Shea SerranoThis column was supposed to be different. It was supposed to be about listening to G-Funk with a baby. But it's not. It's not that at all. And that's (probably) bad, but maybe not as bad as embarrassing.
I'm sure this won't be surprising to anyone who has kids or works with kids or knows some kids or was even once a kid, but: They can be some needy, needy dicks. Mine, anyway, possess zero chill. They are nearly six, and from the time that I get home from work (4 p.m.) to the time that we send the boys to sleep (generally 8:30 p.m., but sometimes 4:15 p.m. if they're being aggressively annoying), they ask anywhere from 40 to 6,000 questions.
A an exchange that took place earlier last Friday between approximately 4:02 p.m. and 4:02:30 p.m.:
Boy A: Daddy, what's the sun made out of?
Me: Mostly hydrogen, son.
Boy A: Daddy, if an alligator and a crocodile got in a fight who would win?
Me: I'd guess crocodiles, son. Remember we read in that book that they're usually bigger than alligators?
Boy A: Wrong. An alligator would win because A comes before C in the alphabet.
Me: …Dude.
Boy A: Daddy, if it snows do we need regular umbrellas or are there special snow umbrellas? Do they have different names or are they called “Special Snow Umbrellas”? What makes them special? Ooh, can they turn you invisible and then the snow can't see you!? Daddy, can you take me to buy a special snow umbrella right now?!?!
Me: BITCH YOU LIVE 20 MINUTES FROM THE EQUATOR RELAX ABOUT THE SNOW
That's EVERY day. I mean, of course they're great and wonderful and charming and smart and funny and I love them and whatever but, fuckin' a, bro, sometimes I just need a break.
So on Sunday while Boy A and Boy B were eating their dinner, I gathered Boy C (who is still perfect because he's a small baby) and found myself a tiny bit of freedom in the driveway. I laid down on a beanbag we have there and propped my feet up on the seat of the chair. And that's when my life unraveled.
The plan was to lay there for 20 or so minutes listening to the beginning part of “Nate In '08,” a beautiful Nate Dogg tribute put together by L.A.'s DJ Steve1der that has functioned as my default True Player Shit chill mode music for the past several months. It was amazing: The only thing I was responsible for was myself, with Nate + the sweetness in the early evening air + the beanbag putting me straight to sleep.
It was as glorious a moment as any man has ever had, and the tension in spine melted away completely. Only except I guess I was a little too relaxed, because while asleep, my brain convinced my dong that it'd be a good idea to just go ahead and get all the way erect.
Like, dudebros, I was literally lying there in the driveway asleep with a boner. That actually happened. That's some movie shit, yo. It's like I was in American Pie 7 and the writers were bored and tired and just like, “Uhhh, I don't know. Maybe have a 31-year-old man fall asleep in front of all his neighbors and let him get a boner? That'll probably be infinity LOLZ.” I don't know for sure if any of the neighbors noticed me, but how could they have not? There was some serious nonsense going on inside of my cut-off sweats, and it was a beautiful night to be outside.
I know one thing: This is a devastating start to the summer.
How do I come back from that? CAN I even come back from that? Is that just me now? That's my title? I'm forever the guy that fell asleep outside and got a boner? Can anything trump that? If all of the houses here catch on fire and I rescue person after person from the homes, are people gonna be like, 'Ay, did you hear what ol' Front Yard Boner did? He saved, like, nine people's lives”?
I'M GONNA SAVE LIVES AND PEOPLE ARE STILL GOING TO CALL ME 'OL FRONT YARD BONER???
And then is the other person in the conversation going to quip, “Oh yeah? What'd he do? Raise his boner up the second story window and let everyone climb down it to safety?”
Actually, I hope they do say that. Puts me in a pretty good light.
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