the gift for her that's a gift for you

introducing every father's friend: "the original culotte swimmer!" yes, when you pack little suzy up and send her off to the lake, you won't have to worry about today's slackened mores and rampant sexual deviance because you know she'll be wearing a swim garment that "limits cling and adds modesty and style!" why, it will have all the girls at camp tapawamattachippisusquehanaranquashdock positively frothing with jealousy:

such style! such poise! and note how well it goes with your child's bifocals! so totally teen; so very rad! that's right, dad, nothing says "hot fun in the summer" like the chastity swimsuit, complete with patented rust-proof crotch-lock technology.

buy this for your daughter and she will spend the rest of her life thanking you for the greatest swimsuit ever! she definitely won't someday run off with the first horse-snorting illiterate ex-con hell's angel who catcalls her from outside the middle school: "hey white girl, did you leave your ass at home?!" and there's certainly no way she's going to spend her 20s trying to get into ozzfest by blowing dudes in the parking lot.

no siree! thanks to wholesome swimwear, your daughter will live a life of immaculate modesty. and the bonus of it all? you'll be the only man she ever loves!

the truth laid bare: a mr. nice guy expose!

the kid from brooklyn asks you: "what about the fuckin' workin' man?"

let's give brooklyn a hand

so the kid woke up at 5:30 this morning. sometimes she does this. other times she sleeps till 6:30. the raw power of that single 60 minutes is astonishing to me. the hour between 5:30 and 6:30 has such magical attributes that if you sleep during it, you wake up refreshed. if you don't, you wake up feeling like someone has crapped in your mouth. but with the kid, there's not telling which one it'll be. it's anybody's guess! this is the sum total of excitement in my life.

actually, that's not entirely true. this morning, after she woke up at 5:30, which is when she woke up, which, you'll notice, is before 6 am because it was at 5:30 in the morning, i changed her and fed her. it was my turn to do the morning shift. and i did it without complaint. we hung out in the house for a while, for about an hour, before going outside. even though we hung out for an hour, it was still only 6:30 in the morning because she woke up at 5:30.

so here's the scene. i was walking down the street, pushing the stroller, at just before 7 am. i head toward my favorite coffee house. i walk past the middle school. i take in the scenery. i glance to my left and i notice a parked car to my left. i notice all its windows are open. i notice there are two people in the front seat. i notice that one person is a pasty male, 40ish. the other person, i notice, is a tramped up woman in her bra, 30ish.

i notice that she is giving him a vigorous handjob.

PRESTO! instant reward for being forced out of bed at 5:30 in the am! i walk by with a quickness, but i am pretty sure that the gentlemen sees me seeing him. the lady does not see me. but i see her elbow flapping like a spastic chicken wing as she works on him with some fervent-yet-impersonal devotion.

the funny thing? when i get to the coffee shop, it isn't open yet because it's still just shy of 7 in the morning and apparently only underslept parents and handjob hookers are out 'n' about. denied of life-giving caffeine i am forced to flip a u-turn with the stroller and walk past the parked car again. i suppose i could cross the street. a normal person would probably do this. but i was risen at 5:30 and i am not going to go out of my way so as not to embarrass Wankyjohn McPeckerpull.

so i amble on back towards my apartment. this time the lady appears to have finished her busywork. she's fixing her hair. again, she does not see me. but homeboy, reclining in his car seat on his pillsbury dough thighs, does. he and i make eye contact. he stares back at me with soul-dead eyes, totally unapologetic. he is in that transcendent state of post-tug bliss.

the sad thing? the only person i had to share this moment with is 13 months old. the whole thing was totally lost on her.

maceo! we want you to blow!

when mrs nice guy was knocked up, we had no idea whether we were having a boy or a girl. when we were thinking about names, we were unanimous on which girl's name we liked. for some reason we just couldn't see eye-to-eye on boys' names. she was quite partial to Ezra, for example. Ezra! i, on the other hand--or perhaps i should say "on the good foot"--really, really, really (really) had my heart set on one boy name only. if we had a son i wanted to name him him Maceo.

this was not a popular choice around my house and i reasoned that all it would take to get her to come around would be to take her to see Maceo Parker whenever he came through town. well, last night Maceo Parker came through town. and he brought the funk by the greasy bucketful. and it was free.

