For the first time, Papa is getting a warm Christmas. Hell, I might even sweat through my undershirt. We're going to LA. I don't know if its that hot in Los City of Angels, but I sweat a lot anyway, so the soggy shirt thing is a given.
We leave mañana. Spoiler alert: Me no rickey the flying. Papa is gonna need some help. My doctor is out of town, so I'm taking treatment into my own hands. "Nurse, we need two hotel bar bottles of vodka STAT." Oh yeah, that's right. You can't carry on a tube of Colgate, but tiny bottle of alcohol? You betcha and gawd blesses Hamerica.
So with that, the blog closes for a couple days. Have a great Christmas and a safe, happy New Year. And if you or I get a second, lets try and remember that some people aren't so merry right now. If you can send them a nice thought or a good vibe, I have to believe it'll help in one way or another.
Does this look familiar? It does to me. My daughter brings home a picture just like it every year. My brother and I did too, and so did our folks before that. At some point, like a lot of parents, I'll find them, jammed in a drawer, covered by a tangle of wires for devices we tossed out long ago. WIFE and I will take them and hold them. We'll sit, put them together, and marvel at how much MONSTA has grown in what will surely seem like almost no time at all.
But this one is different. It may not look it, but it is. This picture is of 15 kids, all the same age as my kid, who were gunned down by a guy out of his head and stocked like a small army. This is their last class picture. When their parents find it hiding in a deep, forgotten drawer, it will be alone. For these children, there will be no more class pictures.
I've tried hard to avoid looking at these faces. I pretended that like the other stories of tragedy, this too would be pushed from my memory by the million things vying for its attention. But it's not happening. This isn't going away. My daughter is a first grader, and my wife is a school teacher. And two years ago, we lost a beautiful, but too fragile, newborn baby. Sandy Hook has made a deeply profound and heartbreaking impact on me, and I'm not sure when that will pass. But I think of their parents, and am quietly grateful knowing that for me, it will.
Here's all I ask: take a close look. Please. Then look at your own kid, or nephew, or friend's kid. See if you can't make out some resemblance. No matter where you come from, I bet you'll see at least some similarity. Then, when you get a chance, ask yourself: "Is this really the best we can do?"
Papa had the rare chance to cover a musical last weekend, and it was a pretty good one. Based on Studs Terkel's amazing book of interviews, the play has some important things to say about all that stuff we do between the hours of 9 and 5.
Normally, I really like technology. Texting, the internet, iStuff. I really do. But now and then, I want to murder technology. And not in a clean, Dexter way. It needs to get messy. The kind of crime scene cops drink to forget. Take last night...
It's 6:30 pm. I've worked all day, and am now sitting in my Advertising class. We're waiting to start. Suddenly, I get a text. "PLEASE CALL." It's from WIFE. WIFE never texts. It bothers me that we have this cool way of "talking", and she never uses it. But now she's using it, and in ALL CAPS. This is not good.
In an instant, my brain is Usain Bolt. It's one of the kids, I think. It has to be. Something has gone terribly wrong with one of the kids. I'm certain. The only questions now are "what, which one, and how bad is it?" I know I should be calm and that it's probably no big deal. But when you've met tragedy once, it's easy to imagine he's still out there, waiting to meet you again.
If it's not the kids, I think, it's my parents. Frantically waiting for WIFE to answer my calls, I imagine her picking up with "It's about your dad." Both my folks stay in great health, but he travels a lot, so I worry. I'm also a mama's boy, which means I naturally assume it'll be pops who goes first.
I'm calling and calling. Three calls to WIFE and no answer. I'm texting too, and now, in true WIFE fashion, she's not responding. Now?! Now you don't reply to my frantic texts?
Finally, with me just shy of "hot mess", she picks up. "What is going on?", I whisper-scream into the phone. "Nothing's wrong," she says to me. And she means it. I can tell. She sounds happy, and I hear both kids laughing in the background. Totally cool and content, she tosses out, "Why would you think something is wrong?" YOU USED ALL CAPS, DAMNIT! HOW COULD I THINK OTHERWISE?!
