Laid-Off Dad

The unphysical plant

A few months back my decrepit, century-old apartment building was sold for $16 million. The old landlord managed only a handful of buildings, didn't mind if your rent was a week or two late, and skimped mercilessly on every facet of building upkeep. The new landlord presides over hundreds of buildings throughout the tri-state area, sends your name to its in-house legal department if rent is not received by the fifth of the month, and skimps unbelievably on every facet of building upkeep. If you want something done, you need to be an inexorable force of nature, calling every day without fail on a land line while you sit with the DHCR on speed-dial on your cell phone. After several weeks, the new landlord will set a tentative date on which it will consider meeting to form an exploratory committee as the first step toward deciding whether to hash out an informal action plan. And you will spend those weeks rocking back and forth on your toilet and assuring your children that no, this is not a "cool ride."

Two days ago, we found a leak in one of the gas lines that serves the burners on the left side of the stove. Two hours ago I came home to find that our elevator doesn't work, for the umpfuckingteenth time. And 20 minutes ago, I took a not-brief-enough hot-water-less shower. On top of all that, I'm sitting here in the coffee shop typing this because the wireless connection that I usually poach from my neighbor has suddenly vanished, robbing me of the unique pleasure of Recumbent Blogging.

I'd try lying down in this place, but it's too crowded with other people from the building who also want to know whatever happened to "06BDKEIF45MDKJED." And we are all in high dudgeon. Just how are we supposed to notpay for wireless access if the so-called payer is notpaying?

Korea, part I: In which I exult over pants

In the summer of 1996, I spent three weeks in Korea teaching 31 Samsung businessmen how to take the GMAT. I spent my weekdays at the company's pastoral retreat about an hour south of Seoul, and on weekends I was shuttled into the big city to stay with other temporary expat teacher people and drink  enough soju to drop an ox.

It was there where I learned to really love the taste of kim chi, although it took a few days to adjust to having it served to me for breakfast. Those Koreans, they eat that stuff by the bushel, and on my first morning it was laid out in the chow line (next to the Froot Loops, btw) in large trays. I thought they were lasagnas.

There are a lot of stories about Korea that I could tell you, and since I signed up for this fershlugginer blopathon I might as well serialize them here.

The first isn't so much a story as a revelation that stood out as beacon of good news amid the rocky shoals of the work week. Right before I left Korea, I had a wool suit custom-made for my delicious, delicious body. It's a handsome garment, charcoal with a light pinstripe, and whenever I wear it I feel like a real big-shot plutocrat whose crudbunker is lined with shredded $100s.

Now that the temps are in the 40s, I pulled it out to wear to work. And the son-of-a-bitch still fits. And lo, I am gratified.

Report "cards"

Have you seen this cockamamie new plan hatched by Mike "Not Running for President" Bloomberg and Joel "Joel" Klein? They want to create a whole new system of "credibility" among school "principals" by crunching a bunch of "data" -- about graduation "rates" and score "improvements" among "students" -- and assigning "grades" to these "schools" over which they "preside." This is supposed to "improve" the education "system" by granting "funds" to the schools that perform "well" and withholding funds and/or "removing" principals at schools that perform "poorly."

Is this really what New York City schools need? The city's public education system is already a tinderbox of anxious parents and sparring special interests, and this new grade system is Bloomberg's flaming, poo-tipped arrow. The repercussions are already taking hold: volatile property values, disgruntled educators, parents and realtors running around in tizzies. All caused by this arbitrary grade system that condenses myriad considerations into a media-friendly sound bite that effectively dumbs down the true, meaningful dialog--

What's that? Robert's school got an A? Oh. Never mind.

Crestfallen

This End of Daylight Savings Time business is for crap.

And I'm not talking about the usual harangues about how children have no perception of time changes and are therefore up and READY TO PLAY! at ohmygod o'clock. This is my fifth Fall Back as a father, and an "extra hour of sleep" is a laughably distant memory--along with that other rare creature, the 60-degree day.

It's just not fair. City parents live and die by the vagaries of weather, and the best days for outdoor frolic are during that thing called "autumn," when things are "autumnal." The sun is cool enough to avoid sunscreen, yet warm enough not to have to dig through mountains of closetritus to find the winter coats. And have you ever tried to throw a mustard pitch with a poofy parka on? It's comical.

For weeks I've been planning to take the boys out to Nana's and not quit playing in her leaves until they've been pulverized into a fine powder and we're all picking little stems out of our underpants. But the temperatures that had been so stuffy have suddenly dropped into the 40s, and the leaves are still just sitting up there, too stunned to know what to do.

I've been walking home in the dark, windy gloom for days now, wondering Who Killed Autumn. Then today I walked past an Onion kiosk and saw this headline.

Cheney's behind this somehow.

Hell-bent for leather

Lately, I've been noticing people's shoes. (And not just because blog-based acronymity has officially gone off the rails.) Shoes are something we rarely look at (or men rarely look at, anyway), yet they say so much about the wearer. A man can wear the crispest tux on the rack, but a pair of scuffed Doc Martens totally changes the vibe. Shoes can suggest individuality (hubba-hubba!), or herd mentality. I've noticed, for example, that many people who perform improv comedy wear low-cut black Chucks. As if to say, Look at us, in our pugnacious, social defiance! Our methods are arch, but our footwear is archless!