sadly, mrs nice guy has been out of town all week. i miss her. there are many ways in which she is missed. one critical way in which she is missed is that i may have completely blown my last chance to name any future son of ours Maceo. if she had seen the show, she surely would have walked away all abuzz. she'd have been drunk on the funk. she'd want to take me home for some sweet, sweet son-creating. and she would want to name that son Maceo.

i mean, just look at him:

i am getting ahead of myself.

basically, yesterday was the opening concert of prospect park's always excellent "Celebrate Brooklyn" concert series. i hired a baby sitter and i went alone because all of my non-baby having friends either "had plans" or didn't want to "trek out to brooklyn" because they didn't have a "valid passport" and also because they "hate me." whatevs. i went alone to see the funkfather.

i ran into my neighbor on the way over and he had never heard of Maceo! so i explained who Maceo is. and i told him not to come if he wasn't in the mood for a life-changing funkpiphany. he pondered this for about .00008 seconds.

so Maceo played for free -- there was a "suggested donation" of $3. i coughed up 10. i'm a high roller like that. it was a beautiful night. we (neighbor man came along and bought me beers and i like him) got there about 30 seconds before Maceo hit the stage and scored a sweet spot in the crowd. and then Maceo brought the funk. and the lord saw that it was good.

he played a hell of a set -- "Gimme Some More," "Funky Good Time," and "Think (About It)" sung by some poor man's Lyn Collins. there was some newer stuff too, some pretty decent rapping by Maceo's son, i think. the band was so sick i suspect they were rushed to new york methodist hospital right after the show. Maceo, i believe, is older than my dad but he can bust a move that could put Usher out of business.

so the audience was pleased. i was pleased. by the end of his set the bandshell area was freakin' packed -- i had never seen that many people there for a show. everyone stood and clapped for a while, hoping for an encore. a few eager beavers started filing out, hoping to dodge the ensuing clusterfuck.

boy, that was a mistake.

after several minutes of audience clapping, the band finally made its way back onto the stage. the crowd was pleased anew. "yay," we all said. "more maceo!" only maceo wasn't immediately visible. it appeared that the band had returned, but they didn't bring maceo!

you know who they did bring?

they brought prince.

i will let you recover from that for a minute. shake it off, stretch your legs a minute. maybe you need to read that sentence again? go back and reread it. let it seep into your brain. here, it was such a joy to type the first time that i'll do it again: THEY BROUGHT PRINCE.

the nanosecond that all 3'8" of His Purpleness (dressed in white with Jackie O sunglasses on) slinked onto the stage, the crowd went absolutely batshit bananas insane bonkers crazy. i couldn't even hear anything for the first couple minutes because i was too busy yelling "WHAAAAT!?" and "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!!?" and generally failing to process anything that was happening.

but there he was: prince. a total surprise freebie mini-baby prince set. he played something off his new album, definitely in the vein of his old-school "musicology" JB funk sound, which i happen to dig like a steam shovel. he made love to us all. frankly, it didn't matter what he played. he could have walked right up on stage and taken a dump for all i cared. it was prince! he pranced, gyrated, grinded and grunted. one of the great concert moments of my life -- i'm still buzzing off of it. and it truly breaks my heart that mrs nice guy missed it.

actually, it's probably ok that she missed it. if we do have a son some day, she may well have wanted to name him prince. which is almost as bad as ezra.

more and better pics here.

laying it on thicke

so there i was, perusing the new york times book review on the can, which is where i do my best new york times book review perusing, when i flipped the section over and what did my eyes behold but, lo!, this full-page ad in glorious black-and-white:


my first thought was probably exactly the same thought you just had: does my whiskey-addled brain deceived me or is that a giant picture of a creepy-tan, barely-aged alan thicke?! where you been for the past 20 years, Dr. Seaver? well let me tell you where he's been, my tender-hearts. homeslice has written a book -- "How to Raise Kids Who Won't Hate You." (i am really hoping the first chapter is short and sweet: "if you are buying this book for yourself, you're already too late.")

the best part of this alleged "book?" the tagline on the cover: "Family Wisdom and Humor from a Favorite TV Dad." give our boy a sliver of credit -- at least he didn't write "... from TV's Favorite Dad" because he knew a certain Dr. William H. Cosby would bring the hurt so bad that big Thicke would become forever convinced that his sitcom had in fact been called "Groin Pains."


oh it only gets better, this full-page ad in the new york times book review. i have read all the lines -- and, more importantly, what lies between them. behold, my turtledoves, it goes a little something like this:

Having tackled 'pregnant-hood' in my first book, How Men Have Babies, I was pumped to write a comical guide to parenthood -- a light look at the dark side of child-rearing.

mr nice guy translation: OK, you haven't heard much from me since my gig as host of Pictionary petered out in 1997. as you can imagine i could really use some money, so i am hoping to separate you from some of yours. as you would probably prefer not to imagine, this prospect has me "pumped."

