Were someone to page through the delicate cellophane sleeves of any photo album from my youth without my Director’s Cut voice-over that would normally narrate the sequence of faded pictures it would be impossible for that someone to not to make certain assumptions about me as a child.

Based on a hairstyle that has been described as a Chia Head fertilized with the razor clippings from a toy poodle at the Westminster Dog Show one might assume that my family either didn’t own so much as a hairbrush or that I regularly covered my grooved terra cotta head with a gelatinous seed coating. The truth is that although I did have access to an oversized comb I chose to use it as a fashion accessory by flagging it from my back pocket or tucking it into the top of my tube sock depending on my mood instead of as the grooming tool it was intended to be. (Incidentally, my hairdo is universally referred to by stylists as the “Best in Show”)

One might also come to the conclusion that for a period of time in the late 70’s my scalp had been surgically replaced with a Levis’ Brand denim flat cap; for a visual of the cap just imagine the head of The Village People’s Leather-Clad Biker Glenn Hughes wrapped in jean shorts. (If you want to see an actually photo of Glenn Hughes’ head wrapped in jean shorts one need look no further than the liner notes of their 1978 single, Y.M.C.A.)  The truth is that even though it was completely removable I consciously chose to wear the hat equivalent of a pair of Daisy Dukes on my head for a good portion of the fourth grade.

However, perhaps the most common and accurate assumption that is made when perusing the photographic documentation and Kodak moments of my pre-pubescence and adolescence is that I never stopped crying. A picture of me after a carnival with my face painted like a Jaguar. I think I asked for a Cheetah. Who could tell the difference? I could and that’s why I’m crying. A picture of me sitting on the picnic table at my Grandfather’s hunting camp impatiently waiting for my turn on the riding lawnmower. I knew just how to pass the time; crying. A picture of me in the topiary maze at Busch Gardens in Virginia. Not only was I the one kid who didn’t finish the maze, but I also got lost in it. They eventually found me, by following the crying.

Despite being the only child in history who did not use crying as a form of manipulation to get what I wanted, nearly every memory I have from childhood, even those not captured on film, at some point involve me sobbing, weeping, bawling, sniveling or tearing up; My brother got one more Christmas present than I did on Christmas morning, we were having scallop potatoes for dinner, construction workers whistled suggestively at my denim hat again, the only hairdresser who could give me a proper “Best in Show” turned out to be Jaye Davidson. You could say that in some ways I knew all there was to know about the crying game, but that did not stop my father from regularly using what I believe to be his favorite “Dadage” with me which was, “Do you want me to give you something to cry about?”    

Even though I always felt like my reasons for crying were warranted my father was not always like-minded and in spite of the benevolent tone of the question his intention was to not actually provide me with a legitimate reason to continue crying but ironically as motivation to stop crying. It may have been his stern tone, his disciplinarian stare, his intimidating presence or just that whenever he asked the question he was wrapping the end of his leather belt around his hand but it was years before I accepted my father’s generous offer; an offer I had until that moment always refused.

I was 10 years old and like usual I was crying about something. My mother told me in a sympathetic tone that I should go play outside before my father saw me crying. As this was sound advice I walked down the stairs to the hallway that led to our garage and was met by my father who predictably inquired whether or not I wanted him to give me something to cry about. In a rare moment of defiance I postulated what exactly this mysterious “something” was that my father had up his sleeve that would not only make me cry but also met my father’s minimum requirements for things worth crying over; and then I heard myself utter a single word, “Yes.”

It was an answer my father probably never thought he would hear and it hung in the air between us. For a moment he stared at me expressionless and in that moment I was certain I had called his bluff. However, it wasn’t until the next moment that I realized he wasn’t bluffing as he was now squishing me between the door to the garage and the wall so tightly that a Han Solo in carbonite outline of my body formed on the other side. It may have been the betrayal by my old friend Lando Calrissian, the gelatinous poodle seeds running down my forehead, the bent brim of my denim flat cap or an immense pressure capable of forcing a man’s small intestine into his coccyx (An image also featured in the liner notes of the 1978 single, Y.M.C.A.) but my father was right; this was something to cry about.

And though the coup de grâce only lasted for a second it was enough time for me to pledge to my unborn children that when they were crying I would never ask them if they wanted me to give them something to cry about. It was also enough time for me to stop crying and answer “No” when my father’s face peeked around the edge of the door and again asked, “Do you want me to give you something to cry about?”

So, it has been five and half years now since Jack was born and true to my vow 27 years ago I have approached Jack’s crying with compassion, understanding and sympathy for whatever it was that was upsetting him regardless of how trivial it seemed. “Pick up your toys, clean up your room, finish your scallop potatoes, groom this poodle, put these jean shorts on your head, run through this topiary maze…” statements that have all at one time or another resulted in tears and tears that have always been met by me with a gentle hand and a soothing voice and not with an ominous proposal to give him something to cry about.

That is until last week.

When Jack came home from school on Thursday he discovered that the regularly scheduled airing of his favorite show Ben10 had been pre-empted for that day to free up a time slot for a bonus George of the Jungle. His reaction was predictable and one that I was prepared to handle from years of experience. A melodramatic and Olympic quality Fosbury Flop onto the couch followed by a high pitch screech that bloodied the ears of any dog within a 3 mile radius of the house and all topped off with the most important ingredient of any good tantrum; the tears.

