My New Business to Help Those Idiots Who Probably Shouldn't Have a Business

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.

April 10, 2012: Just a Walk

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.

PapaSay

Some nights with my little ones is like a 1980s comedy club: two drink minimum required.