I never mentioned this to the couple who considered themselves “my real parents” because I didn’t want to hurt their feelings. However, my mother must have innately picked up on it because from a very young age, my family nickname was “The Prince.” Naturally, this only confirmed my suspicions that I HAD been switched from birth at the hospital.

By the time I reached my teens, I deduced that my royal parents were having difficulties locating me so I set out upon the world to make my own fortune.

Every empire must start somewhere and mine began by working the night shift as a busboy at Bobby Rubino’s Place for Ribs.

For those of you who don't know of that fine dining establishment, Bobby Rubino’s is like the wife of T.G.I. Fridays that always has bruises on her face and claims she's just "clumsy.”

Located on a desolate highway in suburban New Jersey, the restaurant was a magnet for pot-bellied salesmen, lonely housewives, cops, and refrigerator repairmen. Every night, at the end of my shift, I would bicycle home reeking of cheap barbecue sauce, collared greens, and desperation. Did I mention that I was only fifteen years old?

The sole highlight of my employment there was the night Eddie Murphy came to visit “the premiere place for ribs and BBQ.”

Let’s remember that back in 1985, Eddie Murphy was enjoying an unprecedented run of success that has rarely been repeated in Hollywood. Still shy of his 26^th birthday, he was already coming high off the heels of “Saturday Night Live,” “48 Hours," and “Trading Places.”

Yes, Eddie ultimately embarrassed himself by releasing the Rick James-produced single “Party All The Time” and had yet to deploy his star power to write, direct and produce his dream project, the ill-begotten comedy-drama crime period pic known as “Harlem Nights.” And sure, it was years later that his drunken one-night stand resulted in a positive paternity test with Spice Girl Melanie B and he got arrested for soliciting a transvesite prostitute. However, at that precise moment back in 1985, Eddie Murphy was the fucking MAN! Has anyone ever had the remarkable 5-year-run that he had back in the mid-80’s? At the moment, the only ones who come to mind are Wayne Gretzky, Elle MacPherson, and Notorious B.I.G.

As soon as Eddie Murphy walked into our rib joint, he started throwing hundred-dollar bills in the air like confetti at a parade.

Clearing the Murphy entourage’s greasy plates and doling out pre-packaged lukewarm Wet Naps, I netted about $500 that night. For a fifteen-year-old wanna-be-tycoon, this was a veritable fortune.  A brave new world had suddenly opened up before my very eyes and I astutely realized that there were easier ways to make a buck.

By the time I arrived on the west coast as a naïve but ambitious college freshman at Berkeley, I was determined to earn enough money whereby I could effortlessly afford ski weekends in Squaw Valley, oysters in Point Reyes, and Bloody Marys at Sam’s Café. Essentially, I wanted to be a Marin County housewife.

A brief summary of jobs that I had in college:

(1) Watching coma patients and recording any changes in their status.

(2) Tending gardens as an assistant to a landscape architect. I was quickly revealed as a city slicker upon clearing weeds by hand and excitedly yelling, “Holy crap, escargots!” Up until then, I had previously believed that snails originated solely from the scenic waters of Bourgogne and were indigenous in the U.S. only on the plates of wealthy Park Avenue matrons dining at La Cote Basque. Have I mentioned that I was the Fresh Prince?

(3) Crawling through empty dormitories at the end of every semester to scavenge discarded text books that could be re-sold to the student bookstore.

Eventually I got a highly-lucrative job teaching tennis to housewives at a country club. While my peers were making $5.00/hour toiling at the library or making avocado-and-sprouts sandwiches at Café Med, I was booking a relatively cushy $35/hour working on my tan and cooing the phrase “lightly grab the racquet and shake hands with it gently.” Could life get any better?

After leaving college, I moved to Washington, DC where, after several fruitless job endeavors, I found work doing something I truly enjoyed…writing.

I loved writing for a living. Not only was it intellectually stimulating but I also found that I enjoyed the solitude of the work. Whether penning lifestyle pieces for local magazines or dissecting government policy for think tank journals, I felt as if I had found my true calling. Yes, I thought to myself. This is the life for me.

After several arduous and back-breaking years, I began thinking that maybe it wasn't the life for me. As anyone who has spent any time as a freelance writer knows, it's incredibly stressful trying to figure out where or when your next paycheck is coming. It's disheartening to spend two weeks writing a piece only to be paid less than one might have received working at a fast-food restaurant. Writing requires such an indomitable spirit and a steadfast dedication to craft that I sometimes believe that the low wages exist solely to weed out the disingenuous.

Harlan Ellison, in an interview published in Writer's Digest, once said that anyone can become a writer. The trick is not in becoming a writer, it is in staying a writer. Day after week after month after year.

Ultimately I chose to abandon writing as a career because I not only had doubts about my ability but also because I found my personality ill-suited for the personal sacrifices required to pursue the craft. After all, I wasn't nicknamed the Prince for nothing. If I could pursue another career, make enough money to eat sushi every night and travel the world, yet still pursue writing as a hobby that was probably good enough for me. Once I came to that realization, I never looked back.

Until today.

Tonight, as I was getting the Peanut ready for bed, we sat down and I asked her what she wanted to do for a living when she grew up.

"I think I want to be a writer when I get older, Daddy. Or maybe an artist."

"Well, kiddo. You know that you're immensely talented and you can be anything you want to be when you grow up."

"How about you, Daddy? Would you want to be a writer too? Wouldn't it be great if we could both be writers together?"

"Maybe, sweetie. Right now, I'm more focused on working so that we have a roof over our heads and food on our table. Maybe someday, we'll both be writers and we can write in the same room together."

"I'd like that, Daddy. I'd like that a lot."

