The m and m show

The Alien and The Spider.

Dostoyevsky would be proud.

setting up to play

I am in New York City for the month of April.

I am looking for work.

I have the love and support of my Beautiful Bride.

I am looking forward to playing with Boy again soon.

In the meantime, I have these videos.

The Batman versus Superman.

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.

Slide Show Western Fantasy

Grandmas Joke

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!!!

Boy too.

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.

hmph

Dirty Old Man?

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?