Until last week, someone looking at my shoes would think, "That dude needs a new pair of shoes." I would have soldiered on, oblivious, except that the other day my heel wore down enough to blow a hole in the sole, and it started squeaking whenever I put weight on it. So, as I was in the mood for a change, I ducked into one of the 2oo or so shoe stores in my neighborhood, my gaze seldom leaving ground level.

I was in the market for casual black leather, something that looked sharp yet was comfortable, as I spend a lot of time at work on my feet. I found a pair I liked, and within 48 hours they'd given me a spectacular blister on each inner heel. Yet another new leather product in my life that needs to be broken in.

And thus, the theme of my last three posts has emerged. The cows, they are angry. We take their milk, we grind their flesh to make sliders (um ... baby food?), and when we buy stuff made from their skin, the first order of business is to beat the shit out of it until it's pliable enough to suit us. Which is why they're interrupting us so much.

The Leather Trilogy is ended. I hope you liked it.

Do a little dance, make a little glove

I'm not sure how I ended up with it, but for as long as I can remember I've been playing softball with my sister's glove. It's wonderfully broken in; when you lay it down it lies flat as a flounder. It's also a little on the small side, which I like because I often play third base, and everyone knows that if you want to be anything like Brooks Robinson, arguably the best-fielding third baseman who ever lived, you need a smaller glove so it's easier to get the ball out fast and fire it to first. It's fit me perfectly over the years, and about the only thing wrong with it is that it has MY SISTER'S NAME in big, black capital letters along the left pinkie.

Earlier this summer I was playing the Hot Corner for my college team when a line drive burst through the leather strap that holds all the fingers together. And now they're all splayed out and useless. I thought about finding a guy who could repair it, but by some weird act of synchronicity it just so happens that Robert had outgrown his first mitt and was ready for a new one. Made of leather, like the big boys use. I decided he and I should Have A Moment, so we headed off to the sporting goods store and picked out a new pair of his-and-his baseball mitts.

We picked out a pair of beauties. His is all tan, with a big red "R" logo on the thumb. Mine is blond and tan, with a criss-cross webbing that looks like a checkerboard. It's hard as a rock, but at least my son won't eventually be mortified by his aunt's name on his old man's mitt.

We also got one of those training hardballs, which are softer but still have a good heft to them. And when we got to Fake Grass Field he started firing "mustard pitches" at me that made my palm ring on impact. And I thought, Holy Cripes. Six months ago I was lobbing whiffle balls at him, and now he's already graduated to bringing the heat with a big-boy ball.

Slow it down, kid. Willya?

Pardon the interruption

It is a rule of nature. If you are five, then you are well versed in the Ways of the Knock-Knock. You are especially enamored of this little chestnut:

Knock, knock.
-- Who's there?
Interrupting cow.
-- Interrupting co--
MOOOOO!

It was early Sunday morning. And when I say early, I mean early. As in heading to the 24-hour diner in the dark, early. As in five hours before a childless friend called to say he'd just gotten up, early. As in capital-E-A-R-L-WHY oh why has god forsaken me, early. 

The boys and I ordered our usual and settled at our favorite table, in the corner. We like it because Robert gets to hone his people-watching skills and TwoBert gets to scream DADDY BUS DADDY BUS every time the M103 chugs by. I was counting the seconds until my coffee arrived, but the boys were wired as all get out. So the knock-knock jokes began. TwoBert hasn't quite got the hang of them yet, as best illustrated below:

Me: Knock-knock!
TwoBert: Who's there?
Me: Apple!
TB: Apple who?
Me: Applebee's! Now you try it!

[pause]

TB: Knock-knock!
Me: Who's there?
TB: Applebee's!
Me: No, just say "apple."
TB: Knock-knock!
Me: Who's there?
TB: Applebee's!
Me: Actually, you can just say "app--
TB: MOOOOOO!

So the three of us started riffing on the Iterations of Interruption, and how they can be deployed to the greatest possible annoyance. We used just about every animal we could think of, then moved on to interrupting car horn (HONK!), interrupting trumpet (TOOT!), interrupting nuclear bomb (BOOOM!), and interrupting butt (also TOOT!). Then, out of nowhere, Robert came up with this:

Robert: Knock-knock!
Me: Who's there!
Robert: Interrupting silence!
Me [slightly aghast]: Interrupting ... silence ... who?
Robert: [grins triumphantly]

As if scripted, our food arrived right after that. And as I sliced up the pancakes, pondered Robert's precocious appreciation of Zen koan, and kept TwoBert from biting into one of the syrup squibs, I thought to myself: I am one of the least forsaken people I know.

We would have made it to swim class, but ...

