MetroDad

We love to fly and it shows

A thimble of scotch, some medication, a hearty meal and a solid bowel movement all helped the Peanut fly comfortably on her maiden air voyage. Wait a sec! I take it all back. That wasn't her. It was me. I was the one who flew comfortably all the way from New York to Dallas. And do you know why, my friends? Because the Peanut proved to be a varsity traveller and COMPLETELY SLEPT THE ENTIRE WAY! I guess flying really is in her blood.

Now, while it may be true that God was Peanut's co-pilot on her virgin flight, I'm thinking that the Infant Tylenol didn't hurt either. Anyway, as it turns out, things really couldn't have gone more smoothly. In fact, the stress of the unknown turned out to be far worse than the actual experience. (Isn't that always the case?)

When we arrived at the airport, the Peanut smiled, cooed and charmed the ticket agent into getting us upgraded to First Class. My daughter's charm and powers of persuasion were quite admirable. However, they were also a little scary. Pretty soon, she'll be using these powers against me and I'm going to be taking out a second mortage in order to buy her a pony. Anyway, the upgrades to First Class seemed to be a good premonition of karmic harmony. Immediately, we were much more at ease about flying. After all, we figured that in a worst-case scenario, we'd only end up pissing off 10 people instead of 120. I liked our odds.3

Getting through security was semi-comical but generally painless. Thankfully, there were two couples ahead of us with newborn babies. We basically watched them and repeated their actions like French mimes on a Parisian street corner. The only slight glitch was when our carry-on bags went through the X-ray machine. Apparently, breast pumps look like H-bombs and need to be examined thoroughly. The lone female security officer came over to us and joked about how none of the male guards ever realize they're looking at a breast pump and always force the mothers to open their luggage. Once the guards realize what they're looking at, they get all embarassed, close the suitcases and sheepishly send the mothers on their way.

But once we got on the plane, everything went fine. We took all your advice to heart and it all worked out beautifully! Internet, you saved us once again. From the bottom of our hearts, the BossLady and I sincerely thank you sharing the sum total of your parenting experiences. We'll be asking for your help and relying on you again in the future (particularly during the Peanut's teenage years). Hope that's alright with you. Together, we all make great parents. I guess it really does take a village!

Hope you all had a great Christmas, Hannukah or Kwanzaa.

Feliz Cumpleanos, Jesus!

Happy Birthday, Jesus!

And to all the rest of you, I wish you and your families a very Merry Christmas! May the holiday season bless you with love, health, hope and charity.

Warmest regards,
MetroDad, BossLady & the Peanut

(Now, unless you're Jewish or Muslim, turn off the damn computer and go spend some time with your family! It's Christmas!)

The Mile-High Club

Back in the swinging 60's, my mother was a stewardess for Pan Am Airlines. Those were the days when being an international stewardess was one of the more glamorous and prestigious jobs a young woman could have. My mother was beautiful, college-educated, spoke 5 languages and wanted to see the world. She was perfect for the job. And though she only did it for a few years during her twenties, she was bitten by the travel bug and has spent the rest of her live traversing around the planet. Even today, she's one of the more well-travelled people I know.

Whether by nature or nurture, the bug was passed on to me as well. Travel has always been one of the great passions of my life. To paraphrase Confuscious, we live in interesting times...and I'm curious to see how we're all living in them. I constantly want to embark on new journeys, meet different people and immerse myself in various cultures. It's not for everyone. But I'm a big believer that the sum experience of my travels has greatly shaped my perspective on life and made me who I am.

To maximize my travel opportunities, I've always taken jobs that have allowed me to see different parts of the world. Not just any places but places off the beaten path that one wouldn't normally visit during the course of a lifetime...like Sri Lanka, Honduras, Pakistan, China and United Arab Emirates. As I'm sure you can understand, travelling to these places involves spending insanely long hours (sometimes even days) on an airplane. Therefore, I've learned that it's important to try and make the journey as pleasant as the destination. So it's in this spirit that I've spent a lifetime collecting an enormous trove of valuable travel knowledge.

