MetroDad

Kicking the Tires: Adventures in Alternative Medicine

Anyone in their 40's who says that age is just a number is either (1) spending a small fortune on cosmetic surgery, or (2) dating a twenty-year-old.

I am currently forty-one and for the most part, I feel pretty good. However, I've got to admit that maintaining my health and physical appearance has NEVER been harder. If my body were a car, I'd say that it still runs decently but it sure as hell spends a lot of time in the shop these days.

I was recently telling a woman how my body has been banged up with all these little nicks and dents. I had a non-cancerous cyst on my forehead that needed to be removed. My sinuses have been a mess all winter. I sprained an ankle that has limited my mileage on the treadmill. I haven't been sleeping well. My appendix was removed several months ago. And last week, I was in the OR to have an abscess surgically excised. Also, for some reason, my body seems to have developed an insatiable craving for burgers and soup dumplings. 

The woman turned to me and said, "Have you ever thought about alternative medicine or New Age treatments?"

Now, when it comes to my health, call me crazy but I'm generally a firm advocate of good old-fashioned, traditional, mainstream, science-based, corporate-funded, evil Western medicine.

Got a headache? Take two Advil.

Stomach feeling a little queasy? Throw down some Pepto.

Anything more serious and I'm in a taxi headed uptown to my Park Avenue diagnostician, a medical genius who has more degrees than a rectal thermometer. If I'm lucky, he'll dismiss me with a prescription for some Vicodin. But if it's anything that could be major, he's known me long enough to know that I'm going to need a team of guys in white lab coats with fancy degrees and even fancier beach houses. When it comes to my health, I'm going with the pros. In times of a serious health crisis, there is no need to be messing around with alternative medicine.

I know I'm not the only one who feels like that.

You ever see what happens when a medical epidemic hits India or Tibet? I don't know about you but it sure does seem like a lot of people are shoving grandma out of the way to get to one of those Red Cross tents.

Whether it's a medical emergency or not, I just don't see how having a patchouli-scented shaman instruct me to drink shark cartilage tea, snort palmetto, and chew deer penis beef jerky is going to have any impact on my overall health. Call me a product of my upbringing. 

I don't know.

Maybe part of the reason that I'm not a proponent of alternative medicine is because I barely even understand the jargon.

To me, Ginkgo Biloba is the name of that city in Spain with the new art museum. Aromatherapy is when you fart in a bathtub. And a homeopathic is a male nurse who touches you in funny places.

Anyway...when I asked the woman what types of alternative medicine she would recommend for me, she immediately replied "Acupuncture and Colonics."

Seriously?

I think it was Dennis Miller who once said that acupuncture basically works on the principle of distraction. You're not going to feel the arthritis in your knee when someone is ramming a giant needle in the nape of your neck. It's the same reason your nose never itches when your ankle is caught in a steel bear trap.

As for colonics, the thought of having high-pressure water irrigated into my coin slot sounds about as appealing as running nude sprints with a catheter in my johnson.

But as wary and cynical as I am, I do always pride myself on having an open mind. Basically, I'll give anything a try once. I'm generally a big believer in the philosophy that life is too short to be afraid of trying new things.

So with that thinking in mind, I admit to all of you that I have started experimenting with alternative medicines. (I don't mean actually taking them myself, I mean pretending I've taken them with great success and then recommending them to my friends so they'll take them...and I can see whether they really do work.)

Just kidding.

Actually, I can't find any friends gullible enough to believe me. Apparently I run with a pretty cynical crowd. Surprise!

So, next week, in the name of science, I am scheduled for a round of colonics, an acupuncture session, and a juice-cleansing herbal consultation. I'll keep you posted on all the details. Wish me luck.

While there's a part of me that hopes it works, there's also a bigger part of me that hopes it doesn't. Why? Because in the back of my mind, I'm fairly certain that colonics are a gateway drug to yoga. And as Vishnu is my witness, there is nothing more annoying than a person who does yoga. I'll get into that in another post.

Namaste, bitches!

Diary of a Single Dad

I'll never forget when my friend Sarah sat me down many years ago to lecture me about my relationships with the opposite sex.

"Do you know how many girlfriends you'd have if you shut your mouth? You're smart, sexy, funny, caring and interesting. You read more than anyone I know and you've traveled all over the world. However, your constant need to entertain yourself is your Achilles' heel. You've got to learn to shut up. Also, it would help if you didn't have such an obvious indifference to whether people liked you or not. Idiot!"

At first, I was shocked by her honesty but then I slowly realized that her points were completely valid. I did need to work on how I related to other people.

That lasted about two days.

Look, I know I can sometimes come off as a sarcastic prick who tends to use humor as a defense mechanism and frequently finds himself lapsing under the Mendoza line into the bush leagues of unintentional rudeness. At the same time, I think I may have some form of Tourette's that has removed the filters between my brain and my mouth. 

But it's not that I don't like people. It's just that certain events have made me poignantly aware of how short life is and that I shouldn't waste time with shallow idiots who make the Jonas brothers sound like Truman's counsel of Wise Men.

Is it so wrong that I'd rather be alone than spend time with humorless people lacking in intellect, emotion, empathy or character? 

I was thinking about this recently when it suddenly struck me that empirically I am a 41-year-old single father with a 5-year-old daughter.

Holy crap!

I'm an old dude with a kid and a weird sense of humor.

Ok, maybe I'm not old but I'm definitely ringing the buzzer on middle age.

Part of the problem is that in my mind I'm a much younger man. Unfortunately, I'm not. This, in and of itself, wouldn't be a big deal if not for the fact that I would like to get married again and possibly have more kids.

And since there's no way that I'm going to date outside my own age range, I'm thinking that I might have to start displaying a little more maturity than I did in my younger years.

Recent conversations with women are convincing me that this may be much harder than I realized and there remains a fairly decent chance that I will die alone.

Conversation No. 1

Woman: "Do you like to read books?

Me: "Immensely. Why?  Are you reading anything interesting these days?"

Woman: "Yes! I just finished Twilight. I loved it!"

Me: "Me too! Didn't you like totally cry when Dumbledore died at the end?"

Postmortem analysis: "As a general rule, I don't date women who read children's books."

Conversation No. 2

Me: "Wow. You sure like flossing your teeth."

Woman: "Yes, I do it after every meal. Don't you floss your teeth?"

Me: "Religiously."

Woman: "Every single day?"

Me: "Nah. Just Christmas and Passover."

Postmortem analysis: "At the time, I just thought it was funny. However, friends tell me I was being glib and dismissive. Does it really matter? Could I ever be with a woman who was so obsessed with flossing that she did it publicly after every single meal?  I think not."

Conversation No. 3

Me: "Actually, I always thought WWJD meant 'what would Jesus drive?'"

Woman: "Cute. Well, what kind of car do you think Jesus would drive?"

Me: "I don't think Jesus drives. He just rides in the back of a giant Escalade."

Woman: "Why an Escalade?"

Me: "Because everyone says Jesus is their homeboy and all the homeboys I know drive Escalades." 

Woman: "Don't you think Jesus would be more environmentally conscious?"

Me: "When you roll with a large entourage, higher emission standards are generally subordinate to the need for third-row seating."

Woman: "Jesus rolls with an entourage?"

Me: "Yeah, those 12 guys following him who keep asking him to turn water into wine."

Woman: "You're not a religious or spiritual man, are you?"

Postmortem analysis: "I know. It's hard to believe I'm 41, isn't it?"

It's interesting being single at the age of 41.

When I was younger, I dated vastly different kinds of women because I wanted to expose myself to a diaspora of individual personalities. Now that I'm older, I tend to find myself far more selective. Or maybe the proper word is discerning.

Nick Hornby once said that it was no good pretending any relationship has a future if your record collections disagree violently or if your favorite films wouldn't even speak to each other if they met at a party.

A small part of me tends to agree with this sentiment. Especially at my age, the idea of being in a relationship with someone who shares my interests and similar perspective on life is warmly comforting. I tend to be very passionate about the things I love so there's a large part of me that wants to be with a woman whom when I read a great book, hear an amazing song, watch a deeply moving film or discover a new restaurant, I can run up to her excitedly and yell, "Look what I found! This is US!"

