Clark Kent's Lunchbox

Would You Tell Your Children That You Used Drugs?

2012-01-24T10:00:00.000-06:00

I’m going to make a confession here that few people know about: I’ve used illegal drugs. For a little over a year after my divorce I took X-stasy and smoked marijuana. That’s right, not in high school or in college, but as an adult.

Go ahead and judge me. This is the internet, which, among its many benefits, is the freedom to condemn others anonymously in the comments section. If you feel so compelled, have at it; just know I won’t care. It was dumb, I know. I’m not going to waste time justifying it, and that’s not exactly the point of this post anyway.

The question I’ve had to ask myself rather, is whether I will admit to my children that I once used illegal drugs. There are pros and cons to this of course, which boil down to... continue reading.

The History of Fatherhood in the United States

2012-01-18T08:02:00.000-06:00

After yesterday’s post about Roman Krznaric’s essay on the history of the men as fathers, I decided to do a little research on my own; being a self-professed history nerd, I didn’t require much arm-twisting to do so either. Unlike Krznaric’s broader worldwide focus, I decided to hone in on just the progression of fatherhood in the United States, and what I discovered was surprising.

Most of us are familiar with the major events in history—the colonization of early America, the Industrial Revolution, the Great Depression, World War 2, and so on. What many of us may have not considered, however, was the part these events played in shaping the image and expectation we have of fathers today, which, when looked at through a lens of the past 300-plus years in its entirety, is slightly off in my opinion.

What’s more, when looking through that lens, keep in mind that many of the perceptions we’ve had of family dynamics throughout history are incorrect or only half-truths. For example, the idea of colonial fathers being an austere, unfeeling, authoritarian ordained by God isn’t entirely accurate. Did religious dogma dictate that the man was to be the head of the household? Yes, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t warm and unloving. We only see it as being so because such an arrangement seem archaic and stifling within the context of our contemporary society—a society that has morphed over three centuries at the hands of ever shifting socio-economic conditions and world-changing events beyond our control.

To get a true picture of this progression of fatherhood through time, there was no way I could fit everything into ten slides; thus the presentation is split into two parts (and even then it’s still probably not enough).

Slideshow 1: Fatherhood in the US: 1700's to 1900's

Slideshow 2: Fatherhood in the US: 1900's to Today

12 Month Plan for Dads To Prepare for the Apocalypse

2012-01-12T08:53:00.000-06:00

Well, this is supposed to be the year the Mayan calendar runs out and the whole world’s supposed to go KABLAMO! Whatever. Personally I don’t think it’s going to happen, but I can’t say the same for my family. Last week my stepdaughter got in the van and started running down all the things that are supposed to happen. By the way she was listing them off I could tell what her source material for this was.

“Where did you find all this out?” I asked.

“I was watching TV with Grandma,” she replied.

Exactly what I thought. But then it occurred to me that all of this might be plausible. As a father I’d feel pretty stupid standing in the cul de sac watching fire and brimstone rain down from heaven come December 31st. So maybe putting a plan together might not be such a bad idea after all. I think what I finally came up with is pretty tight.

Worse Than a Non-Believer: Dad-Moms Are An Abomination to God

2012-01-09T09:36:00.000-06:00

As I mentioned in my last post, I’m not done with the whole Dad-Mom topic. In reading the various posts on Tide’s depiction of a stay-at-home dad being “awesome,” I came across the religious take on the topic played out in a point, counter-point debate between Owen Strachan, a professor of theology and church history at Boyce College, and Laura Ortberg Turner, an admissions counselor at Fuller Theological Seminary.

The discussion was a lively one, as you can imagine. To Strachan, the dad-mom, represented yet another of society’s attempts to pervert Bible’s stringent rules dictating who should and shouldn’t be laundering the frilly dresses and folding them with complete accuracy. In response, Turner contested this citing cultural context and scriptural misinterpretation before then mentioning the actions of Jesus that lead her to believe the Son of God wouldn’t be adverse to domestic duties. Read more about why God hates at-home-dads

What the Hell is a "Dad Mom" Exactly?

2012-01-06T08:30:00.001-06:00

Good Morning America recently did a segment on stay-at-home dads (SAHD) and society’s changing perceptions of men in this role. Overall I thought it presented the topic in a positive slant as opposed to reports in previous years where SAHD’s were more of an oddity and in many cases, simply victims of circumstance.

What’s ironic for those who have been plugged to the SAHD community for a while, is that this gig as the full-time parent isn’t quite the phenomena it’s sometimes made out to be. Just read Jeremy Adam Smith’s, The Daddy Shift, or follow the NYC Dads Group, or chat with the bunch at AtHomeDad.org.

Continue reading about the "dad mom"

Work Life Balance is a Myth

2012-01-05T06:40:00.001-06:00

The concept of Work/Life balance is as elusive as the mythical Fountain of Youth. It’s more of an ebb-and-flow-type deal where you bounce back and forth from a storm of work overload to the aimless doldrums of domestic boredom. It’s the extremes of yin and yang with no Zen-like middle ground—well, for me anyway. I know there are those of you who seem to processes an unholy mastery over these circumstances, but in my eyes, that just makes you the spawn Franklin Covey and Satan.

This is a big struggle for me at the moment. Up until a few months ago, I had the freedom to balance freelance work, family duties, and personal interests. Things got a little wacky here and there, but all in all it evened out. I could knock out a few assignments, put the dishes away, help the girls with their homework, and even fit in some recreational reading. Now, however, I eat all my meals in office, I have no idea what the kids’ grades are, and I’ve nearly gone into septic shock on three occasions because I didn’t want to ... continue reading

Father Versus Stepfather: Like Jordan and Bird

2011-12-28T10:00:00.000-06:00

Spending some quality one-on-one time with the kids has been long overdue, and so, last week, I took my oldest stepdaughter out for coffee where we could chat about whatever over peppermint mochas and cinnamon coffee cake. Each of my stepdaughters are non-stop chatterboxes, but if you had to determine which is the fastest, Stepdaughter #1 would be the photo-finish winner. Not only does she zoom along at a mile-a-minute, but she also changes topics with the same fluid maneuverability as an Italian sports car weaving in and out of traffic.

“I can’t believe I’m over 5 feet tall. Did you know that my dad is 6 foot, 3?”

I actually am aware of this. I see her dad weekly, that and she’s told me a million times. With Stepdaughter #1, even though the subject matter may vary, she more often than not will tie it in some way to her father. ...Continue Reading

The Ron Swanson Guide to Raising Boys

2011-12-19T09:03:00.000-06:00

Behold. The Man, Ron Swanson.

Ron Swanson from NBC’s Parks and Recreation, might be the most brilliant character on TV in my humble, expert opinion. I want to be him. My wife is convinced that within a few years I will completed my transformation in becoming Ron Swanson incarnate, mustache and all. Besides already sharing the same first name, we both hate big government, enjoy high-protein meals, and think wood sailing ships are beautiful.

Swanson maxims on life are swift and simple. “The Swanson Pyramid of Greatness” is a work of a genius that addresses a wide array of important subjects like, for example, fashion attire (“Shorts over 6” are capri pants. Shorts under 6” are European.”). Such straightforward ideology also extends to the area of preparing sons for manhood.

Here are but a few Swanson-isms I plan on instilling in my sons.

Ending the Affair Between Santa and His Greatest Lover

2011-12-16T06:43:00.000-06:00

The foggy cold weather made my tongue sizzle. The smell of the eggnog and cookies filled the air. As I walked in the living room I saw a mountain of presents. It was finally Christmas. Therefore, I felt as if I were Santa’s biggest lover! The End.

Adorable right? My stepdaughter wrote that after making her Christmas list last weekend. She firmly believes that Santa Claus, the elves, the reindeer—all of it actually exists. To her they are every bit as real as the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. She’s also 9.

Two nights ago I killed the affair between Santa and his biggest lover. Shattered it like a fragile tree ornament hitting the cold hard floor of reality. I had just handed the girls their dinner, when she said that the kids in her class were making fun of her for believing in Santa.

We’ve had a lot of problems with the little punk-asses in Stepdaughter 1’s class. Last year it took exactly 1.5 seconds for us to call a meeting with the administration after I caught her trying to smuggle a knife to school. She planned on using to defend herself against several boys who were touching her where no one should be touching any girl. There have been other issues too. ...continue reading.

20 Toys Kids Won't See This Christmas

2011-12-13T11:30:00.000-06:00

Every Christmas is seems there are more and more toys for children to ask for. When I was a kid, it was all Lincoln Logs and Tinker Toys. Now everything needs batteries or requires some sort of Internet hook up. What’s more, toy makers think they need to tie children’s play things into social issues and current event. What happened to using your imagination and just being a kid? Good grief, Charlie Brown.

All that aside, there are 20 toys out there that I’m fairly certain kids won’t find under their trees this Christmas. Here are the first 10, and these are the remaining 10.

Is Newt Gingrich Wrong About Why Kids Are Lazy?

2011-12-09T08:00:00.000-06:00

Presidential Candidate Newt Gingrich thinks poor kids are lazy and child labor laws are dumb. This controversial opinion is, of course, bereft of facts, but that’s Newt Gingrich’s schtick–provocation through outlandish remarks. His claim here is based in part on the premise that these children lack adult role models to teach them what it means to work.

Statistically this could be debunked using Census Bureau data showing that 3 out of 4 working adults (18 – 34) considered to be poor have one or more jobs and another 25% work part-time. The data also indicates that 50% of children living in extremely poor homes have at least one working parent in the household. The numbers, I suppose, could be debated all day, yet Gingrich raises an interesting question about our children’s work ethic.

At age 12 I started working in one of the feed mills my father owned, and by my early teens this became a full-time summer job. It was hard physical labor, and my dad, to his credit, didn’t cut me any slack as the “boss’s kid” either. I may have resented my father being tough on me, but in hindsight, it was one of the best lessons he ever taught me. Without that, who knows where I’d be.

In response to Gingrich’s statements, Geraldo Rivera (yes, that Geraldo) echoes this same sentiment about fathers teaching ...continue reading.

If You Don't Follow the Rules, Don't Expect Your Kids to Either

2011-12-08T08:21:00.001-06:00

This year our school district announced that it would no longer provide bus services to students who lived within a 1 mile radius of the school—budget cuts. With only one vehicle, this put us in an inconvenient position. My wife would now have to tack on an extra few hours to her day catching a series of buses to and from work, while I keep the minivan just so I could use if for couple short trips to get the kids.

By no means were we the only ones dealing with the inconvenience, which meant there would be a substantial increase in the amount of car-rider traffic. The administration anticipated this, but despite their best efforts, holy frijoles, what a mess! It looked like the parking lot at Reliant Stadium after a Texans game let out. Cars everywhere–all doing their own thing, all ignoring the teachers’ direction, and students darting ... continue reading.

14 Reasons Why My Kids Are Smarter Than Congress

2011-12-06T11:00:00.000-06:00

In a Huffington Post article, it was reported that Congress’s approval rating was now lower than porn, polygamy, and the BP oil spill. This shouldn’t come as any surprise, given our elected official’s track record. You think that that Senators and House Representatives would be a smart, savvy bunch given what’s been entrusted to them, but sadly, that’s not the case. In fact, if Congress and my kids were to engage in an intelligence contest, my kids would have to take out their brains to make sure it was a fair fight. Here’s 14 reasons why:

Type A Parenting Doesn't Mean Being an A-Hole

2011-12-05T11:00:00.002-06:00

Not too long ago I had an interesting experience when a Wall Street Journal columnist asked if she could interview me for a piece she was doing on Type A parents raising Type B children. Intrigued by the topic, I agreed to her request. I hadn’t really thought about how my Type A traits impacted this aspect of my life, which as a stay-at-home dad, dominates a considerable chuck of my day.

The interview, I thought, went well. The columnist, Sue Shellenbarger, was sincere, and her questions caused me to reflect on both my failures and successes as influenced by my Type A-ness. There were moments when I was too harsh and not as understanding as I should’ve been, but there were also times when I adapted to the situation rather than forcing ... continue reading

But I Don't Want to be a Mommy!

2011-12-02T09:00:00.001-06:00

There’s been a whole lot of talk about dads of late—stay-at-home dads, out of work dads, marketing to dads, dads being more involved, and of course, dad bloggers. We’re the hot topic it would seem. Someone even made a remark to me that dads are the new moms. Yeah? Well don’t lump me in that group. I don’t want to be a mommy.

Sure, the cultural landscape has shifted for families partly as a result of the economic downturn and partly due to changing attitudes about fatherhood. In fact, this is something I understand this on a very personal level, seen as how I lost my job and ended up becoming a stay-at-home dad (SAHD). Even so, just because my wife and I flip-flopped roles, that doesn’t mean I handed in my ... continue reading

Milwaukee's Ad Campaign Obviously Judgmental of Co-Sleeping Parents

2011-12-01T08:00:00.001-06:00

MILWAUKEE, Wisconsin—This week a storm of controversy erupted over a co-sleeping campaign by the City of Milwaukee’s Health Department’s use of ads depicting infants on their stomachs sleeping next to a butcher knife. According to the Department’s website, the awareness campaign is intended to reduce the number of infant death due to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS), and Sudden Unexplained Death in infancy (SUDI) which in Milwaukee accounts for 20% of infant deaths, most of which are caused from unsafe sleep environments.

The campaign took a negative turn, however, after ... continue reading

Fans and Their Moms Celebrate End to Bieber Paternity Suit

2011-11-30T15:00:00.001-06:00

LOS ANEGLES, California—Across the country, tween girls and their moms are rejoicing over last week’s news that Mariah Yeater had dropper her paternity suit against pop star Justin Bieber. Yeater withdrew her lawsuit after text messages on her phone revealed the possibility that someone other than Bieber fathered Yeater’s 4-month-old Tristyn Anthony Markhouse Yeater whose lengthy name may yield clues as to the father’s actual identity.

“We’re so thrilled,” said 12 year-old Katie Winthrop of Irvine, California. “We knew it wasn’t true!”

“Never say never,” added Winthrop’s mom, Ashley. “Unless it’s a paternity suit.”

A small but dedicated group of fans in Bismarck, North Dakota were ... continue reading

Texas Governor May Have Addiction to HPV Vaccine

2011-11-30T08:00:00.000-06:00

AUSTIN, Texas—A former staffer working for Governor Rick Perry’s election campaign is claiming the presidential hopeful regularly injects himself with the HPV Vaccine. In a phone interview with TMZ, the campaign worker, who wished to remain anonymous, told the reputable news agency that they had witnessed Governor Perry using syringes filled with the HPV vaccine, also known as Gardasil, on numerous occasions.

Asked to comment on the allegations of chronic HPV vaccine use, Governor Perry issued a statement denouncing the claim as being “absolutely false.” However, sources close to the election staff did confirm that... continue reading

Researchers Predict Duggers Will Rank Second to China in Population by 2029

2011-11-29T16:00:00.004-06:00

BENTONVILLE, Arkansas—Sociologists at the University of Southern Texas of Plano predicted that the Duggar family will have the world’s second highest population by the year 2029 making it second only to China. The study comes after Michelle Duggar recently announced on the TODAY Show that she is pregnant with her twentieth child.

The USToP’s research looked at births, deaths, related legislation, and likely disaster scenarios, to include a large meteor impacting fifty miles outside of... continue reading

Fathers Seek Therapy After George Clooney Deemed Likely To Be a Bad Dad

2011-11-29T09:34:00.000-06:00

NEW YORK CITY, New York—Therapists across the country have reported an increase in the number of fathers suffering from Sudden Identity Crisis Syndrome, or SICS, after remarks claiming actor, George Clooney, would probably be a lousy dad. “I haven’t seen this many Clooney-related SICS cases since Batman and Robin,” remarked Michael Clayton, a New York City therapist thought to be the country’s leading SICS expert. “I’ve had to bring in additional staff to handle the overflow.”

Clooney’s paternal prowess was called into question by... continue reading

Glee National Competition: Of Course They Win. We Didn't Watch This Show for 3 Years to Watch Them Lose

2011-11-21T18:11:00.000-06:00

So here’s what you missed on Glee: The New Directions are headed to New York City for Nationals thanks to Puck who stole a garbage truck to break Brittany out of rehab, to keep Santana from being chased by bounty hunters, talk Artie out of being in a street gang, and help Quinn pass Driver’s Ed. But his plan couldn’t bring Mike back to life after dying by electrocution. Meanwhile, Rachel finds her voice again as well as Finn who had locked himself in a closet. Kurt knows how to rock plaid pants and a newsboy cap, while Coach Sylvester says mean things to Mr. Schuester, and, once again, Mercedes and Tina are doing something minor as fill-ins to the cast so they have an even number of cast members. And that’s what you missed on Glee.

Opening Scene: A bus and a garbage truck roll up in front of some theater in New York City, and the Glee Club members all pile out of the vehicles.

Finn: Gee, it’s so …big.

Brittany: That’s what she said.

Santana: Seriously? Why would you say that, Brittany? I thought you liked girls?

Brittany: I do. And I like puppies.

Kurt: Well, you can betchyour Argyle socks this puppy’s going to be one tough competition.

Quinn: Nice plaid pants and hat. Is that what they call a newsboy cap.

Kurt: Why yes it is and thank you for noticing.

Santana: The 1920’s called, and it wants its wardrobe back.

Kurt: Hello, the, uh …the—well I don’t know who called but they left a message asking if you have any other clothes besides that cheerleading uniform. The polyester must be fused to your skin after wearing it for three years.

Rachel: Guys, guys. Stop it. Here we are at Nationals—the biggest achievement of our lives, the final moment before those of us who are seniors will graduate and the writers will take us off the show except for cameo appearances when the ratings are low, and here we are fighting. We’re supposed to be a team.

Finn: Yeah, Rachel’s right guys. We’re gonna get written off the show and make cameo appearances. Also, we’re a team.

Tina: I just wish Mike could be here with us.

Mike: What are you talking about? I’m standing right behind you.

Everyone turns around and looks astonished. Then Mr. Schuester walks around the bus as starts heading for the entrance to the concert hall.

Mr. Schuester: Come on guys. *sniff* We need to get inside and register.

Mercedes: Mr. Schuester, are you okay? You look upset.

Mr. Schuester: No *sniff* I’m fine. [starts crying as he runs into the building]

Artie: He was on the phone with Coach Sylvester. She made fun of his hair, and then he just cracked.

Rachel: I bet if we win that will cheer Mr. Schuester up.

Kurt: And totally validate his existence in life.

Rachel: And that too.

Finn: So if we don’t win…

Puck: Mr. Schue is probably headed for the loony bin.

Mercedes: We’d better get inside

The Glee Club starts to head inside when a piano from four stories up falls right where Mike was standing.

Mike: Wow! Guess I’m just a lucky guy.

* * *

Next Scene: Inside the theater. The Glee Club is behind the stage waiting to take their places as soon as the next school finishes their routine.

Kurt: Artie, what’s the matter? You look more nervous that the rest of us.

Artie: I can’t go out there.

Finn: Why Dude? Don’t tell me you’re getting stage fright now after three years of performing and then all that time in a boy band before auditioning for Glee.

Artie: No. It’s not that. It’s… well, one of the leaders from a rival street gang is out there and he’s going to shoot me on sight.

Santana: That’s not a gang leader—that’s my Uncle, or something.

Brittany: I’m really hungry. Does anyone have a cat?

Puck: You know who’s hungry? Children all over America.

Quinn: Not now, Puck. Gawwwd. You have the worst timing.

Rachel: Stop nagging him, Quinn.

Mercedes: Stop telling us what to do, diva girl!

Finn: Guys, guys—

Kurt: Oh stuff it step-brother-who-only-became-my-step-brother-because-of-a-plot-gimmick-last-year- when-the-ratings-were-horrible.

Finn: No you stuff—

Fight erupts behind stage. Then Mr. Schuester walks up.

Mr. Schuester: Guys, what’s going on? I mean here you are the last chance to sing before half of you get written off the show and we get a bunch of newbies and hope that they are good enough to carry Glee for one more season, and you’re out here fighting like a bunch of school kids. This is it guys. The end of the road, and some of you might end up going back to Broadway, but the rest of you—what do you have? A cameo appearance next year, a lot of commercials if your agent’s any good, maybe even a minor part in a Tyler Perry movie? Right now, you don’t have anything other than this moment on a primetime television program that ends with this series finale.

Finn: Gosh, we’re sorry Mr. Schuester.

Brittany: Yeah, we don’t want to see you in a mental ward.

Mr. Schuester: I don’t want to see you there either, after you find out the only job you’ll ever be able to get is selling cosmetics at Macy’s after this little run on television.

Puck: Mr. Schue, can I say something?

Mr. Schuester: What is it Puck?

Puck: Well, as you all know, I am the cool spokesman for the Child Hunger Ends Here Campaign, and since this is the last you’ll ever hear from me, I am pleeeeeeading with you to get our school signed up for a chance to win that $10,000 grant. There’s lots the school could do, like a canned food drive or just collecting UPC code from select ConAgra brands. There are tons of needy kids out there who don’t know where their next meal is even coming from. It really doesn’t take much.

Mr. Schuester: Puck, I don’t know what’s gotten into you but would you please get out there and sing? The rest of the Glee club started singing the opening number 2 minutes ago.

Puck: Right, Mr. Schue. I’m on it!

…and the New Directions went on to win Nationals, just like everyone expected them to do for the past three years. And while most of them never got steady work as actors ever again, they all lived happily ever after …except Mickey because, oh my gawd, those bastards had him fall off the stage and break his neck.

* * *

Editor’s Note: Although the above content is a parody of the TV show Glee, the intent is to keep readers engaged as opposed to hearing a public service announcement. Child hunger in a America is much more serious than people realize, and you can help ConAgra, Feeding America, and Schools Fight Hunger simply by asking your school to sign up. We hope that you will. Thanks.

Army Strong Stories: Airborne. All The Way Part 2

2011-11-18T06:22:00.001-06:00

The following is Part 2 in a series recounting a recent visit to the Army's Airborne Training School at Ft. Benning, Georgia. You can read Part 1HERE.

Army Strong Stories: The Swing Landing Trainer

SSG Webb

At the headquarters building of the 1-507th Parachute Infantry Regiment, the unit responsible for the Airborne School, we joined Richy Rosado, our PAO contact who then gave us a quick briefing on the Regiment’s history. Rosado, himself was and 10 year Army veteran, having served in both the Ranger Regiment and Special Forces, details revealed after it was mentioned that not only was I jump qualified, but also that my father served in Special Forces during Vietnam.

Prior to this Rosado and I did what all soldiers typically do when meeting someone for the first time—size the other up until we’re convinced of their legitimacy. It's something of a reflex. From day one, you'er trained to depend on the soldier to your right and left, and naturally you want to know if those standing with you are the real deal. Common history and shared experiences can speed that assessment up, although my long, unruly hair and unshaven face probably didn’t make the best initial impression.

The same drill was repeated upon being introduced several minutes later to Staff Sergeant Webb who had been assigned to escort us around. SSG Webb’s ruddy complexion said he spent a lot of time outdoors, and his solid frame filled out the ACU’s (Army Combat Uniform) he was wearing. The firm handshake confirmed his level of fitness.

Note to self: Do more push-ups.

DC 3 used in WW2 and Beyond

From here, SSG Webb walked us up an asphalted track past the Airborne Walk memorial, which is flanked on either side by a DC-3 and C-119, airplanes relics used by paratroopers in the 40’s, 50’s and 60’s. Along the way, SSG Webb pointed out the various training apparatuses lining Eubanks Field. He spoke in that official tone professional soldier use when talking to civilians until someone mentioned that I was Airborne qualified.

“Oh. You know the drill then,” he said in a suddenly less formal tone, and his face loosened in relief, realizing he didn’t have to explain everything to the same level of detail. The reaction, however, made me feel guilty for not saying anything earlier. I didn’t want to be that obnoxious guy who’s all “been there, done that.” Yet by the same token, one of the biggest annoyances to enlisted soldiers is wasting their time. Officers--the smart ones--try to avoid doing this. Having been both sides of this fence--enlisted and officer--this is the last thing I wanted to do during my visit.

“When did you go through, sir?” SSG Webb asked.

I had to think a moment. “97,” I replied. Fourteen years? It's been that long already?

The four of us chatted for a few moments when a truck rolled up, and out stepped a man who I, at first, mistook for one of the school’s cadre until he introduced himself as Rick Jones, a contractor from California. Jones’s association with the Airborne School is an interesting one. The president of R.J. Manufacturing, a company specializing in producing ropes, Jones was contacted by the Army to develop a long-lasting rope to replace those used on a device at the Airborne School known as the Swing Landing Trainer (SLT).

