You Think BeiberFever Is As Bad as It Gets?

Sometimes, the right people have kids. Sometimes, the wrong ones do. I don't know these folks, so I'll let you decide.  

You Suck, Junie B. Jones

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!

PapaSee: The Secret Garden

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..."

The Secret Garden: A Review

Maurice Sendak, 1928 - 2012

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.

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.