Author: Brett

The Gay Uncle and his boyfriend have been together for eighteen years (each one of them blissful, and better than the last) and while they personally have no desire to get gay-married, they believe that every homo who wants to, should be able to–easily and with full state sanctioning. So the news out of California pleases him. He’s especially pleased for all the CA gay and lesbian parents out there, who will now be able to exercise full joint-ownership rights over their kids. And for Ellen, because he thinks she deserves all the happiness she can find. He worries only that it will set off another nuptial epidemic like the one he experienced in his early 30’s when all the straights got married, an exhausting (and expensive) party-train that was rivaled only by his time on the seventh grade Bar Mitzvah circuit, when he attended at least one–and sometimes as many as four–events every weekend. One can only to pretend to enjoy dancing to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” so many times; it is not a dance song.

The Gay Uncle doesn’t really know what to say about this invention. It certainly seems like it might be a good idea for protecting a gestating kid-let in case of a sudden vehicular swerve or panic stop. And it’s probably more comfortable than having the belt strapped across your swollen stomach. But he finds something vaguely…creepy about the text on the website. Take this description of pregnancy for example “Expecting? You must be excited, anxious, you have a life growing inside you, he or she will be your friend, soul mate, best friend for the rest of your life, you will laugh, you will cry together”. Um…friend? Best friend? Soul mate!?! Gunc’s not really certain that’s the healthiest way think of your child. What if you don’t even have the same favorite color, or like the same kinds of movies? You still have to deal with one another for life. Or this one about how the product works, “by removing the seatbelt away from the abdomen area and letting your baby bounce on the mother”s womb which will naturally absorb the shock.” The product was apparently designed by “three Australian bio-mechanical engineers”, which seems suitably scientific, but it all comes across as kind of…Dead Ringers-y: the G.U. can’t help but imagine these men gathered around their lab, gleefully pulling on all the innards from a woman’s body in an attempt to find which one is the most elastic. Then there’s the whole “As Seen on TV” imprimatur, which doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. Do any of you have one of these? Do you absolutely love it? Before he puts it on his list of crazy and useless baby crap, The Gay Uncle wants to hear about your experiences.

You’ve seen them on pets. You’ve seen them on cars. You’ve even seen them on celebrities like Martha Stewart and Paris Hilton. No, your Gay Uncle is not talking about studded leashes, gingham fabrics, or conversions to run on recycled french fry oil. He’s talking about…Electronic Monitoring Systems! According to the venerable New York Times the Dallas school district has had great success in reducing truancy by furnishing its tardiest and/or school-skippiest students with little portable global positioners, which can then be monitored from a central location. The Gay Uncle only skimmed the article in the interest of making fun of it here, so he’s not sure if the devices are equipped with the ability to send an electric shock from the home base–or if a youth can text or “chat” on them–but he does know that, like all neo-fascist surveillance systems, they’re being touted as somehow having “saved lives.” So he figured, since all the other grotesque accoutrements of teenage life–attitude, Gossip Girls, slutty clothes–are creeping down into the world of pre-schoolers, why not usher in one that can actually do some real good, and design an early-childhood version? It would free contemporary parents from myriad debilitating worries: their kid being abducted by a stranger, their kid falling into an empty pool or steam tunnel, finding the location of the nearest Old Navy. Gunc suggests either hiding the device in the folds of a child’s clothes or–for more permanent protection–simply placing it under the skin in an un-invasive location like the nape of the neck or that weird empty spot just in front of the ankle bone. He’s looking for investors. And product names. Any ideas?

The one single maternal holiday is over. And just like the morning after your wedding or promotion or birthday, the blessed event has transpired, and you’re left feeling…HOW? There are those lucky folks for whom special occasions are sustaining and life-affirming, propelling them into a glorious and optimistic future. But (if you’re anything like the Gay Uncle) right about now, you’re overwhelmed by a sense of disappointment that things did not go at all how you wanted or expected them to. G.U. feels your pain (he hid in the bathroom and cried at his Bar Mitzvah for just this reason.) In fact, he wants to share, even revel in it. Send him your stories of Mother’s Day TRIUMPH and DESPAIR. The winning story in each category wins!

-For TRIUMPH, the prize is an inscribed personalized copy of his book The Gay Uncle’s Guide to Parenting.
-And since he believes in projecting pain outward, for DESPAIR, it’s a personalized Gay Uncle-authored email, sent directly to your partner and/or kids, calling them on the carpet for ruining your one special day.

Have at it in COMMENTS below.

One day out of the whole freaking year is not enough for the nation’s mommies. So the Gay Uncle is officially endorsing the idea that Mother’s Day be turned into a WEEKEND LONG CELEBRATION. This will give moms time to accomplish all of the things that are required of them during the holiday: Being taken out to a very expensive dinner; Receiving numerous bouquets of gorgeous flowers; “Relaxing”; Pretending to enjoy the rubbery eggs or pancakes that the kids cooked themselves for breakfast-in-bed; Pretending to enjoy the idea of eating in your bed at all; Having sloppy sex with the partner of your choosing; Picking crumbs of rubbery eggs or pancakes off your back after the sloppy sex; Getting a professional back-rub (not one of those sucky, one-handed, one-minute jobs family members dole out as if they’re doing you a favor); Sleeping in; Skipping the kids’ t-ball game to have a champagne lunch with the girls; Watching a greatest hits clip of all the best movie makeovers; Doing the laundry.

CONTEST: Let Gunc know how many of the items from this list you receive this Mother’s Weekend. The mommy with the most wins a free autographed copy of the book. The mommy with the least receives a free snarky scolding email sent by G.U. directly to their partner and/or children (for real!)

