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Kid You Not believes in the Wizard of Oz style of parenting: All you need is a brain, some courage and a heart. Oh, and some Jager.

Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Honey, stop scribbling on that Rothko


Took the kids to the Yale University Art Gallery’s family day last weekend and had a great time. We did some arts and crafts, ate a few cookies and listened to some storytelling. It killed an afternoon for free. In a parents’ world, that’s more precious than gold.
Yale deserves a lot of credit for not walling off the art from the hordes of kids milling around under the influence of sugar and glue stick fumes. I could walk right up to a Josef Albers painting with my 6 and 2 year old and ask them if they agreed with his theory that colors were governed by an internal and deceptive logic.
I suspect the people who organized the event don’t have a lot of experience with the preschool set. Otherwise, they would have given the guard standing near the Sol Lewitt floor sculpture that to a child resembles a giant play puzzle a stun gun.

Please put your brat in the full, upright position


Just catching up with the story about the family kicked off an airplace because the 3-year-old was having a meltdown. Let’s ask Kid You Not’s favorite parenting expert, Dr. John Rosemond, what he thinks.
Q. Dr. Rosemond, the incident where the family was tossed off an airplane because their 3 year old wouldn’t settle down seems to have polarized the parental community. Most blame the parents. Others say don’t judge them. What do you think?
A. What do I think? Take a $#@$*&@ guess what I think! If I was the air marshal on this flight, I would have pistol whipped and zip-cuffed that little terrorist. Children’s emotions need to be beaten down until they sit and stare blankly until they’re told to clean the bathrooms and go to bed at 5:30 p.m. Parents need to be in firm control at all times. The second these little devils sense a moment of weakness, they swoop in like turkey buzzards and start pecking at your entrails.
I would do what your grandmother would have done: Stare her straight in the eye and say: "Honey, if you don’t shut the $%^&# up, we’re going to let the hairy spiders that live under your bed eat you."

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

My night as a Coliseum star (sort of)

Fellow blogger Chip Malafronte’s very entertaining post about his memories of the Coliseum has prompted me to bring up my connection to the Coliseum, something I didn’t plan on doing because I’m a modest, self-effacing guy. Yeah, right.
I grew up in Rhode Island, where the Providence Civic Center was the scene of my first concert (Kiss, Jan. 1, 1977). After moving to Connecticut in 1986, I went to plenty of ice hockey games at the Coliseum and a few concerts (Bon Jovi, because there were free tickets in the newsroom, OK?) but I never felt any strong connection to the place.
But on a cold December night in 1998, I filled in as Buddy the Beast, the mascot for the Beast of New Haven hockey team. I wrote about the experience for the Register, and I’ll reprint it here since I was a much better writer back then. It’s kind of long for a blog post, but take a Xanax or something and just try and get through it.

