Keeping Your Hat On: The Maddening Life of a Loyal Sports Fan

Ryan Fitzpatrick threw a pass intended for Eric Decker to the back of the end zone. Had Decker caught the pass, the Jets would've gone ahead 24-22 and potentially won the game, sending the star-crossed team to the playoffs. That pass was intercepted. The crowd went wild. It was the beginning of the end of the hopes for a team that, heading into the game, had established significant momentum, leaving their often disappointed fan-base to believe that that elusive championship was within reach. It wasn't to be, of course.

Me (left) and Mike. My smile would indicate this was taken BEFORE the game.

As a die-hard Jet fan, disappointment is a way of life. Like a relative who manages to ruin every holiday, they let you down...but you can't leave them behind. No matter what, they're a part of you. And you love them. No matter how many times they've indirectly placed a glass of bourbon in your hand, they're also capable of delivering emotional highs that few others can.

I like to attend one game per season. I live 20 minutes from MetLife Stadium, so home games are convenient. However, upon seeing the schedule at the start the season, one game jumped off the page. January 3rd, vs. the Buffalo Bills, in Buffalo. The final game on the Jets' calendar,and one that could carry some serious significance. My Buffalo-raised brother-in-law was more than happy to join me (and root for the other team), and so we committed to going, both of us knowing we could be setting ourselves up for one of the greatest (or most terrible) moments of our fandoms, ending with one long, sad ride home for one of us. But I couldn't help myself. I knew the risk, but the potential reward outweighed it. Or so I thought...

After the first Fitzpatrick interception, I could literally feel the air leaving me, as if I were a balloon with a hole in it, gradually deflating. And since we were in Buffalo, I was surrounded by thousands of boisterous, celebrating Bills fans who knew full well the misery that was being thrust upon us. They've been there many times themselves. Two more interceptions later, the game was sealed. Jets lose, their season and playoff hopes unceremoniously crushed in a moment. I ripped the Jet hat off my head in disgust, the only visible sign of my allegiance. But then, as I stood there, in stunned silence amidst high-fiving Bills fans, I realized something. And I put my hat back on and made my way toward the exit. No matter the outcome, my spots had not changed. And being teased by droves of Buffalo fans on my way out was simply part of the deal.

After the Jet loss was official, I found myself shoulder to shoulder with a fellow New York fan. And he looked over at me and solemnly said, "It's just a game. I don't know why I get so worked up over it." He was likely in his mid 50s...and he had tears welled up in his eyes. That hit me hard. Because so, so many of us are that guy. We're miserable about a game and we can't explain the reason. But I think I'm closer to understanding why than ever before.

When you truly commit yourself to a sports franchise and establish a fandom, what eventually happens is both wonderful and sad. We buy clothing with their logo on it, sometimes literally erect a flag outside our home declaring our commitment. Hell, some of us dedicate an entire room in the house to our undying love for the team. We wear our allegiance like a skin, and sometimes that skin protects us...and sometimes it gets cut and we bleed from it. But why do we do it? Why do we put ourselves in vulnerable situations where the outcome is completely out of our control? I think it's more simple than most of us think.

Professional sports are an inescapable part of our culture, so it would make sense that many of us develop some level of interest in it. But a good percentage of us go all-in, And I think it's because we're all actively, in some way or another, establishing our personal brand, our identity. And it feels good to do it. Something intangible resonates with us, and we find ourselves casually rooting for a particular team. Then gradually watching entire games, listening to post-games shows, buying merchandise. We're hooked. And there's no turning back. And we stay on the proverbial horse. Because we're waiting for that one magical moment when all of that commitment will pay itself off, when we can raise our flag and wave it in victory - that moment when we can unequivocally pronounce that our brand is stronger than your brand, if even for a day.

But losing the big game? We find ourselves frustrated, angry, and often depressed. Because we realize the emotional energy we put into it yielded nothing more than a hangover and countless taunting text messages from friends. It's maddening. But it's what happens when you care so deeply.

