MetroDad

Furry Happy Monsters

When R.E.M. first emerged from Athens, Georgia in 1983 and released their debut album "Chronic Town," I was fifteen years old and I was hooked.  Their sound was refreshingly original and although they clearly embraced the genre of pop music, their interpretation of it was something that I had never heard before and I loved it. As their wiki entry states, the things that made them unique were "the jangling guitars, the chords played in arpeggio, murmured vocals, and lyrics that often avoided the standard topics of popular music."  Whatever it was, I loved it.   For many years, I was a die-hard fan of R.E.M. and eagerly awaited every new CD they released.

However, I'm ashamed to admit that eventually I became one of those completely annoying uber-hip music snobs who turns on a band as soon as they reach the level of "mass appeal."  I was like Jack Black in "High Fidelity" mocking the father at the record store for trying to buy Stevie Wonder's "I Just Called to Say I Love You" for his kid.  It wasn't that I suddenly hated R.E.M., it was just that I no longer wanted to be associated with their fans so I immediately labeled them as trite or irrelevant.  Like many things in my past, I'm completely ashamed of my behavior.  Really, is there anything more annoying in the world than a music snob? 

Anyway...today, the Peanut and I both called in sick.  We were feeling a little feverish so I skipped work and she skipped daycare.  And when we weren't running around trying to put socks on the dog or playing hide-and-seek, we hung out on the laptop looking for Elmo videos.  In  the midst of our search, we came across a video of R.E.M. on Sesame Street.  Soon enough, the Peanut and I were jumping up and down in the living room and having the time of our lives. 

Not only did I fall in love with R.E.M. all over again, I watched the Peanut fall in love with them for the first time.  And you know what?  It totally made my day.  Here's the video.  Enjoy...

Hope you like this as much as we did.  For those of you who are parents, do you have any other videos that you're enjoying with your kid?  Peanut is starting to refer to my laptop as the "Elmo Box."  I've got to  start showing her other stuff.   

Quotalicious!

As many of you know, sleep and I have a somewhat tenuous relationship.  Whereas the Peanut tends to fall asleep by 7:30, BossLady usually starts getting yawny around 10:00 pm.  Hence, I usually have about 4 hours to myself every night, a time that I use to voraciously consume as much news, sports and pop culture before I vomit like a bulimic Chuck Klosterman.  Whether I've gorged on TV, the 50 magazines I subscribe to, or any of the 3 books that I tend to read simultaneously, I often come across some interesting quotes, both funny and serious, that I thought I'd share with all of you (along, of course, with my normal two-cent commentary.) 

''Mothers don't lie to their sons. Now go wash your hands or Santa's not gonna bring you anything for Christmas.''---Lynette on "Desperate Housewives."

When the Peanut was born, BossLady and I swore that we would never lie to her.  We wanted to have an open relationship with our daughter that would never be influenced by dishonesty or deception.  Unfortunately, the Terrible Twos are testing the limits of that commitment.  Right now, getting the Peanut into her stroller is like wrestling a penguin into a dress.  It's virtually fucking impossible.  Last week, in a moment of weakness, I turned to the Peanut and said, "C'mon, kid, just jump in the stroller. Elmo's downstairs waiting for us."  However, the lovely BossLady informed me that false promises of furry red monsters technically constitute a lie so I'd better start coming up with some new tricks. 

So what did I come up with?  Now, I walk around with cheese in my pocket so I can bribe her at a moment's notice (I should mark it "unwrap in case of emergency.)  Seriously. Even right now at the office, I have some in my pocket.  Because shit, if I can't use deception, all I've got left is bribery.

Please tell me I'm not the only one doing this! 

And honestly, if anyone had told me 10 years ago (when I was so full of myself and my hip urban lifestyle) that I would one day be carrying cheese in my pocket, I probably would have smacked them in the head with something. 

Most likely my beret. 

'Feminist author Linda Hirshman is here. I'll explain to her that a woman needs a man like a fish needs to be cooked and served to me for dinner by a woman on a bicycle.''---Stephen Colbert

It's interesting how a single article in an elite policy magazine can set off a battle between working mothers and those who choose to stay at home (i.e. "the Mommy Wars.")  For those of you late to the party, Hirshman has argued that women who are "letting their careers slide to tend the home fires" are making a DRASTIC mistake. Now, I'm personally of the belief that if you can afford to stay home, more kudos to you.  Either way, there's certainly no need to attack a woman's personal choice, Ms. Hirshman.  Shame on you. I do have to say that, in light of everything going on in the world, this VERY IMPORTANT ISSUE bores the crap out of me and is indicative of what my friend James like to call "high-class problems." 

Hell, BossLady is one of the smartest women I know.  She's an Ivy League grad and has the loan payments to prove it.  Would she love to stay at home?  Of course!  However, her decision to work shouldn't be equated with feminism but rather with what is right for our individual family.  After all, without her income, I'd be forced to drink cheap scotch, cut my own hair, and forgo foie gras.  So mind your own business, Linda Hirshman, and stay the hell out of my uterus!

