November 06, 2008

dork pride

I was standing with two friends when Dorkass called. I answered my phone as I have on this occasion for 11 years.

"Dork."

A wounded Blondage turned to the other friend. "Well. I thought I was the dork," she sniffed.

Dorkass overheard. "I DON'T KNOW WHO THAT IS, BUT TELL HER TO BACK THE HELL OFF, 'CAUSE I'M THE ORIGINAL AND ONE AND ONLY DORK."

Yep. These are my friends.

• • •

A recent visit with Dorkass included a ritual with which I'm very familiar: my friend disappearing in order to put her spawn to bed. What made this occasion special were the twin presences of 1) a baby monitor and 2) my phone's recording app.

Here's Dorkass, taking away her child's "Lovey" in order to extort cooperation. Ladies and gentlemen, Stank is very proud to present to you its Mother of the Year.

posted by john at 06:36 AM  •  solamente

October 24, 2008

dear parent,

Cute kid. It matches your couch.

You don't know me, but your kid was kicking my airplane seat. And my restaurant seat. And your entire family blocked my path by holding hands three abreast and strolling aimlessly up the aisle while I patiently waited for you to find a purpose. Any purpose would have sufficed, really. This was shortly before your kid stood on his booth seat, turned around, put his mouth to my ear, and rather shrilly narrated what I was having for dinner—but well after I was stuck behind a school bus on Metamuville Road all morning. Don't kids do bus stops anymore? Can't they be bothered to walk 10 feet to the next driveway with a kid? Why, this sort of thoughtlessness makes me want to stop paying for your kid's upbringing altogether.

But I won't, and not just because I can't. I will still pay. I will still wait endlessly behind your dragging, weaving asses. My meals will still be ruined, and I'll chalk it all up to "kids will be kids." But you, you don't get off so lightly. I want more from you. I want you to politely acknowledge the unremitting imposition you have, quite against my will, brought into my life. A nod or "sorry" would do. Better yet, ask your little vanity project to use his indoor voice.

Shocking though it may be, "parent" is also a verb.

Love,
john

posted by john at 05:10 AM  •  solamente

August 01, 2008

parent of the year

Everything you need to know about my buddy Dirt, in 105 words and a picture. The other night, he called to say that Kiki had left him with the kid for the evening. In the time it took him to open a bottle of '77, I was on his deck smoking a cigar and gnawing on a spare rib. We talked about football, of course (he's a Vikings fan who can taste Favre right now), and after a couple hours went by, I wondered about the kid. I ducked inside to check on her. This is what I found. Note the rib in her hand.

posted by john at 12:08 AM  •  solamente

May 26, 2008

rock me like a hurricane

When a parent and child come for a weekend visit, you expect armloads of kid crap to migrate from the trunk of their car to the middle of every room in your house. You likewise don't expect the kid to pick up after herself. About these things, I have no complaint.

But what is up with the parents?

Having long since lost control of their own homes, they happily bring chaos into mine. At least the kids only affect the state of my home at ground level. The kids are nothing compared to the swooping carnage that are their parents. I can't even cook this morning because every square inch of counter space—kitchen, dining room, living room, bathrooms—is cluttered with food and trash and dishes and toys that someone was too lazy to put away.

Now pardon me while I go parent the parent. Let's just pray she's figured out the whole wiping-her-own-ass thing.

posted by john at 07:29 AM  •  solamente

December 20, 2007

paying it forward

Allie's toddler, Lily, was seated next to me the other night, showing me her vast collection of stickers. On one of the stickers was a brown cow.

"Lily, do you know where milk comes from?" I asked.

The look on her face was familiar to me. A plastic jug, you effin' moron. But then she brightened. "A COW!" She pointed to the cow.

"That's right. And do you know where chocolate milk comes from?"

She clearly had never considered this, so I went on.

"Brown cows."

She nodded. That made plenty sense.

"Don't listen to a thing he says, Lily!" her mother injected. "Just because he believed this until he was 10..."

This is true. This, dear reader, is what having much older siblings is like. Chocolate milk comes from brown cows. Ellomenopee is the 17th letter of the alphabet. "Poles" are so called because we descended from tadpoles, not apes. Nazi Germany was ruled with an iron fist by the Burgermeister Meisterburger. And so on.

I was a disaster at school. Yet I can't resist re-perpetrating such disinformation on poor Lily. I like to think of myself as more evolved than my siblings, but sometimes I wonder.

Oh, and skim milk? Comes from skinny cows.

posted by john at 07:56 AM  •  solamente

November 22, 2007

start practicing that Mother of the Year acceptance speech

I chatted with Dorkass last night, and during the Montessori school portion of the proceedings, she whined that these strangers whom she will pay to watch over her spawn actually expected her to make lunches for her own daughter.

"Seriously! What a pain, you know?" she said.

"Congratulations. You just made tomorrow's post," I replied.

"What? I haven't talked about the kid that much."

And then I put on hand puppets and explained to her what was so funny.

posted by john at 11:22 AM  •  solamente

July 18, 2007

thrill

Mentoring is generally rewarding, but then there are days like yesterday that leave me grinning the whole drive home. Libby is my best protege yet. She challenges me like few have. I have to work hard to keep up with her. We've covered six weeks' worth of intense grammar in about five hours. I try to trip her up, to trick her, to humble her, and she jacks everything I throw at her right out of the park. And then she demands a high-five.

I'm going to be working for this girl within three years. I intend to take credit for her ascent. That's my M.O.: identify thoroughbreds right before they explode out of the gate, hitch my wagon to them, and take wholly undeserved bows for their accomplishments. It's so much easier than accomplishing something myself. Is this why people have kids?

posted by john at 06:46 AM  •  solamente

May 10, 2007

long suspected, now confirmed

Parents of my generation are the stupidest in all of human history.

posted by john at 08:07 AM  •  solamente

March 30, 2007

here, let me tell you an enthralling story about someone’s kid

Of my friends with kids, Katrina is the most Mother Earth. I cannot present evidence of this without inciting arguments about which I do not remotely care. Suffice it to say that it would surprise no one if she sang "Kumbaya" to Annalie every night before bed.

To Katrina, any time not spent snuggling with Annalie is utterly wasted time. It was torture, then, when I called her office yesterday to tell her that her husband, parents, daughter and I were all together at her house while she worked. I guess I'm just thoughtful that way.

