DadCentric

Snookles

Long Days and Sweet Nights

I'm sitting outside at 9:40 in the p.m.  It's finally comfortable out, if you can call being swarmed with every flying thing within a six block radius "comfortable."  At least the heat has gone to bed.  It was 110 today.  That's about 25 degrees hotter than it should ever be.  I'm pretty sure there are spots in hell that are cooler than that.

My wife is at work and after a long day, longest actually, I've just cracked open a Red Stripe, turned on some music (this post was written to Band of Horses, Calexico, and Joe Purdy, respectively), and started to unwind, which is really just working for a few hours but outside with bugs and beer.

A little over an hour ago I was sitting at this same table on the same lawn(ish), but I wasn't thinking about writing or deadlines.  I was sitting with my boys, both of them tired and true, always true.  I had made grilled cheese for dinner, per their request.  What they hadn't requested is that I make the sandwiches on some wacky English muffin bread I had picked up at Trader Joe's, or that I use a smoked cheese, or that I slice open whole green chilies and hide them between slices of said cheese, but I did, and they ate them, never the wiser.

We sat here and we had what passes as conversation between an old man, a rapid talking two-year-old and a freshly turned five-year old.  We talked of swimming pools and video games, dogs and the birds of twilight.  There was no rush, no rules and no agenda, just 3 guys that could really use a bath, a good meal and lots of laughter.

This, I thought, is what it is all about.

And here I am an hour later, the boys in bed, the dogs chewing loudly in food bowls they had hoped to ignore, and a layer of bugs upon the screen of my laptop, and it feels like a summer should feel.

I could get used to this.

Some Motivation For You

Be of good cheer, folks; it's Friday. We here at DadCentric realize that you may need a little something extra to get through the day, so please feel free to print these out, frame them, and hang them next to the other motivational posters on your office wall. True, there are no bald eagles or rock climbers to be found here, but we think these are just as inspiring.

   

 

 

   

Special Guest Dad: Kevin McKeever

We continue our Special Guest Dad series with this contribution from reader Kevin McKeever. Kevin describes himself as "a recovering journalist, corporate-chaos survivor and former full-time telecommuter." He's a WAHD; you can read his work-related stuff here, and his everything-else-related stuff here. In this piece, Kevin considers the American Girl Phenomenon, which, frankly, I know nothing about, but probably should, since I have a daughter who may end up liking dolls and Louisa May Alcott books and such.

You go, American Girl. Go, now.

Nothing says "female empowerment" quite like women using capitalism to cash in on female empowerment.

I have seen it up close, dear friend. It is called the American Girl doll/book/movie phenomenon.

For those without little girls or good credit lines, American Girl dolls were created by a mid-Western woman who wanted better role models for girls than the bodacious airline hostess Barbie dolls of her day.

She succeeded. She succeeded so well, she sold the company in 1998 for $700 million … to Barbie's maker, Mattel. Now, the woman, Pleasant Rowland, is taking her money and essentially remaking Aurora, N.Y., in her own American Girl image, much to the displeasure of some of the natives.

Conceptually, I have no problem with AG. The dolls all have historical, fill-the-world-with-love-and-goodness backstories (Slave girl helps with the Underground Railroad! Hippie chick saves bald eagles!) supported through books, videos and a soon-to-be-released Major Motion Picture.

Values, character, etc. - I'm down with that. Beats Bratz and their "passion for fashion."

But, being in the Land of the Free Enterprise System, they tie all that wholesomeness into selling you not just the dolls at 90 bucks a pop but also the doll's accessories (Own the slave girl doll's bird in a cage for $18! Buy the hippie chick doll's picnic gear for camping out to watch bald eagles for $48!). Don't forget life-size clothes for your girl that look like the dolls' clothes.

And, your precious girl needs them ALL!

I'll give AG props for chutzpah and quality. The stuff they shill is definitely more substantial in terms of size and material than say those flimsy, teeny Polly Pocket toys my daughter was into for a while. I still occasionally find them under furniture or in the dog's digestive remains.