''In her divorce petition, Denise Richards alleges Charlie Sheen is addicted to gambling, pornography, and prostitutes, all of which make him an unfit father...but a great uncle.''---David Spade

MetroBro is a great uncle.  Being a writer/filmmaker/artist, he has been entrusted with our daughter's aesthetic upbringing (like Uncle Buck! But with culture!)  Growing up, neither one of us had any uncles (at least none that we saw more than once every 20 years) so it's interesting watching him morph into unfamiliar territory. When Peanut was first born, I would frequently get phone calls from my childless friends who would say that they ran into my brother at a lounge at 3:00 in the morning and he immediately started whipping out baby photos like the proud uncle that he is.  Why am I mentioning all this?  Because I need a babysitter next Friday night, I can't get a hold of him, and I know he'll read this.  C'mon, dude.  Help a brother out! I'll even throw in a free dinner, some weed, and you don't have to walk the dog!

“How badly our enemies underestimated the power and endurance of freedom. In less than three years, we have more than just plans on paper—we place here today the cornerstone, the foundation of a new tower."---George Pataki in 2004 (as read in last week's New Yorker)

We live a short 4 blocks away from Ground Zero.  Were I a little younger, I could go on our building's roof, throw a baseball and hit the tarnished site.  I mention this because 2 years after Pataki's statement and more than 5 years after 9/11, they have only now begun to start construction on Freedom Tower. As has been abundantly documented, the bungling of this project has turned into an egregious example of bureaucracy and politics in action.   By the end of the day on September 11, 2001, it was clear that the terrorists’ act had enormous symbolic power in the eyes of the world, and it was also clear that whatever arose at Ground Zero should make an equally important symbolic statement of its own.  Sadly, we may find that instead of inspiring us and representing our values, the Tower will now represent the giant clusterfuck known as Politics In America.

''Your virtue is a gift. It is a gift you can give to only one man. Once you give it, it's gone. You can't regift it. If you give it to the wrong man, when the right one comes along, you'll have no gift to give. You'll have to give him a sweater.''---Rev. Boatwright on "Gilmore Girls"

For most of my life, there are certain groups whom I've always poked fun at...crazy old women with cats, white wanna-be gangsters, the French.  Also included in this group were knitters.  I was always scared by their pathological tendencies.  One day, they're knitting scarves.  The next day, they're making life-size replicas of a Ferrari. 

Well, as it turns out, the BossLady has become a knitter.

And like everything the BossLady does when she decides to do something, she does it full force.  For the past two weeks, she's dragged me to various yarn stores, shown me every Pantone color known to mankind, and researched every pattern under the stars.  She knits during her lunch hour, on the subway, and last night, I caught her knitting on the toilet. Just kidding.  Sort of.  Anyway, she just started a sweater for me and, in only two days, she's about 10% done.  It's like she's knitting on crystal meth. I think it's wonderful that she's making me this sweater but I think I'd rather have her spend more time giving up her virtue. 

''I forget: which Jane Austen novel was Taxicab Confessions adapted from?''---Amanda Peet on "Studio 60" when a writer informs her that HBO is the only place for "literate" television.

I've always been a fan of Aaron Sorkin's work on television.  Yes, I know his writing is often pedantic and egocentric but whenever I watch his shows, it restores my faith in television as a medium.  Network television doesn't always have to be dumb people shouting at briefcases ("Deal or No Deal") or watching Emmitt Smith tarnish his legacy by doing the polka ("Dancing with the Stars.")  No, sometimes great television can transcend all that crap.  So, needless to say, I love Studio 60.  I love the spitfire dialogue, the quick wit, and the bantering repartee.  The acting is also impressive (especially Sarah Paulson as Harriet Hayes.)  And while I will agree with Amy/Tracey that Aaron Sorkin can be absurdly pompous and derisive, it's nice to see some quality television for a change that won't insult my intelligence.   

Interestingly, I think television is undergoing a great renaissance right now.  It seems that there's more quality television being aired now than there has been for a very long time.  I personally know that our Tivo/DVR is working overtime to record not only Studio 60 but also The Wire, Friday Night Lights, House, The Office, Smith, Shark, and CSI.  I haven't been interested in that many shows in years. They all share the main commonality of being intelligent and very well-written, characteristics that are becoming virtually extinct on network television.  And while these aforementioned shows have achieved considerable critical successes, it's sadly disappointing to see that they are suffering poorly in the ratings and may not be around for much longer.  Perhaps intelligent television, as we know it, is destined for the scrap heap as we (as a society) continue to succumb to the lowest common denominator.  What's next?  The death of literature? 

Anyway, bitches, I've got to run.  "Laguna Beach" is about to start! 

(Can't wait to see what neurotic Kyndra wears next.  That bitch be crazee with her leopard tops and tight-ass skirts.  And, OMG, did anyone catch that gnarly convo between Alex and Rocky last week?  How bitchin' was that?)

