Fleece is the word.

FRIDAY…

Last night, scores of us sleek suburban dads turned up –and turned heads– at the most prestigious sports bars in the tri-state area, bedecked in dazzling, Rangers-inspired apparel from Modell’s. Though the Blackhawks emerged victorious in subtle, racist-toned tops featuring head dress insignia, I’d like to close out my fashion week coverage by sharing an inspiring quote which my close buddy Tommy Hilfingers once shared with me: “It’s not who wins or loses that counts, it’s who looks better.”  (Shout out to Tommy! Dude, I’m wearing your boat shoes today–with no socks.)

And nobody is going to look better on this Fashion Week Friday than suburban dads. Why? Because we will be wearing exactly the same thing we wear every Friday of every other week. That’s right: FLEECE.  On Monday through Thursday, we’re  all business in our buttoned-up clearance clothes from Banana Republic. But by the end of the work week, it’s time to TGIF. Thank God It’s Fleece Day.

When wearing fleece, particularly on anything-goes occasions like the grand finale of Fashion week, it’s a major “Daddy Don’t”  to “stop at the top.” Instead of selecting a single lime green fleece pullover from the Lands End catalogue, dapper dads like me dare to wrap ourselves from head to toe in a go-to-hell array of fleecy colors and textures. Party on in a pile carpet-quality fleece pullover from the LL Bean catalogue layered over a Thermax microfleece long underwear shirt from the Orvis catalogue paired with ultra-nappy après-ski fleece stretch slacks from the Patagonia catalogue (chocolate) and swirling, tripped-out patterned fleece bootie slippers from the Eddie Bauer catalogue.

This fluffy ensemble can be worn with confidence wherever your sizzling weekend plans take you, whether it’s the family room, the playroom, or even the laundry room. And when every other Saturday night rolls around, don’t be afraid to strut your fleecy stuff in the bedroom as well. After all, what suburban wife wouldn’t want to have marital relations with a spouse dressed like Fozie Bear?

And now, my haute-couture comrades, I’d like to thank you for following my fashion coverage this week, and to remind each and every one of you that Costco is currently stocking swimming trunks that would be ideal for those of you spending school vacation next week at your in-laws’ condo complex in Deerfield Beach, Florida. As for me, I’ll be combing the malls of Milan and the Chuck E. Fromage’s of Paris, prepping for next year’s edition of…

Fashion Week for Suburban Dads

Tonight's Must-Have Item

THURSDAY…

Tonight, the crème de la crème of A-List suburban dads will be at the most sought-after show of Fashion Week, the Rangers vs. Blackhawks game at glitzy Madison Square Garden. What will the real “Players” among us be wearing? Shimmering poly-blend hockey jerseys in patriotic color schemes, bold block-style numerals, and surnames of our favorite players. Yours truly will be resplendent in the signature style my eight-year-old son wears to school on an average of five days per week: 30 on the front, Lundqvist on the back. Why no “u” after the “q?” Because real style icons make their own rules, including the rules of grammar, whether they’re on the runway or on the rink.

And with that in mind, this maverick suburban dad isn’t waiting for game time at J.J. McFuckington’s Sports Bar and Wings to show off the flowing, fluid lines of my XXL hockey jersey from Overstock.com. I’ve had it on since I flossed after breakfast, and I will strut it like a peacock to each of the sizzling Fashion Week hotspots I’ll attend through the wee hours of the night, including Home Depot to buy a new WetVac.

Word to the fashion-wise: please resist the temptation to achieve a “layered look” by pairing this piece over a long sleeve Spandex Under-Armour T-shirt that is three sizes too small. I tried it this morning, and it detracted from the rugged pleasure of this piece: the stimulating sensation of my bare belly hairs poking through each of the jersey’s micro-mesh holes. And just between us suburban dads, let me tell you that the wife seemed rather “stimulated” herself when she noted my existence for at least one or one-half second today while preparing a baggie of Pirate’s Booty for our daughter’s lunchbox.

“Why do grown men wear sports jerseys in public like they’re dressing up for Halloween as professional athletes?” she asked.

“The same reason grown women wear cheerleader uniforms and carry pom-poms to work,” I replied.

Score!

