Ralph Kiner Never Met My Dog

Ralph Kiner never met the dog I named after him. It probably wasn’t a loss for either of them but it saddens me.

Twice in my life, I crossed paths with the baseball Hall of Famer, who died yesterday at the age of 91.

$20 Worth of Stories in the Naked City

New Yorkers truly are honest, generous and unselfish. Even more so when you bribe them to be that way.

This lesson came after my day had started, hung over and early, at the train station where my wife dropped me off and I vowed never again to overindulge until the next time. As I stepped aboard Metro-North, the first raindrops splattered the platform like eggs hitting Ol' Man Crotchky's porch on Mischief Night.

We arrived with a leisurely 39 minutes and a mere five subway stops to go from my national syndicated talk show debut. Katie Couric, America's Perkiest Journalist, would soon be grilling me and a panel of other at-home dads about our being guests at our children's tea parties rather than captains of industry like, you know, our wives.

I walked unhurriedly through the over-caffeinated, under-deodorized crowd in Grand Central Terminal to join the queue for subway tickets.

Plenty-a' time, I heard my satisfied, suburban inner voice say.

Then Katie Couric Called Me “Hot”

Here it is. Me and Katie Couric.

Oh, and three other guys who wisely prevent me from talking most of the time.

I sit nervously, apparently on the verge of a seizure, until around the 3:10 mark (though just prior to that you can hear me holler “Bro code!” amid the rabble).

The best part? Unlike My Love or The Mother of All Uncoolness, Katie let’s me have the last word.

That’s among the many reasons she’s a permanent member of my list, people.

Next week, I’ll give you the whole backstage story on how I almost didn’t get to the show.

+ + + Don’t be selfish – share the love by using one or more of the social bookmark buttons below or in your feed reader. Thanks!

My Doppelganger

Folklorists and the writers of the sitcom How I Meet Your Mother would have us believe that everyone has a doppelganger, a twin of some sort -- most likely of the evil or Bizarro Superman variety.

I, dear friends, found mine. And of this I’m pretty certain: I’m the bizarro one.

Let’s climb into the WayBack Machine to when I started this monument to my lack of employment four years ago. After I came up with my blog’s name, I Googled the word “uncool” for shots and gargles (that would be gin and Listerine to hide smell of said gin). A link came up to this book:

The Day I Turned Uncool: Confessions of a Reluctant Grown-Up
by Dan Zevin

I bought it and packed it between my boxer briefs and allergy meds for a read on our family vacation to the Dominican Republic. That’s when I REALLY bought it.

“My Love,” I recall saying through a haze of sunscreen and Presidente beer. “I am not alone.”

Upcoming Tweets from @mrskutcher

This all confirms that CBS hired one “half man” to replace another.

Just took some nude photos of myself … with my new Canon PowerShot.

Valuable life lesson: What happens with a blonde tramp in the hot tub, doesn’t stay in either.

Yo @justinbieber! My invitation stands.

@aplusk The million $$ Redford gave me is not part of the pre-nup. It was a movie, moron.

Counseling with rabbi at Kabbalah Centre. Hope I properly used the words “schtup” and “schmuck.”

About last night … the tub shower is warm, wet and waiting for you once again, @RobLowe.

Finally! I can stop explaining how I survived growing up without social media.

# # #

Technorati Tags: demi moore,ashton kutcher,divorce,Twitter,social media,celebrities

Rage On, Regis Philbin, Rage On

The world is filled with love sweet love today for Regis Philbin, who will be retiring after long ago establishing himself as the pit bull of morning talk show hosts.

Not pit bull as in “vicious” or “mean.” As is in foaming at the mouth.

Drooling, really.

The man is like 147 years old.

He once interviewed Roosevelt.

Teddy Roosevelt.

Oh, everyone loves Reege. Even though he’s a terribly inept interviewer, I like the guy, too. Even after the time that he allegedly wanted to kick my ass.


At least that’s what Frank Gifford insinuated.

Frank Gifford. Hall of Fame football player. Sportscaster. Philandering husband of Kathie Lee Gifford, Reege’s former co-host.

Many lifetimes ago I was the reporter at a newspaper in a small-but-insanely-wealthy town. One day I proposed writing an article about the many celebrities who owned property there.

