DadCentric

Dunkin' Donuts Coffee: The DadCentric Review

I am a working dad. I need my coffee. My morning cups are as vital to me as oxygen. But every so often I commit the cardinal sin of using up all of the coffee and forgetting to buy more. Which brings us to this review.

After microwaving the grind-flecked tepid remains of the pot that we'd brewed the day before yesterday, it became imperative that I make a run to the store to get some coffee (and salsa, and contact lens solution, all of which we were out of, none of which civilized beings can live without, although I'm pretty sure that in a pinch some kosher salt and tap water would fill in quite nicely for the $7.00 bottle of contact lens solution).

I picked up a bag of the Dunkin' Donuts House Blend, the Fabled Nectar of The Gods that we've all heard so much about. Now, I will admit to having a West Coast bias; Peet's crushes all, and God help me if they ever get to Starbucks' level, because I will be to their coffee what Chris Rock was to crack in New Jack City. But people I know from the Midwest and East Coast have raved about DD coffee to me for a while, so I figured I'd give it a shot. Plus it was only $4.99 a bag, so how bad could (FORESHADOWING) it be?

The taste test occurred this morning. I wasn't too encouraged when I opened the bag. The deep, near-black of well-roasted coffee (good coffee should be the color of topsoil) was absent; instead, the beans were a $100 Ikea computer desk light-brown. It had all the aroma of iocaine powder. I was worried. But my head was beginning to pound - I'd already been awake for fifteen minutes, and I was getting the CT's (caffeinum tremens - we talk about them in Group). No choice but to make a pot and hope for the best.

I tried to come with an apt description. "Tasted like a cup of Starbucks, if Starbucks made their coffee with lawn clippings instead of coffee beans" came to mind, as did "wet tires", "a pair of socks worn during rugby practice", "Duraflame log broth", "almost but not quite entirely unlike coffee", and "Death".  None seemed piquant enough. What did seem like a fitting description was the word I uttered upon taking my first sip: "Fuck."

Yes - it tasted like Fuck. Specifically this: put two people in a bathtub full of water, let them have sex in the water, and when they finish take your empty coffee pot, fill it up with the dirty fuck water, add some Coffeemate and Splenda, and voila, you'd have Dunkin' Donuts coffee.  "Wow!", your guests will say. "This tastes like fuck! Mind if I kick you in the throat for serving it to me?"

So my first impression of Dunkin' Donuts coffee was not a favorable one. I did tell a co-worker that I wasn't that impressed (I am a professional, and so did not tell her that it tasted like fuck, as I'm pretty sure that the company orientation manual advises against such language); she said that DD coffee tastes much better in the stores. It must pair well with polyhydrogenated vegetable oil, non-dairy whipped topping, and Pink Dye #5, I suppose.

Star Wars According to a Three-Year-Old

There are life lessons here:

Source: fistofblog

So Cute It Will Make You Squeal Like Ned Beatty in "Deliverance"

The Perfect Answer?

It's inevitable if you're a parent.  It's kind of a rite of passage, so to speak.  One of these days, whether you expect it or not, you're kid is going to put their foot in your mouth.

We're sitting at CPK on one of our weekly dinner excursions.  My 4 year old daughter is sitting across from me facing the rest of the restaurant.  It's close quarters in this particular section as diners sit practically elbow-to-elbow.  The host places menus on the empty table to my right as he begins to seat a party of two.  I see my daughter's eyes lock on to whomever is about to sit down next to me and the corner of my eye fills with the shadow of the approaching patron.  I shift my field of vision slightly to the right, identifying my newly-seated neighbor who has captured my daughter's attention.  And then the next 3 seconds played out in slow motion...

I wave of terror flows through me as my daughter's finger begins to point at the gentleman to my right.  I know what's about to happen and I have about .5 seconds to think of a way to counter strike.  Unfortunately, I'm two glasses of chardonnay in and I possess the reaction time of a salted slug.  It's too late.  The Death Star is clear to fire.  Her finger fully extended and eyes looking directly in to his face she asks, "Hey, why that guy have a big tummy?"

