Archive for June, 2011

Too Old & Too Fat To Have Kids

June 30, 2011

Boys Club

June 22, 2011

Gavin sent a link to this video last night and I didn’t get it at first. I was sitting on the couch watching TeeVee with my wife so world’s collided and I just needed to get to bed because working on the farm all day tires me out.

But in the crisp, clean light of God’s new day, I get it! And “it” is bad ass. Watch this video. I’ll wait [you might want to put on some Death Grips or something because the song is limp]…

…what, right?!

As a kid we played “guns” from sun up until sun down each and every day with our only interruption being a silly little thing called school. We had sticks, cap guns, pipes, water pistols, and anything that closely enough resembled a firearm. Our fingers became massive weapon of killing death. Adults would walk by all nonchalant and give us clues where assassins were hiding. This was sanctioned play by adults in 1970s America.

We loved that shit to death and we all somehow turned out to become pacifist pussies who don’t let our children mimic war and killing. Sigh. THIS COUNTRY WAS BUILT ON KILLING MOTHERFUCKERS!


Happy Father’s Day America

June 19, 2011

You betcha!


June 19, 2011

I wrote a list of things you have to give up being a dad. It goes like this…

Fatherhood is the phase after the STDs and vomit phase and it rules. However, you should only embark on this journey after you’re sure you got your YA YAs out because you have to give up about a hundred things.

Here are the Top Ten…


Explanations of each on

Here are a few I forgot to include

This bike is no longer available. 
I would fucking love to get this Triumph motorbike. It looks exactly like the one my grandfather had half a century ago. And this Stormtrooper helmet would go beautifully with it. However, my grandfather was a self-centered dick who refused to get a vehicle the family could use and he forced my mom and her brother into a sidecar any time they had to go somewhere. Motorbikes don’t have car seats for a reason.
Even if you have plenty of vehicles, what are you going to do? Go for a bike ride? You barely have time to shit. Motorcycles are great for getting pussy but as soon as people start coming out of said pussy, it’s time to put that shit on Craigslist.

New York City contains the most hyper-sensitive and politically naïve liberals this side of Berkley. When Bush was in power, wearing an American flag shirt that said “Real Men Wear Stripes” was tantamount to painting a swastika on your face. This “Commies Aren’t’ Cool” shirt says “Die Latinos” to New Yorkers and it makes Puerto Ricans gasp.
It’s fun to antagonize these babies but when you have kids, your mindset goes from FTW to “It takes a village to raise a child.” When you’re at the playground, you’re not looking to pick fights. You’re looking for your kid’s scooter and would appreciate any help from the strangers that surround you. You can’t tell people to fuck off when you need their help.

Also, you can’t have t-shirts with naked ladies or swear words on them or anything else you don’t want to introduce the kids to. Which brings us to…

One of the best parts of getting a babysitter and going out with your wife is being able to say shit instead of “isht” and fucking instead of “f-ing.” You probably don’t think you swear that much but the sinful pleasure you get after being denied the courtesy make you realize what a huge part of your vocabulary it is. You don’t know what you fucking got til shit’s gone.



June 19, 2011

Photo from

I asked my dad what he wanted for Father’s Day, and like all dads who never abandoned their children he said, “Nothing.” I insisted he must want something and he said, “I would be content in an abyss” before adding, “if there was a chair there, that would be great. If there was a six-pack, that would be good too, but an abyss is fine.” It made me wish I had one of those loser dads who was never around. They always want something.

I’ve been fascinated by deadbeat dads since I first came across one at age ten. My best pal Dale was sitting on his bed crying. His father had promised to take him fishing but had to bail due to some complicated story about a sick friend. “What are you crying about, Dale?” I asked incredulously. “You don’t have to hang out with your dad. That’s awesome!”

I saw my dad way too often for my liking, but Dale got to see his dud once a year at best. One year, instead of sending himself, Dale’s dad delivered a beautiful oil painting of…Dale’s dad. The painting always disturbed me—not only because of the guy’s Danny DeVito demeanor but because he was wearing a cheap hockey jacket with the Montreal Canadiens logo on the side. You can’t dress up when you’re being immortalized?

This is the how deadbeat dads think. They don’t dress up. They don’t even show up. They’re perpetual children who love nothing but themselves and their favorite sports team. And they’re all the same. Comparing them is like catching up with identical twins separated at birth.

Sam is a teacher in Northern Ontario. His dad is now living in Japan after forsaking Sam and his mother twenty years earlier. Sam is almost thirty and has a strange admiration for this directionless turd. “I’m going to Tokyo to help him,” he told me during a recent visit to New York. “His art is all over the place and he needs someone to help him archive it.” I’ve heard this sort of thing several times from fatherless children. I told Sam his time would be better spent archiving the family photos his mother took while holding down two jobs and making sure her two sons finished school—photos from which his father is conspicuously absent.

