MetroDad

Zone Defenses & The Universe Explained

Any time the Peanut sees a family with a lot of kids, she thinks it's absolutely hilarious.

About a year ago, she caught a few minutes of John & Kate Plus 8 and thought it was the most outrageous thing she'd ever witnessed. She was immediately hooked on the show and demanded that we watch it every night before bed. For weeks, I was inundated with questions.

How do they remember everyone's name?

What happens if they all have to poop at the same time?

Do you think they all fit in the bathtub together?

Other times, she'd sit in front of the TV with her jaw dropped, her eyes wide open and say, "Holy cow, can you believe they have all those kids? That's CRAZY!"

Whenever she says that, I always tell her, "I know. I only have YOU and I've got my hands full. CRAZY!"

That always makes her howl with laughter.

But in all honesty, I'm always in awe of parents who have more than two kids. I mean, it's one thing to play one-on-one when you have two kids but when the parents are outnumbered by their kids, can you really switch to a zone defense?

Two of my best friends recently had their third child. Being fully obsessed with babies, the Peanut loves talking about the new baby as much as she can. Last week, she had a conversation with my brother (MetroBro) that caused all of us to simultaneously laugh and hold our breaths.

As relayed by MetroBro, the conversation went like this:

"And Eliot and Sadie have a baby brother Leo and he's SO TINY! All of him is as big as my head!"
"That's very small."
"He's SO TINY! It's 'cause he was just born."
"Can you believe you were ever that small, Peanut?"
"Uh-huh!"
"And so was I! And so were your Mommy and Daddy!"
"That's 'cause EVERYONE is tiny when they're just born."
"That's right."
"EVERYONE."
(thoughtful pause)
"Uncle Nels? How were the first people made? If they didn't have a Mommy and Daddy?"
"Uh... Did you ask Mommy or Daddy this question?"
"No! I'm asking you!"
"Okay, well, hmm, do you know what evolution is?"
"No."
"You know how a caterpillar turns into a butterfly?"
"Yes."
"Well, that's a kind of evolution, when an animal changes into another animal."
"No, but I mean the first PEOPLE."
"Yes. The first people came when human beings changed from other animals into people."
(silence)
"Does that make sense?"
"Uh-huh."
(silence)
"And, uh, some people also believe that God made the first people. Through, you know, magic."
(silence)
"Are you still thinking about this?"
"Uh-huh."
"It's pretty interesting, isn't it?"
"Uh-huh..."
(MetroBro changes subject before she can think about it any more)

While I struggle with my faith, MetroBro is an avowed atheist. That's why the "magic" comment cracks me up. Also the fact that later in the conversation, he compared God to Santa Claus.

When BossLady heard that part, she sternly warned MetroBro, "Hey, dude. It's one thing to teach her to question the existence of God but DO NOT FUCK WITH SANTA CLAUS!"

The Peanut is 5 years old. I'm not sure I'm ready to have conversations with her about God, evolution, or the birds and the bees.

Speaking of the birds and the bees, check out this hilarious video of Julia Sweeney having "the talk" with her 8-year-old daughter.

Have any of you guys had "the talk" with your kids? How old were they? Did it go ok or was it a comedy of errors? I want stories, people!

CHAOS THEORY: MAY 2010

Has it really been two months since I've written anything here? Hard to believe. The truth of the matter is that life, as always, has been hectic these days. I won't bore you with all the details. The important thing is that I've missed writing here and I'm going to try and make more of an effort. Of course, we've all heard that before.

Anyway, in lieu of a real post, here are some random cocktail napkin thoughts...

MORNING BREATH DEATH & MY NEW FAVORITE QUOTE

Like all kids, when the Peanut was a baby, her skin had the aroma of rose petals and her breath smelled like cotton candy. Those days are long over. A few weeks ago, the Peanut came into my room to wake me up. Before she could even say anything, I was overwhelmed by her morning breath. Words could not describe how bad it was.

Luckily, I was flipping through Kingsley Amis' "Lucky Jim" last night when I found quite possibly the best description of morning breath ever.

"His mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum."

Does anyone else find that as brilliant as I do? No? Ok, carry on then.

WELCOME TO MY (FASHION) KINGDOM

When my wife Kelly Cutrone and I are finally in charge, wearing Crocs and socks will be punishable by death. As will jorts, Birkenstocks, and jumpers. You've all been warned.

QUICK PARENTING POLL

Sadly, the following news stories are all completely true. Help me settle a bet with a friend over which one you think is the most egregious and deserves the "worst parenting" award:

1. Tattooing a one-year-old girl.
2. Locking your children, ages 3 and 6, into the trunk of your car while running errands.
   
3. Auctioning off your 16-year-old daughter's virginity.
   

I voted for #3 as the worst parenting story. However, my buddy chose #2 because that parent potentially put his kids' lives at risk. What say you?

THE "F" WORD

As long-time readers know, I tend to think of myself as the Poet Laureate of Cursing or the William Strunk of Swearing. As I've said many times, I'm an avowed believer that swearing properly is truly an art form that is equal parts discretion and timing. I have little patience for people who use curse words indiscriminately.

In my humble opinion, cursing can have a place in civilized conversation but it should be used sparingly...like saffron in a motherfucking paella. You feel me? 

I was thinking about swearing recently when I came across an excerpt from Sarah Silverman's new book:

Like most children, I learned to swear from a parent. But most children learn to swear by mimicking moments when a parent loses self-control. That is typically followed by the parent stressing that such words are bad and shouldn't be repeated outside the home. When I was three, I learned to swear from my father, but he taught me with every intention to do so. It was like he was teaching a "cursing as a second language" course for one.

