MetroDad

Obits of 2007

DAYTIME NAP, ALMOST 3 YEARS OLD, DIES

After a successful 34-month reign, a young Manhattan girl's daily nap ritual officially passed away on August 22, 2007.  Although the official medical report has yet to be released, it appears that there were no early indications of the passing of the nap. The young girl's parents believe the cause of death was premature maturation and advanced toddler masochism.

In lieu of flowers, the girl's parents request that donations be made to Starbucks and GlaxoSmithKline, the makers of Vivarin.

REGGAETON, 14, IS DEAD

Reggaeton, a form of gritty urban street music which became popular with Latin American (or Latino) youth during the early 1990s and spread rapidly around the country, officially died on August 17 in a 2004 Honda Odyssey minivan near Hoffman Estates, Illinois. The cause of death was Elizabeth "Muffy" Miller, a stay-at-home suburban soccer mom, who loudly rapped along with her Daddy Yankee CD all the way home from Bed, Bath & Beyond while her children were in the back seat.  Reggaeton was fourteen years old. 

Coincidentally, Ms. Miller is also responsible for the death of the phrase, "who let the dogs out?"  This occurred in 2003, when Ms. Miller consumed two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and sang the song publicly at the local elementary school's "karaoke night"  fundraiser.  The song has never been performed or heard since then. 

MY DAUGHTER'S FAVORITE DOLL, 2, PASSES AWAY

My daughter's favorite doll, affectionately named "Baby," died August 15 on our couch.  The cause of death was an epic struggle over "Baby" between my daughter and the dog.  "Baby" was two years old. 

Conceived in France but born in China, "Baby's" real name was Yang.  Although her death was quick, Yang had been silently suffering for many months.  The preliminary coroner's report revealed a lifetime of neglect and abuse.  Her arm was dislocated in 2006 and never repaired properly.  Her abdomen was known to leak on occasion.  And finally, in early 2007, her vision began to suffer after the loss of her left eye.  Close relatives admit that "Yang's time had come and she was now in a much better place."

Interestingly, during the course of her entire life, Yang never took a single shower or bath.  Some view this as a form of political protest.  Others believe it was due to the unyieldingly cruel regime and harsh conditions under which she lived. 

MY DAILY BAGEL, 5, DIES

My daily bagel, aged 5, died yesterday due to dietary concerns and increased cholesterol levels.

Having served as my morning sustenance for many years, my daily bagel was executed due to his criminal relationships with cream cheese and smoked salmon.  Under the watchful eye of physicians from Mt. Sinal hospital, my daily bagel made his last public appearance on August 22.

Despite being a little flaky at times, my daily bagel was considered a positive roll model for millions. My daily bagel is survived by his wife Bialy and two children, John Dough and Jane Dough.

FATHER'S PATIENCE, 3, DIES IN MANHATTAN

Having survived a torrent of toddler tantrums, a father's patience quietly passed away this week. The cause of death was last night's dinner. 

Given the choice between mac-and-cheese or chicken tenders, the father's daughter communicated her preference for chicken tenders.  Immediately upon seeing said chicken tenders, the father's daughter repeatedly screamed "No! I want mac-and-cheese!"  The toddler's father, in a humiliating act of contrition due to a long day at the office, ignorantly decided that peace and quiet were of paramount importance that evening and duly cooked up a plate of macaroni-and-cheese.  When proffered the mac-and-cheese,the toddler then proceeded to cry in the whiniest voice known to mankind, "I don't want mac-and-cheese. I want donuts!"

It was at that precise moment that Father's Patience suddenly died.  There were no survivors. 

WHITE APPROPRIATION OF BLACK CULTURE, 82, DIES

White People's Appropriation of Black Culture officially died August 22 on the set of America's Got Talent in Los Angeles.  It was 82 years old.  The cause of death was host Jerry Springer beatboxing before a national audience, calling UB40's "Red, Red Wine" the greatest reggae song of all-time, and then bumping fists with a contestant. 

