On Phonetitcs

I cme across this insert for what I'm gathering is a DK children's educational product, however, I came across it upside-down, as pictured above. Phonetically, my brain attempted to read the letters as "dick." You know, like "PETA" or "FUBAR," not "Dee-Kay."

So "I'm a dick girl."

Yeah, I bet you are, sweetie. Wait a minute. No. No. You're like nine. That is not cool, DK. Only Disney can market to children sexually. I mean, maybe, one day, by like middle school, high school at the latest, sure, you're going to be a dick girl then. One step-daddy is all it takes. But "fun, hip, sophisticated and confident"? no, I don't think so. Everything but sophisticated, maybe. I've never known a high school whore to be described as sophisticated. This isn't Pretty Woman. You're not Julia Roberts–who I may also say, I dislike strongly as well–you do not get to be classy and a fabulous slut.

And come on, don't mistake a familiarity with dick for confidence. Underneath every teenage trollop is a little girl terrifically afraid of not being accepted or loved. And underneath her is an STI.

That's "Ess-Tee-Eye," not "sty." Although I'm sure she's an emotional mess, too.

The Effects of Inter-Species Reproduction on the Well-Being of Lois Lane

Hold tight, sweetie, or all Mommy's internal organs will fall out
after you ripped her open by poking her belly button.

I have, for years, heard the argument that Lois Lane and Superman could never reproduce due to … incompatibilities in their biologies. Mallrats had the most terse remark:

If Lois gets a tan the kid could kick right through her stomach! Only someone like Wonder Woman has a strong enough uterus to carry his kid. The only way he could bang regular chicks is with a kryptonite condom, but that would kill him."

As much as I love everything Kevin Smith touched prior to and including 2001, it's an argument I never bought, and have only been irked further after reading that it was included in a truly awful script to come to light of late, that may have been an actual working draft for the Tim Burton "Superman Lives" movie starring Nicholas Cage, after Smith himself was fired for refusing to include heinously idiotic shit in his draft (which I also have).

Now, thankfully, Superman Returns did us all a favor and just showed a living, mostly healthy if a little asthmatic sire of Supes by way of the Lane-gina,  even if it did little to reinvigorate the franchise. If nothing else, it showed three important things: Lex Luthor being truly evil, Lois being borderline incompetent when it comes to avoiding getting murdered, and the fact that Kal-El and L.L. went and did it Krypto-style in the Fortress of Solitude one lonely evening.

Here's the rub: that kid is accurate.

Superman's powers come from a highly evolved biology, but nearly every power can be brought back to two distinct features of Kryptonian physiology: manipulation of one's own magnetic field, and an incredibly dense cellular structure.

Now, the latter would seem to argue that even a half-breed Kryptonian baby could easily burst accidentally forth from the abdomen of a simple Earth woman, if not for two facts:

1. The instances where Superman gets his ass handed to him any time he becomes depowered. And

2. That Superman himself gives his weight at about 220lbs.

Were density the reason for Superman's great strength, he would be incredibly massive for his size, or otherwise hollow and made of diamond. Since we know his biology to be compatible with a human's enough to interbreed (arguably meaning they are not really different species, assuming the child itself is fertile), that is not the case. Also, this should be fairly obvious in general. Moreover, density cannot be affected temporarily by radiation.

Now manipulation of his own EM field, that explains most of Superman's powers, ranging from internal and external force fields (or 'structural integrity field' if you prefer), levitation, heat and X-ray visions, selective telescopic and microscopic–even subatomic–vision, super hearing, all of those are resultant from mastery over one's production and absorption of radiant energy. In theory, Superman could even, if perfectly controlled, convert his mass directly into pure energy, decreasing that mass and allowing himself to not only fly, but achieve the speed of light, though not surpass it.

And all of this powered by solar energy.

Any child with a similar biology, conceived internally at least, would maintain typical human-Kryptonian strength and abilities as a fetus, until exposed to sunlight, even then taking a while to absorb enough to "power up," assuming this is an immediate effect of our sun as in the Christopher Reeves movies and not a maturation thing as in "Smallville."