"Bitch! Bastard! Damn! Shit!" I proclaimed with joy, if not necessarily wit, in the middle of Boys' Market in Manchester, New Hampshire. Random shoppers stopped in the aisle, and watched me with delight—or at least curiosity—as I regurgitated this mantra. Dad stood by with genuine pride, beaming through the mock surprise on his face.

When I was four I sat coloring a piece of paper during a dinner party at my Nana and Papa's house in Concord. It was a white ranch house perched on a hill with long concrete steps leading up to the front door. Nana, a fashionable woman in her late fifties, who rocked hot pink lipstick under a swirly mane of salt-and-pepper cotton candy, came out of the kitchen carrying a tray of her famous brownies.

"Sarah, Nana made brownies for you!" she beamed in the third person.

I looked up from my drawing, glanced over to my father, who gave me the nod, then turned to Nana.

"Shove 'em up your ass," I said.

The tide of the guests' laughter quickly swept away any anger Nana had toward Dad. She had to smile. Remembering this very early time makes me nostalgic for the days when naked obscenity was enough for a laugh, and didn't need any kind of crafted punch line to accompany it. It was good to be four.

Guess where I'm going with all this?

That's right. The Peanut got in trouble at school for cursing.

Now, before you all wag your fingers at me, let me just say that I do NOT curse in front of my daughter. I may let something slip out every once in awhile but I make a very conscious effort to avoid using any profanity while in her presence. BossLady and I are both quite sure she learned the curse words from one of her little friends.

Anyway, according to her teacher, the Peanut was quietly sitting with a group of friends at a table when she made a mistake on a drawing and spilled some ink. At that point, my little girl apparently yelled out, "AWWWW, FUCK!!!" 

I have to confess. I was somewhat impressed with not only the Peanut's sense of comedic timing but also by the fact that she was able to use it in context.

As the old saying goes...the apple don't fall far from the fucking tree, yo!

GLEEKS!

Nielsen reported recently that children ages 2 to 5 spend nearly 25 hours a week watching television, the highest figure on record.

Regular readers know that, despite my pathological love of TV, I have never let the Peanut watch much television. While her peers were all spending hours watching Dora or some other inane cartoon, the Peanut was always limited to about 30 minutes of television per day. Most days, I never let her watch any television at all.

As she's gotten older, I've slowly loosened up the reins a little.

Ok, maybe more than just a little.

For example, the Peanut has always loved cooking (to the extent that she's now enrolled in an after-school cooking class.) So naturally, in order to "foster" her passion, I apparently no longer have a problem with her sitting in front of the television and watching as many Food Network television shows as she wants.

In fact, last week, we were walking in Tribeca and she yelled out to me, "Look, there's Bobby Flay!" Sure enough, it really was Bobby Flay. It's funny. I'm not sure how many 5-year-old kids would recognize him from television. On the flip side, she thinks every large woman with white hair is Paula Deen.

For awhile, the Peanut was interested in American Idol. However, after awhile, she lost interest pretty quickly.

Why?

Because together we discovered the show "Glee" and are now both completely obsessed with it.

Seriously, I can't even begin to explain how much fun it is to have a show that both you and your kidcan geek out over together. It's BEYOND fun. The fact that the show is "Glee" makes it even better.

There are very few things that make me happier than walking the Peanut to school while holding hands and belting out duets of Kanye West's "Golddigger," the Rolling Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want," and Young MC's "Bust a Move." It makes you remember that half the joy of parenting is remembering your childhood through your own child's eyes.

Video to follow.

POP GOES THE CULTURE: MORE THOUGHTS ON TELEVISION

Best TV drama: Friday Night Lights

Best TV sitcom: Community

Scariest thing heard on television: "I home school the girls four days a week and all the curriculum is based on the movie 'The Secret." --- The Mom on Pretty Wild, E’s newest fucked up reality show.

Shows you'd think I'd wouldn't like that I do: It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia, Millionaire Matchmaker.

WORD IS THE NERD

Lest you think I'm devoting all my spare time to television, I'm still reading as voraciously as ever. In the past few weeks, I've just finished reading the following three books.

"The Ask: A Novel" by Sam Lipsyte

"This Is Where I Leave You" by Jonathan Tropper

"Disgraced" by J.M. Coetzee

Technically, they are all dysfunctional family tales covering the subjects of marriage, work, parenting, and abject failure. However, the styles of writing are so completely different from one another that I found reading them back-to-back-to-back fascinating. Give them a read. All are highly recommended.

THE HAIR APPARENT

When it comes to gender roles in parenting, it's become clear that most people are still not used to seeing fathers doing certain activities with their children. I can tell that this is true by the looks that are elicited whenever I am doing what are traditionally "motherly" things with my daughter: braiding her hair, shopping for dresses, or enrolling in pottery classes with her.

Why are people surprised? Is it simply lower expectations? Is it the sense that men are fundamentally unsuited to these small acts of feminine domesticity?

Quite honestly, I don't know and I don't really care.

The activity that seems to elicit the most reaction is when people see me brushing my daughter's hair. Little do they know that this is not an activity that I tend to do by my own free choice. Quite the contrary.  Apparently, the Peanut has genetically inherited my obsession with hair. As regular readers know, I spend more money on haircuts and hair products than the gross national product of Greece.

The Peanut loves her hair. When she's not asking me to brush it, she's asking me to braid it or put it in a ponytail. And if she had her way, our entire apartment would be filled with the world's largest collection of barettes, hair clips, and hair bands.

I mention this because a few weeks ago, I was giving her a bath and noticed that her hair was getting absurdly long. When wet, it reached well below the small of her back. I asked her whether she wanted me to take her to my stylist for a little trim. She adamantly refused. So then I asked her whether I could just trim a little of her hair myself. Out of what I can only assume was her undying love and trust in me, she reluctantly agreed.

