The Internet Is a Wild, Wonderful Place

In the immortal words of Liz Lemon: 

“I want to go to there.”

You would think at this point that we’ve seen it all. Every cat video, every meme, every gif, every ridiculous comment posted online. Especially now, in quarantine, all of us glued to our screens, our device more an appendage than it’s ever been before (seriously, we’ve been preparing for this pandemic for at least a decade, in this regard), it’s good to know that things can still surprise (and potentially delight) you when you’re surfing the Internet. Case in point. This caught my eye and I thought, That sounds kinda fun. Maybe the kids would like it. Then I scrolled down.

Wow. Just … wow.

“Not mine.” That is intense. And hilarious. Of course, I get where he’s coming from, even if I vehemently disagree with his take. For the record, Kylo Ren is a fascinating character and Adam Driver is probably the best actor who’s ever been in a Star Wars movie. (Shout-out to Mal and Jason, intrepid hosts of the Binge Mode: Star Wars podcast, for this insight).

I’m a fan of cataloguing and curating and organizing and that obviously extends to my kids’ interests. I mean, why have kids if you’re not going to create like-minded buddies to hang out with? (It’s not like you’re ever going to see your adult friends ever again.)

So, for instance, we’ll listen to Lithium, the grunge and alternative station on XM Radio, because it’s important for them to be well-versed in ‘90s rock. But there will be no Collective Soul. Or Candlebox. Or Our Lady Peace. We have to have standards.

And yeah, I’ll cosign on the 11-year-old’s burgeoning interest in metal music. With limits. Black Sabbath? Sure. Classic. Slipknot? Nope. I don’t think so.

Yes, I have an 8-year-old who requests I spin Clash records for him on the turntable. That’s a real thing that happens. And he can quote from SNL, too.

Of course, sometimes, things get by me. They like Imagine Dragons, for instance. That’s a failing on my part. I try to console myself with the fact that the 8-year-old thinks the only Elvis is Costello, but still, this is a mark on my record. So, for every one of those songs we hear we’re definitely going to hear two songs by The Decemberists or The National. I have to counteract that garbage that’s rotting their brains. 

It occurred to me recently that I think fatherhood used to be very different. That being a father also made you an adult. It was a position of some authority. And responsibility. Being a father connoted accomplishment. You know, fedoras and pipes and tie clips. Real adult-type stuff.

But now, it’s really just an extended adolescence. Nerd heaven. Especially with boys. Seriously, I’m not sure I ever have to grow up. And it’s every woman’s fantasy. Grow up, get married, and spend the rest of your life living in a comic book shop with three giant nerds.

Think about it. Look around for a second. Star Wars movies and now TV shows. Superhero movies. Weird cartoons. Lego sets and action figures. There’s a new Pearl Jam album out. Adam Sandler is on TV singing goofy songs. Plus, Green Day is still a band. And so is Weezer! There’s a Nintendo system now that has all the games inside of it—no more cartridges. This is what it’s like to be a dad with boys in this day and age. 14-year-old me would be beside himself.

This is fatherhood now. And it’s like it’s 1996. 

Forever.

Look Out, Banksy

I've discovered something about life in quarantine with kids. I learned a valuable lesson and felt I should pass it along. If your child gets interested in anything for more than five minutes while staying at home at this time, just do one thing: Get out of the way.

This is an amazing, fleeting experience. Appreciate it.

Of course, you might get corralled into participating, in order to keep your kid from remembering how bored and cranky they are. Just know: This won’t last forever. And don’t worry. That Zoom happy hour will be here sooner than you know.

I got corralled. I got … conscripted. To be an artist’s assistant for an afternoon. His medium: Street art. His form: Chalk. And no, the driveway was not quite big enough to contain the epic artistic vision of our 8-year-old budding Banksy. Only the street itself would do.

Have you ever been told how to create art by a small child with a Kubrickian level of intensity and an Andersonian eye for detail and specificity? No? I have. And now I think I know what it would have been like to be an assistant at The Factory in the 1970s and being directed by Warhol to urinate on the canvasses. 

I mean, it’s not my vision, exactly, but okay …

Of course there was a story and it was very elaborate. It involved purple, multi-tentacled aliens from some distant planet, zooming down to Earth, and our street in particular, in order to steal the Street Hockey sign that had been his previous masterpiece.

Let me back up.

Quarantine does funny things to kids. Like, they decide that they must play street hockey, even if they have never played it before and the equipment has gathered dust in the garage for months. Possibly years. And because it is called “street” hockey, it must be played in the actual “street,” never mind how expansive or accommodating the driveway already happens to be.

