Regular readers know that if I don't post here for awhile, all the flotsam floating around my brain tends to explode in a diaspora of mental diarrhea. Usually, I can just annoy my wife with everything on my mind but lately she's been busy with work. Besides, we're about to take off for a week of some hardcore skiing and snowboarding in Colorado. When I'm not on the slopes, I plan on overdosing on chili, catching up on some reading, and teaching the Peanut how to throw snowballs at people from the balcony.
Since it's highly unlikely I'll be posting here for awhile and since I've got some random shit on my mind, I thought I'd leave you with another Chaos Theory post...
MY DOMESTIC TRANSFORMATION IS ALMOST COMPLETE!
Today, I signed up for a cooking class. Either I'm the definition of a true Renaissance man of the new millennium or I'm slowly turning into a fucking Asian houseboy.
Why am I doing this, you may ask? Because BossLady and I have noticed that whenever the intercom buzzes, the Peanut automatically sprints to the front door and yells, "Dinner here?"
Very cute but so wrong.
Last week, the Peanut and I stopped into our local bodega to buy some lottery tickets. When we got home, I told her to take off her jacket but she refused. Normally I wouldn't really care but I noticed that she was clutching something in her hand and was trying to hide it in her coat pocket. When I pried open her hand, what did I find? A York Peppermint Pattie.
That's right, my daughter committed her first crime! Do you have any idea how fucking embarrassing it is to go into a store, apologize for the fact that your two-year-old hijacked some candy, and then fork over $1.00?
Later, we ran into Michael Imperioli on the street and all I could think about was Peanut growing up to be the first Asian female member of an Italian mob family from Jersey.
SING THE SONG SOUNDS LIKE SHE SINGS IT
Whereas the BossLady sings like an angel sent from the heavens, I sound more like a hippo passing a kidney stone. Unfortunately, I have no sense of shame so if you ever want to hear the African mammalian version of Morrissey's "Suedehead," feel free to join us the next time we go out for karaoke.
Anyway, when the Peanut was born, I loved making up ridiculously silly songs for her. Past hit singles have included, "Santa Said Eat Your Peas," "$18.00 Sneakers and You Got No Job?" and "Please, Please, Please, Go to Bed!"
Apparently, the gift of making up stupid songs is passed on genetically because lately the Peanut has been on a composing tear. Her latest release is called "Cake, Cake, Cake. I Like Cake." She'll literally walk around the apartment singing it to herself all day long. She's also a big fan of mash-ups. Yesterday, she sang us a song called, "Happy Birthday, Old MacDonald!." Today it was "Row, Row, Row, Your Jingle Bells."
God damn, I love this little girl!
SHE CAN EAT (OUT) GIRLS LIKE NORAH JONES FOR LUNCH
Speaking of music, one of the things rocking my world these days is all the original and exciting new music being released by acts like the Raconteurs, Arcade Fire, Ghostface Killah, and Fallout Boy. Now, thanks to MetroBro, I've got a new ipod crush and her name is Amy Winehouse, a white, 22-year-old bad-ass British soul singer who comes across like the illegitimate love child of Sid Vicious and Aretha Franklin. Her new CD is being released in the U.S. this week so if you want to hear some funky gospel vocals laid out over modern beats, check it out.
Aside from her songwriting talents, Ms. Winehouse seems to be that rare creature who has an utter lack of pretension and an awesome penchant for shooting off her mouth. The following is from her wikipedia page...
- At the age of 10, Winehouse founded a short-lived amateur rap group called Sweet 'n' Sour. She described the group as "the little white Jewish Salt 'n' Pepa.
- When asked about all her "old school" tattoos of naked women, she said, “I like pin-up girls. I’m more of a boy than a girl. I’m not a lesbian, though — at least not before a couple of sambucas anyway."
- And finally, once when Bono was accepting a music award and started talking about Africa again, Amy famously yelled out, 'Shut up! I don't give a fuck!' When pressed for comment, Amy replied, "What can I say? I'm a dickhead when I'm drunk."
WHY I FOOKIN' LOVE THE IRISH
Speaking of Bono (and the fact that this is the 20th anniversary of "Joshua Tree,") here's a funny U2 story told to me by my friend Xiobhan...
Bono is at a U2 concert in Glasgow when he asks the audience for some quiet.
Then in the deafening silence, he starts to slowly clap his hands. Holding the audience in total captivity, he says softly and seriously into the microphone …
“Every time I clap my hands, a child in Africa dies……”
Suddenly, from the front row of the venue and breaking the total silence, a voice yells out in a drunk Scottish brogue...
“Well, for fuck's sake, stop fookin doin’ it then!”