Watch the Swing Landing Trainer in Action

Jones explains his redesigns to the SLT

The SLT is a contraption I'm familiar with to put it mildly. Its purpose is to simulate the final moments prior to performing a Parachute Landing Fall (PLF). Students stand on a platform roughly ten feet high where they are fitted with a harness that, in my time, was suspended by a set of four ropes hanging from a set of pulleys. Four students on the ground would pull those ropes tight as you jumped off the platform and swung in the air until the class instructor gave the command, at which point the students would release the ropes, thus allowing you to execute a picture-perfect PLF.

The problem with the SLT, though, was that with the thousands of students going through training, the ropes tended to wear out quickly, and the Army turned to Jones for help with something more durable. Jones did the Army one better. After studying the problem, Jones redesigned the entire apparatus by affixing the harness to the four corners of an H-shaped, metal frame suspended by a cable looped through a ceiling-mounted pulley and then run back down to a release lever operated by the instructor.

This may not sound like much, but considering the savings in maintenance costs Jones provided the Army, that money can be applied elsewhere. What’s more, as opposed to the arbitrary heights a student would be dropped from on the old SLT, the new configuration drops students from a consistent height, which has resulted in fewer injury-related withdrawals, particularly among females.

The imposing 250 ft Towers

What immediately strikes you about Jones is his passion for, not only this project, but for the Army as well. His excitement in detailing the finite aspects of the SLT’s engineering, is hard to miss.

“I do have a business to run,” Jones said. “But if I could, I think I’d do this for nothing.”

His assertion is believable considering Jones could’ve provided the Army with new ropes and then charged them for replacements over time. As the company’s owner, he could easily send someone to Ft. Benning to check the SLT’s equipment. Instead, he makes the trips himself, and often helps out with other projects when he’s in town. Later that day he would be climbing to the top of the 250ft tower to assist with a maintenance check. Climbing 250 feet up some metal frame-like structure when technically you don’t have to, demonstrates dedication …in an extreme way.

Next Week: Airborne 5000 and the 34 ft Tower

* * *

To read more about today's soldiers, check out Army Strong Stories, blog posts actually written by the men and women serving in the United States Army.

It's still Movember everyone, please help me as I raise funds for finding a cure to prostate cancer while also growing silly facial hair to prove my dedication. Yes, that's right, I'm asking you to donate a few bucks to the cause. Remember, the ass you save may be your own.

Disclaimer: In accordance with FTC regulations, it is necessary for me to disclose that the Army paid for my travel, lodging, and meal expenses during my trip to Fort Benning, Georgia.

Can Fatherhood Really Change Bad Boys?

2011-11-17T10:54:00.000-06:00

If you’ve noticed an increase of Planned Parenthood literature at your local methadone clinic, jailhouse, or AA gathering lately, it might have something to do with Oregon State University’s recently released findings claiming that fatherhood cuts down on smoking, drinking, and crime. The 20-year study, conducted in a series of annual interviews, followed more than 200 at-risk boys from the time they were 12 through to age 31, at the conclusion of which, roughly two-thirds of the participants had fathered childern.

The study also noted that the most dramatic behavioral changes occurred in men who became fathers in their late 20’s and 30’s. The study did not evaluate why age played a factor in relation to the degree of change. However, the researchers suggested that the overall conclusions opened up an opportunity to approach men in such circumstances with positive... read more

Do Dads Have More of a Cultural Foothold Than We Think?

2011-11-16T07:00:00.002-06:00

Last week on “Babble Voices”, Catherine Conners moderated an all-star ensemble of parent bloggers, writers, and TV personalities as they prophesized the apocalyptic 2012 end to fathers who will be wiped from the face of the earth by eight-foot tall Amazonian mothers, wielding blood-drenched swords while carrying slumbering infant offspring in the Baby Bjorn baby carriers strapped to their iron breastplate… hold on a second, let me recheck my notes. No, I’m sorry, that’s incorrect. The actual issue being debated was as to whether dads were losing their paternal relevance in age when cultural narratives indicate mothers can raise children free an independent from fathers whose only function in life is a proclivity for tripping over their own junk.

Conners’s thought-provoking question elicited a range of well-articulated opinions from the panel, which was fairly represented by the X and Y chromosomes. Most agreed a ... read more

Army Strong Stories: Airborne. All The Way.

2011-11-11T08:48:00.000-06:00

With today being Veteran's Day, I'm kicking off a series of posts about my recent return visit to the Army's Airborne School at Fort Benning, Georgia. It's my hope to convey, not only the amount of training the troops receive, but also the greater sacrifices that soldiers and their families have been making, particularly over the past decade. Today, as you're tweeting, and commenting on your social media sites, please take the time to show your appreciation for the sacrifices our brave men and women have made on our behalf. Thank you.

This past month I had the opportunity to visit the Army’s Fort Benning near Columbus, Georgia. This was not my first time on the post, which is home to units of the 3rd Infantry Division, the 75th Ranger Regiment, and a host of training course that include Airborne School, Ranger School, and as of recently, the Armor School. During the latter part of my military career, I had been here several times to attend training, the last being the Infantry Captain’s Career Course almost a decade ago.

Much has happened since then—the terrorist attacks on 9-11, the still ongoing war in Afghanistan, the controversial invasion and subsequently prolonged occupation of Iraq—events that have changed everyone’s life in this country at least to some extent. The Army, after much hard fighting and repeated, long-term deployments, has changed too.

So had I. Knowing this brought on a low level uneasiness that I hinted at with my Army liaison, Brianna Gallett on our ride from Atlanta to Benning.

“Just because you’ve been in the Army before doesn’t mean everyone’s going to welcome you with open arms,” I explained. “They’ve been through a lot of hardcore stuff, so they could really give a crap about what I did back in the day.” I thought about one of my good friends from my officer days and the extreme circumstances he faced as a company commander (These experiences were later captured in the book, They Fought For Each Other.

Gallett, who has been working with the Army for a while now, seemed to understand. Over the course of this time, she has developed some strong relationships with a number of soldiers whose character, professionalism, and dedication has fostered a level of respect that’s morphed into an unspoken passion for her work.

“I’m halfway through your friend’s book right now. It’s incredible to see what [soldiers] are going through,” she said. “It really puts things into context. They really were fighting for one another.”

* * *

The next morning I got up early and doubled-checked my canvas backpack to make sure I had all the equipment I might need for the day—pens, paper, camera, flip video, tape recorder, extra batteries. In the Army, this is known as a Pre-Combat Inspection, or PCI. It’s a routine so ingrained in me that even years later, I still do it anytime I leave the house no matter if it’s a short errand or an out-of-town trip. Some things just stick with you.

Downstairs at breakfast, the hotel restaurant was still in the process of opening, and the only other people joining me at that hour were a few guys in their early twenties sporting crew-cuts, a dead giveaway that they were soldiers. Judging by the number of tattoos on their muscled arms and the varied T-shirt announcing their proficiency at aggressively disposing of bad guys, I could tell they were part of one of the Ranger Regiment.

“I do bad things to bad people,” read one shirt with a menacing skull that further punctuated the message. And indeed they do. Members of the Ranger Regiment are the elite of the Army’s light infantry, and their mission is to be a highly skilled shock force. It was the Rangers who fought against mobs of Somali gunman as popularized by the movie, Blackhawk Down, and it was the Rangers who were the first ground troops in Afghanistan, parachuting into Kandahar to secure an airfield and raid Taliban hideouts. Death from above.

Watch this video to see Rangers in action

* * *

The focus of my visit, however, wasn’t the Rangers, but rather the Army’s Basic Airborne School, which all soldiers who are either in the Ranger Regiment, assigned to Airborne designated units, or otherwise directed must pass. The course is three weeks long, each of which marking a different phase. Ground Week, Tower Week, and Jump Week.

These phases are somewhat self-explanatory. After passing the Army Physical Fitness Test (APFT), students spend the rest of the week learning how to execute the Parachute Landing Fall (PLF), as well as how to exit an airplane correctly. Week two is where the fun begins as you test your fear of heights by jumping from the 34ft Tower. Finally, in week three you qualify for you wings, provided you make five successful jumps from a perfectly good airplane at 1,250ft in both day and night conditions.

A short time after breakfast, Gallett and I drove from the hotel to Ft. Benning where we would me our contact from the Army’s Public Affairs Office (PAO), and then follow him to the Airborne School’s headquarters building for an informal orientation.

“Looking familiar?” Gallett asked as we made our way across the post.

I smiled. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “We used to do PT up and down these streets all the time. Right over there, that’s the barracks I stayed at for the Infantry Officer Basic Course.” These two massive, Spanish tiled Cuartels constructed between 1930 and 1939 formed a U around a large grassy area where my class would hold morning formations for PT and clean our equipment after field training exercises. There was a nostalgic giddiness that came over me, reflecting on those moments of sitting around, BSing with your buddies while stripping layers of carbon off of the various parts of your weapon.

But mixed with familiar was also the new, the most notable of this being the housing. You can tell a lot about how much an Army post cares about families by the condition of buildings they house them in. I’m not going to lie, I’ve seen some run down communities in my days. The townhomes my young family and I were assigned to at Fort Drum, New York had large holes in the exterior walls allowing critters in. At night my (first) wife and I would watch from the living room as rats ran back and forth in the dining room.

That didn’t seem to be the case now from what I could see. Pristine communities with pretty houses lined streets with trimmed yards—a stark contrast from the rundown, one story duplexes that were being torn down in some cases in order to make way for better facilities. It was genuinely impressive.

Next Week: Airborne School and the Swing Landing Trainer

To read more about today's soldiers, check out Army Strong Stories, blog posts actually written by the men and women serving in the United States Army.

Disclaimer: In accordance with FTC regulations, it is necessary for me to disclose that the Army paid for my travel, lodging, and meal expenses during my trip to Fort Benning, Georgia.

Glee Regionals: Singing to Ocean’s 11 and Puck’s Daring Rescue Plan

2011-11-09T07:30:00.011-06:00

So here’s what you missed on Glee: The New Directions are on their way to Regionals after their win at Sectionals even though Rachel has no voice, Finn’s missing, Artie’s in a street gang, Mike’s dead—again—and Quinn’s failing Home-Ec. Meanwhile, Santana’s being chased by Dog the Bounty Hunter for violating her parole; Brittany’s in Celebrity Rehab for a cat-eating addiction; and Puck’s facing felony charges for stealing lunch money, only he’s not stealing lunch money; he’s trying to help end child hunger. But all is not lost because Kurt is looking fly in a puffy shirt and vintage Mork and Mindy, rainbow suspender; Sue is plotting something even more diabolical than before for Mr. Schuester; and Mercedes and Tina are doing… something worthy of their roles as supporting cast members. And that’s what you missed on Glee.

Opening scene: Kurt, Rachel, Mercedes, and Tina are in the Glee Club room waiting for practice to start.

Mercedes: It’s great we’re headed to Regionals tomorrow, but there’s only four of us.

Mike walking into the room: Don’t you mean five of us?

Tina: Mike! You’re alive!

Mike: Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?

Just then a loose wire falls from the ceiling, electrocuting Mike until he’s a charred corpse laying on the floor.

Rachel [in sign language]: Oh my gawd! They killed Mikey! You bastards!

Kurt: Hmmm. Yeah, that usually happens later in the story. Guess we’re back to four.

Mercedes: You mean three. The only way Rachel can help is if the judges are all hearing impaired.

Rachel, frowning, [in sign language]: Come on guys, this is serious. What are we going to do?

Mr. Schuester enters the classroom: Sorry I’m late gang; Sue slashed the tires on my Smart Car… Hey, where is everyone? …and what’s wrong with Rachel’s hands? It that a nervous tick, because if it is, my OCD girlfriend—

Tina: It’s sign language Mr. Schu. Rachel can’t talk.

Mr. Schuester: —she’s so cute and adorable, but she makes me wrap my head in plastic wrap before she’ll kiss me—

Kurt: Uh, Mr. Shu? All due respect, we really don’t care about your Saran Wrap serenade right now.

Mercedes: Yeah, Mr. Schu. What are we going to do about Regionals tomorrow?

Mr. Shuester: …you guys should see how many boxes of surgical gloves this woman goes through in a night…

Puck crawling out an air duct: I know what we can do.

Everyone: Puck! What are you doing here?

Puck: The cops wouldn’t let me have my one phone call, so I had to bust out. And that’s what we’re going to do about getting everyone back—bust them out.

Kurt: Cool, like a caper movie! I’m glad I’m wearing the right shirt for it.

Tina: It is pretty fly with those Mork and Mindy, rainbow suspenders.

Mr. Shuester: A caper movie, huh? This give me an idea, guys. We’re going to sing the entire soundtrack to Ocean’s 11.

Mercedes: George Clooney and Brad Pitt sang in those movies?

Mr. Shuester: Before Clooney and Pitt, there was Sinatra, Dino and the Rat Pack. They were the original Ocean’s 11 that broke into the Vegas casinos. And they sang their whole way through it.

Puck: Cool guys …singing? Come on, Mr. Schu.

Mr. Schuester: Uh huh. In fact, there’s a great scene where Sammy Davis Jr. is doing this number while posing as a garbage truck driver.

Mercedes: A garbage truck driver. And I suppose you want me to take that song because I’m black?

Mr. Schuester: ‘Fraid not, Mercedes. I’m giving that one to Puck, because he Jewish.

Puck: A garbage truck! That’s perfect Mr. Schu!

Mr. Schuester: How’s a garbage truck perfect, Puck?

Puck: Don’t you get it? A garbage truck can solve everything—it’s bulletproof so we can rescue Artie from the gang. It’s strong enough to smash through the walls at Celebrity Rehab where Brittany’s at, and it’s big, so we can just run right over Dog the Bounty Hunter when we grab Santana, aaaaaand, Quinn can use it to pass her Driver’s Ed final this afternoon and be back in Glee Club again.

Rachel [in sign language]: What about Finn?

Puck: He’s trapped in the janitor’s closet down the hall. It locks from the inside so we just need to explain the directions for using a doorknob.

Kurt: Well what are we waiting for? Let’s go!

Everyone: Yeah! Come on!

Puck: Hold on.

Mr. Schuester: What is it Puck?

Puck: My phone call—well, Twitter actually.

Mercedes: You’re on Twitter?

Puck: Uhhh-Yeaaaah. @Mark_Salling, maybe you've heard of me? But we have to wait until after a public meeting on Twitter hosted by @ConAgra.

Rachel [in sign language]: Seriously?

Puck: Hey, Ending Child Hunger is important, okay.

Mr. Schuester: Guys he’s right. I’ve been trying to get McKinley signed up, but Coach Sylvester won’t let the school signed up unless I agree to give her the entire $10,000 grant we could get if we win the drawing. When’s the meet up, Puck?

Puck: It’s this Thursday, November 10th at Noon, Eastern time. There’s a hashtag for it too #ChildHunger, but you can easily monitor the chat through this handy deal [Flips open a smart-phone].

Everyone: oooOOOOooo, a smart phone.

Puck: And if you’re thinking about doing it, you can RSVP on Facebook too.

Mr. Schuester: Thanks, Puck. Maybe, next time, you should think about collecting select ConAgra UPC box tops instead of stealing other people’s lunch money.

Puck: Uh, Mr. Schu, I know. I’m the spokesperson for the Child Hunger Ends Here Campaign with Feeding America and Schools Fight Hunger.

Mr. Schuester: Then maybe, helping set up a food drive would be better than scaring kids to give you their lunch money.

Puck: Mr. Schu—

Mr. Schuester: That’s enough, Puck. Now don’t you have a garbage truck to hot-wire? And hey, gang, while Puck’s off at that meet up, we’ve got time to start practicing the Ocean’s 11 soundtrack! And it just so happens I have DVD of it right here!

But at the last minute, right before the Glee Club took the stage at Regionals, Mr. Schuester changed his mind, and the New Directions went with this instead.

What would the judges decide? Stay tuned for the next and final installment of Glee

* * *

Editor’s Note: Although the above content is a parody of the TV show Glee, the intent is to keep readers engaged as opposed to hearing a public service announcement. Child hunger in a America is much more serious than people realize, and you can help ConAgra, Feeding America, and Schools Fight Hunger simply by asking your school to sign up. We hope that you will. Thanks.

Disclaimer: True, I am being compensated for my efforts with ConAgra as part of this campaign, but it in no way sways my opinion about hungry children in need of food.

Blog-In, November 8th, 2011: A Letter to the Presidential Candidates

2011-11-08T08:00:00.000-06:00

This blog is in coordination with a number of other parent bloggers who want to communicate their concerns and needs to the political candidates, not only running for the Presidency, but also for Congress. We as parents, regardless of differing political ideologies, should be involved in the democratic process. We are mothers and fathers fed up with the political rhetoric being fed to us, and it's our responsibility to urge potential candidates to focus on the real issues that matter to American families. Even if you don't agree with these policies, that's okay (and I'm not going to get in a pissing match with anyone over what's listed below either), but take the time to find out what issues matter to you and your families, and share them with your party's candidates.

Dear 2012 Presidential Candidates,

We are your future constituents and we are parents.

We are American mothers and fathers and grandparents and guardians. Our families might be the most diverse in the world. Blended and combined in endless permutations, we represent every major religion, political ideology and ethnic culture that exists. We are made from equal parts biology and choice. Our children come to us in every way possible—including fertility miracles, adoption, and remarriage.

Our very modern families embody the freedom that defines America. We embody America. We are rich in diversity, but we are united in our family values. We come together today, with one voice, to express our grave disappointment in the national political discourse.

The 2012 countdown has barely begun and we are already being bombarded with the warmed-over, hypocritical rhetoric of 2008. We are living in a time where 15.1% of Americans now live in poverty, the actual unemployment rate stands at 16%, and we are spending close to $170 billion annually between the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan*.

Given the current state of affairs we would expect every candidate to focus on the issues that truly matter: job creation, debt-relief, taxes, education, poverty, and ending the war(s). Instead, it is already clear to us that the conversation has been hijacked, with the goal of further polarizing our nation into a politically motivated and falsely created class-war.

We will not stand for another campaign year in which politicians presume to know what our family values are as they relate to the nation.

To be clear, here are our family values:

Affordable health care, including family planning, for all Americans. We will not tolerate any candidate using the shield of “Choice” to blind us from the issues that really matter. When funding is stripped from organizations like Planned Parenthood, access to sliding-scale health care (including yearly pap smears & mammograms), comprehensive sex education, and family planning is blocked from the poorest of the population.

Access to education, and the ability to actually use it. We want quality, affordable, federally-funded pre-K programs made available in every State, in order to provide an even starting point for all children enrolled in public schools— regardless of the wealth of the district or town they live in.

A reinstatement of regulations for banks and full prosecution for those who engaged in fraudulent lending practices. We want full accountability —investigation, indictment and prosecution— of those individuals and institutions who engaged in fraudulent lending practices and who helped create the massive foreclosures that left many families homeless or struggling to keep their homes.

A return of strict environmental regulations protecting water, air, food, and land that were removed in the last two decades. We want our children to grow up in a world not weighed down by the strains of pollution and global warming. Between BPA in our products, sky-rocketing rates of asthma in kids, questionable hormones in our over-processed food, and more, we need leaders who will put our needs and safety over the desires and profits of large corporations.

Family planning, healthcare, education, economic solvency and environmental safety: these are our national family values.

Candidates who demonstrate the ability to understand the gravity of these issues, and their impact on our families, and who can provide actual, viable solutions to these problems will garner our support and our votes.

We believe in this democratic system of ours, and we will continue to use our voices and our votes to see that it reaches its fullest potential.

Sincerely,

Your future constituents,

The mothers & fathers of America

If you would like to forward this letter to your elected officials, you can find their contact info at the following links:

The House

The Senate

iHate iPlutocracy: Why My Kids Don't Need iCrap

2011-10-27T11:30:00.003-05:00

Steve Jobs, wherever you are, if you can read this, please don't take offense; I really do appreciate all that cool stuff you've built. Actually, this has more to do with how we tend to turn popular consumer goods into symbols that proclaim our financial status.

It's nothing new, really. We've been doing it ever since the first Neanderthal bragged to his homo erectus co-workers about how his new iRock5 could spark fires when synced to his iRock Touch. It may have been just a lot of grunting, but everyone around the tar pit knew he thought of himself as being more evolved.

My issue, rather, is that owning the newest, coolest gadget does not elevate someone to a level where they're somehow better than everyone else. This is a concept I've been trying to instill in my children, despite the tidal wave of influences to the contrary.

The primary method for this is... (continue reading)

Glee: Kurt Can't Sing Coldplay and Puck's Really Not Stealing Lunch Money

2011-10-24T14:00:00.002-05:00

So here’s what you missed on Glee: The New Directions competed at Sectionals, even though Brittany was at the hospital, Santana landed in jail, Artie’s had to pass his gang initiation, Finn’s got locked in the mop closet on his way to his MENSA entrance test, Rachel blew out her voice in a 48-hour sing-a-thon, Quinn failing and could get kicked out of show choir, Kurt rocks a chartreuse cashmere sweater, Mercedes and Tina are doing… something, Sue is planning something evil for Mr. Schuester, Mike got killed by a walk-by Slushy to the face, and Puck was stuck in detention for stealing kids’ lunch money; only he’s not taking lunch money, he’s tackling the issue of childhood hunger. And that’s what you missed on Glee.

Opening scene: Kurt, Mercedes, and Tina are sitting together and talking at the school’s crowded outdoor cafeteria.

Tina: I can’t believe we actually won Sectionals.

Mercedes: Fu’realz. I didn’t know you could be disqualified for that thing that got them disqualified.

Kurt: Well, I don’t care. A win’s a win, and I’ll take it. Nobody said it had to be pretty.

Tina: Yeah, I guess. And speaking of pretty, that chartreuse sweater is definitely a win, Kurt.

Kurt: Oh, thank you, Tina. I don’t know why but it always makes me want to sing something by Coldplay.

A full band suddenly appears in the background and starts playing the first few measures to Viva La Vida. Kurt steps up on the cafeteria table and opens his mouth—.

Mercedes: Oh helz no. Ain’t nobody singin’ any Coldplay up in here. There’s gay, Kurt, and then there’s gay, gay. Besides, we gotta get to Glee practice.

***

Match cut to Glee Club practice room where Santana, and Brittany are waiting when Tina, Mercedes, and Kurt walk in.

Mercedes: So how was hard time in the big house, Santana?

Santana: Oh, please. I was in for like two hours. They couldn’t prove I did anything to that cat—Brittany ate all the evidence.

Brittany: Yeah, my spirit guide and I are now one.

At that moment, Mr. Schuester walks into the room. There are patches of hair missing from his head.

Mr. Schuester: Alright. Listen up. We dodged a bullet at Sectionals since that school get disqualified for doing that thing that they got disqualified for, so we— [looks around the room] Where is everyone?

Brittany: Mr. Schuester? Why do you have patches of hair missing? Did you eat a cat too?

Mr. Schuester [feeling top of head]: Because, …because Coach Sylvester switched my mousse with Nair. But that doesn’t matter right now. We need to focus on Regionals, so why isn’t everyone here?

Santana: My cousins said Artie got into M18—they’re using his wheelchair for drive-bys

Kurt: Finn was taking a test for MENSA. That was three days ago, and no one’s seen him since.

Mercedes: Rachel’s probably off by herself randomly singing some sappy show tune in the auditorium.

Match cut to auditorium where Rachel is looking around confused.

Rachel: Hello? …Is the anyone here from the school band?

Janitor [walking past]: Trig test. They said something about not repeating 10th grade again from missing too many classes.

Match cut back to rehearsal room

Mr. Schuster: What about Quinn and Mike?

Santana: Quinn’s academically ineligible—she failed the Planned Parenthood section of Home Ec.

Tina: And Mike’s right there. [points to doorway]

Mike waves, right before a football player throws a red slushy in his face . Mike’s head explodes and he drops onto the floor.

Kurt: Oh my GAWD! They killed Mikey! You bastards!.

Mr. Schuster: Okay, and Puck’s in detention for stealing lunch money. Great.

Just then Puck steps over Mike’s body and enters the rehearsal room.

Puck: No I’m not Mr. Schu. I keep telling you, I’m helping ConAgra and Feeding America in their efforts to End Child Hunger.

Mr. Schuster: Suuuure, Puck. Whatever you say.

Puck: I’m not kidding, Mr. Shu. Childhood hunger is a serious issue, and the people I’m working with don’t really like that we’re doing all these parodies even though it’s getting people’s attention.