If you miss your flight from Paris to New York, I can tell you which other airlines fly direct, how many flights/day they have, and which ones tend to arrive on time. If you find yourself with a long layover in Bangkok or Dubai, I can tell you the best places near the airport to get a great meal. And depending on the aircraft you're flying, I can even tell you which seats you should request to make the trip more comfortable.

I've even perfected a flying ritual designed to provide me with maximum comfort while up in the air. I won't go into the details but it entails multiple pillows, my IPod, Bose noise-cancelling headphones, Dewars Scotch, beta-blockers, an electronic Scrabble machine, and a book of Sunday New York Times crossword puzzles. Whether I'm flying to Sacramento or Seoul, these usually do the trick.

But now, Internet....I need your help. Because despite all my past travel experiences, I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO FLY WITH A BABY!!!

Really, I'm not kidding. BossLady and I are taking the Peanut to Dallas to see her grandparents this weekend. I'm terrified that my 11-week old daughter is going to be "that baby." You know which one I'm talking about. There's one on every flight. The baby who starts screaming at take-off and doesn't stop until the wheels come down. The one who poops so much that the whole cabin smells. The one whose parents have that look of sheer terror on their faces.

We're taking the car seat and the Baby Bjorn. Unfortunately, she doesn't like to sleep in either one of them. We're going to breast feed her at take-off and at landing. And we're going to bring along plenty of blankets. People have told me to bring her favorite book or toy. But she's 11 weeks old! She doesn't have a favorite book or toy. She likes to pee on my sweaters and shit on my hand. Do you think that's gonna work on the plane? She likes when I sing Cure songs to her. Unfortunately, I think the rest of the passengers would rather listen to a screaming baby than hear me sing.

One idea that I have is to buy an enormous value-sized box of ear plugs at Costco and dole them out to everyone on the plane like the fucking Pied Piper. Then, I'll buy a few rounds of cocktails for everyone sitting near us. For good measure, I'm even contemplating bringing a box of Krispy Kreme donuts to pass around and soothe the masses. What's that expression? You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar?

Anyway, it's times like this that I'm thankful for Al Gore inventing the internet. Because, to all of you out there in the ether, I need your cumulative parenting wisdom. We parents have to stick together so I'm begging you...do any of you have some well-worn parenting tips on how to travel with a newborn on a plane? What worked best for you and your child? And any tips on the easiest way to navigate the whole airport screening process? Anyone? Help!

Bright Lights, Big City

You never had a real Christmas tree when you were a kid. Your childhood memories are filled with images of yourself as young boy, lugging from the basement the artificial tree that you had to beg your parents to buy. Every year, you put the tree up by yourself and solemnly trim it with your own decorations. And though there are never any presents under the tree, you figure that Santa is just waiting until the last possible moment. So on Christmas morning, you eagerly awaken and run to the tree that you erected by yourself in anticipation of this very moment. Underneath the tree, you find an envelope with your name on it. Imagining what kind of toy would fit in an envelope, you tear it open excitedly, only to discover a signed check from your parents. And though you're only 8 years old, you're not angry. You're just disappointed because you know your parents don't really understand what Christmas means to a young boy. But right there and then, you swear quietly to yourself that things will be much different when you have your own child.

It's over 25 years later. You're married to the BossLady and you have your own family now. Together, the two of you have a beautiful 10-week old daughter who melts your hearts with her smile. You remember your pledge to make Christmas a special event for your child so you decide to find her the greatest and grandest Christmas tree possible.

But you live in New York City. It's not like anywhere else in the country. And though you've lived all over the country, you still have antiquated notions of how your fellow citizens live. In your mind's eye, you have visions of people driving into the forest with their pick-up trucks and chopping down their own fir trees. You picture families in minivans, heading out to the local tree farm with Grandma while drinking apple cider and singing Christmas carols.

