MetroDad

Portrait of the Writer as a Young Girl

When I was a young child, I’d often fantasize that my parents were not really Asian immigrants who busted their asses to provide an idyllic upbringing for me and my younger brother. Instead, I had visions that I was simply a misplaced member of an obscure royal family and that, at any moment, my real family would find me and I would rightfully assume my title as the Crown Prince of Cashmeria.

I never mentioned this to the couple who considered themselves “my real parents” because I didn’t want to hurt their feelings. However, my mother must have innately picked up on it because from a very young age, my family nickname was “The Prince.” Naturally, this only confirmed my suspicions that I HAD been switched from birth at the hospital.

By the time I reached my teens, I deduced that my royal parents were having difficulties locating me so I set out upon the world to make my own fortune.

Every empire must start somewhere and mine began by working the night shift as a busboy at Bobby Rubino’s Place for Ribs.

For those of you who don't know of that fine dining establishment, Bobby Rubino’s is like the wife of T.G.I. Fridays that always has bruises on her face and claims she's just "clumsy.”

Located on a desolate highway in suburban New Jersey, the restaurant was a magnet for pot-bellied salesmen, lonely housewives, cops, and refrigerator repairmen. Every night, at the end of my shift, I would bicycle home reeking of cheap barbecue sauce, collared greens, and desperation. Did I mention that I was only fifteen years old?

The sole highlight of my employment there was the night Eddie Murphy came to visit “the premiere place for ribs and BBQ.”

Let’s remember that back in 1985, Eddie Murphy was enjoying an unprecedented run of success that has rarely been repeated in Hollywood. Still shy of his 26^th birthday, he was already coming high off the heels of “Saturday Night Live,” “48 Hours," and “Trading Places.”

Yes, Eddie ultimately embarrassed himself by releasing the Rick James-produced single “Party All The Time” and had yet to deploy his star power to write, direct and produce his dream project, the ill-begotten comedy-drama crime period pic known as “Harlem Nights.” And sure, it was years later that his drunken one-night stand resulted in a positive paternity test with Spice Girl Melanie B and he got arrested for soliciting a transvesite prostitute. However, at that precise moment back in 1985, Eddie Murphy was the fucking MAN! Has anyone ever had the remarkable 5-year-run that he had back in the mid-80’s? At the moment, the only ones who come to mind are Wayne Gretzky, Elle MacPherson, and Notorious B.I.G.

As soon as Eddie Murphy walked into our rib joint, he started throwing hundred-dollar bills in the air like confetti at a parade.

Clearing the Murphy entourage’s greasy plates and doling out pre-packaged lukewarm Wet Naps, I netted about $500 that night. For a fifteen-year-old wanna-be-tycoon, this was a veritable fortune.  A brave new world had suddenly opened up before my very eyes and I astutely realized that there were easier ways to make a buck.

By the time I arrived on the west coast as a naïve but ambitious college freshman at Berkeley, I was determined to earn enough money whereby I could effortlessly afford ski weekends in Squaw Valley, oysters in Point Reyes, and Bloody Marys at Sam’s Café. Essentially, I wanted to be a Marin County housewife.

A brief summary of jobs that I had in college:

(1) Watching coma patients and recording any changes in their status.

(2) Tending gardens as an assistant to a landscape architect. I was quickly revealed as a city slicker upon clearing weeds by hand and excitedly yelling, “Holy crap, escargots!” Up until then, I had previously believed that snails originated solely from the scenic waters of Bourgogne and were indigenous in the U.S. only on the plates of wealthy Park Avenue matrons dining at La Cote Basque. Have I mentioned that I was the Fresh Prince?

(3) Crawling through empty dormitories at the end of every semester to scavenge discarded text books that could be re-sold to the student bookstore.

Eventually I got a highly-lucrative job teaching tennis to housewives at a country club. While my peers were making $5.00/hour toiling at the library or making avocado-and-sprouts sandwiches at Café Med, I was booking a relatively cushy $35/hour working on my tan and cooing the phrase “lightly grab the racquet and shake hands with it gently.” Could life get any better?

After leaving college, I moved to Washington, DC where, after several fruitless job endeavors, I found work doing something I truly enjoyed...writing.

I loved writing for a living. Not only was it intellectually stimulating but I also found that I enjoyed the solitude of the work. Whether penning lifestyle pieces for local magazines or dissecting government policy for think tank journals, I felt as if I had found my true calling. Yes, I thought to myself. This is the life for me.

After several arduous and back-breaking years, I began thinking that maybe it wasn't the life for me. As anyone who has spent any time as a freelance writer knows, it's incredibly stressful trying to figure out where or when your next paycheck is coming. It's disheartening to spend two weeks writing a piece only to be paid less than one might have received working at a fast-food restaurant. Writing requires such an indomitable spirit and a steadfast dedication to craft that I sometimes believe that the low wages exist solely to weed out the disingenuous.

Harlan Ellison, in an interview published in Writer's Digest, once said that anyone can become a writer. The trick is not in becoming a writer, it is in staying a writer. Day after week after month after year.

Ultimately I chose to abandon writing as a career because I not only had doubts about my ability but also because I found my personality ill-suited for the personal sacrifices required to pursue the craft. After all, I wasn't nicknamed the Prince for nothing. If I could pursue another career, make enough money to eat sushi every night and travel the world, yet still pursue writing as a hobby that was probably good enough for me. Once I came to that realization, I never looked back.

Until today.

Tonight, as I was getting the Peanut ready for bed, we sat down and I asked her what she wanted to do for a living when she grew up.

"I think I want to be a writer when I get older, Daddy. Or maybe an artist."

"Well, kiddo. You know that you're immensely talented and you can be anything you want to be when you grow up."

"How about you, Daddy? Would you want to be a writer too? Wouldn't it be great if we could both be writers together?"

"Maybe, sweetie. Right now, I'm more focused on working so that we have a roof over our heads and food on our table. Maybe someday, we'll both be writers and we can write in the same room together."

"I'd like that, Daddy. I'd like that a lot."

Shortly thereafter she fell asleep and I was left feeling an enormous sense of pride. In some ways, I felt like one of those soccer/football/hockey dads who never quite get over their glory days and wish nothing more than having their child fulfill all of their own dreams and fantasies. But really, it was something more than that. It was this incredible feeling that this little kid whose diapers you changed and whose boogers you wiped suddenly, for the first time, has her own set of dreams and fantasies.

Recently, the Peanut wrote a poem about love that moved me beyond belief.

I'm speechless.

She's SEVEN.

Clearly, she's already a better poet that I have ever been.

I'm not posting this as one of those overly proud parents boasting "Look and see what my progeny has done!" I'm posting it because as an adult, one always forgets the depth of emotion of which little children are capable. I'm posting it because I'm a little at a loss on how to best foster her talents and dreams of being a writer. And I'm posting it because I continue to be in awe of the constant surprises that come with parenthood.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to the day when the Peanut's first book is published and I can start pimping out her Amazon page to all of you. 

Maybe then, I can finally retire to the good life.

You know, until my "real" parents find me...

CHAOS THEORY: February 2012

Random thoughts on a rainy Wednesday NYC night...

DO REAL MEN DO YOGA?

Internet, I have a confession.

I am now a person who does yoga. Yes. I am a Yogi. Me.

It all started out innocently. I just wanted to add a different dimension to my workouts. Lifting gets boring (those weights are heavy!) and running on treadmills makes me feel like a lab rat. So despite my general dislike of anything that reeks of a pretentious New Age fad, I thought I would expand my horizons and give yoga a try. At the very least, I figured I'd get to stare at my girlfriend's gorgeous body for 90 minutes. Where was the downside?

Holy cow. I'm hooked.

Seriously, I love yoga. I'm sleeping better. I'm breathing easier. I'm less stressed. I've become stronger and more flexible in ways that I had never imagined. I'm bending to Downward Facing Dog, dropping to Chataranga, and reaching to Tadasana.

Despite my fears, I'm pleased to report that I have yet to develop an unfettered love of kombucha, Lulu Lemon, or patchouli. And the day that I say goodbye to any of my buddies by chanting "Namaste" is probably the same day you'll find my dead body in the bottom of the Hudson River.

Luckily, I think my yoga teacher knows the limits of my tolerance for pretension. For example, instead of forcing me to hear Ravi Shankar jam out on a sitar, we ended this week's lesson by lying in savasana while listening to Zero 7. I'm clearly doing the upscale downtown Soho version of yoga.

Anyway, I really do love it.

If I could only resist the temptation to fart out of my third eye every five minutes, I think this yoga thing might be for me.

 

DREAM DINNER

The year I was applying to colleges, Harvard, Stanford and Princeton all asked potential matriculents to write an essay answering the same question: If you could have dinner with any figure or figures, living or dead, real or historical, who would it be and why?

I can't remember exactly what I wrote but I'm sure my 17-year-old pompous self started the essay by stating, "Don't you mean WHOM?" 