Those parties gladly stuck me with kid-watching duties, and I made the most of my quality time with Annalie.

"Can you say crack-whore?"

"Co-co."

"Crack-whore."

"Cwack-co."

"Crack-whore."

"Cwack-ho."

"Good! Have some chocolate."

Katrina eventually came home, and much snuggling ensued. At dinner, I looked at the child, pointed to Katrina, and said "Crack-whore."

"Crack-whore," Annalie chimed with perfect clarity. Katrina was aghast.

"No, Annalie! Don't say tha—"

The child's eyes grew wide with realization. "MOMMY CRACK-WHORE!"

I burst into applause. Dad burst into applause...inwardly. Mommy thunked her forehead on the table with surprising weight.

The rest of the night was dominated by a game in which Annalie sang "MOM-MY CRACK-WHORE!" and I responded by clapping two and three times. (Think the "o-ver-ra-ted" basketball chant.)

Other people's kids are fun.

posted by john at 07:19 AM  •  solamente

March 29, 2007

friends unimaginary

There was a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon that meant little to me when I last saw it, in my 20s, but that really resonates with me now.

Calvin's parents are talking about their son. Dad expresses concern about the boy's obsession with his toy tiger.

"Didn't you ever have imaginary friends?" Mom asks.

Dad sighs. "Sometimes, I think all my friends are imaginary."

I'm not quite at that point yet, but as old friends fade away and get replaced by whatever's handy, I'm getting there. I was trying to explain the phenomenon to Dorkass recently. Instead of my normal practice of using hand puppets to explain a situation to her, I employed an illustration.

"Let's put it this way. There are several people out there who I intensely dislike who consider me a very close friend."

"I'm sorry!" replied Dorkass, thinking this was yet another you-had-a-baby-and-dropped-me-just-like-you-dropped-her lecture. It actually wasn't. It was about me, not her. But I took the apology, 'cause Supreme Court vacancies are easier to land than Dorkass apologies.

In fact, parents, you all should all follow suit. Pony up the repentance. How thoughtless of you, really, to procreate. Did you think of me not at all?

• • •

Allie, discussing people's negative reactions when she announced she was pregnant with Lily: "You tell them you're pregnant, and their first reaction is 'You're never going to be able to do the things you love again.' It's really odd. Like they can't wait to crap on your happiness by saying they feel sorry for you."

"What was my reaction?"

"Oh, you were fine. You just felt sorry for yourself."

posted by john at 07:35 AM  •  solamente

January 27, 2007

wonder of wonders, a miracle a miracle

I'm was working Saturday morning and generally feeling sorry for myself when my phone rang.

Holy cow, one of my parent-friends is actually calling me on a weekend!

I've grown accustomed, you see, my parent-friends granting me an audience under only one condition: when their only alternative activity is work. But not on this gloriously sunny Saturday.

Maybe she wants to do something. Fantastic.

I answered the phone with a chipper "Well, hi!"

She wanted the phone number of another parent-friend.

posted by john at 11:28 AM  •  solamente

January 03, 2007

my kid has a thing

I gave Jacob, a dad-type, a lift home last night. Not really a friend, but more friendly than most co-workers, he was the perfect person to ask.

I told him about how on New Year's Day, I was hosting a bowl-watching party. A crab boil, specifically, complete with massive king crab legs, jambalaya, bananas foster, and assorted vegetables thrown in the boil. I told him how at the last minute, guests called to say their kid was kinda sick the day before. He was feeling better now, but, "Could we do it over here?" the mother asked.

Ever reasonable, I packed up my other guests and my 120 quart crab pot and its stand and the propane tanks and the rum and bananas and ice cream and jambalaya and frozen crab and corn on the cob and—

Of course I didn't. I flatly declined her preposterously rude request. And I steamed as I considered the distinct probability that she was simply hung over.

As Jacob and I drove across the 520 bridge, I asked him what percentage of kid-related, last-minute excuses are bullshit. "A lot of them," he conceded. "Kids are in a perpetual state of being sick. It's not hard to exaggerate at any given moment."

The hate is swelling in me now.

posted by john at 08:59 AM  •  solamente

November 22, 2006

the dying is easier to take

One of us near life's mid-point, the other near its end, Miss Sue and I had an unusual conversation last week. Her lifelong best friend just moved to Arizona, and Sue's socially decimated. She described their relationship at length, especially its irreplacability and the big hole left in her life now. I asked why the friend left Spokane. "Her kid lives in Arizona," Sue shrugged. "And he wanted his mom near him."

She picked at her salad a bit. "That's what it's like when you're old, you know. All your friends move away. Or die. The dying is easier to take than the moving away."

The parallel was obvious. "Is that the geriatric version of all your friends having kids and disappearing?" I asked.

"Yeah. It's exactly the same feeling."

Great. Something to look forward to.

Sue pressed on. "And there's a middle stage. When the grandkids come along, they all disappear again."

"Jesus Christ. Any other cheery nuggets to share?"

"Yeah. Just go ahead and make new friends. These aren't coming back."

posted by john at 08:41 AM  •  solamente

October 17, 2006

300,000,000

"Wanna hold the baby?" Christy asked, effervescing.

It's not an uncommon question lately, but it certainly is a curious one. Why would I want to hold the baby? I don't want to hold her older brother. I don't want to hold your new vase. I don't want to hold the sack of flour over there on the counter. I have no unrequited holding longings whatsoever, thanks. In the event I yearn to hold something, I'll let you know.

Now, I understand why the parent might want me to hold the baby: so they can get a break. Lord knows every time I step into the Metamuville store, Dirt thrusts Ava into my hands. "Here. Hold this a sec." And then he'll walk outside, lie on a picnic table, heave an enormous sigh, and watch the seagulls fly overhead while he nurses a seven-inch cigar like it contains the last oxygen on Earth.

I cannot help but admire his shamelessness.

With Christy, though, it was different. The child was pleasantly sleeping. For some reason, it was important to Christy that I want to hold the baby; when I politely declined, she was visibly disappointed. "You men," she finally sneered. "So phobic of babies. You're not going to break her, you know."

Yes, that's it precisely. It's not that you made a bizarre request for me to do something wrist-gashingly boring. It's fear. Fear of my incompetence, fear for the safety of your child. It's like you're inside my head, it is.

posted by john at 09:09 AM  •  solamente

October 10, 2006

the miracle baby

OHIO - Every argument my mother had with the teenage me distilled down to this essence: I blamed her for my having been born, and she blamed me.

