everything is wrong with me

I remember when before my son was born, I was all like, “I’m going to talk to this kid like an adult. None of that baby talk crap, which only hinders development. Probably.” 

I could not have been more wrong. We don’t do goo-goo ga-ga kinda stuff, but I’d say that 75% of our communication with Patrick is in the form of songs. Selected titles include: 

  • “Patrick Baby” 
  • “Chunky Thighs” (sung to the tune of Disco Stew’s “Table Five,” which was sung to the tune of “Stayin’ Alive”)
  • “Party Boy” 
  • “The Naked Baby (Who’s the Naked Baby?)” 
  • “Crusty Boy” (sung to the tune of Ms. Janet Jackson’s “Nasty Boy,” used when Patrick wakes up with a nose covered in dry snot) 
  • “Who’s That Little Boy?”
  • “The Saddest Baby in the World” (sung to the tune of Prince’s “The Most Beautiful Girl in the World”) 

So, yeah. Outside of the office, most of my conversation is in sing-song to a tiny human who has absolutely no idea what I’m talking about. At least the NFL starts tonight.

I feel like as I get older, I get way more disgusted and self-righteous. For example, I’m disgusted by everyone making a big deal about Miley Cyrus without realizing that THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT SHE AND HER PEOPLE INTENDED. Good job, fucking sheep. Post about and talk about how horrible it is – you might as well just send money directly to Miley Cyrus Enterprises. This is exactly what happened when Rolling Stone put Tsarnaev on the cover, people flipped out, and, wouldn’t you know it, it was later revealed that Rolling Stone broke sales and web traffic records with that issue. So, way to be. Your “outrage” is making the target of your outrage richer. Again, kudos. In the PR meeting for my next book (should I write one), I’m going to say, “Do you guys think I should go out and commit a horrific crime? Or do a TV or radio appearance where I go on a tirade against [insert minority group here]? Bet we’ll move a lot of units if I do.” 

I’ve made this offer before, but with each passing day it gets more sincere: looking for potential (let’s just say it) cult members. I know, I know – “cult” is a loaded word. But I’m thinking we go into the woods, get a big plot of land, build a little commune, and just hang out, read, talk, eat, drink, listen to and play music, dance and eff all day long. No internet. No TV. No fashion. Though I’ll miss them, no sports. The only modern conveniences we will allow ourselves will be related to medicine and perhaps fancy cheeses. Of course, I will be the unquestioned leader, but I will be a benevolent leader, sort of a cross between King Robert from Game of Thrones, a significantly less sexy JFK, and, naturally, Meatloaf. 

If interested, please DM me. Serious inquiries only.

night moves

I was sitting on the couch with my six month old son in the crook of my arm, watching baseball. All the lights were off, because I was trying to get him to sleep, and I was rubbing his belly, as he was cranky because he got shots today.

We were having some nice quiet time when, slowly, he took my hand off his belly and placed it on his diaper, above his bird. He didn’t turn away from the TV or make any other movement or noise. Just suavely put my hand on his crotch.

Let’s chalk this up to the shots.

I’ve been listening to the Magnetic Fields for most of the day at work and my god I am MISERABLE. 

love and new friends and then a terrible loss

This morning a very, very attractive young woman got on the train. She was maybe 22, dressed up for work, long blonde hair, totes bodied up (I mean, real, real bodied up). I had my head buried in the interminable Game of Thrones series on my Kindle, but when she stepped on, I did a double-take and gave her the quick check-out. But then something magical happened: just as I did the double-take to check out the girl, I noticed a black guy and a Hispanic guy standing across from me (the girl was between us) giving her the same quick check-out. Our eyes briefly met, and the three of us – me, a fat white dude, and two middle-aged men, one black and one Hispanic – shared a moment, and we all gave each other that semi-shrug, raised-eyebrow look, as if to say, “Pretty, pretty good way to start the day.” 

Let this be a lesson: nothing can bridge racial and age divides like really attractive women. 

Related: the girl in question had the new-to-NYC/first-day-of-work/definitely-not-from-here vibe to her. And she got on the train with, I presume, her boyfriend, who had the same vibe to him. But if she was a sexpot, he looked like a high school student: he was about 6’5”, gangly and pimply, with a suit that was not tailored and fit him poorly. I could only think, “You poor, poor son of a bitch. You’d better enjoy it. In about four months, you’ll be masturbating to the memory of her while her new 30-something banker boyfriend shows her off at all the cool rooftop bars of the city. Welcome to New York City, mother fucker. This city is filled with sharks, and you’s about to get eaten.”

You people with summer Fridays need to get real fucking jobs. 

Get ready to see this about 1000 times on your Tumblr dash today.

(Remember when this song came out four months ago? C’mon, America.) 

Always watching, always judging. 

Always watching, always judging. 



I can’t stop listening to this song. Also, I feel like this guy is me.