Thursday, April 15, 2010
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Sunday, March 14, 2010
We have Superman and The Batman capes from Target. They are really cool.
I disagreed with boy when he decided he would be The Batman and I would be Superman. I always loved The Batman and never really cared for Supes. The Batman was the great dark tortured avenger. Superman was bright and shiny and dumb.
I tried to explain that my years of life experience better equipped me to tap in to the darker aspects of the man behind the cape and cowl. “I am The Dark Knight!” I urged.
Besides, Superman is ready made for a three year old. Hands on hips. Stop bad. Do good. I even told him he has the better hair for Superman. I wanted to appeal to his ego, you see.
I should have known better. When Boy makes a decision it is final. I was doomed to be Superman.
I gave him a shrug as if to say, “Fine, we will play it wrong.”
Even though I was forced into it, I was going to do it right. I spent the next ten minutes molding my scalp with the Dippity Doo. With the precision of a surgeon, my hands crafted the perfect curl of hair on my fore head. Jor-El would have been a proud pappy.
The capes themselves were made to fit Boys’ body. His The Batman cape billowed beautifully in the wind as if a high paid special effects team erased the fishing wire. My cape sat like a bib that the oversized dumb kid put on backwards. This is why the hair was so important.
Once we were ready in our capes we regarded each other. Suddenly, I realized how tiny he was compared to me. In mathematical terms I figured I was one hundred times bigger and like a million trillion times stronger. I started to feel the awesome power of Superman. My strength and capabilities were intoxicating. Who needs to be The Batman? Why would I ever stoop to be vengeful and obsessive over super? Super was much better. Super was SUPER. I looked down at the tiny mortal with my perfect hair and had to suppress a mocking giggle. He was simply no match for me. “I’m SUPERMAN!” I bellowed in a deep impressive baritone as my fists found my hips. This miniscule Batbabe laughed and had the gall to say, “Silly daddy.” I didn’t break character. I’m a professional. I simply waited for him to gather himself and finally mutter “I Batman.” I decided not to correct him that he missed the “the” in his title. I’m better than that. With this we ventured outside our front door.
We ran around the building. He admired his cape flowing behind him. I admired the aerodynamic qualities of my hair. We would have stopped a crime had we spotted one.
As I resisted the temptation to use my super speed and leave him in the dust my mind wandered to the memory of my old comic books. Somehow whenever they were pitted against one another The Batman always defeated Superman. It always made sense to me as a child but from this new vantage point of power beyond my imagination it seemed farcical. It was unrealistic to ever believe that this micro Bat could ever defeat me. “It was all bullshit.” I muttered inaudibly under my breath.
Just then The Batman stopped running. He had pointed to his shoelace that had come undone due to our lightning velocity. I sprang in to action and fell to my knees and proceeded to give it a super tie. As I did this, The Batman scrubbed my hair with his hands and destroyed my curl. I felt my power slip away as if I had eaten a pound of kryptonite. I looked up at the towering dark figure of The Bat and realized he had defeated me.
Mortality and no small measure of embarrassment washed over me as the cute ladies next door happened past. They had to awkwardly step around The Batman and the overgrown kid with his bib on backwards. If only I could have flown around the world and turned back time.
Friday, February 19, 2010
My grandmother used to say in her sweet Irish Brogue “They’re all nuts, except for you and me.” Then after a pause she would add “ But I’m beginning to wonder about you.” Then she would laugh her head off.
Omitting the punch line, I must say, I think she was right. As I get older I realize more and more how everyone is crazy. Even the two people closest to me are without sanity.
BB is crazy.
She goes to Midnight screenings of movies about Vampires walking around in the daylight falling in love.
She watches and likes HGTV.
She thinks Lady Ga Ga is just OK.
She doesn’t sort the utensils out as she loads them in to the dishwasher even though it’s clearly the faster way to do it.
She only finds me funny when I’m not trying to be funny.
She’s getting more beautiful as she ages. That’s not only crazy, it’s also scary.
She works all day and then studies for her CPA exam through the night. After she cooks dinner. Also, after she puts Boy down for the night. Putting Boy down is probably the toughest part of her day.
She has seen me naked and never once has laughed.
She didn’t want or need an epidural.
She’s hardly ever on Facebook.
Let’s face it. She is clearly Koo Koo for Cocoa Puffs!!!
He may be crazier than her.
He waits until I am three whole blocks away before he reminds me “Door open Daddy.” Now I have to turn the car around and go all the way home to close the front door. I’ve told him a million times to remind me sooner.
The other day at the park he orchestrated about five other kids to change the tires on a plastic Hippopotamus. He then pretended to drive them around in it. Now, who ever heard of tires on a hippopotamus?
