MetroDad

My So-Called Life: The MetroDad 20-Year Reunion

This past weekend, I attended my 20-year high school reunion.

Crazy, right? I know you're sitting there thinking, "Wait, how the fuck is it possible that MetroDad is having his 20-year reunion? He's too young! Did he skip elementary school?"

Well, don't let the beautiful hair and insouciant attitude fool you, my friends. I really am as old as I pretend not to be. 

All kidding aside...

I attended one of those effete NYC private schools usually characterized by alumnae with an overabundance of self-worth. As my older fellow alum and distinguished blogging friend, alice, uptown, opines, "the school is a factory for over-privileged smart-asses. Ironically, it's an academic institution that costs over $30K per annum these days -- yet was named for the founder of free public education!"

See, this was not your typical school where you go back to your reunion, joke about the football captain who became the bald manager of a bowling alley, or laugh at the cheerleader who lost her looks and got divorced 5 times.

Shit, this is a school that didn't even have a football team or cheerleaders.

It's a small school where seven graduates have won Pulitzer Prizes while many others moved on to become future literary stars, world-class musicians, and captains of industry.

Growing up, it was a sacrifice for my parents to send me there. My father's business was often feast-or-famine and, in the early years, there was more than one occasion when I remember the school calling up for that late tuition payment. However, being a typical Korean immigrant father, he believed that nothing was more important than his son's education and he was willing to make sacrifices on behalf of it. 

However, NYC has changed over the years. In my opinion, private education in this city has been tainted by the influx of hedge-fund riches so outlandish that, for many people, $30K is the equivalent of their annual dry-cleaning bills. 

I fully expected to show up to my reunion and be sorely disappointed that the vast majority of my classmates had turned out to become corporate lawyers or investment bankers.

And since I love rattling the cages of the creatively mundane, I contemplated imitating my fake girlfriend Amy Sedaris and buying a special custom-made fat suit. Then, I'd show up at the reunion in a powder blue tuxedo and introduce myself as "The Donut King of El Paso!"

For a brief moment, I also thought about showing up with a street hooker.

Thankfully, I was pleasantly surprised at how my graduating class turned out. More than a few had dedicated their lives to public service and, interestingly enough, many had ended up becoming psychiatrists, artists, doctors, and journalists.

If anything, the reunion made my decision to send the Peanut to public school a little tougher to swallow.

See, on the one hand, I believe I had one of the best educations available anywhere in the country. My alma mater spares no expense when it comes to providing resources for its students. The classrooms, science labs, art studios, music facilities and technology operations are all state-of-the-art. And most students graduate speaking at least 2-3 languages fluently.

However, I'm a firm believer in sending Peanut to public school. Why?  Many reasons, one of the most important being that I'm terrified of sending my daughter to a school where the student body believes "Gossip Girl" is based on them.

Besides, if public education is ever going to work in a city like New York, it's going to involve parents who can afford to send their kids to private school but choose not to.

That being said, the state of public education in this country scares the crap out of me. Sometimes, I think it's fitting that public schools are called P.S. because it often seems that they're treated as an afterthought.

Somehow, we've got to convince all Americans that paying teachers what they deserve is as good an investment in our future as, say, building more prisons. My mother spent 20 years as a public-school teacher and, at the end of the day, she probably could have made more money flipping burgers at McDonalds.

I never understood why it's so controversial to compensate teachers better. The only reason I can think of is because society realizes that we've got teachers firmly by the balls. For the most part, these people want to be teachers, and as is often the case in this country, when we know somebody loves to do something, we fuck them over on their paycheck, because we figure they're going to do it anyway.

Shit, we should be thankful that teachers are able to impart ANY lessons to our kids nowadays. As my mom's experience has taught me, being a public school teacher these days is not limited to the boring educational stuff anymore. Any time you need to go through a metal detector to get to work, you deserve to get paid more than minimum wage.

Now I'm not saying that increasing teacher pay is the solution to solving this country's educational system. I am saying, however, that it's a good place to start. 