I work with a guy named Sebastian who didn’t see much of his dad after age four. His father is also an “artist,” but he buries his art. He does his sketches on paper plates and buries them in the backyard after they get too numerous to store. Like Sam, Sebastian reveres this nut and was recently at his home helping him get his hoarder lifestyle in order. Deadbeat dads rarely sell their creations. That would involve getting involved but contributing to society is not what they’re all about. “Me” is what they’re all about.

“Did I tell you I like turtles?” asked Jesse’s dad in a recent email to his long-lost son. Jesse is a writer I used to work with, and he had gotten in contact with his father despite his mother’s vehement eye-rolling. I was privy to his dad’s emails and they were hilarious. “Let’s get a hotel room and just sit down and talk to each other. We’ll be brutally honest and get it all out.” Sure, dad. Let’s take care of two decades in a couple of hours.

What deadbeat dads don’t seem to comprehend is that being a father is not a full-time job. You get breaks from a full-time job. Being a dad is an 86,400-second-a-day job. If you hear creaking in the middle of the night, you wake up and go into the hallway to see if your kid is sleepwalking or, God forbid, an intruder has busted into the house. Later, when you wake up for real, you tell them to stop harassing their mother about how soggy the cereal is. Then you help them get dressed. You can’t help too much, because you want them to learn. When it’s time to leave, you let them open the door but you don’t show them how to undo the deadbolt because that’s not safe. The stairs are tricky and you want to carry them down, but it’s important they get better at stairs and now is as good a time as any. Navigating the street outside is like walking a tightrope between protecting them and encouraging their independence. And that’s only one small part of one morning of one day. The fact that deadbeat dads think they can possibly catch up cracks me up.

Jesse and I eventually realized his dad had mentioned turtles on the off chance Jesse was in the gift-buying mood and needed some inspirado. This is common among the deadbeat set. My neighbor Claire’s biological father gives her a Christmas list every year. He never buys anyone anything but in case you’re interested, he’d love another NY Giants towel.

It’s not easy to buy a Father’s Day gift for good dads, because the only thing they want is for you to be healthy and happy. BORING! I can’t be bothered getting my dad a Father’s Day gift. He already has an abyss. But if you’re out shopping this weekend, Dale’s dad would like a Maurice “The Rocket” Richard movie poster (framed), Sam’s dad would like a sable-hair paintbrush, Sebastian’s dad would like a Civil War knife, Jesse’s dad would like a spiny turtle shell, and Claire’s dad already got the towel but would like a chrome Giants clock.


Aim Higher America

June 15, 2011

My kid finishes third grade tomorrow. Great year. Quick. Efficient. Packed with stuff like science fairs, recorder concerts, advanced math, written and oral presentations, and larger projects that required thought and hard work. I am neither nostalgic nor wistful. It’s third grade. The only surprise remaining is will she make Honor Roll or Superintendent’s List (actually, no real suspense). As an engaged parent, there shouldn’t be many surprises or unexpected emotions with regard to our children’s education.

As the year began to wind down, there was much buzz around campus about “Fifth Grade Graduation.” The hell?! These kids who will enter middle school next year were practicing for an actual graduation-like ceremony at the local high school auditorium. For what?! Like these parents don’t coddle and enable these brats enough. They they’ll do it again at the end of eight? This is what happens when every kid gets a trophy for participation.

I made it clear to Beasley that there’s NO SUCH THING AS A FIFTH GRADE GRADUATION. You go from fifth to sixth, as expected. There are two graduation ceremonies of some note: high school, but that doesn’t really count because if you’re only qualified to work at McDonalds, you’re considered a loser by everyone on Earth, Mars, and Venus. And the other graduation of note is college. You don’t need to do a “graduation” for professional or graduate school because by then you’re an adult and should have outgrown such nonsense.

In this Ph.D.-dense family, we have devalued the high school graduation as merely another moment of reflection akin to getting a new pair of sneakers or an iPad. The passage from elementary-to-middle, and middle-to-high school–like eating or sleeping–should not be considered anything special in an advanced and ever-evolving civilization.

Having an opportunity to say goodbye to your school of the past six years is fine; it’s good to reflect and share. It teaches us how to plan for our futures. But to have a big fucking ceremony for finishing fifth grade? No wonder the Chinese, Japanese, South Koreans, and the Indians are kicking our asses in math, science, reason, logic, and everything else except hygiene and “faith” because Americans are pathologically vain and fearful. Explains the inexplicable rise of this tea party nonsense, doesn’t it? All this teaches the children is to expect something for nothing. U-S-A! U-S-A!

Well, I’m pushing back. It is ridiculous nonsense to have a big, fake ceremony in an auditorium because you passed fifth grade. Pomp and Circumstance, gown and mortarboard, and a PA system are dumb enough at a college graduation. Cruises and cars for high school graduation are completely unnecessary. You know what I did after high school graduation? Went to Empire Strikes Back with my girlfriend. After college? Got ready to work the next morning. I only did the college ceremony because my grandmother thought it would be neat.

Grow up America, we’re being left in the dust. It takes a mope to grow a mope.