Listen, I grew up riding my bike in NYC and back then (we’re talking the 70s and 80s, you whippersnappers) we didn’t have friggin’ bike lanes. We rolled the dice and took our damn chances. Beyond a broken thumb and a few dented car doors along the way, I never had a serious problem. It was more a matter of remembering my place in the greater food chain: The New York City street – like it or not – is ultimately the domain of the unpredictable and easily-riled automobile. Bicyclists are guests there, and should behave accordingly.
Fast forward a couple of decades and now we have bike lanes girdling Manhattan every which way you look. While I applaud the idea behind them, bike lanes have given rise to a new breed of urban traveler: The obstreperously entitled bicyclist. Now that they have their lanes, these snippy d-bags seem to believe that all traffic must dutifully clear their path with all haste — whether or not they themselves are moving with the traffic or against it.

I don’t actually own a car (I live in Manhattan … why would I?), but every now and again, we’ll rent one and leave the city. As fate has had it, there is now a bike lane that cuts down my very street, hugging the left hand side of the road (the right being reserved for busses, fire engines and the like). The problem here is that when I’m pulling around in my car to load or unload my kids, I have no other choice than to pull up close to the curb, thereby impeding the bike lane. There are no other options. Without fail when doing so, I am routinely accosted by one uptight pedal-pusher or another, intent on scolding me for blocking the bike lane. Being that my go-to instincts lean towards sarcasm and needless antagonism (as opposed to calmly making my case and pointing out the obvious limitations of the road), the confrontations usually get ugly quickly.

Okay, so you have your bike lanes now. Bully for you. Use them wisely. But having bike lanes doesn’t relieve you from using your basic street smarts and exercising some caution and consideration. The bike lanes are a privilege, not a Divine Right.

“Daddy, can I put on some music?”

Before I can answer, Charlotte, my 6-year-old, has already pushed play on the living room stereo and my long-suffering speakers start emitting a shrill and all-too-familiar series of staccato parps that cause my brow to furrow, my eyes to squint and my temples to throb. Once again, a particularly keening rendition of “Do Your Ears Hang Low?” fills the apartment like a car alarm. I bite my tongue and quell my urge to bellow like the farcical, stentorian-voiced sitcom dad, as I know it’ll only hurt my daughter’s feelings and make my wife angry. I retire to the comparatively quiet confines of the kitchen and consider opening a beer.

To suggest that I have a deep aversion to conventional children’s music is an exercise in heroic understatement, but somehow our household has managed to amass some of the most egregious examples of same. What’s especially torturous for me about this, however, is that I am something of an incorrigibly snobby music geek of the most opinionated order. Prone to huffy dismissal, esoteric allusion and windy rumination about arguably significant albums and justifiably forgotten punk bands from eons past, I cut my teeth scouring a network of long-since-vanished New York City record stores and irreparably damaging my hearing at scores of high-volume rock shows in my distant youth. While the rest of the world has embraced the liberation of digital technology, I still devote a vast swathe of our apartment to my slavishly alphabetized compact disc collection and have an equally unwieldy array of vinyl LPs languishing in a very expensive mini-storage facility downtown. After decades of unsolicitedly bestowing meticulously composed mix tapes and lording my musical opinions over my near and dear, I am now paying the price for being an insufferable know-it-all. That I must now withstand tireless airings of cloyingly insipid children’s music is surely karmic retribution at its harshest point.

When my kids were born—well, really, it began when my wife was first pregnant—it became abundantly clear that my days of cranking the loud stuff were over for a while. No more high-volume sessions of Venom, Black Flag and Einsturzende Neubauten. I relegated my fervent music-listening to my walks to and from work (already a bad idea, given the piercing tinnitus in my right ear after years and years of systematically idiotic disregard for volume limitation) and kept things whisper-quiet in the house. When the kids were tiny, it was the same deal. But as they grew, gradually the household started playing music again. Though inarguably twee, Now The Day is Over, a “collection of standards, traditional and originals sung as lullabies” by mellow indie-folksters the Innocence Mission, became a particular favorite. I could deal with that stuff, but in time, our collection of children’s music discs stated to pile up, and not all of them were as tastefully executed.

Almost overnight, some of the most unspeakable sonic offal known to man came regularly pumping out of my stereo like processed poop out of a sewage-treatment plant. It started off innocuously enough. First came the obligatory copy of Free to Be You and Me, but then discs by Laurie Berkner, the Wiggles, Raffi and their vile ilk started muscling in on shelves previously ruled by volumes of discs by the Stranglers, Nick Cave and Motorhead. It was horrifying.