Gotta run, big daddies. Or should I say, “Gotta glide!” Be sure to check this page tomorrow for the final edition of:

FASHION WEEK FOR SUBURBAN DADS

Peek-a-boo

WEDNESDAY…

With two days of fast-paced Fashion Week action behind us, we’re schlepping into the midweek stretch with no signs of slowing down. No wonder dads in the hottest suburbs from Westchester to Winnetka will be dressed for the occasion in a basic black adjustable knee brace paired with Old Man Sneakers. First, the knee brace. I found mine–a Futuro one-size-fits-all in classic neoprene with itchy Velcro strap accents–in aisle 3,947 of Costco. A must-have for style-minded dads like me who are recovering from medial meniscus surgery, this is one brace that looks just as good on the greens as it does on the commuter train. Worn casually to the middle school soccer field with a roomy pair of cargo shorts (please refer to Day One, below), you’ll drive the mommies wild with desire as they gaze in lust at your naked kneecap. That’s right, fellow dads of suburbia, there’s a daring “peek-a-boo” hole cut straight into the center of this situation. Could the message from Milan be any more clear? When it comes to kneecaps this season, if you‘ve got it, flaunt it!

If you’re a man of modesty, simply drape a pair of sweat slacks over your brace, and no one will know what you’re wearing down there except you and the little lady. And anyone who notices the strange, swollen lump protruding above your shins.

And now it’s time to look at what’s hot below the shins in suburban dadwear. When night falls on this wild Fashion Week Wednesday, don’t be surprised to find me accessorizing my knee brace with a three-year-old pair of heavily cushioned, ultra-padded, thick-soled, triple E-width Old Man Sneakers. Available from Nike in sizzling white mesh, mine feature a dynamic orange lightning bolt, a fashion statement that says to the world: “I am too young for the Rockport Fitness Walkers my father wears with his pajamas, yet too old for the cool, flat-soled blue Pumas I bought for $300 at the hip sneaker store around the corner from where I used to live in Brooklyn when the kids were still babies and my feet didn’t hurt like this all the time.”

As we look toward Day Four of Fashion Week, I realize that most of you are asking, “Dan, how can I emulate you?  How can I, too, rock the cutting edge suburban dad styles you’ve been chronicling all week?” My expert advice: tie each look together with one consistent feature. Remember that peek-a-boo hole in my Futuro Knee Brace? Look closely at the left big toe region of my Old Man Sneaker, and you will find a peek-a-book hole there as well. Did I plan it that way? Of course not. It is the result of a toenail I didn’t trim for six straight weeks. But that is the essence of fashion for fathers like me. Spontaneity. Surprise. Suburbia.

Be sure to check this page tomorrow for Thursday’s edition of: Fashion Week for Suburban Dads.

We got a pocket party goin' on.

MONDAY:

Today is the first day of Fashion Week, and what style-conscious dad wouldn’t want to kick things off by rocking a roomy pair of cargo pants? Speaking as a guy who owns 28 pairs, (that’s a grand total of 168 pockets), I can’t say enough about how much simpler life became once I started wearing a filing system on my legs. And talk about versatility! When the kids were babies, I’d keep the backup diapers in my right thigh pocket, the ready-made Similac bottles in my left, the wipes in my left hip pocket, and a baggie full of nipples in my right (rubber, not real–they were for the formula, weirdo). But remember, fashionista fathers: Once the kids get older, your pocket needs will change. That is why today, you’ll find this dashing dad strutting his stuff with an entire bag of goldfish crackers comfortably concealed on my right thigh. On my left, I will be boasting a Trader Joe’s juice box or two, which I will pair with an I-Phone stocked with Cookie Doodle and Angry Birds apps in my left waist pocket, accessorized by a pocket-sized bribe of some kind in my right. I used to keep Fruit Roll-ups in that one to get them to do whatever I said, but they wised up over the years and realized how much that stuff sucks. Now I never leave home without a cargo pants pocketful of “fun size” candy left over from Halloween. I hand it out like dog treats to move the kids from the playground into the minivan, and from the living room into the bath. You know something? To celebrate fashion week, I think I just might toss a stale KitKat straight into the water tonight and let them jump right in and fetch it! And once they’re bathed and sound asleep in bed, I think I just might change out of these cargo pants and seduce my wife by slipping into something more comfortable. Something such as…

Check this page tomorrow for Tuesday’s edition of: FASHION WEEK FOR SUBURBAN DADS

LOL!