I was thinking about this today because last night, I woke up from a weird dream that had a similar motif. The details of the dream are fuzzy but it entailed a dinner with me, my girlfriend, Oprah and Alec Baldwin.

In the dream, we start off with champagne and cheese. Alec and I huddle on one side of the table talking about mayoral politics, the Knicks, and Peter Luger steaks. Oprah turns to my girlfriend and says, "Girl, you lookin' good." I love it when Oprah gets a little sista-y. Nobody really knows the real Oprah. When the cameras are off, the girl is mad cool.

Over dinner, they start sharing amazing celebrity gossip. Oprah reveals the entire Brad and Jen saga, even though she promised Jen she wouldn’t. Alec tells us about the time he almost had a threesome with Tina Fey and Condoleeza Rice. Amazing!

After a few drinks, I convince Alec that we should start prank calling Rudy Guiliani, Rupert Murdoch, and Kim Basinger. Nobody picks up so we start drinking martinis before dessert.

After dinner, we make s'mores, cuddle on the couch, and watch re-runs of Extreme Home Makeover. Then suddenly, the dream ended. I woke up, jumped in the shower, and went to work.

*FYI, in case you were wondering, I didn't get accepted into Harvard, Stanford, or Princeton.

 

 BOOK SHELF

Much to my own detriment, I tend to gravitate a little too much towards "serious" literary writers. Because I've always been interested in determining how the writing of contemporary heavyweights (Amis, McEwan, Eugenides, Roth, Atwood, Coetzee, et al) compares to the classics of the Western canon, I often miss out on less-recognized writers who are producing great work. To remedy that shortfall, I've just ordered the following books from Amazon.

Charles D'Ambrosio's The Dead Fish Museum

Dan Chaon's Await Your Reply

John Jeremiah Sullivan's Pulphead: Essays

Wes Moore's The Other Wes Moore: One Name, Two Fates

Have you read any of these? Or read anything else lately that you can recommend? Let me know.

 

THE END IS NIGH?

Speaking of books, NY Times best-selling novelist, reality television star, and professional guidette Nicole "Snooki" Polizetti announced today that she is pregnant with her first child. If the baby is born on December 21, 2012, then the Mayans were right.

 

RANDOM TEXT MESSAGES FROM MY FRIENDS, VOL. 8

"Hey man, am I supposed to tip the nurses?"

"Who knew Maria Shriver had the most appalling voice in the world? No wonder Arnie sought solace with the Spanish help!"

"Did you know that when girls eat asparagus, their pee smells bad too?"

"You'll be glad to know that mock turtlenecks are still alive and well in San Francisco."

"Isn't couture arguably ephemera?"

"I just reverse-engineered a Cobb salad!"

"Before people get a divorce, they should try switching the side of the bed they sleep on. Problem fixed!"

 

ON PARENTHOOD

I've been finding it increasingly difficult to write here about parenthood.

In the same manner that one's life becomes more complicated as one gets older, parenthood also becomes progressively more challenging as one's child gets older. The stakes are higher. The repercussions become more serious. And every event takes on greater significance. Navigating the perils of changing diapers become laughable after one realizes that those were the gravy days.

It's difficult to explain parenthood to those who don't yet have children, because becoming a parent is an intensely personal experience. Every child is different. Every parent is different. Every culture has their own way of doing things. The experience is fundamentally different for every new parent in the world, yet children are the one universally shared thing that binds our giant collective chain letter of human beings together, regardless of nationality and language. How do you explain the unexplainable?

As Jeff Atwood succintly said,

As an adult, you may think you've roughly mapped the continent of love and relationships. You've loved your parents, a few of your friends, eventually a significant other. You have some tentative cartography to work with from your explorations. You form ideas about what love is, its borders and boundaries. Then you have a child, look up to the sky, and suddenly understand that those bright dots in the sky are whole other galaxies.

You can't possibly know the enormity of the feelings you will have for your children. It is absolutely fucking terrifying.

It never ceases to amaze me how much I love the Peanut.

The Peanut is now seven and while she has grown up to be an incredible child, I often find myself constantly thinking about her past, present, and future. Wasn't it just yesterday that I was changing her diapers? How does the time fly by so quickly? With all the dramatic changes she's experienced in her life thus far, am I really doing absolutely everything in my power to ensure her current happiness and well-being? What obstacles lie ahead? In what ways will she thrive? Where will she struggle? How can I protect her?

These are the questions that keep me up at night.

Ultimately I remember to take a deep breath, bring myself back to earth, and remind myself that while the days may be long, the years go by fast. The kid is only seven.

And you know what?

Seven is cool.

This is seven.

Hoop Dreams: The Rise of the Asian-American Baller

When I was a teenager, I thought nothing in the world would be cooler than being a professional sportswriter.

See, as a young boy, I was an extremely shy kid and more than a little introverted. More often than not, I could usually be found with my head buried in a book or furiously writing stories in a tattered journal that accompanied me at all times. I was a studiously sullen kid with few friends and I recall spending a large part of my adolescence alone in my room with a good book and the door shut.

My quiet time, as my mom called it.

Eager to ensure that I get some exposure to fresh air, my mother signed me up for every sports league in town. To the surprise of everyone (most notably myself,) sports came naturally to me and I turned out to be a fairly gifted athlete. Soon I was playing competitive junior tennis in tournaments all over the east coast. I was an all-star pitcher, shooting guard, and soccer player. Eventually, I even excelled to the point where colleges began recruiting me for my athletic prowess.

In a way, sports saved me.

While that might be a slight exaggeration, it's a fundamental truth that sports did drastically alter the arc of my life. Growing up as a young Asian-American book nerd, I wasn't exactly brimming with confidence. Having been raised in a predominantly upper-class white environment, I was often bullied and made to feel as if I were inferior or "different."

But it's true what they say...sports level the playing field.

With every successful moment on the court or on the field, I found myself brimming with ever-growing levels of confidence. I became absolutely sure in my abilities and never once doubted that I was equal to the task at hand. Surprisingly, I found that I absolutely loved the competiveness that would allow me to reach higher and higher levels. I feared nothing. I yearned to hit the winner that would finish off my opponent. I wanted to be the one taking the last-minute shot with the game on the line. I craved having the pressure of being alone in the spotlight.

Eventually, this all leaked over into my personal life. I became much more confident, self-assured, and outspoken in all facets of my life. I learned to overcome my insecurities of being an outsider and I found myself being accepted in ways that I never had before.

But once a literary nerd, always a literary nerd.

So after discovering that I possessed a modicum of athletic skill, I soon become an avid fan of not only all sports but also sportswriting. I was fortunate to have grown up in an era when sportswriting was at its highest level of craftsmanship. There was no doubt in my mind that it was a genuine form of literature. The exquisite and resonant long-form pieces written by guys like Frank Deford, Roger Angell, Charles Pierce, David Halberstam, and George Will were as good as anything I'd ever read by Hemingway, Faulkner, or Joyce.

More than anything, what these writers taught me was that sports are not only a prime venue for the expression of human beauty and physical accomplishment but can also reflect transcendent themes in life and society. At the end of the day, I truly do like to believe that sports is human life in microcosm.

Or as George Sheehan once eloquently put it, "sports is where an entire life can be compressed into a few hours, where the emotions of a lifetime can be felt on an acre or two of ground, where a person can suffer and die and rise again on six miles of trails through a New York City park. Sport is a theater where sinner can turn saint and a common man becomes an uncommon hero, where the past and the future can fuse with the present. Sports is singularly able to give us peak experiences where we feel completely one with the world and transcend all conflicts as we finally become our own potential."

So yeah, I fucking love sports.

But where am I going with all this?

Two words.

Jeremy Lin.

Ever since the Jeremy Lin phenomenon began (and for you readers who don't know about "Lin-Sanity, read this non-sports fan guide for a full update,) my e-mail box has been flooded with messages and my phone has been ringing off the hook. Everyone from friends, casual acquaintances, media outlets, and readers of this site have reached out to me.

"Yo, man! How about your boy J-Lin?"

"We'd love to hear your thoughts on Jeremy Lin and his significance to Asian-America."

"You watch the Knicks last night? Lin-sanity rules again!"

As both a proud Asian-American man and an avid sports fan, I have to admit that the Jeremy Lin story fascinates me. Here was an undiscovered player barely drafted into the NBA who has singlehandedly, in the span of one week, lit the basketball world on fire, reignited the moribund Knicks franchise, and become a national and cultural phenomenon that has taken the country by storm. 

At first, I wasn't going to write about Jeremy Lin because part of me just wanted to yell out, "So what? You don't think Asian guys can play hoops? In this day and age, are we really so surprised by the ascendence of an Asian-American baller?"

As a society, have we become so inundated with the emasculation of the Asian-American male that when one of us displays incredible physical prowess, we're shocked beyond belief?

But this was naive of me.