Don’t fall. Don’t fall . Don’t fall.
Even though I’ve been skating and playing hockey since I was a kid, I kept repeating those words in my head as I walked down the tunnel toward the slick and shiny ice at the New Haven Coliseum.
Of course, I’d never skated with gigantic foam boots attached to my skates and a huge, 10-pound hard plastic helmet shaped like a gargoyle on my head. Making matters worse, I could barely see where I was going.
All I needed was to take a tumble in front of 7,831 screaming fans at Sunday’s Beast of New Haven game against arch-rival Hartford Wolf Pack. Hockey fans have little sympathy, so had I wiped out you could forward my mail to a hole in the ground.
But this was the risk I was willing to take in my unexpected quest to be the world’s greatest hockey mascot - Buddy the Beast!
First, an explanation.
Everyone knows Buddy is a real gargoyle who lives at the top of New Haven’s highest building and wards off evil spirits like Eric Cairns and P.J. Stock. He’s beloved by Beast fans, especially the kids.
But Buddy was in a bind Sunday. He knew of a secret shipment of Furbys up in Canada and Buddy’s nephews are very demanding at Christmastime. So Buddy asked me to do him a favor and step in.
‘‘But there’s only one Buddy and I’m a human,’’ I said. ‘‘Everyone will know I’m not you.’’
Buddy put his talon on my shoulder and explained a few things.
‘‘There’s a little bit of Buddy in everyone,’’ he said. ‘‘Everyone likes to make a kid laugh or hear a crowd chant your name.’’
Then Buddy leaned a little closer.
‘‘Not too many people know this, but the ice at the Coliseum is magic. When you take that first step into the rink, you’ll no longer be a 35-year-old, mild- mannered newspaper guy. You’ll be Buddy for a little while,’’ he said.
‘‘But I don’t look like a gargoyle (no jokes, please),’’ I said.
‘‘I keep a costume around in case of emergencies. It will turn into gargoyle skin as soon as you step on the ice,’’ Buddy assured me.
So there I was, a few strides away from the ice and Buddy’s words seemed like a distant memory. All I knew was I’d never done this before and there was a good chance I was going to end up like Dancing Homer instead of the San Diego Chicken, or even Rally the Raven.
The costume is like wearing an electric blanket turned on high. I could have seen better if I’d had a paper bag on my head. A little twinge of panic started to build in my stomach.
Sunday was one of the Beast’s biggest games of the season and the crowd was the largest so far this season. Jessica Mudry, the Beast’s marketing manager, gave me some age-old hockey advice - ‘‘Just go out there and get it done.’’
Thanks a lot.
The kids were already yelling for Buddy, but I was still me and it felt like I was skating for the first time.
I looked down and watched as my skate crossed the threshhold and the blade caught the ice. . . .
Hey, something’s happening. I feel different. I’m gliding across the ice just like I’ve done hundreds of times. I’m looking up at the crowd and they’re cheering. I’m pumping my talons in the air and waving my hockey stick. It’s all true! I’m . . . I’m . . . BUDDY!
Five days later, I’m back to being me. But those 3 hours were a wondrous experience and I think I lived up to Buddy’s example. My job was to get the crowd excited. That wasn’t hard since it was a rough, tough game and the Beast won 4-0.
Most importantly, I was there to make a Beast game a special experience for as many kids as possible. The Beast organization values families and wants to keep the kids coming back. Buddy is a big part of that effort.
The first task was to skate before the game started, then work the crowd.
I tried to interact with every group of kids I could find. Some were shy and some ran up and gave me a hug. It seemed like I shook hundreds of hands and patted hundreds of heads. I danced publicly to K.C. and the Sunshine Band for the first time since ninth grade.
My talons were sore from signing autographs and my thighs burned from running up and down stairs. There were kids celebrating birthdays and a few kids who had some bad breaks in life and needed some cheering up. I even banged the glass and mocked Hartford’s goalie a few times.
I now realize Buddy taught me a lesson about believing in something that doesn’t seem real. I know more than a few kids will keep their photograph of Buddy or their autograph from Buddy in their bedroom or on the fridge. Buddy is real in their hearts.
Buddy, by the way, is back from Canada and he’ll be at tonight’s game, putting a smile on a few thousand faces. As for me, I had a chance to step out of my usual role and do something kind of crazy and fun. How often do you have a chance to do that?
Thanks, Buddy.


Little did I know that this was the start of my second career. Let’s just say Storm, the Bridgeport Sound Tigers mascot, and I have never been seen in the same place at the same time. I’ll tell you this, the absolute best part of mascoting is making hundreds of kids laugh and shout with joy.
Oh, and drunk frat girls who want to know if the mascot is a girl or boy. I’ll let you figure out how they often try to tell.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Caution: Smug parent alert


My youngest, a lovely, precocious nearly 3-year-old girl who — if I’m not careful — will soon make Lindsay Lohan look like Mother Theresa, had her first real playdate this week.
A nice little girl and her mom came over the house after preschool for a little of whatever ex-toddlers like to do. They were getting along fine and there was no screaming, gurgling sounds or blood, so the mom and I stayed out of the playroom and enjoyed something rare — adult conversation.
Until mom checked on them and wrinkled her nose.
"Did someone have an accident?" she said.
At that moment, I freely admit, I fell victim to smug parentitis. When mom said "did someone..." I knew right away who bricked. My daughter, ahem, has been potty trained since last summer.
Embarassed mom went through her bag, looking for a diaper.
I subtly let her know how — shall we say — advanced my little girl is.
"Oh my gosh, we don’t have any diapers and we got rid of the changing table."
Mom went out to the car and got a diaper. I did supply the baby wipes, explaining how good they are on wine stains.
"That’s why we keep the around."
I could not have been more of a douche.
But don’t think there wasn’t payback. Mom left the diaper with me, tastefully wrapped up and placed in a plastic bag like some fecal birthday present.
Touche.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Reading, writing and waffle stix