On the other hand, doesn't every couple start off by talking about all the things they have in common? And if the relationship doesn't last, don't you just end up thinking about all the ways you were so different? More importantly, isn't life much more interesting being with someone who not only has different interests but also brings a different perspective to life?

Does anyone have the answers to these questions?

When it comes to the subject of compatibility, I confess to being as confused as I have ever been.  We get together with people because they're the same or because they're different, and in the end we break up with them for exactly the same reasons.

Now granted, there are many other aspects besides compatibility that are important to any healthy relationship. However, when you're single and thinking about whom you'd like to date, compatibility tends to take on a heavier weight. 

Honestly, I don't know what the future brings for me and I'll confess that there are times when this uncertainty makes me a tad nervous. I've always been fairly good at meeting women. At the same time, I've always been fairly good at being alone.

Maybe a little too good. 

While I am an avowed romantic who firmly believes that no man is an island, I also find myself thinking more and more at this age that perhaps the ideal goal of a relationship between two people isn't a merging of two individuals. On the contrary, maybe the healthiest long-term relationships accept that, even between the closest people, infinite distances exist and the key to happiness is to not only wholly love someone but also to be comfortable with the great expanse that inherently lies between you.

Then again, as another female friend tells me, maybe I just think too damn much.  

What say you, my friends?

The Death of Cool

I have never been cool.

Trust me when I say it was never for a lack of trying.

At various stages in my life, I worked so hard on feigning coolness that I'm surprised I didn't have an aneurysm. How many hours were spent trying on a variety of guises to find one that fit, I'll never know. From preppy jock to disaffected loner, I probably tried on more "costumes" than Mariah Carey in concert on Halloween night at The Flamingo.

I'm not going to be too harsh on myself. I've come to realize that much of this past posturing was due to the vagaries of youth, insecurity and a desperate need for acceptance. 

Sounds so fucking emo, doesn't it?

These days, I simply don't care enough to give a shit about my relative coolness. I've become a firm believer that the pretense of cool is a facade best left to others. Acceptance of this fact has been very liberating. 

I was thinking about this on Saturday night while with some friends at one of NYC's hippest nightspots. As I casually observed the 20-something faux hipster in skinny jeans with a pierced eyelid and dust bunny on his chin, and the slinky anorexic Russian model dancing on the table in her pajamas, I suddenly realized that I was the coolest guy in the room.

Then I caught the eye of a Puerto Rican busboy staring at me with a look of disdain, obviously wondering what kind of douchebag loser pays $22 for a watered-down cocktail. 

Like they say, perspective is a bitch.

As I've gotten older, I've come to believe that the only truly cool people left are those who go out of their way to help others, those who are always respectful of differing opinions, and those who never take themselves too seriously. At the end of the day, it's always best to be honest and true to yourself.

Unless, of course, you're an asshole.

In all seriousness, one thing I've learned in my short stint as a father, it's that parenting and coolness should be diametrically opposed. Cool is just simply not a legitimate child-rearing paradigm. Just as I would never want to be considered the Peanut's best friend, I would also never want to be known as "the cool dad."

Kids need love and support and a million other things that have nothing to do with being cool. Like most parents, I'm just trying to raise my daughter to be a smart, polite, sensitive, caring person with her own identity. 

At the same time, I realize that being a kid these days is tough. As parents, we're all guilty of taking parenting so seriously that we've removed the elements of fun that should be an important part of every kid's childhood. We worry so much about food, vaccines, schools, sleep, homework, after-school activities---is it any wonder that kids are so stressed out these days? Let's maybe cut them a little slack.

Let's also not forget that being silly, stupid and uncool with one's kid is possibly the most fun ever.

The Peanut and I spend a lot of time together simply being goofy. We hold hands and skip down the street while singing absurdly stupid songs that we've made up. We go to street fairs, eat candy apples and get our faces painted as lions. If we're walking outside and hear some music, we'll have a silly dance contest. And sometimes, we'll put on these absurd costumes just to go to the grocery store for a carton of milk.

My point is that whether you're young or old, single or married, childless or not---there's one important thing that you should always try to remember.

Cool is for suckers.

Listography: A Life in Lists

I am an inherently lazy writer.

Given the choice between curling up with a good book or sitting down at my computer, I will almost always choose the former over the latter. 

I'm also not very good at managing my free time. I've studied the habits of brilliantly successful people to see if there were some techniques that I might find helpful. Did you know that Buckminster Fuller averaged just two hours of sleep a night for two years and claimed he was more energetic and alert as a result? Or that Honore de Balzac ate dried coffee grounds to stimulate his imagination?

Word is that Socrates even laid out his toga the night before and pre-pinned it in order to save time.

(OK, I made that last one up.)

The only thing that seems to work for me is making daily to-do lists. As you can probably tell, I've always been a big fan of lists. Not only do I always make mental lists in my head, I'm also always annoying friends to give me their lists. ("Who are the 5 hottest sitcom characters of all-time?" "Give me 5 names for your imaginary band." "If you could only eat 5 foods for the rest of your life, what would they be?")

Hmm...now I'm starting to realize why nobody wants to sit in a car with me for more than 3 hours.

Anyway, in lieu of any real writing, here are a few lists I compiled tonight:

The 5 Best Books I've Read In The Past 5 Weeks

1. Nick Hornby's "Juliet, Naked"
2. Lorrie Moore's "A Gate at the Stairs"
3. Stefanie Wilder-Taylor's "It's Not Me, It's You."
4. Colston Whitehead's "Sag Harbor"
5. Michael Lewis' "Home Game"
   

My 5 Favorite Nostalgic Childhood Foods

1. PB & J sandwiches
2. Nesquik
3. Chocolate eclairs
4. Powdered iced tea
5. TV dinners

The 5 Articles Of Clothing I'd Remove From Existence

1. Crocs, Uggs & Birkenstocks
2. Golf Visors
3. Jean shorts (aka "jorts")
4. Cardigan sweater vests
5. Replica NFL jerseys

The 5 Things I'd Take To A Desert Island

1. A Frette blanket
   
2. James Joyces' "Ulysses"
   
3. A case of Sriracha Hot Sauce
   
4. Q-Tips
   
5. The complete works of The Rolling Stones

5 Things That Always Bring Tears To My Eyes

1. Parents outliving their children
2. Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah"
3. The last scene in "Rudy"
4. Seeing awkward kids being shunned by their peers
5. The tears of a loved one

5 Things That Always Bring A Smile To My Face

1. My daughter
2. Jeans and sweater weather
3. The NY Post
4. Reading books by the fireplace
5. Five Guys hamburgers

5 Things That Always Make Me Laugh

1. Jimmy Fallon's "The Housewives of Late Night"
2. People who wear pajamas outside the house
3. Leashes on cats
4. Fat people trying to get into rowboats
5. People walking into glass doors.

5 Best Quotes I Have Recently Read

1. "Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards." - Soren Kierkegaard
2. "It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men." - Frederick Douglas
3. "If you care about what others think of you, then you will always be their slave." - James Frey
4. "Tina is my baby girl. She’s my sister from another mother of a different color. I’d do 25 to life for her. She is down like four flat tires."" - Tracy Morgan
5. "Age is a very high price to pay for maturity." - Tom Stoppard

That last quote is certainly resonating with me these days. Why? Because in about one week, I will be turning 41. Holy crap! FORTY. ONE. I certainly don't feel 41. What is 41 supposed to feel like anyway? Honestly, I'm not quite sure anymore.

Sometimes it feels like it was just yesterday that I was 16 years old and my biggest worry was where I should sit in the cafeteria or which pair of acid-washed Girbauds I should wear that day.

Ha!

Those were the good old days.

Golden Handcuffs

Sometimes I think being an overly self-aware insomniac book nerd is more trouble than it's worth.

While reading in the wee hours of the morning, I recently came across passages in two books that made me pause and reflect on the path my life has taken.

Don't get me wrong. I like to introspectively examine my life as much as the next person. At the same time, I believe that too much introspection can frequently become a masturbatory exercise in self-absorption.

To tell you the truth, I often think it'd be better if I slept more and read less. 

Anyway, here are the two passages.

The first is from James Frey's "My Friend Leonard."