I combed through the property records in the town assessor’s office. Talked to some locals in the know. Stood on the main street and watched them pop into Starbucks and nosh at the local eateries.

Oooh, there’s Mel Gibson. And Diana Ross. And Ron Howard. And Frank and Kathie Lee. And, yep, Regis.

The article ran and, as with most things I wrote then and write now, I never heard a thing about it from anyone.

Until the next night.

As soon as I walked in, one of the guys in the sports department stopped me.

“Oh, man. Did I take a bullet for you today,” he said. “I got chewed out by Frank Gifford because of that article you wrote.”

He had called Frank, then in his post-football glory/pre-cheatin’ on Kathie Lee days, for comment on some local sports matter. Instead, he got an earful about how he couldn’t believe the newspaper would publish an article like mine.

People like him moved there to get away from the spotlight! (No, they want to be near New York City and other celebrities and live in posh mansions. Otherwise, North Dakota would be teeming with Kardashians and Baldwins. Besides, your wife talks about the town you live in every day. On NATIONAL TV!)

How dare we print what street he lived on! (Then don’t buy the land in your own name. It’s in the land records. Besides, I didn’t give the house number, the street is two miles long and it has dozens of other “estates” on it.)

Now the kicker.

“And he said it wasn’t just him who was upset,” the sports guy told me. “Regis was very upset, too.”

Regis.

Very upset.

With me?!

Reege, on this special day when the whole world is bowing at your feet and the media is falling over itself with weepy praise for you, can we just put this behind us? Can we? Because, man, …

Well?

What do you say?

Aww. Thanks, man.

Now get some rest.

And get me a shot at the seat next to Kelly Ripa. Rrrrrrowl.

Technorati Tags: Regis Philbin,television,entertainment

Burning for the ‘Burn Notice’ Babe

To mark tonight’s season 6 premiere of Burn Notice on the USA Network, I’m giving away a 4-DVD set of Season 4 (which includes what I’m sure is the hysterical extra “Sam Axe’s Guide to Ladies and Libations”). Just leave a comment, any comment, at the end of this post and I’ll randomly select one winner next week around this time. I’ll give you two extra entries if you make a donation to my Movember Foundation page.

This photo raises so many questions.

Why is actress Gabrielle Anwar, who plays former IRA bomber Fiona on the spy show Burn Notice, standing next to My Love?

Better yet, where am I?

Drooling behind the camera?

On the floor, passed out and blind from seeing all this hotness in one place?

Standing dumbstruck after Gabrielle posed this question to me, “Is that a brick of C4 explosive in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

Sigh.

Alas, I was back here at home, tending to the dog and Things as I normally do. My Love was in Miami on business and Burn Notice happened to be filming in the hotel where she was staying.

Because she knows how I love that show (and lust after Ms. Anwar), she finagled a quick snap with her. Their brief conversation went something like this.

MY LOVE: My husband thinks you’re so hot.

MS. ANWAR: Oh, sweetie. Short, tight dresses and high heels have that effect.

MY LOVE: Damn you, Anwar.

MS. ANWAR: Smile for the camera!

So rather than an intimate brush with celebrity, I got this autographed photo of the cast that I can pose with for today’s Movember update.

Notable Number 47s in our House

Jesse Orosco, closer for 1986 World Series champion New York Mets.  

 Black 47, Celtic rock band.

And, don’t know how, but … me.

I only have one bone to pick – one of omission by the Babble Top 50 Dad Blog list folks.

When I was interviewed for this many months ago, the writer asked me, “Does your blog have any special recurring features?”

“Typos,” I replied.

(One other omission -- Homemaker Man’s Musings from the Big Pink not making the list. Friend, you wuz robbed!)

Thanks all of you for sticking with me and my typos, especially:

Those who take the time to comment or email, just once or on every post. I appreciate it, sincerely. Unless you are a spammer or incompetent PR intern. You know who you are.

The handful of local bloggers (and sadly, ex-bloggers) I’ve known from almost the get-go who I still consider my friends even when they abandon me in bars with drunken bisexuals.

The many bloggers I’ve meet and befriended, especially all the DadCentric guys – past and present, in these nearly four years. You all seem oddly normal and pleasant in real life. Or you fake it really well. Meh – I’ll take it either way.

The Things, who have provided so much material. And heartburn. Dad loves you for both.