Short Answer: Lois, avoid in-vitro and give birth in a windowless room under fluorescent lights.


Now, I still maintain that unless they do it under red sunlamps, Superman's great care to not tear our tissue paper world asunder with his might would surely be broken at the moment of climax, and he is more likely to shoot a water saw jet of super-swimmers through Lois' pelvis or up through the ceiling à la The Pro.

Miley Cyrus is Addicted to Sex…ually Exploiting Herself

Now that she's of legal age to bang Bret Michaels and smoke salvia and get her labia cosmetically altered to resemble chick rock guru Pink, Disney has apparently decided to stop sexualizing Miley Cyrus.

In its defense, a company that makes a small country's GDP by surreptitiously marketing around the notion of hypersexualized pre-teens can't very well be caught fetishizing legal consenting adults. That would be pornographic.

Still, Cyrus seems to be doing a fairly good go at keeping the tradition alive. She's been caught with magically appearing new tattoos, piercings, cropped and/or violently dyed hair, leather, spikes, side boob, under boob, excessive cleavage, smoking, drinking, flashing her underwear, and after years of tireless efforts by paparazzi the world over: flashing no underwear.

I've mentioned before how the best way to get on the cover of a women's magazine is to be a mostly-naked woman. Cyrus, it seems, is no exception:

So that's low-rise, lack-of-shirt, cleavage, underboob, do-me eyes,
and a large, very phallic Italian ram's horn necklace between her mammaries.
And white, because she's so pure.

I count eight headlines on that cover, three of which are not overtly sexual, one of which is legitimately platonic. ("FINALLY - Stop living paycheck to paycheck.")

"Super SEXY Spring," "Hot abs and butt," "Best sex ever!" Those are splashed around Miley Cyrus along with "Threesome confessions." I don't know what happened in that hot tub in Malibu with Selena Gomez and the Biebs, and frankly I don't even want to watch the leaked tapes.

And what's the headline around Cyrus née Montana?

"It's Miley, bitches … 'I never faked anything.'"

The insinuation is orgasms, but let's be real, Cyrus has an orgasm every night when she rolls around in a giant pile of money stroking her … hair … to a looped vinyl of "Missundaztood."

On Drug Dealers

Part of my job is going around to local school districts and selling them on the magic that is our proprietary tablet computers.

I feel like a pusher.

"Hey, kids, you wanna buy some eReaders??"

Scary stuff.

Which is probably why it feels like I'm really cool. Cool guys do drugs. Rock stars do drugs. It's not cool to sell to little kids, yeah, but I'm not, man. I'm selling to the teachers. It's fantastic.

Get the teachers and soon the students are hooked anyway. I'm building my own market from the top down. They're middlemen and I'm Tony Fuckin Montana up in here, shoving my face in a pile of circuit boards on my desk, inhaling the acrid fumes of heated silicate and wiring, ready to face the day as a king on my own little corner of the tech world.

Say hello to my little friend. He has an 800x600 Pearl eInk display and a frontlight.

On Saddling Your Children with Names That Control Their Future

Naming your child "Lucky" is going to ruin him. "Princess" and "Honey Boo-boo" are likewise fucked.

Today I add a new one: Never name a young black boy "Kenyan."

That's like naming a little Jewish boy "Israel." Like the guy running the Pakistani Deli down the block from your apartment telling you his name really is "John Paki."

You're essentially just guaranteeing that your kid is going to chased continuously throughout his life, first by bullies on the playground, then by about 40,000 white people trying to make it to the tape at the 2012 2013 New York City Marathon.

Well at least he'll have great cardio strength. That might just be enough to combat his genetic predisposition for heart disease, diabetes, and obesity.

On Sleep and Vacations

Mila Kunis can do whatever she wants to me while I'm asleep.

The older I get, the more I start to think that being an adult just means never feeling like you get enough sleep. By that logic, the most adult guy I ever met was that wacked out Vietnam Vet with the tinfoil hat.