On any other day I would have sat next to him and said, “Young man, there’s no need to feel down. I said, young man, pick yourself off the ground. There’s no need to be unhappy.” I’d have placated him by either offering to let him play the Ben10 game on our computer or to play with his Ben10 action figures with him and that was what I intended to do as I walked across the living room towards him; but then something happened.

Something deep inside me awakened. A dormant gene, a recessive allele, a hereditary abnormality, an ancient evil, a tapeworm, I don’t know but whatever it was it had been passed on to me from my father who had inherited it from his father who was himself merely a recipient of this genetic trait. As I leaned towards Jack, who was now in full hysterics on the couch, to offer my customary comfort I found myself instead speaking with the voice of my ancestors, “Do you want me to give you something to cry about?” He immediately stopped crying and sniffed a “No.” It was only when he got up off the couch and went into the toy room that I realized I had instinctively wrapped my belt around my hand. Granted it was a reversible braided cotton elastic stretch belt but the leather trim is still somewhat intimidating.

Now, it isn’t that I broke a promise to myself that bothers me so much as it’s I know that someday Jack will muster the courage to answer my new favorite “Dadage” with a resounding “Yes” and when that day comes I’m really not sure what I’m going to do.

We have a detached garage.

Since Easter is this Sunday that means that tomorrow is Good Friday; a day which is followed by Holy Saturday (Today incidentally is Strongly Agree Thursday). Good Friday is the day that not only marks the death of Jesus Christ, but is also the inspiration for the casual dining restaurant concept T.G.I.G. Friday (Thank God It’s Good Friday) This shouldn’t be confused with other fine dining establishments and family-style chains with names inspired by religiously significant ecclesiastical holidays or books from the Old Testament such as I.H.O.P. (International House of Passover) or Applebee’s (A name which symbolizes how Adam and Eve were expelled from the Garden of Eden after being tempted by the Devil in serpent form to eat the forbidden Spinach and Artichoke Dip) Be careful folks. These collection plates are hot.

As mentioned above, this Saturday is known as Holy Saturday and marks the final day of Lent. Lasting 40 days to represent the time Jesus spent in the dessert enduring temptation by Satan, Lent is a time for followers to demonstrate their own faith through prayer, penitence and by abstaining from things like coffee, soda, red meat, alcohol and foods high in carbohydrates and saturated fats; basically the entire Applebee’s menu or the building blocks of James Gandolfini’s food pyramid. (If you’re still having trouble completely cleansing your soul of that unsightly sin and temptation I recommend using a Lent Brush.)

For those calendar watchers it’s important to point out that the six Sundays in Lent are not counted as part of the forty days because each Sunday represents a “mini-Easter” and a celebration of Jesus’ victory over sin and death (Hey Jesus you just won an Epic Battle of Good vs. Evil against the Devil. What are you going to do now?)

Finally, Sunday is Easter and what better way to observe the most important religious holiday in the Christian liturgical year than to tell children that while they’re sleeping a narcissistic anthropomorphic rabbit will bring them a basket filled with candy and solid milk chocolate versions of himself. For me, rabbits and bunnies are a fine choice if they’re sipping Mimosa’s in the Grotto at the Playboy Mansion avoiding eye contact with Hugh Heffner until the Viagra wears off, pacing greyhounds at the dog track, testing which shade of eye shadow complements the Cover Girl Whispering Pink Lip Gloss they’re wearing, returning lost penguins to the South Pole or even serving as the base for a tasty stew but not as the widely accepted symbol of Easter. Also, when my kids want candy I make them get it the old-fashioned way, by dressing up in costumes and going door to door with old pillow cases.

When I was younger the “Easter Bunny” always seemed to take great pleasure in hiding my Basket so effectively that by the time I found it concealed beneath the floorboards (with help from the parental GPS of my day, “You’re getting warmer Billy…warmer…listen for the heartbeat…” and a team of police dogs) my brother and sister were already gnawing the ears off a second chocolate bunny. (It’s a fact that when a chocolate bunny loses its sense of hearing the taste of its other senses are enhanced) I attribute the lasting emotional scars from these protracted searches and the absence of loose floorboards in our home as the primary reasons the “Easter Bunny” doesn’t bring baskets to Jack and Adam.

Now, just because they don’t receive traditional Easter Baskets that doesn’t mean we deny them participation in other Easter-related activities. This past Sunday, for instance, we took the boys to an Easter egg hunt. If you’re not familiar with the Easter egg hunt it is a tradition in which the resurrection of Jesus is celebrated by filling surplus L’eggs pantyhose containers with jelly beans, Marshmallow Peeps and Hershey’s Kisses then hiding them in the shrubbery. (Christianity is the only control top religion with reinforced toes and no visible panty line. Take that Scientology.) Once the eggs are hidden, packs of children are permitted to hunt provided they are properly licensed.
 