Murphy, who forces me to get up from my computer to scratch his belly or open the back door for him. Mostly open the door. Every 6 minutes. You’re the uncool’s best friend, even if you become the only hairless Labrador retriever in the world.

And, most importantly, My Love for supporting my “work” and even when you can’t understand why I do it. And for supporting me financially. First rule of blogging: Don’t expect it to pay the bills. Second rule: Marry up.

Fiddle deee diddle deee deidely dee, indeed.

Selling Body and Soul This Halloween

Let’s take a partial break in my series of celebrity-sighting posts for some timely seasonal messages regarding Halloween.

I say “partial” because the first involves Jill Sobule, the singer/songwriter who wrote and performed the first “I Kissed a Girl” hit song back in the mid-1990s. She was the opening act for – ahem – me and Fountains of Wayne early this month and, because I exude some rare hormone that facilitates offbeat encounters with people of cult status or notorious nature, I ended up talking with her after the show … and owing her money. But that’s a story for later.  

Here’s Jill, in a performance from that night, discussing a Halloween trend that is especially disturbing for we parents of young girls:

Video: The Halloween Song by Jill Sobule

* * *

Since this time of year the odds of you coming face-to-face with The Devil go up exponentially, with Election Day looming nearby and all, I thought I’d present to you the one and only episode from the second incarnation of Twilight Zone that I remember anything about.

It’s eight completely entertaining minutes of how to beat Satan at his own game, featuring Sherman “George Jefferson” Hemsley (who unfortunately never yells “Weezie!” during it) and Ron Glass from Barney Miller sporting Lionel Richie’s hair and some real bad-ass designer jeans. Enjoy and go easy on the Fun-Size candy.

Video: I of Newton, The Twilight Zone, 1985

Technorati Tags: Halloween,music,television,entertainment,costumes

I’m With the Band. Really.

“You need to have a little rhythm for this. I don’t know,” Adam said skeptically as he searched for second opinions and options with superior cleavage. “Does this guy look like has some rhythm?”

I nodded enthusiastically. Probably spastically. I undid a couple of buttons on my polo for good measure.

“OK,” he said, reluctantly pointing at me. “Go around there.”

Around I went. Up I climbed. There I stood.

Alone.

My lower legs suddenly became shakier than an election year promise.

“Here, you get to play this,” someone said.

The lights didn’t blind so much as they disoriented. Or maybe that was just the first Sierra Nevada kicking in.

At my feet stood My Love, smiling up in the second row. Or maybe that was just the third Sierra Nevada kicking in.

I’m in a movie in which the film had been flipped over on the reels. Left was right and right was left. My world had been inverted.

There may have been a count in.

1 … 2 … 1-

Back when this blog was in its infancy, I made a confession to the 16 of you who read it about my most secret desire.

2-

Since I know most of you won’t click that link (though you might now because you feel guilty), I’ll repeat what I said back in June 2008:

3-

“I have a new goal in life. Just once, in concert, I'd like to show off my rhythm egg skills on this song with the Fountains of Wayne folk. No harmonies will be attempted, just some shake 'n' bake. Trust me, I've got the wrist action down.”

4-

Friends, on Oct. 7, 2010, at the Bowery Ballroom in New York City, I didn’t succeed.

First off, I played maraca, not rhythm egg.

Second, I sang harmony.

Loudly.

Luckily for the audience, I’m certain our microphone had been turned off or waaaaaaaaaay down.

But aside from that, I think I pretty much nailed it.

(Look at the 0:40 second mark. I take a quick glance to my right and in a split second I realize: Mother Fletcher. I’m on STAGE! With FOUNTAINS OF WAYNE! Good Clapton -- this woman on the tambourine has less musical talent than Linda McCartney! This guy on my left is stiffer than George Michael in public restroom! TURN IT UP, UNCOOL! UP TO 11!)

Video: Hey Julie by Fountains of Wayne (Bowery Ballroom, NYC, Oct. 7, 2010)

After the concert, fame followed me. Down to the basement.

“Hey, you were on stage!” said the man behind the man behind another man behind 15 other men waiting to empty their beer-bulging bladders.

Another man behind him, who had six others behind him, agreed. “Yeah, you were on stage!”

“That I was,” I said. “Now, could I cut in front you guys?”

“No!”

Next time, I’ll add “cutsies” into my contract rider.

