I’m dying” and I think he means it and admire his commitment. He’s my relief because he says “Obama, man, shit’s fucked up” in a fake stoner voice and it’s funny because he’s probably a lefty. He’s just joking and I too do fake stoner voices. He’s my relief because his music makes me feel like I’m in a hammock and school got canceled tomorrow.
Mac DeMarco is not my dad because he never sexed my mom. He would but she wouldn’t. He’s not my dad because he’s not ready for a kid or me. And that’s cool. Dads don’t make languorous rock ‘n’ roll earworms; they make dinner reservations. Mac wouldn’t make dinner reservations because he likes In-N-Out Burger and that place doesn’t take reservations right now. He’s not my dad because my real dad would probably listen to Real Estate first. Or Kurt Vile. Or The War on Drugs. And those bands rock but Mac makes effortless seem cooler than it already is. My real dad would stop and ask, “Who’s this?” once he learned to loosen up and work less. Mac DeMarco is not my dad because my dad needs to listen to Mac because it would be good for him. Good to relax to.
Mac DeMarco is many things but he is not my dad. But now that I think of it maybe he is my friend. A friend is someone you can be weird with. And I always feel that when I’m with Mac and my headphones that my real dad bought me for Christmas.
Mac should thank my real dad for buying those headphones. He just can’t sign the card, Your Son’s Dad.