Weep for me. I SAID WEEP.

We parents are a shifty bunch. We make single people feel bad about their freedom, and all the sex they get to have, and we allegedly do not (I'm not implying anything, I'm just saying people I know keep having kids, so SOMETHING'S got to be goin' on, right?), and all the sleeping in they get to do. And even within our own tribe there are hierarchies and prejudices - working moms, non-working moms, fathers who are more and less involved, parents who can't wait to smoke up until their kid is asleep and end up hiding in a closet with their bong made out of a PBR can - cataloging these subgroups is way too much trouble.

But I'm here today to dispel a particularly insidious and effective myth. And that is the MYTH OF THE GUILTY DAYCARE DROPOFF.

The conventional wisdom goes something like this: Mom or Dad drops off Child at daycare or preschool, and Child proceeds to pitch a fantastic fit. Screaming, lunging precariously out of teachers' arms, full-on tantrum on the floor with punching and kicking and snot and tears. Mom or Dad, after bearing this outburst with a saint's patience, kiss their child goodbye and walk out the door, looking to one and all like they've made a tremendous sacrifice -

"Good for you, helping your child learn the value of independence, and time away from his/her parents! It's so tough, but you're a modern parent! You HAVE to work, otherwise you'd totally be with your child 24/7. You must be a VERY strong person. I am in awe, sir/ma'am!"

Balderdash.

That tantrum is a point of pride. Sure, we have to look all distressed and anxious as we walk away - gosh, I hope s/he's ok without me! However will s/he handle the day without his Mumsy-wumsy? But deep down, we're cheering. Because that conniption is Exhibit A of our child's love.

If you're walking out of preschool, and your little Emma Bailey Aiden McFeminism-Smith isn't turning beet red and passing out, you're obviously a crappy parent. Maybe if you were more fun, or had better, non-plastic toys constructed by union workers at carbon-footprint-free factories, and fed your child hormone-free organic fruits and vitamin-infused soymilks and -cheeses, s/he would actually be said to see you go. Instead, they're all excited to go and bite that Asian kid, then hurt animals in a blatantly proto-serial killer sort of way.

Here's a hint if you want that awe-inspiring tantrum when you drop off your kid - tell him you're never coming back, and that his Mommy doesn't love him.

Oh, the tears will flow like rivers! And everyone will know what a great parent you are. Jealous much?

Is happiness a warm gun, or an electrified fence?

Sorry for the posting gap again. I've been debating whether or not to purchase a semi-automatic rifle, to protect my family from the roaming hordes that have begun terrorizing my neighborhood.

Let me take a step back.

I grew up in the suburbs (Glendale, WI, represent!). To me, people who looked their car and home doors were paranoid, or feral cityfolk. I thought you only had to worry about such things in places that also had sidewalks, and streetlights, and stoplights that kept working after 9 pm. Only suckers had to fence themselves off from their neighbors, was my firmly held 9-year-old belief.

Eventually, though, I moved to various cities, and learned the value of keeping my stuff safe. I also learned to never make eye contact on public transportation, to not flash your lights at a car without its lights on at night, never wear red or blue in public unless you want to be get wacked in a drive-by, and fuck the po-lice.

But for whatever reason, I thought Pittsburgh, specifically Squirrel Hill was different. It's the midwest! People are nice, obey speed limits, and are afraid of bridges and tunnels. Kids play ball in the street. People let you skip in line. Fathers will let you walk their young, nubile, naive daughter home at night, because you're such a nice-looking boy.

So I got sloppy. And I forgot the first rule of home safety - never expose bright shiny things to the seedy criminal element.

What I'm trying to say is, some fuckers stole our stroller.



It's not a TV. It's not a car. It's only the means by which I transport my child. No, these people aren't vile, scum of the earth. They are the lint from within my sweaty armpits. They are the goop from an infected ingrown toenail. They are weeping sores upon the testicles of society.

So what do I do? I'm locking everything up, tying everything down. I'm getting bulletproof glass for my car, and hidden machine guns in the headlights. I'm going to run an electric current through my grill so anyone who touches it gets 20,000 volts up the ass. I'm teaching child Kung-Fu, and giving Wife brass knuckles and a spiked bat. I'm having motion detectors put on my house, so anyone who approaches within 300 yards sets off piercing alarms and spotlights. I'm also training release the hounds with bees in their mouths so when they bark they spit bees at you (thanks, Homer, once again, for your brilliant insights).

