simon metz

11791

2010-04-01T18:00:00.000-07:00

I think this is the last place left to announce it. And even though I haven't written a thing here in ages, it seems the only fitting way to truly wrap things up at The Metz.

The Exile will soon be over.

After a stellar 6 year run in Southern California, the family will be New York bound this summer. Long Island, more specifically. Back to the land of Billy Joel and the Honda Accord and most of our friends and family.

For the oldest two, The Return will be a chance to finally go deep with the East Coast roots they've always repped, despite the fact that they were dragged west when they were two.

For The Kid, it will result in many more kisses and hugs from the extended family he doesn't really know all too well, having been conceived, born and raised in LA.

For The Wife, it will be a sigh of relief. A return to the home she willingly gave up twice to humor my ambitions, most of which were ultimately met. (I mean, I didn't make Phil Rosenthal sweat, but we're definitely not leaving in a stinky cloud of Midnight Train to Georgia.)

For me, it will be a chance to watch the other four members of my family get everything they deserve, which will, in turn, give me everything I truly want.

I can't wait.

Overdoo

2009-03-19T14:52:00.001-07:00

i got this on january 2nd to mark the end of a very crappy year and to hopefully kick off a very good one.

and i had no idea at the time that going forward would mean leaving The Metz behind.

i'll be here from time to time

just not nearly as often as i once was.

if you need a micro metz fix, you can find me at twitter.com/moeberg

until then...

Mile High Metz

2008-12-25T10:02:00.000-08:00

greeting from a jam packed american airlines 767. flight 118. we are rocking the brand new gogo wi-fi service, 35,000 feet over the midwest, steaming towards new york and the end of the year.

and what a year it was.

we had laughs.

we had tears.

more than a few.

we had controversy.

and we had the most popular post in the history of the metz by far - courtesy of the good people at whole foods and some unlucky pigs.

thanks to that post, we managed to pull a few more loyal Metz fans onto the bandwagon. if you're one of these very lucky and wise people, i want to welcome you to the family with your very own copy of this year's Moe Berg family holiday card. glad to have you aboard.

ok...lame recap...reveal of the holiday card...

...now what?

what about 2009?

what about it?

well, if 08 has taught me one thing, it's count on nothing. make no plans. just stay on your toes, do your thing and hope for the best.

which is why all i hope for 2009 is the ability to keep on doing my thing with my crew. provided this plane lands safely at jfk two hours from now.

---

thanks to the usual jam packed new york/new jersey schedule, posting may be light until after the first of the year. or it may not be.

feel free to check me on twitter - which i still don't think i'm using properly - until we get into the swing around here.

and until then, have a safe, fun, healthy, happy, prosperous, peaceful new year.

Smelling Salts, Please

2008-12-19T19:29:00.000-08:00

they were born 7 years ago tonight, each one smaller than a sandwich.

i think these are pictures of jb and ab. honestly, though, i can't even tell anymore.

tonight, 25 of their animal-loud, videogame-and-mini-golf-fueled friends finally helped wash away whatever lingering sentiment i still associate with the night they were born.

my sons are no longer nicu preemies gone good. they are essential members of a 1st grade mob meticulously assembled in hell by the half-breed demon spawn of al capone and satan himself.

and we're more than half way to their bar mitzvah.

god help us all.

Bring Me The Head of Frank Caliendo

2008-12-17T15:46:00.000-08:00

little known fact:

many of the world's most enduring catchphrases weren't ever actually said by the people who are known for supposedly saying them.

regardless, noted impressionists from rich little to fred travalena to frank gorshin (god rest his weary soul) have fed their families and paid their staff by leaning on these phantom but familiar sounding lines.

to wit:

cary grant never ever said "judy, judy, judy".

william shatner went his entire star trek career without actually reading the line "beam me up, scotty".

and james cagney didn't ever once utter the words "oooh...you dirty rat!" on film.

please keep this in mind when you hear my son ab's impersonation of me, which he debuted last night and consists solely of a scrunched face, a lowered voice and the five words "i would like that food".

Moe Berg's Low Self-Esteem Breakfast Tips #1 - The First In A Series

2008-12-11T07:58:00.000-08:00

let's face facts.

1) the economy is bad

2) you love bacon

"so?" you ask with great interest, "what does the fact that the economic ground is cracking beneath my old, shredded, wonderbread bag shoes have to do with the fact that i'm down with the pig?"

"listen up, shithead," i say with off-putting contempt, "i'm getting to that. and try to take a shower once in a while. you should be ashamed of yourself."

what if i told you that you could have a satisfying, delicious, stomach-warming, artery-packing Bacon Breakfast for mere pennies? and you would only have to deal with one or two hippies at the most?

you'd tell me that you were breaking out your finest bib.

here's how it works.

1) go to whole foods before 9 am or so

yeah, i know, i know.

"moe, i can't go to whole foods! that place is very expensive! the hand picked organic peruvian albino avocados are, like, four bucks each! and don't get me started on the luxuriousness of having both an olive and a cheese bar! plus, i drank all that cough syrup. i'll never get up before noon!"

are you done?

seriously. are you done? are you finished yet? do you want bacon or do you want to complain?

ahem.

where were we?

1) go to whole foods before 9 am or so

2) enter the establishment

3) walk towards the serve yourself hot food bar

4) try not to get caught staring at the hot moms and fresh-faced co-ed cashiers

(step 4 is applicable only to men and lesbians.)

5) find the little cardboard boxes

6) find the bacon

7) put 7 or 8 strips of bacon in the box. this should be more than enough to satisfy even the most pork grease-addicted lardass

8) look for the most alluring cashier

9) have this cashier weigh the box and ring you up

10) pick your jaw up off the floor as your Grand Bacon Total is calculated at...

...less than 20 cents!

11) get in your car, take off your shoes, loosen your belt, turn up the radio, and munch that bacon as you drive to the unemployment office to apply for benefits

economical, atkins-friendly and tasty.

those are three terms we don't throw around here at the Metz very often. but i'm willing to bet you a can of soup that after you set my plan in action, you're going to get those three words tattooed somewhere between your navel and your knees.

C Is For Cill Me Please

2008-12-04T20:12:00.000-08:00

your job is on shaky ground.

your 401k is fucked.

you're going to be hit with wmd within 5 years.

it could be worse.

you could have tickets to sesame street live.

first thing's first. i love everything there is to love about my boy bb.

he's adorable, sweet, fulfilling, entertaining, heartwarming, blah blah blah blah right down the baby powder scented line until you get to the fact that he's a little more than 5 years (i think) younger than his brothers. he may run around the house clutching his wii remote muttering "madd'n, madd'n" under his breath while he tries to keep up with his role models as they play handball in their room, but he's still just a bite sized toddler who's asylum mad for muppets. why should he miss out on an important formative live entertainment experience just because his parents have already been nailed to the cross in front of hooper's store and managed to climb down once already?

that's the question i kept asking myself as we sat in the 30% of the pasadena playhouse that actually had asses in the seats.

the lights went down. my boy lit up.

mrs b and i rolled with it.

the only things that made things tolerable were

1) watching bb enjoy himself so much

2) looking around at the other parents who, to a person, were completely ignoring the show onstage and just staring at their beaming children. men women and children lost together in rapturous adoration but for completely different reasons and looking in totally different directions

and

3) sitting there wondering what must be going on in the mind of this woman

she played "jenny", the only non muppet member of the ensemble cast. it was her job to move the story along. the motivation, if you will.

as in...she's a music teacher who moves to sesame street, only the moving trucks haven't arrived with her instruments yet, which upsets her, so a helpful crew made up of your child's favorite characters prepare a musical show for her without her knowledge.

the good news is that this woman is a working actress.

the bad news is that she's acting opposite a cast of silent co-stars over pantomiming their portion of the pre-recorded dialogue while wearing slighty ratty looking fursuits.

the terrible news is that she is forced to sing an emotional solo number in the first act called "music is my life" wherein the rest of the cast gets to go backstage, take off their giant heads and cool down for a while while she stands there in the spotlight belting it out to an audience of children who literally begin to cry and scream in abject frustration and open revolt the instant they notice that there are no muppets onstage with her.

bb cried the loudest.

and just in case there was any question at all whether we were gathered for art or commerce, i present to you the balloons they trotted out to the edge of the stage in full view of all the children when the lights came up for intermission...

by the time i took that picture, a full 50% of that clump had already been spoken for at 8 bucks a pop.

kvetch though i might now, as the curtain fell on jenny and elmo and the rest of the crew, my wife and i had accomplished two important things. we made bb about as happy as a boy can be. and we endured something we never ever ever have to do again thank the sweet sweet lord in high holy heaven above praised be his name.

The Queen Is Dead. Long Live The Queen. (And Wash Off That Turkey, For God's Sake.)

2008-12-01T16:47:00.001-08:00

preparing a successful thanksgiving dinner when you don't really cook at all is no small feat.

the only thing to which i can really compare it would be handing the ball to an unproven rookie for the 7th game of the world series. a rookie who has never basted a turkey before and goes no deeper into the spice rack than garlic powder.

a rookie named mrs b.

this year, with the loss of the family's most gifted poultry chef and carbohydrate procurer, the pressure to step up and deliver some great tasting vittles was higher than ever. especially when it came to feeding my old man, a fellow who has, over the years, become, shall we say, comfortably accustomed to the manner in which my mother prepared things. born without a middle name, he happily added "Routine" to his birth certificate sometime in the early 70s. didn't get the right cranberry sauce? palpitations. goyishe gravy? agita. 7 layer cake sliced improperly? break out the paxil.

this year, there was no hiding his concern as we got closer and closer to meal time, especially as he eyed what was being prepared.

hmm. sourdough bread in the stuffing? carol didn't ever make stuffing with sourdough. oh, and there's rye bread in there also? and celery! what do you know? what's that? bourbon and pecans in the sweet potatoes? fine, i guess, if that's how you do it around here. and sauteed string beans & mushrooms...ok...ok...breathe, kenny, breathe...

a few hours before the carving hour, the phone rang. it was my aunt debbie, my father's sister, the cook i imagine he'd choose as his next favorite if he were ever to have to prepare a line of culinary succession after my mom, calling to wish us all a happy holiday. when she asked to speak to my wife, my father sweetly mentioned as he passed her the phone that aunt debbie happened to be a great cook. as in "if you have any last minute questions, about how to cook it the way i like it, now's the time."

before i go on, i want to mention that, while it may sound like my dad was being a jerk, he really wasn't.

first off, you should know that for his whole life, food has been a comfort to him. when he was a kid, he was always happiest when he was eating with his family. years later, as an adult with a young family, he impressed upon us that we should always take time to sit and eat together as often as we could.

thus, like most jews, he believes that food = love.

that's pure turkey skin, folks

and now that the source of his food for the past 40 years has been taken from him well before her time, lord knows he's entitled to feel a a little uneasy about the other part of the equation. here we have a man venturing out into new territory, both culinary and otherwise, for the first time in decades, concerned about what he might find. would his new life as a widower be full of disappointing meals that would make him miss his beloved wife even more? would his cherished daughter-in-law muster the chops to rise to the occasion and feed him the way he was used to being fed? or would he be forced to write off her kitchen skills forever? how would it all play out?

i am happy to report that it played out perfectly.

mrs b cooked the shit out of that bird and all the other stuff in the bowls surrounding it.

and while ken b may not have gotten the menu my mother would have cooked for him, from bite one, there was no mistaking that this spread would more than do and will continue to do for the years to come.

take a bow, mrs b.

mom would have been more than proud of the daughter she never had...

...even as she felt the stinging burn of shame over her youngest son's decision to sexually assault the turkey you worked so hard to cook.

(feel free to add all the stuffing jokes you want in the comments.)

Follicles

2008-11-13T21:01:00.000-08:00

it's been a long time coming.

when you're young, you think you're going to be forever blessed.

case in point...

backup shooting guard, united rice packing. fourth grade.

and, of course, who can forget

backup midfielder, lewis village under 16 soccer?

yes, once upon a time, i had Mighty Ringlets. proudly conditioned with Aussie 5 minute miracle, airdried and picked out each morning to maximum sproing. worn both with and without a home made headband. (mostly without, thank god.)

it was a blessing and a curse. old ladies alternately complimented me on my shiny tendrils and mistook me for a girl. the shampoo bills strained my parents' budget.

but i'd be lying if i said i wasn't happy with what i had.

and then one day, one dark day, my Shirley Temple Head up and disappeared. almost overnight, it settled into a sort of a clump.

don't get me wrong, though. there was movement. slowly, slowly, slowly things began to retreat in the power alleys just above my temples. my already sizable forehead decided to stake bolder new claims closer and closer to the top of my bean.

and then, almost as suddenly, things settled quietly into a holding pattern. as in the same hair levels and same cut - regardless of stylist - for years and years. as you can see when you compare these two photos, one taken when the boys were born in december 2001 and one screwing around with bb in july of this year, things are basically the same.

i mean, these days, i look like a bitter old man with cobwebs where his insides should be - but from the eyes up, things have basically been holding the same ground.

until recently.

recently, whether i've been basking in post-haircut bliss or overgrown shag, there's been a constant source of concern.

the fact that you can see through the muff to my scalp.

brutal, but true.

i'm a big boy. i dealt with it. i modified the manner in which i applied my murray's pomade. i twisted. i patted.

eventually, when i realized that i had fallen into a pattern of pomade application that included a modified combover up front, i decided to throw in the towel and undergo a bold experiment.

a co-worker had the clippers. i had the head. we came to an agreement. we would use the number 2 setting and i would see what we ended up with.

honestly? i kind of like it. i like the way it looks and i like the fact that, unlike a lot of guys who lean on the clippers, i don't really truly 100% need to do it just yet. i have the option of growing things back out.

but i don't think i'm going to.

the boys like it. the baby can't stop rubbing it. mrs b didn't yell at me. i've been told i look 10 years younger and 10 pounds lighter. and not by someone trying to sell me something.

so? now i need you to tell me what you think. honestly.

and not just about that totally fucking bizarre basketball picture. (but feel free.)

Atten-tion

2008-11-11T21:31:00.001-08:00

this is my grandpa archie during world war 2.

he left his beautiful red haired bride behind in brooklyn to risk his life healing the people who helped save the world in the hürtgen forest, at the battle of the bulge, and on the ludendorff railroad bridge at remagen.

then he came home and made my mom.

at ease, soldier.

and thanks.

(and to the rest of you, how about chucking some love to pros vs gi joes, run by my friends the zinones? you want to talk about doing amazing work? shiiiiiiit.)

But Then Again, He Doesn't Have The Magic Garden

2008-11-10T15:49:00.000-08:00

over the past few weeks, everyone's favorite alphabet addict, bb, has become absolutely artie-lange-style hooked on they might be giants' 'here come the abcs' cd and dvd.

and who are we to discourage him?

he loves the songs, he digs the visuals, and, most importantly, thanks in part to the multimedia alphabetic assault, he's got his letters down stone cold pat on the short side of two years old.

being the enablers that we are, and always out to encourage our children's intellectual growth, mrs b and i immediately decided to amazon up a copy of TMBG's abc follow-up, called - surprise - "here come the 123s".

to no one's shock, bb took to it like raisin takes to bran.

in watching the disc with the boy a couple of times, i began to take particular notice to a track dedicated to the number 1, called "one everything" - which, in addition to its simple lesson about the actual number itself, actually delivers a pretty deep philosophic message.

One Everything - They Might Be Giants

everything we experience is really just little parts of one big universal thing.

amazing.

what 19 year old me could only discover during a terrifying trip on laced mushrooms in my friend david's backyard can now be delivered to a todder in handy dandy jingle form as he sits on the family couch.

now that's what i call progress.

Bloomberg/Friedman '16

2008-11-04T20:00:00.000-08:00

i guess i got caught up in the hype.

i thought going to the polls this morning as a family would be something a little more momentous than it ended up being.

(fast-forward 28 years. it is the day before election day. ab, jb and bb are sitting in a diner on long island. the three handsome brothers are sharing a great variety of different foods.)

ab: hey, jb and bb. remember when dad and mom took us with them to vote in 2008?

jb: yeah, that was great. that was a historic day.

bb: i was really young, so i don't remember much, but it was completely cool that they made it a point to get us involved on the day america elected its first black president.

jb: i can't wait to take my children tomorrow to vote for america's first robot president!

ab: yes, sir. bleepbloop/cyrus '36! we're making our own memories now!

jb: please pass the hummus, sushi, roasted peppers, steak, chocolate milk and matzoh ball soup so i can eat it all without retching or complaining.

