Laid-Off Dad

Life imitates art imitating life emitting poop

My wife comes home tonight after 3+ days away on business. Needless to say there hasn't been much time to attend to much of anything, much less write. For the last three days I've followed the same basic loop:

1. Awake at 6:30 to Robert's clarion call: "TwoBert wants out!"
2. Spend 14 hours chasing down Robert's line drives and deciphering TwoBert's sentences (which, though darling, remain rife with crippled syntax).
3. Crack a Beer of Achievement when the boys are finally squirreled away to bed.
4. Pass out on the couch after two swigs.

Tuesday was the first real effing hot day of the summer, and none of us wanted any part of being outside. We just weren't emotionally ready. We were lucky, then, to find the Discovery Channel's Dirty Jobs marathon; I hadn't seen the show before, but now I'm hooked on its ability to pull me into the grossness. There was this one episode with a guy who crawls inside clogged septic tanks and grease traps and I swear I almost horked on the floor right there. It's an awesome show, but with a caveat.

TwoBert is deep in learning the Ways of the Potty. He is also a reincarnated Greek Olympian, because he loves to hang out around the house wearing nothing but a smile and a pair of sandals. Right as one of the episodes was ending, TwoBert dropped a turd on the rug, stepped in it, and walked over to tell me about it. So I spent the next half hour MacGyvering all that poop out of my life with rug cleaner and a toothbrush.

So yeah, Mike, your show is a fun hour. But until you give a few stay-at-home parents a call, you're just shoveling grease.

A nellypants by any other name would suck as much

I suppose parents are always aware that this little person they've made will one day declare something that cements his Otherness. Control is an illusion, after all, and every dad needs to nurture any attempt by his son to think for himself, to evolve into his own person with his own dreams and allegiances, no matter how objectionable they might seem. Accept a child for who he is, or lose him forever.

So you can imagine my inner conflict when Robert took his stance in the batter's box last week and steadfastly affirmed, "I'm Alex Rodriguez!" Which is roughly on a par with:

• I'm Stalin!
• I'm Press Secretary for the Bush White House!
• I'm a divorce lawyer!

For the last few months, I've come to grips that my son is ... wait for it ... a Yankees fan. [As the bile bubbles over my epiglottis.] The sad truth is that I'm the dipshit who brought Robert to Yankee Stadium for his First Live Baseball Experience, thus igniting what might be a lifelong passion for the Stupid Dumb Yankees. It's also true that A-Rod is the best hitter in baseball this year, and that if he stays healthy he'll eventually shatter the career home run record that Stupid Dumb Barry Bonds is bound to break.

All that notwithstanding, A-Rod is still the namby-pamby nellypants who tried to swat the ball out of Arroyo's glove and bush-leagued the Jays into letting a pop-up fall for a hit. I'm too old to really hate any team or any player, because life is complex, and everyone has good in there somewhere, etc. But I hate A-Rod and all that he stands for. And the thought that my sweet little boy wants to emulate him makes me want to stick fondue forks in my ears until they meet in the middle.

Yesterday provided an interesting problem, because both Robert and his friend Seamus wanted to be A-Rod. So Robert said, "How about this? You be A-Rod, and I'll be Alex Rodriguez, and we'll pretend that we forget they're the same thing." My esteem for his problem-solving skills was tempered by having two nellypantses to deal with.

Tonight I'm trying the only A-Rod Antidote I can think of by taking Robert to Shea Stadium, courtesy of one of the most rabidest Mets fans I know. Much of the night will be spent trying to get A-Rod off his radar; if I have to bankrupt myself on Stupid Dumb Metsaphernalia, it'll be worth every penny.

No.1 down, No.2 to go

Ladies and gentlemen, the HOT BADASS summer has begun. Actually, it began on Father's Day, when during our Epic Quadruple-Header Robert crushed this line drive right back up the box. In one of the great examples of sacrificing physical being for the sake of cutting-edge photojournalism, I had about half a second to snap the photo before I ducked and covered.

After two days of full-time fatherhood, I can tell you two things. One, it's absolutely the best job in the world, one that inspires me as nothing else has to be as boredom-proof as possible. (Unfortunately, someone out there has set the bar pretty goddamn high.) And two, I can't fathom how full-time parents with more than one kid manage to update their blogs as often as they do. So here's a healthy bit of genuflecting to those of you whose multitasking skills far outweigh mine.