"Why the hell did you even have kids? You hate your kids!"

"Believe me, John," Mom would snarl as hurtfully as she could, "All of my children were accidents."

"They know what causes kids, you know. Nicely done."

Variations on that conversation repeated throughout my adolescence. We had it many, many times. My mother was exactly the sort of person who needed to make it clear that your very existence ruined hers, and she never missed an opportunity to remind you.

CUT TO:
INT. BEDROOM — MORNING — 22 YEARS LATER

It's 2006, and Mom has been dead for two decades. My eldest sister reports that she ran into an old friend of the family, Father Carmine, who I remember in name only. When I was very small, priests would come over to our house and conduct some sort of service in our living room, right in front of the piano. I think one of them might have been him.

All these decades later, to my sister's complete shock, he remembered her. The man must be 80 by now, yet he remembered our mother, father, and all the kids by name. He asked about each of us individually. And when it came to the last, he asked, "And how is the miracle baby, John Paul?"

"What." my sister monotones in my imagination.

And then Father Carmine told her about how my mother so desperately wanted a fifth baby, about how they prayed together that she would conceive.

Now, I'm at a loss to explain how a 34 year old mother of four who didn't practice birth control can get pregnant and have it proclaimed miraculous. And I do not care how. Behold the wonder, the splendor, the divine intervention that is me. Behold John, the Miracle Baby!

It didn't take me long to abuse my new status. "Well," I said to my sister pityingly, putting my arm around her. "We wanted children often have a different perspective..."

posted by john at 08:16 AM  •  solamente

October 05, 2006

the unveiling

Last night I went out for drinks with a new friend and we showed one another our scabs. I always let the other person go first. She doesn't get along with her parents, who continue their lifelong practice of not much caring about her. The effects are obvious; she's twitchy, nervous, eager for approval. She makes curious relationship choices. She's in therapy, even though she doesn't think it's ever done her a lick of good or ever will.

"How about you?" she asked. "Do you get along with your parents?"

Here we go.

A simple "not really" will precipitate another question, which will precipitate another, and soon this will be a cross-examination. I know from past experience that in 30 minutes' time, this friendship will be forever changed. She'll fall in love with me (or more precisely, with the notion of repairing me), recoil in horror, or some contorted combination of the two. Mind you, I won't volunteer any information. It's just that for every follow-up question she will ask, the answer will be "Yes." On life's grand childhood trauma quiz, I get an A. Not a 100%, more like a 95%, but an A nonetheless.

It's 30 minutes later. Her drink is empty, her eyes are the size of manhole covers, and her arms are flailing wildly.

"How does that not affect you?!?"

"My family? It does."

"I don't see it."

"Oh, they're there. They're always there in the back seat of my mind, chattering in my ear. But I don't let them drive."

"But...but...how can you, like, just decide not to let it affect you?"

"Well, it'd be naive to think that it doesn't affect me at all. I mean Jesus, just look at my life. How many people like me do you know? But yes, at a certain point, I did decide to stop whining and take ownership of my own issues as best I could."

"Yeah, but how?"

"I just got fed up with my family's twistedness and decided that from that point forward, anything wrong with me was my own fault."

"Yeah, but how?"

"I just told you how."

"No you didn't."

And so it will go, forever, neither of us ever understanding the blocking issue for the other. I have friends who get it, and I have friends who don't. The ones who get it? At some point they'd decided to take ownership of their problems, too.

I have a new theory that parents who are off-the-charts, comic-book-villain bad are actually doing their kids a favor. It's not hard to make a dissociative break from comic book villains. They bear no resemblance to me or to real life, the child can honestly say. They have nothing to do with my reality. The child is forcefully shoved toward this realization. He's forced to man-up. Meanwhile, the kids with the merely shitty parents get no life-changing shove. No epiphany. They likely remain in their moderately negative parental dynamic forever, doomed to a desperate, grasping lifetime of "Yeah, but how?"

You heard it here first: parents, if you're going to mess up your kids, do them a favor and really pile it on. They'd thank you for it later, if they were still speaking to you.

posted by john at 07:54 AM  •  solamente

September 10, 2006

“parent of the year” nominee

I spent some time reading discussion boards about my new DVR, and the conversation always turns to what features folks would like to see implemented in the next version. One guy said a mouthful:

I would love the ability to queue up shows for playback. It gets really annoying when the kids bother me every 30 minutes to put something else on.

posted by john at 09:28 AM  •  solamente

September 08, 2006

kids solved

I'm slow on the uptake sometimes. Ask anyone. It was with quite the jolt, then, that this morning I finally realized the point of having kids: you're creating people who are guaranteed not to drop you as soon as they have kids.

My god, it's so elegant in its simplicity.

posted by john at 08:56 AM  •  solamente

June 28, 2006

can you read my mind?

Here's what movie-going in your 30s is like, kids.

On the way home from the theatre, Katrina and I were debating the merits and flaws of Superman Returns when...

Katrina: "I had issues with Lois Lane and her boyfriend. I thought they were really poor parents. I mean, taking the kid on to Luthor's yacht? I would never do that."

Me: "Congratulations."

Katrina: "What?"

Me: "You just made tomorrow's Stank post."

Katrina: "OH NO NO NO NO NO what I was saying was that in terms of the plot, it wasn't credible that she would take him on to the yacht."

Me: "Mmm."

• • •

The movie was good. Brandon Routh ably takes over the mantle, often hitting notes so eerily like Christopher Reeve, they're kind of creepy. Every scene Kevin Spacey was in, my eyes were riveted to him. Both performances were note-perfect. Kate Bosworth looks 12. (Where movie math and real math collide: to be Bosworth's age, Lois would have had to have slept with Superman when she was 17). Parker Posey's performance and role are overpraised. The Luthor scheme was just plain dull. Despite some plodding indulgences, the film tries for, and occasionally achieves, grandeur. That's rare.

Now, on to the bitching.

The tagline of the '77 Superman was "You will believe a man can fly." Seems quaint now, doesn't it? In this day and age of Bobbing Tigers, Pendular Dragons, every movie has flying men. A flying man comes with the medium popcorn combo, now, so the tagline clearly needs updating. How about:

You will believe a man can dangle an entire cruise ship by a single strut.