(rewind back to present day)

while this may or may not be how it plays out far in the future, i will always remember the present for a few reasons.

today was not just the day i took my children to help elect america's first black president.

it was also the day bb threw a snot-bubbling shit fit just as we were handed our ballots after standing in line for 45 minutes behind the kind of self-satisfied overly sanctimonious obama voter that might normally cause me to get behind bob barr.

it was the day ab strolled through a big smelly rainwater puddle on our way to the polling place, soaking his left sneaker, sock and foot down to his calcaneus and talus.

it was the day jb had to restrain himself from gagging due to the scent of the room in the church nursery school where they set up the voting stations, a smell you find at the point on the venn diagram where wet dog, zoo and foot meet.

so much for romanticizing the present.

in the end, ab punched the ballot for barack, jb punched the ballot to preserve the marriage rights of homosexuals, bb was mollified by being given a pen and i saw the election of a man i find truly inspiring.

as someone with friends and family members whose political leanings are scattered across the proverbial landscape, i've tended to stay away from politics on The Metz.

not tonight.

call me naive, but tonight i am a happy, hopeful man who watched his sons help make history. the same two little boys (and their baby brother) who spent an entire election cycle watching the speeches and debates and all the other hot air along with their old man, never once thinking that the idea that a black man, or woman, or very very old person for that matter, was out of place as they fought for their spot in the white house.

yes we did.

Make Mine Whoppers

2008-10-31T23:19:00.000-07:00

in honor of halloween, how about we go with the good old trite and true handing out of TRICKS and TREATS for the first time ever here at The Metz? huh? hmmmm? how about it? what do you say? eh? question mark?

let's hand our first TREAT to jb - aka his class' ~~skeleton~~ student of the month.

an honor he has sought and deserved and, for some reason, known only to last year's kindergarten teacher, has been shut out from since the opening days of school. there isn't a kid alive who was more psyched to get that certificate and shake his principal's hand. and in a skeleton costume no less.

another TREAT goes to my man ab - who, in a halloween world full of indiana joneses, cowboys, draculas, and, yes, skeletons, decided to spend today dressed as a bottle of ketchup.

which would not have been possible without our next TREAT recipient, mrs. b - the woman who created ab's ketchup costume from scratch

and who spent the better part of 40 minutes helping me apply a bald skin wig tonight.

without her hard work and that wig, i could not have dressed up as Bald Best Buy Employee With A Mustache - something i've secretly always dreamt of being.

(cheer up, boys. your old man can get you an extended warranty for cheap!)

one last TREAT to the one and only bb - who had his mind blown when, for the first time in his life, people just gave him candy for no apparent reason. as payback, he blew their minds as the one of the world's most adorable mickey mice.

as for the other half of the equation...

a TRICK and a big fuck you to the house that left this bowl outside the front door.

i've got news for you, bub. nobody wants one piece of laffy taffy or pack of smarties, let alone two. your offerings are insulting and your threats are pathetic.

Wreck We 'Em

2008-10-26T19:53:00.000-07:00

the hits just keep on coming.

this post, this one right here, was sort of a tongue-in-cheek, woe-is-me laundry list of crappy things that my family and i rolled with over the course of a week or so. i posted it on august 15th.

in hindsight, it almost seems cute.

especially when you run down everything that has happened since.

this is who we lost on august 12th.

mrs. b's grandma. the boys' great grandma. loved three things in life. coffee, cigarettes and her family. not necessarily in that order.

this is who we lost on august 17th.

stuart.

the smiling guy in the middle of that photo. one of my parents' closest friends. a de facto uncle to my brother and me. went suddenly and way way way too soon with a glorious head of hair.

this is who we lost on september 14th.

my mom.

no description necessary.

this is who we lost this past saturday.

mrs. b's grandpa. the boys' great grandpa.

broke his leg falling out of bed less than two months after he lost his wife. never recovered from the surgery he needed to fix it. he's going to be buried next to grandma on tuesday. it would have been their 64th wedding anniversary.

after four stomach punches in 8 weeks, when i delivered the latest news to jb and ab yesterday morning, i felt the need to explain to them that this is not generally how life is. even if you're unlucky, you don't normally lose four people that you love one after the other like dominoes. especially when two of those people probably still have cards from their 60th birthdays somewhere in the house.

would it be naive to assume that, with no one left who's seriously ill or precipitiously old, that we may be out of the woods for at least a little while? naive or not, would it be too much to ask?

that said, if there's someone you'd like to get rid of before the end of the year, there's still time to introduce them to my family and me. as you can see, our Black Cloud references are impeccable.

Don't Worry. She's Getting The Kind of Meal She Deserves on Saturday.

2008-10-23T19:43:00.000-07:00

my wife is a saint.

the good people of ruby's are pieces of crap.

today was mrs b's 35th birthday. in celebration of this momentus occasion, we did what we have done for the past two years on her special day. we went to ruby's diner - the boys' favorite "restaurant" - for a salty, grease-laden meal and the featured attraction, the ritual staff singing of ruby's corporate birthday song for the lucky lady of the family as she sits there with a labored, but ultimately sincere, smile, cheeks flecked with french fry oil.

you know the song. the one they chant like robots at chain restaurants when they bring out the free birthday sundae because singing the actual "happy birthday" song would make their corporate bosses liable for royalties to whoever it is that owns the publishing on that song. probably michael jackson.

now, as much as jb and ab love to subject their mother to being serenaded by a bunch of CSUN students dressed in 1940s era car hop whites, they still haven't grown the sack to actually let our lucky server know that it's their mom's birthday. what usually happens is the poor kid comes over, zits a-glistenin', he welcomes us to ruby's, and takes our orders while my sons glare at me with owl eyes while violently jabbing their heads in our waiter's direction to indicate that i shouldn't forget to break the news to him. there is much under-the-breath muttering of "dad. daaaaad. tell himmmmm."

and so i do.

and we sit. and we wait.

the boys' sandwiches disappear almost instantly. and when the last crumb is gone, that's when the impatient whimpers begin.

"when are they going to sing it?"

"dad, what's taking so long?"

"what the fuck is that retard doing back there?"

(ok, i'm paraphrasing on that last one.)

for the past two years, something like this has happened.

this year, as the meal was winding down, i noticed our man, alvero, pacing by the entrance to the kitchen, waiting for the sundae to be finished. that's usually the sign to get the blackberry ready to record another cherished and overpixelated family memory.

after a moment that seemed to last forever, alvaro got the ice cream and began to make his way to our table.

"this is it, guys," i told the boys, anticipating the celebration we were about to begin. "get ready!"

before i got all the words out of my mouth, alvero was tableside. solo. no crew. no song. no candle.

just a bowl of ice cream and his zits.

"here you go," was all he said as he placed the sundae in front of our beloved birthday girl. and he didn't say it with any melody in his voice.

the boys were devastated.

they wouldn't admit it, but we could tell.

to make it up to them, we let them play some rare midweek wii when we got home.

that was good.

with mile-wide grins on their faces, before the front door had even closed behind then, they signed on to the wii wireless network's mario cart channel to race against a few strangers from all corners of the globe.

one stranger's name was "assinvader".

that was bad.

when jb asked what an ass invader was, i told him the name was pronounced "asin vader". like darth vader's brother. probably a french guy.

anyhow, what i'm trying to say is that i love my wife.

i love her madly.

she's a good sport and a smart woman and a beautiful person and i'm lucky and blessed and words that are much more important than that to have ever met her. life has pitched a few storms our way lately, and there are more on the horizon, but the truth is that, no matter how bad it gets, she's the sunshine that keeps us all encouraged and warm.

i'm honored that she's put up with my nonsense for 1/3 of her life.

and i can't wait to fill out that fraction in the years to come.

Time to Prep The Emmy Speech

2008-10-06T17:23:00.000-07:00

some television producers have their names appear in the credits of high quality broadcasts like 60 minutes, the sopranos, 30 rock and louie anderson specials.

others find themselves behind the cameras while a family of drunken women entertain an intimate crowd of eight probable drug users by wrestling each other in a pile of heated shaving cream at a nightclub in el monte at 2 in the morning.

it's a living.

the truth is i'm definitely not complaining. i LOVE my relatively new post-american gladiators job. i am paid to be creative. i enjoy the type of responsibility for which i've been looking for a while. and if that wasn't enough, i get to exchange "can you believe we're doing this?" looks with people i respect and with whom i enjoy working immensely, as we stand together watching two brothers mix plastic buckets full of mud that will soon be slathered all over at least one of their sisters.

that said, i don't think i was prepared for what i would find when my co-workers and i left our hollywood offices the other night to shoot this as-yet-untitled sales presentation for what we believe will make a very compelling unscripted dramedy on any number of cable outlets, about the father of mud wrestling and how he and his extended family travel the backwaters of america getting muddy, creamy, oily and violent - both in and out of the ring.

oh, and that's "very compelling" as in "whoa. i just saw this bum pull a wet newspaper out of that trashcan and eat it."

among the amazing things i witnessed in el monte with my own two chocolate brown eyes...

a 6'3" wrestler - think equal parts robin byrd and big bird crossed with an old leather handbag - drink crown royal and coke until she vomited in the parking lot and passed out. but not before she drunkenly sauntered up to me where i stood, mumbled "you're so short i can do this", and mustered up the effort to swing her leg so it would rest on top of my head

a meth addict in polka dot chaps get her earring ripped out by her sister during an impromptu backstage brawl

an earnest and serious discussion about who makes the best lap dancee when it comes to the way they tip: truckers; farmers; or miners

i think in the end they decided was a three way tie.

Baby Steps

2008-09-30T20:31:00.000-07:00

ok. so now what?

my life has changed forever.

i guess that means this blog, however infrequently written and lightly trafficked, has changed forever as well.

right?

(echo.)

but where do we begin? where do i take this thing?

ok. let's see.

uh...

how about...

my dad, wading slowly slowly slowly into the cold waters of a Life Independent, has suddenly decided to do away with call waiting on his line. he says it's because he thinks it's rude to interrupt a phone conversation. i think maybe it's because he's still not 100% comfortable with how to activate the whole process. also, making a decision like that is probably symbolic of something.

probably.

regardless, while we all wait for him to call the phone company and cancel it once and for all, he's taken to just not picking up if he's talking to someone else. frustrating? sure. but he's calling the shots solo now, and i don't want to begrudge him a single thing in his life.

too trivial?

yeah, i know. and it looks like i'm kind of taking a shot at him. which i'm not. i'm just venting. (selfishly, perhaps.) lord knows what he's going through alone in a house in which he was never ever alone for 39 years.

ugh.

so are we going to take things in that direction? sadness and mourning? woe is me and pity on the widower?

maybe.

there was a moment today when i was driving to work when i instinctively wanted to pick up the cell and call my mom for a chat.

yeah.

you can't do that when she's dead, dummy.

*sigh*

uh...

the baby's learned his letters.

there is nothing he likes more than having you sit with him and watch while he rummages through his little tin suitcase full of consonants and vowels and picks them up one by one and identifies them. that's pretty cool, i guess.

oh, and i'm going to shoot at a mud wrestling event in el monte on thursday night for work. should be interesting.

hmm.

also...

i've gotten a couple of emotional web comments from parents of children with prader-willi syndrome taking me to task for making a flippant joke in the title of a recent post at the expense of those suffering with it. the first one came in the day before my mother died. i read it in her hospital room while i was waiting for a song she always associated with a few very special memories to download from itunes so i could play it for her one more time. the way i felt as i read it redefined the word "shitty".

so, to those of you who i have upset, let me offer a sincere apology, one that i would have offered regardless of when your notes would have reached me.

wow.

*mops brow*

how about a joke lifted from a zach galifianakis interview i read in rolling stone during one of my cross country flights?

a doctor says to his patient, "you're going to have to stop masturbating."

the patient asks, "why?"

the doctor says, "so i can examine you."

remember when i said "bear with me" a couple of days ago?

yeah, it might be a while.

9/14

2008-09-28T16:15:00.001-07:00

you'll have to bear with me.

my mom died two weeks ago.

she was a great woman.

and if losing her wasn't bad enough, i swallowed my gum at her funeral.

that's about as bad as it gets.

---

the truth is there's so much i want to say about my mother, but i just can't bring myself to do it just yet. it's just a physical impossibility.

at the service before she was buried, i offered my brother a line to close his eulogy.

"and now my brother would like to get up and make a few loud sobbing noises."

he wisely chose to omit my suggestion to his remarks.

---

the boys took the news hard, but rallied as it became more and more evident over a week of sitting shiva in new york, that they weren't alone in their love for grandma carol, and, just as importantly, in their feelings of loss.

it also helped that my mom, being who she was, gifted in the ways of sentiment and always aware that her multiple myeloma would prevent her from ever becoming an old woman, set up a system long in advance of her passing for my boys to feel her in their hearts after she left.

a star.

a star on which they could wish, whether she was by their side grinning though her tears of joy in los angeles or 3000 miles away in new york, or god knows where, i guess. a star they could all drink in at the same time no matter where they were.

she was pretty smart.

----

the night of my mom's funeral, i sat on my the front steps of my parents house and was treated to the most beautiful sunset i have ever seen in new york. truly.

it was on those steps that my mother first taught my brother and i to take a moment to appreciate a beautiful sunset.

the next night, ab asked to join me on the steps while i waited for a orange and purple repeat that never came.

"dad," he asked, "is grandma the sunset?"

what i wanted to say was

damn right, she's the sunset.

she's in every sunset you and i will ever see for the rest of our lives.

she's the star you and jb wish on every night - only for other people, never for yourselves, just like grandma taught you.

she's in the way your brother, jb, tears up when he's very happy. just like his dad does. which is something he got from his mom, who got it from her dad, who gave you your name. nothing would have made her happier than hearing jb talk about how he started to cry when his 5th grade big buddy hit a home run at school. she lived for that shit.

she's in your baby brother's curls and grey eyes. he may not be lucky enough to have the memories of her that you and your brother will, but whenever he looks in the mirror, a part of her will be staring back at him.

she's in your heart and my heart and in the heart of everyone who was ever lucky enough to get to know her.

she never gave up. she fought and fought for 11 years when she should have died after 3. after all, she wanted to meet you.

and after she did, it didn't take long until she loved you more than anything in the whole world.

that's what i wanted to say.

if i could have spoken.

but in the end, it didn't matter. it didn't matter one bit.

ab just looked me as the tears welled up in my eyes and put his hand on my arm to reassure me and we watched the sun go down and the stars come out.

lymysys, mom.

Still Here.

2008-09-02T08:10:00.000-07:00

he's working on his tom ridge as we speak.

I Missed You, Too.

2008-08-15T20:14:00.000-07:00

joy! amusement! glee!

here's your chance to have a little fun and see what the bergs have been up to over the past few weeks!

read the following events! go to the comments and put them in order! win a fabulous prize!

a) jb gets walking pneumonia
b) bb gets a fever and roseola
c) mrs b's grandmother dies
d) bb suffers a minor laceration of his thumb
e) i eat green tea and white chocolate chip ice cream like some fancy lad
f) mrs b takes the children east
g) we return to la
h) mrs b returns east
i) the boys and i pick up mrs b from lax
j) i fly east
k) my brother in law gets lost on the way home from the airport and takes us on a goose chase that lasts longer than my actual connecting flight
l) jb throws up a stomachful of grilled cheese, grapes and lemonade all over the floor of the minivan in the middle of bumper to bumper 405 traffic
m) mrs b goes back east
n) i am left alone with the children for 3 days
0) we enjoy a mets game

take your time, answer correctly and you may win the grand prize:

that would be the right to share your valium with me.

Meantime, We're Calling The Baby "Prader-Willi Wonka"

2008-07-06T21:06:00.000-07:00

we've been over it a few times here at the Metz, so i'm not going to waste my typing muscles getting into too much detail.

suffice to say...

the boys have a very narrow menu from which they draw their meal choices.

ab is partial to chicken nuggets. jb leans on the good old american tube steak. throw in a few random things like grilled cheese, bagels, strawberries, french fries and grapes and you've pretty much summed up the complete diet of my oldest sons. getting them to try new foods - including things other children would lie and cheat to sample - is a struggle.

tonight, i tried a new tact.

first, i grilled up some asparagus.

then i explained to them exactly what eating asparagus does to the urinary tract.

then mrs b hit 'em with the story about the time her old man ate asparagus for the first time, peed, smelled the resultant product and nearly drove himself to the e.r., scared for his life.

then i offered up a 5 dollar bounty to any child who could produce a toilet full of asparagus scented urine.

jackpot.

tomorrow, i will claim that eating a turkey sandwich makes your poop bright blue.

desperate times call for disgusting, desperate measures.

