DadCentric

We Announce The Winner Of Our Couch Potato Giveaway! Plus Our Traditional Thanksgiving Offering!

We extend our heartiest congratulations to commentor Trin, who will be receiving Family Game Night 2 for the Wii, season two of Modern Family on DVD, and Farscape: The Complete Series on Blu-ray (perfect excuse to buy a BD player, especially since you can get some killer deals on them this Black Friday). 

We'll be spending the rest of the week stuffing our pieholes and lolling on the couch in a tryptophan and beer-induced coma. As we've done in the past, we offer you this very special scene from WKRP In Cincinnatti; the true meaning of Thanksgiving has never been so perfectly portrayed.

 

Soberlink Is Like LoJack For Your Drunk Teenagers

Wanna hear my favorite teenaged drinking story? Of course you do. So: high school, my senior year, I'm one of the few people in my circle of friends who has his "own" car. (It was a used Pontiac Phoenix, paid for by my dad - I was responsible for gas, and not wrapping it around a tree.) The plan for that evening was to go to the hockey game between my school and our cross-town rival; we'd have beer, of course (one of the guys' dads held fairly liberal views on teenaged male beer consumption, and provided us with a twelver of Moosehead, our beer of choice - this was Anchorage, Alaska, and we felt the need to support the economy of our Canadian neighbors). We'd drink a few in the parking lot before heading in to the game. Now, lest you think I was a complete delinquent, we brought a bag of chips, and I was limiting myself to one beer, since I was the driver. We pounded the beers in the parking lot, and I made sure that all of the bottles were disposed of - didn't want to leave any evidence, of course.

The next morning, my dad took the car out to run an errand. When he came back, his expression was stern. I felt a tinge of panic: did I do something to the car? He asked but one question: "Were you guys drinking last night?" The panic threatened to boil over. He suspects something! But we got rid of the evidence! The bottles were gone! I made sure of it!

When Technology and Alcohol Collide

Looking for a last-minute Father's Day gift for a dad who has an iPhone4 and a thirst for life?

Then watch this special video blog in which I review the Be A Headcase bottle/can opener case while drinking beer on my back porch.

A lot of beer.

 

Disclosure: The reviewer received no compensation for this review beyond one free Be A Headcase bottle/can opener case and the buzz received from drinking all the beer he opened during filming. The iPhone4 belongs to the reviewer's wife and he had to give it back to her under penalty of no nookie. No beer companies compensated DadCentric or the reviewer for their products appearing on screen or disappearing down the reviewer's gullet, but if they were smart they'd start trying to work some deals with us for product sponsorship and, if need be, AA sponsorship. The woman in the beer wench outfit was also not compensated for her appearance in this video nor was she ever hit on, via Twitter, by U.S. Rep Anthony Weiner, D-N.Y.

DadCentric Interviews Top Chef Richard Blais

Fans of great food and Top Chef know Richard Blais: his creative approach to cooking, incorporating the concepts of molecular gastronomy (using non-traditional equipment and materials like liquid nitrogen and blowtorches - think Wile E. Coyote in the kitchen, but without the explosions), has made him an iconoclast in the culinary world. Blais has appeared on three of the four Top Chef series: Top Chef, Top Chef Masters, and most recently, the inaugural season of Top Chef All-Stars, which he won. He's also a father of two, and if anyone can get his kids to eat their veggies, I'm sure it's him. I got the chance to do a phone/video interview with Richard; he's working with the National Pork Board, promoting the Other White Meat, and we spoke about cooking, being a celebrity chef, and raising kids while he whipped up a terrific looking pork chop. (Apologies for the sound quality: I assure you that the voice is in fact mine, and I do not suffer from emphysema.)

 

Mom 2.0 Summit, Now With Dads

 

Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans?
And miss it each night and day?

My liver does. I draw your attention to the photo above, tentatively entitled "Zombies at Happy Hour, Circa 5 a.m." -- identities protected for obvious reasons. I'm the one in the middle.