A recent New York Times story noted that many school districts are sending home notices telling parents their kid is overweight. The schools are using those ridiculous BMI charts, which basically state that boobsticks like Nicole Ritchie, Kate Moss and Kate Bosworth are little miss perfect weights, while you and your offspring are Jabba the Hut.
Schools have some nerve traumatizing these kids into thinking they’ll never look like their Bratz dolls, when it’s the school itself that is part of the problem.
Consider, for instance, my first-grade daughter’s school lunch menu for the week of Jan. 22-26:
Monday: French toast stix, sausage
Tuesday: Cheeseburger, potato puffs
Wednesday: Italian dunkers, meatsauce
Thursday: Salisbury steak, gravy, churro
Friday: Pizza
If Kirstie Alley somehow stumbled into this cafeteria, she’d be back up to 300 pounds. I know schools save bundles of money by buying government surplus food, but a little more menu creativity would help. Also, I have no idea what Italian dunkers and churro are, other than racial discrimination lawsuits waiting to happen.

Thursday, January 04, 2007

Top 10 Whatevers of 2006

I call them records. You might call them shared files. With a nod to fellow blogger and dean of the college of musical knowledge, Pat Ferrucci, here’s my Top Ten of 2006.
1. Tom Waits, Orphans. This man’s closet is 100 times better than anyone’s mansion.
2. Mission of Burma, The Obliterati. Press play and stand back. I was there in 1981 and I’ll be there Jan. 19 when they play NYC.
3. Raconteurs, Broken Boy Soldiers. Meaty, beaty, big and bouncy.
4. Lloyd Cole, Anti-depressant. Fill this prescription.
5. Beck, The Information. Everyone’s sick of Beck, except me.
6. Josh Rouse, Subtitulo. Dump wife. Move to Spain. Put out great record.
7. Belle & Sebastian, The Life Pursuit. Oops, I meant to put this at No. 1.
8. Be Your Own Pet. I like to imagine these guys beating the snot out of everyone in "High School Musical."
9. Farmer Jason, Rockin’ in the Forest. My kids love this record, but they don’t like me talking about that Jason and the Nashville Scorchers show at the Rat in 1983.
10. Dan Zanes and Friends, Catch That Train. Caught it, love it.

The Gloved One


Gov. Rell is a fine person, but I just don’t believe that someone who wears fuzzy, light blue gloves can be trusted to make the tough decisions.

Mr. Snow Miser, why do you forsake me?


I’m just now getting the feeling back in my legs and lower back, so I can finally sit down and write about the family Christmas ski vacation that wasn’t.
Every year, my wife and I pack up the kids and drive to New Hampshire for a week of skiing.
This year, however, my wife is running her clothing design business and Christmas week is a time to make money, not pretend she’s Claudine Longet and I’m Spider Sabich. (just Google it, OK?)
I figured I would take the kids for at least a few days. But then I noticed a disturbing lack of the one thing you need to ski. Yes, a second mortgage. But also, snow. There’s not a flake of natural snow bewteen Long Island Sound and the Canadian border. Sure there’s a few trails open, but that’s like going to see The New Cars — it’s just not the same.
The chances of me driving five hours and spending full price to ski on a ribbon of white surrounded by brown dirt is about the same as Donald Trump and Rosie siring a child.
So Christmas week was me home alone with the children. Horror movies have been based on scenarios like this.
The first challenge was limiting the TV time. It took the strength of a thousand mastodons to not pick up that remote and see what the Disney Channel was showing. I settled on one morning show (Higglytown Heroes), one Barbie movie around lunchtime and one afternoon show (Dragon Tails). Hopefully, that won’t get me kicked out of the parenting union.
The rest of the day was spent sitting on the floor playing Candy Land and a knockoff called The Ladybug Game (hence the lack of feeling in the lower extremeties), trying to stay out of the way as the girls ran around the house screaming (apparently a 6-year-old girl’s favorite hobby) and unsuccessfully trying to set up a play date with kids whose parents had the wisdom of heading south or sending the kids to grandma’s house.
But hey, everyone ended up having a good time. "Charlotte’s Web" was charming and the local kids’ museums are always fun. Next year, though, there better be more white stuff than in "Scarface."