Only she hadn't. In fact, she didn't even text me. There was no emergency. No drama. Nothing. There was, however, an incredibly handsome, very curious rascal of a son, who likes to chew on his mother's phone. And while chewing, he gummed one special button that apparently fires off pre-written texts, like PLEASE CALL...in ALL CAPS.
Next Question: how young is too young to stick a kid in time-out?
Remember back in school, how the administration seemed like some mysterious, mythical cabal of unmatched power? Teachers I could comprehend. They all sounded like my mother, and wore vests made of blue jeans. That made sense to chubby ol' me. But what about the others?
The first time I got sent to the Vice Principle, she made sense too because she yelled like my father. She was a short, squaty black woman from the North who never stood. Beyond that though, she and my dad were like family. But after her, the mystery got pretty Mason-ish. There was the principle, whose voice I knew from morning announcements, but what they looked like? Who could say? And then there was the principle's boss, who the old timers just called "Superintendent."
Now, finally, the riddle of who, or what, this "Superintendent" is will be solved. That's because at this very moment, WIFE is taking a test to be licensed as one, and I couldn't be prouder. And not just any Superintendent: a New York City Public School Superintendent. New York, as in, "the biggest school system in the nation." Hashtag #LIKEABOSS
From her terrible driving record, though, I know that a license alone doth not make one good at something. With this one though, there's no doubt that she'll be one of the best. Here's why: she gives a damn. WIFE got into teaching because it pays well here, and the benefits are top-shelf (suck that Union hating fools with crappy insurance and no pay raises any time soon). But mostly, she did it because she cares about kids.
I've seen her in action. Her class gets treated with the same kindness as MONSTA and MILLATIME. It's exactly what kids need. Of course the other stuff matters. But in elementary, and especially in the neighborhood where she works, kids need a safe, supportive place where they can feel secure, protected, and worth something. And this is what she gives them, every single day.
One day, when WIFE retires, she'll tell me all about what a Superintendent does. And I'll die knowing one of the great secrets of our time. More importantly, a lot of kids in New York will be better off for having a serious, demanding but also incredibly caring person like WIFE in their corner.
I think that with his smile, natural charisma, and slight racial ambiguity, there's a real chance my son will become his generation's Burt Reynolds. I certainly hope so.
With the exception of wine and my lovely, supportive, dear wife, most things get worse as they get older. It's called ageing. It's called life. It's called "get over it and accept the nasty, nasty fate that awaits us all." This is especially true of driving. After a certain point, you just suck at it. I'm not there, but the guy who almost hit me this morning is. In fact, I think he's past it. So to you, Mr. Gold Prius on 29th St., I say:
"Stop driving. Please. You're an old guy, and you don't have it like ya used to. I'm sure that as a young man, all the ladies from the block thought you were a terrific dancer, and maybe on the weekends, you won a couple races at the track, back when they let amateurs come take a crack. But now, you're just old. Old, white headed, and barely able to see over the steering wheel. THAT'S A PROBLEM. It's also a problem that you have never heard of a bike lane. I'm sure you thought it was something they built for you, being a proud member of "The Greatest Generation." It ain't. It's for me. A young, vigorous, speed demon. It's all for me, dude. Me and my kind. We may not be the "greatest," but were younger, and can probably take you in a fist fight."
"I'm not down on you for being old. My birthday is tomorrow, and I know what that means. And one day, my kids will tell me to get the hell of the street. But for now, it's you for whom the bell tolls, and the bell is saying, 'Please stop driving, old dude. Buying a Prius is a responsible choice, but not if you use it to crush innocent people.'"
Pig Pen says, "Don't steal this bike right off of the street."
On my way to work, I came across this sweet bike. Why is it so sweet? Because it's blends two of my favorite things into one really favorite thing: bikes and The Grateful Dead. Also, it's doing a good job in the anti-theft dept., and that's also a favorite.
I started listening to the Dead in high school. Iwasn't alone. Jerry had died in 1995, so people were talking about them, and most of my friends, at some point in the next couple years, would buy a copy of Skeletons from the Closet. But when everyone else stopped at "greatest hits," I kept going. And when a friend of my brother's - a guy with impeccable taste in music - lent me his copy of American Beauty, that was it. I had found "my band." The next couple years were spent wearing giant tie-dye shirts, sandals in all weather (easier to do in Hotlanta than here in the NY), and taping over my dad's old sermon tapes in favor of the Grateful Dead Radio Hour, which used air late Sunday nights on Z93. The trick? A little scotch tape over those square holes on top.
