Grande Schmuck
I promise to write a post in which I'm not complaining about something. After this one.
Saturday night I was participating in the New American Pastime (TM) — killing an hour at Starbucks — before meeting my friend Mara for dinner and a swank-ay pah-tay. I commandeered my own table, and a student took the one to my right. So there we were, me reading a New York magazine exposé on the flailing book-publishing industry, him thumbing through a packet of law-school mishegos.
And in walked the Worst Parent Ever.
Worst Parent Ever (WPE) planted himself two tables to the right of Focused Law Student (FLS). He unpacked his laptop, put it on the table, and sat in the booth seat against the wall. He haphazardly unpacked his child, a boy of about 6 or 7. The boy had with him a deck of trading cards, sort of like Pokémon cards but not Pokémon. WPE began typing away on his laptop, and within minutes, his kid was meandering around the joint.
The boy wandered over to FLS's table, onto which he began dealing his cards, spreading them out and moving FLS's papers to make room for his game. He didn't say anything to FLS, he just dealt his cards and moved stuff around. FLS clearly didn't feel that he could discipline someone else's kid — a touchy predicament, to be sure — so he looked to WPE for help. WPE sat at his table, watching his kid invade the space of a total stranger, and did nothing.
Let it be said that WPE was also Sensitive Ponytail Man. With his sensitive ponytail, he was wearing a woven pullover like the one I bought in Estes Park, Colorado, in 1989, when I spent the summer camping around the western U.S. via a crappy green bus and wearing polypropylene hiking socks and hanging my garbage in trees so bears wouldn't raid my tent.
(Note: The above paragraph is 100 percent, honest-to-god true.)
In any case, FLS's glances to WPE were for naught. Unable to figure out what to do with this child who was taking up more and more space on his table, he picked up his coffee and took a sip.
Big mistake.
The boy quickly dealt two cards where FLS's grande lattewhatever had been and left no more free surface for FLS to set his drink back down. FLS once again looked over to WPE for help, and I sat up and shot WPE some bitchface as well. I held my hands out as if to say, "Come on!" Finally, WPE exercised what I'm sure was his version of taking control of the situation and, without getting up from his seat, said, "Hey, Michael, why don't you come back over here, man?"
Michael ignored WPE.
"Mike! Hey, Mike! He's studying, man! Leave him alone!"
Michael kept playing. He didn't even react. But still, WPE did not get up to pull his child away. He kept shouting across Starbucks to his son, but never deigned to alight from his pleather throne.
Michael continued nudging FLS's papers over to the point where they almost fell off the table. Frustrated, FLS started gathering his belongings. Seeing this, WPE finally came over to the table and tried to pull Michael away, but the kid was having none of it and struggled for about five seconds before WPE gave up and let him go. Five seconds. That was it. WPE threw in the towel before the kid could even let out a yelp.
"Look, I'll just go," said FLS.
Now, at this point, what do you think most parents would do?
a) Pull Michael away, even if there's an ugly, kicking, slobbering scene, to ensure FLS keeps his table and can continue to study
b) Pull Michael away, even if there's an ugly, kicking, slobbering scene, and buy FLS a coffee, with apologies
c) Offer to switch tables so FLS could study in peace without disturbing Michael's card game
d) Remove self, laptop, and Michael from the premises until Michael was ready to play without disturbing patrons
e) Nothing
See if you can guess which one WPE was.
"Look, I'll just go," said FLS.
"Hey, thanks, man!" said WPE.
I'll repeat that, because I don't think I read it right the first time:
"Hey, thanks, man!"
And FLS threw all his stuff into a bag and began to scooch out of his seat.
"You can have my table," I said to FLS, shooting WPE a glare. "I'm leaving. It's OK."
"No, thanks," FLS said, also directing some stink-eye toward WPE, who stood there like the tooliest tool in the toolshed, watching FLS pack up before shuffling back to his own table and leaving Michael where he was. "I'm done here."
It was appalling.
I will admit that, as an armchair parent, it's all easy for me to say. Jon Stewart once did a standup bit where he talked about how he sits on his couch, drinking his beer, screaming at Olympic gymnasts to stick their landings. In my head, I was screaming for WPE to stick his landing. (I was also screaming, "Hate to break the news! Phish broke up!") But ultimately, it's not like WPE tripped on the mat and maybe dusted a judge with some chalk; he flat out wrestled the balance beam from its bolts in the floor and pummeled FLS over the head with it. Maybe Michael is a hellion and WPE is exhausted, but really, take care of your kid. At least get out of your goddamn seat and assess the situation. Apologize to the person you're responsible for uprooting. And throw all your Rusted Root concert ticket stubs into a shoebox instead of littering them all over the apartment with your homemade bongs. Gah.
If I hadn't seen a grown woman of, maybe, 30 skipping joyfully down the street 20 minutes earlier (it was a true skip, not a run that lost its steam; also, she was wearing pink culottes), I might have lost my composure. One can only handle so much weirdness in one evening.
Saturday night I was participating in the New American Pastime (TM) — killing an hour at Starbucks — before meeting my friend Mara for dinner and a swank-ay pah-tay. I commandeered my own table, and a student took the one to my right. So there we were, me reading a New York magazine exposé on the flailing book-publishing industry, him thumbing through a packet of law-school mishegos.
And in walked the Worst Parent Ever.
Worst Parent Ever (WPE) planted himself two tables to the right of Focused Law Student (FLS). He unpacked his laptop, put it on the table, and sat in the booth seat against the wall. He haphazardly unpacked his child, a boy of about 6 or 7. The boy had with him a deck of trading cards, sort of like Pokémon cards but not Pokémon. WPE began typing away on his laptop, and within minutes, his kid was meandering around the joint.