The thing about New Orleans is that it tends to lend itself to late nights (see above). That's a given. Turns out that NOLA is also the perfect setting to hold a wonderful conference. Who knew? The Mom 2.0 Summit people. They're smart.

Fellow DadCentrician Andy, aka Beta Dad, and I were invited to the popular conference to speak on a death panel concerning our (read, dads) role in the ever changing world of blogging. It was Jason's idea, but he couldn't make it. Chicken. Andy and I were joined on stage by the southern hospitality that is John Cave Osborne, and we made the whole thing legit and authentic by having Catherine Connors assume the role of moderator. It was Tanis Miller's idea, but she couldn't make it. Also, chicken.

With all due respect to one Muskrat, who was kind enough to blog the session for the official conference website, I'd like to recap the event for those of you that were unable to attend, namely all of the people that promised me that they would, in fact, attend, but then skipped out. Don't think I didn't notice.  For the record, we played to a full house. Eat that, John Stamos.

Here's what happened: Catherine said a lot of smart stuff and asked a lot of intelligent questions. John talked about weed. More from Catherine, still smart and intelligent. Andy said something deep and when he smiled HE LOOKED JUST LIKE STING. John added something charming and the audience loved us. You could see it on their faces. Then I started cursing. Then I cried. Then I threw a chair. I may have cursed again. And talking about this? Crickets. Fortunately, Catherine recovered nicely. Andy and John touched upon a number of nuggets, made some solid closing points and then we went drinking.

Feels like you were there, doesn't it?

Maybe you were. The crowd was full of writers, dignitaries and incredible conversation. It would be remiss to mention names as I would undoubtedly forget someone in the process and that would not be nice. That's how feelings get hurt, people. Just know that the room was packed with awesome. And us. But mostly awesome.

This is where I would go into great detail about the topics we discussed if I could actually remember them. To be honest, it is something of a blur. In fact, I spent most of the session starring at my focal point (Ron Mattocks' hair) and remembering to breathe. Every now and then I'd realize that I was still speaking and quickly hand the microphone back to Catherine. Regardless, I'm pretty sure that the people (you know who you are) enjoyed themselves, and I'd like to think we made a difference in, if not their lives, then at least their hour. Give or take thirty minutes.

The point is, no matter how you define the world of parent blogging, or what you hope to give to or take from it, it is evolving, and a lot of good people are investing their time and talent to make sure we don't disappoint Darwin. Any jackass can be a monkey. We're taking this movement upright.

In a nutshell, we nailed it. #winning

The same could be said for the brilliant people behind Mom 2.0. The conference was full of great advice and free food. The sponsors were friendly and informative. The nightlife was memorable (except for big chunks of it). We spent the entire weekend meeting fantastic people, pouring Four Loko into whatever they were drinking and having our pictures taken by Dooce (the photo above was not taken by Dooce, who was probably in bed, but rather our bartender, who may or may not have known thought we were idiots).

The dads, while an admittedly small group, represented well (don't see above), and our presence was acknowledged with some big, breaking news during the big, breaking news portion of the closing keynote. Here it is: In 2012, just before the world ends, there will be a Dad 2.0 Summit. And it will be fantastic. Save the date.

You read it here firstish.

And if anyone says that 2012 is the year of the dad blog, we'll cut you.

 

Special thanks to Andy and John for allowing me to sit between them, and to Catherine for agreeing to herd us at the last minute. Also, thanks to Jason for sparking the discussion and Tanis for helping shape it, sorry that you were both unable to join us. We really appreciate Muskrat's blogging of the event, the questions and attention from those that attended, and the trust placed in us by Mr. Doug French. Thanks for having us, Mom 2.0 Summit!

Neither chickens nor Ron Mattocks' hair were harmed in the making of this post.

A Letter To Mr. Charles Eugene Cheese

Dear Chuck,

My son and I visited your fine establishment the other night to take part in the birthday celebration for one of his friends. Although it was my son’s first visit, his friends had clearly been telling him about it because it was all he could talk about the entire day. He was so exited, in fact, that he chattered all the way from our house to your parking lot, and his little voice kept spiking upwards into excited mountains of squeak.