And no sporting activity can be undertaken in this day and age without thinking about branding and a proper logo. Hence, his previous chalk art creation announcing to the world what activity this is, because the net and the sticks and the tennis ball didn’t quite get it across.

And yes, it was such an amazing work of art, the only logical conclusion is that aliens would want to come halfway across the universe and steal it.

I did my best, but he was a very exacting taskmaster and if there are any flaws in this mural, I guarantee you that they are 100 percent my fault.

“I actually made the tentacles thicker, like this.”

“That’s not the right purple.”

“Where are the controls? How is he flying the ship?”

“That’s not the right purple, either. It’s this one.”

“Just let me do it.”

Yes, I was fired from assisting an 8-year-old in making chalk art. How was your week?

The 11-year-old, of course, went his own way. And he’d never admit it, but he gets his taste in music (and everything else) from me. No question.

An Open Letter to Fox

Dear A-Holes,

Are you kidding me with this? We’re all struggling to keep our families safe and healthy, to stay at home, to not go out of our minds. And what are you doing? What kind of nonsense are you contributing to the world at this point? What severe lack of judgment are you showing?

I have kids. Two of them. I’m doing my best to keep them safe and hopeful for a brighter future. And you are not helping.

What in the world are you doing, making us wait all this time for another episode of Lego Masters? Like I said, I have kids. And I’m trying to keep them safe. And sane. But here’s the problem. They’re boys. They’re inherently crazy. And dangerous. And all that has been amped up to 11 at this precarious time in history. Did you know boys like to wrestle? And fight? They’re ridiculous little human beings and they can’t stop sitting on each other or smacking each other or body-slamming each other in the trampoline like they’re at Lollapalooza in ’93.

It is a full-time job (with zero benefits)  to keep these maniacs from murdering one other.

And I can’t take them to a hospital! I can’t take them to get medical treatment of any kind. No clinics, no doctor’s office, nothing. If they get injured, I’m going to have to rig up a rudimentary Civil War-style field hospital in my living room to treat their injuries. And nobody wants that. It won’t go well. Whiskey sedatives and kitchen knives half-cauterized over an open flame are not appropriate elements of medical equipment to heal wounded children.

For one hour a week, they are rapt. They are quiet. They are zombified. They are preoccupied by Will Arnett’s one-liners and the adorable bickering of Sam and Jessica, the hyped-up teamwork of Mark and Boone, the incredible Lego snobbishness of Tyler and Amy. They are not sitting on each other or trying to bend each other into pretzel shapes. For one lousy precious hour each week. And what do you do? You take that hour away from us.

Did I mention they like to sit on top of each other? Like, all the time?

Look, I’m a fan. I appreciate a lot of things you’ve done over the years. Parker Lewis Can’t Lose. 21 Jump Street. Herman’s Head. And what would my generation be without Beverly Hills, 90210? But for all these great contributions to pop culture, this week, you have utterly failed.

Want to make it up to me? I better see Kiefer Sutherland in 24: Pandemic during the 2020-2021 TV season. (That’s a joke, but I do want 10% if that actually happens.) Also, another season of Lego Masters. It’s the least you could do after pulling these shenanigans and letting us all down.

Wait—what?

It airs tonight? And the theme is Star Wars? Yes! Why didn’t you say so?

I’ve still got my eye on you …

Sincerely,

Concerned Dad of Two Raucous Boys

(and Former President of the Midwest Chapter of the Parker Lewis Can’t Lose Fan Club)

Is Parenting a Wormhole?

One of my favorite moments in 2003’s Old School takes place during the elaborate third act where the fraternity must pass a bunch of academic and physical tests to stay on campus. (Side note: This film was made by the Academy Award-nominated co-screenwriter/director of Joker, Todd Phillips—chew on that for a second. The world in 2020 is crazy in so many, many ways.) 

In the debate portion, Frank the Tank (Will Ferrell) goes up against renowned political strategist (at least at the time), James Carville, a ringer brought in the by the university. But Frank turns the tables and delivers an amazing rebuttal on economic issues, shutting Carville down. When told he’s won the debate, Frank says, “What happened? I blacked out.”

Welcome to parenting (during a pandemic … and otherwise).

Being down the parenting rabbit hole is sort of like living in California (speaking from personal experience). There are no seasons, so time never passes. Years go by as if they are months and you are perpetually 23 years old there. It wasn’t until I first looked in a mirror after moving back to Michigan that I learned the truth. I saw my reflection and said, “Who the hell is that guy?”

Seriously, I’m not sure what happened. My last entry was five years ago. I felt I had to update this old masthead because that cute diapered bum belongs to a kid who's started growing a moustache and gets weird when we talk about girls and rocks out to Black Sabbath and Nirvana. 