THE SHAMROCK SHAKE MAYBE BUT NO WAY IT'S BETTER THAN THE FRIES
Normally, I deplore reading posts about the various google searches that lead people to one's blog. Since I'm an inherently lazy writer, I'm afraid if I start doing things like that I'll never write an original thought again. However, I'm going to make an exception to that self-imposed rule because I'm very proud to announce that I'm the #5 hit for the following google search phrase...
"My 7 year old says my breast milk tastes better than McDonalds."
Disturbing on so many different levels, isn't it?
While I'm at it, I'd like to state that I'm also extremely proud of the fact that several people seem to have found this site by googling, "I like cool dads who wear leather pants and like to drink breast milk." Get your freak on, people! I guess it's true. One woman's fetish is another woman's fantasy!
YES, BUT ONE MAN'S GARBAGE IS ANOTHER GIRL'S TREASURE
The old line about children throwing away presents and playing with the packaging is almost so axiomatic that it has devolved into cliché. But as the wise philosopher Yogi Berra once said, "you can observe a lot by just watching." And by watching the Peanut, it's clear that spending any money on toys for her is an exercise in futility.
In no particular order, here are her top 5 favorite toys right now:
1. Empty juice bottles
2. MetroDog's chew toy
3. The humidifier
4. My smelly socks
5. BossLady's bra*
*I told Peanut that the bra was a hat so naturally she puts
it on her head like a yarmulke. She looks like a drunk midget stripper
at a bar mitzvah.
HE SHOOTS! HE SCORES!
My friend Andrew sent me this game. Maybe it's a guy thing but this simple game is so absurdly addictive that I'm thinking about setting up a pro tour so I can play it for a living. Give it a try sometime when you're bored at work. But don't say I didn't warn you.
THE McDLT: HOT SIDE HOT, COOL SIDE COOL
I just read this article about married couples redoing their houses so they could sleep in separate bedrooms. Personally, I'd never do this in a million years but I understand the logic. In fact, BossLady and I joke about it all the time.
See, I sleep totally nude with 4 pillows, no blanket, and a reading light attached to my head that makes me look like a yuppie coal miner. On the other hand, BossLady sleeps in polar fleece sweats underneath an enormous down comforter, wearing a black-out mask that makes her look like the Lone Ranger. I swear, if it were up to me, we'd keep the thermostat at 65 degrees.
Either she's exothermic or I'm the first virile Asian-American man to experience menopause. Anyone else have this problem?
FIVE ROCKING OUTFITS IN METRODAD HISTORY
Being in the fashion industry, almost every day I hear people say,
"eventually, everything comes back in style!" Now, I like to think
that I have an innate sense of style but I have to admit that lately my
clothes have been boring me. Maybe that comes with being 38 years
old. Or maybe clothing was much more interesting when I was teenager.
Anyway, thinking back on some of my past outfits, here are 5 items that
I wish I still had.
1. Missing Persons concert t-shirt
2. Matching tweed hat, blazer and pants
3. Navy blue sailor suit
4. Purple parachute pants
5. Leopard bathing trunks (check it!)
THE YELLOW DONNELLYS
You may not know this but Koreans and the Irish share a special affinity. More often than not, people call us the "Irish of the East." We're both hard-working people with chips on our shoulders and a reputation for being tough, mean, chain-smoking drunks. We love boozing, singing, and getting into fights (preferably all on the same night.) Our people share a history of oppression from neighboring countries and have a homeland still divided by politics and rage. We'd kill or die for our families. And nobody eats more fucking cabbage than we do.
So it was with great interest that I looked forward to watching the new NBC show, "The Black Donnellys." Directed and written by the brilliant Paul Haggis, the show follows four young Irish-American brothers in NYC's Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood and their involvement with organized crime. But mainly, it's a story about family, loyalty, and sacrifice.
So far, only three episodes have aired but I have to say I'm hooked. While it's clearly the network answer to "The Sopranos," there are at least 5 times during every episode where you have that "no fucking way did they do that!" moment. Unfortunately, none of the characters are redeemingly likable enough so I'm pegging the show's chances of survival around 50/50. At a time when "Dancing With The Stars" seems to be the lowest common denominator (with the highest ratings,) I'm hoping that "The Black Donnellys" gets a chance to find the audience it needs in order to survive.
Like "Friday Night Lights" or "Studio 60," this is a show that may be too smart for the average TV viewer. So far, critics have not been overly enthusiastic about the show. And I have to admit that part of the criticism might be well deserved. In many ways, the show's depiction of NYC's Irish culture is done in a way that could only be imagined by a bunch of sun-tanned writers working in West Los Angeles. But at the same time, it's far better than 99% of the rest of the shit on network television.
So, for the sake of my Irish brothers, give it a fookin chance, eh?