Well, in April, me and the 8-year-old took a day trip to Chicago for her quarterly appointment with the juvenile dermatomyositis specialist (she's doing very well, thanks for asking). As part of our appointments, we always visit the American Girl Place there. It's her reward for enduring all the blood draws, pills, injections, nights in traction boots to stretch her ankle muscles and periodic medical procedures over the past six years. They should make an American Girl doll out of her, for crying out loud.

So, there she is, skipping up the "Miracle Mile" of Chicago's glitzy Michigan Avenue shopping district. Arms swaying, safari hat perched on her head, a blissful blur in pink and white stripes that only stops to ask how many more blocks 'til we get there.

We arrive five minute before the store opens. She's looking at the window displays, telling me what she likes and doesn't like.

Now, she's detailing exactly what three things she wants. She knows because she has pored through the AG catalog (which seems to arrive weekly in our mailbox), made thick colored marker circles around 85 percent of the items, and then narrowed it down to a Holy Trinity of American Girlness. This is because she knows that while I am a sucker, I am a sucker with financial limitations.

"I added it up with the calculator," she exclaims, "and they only cost $126!"

Hey, math skills being learned here. American Girl is THAT good!

It's now 10 a.m. on the dot. A man in a navy blue custodial uniform unlocks the door. "Come on in," he says.

The AG store in Chicago is three floors of red, pink and purple pre-teen paradise (add green if you own stock in Mattel, of course). Being a Wednesday morning, this is the first time I've been in the place without it being wall-to-wall girls dressed just like the AG dolls they are cradling in their arms.

There was also no snaking queue of moms waiting to pay an AG stylist $20 to give a ponytail-flip-with-braid 'do to their princesses' "Just Like You" doll. The café was silent, waiting for parent-child bonding over afternoon tea at $17 a head.

Then I saw a fellow Dad. He asked a saleswoman if they sold Girl Scout uniforms for the dolls.

No, she said, but the closest thing would be this doll's summer camp outfit. Then you could get the camp tent and backpack and camping accessories …

I now know exactly what that vacant, dead man's stare of helplessness looks like that I give my wife every time she tells me about the latest home improvement idea she got from watching HGTV.

So, $137.66 later (note: must teach girl about sales tax), we were on our way. But first, I needed to make a pit stop.

I stopped a male security guard walking past me on the basement level. "I see the big 'Women's Restroom' sign," I said, pointing out the obvious in front of us, "but where is the men's room?"

His eyes rolled.

"You're not going to like this," he sighed. "Two floors up, in the back, tucked around a corner from the customer service desk."

"We all complain about it," he then added. By "we," he was obviously referring to only the other male members of the store staff. You could tell.

"Well, I'm sure they are fixing that when you move to the new, bigger store across the street this fall," I said.

"Oh, no," he said. "Same location in the store. But it's a bigger store and a longer walk. We all fought for that one, but it's not happening."

I guess it's true. Payback is a bitch.

Support The Cause - Go Buy "Alternadad": The Paperback!

While browsing the shelves at our local Barnes and Noble, I happened upon the recently released paperback edition of Neal Pollack's magnus opus, Alternadad. As I always do, I picked up the book to read the review blurbs, and lo! what did I see, but a snippet of the review I gave back when the book was originally released! Me! In print! In an actual book! Sounding like some sort of literary critic! I immediately called Michiko Kakutani and asked him if we could be friends. He uttered something that sounded like "eat my fuck" and hung up on me. Still, I am in a geeky mood, and am considering buying a bunch of copies to send to my parents and everyone I know to prove to them that I'm not making up stories about people actually reading my blog.

The blurb, in case you're interested:

"'Alternadad' works because it's got a lot of heart. Neal tells his story without the shrill judgment and holier-than-thou attitude that's prevalent in so many parenting books and blogs. It's an honest, funny, and ultimately moving story, one that dads (and moms) will love." 

So in case you haven't picked up a copy, do so; it's great and deserves a wide audience. Plus you can read my blurb again. And again. And again.