"Gauguin was a stockbroker in Paris, married, had five kids. One day he came home and told his wife he was leaving, that he was through supporting the family, that he had had enough. Just like that he fucking took off. He said he had always felt he was a painter, so he moved to a rat-infested shithole and started painting. His wife begged him to return, his bosses told him he was insane, he didn't care, he was following his heart. He left Paris, moved to Rouen, went from Rouen to Arles, from Arles to Tahiti. He was searching for peace, contentment, trying to fill that fucking hole he felt inside, and he believed he could fill it. He died in Tahiti, blind and crazy from syphilis, but he did it. He filled his fucking hole, made beautiful work, made beautiful, beautiful work."

The second is from Nick Hornby's "Juliet, Naked."

"I have a thing for Dickens. I'm reading his letters at the moment. There are 12 volumes of them, and each one is several hundred pages long. If he'd only written letters, he'd have had a pretty productive life, but he didn't only write letters. There are four volumes of his journalism. He edited a couple of magazines. He squeezed in an unconventional love life, and a few rewarding friendships. Am I forgetting anything? Oh, yeah: a dozen of the greatest novels in the English language. He's pretty much the one guy whose life you could look at and think, man, he didn't mess around.

But there aren't many people like old Charles. Most humans don't get to do work that's going to last. They sell shower curtain rings, like the John Candy character in that movie. (I mean the rings might last. But they're probably not what people talk about after you've gone.) So it's not about what you do. It can't be, can it? It has to be about how you are, how you love, how you treat yourself and those around you, and that's where I get eaten up."

Regarding the above, I know only four things. All are related to one another (the first two are probably inversely related, the second two perhaps a little less so.)

(1) My daughter means everything in the universe to me.

(2) Quite honestly, there are moments when the thought enters my mind that caring for her has removed options in my life that would possibly otherwise make my life more personally fulfilling.

(3) I have a job that pays well, provides little intellectual or emotional challenge, and does not require much effort. However, this job not only ensures for my daughter's well-being but also allows me to spend an inordinate amount of my free time with her (which is partly what attracted me to it in the first place.)

(4) I have never defined myself by what I do.

Before we go any further, let me just say that I am acutely aware that even having these thoughts is a luxury of which I am not unappreciative. This blog has always been a place where I sort out my thoughts in written form.

Shit, if my health insurance covered therapy, this site probably wouldn't even exist.

All I'm saying is that, regardless of one's station in life, I think it's healthy to sometimes visualize or fantasize about the life that you want to live. Frequently, this forces you to make extremely tough decisions that seem painful but may ultimately make you much happier.

On the other hand, this is also probably the kind of thinking that made John Travolta turn down the lead role in "Chicago" THREE times so he could focus on his real passion project..."Battlefield Earth."

Look, I'm not going anywhere or enacting any serious life changes anytime soon. At the same time, I sometimes make mental lists of alternate lifestyles I fantasize about living if I didn't have a child. 

Here's the current short list:

• Living in a small studio apartment in Paris with a girlfriend and spending all our free time reading and writing together in a dingy cafe in the Latin Quarter, where we would both wait tables just enough to pay the rent.

• Apprenticing with a top sushi master in Japan and then opening my own restaurant in the East Village that would only seat 6 people at any given time.

• Moving to Colorado, being a ski bum in the winter and a fly-fishing bum in the summer.

• Working as a foreign war correspondent alongside Christiane Amanpour.

When I shared these thoughts with a buddy of mine, he told me I was having a mid-life crisis and that I should just shut up and buy a Porsche.

This led to a very in-depth conversation that ultimately provided great insight and incredible perspective on my future professional life and emotional well-being. I couldn't believe that after 40 years on this planet that have involved much soul searching and professional therapy, I had finally figured out in this one conversation what I would truly enjoy doing with the rest of my life if I didn't have a child.

I'd be Batman.

Just kidding.

Kind of.

In all seriousness, do any other parents out there fantasize about how your life would be different without kids or a spouse? If you're single or childless, are you living your life how you'd imagined? Why or why not?

An inquiring insomniac wants to know.

The Peanut Turns Five!

Dear Peanut,

Happy 5th birthday!

Although you're completely ecstatic about this day, I think my own excitement might actually trump your own. Why? Mainly because I no longer have to keep hearing, "Daddy, daddy, daddy! How many more days until I turn five?"

Don't get me wrong, kiddo. It was cute for awhile but after 5,000 times in one month, I was starting to think about canceling Christmas (FYI, it's in about 80 days.)

Five is an amazingly fun age, Peanut. You've really turned into a person now and it simultaneously enthralls and scares the crap out of me. On the one hand, you still love cuddling on the couch with me and reading books together. On the other hand, you don't always want to hold my hand in public anymore because I might be cramping your style. That kills me!

Here are just a few things I'll want to remember about you at this age:

• You're a ridiculously funny kid. Last year was all poop jokes and fart noises. Now, you do impersonations. You invent hilarious new dances. Your sense of sarcasm grows daily. And you love playing pranks on me (hiding my cellphone in the fridge was a good one!) You also have a uniquely funny way of playing make-believe. While other girls pretend they're princesses, you like to pretend you're a pizza delivery man or a UPS truck driver. You're such a city kid.

• I never cease to be amazed at how you can spread joy to so many people solely by your warm and affectionate nature. You're always there with a quick hug or a kiss to cheer someone up. And when you truly love someone, you're not afraid to say it or show it. Adults could learn a lot from a kid like you.

• You're as stubborn as I am and we have our fair share of epic battles. We never yell or scream at each other. It's more like Jedi warfare. Last week, we left the playground because it was raining. You were so pissed, you gave me the silent treatment and shot Korean Death Stares (KDS) at my back while walking twenty feet behind me in the grocery store. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and tried to give you a hug but you stuck up your hand and said, "Not right now, Daddy. I need my privacy." What the hell? Sometimes I think you're 5 going on 40. I love it.

• You love being a helper. Whenever I cook, you're always next to me as my sous chef or busy setting the table. You love working with Aunt Di in the garden or helping Uncle Paul wash his cars. You even love cleaning the apartment. The funny thing is that you draw the line at bathrooms and whenever you see me scrub a toilet, you think it's the funniest thing you've ever seen. "Haha, Daddy. That's where the poop goes!" (Ok, so you're not completely over the poop jokes.)

• You're enrolled in Spanish and Korean classes and are slowly becoming trilingual. Whenever you hear someone speak Spanish, you like to bust out in song. You know at least 20 different Spanish songs and waiters all over town now laugh when you enter the restaurant singing "Felize Navidad" ...again.

• You're at that age where your tiny brain can memorize anything almost instantly. You love "reading" entire books to me from memory. Alternatively I love teaching you funny lyrics. Last month, I made you call your grandmother and sing, "I said a hip hop the hippie the hippie to the hip hip hop, a you don't stop the rock it to the bang bang boogie say up jumped the boogie to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat." I'm still laughing over that one.

• I love having conversations with you. It's one of my favorite things to do in the whole world. Sometimes we'll just sit on the couch and talk about things that are on your mind. Sometimes you'll ask me questions about the moon and the stars. Other times you'll talk to me about your grandfather's death or your love of fried chicken. I know it sounds silly because you're only five but I hope that we'll always be able to talk openly with one another like this.

There are so many things that I love about you at this age, I couldn't even begin to put them all down on paper. In fact, I still can't believe that you're 5 today. It's strange. Sometimes it feels like you were just born yesterday. On the other hand, it's hard to remember a time in my life when you weren't in it. 

There are just a few things I want to tell you about how I feel about you, Peanut.

I'm not one of those parents who thinks that his child is more special than any other one.

I'm not one of those parents who wants to be best friends with his child.

I'm not one of those parents who tries to be the cool dad.

That being said, I'm so incredibly proud of the little girl you've become. I feel closer to you than with any other human being alive. I love spending all my time with you. And I'm glad you enjoy having fun with your goofy weird dad.

Have a great birthday, Peanut. I love you with all my heart.

Love,
Daddy

P.S. One more thing you enjoy at this age is sticking your finger up every statue's butt. We've practically been banned from the Metropolitan Museum of Art and are now forced to hang out with lawn statues. I have to admit though, it's still pretty funny!

A day in the life...

Ever since I announced my divorce on this site, I've been inundated with e-mails from readers.

Most were empathetic notes of sympathy. Many were shared tales of sadness. Quite a few were messages of concern.