I'm a long way from high school now. The shirts are gone and the sandals come out a little less often. But the Dead remains. And most mornings, if you ever pass me on the Q'boro bridge, trying to pedal over that beast without my heart exploding, there's a really good chance I'm listening to the Dead. Maybe from Europe in the 70s, or post-diabetic coma Jerry in the late 80s, happy to be alive and playing like it. Hell, it might even be something from the studio. That's right, I even love the albums. Now that's a fan for life.
Consider this a warning, Junie B. Jones. You don’t like to play by the rules. The world is yours, and we’re just paying rent. Doing your thing. I get that. But now, you and your crappy attitude done messed with the wrong dude, and I got you in my sights. I’m not sure how you did it. Trying to do something nice for my kid, I picked up a couple of your books at the BarNoble. Buy two, get one free. What a deal, right? A deal indeed. A crap deal! Because after I brought you home and read a few chaps of Junie B. Jones and the Stupid Smelly Bus, all the sudden, my princess is acting like a cranky-ass dragon. A tiny, curly headed, biracial dragon. What the hell, Junie B?! Do you think teaching kids to have a crap attitude is funny? When your mom takes time off work to show you around your new kindergarten class, and all you can do is scream at the teacher about your dumb viking hat - is that funny? Is that a good time in your world? Or when you tell Mr. Woo that his bus stanks, just because your dumb pre-K self is too scared to ride it? Is that nice? Should we all act like that? The man comes all the way from China just to give his family a better life, and you tell him his office is “stupid” and “smelly”? That’s a crap attitude, Junie B., and I hope your mother beats it out of you.
So check this, Junie B. Normally, I’m a nice guy, but you push even Ghandi hard enough, and he’s gonna swing that big walking stick at you. Maybe even cut you up with his little John Lennon glasses. For real. So stop being such a Junie B-otch, and show my kid how a nice, respectful 6 year old behaves. And maybe, I’ll let all this other booty chatter slide. I need to be dealing with that punk-A Ramona Quimby anyway, so how about you cool it and I’ll move on to her instead.
But keep it up, and you mine as well be Bubba Sparxx - it gonna get ugly! I’m talking thrift store, Junie B. You. A plastic bag. The thrift store. No reciept, no paper trail. Test me if you really wanna know. Please Believe It!
With Monsta 2.0 taking up all our time, my trips to the theatre have been greatly curtailed. That's my nice way of saying WIFE has shut it down. So now, if I go, MONSTA goes, which has forced me to see a lot of kid stuff. Last weekend, this took us to The Secret Garden in our neighborhood. It's a beautiful production, and if you live in New York, it's worth the trip into Queens to see it. But in the words of the great Lavarr Burton, "But don't take my word for it..."
Since this is a blog mostly about kids, it's worth noting that the great Maurice Sendak passed away at 83. Reading daily to your children, it doesn't take long before you realize how many horrible kids books are out there. I don't think this is because writing a book for children is all that difficult, though it can be. The problem is, I think, that most adults think kids are dumb, and that they can't handle anything of substance.
Sendak clearly felt otherwise. His work was weird, and strange, and never preachy. In Wild Things, Max is nasty to his mom. Most authors would follow this with a boring lesson about respect or some other crap. Not Sendak. In his world, Max is rewarded with an amazing trip, where he's given his own boat, and crowned "King of All the Wild Things." But it comes with a price, and before long, he realizes that the only thing that truly matters is being to the one who loves him most.
I love reading his books to my kids. It isn't a chore, or something I do because the public service announcement tells me it will make us all a better family. I do it because Maurice Sendak wrote good books. A life of good art, and of stoking the fire of a kid's imagination. I'd say that's time well spent.
For anyone with kids, you know that there's never enough money to go around. Even Mitt Romney knows this, though is his case, it wasn't the money running low. It was that he kept having so many damn kids. It seems that every friend I know is working on some side deal, try to hustle up a couple extra bucks just to keep organic, wholegrain, locally-sourced wheat bread in the box.