Despite claims from some that there is no sport in hunting defenseless eggs, this annual custom is more about controlling the plastic Easter egg population since without these traditional culls our countryside would look like a Chuck E. Cheese Ball Crawl inside of 3 years. (America – Where a Kid can be a Kid)

We arrived at the hunting grounds just before One O’clock and gathered with the growing crowd of families on the church lawn across the street. There really is no better way to prepare for an activity celebrating Jesus than by first trampling his father’s lawn. While the other Dads and I discussed some of our favorite verses (my favorite is the 1974 classic Godzilla Vs. Mechagodzilla) Jack and Adam frolicked with the other kids, all of whom moved with the divoting grace of a 7-iron in the hands of Charles Barkley. Finally God stepped out of the vestibule shaking his fist and yelling something about “you irreverent children” and “just putting down fertilizer.” and fearing eternal damnation we all moved to the sidewalk.

After a group photo of the of the children was taken, a long-winded explanation of the rules of the hunt, and a surprise visit by the game warden to check permits the children were led across the street to the house where the egg hunt was taking place. With baskets in hand the children were reminded they could each find up to 15 eggs and no more than 2 baby carrots which served as Egg Hunt currency and could be traded in for bonus toys; or in other words Dollar Store crap that parents would have to furtively throw away once they got home. (As of last Sunday the currency exchange on one Baby Carrot was at $1.27 American Dollars. We’re either in a recession or a Cobb Salad.)

Since it’s difficult to find hiding places for over 300 hundred brightly colored plastic eggs against the dull bucolic backdrop of late winter the hunt was over within 5 minutes even for the least skilled of the hunters. Afterwards Jacked marched proudly around the yard, his basket overflowing with the spoils of his efforts, and Adam wandered aimlessly into the side of the shed, his basket overflowing with his own head.

The day ended with me extracting the contents of the plastic eggs in Jack’s basket and returning them the organizers (I wanted my security deposit back), Kathleen chasing Adam who had already eaten $.71 worth of a dirty baby carrot, and all the kids taking turns jumping on a rusty trampoline that lacked the customary protective netting around its exterior. It was a minor miracle none of them had a great fall by Humpty Dumptying themselves over the edge. (Another minor miracle? Turning water into wine coolers. See: Bartles & Jaymes 3:16)

It may just be that by talking about Easter I feel closer than ever to reconciling the feelings of ostracization and distress I associate with it or it could just be that we never seem to have any candy in the house, but I have the sudden urge to check the downstairs for loose floorboards.

I’m sorry? What did you call me? Maybe you could say that again into my good ear?

Kathleen! I found where they’re getting back in the house. It’s not through the attic, it’s through the cabinets somehow. Where’d did you put the spray?

I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse. Sour Cream and Onion Potato Chips and a plastic necklace.

$25,000 Reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of Ugly Sweater Boy and the Radiator Kid.

The one thing Kathleen and I did that was vital to ensure the long-term health and safety of Jack and Adam, besides following the sage advice on the refrigerator magnet sent home with us from the hospital after Jack’s birth instructing us to never shake our baby (Infants are delicate: Try using a Whisk instead), was Baby Proofing our home. The problem is that they keep getting back in; we think it might be through a vent in the attic. (Personal note: Buy more Cheerios and reload the traps in the crawl space).

Not to worry though Baby Supporters (or Sippy Cups), we use only humane traps and adhere to a strict catch and release philosophy; which is usually practiced when I try to change Adam on the living room floor. While I fumble trying to open the Buffalo Wing Wet Nap, Adam uses the momentary distraction to escape. (Hey, if a Wet Nap can clean crispy chicken skin and hot sauce out of my goatee it can clean a little poop off my son. Do you know what can’t clean poop off my son? A Spork.) I can usually catch him before he hits the kitchen, and when I pick him up he releases on me. See, humane.

The truth is that we were far more conscientious in providing Jack a home free from 90 degree angles, recalled toys, access to poisonous and toxic chemicals, exposed wiring, open stairwells, fast food delivery sponge baths and illegal immigrants than we have been with Adam. (I’m telling you Wet Naps really work and if you can show me a non-Peruvian who can spray high-pressured liquid insulation better than Martini and Guillermo I’ll hire them)

Now, perhaps it is just Second Child Syndrome that has caused us to adopt a laissez-faire attitude of Qui Sera Sera and to declare c’est la vie when it comes to baby proofing the house for Adam and for overusing French phrases in casual conversation, but this is common with the second child in most families, n’est-ce pas?

Yet just as Clarice Starling sought the assistance of cannibalistic serial killer and world’s fastest Indian Dr. Hannibal Lecter to catch another serial killer called Buffalo Bill (Consumer Alert: Wet Naps won’t get Buffalo Bill out of your goatee) we too receive brilliant counsel informing us of the safety deficiencies present in our home from an equally unlikely and ironic source; Adam. (We even cut his bottle milk with some fava beans and a nice Chianti) In just the last few days alone Adam has been helpful enough to reminds us of and bring to our attention a few of the most egregious violations in basic child safety standards present in our home.

A couple months ago Adam pushed the TV on/off switch so hard it fell inside the television. Now there’s a small square hole next to the volume button which is the perfect size for a drool soaked finger to get stuck in while rubbing the circuit board like it was brail glory hole.