Get a day off from work? Errands. Second day off? Good luck sleeping late when your body's used to getting up earlier the other six days a week. I used to sleep ten hours a night. Yeah, I was officially unemployed and clinically depressed, but the point it I slept until I couldn't anymore.

Now I wake up at 9 a.m. after going to bed at 3 on my one day off. What's your beef, Circadia?

[Fun fact: apparently, "circadian" comes from the Latin "circa diem," or "about (a) day." Neat!]

That's probably why parents always seem so tired. They've made the poor decision to manage other people's lives on top of their own. And now vacations make sense, because adults just want to avoid responsibility and sleep. Except kids ruin that by wanting to do things.

So I'm going ahead and making the call to take my vacation time wisely: without any children, and in my bed, snoozing for a week straight, until I get bored and go out, then sleep again until I have to go back to work. It's frugal, and exactly what normal people try and fail to get on "real" vacations. Don't call it a "staycation," that's just dumb. Don't call it a comeback, either, because that's just factually inaccurate.

Screw this, I'm gonna go "nap" for about 9 hours. You all have fun being "adults."

Like Kids, the Best Pets are Somebody Else's

"Now is the winter of your discontent."

I'm not a dog person, but I love playing with pups so long as they aren't stinky pups.

Cats, same boat as long as I don't have to scoop that poop.

Kids, I mostly just like watching them like kindergarten is a zoo. No interest in touching one, or even really being noticed, just hang back with the pedophiles and angry dads restricted by the refs from getting too close to the soccer field.

I love my cats, but only when my mom was around to feed them. Dogs at my dad's house are a distant second, my cousin's kids and babies at work come in third an astronomical distance behind. Still, I get joy from these things.

Which is why I look forward to my roommate being able to bring her cat when we move into our new place. I love having a cat to pet and love and cuddle, I just hate fish smell and cleaning poop.

Let somebody else worry about sanitation and responsibility.

I'm going to be the "Fun Uncle" to animals everywhere.

Maybe to humans too, one day, but only once they're big enough to be cool.

A Sign of Things to Come

"Dear David,
My good friend Emily just went away. I need a new friend.
Will you be my friend? Let me know. Tell me something we can do.

*paw prints*
Your friend,
Little Bear


Dear Little Bear,

No. I do not like bears.

Your Friend,
David


This is what happens when you have a prodigy with a sense of humor and zero tolerance for neither busywork assignments nor ursine children's characters.

God that bear was stupid.

Even Juvenile Fiction Gets Ruined by Sequels

Shortly after starting work in a book store, I learned that Margaret Peterson Haddix's 1998 kids sci-fi classic Among the Hidden had sequels. Actually, it had six of them.

A pretty decent run, truthfully, and one that made the smart decision to mature as its readers did. By the end, half the characters are hardened killers, army deserters, and revolutionaries. Sounds pretty great for kids.

Today I learned that another dystopian dream novel from my middle school years had a sequel of sorts: Lois Lowery's The Giver. No one believed it. A quick Wikipedia search revealed that Lowery wrote a book called Messenger, a sort of loose sequel taking place in the same world as 1993's Giver and also her 2000 novel, Gathering Blue. She even has a fourth book coming out this year.

How did we miss all this? I loved The Giver as a kid. It was the only book with such  a down, ambiguous ending we were forced to read, completely unlike the horrifying, survivalist literature we'd been spoon fed the last five or so years. How did I never find out that Lowery wrote a sequel?

Because it came out in 2004. I hadn't read The Giver in probably six years. I was applying to college. Young adult fiction was not on my plate. However one coworker was still confused. Surely we had at least known about Gathering Blue, having obviously taken place in the same setting and being by the same author.

No, I certainly wouldn't have. Still, my comrade's head cocked to one side.

"It came out in 2000," I said.

"I was seven."

…

…

I- Ah … no … I … No.

I just sort of removed my glasses and double face-palmed for about two minutes while our third bookseller explained my horror and sudden incapacity for rational communication to this boy. I don't often feel old. I'm 25, I shouldn't. But something to universal as being forced to read The Giver in school, that was an unexpected turn for me. I was twice this boy's age when Gathering Blue came out.

