Laid-Off Dad

Cut and run

Robert and Perry have known each other since they first popped out of the womb, and they've been partners in crime ever since. Throughout all the birthday parties and playdates, Perry's family has been a mainstay. We've socialized together. They've had us out to their beach house. And now I am so livid with both of them I can barely stand it.

Yesterday, Perry's mom invited Robert over for a drop-off playdate. She does this every so often, and even though Perry is developing into something of an impudent hellspawn, we send him over because the boys' interests gel so well. They're both obsessed with tools and construction sites, and in an afternoon they can rig up a colossus of crap that could stop a school bus.

Late in the afternoon, we called Perry's mom to confirm that I was on my way to pick Robert up. The usual chit-chat, how about this weather, and then an oh-by-the-way, the boys got into Perry's dad's collection of Leatherman tools and used the knife blades to slice up his weight-lifting bench.

WHAT?

Off I leapt, sprint-walking to their apartment, arms rigid, fists flexing, playing out confrontational conversations in my mind. Yes, I have sharp tools in the house. But they're in a latched tool box, on a shelf nine feet off the floor, in a room the kids aren't allowed to play in. What the fuck were they thinking?

When I got over there I went in, shook hands, surveyed the damage (extensive), found the four (!) knives, gathered up Robert's shit, and took off. Can't find Robert's socks? Fuck it. Wear 'em in good health, you goddamn apes.

I've tried, but I can't get my mind around this. Both parents were home, yet neither thought to supervise the kids. Or even look in on them from time to time. Perry's their only child, so it's not like anything else distracted them. Stories from the Darwin Awards (funny) and police blotters (not funny), of kids finding weapons and doing terrible damage to each other, keep flipping through my mind. Perry's absolutely crazy about "Star Wars." What's to keep him from brandishing one of those blades like a light saber?

I feel like Robert just ran into the road ahead of me, and a truck just whizzed past and missed his jaw by an inch. And it's hard to figure out what's harder to deal with: the end of a friendship, or the ease with which my heart can be made to feel like it weighs 100 pounds.

Gawker stalker: Candy-O division

One of my best friends, Gene, moved to Atlanta after eighth grade. And when he moved back for his junior year, he had a Georgia driver's license, his grandma's Cutlass, and a car stereo with a graphic equalizer. This was no less than completely awesome, because anyone who was friends with Gene got a head-start on the age-old suburban art of CATNIP-ing (Cruising Around Toward Nowhere In Particular) while the other suckers had to wait another year for their driver's test.

During those glorious months, we burned a lot of gasoline and listened to a lot of Cars music. Those albums became the soundtrack of a formative time, when my social agenda starting separating from my family's and I learned the basics of adolescent male bonding. We rode around like a mini-gang, except the most dangerous thing we were packing was our Chemistry homework.

Cut to the mid-90s, when I first realized that Ric Ocasek lived somewhere in my neighborhood. He's a tough guy to miss, a 6-foot-5 stick insect with a purposeful stride and jet-black everything. After years of seeing him from afar, I bumped into him last night in our local bodega. I sized him up as he ferreted through the freezer, searching for the dozen or so frozen Snickers bars he eventually bought. He looked much as he did 20 years ago, with a few extra creases. And perhaps a botched eyebrow procedure.

We were the only people in the place, so I said hello. Then I think I stammered something about how great it was to see him in the news again. He was shyly appreciative at first, but he lit up when we talked about his recurring role on "The Colbert Report." He said it came totally out of the blue; Colbert's a fan, his people called Ric's people, and the rest is history. Overall, he seems like a happy guy. He might look like Joan Crawford's stunt double, but he sure is living the good life.

I also enjoy knowing that Colbert and I listened to the same stuff when we were kids, and if I had my own talk show I would totally have Ocasek on to do something. Except I can't, because Colbert thought of it first. Bastard.

On hoisting, and petards

One of the great modern conveniences of this or any century is the Daddyvator^TM, which allows the more diminutive among us to demand a greater vantage point of the world around them. It's a simple device; the child pushes a button on Daddy's knee, and that child is slowly hoisted up to Daddy's eye level. Once aloft, the child has several options, including:

• reaching and/or whining for things that have been stashed out of his sightline!
• gumming up and/or crushing Daddy's glasses!
• voiding his nose and/or mouth on Daddy's collarbone!
• offering up his soft, warm neck for kisses and/or abundant zerbiting!
• and/or so much more!

