You Know You’re Fat When… the Guyanese Christmas Edition

You know you’re getting fat when you visit your father in law in Weeki Wachee Florida for Christmas, and he puts one arm around your shoulders and the other on your stomach, and he says, “You’re getting fat.”

I should have known this before I got to Weeki Wachee. My wife has been giving me hints for months. But we don’t have a scale in our house, and I work out – sort of. And I eat pretty well. In fact, I eat a whole lot of pretty well. So, I thought that I had achieved body weight equalibrium.

I thought that something was wrong with her eyes. And sense of touch. And the fabric in my pants, and the bed springs. But father in laws are good at cutting through delusion. They pick up on the truth, and then shank you with it. Especially caribbean father in laws.

Did I mention that he was caribbean? He was born in Guyana. It is totally unimportant, accept for when it becomes very important. Like when he greets you at the door and tells you that you are fat. Which is a very caribbean thing to do.

The Caribbean is known for a whole lot of things, including beautiful women and beaches and scotch bonnet peppers. The Pirates of the Caribbean, Bob Marley, voodoo, crabs the size of dogs, Toussaint Louverture, Rhianna, Bob Marley’s children; the caribbean has given us a lot of treasures.

You know what’s not on the list of things that the caribbean is known for? Tact.  They don’t do that. It’s not their thing. Don’t expect it. You will be disappointed.

Our second night in Florida, his New Orleans born wife made gumbo. Real gumbo, with okra and pork sausage and crab the size of a dog. Almost everyone in my house is allergic to shelfish, and early in our courtship, my future wife told me that lips that touch pork do not touch hers. Needless to say, I never thought that I would taste true gumbo again. This was the culinary equivelant to a hall pass. Despite the fact that I had already been put on blast for being fat, I ate. I’m no fool.

The next day his big sister, also from Guyana, drove all the way to Tampa with her daughter to get a cow’s foot. Tampa is about 45 minutes and $6 in tolls away from Weeki Wachee. That should tell you how important that cow’s foot was. Aunt Brenda was preparing pepper pot. The foot was the missing ingredient.


Pepper pot. See the 40 mile foot?


Not Pepper Pot! True Pepper Pot cannot be condensed.

This is what I now know about pepper pot. If you put a dirty spoon into that mystical pot, the entire thing is ruined. You can’t put it in the refridgerator. You have to just cycle it between warm and hot on the stove top, over and over again, or else it will be ruined.

I know a lot about it. I just don’t know what the hell it is. And I ate a lot of it. I ate pepper pot Christmas eve dinner, and then I ate it every day afterwards for about three days. That is how long it took me to finish it.

Notice, I’ve been calling it pepper pot, and not pepper pot soup, or pepper pot stew. Well, first of all, that’s what they called it. Secondly, although it has characteristics of both a soup and a stew, in reality, it’s neither.

I tried to explain it to my mother on Christmas day. Her folks are from the Tidewater region of Virginia. They can fry the hell out of an oyster, and they can take a basket of those little American blue crabs and turn it into art. Just add cheap beer and watch them boil to death. That’s when the magic happens. But the only thing she knew about pepper pot was the soup that Campbell’s made years ago. And their pepper pot is nothing like Aunt Brenda’s.

“Is it a soup?” she asked. “I haven’t been able to get Campbell’s pepper pot soup. Maybe I can get it at the Jamaican market in Philly?” I didn’t bother pointing out that pepper pot was Guyanese, not Jamaican. But then, in Philadelphia, Jamaican is shorthand for anything from African dispora outside of the United States.

“No Mom. This is nothing like that. Nothing.”

“Is it a stew?”

“Ummmm not really.” Besides the cow foot, there isn’t much meat in pepper pot. Just texture.

