Less frequent posts

We’re currently working on a book to be published later this year, so things might be a little slow around here…

Cheers!

The Prattle #011

Jacob Frere was making a mad dash along a Manhattan sidewalk on a recent afternoon. Ducking in and out of pedestrian traffic. Jacob giggled as he weaved his way to what he thought was certain escape. But Jacob didn’t get very far, as twelve or so steps into his getaway the gRrabber stopped him. Bethany, his mother, ran over and scolded him and then assured the flustered onlookers that her toddler son was never in any real danger.

A few moments earlier Jacob had given in to the sudden and insistent urge to bolt. “He’s a runner,” said an exasperated Bethany. “You either have to have lightning-quick reflexes or be Elasti-Girl when you’re out with him… Unless you have this.” Bethany tapped her half of the gRabber, an electrical box that resembles an old wireless pager.

Paul Felix invented the childcare gadget. It is no coincidence that Mr. Felix is also the inventor of another device, one that keeps canine pets within an unseen boundary by sending electrical pulses through their collars. This fact makes the gRabber a very controversial parenting aid.

The gRabber debuted at the annual New York Toy Fair last month. At the booth flat screen televisions broadcasted a closed-circuit promotional video that featured a computer rendered toddler wrestling free of his mother’s grip and headed toward traffic, only to be saved by an inhumanly stretched arm that extended from a black box worn on the mother’s belt. “The gRabber,” said the narrator’s voice, “The long arm of parenting.”

The booth attracted a crowd of parents who munched on hors d’oeuvres and discussed situations in which they would employ the use of the grabber. One mom imagined it being a biting deterrent, another as a long distance squabble stopper. Mr. Gates, a dad visiting from Chicago, imagined that the gRabber would have come in handy a few weeks ago when he happened upon his daughter, Lacey, squeezing a bottle chocolate syrup into his drawer full of expensive neckties. “I would have only used it if I caught her before the act,” he said.

One parent yelped when her husband accidentally stunned her with the gadget. The salesperson, in an attempt to prove the benign nature of the gRabber’s shock, invited parents to give multiple transmitters a test run as he sang the kids’ classic, Old McDonald, while wearing the receiving end of the device around his wrist. He only mooed here and there before he could no longer hide the involuntary twitching that gave away his discomfort.

“Okay, that’s enough guys,” he said. “You’re all a bit trigger-happy today aren’t you?” It was easy to determine that he had gotten this job more for his baritone vocal delivery than for his presentation skills.

Ms. Carly Phillips, a local advocate from the children’s rights group Friends of Urban Community Kids, was invited to the demo with the hopes that she would back what the company sees as a product that would reduce child injuries in urban settings.

“It’s horrible to think that parents have to resort to Abu Ghraib-styled torture because they are either too lazy or too fat to keep up with their kids,” said Ms. Phillips. “I’d like to see that guy sing the Sesame Street song with that thing wrapped around his scrotum. That would be a good test as to how it would feel to a three-year-old whose skin is still extremely sensitive. I bet he’d sound more Elmo than Oscar then.”

The gRabber has not passed standard child safety tests and the patent is still pending.

The Prattle #010

Petro Corpelli is the founder of an unusual call-girl service. Should Petro expand, his service would be legal in all states. It has more in common with the Tiny Tikes Daycare Center located a few blocks from the doors at its main offices, than it does with the Glamour Girls Escort Service advertised in the back of the local entertainment newspaper.

Petro, an enterprising single dad, is the founder and CEO of Sitter Babes, a nanny service that provides childcare to fathers (and interested mothers) in the New York/New Jersey metropolitan area.

The women perform standard childcare tasks such as bathing, feeding and educating the toddlers (service is only provided for potty-trained children) and may even offer more domestic services based on a client’s needs.

On the outset the Sitter Babes service does not seem unlike any other provided by commercial au pairs, until you get to the pre-interview process on the company’s website and realize that that couldn’t be further from the truth.

All of the sample pictures on the website are of young, model-looking women. Bra-cup sizes in double and triple letters are revealed within the profiles along with obviously alias names such as Candy Pips and Neva Nicely. Clients can choose hair and skin color, height and weight, and the type of outfit they would like their ‘sitter’ to show up in (Selections include: French maid, Geisha girl, Super mom and Teen sitter).