This is a picture of the internet. Pretty, isn’t it? But, why is it here, instead of the usual hilarity? Because today, The Gay Uncle wants to direct you to a few sites that are featuring coverage of…The Gay Uncle.
Support them. Love them.
Click on them.
Outzone
Frontiers
PoshMama

The Gay Uncle had a strange afternoon today. He was asked to participate in a photo shoot for an upcoming feature article about him and his book in The London Times. Selected as the location, was a children’s hair salon up the street from his apartment. The place itself was lovely, as were its owner and its “stylists” (one of whom was recruited by the effervescent photographer as his assistant.) Of course the clientele was adorable as well–fancy little West Village kids who watched distracting videos while receiving a trim. The weird part came when G.U. was asked to pose. First he had to straddle a tiny wooden race car barber chair, while blowing bubbles, kicking up his feet, and smiling broadly. (You think pilates is hard on your “core”? Try this!) Then he had to sit on a Big Wheel on a ledge in the store window while the photographer waited on the sidewalk to capture the perfect reflection of a passing yellow cab (and avoid the reflections of preening be-shorted and tanktopped queens out for a spring stroll.) Then for the final act, Gunc had to squat in the street atop a pink, kid-sized, rubber, bouncy rabbit toy, again smiling broadly, and clutching at the bunny’s ears, while cars and bike messengers whizzed by inches from his head. He felt like a character in a Harmony Korine movie.

The G.U. wants to give a big shout out to Dana and the staff at Doodle Doo’s. [sic.] If you live in New York (or plan to visit), you should give them a call very soon…before your child goes full-force Rapunzel. 212-627-DOOS (3667) Be sure to tell them the Gay Uncle sent you.

The Gay Uncle is at his house upstate today, enjoying a writers’ retreat with his boyfriend Tal. Occasionally, they get up from the computer and go outside. This affords G.U. the opportunity to wander around in something called “nature”. At this time of year–the season of regeneration and rebirth–it also allows him to view animal babies. He never took biology in high school, so he’s not at all sure how geese or fish or turtles reproduce (nor does he really want to know: all that feathery/scaly/shelly fucking? Ew!) but suddenly their children are everywhere. He supposes there’s something sort of pleasant about this intractable cycle, and he’s always happy to see the newborn goslings and fishlings and turtlings flopping around in the lake, attempting to learn to breathe or swim while their parents float blithely nearby avoiding the spectacle, sunning themselves or eating mud. (Just like a New York City playground!) But, he can’t help but think of the wee ones’ vulnerability. A few springs ago, the goose homestead was attacked by an eagle, and he and Tal had to watch as the big raptor dive-bombed the nest. Another problem G.U. cites with baby geese (aside from their propensity to poo on his dock) is the inevitability of their becoming what he calls “teenagers”. Anyone who’s read a nursery rhyme knows goose infants are super-cute and cuddly, but they grow so goddamn fast that they go through their awkward adolescent phase within like a week, and get all disproportionate and mangy (think, Chelsea Clinton in the White House years). Gunc supposes this happens to fish and turtles too, but they fortunately remain invisible to him under the water.

Next nature report: Baby Beavers Look Like they’re made of Leather!

It’s spring in New York, which means that–in addition to newborn rats, gay men in tank tops, and stagnant rain puddles full of wilting cardboard–another scourge is once again rearing its ugly head: adults on Razor Scooters. The Gay Uncle does not know how this trend began. He had a parent friend who once described her scooter as a way of “escaping the city in case of another terrorist attack”. Imagining her kick-pushing through the Holland Tunnel, he told her that he wasn’t sure that was the best plan. But Gunc is absolutely certain of one thing: every adult who rides one of these looks like a complete a-hole. If you’re a grown-up scooterer and you don’t believe him, just follow this simple test: Check your reflection in the window of the next store you pass. See yourself? Notice something important? YOU ARE NOT EIGHT! (And you look like an a-hole.) G.U. believes that these items are now recyclable. Just fold up the scooter, and toss it in the blue bin. It will serve the world much better as a Coke can.

Lying in bed this morning, but not wanting to break the spell of sleep and lug himself downstairs to the toilet, the Gay Uncle was reminded of an as of yet un-blogged about event that took place during his trip to Los Angeles last month. He and his boyfriend Tal had gone for a walk in Griffith Park with their close friend Dylan and his 5 year old son, Max. Somewhere along the way, they’d taken a wrong turn and gotten lost, and ended up wandering the streets of an adjacent neighborhood, trying to find their way back. Max became tired, and Dylan agreed to carry him on his shoulders. Having brought no provisions, and concerned for the boy’s ongoing hydration, Dylan soon stopped under a tangerine tree, resplendent with fruit. (These kinds of things pop up frequently in L.A.) Though Dylan is truly tall (standing at about 6’6″) even atop this friendly giant, the best citrus remained just out of the boy’s reach, and each one he selected appeared mealy or rotted or bug infested. Max began tossing the unsavory oranges away from him and, since the team was located mid way along one of the neighborhood’s many hills, the little balls of California sunshine bounced, rolled, and crashed into and under all manner of things–trash cans, old Saabs, front decks, cats. This was hilarious to everyone, no one more so than Max, who began giggling and guffawing uncontrollably with each additional toss. Gunc–always a fan of non-pain-inducing object tossing–encouraged him. But unbeknownst to the G.U., the boy has a hair trigger bladder, and all this hilarity and laughter seemed to set it off, and he was soon dampening his father’s deltoids (and clavicles and scapulae) with urine. Dylan took it in stride, not even yanking the boy down as the drip began to penetrate his T-shirt. “This always happens,” he said.