Admittedly, I was shell shocked even though I saw it coming.  I was useless to respond.  My wife, however, was on the ball...sort of.  She immediately responds with "Why don't you introduce yourself, Lu?"  OK, I was thinking a diversion or something may have been the better choice than direct engagement, but, again, at least she responded - which is infinitely better than the drooling look of duuuuuuh I was offering up at that moment.  She didn't seem to want talk to the guy.  She was reloading.

I came to, gathered my senses and managed to interrupt and divert her several times as she was intent on asking that same question until she got an answer.  Attacking her flanks gave my wife enough time to scramble for an offensive move.  "Daddy, why don't you go take Lu to wash her hands."  Perfect!  Remove her from the scene and figure out what to do next.  I'm not taking her to the bathroom, that was just a red herring so that I could remove her somewhat naturally without looking too obvious. Maybe the big guy - and, yes, he was very obese - missed the whole exchange and, to him, it was business as usual for a family with small kids.  Right.  Who am I trying to fool here?

We walk towards the front of the restaurant.  I now had to think of how to answer her well enough to squash her curiosity.  I'm not good on my toes in uncomfortable situations.  The best I could muster was to ask her not to ask again so that we could just eat our dinner and go home for dessert (a diversion!).  It was a sucky response, I know.  But, it was the best I could do. Of course, it didn't do shit for the situation because she asked again as soon as we sat back down.  It wasn't until after several minutes of intensive distraction that she finally forgot about the guy and moved on.

However, she was owed an answer.  I explained to her on the way home that the guy's big tummy was what makes him special.  Just like some people have blue eyes, brown skin, or even a "beauty mark" like she has on her waist.  She seemed to get it at that point.  Hopefully. 

My wife and I both agreed that, for some reason, this was a more uncomfortable situation than we would expect from a similar encounter with someone with a disability, deformity, impediment, etc.  In those situations, direct engagement with the person seems more appropriate.  I bet most folks with those types of disabilities are prepared to answer a direct question.  But, fat?  Could we expect him to have a canned answer?  We couldn't wrap our minds around the perfect response for her.

How would you guys handle it?

That's the Sound of Marlin Perkins Rolling in his Grave

Growing up I used to love the nature shows, like Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom or the 60's era film-strips that portrayed the bears of Yellowstone less like this and more like this.  I think it's important that our children understand the wonders of nature before we pave over it all and build another giant-ass Best Buy.

One of the great things about modern technology is that you capture nature footage that you never could before.  I couldn't believe what I saw the other day...it appears that scientists can not only film the most elusive scenes in the animal kingdom, but apparently they can now capture their thoughts!  And much to my surprise, they think a lot like us.

Next time you think about sailing away to a distant shore to live like an apeman, just let this be a warning...

This End Up isn't high-end?

I'm not a New York Times reader.  I never have been and I'm fairly certain I never will be.  In all honesty, I've just always found it pretentious and I don't think I fall into their particular demo.  They're wine, cheese and foie gras.  I'm beer, pretzels and three-layer dip.  Oh sure, I like to come off now and then like I'm a bit more cultured and refined, but I'm a keg parties in the woods, sit in the bleachers type of guy.

I know, I know.  You're saying to yourself, "Warren, we don't give a shit why you don't like The Times."  And, you're right, you shouldn't.  I only tell you as a preface to this February 14th article and why I found myself shaking my head muttering, "I just don't get it" and "Maybe they don't get it."

