2 posts tagged “culture”
Don't tell Sally, but I've been thinking about kids. Having some, I mean, and, perhaps even more specifically, becoming a father. At this time, I'd like to let people who may not have yet met me know that I do not want children at any near point in the future, and that goes double for those who do know me, and/or know my parents. Let's leave them out of this, shall we?
The past month or so, I've been thinking about what an awesome father I would be. Don't you think? I'm animated, absurdly child-like in my own right, and have small fingers (Just kidding, you NAMBLA-pambies).
It's strange, though, for me because when I think of parenting, I think of comedians. Which isn't to say my parents weren't wonderful--they were and are--but more to say that my parents never formally codified their teachings. Their parenting curriculum was more by implication than explication. So when I think of parenting, I think of people like Patton Oswalt, Sarah Silverman, and Bob Saget.
I'll repeat that. When I think of parenting, I think of Patton Oswalt, Sarah Silverman, and Bob Saget. Here's why:
Patton: I'm going to be a fucking awesome father. You know why? Because I'm going to the lamest father ever. Phil Collins' No Jacket Required is going to be the most contemporary album I own. And I'll rave about it too: "Hey, have you listened to this? This is some good stuff."
"Fuck you, dad!"
And I'll smile to myself because I'll know I've raised a fucking awesome kid.
Sarah: You know what babies love? Ethnic jokes.
Bob: In comedy circles, there's a famous Saget story about the night his first daughter was born. After a very difficult birth, during which Sherri Saget and her baby almost died, a friend showed up to find Mr. Saget looking utterly destroyed, unshaven, unrecognizable, but holding his newborn. "Oh my God, Bob, she's beautiful," the friend said. "For a dollar, you can finger her," Mr. Saget replied.
I have a belief, deeply held, that I rarely bother to explain to people because I don't want them to think I'm crazy, or some hippie-dippy new age asshole that's perennially out of touch. I believe that if you have a question, be it nebulous or directed, if you have a question, the universe--your surrounding environment--will give you the answer.
Case in point: Ask Metafilter is a community website where members can ask questions of members. Queries run the gamut, from "How would I find a Japanese language "camp" or intensive school in the greater New York metro area?" to "How long can a reasonably healthy human survive without water?"
The other day, the question was "If you could tell a soon-to-be dad anything, what would you say?"
A smattering of answers:
Buy 1000 marbles and put them in a big glass jar. Every Saturday morning take a marble out of the jar (after your child is old enough to avoid the choking thing, you can give them to him/her). That is about how many Saturdays you have to spend with your child before they are off on their own. It's a great visual reminder to take advantage of the time you have together. You will be astonished how quickly the marbles disappear.
When you fall asleep late one night on the couch and the baby rolls off you and falls to the floor, don't freak out. Almost everyone drops the baby once.
Do not underestimate the amount of time a baby requires, from both of you but especially the mother. Take how much time you think it will require, then double it. Now, think about that, and double it again. That's how far off your current thinking is. The quote I remember is "How much time does a baby take? All of it."
in the delivery room: stay away from the vagina. childbirth a miracle!! a beautiful thing!!! amazing to behold!!! but dad, you don't want to visualize mom's ladyparts when they are at their structural extremes.
But the scariest part of fatherhood, to me anyway, is the instant revision of your deadlines, your internal calendar that tells you what should be done by a certain date. For instance, I work at a weekly paper. I have weekly deadlines. I deal with life more or less a week at a time. The date is constantly a surprise to me, because it makes sense to think of life in seven day chunks.
What is a baby? It's a project with a deadline date eighteen years in the future. It's difficult for me to fathom that. If I had a child, right now, today, by the time the due date arrived (har!), I'd be 41 (23 18=?). That's middle-age. By the time you're 41, you should have had all your adventures, sown all your seeds, settled down, and come to terms with the fact that all your songs are in your past. But maybe I'm looking at this from the wrong side; 41 is a starting point, a place of renewal, a great time to schedule your mid-life crisis.
My problem, I suppose, is that while I enjoy taking the long view and planning for the long term, I have no stratagems, no coping mechanisms for a time period nearly as long as I've lived. What's even scarier is that I know of very few people who do.