So, I'll keep my hat on. Because as disgusted as I was to slink out of that stadium, face frozen in stunned disbelief, staring at the ground, to hide my allegiance and personal brand would be the greatest disgust of all.

Go Jets.
Joe DeProspero
@JoeDeProspero

Blurred Lines: The Plight of the Glasses-Wearer

Yeah, yeah, I know. First world problems and all that. There are people in this world who suffer far greater fates than a foggy lens. And those subjects are better tackled by writers exponentially more intelligent than I. But me? I wear glasses. It’s what I know. And it’s a lifestyle marred with overlooked inconveniences and comical setbacks. Because of a medical condition, I am not able to wear contact lenses. Bear that in mind while reading this piece.

There are times when I’m out in public, at a bar, coffee shop, etc. when some stranger rubs me the wrong way and I have to bite my tongue. Because my insurance won’t pay for a new pair of frames should I get punched in the face. And with my astigmatism it’d be like putting a down payment on a small car.

Aside from the obvious setbacks that come along with the lifestyle, here are some situations where it’s nearly unbearable to be a glasses-wearer.

Picking out a Halloween costume

Dressing up like a goon and collecting candy bars cemented October 31^st as my favorite day of the year as a kid. But every year it was the same, tired problem. Which costume can I pull off despite my glasses being on my face? Elvis Costello? Buddy Holly? The cast of “Revenge of the Nerds?” None were attractive options for a 9-year-old already being pushed into lockers. I instead opted for the horror genre. And to be clear, my Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees years were marred with intermittent pouting as I strolled down Maplewood Ave. in hopes of looking like a prolific murderer, instead looking like a hockey goalie who ran out of disposable contact lenses before the game.

Having a beach/pool day

There is no embarrassment-free option here. Either you wear your glasses/prescription sunglasses into the water and walk around with water spots on them all day (or risk losing them in the ocean, which I’ve done) or you leave them with your clothes and towel, hoping you don’t drown or miss the diving board.

Watching TV in  bed

In the first house we owned after my wife and I got married, the only practical place we could position the television in the bedroom was to the left of the bed on top of the dresser. This meant, of course, that in order to watch it, we’d need to lay on our sides and rest our cheeks on the pillows. Now, take a pair of frames and try accomplishing this with glasses on. Eventually, we decided that Jay Leno wasn’t worth the frustration and bailed on the TV entirely.

 Playing ANY sport

Basketball, baseball, ultimate Frisbee, air hockey…if you can think of it, I have probably had my glasses knocked off my face playing it. And inevitably, I wind up looking like Kurt Rambis (not a good thing, ever).

The incomparable Mr. Rambis

Being on webcam

Every time I appear on a webcam, the producer asks me to remove my glasses, as the light from my computer screen reflects off of them, making it almost impossible to see my eyes. But when I take my glasses off, not only can I not see my notes, but I can’t focus on a single thing and end up looking, quite literally, blind to the viewers. Not a good look for me.

Pillow fights
 I know this is random, but you’re at a serious disadvantage in any fight as a glasses-wearer, and that goes double for pillow fights.

Doing anything in the sexual realm

You start making out and your lenses immediately steam up and/or become an obstruction. So you take them off. Then you spend the rest of the sex squinting to make sure you’re grabbing for the right things and that you’re even with the right person. Subsequently, glasses-wearers are 15 times more likely to accidentally cheat on their spouses with a vacuum cleaner.

Having your picture taken

Everyone wants me to be remembered in photographs as a non-glasses-wearer. I know this because I can’t be in front of a camera without being shamed into taking mine off.  “Hey, do you mind taking your glasses off?” “Joe, take those babies off. You know the drill!” But this is part of my face, a distinguishing characteristic of my appearance. It’d be like asking Cindy Crawford to remove that mole on her cheek. You know the one. Kindly place it into your pocket and put it back later, Cindy. This next shot’s going on Facebook!

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go look for my glasses that inevitably will be sitting on top of my head.

Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero or email me at jdeprospero@gmail.com. 

Getting Kicked Out of Class...a Good Thing?

Last night, Sonia and I met with the boys' teachers for parent conferences. The principal sat in on these meetings. Antonio had recently gotten into trouble for being disruptive during one of the class lessons. He was flat out ejected from the room. It wasn't anything serious, just a silly kid being a silly kid. But still, I wasn't looking forward to this being brought up during the conference, knowing I might get defensive and look like "that parent" who defends his child's crappy behavior.

The principal caught me completely off guard with her response to it...

As Antonio's teacher gingerly brought it up, my heart beat a little faster. Then, out of nowhere, the principal interjected...

"Good for him," she said with a grin. "It's one thing if you're constantly getting in trouble, but if you've never been thrown out of a room before, I would think you're being too passive. And you're not pushing boundaries. Besides, it's how you learn lessons."

While this certainly fit in perfectly with the narrative I'd already created in my head about how I didn't think this one incident "was a big deal," it was refreshing to hear someone in her position recognize the upside of an act normally so identified with "bad."

It immediately took me back to the one time I was tossed from class. I was a Junior in high school, and the gym teacher was a massive douchebag. Everyone knew it. But on that particular day, I wasn't willing to tolerate it. He was condescending with me, so I gave it right back to him. The entire class laughed at his expense; he was far from pleased. I was sent to the office and spoke with the Vice Principal, who, without saying so, made it clear to me that he was painfully aware of said gym teacher's douchebaggery. I was given one day of detention and placed in a different class for the remainder of the semester. Considering it was the only time I was ever ousted, my parents were fine with it. Apparently, they too subscribed to the good principal's theory on the passive student.

Here's hoping Antonio's days of being thrown out like Wally Backman are few and far between. But truth be told, I'd rather he was a hard-working student who crossed boundaries once in a while than the wallflower who never tried anything different.

Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero.

What I Want My Kids to Know About Selfies

This blog has nothing to do with my children. But I'm trying to shoe-horn them in here because this is still technically a parenting blog.

Anyway, this is what I want my kids (and pretty much everyone on the planet) to know about selfies.


Just fucking stop. It's enough. You are surrounded by able-bodied humans who can help. Introduce yourself to them and learn the power of socialization.

Sorry, but I get very JJ Watt about selfies. For starters, they are absurdly stupid. I have never once looked at one and thought, "Awwww, Cute selfie!" I tend to think, "Well, there's someone with awkwardly short arms who needs a friend." People who routinely take pictures of themselves are usually the same people who don't wipe the pee off the toilet seat. There's a connection there somewhere.

The problem I have with this trend is two-fold.

For one, it's just flat out ego-maniacal. It says to the world, "I need to take a picture of myself, and I simply can't be bothered waiting for a friend to take it for me." Nobody needs a daily reminder of your face. Unless you're growing the world's longest beard. That's the one exception. Or potentially if you're obscenely attractive. You're probably not. Don't worry, neither am I. 

But also, this speaks to a much larger problem in our culture. We're becoming so consumed with social media, we've forgotten entirely how to be social. When I see two dolts posing in front of an outstretched arm, I walk up to them and ask if they'd like help. In fact, i insist on it. Because a picture is an opportunity to do more than plaster your image on Instagram. It's an excuse to meet the person standing next to you. Unfortunately, it's also an opportunity to prove you're a self-centered ignoramus. 


The choice is ours.

And because I know at least one of you will bring this up...there was a dark day in my history when even I succumbed to the pressure...but I was a much younger, sillier man back then...

The next time you're thinking of taking one yourself, remember how fucking ridiculous I look in this picture from 2011.


Follow me on Twitter @JoeDeProspero.

The Moment You Realize You're About to Be a Parent...Again

Apparently, maintaining active blogs for both Parents Magazine and Huffington Post isn't enough responsibility for me. So, I've decided to resurrect my original parent blog, mostly for short-form content I either have very little material for, or don't think is good enough for Parents Mag or HuffPo. I hope you're ready for some brief mediocrity!