Personally, I think one of the reasons I want to send the Peanut to public school is because I'd like to test my pet theory that the single most important contribution to a child's education is the role that each parent plays in fostering that education. It seems to me that a lot of kids are going home to parents who are more interested in watching "Dancing with the Stars" than they are in their child's education.

Let me tell you something, my friends. I'm pretty sure that your child's education isn't a fluff-and-fold situation where you can drop the kid off at school, pick him up 12 years later and suddenly he's working on Fermat's Theorem with Marilyn vos Savant. If only it were that easy, right?

Whether you send your kid to public school or private school, none of it will mean anything if you don't get involved in your kid's education. That's why I refuse to give my three-year-old any dessert unless she asks for it in Latin. Besides, my dad used to give me more homework when I was younger than school ever did.

Anyway, all kidding aside, do you want to know the real reasons behind my obsession with education in this country?

I selfishly believe that the decline in our public school system is having a deleterious effect on me personally. I can tell that my readership isn't quite as educated as it used to be. See, I like to salt my remarks with the best of Shakespearean literature, but I'm just not getting the response I once did with such pithy observations like, "Shit, I haven't had a meal that bad since Titus Andronicus invited me and the gang over for dinner to Tamora's house!"

In fact, I'm pretty sure only a handful of readers are going to even get that joke ("Help me, Dutch-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope.")

Anyway, I'll stop babbling now. I just want to end this nonsensical rant by saying that if our schools don't start doing their jobs better, I'm going to have to resort to getting laughs on this blog just by saying the word  "Motherfucker!"

And we wouldn't want that to happen, would we?  MOTHERFUCKERS!

By the way, for those of you who have e-mailed me privately asking about the reunion, my replies are as follows:

(1) Fat but not bald.
(2) Chicken fingers, a veggie burger, and a little weed.
(3) Not Cindy Crawford. More like Joan Crawford.
(4) 3:00 am.
(5) Echo & the Bunnymen

Next: My high-school photo. A little Bershon, perhaps?

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...

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!

Quotalicious!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Most likely my beret. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lists I made during today's daily commute

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

FIVE THINGS I DEEPLY REGRET HAVING TAUGHT MY DAUGHTER

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

FIVE THINGS I TAUGHT HER THAT ARE STUPID BUT HIGHLY AWESOME

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

FIVE THOUGHTS ABOUT "BLUE'S CLUES"

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

FIVE QUESTIONS ABOUT "SESAME STREET"

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

FIVE PEOPLE ON THE SUBWAY WHO PISSED ME OFF TODAY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The Left Coast

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CSI-Amalah (and Why I Hate MySpace)

The lovely and talented Amalah was kind enough to e-mail me yesterday to let me know that someone on MySpace was blatantly plagiarizing some of my posts and passing them off as her own.

Apparently, the young plagiarist is an 18-year old girl from Las Vegas who not only cribbed some of my posts but also ripped off various writing from Amalah, Dooce, and Mr. Nice Guy.  Because our young plagiarist is both single and childless, she altered our stories to pass them off as her own adventures in babysitting.  The lives of our own children were co-opted as those of her unrelated minions. 

How fucking pathetic is that?

Apparently, one of Amalah's 8 million readers discovered the young plagiarist, noticed the similarities immediately and duly informed Amalah of the offending trespass.  Amalah then started doing some serious sleuthing of her own and discovered that she wasn't the only victim.  Not only did she notify me but she also contacted MySpace to report the plagiarism. 

How cool is that? 

Personally, I think it's a little amusing that some white teenage chick from the desert would plagiarize the writing of a 37-year-old Korean dude living in New York City.  It's almost comically pathetic.  However, this does give me the perfect opportunity to rant about the moral turpitude and brain-numbing pile of shit known as MySpace. 