Seeing a fellow Asian-American man dominate in the predominantly rarified world of professional basketball was confusing. I found myself having feelings of pride that I couldn't easily explain. Jay Kang of Grantland put it much better:

"What I was trying to describe was the very strange, specific, and rare pride one feels when watching one of their own succeed in a forbidden field. Basketball, more than any other professional sport, is an exhibition of the human body and therefore lends itself to heavy racial codification. The experience of seeing an Asian American body within that arena chased away all the standard emasculating stereotypes, at least for a while. Yes, Yao and his cohort of gawky, jump-shooting countrymen had already played in the NBA. But they didn't count. For this particular revenge fantasy, our hero needed to be able to understand every single racist thing said to him on the court and respond by dropping 30."

There have been other Asian-American athletes who have excelled in other sports, only to elicit little or no response from the community. Across the Bay from Lin’s hometown of Palo Alto, baseball stud Kurt Suzuki just turned in the best season of any position player on the Oakland A’s. A little way down the 101 in San Luis Obispo, Chris Gocong’s Philadelphia Eagles jersey hangs in the locker room at Cal Poly. Hines Ward was Super Bowl MVP and a possible Hall of Famer. So why does Jeremy Lin, shooting guard for the Harvard Crimson, captivate us in a way that few professional athletes ever have?

I'm not exactly sure.

Maybe we, as a nation, truly do appreciate the underdog story. The amazing thing about Jeremy Lin's rise to cultural significance is that, in many ways, it seems to have transcended race. Everyone from Harvard grads to blue-collar workers to faithful Christians to workers who have been dumped by their bosses to those whom have never been given a chance...everyone seems to have found a connection with a nerdy point guard who just weeks ago was more likely to be found bagging groceries than electrifying sold-out arenas.

There's no comparison to what Jeremy Lin has accomplished over the past two weeks.

Certainly not from the point of view of race.

And a lot of it is about race, isn't it?

As Bill Simmons wrote in Grantland today,

"There's been a subtle racism lurking behind everything that's happened these past two weeks; you can't help but notice it when they show someone holding a "Yellow Mamba" sign in the stands, or with the people who crossed the line on Twitter (that's still going), or even the late-night monologue-type jokes like "Of course Jeremy Lin would go well with MSG" or "Who said Asians couldn't drive?," which sound relatively harmless until you think, Wait, nobody would be making 'black' jokes if Lin were black."

At the end of the day, I'm an avid sports fan. And as a sports fan, I want to see Jeremy Lin succeed. It's a great American underdog story that truly does transcend sports.

But more importantly, as an Asian-American man, I want to see Jeremy Lin succeed because it's one more step towards knocking down stereotypes about Asian-American men.

I never had a role model who looked like me when I was growing up. I wish I had. Maybe the path would have been easier. Maybe it would have been the same.

At the end of the day, I'm a 43-year-old Asian-American man who has struggled with my identity for much of my life. And while I don't believe that professional athletes are role models or heroes, I do believe that there's something to be said about inspiration. No matter one's color, I think we can all agree that Jeremy Lin is a great inspiration.

Still, I look forward to the day when nobody thinks twice about an Asian-American basketball player dominating the NBA. I look forward to the day when nobody thinks twice about an Asian-American leading man, an Asian-American rock star, or a studly Asian-American playboy.

But until that day?

Represent, J-Lin.

Represent.

 

CHAOS THEORY: December 2011

Random thoughts on a Monday night...

MERRY BIRTHDAY HAPPY CHRISTMAS!

Every holiday season, I struggle a bit over how to explain Christmas to the Peanut.

Generally speaking, I am wholly unqualified to have this conversation with my daughter. Being somewhat immature and fairly agnostic, I often celebrate Christmas by singing "Happy birthday, Baby Jesus!" all day long and toasting God's only son with a glass of single-malt scotch while acting surprised when opening presents that I've bought for myself.

Ideally, I'd like to deemphasize both the commercial and religious aspects of Christmas. Although I struggle with my own faith, I think it's semi-important to try and frame Christmas in terms of the Nativity and the day that Jesus was born. However, at the age of seven, the only Jesus whom the Peanut knows is the parking garage attendant down the block. Things could get a little confusing. I really need to start taking her to church one of these days.

At the same time, I'd also like to forgo too many discussions about Santa. The Peanut is only seven years old and I'm quite sure that she does not yet need to be concerned about omnipotent mythical father figures making value judgments about her behavior. On the flip side? Pretending to call Santa on my cell phone has stopped many a tantrum in mid-stride.

So to sum up: no religion, light on Santa. What's left?

Essentially, I'd like to convey to her that the true spirit of Christmas is love, peace, and good will towards men. I'd like to explain to her that Christmas is a time of celebrating life with one's friends and family.

And naturally, I have no desire to withold from her all the fun festivities associated with the holiday season: Christmas trees, stockings on the mantel, egg nogg, chocolate Advent calendars, and Santa's cookie plate. Plus, I'll be the first to admit it; I fucking love Christmas music. Little Drummer Boy? I listen to that shit all year round.

It's a fine line, isn't it?

I'm thinking of doing a demonstration with some sock puppets. Or maybe I can find an "Elmo Loves Christmas" DVD. I hate that little red furry bastard but he's been helpful in the past (see "Toilet Training: 2004.") Or maybe there's something on youtube?

Anyone got any good ideas?  Help a brother out.

 

MEANINGLESS CONFESSIONS

1. Between Michael Pollan and the plethora of food documentaries to which I've become addicted, I can no longer put anything in my mouth unless I know its provenance. Sometimes I open my mouth and I'm shocked to hear myself speak: Are these free-range chickens? Is the fish wild or farm-raised? Are these avocados organic? Is there any gluten in the kale salad? Somewhere in the heavens, my tough-as-nails Korean ancestors are sighing heavily.

2. I have tried to like Kings of Leon many times and have failed. I'm now giving up.

3. Am I the only one who is genuinely surprised to discover that I wasn't the lucky person to win the previous night's lottery?

4. I just bought a crockpot.

 

LITERARY

1. Thus far, Jeffrey Eugenides' "The Marriage Plot" wins my vote for best book of the year. The “marriage plot” referred to in the title is a term literary theorists use to label novels of courtship; think Jane Austen, Eliot and Anthony Trollope. The protagonist, Madeline Hanna, is writing her college thesis on the subject. Not coincidentally, at the end of the day, this novel is really nothing more than an elegantly-written, old-fashioned story centered around Madeline and her two suitors. They simply don't write books like this anymore. What makes it such an exceptional novel is that Eugenides is a superbly gifted storyteller who writes as if he has nothing to prove and by doing so, shows that he may be the great American writer many have suspected him of being.

2. Overhyped Book of the Year: "The Art of Fielding" by Chad Harbach. All the critics seemed to love this debut novel by one of literary mag N + 1's co-founders and I eagerly awaited its arrival on my doorstep. While brilliant at times, it ultimately disappointed. Was it the underdevelopment of the main characters? Was it the sophomoric portrayal of human relationships? Was it the lack of humor pervading story? I'm not quite sure. Nor do I really care.

3. I have just started Haruki Murakami's "1Q84," his 928-page surreallist novel tackling the themes of murder, history, cult religion, violence, family ties and love. While I am a huge Murakami fan, this one doesn't strike me as a breezy page turner. 

4. I'm also reading Spalding Grey's memoirs. Incredibly written but can only be read in short doses. Since we all know how the story ends (suicide,) it's a bit like having lunch with Sylvia Plath every day.

 

GOOGLE IS MY SANTA CLAUS

Lest one think from my earlier musings that I am some sort of Scrooge or a grinch, I respectfully disagree.

As far as the Peanut is concerned, there really is a Santa Claus and he is solely responsible for all those magical presents that miraculously appear underneath the tree on Christmas morning. I cherish every single moment with my daughter but there are few things that make me as happy as seeing her beautiful face light up with glee when she wakes up on Christmas morning and runs to the tree to see what Santa has brought her.

Every year, I have the Peanut write a letter to Santa explaining why she's been a good kid and what she would like for Christmas.

This year, her list includes a karaoke machine, Paper Jamz, Zoobles, Polly Pocket, Arthur Christmas, Air Swimmers, Sing-A-Ma-Jigs, and a Doggie Doo.

Aside from the karaoke machine, I literally have no fucking idea what the hell she is talking about. It's like she's speaking a foriegn language. Suddenly I'm having flashbacks to being a little kid and seeing the blank expressions on my immigrant parents' faces when I endlessely blathered on about Coleco game machines, Brite-Lites, Masters of the Universe action figures, Gobots, and a Rubik's Cube. How could they not know about these things?

Sigh...

Part of me wants to pay it forward by just getting her a full set of Encyclopedia Britannica, a $20 bill, and a new Mighty-Mac jacket.

On the flip side, my daughter has me wrapped me around her little finger so my Amazon shopping cart is already locked and loaded. 