Well, one thing led to another and needless to say, I'm in a lot of trouble right now.

Why?

Because I might have accidentally gotten a little carried away with the scissors. (Ok, I definitely got a little carried away. In fact, I ended up probably cutting about almost 9" of her hair. Not on purpose, I swear. I just couldn't get her bangs straight!)

Anyway, ladies and gentlemen, please allow me to introduce Asian Ramona Cleary.

The Peanut was so mad at me, she didn't speak to me for two days. Man, I freaking love this kid.

Sorry, sweetie!

Text Messaging for Dummies: Vol. 4

As I've mentioned before, I can't stand text messaging. Typing in those short bursts always makes me feel like a Japanese school girl. I'm old school. You want to communicate with me? Just pick up the phone and call.

Unfortunately, most of my friends know how much I hate texting so they go out of their way to bombard me with random text messages.

Thankfully, most of my friends are a little off-beat and tend to share my sense of humor. I also have to admit that some of their texts are pretty entertaining. That's why I like saving them until my phone's memory can't hold them any longer.

The following are all about to get purged so I thought I'd write them down here for posterity:

.

"Does the 3-second rule still apply when you've dropped a baby?"

"Time will eventually show that Vanilli was the more talented of the two."

"I'll bet the hardest part of being a sushi chef is cutting the heads off mermaids."

"Do you think Ben Affleck makes Jennifer Garner put on a hat and pretend she's Matt Damon?"

"Carrie Fisher looks like the love child of Sharon Osborne and Dana Carvey."

"Your daughter couldn't find her classmates at Korean school. She said 'THEY ALL LOOK THE SAME!'"

"Hey, you're a foodie. What kind of tacos go well with self-loathing?"

"I have a date tonight and instead of taking Cialis, I think I took an Ambien by mistake. Uh oh."

"I don't mind listening to friends cry but I hate when their tears get in my french fries."

"There's a fine line between dressing like Cinderella and Jon Benet Ramsey."

"Do they make condoms for livers?"

"Chinese food is always better with my eyes closed."

"Wait 5 minutes. I'm about to send you pictures of my vasectomy!"

"Just got a prostate exam from my uncle. Don't think Thanksgiving is ever going to be the same again."

"Why are the Asian children reading books while standing in line at Whole Foods? And all the white urchins are running around with ADD?"

"Does Carl Sr know that his son gives people diarrhea?"

"New million dollar idea: Red Bull smoothies with nicotine in them!"

"If you and Italian Pocahontas had kids, they'd either be amazingly gorgeous or freakishly ugly."

"Don't worry, dude. We'll always be friends. You know way too much."

"Just out of curiosity, how much do you think tits weigh?"

"My daughter just tried to put me in a time-out."

"Do you think it's fair that black people get the entire month of February, while fat people only get a Tuesday?"

"Didn't know you hated cats as much as I do. We should exchange recipes."

"Here's her number. No pressure. Just know that if you screw this up, I will fucking kill you!!!"

"If I were Korean, my rap name would be 2-Pak."

"Wife says old people sleep in separate beds because of the snoring. I say it's because they don't want to wake up next to a dead body. What do you think?"

"Not going to her wedding. Told her I'd go to her next one. She said ok."

"Please, fool! I was doing that back in the 80's while you were teasing your hair and practicing your backhand."

"Hey, I need to speak to you but my phone is dying. Call me on this number when you get a chance. 401-285-0701. It's important!"

P.S. Feel free to send that last text message to all your friends. It's funny to see how they react.

What's the most random text message that YOU ever received?  An inquiring mind wants to know.

Confessions of a Reality TV addict

Normally I never watch Hollywood-type awards shows because the only thing I hate more than celebrities is the mind-numbing public adoration of them.

If you spend any time with actors or actresses, the first thing you notice is how little they have to say. In fact, any real substance is inversely related to how much they like to talk. Most of them tend to be intellectually bereft vessels of abject need with over-sized egos as fragile as Tiger Woods' marriage.

Their constant need for approval and attention is usually only matched by their sense of self-righteousness and entitlement. I have a pet theory that the only people with similar psychological make-ups are serial killers, pro athletes, U.S. Senators and brain surgeons.

Fuck, I forgot where I was going with all this.

Oh yeah...awards shows.

Last week, I was watching the Academy Awards on television with a few friends. As we were talking, we realized that none of us had watched any of the movies that were nominated for awards. In fact, a few of hadn't even heard of the nominated movies.

This was surprising for many reasons. Here we were, a bunch of Ivy-educated, successful, cosmopolitan, cultured and sophisticated New Yorkers---yet we could barely remember the last time we'd even been to the movies.

We're all voracious readers. We attend concerts, plays, lectures, art exhibits, and other cultural events. Yet when it came to film, how was it possible that we were so far removed from the cultural zeitgeist?

As the night went on, we began to analyze the depths of our situation and realized that our primary source of entertainment these days came solely from one singular source.

Reality television.

That's right. Give us Jersey Shore, American Idol, Real Housewives, The Bachelor, America's Next Top Model, Top Chef, Biggest Loser, Extreme Home Makeover, Intervention, America's Best Dance Crew, Hell's Kitchen, The Millionaire Matchmaker, Celebrity Apprentice---the list literally goes on and on. 

Now, I'm sure there's a Marshall McLuhan scholar out there who can explain how reality television merely reflects who we are as a society. Surely, our love of these shows connotes something about our values, doesn't it? Are they simply guilty pleasures or is there a deeper subtext to our devotion to them?

Quite honestly, I don't know and I don't care.