Depending on parents' needs, How to Raise Kids Who Won't Hate You offers (A) important advice from experts, (B) hilarious anecdotes from moms and dads and (C) a quiz to help you see whether you're doing a good job.

mr nice guy translation: my target audience is either (A) lazy and stupid, turning to me, Alan Thicke, for expert advice (B) likely to find stories about inept-dads-changing-diapers-for-the-first-time-and-getting-peed-on "hilarious" or (C) borderline retarded, preferring not to struggle through entire paragraphs when they could just circle responses to multiple choice questions that validate their parenting style. basically, i have contempt for all of you.

Once I finished the manuscript to my encore book, I had to decide which publisher would be the best to co-parent my new book.

mr nice guy translation: i am really proud of that "co-parent" line. also, did i mention i've written a book before? you would think it odd, then, that i didn't have a publisher. wouldn't you? you would be so fucking wrong that i could put my fist through your chest cavity.

Surprisingly (to some), I decided to self-publish with iUniverse. I had heard the buzz and knew they were on the cutting edge. I liked the fact that I could retain control and ownership of my work. Most importantly, only iUniverse ... could help me meet my aggressive deadline of a Father's Day release.

mr nice guy translation: ok, fine. the truth? so the reason i didn't have a publisher is because my last book sold only three thousand copies, all of which were purchased by me in a drunken fury after my wife left me for her pilates instructor. (i'll sell you a signed copy at a sweet discount.) look, i am publishing kryptonite. no reputable bookmonger will touch me. so i decided to go through some interweb company run out of the trunk of this tranny's Buick. "Roxxxy" is letting me publish it by my bookie-imposed deadline mostly by not wasting time with such frivolities as "editing." and by binding it with scotch tape.

Working with the iUniverse team was a great experience. They listened to my ideas, coached me through the process and did what was best for my book and me.

mr nice guy translation: i once killed a man with my bare hands and watched the life drain slowly from his eyes as i cradled him in my lap, like some bloodhungry pieta.

Now it's almost Father's Day, and my book is ... a fantastic parent-to-parent greeting card, as parents are the only ones who truly understand the fear, pain and unparalleled joy of raising children.

mr nice guy translation: come to think of it, my own children truly understand fear and pain too.

I know you'll find yourself in this book. Enjoy.

mr nice guy translation: can i borrow a quarter for the bus ride home? Roxxxy gets real jealous when Thicke Daddy is late.

things she can say that aren't "papa"

the girl is processing language like a fiend. like a language-processing fiend, i tell you!

ok, as expected, her favorite thing to say/express is that ur-sentiment of negativity: NO. she shakes her head no without any apparent reason while stalking around the apartment. she hands you a book she wants you to read to her and shakes her head no. fine. it's funny, actually.

she's also working nodding her head YES. since she learned the no-shake first, sometimes she has trouble pulling off a smooth yes-nod: her head will start off in a nodding direction and then veer out to the side in a no-shake. the net result is kind of hilarious -- her head just sort of wobbles side-to-side and up-and-down at the same time. she looks like a giant bobble-head doll.

the best part of all this is that she understands when you are asking her a question. she usually has no idea what you are asking her, but she understands it's a question. since she understands that it's a question, she knows that the answer will either require a no-shake or a yes-nod. when she shakes her head she has started emitting a noise that sounds vaguely like "no" but more often resembles "BO!" or "NDOH!" or "NNGGHH!" when she nods her head yes, she yelps something like "MMPH!" or "YUG!"

for example: we're at the park, she's been playing a lot. she must be thirsty, you think, so you say "babygirl, do you want some water?" she looks at you with those big swimming-pool eyes and does a no-shake. and she will say "NNGGH!" right before accepting the sippy cup anyway and taking a big thirsty swig. no, indeed.

conversely, when you say "babygirl would you like some water?" she is just as likely to rock the yes-nod and go "MM-HHM" ... and then vehemently reject the water when handed to her. she'll scrunch up her face, wave her arms and no-shake as if to say "why you all up in my grill, bitch?! if i wanted water i would have asked for it. duh!"

