Calm down

Ever since I dared to utter that I hated Rent I have been taken to task by numerous people. Given the flack that I have received you would have thought that I had just announced that I'm starring in my own sex tape with both Paris Hilton and Kid Rock (Why are either of those two "celebrities"?). People have told me that I need to watch it a second time. To those folks I'd like to say I've eaten the Fiesta Ranchera buffet, sat on the toilet the rest of the day, and never went back. One is about as appealing as the other. Some have said that I have a bias against Broadway shows and musical films. Anyone who knows me knows that this is untrue. As gay as it sounds I actually enjoy the theater. I've been lucky enough to see some of the greatest live shows in recent memory (The Phantom of the Opera, Wicked, Miss Saigon, Chicago, Les Miserables, The Lion King, etc.) In addition, one of my favorite films of the last five years is Moulin Rouge. To all of my Rent-heads I'm sorry I've crapped on your most hollowed of institutions. If they ever make a sequel with Julia Roberts, Sarah Jessica Parker, Halle Berry, and Keira Knightley count me in.

Did I miss it?

Last night during a commerical break for Grey's Anatomy I was channel surfing when I came upon the closing ceremonies for the Olympics. The Olympics are already over? Where have I been? I've probably watched a combined thirty minutes of the games over the last two weeks. Basically the only things I know about the events from Torino is that Sasha the skater fell, Rolling Stone cover boy Bode Miller choked, two U.S. speedskaters argued during a press conference, and that red headed snowboarding kid is now making out with Lindsay Lohan. When I was a kid I loved the Winter Olympics. I'd sit in front of my 18 inch television transfixed on my favorite events, skiing, the luge, and yes even curling. I was the only boy in fourth grade that thought that pushing a round object and cleaning off its icy path with a broom was in fact a sport. Now that I'm older the Olympic spirit inside has died. I'd rather play with Ella on the floor and watch the same episode of There and Back for the 43rd time. (As a side note, if Ashley is so broke how does he have enough money to buy 15 dozen roses?)

Skipping out on the rent

By the time Friday night rolls around I am ready to just relax on the couch, play on the floor with Ella, watch a movie on the couch with Rachel and try not to think about my crazy school brood for a couple of days. I usually look for some fun, cheesy escapist flick that I can basically just veg out to. (The 40 Year Old Virgin, Just Like Heaven, Napolean Dynamite, Hitch, Notting Hill, etc.) But last night I made a major misstep and popped in Rent. It seems that everyone but me has seen the stage musical as it's been one of the biggest hits on Broadway and throughout the world for the last ten years. You often see commercials for films that quote some obscure critic saying that a movie "lifts the human spirit." Rent does just the opposite. It is the most depressing piece of crap I have seen since.....well I can't even think of a more downbeat film. The characters in the movie cope with poverty, suicide, AIDS, and other feel-good issues. Now you would think they would all be depressed for two hours and fifteen minutes but you'd be wrong. As long as they can still sing and dance with a transgendered Santa Claus all is right with the world.

The hell that is a waiting room

Now I'm a huge lover of kids (in a non-Michael Jackson sort of way) but one of the worst places I have visited lately is the waiting room of Ella's pediatrician. I'm all for stepping up to the plate to take on my fatherly responsibilities, but I think Rachel knew what she was doing when she made a 6:00 p.m. appointment on a night she was working. After teaching for eight hours followed by another hour and a half of tutoring honestly the last people I want to be around are other people's children. I open the door to the office and it's like a scene out of that god awful Daddy Day Care movie. Kids are running around, knocking over chairs, screaming louder than me at a Paula Abdul concert back in 6th grade. (Sad I know) The place is packed and I finally find a place to sit at the very end of a couch next to the winner of Pekin's trashiest resident contest. Now I have half a butt cheek on the fabric as I take off all of Ella's jackets, blankets, and Arctic expedition gear. The guy looks over at her and says "Well ain't you a pretty one" all nicotine breath and yellow teeth. Before launching into my grammar lesson, I smile back wondering whatever happened to the art of letter writing instead of talking. As I'm trying to get somewhat comfortable with my limited seating I bang my foot on this large table full of train tracks and accidentally topple the whole rainroad line. This 7 year old boy starts sobbing hysterically as I try to apologize again and again. His 21 year old mom responds "Well you could at least help him put it back together." I don't know if this is a pick-up line in the hopes that her son and I will bond before I become his new daddy or what. I simply respond "I kind of have my hands full" as Ella is flirting with our nasty couch mate. Since coming in I've kept my eye on a young boy playing with a doll house with one hand and picking his nose with the other. Before I know it he's at my side trying to hand Ella a Barbie with his less than desirable hand. I take the doll by the hair, thank him, and pretend that my cell phone is vibrating in my pocket. As I'm talking to "Colin" I feel a hand on my back, turn around, and notice that another little boy is trying to crawl up the back of the couch. I continue my imaginary conversation until I hear a sneeze and feel some wetness hit the back of my neck. Instantly I jump up with Ella, gather our belongings, and quarantine ourselves in a corner near a pair of potted plants. From this vantage point I can see all the action. I watch a girl rip out half of the pages of The Very Hungry Caterpillar. A brother and sister fight over a Cheerio they found on the floor. A little boy races around the waiting room doing laps after obviously eating four bowls of Frosted Flakes before coming. And sure enough the little nose picker has his finger in up to his knuckle and is heading our way. Luckily I hear them call Ella's name and I dash faster than an Olympic track and field athlete to get out of this mess. The things we do for our children.