Little Miss Sunshine

(via Sundance)
Meet the Hoover family: Olive, a seven-year-old, slightly pudgy, aspiring beauty queen; her father, Richard, a struggling motivational speaker who can’t help but push; and her mom, Sheryl, who has to bring her Proust scholar/brother, Frank, home after his failed suicide attempt. Frank has to stay with Sheryl’s Nietzsche-worshiping son, Dwayne, who has taken a vow of silence until he is old enough to be a fighter pilot. Then there’s Grandpa, recently kicked out of his nursing home for snorting heroin.

(via Res)
Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris’ hilarious first feature, Little Miss Sunshine, is about a dysfunctional family’s road trip to a children’s beauty pageant. Dayton/Faris, who are celebrated commercial and music video directors, were featured on the cover of the first issue of RES back in ‘97.

(via guardian)
Little Miss Sunshine, which centres on an eccentric family racing from New Mexico to southern California so that a seven-year-old girl named Olive can enter a beauty pageant, is the first feature film from award-winning music video makers Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris.

(via NYTimes)
It was a small, quirky comedy, written by Matthew Broderick’s former assistant, with a pair of first-time directors, no movie stars and no foreseeable foreign box office. So of course, everyone in Hollywood passed it up — except for Focus Features, which worked on the project for two years…

(via Variety)
Within hours of its premiere at Sundance, Fox SearchlightFox Searchlight swooped in to close a worldwide distribution deal on the film, snagging the specialty division a release that stands a chance of being molded into another crossover hit on the order of its Park City pickups “Garden State” and “Napoleon Dynamite.”

Second only to Michel Gondry’s The Science Of Sleep, this film has more buzz than a hive of African killer bees (remember them?). I’ll update with a link to the trailer as soon as I find one.

On her recent day off (from her role as Wonder Woman, not from work) my wife and her friends visited the MoMA in Manhattan for a day of cultural immersion without the kid.

Making use of the industry passes her friend was in possession of, they didn’t have to plunk down the fifteen bucks a day of viewing modern art comes with.

Prior to this, while discussing family health other than the physical kind with our pediatrician, she schooled us in a few rules of how to be a parent while still maintaining some semblance of a personal life.

One of the main rules was that when away from our son we should practice the out-of-sight/ out-of-mind adage. “It’ll be hard at first,” she advised, “but eventually you’ll get used to it, and then you’ll be able to enjoy the world outside of tantrum-throwing tots and dirty diapers.”

On the day of her cultural expedition my wife was obviously not following orders, as she and her friends (my wife is an elementary school science teacher and one of the friends in her company is a microbiologist) were on a mission to find “the giant germs.”

I thought it was a part of some art show, and so did the museum staff who, my wife said, advised them that there was no exhibit of that nature.

I also thought giant meant larger than human size. Cooties of such a scale that instead of attacking humans from the inside, they could simply swallow us whole.

I was wrong on both assumptions. What they were looking for were the recent additions of microbiological plush toys to the MoMA’s store. And giant germs – even at a million times their normal size – look like Beanie Babies that took a trip through Dr. Seth Brundle’s time machine.

(via NYTimes)
Lest Junior become overly germphobic, parents can desensitize children with a collection of stuffed, plush microbes from the Museum of Modern Art ($7 each at www.momastore.org). The collection includes a common cold virus, a dust mite, a bedbug and a stomachache.

Created by Andrew Oliver, the toys may cause a bit of stir in New York City schools. Imagine a teacher’s dismay on overhearing one kindergartener bragging to an attentive friend, “I have sooo many bedbugs at home.” To which the friend responds combatively, “Yeah? Well I have dust mites and my dad gave me a cold and a stomach ache.”

(via NY Post)
January 30, 2006 — Isiah Thomas’ 19-year-old love child spoke out about his scandalridden dad for the first time yesterday, saying the Knick president won’t even return his calls.

Marc Edward Thomas Dones, 19, says he couldn’t care less about Thomas — or his current sexual-harassment suit — because the basketball star refuses to have a relationship with him.

“He hasn’t been a good dad to me,” Dones said. “He’s never returned my calls — that’s just him.”

You shouldn’t want to know any more, but if you do, click here. (truely, I wanted to know more, but I’m not a Post subscriber)

I have never engaged a stranger on the New York City subway in conversation. That is until my son, who acts as if he’s running for mayor, came into my life.

Since then I’ve accepted candy gifts on his behalf, discussed child development, and recommended various articles of baby paraphernalia.

But the most challenging encounters my son elicits, are those with the obvious (or seemingly) mentally disturbed. It is around these characters that my fatherly protective senses go haywire.

