DadCentric

"You're gonna need a bigger boat."

One more thing to add to the ever expanding list of Shit You Really Don't Want To Talk To Your Four-Year-Old About: shark attacks. When your goal is to have your son grow up to be the next Joel Tudor, and your daughter to be the next Lisa Andersen, this is not a welcome development.

Not that I'm in the least bit concerned - even though David Martin was killed at the surf break that was my go-to spot when we lived in Solana Beach. Saw lots of dolphins in the three years that I frequented that break, nary a shark. Hell, I spent 7 years working for SeaWorld, spouting statistics and anecdotes about how galactically UNlikely you are to be killed by a shark here in sunny San Diego (as it happens, you have a greater chance of being killed by lightning, bees, falling airplane parts, and domesticated pigs than a great white). In fact, I surfed yesterday evening, two days after the attack. At sunset. Without a lifeguard around. Or any other surfers in the water. (I'll admit - it was a bit spooky. After I got out of the water, I saw a gray dorsal fin break the surface, right where I had been. A dolphin, of course, and, of course, had I seen that same fin in the water while I was out there bobbing around, I'm quite certain I would have fouled my wetsuit.)

Luckily, Lucas has no fear of the ocean, and luckier still, he remained blissfully ignorant of the tragedy. And I intended to keep it that way. And so it was that we were driving down the coast highway on Saturday afternoon, me gazing wistfully out at the ocean, lovely waves rolling in made even lovelier by slight offshore breezes - waves that were completely empty, unridden, due to the circling helicopters and lifeguard trucks that were on the lookout for the great white. "Look at how nice that looks," I said to Beth. "Stupid shark."

"What? What shark, daddy?"

Fuck.

Beth was thinking quickly. "Oh, daddy...is telling a joke. A joke from a movie that we saw. About a shark."

"Oh," said Lucas. "What movie?"

"Well, it's a movie called Jaws, and it's about a shark."

"Can I watch it?"

"Well," I said, "it's a grownup movie. When you're old enough, believe me, we'll watch it."

"Yeah", added Beth. "It's very scary, and it has lots of bad words."

"Oh," said Lucas. "Do they say 'stupid'?"

"Yep," we said.

"Oh," said Lucas. "And 'dammit'?"

"Yeah," we said, "but remember, you're not supposed to say that word..."

"And 'fuckers'?"

Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies....

Rockabye: The DadCentric Review

I was sitting in a bookstore in Hollywood talking to Neal Pollack and had just finished saying something stupid to a friend of his about her shoes when Rebecca Woolf walked in. We were introduced and Neal went on to tell me that Rebecca had just signed a book deal. She was stunning so I only hated her for a moment. She talked briefly about the book before being whisked away to give chase to her motherly duties.

Later, while I was reading whatever it was I was reading, Rebecca and her son Archer made a few laps around me and every time one of us would nod or smile to the other, sometimes both. Archer was oblivious to me. I doubt that Rebecca remembers any of that, but I do, because watching her and her son made me feel guilty that I hadn't brought mine with me. Of course an hour later I was sitting around a pitcher of margaritas with Jason Avant and Whiffleboy, my colleagues at DadCentric, and I was long over any remorse of paternal guilt.

Her book, Rockabye, is now out, and upon reading it I was immediately hit by two things, a) this isn't your typical parenting book, and b) I totally missed her slut phase. I won't lie. The latter hurt a little.

If you read Rebecca's blog(s) then you have an idea of what to expect from her story. She is tough as she is tender and above all she is honest. Her writing is welcoming, and she invites you to come in, have a drink, take your shoes off and be comfortable in your own skin, and hers as well.

It is a narrative of insight and understanding that allows the reader to relate and reflect.

For instance: "Who are we to tame our children before they even understand what it means to be wild? Who are we to limit their experience with our own closed minds? And don't we remember what it felt like to be kids? Because if I'm not mistaken, every single thing my mother told me not to do I did. Twice."

Exactly. Yet, I have found myself doing just that, trying to stay the inevitable when in truth I am only delaying it, perhaps magnifying it. Her words made me stop and take a breath. I do remember what it was like to be a kid, and still, it is easy to forget. Too easy.

