DadCentric

Ask DadCentric - Movies We Like That Our Wives Hate...

...which may or may not be porn. Ahem.

So how many of you married or previously married or co-habitating or otherwise long-term-relationship-having peoples out there, when you were first a’courtin’, went out and saw a movie together? Show of hands? Most of you, I see. And tell me, as time passed and your relationships continued to grow in depth and profundity, as you continued to learn more about each other and discovered each other’s adorable little quirks and annoying little habits, and as you explored new realms of intimacy and tried out various new positions and locations and consented to each other’s deepest darkest never-before-revealed desires and fantasies, how many of you ever rented a movie and watched it together? Perhaps you wandered hand in hand through Blockbuster, occasionally stealing a kiss as you perused titles? Or maybe one of you went alone while you consulted with the other on your cell phone? Were you one of those people in the video store on the phone with your significant other? You were, weren’t you? You disgust me.

The point here is that movies are a significant component of the modern relationship experience. You go out to watch them, you stay in and end up making out during Taxi Driver and it doesn’t seem weird until much later. “Holy shit, we made out through Taxi Driver. That’s just fucking perverse!” It should come as no surprise, then, that as the relationship continues and the people involved reveal more and more of their true selves to one another, that certain movie tastes that both parties don’t share would fall under the heading of Shit You Just Accept Because You Love This Person. Myself, I have a whole host of titles set aside that I know there’s no way in hell my wife will ever have any interest in watching, and so I’m just waiting for those ever so rare times when I have 90 - 120 minutes alone where I have absolutely nothing else pressing to do. The funny thing is, you would think she would trust my judgment in this arena. You see, a few years ago, when the good people at Netflix delivered unto me, via our socialist postal service, the pilot of Battlestar Galactica, my wife read the title and said, and I’m quoting here, “You can watch that by yourself.” And I started to. Except that about twenty minutes into it, she walked into the room. She stood watching the screen for a minute. Then she sat down beside me and whispered, “What’s happened so far?” From that day forward, BSG was one of our shared favorites. Just think she almost missed out on the joy of that incredible series (we won’t talk about the finale), and yet our Netflix queue is peppered with films that I may never see. Mostly, it’s horror, which she pretty much refuses to watch. Something about nightmares or can’t sleep or...but wait, how can you have nightmares if you can’t sleep?!?! AHA!

Anyway, I was just gonna write a post about this all by myself, but then I started to wonder if perhaps any of my fellow DadCentrists might have anything to say on the matter from their own experiences, so I tossed out the question at our weekly meeting. And of course, we’d love to hear what you the readers have to say. That’s what them there comments are for.

Books. Do You Still Read Them?

I am an avid reader. But that comes with the territory of being a writer. Actually, I confess that I used to be an avid reader. 

I used to make it a point to go to the local library's book sale religiously. I'd get a handful of awesome books and then take the next few weeks reading them. But something called work has gotten in the way. Of course this is no excuse because I'm sitting on two books I should read that are work-related: one is The Tender Bar, a memoir by J.R. Moehringer about bar life and the other is Hops And Glory by Peter Brown about the history of Indian Pale Ale.

But for some reason I just can't get myself to crack them open.

One reason is this godforsaken internet-induced ADD that grips me once I log on to my laptop at home. Within no time I'm hoppin' and skippin' around the 'sphere, lost in beer blogs or toiling away on the always lovable JimmyR. 

Another reason is that I just can't seem to find the time. 

I did manage to tackle Donald Ray Pollock's Knockemstiff earlier in the summer, his collections of shorts proved to be an easy way to jump back into reading again. But by the time I finished the book, I had lost my desire to read again. Not that it was the book's fault. I quite enjoyed it. Just that, like some good books, it made you want to write. 

I haven't figured out how to do both at the same time but when I do I'll be sure and let you all know.

And with that said, I think I will try and read something today.

Because reading is fundamental after all.

Clowns to the Left of Me, Jokers to the Right

The internet is divided.  There are sides and opinions and ignorance and bits of slime and slander.  People say stupid shit and things they can't take back.  Feelings are hurt and friendships are lost.  Then there is the matter of money.

It is a war and one side points and laughs in their homes made from glass and the other side scurries, builds and plans.  They are working together, an army of many, and they are drafting.

From the mouths of babes

Hi - apparently, after writing for 2+ hours on a post, I found it to be absolute crap so I deleted it.  In doing so, I pretty much blew my wad on that and now can't think straight so, I've decided to give my oldest a shot at the keyboard - he's bound to put out something today that is far more coherent than I can muster. So, without further ado, I give you Little Dubs. (Let it be known that I have only transcribed - I have neither added nor embellished. Honestly.)