You will believe sound waves can travel to Superman's ears in the vacuum of space.

You will believe that a small helicopter can make it from New York to the Bahamas.

You will believe that faulty release pins can hold a space shuttle to the roof of a 747 if the shuttle's rockets fire.

You will believe that NASA would just happen to fill the 747 with reporters for the shuttle's maiden launch.

You will believe a 747 can be held by its nose at a 45 degree angle and be gently lowered to the ground without snapping.

You will believe that Superman can lift into orbit the same suburb-sized chunk of kryptonite that, just 10 minutes ago, sapped all his powers.

You will believe that Earth orbit escape velocity is that of a love tap.

I'm willing to believe in Kryptonian physics for two hours, but can we keep the Earth physics vaguely recognizable?

posted by john at 07:35 AM  •  solamente

June 18, 2006

father’s day 2006

It's Father's Day, for many of my friends the first. I'd like to take this opportunity to extend my heartiest best wishes to new dads Rob, Carl, Barry, d, Frank Frank, Dirt, and whoever I'm forgetting. And of course, I gratefully acknowledge he who raised me.

posted by john at 12:21 AM  •  solamente

May 27, 2006

stank: your baby-hating headquarters?

I'm troubled by the commercials that air during the TV shows I watch. When you find yourself in the demographic targeted by people selling X-Men action figures, "Girls Gone Wild" videos, discount psychics, and Massengill Extra-Cleansing Vinegar & Water Douches...well, it's time for some serious self-assessment.

So is it with this page's readership. Some of you disturb me. Prisoners, sociopaths, Michigan alumni—your pathologies, I can handle. But any time I take a shot at a demographic (right, left, religious kooks, black, white, whatever), the opposite demo, very pleased, writes en masse. And nothing makes the forest rain nuts quite like when I rip parents.

I have somehow become the patron saint of baby-haters. Stop writing me. Stop identifying with me. I do not hate babies. Who hates babies? They never did anything to anyone.

I don't know how I can make it any clearer. I do not hate babies. I hate parents.

posted by john at 10:31 AM  •  solamente

May 24, 2006

hurtling at breakneck speed through the lush forests of houston, madagascar

Do you get the impression that she used pretty much random photos in that animation?

posted by john at 07:13 AM  •  solamente

May 23, 2006

stork

From cartoonist Nina Paley comes this delightful short film. Any further set-up would ruin it. Enjoy.

posted by john at 10:18 AM  •  solamente

April 22, 2006

a day in the life of john (2006)

6 am - Wake up. Stretch. It's all downhill from here.

6:01am - Check personal e-mail. Not a peep from my friends. Thank god for Internet trolls.

9am - Commute. Drive by Metamuville store, cringe at the owners' patheticly self-promoting sign: "Roses are red, Violets are blue, Ava is sweet, And our doughnuts are too."

11am - Try to scare up a lunch date. "If I take a lunch, that's just that much later I have to work, and I won't be able to pick up my baby from the complete stranger," they say.

Noon - Lunch alone.

1pm - Chat with Mom #1. Her baby is really, really unique and endlessly fascinating. The child likes crinkly sounds and bright colors, everything goes right into her mouth, and she sure is a handful! "But enough about my kid," Mom says. "What do you think about my kid?"

2pm - Have the identical conversation with Mom #2. "She just makes the cutest expressions!" she says.

3pm - Have the identical conversation with Mom #3. "She just makes the cutest expressions!" she says. Well, someone's gotta be wrong, I grumble. She gets cross. "Validation, please. A real friend would pay unremitting homage to my baby," comes the reply, or maybe that's just what I heard. "YOU WILL PAY HOMAGE!"

3:30pm - My co-worker cancels, at the last minute, the meeting for which I traveled 160 minutes and paid $25 in gas and ferry fees. "My kid has a thing."

3:31pm - Plan Football Weekend such that Bubba's wife and two kids can fly with us and visit family. Otherwise he can't go, you see.

4pm - Receive e-mail with baby photos. My oh my, gosh almighty and yes indeedy, that is just, um, let's see...the...cutest baby ever? Ah, you're welcome! And your baby's so distinguishable from the rest! Yep. Yep. Say, what do you think about Iran enriching uranium? A scary, can't-win situation, that. "Now that I'm a mother," the reply comes, "Those sorts of things really bother me."

5pm - Meet Mom #4 and appendage for dinner. The baby shrieks nonstop, and little is done to make it stop. Everyone in the restaurant glares at me. They want to kill me. I want to help them. Mom shrugs. "There's nothing I can do about it." I ask her if she's ever heard of the technological innovation called "babysitters." Or "condoms," for that matter. I'm told I'm rude. What? I'm sorry, what did you say? All I can hear is your little birth defect being extra miraculous.

5:57pm - Drive past Metamuville store on way home. The sign now reads: "Ava says 'ice cream and I are cool treats!'"

6pm - Play cards with Mom #5. She asks about the baby of Mom #4, even though she's never met the people and never will.

7pm - Quality time. Cigar. Tawny. Hot tub. Alone.

11:35pm - Save me, Letterman!

11:36pm - Letterman mentions his son Harry for the first time that evening. I realize that nowadays, I can't tell Letterman from my friends any easier than I can tell my friends from one another.

11:51pm - Letterman asks vacuous supermodel about her kids. She takes the hint to ask him about Harry. They conclude that their kids make just the cutest expressions. After five minutes of brain-gooifying discourse about sippy cups and table-walking, the sweet, sweet release of unconsciousness comes. Or maybe it's death. If I'm lucky, it's death.

6am - Damn.

posted by john at 11:05 AM  •  solamente

April 18, 2006

stalking, inc.

If you're a parent and haven't seen the culture of myspace.com, you really need to take a look. This is not your usual "the sky is falling!" media alarm about new technologies. This really is a danger.

I was first exposed to the site through my students. Essentially a bunch of free personal web sites wherein kids can post photos, blogs, and messages to one another, the service is neither new nor unique—except for the wildly popular subculture it bred.

Witness my horror: a student showed me her myspace, and through it, any miscreant could find countless photos of her, her full name (including middle), her mother's maiden name, her parents' home address, her boyfriend's full name, her zip code, her email address, her employer's name, her birth date, her work and education history, who got soooooo drunk last weekend that he did untoward things, and where they were all meeting again this Saturday night at 8.

