This is not going to be a post about my re-discovered sense of man-ness -- tempting though it may be.

I watched the first half of Memoirs of a Geisha last night. (In my dude post, I was gonna open with a joke about my penis subsequently falling off.) I admit I didn't completely hate everything about that movie. But watching the female characters do pointlessly horrid things to each other and/or cry for the better part of an hour had me reaching for the keyboard, gearing up to say things that'd really piss women off.

What's my deal? Who cares? Why am I turning some shitty movie into a gender thing? When did I turn into Frank T.J. Mackey for Christ's sake? It's like I'm totally reactionary. After years of wallowing in sensitive-guy melancholia, duped into thinking I had to be excessively empathetic all the time, I've finally put.my.foot.down. As in, dude, you gotta get your shit together. As in, not everything that got you attention from women while you were in college is worth doing to excess.

So for the past year (ish) I've been making up for lost time -- not just distancing myself from that sappy bastard I used to be, but kickin' his wussy fuckin' ass. As part of the process, I admit to the following adjustments in my perspective (not to say I'm proud of it, just to say it's happened):

I've re-discovered a love for football on television, and will unabashedly shout at the screen, bad mouth the referee, and refer to players on the opposing team as "a bunch of fuckin' pussies"; I want a grill, on which I'd like to cook large chunks of dead animal; I am highly judgmental of the faux earnest, and have really become a dick about it; I make faces when people talked about "life energies", "aura adjustments" or "escaping dealing with people in a real way because I'd rather pretend to be floating on a God damn cloud"; I bottle up my aggression until I have brief, but explosive outbursts, storming around the apartment shouting the f-word whilst generally behaving like a foul-mouthed child (but only while E's at her mom's).

Yeah. This whole post-collegiant male resurgence has it's ups and downs. I'm not the only one. My friend The Rockstar has taken up hunting. Animals. With a bow and arrow. No shit.

Finally, however, the tides are turning. The very fact that I'm aware of my runaway testosterone must mean something, right? I think it means I'm at the end of the tunnel, about to re-emerge amongst the emotionally-centered, well-rounded people I used to find fascinating instead of irritating. I'm on the brink of enjoying cheap romantic comedies with predictable plotlines where some dough-eyed ingenue who constantly vocalizes issues about her weight/appearance/etc is swept off her feet by a sensitive, caring, but rugged man with just enough problems to keep a girl busy over the course of a marriage. Yes! I have returned!

I feel like that last run-on sentence was a little sexist. With the new new me -- the one somewhere in between Queer Eye for the Straight Guy and G.I. Joe -- that's once again a bad thing. I apologize. I admit, I was wrong. (And ah, does that ever feel better.)

tags: chauvinism geisha sleeping on the couch

Little-E's figured out that "time outs" are imaginary punishments. She rejects the associated guilt and stands the corner silent, smiling and benign, pondering life's great mysteries in her mandated moment of solitude. In other words, she could give a shit. So I've decided to post the most embarrassing picture I've taken of her to date.

Not that she cares now. E's way too cool to read Daddy's blog. But one day, one day she'll be 14 and have met the love of her young life. He'll be the coolest kid ever -- maybe even older, like in high school, and I'll hate him. He'll play football, and have a dad who voted for the last 8,000 republican candidates for whatever/seems hell-bent on proving that "he's still got it" by trying to kick my ass in a game of pick-up hoops. Dick.

Then one day E's belove-ed -- our little corrupt-sales-exec-in-training/Mr. Too Insecure To Date A Girl His Own Goddamn Age -- will chance upon a blog called Flailing My Arms. He reads the posts, and the tone sounds familiar. In fact, that needlessly verbose, overly-sarcastic, mildly-self-righteous language sounds a lot like a younger version of Little-E's dad. Hmmm.

So he follows the link to our flickr page, finds a picture of me, and realizes that E's dad and this author are indeed one and the same. Enthused to the point of recklessness by the chance to score major dirt on the guy who has by this point undoubtedly (and hopefully) become the major bane of his existence, the future boyfriend scours old posts looking for anything really outta line -- you know, all the stuff he's sure will "ruin my life" (the little prick). That arrogant.fucking.asshole who stands between him and an un-chaperoned moonlit trip with E to MakeOut Lake Number #4,972 is about to go down. Big time. (Or so he thinks.)

