chicagodads

• We fed her last two hours before we put her down yesterday. So she was hungry. D’uh.
• The other day when she woke up, I entered the baby’s room. I lay in the bed adjacent to her little fluffy prison and wait for her to rise. As she does, I do too and I challenge her to kiss me on the lips. In a rare victory, she swoops forward and plants one there. My trying to persuade her that that display of affection is good is to squeal “Hooray” and clap my hands, both of which my wife and I - and observant friends - use fairly regularly both in order to train her and to get some laughs from. She gets happy, and a bit taken off-guard as usual. And then she draws both of her hands together (they were propped upat the top of the rails), claps once, and falls on her butt.
• Jennie and I are going to Colombia (in South America) in a couple days. I’ve mentioned this before - heck, yesterday - but our daughter is not coming with us for this jaunt. And, as you can expect, we’re facing some criticism - and a lot of turned heads - for it. Personally, I think I’d have problems with someone abandoning my niece, even if it’s not abandoning. I want to speak to that. Before we leave, I’ll try to word out our reasoning the best that I can with no sleep (see how THIS is working out for me) and chunk it up for the next week.
• Peace.

As mentioned previously, we’re heading to Colombia shortly. And when I say “we,” I mean my wife and I. Sans baby.

And that’s really hard. I already am feeling some separation anxiety. When I worked on the south side and had to rely on public transportation to get me to and fro work, I would come home sometimes anguished that I spent the whole day without seeing my baby. Eventually, she wouldn’t need to go to bed so early and eventually after that, that job fell through (which is too bad. Of all the teaching positions I had, that school had my favorite class and the other classes were really shaping up as something wonderful too). So, I rarely ever felt so separated from our daughter.

Note: now she’s crying. It’s almost midnight and I’m not sure what’s wrong. I’m praying that she goes to sleep on her own soon.

I’m really, really going to miss my daughter. Really am. Fortunately, my wonderful wife as well as several friends that we’re making are going with us. But I’ll miss her all the same.

Later I’ll explain the reasoning behind our going without her. But for now, it’s just enough to say that I’ll really, really miss her.

Sucks.

It’s like 72 degrees (Fahrenheit) outside but in here, with the air conditioning on, I’m constantly sweating.

We invented light bulbs so we could work even when it’s dark. And now we can’t sleep. Certainly I’m not the only one.

We make machines that think faster than us but operate according to our whims and then we connect them together so that people anywhere and everywhere can build communities in unbelievable break-neck time. But then we spend half our time widdling our days away on videos, niche pop-culture junk, and anonymous hate-filled blog comments. And even when someone does take the effort to begin reaching out, it seems that there just isn’t enough time to reach out in kind.

The scary part is that I’m a firm believer in the notion that 1) how we start something - unless severely corrected - is how we will continue and end, only much more boldly as it progresses; and 2) children learn primarily from their parents. And though it’s not necessarily negative, it can be and often is.

All of this is not to grub about modern society or technology. It’s not their fault that I have trouble concentrating at times. I, like all of us, need to learn my boundaries - what I can and what I cannot live without.

Something kind of funny about living in Chicago is that it teaches you the fine art of impatience and of never being satisfied - least of all with our own impatience.

We are supposedly just a big town, right? A collection of much smaller neighborhoods. But we can’t seem to slow down for anything. And, me, I’m just a slow-down type of guy. So I loves me some places that allow the privilege of doing just that. The coffee shop, the library, the book store. Those are urban spaces wherein we are invited to make space for at least mulling, if not contemplating or meditating.

Chicago, wonderful city that it is, has only pockets of green space. And I appreciate the fact that we have it. But they’re too few and too far between. And a bit too small.

The paradox is, of course, that in order to find what you are looking for, you need to look deeper, to slow down to such a state that the little that is there is sufficient. It becomes necessary to contemplate a small area, to envelope the limitations as a completeness.

