DadCentric

The Moment Is Passed

Their faces are all smiles, their little bodies eruptions of laughter. They are embodiments of joy in its purest form. And they are not the only ones in this picture subject to the feeling. The parents too are caught up in this halo of happiness, perhaps because they have all formed it together. The sun may be shining, the rain may be pounding, they may be outside or in, but the moment is the moment, and it is nothing short of sublime. The only difference is that the adults are adults, and because they have learned to apply brain power to everything, they may stop to recognize the moment for what it is, to step outside of it just a tiny bit and think “hey, look at this moment we’re engaged in here. Isn’t this something?” If they fancy themselves a writer, they are almost certain to do so. Maybe they’ll think about committing it to words, but not right now because the moment is still happening. It can be thought about later. It has to be lived now, or never at all.

After which...

Dan Zanes Goes Broadway on New Album "76 Trombones" -- A DadCentric Review

A Marlboro Light haze and the sweet staleness of spilled beer most likely filled the room the first time I met Dan Zanes. He was just a minor rock god then although Rolling Stone magazine and Miller High Life were trying hard to make him and his band, The Del Fuegos, bigger than Whitesnake.

Tawny Kitaen -- you owe America an apology, bitch!

My college roommate, the nine-and-a-half-fingered guitarist, introduced us. He and Dan both hailed from that rugged land north of my home state, so they had a special kinship. Yet they willingly adopted me into their bass-thumping, chord-crunching world every time the slot sucked in that silver disc and that eerie whistle and screech brought us into Boston, Mass.

Something approximating 15 years had passed when I almost met Dan Zanes for real. He really was a rock god at the time, though his groupies now were concerned about losing their binkies rather than their virginity. He was performing a benefit concert for my kids' preschool, and while parents sang and children swayed to songs about trains, sea voyages and roosters in the kitchen, I sat there reveling in those few fleeting instances when Dan's voice slipped accidentally from its ragged folksy bounce to that lonely rumble of distant thunder from my teenage angst.

After the show, he stood in the theater lobby in his blueberry-yogurt suit, salt-and-pepper hair spiked high, greeting fans. I asked the kids if they wanted to say hi to him and they ran for cover. My wife asked me if I want to say hi to him and I just shook my head because that time had passed. We piled into our old Ford Explorer and I popped in Smoking in the Fields for the ride home, smacking out the disc's opening snare and tom toms on my thighs.

Therefore, I go into reviewing Dan Zanes and Friends' new children's album, the mostly Broadway-bound 76 Trombones, with a history and some bias. But who doesn't? Admit it, you flinched when you realized this is an album of show tunes, didn't you?

Ford, the Inflatable Rear Seat Belt, and the Mechanics of Lifesaving

Ever been to a press conference? It's weird. There's a podium and stage lighting. TV cameras. Boom mics. And there are journalists. Real journalists. Next to you is a guy from the New York Times, on the other side of you is a guy from Fortune. They have digital voice recorders and degrees from Columbia and deadlines. You were the editor of your high school newspaper (for one year, and that was 20 years ago) and your pen - the one the Ford PR people gave you, thank God, because you forgot to bring yours - doesn't work. The only thing you have in common with any of them is that like many of these seasoned pros, you are hungover and cynical. 

I'd flown out to Detroit - Dearborn, to be be precise, home of the Ford Motor Company's World Headquarters -  the night before, the sole male member of a group of bloggers invited to cover this event. Ford would provide transportation, food, and lodging. We'd be privy to a big announcement: Ford would be unveiling a new safety innovation. We'd also get to have breakfast with Ford executives, and get a tour of the Safety Lab. The Safety Lab! Images of cars being smashed and crash test dummies flying through windshields danced in my head. Breaking stuff is cool. Of course I wanted to go.

What We're Doing Here

I walked in late, the last to arrive; yesterday was a travel day, and it had been delays and missing the invitees' dinner and a steak with three Martinis to make up for that. The rest were sitting at the table, chatting. The conversation, exclusively female, ebbed when I walked in - not quite the "everyone suddenly stops talking/sound effects guys insert sound of needle being dragged across record" that one gets in the movies, but it might as well have been. I'd been to plenty of these events. The looks were enough.

 Who is HE? And what is HE doing here? 