Yes, Peanut.

There really is a Santa Claus.

 

A Brief Note on Giving Thanks

As I look around me, I can't help but get the feeling that America seems to be an angry place these days. 

We're angry that a shrinking portion of the population controls a growing portion of the money. We're angry that public schools are failing our children. We're angry that our so-called leaders are more concerned with partisan mudslinging than solving our nation''s problems. But more than anything else, we all seem to be angry with one another.

Look, I get it. We're a PMS nation built on anger. Heck, the very foundation of this country was built on anger. "What, you're going to tax us without fair representation? You're going to tell us whom to worship?  You're going to treat us like 2nd-class citizens? Fuck that. We're starting our own country!"

However, we seem to have reached a point where the appropriate response to life's irritations is sheer anger and rage. Have you read the newspaper lately? Every minor tangle is a potential interpersonal Gulf of Tonkin incident. Funny looks on the street result in brawls. Incidents on the highway result in road rage. Innocuous slights by strangers end up in wrathful revenge. 

Now, don't get me wrong. Everyone feels anger. I don't ever want to NOT feel anger. But, as Dennis Miller once said, the collective mistake we're making is this: Anger used to be a bass line that we used to merely provide a funky bottom to our cultural zeitgeist. It's now broken out into a shrieking guitar solo that's drawing a rivulet of blood from all our ears.

So maybe during this holiday week when we get together with all of our weird relatives and stuff our faces, we can turn the dial down on some of that hate and take some time to remember how lucky all of us truly are. In the grand scheme of things, even the most disgruntled among us is living better than 99% of our fellow inhabitants on the planet. Trust me, I've seen it firsthand.

For better or worse, let's give thanks and be truly grateful for all that we do have in our lives. Let's remember to help those who are less fortunate. And let's always remember that health, love and friendship should never be taken for granted.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you and your families. Good will towards all.

Peace out, homies.

 

Random Text Messages From My Friends, Vol. 7

The following text missives from my cell phone are all about to get purged so, as usual, I thought I'd jot them down here for posterity. Names and telephone numbers have been withheld to protect the (not-so) innocent.

"The best part about Halloween is giving out packets of ketchup to little kids."

"What's worse? Piercing your newborn's ears or giving her a lower back tattoo?"

"Wife walked in on me doing the robot. It didn't faze her. The thrill is gone."

"Patron tequila with limes doesn't count as a juice cleanse, homeboy."

"Just ate shrimp cocktail, lobster salad, sushi, snow crabs. I'm about to crap The Deadliest Catch."

"Ever walk by a group of women and hear one of them tell her friends 'I''d tap that?'"

"Don't judge Heather Mills until you've hopped a mile in her shoe."

"Best part about working for myself is giving the boss handjobs under the desk."

"Dallas is making me feel very brunette."

"Please say you're kidding about the colonic. Is crapping bib lettuce and spicy lemonade not enough for you?"

"I want to be me when I grow up but with more hair and cars and a better second serve."

"Thinking of starting an Alan Parsons Project cover band. You want in?"

"Can't decide what I like most about this party: all the recently divorced men or the baby lamb chops."

"I live where botox and silicon runneth over but the gustatory landscape is severely lacking."

"My husband is reading Vogue and I'm watching the Detroit Lions game. That answer your question?"

"Everyone here reminds me of mashed potatoes. White and lumpy."

"Remember when we used to to party and go to rap shows? I'm now at the Bryan Ferry concert drinking chardonnay. Where did things go wrong?"

"The only guys who like Coldplay are the ones who want to sleep with girls who like Coldplay."

"Just spent 2 hours on WebMD. Convinced I'm dying. Fare thee well!"

 

MetroDad GiveAway: Your turn, folks. What's the funniest or most random text message you've received? The reader who submits a comment that makes milk come out my nose wins a brand-new Apple IPod Shuffle. Be sure to leave your e-mail address in the comments.

 

Day Tripping

I have repeatedly refused to chaperone the Peanut’s field trips, even when they were on days I wasn’t particularly busy at work and could easily have done so. The thought of riding in an old school bus with a bunch of screaming second graders holds about as much painstaking appeal to me as teaching my parents how to program their DVR.

Unfortunately, the Peanut’s most recent field trip happened to coincide with her seventh birthday. In the course of asking my lovely daughter what she wanted to do on her "special" day, she looked me dead straight in the eye and said, “I want you to chaperone my class trip.”

Damn, this kid is good.

As far as I can tell, the primary job requirement of a parent chaperone is ensuring that no child gets lost or left behind.  Secondary responsibilities include poking straws into milk cartons, breaking up fights, wiping boogers, and fielding questions.

Lots of questions...

"Why do you wear sunglasses indoors?"

Because your pink Hello Kitty sweater is searing my corneas.

"Why are you wearing all black clothes?"

I’m mourning the loss of my childhood.

"What did you bring for lunch?" 

Grilled iguana, a couple of corn dogs and a shrimp cocktail. 

"What do you do for a living?"  

Play drums in a Justin Bieber cover band.

"Where do you live?"  

In a van down by the river.

 This Guantanamo-style school bus interrogation literally went on for about fifteen minutes and ended only when the little midgets decided that my answers were wholly unsatisfactory. Suddenly, they turned their backs to me and yelled out to my daughter, “Hey Peanut, how come your dad is so weird?”

To which my daughter yelled back, “He’s not weird. He’s just goofy.”

Sarcasm is lost on the young.

To add insult to injury, the field trip was to see an experimental dance troupe. Had I known this beforehand, I would have faked my own death. Don't get me wrong. I am all for supporting the arts but spending two hours watching dancers reenact the anguished pain of a butterfly via interpretive movement is more than a man can bear.

In all honesty, I was hoping to catch a quick nap during the performance. Here's what I did instead:

(1) Smack three boys in the back of the head for talking loudly.

(2) Comfort a crying girl being mercilessly teased by two mean girls.

(3) Enact revenge on the mean girls by telling them that they were ugly.

(4) Learn the latest incarnations of the time-honored clapping game, Miss Mary Mack.

(5) Realize my shortcomings as a chaperone, leave the theater, and smoke a cigarette.

Apparently, the school has plenty of eager-beaver moms who are more than willing to volunteer for these trips so I'm fairly certain that my inaugural chaperone experience may have been my last.

 

Maybe I'll join the PTA instead.

 

Or maybe I'll do what a buddy's dad used to do whenever he was asked to volunteer for anything. He'd immediately whip out his checkbook and say, "Ok, whom do I have to write the check to make sure that I never even get asked to volunteer for anything again?"

 

Of course, this was the same father who once said to my friend, "I didn't even talk to you until you were three years old. Why? Because you had nothing interesting to say."

 

Pure genius.

 

 

Humble thanks to the folks over at Babble for naming me as one of the Top 50 Dad Blogs and also the Best Written. When I first started this site, there were very few men writing about their experiences as fathers. It warms the cockles of my soul that there are now enough to actually compile a list. I hadn't heard of many of these sites before so I'm eager to check them out. You should too.

 

Return of the Mac

Lately I've been inundated with e-mails from friends, readers, news outlets, and PR agencies imploring me to write more frequently on this site.

I've always tended to squirm a little whenever this blog gets any sort of attention. It's sort of a mixed blessing for me because, as I've mentioned before, I have zero interest in being a "popular" blogger or making any money off this site. There are over 57 million blogs out there and I come across quite a few that are very clear about their naked ambitions (ad revenue! book deals! t-shirt sales!) 

This, my friends, is definitely not one of those blogs. 

You see...in that wide divide between complete obscurity and worldwide fame, I believe there exists a great number of pan flashers, egoists, and one-hit wonders hoping for a giant slice of the adulation quiche. As my man Dennis Miller likes to say, "while most of us are content to simply rubberneck the carnage on the side of the road, too many people these days are desperately striving to actually BE the car wreck."

Me? I don't want to be that wreck. I've always believed that popularity is a goal for the emotionally insecure. I also realized very early on that I personally do not have the proper disposition to handle even a modicum level of fame. (Why? Many reasons...but mostly because if my photo were ever in a magazine and I came across it at my dentist's office only to see that someone had drawn a dick and balls on my chin, I'd be pissed for weeks.)

In all honesty, I think the blog's growing popularity was part of the reason I haven't written more here in the past year or so. I started to feel as if I were writing for an audience as opposed to just writing for my own pleasure.

Quite simply, all I want to do is just hang out with you guys, shoot the shit, and tell funny stories about my daughter putting diapers on the dog.

On the flip side, I don't write here solely for myself. I started this site as a creative outlet and to find some like-minded parents who didn't take themselves (or their kids) so damn seriously.  Little did I know that I would end up meeting so many cool, smart, and interesting people who not only get my sense of humor but can also appreciate random musings on midget rappers, drunken Scrabble, and iCarly. Getting to know all of you and making some real-life friends has been, by far, the best part about starting this blog. 

