Two writers, one’s named Boyle, the other's named Doyle, together they are Boyle and Doyle.
Recent works of Fiction in The New Yorker that when read together, offer interesting counterpoints to the Deadbeat/Schlubby Dad Lit genre.
Boyle’s Dad, 26, after a night drinking margaritas with his ex-band mate, calls up work and tells his boss, Radko, his baby’s dead and then goes out for breakfast and then to the movies.
Doyle’s Dad is a 48 year-old Dubliner with several kids. The youngest is 18 and soon to leave home. You get the sense that the Dad is gonna miss the kid even though he doesn’t get the kid. They watch a movie about a womanizing dwarf and the Dad is like huh?? Dad’s local pub is two k’s from the local he grew up in. Y’see, if nothing else, Dad likes his comfort zones and he likes to get tipsy. Dad goes to Spain with his mates, also 48, gets hammered, gets in a bullring, then goes back to the rental in Valencia and pukes in the pool. Fucking genius.
The stories were so good they made me want to have kids just so I could totally get into the characters’ heads. After that of course I would have to give the kids back. It’s a really good idea. There should be somewhere you can call before you are allowed to read these stories, you know giving childless guys the opportunity to look after babies so they can get the maximum benefit from this stuff.