On Sunday afternoon I asked TwoBert if he wanted to go pee in his little dog-dish pottything. He said "OK," walked on over, struck a contorted Pilates pose over the potty (sort of a split-legged push-up with arching spine), and filled my heart with the Amber Liquid of Hope. If there could be a better portent for great things to come over the next ten weeks, I'd like to see it.

Granted, I got about five minutes to gush over him and fill my head with thoughts of a diaper-free lifestyle before he stood about five feet from the potty and let loose two Steaming Stalagmites of Not Quite Yet. But I am undaunted; into every potty-trainer's life, a little corn must fall.

De León ain't got shit on me, dawg

Yesterday while playing hoops someone fired me a perfect pass right under the basket. But I looked toward the hoop too soon, and the ball bent back my left pinkie and drew blood from under the nail. (I know: Awesome!) It now looks like a super-appetizing link of blueberry sausage and is taped to my ring finger, so my left hand isn't much more than a lobster claw. Typing, which has always been a labor of love, is now just a labor. Yet I soldier on, flailing at the keyboard and feeling like a concert pianist wearing oven mitts.

A few months ago I re-subscribed to Time Out New York, which has been a great resource since it debuted here in 1995. The listings are exhaustive and usually dependable; if nothing else, it tells you about doings of which you'd normally have no clue, like Capoeira exhibitions and Sorrento Cheese festivals, and it reminds me why I pay around half my take-home to live in my little trailer in the sky.

TONY's filler articles are more hit-or-miss, but in last week's issue they published this quiz, which calculates your "New York" age. If you're over 40, I recommend you take the quiz right away, because the wiry, cranked-up hipster-doofi who wrote it slice four years off your age just for living here. Because 40-year-olds are senior citizens who deserve respect, and isn't it cute how they manage to haul their frail, wobbly bones out of their homes each day to take in a little culture on their way to refill their Flomax prescriptions?

Anyway, I took the quiz. Thanks to that opening minus-4, I was down to 37, and each answer like this one shaved another ring off my trunk:

• Bugaboo frogs are extravagant yuppie accessories.
• I read blogs.
• I rarely take cabs.
• Coney Island is about to succumb to the relentless "WalMcStarbucksization" that is taking over NYC.
• I know who KRS-One is.
• I like dim sum.

See? Not all that challenging, because the hipster-doofi have set the bar low enough for their pet ferrets to hurdle it. And you know what my New York age is?

15.

So, dude. Can you buy me some beer? I'll totally pay you back.

The movie never ends; it goes on and on and on and on

Last night, I went to a Sopranos finale party. Tonight, I was rocking a flu-ridden TwoBert to sleep when he vomited banana-cream goop all down my front.

Up until about an hour ago, I was struggling to figure out which experience was more satisfying.

On its first viewing, the ending just plain pissed me off. I bought into all that tension that Chase so expertly built (as he has done so many times before), and when it ended so abruptly (as it has done so many times before) I just felt used. Sucker-punched. Chase had orchestrated some intense drama over the last few episodes. He made us think that he had changed, baby. He wasn't like that no more. But when crunch time came, he couldn't make a narrative choice. So he left it up to us and walked away, middle fingers raised dismissively over his head.

But then I watched it again, on the DVR, and stuff started nagging at me.

[*** SPOILER ALERT ***]

Where had I seen those Boy Scouts before? Why focus on the lone trucker, or the Man in Members Only Jacket (as he was actually credited)? Why delay Meadow with her parallel parking? There's purpose to this, somehow. Those people factored into the Soprano backstory, and their presence is significant.

And now I firmly believe that Tony died in that Holsten's booth. He reacted to the bell on the door, looked up reflexively, and before he knew it somebody capped him in the side of the head. When Tony's guys drilled Phil Leotardo in the gas station, we were meant to understand how you don't see it coming. If nothing else, Chase is very fond of cleavering us with foreshadowing.

Remember back in the Dark Ages, when an episode aired exactly twice (first viewing and summer rerun) and its only hope of resurfacing was in syndication, years after its cultural relevance had expired? Now we have DVRs, chat rooms, DVD sales, and drama geeks can deconstruct everything with split-second screen grabs. We can dissect and go play on chat rooms and delve deeply into all the little stuff that film-makers used to put in there to amuse themselves, convinced no one else would ever pick up on it.