I asked him when he watched "Power Rangers" what type of things were the Zords, animals or cars?

He lulled me, he really did. He said animals, then crazy beasts. He said he loved "Power Rangers" and the movie, and all of it. Then he forgot Zordon's name–which I myself have done many times, sometimes genuinely and other times feigned to save face amongst normal people–but then I realized his timeline was all off.

"Wait, were you seeing reruns or new episodes?" I asked.

"You saw new episodes??"

Quintuple facepalm.

Bitch, I had to wait for the movie because it was the first thing the Americans filmed entirely on their own, and I was let down by parts. I was old enough to be let down by parts of a movie. I had to watch episodes of "V.R. Troopers" and "Beetleborgs" and "Superhuman Samurai Cyber Squad" while I waited for them to overdub more Japanese episodes. I watched the bug-based "Kamen Rider" for godsake.

"Teenagers with attitude." These kids will eff you up
to an Edgar Winters soundtrack, turtlenecks and all.

Everything you loved as a child gets ruined eventually. Just pray you're the one who gets paid to do the ruining and you avoid ever meeting anyone more than four years younger than you.

Let's All Make Some Poor Decisions

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On Having Daughters

I have to be honest, I'm not to psyched for the idea of having sons.

At some point, fairly quickly, they would surpass me in physicality. I'm not exactly going to be the supportive, sport-ive dad. Yeah, I could show you how to throw a football or swing a bat, but–and I have to be honest–I have no interest in doing this.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not aching to watch My Little Pony or have to buy make-up on my weekly grocery trips either. But what it comes down to is eventually, Freudianly, my sons would come to compete with me. And they would win.

Daughters don't do that. They get to be princesses or at least not usually call out their dads for being too Beta.

Yeah, about like that.
Dorarararararara.

Conversely, it's fun to screw with boys. I really, really am looking forward to messing with my daughter's dates. Firsts, proms, the idle Tuesdays. It's just fun to be imposing, even when you wouldn't normally be. It's amazing.  But I can't do that with girls. Frankly, I've seen my dad tease my brother's girlfriends and girl friends. It's just … unsettling. At best he comes off like a cliched "lecherous old man" character who may or may not just be doing it for a laugh.

So here are my ground rules for being a dad of a daughter:

• Cell phones are not allowed into bathrooms. Likewise, nowhere in the house will there be any full-length mirrors, or mirrors which can otherwise display a person below their collarbone.
• After age twelve, everyone empties their own personal garbage, no exceptions.
• Dad gets to embarrass you, and he will. You will not laugh at this, but I assure you, it will always be funny.

Addendum rule: never point out if that last stipulation falls through.

Blue Ivy Carter | Yes, I Know I'm Behind On This

Looks like when famous people give
birth, they "look awful," meaning their
hair is feathered. '80s were rough, man.

I just found out, tonight, that Beyonce' and Jay-Z's daughter, Blue Ivy, is supposedly named after Jay-Z's album, "The Blueprint," and Beyonce's fourth and most recent album, "4" ("Ivy" being homophonous to pronounced a roman numeral IV).

What the shit, famous people. It was one thing to name your kid "Destiny Hope Cyrus," or even "Blanket." At least they have the good taste to call the kids something completely different to their faces. But naming your kid after your own albums? That's not just narcissistic, that's dumb.

What if Jay-Z had gay-married Danger Mouse? Would they have adopted a little Asian baby and named it "The Gray Album?"

How about just cutting out the middle man and naming your kid, "My Parents Are Fucking Famous?"

"My Parents Are Fucking Famous, did you turn in your homework today??"
"My Parents Are Fucking Famous, stop jumping on the bed!"
"My Parents Are Fucking Famous, you eat all of your caviar this instant, or you can't go fishing with Jaden and Willow Smith!"

On Anal Sex

Either a 12 year old girl or a 10 year old boy called up the book store I work at and asked me if I had the book "Anal Sex."