And then, possibly, to recognize and embrace your own limitations, your own finite smallness, which can get lost in the vastness and hardness of the city.

It’s difficult but necessary to recognize the good around me and in my own backyard. Because sometimes, you know, the grass does look a whole ‘nother shade just past the fence.

But not always.

Something struck me today as oddly familiar. It wasn’t anything that happened to me in real-time nor did it occur near me. While I’m brain-stuck trying to write this paint-dry assignment and while I’ve got the baby in her high chair, I turn on some clips of the Superman cartoon (I think this one is called Superman: The Animated Series).

One thing that most readers / followers of the legend of Superman know is that Lois ain’t no punk. She tells it like it is, she’ll fight for her protection, she goes after the hardest stories. I think she’s been that way since ‘38 at least. Lois Lane is a fighter.

But because she’s such a trouble-finder, she tends to get her hunt. And it’s usually too much trouble for her to handle on her own. I think some may complain that she’s just another one of those screaming girls, the Mary Jane Watsons of DC Comics. But I beg to differ; I think Lois (LoLa to the paparazzi, of course) overextends her pretty remarkable reach and than has all sorts of heat coming down on her. Imagine having uzis pointed at your larynx every other day. And you know that if you scream, your hero Superman will come to rescue you, every time. Unfortunately, everybody’s favorite Daily Planet-er may just be a little too used to being rescued at just the right moment (notice, she does what she can to fend off until it’s just not humanly possible to anymore. Everytime. Watch.) and she gets a bit reckless as a result.

Now, everybody knows about the bizarre (not Bizarro) love triangle going on between Clark Kent/Superman and Lois Lane and Lois Lane and Superman. But I’ve just noticed the way in which Lois is being rescued by Supes. It’s the same faith-filled, trusting, arms open, running to embrace that my daughter gives me at times, especially if she’s a bit afraid or tired. Exactly like her elevator’s going to explode in mid-air and boy, is she happy to see me now…

I’ve already teased about this grand ol’ Man-Are-Men movement. But in all seriousness, if Joss wants me to be her own investigator, so long as I don’t have to wear a cape (in public. much) I’m all for being her Superdad.

My wife and I will be leaving for Colombia in about a week. A lot of unsettled business to take care of, but I’m such a procrastinator, I’m not sure it’ll be taken care of until we get back.

But I did want to ask a few questions and maybe you’ll have a bit of insight into this that I don’t: Did Clark Kent go to J-School? Of any sort?

Because one minute he’s all Mr. Smallville and the next, POOF!, got his byline on the front page of a major metropolitan (Metropolis, as it were) newspaper. In some versions (such as the tv show which may or may not still be airing originals, I don’t know), he actually worked for the high school newspaper. But, there’s a long way from there to here, I know that much.

Peter Parker, he’s a freelancer, just like me. But if J. Jonah Jameson doesn’t like his stuff, he’s stuck. Why? Cuz he has no credentials and J. Jonah Jameson runs a rag, let’sfaceit.

But Perry runs - if not the New York Times, then at least the Chicago Tribune, the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, the Boston Globe. Jameson just runs Globe, the magazine.

Some bigger, heavier questions about Superman to come down the pike sooner rather than later.

The big news is, she walked! Like ten to fifteen steps from one point to another. I was so proud of her. That was the most I had ever seen her take. She was also delightfully surprised by her abilities, and she decided to keep on going!

She walked full-steam-ahead through a book aisle and around the corner, stopped while standing, decided to walk some more around the next aisle (these are shorter rows, about twelve feet each) got a couple feet in, held her hand out to the shelf at her level to balance herself and then walked around both bookshelves again.

And that’s not all (I sound like a stinkin’ advertisement, don’t I?)! She would walk up to someone not noticing they were in her path and then stop before she’d run into them. She would look around, and then walk around them. I wish I had a camcorder. I thought it was the most brilliant, funny thing I had ever seen.

