11791

I think this is the last place left to announce it. And even though I haven't written a thing here in ages, it seems the only fitting way to truly wrap things up at The Metz.

The Exile will soon be over.

After a stellar 6 year run in Southern California, the family will be New York bound this summer. Long Island, more specifically. Back to the land of Billy Joel and the Honda Accord and most of our friends and family.

For the oldest two, The Return will be a chance to finally go deep with the East Coast roots they've always repped, despite the fact that they were dragged west when they were two.

For The Kid, it will result in many more kisses and hugs from the extended family he doesn't really know all too well, having been conceived, born and raised in LA.

For The Wife, it will be a sigh of relief. A return to the home she willingly gave up twice to humor my ambitions, most of which were ultimately met. (I mean, I didn't make Phil Rosenthal sweat, but we're definitely not leaving in a stinky cloud of Midnight Train to Georgia.)

For me, it will be a chance to watch the other four members of my family get everything they deserve, which will, in turn, give me everything I truly want.

I can't wait.

Overdoo

i got this on january 2nd to mark the end of a very crappy year and to hopefully kick off a very good one.


and i had no idea at the time that going forward would mean leaving The Metz behind.

i'll be here from time to time

just not nearly as often as i once was.

if you need a micro metz fix, you can find me at twitter.com/moeberg

until then...

Mile High Metz

greeting from a jam packed american airlines 767. flight 118. we are rocking the brand new gogo wi-fi service, 35,000 feet over the midwest, steaming towards new york and the end of the year.

and what a year it was.

we had laughs.

we had tears.

more than a few.

we had controversy.

and we had the most popular post in the history of the metz by far - courtesy of the good people at whole foods and some unlucky pigs.

thanks to that post, we managed to pull a few more loyal Metz fans onto the bandwagon. if you're one of these very lucky and wise people, i want to welcome you to the family with your very own copy of this year's Moe Berg family holiday card. glad to have you aboard.



ok...lame recap...reveal of the holiday card...

...now what?

what about 2009?

what about it?

well, if 08 has taught me one thing, it's count on nothing. make no plans. just stay on your toes, do your thing and hope for the best.

which is why all i hope for 2009 is the ability to keep on doing my thing with my crew. provided this plane lands safely at jfk two hours from now.

---

thanks to the usual jam packed new york/new jersey schedule, posting may be light until after the first of the year. or it may not be.

feel free to check me on twitter - which i still don't think i'm using properly - until we get into the swing around here.

and until then, have a safe, fun, healthy, happy, prosperous, peaceful new year.

Smelling Salts, Please

they were born 7 years ago tonight, each one smaller than a sandwich.



i think these are pictures of jb and ab. honestly, though, i can't even tell anymore.

tonight, 25 of their animal-loud, videogame-and-mini-golf-fueled friends finally helped wash away whatever lingering sentiment i still associate with the night they were born.

my sons are no longer nicu preemies gone good. they are essential members of a 1st grade mob meticulously assembled in hell by the half-breed demon spawn of al capone and satan himself.


and we're more than half way to their bar mitzvah.

god help us all.

Bring Me The Head of Frank Caliendo

little known fact:

many of the world's most enduring catchphrases weren't ever actually said by the people who are known for supposedly saying them.

regardless, noted impressionists from rich little to fred travalena to frank gorshin (god rest his weary soul) have fed their families and paid their staff by leaning on these phantom but familiar sounding lines.

to wit:

cary grant never ever said "judy, judy, judy".

william shatner went his entire star trek career without actually reading the line "beam me up, scotty".

and james cagney didn't ever once utter the words "oooh...you dirty rat!" on film.


please keep this in mind when you hear my son ab's impersonation of me, which he debuted last night and consists solely of a scrunched face, a lowered voice and the five words "i would like that food".

Moe Berg's Low Self-Esteem Breakfast Tips #1 - The First In A Series

let's face facts.

1) the economy is bad

2) you love bacon

"so?" you ask with great interest, "what does the fact that the economic ground is cracking beneath my old, shredded, wonderbread bag shoes have to do with the fact that i'm down with the pig?"

"listen up, shithead," i say with off-putting contempt, "i'm getting to that. and try to take a shower once in a while. you should be ashamed of yourself."


what if i told you that you could have a satisfying, delicious, stomach-warming, artery-packing Bacon Breakfast for mere pennies? and you would only have to deal with one or two hippies at the most?

you'd tell me that you were breaking out your finest bib.

here's how it works.

1) go to whole foods before 9 am or so


yeah, i know, i know.

"moe, i can't go to whole foods! that place is very expensive! the hand picked organic peruvian albino avocados are, like, four bucks each! and don't get me started on the luxuriousness of having both an olive and a cheese bar! plus, i drank all that cough syrup. i'll never get up before noon!"

are you done?

seriously. are you done? are you finished yet? do you want bacon or do you want to complain?

ahem.

where were we?