Finally I turned to Wickipedia. From it/them I learned that it is a Holiday thing… Um hmmm. Figured that one out. It’s Amerindian (that’s what they called the indigenous people in Guyana)… Didn’t know that, but it made sense. There’s cinnamin in it, but I knew that. My last bowl had a piece of cinnamin in the bottom that was about the size of a soup bone. There’s also some cassareep… wha?

So, it’s kind of the Guyanese version of the Thanksgiving turkey. Only, a turkey is a turkey. And I’m still not sure what pepper pot is. But I ate a lot of it. Something that did not go unnoticed by my father n law. Who asked my wife Christmas eve night, as the children played with their toys and I got some sleep for the long drive home on Christmas day,

“Does he ever stop eating?”

Just so you know, I do sometimes stop eating. But when a Guyanese elder puts a dish in front of you, you eat it. Especially one that she drove about 40 miles to get the ingredients for. By the way, we don’t eat red meat in my house, either. All the more reason to dive into the mystery pot. This was a culinary celestial alignment. It might never happen again. And I enjoyed the hell out of it, even if I looked like a big fat slob.

Needless to say, losing weight is going to be my thing in 2014.  It won’t be my first time. Once I even came close to my target weight. Back then I was taking Hot yoga class almost every day. You can’t eat too much when you’re a hot yoga fanatic. If you do, you’ll fart. Farts do not go unnoticed in those 109 degree classes.

I was also drinking a lot of water. If you don’t, you may lose consciousness. Nobody wants to be that guy, staining the mirror with their sweat as they slump to the hardwood floors.

Hot yoga has a way of keeping you honest. But then again, so do caribbean father in laws. And while I don’t have a handy Bikram class, an endless supply of cold, truth is never more than a phone call away.

Note: I wasn’t sure how my wife would respond to this post. Turns out, she loved it, with the exception of two kind of important details.

Her father didn’t say, “You’re getting fat.” He said, “Looks like you’re gaining weight.”

What’s the difference? Well, weight doesn’t necessarily mean fat. It could indicate that I’m putting on layers and layers of rippling muscle. Or he could have accurately ascertained that I was carrying an inordinate number of things in the pockets of my driving fatigues. Pounds and pounds of keys and phones, a pocket knife, a hand full of quarters.  Or, he could have just been talking about fat.

Anyway, I’m not so far from fatness that I can take, “You’re gaining weight,” as anything but a call to start doing some push ups or something.

Also, he didn’t say, “Doesn’t he ever stop eating.” He said, “Doesn’t he ever get tired of food.”

Those two things sound pretty similar.  




Remember that Time When I was Smart?


That’s me. Bottom row, second from the left. But, there was only two Black kids in the class, so I think you would have figured it out.


I remember nursery school in Upper Darby. The sandwiches made out of potted meat, pressed wafer thin in a wrinkled paper bag with your name on it. 
Nursary school had story time. There was a steady supply of graham crackers and apple juice.  Pop up books?! Who decided that you could get too old to see things pop out of books? 
And at the end of the day your mother comes.  You get lifted into her arms and you put your cheek on her warm neck.  
There were no child safety seats back then.  You and your lunchbox slide across the leather bench seat and stay there,  in your mother’s warm shadow, all the way home. 
That was the last time I enjoyed school. 

I remember the school after that.  It was a Montessori school.  I wrote briefly about the long bus trip there. It became one of the reasons I can’t incorporate the nigger into my everyday vocabulary. I learned that I was the color of dog shit on that bus. 
I never knew the names of those two kids. They went to a different school.  They were older.  
Maybe if I was a white kid they would still have been mean to me.

I wanted to sit alone, but on a bus that only had a handful of kids,  they always got right behind me. Told me, very calmly, what my Blackness meant to them. 
I just wanted quiet.

I had a speech impetiment. When I spoke it came out in a subliminal murmur.  Listening to me was like trying to hear a drowning man through a foot of water, unless I was excited,  or angry.  Then I stuttered,  and stammered and spit.