This month, the brilliant humorist Andy Borowitz released a new book entitled The 50 Funniest American Writers According To Andy Borowitz, and guess who made the list?! Did you guess David Sedaris? You’re correct. How about Dave Barry? Right again! But guess who else Andy Borowitz included in his “anthology of humor from Mark Twain to The Onion?” It gives me great pleasure to report that Fran Lebowitz, Woody Allen, Sloan Crosley and 45 other side-splitting scribes were selected. I myself was not one of them. Though I’m sure this was simply a matter of space limitations (normally I like to blame anti-semitism but it seems like a long shot in this particular instance),  I couldn’t help but feel deflated and glum when I found out the news. “Come on, Andy Borowitz,” I deflatedly and glumly thought to myself. “You’re like my role model. Don’t you think I’m funnier than this James Thurber guy you picked? Or Dorothy Parker? I mean, what has she written lately that’s so hilarious?”

And then, I stopped beating myself up just because I am not one of the 50 funniest American writers according to Andy Borowitz.  Instead, I wiped the tears from my eye (the tears of a clown, it goes without saying), and I transformed my pain into comic gold. If there was ever a doubt in anyone’s mind that I am not one of the 50 funniest American  according to Andy Borowitz, they need to look no further than the cavalcade of comedy I have prepared below.

1). Knock knock.

“Who’s there?”

Dan.

“Dan Who?”

That’s what Andy Borowitz said.

2).  Why did Andy Borowitz cross the road?

To get away from Dan Zevin.

3).  “Dan who?”

       That’s what Andy Borowitz said.

4).   So it seems a rabbi, a nun, and a Chinaman walked into a bar.

“Read any good books lately?” the bartender asked.

The rabbi said, “ The 50 Funniest American Writers According to Andy Borowitz.” The nun said, “The 50 Funniest American Writers According to Andy Borowitz.” When it was the Chinaman’s turn, he said: “The 50 Fifty Funniest American Writers According to Andy Borowitz.”

The bartender looked surprised. “How is it that such different people from such different backgrounds can all agree on the same book?” he asked.

“Because Dan Zevin isn’t in it,” they answered in unison.

5).   When Dan Zevin sits around the house because he’s not one of the 50 funniest American writers according to Andy Borowitz, he really sits around the house because he’s not one of the 50 funniest American writers according to Andy Borowitz!

6).   Take Dan Zevin. Please!

7).  There once was a writer named Dan

       He wasn’t a humorous man

His jokes were not funny

He never made money

From the Borowitz book, he was banned.

8).  A straight man/funny man schtick:

       Straight man (played by Dan Zevin): A funny thing happened to me on the way to theater tonight!

     Funny man (played by Andy Borrowitz): That’s not funny.

9).  I just flew in from America, which is the country where I am not one of the 50 funniest writers according to Andy Borowitz, and boy are my arms tired!

10).   Q: What do you call a person with a sense of smell, a sense of taste, a sense of sight, a sense of hearing, but not a sense of humor?

A: Dan Zevin.

It’s wrong for Jews to have Christmas trees because they will be punished by God when they drive to the mall with the tree strapped to the top of their minivan.  Trust me, I know what I’m talking about here.

I committed the sin of the Christmas tree this weekend, just as I have every December since marrying my lovely shiksa decades ago. For the first few years, it was all fun and games. I’d put a bagel on top instead of a star, or a star of David instead of a star of…what is the gentile star called? Do gentile stars even have a name? I’m just going to call it the star of Christ for our purposes. One year before we had kids, not only did I remove the Star of Christ from our tree, but I replaced it with a decorative bagel upon which I inscribed an inspirational holiday message: “Jews Kick Ass.” Back then, I was all ha-ha-ha about ho-ho-ho. Now I know the truth. For Jews, getting a Christmas tree is like cheating on your taxes. Year after year, it’s possible there will be no repercussions. Then, boom, one day you get audited.