1) go to whole foods before 9 am or so


2) enter the establishment

3) walk towards the serve yourself hot food bar

4) try not to get caught staring at the hot moms and fresh-faced co-ed cashiers

(step 4 is applicable only to men and lesbians.)

5) find the little cardboard boxes

6) find the bacon

7) put 7 or 8 strips of bacon in the box. this should be more than enough to satisfy even the most pork grease-addicted lardass


8) look for the most alluring cashier

9) have this cashier weigh the box and ring you up


10) pick your jaw up off the floor as your Grand Bacon Total is calculated at...


...less than 20 cents!

11) get in your car, take off your shoes, loosen your belt, turn up the radio, and munch that bacon as you drive to the unemployment office to apply for benefits

economical, atkins-friendly and tasty.


those are three terms we don't throw around here at the Metz very often. but i'm willing to bet you a can of soup that after you set my plan in action, you're going to get those three words tattooed somewhere between your navel and your knees.

C Is For Cill Me Please

your job is on shaky ground.

your 401k is fucked.

you're going to be hit with wmd within 5 years.

it could be worse.

you could have tickets to sesame street live.


first thing's first. i love everything there is to love about my boy bb.



he's adorable, sweet, fulfilling, entertaining, heartwarming, blah blah blah blah right down the baby powder scented line until you get to the fact that he's a little more than 5 years (i think) younger than his brothers. he may run around the house clutching his wii remote muttering "madd'n, madd'n" under his breath while he tries to keep up with his role models as they play handball in their room, but he's still just a bite sized toddler who's asylum mad for muppets. why should he miss out on an important formative live entertainment experience just because his parents have already been nailed to the cross in front of hooper's store and managed to climb down once already?

that's the question i kept asking myself as we sat in the 30% of the pasadena playhouse that actually had asses in the seats.

the lights went down. my boy lit up.


mrs b and i rolled with it.

the only things that made things tolerable were

1) watching bb enjoy himself so much

2) looking around at the other parents who, to a person, were completely ignoring the show onstage and just staring at their beaming children. men women and children lost together in rapturous adoration but for completely different reasons and looking in totally different directions

and

3) sitting there wondering what must be going on in the mind of this woman


she played "jenny", the only non muppet member of the ensemble cast. it was her job to move the story along. the motivation, if you will.

as in...she's a music teacher who moves to sesame street, only the moving trucks haven't arrived with her instruments yet, which upsets her, so a helpful crew made up of your child's favorite characters prepare a musical show for her without her knowledge.

the good news is that this woman is a working actress.

the bad news is that she's acting opposite a cast of silent co-stars over pantomiming their portion of the pre-recorded dialogue while wearing slighty ratty looking fursuits.

the terrible news is that she is forced to sing an emotional solo number in the first act called "music is my life" wherein the rest of the cast gets to go backstage, take off their giant heads and cool down for a while while she stands there in the spotlight belting it out to an audience of children who literally begin to cry and scream in abject frustration and open revolt the instant they notice that there are no muppets onstage with her.


bb cried the loudest.


and just in case there was any question at all whether we were gathered for art or commerce, i present to you the balloons they trotted out to the edge of the stage in full view of all the children when the lights came up for intermission...


by the time i took that picture, a full 50% of that clump had already been spoken for at 8 bucks a pop.


kvetch though i might now, as the curtain fell on jenny and elmo and the rest of the crew, my wife and i had accomplished two important things. we made bb about as happy as a boy can be. and we endured something we never ever ever have to do again thank the sweet sweet lord in high holy heaven above praised be his name.

The Queen Is Dead. Long Live The Queen. (And Wash Off That Turkey, For God's Sake.)

preparing a successful thanksgiving dinner when you don't really cook at all is no small feat.

the only thing to which i can really compare it would be handing the ball to an unproven rookie for the 7th game of the world series. a rookie who has never basted a turkey before and goes no deeper into the spice rack than garlic powder.

a rookie named mrs b.


this year, with the loss of the family's most gifted poultry chef and carbohydrate procurer, the pressure to step up and deliver some great tasting vittles was higher than ever. especially when it came to feeding my old man, a fellow who has, over the years, become, shall we say, comfortably accustomed to the manner in which my mother prepared things. born without a middle name, he happily added "Routine" to his birth certificate sometime in the early 70s. didn't get the right cranberry sauce? palpitations. goyishe gravy? agita. 7 layer cake sliced improperly? break out the paxil.

this year, there was no hiding his concern as we got closer and closer to meal time, especially as he eyed what was being prepared.

hmm. sourdough bread in the stuffing? carol didn't ever make stuffing with sourdough. oh, and there's rye bread in there also? and celery! what do you know? what's that? bourbon and pecans in the sweet potatoes? fine, i guess, if that's how you do it around here. and sauteed string beans & mushrooms...ok...ok...breathe, kenny, breathe...


