The Swagger News

The Hilarious Truths of Parenting

1. "Papa, stop snoring!" 

It's time for nighty night. In what sometimes seems like a task more insurmountable than Mt. Fuji, you get the troops in the pyjamas, teeth brushed, pee pees taken, water consumed, teddy bear found (in the fridge!), faces washed and finally into bed, sweet bed. You lay down in their bed to read (big mistake) and get through exactly 9 pages of The Gruffalo before the boy is waking you from the precious slumber with a well placed elbow to the ribs. 

Supernanny Jo Frost disapproval rating: 5 of a possible 5. 

2. Little brother says to big brother, "Hey Mickey...fuck you." 

I don't care who you are: conservative or liberal, mormon or atheist, potty mouth or Mr. Rogers, your kid will say the F word. According to the universal law of F bomb inversion, the likelihood of your 4 year old saying 'fuck' increases exponentially the more inappropriate the setting. In other words, our little angels are much more likely to drop the F bomb in front of other parents, developmental psychologists, teachers, and/or the Pope. 

Supernanny disapproval rating: 3 out of 5 

3. "Papa, can we have chocolate cake for breakfast. And chocolate milk?" 

This request always follows a pitiful night's sleep. Perhaps after a late night when you've had friends over and the little ones know there is cake in the fridge. And chocolate milk. You are too tired to put up a fight. Too tired to heed the Surgeon General's warning. Too damn tired. 

Supernanny disapproval rating: 4 out of 5 (because she LOVES chocolate cake. Otherwise it was a 5)

4. "Papa, can we watch Sponge Bob?" 

Sponge Bob + Big Time Rush + Kabouter Plop + Phineas and Herb + Ned's Survival Gids + Genie in the House (the absolute worst!) + pokemon + volume loud enough to drown out anything mama and papa might be doing = MIGRAINE. 

Supernanny disapproval rating: 4.5 out of 5.

5. "Papa the naughty step is stupid." 

The naughty step doesn't work. There I said it. 

Supernanny disapproval rating 164 out of 5. 

6. "Papa how do you spell 'tits'?" 

Your six year old (boy) can and will type the word 'tits' into Google. They will find exactly what you think they'll find and it will be awkward, oh so awkward. 

Supernanny disapproval rating: 3 out of 5 (even supernanny can't deny the ubiquitousness of Google. Although she'd probably like to put those sniveling brats Larry Page and Sergey Brin on the naughty step.)

7. "Papa, I'm all done pooping!" 

Poop. Just can't say enough about it. If you're lucky, your 2 and a half year old will simply DEMAND to see the results of his handiwork before you flush it down the crapper.  If you're not lucky....well, enough said.  

Supernanny disapproval rating: 0 out of 5 (Mother Nature, you see.)

8. "Papa, our neighbor is fat." 

This line will, of course, be delivered within earshot of your neighbor. And there's no way you can explain it away. 

Supernanny disapproval rating: 1 out of 5 

9. Wife says to Husband, "Honey the cage is starting to stink." 

If the kids are under 8, they will ask for pets. Bet on it. If the 'pets' are rodents (guinea pigs, hamsters, mice, or...god help you...rats) you will clean the cage. I repeat, YOU WILL CLEAN THE CAGE. On a weekly basis. And while you're doing it you'll think of the Discovery Channel's brilliant show "The world's dirtiest jobs". 

Supernanny disapproval rating 2 out of 5 (yes, they can pick up a guinea pig!)

10. "But Papa, why?" 

Why? If you're a parent, you get this one. 

Supernanny disapproval rating: 0 out of 5

 

Thank you to Kim Gray and Laura Mussulman for inspiration. 

 

The Voice of Holland is coming to America!

Last June I coached a guy named Patrick, a television producer. One night he told me about a new show his company was producing called, 'The Voice.' He said it was a new twist on the televised talent show concept. 

"Patrick, why do we need another one? We've got Idols, the X Factor, and the rest of them." I said.

"Dave, this one is different. It's got a twist. It's gonna be huge" he promised. 

A twist. Right. I was skeptical. Silly me. 

As it happens, Patrick was right. Very, very right. That's why they pay him the big bucks. 

Last night, the finals of the Voice of Holland were held. Ben Saunders won. Remember that name. Seriously. 

Today, in Miami and Los Angeles, the first round of auditions are being held for the American version of the Voice. John de Mol, Dutch TV genius extraordinaire, has since sold his Voice concept all over the globe (knap gedaan dhr. de Mol). The big, bad United States of America is the next country to rock the Voice. 

You may be skeptical about another televised talent show, as I was. I urge you to set that skepticism aside. This show really does have a twist. It really is all about the music (at first anyway). Holland's show was chocker block full of amazing singers. America being America, there is no doubt an extremely kick ass singer will arise. A star will be born. You can bet your Grandma's life savings on it. So keep your eyes open and your recorders poised, The Voice is coming to America baby. 