Shortly thereafter she fell asleep and I was left feeling an enormous sense of pride. In some ways, I felt like one of those soccer/football/hockey dads who never quite get over their glory days and wish nothing more than having their child fulfill all of their own dreams and fantasies. But really, it was something more than that. It was this incredible feeling that this little kid whose diapers you changed and whose boogers you wiped suddenly, for the first time, has her own set of dreams and fantasies.

Recently, the Peanut wrote a poem about love that moved me beyond belief.

I'm speechless.

She's SEVEN.

Clearly, she's already a better poet that I have ever been.

I'm not posting this as one of those overly proud parents boasting "Look and see what my progeny has done!" I'm posting it because as an adult, one always forgets the depth of emotion of which little children are capable. I'm posting it because I'm a little at a loss on how to best foster her talents and dreams of being a writer. And I'm posting it because I continue to be in awe of the constant surprises that come with parenthood.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to the day when the Peanut's first book is published and I can start pimping out her Amazon page to all of you. 

Maybe then, I can finally retire to the good life.

You know, until my "real" parents find me…

DO REAL MEN DO YOGA?

Internet, I have a confession.

I am now a person who does yoga. Yes. I am a Yogi. Me.

It all started out innocently. I just wanted to add a different dimension to my workouts. Lifting gets boring (those weights are heavy!) and running on treadmills makes me feel like a lab rat. So despite my general dislike of anything that reeks of a pretentious New Age fad, I thought I would expand my horizons and give yoga a try. At the very least, I figured I'd get to stare at my girlfriend's gorgeous body for 90 minutes. Where was the downside?

Holy cow. I'm hooked.

Seriously, I love yoga. I'm sleeping better. I'm breathing easier. I'm less stressed. I've become stronger and more flexible in ways that I had never imagined. I'm bending to Downward Facing Dog, dropping to Chataranga, and reaching to Tadasana.

Despite my fears, I'm pleased to report that I have yet to develop an unfettered love of kombucha, Lulu Lemon, or patchouli. And the day that I say goodbye to any of my buddies by chanting "Namaste" is probably the same day you'll find my dead body in the bottom of the Hudson River.

Luckily, I think my yoga teacher knows the limits of my tolerance for pretension. For example, instead of forcing me to hear Ravi Shankar jam out on a sitar, we ended this week's lesson by lying in savasana while listening to Zero 7. I'm clearly doing the upscale downtown Soho version of yoga.

Anyway, I really do love it.

If I could only resist the temptation to fart out of my third eye every five minutes, I think this yoga thing might be for me.

DREAM DINNER

The year I was applying to colleges, Harvard, Stanford and Princeton all asked potential matriculents to write an essay answering the same question: If you could have dinner with any figure or figures, living or dead, real or historical, who would it be and why?

I can't remember exactly what I wrote but I'm sure my 17-year-old pompous self started the essay by stating, "Don't you mean WHOM?" 

I was thinking about this today because last night, I woke up from a weird dream that had a similar motif. The details of the dream are fuzzy but it entailed a dinner with me, my girlfriend, Oprah and Alec Baldwin.

In the dream, we start off with champagne and cheese. Alec and I huddle on one side of the table talking about mayoral politics, the Knicks, and Peter Luger steaks. Oprah turns to my girlfriend and says, "Girl, you lookin' good." I love it when Oprah gets a little sista-y. Nobody really knows the real Oprah. When the cameras are off, the girl is mad cool.

Over dinner, they start sharing amazing celebrity gossip. Oprah reveals the entire Brad and Jen saga, even though she promised Jen she wouldn’t. Alec tells us about the time he almost had a threesome with Tina Fey and Condoleeza Rice. Amazing!

After a few drinks, I convince Alec that we should start prank calling Rudy Guiliani, Rupert Murdoch, and Kim Basinger. Nobody picks up so we start drinking martinis before dessert.

After dinner, we make s'mores, cuddle on the couch, and watch re-runs of Extreme Home Makeover. Then suddenly, the dream ended. I woke up, jumped in the shower, and went to work.

*FYI, in case you were wondering, I didn't get accepted into Harvard, Stanford, or Princeton.

 BOOK SHELF

See, as a young boy, I was an extremely shy kid and more than a little introverted. More often than not, I could usually be found with my head buried in a book or furiously writing stories in a tattered journal that accompanied me at all times. I was a studiously sullen kid with few friends and I recall spending a large part of my adolescence alone in my room with a good book and the door shut.

My quiet time, as my mom called it.

Eager to ensure that I get some exposure to fresh air, my mother signed me up for every sports league in town. To the surprise of everyone (most notably myself,) sports came naturally to me and I turned out to be a fairly gifted athlete. Soon I was playing competitive junior tennis in tournaments all over the east coast. I was an all-star pitcher, shooting guard, and soccer player. Eventually, I even excelled to the point where colleges began recruiting me for my athletic prowess.

In a way, sports saved me.

While that might be a slight exaggeration, it's a fundamental truth that sports did drastically alter the arc of my life. Growing up as a young Asian-American book nerd, I wasn't exactly brimming with confidence. Having been raised in a predominantly upper-class white environment, I was often bullied and made to feel as if I were inferior or "different."

But it's true what they say…sports level the playing field.

With every successful moment on the court or on the field, I found myself brimming with ever-growing levels of confidence. I became absolutely sure in my abilities and never once doubted that I was equal to the task at hand. Surprisingly, I found that I absolutely loved the competiveness that would allow me to reach higher and higher levels. I feared nothing. I yearned to hit the winner that would finish off my opponent. I wanted to be the one taking the last-minute shot with the game on the line. I craved having the pressure of being alone in the spotlight.

Eventually, this all leaked over into my personal life. I became much more confident, self-assured, and outspoken in all facets of my life. I learned to overcome my insecurities of being an outsider and I found myself being accepted in ways that I never had before.