* * *

My eternal thanks to icm65, whomever you are, for taking and posting this video; and to David McTiernan – college student by day, rockin’ keyboardist by night -- who graciously took these photos upon request when my camera battery died and My Love was too under the influence to operate her iPhone camera.

Technorati Tags: music

Real Househusband Meets ‘Real Housewife of New Jersey’ – Really!

This is the second and concluding post about my encounter with Danielle Staub of Real Housewives of New Jersey infamy. Need to catch up? Read Part One!

* * *

Feeling refreshed and several hundred dollars lighter the next day at the casino, we hit the pauper’s breakfast buffet with the Mohegan Sun’s main clientele. After navigating our way through the portable oxygen tanks and wheelchairs, we head upstairs to valet parking.

As we wait for the Minivan of Manliness to appear among the Lexuses, Navigators and H2s and wonder why none of these car owners were at the buffet with us earlier, a guy as tall and skinny as a telephone pole strolls up the sidewalk in a track suit, greets the doorman by name, fist bumps him, then enters the hotel.

"Let me guess," I say to the doorman, "that guy's a pro basketball player?"

The man used to play in the NBA and now clowns with the Harlem Globetrotters, the doorman tells me.

"Wow -- this is celebrity sighting weekend for me,” I say proudly. “Last night, we dined across from one of the Real Housewives of New Jersey."

“Yeah? Which one?”

“Danielle, I think."

"Yep, that was Danielle," says a man in a gray FDNY T-shirt who had just come up next to us. "She's the crazy one."

“That’s funny. That’s exactly how the guy who told me who she was last night described her to me.”

“Well, I should know,” says FDNY Guy. “My wife is her publicist.”

(After this, maybe now ex-publicist. Or ex-wife. Sorry about that, FDNY Guy.)

Two minutes later, I’m relaying this bizarre coincidence to My Love. But something is amiss. I notice her eyes are not on me.

“She’s standing right behind you,” she says sotto voce, which is Italian for “in a manner so as not to make an ass out of you, dearest.”

I turn and there she is: Danielle, the PROSTITUTIONWHORE! herself. She dressed down from when I saw her last in this:

This Sunday, she’s in flats, a loose-fitting long sleeve blouse and jeans not nearly tight or low-cut enough for me to even venture a guess as to whether she had underwear on.

“Dear,” I say in a tone I plan on using again on the day I meet Thing 1’s first boyfriend, “give me the camera. … Not the iPhone – the REAL camera.”

Danielle is hugging someone, a man I don’t recognize. There’s no squealing. No snippiness. No drama. She’s smiling. In these few moments, she seems – and I know this may disappoint some you – perfectly normal.

"Excuse me,” I say, “I'm sorry to interrupt -- but are you Danielle from the Real Housewives?"

She instantly smiles with teeth whiter than any Vermont college town.

"Yes, I am!" she says.

She’s upbeat, dare I say it – perky – and I’m not referring to her boobs because they are modestly concealed under the gentle flow of her taupe-colored top. 

"Would you mind if I got a photo with you?"

"No, not at all!" She chirps, stepping to one side so I can stand next to her.

I hand the camera to the guy she had been hugging.

"My wife and I sat across from you at dinner last night."

"I was MUCH taller last night," she says as we slide arms around each other's backs, without hesitation or awkwardness.

"Yes, my wife was admiring how you could actually stand in those shoes,” I lie.

“Not very well! Did you see how many guys I had holding me up?" she says, gesturing and there they are -- the future heads of the Jerry Springer Show security team from the night before. They are standing on the sidewalk, giving them a few more imposing inches of height. I see no expressions, just muscles and the pain they could cause someone they don’t like.

It was then, and there, I decided it was best not to bring up the whole PROSTITUTIONWHORE! thing. Or, as was suggested to me by someone on Twitter, that I yank on Danielle’s hair extensions.

It was then I realized how much I enjoy having all my own teeth.

Even if they’re not as white as Danielle Staub’s.

* * *

Since that day we met, I’ve done a little more Googling and thinking.

There’s an alleged sex tape (NO! NO! NO! NOT ME! Her!!!) coming out. (UPDATED – BabyBloomr, I will never doubt you again. Ever. Now please pass the boric acid.)) I should have expected that.

But speaking of coming out, I now learn Danielle may be having a lesbian love affair (which I’m sure completely explains why she did not feel up me backside, right, love?).