I too need some extra dough, so here's my idea. I'm going to open a company, both online and brick and mortar. It's going to be called, "Are Your FN Kidding Me?" The biz plan is simple: for a reasonable hourly rate, you call, email, or drop by and tell me an idea you're thinking of offering to the world. It can be anything. If it's going to be seen by a human, I'm your guy. Then, after you tell me what you're thinking, I either say, "Hey, great idea. Good luck." Or (and this is the market niche I'm looking to fill), I hear you out and reply, "Are you FN kidding me?"
For example, Urban Outfitters has just started selling this shirt.
So here's how my company will work. UO comes to my shop, conveniently located off the R-train (alright, it's my apartment). They tell me they want to sell a new shirt. It's yellow, they say, and made of a really nice cotton. Slim cut, like the kids today like. Sounds good, I reply. And oh yeah, they add, the design was clearly inspired by the Holocaust. They then hand me my hourly fee, and in return, I roll up the day's newpaper and hit them on the head with it. Then I give them what they really want: a big ol' "ARE YOU FN KIDDING ME?" You're actually thinking of selling a t-shirt that looks like something a displaced and persecuted Jew would have worn during one of civilization's most heinous periods? You think that should be slopped on a table next to dark dyed Levis and a Shepherd Fairy sweatshirt? Bad Urban Outfitters. Bad.
Or maybe you're Acura, and for a really, really big-budget commercial, you want to put out a casting notice calling for an actor of color that is "nice looking. friendly" and, oh yeah, "NOT TOO DARK." That's right. A tangible, completely leak-able casting notice calling for a black actor that could possible be mistaken for something other than a black actor. That's your big idea, and now you want my feedback. (It's at this point that my secretary, aka MONSTA, hands me the before mentioned rolled up Daily).
So look. Not everyone will need this service. You may have common sense and at least a citizenship test's grasp of world history. But for the others, I'm here, and I'm reasonably priced. Call me.
It's dusk. The sky is cloudy, then clear, then somewhere in between. Yellow light slides among with thick grey clouds, birthing a gorgeous mix of the two. People walk by, on both sides, yet I've tuned them out. Jerry Garcia, noodling and fighting his way through Dylan's Twist of Fate, forms a giant wall between them and my new son. He's with me, too. Asleep. I stop frequently to check for tiny exhales, but he's fine. In fact, he's perfect. And for this brief time, I'm also perfect, because the moment is perfect.
It's not a dream. Just a walk through Astoria, with just me, my guy, and some beautiful music I hope one day he enjoys as much as I do.
In the end, I hoping it's these times that add up to a truly fulfilled life. So I try and have as many as I can. I'll forget them and their specifics. It's the way my memory works. But no worry. It's the accumulation that matters most. The hoarding of these little experiences, until one day, the heart seems a bit fuller than before.
Lord have mercy on the guy who goes through the years as if he had more than one go round.
Some nights with my little ones is like a 1980s comedy club: two drink minimum required.
Mar 27, 2012
Let's play a game. See if you can guess how many tooth paste caps are clogging up my bathroom sink.* Person who get the closest gets to come snake my drain. That's right. I said it. Snake...my...drain.
*Extra points for knowing what cartoon character was on the tube.
Another beautiful weekend, another lovely trip to the theatre with MONSTA. She can be a real pain in the neck when she wants, but the fact remains: homegirl loves the theatre. And I love that. Last week, we journeyed cross town to that wonderful bastion of wealthy, white liberal thought: the Upper West Side. The show? The unfortunately titled STINKYKIDS, THE MUSICAL. Lucky for us, the show is better than its name.
I don't post a lot other people's work (on this site, I'm the star!), but sometimes, even I can only stand in awe of something I've read. This is that. If you've ever thought, "I know reading to my kids is good, but I also hate going to bed angry," this is for you. Enjoy. (Mom, if you're reading, I also find his language distasteful.)
The Lorax is everywhere. Just a couple hours a tv a week and you'd think this country was being overrun with Lorax fever. I hope not, because in the 12-century, Lorax Fever killed two-thirds of the Mayan population. It's pretty serious.
