Posts Tagged ‘ Die Hard ’

Daddy, Do They Still Make Old Mans?

Monday, May 19th, 2014

3 years, 6 months.

Dear Jack,

Saturday morning, I introduced you to The New Woody Woodpecker Show on Netflix. 

As soon as you saw Dr. Von Kook, you proclaimed, “Hey Daddy, that’s an old man!” It was if he was a purple magical unicorn or something.

Then there was that perfect 5 second delay before you gave me a classic follow-up comment:

“Daddy, do they still make old mans?”

You were completely sincere in your curiosity.

I suppose I said yes somewhere in the midst of my immediate uproar of laughter, but I don’t necessarily remember it.

It’s hilarious to imagine human factories that manufacture people; that they purposely make “old mans.”

Which is the other thing I love about your question: the alternative way to make “man” plural… just add an “s”.

Yes, Son, they still make old mans.

Nick Shell shared The Dadabase‘s status.
May 17

“Daddy, do they still make old mans?” -Jack #thisjusthappened
In fact, I’m simply 29 and a half years ahead of you on the journey to becoming an old man myself.

I am especially reminded of that since my past couple of haircuts; noticing that my hair is now a tad thinner than it was just a few years ago.

Like most men, I will gradually go the way of the ever manly Bruce Willis. With each Die Hard sequel, he appeared wiser, tougher, more experienced, and even cooler.

And I’m totally fine with my follicle fate.

Back in 1991, I remember standing at the bathroom counter in the house I grew up in, which was furnished with the finest dark brown wall paneling and dark brown shag carpet.

As I brushed my teeth one night, I remember looking at both of my parents, who were the age I am now, around 33.

I thought, “One day I will be 33 like them. I’ve got so many years until I get there. But one day, that’ll be me.”

I was 10 at the time. I decided in that moment, to consciously remember that forever, like a permanent bookmark.

But now, that “one day” has come. I am now that age.

Granted, 33 is not old or even close to it.

They still make old mans, but I’m definitely not one of them yet.





Top photo: courtesy of The New Woody Woodpecker Show.

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My 2 Year-Old’s 2nd Febrile Seizure, Sort Of

Monday, March 18th, 2013

2 years, 4 months.

Dear Jack,

It seems like only a year ago that you had your febrile seizure.

And it seems like only two days ago on your 2.333rd birthday that I said this:

You haven’t had another [febrile seizure] since; in fact, the last time you were even sick at all was last July.

As your dad, I am so grateful and thankful for your health, safety, and general well-being.

I don’t worry about you, but I am constantly aware of what precious cargo you are and how I responsible I need to be for you.”

With that being said, I had to take you to the ER today at Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital because you were slipping into another febrile seizure.

I’m more of a romanticized, big picture, spare-me-the-technical-details kind of storyteller, so I’ll just regurgitate the highlights as best as I remember them happening over the past 24 hours:

Mommy had already left late for work due to a tornado warning, you had a fever of 105, I gave you fever-reducing medicine, we were watching Hard Hat Harry’s All About Monster Trucks, you starting shivering, I took off your clothes, your lips looked like they were going numb…

As I held you while talking to the nurse on the phone, you started convulsing like you did in last year’s febrile seizure…

When you did that it scared me, which then scared you, which caused you to wake up from the first three seconds of this year’s febrile seizure…

The nurse on the phone said to bring you to the ER instead of the pediatrician’s office, I threw your clothes in a Kroger bag, I by default imagined myself as Bruce Willis in the Die Hard movies as we drove through the post-tornado warning weather to the hospital…

I remember snapping my fingers a lot to keep you awake as I drove you there, saying, “Stay with me, son! Wake up! Don’t fall asleep! Listen, I’m snapping my fingers like Hard Hat Harry does…”.

When we got there, I found out you had caught a case of Roseola, which had caused your temperature to spike, setting your body up to go into seizure mode.

Thank God, you’re okay… again.

It was scarier for me this 2nd time because I didn’t have Mommy or an ambulance. I kept telling you, “You’re going to be okay, son. Daddy’s taking care of you. Hang with me…”.

I knew what I was saying was true, but at the same time my trust was in God, not myself.

Navigating my way to the ER in post-tornadic weather, trying to find out where to park once I got there (!), and keeping you from falling into another seizure because I hated the thought of your seizing while I drove 65 mph on the interstate in the wind and rain…

Well, I really do feel like Bruce Willis in a Die Hard movie right now.

As for you having another febrile seizure, A) I’m becoming a pro at what to do now and B) I’ll going ahead and mark my calendar for next March, so hopefully I can jinx it.




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5 Things That Make This Dad Want to Curse

Saturday, November 5th, 2011

Eleven months.

