31 July 2009
Foot Fetish
20 July 2009
The Wake-Up Bomb
14 July 2009
Say it ain't so.
Okay, so this is probably old news. I tried denying it at first, but I guess I have to start working on acceptance. This will be one very rare occasion where I discuss sports. Only to say that I am severely disappointed and may never watch basketball again:
10 July 2009
The Birthday Party
No, no, it’s not what you’re thinking. I’m not planning on mounting a new production of the first play by Nobel Prize winner Harold Pinter. The wife and I are starting to plan one for our son. Quite different. Not so bleak. Less absurdity. No cockney accents. Well, of course, it hasn’t happened yet. So I can’t really promise anything. But nobody dies.
I don’t think.
Anyway, so yeah, my son is verging on turning one year old. How did this happen? Where did the time go? I am rapidly becoming a very old man. I’m still not used to it (this whole being a parent gig). Does anybody ever really get used to it? I mean, to put this in perspective, there are certain TV series that I’ve been watching longer than he’s been on this planet. A lot longer. That’s just plain weird.
One of those series is Rescue Me. And its current season has been a very bright spot in the otherwise arid desert of summer TV programming (Dance Your Ass Off? Really?) And honestly, this might be the best show on television. I’m just saying. It could even (almost) be described as Pinteresque (see what I did there?) in its commingling of darkness and levity, in its black-comic brilliance. It is one of the few shows on TV—pretty much ever—to not only embrace, but actually get the concept of absurdity.
But I was talking about that birthday party. It’s a very amusing undertaking as the guest of honor goes to bed early, doesn’t really speak, and won’t even realize he’s being celebrated. This has not stopped an entire industry from rising up around this occasion. Recently, we received not only an entire first birthday-centric catalogue in the mail—oh wait, Pinteresque absurdity in action, after all—but also a handy, detailed checklist of necessary items from a well-meaning, kid-friendly neighborhood chain store—one with a very long-necked spokesperson/icon/mascot. And I’m guessing that all of these items (commemorative bib? really?) are conveniently available for purchase at one of your myriad, multi-colored locations. Am I right?
While we appreciate your generous attempt to guide us through the tangled forest of first birthday-planning, we think we’ve got it covered. Though, we did have an eerie, possibly foreboding, experience recently that might have made us think twice about this whole birthday party thing. While doing some preliminary research on paraphernalia for said birthday party at our favorite big box store, which we love and spend most of our free time at and which was recently given the Eddie Vedder Stamp of Approval (http://tiny.cc/5fVJR), something rather absurd, and fairly disturbing, occurred.
While we are more or less used to all manner of human person from small children to wrinkled geezers sizing up our progeny and gushing forth with excessive adulation, we were not prepared for the sudden appearance of the rather mangy, unkempt little girl (though in hindsight, she was not that little) who shouted “Baby!” and bum-rushed our shopping cart in a mad attempt to manhandle and ultimately kiss our son. No kidding. She got right up in there. It bordered on terrifying and my wife practically had to physically restrain this creature while her mother/parent/guardian was obliviously absent the entire scene.
Seriously, this girl looked like the creepy chick that climbs out of the well and emerges from the TV screen in The Ring (the remake, not the original—and while we’re on the subject, that scene of the horse going crazy and jumping off the ferry might be the scariest thing I’ve ever seen, I should never have watched it alone at night and oh no, now I’m thinking about it again—wait, back to the story). I mean, there’s poor parenting and then there’s this. Not only the ragamuffin’s appearance, but general inappropriate behavior. It was all I could do to not scream, Hey lady, get your dirty urchin offspring away from my kid!
The whole thing was almost enough for us take our son home and lock him away from the world for a very long time. Skip the whole birthday thing and just do it next year. Or five years from now. Either way.
I mean, really, it’s not like he’s even going to know the difference.
08 July 2009
Welcome to the Dad Scene.
You should know up front, I am somewhat neurotic. (That noise you hear is my wife's ebullient laughter at the somewhat qualifier.) By way of introduction, I will say that I am worried that I'm (a bit) too late for this party. And I don't mean fashionably.
I mean that perhaps starting a blog at this late date in 2009 is just way uncool. Or maybe it's cool and retro like my extensive vinyl collection. Or is the phenomenon of blogging no longer where it's at, so to speak? It seems like maybe I should be on Twitter, issuing tweets, but unfortunately, I have a problem with verbosity and that 140-character limit thing just does not sit well with me. I would absolutely agonize over those missives, spend far too much time crafting, editing, fine-tuning, and shaping them into perfect examples of witty, sardonic, engaging displays of language.
Yeah, I've probably just set the bar way too high here.
The other issue that brings me late to the whole blogging thing is my innate potential to become obsessive about this type of enterprise. In the same manner that I am preoccupied with updating my book "shelf" on Shelfari and my Netflix queue (not to mention the rating movies section of that site)--I devote far too much time to such activities. It’s also why, so far, I’ve avoided social networking sites like the plague.
But I digress.
As the name of this blog suggests, the subject here will basically be my son. And his (constant) interference with my consumption of popular culture. This is not meant to be educational in any way. But if it helps, comforts, or amuses another first-time parent, I'll take it.
Back to that kid. And his cramping of my style when it comes to . . . . well, most everything I did before he was around. Seriously, he doesn’t like to sleep, he constantly needs to be monitored and/or entertained. Enough already. As I asked him a few weeks after he was born, when exactly do you start fending for yourself?
He's now about 11 months old and has yet to answer me. What a jerk.
Okay, so I don’t really think my son is a jerk. Though he does sometimes smack me in the face and knock my glasses to the floor, as though I’m a scrawny weakling in the 4th grade and he’s the doughy, oversized school bully that’s been held back two full grades. But I know it’s not intentional.
At least, I think it’s not intentional.
And other than that, he’s pretty good-natured, laughs when I tickle him, appears to pay attention when I read him books, and is an expert at high-fives.
As for the whole pop culture thing, I'm happy to report that the wife and I have gotten out recently on two (count 'em, two) occasions to see some summer flicks. This being early July, that's somewhat sad, seeing as how even last year, we would've seen most of the big releases already. [Ed. Note – Here my wife insists that I relate how last summer, on the very day she was to be induced into labor, to give birth to our son, I forced her to sit through Pineapple Express, when she would have much preferred to see Brideshead Revisited. And here I thought we were past all that. Oh well.] But I have to be satisfied (so far) with only Star Trek and The Hangover. And as this post is already incredibly long, I will limit my reviews.
Star Trek: Best. Star Trek Movie. Ever.
The Hangover: Best. Vegas Bachelor Party Movie. Ever. (So sorry Very Bad Things.)
But again, it's July and I've only seen these two movies. Because of my son. What was once as natural as breathing, a basic human right, has now become a rare treat. Because I'm a parent. Seriously, what happened?
Dude, where's my life?