Then Captain Denying His Homosexuality stumbles on this post. Hey there, E's boyfriend. Glad you've caught up with us. Right about now you're thinking, "damn, this man is the smartest dad in the history of the universe. He can see the future. He can read my thoughts." That's right, dude. Your ass is grass.

But more importantly, he'll find the above picture of E squatting on her princess training potty, squealing with delight at the story of Prince White-Bread and Princess Fisher-Price-Is-Trying-To-Brand-You-So-You'll-Prefer-Their-Products-For-Life as they embark on a delicately-phrased adventure of defecation.

And then, justice will have been done.

(Note to E: in case that jack ass has subsequently alerted you to this post, I urge you to remember this the next time you plan on staying out past curfew. I know where you live.)

Word.

That's right, dude. Word. With no sense of irony. I've succumbed to the habit of using this expression to mean "that's correct", "cool", "right on", etc in total and utter seriousness.

There's a young woman in the college theatre production I'm directing that looks at me with a kind of sympathetic, patronizing condescension every time it comes out of my mouth. Like, she's a junior in college. Like, I'm way too young for college students to look at me like that. It wasn't all that long ago that I was ditchin' class, drinking late, and finding myself. I'll have you know young lady that I was totally awesome and said "word" because I was so with it that I could say dumb shit like that assuming that any and all of my collegiant counterparts would intrinsically understand -- immediately after the words left my mouth -- that I was speaking with the utmost irony and jest. Oh, yes, young lady, you don't know her you're dealing with.

But I'm afraid she does know -- just like the rest of the students I'm working with -- exactly what she's dealing with. Ala Cougar from Top Gun after one wash-out too many, I was hangin' on too tight. I've lost the edge. (And am possibly flyin' a cargo plane fulla rubber dog shit outta Hong Kong.)

What makes it worse is that she's black -- so not only have I co-opted an expression from stale vernacular and -- for my own, overwhelmingly dorky purposes -- mangled it's original intention beyond recognition, but because I've also co-opted the phrase from a sub-culture that I very obviously don't belong to, I've opened myself up to playfully sarcastic comments like "Oh. Yeah. I hear you. You're black on the inside, right?" Not that I'd mind -- if it were true -- but the implicit comedy in that statement is: you're so incredibly, hopelessly lame that the very idea that you posses the inherent coolness stereotypically attributed to my race by mainstream popular culture is so ridiculous that merely saying it loud is a joke worth telling.

Don't get me wrong. (At least I think) I get along very well with the students I'm directing, and it's only natural that because I'm "in charge" I get lumped in with the other, generally older, "authority figures" in their lives. But -- even though I consider myself to be relatively trendy, informed, etc -- this incident, combined with a complete disconnect from what younger kids are into, has me re-thinking the "cool dad" status I'd assumed I'd have -- hands down -- as (most probably) a younger dad compared to those of any of Little-E's friends.

It shouldn't be surprising -- and, really, maybe the trick is to be accepting as opposed to fighting it -- but as it turns out there's an entirely new generation breeding their own brand of youth culture that -- while similar to mine -- is, and will continue to be difficult for me to understand.

Well shit. I can already hear "Dad, you just don't get it" just over the horizon. For real, guys. For real.

I hung out with a rock band last night. We drank beer, talked about making art together and waxed lyrical on the past decade's great sporting moments. I felt like a real dude. I figure afterward they went and rocked out 'till dawn -- awash in the hedonistic excess of making music as loud as they could.

I went home. It was past my bedtime, I had work to do, and I could already hear my alarm clock -- that obnoxious, piercing bastard -- ripping me from sleep into a groggy, depressed, nauseous stumble from my bed to the shower. I have a dayjob, I have health insurance, I worry about my daughter's well-being.

It's quite possible I am no longer cool.