As the preeminent social philosopher Lil Kim once said, "Y'all rock, yo!"

Anyway, I bring all this up because I've decided that I'm going to write a lot more on this site. I'm currently working on a book of humurous personal essays so partly in that regard, I'd like to use this site to invigorate those writing muscles that seem to have completely atrophied since I stopped writing here. To tell you the truth, I've also missed all of you.

So now that I'm back, allow me to re-introduce myself...

For all you first-time visitors here, this site is, for lack of a better phrase, a "daddy blog."

What the hell is a "daddy blog?" you might ask? Well, I can't answer for all of them but I like to think of this site as being very similar to a "mommy blog."

Except with real humor!

And 50% less crazy! 

(Just kidding, ladies!)

Actually, if I had to describe what this blog was about, I'd say it was simply about life, love, and the gentle art of raising children. It's the story of one man's heroic journey into the depths of parenthood and the ensuing joy that follows.   

(Sorry, my sarcasm cup runneth amok.)

In all seriousness, this blog is about what happens when a self-involved NYC man living a carefree hedonistic life becomes a father for the first time. It also follows the path of single parenthood and the ensuing comedy of raising a seven-year-old daughter in downtown Manhattan.

Prior to having a child, I had an amazingly fun life. Though I always wanted kids, I worried about the possibility that having a kid would put a damper on my lifestyle. However, I have to admit that life these days is much more enjoyable. More enjoyable than I could have ever imagined.

I know there are some people out there who say, “I can’t remember life before my baby was born!”  Really? There was nothing memorable about your life before you had a kid? That totally sucks.  Because I had a shitload of fun before I had a child, and I enjoy those memories just as much now as I did then. Heck, many times those memories are what get me through the night! 

But does being an involved father mean that I've forsaken my former personality to become a dad?  Have I subverted my diverse interests to pursue the path of parenthood? Am I destined to become a Stepford Dad or one of those repugnant Alpha-Parents?

Hell to the N and the O.

Don't get me wrong. I'll be the first to admit that it's not easy. There's a part of me that sometimes wants to bail out on being a parent, jump on a plane to Bali, drop Ecstasy, and write screenplays under a palm tree. There are other times when I start thinking about the cumulative cost of after-school care, ballet lessons, and college tuition...and I think to myself, "Damn, I could have bought a Porsche."

But therein lies the rub, folks. There's no way that you can emotionally or monetarily amortize the cost of having a child. I'm not going to trip the light saptastic here but having a kid is one of the greatest joys of my life. There's no way to explain it if you haven't experienced it.

This blog is merely my attempt to laugh at it all.

That being said, I do think there is a certain social contract between a writer and his readers.  When you read a blog, you expect to get a consistent perspective from the writer. However, things can get a little dicey when that writer is also a card-carrying member of the parenting blogosphere. So, in the interests of clarity, here is a list of topics that will NEVER be covered on MetroDad...

1. Seinfeld-like observations of the "didja ever notice?" variety.
2. My love of cats.
3. How the mean parents at the PTA make me feel like I'm in high school again.
4. My favorite recipe for pumpkin soup.
5. A mind-numbing, hour-by-hour recap of my day.
6. The size of my ass.
7. Bitchings about my ex-wife, my parents, or in-laws. 
8. My love of Gymboree!
9. How much it will cost to get my minivan fixed.
10. Why my kid is the greatest.

Throw a rock on the internet and you'll find a mind-numbingly enormous amount of blogs covering those and other scintillating topics.

Sorry but this won't be one of them.

On the other hand, here are some completely random examples of what you are likely to find on this site...

• Changing the world one dangling participle at a time (Strunk & White in the house, yo)
• Underage Chinese Gymnast (This post went viral all over the world.)
• 25 life lessons for my daughter (Tips on not raising the next Lindsay Lohan.)
• Child brides & boyhood crushes (The beautiful innocence of young love.)
• Diary of a single dad (Thank God I have an amazing girlfriend now.)
• Fun with deconstruction (My thoughts on champagne, lobster, anal sex and picnics)
• The 8 types of playground parents ('Fess up. Are YOU on this list?)
• An open letter to all toddlers (Post this on your fridge.)

In toto: adulation quiches, dicks and balls on my chin, car wrecks, Chinese gymnasts, grammar, and single parenthood.

Yeah, that about sums it up. 

What's up with all of you?

 

Dear Andy

Dear Andy,

It's 7:30 in the morning and I'm staring out the window of a hotel room in Stamford, Connecticut. As I gaze out across the Long Island Sound, I can't help but be struck by how beautifully clear and sunny the sky is today. It's so strangely similar to that day ten years ago when we lost you, it almost sends shivers down my spine. 

Ten years.

Kyle and I had drinks with your sister recently and we were talking about the passage of time. Susan was saying how hard it was to believe that it's been ten long years since she heard your voice, ten long years since she listened to your laugh, and ten long years since she saw your face. Would none of that really never happen again?

For me, I don't know what to think. When it comes to you, time has lost any sort of meaning. Sometimes, I feel as if 9/11 occured just yesterday. Other times, it feels like a lifetime ago.

All I really know is what I feel...and what I miss.

I miss walking into my office every morning and knowing that you were going to call at any moment. My mornings are lonelier for it.

I miss those evenings when we'd be out with a group of people but whenever you'd see me leaving, you'd make sure to give me a hug and say, "I love you, brother. Talk to you tomorrow."

I miss those late-night conversations out at the beach where we'd just grab a few beers, sit out on the deck, talk about life, and laugh about the absurdity of it all.

I miss our Monday night Chinese-food-and-a-movie adventures. It was one of my fondest weekly rituals. I don't think we've done it since you've been gone. It could never be the same without you.

God, has it really been ten years?

Collectively as a nation, there seems to be a sense of amnesia about 9/11. People want to remember the event but, at the same time, they want to get past that lingering sense of loss. It happens less in New York but you can feel it.

I get it. Bad things happen. Darkness descends. And putting personal tragedies behind us in order to move forward is an intrinsic part of life.

But how do you hold on to the things that are truly transecendentally important? How do you remember the parts of a person that that are also a part of you? What does it mean to get over the loss of a loved one?

As the writer Haruki Murakami once said, "no matter how much suffering you went through, you never want to let go of those memories."

Sometimes it saddens me that those memories are slipping away.

But ten years on, I do know that whenever I’m feeling alone in a room, the person I still always hope to see is you. Because I want to tell you about this amazing song that you'd love or about a hilarious movie that we need to see. I want to hear that infectious laugh that always cheered up my day. I want to skip work, grab a few beers and throw footballs in Central Park all day. Or I want to spontaneously jump on a plane to Miami with our best friends for one of those amazing long weekends in Miami where we'd laugh so hard that tears would be streaming down our faces.

Speaking of our friends (whom you always lovingly referred to as "la famiglia"), you'd still laugh your ass off if you saw us now. Life may change but somehow it still remains the same. We're a little older and a little grayer but, at the end of the day, we're still that same old bunch of silly misfits. As a group, we don't see each other nearly as much as we should. Maybe it's because we're all getting older and are busy with our own lives. But really, I think we all know it's because you were always the glue that held us all together.

We all miss you, Andy. You're still very much a part of our lives. We think about you all the time and we miss you as much today as when we first lost you. We can be anywhere in the world and one of us will quietly raise a glass and simply say, "To GoGo." Without fail, tears will always come to our eyes as we take a moment to remember how much we miss and love you.

Tonight we'll have dinner with your family, drink too much wine, and tell our favorite stories about you. We'll focus less on the loss and more on the joy that you brought into our lives. We'll mask grief with mirth. We'll trade bitterness for optimism. And as always, we'll take comfort in the tragedy of this day by being with our loved ones.

The only thing missing will be you.

I miss you, brother. I miss you a lot. May you always rest in peace.

Love,

Your friend Pierre

 

 

Andrew Golkin, 1970-2001

CHAOS THEORY: July 2011

Once again, almost two months have passed and I've completely forgotten that I even have a blog. Mea culpa. As Samuel Taylor Coleridge once said, "summer has set in with its usual severity."

So far, Summer 2011 has been going great. After a few rough summers, I feel like I've got my sea legs back and am ready to embrace what has always been my most cherished season. For me, summer is not just a season but rather a state of mind. Bring it on, yo.

As I type this, I’m sitting outside the Doctor’s beach house, where he and I are taking turns throwing the kids into the pool and listening to them squeal hysterically with delight. The picnic table is piled abundantly high with bottles of Rose, pitchers of homemade lemonade, lobster salad, farmhouse guacamole, and fresh vegetables from the garden. The faint smells of coconut suntan lotion and flowers permeate the air.

Have I mentioned how much I love summer?