Applesmoked

2008-06-26T13:45:00.001-07:00

for those of you who ever wondered what 'conflicted' truly meant:

a couple of weekends back, the wife and i took the crew to see the most recent 'body worlds' exhibit at the la science center.

for those of you who don't know, 'body worlds' is where they take ~~chinese political prisoners~~ cadavers, peel them, dip them in plastic or something and then prop them up in all kinds of nutty poses. like, one might be doing a push-up with all of their organs piled up on what remains of their ass. you might find another standing on their tippy-toes while they balance on a pyramid made of kidneys or something. all this while families wander around from glass case to glass case and gawk and try to drown out the quietly nagging voice they hear in their head reminding them of their own mortality.

anyhow...

the inner conflict arose when i strolled into the portion of the exhibit featuring examples of internal organs decimated by poor diet and nutrition. it was there - just a step or two from the heart clogged with arterial plaque and alcohol-poached liver - that i found The Fat Guy.

or, to be more specific, a whisper thin, body long, cross-sectioned slice of The Fat Guy, laid out in his case on top of a lighted table like a long, odd, profile-shaped photographic slide.

immediately, two thoughts flooded into my head.

thought 1:
good god. look at all the fat that guy had. globs of it just under the skin layer and even more surrounding his organs and choking the vitality out of everything god gave him. and holy shit! he was only 50 years old when he died. 50. take a good look, dude. that's everything you're afraid of becoming someday laid out for you to see and scare you straight. an example. the ghost of fat christmas future speaking to you, warning you that if you don't start paying better attention to what you pack into your eat hole, you run the risk of the same unsightly fate.

thought 2:
that looks like the biggest, tastiest piece of bacon i've ever seen.

-----

addendum 6/27:

i got this email today and promised the author i'd share the truth about the peeled and posed people.

Hi! I just wanted to reiterate what someone already commented on your blog.

Body Worlds is the original anatomical exhibition of real human bodies, and
there are now several copycats. Body Worlds is the only one with an
established body donor program...so the specimens are not former political
prisoners from China. There's a statement regarding this on the Body Worlds
website:
http://www.bodyworlds.com/en/media/releases_statements/releases_statements_2
008.html?edit#020608

If you'd consider changing or updating that line in your blog, we'd greatly
appreciate it. There's a lot of confusion and Body Worlds often gets lumped
in with the others. The philosophy and ethics of the exhibit is based on a
collaboration between the body donors, the anatomists that perform the
plastination process and the people that come to view the exhibit.

Thank you for coming to see the exhibit. Please let me know if you have any
questions about what I've stated here or the exhibit in general.

Hillary Manning
Communications Manager
BODY WORLDS 3 & The Story of the Heart
at the California Science Center through Sept. 7

Let The Kid Speak

2008-06-01T20:44:00.000-07:00

hi.

remember me?

bb? cute little bundle of baby buttercream? all airy and sweet like a fluffy li'l dollop of puddin'? wittle bittle boo boo birdy wirdy that all the old ladies at the mall go bonkers for?

yeah, well, you can stow all that shit, pal. you can stow it real quick.

these days, i'm about one thing and one thing only. getting antsy and loud in public places faster than you can say "seriously, what the fuck is wrong with this kid?"

is it my molars coming in? the fact that i have an appetite like a stoned somali? early onset of the terrible twos?

who gives a shit? i mean, seriously, does it really matter? does it really matter?

let's get one thing straight. if i'm not happy, you're not happy. when i want out of that fahkaktah restaurant high chair, i want out. when i want cheerios, you better come with the cheerios, bitch. pron-fucking-to.

how long will it last? i have no idea. that's for me to decide. in the meantime, if you have any more plans to have a nice saturday night family dinner at the farmer's market or to attend my brothers' piano recital, you might want to rethink them.

before i go, i want to leave you with two things.

first, a little photographic reminder of my face. just so you don't forget what kind of ruthless mothereffer you're dealing with...

...and second, how about a little good old fashioned noise?

*ahem*

isss. isss? ISSS!?

ehhhhHHHHHHHH! HHUUUUUUUUUUUH!! AAAhhhAHHHHH!

mmmuuuuhnnnnhhnnnNNNHHHHNNHNNNHAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!

that is all.

Mon Nom Est "Moe". (Ou Est-Ce "Simon"?)

2008-05-28T20:03:00.000-07:00

i first noticed it 10 years ago, one of about a dozen prints nailed to the front wall above the tables at mo's restaurant in burbank.

it called to me. it spoke to me. it made me stop stuffing my eat hole long enough to bond with it in a way only true art connoisseurs normally can.

and then, one day soon after, as i went to pick up a take out salad, i looked for it and it was gone.

poof.

i asked the hostess where it went, but she looked at me like i was speaking latvian. also like my breath was bad. which it may have been.

and so, i went on with my life.

anyhow...

today...

after all this time...

after returning to new york, after getting married, having twins, moving back to los angeles, remaining married and having another child, i am happy to say that i had the good fortune to be seated for lunch with two friends in mo's back room, where i spied it hanging quietly and forlornly above a small two top tucked into a shadowy corner.

behold...

it's called Vigneron, Girondin, Cavignac.

it was taken in 1945 by a french photographer named willy ronis and i only know this because i took a phone-photo of the signature below the print and immediately googled it when i got back to the office to see where i could get my own copy and how much it would cost.

to my chagrin and amazement, most of the prints that i found scattered across the internet cost somewhere in the neighborhood of 5 grand. luckily for me, though, these days we have a little thing called "right click/save as". and now my favorite wine drinking, huge-handed homunculus can be with me always, eternally waiting for his full pour on my flickr page.

as for why this picture first got me then and still gets me a decade later...

simple.

just look at that dude.

he's got bread. he's getting wine. a fork seems to indicate he may be also getting a meal. and then, just below his proud gallic mustache, there's that little grin. to me, that grin speaks volumes. that grin is attached to a man who is truly happy. at that moment, there isn't a thing in the world he needs and there isn't a place in the world he'd rather be.

deep down inside, i think that long dead frenchman is who i want to be. a man content to sit and smile and be in the moment, happy, content and maybe a little dopey.

and the good news is, now that i don't have to go to mo's to see him anymore, i think i may be a little closer to becoming him.

(body first.)

A Charming Mother's Day Post

2008-05-11T20:56:00.000-07:00

today for mother's day we all went to the la zoo.

bb loved chasing the goats and sheep.

ab was knocked out by the chimps.

jb thought the alligator was dynamite.

mrs. b admired the majesty of the flamingos.

i was sad to find out that zebras don't have striped weiners.

the end.

When You Hit The Ground Running

2008-05-07T20:46:00.000-07:00

i have been sprung from the cage.

last night was the final night of production.

i celebrated by standing on a folding chair next to a 7 foot tall, 320 pound giant.

(it's kind of upsetting that he and i probably have the same waist size.)

from now own, all anonymous commenters will deal with him.

today, the star effing continued as i went down to my buddy's radio show to watch gavin degraw do his thing.

of course, in real life, photo ops with genetic freaks and private concerts by clive davis supported singer songwriters are the exception, not the rule. which is why tonight i was just as happy watching jb and ab get their baseball on at little league and then taking the whole crew out for a delicious dinner of hot dog weiners and fried taters as i was living the modified life of a demented riley for 12 hours.

Placeholder

2008-04-23T20:44:00.000-07:00

70 hour workweeks have never been so much fun.

it's all working out - except for the 'have enough time and energy to post on the metz' part.

but that's only temporary.

in the meantime, if you want to see what your boy does for a living, peep this little time lapse clippy poo i made of an 11 hour run during yesterday's 14 hour day. if there's a better example of sitting at a plastic folding table in a converted locker room of an old sports arena and working alternated with wandering off to eat or talk to people, i've yet to see it.

keep your eyes peeled for a donut, a mini box of corn flakes, a lot of writing and my kids heads popping into the frame late in the afternoon. you may not be able to see it, but they were smiling the fuck out of their faces, kind of like i'm doing right now.

Contents Under Pressure

2008-03-31T20:15:00.000-07:00

a little over a week ago, jb was the one who was sick.

he was the on-the-mend fever 'n' sniffles flu patient with whom our 10 out of town friends-who-are-so-close-they're-really-our-family-members were deathly afraid of coming in contact during their long weekend here. he was the one they all avoided, right down to the closing moments of our last-minute goodbye barbeque, held outdoors to better allow his putrid virus to disseminate into the air, away from the moist, innocent membranes of their uninfected lungs.

little did we all know that, as we isolated my dewy-eyed little boy, it was their youngest, the little angel-faced 18 month old who was The One Brewing The Germ.

(zat's true irony, folks.)

first l'il angel infected the deep crew with whom she was rolling. one by one, less than 12 hours later, they began to go pine green in the gills. some of them vomited in a local 7-11 parking lot on the way to the airport. others waited until their flight lifted off from lax bound for new york, kicking off what had to have been one of the most unpleasant airborne experiences since wilbur and orville first made kitty hawk famous.

one of them even - i hear through the grapevine - accidentally befouled their own bed. this is a vicious unconfirmed rumor, but after witnessing the true nature of this Infection Most Foul, i do believe it. i believe it as much i believe in ben and jerry themselves.

less than two days later, my youngest began to show signs. and by "began to show signs", i mean "produced pints of home-made sour cream in his crib at 3:45 in the morning. for three days in a row". it wasn't pretty and it didn't smell good.

then, it was mrs b's turn.

then the terrible baton passed to jb, who awoke suddenly around midnight, muttering nonsense over the monitor. when i went into his room to calm him, he started clawing desperately at my mouth, suffering through a fever dream in which, i would discover later, he was convinced i was trying to push him into a lake for some reason. i carried him into the kitchen for a bit of tylenol and calm, and he ended up vomiting into a glass bowl, snapping out of his trance just in time to gaze into this most terrible looking diorama, marveling wide-eyed and grinning at what he had created. "look," he said, "there's not much hot dog but there is a lot of lemonade."

then it was ab's turn.

in time, there was only one man left standing.

Your Boy.

now, i don't know if you've ever gone through your day knowing full well there's a bullet out there with your name on it, a bullet destined to strike without warning and without mercy, but i can assure you that you go through a lot of emotion. ultimately, though, you end up basically shouldering a feeling of resigned indignance.

come and get me, mothereffer. here i am.

(damn i wish i could think of the perfect picture to put here. i've been racking my brain for about an hour thinking of a movie in which someone goes down fighting or is the last man standing or something and i've thought of a few but in the end nothing i'm going to go with. feel free to add any suggestions in the comments, and make me feel dumb won't you?)

i began to hear the gallows being assembled saturday afternoon. i heard the crowd gathering in the town square.

but, unlike the rest of my family, i would not be taken quietly. i would be taken on my terms. i would be taken full of peanut butter cup frozen yogurt.

eventually, my time did come. but, thanks to my foresight and the suffering of those who went before me, when it did, it actually tasted pretty good and was, to my complete surprise, still quite cold.

and then it was over.

i got into bed with an empty tum tum, a massive headache and a fever and i rode it out for 24 hours.

my house is clean now.

but from here on out, i'm sleeping with one eye open. and i'm keeping a frozen yogurt coupon in my wallet at all times.

Yo Soy Santino

2008-03-19T20:45:00.000-07:00

congratulations.

despite my best efforts, you're still here.

to me, it makes no difference whether you're a loyal reader giving me one last chance to make with the typee-typee or one of the many googlers out there looking for a little more information on patrick ewing's penis. i'm just happy to have you still sniffing around.

so where was i?

well, remember not too long ago, 'round september, when i was waxing philosophic about a new job i was starting and was oh so psyched about? yeah, anyway, not so much.

i gave notice there this past monday and will be starting another, truly exciting new gig almost immediately. i'd tell you all the details if it wasn't for the boilerplate non-disclosure agreement they had me sign along with my start form today. that said, it's Big Time, definitely a leap to the majors and also probably the boys' favorite prime time show. to me, that's an incredibly rare opportunity and about as cool as it gets as a dad. like if your kids were huge fat meatballs who lived to eat fast food and you suddenly found yourself with the keys to burger king? that's sort of how i look at it.

jb has already asked if he can come with me on my first day. i told him he could but he'd have to stay in the car.

on the bb front...he's a pretty badass 13 month old.

period.

other than that, i wish i had an oddball story or interesting anecdote to share, but i kind of don't. maybe that's why the posts have been so meager recently. i'm sleeping well, i'm not worrying, and the family and the career are firing on all cylinders. apparently good routines make for boring blogging.

and if you don't believe me, ask nicole. this spritely young lass recently decided to spice up her personal blog by calling on her cyberfriends to pitch in with a guest post, if they so desired, on go nicole yourself. i took up the challenge by interviewing her. it should go up pretty soon, so if you're at all curious about the kind of questions this former sort-of quasi journalist can come up with when the chips are down, head over there. and regardless of what i came up with, she's always plenty entertaining and very honest.

beyond that, there's this song.

since the day i bought the album it's on back during my freshman year in college, i've been sort of confused about the point paul simon was trying to make. over the years, i've had a few ideas, but i've never really been comfortable with any of my interpretations. then one morning this week, i was driving to work with a smile on my face, thinking about something innocuously entertaining my sons were doing as i left just a few minutes earlier, and the song came randomly on my ipod. as i listened, for some reason my smile got bigger, to the point where it may have started to get a little dusty in my car.

to be honest, i'm still not completely sure what paul's singing about, but something tells me i'm getting closer.

anyone care to hazard a guess?

One

2008-02-11T20:18:00.000-08:00

it's been a month...but more importantly, it's been a year.

today marked the beginning of bb's 53rd week on the planet. so far so good.

sleeping, eating, walking and kicking off our very first family cake fight with panache.

he started it. honest.

aside from that, i'm going to let you all in on a brand new birthing trend i've come up with. if you've got a bun in the oven, feel free to adopt it as your own. just remember, when the idea catches on, and you read about celebrity moms doing this in people magazine, you heard it here first.

the idea came to me in a flash a few weeks back when i interviewed a pregnant woman who seemed, at least to me, kind of smugly self satisfied with the notion of not finding out her baby's gender before it was born.

before i continue, let me state for the record, that i definitely don't think there's anything wrong in any way with enjoying The Big Surprise upon your child's arrival. personally, the mrs and i decided to find out what she was brewing each time because a)we were having twins and we wanted to be ready and b)we already had twins and wanted to know if we should save the hand-me-downs.

but you're you. do your own thing.

it's just that, in this instance, talking to this particular mom, she sort of made me feel like even proposing the very idea of merely contemplating such an act was against God's plan for the miracle of her baby's birth. and so i needed to come up with something that took the surprise even further. something that i initially proposed in a smart ass manner, but after a little contemplation, actually seemed to me to be sort of sweet.

here's how it works...

when your kid is born, don't let the doctor or doula or midwife or contest winner or whatever baby-birthing pro you've decided to go with tell you if it's a boy or a girl. insist on having him or her hand you the kid immediately so you can peep what it's packing and make the big announcement yourself.

what do you think? could this catch on? could actual sentiment be born of cynicism?

what if step two was to bake the placenta into a pie?

A House Divided Actually Stands Pretty Well. Especially If Your Half is Vomit Free

2008-01-13T16:02:00.000-08:00

if you've got twins, you know the drill.

once in a while you have to divide 'em up. for everyone's sake.

one parent takes one kid, the other takes the other (and, in our case, the baby, i guess) and you go off into the big blue world and do your own thing. this forcible family division provides each child with precious and rare solo time with their mom or dad, far from the old ball and chain of their twin.

as you've probably guessed by now, yesterday was Dividin' Day.

now, the way it works around here, thanks to a decision the mrs and i made long ago to keep it interesting, is the kids get to dictate their Dividin' Day itinerary. this time around, jb, inspired by a spate of recent nerf basketball games in his room, announced he wanted to go to the clippers game. ab's choice was to stay home, go to mcdonalds for mcnuggets and watch 'rocky' for the first time on dvd. no sweat.

i bought the tickets on ebay, mrs b girded herself for a fast food dinner and it began.

see if you can guess who had a better time.

jb, his big foam finger and i sat 6 rows from the baseline, within spitting distance of the jumbotron cameraman.

yeah, he was kind of psyched.

we also got a hell of a game, and jb screamed himself hoarse

until the very last moment, when jerry stackhouse stuck the dagger in our hearts.

regardless of the final score, the littlest basketball fan and i agreed this was something we needed to do more often. this is what bonding was all about.

meanwhile, across town, the mrs did her bonding with the clean-up crew at the local mickey d's, after the baby kicked her Dividin' Day Dinner off by sending back about a gallon of used formula all over her lap and the floor. once she managed to change his clothes, using the bathroom sink as a changing table, ab took his usual 45 minutes to eat six nuggets. then it was time to go home, where ab fell asleep on the sofa by the midpoint of the movie.

daddy wins by tko once again.

