What Me, Blacklisted?

If you read my post at DadCentric Tuesday, you know that I overexerted myself a bit the other week at my kids' soccer practices. (If you didn't read it, click over to "Kids are a Pain" now. I'll wait.)

The irony of this is that I'm not supposed to be coaching soccer at all this season. I was blacklisted by the league.

My crime? Verbal abuse of the referees? Climbing into the stands to hit a parent? Putting steroids in the halftime juice boxes?

Nope. I had a few choice exchanges with the league's directors last year and I used some inappropriate words.

They were "50 percent refund."

Three of the seven games my daughter's team played one season were won by forfeit because the other team didn't have enough players show. The eighth game, for the championship, was canceled because the league assigned someone else to our field. So, being the accountant's son that I am, I asked the league to give my team's parents half their money back.

I e-mailed them three times with my request before someone finally responded. That was only after I might have casually mentioned calling the city parks department and team sponsors about reconsidering their support for the league.

Anyway, six minutes after I hit the "send" button on the third missive, my phone rang.

It was an enlightening discussion that went something like this:

LEAGUE BIGWIG: We don't refund money to players. They're children.

ME: Good thing. They'd probably spend it on cheap whiskey, angel dust and chicken nuggets. That's why I requested you refund my players' parents. It's in the e-mail. All three of them.

LEAGUE BIGWIG: You said your last game was a playoff. That age bracket isn't supposed to have playoffs.

ME: I don't care what you call it. It was a game on the schedule you gave us that wasn't played because of your scheduling mistake.

LEAGUE BIGWIG: But it wasn't a playoff. That league is not supposed to have playoffs.

ME: Whatever. I had one parent cut a weekend trip short to bring their kid to a game that didn't occur because a schedule you issued us three months ago was wrong.

LEAGUE BIGWIG: But it wasn't a playoff.

My favorite part of this whole conversation (apart from some inevitable cussing on my part because, alas, I can only stand so much stupid) was being lectured about this being a not-for-profit league run by volunteers and the importance of being involved, not just as a mere coach of two teams (as I was) but as a league commissioner, an executive director or eventually the head of ACORN.

This came right before Bigwig told me I was NOT invited to attend the board meeting at which my request was being discussed.

I volunteered to show up anyway. He couldn't see the irony past his iron fist.

As expected, my request was denied. So, I let it drop and moved on, coaching two teams for another season without incident.

Then, when the league issued its autumn rosters, the Things received their team assignments but I was not a coach for either team even though I volunteered (remember that word) to run one team and assist with the other.

I figured maybe they actually had enough coaches, though that would have been a first in my two years in the league. Call me skeptical. I made a few calls just to be sure.

"Man, I didn't want to tell you this," said my assistant from a previous season. "They called me and drafted me to run a team. I told them I was only planning on being your assistant again this year. Then they said you weren't being allowed to coach a team this year because of some incident you had over the winter."

My response to this. I volunteered. Directly -- to both my kids' coaches. They both welcomed the added help. In fact, I "officially" was promoted to co-coach of one team because the other coach travels for business frequently.

Part of my new coaching duties is to introduce myself to the refs before every game, make small talk with them and compliment their outstanding officiating skills. By doing this, they always come to me when the game ends and hand me a special slip of paper.

It's their pay sheet for the league.

I make certain I print and sign my name in very large, legible bold letters.

"But What Makes Wage Slaves? Wages!"

My Love funds the bulk of my At-Home Dadness, bless her cold capitalist instincts. Now and then, though, I feel a strange twinge. Then it becomes an itch. An itch to contribute something more to the Uncool Household than my mastery of reusing plastic bags to pick up doggie landmines, locating misplaced video game cartridges and shuttling forgotten lunches to the kids' school.

Ack! It's my deeply recessed alpha male/breadwinner gene!

GENE: Hello, Gen-X slacker and friend of failure.

UNCOOL: Hi, Gene. Ha. "Hygiene." That's a dirty word.

GENE: So is "unemployment," you half-wit.

UNCOOL: Hey, I'm self-employed.

GENE: Yeees. You love to work at nothing all day.

UNCOOL: "And I'll be takin' care of business -- every day! Takin' care of business --"

GENE: Spare me the Bachman-Turner Overdrive, you unproductive sloth! Now feel guilty! Guilllll-tyyyyy! GUILLLLL-tyyyyy!