a few hours before the carving hour, the phone rang. it was my aunt debbie, my father's sister, the cook i imagine he'd choose as his next favorite if he were ever to have to prepare a line of culinary succession after my mom, calling to wish us all a happy holiday. when she asked to speak to my wife, my father sweetly mentioned as he passed her the phone that aunt debbie happened to be a great cook. as in "if you have any last minute questions, about how to cook it the way i like it, now's the time."

before i go on, i want to mention that, while it may sound like my dad was being a jerk, he really wasn't.

first off, you should know that for his whole life, food has been a comfort to him. when he was a kid, he was always happiest when he was eating with his family. years later, as an adult with a young family, he impressed upon us that we should always take time to sit and eat together as often as we could.

thus, like most jews, he believes that food = love.

that's pure turkey skin, folks

and now that the source of his food for the past 40 years has been taken from him well before her time, lord knows he's entitled to feel a a little uneasy about the other part of the equation. here we have a man venturing out into new territory, both culinary and otherwise, for the first time in decades, concerned about what he might find. would his new life as a widower be full of disappointing meals that would make him miss his beloved wife even more? would his cherished daughter-in-law muster the chops to rise to the occasion and feed him the way he was used to being fed? or would he be forced to write off her kitchen skills forever? how would it all play out?

i am happy to report that it played out perfectly.

mrs b cooked the shit out of that bird and all the other stuff in the bowls surrounding it.


and while ken b may not have gotten the menu my mother would have cooked for him, from bite one, there was no mistaking that this spread would more than do and will continue to do for the years to come.

take a bow, mrs b.


mom would have been more than proud of the daughter she never had...

...even as she felt the stinging burn of shame over her youngest son's decision to sexually assault the turkey you worked so hard to cook.


(feel free to add all the stuffing jokes you want in the comments.)

Follicles

it's been a long time coming.

when you're young, you think you're going to be forever blessed.

case in point...

backup shooting guard, united rice packing. fourth grade.


and, of course, who can forget

backup midfielder, lewis village under 16 soccer?


yes, once upon a time, i had Mighty Ringlets. proudly conditioned with Aussie 5 minute miracle, airdried and picked out each morning to maximum sproing. worn both with and without a home made headband. (mostly without, thank god.)

it was a blessing and a curse. old ladies alternately complimented me on my shiny tendrils and mistook me for a girl. the shampoo bills strained my parents' budget.

but i'd be lying if i said i wasn't happy with what i had.

and then one day, one dark day, my Shirley Temple Head up and disappeared. almost overnight, it settled into a sort of a clump.


don't get me wrong, though. there was movement. slowly, slowly, slowly things began to retreat in the power alleys just above my temples. my already sizable forehead decided to stake bolder new claims closer and closer to the top of my bean.

and then, almost as suddenly, things settled quietly into a holding pattern. as in the same hair levels and same cut - regardless of stylist - for years and years. as you can see when you compare these two photos, one taken when the boys were born in december 2001 and one screwing around with bb in july of this year, things are basically the same.



i mean, these days, i look like a bitter old man with cobwebs where his insides should be - but from the eyes up, things have basically been holding the same ground.

until recently.

recently, whether i've been basking in post-haircut bliss or overgrown shag, there's been a constant source of concern.

the fact that you can see through the muff to my scalp.

brutal, but true.

i'm a big boy. i dealt with it. i modified the manner in which i applied my murray's pomade. i twisted. i patted.

eventually, when i realized that i had fallen into a pattern of pomade application that included a modified combover up front, i decided to throw in the towel and undergo a bold experiment.

a co-worker had the clippers. i had the head. we came to an agreement. we would use the number 2 setting and i would see what we ended up with.


honestly? i kind of like it. i like the way it looks and i like the fact that, unlike a lot of guys who lean on the clippers, i don't really truly 100% need to do it just yet. i have the option of growing things back out.

but i don't think i'm going to.

the boys like it. the baby can't stop rubbing it. mrs b didn't yell at me. i've been told i look 10 years younger and 10 pounds lighter. and not by someone trying to sell me something.

so? now i need you to tell me what you think. honestly.

and not just about that totally fucking bizarre basketball picture. (but feel free.)

Atten-tion

this is my grandpa archie during world war 2.


he left his beautiful red haired bride behind in brooklyn to risk his life healing the people who helped save the world in the hürtgen forest, at the battle of the bulge, and on the ludendorff railroad bridge at remagen.

then he came home and made my mom.

at ease, soldier.

and thanks.

(and to the rest of you, how about chucking some love to pros vs gi joes, run by my friends the zinones? you want to talk about doing amazing work? shiiiiiiit.)