I remember being pulled out of class so that they could test me. Rather,  the rest of the class went to story time while a pretty,  pleasant woman that I had never seen before took my hand and tried to lead me to another classroom. I loved story time.

I had no intention of writing about any of this. I was going to write about how humbling it is to learn a computer language.  I’ve been chewing on Ruby for a week now…
I was going to talk about how good it felt to be taking on such a nerdly challenge. You know… I’m feeling a little brainy, which a feeling that I haven’t had for a long time. 
How long? That’s the question.  I’m trying to think of a time in school that I didn’t feel stupid.  I can’t. 

I got “under achiever” a lot.  That’s code for,  “I thought you were way too dumb to do something like this…” But the flip side of under achiever is,  if I really try hard,  you’ll see how average I actually am.  To me,  it was better to sleep through class and shock your teacher with that lucky A, than study hard only to get a string of C’s. That A really pops on a transcript full of D’s, especially when it’s from a student that you always assumed was high.
I didn’t just dislike school. I was terrified of it. I slept because when my eyes were closed, at least a part of me could escape the classroom. I’m not sure why. I can’t blame sixteen years of scholastic misery on the actions of two racist, school bus dicks in kindergarten. But I think they put the hook in. 

My step daughter went through more in her first two weeks of 7th grade, than I did in my entire Middle School career. When I picked her up last year, she sat beside me until we got off of the campus, and down the street, and then she cried. She never let them see it. And, by the end of the first month, she had beaten the system. She was in. Not exactly popular, but respected. 

She’s stronger than I am. I would have fought, and when that didn’t work, I would have skipped school. I would have become a statistic. 

I wish this post had a point. Or, I wish I could just delete it. But deleting it won’t make it go away.  I was going to write about how I escaped into science fiction as a kid. I was going to write about how learning to code was me coming full circle. 

I don’t know.



I’m Learning to Code. Blame that Homeless Guy


Leo Grand, computer programming ex-homeless dude. Photo: New York Newsday.

I’m learning to code.

Blame this guy. His name is Leo Grand. Until recently he was on the street. Then guy walked up to him and offered him  a choice between $100 and a laptop and coding lessons. He chose the latter.

Let’s be clear. As homeless go, this guy was a model citizen. Until about two years ago, he was a MetLife agent in Manhattan. Then he lost his job, and soon afterwards, his apartment. In other words, life happened to him. Hard. But the thing about being homeless in America is, it really doesn’t matter what you did before you got there. The streets wipe the slate clean. Homeless is homeless.

This is what Leo said about it in an interview in the New York Post.

It’s really hard to convince people that you are not a bad person, or a drug addict or a crazy. How are you gonna do that when you are homeless, and that’s how the homeless are depicted.

He was tutored every morning at 8am by Patrick McConlogue. He practiced throughout the day, clocking three or four hours writing code and studying. “What else am I going to do?” He asked. And now he’s got an app called Trees for Cars. It’s available for iPad, iPhone and Android. You should check it out.

He’s probably not homeless anymore. If he is still unemployed, I suspect it’s because he wants to build his own thing.

It’s not just him. Two weeks ago My Facebook feed hit critical coding mass. Between this guy and the Year of Code initiatives, and the Code Academy…All of those short videos of rich and famous champions of nerdliness… I’m surprised I’ve resisted for as long as I have.

So I’m learning to code.

You should know I don’t like programming.

Remember Basic? I do. I can make my name fill up the screen from top to bottom, or left to right, or even diagnal. I took a course in Basic in High School back in 1988.

If Basic is capable of doing more than making your name print out over and over, I must have slept through that. I wanted it to. I wanted to make a video game with little x’s and o’s having a street fight like that movie, “The Warriors”. It was going to be “sandbox” back when sandboxes were things that you had in your back yard.

Basic wasn’t a total loss. If you need anyone to make your name print out over and over again, for either business or personal reasons, you can send me and email and I will quote you a fair price.