UNCOOL: Jesus, I suck!

GENE: Excellent. Now, scratch your balls, spit and swagger. Think more Christian from Nip/Tuck than Roseanne singing the National Anthem.

UNCOOL: Jam it, a-hole.

GENE: Ha! Now that I likey!

After these pep talks, I often feel compelled to scour online job boards, call old contacts and pound the pavement in search of big bucks for hard work. Unfortunately, my efforts usually end not with paychecks but with the pangs of rejection and remorse over my general lack of skills and talent. Frickin' liberal arts education!

In one of my recent "gotta find extra work" jags, I found what sounded like a promising telecommuting contract gig writing copy for a catalog selling stuff for babies and children. It promised possible future opportunities such as news releases and other types of one-off projects.

The more I re-read the ad, though, the more I became convinced it was yet another Internet posting that essentially wanted a writer on the extreme cheap which pretty much describes all jobs for writers you can find online. This ad just didn't have the balls to flat out say it, instead asking applicants to submit their "salary requirements" -- code for "ask for peanuts and maybe will offer shells."

As it seemed I was destined to get rejected again, I figured at least I'd have a little fun with it. So here is the cover letter I sent in:

As a professional writer (at least that’s what I claim on my “income” tax form) and father of two grade-schoolers, I think I’d be a perfect fit for your business. Why? Just look at these bullet points:

• I’m used to working on tight deadlines because most of my past bosses were poor planners;
• the "factual, yet lighthearted, flowing and conversational" writing you desire is my mainstay because I’m fairly shallow; and
• I’m more than familiar with children’s products as my boy and girl, ages 7 and 9 respectively, love to spend what little money I do bring in.

As for salary requirements, I’m looking for the minimum equivalent of $40 an hour. I’m sure you’ll agree that this is a reasonable price given my experience (see attached resume). Also, I’m sure your outfit is more reputable than the zillions of companies that think they can pay telecommuters and online writers a pittance and a bag of Circus Peanuts for their craft. I have that kind of faith in YOU!

Attached with my resume are some writing samples. Please contact me if you are interested in my services or at least if you found this e-mail entertaining.

As for their reply, well, I'm still waiting ... along the interstate on-ramp with the rest of the day laborers.

* * *

Speaking of people who need real jobs, please read "Jon & Kate Plus 8" Must Die -- my thoughts on the most annoying of reality show couples who are seemingly headed for divorce while the TV nation and their eight kids look on. It's only on DadCentric!

My Year of At-Home Dadness

A former colleague dropped me a line to say she had a change in daytime contact information. Since we both worked in corporate communications (motto: "Using words, charts and video to tell you nothing!"), I knew this was code.

She'd been downsized, right-sized, RIF-ed, sacked, separated and sent packing.

She was one of many friends, neighbors, former co-workers and random strangers I've meet in the past few months who had also been shown the door at their places of work. Every time I hear of this, I have one and one thought only:

"You slackers! I got the heave-ho in October. Of 2007!"

Me -- a trendsetter, a pioneer. This must be how James T. Kirk felt every day at the helm of his star ship, but without the velour pants and vinyl captain's chair causing stickiness in the nether regions.

With this reminder of the recent passing of my first can-iversary (pink paper, naturally), I realized I was due for a performance review. Twelve months of emancipation from corporate dronery and, subsequently, as head of Uncool Enterprises Unincorporated deserved some serious evaluation. I sought guidance from our in-house executive HR goddess -- My Love.

"Sorry, I'm slammed," she said. "I've got 16 deadlines and three bosses breathing down my neck. Meanwhile, I've got to make PowerPoint deck salad for the Region Seven Niblick Overlay assembly and dial in to a conference call with Burpakistanbul in five minutes."

Still, it was one of the best meetings I've ever had with HR.

When I was told to meet with the HR rep at my last company for details on my separation package, she offered such insights as "I don't have any of your papers in front of me," "I'm not sure" and "I don't know how we handle that."

She ended up quitting a week before my effective termination date. I swear, I am innocent.

With no assistance from My Love, I went looking for some bottom-up feedback from the Things.

"Children, how's Daddy doing? Am I exceeding the expectations I've set for you as main proprietor of all-things parenting?"

"You're still a dork," Thing 1 said.

"I'll look into that. Thing 2, do you concur with your sister's evaluation of my performance as Dad-in-chief?"

