I lived in West Hollywood, Los Angeles for about 15 years. If you follow popular culture at all, then you know I’ve probably met a gay or two. Boy gays. Girl gays. In-between gays. Lots of gays. More gays in a day than you can shake a stick at. … Bad analogy.
My dear friend “The Gays” are actually good, friendly, loving people. I have many truly gay friends. Great friends. Awesome friends. Godparent-worthy friends. They’ve even gotten married. They aren’t “they.” They are “us.” Why do people still refer to “The Gays?” Fuck that.
And, I have been in the locker-room at the YMCA. Naked. In Hollywood. Naked. Totally naked. In the shower. Among gay people.
Let me tell you. I have never had a single issue. And, if I ever got a glance from someone, then a polite “No Thanks” would more than suffice. People are actually more courteous that your darkest fantasy.
So, to my NBA, NFL, MLB friends: He doesn’t care about your sudsy junk in the shower. He missed the 3-pointer, dropped the Bomb, and struck-out with two-men on. He’s kicking himself.
He’s not thinking about your dick.
Warning: A discussion of Private Parts is ahead. Some of my readers will immediately turn away. But, most of you will see this as a challenge and will fight on. Things escalate quickly.
Isabella (she’s 6) is going through the age-old rite of trying to spell “Mississippi” as fast as possible. She flubs it a few times, then nails it. Under two seconds!
Iz: Hahaha! You know what’s funny? I said “pee-pee!”
Me: Yes, Honey… Hilarious.
But, the story doesn’t end there.
Iz: Daddy, girls have a Fa-she-she. Boys don’t.
I unflinchingly correct her pronunciation. Not a big deal.
Iz (after a long pause, and smiling): The boy part is funny.
Me: It is? Why is that?
Iz: Because it has a “pee” in it! Hahahaha!
Me: Yes, Sweety… That’s hysterical.
On the way in to school…
Isabella (she’s 6): Daddy, is money important?
Me: Um… Yes, Honey. But, not more important than Family or Friends or Love.
Iz: Well… But, I already have those things. So…
Me: Let me stop you there, Sweety. I’m not giving you any money.
Iz (sigh): Dang.
Have you heard about this? …No?
This why you need me. I keep you informed.
Apparently, thigh gaps are the next body obsession I need to worry about for my soon-to-be teenage girls. Because anorexia and bulimia aren’t enough. Good times.
Boobs. Butts. Legs… Yeah,they’re Sooo yesterday.
Or so, the Huffington Post tells me.
Turns out, thigh gaps are a thing.
If you don’t know, a “thigh gap” is the bit of daylight visible between a woman’s extreme upper thighs with her feet together. Yes, at the top. Up there. The very top. Yes, there. Tippy top.
I never thought about it. Not complaining, but I never noticed. Enjoyable, but, not noticed.
Below is the family-friendliest picture on the Internet I could find. Trust me, I found many non-family friendly images. Many. (But, for you, I kept looking. For you. I found others. Protecting you… That’s my job. I hate my job. Saw others. Much less family-friendly. Much. Others. Good God, I found others.)
Anyway, reports are that young women are getting liposuction to achieve “thigh gap.” Surgery?! Really?! Liposuction?! Really?!
Seriously, ladies. Your thighs are fine. No one cares. Please stop. Seriously.
When two little girls meet an unsupervised box of Fudgesicles.
Lynn (the Mommy at Daddy/Daughter Fun Time) has dug one of her favorite childhood memories out of storage: Moo Cow.
Moo Cow. From the ’70s or ’80s. Mommy won’t fess up.
Isabella, she’s 6, is having a delightful time ringing Moo Cow’s bell and pretending she is a bull fighter.
Me: Who’s that?
Iz: Moo Cow.
Me: Is it a boy or a girl?
Iz: Daaaad. It’s obviously a boy… Because, mostly boys are horny.
Me: Um… Er… Uh.
Iz: But, Daddy… You’ve never been horny, right?
Me: Oh, sweet Jesus!… Well, there’s you. And, your sister… So… I guess. I dunno. Maybe.
Iz: What are you talking about? You don’t have horns!
Me: Oh. Horns… Because, I was wondering where this conversation was going.
It’s Saturday morning.
The house is clean.
The yard isn’t a blight.
No one is crying.
No one is yelling.
Everyone ate their breakfast.
People are pleasant.
We like each other.
We’re watching golf.
Freakin’ Golf, for crying out loud.
Where the hell is my family? What have we become?
1st child: Ow! You hit me!
2nd child: No. I didn’t… It was an accident.
1st child: Ow!!!! Daddyyyyyyyyy!!
Ahhh. Home at last.
The Fun Time is going as serious and heart-breaking as it has ever gone before. This is not a happy story. If you’re looking for a chuckle — not today.
I am the father of two beautiful little girls. Yes, they are hilarious and they do the most ridiculous things. They are my daughters. I love them with everything I have. I’ve even dedicated a blog to them.
Which is why the Rehtaeh Parsons story is so incredibly difficult for me. She was taken off life-support last Sunday. And, died.
Rehtaeh was a 15-year-old girl who was gang-raped. One of the classmates involved in the attack took a picture of the assault and posted it online. (No, I haven’t seen it. No desire.)
That picture was posted and re-posted. Rehtaeh was branded a “slut” by the community in her Canadian town, and she was shunned and bullied. She was depressed, fearful, traumatized… broken. To make matters worse, the Justice system could not find “probable cause” to pursue her attackers.
Two years later, she hanged herself. Just last week.
Rehtaeh could be one of my daughters. Or, yours.
And it makes me so sad.
Why are people so cruel?
Rehteah, with Mom and Dad. He could be me.
If you care, here is a news report:
And her heart-wrenching fathers statement. (I still can’t get all the way through it. Too close to home.):
Me to Julianna (she’s 8): Hey, we might see Amy at the party on Saturday.
J: Who’s she?
Me: You remember, from the pool party.
J: Oh! I love her! She’s my Best Friend!… What’s her name?
J: Yeah, we played together and swam together. That was fun. What was her name, again?
J: That’s right. And, I had some pizza with…
J: I really loved playing with…
J: Yeah, her. She’s my Best Friend.
(Not an actual transcription of the conversation, but pretty dang close.)
So, the President got himself in trouble the other day when he referred to California’s Attorney General as “by far the best-looking attorney general” in the country.
Kamala Harris. I can’t wait to be subpoenaed
Anyway, some people were offended by that, so he apologized. (Funny, I don’t remember anyone apologizing to Janet Reno.)
Remember her? Hell. Will Ferrell made a killing off of her.
So, hoping to not offend anyone, I am revising my own personal compliments policy.
Dear Women Friends,
I will no longer be able to tell you that you look nice, or your dress brings out the color in your eyes, or that I love what you’ve done with your hair, or that those boots are smoking hot. Although I will be thinking it.
And, Ladies, I think that it is best if you continue your policy of not telling me what a gorgeously handsome and super-sexy man I am.
Although, I will be thinking it.