I yelled at 5-Year Old Daughter for no good reason. A minor infraction was committed. She didn’t do anything terribly wrong but I gave her a lecture anyway, mainly because I was in a mood to lecture someone. I immediately felt terrible, as I always do when I yell. I’m not someone who yells or raises his voice. When I see two people standing nose to nose shouting at one another, or someone walking down 6th Avenue screaming into a cell phone, I wonder how they’re able to navigate through life with all that broken circuitry.

Anyway, I apologized. I told her that I was wrong to yell and asked her if she would please forgive me. She said, “Yes, Pop. Here’s a forgiving kiss for you.” and she kissed me on the cheek. She’s 5! What do you do with a kid like that?! Jesus. It’s not fair. I don’t stand a chance.

Then, recently, this gem from her:

“We’re going to have a race. Coco and I will be on one team and you and S will be on the other team. Our team name is Team Evil. Your team can be either Team Love or Team Heart. Either one. It doesn’t matter. And look! I drew the skull from Monster High for our team!”

Man, that kid breaks my heart. I can’t bear the thought that hard times will befall her, as they do us all. Clearly, locking her in the basement isn’t the answer but how do I protect her?

Earlier this year, Jay-Z and Beyoncé had a daughter. They named her Blue Ivy. What do you suppose Jay-Z will do to the first man who raps about Blue Ivy being a bitch or a whore? Do you suppose he’s seen the light? Had an epiphany? Daughters rule.

NOT Debbie Harry. A little rusty on the lyrics. [Posted for the benefit of far-away Buckeye family lurkers.]

To prevent this from degenerating into a nauseating mommy/parent post, I beg your indulgence and offer a few interesting pics as penance. Here’s a fantastic Giacometti that’s in the sculpture garden at MoMA. Creepy. Stylish!

Last week we experienced the first few warm evenings of the spring season. Those of you in warm-weather climates can’t imagine the unbridled joy of being able to sit outside when the winter breaks. Hanging your jacket on the chair back and feeling the warm air on your skin is an absolute high. And that’s before you order a cold beer. I was on my way to a play at The Public down in the East Village and stopped off for a couple slices of pizza. I sat outside and was so mesmerized by the big parade walking up Second Avenue and turning onto St. Mark’s Place that I almost missed my curtain!

A ribbon of peeled paper was strewn about the floor and wound through the mannequin’s feet.

This weekend I attended the annual Antiquarian Booksellers Association of America book fair at the Park Avenue Armory. Mama mia what a bunch of great books! Row after row of booths containing the rarest of the rare from all over the world. Spectacular copies in perfect condition. I handled a book that dated back to the 14th century. I swooned. The prices are astronomical. I never go to the book fair to buy, but I have to look. It’s like porn for book collectors.

There are always a few oddities that fall outside the parameters of book collecting. One year, someone was selling Hemingway’s typewriter. Another year, it was Jack Kerouac’s bluejeans. This year I was surprised to see Bruce Springsteen’s high school yearbook. It has nothing whatsoever to do with rare books or music. Who would want such a thing? And check out the price!

Three grand is a lot of money. Personally, I don’t think it’s worth that much but collecting anything is a subjective passion and not open to judgment by others. Take a look at this goofy photo. Let’s face it, ALL of out high school photos are goofy in retrospect.

As I was prepping these photos, I noticed something. Scroll back to the first photo and look at the list of accomplishments under the portraits. Each has a healthy paragraph of activities. Now look at the list of accomplishments under Bruce. Nothing. Clearly, Bruce did not participate in high school in any meaningful way. But he ended up doing pretty well for himself, don’t you think? He was a late bloomer. Obviously, I’m not making any comparisons here so don’t roll your eyes, but I was a high school loser/never made it with the ladies. Like Bruce, I didn’t go to college, either. But things turned out sort-of okay for me. Not Bruce-okay. But okay in my small way. It just takes some of us longer.

The New York Yankees, a morally bankrupt organization who single-handedly destroyed competition in baseball and forced the city of New York to foot the bill for its new stadium, have come up with a slew of nutty ways to whore its name and logo for the sake of a buck. Naming their most bizarre stunt is a tough call but I’d say it’s a toss-up between a container of infield dirt from the game when shortstop Derek Jeter broke the 3,000 hit mark ($250), or a pair of used, stinky socks that Jeter wore during that game ($1,000).

The baseball season is just underway and to commemorate the playoff spot this fall that the Yankees have already purchased, they’ve developed…Yankee cologne and perfume!

You, too, can stink like a Yankee. What does a Legend smell like? I haven’t had the pleasure yet but I imagine it’s the stench of freshly printed money mixed with the fragrance that rises off the streets outside Yankee Stadium in the South Bronx on a sweltering August afternoon. Take a big whiff, Yankee fans. Only $62 for a 3.4 ounce bottle. Suckers.

Here are my three dependents.

I voted for a cat but when the ballots were counted it was a landslide in favor of a dog. People have assured me that since I was the most reluctant, I’d be the one who grew closest to her. Well, I’m still waiting for that magic to happen. How much longer? Does anyone know? The dog is definitely on the road to being less stupid—she doesn’t nip as much as she used to and barks when she need to evacuate—but she still has a ways to go before she’s as smart as even the dumbest cat. She still thinks that cigarette butts and worms are food.

The apple never falls far from the tree. This is 5-Year Old Daughter and I from a few days ago.

I must have looked at these pictures 1,000 times. I look at them when I’ve got the blues and they make me happy. I look at them when I’m happy and they make me happier. Sometimes, if I’m in a certain mood, I’ll look at them and get choked up. What a pussy!

I hope I can keep it together and not do anything stupid to hurt my girls. Everyone makes occasional dumb choices in life. It’s part of the human condition. I’m not immune. Neither are you. Yeah, I’m talking to you. I just hope that when it’s my turn to stumble, I only cause harm to myself. That I can live with.

When I begin my morning commute, I usually pop in my earbuds to check the news and see if the world imploded overnight. Last week my earbud felt kind of funny so I reached up to adjust it and it popped of the cord and wedged itself into my ear canal. I panicked!

This was at 5:50 a.m. mind you, so I wasn’t exactly at the top of my game when it came to dealing with a medical crisis. I spent the next 1:15 trying to dig the thing out of my head. My big, clumsy, sausage fingers only succeed in pushing it deeper into my ear canal. I got a pen and tried to dig it out but all that got me was an ear full of ink marks.

I did a chant to calm myself down. As soon as I got into the city, I ran to the nearest drug store and bought a pair of Revlon tweezers, walked to an empty aisle and carefully extracted the earbud. Let that be a lesson to you.