I see them approaching and maneuver his stroller to minimize eye contact. If that doesn’t work I am usually forced to construct a daddy wall between the dueling droolers. When this fails I have no choice but to get verbal with a stern delivery of one of the following canned responses my wife and I came up with:

“Please don’t, he has a terrible cold.” I’ll say. Or, “I am sorry, but he’s extremely allergic.” But my personal favorite has to be, “I wouldn’t do that, he’s rabid, and he bites.”

No sitter booked for Friday (yet), mom’s off to the racetrack on Saturday (she’s actually a Charter School teacher putting in extra time), and Sunday comes with a chance of rain and a low of 38 degrees. Yet we plan to have a wonderful weekend.

POP’S PICK: Nürnberg, Lehmann Maupin, 540 W 26th Street (through Feb 11)
Juergen Teller is to photography what finger painting is to fine art. Give your toddler enough paper, paint and time, and you’re bound to find a Pollock amid the endless amount of spattered handiwork.

Teller’s work is very personal. Through his pieces you are invited to meet his family, friends – mostly famous scenesters – and other nuances of everyday life captured in static, glossy, flash-filled photos.

The Chelsea gallery staff will act as if the all share a communal allergy towards tots. But who cares? Teller’s work is not that deep, you’ll only be there for 10 – 15 minutes at most.

~ some images may not be suitable for older kids. click here for an online sampling ~

Friday
(via Daily Candy)
Critical Space
What: Social and domestic spaces (from your kitchen to your cubicle) reinterpreted as fine art.
Why: Space — the final frontier.
When: Fri. & Sat., noon-6 p.m.
Where: New Museum of Contemporary Art, 556 West 22nd St., at Eleventh Ave. (212-219-1222).

Saturday
(via Spring email)
this saturday, january 28th from 12:00 pm to 7:00 pm over 30 galleries and stores will be open and more have been added to the list, so stop by, pick up a map and see what we have in store for you (pardon the
pun). we look forward to seeing you, spring

(via Eyewash email)
MoMA Family Festival on Saturday, January 28th from 6:30 to 9:30 at the Museum of Modern Art, 11 West 53 Street, New York, NY.

Families with children ages four and up will be delighted by the array of activities in store while the Museum is closed to the general public. Families will be greeted by live entertainment to capture the imagination. Get hands-on with art-making workshops that kids and grandkids can really dig into, and explore the Museum’s galleries top to bottom.

Sunday
(via Explore Chinatown)
Happy Chinese New Year!
It’s loud and colorful. There’s dancing and dragons, and dancing dragons. Cultural diversity abounds. What’s there for a kid to not like?

New Year’s Day Firecracker Ceremony & Culture Festival

Sunday, January 29th
· Firecracker Ceremony: Noon at intersection of Mott & Bayard Streets
· Culture Festival: 1:00 - 5:00 p.m. at intersection of Mott & Bayard Streets

7th Annual Chinatown Lunar New Year Parade
· Parade: Sunday, February 5th at 1pm starting at Canal & Mott Streets
· Culture Festival: 3:00 - 5:00 p.m. at Mott & Bayard Streets

Every dad is allowed to be the source of at least one documented event in his little one’s life that is sure to be the source of grave embarrassment during the child’s ‘tween’ years. It’s a sort of fatherly rite.

For my pop it was that dreaded photo he would circulate at family functions. It featured me in juvenile drag, bedecked in frilly frock, hair ribbons and patent leather pumps. I hated this photo, still do, but the more I protested its public appearance, the prouder he seemed toward having produced it.

I in turn am yet to see what effects my pranks will have on my papoose. I am almost sure that he wont be too please that I asked my wife to snap a shot of me peeing as he was snuggly strapped to my chest in the front-carrier, then circulated it to all the males in my Yahoo email address book. Or any of the various rollicks I am yet to record.

As you can assume, there must be some dad out there that has committed the ultimate folly, a champion of kiddie capers. An act of paternal parenting that goes way beyond familial embarrassment and enters the realm of worldwide infamy. I have found this dad.

I came across Amos, as I call him in reference to the ringleader in Burton’s Big Fish, quite by accident. I was visiting an artist friend, discussing my manuscript and its correlation with her boyfriend’s short film when she brought up the subject of baby Beyoncé.

“You haven’t seen it?” she inquired incredulously, then retrieved her laptop and Googled the term. “Watch this.” she said as she sat back to give me an unobstructed view of the miniature screen.

At first there was nothing but a progress bar, then before long an even smaller screen appeared on the Desktop.

The moving image was that of Amos sitting in front of his entertainment center talking into a microphone. He appeared to be announcing some eminent performance. All of a sudden the music came blasting out of the computer’s micro speakers, the ground level doors of the entertainment center swung open, and out bounced baby Beyoncé dancing like a hip-hop version of a trained circus bear.