Before I got married, my decor consisted of a used Scandinavian Designs bed and dresser, assorted crates, a TV stand, an entertainment center, a beat-up La-Z-Boy covered in cat hair (RIP Moe) and assorted bric-a-brac - typical for a guy just out of college living on his own.  After getting married, Mrs. Big Dubya and I set out to furnish our home with nice but comfortable stuff - neither wanted a room or rooms where you were afraid to enter or sit down (read: my parents' house).  I think we've succeeded and admirably so.  It's all very nice, but we also know we have two small children (a third on the way) who aren't using coasters, eat with their fingers and like to use bottles as if they were bingo daubers.  Three words: We. Have. Kids.  Have I quit?  No.  Am I a realist?  I think so.  That's why I found the article so dumbfounding.  Am I the only one who knows that kids are not neatniks?  They don't just walk they barrel headlong into things.  They smear, spill, smudge and slobber on everything.  God bless 'em.

What bothers (troubles?) me about this article at times is the "Extra!  Extra!" earth-shattering quotes and revelations on behalf of some of the interview subjects:   “Going from being a couple to becoming a parent, your whole world changes..."  “Once you become a parent, your home is not your own..."  Hold on a sec.  You mean it's not all about me anymore?  Well, slap my ass and call me Charlie.  But, from reading this, you'd think these parents never got that memo - the underlying tone is, "I have and want nice things, therefore my children will conform and show these items the proper respect and care."  Newsflash: um...no they won't and no they won't.  Let me just say, here and now, I'm not faulting these people for wanting nice things; for wanting nice living spaces; for wanting to be adults.  Hell, I would love to be able to do that.  I've had my eye on a piece or two at Pier One just like everyone else.  But I also know that a wall, even if it is covered in designer paint, is still a very appealing and enticing canvas.  And, no matter how cautious or how quick you are (or think you are) that child is going to vomit - whether he's sitting on a $399 EKTORP sofa in Belgian White or a $17,000 sectional in brown leather and emerald chenille.  It's better to resign yourself to this fact now.  Just ask my sectional after the Sharpie pen incident of 2006.

If you have children and manage to maintain a showroom-quality apartment or home, lucky you and may that luck continue.  And, if you don't mind me asking, how much did you pay for Vicki?

Sidenote: If you read the article, you may have a similar question(s): How exactly does one go about becoming a professional babyproofer?  And 300 holes?  Are you installing some sort of bank vault?

Why I Love Wired So Much

It's not often that I come across pure genius outside my own daily delusions of grandeur, especially with regard to viral videos.  Let's face it...YouTube is chock full of large, steaming piles of donkey poo.  So when they chose to remove the "Shreds" videos by user St. Sanders, I was pissed.  I had been subscribed to his stream for months, ever since discovering the "Eddie [Van Halen] Shreds" video that had me literally laughing so hard I cried and peed my pants.  Apparently, a couple of guitar gods that had been spoofed got their egos taken out at the knee and claimed copyright infringement.  YouTube, the spineless douchebags that they are, caved in and removed them. 

However, Wired pulled through and is now hosting them on their site.  The "Shreds" live - at least for now.  Thank you,Wired, the tech Bible that you are.  So, if you missed these hilarious spoofs, take a gander and see what all the hubbub was about.  Or, if you're lazy, I've set you up with an Yngwie Malmsteen sample below:

DadCentric Formal Apology #32,455

A few days ago, I was interviewed for a piece by Seattle Post-Intelligencer writer Paul Nyhan, who also authors the Working Dad blog. The piece was about the lack of support groups - and parenting resources in general - for dads. It can be found here. I wish to clarify the remarks attributed to me in the article.

While it is true that I said that a father's role has traditionally been to "guard the frontiers against the Visigoths", my intention was not to cast the Visigoths in a disparaging light. I would like to state, for the record, that am not nor have I ever been an anti-Visite. I have nothing but respect and admiration for the Visigoth people. I often listen to Visigoth music ("Music to Put Severed Heads On Long Pikes By" and "Elkskin Tanning Tunes" are two of my favorite albums, and they just happen to be by, yes, Visigoths). I am not ashamed to drink mead when I'm around my non-Visigoth friends. And yes, I am proud to say that I do have Visigoth friends. (Well, they're more like acquaintances.  One is a co-worker, actually. And I only see him at the annual company picnic. Never met met his wife, truth be told. But still.)