But once a literary nerd, always a literary nerd.

So after discovering that I possessed a modicum of athletic skill, I soon become an avid fan of not only all sports but also sportswriting. I was fortunate to have grown up in an era when sportswriting was at its highest level of craftsmanship. There was no doubt in my mind that it was a genuine form of literature. The exquisite and resonant long-form pieces written by guys like Frank Deford, Roger Angell, Charles Pierce, David Halberstam, and George Will were as good as anything I'd ever read by Hemingway, Faulkner, or Joyce.

More than anything, what these writers taught me was that sports are not only a prime venue for the expression of human beauty and physical accomplishment but can also reflect transcendent themes in life and society. At the end of the day, I truly do like to believe that sports is human life in microcosm.

Or as George Sheehan once eloquently put it, "sports is where an entire life can be compressed into a few hours, where the emotions of a lifetime can be felt on an acre or two of ground, where a person can suffer and die and rise again on six miles of trails through a New York City park. Sport is a theater where sinner can turn saint and a common man becomes an uncommon hero, where the past and the future can fuse with the present. Sports is singularly able to give us peak experiences where we feel completely one with the world and transcend all conflicts as we finally become our own potential."

So yeah, I fucking love sports.

But where am I going with all this?

Two words.

Jeremy Lin.

Ever since the Jeremy Lin phenomenon began (and for you readers who don't know about "Lin-Sanity, read this non-sports fan guide for a full update,) my e-mail box has been flooded with messages and my phone has been ringing off the hook. Everyone from friends, casual acquaintances, media outlets, and readers of this site have reached out to me.

"Yo, man! How about your boy J-Lin?"

"We'd love to hear your thoughts on Jeremy Lin and his significance to Asian-America."

"You watch the Knicks last night? Lin-sanity rules again!"

As both a proud Asian-American man and an avid sports fan, I have to admit that the Jeremy Lin story fascinates me. Here was an undiscovered player barely drafted into the NBA who has singlehandedly, in the span of one week, lit the basketball world on fire, reignited the moribund Knicks franchise, and become a national and cultural phenomenon that has taken the country by storm. 

At first, I wasn't going to write about Jeremy Lin because part of me just wanted to yell out, "So what? You don't think Asian guys can play hoops? In this day and age, are we really so surprised by the ascendence of an Asian-American baller?"

As a society, have we become so inundated with the emasculation of the Asian-American male that when one of us displays incredible physical prowess, we're shocked beyond belief?

But this was naive of me.

Seeing a fellow Asian-American man dominate in the predominantly rarified world of professional basketball was confusing. I found myself having feelings of pride that I couldn't easily explain. Jay Kang of Grantland put it much better:

"What I was trying to describe was the very strange, specific, and rare pride one feels when watching one of their own succeed in a forbidden field. Basketball, more than any other professional sport, is an exhibition of the human body and therefore lends itself to heavy racial codification. The experience of seeing an Asian American body within that arena chased away all the standard emasculating stereotypes, at least for a while. Yes, Yao and his cohort of gawky, jump-shooting countrymen had already played in the NBA. But they didn't count. For this particular revenge fantasy, our hero needed to be able to understand every single racist thing said to him on the court and respond by dropping 30."

There have been other Asian-American athletes who have excelled in other sports, only to elicit little or no response from the community. Across the Bay from Lin’s hometown of Palo Alto, baseball stud Kurt Suzuki just turned in the best season of any position player on the Oakland A’s. A little way down the 101 in San Luis Obispo, Chris Gocong’s Philadelphia Eagles jersey hangs in the locker room at Cal Poly. Hines Ward was Super Bowl MVP and a possible Hall of Famer. So why does Jeremy Lin, shooting guard for the Harvard Crimson, captivate us in a way that few professional athletes ever have?

I'm not exactly sure.

Maybe we, as a nation, truly do appreciate the underdog story. The amazing thing about Jeremy Lin's rise to cultural significance is that, in many ways, it seems to have transcended race. Everyone from Harvard grads to blue-collar workers to faithful Christians to workers who have been dumped by their bosses to those whom have never been given a chance…everyone seems to have found a connection with a nerdy point guard who just weeks ago was more likely to be found bagging groceries than electrifying sold-out arenas.

There's no comparison to what Jeremy Lin has accomplished over the past two weeks.

Certainly not from the point of view of race.

And a lot of it is about race, isn't it?

As Bill Simmons wrote in Grantland today,

"There's been a subtle racism lurking behind everything that's happened these past two weeks; you can't help but notice it when they show someone holding a "Yellow Mamba" sign in the stands, or with the people who crossed the line on Twitter (that's still going), or even the late-night monologue-type jokes like "Of course Jeremy Lin would go well with MSG" or "Who said Asians couldn't drive?," which sound relatively harmless until you think, Wait, nobody would be making 'black' jokes if Lin were black."

At the end of the day, I'm an avid sports fan. And as a sports fan, I want to see Jeremy Lin succeed. It's a great American underdog story that truly does transcend sports.

But more importantly, as an Asian-American man, I want to see Jeremy Lin succeed because it's one more step towards knocking down stereotypes about Asian-American men.

I never had a role model who looked like me when I was growing up. I wish I had. Maybe the path would have been easier. Maybe it would have been the same.

At the end of the day, I'm a 43-year-old Asian-American man who has struggled with my identity for much of my life. And while I don't believe that professional athletes are role models or heroes, I do believe that there's something to be said about inspiration. No matter one's color, I think we can all agree that Jeremy Lin is a great inspiration.

Still, I look forward to the day when nobody thinks twice about an Asian-American basketball player dominating the NBA. I look forward to the day when nobody thinks twice about an Asian-American leading man, an Asian-American rock star, or a studly Asian-American playboy.