The only meta question I ever ask myself about reality television is when I'm watching "Cops" and I think, "Why the hell is that crazy bitch running down the street in her underwear?"

Don't get me wrong. I'm not judgmental. The creator of "Cops" is actually a close family friend and while I disagree with his view that the show is a revolutionary mise-en-scene study of urban decay in modern America, I am extremely envious of the fact that his toughest daily decision is which private jet to fly to his private winery. 

I just can't believe how pervasive reality television has become. More importantly, I can't believe how much I enjoy it.

My favorite reality shows are the voyeuristic "fly on a wall" shows like "Jersey Shore" or "Housewives." Watching people voluntarily auction off their privacy and openly humiliate themselves for two minutes of fame is the television equivalent of sitting down on your couch to watch a impending train wreck. I can't get enough of it.

Personally, I could never subject myself to this level of invasion of privacy. Last year, a television production company approached me about turning MetroDad into a reality television show...starring myself. 

First, I told them I couldn't imagine anything more boring in the entire universe. Second, I explained that when I'm by myself, I do things that I would never do if I knew I was being videotaped. I'm not just talking about picking my nose or farting on my daughter's head. Hell, I clip my fingernails with my mouth. I guzzle hot sauce right out of the bottle. And while I'm ashamed to admit it, most of my free time is spent lying on the couch naked reading the New Yorker while eating beef jerky and sipping scotch. Not exactly titillating entertainment.

Aside from the voyeuristic reality shows (which I like to think that I enjoy purely from a socio-anthropological basis,) my other favorite reality TV shows are of the competition-based genre.

Although I'm not the hugest fan of the show, my daughter absolutely LOVES watching "American Idol." It's one of our favorite shows to watch together. As an ardent fan of democracy, I enjoy the populist approach to selection that the show offers. However, I've always been amazed at the show's enormous popularity. Every week, tens of millions of Americans tune in to watch and cast their votes. It's truly revolutionized television.

My only theory on the show's success is based on the fact that everyone knows tits sell. And who on television has bigger tits than Simon Cowell?

People seem to still love "Survivor." Personally I have a very soft spot in my heart for "Survivor." My favorite season was the one where they divided teams based on race. The fact that Korean-American superhero Yul Kwon won the entire competition had an enormous impact on my life. For a brief period, he was the most famous Asian-American person on the planet. For an even briefer period of time, people on the subway stopped saying to me, "You know who you look like? Margaret Cho!"

In all seriousness, I don't know where reality television can go next. I'd love to see networks take things to the next level and start double-layering the shows and cross-pollinating concepts.

Like how about having the "Housewives of New York" take on the cast of "Jersey Shore" in a "Survivor"-type battle of the fittest on a remote island somewhere in the South Pacific? Wouldn't you pay big money to see Kelly Bensimon beat the crap out of Snookie?

Or maybe we need to re-invent the genre so that we're all stars in our own reality show. I have several ideas for shows in this genre. However, the one I'm pitching next season is called "Are You Really Going to Eat All That?" and it involves simply mounting video cameras atop the carving station at The Old Country Buffet. 

Anyway, I could probably go on and on for hours about my love of reality television. My theory on why reality television appeals to the highly intelligent alone could take up another 5 pages. Unfortunately, I've got to stop writing right now.

Why?

Because Bravo is running a "Millionaire Matchmaker" marathon, bitches!

By the way, please tell me I'm not alone in my love of reality television. What's your favorite reality show? And why do you enjoy it so much? C'mon. Spill it. An inquiring mind wants to know.

Kicking the Tires: Adventures in Alternative Medicine

Anyone in their 40's who says that age is just a number is either (1) spending a small fortune on cosmetic surgery, or (2) dating a twenty-year-old.

I am currently forty-one and for the most part, I feel pretty good. However, I've got to admit that maintaining my health and physical appearance has NEVER been harder. If my body were a car, I'd say that it still runs decently but it sure as hell spends a lot of time in the shop these days.

I was recently telling a woman how my body has been banged up with all these little nicks and dents. I had a non-cancerous cyst on my forehead that needed to be removed. My sinuses have been a mess all winter. I sprained an ankle that has limited my mileage on the treadmill. I haven't been sleeping well. My appendix was removed several months ago. And last week, I was in the OR to have an abscess surgically excised. Also, for some reason, my body seems to have developed an insatiable craving for burgers and soup dumplings. 

The woman turned to me and said, "Have you ever thought about alternative medicine or New Age treatments?"

Now, when it comes to my health, call me crazy but I'm generally a firm advocate of good old-fashioned, traditional, mainstream, science-based, corporate-funded, evil Western medicine.

Got a headache? Take two Advil.

Stomach feeling a little queasy? Throw down some Pepto.

Anything more serious and I'm in a taxi headed uptown to my Park Avenue diagnostician, a medical genius who has more degrees than a rectal thermometer. If I'm lucky, he'll dismiss me with a prescription for some Vicodin. But if it's anything that could be major, he's known me long enough to know that I'm going to need a team of guys in white lab coats with fancy degrees and even fancier beach houses. When it comes to my health, I'm going with the pros. In times of a serious health crisis, there is no need to be messing around with alternative medicine.

I know I'm not the only one who feels like that.

You ever see what happens when a medical epidemic hits India or Tibet? I don't know about you but it sure does seem like a lot of people are shoving grandma out of the way to get to one of those Red Cross tents.

Whether it's a medical emergency or not, I just don't see how having a patchouli-scented shaman instruct me to drink shark cartilage tea, snort palmetto, and chew deer penis beef jerky is going to have any impact on my overall health. Call me a product of my upbringing. 

I don't know.