Petro Corpelli is a short, unassuming gentleman, who displays a broad smile under an even broader moustache. On a recent visit to the Sitter Babe’s offices his daughter Pica was seen running about with reckless abandon as two six-foot, dark-haired women of slender build give chase. The women were so top-heavy it appeared as if they would fall over should either of them bend low enough to actually grab hold of the little rapscallion.

Petro, on noticing that the scene was a bit bewildering, offered an explanation.

“I save the model employees for Pica,” said Petro with a smile. “She keeps their hands full and they keep my hands full.”

Petro does not come off as the creepy, porn-loving character you’d expect the proprietor of such an establishment to be. He believes his service is designed to fill a much less perverted need than his detractors describe.

“Guys are guys,” said Mr. Corpelli of the type of clientele he services, concurrently providing a bit of a confessional. “Some guys think of sex, what, five million times a day? When you have a kid that number drops significantly. When you’re fathering a child on your own the drive almost withers away – but it’s not completely gone.

“There is such an outcry for more fatherly involvement these days, so why shouldn’t we get our own rewards when we’re doing the job right? Where’s our ‘Job well done?’ I’ll tell you where it is,” Mr. Corpelli makes a broad sweeping gesture with his arms, “It’s right here. It’s like Sex and the Sitter.”

At this remark he chuckled and made a scribble in a notebook removed from his back pocket as he repeatedly mumbled the refrain to himself.

Apparently there are a lot of men that agree with Mr. Corpelli’s point of view. In 2004 the company raked in half-a-million dollars in revenue and last year the sitters celebrated their ten-millionth hour. All of this and the company is only three-years-old.

“It’s my other baby. We’re lucky,” said Mr. Corpelli of his fortune. “Pica and I are now able to afford Sitter Babes full-time. It’s better than being married. You know the saying ‘Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free’? In our case the milk comes at a small fraction of my income. And you know what they say, milk gives you good boners!” he again laughed at his own joke.

It is not all Playboy fun and Hustler games for Mr. Corpelli and his Sitter Babes. Earlier this year a dad sued the company for child endangerment, when he claimed a sitter nearly smothered his son in her ample bosom, and there are many cases of inappropriate client behavior.

“At times we get weirdos who call,” whispered Cindy on break from sitting Pica and away from Mr. Corpelli’s earshot. “On more than one occasion we’ve had dads call for sitting and girls will show up and find the grown-ass men crawling around in a bonnet and wearing Depends. I mean, I know we’re supplying an unusual service, but the kind of sitting those guys need, we’re just not qualified for.”

A week after the interview with Mr. Corpelli, he trademarked the phrase ‘Sex and the Sitter’. It is not certain whether or not he plans to have his girls provide other services.

The Prattle #009

First known to the music world as Puff Daddy, or the more intimate, Puffy, Sean Combs later shed that moniker for the catchier – and less patriarchal – P.Diddy. P. Diddy was subsequently truncated to “just Diddy” as the artist/record label owner/clothing designer/perfumer famously stated at the 2004 press conference which coincided with the release of yet another pallid album by Billboard standards.

In early 2006 Puff Daddy again entered the music studio, churning out hit after potential hit. But on those occasions it was not Mr. Combs that was literally spitting rhymes, instead it was a little-known MC who was born Deashawn Brown.

“The idea came after my lady popped out my little dawg,” said Mr. Brown referring to the birth of his son Pitius Brown. “He was a chunky little fella, still is, so we’d all call him Puff – as a pet name or whatever.”

Mr. Brown produced a wallet-sized photo, which displayed a curly-haired youngster with cherubic checks and a gold bracelet lost in the folds of fat.

“One day I was freestyling on the block and I was spitting a rhyme like: ‘Sonja is my baby momma and I’m Puff’s daddy’” continued Mr. Brown. “And that’s when, like, it clicked you know what I’m sayin’?”

Mr. Brown who used to perform under the name Boogie Brown, immediately switched to the alias he currently uses, Puff Daddy. He had been doing shows locally this way for over a year. Then in early 2006 with the release of his first single to get regular airplay, No More Late Nights, No More Bitches, the telephone started ringing.

“At first we thought it was a mistake, or a typo,” said Tamika Brighthead who works in the Public Relations department at Mr. Combs’ Bad Boy Records. “But when we contacted the Jersey Grime record label, they said there was absolutely no mistake.”