"Are you completely deranged?" I asked. "Have you ever heard of identity theft? No? How about predators? Employer background checks?"

This piqued my curiosity, and soon I was easily finding out about who was having sex with whom after taking several hits of ecstasy. The kids have no filter whatsoever. The more boastful and explicit they can make the site, the better—this material is, after all, intended for the consumption of their friends. Unfortunately, unlike the boasts and posing of yesteryear, it's not in someone's basement but in the public domain.

Parents, want to have a panic attack? Try this exercise. Pick a random bagger at your grocery store. Note their first name. Then go to myspace and search for that name. Then to narrow your search results, specify the zip code of the store. More often than not, myspace thoughtfully leads you straight to the bagger. You'll see his whole drug history, if not her boudoir photos. It's utterly horrifying in its ease.

Being both invulnerable and at the zenith of human intellect, just like we were, this generation of kids clearly has no conception that they're making themselves easy targets for thieves, HR departments and worse. When the kids are fired or raped or killed, parents will doubtlessly blame myspace. I'll blame the parents.

posted by john at 07:09 AM  •  solamente

April 02, 2006

welcome to the world, ava

Just be thankful that fourth trimester abortions aren't legal.

posted by john at 01:11 AM  •  solamente

March 08, 2006

what did i ever do to you, motherfucker?

I met Terrell and Don and their beautiful 4 year old girl for dinner last night. When I was distracted, the child ordered her mother to trade places with me. "She wants to sit next to me," the ever-obedient Terrell explained when I returned.

"You mean she doesn't want to sit next to me," I replied.

"Well...yeah."

I turned to the child and unleashed the sentence in the headline. My friends stared at me. Apparently I was responsible for the child's first motherfucker. I assured them it wouldn't be her last.

"I'll be sure to add you to her baby book," Terrell cooed.

posted by john at 11:59 AM  •  solamente

February 17, 2006

reality check

It started when I confessed my affection for reality shows. Childless Courtney and I agreed that the primary source of their appeal is our seeing delusions be ruthlessly crushed. Hey, coddled 17 year old! You've been told your whole life that you're a talented singer? Grab your ankles. We're debunking and mocking that fantasy on national TV. Ha, ha, ha. Good stuff. Hey, no-talent shrew whose breasts mysteriously don't shrink as you lose 80% of your body fat! Do you honestly think you're going to parlay your 15 minutes into an acting or modeling career? Ho, ho, ho! "Has anyone actually made lasting fame out of a Survivor stint?" I asked. Courtney pointed to Elizabeth Filarski, who's now on The View. Ah yes. One out of hundreds.

I enjoyed wallowing in smugness so much that I had the same conversation the next day with Allie. "Only Elizabeth Filarski," I concluded, snorting with self-satisfaction. And then the conversation veered abruptly in a manner to which I'm becoming all too accustomed. "I have issues with her," Allie chided no one in particular. "She stopped breast-feeding her kid and, like, glorified this practice on her show."

I've said it before; I'll say it again: I'm gonna start trolling for friends at infertility support groups.

posted by john at 06:24 AM  •  solamente

December 23, 2005

wonder of wonders

Steeped in Catholic tradition as a kid, I thought I knew what a "miracle" was. It was turning water into wine, or walking on water, or God saving people from the killer hurricane He sent. Maybe it wasn't necessarily divine, but it should certainly have an element of the immortal about it, like the end of the Cal-Stanford game. Football fans don't need me to say which Cal-Stanford game. The miraculous one. If every game ended that way, it wouldn't be a miracle, now, would it?

Thrice. That's how many times I've heard ordinary childbirth referred to as a "miracle" in the last 24 hours. Most of my friends have been experiencing miracles, lately. Identical miracles. It's like Starbucks started selling mass-produced miracles along with the coffee mugs and dreadfully lousy CDs. Miracles are threatening to overpopulate and starve themselves out.

"When your dog did the exact same thing in your garage last year, was that a miracle?" I ask.

"You're so smug/self-righteous/pretentious," snorts the person claiming that cranking out one of the nearly quarter-million babies born every day is miraculous.

posted by john at 12:28 PM  •  solamente

December 07, 2005

sleep in heavenly peace

Many people romanticize the dead. Misdeeds are forgotten like credit card debt, and even the most hateful people are beatified. Like so many social niceties, this ability eludes me. Bitch in life, bitch in death, I say.

Which brings us to Mom.

In all fairness, my mom had a brutally hard life, and not coincidentally she wasn't much of a mother or human being. She was an orphan at 9, raised by cousins. She married my abusive dad and bore five children, three of whom estranged themselves from her. By age 8, I was taking photos of her battered face, as evidence. I thought this was normal. An impoverished single mother at 45, and with only a degree in home economics (!) to fall back on, she wiped butts for a living until she finally contracted cancer and checked herself into the hospital where she worked. Cancer, remission, cancer again. One morning, she was driving herself to her radiation treatment when a guy turned right on red in front of her vehicle, clipping her and sending her car careening off a 50-foot high bridge on to a rock embankment below. The impact pulverized several of her vertebrae—in between breakfast and lunch, her height went from 5'5" to 5'2". In addition to the aforementioned poverty and several flavors of cancer, now she battled paralysis and acute claustrophobia until her merciful death at 52.

Right. In her shoes, not many among us would be a great parent. You have to have your own house in order before you can help build someone else's. For that reason, I give her a pass. Although I can't pretend she was kind, I can understand why she wasn't.

But.

Like many mothers, mine nailed herself to a cross every Christmas. There was screaming. Bawling. Jealousy. Guilt trips. If we kids so much as spent Christmas Eve with Dad, cue the histrionics. One year, my brother and I spent Christmas Eve and morning with her, intending to head up to Dad's Christmas night. I knew I was getting a bike, and I had every intention of collecting. The theatrics were otherworldly. We were "hateful" for going. My brother, putting himself through school, spent a week's salary on a new phone for Mom. She opened it and snorted, visibly disgusted. "I wanted almond." We stared at her. "This is beige." I, meanwhile, had spent vast sums of grasscutting monies on a butcher block. Mom's knives rolled around freely in the utensil drawer, you see, and her doctor had warned that in her condition, any cut could be fatal. "What a waste of money," she snapped. "I already have knives." And on and on. While my brother and I played cards in the living room, thanklessly running out the clock until we left for Dad's, my mom bawled in her bedroom, at one point opening the door so that we could hear her better.