But until that day?

Represent, J-Lin.

Represent.

MERRY BIRTHDAY HAPPY CHRISTMAS!

Every holiday season, I struggle a bit over how to explain Christmas to the Peanut.

Generally speaking, I am wholly unqualified to have this conversation with my daughter. Being somewhat immature and fairly agnostic, I often celebrate Christmas by singing "Happy birthday, Baby Jesus!" all day long and toasting God's only son with a glass of single-malt scotch while acting surprised when opening presents that I've bought for myself.

Ideally, I'd like to deemphasize both the commercial and religious aspects of Christmas. Although I struggle with my own faith, I think it's semi-important to try and frame Christmas in terms of the Nativity and the day that Jesus was born. However, at the age of seven, the only Jesus whom the Peanut knows is the parking garage attendant down the block. Things could get a little confusing. I really need to start taking her to church one of these days.

At the same time, I'd also like to forgo too many discussions about Santa. The Peanut is only seven years old and I'm quite sure that she does not yet need to be concerned about omnipotent mythical father figures making value judgments about her behavior. On the flip side? Pretending to call Santa on my cell phone has stopped many a tantrum in mid-stride.

So to sum up: no religion, light on Santa. What's left?

Essentially, I'd like to convey to her that the true spirit of Christmas is love, peace, and good will towards men. I'd like to explain to her that Christmas is a time of celebrating life with one's friends and family.

And naturally, I have no desire to withold from her all the fun festivities associated with the holiday season: Christmas trees, stockings on the mantel, egg nogg, chocolate Advent calendars, and Santa's cookie plate. Plus, I'll be the first to admit it; I fucking love Christmas music. Little Drummer Boy? I listen to that shit all year round.

It's a fine line, isn't it?

I'm thinking of doing a demonstration with some sock puppets. Or maybe I can find an "Elmo Loves Christmas" DVD. I hate that little red furry bastard but he's been helpful in the past (see "Toilet Training: 2004.") Or maybe there's something on youtube?

Anyone got any good ideas?  Help a brother out.

MEANINGLESS CONFESSIONS

1. Between Michael Pollan and the plethora of food documentaries to which I've become addicted, I can no longer put anything in my mouth unless I know its provenance. Sometimes I open my mouth and I'm shocked to hear myself speak: Are these free-range chickens? Is the fish wild or farm-raised? Are these avocados organic? Is there any gluten in the kale salad? Somewhere in the heavens, my tough-as-nails Korean ancestors are sighing heavily.

2. I have tried to like Kings of Leon many times and have failed. I'm now giving up.

3. Am I the only one who is genuinely surprised to discover that I wasn't the lucky person to win the previous night's lottery?

4. I just bought a crockpot.

LITERARY

1. Thus far, Jeffrey Eugenides' "The Marriage Plot" wins my vote for best book of the year. The “marriage plot” referred to in the title is a term literary theorists use to label novels of courtship; think Jane Austen, Eliot and Anthony Trollope. The protagonist, Madeline Hanna, is writing her college thesis on the subject. Not coincidentally, at the end of the day, this novel is really nothing more than an elegantly-written, old-fashioned story centered around Madeline and her two suitors. They simply don't write books like this anymore. What makes it such an exceptional novel is that Eugenides is a superbly gifted storyteller who writes as if he has nothing to prove and by doing so, shows that he may be the great American writer many have suspected him of being.

2. Overhyped Book of the Year: "The Art of Fielding" by Chad Harbach. All the critics seemed to love this debut novel by one of literary mag N + 1's co-founders and I eagerly awaited its arrival on my doorstep. While brilliant at times, it ultimately disappointed. Was it the underdevelopment of the main characters? Was it the sophomoric portrayal of human relationships? Was it the lack of humor pervading story? I'm not quite sure. Nor do I really care.

3. I have just started Haruki Murakami's "1Q84," his 928-page surreallist novel tackling the themes of murder, history, cult religion, violence, family ties and love. While I am a huge Murakami fan, this one doesn't strike me as a breezy page turner. 

4. I'm also reading Spalding Grey's memoirs. Incredibly written but can only be read in short doses. Since we all know how the story ends (suicide,) it's a bit like having lunch with Sylvia Plath every day.

GOOGLE IS MY SANTA CLAUS

Lest one think from my earlier musings that I am some sort of Scrooge or a grinch, I respectfully disagree.

As far as the Peanut is concerned, there really is a Santa Claus and he is solely responsible for all those magical presents that miraculously appear underneath the tree on Christmas morning. I cherish every single moment with my daughter but there are few things that make me as happy as seeing her beautiful face light up with glee when she wakes up on Christmas morning and runs to the tree to see what Santa has brought her.

Every year, I have the Peanut write a letter to Santa explaining why she's been a good kid and what she would like for Christmas.

This year, her list includes a karaoke machine, Paper Jamz, Zoobles, Polly Pocket, Arthur Christmas, Air Swimmers, Sing-A-Ma-Jigs, and a Doggie Doo.

Aside from the karaoke machine, I literally have no fucking idea what the hell she is talking about. It's like she's speaking a foriegn language. Suddenly I'm having flashbacks to being a little kid and seeing the blank expressions on my immigrant parents' faces when I endlessely blathered on about Coleco game machines, Brite-Lites, Masters of the Universe action figures, Gobots, and a Rubik's Cube. How could they not know about these things?

Sigh…

Part of me wants to pay it forward by just getting her a full set of Encyclopedia Britannica, a $20 bill, and a new Mighty-Mac jacket.

On the flip side, my daughter has me wrapped me around her little finger so my Amazon shopping cart is already locked and loaded. 

Yes, Peanut.

There really is a Santa Claus.

