Martin Gardner died this week, inspiring one of two reactions:

• (a) Who?
• (b) Oh my god, Martin Gardner! [Followed by ten minutes’ recall of a youth spent with pencil and paper, scribbling and scratching one’s head]

I am, needless to say, in group B. Gardner was (for all you group-A types) the world’s foremost constructor of mathematical and scientific puzzles, for most of the twentieth century and a bit of this one. Many of them appeared in his “Mathematical Games” column in Scientific American, though I came across them in some of the 50 books he put together during his 95 years. He brought a sense of play to math, which, despite my inclinations toward a career in the sciences, was never my strong suit—he certainly helped make it tolerable. He had wide-ranging interests beyond puzzle-land, being particularly interested in the threat of pseudoscience. Most of all, his work was, and still is, a fabulous way to hone one’s logic skills, critical thinking, and clearheaded thinking.

Tributes here, from Scientific American: An elegant obituary, another thoughtful story, and three simple puzzles that will pleasurably eat up twenty minutes of your day. A life well spent.

Um, so first we get Indonesia’s smoking toddler. Now comes a father in Wuhan, China, who tried to auction off his son on a street corner:

He put up a table with a sign on it, giving the youngster’s name and age and boasting of his capacity for hard work.

But when bidders began to ask how much the boy ate, angry bystanders attacked the father.

Police now have the lad in care in Wuhan, central China.

Both stories come from a dubious source—the Sun—and they leave me asking many questions. Like, what is an 8-year-old worth in, say, dumplings? At this point, shouldn’t the Chinese child market be more sophisticated than simply chaining kids to lampposts? Come on, China, it’s the 21st century: You should have a whole national eBay-like Web system set up to buy, sell and trade unwanted crotchspawn. You don’t want to be thought of as backward, do you?

In my line of work, silly season has always kicked off right about now: It’s summertime, when Washington goes on recess and news outlets start writing about the stupidest things imaginable. My dear alma mater Time practically defined this category with its urgent and breathless reporting, in summer 2001, of the great danger posed to the U.S. by … sharks.

But in my new capacity as Dadblogger, I have seen that silly season starts now for a much different reason: Father’s Day.

Dadwagon is approaching its first Father’s Day, and like all dads, we will be outwardly gruff but inwardly quite pleased at the bit of extra attention and maybe an extra neckhug or two from the kids.

Likewise, we appreciate the friendly notes from companies about ideas for products or activities. We are not anti-corporatists here at DadWagon, but we reserve the right to mock any such offers or suggestions that come across the transom, if they are worth mocking. And the first Father’s Day suggestion that came into our tip box from a PR firm is, indeed, exquisitely mockable. Here’s the first part of this lovely pitch:

This Father’s Day, encourage your readers to consider asking for a gift that is not only technologically-advanced, but can help protect their family!

I represent Fellowes, Inc., the leading shredder manufacturer.  The company recently released a new product in Target Stores- the P-12C.  This machine has all of the bells and whistles at an affordable price, and can help Dads protect their families against identity theft- the nation’s fastest growing crime. Last year alone, identity theft impacted 11.1 million Americans, according to Javelin Strategy and Research’s 2010 Identity Fraud Survey Report.  That’s an increase of 12 percent from the previous year.

That’s right: get dad a fucking shredder this Father’s Day. Which is basically the same as getting him a trash can.

But it’s not just the ugh factor of imagining the dad who actually gets this for a gift (and it would come in a big box that would even get dad’s hopes up a little bit, only to crush them upon realizing that it’s a fucking shredder). What gets me is how this is being pitched to dads. Anyone living in post-9/11 America shouldn’t be surprised by fear-based advertising (The survival kit your family can’t live without! Branson, Mo.: 100% terrorist-free! Beware of identity theft!). But in pitching this item–a fucking shredder–our PR friend is attempting to leverage that gut instinct that fathers have to protect their young families.

My suggestion: if you’re going to try to pry some of mom’s money loose by saying that dad needs to protect the family, don’t stop at office supplies. Please, sell us a Bowie knife and some warpaint. Because a Real Dad doesn’t just want to thwart identity thieves, he wants to gut them and make the sewers run red with their blood.

Now, in acknowledgment that there have probably been worse, and perhaps even far worse, Father’s Day Gifts, I do want to throw it open to you all. If you have received or have heard of something more inane or deflating than a fucking shredder, then please leave a comment. Or make an argument as to why the old standbys–Old Spice and a pair of tube socks–would be worse that the P-12C shredder.

One giant complicated family

My mother is town for JP’s birthday, with my step-father and her mother (my step-grandmother). On JP’s birthday we will be joined by my father and his third wife, or in JP’s somewhat confused parlance—Grandpa Steve and Grandpa Lucie. At some point on his birthday JP will see his mother’s parents—Ong and Ba (they’re Vietnamese). Several great uncles may show up throughout the course of the day, along with various cousins, some friends, and parents he knows from school. My girlfriend and my ex’s girlfriend will be around. My brother, JP’s uncle, will surely call, as will his mother’s four sisters, their husbands, plus one long-term boyfriend whom JP has always called Uncle Jonno, and who he knows rather better than some of his actual uncles.

You guys getting all that? Yes, all families are complex, and not just in the Tolstoyan sense that Nathan described last week. But with all the divorces and remarriage, combined with the long lives of my extended family members, JP has to reckon with a family tree only a Mormon could parse.

Right now JP is in the kitchen with my mother and his step-great-grandmother supervising while they make blueberry pancakes. He’s calling both of them grandma.

Smart kid.