Lists I made during today's daily commute

It's only Monday but I feel like it's already been a long week.  Damn!  Since I didn't want to dump or unleash my problems and stresses onto you guys, I decided to just post random thoughts that occured to me during today's commute on NYC's finest subways.  Here's 15 minutes of nothing....

FIVE THINGS I DEEPLY REGRET HAVING TAUGHT MY DAUGHTER

1. Picking your nose and wiping the boogers on your shoe.
2. Feeding leftovers to the dog.
3. Taking the batteries out of the remote control.
4. Splashing in the bathtub.
5. Wet willies.

FIVE THINGS I TAUGHT HER THAT ARE STUPID BUT HIGHLY AWESOME

1. Giving people a high-five while saying, "Up top, yo!"
2. Bras make great hats.
3. Panties on your head are even funnier.   
4. Running around, pointing to your ass and yelling, "Poop!  Poop!" (even when you haven't.)
5. Waking her mother up by sticking your finger in her belly button. 

FIVE THOUGHTS ABOUT "BLUE'S CLUES"

1. I find myself mesmerized by Joe's eyebrows.  Is it me or are they freakishly bushy?   
2. Whenever BossLady refuses to do something, I pretend to write in a notebook. 
3. I always thought Blue was a guy but then I saw him/her in a bikini. Blew my fucking mind. 
4. I know a job is a job, "Joe," but why take one that all but guarantees a life of celibacy? 
5. I think watching "Sesame Street" on mushrooms would be fun but "Blue's Clues" would scare the shit out of me.

FIVE QUESTIONS ABOUT "SESAME STREET"

1. Are Bert & Ernie (a) roommates, (b) brothers, or (c) totally gay? 
2. What the fuck happened to Snuffleupagus?  Did someone put a hit on him? 
3. Who owns Hoopers?  Some rich dude driving a Cadillac who lives in the suburbs?
4. Are the Birdketeers and the Grouchketeers like the Crips and the Bloods of Sesame Street?
5. Was there any lingering bitterness when Kermit left to front his own show and become a big Hollywood movie star? 

FIVE PEOPLE ON THE SUBWAY WHO PISSED ME OFF TODAY

1. The leg-spreader.
2. Smelly guy eating an Egg McMuffin next to me.
3. Hairy armpit-in-my-face woman.
4. Sneezy guy who didn't cover his nose.
5. Crazy Chinese woman knitting a sweater with her needles just inches from my face. 

FIVE PEOPLE ON THE SUBWAY WHO MADE ME FALL IN LOVE WITH NYC ALL OVER AGAIN

1. Cool, arty older woman who let me work on the Sunday NYT crossword with her.
2. Funny Orthodox Jewish homeboy freestyling raps about sheckels and kippas. 
3. Scary black dude whom I busted listening to Whitney's "I'm Every Woman" on his ipod. 
4. Conservative blonde WASP banker-type woman who gave the homeless guy her sandwich. 
5. Incredibly fragile 85-year old gentleman kindly offering his seat to a young pregnant woman. 

FIVE IDEAS FOR MY HALLOWEEN COSTUME (AND WHY THEY'RE ALL BAD)

1. Jin from "Lost" (Being barechested all night sounds like a good way to freeze your nipples off.)
2. V from "V for Vendetta" (When I tried on the mask, I scared the shit out of the Peanut.)
3. Elmo ("Mommy, why is Elmo smoking cigarettes on Hudson Street?")
4. Michelle Wie (I'm damn fugly in drag.)
5. A Gay Redneck Asian Nascar Driver (not sure if anyone would find this as funny as I do.)

Feel free to comment on any/all of the above. 

Meanwhile, anyone got some good stuff to keep me entertained and cheer me up?  Funny youtube videos?  Newly discovered blogs?  Photos of Christy Turlington in a Wonder Woman outfit? 

 

Life is short

Part of being a Met fan is having your heart broken. 

Every spring brings glimmers of hope and optimism.  And every autumn tends to bring sadness and disappointment. 

However, I'll never stop rooting for my beloved Mets.  I was born under the shadows of Shea Stadium in Flushing, Queens and my heart will always belong to the Mets until the day I die. 

As many fans understand, seeing one's team in the World Series may only happen once in a lifetime.  The Chicago Cubs last appeared in the Series in 1945. They last won a championship in 1908.  How many Cubbie fans have lived and died since then? 

So when the Mets made the division series and World Series tickets went on sale, I knew I had to be there.  Thankfully, my beautiful wife understood how important this was to me.  She sold an arm, a leg, one of her kidneys, and the naming rights to all of our future children in order to buy me an early birthday present...the now-worthless souvenir ticket that you see here.

Tied at 3 games apiece in a best-of-7 series, down two runs with the bases loaded and two outs...that's about as close as you can possibly come to making it to the Series.  But with a single strikeout, the Mets season ended.  As the saying goes, close only counts when it comes to horseshoes and hand grenades. 

Oh well...there's always next season.

The Left Coast

I've been in Los Angeles for 24 hours and already I want to run myself over with a car. 