Santana: Okay, Puck, let’s just say you are some sorta spokesperson for this. Prove it to us.

Puck: You want proof? Did you know that poverty in the suburbs is worse now than in the inner city? And did you also know that 21 million kids are dependent on school meals because they don’t have food at home. And did you also know that nearly 1 in 5 kids doesn’t know where their next meal is coming from.

Kurt: I gotta admit, that was a pretty convincing use of facts.

Brittany: Now I feel bad being part of a group called the Cheer-i-os now.

Mecedes: So what can we do?

Puck: The first thing is to get your school signed up. And then there’s all kinds of other stuff—your school can start a garden or food pantry. You can volunteer at local hunger outreach programs, raise funds, collect UPC codes from select ConAgra products, and you can start a hunger awareness program. Did you know that the number of kids in Houston who don’t know where their next meal is coming from is 27.2%! And when you sign your school up, it’s eligible for a $10,000 grant to be used for a school fieldtrip!

Mr. Schuster: Wow. Childhood hunger is something we don’t really think enough about. I don’t know why you’re telling us about Houston, but you’re energy’s great, Puck. Guys, we could learn a thing or two from Puck’s enthusiasm as we go to Regionals next week. [Turns back to Puck]. And Puck, you’ve been warned once, stop stealing lunch money from other kids. Now grab that guitar and sing us a solo.

Editor’s Note: Although the above content is a parody of the TV show Glee, (in which Mark Salling, the campaign’s spokesman, plays Puck), the intent is to keep readers engaged as opposed to hearing a public service announcement. Child hunger in a America is much more serious than people realize, and you can help ConAgra, Feeding America, and Schools Fight Hunger simply by asking your school to sign up. We hope that will. Thanks.

Disclaimer: I am being compensated for my efforts with ConAgra as part of this campaign

Are Dad Bloggers Attacking Father Stereotypes or Windmills?

2011-10-19T08:00:00.001-05:00

Editorial note: This is how I stir up crap right before Blog World in a few weeks.

Remember Don Quixote, the middle-aged country gentlemen who lost touch with reality and charged off to fight what he thought were giants, but what were really windmills? (Do schools even teach this anymore?) Sometimes I wonder if us dad bloggers aren’t like Don Quixote when we get all up in arms about stereotyped fathers in the media. Are we mistaking a windmill for a giant?

Dopes Are Tropes

Am I implying the “dumb dad” shtick and other negative stereotypes don’t exists? Not at all. However, pointing to the demigod-like fathers of the 50’s as the gold standard for pop culture paternity is a poor argument for demanding a modern reboot. In a sense, these depictions of infallible fathers were the least realistic of them all. Furthermore, to say that TV dads have only declined since is a faulty assumption too because for every bad dad shown over the ensuing decades, a good one can be found to counter it. Even today, for every Tony... continue reading

Occupy Wall Street & Reaction to The Gilded Age

2011-10-07T06:30:00.010-05:00

Saint Bradley-Martin

In February of 1897, rich New York socialites, Bradley and Cornilia Martin, hosted an over-the-top costume ball at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. What's the significance behind this? For starters, the United States had been suffering through a major economic depression (later referred to as The Long Depression) that had begun in 1873 and included two bank panics (1873 and 1893). Contrasted against the country's current condition, the Bradley-Martin Ball was more than just ill-timed; it was a slap in the face to the American populace which had been bearing the brunt of economic hardships for what would eventually span over two decades.

It's interesting to note that the Long Depression wasn't just endemic to the United States, but was in fact, a major global economic crisis plaguing all of Europe and Russia as well. (It's likely that the rest of the globe was affected, but financial record keeping in these regions was sketchy to non-existent.)

How did that whole mess get started? Funny you should ask. I'll skip the finer details, but basically it boiled down to inflationary investing in Germany following the Franco-Prussian War while here in the United States, the cause stemmed from over-building by the railroad companies as well as rampant corporate and congressional fraud, best personified by the the Crédit Mobilier of America scandal in 1872 (congressmen were taking bribes from the Crédit Mobilier of America Construction company.)

Starting to sound familiar? Oh, but wait, it gets better!

Following sharp declines in the construction, railroad, and manufacturing industries, the situation started to unravel pretty quickly. In one year, foreign investors sold off tens of millions worth of American securities in anticipation of us dropping the gold standard. 11 major New York banks and over 100 state banks collapsed, defaulting on over 32 million dollars in debt. Unemployment soared to 7.5% nationally, and over 13% in the Northeast where the United States's industrial base was located. And even when the Long Depression was technically "over," conditions didn't exactly get better as the country still experienced economic uncertainty off and on again for a period totaling nine and a half years! Awesome!

BAAAAANK PANIC! (1893)

So, with this as the backdrop, Mrs. Bradley-Martin, as the story goes, got up one morning and commented over breakfast that, "Gee golly, things kinda seem a bit down out there. Maybe we should have a concert or something to raise a little money--ooo wait! Better idea--costume ball! That will get the economy going! Now, where's the butler with my eggs Benedict?"

I paraphrased that somewhat, but her line errant logic wasn't an exaggeration. Bradley-Martin, god's honest truth, reasoned that with all the costumes, decorations, food, etc. needed for her ball, paying for all that stuff should be enough to get people back to work and recharge the railroads, the steel factories, and the banks. Today, Mrs. Bradley-Martin would deemed the Patron Saint of Job Creators by FOX News with Ann Coulter kneeling to kiss her holiness's feet.

"You sure do gotta pretty set a tights!"

And how did the residents of New York, 25% of whom were unemployed, react to Saint Bradly-Martin's noble offer? A fairly angry crowd tried to burn down the Waldorf a few days prior to the event. I'm sure Bradley-Martin and other members of the "New York 400" were quite miffed on the night of the ball as they dodged the ungrateful crowd that the Assistant Police Commissioner Theodore Roosevelt (Bully!) and his lads were trying to keep under control outside of the hotel.

In spite of the rabble's ingratitude, poor Mrs. Bradley-Martin had done the best she could to get America back on its feet by spending $400,000 ($9.4 million today) of her own hard-earned cash, plus another $100,000 ($2.5 mill) on the diamonds wore with her blinged-out Martha Washington get up. Incidentally, these figures don't include what the guests spent on their costumes. New York Congressman Oliver Belmont, for example, showed up in a full suite of gold-inlaid armor that he could barley walk in worth over $250,000 in today's currency. Sweeeet!

John Jacob Astor as Henry IV

According to the news media of the day, the party was a smashing success, but then again, when has the popular "news" media ever really gotten it right? Smashing success though it might have been by socialite standards,the real world didn't see it as such. The backlash over the gawdy display was severe enough that the Bradley-Martins took off to their other home in England where they stayed for quite a long, long time. Oh, right, and the New York Tax Authority doubled the Bradley-Martin's (and a few other attendees) property tax almost immediately after the festivities. Huh, well, whaddaya know. It is said, that Mrs. Bradley-Martin was sincerely baffled by the negative reactions. Her little party, though, marked the end of The Gilded Age, a term coined by Mart Twain as a satirical reference to gilding an object with a thin layer of superficial gold. Spot on, Mr. Twain.

What does this have to do with today? My first thought would be a lot, considering that from 2007 to 2009 Wall Street profits were up 720% while unemployment also rose 102% and home equities dropped 35%, or that the median net worth of an American family is around $120,000 while the median net worth of a member of Congress in $912,000 (citation). So, then, should it be surprising that crowds of average citizens are coordinating to Occupy Wall Street and other cities? Frankly, I'm surprised it hasn't happened sooner.

People are angry and frustrated, and I'm one of them. We live in a period beset with greed, excess, and plain silliness enabled by an impotent government that's further convoluted by corporate self-interest. And it will stay that way if we let it. Am I advocating that we "burn down the Waldorf?" Well, not literally, but I have to admit, if the Kardashian throw another wedding, I swear, I might just walk into a SEARS and torch their entire gilded clothing line.

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Glee Sectionals: McKinley High vs. St. Mary's Preparatory School for Bad Life-Choices Involving Kevin Federline

2011-09-30T06:30:00.002-05:00

“So here’s what you missed on Glee: Quinn thinks about quitting Glee Club after winning McKinley High’s “Parent of the Year” award. Rachel sings every Barbara Streisand song from the movie Yentl protest of the President’s policy on Israel. Artie accidentally joins the notorious El Salvadorian gang, 18th Street. Finn applies for membership in Mensa in order to upstage Brittany after she eats a stray cat. Puck vows to end child hunger. Kurt wears a vest that makes the color yellow look fabulous. Mercedes and Tina are doing …something. And Mr. Schuester tries to control his pre-Sectional jitters by buying muscle relaxers from Sue Sylvester, but she replaces them with Canadian Viagra. And that’s what you missed on Glee.”

* * *

Opening scene: On the day prior to sectionals competition, Finn, Artie, Mike and Tina are waiting for their fellow Glee Club members in the rehearsal room before class starts.

Artie: Hey, Finn. How’d your entrance test for Mensa go?

Finn: Pretty good. I think I spelled my name wrong, but after that it was cake …and a lot of weird shapes lined up in patterns. Way easier than Brittany eating that cat though. (Finn notices Artie’s face) Dude, what’s up with that tattoo?

Artie: I guess it means I’m a full member of 18th Street now.

Finn: Wasn’t 18th Street that boy band you were gonna join? Dude, they must be hardcore.

Artie: Yeah. I thought it was a boy band when I saw the ad in the paper, but turns out it was a violent El Salvadorian street gang. I thought they were gonna kill me, but one of their guys told me they’ve been gettin’ alotta flak for not having enough handicap members. It’s not too bad though. They use me to run over their victims after shooting them in the leg.

Finn (looking at Mercedes and Tina sitting behind him): What are you two doing?

Mercedes and Tina (simultaneously): …something.

Quinn walks in and starts inspecting all the electrical outlets.

Finn: Why are you doing that, Quinn?

Quinn: I’m making sure the room is baby-proofed. If McKinley High thinks of me as “Parent of the Year” then I better live up to their expectations. And that means you gleeksters better be prepared for kids or I’m out of here.

Artie: Where’s you baby at, Quinn?

Quinn: Probably with Mr. Schuester’s nut-job of an ex-wife. Quinn looks around: Speaking of nut jobs, where’s your girlfriend at, Finn?

Artie: Can’t you hear her in the hallway? Rachel’s turned political extremist in protest of Obama’s policies towards Israel. She’s vowed to keep singing Barbara Streisand's entire Yentl soundtrack unless the U.S. vetoes the Palestinian application for statehood.

Finn: Yeah. She’s already on the third iteration of “Where Is It Written.” I love Rachel, but right now I want to strap dynamite to my chest and run strait at her. She sounds like a cross between Dina Shore and the Sham Wow guy.

Kurt walks into class sporting a fabulous yellow vest.

Quinn: I wouldn’t normally compliment you, but that’s a fabulous yellow sweater vest, Kurt.

Kurt: Isn’t it? Ellen DeGeneres has an ebay site. Love it.

Mr. Schuester shuffles into the classroom, but doesn’t quite seem himself.

Finn: Mr. Schuester, are you okay? You’re walkin’ kinda funny.

Mr. Schuester: I’m fine Finn, I just took some of Coach Sylvester’s pills to relax a bit. …wait where’s the rest of the class?

Artie: Santana got suspended for killing the lunch lady’s cat. Brittany’s having her stomach pumped at the hospital. And Rachel’s using her voice to negotiate peace in the Middle East.

Mr. Schuester: That’s Rachel? I thought that was Dina Shore and the Sham Wow guy’s making a love-child together. Where’s Mike and Puck at?

At that moment in the hallway just outside the classroom, a football player throws a red slushy in Mike’s face causing his head to explode.

Finn: Oh my GAWD! They killed Mikey! You bastards!

Mr. Schuester: What about Puck? How are we supposed to win at Sectionals tomorrow against St. Mary’s Preparatory School for Bad Life-Choices Involving Kevin Federline without Puck?

Puck (steps over Mike’s headless body and strolls into class): I told you last week Mr. Schu, I’m helping ConAgra and Feeding America to end child hunger.

Mr. Schuester: Yeah, Puck, I know you said that, but we thought that was your way of saying you were stealing other kids' lunch money. We didn't think you were serious.

Puck: Oh, I’m very serious, Mr. Schu. Did you know that 21 million children depend on free or reduced price school meals? And now poverty is more rampant in the suburbs than it is in the city or rural areas?

Finn: It’s true. That’s what happened to that blond kid with the octo-lips from last year.

Artie: Really? I thought the writers got rid of him.

Finn: Well, kinda. The writers did want to get rid of him so they just made him poor.

Puck: You see, Mr. Schu? Hungry kids are even here at McKinley too. But schools can help out by going to the Schools Fight Hunger website and signing up to have a UPC label or food drive using specific ConAgra products listed on their website.

Mr. Schuester: Wow, Puck. I’m impressed. With that kinda spirit, I know we can win tomorrow at Sectionals. Oh, and look, the school band has suddenly materialized from thin air, so that means we can practice now.

* * *

At Sectionals, the show choir from St. Mary’s Preparatory School for Bad Life-Choices Involving Kevin Federline performs first, and blows away the judges…

Then there's a dramatic silence and the McKinley High’s Glee Club takes the stage…

Mr. Schuester fidgets with his hair and keeps his legs crossed. Coach Sylvester glares at Will Schuester and his Glee Club as they get sing and dance their hearts out. At the end of the performance, the judges exchange glances and compare notes.

Then Puck steps out onto the front of the stage and takes the microphone. “Listen up everyone; don’t forget that Child Hunger Ends Here!”

The crowd goes wild. But who will the judges select to go on to Regionals? Find out in a few weeks...

Disclosure: As part of the Child Hunger Ends Here Campaign, ConAgra compensated me for this post, but it in no way affected my opinion on feeding hungry children or the cast of Glee.

Let's Play: Recess Is More Than Play

2011-09-29T11:23:00.000-05:00

I love my kids, but I’m glad they’re back in school. Sure, we had fun at the pool, the nearby museums, and at antique stores (they’ve got a thing for that show American Pickers), yet there were also many moments when they drove me insane. It didn’t help that the Texas sun blazed down at such unsafe levels, it forced everyone to remain mostly inside. Between my five kids, plus four more from the neighborhood, the collective pent-up energy resulting from being indoors manifested itself through activities such as what appeared to be some version of Hide-and-Seek infused with the rowdier elements of Australian-rules rugby. The ensuing destruction was predictable. And often annoying. Ask my wife how ecstatic she was discovering that the hiding place of choice for the little scrum munchkins was in our closet…under her wedding dress. Yeah, returning to the ol’ school routine has been... continue

Adventures In Going Gluten-Free

2011-09-24T08:00:00.001-05:00

I never suspected that 39 would be the age when I had to consider that I may actually be mortal.

Not that I'm a Greek god, but at six-foot one, 190 pounds (give or take), my body's always been naturally fit -- until recently anyway. Over the course of the past 10 months, I've experienced recurring back problems, suffered from chronic fatigue and been diagnosed with astigmatism. I feel this is fundamentally unfair, especially considering that at 39, Brad Pitt hadn't even married Jennifer Aniston, let alone thought about playing daddy to six children with Angelina Jolie. And yet, here he is nearly a decade -- a decade -- older than I am and still flaunting sit-up-free abs that could be mistaken for rumble strips, while mine are starting to resemble something closer to a single, large speed bump!

My most recent ailment has been the addition of an intolerance to gluten. This should've come as no surprise given that the hereditary nature of this autoimmune disease means a sizable portion of my mother's side of the family already deals with this minor inconvenience. Aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, young and old, are affected by the gluten gene or some form of it. And even though it's shown up at varied stages of our lives, like a coven of vampires who can trace their origins back to a single point of origin, we all agree that our vampire creator is Grandma. Of course, no one blames her -- these things can't be controlled -- and furthermore, after two colonoscopies, I can attest to the fact that Grandma... continue reading

You Just Got "Rich Rolled"

2011-09-21T06:40:00.000-05:00

You just got "Rich Rolled" ...Richard Marx that is.

World’s Top Dad Blogger "Dead" at Age 31

2011-09-20T06:00:00.009-05:00

-by Jerry Thompson

News of Kane's Death spread quickly via social networks

HOPE, Florida—The country’s leading dad blogger, Charles F. Kane, creator of the site, Citizen Dad, died yesterday at his trailer home twenty-five northwest of Miami, Florida. The official cause of death is unknown pending autopsy results. Those close to Kane, including his second wife Susan Alexander Kane, claim his sudden passing may have been due to extreme exhaustion.

In a statement to authorities, Mrs. Kane said she found her husband’s body slumped over his desk in the living room of the double-wide Kane often referred to in his writing as Xanadu and may have been abusing 5-Hour Energy drinks.

Raising Kane

Kane, a green sheets media mogul

Kane, the newspaper mogul whose area green sheets dominated the Florida county region where he lived, started the site, Citizen Dad in 2008 to share his experiences as a father, and thus joined a growing number of men on the Internet following in the path laid by the already popular mommy blogger demographic. Citizen Dad and other blogging fathers began gaining notoriety in early 2010 after industry experts dubbed it “Year of the Daddy Blogger.”

Stories by Kane of his exploits centered around his two children, Charles Jr. and Samantha, resonated with readers as did his thick luscious head of hair, propelling him to the upper ranks of the dad blogging community. As a result, Kane soon became a regular speaker at parent blogging conferences around the country where he talked on a variety of related issues.

Speaking at another conference

Kane’s writing popularity continued to take hold as he accepted invitations to be a featured contributor at a number of nationally known parenting sites that included among others. E!’s Family Hype, BoysToMen (BoTM), GoodPops, and drivel.com. Success continued to come Kane’s way in the form of corporate sponsors looking to partner with the Citizen Dad creator. Yet, despite such notoriety, Kane remained unaffected.

“I think this is a great opportunity to present ourselves as the real picture of fatherhood,” Kane said in an interview with Obscure Parent Magazine. “The key to this is good content—not seeing how many product pitches you can get,” he added in a subtle reference to recently being named brand ambassador for AquaNet hair products.

“The guy just seemed to be everywhere back then,” said one time friend, Dell Harper after learning of Kane’s death. Harper, who also blogs at Hairy Father & the Prisoner of Diaper Rash, went on by saying, “It really is sad. I thought the guy was one of those bloggers who didn’t have to chase the ‘golden carrot’ anymore like the rest of us do.” Harper then inquired as to whether there was an opening for the AquaNet brand ambassadorship and how he could get hooked up with Kane’s many PR contacts.

Rank Sentiment Among the Ranks

Kane on top of his game

By all appearances Kane looked as if he had attained “golden carrot” status, achieving unprecedented success that garnered him spots on every known top daddy blogger list published since 2010, but such successes didn’t come without controversy.

“Those lists are such crap,” argued fellow dad blogger, Luke Mattel of Cool Hand Puke. “They’re so arbitrary—there’s no solid stats backing anything up, and the rest of these so called rankings are based on getting people to vote for you. It’s nothing but link bait.” These assertions dulled the luster of such accolades. Still, many long-term dad bloggers agreed, including Kane, who referred to it as “measuring dicks.”

The subjective issue behind rankings changed, however, in the spring of 2011 when Forbes Canada released its list of "Top 25 Daddy Bloggers" based on blogging income, on which Kane took the top spot with annual earnings of an unheard of $773.11. The honor lead many to refer to Kane as “the number one daddy blogger in the world.” Others though, particularly fellow dads, were less than congratulatory. One person wrote in the comments section of the Forbes article that, “all this did was just make Citizen Dad a bigger dick.”

Kane hams it up with the moms at VictoryVag '11

But if dads thought Kane a dick, an even larger contingent of mommy bloggers viewed him as something less. “The only thing Kane should be ranked as is a first-rate asshole,” said Kristy Samsung, who many consider to be the mother of all mommy bloggers. Samsung’s stream-of-conscious rants on her site, Broke-Back Mommy have earned her international attention while serving as her measuring stick of entitlement along the way. “Did the Pope hand-pick him to be thee brand ambassador for the Catholic Church? Is the Dahli Lama paying for ad space on his site? Did Jesus ask Kane to guest post for Him like He did me? Hell no!”

Kim Pepperidge of Parent Normal Activity echoed a similar negative sentiment. “I met him once at VictoryVag ’11. I could tell he was a douche just by the hair—Carrot Top and Donald Trump’s love child would’ve had a better coiff than Kane’s douche-do.” Pepperidge rolled her eyes, “Couple months later he DM’d me on Twitter wanting some advice. I totally forgot I’d only ‘mercy-followed’ him because he reminded me of a sad, 40 year-old virgin. UN-follow!”

Not every dad was pleased

Despite these examples of underlying animosity within the community, VictoryVag ’11 marked the pinnacle of Kane’s blogging career. In the months that followed, however, rumors surfaced of Citizen Dad’s waning popularity.

“Yeah, early on, he was really driving traffic our way,” stated BoTM content editor Kent Razor. “Great writer, but around here to keep afloat we need sponsors and advertising, and to get that we need page-views. Kane just wasn’t bringing it anymore.”

Privately, Kane confided that he felt editors seemed lukewarm towards him. “I told him that I thought he was getting stretched too thin,” said Kane’s friend TJ Dearbourne. “I suggested maybe it was time to step back, or even focus on something else completely.” Stepping back is something Dearbourne understands. As a former dad blogger, Dearbourne walked away from his own site, I Skull-F#@ked Mary Poppins, to focus on a novel that won him a Pulitzer-Prize and has since been adapted for film. Dearbourne finished by mentioning, “[Kane] agreed with what I had to say, but he couldn’t let [blogging] go. I think his ego was just wouldn’t let him.”

Kane’s Comment Controversy

Indeed Kane did continue to blog, but signs of his cynicism started to show through in an interview with TheyPost.com. “I think that the dad blog community has grown to a point where a stratification is starting to take place.” Kane elaborated by breaking it down into two broad categories. “There’s traffic bloggers, and content bloggers. Traffic bloggers are popular with big sites like drivel because they can capitalize on the blogger’s huge following. Content bloggers, on the other hand are the ones brands are gravitating to because, even though that blogger may not have a big audience, it’s a loyal audience that the blogger has influence with.” Kane admitted that this was a generalization to a certain degree but added that, “There’s a lot of glory in being a traffic blogger because of the wide exposure, but aside from a few rare exceptions, traffic bloggers overall aren’t compensated as well as content bloggers because these big name sites have much tighter budgets than do large corporations.”

Kane signs a deal to save puppies

It was Kane’s final remark in the interview, though, that sparked a minor controversy when he said, “The thing about traffic bloggers is that you can be a shit writer, and everybody knows it, but if you can keep bringing in tons of readers, you’ll always have a gig …well, unless they find out you’re a pedophile driving around in an ice cream truck, and even then I’m not so sure. My point is, you just can’t quantify the quality of writing with numbers.”

Despite a firestorm of comments in response to his claim, Kane remained unapologetic, and a week later Kane was invited to partner with Pfizer, LostDogs.org, and Alec Baldwin to promote Project Save the Puppies. Kane told friends and family he was really proud to be a part of this project even though his readership seemed to be in decline. “He liked the idea of a blog being able to bringing about social good,” Mrs. Kane said of her husband’s involvement. “Plus, he’s a big Alec Baldwin fan.”

When asked to comment on Kane’s death, Baldwin had this to say of his fellow humanitarian, “Kane? —with a C or a K?” After being prompted for several minutes, Baldwin expressed his praise for Kane. “Ah, Kane, right, the puppy thing. A doofus—marvelous hair though.”

Life Behind the Blog

Kane, Charles Jr, & Susan Kane-happier times

As a content blogger, Kane continued to appear successful, but the pressure to maintain Citizen Dad’s relevance within the parenting niche started to take its toll both on Kane and his home life. “At first it was all really exciting for us,” Mrs. Kane revealed in a phone interview following the announcement of her husband’s death. “After a while, though, there didn’t seem to be any joy in it for him anymore. I told him I’d support him if this was the kind of writing he wanted to keep doing, but I thought he could do better elsewhere.”

Troubles in Xanadu?

When asked about her husband’s financial success, Mrs. Kane agreed that, “Sure, there’s money in it, but we’re talking blogging money here which doesn’t exactly pay the bills.” Kane’s wife then used a recent example to illustrate her point. “Remember that free beagle we got as part of the Project Puppy deal—yeah, it died. We couldn’t afford to feed it. And to top it off, Charles wrote a post about the pathetic funereal the kids did for it in the back yard. Next day, all he could talk about at dinner was how many page views it had gotten him!”