I tried to stem the tide by introducing my kids to a few selections that didn’t make me want to destroy the earth. I snuck the Beatles into regular rotation (always a safe bet). My wife seemed to get them hooked on a few Crosby, Stills & Nash songs (notably—and somewhat inexplicably—“Southern Cross”). In short order, we couldn’t go anywhere in the car without piercing entreaties from the backseat for repeated spins of same. I tried a few other suggestions, but few made the cut.

The struggle continues. As of right now, beyond the CSN track (which I now never need to hear again), the only non-children’s songs my kids will actively tolerate are “Octopus’ Garden” by the Beatles, “Young Folks” by Peter, Bjorn & John (my 4-year-old is convinced the song is about “the number 4” for some reason) and “Start Wearing Purple” by Gogol Bordello, if only because it’s giddily inane.

I shouldn’t complain. I know it’s only a matter of time before the teen pop infiltrates the house, at which point I’ll probably be thankful for my damaged hearing.

Mmmm.... flax!

There are many emotional milestones to experience as a parent, from hearing your child’s first utterance through to the day when the training wheels finally come off and they’re able to cycle steadily down the street all by themselves. And the genuine joy and pride derived from watching your children grow, develop skills and conquer obstacles is almost intoxicating. While it can be bittersweet to watch them slowly shed the trappings of toddlerhood, there are few sights that rival watching your child meet and eventually master a challenge. It was a fleeting one, but I managed to witness just such an instance last night.

As a lovely expatriate and devout Royals-watcher, my wife, Peggy, spent much of yesterday afternoon glued to the tube for details about Prince William’s proposal to Kate “Waity Katie” Middleton. In the thick of the media frenzy, Peg was sequestered in the kitchen (where we have no television), making dinner for our two children, Charlotte (age 6) and Oliver (age 4). As CNN’s Richard Quest boomed zestfully from the living room, Peggy—a remarkably resourceful cook—slapped together some homemade cheese quesadillas (made with whole grain and flax tortillas) for our frankly unenthused little kids. The dinner preparation complete, Peg plated her ersatz Mexican meal, served Charlotte and Oliver and summarily repaired to the living room, lest she miss a minute of the pomp and circumstance of impending Windsor nuptials.

As I was walking in from a long day at the office, I encountered my little Oliver creeping tentatively into the living room, evidently only moments after he’d been served his meal to relay a message. “I’ve finished my dinner,” he informed my wife, “…but don’t look in the garbage” (actually, given Oliver’s small years and tenacious habit of confusing his “r,” “l” and “w” sounds, it came out more like, “I’ve finished my dinow, but don’t wook in the gawbage!”) Curiosity piqued, I strolled into the kitchen to find Charlotte poking at her quesadilla as if it were a science experiment. Oliver’s plate, meanwhile, was pristinely uncontaminated by any semblance of food. Peering into the afore-mentioned garbage, however, I found my little boy’s dinner completely intact.

While sloppily executed and far from well-advised, my little lad’s first forays into the muddy intricacies of dishonesty made me stir a little bit with pride. With all due respect to my lovely wife, I didn’t blame Oliver for looking for a way out of consuming a whole grain and flax tortilla. He gave away his own hand, of course, but in time and with further practice, I’m sure he’ll sharpen his lying skills to finely honed edge. Once again, while it was a botched endeavor, I couldn’t help but smile at his attempted ruse.

My wife? Not so much.

On Monday, Nathan let the cat out of the bag and outed me as something of a fatuous music geek. Why fight it? Guilty as charged, your honor. As such, herewith one of those lists that we insufferably self-appointed music knowitalls love to come up with (y’know, in lieu of creating anything genuinely original, forging meaningful relationships with our fellow human beings or contributing to society in any tangible way). Specially tailored to the DadWagon demographic and summarily appended with accompanying video, I give you… The Top 10 Pop Songs Rife with Shoddy Parenting.

10. “Cat’s in the Cradle,” by Harry Chapin: Sure, a bit of an obvious one, but whaddya want? In any case, this weepy folk-rock standard spins a genuinely heartbreaking yarn of passive parental negligence warbled manfully in signature style by the preeminent troubled troubadour (although fellow folkster and storied absentee dad Tim Buckley might have a claim on that title as well). Smarm aside, if you’re a father and can listen to “Cat’s in the Cradle” without getting a little choked up, you should probably check your damn pulse.