Before my plane even landed at LAX, I'd already met two actors, an actress and a screenwriter.  Now, in New York, we call these people "waiters" but I guess things are different out here.  The guy sitting next to me kept his sunglasses on during the entire flight.  The other guy next to me seemed to be scribbling the next "Citizen Kane" on a cocktail napkin.  And the actress across the aisle spent SIX HOURS reading a SINGLE issue of Nylon magazine. Pshaw!

Sitting quietly with my Sunday NYT crossword, the book review, and Haruki Murakami's latest collection of short stories, I felt like the world's biggest geek.  My corduroy pants, white tube socks, and the cheerios stuck to my collar only solidified the feeling.

Things got worse by the time I got to my hotel.  Little did I know that all the hotels here recruit their staff from the back pages of Variety.  Everyone from the parking valet to the bartender has a SAG card and they all look like extras from Melrose Place.  Who the hell has so much time to be working out and getting in shape like this?  Everyone here looks incredibly attractive and so damn healthy.  Sure, in New York, you see a lot of thin people but that's because most of us are stressed out and living off a diet of vodka martinis, double espressos, and cigarettes!

However, I have to admit that the people here are incredibly nice.  In fact, their niceness practically belies their inherent naivete.  It's a good thing they all live here and not in New York because I don't think many of them could survive in the wild.  During my first 2 hours here, I talked my way into free upgrades on both my rental car and hotel room.  Instead of the Volvo I'd rented, I'm now driving a gold-colored Jaguar convertible (which, as my LA friend Greg will attest, makes me feel like an 80-year old Jew from Miami.)  And instead of my standard hotel room, I am now writing this from my enormous hotel suite that has 4 rooms and 3 televisions! This would NEVER happen in New York!  However, niceness has its limits.

Two days ago, BossLady and I went to our neighborhood diner in New York.  We were greeted by a surly Greek waiter who practically threw the menus at us while he yelled in Spanish at the Dominican busboys.  I ordered the steak, egg and potato special where the cooks throw everything in a greasy pan and fry the shit out of it.  When the smoke detector goes off, that's how they know it's done.

This morning in LA, I walked over to a local diner and ordered a plain omelet.  Something must have been lost in translation because when my food came, the plate was covered in alfalfa sprouts, avocado, and tomatoes.  When I brought this up with my waiter, all he could say was, "Dude, I totally know what you mean.  I am SO allergic to avocado.  Last time I ate one, I had to lie down for 6 whole hours!"  What the fuck, Spicoli?  Did I ask you about your fucking allergens?  It's 7:00 am.  I'm jet lagged and hung over.  Do I look like I even want to have a conversation with you?

New Yorkers are a tough bunch.  Having lived there most of my life, I'm used to the directness and coarse realities of human discourse.  Conversations are quick, straight, and on-point.  Here, I always feel like I have to make circuitous small talk just to make it through a meal.  ("Good morning!"  "Good morning." "How are you?" "Fine. You?" "Just peachy!"  "Great." "Nice weather we're having." "Yeah, I guess." "Is there something I can help you with today?" "Yeah, how about a fucking plain omelet?")

What's the running joke?   That the only difference between the two cities is that in LA they say "have a nice day," and they mean "fuck you."  In NY they say "fuck you," and they mean "have a nice day."

Don't get me wrong.  I love visiting Los Angeles.  When I lived in Berkeley, I'd often jump in my car and drive down south to see friends for the weekend.  When BossLady and I were dating long-distance, I found myself flying here almost every other week and loved exploring the city as a pseudo-resident.

Strip away the supericiality, get rid of most of the people, and there are a lot of truly great things that I love about L.A.  I love going to old cinema houses like the Nuart and watching old movies.  I love the great diversity of ethnic food available.  I love hiking in Griffith Park, walking on the beach in Malibu, seeing concerts at the Hollywood Bowl, eating late-night soon do-bu at BCD Tofu House, driving up to Topanga Canyon, going to karaoke in K-Town, hanging out at the LA Zoo, or spending the entire day at the La Brea tar pits.  And need I mention the weather?  There's a part of me that loves the year-round "75 degrees and sunny" lifestyle. 

But I don't think I could ever live here in Los Angeles.  Personally, 36 hours is the perfect amount of time here.  For me, the city lacks a heart and feels so centerless.  They have lousy public transportation, a river with no fish, and enough smog to choke a horse.  You can't get a decent slice of pizza here, you actually have to buy water at restaurants, and if I have to spend one more minute in the car, I'm going to kill myself. Everyone is entirely too optimistic and cheery, and they all make me feel incredibly unhealthy. 

Besides, I left my sunglasses at home, a tragic faux pas that not only has me feeling completely naked but is also conjuring up old childhood nightmares where I showed up to the prom wearing only a jock strap and a catcher's mask.

I leave tomorrow morning for Colorado.  Anyone know where I can get a decent omelet?