The next year, she slid into a coma on Christmas Eve. The Wailing Christmas would effectively be her last, the indelible yuletide memory of herself she implanted in her kid's memory. I've thought of her pathos every Christmas since.

The lesson has been lasting. I have an allergic aversion to my mother's sort of theatrics. Since I don't know when my own time is up, I try to treat every holiday and milestone as my last. Not for me. Not even for my loved ones. For my legacy. Who wants to be remembered every Christmas hence as a miserable, self-pitying, jealous person who's better off dead?

Merry Christmas, Mom. You always did find the perfect gift.

posted by john at 07:18 AM  •  solamente

December 06, 2005

off-leash areas

For posterity:

posted by john at 12:02 PM  •  solamente

December 05, 2005

parents is crazy

Teaching at the college level is not nearly as satisfying or important as teaching kids. I'm fine with that. It's still a billion times more satisfying and important than explaining to yet another Microsoft "editor" why beginning a sentence with the word because is no different from beginning it with any other subordinating conjunction. (And then explaining it again using smaller words. Fruitlessly. And then going home and explaining it to Ed. Who gets it the first time.) Once a year, I replenish my soul in the classroom. Once a year is fine. It gives me the feeling of professional substance I crave.

The students with whom I stay in touch are the cream of the crop. By definition, my students are upperclassmen at a liberal arts school. Educated, bright, driven, well-read, well-rounded sorts. And from this pool, I cherry-pick the few I want to help out. And you know what? Despite all the filtering, they invariably disappoint me. Yesterday I found myself trying to cajole a fellow into bathing before his interview. And maybe not toking up during the drive there.

Now, I'm not saying that I didn't disappoint a few people when I was their age. Or beyond. Or now. This isn't about them; it's about me. I don't think I'm cut out for investments of the human kind. Whatever the altruistic stuff is that allows teachers to encourage and believe even after students have been flunked/fired/arrested/knocked up, I don't have it. Being disappointed by someone in whom I've invested is devastating. It feels almost like a betrayal of sorts. It wipes me out. And like I said, I get to cherry-pick students. I can't even imagine what it must be like for the blind trust that is parenthood. Any given kid must disappoint twelve times daily. Hats off to parents. You're made of sterner stuff than I. Do y'all just get jaded to it?

posted by john at 12:02 AM  •  solamente

November 11, 2005

camera three, go to the carsick girl! this is pure gold!

When my family would annually drive from Ohio to Florida, we used the station wagon. We were seated by age. Mom and Dad were in the front seat, the two oldest kids in the next, the squabbling twins in the third, and in the rumble seat, the puny thing wedged into the tailgate area, we had yours truly. The seat had its advantages. First and foremost, it was out of Dad's reach. But that bit of pleasantness was more than mitigated by its proximity to the twins, Julie and Judy, who screeched and bit and swore unremittingly from Chillicothe to Siesta Key. And that, in turn, had a tendency to attract Dad. Those were some long-ass 30-hour drives.

I used to think that CBS chief Les Moonves was a pretty smart guy. And then "The Amazing Race: Family Edition" came along. What focus group said "Can we please watch dullard families squabble and preen for the cameras in the car for months and months?" I want names.

• • •

I'd be remiss if I didn't note that last week, Katrina and I finally watched Revenge of the Sith together. Of course, now we discuss how Padme's pregnancy was unrealistic. My life is so enriched.

posted by john at 09:04 AM  •  solamente

October 18, 2005

kids lite

Disclaimer: before I discuss this latest parenting debacle, I need to clarify something oft misunderstood. I do not hate children. Nor parents. I do not care if people procreate any more than I care if they buy a sedan. It's not my business, not my place, not my interest. Any frustration I've expressed in this space is simply the result of my losing a significant percentage of friends to parenthood. Yes, "lose." I'm delighted that my friends are happy, but I miss them, and the little shadow-of-what-it-used-to-be audiences I'm granted, while appreciated, are salt in the amputation stump. I do not, you see, have a demanding infant with which to fill my newfound free time. I'm still right here, right where I was with you, without you. It sucks, frankly. It's merely unpleasant at an individual level, but collectively, it's been socially decimating. Am I being selfish? Probably. But I can't believe it's any healthier to not miss my friends. Anyway. I'll deal. The larger point is that it's not really about kids at all. Got it?

• • •

Two friends, let's call them Kathy and Mike Mulligan, are in the family way. Eighth verse, same as the first—man, am I ever numb to this by now. A couple months ago, they were me. Together we mourned lost friends, and we cynically toasted our own eternal childlessness. Somewhere in the discussions, birth control came up, and she said they used none. "Are you insane?" I asked. "Pretty please, allow me to drive you to the freakin' drug store." No, she replied, it'll be fine. She is unable to have kids. Her only evidence: a lifetime of being careless with birth control. Her logic made me nervous then, and now voila. Tardo Jr. is en route.

Wishful thinking, sadly, is how they make all major decisions. Concurrent with their careful conclusion that no birth control was necessary: a $150,000 home remodel. They're turning their house into a bed and breakfast. When they entered six digit territory, I asked what the zoning restrictions were.

"Hmm?" came the reply. Turns out they hadn't checked.

"I'm sure it'll be fine," they said. Turns out it's not fine.

A week after the remodeling conversation, when news of the pregnancy broke, I wanted to bitchslap them. Not for having a baby, but for having a baby for the most moronic reason imaginable. Kathy asked me to look up abortion law on the web. She was unsure if she wanted an abortion, but Mike was sure. Damned sure. He even joked about throwing Kathy's pregnant body over the cliff. Ha, ha.

Welcome, Tardo Jr. You will be loved.

So now we're having a baby, but we're having it Mulligan style. "How are you going to run a shop with a newborn around?" I asked.

"Oh, it'll be fine. No problem. We'll just set up a playpen in the boutique."

"It's not that easy. Newborns turn your world upside down. You won't be working."

"It'll be fine," she repeats crossly, getting peeved at me for daring to question the wisdom of The Plan. She's offended? I'm offended. Do I dare mention their previously established genius for foresight? Nah. I let it go.

No, I do not hate children. But I sure do detest when people create children lightly. If any decision calls for some care, some gravity, I'd think it the decision to create a human being.