“Are we THERE yet, Daddy? Are we AL-most to Chuck E. CHEESE? How many more MI-nutes ‘til we GET to Chuck E. CHEESE? FIVE more minutes? My FRIEND is turning five today, but I’m al-READY five! Are we THERE yet? How many more MI-nutes? I can’t WAIT!”

Yep, his little friends really talked your joint up something good.

Rumble In The Jungle

The whole family took our first ever trip to the Rainforest Cafe' this weekend.  We kind of stumbled upon it.  If you've never been, imagine a sensual, humid, tropical Rain forest.  It smells of earth and wet wood and decomposition and flowers you thought only existed in fairy tales.  The air is thick with moisture and the unknown.  You're enveloped by dark foliage.  The animals are gigantic and alien and wilder than anything you've ever encountered.  There are butterflies bigger than your head made up of vivid vermilions, cadmiums, lavenders, fuchsias, and goldenrods.

Now imagine that same seen done completely in plastic.  And animatronics.  Inside a mall.  

Welcome to the Rainforest Cafe'.

As My Wife put it, "How do they dust it?"

How, indeed?

We were pretty excited when we found it.  Something new to try with the kids.  We came away with mixed feelings.

Despite my bitter description, the audio-visual display was pretty tight, yo.  Screeching chimps, grunting, chuffing, gorillas shaking the plastic vines.  Trumpeting elephants, eyes a-light, ears flapping as they ready for a charge they'll never start.  

The Pumpkin man stared at those elephants, slack-jawed and blinking, while I contentedly tossed bits of pizza into his mouth from two feet away.

What I'm trying to say is, there was so much to see, the kids actually behaved.  In a restaurant.  Nary a spoon was whipped at a passing waiter.

Those poor bastards.  Not a place I'd want to be employed.  I'd walk away from my mortgage before I worked there.  A constant, artificial, jungle cacophony broken only by the sounds of tired parents demanding their money's worth.  I'd rather work as a sandal cleaner at Burning Man.  I'd rather work as a fluffer in a German Scheisse video.  I wouldn't work there, is my point.

On to the food. This is from their website: "Offers moderately priced food and beverage items . . . ."  If you consider 19 dollar chicken fajitas moderately priced, then sure, it's moderately priced.  And Betty White is moderately old.

The flavor of the food . . .well.  Consider this:

Instead of a chef, they had a magician.  A great magician.  And this great magician made all the flavor in the food disappear.  

It was all style, no substance.  But it was still enjoyable.  The Rainforest Cafe:  It's the Avatar of restaurants.

Let's see which one would win in a fight.

Funny Can't be Taught

I like to think that I was a funny kid. I was voted class clown throughout my career in academia. I took a stool, albeit briefly, in stand-up. I used humor to deflect and address all other emotions.  I was funny.  My parents must have spent the majority of their time in the proverbial stitches.  

Enter my children. At the young ages of seven and four, respectively, they have already started to reap the accolades of class clownery.

This is where I would like to take a moment to apologize to my parents.

The biggest issue with my boys is that there isn't an "off" switch.  That isn't to say that their jokes are always on, rather, they just don't stop. Kind of like Robin Williams.

They've got knock-knock jokes, gags that involve the pulling of fingers, well-timed movie quotes, the countless wiener references and, of course, their bread and butter, the observational humor. Loud, often inappropriate observational humor. You know, the good stuff.

I don't know where they get it.

**********

"It's never okay to make fun of someone," I explained one day just seconds after my son had made fun of someone -- not in a hurtful or spiteful way, but through the gift of sarcasm, which as most of us know, is a gateway joke. His comment was spot on.

"Would you like people to make fun of you?" I continued.

