Your existence makes me sick. Let me clarify: this is not to say that I feel like I am going to puke imminently; it's really more of a nausea in the mid-century, continental sense -- a fundamental discomfort with your being-state and ultimately with my own. Why, you ask? Why, indeed! Let us ignore the fact that you are a smug, Izod-wearing weenie living the tony dream-life of a world-famous blogger, that you have access to lots of easy, meaningless sex and that you play talk show footsie with Johnny Rotten. Never mind that you rub elbows with NPR superstars like Sarah Vowel and get paid to write about bacon. You cheeky bastard! You scooped my whole hipster dad idea!
I don't know how the hell you did it. I remember a particularly heated Sunday morning Pork Store debate with my posse back in '99, a little rant about when kids should first ink up. It was then I realized that someday, were I to ever procreate, I would be a way cooler dad than any of my friends and that somehow, some way, I needed to write about it. ...where WERE you in '99, anyway?
Now granted, you're a working, professional writer -- you were probably born life-mining for humor nuggets -- and I'm willing to concede that you knocked up your wife more than five years ago, and yes, yes, yes, Never Mind the Pollacks is, in fact, the best thing since The Rutles. You probably think I'm some lightweight emo-parent poseur, another polkacore pretender to the easy-chair throne of poppy paterfamilias. Well, I may not have published studlier-than-thou snippets about multiple male orgasms and I didn't accidentally impregnate my then-girlfriend until last year, and, well, I really didn't even know what a blog was until February. But I have twice as much hipster cred. You know: 10 years in a band; purple hair; interviews on Maximum Rock and Roll; petty, long-running feud with Jello Biafra; 8 years in graduate school living on Mission burritos and boiled text book bindings; and I even rode the wild Internet wave until it crashed on the shores of the biotechnology revolution. I have hipster in spades, buddy. Bring it on!
My writing chops are pretty solid too. Check out my chapter on sperm. The Village Voice liked it so much that in 1998 they identified me as a "scholar to watch" -- of course, if you've been watching since then, I apologize; you must be bored out of your mind. And my wife thinks my anniversary poems are pretty.
What about my family life? I got your ironic infant anecdotes right here, mister. My baby has anecdotes up the kazoo! You want wry, Travis Barkeresque musings on the post-punk parental condition? I have miles and miles of mohawked moppet malapropisms. Hell, my kid can drop an age-inappropriate aphorism bomb at a dinner party before the Albarino hits the glass. And potty talk? Don't even get me started. You know how Eskimos have 200 words for snow... I can spin an omelet-making yarn with subtle threads of Nirvana, Nietzsche and Geisel so tight it makes makes Doug Hofstadter sound like another Slate hack.
Yes, Pollack, you are an alternadad lightweight. I write this open letter to you for two reasons:
First, to expose you for what you really are: the jalapeno to my habanero, the Lamott to my Gopnik, the New Wave to my Punk Rock.
Second, I would like to ask that you do any one of the following:
1. post me on your blogroll
2. send a linkback to this post
3. submit a comment to this post
4. read this post and comment on it to your friends
5. read this post and smile inwardly to yourself before cobbling together another silly everyday-life event into a post
6. listen to someone who HAS actually read this post briefly describe it to you
Were you to complete any of the aforementioned tasks, I would be more than happy to be your best blogging buddy, especially if you would introduce me to my hero, Dave Eggers, and invite me to cool, back room VIP parties at the Pirate Supply Store.
Whatever happens, I'm putting you on notice that Daddydada is out on a tag cloud trophy hunt.
Breed and Destroy!
Matt Killingsworth (nee Schmidt)