Category: General & Random

The Gay Uncle wants to give a shout out to his pal Jason Berkowitz and his animated kids’ rock band The Kablamos. Check out their music on Amazon or iTunes. Better yet, BUY the album and let your kids rock out!

The Gay Uncle was invited to cover an exciting event at the end of last week, the fourth annual Anti-Prom: a celebration for all the amazing outlier teens from all over the city who reject the blonded Gossip Girl conformity of traditional year end dance events. Having been an outlier kid himself in high school (faggoty asymetrical 80’s hair-do, combat boots, trench coat, thrift store tux) the G.U. felt total affinity with the participants, giggling gleefully at their awesome costumes, dancing, and assorted antics. He thanks Mike Hogan from VF.com for recognizing this, and sending him to report on this thrilling party. Take a look at his VanityFair.com coverage here.

Photo Credit: Jori Klein

Apparently, winning the Democratic nomination wasn’t enough for go-getter candidate Barack Obama. He’s now willingly subjected himself to a new challenge, one much more difficult than even facing down Hillary. The Gay Uncle read that this weekend he will be HOSTING A SLEEPOVER PARTY for his seven year old daughter Sasha! Apparently eight little girls were due at his Chicago home on Saturday evening around 6:00. G.U. is guessing that they’re all still awake right now. Being the good citizen that he is, Gunc would like to offer advice for next year’s sleepovers, when the Obamas are in the White House: decaf sodas, a dusting of ground-up Valium in the make-your-own-pizza dough, and a spiking of grape flavored Children’s Benadryl in the punch bowl. Viola! Dinner, then bed. If none of that works, the then-president could also have some Secret Service members use their infamous “sleep hold”. He’s heard that it’s totally painless. GO (to sleep) BARACK!

Check out The Gay Uncle being interviewed on Blog Talk Radio
Monday, June 09
7:00 p.m.
Listen to his clever quips and actionable advice. Hear stories of parents crazier than you or your friends. Or call in at the number below and ask a question of your own. Should be fun.
(347) 838-9159

View the Press Release here.

Here’s an exquisite idea whose time the Gay Uncle believes has truly arrived: give little kids fake pills in order to try and elicit a placebo effect. They’re going to have to get used to swallowing medicine soon enough anyway, since we all know that every newborn baby is just an incipient case of ADHD, episodic depression, and/or bipolar disorder. So why not prep them right now by having them take capsules to “cure” intractable problems like the pain of skinned knees, the grody taste of spinach, or the sadness associated with the end of today’s episode of Dora? They can develop their esophagus muscles. They can learn that nothing that exists (particularly the banality of nothingness itself) that can’t be cured by modern science. And it would do away with all that nasty physical contact involved with our current “a kiss will make it better” placebo practice. Gunc gives it two thumbs up! What do you think?

The Gay Uncle took a (long) subway ride out to Coney Island yesterday because a) it was his boyfriend’s birthday, and that’s what he wanted to do, and b) they’re talking about closing down Astroland again and he wanted to ride on the Cyclone at least one more time before he dies (or simply die riding on the Cyclone). Fortunately, it was a perfect day–sunny, clear, and breezy. Also fortunate was the fact that the copious quantities of pizza and beer that G.U. consumed had little impact on his enjoyment (NOTE: the one-to-one beer-to-slice ratio does not work for the number four.) He strolled the boardwalk. He rode the coaster (twice!) He even went to the Aquarium and saw a mother walrus and her baby (a strange term for a being that was born at 112 lbs). The problem came on the return trip, when a three year old boy boarded the subway with his mother and grandmother and proceeded to SCREAM at the top of his lungs for about eleven stops. He wasn’t in pain. No one was molesting him. He didn’t have to go to the bathroom. He didn’t even seem tired or angry. He was simply screaming. Loud. Very loud. For no reason. And how do you think his mommy and granny reacted? They did NOTHING. Not a stern glance. Not a weak suggestion to please use an inside voice. Not even a hollow threat that if he didn’t stop yelling right now, they would never go to Coney Island/visit Grandma/ride the Q train ever again. Now, the Gay Uncle hasn’t had much luck correcting parents’ behavior on the train, so he kept his big monkey mouth shut. But he had secret fantasies of using some of his patented methodologies on the child: ones that are not in his book, and involve lead weights, wire, duct tape, honey, and fire ants.

The other afternoon, the Gay Uncle was out in his yard studying the new growth on his forsythia–another of his compulsive daily habits–when he heard a strange rumbling. Imagining it might be a logging truck or ATV-er, he prepared his best scowl, but was surprised to see an eleven year old girl on a pink bicycle coming down the road. Unless she weighed about four hundred pounds, or was in terrible gastric distress, she had no right to be making this noise, and he stared at her, trying to figure out what was up. He finally recognized her as an unfortunately pie-faced little neighbor child–who had, happily, finally started growing into her head–and smiled and started to wave, pleased to see a kid enjoying the outdoors in a free-spirited and unstructured way. Realizing the tremor was unconnected to her locomotion, he even thought to warn her of the eminent approach of a tractor or bulldozer from her rear. But it was then that he noticed the true source of the noise. It was her father, trailing about fifteen feet behind her in a Bobcat Utility Vehicle like the one pictured above: a gasoline powered, four-wheel drive, go-anywhere golf cart. The Gay Uncle’s scowl returned. It wasn’t just the unnecessary carbon footprint that outraged him. Or the dorkiness of an gentleman farmer/urban second-home owner driving one of these down a public road. It was the fact that the dad was following this kid around at all while she rode through our rural streets. The G.U. recently recorded a piece for National Public Radio’s All Things Considered critiquing the short tether that contemporary parents keep on their tweens; a British study claimed that a full third of 11-15 year olds in the U.K. have never been allowed outside of the house alone. He strongly advocates letting your youth off the leash. Kids this age need unstructured free time away from their folks to make sense of the world and improvise responses to new input. If we don’t want them to become a part of Generation XL, they also need a space bigger than their living room to roam around in. This girl was certainly getting some exercise, but under the constantly prying eye of her father, who kept his gaze trained on her rear tire as she motored up the hill. Gunc wondered if he was simply escorting her somewhere, but he saw them pass by a few more times that afternoon and since, as if he was running a horse. Note to parents: teach your almost-teenagers how to navigate the world so they don’t live in fear of it, and give them some room to become themselves. The world is honestly not as dangerous as you think.