He looked deep into his hot chocolate before taking a quick glance towards the barista who had made his drink wrong despite his order being quite clear. The fact that whipped cream was heaped where none should be had been the basis of his routine, and he pushed it off his cup with a swizzle stick until all that remained was a thin, white coating over a dark sea of cocoa. He considered an answer, a breath, a sip.

"No," he replied.

I looked at the overly-pierced, under-bathed kid working behind the counter. Yes, my son had made his order clear, but I understood the mistake.  After all, what kind of child doesn't like whipped cream on their hot chocolate? At least he hadn't ordered it skinny.

"But," he added slowly, "what if I deserved it?"

Damn, he had me. Yes! Yes! Those who deserve to be mocked should be mocked! Often and openly! It should be screamed from blog to rooftop, and all the people shall laugh and it was good.

"Does that still make it right?" I asked. "Would knowing you deserve it make it okay to hurt your feelings?"

"I can take a joke, Daddy."

What the hell?

He sipped his cocoa and looked through the glass countertop, past the scones, through the kid in a green apron and into a crowded daydream of happy faces applauding his humor -- an endless array of those that "got" him.  They must have been beside themselves.

"Then you'll be okay," I told him. "That's the toughest part."


I stood by the door on our way out. He had been right beside me.  I looked back and spotted him, unattended and unprompted, placing the coins from his pocket in the tip jar by the register.

"You didn't have to do that," I told him as he caught up. "His karma won't really run over your dogma. Besides, I put a dollar in there earlier."

"That was before he messed up my drink," he answered. "That was to tell him it's okay to make mistakes."

And some lessons are taught that we aren't even teaching.

The barista never noticed a thing.

There's a joke there, somewhere.

Friday Fun: The Candwich Is Coming...And It Wants Your Children

This is real. 

It is a sandwich in a can. It's perfect for kids, backpackers, soccer moms, construction workers, and fooking Prawns. It comes in three tasty flavors. It does not require refrigeration. It does not require sleep. It's housed in a well-nigh indestructible package. It contains no natural ingredients. It has no natural enemies. It was developed by captured Nazi scientists in the kitchens of Area 51, the unholy spawn of Canned Haggis and Goober Grape. When Chef Boy-Ar-Dee tried to tell the world of its existence, he was forever silenced by government operatives. When the hydrogen bombs fall and the world burns and the survivors are left to fend off roving gangs of radioactive mutant-cannibals and hyper-intelligent cockroaches, the Candwich will abide, and those who control the Candwich will control the earth. There is no God and the Candwich is His prophet. Also, the Candwich comes with a Candy Surprise Inside!

 

"It's Called Revenge, Lunch Lady", Said The Garlic Bread

A few weeks ago, I was asked to be a part of Healthy Child, Healthy World's team of Parent Ambassadors. See? There I am, right below Amy Brenneman, which is awesome, because she was DeNiro's girlfriend in Heat. I'm a far cry from All Natural All The Time; that said, it's hard to be a parent and not try to ensure that your kids are not exposing themselves to nasty and potentially hazardous chemicals, in and outside the home. Nobody wants to see this happen to their child.

Like many of you, I let my kid buy his lunch at school. And like many of you, I've wondered about the quality of the stuff he's getting. When I was a kid, the schools served such delicacies as Peanut Butter Whip, "Pizza" (Ragu sauce and American cheese on an English muffin), and of course, Sloppy Joes. I'm amazed I didn't need bypass surgery when I was 10. Nowadays, a lot of attention is being paid to what our kids are eating, thanks to high-profile celebrity chefs like Jamie Oliver and the Let's Move! program, headed up by Michelle Obama. The Atlantic has a great piece about the "Chefs Move To Schools" program, in which local chefs join forces with schools in their communities to develop healthier menus for students. The program looks to be a nice combination of government action, local volunteerism (the chefs aren't paid for their work with the schools), and working within existing budgets to buy better food for our kids. Such programs will be key to changing the crap that the Lunch Lady dishes out each day. Not that it's the Lunch Lady's fault. After all, she loves your kids.