But things are different here in New York City. Here, you and your lovely wife head over to a nearby street corner, where a bunch of trees are lined up on the sidewalk. The annual tree lots are set up all over the city by enterprising Canadians or hustling New Yorkers. Starting in November, the sellers camp out in parked trucks 24 hours/day and sell trees around the clock to disgruntled New Yorkers desperate for some Christmas cheer. You wonder to yourself who the hell would camp out around the clock for a whole month in order to sell Christmas trees. But then you realize that the more important question is who the fuck would pay $20/foot for a Christmas tree? Like everything else in the big city, Christmas don't come cheap.

It's bad enough that you have to buy your tree on a street corner in front of a nail salon. But then you remember that buying a tree on the streets of New York is like conducting an undercover drug deal. No price is ever final until the cash and merchandise have exchanged hands. The cynic in you secretly hopes that the requisite Christmas tree haggling is some sort of historical homage to Jesus' days in downtown Jerusalem. But you know that you're not that lucky. So you go up to the gum-chewing, flannel-wearing, goatee-sporting, wanna-be-Green Day-looking, Canadian punk and start your negotiations. ("Yo, I'll give you $120 for the Douglas or $100 for the Balsam. What about those Noble firs? Got any of those? I'll pay double. $200? Fuck you! I can get 'em down the street for half that!")

After negotiating for your tree, you then haul it several blocks down the street to your apartment building. But the amazing thing is that, during these several blocks, the tree actually grows disproportionately. So after dragging it up to your apartment, you find that it's too tall for your Manhattan abode. You trim the top of the tree with a Peter Luger's steak knife while standing on your couch and having the dog pee on your leg. Meanwhile, the needles have scattered all over your apartment and your cashmere sweater is covered in sap.

You put up all the lights and decorations only to realize that your tree looks like a Jersey stripper wearing a bikini. In order to make this thing look good, you're going to need to cover it up a lot more. But you're too tired to head over to K-Mart so you go back over to the street corner where you bought the tree and you bargain for some more Christmas lights. You end up paying $20 for lights that you could have gotten for $4. You feel like you're on a bad episode of "The Apprentice."

You and the BossLady spend hours decorating the tree lovingly and with determination. Like you, her past Christmas memories are better off left in the past. So the two of you are are a formidable team. And moments later when you flick on the lights, the tree looks amazing. You're actually stunned by its absolute beauty. And in that one shining moment, you achieve redemption for all your past Christmas memores. You know that things really are different now. So as you and the BossLady stand silently in the dark and look at the fruits of your labor, you start feeling the Christmas spirit swell in your heart. And though your little 10-week old daughter can't truly appreciate it, you and the BossLady both bask in the glow of the lights and know that, like everything else to follow, you did it all for your little Peanut.

But in a way, you did it for yourself too.

(MetroDad, Johnny Walker and Phillip Morris would like to apologize for the lack of humor, sarcasm and caustic wit that this site has been known for. Stay tuned tomorrow when we return to our regularly scheduled programming of poop stories, breast-feeding jokes and parenting rants.)

Hellooooo, Ladies!

After checking my stat counter, the comments section and my e-mails, it's become abundantly clear that my readership is made up ALMOST ENTIRELY OF WOMEN! Either that, or it's true that men don't surf the internet for anything but porn. Or perhaps they just don't read. Anyway, it's surprising because I originally started this blog in the hopes of reaching out and sharing parenting experiences with new fathers.

But you know what, Ladies? It's their loss. Many of you have been writing me and saying that you enjoy hearing things from a "guy's perspective." Or that you imagine I'm only saying the things that your husbands are afraid to admit. Well, ladies. If that's the case, then today's your lucky day. Because due to the fact that virtually NO men seem to be reading my site, I'm going to come clean and tell you what we're all really thinking. Some might say I'm pandering to my audience. And you know what? They're fucking right! And while the fathers out there have been relatively silent, you ladies have been with me since I started this blog so you deserve to know the truth. So in no particular order, here are what your husbands (or significant others) are secretly thinking...