The Gay Uncle was recently invited to a friend’s country house for dinner. He got there early so that he could see his friends’ adorable kids Lou (2) and Henry (4 months). When he arrived, the family was out on their big elevated deck, which wraps around two sides of the house and affords an serene view over the treetops and to the local scenery. But all was not calm up above. As he approached, he heard conflict brewing. G.U.’s ears pricked up. He loves familial conflict. He thinks it’s usually pretty funny to watch parents engaged in a battle with someone one-fifth their size and with one-fifth their brain power. Plus, it often affords him an opportunity to insert his nosy, know-it-all self into the proceedings. “Louie. Stop throwing things off the deck,” his friend Peter shouted at is son. “You know that makes daddy angry. No, Lou. No. No. No!” Gunc saw a tiny sandal drift down to the ground, followed by a second sandal, and then some sort of minor barbecue tool. Knowing that nothing makes a straight guy angrier than someone messing with his grill equipment, Gunc was prepared for a severe punishment to be doled out, but his presence seemed to mediate things. “Louie just can’t seem to resist throwing things off the deck,” his friend explained, running down the stairs from the deck to say hi–and to pick up the shoes and tools and bring them back up. The Gay Uncle nodded. He’d seen this kind of problem many times before: parents attempting to stop their child from doing something that is exciting, interesting, and harmless without offering an explanation, time for adjustment, or an acceptable replacement activity; and then setting themselves (and their kid) up for the same thing to happen again by retrieving the ammunition an reloading the gun. He knew just what to do. “Throwing stuff off the deck probably one of the funnest and most satisfying things a kid can experience. Instead of fighting it, you just need to give him some parameters–like a limited bunch of things that are okay for him to throw–and get him involved in the clean up–picking them back up. Then, he’ll satisfy himself and leave you out of it” Gunc proposed giving Louie a small bucket of stuff–stuff big enough to see (so it doesn’t end up littering the lawn), like balled up old socks, mango pits, or brightly painted acorns. Then Lou could toss these off, bring his bucket down, find and retrieve his thrown objects, and repeat the process ad infinitum without involving or annoying anyone else. G.U. is not sure how this went–the boy went in for a bath, and the wine was brought out before the tactic could be put into practice–but he bets it worked. [For more examples, and a template for dealing with these situations, see his patented E.A.R. Explain, Adjust, Replace or C.O.O. Co-Option Option methodologies in his book, “The Gay Uncle’s Guide to Parenting”]

The Gay Uncle spent the day with two of his “nieces” the other day, his close friend Danika’s girls, Erica (8) and Anna (5). He was minding them while their mom attended some important meetings in New York, and they had a great time: going out for lunch, exploring the NYC Firefighter’s museum (Anna wants to be a firefighter–when she grows up…or now), and sampling different beverages at every stop they made. After a few hours of wandering around the city, Anna started complaining that she was sick of walking. G.U. is aware of kids’ capabilities, and knew she could hack the remaining distance, so he simply informed her that they’d be done when they got back. This didn’t satisfy Anna’s need for engagement and so she began calling out with each step. “Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow! My legs are tired. Ow. My legs are tired.” Gunc does not abide complaining, but since the moans got more pronounced as they progressed, he felt obligated to let Anna know his position. “Anna,” he said, “we’ll be there soon. But you should know that whining doesn’t work on me.” Anna stopped and looked up at him. “I’m not WHINING!” she whined loudly. A trio of pedestrians next to them burst into laughter. G.U. himself chortled. Anna’s older sister looked up at him. “Sure sounded like whining to me,” she said.

The Gay Uncle is in Portland, OR today, home of unseasonably warm weather, a consulting project he’s working on for the PBS Kids show “Curious George”, and his cousin Bizzie and her two adorable sons, Zeus and Whitman. He met up with them yesterday by the river for an Obama rally, where they got to see Barack deliver a stump speech in person–which definitely beat out watching it on YouTube, except for the fact that on YouTube, one don’t have to sit through a forty-minute mix-tape of bad 90’s alternative hip-hop at top volume before listening (Gunc never realized how much he HASN’T missed the oeuvre of Arrested Development.) G.U.’s little cousins were dressed in Obama t-shirts they made at home, which read, “Tell Your Mama to Vote for Obama”, and after the little rascals patiently sat through the rally–which, save the idea of being able to say “I was there” at college, was not exactly child friendly– we went out for ice cream, where Whitman, the three year old, ran into one of his friends from school. He and this little girl were cross-chatting while the grown ups discussed plans for the remainder of the day. When G.U. tuned in to what the boy was saying, it turned out to be this:

“So, Sophie. Are you going to vote for Obama?”
Sophie nodded. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Now, you ask me,” Whitman instructed.
“Okay. Whit, are you going to vote for Obama?”
“Yes. For sure.” He paused to lick his dripping cone. “You have to make sure your mom and dad vote for Obama too.”

And they say our youth is not politically engaged.