Now That the Dust Has Settled...
I'm back from Cape Cod. And every day of my rainy vacation, I pondered what to write for Diaries. But for every draft I started, something else happened in the world that rendered it meaningless.
Then I said to myself, "Self, you can't just go and throw together a series of rants about public divorces and a flood of both expected and alarming celebrity deaths. That would go against my style. That would minimize what I'm trying to say.
That would be too easy.
But we still need to cover it. So, let's discuss the past ten days............in the form of nursery rhymes...
Jon & Kate
Little Ho Kate, has damaged her eight
'Cause TLC's crew had to mind them
Leave Jon alone, with nobody home
At the hotel bar is where you'll find him
Little Ho Kate is now filling with hate
'Cause her marriage has now gone to crap
To media she spoke, with nary a joke
About how Jon picked up young girls and the clap
Still, it appears on one day, Ho-Kate also strayed
While Jon quietly denied the burden
But soon they will see, post-paparazzi
That it's their eight children who are hurtin'
Michael Jackson
There was a crooked star
Who moonwalked a crooked mile
He owed a crooked fortune
And was a crooked pedophile
He bought a crooked doc
Who gave him crooked pills
And though Mike died while they were together
The crooked doc still headed for the hills
Now we see the crooked fans
Who write a ton of crooked prose
Who ignore Mike's crooked past
Who forget that crooked nose
In death, he is a crooked hero
In life, he was a crooked mess
His crooked behavior became the source of jokes
Not to mention his crooked way to dress
He dangled his child over a crooked rail
His crooked career ended with a flop
But somehow, despite all this crookedness
Death made us forgive the crooked King of Pop
Farrah Fawcett
Little Miss Farrah, bravely fought cancer
Wiling away her very last days
Along came the Thriller
Who died from painkillers
And stole Farrah's limelight away
Billy Mays
Old Salesman Billy
May have seemed silly
But throw the poor guy a bone
Before the man died
He brought honor and pride
To selling you crap for your home
He took a clean shirt
Smashed grapes that were ripe
Broke out the Kaboom
Stains gone in one wipe
He made Mighty Putty
A strong and powerful brand
It molded, it mended
It could be used with one hand
He went to the malls
Always made a big scene
Brown water turned magically clear
The power of Oxi-Clean
Old Salesman Billy is gone
No more infomercials to see
But where Old Billy is going
The shipping is always free
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See? Wasn't that better than me calling Kate Gosselin a shrew for the umpteenth time? Talk to you soon...
Cape Cod...Finally...
After five straight days of housebound rain, wind, cold, locusts and everything else that appeared at the end of the bible, we finally have sunshine here on Cape Cod.
When I return, I will be addressing the very real role of pop culture in the demise of a very fake TV couple...yes, I WILL be discussing Jon & Kate...but I assure you, it's not really about them.
I hope everyone is well. I have a date with a fishing pole, so I'll see you soon.
Daddyhood: One Year Later
This year, I get to celebrate Father's Day. And a week after that, my little turkey turns 1-year old.
Wow.
What a year.
I’m not going to lie, I wanted a girl from the outset. Everyone knew it, mostly because I never once fell into that cliched trap of saying, "I just want a healthy child." Bull -- parents always have a preference, and my preference was a little munchkin who followed me around with baby blues.
Mission accomplished.
But because I'm a guy, when she came out with a pair of X chromosomes, a small tinge of concern still hit me. It wasn’t that I didn’t want a girl (I did), or that raising boys would be easier (it isn't). It was just that I didn’t know how I would relate to, or help raise a person that will likely prefer tea parties to Transformers.
Despite my clear desire to have a "daddy's little girl," it was also easy to imagine how I would have brought up a boy. Strict, firm-handed discipline mixed with lessons of mountain biking, the Mets, full contact living room wrestling and practice in opening doors for people...the old fashioned way.
A girl on the other hand? The idea terrified me then, and often still does today. Images of puberty, nose rings, boy band concerts, awkward dad moments and the like made me wonder if I was up to the task.
