Laid-Off Dad

How the other half lives

New York City is famous for concentrating extreme wealth and extreme poverty in a confined square footage, and I work in a neighborhood where there's plenty of the former. When I walk the last blocks from the subway I spend lots of time dodging water hoses, because the sidewalks that the locals deign to tread upon must be rinsed constantly, every microbe of evil filth flushed into the icky, pooky street where it belongs. Maybe because many people are on their way back from the local Couteur Cobbler, who will happily take $1,500 (no joke) to sculpt you a pair of leather wingtips for your pedicured, pumiced feet.

Our local coffee place also makes for great theater. While you're waiting for your $2 cup to go, you can watch the gentlemen in teal ascots trade bon mots with the ladies wearing diamonds big enough to have "Titleist" written on them. It's easy to feel like you're looking at life from the outside, face flattened against the window, until you realize that 99.9% of the world is right there with you, snotting up the glass.

Which brings me, prince of the segue, to this morning's anecdote.

As I was dodging hoses this morning, I saw a delivery man ferrying several bags of food from a high-end grocery store. While he was waiting for the light to change, he was suddenly hit with a sneezing fit. Over and over again, he sneezed and horked and spit all over this poor person's food bags -- especially the fresh produce, which had been very thoughtfully been placed on top to avoid crushing. I just stood there, aghast, as this spectacle went on for at least 30 seconds. Then he punctuated the event with a huge gob into a trash can.

Over the weekend, I bet someone will head to Ye Olde Apothecarie for a $27 bottle of DayQuil.

"Webb and Tester" could also be a good name for a comedy duo

As "#1 news source" for reader sgazzetti, it is my duty to report that the GOP senators from Montana and Virginia have conceded their races, officially tipping the balance to the Democrats. I think it's great that in the twilight of this six-year Reign of Error, the last two guys to fade from view are named Burns and Allen. Say good night Gracie, indeed.

Now that the election cycle is finally in remission, it's time for the nation's focus to shift toward what's really important: the Holiday Season, and the concomitant beseechments to Please Please Please Buy Lots of Our Crap. With this in mind, I offer up the following letter that I might actually send:

Dear Lands' End:

Stop it.

LOD

Get the red out

This is just too much. It was gratifying enough to see voters resist the usual Rovian horseshit and show this spineless, rubber-stamp Congress the door. But now Rummy resigns and Britney files? It's all very disorienting. I keep waiting for someone to tell me that Van Halen is reuniting and they're bringing back the McRib.

I'm glad that President Fuck-Up-And-Throw-Money-At-It finally has a check on his checkbook. But my favorite stories involve the new black governor, the Muslim representative, the Hispanic senator, and the female Speaker. In January, our representative government is going to look just a bit more ... representative.

I've got a few more posts percolating as this Blogdingnagian Blopathon enters its second week. In the meantime, I want to thank you all for the musical suggestions. Our current favorite is Beck, who made quite an impression when he sang on Saturday Night Live a few weeks ago. We DVR'ed it and showed the boys, who boogied like crazy during "Nausea," his first number, because 1) it's got a slammin' beat, 2) his bandmates all danced around like idiots, and 3) he brought along a puppet show that mirrored the band's every movement on stage.

Robert was entranced, and since then we've had to explain to a few other parents why he sings "Nau-se-a! Nau-se-a!" at the top of his lungs for no apparent reason. (When you think of it, it's a beaut of a non sequitur.) These people hadn't heard of the song. Proving, wonder of wonders, that there actually are parents out there who are less hip than we.

It's electacular!

Oh, hello. I didn't see you. You kind of startled me there. Seriously, what the fuck, dude? Were you raised on the Serengeti or something? Ever hear of knocking first?

Ha, sorry about that. I'm a little on edge here, having parked my ass in front of election returns bombarding me from every 24-hour news source I can find. Look at all the flashy Red and Blue graphics! They're so ... flashy! And divisive! It's We Versus They! Hit The Bricks in '06! Us Good, Them Bad!

And don't forget the wonderfully awkward March of the Stammering Pundits, featuring the comic stylings of men with bright-orange faces trying to fill time when there's nothing yet to say. There's John King, who looks like someone got drunk and PhotoShopped Bill Clinton's face. There's Brit Hume, who looks like he just ate a roll of fiberglas insulation. There's Wolf Blitzer and Jeff Greenfield, stepping all over each other's lines like a pair of 15-year-old street hustlers trying to impress the same girl.

Throw in an uneasy mix of colorful, violent metaphors (like "slugfest", "battle", "bare-knuckle brawl", "bloodletting", and "disembowelment") and timeworn political platitudes, and you've got yourself a wondrous political spectacle. So put on a pot of coffee, Margaret, and let's all stay up together. Until everyone agrees that it's too close to call and it's time to unleash the attorneys.