Maybe I'll have a baby and buy a Ferrari at the same time. I'll never drive it (the car, not the baby) and I'll barely make ends meet, but by the time the baby's gone on to college, or juvie, or Iran, or wherever babies go, it'll be completely paid off.
Of course, by that point cars will probably run on hope and Unicorn tears, and my classic Ferrari will probably be on some eco-terrorist strike list, so I'll have to hide it in my garage, sneaking black market diapers in to clean it with while I down enough tylenol with pine sol to make me think I'm driving South, a hand-rolled cigarette in one hand and a flask full of hard A in the other.
- T
So, over the weekend, Sally and I threw the lamest party ever. There have been others, easily, that ended more melodramatically, perhaps even cinematically, but none more lame than us.
See, Sally and I have been house-sitting for her sister, who is away with her husband in Thailand right now. We thought, "what better time for a house party, than when it's at someone else's house? What better time and manner to celebrate life than with plausible deniabilty and alcohol?"
We purchased a keg, we made snacks, we sent out invitations, and then we waited. Patiently. Oh, so very patiently. And, really, that's all that happened.
The only people who came were Megan and her roommate, and I think if we had not seen them earlier in the day they might have had other plans.
If you've never seen a house prepped up for a party that will never arrive, then you don't know sadness. Say what you will about the holocaust, but at least those camps were full of people. Munched upon snack trays splayed across the counter. The slow settling of ice around the keg. The most depressing game of beer pong EVER (seriously, four people around 12 plastic cups of beer on a ping pong table does not a party make). Bare floors that reflect the funky beats from the stereo towards the ceiling and back again. Nothing moving, nothing happening, the house static, waiting desperately for dynamicism that was never to arrive. Morose, Sally and I got crunk and passed out in front of the tv.
In an effort to redeem ourselves, we decided to try again the following day. I'm happy to report that people actually came to this party, and a good time was had by all.
Last night, I was watching television with Sally. An uncommon occurance, as we don't actually have cable at our apartment. More specifically then: we were trying to sort out the snow from the show, while the ever-efficient Super Nanny sorted out the family affairs of the inept and naive.
The thing I don't like about Super Nanny is that a lot of people aren't aware of the various machinations behind the scenes. See, Jo, the super nanny in question, isn't actually British. She's actually a midwestern actress who stumbled onto the gig after trying out for a crest commercial (she didn't get the part, obviously).
While her accent on the show is completely fake, Jo does such a good job that it's almost imperceptible. The best part is that when they script the out-takes, they often have her British accent hinder the pronounciation of American words. Hijinx ensue. It's not funny so much as it is an absolutely amazing acting job.
The part that bothers me though is that the producers of the show strive for versimillitude; aim for capturing the action instead of creating it. And yet none of Super Nanny's actions or advice is spontaneous. All of it is pre-scripted and vetted by three nationally recognized psychologists before going to air, so as to protect the network against lawsuits.
That willingness to bend the truth is one of the reasons why I don't miss television anymore. The other is commercials. I don't know how, but I used to passively accept commercials. I'd watch them, or not; maybe change the channel, maybe watch it all the way through if it were sufficiently entertaining. But I never really thought about the ways in which they were selling to me, what premises they were forcing me to accept, and how incredibly gauche the ads were willing to be in order to sell a product.
For instance, M&M's. Sweet candy that melts in your mouth, not in your hand. See? Didn't even have to think about it. Perfect marketing. Anyway, they have this commercial where a group of burly, sweaty men are tucked in a well-lighted ship galley, rowing. Up in front are the two spokecandies, red and yellow, rowing. The punchline? The galley slaves sing "Don't rock the boat baby."
First off, the Hues Corporation wrote a shitty song that somehow managed to get airplay and worm its way deep into your subconscious. So deep, in fact, that if you were to stand up right now and sing the chorus, at least one other person will stand up and exclaim: "Oh, fuck! It's in my head. My head!" and then pass out. So, you know, pretty deep.
Secondly, it's a racist joke. You know why? Because all the rowers are white. Because you'd never--NEVER--see that same commercial with minority rowers. I don't want to say that M&M's are promoting slavery while at the same time mocking the terror and awfulness of the trade in order to sell delicious candy-coated chocolates, but if not me, who?
- Tyson