It's also serious because this movie is crap! Hypocritical, big-media crap. Can't get the toilet to flush? Look closely, and I bet you'll see a Lorax. Why? Because the day to day practices of the companies behind The Lorax are exactly the thing Dr. Seuss's book warns us about. Don't believe me? Is ol' Papa sounding a little to "Occupy Seuss Street?" When was the last time you read The Lorax? MONSTA picked it up from the library a month ago, and I was treated to the story for the first time. I've read plenty of the good doctor, and I always appreciate the subtle messages embedded in his bright colors and curvy, made-up words. But Lorax? It's just an old-fashioned, bare bones indictment of big business and capitalistic greed. It should have been printed as a pamphlet and handed out free on college campuses.
To be fair, he doesn't say the Once-ler is evil. But as it's personal desire grows, so does it's need to control and use the natural space around it. As the Once-ler's needs grow, so does his thumbprint on the surrounding area. Stop me if you've heard this one. The book ends with a lone boy, standing in a space of total environmental annihilation. Like a cartoon drawing of The Road. Not a happy story. There's hope at the end, but only if this boy makes the right choices in his own life, which I'm guessing don't involve him opening a manufacturing plant or a company on the NYSE.
It's not a book for everyone. If you're pro-big business, or "pro-dominion," then you may hate The Lorax. Fine. Even I see the hypocrisy in how many trees were cut down to produce a best-selling book about what happens when we cut down all the trees. But this IS the story, and Dr. Seuss's intentions are clear for anyone willing to see them.
So if this is the true nature of this book, why the hell is little man Lorax pitching cars? You know, those things that are one of the primary reasons (according to non-Santorum sponsored scientists) that the earth is getting warmer?
And why is the orange dude a judge on The Voice, a show owned by one of the massive, $$$-first conglomerates directly implicated by the book? Did Blake Shelton's tour bus break down on the way to set? Was Coolio not available?
I'm not trying to rain on any parades. When Smurfs came out, I didn't go because it looked terrible. Same for Alvin and the Chipmunks 1-14. But this one isn't about whether or not the movie is good. My kid won't see Lorax with me around because the hypocrisy factor is just a little too much for me to stomach. Not every book and story needs to be turned into a movie by the increasingly money-obsessed studios, and certainly not one that openly blames capitalism for the end of the world.
Maybe you can see the film and assure me that it doesn't pull any punches in it's handling of capitalism, but I'm guessing that won't be the case.
So Papa was out on the town Saturday evening, and this time, I brought along my oldest. Since 2.0 was born, my social life - already famished - has dried up to a trickle. And by "trickle," I mean taking the train to work. But Saturday, I was finally able to get back to doing one thing I love: seeing and writing about the theatre.
I'm not hitting the risky East Village shows just yet, because right now, I've can only see stuff that MONSTA can see. Not exactly in my best interest to leave both kids at home for WIFE on a weekend. That pretty much keeps it above 40th, which is fine since that's closer to the house. Luckily, Saturday's show was a really good one: The Amazing Max and the Box of Interesting Things. It's a blast of a magic show, and if you have kids in New York City, I think it's a can't miss.
Here's my review. If you go, let me know what you think, and most importantly, what your kid thinks.
Wish me luck, dear reader. Tomorrow, I enter the storied courts of New York City as a...juror. I found out on Friday, and since then have been thinking of ways to get out of it. But today, I got a pretty threatening email from the courts, promising me that if I don't show, D.A. Jack McCoy will come to my house and spank me. Hard to argue with the firm right hand of Sam Waterson. So tomorrow morning, I'll be heading off for Kew Gardens, which is, apparently, a lot more Kew than Gardens since the immigrants moved in.
I've read mixed reviews online about the whole thing. One guy said they had wi-fi, but another said the jurors are treated like the criminals. She was very upset about that. I hope she was exaggerating. Whichever it is, you'll be the first to know. For the next couple days, I'll be devoting this blog entirely to the jury duty experience. Should you need parenting advice, please call 311.
Post 1: It's gonna be a long day in democracy, so I'm taking all the necessities: iPad, phone, iPod, book, picture of loved ones, and rape whistle (just in case). Also, a sack lunch:
If no one has heard from me in a day or two, please call the police. Also, my wife. Also my orthodontist, Dr. Levine. His cancellation policy is a real ball-buster.