I'll be the first to admit it.  Maybe I'm just an old geezer who doesn't "get" the whole MySpace experience.  Call me old-fashioned but every time I look at a MySpace page, I want to set my eyeballs on fire and smack someone on the side of the head with a dictionary. 

Now, I'm happily married with a child and an actual career.  So, yeah, maybe I don't "get" MySpace because I'm not looking to "hook up wit a hottie" or "get wildz and crazeeee!"

But even if I were young and single?  I don't think I'd be cruising the pages of MySpace.  In fact, there are so many things that I hate about MySpace, I don't even know where to begin.  But I'll give it a try...

I hate how MySpace denigrates the meaning of the word "friend."  For me, the concept of friendship is something special.  As I've said before, a friend is someone who knows everything about you and likes you anyway, who knows you're suffering even when you're fooling everyone else, and who will always volunteer to drive you around in a white Bronco while 200 police cars follow you down the Interstate. 

However, MySpace "friends" are cheap and meaningless.  They're a dime a dozen.  The whole point of MySpace is to accrue as many friends as possible. It doesn't matter if you know anything about that person at all.  Just push a button and ask them to add you as a friend!  Somehow, this will provide you with a sense of self-worth that you're sorely missing from the real world.  After all, can you really be a loser if you have 3,247 friends? 

Well, as most profiles on MySpace demonstrate, clearly you can!

"Look at this profile!  Her name's ForBidDen BuTTerCup.  She's from Miami and she's HOTTT!  That's all I know about her 'cos she's hot and she's my FRIEND!"

Look, Fucko, I hate to break it to you but ForBidDen BuTTerCup is probably a dude.  And he doesn't live in Miami.  He lives at home with his mother and wants nothing more than for you to send him photos of yourself in your skivvies.  See, there's a reason that some of these people are on the internet 20 hours/day and not hanging out with all the "kewl" friends that they allegedly have in real life.  They're freaks, dude!  Don't be busting out that webcam and taking pictures of yourself in your underoos just yet!

Another thing that bothers me about MySpace if the blatant pimping of cheap sexuality.  How come every time I look at a MySpace profile, I feel like I'm looking at a future $1.00 stripper working the Bada Bing room off the Jersey Turnpike?  Because just as MySpace cheapens the concept of friendship, it also cheapens the notion of sexuality.

Have you seen the women on MySpace?  It's like the land of the sluts.  Virtually every girl is either showing some serious cleavage, flashing their thongs, or auditioning for a part on the next Girls Gone Wild video.  Sadly, most of these girls appear to be either underage or in college (where they can unleash their inner slut.)  Now, personally, the thing that I find most bothersome is the sense that somehow, we (as a society) have reached a point where the true meaning of sexy has been completely lost. 

You know what's sexy to me?  A beautiful face with a great smile, a nice easy-going laugh, a curiously intelligent mind, a kind heart, and an effortless sense of style.  You want to know what's NOT sexy?  Surgically enhanced mammaries and seeing the outline of your vulva in your boy shorts.  You're 17 years old.  I don't want to see your catcher's mitt. 

Don't worry.  I haven't forgotten about you MySpace guys either.  Let me tell you, I think it's hilarious that most of you pose without a shirt on. We get it, buddy.  You're buff.  You like to pump iron, take steroids, and flex your muscles in group photos with your buddies like you're doing a reenactment of Spartacus in your parents' garage.  If you spent half as much time reading a book as you do working out, that future job in waste management wouldn't have to be a self-fulfilling prophecy.  Eventually, your he-man titties are going to sag and your balls are going to recede into your stomach.  Where will you be then, Mr. MuscleHustLe22?

It shouldn't surprise anyone that there are sexual predators cruising around on MySpace.  After all, virtually everyone on the site sets themselves up as sexual prey.  And sure, MySpace didn't invent the phenomenon of pedophilia but, at the same time, they don't seem to be really doing anything to discourage the behavior either.  Sure, they've made some well-publicized changes in age requirements.  However, there's virtually no way to enforce those measures.

