Brett Berk

The Gay Uncle’s second weekly column is up on True Mom Confessions. This one is about the wonderful world of spanking. Check it out.

Continuing with his rage and repudiation on the subject of Republican nominees and children’s literature, the Gay Uncle would like to call your attention to a new book that should definitively be banned from your personal collection. It’s called MY DAD, JOHN McCAIN, and is written by the Cain’t-Do senator’s daughter, Meghan. (Way to cash in, Meggie.) Some of the highlights cover the war hero’s hilarious exploits in the service, like when his plane was hit (OOPS!) and he bailed (WHEW!) but was captured and imprisoned (GOTCHA!). Nothing is mentioned about his returning home to find his formerly-hot first wife now crippled and haggy, and his immediate decision to ditch her for a newer, younger, politically-connected, and way richer model (KA-CHING!). There’s also little said about his opposition to making Martin Luther King’s birthday a public holiday (RACIST!). And since the book isn’t called MY MOM, CINDY McCAIN, there’s absolutely nothing about the potential first lady walking around blasted out of her mind on handfuls of Percoset that she stole from the medical charity she ran (LOOPY!) or the fact that Johnny didn’t even notice (OUT OF TOUCH!). There is, strangely, a picture of a computer, a tool which the ancient senator has publicly stated that he does not know how to use (EMAIL???). Sadly, there aren’t any honest images of a befuddled and idea-less candidate attempting to answer questions on how to fix a country that he and his party-mates have done their very best to ruin over the past eight years (DISASTROUS POLICIES!), of him handing out enormous corporate welfare benefits to the oil companies and Wall Street (SOCIALIZE THE RISK, PRIVATIZE THE PROFITS!), gunning for additional wars while miring us deeper in one we never should have started (NUKE IRAN!) or of generally supporting the wealthy while ignoring the plight of literally everyone else (OWNERSHIP SOCIETY!). Do you think your children will like living in this story? The Gay Uncle thinks it will mean the end of America. If you’re not interested in watching that happen, it’s time to take action now.

A reader recently sent the Gay Uncle a request for advice. She wrote: “Short of buying a bus, hiring drivers, or using duct tape, how can you stop the back seat battles/she’s touching me syndrome? Of course it is the 5 year old antagonizing the 10 & 12 year olds.” Gunc loves this question, and not only because it reminds him of his mother’s creative–and blind–administration of in-car justice with a plastic mixing spoon she kept in the driver’s side door pocket; or because it evokes his boyfriend Tal’s parents’ creative resolution of this issue, which involved encouraging their three kids to lean forward from their spots in the back seat, rest their chins on the rear of the front bench, and gnaw at the vinyl and padding there, creating a distracting trio of “chew holes”. He enjoys this query because the answer is somewhat counter-intuitive: the only real solution is to ignore your kids’ annoying little squabbles and let them find equilibrium. Of course, before you get in the car, you should lay down some expectations and ground rules–keep your hands to yourself, make sure all body parts remain inside the vehicle, give me that fifty grandma sent you for your birthday so I can afford to fill up the tank again. You can have the kids bring along one solitary something of their own to keep them focused on short trips–a book, an iPod, their Polly Pockets electrolysis salon. And you should certainly make your presence known as the voice of authority, reminding them of your expectations and rules in a positivist way (by stressing what you want them to do instead of what you don’t) before you set out. But if you’re constantly getting involved in their meaningless and petty fracas, then you’re validating it, and adding yourself into their dopey drama, and we all know that conflict is not usually eased through the incorporation of additional participants (see swarming bees, bench-clearing pro-hockey fights, Iraq). Remind them that the car is shared space, and tell them that you expect them to deal with this: to get along, to ignore one another’s needless needling, and generally to work shit out. Then turn up your music and drive. Of course, if you observe weapons being wielded, see your younger kid trying to put a chew-hole in the older one, or spot a stream of child blood spraying against the minivan’s side window, more drastic forms of intervention may be required. But give this a whirl. If the problem refuses to yield to this practice after a few weeks of consistent attempts, you can also start removing privileges that require you driving them around (going to friends’ houses, attending ballet class, obtaining fat/salt/starch/sugar slurry from fast-food drive-thrus) until such point as they can handle the rules of being the vehicle. Flight attendants don’t take any crap (and we’re paying dearly for our time on board their vehicles); why should your situation be any less bearable?