With our family, it's always an adventure. Or a nightmare. Half full, half empty, dirty water. Whatever.
At 11 pm, because my wife is who she is, was cooking a whole chicken. For unknown reasons, this eventually set off our CO2 alarm. Immediately, team Roberson flew into action. Widows open. Move to fresh air. Alert the fire department. Check, check, check.
After a couple minutes, Astoria's bravest show up. Now you'd think they'd come in quite. It was late, and for all they knew, it wasn't really an emergency. Nope. From around the corner I could hear them. Sirens blaring, lights flashing. Thanks guys for letting the rest of the block know that we can't cook a chicken without putting all of 41st St. at risk.
Question: are all firemen descendants of a forgotten race of thick-accented giants, or just the ones in New York? How did these guys get so big? Is it something they eat, because we shop at the same grocery store. These dudes were huge. Even the fattest, least impressive - sort of their Webster - made me feel like Willow. "Sheesh. You guys want a real emergency, how about rescuing my confidence."
Finally, after a few moments of looking around and staring at a clicking box on their shirts, we got the all clear. I jokingly offered them some chicken, which they declined. I'm guessing they were thinking, "Keep the chicken. We'll settle for you not setting off alarms during the middle of PBS's post-debate coverage...kay?!"
Eventuallly, they left, much to the dissapoinment of my daughter, MONSTA. If I'm honest, she was a little TOO excited by their arrival. The minuite the truck pulled up, you would have thought the Beatles were coming over.
Bottom line: the Roberson clan is safe. We've got fresh batteries in the alarms, and WIFE is not allowed to cook after Jeopardy.
Sometimes, when I look at my oldest, MONSTA, I see an angel. The sweetest, kindest, quick-witted little thing this side of heaven. Even her cheeks are pasty and round like those cherub paintings. Ah...sometimes.
But this week, it's become clear that, as she chooses a career path, Atrocious Dictator is not out of the question. It's all there. The ability to fly off the handle when provoked. The backtalk. The stomping. All classic markings of history's greatest dictators. (It must have sucked living in the apartment below lil' Hitler.)
It's more than just anger, though. What really makes her a strong candidate for ruthless ruler is her ability to turn the switch at a moment's notice. This, my friends, is the mark of a truly great bad guy. One minute, she's pushing to see how serious we are about our philosophy of 'non-violent parenting', and the next, she's singing The Sound of Music to her little brother. Immediately, I think that she's seen the error of her ways and has had a change of heart. A wet-kiss apology can't be far behind. Then it hits me: she isn't sorry. She singing to him so that when he's older, he'll join the fight to overthrow us. It's a risky, long-term strategy that, when I look into his new, glossy eyes, seems to be working. Last night, he glared at me..I think. She's already won him over, and he isn't even two months old.
For the sake of our home, my family and, hell, the world, I hope that I can tamper back the inner-Stalin I see brewing inside my lovely little MONSTA. But it won't be easy. Only the perfect formula of hugs, time-outs, and La La Loopsy gifts can be used to win this fight. And fight we must. The future security of humanity depends on it. Or at least Astoria.
Note to self: Idea for new screenplay - ala King Ralph, a little kid from Queens is crowned ruler of a small Asian country that her great-aunt was originally from. But instead of ruling nicely, she turns into a ruthless, horrible warlord. She runs the workers and their economy into the ground by devoting all resources to the production of cotton candy and Barbies. Call it...DICTATOR TOT. Dream casting: that kid from Jerry McGuire.
Having two kids is like owning a crystal ball. No matter how sweet the new baby may seem, it only takes a minute with the older one to realize what a moody, fire-breathing monster it'll eventually become.
Papa ain't written in a while. Papa sorry for that. See, Papa had another baby right before the holidays, and because no one thought to tell him what a terrible idea that was, Papa a little outta commission. But Papa gonna be back, and quick like, so don't you fret. But right now, Papa gots to get on and make another bottle of formula, because apparently even though all the bottles in our fridge look alike, the contents are not. So shocker! Papa chose wrong.
Keep with me, y'all. It's a new year, and Papa got some big thangs coming down the pipe; speaking in third person, for instance.
.JPG)