 Here's who he is. The guy that mows the lawn. The guy that figures out that the Check Engine light is on because the gas cap wasn't screwed back in. The guy that teaches his sons - and daughters - how throw a perfect spiral. The guy that obsesses over the perfect barbecue, the home team, and putting. The guy that shows his son that one mustn't be mean to girls. The guy that shows his daughter that they needn't take shit from boys. The guy that teaches both that "just because" is not now nor will ever be a viable excuse. The guy that sits down with his kids and explains supernovas, the Reconstruction, and long-form division. The guy that cooks and cleans. The guy that changes diapers. The guy that patrols the streets of some shithole country with an M4 at the ready. The guy that runs into burning buildings. The guy that writes those TPS reports. The guy that used to write those TPS reports but now, thanks to the latest round of layoffs, is pulling espressos at Starbucks. The guy that drove the car that picked you up at the airport. The guy that occupies the Oval Office. The guy that does this every day for 8, 10, 12, 14, 24 hours, and never really has to dig deep because the reasons for all of it are there in that picture in his wallet, or on his phone, or in his backpack, the one he shows to his fellows, beaming and professing his luck when he does so. 

 Who is he? 

 He's the silent majority. 

 What is he doing here? 

 He's breaking the silence.

Dear School System

As my twin daughters begin the long, slow descent from the gentle arms of pre-K into the savage maw of Kindergarten and the infinite abyss of public school education that lies beyond, I hereby request that the following items be added to their curriculum to ensure that their intellectual, spiritual and moral growth is comprehensive enough to ensure that they are adequately equipped to rule the world when they are finally unleashed in another 14ish years.

I eagerly await the public announcement that their forthcoming edification will include the following: 

Catacombs and the Forbidden City - A DadCentric Book Review

You know how I feel about the books and the action and the mystery and the stuff.  I'm for it. 

I'm always looking for the next Encyclopedia Brown to come along.  Maybe a Three Investigators.  Hey, it could happen.

That's why I was pleasantly surprised to learn that a friend of a friend had published a book called Catacombs and the Forbidden City, which critics have suggested is akin to Indiana Jones meeting the Magic Tree House.  Harry Potteresque some said.  They did, I read the reviews.

Mutual friends do what mutual friends do and suddenly the lovely Sarah Gerdes was at my door with, and I'm looking at you, FTC, a FREE COPY OF HER BOOK.  Also, chocolates.  Wait, ALSO CHOCOLATES.  FOR FREE, FTC, FOR FREE.   I gave her water because she's pregnant and didn't want coffee or whiskey even though I insisted that the US medical experts were a bunch of cowards and prudes, and get this, FTC, she received it at no charge.  However, and this cannot be stressed enough, I DID NOT TRADE WATER TO A PREGNANT WOMAN FOR CHOCOLATES AND A BOOK.

Post-Halloween Reflections: In Defense of That One House

I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t write this post. Ah, screw it.

So Halloween is over for another year. Jack O’Lanterns are rotting on their porches. Hollow plastic pumpkins have been filled and emptied again. Costumes have been traded in for 364-other-days-of-the-year wear. The internet, for its part, can be found leaning back in its recliner, the elastic waistband of its sweatpants stretched even further by its ever expanding gut, now several terabytes fatter from the mass of Halloween pictures uploaded to it by parents everywhere. Like this one:

DadCentric Reviews: The Jimmies, "Trying Funny Stuff"