Apologies to all my L.A. blogger friends (Melissa, Rebecca, Marsha, Laura, Charlie & Nina, Amy, Weigook Saram, Tim, Sandy, Tony and everyone else.)  Wish I had more time in LA so we could meet up for some Soy Iced Chai Lattes (or whatever it is that you people drink out here.)  Perhaps next time? 

Happy Proposaversary, BossLady!

Very soon after we met, I realized that BossLady was the woman with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life.

Unfortunately, she didn't feel the same way about me.  Since she was living in Los Angeles at the time, she had no interest in pursuing a long-distance relationship.  However, I can be a persistent ass sometimes and so I continued to pursue her until she finally relented and agreed to date me. 

A few years later, we were married.  However, to this day, BossLady always asks me how I knew so early in our relationship that we were meant to be together.

Of course, there are many reasons but I think these three stories sum it up best...

(1) The first time BossLady and I ever shared a bed together, we ended up staying up half the night bonding over our love of alliteration and exchanging grammar gaffes people made that caused our blood to boil.  To this day, I don't think I've ever heard anything sexier in my life than when she said, "God, how crazy does it make you when people confuse 'if' and 'when'? How fucking hard is it to understand the conditional?"  Talk dirty to me, baby!  I think that's when I knew I was going to marry her someday. She would be the Strunk to my White!

(2) On our third date, we were having brunch together at a restaurant near Lincoln Center.  During the meal, I made a slightly sexist joke about something and then went to the restroom.  When I came back, I took a bite out of my burger and munched on a few fries.  Suddenly, my lips started swelling and my tongue felt like it was on fire.  Turns out the BossLady had taken exception to my sexist joke and had spiked my ketchup with habanero hot sauce and poured red pepper all over my burger.  When I looked over at her, she was sitting smugly with a look on her face that said, "Got any other sexist comments you want to make?"  You gotta love a woman with that much spunk.

(3) When BossLady decided to move to New York to see if our relationship was going to work out, we rented a cargo van to drive cross-country together.  I think I knew BossLady was "the one" when we pulled out of her driveway in L.A. and she insisted that we immediately stop at a gas station because no self-respecting road trip could officially begin without an enormous supply of sunflower seeds and beef jerky.  Amen!  My convictions were further upheld when we were eating in a Memphis restaurant and she insisted that we get the "Fried Everything Platter" because life was short and who knew when we would ever get the opportunity to eat fried shrimp, fried clams, fried pickles, fried green tomatoes, and fried jalapenos all on one plate?  Carpe fry 'em! 

Six wonderful years ago today, I got down on one knee and asked the BossLady to marry me.  Thankfully, she said "yes."

Happy proposaversary, honey.  In the fast food menu of life, you're my spicy fried chicken. 

I love you like popcorn loves butter.

(If you're interested, you can read the story of our engagement here.  However, I must warn you.  It's extremely mushy and has been known to induce severe vomiting.)

8 thoughts that entered my mind during my 5-hour delay in the Fayetteville Airport

(1)  The meat in a roast beef sandwich should be brown or pink. If rare, it can occasionally be slightly red. It should never EVER be grey.  More specifically, it should never resemble a decaying piece of liver dragged through an ashtray.

(2)  I find it odd that they sell porn at airport newsstands.  What is the rationale behind this?  Are there people out there who think, “Darn, my flight is delayed again.  Maybe I’ll just grab some gum, the NY Times, and the latest issue of JUGGS magazine.”

(3)  It seems that the tech tools of today’s sales jockeys are a Blackberry and a wireless ear piece.  Right now, I’m looking at several men walking around the airport donning these Star Trek transporter/earpiece combo units.  They all look like ridiculous modern-day members of the USS Enterprise.  I’m trying hard to resist the urge to run up to them and say, “Do you have any life form readings yet, Spock?" or "Dammit, Scottie.  I'm a doctor, not an engineer!”

(4)  If you’re a guy and you want to make conversation with me, try to come up with a better line than, “I really like your shoes, man.”  That’s just creepy.  Especially when you don’t have any follow-up conversation starters.   

(5)  I think I’ve figured out the hierarchical timeline of careers in the field of security personnel.  First, you start off working security at a small store.  Then, you move to the office building down the street.  Eventually, if you play your cards right, you become a mall cop.  Finally, when you reach the ripe old age of 82, you're then officially eligible to work airport security.

(6)  Arkansas is AR-Kansas.  I wonder what AR means.  Is it like UBER?  Is Arkansas the super-sized version of Kansas?  Is it like Kansas but only with more Argon (AR)?  Or maybe AR means "not" as in you are NOT in Kansas.  Anyone? 

(7)  While waiting to board a plane, BossLady and I sometimes like to imagine the lives of our fellow travellers.  See that guy?  He’s the regional sales manager for Amway and he’s flying to Miami to meet his gay lover that he met on MySpace!  That woman?  She used to be a man but only has saved up enough money for half the operation.  She's flying to Thailand to complete the job.  We usually have a lot of fun playing this game.  What am I learning in Arkansas?  This game is really not that fun when you’re playing it by yourself. 