Earlier this year, my wife and I found out we were expecting our third child. Well, she found out first. Women always do. Then they pick the perfect, most sentimental way to scare the ever-loving shit out of you. That same week, we found out that my cousin, Christina was expecting her first child. Two pregnant ladies! Their due dates were within a day of each other. It was pretty adorable. See below.

 I know you're already envisioning that scene in Father of the Bride Part 2 where Steve Martin is racing between the two delivery rooms. Not that that would happen here, because it'd be really strange and creepy if I was present for the birthing of my cousin's baby. But still, it's a convenient reference. It wasn't meant to be, though. Christina's water broke on December 26th, nearly two months early. There was obvious concern, but the baby is doing fine. I know because we visited him on New Year's Day.

Baby Daniel lay there in that little clear plastic purgatory they put preemies in. His turkey-like legs refusing to go straight, his eyes puffy and practically unpeelable. He was perfect, and the joy in the room was palpable, for the newly branded mom and dad. That's when it hit me. I gazed over at Sonia's belly and realized, "There is a baby of exactly the size of baby Daniel in there. And she's currently plotting the demise of my social life and credit score."

I feel like I go through this mental exercise whenever Sonia is pregnant. But a new baby is a new baby. They keep you up at night, they spit on you. They are like villainous frat brothers. They have no relent. No remorse. So I started asking myself if I had gas in the tank. Could I go back to the 3 a.m. feedings and making sure she doesn't suffocate in her own blanket? Could we still manage to get out every once in a while to catch a movie or just to speak to one another without interruption? I mean, probably not. We'll both likely need to be committed. It's inevitable. But still..after knowing that any order that existed in our home is likely on its last legs...after knowing that my blood pressure is likely going to shoot up higher than a nervous bomb tester...I still want to love this baby with everything I have. And I will. And if I'm lucky, when the time comes, she'll feed me and wipe my butt when I need it, too,

I can do this.

I probably can't do this.

Follow me on Twitter here.

Paintball and Camping: A Recipe for Pain and Discomfort

When I told people I was going camping and playing paintball for the first time this past weekend, it was received with eager eyes and a healthy dose of "can't wait to read the blog!" I was surprised at first, but then I realized something. My life, and especially my shortcomings, makes people laugh. Now that I fully understand that, it makes sense that friends and family would voraciously anticipate my involvement in activities where plenty could go wrong. But seeing as this was the bachelor party for my wife's cousin's fiance and he's a really nice dude, I decided to partake. Here's how it went...

We were to arrive at the paintball site at 8:00 on Saturday morning. Seemed a bit early for pain, but there was little I could do to fight that fact. I drove in with two of my wife's cousins, Jorge and Diego. We had a hard time finding the entrance to the place as we drove down Weaver Rd. in West Milford, NJ. And as we found ourselves at the end of the street, we knew we'd somehow passed it up.

"That one long driveway back there seemingly leading to nowhere, that couldn't have been it, right?" Diego asked.

"Dude, there was a big sign out front that said, 'Keep Out. No Trespassing.' I certainly hope not!" I answered.

So, of course that was the place.

We pulled in and were greeted by even more ominous signs.

Private Property

Speed Limit:  5  (the number in front of 5 clearly was eliminated with the help of White Out)

Trespassers will be prosecuted

At this point, I started interpreting "prosecuted" to mean either "shot in the face" or "raped in the face." Seeing a security checkpoint up ahead did little to calm those fears.  Luckily, we were spared. But I still have no earthly idea how an entity that's technically a business makes a profit posting such signs.

Soon it was time to start the games. To say that I was a little apprehensive would be an understatement. Considering I manage to injure myself while helping my son change into his pajamas, the likelihood of a very painful (and humiliating) incident were quite high. I went to Modell's and bought a cup (not one you drink from) specifically for the event. It had it on as soon as I woke up that morning. I was as ready as I was going to be.

