Monthly Archives: February 2009

Parental Guidance

We Have a New Rude Douche Champion!

A while back, I wrote of a grocery store parking lot incident that occurred when I was still a newish father. My baby clunked her head on a shopping cart, got upset, and proceeded to yak several metric tons of formula on the pavement. And while I tried to calm her down and avoid the puke, some mouthy broad rolled by me. Did she offer to help? Did she let out a sympathetic “I’ve been there” sigh? No, she screamed TILT HER FORWARD!! and kept on moving.

This act was astounding in its cluelessness and willingness to throw gasoline on a fire. It takes a special kind of person to see another human being in crisis, resist the temptation to help or ignore them, and yell something at them.

Rudeness is a fact of life in NYC, but it’s usually simple, impersonal rudeness. When someone goes out of their way to be rude to you while you’re in the middle of something very serious–well, that person must be applauded for their sheer commitment to assholery.

This woman was the champion of Rude Douches in my experience. Until yesterday, that is. Ladies and gentlemen, a new king has been crowned.

I’ve been super busy at work lately, but yesterday I left in a timely fashion. I was looking forward to a quiet evening at home, working on the podcast, hopefully catching 30 Rock, The Office, and the debut of Delocated. My daughter must have sensed this, because she picked this evening to jam a raisin in her nose.

She toddled over me and said “Daddy, boo-boo nose!” I saw the raisin sticking out of her left nostril, and asked her to sit still while I retrieved it. Of course, this caused her to rear her head back and lodge the raisin deep in her nasal cavity, way too deep for me to get at.

We called her doctor, who told us what we feared: she’d have to go to the ER. There are a few hospitals near us, but they’re all closing within months. I have reservations about taking my child to a hospital whose workers know they’re gonna be out of a job soon. I had visions of the doctor saying, “Yeah, her appendix is coming out. It’s not infected, but I’ve never done an appendectomy before and this might be my last chance!”

So we schlepped all the way to Flushing, amidst beautiful LIE traffic, and ran smack into a jam-packed ER waiting room. Despite an interminable wait, the baby was reasonably calm and well behaved, until we went to triage. She picked this moment to have one of her trademark meltdowns, kicking and screaming and going limp like a non-violent protester.

Post-triage, she was still freaking out. I ran with her out of the waiting room and tried to calm her down, but in her anger she kept kicking me right in the stomach. “You want down? Fine,” I said, and let her on the ground. She slumped and whined with her head on the hallway tiles.

This is an act that every parent of a 2-year-old has seen. You just have to wait it out until the kid is tired of acting like a jerk. Doing so can make you look like a jerk to non-parents and other bystanders, but it’s really the best thing to do. Anything else is a waste of your physical and emotional energy.

At this point, the ER doors opened and one of the hospital maintenance guys came through. “You gotta get her off the floor,” he said. “It’s dirty.”

“I would if I could,” I shoot back.

“You gotta do it,” he says. “You gotta be a father.”

And he keeps on walking.

Ok, first off, mind your own business. Second, mind your own business. Third through one hundred and seventy eighth, MIND YOUR OWN FUCKING BUSINESS.

I gotta be a father?! I’ve been waiting in this overcrowded ER waiting room two goddamn hours because my daughter shoved a raisin up her nose. In a few minutes, I’m gonna have to hold her down on a hospital bed while a complete stranger shoves a hook up her nostril to fish it out. If that isn’t the definition of a father, you tell me what is, asshole.

And yeah, I figure the floor is dirty, Einstein. But if it is, isn’t that YOUR FAULT, GUY WHO CLEANS HOSPITAL FLOOR FOR A LIVING?!

I was seriously ready to fist-fight this guy. But he was gone as quick as he appeared, and at this exact moment we were called into the ER. My desire to get the fuck out of this place as quickly as possible trumped my desire to punch a stranger, no matter how much a bastard he was.

Congrats, New Rude Douche Champion! I’m gonna pick out a huge trophy in your honor! And the next time I see you, prepare to have that trophy shoved right up your ass.

Decrees for My All Encompassing Dictatorship

Decrees for My All-Encompassing Dictatorship, Joni Mitchell Division

In the last episode of Holy Goddamn!, I outline one of the rules I hope to instate when I’m given all-encompassing power over every living thing. Not that this is a goal of mine, mind you. I just feel it pays to be prepared. I don’t want to be caught with my pants down when a fearful citizenry comes to me and asks if I’ll please rule the world.

My latest edition to the laws of my dictatorship: No more covers of “Big Yellow Taxi.”

Nothing against Joni Mitchell otherwise, but that song is as sledgehammer-obvious as they come. It’s the eco-friendly equivalent of “Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue.”

From a pure musical standpoint, there’s nothing wrong with the song. But it contains some secret harmonic ingredient that compels millions of other artists to cover it. Bad artists. Really, really bad artists.

Every time “Big Yellow Taxi” is covered, it actually gets worse, like a xerox of a xerox of a xerox. I heard a Lite-FM-friendly cover in my local deli this morning that drove me up the wall. There’s no point in even tracking down who performed it. It sounded like someone took a KidzBop tune and ran it through Songsmith. It was so middle-of-the-road it made the Sheryl Crow version sound like The Stooges.

Therefore, no more covers of “Big Yellow Taxi”. I have spoken.

Baseball

The Metrics of Met Fans

As I’ve noted before, the MLB Network has done a pretty good job so far, particularly with their Hot Stove show. But that program annoyed and disappointed me last night when host Matt Vasgersian brought up the subject of the Mets and how they can’t “buy a headline” right now and how the Yankees have been dominating the back pages.

He queried ex-Met-and-Yankee Al Leiter on the subject, and the ol’ lefty insisted that New York is a National League town. This brought stunned, laugh-filled reactions from the assembled host: Vasgersian, Harold Reynolds, and recently retired first baseman/molasses imitator Sean Casey.

The other guys on the show had no counter-argument. They probably didn’t think they needed one. Just the notion that NY was an NL town, to them, was so ridiculous that it didn’t warrant a rebuttal.

jacket.jpgI don’t agree with Mr. Leiter that NY is an NL town. It’s a baseball town. And within that universe, there is enough room for large, rabid fan bases for two teams. There are more Yankee fans than Mets fans (26 championships and a 60-year head start will do that), but to paint the Mets as some poor widdle stepsister is ludicrous.

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