Lettuce. We Get Lettuce.

2008-01-06T18:46:00.000-08:00

with apologies to marilyn vos savant.

presenting the first in a series.

ask moe

by moe vos berg

what do food critics think about rice? - a.b., los angeles, ca

well, well, well. don't think the irony of you mentioning "food critics" in your question is lost on me. i mean, considering you and your brother are 6 years old and still react to the idea of tasting a hamburger with 'i'm sorry, mrs kennedy, but the president is gone' type emotion. remember how mommy and me and the doctor told you how important it is to try new foods, especially protein, so you can grow as much as you possibly can? yeah, you remember that? well i'm about 4 days from breaking out a picture of a midget or something and telling you that that's what you're going to look like if you don't start eating, like, a hard boiled egg or something every so often.

you won't even try unfamiliar candy for god's sake.

so, what was the question again? rice? fuck. i don't know. depends on the critic and who's cooking it. it's not like you're going to eat rice if ed levine says it gives him a boner.

why is elmo so happy? - j.b., los angeles, ca

hmm. let's see. 50 million plus in the bank. single. no kids. good hair. figure it out.

bitter? - mrs. b, los angeles, ca

licorice is bitter. you'd have to synthesize me in a lab tonight.

please send all future questions to askmoevossavant@gmail.com - and moe will answer in an upcoming post. once he's done grinding his teeth down to nubs.

Like Napoleon From Elba

2008-01-03T19:18:00.001-08:00

yeah, it's been a while. sorry about that.

so anyway...

the whole crew took a pre-dinner trip to the mall tonight so mrs b could buy some lotion for old people.

(don't ask.)

once the lotion was procured, we were making our way back to the car when ab fulfilled his childly duty and announced suddenly that he had to pee. of course he did. right before we were about to leave. when the closest bathroom is an escalator trip downstairs. in target. which is gross. like urine stains in front of the urinal gross. pubes on the rim gross. gross.

whatever. when you have to go you have to go.

so we stroll down the escalator, and into the store and into the bathroom, and around the tile corner towards the urinals where we discover a kid, maybe 13 or 14, about my height, standing there doing his thing in full preschool, daddy-take-me-to-the-bathroom ass-out position. just this young man, his ass, and a mighty stream of urine with the vacant mini-urinal next to him.

needless to say, ab was as shocked as i was. at this point in his life, the boy has gone weewee in hundreds of urinals and has never a)had the slightest problem stepping up the plate and delivering and b)seen anyone besides his brother pee with their ass out. he knows what time it is. which is why, here, in this stinky target bathroom, up was now down, black was now white and my son could barely speak. seriously. i mean, after i sort of cued him to head to the open pisser and get going, he looked at me and kind of popped his lips a few times and whispered, 'daddy, i have to tell you something.' which is his code for 'daddy, i don't want to do what it is you expect me to do.'

i leaned down to ask what he wanted to tell me. his answer was something like "hemmhelmennenhemmehenninhen." he was seriously spooked.

in the end, we had to wait until assy mcweewee hiked up his pants and trotted out of the bathroom (without washing) before ab would even attempt what it was he came to accomplish. even now, 3 hours later, the boy is not right.

the point of this story? i'm adding another rule to MB's Book of Being a Parent. rule one...

IF YOUR CHILD IS OLD ENOUGH TO CHEW GUM, THEY DON'T BELONG IN A STOLLER.

i developed this rule in great neck, new york after seeing a child sitting in a peg perago blowing globe-sized bubbles while his mother struggled to push him along with a grocery cart full of stuff. mostly yogurt.

add to that

IF YOUR CHILD IS OLD ENOUGH TO GO THE BATHROOM ALONE, MAKE SURE THEY KNOW NOT TO PULL THEIR PANTS DOWN TO THEIR ANKLES WHERE OTHER PEOPLE CAN SEE THEIR ASS.

so let it be written. so let it be done.

Tick

2007-12-14T19:28:00.001-08:00

i've been naughty.

the fact that people keep showing up to see what's been happening here at The Metz makes me feel nice.

that said...

here's the official berg family card for 2007 currently popping up in mailboxes coast to coast. if you're reading this, you're part of the family.

click for the bigness.

tomorrow am, we begin two weeks away from la. 7 days at disney in florida with the whole big time both sides of the family crew, and then 7 days in the promised land of long island, new york at my folks'. promises to be a grand old time.

here's hoping you and yours are doing what you want as the clock clicks down towards the end of 07.

big things, baby. big things.

Jade 'Em Early! That's What I Always Say.

2007-12-04T19:24:00.001-08:00

when american gladiators comes back to tv on nbc this coming january, keep your eyes peeled. you just might see a familiar looking baby enjoying his bottle during 'hang tough'.

yes, this past weekend, bb shattered the standing record for 'youngest person ever to attend a tv taping' when the entire berg family made a brief appearance at sony studios to see it all go down and cheer on a pair of close family friends intimately involved with bringing the gladiators back to life.

without giving away any secrets, i can tell you that the show is Big Time. lights, noise, tumult...the whole package. and as overwhelmed as the boys were by the sheer size of the production, that's how into it mrs b was. as a tom-boy OG fan of the original series, my wife was digging it far more than someone with all their teeth should.

as for the baby, he was once again impeccably behaved, and only lost his shit when one of the gladiators started playing to the crowd by howling like a wolf. luckily, we were provided with a primo escape route, and mrs b hustled him off and out of the studio so he could enjoy the wind blowing in his face before he attracted any attention.

simple pleasures, yo.

Romaine

2007-11-27T19:52:00.000-08:00

first thing's first.

let us first acknowledge avid metz reader and commenter "da dough kid's meemaw" who, for the second time now, has shamed me out of the comfy warm heroin-high of a writer's block and back onto my specially reinforced typing chair. i dedicate this, my 400th post, to you, ms. meemaw.

now let us tuck into this thing like a steamy hot pot pie.

let us quickly gloss over the nearly post-free month of november, a month in which i found myself quite busy at my new job. part of this busyness involved a series of meetings with rock legend/avid-marketer-of-many-many-products-featuring-his-likeless, gene simmons, at his wildly impressive home in beverly hills. for someone who is not starstruck easily, it was quite surreal to pull into the driveway of the guy who inspired you to start playing the bass and write crappy metal songs when you were 12, knowing that you're there to deal with him on a one-on-one level. i brought him linzer tarts. he insisted i leave with a trunk full of kiss comics, coffee mugs and a dart board. business was done.

but enough star effing.

let us touch upon the pair of trips to las vegas i took in november, each on successive weekends, one with the family to meet up with my in-laws, sister and brother in law and niece, one for work to cover the opening of the planet hollywood hotel and casino. as you can imagine, these two trips were very very different. one involved bowling with children in the dirty stinky alley at the orleans, the other involved working closely with this young woman...

you can imagine the double takes we caused walking side by side to and from our shoot, and back to our hotel, along the strip - she, an honest-to-goodness playmate of the year runner up spilling out of her tight red dress and me, looking like the j crew sweatered spawn of a bridge troll and calvert deforest.

i'm no mind reader, but i'm pretty sure every woman we passed was thinking "that guy has to be a billionaire or something" and every guy was thinking "i wonder how much he's paying for her".

let us now move on to one of the great thanksgiving weekends of all time.

my folks and brother came in and spread the happy from the minute they arrived to the minute the left.

no fighting, no biting. just love, laughs and eating like we all had two assholes.

speaking of which, let us pat this man on the back.

his name is go. he is a genius and he is responsible for a friday-after-thanksgiving sushi omakase meal that may never be topped.

he just kept bringing the good stuff, including a nice helping of shirako for my brother and me.

that's the sperm sac of a snapper. too rich for my blood, but tasty enough for Brother Berg to eat both plates.

and now let us start wrapping things up, with a solemn and honest declaration. i am back behind the wheel of this thing, baby.

but let us not go before sending our very best wishes to my boy, joe delicious. the man who helped bring the simon metz special to life is dealing with a bump in the medical road right now, but we have no doubt that he will reach the finish line of this particular crappy journey in no time and come out the other side smelling like a rose and probably garlic.

and finally, let us bow our heads and remember quiet riot front man kevin dubrow.

my pal sammy badass urged me to come back strong tonight and take a stand for The Real Metal by taking a swing at the guy.

sorry, sammy. i can't do it. while i was never a fan of quiet riot, the fact that dubrow died so young and actually had to move back in with his mother in recent years makes him too tragic a figure to attack. that said, let us all pour out a little jack daniels for him tonight, and thank the lord that he outlived his hair by so many years.

now that's how you wear a wig.

Tenacious "D"

2007-11-06T19:20:00.000-08:00

sometimes when you're at your bloggy lowest, sitting silent and impotent in front of your mac and you just can't think of a single, solitary thing about which to write, the universe smiles upon you and sends a shiny, tinsel-tied package of sweet sweet candy from the classiest shop in heaven direct to The Place Where The Words Come From.

case in point...

this was the front of the worksheet mrs b found in ab's school folder yesterday evening.

the assignment appears to be pretty straight forward. the letter of the day is 'd'. practice your handwriting by copying these simple sentences featuring words in which the letter 'd' is front and center.

damp ducks david did dance.

ok.

that's side one.

side two is where ab's class was asked to draw a picture of two things that begin with the letter 'd'. get creative. use your noodle. that's where we bergs shine.

presenting side two.

you can imagine the reaction when the mrs showed me what our budding warhol had whipped up. my sides still hurt.

after we were able to control our laughter, we called ab in and explained with smiles on our faces that we absolutely loved the drawing, but bathroom words might not be the most appropriate subject for drawings at school. he explained that the teacher's aide helped him nail the spelling.

and you thought a los angeles public school education was worthless.

An Ironic Tale Of Nassau County Based Star Effery, Told In The Present Tense, With Only The Slightest Liberties Taken.

2007-10-25T19:24:00.000-07:00

submitted for your approval...

my parents, mother and father berg, are at their go-to spot for a quick dinner - taby's in oyster bay, new york - last night, when they notice what appears to be lon g island's own billy joel enjoying a little nosh with his mole-covered mother and her husband at a three-top across the restaurant.

during the meal, nick, the owner of tabby's comes over to shoot the shit with my folks for a moment like he usually does. they ask him if, in fact, the piano man himself is in the house.

'yeah,' says nick, 'he comes in all the time. almost as much as you two.'

wink.

'i tell him to say hello.'

wink.

nick leaves. the food arrives. mother and father proceed to stuff their eat-holes. time passes.

and then, eventually, when the food is gone, they look up.

billy joel is leaving the restaurant. he stops at their table for a moment.

'hello,' he says politely.

'hello!' exclaims my mother, most likely surprised and a bit flustered. 'i want to tell you my grandsons are your biggest fans. and they're only 5 years old!'

billy joel grins.

'well, tell them i say thank you.'

he nods and walks out, leading his mother and stepfather as he does.

soon after, a beaming grandmother calls her grandsons in los angeles to tell them that none other than billy joel himself has sent a personal thank you to them for being a fan.

only they're not home.

they're out taking their very first piano lesson ever.

piano lessons they demanded to take because they want to play just like billy joel.

the end.

They Took The Snakes Away

2007-10-15T19:32:00.000-07:00

when i was a lad, a wee lad, a car full of grownups played a rotten trick on me.

here's what i remember.

it has to be about 1974, because my brother's not around yet, which makes me two years old. we're heading from queens to the staten island zoo. the crew is probably my folks - at least my mom - my grandparents, and my great aunt bert. everyone is packed into my grandfather's green skylark. with typical early-to-mid 70s disregard for safety, i'm pretty sure i'm sitting on someone's lap. i'm very excited.

after a decent drive, during which my anticipation levels reach virgin-in-a-whorehouse levels, we finally pull into the parking lot of the zoo and drive around looking for a spot. it takes a while, long enough for someone to turn to me and say something like, "oh, no, moe! there are no parking spots! we're going to have to turn around and go home."

you can imagine how i feel.

luckily, just as my face registers a 'are you fucking kidding me?!' look, the car pulls into the spot they've seen all along to the merry sound of laughter.

and scene.

why bring it up now?

we took our own crew to the la zoo this weekend.

from the moment we walked through the gates, all mrs b and i heard was 'let's go to the reptile house. right now.'

'easy, guys,' i reassured them, 'let's do our usual route up past the meercats and stinky flamingos, down to alligator junction, up past the zebras to the place where they have the giraffes and lions and chimps and then back to the reptile house on the way out.'

you know, save the best stuff for last.

so that's just what we did.

we stood in front of the meercats and jb whined 'let's just go to the reptile house!'

we watched the pathetic, lonely elephant rock back and forth like he was waiting for his thorazine prescription to be filled and ab chanted 'reptiles! reptiles! rep! tiles!' until i asked him to stop.

the mrs and i craned our necks and watched in amazement as a mother orangutan scaled a net that must have been 50 feet high, plucked her child from its frightening looking perch and carried it back down to earth. the boys did not because they were busy staring at the map of the zoo in order to best plan our route to the reptile house.

eventually, after just about 2 hours of wandering and whining, the adults decided it was the proper time to head to The Chosen Land.

and so we walked, down past the frozen lemonade stand they're usually begging to stop at and the lifesized mock-up of a california condor they always stretch their arms out in front of...down to the spot where we came upon

this sign.

i read the sign faster than the boys did, which gave me just enough time to turn the camera on them as it all sank in.

that, my friends, is what disappointment looks like.

and if i could have taken a picture of myself at the exact same moment, i bet my expression would have looked very similar to theirs.

after all, their old man had been there.

only, back in staten island, my 'that fucking sucks' face went away almost immediately.

theirs lasted until i sprung for a frozen lemonade without being asked on the sad walk back towards the exit.

and then it was gone for good.

whew.

Squab, Sex and Jah Rastafari

2007-10-11T19:14:00.000-07:00

when you take a few days off, the things about which you can write tend to pile up and bump into each other. then they get pissed at each other. one flicks another one's ear. then that one spits on another one. then shit really gets hectic. there's drama. yelling. ugliness. people get stabbed accidentally trying to break things up. bad juju.

i don't want that here in our peaceful word garden.

i just want to tell you what's happened since we last got together.

let's see.

i had a buddy fly in from new york for about 24 hours. that was nice.

being a big cheese accountant finance guy in expensive khakis, this friend of mine not only gets to be humiliated by no-talent basketball executives/sex predators, but also gets to fly first class across america on sunday afternoon in order to show up at a meeting for an hour or so on monday morning and then turn right back around and go home before the sun sets. sounds like fun, right?

the good news for both of us was that he brought an expense account along with his handsome, smiling face, and he invited it and me along to enjoy the tasting menu at spago on sunday night. we sat amidst a sea of couples dining at about a half dozen adjacent two tops along the far wall. they were gazing into each other's eyes, sharing bites of schnitzel from each other's forks. we were laughing our asses off talking about his wife's friend who earned a pocketbook and diamond jewelry from her husband for performing a dirty dirty sex act. good times.

and speaking of anal...

back when i was a young buck living the high life at 245 east 77th street, on the upper east side of manhattan, within staggering distance of mo's caribbean, i couldn't walk to the subway without accidentally ending up in the background of an episode of law & order. today, i finally got to experience the san fernando valley's version of this phenomenon when i discovered that a porno was being filmed at my neighbor's house.

the first tip off was when i drove down the block on my way home from work and noticed the surgically enhanced young woman strutting out of the house wearing nothing but superhigh heels, blonde processed hair, a shitload of makeup and a robe. the second tip off was the white van full of camera equipment and c-stands, constantly tended to by young, goateed men. the third tip-off was a different robed vixen enjoying an al fresco cigarette on the porch as the crew unloaded their shit through the side door.

quite frankly, after living in the valley for almost four years, i'm surprised it took this long.

oh, and i think we all know which house we're trick or treating at first in a couple of weeks.

back on the cleaner side of the curb, i was pleasantly surprised to find a nice email this evening sent my way by none other than new york's finest local sportscaster, len berman, who was apparently googling himself this afternoon, found the mini-tribute i wrote about him a few weeks back and was tickled enough to let me know he had seen it. all class. all class.

beyond that, i had a good laugh tonight when mrs b misheard the opening lyrics to bob marley's 'redemption song' as 'old pirates and the rabbi....'

and that's how we're rolling.

Peace In Our Time

2007-10-05T16:21:00.000-07:00

once upon a time i was a very cocky blogger.

i acted like i owned the internet.