Maybe part of the reason that I'm not a proponent of alternative medicine is because I barely even understand the jargon.

To me, Ginkgo Biloba is the name of that city in Spain with the new art museum. Aromatherapy is when you fart in a bathtub. And a homeopathic is a male nurse who touches you in funny places.

Anyway...when I asked the woman what types of alternative medicine she would recommend for me, she immediately replied "Acupuncture and Colonics."

Seriously?

I think it was Dennis Miller who once said that acupuncture basically works on the principle of distraction. You're not going to feel the arthritis in your knee when someone is ramming a giant needle in the nape of your neck. It's the same reason your nose never itches when your ankle is caught in a steel bear trap.

As for colonics, the thought of having high-pressure water irrigated into my coin slot sounds about as appealing as running nude sprints with a catheter in my johnson.

But as wary and cynical as I am, I do always pride myself on having an open mind. Basically, I'll give anything a try once. I'm generally a big believer in the philosophy that life is too short to be afraid of trying new things.

So with that thinking in mind, I admit to all of you that I have started experimenting with alternative medicines. (I don't mean actually taking them myself, I mean pretending I've taken them with great success and then recommending them to my friends so they'll take them...and I can see whether they really do work.)

Just kidding.

Actually, I can't find any friends gullible enough to believe me. Apparently I run with a pretty cynical crowd. Surprise!

So, next week, in the name of science, I am scheduled for a round of colonics, an acupuncture session, and a juice-cleansing herbal consultation. I'll keep you posted on all the details. Wish me luck.

While there's a part of me that hopes it works, there's also a bigger part of me that hopes it doesn't. Why? Because in the back of my mind, I'm fairly certain that colonics are a gateway drug to yoga. And as Vishnu is my witness, there is nothing more annoying than a person who does yoga. I'll get into that in another post.

Namaste, bitches!

Diary of a Single Dad

I'll never forget when my friend Sarah sat me down many years ago to lecture me about my relationships with the opposite sex.

"Do you know how many girlfriends you'd have if you shut your mouth? You're smart, sexy, funny, caring and interesting. You read more than anyone I know and you've traveled all over the world. However, your constant need to entertain yourself is your Achilles' heel. You've got to learn to shut up. Also, it would help if you didn't have such an obvious indifference to whether people liked you or not. Idiot!"

At first, I was shocked by her honesty but then I slowly realized that her points were completely valid. I did need to work on how I related to other people.

That lasted about two days.

Look, I know I can sometimes come off as a sarcastic prick who tends to use humor as a defense mechanism and frequently finds himself lapsing under the Mendoza line into the bush leagues of unintentional rudeness. At the same time, I think I may have some form of Tourette's that has removed the filters between my brain and my mouth. 

But it's not that I don't like people. It's just that certain events have made me poignantly aware of how short life is and that I shouldn't waste time with shallow idiots who make the Jonas brothers sound like Truman's counsel of Wise Men.

Is it so wrong that I'd rather be alone than spend time with humorless people lacking in intellect, emotion, empathy or character? 

I was thinking about this recently when it suddenly struck me that empirically I am a 41-year-old single father with a 5-year-old daughter.

Holy crap!

I'm an old dude with a kid and a weird sense of humor.

Ok, maybe I'm not old but I'm definitely ringing the buzzer on middle age.

Part of the problem is that in my mind I'm a much younger man. Unfortunately, I'm not. This, in and of itself, wouldn't be a big deal if not for the fact that I would like to get married again and possibly have more kids.

And since there's no way that I'm going to date outside my own age range, I'm thinking that I might have to start displaying a little more maturity than I did in my younger years.

Recent conversations with women are convincing me that this may be much harder than I realized and there remains a fairly decent chance that I will die alone.

Conversation No. 1

Woman: "Do you like to read books?

Me: "Immensely. Why?  Are you reading anything interesting these days?"

Woman: "Yes! I just finished Twilight. I loved it!"

Me: "Me too! Didn't you like totally cry when Dumbledore died at the end?"

Postmortem analysis: "As a general rule, I don't date women who read children's books."

Conversation No. 2

Me: "Wow. You sure like flossing your teeth."

Woman: "Yes, I do it after every meal. Don't you floss your teeth?"

Me: "Religiously."

Woman: "Every single day?"

Me: "Nah. Just Christmas and Passover."

Postmortem analysis: "At the time, I just thought it was funny. However, friends tell me I was being glib and dismissive. Does it really matter? Could I ever be with a woman who was so obsessed with flossing that she did it publicly after every single meal?  I think not."

Conversation No. 3

Me: "Actually, I always thought WWJD meant 'what would Jesus drive?'"

Woman: "Cute. Well, what kind of car do you think Jesus would drive?"

Me: "I don't think Jesus drives. He just rides in the back of a giant Escalade."

Woman: "Why an Escalade?"

Me: "Because everyone says Jesus is their homeboy and all the homeboys I know drive Escalades." 

Woman: "Don't you think Jesus would be more environmentally conscious?"

Me: "When you roll with a large entourage, higher emission standards are generally subordinate to the need for third-row seating."

Woman: "Jesus rolls with an entourage?"

Me: "Yeah, those 12 guys following him who keep asking him to turn water into wine."

Woman: "You're not a religious or spiritual man, are you?"

Postmortem analysis: "I know. It's hard to believe I'm 41, isn't it?"

It's interesting being single at the age of 41.

When I was younger, I dated vastly different kinds of women because I wanted to expose myself to a diaspora of individual personalities. Now that I'm older, I tend to find myself far more selective. Or maybe the proper word is discerning.

Nick Hornby once said that it was no good pretending any relationship has a future if your record collections disagree violently or if your favorite films wouldn't even speak to each other if they met at a party.