But let's be fair. I was never that cool. Even while I belted out punk songs, dove head first into mosh pits and spent considerable amounts of time trying to "stick it to the man", I simply didn't possess the kind of "fuck it all" attitude/complete-and-total disregard for my own well-being that a guy needs to really rock. I was always one cautious step behind, slightly too self-conscious to give in to whatever mayhem the moment presented -- slightly too aware/afraid of the overwhelming permanence of it all to get random symbols of defiance tattooed on arm/ass/whatever, or countless bits of metal shoved in my face. (Not that I didn't want to, I think that stuff looks awesome. I was just chicken shit.)

And now, when I'm finally at an age where I feel self-possessed enough to do the things I'm into (regardless of apprehension), I find I don't really need to scream at everything I perceive to be unjust/intolerant/stupid. I no longer want a metal ring in my nose/lip/ear/eyebrow/etc. (Somewhere my parents scream, yes! We did it!)

For awhile I thought fearfully that maybe this means I'd stopped caring -- or even worse that I was actually turning conservative just like everyone says you do after college. But thankfully that's not it. (Let's all breathe a sigh of relief.) I just don't have the energy it takes to fight every battle, and -- more frequently -- I no longer have the kind of moral certainly it takes to declare enemies outright. (Although I could name a couple causes/corporations/politicians that come pretty damn close.)

This isn't new. In fact, it appears to be common of every self-righteous "liberal" college student that does anything short of running off to join the Peace Corps or the Zapatistas. Perspective is a good thing. Empathy for those with different opinions is also a good thing. But it still feels weird. Like, uncomfortable. Like, I'm not entirely sure who's on my team.

In short, growing up sucks. Or it doesn't. I'm not sure. Damnit.

More often then not, Little-E is unbelievably cute.



30 minutes later, E would be screaming at me. Here's how we got from exhibit A to adolescent foreshadowing in merely half an hour.

Right after the above video, E peed on the couch. I'd left the room for maybe, maybe 5 or 6 seconds, and returned to: "Daddy. I peed." And even though she was wearing a diaper, the pee somehow managed to get on the floor -- spread out in increasingly larger puddles as E wandered around post-release. Then she stepped in it. And walked around some more. The trail of piss led me back to our new(ish) couch that was already soiled during an ill-advised and pre-mature foray into potty training. Fortunately, we were saved by my sloppiness/inability to throw anything away. Three old copies of The Week that I'd been thumbing through earlier bore the brunt and saved our sofa. Bitchin'. (You'll notice that Lebanon's peace treaty and Ashton Kutcher are now both covered in urine -- I'll leave you to extrapolate your own meaning).

It was totally an accident. E wasn't in trouble. But let's just call this a bad omen.

I changed E, and put her in a new skirt her Nanny (grandma) had just sent(literally just sent -- we opened the box about an hour earlier) and as I tried to take a picture to send to back as a thank you, E slammed her bedroom door in my face.

For this, she did get in trouble. I admire E's self-assuredness, but the door thing was outta line, so we had a conversation in stern tones about why I felt this was rude and disrespectful. She agreed it was, understood she'd be in trouble next time, and we moved on. No more slamming doors in Daddy's face.

And now we're at the good part. I'd become bored with a game of "hiding". (E has taken to boxing herself into small places, insisting that I join her. It's sweet at first. Then you get tired of cramming yourself into spaces designed to snugly enclose two year-olds) So I left to go check on Lady-A. E stormed into the living after me, and commanded me to "GET BACK IN THERE! NOW!" I stood, slack-jawed, as she pointed firmly in the direction of the hiding place (for emphasis).

Me: E, who's the grown-up here?
E: (Begrudgingly, to me) You are.
Me: Who's the boss?
E: Daddy.

Ok, I thought. Phew. That was strange. Good thing that's over. And as I turned around to leave -- another successful moment of parenting in the books -- E exploded with the following:

I'LL DO WHATEVER I WANT, WHENEVER I WANT. I'M CROSS! (Cross = angry. She learned it from her mom, who was raised in the South.) Then, as she raced off to her room, she paused, door in hand to make sure I was looking right at her, and yelled: And I'm SLAMMING THE DOOR!