It will take a while, but it'll make it to your flat screen sometime soon.  Until it does, check out Holland's winner, the one and only Ben Saunders, doing his audition last summer. The very day he sang this version of the Kings of Leon classic, he became a household name. For five months, he carried the show. The perennial favorite, he handled it with grace, ease, and swagger. 

Phenomenal. Thank you Ben. 

 

10 things Berlusconi said to his lawyers tonight

 

1. "Prostitute is such an ugly word. I no like. I prefer 'beautiful ladies of the night, the morning, the afternoon and then the next night again.' " 

2. "Is illegal to make the sex with the young girl?! Call my cousin the judge and my brother in law the lawyer and then my uncle the minister. We change the law. No problem, e facile." 

3. "You think a she like my new hair?" 

4. "I learn a good one from Signore Bill back in '96.  I just put uppa my hand and say this 'I no make the sexual relations with these women...Maria Rossi, Melania Belladonna, Angela di Bucca, Silvana Pertucci, Carmen di Carmenita, Butch, Trixie L'Amore...'. It work for him, it work for me."

5. "You mean the young girls, they keepa the text message in the phone?? Forever? But why?" 

6. "Financial records? No exist the financial records. I just say to Gino 'Hey Gino, you no pay for the diamonds. You just take a the diamonds. And then we go Ciao Ciao. Capito?' " 

7. "I feeling a little bit a stressed right now. Somebody call Maria-Teresa in here. Is time for my 'happy massage.' " 

8. "Whaddya mean the people no love Silvio? I say 'vafanculo' to the people." 

9. "No really, you think she like my new hair??" 

10. "Fuck my own wife?!  Are you crazy in your head? I am ITALIAN." 

Hey Silvio, you big doofus. It's over. Fugget about it. Arrivederci and don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. 

What do English grammar and alcoholism have in common?

"Dave, sometimes being a recovering alcoholic is so hard. I'm like one tragic phone call away from a double martini!" she says, her eyes screaming.

Meet Suzanne. An intelligent, attractive, funny, loving wife and mother of three. She hasn't touched a drop of alcohol, or pot, or Valium, or Vicodin, or Ambien, for...11 years. Before that, all bets were off. Suzanne didn't just take a walk on the wild side, she ran a few marathons over there. But not anymore. These days the only chemicals she puts into her beautiful body are a couple of ladylike cappuccinos and the very occasional peanut M&M gorge-fest.

And yet, having accumulated 11 years of 'sobriety', she's a woman on the edge. She's feeling vulnerable and weak. She just doesn't know anymore.

"So Suzanne, if you haven't done drugs for 11 years, but you're one phone call away from a bender, when do you suppose you'll finally feel safe from the cravings?" I ask.

"Um. I don't know. Maybe when I get 25 years under my belt." she says, no hint of irony in those brown eyes.

25 years! 25 frigging years?!

"Why 25?" I shoot back, faux incredulously. I've heard this line of reasoning before, oh yes.  "Why not 23, or 37, or 184?" I mean, who's to say? When is enough time, enough?

Suzanne doesn't think it's funny. 

And I don't mean to make light of her situation.

But when a sacred cow is blocking traffic, it must be slain.

Sacred cow?

Ask someone who goes to AA, or NA, or any twelve step program, if they are a 'recovering' alcoholic. They will say yes. Even if they haven't consumed a drug for YEARS. The 'recovering' alcoholic paradigm is a bedrock of our culture. It has been ingrained in us since the inception of Alcoholics Anonymous in 1935. The reasoning is, once you have the 'disease' of alcoholism, you can never really be entirely free. Even if you don't drink. This sacred cow would have you believe that you'll always have to be on guard. You have to watch out. You have to look over your shoulder for the next onslaught of craving and temptation.

No, my friends, you don't.

It's time to see it in a new way. 

When you no longer want to take a drug, truly have no desire, you're no longer addicted.

When you realize drugs have never given you anything of lasting value, you are finished.

When you see that drugs couldn't possibly offer you anything positive in the future, IT IS OVER.

You are cured. You are recovered. You are free.

It's not about you 'can't' drink. It's about you don't 'want' to drink. Big difference.

Will you ever be tempted? Probably. But that's when you coach yourself. You do it by reminding yourself that those so-called sophisticated, smiling, happy people drinking that chilled bottle of Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin over at the next table are happy because they are doing what humans love to do: being together. On a gorgeous Spring day. With friends and loved ones. Outside, living life, glorious life. Their happiness has nothing to do with the overpriced poison in that fancy green bottle.

So stop using the present progressive tense. Use the simple past tense. You are not recovering. You are recovered!

But Dave, how could you be so reckless? That's just plain dangerous. How could you let an alcoholic think that they can relax and stop worrying about getting hooked again?