"Can you buy me some more Pokémon cards?" he said.

"I'll have to see if you are within your budgetary allowances for this quarter. Do have the proper paperwork in triplicate with the pre-approval stamp and signature of the chief financial officer?"

"I have black stuff in my bellybutton."

Next, I tried my closest work associate, Murphy the Rabbit Killer. Unfortunately, he couldn't offer an opinion. He was in a meeting of the nasty bits with the fetid-smelling golden retriever next door.

Looks like, as usual, I'll have to fend for myself. Rather than dwell on the past, I'll move right into the goal-setting portion of my review:

Take more naps. I'm not much for siestas, but medical evidence of their benefits continues to grow. Who am I to argue with science?

Wear pajamas all day. If I'm going to be stereotyped as a work-at-home parent, why not go full throttle? This, of course, will require me to buy some pajamas. Bright side, walking the kids to school will be less breezy.

Play more golf. I remember one division president at my last company telling an audience of employees about his meeting with the executive management consultant the CEO hired to evaluate his top people. The consultant told the DP he spent too much time in the office and on job sites. Instead, he recommended the DP get out and play more golf during business hours. Which reminds me …

Expand consulting services. Time management skills, perhaps?

Practice my bass. It looks really cool on the stand in my office, but what if I finally have a potential business client over and he demands I nail The Who's "The Real Me" or else the deal is off? I heard that's how the Microsoft-Yahoo deal collapsed. Frickin' Bill fumble-fingers Gates.

Get blog readers to vote for me at Humor-Blogs.com. Why? Because I expose you to rockin' song parodies like this one:


Video: "Stay-at-Home Dad," Jon Lajoie

I got a desk full of papers that mean nothing at all

Office Dwelling Subcreatures and others -- I give you your Friday getaway song:



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.

Can you arrange that, My Love? You know what a poor helpless "man" I am, and you are an all-powerful being I was never worthy of procreating with based on my continued inability to provide our happy home with anything other than a dishwasher in which all items are sequenced in proper spatial relationship by size, shape and material.

At least, that's what Murphy implied the other night during "South Park" reruns. See, what you miss when you "executive goddess" too much for the Healthy Snack Conglomerate and need to sack out with the kids by 9 p.m.? Your assistant really needs to enter these meetings of the Uncool Domesticated Workers and Animals Committee into your Outlook Calendar.

Oh, yeah. He also wants a bigger max on his Visa (your area) and only Aquafina in his bowl (mine).

Excuse me now, I've got overpriced shrubs from Designs By Lee to plant and mulch to spread. The manure, obviously, has already been put down.

Cheers!

Lessons for my son, age 6

The middle male of the Uncool household, a.k.a. Thing 2, turned 6 over the weekend. This is a pretty amazing feat for you, little dude, because, in all seriousness, Mom and I gave much thought on Day 4 of your existence to trading you in for a quieter model.

I walked three miles around the creaky second floor of our old house that first-night-into-morning you were home, son, bouncing you in my arms, swaying you back and forth, swaddling and re-swaddling, singing you my up-to-that-time-never-miss (at least for your big sister) bedtime medley of "Sunny Afternoon" and "(Sittin' on) The Dock of the Bay." All for naught, boy, all for naught.

Thanks goodness for Tanqueray. I mean, for me. Over the next three weeks, it eased the soreness you caused in my right knee that night.

As for your problem, well, seems Mom wasn't putting out enough and you just needed a big ol' helping of artificial help. Consider that your first life lesson.

On this most important occasion, son, let me say that I see a lot of me in you. And I am so, so very sorry for that.
The least I can do is try to tell you about some of the many left turns I made when I should have gone right in life. So, sit down, let me put on my cardigan and fill up my pipe … there, that's enough bubble solution … and here we go:

Southern Comfort and instant iced tea … not a good drinking experience from start to the inevitable finish.

Don't do illegal drugs.

If you are in Amsterdam, however, where certain pharmaceuticals are legal, find someone who actually knows how to roll that thing up for you. Nothing says "ugly American tourist" quite like walking the canals while shy an eyebrow.

Righty, tighty; lefty, loosey.

When the boss tells you NOT do something -- like, say, file a claim for full-time status and benefits since you have been working 40 hours a week as a freelancer for the past two years -- because doing so might "jeopardize you ever having any kind of career in this organization," find a new organization. Then, give the old one the finger as politely as possible on the way out the door.