Although White Appropriation of Black Culture has a long and storied past, it had previously been able to survive repeated attacks by Vanilla Ice, Elvis Presley, Eminem, and my annoying 15-year-old white neighbor in Tribeca who has dreadlocks, wears his jeans below his ass and thinks he's from the 'hood.  However, upon seeing Jerry Springer's performance on national television, white people from around the world unanimously made the decision to instantly execute the White Appropriation of Black Culture.

White Appropriation of Black Culture is survived by Chinese Tattoos on Sorority Chicks, Naming Sports Teams After Native American Stereotypes, and Corporate Mascots on TV Speaking with Funny Mexican Accents.

"You Know How I Know You're Gay?"

Aside from the fact that I like Coldplay, have an unnatural love for cheesy romantic comedies, and once made a spinach dip in a loaf of sour dough bread...

I went to see Justin Timberlake in concert last night at Madison Square Garden.

And I liked it. 

Seriously. 

He fucking rocked.

I know that somewhere up there in dead rock-star heaven, my homies Tupac, Biggie, Sid Vicious, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Keith Moon, and Joe Strummer are looking down at me and shaking their heads in disgust.  What can I say, fellas?  I'm sorry. My beautiful wife and The Doctor made me do it! 

Man, fatherhood really has made me soft.

Quick observations...

(1) By a healthy margin, we were the oldest people at the concert (not including those who came with their kids.) In fact, the crowd was made up almost entirely of teenage girls.  Have you ever heard 20,000 screaming teenage girls?  It's like the piercing cry of the Valkyries on their way to Valhalla.   

(2) I'm no prude so I refuse to excoriate young people for adhering to the "less is more" philosophy of fashion that seems to be in vogue today.  However, at the current rate, it seems like a pretty safe bet that in 20 years, women will be going to concerts wearing only eyeliner and some dental floss. 

(3) The face value of the tickets was $145.00.  What the fuck?  Now, I'm not going to invoke my father who can't even eat a cheeseburger without commenting on what it cost him to eat one back in 1952 but it doesn't seem like that long ago when I could buy Grateful Dead tickets for $10 and a dime bag of Humboldt County's finest.

(4) Every once in awhile, I'll go to Wolfgang's Vault and drool over some of their rock memorabilia (like this $2,000 Led Zeppelin jacket from 1977.) My favorite things to check out are all their old-school vintage concert t-shirts.  Like an idiot, I threw most of mine away years ago. But recently, BossLady and I have started  this new thing.  Whenever we go to concerts now, we get a t-shirt for the Peanut that we vacuum seal so that in 20 years, she'll be able to glam out with brand-new vintage concert shirts. Cool idea, no?   

Now, in 20 years, Justin Timberlake will either be a global megastar who has redefined modern pop. 

Or he'll be the next Corey Hart. 

Either way, I have this vision of an older Peanut looking at me with teenage contempt while saying, "You went to see Justin Timberlake in concert when you were 38 years old?  You are so gay!"

 

Memos to the World-at-Large

To the overweight guy at my parents' pool with the giant man-boobs...Please kindly stop wearing those wet t-shirts.  You're confusing the hell out of the kids.

To Andrew...You're one of my best friends and I love you like a brother but if you ever use an emoticon in an e-mail to me again, we’re breaking up.  Since when did you become a 12-year-old Japanese schoolgirl?

To the older girl at the playground who keeps bullying my daughter...I'm generally a non-violent man so I would never resort to violence or physical threats.  But I swear, if you push my little daughter again, I"m going to give you an eating disorder.

To Barry Bonds...Congratulations. Now please leave. Seriously. Go away. 

To the homeless guys who sleep outside my door every night...You really crossed a line the other night when you both got completely butt naked and started "taking a shower" during that torrential downpour. That really wasn't what I needed to see outside my building coming home after a long day at work.  I'll bet this shit doesn't happen in Connecticut.

To my Korean limo driver...As a fellow Korean, I'm familiar with the fact that some of our foods can be quite pungent. That's why I generally avoid eating kimchi on days when I have client meetings.  You, however, are quite remarkable.  The awesomely horrific odor you subjected me to during our 45 minute drive to JFK Airport was the perfect admixture of pickled cabbage, Parliament cigarettes, sweat, Old Spice, and soju. Well done, sir. Well done.   