The way I see it, how couldn't I?

I don't think it's reckless to ask my clients to think differently about this sacred cow. Instead of being forever vigilant, be forever joyful. Instead of being forever fearful, be fearless. Instead of being forever cautious, be free. Celebrate your drug free life. Go out and enjoy yourself, now! Not tomorrow, or in 150 days, or when you get your next 'chip.' NOW! Today.

You have had your moment of revelation and realize in your heart of hearts that you don't want to take drugs or drink or smoke butts. You understand they are a red herring, an illusion. They never gave you real pleasure  and they never will (OK, the first high was pleasurable but after that it was tedious dragon chasing). You get that. Great job. It takes a lot of courage to see it that way. But you don't need to dwell on it brothers and sisters, go out and dance, feel the sun on your face, fall in love. You don't need to obsess about your 'sobriety'. How about not even calling it 'sobriety'. Call it 'clap your hands say yeah - ity' or 'freedom - ity' or even 'normal - ity'. You're done bro. Get on with this delicious game of life. Will you take lumps? Yes. Will life throw you curve balls? You better believe it. That's life amigo. It's messy.

Now just because we are no longer addicted, doesn't mean we can stop growing physically, mentally, and spiritually. We must keep growing, just like non-addicts. If support groups help you to grow, super. If AA meetings help, lovely. If your sponsor rocks, right on. Do it.

But, promise me one thing, when someone asks you why you don't drink, tell them you are a recovered alcoholic. An 'ex'-addict. They will scrunch up their face and think "huh?" But they've been conditioned the same way we all were, to believe that we're forever 'recovering'.  Hang in there. Talk about it. They'll understand.

Contact me if you don't believe  that you'll never want to drink, drug, or smoke. It is possible and a lot easier than you've been led to believe.

In parting, I do want to say I still believe Alcoholics Anonymous has been an invaluable source of healing and redemption in our world. I am very grateful to them. But we all have blind spots. Sometimes they need to be pointed out.

Swagger on!

 

Why being bad is just as extraordinary as being good.

My friend Ed makes movies:  feature films, art-house flicks. He also does commercials. Last December, one of his commercials got lots of attention. I heard about it on national radio and television on at least three different occasions. Why? Because the 'celebrity'  comedian in the commercial had been nominated for the 'most annoying celebrity ad of 2010'. 

So I called my buddy Ed. 

"Ed, what is up with your commercial man?!" I ask impatiently. 

"What's the matter David, you don't like it?" he answers. I hear a sly smile cross his face. 

"Um...Ed. I don't even get it. What were you trying to do?" I mutter. 

"We were doing exactly what our client wanted, Dave. And we did it well too."he says, the smile still in place.

"But I've been hearing some pretty negative stuff out there man." I offer, somewhat meekly.

"Not about us, you haven't. About Arie (the comedian). He's taking the heat. We did our job. And there's no such thing as bad publicity." Ed said, that smile finally leaving his face.

Ed's right, of course. It's not a memorable commercial. But it was being discussed and blogged about. Winning 'awards' and the like.

And then it hit me. 

Being extraordinary doesn't necessarily mean being extraordinarily good. It works just as well to be extraordinarily BAD. 

"It's so bad, it's good." Ever heard that one? 

These days, the only thing that won't work is being average. Being average is deadly. Being average is being non-existent. Irrelevant. Bo - ring! 

We must refuse to be average. 

We must accept extraordinary as our mission. For now and ever more. 

For if we are average, we lose, and the competition wins. 

I would like this post to celebrate the extraordinarily bad stuff out there.

I hope you enjoy it. 

1. Media Markt's 2010 'Dat is mijn winkel' campaign 

 

2. Rinus de zanger

 

3. Glenn Beck tapping into his emotional side. 

 

 

4. The Brady Bunch

 

 

5. Sarah Palin, Presidential contender

 

 

Please send me your favorite 'so bad they're good' ideas.

Thanks. Now go be extraordinary. 

10 things I love about Keith Richards.

As you know, Keef's put his life on paper. Life, is the most insightful, thrilling, compulsive read I've had in a long time. It reads like a novel except it's his....real life. There aren't enough superlatives to describe my feelings for Richard's book. Do yourself a favor. Go get a copy and crawl into bed. Be prepared to stay there for some time. 

1. The music. 

Not the fame. Not the money. Not the dope. Not the women. Not the power. Not the prestige.

The music.

Always the music. Pure and simple.  

Check out this quote, "The real release is getting on stage. Once we're up there doing it, it's sheer fun and joy." 

2. The guitar. 

Yeah, this is a guitar geek one, but it's still true. He's the master of the open tuning. He's got the biggest legends in the game asking him how to do it. "Show me how you do that lick on man." 

3. The 'cats'. 

Very, very few people can still call men 'cats' and pull it off. Keith can. 