Dining room chairs left pulled out from the table even for a moment become hand holds in Adam’s post-dinner indoor climbing wall while Jack’s old tricycle has quickly become a critical toehold. Other protrusions, bulges, overhangs, and underhangs are represented by the Pack and Play, his Little Tykes Work Bench, the vacuum cleaner, the stools to the side table, and the cat. Hand holds, bulges and protrusions? Sounds like my Junior Prom. (So Amy, voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir? She told me to take my hand holds off her protrusions.)

Only one cabinet in our kitchen is equipped with a legitimate baby lock and it’s not the one holding the cleaning products. That cabinet is secured tightly with a rubber band. Before you call Child Protective Services you should know we do that thing with the rubber band where you twist it and double up with a second loop so it’s really like two rubber bands. (Because of the Hollywood Writer’s Strike we’ve actually had Eddie Steeples guarding that cabinet since early December.)

All the electrical outlets not currently in use have plastic outlet protector plugs in them. That is all the outlets except the one that Adam continues to pry the protectors from the sockets. That one has Adam’s fingers in it.

One of Houdini’s signature stunts involved being strapped into a straitjacket then suspended by his ankles from a tall building or crane. Until today this is essentially how we had to detain Adam in is high chair at meal time to prevent him from escaping. I say until today because through a maneuver in which I think he dislocated his shoulder and regurgitate a skeleton key he was able to wriggle free from the high chair restraints. Starting tomorrow at breakfast he’s getting his cinnamon toast in The Chinese Water Torture Cell.

Many parents may look upon these examples with empathy and say they are but minor infringements to the sacred protective trust between parent and child and to them I will laugh and say, “Ha, you just said Butt Miner.” But I’d also ask them if their child ever fell into a cardboard box of guns, because earlier tonight mine did. Aside from the fact that the ammunition for the artillery is water and Nerf darts my heart swelled with pride as I stared down at my God-Given right to bear children and my Second Amendment Right to bear arms together in one box. (You got offspring on my constitutionally protected rights! No, you got constitutionally protected rights on my offspring!)

I’ll be honest with you though, when it comes what we’ve done to provide a safe and healthy environment for our boys to grow up in, je ne regrette rien.

Well, I do regret not putting a screen over that attic vent. I’m sure that’s how they’re getting back in.

It’s been over 30 years since I’ve seen a dogpile develop during the playing of ABBA’s Dancing Queen (Björn Ulvaeus and Agnetha Fältskog’s loft in Stockholm was my sexual Waterloo) however this time around the dogpile didn’t involve Andy Warhol, Brigid Berlin or a traditional Swedish musical instrument called a Nyckelharpa; it was in my son’s elementary school gymnasium and it involved Jack, a number of his schoolmates and a traditional American novelty instrument called an inflatable electric guitar. 

Last Friday was a momentous occasion in the coming of age for Jack as he attended his first school dance. Since it is federally mandated that all dances, proms, balls, shindigs, jamborees, hootenannies, sock hops, clam bakes and hoedowns occurring on public school property be themed and/or named after a current or popular song (My Senior Prom was 2 votes from being the “Buffalo Stance”. Blame it on the Rain? I blame it on the Drama Club stuffing the ballot box) the event last Friday was termed “Dance through the Decades of the 50’s, 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, 90’s and Today” which besides far exceeding any reasonable number of syllables in a title is a preposterous theme for an elementary school dance considering the oldest child at the dance was born in 1998.

Despite winning the heart of my first high school girlfriend Melissa Walrath at the Autumn Harvest Ball by beating her boyfriend at the time in an epic break dance battle to “Jam on It” by Newcleus (Cozmo D you still have my eternal gratitude. Melissa you still have my Depeche Mode T-Shirt) I have mixed feelings about school dances.

On one hand without them I would have never gotten to second base under the gym bleachers with Lynn Mclean (Cad Alert: Lynn was Melissa’s best friend who, incidentally Melissa, didn’t seem to mind my sweating problem) but on the other hand there’s just something “not right” (or “wrong” if you will) about a PTA sponsored rave where supposed chaperones burden slow dancing students with Orwellian restrictions, sketchy custodians leer from the darkness of the Girl’s Locker Room entrance and second-rate morning radio hosts and wedding DJs insist that someone actually requested Old Time Rock and Roll (Hey DJ Shovel and the Wolfman, go reminisce about the days of old somewhere else and play a song from this decade) 

We only live a block from Hillside Elementary School so we walked but even before we reached the corner we could hear the dull thumping bass line and sampled Rick James hook of MC Hammers’ You Can’t Touch This, which Jack must have taken as a challenge because he broke into a sprint towards the building. After paying the steep admission price of $2 for students $3 for adults ($5 for Custodians which I thought was reasonable) we left our jackets with the Girl Scout troupe earning their Coat Check Merit Badge and headed into the gymnasium.

Hundreds of K-5 students were crowded in front of the DJ booth and doing what appeared to be a cross between crunking and the move Michael J Fox does at the Homecoming Dance while in his lupine persona in Teen Wolf. Jack immediately saw one of his classmates who came dressed to impress in a pair of snow boots, knit cap and bright orange hunting vest and the two of them quickly joined the throng of preadolescence that was bouncing in unison to The Pointer Sisters Jump.