Speaking of age, the latest statistics show that 52% of MySpace users are 35 or older.  However, out of that 52%, it's been proven that 90% are pedophiles and the other 10% are losers.  (Ok, I made those last two statistics up.  But seriously, if you're over 35, what the hell are you doing on MySpace?)

The only redeeming factor for MySpace is that it serves as a good publicity tool for established bands, aspiring musicians, stand-up comics, and writers.  However, to those people, I urge you to read the fine print.  According to the Proprietary Rights in Content on MySpace.com...

"By displaying or publishing ("posting") any Content, messages, text, files, images, photos, video, sounds, profiles, works of authorship, or any other materials (collectively, "Content") on or through the Services, you hereby grant to MySpace.com, a non-exclusive, fully-paid and royalty-free, worldwide license (with the right to sublicense through unlimited levels of sublicensees) to use, copy, modify, adapt, translate, publicly perform, publicly display, store, reproduce, transmit, and distribute such Content on and through the Services."

Bet most of you didn't know that, right?

Anyway, I could go on for days about how much I hate MySpace.  However, I'll just let it go right now. 

But Claudia?  I come out to Vegas several times a year.  Perhaps next time I'm in town, the two of us can have a drink at the Bellagio and you can regale me with all your stories about raising a two-year-old Korean-American daughter in Manhattan. 

After all, it seems we have so much in common. 

Sine Qua Non: Only in Long Island

Do any of you remember the TV show from the 70's called "Zoom"?  It was a PBS show produced by WGBH in Boston and it was the first television program hosted entirely by kids. 

Anyone remember it?  No?  Damn, I'm getting old!

When I was a little boy, "Zoom" was one of my favorite TV shows.  One episode, in particular, made a very memorable impression on me.  In it, the "Zoom" kids went to visit a man who had built these incredible treehouses in the forest, all of them on different trees and connected with one another via an elaborate system of planks and walkways.  It was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen and, from that day on, I became obsessed with treehouses. 

Sadly, I never got my treehouse.  Instead, I scoured the streets looking for people who had bought new appliances and were throwing the boxes away on the street.  Back then, finding a refrigerator box was a huge score.  I'd drag the box home, carve out some windows with an Exacto knife, paint the sides, and throw in my sleeping bag.  Voila!  Instant treehouse!  Once finished, I would hole myself inside the box for days with my collection of comics, my baseball cards and my Encyclopedia Brown books.  Ahhh...good times, my friends.  Good times. 

Anyway, in the latest of my "Only in New York" series, I've discovered that one of the latest trends in local parenting is to have a professional architect build your kid's treehouse.  According to this NY Magazine article, some of these treehouses are going for prices well over $100,000!!!

Here are two examples of what you get for your money...

.

.

How amazingly cool is that?  Man, I'm 37 years old and I'd STILL love to have a treehouse like that.  In fact, that one treehouse on the right looks bigger than my first apartment in Manhattan.  And I'll bet it doesn't have crack whores living next door either!

Now, I know some of you are going to rant about the moral depravity involved in dropping that kind of dough on a fucking treehouse.  After all, the disparity beween the rich and poor in this country is growing faster than Rush Limbaugh's rap sheet.  The number of CEOs making over $20 million per year has increased exponentially over the past few years (even as the companies they managed went bankrupt) and more and more people are struggling like hamsters in a giant Habitrail just to maintain a middle-class standard of living.  Our national and personal savings accounts are the lowest they've been in generations.  Our health care system is an Orweillian nightmare.  And the paltry amount of money spent on education in this country seems likely to ensure that future generations will probably be woefully unprepared to compete in the global marketplace. 

Now, many of you know I don't like to discuss politics on this site.  However, I will say that I'm generally in favor of capitalism.  As Dennis Miller once said, all the other systems have worked out about as well as a Lee Greenwood booking in Baghdad.  My only beef with the system is that it puts a bunch of crusty old rich guys on Capitol Hill in charge of determining how best to allocate resources so that we have better schools and social programs to help those who are less fortunate. 