Our "session leader" was this overly vulgar strawberry blonde named Candy. She made at .least 38 sexual analogies when explaining how to protect yourself and use your gun. She later went into detail about  how to cook bear meat.  I felt like I'd been stereotyped by a stereotype.

The whistle blew and I ducked behind a thick tree. I heard other guys on my team whispering strategies to one another. I had exactly one strategy: don't die. And for those who've never tried paintball, know that it very much feels like you're at war, in a real battlefield. I was sort of hoping it would be Disney-themed, with Mickey Mouse faces painted on the guns. But this was as far from my regular environment of Nickelodeon and ice cream cones as I could get. I contemplated faking an injury, but even if I did that, walking back to base camp would almost ensure a real one. So I peered my head out from behind the tree, only to be tagged instantly with a bullet (paintball going 190 miles per hour) in the collarbone. And...it wasn't so bad! It felt like someone had lightly snapped a rubber band on my chest. I raised my arm to indicate I was hit and hustled back to base camp. While I was relieved the pain was minimal, I now had to sit and wait (with mask on) until EVERY SINGLE PERSON was eliminated and back at the base. I must've sweated out 20 pounds. Having my fogged up prescription sunglasses on UNDER the mask didn't help either. I'd already decided this paintball thing wasn't something I'd do again...and we had two more hours of it.

In games 2 and 3, my fears came to fruition. In both instances, my gun jammed. And in both instances, I was shot in the head. And yes, it hurt. What made matters worse was the second time I was shot in the head, I fell, landed on a rock, then was shot twice more while I tried to get up. For the remainder of the games, I curled up in a fetal position behind a wall. So, if that's something you like to do, you should definitely try paintball.

For the last event, the bachelor, Fernando was to "run the gauntlet." And if I didn't already question his sanity, I certainly do now. This involved 13 of us lining up in a row, Fernando running at full speed through the woods, and us shooting him as many times as possible. It yielded this result:

And this was just a fraction of the total damage.

Afterwards, we all sat around and surveyed the damage. One guy excitedly asked, "Wait, who was the guy who got shot in the head, fell down, then got shot a few more times?!" Yup, that was me. "Oh man, you got pounded!" Indeed I did.

So, in summary, if you enjoy wearing heavy camouflage gear and a mask you can't take off, hiding behind trees and having objects shot at you the speed of a race car, you should definitely try paintball. 

The group then went to lunch before heading off to the camp site. I pretended I forgot my bag home, allowing me to shower, see the kids, and not get eaten by bugs for a few hours before I made an appearance outdoors.

Compared to sweating while getting shot, going camping for the first time was a walk in the park. Sure, driving through the campgrounds and seeing broken down trailers and oddly decorated cabins was pretty unsettling, but I didn't have to wear a mask and get shot at anymore. At least I hoped I didn't.

After a few drinks, I got brave and decided to jump over the fire. People looked surprised, saying I'd be an idiot to do it while wearing flip flops. So, that guaranteed I was doing it.

The new poster in my bedroom.

After somehow clearing the fire and rocks, I had some more to drink, noticed there was a music shortage and attached my iPhone to the player and put on Nine Inch Nails. A few minutes later, I'd forgotten about my playlist responsibilities and frantically ran back to make a change once the Fresh Beat Band disastrously followed. And I learned a valuable lesson: Don't drink and DJ. My kids, they're always with me, one way or another.

As I made my way to the tent at 1 a.m., I felt a fair amount of pride in knowing that I'd faced two fears and hurdled a fire that day. It felt good. I felt inspired to conquer the world. Then I realized someone else was using my pillow and I didn't have the heart to wake him up. And of course, I woke up the next morning with a ruthless hangover. Such is life.

Hangover and all, I got home the next morning at 8:45 a.m. My four-year-old was waiting on the top of the stairs, and he looked sad. He met me halfway and we hugged. When I asked him if he'd missed me, he solemnly nodded his head and wrapped his arms around my neck. Suddenly, the paintball wounds (and my throbbing headache) didn't hurt anymore.