What I said, as (s)he giggled, was, "Cute," and promptly hung up, because what I wanted to say was not appropriate for a public work environment.

What I wanted to say was:

1. First off, you suck at this. You're supposed to try to get me to say "anal sex," not just ask me and say it yourself. Were you just looking for a reasonable excuse to say  dirty word? Because you blew it, my friend. You are worthless at prank calling. I went to high school with two kids who would tag-team local establishments during Free Period as an incestuous hillbilly household, complete with phony voices. One of them is a motivation speaker and life coach. That is how to be a success. You are just garbage. All you've done is look like an idiot and waste about seven seconds of my day. Congratulations. I'm glad you found a way to entertain yourselves at 3:43 on a Monday afternoon between getting dropped off at your bus stop and your parents coming home with Chipotle.

2. There is no such book as "Anal Sex." I know this for a fact. A) Because I work in a book store and I've seen every sex book we carry, carted off sometimes two-at-a-time to the back of the Children's department by groups of teenagers looking to chortle and pop a chubby to the Kama Sutra line drawings accompanying Dr. Ruth's explanations of how to properly digitally stimulate your woman's clitoris, and B) because I'm a huge perv and I've been on the internet for longer than a minute and a half. Listen, I could find you "Anal Sex for Dummies," or "The Ultimate Guide to Anal Sex" for men or women. Anal Health, Prostate Health, Healthy Marriage, Sex Coupons, "Why Do Men Marry Bitches?" "The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Girl Sex," I've seen all of them. The ones about butt sex? Yeah, we don't typically carry those in the store. Give me 2-4 days and I can get one to you, either here or shipped, discretely, straight to your house. Or gay to your house, I don't care. I changed out of work clothes in the handicapped stall of the men's room after work last week, and I found an open copy of Playgirl wedged in the baby changing station. Second time that's happened. I really don't give a care about how you get your swerve on.

Just don't be an asshat, kids.

Bally Go Down the Hoooooole…

The other day I heard a little kid say, "Look, Daddeeeee," just like baby Plucky Duck from Tiny Toons and 1994 smiled a little.

"Look, Daddeeee! A rocket ssssip!"

Childlike Wonder, Lousy At Math

I saw a child in the book store today saddle up to customer service and, when prompted repeatedly, pull his attention out of the book in his hand to inquire as to it's price. It was $18.

Perhaps five minutes later I encountered the same child, pouty and a bit loud at the refusal of his mother to pay $18 for said book. She very pleasantly asked if he'd like this other book she was making a fuss over, ostensibly because it cost less than $18. (I'm just going to keep saying "$18.")

Par for the course, so far.

Another five minutes later, I pass by the family yet again, and as I'm walking out, I hear the most adorable attempt at negotiations ever:

"Mommy, do you have an $18 bill?"

"Give me back my $18!" came up in a search for '$18.' Nice.

That kid knew where he had to start if he wanted to prove he could have that book if only his mom caved. Granted, he didn't yet know what denominations money comes in, but damn it if he wasn't going to try anyway.

Which makes me think we should at least give this kid something for his gumption, logicalness, and initiative. Even just treating him to a junior-sized ice cream for a dollar at McDonald's and the explanation that, while we know he really likes it right now, we know he's going to be bored with that book very quickly and $18 isn't worth the limitted fun we know he'll get out of it, and that this refusal to purchase is more about teaching him to do without every single thing he likes in order to appreciate what he does have in life all the more.

But he's fucking four, lady. Just throw the kid a laugh and a hug and maybe that ice cream, He'll be a Hollywood agent by 2028.

Protecting Children from Harm: It Will Kill Us All

A couple weeks ago I saw a kid wandering around with a toy gun, all brightly colored in blue with a big orange tip. He was shooting it at random things, possibly even "bad guys" in his mind.

I tried playfully ducking behind objects, as if dodging his shots, giving him a real live, moving target to play with. I looked back to enjoy the delight on his face.

Nothing.

He was confounded.