Besides, let's be honest.  Who among us doesn't want to be rich?  Who hasn't bought a lottery ticket when the jackpot is over $200 million?  Who doesn't want to never worry about providing for one's family?  Nobody should feel guilty about it.  Trying to get rich is practically our national pastime. 

It's heartening to see guys like Warren Buffet and Bill Gates give away the vast majority of their fortunes in order to improve the betterment of mankind.  I hope they motivate other rich dudes to do the same thing.  However, if they'd rather spend their money on treehouses that cost $100K?  Well, God bless 'em.  Who are we to tell anybody how to spend their own money?  Sorry.  It doesn't work like that, comrades!

Anyway, I'm babbling.  I'd just like to end this by saying that if any uber-wealthy readers out there would like to buy my family a $100K treehouse, we'd be more than happy to accept your largess. 

Alternatively, we'll also take any empty refrigerator boxes you might have.

(By the way, on the off chance that there are any "older" readers out there who, like me, fondly remember the TV show "Zoom," then check this out.)

 

I Want to Party Like It's 1999!

These days, most of you know me as a laid-back father who loves nothing more than patiently reading books to my daughter, mellowing out by watching my beloved NY Mets, or having long dinners at home with my lovely and beautiful wife. 

But, once upon a time, when I was a wee single laddie living it up in the bright lights of Manhattan, I used to run around this city like it was my own personal sandbox.  Being a young man in my 20's with an abundance of energy and absolutely nothing to worry about except paying the rent and making it to my desk in the morning, my social life made "Bright Lights, Big City" look like an afternoon TV special. 

I was a "work hard/play hard" kind of guy in the sense that it took a lot of work for me to play that hard. 

Recently, I was cleaning up my office when I came across my 1999 monthly planner.  Curious about taking a walk down memory lane, I flipped through my datebook to see what I had been up to exactly seven years ago.

Looking back, I hardly recognize myself or the things that I was doing at the time.  At the risk of sounding like a completely vapid asshole, here's what my planner says I was doing during June of 1999:

• Attended Vogue Magazine party for Anna Wintour at Mercer Hotel.

• Knicks vs. Pacers playoff games at Madison Square Garden.
  

• Volunteer work at adult illiteracy program.

• Dinner at Indochine with designer Michael Kors and friends.

• Anniversary party for a friend's nightclub.

• Opening party at art gallery for Peter Beard.

• Attended Yasmina Reza's off-Broadway play "Art." 

• Long weekend partying in Paris with friends from college.

• Private screening of "Fight Club" at HBO. 

• Canoe trip in the Delaware Water Gap.

• Garden party at MOMA, Hole concert at Roseland, Neil Young at the Garden. 

• Assorted dinners/dates at restaurants all over town.

Looking back, I don't have any regrets about this time of my life.  Despite the fact that my social calendar resembled a bad episode of "Sex in the City,"  from what I can remember, I had a pretty fun time back then.  In fact, I've always thought that EVERYONE should live in NYC when they're in their 20's.  It's a great place to be young and single. 

However, I'm also self-aware enough to realize that despite all the fun I was having, my life was emptier than Gary Busey's minibar at the Chateau Marmont. 

Back then, older friends of mine would always tell me about how much better life got for them when they reached their 30's and settled down.  Being a sarcastic wise-ass, I would always reply by saying, "I'm sorry.  Did you say something?  I couldn't hear you.  Claudia Schiffer is yelling in my ear about going to Bowery Bar and doing tequila shots off Kate Moss' neck.  Gotta go!"

But there comes a time in a man's life when it's natural to settle down and reevaluate one's priorities.  For me, that happened the very first day that I met the lovely BossLady.  Sure, it helped that I'd already completely mastered Tetris and that the Mets were 20 games behind Atlanta but I think those were more coincidences than causation.  Meeting the BossLady truly changed my definition of what "having fun" was really about.    