1. We're having a really fun time living with a breast-feeding woman who has enormous tits. It makes us feel like we're in our own little porn movie. But really? It'd be even funner if we were allowed to touch them.

2. Yes, we're both tired and exhausted from the lack of sleep. And yes, we're way too tired to even contemplate making love. But those jokes about a little oral sex? They're not really jokes. They're more like trial balloons.

3. The reason that I'm being so cheerfully helpful this weekend (cleaning the house, changing the diapers, waking up at 4:00 am to feed the baby, cooking meals for the family, and raking the lawn) is because sometime, over the next few days, I'm going to ask you whether it's alright for me to go out drinking with the guys on Friday. Your memory of me being so helpful is still going to be fresh in your mind so I figure I'll have my best chances of success at this time. It's an old Jedi mind trick.

4. Neither one of us has had a baby before. We've both taken the same classes and read the same books. So how come you're the bigger expert at parenting? Stop gatekeeping and pointing out my mistakes. As long as poop doesn't come flying out the diaper, the diaper's working. As long as the baby stays warm, it doesn't matter that her socks don't match. The only reason I'm biting my tongue and not saying anything is because I REALLY want to go out drinking with the guys next Friday.

5. When you're not around, we teach the baby funny phrases. When she burps, we teach her to say, "mm mmm. them's some good eats!" When she farts, we teach her to say "hey! who stepped on the duck?" And when she poops, we teach her to say "I just dropped the kids off at the pool. How 'bout some more grub?" We do this mainly for our own entertainment and also because we think the baby's too young to really pick up on these phrases. Of course, we could be wrong. In that case, we'll just say she learned it from watching TV.

6. When you're not at home, we're also not quite as thorough when it comes to baby care and cleaning. Sure...when you're watching us, we clean every nook and cranny, lather the baby in Balmex, Vaseline and baby powder, and we fasten the diaper securely. But when you're not around? We rip off the dirty diaper, wipe her down quickly, spit on each cheek, slap her ass, and put a new diaper on faster than you can say, "Welcome back to tonight's game of the week, folks!"

7. That gigantic shit-eating grin you see on our faces when you walk in the door? It's because we managed to change the baby's diaper during the commercial break and didn't miss a single second of the game. It was a new personal record and we're beaming with pride! We can't wait to tell our friends! Yeah, baby!

8. When we're outside with the baby and we're babbling nonsense or singing corny songs loudly to the child, it's not because we're trying to embarass you in public. It's because we're absolutely in love with our child and this is our secret way of letting the world know it. By making fools out of ourselves in public, we're broadcasting the fact that we'll do anything to please our baby regardless of how uncool or ridiculous we may look...but we also enjoy any opportunity to embarass you in public.

9. Your hormones have been kicking into overdrive since the first trimester. We thought they'd mellow out after the baby was born but apparently we were completely mistaken. Having done some research on the internet, we've learned that the emotional rollercoaster ride is going to slow down eventually. But for now? You've really got to stop crying everytime you see that AT&T commercial. After all, it's like the 20th time you've seen it already! Get a grip, woman! And can we please stop bawling every time you see a missing child on the side of a milk carton? You're really making it impossible to enjoy a bowl of cereal anymore!

10. Back to the sex thing again. We know you're exhausted. We know your breasts are killing you. We feel for you. Really, we do. But just to let you know. Whenever you get in the mood again? We're ready.

Ladies...feel free to comment.
Gentlemen...let me at least know you're out there. (If not, I might as well make this into a weekly column)

What's a gift horse? and why would I look him in the mouth?

MEMO TO MY CHILDLESS FRIENDS:

I know that you all mean well. And I'm touched that you care so much about my newborn daughter that you've made the effort to go and buy her a gift. It truly means a lot to us. But I want to take the time to share some honest gift-giving advice that most parents won't tell you because they're too polite. But not me. Here at MetroDad, our unofficial motto is "honesty so truthful, it hurts." So here's the real scoop...