We're angry that a shrinking portion of the population controls a growing portion of the money. We're angry that public schools are failing our children. We're angry that our so-called leaders are more concerned with partisan mudslinging than solving our nation''s problems. But more than anything else, we all seem to be angry with one another.

Look, I get it. We're a PMS nation built on anger. Heck, the very foundation of this country was built on anger. "What, you're going to tax us without fair representation? You're going to tell us whom to worship?  You're going to treat us like 2nd-class citizens? Fuck that. We're starting our own country!"

However, we seem to have reached a point where the appropriate response to life's irritations is sheer anger and rage. Have you read the newspaper lately? Every minor tangle is a potential interpersonal Gulf of Tonkin incident. Funny looks on the street result in brawls. Incidents on the highway result in road rage. Innocuous slights by strangers end up in wrathful revenge. 

Now, don't get me wrong. Everyone feels anger. I don't ever want to NOT feel anger. But, as Dennis Miller once said, the collective mistake we're making is this: Anger used to be a bass line that we used to merely provide a funky bottom to our cultural zeitgeist. It's now broken out into a shrieking guitar solo that's drawing a rivulet of blood from all our ears.

So maybe during this holiday week when we get together with all of our weird relatives and stuff our faces, we can turn the dial down on some of that hate and take some time to remember how lucky all of us truly are. In the grand scheme of things, even the most disgruntled among us is living better than 99% of our fellow inhabitants on the planet. Trust me, I've seen it firsthand.

For better or worse, let's give thanks and be truly grateful for all that we do have in our lives. Let's remember to help those who are less fortunate. And let's always remember that health, love and friendship should never be taken for granted.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you and your families. Good will towards all.

Peace out, homies.

"The best part about Halloween is giving out packets of ketchup to little kids."

"What's worse? Piercing your newborn's ears or giving her a lower back tattoo?"

"Wife walked in on me doing the robot. It didn't faze her. The thrill is gone."

"Patron tequila with limes doesn't count as a juice cleanse, homeboy."

"Just ate shrimp cocktail, lobster salad, sushi, snow crabs. I'm about to crap The Deadliest Catch."

"Ever walk by a group of women and hear one of them tell her friends 'I''d tap that?'"

"Don't judge Heather Mills until you've hopped a mile in her shoe."

"Best part about working for myself is giving the boss handjobs under the desk."

"Dallas is making me feel very brunette."

"Please say you're kidding about the colonic. Is crapping bib lettuce and spicy lemonade not enough for you?"

"I want to be me when I grow up but with more hair and cars and a better second serve."

"Thinking of starting an Alan Parsons Project cover band. You want in?"

"Can't decide what I like most about this party: all the recently divorced men or the baby lamb chops."

"I live where botox and silicon runneth over but the gustatory landscape is severely lacking."

"My husband is reading Vogue and I'm watching the Detroit Lions game. That answer your question?"

"Everyone here reminds me of mashed potatoes. White and lumpy."

"Remember when we used to to party and go to rap shows? I'm now at the Bryan Ferry concert drinking chardonnay. Where did things go wrong?"

"The only guys who like Coldplay are the ones who want to sleep with girls who like Coldplay."

"Just spent 2 hours on WebMD. Convinced I'm dying. Fare thee well!"

MetroDad GiveAway: Your turn, folks. What's the funniest or most random text message you've received? The reader who submits a comment that makes milk come out my nose wins a brand-new Apple IPod Shuffle. Be sure to leave your e-mail address in the comments.

Unfortunately, the Peanut’s most recent field trip happened to coincide with her seventh birthday. In the course of asking my lovely daughter what she wanted to do on her "special" day, she looked me dead straight in the eye and said, “I want you to chaperone my class trip.”

Damn, this kid is good.

As far as I can tell, the primary job requirement of a parent chaperone is ensuring that no child gets lost or left behind.  Secondary responsibilities include poking straws into milk cartons, breaking up fights, wiping boogers, and fielding questions.

Lots of questions…

"Why do you wear sunglasses indoors?"

Because your pink Hello Kitty sweater is searing my corneas.

"Why are you wearing all black clothes?"

I’m mourning the loss of my childhood.

"What did you bring for lunch?" 

Grilled iguana, a couple of corn dogs and a shrimp cocktail. 

"What do you do for a living?"  

Play drums in a Justin Bieber cover band.

"Where do you live?"  

In a van down by the river.

 This Guantanamo-style school bus interrogation literally went on for about fifteen minutes and ended only when the little midgets decided that my answers were wholly unsatisfactory. Suddenly, they turned their backs to me and yelled out to my daughter, “Hey Peanut, how come your dad is so weird?”

To which my daughter yelled back, “He’s not weird. He’s just goofy.”

Sarcasm is lost on the young.

To add insult to injury, the field trip was to see an experimental dance troupe. Had I known this beforehand, I would have faked my own death. Don't get me wrong. I am all for supporting the arts but spending two hours watching dancers reenact the anguished pain of a butterfly via interpretive movement is more than a man can bear.

In all honesty, I was hoping to catch a quick nap during the performance. Here's what I did instead:

(1) Smack three boys in the back of the head for talking loudly.

(2) Comfort a crying girl being mercilessly teased by two mean girls.

(3) Enact revenge on the mean girls by telling them that they were ugly.

(4) Learn the latest incarnations of the time-honored clapping game, Miss Mary Mack.

(5) Realize my shortcomings as a chaperone, leave the theater, and smoke a cigarette.

Apparently, the school has plenty of eager-beaver moms who are more than willing to volunteer for these trips so I'm fairly certain that my inaugural chaperone experience may have been my last.

Maybe I'll join the PTA instead.