I’d heard there were tween years, but we seem to have jumped ahead to full-blown teenagerdom in 6th grade. It feels like I’m living with an 11-year-old version of Judd Nelson from The Breakfast Club and he’s cast me as the dweeb principal who’s cramping his style. Fun times.

Now this. It’s like I went out to get Flintstones vitamins and toilet paper at Target and got home to find out that we all now live in a Steven Soderbergh movie. And, by the way, if it had to be that, why couldn’t it have been Ocean’s Eleven? I mean, really. The worst ailment to befall anyone in that movie is a little bit of heartburn experienced by Brad Pitt’s Rusty Ryan in the final scene. To be fair, he brings it on himself. Have you seen the junk he eats throughout the entire movie?

Sorry, where was I? Oh, right. The Academy recognized Todd Phillips for directing a movie. What kind of world do we all live in now?

It’s time for pandemic parenting. We’ve seen all the memes and social posts. Talk about wartime! These are SOS and distress signals if I’ve ever seen them. We’re all slowly (or maybe rapidly) coming to realize something. Kids need to go to school. Because we are not meant to spend this much time with them. They are really not that fun every minute of every day in a confined space. It reminds me of when they were younger and every single episode of Caillou seemed to go on for a painful, interminable length of time. Now it’s like there’s a Caillou marathon and it’s the only thing on TV and you can’t change the channel or turn the TV off. Ever.

Sure, it has its moments. Like, have you ever seen a bunch of 8-year-olds on a group video chat? I don’t think any of them was having the same conversation. It’s like the War Room in Dr. Strangelove. Although, probably slightly more productive.

Of course we bide our time with too many episodes of Clone Wars, too many snacks, and too many wasted hours. But, we did also accidentally manage to encourage and facilitate some creativity, with perhaps the most unlikely of resources in the age of Disney+ and FaceTime:

Cardboard!

So far, we have an 8-year-old constructing a secret lab and collaborating with his 11-year-old brother on an elaborate marble run. They spent hours on this! Maybe we’ll survive after all. When asked what he’s working on inside the secret lab, the kid is very cagey. I think he is building a spaceship to get off this ridiculous planet and away from all the stupid humans.

By the way, this refrigerator box has been folded up in the garage since last summer. Why? Because I got distracted by baseball practice and conferences and trick-or-treating and Lego building and I forgot about it. Parenting genius or lazy bastard who lucked out? 

I’ll let you be the judge.

So, stay safe, stay healthy, try to stay sane. Take this time to reflect. Ponder the mysteries of the universe. Here, I’ll get you started:

The Academy has now given the guy who made Road Trip with Tom Green the exact same number of Best Director nominations as the guy who made Do the Right Thing and Malcolm X.

2020, people.

Bed, Bath, and Out of My Mind

So, last night, there was a 15 to 20 minute period so comically absurd and bizarre that I wish I could describe it as extraordinary and unique. Which I would, if it weren’t absolutely par for the course and the type of event that pretty much defines my entire life.

The wife went out to an event. So I was on my own for dinner, baths, and bedtime. The amount of praise and respect that I demand for this period of time—which is usually no more than 2.5 hours total—may seem fairly unreasonable, but I think I deserve it. Especially after this.

(Of course, there are other opinions. Recently, when I casually suggested that I was “Super Dad” in a week that I took one kid to preschool, hung out with the other one while he was sick, and attended a field trip to a farm where I had to handle multiple goats, my wife’s response was that “Super Dad” was basically just “Regular Mom.” I’m not sure I see her point.)

Anyway, this scenario should explain absolutely everything about my life. So, my kids and I come inside from playing tag (I didn’t want to play tag, but again, Super Dad) and we’re about to get ready for a bath. “I need to poop!” the 3-year-old tells me urgently. He has been very particular lately about things like locations and times and tasks, so I must ask him (presuming will only get me into trouble) which bathroom he’d like to use. “Upstairs!” he says.

So we head upstairs. I help the little one get situated and start to locate clean pajamas for post-bath. (Seriously, Super Dad.) The older one starts shifting his body strangely and gets a weird look on his face.

Me: You have to go too, don’t you?

6YO: I can wait.

(He is not convincing.)

Me: Don’t hold it in. It’s not good to hold it in.

There is only one bathroom available to him at the moment. Downstairs. He is wary of being left alone down there. The little one is also not keen on the idea. There’s a stereo in their room, adjacent to the bathroom. I offer to play music for the little one while we’re gone.

“How about Holly Jolly Christmas?” he asks, excitedly.