And she did. No shit.

I realize that parents often interpret toddler speak, "translating" their kids' vowel soup into multi-clause sentences and fully-formed, original thoughts -- it's almost like characters reacting to Lassie's highly descriptive canine vocalizations -- but that's really, exactly what came outta E's mouth. I imagine (read: I really hope) she learned that from a movie/tv show/whatever, and just happened to chance upon the right moment to regurgitate it. Regardless, I was amazed at how articulate she could be in a time of peak emotional distress. Not bad, E, I thought, not bad at all.

To be honest, I probably would've stood there laughing and let it go until Lady-A said "are you gonna take that? You can't let her get away with that." And she was right. So I marched into E's room and promised to be a total asshole to every boyfriend she ever has from high school right on into adulthood.

Not really. I just gave her time out. Which hardly seems to phase her anymore. Damnit.

Little-E: 1
Daddy: 0

I've been doing an imitation of myself recently. Overwhelmed by professional (or at least my aspirations toward professional) obligations combined with what has recently become a dirge of a dayjob, I've been emotionally "clocking in" just about everywhere.

Unfortunately, I think I'm probably doing a pretty shitty impression. Not wanting to be a total downer, or -- more to the point -- not wanting to cave in to fatigue and the accompanying mental flaccidity, I'm afraid I'm completely overcompensating in my attempts to maintain a buoyant attitude in conversation. This has made me a fucking nut case.

Ask me how I'm doing and I launch into a three minute tirade on eight different topics. I'll be desperately grasping at staws, trying to link incoherent threads of word vomit for whatever bewildered audience I've been unleashed upon. Then -- just in case they weren't already whispering "what's with the babbling maniac?" -- I'll realize that I've gone off the deep end, apologize, stop myself in mid-thought, and thus destroy any opportunity I had to reconcile my verbal meltdown with the shards of communal understanding left available to us. Son of a bitch. Son.of.a.bitch. Frustrated, I become silent.

But wait, am I being too quiet? I chastise myself: don't check out of the conversation just 'cause you're tired! These are your years. These are the best years. Your youthful years. That's what everyone says. This is the time in your life people write novels and wistful poetry about. Pull yourself together and enjoy yourself. Live it to the fullest, damnit. Engage with people! Life!Love!Laughter! That's what life's all about! This is what life's all about! Right here! Right in front of you! Why waste a moment? Seize the day! Dead Poet Society! Mea Culpa! Aaararararrrrrrrrrgh!

I finish whatever I've been drinking and order another. If I can sufficiently slow my thoughts, I'll be able to focus on one of them at a time, or at least shut them up long enough to give someone else the basic courtesy of my undivided attention.

But beyond the resulting social chaos, this impression of myself can't really engage with anything, or anyone, the way I'd like to. I'm directing a play for a local university -- something I'm incredibly passionate about -- and I find myself working "just to get through it" half the damned time, having to constantly remind myself how joyful this process normally is for me. Worse yet, I have to remind myself to stay open, energized and joyful with Little-E. I can feel frustration creeping in around the edges when she's moody/defiant/whatever, when one of my fundamental goals as a parent has been to be patient -- to be calm, rational and open with her, regardless of her behavior. She's two. I'm the adult. My stress shouldn't be her problem.

I need a nap.

To inaugurate Flailing My Arms, I sent a highly-impersonal mass email to everyone Little-E and I know so they can all check in here and see what we're up to. This has brought a number of people I'd all but lost touch with back into my life. People I haven't seen in seven or eight years (at my age, a formidable stretch of time) who I'm still barely in contact with -- ie, I'm pretty sure they're not dead, and still know what country they live in (ish) -- have been sending me "what've you been up to?" and "she's so cute, thanks for sending those!" emails. It's been awesome.

It's also made me think -- wow, just what in the hell have I been doing with myself since I last saw Person X? A few of these newly re-kindled friendships were originally formed in high school, and I have no intention of looking back that far, but most are from college. Ah, college.

