He has a strange way with people - they all love him. He relates with them in the most unorthodox ways, but they seem to appreciate it. I never understood why, but I'm beginning to see that what people appreciate about him is a quality of authenticity that's so lacking in many plastic souls in this world. He's no plastic. He's real.

He's an adventurer. Not the mountain-climbing type, but the street-roaming type. The type who visits little towns and obscure villages. Out there, he's just, well, at home. I guess it's probably because he's spent most of his life as a young man without a place to call his home, so the world is his home.

He sings out of rhythm but insists that it's the rest of the world that's gone out of rhythm. Every song that he sings - pop, rock, jazz, gospel - becomes a country song when he sings it (to our utter dismay). When I was little, he used to tell me to clap furiously after every song he sang. Now he does it to his grandchildren.

He still can't seem to tell the difference between a computer monitor and a television. To him, terms like "email", "forum", and "chat" are abstractly philosophical. In their most concrete forms, these things are like electricity - you can't see it, you don't know what it looks like, but you know it's there. He knows these things exist only because mum and I keep talking about them.

I've ever seen him trying to handle a remote control like it was a handphone (or was it a handphone like a remote control?) But that was long ago. Now, I'm sure he thinks handphones are the coolest things because he calls me all the time when I'm out, just to ask what movie I'm watching and who I'm eating with. I'm cool with that. When I want to say something in a way he can't answer, I'll just send him an SMS (text) - he can't for the life of him figure out how that one works.

Happy 63rd birthday, dad. You're one of a kind. It feels kind of awkward saying I love you; maybe it's because I'm really growing up now. Anyway, I'm giving you the best birthday present ever... ME!