Oh man. Have I seriously not blogged since October? Time to power up the defibrillator and revive Daddy Confidential – if only to satisfy the persistent pleadings of my loyal fan.
Wish I could say my absence was glamorous; but I was merely enmeshed in the gut renovation of our house. My digital presence was nonexistent, except for some [alleged] Words With Friends and Draw Something jags. Here is an especially effective rendering I did [again, allegedly] for my nephew:
Pepper? Did you guess pepper? Oh goody. My digital vacation was not in vain.
After my last post in October, I absconded to Las Vegas for some rock climbing. Embarrassingly, I didn’t play a single hand of blackjack, or even get a lap dance. Here, this was me:
Something tells me that years from now I’ll look back and realize I peaked physically on that cliff. So may as well put it out there, right?
I flew back from Vegas just in time to do storm-prep for hurricane Sandy. We lucked out and emerged unscathed, which is good because apparently my idea of storm preparation consists of compulsively plugging in my phone whenever the charge drops below 94%.
After Sandy I got caught up in the election, which left me elated; and then kids in Newtown were massacred, which left me deflated. I’m still puzzling over how it is my son’s preschool has successfully banned peanuts, yet our country’s schools are unable to restrict gun-nuts.
It’s been especially maddening to watch our national head-scratching over the root cause of gun violence. (Hint: it’s not video games. Or movies. Those are widely consumed in, say, England and Japan, where gun violence is nonexistent.)
Also in November my wife made me watch the latest Twilight movie, on opening day no less. It happened to be Sarah’s birthday, so I had to cheerfully submit to the dictatorial authority temporarily conferred upon women on their birthdays. The indignity was especially acute because on top being a terrible film, Kristen Stewart doesn’t even get naked. Rental!
Now that we’re finally settled in the suburbs, I’ve been pressuring my wife to have another baby. It’s going to be tricky though. I was recently skimming my 9th grade biology textbook, and apparently in order to conceive, my wife must actually have sex with me.
Sarah is reluctant, if not outright hostile. I think she’s still suffering from post-vaginal stress syndrome, because she is no hurry to relive pregnancy and childbirth. (I’m no more eager than she is, but we all make sacrifices.)
So that’s where we’re at. Watch this space for more on parenting in a post-modern, post-ironic, post-feminist, post-historical, post-meta reality. Or something.
In light of the selection of the new pope, I figure now’s a good time to trot out my favorite pope joke. With no further ado:
During a tour of America, the pope was in Chicago for one of those stadium appearances. He had a few hours to kill before he had to be anywhere, so he decided to go for a spin on the rural roads outside of town.
He got in his limo and the chauffeur drove them beyond the city limits and onto the back roads. After awhile the pope said, “Pull over. I wanna drive.”
The chauffeur was incredulous. “Your Holiness,” he stammered, “that’s impossible. I’m responsible for your safety. If anything were to happen, I’d never forgive myself.”
The pope said, “Listen, driving used to be one of my life’s great pleasures. In all my years as pope, I’ve been driven around everywhere. Just once, I’d like to get back behind the wheel.”
What could the chauffeur do? So he steered to the side of the road, stopped the car, and the two switched seats. The chauffeur got in back, and the pope settled into the driver’s seat.
The pope took off. It turns out he had a heavy foot; he began to speed. Before long a state trooper signaled the limo to pull over. The trooper gets out of his squad car and sidles up to the limo. He sees the pope sitting there behind the wheel. Totally flummoxed, he says to the pope, “Listen, I’ve gotta go back to my car and radio this in. You just sit tight.”
The cop goes back to his car and radios headquarters. Asks for the chief. “Chief,” he says, “I seem to have pulled over a very important person. And I’m just not quite sure how to proceed.”
The chief’s voice comes back, “I see. So tell me. Is this guy more important than, say, the mayor of Chicago?”
“Oh yeah,” the cop says. “He’s way more important than the mayor.”
Surprised, the chief says, “Really? Well then, is he more important than the governor of the great state of Illinois?”
The trooper responds, “He sure is. He’s definitely more important than the governor.”
The chief says, “Well gimme a break! Is this guy more important than the president of the United States of America?”
The cop considers this for a second and says, “You know chief? In some people’s eyes, yeah. He could be more important than the president.”
Now the chief is irritated. “Well who is this guy that he’s so important?!?”
The cop radios back, “Listen chief, I don’t know who this guy is. But he’s got the pope driving him around places.”