Thanks for reading, as always. I've only just begun.

Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here.

The California Trip

I've never been a calm traveler. From as early as age 8 when I took my first trip to Disney in Orlando, I've been a tentative, anxious flyer. It comes from being the son of a mother who had anxiety issues and a father who formed an ulcer in his mid-30s. Bottom line, I'm a worrier. If you've read any sentence I've ever constructed, you likely know this.

The night before our flight, my typically calm father-in-law (who was joining us on our trip) noticed that my anxiety level was peaking. So he leaned in and said, "Hey, don't worry. If we die, we die." Which is easy to say when you're in your 70s! I, however, wanted to live. Breaking Bad starts up again in August! So, I did my best to remain calm despite every inclination to think otherwise.

The morning of our flight, we got to the airport almost exactly two hours before our scheduled departure, which gave us just enough time to suffer through the security checkpoint and have my wife's breasts fondled by a guard because she'd brought containers of squeezable fruit that weren't transparent. It's cool, though. The guard was a woman. It was actually kind of nice, for me.

We reached our gate an hour before boarding time. And like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, there it was...a bar that was opening. My wife, in-laws and two sons were all sitting either drinking coffee or eating bagels when I saw my opening.

"I'm gonna go get a sandwich for the plane," I said.

Of course, by sandwich I meant Jack Daniels with rocks. It was 8:55 am, and even the bartender looked impressed. I overheard the hippie guy next to me say he was on the next flight to Los Angeles. So I decided to make a friend. Turns out he grew up in Jersey but had lived in LA for close to 20 years. After hearing that I had two small children flying with me, he instantly bought me a shot of Jack, while jokingly stating that he hoped my kids weren't sitting anywhere near him. He wasn't really joking, of course.

I ended up getting back to my family 25 minutes, one glass of Jack on the rocks and one shot of Jack later. I was carrying the sandwich. Hey, it was a long line. It turns out that what I drank was the perfect amount of alcohol to settle my nerves and effectively make me a more efficient parent to my sons. I was laughing with them, pointing at the little houses that were visible from the window seat, etc. Midway into the flight, my friend from the bar came stumbling down the aisle, wearing a drunken grin and holding a tiny airplane-sized bottle of Jack...which he gave to me! I was flattered, but more importantly, I was still thirsty. While I opened the bottle, the guy joked with my wife, played peekaboo with my kids and at one point, stood there awkwardly while nobody said a word. Then, he picked up my younger son Nate and joked that he wanted to take him back to his own seat. Even as drunk as I was, I raised an eyebrow. And just as he was about to make an awkward situation even more awkward, the stewardess came over and told him he needed to go back to his seat in first class. He looked sad and lonely. I felt sorry for him until I realized he was going back to his seat in first class. And until the tiny bottle of Jack gave me a massive headache.

It looked so inviting. Most catastrophes do.

By bringing two car seats on the plane as checked items, we saved ourselves nearly $200 on rental car fees. Having to carry them from baggage claim to the shuttle bus to the rental car? That's when I needed that tiny Jack bottle the most. Even if you use one of those luggage carts, the car seats are awkwardly shaped and force you to hold them in place in tandem while pushing forward. It's like trying to give someone a high-five while both of you are skydiving. It's just uncomfortable. And it gets even more uncomfortable when you rip your jeans at the crotch while trying to snap the car seat into the rental minivan, which happened, of course. I wouldn't have it any other way. And apparently, neither would my jeans.

Arriving in California was surreal. I always envisioned my first trip to Los Angeles would be as a single man pursuing an acting and/or writing career. But instead, I was living the antithesis of that. At least I didn't have to fit a screenplay into my pocket.