First, we really don't need another baby blanket. Our apartment is awash in a sea of pink baby blankets. At last count, we'd received over 24 of them! We're thinking of stitching them all together into something so big that it would make the AIDS quilt look like a fucking snot rag. We've got so many of them now, I'm praying that all my pregnant friends start having girls so I can re-gift every single one of them (except YOURS of course. YOURS was great!).

Second, always consider the parents when buying clothes for the baby. Living in Manhattan, BossLady and I usually dress in some form of urban black (usually dark jeans and a black shirt.) So what makes you think that we would dress our daughter like an extra from Petticoat Junction? If I walk outside wearing my usual duds and requisite Oakley sunglasses while carrying an Amish-looking baby in a pink frilly lace-covered smock, I'm not going to last 5 minutes before the cops stop me for questioning and issue an Amber Alert!

And lastly, enough with the baby socks! Why would anyone give a baby a pair of socks as a present? How would you feel if someone gave YOU socks? You'd be pretty fucking pissed, right? And yes, I know that these socks will keep the Peanut's feet warm as her circulatory system develops. But I want to know who's the seeing-impaired individual responsible for all these "whimsical" designs and "interesting" colors? I'd rather bind the Peanut's feet in scotch tape than have her wear these fugly socks. Seriously! I put some of the socks on the dog...and the cat started making fun of him.

So what gifts should you consider for a newborn? Here are some suggestions...

1. Vodka, champagne or scotch. Obviously, these are not for the baby. But they'll be greatly appreciated when I've finished rocking the baby to sleep at 4:00 am. And if you bring these gifts, I guarantee that I'll tell my daughter how cool and good-looking you are! And really, isn't that the most important thing?

2. Cash. I know this gift could be considered a little tacky or tasteless. But it's a very Asian thing to give (apparently Confucious never had time to shop). And who am I to deny my heritage? Besides, they don't call it "the gift that keeps on giving" for no reason. And to quote Yogi Berra, the great thing about cash is that "it's just as good as money."

3. Baby books. In all seriousness, these are great gifts. We've received a few from friends and we always write their names in them so that the Peanut will know who gave them to her. She'll treasure these for years. It's especially touching when people give the books that meant the most to them when they were a child. Any time I read the Peanut a book, I tell her who gave it to her and mention a little something about the person.

4. Utilitarian gifts. These are usually the greatest gifts. And they're usually given either by great moms who know better or friends who are more creative. For example, our friend A brought us a giant L.L. Bean bag with the Peanut's name embroidered on it. She then stuffed the bag with all the baby essentials (extra pacifiers, baby cremes, etc) that mommies need. How great is that! Our friend J (the Godfather) gave us a Sharper Image Ionic Air Purifier for the baby room and a gift set of Baby Einstein DVDs. He wrote the Peanut a card saying he wanted her to breathe fresh air and to learn to read as well as mommy and daddy. Awwww!

I know I'm not the only parent out there who thinks like this regarding presents for his newborn, am I? And though I don't want to appear ungrateful (which seems unlikely now), I hate to see people spending their hard-earned money on superfluous gifts. Besides, in gift-giving as in life, I've always been a firm believer that a little imagination goes a long way. The best gifts are always the ones that show the most forethought and creativity. Am I wrong?

Anyway, Internet. What's the WORST gift that you've ever received for your baby? An inquiring mind wants to know! (Winner gets a pink baby blanket)

The "what if?" game

I'm sure ALL parents have some version of this game that they play with one another. With my twisted mentality and overprotectiveness of my little 8-week old daughter, this has turned into one of my favorite games. It usually starts off when BossLady and I are on the couch watching TV and trying to feed the Peanut. One of us will see something on the tube, and then we'll end up discussing how this could affect our daughter. There's really no other way to explain this game other than to show it to you in action.