9. “2000 Man,” by the Rolling Stones: A somewhat obscure number from the band’s short-lived psychedelic period, this spacey ditty paints a picture of a father more familiar with new technology and the enigmatic ways of the cosmos than with the doings of his own progeny. The fact that Jagger’s protagonist cops to “having an affair with a random computer” suggests that the maintenance of the fragile family infrastructure is not the first thing on his narcotically assisted mind. No stranger to being spaced out himself, KISS’s Ace Frehley covered this song on the band’s fan-alienating disco-rock opus, Dynasty.

8. “Lonely Boy,” by Andrew Gold: There’s a number of reasons to frown on this milksoppy soft-rock staple from 1977. Brimming with enough treacle to choke a horse and twee enough make Supertramp sound like Sabbath, “Lonely Boy” is a cautionary tale for overanxious, smothering parents. Not only do the titular toddler’s folks butter their boy up by telling him he’s “the only one,” they send him off to school with the intention of having him learn how to fight. Perhaps some lessons in humility, compassion and diplomacy would have served him better?

7. “And the Cradle Will Rock,” by Van Halen: Framed by Michael Anthony’s walloping bass and Diamond David Lee Roth’s primal yawps, this parking lot hymn to street justice and juvenile delinquency is a primer in failed parental involvement and lazy resignation. As a youthful insomniac, Roth’s doomed protagonist neglects his schoolwork (“Have you seen Junior’s grades?”), leaves home, falls in with a fast crowd and fails to secure gainful employment. Maybe a little one-on-one time with Dad might have helped? Just a thought.

6. “Hungry Heart,” by Bruce Springsteen: Initially penned by the Boss for the Ramones, someone convinced Bruce to keep (and summarily overproduce) this ode to emotional self-absolution for himself (it became his first top ten hit). “Got a wife and kids in Baltimore, Jack,” Bruce sings jauntily in the opening verse, “I went out for a ride and I never went back / Like a river that don’t know where it’s flowin’ / I took a wrong turn and I just kept going.” Having recused himself from doing his dadly duties, Bruce spends the remainder of the song wallowing in self-pity. Nice going, Boss-man. And stop callin’ me “Jack.”

5. “No Thugs in Our House,” by XTC: To a rollicking, angular riff, Swindon’s own XTC paint a picture of a household steeped in denial (arguably a parable about life in Thatcher’s gloomy England). Mum & Dad refuse to acknowledge that their little Graham is essentially a cretinous, beer-swiggin’ bootboy prone to kicking the snot out of Asian immigrants. Conveniently, Dad turns out to be a judge, so Graham was never bound to face any consequences in the first place.

4. “Papa Won’t Leave You, Henry,” by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds: Despite the dutiful vow of the song’s title, even a passive glance at the lyrics suggests that little Henry would invariably be better off if Dad left him the Hell alone. Setting terrible example after terrible example, Cave’s protagonist walks a troubled path wrought with violence and degradation, culminating in a seedy and blood-caked episode in a brothel. Father knows best? In this case, maybe not so much.

3. “I Don’t Wanna Go Down to the Basement,” by the Ramones: There are myriad examples in the canon of the brothers Ramone that assert that all was not entirely well in their fabled albeit fictional Queens household. Never was that more evident than in this enigmatic little narrative from the band’s eponymous debut. Fearing the unmentionable that evidently lurks in the lower quarters of the home, Joey implores his father not to take him down there. That he also refers to this parent as “Romeo” only gives one further pause.

2. “Dad,” by NoMeansNo: It’s hard to say anything even remotely amusing about this disconcerting number by British Columbia’s most versatile post-punk combo. A harrowing first-person account of abuse and domestic violence set to a symmetrically splenetic guitar attack, a single airing of “Dad” should be enough to make you want to never stop hugging your own wife and children.

1. “Country Death Song,” by the Violent Femmes: As if the title doesn’t already tell you all you really need to know, this grim little chestnut off the Violent Femmes’ difficult second album, Hallowed Ground, coldly tells the tale of a dead-eyed, brooding dad who inexplicably commits the most unspeakable of crimes. “Blister in the Sun” this is not.

Well, that ended up being a good deal more depressing than expected. Possibly not ripe for your next party mix, but what songs would you add to this august selection?