MetroDad

"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!"

 

The Future of Hip Hop!

The other day, I walked into the lobby of my apartment building with two little boys, both multi-racial and of indiscriminate ethnicity, maybe 10 or 11, one squat and compressed, the other tall and stringy with the makings of a very impressive Jew-fro. They looked like Mini-Me’s of two of The Strokes. 

One of the kids lives here and the other was his friend. They both were leafing through the latest issue of XXL Magazine, which contains their annual feature on the 10 most anticipated hip hop albums of the coming year. In the minute it took for the elevator to arrive and get to the 3rd floor, where they disembarked, I was treated to a conversation that warmed the cockles of my aging hip hopper’s heart. As best as I can remember, it went like this (imagine squeaky pube-less high-pitched breathless voices):

“The Roots are number ten? They should be number one!”
“Who’s that...?”
“That’s Ghostface! He’s great!”
“Oh, I couldn’t see the whole – I thought it said Scarface. He’s great too.”
“Why is Mobb Deep in here? They shouldn’t even be in the Top 100!”
“They used to be good.”
“Yeah, they USED to be good – when they first came out!”

That was as far as it went. Incidentally, these kids were probably pooping in diapers when Mobb Deep “first came out.” And they WERE really good back then. And both Ghostface and Scarface ARE great. And the Roots probably SHOULD be number one.

And when I was their age? I think I was still listening to the Beatles, Barry Manilow, and the soundtrack to "Annie."

'Nuff respect to next-gen precociously hip Manhattan kids. 

Dadcentric

I'm pleased to announce that a bunch of the boys and I have gotten together and launched a new website to write about fatherhood.  It's called DadCentric. 

Aside from myself, I'm joined by an illustrious group of fathers.  Many of them are probably familiar to you.  We've got Chris of Rude Cactus, Tony of Cheeky's Hideaway, Jason of Pet Cobra, Chag of Cynical Dad, Peter of Chocolate Makes it Better, Warren of Mr. Big Dubya, and WhiffleBoy. 

Although there are a lot of Mommy and Parenting sites, there's not a whole lot out there for the other half of the parenting equation. So several of us got together to create a site for dads. What you'll find there are tips, stories, advice, reviews, links, and blather...all related to the noble art and science of fathering (and all written with a sense of humor.)  Of course, none of us have any professional experience that qualifies us as experts on fathering.  It's more like a forum or roundtable for discussion.  But it's pretty cool and I think you'll enjoy it.  Go over and check us out. 

Most of the other dads are much more prolific than I am.  I'll mostly be posting a lot of my sporadic brain farts and random musings on fatherhood over there.  In fact, if you want to hear some of my invaluable contributions to the site so far, you're more than welcome to go over and read...

My profound thoughts on the topic of circumcision

How I learned to stop worrying and love "the bomb"

The lengths men will go to protect their daughters

So stop by for a visit, say hello to the boys and come back to tell me what you think!   

We interrupt this workday (and ignore my previous post)

It's another fucking Monday and I'm exhausted from the weekend. The Peanut woke me up last night at 4:00 am. And due to the short week, I've got a mountain of work to plow through and not much time to do it. As always, stress and exhaustion are a debilitating combination. But right now? I'm ready to rock!

About 15 minutes ago, my co-worker Michelle comes running into my office screaming, "Bono's outside! Bono's outside!" We run over to the window, look down and right below our eyes...U2 IS ON TOP OF A FLATBED TRUCK GOING DOWN SEVENTH AVENUE AND GIVING A FREE CONCERT!!!

We all run downstairs as fast as possible so we can catch up to the truck. It was amazing! U2 was on a parade float, slowly moving down the street with a full police escort. They were giving a free concert as hundreds of people were screaming on the sidewalks and walking down the street with them. People were hysterical! I felt like a little schoolgirl watching the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show.

It's days like today that allow me to remember just how much I love living in New York City. I mean, this shit just doesn't happen in Topeka, does it? For a brief shining moment, New York was the greatest small town in the history of the world. Total strangers were laughing with one another and singing in unison with Bono. 50 year-old women in high heels and business suits ran down the street. College kids, who weren't even born when U2 first appeared, sang along and knew every word. I even saw some wanna-be gangstas lose their cool and run alongside the truck. White, Black, Yellow, Brown or Purple...today, we were all NY'ers who realized that we were enjoying a special treat and we were unified by experiencing it collectively.

So as for my previous post about possibly moving out of the city to get some fresh air? Forget about it! Unpack the bags. Call off the movers! Because you can get fresh air anywhere! But having U2 perform outside your window at work?

Only in New York, kids! Only in New York!

"Can't you hear me knocking?"

Ok...so Mick Jagger probably wasn't talking about the delayed birth of his daughter when he wrote those lyrics. But they seem so damn apropos.

If I haven't mentioned it already, BossLady's due date is this Sunday. We just came back from the doc's office this morning. It seems that our daughter is pretty comfortable and wants to hang out a little longer. I can't really blame her as punctuality was never my strong suit either. Having arrived into this world over two months early, I seem to have spent the past 35 years running late.

Anyway, we've started making contingency plans and if labor doesn't occur naturally, we're planning to induce in 12 days. This actually wouldn't be the worst scenario since it would allow the lovely BossLady to accrue a little more time on her maternity leave. And since her turbo-charged nesting instincts are revving HIGH, the extra time will probably allow her to refinish the floors, install a new bathroom, build a birdhouse and come up with a cure for cancer.

Being the well-informed parents of the new millenium (thank you for the internet, Al Gore), we've done some research on all the various ways to help induce labor. Personally, my favorite ones are the old wive's tales...eating buffalo wings, castor oil, driving on bumpy roads, or wolfing down bowls of macaroni & cheese made with A1 sauce.

So readers...send me and BossLady your favorite methods of inducing labor. If your selection works, we'll name the baby after you!!!

(ok...BossLady just rejected that idea. I guess we won't name the baby after you. But next time I discover yet another new atomic element or previously undiscovered planet, I promise to name it after you. Would that be ok?)