4. The Mick Jagger. 

Jagger is an incredible rock and roll singer and a gifted lyricist and harp player. He's also an insufferable prat. And Keith calls him out on it. Rightly so. 

5. The dope.

Yes, he's famous for it. But he admits he screwed up and that he was wrong about drugs. They don't work for the long haul and Keith knows it. 

6. The blues.

The original Stones spent a long, long time sitting in a skanky London basement with no heat, studying Chicago blues. Note for note. All they wanted was to be a blues band. They were so good at copying Chicago blues that, upon arriving in America, they re-inspired the original artists to love their own music again.  Muddy Waters, Bo Diddley, Howlin' Wolf, Little Walter. The Stones woke these guys back up and said "You guys are amazing. Go out and play this shit" They breathed life back into the scene. Bunch a skinny white boys from Dartford. Who knew. 

7. The Meet and Greets

Keith Richards actually likes meeting us insurance salesmen from Omaha and Dusseldorf and Bangalore. The ritual of meeting fans, shaking hands, taking pictures is something he admits enjoying. More than we can say for Jagger. (According to the book Jagger rarely even talks to crew.)

8. The 'old lady'. 

His first 'old lady', Anita Pallenberg.  He loved her. He had kids with her. She was crazy and strung out. But he hung in there as long as possible. But then his son and his own mental health were in danger. So he took the boy on tour. Wow. 

There were more amazing women. Great, strong beautiful women and mothers. And he loved them all.

9. The voice. 

We've gotten used to Jagger's great voice as the Stones. But click this link and listen to him sing 'How can I stop?' You'll hear what I mean. The man's got chops. (I'd call him a 'cat' but I don't want to push my luck.  

10. The look. 

The skull ring. The almost dreads. The cigarette. The skinny clothes. Not your average Grandfather. Absolutely fascinating. 

Thank you Keith Richards. 

 

How my six year old taught me about handling pressure.

 

My 6 year old son Mickey got a guitar for Christmas and told everybody at school about it. When we picked him up that day he excitedly announced, "Papa, the teacher said I could bring my guitar to school tomorrow!" 

Which is great.

Except that Mickey can't actually play the guitar yet. Sure,  he can strum a few chords. But putting them together into a song? Nope. 

But tell that to a six year old.

We get to school this morning, axe in hand, and walk into the classroom. Several kids notice immediately and pounce. "Mickey's gonna play guitar!"

The teacher approaches. 

"So what's Mickey going to do?" she asks me. 

"Um. I don't know. He told me it was okay to bring his guitar." I say.

"Well, I don't have anything planned" she says which was wrong, so wrong. 

Mickey starts to cry. He thinks she won't let him 'play'. The teacher steadies herself, knowing she's on the wrong end of this one. 

"You know what," she says improvising. "Let's read quietly for 5 minutes and then you guys can do a concert" she says proudly, turning to address the class. 

"Children, let's start by reading for 5 minutes, and after that we have a surprise. Mickey's going to play his guitar!"

Mickey seems not to have grasped that he hasn't learned any songs. He can't play and sing at the same time. He has nothing prepared. He's about to stand up in front of his class with a guitar he's owned for all of 5 minutes and...perform. Yikes. 

I turn to look at him. He's quietly reading his book about a girl throwing a strawberry over a fence. His little finger is underlining the words as he reads. He smiles up at me. 

I'm freaking. My mind is racing with thoughts of what we're going to play, how it's going to sound, the acoustics (!).  My heart is pounding. I feel my cheeks getting hotter as I squirm on my chair designed for six year olds. 

Now wait just a goddamn minute. I make a living coaching people about performing confidently under pressure and the thought of performing without preparation in front of Mickey's class has me nearing meltdown. 

Time to walk the talk. I say nothing to Mick. He's still peacefully tracing the words.  I remind myself that getting nervous means I'm about to do something worthwhile. I remind myself that getting nervous means I care. I tell myself that I can still play a guitar and sing a song if I'm nervous. I take a deep breath. Mickey is still ensconced in his book, oblivious to what's coming, lost in his own world of strawberry throwing girls. 

Finally, the teacher calls us to the front of the class. 

Mickey grabs his guitar, plops down on his little stool and starts happily strumming a D chord. Then he goes to the A. I start clapping a rhythmic beat, looking out into the sea of faces. The children clap with me. I start a call and response. They're with me every step of the way. Mickey keeps jamming, now playing the G chord. The magic of music has entered the building. Energy bounces off the walls. We stop. Teacher asks if we'd like to play an encore. Mickey jumps at the chance. I sing with the kids. They sing back. Easy as pie. Nice. Real nice. After we're done Mickey struts back to his desk, the kids hovering around him. I leave, very proud of my little boy. 

What did I learn from my boy?

That for someone who can't play, he can really play.

And that's a great lesson.