Alas. It'll be fine.

posted by john at 07:42 PM  •  solamente

September 30, 2005

the validation manifesto

Several women have already stopped reading. Several weary women.

I've referred to my "Validation Theory" many times on this page, but I've never spelled it out. Simply put, I believe that the primary social force in the world is the human need for validation. In the bulk of human interactions, we are either seeking or granting endorsements. Simple, no? This theory scales like a motherfucker. Once you start filtering human behavior for validation, you see nothing else.

And yes, I'm fully aware of the irony here. I'm waxing about my belief system on my web site. Self-indulgent and validation-seeking behavior if ever there were one. See how well it scales?

So say I'm right. So what? It's a harmless enough social force. Sadly, it is not, for the Validation Theory has a very ugly corollary: most people view validation as zero-sum. If I'm to feel good about myself, you cannot—unless you make the same choices I do. But if you don't, any happiness you feel invalidates my own and must be denigrated.

My favorite example of zero-sum-validation thinking will forever be the Christian bumper sticker

Know Jesus, know peace

No Jesus, no peace

If you want to drive a fundy positively insane, show them how happy you are without their religion. That so invalidates everything they believe, everything in which they've invested their self-image, they cannot even consider the possibility. Nope, you're Satan's intermediary.

All the new moms in my life have experienced a zero-sum crossfire lately. If they continue to work, stay-at-home moms revile them as bad parents. If they stay at home, their professional colleagues snort disdainfully about "breeders." The invective is harsh, unrelenting, and unsolicited, and it invariably comes from women whose own choices are being—cue the organ music—invalidated.

Let's view recent posts through the validation filter.

• Lionel, pretentiously suggesting that poetry be read at business meetings? Seeking validation.
• Courtney, thinking people in Seattle are mean? Obviously being invalidated. Me, posting about it? Being validated.
• Jim and Marceline, irrationally defending their product in the face of evidence? The validation they get from their work was threatened.
• Ed's failing health? No validation link—she's a dog.
• Jessica Alba, saying she really wants good roles? Please.
• I'll skip Bobby Brown's playlist. That's too easy.
• Percy? His "that kid already has everything" comment suggests my age and station make him feel much resentment.
• My friends, pouting when I didn't go with exactly their color choices? I suppose they feel as though I criticized their taste.

And on and on. The need for validation is why people dress up and wear make-up. It's why they buy expensive things. It's why people pair up. It's why lousy relationships persist well past the establishment of lousiness. It's why people have kids. It's why they pray instead of taking kids to doctors. It's why your family goes batshit if you don't come by and stare at the TV with them often enough. It's why managers create direct reports aliases (e.g., "Jim Jones' Direct Reports") that are of no conceivable use to anyone but them but that inconvenience many. It's why we insulate ourselves with people who affirm our belief systems. It's why seemingly good people can rationalize doing horrible things. It's why we want our friends—strangers, even—to couple/parent/buy something/change cities/etc. like we did, and it's why we feel curiously rejected when they don't. It's why we feel self-conscious about dining or going to movies alone. It's why people with no education disdain its necessity, and it's why I so value it. It's why people find a way to diminish your new house/car/S.O. It's why the top-10 non-fiction list is half books about how smart you are, half books about how stupid "they" are. It's why readers send me email arguing "I don't seek validation from other people." It's why people kill those who don't share their beliefs. It's why they want to introduce matters of faith into the science classroom. It's why I go weak-kneed every time I hear "Lover Lay Down" and remember that the sexiest woman I've ever known actually thought of me when she heard that song. It's why my brother and sister-in-law would rather lose me altogether than admit that the John mythology they've concocted is untrue. It. Is. Everywhere.

• • •

What, if anything, is to be learned from this? Like any point of view, it's subjective. It's a theory that happens to fit the facts. A helluva lot of facts. What began as a desperate attempt to explain one person's behavior became a plausible explanation for most of mankind's behavior. Does this make it right? Is it the only possible explanation for a given behavior? Of course not. But I've yet to come across an alternative explanation that scales so, so well across all of human behavior.

Although I found the theory life-changing, I didn't exactly find it life-affirming. Understanding validation, both your need for it and others', is not an A-ticket to bliss. The benefits are more subtle than that. I look at it more as something to keep an eye on within myself. When someone upsets me, I question why, filter for my validation needs, and very often am able to let it go. This is a good thing. I take great pains not to feel invalidated by others' beliefs or choices, and that eliminates much of life's unnecessary misery. And of course, the rhetorician in me benefits from appealing to others' validation needs. At this point, Allie and I are pretty overt about it.

(phone rings)

Allie: Hello?

Me: I need some unconditional validation.

Allie (bored): You're so smart.

Me: Thanks.

So there you have it, my world view, honed by years of wondering why so-and-so is acting that way. And if you don't agree with my Validation Theory, well, you're just stupid.

posted by john at 08:20 AM  •  solamente

September 03, 2005

fire six! fire seven!

I'd be remiss if I didn't note that the new life Dorkass ushered into the world occured in the shadow of...even more new life. Yes, more Stank regulars—d'Andre and d'Pam, Kiki and Dirt—are in the family way. It never ends. Am I so fertile that every woman upon whom I cast a shadow gets knocked up?

Only one question remains: where did d'Andre buy sperm?

• • •

Meanwhile, Courtney sends me a card coyly saying "there's lots to fill you in on." Perhaps I should start a "seven scariest words" list.

posted by john at 03:10 PM  •  solamente

September 02, 2005

vanity, thy name is junior

I don't presume to generalize about why people have kids. There are obviously many avenues to that decision. Some of the parents I know love their kids quite obviously, and are engaged, involved parents of engaged, well-mannered children; I'm sure they had kids for all the right reasons, even if I don't quite understand. That makes sense enough; if I understood, I'd probably want kids. Fine. More often, though, I see parents who rotely blundered into the baby-making circumstance, like they blunder into most, simply because they failed to imagine another possible future. I've also met parents who failed to master the complexities of unrolling a condom, who wanted a kid that matches their couch, who wanted someone to love them, who had something to prove, and even who wanted extra hands on the farm. All are varying degrees of abhorrent, but no one so much as the vain parent. You know the type. His child is his path to immortality, his chance to raise a little version of himself. Same values, same interests and, all too often, same name. Is there any more narcissistic act than naming your child after yourself, really? Every time I meet a junior, I hear "vanity project."

posted by john at 01:05 PM  •  solamente

July 23, 2005

pass the sausage gravy

I have a new mission in life: to drop dead of a heart attack before the summer of 2023, when all these newborns will be shaking me down for high school graduation money all at once.