(8)  The airport bar had a television showing various music videos from the 80’s.  And although the bar staff seemed to have an average age of about 23, they all knew the words to classics from The Cure, Echo & the Bunnymen, Wham, Wang Chung, and Wall of Voodoo.  How is this possible?  These kids were like 2-years old in 1985.  So do they actually like this music?  Or are they listening to it ironically?  Like the way I sometimes ironically listen to Perry Como. 

Lastly, I leave you with a quick story.

While sitting at the airport bar a few minutes ago, there was an extremely rude man who was speaking so loudly on his cellophone that everyone could hear.  During the course of my one drink, I learned that "the clients are freaking idiots," “those fuckers at corporate don’t know shit about nothing” and “you and I definitely need to get together and grab some brewskis next week in Cincy.”  I was in a very foul mood so I stood up and loudly told the rude man that if he wanted to talk on his phone, he should kindly get the fuck out of the bar right now and stop invading everyone else’s private space.  (I can be quite intimidating when necessary because I have a fairly deep voice and I look like the kind of guy who might know Karate---i.e. Asian.)   

Anyway, not only did Mr. Rude wither from embarrassment and leave but also several women at the bar actually got up and gave me a standing ovation!  I realized, at that precise moment, that this was the FIRST standing ovation that I’d ever received in my life!  Sure, when I was a little kid in school plays, the parents would always give us standing ovations but I’d never in my life received a solitary ovation.  It felt great.

I started thinking how it's quite possible that this will be the ONLY standing ovation I ever receive in my life.  I'm not sure how I feel about that.  It's a little sad, isn't it?  Have I accomplished so little in my life that this random instance will be my only standing ovation EVER?  Don't you think we should all get standing ovations every once in awhile for drudging through the muddles and stresses of our daily lives?  I think that would be nice.

Oh well...for the record, nobody has ever thrown their panties at me, carried me on their shoulders or sang "For he's a jolly good fellow" either! (hint, hint!)

Gotta run. Looks like they're finally boarding the plane.  Hallelujah, the things I do to earn a living!

 

Take my parents, PLEASE!

In many ways, I sometimes feel that BossLady and I are wholly unqualified to be parents. 

Not in any of the BIG or IMPORTANT ways.  When it comes to raising our child to be a thoughtful, caring, intelligent and productive member of society, I'm fairly confident that we're just as capable as most other people.  At the very least, we seem to be at least as capable as the parents on the local news!

It’s just that BossLady and I are both a little silly and goofy.  For example, the other day, we were lying romantically in bed when BossLady turned to me and said, “let’s play a game.  You try to touch my face with your tongue as lightly as humanly possible.  Then, I’ll do the same to you.”

With great earnestness, I mustered up all my physical skills to touch her nose with what I was convinced was probably the lightest touch in the history of mankind, a touch barely perceptible to the human eye and recordable only by a finely-calibrated tongue sensometer developed by the finest scientists in all of Switzerland.  If I had touched any lighter, I’m convinced I would have been splitting atoms.

Brimming with confidence, I then turned to the BossLady and said, “Ha! Try to top THAT!”   Smugly secure in my imminent victory, I leaned my head back on the pillow, closed my eyes, and proffered my nose for her attempt. 

BossLady then proceeded to lick MY ENTIRE FACE with her slobbering tongue and yelled, “Ha!  I LOSE!”

We play these kinds of stupid games a lot. 

One time, we decided to produce our own two-person play on the subway.  It was late at night and there were only a few passengers on our train so we decided to sit apart from one another and pretend that we were two strangers making a spontaneous love connection.  During the train ride, I became The World’s Greatest Lover, a man capable of introducing myself to a woman, chatting her up briefly, start making out with her, and convince her to get off the train and come home with me…all in the span of 5 minutes!

We also like to speak in fake foreign accents when we’re abroad (or in the South.)  We love eating foods that require no utensils.  We like to fake-invent new variations of alarm clocks (like the scent-emitting, vibrating-pillow coffee clock.  Don’t even THINK about stealing that shit, yo!)  We sometimes go to karaoke bars and sing TV theme songs.  And we like making up our own children’s stories based on fast food chains (“Once upon a time, there was a King of All Burgers who fell madly in love with a beautiful princess from the Castle of White.”)

So yeah, I guess we’re definitely not the Asian version of Stepford parents.  However, we prefer to use the term "offbeat."

Since the Peanut is so young right now, she just thinks we’re fun parents who love showing her the food in our mouths while eating, walking down the street loudly singing “Wheels on the Bus,” and sitting on the floor together while putting Elmo stickers all over our naked bodies. 

But what if the Peanut grows up to be a stoically serious kid who thinks we’re complete idiots?  Maybe silliness skips a generation!  Sure, we’re fun NOW but I can easily envision a not-too-distant future where we’re just plain embarrassing!  Will she be reluctant to introduce us to her friends?  Will she blatantly avoid telling us about school functions?  There’s a small part of me that would be absolutely crushed to learn that my own daughter was completely embarrassed by her ridiculously goofy parents.

However, there’s another part of me that thinks it would just be awesome!