Yes, it is April. Practically May. And my 3-year-old is only interested in the Burl Ives Christmas classic. What about last week when you were obsessed with Song 2 by Blur and I was so proud of you? No dice. Okay, A Holly Jolly Christmas, it is.

Set on repeat.

I race downstairs with the older one. “If he gets music, I want music, too,” he tells me. Yes. This is absurd. Ridiculous. But arguing will only extend this entire process. I concede. I tell him I’ll get the laptop and ask what he wants to hear.

But he is fickle. He changes his mind. “Can you just turn the volume up on the monitor?”

I do. So now, Burl Ives is singing about “the best time of the year” throughout my entire house, at full volume, to accompany both my children’s time in the bathroom.

This is actually happening.

The next 15 to 20 minutes (I’m really not exaggerating this figure, as much as it seems like I might be) are spent running up and down the stairs, checking in, fielding completely random questions.

3YO: Dada? I’m done!

Race upstairs.

Me: You’re done?

3YO: No.

Back downstairs.

Me: How’s it going?

6YO: Fine. Dad. You know what Lego set I really want?
3YO: Dada!

Me: Scooby-Doo.

6YO: No. Well, yeah, I want the Scooby-Doo sets. But do you know what other set I really want?

3YO: Dada!

Me: I’ll be right back.

Race upstairs.

Me: Are you done?
3YO: No. I dropped my sock.

Back downstairs.

6YO: You know what puppet I want to make next?

Me: What puppet do you want me to make next?

3YO: Dada!

Me: Sorry. I’ll be back.

3YO: Can I see the poop?

Me: No.

3YO: Mama shows me the poop.

Me: No, she doesn’t.

Back downstairs.

6YO: Is he still going?

3YO: Have a Holly! Jolly! Christmas!

Upstairs.

Me: Are you done yet?
3YO: Five more minutes.

Me: Nobody needs this much time.

Downstairs.

6YO: I’m done.

Me: Finally. You’re so weird. Who poops at exactly the same time?

His response is completely nonchalant and pointed as if I’ve asked the dumbest question in the history of the world. “We’re brothers.”

Not a reasonable explanation.

This is why I don’t answer emails or Facebook messages or call people on their birthdays. It’s why I can’t tell you which one is Ariana Grande and which one is Iggy Azaelea. It’s why I don’t spend more time writing or planning or thinking or being productive in any way. Because this kind of thing is going on all the time.

Over and over and over again. And so now, if you’ll excuse me, I just want to take a nap. Until July.

The Mom Scene, Part 2

Apparently, there was more. Here’s a further dispatch from my wife’s adventures in the land of motherhood . . .

3:30 pm: Everyone’s awake. Everyone has more energy than I do. Way, way more energy. I swear they’re doing crank when I’m not looking. The constant attempts at flying off the couch. The violent mood swings. The nosebleeds. It’s all starting to make sense.

3:45 pm: Provide a healthy snack.

4:00 pm: Wipe, sweep, and/or vacuum snack detritus from every surface of the house, including rooms they didn’t even enter. It’s like a really bad magic trick. They are Uri Geller with apple slices. More often than not, I find Cheerios inside the feet of the little one’s pajamas. What?!?

4:15 pm: Head outside. It’s gloomy and everything’s still wet from the previous night’s rain, but the walls are closing in and at least one out of three of us is not going to survive inside any longer.

4:17 pm: Wonder how anyone can be so singularly obsessed with ants.

4:19 pm: Wonder how a person who has only been walking for a little more than a year can toss a Frisbee at the exact angle necessary to wholly decapitate a large, lush, flowering plant.

4:35 pm: Play tag. Their legs are so short, how can they be so fast?

4:36 pm: Oh, right. The crank.

5:00 pm: They want the Stomp Rocket out of the garage. Only three out of five rockets get stuck in trees and/or the roof, and of those three, we manage to shake two down. The last one will require hurricane-force winds or a ladder. Either way. Not. My. Job.

5:25 pm: The husband is home. I go into the bathroom to do a shot of tequila pee.

5:28 pm: Enter the kitchen to find he has brought flowers. And beer. And wine. He’s not Dave Grohl, but he ain’t half bad.

5:37 pm: I put some music on, the beer is good, dinner’s going. My kids are pretty cute when we’re separated by a sliding glass door.

5:54 pm: Pretend like the dandelion I’ve just been given is the most special thing in the world, even though it makes me sneeze. And it’s the fifth one I’ve received this week. And when they opened the door to bring it in, 5,000 dirty leaves blew in with them.

6:00 pm – 7:30 pm: A list of sentences uttered during the hour and a half that spans dinner and bath time, in no particular order:

“No feet on the table.”