I was one of those pretentious cool kids who went "abroad" to study. There was no reason for it. I wanted to live in the UK again (where I'd lived for most of high school), I wanted to study acting, and in Liverpool I could do both. Bitchin'. Now, back in the US for two years, here are some of changes I've undergone as part of my re-acclimation to all things large, cheap and loud.

1. I have expanded. I don't believe in scales so I have no idea what I weigh, and -- while it may not be all that noticeable to people who don't regularly see me sans-clothing -- the area beneath my ribcage and above my naughty bits is conquering previously unforged territory. I'm not happy about it. I blame it on American-sized portions, and the air down in Texas -- it simply must be filled with calories.

2. I haven't walked more then 50 yards for in order to get someplace in two years. Lady-A and I walk for fun, but because I have to commute 30min to work and have to drive nearly everywhere in town, I never pound the pavement with a destination in mind. See point 1 about expansion.

3. I've started saying "dude" all the time. Not that I had an accent when I lived in the UK -- anyone who tells you they "just picked up the accent" after a week, or even a year, has misled themselves -- but the vocab creeped in over time. Most notably, I said "mate" to mean "friend", or "random man with whom I have a momentary affinity". It sounded kind of dumb with an American accent, but it was unavoidable. Now I sound like a character in the Big Lebowski (for better or worse).

4. I am no longer a vegetarian. This has been very recent. I blame this entirely on Texas, and how incredibly awesome barbecue smells. It's pretty damn good. A side note to this point: I am actively pursuing the purchase of my own grill. I'm tempted by the enormous $600 models, but -- fortunately for my bank account -- I think Lady-A will make me pick something more sensible.

5. To end on a high note, I'm in brighter spirits. Living in a place that sees more sunny days then rainy ones, isn't holy-crap-bastard cold all the time has been nice.

We'll see how it goes.

Just out of sight is a large sign with big block letters that says STAY OFF THE FIELD.

Genius toddler though she may be, Little-E can't read.

I'm not even sure she really cared about that patch of grass in particular -- that she really preferred it to the accessible, free-to-all, non-gated grass that otherwise surrounded us -- but she's in the habit of taking a punk rock approach to anything that's denied to her. Rules? Gates? Fuck you! I'm coming in.

I'm generally fond of that quality (in anyone, and especially E), but in this case I wasn't gonna help her take on The Man. The field in question is on the campus of a local university, and after a number of high-drama encounters with over-zealous campus security "officers" in which I tried (sometimes successfully) to thwart their attempts at issuing me frivolous parking tickets (I'm not a student, I've been working at a university), I envisioned some lame-ass collegiant flat foot zapping me with a tazer just to get me off the grass while I chased down the pint-sized non-conformist. But alas, Lady-A was unphased by my apprehension.

It wasn't only that she'd broken through to the proverbial, albeit only momentarily engendered promise land, but more so that'd she'd escaped us. She was free. We were trapped on the other side of the fence, and she was off the races -- testing her limits and her bravery as she edged 30, even 40 yards away from us before turning around for permission to go further.

About then we called her back, which only egged her onward. Defiance, she had discovered, is cool. But before I had to hop the fence, she returned. Not to leave -- she actually wriggled out of our hands when we tried to grab her -- but instead to break us in with her.

Her attempts at including us in the fun did eventually lead to her capture. At least she got to break the rules first.

I was informed today that I haven't officially reached my quarter life "crisis". We'll see. I may seem calm -- hell bent on rationalizing even the most sensational extremes of my existence -- but that relaxed demeanor is really just a front, based on the fear that I might inadvertently succumb to the high-anxiety, ultra-paranoid state inhabited by every cubicle employee I've ever come in contact with. (Word to the wise, I am also a cubicle employee.)

I have enough anxiety, damnit. I don't need to read Parenting magazine so I can stress about how my kid's gonna get one absurdly rare disease after another -- bursting into flames after breaking out in hives after growing huge, festering, hairy purple bubbles on her stomach. I will not heed the "necessary precautions every parent should know." It'll only a) scare the shit outta Little-E, and b) make me feel like a coward all the time. That magazine is like the non-fiction version of the Lifetime channel.

