DadCentric

Because if his mom can think of it...

Let it be stated at the outset that the name Jackson is a fine upstanding name, one of those last names that somehow still works as a first. Which is all just another way of saying no offense to anyone whose kid or who themselves is so named.

Now on with my story.

Today at work, I found myself in the middle of a completely non work-related totally child-related conversation with a couple of co-workers, one of whom is a step-mom to two little boys. She was complaining about the names that her husband and his ex-wife had chosen for her step-sons. It never occurred to me that a step-parent might be in a position to have such a complaint, but I saw her point. And while I saw what she meant about one of the boy's names, I didn't quite understand what her problem was with the other one. To paraphrase:

"What's wrong with the name 'Jackson'?" I asked.

"Not a thing in the world" she responds "except for the fact that they spelled it with an 'X'."

"Jaxon with an 'X'?" I asked. That's a new one on me.

"Yep"

"As in Jax On?" I asked, pronouncing it like "wax on."

"Yep" she answered, and then, completely without thinking, without realizing what she was saying, added "jax on, jax off!"

She immediately slapped her hand over her mouth, eyes wide with horror and embarrassment. Cubicle land fell silent for a few moments while everyone within earshot immediately saw visions of little Jaxon's school-age years.

"Oh well" she said. "At least when he gets older, I'll be able to tell him honestly that I had nothing to do with it."

I'm sorry Mr. Jaxon. And I am fo' real.

Friday Fuckwit

Remind me to wear shin guards next time I voluntarily place myself in the midst of a bull stampede.

Isn't 30 the new 20?

I have a question.  It doesn't have anything to do with parenting or kids or poop or puke or pregnancy.  All fine topics, but not what's on my mind at the moment.

Why does Hollywood/entertainment have such an obsession with the 30s?  No, I'm not talking about the Marx Brothers or the Golden Age of radio or any of that.  I mean one's chronological age.  What is it about turning 30 or being "in your 30s" that it is such an anathema; that the mere mention of it gives people the chills and causes them to scrounge for a cootie shot?  Honestly?  Is it really that bad?  I think mine were pretty good - married, two children, good job - damn, that really does suck.

I bring this up because VH1 is about to launch a new comedy series called I Hate My Thirties.  Oops, sorry, make that "an irreverent comedy."  Sidenote: if you have to tell people it's "irreverent," it usually ain't.  Just sayin'.  Anyway, so the network that brings you Flavor of Love and Scott Baio is 45...and Single, now brings you a comedy that will tackle the real issues facing our 30-something characters or, as the great copy writer who penned the show's description tells us, it's "TV as a tool for living" - wha-?  I do have to hand it to the copy writer though, his description for the show is so run through with cliches, pitch-speak and babble as to confuse the hell out of the guy who just quickly scans the five graphs.  Example: "The comedic tone comes from the absurd handling of relatable problems, matched with clever observation of the contemporary landscape. References to retro-storytelling will be minimal but maybe gratifying as occasional winks to the audience in the know."  Um...yeah.

But, haven't we seen this already?  Isn't this just The Big Chill with a laugh track?  thirtysomething, I believe, tackled many of the same issues this will, didn't it?  And, they were probably funnier than this will or could ever be.  What's that?  It was a drama?  C'mon - look at Peter Horton's mullet - that's funny.  High comedy at its best.  I like Friends, but wasn't it essentially about pretty people in their 30s dealing with relationships and jobs and babies?  Is there really anything else to deal with when you're in your 30s?

I'm sure there are many other shows, but I think you get my point.  Your 30s don't really suck, just Hollywood's interpretation of it.

Now, being 40?

While we're on the subject of Transformers

When obsolete Transformers hit bottom...

Damn You Michael Bay!

It's my own goddamn fault. For weeks, the boy has been obsessed with  GIANT ROBOTS!, as he puts it. I don't recall when exactly it was that we saw a teaser for the new Transformers flick, but for Lucas, it was a watershed moment. Here at least was the summation of all he holds to be Cool - a race car TURNS INTO A ROBOT, runs around and breaks a bunch of shit and then - AND THEN (wait for it...waaaaait for it....) TURNSBACKINTOARACECAROHSWEETMYSTERYOFLIFEATLASTI'VE
FOUNDYOOOOOOOOOOOU!