I just got off the phone with new mom Amy, who, bless her heart, only used the words "epidural" and "miracle" once each. Like many before her, she expressed unease about discussing her child with me. I can't say I don't deserve that. (The exception is Allie. "I long ago stopped giving a shit about making you unhappy. So anyway, it's so weird to have someone inside you hiccup. It's, like, so weird. You know? John? Hello?") To my self-censoring friends, allow me to take this opportunity to say "Thanks!" clarify: I'd be a pretty crappy friend if you couldn't talk about the most important thing going on in your life. And really, I want to hear about it. I want to hear about the pain, the joy, the fear, the newfound genre of love. That stuff is fascinating. And if you have something original to say—like lunatic Amy going without an epidural—bring it on. What I've railed about in this page isn't kid talk; it's unfiltered kid talk to the exclusion of all other talk.

Maybe a primer is in order. Junior shows an aptitude for drawing? Anecdote. Junior shows an aptitude for happily sitting in his own feces? Not an anecdote. Junior calls the dog and not the father "daddy?" Hilarious. Junior calls the dog "Blap!" What's the opposite of "hilarious?" Junior spits up? Not an anecdote. Junior spits up invaluable 18th century postage stamp? Anecdote. Junior doesn't like strained beets? Not an anecdote. Who does? Junior shoves strained beets down his diaper to avoid eating them, making you think he's bleeding internally and sending you hurtling down the freeway to the hospital? Excellent anecdote.

posted by john at 06:16 AM  •  solamente

July 20, 2005

new parents, this is how to say something interesting about it

Rob and Amy named their newborn Henry Robert, which is delightfully old school. Better still, "Hank Bob" is one of the best hillbilly names I've ever heard. "All y'all go git Hank Bob and lez fry us up some road squirrel."

A rare breeder reader, Rob was quick with the jab in e-mail: "I'd comment on [your vin Diesel remark], but I've lost all ability to talk about anything but dirty diapers."

"Tell me about the miracle," I replied.

"The big revelation is that God is definitely a man and that's why men don't have to go through that shit. Ouch."

posted by john at 12:12 PM  •  solamente

July 19, 2005

welcome to the planet, henry

Finally, a strapping young lad breaks up the glee club that has been my summer. Henry, fear not, there will come a time that I pull you aside and tell you all about football. Seeing's how your father is a brie-chowing pansy, and all.

posted by john at 07:27 AM  •  solamente

July 17, 2005

welcome to the world, lily

Allow me to be the first to call you a magnificent bastard.

P.S. No matter what your mother says, I broke up with her.

posted by john at 11:44 AM  •  solamente

July 10, 2005

another kids rant

Not really. But more than one reader has accused me of being anti-kid, and that's not really the case. I see kids, especially the young ones, largely as the innocent products of parenting. And I'm vehemently anti-shitty-parents-with-an-overdeveloped-sense-of-entitlement.

Keep your child-hell stories coming. I'm enjoying them very much.

posted by john at 05:56 PM  •  solamente

July 07, 2005

...and the hobby horse you rode in on

Inevitably, the Daisy saga was immediately trumped.

What brain damage does childbirth cause to some parents? Why do they think it's okay to bring their kids to an adult party, then allow the little tornados to be obscenely rude to the other guests, throw tantrums and break stuff? Why is it everyone else's fault that the kids ruin their good time? Why am I expected to share in, if not outright relieve the parents of, the burden of parenting? Why is it okay to suggest that I'm somehow so complicit in their decision to have children, I need to remake my world in plastic and outlet covers in order to protect the kids who I did not choose to birth, who I did not invite, whose electrocution I would not mind all that much?

Parents, sober up. Be satisfied with my having to pay for your little vanity projects' two decades of education. Having kids was your call, not the planet's. The next time your unparented kid breaks a glass or a window at my house, I'm rubbing your nose in the broken shards until you learn.

posted by john at 09:41 PM  •  solamente

January 01, 1800

my first ban

Originally published July 6, 2003

Over the holiday I hosted the same Mormon friends that almost provoked me to murder-suicide during their last visit. Speaking of last visits, they are not welcome back. Never ever ever ever ever ever ever. It's about respect. It's about responsible parenting. But mostly, it's about self-defense. For the benefit of my other friends with children, this weekend I compiled the following parenting primer.

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  solamente

bacardi: check

Originally published May 12, 2005

And with a quick snip, Annalie embarks on a lifetime of having to spell her name for people.

Welcome to the planet, Johnetta!

Oh. I guess they went with second choice. The dream is all up to Annie and Eric now.

Also born on this date: Steve Winwood, Ving Rhames, George Carlin, Florence Nightengale, Katharine Hepburn, and (this one gives me goosebumps) Yogi Berra.

foreshadowing, indeed!

Originally published May 11, 2005

Katrina's little girl will be born on May 12, a tad early. Mom is in excellent spirits. Baby looks fine. The men in the vicinity of Mom and baby are completely whack. Thus endeth my report for now.

The original Lionel (a.k.a. Spazzie McDrama) took it upon herself to send out mail proclaiming Katrina hospitalized. When it arrived, I was seated next to a very surprised Trinie at her dining room table. I said it then, and I say it now: people who eagerly trumpet other people's drama as their own, who contrive to use others' news to draw attention to themselves, are vermin.

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  solamente

more great moments in parenting

Originally published May 30, 2005

In rural Minnesota this weekend, a four year old child at a family picnic was shot and killed by a relative. The child wandered behind the paper targets being used for target practice at this family function. Right about now, you're asking yourself what parent thought "target practice" and "family function" should be in the same sentence, so here's another little tidbit to digest: the same kind of parent who dressed the kid in camouflage for the occasion. According to the sheriff: "While the paper target didn't completely obscure the child, he was wearing camouflage pants that made him difficult to see against the foliage." I suppose there's some evolutionary advantage to the parents' genes not proliferating, but I sure wish it'd been achieved through their deaths and not the kid's.

posted by john at 12:00 AM  •  solamente