"i'm THE simon metz!" i shouted into the vacuum one evening. "all the other simon metzes out there can suck it!"

it was a bold pronouncement, one I would later revise…sweaty, red-faced and with my pulse thumping in my temples, typing as quickly as possible, in mortal fear of legal action.

turns out there was another simon metz out there, and unlike me, he didn't choose an internet alias based upon the given name of his favorite sideshow freak. no, he was a real, red-blooded, oxygen breathing gentleman from brooklyn, with a handy google alert set up to peep any and all mentions of his name, and as you can imagine, he was none too happy with my grandstanding and press release releasing.

and so, after first receiving word that mr metz had a slight bone to pick with me, and sending a few very contrite emails his way, I respectfully decided to tone down my spicy metzcentric flavor, and carried on, chastened but not silenced.

today, as Moe Berg's Year III commences, i am happy to announce that, not only is The Real Simon Metz not angry at me any longer, but he has graciously accepted my offer to send a message to my swelling audience.

and so, without further delay…here's a word from the real Simon Metz.

Folks, on the 2^nd anniversary of Moe's blog I wanted to share with you a story which is now a joke between Moe and me. Who is this? Well I am the "real" Simon Metz that Moe has referred to in the past (http://www.simonmetz.com) a humble Senior Technical Project Manager in New York City whose parents named me without any knowledge (I hope) of the circus freak with the same name. Once I started to read Moe's blog and talk with him, I realized that the blog's name was really just a fun coincidence, and rarely mentioned the "other" Simon Metz other than a picture or two in the first year. Moe and I seem to share a love of non- kosher food such as crabs and other crustaceans and I enjoy seeing posts about his travels. My descriptions are not as funny as Moe's but my latest travels are documented at http://www.simonmetz.com/photos/italy_2007.php . That's all for now.

sweet, right? if only he'd told us all his feelings on isiah thomas.

oh well. maybe next year.

Cotton

2007-10-04T19:47:00.000-07:00

so where was I two years ago tonight?

let's see.

i was a wreck. i was bitter. i couldn't sleep. when i wasn't worrying about any number of ridiculous things occurring in the world beyond my control, i was desperately and loudly sucking in air in an endlessly futile attempt to catch my breath, thanks to my boundless reserves of anxiety.

i wasn't me.

and then, for whatever reason, i sat down on my big ass and started writing.

now here we are.

so where is "here"?

you know, i'm not really sure.

but let me put it this way. if you had told me back in the embryonic days of the Metz that 100 weeks on I would have another child and a new job, and that i'd still be sweating out what i was going to write here on a fairly regular basis, it sure as shit wouldn't have helped my emotional state much.

and yet, here i am.

the funny thing is, with all the potential stress that I've actually added to my life since The Days Of Freaking Out i haven't felt this good in a while.

is it because of the blogging?

maybe a little.

i mean, you can ask anyone with a personal blog. they'll tell you that having your own special spot to make with the yack-yack sure doesn't hurt. and as a person, as a writer, as a father, a husband, and guy who likes to post pictures of animals screwing, etc, this grand experiment has turned out to be as enriching as fancy oatmeal.

and even though I put up 53 posts back during the month i started (talk about a cry for help), versus 2 so far for october 07, i remain as dedicated to doing this as i was when i couldn't breathe. and by "this", i mean "sharing self-important bits of minutiae about my life with an intimate group of people who i probably will never meet".

in celebration of the start of year 3, i'm asking for a little selfish favor.

delurk and snoop around.

whether you're an old reader, one of the nice folks who have helped improve my traffic by 60% over the last 12 months, or one of the dozen people who show up every single day looking for information on coxsackie virus, be a dear and pick a month in the archives (on the left, below the links), read a couple of old posts and maybe leave a comment where before there had been only a meager showing.

tomorrow we will kick off year 3 in earnest with the first ever guest blogger on The Metz. and lord knows, if anyone deserves to speak their piece, it's this person.

until then, thanks for reading.

and fuck you, isiah thomas.

Tick

2007-10-01T20:10:00.000-07:00

contrary to popular opinion, mrs b did not pull the plug on the metz after my last ribald post.

no, your boy has been busier than a bean vendor at a fart contest getting started at his new job and battling the head cold that has been snottifying our whole crew at the same time.

hold tight.

Simon Metz Year III begins very soon, with renewed vigor.

i hope.

Where Have You Gone, Ralph Furley? A Nation Turns Its Lonely Eyes To You. Woo Woo Woo.

2007-09-17T20:08:00.000-07:00

i always love it when my life turns into an episode of three's company.

last night it happened again.

to wit:

jb is at the dinner table, gamely tasting a new food with the tried-and-true-baby-steps method that he has developed over the years.

first you look at the food. if it passes muster visually, you sniff the food. if you are still in business, you touch your tongue to the food intermittently until it has been determined that it is safe to take the tiniest of nibbles. once this is achieved without retching or vomiting - a rare feat - you take ever larger bites, inching closer and closer to getting your "i tasted a new food" reward.

last night, The Method was dragging on and on, frustrating mrs b to no end.

finally, she could take no more.

"if you think licking that pickle for 10 minutes is going to get you desert tonight, you're wrong!"

the funny thing is that's exactly how she got a new minivan.

(rim shot. explosive laughter thunders from the crowd)

thank you folks. god bless. you've been wonderful.

(moe exits to wild applause.)

Beyond All This Crap, The Best Part Of The Weekend Was When My Father In Law Was Hit On By A Hooker At The MGM Grand

2007-09-15T20:46:00.000-07:00

somewhere deep in the talmud, it was written long ago, for all to contemplate:

"if you, as a devout and god-fearing son of israel, cannot travel to the holy land for to celebrate the new beginnings of rosh hashanah, why not just pack up the family and go to vegas?"

why not, indeed?

and so, late last week, the mrs and i stuffed the minivan with young boys and their clothes, and trekked across the desert to begin the year 5768 in the company of the mrs' grandparents, aunt, uncle and cousins - sin city denizens all - and my in-laws, who flew in from the garden state just for the occasion.

thursday night, with a generous babysitting assist from bopa and grandma, the mrs and i enjoyed our first night out in a while, and, in the spirit of the holiday, we toasted to all things new over a delicious kosher meal of stone crab claws and oysters. vodka rocks for me. pinot gris for her.

we toasted to the boys' new venture - a successful and fruitful year of kindergarten. full of smiles and fun and friends and plenty of la da dee la da doo.

we toasted to bb - to whom everything is new. who wakes up every single day babbling and giggling over the baby monitor, psyched to get into it one more time.

we toasted to the mrs - and her brand new part-time gig helping teach america's children phonics one animal sound at a time.

and finally, we toasted to me.

because after 8 years on both coasts working somewhere i love to work, among people i truly care about, doing something i actually jog up the office steps at 545 am to do, the time finally came last week to give notice.

in a little less than two weeks, i will begin a new job, something that i expect will offer me the type of challenge and opportunity for which i was searching when i moved us all out here 4 years ago.

and i couldn't be more excited.

during the long drive home today, i found myself impulsively taking a bunch of pictures through the windshield of the highway stretched out in front of us. somewhere around victorville, mrs b asked me why i was taking so many. i told her honestly that i didn't know.

but now, a few hours later, after putting my family to bed, and then clicking through my iPhoto for a while, and seeing the while crew smiling back at me from the screen, followed by mile after mile of the road ahead, i think i have some idea.

Spread Out, Porcupine

2007-09-09T14:15:00.001-07:00

for years, it's been a running joke in my family that my late grandmother minnie once dated larry fine of the three stooges.

while no one would love that to be the truth more than me, the real story is that, when she was a single woman, min once stayed at a hotel in the catskills where the stooges were the featured entertainment. during the course of the show, as the band played, the guys went out into crowd and grabbed random ladies for a quick comic dance. granny was one of these lucky women.

over time, thanks to my brother, father and my propensity to sometimes embellish a story for entertainment's sake, that chaste little encounter evolved into grandma and larry sharing a torrid, weeks-long pre-grandpa love affair. a love affair that we all know never occurred.

or did it?

presenting a photograph i took the other night of a post-bath, post-towel dry bb.

sorry, grandpa.

sometimes the truth needs to stare you in the face before you can truly accept it.

(the only other explanation i can think of is that mrs b has something she needs to tell me.)

AB Went With Chopped String Cheese On Wheat

2007-09-06T19:41:00.000-07:00

it's not too often that your kid gets the most difficult homework assignment of their life the day they begin their education - but that's just what happened 'round here yesterday, when the boys returned from their inaugural school day with the following marching orders.

1) help mommy or daddy make your favorite sandwich.
2) bring it to school.
3) eat it.

ok, first thing's first. the boys don't have a favorite sandwich. they don't eat sandwiches.

period.

not once, in their five plus years on this big blue marble have they ever successfully picked up two pieces of bread with something edible tucked between them, bitten through with their tiny teeth, chewed - heartily or otherwise - and swallowed to completion.

not once.

time and my sanity permit me from going into the reasons for my sons' hyperpickiness, but suffice it to say, we are well past the point of reasoning, bargaining or rational explanation.

but a homework assignment is a homework assignment, and we're not about to start slacking this early into the education process.

and so it begins.

it begins with jb backing himself against the cabinets, dewy-eyed and defensive, as i explain that, yes, i understand that you don't like bread and sandwiches and just about everything that you can put on a sandwich, but this is what the teacher wants you to do.

it continues with my many creative suggestions as to what we could both put on sandwich #1.

turkey? no.

peanut butter? no.

jelly? no.

cheese? roast beef? avocado? banana?

with his hand over mouth, head whipping back and forth, and sweat forming on his brow, i am shut down across the board.

"what about," he whispers, looking up at me desperately, "hot dog?"

my blood runs cold.

"god help me," i think to myself, "there's no way a loving father can send his son to school clutching a sandwich made of cold, greasy chunks of hot dog stuck to sweaty white bread. there's just no way."

"what about," i find myself saying against all better judgement, "a turkey dog sandwich?"

like that would be any better.

and so we grill two bright orange organic turkey dogs on a flat griddle. and then we split them lengthwise and bisect the resulting dog planks. and then jb presses them into the bread he's pulled from the bag until they adhere to the spongy surface like scrap meat barnacles.

and then jb demands that i cut his demon sandwich on an angle, thereby ensuring all the turd sized chunks will spill from his hands onto the floor wherever he happens to be when he unleashes this monstrosity.

and then i quickly stuff the sandwich into a ziploc bag, and as i seal that bag, a puff of air wafts up from within and hits my nose and i imagine that this is what it must smell like when someone tries to put out a fire at a poultry farm by taking a shit on it.

this afternoon, the bread returned home from school. the turkey dog nubs did not.

"i picked out the hot dogs one at a time," jb explained to me with a smile, "one by one by one and i ate them up."

for some reason i find this as chilling as hearing a serial killer explain what he did with the body.

it will some time before i stop imagining i see hot dog grease glistening in the corners of my son's mouth.

unclean.

unclean.

One Day Down, 16 Years To Go

2007-09-05T19:53:00.000-07:00

on my first day of kindergarten, my mother didn't pack a snack for me.

i'm over it now.

but back then, when the time came for mrs pasquarelli to announce that it was snack time and that all the children in the class should go to their cubby and take out whatever it was that their parents had sent with them to nosh on, i sat motionless in my tiny chair at my tiny table, absolutely clueless about what to do and more than a little embarrassed.

which is why i was so relieved and grateful when a kid to whom i had never spoken before, and who just happened to be sitting at my table, offered me one of his carrot sticks with a shy smile.

god knows that i hated carrots then like i hate carrots now, but even at 5 years old, i could recognize generosity. and as i crunched on that carrot like i was bugs bunny himself, i knew something cool had just happened to me.

30 years later, that kid with the carrots is a regular reader of The Metz - and while we may not be as close as we became in the years following that vegetable exchange, i would still give him the shirt off my back. as long as he promised not to snicker at my tits.

i told that story to the boys last night as we talked about what the first day of school is all about - minus the tits part.

and they understood.

they understood about listening and sharing and meeting new people and making friends that will stand by you for the rest of their life.

and then they went to sleep with smiles on their faces.

this morning they woke up and began kindergarten.

one went into one class. one went into another.

and they settled in without drama, without fear, and without a single tear drop. i wish i could say the same for me.

the best part is, i don't doubt for a second that if they ever ran into a kid without carrots that they would open up their bag with a smile and share.

i mean, if they ate carrots. or celery. or, say, cherry tomatoes. or anything besides grilled cheese, dry bagels and/or hot dogs.

Lazy Nostalgia

2007-09-03T20:21:00.000-07:00

after a weekend that involved the beach, a freakish sunburn, a carnival, a sandler sighting, school shopping (clothes/supplies) out the ass, one final bbq and 4 hours of swimming...

i only have the energy to post this

a video i edited of a then-wee jb and ab about three years ago, not too long after we moved into our house.

why this? why now?

mainly because the boys and i were killing time today by poring over a bunch of the old movies i shot of them back in the day, and this is the one that got the best reviews. plus, i think they were a little jealous of the heat that's been coming bb's way ever since i posted the yammering video.

sure, he's cute and little and all - but all the cyberattention has made the little shit insufferable.

Irregardless...Supposably

2007-08-30T21:00:00.000-07:00

as the son of two teachers and the brother of another, i have an eternal respect for people who dedicate their lives to the education of others...

and as a person who is a grammar nerd, a stickler for proper usage and definition, who also happens to be a writer by trade, i have that same type of respect for the english language...

and as a homeowner who did hours of research in order to ascertain that he and his wife were buying a home zoned for what is considered by many to be finest public elementary school in the san fernando valley...

i was kind of bummed today when mrs b and i took the boys to their kindergarten orientation and the principal began his speech by happily exclaiming:

"parents, you know. this age, the age your children are at right now is just the

funnest

age there is."

"funnest"

at the risk of sounding like a snob, let me just say

"grrrrr."

and now to counter balance any curmudgeoness, please allow me to present the still unnicknamed bb in a piece he calls "yammering":

notice how the griping stops immediately when the food heads for the in-hole. like father like son.

Flagrant

2007-08-28T20:26:00.001-07:00

i love charles oakley.

as in...

at forward. 6' 8". number 34. tri-captain charles oakley.

in case you don't know...

for almost a decade, the oak was the heart, soul and big bad ass of my beloved new york knickerbockers. my currently broken, disgraced, embarassing new york knickerbockers. every night, #34 would hit the garden court, get the knicks his usual 10 and 12, and, more importantly, knock the hot tar out of anyone dumb enough to try to get an easy basket. they may have dubbed patrick ewing 'the warrior' up in the blue seats, but if it ever came time to really go to war - all out brass knuckle type skull breakin' nut stompin' war - i'd go with oak every single time.

and i'm pretty sure i'm not alone.

need proof?

do you know who michael jordan's wingman is? every night? in real life?

charles oakley.

that's got to count for something, right?

one time i accidentally saw the two of them together, coming out of the four seasons in houston on allstar weekend as i was walking back to our crew van. any eyewitnesses would tell you that they saw a lot of flashbulbs, and about 30 people standing there caught up in the moment yelling "michael! michael!" oh, and one little jew shouting "oak! oak!"

(that would be me.)

more proof?

the oak stepped up and silently bitch-slapped career nba bum tyrone hill on the court, pre tip-off when hill wouldn't pay up $54,000 after losing to oak at dice. a couple of years later, he popped a seated jeff mcinnis at a shoot around over a woman.

plus, he runs a notoriously efficient and well-maintained chain of car washes.

so, why am i writing about oak, 4 years after his retirement from the nba?

he wants to come back. at 43 years old.

and i'm all for it.

bottom line, the nba could use a guy like the oak these days. someone needs to step up and teach the young punks what hustle is. what busting your ass on the court is. and how to wear a merlot purple double breasted suit.

but don't take my word for it. let's let the man himself speak - from today's episode of PTI...

"i can bring a lot of influence. and that's what a lot of teams need. details. like a car wash. manicure. flower bed. whatever."

yes, oak. the league needs a manicure. and a flower bed. especially the knicks.

spread the word.

bring back the oak.

and fuck isiah thomas.