By the way, I am currently writing this post from Fayetteville, Arkansas.  It's a good thing Ptolemy never lived here because otherwise we'd all still be convinced that the earth was flat (Lucretius lives!)  Just out of curiosity, do I have any readers here in Arkansas?  If so, please stop me in the street and say hi.  I'll be the Asian guy. 

Happy birthday, Peanut!

Hey Peanut,

Today is your 2nd birthday. When I told you that this morning, I think you understood because you then proceeded to shove two fingers up my nose. This is one of your favorite things to do and has been ever since you were born. Many years from now, I'll tell you about this and you'll think I'm exaggerating (as your mother says I am wont to do.) However, ask mommy about the nose thing. She'll back me up on this one. Whenever you stick your fingers up my nose, you shriek with delight and laugh hysterically. It's ridiculously adorable. You have the best laugh.

Other things you'll want to remember about being two...

(1) Some kids hug. Some kids don't. Others have hugness thrust upon them. You, my little cherub, are very much a hugger. You will hug every human under 3". Dropping you off at daycare is like watching the mayor work a campaign trail. You also love hugging dogs and trying to stick your finger up their butt. I have no idea where that comes from. If you grow up and be a vet, maybe it will all make sense.

(2) You started walking at 9 months. Now, you're a runner. You love racing me down the block to our front door. I have no other context with which to judge this but I think you might possibly be the fastest two-year old kid in history. Either that or I'm the slowest 37-year old on the planet. You're so damn fast that, if I didn't know better, I'd accuse you of taking steroids and subpoena you to appear before a congressional subcommittee. Seriously, if you end up in the 2020 Olympics, remember you heard it here first. 

(3) Maybe because you were so enamored of walking, your language skills developed a little later than some other kids. Now, you don't stop talking. Ever!  About 50% of what you say is completely unintelligible.  However, you say it with such strong conviction and get such a serious look on your face that I usually just pretend to understand you and say things like, "Oh snap! I was JUST thinking that!" or "Get out of town, girlfriend! For real?"  Whenever I do that, you'll just keep on babbling incoherently for a few more minutes. Then, you'll pause, look up at me and say, "Dada, juice?"

(4) Either my sense of humor is rubbing off on you (possible) or I have the maturity level of an infant (more likely.)  However, you're a pretty funny kid.  The other day, I asked you whether you loved me and you said, "No! Mama!" I pretended to cry and, at first, you just laughed at me.  But then you came over and give me a hug while you whispered in my ear, "Pssht...pssht. Secret. Love dada."  My heart was about to explode from all the cuteness and just when I thought I might actually shed a real tear, you proceeded to lick your tiny finger and jam it in my ear. That had us both rolling with laughter. Damn, I never should have taught you the wet willie. 

(5) Right now, your best friend is a little Asian doll that you've affectionately (and quite unoriginally) named "Baby."  You feed her, kiss her, and push her around in the stroller constantly. Sometimes, you even swaddle her with dishrags.  The two things you DON'T do with "Baby" are clothe her or wash her. If "Baby" were actually human, she'd resemble a naked Chinese stowaway who spent the last 6 months in a ship's container sleeping on a pile of fish.

(6) You are fiercely independent, Peanut. Even your teachers are amazed by this fact.  However, little do they know that you come from a long line of stubborn people dating back to the Ming Dynasty. Whenever someone tries to help you with anything, you push them away and demand to do it yourself. If you don't want to eat, you'll hold a hunger strike. If we give you a time-out, you'll just sit in your chair forever and shoot me the KDS (Korean Death Stare.) I always thought the KDS was taught to Korean girls by their mothers but you've proven that it's passed on genetically.

I'm not going to wax nostalgic here, Peanut, and gush about how much I love you. I tell you that every day and I mean it with every fiber of my heart.  There's no way on earth that I could ever express how much I truly love you.  And because I'm not a lyrically poetic man, I'll leave the emotional prose to more talented writers and poets.

However, today on your birthday, I just want to say thanks.

Thanks for coming into our world and filling our lives with more meaning than we ever could have suspected. You've taught us that, at the end of the day, the only things that truly matter in life are love, family and a warm glass of milk.

Thanks for reminding me that there are few better ways of spending an entire day then playing in the sandbox, finger-painting outdoors, or throwing peanuts at the dog.

Thanks for bringing all branches of our family closer together. You've singlehandedly proven that the love of an innocent child can mend most fences, heal old wounds, and build new bridges.

Thanks for letting me see the world again through your eyes. Watching your eyes widen as you discover or experience something for the first time reminds me of all the beauty in this world.  Sometimes, I forget. 

Thanks for teaching me that, although there are many different kinds of love, there is no true love like the one a father has for his child. 

I love you very much, Peanut.  Have a happy 2nd birthday.  Now, let's go find some buckets and have a party!