But self-righteous grandstanding aside, I'm just sick of feeling a little bit (or a lot) nervous all the time. A little bit scared. A little bit insecure that I'm not actually doing it (whatever it is) the way people are supposed to be doing it. That I'm somehow going to be exposed as a fraudulent adult, pretending to be grown-up but actually completely unprepared for these responsibilities. I feel especially this way when doing things like signing leases on apartments, or talking to people who are trying to rape me of my measly income with their filthy lies repair my car.

Incidentally, I also feel this way around other parents. But that's starting to change. I'm less and less insecure around the dozens of emotionally-centered, strong-communicators (read: hippies) that bring their free lovin' children to the kids shows at our local coffee shop on weekends. I'm less and less unsure of myself when Little-E is blatantly out of line with someone else's kid at the playground (moving them out of the way so she can go down the slide first, etc), or when the other kid is acting like a jack-ass. I'm big enough to put the little shit in his/her place. (Joking. Mostly.)

Really, this whole post is a lie. I'm totally confident in every way. All the time.

Don't tell anyone I said that.

Little-E and I spend a lot of time talking about her poop. As far as I can tell, that's the way it goes at two -- interjected at random into any conversation, or the odorous elephant in the room whenever E skulks off into a corner, silent and pensive for just a little too long.

Only recently has E started slamming doors in our faces crying "I need privacy!" (if this is a vision of things to come, holy shit) -- but she's long yearned for undetected defecation, and -- for whatever reason -- won't admit it.

Yesterday, E wandered off with her eyes glazed over, so we prodded: "are you poopin'?" "No," she said, as she pulled one of those wooden pieces on twisty wires toys in front of her -- as if for protection -- and then declared, "I'm going into my cave."

My cave? I envisioned Little-E traveling in her mind's eye to baby utopia -- an escaspist paradise where everyone shits in peace, secluded and serene in their personal caves du solitude. Or, it occurred to me, maybe she's in her metaphorical cave -- you know, the cave where you'd find your power animal after some guided meditation (remember, like in Fight Club)? But what did she see? Her favorite stuffed lamb (named Lamb)? Elmo? Barney? Dora the Explorer? Were these cave-dwelling power friends helping her to poop or droppin' logs themselves -- setting an example and calmly urging her on. Expel that shit, Little-E. It'll be...ok.

Unfortunately for us, they were particularly persuasive and E dropped the biggest bomb I've seen in a long.time. Fortunately for me, in constructing the cave E unearthed a dead roach. This is important -- it's my main leverage over Lady-A, as she's significantly more frightened of the little bastards then I am. "I'll get the roach if you clean the poop", I offered.

"Deal."

Thank Christ.

In The Beginning, There Was Great Chaos

Twenty year-olds who spend all their time either in class, drinking, or pretentiously debating the nature of art are not family men. No, they’re reckless artistic caveliers, throwing caution to the wind as they jaunt from Paris to New York to Berlin to beyond, destroying the establishment and infecting the world with their brash brand of performance du fantastic…or something. These things I was sure of – the way I was sure of everything that I believed when I was just barely on this side of adolescence – but nevertheless, there I was: motionless, gasping for breath, and suddenly scared shitless upon hearing “I’m pregnant”. It was like I was the first person who’d ever heard it, and my life just got totally fucked with.

Oops, I was father.

But, three years later, now that I’m over the blinding panic, and the horrible, inescapable fear that I’d lost my youth and instantly become my parents, I’ve come to embrace my young dad-ness. I finally threw out the bullshit notion that in order to parent I had to change who I was. I found that -- in fact – I already knew all the important stuff about being a father (love, compassion, empathy, the rules to all major American sports), and everything else I could learn.
So there.

I have a holy-shit-you're-so-awesome daughter, who -- not surprisingly -- shares my obsession with anything she deems worth doing. As such, we both run around like nutcases, hell-bent on having the most fun, or getting the most Halloween candy, or rockin' out like no daddy/daughter duo has ever rocked out before.

She's Edan. I'm Jonathon. Amanda is the love of my life.

Every once in awhile I've figured it all out, but -- for the most part -- I'm just Flailing My Arms.