Mrs. Kane also shared how Kane’s blogging affected the family in other ways too. “Charlie and Sam, started walking on egg shells around Charles to avoid his moodiness. I even heard Sam tell her brother that they shouldn’t go into the living room when Charles was writing because it would. ‘just make daddy mad.’ And then there was ‘the scorecard,’” Mrs. Kane said in disgust. “I found it in the back of his desk. Apparently Charles had been keeping score of how many page views each of the kids would get when he wrote about them. That was when I told him he was done, and now, I guess he really is.” Mrs. Kane and her children are left with only a closet full of unfinished novels, and a lifetime supply of AquaNet hair products.

Kane looking tired in his last interview

Kane never mentioned “the scorecard” or his wife’s reaction in his final interview published last week on the site, Social Media Nobody. His commentary, though, hinted that the end was near. “People forget that parent blogging exists within a bubble. Others inside the bubble might think you’re no longer chasing the ‘golden carrot’ because you’re making a little money, or getting ranked on a bunch of lists, or writing for tons of sites, but the thing is, all that so-called success is only relative to inside the bubble. There’s a few exceptions, but outside of this little blogging bubble, no one’s really the big deal they think they are.” But Kane was quick to add, “That’s not meant to discredit those bloggers who have attained success—I’ll be the first to say that 99% of them have truthfully earned it. What I’m talking about is busting your hump to get to this place, and realizing it doesn’t mean a thing. And worse, you can totally lose sight of why you were even blogging to begin with.”

Kane concluded the interview with an analogy, “The parent blogging niche is a lot like being a contestant on that show, The Biggest Loser. Shedding weight equates to writing posts, and both have an entertainment element. Both also have a competitive factor, except one’s measured in pounds, the other in page views. And both exist within a self-contained environment, where your fellow losers are cheering for your latest weight-loss/praising your last blog post. The true measure of success, though, is what these people do after the season’s over. They were awesome when surrounded by others who were all doing the same thing, but without that, they’re back to shoving Twinkies down their gullet. So by comparison, were they really successful? Nope. So what good was all that effort for?”

Cryptic Last Word

Apparently, the weight of being meaningless outside parent blogging fat camp was more than Kane could bear, and eventually it killed him as he composed his next week’s post. What’s interesting to note is that, according to police reports, during Kane’s passing he had been holding the framed picture of his children displayed on his desk. Authorities found the cracked frame on the floor near Kane’s body. Still unexplained, however, is the lone cryptic word Kane had typed on his computer screen, Rosebud.

Kane and his famous hair will be laid to rest sometime next week. The event will be live-Tweeted using the hash tag #DeadDaddyKane. He was 31.

* * *

DISCLAIMER: All characters, details, and events in this post--even those based on real people--are entirely fictional. All celebrities, and celebrity bloggers are impersonated ...poorly. Despite the appearance of autobiographical elements, it is in no way intended to be such. It is rather a collections of thoughts, discussions, and opinions from a variety other bloggers and sources to include those voices heard by the author in his Rice Krispies.

9/10/01

2011-09-11T11:04:00.000-05:00

I did not write this post; my wife Ashley did at the five year anniversary for 9/11. That would've been a year before we had met. When we finally did in 2007, Ashley gave the URL to her blog, and I spent an entire weekend pouring over her every entry, which is when I came across this post. Up until that point, we had only talked on the phone (I was still in the process of moving from Arkansas back to Houston), but after reading this (and many other posts), I knew she was someone beautiful and special.

I have never written a post dealing with the cataclysmic events of that September morning. That's because I have nothing to say. For as horrible as this moment in our history was, my life remained essentially unchanged, and thus, pretending as if it did simply for the sake of publishing something on a blog (which I think too many people are doing right now) would feel contrived and self-serving. There are many, many others out there with real stories, and unique perspectives on how this tragedy affected them in meaningful ways. Such was the case with my wife, still in disbelief over her discovery from the previous day.

* * *

Everyone else's world changed the day after, but mine changed forever that Monday. I was working at Dynegy on the 13th floor. During my lunch break, I went to a drugstore in the tunnels running beneath downtown Houston. I made my purchase, took my loot to the bathroom, then spent the rest of the day stopping to look at the results every 5 minutes. That wasn't a line; that was the hallucination of a line. That was masochistic little me imagining a line. It was an artifact on my retina, a ghost of the other line, a mix up, a malfunction. It was not a line.

I stopped on the way home for another test. I went to my mom's house and ran upstairs to the bathroom. I repeated the test. Yeah, that was a line. I placed the test on the sink, pulled my hair back from my face with two shaky hands, and looked at myself in the mirror. I wasn't Ashley anymore, I was a mom. I went downstairs, sat on my mom's lap and cried.

The next day, I returned to work as usual. A little more distracted, a little more confused, but otherwise treating it like any other day. I still had a diet Coke for breakfast. I still checked my email immediately when I got to work. I still doodled during our morning meeting knowing that the swirls and loops were better recorders of my thoughts than words at that point. Someone interrupted the meeting to inform us that terrorists had blown up the White House. Clearly incorrect, but it motivated everyone out of the meeting. I called Mom, who was watching everything happen in New York City as it unfolded live on her TV screen.

Within about 10 minutes, all of downtown was being evacuated. I refused to take the elevator down, opting for the 13 flights of stairs instead. By the time my shaky legs had carried me outside, the panic was palpable. Everyone was talking, but no one had the same story. I didn't know where to go, I was still panicked about being pregnant, much less everything else. I stood at my usual bus stop, but the driver said they were still only doing inbound routes. Metro hadn't been notified of the impending exodus, so I was stuck. All I could see above me giant targets; headquarters for every major oil company towered hundreds of feet in the air. The rumors swirling about talked of a major US metropolis hit every hour. And there I stood, responsible for more than just myself for a change.

I bummed a cigarette from a girl walking by. We had been in the same new hire orientation a month previous and never saw each other again -- but at this moment we became best friends. She told me about her friend she had just visited in Manhattan who worked in one of the towers. She couldn't reach her friend. I took a couple of drags of the cigarette, confessed I was pregnant for the first time aloud, and then threw the butt into a nearby gutter. A lawyer who recognized us from the building offered us a ride back to the bus station if we didn't mind cramming in the backseat with two other people. We didn't mind and were soon observing the plane-free, blue skies while traveling 105 miles an hour in a Mercedes sedan.

Surreal doesn't quite capture it. I found my car at the bus station and kept the same pace all the way to Mom's. We prayed aloud for all the souls lost. I prayed silently for the soul newly formed within me. I rented movies so that I wouldn't watch the news. I tried to reach Chris to tell him I loved him. I thought the words would come more freely from him in light of the circumstances. They didn't.

My emotions felt like an impossible to do list: happy, sad, shocked, elated, worried, grateful, guilty, hopeful, doubtful, brave. So I did what I always do. I crossed them all off as complete, went with that last one as the most useful, and kept going. If all those people could overcome, then I could too. I didn't lose anyone that month, instead I gained someone. And that was all I needed to remember in order to keep my perspective.

Ice Box Art: The Ratio of Hotness to Craziness and The Life-Cycle of Dating

2011-09-08T10:30:00.002-05:00

What Kid Artwork Hangs from Clark Kent's Icebox?

So my wife walks into the office the other day and holds up these two sheets of paper. I squint a bit, and lean forward in my chair. What the... All I can make out is the color of the markers that were used, but even so, I knew these had to be something from the mind of Allie. Her sister Avery is the artistic one who draws various family members, over-zealous flowers, and HAZMAT kits; Allie's more prone to graphs and charts which is exactly what her mother was smirking about at the moment.

"Oh no. What'd she come up with this time?" I asked.

That was the cue for my wife to burst out laughing. "Well," she finally said, lifting one sheet higher than the other, "This one's supposed to be a graph that shows the ratio of Crazy to Hotness in women."

I closed my eyes, unsure if I wanted to know the explanation behind this one. My curiosity as per usual in such situation got the best of me. "And this came from ...?" I trailed off mid question for my wife to fill in the details.

"How I Met Your Mother," my wife said. Apparently, while my wife was watching an episode of the TV show, How I Met Your Mother, Allie had curled up next to her and was following along. I'm not going to go into a long, drawn-out run down on the show, but one of the characters, Barney (Neil Patrick Harris), plays a lovable, but cocky metro, womanizer who often shares his whacked-out theories on the fairer sex--in this particular case,the correlation between a woman's physical attractiveness and their mental stability during a relationship. Or to put it in simpler terms, the hotter a woman is, the more crazy she is too. (I know people, but it's only a TV show.)

The Ratio of Crazy to Hotness - Thanks, Barney

Hearing this, Allie was able to visualize the concept and commenced to putting this theory down on paper (hence the "How I Met Your Mother" heading). As a testament to her blossoming intellect, Allie also included a couple circles (1 & 2) to indicate examples. Who she had in mind for these two points was never mentioned, but if you asked me #1 would be the lady who does Houston's weather on morning TV, and #2 would be--oh boy, so many to pick from--I'm gonna say Megan Fox.

But the theoretical graphics didn't stop here as Allie went on to outline Relationships via The Life-Cycle of Dating--a concept completely of her own mental processing faculties. For both my wife and me, the sequence was a little muddled (even Allie got a little confused when asked later), but we made our best guess at it.

Relationships: The Life-Cycle of Dating

The first thing to point out is that the whole concept of dating basically centers around Marriage and begins with (1) a Cute Guy. (It's been two days and I'm still rolling my eyes over item number one.) From Cute Guy the next milestone is to (2) Date--not bad, except it moves disturbingly quick to (3) Marriage. By the same token, I am quite happy to see there are no direct lines from Dating to 4 (Kiss), 5 (Make Out), or 6 (Kids). I plan to vigorously reinforce these connections with the girls until they can no longer be claimed as dependents on a tax form.

It's sad, though, that Allie has (7) Divorce listed as part of the cycle, but that is a reality in our family, and not something we shy away from when talking with the kids. There's a lot of discussion around here about the consequences for decisions we make in life, to include relationships which is where number 8, Effects comes from, which means, despite everything, at least the message is getting through to her.

What still puzzles me, though, is the connection between Cute Guy and Divorce. I have a few theories of my own which I plan to test out on the her future dates who I am less than thrilled about.

LA Beneficial

2011-08-31T06:30:00.004-05:00

LA. They call it the “City of Angels.” I was there to find out if there were any. A troublemaking newshawk hunting and pecking his way along the dad blog beat. A newshawk in need of a story. Stories are funny. Stories can come out of nowhere and pop you in the kisser just as you’re looking the other way. Yeah, stories are funny like that. I should know. Happens to me all the time, the last time being a few weeks back.

It was another hot Houston night. Hot enough you don’t even fight it anymore. Even the Shirley Temple sitting on my desk was sweating. I had downed who knows how many of them, each sip breaking the irregular rhythm of my hesitant fingers as they fumbled all over the keys of a second-hand Royal mill that I won from this rube in a game of Go Fish.

Clack. Clack. Clikety, clack, clack. DING! Ziiip. A cold swig of grenadine. Clickety, clack, clack …clack. Clack. DING! Ziiiiip. I lifted the glass to my mouth and POW! The phone’s ringer hits me like chin music right on the mug. I jerk back. My drink spills.

On the other end of the receiver a voice tells me there’s a story in LA. I wonder if the wetness I feel through my shirt is from sweat or the contents of my drink. Tell them I'm in. Yeah, stories are funny like that. They make laugh.

I’m laughing again in the cab when the driver tells me how cool the LA summer has been. Cool until today that is.

“This whole weekend’s gonna be up ‘round a hundred degrees,” he says, grinning into the mirror. “Must’ve brought it with you from Houston, mister.”

Maybe I did, pal. I pull a handkerchief from my pocket and wipe sweat from my forehead. The windows in the’48 Packard are rolled down, but hitting every traffic light on Hollywood Boulevard doesn’t make for much of a breeze. Now I know why cabs are called boilers. At least it has a radio.

Chet Baker’s singing about finding the silver lining. Guy’s got some pipes. Other than the heat and my throat screaming for a Shirley Temple, there are plenty of silver linings—I’ve got a story, a place to stay, and a ride to get there all thanks to some very serious people—ConAgra, Feeding America, and Schools Fight Hunger. Serious people dedicated to a serious cause—Child Hunger Ends Here.

I knew the country was in a bad way these days. I didn’t know how bad.

Almost one in four children not getting enough food to be healthy and active
A 50% increase in kids relying on food banks for services since 2006
17 million hungry kids, roughly the combined total populations of The Big Apple, Tinsel Town, The Windy City, and my current home, Houston!

Later I’d learn that in Harris County, where Houston is located, 27.2% of the children have no idea where their next meal is coming from! I'm floored by this.

In this economy, you don’t know who’s affected. The newest face of hungry kids comes from those living in two-income homes. All those kids out there that seem fine, they might not be. They might be going without meals, and not because of poverty or out-of-work parents either.

Makes your guts churn, and mine were. Soon the cabbie pulled up to the Roosevelt Hotel. The guy seemed like a good egg so I slapped a fin into his mitt before walking inside.

The Roosevelt Hotel. Now there’s some history for you. Built in ’27. Named after that Rough Riddin’ son of a gun, president, Teddy. Home of the first Oscar’s Night. I took off my lid and whistled after giving the joint a good up and down. Definitely not your average flop house.

“Old Hollywood.” That’s what a playwright friend of mine called the place when we met in the Spanish-styled lobby the next morning on our way grabbing a stack of wheats. I’ll say. Charlie Chaplin, Douglas Fairbanks, Clark Gable—all regular guests. Errol Flynn used to mix hootch in a back room here during Prohibition.

What a time. Nowadays all you hear about is these young guys and gals—guys and gals I’d be doing some work with. That would be later. Right now I had people to meet and places to be.

Upstairs, I walked into a room full of heavy-hitting bloggers—Caryn Bailey (Rockin Mama), Mary Fischer (The Mommyologist), Peira Jolly (Jolly Mom), Linsey Knerl (Lille Punkin), Jennifer Leet (The Dirty T Shirt), Danielle Smith (Extraordinary Mommy), Molly Snyder (The Snyder 5), Laura Thornquist (The DFW Mommy), and fellow dad, Lamar Tyler (Black and Married with Kids). I felt a bit behind the eight-ball running with this crew. No time to think about that. We had business across town, specifically getting the slant on the LA Regional Food Bank.

The Food Bank is a big place. Has to be if it’s gonna support a network of over 600 charitable agencies with more than 1,000 sites and service programs. 1.2 million—that’s the number of meals the place provides each week! But we’re not there just for a sweet little tour. We’re there to work too.

Work turned out to be sorting through four pallets of tomatoes to find ones that would go into smaller crates for distribution around town.

“Pick out the ones you’d feed to your family,” the warehouse boss said. “Toss the rest into those trash cans.”

Five minutes later he said we were being too picky. The criteria changed to, “Pick out the ones you’d feed to your family if were in need of food.” Sobering. Everyone got busy and didn’t stop until every last tomato made it into a crate. We walked out of there smelling like a Heinz factory, but we did so with big old happy grins on our mugs. Not that it was a lot of work by comparison, but in my mind, a few Shirley Temples were in order.

The next day was supposed to be the main event—packing bags of food alongside some Hollywood celebs. Like I said, today’s stars, are all kids to this middle-aged goof with an alderman hanging over his belt. I ain’t wise to none of ‘em, but this one guy, Mark Salling, is said to be a darb crooner and actor—sorta like James Cagney in Yankee Doodle Dandy, but with less “dandy” and more mohawk.

Salling mugged for some photos and then spent a few minutes chinning to the crowd about the ways parents and schools can get involved with ending child hunger. How?

Host or participate in a food drive to collect up pantry items for your local food bank to help ConAgra reach its goal of collecting 2 million pounds of food for Child Hunger Ends Here
Collect UPC codes from specified ConAgra Food brands and turn them in because each code represents a meal that ConAgra will donate to Feeding America

Oh, and for those registered schools, they’re eligible for several prizes to include ten grand for a field trip—nothing hinky about it either.

Yeah, the whole event was quite the shin dig. Put stars like Salling, Samantha Harris, Dr. Jim Sears, Kristen Aldridge, Jillian Rose Reed, Kate Mansi, Grace Phipps, and others out on a busiest street in town to promote a good cause like Child Hunger Ends Here, and you’re gonna draw a crowd even when the sun’s putting the screw to you. Sure, it may have been hot as Hades outside, but this bunch along with ConAgra, Feeding America, and Schools Fight Hunger proved that LA does have angels in it, angels concerned about that which is beneficial to others.

But angels are needed everywhere there’s a hungry child. Are you one of those angels? You can be. Find out how easy it is.

* * *

To comply with the regs laid down by the Feds, I'm required to inform you that ConAgra compensated me for this campaign, to include travel, lodging, and meals. The Shirley Temples were on my own dime.

Girlz Rulz: Wisdom to Live By

2011-08-26T06:30:00.001-05:00

During the times when my sons are with me here in Texas there is a reoccurring cycle of adjustment that takes place between them and my stepdaughters. It starts off with a getting reacquainted sort of honeymoon period. This lasts until anywhere from halfway during our car ride home after picking the boys up to maybe the first couple days after getting back into town. From this point it's a good week of on-again, off-again spats and truces that finally deteriorates into a situation, the dynamics of which resemble that of the Israelis and the Palestinians in the Gaza Strip.

"She was in our room!"

"He took my pillow pet!"

And so forth, and so forth. Next thing you know it's rocket attacks and the sounds of jets overhead (proverbially, of course). This summer, the girls decided they were going to take a hard-line stance and lay down some clear boundaries should anyone dare cross the boarder into their room.

As you will see, they were difficult to ignore, for a few reasons.

1. Girls can see girls (Re: when getting dressed or in the bathroom)
2. Only girls can tell secrets
3. No bossing people around
4. No jumping on bed
5. You must have a pass to get in
6. Have fun

To the girls' dismay, however, these rules proved inadequate in specifically addressing a few averse circumstances, and thus were soon revised...

1. No shirtless boys
2. No disgusting things
3. Shoes off
4. If a boy wants to come in he must pay $1
5. Knock
6. If you make a mess, clean it up
7. No messing with the frog or crickets
8. [Listen] if a girl tells you to
9. No excuses
10. No ruining collections (In reference to the girls' Littlest Pet Shop dioramas)

And then a VIP list was created, granting access to a select few girls from the neighborhood, and Sawyer, the lone boy among the elite. Unlike the previous edicts, this one came with clear consequences...

Warning / Caution: If you are a boy then screw it! If a boy comes in, girls will dress you up like a princess with makeup and perfume

Yes, "screw it" indeed. (Kiss your mother with that mouth?) By this you can tell the girls had difficulty enforcing their self-imposed guidelines. Eventually, though, it didn't matter much as the step-siblings entered the final cycle of adjustment--a three or four day period when they all get along and lament that their summer together is over.

As for the "Girlz Rulz," with the balanced mix of wisdom for living, respect for others, and healthy feminist, anti-shirtless boy undertones, I think we'll keep those around until--oh, I don't know--after they move out.

Beautiful, Popular, Controversial, Helpful, Surprising, Overlooked, Proud, and Outstanding

2011-08-24T06:30:00.005-05:00

That's a whole boat-load of adjectives none of which apply to the IRS or the majority of checkout clerks I come into contact with at my local Walmart. (Have you seen the actors in that Walmart commercial about the price-match guarantee? A little more apathy, and a little less concern for their fellow man and they would've nailed it.) I digress.

No, the adjectives in the title refer to blog posts--specifically mine. Admittedly, I feel a bit sheepish about characterizing anything of my own with such esteem, but there is a reason: I was forced. Okay, not so much forced as asked to by one Wolf Pascoe (@JustAddFather) of Just Add Father (which you should be reading if you're not already).

Technically, Wolf's request to participate in the Seven Links Project is a meme (Remember when memes were fun? No? Oh, um ...never mind) that involves listing old blog posts that fall under several categories--beautiful, popular, controversial, helpful, surprising, overlooked, and proud. I realize the meme are much like the near-extinct Sumatran Tiger, but this one's worth doing for several reasons:

1) It's hard to say no to friends, 2) you get to showcase some older posts to new readers, 3) it gives you a chance to promote some talented bloggers, and 4) it's an easy cheat in coming up with a blog post. Well, I guess I'd better get on with it then.(Oh, and for most of these I asked for outside input so as to feel less narcissistic.)

*Most Beautiful: "About A Boy"

There’s a boy at the bus stop. Cute kid, deep dark eyes, bright charismatic grin—probably in first grade. He’s also a holy terror. He rips things out of other kids’ hands. He tears around the entry drive, darting in front of moving cars without regard...

Most Popular: "Why I 'Hate' Mommy Bloggers"

So I'm waiting to get a haircut and flipping through a parenting magazine when, there it was: another ode to the mommy bloggers article. Well, isn’t that just special. This is the same thought I had last month perusing Babble's list of the Top 50 Mommy Bloggers, and it’s the same thought I always have when somebody writes another oo-la-la feature about the power of moms with Internet access. Listen up sisters. I am dad (with DSL). Hear me roar.

Most Controversial (Read the comments): "When Men Are Victims of Abuse"

I remember exactly what went through my mind at the suggestion that I had been emotionally abused by my now ex-wife. Horseshit. The very idea sounded ludicrous. I had been an all-state athlete, an Infantry Captain, and an accomplished corporate executive—positions that required strength and mental toughness. The only halfway legitimate version of an abusive wife I could conceive was that of a 400-pound woman squashing her rail-thin, hen-pecked husband because he forgot to bring home the extra side of gravy she wanted from KFC—fodder for Jerry Springer, Tyra, and all those talk shows that specialize in bringing off-the-chart social dysfunction to the masses.

Most Helpful: "Cards for Corn Syrup"

This week a sweet debate erupted within the mommy blogger/moms who blog community over a coordinated blogging tour meant to aid in dispelling the misconceptions associated with consuming high fructose corn syrup, or HFCS. The tour was part of an extensive “Sweet Surprise” campaign initiated by the Corn Refiners Association (CRA), a Washington DC-based lobbyist group dedicated to the fair and ethical treatment of …corn. (Okay, refined corn if you want to get technical.)

*Most Surprised by its Success: "Dear Soccer Mom"

Dear Soccer Mom,

I just wanted to take an opportunity to tell you thanks for having my stepdaughter over for a play date with your daughter. From what I heard afterward, it sounds like they had a wonderful time. My stepdaughter couldn’t wait till school started again so they could see each other every day.

Most Overlooked: (i.e. Didn't get the attention it deserved) "Angels & Demons Part 1: Sparky"

(This is an audio post)
For as long as I have known my wife, Ashley, she’s mentioned numerous times her desire to show Allie, Avery, and me the small Oklahoma town, of Tahlequah where she had been born. It’s not hard to understand why should would want to make such a trip. At eight, Ashley left Tahlequah with her mother and sister, thus marking the beginning of a childhood spent constantly moving from place to place. I once asked my wife how many addresses she had as a kid, and for the life of her, she couldn’t come up with an exact number. So, for someone who grew up under such transient conditions, even by Gypsy standards, the rarity of consecutive years lived in Tahlequah represented the closest thing, Ashley could point to as a hometown, a relatively tiny blip on the map, but one that resided in a prominent place among her memories.

Most Proud Of: "What's In a Name"

One question I am often asked is how I came up with the name Clark Kent's Lunchbox for a dad blog to which my immediate response is a quip about it being something of an accident. The real answer, however, is a bit longer. When I started this blog back in 2007, I did so with the intention of improving my writing; I had no idea there was such a thing as daddy blog (or even a mommy blog for that matter). But that didn’t mean fatherhood wasn’t...

* * * * *

That's my list, subjective as it may be. Now, you may have noticed that there is one more adjective from this post's title--Outstanding--that haven't been used yet. True. As with all memes, the idea is to "tag" several other bloggers to follow the above stated guidelines to carry on the chain. I am going to list some OUTSTANDING bloggers that you may not be already reading; however, there is no requirement for them to participate in the Seven Links Project. The talented Mr. Pascoe I've already mentioned, but since he was the instigator, I can only recommend him once again. The others are, in no particular order:

The Exceptional Man by Caleb Gardner

The Daddy Files - Aaron Gouveia

Always Jacked - Alan Kercinik

Story Wise Guy - Chris Buckley

Dork Daddy - the Dork Dad

How To Be A Dad - Charlie Capen & Andy Herald

Enjoy.

*originally posted on personal blog and published on another site later

Comments on my drivel always welcome. Thanks.