The Final Word on The Finals

Readers will recall that Warren (Celtics fan) and I (Lakers fan) made a little bet regarding the outcome of this year's NBA Finals. And so, after tonight's stinking abortion of a lopsided finale to the series, I will be sending Mr. Big Dubya a case of San Diego's favorite local beer, Karl Strauss Amber Lager. (You may be asking yourselves, why not a case of L.A.'s favorite local beer? Because there are no good microbreweries in all of L.A. County.)

Now, some of you out there may be tempted to run some fansmack. Before you do, a few things to consider. First, I encourage you to zip over to ESPN.com, click on any of the recent NBA Finals-related articles, and peruse the work of the modern day Voltaires that post to the comments sections. Me, I try to avoid talking shit about opposing teams, simply because I really don't want to stand up and be counted with the ranks of these ass-tampons that feel the need to talk shit about how great their teams are and how much their opponents suck. Yes, I understand that these folks need to have something to cheer about -  putting in those long hours at JiffyLube and coming home to the doublewide, you need to have some ray of sunshine in your life - but do it with class and dignity. Second, any fan who uses the term "we" in reference to their pro team of choice winning anything ("We beat the Lakers! We're number 1!") is in all likelihood a couch-bound mooseknuckled Fritos addict who only picks up a ball if it's made of malted milk. (It was nice, however, to see that the Celtics apparently pulled one of these lucky fans out of the crowd, gave him a uni, and let him play for a few minutes tonight. Congrats, Glen Davis! And yes, I will talk shit about Glen Davis, because even though I'm so bad at hoops that Stephen Hawking could whoop my ass in a game of H.O.R.S.E., I'm pretty sure I'm a better player than that fatbody. Holy Christ, when he came off the bench I thought Tony Gwynn had decided to resume his basketball career.) Third, the only thing worse than a bandwagon fan is a fan who roots for one team because at some point your shitty team got beat by one (or both) of the two good teams that won their respective conferences and made it to the Finals. (I don't get the logic - if I'm, say, a Knicks fan, and I watched the Celtics, arguably the shittiest team on the planet last year, make it to the Finals this year while my guys once again went nowhere, I wouldn't be waving the goddamn green pompoms for them. Think that Yankees fans were cheering on the Red Sox in the last World Series?)

Last word: the Lakers have no excuses for losing. They were beaten by a team that played better and wanted it more. Some will blame Kobe, to which I say, um, there's 4 other guys on the floor that also need to score and defend. Some will blame Phil, to which I say - give me a fucking break. Count the rings, read his books, understand the triangle offense and then tell me that the guy can't coach; ultimately, the players win or lose the games. In conclusion, congrats to the Celtics, cheers to their fans, and hopefully we won't have to wait 22 years for the next matchup. 

Happy Father's Day!

Despite what most "parenting" websites would have you believe (and you bet your ass I'm bitter over not appearing in that "Hot Dads, Round 2" piece), dads really are important. Even the government thinks so.

Gravitas

"Dad", Lucas said as he settled into his seat at the dinner table, with a serious look about him, "can we talk?"

I felt a twinge of anxiety. Things have been challenging lately; we were forced to move him to a new preschool due to his old one closing, and we've been dealing with an increased need for attention, manifesting itself in the form of tantrums and whining. It's hard to be four when you have a baby sister and a whole new school. Earlier in the day, he had run off and had received a stern lecture about Evil Strangers Who Snatch Little Boys Who Don't Stick With Their Parents. Gave him a good scare...maybe too good? Yep, he's reaching that age when worry starts to set in, when kids become aware of the bad and sad in the world. I looked into his eyes, and saw a timeless question written there, and felt the urge to give him a big hug and tell him that everything was going to be ok.

"Sure", I said.

He paused to gather his thoughts. "Dad, do bears play football?"

Showtime

Halftime, and in the wake of my good friend Warren's eloquent summation of his Celtic fandom, I feel compelled to offer my own story.