Learn to tell people "no" and not feel guilty about it. Your mom is a master at this.

Sunscreen, sunscreen, sunscreen. Especially when you sneak a flight to Miami over spring break to hook up with your girlfriend.

Which reminds me. In picking a girlfriend, "family history of mental stability" almost always beats "looks hot in those jeans."

Don't fall for that "you need to match my dress" line. You will never look at old photos of yourself in the basic black tux and cummerbund, shake your head, and wonder what you were sniffing prior to rental.

Like me as a child, you love playing with Hot Wheels cars. Note that this does not translate into a working knowledge of real automobiles when you are older.

Avoid paying for "light" beer. Drinking it is acceptable as long as that's all that's still available from the concession stand or you need to clean out the refrigerator after a party to made room for better things.

Take a job for fun, not profit, at least once in your life.

In my day, it was funny to put dishwashing liquid in a cupcake and give it to that mean 8th grade reading teacher. It was funnier when she was out sick the next day. Today, that will just get you arrested.

You may like dinosaurs now, son, but you won't like working for one when you grow up.

You're going to lose more often than you win at most things. The faster you learn to accept that, the sooner you'll start enjoying the experience as well as the glory.

Forget the GPA, suck it up and take an actual typing class.

There will be times you will need to tell your significant other that she (or he, if need be, I can handle that, too) is right even though you have irrefutable, concrete evidence to the contrary. Trust me on this.

Always question authority, except mine. I may steer you wrong from time to time, but it won't ever be because I am deliberating trying to screw you over.

This is who we are … at 40

So here it is. The big 4-0.

Forty.

The beginning of the slippery slope downhill. Unless you go by my Blue Zone score, which says I will make it to the ripe age of 94 but spend the last 15 years paying for the indiscretions of my youth.

I feel cheated. Had I known way back when, I would have picked way better indiscretions.

So, let me start the 40th anniversary of my birth by thanking my Mom. After witnessing the birth of my own two children, I can only hope she got a real long, solid buzz from the painkillers that day.

Of course, the fact my birthday occasionally coincides with Mother's Day pretty much relegates me to second-class status every few years, but that's not your fault, Mom. We'll blame Dad, you dirty dog, you.

Next, I'm happy to report there have been no major injuries yet to mark my 40th year. My Love, who is three years wiser than I, warned me back when I turned 30 that little aches and pains that never bothered me before would now start to appear. The next day, I promptly strained my back attempting a few laps in the pool.

On the plus side, my hair didn't suddenly fall out overnight. But I knew that wasn't going to happen. I was thinking more along the lines that it would go completely shock-white like it did for Lance Henriksen's character after he watched his wife die of the apocalyptic plague in "Millennium." Now, how cool would that have been?

Instead, I'm fighting the creep of a David Letterman-esque floating isle of hair above my forehead. I'm still only at the peninsula stage but I fear the shores are literally receding. Put me down as another victim of global warming.

So what have I accomplished after four decades?

Anyone? I'm open for ideas here.

Haven't writing the Great American Novel, Short Story or Pop Song. But neither have you* … so there!

Never had true, physical carnal knowledge of Cindy Crawford.

Sorry. … Wiping drool off keyboard.

My only great regret is never having mastered a musical instrument. But, I'm still surprised that I faked musical competence well enough to sing in a band in high school, even if we never played anywhere but the drummer's basement, and play some Casio riffs for the short-lived garage band we had in my newspaper days.

Thankfully, I have erased all the tapes. I think. The memory and the reflexes are always first to go.

Some may question whether I truly lived up to being voted "most likely to succeed" in high school. I know that, in at least one area, I fared better than my female counterpart. Last I heard, through an e-mail she circulated before the 20th class reunion, she was on the prowl for husband No. 3. I'm sorry I missed that party.

I guess it depends on your definition of success. I've had jobs in which I was underpaid and overworked, overpaid and underutilized, and paid a fair wage but completely unfulfilled. I had one great job and it paid only in free admission to movies (intern in the press office of the American Film Institute in Washington, D.C.).

But the best job, honestly, has been being able to hack away on a laptop from home over the past four years. That's because it means I:

1) never have to wear a tie,
2) never have to attend meetings in which I must pretend to be enraptured by the "insights" of my CEO-ass-kissing boss," and
3) get to spend lots of time raising Thing 1, Thing 2 and the Murphinator.