She’s also trying to reshape her image doing PSAs against bullying, supporting gay rights and working with some charities.

Good for her.

Maybe she’s turning her life around, scampered up on a true morale high ground where she’s found redemption and a stable, loving relationship to make her whole.

Maybe.

But she's always PROSTITUTIONWHORE! to me.

Technorati Tags: television,reality TV,danielle Staub,real housewives,real housewives of new jersey

Real Househusband Meets “Real Housewife of New Jersey,” Part 1

Since I never break from “Always Home” mode halfheartedly, the next few posts will feature Your Uncoolness out and about having fame, stardom and celebrity fall into his lap like a pole dancer with vertigo.

* * *

The Indian casinos in Connecticut have a special name for My Love: “Doubles Down in Vain.” This notoriety comes with certain perks, which the tribes tease us with every month or so through bright and shiny postcards that arrive in our mailbox.

DRASTICLY DISCOUNTED HOTEL STAYS!

COMPLIMENTARY CONCERT TICKETS!

FREE $100 FOR BLACKJACK!

Everything to get her and her debit card to their gaming tables short of a police-escorted limousine ride and lap dance from Denzel Washington. (Psst – the limo wouldn’t be necessary if you promised her the lap dance.)

Luckily, she limits these benders to two or three times a year which, thanks to the freebies heaped upon us, allows us to turn into our incurring gambling debt into educational family trips.

“Hey, kids – look!” I’ll yell into the back seat with unbridled Clark Griswoldian enthusiasm as we roll up to the resort. “See that new hotel tower? It cost $18.3 million to build. How many consecutive hands of blackjack, at $50 a hand with $2 tips given to the dealer every sixth hand, did your Mom lose to pay for that new tower?”

On one of these visits a few weekends back, we dropped the Things off at the all-night kids’ arcade (where, you should know, they don’t take kindly to hypothetical questions about what happens if you lose the cash you set aside for their child care fees to a tightwad Deuces Wild video poker machine) and we headed for our ritual last meal before she hit the tables and I hit the bar to try to break my record for “free” Newcastle Brown Ales downed while noodling through $20 worth of quarter Jacks or Better.

The antipasto had come and gone when three couples work their way into the corner booth diagonal from us. Two of the guys, who look like they had just spruced up after an afternoon of security duty at the local meth lab, clear a path for a woman with thick dark hair, towering stilettos and a short tight black dress that gave anyone seated nearby the chance search for yeast infections.

A few minutes pass and a young couple approaches the booth. He’s holding a point-and-shoot camera. The two Hell’s Angels poster boys climb out of their seats and Long Tan Woman in a Black Washcloth poses, hand on hip, for photos with the couple, together and separately.

My viewing of reality TV is limited, but I am regularly sucked into that celeb gossip fest Extra because it follows Katie Couric’s nightly ritual of failing to profess her deepest, darkest desire to grab a certain at-home dad by the love handles and ride him hard and put him away wet. This led me to guess aloud to My Love that the woman is one of the Real Housewives because:

1. She has that "I need to be the center of attention" get-up on.
2. She has a perfectly even tan during a prematurely cold New England October.
3. She's too tall and coherent to be Snooki.

My dormant investigative journalism gene kicks in. I knock over my chair, very stealthily, bump into a few tables and cruise around the restaurant to find the couple who had their photo snapped with the woman.

“That’s Danielle from Real Housewives of New Jersey,” says the woman.

Confir-MA-tion!

"Which one is she?" I ask.

"She's the crazy one," says the guy, looking into the camera’s display screen. “My God, she’s hooooooooooot!”

(I didn’t have a camera on me, but she looked pretty much as she does in this photo, but with longer, darker hair.) (And sluttier couture.)

Hmm. My BlogHer bedmate, TwoBusy, writes about that show for an entertainment blog. I wonder if she’s the one he has a special nickname for.

I return to the table, grab My Love’s iPhone and fire up ye olde Twitter app.

Later that evening, I had my answer.

 
Will this real househusband meet up with this “real” Housewife?

If so, will he slip and call her PROSTITUTIONWHORE!?

If so, would she hold it against him (I hope not – I’m behind on my shots)?

Tune in later …

Technorati Tags: television,real housewives,reality TV,Danielle Staub,entertainment,celebrities