Going to Disneyland was about as terrifyingly expensive and magical as you'd imagine. In fact, I literally shielded my eyes away from the total price on my credit card receipt. I eventually did see it, though. It was scary...$369 for my family. Want to hear something even scarier? Nate's admission was free! And speaking of scary, we should've done some research before taking our sons on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Either this attraction is drastically different from the one in Orlando or I'm not fully remembering it correctly, because it definitely wasn't suitable for an almost two-year-old. There were three pretty significant belly drops, which left Nate screaming for mercy and Sonia did her best to cover his eyes. There were also houses on fire, eerily real-looking puppets shooting each other, and a dramatization of "wenches" being purchased as wives. I felt like DYFS would be waiting when we exited the ride.

We later got this shot to make up for it. You can tell the boys were still thinking of the wenches, though. And so was I.

We'd planned to go to the San Diego Zoo on a different day. But it closed earlier than we thought it did. The only good thing about that is it allowed me to check something off my to-do list.

                      It was quite good, but if you've had Five Guys Burgers, you're not missing much.

Since our hotel room had two full beds, Sonia and I took one and we put Antonio and Nate in the other. It was the first time they'd slept in the same bed. Considering Antonio kicks in his sleep and Nate turns his body sideways, this was the perfect plan, we thought. On the second night of the trip, we were awoken by the sound of Nate crying. Sonia found him on the floor. Apparently, he'd rolled off the foot of the bed. Sonia brought him to our room, which angered Antonio for some reason. So, we made a clean swap, with me staying with Antonio and Sonia staying with Nate, consoling them for entirely different reasons. About 15 minutes later, everyone had fallen back asleep, until a loud thud woke us up. I looked to my left and noticed I was alone. Then, the crying started. This time, Antonio had rolled off the bed. I held back from laughing until I ensured he wasn't seriously injured. He didn't see the humor in it, though. After that, we started putting couch cushions around the perimeter of the bed every night. Of course, neither of my sons fell once we did that.

The Hollywood Walk is about as touristy as you might imagine. Sure, there's the appeal of finding the star of a celebrity you actually care about, checking out the hand and footprints of the Marx Brothers, etc. The real show is when the aggressive street performer dressed as Batman photobombs your family picture and insists on a tip. Or the random group of mostly Asians marching by, preaching the words of Jesus.

 

They're a persistent, whacky group, those Californians.

The original purpose of traveling to California was to attend the wedding of Sonia's cousin who I hadn't met. Three days removed from the trip, I still haven't met him. Whenever he was around my table, I was taking a piss. Whenever I was at the table, he was getting married. I felt like Steve Martin in Father of the Bride. The only difference was nobody knew or cared who I was. At least I got to eat.

While the wedding was pretty fantastic, it was adult-only. To accommodate people like me who'd have nowhere else to dump our kids, professional babysitters were on site. They facilitated activities like face-painting, crafts, movies, etc. And having them in the same building was extremely convenient. Turns out it was TOO convenient. Being the guilty parents we are, Sonia and I felt this incessant need to check up on them, even though we knew they were with their cousins and having a blast. Just goes to show no matter how close you are to your kids, you always worry about them. Even if you're paying people so you don't have to!

                                                 Taken at the welcome reception. 1912.

While going through the security checkpoint on the way home, we were informed that our cans of Double Espresso Shots from Starbucks weren't allowed to pass. So, we did what any rational adults with two tired children and a double stroller would do. We each held one of our kid's hands while downing the drink in 10 seconds. And later I wondered why the two Xanax I swallowed didn't work.

In the end, I didn't get to do some of the things I wanted to do for myself (Iron Sheik Roast at the Comedy Store, visiting with local friends, stalking Lemmy from Motorhead at the Rainbow Bar in LA), but it hardly mattered. As a parent, I understand that sacrificing my own personal desires is part of the gig. At least when my kids were awake. Regardless, the Santa Monica Pier was heavenly, I got 657 pictures of myself in front of the Hollywood sign, and I finally understand why the Red Hot Chili Peppers write about it so much.

Till next time, California.

-Joe DeProspero
jdeprospero@gmail.com
Follow me on Twitter here.
My comedy fiction book is available for Kindle here.