Laid-Off Dad

Barrels of fun

I'm writing this amid a carful of bourbonthusiasts cruising distilleries from Louisville to Lexington, on a cloudless, 70-degree day. It's sort of like Sideways, but with twice as many guys and the only bungholes are filled with yellow poplar.

If you have the chance to come here and do this, I recommend it. I wasn't sure if my aging carcass could handle seven straight hours of shots like it did half my life ago, but so far I'm mostly cogent and able to type this out on my phone.

By the best moment came from our tour guide at Woodford Reserve, who managed to make his thoroughly pedantic antics very enjoyable. This is a man with true passion for bourbon, and whatever you do DO NOT CALL JACK DANIELS BOURBON BECAUSE WHOA NELLY IT IS NOT YOU PHILISTINE PUNTERS.

I'll try to write in greater detail when I'm less buzzed and less in desperate need of a nap. Because since I wrote that thing about my body holding up well, it has totally Romneyed on me. Time to power down before we stock up.

The science of arithmeticulousness

I really like math, and even though I'm glad my kids' school stresses math skills as much as it does, I'm not sure I understand the need for every kid to answer a Math Fact within three seconds. Frankly, I'd rather TwoBert figure a sum out by counting on his fingers than be told he has to rely on rote memorization.

The school is also really into having parents sign things, especially when it comes to practicing math facts. Every night, each son has to practice math for at least 10 minutes, and the parent has to certify that this vital practice did indeed actually in fact happen.

And woebetide the father who tilts at the efficiency windmill and tries conducting these sessions with both kids at the same time:

"OK. What's 3 + 5"?

"Duh. That's way too easy."

"IT IS NOT! DAAAD!"

"Stop taunting your brother."

"Dad. Ask me what the square root of 49 is."

"Why ask that if you already know the answer?"

"Because he doesn't know what a square root is."

"YOU'RE THE SQUARE ROOT OF STUPID!"

"Calm down."

"I'M GONNA PUNCH HIM IN THE BUTT!"

"RELAX. Both of you."

"Yeah, relax, Stupid."

"THREE PLUS FIVE IS EIGHT, STUPID!"

"Let me ask you something, hot shot. What's the cosine of 45 degrees?'

"Um. I don't know."

"Are you stupid?"

"No. I just don't know that yet."

"OK. Do you think your brother will know what a square root is one day?"

"Maybe."

"YES I WILL."

"I think so, too. So is he stupid?"

[pause] "Yes."

"AM NOT! I JUST DON'T KNOW IT YET!"

"Answer the question."

[pause]

"Ms. [Redacted] says 'stupid' is a 'bathroom word'."

"Don't get me started."

One last thing

I know. The election took a lot out of all of us. We were all on pins and needles on Tuesday night, and after all the agony and ecstasy from Election Night, we're all a little spent. Last night, the 10yo came home with an assignment to poll 10 people about the election (because my kid's school is run by a bunch of sick, sick bastards), and I almost didn't have the heart to have him call his grandparents in Ohio. They've only just begun answering the phone again without wincing.

I'm only going to mention this last idea, and then I'm through. Promise.

A lot of people are really pissed off that our president was re-elected, and three of them are my parents and sister, whose red votes were washed away by blue victories. Apart from this political defect, they're perfectly lovely people. But whenever I ask them about why they vote the way they do, they've never articulated anything to me beyond I just don't like him. And I say this fully aware that communication takes two, and that this impasse is just as likely my fault as theirs.

I really want to know what Republicans are pissed off about, beyond the usual birtherism, Secret Muslimism, He Hates Americanism, Non-White Freeloaders Want Thingsism nonsense that's beneath consideration. Do you disagree with Obama's social beliefs? Think he'll spend us through more debt ceilings? Overtax wealthy people?

If you're willing to share your concerns, leave them in the comments. And four years from now, we'll be able to look back at this and see whether the sky did indeed fall.

There's got to be some way to help bridge the gap, because not much about this obdurate gridlock is funny. Except the fact that Karl Rove spent $200 million in PAC money and backed exactly zero winners with it. That's freakin' hiLARious.

