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A special thank you to Mike Cohen from the Montreal Suburban for his interest in my new book "Men Get Pregnant, Too (despite never pushing a watermelon through a pigeonhole)".
It's always refreshing to meet someone who shows an interest in talking about modern fatherhood.
You can also access the full online version of this week's edition here.
As a teenager, I remember wishing I could be certain people: Jon Bon Jovi, Rob Lowe, Neil Peart (Yes, I know, one of these people in not like the others. What can I say? I love the drums).
A quarter-century later, I simply accept there are people I will never be: such as Brad Pitt.
The guy is perfect. Frustratingly, tauntingly, consistently perfect. If he were a pizza he would have all your favourite toppings, be fresh, be delivered on time, and be free.
I am not delusional. I refer not to the real life Brad Pitt in his jammies with morning breath and in need of a shower. I don't know that guy at all; that citizen of the earth, that husband, that father.
The only Mr. Pitt I know is the one who filled my Panasonic's screen last night as I watched 12 Years a Slave.
(spoiler!) Unbelievably, this guy swooped in yet again to save the day, and was sensiitve and handsome as ever while doing so.
My immature envy dates back to 1994's Legends of the Fall.
That hair. That perfect hair. As much as Val Kilmer induced my Top Gun 1986 peroxided buzz cut, Brad's 'River Doo' encouraged me to grow it long. His was dirty blonde, with a slight wave and a magnificent sheen. A river ran through his, and then a breeze ran through it, followed by a woman's fingers. Before all that, I'm sure a salon-grade shampoo and conditioner ran through it.
Mine was thick and gnarly, and puffed out at the sides after 8 weeks of growth.
Fine. River Brad may have been beautiful, but, in 1994, I was funnier than River Brad.
But then came Fight Club Brad, and Snatch Brad, and Ocean's Brad.
Shit. He was pretty funny. Shit shit.
Eventually I became a father. That's why I had forsaken my movie/rock star career; to be the best father I could be.
Now Dad Brad has 6 kids. Shit.
BUT! It must be easy managing 6 children when you are supported by great wealth and power.
Then I saw World War Z.
In his opening scene, Z Brad is a father talking about the pseudo secret service job he has given up so he may devote quality time to his family. He talks about this while cooking breakfast for his movie kids. He looks pretty good doing it. He looks like a natural in the kitchen. He seems to relate easily to children. Shit. (Yeah, yeah, I know it's a script! Indulge me.)
12 Years a Slave finally broke me.
Amid my anguish and tears, toward the tail end of a history lesson I was all too ignorant about, there is Brad. His hair was two-thirds on its way back to River Brad length; an Amish-trim beard - which looks so quirky on an Amish person - only accentuated his cheeks which are way to chipmunky-cute for a 50-year-old (he's 50!?! wtf???).
What is he doing there, on this plantation? (spoiler!) Not only is he building a home with his bare hands...he's saving the day. Again.
"I was a slave for 12 years. Guess who showed up in the 11th year to bust me free? Brad Pitt!" Of course he did.
He even produced the movie.
He didn't only free the slave, he schooled me on 19th century prejudice and cruelty.
Thanks, Brad.
According to IMDB, Super Brad's 68th production as an actor is called Fury.
The synopsis?
April, 1945. A battle-hardened army sergeant named Wardaddy commands a Sherman tank and her five-man crew on a deadly mission behind enemy lines. Wardaddy and his men face odds in their attempts to strike at Nazi Germany.
Yes, of course Brad is Wardaddy.
And KillingZombieDaddy.
And SavingSlavesDaddy
And PerfectHairDaddy.
Me? I have the beginnings of a male pattern baldness thing happening. If I don't give up my Brad Pitt issues soon, I may end up with serious self-esteem issues.
Given my age and follicle situation, I should focus my attention elsewhere...like on that damn sexy Patrick Stewart.