And as much as my life changed by marrying the BossLady, it changed even more with the birth of the Peanut.  Nothing quite turns an adult inside out like having children.  Without a doubt, parenting is the most important thing I have ever done or will do.  I've embraced this new stage of my life wholeheartedly and I've found that I'm having more fun than I've ever had in my entire life.  Living with the BossLady and the Peanut is a blast and I wouldn't trade this time for anything in the world.   

But you know when I really realized that my life had changed irrevocably? 

Last night, when I turned to the Peanut and said, "eat your vegetables or no dessert." 

Once you utter those words to your kid, there's no turning back.   

 

Phantom Dinner Guests

I fucking love guacamole. 

If I'm at a party and someone's got some good guacamole, I will just sit there by myself and dip chip after chip into the bowl.  If nobody's watching me, I'll scoop the guacamole onto a chip and just lick it off.  I won't even eat the chip.  I'll just keep dipping the same chip into the guacamole repeatedly.  (Totally gross, right?  I'm like a double dipper to the nth degree.) 

Because let's face it.  Chips are really just vehicles for your guacamole.  They're dry, salty and taste like crap on their own.  If guacamole didn't exist, I'd never eat another chip in my entire life.

Why am I talking about this?  Because in the familial relationship metaphor of inter-generational dynamics, BossLady and I are the chips and Peanut is the guacamole. 

Whenever we're around my parents, BossLady and I might as well not even exist.  The Peanut is my parent's first grandchild and to say that they are "fawning" is to insult fawns everywhere.  Peanut is their life.  Their weekly schedules, their vacations, their daily conversations...all of it is at the mercy of a little 20-month-old girl. 

Yesterday, we had a family dinner with my folks and MetroBro to celebrate BossLady's birthday.  Though my wife's birthday is always cause for celebration, I think we've officially reached the point where my parents would celebrate Idi Amin's birthday if it meant they got to spend time with their granddaughter. 

At one point, I looked up to see my father physically wrest Peanut away from the BossLady so he could carry her.  Didn't even say a word.  He just grabbed her out of BossLady's arms like the Lindbergh baby.  I know he didn't mean to be rude.  He just loves carrying the Peanut around. If it were up to him, the Peanut's feet would never touch the ground and the two of them would spend their days reenacting the marsupial relationship between Angelina Jolie and young Maddox. 

During dinner, as usual, all attention is focused on the Peanut.  Sometimes when I'm speaking, I can actually see my mother's mind working as she pretends to listen to what I'm saying.  Although she may be looking directly at me, I know that, in her head, she's thinking, "I love my granddaughter so much.  I wonder what she's doing this very nanosecond.  She's so cute!  Where is she?  What is my son saying?  When will he be done talking?  I just want to see my granddaughter.  I love her so much."

Like many people, I've found that my parents are far better grandparents than they were parents.  Particularly in the case of my father, he seems to be atoning for various past sins and transgressions.  He's already much more involved in the Peanut's life than he ever really was in my own.  It's almost as if he's getting a fresh start. 

Having been severely abused by his own parents, my father ran away from home at a very young age.  He never had parenting role models to admire or emulate.  Because he was abused by his family, he's always had problems dealing with emotional issues and has a very dysfunctional way of dealing with expressions of love and affection.  My relationship with him when I was younger was always tumultuous and conflicted.  Parenting was NOT a subject that I imagine he spent much time thinking about.

In several ways, having the Peanut has changed the dynamics of the relationship between me and my parents.  Like everything in my life now, my primary concern is my daughter's well-being.  And because I never had any grandparents of my own, I'm glad that the Peanut does.  I'm glad that she gets all this doting attention.  I love the fact that she has so many people who love her as much as I do. 

So if it means biting my tongue as my father grabs the Peanut from me?  Or sitting silently as my mother ignores me?  Or going to family reunions and feeling like the Invisible Man? 

Well, that's just fine for me.  I'll just be here in the corner eating some guacamole with my fingers.