When the child wants to return to Earth, he pushes the button on Daddy's nose and is slowly lowered.

This is all very charming until the child ages into a forceful Toddlesaurus, unaware of his burgeoning strength. At this point, he greets you at the door by slamming an implement -- usually one of his brother's phony power tools -- into Daddy's gimpy kneecaps. And once in the crook of Daddy's arm, he demands release by punching Daddy, full force, in the schnoz.

Then Daddy gets to wipe the tears from his eyes, knowing he has taught his child well.

Before there were four

Last Friday, I went out for drinks with a couple of friends. One of them was visiting from out of town, and as we barhopped through the East Village I enjoyed the view of my city through her eyes. Mostly because it wasn't all that different from the view through my eyes, which hadn't seen the inside of a bar since before the world knew what a "K-Fed" was.

As fun as that night was, it superseded an important tradition we have at the Laid-Off Lair: Nothing Night. Moxie and I reserve most Fridays to be alone together, and since babysitting is so expensive (most of them demand a limo ride home, with a wet bar and finger sandwiches), we usually spend it at home. We get a bottle of wine and sit on the couch, talk, read, relax, and forget for the moment that we spend so much of our lives preventing two little beings from destroying each other.

The truth is, we have very little help with our kids. We still love our sitter, but lately she has much less time for us because she's busy getting a degree and getting on with her real life. (Bitch.) So we're mostly on our own, and the constant policing can wear us down, make us irritable. Cause us to lash out at each other instead of at our circumstances.

Friday night, we are no longer the GateKeeper and the KeyMaster. Friday is the night to remember that once we were just we, before they were they. It is, by far, my favorite time of the week.

Gas-powered

I'm pretty schizophrenic (or is it bipolar?) when it comes to the gym: Either I'm on a five-a-week tear and convinced I'll never again get stuck in a slovenly sloth spiral, or I'm stuck in a slovenly sloth spiral. And the transitions are always a mystery. I never know when the workouts will start petering out, or what sort of catalyst will get my ass off the couch.

Last week, I received such a catalyst. And it came from Peter Griffin.

Sure, you might be thinking. Peter Griffin is morbidly obese. He routinely does full-frontal, yet you never see anything because his belly fat flops so far over his groin. Look at that long enough and anyone would be inspired to get back on the treadmill. True, but in this case irrelevant.

Last week I was clearing an old episode off the DVR when, in one of its myriad flashbacks, Peter tried to mask a farting fit by fake-coughing. It was puerile, it was jejune, and I laughed at it. Then I re-wound it, and lord help me, I laughed harder. This continued for about 1o minutes until my face was so full of tears that I couldn't see the rewind button anymore. I was heaving like an asthmatic walrus and threatening to fall off the couch.

Since our "living" space also doubles as our office, Moxie was about 8 feet away from me and trying desperately to write about adult, motherly things. She tolerated the spectacle for as long as she could, but when it showed no signs of stopping she very persuasively told me to get the hell out of her face. So I wobbled off to the gym.

I am back on my health regimen, quite simply, because farts are funny.

And I am posting about this because the first casualty of this blopathon is my standards.

Benvenuto alla MezzoBloppo

It's the fifteenth, which means the Blopathon is officially half over. (Kudos to Eden for choosing a month with 30 days, as 30 is soothingly decile and divisible, whereas 31 is prime and obstinate.) How're you feeling out there, Bloppernutters? Are you feeling the burn?

For me, there's a lot of good coming out of this exercise. It's conjuring wonderful memories of the brambles of my youth, when I wrote a panel cartoon every weekday for the college newspaper. Whenever Scribbler's Block had me by the short-and-curlies, my "process" involved 1) hanging out in the graphics office, 2) shotgunning cheap beer, and 3) throwing X-acto knives, ninja-style, at whatever was tacked to the back of the door. This poster was up for a long time, and I never went home without taking all four of them out with consecutive throws. I was good. I could have gone pro.

Blopping daily conjures that manic, mental nimbleness that I had back then, and the buzz has energized me. Before the Blopathon, for example, I used to pass out on the couch each night at around 9:30. Now, I'm a dynamo. I can often stay alert until 10:15.