We continued to walk around the entire library for another ten or so minutes. She did make a little bit of noise, but we tried to keep it minimal. It was mostly of the pursed lips, “Whoa,” variety. Like she was Clark Kent and just realizing and relishing in her super powers.

But alas, as all superheroes have their weaknesses, so does Joss. Earlier, I had spread both arms around her in case of emergency, in case she would trip on her inexperience or the carpet would rise and rebel against her. A lot of aluminum shelves and all. But after about ten minutes of this, I grew a bit weary and the baby seemed at no end. I was a step behind her when she made that one error.

She screamed as I took her out into the open air, and then stopped. She just needed a bit of cuddling and reassuring at this point. And that, I could do.

As far as babies go, I like to think that mine is special. Poised, observant, happy, brilliant. She knows when to speak and when to hold her tongue. And, of course, she’ll make lots and lots of friends and money (neither having to do with generating the other). So, I didn’t think much of the fact that we were going to take her to a community development meeting (”In this corner, the greedy developers who have no sense of community!” Cue “Hisssssssss” and “Traitor!”).

Long story to make short, I arrived late. She was in her stroller and I must have excited her because she started to make noise. Looking around the room, I was surprised that we were the 1) the youngest ones there and 2) the only ones with kids in attendance. Mostly everyone was white and could speak English well. Except Joss, I suppose. But she has blond hair and blue eyes, so I guess that makes up for her not knowing the language so well…

After a little bit of placating her in the meeting room, it became evident that she would be a little too noisy for that meeting. And since the ground rules clearly stated that you could only speak if you have read the whole copy of the project plan (which neither of us had on such short notice, of course. Wink, wink), I took her out to the main library for a stroll.

This library is nice. A little on the smallish side, but definitely cozy and kind of homey. A friend’s husband’s firm built it and the idea, she said, is that because they live a block away, they want that library to last well into the grandchildren’s era. Don’t know exactly how well it was constructed, per se, but it does seem to be kept up pretty well.

I’ll finish the rest of the story (with pix as soon as I learn how to upload them onto my computery thingymabob) tomorrow.

And, yes, the developers are actually, well… not bad, per se. Maybe clueless and harmful and full of themselves would be a better way of putting it.

Did I say “per se” twice in three paragraphs?

Here are some pictures from KPark, and of our baby. Which is really the point of nearly any photograph that we’d take, anyway. I’d like to say it’s an apology and a make-up for not blogging yesterday, but I’d be lying. I was planning on doing this yesterday anyway.

The room that we rented out was supposed to only fit about thirty people or so. But we could have easily fit around fifty. Maybe even sitting down.

The main (and really, only) issue I had with the room is that it is very drab, even with all of this exciting pink and white decoration going on around it. I’m not a color theorist (in the least! Just ask my wife) so I don’t know what colors would have worked with this beige. Maybe another scheme would have worked for the room. But not for our baby’s first birthday.

She didn’t seem to mind, though.

Whoa!

Sprinklers. Three at a piece. And so begins the deluge!

File this under: Out and About.

It may take a weee little longer to complete that series than I planned. I feel like Stanley Kubrick promising another movie soon that will bring to fruition a perfectionist’s vision of paran…

What do you mean he’s dead? No new movies coming out anytime soon? AI:Artificial Intelligence was his last work?

Noooooo!

Ok, new metaphor. I feel like Tupac Shakur. It’s been a while since we heard anything new from him…

Anyway, this slow-down in posts (including actually missing a day and writing these about as close to midnight as possible) is not due to the fact that I/we haven’t been busy. We have, tremendously. Joss celebrated her birthday yesterday and it was time to try out the new goodies as well as give a trial run to a park.