However, a good chunk of them were from happily married dads simply inquiring, "HEY DUDE, WHAT'S IT LIKE?"

Honestly?

I hate to pop the proverbial bubble, my friends, but I get the impression that some of you were picturing my new life as a tropical storm of fancy NYC dinner parties, late nights at trendy lounges, and a steady rotation of leggy Swedish fashion models. 

Sorry to disappoint but really, nothing could be further from the truth.

For example, dinner tonight consisted of me mixing a can of baked beans with a can of corn and drenching the shit out of it with some tabasco sauce. I then proceeded to snarf it out of the pot while standing over the sink pounding a Diet Coke.

Afterward, I sat on the couch in my underwear and socks and highlighted the Scrabble dictionary while watching a PBS documentary on national parks.

Sexy, right?

I know. Sometimes it's hard to believe I'm still single.

In all seriousness, one of the more obvious consequences of being divorced is that you naturally find yourself spending much more time being alone. The only thing is that I've always been fairly good at being alone.

Maybe a little too good. 

No longer being part of a committed marriage, I'd almost forgotten how easily solitude comes to me. Most of my memories as a child are of being alone. In fact, I remember spending a large part of my adolescence in my room with a good book and the door shut. My quiet time, as my mom called it.

So what do I do with my quiet time these days?

1. Read voraciously.
2. Take long walks all over the city.
3. Catch up with friends on Facebook.
4. Watch old movies.
5. Write.
6. Contemplate life and dwell on self-analysis.
7. Two words: Reality. Television.
8. Make itunes mixes for the gym.
9. Manage roster moves for my Fantasy Football team. 
10.Repeat

If I really think about it, I'm not surprised that my post-divorce life has played out in this fashion. I've always believed that solitude is important. If you don't know yourself, then you will always be lonely.

Not that I do, but I try. 

The German poet Ranier Maria Rilke once wrote that it's important for people to be solitary because "the seemingly uneventful and motionless moment when our future steps into us is so much closer to life than that other loud and accidental point of time when it happens to us as if from outside. The quieter we are, the more patient and open we are, the more deeply and serenely the new presence can enter us, and the more we can make it our own, the more it becomes our fate."

I don't know what my future brings. I don't know whether all this solitude is good for me. Heck, I may not even know how much I do not know. At this point, all I can really say is that "My Antonio" might be the most genius show ever aired on television.

In all seriousness, the greatest part of being a single father is that I'll never really be truly alone for the sole fact that I am still a father. No matter how much I might enjoy relishing in my solitude, it's indescribably life-affirming knowing that there's an adorable little girl who unconditionally loves her father more than anything else and enjoys spending quality time with him being completely silly. 

And you know what?

That totally works for me.

Smile for the camera, kiddo. I love you!

Dear Andy

Dear Andy,

We all place bookmarks in our life to highlight and chronicle the passage of time. While some people delineate those milestones by happiness and joy, I tend to mark mine by pain.

When I turned 40 last November, I couldn't help but think back about those defining periods in my life. In retrospect, this probably wasn't the best idea. Not only was my marriage in serious trouble at the time but I was also having one of the worst years of my life. Between life, loss, work and family, it seemed as if everything was close to unraveling apart.

To make matters worse, some of my fondest memories in life were always of you, me and Paul celebrating our birthdays together. So naturally, the sadness of missing you always hits me especially hard during that time of year. Aside from 9/11, that's when I truly miss you the most. Even in the best of times, those memories of our birthday celebrations always cast a shadow of melancholy over everything in November.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I found myself in a pretty dark place.

During those tough times, I couldn't help but think about how you would never allow me (or any of our friends) to ever suffer in our sadness alone. Sometimes we'd sit and talk for hours late into the night. Other times, you'd make it your life's mission to put a smile on my face. Your genuine kindness and inherent generosity knew no limits. Was there anyone's face on whom you couldn't put a smile? I often think that was your greatest gift. Over the course of a lifetime, is there any greater gift one could ask from a friend?

It's still hard for me to believe that it's been eight years today since we tragically lost you. Sometimes it feels like yesterday. Other times, it feels like eons ago.

But no matter how much time passes, the pain never really goes away. It never escapes and truthfully I never want to it to. In a weird way, I think I consciously choose to embrace the pain more now because it makes me feel closer to you at a time when I feel like my memories of you are slowly starting to slip away. Sometimes it's almost as if the only thing I have to remember you by is the pain. Does that make any sense?

It's strangely disconcerting how time has changed how I miss you, Andy. For years, I used to painfully miss all the things that so tightly bound our lives together: your daily telephone calls to my office precisely at 8:00 am, the weekly dinners with you and Kyle, the serious late-night talks out at the beach, Sunday night movie club, those absurdly fun vacations all over the place, or all those long, lazy afternoons watching the Giants game and then tossing a football around in Central Park. 

Somehow things have changed now. The ways that I miss you are all so different from one another. Sometimes I'll hear a new song on the radio and my first immediate thought is "Man, Andy would love this tune." Or I'll see someone on the street and my heart will jump into my throat: not because the person looked like you did eight years ago but because he looked like how I'd imagine you would look now. Then there are those momentary pangs of sadness I feel when I stop and realize that I'll never have another friend who was just like you.

I still miss you terribly, Andy, and I think about you all the time. We all do. It doesn't matter how often we all see each other these days, you'll always be the glue that will forever keep us connected. You always were. There's something very comforting in knowing that.

Speaking of "la famiglia," we don't see each other as much these days. Life, work and children have gotten in the way. But man, you would laugh your ass off if you saw us now. Shary is the lazy, old man that we always joked he would become. We went skiing in Utah this year and, at one point, he asked me and Kyle to pick up his socks. Needless to say, all three of us were sitting on the couch together at the time. Russell is still Russell. Last time I saw him, he was going on a macro-vegan-organic diet, absolving from alcohol, and hitting the gym every day. Vegas had the over/under on that at about 8 hours. Roy has become fully Persian and continues to make babies on a near-annual basis but he's still the same lovable low-talker that he always was. And your old roomie Kyle is still the fun-loving single guy that we've known for years. Since Sofia and I decided to get divorced, he's alternated between being my partner-in-crime, my surrogate spouse, and my therapist.

So yeah...basically I guess I'm saying that although things have changed, everything still remains the same.

I know I always say that I won't cry on 9/11, Andy. This year, I don't think I'm I'm even going to bother fighting the tears. Instead I'll embrace the pain of your loss and use the time to remember all the many things that I loved about you and the many ways that you affected all our lives.

You were one of the best friends a man could ever have and though our time together was tragically cut short, I consider myself lucky to have had you as a friend. For that, I will always be grateful.

I will always love you.

And I will always miss you.

Rest in peace, Andy. 

Love,
Your friend Pierre

Overrated.com: Fun with Deconstruction

“The four most over-rated things in life are champagne, lobster, anal sex and picnics.” - Christopher Hitchens.

I'm both a quote junkie and a Christopher Hitchens fan so I was kind of surprised tonight when I stumbled on this sentence and realized that I'd never seen it before. While I'm not sure I agree with the statement, I sort of liked the sentiment behind it. Hitchens’ list is interesting because it’s completely unexpected. Here are four modern indulgences that seem to define the laissez-faire hedonism of our aspirational society. Is there any real argument against any of them?

Let's discuss...

Champagne: I drink one glass of champagne per year. And yes, it's on New Year's eve. Does that make it overrated? I'm not sure. I can only think back of the old TV show "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" when host Robin Leach would close out every show with the benediction, "champagne wishes and caviar dreams!" I guess that means champagne is representative of the American desire for wealth and an upper-class lifestyle. However, as an adult beverage, I think I'd go with the smoky flavor of a good single-malt scotch or an ice-cold tequila.

Verdict: Symbolical significance loses out to nouveau-riche pretension. Over-rated.

Lobster: David Foster Wallace, in his brilliant essay "Consider the Lobster" wrote one of my favorite and best-crafted sentences of all-time: "Is it all right to boil a sentient creature alive just for our gustatory pleasure?"

Verdict: Fuck yeah! Lobster is delicious, yo.