Yes he did. Again.

Yesterday's electoral experience was a lot different from what I'd grown accustomed to over the years. I've voted for eight presidents now, but this was the first time I've done so where 1) the electoral votes were considered up for grabs, and 2) I wasn't in a booth cranking a lever older than I was. Voting was quick, easy, and overseen by representatives of both parties--a man with a plaid shirt and gray ponytail, and a woman in pressed jeans and an Hermès scarf.

They'd been instructed not to reveal which party they belonged to.

Later, I helped with a dramatic reading of alarmist, pre-election status updates organized by my friend Kristen:

I watched the returns at a Michigan Radio event held at the downtown Buffalo Wild Wings. (Which people here inexplicably refer to as the "BW3." Where's the third W? I ask you.) I got there just in time for the networks to call Michigan for the president; the roars got louder with each announcement (Stabenow, Warren, Pennsylvania), and when CNN finally called it, the joy rivaled New Year's Eve in Times Square. Just acres of happy bedlam.

A lot's been said today about two years, $6 billion of spending, 20 Republican debates, that resulted largely in the status quo. But it's not the status quo. We've got an Asian, legless Congresswoman, a lesbian Senator, and three fewer misogynist pinheads. More gay people can marry each other, more adults can legally possess marijuana, and more porn actors will throw fits over whether they have to wear condoms.

Good times!

The best part, for me, was that the real winner last night was Math. Of all the chicanery and posturing among the pundits who were paid to sit behind their laptops and just say stuff to fill time, Mr. FiveThirtyEight's data models blew them all away. And I love how he says "If I were to make a bet" rather than "If I were to predict." When it comes to his data, he's willing to be accountable for what he says and take a material hit if he's wrong. As opposed to others who merely shrug it off and live to bloviate another day. 

When I had lunch with Moxie today, she regaled me about our son's gleeful geekery last night. Apparently he stayed up for the whole thing, made flawless predictions, and his first words this morning were, "Did Obama take Florida?"

I can see why I've sired Nate Silver, Jr. I don't want to brag or anything, but when it comes to presidential races, I've backed the winner two times in a row. Spooky, right?

What a long, strange, wasteful, puerile, stupefying trip it's been

On this momentous day, when we can all let our voices be heard and plumb the depths of whatever is left of our republic, I am taking my kids with me to vote. Because it is Important. Because I want to inspire them to take part in our process. And because I have no choice: they're off school today, and Moxie is out canvassing in Royal Oak.

Among the silver linings of our process is that it makes celebrities out of probability geeks like Nate Silver. The latest developments have been encouraging for Obama supporters, to be sure, but Silver did make one important point this morning: Even though his models show a 90% chance of an incumbent victory, that does NOT mean a Democratic victory is assured. The election will be close, and every vote counts. (Unless, of course, you believe in all the trumped-up bullshit the GOP is shoveling about voter fraud.)

Speaking of Silver, I'm reading his new book, The Signal and the Noise, which makes a useful distinction between information and knowledge. We humans can only process a small fraction of the stimuli we see every day, so our defense mechanism is to focus our overtaxed brain cells on the information that reinforces what we already believe. It makes sense, then, that the Internet has polarized us so, but it's not unprecedented when you consider all the turbulence and revolutions and crusades that happened after the arrival of the Gutenberg printing press.

Be strong, America. It's almost over. I hope. Please tell me it will be over tonight, and all the lawyers who are poised in a three-point stance, twitching to go challenge something, will be told to stand down. 

I still believe

It's Election Day Eve! (Or, for the 31 million or so of Americans who've already voted, Monday!) The children are nestled, all snug in their beds--except for TwoBert, who built a nest out of couch pillows and Super Mario blankets and passed out smack dab in the middle of the living room floor. 