Kosciuzko Park. I don’t know how to pronounce it. But you can find it here . It’s a rare find in this city. One of the best-kept-secret parks is an entire city block long (1/8 mile x 1/8 mile). A lot of more famous parks (say, Wicker Park) are half the size. Although not as diverse as Humboldt Park (breathtakingly beautiful for an area in the heart of Chicago on the right days - but also roughly 10 times as big as K Park) or as beautifully kept as Humboldt or Wicker Park, Kosciuzko has its charms. Cheap and available rooms to rent, a swimming pool, a few underutilized baseball fields, tennis courts (also underutilized), a little sprinkler area for the little ones, a baby park - these are some of the perks. Best of all? Free.

Bad part? Some of the patrons don’t seem to care for the upkeep of the park. The sprinkler system was filled with debris, styrofoam cups, et. al. But then again, I remember some of the kid areas that we played in when I was a young’un. Spray painted graffiti. And smelled like pee. All of the time. So, all in all, not so bad.

Yes, another detour (so to speak) from our Road series on Logan Boulevard. I really wanted to get more pix, but couldn’t because of the rain, the busyness and because, well, I plum-forgot. But I saw at the NYTimes something that is definitely up our alley (so to speak).

The newly elected president of the American Federation of Teachers (AFT) is calling the No Child Left Behind movement too weak to change and too dangerous to remain . The AFT is, if not the largest teacher’s union in the US, certainly one of the largest. Nearly every public school teacher in Chicago is a member, including myself (though I guess not so much anymore. But that’s not related to this, so I digress). NCLB is a federal government law compiled with the theme of making schools more accountable for the success of their students. And there’s nothing wrong with that motive (although there are other motives in play). Neither is there anything new in Weingarten’s critiques - although her suggestions for a new federal law on education are a bit… “wacky” is not the word. Maybe “extreme” and “self-serving”?

The truth of the matter is that teachers have long acknowledged that the problem isn’t accountability. Nor is the problem wanting all of our children to succeed (although some may argue that some kids, well…). The problem is in how this is expected to be carried out. Because everything hinges on high-stakes testing, teachers feel the heat to concentrate principally on testing to get the class’ learning on. Practice tests are the norm nowadays. And I don’t mean that to say that practice tests are performed after class, or with a tutor, or once a month. These practice tests are done All The Time. Actual learning (which, by the way, does not only occur when the teacher is ‘teaching’ but when the children are ‘doing’) is not taking place because - and I’ll say this real slow - Nobody. Learns. From. Taking. A. Test. How. To. Do. Anything. But. Take. A. Goddam. Test.

Teachers aren’t just worried about losing their jobs here. They’re worried about having control to do what they fundamentally know what is right to do and what they were born to do: to improve our children’s lives. We, as fathers, need to stick up for them and tell the media and Washington that our children, their friends and their futures depend on them shooting down NCLB before it destroys our future.

She’s a year old today.*

I can’t believe that this picture was taken actually almost exactly one year ago from this very moment. I saw our daughter’s little dirt-red head and crinkly spindly little body. And I wanted nothing more than to hold her and just look at her. “Honey, look at her. She’s beautiful.” I couldn’t believe I was living in that moment.

(My wife, of course, has other memories. Not so pleasant at the time. Believe me, I was shaking for her and trying to feel her. But I guess my excitement just goofily took me over.)

And now she’s one year old. Eating grown-up food. Today, we helped some friends move. Had to leave a bit early, but I grabbed some pizza on the way out. I gave her bits of the pizza crusts. She wanted more. A girl after her daddy’s heart.

There is so much more I want to say. But I’ve been saving those gushy little daddy diaries at our family blog, for the most part. So I’ll redirect you there. Come back here tomorrow for other news. And go to www.familydyegest.blogspot.com for wonderful pics of the cutest one year old I’ve ever laid eyes on.

*Do you think it’s a bit weird when people use metaphors derived from the things they are trying to erase from memory. It’s like saying, “I will combat war.” Or how about, “Let’s kill gang violence”? War metaphors, of course, are hard to deny - they’re so ingrained into our collective psyche by the popular machine. Now, try saying that you are going to momentarily cease writing about your thematic series on a Road and traveling on it while you are in the middle of the series so that you can focus on something more important for the moment. Did you want to inject words like “detour” or “off-road”? Yeah. See? It’s a bit hard isn’t it?