Then Sophia was born.
My theories were immediately tossed out with the rest of the mess that came out my wife that morning. She was beautiful, and I quickly took to being her father. My heart melted inside me the first time I held her and in later months, when she said “Dada!” and held out her arms to get picked up.
That will be the only time she gets picked up, by the way. I have the padlock ready for my basement door.
Now, my daughter is just now becoming a toddler, so I know that I have many, many lessons still to learn. The teenage years still loom ahead like a storm on the horizon taunting me…with tongue piercings and flavored lip gloss and broken hearts from high school quarterbacks. But, even with only a short time under my belt, Sophia has taught me some incredibly important lessons that I never would have picked up had she not decided to stop by a year ago.
And because you asked nicely, here they are:
1) I am overprotective
Regardless of whether it has gone out of fashion in today’s society, deep in the heart of every man is a desire to protect his brood. Though I’m sure that this instinct is there with boys as well, the strong conviction I have to protect my daughter is greater than nearly anything I’ve felt in my life. It isn’t a feeling that has to be worked up; it’s just there, like a cinder block, or that important Jenga piece, daring someone to move it.
Taking on the protector role means carrying yourself a bit differently. Rather than wandering aimlessly downtown in search of the next bar, I now am more aware of my surroundings and where I am taking my baby. I also find myself a bit less sympathetic when other people’s actions invade my family’s life. A long time ago, I stayed in shape to look good (an epic failure if there ever was one). Now, I try to stay in shape in hopes of developing intimidation tactics for future boyfriends.
Yes, acne-covered fauxhawk boy, I will be cleaning my rifle whenever you stop by. And you might want to set that watch a few minutes ahead, just to be sure she's home when I say so.
2) She softens me
Despite my new NRA membership, I am still turned into a jiggling puddle of goo when she's around. Before Sophia, my compassion, patience and grace were all lacking. I had great pride in the discipline and efficiency through which I ran my life and home. These quasi-tough guy attitudes suddenly seemed a bit ridiculous as I would look into the eyes of my little turkey content with blowing raspberries, chasing the cat and eating copious amounts of...well...anything.
Now, let's be clear -- it's not like I start blubbering whenever a long distance commercial comes on, but every now and then I well up when the little bugger does something cute...even if it means finding lunch meat in my DVD player. My car used to be immaculate; now it has half chewed apple puffs strewn about the back seat. And I don't really care.
And besides, some of those AT&T ads are really well written.
3) Every girl is some man’s daughter
Until I had a daughter I gave this idea very little thought. But once I did, the office sexual harassment lectures became infinitely more compelling. The most recent one discussed pornography, sexual addiction and abuse, but as bad as those things are, only one comment caused the whole audience to stop hitting on their coworkers and become startlingly silent.
“Every time you choose to view pornography, attend a strip club, solicit a prostitute, or in any other way, treat a woman like a piece of flesh rather than a person, remember one thing: That girl is some man’s daughter.”
All the men sat silently. The ones with daughters trembled at the idea of some lech treating their daughter the way they once did. Chuckles left the airspace, replaced by awkward, apologetic glances toward every admin assistant in the room. It was cathartic.
On a side note, my computer is now virus-free.
4) Living for someone else
Marriage is the first lesson most of us receive in learning to live for someone other than ourselves. And just when we start to think we might have that down, children shatter all our notions of self-righteousness. Waking up at 3am; changing diapers that are one movement away from disintegrating; feeding every part of the baby but her mouth; etc…all these things were pivotal in forcing me to abandon (some of) my selfish habits.
And it's not like I wasn't warned. My daughter could care less about my well-planned Xbox schedule or whether or not I have a blog deadline. She told us from the outset that she would be wholly inconvenient.
And she's a girl of her word. Even if that word is indecipherable.
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To close, I know some of the things I've learned may differ from yours, but I sincerely doubt I'm alone on most. The important thing is that all the above lessons will be worth it the moment you open your cards and gifts, and see them signed in crayon, with a touch of Gerber's Veggie Medley on the envelope.