Yeah. High school basic in a classroom with no computers. Because, why the hell would you want those big heavy computers in a computer class?

In college I took one of those classes that scratches the surface of about a dozen different computer disciplines. The class was hot and dry like a toaster oven. The professor was obsessed with a book called, “The Cookoo’s Egg.” I remember the soft, languid pull of slumber. That place was the educational equivilent of a thick, warm comforter on a cold winter day. I slept. A lot.

Journalism Camp at Kent State in Ohio. Some guy from the Cleveland Plain Dealer comes in and tells us how we need to get a firm grasp on technology because new media was going to be a game changer. This was 1993, I think. I was like, “Psshyeah right…” Yawn.

Later I was working at the Philadelphia Art Museum. My manager says to me, “Have you heard about this new thing called blogging? You can write about whatever you want…” He had a blog, and he wasn’t even a writer.

And I said to myself, “He has a blog, and he isn’t even a writer!” Which, according to my rapier quick reasoning, meant that blogging was for people who couldn’t write. Hmmmm.

Those guys were technological harbingers. They tried to warn me. I blew them off.
Not this time. I get it. There may not be another time for me to actually be an early adapter.

But I don’t like programming.

But I like communicating. and the writing game is changing so quickly that I can hardly keep up with it. Coding is going to catapault me to that sweet spot in front of the eightball. Besides, I like feeding my children. Like, every night. And if Ruby will help me put those fish and grits on the dining room table, then I’m down.

But I don’t like programming… only, I used to. When I was a kid, science was my thing. I was sure that I would attend MIT and invent things. (MIT)

Elon Musk? His whole life was my idea. Electric cars and trains that go in vacuum tubes? I thought of that in the 80’s.

There was a time when I thought that computers would crack open the sky like Thor’s hammer, and bestow my generation with riches untold. And they did; only, I was too busy acting totally unimpressed and meh to appreciate how excited my world had become.

So I’ve bookmarked tutorials on Ruby and HTML/CSS, and I’m studying. I’m going to learn to code. Trust me.

Black Boys: Let’s Start Giving them the Benefit of the Doubt.

ImageA long time ago I wrote about the knockout hype.
A dark shadow of random stupidity had fallen across the land. Sneaky Black boys were punching people in their faces.  White people.
You all already know all there is to know about it. It’s violent, it’s random and it is scary. It is also statistically non existent. Yes,  the world is slowly coming to terms to the fact that despite the fact that some black Boys took part in this non phenomena, it is neither a trend nor a fad.

Its big break in social media came when two hapless journalism school dropouts strung some far flung incidents together and made believe it was a thing.  Along the way the broke every rule of reporting, but so what. It was compelling and it tapped into a deep vein of racialized shame and fear. It spread like wildfire

I remember those early days. Rational, intelligent and informed Black men were meditating on knocking some child out cold. Folks couldn’t wait until a knocker-outer met with a pistol packer. (It happened. Punches thrown, buttocks shot.) White people were asking why the liberal media had neglected this piece of alarmist propaganda.  The media had a good reason.  It wasn’t news.

I’m not speaking on individual assaults.  They were recieved plenty of coverage.  More than some rapes and murders. But when you attempted to put it all together into a national story it fell apart. It simply didn’t happen all that often. One of the victims even came forward to quell the mounting panic.

Still, in a nation where armed assaults, rape and domestic violence are the norm, a handful of simple, albiet random and horrible, assaults had claimed our attention.

We are a country of believers.  My cable network has a Santa Tracker to make it easier for us to pull the wool over the eyes of my gullible three year old.
A few days ago a brushfire of outrage spread because Kanye West said that he would eclipse Nelson Mandela’s legacy. He had said and done a whole bunch of dumb shit. This isn’t one of them.
Not long before that a story went viral which featured weaves stolen from graves and recycled to living clients. Clients who later died from spider bites because poisonous arachnids had nested in the stolen hair… Does any of this sound plausible? Where is there such a shortage of weave hair that folks have to spend hours digging up corpses? Oz? Tatooine?

