Welcome to the Dad Scene.

Hello.

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?