It's the story of a young kid, lying in a hospital bed, barely clinging to life. He had a dream - a dream that his idols, Kareem, Magic, Kurt, Byron, would answer his wish. A championship, something to give him the hope that he so desperately needed, the spark that just might be enough to pull him through.

Who was that kid?

Er, no idea. It would make a helluva Lifetime movie, though. Meredith Baxter Birney could play the mom!

Listen. I'm a Lakers fan. I started watching them in the mid-90's. Elden Campbell. Eddie Jones. Del Harris. Not exactly guys you'd, well, pay money to see. But watch them I did, and when Shaq came along, I was thrilled, and then came Kobe, and then Phil, and, well, you know the rest. The three-peat? Beautiful. Big Shot Bob. Fish. The Big Aristotle. The despised Kings and the hatred Spurs. I love NBA basketball, because it's pure entertainment, and watching Laker ball in those days was a guaranteed good time. Now, when I say "fan", I'll fully admit to being a SoCal sports fan; that is, fair weather. (Pausing here to say that, honest to God, I hope that Pierce is OK after being wheeled off the floor. He, the Celtics, and their fans deserve better than to have the heart of the team, one of the league's best, on the bench for this series.) Anyway, fair weather. Literally. As in, I live in a town where the average temperature is 69 degrees, and I haven't lived more than a mile from the ocean in 10 years, and so I don't spend a lot of time in front of the TV if the weather's nice. And I'll also admit to a decided lack of enthusiasm during Kobe's, ah, difficult years.

But Showtime is back, and you can't have a great story without a great rival. (FUCK! Pierce is back...and he stole the ball! Somebody kick him in the knee!) And while I sincerely hope that the Celtics come up empty, it's good to have them back as well. Lakers/T-Wolves? Lakers/Nets? Doesn't quite feel the same.

Bleed Green

Remember how Marty McFly reacted whenever Biff called him a chicken?  Yeah, I'm like that when someone wants to make a bet on any of my vaunted Boston/New England teams.  Well, maybe not the Bruins, but you get the point.  I can't pass it up.  I've won some.  And, regrettably, lost some.  I've gone and made another - I think I need help.

My 70's-era youth was filled with glorious names: Jo Jo White, Dave Cowens, John Havlicek, Don Nelson, Don Chaney, Nate "Tiny" Archibald among many, many others.  The 80s?  Where do I start?  Hell, where else can I start?  Larry Bird.  Larry Legend.  The Kid from French Lick.  But he wasn't alone.  Kevin McHale (who may be directly responsible for this go-round - thanks, Kevin, you Celtic at heart), "The Chief" Robert Parish, Dennis "DJ" Johnson (RIP), Cedric "Cornbread" Maxwell, Danny Ainge, and, a personal favorite of mine, Gerald Henderson.  Danny wrote today about crying when the Lakers lost in '84.  Well, I was on the opposite coast and I cried.  Tears of joy.  It was a magical season - 62 wins, the first of three consecutive MVPs for Bird, McHale's first of two consecutive Sixth Man Awards - all you could want.  And that trophy was the perfect cap.

During the 90s and early 00s, however, they lost me.  They were a rudderless ship after Bird retired and Red cut back his involvement.  ML Carr was never a great coach and Rick Pitino was a one-man wrecking ball, single-handedly destroying this storied franchise.  Seven years after his welcomed departure, well, I'm sitting here watching them in the championship for the first time in 21 years.  Against the Lakers of all teams.  Some things are different: I'm not wearing pin-striped Cotlers or sporting a sweet pair of Adidas Gazelles, Depeche Mode isn't on the radio (they're on my iPod, but I digress) and Larry isn't draining threes or making no-look passes.

But the thrill is back.  The Garden (well, the TD BankNorth Garden - whatever) is rockin' once again.  The ghosts of Johnny Most and Red Auerbach are in their respective seats, the Leprechaun is sporting an ear-to-ear smile and 16 championship banners hang above the Parquet.  I think I feel a 17th coming on.