It's a great time to be alive. With or without the bananabarf.

Thin blue lines, thin crusts, and thin skin

When Robert and I were in Orlando in March (and kneeling before the small, plastic, bumpy altar), I saw the "NYPD Pizza Delicatessen" and thought it was a little odd. Of all the things to name your pizza place after, why choose a law-enforcement body? Even after all the post-9/11 accolades (and those FDNYPD caps that do a brisk business down by Ground Zero), the picture of an NYPD officer conjures many images -- but "gooey cheese" isn't one of them.

I also wondered if the NYPD sanctioned the use of its name for such an enterprise, since the pizza joint's logo is a dead ringer for the NYPD badge that cops wear on their sleeves. As it turns out, it didn't, and I read today that it's suing over copyright infringement. They've been tussling legally for years, but now the NYPD wants to serve and protect its image and market itself through "official channels."

They might also have taken umbrage at the "Loiuma Special," a small pie topped with Haitian black beans and sliced broomsticks.

... and four

I forgot two tell you two things. First, in a nice case of numerical serendipity, I happened on my 500th monthday to load my 500th song on my iPod. It's Maroon 5's "Makes Me Wonder," a zippy, raspy dance tune that currently accompanies my morning boogie-walk to work. It also ups my music cred because it was released later than 1993.

And second, on my way down to reunion on Friday, I realized that this blog is now four years old. Which meant I happened to spend my blog birthday in total autonomy, at the wheel of my rented PT Cruiser on the I-95 corridor. If you're a father of two, and you've spent many an afternoon warding off love-bites with one hand and wiping a butt with the other, is there a better way to spend your blog birthday than Cruising along an empty highway with the sun high in the sky and nowhere in particular to be? Until, that is, you land in the lap of about 10 old-school friends and start re-hashing all of your first-year barf stories?

I think not.

Except that PT Cruisers are dopey cars, and I can't recommend them because the chassis points a little downward, and it makes you feel like at any moment you could tunnel beneath the earth's crust and never be heard from again.

Five hundred, and twenty

At my 20th reunion this weekend, I appeared on the panel at our class's State-Of-Your-Life  seminar, where we talked about our career paths and by how much they've diverged from our grandiose plans. The highlight of the afternoon came when the moderator asked us, "What's the best thing about turning 40?" And a response came: "Not giving a shit about what people think anymore."

Amen, sister.

Let me tell all you 30-year-old guttersnipes: Reunions get better with age, when people put the brakes on all that Ain't-I-Cool Preening and let what's left of their hair down. You talk, you laugh, you drink, you hug, you drink some more, and you dance your nerdful booty-shake at the dance parties without a care in the world. It's truly exhilarating.

(Oh, and I may have mentioned this blog while I was up there on the dais, so if you were there, or you heard the podcast, "WA-HOO-WAH, bitches!")

If you're new to this blog, you also might not know that I turned 500 months old over Memorial Day weekend. And you know what's strange? If you tell someone you're 500 months old, you might expect that person's eyes to glaze over because a) you're old, and b) you have command of your 12-times tables. But during the few times it came up in conversation, the people I talked to were receptive. One of them actually said, "Whoa! Forty-one and two thirds! Awesome!" Which is why it's great to have friends that keep stoking the furnace of the ol' Geek Train. (Remember, I was an engineer for a semester.)

I had planned a gathering for the actual date, but a lot of friends were out opening up beach houses, marrying off siblings, etc., so I postponed it. I thought it would be cool to have it on D-Day (since D is the Roman numeral for 500 and my first initial), but I thought better of it. That geek factor would have been too much to bear, even for me.

Nevertheless, the day was a good one. Nana and Granddad came to down with Robert's old trike, and TwoBert insists on riding this thing at just about every waking moment. Just as his brother did. He's too short to churn the pedals yet, but he knows enough to bear down on the handle bars and scream "fasterfasterrunningrunning!" When he's finally able to power this thing on his own, and the two boys start propelling themselves in different directions at speeds faster than I can run, that's when trips to the playground will take on a whole new dimension. And Daddy's hamstrings will inevitably stage a walkout.

Much like they are now, after all of this weekend's nerdful booty-shaking.