Anal Sex: I am not being a prude when I say that I have never desired to have anal sex with a woman. I've just always simply believed that engaging in anal sex would be the equivalent of eating chicken when there was duck on the menu. There are further issues on this topic that I am too prudish to broach but I'll take Hitchens on his word here.

Verdict: Not my cup of tea but to each his own.

Picnics: On the other hand, I'm a sucker for a good picnic. In fact, I challenge you to find a man who is more heterosexual than I yet takes more pride in his 6-piece setting wicker picnic basket. For me, picnics have the same appeal as long afternoons at a baseball game. They harken back to an era of unrushed pleasure when time was not of the most immediate essence and life progressed at a slower pace.

Verdict: Under-rated.

It doesn't really matter whether I agree with Christopher Hitchens or not. The one thing I've always admired about Hitch is that nobody ever seems to agree with him and he seems to do an excellent job of offending a hugely wide array of people all for completely different reasons. Still, you can’t help but admit there’s something to admire about the guy in making a statement like that.

So with all due respect, here's my list of the top 10 Most Over-Rated Things in Life:

1. Harry Potter books.
2. The frozen tundra of Lambeau Field.
3. Spa Days
4. Sex on a beach
5. French food
6. Yoga
7. Al Gore
8. Mt. Rushmore
9. Derek Jeter
10. "Everybody Loves Raymond"

Honorary mention to Ben Affleck, breastfeeding, Maya Angelou, Bill Belichick, The DaVinci Code, cats, sliced bread, the Prius, Chipotle, Twitter, Crocs, and the Mona Lisa.

Oh yeah, one more thing...blogs. Specifically, this one.

Feel free to discuss, deconstruct, or disagree. More importantly, what's on YOUR list?

CHAOS THEORY: August 2009

Firstly, thanks so much for the outpouring of love and support. I'm completely humbled and confess that your comments and e-mails moved me more than I ever expected. In retrospect, I probably should have put that post up months ago. The response from all of you was both heartwarming and cathartic.

Virtual hugs and fist bumps all around. Rock on.

Life is hectic these days so I'm not sure how much I'll be writing here for awhile. Between juggling custody arrangements, getting my ass kicked at work, plowing through 3 books per week, battling insomnia, having long-distance phone sessions with my therapist, writing a television pilot, trying to launch several new businesses, and contemplating the benefits of a semi-eremitic life, I find myself with very little free time. 

But as usual, I've got some random thoughts that I wanted to share with you.

I hope you're all having a great summer and thanks again for being so cool.

THE GRASS AIN'T ALWAYS GREENER

When the Peanut gets older and inevitably starts pointing out my shortcomings as a father, I'm going to sit her down and force her to watch the episode of Wife Swap featuring the Stockdale family (Season 4.) Here are some of the rules in their parenting manual:

"Our children are being raised away from violent language, sexual influences, drinking, smoking, drugs, rap music...all the things we left behind in the city. Instead, we are raising our children on a diet of wholesome activities and farm work; keeping their minds pure and their bodies healthy and keeping out any influences of modern society. That is why we home-school. I give my boys a large spoonful of cod-liver oil after dinner to keep their hearts and minds strong."

“We teach our boys that to succeed, you have to work. We raise chickens and process chickens, and what we don’t eat we sell. We all pitch in, and I can gut a chicken in under four minutes. The boys receive tokens for every chore they do and an extra token if they do it with a glad heart. They trade their tokens for privileges like listening to the radio or for a stick of gum."

Seriously? I don't know about processing chickens but if the Peanut learns to gut a fish in under four minutes and make fresh sushi for me every day, the kid's going to be trading in those tokens for a brand-new BMW by the time she's 11.

Especially if she does it with "a glad heart."

Man, rednecks are funny motherfuckers.

NON SEQUITUR ADULT ENTERTAINMENT IS FREE AND CHEAP

I used to laugh at the random non sequiturs that would come out of the Peanut's mouth when she was younger. However, a few months ago as part of an entertaining social experiment, a friend and I decided to start reciting several choice non sequiturs to complete strangers.

For example, at the local deli when the cashier asked, "Paper or plastic?" we'd reply, "Let the love flow, y'all." The looks and responses were so hilarious that we tried to recruit more people for our social experiment using the same catch phrase. Good, cheap, fun.

A few days ago, inspired by the Carrie Underwood song, I spontaneously began using a new phrase that seems to have a more interesting socio-anthropological effect. When my overtly religious dry cleaner bade me farewell by saying, "God be with you," I simply turned to him and replied "Jesus take the wheel, yo!"

Now I can't stop saying it to every stranger I meet and cracking myself up until I'm practically in tears.

Hard to believe I'm 40 years old, isn't it?

DANTE'S 10TH CIRCLE OF HELL: THE MEET & GREET

My worst nightmare has finally arrived.

In September, Peanut will be starting Kindergarten. New school. New teachers. New friends. It's an important milestone for her and we're all extremely excited. That's not the problem.

Recently, I received a mass e-mail from one of the parents in Peanut's kindergarten class inviting everyone for a picnic so we could all get to know one another before school started. It was a wonderfully kind gesture and will undoubtedly make the transition easier for everyone. In a way, I find it truly touching. That's not the problem either.

I'm the problem.

Despite the fact that I'm a genuinely affable guy, I hate being forced to meet new people. Idle chit chat bores the crap out of me and in all honesty, I suck at it. I don't care what you do, who you know, how much you make, or where you live. I'd rather know your favorite author, band, or vegetable. Just give me something so we can connect on a somewhat deeper level.

Because if you don't, I'm sorry but unfortunately I also suck at feigning interest. 

By the way, if you need me, I'll be the weird guy at the picnic in sunglasses standing off to the side eating potato salad and reading a book.

SOUND BITES: 2009'S BEST TV QUOTES ABOUT PARENTING

''A new study finds that trendy baby names lose their appeal after about 20 years. Which is bad news for my little brother, MC Hammer Fallon.''---Jimmy Fallon on Late Night

''Two thousand years from now, all of human life will be traced back to three families: the Madonnas, Octomoms, and Jolie-Pitts.''---Jimmy Kimmel on Jimmy Kimmel Live

''All right, Stewie, your dad's going to help you learn how to be a man. Real men have a couple of beers and then project their inadequacies on their kids. You ready?''---Peter on Family Guy

''I can promise you Ritchie does not have lice. He takes a 45-minute shower every day. I mean, if you told me he was going blind, that would make sense.''---Christine on The New Adventures of Old Christine

''Jenna Jameson gave birth to twins yesterday. She decided to name the boys after her first pet and the street she grew up on.''---Jimmy Fallon on Late Night

''Look at you and me and our biological clocks. You're going baby crazy, and I keep getting turned on by car accidents.''---Jenna to Liz, on 30 Rock

FIVE REASONS I AM THE MCGYVER OF PARENTING

(1) When I run out of club soda, I sometimes use Elmo Punch as a mixer for my vodka.

(2) I once made an emergency diaper out of three sanitary napkins and some duct tape.

(3) I mashed up Chef David Bouley's legendary Chatham Bay Codfish with my fingers so they looked like Chicken McNuggets.

(4) Too lazy to go to the den and grab the free weights, I sometimes use my daughter as a barbell to do curls, squats, and shoulder lifts.

(5) I once sent Peanut to school with toilet paper stuffed in her shoes because they were a little too big for her.

HER FIRST PAYCHECK

Here's a truly heartwarming story about the bond formed between a little 5-year-old girl and some construction workers that makes you believe that we CAN make a difference when we give a child the gift of our time.
 
A young family moved into a house next door to a vacant lot. One day, a construction crew turned up to start building a house on the  empty lot.
 
The young family's 5-year-old daughter naturally took an interest in all the activity going on next door, and spent much of each day observing the workers.
 
Eventually the construction crew, all of them gems-in-the-rough, more or less adopted her as a kind of project mascot.  They chatted with her, let her sit with them while they had coffee and lunch breaks, and gave her odd little jobs to do here and there to make her feel  important.
 
At the end of the first week, they even presented her with a pay envelope containing a couple of dollars. The little girl took this home to her mother who said all the appropriate words of admiration, and suggested that they take the two dollar "pay" she had received to the bank the next day to  start a savings account.
 
When they got to the bank, the teller was equally impressed and asked the  little girl how she had come by her very own pay at such a young age. The little girl proudly replied, "I worked last week with the crew building the house next door to us."
 