Or maybe I'll do what a buddy's dad used to do whenever he was asked to volunteer for anything. He'd immediately whip out his checkbook and say, "Ok, whom do I have to write the check to make sure that I never even get asked to volunteer for anything again?"

Of course, this was the same father who once said to my friend, "I didn't even talk to you until you were three years old. Why? Because you had nothing interesting to say."

Pure genius.

Humble thanks to the folks over at Babble for naming me as one of the Top 50 Dad Blogs and also the Best Written. When I first started this site, there were very few men writing about their experiences as fathers. It warms the cockles of my soul that there are now enough to actually compile a list. I hadn't heard of many of these sites before so I'm eager to check them out. You should too.

I've always tended to squirm a little whenever this blog gets any sort of attention. It's sort of a mixed blessing for me because, as I've mentioned before, I have zero interest in being a "popular" blogger or making any money off this site. There are over 57 million blogs out there and I come across quite a few that are very clear about their naked ambitions (ad revenue! book deals! t-shirt sales!) 

This, my friends, is definitely not one of those blogs. 

You see…in that wide divide between complete obscurity and worldwide fame, I believe there exists a great number of pan flashers, egoists, and one-hit wonders hoping for a giant slice of the adulation quiche. As my man Dennis Miller likes to say, "while most of us are content to simply rubberneck the carnage on the side of the road, too many people these days are desperately striving to actually BE the car wreck."

Me? I don't want to be that wreck. I've always believed that popularity is a goal for the emotionally insecure. I also realized very early on that I personally do not have the proper disposition to handle even a modicum level of fame. (Why? Many reasons…but mostly because if my photo were ever in a magazine and I came across it at my dentist's office only to see that someone had drawn a dick and balls on my chin, I'd be pissed for weeks.)

In all honesty, I think the blog's growing popularity was part of the reason I haven't written more here in the past year or so. I started to feel as if I were writing for an audience as opposed to just writing for my own pleasure.

Quite simply, all I want to do is just hang out with you guys, shoot the shit, and tell funny stories about my daughter putting diapers on the dog.

On the flip side, I don't write here solely for myself. I started this site as a creative outlet and to find some like-minded parents who didn't take themselves (or their kids) so damn seriously.  Little did I know that I would end up meeting so many cool, smart, and interesting people who not only get my sense of humor but can also appreciate random musings on midget rappers, drunken Scrabble, and iCarly. Getting to know all of you and making some real-life friends has been, by far, the best part about starting this blog. 

As the preeminent social philosopher Lil Kim once said, "Y'all rock, yo!"

Anyway, I bring all this up because I've decided that I'm going to write a lot more on this site. I'm currently working on a book of humurous personal essays so partly in that regard, I'd like to use this site to invigorate those writing muscles that seem to have completely atrophied since I stopped writing here. To tell you the truth, I've also missed all of you.

So now that I'm back, allow me to re-introduce myself…

For all you first-time visitors here, this site is, for lack of a better phrase, a "daddy blog."

What the hell is a "daddy blog?" you might ask? Well, I can't answer for all of them but I like to think of this site as being very similar to a "mommy blog."

Except with real humor!

And 50% less crazy! 

(Just kidding, ladies!)

Actually, if I had to describe what this blog was about, I'd say it was simply about life, love, and the gentle art of raising children. It's the story of one man's heroic journey into the depths of parenthood and the ensuing joy that follows.   

(Sorry, my sarcasm cup runneth amok.)

In all seriousness, this blog is about what happens when a self-involved NYC man living a carefree hedonistic life becomes a father for the first time. It also follows the path of single parenthood and the ensuing comedy of raising a seven-year-old daughter in downtown Manhattan.

Prior to having a child, I had an amazingly fun life. Though I always wanted kids, I worried about the possibility that having a kid would put a damper on my lifestyle. However, I have to admit that life these days is much more enjoyable. More enjoyable than I could have ever imagined.

I know there are some people out there who say, “I can’t remember life before my baby was born!”  Really? There was nothing memorable about your life before you had a kid? That totally sucks.  Because I had a shitload of fun before I had a child, and I enjoy those memories just as much now as I did then. Heck, many times those memories are what get me through the night! 

But does being an involved father mean that I've forsaken my former personality to become a dad?  Have I subverted my diverse interests to pursue the path of parenthood? Am I destined to become a Stepford Dad or one of those repugnant Alpha-Parents?

Hell to the N and the O.

Don't get me wrong. I'll be the first to admit that it's not easy. There's a part of me that sometimes wants to bail out on being a parent, jump on a plane to Bali, drop Ecstasy, and write screenplays under a palm tree. There are other times when I start thinking about the cumulative cost of after-school care, ballet lessons, and college tuition…and I think to myself, "Damn, I could have bought a Porsche."

But therein lies the rub, folks. There's no way that you can emotionally or monetarily amortize the cost of having a child. I'm not going to trip the light saptastic here but having a kid is one of the greatest joys of my life. There's no way to explain it if you haven't experienced it.

This blog is merely my attempt to laugh at it all.

That being said, I do think there is a certain social contract between a writer and his readers.  When you read a blog, you expect to get a consistent perspective from the writer. However, things can get a little dicey when that writer is also a card-carrying member of the parenting blogosphere. So, in the interests of clarity, here is a list of topics that will NEVER be covered on MetroDad…

1. Seinfeld-like observations of the "didja ever notice?" variety.
2. My love of cats.
3. How the mean parents at the PTA make me feel like I'm in high school again.
4. My favorite recipe for pumpkin soup.
5. A mind-numbing, hour-by-hour recap of my day.
6. The size of my ass.
7. Bitchings about my ex-wife, my parents, or in-laws. 
8. My love of Gymboree!
9. How much it will cost to get my minivan fixed.
10. Why my kid is the greatest.