Zen And The Art Of Used Formula

2007-08-23T20:10:00.000-07:00

you know the character harvey keitel plays in pulp fiction? the wolf?

yeah, well...i've turned into him. only instead of making headless shotgun victims and the brain matter they left behind disappear from the backseats of cars, i make sprawling puddles of baby vomit disappear from couches and rugs.

i can't say this is a talent i ever wanted to develop. i can only say that if your kid barfs on your sofa, i can save the sofa. i guarantee it. i'm that good.

this skill developed slowly, starting back in the day, thanks to jb's hairtrigger retch reflex. unfortunately, back then, i didn't always save the patient. like any rookie eager to show what he's made of, i was raw. i had to face faster and faster pitching in order to get my swing down.

these days, i'm the barry bonds of baby barf.

i proved it once again this week after bb caught mrs b's headcold and turned into 17 pounds of mr creosote.

formula goes in. pause. vomit comes out.

to mrs b's credit, she's usually able to feel the wave before it actually arrives - like a dog before an earthquake - and is kind enough to point his eject-hole away from any porous material.

usually.

it's during the non-usually that i get to shine.

like any pro at the top of his game, i'm a little hesitant to reveal my actual technique - lest another hot shot step up and wally pipp me, but i will say this - that meathead in the oxyclean commercials?

he and his little squirt bottle aren't just letting off hot air.

and always remember, you will only truly be free once you realize that febreze will only get you so far.

But You're My I-Give-Up-Mobile

2007-08-16T20:30:00.000-07:00

dear honda odyssey,

i don't care how high the numbers go on your speedometer...

you are not a performance vehicle. you are an i-give-up-mobile.

sincerely,

moe

Would Still Smell As Sweet

2007-08-14T16:41:00.000-07:00

once upon a time, back when i had even an even more anemic readership 'round here, i put it to The People to choose my official nickname.

the response was underwhelming to say the least - which is why i am still ambling through life lamely answering to either my first name or my last name, or some combo-variation of the two, and not some cool handle with a dangerous underground backstory. weak.

anyhow...

over time, the handsome, fit folks who have shown up here have demonstrated an increasing interest in having a say and making their opinions known. for proof, all you need to do is scroll down to the recent "doody vs. glop" debate, which set a comment record.

and that's why i'm opening up the floor again.

take a good look at this kid.

he needs a nickname.

badly.

and you are going to be the ones to give it to him.

here we go.

ok, first thing's first...there might have been some noise around here once upon a time about ab and jb calling the kid YUB-NUB. yeah, well, forget all that. lasted like a week. ancient history. out of the running.

here's what we're working with so far:

mrs. b has taken to calling him NOO-NOO. this name is a masculinization of the original LOO-LOO, which after field testing for a few days, mrs b rightfully decided was too feminine a name for such a young stud. when i asked mrs b where loo-loo came from, she said "it just came out of me". like a turd, i suppose.

i am guilty of calling the boy DIT-DIT - which may actually be gayer than loo-loo. as for where dit-dit comes from, it really is just me copying the noise he likes to make the most. i say "hey there dit-dit!" and he grins and echoes back with a teeny tiny "dit dit". and so i say it again. classic positive reinforcement of a negative behavior.

next up is BUCK. now, currently, no one in the house calls him buck. i've tried a few times - but mrs b won't have it. at all. personally, i happen to think buck sounds perfect next to our last name. and, thanks to its classic throw-back status as a true all-american nickname, i think there are worse things for a good lookin' young lad to be called.

and finally, there's the randomly used HAPPY. as in happy gilmore.

and because he's pretty much always happy. used at least once a day by yours truly.

i will also accept write-in suggestions.

look at the picture again.

gaze into those baby blues. ruminate upon those strawberry-blonde curls. find your inspiration and deliver something sweet in the comments. and if a name appears in the comments that you think works, stand behind it. second a nomination. i promise that whatever the winner is, i will make a concerted effort to sell it here by calling him by that name over and over and over in front of my wife and other children until it either sticks or my wife divorces me.

it goes without saying that i'm counting on you to treat this issue with the solemnity it deserves.

this boy's fate

is in your hands.

(oh, and p.s. - a big gasface to noah wylie, who, according to mrs b, silently stinkeyed my boys for having exuberant fun in the vicinity of his - in her opinion - overprotected kids at the skirball center today. lame, dr carter. very lame. in the words of mike leak...let them play! let them play!)

JFK to BUR

2007-08-13T07:13:00.000-07:00

i once read that if you really want to know what your home smells like to other people when they come visit, go away for two weeks, and when you return, as soon as you open the front door, take a big, deep whiff. whatever scent you discover dancing in your snotbox at that exact moment is Your Smell.

that said, i was pleasantly surprised to discover what My Smell was when we got back this past saturday after a fortnight on the east coast.

kind of a clean, cold mix of laundry detergent and freon.

i would have bet for sure it would be closer to the barnyard end of the spectrum.

as for new york, it was full of stuff like this...

and my first diner burger in a long time.

search all you want, but you just can't get that kind of dirty grill char out here in southern california. the ex-new yorkers will vouch for me.

East

2007-08-04T07:07:00.000-07:00

1/2 way through our new york trip.

forgive the radio silence.

Semantics

2007-07-23T19:26:00.000-07:00

there are times when you just want to encase your kids in environment-proof lucite to keep them from ever aging another day, so you can hold them forever in the cute-upon-cute days of their early childhood. other times you want to do the same thing, but only because it would make it easier to carry them out of the house and put them in storage so you'd never have to see them ever again.

and sometimes, you want to do both at the exact same time.

case in point - the rare and completely-out-of-character tantrum ab threw tonight that had mrs b and myself alternately furious at his petulance and tickled to the point of laughter-stifling because of how accidentally hysterical he was being.

what had him so angry?

let us go back to a couple of weeks ago when the boys got a 'gross magic' set as a gift - a handy all-in-one kit perfect for any child who wants to learn how to, like, make a big plastic booger disappear or create a realistic looking turd out of two bags of brightly colored slime.

tonight, i asked ab to pick up one of these faux turds from the floor and put it away before dinner.

i believe the exact quote was, "ab, do me a favor and pick up that doody and come to the table."

he stopped in his tracks.

"it's not doody. it's glop," he told me.

i thought he was kidding.

"looks like doody to me, pal."

he glowered, paused for a moment and raised his voice.

"it's not doody! it's glop!" he shouted. "GLOP!"

hearing the commotion, jb came running into the room, not about to let a chance to needle his brother go by.

"there's no such thing as glop," he said with a devilish smile on his face, "that is doody."

that's all ab needed to hear. the tantrum had begun.

"IT'S NOT DOODY! NOT DOODY! DON'T CALL MY GLOP 'DOODY'!"

let me pause here to say that i can count on one hand the amount of tantrums each of my sons have had in the past three years. and, not that i'm making excuses, but ab is suffering from a head cold. that said, i was shocked by the zero to sixty ferocity i was seeing, which is why decided i had to cut this off asap. well, that, and it was also becoming damn near impossible to keep from laughing in his face.

always the diplomat, i let him go until he took a breath, shhhhed him off the ledge, dried his tears while i hugged him into silence and then whispered in his ear that throwing a tantrum isn't acceptable behavior, but i was also sorry i had made him so upset.

he understood completely. the tantrum was over. he half-smiled, wiped his nose with his arm, picked up the offending product and handed it to me.

as he walked off to wash his hands for dinner, i studied what i had been handed for a moment. after the past 5 minutes, for whatever reason, it looked different to me. was it, in fact, doody? or could it actually be glop? did he have a point?

i leave that decision to you, fair metz readers.

should you want to weigh in on this matter, and help determine who was right - a 5 year old or his dad - feel free to click here, on a link that will take you to a photo of ab holding his mystery item, handily separated from The Metz as a courtesy to those of you with fair constitutions who might not want to gaze upon what i'm talking about here - even if it is fake.

please make your opinion known in the comments - with the understanding that i will present them all to ab on his 18th birthday and, depending on who ends up victorious here, tell him whether or not i will be paying for his college.

4 New York

2007-07-19T20:11:00.001-07:00

until last night, i had no idea just what len berman meant to me.

for the uninitiated, len berman is, and forever will be, the warm, semitic face of sports on wnbc, the local nbc affiliate in new york, who has been happily spanning the world in search of the night's athletic highlights since at least the mets' last world series victory. you want to see news on how the yankees middle relief took a shit again or how the islanders gave up a dozen goals in toronto or footage of a half-stoned looking stephon marbury handing out turkeys in coney island on thanksgiving and you want it delivered in a classy way - without any smirking or catchphrases? you turn on the tv at about 25 after 11 any weeknight and you check out The Berm.

at least you do if you live in the greater new york metropolitan area. something i haven't done for a few years now. which is why i've had to make do with getting my sports highlights from the army of nameless local la sportsguys, none of whom have made an impression on me in the nearly 4 years i've been back here, or from the catch-phrase spewing retards on espn.

that is, until last night.

last night is when the good folks at directv finally hooked me up to their "Local NY Only In LA" package - wherein i now get a piece of the magic of channel 382...

wnbc new york.

yes, here i sit in my los angeles home, happily able to watch the east coast feed of my hometown station. sure, it may not be impressive on paper, but as a new yorker in exile, i can assure you it's as cool as what you'd get if fonzie and miles davis screwed. not only can i start tivoing prime time shows at 5 pm and catch conan just in time for bed live at 9:30, i now get the local new york news at 8 pm, and len at 8:25.

sure, it may not sound that important, but honestly, despite the fact that i really don't watch much tv at all, there's something very comforting about seeing an up-to-date real time taste of your hometown every single night, just like you did every day of your life when you lived there. and at the risk of sounding pathetic, it's actually fun to see the local car commercials, which have lexuses and toyotas driving all over nyc, instead of the same santa monica pier shots i've seen hundreds of times out here.

in a weird way, it was even nice to see last night's live coverage of that steampipe explosion - local, levelheaded reporting from the scene, instead of the bullshit scattershot "is it terrorism?" i found all over the internet, when i couldn't find decent coverage on cable. (speaking of which, a big old fashioned al goldstein style fuck you to MSNBC, which had a big read headline on its web page reading something like "explosion in midtown manhattan. reports of building collapse" for at least an hour. way to scare monger, a'holes.)

will the thrill wear off? no doubt. but as the temperature climbs here in the hottest part of southern california, and the date that the family and i head back to long island for 2 weeks draws nearer, this little television treat has been like a nice appetizer, reminding me that, while my home is here on the west coast, my roots in the east aren't going anywhere anytime soon.

Before & After

2007-07-16T20:43:00.000-07:00

today i got in a wild mass email dialog with a few of my oldest friends - sam, harris, peter and craig - about a true high point in all our lives, the summers we spent at camp poyntelle/lewis village. for two straight hours, the inbox was bulging and i was laughing out loud at my desk thinking about how great it was to be 16 years old and completely carefree. after the whirlwind was done, my gmail was somewhere in the neighborhood of 150 emails heavier, my cheeks ached from smiling, and i had in my possession a few 20 year old photos, courtesy of craig and his scanner.

one photo in particular stood out for me.

there he is.

your boy. in the peak physical condition of his life. rocking the full on, perfectly conditioned hebro mullet. completely titless, fully headbanded and totally confident. could be the best photo ever taken of him.

now contrast that photo to this one taken almost 2 decades to the day later.

that's me. i'm drunk and about to date rape a rented frozen margarita machine.

please feel free to show this blog to any impressionable teens you know. let them learn what i could not.

Also, He Said Something About Robert Duvall Should Be Ashamed of Himself

2007-07-05T11:44:00.000-07:00

presenting jb's as-the-credits-rolled review of the recently tivo'ed "kicking and screaming"...

"daddy, there was a lot of kicking but no screaming."

Now The Readership Can Drop Off Once And For All

2007-07-02T20:02:00.000-07:00

to my astonishment, complete strangers continue to turn up here at the Metz in numbers i never expected to see, with the express purpose of reading about the adventures of children who they have never laid eyes on in person, and most likely will never ever meet. my respect for these amazing people is why i have never really gone to the ol' daddy blog standard, the poop story.

(ok, maybe i did. once. but very very briefly.)

it is with that above mentioned respect that i strip this horrible little ditty down to its barest elements...

me receiving a gracious invitation from a friend to use the beautiful pool at his equally beautiful - but completely locked and alarmed - home while he and his wife were away.

my sons and i enjoying two hours of swimming.

panic.

me desperately holding an empty cvs bag up to jb's ass in order to catch the solid byproduct of his rhino sized farts before it could befoul my friend's patio.

me then holding the foul foul bag up to ab's ass only seconds later, so he - doing what twins do - could give it his own best shot, in a mighty, but ultimately fruitless, effort to get a taste of the al fresco fun his brother had just gleefully enjoyed.

me holding the bag for jb one more time so he could get the last word (so to speak).

me removing the bag from the premises and driving home with it in my car to prevent my friend from accidentally discovering the horror of what had occurred at his lovely home.

me initially contemplating suicide, but instead turning to haagen dazs dulce de leche.

and now let us never speak of this again.

Tricky Kid

2007-06-25T20:11:00.000-07:00

everybody wants to be naked and famous.

Truly Tuddish

2007-06-24T19:43:00.000-07:00

i am not an excitable person.

i mean, not unless there's a buffet and/or open bar.

tonight, however, i am very excited - and i have to share the jazz.

there are three - count 'em! - three things floating around moe berg's bean that have the potential to make him lose sleep. me being me, however, you can bank on the fact that these three things are as stupid as a turkey on nitrous.

1) strawberries, sour cream and brown sugar.

holy fucking shit in a pickle barrel on essex street!

seriously.

originally, it was the picture (seen above) that caught my eye when i saw it on tastespotting - but a tub o'cream, bucket o'berries and bag o'sugar later...

wow.

is it any wonder i have partonish teats?

2) the chance that mike bloomberg may run for president.

i know. i know. he has no shot - thanks mostly to the fact that he's only slightly less jewy than stacy london...

...but a guy can dream can't he?

despite living clear across the country from his actual constituency, i will always be a new yorker at heart, which is why i have followed what mayor mike's done with a careful eye since the day he took the oath of office in that nasally little pompous sounding voice of his. and it truly is astounding.

and you can ask anyone unlucky enough to spend extended periods of time with me. i've been beating the presidential drum for this guy for a while now.

why?

bottom line, president mike would do what needed to be done, party affiliation be damned, polls be damned, beholden to absolutely no one - and, unlike another certain napoleonic billionaire we all remember, he actually has a political track record. and an impressive one to boot. i'd love to think that my fellow americans are mature enough to look past partisan politics, ready to send a message and willing to embrace a little bit of tough love at the same time.

but then again...

3) boontling.

yes, boontling.

let me explain.

did you know that the people of boonville, california - and only the people of boonville - speak an entirely unique folk language? i sure as shit didn't, until the moment late last week when a buddy of mine casually told me the story of the day he was driving down from northern cali through the anderson valley, and stopped at a roadside diner to ask for a cup of coffee, only to be told that they don't serve coffee, they serve "zeese".

it's not the actual language that i find so mindblowing - it appears to be kind of like hobo/hillbilly yiddish with an unnatural focus on words that deal with the genitals - it's the fact that i had never ever ever ever heard of it before.

can you remember the last time you learned something absolutely 100% new? like one minute, you're living your life perfectly well without ever being cognizant that there is something out there about which you've never imagined a single thing...the next minute, you're like "how the fuck did i never hear of this? and how did i ever live without it?" it's a weird feeling. a weird, amazing feeling.

swear to god, before my man told me about boontling, the last time i felt so enlightened was when i was walking around the musee d'orsay in paris and i could physically feel atrophied parts of my brain come to life as i took it all in.

am i making too much of this? maybe. do i sound a bit like a schizophrenic off his meds? perhaps.

but if you don't like it, you and i are going to cock a fister on and i'm going to make you gorm my ose wipin's.

Diastasis of the Union

2007-06-22T21:03:00.001-07:00

in december 2001, these guys

delivered the set-up punch.

a little more than five years later, this dude

came through with the knockout blow.

which is why, as i type this, the mother of my children is convalescing on our sofa from her second surgery in a month - with a drain in each of her sides, a pain pump, a tummy full of percocet, and a compression garment squeezing the shit out of her rebuilt abdomen.

if my calculations are correct, the world premiere of mrs b's new belly button will be held about 3 weeks from tonight. and our publicist is going to kill me for giving this away, but if the negotiations go as well as they have been going, neil sedaka is going to sing at the ribbon cutting ceremony.

feel free to email me for press credential information.

Chapter 35

2007-06-19T21:43:00.000-07:00

where have the posts gone?

well, as a wise man once said, 'there's doings a-transpiring!'

i think it was a fat guy from shelbyville with curly hair standing in the auto impound lot in the lemon tree episode of the simpsons, but i'm not 100% certain.