He pretends to pull off my nose and eat it.
He wants me to race him. Yet, if I start to pull ahead he says, “Wait for me Daddy!” Then at randomly selected places he stops and announces himself as the winner of the race.
He actually has said “No MORE Lady Ga Ga Daddy!” He put his foot down.
Poor kid. There is no hope for him.
I guess it is like Grandma said. I guess everyone is crazy except for her and I.
Wait, she used to eat grass.
Friday, February 12, 2010
We decided to buy Boy a new seat for the toilet. We really needed it for ourselves. You put yourself in far too vulnerable a position when you have an upstairs bathroom, a downstairs bathroom, ONE child potty seat and a toddler named Boy. We are very proud of how well he transitioned from the little portable potties to the little heiny toilet adjuster, but we were running up and down the stairs with it to accommodate the whims of his bowels and bladder. We were exhausted for crying out loud and something had to be done.
Target was our target. Early Saturday. The old get in and get the hell out with at least some money left in thy purse.
We packed light for speed and arrived at our target Target at tenish. Perfect. We chose this particular Target because it was the newest one and we like shiny new things as a family. In retrospect I see the potential downfalls of going to the new one. Being hypnotized by new sights and smells is a sure way to open sesame your wallet.
Beautiful Bride stayed focused while I wandered around aimlessly with Boy. Boy stumbled in to the tiny wee book section of the mammoth and took a real interest immediately. I looked over him proudly in the nearby cd section as he scoured the Dr. Seuses..es. Finally he emerged with his choice of tomb. “Disney’s: What is a Princess?” A journalistic slice of life that asks all your favorite Disney Princess Characters “Is a princess kind, loving and caring _ or is she much, much more?” I don’t go for these sort of books myself but I had to respect the time and effort he put in to deciding on this one.
Just then BB swooshed past our aisle with razor sharp focus. I at once grabbed Boy, Disney Princess book, the Lady Ga Ga cd and myself and ran in her direction.
We caught up with BB in the potty aisle of the toddler section. They had two mini butt seat adapters left. It must have been a busy week in this department. One was a Disney Princess cushy seat that was pink and designed with Tiaras, Carriages and Castles. The cheaper of the two was the standard Target brand plain blue one. The blue one was exactly like the one we already had at home which was perfect because with Boy you don’t want him to prefer one over the other, it would defeat the point of having two. Plus it was cheaper. As I reached for the blue one I heard BB ask Boy which one he wanted.
On the drive home I angrily and quietly lamented how we would inevitably be running this Disney Princess Potty up and down the stairs. Nothing will have changed, no quality of life improvement. The whole trip in vain. Grrr.
Well, at least I could still rock out to Ga Ga in between trips.
As it turns out, Boy is quite happy with the Disney Princess Potty in the downstairs bathroom and the plain blue potty in the upstairs bathroom. BBs’ parenting scores another home run. We are no longer lugging a peewee pooper seat up and down the stairs.
It’s the “Disney’s: What is a Princess?” book that we have to go up and down for because Boy has decided it is his bathroom reading book. Just like Daddy’s New Yorker Magazine. Grrr.
Now I watch him sit on the seat, with his pants at his tiny ankles, rifle through the pictures of these Princesses..es. It somehow reminds me of the Mensroom in my old neighborhood Barber Shop in Brooklyn and how they had Playboy Magazines in there. Oh No! Am I raising a dirty old man?
Monday, February 1, 2010
I think about things too much. I conjure different scenarios both good and bad. It happens mostly when I am trying to sleep, but it can hit anywhere at anytime.
Sometimes I think...
am I good enough?
am I smart enough?
do people like me?
Sometimes I allow myself to secretly answer,
i'm not good enough.
i’m not smart enough.
no-one likes me.”
I accept the reality. I accept the doom. I accept the horrible fate. I allow it to swallow me up.
Sometimes I feel the spark that re-ignites the fire and burns the questions away.
I think about sex a lot.
I think about love a lot.
And verse visa.
I always knew when a relationship was over. The kisses became teeth clonking, nose banging realities.
I think about my Beautiful Bride a lot.
I accept that she will carry me when I need to be carried.
I will support her in the way she needs.
I will hear her.
I think that’s the best thing a boy can ever do for a girl. HEAR her.
I love her.
I love the everlasting quality of our kisses. Our kisses are magic. Her skin is my skin, my skin is her skin and our skin and our boy and our family and our dreams and our reality and our LIFE together.
It’s good to be back home.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
I’m in New York City. I’m filming a movie. I’m living the dream. I miss my Bride and Boy.
