DadCentric

Totally Unfair

A Can of Gusanos

California is experiencing its own budget crisis right now.  State workers are taking a 10% pay cut via a mandatory "furlough" program, our State income tax refunds will be in the form of an IOU and there are many other budget cuts happening left and right.  Some of which affect education.  We were notified by phone and letter recently that our daughter's Pre-K program will feel the impact of these cuts.  The program will continue, but, we were warned that things will be a little different. 

My wife and I have experienced a bit of the residual effects here and there.  There were shortages of supplies, we had to build some of the craft-oriented things ourselves, a few activities had to be cut, some booklets and pamphlets could not be printed for the children and there were cuts in the collateral material that was supposed to be included in the mandatory parental classes that accompany the Pre-K program, etc.  No big deal, really.  There's not enough money to go around.  We get it. 

However, despite the cutbacks, the State still requires a paid interpreter to accomodate the two parents [out of twenty] that cannot understand what is being said in these parental classes because they cannot speak English.  I'm going to be honest here...that bugs the hell out of me.  It probably shouldn't.  But it does.  And I'll go a step further and say, even if the State was flush with money and there were no cutbacks, I don't like the idea of paying for interpreters like this.  I believe ESL classes would be a much more beneficial investment.

There.  I said it.

"Playing House in The White House": An Open Letter From Bush's Daughters to Obama's

Politics aside, the man was a dad, and his daughters do him credit.

"Our dad, like yours, is a man of great integrity and love; a man who always put us first. We still see him now as we did when we were seven: as our loving daddy. Our Dad, who read to us nightly, taught us how to score tedious baseball games. He is our father, not the sketch in a paper or part of a skit on TV. Many people will think they know him, but they have no idea how he felt the day you were born, the pride he felt on your first day of school, or how much you both love being his daughters. So here is our most important piece of advice: remember who your dad really is."

Read the rest of the Bush daughters' letter to the Obama girls here. 

Ethan Fromage (A Cheesy Sledding Tale)

The great outdoors is a dangerous place for kids.

There's cancer from sun exposure, Lyme disease from ticks and the ever-present risk of losing an eye to a sharp stick.

There's electromagnetic fields from power lines, telegenic child predators from scout troops and hallucinogenic toads from the Republican Party.

And who can forget, Chupacabra, Sasquatch and Baristas.

But screw it, my kids are the starchiest of couch potatoes as it is. 

The other weekend, my parental guilt overwhelmed me just as six yards of snow overwhelmed our region. So, after indulging in a rib-sticking feast of mac and cheese (supplemented by three extra slices of Kraft American and a hint of paprika), my 6-year-old son, one of his classmates and I went sledding.

What kid doesn't love sledding? While growing up, my sister and I would rush out to our yard soon as it was an inch-deep in flakes, armed with my Dad's ancient wooden Speedway or these blue plastic roll-up sheet-sleds from Caldor, the Northeast's most dreadful discount store of its day. (One time we used some old metal TV trays. That night, and it was night, I got airborne and ker-splashed into our backyard pond. In retrospect: Best. Ride. Ever.)

In recent winters, I've taken my kids to the nearby public golf course. It's a popular sledding spot for obvious reasons -- several good hills of various pitch and length, wide object-free slopes and a 19th hole that's open Sundays year-round for post-sledding pints and fried cheese sticks. This time, though, we went elsewhere.

We tried the back hill of a swim club near our house. Though not crazy-steep, the sun the day before and the subfreezing temps the day of made for an icy ride that packed thrills, chills and, as you can see in this amateur video, close calls with death-by-road-sign:

(Yes, that is me girlishly gasping "Ooo, jeez!")

Thing 2 survived that run and a few dozen more once I made some adjustments to his course and technique. Can't say the same for his friend.

Right at the end of a rather good long ride in which he managed not to go flying off after hitting an unseen bump and doing a 360, he started to veer sharply to the left. Sensing doom, he hit the brakes.

Or rather, his face did:

He fought back the tears as I made sure his teeth and tongue were intact. He laughed when I asked how he got hurt on that run considering he twice survived tandem rides in which Thing 2 -- who has 25 pounds and four inches on his friend -- bellyflopped on top of him. When I told him the girls in first grade dig scars, he looked like I had force-fed him a 24-pack of lemon Warheads. Eh, someday he'll thank me.

I packed up him and Thing 2. When we got home, My Love made the boys hot chocolate -- heavy on the marshmallows. I cleaned our guest up and asked about his parents' history of litigation. Maybe, if he was still a little dizzy from the spill, I could convince him that -- in a Twinkie-engorged fit -- he broke into our utensil drawer and started nuzzling the cheese grater.

"Don't worry about it," the boy's father said when I brought him home. "He's accident-prone."

"He's been to the emergency room five times in his life," his mother said. "Always with his face."

Later that week, I saw the boys' teacher at school. She told me they were the hit of "Share Day" with their tales of the defying death on the frozen tundra.

That settles it. 

Next playdate, we jump Snake River Canyon on motorcycles. 

Our Star Wars Obsession, Explained

I was going back through the archives and it occurred to me that we really spend a lot of time talking about Star Wars on this site. (www.lukeiamyourfathercentric.com might be a better URL.) In fact, I defy you to find a male between the ages of 36 and 42 who doesn't make reference to, say, wrestling a Gundark or bullseye'ing womp-rats in our T-16's back home at least once a day. Ok, it's kind of weird, and frankly many of us are glad we're married because the single ladies, they are not impressed with tales of aerial womp-rat marksmanship. Most dads of our generation understand why this is so; however, we recognize that a fair number of female, older, and younger readers might not grasp why George Lucas' magnum opus holds such a grip on us, decades (yikes) after the first film was released. Wonder no more, because the following should make it all clear.

Recycle!

Dear Brett Favre -- The End

You'd think that after all that gushing I did over you at the season's start that I would be pretty upset right now.

You know, about how the Jets, led by you, choked away an 8-3 record following consecutive on-the-road victories over the fearsome Pats and at-the-time undefeated Titans.

About how you and your teammates blew making the playoffs in that final regular season game.

To our longtime hated division rival, no less.

A rival, I might add, led by the quarterback we dumped for you.

A QB named "Chad."

For crying out loud. Chad!

Nevertheless, I'm good with it. Honestly.

As a Jets fan from the waning Joe Namath days on, I'm used to the team sucking. And as a Mets fan during the baseball season, I'm now totally accustomed to such last-month-of-the-season collapses.

Moreover, Brett, I'm fine because of something my son said.

When asked by his uncle last week what was his favorite football team, my 6-year-old unhesitatingly said:

"The Giants."

Good for you, son.

Been nice knowing ya, Brett. Feel free to leave this season off the resume you submit to Canton, OK?

Or Maybe It Was Elvis, They Kind of Look the Same

First there was George Harrison on a tortilla:

Then there was Stevie Nicks on a grilled cheese sandwich:

Things took a turn for the sacred when Lego Jesus approached, waist up, in the form of a Cheeto:

Now my kids have found their ticket to financial freedom in a local toilet bowl. Hello eBay, I give you Jar Jar Binks in a piss stain (not the movie):

I take cash and PayPal.  No checks.