But people took it as gospel.
That’s fine. The weave industry can take the hit and I’m sure Kanye’s downward spiral won’t be affected by the bad press.  I doubt he noticed. But young Black men can’t afford another smear campaign.
Young Black men are stopped more, searched more and sentenced more harshly.  Schools in the inner city are being defunded.  Prisons are popping up in their places. The playing fields have never been level but it’s getting worse.  Much worse.
We have to get into the habit of second guessing these things. The media has gotten out of the business of truth. Hysteria is much better for the bottom line. But we know our boys. They’re human, not animals.

There is no young, Black, ratchet army.

The Etiquette of Spills and Fuck Ups, for Grown Ups


I spilled my coffee just behind the word “smoothie” on the front window.

Last week I spilled a large cup of coffee at my local coffee shop.

The place is called Urban Grounds. It’s in Avondale Georgia, just outside of Atlanta. What you’ll find if you go, are a handful of long couches and a few big tables that will easily fit four noisy heating and air conditioning contractors or high end landscape designers. (They seem to love the place.)

There are also smaller tables near the windows that look out on Avondale Avenue. That’s where I sit, providing some other outcast type hasn’t gotten there first. If you’re alone and anti-social, those two tables are Boardwalk and Park Place.

The day I spilled my coffee I had my iPad and my Samsung Galaxy Mega Phablet. I had about an hour to kill, and I had given myself the challenge of creating a website for my wife. There would be SE’s Optomized and SM’s Marketed. It was going to be a thing of beauty.

Then I knocked over my coffee.

It was full. I had only barely sipped it. But as I picked up my iPad, its dented aluminum edge caught on the plastic lip of the cup. It tilted in slow motion as I shouted, “Shiiiiiittttttt….”

There were small, presumably, innocent children there, sipping on hot chocolate and sounding out words. In the back was a table full of nuns, planning a clothing drive for destitute puppies. And there I was shouting out one of the primary curse words as my coffee tilted further and further out of reach.

This wasn’t one of those near misses, when you catch it just before the explosion. I could have caught the coffee but I would have had to throw my iPad to the linoleum floor. That wasn’t going to happen. My iPad has been through enough.  

Afterwards, my table looked as if a murder had taken place, and the victim had coffee coursing through his or her veins. It was everywhere.

I didn’t know if I should apologize for the coffee or for the curse word. I pride myself on being a quiet customer. Like a $2 ninja, I like to get in, do my work and get out. I say hi, but I don’t tend to get deep. Especially not at Urban Grounds.

You know how most baristas are kind of hipster-strange or emo? Well, Urban Grounds is old school. They have one dude who does folk music and two thin quiet blond girls, but the two women that I see the most are hearty and stern. Think of elementary school vice principals on their off days. They are both pleasent and welcoming, but I don’t think they suffer fools easily.

I can’t count how many times I said I was sorry. I said sorry as one lady came to my table with a mop. It wasn’t a cool apology, but one of those “sorry’s” that you say when sorry doesn’t even begin to explain how sorry you actually are. In that way, the word sorry is one of the worst words in the english language. It’s been hijacked by insencere people who say it when they really mean, “Stop being mad at me.” Remorse is old school, like dungarees and TV knobs.

As a result, I was desperate to express just how sorry I really was. So I said, “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry,” and then I walked to the counter where the other barista would refill my cup, leaving a sorry trail of “sorry”s behind me.

It went past that point of diminishing returns. It stopped being about her and her mop and the minutes that she would never get back again, because she had to clean up behind my sorry, clumsy ass. It became about me and my awkward embarassment. I was looking for them to tell me something that might make me feel better – less clumsy and more human – which is way beyond their job discription. They are neither my mama nor my therapist.

