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Clever double meaning to this particular post's title; first, Work It Mom! is a new site by and for working moms, so if you have one under your roof, or if you are one, check it out. I'm admitted biased, as my kick-ass rock star wife is the subject of their latest interview.
It's Friday, let's fight foo!
This morning I finally laid to rest my beloved can of Edge Shaving Gel. Purchased in the year 2000 (yes, you read that right), my frothing friend has traveled to Florida, Hawaii, Nevada, Arizona and even Mexico. It had gently softened my beard on such momentous occasions as my first date with my [future] wife, our wedding and the birth of my first child. For over 7 years it aided in crafting many different facial hair adornments from the soul patch to Abe Lincolns to one of those cheesy 70s pornstar/gay handlebar mustache dealies. It's true, as one who neglects to shave often enough, I did not pay him the attention he deserved. However, when called upon, he was always there for me with a quarter-sized portion of luxurious lubrication and fresh mountain scent until his last dying squirt breath this morning.
I bid thee farewell, my friend.
OK, so we've been a little video-centric at Dadcentric lately, but it's a rich media world. This should prove that it's never too early to get your child into acting. And swearing.
Could also be "Dad My Ride", you know.
By now, the blood on the dormitory walls has dried; a hard scale that'll eventually be scrubbed away, once the investigations are over. Science tells us that it'll never truly be gone, that the cells of those dead students and professors will be embedded in those buildings forever; of course, memory also will ensconce them there as well. And of course, every time there's a school shooting – how horrific it is that we can now say "every time there's a school shooting" - the questions and finger pointing begin, always aimed at what most people believe to be the heart of the matter: gun control.
But there's another question that's been on my mind this morning. Oddly, it popped into my head as I watched Lucas power down an oversized bowl of Rice Krispies.
What if that were my kid?
What if he killed people? And what if he'd sent a video to NBC shortly beforehand, explaining in obscene detail why it was that those people had to die?
Could I have done anything?
What if, over the years, I'd received warnings, warnings from doctors and police that there were signs, that my kid was clinically depressed, that he was perhaps dangerous, to himself, to others?
Would I have done anything?
I feel for Cho Seung-Hui's parents. I see them looking at a photo of him as a baby, new to the world. It's impossible, I think, to not have a modicum of grief for them; this does not detract in any way from the grief one feels for the parents of those that he murdered. But I wonder about his parents as well. I wonder if they recognized, somewhere along the way, that something was not right with their son. I wonder if they tried to do something, to talk to him, to get him to a psychiatrist, something, anything. As parents, our instinct is to place our kids on pedestals; they're just kids, we reason, and whatever this is – the sullenness, the anger, the isolation – it'll pass. Hell, we turned out fine!
I'm reminded of the Vietnam vet and writer Gustav Hasford, who wrote that "the dead know only one thing: that it is better to be alive." The questions we ask after such things are moot, in a sense; the answers don't bring anyone back. I think of Dylan Klebold's parents, and Eric Harris', and wonder how it was that they did not know about the pipe bombs in the bedrooms. In the same way, I wonder about Cho's parents. What kept them from seeing a hard, dark truth about their kids?
Could they have done anything? I don't know.
Perhaps the real question is – did they try?
Like all men, ages 0-100, my youngest son is amazed by the magic and mystery that is the inner workings of the household toilet. Let's face it, the thing is amazing.
The moment the bathroom door is opened he comes running like a cat to a can-opener. Heaven forbid I should shut the door. He'll knock until his knuckles are bloody (haven't actually tested this). By the way, his grandparents are Jehovah's Witness. I secretly think that his penchant for tenacious knocking makes them satisfied and proud.
When he does have a moment of alone time with the toilet, and I literally mean "moment", as in less than 2 seconds, he likes to test the buoyancy of various reachable items.
Today he tested Tinker Toys.
The piece picked for this occasion was about 6 inches long, slender and green, roughly the size of a thick straw. It was made of wood. Therefore, it floated.
It floated in a toilet recently vacated by our hero's older brother. An unflushed and very used toilet.
There was no way in hell I was putting my hand in there for a stick.
I considered the situation and decided to go with the bathtub theory: if an object is bigger than the drain, then it is reasonable to assume that said object will not go down said drain. Release water safely.
I flushed. The water went down. The kids my son dropped off at the pool went down. I reached for the Tinker Toy in my moment of well-calculated triumph, and as I did, it too went down.
Inconceivable.
My moment was gone, and in it's place stood a brief taste of the thrill that is flushing the unflushable. It was near Nirvana, like Foo Fighters close. It was a moment of shared awe and silence as I stood with my two boys and admired what we, together, had achieved.
Then the water came back. A few of the kids returned. The bowl started to fill with all the wonder you could hope to find in a backed-up toilet. Everything came home but the thing we missed the most. There was no stick.
Enter the plunger. Cue the splash of shit water into my open mouth. Vomit, get on deck.