“They flipped,” said Mr. Brown laughing. “My management? They know what time it is. They know I wrote that song for little Puff, so why shouldn’t I record it under the name Puff Daddy? When little Puff was born I didn’t have no more late nights, and I married Sonja so there’s no more skanky bitches in the picture neither,” Brown continued.

To illustrate why he laid claim to the moniker, Mr. Brown delivered an impromptu rap verse from his forthcoming album Daddy Of Them All:

Smack my bitch up? Not me
I keep my chick straight rollin’ in the money see
Every since she pushed my little seed
Me and little Puff roll like Hutch and Starsky

“Puffy don’t write no rhymes about his kids,” said Mr. Brown. “Plus ain’t he, like, a deadbeat dad? Didn’t one of his broads take him to court for child support? He ain’t no real daddy.”

Brown is confident that nothing will come of the matter.

“My management knew we was gonna get some heat for this, but we’s ready. Let Bad Boy bring it.”

Ms. Brighthead of Bad Boy feels differently, “It’s simply a matter of an apostrophe and an s,” she said. “He can call himself Puff’s Daddy if he wants, but without the proper syntax he is violating copyright laws. Our lawyers have already issued a cease and desist, and if Mr. Brown and Jersey Grime know what’s really good, they’ll heed it.”

The case is to be heard later this month in District Court.

The Prattle #008

NIGHT LIFE
HIGH SOCIETY
Baby Loves Reggaeton, the Jamaican dancehall/Salsa fusion spin-off of the popular toddler dance social, comes to the catacombs of Webster Hall this Sunday. Expect to see the kiddies move their feet while you secretly buy brownies they can’t eat. The event recommends designating a stroller-pusher because, “Friends don’t let friends push high”.

MUSIC
ADOPTED ANGST
WeeFugees play the Knitting Factory Tap Bar this Sunday. The kid-rock band formed by the sons of Anjelina Jolie-Pitt and Madonna will run through a set of kid-friendly punk rock covers and original songs such as Poo-poo The Paparazzi and I Just Want To Be Average. Show times 2PM and 5PM.

SPECTACLE
STAR SEARCH
First there was karaoke, then Aireoke and Movieoke. Hip parents in Brooklyn’s Williamsburg enclave have now coined the term ‘Kidieoke’ for the once a week musical gathering of children aged 3- to 12-years-old. The event features a scream-a-long and Musica Obscura where dads gain bragging rights if their child can lip synch to the most alternative of alt-rock, no-wave or post-punk jams. Saturday 3PM at Galapagos.

ART
DRIBBLE AND DROOL
The much anticipated and controversial (it was reported that adult coaching was involved) spit-art paintings of Kimberly Marsuco (8-moths-old) have arrived for the month-long show at Chelsea’s White Box gallery. Opening reception this Thursday. The artist will be on hand and bibless to drool or spit-up on the shoulders of patrons and fans.

OUTING
MINORITY REPORT
MiXT, the exclusive playgroup for children of Uzbeck dads over the age of fifty that sport beards and Timbuktunian moms with shaven legs and who gave birth via c-section, meets on Wednesday at the northernmost corner of Prospect Park under the really big tree. Proper proof of affiliation (passport, birth certificate, beards, hairless legs) will be required. Plov and widjila buffet provided.

MOVIE
MOM’S REELING
Lowe’s Theaters presents the weekly parent-friendly movie screenings Reel Moms this Sunday. Films and times: 9AM Oliver Stone’s Natural Born Killers; 11:30AM double feature Sean S. Cunnigham’s Friday The 13th and Tobe Cooper’s The Texas Chainsaw Massacre; 3PM Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto. Children under 2 not admitted without parent.

The Prattle ‘Podcast’ #007

EDITOR’S NOTE:

Creative laryngitis is a tough nut… Enjoy this month’s episode in written form.

Cheers!
Admin

DO NOT LOOK BEHIND THE MASK
There was a rise of healthy laughter as one of the male prisoners enrolled in the Outside These Walls program at California’s San Quentin Prison contemplated the next task.

“You want me to do what?” asked prisoner 94964 aka Thomas ‘Timmy’ Lancaster, currently serving the final months of his eight year child pornography sentence.

“I want you to don the suit,” instructed a City volunteer who’s physical appearance mirrored that of a refrigerator, but whose voice was calm and reassuring.