Deep-60'ed?

Last week Media Bistro sent me this piece from the Wall Street Journal about the future of  "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip." Since a new episode airs tonight, I figured now's a good time to spout off about why this show annoys me so much.

I wanted to like the show, because ever since "Sports Night" I've enjoyed Sorkin's work. They got a megawatt cast and spent fajillions in advance marketing, and suddenly it was nice again to have Sorkin on the air after he left "West Wing" so abruptly. But now, only six episodes in, I'm sour. And here's why:

• The characters are interchangeable. This is a standard Sorkin trope that has been a problem in all his work. I can appreciate characters that are jaded and hyper-intelligent, but they're all that way. They all have the same personality, talk in the same cadence, rattle off the same polysyllabic prattle. This is probably why Steven Weber is my favorite  actor on the show. His on-air persona dares to be different.
• You can't hear a damn thing. This might be the fault of all the street noise outside my building (or my aging, tinnitic ears), but the characters spend so much time speed-mumbling that the only way to understand every word is to rewind your DVR and watch it again, or enable your TV's subtitles. (We do both.) The dialogue is funny and thought-provoking as always, but why do I have to work so hard to appreciate it?
• It's just not believable. Do I think that writer/performers on late-night skit shows jabber urbanely about Kierkegaard and the Hollywood Ten? No. I think they bounce off the walls hopped up on Red Bull with disheveled hair and stained sweatpants. These are comedians, after all, who are nuts. They backbite and cajole and make fart jokes and bang their heads in self-doubt.
• Amanda Peet. She's lovely, but no.
• The same old Sorkinian tics are starting to grate. The worst is each character's need to say "Yeah," except in that blunt staccato that makes it sound like a breathless yuh. Try this: Sit down with a bottle of Wild Turkey tonight and do a shot every time a character says yuh. By the end of the show, you'll be good and crocked.

Given the expense of each episode, NBC's recently announced budget cuts, and the diving ratings, Studio 60 is probably doomed. I'll continue to watch, but I'll probably DVR it and watch on Friday, so I can at least sleep off my hangover.

[EDITED TO ADD: Last night's episode was pretty moderate: only 8 or 9 yuhs, by unofficial count. For some real fun, find a "West Wing" rerun on Bravo. You'll put away so much booze that you won't remember turning off the television.]

His name is my name, too

I have a couple of bones to pick with this site, which told me that although no American person has the first name "Laid-Off," 330 people have the last name "Dad." (Distant relatives, presumably.) First of all, the site's name erroneously equates the same name with the same soul. How many of me are there? One, dammit. And one is enough.

They should have titled it "WhoseCreditCardCanISteal?.com."

I cocked my other eyebrow when I tried my wife's name and found that no one in the United States has that name. In fact, her surname doesn't even exist in this country. So either the site's database is for shit, or I've married into a family of spies.

Wheels up!

Well, that was a nice streak while it lasted. For two nights in a row, I slept for eight hours straight, with no pre-dawn wailings from the Bert Sanctuary. I swear I didn't know what to do with myself. I was positively giddy. Like I'd spent the night sucking down pure oxygen in a hyperbaric chamber.

That all ended at 4 this morning, when the TwoBert Siren went off. Then the whole household woke up two hours later, thanks to the aggressive klutzes who were clanging a bunch of aluminum pipes in the street. Unbelievable, these guys. Monkeys with handbells would have made less noise.

As it turned out, they were very nice Orthodox Greeks who were setting up awnings for their church's first Greek festival. Bazouki music, olive oil, knickknacks, gyros, dolmades, and the best hairy fingers I've ever eaten -- because they were the first hairy fingers I'd ever eaten. So overall, a good experience. It's not every day that someone caters a Greek picnic in your front yard.

In order to throw this picnic, the Greeks had the entire street blocked off. And I chose to read this as a sign. See, when Robert dreamed up his Halloween costume (which included his bike), he and I agreed that after Halloween we'd take the training wheels off. This was a few months ago, and I think Robert thought of this as if he were re-financing a credit card, and there were "No payments until June 2007!" Halloween was way off back then. November? Sure, what the hell, Dad. November it is.

Well, November was today, and we had the whole street as our practice rink. And the results were ... mixed. Much of the neighborhood heard him express his displeasure out in front of the bike shop, but eventually he went for it. He made his way up and down the street a few times without incident, but the list of things he bumped into included 1) a tree, 2) a scaffold support, and 3) a fortunately good-natured young woman who was trying to buy a Greek cookbook.