Some troubles with our memory card (it’s too big and fancy and newfangled and whatnot) mean that I haven’t been able to take the pictures I want. Yet. But not to worry, that problem shall be resolved in the near-future and we could have proper documentation of our travails on the Boulevard that is Logan. Today, we’ll just show you a bit of our journey. Although you won’t be able to see much of the beauty that is the LB, you may be able to detect some of the disappointment in the stifling of the journey along the street.

And now for something completely different.

Here we see the daughter (one year old tomorrow!) likes to be in control of her own destiny. Unfortunately, sometimes that destiny is way too slow and veers far to the right.

Another view…

So, we are just innocently humming along at our travels when, what do I with my little eye spy? A sign that says, “Sidewalk closed. Use other side.” Ok, it’s near the bridge with a twisty road emerging from out of it and cars traveling at anywhich merciless speed - but I’m sure we can handle it.

No stop signs or lights. A largely ignored posted speed limit of twenty-five miles per hour nearby. And, o yes, a painted walkway.

We look to the left (insert blue skies)…

We look to the right (meh)…

With the gracious help of a driver who recognized that we were on a crosswalk (recently, most Chicagoans, myself included have been clued-in to the nature of what a crosswalk is for by police stake-outs. A whole nother story for whole ‘nother day.) we made it to the green stretch on the other side. Fortunately, nobody was speeding today. Or, at least not now.

After crossing the stretch to get onto the sidewalk, we realized that we need to travel east, so we cross another street.

\

Now, we were going to cross the street going north anyway in order to get to our destination, but as this Colecovision sign warns us, this side of the sidewalk is also busy. Our destiny is laid out before us. We must cross the street again.

Needing once again to be at the helm, Joss declared, “At this step you will step no further.”

Hopefully tomorrow she won’t have a meltdown and I won’t have to feed her and change her at that very spot. But then again, thems the breaks.

Here is an actual overview of Logan Boulevard here in Chicago. It was written by me. Someday, I may do an entry at wikipedia and all of y’all will be jealous (by the way, isn’t there a standard way of spelling the contraction of ‘you’ and ‘all’? I always thought it was “y’all”, which would be you minus ou plus all, right? But my phone’s texting wizard thingy won’t accept that spelling. It will, however, accept “ya’ll” which would be ‘ya’ plus ‘all’ minus the a. “Ya”? Please! Stupid thing won’t even let me spell my daughter’s name!): 

Logan Boulevard begins its westward journey at the intersection of the North Branch of the Chicago River and Diversey Avenue. It stretches southwest for about a third of a mile, intersecting through Elston Avenue (which slants northwest to southeast, parallel of the more familiar Milwaukee Avenue) until it hits Western Ave, one of the main thoroughfares in the city. At this point, it crosses underneath the Kennedy Expressway (the North Side’s stretch of I-90/I-94) and turns to a complete West route. It continues traveling straight west until it comes to the Logan Square Roundabout, which is a complete mess of ill-navigation and poor planning that intersects the Boulevard, Milwaukee and Kedzie Avenue along with a haggle of smaller streets, two bus lines and a busy subway station.

Logan Boulevard spans a physical gulf between an area of mostly mom and pop, independent stores and a retail park of big-box establishments. It also encapsulates the upper-middle class (who tend to live on and adjacent to the thoroughfare) and the lower classes and emerging middle class. The boulevard is a scenic route in this area, a street that is more than twice as wide as most avenues in the city. There are four automobile lanes in the middle with two parallel stretches of about the same width consisting of green, trees, and occasional benches. Adjacent to the green lanes are more driving lanes, one on each side for driving and one for parking. Combined, the boulevard is wider than most stretches of interstate highway in the city.