Check out The Gay Uncle’s new semi-regular column on the site True Mom Confessions, where Gunc responds to readers’ embarrassing revelations with his signature snarky wit and no-nonsense advice. This week’s topic: Lying to your child’s pre-school teacher!

There’s been a good deal of media coverage recently of a book called Daddy’s Roommate. This little piece of children’s literature was originally published in the early ’90s, so why is it suddenly the subject of a shit-storm? Well, it’s because of the person John McCain’t chose to share his rocket to the bottom, the vindictive, dim-witted, prevaricating, creationist Sarah “Baracuda” Palin. Apparently, back when Sarah was just a City Councilperson in teensy Wasilla, Alaska, she spotted the title in the local library, and told some other government types that she felt it “didn’t belong there”. Being literate and intelligent, they read the book–which attempts to explain man-on-man love to preschoolers–and found it inoffensive, but when they suggested that Sarah do the same, she resisted. “I don’t need to read that stuff,” she said. Way to go, Sarah. She knows smut when she sees it. Ban Before Reading, indeed. If she had bothered to read the book, she might have had a different reaction. The Gay Uncle certainly did back when he first cracked it, finding it in a bookstore the year it came out during a shopping trip for the pre-school he ran. In those days, there was a dearth of books for young kids on this topic, and since he was a big fag and had two other gay male teachers working at his school (and since teaching kids to embrace diversity is part of educating them on how to be HUMAN) he felt obligated to buy it. Now that there are many better options (G.U. is currently working on an article reviewing “The New Queer Kids’ Media”) he feels like he can safely say that Daddy’s Roommate is a crappy and outdated book. First of all, roommate? Even the wretched word “partner” is superior to this. And the characters? Though it came out in 1994, the two guys seem firmly stuck in the strange preppy/clone era of 1982, with collar-up polo shirts, shaggy hairdos, debonair mustaches, cable-knit sweaters, and–perhaps most importantly–a baby grand piano around which they gather to sing show tunes. The ultimate message of GAY=HAPPY seems somewhat bland and naive as well. But as silly and retrograde as the book may be, there’s no reason that it should be BANNED FROM A PUBLIC LIBRARY, any more than any of the other books (and God knows what else) S.P. wants tossed on the burn pile. We must stop these Republican monsters. The Gay Uncle went canvassing for Barack yesterday afternoon, and highly recommends it:click here to sign up.

Barack has pleased the Gay Uncle even more recently with his announcement that he plans to spend about ten billion (with a b) dollars a year on early childhood education, helping to expand its availability to under-served communities with young kids which, since we currently have no coordinated national early childhood education policy, and since our current Idiot-In-Chief has seen fit to repeatedly propose budget cuts for the limited programs that exist, includes just about everyone in America. This counts in Gunc’s mind as just one more reason to vote for the big O. If you’re not convinced that expanding quality E.C.E. offerings is a useful, functional, and economical investment, perhaps you should read the works of James Heckman–a University of Chicago economist, winner of the Nobel Prize, and influential adviser to the current Democratic candidate–whose research has shown that every buck spent on pre-K schooling and infant and family care and education, saves seven to ten dollars down the line on programs like special ed, remedial ed, and prisons. Still not convinced that Barry’s your family man? Then check out John McCain’s early childhood plan:

That’s not a typo (Gunc never makes mistakes; he went to a good preschool.) That’s it, in detail. Nada. Of course, you could also go with the Palin Proposal which includes insuring that school-age kids receive no real information about reproductive health, and that every teenage girl that gets pregnant accidentally, or through rape or incest, is forced to drop out, have the baby, marry the father, and stay home. Hey, maybe some of these barefoot teens will get together and start a creationist home-school collective, and you can send you kids there! Talk about Ownership Society.

Check out The Gay Uncle’s automotive musings in this week’s Stick Shift column on Vanity Fair dot-com, where he combines his two interests–kids and cars.

While the number of women with kids is in decline–having a rather obvious correlative effect on birth rates–there is apparently a “bright spot” out there for those of you who think that extending the glorious rein of human beings on this earth is a good idea: single men having babies. They usually need a little help with this process, either enlisting a surrogate or adopting–in both cases, requiring a woman–but they’re raising the motherless packets of joy on their own. And once they develop their daddy-legs, it seems most of them aren’t particularly interested in coupling up and sharing the task. Like with most other things–TV remotes, masturbating, cooking–guys prefer to have complete control. Some of these #1 dads are gay, some are straight, and some are…Ricky Martin, who’s having twins via gestational outsourcing, so this drive is not just confined to one sexual community. The most successful (parent-wise) among them–as with all other parents–are those who are willing to enlist help from friends, family members, and paid employees, allowing them to gain perspective, maintain their Fantasy Football League commitments, and generally burst out of their Parenting Bubbles.

