DADWAGON

So the circus is in town. Clowns spilling out of tiny cars! Death-defying acts! Stilt-walkers! Lions and elephants! Yay! We’ll be bringing our little guy the moment he’s old enough! An icon of Americana!

Or, no. Call me a grouch, call me a killjoy, but I hate it. I hated it even as a little child. No, I do not find clowns creepy or scary, the way Kramer does–I just find them tedious. Trapeze acts and high-wire walking always seemed to me just dumb: “I am risking my life in order to do something difficult but fundamentally pointless. But I’m doing it with a net, so it’s not really all that risky, either.” It’s as if you took an Olympic event, like skiing or bobsledding, then stripped out the competition aspect. Every performer at the circus gets a medal, just for Not Falling to His Death.

Add to that all the grim stories about mistreatment of animals–whether true or false–and the whole thing takes on a leaden, joyless cast. Plus, as I remember (and as the Times reports in that story linked up above) it’s a rather cynical entertainment enterprise. Ringling Bros. seems hellbent on separating you and your dollars, as rapaciously as George Steinbrenner, whose rapacious nature is at least a little more obvious. Plus there, at least, you get the sense that your overpriced ticket is buying a better shortstop than, say, the Kansas City Royals have, in the ongoing Moneyball backstage game. I seriously doubt that Ringling Bros. is out there trying to pick up an up-and-coming young lion tamer before a competing circus signs her out of Florida State.

The only time I get remotely warm feelings about the circus, in fact, is during the annual elephant parade, when the big gray beasts come into Manhattan through the Queens-Midtown Tunnel on foot. That, at least, connects the event to the New York life,  ever-so-slightly, and feels intimate in a way that nothing else about the circus does. Plus it goes directly past our apartment building–which means, if I have anything to say about it, it will have to be the only circus-attending our boy does until he’s old enough to buy his own tickets.

I’m always a sucker for pseudo-scientific theories about how babies think, so when something actually scientific comes along I get extremely excited. This one comes from my friend Jeff Wise, author of “Extreme Fear,” who observes that his 16-month-old son, Rem, “seems to grasp the purpose of objects more easily than the details of how they must be physically manipulated.” He puts his spoon in his mouth sideways, a dustpan on the porch upside-down, and his snow boots next to his feet.

The infant mind, then, reverses the famous Bauhaus dictum that “form follows function.” An adult dust-pan designer would start by thinking along these lines: I’ll need a surface that can intersect evenly with a flat surface, therefore the leading edge of my dustpan will have to be flat. To Rem, these considerations are incomprehensible. A dustpan works because it is a dustpan. A spoon works because it is a spoon. To him, function precedes form.

Check out his blog—jeffwise.wordpress.com—to learn about “scale error,” watch a cute-funny-freaky video of oversized toddlers, and find out what Rem does with a cardboard box.

As some of you may know, this is the first night of the Hebraic observance of Passover, which is Aramaic for “Jews own the International Banks, suckas!”

Tradition dictates that my extended family gather together to sup upon the fatted lamb, quaff to the dregs, and all pretend that we don’t eat pork. Some discussion of the Mets and liberal politics will be appropriate over dessert, which is rarely very good (sponge cake and stewed plums).

Here’s the problem: my brother, who lives in the Midwest, and I, are such incredibly ignorant Jews (and we’re just plain dumb) that we couldn’t figure out which night was the first night of Passover. Alas, my brother and his two daughters won’t be making it into town until tomorrow.

Instead, however, of just forgoing the first night’s Seder (which I think has some Biblical significance, if I’m not mistaken), we just decided to postpone it. Tomorrow night we will pretend that it is the first night of the Passover and Wednesday will be pretend day number two. Elijah will have to figure the whole thing out on his own.

I’d say we’re all going to go to Hell, but ha! Jews don’t believe in it.

Here’s the feed from last week’s TV appearance by Matt, our indefatigable defender of boozy babies.

There’s lots to dissect here. Personally, I happen to think they paired Matt off with someone who comes off as a bit of a horse’s ass. “But, but, but,” she says in a husky voice that has Marlboro Reds written all over it, “in this country, it really is not done”.

OK, so Dr. Robi Ludwig is just Dr. Phil in a floral print dress. At least she has a line of “inspirational jewelry” based on her work as a psychotherapist (huh?). And even though Matt clearly made her look like a punk in this debate, I do have one point of empathy with her: I too have been subjected to Matt’s withering little arsenal of eyebrow-raising and eye-rolling. We all have here at DadWagon. So I feel your pain, Dr. Robi. Go have a drink. It’ll help.