I didn't help matters much. I was just as geeked out about it as he was (even though as a kid, I found the original Transformers cartoon to be sorta lame. Give me the Argo with her Wave Motion Gun cutting swathes of destruction through the Gamelon Battle Fleet over a 30 minute toy commercial any day) and figured that as benign as the original cartoon was (just like The A-Team - thousands upon thousands  of rounds of ammo spent, with nary a death, or even a wound), the theatrical version would be geared towards the kiddies. Toys, right? Hasbro? Target audience of 6 year-old boys? (And their geeky dads?) I let my kid watch The Incredibles, and it's PG. I felt OK about letting him watch a PG rated GIANT ROBOT! movie.

Well, I got the target audience part half right.

Anyway, over the past couple of weeks the commercials for the film became more frequent - with one distressing disclaimer. This Film Has Not Yet Been Rated. "Dad? Are we going to see Giant Robot Movie?" "Er, maybe?" I'd reply. "It's not out for a while." Then, finally, a full-on trailer appeared (totally rocked, too, with Starscream in jet form flying under a bridge and then turning into robot form and grabbing the bridge and blowing some shit up, fuck yeah!) and the dreaded announcement. "RATED PG-13".

Crap. Furthermore, over the past two days the advance reviews came out (I won't speak to the film's quality - if one goes into a film about giant robots who blow shit up and turn into cars and jets, one shouldn't expect Citizen Kane. Er, wait.) and apparently, it's pretty violent. Not Saving Private Ryan gory, but people die in Michael Bay-type ways. Also, it's long - 2.5 hours. About an hour past the kid's tolerance level.

So, a conundrum. Although Lucas knows the movie exists, I'm pretty sure he has no idea exactly when it hits the theaters. I could just tell him it's not out for another 10 years. Or I could wait until the DVD comes out, and fast forward through all the mayhem ("Transfomers: A Michael Bay Vignette"). Actually, it occurred to Beth to wonder - why don't directors release Kid's Cuts of their movies? We get the Unrated Versions of The Hills Have Eyes and Saw - why not a PG version of Transformers ( or, say, Scarface? Some CGI work and the "Say hello to my little friend!" scene could take on a whole new meaning - Tony Montana produces a magical singing gnome. Could work, I tellya.) It looks like, for the time being, the kid's out of luck. Maybe we'll pick up the original Transformers: The Movie on DVD to appease him. After all, the scariest thing in it is that ghastly song.

The Post in Which My Son Becomes a Man

I've talked about my oldest boy and his, um, stuff, on here before.  He, like any male worth their salt, has a bit of an infatuation with the twig and the berries.  Let's face it, they're fascinating. 

Today, as he was sitting on the toilet, and I was standing in the kitchen trying to force as many Wheat Thins as possible into my mouth before going on TP duty (I tend to lose my appetite after wiping), I heard him call to me.  Crap, I thought, my cue.

I went in the bathroom to find him rather engaged with himself.

"What's up?" I asked.  He didn't raise his head or try to pretend that he hadn't just been caught holding a handful of his own junk.  Instead he remained focused, and I realized that I may have misjudged the situation.  I was just jumping to conclusions, damn personal experience.

"Look at all of this hair," he said.

I bent down and took a look.  Sure enough, there were four little pieces of blond fuzz gracing the under of his undercarriage (I'm talking about the upper-leg area here, folks.  Perhaps I should make that clear.  I'm afraid my clever play on words made it sound a bit more private than it actually was. I mean, the kid is barely 4, they don't hit puberty until 8 or 9, right?).

"That's what happens when you get older," I replied. "You get hair on your body."

I placed my arm next to his.  There were wisps of blond there as well, whereas mine looked like a sea of sun-dried tumbleweeds.  "See, Daddy is hairy."

"Yes," he said.  He paused for a moment, and then his eyes got big.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I'm going to get hair on my butt."

"Um, probably. Not yet, but someday.  Not for a while though."

He continued, "and I'll get hair on my forehead!"

I was eye to eye with him at this point, and I glanced to his hairline, which is 32 years closer to his forehead than mine is.

"Daddy doesn't have hair on his forehead," I assured him.

"Not yet," he said.  "But someday."

Someday.  I hope so kid.

We finished our stay in the bathroom then walked down the hall, a boy back to his lunch, and an old man covered in hair and the crumbs of his Wheat Thins.