A small part of me tends to agree with this sentiment. Especially at my age, the idea of being in a relationship with someone who shares my interests and similar perspective on life is warmly comforting. I tend to be very passionate about the things I love so there's a large part of me that wants to be with a woman whom when I read a great book, hear an amazing song, watch a deeply moving film or discover a new restaurant, I can run up to her excitedly and yell, "Look what I found! This is US!"

On the other hand, doesn't every couple start off by talking about all the things they have in common? And if the relationship doesn't last, don't you just end up thinking about all the ways you were so different? More importantly, isn't life much more interesting being with someone who not only has different interests but also brings a different perspective to life?

Does anyone have the answers to these questions?

When it comes to the subject of compatibility, I confess to being as confused as I have ever been.  We get together with people because they're the same or because they're different, and in the end we break up with them for exactly the same reasons.

Now granted, there are many other aspects besides compatibility that are important to any healthy relationship. However, when you're single and thinking about whom you'd like to date, compatibility tends to take on a heavier weight. 

Honestly, I don't know what the future brings for me and I'll confess that there are times when this uncertainty makes me a tad nervous. I've always been fairly good at meeting women. At the same time, I've always been fairly good at being alone.

Maybe a little too good. 

While I am an avowed romantic who firmly believes that no man is an island, I also find myself thinking more and more at this age that perhaps the ideal goal of a relationship between two people isn't a merging of two individuals. On the contrary, maybe the healthiest long-term relationships accept that, even between the closest people, infinite distances exist and the key to happiness is to not only wholly love someone but also to be comfortable with the great expanse that inherently lies between you.

Then again, as another female friend tells me, maybe I just think too damn much.  

What say you, my friends?

The Death of Cool

I have never been cool.

Trust me when I say it was never for a lack of trying.

At various stages in my life, I worked so hard on feigning coolness that I'm surprised I didn't have an aneurysm. How many hours were spent trying on a variety of guises to find one that fit, I'll never know. From preppy jock to disaffected loner, I probably tried on more "costumes" than Mariah Carey in concert on Halloween night at The Flamingo.

I'm not going to be too harsh on myself. I've come to realize that much of this past posturing was due to the vagaries of youth, insecurity and a desperate need for acceptance. 

Sounds so fucking emo, doesn't it?

These days, I simply don't care enough to give a shit about my relative coolness. I've become a firm believer that the pretense of cool is a facade best left to others. Acceptance of this fact has been very liberating. 

I was thinking about this on Saturday night while with some friends at one of NYC's hippest nightspots. As I casually observed the 20-something faux hipster in skinny jeans with a pierced eyelid and dust bunny on his chin, and the slinky anorexic Russian model dancing on the table in her pajamas, I suddenly realized that I was the coolest guy in the room.

Then I caught the eye of a Puerto Rican busboy staring at me with a look of disdain, obviously wondering what kind of douchebag loser pays $22 for a watered-down cocktail. 

Like they say, perspective is a bitch.

As I've gotten older, I've come to believe that the only truly cool people left are those who go out of their way to help others, those who are always respectful of differing opinions, and those who never take themselves too seriously. At the end of the day, it's always best to be honest and true to yourself.

Unless, of course, you're an asshole.

In all seriousness, one thing I've learned in my short stint as a father, it's that parenting and coolness should be diametrically opposed. Cool is just simply not a legitimate child-rearing paradigm. Just as I would never want to be considered the Peanut's best friend, I would also never want to be known as "the cool dad."

Kids need love and support and a million other things that have nothing to do with being cool. Like most parents, I'm just trying to raise my daughter to be a smart, polite, sensitive, caring person with her own identity. 

At the same time, I realize that being a kid these days is tough. As parents, we're all guilty of taking parenting so seriously that we've removed the elements of fun that should be an important part of every kid's childhood. We worry so much about food, vaccines, schools, sleep, homework, after-school activities---is it any wonder that kids are so stressed out these days? Let's maybe cut them a little slack.

Let's also not forget that being silly, stupid and uncool with one's kid is possibly the most fun ever.

The Peanut and I spend a lot of time together simply being goofy. We hold hands and skip down the street while singing absurdly stupid songs that we've made up. We go to street fairs, eat candy apples and get our faces painted as lions. If we're walking outside and hear some music, we'll have a silly dance contest. And sometimes, we'll put on these absurd costumes just to go to the grocery store for a carton of milk.

My point is that whether you're young or old, single or married, childless or not---there's one important thing that you should always try to remember.

Cool is for suckers.

Listography: A Life in Lists

I am an inherently lazy writer.

Given the choice between curling up with a good book or sitting down at my computer, I will almost always choose the former over the latter. 

I'm also not very good at managing my free time. I've studied the habits of brilliantly successful people to see if there were some techniques that I might find helpful. Did you know that Buckminster Fuller averaged just two hours of sleep a night for two years and claimed he was more energetic and alert as a result? Or that Honore de Balzac ate dried coffee grounds to stimulate his imagination?

Word is that Socrates even laid out his toga the night before and pre-pinned it in order to save time.

(OK, I made that last one up.)

The only thing that seems to work for me is making daily to-do lists. As you can probably tell, I've always been a big fan of lists. Not only do I always make mental lists in my head, I'm also always annoying friends to give me their lists. ("Who are the 5 hottest sitcom characters of all-time?" "Give me 5 names for your imaginary band." "If you could only eat 5 foods for the rest of your life, what would they be?")

Hmm...now I'm starting to realize why nobody wants to sit in a car with me for more than 3 hours.