So do I buy a gun, or what? Am I that guy? Do I have a rocking chair I can move to my porch and from which can eye suspiciously each and every passerby? Do I put my Glock in a locked case next to my bed, or get a thigh-holster and become a cowboy? Or one of those under-the-armpit bra-type thingies? Ankle holster? Attach it to an apparatus around my head? I need some good advice about joining the NRA.

Oh, and I have a kippah tan. That's right, because I'm bald, and whiter than Francis McKenzie Smithson, center for the Ku Klux Klan iter-racial basketball team (team name - the Alabama Pale Horses).

In Steeler Country, no one can hear you belch

I thought I would totally be down with Cally. I thought I could groove on their laid back vibe, float happily on their self-righteous extreme liberalism, gorge myself on their free-range tofurkey.

How very wrong I was.

I can never live in California. Not even San Diego, allegedly possessing the most wonderful weather on the planet. False. There is no snow, there aren't even clouds. There is only sunshine and smiling, tan people. And do you know why everyone is smiling? Because it sure as hell ain't natural. We had to shop for food for Child while we were there, and the supermarket we entered had a larger vitamin department than its food department.

But now I'm ready for Child to be rejected from every top university. It's because we abuse him by neglecting to provide him with invaluable supplements and boosters and Power Gels. There are Achievement Supplements (15 drops a day adds 1.6 IQ points, on average), Attention Focusing Minerals, and Brilliance Boosters! Whether this will lead to an epidemic of teenagers trying to inject extract of exotic insects sometime in the future, only time will tell (now that's a fun sentence to read out loud. Go ahead, try it. I'll wait.).

So for fear of superhuman overachieving insect junkies, we're not moving to San Diego. Also because it allows certain relatives to subject their 5-year-olds to acupuncture. Now don't think I'm one of those old-school folk who think acupuncture is hoodoo. One of my good friends is an acupuncturist, and he's not even one of the weird ones. But maybe wait on the needles until your kid is old enough to read? Perhaps. Just a suggestion.

A quick word on La Jolla. There are certain cities and neighborhoods whose property values make no sense whatsoever. Case in point - Skokie, IL. It should cost about $1.25 for those ugly ass houses. What an eyesore (sorry, Arica's parents. But then, that's why you're moving, isn't it?). Or Brooklyn. Or any of the non-Manhattan boroughs, for that matter. Someone would have to pay me to live there. To be fair, I'd make the same demand to live in Manhattan, but at least I understand why people like it there. It's exciting, and fun, and you never know who's going to assault you, or in what new and interesting way. Also, someone should take an eraser to Florida, and just start over. It's no wonder most of the residents are elderly - they're the ones who can't see how hideous their neighborhoods are.

But La Jolla makes sense. It's the most beautiful, most expensive place I've ever been to, and it's completely understandable. At least until an earthquake shakes it all away. But until then, you've got mountains, and coastline, and weather, and really hot women.

As much as I love Brother S, and new Sister...S (what can I say? They both have names that start with S), I can't live in LA. My profit motive just isn't that strong. Not even with Jeff's Gourmet Glatt Kosher Sausage Factory. And not even considering how great a gay porn title that would be. Because seriously, you should stop reading this right now, fly to LA, fill your mouth with a hot beef injection of cased meat, and feel awkward about how much you enjoy it. Then go back for more. Then get on a plane and go home, because you can't afford to live there.

Wife and I also went to Rodeo Drive, for Wife's Pretty Woman montage. I think we went into one store, and that was because we were lost, and needed directions. It's a little bit ridiculous.

Child, in case you were wondering, was fantastic. He slept, he ate, he flirted with anyone who made eye contact. He's a complete baby whore. Strangers don't even need candy to entice him into their cars. All they need is to play peekaboo, and he's gone. "Parents? I have parents? Hey look, a sketchy guy in a baseball hat! dadadadadadadadadadadadada!"

Brother S's wedding was fantastic. Smorg, molten chocolate cake, good scotch, smoking band, crazy, crazy people. And also beautiful bride, and flowers, blah blah blah. The corniness was effectively countered by wildly inappropriate honeymoon suite care packages. I feel dirty just thinking about what was in that bag.

And now we're back in Pittsburgh, where evidently a local sports franchise is competing in a high level match of epic proportion. I will say this for Steeler's fans: they're not nearly as annoying as Patriots fans. But I will miss rooting against those cheating, model banging bastards. Wait a minute - who said I have to stop rooting against the Pats? Or any Boston team, for that matter?