As you know, the Gay Uncle doesn’t personally believe in reproducing: unless you’ve figured out how to build a baby with gills, radiation resistance, and integrated UV blockers. (While he believes strongly in HOPE during this election cycle, he’s a bit more cynical about the longer-term future.) But he totally supports those of you who are more optimistic, vain, or in need of something cute and cuddly (and cry-y) around the house. So if you’re one of these partnerless partriarchs, and you’ve gone ahead and paid the $100,000 it costs to plant your seed in a suitable carrier, you can certainly afford to spend another $13.95 to pick up a copy of his book, so when Junior is born, at least you won’t totally ruin the little darling.

The Gay Uncle went to visit a friend this weekend at the house she’d recently bought upstate. Since he’d last seen her, she’d had one baby boy, and managed to get herself pregnant with another. She and her hubby seem to be doing a great job with the kid–he’s chatty and sweet, and more importantly, doesn’t seem to need constant adult input in order to enjoy himself. But they seem to be struggling (like many folks) on the parent-friend front. The other moms and dads they meet these days are all INSANE. This didn’t exactly surprise Gunc. (Have you read his book?) What did surprise him was his friend’s illustrative story. They recently hosted a party for their son’s first birthday and, as with most parties, there were a bunch of people there, some of whom knew each other, and some who didn’t, but all of whom were connected through the host. The day after the celebration, a mommy-pal emailed the hosts. Her tone immediately went from zero to irate. “It came to my attention during the birthday event that some of your guests recognized my daughter, apparently from photos you posted on your Flickr page. How dare you exploit my child, and put her at risk like this! I need you to remove those pictures right away, and desist from adding any others. If you want to put your son in danger, that’s your business, but my family won’t be party to this practice.” Now the G.U. understands kids’ right to privacy, but recognizing the children of your peers’ pals at a birthday isn’t exactly tantamount to endangerment; that’s called “being friendly”. Studies have shown conclusively that the danger of on-line predators is grossly exaggerated by the media, with some explorations even stating that the numbers of actual examples are too small to draw any useful conclusions about incidence. Kids are at a monumentally greater risk getting in a car, being left with relatives, living near a pool, or being entrusted in the care of their parents (four kids a day in the U.S. die from parental abuse and neglect.) So, parents: relax. Also, when something does freak you out: check yourselves and your tone. If you’re not sure whether you’re going off half-cocked, feel free to send your draft email to the Gay Uncle first. He’s happy to let you know if you sound like a demented wacko. (Hint: you probably do.)

The Gay Uncle is angry about so many things right now, most of them having to do with the Republicans and their vile Hate-Fest in the Mid-West. (Favorite moment: the “spontaneous” chant in response to Rudy Ghoul-iani’s invocation of the need to tap oil reserves in protected regions: Drill Baby Drill! Drill Baby Drill! Are these people out of their fucking minds, or what?) But one thing he’s decidedly NOT angry about is a little song his nine year-old niece Amber made up. It goes like this:

Everybody has a secret
My secret is, I made out with a sturgeon fish
It’s much better than a cuttlefish
Da-da-da-da-da-da. Doo-doo-doo.

Of course, while he’s not mad about this ditty, he does have some concerns. First, Gunc has seen cuttlefish close up during his recent trip to the Caribbean, and he thinks they’re kind of adorable (see photo on left). Sturgeon, on the other hand, are scaly, angular, and vaguely pre-historic looking, like a bad Brutalist rendering of a sea creature (see photo on right). So he’s uncertain of his niece’s taste in aquatic kissing partners. Secondly, he wonders why she’s writing a song about the distinctions between kissing these two fish in the first place. (He thinks it may be a result of his taking her to the Key West Aquarium some years back; that, and Finding Nemo.) Finally, it should be noted that in the illustrated lyric sheet included with this song, niece Amber drew the following: a picture of herself in mid-pucker, a plus sign, a picture of a sturgeon, a picture of a cuttlefish with a red-slashed no-symbol through it, an equals sign, and a picture of a half-fish/half-human boy, leaving the G.U. confused about what exactly happened between his niece and the plated bottom dweller. He believes that people should be able to sing about whatever they want, but he does not want any piscine Bristol Palin-type shenanigans going on in his family.