TIPS ON BEING A GREAT HOUSEGUEST

The Peanut and I have always been lucky when it comes to the generosity of our friends; and while it’s always nice to be invited for a single weekend, here are a few of our personal tips for ensuring multiple future invitations.

(1) BRING GIFTS….I always like to give towels monogrammed with my initials. That way, the hosts will never forget me and I feel like part of their home. Win, win!

(2) BE USEFUL AND EMPATHETIC….Do the things that your hosts really want to do but are prevented from doing by decorum. Buy that bottle of Jagermeister. Slip the kids some Benadryl. Take a dump late at night in the neighbor’s pool.  

(3) MAKE THE WEEKEND MEMORABLE...Draw an outline of the Virgin Mary in a container of hummus and alert the local media. Your hosts will love telling this story for years. Trust me.

 

OMAKASE

Lately I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about how to downsize the scale and scope of my lifestyle.  

Moving into a smaller apartment and shedding myself of so many material possessions was unexpectedly cathartic. I realized that very few objects I owned held any emotional value for me. Somewhere along the line, I’d crossed over and reached a point where the things I owned ended up owning me.

Like so many others before me, I had become a slave to the Ikea nesting instinct. It’s a vicious cycle. One moment, you’re spending $250 on some bathroom candles. Next you’re blowing $8,000 on a dining table. Pretty soon, dropping $100k on a car doesn’t sound so unreasonable. Unless one makes a conscious decision to end the cycle, where and when does it end?

I have no wish to be poor but, at the same time, I have no desire to be rich.  Whereas over the course of my life, I’ve been both, I’ve come to realize that neither status has ever played much of a role in my overall life’s satisfaction or general happiness.

So aside from the basic ability to support myself and my daughter in Manhattan, I’m starting to think that when it comes to my financial ambitions, I desire only enough money to be able to travel several times each year, to never have to think about purchasing books or clothes, and most importantly, to be able to buy sushi dinners for my friends wherever and whenever I please.

Hey, I know it’s not Walden Pond but I think it’s a step down the right path.

 

RANDOM TEXT MESSAGES FROM MY FRIENDS, Vol. 6

The following text missives from my eclectic group of friends are all about to get purged so, as usual, I thought I'd jot them down here for posterity:

“Every time I hear Debbie and her Australian accent, I want to go eat at Outback.”

“Baby just exploded diarrhea all over me. Dog is licking it up. Think I'm going to vomit. Go ahead and start dinner without me. I’m gonna be awhile.” 

“Let’s just say that the last guy to cook for me twice in one day was probably Colonel Sanders.”

“The worst side-effect of gender equality is the couples baby shower.”

“How many calories are burned eating a lobster roll? I’m asking for the lobster.”

“In honor of the Puerto Rican Day Parade, I’m sexually harassing my wife right now and spraying the kids with shaving cream.”

“Who do you think would win in a fight? Cher or Lady Gaga?”

“Just for the record, I wasn’t staring at her ass. I was staring WITH her ass.”

“You’re my favorite minority friend but if I ever meet a black man who drives an old Cadillac, you’re fired.”

“My favorite is when there are no boobs and then all of sudden, boobs!”

 

SING THE SONG SOUNDS LIKE HE READS IT

When life’s myriad complexities start weighing heavily on me, one of my favorite means of decompression is to grab a stool at a mellow neighborhood bar or restaurant armed solely with a good jukebox, a good cocktail and a good book.

I always empathize with my female friends who tell me that they’d love to do this as well but can’t because apparently there’s something about being female and alone in a bar that makes everyone assume that she’s desperate for conversation, so people like to interrupt her (“Hey, whatcha reading?”) and if she doesn’t smile and answer politely, they think to themselves “bitch!”

As a man walking into a bar alone with a book, I’d like to think that people find me dashing and intellectual but I’ll settle for nerdy and weird. Either way, I never get bothered.

But being an over-thinking literary geek, I’ve invented a personal game for myself where I try to match up the right bar with the right meal, drink, soundtrack, and author.

For example…

Local Irish bar, bacon cheeseburger, shot of whiskey, Bruce Springsteen, Raymond Carver.

Outdoor café, grilled cheese sandwich, glass of rose, Bradenburg concertos, Shakespeare.

Sushi restaurant, salmon skin avocado hand roll, sake, Arcade Fire, Haruki Murakami.

I’m the only nerd who does this, aren’t I?

Seriously, go ahead and give it a try.

 

PHILOSOPHER JIM CAREY

I was randomly surfing the internet late at night during a recent bout of insomnia and somehow found myself reading a recap of an old CNN interview between Larry King and his guest Jim Carrey.

I had never really known anything about Jim Carrey before except that he is, of course, Jim Carrey. As it turns out, he seems like a very pensive and thoughtful guy. As he related stories of growing up poor, living in his car, battling depression and suffering hardship, he says:

“I just got to the point where I realized the only way to look at life is to believe that everything that ever happens to you, is the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Maybe it was the insomnia. Maybe it was reading about all the sadness in his life. All I know is that I was surprised that a Jim Carey quote could have such a profound effect on me. My own personal philosophy leans toward the belief that when life throws roadblocks in your way, you’ve got to remove the negativity and create a mindset that allows you to proactively enact change. Jim Carey’s philosophy seems like a sturdier and more succinct version of my own. I think it’s a useful tool for looking at life.

I know. Jim Carrey, right? Who would have ever thought it?

Next beers on me, Ace Ventura.

 

SING THE SONG SOUNDS LIKE SHE SINGS IT

My daughter amazes the shit out of me.

In her first six years on this planet, she’s witnessed her grandfather painfully succumb to cancer. She’s seen her parents split up and divorce. She’s attended three different schools in three years. She’s had major eye surgery. And she’s moved out of the only home she’d ever known.

Yet, she’s turned into a really cool, smart, funny, sensitive, caring and polite kid.

So, as a special treat, I got us a pair of third-row tickets to the Glee concert. It was her first “big girl” concert and the two of us could not have been more excited.

There are a million words I could write about seeing the world through your daughter’s eyes. Or the pure joy that comes from seeing her so happy. Or the sense of wonderment at seeing one's child grow before your very eyes.

But if a picture says a thousand words...

Hope your summer is filled with lots of fun, sun, love and lobsters. Cheers!

 

HOUSE RULES: My House, My Rules

One of my favorite bars in New York is a secret.

It has no telephone number. No windows. No signage. And the address on the front door is conveniently wrong. The bar's owner just wanted to open a tiny, intimate space where friends could come for quiet conversation and exceptionally well-made cocktails.

Framed discreetly inside the dimly-lit bar is a subtle sign dictating the rules of the house.

1. No name-dropping.
2. No hooting, hollering, shouting or other loud behaviour.
3. No fighting, play fighting, no talking about fighting.
4. Gentlemen will remove their hats. Hooks are provided.
5. Gentlemen will not introduce themselves to ladies.
   Ladies, feel free to start a conversation or ask the bartender to introduce you. If a man you don't know speaks to you, please lift your chin slightly and ignore him.
6. Do not linger outside the front door.
7. Do not bring anyone unless you would leave that person alone in your home. You are responsible for the behaviour of your guests.
8. Exit the bar briskly and silently. 

What I love about these rules is that they don't just outline a set of house policies. They convey a form of tolerance and politeness that seem to be lacking in society today.

The only rule I might add is "If you must talk about the Yankees, please feel free to do so. At home."

I often think about rules when it comes to parenting. Growing up, I didn't have very many rules. That's not to say that my immigrant parents weren't very strict. Hell, they were the original Tiger parents and they reigned over me and my brother with an iron fist.

But aside from the fact that I was a pretty good kid, they didn't really lay down a large set of rules.

I think the only three I ever had were no reading after bedtime, no piercings and no swearing.

Ironically, I got my ear pierced right after they told me that rule. I now stay up until 2:00 am every night reading. And I don't think it's a secret to you guys that I curse like a fucking truck driver.

My daughter is 6 years old and I realize that I have a million rules for her already.

Why do I have so many rules?

Partly because if she had her way, she'd drop out of first grade, watch TV all day, and subsist solely on burnt ends and ice cream. But it's also partly for my own protection because the Peanut is constantly trying to work me over like a piñata.

For example, this is the first year she's had homework and it's like she's allergic to it. The first week of school, we sat down together and while I read the paper, I told her she had to do all of her homework. Literally every 30 seconds, she'd stop and say something ridiculously absurd:

"Hey daddy, put on some music. I think this would be a really good time for a dance party."

"This would be a lot easier if I had some ice cream."

"You just do the first part and I'll take it from there."

The first 5 minutes of doing homework together and I immediately had to set three new rules; (1) Dance parties are for weekends, (2) No eating ice cream during homework, and (3) You have to do all your homework by yourself.

THIS SHIT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME!

I remember, years ago, a pivotal parenting moment for me was when I first caught myself saying, "If you don't finish your broccoli, you don't get any dessert."