To the Child-Free "movement"...If you are not a parent, it's virtually impossible to understand the immeasurable love that you develop for your child.  Words frequently fail to convey how powerful that love can be.  Whenever I attempt to do so, it's clear that my words annoy the crap out of you.  Question: why not just go somewhere else?  Who the hell has time to actually sit down and write hate mail merely because someone is trying to talk about his love for his daughter?  Apparently you do, you pathetic fucking losers. 

To the guy who called me a "FUCKING CHINK" on the subway this morning...

In the overheated ant farm known as the NYC subway system, it's part of the social contract that exiting passengers be allowed to get out of the train before incoming passengers enter.  Apparently, you're too much of an ignorant fuck to understand this common-sense rule that has been in place since the days of Noah's ark.  No, my friend, you obviously felt some sense of entitlement.  When I didn't budge to let you on the train because I was getting out, you felt compelled to call me a "fucking chink."

Normally, I don't take that shit lightly.  I've only been in 6 fights over the course of my lifetime and they were all because someone felt compelled to slander me with racial epithets.  Just so you know?  I'm 6 for 6 in those fights.  Don't fuck with an angry Asian man! 

Anyway, the only reason I didn't throw your racist ass under the train tracks today was because YOU WERE WITH YOUR FUCKING KID! 

Man, at that point, I just felt horrible for your little daughter. I felt terrible that she has a father filled with so much hate that every little misstep in daily life turns into a potential interpersonal Gulf of Tonkin incident.  I felt disgusted knowing that she's being raised by a man who can spew racial epithets at the drop of a hat.  And I felt worse thinking that, without proper perspective and life experience, she might end up adopting your racist views as her own. 

In the end, I kept coming back to that brilliant Denis Leary quote, "Racism isn't born, folks, it's taught.  I have a two-year-old son.  You know what he hates?  Naps!  End of list."

I hope your daughter realizes what a total fucking asshole you are and grows up to reject not only you but everything you represent.  That, my acerbic little friend, would be an even greater revenge than kicking your ass up and down 7th Avenue. 

That's it for me.  YOUR turn now...

3 Years of Blogging & 318 Posts Later...

I was over at my buddy (and fellow NYC daddy blogger) Mr. Nice Guy's site today and was happy to see that he was celebrating his 500th post.  Naturally, I wondered how many posts I had written over here and was shocked to see that this one right here is #318.  I also discovered that, lo and behold, my 3rd blog anniversary just passed in July.

It's hard to believe that, for the past three years, I've been sitting down 1-2 nights a week with a glass of scotch and banging out late-night musings on my love of fatherhood, marriage, the NY Mets, being Korean, beef jerky, and the luxuriant black hair on my head that gives me my Spidey powers.

Of course, during those same three years, I've also spent a lot of time perfecting this sense of detached bemusement that seems to be hardwired into my personality. 

You know what else I've really noticed in perusing my writing of the past three years?  A lot of "fucks."  Honestly, I say the word "fuck" more often than Rudy Guiliani changes his politics.

But in all seriousness, aside from the fact that writing is a lot cheaper than therapy, this blog has turned into my own personal soapbox where I can discuss the truly important issues of our day.  Like when I was changing my daughter's diaper yesterday, I jotted down an observation that I wrote on this napkin. Here it is: SAY SOMETHING STUPID ABOUT BABY POOP!

You see, that's the real joy of writing this blog. Taking on the big guys. 

In all honesty, I truly have enjoyed writing this blog.  I don't know when I'll stop doing it.  So much of what I write here focuses on being a parent for the first time.  However, I think there will come a time when my source material will eventually dry up.  What happens when the Peanut leaves for college?  Will I follow her to school so I can still mine some good material?  I doubt it. By then, I'll be too busy working the night shift at Wal-Mart to help pay for her tuition. 

Besides, I never meant for this blog to last forever.  Originally, I just wanted a little corner of the internet where I could be a little self-introspective about my journey into fatherhood and find a community of like-minded parents.  Unlike others, I never started this blog to make money. I never started it to get a book deal.  And I certainly never started it to try and become popular.