"My goodness gracious," said the teller,  "and will you be working on the house again this week, too?"
 
The little girl replied, "Sure, if those assholes at Home Depot ever deliver the mother-fucking sheetrock!"

RECENT TEXT MESSAGES FROM MY FRIENDS

My closest friends tend to share my off-beat sense of humor. I'm not sure if it's a birds-of-a-feather thing or I just like surrounding myself with people who "get" me. Either way, I like saving their text messages until my phone's memory can't hold them any longer. The following are all about to get purged so I thought I'd put them here for posterity:

"Some dumb blond pointed to my Cleveland Indians hat and said Ohio. I pointed to her rack and said Silicone Valley."

"Where are you tonight? I would like to buy you a vowel."

"I can smell the leather pants and Duran Duran from here."

"One girl salad and a beer won't kill me."

"What up, Foolio? It's not cool to correct people's grammar on text messages."

"Having dinner with my husband. We're both totally bored with each other and want to know if you can join us."

"I met a guy in an airport once who collected dried apple cores and named them after presidents."

"Your dog is a chick magnet, has a very strange foot fetish and likes slices of cucumber in his water. It figures."

"If Sotomayor gets in, does that mean if I want to be a firefighter, I need to get really really tan?"

"Donna wants to take the whole family to Whole Foods for Thanksgiving and make it BYOB."

"We need a gang sign and t-shirts. Or maybe a secret handshake and some polo shirts."

"They sell Metamucil popcorn at Whole Foods. Just shoot me."

"Meet me on the roof. I'm cooking the shit out of some short ribs and asparagus."

"Whole Foods put the fish next to the bath and soap products. Not a good aroma. Reminds me of a French girl I dated."

SAP & THE CITY: A VERY SPECIAL EPISODE OF "METRODAD"

The Peanut is at that wonderful stage where she sometimes likes to just sit quietly on my lap and ask me a lot of questions.

Occasionally I have answers for her. Why is the sky blue? How do planes stay up in the air? Where does cheese come from? Does strawberry milk come from pink cows?

I cherish these moments more than you could ever imagine.

But occasionally I don't have answers for her. Or maybe I just don't provide the kinds of answers that a 4-year-old girl can comprehend.

Daddy, what do you love to do the most?

I don't know, sweetie. I love to write, I say. I love losing myself for hours in a good book. I love introspectively contemplating the path my life has taken and exploring the journey within. I love hearing a great song over and over again until I'm completely immersed in it. I love lying in bed by myself on a cool summer night and listening to the Mets game on the radio. I love lying on the grass and staring up into the stars. I love the beauty of small things. I love embracing everything great this world has to offer and appreciating the very brief time that I'm on it. 

But most of all, sweetie. I love watching you grow up.

Whenever I say things like that to her, she looks at me with a furrowed little brow. These answers are insufficient and they only serve to confuse her.

But I don't understand, Daddy. What do you love more than anything else in the whole world? Little Einsteins? Chocolate chip cookies? Sand castles? Balloons? Fireworks? Kites? What do you love the most?

Those are the times that I take her into my arms, stare into her tiny eyes, and hug her with all my strength. 

No kiddo, I say. None of that.

More than anything else in this entire world, I love you. I love being with you. I love talking to you. I love showing you new things. I love seeing the world through your eyes. I love guiding you through the journey of life. But more than anything else, I simply love you.

Do you understand what I'm saying? 

Yes, Daddy. I love you too. Can I have a hug? 

Of course you can, sweetie.

Anytime.

Burying The Lede

This post is long overdue.

The only reason that I've put off writing it for so long is because I remain unsure as to what extent of my personal life I want to reveal online. The internet's ability to allow us to bare ourselves to so many people is uncharted territory and I'll be the first to admit that it kind of scares the crap out of me.

Let's face it. Whether consciously or not, the persona that we project online is merely how we choose to present ourselves to the world. Whether you write a blog or maintain a Facebook page, everyone is undeniably conscious and guilty of a certain level of character manipulation. We all want to structure the perception of ourselves in a way so that it reflects favorably upon us.

I once read an interview with David Foster Wallace where he said that the interesting part about this is that none of it is new. This manipulation of persona "was the project of the Sophists in Athens, and this is what Socrates and Plato thought was so completely evil. The Sophists had this idea: Forget this idea of what's true or not—what you want to do is rhetoric; you want to be able to persuade the audience and have the audience think you're smart and cool. And Socrates and Plato, basically their whole idea is, "That's fucking bullshit. There is such a thing as truth, and it's not all just how to say what you say so that you get a good job or get laid, or whatever it is people think they want.""

Amen, brother.

I'm not going to delve into how closely my online "persona" is aligned with my "real-life" personality. That's an abject lesson in futility that serves no real purpose. However, as I read through my archives to get a better understanding of that persona, I realize that there's one important aspect of my personality that rarely surfaces in my writing; I am a deeply private person.

Additionally, the fact that this blog has a small modicum of popularity isn't really helping matters much. Schadenfreude is trading at near-record levels these days. We don't root for people's success as much as we quietly revel in their failure.

And look, I think it's pretty obvious to everyone that I don't write here because I want to be popular and never in a million years would I ever want to be famous.

Why? 

Primarily because it would fucking kill me to visit the dentist, see a photo of myself on the cover of some magazine, and realize that some douchebag has drawn a dick and balls on my chin. 

All joking aside, what I'm trying to say is that I don't write here hoping for a slice of admiration pie. In fact, I often struggle whether to even maintain this site because, due to factors beyond my control, my goal of retaining anonymity vanished long ago.

In the beginning, my primary motives for starting this site were simply twofold. One, I wanted a place to chronicle my journey into fatherhood. Two, I just wanted a creative outlet to practice my writing.

The one thing I never predicted was how much this site would impact my life personally. The social compact of the community is far greater than I imagined. I've become invested in your lives and you've become invested in mine. More than anything, I'll never regret starting this site because of the close friendships it's given to me. 

That's why I feel compelled to tell all of you that BossLady and I are divorcing. This is nowhere near a recent development. We spent many hard and painful months in marriage counseling before making the final decision. Needless to say, it wasn't easy.

I've said many times on this site that a good relationship is like a duck. Everything may look smooth on the surface but underneath you've got to paddle like hell. This should come as no surprise to anyone who has ever been in a serious long-term relationship. As everyone knows, good relationships take work. 

We simply couldn't make ours work.

I won't go into the details of why our marriage didn't work. Out of my deep and sincere respect for the BossLady, that part of it remains private but like life itself, every relationship is complicated. Besides, to put the reasons for our failed relationship into words would require a writing talent that I simply do not possess.

But let's face it. Conversations about past relationships are rarely about what actually happened. They're mostly about what we think has happened.

Thankfully, the divorce has been extremely amicable and we remain close friends. Most importantly, the Peanut has adjusted to her new situation amazingly well, proving once again how resilient kids can be. It helps tremendously that BossLady and I share extremely similar views on parenting. We're also both extremely alike in the extent of the personal sacrifices we're willing to make for our daughter. The most important thing is that the Peanut knows that she will continue to remain the most important individual in each of our lives.

As for me? I'm fine. The decision to get divorced seems like it happened ages ago and I haven't looked back since. I'm a firm believer that every exit is an entrance somewhere else. Besides, good friends, good booze and good therapists should never be undervalued. Divorce has not destroyed the romantic in me nor has it ruined my optimistic belief in love. While I regret that our marriage failed, I wish BossLady only the best and I sincerely hope that she finds true happiness with someone else. In all honesty, I know that she hopes the same for me too. We have the utmost respect for one another and I hope that you will as well.

Some people think that it's holding on that makes one strong. In reality, it's letting go.

Ciao My Shining Star

Orson Scott Card once said that, "Music isn't just a pleasure, a transient satisfaction. It's a need, a deep hunger; and when the music is right, it's joy. Love. A foretaste of heaven. A comfort in grief."

In many ways, those songs that truly resonate within our souls, both in the past and present, are not only the fullest and deepest expressions of ourselves but also subtle clues to figuring out how we feel about life.

That's why I've always felt that songwriting is an art form unlike any other.

Mark Mulcahy is a great songwriter.