“No feet in your mouth.”

“We do not spit our milk onto our plates.”

“Stop laughing at him.”

“Do not touch your brother’s penis.”

“Do not touch YOUR brother’s penis, either!”

“Yes, I suppose that piece of potato sort of looks like a TIE fighter.”

“Yes, your potato looks like a TIE fighter, too.”

“He doesn’t need help getting his sock off.”

“Or the other sock.”

“That’s gross.”

“Are you guys asleep yet?”

“I pee-peeing in the baftub.”

“EVERYBODY OUT OF THE TUB!!!”

7:47 pm: The four of us are piled up on the couch. Their hair is damp and combed and smells of baby shampoo because I will never stop using baby shampoo on them, not ever. They insisted on wearing matching pajamas tonight, and I am wrecked with their cuteness.

8:01 pm: Without warning, the little one grabs my cheeks, smushes them toward my lips and says, “Mama fish face!” and laughs hysterically. He stops just as suddenly, hugs me with all his tiny might, and says, “I love you, Mama. You are mine best buddy.” I kiss his soft little forehead and make a mental note to buy him more blue dishes.

8:25 pm: We are looking out the window at the top of the stairs, saying goodnight to the moon. The big one: “Goodnight, everything in the whole entire universe.” The little one: “Goodnight, everything in the whole tired universe.”

9:00 pm: They’ve been in bed for less than an hour and I’m looking at pictures of them on my phone. “What are you doing?” the husband asks. “Look how cute they are,” I reply. “I miss them.” He rolls his eyes more than is necessary and hands me a glass of wine.

Ed. Note: There was an appropriate amount of eye-rolling.

School of Rock

When you’re a parent, you learn time is not on your side. On a regular basis, in a variety of situations, you find yourself thinking, This, like all things, will end. For me, lately, it is driving the Doozer to school. Someday he won’t need me to drive him anywhere. Or won’t want me to drive him anywhere. Which will be worse. So for now, I’ll enjoy it.

And spend that time talking about Legos. Top five Lego Movie Lego sets. And Hobbit Lego sets that he doesn’t own, based on a movie he’s never seen. But they are online and in the Lego catalogue, so obviously he must know all about the backstory of those Lego sets, so I find myself recounting entire plotlines from Peter Jackson epics.

Ad nauseum.

But then we listen to music. This is our time to rock out. It’s one of the things that always takes me back to being a kid myself. Riding in the car with my dad, listening to the oldies station. He knew every word to every song and I know I’ll never forget those times with him.

And now the Doozer and I have our own music in the car tradition. Recently, he requested, nay demanded, to hear more rock-and-roll songs. You know, the ones with the drums and air guitar. Not sure how it started, what song he heard that prompted the request (might’ve been a Green Day tune), but who am I to deny such a request. I will create a playlist of rock songs.

(And yes, no matter what type of guitar we hear, it is always an air guitar. Also, the kid plays a pretty mean one himself.)

He already loved the Foo Fighters and Jack White and Pearl Jam. (Yes, you are correct, I am absolutely doing a fantastic job as a parent. And then some.) But of course I will take this valuable opportunity to further his education and shape his young mind. I am more than happy to be the Lester Bangs to his William Miller.

We’ve never gone in for the kiddie rock, with very few exceptions (Elizabeth Mitchell’s family sing-a-long version of “Three Little Birds” is lovely and one of our favorites). Our kids are going to like what we like. It gets harder the more they comprehend, the better their awareness becomes. And their ability to repeat things. Finding songs without inappropriate lyrics we don’t want him repeating in his first grade classroom can be a challenge. But this is one parenting challenge that we are comfortable with facing. And conquering.

Of course, there are still questions.

“Why does that guy scream like that?” he asks.

That guy is Julian Casablancas.

“It’s a type of singing,” I reply. “The guy from Pearl Jam does that sometimes.”

“Not like this guy,” he says. He seems equally impressed and baffled by the shrieking lyrics of The Strokes’ “Juicebox.”

I mean, really, what 6-year-old sings along to “Fell In Love With a Girl” at top volume? Or Weezer? Or the Stiff Little Fingers? (Thank you, High Fidelity.) The Yeah Yeah Yeahs. The MC5. The Darkness. (Of course, it’s easier to hit that falsetto when you’re his age.)

He is particularly impressed with Lenny Kravitz’s shredding skills. So, every morning, we’re taking it all the way back to 1993 in that car as he bounces gleefully, plays his air guitar, and sings along to “Are You Gonna Go My Way?” with a giant grin across his face.

And he’s right. That Lenny Kravitz is pretty damn good at air guitar.