See, for me, being popular means being liked, and there's a certain responsibility that goes along with being liked, because you are no longer in a position to let people down.  See, if people think you're an asshole, you can't disappoint them.  And that's how much I love people.  To prevent them from being disappointed in me, I act like an asshole.  Now, I know what you're thinking.  Are people disappointed if I'm not as big an asshole as they expect? 

All I can say is, so far, it has not been a problem.

I will admit, however, that this blog has unintentionally developed a certain amount of popularity that I'm rather conflicted about. I like to be the outsider, the rabble rouser, the iconoclast, but I also dig the fact that people seem to respond to what I'm writing about.  See the problem?  On the one hand, I don't care what other people think of me; but on the other hand, I want to be remembered as the guy who didn't care what other people thought of him.

You know, when this blog first started, I didn't care who was reading.  But when I started getting a little traffic, I'll admit that I would check my stat counter more often than I would my stock portfolio.  Thankfully, for both me and my retirement fund, I stopped doing that about a year or two ago.

But anyway...on this auspicious anniversary, as I think about where I want to go with this blog, I keep coming back to the sage advice offered by my crazy-ass friend BMC who, in discussing the rising popularity of personal blogging as a means to an end, proffered these words of wisdom, "git back to your roots, bitches!"

To that end, I think I'm going to take her advice.

While I'll still continue to spout the verbal diarrhea that seems to clog the plumbing of my brain on a near-daily basis, I think I also want to get back to writing for myself, my wife and my daughter.  This site originally started as a way for me to not only work out my issues of becoming a father for the first time but also to reach out to a bunch of really cool men and women who not only relished being parents but also didn't want to subsume their individuality to their new roles as parents.  I cherish the friendships I've made from this blog and, in the end, this means more to me than I ever could have imagined. 

So, going forward, whether you're a like-minded parent or a single person reading this as some sort of cautionary tale, I hope you'll stick around.  I'm not really sure where we're going from here but shit, then again...who does? 

Three years indeed.  Happy anniversary to me. 

Rocking Out & The Office: A Comedy of Terrors

I've got this theory that if you could somehow harness the destructive tendencies of toddlers, you could solve the world's energy crisis. 

I mention this because as I sit here typing, the Peanut is here in the office with me and has been a non-stop whirlwind of living chaos.  In a misguided attempt to avoid the crush of Friday afternoon NYC summer traffic, I figured I'd just bring her here for a few hours and then we'd leave early to hit the beach.  I'm such an idiot.

In the past 3 hours, she's done the following:

• Eaten two of my business cards ("Look, daddy. I'm chewing gum!")

• Spilled apple juice on my laptop

• Thrown a huge tantrum because I wouldn't let her play with the stapler

• Drawn all over her face with a magic marker 

• Covered my briefcase with FedEx shipping labels

I finally got her sedated with some Chicken McNuggets and "The Sound of Music" DVD.  Look how happy she is now:
.

.

Five minutes ago, she was Satan incarnate. I swear, these toddlers come with an On/Off switch.  Flick the switch on and they're certifiably insane.  Flick it off and they're sweet as molasses.  Someone really needs to develop a remove control for toddlers.  How great would it be if this really existed?

.

By the way, Chicken McNuggets and "The Sound of Music" are my  "In Case of Emergency, Break Glass" tantrum stoppers.  They've saved my ass a million times.  Sometimes, if I don't have either one, I'll start singing "Do, Re, Mi" and the Peanut will stop freaking out and start singing with me.

.

Speaking of the sounds of music...

One of the reasons I love Tony and Warren so much is because they share my love for classic 70's rock.  Lately, Warren and I have been ribbing Tony because, every night, he waits until his wife and baby fall asleep and then he starts rocking out to Rush's YYZ on Guitar Hero 2. 

This week, the three of us have been e-mailing some funny shit to each other.  One was the mock Onion article on the sluggish sales for Sousaphone Hero 2.  The other was the new Verizon commercial with AC/DC.

Then, last night, I stumbled across a blog post asking readers which band they would have liked to have fronted.  The rules are simple.  As my friends at KSK put it: 

"You can pick any band from any spot in time. This may not be your favorite band, just the band that would promise the awesomest life experience should you be the lucky person who fronted it. You sung. And possibly played the lead guitar. You did all the coke. And you nailed all the groupies. If your frontman died young, so did you. Hip hop bands and solo artists welcome."