Despite having paid his dues for years, Mark is practically unknown outside of the indie rock scene. Adored by music critics and fellow musicians, he's never achieved even a modicum of the commercial attention he deserves. I first discovered him eight years ago after reading Nick Hornby's book "Songbook," a collection of thirty-one personal essays about life each based on a single song. One of the essays was about Mark's song "Hey Self-Defeater" (from the album Fathering.)

I've always felt that Mark wrote the kind of music you listen to when you're sitting around a campfire with close friends or smoking cigarettes on a NYC fire escape or driving alone in the middle of the night to see a girl whom you love. His lyrics are hauntingly beautiful and he has the rare ability to tell stories through his music. There are flashes of his music that simultaneously remind me of Radiohead, Bruce Springsteen, Paul Westerberg, Pearl Jam, the Smiths and R.E.M. How many artists can we say that about?

Anyway, a tribute album entitled "Ciao My Shining Star: The Songs of Mark Mulcahy" is due to be released in September. It will feature contributions from such artists as Thom Yorke, Michael Stipe, Juliana Hatfield, Liz Phair, the National, Ben Kweller and many others. It's one of the more impressive and inspiring compilations put together solely for a single purpose.

Sadly, that purpose is devastatingly heartbreaking.

Almost exactly one year ago, Mark's wife Melissa tragically and unexpectedly passed away from cancer, leaving him alone to raise his three-year old twin daughters. Forced to choose between his music and his family, he chose his family and decided to put an end to his music career. Despite his need and love of being an artist, there was simply no way he could afford to be a musician anymore. He was in dire financial straits and needed to be at home for his daughters. Fatherhood was too important for him to make any compromises.

When learning about Mark's decision to give up music, the many artists he inspired circled the wagons and decided to release "Ciao My Shining Star" on their own. They've spent the past year writing and producing their own personal and heartfelt versions of Mark's songs, the sole purpose being to raise money for a great friend, man, musician, husband and father.

The outpouring of love and support was incredible. The music it produced is even more so.

The first few songs were released this week. Here are two of my favorites. Both are truly beautiful in their own way and hit you like great songs should---in the gut.

The National's cover of "Ashamed Of The Story I Told."

Thom Yorke's cover of "All For The Best."

I've never asked any of you for much but do me a favor. Listen to the songs, buy the album, and when you get home tonight, hug your loved ones extra tight.

(Comments to this entry are closed.)

The Solitude Dilemma

In all honesty, I don't mind being alone.

I'll never forget when I was 24 years old and I returned home to New York after a few years in Washington, DC that left me an emotional mess. Not only was I between jobs and low on self-esteem but also, to make matters worse, I was living in an apartment that my parents owned and I was severely conflicted about how that would impact me. I had no money. My coffee table was a cardboard box and I lived off ramen for months at a time. Frequently, I would stay up late at night alternating between staring at empty walls and staring at the ceiling.

One night, I was fully immersed in the kind of self-indulgent self-pitying postmodern self-awareness that normally makes me cringe. I hated myself for it and, in the midst of this, the only thing I could think of was, "Shit, I need a fucking road trip!"

So in the middle of the night, I jumped in my car by myself and drove to Graceland.

This makes no sense for two reasons. One, although I'd been to Graceland before, it never held any emotional appeal to me. My previous trips there were solely for the kitsch factor. As a young and cynical New Yorker, it always made me feel smugly superior to witness Elvis fanatics who had saved their entire lives to make that once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage to a place that I was unable to fathom could have any emotional impact in a meaningful way for anybody.

Secondly, truth be told, I don't even fucking like Elvis. As Chuck D once said, "Elvis never meant shit to me." I always thought that he was a white poser capitalizing on a legacy of black music that was marketed as an apologistic fallacy for black people. It would have made much more sense for me to drive to Asbury Park, the birthplace of Bruce Springsteen, a man whose music actually always resonated with me (and still does) in a much more meaningful way. Shit, sometimes if I'm in the right mood, I'll still tear up when I hear "Thunder Road."

Anyway, regardless of relevancy, I just got in my car and drove. Between passing empty Waffle Houses and listening to talk radio, I immersed myself in solitude. Though I wasn't quite sure why I had initially jumped in my car to drive, I suddenly knew I had made the right decision.

Solitude is a funny thing.

Armed only with bags of beef jerky and a carton of cigarettes, I found myself on the road pondering what I really wanted out of my life and what I needed to change in order to effect those things. I realized that I was currently on a path that could possibly cause more harm than it did good and I needed to get myself in a completely different frame of mind.

I can't even begin to explain how cathartic of an experience I underwent. The longer I drove, the more I began to find clarity. A million things went through my mind.

Towards the end of the drive, I started thinking about how much I enjoyed the comfort of solitude. Growing up as a child, I had always been somewhat of a loner. While I enjoyed playing sports with my friends, I much more enjoyed isolating myself in my bedroom with a stack of books. There's a myriad of reasons for all of that but I won't get into it now. Like Paul Auster (in his semi-brilliant memoirs,) I've often explored the estrangement among the relationships of those isolated individuals closest to me and the common experience that linked all of them together. 

Sometimes solitude is emotional. Sometimes it's physical. Never underestimate the power of both.

Anyway, the sun was partway up the sky as I drove into Memphis but, in many ways, the sky still looked as tortured as Elvis' soul. Some people are filled with optimism when they see the sun rise. Personally, I've always enjoyed the quiet solace of the night. At this moment, I remember still being filled with doubt and dread. All I really wanted to do was keep driving but I had no idea where to go. My Motel 6 map had failed me once again.

So I drove to the gates of Graceland and sat outside in the near-dawn and waited for the ticket booth to open. I could only imagine what the graveyard shift workers were thinking as they saw me. A Japanese hipster on some sort of international self-ironic journey to Mecca? A drunk college student passed out from the night before? Hell, in all honesty, I didn't even know what to think of myself.

At the end of the day, it didn't even matter that I was at Graceland. What mattered most was the comfort of being alone. For the first time in a while, I had the luxury of time and freedom to work on myself. And it helped. I won't get into the nuances of it but it was what I needed to do at the time. We should never forget that occasional solitude is occasionally critical.

In this regard, parenting changes things in ways that we can never imagine.

If I've learned anything, it's that the key to parenting is finding the nexus between making the ultimate sacrifice of always being there for your child while also allowing the time to be alone so you can better know yourself and work on your own personal development. Finding that middle ground is a constant challenge and both are necessary in order to not only happily raise a child but also in order to raise a happy child. I can't overemphasize how important both those things are.

Because let's face it. Raising a child requires constant attention and engagement. The stakes are high. It's not their job to realize that we sometimes need to take a break from the realities of everyday life. All of us, at different points in our life, need to take responsibility for understanding that it's important to take care of ourselves. It's better for us. It's better for our kids.

For some people, I imagine they can have a spa day or a round of golf to refresh and just be quiet. For others, maybe a couple hours is enough to recharge. If some parents can retain ownership of those hours (with no cell phones, no play dates, no running errands,) I applaud them. Whatever you need to do to calm your mind and settle your soul, hey...I get it, man. More power to you.

That's just not how it works for me.

So, in the meantime, I struggle with this selfish belief that life is somewhat of an individual journey yet, at the same time, I realize that being a parent means subsuming those thoughts for the benefit of one's child. As I write all of this down now, I find myself finally starting to understand the difference between Hume's philosophy of the Self and Hegel's philosophy of the Other.

Does that make it any easier? No.

In all honesty, I'd think about it more but personally I'm too drunk to continue.

What say you?

The Rules: 25 Life lessons for my daughter

My father has never given me any advice.

The one time I remember him even trying was when I was 18 and on my way out of the house for the evening. As I recall, he briefly looked up from his newspaper and said, "You know about condoms, right?"

End of conversation.

Thank you, Obi Wan Kenobi.

In all seriousness, it always deeply wounded me that we never had any of those father-son conversations where he would counsel me about life and give me lessons of an admonitory or hortative nature that might provide a road map for how to live my life.

Needless to say, ever since my daughter was born, I've been bombarding her with advice on a near-daily basis. It's almost pathological. It's as if I'm trying to imbue her with all my knowledge before I go gently into that good night. 