At the time, I started laughing hysterically because I felt like I had lost my parenting virginity. Generations of parents have uttered those exact same words and somewhere along the line, it's become a rite of passage. I remember thinking, "Ha! You made your first rule."

I just didn't know that it would never end. Does it?

Today, I was walking around the neighborhood holding hands with the Peanut and actually found myself saying: "New rule. No trying to push me into the dog poop when we're walking down the street together."

The Peanut shook her head, looked up at me, and said, "Man, you sure do got a lot of rules."

You have no idea, kiddo.

 

What about you guys? Did your parents have any crazy rules when you were growing up? Do you have any ones for your kids that sometimes make your head spin? What's the funniest rule you've ever had to say to your kids? An inquiring mind wants to know.

CHAOS THEORY: April 2011

Wow, it's been more than 3 months since I've posted here. I have to admit that I've thought about just shutting down this site. Like everything else in my life right now, I've had mixed emotions about the whole thing. To be quite honest, does anyone even read blogs anymore?

Or as my boy Kanye said, "Do anybody make real shit anymore?

At the end of the day, I miss writing in this space. After all these years, this is the place that feels like home. I've loved developing real-life relationships that wouldn't have existed had I not started writing here in the first place. It's something I never expected and has definitely added an interesting wrinkle to my life.

But enough with this emo shit. Let's get down to brass tacks, yo.

 

SIX GOING ON STRANGE

The Peanut is 6.5 years old. Sometimes I think that if she makes it to 7, it will be a miracle. Her need to argue and plead every case often makes me wonder whether she's the illegitimate love-child of Atticus Finch and Gloria Allred. Plus, she's at that annoying age where she thinks she's right about absolutely everything. Drives me freaking bonkers. I do have to admit though that the stuff that comes out of her mouth these days is pretty hilarious:

"Wake up, homeboy. It's time to make me some breakfast."

"If I had a million dollars, I'd quit school and just watch TV all day.

"Hey, do me a favor? Make me a BLT but without the lettuce and the tomato?"

"Well, you say that you're going to be married forever but that didn't really happen to you the first time around, did it?"

"Even though you're wearing a hat, I can still tell you have an enormous head."

"The craziest people in the world are 6-year-old boys."

 

ON MALE BLOGGING: WHERE HAVE ALL THE COWBOYS GONE? 

Part of the reason I considered shutting down this site is because I find myself slightly disillusioned about the public over-sharing, diary-like, confessional, first-person blog writing that seems to be becoming more and more prevalent.

Especially among men and fellow dad bloggers.

Don't get me wrong. As long-time readers know, I've painfully bared my soul here plenty of times.

On the one hand, it's enlightening to see more and more men of a certain age with the emotional intelligence to be able to introspectively write about the issues that affect their lives. This has never really happened before. When it first started happening, it was regarded with gravity and respect. It was openly naked first-person essay writing and it was practically a watershed moment.

But it was rarely appreciated under the blogging format. To call it blogging would have cheapened it.

Why? Because let's face it. Blogging is a medium designed for memes, emo tumblr photos, inspirational quotes, and the internal musings of disaffected 23-year-old women and stay-at-home moms. 

Is sharing feelings how men are supposed to act online?

As a recent Village Voice article put it:

"Men shouldn't whine or feel pain and they certainly shouldn't fucking cry, according to left-over cultural expectations lodged in the heads of even social progressives, feminists, children of the liberal arts. And there's a certain self-consciousness that comes with being a male online. Where have all the cowboys gone? What would our grandfathers think of us, pining for a partner or "Why me-ing?" about health concerns to strangers? And who do we look to for proper example? There are only so many words written by Dan Savage, and we've been told to avoid Tucker Max."

I don't have the answers to these questions.

 

A METRODAD QUIZ: REAL OR FAKE SLATE.COM ARTICLES?

1. "Mary Gates & Karen Zuckerberg Weren't Tiger Moms: Is Amy Chua Bad for the U.S. Economy?"

2. "The End of the Mancession: Why Women Are the Economy's Biggest Losers"

3. "The Mecca of the Mouse: Can an Adult Man Have Fun at DisneyWorld Alone?"

4. "Do 3-D Glasses Work on Cats?"

5. "Bite Me: An Evolutionary Case for Cannibalism"

 

THREE IDEAS FOR TELEVISION SHOWS

1. "The Shores of Jersey": A reality show following around a closely-knit group of septuagenarians living in a house together on the Isle of Jersey. When they're not knitting shetland sweaters and peeling potatoes, they're doing body shots of whiskey and fist-pumping dolphins.

2. "Under the Big Top": We have reality shows about every profession. How has nobody ever done one about a circus? There's so much I NEED to know. How often does the bearded lady shave? Exactly how much midget sex is going on? Is it true that when elephants get pissed, they pee on people? C'mon, people. Let's make this happen!

3. "For Womb the Bell Tolls": Medical drama/soap opera about life in a maternity ward. Screaming mothers, freaked-out dads, jaded nurses, weird doctors, and babies born with webbed feet.

 

THREE GENERATIONS & THE DILUTION OF OTHERNESS

As I've written about many times, it was always a little discomfiting to grow up straddled between two cultures. Having been raised by Korean immigrant parents who weren't wholly versed in the ways of modern American life certainly made for an interesting childhood.

Aside from constantly feeling the pressures of being torn by two different cultures, I also had to deal with friends coming over, opening our fridge, smelling kimchi and yelling, "Yo, man. Your house fucking stinks!"

But two of the great benefits of adulthood are perspective and hindsight. Despite all the teenage angst I might have had at the time, I now think it's hilariously funny during those moments when I realize that the apple never really does fall far from the tree.

Even to this day, someone will talk about sleeping with a fan on in the bedroom and I'll yell out, "Sleeping with a fan on? Are you fucking crazy? That's the leading cause of death!"

Or when my daughter is sick, I literally bury her under 20 blankets so she can "sweat it out."

(By the way, unless you have insane Asian parents, you're probably not going to understand why those two things are so funny.)

In a similar fashion, I always laugh because whenever Donald Duck's name comes up, a Finnish buddy of mine will yell out, "Do you know he's banned in Finnland because he doesn't wear pants?"

Raising my third-generation Korean-American daughter, I often wonder to myself, "How much does one's culture get diluted over time?"

I'm starting to realize that even though she's only 6, at some level my daughter is clearly already cognizant of all of this. For the past two years, she's been eating the lunch provided by school. However, lately we've been talking about me making her lunches to take to school. One of the recent times we were having that conversation, she said, "Ok, Daddy, but none of that weird stuff."

"What kind of weird stuff?"

"No eel. No seaweed. No octopus. No pork chops. I just want sandwiches, chips and a juice box."

What?! She LOVES eel, seaweed, octopus, and pork chops.

Having suffered from the wary looks from my fellow elementary school friends when my mom sent me to school with Japanese bento boxes and chopsticks, I wholeheartedly empathize with my daughter's desire to fit in and assimilate among her peers. In one's youth, there is rarely as powerful of an emotional dilemma than the need to be just like everyone else. I get it, kiddo. The nail that sticks out is the one that gets hammered down. 

But never in a million years did I ever think I would feel so sad about it.

I do.

What I've Learned: The Parenting Edition

Put enough ketchup on it and a kid will eat almost anything.

No matter how much you speak to your kids, children learn more from what you are rather than what you tell them.

Baby poop defies all laws of physics and nature.

I've never seen my dad cry. My daughter has seen me cry. My dad never told me he loved me. Consequently I tell the Peanut I love her practically every other minute. The point is that maybe too much emotional display is just as bad as not enough but I've learned that I'll always lean towards the former.

Parent who tell their kids that there is no Santa Claus or Tooth Fairy are pretty much assholes.

My daughter has taught me that I'm not always quite as good a person as I like to think I am but, at the same time, I'm nowhere near as bad a person as I sometimes think I am.  

Also? I'm a million times more patient now than I ever was before I became a father.

You can talk the talk but you better know how to walk the walk.

Parenting tests your ability to be resourceful. In a pinch, I once made a diaper out of some paper towels, a sanitary napkin, and some duct tape.

Lacking a car seat, I also once strapped my daughter into the backseat with a bunch of bungee cords.

There are few things more enjoyable in life than cranking up the stereo and dancing silly with your child.

Poop and fart jokes are always crowd pleasers.

Ever since my daughter was born, I've lectured her about life and have tried to pass on everything I've learned. Of course, she can't understand much of what I'm talking about. But you know what? One day, she will.

Is your kid a picky eater? Don't worry about it too much. As my pediatrician once said, "No kid in Tribeca ever starved to death."

I try not to worry too much about short-term payoffs, results or expectations. I don't expect the true effects of parenting to reveal themselves until well after my time here is gone.

It's both a blessing and a curse to see which traits your child has inherited from you.

Love of reading is cool. Smelly feet, not so much

Never in my life did I ever imagine having so much fun throwing a princess tea party with a bunch of dolls.