obviously a few dots still need connecting in her tiny brain. this is where the comedy comes in. picture this real-life exchange:

"babygirl, would you like me to throw you off the roof today?"
[nods head yes]
"really?"
[nods head, grunts "MM-HMM!"]
"how about i set you on fire first, would you like that?"
"YUG!"
"do you think your mama would be mad?"
"BO!"

you can see the possibilites for entertaining house guests are endless. babygirl, will you be joining us for cocktails? [nods head yes]. good! can you mix me a sapphire martini? "MM-HMM!" now be a doll and make that extra dry for daddy, mkay? "NO!"

of course, sometimes it backfires. this conversation took place this morning:

"do you love papa?"
[starts to yes-nod, slips into bobble-nod/no-shake hybrid. psyche!]
"was that a yes?"
"NO!"
"oh that's a shame. who do you love, then?"
"CAT!"
"oh right, i knew that. but you love papa a little bit too, right?"
[no response, vague pointing at my keys on the kitchen counter]
"tell papa who else you love a whole, whole lot."
"MAMA!"

check and mate.

a mr nice guy challenge!

for reasons that need not be divulged here, i was recently wondering: "what combination of two words is the least-sexy combination of two words of all time?"

you know what i mean? i genuinely wanted to know, what two words could kill a mood faster than carl lewis on speed?

picture this: you and your partner (be it man, woman, hand or sheep) are in full-blown getting-it-on mode. teddy pendergrass is on the boom box, the candles are lit and dripping, the wine has been drunk. it's time.

now, here are the rules: your partner (let's assume it's a human person, for argument's sake) leans in and whispers two -- just two! -- words into your ear. those two words utterly deflate you (you men know what i'm talking about). those two words -- just two words! -- have ruined any hope of sealing the deal for the evening. what are those words?

well, let me tell you. you can try the obvious two-word combinations you want -- "dead puppies," "warty nuns,""alan greenspan" -- but you know what? i have you beat! i have the secret here in my little tiny brain and i am not afraid to unleash it! would you people like to know what the least-sexy two-word combination of all time ever is? don't even try to top it. no two-word permutation is less sexy than mine. here it is, guaranteed to kill any mood:

mom fart

you heard me! go on, i dare you to be less sexy than me. unpossible! what's less sexy than a mom fart? nothing!

UPDATE! people, people. you can pull out all the gratuitously gross, prurient or silly stops you want, but you know what? none of you have me beat! "cheney colonoscopy," for example, is more funny than it is unsexy.

actually, some of you sent a few good ones. in fact i think i think the real winner here is me: what's less sexy than "alan greenspan?" still, here are my favorites so far -- these are total mood killers mostly because, like mom farts, they are real and they occur in nature more often (and less sexily) than we'd care to admit:

baby's awake

i'm ovulating

episiotomy tear

mucus plug

honorable mention goes to: is it in? (which isn't two words, but man that can take the wind right out of a dude's sail)

wow. that was more effective than 25 cold showers in a row. gives me the jeeblies.

will it go 'round in circles?

if you have a couple minutes, do your soul some good and watch this:

there is a whole lot less joy in the world today. rest in peace, billy preston.

people! enough about the smoking post already

hi. look. friends. countrymen. i have been catching a bit of grief about this silly post here and elsewhere, and you know what? all of you can suck it. i am fully to blame here. the tone was way off. upon rereading it, it's not funny. at all. it was supposed to be funny. but it wasn't. the tone was off. so sue me.

i did have a point though. my point was that the tot lot, designated for toddlers, is not a place for smoking. if any of you would care to argue otherwise, do it on your own blog.

as for me, i don't care if people smoke. i lived in france for a while, i'll have you know. (i am, for the record, an astonishingly sophisticated man.) when i came back to the states i was so hopelessly addicted to second hand smoke that i begged all of my friends to start their own two-pack-a-day habits. "please," i would exhort, "i need to you start smoking unfiltered Gauloises. if you were a true friend you would do this for me." i mean, everybody knows that smoking is glamorous and sexy and fun and is scientifically proven to make you smarter. also, it gives your skin a beautiful sheen.

it's just not something you should do in a boxed-in space explicitly reserved for 1-4 year olds, that's all. this is so painfully obvious that stevie wonder could see it. my exaggerated rage was adopted for comic effect. it may have backfired. i see that now. smoke got in my eyes.