But Then Again, He Doesn't Have The Magic Garden

over the past few weeks, everyone's favorite alphabet addict, bb, has become absolutely artie-lange-style hooked on they might be giants' 'here come the abcs' cd and dvd.

and who are we to discourage him?

he loves the songs, he digs the visuals, and, most importantly, thanks in part to the multimedia alphabetic assault, he's got his letters down stone cold pat on the short side of two years old.


being the enablers that we are, and always out to encourage our children's intellectual growth, mrs b and i immediately decided to amazon up a copy of TMBG's abc follow-up, called - surprise - "here come the 123s".


to no one's shock, bb took to it like raisin takes to bran.

in watching the disc with the boy a couple of times, i began to take particular notice to a track dedicated to the number 1, called "one everything" - which, in addition to its simple lesson about the actual number itself, actually delivers a pretty deep philosophic message.



everything we experience is really just little parts of one big universal thing.

amazing.

what 19 year old me could only discover during a terrifying trip on laced mushrooms in my friend david's backyard can now be delivered to a todder in handy dandy jingle form as he sits on the family couch.

now that's what i call progress.

Bloomberg/Friedman '16

i guess i got caught up in the hype.

i thought going to the polls this morning as a family would be something a little more momentous than it ended up being.

(fast-forward 28 years. it is the day before election day. ab, jb and bb are sitting in a diner on long island. the three handsome brothers are sharing a great variety of different foods.)

ab: hey, jb and bb. remember when dad and mom took us with them to vote in 2008?

jb: yeah, that was great. that was a historic day.

bb: i was really young, so i don't remember much, but it was completely cool that they made it a point to get us involved on the day america elected its first black president.

jb: i can't wait to take my children tomorrow to vote for america's first robot president!

ab: yes, sir. bleepbloop/cyrus '36! we're making our own memories now!

jb: please pass the hummus, sushi, roasted peppers, steak, chocolate milk and matzoh ball soup so i can eat it all without retching or complaining.

(rewind back to present day)

while this may or may not be how it plays out far in the future, i will always remember the present for a few reasons.

today was not just the day i took my children to help elect america's first black president.

it was also the day bb threw a snot-bubbling shit fit just as we were handed our ballots after standing in line for 45 minutes behind the kind of self-satisfied overly sanctimonious obama voter that might normally cause me to get behind bob barr.


it was the day ab strolled through a big smelly rainwater puddle on our way to the polling place, soaking his left sneaker, sock and foot down to his calcaneus and talus.


it was the day jb had to restrain himself from gagging due to the scent of the room in the church nursery school where they set up the voting stations, a smell you find at the point on the venn diagram where wet dog, zoo and foot meet.


so much for romanticizing the present.

in the end, ab punched the ballot for barack, jb punched the ballot to preserve the marriage rights of homosexuals, bb was mollified by being given a pen and i saw the election of a man i find truly inspiring.


as someone with friends and family members whose political leanings are scattered across the proverbial landscape, i've tended to stay away from politics on The Metz.

not tonight.

call me naive, but tonight i am a happy, hopeful man who watched his sons help make history. the same two little boys (and their baby brother) who spent an entire election cycle watching the speeches and debates and all the other hot air along with their old man, never once thinking that the idea that a black man, or woman, or very very old person for that matter, was out of place as they fought for their spot in the white house.


yes we did.

Make Mine Whoppers

in honor of halloween, how about we go with the good old trite and true handing out of TRICKS and TREATS for the first time ever here at The Metz? huh? hmmmm? how about it? what do you say? eh? question mark?

let's hand our first TREAT to jb - aka his class' skeleton student of the month.


an honor he has sought and deserved and, for some reason, known only to last year's kindergarten teacher, has been shut out from since the opening days of school. there isn't a kid alive who was more psyched to get that certificate and shake his principal's hand. and in a skeleton costume no less.


another TREAT goes to my man ab - who, in a halloween world full of indiana joneses, cowboys, draculas, and, yes, skeletons, decided to spend today dressed as a bottle of ketchup.


which would not have been possible without our next TREAT recipient, mrs. b - the woman who created ab's ketchup costume from scratch


and who spent the better part of 40 minutes helping me apply a bald skin wig tonight.


without her hard work and that wig, i could not have dressed up as Bald Best Buy Employee With A Mustache - something i've secretly always dreamt of being.

(cheer up, boys. your old man can get you an extended warranty for cheap!)

one last TREAT to the one and only bb - who had his mind blown when, for the first time in his life, people just gave him candy for no apparent reason. as payback, he blew their minds as the one of the world's most adorable mickey mice.


as for the other half of the equation...

a TRICK and a big fuck you to the house that left this bowl outside the front door.


i've got news for you, bub. nobody wants one piece of laffy taffy or pack of smarties, let alone two. your offerings are insulting and your threats are pathetic.