(actually, i am, because i am 15% nerd and 100% cursed with a photographic memory for useless media detritus. but anyway...)

it's been quite a week 'round the old berg place. and thankfully, that week was the kind of week that ends with your face a bit stronger from the smile-workout you've been doing every single day.

and although i'm not normally one for rote re-caps, seeing as i assume that the strangers out there in Internetland who don't really know me or my kin don't rightfully care too much about the trivialities of my day-to-day-to-day, i'm going to run it down as it all happened - if not for you or for me, then for my biographers, who i assume will pore over this blog someday and thank their lucky stars in the dark dark night that someone made their miserable lives a little easier.

so let's begin last wednesday night...

...the night my little baby boys jb and ab stepped up and became pre-k alumni before my very eyes.

yes, with all four grandparents kvelling in their seats, and their proud mama, papa and baby brother looking on, my little men joined the graduating class of their preschool in standing on the stage, singing 5 songs, doing the mexican hat dance and macarena for some reason, receiving their diplomas, and showing off their well-deserved grins.

i was prepared for a torrent of joy-tears, but ultimately only had to dry a few. in the end, the whole thing was more cute than emotional, but i will cop to snotting a bit during the final march out to 'pomp and circumstance'.

the ceremony was followed by a near bar-mitzvah level celebration in the adjoining ballroom - wonderfully organized by mrs b and a few of her fellow classmothers/friends. there was a dj, a farewell video i was forced to help produce against my will, and a bountiful spread for all to enjoy. the kids went apeshit on the dancefloor from the moment the music started pumping, and all the bubbies and zaydes ate like they had two assholes.

it was a joy to behold - even if a few of the whinier alter kockers complained to mrs b that there weren't enough strawberries or that - no joke - the paper plate that they were offered off the stack was smaller than the paper plate people ahead of them in line got before they ran out and had to open a new bag.

...

next up for the crew was a little saturday night birthday party mrs b threw for me in the berg family backyard.

a few dozen of my friends, family members and i enjoyed the taco stylings of lety's catering, the intoxicating chill of a margarita man margarita machine, plenty of beer, and sprinkles cupcakes instead of a cake.

it was a blast - and to top it all off, my folks surprised me by flying in my brother from new york to join in the festivities. the only thing that would have made things even better was if i hadn't decided to drunkenly snap self-portraits with just about every single guest at the party, thereby capturing my puffy bosom and new double chin along with a semi-fey zoolanderish lip purse/stare for posterity and forever.

(i know i don't have to post a few of those shots here, but how honest is telling without showing?)

and after all the fun and drinking and eating and snapping and laughing and laughing, jb did something cute enough to make him a forever-and-ever legend among everyone hanging out. somewhere on the short side of 11 pm, once he and his brother decided they had had enough partying and were going to abandon their goal of making it up until midnight, jb announced he wasn't going to bed without hugging every single guest.

and that's just what he did.

every

single

guest.

and then me.

and after all that, father's day and my birthday on monday were kind of anti-climactic.

which leads us to another wise man, who once said, "have you been to college? 'cause we only take yeggs what's been to college."

this of course, has no correlation at all to what i've just written about, but it does give me a chance to quote miller's crossing. and that movie's the shit.

But Seriously...The Details In The "Thank Yous" Are Heartbreaking

2007-06-14T12:27:00.000-07:00

metz regulars have probably noticed that things have been slow around here for a little while.

that's only because i've been busy working on my new project...

a video blog.

This Thing Of Ours.

2007-06-11T14:15:00.000-07:00

ok.

no matter what you personally thought of the ending, now that it's over, can everybody and their goomar please stop using the word "whacked" like they're the second coming of vic amuso?

grazie.

I, Puck

2007-06-06T20:47:00.000-07:00

i really enjoy my job.

honestly.

i enjoy what i do when i get there. i enjoy the people i see there. i like the free cans of soda they have there. to quote the wise american poet stanley burrell, 'it's all good.'

but then there are some days that transcend even the usual day to day enjoyability.

like the other day, when i got to go out and spend 15 quality minutes with a man i have admired and been entertained by ever since the first time i ever saw him rip a howling audience an assymetrical new butthole.

my man, don rickles.

as part of the pr push for his new book, "rickles' book" - which happens to be an entertaining, if pretty quick and light, read - mr warmth made an appearance at an la bookstore to greet his faithful fans, pass out a few pre-signed copies of his work and give an interview to a certain handsome young man, one whom we all know and love.

now, we've all seen plenty of interviews with rickles over the years, and i, for one, have always enjoyed it when he does his thing and attacks whoever's asking the questions with a gleam in his eye - whether that person is larry king, or my buddy fink, who once faced a particularly fierce rickles hazing without being completely familiar with his schtick and actually looked kind of dazed when it was all over. and to tell the truth, every time i've seen it happen, it's only made me want to face the man more. just to experience an honest-to-goodness ricklesing.

which is why i was so psyched when i got the assignment.

on this particular evening, however, i found myself across from a rickles who is obviously ready to enjoy the pure adulation that comes with a lifetime of stellar work. the man i spoke to wasn't 'the merchant of venom', but rather a sweet mensch - the one that we've always known was there just behind the crusty persona. he spoke glowingly of his wife barbara, and it was clear how much he loves her - and he spoke wistfully of his buddies frank and johnny, and it was clear how much he misses them.

to me, though, the coolest part of the evening, was when, towards the end of our conversation, rickles' two very young grandsons arrived at the bookstore and immediately climbed up into a pair of stools alongside where their grandpa was holding court. the minute they did, he lit up like vegas itself, and stopped for a moment to silently appreciate how much they meant to him - looking more like a proud zayde than the guy who used to pal around with the rat pack.

when the interview was over, and the camera was turned off, and before they started letting the hundreds of people waiting outside in to genuflect in front of this icon, i decided to take a rare opportunity to play fanboy. i told rickles honestly how much his comedy has made me laugh over the years, and how much i appreciate all he's done over his career. and although i'm sure he hears stuff like that every 5 minutes, he seemed to me to be genuinely appreciative of my words - and was nice enough to compliment me on my questions and the way i conducted the interview, before offering his hand up for a surprisingly firm shake.

and in the end, that kind gesture meant more to me than any insult i originally hoped he'd fire my way.

Move Over, Bacon

2007-05-31T12:05:00.000-07:00

welcome one and all to the first installment of what will undoubtedly be a very popular featured series here at The Metz:

"Pointless Debate About A Subject of Such Abject Inconsequence That You Have To Question Whether Or Not It's Even Worth Reading (and Certainly Whether Or Not It Was Worth Writing)"

today's red-hot topic:

"does ordering a bacon, lettuce, avocado and tomato sandwich by specifically asking for a 'balt' make you a tool?'

as always, today's debate will be handled by blog regulars moe berg and simon metz.

---------

"no, it does NOT make you a tool!" by simon metz

i would like to begin today by stating without the slightest hesitation that ordering a "balt" by name is not only nothing of which to be ashamed, it is, in fact, a way for a restaurant patron or other lunch-buyer/eater to demonstrate to the world that they possess the grand confidence and worldliness towards which we all strive. ordering a "balt" says to your fellow man "i know a thing or two about sandwiches. and also acronyms". more importantly, ordering a "balt" delivers a crystal clear signal to your waiter or waitress that you are a member of a new generation of forward thinking sandwich eaters, unbound by the antiquated tradition of ordering your lunch by listing its ingredients one by one. no, my friends, despite what my colleague may tell you below, ordering a "balt" does not make you a tool. it makes you a renegade on par with paradigm changers like issac newton, enrico fermi and pol pot.

----

"sorry asshole, but it DOES make you a tool!" by moe berg

ok, first thing's first. ordering a bacon, lettuce, avocado and tomato by asking for a "balt" is so truly fucked up, i don't even know where to begin. i mean, you may think you're big time when you do it, but what's to stop the waitress from just flipping it on you by being all "you mean a 'blat'?" or like "sorry, sir, but around here we that a 'talb'." how would you feel then? pretty bad, i'd wager. and as for saving time, are you fucking kidding me? what do you have to do that's so important that those 2 seconds are going to make a difference in your life? i've seen where you live, metz, and i know what you do with that lotion and that giant stuffed panda, and more free time is the last thing you need you sick fuck. oh, and bottom line, if you need to feel like mr big dick by changing the sandwich rules, just order a turkey club, hold the turkey and add avocado and you'll get the same thing and you won't look like such a dick when you do it.

----

wow wee! talk about a donnybrook! absolutely amazing!

now it's up to you, dear reader. the time has come take it to the comments and settle things once and for all! believe me, you will never know just how much is riding on your turnout, your decision, and your insightful opinion.

(as always, the views expressed by messrs berg and metz do not necessarily represent those of the management.)

Sweep The Leg (Part VI)

2007-05-30T12:21:00.000-07:00

orange, yellow, green, blue and brown can all suck it.

presenting

the 10 things jb and ab had to do in order to earn their red striped belt at little dragons karate:

demonstrate successful full-body rope suspension
provide acceptable definition of 'discipline'
complete 7 minutes of uninterrupted aerobic exercise
complete 7 minutes of uninterrupted big booty ass-shakin'
eat ortolan in plain sight of God
translate entire script of "schindler's list" into zoom 'ubbi dubbi' language
prepare for the singularity
kill on leno
"it"
"it" with a cinnamon raisin bagel

for the record, that's a look of admiration, not horror.

My Joy Can Be Yours As Well...For The Meager Sum of 45 Dollars Per Inning of Baseball To Be Enjoyed

2007-05-29T10:42:00.000-07:00

this year, los angeles dodgers' third baseman wilson betemit will make $405,000.

i will not.

this past saturday, however, i did manage to subsidize a nice chunk of mr betemit's weekly paycheck with a surprisingly large percentage of mine - thanks to my slightly regretable decision to take jb and ab to dodger stadium for their very first baseball game.

first thing's first.

the decision to take these two out to the ball game was not made lightly. over the years i've seen more than enough dumb fathers with kids who are way too young to appreciate any of what's going on but were still schlepped out to a stadium in full mini-gear to prove that daddy is a big time fan - so big time that he is willing to subject a poor, clueless kid and everyone in the stands around them to what happens when you take a two year old to something other than "sesame street live". that wasn't ever going to be me. it was only after i was completely and totally convinced that my boys a) were old enough to appreciate a real ballpark experience and b) had at least a rudimentary grasp on the game that i decided to go for it.

and they were psyched.

it was all they talked about for the week before gametime.

at least until we got there and things got rolling.

i mean, sure, i got that wide-eyed 'wow, we're really here with our dad' reaction that i hoped i would get when we saw the stadium and walked to our seats, (you know, the one billy crystal has reminisced about in every single interview he's ever given) and that was nice.

almost nice enough to make me forget the endless orgy of impulsive-demanding-of-snacks and kvetching that soon followed.

with apologies to vin scully, here's the play by play.

bottom of the 1st inning:

boys demand lunch. jb insists on hot dogs. ab has been dreaming of stadium chicken fingers for days. we leave our seats, go stand in line, drop around $35 for a full on, drinks-and-all spread and miss back-to-back cubs home runs in the process.

top of the 2nd:

jb disgusted by grill marks on his dodger dog, refuses to eat more than a few bites.

ab polishes off the fries, turns up nose at the chicken.

bottom of the 2nd:

bionic-eared and hank-kingsley-moustachioed ice cream vendor overhears ab casually mention to me that he would like a snack, immediately stops to put the hard-sell on a 5 year old. 5 year old convinces me to drop $6 on a half-gallon of cookies 'n' cream.

one spoonful in, ab decides he doesn't like the ice cream. thankfully, jb picks up some of the slack.

top of the 3rd:

jb takes it upon himself to stop the cotton candy vendor.

at $3 a serving, this will be the smallest financial outlay of the day - but with jb's interest in actually eating the fluffy pink product petering out after 3 bites, it will also ultimately have the highest cost to consumption ratio of anything else bought at the stadium that day.

bottom of the 3rd:

ab begins to bitch about being "sweaty" immediately after noticing the $5 frozen lemonade vendor lurking in the section adjacent to ours.

top of the 4th:

ab's bitching becomes annoying enough for me to offer to buy a frozen lemonade to go along with his jumbo ice water whenever the vendor reappears closer to where we are sitting.

bottom of the 4th:

vendor never reappears, ab's annoying bitching has become a full-on whiny kvetch. we leave our seats, stand in line, buy frozen lemonade.

bottom of the 5th:

return to our seats, lemonade is opened and tasted.

judgement: "too sour".

ab continues to talk about how sweaty he is. jb begins to pick up the talking points. i make a comedic and theatrical attempt to show them that they are, in fact, not the ones who are sweaty...i am. they are not convinced. ab remarks that he wants to leave.

i have had enough.

i calmly but firmly remind my sons about how excited they were to come to the game and explain that, since i have generously bought them every single thing for which they have asked, i would like them to stay with me and enjoy the game until the seventh inning stretch. they begrudgingly agree.

bottom of the 6th:

the boys' first-ever participation in a "wave" makes everything all better for a moment.

middle of the 7th:

boys are confused when everyone in the stadium rises to sing. it immediately dawns on me that while my sons can sing along with any number of classic songs in all possible genres, i have never taught them the words to 'take me out to the ball game'.

i feel like a complete piece of shit.

bottom of the 7th:

the shame and guilt forces me to take my poor, deprived children to the souvenir stand on the way out of the stadium - where they are treated to $56 worth of hats and foam fingers.

a cool breeze blows across the parking lot as we walk to our car. all is finally right in chavez ravine.

ride home:

i provide myself with 45 minutes of well-deserved peace and quiet by tossing an ether soaked rag into the back of my car.

thank you, abner doubleday. thank you for a day i will never forget.

SHS Rocks The House

2007-05-22T11:50:00.000-07:00

go crazy, folks! go crazy!

"why," you ask?

because last night, your boy got to enjoy a rare midweek, high-style night out at the premiere of 'knocked up'.

now, as we have seen in the past, The Metz is not above leaning on a little star effing/gawking once in a blue moon - and today's post will eventually feature plenty of big names. however, this time around the big headline is not who i happened to sit across the aisle from or spy loading up on the sweet potato fries at the after party, it's the incredible Hollywood Representin' that was done by my blessed alma mater, the 135th most prestigious public high school according to newsweek magazine, syosset high school.

SHS factor #1:
since mrs b decided to jump ship at the last minute (much to her chagrin today) , i invited my buddy scott - who i have known since i was about my sons' age - to come along and enjoy the spectacle.

SHS factor #2:
we bumped into our old friend jon - who began his showbiz career by singing in Babar, the group i hastily assembled for my junior year battle of the bands, and who is now a big time movie exec.

SHS factor #3:
the writer and director of 'knocked up' is Judd Apatow...

...who in the past year has officially wrested the title of Most Powerful Syosset Alumni from both natalie portman and secretary of labor elaine chao.

yes, the sy hi pride was in full effect - despite the fact that, being a few years older, judd wouldn't know me from our mutual high school radio station staff advisor jack demasi or edna farber, the english teacher who gave us both great encouragement to be creative. (he used that encouragement to become a very successful film-maker, i used it to write this sparsely attended weblog.)

as the product of a modern hebrew school education, i also took great pride in watching the scene that unfolded in the lobby after the film.

(here comes the star fucking part!)

to my silent delight, i came within a foot or so of The Heavy Hitting Jews Of Comedy - adam sandler, jack black, sasha baron cohen, ben stiller, garry shandling and apatow, along with token dramatic goy tobey maguire - as they all kibbitzed (undoubtedly about banking, the media, the best gentile blood to use in matzoh and other popular semitic topics) with smiles on their faces. their bubbies would all have been proud.

count me among the hundreds of other folks who found themselves blatantly rubbernecking as we made our way out of the theater and towards the party - where i spied a personal hero of mine, phil rosenthal, standing and enjoying a solo nosh, but was too chickenshit to approach him and strike up an awkward conversation.

as for the movie? it's terrific. that's really the only word i can think of to use if i want to sum it all up. hilarious, sensitive, crude, thoughtful...but most of all terrific. and if you've had a kid recently, good luck keeping your eyes dry in the last 5 minutes and credits.

especially if you have to be up before dawn, you're crosstown and it's already almost 10 pm.

i'm emotional like that.

This Begins With News And Ends With Me Making A Schmuck Out Of My Son.

2007-05-16T20:42:00.000-07:00

first up, mrs b had her surgery yesterday.

the good doc put her down, poked two holes in her side, flossed in the scope, lit her up like a chinese lantern, took a look around, and immediately changed his plans. the giant hernia that he and the radiologist thought was there thanks to the MRI she had 2 weeks ago? yeah. not there.

so, good news...no hernia surgery, no 8 week recovery, in and out of the hospital in 18 hours. bad news...to correct what really is wrong will require another surgery. bleh.