I see now the error of my ways, and those of you who have commented that I should have learned my lesson after that 'fending off the Mongol Hordes' comment I made in the September 2004 issue of Ladies' Home Journal, point taken. I can only say that I have come from a broken home, I have battled a debilitating addiction to Dexatrim, I lost an arm in the brave but futile attempt to recapture the city of Hue only to return home to the curses and spittle of flag-burning hippies...well, I have a lot of pent up anger, which I unfortunately vented at the Visigoth people. I see now that my long-held belief that there is a Secret Global Visigoth Agenda was born of paranoia and a deep-seeded inferiority complex, which most likely were an aftereffect of the years I spent frequenting the Opium Dens of Uptown Vancouver. I am sincerely, deeply, and truly sorry if I have offended any Visigoths who may have read my words. I have decided to embark upon a Tour Of Healing, during which I will visit with some noted Visigoth leaders and communities, and make a deeply heartfelt speech, portions of which are still being written by my staff of interns (some of whom are, I should add - with great pride, I should also add - Visigoths). I beg your forgiveness, Visigoths everywhere, and I hope that we can all begin the healing process.

Pyrrhic

I remember my first fight. 7th grade - there was a kid that lived down the block, one Brian Neville, who one day decided that he was going to pick on my little sister. He started calling her names. I told him to knock it off. He gave me a shove. "Make me." Although I had successfully managed to avoid fighting, I actually thought about it a lot. This was junior high in the Wild Midwest; lots of hormone-crazed assholes who I'm sure eventually grew up to become serial killers or prison guards. I decided that if my usual approach to avoiding a fight - charm 'em with kindness and wit, defuse things before they got out of hand - did not work and I had to fight someone...well, I wouldn't start it, but by God I would finish it.

"Make me." He repeated it. My sister was in third grade. He was calling her names. A real tough guy. I obliged.

When Brian tried for that second shove, I grabbed his arm, punched him in the stomach, and when he keeled over I grabbed a handful of his hair and dragged him screaming down the length of the driveway, pausing once or twice to kick him in the side. I think my sister might have been crying. I know Brian was. "You fight like a girl", he sobbed. I didn't say anything to him, just looked at him - through him - as he got on his bike and pedaled his chickenshit self home.  I'd given a bully a beating that he surely deserved, but all I remember is feeling hollow, even vaguely sick. My first fight would be my last.

I got a call today while on my lunch break. It was Beth. "Lucas got into a fight at school." "Oh, no", I said. "What happened?"

"Well, he didn't start it. Two of the bigger boys in the pre-K class started pushing and hitting him."

I saw red. Grabbed the steering wheel and squeezed it until my knuckles turned white. "Fuck. Who was it." Not a question. For a split second I thought about those two little shits and what I'd...

"Lucas won't tell me. But one of them was sent home - he's apparently done this before - and the teacher was watching and she stopped it before anyone got hurt. And I guess Lucas stuck up for himself - he hit one of them back."

"Good." I was surprised at the vehemence. "Too bad he's not in karate. A nice flying spin kick to the  teeth would have taught that kid a lesson. I'll talk to Lucas about it when I get home."

When I walked into the house, he was sitting in his little chair, watching The Wonder Pets and eating crackers. His first fight, I thought. "Hi Daddy", he said. I made dinner, let him talk to my parents on the phone, then got him into his bath. At some point during all that, we talked as best we could about what had happened. I told him that he wasn't in trouble, and that it's ok to protect yourself if someone starts hitting you, and that you should run and tell the teacher if that happens again, and that you should never start fighting with someone. He seemed to take it all in stride - kids are resilient, or so we tell ourselves. But he seemed tired, in a way that I hadn't seen from him, and I wondered if - perhaps hoped that - he felt like I did after my first and only fight.

Can You Spot The Class Clown?

Admit it - you secretly hope that your kid pulls one of these:

(Thanks to my buddy Chris for the pic.)