Anyway, in lieu of any real writing, here are a few lists I compiled tonight:

The 5 Best Books I've Read In The Past 5 Weeks

1. Nick Hornby's "Juliet, Naked"
2. Lorrie Moore's "A Gate at the Stairs"
3. Stefanie Wilder-Taylor's "It's Not Me, It's You."
4. Colston Whitehead's "Sag Harbor"
5. Michael Lewis' "Home Game"
   

My 5 Favorite Nostalgic Childhood Foods

1. PB & J sandwiches
2. Nesquik
3. Chocolate eclairs
4. Powdered iced tea
5. TV dinners

The 5 Articles Of Clothing I'd Remove From Existence

1. Crocs, Uggs & Birkenstocks
2. Golf Visors
3. Jean shorts (aka "jorts")
4. Cardigan sweater vests
5. Replica NFL jerseys

The 5 Things I'd Take To A Desert Island

1. A Frette blanket
   
2. James Joyces' "Ulysses"
   
3. A case of Sriracha Hot Sauce
   
4. Q-Tips
   
5. The complete works of The Rolling Stones

5 Things That Always Bring Tears To My Eyes

1. Parents outliving their children
2. Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah"
3. The last scene in "Rudy"
4. Seeing awkward kids being shunned by their peers
5. The tears of a loved one

5 Things That Always Bring A Smile To My Face

1. My daughter
2. Jeans and sweater weather
3. The NY Post
4. Reading books by the fireplace
5. Five Guys hamburgers

5 Things That Always Make Me Laugh

1. Jimmy Fallon's "The Housewives of Late Night"
2. People who wear pajamas outside the house
3. Leashes on cats
4. Fat people trying to get into rowboats
5. People walking into glass doors.

5 Best Quotes I Have Recently Read

1. "Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards." - Soren Kierkegaard
2. "It is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men." - Frederick Douglas
3. "If you care about what others think of you, then you will always be their slave." - James Frey
4. "Tina is my baby girl. She’s my sister from another mother of a different color. I’d do 25 to life for her. She is down like four flat tires."" - Tracy Morgan
5. "Age is a very high price to pay for maturity." - Tom Stoppard

That last quote is certainly resonating with me these days. Why? Because in about one week, I will be turning 41. Holy crap! FORTY. ONE. I certainly don't feel 41. What is 41 supposed to feel like anyway? Honestly, I'm not quite sure anymore.

Sometimes it feels like it was just yesterday that I was 16 years old and my biggest worry was where I should sit in the cafeteria or which pair of acid-washed Girbauds I should wear that day.

Ha!

Those were the good old days.

Golden Handcuffs

Sometimes I think being an overly self-aware insomniac book nerd is more trouble than it's worth.

While reading in the wee hours of the morning, I recently came across passages in two books that made me pause and reflect on the path my life has taken.

Don't get me wrong. I like to introspectively examine my life as much as the next person. At the same time, I believe that too much introspection can frequently become a masturbatory exercise in self-absorption.

To tell you the truth, I often think it'd be better if I slept more and read less. 

Anyway, here are the two passages.

The first is from James Frey's "My Friend Leonard."

"Gauguin was a stockbroker in Paris, married, had five kids. One day he came home and told his wife he was leaving, that he was through supporting the family, that he had had enough. Just like that he fucking took off. He said he had always felt he was a painter, so he moved to a rat-infested shithole and started painting. His wife begged him to return, his bosses told him he was insane, he didn't care, he was following his heart. He left Paris, moved to Rouen, went from Rouen to Arles, from Arles to Tahiti. He was searching for peace, contentment, trying to fill that fucking hole he felt inside, and he believed he could fill it. He died in Tahiti, blind and crazy from syphilis, but he did it. He filled his fucking hole, made beautiful work, made beautiful, beautiful work."

The second is from Nick Hornby's "Juliet, Naked."

"I have a thing for Dickens. I'm reading his letters at the moment. There are 12 volumes of them, and each one is several hundred pages long. If he'd only written letters, he'd have had a pretty productive life, but he didn't only write letters. There are four volumes of his journalism. He edited a couple of magazines. He squeezed in an unconventional love life, and a few rewarding friendships. Am I forgetting anything? Oh, yeah: a dozen of the greatest novels in the English language. He's pretty much the one guy whose life you could look at and think, man, he didn't mess around.

But there aren't many people like old Charles. Most humans don't get to do work that's going to last. They sell shower curtain rings, like the John Candy character in that movie. (I mean the rings might last. But they're probably not what people talk about after you've gone.) So it's not about what you do. It can't be, can it? It has to be about how you are, how you love, how you treat yourself and those around you, and that's where I get eaten up."

Regarding the above, I know only four things. All are related to one another (the first two are probably inversely related, the second two perhaps a little less so.)

(1) My daughter means everything in the universe to me.

(2) Quite honestly, there are moments when the thought enters my mind that caring for her has removed options in my life that would possibly otherwise make my life more personally fulfilling.

(3) I have a job that pays well, provides little intellectual or emotional challenge, and does not require much effort. However, this job not only ensures for my daughter's well-being but also allows me to spend an inordinate amount of my free time with her (which is partly what attracted me to it in the first place.)

(4) I have never defined myself by what I do.

Before we go any further, let me just say that I am acutely aware that even having these thoughts is a luxury of which I am not unappreciative. This blog has always been a place where I sort out my thoughts in written form.

Shit, if my health insurance covered therapy, this site probably wouldn't even exist.

All I'm saying is that, regardless of one's station in life, I think it's healthy to sometimes visualize or fantasize about the life that you want to live. Frequently, this forces you to make extremely tough decisions that seem painful but may ultimately make you much happier.