ME (watching "Ripley's Believe It or Not"): "Honey, what if the Peanut grows up to be 8' tall and incredibly hairy?"
BossLady: "Well. Nothing would change. She'd still be our daughter. We'd love her very much and we'd make her feel as special as possible."
ME: "Maybe we could set her up with Yao Ming. or what about Tim Duncan? He's pretty tall and hairy too!"

ME (watching Crossfire): "Honey. What if our daughter turns out to be a Lesbian and ends up marrying Dick Cheney's daughter?"
BossLady: "Don't you think you're getting a little ahead of ourselves here?"
ME: "Don't you think it would be fun to tell people we're celebrating Christmas with the Cheneys?"

ME (watching CSI): "Honey, what if the Peanut ends up being a serial killer, hijacking casinos and going on random crime sprees throughout the Greater Las Vegas area?"
BossLady: "Will you please turn off the TV? You're driving me fucking nuts."

Of course, I'll turn off the TV but then I only have my imagination to fuel the fire. So sometimes the questioning moves into the realm of the truly fearful and I begin to internalize all the fears that I have about raising a child. After all...

What if something bad happens to her when she leaves the house?
What if she ends up being a stripper at some cheesy club off the Jersey Turnpike?
What if she marries someone I can't stand?

I'm not this doom-filled all the time. Sometimes, I'll temper my pessimism and turn the "what if" game into the "would you rather" game. In other words, would you rather have your daughter be 8' tall and hairy or would you rather she marry Dick Cheney's daughter? Would you rather your daughter be a serial killer or would you rather have her marry a mullet-head? (Of course, once again, I can play this game for hours.)

But in all seriousness, the joy in playing these games is founded in the fundamental human curiousity we have about how our kids will turn out as they get older. Whereas I can't wait until the Peanut starts talking so we can have conversations together, I also realize that when she's a teenager, most of that talk will be spewed vitriol hurled at my direction. But I love her, so I'm insatiably curious about EVERYTHING related to both her and her future. As a young toddler, will she be precociously sociable or quiet and brooding? When she's a teenager, will she be independent enough to stay true to herself or will she succumb to the pressures around her? As a young woman in her 20's, will she be the caring and well-grounded young adult that I hope she'll be? How will she define her life when she reaches her 30's? An inquiring parent can't wait to know!

But then, there are moments like today when she's looking up at my face with a giant smile and making the cute cooing noises that she's just learned she can make. She'll look so tiny when she's squirming in my hands while I give her a bath. And it's times like this that I don't care what she'll be like when she grows up. I just wish that she could stay my little girl forever.

But I guess no matter how much time goes by, she'll always be my little baby girl.

"I've been shot! Somebody give me some breast milk! Quick!"

The Peanut officially turned 8 weeks old yesterday!

So, being generous parents, how did we celebrate this auspicious occasion? Getting her a cake? Taking family photos? Buying her a special outfit? Nope, not us! We celebrated by taking the Peanut to the pediatrician so she could get stabbed in the leg with two large needles by a woman whose intentions to vaccinate our daughter were really masking her deep-seated sadistic tendencies!

Remember the scene in "Pulp Fiction" when John Travolta has to stab Uma Thurman in the chest with an adrenaline-filled needle in order to revive her? ("No, Vincent, you don't gotta stab her three times! You gotta stab her once, but it's gotta be hard enough to break through her breastplate into her heart, and then once you do that, you press down on the plunger.") Well, that's how I felt when they stuck the needle into Daddy's little girl. My fatherhood instincts took over immediately and I had to keep myself from knocking the nurse practitioner flat on her ass. It's amazing how protective I am of my daughter. I'm already feeling sorry for the first guy who tries to take her on a date.