G-d, it's great to be back on the East Coast. Excuse me while I go chisel my car out of the ice and pay $15 for an avocado.

That's right, I eat avocados. What, you wannafightaboutit?

2 for the price of none - rejection, I knew ye only too well

You're such a wonderful audience, you're so great, I'm back for an encore today.

Let me say a few words about rejection. Personally and professionally I am intimately familiar with the word no. My interaction with the ladies before Wife was a multi-car pileup of unrequited adoration, a wonderfully varied story of friends and friends and friends and not a lot of heavy petting. And even when I did get the girl when I was starting out, it was always before they decided they liked bases 2-3 (4 being right out, as in the counting for the Holy Hand Grenade).



Later, I moved into the Friend Zone, where I established a truly magnificent estate, with rolling hills and endless vistas of really good friends with great smiles, heartbreaking eyes, and empty black hearts. Women, as a gender, have some serious creativity when they want to let you down easy. Or just let you down. Now they're all great stories -
"What the hell are you doing!" "
What if you have a really good friend that you want to be more than just a friend? Oh, that's sweet, you thought I was talking about you? Of course not, silly!"
"I know I said I'd go to the dinner with you, but I thought you were asking for a ride home. No, I'm not deaf. Why do you ask?"

ad infinitum, ad nauseum.

This is the part where Wife would come in and say "but you won in the end! Look, you've got me! And Child!" And all this is true. But for all the ladies who came before, you all sucked.

This wonderfully tragic trend continued into my professional life. Bizarre, convoluted scenarios played out around my job applications. Firms closed up shop, partner meetings were called for the first time in a firm's 50-year history, one firm swore they'd "have a final decision next week" for six months. For years I worked connections, networked, pressed flesh and put my game face on for crippling rejection after horrific blows to the ego.

Until yesterday.

Through a process of 12 - 12! - meetings, conversations with every one of my references, writing samples, and call after call from helpful connections, I got an offer for a job I really want. It's a community job, working for the Tribe in pursuit of "continuity," whatever that means. As for details, well, given the almost complete lack of filter I use on this site, certain things will have to remain a mystery, if only to protect myself and my organization. Suffice it to say that, just like when Wife gave in and decided to date me, this is well worth the wait, and the misery, and the stress, and the waiting, all the waiting.

As for all those other law firms and organizations? I happily wish you a year of venereal disease and flat tires on highways in the middle of traffic.

Different ways to "pop the question"

To celebrate America's birthday Brother S proposed to his lady friend, and she accepted. So they're getting married, which is fantastic. But really it was the way in which the question was asked that makes Brother S the man he is (man? He's 22. Is he a Mormon?).

See if you can guess which was his method:

Brief tangent: I know there's been a lot of lists here lately. Too many, in fact. So if you want, I can cut back, and only write solid posts that aren't set off by any sort of bullet point whatsoever. Or I can not care what you think and keep writing whatever I want. Second choice? Excellent.

- Alien crop circles spelling out his special lady's name, and actual little green buggers singing the wedding march in harmony as he etches the proposal into thin air.

- Pixies, harvested from the nearby wood, build a mindbogglingly intricate scaffolding of pure sunlight and spiderwebs. The webs catch the morning dew in such a way that Brother S and his chiquita's names, birthdates, and future life together are mapped out in pristine droplets of rain.

- A personal show of fireworks exploding against an inky black sky, proclaiming to the gods themselves the passionate and unassailable adoration felt by Brother S for his maiden fair. Then the question, spelled out in colored flame to connote the burning love in his heart. Flashbulbs, confetti, and drunkenness ensue.

Brief note #2: There are many possible nicknames for the Future Sister-in-Law. LA Gear, for those 80's nostalgics...and that's the only one that comes to mind right now. I'm sure there are others. It may take me a while to settle on one. Let's all recall what happened when I rushed into naming something like, I don't know, this very blog. What a terrible name. But now I'm stuck with it. Goes to show that I'm often a moron.

- Mermaids construct, over decades, a coral reef that spells out the proposal. In calligraphic Latin.

- Buddhist monks craft symbols representing Brother S, the lady, the day itself, America, and the stores at which the couple will register. These symbols are then painted all over the body of Brother S, who performs a kabuki monologue entirely in Mandarin, wearing nothing but the Chinese symbols.

- A bus pulls into town with a dozen sinister-looking guys in masks with guns. They corral everyone into the dining hall and proclaim that the entire camp has been taken hostage. Ransom will be four tons of barbecue beef, and 20 jerrycans of bug juice.