Love,
Daddy

 

Gloria Patria (In Praise of the Father)

For the first several months after I started this "Daddy blog," I had no readers except for my lovely and encouraging wife, the BossLady. This was fine with me. I really just wanted an anonymous place where I could keep an online diary of my impending fatherhood and chronicle the journey into parenthood. Though I tend to kid around about it a lot, I'm not entirely joking when I say that one of the main reasons I started the blog was because it really was cheaper than therapy.

I also enjoyed the idea of having a creative outlet for my writing. I don't have much use for it in my daily life but I've always been the kind of person who, instead of sending postcards on long trips overseas saying, "wish you were here," would instead send 2,000 word e-mails to my friends about getting drunk with Muslims in Pakistan or explaining how "Falcon Crest" is actually much funnier in Hindi (whereas, on the other hand, "Joey" is not funny in ANY language.) I missed having a place to release the strange machinations and observations that bounced around in my brain on a constant basis. 

In no way did I think that my blog would ever be read by more than a small handful of people.  However, soon after I started, my two blogging godfathers, Jay and Greg, started linking to my site and pushing people to come over and read various posts I had written.   

Suddenly, for the first time, I had readers (which is a weirdly strange phenomenon, kind of like picking your nose in bed and looking up to see 50 people peering through your window.)  But more important than readers, I found an amazing community of people with whom I've become friends. Some are parents. Some aren't. But connecting with so many people as a community in this online internet thingy has been, by far, the most rewarding aspect of having started this blog.

However, since MetroDad primarily deals with my ongoing experience of fatherhood, I've got a soft spot for all my fellow dads out there.  There aren't too many men writing online about fatherhood so I try to promote all of them as much as possible.  We've done this here a few times before and I'm glad to say that many of these guys have become good friends of mine. Some I've met in person. Others are friends whom I just haven't met...yet!

Anyway, the great thing about daddy bloggers is that there are always new ones that are starting every day.  Here are a few new ones that I've discovered recently. Enjoy!

Corndog & Rootbeer

There's a small possibility that Henri is my long-lost twin brother.  French-name?  Check.  Korean-American?  Check.  Unhealthy obsession with scotch?  Double check.  However, if my strange sense of humor is derived from juvenile drug use, I think Henri's weirdness comes from being dropped on his head as a baby.  He's a loving father and husband who thinks he's an Irish ninja.  I got such a kick out of reading him, I even recruited him for the Rice Daddies blog.  Go check him out.

Flailing My Arms

A self-described "dad, partner, theatre-maker, graphic designer, writer, and flagrantly flailing 20-something living in Austin, TX," Jonathan is a very cool dude whom I've enjoyed reading a lot lately.  In many ways, he reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger.  And although he sometimes struggles to find balance in his life, I continue to be impressed by the fact that he's an introspective guy who is always asking the right questions of himself.  For a kid in his 20's, he's a refreshingly mature guy and a very talented writer.  I think if Dutch and I were ever to have a baby together, he'd come out a lot like Jonathan! We like Jonathan. A lot.

Spit Up & Shut Down

Sandy is a stay-at-home screenwriter dad living in Long Beach with two kids, a dog, and a hilarious take on life. He dresses his kid up in an Elmo costume just to hang out around the house, has actually peed at a supermarket urinal with his son on his shoulders, and is teaching himself how to play cricket via a book. Best of all, he's the inventor of the bologna-melt paternity test. Clearly a man after my own heart.

L.A.Daddy

Tim is a displaced Ohioan who has been working as a marketing director and writer/director for the past 11 years.  In his spare time, he's an avant-garde raconteur, retired gigolo, and a proud papa to a two-year old girl.  I enjoy reading Tim because we're both around the same age so we can relate to one another. When he writes about Colecovision or I write about Brite-lites, we each know what the other is talking about. Not like all you young 'uns out there!

Abba-Daddy

Abba-Daddy is a fellow New Yorker who's been married for 8 years and has two wonderful daughters.  Whereas I'm more Jewish by affiliation, Abba-Daddy is a proud Israeli man with a deep love for his homeland, music, and Elmo porn.  Ok, just kidding about that last one (sort of.)  He's just starting out but I'm enjoying reading him. I think you will too.

I Hate Snaps

I feel like I've known Kaz forever. He was such a loyal and frequent commenter over at daddytypes that I think Greg finally just told him to start his own blog. What I truly love about Kaz is that he's a passionate man. As a tree-hugging environmental vegetarian, Kaz shares tips to help other parents live "green" and discusses the highs and lows of raising a loving daughter. As a meat-eating, non-recycling urbanite who drives a car that gets about 11 mpg, I still got nothing but love for Kaz. Go check him out.

Dad in Progress

There are many cool things to like about Michael. He's a great guy who spends a lot of time and energy in trying to figure out how to be a great dad. He's also an avid reader of parenting resources who always has an interesting take on the articles he references on his site. However, the coolest thing about Michael may be the fact that he is the head of North American brand communications at Lego. The dude works at Lego Land!

As always, if you know of any new dad bloggers out there, feel free to shoot me an e-mail or leave a comment. Otherwise, enjoy these newbies. I think you'll like them.

GO METS!