I call home at 10 every morning and night. It’s seven their time. The Boy is actually eager to get on the phone with me. That’s a first for him. He grabs the phone from BB and proudly exclaims, “I go poo poo Daddy!”
I have been having conversations on set with the smartest and most talented people I have ever met. Natalie Portman told me how she loves Conan O’Brien and how funny he is. Vincent Cassel has described the corruption in Italian politics. Mila Kunis has sung the praises of Skyping. The Director Darren Aronofsky recommended a Museum that explores cosmology throughout the ages. The make up artist (so not to be completely name dropping) has related her amazing stories of Greece in the ‘70s.
I would rather discuss poo poo with Boy. “Daddy can’t go poo poo when he is away from home.” I confided. This was way too much information even for him. There was an awkward pause and then suddenly he continued, “I go big poo poo Daddy! Two poo poos!” Yes, he actually counts his output. I would have it no other way. Besides he’s learning to count.
Last night at 10, after being away for 10 days, he finally said, “Please come home Daddy.” My heart sank and soared all at once. “No more Movie.” He added for good measure. I tried to steer the conversation back to bowel movements but as usual he is too smart for me.
It’s all very good news. I was supposed to work six days on a big feature film. Now that I am here they seem to like me and keep giving me more days and more lines. It may not be the BIG break I’ve been waiting for but it is a sizeable break. A fracture.
Still, when I close my eyes in between takes all I see is my family. The boy is going poo poo on the potty and the BB and I are doing the “poo poo on the potty” song and dance and stealing smooches.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Monday, January 4, 2010
The World keeps going no matter what happens. That’s the biggest problem I have with reality.
Why couldn’t things have slowed down during the Holidays? I tried to squeeze everyone extra hard and extra long thinking I could thereby press the breaks and rip a hole through time. Worse even I think someone pressed the fast forward button down. The knock knock jokes at the dinner table, the bad singing of twelve days, the hide and seek, pigs in a blanket and the gifts are all a blur. The sister, brother-in-law, nephew, niece, nephew, niece, dad, mom, wife and son are all together with the ghosts of other Christmas past. Why didn’t we have the power to slow it all down?
I recently got a part in a movie. As soon as the news sunk in, so did the stink emanating from the garbage in the kitchen. I don’t think it’s right that I had to take out the garbage at that particular moment. I tried to ignore it but its stink was screaming at my olfactory glands. Can’t I declare it a garbage free day? Can’t I celebrate me and sing my song that I make up as I go along and everyone dances to it because they get me and think I’m the bees knees.
When I eulogized my Grandmother all those years ago I had a huge pile of dirty laundry at home waiting to kick me while I was down. The only clean black bit of clothing to mourn in was my tank top. I just couldn’t mourn my dear beloved Grandmother in a wife beater. I should have been able to declare it an “all laundry is clean day”. The sky should have rained down Downey or Tide or even the cheap Target Brand. Birds should have flown down some dryer sheets and hung around to fold. It was Grandma after all. It was the very least that could have happened!
Ten minutes after my first love broke my heart a buddy told me I had bad breadth and suggested I take a mint. Couldn’t some grand scheme have been in place to spare me the embarrassment on the day of the heartbreak? I suddenly understood the reason she winced when I exhaled “Why?” Plus, I still had classes that day. Why doesn’t High School set aside days for heartbreak? I’m not asking for a lot here.
When Boy was first born he spent nine days in intensive care. He had Respiratory Distress (trouble breathing). On day three of this ordeal I had a callback for a “Fruit of The Loom” commercial. Beautiful Bride and I decided of course I should go to the callback. I need to make a living after all. It also happened to be five minutes away from the hospital. As I was about to leave the NICU the Doctors and Nurses rushed around the Boy in an emergency formation. There was blood and a controlled sense of panic in the room. After five minutes of torture they explained to me that they had to put a tube down his throat to help him breath. He was stabilized but I was a mess. There was nothing I could do though and BB once again encouraged me to go to my callback. Why was the World still turning? Why couldn’t I step outside of this moment or split myself in two?
At the callback they paired me up with a 6-year-old boy. They asked me to pretend to teach him as my son how to throw a baseball for the first time. Then they asked me to teach him how to fish. I realized at some point that I still had my hospital bracelet on. I almost started to cry my heart out right there in the room, but somehow I got through it. I would still be angry today if didn’t get that job. I did get it though. The Boy got stronger and healthier. That day was his lowest point. I shot the commercial on the day he was brought home from the hospital. It now seems like a speck on the radar.
Here’s a link to that very commercial on youtube. If you are interested in seeing it, I am the guy with the little boy on the screen in the background.