It's been a fun week as the end of this madness approaches. The 10yo, flush off learning about the Electoral College, has been playing with CNN's dangerously named "ecalculator"; he's gamed a few actual scenarios, but he mostly likes to treat it like a game of Risk, as the "Red Menace" slowly swallows up the peaceful nation-states of "Bluetopia." 

Election Day Eve also means it's less than 24 hours before I can turn off my spam filter that bins every e-mail with the word "Friend" in it. Seriously, folks. The online Carpet (O)Bombing has been relentless. And then there was this thing, which promised to tell me how many people with my name had already voted! Because David Axelrod thinks we're all nine years old, or something.

Despite this, I'm voting for Obama. I could attempt to list all my reasons why I like our president (the stimulus worked, the auto bailout worked, net jobs have increased, bin Laden is dead, soldiers can say and tell), and why Romney says everything and tells us nothing; he's just an opportunistic yachtsman who tacks furiously left and right whenever necessary to advance against a steady headwind.

For me, however, one of the most persuasive reasons to vote for Obama is that Donald Trump hates his guts, and I think the world would be a much better place if more people's brains worked in the diametrically opposite way that Trump's does.

Tomorrow's a big day, America. Let's hope our president is decidedly decided before it's over, and that Citizens United is a distant memory before the next one comes around.

They were ready for some football

Over the past few years, the 10yo's needle has leaned pretty strongly to the right on the Jock-Nerd scale. He played a bunch of sports when he was younger, but when he discovered Monty Python and Douglas Adams and Dave Barry, athleticism sort of fell away in his rear-view mirror.

Given the choice, I'd much rather raise a nerd. But boys are boys, and posturing is posturing, so I'd like that nerd to at least know what a post-pattern is, even if he never actually runs one.

Football never came up as a discussion topic. Not even when the game was on. But then, a few months ago, he came home from a Don't Call It A Playdate having spent the afternoon playing NCAA 2K9 for the Wii. And he was exploding with questions. What's a zone blitz? How do you show trips right? WHAT IN THE NAME OF HUMANITY IS A NICKELBACK?

(No.)

I found a copy of the game online for about six bucks, and he's enamored of it. Devising strategies, relishing big hits, and--since the Wii rewards kinetic activity--celebrating TDs like he just got Churched Up.

Then came the truly rapturous revelation that you can name every player anything you want. Which is pretty powerful catnip for the 10-year-old mind. (Just ask Michigan's new placekicker, Anus Apenuts.)

 He studied the game intently. He learned what LOLB stands for, and began arguing pass-interference calls. But his interest had always fallen short of learning to throw an actual spiral.

Until this morning, when this child, this born-again exertophobe, challenged me to a game of touch football. He and his brother against me, winner take all. (He soon clarified that "all" had nothing to do with his Halloween candy.)

So I laced up my shoes and met my sons on our newly-raked gridiron, and early on, the going was tough. TwoBert was just happy to be along for the fun, and he had some difficulty as a wide receiver. Soon, however, it became apparent that he was much more suited for quarterback, and before it was over he'd thrown 11 TD passes in an 84-70 win. 

The winners did take all. And the loser took all the Advil.

My city was gone

It's Daylight Savings Eve, and the boys and I are celebrating the extra hour with a double feature MegaMind and Captain America. Tales of heroes, villains, and villains who become heroes, ensarled in epic battles of world conquest. 

This is the 10yo's favorite adjective. Everything is EPIC. The latest Riordan book he's reading. The tackle that guy made. Last night's barbecue-chicken tacos. He uses it so much that he dilutes its meaning terribly. Like the unfortunate souls who describe anything moderately favorable as AWESOME.

So I told him: The true show of EPIC is the storm that slammed into his home town and devastated his dad's home state. We've looked at so many pictures, read so many stories, watched so much network news. The amount of destruction has been awesome, in the truest sense, but he's only 10. It's still seems like a movie to him.

And the truth is, I feel as weirdly distanced from it as he does.

My sons may have moved on to their new lives as Michiganders, but I'm still feeling a surprising amount of survivor's guilt. I was there right before it happened, for a Dad 2.0 Summit event, and I skedaddled out of town not 24 hours before they shut down the subways. I should be there now, opening up my home to people who need to recharge, literally and figuratively.