The suit in question was not dark colored, it was not made of seersucker and you did not accessorize it with silken neckwear. Neither was it the type of suit employees of lower echelon jobs – sanitation workers, construction men – wear for protection.

This suit, with its orange fur, outsized appendages and one-size-fits-all tag was not topped with a classy hat, but rather with the huge head of a brilliantly smiling cartoon character.

“I aint wearin’ that thing,” said Mr. Lancaster. “What will the guys think of me?”

As the room again erupted into laughter the City volunteer gently reminded Mr. Lancaster that getting acquainted with the suit was the only way he would be certified in the Laughland-sponsored program and be assured a job once he left the confines of San Quentin. The laughter died and Mr. Lancaster suited up. The whole affair was no longer funny.

Later that evening the City volunteer, who asked to remain unnamed as she was speaking without proper authorization, advised that there are nineteen men, just like Mr. Lancaster, due to graduate the Outside These Walls program later this year, and that almost triple that amount have enrolled for the subsequent round of training.

Child welfare advocacy groups have voiced outrage at the proposed program. “I know that prisoners have a rough time finding jobs after doing time,” said Marcia Sermon, a mother of three, “but having them entertain our children is not a solution. What’s next? A prisoner run pre-school?”

Mrs. Sermon is the founder of Funny/Not Funny a watchdog group with its home base in the shadows of Laughland’s Magic Kingdom.

“The men are the worst examples of society’s cretins,” said an angry Mrs. Sermon. “They are rapists, pedophiles, murderers, gangsters. They are basically the living version of the boogiemen all children fear. And they want to wear happy costumes and have us all just forget about it.”

To the credit of the Outside These Walls program, prisoners undergo a strict screening before being enrolled. They must have been awarded the prison’s Good Behavior status within the first year of being put behind bars and must also have maintained this standing throughout their incarceration.

Though the costumes scare Mrs. Sermon, it is precisely these outfits that guarantee the project’s success.

“Prison does a certain thing to you,” advised the City volunteer. “You never really shake it. You’re hardened. You’re angry. Even a layman can see ‘prison’ chiseled into your face no matter how much you try to smile it off. With the suits the ex-prisoners lose that baggage. They become as harmless as you grandmother.”

With the Outside These Walls program the one-time prisoners are guaranteed a minimum wage job at one of the six Laughland-run theme parks, or aboard one of the brand’s cruise liners. The first batch of inmates is due to graduate in early June, just in time for the rush of Laughland’s summer crowds.

The Prattle ‘Podcast’ #006

EDITOR’S NOTE:

We’re currently suffering from a bit of creative laryngitis. Until we find a new voice, please enjoy this month’s episode in written form… heck, create your own voice if you like, we can’t hear you from here.

Cheers!
Admin

JOCK-DAD JOUSTING
“Jousting is a goddamn great all-American pastime”, said Don Keeney, an experienced jock-dad jouster and the foulmouthed host for the day’s event.

It was a day like any other in Williamsburg, Brooklyn’s McCarren Park. Young, beautiful men and women were taking advantage of the unusually warm spring day by sunbathing, as enterprising vendors traversed the park’s rundown pathways peddling hot snacks and thirst quenching drinks. A little league baseball that game was in full swing on the park’s southernmost field drew a crowd of mostly Hispanic families and Hasidic ball lovers.

One unassuming dad approached another on the only empty field in the park and the two greeted with a handshake that involved lots of gesticulatory gymnastics. They did not look in any way similar – one a little bit country, the other more rock ‘n roll – save for the fact that they were both outfitted with infant back carriers in which their toddlers sported skateboard-styled helmets and elbow pads.

To the untrained eye these two dads appeared to be overprotective parents that shared an interest in alternative modes of toddler transportation. But as Don shared his inside knowledge, it was quickly explained that the two were Evers and Timbo, founders of the burgeoning sport of jousting.

Juvenile Back-carrier Jousting, or ‘jock-dad jousting’ as it is lovingly called, was started in late 2004 when Evers and Timbo, strangers at the time, were entertaining their sons in the park by engaging in a friendly game of chicken. The boys, then babies, loved it, and the dads decided to meet on a regular basis to repeat the fun. The two became great friends, and at every subsequent meeting, dared each other to up the ante. Thus the sport was born.

“We’re an elite group mostly made up of dads,” offered Timothy ‘Timbo’ Simmons. “There is no fee to join, no razzing, but like Fight Club we don’t talk much about it outside of the event.”