Statement of Full Disclosure: the PR guy who works for the self-described "ridiculous and burgeoning rock band for kids" The Jimmies emailed me a few weeks back and asked me if I would like a copy of their new DVD/CD set entitled Trying Funny Stuff for review/giveaway purposes. Yes, I replied, I would, because we do the occasional review here at DadCentric, provided that the product/site/book/film/CD/DVD to be reviewed is related to this site's purpose, which is to provide material that dads would enjoy reading. I received a copy of the new DVD/CD set Trying Funny Stuff via Federal Express. I did not pay for shipping. For the purpose of review, I placed the copy of the DVD portion of The Jimmies' Trying Funny Stuff into my Oppo DVD player, which I purchased myself, with my own money - technically, my wife's money, since I really don't make all that much, which I feel compelled to share with you, seeing as this is Full Disclosure - and placed my two children on their respective seats in front of the TV because (Full Disclosure) I'm a bad parent. (Ancillary Full Disclosure: the contents of the DVD were watched for review purposes; that said, the enthusiastic reactions of my children - especially Zoë, who twirled around in a circle, pointed at the TV, and squealed with delight - may have had an influencing effect upon this reviewer.) For the purpose of review, I along with my two children watched the contents of the DVD - which was given to me, not them - and those contents included 6 videos, a live concert, and a documentary (I didn't watch that. I will. I promise). Per FTC guidelines, I need to inform the reader that the DVD/CD set also contains, as implied, a live concert CD, which I have not listened to, but I will, because the concert film was awesome - lead singer Ashley Albert has a great voice, and the band really does rock (FTC guideline 4264.4, subsection B states that for a blogger to declare that a musician/band rocks, that musician or band must play loud, distortion-filled Angus Young-sounding power chords"); FTC guidelines compel me to inform you that they also dabble in Latin sounds ("Spanimals"), and sweet mid-tempo tunes. Finally, I must disclose that while the DVD/CD was given to me for review/giveaway purposes, it's so damn charming and infectious that I would have bought it myself. And no, you aren't getting my copy. Go buy your own. Mine! Mine!

The New Nissan Sedans - A DadCentric Review

I spent a recent weekend hanging out at Nissan's San Diego headquarters driving fast and taking chances.  I had to sign waivers.  I think.

The good people at Nissan flew me to San Diego, put me up at the W Hotel, fed me some fine grub and invited me to test drive their new line of sedans.  No money changed hands.  I didn't even tip the bellhop.

Let me preface this review with a bit of personal history: My dad was a Datsun man and that led to his becoming a Nissan man because something happened behind the scenes that we weren't privy to, possibly someone named Datsun dying at the hands of someone named Nissan followed by maniacal laughter and lots of files being sealed. Possibly.  Or maybe there was a buyout.  What the hell do I know?  The point is, I spent many a chore behind the wheel of a Nissan truck and I resented them accordingly.

Secondly, I used to have a Sentra back in "the day" and in said Sentra I had some of the best car "dates" ever.  It was epic.  Submarine races in a starlit desert.  My old cassette player should be bronzed.  My old back seat should be in a museum.  Old girlfriends should friend me on Facebook.  My Sentra experience canceled out a youth spent loading and unloading exercises in futility.  

I took Nissan's offer knowing damn well that we were even.

A Happy Ending

A week chock full of Events, and as of 6:45 PM PST Monday November 2, I'd yet to even begin a post. DadCentric is my job. Writer's block isn't an option. If I were my boss, I'd fire me.

Two days at Disneyland! We stayed at the Paradise Pier Hotel! Had a great time! No crowds! 

Yawn.

Zoe turned 2 yesterday! She's growing up so fast! 

Not Yawn, but something on the opposite end: she's my little girl, and as odd as it may seem for someone whose current career is based upon writing about his kids, I'm terribly protective of her. Even the good stuff, I keep to myself. You'll get to know her, readers, but 2 seems like such an ending, and although she's technically a "toddler" (she sprints - a lot - so I classify her as a Sproddler), she's still my baby. We're done with having kids, she's the last one, two and out, and there's a wistfulness that makes me want to horde all of this time, these stories, to myself. (I'll give you a moment: we were in the Tiki Tiki Tiki Tiki Tiki Room, and whatever cynicism I had about being serenaded by the clacking beaks of wooden and plastic birds, poorly synched to an aging waxy soundtrack, was dissolved by small clapping hands and exuberant squeals. It was a wonder. The birds and the flowers sang, and they sang to her; but then, when you're two, the whole world sings to you.)

Halloween!

Everybody ate too much candy. 

So, tonight: the kids had been fed, Zoe was asleep, Lucas on the couch watching some inane show on the Cartoon Network, I sat in front of the laptop, searching for inspiration. As he does so often, he let slip what was on his mind; a non sequitur in a one-sided conversation between himself and who or whatever happens to be in the room with him. "I didn't like Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs at first but now I do." 

"Well, it's a classic," I replied. "Zoe likes it."

"Me too."

"What do you like about it?", I asked him.

He paused to think. "Well...I like the dwarfs. They're funny. Parts of it are sad and parts are scary. But Snow White gives the dwarfs and the prince a happy ending."