I'll get back to trying to be funny in a few days. But today I raise a glass to all the dads. New, experienced, single parents or fathers of multiples -- Happy Father's Day. We've earned it.
A Twitter Love Story
Over the years, I've received numerous emails asking me how I lucked out with such a great woman like Wifey. Most of the time, the questions are "How in the blue hell did a shlep like you manage to find a gal like her?" but all the same, it's a story that needs to be told.
Then -- during my week long professional summit -- it hit me. Times have changed, and communication has grown. If Wifey and I were to tell our story today, to our daughter, local college students, or that weird homeless guy who somehow has a Blackberry, how would we communicate it?
Probably like this...
And a relationship was born...
The Professor is Out...
Thanks to a professional summit, I'll be away from June 8-12, but back in the office next Monday.
In my absence, please review the reading list to your right, peruse my archives or simply hit "refresh" until I return.
When I return (or sooner, if I can muster up the energy at night) I will be addressing Twitter in a new way. It'll make sense when you see it - I promise.
Until then, enjoy the week...
An Open Letter to My Officemates
I often wonder what people did to really get up the craw of their co-workers in older times. Did they go and handle each other's slide rules with sticky fingers, or blow smoke into cracked open office doors? Maybe they would scratch the mimeograph roller putting creases in your copies. Regardless, I bet it was annoying.
This letter serves as notice to my coworkers that henceforth, any peer, manager, underling or otherwise semi-upright human being that breaks any of the following rules in my desk area is going to get hit. It might be a slap on the wrist, or a smack across the face, but it's coming.
So, the rules:
- Do not touch my monitor with your fingers.
Just don't. I have to sit here in my Picasso-designed office chair and stare at this cheap LCD all day to do my job. Having the remnants of your greasy hair or yesterday's dim sum on my monitor makes it hard to see the detail I need to do my job. Imagine I were to come to your car window and wipe a smudge of Vaseline over the center of your vision...with my ass. Yeah, it's like that.
Now, I know that you need to move your finger along when you read something, and I've noticed your lips moving too, but for the love of everything good and holy, can't you use the end of a pen or just hover your finger along? Is your depth perception not working? Can't you wear a glove? Do I look like I own stock in Windex? Next time you see fit to smudge my screen, I'm going to take that blue crap and pour it in latte, jackass. - Do not burp or pass gas in my office.
Hey guess what? I really can't stand the smell of your digestion. I'm sure you're proud you have the time to spend 90 minutes at lunch hangin' at that gyro joint, but I swear if you belch in my office one more time I am going to brain you with a travel mug.
Your gases, whether produced via mouth or ass, are not welcome in my area. If you feel the need to release the hounds, step into the hallway, go back to your own office, or stick your cannon into a vent. Your stench could melt the varnish off a coffee table. I think you need to reassess your fiber intake. Perhaps inhaling an entire box of bulgar flour isn't the best way to start your day. - Do not email me funny pictures you found on the Internet.
Look, I've been online since the early 90s and during this time, I've seen just about everything I want to see on the web. Please do not forward me the picture of the dog with human eyes, or the kids all sitting around drinking. I saw them the first time, back in 1994. And they weren't funny then. They just took longer to load.
Please consider jokes, chain mail, inspirational stories about a nameless person with no legs and a Buick-sized tumor, and anything else that came to you with the initials "FWD:" as falling under this ban. I just don't want it.
Of course, the video of the monkey smelling his own finger is always welcome. - Do not impart your political views on me while I'm typing
I voted for someone. I read the news. Assume these things about me and we'll be just fine. But under no circumstances are you to a) tell me I'm wrong b) ask me why I support ______ or c) try and diminish my viewpoints by offering up your own propaganda. If you don't comply, I will punch you in the genitals.
Twice. - Do not tell me about why I need to see your favorite TV show.
