Laid-Off Dad

Duffer

Robert is not yet an impulsive shopper. When we recently wandered into [Soul-Crushingly Large Toy Retailer], he sat behind the wheel of several little jeeps, rode a handful of scooters (including a Razor, which didn’t end well), threw about a dozen rubber balls into the huge bin, and swung a Wiffle bat. And he was content to walk away empty-handed, as long as he got to push all the buttons in the elevator. We were almost out the door, however, when he saw a bag of plastic golf clubs and begged me to get them.

We left the store and headed straight for that seminal moment in the patrilineal relationship—the first golf outing. Robert swung with vigor, one-handed, and he missed more than he hit. But when he connected, he was sublime. He got off several clean wallops that split the fairway and elicited golf claps from the gallery of one. Just look at that exquisite form! A perfect crouch, eyes down, watching the club face move through the ball. He’s a natural.

Sure, his game has a few foibles. His left arm sticks straight out behind him like a dorsal fin, he’s chewed a dimple into one of his golf balls, and he likes filling his golf bag with gravel. But these eccentricities will only endear him to the many fans benumbed by the same old assembly line of bland pros living with their cross-eyed, big-breasted wives in gated communities outside Orlando.

It should have been said

Dear Fellow Playground Daddy:

How extraordinary to learn that your 15-month-old son, teetering at your knee in those brand-new Nike Shox, is such a die-hard Knicks fan. You say you took him to every home game this year? Impressive. But surely, he fell asleep before the games ended, right? He didn’t? Ah, yes, the atmosphere can get pretty boisterous, what with all those screaming drunks and everything, and the games usually don’t end until around 10:30pm. No wonder the kid looks so dazed.

I understand the desire to bond with your son, since you see him so seldom during your onerous work week, and it’s great that you’re here—in your flawlessly pressed casual wear—to mess around with him. And of course you’re welcome to borrow our little basketball. But you’ve thrown it at your boy about a dozen times now, and despite your relentless jawboning, I don’t think he’s quite got the hang of catching just yet. In fact, you’ve hit him in the face just about every goddamn time, and he’s crying and begging to be picked up. No, I don’t think he’s reached the age where he can “walk it off.”

Hey, could we get that ball back now? Thanks.

If you think it’s glitzy, but it’s snot

Not much time to post this week, because I’ve been working at the TriBeCa Film Festival. If you thought rubbing elbows with the hoi polloi of celluloi would be the ultimate experience in enchantment and glamour, you’re right on, mister:

• GASP! as I set up crowd barricades in a cold, pissing rain!

• CONVULSE! as I haul press backdrops through the rows of fetid dumpsters on Pace University’s loading dock!

• REACT INDIFFERENTLY! as I get the skunk-eye from Surly Hardware Store Employee while trying to return some unused paint and lumber!

It is truly a magic, magic medium.

In this season of transitional weather (and almost constant runny noses), it’s mostly convenient that Robert can blow his own nose. In fact, he insists on it. His Eureka! moment came when he finally remembered to close his mouth as he blew, sending two massive loogies down his shirt front.

He’s gotten much better at remembering to have a tissue in his hands when he “cleans house,” and this morning he let loose with a particularly mighty effort that blew his tissue to pieces. After viewing the wreckage, he announced, “I need some tape to fix my Kleenex.”