Work and Play: How I Trick My Kids

2011-08-18T06:30:00.002-05:00

Note the absence of grass in TX

Summer’s that time of year when everyone gets all gung-ho about mowing, hedging, mulching, fertilizing, watering and so forth. Well, maybe not everyone. I, for one, loathe yard work—thus debunking the existence of that green-thumb utopia that national home improvement chains portray in TV ads, where happy couples exchange blissful, satisfied smiles after spending the day creating the Hanging Gardens of Babylon in their front yard. Pffft! Whatever.

Granted, I realize that for some people, this is “their thing.” My father, for example, derives an exorbitant amount of joy—sometimes, in my opinion, bordering on psychotic—when it comes to landscaping/gardening related endeavors, which may also be at the root of my personal disdain for such home improvement projects in general.

Many times, I thought my dad to be insane. Some people hoard junk; he amasses small parcels of land for more shrubs and sod. At last count we estimated that, combined, the yard and vegetable garden amounted to nearly three acres of land, the entirety of which my sisters and I were well acquainted with after years of tending to it. Summers in particular were the worst, not because of the heat, but rather from the list of daily tasks our father would leave for us on a folded note that greeted us at the breakfast table.

Read more...

'Tis the OTHER Season (Back to School)

2011-08-15T10:22:00.000-05:00

August is upon us and with it comes the beginning of another school year. Hard to believe summer went by so fast—that’s what we say when making small talk with the other parents waiting in line to purchase washable markers, safety scissors, and non-toxic, eco-friendly (edible) glue required for the first day of classes. It’s beyond my comprehension, but apparently there are people who actually like back-to-school shopping, a baffling fact learned via an episode of that show Discovery Channel airs featuring people afflicted with bizarre compulsions like eating glass or hording animals. Eh. To each their own.

Read More...

A 5 Dollar Hit to Take Out Jiminy Cricket

2011-08-11T10:38:00.002-05:00

Late last spring, Allie and Avery caught a toad, something I had no knowledge of until getting a text from my wife, Ashley. "Can you take a pic of the girls' toad & send to me?" The randomness of such a request, naturally warranted further clarification, which came via a series of concise directions that sounded like those a kidnapper would give someone for bringing ransom money to a drop site.

"Go out the back door through the laundry room. Look left. On the ground you'll see a large plastic container. Inside will be some grass. Push it out of the way, and you'll see the toad. Take a pic and send to me." And indeed there was--a brown, bumpy toad the size of a hacky-sack. I use hacky-sack here because when I was eight I had a friend who liked to pick up toads and kick them as hard he could--not exactly my sport of choice, but the image of amphibians being used as a form of athletic equipment resurfaces anytime I see a toad.

My phone lights up again. "It's a Great Plains Toad!"

The "Great Plains" part indicated to me that the thing is roughly a thousand miles south of where he should be; beyond this, knowing its exact nomenclature means nothing to me. I hope she doesn't think we're this thing. The thought prompted me to inquire as to the nature of her new found interest in herpetology. (That term alone should tell you everything you need to know about amphibians.)

"I need to know what it eats," she replied. Two days later and forty dollars poorer, I now have a Great Plains Toad living rent-free in a brand new, fully furnished aquarium that the girls have placed on their dresser.

What's important to know here is that I abhor having animals in my house. The place is filthy enough as it is without having dog hair coating the furniture or the smell of piss-filled kitty litter wafting through the air.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not judging anyone who does allow their pets inside, but being reasonably sane in most areas of my life, I feel entitled to retain some small measure of neurosis, which in this case, includes amphibians, rodents, and primates (non-human). Even fish don't thrill me.

Still, our family isn't ruled by a dictatorship; it's closer to a symbolic monarchy. I'm the King of the Castle and my wife is Prime Minister--like England. She lets me believe that my decrees are law and then she comes home with two Beta Fish. The thing about my wife, though, is that she never really informs me that, "Hey, I bought the girls a fish." Her tactics are, how would you phrase it? --Less than direct. I'm brought into the loop by seeing the girls smuggle in fish food and related paraphernalia hidden in bags from the craft store, or by being asked to take pictures of a wayward toad that's hunkered down in a plastic container.

Fine. At least the little squatter is quiet, which is more than I can say of its favorite meal--crickets. Crickets, as most of you know, are black, can leap high in the air, and make a chirping noise by rubbing their hind legs together.

Turns out, as a food source for toads, they cost money and come in sizes like T-shirts--small, medium, and large. (Whoever has the job of sorting crickets by their size must either hate life or really love insects.) Oh right, and you can get them in bulk or prepacked, a fact I learned during a begrudging trip to the pet store. Our pantry's stripped down to a bottle of cloves and a gluten-free pizza crust, and yet there I was shelling out cash for some stupid bugs--bugs that proved elusive to find amid doggy sweaters and three-story cat condos. Gimme a break.

I finally broke down and asked a clerk for help.

"Oh, man." he said. "Well, we're almost out. We don't even have enough to feed our animals, but I'll check with the manager just in case."

Lovely. On the bright side, maybe the toad would croak (from starvation that is).

The manager confirmed the store's short supply, but asked how many I needed anyway.

"I don't know. My wife just told me to get a box of 25." I shrugged.

My answer, though, seemed to flip some sort of light bulb on for the two store employees. "Ohhh, you want the boxed crickets," the manager said.

...Yes. The boxed ones. As opposed to the free-range ones because I'm really not too concerned about a toad's preference for an all-organic lifestyle.

Following the clerk, I turned the corner and, whadda ya know, it was a whole shelf full of crickets packed in box-shaped, plastic packages, neatly stacked one on top of another--kind of like cell-block B at San Quentin, only for bugs.

Poor bastards. I imagine it's rather hard being forced to watch excited kids come in here and walk out with a new pet day after day. And then to get their little cricket hopes up having someone like me come along to "adopt them." It's got to be one helluva a letdown to realize that their functional purpose is closer to gladiator fodder the moment the girls dump them into that glass arena with that and then cheer on the death of their miserable cricket existance in a fight to the finish against that toad. And the worst part--their buddies back at the store don't know any different.

Someone will come for us, guys. I know they will; I can feel it in my hind leg. I'm betting he's the one the others shove up front after they land in the aquarium.

Occasionally, though, there's one heady bugger who manages to escape after making a giant leap to freedom. I can always tell when this happens because Allie, Avery and their mom all let loose the same half-surprised, half-terrified "Ahhh!" before they then nearly trample each other in a race for the bedroom door.

Awesome. Now the cockroaches have a jumpy new friend.

Such was the case a few weeks ago, the only difference being that this cricket version of Cool Hand Luke was of the xtra-large variety. In a hurry to get home, Ashley picked up the wrong size from the pet store, a discovery made later in the evening when she opened the container as saw that the toad's meal had been super-sized. That brief moment of pause was all one of those crickets needed. "Ahhhh!" Stomp, stomp, crash, thud.

A halfhearted search turned up nothing, and that was that ...until it got dark outside. Then the chirping started.

CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP

I turned to my wife and gave her "the look." Seriously.

"What?" she asked, but Ashley knew what I was referring to.

CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP

"Alright, fine," she conceded, pulling herself off the couch and heading in the general direction of the noise which seemed to be coming from the top of the stairs.

CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP

Ashley, looked down at me. "I think it's right here." She searched the floor. The way she stopped abruptly told me she found it. Boom, boom, boom. "It's under the carpet, but I think I got it."

I had my doubts. Ashley had just finished two glasses of Merlot, and by the way she held out her empty glass at me as she climbed back on the couch, it was obvious she intended to polish the bottle off. Plus, it was likely more than a coincidence that the end of Ashley's hunt coincided with end of the commercial break during her favorite reality TV show. These suspicions were confirmed five minutes later.

CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP

I hung my head and closed my eyes. Ashley gulped wine and ignored me. And the cricket went on.

CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP...

11:00PM ...CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP...

1:00AM ...CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP...

3:00AM Silence. Finally. Yesss.

CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP...

Jiminy freakin' Cricket! --CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP!

At 5AM, I got out of bed and closed the door shut. CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-cheep-cheep-cheep-cheep-cheep... At 5:15 the alarm went off. And so did the cricket, apparently he was done for the day. Mine would not be so great.

By the next evening, I had been so busy I had forgotten about the cricket, and after dinner, I still had some errands to run. However, right as I started to walk out the door, the cricket fired up those magic legs of his.

CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP-CHEEP

Grrrrr! What my wife and I were able to determine before going to bed the night prior was that the cricket wasn't just under the carpet, he was hiding in some nook and cranny somewhere within the floor-boards. At the present, though, I was in a hurry, and didn't have time to figure out how to get rid of the damn thing. "I will give five bucks to whichever kid can kill that stupid cricket," I said walking out the door.

Based on the sudden scramble of bodies that ensued, I imagine happened next was a chaotic, riot of a scene with five, money-crazed children wielding chainsaws and crowbars over their heads as they mobbed their way to the top of the stairs. By the time I got home, however, all was peaceful ...and silent!

"I killed the cricket," my wife greeted me with.

"Really? How?"

"I used that thin nozzle on the roach spray and slid it in between the cracks in the floor."

"So you gassed him?"

"Uh-hu."

I have no idea why I said this, but the first words out of my mouth were, "Kinda cruel, dontcha think?"

Apparently she didn't. "Where's my five bucks?"

Summer's Over

2011-08-04T11:58:00.000-05:00

Summer's over. Yes, the temperature outside is 100+ degrees; the kids are not yet back in school; and the leaves, unless they're wilted, are nowhere near to changing color. The end of summer is a matter of perspective. For me, the conclusion comes as I watch my sons drive away with their mother, the first leg in their 1,300 mile trip north to a home so foreign to me, it's almost mythical. There's a preciseness in this moment similar to the instant when the earth's axis tilts marking the change from Summer Solstice to Fall Equinox. Just as the earth is now off kilter, so too is my world.

I walk into the backyard and cry for twenty solid minutes beneath the tent I built for them a few weeks back. I am not a cryer. I am a man. I restrain my tears in order to reassure others, to hide my fears, to protect my venerability. Except for now. The salty, wetness seeps through the cracks between my fingers and fall onto the mat of crinkled dead oak leaves below. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. They are rapid at first, the overflow that comes from the rush of memories that flood my mind--games of laser tag, a Star Wars museum exhibit, the shared thrill from Captain America.

Eventually, though, the flow tapers off. Tap. Tap. Tap. And then it is contained, telling me it's safe to wipe away the streams of anguish from my face. I try not to think about when will be the next time I see my sons again. Thanksgiving? It's barely a long weekend. Christmas? No, tt's their mother's turn this year. Spring Break then? That's six months away and too far to know for sure. My eyes water up, but I close them, damming any further spilling of emotion.

I step into the house. It is silent--so much so, that the cold whispering of air being exhaled by the A/C vents sounds strange to me. There is no one here. My wife instinctively knows I need to be alone, isolated like the astronauts after their return from the moon. Because of this, she takes her girls shopping.

The thought of my stepdaughters induces, as it always does immediately after the boys leave, a short-term bitterness over the injustice of my wife getting to be with her children while I remain separated from mine. It's bullshit--absolute bullshit that things have to be this way!

I start to rehash all the avenues that would allow me to move closer to my boys, all the plans that fell apart in the past, all the previous dead ends. How else can I make this happen? Resolve fills my veins, but, pulling a beer from the refrigerator, my focus is distracted at the realization we need groceries. I jerk the cap from the bottle and fling it across the kitchen, unconcerned with wear it lands.

I am disgusted with myself over the slew of failures and poor decisions I've left in my wake. In the time it takes me to swallow a mouthful of bitter tasting liquid from the bottle in my hand, I go from determined to defeated, passing through desperation somewhere in between. Why does have to be like this? The longer this goes on, the more my boys need me. Don't you see this God? I mean, what the hell! It's never going to happen, is it? ...We'll always be apart, won't we?

I drop helpless onto the couch. Summer's over. Tomorrow I'll get groceries. Monday I'll start on a project with a new client. A few days later, I'll discover that the minivan's AC will die. There will be bills. Soon school will start, and not only will I just be packing the girls' lunches, this year I'll now be coordinate dropping them off and picking them up each day since the district canceled their bus route. There will be more bills, more trips to the grocery store, more circumstances beyond my control. Fall is here.

Chicks Love Tetris

2011-07-26T08:59:00.000-05:00

Up until several months ago my life was a perfect model of balance (*cough, cough*)—a model of perfect balance until a certain friend and her husband introduced me to some goofy game, the premise of which involves enraged birds, aloof swine, and flimsy-looking structures begging to be knocked down. Some friends. This game—this stupid, trivial, addictive game nearly ruined me! They might as well have taught me how to “hot rail” a heaping dose of low grade crystal meth, given the effects of this game on my mind.

“Can I get this thing on my Blackberry?” I asked refusing to lift my head from the glowing light of the screen that illuminated my face.

“No,” one of them said. “It only comes on the Android and iPhone.” Read More

The One Thing My Kids Would Sacrifice Food, Air and a Virgin Cat For

2011-07-18T08:03:00.000-05:00

Should psychologists ever use my children to reassess Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, their findings would conclude that cable television should be added alongside air, food and sleep as essential human needs. In fact, it may actually outrank food and sleep, given the children’s eagerness to forgo both if it means feasting on just one more episode of iCarly or that androgynous spaz, SpongeBob.

Until recently, we didn’t even have cable and I simply connected a laptop to the TV to access our favorite shows via the Internet. For all intents and purposes, this proved to be more than adequate in fulfilling our entertainment needs. That, and it was cheap, too.

However, as a concession to my wife’s burning desire to watch shows at their regularly scheduled times rather than wait a day before they were available for download, I agreed to order cable once we moved into our house. Within days of settling in, I made the call to the cable company. Soon, we had access to an infinite number of channels, the dauntingness of which was further exacerbated by the additions of a DVR and On-Demand viewing.

Continue reading...

Siblings

2011-07-08T10:04:00.000-05:00

One of my favorite writing opportunities I'm lucky to be a part of is for the Let's Play community. Let's Play is a partnership between Dr Pepper/Snapple and KaBOOM, a non-profit organization dedicated to getting kids to play (and not video games either). This is a short post about siblings at play.

My siblings and I during much younger days

When it comes to how well my children get along, I consider myself lucky. Sure they have their fair share of spats, but the nature and frequency of these moments would, I suppose, fall under the category of “normal” – if there is such a thing. (Then again, none of my five kids are teenagers either, so there is plenty of time for arguments in the future!) For the moment, though, I’ll gladly take a tiff about a video game selection or a toy’s legal owner over, say, a knock-down, drag-out involving the same girl- or boyfriend. (With a 12 year-old, two nine year-olds, an eight year-old, and an almost seven year-old, I am not naïve enough to think this won’t someday happen. Sigh.)

Until that near apocalyptic event occurs, however, I’m storing away mental images of the kids pretending to be Star Wars characters as they chase each other around the Galactic cul-de sac on their speeder bikes. Sometimes they are one big bunch; at others, they break down into groups of two or three and go off in separate directions. After a while, everyone switches, and they reform based on who wants to play volleyball and who wants to dig holes in the flower garden.

Read the conclusion at Let's Play

Fatherly Fear: Or It Ain't Easy Being Green

2011-06-29T06:00:00.001-05:00

When it was announced that Warner Brothers would be making a Green Lantern movie, it was pretty much a given that I would be at one of the first showings. When it was announced that Ryan Reynolds had been tapped to play the lead role of Hal Jordan, it was also pretty much a given that my wife, Ashley, would be shoving comic geeks out of the way in order to get a good seat. Because the family and I were traveling back from our annual trek to Pennsylvania, making it to the opening night wasn’t possible. However; Ashley was still able to knock a few stringy-haired, pimply faced, lifetime virgins to the ground this past Friday on her way to securing the best seats for ogling Ryan’s rock hard abs. (There was some pouting over my refusal to pay extra to see them in 3D.)

Lest you get the wrong impression, let me say up front this post is not a review of the movie. There are a gazillions of them already out there, few of which are very flattering. When it comes to comic book movies (especially of DC characters), I go in with low expectations, hoping to be surprised; instead, I focus on the basic story line. So, in the case of the Green Lantern (*spoiler alerts*), I looked past the questionable casting (*cough, cough* Tim Robbins), the awful acting (*cough, cough* Blake Lively), and the poor plot development (moving right along). If you can ignore these things, then the movie otherwise wasn’t half bad.

The kids liked it at least. (My youngest son, Sawyer did a fist pump and whispered “yessss” when Hal finally kissed love interest, Carol Ferris at the end. –Not exactly sure how to interpret this, but whatever.) One of the things I found interesting, though, was each of the kids’ reactions to what they interpreted as scary both in the film and in the thirty minutes of movie preview shown beforehand.

Every time Green Lantern nemesis, Hector Hammond and his bulging, oversized head filled the screen, my stepdaughters, Allie (9) and Avery (7) would cover their faces. “Now I know why you don’t want us watching scary stuff,” Allie said to me as we got up to leave. This coming from the girl who is entranced by ghost hunter reality shows. Of course she and her sister had no problem with Colin Ferrell as a vampire in the upcoming remake of Fright Night (“He’s hot,” they both agreed. What the hell?), and they nearly squealed themselves into a euphoric stupor at the sight of big snakes, “Death Eaters” and the perpetually nose-less, yet allergy free Voldamort as they wreaked havoc in the final Harry Potter installment.

Sawyer wasn’t quite as enthusiastic. “I am NOT going to watch that,” he announced, bolting straight up in his seat. “Evo-we time I watch Hay-we Potter it fweaks me out!” Transformers 3, on the other hand, was a different story. Forget Cars 2. That’s for babies. Apparently, fifty-foot, monster robots that can hide in your house disguised as a toaster ovens waiting to attack the second you drop two slices of Wonder Bread inside it is what the 6 year old boy crowd is into these days. Okay, but If there’s as much cussing in #3 as there was in #2, then the little guys is going to have to settle for the antics of ‘Mater and McQueen.

By the way, why does Michael Bay feel the need to add “A Michael Bay Film” at the end of his movie previews? If a skyscraper is crashing into another skyscraper in the heart of downtown Chicago while fighter jets weave in and out between buildings amid earsplitting explosions, all part of an epic battle against gargantuan alien beings sent to take over the earth, then I’m pretty sure no one’s going to mistake it for a Woody Allen flick.

Noah was not impressed, even by all the military hardware in action. “That’s going to be so stupid,” he said after the narrator informed us this was a Michael Bay film. I leaned forward and asked him why. “That guy doesn’t even have the same girlfriend in this one,” he responded. Logical. Considering that Noah shares my cynical leanings, and because his 12 year old body is being flooded with raging hormones, I understood where his head was at on this one. Right now, he’s got an entirely different thing to fear—-girls.

Harrison (9) didn’t seem to have an opinion one way or the other on any of the films. He seemed more preoccupied with the fifty pounds of candy he had crammed into the pockets of his cargo shorts. By the time the movie started, I’m guessing he had eaten close to his body weight in Tootsie Rolls. Still, all that sugar didn’t affect his ability to focus on Hal Jordan and the origins of the Green Lantern.

Throughout the past week, Harrison has been the most excited about seeing this movie (well, except for my wife, but her reasons were completely different). The handful of Green Lantern Corps actions figures and hardware he had to play with probably had something to do with that (Ashley couldn't keep her hands off of them either), but regardless, Harrison declared it his favorite movie as we left the theater. Other than that, he didn’t say much else.

Harrison is a carefree kid for the most part. But even though he can appear to be having a great time, his brain may be churning over something on much deeper level. Sometimes I forget this, and he’ll catch me off guard like he did as I tucked him to bed after coming home.

“Dad,” he said in a quiet voice.. “I’m scared.”

Coming from a boy covered in covered from head to toe with bruises and scratches garnered from such fearless acts as using tree branches to swing back and forth across four-foot deep ditch, I was more than a little curious as to what he’d be afraid of. “What are you scared of, buddy?”

He stared down at his covers for a few seconds. “That you’re gonna die.”

This wasn’t what I was expecting, and yet I knew where the idea had come from. In the movie, one of the defining moments for Hal Jordan was witnessing his father die in a plane crash, this, right after his father said in the preceding scene that as a test pilot “it was his job not to be afraid.” KABLAMO! The event is what prevented Hal from being totally fearless—the essential quality for being a Green Lantern. This is the internal conflict central to the story that Hal must confront, which of course he does in defeating Parallax, an evil super villain that grows stronger by feeding off of, what else—fear. Hal nearly dies in the process, but is rescued and subsequently honored as a member of the Corps. The end. Stop at restroom. Load van. Drive home.

That would be Parallax feeding on someone's fear

For me, sitting there on my son’s bed, I was at a loss for words to reassure him with. “Son, I don’t want you to worry about that happening to me.” Movie dads seem to have all the answers. I, however, am not a movie dad. I live 1,300 miles away from my sons for ten months out of the year, and in the two months that I do get to see them, I have to jam in as much fatherly "wisdom" as is possible hoping that it sticks in their brains when they’re gone.

With one son mere months from being a teenager the realization that all of my kids are soon going to be faced with serious issues and they’re going to need real help. For my boys in particular, because of the current geographical circumstances and other divorce-related factors, that need is even greater. A few weeks back this was on my mind as I walked through the house, when a sudden question made me freeze. “Am I enough for my kids?”

Knowing everything that could happen to my kids, this terrified me, but not as much as the answer: No. No I am not enough. I am human. I will fail them. And yes, I could even die without warning, leaving them to deal with much of life on their own. From this perspective, there is a lot of room to doubt myself. When I screwed up that one time way back when, will they hold it against me? Will they feel like I wasn't there for them when they needed me? Will they blame me for the divorce when the fallout from the family separation becomes too frustrating for them?

These thoughts crush me. They freak me out, and I start to overcompensate, or worse, become depressed because I can’t overcompensate. Then I turn apprehensive , and eventually become emotionally unavailable being too wrapped up in my own issues. I hate the idea of not being enough for my children, and yet, there’s no way around it either.

What I have to remind myself of though is that, despite all the doubts, fears and circumstances, I am still by far the best option my children have available. No one will love them or care for them more than me (and their moms). No one wants the best for them like me. No one will work harder for them than me whatever the situation.

After I told Harrison not to worry about me dying, he followed up by asking, “Why?”

“Well,” I explained. “Because we all could die at any time, but if we keep thinking about it, it’s just going to make us sad, and then we might be too sad to have any fun doing stuff together. Kinda like the Green Lantern. He almost didn’t get to be a superhero because he kept thinking about his dad dying and it made him too afraid to try. Make sense?”

Harrison glanced at the wall and then back at me. “Yeah. I think so.” He smiled.

The Green Lantern may not have been a perfect movie. It might not have been a Michael Bay production. And the hair tussle I gave Harrison was probably lacking in comparison the one performed by Hal Jordan’s father minutes before being flame broiled, but if nothing more, the movie had a simple message I could use in talking to my son about his fears and for reflecting on my own as a parent.

* * *

In compliance with FTC regulations I have to disclose that Mattel supplied me with the Green Lantern toys. I probably was supposed to do a product review or something, but I don't do those. I tell stories. And I have a weakness for free superhero toys which probably makes me a sellout. Mehh.

"Bricks" A Father's Day Guest Post

2011-06-19T09:09:00.000-05:00

First, I'd like to wish everyone a Happy Father's Day! Today, the Lunchbox has a special treat: a guest post from Brian of The Cheek of God. If you've not familiar with Brian, then you are missing out. I highly recommend you add him to your reader (and after reading his post today, I'm sure you will). Amid the ever growing sea of dad bloggers out there, Brian is among the best in my opinion. Rarely will you find a voice more genuine and honest. Brian's writing has a compelling quality about it that draws you in and makes you feel exactly what he's feeling. In this guest post, you will experience this firsthand as Brian puts into perspective our failures and roles as fathers.

Bricks

Somehow I became the lag man. The one chosen by the Family Adventure gods to walk behind those that like to run ahead and instead keep time with, and track of, those that tend to lag behind.
I’m with the family at Six Flags Great America just north of Chicago for a late-summer rendezvous with my in-laws and an assortment of nieces and nephews. We’ve had our carbohydrate-heavy continental breakfast, have driven the .645 miles across the road from our hotel to the massive parking lot, and have already ridden our first attraction, an octopus-like purple contraption upon which our bodies, and breakfast, have been thoroughly shaken and stirred. There was laughing, giggling, some noxious belching, and a bit of frantic screaming.

Mission accomplished.