You know I watch a lot of TV. Too much, actually. So, for the sake of office civility, assume that I've either seen the show in question, or do not care to discuss it any longer. Truth be told, I do not care about the fact that you see yourself as a spiritual cast member of "The Facts of Life." Except for the fact that you look like Natalie and smell like a pile of Tootie.
Plus, all I can see right now is your damn finger prints on my monitor all way. - Do not talk to me while I am eating lunch at my desk.
This one is really for the managers. When you come to my cube and see me eating the latest in sub-$3 frozen cuisine, please do not make the assumption that I will be willing to allow my food to go cold while you go over the latest workplan. I'm eating my lunch, and while yes -- I am at my desk -- I'm on my lunch break. Just consider me to be out of the office at one of those restaurants that you don't pay me enough to visit more than once a pay cycle.
Next time you come in and chat until my food is cold I'm going to take my leftovers and stick them in your office next to the books you never read (like the labor laws, or those instructions that came with the deodorant) Then I'll smear my Marie Callender's all over your shiny new monitor. All because you didn't follow the rules.
Asshat.
Love, Brad
I Have a Confession...
This is so-o-o-o-o-o-o hard. But I feel that I have to clear the air. For the good of my reputation, my readers, and most importantly, my family.
[gasp]
Are you ready?
I'm straight.
There, I said it. And admittedly, it feels good to come clean. I'll give you all a moment to absorb this information.
Phew!
Now, I know this is shocking to some of you. But I ask of you, please try and forget that my two most popular blog posts involve a TLC reality show about overzealous ovaries, and you'll see it to be true. Also, please ignore the fact that I've redecorated this site more times than I've posted on it.
And for God's sake, make no mention of my penchant for using words like...well..."penchant."
I assure you, I'm not gay. And I'll do whatever it takes to prove it. But if you're still too wrapped up in my Jon & Kate expertise to believe me, I invite you to check the photos, friend:
Photo #1:
This is me, Wifey and the little fart factory. Ignoring my failed attempt at a manicured scruff beard, you'll see that I'm just a regular joe with no fashion sense, who makes no attempt to change his image or lay off the burgers. And, oh yeah, I made that kid with my wife, the ol' fashioned way. Yaknowwhutimsayin?
Photo #2:
The wedding night with the cast of "The Sopranos." Not only am I a straight married guy, who likes all them sexy women-parts, but I went one further by spending the after-party with a guy best known as "Big Pussy." I mean, come on. Doesn't get much straighter than that, right?
Photo #3:
And this is a picture of me and some of the other guys from Bugs & Cranks. Just a bunch of dudes, drinking craft beer and good wine together in a nicely furnished basem-----you know what? Let's not use this picture after all...
You get my point.
To summarize, I like women, drink beer, watch sports, and am therefore in no way homosexual. The end.
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And now, a word from the actual Professor.
Today, the role of "Professor Brad" was played by an ignorant, falsely stereotyping, self-important jackass. But for research purposes, by a show of hands, how many people would have cared if I actually was gay?
(Wifey, put your hand down...)
Okay, thank you. Now, how many people found the character's use of stereotypes to prove his heterosexuality offensive, inaccurate and wrong?
Just as I suspected. And it seems the majority of the non-drooling world agrees as well.
So, based on these findings, can anyone explain why we continue to inquire about, make assumptions about, and let the media ritually abuse...this guy?
Adam Lambert. "American Idol" runner-up and fan favorite. Five octave range. Bi. Gay. Not gay. Foot fetish. Digs sheep. Who cares? Right now, the only "coming out" announcement this talented singer should be discussing is his album's release date.
Nothing more.
Today, according to the bastion of fact known as Twitter, Lambert is going to make a public declaration of his sexuality. Not because he wants to. Not even because he thinks it's going to help his career. He just wants it to end. Yes, he is only announcing this because it's the one question that reporters continue to throw his way.
I get into celebrity gossip as much as the next guy, and to be blunt, don't particularly care for Adam Lambert's brand of high-pitched dingo yelping. But all the same, we -- both the media, and the media loving public -- should be nothing short of ashamed that this is what qualifies as "news."
Leave the man alone.
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