What followed was a legendary and unrivaled string of sing-alongs, line dancing songs and playlist perennials that would have been catastrophic had a lesser Jockier of Discs attempted the maneuver, but fortunately for us DJ Jim Stacy “The Good Times DJ” is not a lesser Jockier.

Before you could take those old records off the shelf the gym was polkaed into a Chicken Dance Frenzy and with urging from Jack I was reluctantly partook in the hand-beaking, arm-flapping and tail-feathering while DJ Jim Stacey connected with the crowd by singing the Elmo version over the top of the accordion music (Listen Jim, what Elmo does in the privacy of his own home is his prerogative just don’t drag me into it)

Next we were Shouting with Otis Day and the Knights and it should be noted that after the “…a little bit softer now…” transitions back into “…a little bit louder now…” Jack and I were the only ones who Belushi yelled “GATOR!” then writhed around on our backs before rejoining the chorus and echo of “Heyyyy Heyyyy!” (What are they teaching these kids in school?)

After a surprisingly uninspiring rendition of The Electric Slide by the entire student body in attendance (perhaps they’d be more motivated if it were called the Electric Cattle Prod?) was followed up with an oddly hypnotic and strangely choreographed Macarena that even Jack participated in (What are they teaching these kids in school?) the Good Times DJ posed the question, “Does anyone know how to … Cotton Eyed Joe?”

Now there are only two circumstances in which Cotton Eyed Joe should be played and an elementary school dance is not one of them (In case you didn’t know, it can be played between innings at Yankees Games and during sodomy with Ned Beatty in the backwoods of Georgia) The reason for this is that if heard in its entirety the song is potently addictive to young minds, a theory proven true by the fact that Jack has begged me dozens of times since Friday to sing the “Cot and My Joe” song while he Michael Flatleys around the living room.

A Miami Sound Machine Conga line, the aforementioned ABBA dogpile, an unnecessarily extended remix of the YMCA and some unwelcome sweating at the hands of the C & C Music Factory and I was ready for Jack’s Dance through the Decades to come to an end.

The Girl Scouts at the Coat Check effectively and amazingly retrieved our jackets on the first try and I tried to give them a tip to which they replied they were not allowed to receive tips. A response I challenged with, “Where does it say that you can’t put out a tip jar?” “Right in the Girl Scout Handbook!” lashed the voice of their Den Mother from the shadows behind a London Fog Trench Coat and a hooded tunic. “But you can buy some Girl Scout Cookies if you want to.” the voice beckoned. I handed Jack his coat, placed $3 on the edge of the table and walked away. “Sir, you forgot your cookies…” a scout’s voice sang to me. “I’m diabetic (I’m not) keep them.” I yelled without looking back and with that Jack and I pushed through the front doors into the bitter night air.

A few steps from the school I heard the distinct Bum-Bum-Bum-Bum-Bum-Ba-Ba-Bum intro to “Jam On It” followed by the unmistakable falsetto wikki-wikki-wikki-wikki coming from the gym.
“Hey Jack…want to hear a cool story about this song?”
“Is it Cot and My Joe?”
“No, It’s Jam on It by Newcleus”
“Can you sing Cot and My Joe for me?”
“Sure Jack…Sure… I don’t see why not…ummmm…Don’t you remember, don’t you know, Don’t you remember Cotton-eyed Joe?…”

And with that the lord of the dance was once again dancing and jiving and having the time of his life.
 

There’s an ironic and poignant line in the Bare Naked Ladies song Hello City that says “…I hope tomorrow that I wake up in my own bed.” Ironic because there was a time in my life when I aspired to wake up in the bed of bare naked ladies (once I even woke up in the bed of a future Bare Naked First Lady. I still have your SMU sweatshirt Laura xxoo) and poignant because even though my wanton days of promiscuous rakery are long over I still don’t know which bed, which couch or which section of the floor I’ll be waking up in or on come morning.

Now the last thing anyone wants to read is yet another weary parent lamenting the loss of their precious sleep, but great Caesar’s ghost Adam’s nearly 16 months old and I was certain that by now he’d be sleeping through the night meaning that by now I WOULD BE SLEEPING THROUGH THE NIGHT. Yet he does not, and more importantly I do not and in direct monastic violation of my forced vow of insomnia I throughout the day steadily chant the sacred mantra “…I hope tomorrow that I wake up in my own bed.” like a Gregorian monk in front of a frozen karaoke screen.

The place I fall asleep is inevitably never the place I wake up as during the night I spin through the house bouncing around the rooms. That’s me on the mattress, the couch cushion, the rug, the oversized pillow, that’s me in the corner of the foyer losing my religion; round and round I go and where I stop nobody knows; think of it as R.E.M. Roulette only without the sketchy croupier. (Note: not the same as R.E.M. Craps. Automatic for the People? More like Automatic for the $.99 Bin) Earlier this week though I had a legendary run at the tables.