On the other hand, this is also probably the kind of thinking that made John Travolta turn down the lead role in "Chicago" THREE times so he could focus on his real passion project..."Battlefield Earth."

Look, I'm not going anywhere or enacting any serious life changes anytime soon. At the same time, I sometimes make mental lists of alternate lifestyles I fantasize about living if I didn't have a child. 

Here's the current short list:

• Living in a small studio apartment in Paris with a girlfriend and spending all our free time reading and writing together in a dingy cafe in the Latin Quarter, where we would both wait tables just enough to pay the rent.

• Apprenticing with a top sushi master in Japan and then opening my own restaurant in the East Village that would only seat 6 people at any given time.

• Moving to Colorado, being a ski bum in the winter and a fly-fishing bum in the summer.

• Working as a foreign war correspondent alongside Christiane Amanpour.

When I shared these thoughts with a buddy of mine, he told me I was having a mid-life crisis and that I should just shut up and buy a Porsche.

This led to a very in-depth conversation that ultimately provided great insight and incredible perspective on my future professional life and emotional well-being. I couldn't believe that after 40 years on this planet that have involved much soul searching and professional therapy, I had finally figured out in this one conversation what I would truly enjoy doing with the rest of my life if I didn't have a child.

I'd be Batman.

Just kidding.

Kind of.

In all seriousness, do any other parents out there fantasize about how your life would be different without kids or a spouse? If you're single or childless, are you living your life how you'd imagined? Why or why not?

An inquiring insomniac wants to know.

The Peanut Turns Five!

Dear Peanut,

Happy 5th birthday!

Although you're completely ecstatic about this day, I think my own excitement might actually trump your own. Why? Mainly because I no longer have to keep hearing, "Daddy, daddy, daddy! How many more days until I turn five?"

Don't get me wrong, kiddo. It was cute for awhile but after 5,000 times in one month, I was starting to think about canceling Christmas (FYI, it's in about 80 days.)

Five is an amazingly fun age, Peanut. You've really turned into a person now and it simultaneously enthralls and scares the crap out of me. On the one hand, you still love cuddling on the couch with me and reading books together. On the other hand, you don't always want to hold my hand in public anymore because I might be cramping your style. That kills me!

Here are just a few things I'll want to remember about you at this age:

• You're a ridiculously funny kid. Last year was all poop jokes and fart noises. Now, you do impersonations. You invent hilarious new dances. Your sense of sarcasm grows daily. And you love playing pranks on me (hiding my cellphone in the fridge was a good one!) You also have a uniquely funny way of playing make-believe. While other girls pretend they're princesses, you like to pretend you're a pizza delivery man or a UPS truck driver. You're such a city kid.

• I never cease to be amazed at how you can spread joy to so many people solely by your warm and affectionate nature. You're always there with a quick hug or a kiss to cheer someone up. And when you truly love someone, you're not afraid to say it or show it. Adults could learn a lot from a kid like you.

• You're as stubborn as I am and we have our fair share of epic battles. We never yell or scream at each other. It's more like Jedi warfare. Last week, we left the playground because it was raining. You were so pissed, you gave me the silent treatment and shot Korean Death Stares (KDS) at my back while walking twenty feet behind me in the grocery store. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore and tried to give you a hug but you stuck up your hand and said, "Not right now, Daddy. I need my privacy." What the hell? Sometimes I think you're 5 going on 40. I love it.

• You love being a helper. Whenever I cook, you're always next to me as my sous chef or busy setting the table. You love working with Aunt Di in the garden or helping Uncle Paul wash his cars. You even love cleaning the apartment. The funny thing is that you draw the line at bathrooms and whenever you see me scrub a toilet, you think it's the funniest thing you've ever seen. "Haha, Daddy. That's where the poop goes!" (Ok, so you're not completely over the poop jokes.)

• You're enrolled in Spanish and Korean classes and are slowly becoming trilingual. Whenever you hear someone speak Spanish, you like to bust out in song. You know at least 20 different Spanish songs and waiters all over town now laugh when you enter the restaurant singing "Felize Navidad" ...again.

• You're at that age where your tiny brain can memorize anything almost instantly. You love "reading" entire books to me from memory. Alternatively I love teaching you funny lyrics. Last month, I made you call your grandmother and sing, "I said a hip hop the hippie the hippie to the hip hip hop, a you don't stop the rock it to the bang bang boogie say up jumped the boogie to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat." I'm still laughing over that one.

• I love having conversations with you. It's one of my favorite things to do in the whole world. Sometimes we'll just sit on the couch and talk about things that are on your mind. Sometimes you'll ask me questions about the moon and the stars. Other times you'll talk to me about your grandfather's death or your love of fried chicken. I know it sounds silly because you're only five but I hope that we'll always be able to talk openly with one another like this.

There are so many things that I love about you at this age, I couldn't even begin to put them all down on paper. In fact, I still can't believe that you're 5 today. It's strange. Sometimes it feels like you were just born yesterday. On the other hand, it's hard to remember a time in my life when you weren't in it. 

There are just a few things I want to tell you about how I feel about you, Peanut.

I'm not one of those parents who thinks that his child is more special than any other one.

I'm not one of those parents who wants to be best friends with his child.

I'm not one of those parents who tries to be the cool dad.

That being said, I'm so incredibly proud of the little girl you've become. I feel closer to you than with any other human being alive. I love spending all my time with you. And I'm glad you enjoy having fun with your goofy weird dad.

Have a great birthday, Peanut. I love you with all my heart.

Love,
Daddy

P.S. One more thing you enjoy at this age is sticking your finger up every statue's butt. We've practically been banned from the Metropolitan Museum of Art and are now forced to hang out with lawn statues. I have to admit though, it's still pretty funny!