I got audited this weekend. What happened was, the whole family drove over to the VFW parking lot and picked out a tree. One of the many veterans (I’m guessing they were veterans) working there strapped it to the roof of the minivan. We all got back into the car, and just as I was about to drive us home to decorate the tree with all the ornaments (and bagels) we’ve collected through the years, Megan leaned over and whispered to me,  “Lets go get the rug.”

She is very obsessed with getting a rug for the living room by the time her parents come for Christmas. Her parents’ visits always provide a furniture deadline for her. It’s good and bad. Good because if her parents never visited, we’d probably still be using milk crates as tables (and chairs).  Bad, because going rug shopping at the Westchester Mall with two kids who thought they were about to decorate a Christmas tree is just a very, very bad plan.

“Hey kids! Wanna watch Kung Fu Panda?” I asked.

Keeping a portable DVD player in the minivan is the smartest thing I ever did that I promised myself I’d never do. By the time we got to the mall, they’d completely forgotten we bought a Christmas tree only 25 minutes earlier.

And so did I. Which is why I say this to all  Christmas Tree Jews: When you least expect it, expect to punished by God. Upon entering the Westchester Mall’s serpentine indoor parking lot, we spent the next 15 to 1,000 minutes driving further and further up the never-ending spiral ramp in search of a parking spot. As we drove higher and higher, the ceilings got lower and lower. And as the ceilings got lower and lower, the scraping sound got louder and louder.

“Do you hear a scraping sound?” I asked Megan.

“Oh my God, it must be the Christmas tree scraping against the ceiling,” she replied, accurately. We’d forgotten it was there. And as I tried to make a U-Turn and head back down the ramp to a low-altitude, high-ceiling zone in which to park the minivan, the next sound we would be hearing was an alarm. Followed by a massive, gushing torrent of water shooting straight down onto the roof of the minivan (i.e., onto the Christmas tree). The tree hit an emergency fire sprinkler.

I pulled into a small  spot in the parking lot reserved for handicapped plates, setting off another sprinkler or two on the way. Now the kids were getting nervous, proving that even the portable DVD player in the car can not keep them completely detached and silent forever. Which is why I’m totally getting the built-in kind next week.

“Don’t panic! Just watch Kung Fu Panda!,” I screamed at them. Do not panic! STOP PANICKING!”

Megan calmed them down as I exited the vehicle and crawled on the roof of the car to drag the Christmas tree off of it. Wedged between the tree and the ceiling, I’d estimate that there was about one inch of head-space before I would become decapitated. I used my car key to cut the string. The tree was pretty well stuck between the roof of the car and the ceiling, but I finally managed to drag it off the car. Then it fell onto the soaking wet floor of the lot. Did you know that the water that shoots out of emergency ceiling sprinklers is rusty and brown? Observe:

Then a Lexus started honking at me because I was now blocking traffic. Asshole.

After moving the kids’ car seats up as far as they could possibly go before their faces would be flattened against the back of the driver’s and passenger’s seat, Megan and I hoisted the tree inside the minivan. I shut the trunk, taking off a few branches in the process, and we got the hell out of there before the security staff ever had time to show up and arrest us.

“But we’re still going inside to look for rugs, though, right?” Megan asked.

“Are you serious? Look at us, we’re soaking wet.”

“But we’re here.”

Yes, we went rug shopping. No, we didn’t find a rug. But the tree looked pretty good once we got home and decorated it. Until it came crashing down. You think I’m kidding? I have half a glass snowman embedded in my palm. It’s like a shrapnel wound. When it heals, I will have a scar; a permanent reminder that Christmas trees are not meant for my people.

Next year, we get a fake one, like any real Jew would have done in the first place.

Oy To The World

As one of two Jewish boys in my neighborhood (the other one was my brother), December was always the cruelest month. Let’s just say it became very clear, very early on, that my friends—Frank McDonough, Pete Tierney, Scott Christianson, I think you’re getting the picture here—had a way better gig going, holiday-wise, than the Zevin boys did. They got Santa Claus, we got Rabbi Schmekler; they got Rudolph, we got a band of Macabee slaves fleeing the oppressor; they woke up Christmas morning and tore open a sledload of toys that had magically appeared under their tree; we received one gift item for each night of Hanukkah, which sounded kind of cool considering there were eight nights, at least until we unwrapped the boxes to discover an umbrella, or some equally practical present. My parents, unfortunately, didn’t want us getting sucked into the crass materialism brought on by the holidays. If we wanted fun, we were supposed to play with a dreidel. Do you know what a dreidel is? It’s a top. You spin it. Is that fun? Why don’t you try it some time while your chums are all playing with their new Donkey Kong video games, and then you tell me.