I’m still not exactly sure how to handle those things. I’m pretty sure I did it wrong, though. Maybe there is some middle ground between falling to my knees and pleading for forgiveness and shouting, “Sucks to be you!” while I walk out the door.  In a perfect world, I would have slipped a $20 tip into their jar and given them both coupons to Outback Steakhouse for their troubles. This isn’t that world. All I could afford to give were condolescenses. Does Hallmark make a card for that?

The lady with the mop already had to deal with my mess. I think she grew tired of trying to deal with my emotion too. She shrugged and said, “It is what it is…” which is exactly what it was. It wasn’t exactly a zen moment, but it is as close as one is likely to get with a mop in her hand.

Damaged Goods. My iPad 2 is Hurt. Bad.


Not My Actual iPad 2. In fact, mine still works. This is how my heart looked after I found out.

This Thanksgiving my stepson stepped on my iPad. I’m making my peace with that.
If you look closely at my screen, you can see the crack that stretches from one side of the screen to the other. Smaller cracks radiate out from what I assume was ground zero; the place where his heal came down on it. It still works, but it does so in a wounded, ugly fashion.

In my mind the crack made a slight sound. The sound that ice makes moments before you fall into the cold.  But I don’t know.
I can’t ask him. He doesn’t remember doing it. He hasn’t exactly pled not guilty.  More like no contest.  He’d been playing with it, and once he exhausted it with temple runs and subway surfs he plugged it in. He then placed it on the living floor of my parent’s busy house and went on with his business. Why would he put it on a hardwood floor? Because he’s nine.
What is nine year old boy business? I don’t know.  Nobody knows; not even them. This morning he accidentally took our TV remote to school.  How? Easy.  He didn’t remember to put it down.

All he had to do was position his hand above any of our living room furniture and then release the tension in his hand muscles.  Gravity would have taken care of everything else. But nine year old boys and lunatics forget to put things down; an act so easy that people routinely accomplish it in their sleep. 

So he put the iPad on the floor and walked around. Knocked into things and nibbled on things and talked and didn’t talk. Nine year old boy stuff. Dances were danced and kicks were launched into the air, inappropriately close to very old, very fragile things.

At one point he knocked everything on the love seat onto the floor. Then he walked away. Then he was sent back to the scene of that smaller crime and along the way he stepped on my iPad.  I think.  I picked it up a short time later to find showtimes for Twelve Years a Slave. That’s when my wife saw the crack.
Let me tell you something about the love of my life. She is fiercely intelligent and a gifted craftsman with a radiant sense of urban bohemian style. In a lot of ways, she is super-human. So, you could say that her eyes are her kryptonite. The girl can’t see too well. But she saw the crack.

Glasses are her thing. She has about a dozen pairs, all different, all absolutely unique. Not long ago one of her pairs was missing. The dog had taken then. It gnawed on her designer frames and marred the lenses with ugly scratches.  And I laughed.

I didn’t know they were damaged when I laughed.  You had to get right up on the frames to see the scratches.  All I knew was that our dog had stolen her spectacles,  which is kind of funny. Not “ha ha” funny. More like, “I can’t fucking believe you’re laughing!” funny.

At one point she told me that I wouldn’t be laughing if he has bitten my iPad… Do you see where I’m going? If you’ve ever watched Snapped!, then you know what I’m suggesting. For those of you who don’t know, Snapped! is a TV documentary series that highlights a different woman every week who kills either her lover or a lover’s lover. Before I met my wife, I had never heard of it. After I met her, I became intimately acquainted with it.

I’m convinced that it’s sole purpose is to remind men that women can be just as crazy as they are. In that it is very successful.

Whisper these words to yourself. My wife made her son step on my iPad. A revenge stepping for when the dog chewed on her glasses. She’s coming home soon, and I don’t want any trouble… but I think she did it. I laughed at her, and she Snapped!.