Too well had this child been trained to "Never point guns at people." He didn't even know why he would do such a thing. It doesn't matter that he had a toy gun, or that it could never be mistaken for the real thing. I doubt he had any conception that "bad guys" could also be real people. He simply knew never to engage in this certain behavior, which made my ducking and dipping rather confusing, I suppose.

Well, there goes the future of our armed forces.

When I was little, They had just mandated the little orange tips on toy guns, mostly after plenty of kids got shot dead by on-duty officers who thought they were holding real weapons, pointed their direction.

Hell, I nearly got in trouble in college for holding a B.B. gun in between scenes of a student film. This kind of stuff really happens. But that's all over now.

Along with Scooby-Doo's Velma and Shaggy dating and more than 151 different kinds of Pokémon, guns are now ruined for children.

If not for the counterbalance of adult-sized automatic Nerf guns of disturbingly realistic battle features, I would expect us to be overrun with French legions by 2065.

On Positive Stereotypes

I've mentioned before my belief that it's a duty to negate negative stereotypes with counter behavior, but some stereotypes are just positive overall. The most immediate thought is the "Asian people are good at math" thing.

Now, of course not all Asian people are good at math. I've read enough Japanese comic to know that some of them suck just as hard as any other ethnic group. However here's my personal experience:

Asian Kid (about 12): "How much is this book?"

Me: "Iiiiit's $20."

Kid (nervously): "$20?"

Me: "…But it's on sale for 20% off, so it's really $16."

Kid (less tentatively): "So $16!?"

Me: Well, yeah, $16 plus tax."

Kid: "Tax??"

Me: "Yeah, seven-and-a-half percent."

Kids: "So that's…?"


Really, kid? Really? I'm sorry, but it's not fare to ask me to give you percents that use the number 7. That's just bullshit. I sell books, kid. With a computer. My degree says "English" and "Writing," and I'm pretty sure the only number on there are the day and date.

I finally grasped that this kid was concerned because he only had a $20 bill to spend, which is cool, but dude, I heard you speaking Japanese to your little brother as he played Angry Birds. You can fluently speak two different languages, each properly accented. You're super-Asian, kid. I expected better from your parents.

Your brother was an emotionless little baller, though. That kid was badass.

How to Make Chess More Awesome for Kids

Kids don't play enough chess. Too many games involving a joystick, D-pad and about eight trigger keys. Not enough games about planning dozens of moves ahead of your opponent, at least not outside a Dungeon Master's (mom's) basement.

That said, here are my suggestions for "rebooting" chess as a game kids might obsess over long enough to pick up some patience and critical thinking skills.


1. Update the names: King is fine. "Emperor" might work for older kids, but we need to keep this simple to hook the younger crowd first, then age the game with expansion packs as the target demo grows up. After King should be "King's Girlfriend," "Wizards," "Battle Horses (Steeds/Mounts)," Fortresses," and "Warriors."

2. Twice per game, the King is allowed to move to any unoccupied space on the board (that would not place him in check) because he's the fricking king and he can do what he wants.

3. Since it would likely happen anyway, if the game goes over 80 moves, whoever knows the exact turn number gets to win by slapping and overturning the game board.

4. Speaking of "game board," another revamp. One word: "murderboard."

On Growing Older

My little brother graduates high school today. I'm getting old.

I don't mean because he's old, I mean because apparently I'm going senile. My dad texted me to ask if I wanted to attend the "moving on ceremony," and I was like, "Nah, I'll do his graduation net year, though." That really confused my dad, who informed me this was it. I forgot how old my brother was. Or that he was going off to college. After discussing various schools with him.

Personally, I'm blaming my father's bizarre word choice, as a "moving on" ceremony is usually for jumping up a grade. Why he couldn't just say "graduation" and not make me feel like a I was differently abled, I don't know.

On the Easter Bunny

When I was three or four, my mother promised me that she would never knowingly lie to me. She felt this was important for a child to know.

The next day I asked her if the Easter Bunny was real.

"Well, what do you think?" she stammered, praying to everything on high that I would somehow provide her with an out.

"I don't think he's real," I said. "No bunny is six feet tall with a plastic head."