Being in such a strategic area – within a few miles of downtown Chicago and intersecting major thoroughfares such as Western, Milwaukee, and Kedzie Avenues as well as Sacramento Boulevard – and hosting families in so many different socio-economical and racial and ethnic factions, Logan Boulevard has tremendous and largely-untapped potential. With some creative and intelligent modifications, Logan Boulevard can bridge and bring together diverse cultures, people groups, and financial and economic operations, generating more money for the city through commerce, education, and community.

File and stash this under Out and About.

I’m going to do a series on my local region and traffic flow and trying to get around here by foot, public transport, bicycling, and even car riding. Now, you may be asking, “How does that fit in with fatherhood, the theme of this blog?” And I may be answering with a question, “Well, don’t fathers ever get around with a baby and a stroller? Don’t fathers like to take their kids out for a bit of fresh air and exercise? Don’t fathers want to keep their kids safe? Don’t we want services that are accessible to us and our children? Don’t we want to improve ways of life for us, our children and our children’s friends and future friends?”

If any of the above are answered affirmatively, then the reason is clear: We fathers need to speak up for our children and our communities if we want to improve them. One of the bigger ways to do this locally is through urban planning and community development. We already do this in small but not insignificant ways. We turn thoroughfares into cul-de-sacs when there are a lot of families present, we put speed humps and stop signs and traffic cops and traffic horses near our kids’ schools. Why not begin to plan bigger plans for everyone’s benefit?

Tomorrow, we’ll look at Logan Boulevard here in Chicago’s North Side and then begin to ask how can we make it better, more efficient, more valuable, and more communal. I plan on sending a plan to the city and maybe to the Urban Planning Institute at my alma mater soon.

Just twenty minutes ago she was screaming in her crib as a couple of friends were getting ready to pull out. For our nearly one year old daughter to wake before midnight is a rare occurrence nowadays, but it still happens. And it used to happen much more frequently. What has been happening with rare interludes, however, is her waking up in the middle of the night. That could be any time between midnight (kind of rare) and five (much more often).

Usually, I’ll go in, maybe change her diaper (only recently and simply because of the rash/infection) while giving her some juice or, more recently, milk or pedialyte (poor baby. She’s got those problems too!). Gently rock her back to sleep. She’ll generally indicate that she’s ready to be lowered into her crib again with Capt. Huggyface, her pink plush monkey, in her firm grip. I’ll leave, go into my room and pray to God that she goes to sleep.

She rarely does, at least fully. About half an hour or sometimes an hour later, I’ll hear her again as I rouse from my comfortable sleep (sometimes with my own Capt. Huggyface). I’ll try to ignore her and hope she goes back to sleep, but that rarely happens. Eventually I have to rescue her again.

This is nearly every night. Is this right? Seriously, I don’t think it is but I don’t know how to break this habit/cycle. Almost every day, it’s this huge internal struggle. But I have no idea if I should just go in there and try to calm her down, if I should just ignore her during the night and eventually she’ll get the picture, if she’s just outside the curve on this one but she’ll outgrow it soon… I don’t know what’s happening or what I should do.

It’s a bit of a conundrum. A little help?

I’m only in my first year of being a father, and in my second year of being so close and personal with females (no, I wasn’t gay, it’s just that I came from a long line of boys in my family and didn’t need to nor bothered to know much about the other aspects of the female anatomy that guys, in general, aren’t so interested in). So, the learning curve is pretty steep.

The little mama (meaning, the baby) has had what we thought was a bad diaper rash (but of course turned out to be more along the lines of what I’ll refer to here as, “lady issues”) for the last three weeks. Which means that we (by “we” I mean, “mostly me“) have been changing her diaper a lot more frequently, including at night (more on that at a later post). Now, with her diaper off a lot more, that gives the little lady more chances to be reckless, especially since it takes longer to change the diapers - what with the creams and the powders and the rubbing-in and all that not-so-fun, make-your-fingers-smell stuff.