There is inspiration there, and it continues throughout: "Martyrdom does not bring into the world children with a strong sense of self. A mother who sacrifices her livelihood for her children is risking not only her own loss of identity but also the well-being of her children. No child deserves to be resented. It is possible to do it all well."

And she does.

At least on paper. She will be the first to admit that she is flawed, and rather than hide her blemishes she has chosen to embrace them. They are, after all, what makes us who we are.

Hers is the real world, and it is full of rainbows.

Read more from Rebecca at Girl's Gone Child and Straight form the Bottle.  Buy Rockabye here or at a bookseller near you.

Earth Day: Save the Planet, Save Yourself

Today is Earth Day.  Every day is Earth Day.  See how that works.  The bottom line is that we've pushed this poor planet about as far as it can go without serious repercussions.  More serious repercussions.

You don't have to be a hippie smelling of patchouli and  mushrooms to celebrate your planet.  Our planet.  Sure, showers are optional, but let's not be over dramatic. 

We've only got one planet and if we don't start living differently we're going to lose it.  I'm talking to you, big oil, but not just you.  We can all make a difference.  Don't let Earth become the next Pluto.

[thanks for the video idea Jason!]

Why I Love Wired So Much

It's not often that I come across pure genius outside my own daily delusions of grandeur, especially with regard to viral videos.  Let's face it...YouTube is chock full of large, steaming piles of donkey poo.  So when they chose to remove the "Shreds" videos by user St. Sanders, I was pissed.  I had been subscribed to his stream for months, ever since discovering the "Eddie [Van Halen] Shreds" video that had me literally laughing so hard I cried and peed my pants.  Apparently, a couple of guitar gods that had been spoofed got their egos taken out at the knee and claimed copyright infringement.  YouTube, the spineless douchebags that they are, caved in and removed them. 

However, Wired pulled through and is now hosting them on their site.  The "Shreds" live - at least for now.  Thank you,Wired, the tech Bible that you are.  So, if you missed these hilarious spoofs, take a gander and see what all the hubbub was about.  Or, if you're lazy, I've set you up with an Yngwie Malmsteen sample below:

DadCentric Formal Apology #32,455

A few days ago, I was interviewed for a piece by Seattle Post-Intelligencer writer Paul Nyhan, who also authors the Working Dad blog. The piece was about the lack of support groups - and parenting resources in general - for dads. It can be found here. I wish to clarify the remarks attributed to me in the article.

While it is true that I said that a father's role has traditionally been to "guard the frontiers against the Visigoths", my intention was not to cast the Visigoths in a disparaging light. I would like to state, for the record, that am not nor have I ever been an anti-Visite. I have nothing but respect and admiration for the Visigoth people. I often listen to Visigoth music ("Music to Put Severed Heads On Long Pikes By" and "Elkskin Tanning Tunes" are two of my favorite albums, and they just happen to be by, yes, Visigoths). I am not ashamed to drink mead when I'm around my non-Visigoth friends. And yes, I am proud to say that I do have Visigoth friends. (Well, they're more like acquaintances.  One is a co-worker, actually. And I only see him at the annual company picnic. Never met met his wife, truth be told. But still.)

I see now the error of my ways, and those of you who have commented that I should have learned my lesson after that 'fending off the Mongol Hordes' comment I made in the September 2004 issue of Ladies' Home Journal, point taken. I can only say that I have come from a broken home, I have battled a debilitating addiction to Dexatrim, I lost an arm in the brave but futile attempt to recapture the city of Hue only to return home to the curses and spittle of flag-burning hippies...well, I have a lot of pent up anger, which I unfortunately vented at the Visigoth people. I see now that my long-held belief that there is a Secret Global Visigoth Agenda was born of paranoia and a deep-seeded inferiority complex, which most likely were an aftereffect of the years I spent frequenting the Opium Dens of Uptown Vancouver. I am sincerely, deeply, and truly sorry if I have offended any Visigoths who may have read my words. I have decided to embark upon a Tour Of Healing, during which I will visit with some noted Visigoth leaders and communities, and make a deeply heartfelt speech, portions of which are still being written by my staff of interns (some of whom are, I should add - with great pride, I should also add - Visigoths). I beg your forgiveness, Visigoths everywhere, and I hope that we can all begin the healing process.