If she did, it was the perfect crime. After all, nine year olds are great patsies. They do so much so often that they have pretty much lost the ability to deny their guilt. Their musty, cluttered brains have repaved the “I didn’t do it” section to make room for Skylanders and empty potato chip bags.

Of course I’m only joking. (I’m Not!). I love her dearly, but even though she calls my iPad, “Chad’s Girlfriend”, I’m sure she would never do something like that. But if you’ve seen Snapped!, you know what happens to the girlfriend. It never ends well for them.


The My Little Pony Plague: My Daughter Loooooves the Cartoon that won’t Die!


That’s My little girl. She looks happy doesn’t she?
In front of her, casting her in a ghostly pallor, is my computer.  The black wall behind her is my office chair.
It’s 11am. I should be working. Instead in doing this post on my gigantic Samsung Mega while she plays My Little Pony Equestria Girls Dress Up.


The Usual Suspects, Equestria Style

If you look closely you’ll see a whole lot of injustice. Here are the smiling happy faces of corporate greed. Monsanto is bad. Hasbro is insidious.
I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen the My Little Pony cartoon.  I’ve visited Equestria so frequently that I should be allowed to vote. (I can’t. It’s a dictatorship ruled by a God, hiding behind a veil of feel good endorphins. Someone actually wrote about it!) I’ve watched drifting off to sleep.  I watched it as I woke up again.
Then they made the Equestria girls.  That’s when the purple, winged, horned, pony stepped through a mirror, became human and launched a targeted war of hearts and minds to seize control of student government at a local High school from another Equestria expat. There was bullying, romance, metaphysics, and the front half of the school was torn off.  I think there was some devil worship.  And it was a musical. At one point the students adorned themselves in horse tails and ears and danced in the cafeteria.
I wasn’t high.  I should have been.
The worst part is, there is only one episode. So far Twilight Sparkle ventured through the mirror once. So instead of watching dozens of super cutesy schmooochy woooophsie plot lines that I don’t care about, I get to watch the same one over and over and over. On an average day I’ll see it about seven times. My most favorite movie of all time is Dune (don’t judge). I’ve only seem it about six times.

And now it’s in my computer. I can’t even escape to my office to do work. Sooner or later I’ll hear her soft footsteps behind me. Then she’ll emerge through the doorway, and tell me that she’s taking over. Or else. The fact that she does this with her 1,000 watt smile and a voice as soft as baby duck feathers doesn’t this any less menacing. There is an implied bargain. I can let her get on the computer, or I can listen to her as she melts down. We call her the baby hulk. That’s how mad she gets. And to all of you tough guys, who say, “Let her cry…” all I can say is, when do you want to come pick her up?

At least when she’s in Equestria I can write, even if it is only on my gigantic phone. But when she’s going all Fukashima on me, all I can do is breath deeply and wish there was some alcohol handy. I’ll tackle her tantrums later. Like when she’s four.

This is how it went down this morning.  My daughter greeted me at the door, all smiley and huggy. She screamed “Daddy! “And I held her, basking in the innocent glory of fatherhood.  Then she said,  “Can I play Mah-lo-pony”.

Silly Daddy! Your daughter doesn’t adore you!  Your just there to turn stuff on and open up her bags of chips for her. A step stool with a drivers license!

She’s still down there right now, putting skirts on a smiley lanky pony person. Her face still cast in the pale blue glow of Equestria.

You guys are jerks, Hasbro and Hubworld. You got my baby strung out on a cartoon. You did it on purpose.  Good job. I hope you high five yourselves right into the Middle of speeding traffic.



Update: My daughter has insisted that I install a My Little Pony app on my massive Samsung Mega. The game features tiny characters walking around a two dimensional landscape. Sometimes they build houses. Sometimes they catch apples.

I don’t know what the object of the game is, and neither does my daughter. I do know that it took a very long time to download, and it takes minutes to open. So, it probably takes up about 75 percent of my memory. Well played, Hasbro execs. Well played.