And so we’re walking down the midway, off toward the Next Big Thing up and around the bend, when I look back and notice my youngest son Ethan has been sidetracked by a carnie. I glance ahead to get a sense of the direction where the front of the procession is heading, and then turn on my heels and jog back to the ball toss stand where my son has fished out his dollar bills and is slapping them down. How cute! What growing boy wouldn’t want a . . . giant stuffed Tweety Bird? Um. Yeah. But there he is, tossing another ball at a tilted board off of which he is to ricochet said ball into an awaiting basket. It is a classic setup that required a certain amount of skill. I’ll just step in, do my dad thing, and explain the physics of it all. Show him a thing or two. Only he isn’t paying attention to me. He’s just pulling out dollars . . . and glancing over his own shoulder. Must be afraid they’ll get too far ahead and have all the fun without him. Aww. How cute! Only he seems anxious. Excited.

And about to cry.

I catch on after a few bucks, look back, and notice my youngest daughter Zoe, lingering a bit behind the group, staring at us. Her face is only slighter calmer now compared to how it had appeared on the octopus ride. The screaming? Her. And her favorite stuffed animal? The one she hugs tightly when life overwhelms her? Back at the motel. She looks more than a bit lost without it. And it hits me like the proverbial brick in the head:

He’s trying to win a Tweety for his baby sister.

I loaned him a few bucks when his started getting low. Even tried a few tosses myself. We didn’t win, but we fought the fight. For his sister. For my daughter. We left the ball toss stand empty handed, but he ran ahead and grabbed hers. I walked just behind them and smiled.
These are the good days.

Bad days?

A note. Found lying on the kitchen floor. Smudged pencil scrawled on a small crumpled slip of paper. It began . . .

I feel so stupid and worthless.

The penmanship unmistakably my oldest daughter’s, but the words so . . . not her. Not the smiling and intelligent and beautiful daughter we encounter most days, anyway. She’s a teenager. She has her ups and downs. But this?

I feel stupid and ugly and pathetic!

I literally gasped.

Some time later, I read this:

“Often the one child who is softer than the rest, who is more sensitive than the family is used to, is the one selected to deal with what no one else will deal with.”

That brick I mentioned earlier?

THUMP!

How many times have I belittled myself in front of my children? Lamented the poor choices I’ve made? Apologized for being a subpar father? And turned away from them when they offered words of adoration and love?

What oftentimes seems like honest accounting is nothing more than begging the pity party. And worse is when the load shifts onto the shoulders of children.

*****

There has been much written lately about dadbloggers. Who they are. What it takes to be a good one. So on and so forth. I have purposely avoided most of it, because it was about the time the conversations and debates started heating up that I felt those bricks. The ones that have reminded me time and again that I am far from having this dad thing figured out. At least not to the point where I can be so bold as to share my notions with the World Wide Web.

So I stopped blogging. Refused to process these things through that blog lens we all wear. The one we use to shape each and every little thing into a series of words and images that are supposed to neatly wrap up for the waiting horde this thing called Fatherhood. That’s how some dadblogs come across, unfortunately. Whether intentional or not, there are a lot of dudes who believe they have boiled being a dad down to a science. Sure we get the good shit every once in a while, the stuff of wide-eyed wonder and salty tears, but it gets lost amidst the pitches for products or services we don’t need. Stuff that they got for free. And the never-ending barrage of “Please RT!!!!” or “Like my page!!!” or “Last chance to enter!!!”

Ad infinitum.

Ad nauseum.

I saw myself, becoming that. So I stepped away, zipped my lip, and sought to recapture for myself the answer to the question . . .

Where is the mystery?

My kids? In a big picture sense, they are THE mystery. Oh, I still try on occasion to step up to the plate and show them how to swing for the bleachers. But my back is stiff. My knees hurt. And I just make it all look so silly.

Much like Fred Waitzkin did in this scene from Searching for Bobby Fischer . . .

Seven Moves from tysdaddy on Vimeo.

Did you catch those looks on daddy’s face? There’s the first one, where he’s all up on his high horse putting little Josh down for losing to “that patzer.” His chest all puffed out, like, “I’m spitting fucking gold nuggets here!!” And then that other look. When Josh throws that brick and hits him square in the face. Daddy’s speechless. Shut down. Gasping for breath.

More than just that scene, the movie resonates with me on so many wider levels. Like how we as dads often see ourselves bringing up our kids to do certain things or like this or that simply because we want them to. This is only natural. They are blank slates, right? And it is our prerogative to train them up however we see fit, following a plan best built upon the bedrock of personal experience or pleasure. By doing so, maybe they’ll do it all better than we did. Deep down, we want them to find what has eluded us. Or perhaps need them to, as Fred Waitzkin echoes in his book that inspired the movie . . .

“For some fathers and mothers, passion for their child’s success has become so gargantuan that the kid’s own predilections have been subsumed by their needs.”

This won’t make much sense to those of you with small children, but if you’ve got t(w)eenagers like me, you’d be the ones nodding your heads right about now. We fashion a dim reflection in them of what we want them to be, and then have the nerve to turn our backs on them when they show some genuine spark in another area of interest. What is ultimately just another facet of this blindingly beautiful gem called life appears unfamiliar to us, and we foolishly throw up our hands, recoiling in what is meant to be the light of discovery. For them. And us.

They grow up so fast, many people told me, and I’m starting to believe them. And I am at my best as a father when I choose to remember that children live, as Dylan Thomas put it in his poem Fern Hill, “once below a time.” Frederick Buechner, a Presbyterian theologian and writer, introduced me to this poem, and particularly to this turn of a phrase, in his book The Sacred Journey, where he writes, “It is by its quality rather than its duration that a child knows time.” For a child, all time is “now time and apparently endless.”

And we are placed into this most sensitive of spaces. We walk with them, ceaselessly counting their steps even as they bound ever onward, eyes up and ablaze, with no signs of slowing down. Or letting us catch up. Leaving us dads to lag behind.

If we’ve done this thing right, if we choose to pay attention when it counts, and to be always mindful, then we won’t lose sight of them. And the view will leave us gasping . . .

****

You can follow Brian on Twitter at @TheCheekofGod

The South Park Theory on Metrics for Determining Top Dad Blogs

2011-05-25T06:00:00.005-05:00

The videos in this post contain strong language not suitable for your children or your boss to hear.

Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Somebody's gone off and done it again. I can't believe it. Someone went off and posted a list of the Top Daddy Blogs. I know, I know. I'm fuming about it too. Don't these people understand what this does to us guys?

I remember a few years back when there were no lists for dads, just mommy ones and we were all like, "How come we're not on a list? How come nobody's paying attention to us, huh?" Now, now there's lists all over the place, just take your pick. There's your basic list of favorites, ones offering prestigious-looking awards, those that want you to solicit people for voting your site to fame, then there's your good ol' fashion scams, and of course there's those like this latest one relying on arbitrary metrics to rate us. Hell, there's even a site blatantly named PostRank that rates our blog's weekly performance! It's complete and utter BS!

This is exactly what I was stewing over right before catching the latest episode of South Park a few nights ago, and boy am I glad I did because there was so many lessons from it that were directly applicable to the topic at hand. In this first clip for example you'll notice that the boys of South Park Elementary face the same problem of being inaccurately represented by things like numbers and measurements

After seeing that, you're probably thinking the same thing I did--it is a conspiracy. Seriously, that's exactly what it is. Think about it guys. Before, no one even considered our blogs influential enough to warrant ranking, that was until someone caught on to how much men enjoy ranking things--sports teams, movies, cars, whatever. Now all these parenting sites, market research firms, and medical billing sites are trying to get us riled up into enough of a frenzied state so that we'll club our own children between the eyes in order to get added to one of their Best Dad Blogger list. Don't you see it? They're enticing us to whack our kids in the head so they can write more articles about lousy male parenting, market more pediatric medical products to doctors, and put more children in the hospital to create increased demand for medical billing services. They're all in cahoots together, I'm telling you!

I mean, what the hell!? Even when these people use measurable criteria for rating us they can't even get the friggin' numbers right! Yet, sitting there on the couch, I realized that Cartman was on to something, that there was a way to get back at these people by sorting this best dad blog problem on our own amongst ourselves.

So, uh, yeah, that's probably not exactly the best way to do it for a lot of reasons, one of the biggest being the logistics involved with obtaining those measurements. Perhaps it could be something to incorporate as part of the upcoming Dad 2.0 blogging conference. During check it, measurements could be taken in room behind the registration table and that way the results could be added to our conference name badges. Just a thought.

In the meantime, however, we would need something else, something scientific and logical like the equation, Randy (who's also one of the fathers on South Park) develops to help the kids in school learn the proper method for charting things.

Aside from the equation idea, I think this clip also illustrates that, like the little girl, a lot of people don't understand why it's so important to for us guys to settle this issue once and for all. The answer in my mind is easy: The reason we have to is that if we don't, then the medical billing companies win! I don't know about you, but I for one, can't live with that. This is why, after sixteen hours of calculating and recalculating various numeric combinations, I finally devised what seemed to be an irrefutable mathematical computation for ranking our sites. I call it ...The Dad’s Unilaterally Measurable Blogging Index, or DUMB Index for short.

Here's how it works. First, take the total number of posts over the life of your blog divided by the total number of comments during the same period and subtract this by the square root of your RSS feed subscribers and the multiply the difference by the Rate of Comment Reciprocation (the number of comments you leave on other peoples' blog posts divided by the number of those posts which you actually read). Now divide by one-third of your Facebook Fans plus one-fourth of your Twitter followers. Still with me?

Okay, from here you need to multiply this by your Pull Factor which is like Klout, but stronger since the word "pull" can also be a verb implying your site's ability to influence. Now, to get your Pull Factor, take your Facebook Likes and Re-Tweets, divide them by 12 months and then add this to the sum total of the Reddits, Diggs, and Stumbles your posts have received over the same period. Almost done.

Finally, once you've multiplied your Pull Factor, multiply the product by the number you get from taking the length of your penis's shaft (Scouts honor here, men) multiplied by the erect girth (pi, r squared) plus yaw, divided by 6 inches which you then multiply by your estimated ego squared, and viola! You now have your DUMB Index number which can be used for ranking your site against all the other dad blogs out there. (Note: I left page views out to nullify any skewing of the numbers by those who are paying for their traffic.)

With the DUMB Index, I figured this would be a full-proof method to prove that such greats as Doug French, Shawn Burns and the bunch at DadWagon along with "lifers" and newbies like The JackB and Just Add Father, not included on the most recent list, would rate every bit as high as perennial stalwarts like DC Urban Dad, Jim Lin and the crew at DadCentric. Surely, all of these dads would have DUMB Index scores higher than 6 --well above the collective average. (The only one I can speak for with any certainty is mine at a whopping 3.4. Hey, I'm comfortable with that. Like they say, it's not the size of your blog, but how you use it that matters.)

Eventually, though, I realized my DUMB Index was flawed. What I failed to account for in my calculations was a little thing called "M.I." or "Motivational Intent." In my fervor to invent a full-proof ranking system, I forgot all about the various reasons behind why dads blog. Some do it to be part of a community, some do it for fun or to express themselves, and some do it to counter negative images of fatherhood in the media. Others do it as part of their business--nothing wrong with that. And, yes, there are a few who probably dad blogging for less than altruistic reasons, but in any case, the high variability in M.I. is too great, and thus makes the whole thing immaterial.

But maybe being ranked isn't the point? Don't get me wrong, I'd be a hypocritical, lying sack of crap if I claimed that being left off of a Top Dad Blog list doesn't sometimes bother me a tiny bit, but I think that's a natural reaction for anybody. (Well, as long as you're not one of those guys out there who thinks they deserve recognition simply because they have a blog. If that's you, go delete your account--like, right now.) A lot of dad bloggers have put a great deal of time and effort into their sites, as well as contributing to the community as a whole; so to have all that work validated via some list or ranking feels good and that's not necessarily a bad thing. Still, there are many guys out there who are doing just as much and somehow manage to never receive any kuddos for it, and yeah, that has to sting.

By the same token, though, other than it being something to Tweet about and then add to a blog's "I-Love-Me" section, receiving such accolades doesn't really amount to much beyond that. Some might argue that it gives you credibility as a blogger, but I'd counter by saying that real credibility comes from the quality of your blog's content, not shiny trinkets. There's a line between seeing these lists for what they are and getting one's URL in a wad. The best bloggers know this, and whether they're "on the list" or not, doesn't matter because that's not what they're doing if for in the first place.

This brings to mind those gimmicky lists where "Top Dad Bloggers" campaign for votes to be touted as the best. Sure, this basically amounts to nothing more than link bait, but like the recent Circle of Moms circus (read their note about the use of bots--bots? Are guys that desperate?), they also include guys who are really, really good bloggers, deserving of recognition. Despite my personal aversion to such contests and their tendency to bring annoying blow-hards to the forefront of my Twitter stream, I still go vote for the good guys 1) because I want to help promote them whenever possible and 2) because these dads' egos aren't so wrapped up with their blogs that they shatter whenever their sites aren't recognized.

I guess that's what all this list business comes down to--maintaining a little perspective. If rankings and lists for dad blogs suddenly are so prominent, then that must mean we're at least on somebody's radar which is a big step forward from the days when many of us first registered our URLs. True, the finite nature of mathematical probability dictates that not every dad blogger out there can be named to a list of the Top 25, 50, 100 bloggers, and yeah, the criteria for all of these lists, rankings, nominations, etc. are without a doubt inaccurate. However, there will never be a way to accurately determine who should and shouldn't be a top blogger because it's every bit as subjective as the criteria for ranking us according to our skills as fathers. Ironically, it's being fathers that got us all into this racket to begin with, and so, assuming our "M.I." is pure, doesn't that sort of make us all top dad bloggers in a way? Isn't that enough?

Update: In what can only be defined as a quintessential moment of irony Cision just today posted a new list of Top 25 Dad Bloggers, the criteria for which is eerily similar to the DUMB Index. Hmmm?

High Fructose Corn Syrup: SNL Commentary

2011-05-20T07:00:00.003-05:00

Remember that whole flap about high fructose corn syrup? Anyone remember THIS COMMERCIAL from the Corn Refiners Association? Yeah, I know it's old news now, but I still couldn't help from posting Saturday Night Live's take on it. Aside from this being a hilarious parody, I think it alludes to a great many things about modern parenting and parent blogging in general.

Smallville Redux

2011-05-17T06:00:00.012-05:00

After 216 episodes spanning ten years, last Friday marked the end of TV’s Smallville, the CW Channel’s series chronicling the life of Superman before he was known as Superman. Seeing as how Smallville played a direct part in transforming me from adult to fan boy, I would be remiss to let the show fade into the annuals of television history without providing some sort of commentary, especially since it also acted as a major inspiration for the creation of this blog.

Even though Smallville initially aired on October 16th, 2001, I didn’t see my first episode until late 2005 after moving to Chicago where I found myself suffering through a special kind of loneliness, the kind that comes from being without cable. To fill the void I turned to DVD’s, and it just so happened that Walmart was running a roll-back special on the show’s early seasons. The rest, as they say, is history.

What was it exactly about the show that had me plowing through a stack of disks in a mad dash to catch up the current season? To answer that I have to address the reason I moved to Chicago to begin with—my three sons. After the divorce I followed them from Houston, knowing that they would need their father more than ever, yet, at the same time I felt clueless in defining what that meant exactly.

However, somewhere during my Smallville marathon as I watched Jonathan Kent dole out guidance to his teenage, alien son, Clark, a question struck me: What kind of parent would someone have to be into to raise the most powerful being on earth? I mean, think about what Superman would be like if his parents gave into his every whim just to keep him from throwing another ear-splitting tantrum or kicking a tractor to Idaho. He’d be a spoiled, undisciplined brat with heat vision.

Mulling this over, I eventually reasoned that Ma and Pa Kent would have to employ some super powered parenting in order to imbue in Clark the strong moral guidance needed for being the world’s most powerful superhero. Despite the fictional details involved, my conclusion gave way to another thought: What’s stopping me from being that kind of father to my sons?

This then became the filter that I ran every episode through in my head, and there was a lot of material to work with too—Jonathon Kent’s lessons about actions and consequences; the contrasting messages about greed and self-preservation Lex Luthor receives from his father; the paternal validation Clark (Kal-El) needs from his Kryptonian father Jor-El. These were just a few, among many similar themes I jotted down in a notebook during commercial breaks.

Then, in Season 5, Jonathan Kent dies of a massive heart attack, an event Clark spends most of the reaming years trying to reconcile with the added weight from knowing his father’s death came about as a direct result of Clark’s poor decisions. Incidentally, it’s right around this same time that the program started to show signs its destructibility. Aside from a few sporadic exceptions, the writing deteriorated to the level of something you’d expect from cable access; Clark’s journey toward destiny was drawn out in tedious quests for ancient Krytonian relics, while aimless plotlines full of forgettable characters earned enough eye-rolls for me to sprain a retina.

Even more aggravating for me was seeing how some strange and unknown form of Krytonite, possibly pink, turned Clark into a whiny, little bitch. By the end of Season 7 even Lex Luthor seemed to be unable to tolerate the future Man of Steels’ super sniveling, and in the finale, Lex exited stage left courtesy of a structural collapse at the Fortress of Sulk-litude.

Bereft of a central supervillian in the form of Lex, Smallville’s eighth season could be summed up in one word: contrived. What’s worse, as a hardcore fan, I was duped into a gimmicky scheme that centered around a twenty-one episode build up to a fight between Clark and Doomsday, the only being to ever kill Superman per the comic book cannon. The final battle, however, boiled down to about three seconds of footage with Clark (now referred to lamely as “The Blur”) zipping across the screen, a loud rumbling, and a flash of light—no punches, no pummeling, and no pictures of the actual Doomsday. Yeah, huge letdown to say the least.

As Season 9 loomed in the distance, I had all but given up any hope that Smallville could redeem itself. Still, I remained a faithful follower, if for nothing more than it being a novelty I was intent on seeing through to the end. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised. The writing, although not perfect, was at least good enough to evoke some of that campy charm from the “golden age” of Smallville, and I had difficulty containing my glee over the appearance of other superheroes like Hawkman. Stargirl, and Dr. Fate from the Justice Society of America. (Unless you’re a comic geek such feelings are hard to describe.)

Finally, after a decade in the making, my beautiful, imperfect, Smallville was ready to kick the Big Blue Boy Scout out of the nest to spread his wings and (hopefully) fly as the Man of Steel. It would’ve been easy at this point, to deconstruct storylines or to criticize character inconsistencies. Instead, I resolved to simply enjoy the final season with as much of the same fan-boy ardor that kept me company on those nights in Chicago as I switched out one Smallville DVD for the next.

With the advent of Darkseid and the return of Lex Luthor, I thought Season 10 was among the series' best. The cameos by B-level heroes from the DC Universe gave it some added flair, and the larger storyline was not only cohesive, but also pertinent to the current times. More importantly, Clark’s character exhibited the clarity of purpose needed for bridging the gap between a farm boy and legend. This, however, brought with it a growing nervousness over the writers’ ability to pull off the Clark Kent/Superman transition in the end without it being cheesy.

Few television shows can say they’ve lasted ten or more years; fewer still, have been able to produce endings capable of satisfying their loyal fans’ need for closure. With Smallville, such a feat contained an added degree of difficulty in that the show had to successfully leave viewers with an authentic Clark Kent ready to don the cape of the world’s greatest superhero. To fall on their faces after leaping this tall building in a single bound would basically defeat Smallville’s entire premise. No pressure.

So, did Friday’s two-hour finale manage to meet its fan’s soaring expectations? That depends. If your expectations included a newly minted, blue-clad Superman embroiled in a twenty-minute punch-fest with the immortally evil Darkseid after which our triumphant hero hovers outside Lex Luthor’s penthouse office where the two archenemies engage each other in an intense stair-down contest for the ages, well then, you probably felt a teeny bit let down.

Admittedly, I would’ve like to have seen actor Tom Welling’s version of Clark Kent actually wearing the suit as opposed to the innuendo of such via cross-cut scenes and red/blue streaks in the sky. And for Pete (Ross’s) sake, Lois could’ve at least christened him as Superman; thus, erasing that canker sore of a moniker, “The Blur.” [Eye roll]

All that notwithstanding, I was pleased. (Read: I bounced around on the couch for two hours with unbridled giddiness, while my skin was riddled with goose bumps.) A large part of this was because I didn’t expect epic levels of action, nor did I think that’s what cornerstone episode should be about. Why? Because Smallville was never meant to be about the exploits of Superman, but rather, the exploits that shaped Clark Kent into becoming Superman. In other words, the real focus was on character arc not cool fight scenes. On that level, the finale worked.

But the element I appreciated most was the retracing of the father-son themes that had grabbed my attention in the first place. In a series of apparitions (this is the comic book world—these things happen), Jonathan Kent returns to pass along his final words of wisdom allowing Clark to embrace his destiny and reconcile his past mistakes with his future responsibilities. Likewise, Lex Luthor’s father returns from an alternate dimension (this is the comic book word, etc., etc.) to literally resurrect the devious Luthor legacy via a crude heart transplant performed courtesy of Darkseid. And in a symbolic gesture, Jor-El affirms his son’s readiness for super-manhood by presenting Kal-El with the blue suit bearing the House of El’s big red “S” on the chest.

In the end, the final chapter of Smallville managed to achieve what both fans and critics of Superman have complained about most—relevancy. Whether it was intentional or not, by portraying a society gripped by fear and mistrust at the hands of Darkseid and his minions, the writers presented viewers with a parabolic world of the actual one we live into today. Wars, disasters, economic uncertainty—these are indeed dark times that have given way to divisions, bickering and strife. Hope for a better day seems at a minimum, and In fact, some even mock its very mention should anyone use it as rallying cry or campaign slogan.

In Smallville’s final season, the world turns against Clark and his superhero friends, and in the bleakest moments, it was up to Clark to restore humanity’s faith in goodness by defeating the evil that clouded it. Before he could, however, Clark had to get past his own susceptibilities to self-doubt and fear, and in doing so his real feat was convincing others they could overcome theirs as well.

I realize that an alien from a distant planet, flying around in his underwear and saving the world seems… stupid. But Superman isn’t about a bunch of sci-fi nonsense; he’s the living embodiment of hope carried out through heroic feats meant to inspire us mortals to live and act in a way that gives hope to those around us. Hope, whether people will admit to it or not, is the one they cling to when their world is at its darkest. And so, for as long as darkness exists, hope will always remain relevant, even in its symbolic forms.

Don’t agree? Then ask yourself why is Superman still around? Why is it that the crested, red “S” is the second most recognized symbol in the world next to the cross?* And why did millions of people keep coming back episode after episode for ten years, even when the show was a mess, to watch the story of a young Clark Kent? Because people want hope. Last Friday, Smallville reminded us of the hero that inspires just that. (Watch this video)

*From statement made in the book, "The Gospel According to the World's Greatest Superhero." Honestly, I have no idea how this could be objectively quantified, but I'll run with it as my bias on the matter is evident.

MANtiquing: I Get It From My Mother

2011-05-08T17:01:00.018-05:00

Last weekend I took my wife and stepdaughters antiquing at a festival not far from the city. Yes, I know. Guy + antiques = "mantiquing." Well, I'm not ashamed to admit to my love of rummaging through over-crowded shelves of knicknacks or browsing through row after row of dusty furniture. However, before you unleash a barrage of taunts asailing my masculinity, know first, where these tendencies come from--my mother.

Growing up, I watched my mother salvage many a worn out, weathered, or discarded something or another only to restore it to life and find a new purpose for it around the house. I think part of her motivation for this, other than die-hard thriftiness, stemmed from an a special fondness for the past that went beyond novel fascination. This fondness was never clearer than when it came to the heirlooms that she associated with her grandmother--a set of dishes edged with tea roses, the walnut stained china cabinet that dominated our dining room, the chipped set of chalk figurines that one of us kids took upon ourself to liven up with colored markers.

Beer anyone?

I can remember many times my mother eying over some mysterious relic before prefacing her interests in it with, "When I was a little girl, Grandma Briggs used to..." When my mom was a little girl, a trip next door to her grandma's served as a haven of respite from the understandable chaos that comes from having to contend with six other siblings at home. Escaping the insanity for a game of cards or a quiet tea party alone with her grandma represented the rare moments when my mother was free to feel special and unique, not like just another mouth to feed. Thus, for my mother, such mementos represented some of the best memories of her childhood.

For my three sisters and I, witnessing the way our mother cherished these and other antique items, subconsciously imbued us with the same inclinations. All of us talk of the unexplained force that demands we pull over at the sight of driveway lined with junk-laden fold-up tables, or better still an unappreciated colonial-style chair sitting at curb's edge on trash day. I dare you to visit any of our homes and not find a room bereft of at least one object made in the USA three or more decades earlier. It can't be done.