Sorry, that last one was Color War breakout. My bad.

- Brother S, having written an ode to his g-fry, has it translated into all known languages, and each copy is read simultaneously in a cacophony of love and betrothal. The resulting atonal poem becomes the one true method of declaring one's undying love for another, and must be pronounced before the beginning of each United Nations session.

- "Will U MarE Me?" is spelled out in barbecue sauce on the ground. The resulting swarm of mosquitoes gives the question a life of its own, a life of fleeting existence and vibrancy, but also itchiness.

- Already drunk, Brother S vomits on his woman. Looking up at her while wiping drool and chunky snot from his mouth, he flicks the ring at her, and says "you tell your pops that if it's not big enough, he can kiss my ass." Brother S completes the grand slam by passing out on his future mother-in-law's lap.

I think I'd have liked to see the pixies one, but I'll settle for the one he did. So Mazel tov, Hermano.

A little cheese with your post today?

You get 2 posts today because we who wear chic trousers are especially nostalgic, and heard about exciting fun happenings in our old Brookline hood. Damn you all for getting on with your lives.

Things I miss about Boston:

- Shabbos basketball. Nowhere else can a bunch of Jews roll up with strollers and ankle braces and own the court for an afternoon.

- Rooftop parties in Beacon Hill, where the only light comes from the streetlamps below, and you can end up having a half-hour conversation with someone whose face you never really see. It's like the adult version of a summer camp bonfire, only you get beer instead of burnt marshmallows.

- New babies. Sure, there are new babies in Pittsburgh. But no one I know is having them. Congrats, folks whose internet anonymity I respect.

- Trying to find friends who aren't smarter than me by several orders of magnitude, and happily failing on a regular basis. I could try tossing a few conciliatory words to the fine folks of Pittsburgh, but I'm not feeling up to it just now.

- Men's softball. The last oasis of chauvinism in the Commonwealth, where guys can get together and pull hamstrings and lose pop flys in the non-existent sun, then come home to the little lady and young'uns and make up fantastic tales of athletic prowess and glory. But odds are wifey is on call, or prepping a conference call with Tokyo, or saving affordable housing in Dorchester, so you just collapse on the floor and, with all the machismo in your being, ice your bum knee.

- Finding that the most conservative person in the room is really just apprehensive about big government, and truly a fan of individual liberties. And if he happens to be an incoming Supreme Court clerk, well that's just gravy.

- Ultimate Frisbee at Driscoll and Amory fields. This will be a longer post when the weather allows, but something about diving in the mud after a ridiculous toss by Sam the Vermont Hippie, just past the outstretched fingers of the Kinney, just feels like...home.

- Milk Street Cafe in Post Office Square. I think everyone in Boston misses this. Personally, when I inhale a sweet meatball sub and wash it down with fresh lemonade, I want to see everyone I saw over the weekend, all gussied up business style, serious in their power lunches.

- Pre-Shabbos drinks, which I lump in the same familiar, warm category as last minute dinner plans. But the dinner must be a mishmash of prefab side orders, a chicken recipe made up twenty minutes before candlelighting, and lots of wine.

- Barbecuing on a back deck. This may sound hoity-toity (now that's a phrase that deserves a new life) and "summering in Hyannisport"-ish, but if the deck is a garish blue, the entire structure is slowly peeling away from the building, and the whole thing looks out onto a beautifully ragged parking lot or a tiny tiny backyard, and is about three feet wide by ten feet long, then it's a little bit cozier. With a few beers, it's downright adventurous.

- Making really offensive jokes in the company of people who understand that I was raised by wolves, and therefore have no sense of tact, or place. To finish this off, some fine examples:

"Vote? Women shouldn't be allowed to read!"
"You already have a boyfriend, it's just that he's getting married to someone else."
"Basically, Cardozo is just a bad law school. You get a terrible education there. That's why I didn't go." (Said, it turns out, to someone who was starting there in the fall. It's a lovely school. Really.)
"Big firm lawyers are capitalist pigs."
"That's your grandmother? Why is she wearing an eyepatch? Is she a pirate? Yarrr!" (this one I'm really sorry for. I didn't know about cancer that can dissolve bone. I still feel terrible about this one.)
"Women who wear a kippah and tallis are almost exclusively lesbians." (This, I maintain, can still be debated by reasonable people.)
"If your husband is fine with it, Wife and I are always looking for new...frontiers."