The boy wandered over to FLS's table, onto which he began dealing his cards, spreading them out and moving FLS's papers to make room for his game. He didn't say anything to FLS, he just dealt his cards and moved stuff around. FLS clearly didn't feel that he could discipline someone else's kid — a touchy predicament, to be sure — so he looked to WPE for help. WPE sat at his table, watching his kid invade the space of a total stranger, and did nothing.
Let it be said that WPE was also Sensitive Ponytail Man. With his sensitive ponytail, he was wearing a woven pullover like the one I bought in Estes Park, Colorado, in 1989, when I spent the summer camping around the western U.S. via a crappy green bus and wearing polypropylene hiking socks and hanging my garbage in trees so bears wouldn't raid my tent.
(Note: The above paragraph is 100 percent, honest-to-god true.)
In any case, FLS's glances to WPE were for naught. Unable to figure out what to do with this child who was taking up more and more space on his table, he picked up his coffee and took a sip.
Big mistake.
The boy quickly dealt two cards where FLS's grande lattewhatever had been and left no more free surface for FLS to set his drink back down. FLS once again looked over to WPE for help, and I sat up and shot WPE some bitchface as well. I held my hands out as if to say, "Come on!" Finally, WPE exercised what I'm sure was his version of taking control of the situation and, without getting up from his seat, said, "Hey, Michael, why don't you come back over here, man?"
Michael ignored WPE.
"Mike! Hey, Mike! He's studying, man! Leave him alone!"
Michael kept playing. He didn't even react. But still, WPE did not get up to pull his child away. He kept shouting across Starbucks to his son, but never deigned to alight from his pleather throne.
Michael continued nudging FLS's papers over to the point where they almost fell off the table. Frustrated, FLS started gathering his belongings. Seeing this, WPE finally came over to the table and tried to pull Michael away, but the kid was having none of it and struggled for about five seconds before WPE gave up and let him go. Five seconds. That was it. WPE threw in the towel before the kid could even let out a yelp.
"Look, I'll just go," said FLS.
Now, at this point, what do you think most parents would do?
a) Pull Michael away, even if there's an ugly, kicking, slobbering scene, to ensure FLS keeps his table and can continue to study
b) Pull Michael away, even if there's an ugly, kicking, slobbering scene, and buy FLS a coffee, with apologies
c) Offer to switch tables so FLS could study in peace without disturbing Michael's card game
d) Remove self, laptop, and Michael from the premises until Michael was ready to play without disturbing patrons
e) Nothing
See if you can guess which one WPE was.
"Look, I'll just go," said FLS.
"Hey, thanks, man!" said WPE.
I'll repeat that, because I don't think I read it right the first time:
"Hey, thanks, man!"
And FLS threw all his stuff into a bag and began to scooch out of his seat.
"You can have my table," I said to FLS, shooting WPE a glare. "I'm leaving. It's OK."
"No, thanks," FLS said, also directing some stink-eye toward WPE, who stood there like the tooliest tool in the toolshed, watching FLS pack up before shuffling back to his own table and leaving Michael where he was. "I'm done here."
It was appalling.
I will admit that, as an armchair parent, it's all easy for me to say. Jon Stewart once did a standup bit where he talked about how he sits on his couch, drinking his beer, screaming at Olympic gymnasts to stick their landings. In my head, I was screaming for WPE to stick his landing. (I was also screaming, "Hate to break the news! Phish broke up!") But ultimately, it's not like WPE tripped on the mat and maybe dusted a judge with some chalk; he flat out wrestled the balance beam from its bolts in the floor and pummeled FLS over the head with it. Maybe Michael is a hellion and WPE is exhausted, but really, take care of your kid. At least get out of your goddamn seat and assess the situation. Apologize to the person you're responsible for uprooting. And throw all your Rusted Root concert ticket stubs into a shoebox instead of littering them all over the apartment with your homemade bongs. Gah.
If I hadn't seen a grown woman of, maybe, 30 skipping joyfully down the street 20 minutes earlier (it was a true skip, not a run that lost its steam; also, she was wearing pink culottes), I might have lost my composure. One can only handle so much weirdness in one evening.
Labels: New York, philosophical whatnots, pop culture, randomness
posted by Marla at 1:14 AM
4 Comments:
Ark! I haaattte that. One of my pet peeves. But I do love the moniker Sensitive Ponytail Man. Though I prefer to call him *Mr.* Sensitive Ponytail Man.
That belongs on a Dateline special on a Wednesday or Friday night when they set up situations, a hidden camera and we see how people react and who will actually do something about said problem.
Oh, good lord, that is awful!
And yes, the correct term (at least the version from "Singles," which is what I assume you're referring to. It was Kyra Sedgwick's line) is "Mr. Sensitive Ponytail Man." Did he at least look like James LeGros ("Andy" from "Singles")?
Naomi, your tendency to include Mr. proves you're a much kinder person than I am. I sort of feel that Mr. is a title of respect, so the only Mr. he'd really earn would be that of, say, Mr. Dickbag (the head of the Dickbag household) or some other unflattering community. But since Sensitive Ponytail Man implies maybe poor grooming choices but not necessarily a flyaway heart, I withheld. Jackass didn't deserve a mister. Also: I love the word "moniker." So thank you for that.
Lauren, I so badly wanted to say something, but I really try to refrain from telling off parents in front of their children. (And I was convinced he WAS the dad; if he weren't, if he were a relative or babysitter of any kind, I think he'd have gotten out of his seat much sooner to see what the problem was.) The kid obviously had issues with his dad, at least at that moment, and I think if a Dateline camera had been there and I'd told the guy what I really thought of his laissez-faire parenting style, all hell would have broken loose and the television audience would have gotten quite a thrill. But we would have liberated that child. Oh, yes: free the Michael.
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