As if all of this wasn’t enough, my friends not only got Christmas, they got Christmas Eve. From the way they described it, it sounded like some kind of fantastic eating orgy: ham, pork chops, suckling pig wrapped in bacon. As time went on, I’d come to call it the Forbidden Meal. I envisioned the McDonoughs sitting around the tree, singing their McDonough carols, eating their McDonough figgy pudding, washing it down with their McDonough eggnog. Still, while I was certainly curious about their strange and gentile feast, I wasn’t exactly jealous of it in the same way I was of the Donkey Kong bonanza that ensued the next day. See, we Zevins had our own way of celebrating Christmas Eve. We went out for Chinese.

I know what you’re thinking. Why would anyone spend Christmas Eve going out for Chinese food? And to you, I say: Because we’re Jewish, that’s why. Jews from Massachusetts to Montana go out for Chinese food on Christmas Eve (Assuming there are Jews in Montana.) (And Chinese food.). I’ve never really understood why Jews go out for Chinese food on Christmas Eve, but I’m thinking it’s because so many Chinese restaurants have the word “temple” in their names. For us, it’s like going to temple, but the food is better. And, believe me, when all the other kids on the block get to stay up all night gorging on candy canes, sugar-plums, and fruitcake, it’s a welcome distraction to go out and nosh on some nice General Gau’s chicken with fellow tribespeople from neighboring towns. What can I tell you? December was always a bit easier to bear when I realized I wasn’t the only idiot toting around a new umbrella and spinning around a friggin’ dreidle.

Now that I’ve evolved into a mature adult (okay, at least into an adult) I am pleased to report that December is no longer the cruelest month. And that is because I’ve concluded that there’s one thing our holiday has over their holiday any day of the year. It is known as the latke, which translates from Yiddish into “delicious greasy fried round thing.” If you are a gentile individual, you probably call the latke a “potato pancake,” but I urge you not to treat it as you would an ordinary pancake, by putting blueberries or chocolate chips in it, as you have done to our other culinary contribution, the bagel. Please just take it easy with the latke. It’s all we have this time of year. Just add a little dollop of sour cream or apple sauce on top of it, and that’s that. (My wife mixes both together, and I’ve got to admit she’s on to something. Not bad for a shiksa.)

For some reason, my older brother, Barry, has become the designated latke maker in our family. I myself have always been the designated latke eater. It wasn’t until I had my own kids that I finally asked him for a little latke lesson. If you are Jewish, you probably already know a lot of this, so you might want to spend the next few paragraphs doing something else, like making a reservation at Hunan Temple for the night of the 24th. But if you’re gentile, listen to what I’m telling you: Enough already with the Christmas cookies. This year, make a nice plate of Christmas latkes instead.

Brother Barry’s Latkes (serves 6)

1. Light a menorah. “If you light some candles, maybe someone will bring you presents,” Barry explained. “Yeah,” I responded. “But you should pray they won’t be umbrellas.”
2. Peel and grate 2 lbs of potatoes and mix with some chopped onions, two lightly beaten eggs, a little salt, and four tablespoons of matzo meal. Don’t bother with the Cusinart. It’s just more to wash.
3. Heat some oil on a skillet until it’s good and sizzling. Chicken fat (schmaltz) is a tastier option, but you didn’t hear it from me. I have enough guilt without giving you a heart attack from Barry’s recipe. Use peanut oil. Oil plays a crucial role in the Chanukah story. Why? Go read a book. Who am I, Rabbi Schmekler?
4. Spoon some pancake-size servings into the oil, smush them a little, and get the hell out of the way unless you’re trying to get third degree burns from splattering peanut oil. When one side is brown, flip them over with a metal spatula. (Barry says plastic will melt. Trust him, he knows from cooking.)
5. Serve over one million layers of absorbent paper towels and…
6. Eat already! You want they should get soggy?

Back to top