So we took off for some grassier, less peopled turf. He did OK for about 10 minutes, until he somehow flew off the bike sideways and landed on his ear. After which he got up and said, "I'm through Daddy! This is nonsense!" and stalked off to uproot a small hedge.

Stay tuned on this one, because I'm not sure if he's ready for two wheels. He was in a real fit of pique -- one that even the hairiest finger couldn't calm.

The neighbors are restive, part I

The great thing about living in a rent-stabilized building, in this neighborhood and in this real estate market, is that once you're in, it would take herd of rabid wildebeests to get you out. There isn't a lot of neighbor turnover, so we've been fortunate to get to know and depend on our hallmates over a long period of time. It's just like a cozy, suburban neighborhood, only with a garbage chute in the center of town.

Unfortunately, that's about to change, because two of our favorite neighbors are in states of flux, having had the unmitigated gall of finding True Love.

The first, shockingly enough, is the Hunk Next Door. I mentioned last week that he moved out, but I left out the fact that he now lives with his new wife. (I know ... I was as shocked as you are.) After he lost his job and traveled around the globe for a year, he fell arse-over-kettle for a woman he met, a lawyer. Long story short, they 1) started a non-profit organization devoted to minimizing domestic violence against women, 2) got pregnant (on purpose, he unconvincingly swears), and 3) got married last month. I am having fun thinking of his break-neck transition from sucking Jell-O shots from models' navels to wiping spit-up off his Hugo Boss lapels.

They are a great couple, and they will have a great life together. And judging from its parents, this child's furious beauty will send the masses to their knees in wretched, self-abnegating worship.

The new neighbor is a young woman fresh out of law school. She's just started working for a huge firm and is rarely home. A win-win for us, because we never hear as much as a peep through the adjoining wall. The downside is that she hasn't found the time to set up the wireless web access that we lie poised to poach. Sure wish she'd get on that.

Blop till you drop!

It's Day 2 of the Blopathon, and I'm pleased as punch. Eden reports that there are hundreds and hundreds and billions of blogs signing on for a month of keyboard pounding. Bloppers are poised to funnel many, many hours into writing and reading and commenting on blog entries, and away from other pastimes, like work. I'm telling you now: Watch corporate earnings reports for 4Q06. If companies start revising their EPS estimates downward, you'll know why.

I'm also ecstatic to tell you that for the first time since before I can remember, I am operating on Eight. Uninterrupted. Hours. Of. Sleep. All I can say is that I finally got religion and decided to crash early. I watched Lost with my wife (who was a blubbering blubbertons during that final scene) and went to bed, and the next morning -- glory of glories -- I was awakened by my alarm clock, instead of by a child doing a half-gainer onto my sternum.

Today has been amazing. Food tastes better! The air smells better! Politics seem less strangled by special interests and dominated by petulant millionaires smearing shitballs up each other's noses!

OK, that last one's a reach.

I suppose we'll have plenty of time to discuss politics until Election Day. In the meantime, do you suppose someone could fill John Kerry's mouth full of jujubes and stick him in a closet until Wednesday?

BlopMonth, Day One: The horror!

What better way to kick off a month of Blopping than to give a quick recount of Halloween?

Months ago, Robert decided he wanted to be a race-car driver. So Moxie found him a track suit with billions of little advertising patches on it, and I helped pimp his ride to look like Lightning McQueen. TwoBert, content to be an accessory, toddled alongside dressed as a checkered flag.

The first stop was an all-out sugar orgy over at Stuyvesant Town, where hundreds of little kids got hopped up on candy bars and waited until the early cover of night to run away from their harried parents. Then we trick-or-treated through our friends' building, and the boys showed off their very diverse approaches.

Robert really loved pretending his bike could go Mach 5, but when it came time to knock on doors his heart was never in it. He kind of sat to the side and rolled his eyes while the candy was handed out, as if begging strangers for Fun-Sized Butterfingers was somehow demeaning. (This is my influence, I'm afraid, since on the whole I've always thought that Halloween is a pretty retarded concept.)

Conversely, this was TwoBert's first Halloween on two legs, and he made the most of it. At the first couple of doors, he ran right past the candy bowls and made himself comfortable in people's living rooms. Then, after he caught on that candy was being dispensed, he started greeting people at their doors and giving his candy to them.

Despite these false starts, both boys took down a major haul before we headed back home, plastic pumpkins hanging off the back of our stroller like a pair of majestic, candy-filled testicles.

And what Halloween would be complete without stopping by the Casa de Freakshow? Pretty tame, really. Just a dummy of Col. Sanders covered in blood, holding a dead, plucked chicken in one hand and a bucket with "Unhappy Meal" written on it in the other.

Oh, and a sign saying "WELCOME TRICK-OR-TREATERS!"

We passed.