And we all know more time away from diapers means, right? Yeah, within the last week, she has leaked on the changing pad three times now, once just a couple hours ago and once last night. Not cool.

Add to that her un-comfortability with staying in a diaper that is so effecting her skin overnight. The funny thing is, she will sometimes wake up (or, rather, wake us up) sounding happier than ever that it is morning and just ready to play. And, as I have mentioned before , really she’s also happy to be relieved of that plastic monstrosity caging in her center parts.

Later: I ask you for advice. Yes, you!

Well, at least Michael Bay had the guts to try to give us a real BatMAN. He had the script and everything.

Too bad Warner Sissers is too scared to give us the BatMAN that we know deserves to be made: the one with the Biggest F***ing Missiles You’ve Ever Seen!

Fathers, Unite and tell Warner Suckers that we deMANd to see the Michael Bay version! Postal Haste.

For the uninitiated, I wish that someone had told me these things before I became a father. Some things I had said, some I had never thought about but heard others say; some are merely echoes from the grave of some poor sap dad who never saw that kettle coming for the back of his skull.

This, fathers, is your guidelines for life. This is, “What Not to Say.”

“I’m baby-sitting my kids.”

Ok, I admit I made this mistake. I don’t think I even said it to my wife. But it made perfect logical sense to me and I never really considered it before. But let me tell you, in case you don’t know, why it was so clearly wrong: Because. It. Was. My. Child.

Not a stranger’s. Not a friend’s. Not for money or even as a favor (and Lord help me if I thought of it as a favor to be repaid).

I was home with my daughter, who I am responsible for, while her mother - who happens to be my wife - was away at an event.

Fortunately, I was able to totally raid the fridge.

“We’re pregnant.”

No, stupid. No.

Are “we” staying up all hours of the night because our entire anatomy is shifting? Are “we” vomiting on a regular basis on “our” way to work? Are “we” gaining 30 pounds (13 kilos) steadily over the course of eight months no matter how much “we” exercise? Are “we” being extra careful about “our” diet. Is a human being literally developing in “our” womb? Do “we” even have a “womb”?

“We” may be expecting. “We” are not pregnant.

Not yet, at least.

Just coming back from hiking in the Everglades and hunting some game (irrelevant that there is no game in the mountains! Don’t make me come after you, too!). Now, while the wife is salting and the child is prepping the side vittles, I thought it might be appropriate to speak of how you too can escape the wimpish, effeminate, lazy-hands, lisping and otherwise sissy ways of your so-called manhood. Because we need to take the Wo- out of your identity and put it in your vocabulary! Just like Keanu Reeves!

First, whatever you are doing right now, stop it. Put everything down - right now! - and drop-kick somebody! It doesn’t matter who. If your family member or friend questions why you kicked them in the gut, you tell them that you are reclaiming your masculinity, just like Edward Norton did in Fight Club. If your wife or your kids or friends love you, they’ll understand and their stomachs will forgive you for that. If a complete stranger asks you why you kicked them, or gets a cop, run away. You don’t have to explain yourself to them, you’re a new Man. A new Man who has yet to build his stamina enough to give several drop-kicks simultaneously, but a new Man nonetheless.

Second, dig out your old loincloth from the back of your closet. If you don’t have a loincloth, get one from the Martha Stewart collection at your local KMart. You may be able to take your tattered short-jorts - or, even better, your wife’s tattered short-jorts (aka, Daisy Dukes) - and cut tatters in through the bottom with a pair of scissors. Or, even better, with your teeth clenching a butcher’s knife. With this simple wardrobe, you are now ready to live in the forest for weeks on end and subdue grizzlies armed with only your wits and an apple slicer.

Kiss the wife and kids goodbye. You’ll see them again after you found your balls.

Probably laying around on the forest floor and in need of medical attention.

Stay tuned for more ways to Reclaim Your MANsculinity!