Dude, Where's Your Kid?!

Illustration by Bob AulThere it is: your name in the Calendar section of OC Weekly—trendy local venue, sounds like fun, good for you. You are the biological father of my 11-year-old daughter, to whom you have spoken precisely two words since she was about four months old. Those two words came in response to a letter she handed to you on the street over a year ago. The letter was her idea, in her best handwriting, and said she wanted to get together and talk with you sometime. She included her phone number and address. She signed it “Love,” and her name. You read it right there, nodded, and said, “Okay. Soon.” You still haven't called. Months later, in tears, she said to me, “I thought if he got to know me, he might like me.” I got a $50 bill for my birthday this month. I want to change it onto ones and have T-shirts made, with a black-and-white photo image about a foot high—a close-up of her face. (She's an unmistakable double for you, only female and young.) I want to stand in front of the trendy local venue on the night you are there and pay people $1 each to wear one of those T-shirts when they go in. Don't panic: I can't afford to get the T-shirts made.

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