There are many things I want my daughter to learn but the two most important lessons I'd like to teach her are manners and empathy.

Hitting a good backhand down the line is a close third.

Your kids will always remember more than you. Always remember that.

My love for my child is the only love I've ever had that keeps getting stronger over time. Maybe that says more about me than it does about my relationship with my daughter. Maybe I can learn how to transfer that into the other relationships in my life. We'll have to wait and see about that one, n'est-ce pas?

Don't force the questions out of your child. They'll ask when they're ready.

 

I've only been a father for 6 years and I expect the things that parenting teaches me about life will continue to change over time. And if I ever have another kid, I expect that the lessons will change in a dramatically different way.

Then again, maybe they won't.

Either way, the cool thing about getting older is readjusting your perspective on life based on your everyday experiences. When I was younger, my philosophy on life was mostly shaped by my relationships. Or my travels. Or my professional life.

Not to say that those things don't continue to shape who I am. However, at the same time, I continue to be surprised about the things that parenthood teaches me. But enough of this sappy shit. What about you?

What have YOU learned?

Holiday Road

 

Happy holidays to all of you and your families.

May 2011 bring you and your loved ones a year filled with love, health, and happiness.  For those of you with loved ones serving in the armed forces overseas, our thoughts and prayers are with you.  For those of you traveling this holiday season, we wish you a safe journey. For those who are less fortunate, we offer our hands and ask how we may be of assistance.

As always, let's take the time to remember how much we have to be truly thankful for.

Happy holidays!

Love,

MetroDad and the Peanut

CHAOS THEORY: November 2010

As most of you have witnessed by now, I'm not the most prolific writer. Being a single dad in the middle of an apartment renovation and a stressful economy aren't necessarily helping things these days. However, I've got some random thoughts to share so I thought I'd spit them out here quickly.

 

THE PEANUT TURNS SIX

Every year when the Peanut's birthday rolls around, I ask her in my saddest and most forlorn voice, "Hey sweetie, do you want to have a party this year?" immediately followed by an exceedingly enthusiastic "or would you rather go to THE ZOO, pet some CUTE BABY SEALS, and eat a MOUNTAIN OF CAKE?"

This year, she didn't fall for it. Instead, she insisted on having a Princess Party with six of her closest girlfriends. This involved multiple outfit changes, macabre make-up sessions, insane amounts of screaming, criminal acts of civil disobedience, mosh pits, pizza gorging, and a chocolate cake orgy.

As far as I know, nobody got hurt or developed an eating disorder. Yay, success!

It's funny thinking about how it wasn't long ago that the Peanut was just a little baby whose sole ability was to be adorably cute on demand.

But strictly speaking, I like these days much better. It's incredible having an inquisitively playful, intellectually curious, and emotionally connected kid who never ceases to amaze you.  So yeah, six pretty much rocks.

Happy birthday, kiddo. I hope you always know how much I love you.

 

DO THE MATH

I, on the other hand, recently turned 42. While I generally feel pretty good about this benchmark, my daughter helped put things in a wholly different perspective.

Every time we're on the subway together, I give her math problems (yes, I'm that Asian dad.) Last week, while quizzing her on the 2 train about our age difference, she did the math in her head and then loudly yelled out for everyone to hear, "HOLY COW, YOU'RE 36 YEARS OLDER THAN ME? THAT'S CRAZY!"

I hope to someday be rich enough where the two of us will never have to take public transportation again.

 

OLDER, WISER

I used to think my dream woman was a mash-up of Zhang Ziyi, Tori Amos and Phoebe Cates but now I think she’s probably more a mash-up of Maggie Cheung, Christine Amanpour and Joan Didion. I could be wrong about this though.

 

SHORT BOOK REVIEWS OF BOOKS I HAVEN'T FINISHED YET

"The Snakehead" by Patrick Radden Keefe

An incredible account of how a middle-aged grandmother, working out of a tiny noodle shop in Chinatown, built a multimillion-dollar global empire smuggling Chinese immigrants into America. Book reads like a thriller as it explores the underbelly of human trafficking around the world.

"Hitch 22: A Memoir" by Christopher Hitchens

Love him or hate him, Hitch could care less. For him, the pen is always mightier than the sword. These memoirs are shockingly candid and brilliantly written. Quite possibly my favorite literary memoir since Martin Amis' "Experience."

"Freedom" by Jonathan Franzen

I know people had mixed reactions to "The Corrections" but I thought it was one of the best books written in the past 10 years. And while I'm only one chapter into Franzen's latest, he remains in my mind as one of the best story tellers in contemporary fiction.

 

CHING CHONG RACISM: YOU NEVER FORGET YOUR FIRST TIME

As a young Asian-American kid growing up in a predominantly white neighborhood, I always knew that I was different from all the other kids.

But it wasn't until I was in 5th grade that I experienced racial hatred for the first time.

During a friendly game of tackle football, I got in a scuffle with an Italian kid named Tony. While we were pushing each other around, Tony made the "chinky eyes" and said, "Fuck you, man. You're nothing but a fucking chink gook!"

I was nine years old.

I'd never even heard the words "chink" or "gook" before. And yeah, I knew my eyes were smaller but I didn't know that was something to be teased about. Shit, I never made fun of all the other kids because of their fucked-up noses or their jacked-up teeth.

As I stood there trying to process this new information, I heard my Irish buddy Tom and his older brother get in Tony's face. Even at that life-altering moment, I remember wondering whether the two of them were actually defending my honor or just looking for an excuse for a really good brawl. Heck, the last time Tom had gotten in a fight was when Tony made us sit in his driveway and watch while he drove the motorized go-cart his dad had gotten him for his 8th birthday.

Anyway, a few moments later, Tom and his brother grabbed Tony, pinned him down, and yelled for me to come over and punch him in the face.

Man, I have to admit that hitting him felt good. And yeah, the first time I experienced racism was also the first time I got into a fight. I don't think it's a coincidence that those two facts are related. Nobody likes to be different. Especially when you're nine.

As has been well documented, I love raising my daughter in New York City. Growing up here, she's been exposed to a wide diaspora of race, colors, creeds and sexual orientations that have made her oblivious to the differences that separate and divide so many of us as adults.

Sadly, that bubble has been broken.

Last week, BossLady was picking the Peanut up from school when an elderly Latino gentleman approached her to apologize for his grandson's behavior. Apparently, his grandson and another boy had been mocking and teasing the Peanut by making "chinky eyes" and yelling "ching chong, ching chong."

The kids are in first grade.

As BossLady was listening to the elderly man's apology, she saw two students in 3rd grade run past the Peanut and yell "ching chong, ching chong." Apparently, this has been a trend in the school.

Are you fucking kidding me?

When we discussed this with the Peanut, she said that she thought the boys sounded stupid making those noises and that she was "lucky" that her teacher stepped in to move the boys to a different table. What's the world coming to that my daughter has to feel "lucky" to not be taunted with racial epithets in her first-grade classroom?

The Peanut is in a new school this year. We moved her because we were so impressed with how the school seemed to truly embrace diversity and, to be honest, the school handled the incident wonderfully and appropriately.

However, I find it sadly ironic that the Peanut had no concept of race or color before she even came to this school.  It took less than a week before she learned that she was Asian. One of her little classmates had apparently lectured her on racial stereotypes and distinctions.  The Peanut was so confused that she came home one day and asked whether it was true that we were "Ajin".  

She knew that people looked different but there was never any judgment behind that.  It was beautiful to see and I'm sorry to see that loss of innocence. 

Like I said, you never forget your first time.

 

ON THE FLIP SIDE: USING MY ASIAN POWERS FOR MY OWN ENTERTAINMENT

Despite the fact that all my friends know I was born and raised in NY, some of them still cannot help but think that all Asians are imbued at birth with some sacred and mystical Far East knowledge. It's truly amazing to me.

Last week, I went over to a buddy's apartment and, as a joke, I told him that the Feng Shui in his apartment was completely off and that he needed to immediately move all his furniture around if he wanted to regain spiritual balance in his life.

I had him moving stuff around for about an hour before I couldn't take it anymore and started laughing so hard that tears were coming down my eyes. The dude was lathered in sweat from moving all his couches around the apartment. He even started complaining that my prank had caused him to re-injure his shoulder.

I told him to stay cool and grab some toothpicks so I could perform some ancient Far East acupuncture on him.

Ha!

 

HOUSEKEEPING

(1) Thanks to KoreAm for naming MetroDad as one of the Top 10 Asian-American blogs. I am humbly honored.

(2) Still undecided on whether to maintain my Twitter page. Whom should I be following?

(3) I know times are tough these days but, as the year ends, if you are lucky enough to be able to donate a small amount in order to help those less fortunate, please consider donating to help honor my friend's memory. The Andrew Golkin Fund has provided scholarships to some incredible kids and we'd love to do even more for them.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and all your loved ones!