----

and while i'm reporting from the front, and recording things for posterity, i should mention that yesterday's medical rollercoaster was actually the second we had around here in three days, thanks to jb's Mother's Day Back Seat Shazam.

the plan was to roll to The Grove with the crew, including Mother B, who has been in town ready to help with all the shit we thought we weren't going to be able to do because of the surgery that was supposed to happen. the itinerary included walking around, drinking in the sun, getting a nosh at the farmer's market, letting the boys ride the trolley...that sort of thing.

anyhow, before we hit the 101, we stop to gas up the m'van - and just as i finish filling 'er up, jb frantically unbuckles his seat, jumps up, starts screaming and crying and clutching his chest and yelling 'my heart's beating so fast! this hurts! take me to the doctor!'

yeah.

this from a kid who likes going to the doctor about as much as i like going to ruby's.

tears are flowing, he's screaming, he's crying, we're trying to keep cool and not freak him out more than he already is. long story short, 2 minutes later as we're racing to the local urgent care, his pain vanishes and he's singing along to 'born to run' like it never happened. 2 hours and a thorough urgent care exam later, we are free to enjoy what's left of our Mother's Day with a best case diagnosis of nothing. worst case scenario, my baby had his first Big Boy Gas Cramp.

crisis averted, we rethought our plans to hump it all the way to The Grove and decided on a little Let's Forget This Whole Thing Happened Ice Cream Party at the local Cold Stone Creamery. and when that was done, we hit barnes & noble - where i let jb pick out any book he wanted for being so good at the doctor's office.

to my dismay, he insisted on getting george tenet's new book.

in the end, though, after a frank discussion, we both agreed we really shouldn't put any money in that son of a bitch's pocket and he happily settled on his second choice.

normally, i wouldn't have gone for it, but he enjoyed the 2006 edition so much, i kind of had to get him the 2007 edition.

Taste Of Foot

2007-05-08T20:00:00.000-07:00

i've been thinking for a while of a way i could make The Metz more interactive. perhaps inspire my readers to roll up their sleeves and participate a little, instead of just soaking up my Genius Word Gravy like so much internet bread.

("genius word gravy" is a registered trademark of SiMoeCo Industries, LLC)

today is step one in the grand hands-on experiment.

presenting the game sure to sweep the technorati charts in no time:

"how well do you know moe berg?"

the rules are simple. i provide three real-life situations in which i was required to drop a little Genius Word Gravy. you try to deduce, through the wonder of multiple choice, what it is i actually said when prompted to speak.

we'll start easy and get harder. and if you want to prevent yourself from falling behind, feel free to consult the archives for a hint on solving question one.

---

question one:

moe berg is interviewing french film legend catherine deneuve about her new film, "les voleurs", in which she shares a sensual same-sex love scene in a bathtub, with an actress young enough to be her daughter. in an attempt to butter ms. deneuve up for a question about said scene, moe berg remarks:

a) "forgive me for saying so, but i actually think you look more beautiful in this film than you've ever looked on screen before."
b) "i can't remember the last time i saw a love scene as sensual and erotic as the one in this film."
c) "i'm sitting there watching this thing and...you can almost see pubic hair!"

---

question two:

moe berg is having a few cocktails with friends in a bar on the upper west side of manhattan a few years after graduating college. a not-unattractive girl who used to live across the street from him off campus, and who he hasn't seen since graduating, walks up and says hello. the two twenty-somethings fall into a pleasant conversation, during which this young woman remarks that she has recently begun culinary school. moe berg smiles broadly and says:

a) "wow. i really admire you for following your dream. that's something not enough people do."
b) "knowing the type of person you are, i'm sure you're going to be a big hit in whatever kitchen is lucky enough to have you cooking in it."
c) "pop quiz, hotshot. how do you make a beef wellington? HOW DO YOU MAKE A BEEF WELLINGTON?!"

---

question three:

moe berg is in the operating room where his twin sons have just been born 10 weeks premature. their health is still uncertain. the mood is guardedly optimistic, as the boys have been born alive, but decidedly grim, because they are so small and arrived so early. as soon as they have each been whisked off to the neonatal intensive care unit, moe's wife's obgyn begins the task of closing the cesarean incision. after what seems like a silent eternity, the doctor comes around from behind the operating curtain with slow, deliberate steps to talk to moe and his wife about the uncertain status of their newborn children. his scrubs are covered from chin to waist with the dark stains of quickly drying blood. moe is silent for a moment before he opens his mouth and says:

a) "doctor, before you say a word, i want to thank you from the bottom of my heart for doing all you've done here tonight."
b) "doctor, if the nurses in that NICU right now work as hard as i know you've worked tonight, i have no fear for my children's health."
c) "doc, please tell me that's barbeque sauce you've got all over your clothes."

---

i'd put the answers in the comments, but i have a feeling you've all done pretty well on this one.

And Great Grandpa Gus' Pink Toothless Gums

2007-05-03T21:31:00.000-07:00

we're dealing with a double dose of disturbing news around here tonight. thank god we're not talking anything supermajor or life changing, but it is disturbing nonetheless.

first up, we found out last night that mrs b is going to have to have surgery pretty soon to re-repair the hernia that was supposed to have been completely repaired at the same time they excavated bb three months ago. to paraphrase the surgeon, 'you know that swelling that never went down and sensitivity that never went away? yeah, well i just got a peek at the mri you insisted on having even after your obgyn dismissed your concerns, and it turns out you were right. something's up.'

hopefully, she's going to have the surgery taken care of in about a week and a half, followed by a 6 week recovery period - during which she will be unable to lift anything heavier than 10 pounds. as in her newborn son. this is probably also going to prevent her from fixing my usual dinner of two and a half dozen baked potatoes.

as for the second bit of unsettling news... we can now confirm that bb looks exactly, exactly like my mother did when she was an infant. i don't have a scanner, so i can't put up a perfect side by side comparison, but i can do this.

the picture may not do it justice, but trust me...we're talking clonish spitting image here, folks.

moms b happens to be in town right now (who do you think brought the picture?), and i can confirm that she is over the moon about this discovery. as for me, i'm somewhere between amused and very amused. while it will be interesting to have a mini-mom-man living with me for the next 18 years, mrs b and i will both have to keep a close eye to make sure he doesn't develop grandma's tremendous boobs to go along with her contagious smile.

Maybe I'm Just Bitter Because My Pledge Name Was "Wickett"

2007-05-01T21:10:00.000-07:00

george lucas just made my shit list.

first thing's first.

aside from about 25 minutes of a phantom menace hbo broadcast that i saw one night a few years ago before i dozed off, i've never seen any of the "new" star wars movies. i just never had any desire at all - despite my emotional attachment to natalie portman. i'm content with my nice, happy location-specific childhood memories of the first three star wars - seeing the original with my old man at an ornate old theater in bayside when i was probably about 5, getting the goosebumps when the lights went down and the music started for the empire strikes back three years later at a multiplex in levittown, and imagining, for some reason, i could change the traffic lights with my own jedi mind power three years after that, as my father and i drove back from a showing of return of the jedi in great neck.

at the end of the day, on the spectrum of star wars fans - 1 being someone who was molested by someone in a stormtrooper mask and 10 being a minutiae-debating, convention-going jar jar apologist - i probably fall somewhere safely in the middle.

anyhow...

for the last 3 weeks or so, the only dvd the boys have wanted to watch is 'school of rock', which i originally had no problem with. in fact, i think it's a perfect movie. (maybe i'll explain why another time.) but, after a while, like anything around here, familiarity has bred contempt, and after a few dozen screenings, jack black and his little crew have gotten old.

and then out of the blue, ab was digging through the discs and asked if he could watch return of the jedi.

and watch return of the jedi is what he and his brother did. and i joined them. and i enjoyed it one more time after all these years.

about 3/4 of the way through, 5 year olds being 5 year olds, their interest began to wane a little bit. in an attempt to keep them tuned in, i mentioned that if they watched all the way to the end, those little ewoks that they had instantly fallen for were going to sing a very silly song called "yub nub".

that's all i needed to say.

and so we watched.

all the way to the end.

and when we finally got to the end, to my utter dismay, and to the great disappointment of my trusting children, after all the selling i had done, there was no "yub nub". even after i tracked back on the dvd and double checked all the audio channels.

no "yub nub".

suddenly, it dawned on me.

in his legendary zeal to "improve" his original cut, george lucas had all traces of "yub nub" scrubbed from the dvd.

george lucas made me a liar.

strike one.

and so, having been tarnished in the eyes of my children for the very first time, i did what any wronged father would do. i hit the internet to find a copy of "yub nub" to play for them so i could prove that i'm not a total asshole.

strike two.

the boys went totally fucking apeshit the instant they heard the song. after two plays, it was all they wanted to listen to. every 5 minutes for the rest of the day and slightly less since... "dad, play 'yub nub'!"

and now, a few days later, it's not enough that they're still humming it to themselves without realizing it, but they have begun referring to their baby brother as "yub nub".

call me "yub nub"

strike three, yo. strike three.

Book #1 In The "L'il Podiatrist" Series

2007-04-30T05:54:00.000-07:00

this just made me laugh...

...and made me think of infected cartoon feet.

barnes & noble, you've done it again.

----

updated 12:02 pm:

in an attempt to make this lame post a little longer and less mature, i am breaking in with the happy announcement that, thanks to one of today's visitors, i have just learned that The Metz stands alone as the number one google search result for "anxiety induced farting".

i couldn't be prouder.

Stomp! Stomp! Stomp! The Idiot Convention.

2007-04-26T20:30:00.000-07:00

for years, scientists have wrestled with the theory of nature vs. nurture.

as in...

are aggressive sociopaths accidentally created by the environment in which they are brought up - or are they simply born that way?

do some people make an active decision over the course of their lives to actually become gay - or is that just how they're wired?

will loud, aggressive retard music automatically cause you to dance violently - or must you first see old vhs tapes of headbanger's ball to learn how to truly mosh properly?

tonight, at the metz labratories, we were able to answer at least one of these questions. and it's not the gay one. i mean, i don't think it is. not yet, at least.

*ahem*

anyhow...

tonight at dinner, for whatever reason, i decided to assume the role of dj daddy and, paying careful attention to the mood of the meal, i deftly ituned up a little chicken nugget/hot dog eatin' playlist for jb and ab. first, i warmed them up with a handful of their favorite billy joel songs. next, a flawless segue into the big finale number from their current top movie pick, "school of rock", and then we dove immediately into some classic bon scott era ac/dc jams.

shit was poppin' off, yo.

nuggets were being chomped at a speed never before clocked in my kitchen. jb was chewing his greasy, smelly hot dog chunks with the reckless abandon of a mongoloid on death row. you would have sworn the limeade was spiked with everclear.

it was then i did what any good dj worth his weight in salted meats is supposed to do.

i took it even higher.

i took it to slayer.

now, my kids have developed a pretty advanced taste in music over the past 5 years, but they have never heard anything like "raining blood" before. ever. truth is, i hardly even listen to metal that heavy anymore. only on very special occasions. like when i need to get psyched up to dismember a homeless person.

you know that scene in "anchorman" where brian fantana unlocks his bottle of 'sex panther'?

yeah, that's what slayer is like for me. minus the retching.

so...

as the song's opening thunder claps rang out, i started to wonder what these two little boys would think about what they were hearing. would they be scared? would they cover their ears to protect themselves against the over-the-top distortion and speed? would dj daddy be pushing things too far?

luckily, i had my new camera sitting next to me to capture the result.

keep in mind this is the very first time these two knuckleheads are hearing music this aggressive.

as you can see, they began to mosh. naturally.

sure, it was a slow starting, dopey 5 year old version of what moshing is supposed to look like, but you can't deny it was authentic moshing nonetheless. just like the moshing their dear old dad did back when he was young, naive and trying to grow his hair out like the metalhead he dreamed of being even though it would only grow frizzier and frizzier and basically ended up looking like greek pubic hair circa 1977.

and, in the end, what impressed me most about what i saw in my kitchen tonight was that these guys had never before received any visual cue as to what you're supposed to do when you hear this kind of speed metal. they just did it. like birds taking their first flight. like a cat stalking a mouse. like louie anderson breaking into a cupcake factory.

what was supposed to happen, happened.

and when my two beautiful children grow into meth-addicted speed metal freaks living in a squat by the salton sea, we can all look back on this day and remember when.

CCCL

2007-04-23T20:32:00.000-07:00

tonight, instead of the usual tortilla chips and salsa or coffee ice cream and hot fudge, i'm bursting with pride. someone was kind enough to nominate me for one of these.

yeah, check it. that's a thinking blogger award - courtesy of loyal metz reader kirdy.

let it be known that i am flattered. so overjoyed, in fact, that tonight, i let the the children skip their nightly chiropractic adjustment and colonic irrigation. instead, i let them eat ladybugs right off the kumquat tree.

part of receiving a TBA apparently involves tagging a couple of other bloggers that you personally find thought provoking. and while i'm not going to officially drop the meme on them, i will tell you that i hit andrew sullivan's blog as often as he posts, i am jealous of grambo's style at whatevs.org, i get my daily dose of surrealism at thighs wide shut, marmaduke explained makes me laugh out loud, and all new year's got the right idea. granted, none of these are particularly niche, low key or little known, but if i hit you with everything i read in a day, you'd think i didn't do any work at all. (shhhhh.)

and not that my meager traffic's going to light up anyone's sitemeter by any means, but the writing done about the lives lived by the people who actually take the time to sniff 'round here almost every day also happens to be the stuff i find fascinating enough to follow every hour like unscripted drama. funny how that works, no?

and now that the band is playing me off, instead of providing the kind of nose-wrinkling content that has made me an award winning blogger, i'm just going to drop three photos of the kid who's slowly turning from an often loud piece of carry-on luggage into an often loud piece of carry-on luggage with a personality.

oh, and fuck you isiah thomas

Refreshing Candor I Will Probably Regret

2007-04-17T20:51:00.000-07:00

yo.

my new "don't-grind-your-teeth-you-dumbass" night guard is the shit.

actually, replace "is the" with "smells like" and then add "when i take it out of its case to put it in my mouth before i lay me down to sleep" to the end of that sentence.

I Much Prefer Tonight's Other Featured Search..."A Cure For Dog Herina (sic)"

2007-04-16T22:10:00.000-07:00

up until the point when i sat down this evening to do a little writing, i thought i was having a shitty night.

it began in the kitchen - as Short Order Chef Moe prepared the usual four different dinners for four different people.

tonight it was chicken nuggets and fries for ab, yogurt (which technically doesn't require cooking) for jb, grilled lamb chops for mrs b and chimichurri salmon for The Kid, with a side dish overlap for the wife and me in the form of grilled asparagus and garlic rosemary roasted potatoes. i also whipped up a bonus bowl of macaroni and cheese - which was supposed to be the boys' "you have to try a new food" special for tonight.

yes, i have the only children in north america who aren't down with mac & cheese - and who, in fact, get quite agitated at the prospect of having to taste a little bit of it.

anyhow...

despite ab's surprising willingness to tip-toe his way through his assigned spoonful of macaroni, things went south in a hurry when jb refused to even look at his portion. now, at this point in the game, three-years-plus deep into our sons-with-selective-eating hell, mrs b and i already have tried positive reinforcement, bribery, negative reinforcement, punishment and every combination thereof under the sun. and, now, as much as we hate doing it, it's finally come to "listen, you little fucker. you're not leaving the table until you try your new food. period."

one problem. jb quite simply doesn't give a shit.

he sat there last night after he refused to eat the tail end of his grilled cheese sandwich because there was a spot that had browned a little darker than the rest, and he sat tonight because the mac & cheese "smelled bad".

needless to say, the next few hours had an oprah-thick cloud hanging over it.

for me, the nadir came after everyone was finally in bed and asleep...when mrs b and i got into a little - let's call it - "debate" over how the "sons who freak the fuck out over trying new things" situation will ultimately need to be handled.

and, once we had both made our points - some more loudly than others - as i sat at my desk, replaying the previous few hours in my head, like i said at the top of this post, i was convinced that tonight was one for the shitty pile.

then i checked The Metz Stats and saw this:

referring url: http://search.msn.co...eatsmeth&FORM=MSNH
search engine: search.msn.com
search words: baby's accidentally eats meth

whoa.

forget my petty mac & cheese bullshit. that is a bad night. especially for that poor baby.

it's not crappy enough that this kid has parents so worthless that they create a situation wherein their child has a chance to accidentally eat their drugs, but then they actually turn to msn looking for help and find my collection of inconsequential navel-gazing. and then they click on it.

*sigh*

i guess, in the interest of finding a silver lining in everything, i can take heart in the fact that my kids would never think of putting my meth in their mouth, let alone eating it.