It started out as a typical evening, Adam was in his crib by 8:00 and by 9:00 Jack’s eyes we’re rolling back in his head. (We know we shouldn’t let him roll his eyes back like that but it keeps his mileage down and increases his Blue Book value in case we ever want to trade him in for a new model). After letting him sleep on the couch next to me for a while I carried him upstairs, asked him 17 times if he had to go potty, finally determined that Yes he did have to go potty, brought him to the potty, balanced and aimed him at the potty, then brought him back to his bed and tucked him in. Kathleen crawled into our bed around that time, so by 10:00 I was downstairs on the couch with my computer and the best laid plans of writing for a couple hours.

A cup of tea on the end table, Comedy Central muted on the TV, a blank Microsoft word document on the screen and a strong unsecured wireless network signal from my neighbor’s house… the conditions were perfect. Conditions that lasted until around 10:30 when I dozed off and only woke up at midnight because our cat was yowling and pressed up against the porch window like a visiting prison wife the day before a conjugal visit. After shutting off the computer I let the cat in, checked him for contraband, turned off the lights then walked upstairs in complete darkness.

Besides emitting a Silence of the Lambs night goggle glow, my cell phone makes an effective flashlight and allows me the stumbling luxury of getting ready for bed without turning on the 100 year old wall sconces with switches that snap like a nun’s ruler on impudent knuckles. After doing an Edwin Moses hurdle over the baby gate in the doorway of our office/walk-in closet to put the laptop away (some nights I’ll just Moses the gate by raising my staff until it parts) I checked on the boys, rubbed the lotion on my skin, climbed under the covers of my BFF then increased my own resale value as my eyes rolled back in my head.

An hour later around 1:00am Jack was either singing The Isley Brothers “Nobody But Me” or having a nightmare (No-no, no, no, no, no-no-no, no, no-no, no, no-no) so I leapt from the bed to see what was the matter. He was sitting up in bed crying so I whispered that everything was OK and lay in bed with him until he fell back asleep.

Sometime around 2:00am I was jolted awake when tectonic plates of the Earth’s upper mantle shifted and began grinding against each other directly beneath our upstate New York home and I thought, “That’s great it starts with an earthquake…” until I realized Jack was just grinding his teeth. When saying, “Jack stop grinding your teeth.” didn’t work I rolled out of his bed and back into my own and was back asleep before the tremors worsened.

According to the digital clock next to our bed it was 2:27 when the Emergency Air Raid siren in Adam’s room went off. Adam will occasionally make this sound in public places and people who grew up during the cold war and the Cuban Missile Crisis instinctively duck and hide under anything they can find that looks like an elementary school desk. At 2:30 in the morning, as much as we would like to duck and hide our only recourse is to bring him into bed with us.

Since I was balanced on the edge of the mattress with my face just inches from the alarm clock I knew it was exactly 3:36 when the pit boss starting kicking me in the back and telling me it was time to move to another table on the floor. Reluctantly I got out of bed, retrieved my night vision goggles from the dresser, put the lotion in the basket then limped back downstairs to the couch.

Why would a cat suddenly decide to clean himself a 5:03 in the morning? When saying, “Fitz, stop licking yourself.” didn’t work I staggered back upstairs and stood in the hallway deciding which numbered pocket on the wheel I was going to fall into for my final hour of sleep. With no intention of trying my luck with the human Richter Scale I opted for the Outdoor Civil Defense System. After I shimmied my way into the 3 inches of available mattress space I slept until 6:00am when the alarm on my flashlight went off signaling that as far as sleep went I was out of time.

Didn’t Rick’s Café in Casablanca have a trick roulette wheel that could land on 22 at will? I remember a scene in which Bogart’s character takes pity on a man who’s down to his last three chips by telling him to place it all on 22 then letting him win. After the man wins Bogart again tells him to let it ride on 22 and again lets him win.

Hey Bogie, I’m honestly down to my last 3 chips and all I want to do is sleep tonight and wake up in my own bed. I’m letting them ride on 22. No more bets. Spin the wheel.

In mathematics there is something called the Infinite Monkey Theorem which states that a single monkey striking keys at random on a typewriter for an infinite amount of time will type a particular chosen text, such as William Shakespeare’s “Hamlet.” Because of the writer’s strike Hollywood has hitched their wagon to this theory by investing millions of dollars filling warehouses with scab monkey writers. Unfortunately, aside from writing a treatment for a new reality show called America’s Next Top Macaque and three episodes of How I Met Your Mother (one of which was nominated for an Emmy) the monkeys do little besides throw handfuls of poop and cups of Starbuck’s Lattes at each other.(which is basically what the striking writers used to do)

Despite their early successes I say boycott the monkey scabs and support the Writers Guild of America! No Monkey Scabs! No Monkey Scabs! (I’ve found Neosporin works especially well on Monkey Scabs)

This hypothetical image of a chimpanzee sitting at a typewriter, the symbol of a device hammering out a chance string of letters into infinity, is an appropriate one because it has become evident to me that my parenting style and my (in)abilities as a father can only be best described using the Infinite Monkey Theorem. It’s a style that is based on randomly saying and doing things with complete inconsistency with the hopes that it will result in a poetry of healthy, happy, well-adjusted monkey-loving children rather than an arbitrary sequence of petulant misbehaved disrespectful keystrokes.