(looks around at all the people)Wow there are a lot of people here. Daddy? Daaa-aaaaaddy? Oh, hi. Um do you like dinosaurs? What kind of dinosaur is this?(shows dinosaur) Stegosaurus? What kind of dinosaur is this? Raaawwwrrrr, T. Rex.What do whales eat? Krill? What do dolphins eat? Do you like orcas? Orcas are cool. Can we watch Transformers? Transformers more than meets the eye. Transformers robots in diskies! Maybe we can watch iCar-ry? Maybe we can play boxing later, Daddy? Maybe tomorrow, Daddy? Can we play the Cars game, daddy? What do ladybugs eat? How aboooouuuuut (finger on chin, looking skyward) caterpillars? Is Santa coming? I want Santa to bring me a rocketship. Daaaaa-ddy, Littlest Dubs has the buttons. Can we watch ants? Ok, ok ants then iCar-ry (looking at his sister) - that's a good idea. Yes? No, iCar-ry then ants is NOT a good idea. Can I have some more juice? (looking put out) MAY I have some more juice, pleeeeeeease? Thank you, Daddy. Do you know where my spray bottle is? I won't spray Dubyette. Sorry, Daddy. I want to color. Can I color Daddy? No, the big Mickey. Ha, ha cool. Have you seen my spider? My ladybug? What do spiders eat? Other bugs? Oh. What Daddy? Bomb diggity? Can we watch Miss Spider's? In Daddy's room? Ok on the couch. Wait, I go to get my blanket. I don't want to be cold. (it's 90) No, I don't want to watch baseball. Oh, ok, sorry Daddy. I like you Daddy. You're my best friend.

(sorry - battery was dying - must recharge. Yeah, that's it - recharging.)

a steeper slope behind me lay

He tells me, "Daddy, can you ask Santa for the Lego police station?"

And I remind him: "Buddy, you mean: can 'I' ask Santa for the Lego police station?"

Pronouns are elusive. "Daddy, can I ask Santa for the Lego police station?"

I nod sagely. "Yes. When we get home, we'll add it to your Santa list."

Then he notices he is wearing shorts and a t-shirt. He remembers it is August, and Christmas is forever away. "I don't wait Santa to bring it! I want the mailman to bring it!"

Daddy Farted

“Hey Daddy, can we, um, can you, can, um, um, can you, um, daddy, can we, um, hey Daddy, can we...”

This goes on for-seemingly-ever until he reaches the point.

“Um, Daddy, can you play the ‘Daddy Farted’ song?”

Sigh.

“Okay buddy,” I say, “but let Daddy get a cup of coffee first.”

It’s a weekday morning, and we don’t really have time for the “Daddy Farted” song, but the boy’s request is so sweet and sincere, and I guess it wont’ take that long, and I guess it won’t make us that late, and plus it’s about the only time I get to bust out the old axe and his buddy Marshall.

The Owl Box

We live on a vast sprawling estate - almost an acre of land, which for suburban Southern California is consider vast and sprawling. Along with the orange trees and the magnificent herds of bison, there is a lawn, upon which the children play and the dog shits, and beneath which tunnels various forms of rodentia. I suspect gophers, and there could be moles. Possibly sandworms.

I bear moles, gophers, groundhogs, and other such subterranean critters no ill will; nevertheless, they're inflicting some serious damage. The yard looks like the Bugs Bunny-ravaged landscape of an old Warner Brothers cartoon. Somehow these little furry bastards missed that left turn at Albuquerque and ended up here. They were turning my turf into their private Habitrail and for that there would be Hell to pay. On the flip side - killing cute little furry animals is not something I have a passion for. There is a legend floating through my family that my grandfather would pipe some kind of horrific poisonous gas - chlorine, or mustard - down the gopher holes (taking out the gophers, several neighborhood cats, and his own gardener), and rumor has it that my dad killed one with a knife. (I tried to live up to this by sitting out in the yard in my ninja suit, with a box of my best throwing stars; the gophers were having none of it.) So, lacking the killer instinct, and not wanting to unleash an ecological catastrophe that would probably result in giant mutant gophers roaming the earth feasting on human flesh, we looked for alternate, possibly humane methods of ridding ourselves of the gophers. 

Enter the Owl Box.

What it's Like.

They come in droves.  They come with casseroles and microscopic outfits and warm wishes.  They mean no harm.  They don't understand.  They are caught up in the moment, just like you are, when they ask...'So.  How does it feel?  How does it feel to be a Dad?'  And you may respond, 'Well, the first few hours have been a real Gas.'  Or, you may say exactly what they want to hear.  "It's fantastic.  Magical in fact.  Why, I can't remember when I've ever been this happy."  That's what most want to hear.  Most folks Do Not want you to hit them in the knees with a bat and then ask, "So, what's it like to be crippled?  See?  I'm a brand new dad, you're newly immobilized.  Have you had time to deduce your feelings on immobilization?  Ahh...yea that's how I feel too.  I really haven't had time to get cozy with Fatherhood yet."

Because it takes time.  Oh, sure.  We love the little Amoebas at first sight.  All bald and toothless and cuddly.  But what can you tell about a person, any person, until you've done a little Time with them?  It's a best guess Scenario.  And brothers and sisters, a "best guess Scenario" is full of Tiger Traps.

So, I've been thinking it through.  Throughout the years.  What's it like, being a Dad?

Free Japan

At the beginning of every summer I start off with a list of things to do with my boys. 

DadCentric Reviews: "Inglourious Basterds"

Once upon a time in Nazi-occupied France...

It's best, going into Quentin Tarantino's World War II Fantasy, to keep this phrase in your head as you watch the movie unfold. This is not Saving Private Ryan. It's not even The Thin Red Line. It's also not The Dirty Dozen or The Guns of Navarone or Where Eagles Dare, although there are bits and pieces of those movies thrown in (as well as a healthy dose of everything Sergio Leone ever did). It's certainly not a remake of The Inglorious Bastards. It's safe to say that it's not like any World War II movie ever made, but it is like every movie Tarantino's ever made. (Actually, it's better than all of 'em, save Pulp Fiction). It's also best to avoid spoilers and plot summaries; I'll give away as little as possible, so you'll just have to trust me when I say that it's the best movie you'll see this summer.