Sure, there was context, and subtle inflection to indicate I was kidding. But it was nice to work with a safety net of friends who wouldn't kick me out if I was too obnoxious, because they knew I wasn't rude, just not very funny. That's probably what I miss most.

No time for love, Dr. Jones!

Harrison Ford is the paragon of American manhood. Smarter than John Wayne, more able to read ancient runes than George Clooney, not less attractive to women than his wife, like Brad Pitt. Better looking than Humphrey Bogart. Hairier than Bruce Willis. Not as whiny as James Dean. He has smaller ears than Will Smith (what? They're like wings for his head. That's not normal.). And he aged monumentally better than Sylvester Stallone. Sure, give me your Steve McQueens and your Robert Redfords and your Paul Newmans. I retort with two names: Han Solo; Indiana Jones. Neither of them had to eat 50 eggs, did they?

And for this we have to suck it up and thank George Lucas. Without him, Harrison Ford would be just some extra in Apocalypse Now. Well, maybe he'd have a movie career, but it might be more D.B. Sweeney-ish (Harrison Ford, starring in Cutting Edge 4: Wheelchairs on Ice! Catch it!).

So it is with a grim determination that I ignore the cutaways to freaked-out gophers in the new Indiana Jones movie. I adamantly look past Shia TheBeef swinging from vine to vine with his new monkey pals. And I swallow hard, and applaud the inevitable alien plotline.

Why do I do this? Shouldn't I be raking this 2 hour "thrillride" over the coals, trashing the waste of Cate Blanchett, rolling my eyes at the 1980's-style Soviet bad guys, banging my head against the obvious Indy-Mutt connection?

Spoiler digression - none of these are spoilers. If you can't predict any of this from the preview, you are either Child (who is 5 months old), or an Amish farmer. And if you're an Amish farmer who's been watching the Indiana Jones preview, you're going to hell.

Anyhoo, I can't do any of those things. Perhaps other critics will just add this to the abominations of the three Star Wars prequels, but I can't even bring myself to hate George Lucas for those. Because he made Star Wars. And Empire Strikes Back. And Raiders of the Lost Ark. And he made Harrison Ford. And he gave Mark Hamill his 15 minutes. And he gave Kevin Smith a reason to live. And he put Carrie Fisher in a metal bikini. And he made snakes scarier than Nazis.

So what did I think of the new Indiana Jones movie? In all, it was pretty sweet.

Just because I left doesn't mean I hate you

Boston friends of the Fancy Pants (who also, incidentally, favor stylish trousers) were mildly annoyed about the last post. Here then, as I sit in Wife's childhood bedroom in Pittsburgh, are things that made Boston peachy keen:

1) Dunkin Donuts everywhere. Turns out that not every city needs their donut fix on every block. Now where am I going to get my glazed stick? /cue penis joke

2) The Brookline Booksmith. Support your local independent book store. Find the owner, give him/her a hug. Buy a book. I recommend Human Smoke: The Beginnings of World War II, the End of Civilization, by Nicholson Baker.

3) Ice cream of all kinds. Frozen Freddy's for the portly and the lactose intolerant, Christina's in Cambridge, White Mountain Creamery in Newton, JP Lick's all over. Almost as many ice cream places as sushi joints. Sucks to Coldstone Creamery. Ice cream is not Japanese grilling - it is not more fun to watch it being made.

4) Red Sox fans. Because hating is fun. And not as easy from far away.

5) Washington Square: the Paris of Brookline. I don't know what it means, but I like an intersection that thinks big.

6) Pubs. Better than bars because they have Guinness on tap. And if you go to The Castle on BU's campus, they'll etch a shamrock into the foamy, perfectly poured head. Hooray for Ireland.

7) Chinatown. Say what you will about Boston's "ladies of the evening," but where else can you see someone getting head in the doorway of the American Cancer Society building?

8) The North End. Because it's always a rush yelling at a large, swarthy, hairy man for cutting in line for a canolli and getting shot because no one raises their voice to Tony the Forehead, mob fixer.

9) Man's Greatest Hospital. So amazing that every other health service location pales in comparison. Just ask someone who works there, they'll tell you.

10) Worcester. Leicester. Gloucester. Leominster. Peabody. Woburn. Haverhill. Billerica. These are not names of towns; they are shibboleths, they are code words.

11) The ladies of the WSM. Babes, you taught me that it's ok for some chick to not only speak in public, but to lead a community. Now maybe you girls have earned the right to vote. Or not.

I'm sure there are other things I'm forgetting (our friends, other cheesy nonsense) but these are the ones that come to mind.