... the thing is, Daddy (who is also a fireman) was trapped in the Disgusting Rocketship by the evil cabal of bad guys named Captain Cardboard, Dr. Shoes, Super Ugly Face, and Captain Hide-Your-Underpants. The Disgusting Rocketship is really Daddy's bed, and he has this pattern on the sheets that kind of looks like a bunch of buttons you can push, so when you're in the Disgusting Rocketship you push a button and something disgusting (like cat poop, or sweaty sock juice, or rotten broccoli soup) falls all over you and gets you all dirty and gross. Luckily, the button right next to it is the one that sucks everything up right away, but it's sort of cruel because just when you think you're finally all cleaned up and presentable one of the bad guys pushes another button and BAM you're all yucky again.

So Daddy was trapped in the Disgusting Rocketship when Super Zap and Superman came along to save him. Except that Super Zap decided he wanted to put his Spider-Man costume on and become Spider-Zap, and the extent of Superman's powers is to tell you who he is over and over and over again. But Spider-Zap and Superman acted quickly and leaped in to save Daddy from all the disgusting detritus torture, and it was working until the bad guys grabbed the super heroes and tied a belt around Spider-Zap's cape so he couldn't fly and threw them into the Disgusting Rocketship with Daddy. And the three of them protected themselves valiantly from the onslaught of rotten asparagus and used baby diapers until Spider-Zap thought of a PLAN! And he broke free of the belt and grabbed Daddy and Superman helped too and all of them were free of the bad guys! And they celebrated by raiding the Halloween candy.

So yeah, the backstroke will have to wait for another day.

All Hallows' Eve, post-script

First of all, thank you all so much for your thoughts and prayers regarding all the waste that dominates my existence. We have taken steps to "Tear Down This Wall (of Stink)," like banning all wet cat food, for one. That stuff was putrescent enough on the way in, for Chrissakes. And we'd like to get one of those enclosed crudbunker domes, but the only place our catbox fits in our whole entire apartment is under the bathroom sink, and the drainpipe hangs down too low for anything over eight inches tall to fit. So we soldier on and make do, while all those around us make doo-doo.

And as for Halloween, there isn't much to tell. Robert's latest obsession is with Spider-Man (which is why I have to lay my hands on a pair of these), but he picked his costume before he knew they made them with huge fake biceps and whatnot. So when we went out on Wednesday he insisted on stuffing his sleeves with a bunch of my socks. TwoBert was a Two-Eyed, No-Horned, Flightless Purple People-Biter, which was basically a homemade suit made with shaggy, purple fabric that 1) was darling as hell and 2) shed like a fothermucker.

We went to a neighborhood party that spiraled quickly into mayhem. The field was crowded and muddy, and within seconds the boys sped off in opposite directions. Robert hooked up with his friends , who immediately began knocking each other over, and TwoBert fled to the dance floor to rock out to "Monster Mash." We got some candy, a moderate haul, but soon it was time to flee, our muddy socks leaking out of our wristholes.

Blop about plop

"Like boxes of shit in your house? Get a cat."

As we gather our belongings, test our oxygen tanks, and start along the soft, mossy foothills of Mt. Bloppington, we begin the upward march with a post about ... turds.

Life was easy, once. Robert was in training pants, TwoBert was a fetus, and we had a tiny, elderly cat that ate about five ounces of food per month. Our Poop Quotient was nice and low, and our little apartment smelled mostly like feet or Tide, depending on how recently we'd done laundry.

Then TwoBert emerged, in all his pants-filling glory, but we were ready. We'd ridden through Diaper Junction before, and we knew what the return trip would entail. Besides, soon after TwoBert arrived the cat died, apparently convinced there was no way it could compete with a second little human.

But then, about a year ago, we started seeing mice. Apartment buildings are fragile ecosystems housing many species that usually keep to themselves, unless something cataclysmic -- say, the replacement of a sewer pipe -- upsets the tenuous balance. So after the building's poop chute got a reno job, the mice fled upstairs and found lots of furniture to scurry behind, laying billions of little mini-turds in their wakes.

I caught a few of them, and swept up all their little caraway seeds of excrement. But we didn't see the last of them until the arrival of new kittens, Alex Rodriguez and Princess Blossom Pepper Doodle Von Yum-Yum, who now patrol our place vigilantly.

The side effect of all this mouse-freedom, however, is that these two cats are pooping machines. And the stuff they poop puts off a vile stink that assaults your nose like a right cross. Head toward the catbox at an inopportune time, and it's lights out, amigo.

I get home two hours before my wife every day, and when I walk in the door it's my job to make a beeline for the crudbunker and unearth all the day's poo. And I'm sick to death of it. Seriously. It's infected my brain. There's this bulletin board at work with pictures of new employees on it. The sign above says "NEW FACES," and I swear I walked past it yesterday and thought it said "NEW FECES."

I've always had trouble comprehending how anyone could keep a dog in a city apartment. All those "walkies" at inopportune times and in inclement weather just never registered as worth the effort. But I have to tell you, as our Poop Quotient spirals out of control (yes, TwoBert, I'm looking at you), the idea of keeping the poo out there, instead of in here, looks awfully appealing.