I owe it all to Al Gore, for inventing the Internet, and having a wife with far more ambition, business acumen and earning potential than I.

Also, she loathes shopping and housework. I, by contrast, feel it is my duty to read the care labels on clothes and sort them appropriately before washing. This arrangement of ours is what someone in her profession would call "having complimentary skill sets."

That means, if she ever used the phrase "having complimentary skill sets" in my presence, it would send the beer I'm drinking straight out my nose. It's all about balance.

I only wished she traveled less so we could be a family more often.

OK, I also wish she was Cindy Crawford. But then, she wishes I looked like Denzel Washington and did home repair like Ty Pennington. Someday, we'll start a really successful fantasy spouse league.

Well, here's to me at 40. Always home and uncool, but pretty OK with life as it is.

***

NOTE: An entry on the surprise party My Love threw for me last weekend will be coming soon. My colon needs more time to process the 60 pounds of barbecue and birthday cake that I wedged into it.

* Unless you are Marshall Crenshaw. Then you have written many Great American Pop Songs. Why you would be reading my blog is also a topic for later.

Save The Eagle and your local newspaper

One of my first bosses from the days when I still thought newspaper journalism (and rock 'n' roll) could change the world "left" his job last week.

For those of us who still care about newspapers or, at least, depend on them to get the scoop on local happening, this is another sign that the end is nearing for the print era.

For my former editor, Joe Pisani, I'm hoping he recognizes that this is the sign he has long waited for from Up Above that a better, saner lifestyle awaits him elsewhere on Earth and possibly in the Hereafter.

The May 4, 2008, article and the editorial in The Advocate of Stamford about Joe's departure makes it pretty clear (between the lines) how crappy life had become there since MediaNews Group Inc. bought it and Greenwich Time a few months ago. Staff reductions through layoffs and attrition. Budget cuts. Press deadlines moved up from 2 a.m. to as early as 11 p.m. -- this is why the papers no longer feature West Coast/late-night sports scores and run government meeting news a day late now.

Joe's penultimate column, appearing on his last day on May 3, clues you into what work had become to him at the end.

The last time I talked to Joe was about a month ago. I had stopped by The Advocate office's to drop off an opinion piece I wrote for the ViewPoint page. I tried to e-mail it, but the system in the new offices MediaNews had banished the newspaper was on the fritz.

In the span of 20 minutes, Joe -- a man who goes to Mass daily, a man once who gave me a bottle of Holy Water from the shire of Our Lady of Guadalupe, and a man who sends multiple prayer cards in his Christmas cards every year -- repeatedly used a word to describe the current situation at work that I never heard him utter in the 10 years I had worked for him.

It's the word, as you fellow fans of the movie "Bull Durham" know, that is guaranteed to get the umpire to throw you out of the game.

Then, after all the many conjugations and grammatical variations of the word were exhausted, Joe asked if I needed a job because something was probably open in Greenwich.

I asked him how much longer he was going to stick it out. Joe, known affectionately to the old composing room staff and night editors as The Eagle (his photo explains it all), had worked there in some capacity for 30+ years. The last of the Eaglettes (his four daughters) was in college. And his wife, Sandy, was still putting up with him to the best of my knowledge.

Joe said he planned to fight the good fight until they kicked him out. He felt it was his mission to change his new bosses' minds and bring the papers back to what they were and could really become.

"You gotta rally the troops, man. You gotta rally them to save these papers," he said to me.

So, Joe, this one's for you:

I am printing a copy of Joe's May 3 column. I am mailing it along with a bow tie, Joe's signature neck wear, to George Irish, president of Hearst Corp. Newspapers, 959 8th Ave., New York, NY, 10019-3737

If you can't afford the tie or the postage, e-mail him copy of the column at girish@hearst.com. In the subject line, write: "FIRE NEWSMEDIA: Save The Advocate/Greenwich Time." If you can, as include any NewsMedia gripes, quality of local journalism concerns you have.

Or just call him at 212-649-2000. Leave a message. He'll get right back to you, I'm sure.

If you care about The Advocate and Greenwich Time, newspapers, local journalism or just the fact that corporate America is screwing over the little guy again (and that includes readers of The Advocate and Greenwich Time as well as the papers' staff), please join me.