Throw a rock on the internet and you'll find a mind-numbingly enormous amount of blogs covering those and other scintillating topics.

Sorry but this won't be one of them.

On the other hand, here are some completely random examples of what you are likely to find on this site…

• Changing the world one dangling participle at a time (Strunk & White in the house, yo)
• Underage Chinese Gymnast (This post went viral all over the world.)
• 25 life lessons for my daughter (Tips on not raising the next Lindsay Lohan.)
• Child brides & boyhood crushes (The beautiful innocence of young love.)
• Diary of a single dad (Thank God I have an amazing girlfriend now.)
• Fun with deconstruction (My thoughts on champagne, lobster, anal sex and picnics)
• The 8 types of playground parents ('Fess up. Are YOU on this list?)
• An open letter to all toddlers (Post this on your fridge.)

In toto: adulation quiches, dicks and balls on my chin, car wrecks, Chinese gymnasts, grammar, and single parenthood.

Yeah, that about sums it up. 

What's up with all of you?

It's 7:30 in the morning and I'm staring out the window of a hotel room in Stamford, Connecticut. As I gaze out across the Long Island Sound, I can't help but be struck by how beautifully clear and sunny the sky is today. It's so strangely similar to that day ten years ago when we lost you, it almost sends shivers down my spine. 

Ten years.

Kyle and I had drinks with your sister recently and we were talking about the passage of time. Susan was saying how hard it was to believe that it's been ten long years since she heard your voice, ten long years since she listened to your laugh, and ten long years since she saw your face. Would none of that really never happen again?

For me, I don't know what to think. When it comes to you, time has lost any sort of meaning. Sometimes, I feel as if 9/11 occured just yesterday. Other times, it feels like a lifetime ago.

All I really know is what I feel…and what I miss.

I miss walking into my office every morning and knowing that you were going to call at any moment. My mornings are lonelier for it.

I miss those evenings when we'd be out with a group of people but whenever you'd see me leaving, you'd make sure to give me a hug and say, "I love you, brother. Talk to you tomorrow."

I miss those late-night conversations out at the beach where we'd just grab a few beers, sit out on the deck, talk about life, and laugh about the absurdity of it all.

I miss our Monday night Chinese-food-and-a-movie adventures. It was one of my fondest weekly rituals. I don't think we've done it since you've been gone. It could never be the same without you.

God, has it really been ten years?

Collectively as a nation, there seems to be a sense of amnesia about 9/11. People want to remember the event but, at the same time, they want to get past that lingering sense of loss. It happens less in New York but you can feel it.

I get it. Bad things happen. Darkness descends. And putting personal tragedies behind us in order to move forward is an intrinsic part of life.

But how do you hold on to the things that are truly transecendentally important? How do you remember the parts of a person that that are also a part of you? What does it mean to get over the loss of a loved one?

As the writer Haruki Murakami once said, "no matter how much suffering you went through, you never want to let go of those memories."

Sometimes it saddens me that those memories are slipping away.

But ten years on, I do know that whenever I’m feeling alone in a room, the person I still always hope to see is you. Because I want to tell you about this amazing song that you'd love or about a hilarious movie that we need to see. I want to hear that infectious laugh that always cheered up my day. I want to skip work, grab a few beers and throw footballs in Central Park all day. Or I want to spontaneously jump on a plane to Miami with our best friends for one of those amazing long weekends in Miami where we'd laugh so hard that tears would be streaming down our faces.

Speaking of our friends (whom you always lovingly referred to as "la famiglia"), you'd still laugh your ass off if you saw us now. Life may change but somehow it still remains the same. We're a little older and a little grayer but, at the end of the day, we're still that same old bunch of silly misfits. As a group, we don't see each other nearly as much as we should. Maybe it's because we're all getting older and are busy with our own lives. But really, I think we all know it's because you were always the glue that held us all together.

We all miss you, Andy. You're still very much a part of our lives. We think about you all the time and we miss you as much today as when we first lost you. We can be anywhere in the world and one of us will quietly raise a glass and simply say, "To GoGo." Without fail, tears will always come to our eyes as we take a moment to remember how much we miss and love you.

Tonight we'll have dinner with your family, drink too much wine, and tell our favorite stories about you. We'll focus less on the loss and more on the joy that you brought into our lives. We'll mask grief with mirth. We'll trade bitterness for optimism. And as always, we'll take comfort in the tragedy of this day by being with our loved ones.

The only thing missing will be you.

I miss you, brother. I miss you a lot. May you always rest in peace.

Love,

Your friend Pierre

Andrew Golkin, 1970-2001

So far, Summer 2011 has been going great. After a few rough summers, I feel like I've got my sea legs back and am ready to embrace what has always been my most cherished season. For me, summer is not just a season but rather a state of mind. Bring it on, yo.

As I type this, I’m sitting outside the Doctor’s beach house, where he and I are taking turns throwing the kids into the pool and listening to them squeal hysterically with delight. The picnic table is piled abundantly high with bottles of Rose, pitchers of homemade lemonade, lobster salad, farmhouse guacamole, and fresh vegetables from the garden. The faint smells of coconut suntan lotion and flowers permeate the air.

Have I mentioned how much I love summer?

TIPS ON BEING A GREAT HOUSEGUEST

The Peanut and I have always been lucky when it comes to the generosity of our friends; and while it’s always nice to be invited for a single weekend, here are a few of our personal tips for ensuring multiple future invitations.

(1) BRING GIFTS….I always like to give towels monogrammed with my initials. That way, the hosts will never forget me and I feel like part of their home. Win, win!

(2) BE USEFUL AND EMPATHETIC….Do the things that your hosts really want to do but are prevented from doing by decorum. Buy that bottle of Jagermeister. Slip the kids some Benadryl. Take a dump late at night in the neighbor’s pool.  