Even though the power is coming back on, and the subways are mostly running again, the fan blades are still coated in shit. People need help, and I'm going back a few days early for Thanksgiving to see what I can do.

I've been keeping tabs on the NYC Service FB page and Twitter feed, and I'm looking for something I can do during that week. If you've volunteered, or know someone who has, please send me some leads in the comments. 

More on this later

During these last few days before the election, it's really easy to focus on how much money each side is spending to shit on the other. I know I have, now that I no longer live in such a deeply-blue state like New York. Despite raging debates over six ballot proposals, Michigan has been relatively spared from the Obamney Barrage.

But Ohio is just getting hammered.

So far, about $181 million (or one-fifth of the nationwide total) in campaign money has been spent in Ohio, spreading fact-free nonsense like this. When you consider that Ohio's operating budget for schools has been slashed by $700 million for 2012-13, it's hard not to think that we're doing it wrong.

And Jesus, are we ever. Humans are singularly oustanding at making a pudding of things.

As strange as it feels to watch it from so far away (more on this later), though, I'm deriving a lot of joy watching my home turf clean up after Hurricane Sandy. I'm seeing nurses evacuating dark hospitals up and down several flights of stairs. I'm seeing firemen conduct a bucket brigade bringing oil to rooftop generators. I'm seeing floods of outreach from those who were spared to those who were not.

Plus:

• I met Doug Flutie and talked a lot with him about fatherhood (more on this later).
• My younger son finished his first soccer season, which I coached, and actually won a game (more on this later).
• My older son is curious enough to care what SPQR means (more on this later).
• I live in a neighborhood where lots of people care what SPQR means.
• I tried making my first pot roast last night, and it kicked major ass (more on this later).
• The 10yo actually ate a piece of it--after I told him it was a prerequisite before any more Halloween candy.
• It tasted even better today.

The kids are healthy, the power is on, the boiler works, and we will celebrate all with a French Fryday Bacchanal of tacos and "The Pirates! Band of Misfits."

I don't know where these high spirits are coming from (I think I blame Gretchen Rubin), but I'm going to enjoy them while they're here.

Much, much more on this later.

When two neologisms love each other very much

Happy November, everyone! Nov. 1 is one of my favorite days of the year, because we can finally dispense with all the ridiculous Halloween Stuff and concentrate fully on all the only-slightly-less-ridiculous Holiday Stuff. I'm happy to say that my sons enjoyed Halloween as much as I endured it, each staggering home with almost five pounds of ill-gotten booty. (Which I will always think of as "ill-booten gotty.")

The 10yo was a Roman warrior of some kind, and I won't tell you the actual name of the warrior because I will get it wrong, and he will correct me derisively.

The 7yo wanted to dress as ... me. So we came up with matching hats, glasses, fleeces, and omnipresent smartphones, the last of which was his emphatic idea. Because, apparently, my mobile device has become the most salient part of my personality.

The two announcements I have for today aren't all that related, but they're about to be. 

First: For the third Movember in a row, I'll be growing a mustache to raise money for research into testicular and prostate cancers. If you have anything left after you've texted REDCROSS to 90999 as often as you can in order to help victims of Hurricane Sandy's devastation, please click here and give what you can. I and the cancer-stricken and the people who will have to endure my fuzzy lip for the next 30 days will be very grateful.

Second: as you may recall, National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo) was initially conceived to take place during November. I did it for the first time in 2007, beginning with a triumphant mini-rant about cat poop, and I was thinking of doing it again to celebrate five years since the first ascent of Mt. Bloppington.

Then came this Twitter conversation, where the discussion of ladystaches gave rise to a super-polysyllabic mega-term whose time had come. 

I am very proud and eager to be spending this month entrenched in NaBloPoMovember, during which I'll get to write again, LiveStrong will get a pile of cash, and my son will actively resist belly-zerbits.

Win-Win-Lose.