I couldn’t fully comprehend what had taken place in just one viewing. Then after watching the digitized video a few more times and picking my jaw up off the floor, I silently applauded this fatherly feat.

Amos, gentlemen and ladies, currently holds the title of World’s Most Disconcerting Daddy. I am certain that at this very moment there is a pop committing a prank that will surely topple this title.

His favorites are listed below in order:

1) Ukulele – After noticing that he would play air guitar whenever a folk song boomed out of the stereo (don’t ask), we went out and bought a fish-string guitar at Flying Squirrel for 28 something. But I know I could have gotten the same guitar in China Town for 10 bucks or less.

2) Kiddie keyboard –Since I’ve taught him how to use the microphone on this machine, my son now jams to the synthesized sounds like a toddling Roger Troutman. The version we got as a gift teaches the do-re-mi musical scales, has pre-set rock, country and disco settings (a feature he loves), and comes with a strange scratchable turntable feature.

3) Little Tikes Rowdy the Ranch Hauler – The farm animals got lost soon after the box was opened, but he’ll press the button on the truck’s ‘head’ repeatedly in order to play ‘Oh Susanna’ over and over again… that is until the battery runs out (hopefully it’s not Duracell).

4) Card books – We have many for him to choose from (Hippos Go Berzerk, The Very Busy Spider, My First Book Of Colors). His favorite by far has to be The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Cale, for its gradated pages that are easy to turn, and the fun holes the caterpillar made. Others come and go, but he has been reading this book for about 4 months now.

5) Random plastic kangaroo – It stands about 2 inches tall and is gray (I thought all ‘roos were some shade of brown?). We don’t know exactly where it came from. Most likely he absconded with it from a play date. His kangaroo activities: making it jump, making it float (in the fish tank, much to daddy’s displeasure), and chewing on its tail to ease teething pain.

At $249.99, the new Fisher Price Bugaboo rip off, the ‘Fishyboo’ (just kidding), is a steal.

Available at Target, the new addition to the already saturated carriage market stands alone for one reason: it looks a helluva lot like the real thing.

Like Bape knockoffs and iPod look-alikes, the new stroller supplies a much needed out for hip dads; that of not inciting spontaneous wallet combustion in the quest to keep up with the Slopeses.

So how does this Corolla of strollers match up to the more popular Corvette? Let’s have a look-see:

Sleek looks: check
Lightweight aluminum: check
Infant to Toddler transformability: check
Converts from forward-facing to rear-facing: check
Multiple reclining positions: check
Wheels with pneumatic tires: check
Removable infant comfort pad: check
Expensive price tag: missing…

Now if Little Tikes would only make a low-priced, plasticated version of the LIKEaBIKE in time for my son’s second birthday.

source DaddyTypes

Each trip to my fifteen-month-old’s pediatrician is filled with fearful anticipation. None of it is on his part; all of it lands squarely on my shoulders.

My distress is not directed towards his doctor, or even the lackadaisical receptionists. It’s the prep-nurse that I fear.

She gives validity to every Hispanic stereotype. She’s boisterous, has long painted nails, wears garish gold jewelry, and has used the expression ‘liketed’ in my presence on more than one occasion.

She’s a strange character who introduced her dark side some time during our second visit. “Damn” she exclaimed on removing my son’s pamper for a routine weigh and measure, “He ain’t gonna have no problem wit’ da mami chulas, joo-know-what-i-mean.”

Ever since that moment, every smile she directs at my son, every comment that “He’s such a little flirt”, is met with my silent thoughts that she’s a suppressed pedophilic whacko that will no doubt run afoul of the law sometime later in her life.

It scares me when people push sexuality on kids, toddlers especially. If I had a dollar for every time a stranger made a sexual comment directed toward my son, I’d be a disgruntled millionaire.

One memorable conversation with a middle-aged Italian woman flaunting big hair went something like this:

She: Oh, he’s so cute.
Me (uncomfortably): Thank you
She: He stares so knowingly. When was he born?
Me: November 2nd.
She: Oooh… Scorpio [Then makes an aggressive feline sound ala Eartha Kitt].

For all their demands for chivalry and reduced sexual discrimination, women are the ones that are 99.9% guilty of these verbal offenses. They are the ones sexualizing our sons at an early age, growing them into self-serving, sexist young men, then turning them loose on submissively trained girls.

And what about the girls?

On a recent visit to the pediatrician, my wife and I were appalled to see a three year old with her hair ‘did’ and a fur coat that took, maybe, three rabbits to make.

“You go ma!” said the prep-nurse loudly complimenting the toddler, then added in a sultry manner “You look so sexy!”

The toddler, not knowing better, grinned from ear to ear as her mom joined in, smiling ecstatically.