My Great-Grandma Briggs had a bunch of toy trucks like this one that I got to play with as a boy.

The oldest of my sisters, in fact, has turned antiquing into both a profitable venture and a form of artistic expression. I've mentioned more than once how her keen eye and obvious talent in this department makes me sick (with envy). The situation is made all the more worse in that, by knowing she sells such good stuff, I am dependent upon her for all my antiquing needs ...okay, cravings. Clicking through her store pages, I am a crack addict, and she is my dealer.

My own interest in this racket was inspired by the many groupings of bottles Mom used as accent pieces on shelves and in naked corners. The bug finally bit me around the fifth or sixth grade after I unearthed a perfectly intact milk bottle from an odd patch of dirt in the wooded area behind our house. It's because of this bottle that we learned this out-of-place mound and pile of large square sandstones was the location of a maple sugar shack built sometime in the early 1900's, and today, my own kids are still digging glass shards and rusty tools from under last falls layer of decaying leaves.

From one pint-sized milk bottle came a life-long interest in almost any trinket linking the past and present. During middle school and junior high my treasure hunts conducted in the neighbor burn piles were usually met with the none-too discreet grumblings of my father who was more than a little annoyed about his garage being cluttered up by another batch of glass, mud-filled, 7 Up and Coke bottles barely worth the refund printed on the label only a year earlier.

By senior high, though, I gained enough picking savvy to elicit a few excited wows from my mom as I held up a blue tinted medicine bottle--the same excited wows she had responded with on the day when I handed her that dirt-caked milk bottle. And so, while most kids my age were hanging at the mall, I spent my afternoons exploring abandoned farm houses and rooting through backwoods trash heaps. As an added touch, I sported an authentic replica of the fedora hat worn by Indiana Jones himself, which evoked a sense of adventure that made ignoring "no trespassing" signs and wiping away sheets of cobwebs all the more thrilling.

I have a thing for typewriters. My sister supplied me one that I type most of my writing on.

My children howl with uncontrolable laughter every time I oblige their requests for me to retell the story of coming face to face with a raccoon while feeling my way through a two-foot high crawlspace below the floorboards of one hundred-plus year-old warehouse once used by the railroad. For those of you who think it crazy for me to engage in such a stunt, know that my hunch about hard-drinking men working the loading docks eons ago proved true as I made one of my biggest discoveries ever--a green, blown-glass beer bottle with the original cork common used during the 1880's.

"Wow! That's pretty neat, son," I think is what Mom said inspecting the air bubbles in the glass and that deep dimple in the bottom which proved its period of origin.

I never thought I'd ever say, "when I was a boy" but when I was a boy I had this very lunch box.

My idols from TV's American Pickers

Since then my tastes have expanded to include electric fans, Victrolas, cathedral radios, toys, typewriters, and just about anything from the Jazz Age. Today, however, save for the occasional antiquing festival, I don't have the time or resources to dedicate toward pursing things seriously. Instead I am relegated to indulging my interests in vestiges of bygone eras via reruns of The Antique Road Show on PBS and the antics of Mike Wolfe and Frank Fritz on The History Channel's American Pickers. (If I'm to be teased for anything it should be for outwardly confessing that I fantasize about stowing away in Mike and Frank's van as they "travel the back-roads of America telling the history of this country one pick at a time.")

One of the many objects that hold my affections

My mother on the other hand is still going strong and I get a kick out of her showing off the three-drawer dresser she picked up at an estate sale or the claw feet lamp table that was waiting for her at the thrift store. It's also equally amusing listening to my father's same grumblings over having to haul these items homes so they can lay about his garage like loafing hobos left over from the Great Depression.

As a seamstress, my mother would appreciate these sewing machines

Even so, Dad recognizes as our entire family does, that these antiques are not the hallmark signs of some form of hoarding, but rather a form of connection not only with the past and all of its memories, but also with each other. Holidays and special occasions in our family seem to pass us by, but nothing gets us on the horn quicker than porcelain chamber pot or pair of vintage opera gloves. And when the women folk wanted to welcome my wife into our clan, the initiation consisted of a girls-only trip to the mother of all antique shops, Buttons and Bows. Although, I was bummed about being discriminated against, my wife passed the test with flying colors, and return visits to the store are now a matter of tradition.

My mother spent many years sewing dresses for customers with antique dolls like these.

And we think Bratz Dolls were bad. Check out this harlot doll.

Now that I've come out of the closet with the story of my love for mantiquing, you are free to raise your eyebrows however you may choose. If such an admission adds a dent to my manhood, I sir or madam, am not concerned in the least for it was my mother who passed this trait on to me. Furthermore, I say this, not as an accusation, but out of gratitude--gratitude for not only endowing me with a sense of appreciation for the past, but also for the many ways my mother has managed to keep our family connected despite time and distance.

Bottles: My first love

A cast iron toy horse and carriage

Caste iron toy circus clown.

Lithographed tin toy train

My wife found something at the festival that reminded her of her Grampsy--these printing blocks.

You can check out more of my photos at Flickr

On Killing and the Death of Osama Bin Laden

2011-05-04T13:28:00.008-05:00

"People sleep peacefully in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf." - George Orwell

*** We interrupt the regularly scheduled blog to bring you this post on the killing of Osama bin Laden ***

Warning: This post depicts graphic scene of war and should not be viewed around children.

If you haven't heard about the death of Osama bin Laden by now, then you must be living under a rock, that or you're holed up deep within a cave somewhere in the Afghan/Pakistani border region in which case you can come out now. I had just changed the channel to watch one of my favorite shows, The Unit, which ironically is based on the Army's Delta Force commandos, when the news anchors interrupted and President Barrack Obama announced that U.S. personnel had killed the most notorious terrorist in modern history.

Like most people probably did, my mind went back to when I first learned of the attacks on September 11th. I was at a company team-building day when one of the managers walked in late, babbling something about a plane hitting the Trade Towers. Our company president dismissed this as an unfortunate accident. I think we all did, believing it to be a small plane, not a jumbo jet. That notion was impossible. Minutes later, after someone informed us that the second airliner had hit the remaining tower, suddenly the mental barrier that separated the impossible from the possible, crumbled into confusion, mixed with a low level panic.

The World Trade Towers burning on Sept 11th

Given the second-hand nature in which I found out about the these attacks, there was a added sense of vindication in being able to see the President deliver news of the 911 mastermind's death live. As the crowds began to form in front of the White House, at Times Square, and other locations, I could feel a patriotic pride swelling within me, and it felt good.

This country has been hampered by division for literally years to the point we have accomplished little to nothing in charting a definitive course to recovery. So, to see so many people, that otherwise might be shouting at one another across protest lines, now gathered together in one place waving flags and chanting, "U-S-A. U-S-A." in unison, caused me to choke up with emotion. I am an unabashed patriot.

However, I'll admit to having more than just a cynical bone in my body, and I knew, come morning, TV screens, websites, and social media channels would be filled with negative criticisms, criticisms such as Bryan Palmer's, "When Did We Start Chanting U-S-A"? on Slate.com--that site alone is a trove of derogatory rhetoric that, like most news commentary outlets, over-analyzes a situation to death in the same way a heard of bulls tramples slow, uncoordinated runners in the streets of Pamplona.

Celebration of Osama bin Laden's death outside the
White House Sunday night. Right or wrong?

Last night my wife turns to me in the van and asks, "Did you see the big debates going back and forth on Twitter of bin Laden?" She angled her Blackberry in my direction as she named off a slew of people we know and which camp they were in. Based on her recap, the argument seemed to center on the appropriateness of celebrating bin Laden's demise.

Sanctity of life. I get it. After my grandpa died, my dad had the unenviable task of shooting his decrepit, old dog. I remember watching that dog as it trotted, then walked, then sort of limped up the steep hill behind Grandpa's house as Dad followed at an even pace, a Winchester rifle swinging in his right hand. Five minutes after they were out sight, I heard a loud crack that echoed throughout the valley the way gunshots do in John Wayne westerns.

I am a patriot & would've joined the crowd Sunday night

For some reason I took this as an invitation to investigate, despite Dad's orders that came somewhere from behind the trees not to come any closer. In retrospect, I probably should've obeyed as it has since occurred to me that Dad, who was kneeling reverently next to the limp heap of black and white fur, was having a private moment with one of the last living ties he had to his own father. At the time, though, I didn't recognize this. Instead I was transfixed by the surreal sight of Grandpa's dog lying at my feet, its eye bulging from their sockets, its tongue draped unnaturally from the side of mouth the way cartoons depict dead animals. I used to feed that dog dry food and table scraps from a dented tin bowl every Saturday afternoon, and now it would never jump up on me in excitement as I waded into the dirt patch that dog had worn into the earth after years of pacing in a circle.

As I stood there, looking down, I was struck by the power of how precious life was even for an animal. So, if I can appreciate the sanctity of life for a mangy mutt, how much more esteem do you think I hold for a human being. Killing Osama bin Laden is different--maybe not in the eyes of moral purists, but, frankly, I don't expect this bunch to understand my position, especially if they've never worn a uniform in the service of this country.

War is a horrible, horrible thing. There is no glory in the act itself, and the ironic tragedy is that wars force even the most civilized of nations into situations where they must step outside of the very moral parameters that define their society's heightened civility in order to protect this way of life. This requires difficult decisions, and I'll be the first to concede that the United States's leadership has not always made the best of choices in this regard (the fabricated justification for our invasion of Iraq comes to mind--just saying). In any case, though, these decisions shouldn't overshadow what a country and its citizens stand for.

My father displaying his plaque
as SOF Soldier of the Month

This applies at a personal level too. My father was a Green Beret and member of the elite MAC-V-SOG commandos in Vietnam. Once I grasped the significance of this at around age 11 or 12, I asked him if he had ever killed anyone during the conflict. Other than the occasional funny story, Dad never talked much about the real side of things, which may be why it shocked me when he responded with, yes, and then went on to tell me the story of shredding a North Vietnamese soldier standing mere yards away with a burst of machine gun fire. There were other instances too.

Eyes wide open, I still recall being slightly terrified of my father after this because it was difficult for me to reconcile that the man I called dad could be capable of such violence. Eventually, though, I came to recognize that this was just a period in my father’s life when he had to do what needed to be done, but, like America and what it represents, this wasn't who my Dad was as a person.

Later, this was something I had to come to grips personally when I enlisted in the Army and then earned a commission as an Infantry officer. After years of being told, “Thou shalt not kill,” I was now training to, as one commander put it, “Kill mass quantities of bad guys at close range using large caliber weapons.” Furthermore, I knew I had better be able to carry this out, not just pay it lip service; otherwise, I would be jeopardizing the lives of others. (Did I get to put this into practice? No. I left active duty three months before September 2001, and to lead you to believe I had would dishonor the service and sacrifice of many, like my friend Major Cecil Strickland, who as a company commander, had to lead his soldiers in the face of unthinkable adversity chronicled in the book, They Fought for Each Other: The Triumph and Tragedy of the Hardest Hit Unit in Iraq by Kelly Kennedy.)

What angers me about those who use their sanctimonious keyboards to quote MLK out of context from behind the shield of a computer screens, is that they do so in ignorance of what war really is. War is about imposing the will of one collective ideology over the will of another through violent means, which in basic terms boils down to one-upmanship. Some of you may recall the famous scene in the movie, The Untouchables, when Sean Connery’s character gives that famous bit of advice to Kevin Costner about if the Mob put your guy in the hospital, you put their in the morgue—yeah, it’s like that but much, much worse. In other words, human life becomes a form of currency, and if I can take more of it or do it in ways more horrific than you can to the point you finally lose your resolve to continue, then I win.

The Chicago Way
The Untouchables at MOVIECLIPS.com

In our world, and more specifically this little parent blog niche (military families excluded) where the biggest concerns are high fructose corn syrup and Nestlé’s chocolate, a decade of war thousands of miles away seems to have become white noise that plays unnoticed in the background as we denounce in 140 characters or less the expressions of victory over a heartless terrorist’s death. However, if your world was another day of pulling the charred remains of your friends out from under the smoldering hull of a Humvee after it hit and IED detonated by some faceless enemy you will likely never find, then I’m betting you’d feel differently upon getting word that the person who started all of this bullshit, Osama bin Laden, was found and killed.

Human history is marred by a torrent of evil people. I’ll never forget reading John Toland's The Last 100 Days: The Tumultuous and Controversial Story of the Final Days of World War II in Europe, in the 8th grade, and how passages such as those recounting the Russian advance towards Berlin and their fondness for gang raping Polish and German girls that they then dragged in chains behind their tanks until reaching a fresh batch in the next town, stripped away the glossy veneer of World War II as it had been presented to me in middle school textbooks. (To be fair, Bob Jones University’s Beka school curriculum left a lot to be desired when it came to presenting something known as “facts.”)

A Nazi soldier shoot a Jewish woman & her child at
point-blank range

Adolph Hitler exterminated an estimated 11 to 17 million people, 6 million of whom were Jews, a quarter of which were children under the age of 15. Hitler eventually committed suicide before the Russian could get to him but that didn't stop them from dousing his body in gasoline and burning it. Want a more recent example? During the early 1990’s Bosnian Serbs under Slobodan Milošević killed nearly 100,000 people in a mass genocide while raping anywhere from 20,000 to 50,000 women and girls (Catholics and Muslims apparently were their favorites.) Although captured in order to stand trial for these war crimes, Milošević died before the trial could conclude. None of these heinous individuals and their armies possessed any regard for the human life and neither did Osama bin Laden.

On that September morning alone, bin Laden's terrorist attacks were responsible for the death of over 2,800 innocent people, 8 of who were children between the ages 2 and 11. Staggering as these numbers may be they still fail to convey the gruesomeness and personal anguish. According to NYMag.com, of those casualties, only 289 intact bodies were recovered, 1,717 were never found, and the rest could only be accounted for via the 19,858 body parts that were collected from the ashes. By the time the dust settled, over 3,000 children were either orphaned or left with one parent.

Alleged death photo of
bin Laden (Likely a hoax)

In light of this and the ensuing aftermath, do I feel it wrong of me to be outwardly glad this man is dead and to cheer along with other Americans? No. I’m glad the son of a bitch’s corpse is rotting in a watery grave. Why should I extend to sympathy to a murderous bastard intent whose goals in life included killing people like you and me without conscious. Do I care that other feel differently? I’d be lying if I said it didn’t rankle me, but then again, it is their privileged right to hold to their position.

We live in a cruel world, and we do ourselves and our children a disservice if we pretend otherwise. This being the case, sometimes it is necessary to remove the perpetrators of this cruelty through extreme measures. We may not like it. We may not agree with it. But whether we’re willing to admit or not, our families are safer because others are putting their lives in harm’s way on our behalf to carry out missions that result in a notorious terrorist’s brain matter being splattered across a wall in Abbottabad. For that we should at least be thankful.

7 Reasons Why I Refuse to Watch the Royal Wedding

2011-04-29T06:39:00.001-05:00

I’m quite sure I’m not the only one out there who thinks that the media coverage of Prince William and Miss Catherine Middleton’s wedding has been a smidge overdone. You can’t turn on the “telly” without getting a face full of speculation that strains to make even the minutest of details newsworthy.

Yesterday, one of the morning programs showed a paparazzi-style picture of the happy couple driving from the bride’s hometown in Buckleberry to London. “Notice how Kate’s hair is worn up,” one of the anchors said. “Could this be a hint of how she’ll be wearing if for the wedding?” Oh, yes. I don’t think I can finish my bowl of Cheerios without knowing.

The best part of this story was when the British newscaster sitting nearby tempered the overblown analysis by pointing out there were two full days remaining before the ceremony, plenty of time for Kate to hit the salon and have her hair styled in an infinite number of ways; thus proving even the English are sick of America’s stalker-ish coverage of the event. I swear he rolled his eyes just prior to offering this common sense observation, after which he proceeded to do a 15-minute segment on the tradition behind the inclusion of jelly molds at all royal wedding receptions. Apparently King Henry “Turkey Leg” the VIII was a big fan of the jiggly little buggers, and they’ve been a mainstay ever since.

The thought of this actually happening, most likely at the beauty parlor where DiCaprio and co. pose as hairdressers who then proceed to drug Kate into a deep enough sleep for them to burrow down to a level three dream state only to witness the bride in the nude, proved to be the final straw. That’s when I officially decided to get a full eight hours of sleep rather than rouse myself out of bed at 3 AM for the live broadcast of the royal nuptials. But this isn’t the only reason I won’t be watching; here are a few more:

Read the rest here, at Man of The House

My Children and Sports: Yes I'm Watching

2011-04-22T06:00:00.010-05:00

With this being Safe Kids Week I was reminded of the rare opportunity I had to see my two younger sons play basketball earlier this year. It was such a special moment for me, especially given that we live so far apart. This is something I’ve been working to change, hopefully before the boys start playing competitively in high school.

Basketball warm-ups before the game

If there was any question as to which person I was among the other parents rooting on their kids, all one needed to do was look for the guy holding a camera in his left hand and a Flip video in the right while trotting up and down the sidelines in an attempt to capture every pass, dribble, and shot involving my boys. I really didn’t care how out of place I may have looked. For the parents in the stands this was just another Thursday night of watching their elementary-age kids running around in an uncoordinated gaggle on the hardwood for a couple hours.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean to imply that these moms and dads were apathetic as many of them cheered their kids on just as they probably did week after week. For me however, it was different, not only because I was able to be there with my boys, but also because this constituted the very first time I saw them play any sort of organized sports. And I didn’t want to miss a single second.

To anyone who may have noticed, my face was flush with an obvious amount of pride for all the reasons one would expect. What father doesn’t beam as he points towards the boy or girl who just scored a layup. “That’s my kid.” Everyone may already be aware of this, but it doesn’t stop him from reminding those within earshot of that fact as often as possible. I of course was no different except that my method for letting everyone know which superstar was mine came in the form of yelling things like, “Great shot!” and “Awesome pass!” at volumes that drowned out the rest of the crowd. (Incidentally, my 8 year-old scored 16 of his team’s 20 total points in a crushing win.)

Glory days.

During my high school glory days I lettered in two sports, earning first-team, All-State nods in both soccer for two years and basketball for three. After graduation, I never really followed through on the possibilities these honors might have led to. I had other plans. Now, standing at the threshold of my forties, I’ve all but forgotten these accomplishments. They have lain dormant for over twenty years between the pages of old high school annuals and tattered scrapbooks stashed somewhere in the most insignificant reaches of our storage closet.

However, as my sons run back and forth across the hardwood, I feel a familiar sense pride that came from playing ball in my younger days as it fuses with this new pride derived from watching my boys mimic these same interests. It’s these sorts of mirrored patterns that link fathers and their children together. Yet at the same time, just as a reflection is reversed, so too are these roles in that the perspectives have changed.

As a high school athlete, my concerns consisted of how to break down a full-court press and anticipating which corner of the goal an opponent was aiming for on a penalty shot. The focus was on performance and winning—simple and straightforward. As a parent, though, I suddenly recognized the host of considerations and worries that go through your mind watching your child take to the field.

Recently my 8 year-old stepdaughter asked if she could play volleyball after watching her older cousin play in a big tournament. My wife and I thought it would be a good way to build her confidence, but as we checked out the nearby teams for kids to join, I was surprised at how competitive these leagues were. (That and how flippin' short their shorts are!) Apparently, according to my stepdaughter’s aunt 8 to 10 is exactly the age girls start training seriously if they want to play in college.

Why so intense so early? I remember talking to guys from other schools during summer basketball camps, and they would complain about being so burnt out from playing. Burnt out? I didn’t even know what that meant, but then they told me about extra practices they had to attend during the off-season, and traveling leagues, and then here they were at one of the several camps they had been signed up for by their coach. It was basketball 24/7, 365 days a year. Ironically, these guys always seemed to be hurt, knees, back, shoulders—and it wasn’t hard to understand why. No pain, no gain as the cliché goes, begging the question as to how much of a factor is this when high school players suffer from dehydrated, a concussion, or worse. If my kids get a coach like this, what will I do to ensure their safety?

And there are other things I wonder about too, like when to push the kids and when do I back off? I resolved a long time ago not to be that parent who tries to make their children into being something they’re not or don’t want to be. My oldest son who’s 12 has zero interest in sports, as opposed to his brother who’s a natural athlete. And then there’s my youngest—his signature move is sprinting to the complete opposite side of where the action’s at and then do a swan dive onto the floor. Talk about your head not being in the game, his isn’t even in the gym. (But he is having a heck of a lot of fun in the video ...until the poor little booger gets it in the face with the ball.)

I know the answers here might seem obvious, but I could not have cared less about kicking a ball around until someone gave me a bit of a nudge when I turned 13. Who knows how my life would’ve ended up without the self-esteem I gained from playing sports. Will any of my boys need that same nudge at some point?

I realize that maybe this sounds a little premature on my part. I mean, after all, I was watching a bunch of 7 and 8 year-olds mobbing whoever had the ball the way goats at a petting zoo do to people who enter the pen holding a handful of grain over their head. Even so, the fact that these considerations didn’t even exist in my mind until this moment is what caught me off guard. Sometimes we as parents tend to make assumptions, not intentionally, but rather as a lapse in awareness. Then we find ourselves in the middle certain situations thinking, “How did I not think of this before?”

That’s the thought that hit me as I stood there videotaping my son tossing the ball into the net. “Dad, Dad! Did you see that?” he said running back on defense. “Were you watching?”

I held up the video camera and laughed. “Uh, yeah, whadda ya think I was doing with this thing? I was totally watching.” And I’ll be watching you and your brothers in all sorts of ways because looking out for your wellbeing is my job.

* * *

This post was sponsored by Safe Kids USA in conjunction with Johnson & Johnson. Safe Kids is an organization dedicated to child safety “at home, at play, and on the way.” April 19 – 22 has been designated as Safe Kids Week, an annual nationwide event introduced by Safe Kids USA and founding sponsor Johnson & Johnson in 1988. This multifaceted public education campaign is created each year to help parents and caregivers understand a different part of childhood injury prevention.

On May the 2nd at 12PM EST, Safe Kids USA will be airing an educational webcast about sports injury prevention.

The webcast be streamed live on the Safe Kids Facebook Page and will be hosted by:

• Dr. Angela Mickalide, CHES, Director of Research and Programs, Safe Kids Worldwide
• Dr. Douglas Casa, Director of Athletic Training Education, University of Connecticut
• Dr. Gerard Gioia, Chief, Division of Pediatric Neuropsychology and Safe Concussion Outcome, Recovery & Education (SCORE) Program at Children's National Medical Center
• Steve Young, former NFL Star Quarterback and On-air Talent ESPN (and this guy knows about concussions)

To mark this webcast on your calendar, you can RSVP at the Safe Kids Facebook Event Page

* * *

Disclosure: In accordance with FTC regulations I am required to disclose that I was compensated monetarily for this post by Johnson & Johnson; however, payment for services does not represent an endorsement of their products by myself as the creator of Clark Kent’s Lunchbox.

Rumors Surrounding the Formation of a Secret Dad Blogger Summit Confirmed at Mom 2.0

2011-04-19T16:13:00.012-05:00

NEW ORLEANS—Late last week rumors alluding to formation of a secret society of dad bloggers were confirmed at the Mom 2.0 Summit which took place in New Orleans, Louisiana. During the mom blog convention’s closing remarks, Doug French (aka Laid Off Dad) and John Pacini announced the creation of Dad 2.0 Summit, a shadowy male-oriented organization in the same vein as the Masons and the Stonecutters. Aside from sharing that Dad 2.0 (@Dad2Summit / Facebook ) will convene for its first annual meeting in March 2012, French and Mays provided minimal details, fueling the bounty of speculation that had already existed among conspiracy theorists, cryptozoologists, and FOX news commentator, Glenn Beck.

Chevy Texas kindly lent me a GMC Terrain for the trip

However, as part of my continuing investigation into the corrupt underbelly of the parent blogging-industrial complex, I once again infiltrated the Mom 2.0 Summit disguised as the mild-mannered blogger behind Clark Kent’s Lunchbox, and what I managed to uncover during my time in the Big Easy was telling.

From the moment I set foot inside the Ritz Carlton Hotel and strolled along its marble floors and paneled walls, it was clear Kirtsy founders Carrie Pacini and Laura Mayes had put together a top-notch event of the highest caliber, which immediately piqued my journalistic curiosity. Certainly a site with a sole function of aggregating information supplied by mom bloggers couldn’t have orchestrated such a gathering without the outside support of some silent backer or backers. Running through the possibilities, I jotted down several of the most credible theories, which included the Chinese Triad, National Public Radio, and Wisconsin Governor, Scott Walker, either working separately or together.

