Dad's on the Couch Archive

02/11/05

Rites Of Passage... Beware!

Thunderclouds rumbled ominously in the distance as dusk fell and the smell of ozone in the air further betrayed the coming storm. Oblivious to the approaching tempest were two opponents in a garage from which issued the sounds of panting and the clickity clack of a small white plastic ball that bore a remarkable resemblance to a ping-pong ball only because that's exactly what it was.

The humid air hung close to the two as they raced from corner to corner of the table, serving, returning and volleying, all the while steadfast in their refusal to surrender an inch of ground, much less a point. And then it happened. The game ended, but for the first time there was a brand new victor; it was the younger of the two, a tousle-haired lad of twelve who was notable only for his remarkable resemblance to me and the fact that he had finally beaten his father fair and square at ping pong.

Then, as if on cue, that first sweet moment of victory was underscored by a flash of lighting followed by a crash of thunder that seemed to rock the very foundation of the house, not unlike the crash made by the X-Box controller which startled me from my reverie as it hit the floor.

As I looked around it became abundantly clear by the chiding looks I received from my two lads that I had yet again been fragged by my nine-year-old in Halo2, and that I had yet again allowed my untimely death get the best of me... and that I had yet again set a terrible example for the impressionable lads by flinging my controller to the floor in a fit of pique. Ooops.

So, in the end, it seems there's no denying that somehow, through the mysterious passage of time I have gone from being the newly minted victor, thrusting his paddle aloft into the raging storm in an Arthurian act of youthful defiance of the very forces of nature that were bearing down on him, to a doddering old guy pushing forty who can't even figure out how to jack a warthog without getting fragged. Jeez.

And, now that I think about it, my nine-year-old can ski circles around me. And he has a better three-point average in the driveway than I do. And, I kid you not, he's better at math than I am.

Oh well, unlike him, I can find my own shoes each morning, and even better, I can even remember to flush every time. Heck, that should buy me at least another ten years before the little urchin owns me completely.

02/09/05

Let The Eagle Soar...!

There are few things I enjoy more in the midst of a long, snowy winter than the reprieve from its attendant gloom provided by a few unexpected days of bright sunny weather during which the mercury shakes off its own seasonally induced despondency and rises fearlessly through the forties and into the fifties. Certainly days such as these are false harbingers of an early spring to come, but, as they say, beggars cant be choosers, so it was during one of these recent glorious days that my lovely bride and I donned a pair of stout walking shoes (that would actually be one pair for each of us) and made our way outside for a quick stretch of the legs around the neighborhood.

It had been a while since we had been for a walk along our streets, so naturally there were all sorts of subtle changes in the neighborhood; a new fence here and a freshly re-shingled shed there, that sort of thing. As our stroll continued though, I began to notice several other additions as well. There were, for instance, at least four or five houses that sported banners and flags proclaiming the inhabitant's support for our brave troops overseas. One rather large banner actually featured not only Old Glory, but also a particularly fearsome missile-toting eagle and the slogan "We support our troops!" I quickly glanced away with a vague sense of shame, afraid that I might betray myself.

As our walk continued it wasnt long before my Lovely Bride, ever sensitive to my fickle moods, made a point of noting my growing discomfort until I had no choice but to admit to her that I had recently been toying with the thought of supporting our troops but, much to my embarrassment, I wasnt really quite sure how to begin.
Does one start off simply with just a little bit of support for our troops and then ease into a small flag, or does one start by displaying something along the lines of that missile-toting eagle banner which will then automatically start the support flowing? I do, for instance, fly a flag on all veteran related holidays, yet I began to worry that displaying the Stars and Stripes might be seen as more of a statement of approval for our Republic as a whole rather than our troops in particular.

And then, just to add to my confusion, there are the placards impaled on stakes outside other houses that, rather than keeping us informed of the level of troop support maintained by the inhabitants of that particular house, demand instead that all passers by "Support Our Troops." It just all seems like a lot of responsibility to be pressed on me by a rather shrill, mass-produced poster.


