DadCentric

You Can't Go Home Again

As you read this I'm sitting in a coffee shop in my hometown.  Actually, as you read this I'm probably someplace else, possibly a strip club in my hometown.  But probably not.  Hell, I could be anywhere.  That's not the point.

I'm sitting in a coffee shop in my hometown.  When I was in college and this place was new it was to coffeehouses what "Friends" was to Must See TV.  It was plush and full of couches and sweater vests.  It was Central Perk West- although not as much as the place down the street that was a two-story house of java actually called "Friends" and used mugs you could bathe in.

Latest bout of SAHD-ness

Once upon a time, my family was structured according to that age old model wherein the guy goes out to work at some job to bring home the bread while the woman stays at home with the kiddos. Every morning, I kissed the family goodbye and headed out into the world dressed in my fedora and a Brooks Brothers suit. I arrived at the office where my secretary, Bunny, would faithfully greet me with a smile and a piping cup of joe, which she’d replenish no less than 16 times before lunch. The poor girl only types about ten words a minute, but she looks great in a pair of six inch heels. I spent my days in my office, dictating memos, smoking my pipe, playing darts, and doing shots with the occasional client that would swing by to bullshit about this or that account or whatever. I take my job seriously. I’d arrive home at night to find an elaborate dinner on the table, prepared and presented by my perfectly coifed, dressed, and accessorized wife. I took my place at the head of the table where I dispensed fatherly wisdom between bites, all of which my perfectly behaved children would listen to with the attentiveness of ninja trainees. After dinner, I always enjoyed a pipe in the den, where I was not to be disturbed except in grave emergencies.

Okay, so portions of the above paragraph may be lies.

"I Love You, Man" is So Uncool -- A Review and a Rant

The flashbacks came in waves as I sat in the theater Friday afternoon -- in a row populated only by me, my tub of lightly buttered popcorn and a pack of Sour Patch Kids --  watching the new "bromance" comedy I Love You, Man.

During one scene of awkward card playing and projectile vomiting, for example, my mind turned back to when I was a corporate hack in my early 30s. A bunch of balding, paunchy VPs in their 50s decided to have a poker party. For whatever reason, they invited me along.

In two hours, we played 37 variations of poker, all but four of which I had actually heard of before and only two of which I understood how to play. During that time, every sentence my tablemates spoke from their cliched cigar-clenched-in-their-teeth lips featured a string of George Carlin's Seven Dirty Words.

"Give me two, you cocksucker asshole shit-for-brains," one would say.

The Douchebag Vaccine

Friday night, and we might have lost some of our Hipster Parenting Cred: Beth, Zoe and I, hanging out at the Starbucks, the Starbucks attached to the Barnes and Noble, no less. I was wrestling with a cold, and foresaw a weekend of sloth. Reading supplies were needed, and in order to make decisions, there had to be caffeine. 

This particular Starbucks attracts mopey teens, and they were there in force. The Encinitas east of the freeway differs from the Encinitas west of the freeway; cross those eight lanes and you're in Gentrificationville, and there are no indy coffee shops ("shoppes") to speak of. The AlternaTeens have no refuge; they go to this particular Starbucks as city-bound peregrine falcons might flock to a particularly convenient high-rise. It ain't a proper nest, but it'll have to do. We sat there, drinking our foamy drinks and eating some sort of cookie, and watched a small tragedy unfold. 

Those who do not study history are doomed to...oh damn, where's the toilet?

I'd let this dude teach my kids history, as long as he's not also the bus driver.

Black Hockey DadCentric Reviews: Fatherhood In General

In terms of vast cosmic Fatherhood, I’m thinking that monotheism has had its day. My review is not favorable. We need more Gods. And bring on some Mothers.

 

But secular fatherhood, as with most things, has its ups and downs. Of course I can’t provide a complete review because I’m in the thick of fathering. I’d hate to give you a big glowing review, only to have my son end up murdering a bunch of virgins with an axe or some shit. That wouldn’t look right. You’d look back on my glowing fatherhood review and read about my son in the paper and you’d have a sense that these things don’t shore up properly. Something would be off.

 

So this is a review of fatherhood thus far. My kids are 10 and 5.

Four words

It comes home in his backpack. A manila envelope: To the Parents of. I take a deep breath, catch my finger in a corner, and tear a ragged mouth open along one edge.

Within: a stack of white papers. Heavy with ink, thick with import. Four sections, each stapled carefully in the top left corner. Each bearing his name and his date of birth. The name of the school system. And in a deeper shade of black, "Three-Year Reevaluation."

This is a function of necessity. Of law. Per the Commonwealth of Massachusetts:

Education Laws & Regulations: 603 CMR 28
Section (01)(d) Upon referral, school districts shall evaluate children who are two and a half years of age and who may be receiving services through an early intervention program. An initial evaluation shall be conducted in order to ensure that if such child is found eligible, special education services begin promptly at age three.

Section (03) The school district shall review the IEPs and the progress of each eligible student at least annually. Additionally, every three years, or sooner if necessary, the school district shall, with parental consent, conduct a full three-year reevaluation consistent with the requirements of federal law.

Twenty feet away, my living room is a riot of activity. My son, turning 6 next month, runs in circles around the room. Screaming in mock terror. Close behind, his twin sisters chase him — arms extended, plush sharks clutched in sweaty little hands, soft teeth and red felt mouths opening in anticipation of the feeding to come. An exercise in predatory stalking. Every third or fourth circuit, he leaps onto the couch. Into his mother's arms, and the presumption of safety. And she gently chides the girls: "Don't eat your brother."

The girls pause. Waiting. Their eyes wide with excitement, their smiles broad. Their teeth gleaming. Waiting for the sea lion to reenter the sea.

A moment later, he leaps back into the fray, and the chase begins anew.

I stand alone in the dining room. Gather myself. Then sit down, and begin to read.

The First Five Minutes of Race to Witch Mountain: A Non-Review

Yes, that's the Rock.  The fucking Rock, aka Dwayne Johnson, whom you may recall from such hits as this musical number.  He is currently starring in Disney's latest attempt to negate my childhood Race to Witch Mountain.  Due to my wife finding said Rock to be hot funny "we" decided to go see it.  I went begrudgingly.

Zen and the Art of Railroad Construction

When I was a kid growing up in Houston, Hurricane Alicia blew through town, ripping off rooftops, knocking over trees, flooding the streets, and just generally wreaking all manner of havoc. Our house was spared for the most part, but we were without electricity and running water for something like two weeks. I passed the time in our grayly lit house by playing with my Legos and pestering my mom every few minutes about when the TV would work again. I was seven years old, and it’s the first time I can remember getting a lesson in the fact that there’s some shit you just can’t do a damn thing about.

I Am Now Excited For The "Where The Wild Things Are" Movie

This is how you do a movie poster for what promises to be a very cool interpretation of the greatest kid's book ever written. Spike Jonze, directing. Dave Eggers, screenwriter. Shot on location in weird parts of Australia. After reading this interview with Jonze, I was optimistic. After seeing this poster (is Max howling in elation or fear?) I'm geeking out. What do you guys think?