Unlike the family dog, I am not accustomed to beginning my quest for thirst quenching at the toilet's edge. Rather, that is where I prefer to end my journeys. Needless to say, a mouthful of toilet water is not as satisfying as Rover would have us believe.
I pushed forward and plunged like the wind, bringing back memories and things long buried and forgotten. The Tinker Toy is no more.
Alas, poor stick, I knew him well.
I'll admit that part of me hoped that first concert experience with the kid would be front row center at the inevitable Phish reunion show; barring that, I would have settled for obstructed view seats at the Blue Oyster Cult dinner show at the Barona Casino buffet. But reality set in; I realized that the most likely scenario would involve a long-haired guy with wire-rimmed spectacles and an acoustic guitar singing a goofy-ass song about a happy bear or some such.
So when I got a note from the Sippy Cups' PR guy saying that the band would be doing a show at the House of Blues, I was actually excited. We have a copy of the band's latest, Electric Storyland (get it?), and it's actually a hell of a lot of fun - comparisons to anything by The Flaming Lips are not unwarranted. Beth and I were pretty excited to take Lucas to the show, but he seemed to need a bit of convincing; the concept of live music was still a bit foreign to him.
As it turned out, we all had a great time. The band tore through much of Electric Storyland - my personal favorite was "I Am A Robot", which brought me back to the days of hotboxing in the Balboa Park Planetarium parking lot, there to see the Pink Floyd laser show (seems like only yesterday - my, how quickly those three months have gone by). The kids were issued plastic tambourines and maracas, and balloon artists were on hand to pass out balloon hats and animals. Between songs, band member Sippy Doug assumed the role of various characters (Major Minor, Hair Professor); the show was fast-paced, fun, and kept the kids enthralled (Lucas had a rapt expression on his face for the entire 45 minute set, wearing the same look that Richard Dreyfuss wore when he was led up the ramp of the mothership at the end of Close Encounters). The band also exuberantly covered the Velvet Underground's "Rock and Roll", the Ramones' "I Wanna Be Sedated" (sanitized a bit; the Sippys wanna be "elated") and for the encore, the Stones' "She's A Rainbow". (The lack of BOC covers was a bit of a disappointment; I think the kids would have really dug "Veteran of The Psychic Wars", or perhaps "The Siege and Investiture of Baron von Frankenstein's Castle at Weisseria".)
So the Sippy Cups can add us to their growing fan base. Let's face it - most kids' music is just that, but the Sippy Cups put on a show that's as fun for the grown-ups as it is for the little ones. Definitely check them out if they come to your town.
(ETA: Amy, aka The Lovely Mrs. Davis, sent along a nice link highlighting some additional "kids" music; check it out here. Remember - friends don't let friends listen to Raffi.)
What can I say? We like muppets.
What would you pay to have your pocket picked by the Artful Dodger or have a chance to go toe-to-toe with Bill Sikes? How about being transported back to your youth by the Ghost of Christmas Past? I say, "Whatever it takes, man. I've got to go back to those "Best and Worst of Times."
That's right folks, get ready for Dickens World, a £62 million ($115 million) complex built on the naval dockyard in Chatham, Kent, opening later this month. The Dickensian-themed attraction will be indoor and recreate the architecture of the period as well as feature the thieves, murderers, ghosts, dandies and degenerates that make up Dickens' novels. Guests can enjoy (and I use that term loosely...very loosely) seeing Mr. Pickwick and Miss Havisham in the Haunted House or children can hang out in Fagin's Den of Thieves -- sure, those same children may leave saying this like "'Allo, guv'nor" and be skilled in the art of picking pockets and fencing, but talk about being street smart. Maybe they even get a chance to stay in Newgate Prison -- good times, good times.
Critics are expressing some scorn and decrying the Disneyfication of Dickens: ""There is a lot to fear here," The New York Times said. "There is the prospect that characters from Dickens' novels - Mr Pecksniff and the Artful Dodger, Mr Pickwick and Uriah Heep - will wander through Dickens World the way Goofy and Mickey walk the streets of Disneyland." Manager Ross Hutchins denies this is this case, arguing "The Dickens Fellowship has been consulted throughout the process of developing the Dickens World and guarantees as much authenticity as possible. So don't expect a clean and tame Disneyland, but a dark, dirty and dank London populated by thieves, murderers and ghosts."
Would I go should I ever find myself in Chatham? Sure, why the hell not. I could get a t-shirt with "I went to Dickens World and all I got was this lousy t-shirt and a case of consumption" or "Edwin Drood was pushed." I'd go to Dante's Inferno World if they built one. Imagine how thrilling the "Circles of Hell" ride would be.
Sidenote: in the interest of self-promotion, please visit Dad Said, Mom Said where Mrs. Big Dubya and I discuss the possibility and "oh, hell no" aspect of having a third child. Thanks.