Or... (as I continued wondering aloud to my ever patient spouse) is it just possible that one need not engage in testosterone fueled public displays of fervent patriotism in order to "support our troops?" Could it be that quieter, more useful action might be more practical? Like, for instance, voting against the administration that put our troops in harms way under false pretenses in the first place? Like, for instance, voting for representatives who chose to oppose gutting veteran's benefits beginning with the 2002 budget? Like, for instance, actually getting out a pen and sending a check to Operation Air Conditioner because our troops were sent into hell without basic logistical support? Like, for instance, having the patience to blog and publicly explain to the other half of America for the umpteenth time the spectacularly obvious fact that one can oppose a war and still support our troops? (It's probably about there that I stopped and took a deep breath while my Sweetie controlled the urge to sigh and roll her eyes at me. It's one of the reasons I like her.)

So, as my Lovely Bride and I made the last turn back onto our street and approached our missile-and-eagle-free home, she patted my arm and asked if I felt better after my little rant. I took another deep breath and considered that the sun was still shining and the birds were still singing; indeed, Donald Trump is still firing people and Madonna's slide into irrelevance continues, as do all the natural cycles of life. And, in just that spirit, as soon as we got home I sat down in front of my laptop with a steaming cup of joe and began conjuring up yet another new way to spell it all out for the world.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

Or something like that.

1/27/05

We're Here....

The pleasures of being an at-home-dad are, as many dads with blogging skills superior to my own have noted, many and varied. At-home-dads, for instance, get to watch first hand the academic, physical and social milestones reached by their offspring. First words, first steps, first eating paste for laughs, that sort of thing.

One milestone that’s a particular favorite of mine is watching the little ones learn to taunt their peers without their betters catching on. Sneaky fun if you will. The sort of sneaky fun where a third grader singles out the most uptight and prudish member of his or her class and then engages in a campaign of clandestine nose picking that only the prudish little nerd can see. If all goes well, the little nerd will be thrown into fits of righteous indignation at this furtive display and, even better, will be perpetually stymied in his attempts to get the teacher to acknowledge the offence. Yeah, I had a lot of fun in grade school.

Even more satisfying, though, is watching the same dynamic at work in the adult world. As often as not, for instance, it seems that Christian fundamentalists have their knickers in a twist over some aspect of popular culture that they perceive as an abomination; an abomination about which they promptly go crying to the media for attention and validation. And this week’s current abomination? Why, a “We Are Family” music video and the decadent sexual orientation of Spongebob, of course.

You’ve heard it all before: "We see the video as an insidious means by which the organization is manipulating and potentially brainwashing kids," says Paul Batura, a spokesman for Focus on the Family.

In response, Mark Barondeso, spokesman for the We Are Family Foundation that produced the video gives an innocent shrug and says that anyone who thinks the video promotes homosexuality "needs to visit their doctor and get their medication increased". Touché Mr. Barondeso. (As long as we’re at it, does anyone remember Tinky Winky? Just checking.)

So, for me the true beauty and majesty of these exchanges is that in the big picture… in the overall national dialogue about moral values, the nerdy right–wing fundamentalists are still crying to the teacher for attention, and the likes of SpongeBob creator Steve Hillenburg are still picking their noses. In short, I do believe that children’s programming has its share of “gay” characters and I just love how agitated they make the loony fundamentalists who would be our moral watchdogs.

Tinky Winky gay? Well for heaven’s sake, as an at home dad who spent countless hours with that purple-triangle-wearing, handbag-swinging Teletubby, I say of course he’s gay… and so what? Tinky Winky is, after all, only a TV character who mostly spends his day flopping around trying to figure out life… just like everybody else.

SpongeBob gay? I dunno, but how about Squidward? Ohmigod yes. His passion for wearing formal wear at home? All the primping and dressing for solo dinner parties featuring his freshly baked soufflés? His love of interpretive dance? All the bubble baths and clandestine primping with the mirror he hides at work, etc. etc. etc. Helloooo?

Sure he’s gay, and yet again, I say so what? For heaven’s sake, the way the fundamentalists carry on about it you’d think there was an episode with Squidward and Mr. Krabs snowballing in the bathroom.

Hell, the only thing that really is disturbing about this whole ridiculous issue is that all those prissy little third-grade nerds who couldn’t bear the nose picking grew up to be emotionally damaged right-wingers who would shield other people’s children from role models like SpongeBob who delight in little more than fair play, tolerance and inclusion. It seems to me a sure bet that the world would certainly be a lot better off with some more brainwashing like that.

Well, enough said. I’m off to pick my nose a little.

(Still skeptical about Tinky Winky? Go Google the contraction of his name: 'Twink.' Or, even better: 'Twinks.' Go on, I dare you.)