(3) MAKE THE WEEKEND MEMORABLE…Draw an outline of the Virgin Mary in a container of hummus and alert the local media. Your hosts will love telling this story for years. Trust me.

OMAKASE

Lately I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about how to downsize the scale and scope of my lifestyle.  

Moving into a smaller apartment and shedding myself of so many material possessions was unexpectedly cathartic. I realized that very few objects I owned held any emotional value for me. Somewhere along the line, I’d crossed over and reached a point where the things I owned ended up owning me.

Like so many others before me, I had become a slave to the Ikea nesting instinct. It’s a vicious cycle. One moment, you’re spending $250 on some bathroom candles. Next you’re blowing $8,000 on a dining table. Pretty soon, dropping $100k on a car doesn’t sound so unreasonable. Unless one makes a conscious decision to end the cycle, where and when does it end?

I have no wish to be poor but, at the same time, I have no desire to be rich.  Whereas over the course of my life, I’ve been both, I’ve come to realize that neither status has ever played much of a role in my overall life’s satisfaction or general happiness.

So aside from the basic ability to support myself and my daughter in Manhattan, I’m starting to think that when it comes to my financial ambitions, I desire only enough money to be able to travel several times each year, to never have to think about purchasing books or clothes, and most importantly, to be able to buy sushi dinners for my friends wherever and whenever I please.

Hey, I know it’s not Walden Pond but I think it’s a step down the right path.

RANDOM TEXT MESSAGES FROM MY FRIENDS, Vol. 6

The following text missives from my eclectic group of friends are all about to get purged so, as usual, I thought I'd jot them down here for posterity:

“Every time I hear Debbie and her Australian accent, I want to go eat at Outback.”

“Baby just exploded diarrhea all over me. Dog is licking it up. Think I'm going to vomit. Go ahead and start dinner without me. I’m gonna be awhile.” 

“Let’s just say that the last guy to cook for me twice in one day was probably Colonel Sanders.”

“The worst side-effect of gender equality is the couples baby shower.”

“How many calories are burned eating a lobster roll? I’m asking for the lobster.”

“In honor of the Puerto Rican Day Parade, I’m sexually harassing my wife right now and spraying the kids with shaving cream.”

“Who do you think would win in a fight? Cher or Lady Gaga?”

“Just for the record, I wasn’t staring at her ass. I was staring WITH her ass.”

“You’re my favorite minority friend but if I ever meet a black man who drives an old Cadillac, you’re fired.”

“My favorite is when there are no boobs and then all of sudden, boobs!”

SING THE SONG SOUNDS LIKE HE READS IT

When life’s myriad complexities start weighing heavily on me, one of my favorite means of decompression is to grab a stool at a mellow neighborhood bar or restaurant armed solely with a good jukebox, a good cocktail and a good book.

I always empathize with my female friends who tell me that they’d love to do this as well but can’t because apparently there’s something about being female and alone in a bar that makes everyone assume that she’s desperate for conversation, so people like to interrupt her (“Hey, whatcha reading?”) and if she doesn’t smile and answer politely, they think to themselves “bitch!”

As a man walking into a bar alone with a book, I’d like to think that people find me dashing and intellectual but I’ll settle for nerdy and weird. Either way, I never get bothered.

But being an over-thinking literary geek, I’ve invented a personal game for myself where I try to match up the right bar with the right meal, drink, soundtrack, and author.

For example…

Local Irish bar, bacon cheeseburger, shot of whiskey, Bruce Springsteen, Raymond Carver.

Outdoor café, grilled cheese sandwich, glass of rose, Bradenburg concertos, Shakespeare.

Sushi restaurant, salmon skin avocado hand roll, sake, Arcade Fire, Haruki Murakami.

I’m the only nerd who does this, aren’t I?

Seriously, go ahead and give it a try.

PHILOSOPHER JIM CAREY

I was randomly surfing the internet late at night during a recent bout of insomnia and somehow found myself reading a recap of an old CNN interview between Larry King and his guest Jim Carrey.

I had never really known anything about Jim Carrey before except that he is, of course, Jim Carrey. As it turns out, he seems like a very pensive and thoughtful guy. As he related stories of growing up poor, living in his car, battling depression and suffering hardship, he says:

“I just got to the point where I realized the only way to look at life is to believe that everything that ever happens to you, is the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Maybe it was the insomnia. Maybe it was reading about all the sadness in his life. All I know is that I was surprised that a Jim Carey quote could have such a profound effect on me. My own personal philosophy leans toward the belief that when life throws roadblocks in your way, you’ve got to remove the negativity and create a mindset that allows you to proactively enact change. Jim Carey’s philosophy seems like a sturdier and more succinct version of my own. I think it’s a useful tool for looking at life.

I know. Jim Carrey, right? Who would have ever thought it?

Next beers on me, Ace Ventura.

SING THE SONG SOUNDS LIKE SHE SINGS IT

My daughter amazes the shit out of me.

In her first six years on this planet, she’s witnessed her grandfather painfully succumb to cancer. She’s seen her parents split up and divorce. She’s attended three different schools in three years. She’s had major eye surgery. And she’s moved out of the only home she’d ever known.

Yet, she’s turned into a really cool, smart, funny, sensitive, caring and polite kid.

So, as a special treat, I got us a pair of third-row tickets to the Glee concert. It was her first “big girl” concert and the two of us could not have been more excited.

There are a million words I could write about seeing the world through your daughter’s eyes. Or the pure joy that comes from seeing her so happy. Or the sense of wonderment at seeing one's child grow before your very eyes.

But if a picture says a thousand words…

Hope your summer is filled with lots of fun, sun, love and lobsters. Cheers!