Anyway...after I reined myself in and checked to make sure the BossLady was still on her feet (she faints when someone even mentions the word "needle"), I took a look over at the Peanut. Man, you should have seen her face. She was fucking pissed! She started looking around to see whose ass she should start kicking first when her eyes locked onto me. And let's just say that we'll score one more for Nature because apparently the KDS (Korean Death Stare) is passed on by genetic code. The Peanut's eyes were practically burning a hole through my head.

Of course, I immediately ran over to the Peanut and turned her head so that she was staring right at the nurse. And like a whimpering wuss, I started babbling, "it wasn't me, baby. I swear. It was HER! She's the evil mofo who stabbed you in the leg."

Thankfully, my precious daughter eventually stopped crying and calmed down. And like her mother and father, she dealt with the trauma by having a big dinner and crashing out early. Of course, most importantly, we were all extremely relieved to learn that Peanut didn't have any adverse reactions to the vaccinations. Not a single side effect at all! Or was there? Because although we're not sure whether it was related to the shots or not but our little 8-week old Peanut SLEPT 8 STRAIGHT HOURS LAST NIGHT! Woo hoo! (Her previous best was about 4.5 hours.)

Hopefully, this is the start of a new trend. Maybe she's turned the corner and will now be able to sleep peacefully throughout the entire night. How fantastic would that be? I think I'd jump for joy, skip to my lou, and pee in my pants! My beautiful daughter sleeping through the night would be the greatest Christmas present ever! (Shit! I just fucking jinxed myself, didn't I? Oh well.)

Meanwhile, in the process of giving Peanut her immunization shots, we also learned that she's almost 24" and is tipping in at a whopping 13 lbs, 6 oz. For a baby her age (8 weeks), this puts her close to the 90th and 97th percentiles, respectively. When I asked the doctor whether it was possible that I was being a little overindulgent in feeding the baby, she just smiled and told me that Peanut was fine and was "extremely healthy." Is this some sort of medical euphemism? In 10 years, is she going to tell me that our little butterball is just "big boned."

But you know what? Fuck it. Because I'm just grateful that the Peanut is healthy and can now sleep through the night. (Dammit. I just jinxed myself AGAIN!) And I'm also glad she's not pissed at me anymore ('cause she'll have plenty of time for that during her teenage years)

Happy 8-week old birthday, Peanut! See you in the morning!

Sex, Drugs and Rock & Roll

"I'll take "Things that have disappeared from my life" for a thousand, Alex"

This entry isn't meant to be about my transition into fatherhood and the sacrifices that BossLady and I have had to make as we raise our beautiful 8-week old daughter. That's not the intention at all. Besides, my parenting brethren...the sex, drugs and Rock & Roll are going to re-enter our lives any day now, right? Right?

No, my friends, this entry is about paying homage to Mr. Ken Jennings. As most of you may know, Ken Jennings is the awesomely cool geeky guy who went on a 74-episode winning streak on Jeopardy and ended up accumulating over $2.5 million in winnings. In fact, during one single episode, he shattered the game's daily record by hauling in over $75,000! You fucking rock, Ken!

But alas...like all good things (a good acid trip, a 3-way orgy or a hot hand in Vegas), Ken's streak had to come to an end. He finally lost last night. And though I didn't witness the episode, I'm feeling the pain. Because, for the past year, Ken has been awesome. This geeky software engineer made brainiacs and nerds cool. And for that, I love the fucking guy!

Those of you who know me also know that that, beneath my cool demeanor, lies an inner geek who would rather spend all his time playing Scrabble, doing crosswords and watching Jeopardy. So right now, I'm sure you understand how much I'm feeling Ken's pain. It's killing me that he lost to some C-List actress who happened to seal Ken's defeat on the Final Jeopardy question. And it tears me apart that his streak finally had to end.

But Mr. Ken Jennings, I salute you. Like the Green Bay Packers at Lambeau and the Russians in Siberia, you proved to be a nearly indomitable force, undaunted by the forces of nature. For that, I salute you! This scotch's for you!

Cheers! Salut! Kampai! L'Chaim!