The immediacy of daily blopping means I don't linger over posts nearly as much. I think it, I type it, and out it goes. And my prodigious inner censor is lying on the canvas, because I nailed him with a right cross.

Feels pretty good.

Moxie wanted me to title this "A bunch of stupid sports stuff no one cares about"

After considering more options for naming the Mets' new home (Evander HolyField came to mind), I've decided that Strawberry Field would have been a great choice. Not only does it invoke John Lennon -- whom New York officially adopted when he became a rabble-rousing, pacifist thorn in Nixon's ragingly paranoid side -- but also Darryl Strawberry, who was the most exciting Met I ever saw play. Lennon and Strawberry were New York icons whose lives took tragic turns. So why not name New Shea after them? It's not like Citigroup needs any more mindshare in this town.

Today was a day unlike so many others. For a start, we spent the entire day at work with no Internet access, although we were able to access e-mail over our intranet. This seems categorically unfair, because the web could remind me of my workly duties, but it couldn't let me escape into the rich, velvety pointlessness of blog-surfing. I cry foul.

And while I was at work, Robert seems to have grown a second head. He was running around at school today when he tripped and pranged his noggin on the side of a table, leaving a lump on his forehead about two inches across. It's startling to behold, because for all the cuts and bruises he's sustained over the years, he's never looked this ... broken. Luckily, he seems the same ebullient, garrulous kid he's always been, except now he looks a bit like Worf.

Couldn't they at least have gone with Katz's Deli Park?

The Mets announced today that their new stadium will be called CitiField, which is just plain execrable. And not just because of the derisive nicknames -- ShittyField, PityField, IttyBittyTittieCommittee Field -- that'll crop up when the team's fortunes inevitably cycle downward.

I know this smacks of Apple-centric provincialism, but to see this happen here, to my childhood team -- and to watch a big-ass bank usurp the name of William Shea, who helped sew up the hole that the Dodgers and Giants ripped in the city's heart when they left -- makes me a little sick. And the worst part? Despite the huge cash infusion, it'll still cost an arm and a leg and half your ass to take your kids to the game.

Honestly. CitiField? I'd have preferred SallyField.

BIKE HAWK DOWN, first draft

The following is an excerpt of a potentially epic screenplay (first discussed here). The dialogue has been culled from several sources. Some is real, some is borrowed from movies with similar plotlines (and similar leading men), and some was added by Aaron Sorkin, who was brought in for punch-up.

FADE IN:

EXT: A NEW YORK CITY STREET, DAY.

DADDY and ROBERT are coming out of the bike shop. ROBERT's training wheels have been placed back on his BIKE, but they are much higher off the ground than before.

            DADDY
OK, son. Are you ready to do this?

            ROBERT
(Protesting) No, Daddy! This stupid bike is too tippy! I can't stop and I'm gonna hit another lady!

            DADDY
You just think that, son. You took a chance, you pushed the envelope. You took a hard, deep look inside, and you didn't like the view. It happens.

            ROBERT
Daddy! I don't want to ride my bike to the park! I wanna eat a bagel and go home!

            DADDY
Remember when you first got on that bike last year, and you took off like you'd been riding your whole life? You didn't care about crashing into ladies, or scaffolding, or trees. You were a cowboy. I remember I asked you: Why are you so driven? How can you go so fast so soon, with so little regard for your physical well-being? And you remember what you told me?

            ROBERT
"I'm more afraid of bein' nothing than I am of bein' hurt."

            DADDY
Exactly. And why did you even start riding in the first place?

            ROBERT
The speed. To be able to control it. To know that I can control something that's out of control.

            DADDY
You were a natural. And the next step was to try it with only two wheels.

            ROBERT
I know. I thought I was ready. I had your hand on the back of my seat, and then I sped off, and what did I do? I ended up looking like a monkey fucking a football out there.

            DADDY
I'm sorry. Did you just say "a monkey fucking a football"?

            ROBERT
Yuh.

            DADDY
What is that?

            ROBERT
It's a phrase.

            DADDY
It's a phrase?

            ROBERT
Yuh. It's a phrase. Nietzsche said it. Or Neruda. Something with an N.

            DADDY
A monkey ... fucking a football ... is a phrase.

            ROBERT
It is. I've heard it. It's a phrase.

