Ah, what frivolous creatures we were early in the week, before the Gonave Microplate and the Caribbean Plate slipped against each other, sending Port-Au-Prince into the the third ring of Hell.
We thought we had problems: Nathan actually complained about NOT living in Brooklyn, and about getting lots of web traffic, albeit from horny teenagers. Matt obsessed about a Vespa rocking horse while Christopher nitpicked the Post, of all publications, because they still use the term Love Child (though it did give us the opportunity to run some bitching Supremes album art). Theodore got snarky about the “hipster scum” at McSweeney’s.
Even our Tantrum was superficial: should parents let little boys wear their hair long? Nathan (who, incidentally, rocked The Crying Indian look for most of the 90’s) said no, Christopher said sure, but let’s shame them for doing so, and Matt sort of avoided answering the question (you readers at least faced the question: over 60%, at last count, voted for long hair in our First Ever DadWagon Poll)
We also talked about our junk: getting it snipped and the fear of being caught using it.
Yes, those were heady days. We even got a little pickup from The Week magazine, which is lovely publication that is too cheap to pay for its own content, so they linked to an old post of ours about Autism Clusters.
Even before we started talking about Haiti, though, the earthquake darkened our thoughts. Christopher worried about fans and digital amputation, while Theodore wrote a post in which he talked about prison and called it the Hooscow, proving once again that he is managing to blog as if it were 1908.
The DadWagon finally broke down and directly addressed the calamity: Matt with a nightmare vision and Nathan with a bit of a guilt trip. Perhaps the weekend will give them time to tire of actual calamity and return the kind of solipsistic navel-gazing you have come to expect from the Wagon.
See you Monday.
http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/01/15/complaint-box-baby-barflies/?hp
I’m hoping to get a DadWagon take on this shrill writer’s complaint of parents in pubs with pints and pint-sized ones. All depends on the bar of course, but I’m all for it.