My list of lessons that I want to pass down to her is virtually endless and constantly changing but I thought I'd write some of those lessons down here. Not only for posterity but also as a daily reminder to myself that one of the keys to parenting is consistency.

Some of these lessons are humorous. Some are serious.

However, all of them are true...

(1) When posing for any photos, assume that the only people who will see them are me, your mother, your boss, and the dean of admissions.

(2) Lennon, not McCartney. Keith, not Mick. Page, not Plant. 

(3) Life is too short not to order the fries.

(4) Never date a man who is rude to waiters, doesn't say "bless you" when you sneeze, or won't offer you his jacket when you're cold. 

(5) Never order drinks that are pink or come with an umbrella in them. Don't be fancy.

(6) Don't worry about being popular. The "weird" kids are much more fun and will end up being your most interesting friends. Also, when it comes to friends, you can't trump quality with quantity. Choose wisely. Who would you call to drive your white Bronco?

(7) Give charitably, generously, and anonymously.

(8) Crocs are for people who have given up on life.

(9) Never cheat. Not on exams, the crossword puzzle, or your boyfriend.

(10) If you love someone, tell them. Don't hold back.

(11) It may be a small world but it's a huge planet. Grab every opportunity to see as much of it as you possibly can. Most people don't.

(12) Keep your eye on the ball and follow through, both in sports and in life.

(13) Speaking of sports, pick a team and stick with them. There are few things more important in life than loyalty. It's a dying trait currently in short supply. Trust me. I'm a Mets fan.

(14) Never regret staying home alone with a good book.

(15) If you feel the need to reinvent yourself, at least be original. No tattoos unless you're in the armed forces. No body piercings unless you become a pre-Columbian tribal Aztec. No orange hair unless you join the circus.

(16) Learn from the bad as well as the good. Fall down, make a mess, break something occasionally. And always remember that the story is never over.

(17) Don't make a scene.

(18) Learn how to entertain yourself. Close the door, crank up the stereo, and dork out. Invent new dance moves. Play the air guitar. Practice your touchdown moves. Too many people are self conscious even when they're alone. Don't be one of those people.

(19) While you're at it, learn how to laugh at yourself.

(20) When you realize that everyone comes from a dysfunctional family, life gets a little easier and you feel a little less crazy.  The only normal people are the ones you don't know very well.

(21) Thank you notes are to be written promptly by hand on personal stationery. E-mails, phone calls and text messages don't count.

(22) Remember that nice guys do finish first. If you don't know that, then you don't know where the finish line is.

(23) Learn to cook one thing really well.

(24) Happiness is not fame, money or power. The key to life is finding your sweet spot.

(25) Take every piece of advice anyone ever gives you with a grain of salt.

What advice do you want to pass on to your kids? What's the one life lesson that you wished someone had taught you earlier? What's the best piece of advice you ever received from your parents? Am I the only one who never received any?

Spill it, folks. An inquiring mind wants to know.

The MetroDad NYC Interview

During this blog's lifetime, I've been interviewed for dozens of magazines and newspapers. However, in all honesty, I've never really liked many of the interviews. I think this is primarily for two reasons. One is that, for the most part, the interviewers tended to already be fans of this site and I think that any truly good interview requires some conversational tension. I find the best ones tend to be conducted by people who don't like you and, more importantly, don't want to like you.

The second reason I'm not a big fan of those articles is because the only thing actually more boring than blogging is talking about blogging.

However, someone recently sent me a set of questions from what might best be described as a geographical twist on the Proust Questionnaire. The questions were actually from 92Y Blog co-editor Andrew Krucoff’s series of interviews which once ran regularly on Gothamist. 

Because so much of this blog is about my love of New York, I thought I'd give it a shot.

The Basics

Age and occupation. How long have you lived here, where did you come from, and where do you live now?
40. Fashion Executive. Born in Manhattan. Left briefly to attend college in California and work in Washington, DC. Nobody in either place understood my sense of humor so I had to move back here in 1995.

Three Just for Thee

1. Which fictional character would you like to date, and why?
If she were funnier and drank more tequila, I'd say Dominique Francon from The Fountainhead.  But since she probably wouldn't let me spend Sunday afternoons watching football on the couch in my underwear, I'm going to go with Sigourney Weaver's character in the Alien movies, Ripley. Or maybe Betty Rubble. 

2. Which fictional character would you like to be?
Can I name three?  Former Ohio State QB and current F.B.I. agent/surfer, Johnny Utah. Aging sagacious bouncer at The Double Deuce, Wade Garrett. Hirsute basketball phenom, Teen Wolf.

3. Your favorite fictional sentence or passage?
"That morning, she pours Teacher's gin all over my belly and licks it off. That afternoon, she tries to jump out the window. I go, 'Holly, this can't continue.'"---Raymond Carver

Proust-Krucoff Questionnaire

Time travel question: What era, day or event in New York's history would you like to re-live?
Prohibition. I'll bet you could score hot chicks with just some leftover backwash from a Seagram's wine cooler. Wait, did they have those back then?

9pm, Wednesday night - what are you doing?
Same thing I do every Wednesday. Getting in heated arguments with random strangers at a bar about who would win a fight between Batman and Chuck Norris.

What's your New York motto?
"Hey, dickface. Can you let me off the fucking subway before you try to squeeze your fat ass inside?"

Best celebrity sighting in New York, or personal experience with one if you're that type.
1991. Late at night. Dive bar. I'm standing at a urinal pissing about 20 gallons of beer when the guy next to me says, "Really tapping that valve, aren't you, buddy?"  I turn around and who do I see?  Kevin Costner!  Without missing a beat, I let go of my penis, put both my hands on top of my head like two horns, and yell, "Tatonka!"  My buddy Will started laughing so hard that I think he may have peed all over Costner. However, the guy was totally cool. Not only did he laugh, he also bought us a few pitchers of beer.

Describe that low, low moment when you thought you just might have to leave NYC for good.
I've never had that moment. If I play my cards right, I'll die alone in my apartment and nobody will know until the neighbors complain of the stench. Does that ever really happen in New York City or is it one of those urban myths?

Just after midnight on a Saturday - what are you doing?
Finishing dinner in the West Village, complaining for the 1,000th time that there are no good bars in the area, and reluctantly walking over to Soho House to meet my buddy Kyle.

Finish one of the four following sentences:
1) "Outside of his building, on E. 9th Street, Chip took money from Enid and...
then punched himself in the throat for having the name Chip and wearing flannel ironically.

Where do you summer?
I refuse to answer any question that uses a season as a verb. Unless it's Fall. Then the answer is "on my ass."

Who do you consider to be the greatest New Yorker of all-time?
John McEnroe. He played tennis like Mozart but had the attitude of a NYC cabbie. He married Tatum O'Neal but dumped her for rocker Patty Smyth. He hosted an absurd game show but quietly owns one of the coolest art galleries in Soho. He encompasses both the best and worst that the city has to offer.

What happened the last time you went to L.A.?
I got really high at Charlie Sheen's house and woke up married to Robert Evans. Just kidding. Like every other New Yorker, I got stuck in traffic for 3 hours, went back to the Chateau Marmont, got drunk, and then swore that I'd never return.

Medication: What and how much do you take?
Very little. I tried Ambien a few times but I like to drink so every time I took it, I ended up driving around naked with one of the Kennedys. The one time I tried Viagra recreationally, I got a massive erection...the next day. Are tequila and cheeseburgers considered medicinal?

Of all the movies made about (or highly associated with) New York, what role would you have liked to be cast in?
This one is a no brainer. Famed NYPD officer Frank Serpico.

If you could change one thing about New York, what would it be?
I'd bring back the seediness of Times Square. I hate the Disney-sponsored sterilization of the area. I much preferred it back when the place was overrun by hookers, junkies, and muggers. If it were up to me, I'd pass a law that required all tourists to get mugged while they're here so they'd have a story that they could tell for the rest of their lives to their friends back in Milwaukee.

The End of The World is finally happening. Be it the Rapture, War of Armageddon, or reversal of the Sun's magnetic field. What are you going to do with your last 24 hours in NYC?
Sit at the bar at Peter Lugers, order the world's largest porterhouse steak, drink a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue scotch, and work on the Sunday NY times crossword puzzle. Then I'd take a cab out to CitiField and run around the bases until I threw up.