Evers, rumored to be a diaper room custodian at the neighborhood pre-school, was more skeptical of the reason behind this article and remained silent throughout the interview, not offering much more than his moniker by way of introduction.

As more dads arrived, converging on the sandy diamond, seats were offered in the dugout, close enough that spectators would be splattered should any virginal bloodletting occur during the scheduled showdowns.

One dad, more conspicuous than the others, arrived carrying a golf bag filled to capacity. The contents were wooden broomsticks rigged with Junior-sized boxing gloves on the business end of each makeshift lance.

After loud guttural chants by the dads huddled around home base and an official gear check to ensure that all participants were utilizing Velcro straps as regulated, the first match was underway.

The youngsters mounted on their two-legged steeds resembled non-pixilated versions of the characters in the arcade game version of joust that was wildly popular in the nineteen-eighties.

There are no uniforms and there aren’t many rules. Most dads simply charge at each other at full force with apparent disregard for the precious cargo they carry on their backs. Points are awarded by the umpire for location, force and type of contact made with the opposing player. Ten points for a knock to a little one’s noggin, five for a shot to the torso, nothing for contact below the waist and, of course, the match is over if the rider is jolted from his steed. Deductions are made if dads grab any article of the opponent’s clothing, allow their kids to make foul shots, or if a steed is injured.

“It’s safer than drunken restroom stall sex, I’ll tell you that,” Don offered.

Don and his two-year-old daughter, Darcy, were attending without the knowledge of his wife, a full-time housewife and choir member at the local Episcopal Church.

“She thinks we’re at the sissy Saturday playgroup,” continued Don, “but once a month we come here and have an awesome time.”

“Sissy! Sissy!” chanted Darcy in mock anger as she pointed to a child close by that was not confined to a back-carrying contraption.

“He never usually gets hurt,” added Garrick Netheral of his seventeen-month-old son Chance. Garrick holds a bartending gig at the only Brooklyn watering hole to offer a noontime nanny happy hour. Garrick continued, “Everyone’s padded, and most dads exercise restrained aggression.”

Then almost on cue there was a loud slap and the unmistakable ripping sound of hook and loop Velcro pieces coming apart. A dad staggered backward as his toddler dangled somewhat safely a few feet from the ground.

“YERRROUT!” yelled the umpire cuing the champ and his juvenile jockey to do a victory dance.

Amongst the astonished faces in the crowd of onlookers a young woman stood out. She was wearing a two-piece bathing suit, outsized sunglasses – the current ironic fashion – and was speaking frantically into her cellular phone.

Within minutes sirens could be heard off in the distance and the once-organized group of dads quickly fell out of place. The scene that ensued was similar to that of the authorities breaking up an illegal street auto-racing meet.

The dads dispersed to the various corners of the park. A few minutes later Don was found, looking like any other dad in the park, feeding fresh cantaloupe to Darcy from a small Tupperware container.

“Bastard shit kicker,” hissed Don through clenched teeth referring to the lady who’s call put an end to the day’s matches. “They’re all fucking alike. They think they understand what proper parenting is all about, but get one of ‘em banged up and see how quickly they get all pro-choice on your ass.”

The Prattle Podcast #005

PREVIEW:
Vanilla Ice’s one and only hit Ice-Ice Baby does not usually jive well with any modern hip-hop setting. Unless the occasion is a shopping excursion for a bit of baby bling, the setting a jewelry store dedicated to preschool dons and divas, then and only then is the song a perfect fit.
Score: ‘Ice-Ice Baby’ by Vanilla Ice

LISTEN HERE!

The Prattle Podcast #004

PREVIEW:
Morton’s skills are more sonic than physical and bring what one patient described as, “a wall of sound so intense and engaging that you forget that there is baby the size of a soccer ball trying to extricate itself from your vagina.”
Score: ‘Catfish Blues’ by Lightnin’ Hopkins

LISTEN HERE!

The Prattle Podcast #003

PREVIEW:
Lisa and Jasmine are two of the over thirty-member team of mothers that routinely physically confront the waif-thin “pretty young things” that reside on Manhattan’s Upper Eastside. The group has no name, as according to Jasmine, “that would legitimize us, make us, like, a gang or something organized like that.”
Score: ‘Calamine’ by Four Tet

LISTEN HERE!