I always thought that one of the most fun jobs in the world would be to censor R-rated movies for TV. Some of the curse word stand-ins are simply (and deliberately) hilarious. I remember in high school watching the edited-for-TV version of Fast Times at Ridgemont High. There’s a part where Judge Reinhold’s character gets fired from his fast food cashier job for “using profanity” with a customer: “I’ll kick 100% of your face!

Another horribly awesome substitution is for Bruce Willis’s signature catch-phrase in Die Hard. It becomes, “Yippee-ki-yay, kimosabi!” In the sequel, it’s “Yippee-ki-yay, Mr. Falcon!” This is especially funny because there definitely is no character in the movie who is named “Mr. Falcon.”

Curse words both fascinate and bore me at the same time. Cursing is so common now that it holds little shock value anymore; even if we pretend otherwise. And that’s sort of the whole point of cursing: dramatic effect. I believe it is safe to say that traditional profanity is simply losing its edge because of overkill.

In fact, I make a point not to curse both in my everyday language and in my writing, simply because it makes me feel deeply unoriginal.

Besides, why should I let our American society choose the profanity word bank for me? For example, in China, it’s “son of a turtle.” That’s an actual Chinese curse word!

In the likeness of R-rated movies edited for TV, I feel more confident as a human being by using my own profanity- as I soon will demonstrate. But admittedly, as the title of this post conveys, there are plenty of times as a dad where I become pretty tempted to be unoriginal. Good thing I have my creative curse word stand-ins…

1. When my son won’t go to sleep, though he knows and I know that he really wants to and needs to: I think there’s some really popular book out about this very thing… if only I could think of the name of that book. Profanity of choice: ”Ah, shazbot!”

2. When my son gets whiny because I’m not his mom: It’s so annoying that all my wife has to do is pick him up if he cries, and he’s fine. As for me, I have to constantly distract him with a new toy or take him on a walk outside for a change of scenery or injure myself in attempt to humor him. Profanity of choice: ”Smurf it!”

3. The fact that my son has a talent for easily finding and experimenting with the most physically threatening item in his proximity: In a room full of age-appropriate toys, he will dart towards an uncapped ball-point pen or an unprotected electrical outlet that I overlooked. He knows how to find adventure; or as I know it, danger. Profanity of choice: Royal Ruckus!

4. When my son puts up a fight as I change his diaper. Hey, I already have a track record for not changing his wet diapers as much as I should; well, he sure doesn’t inspire me to change my bad habits. Profanity of choice: ”Crash Bandicoot!”

5. Having to pay extra money for something he refuses to eat. Confession: I believe that “baby yogurt” is simply regular yogurt with an extra vitamin or two; just a marketing ploy for first-time parents. I learned my lesson- my son made me waste three bucks on “baby yogurt” that he wouldn’t eat. Profanity of choice: “Pac-Man fever!”

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Surviving My Infant Son’s First Plane Ride

Thursday, August 4th, 2011

Eight months.

I think the best way to begin is to share a few things that I would rather do than take an eight month old little boy on a plane from Nashville to Sacramento:

1) Be forced to watch a 24 hour marathon of MTV’s 16 and Pregnant, sending out a Tweet every 15 minutes praising the show, though I despise it more than the awful movie Something Borrowed;  which is the worst movie I’ve ever seen- and that’s saying a lot because I’ve seen When in Rome.

2) Shave “racing stripes” into my hair until they grow out and when people ask me why I have resorted to a hairstyle trend that was briefly popular in 1988, I could only respond by saying “Cut… it… out!”, along with doing the accomanying hand motions, made famous by the character Joey Gladstone on Full House.

3) Walk barefoot on broken glass like Bruce Willis did in the first Die Hard movie.

When taking an infant on a plane, you must provide proof that your child is less than two years old.  I know this now because we did not.  (Dave Stanley, if you are reading this, I’m going to need you to email Jack’s birth certificate to me so we can leave Sacramento on Sunday…).  The lady was nice and let us board the plane anyway.  Thank God.

I’ve never seen my son pee so much, in a reasonable amount of time since his diaper was last changed, that I look down and see a puddle at my feet while standing in line to buy a snack before boarding the plane.  And I didn’t even care that I didn’t have time to wash my moistened hand before boarding the plane.

A guy who looked just like “Comic Book Guy” from The Simpsons brought his Shih Tzu dog on the plane, hogging up the front row of seats; when my wife and I tried to sit in the remaining two seats next to him, he responded sarcastically with, “Uh, sure, I guess it wouldn’t be a bad idea for both a dog and a baby to sit in the same row.”  It wasn’t worth it; we ended up settling for having to sit in the middle of the plane; my wife was in front of me and I was in the row behind.

The flight involved Jack sleeping as long as either my wife or I held him while standing up in the aisle.  My arms are still sore from that.

Of course, Jack won’t remember any of this along with how much he didn’t enjoy the flight.  But at least he can read about it in a few years. 

Ah man, there for a minute I actually forgot… We still have do this whole thing again when we fly back to Nashville.  Shazbot!

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