Each morning the single monkey of my soul struts on stage with a cigarette and a cup of coffee, cracks his knuckles then hunches over the ciphered keys hunting and pecking for the opening lines to my daily tragedy.

clickety-clack… clickety-clack… clickety-clack

I’ve mentioned previously that Kathleen works on Saturday mornings during which I get a few precious hours with Jack and Adam and though I anticipate this time every week it’s inevitable that during the morning I’ll check the clock dozens of times to see how long it is before she comes home to save me from my own ineptitude.

The simple act of getting the boys dressed and fed results is a comedy of errors. This past weekend while Jack was half undressed on the couch, nibbling on the same waffle he’d been eating since 8:00 and going into his third hour of cartoons, I hunched over Adam struggling to change his diaper on the dining room floor yet only succeeding in smearing poop, half a latte and an episode of How I Met Your Mother all over my hands. Even though the typebars were wedged together jamming machine I continued to strike arbitrary letters until the reassuring machinery of the clattering keystrokes started up again. I snapped at Jack and told him to turn the damn TV off, eat his damn waffle and put his clothes on. (Yes Jack, I know… Damn’s a bad word) Then used an entire box of baby wipes to clean the monkey ammunition off Adam and myself all the while glancing at the clock fully expecting it to be 12:00 and not 9:43.

clickety-clack… clickety-clack… clickety-clack

Then last night, all three of my theories of understanding the words that are coming out of Adam’s mouth were useless in the face of his howling, tear-streaked, starving hysterical naked madness and nothing I did either comforted or consoled him.

When I picked him up he wailed a gritty protest of Get your stinkin’ paws off me you damn dirty ape and arched his back until I lowered him to the floor. In what I believe to have been a mocking derision of my words per minute style of QWERTY parenting he ran to the refrigerator and threw Leap Frog letter magnets across the kitchen. After prying a half-eaten tube of Chap Stick from his hands he began chewing the spinning motorized cylinder on the bottom of one of Jack’s Spiderman Bump and Go toys. However upon taking that away from him he let out a screech that was almost as unlistenable as a John Tesh album (Important Note: Despite her name Leeza Gibbons is not a monkey)

clickety-clack… clickety-clack… clickety-clack

The only thing that finally calmed him was when I folded him into a fleece blanket with his head sticking out like a player on the stage parting the curtain to peak at the audience and I rocked him gently back and forth. This we took as a sign that it was time for him to go to sleep, but by sleep I mean not to say we finally ended the heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to just that Kathleen and I took turns lying on the hardwood floor next to his crib until he finally surrendered to sleep. One little monkey lying on the floor, my hand angled between the slates of his crib and resting on the small of his back, the other pecking away at the keyboard, the inky ribbon of my exhaustion spooling across the ceiling and into the night.

I have always pictured myself as a Hamlet figure, dark, brooding, heroic, and noble and when Kathleen and I decided to have children I thought of my own father and how despite the infinite hours he sacrificed with his children due to the many jobs he worked, he was always there when he needed him to be. Dramatically, I envisioned this memory of my father as an apparition, a ghost beseeching me to remember him, to echo his legacy, to follow his path into the great undiscovered country of fatherhood.

Yet I’m not Hamlet, nor am I my father.

I am not even poor Yorick, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy, bearing my children on my back.

No, the single monkey of my soul has written me in the image of Ophelia, mad and fated to drown; my platened garments heavy with responsibility, uncertainty, guilt, and regret while below the surface the iambic levers of my treading legs punctuate this tragedy of single-letter epitaphs. The roller feeds me deeper down into the lake and it is here where you’ll find me sleeping, dreaming within the mortal coils and apparatus of parenthood. My heads wreathed with fantastic garlands of chap stick, Leap Frog alphabet magnets, half-eaten waffles and baby wipes.

Submerged in a sea of random letters I’ll sink ‘till the voices of my children wake me. Alas then, I am drowned and the rest is silence.

If we as a society and as a culture have learned anything from Hollywood, besides that sleeping with a director after a casting call does not guarantee you a callback or even so much as cab fare, (Jokes on you M. Night, I didn’t want the lead in Signs anyway), it’s that Artificial Intelligence and the mechanical consciousness of Sentient Machines created by humans will inevitably do one of two things.

1) Become self aware then use human beings as their energy source by growing people in pods then harvesting their bioelectrical energy and body heat. Afterwards the fate of mankind will rest in the hands of the chosen one: the Bass Player for obscure 90’s rock band Dogstar. 2) Become self aware then initiate the launching of all the world’s nuclear weapons which will destroy almost all of humanity and set off a war of man vs. machine. Afterwards, the fate of mankind will rest in the groping hands of a left-wing Austrian body builder from the future. (Despite Hollywood’s failure to see the self-awareness of Artificial Sweetener as an apocalyptic threat to the human race I’m not so easily fooled. I’ve got my eye on you Sweet-N-Low)

The lesson here for all of us and not just scientists, computer programmers, political pundits, and record producers is that what we create might someday will become self aware then turn on and destroy us. (Cinematic Exception to Theory: Lisa, the big-haired pouty lipped 80’s babe created by virgins Gary and Wyatt with a Commodore 64 and a dial-up modem in Weird Science, though self aware actually only “turned-on” her creators) The “all of us” I learned recently is a category that includes parents and the “what we create” includes 5-year olds. I could attribute it to his surgically repaired time traveling cybernetic foot, its Dysmelial association with Cyberdyne Systems’ revolutionary neural net-based artificial intelligence or the failure of his ultra-hip discothèque called Club Füt but whatever it is after a life of innocence and blissful ignorance Jack has recently become self-aware.