            DADDY
I don't think "a monkey fucking a football" is a phrase spoken by "something with an N."

            ROBERT
I'm getting bored with this conversation.

            DADDY
I know, dammit. I know. But you've got to push on. Don't let it end this way.

            ROBERT
All things end badly, or else they wouldn't end.

            DADDY
You're too young to be so jaded.

            ROBERT
You even warned me. You said my ego was writing checks my body can't cash.

            DADDY
I never said that, son. James Tolkan said that, and it's one of the worst lines every committed to celluloid.

            ROBERT
Oh. Right.

            DADDY
Look. The simple fact is you feel responsible for that woman, and you have a confidence problem. Now, I'm not gonna sit here and blow sunshine up your ass, son. A good biker is compelled to evaluate what's happened, so he can apply what he's learned. Out there, we gotta push it. That's our job. Besides, I've seen your account. You've got the assets. You can cash those checks. Your ego won't get any overdraft notices.

            ROBERT
Kinda pushing the bank metaphor a bit far, aren't you?

            DADDY
So you'll do it, then?

            ROBERT
All right. Let's do this thing.

CUT TO: A sidewalk. ROBERT is atop his BIKE, and DADDY is holding the seat. ROBERT pushes forward and makes tentative progress.

            ROBERT
Whoa! Her ass is all over the place!

            DADDY
Never mind! That's good! You're moving! Do you see? You're moving again!

            ROBERT
Nooooo! It's too tippy!

            DADDY
Tippy, schmippy! You've got ice in your veins! You're a pro!

            ROBERT
My heart is falling down around my ankles like a wet pair of pants!

            DADDY
Just keep at it, son. Keep at it! You're the best biker I ever saw, even better than your old man!

ROBERT is visibly taken aback. He looks back over his shoulder with a new look of determination. He has the Eye of the Tiger. He turns back to face the traffic light, waiting for the Red Hand to give way to the Walking Guy. It does, and he goes.

CUT TO: MONTAGE of ROBERT riding spectacularly, slaloming through pedestrians, leaping over curbs, eyes wide with glee, tongue wagging out of the side of his mouth. He rides back to DADDY at top speed, then hits the brakes, leaving a spectacular 10-foot patch.

            DADDY
Son, that was about the best biking I've ever seen. You can be my wingman any time.

            ROBERT
Bullshit! You can be mine.

[Roll credits.]

Coming attractions

In a previous life, my roommate and I were crazy-fool movie freaks who saw as many films as we could afford. We even wrote a film review website that basically consisted of transcripts of our post-show trenchant banter. We lionized movies so much that we printed their names in ALL CAPS. Because our dork factor was pretty large. Not in a dress-up-and-reenact-STAR-WARS sort of way, but it was pretty bad.

Then I had children, and the only time I could go to the cinema was late at night, after they were in bed. I was so happy to be in the dark, alone, in a big comfortable chair, that I invariably passed out. So one day I took stock, realized I had slept through pretty much everything I'd seen for the last several weeks, and I quit.

I haven't thought about films much since then. But earlier this year, when I joined the Theater Defense Fund, I signed up for eight free weeks of Entertainment Weekly. And as I perused its Holiday Movie Preview this week, I admit I got a little of the itch back. There's a lot of good stuff coming out this award season, and even though most of it stars the usual suspects who somehow get nominated every year, I might have to see some of these flicks.

Especially Casino Royale. (Sorry ... CASINO ROYALE.) Hardcore Bond fans are decrying Daniel Craig as the new 007, and I'm stunned. Why they hatin'? Craig is the baddest badass the Broccolis have ever hired. Just look at his philtrum! He's a got a booger-chute as big as a shoehorn! If that doesn't scream "license to kill and scoop out your brains," I don't know what does.

There's another compelling story, though, one that eager moviegoers won't see this year. But they should. It's the story of a small boy, who got on a bike at age 3½ and flew down the street, wind fluttering in his little bowlhead haircut. He was brimming with confidence (a Maverick, if you will) until his a-hole parents took his training wheels off, and he had a tragic run-in with an innocent bystander. His hubris was gone. He was a broken biker boy.

Would he ever find an old, crusty mentor and/or the love of a good woman to help him recover? You'll have to find that out tomorrow, because I'm on a deadline here and I gotta get this sumbitch up by midnight.