(R-L) Whit Honea, JCO, Me, Beta Dad, Clay Nichols

Before I could prove the existence of these connections, though, I had to keep up my cover by attending conference’s opening reception and later, the speaker’s dinner. If I squealed out loud upon seeing some of the biggest and most respected names in the mom blog community, it’s only because I was trying to maintain my ruse as a bumbling, unmemorable representative of the Y chromosome with kids and a URL, a feat I managed to pull off by awkwardly engaging the likes of Eden Kennedy (Fussy), Alice Bradley (Finslippy), Aimee Giese (Greeblemonkey), Laurie Smithwick (LeapDesign, Kirtsy), Anissa Mayhew (Free Anissa), and a litany of others. Not since Donny Brasco penetrated the inner workings of the Mob, has someone ever fooled so many so completely for so long.

Thankfully dad bloggers such as Beta Dad, Father Muskrat, Bobble Head Dad, Clay Nichols, Whit Honea, and John Cave Osborne were in attendance, allowing me to further fade into the backdrop as we stood together in a loose gaggle during many of the social events much like seventh-grade boys hanging out in the corner of the gymnasium during school dances. Later in the evening, however, we made a rapid advancement through puberty, acting closer to college fraternity brothers as we worked our way down Bourbon Street. (New Orleans must have a magical Benjamin Buttons-in-reverse effect on the aging process because all of us relived our teens, our twenties, and upon waking up the next morning, our sixties in under 24 hours.)

A Confederacy of Dunces or Dad Bloggers?

Day two was filled with a number of breakout sessions, and my journalistic senses told me that if I wanted to confirm the existence of any male secret societies, attending the dad blogger meetings would be my best bet. My hunch here proved to be right, and I was stunned that French, who played a major organizational role in this event, was not the least bit shy in referring to these discussions as the “Dad 2 point oh” tracks. What followed was even more disturbing, and I barely could keep up with my notes as men and women on the panels spoke to full rooms about such topics running ads for the Nazi party on your site, utilizing exploitative capitalistic practices on your site, and embedding secret codes within blog posts that will help keep the Declaration of Independence out of the hands of Nicholas Cage, who was arrested later that night by New Orleans police. Coincidence? I think not.

In session one Jim Griffioen of Sweet Juniper and Jon Armstrong, who, as the executive director of the dooce empire, many consider to be the parent blogging equivalent to media mogul Rupert Murdock, joined French in a conversation dealing with building your brand through content and extending your reach beyond the niche community. The underlying message to me was clear: find and enlist more converts for the secret society.

This panel was then followed by a moderated discussion lead by the famously intelligent Catherine Conners of Her Bad Mother in which author John Cave Osborne, Dad-Centric contributor Whit Honea, and the mysterious blogger known only as BetaDad shared what they felt the roles of fatherhood were within the context of their blogging experience. Tensions flaired momentarily when Honea, threw down his microphone and kicked over a chair as he talked about his family. Later it was learned that the move was meant as a joke to distract the audience from noticing the tears forming as he got a little choked up about the topic. Even so, Honea’s beard and ties to the Pacific Northwest, in my mind, had al-Qaeda sleeper cell written all over it.

Higley, Chase, Ross, & poser

In the final panel, the question of, “Do Dads Want What the Moms Have” was raised by Edelman PR’s and The Exceptional Man writer Caleb Gardner. The question was then batted around by Jim Higley (Bobblehead Dad), Renee Ross (Cutey Booty Cakes), Kristen Chase (Cool Mom Picks, Motherhood Uncensored), and, through masterful undercover skills, myself. (I will admit to almost blowing my cover when Chase, who also wrote the The Mominatrix's Guide to Sex: A No-Surrender Advice Book for Naughty Moms, pulled out a crocheted pair of male genitalia in front of me and then proceeded to use them as a finger puppet. Having grown up in rural America, I’ve attended my share of craft fairs overrun by crocheted doilies and Kleenex box covers, but never has the sight of yarn ever subconsciously caused me to cross my legs until now.)

What 6AM looks like with beer

The first full day then gave way to an evening of social gathers hosted by sponsors such as Truvia, Lego, Dole, PBS Kids, TiVo and others. Here, I thought, is where the real deals go down as bloggers and brands exchanged envelopes containing crisp stacks of hundred dollar bills, and discussed ways of pimping products via the internet. My hope was to find evidence of companies interested in enlisting financially desperate dad bloggers as a sort of “e-mule” if you will, that would carry the company’s products on their personal blogs much in the same way the drug cartels use college students to smuggle goods across the border.

Despite my efforts however, I saw nothing of the sort, only groups of people sincerely enjoying themselves. My suspicions were briefly aroused coming across the likes of French around 3AM at the Ritz’s courtyard as he concocted unheard of cocktails such as “The Louisiana Purchase” (Jamison whiskey mixed with the cleaner CLP) for a group that included IzzyMom, Chicky Chicky Baby, and several of the dads. But if I thought by joining this group I’d be privy to a planning session for a secret society, I was wrong as this band of merry pranksters turned out to closer to a bunch of Beatnik bloggers than anything else. By 6 AM, after joining Honea, BetaDad, and Father Muskrat for one more beer, I figured this to be a dead end, and I retreated to my room.

The third day turned out to be just as unproductive in rooting out information for my research. That afternoon I tailed BetaDad and Lesbian Dad to the eastern side of New Orleans where volunteers were building a community playground as part of the Let’s Play initiative. Let’s Play is a partnership formed by Dr. Pepper Snapple and the good people of KaBoom as an advocacy program aimed at getting kids more physically active. Turns out, my ability to assemble wooden park benches resulted in me producing something close to Escher’s Never Ending Staircase. Fortunately, the kids didn’t seem to notice based on the joy in their faces after seeing the playground they had designed, come to life before their eyes. (sniff!)

The conference officially closed out with a keynote panel on the future of media as viewed by some of the most accomplished and intelligent women in the business—Vanessa Holden, Margaret Gould Stewart, Sarah Bryden-Brown and Andrea Wishom. It was right after this that the Dad 2.0 initiative was announced as well as news that filmmaker Doug Block’s documentary, The Kids Grow Up, which follows his daughter as she grew from a child to young adulthood, would be released nationally this Father’s Day on HBO.

Armed with confirmation that the Dad 2.0 secret society actually was in the works, I pushed my way deeper into the inner workings of the community landing an unexpected invite to do a reading at the conference’s final social event, a Red Cross fundraiser sponsored by Tide laundry’s Loads of Hope program. It was more than a little unnerving to be amongst a roster of writing talent that included such well-known names as Liz Gumbinner, Alice Bradley, Eden Kennedy, Maggie Mason, Megan Jordan, and, of course Heather Armstrong.

Richard Marx is making a comeback

However, despite extreme nervousness, my persistence seemed to pay off as I came across a strange white powder while waiting backstage. Ah ha! Loads of Hope is actually Loads of Dope! Unfortunately, after realizing I would be immediately following The Bloggess, arguably one of the funniest women on the web, my anxiety got the best of my and I snorted two lines of this powder before realizing it was actually the spilled contents from Tide laundry detergent samples.

From that point on the evening was a blur but according to the eyewitness accounts of my fellow Aiming Low compadres, Faiqa Khan and Britt Reints, who graciously cheered me on, I did okay despite loudly announcing that Richard Marx would be making a 12-city comeback tour this summer. I took their word for it seen as how the only thing I can recall is flashbacks eerily similar to that of Burt Reynolds, Dom DeLuis and Sammy Davis Jr. dressed as belly dancers at a bordello in the movie Cannonball Run 2.

Final Thoughts: The Mom 2.0 Summit proved to be highly professional and well organized event. I thought it appropriately symbolic that a gathering of the parent blog community’s most elite and accomplished women took place in New Orleans, which also served as the backdrop for Kate Chopin’s novel, The Awakening, a literary classic with a core theme that centers on women defying archaic societal expectation.

However, it was disappointing that in a city commonly associated with voodoo, political corruption, and the assassination of JFK, I was unable to compile more details about the secretive Dad 2 Summit. Questions still exist as to conference’s whereabouts, but unconfirmed sources claim that Da Vinci Code-like symbols in blog posts will reveal the answer to “true believers,” and Fruit of the Loom, as one of the sponsors, will be supplying the hooded cloaks conference attendees will be required to wear during all ceremonies including the singing of the supposed members-only theme song (a blatant rip off of the video below).

Who knows where Big Foot’s found?
Who keeps NASA on the ground?
We do! We do!

Who controls MTV?
Who really owns AIG?
We do! We do!

Who knows where LOST’s survivors are?
Who makes Seth Rogan a star?
We do! We do!

Who keeps the Cubs from being champs?
Who makes Midol for your cramps?
We do! We do!

Will Dad 2.0 as a stand-alone conference be a success, erasing any previously created doubts? That depends on a number of factors, the biggest being dad bloggers’ willingness to take the same leap moms have in becoming successful. However, through the efforts of Doug French and John Pacini, the Dad Track sessions at the Mom 2 Summit proved to be an overall success, and with them at the helm for the Dad 2 Summit, I believe it has the best chance of establishing the professional footprint of dads as part of the parent blogging community.

Daddy Blogging is for "Losers"

2011-04-13T13:27:00.000-05:00

I’ll be the first to admit that telling people, especially other men I was a daddy blogger brought on a flush of embarrassment. Granted part of this had to do with the fact I was more or less unemployed, and every post I spent an hour putting together carried with it the feelings of guilt associated with knowing this could’ve been an hour spent job hunting. I remember making small talk with some of the guys at my wife’s former employer during their Christmas party around a year and half ago. Invariably, this sort of clunky chit chat that occurs between sips of bottled beer wrapped in damp cocktail napkins includes two questions: “So, do you golf?” and, “What is it you do?”

Well, you see, I got this daddy blog, Mr. Potter.

Within the right group, wanting to know what someone does for a living can be a genuine means of getting to know one another. In this situation, however, such an inquiry was guy-code for, “How big is your pecker?” This is typical of douchey males whose large, salary-fueled egos are inversely proportionate to the size of their genitalia, and at the moment I stood smack dab in the middle of the largest concentration of douche bags this side of a Masengill production facility.

How exactly does one explain to the VP of an investment banking firm that your career consists of cranking out silly stories about being a stay-at-home dad? Well you see, I’ve got this daddy blog. Big future in blogging—real growth industry.

With the myriad of options available to me, I chose something classic with a touch of mystery on the side. “I’m a writer.”

“Oh, a writer. I see.” He seemed almost impressed. “And what kind of writing? History? Politics?”

“Creative non-fiction.”

And here’s when the VP’s tone changed to that of a father disappointed his son decided to be an interpretive dancer instead of heart surgeon. “Creative non-fiction? What’s that?”

“Essays—opinions and observations on different topics.”

“Like?”

“Mostly parenting and fatherhood.”

The expression on his face told me I needed to check out the superfluous nipple that had somehow magically appeared on my forehead. Call me a social suicide bomber, but often when I’m in a conversation where I’m made to feel not good enough, I tend to lob out any ol' answer hoping something I say will reestablish my credibility. This is where I mentioned my regular writing gigs, my blog, and my upcoming book.

“A book? Is it a novel?”

“No, it actually based on my daddy blog.” High-pitched whistling. Big explosion. Textbook crash-n-burn executed flawlessly.

“Well, I’ll have to check that out. Now if you’ll excuse me.” Everything about his body language and departure signaled that he could only tolerate being in the presence of losers like gas station attendants, fast food servers, and Bachelor of Arts majors for so long. I think it’s safe to say dad bloggers just made the list.

In hindsight, I should’ve lied about my golfing prowess. You could be changing out tubs of expended salad topics on the buffet table at Golden Corral for a living, but with the right golf handicap, the fact that you’re making minimum wage is suddenly immaterial. To guys like the ones above, mad golfing skills can add a couple of inches to your pecker quicker than OD’ing on a bottle of ExtenZe. Unfortunately, those who’ve been on the fairway with me and have the bruises to prove it can attest to my shortcomings in swinging wood on 18 well-manicured holes. Cue slide whistle.

* * *

Fast forward to ten months. I’m sitting with several lawyers and businessmen when the topic of parenting comes up. I make a few comments on the matter which in turn leads to, “So, Ron what is it you do?”

This time, rather than dance around the answer like coked-out Michael Flatley in a saloon full of trigger-happy cowboys, I mention my blog up front.

“A daddy blog. Is that like a mommy blog?” one of them asks.

“Mommy blogs. I’ve heard of those,” another chimes in.

“Yeah, mommy blogs—what exactly are those?” the third guy wants to know.

Hey gents, did I mention I have an eight handicap?

I answered their questions by first defining the term “mommy blogger” as a marketing reference used to categorize a particular niche demographic, not a gaggle of women with kids and internet access.

“Oh, I thought it was just a bunch of moms trying to sell crocheted tissue-box covers and bitchin’ about their husbands,” the attorney says.

Not quite. Then I gave everyone a quick rundown on what mom bloggers have accomplished over the past few years—negotiating major media deals, building ad networks, running marketing consultancies, influencing major brands, book deals, TV appearances, and the list went on. This seemed to get their attention.

“And so you’re doing this too, but as a dad?”

“Well, yes …sorta.” That last part warranted some explaining. “Dad’s aren’t at the level moms are. There’s a bit of a gap.” I went on to out some of why that was which then lead into sharing a few business models bouncing around in my head. Somewhere over the course of this I mentioned how Chevy has lent me cars to go traipsing around the country in, and my roles as a brand ambassador for Let’s Play (in conjunction with Dr. Pepper) and Carnival Cruise Lines.

“So lemme get this straight,” one of them asks. “Carnival just sent you and your family on a vacation to the Caribbean and all you had to do was write about it on your blog?”

I started grinning. “There were a few other things involved, but, yeah, that’s basically it.”

All of the guys stopped for a moment. Then one of the businessmen says—and I kid you not, “You know, I’ve been thinking about starting a blog for a while now.”

Well, give me a shout when you do, buddy, and I’ll see if the people at ExtenZe would like to have you do a product review for them.

* * *

So what was the difference in these two conversations? The difference was me and how I viewed daddy blogging and subsequently presented it to these other men who otherwise, could not have cared less. With my investment banker buddy, I talked of it as a creative endeavor—my writing pursuits. Among those other chaps, however, I spoke within the context of the business elements associated with parent blogging.

Why the switch? Even though I put a lot of effort into blogging, the former business executive side of me kept me from taking what I was doing seriously. Sure, I picked up some paid writing jobs and got a book published, but none of this was going to yield the serious income needed to pay the bills. But, somewhere in between the two above situations I was struck with a blinding flash of the obvious: the real earning potential comes, not directly from a blog itself, but rather from the opportunities created as a result of that blog.

There are exceptions of course, but a key component to these few bloggers’ success is a high number of sustainable traffic, and face it dads, we don’t have that going for us. According to Blog Rank, of their list of the Top 50 Parent Blogs, only two are written solely by dads—Daddy Types and The Father Life. (There are two more that are co-written by couples.) Assuming their data is correct (and stats are always up for debate), then I’m going to make a broad leap and say that receiving large bags stuffed with cash from pay-per click campaigns and selling ad space isn’t in the stars for us dads.

What then is? Well, that’s the real question, but even more fundamental is what do we dads really offer to the parent blogging niche that differentiates us from the moms while still bringing added value to the table. I mean, if we don’t have the large audiences and the corresponding influence to go with it, then what do we have? (Don't anyone dare say a list of Top 25 Dad Blogs.) I have my own opinions here, but for the sake of discussion, I’m going to leave that question open to debate for readers.

Before I say anymore, I should probably clarify that not every dad out there with a blog cares about the business aspects of blogging, and so I don’t mean to unfairly lump them into this conversation. These guys blog purely because they enjoy their role as fathers as well as the opportunity to interact with other dads who feel the same. The one thing I will say, though, is that as I explore more of the business boundaries of blogging, this great bunch is a touchstone that keeps me mindful of why I started posting in the first place.

However, for those dads who view blogging as a profession in one way, shape or form, I’m curious as to where we’re headed with all of this. My concern (and that might be too strong of a word for it) is that in the wake of attention gained during the “Year of the Daddy Blog,” we dads could fail to capitalize on that momentum in YoDB + 1, and thus, end up being viewed as some form of anomalistic appendage to the mom blog marketing demographic rather than a separate, viable entity that enhances the community.

Granted, I might be off my rocker here (that happens a lot), but given the off-line conversations I’ve had with both moms and dads, there is more than enough consensus here to justify such thinking. It’s not enough (or in my view, professional) for us dad bloggers to thump our chests and demand that brands and marketers grant us their attention. Even if they do, at some point these companies and firms will want to see a return on their investment, and what will that be?

So, on the eve of Mom 2.0, arguably the most serious business-oriented of the mom blogger conferences, where several dads including myself have been granted the opportunity to speak on such topics, these are the questions I am wondering about. Admittedly, there’s a part of me that’s somewhat intimidated to be entering into a dialogue with such an accomplished and savvy gathering of women who are having highly intelligent debates about what they are earning from and as a result of their blogs while we dads, as a whole, are still trying figuring out how to not just successfully monetize our blogs, but to also take advantage of larger possibilities that arise because of our blogs.

In the meantime, I keep having this reoccurring nightmare that halfway through the panel session I’m a part of, I inexplicably start talking about my golf game and then realize I forgot to wear pants.

The Asshole in Me

2011-04-10T14:32:00.002-05:00

*** Warning: This post contains a lot of strong language. I'm justifying it as "stylistic effect." ***

Hank Moody, Don Draper, and ...Superman?

The other night I was telling my wife Ashley about an idea I had to start an anonymous blog where I would be a complete asshole, but yet still arrive at the generally correct conclusions on the chosen topic. For instance, I’d claim to envy Charlie Sheen for being able to balance porn stars and fatherhood before alluding to the imminent downfall of such a lifestyle. That’s not a perfect example, but as I explained things further to her, my ultimate motivation for such a project came down to a feeling that I had pigeonholed myself as a writer into this wholesome, Clark Kent-like persona specializing in cutesy, mildly amusing stories about life as a stay-at-home dad.

My impetus for such an idea was spurred on by my attempt to catch up on the current season of Californication, which if you’ve never watched, follows the infamous exploits of the well-intentioned, yet decidedly fucked up writer Hank Moody (played by David Duchovny). For brevity’s sake, I’ll skip all the (many) gory details except to say that Hank is a complete asshole who truly loves his teenage daughter and her mother, but has a penchant for poor decision-making when it comes to booze, drugs and other women. To give you an idea, Hank is now on trial for statutory rape, but even thought the charge is technically true, it’s not his fault …kinda.

I’m not sure what it is, but like a lot of people, I’m fascinated by male characters who straddle the duality of being both genuinely good and morally flawed at the same time. Don Draper (Jon Hamm), the 1960’s ad exec with lady-killer looks and a troubled past on TV’s Mad Men is another one who falls into this category. The guy cheats on his wife as often as he drinks (which is a lot), and yet still proves to be a good father along the way.

The aspect of characters like Moody and Draper that I marvel at is how they can exhibit remorse while weathering the consequences of their bad behavior only to turn around and make the same poor choices all over again. And here’s the real kicker—we continue to love them in spite of it and so do the characters they hurt over and over again.

Watching these shows, I’ve wondered to myself what it must be like to play the part of an asshole—I mean for real. This question has been so strong of late that it has since brought on the sudden impulse to suck down a handful of Marlboros, reserve a copy of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas at the library, and place an order at my sister’s Etsy shop for a vintage electric typewriter on which I planned to write really fucked up shit that I would then scan into my computer and use for my new, in-your-face blog.

Ashley, however, didn’t think this to be such a hot idea. This sort of annoyed me, partly because she was so sure in her feedback, and partly because the UPS guy would be showing up any day now with an 80-pound, Smith Corona from the 1970’s. She conceded that it would be a lot of fun to unleash my inner Hank Moody on the world, but she’s also known a lot of people who have gone this route and wound up taking on that make-believe role a little too seriously. She continued her thoughts by asking why I needed to be anonymous all of a sudden. Why not just write honestly on the blog I already have? Ashley then named off a handful of popular bloggers known for being candid without being complete jerks about it.

My wife’s reasoning, whether I wanted to admit it or not, was sound. The secret identity aspect already bothered me to a slight extent well before I mentioned anything to her. Remaining anonymous to protect your family’s privacy is completely understandable, remaining anonymous just so you can say whatever you feel like without impunity felt somewhat cowardly. I mean, it’s easy to flip someone off from behind the steering wheel of a moving vehicle after they cut you off, but how likely would you be to give that someone the bird if they did the same thing on the way to the check-out line? How is this any different online?

Even so, her point about using my better known blog to sharing my honest opinions, no matter how controversial, failed to convince me completely. Previous posts taking jabs at topics such as daddy blogging and politics didn’t go over so well, and in fact, probably caused me to lose readership. Cutesy stories mixed with the occasional heart-felt piece about life and fatherhood is safe and unlikely to raise other people’s ire. It’s that kind of content that has helped get me paid writing gigs so why take the risk of scaring people off with my blistering commentary?

But where then do I write about the tough issues? Where do I take on controversial aspects of politics, parenting, society and pop culture, and do so unapologetically? Where can I be bold and unabashed in challenging mouthy dads who demand respect while doing nothing to prove they deserve it, or feminists tripe that rails against men while using backlash emotions to ignore the truth? Hank Moody and Don Draper wouldn’t back down in speaking their minds and the masses would cheer them on. Me? I’d be deemed a first-class nut case, earning a labeled of the “Gary Busey of Daddy Bloggers.”

* * *

Last night, Ashley told me that my stepdaughter, Allie was upset over some boy telling her she was ugly. Apparently, according to the teachers, this boy is the most popular kid in the third grade and everybody wants to be him.

I wasn’t impressed. “Sounds like a punk-ass bitch to me,” I said.

“Allie thinks he was just joking around,” my wife added.

Hank would approve. My wife, not so much.

I took this to mean Allie was making excuses for the little turd because she wanted him to still like her, and I responded with a few unrepeatable thoughts Hank Moody style. This in turn garnered a stern rebuke from Ashley. Winning!

Throughout life, I’ve always hated those guys who intentionally acted like jerks knowing women would fling themselves at their feet in an attempt to seek male approval. No way was I letting my stepdaughter fall into that bullshit cycle, especially this early in life. I pictured myself lighting up a cigarette and telling her verbatim that she should walk straight up to that boy and nut-punch him as hard as she could. Then I'd tell her that boys like him are nothing more that weak pussies who grew up to be selfish assholes that continually fucked over the people they claim to love. Ironic.

* * * * *

At the bus stop the next morning, I said nothing of the sort. Instead, I told her that she was the prettiest girl in her class and she should ignore any boy who says differently. Plus, those boys qualified as being so stupid natural selection would take its course and they would die early age anyway ...or at least they'd have to repeat the third grade. Okay, the last part I didn’t say either, but I sure as hell wanted to.

The good vs. evil in Superman

By the time we walked out the door, however, I had already accepted the fact that I’m not an asshole (not intentionally at least). I have made basically good choices in my life, and of the many poor ones, I’ve learned from them. I love my family through my actions, which means I don’t have to sift through the frequent guilt that would come as a result of hurting them all the time by being a jerk regardless of my altruistic, yet misguided intentions.

I am not Hank Moody, or Don Draper or any other fucked up character in TV-land, and trying to be otherwise would be like that part in Superman III where the “Man of Steel” turns evil. Talk about weird, it’s bizzaro watching the Big Blue Boy Scout go from Superman to super jerk as he proceeds to get sloshed in a bar, hit on women, and blow off those in need. It's something as a coincidence for me that this asshole-e-o behavior came to a head during a mildly existential fight scene between Superman and his wholesome alter ego, Clark Kent. Clark of course wins, restoring the world greatest superhero back to the guy who fights for truth, justice and all that other wholesome, American stuff.

There is, however, some commonalities that Hank Moody, Don Draper and Clark Kent all share. They know right from wrong; they love and fight for their families; they’re bold and passionate about what they believe; and they don’t sacrifice their basic identities to become something they are not. To me, these are the essential fundamentals for being a good man in today’s modern culture. If nothing else, that at least makes watching assholes somewhat redeemable.

Now, what to do with this carton of Ultra Lights and that monstrosity of a typewriter due to hit my doorstep any day now?

* * * *

Comments about my drivel always welcome