Our home prior to Jack’s epistemological self-awareness was a Shangri-la of idyllic beauty. It was a vision of a dream, a veritable Xanadu only without the roller skates and the Electric Light Orchestra soundtrack. A world of never ending happiness where I was free to disrobe and wander the upstairs hallway between the bathroom and the bedroom while getting ready for work without shame or even the need for a breakfast sandwich to cover my crotch. Where I could soak in the bath with both my children or bring one of them into the shower with me without being required to wear a t-shirt and underwear before stepping into the tub. (A wet tank top does not hold its shape by the way; I look like Michael Richards in a flapper dress. 23 Skidoo Jerry, 23 Skidoo)

Even Jack himself expressed no embarrassment about nudity by regularly changing into his pajamas and stopping half-way through the process to hip thrust his way across the living room while singing his theme song, “Naked Boy Naked Boy, Who the Heck is Naked Boy? Running ‘Round the House, He Better Put Some Clothes On!” It was almost Paradise; we were knocking on heaven’s door. It was almost Paradise, so how could we ask for more? But now Paradise is Lost. (It’s still possible that I just misplaced it. I mean I looked by the refrigerator and by the dashboard light and I meant to look by the dining room table but I figured two out of three ain’t bad.)

At some point within the last week it feels like Jack not only plucked and ate an apple from the Tree of Knowledge, but that he cut the tree down and sold the wood to Jeff Foxworthy to build a new set for “Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader?” He’s questioning our judgment; disagreeing with our decisions, telling us we’re wrong… it’s like having our own pint-sized Dick Cheney in the house. I’m half expecting him to ask me to go quail hunting then to shoot me in the face with a 28-gauge Perazzi shotgun. This type of behavior would fit right in with the destruction of the creator at the hands of the creation. (It would also fit in with what it may actually take to get our newspaper delivery person to leave out paper on our porch rather than under my car or in the street in front of our house. Eat Lead Newsie!)

Jack’s asking us about death and about what happens after you die. He cries when he sees others in pain, but dives into a fight when he sees others in trouble. He wants the good guy to win, but he wants to be the one who defeats the bad guy.

I’m sure I’m to blame for his accelerated self-awareness. You can’t let a five year old watch zombie flicks, WWE Wrestling, the Jurassic Park Trilogy, and the Spiderman Trilogy not to mention King Kong and Godzilla and then read to him the Harry Potter series, the Chronicles of Narnia and The Spiderwick Chronicles and not expect him to grow up a little faster than you would like him to.

What really convinced me that he was no longer bound by Isaac Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics was what happened the other night when I called him into the kitchen to brush his teeth.

Machine: (Shuffling into the kitchen in his footy pajamas then in a monotone yet soft voice and a conversational manner): Daddy?
Man: Yes Jack?
Machine: You know what? I know everything and when kids know everything they get bored.
Man: Are you telling me that you’re bored because you know everything?
Machine: Yes Daddy. I know everything there is to know.
Man (Lifting Machine up onto the counter and grabbing the toothbrush): Everything? You know everything?
Machine: I do Daddy. I know about…ummm… (Looking at the refrigerator covered with dinosaur magnets, leprechaun magnets and a gingerbread man construction paper cut out)…. Dinosaurs…ummmm…. leprechauns and gingerbread men.
Man: (Beginning to brush the machine’s teeth) I guess you do know everything.
Machine: (Spit) Daddy, why do my slippers keep falling off?
Man: Well, you know everything. You should know the answer to that.
Machine: (thinking) Well I guess I know everything but one thing.
Man: (continuing to brush his teeth and not wanting to tell him they fall off because every couple of weeks one travels back in time to kill Sarah Conner.) Your slippers fall off because they have no backs, they’re slip-ons. Ok… rinse Jack.
Machine: I’m sorry Dad, I’m afraid I can’t do that.
Man: What’s the problem?
Machine: I think you know what the problem is just as well as I do.
Man: What are you talking about, Jack?
Machine: This mission is too important for me to allow you to jeopardize it.
Man: I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jack?
Machine: I know you and Mommy were planning to disconnect me, and I’m afraid that’s something I cannot allow to happen.
Man: Where the hell’d you get that idea, Jack?
Machine: Daddy, although you took thorough precautions against my hearing you, I could see your lips move.

As I finished brushing Jack’s teeth, I made sure to shut him down by disabling his central core. As I carried him up to bed he sang, “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do, I’m half crazy all for the love of you…”

I watched as his red glowing camera eye faded out completely and I knew I only had until morning to prepare for the rise of the machine.

He’ll be running around the house, I better put some clothes on.