Me?  Despite my love for Bruce Springsteen, the Replacements, the Cure, and Public Enemy, I think I'd have to go with Pearl Jam.  I saw them open for the Stones once and it was amazing.  Eddie Vedder drank on stage, mumbled a bunch of words, had the audience sing half the songs, and then got swarmed by a million adoring female fans.  Plus, if you can look good in flannel, you can look good in anything. 

What about you, MD readers?  What's your choice? And why? 

MetroDad on Sports

Sorry I've been missing in action, my friends. 

I've been too busy watching the entire sports world implode all around me.  It seems that every day brings a new smear on the world of professional sports.  Whenever I pick up the sports page these days, there's so much bad news that my head starts spinning like Linda Blair in the "The Exorcist."  Things are so bad that I almost want to turn to the front page of the paper. 

Now, I'm not one of those guys whose lives revolve around sports, watching sports, and talking about sports.  I realize that in the giant piñata of life on this planet, sports is like the stale Tootsie Roll that falls underneath the couch. It's mush. It's entertainment. Like watching Access Hollywood to see what crazy shit Britney has done lately.

But there's a big part of me that desperately wants to retain my childlike view of professional sports as being played by heroes on a field of dreams. As kids, we saw our favorite athletes as being the noblest of all warriors. They stayed with us through good and bad. They didn't hold out for more money and we didn't withhold our adulation. 

Maybe it was because I was looking at life through my Charlie Brown ViewMaster lenses but there seemed to be an innocent arc to the life of a professional athlete.  Young man works hard, plays fair, becomes hero, gives back to fans, marries hometown sweetheart, and rides off into the sunset. 

Nowadays, young man shoots steroids up his ass, dopes his blood, gives the finger to fans, sexually assaults women, becomes felon, and drives Porsche off to the Sunset Strip.

Of course, I'm probably being a little naive about the whole state of sports.  After all, at the end of the day, pro athletes are just young men with a bag of faults covering the whole spectrum of human frailty. You don't have to look far to see many of our other fellow citizens participating in equally abhorrent behavior.  Hell, a lot of them are in Congress. 

My point is that I think we've finally reached a breaking point where pro athletes simply have to be seen for what they really are---a bunch of rich assholes who play a game so they can get paid by even richer assholes while a bunch of even dumber assholes sit on our couches and watch them. 

As Hall of Fame basketball player Charles Barkley famously stated, "I am not a role model ...parents should be role models."

Amen, Sir Charles, amen!

Speaking of sports...

It's a given that I will do anything for the Peanut.  This little kid has me wrapped around her little finger like a freaking yo-yo.  These days, the Peanut is into three things: Cinderella, fire trucks, and horses. So whenever we have the opportunity to see any of those things, I'll do anything in my power to see her face light up like a Christmas tree.

This past weekend, I sucked up my bourgeois pride and took my daughter to the Mercedes-Benz Polo Challenge at the Bridgehampton Polo Club.  Close friends know how much the Peanut loves horses so they invited us to their private tent replete with catering and a personal bartender.

Honestly, BossLady and I both felt like Julia Roberts in "Pretty Woman."  In fact, when nobody was looking, BossLady would turn to me, pump her fists in the air, and yell, "Woo, Woo, Woo!"  Then, I'd reply back in my Eddie Murphy voice, "Shit, man! Growing up, if we wanted a jacuzzi, we had to fart in the tub!"  (call the movie!)

But the Peanut had the time of her life.  She had a front-row seat of the field and she couldn't take her eyes off the beautiful horses.  Everytime one galloped by, she'd start clapping and yelling with glee.  At halftime, she even ran out onto the field to help stomp out the divots.

Four days later and she's still talking non-stop about the horsies.  And apparently she's showing an early predilection for polo. Why do I think this? 

Because when I came home the other day, she was riding the dog and trying to hit a golf ball with an inflatable pump.

Dude, if she asks me for a pony, I'm fucked!