The Perfect Day

• I walked into the breakroom yesterday morning to find a freshly brewed pot of Starbucks coffee.  Mine is the first cup drawn.
• Upon entering the Men's restroom I not only find the handicap suite unoccupied, but, the L.A. Times is neatly hanging on the handrail next to the toilet.  This, instead of in the trash where I normally find it every morning before cursing the idiot who obviously needs to be schooled on bathroom etiquette with regards to periodicals in the men's room.
• One wipe.  Goodbye.
• My workday was full and even included accolades sent to my superiors about my work. The adjective "professional" was actually used. 
• Although I was busy, I still managed to set aside 65% of my workday for personal web use. (That's the standard ratio, right?)
• The commute home was under 40 minutes in the rain and I did not have to utter the phrase "fucking go!" even once.
• Tom Leykis actually made me laugh the whole way home.
• After kissing the wife goodbye for her evening work shift, dinner and bath were completed without incident.
• The response from my youngest after being asked by her older sister as to the whereabouts of her Hannah Montana Barbie - "It's in my BUTT."
• Kids in bed early.  Fridge full of Tecate.

And Closing Out 2007...

...we have this brand new baby boy!

The little guy was born December 31st, 13 days after his given due date of the 18th. He kept us waiting a bit, but he knew there was a tax credit on the line, so he decided it was high-time to come on out. He was all of 9 pounds and 11 ounces.

Welcome to the world little guy. We love you.

Happy New Year!

Man, it has been a bit slow around here.  That week between Christmas and New Year is a hard one.  There are new gifts to play with, decorations to take down, bowl games and playoffs, resolutions to keep, not to mention work and otherwise normal obligations.  It's a tough week.

It's a funky one too.  My head still swirls with the surreal memories of our holiday vacation and suddenly it's time to party and not only do we not have a sitter but we never even considered getting one.  My desire to start the new year with a hangover has wanned (waxed?) over the years.  I'd just assume stay home with the family, let the kids stay up late, have a couple of beers and beg the wife for sex.  I'd hate to go a whole calendar year without it.

2007 was a decent year around these parts.  A few of us added to our respective families, some of us had our favorite sports team win their respective championship and I got an iPhone.  I've seen worse years.

2008 promises to be a good one.  Not only will DadCentric: The Book be available, but for a limited time you will be able to have your copy signed by all contributing authors for a small large fee plus shipping.  If that is all that happens in 2008 it's already a keeper.

Here's hoping your 2007 was a good one and that your 2008 is even better.  Have a happy and safe holiday.

Happy New Year!

Glad Tidings of the Season

Well, it looks like we're heading into crunch time if you are planning on celebrating anything festive next week.  That said, I thought I would provide some suggestions should you need to sit and relax- more than you do already.

By suggestions I mean beer.

Seasonal beers are a big hit with me, and if they aren't already a big part of your holiday season please note- they need to be.

Here are a few that will make everyone merrier (and possibly better looking):

Anchor Steam Christmas Ale is perhaps the greatest thing to ever come out of San Francisco, or California for that matter.  It is Christmas in a bottle (or glass).  If this is the only seasonal beer you ever drink you will be a better person for it.  I love it so much I want to take it behind the middle school and get it pregnant.  Fortunately, (for my wife) the mouth of the bottle is too small, otherwise that beer would be glowing like a Spears girl at her junior prom.

Pyramid Snow Cap packs a bit of a punch at 7% alcohol content.  It's a great way to accidentally get drunk at a Sonics game.  It too combines the wonders of the season and is worth stuffing in a stocking or two.

Samuel Smith's Winter Welcome used to disappoint me every year.  It wasn't because the beer was bad, far from it, but because the beer went bad.  It used to be shipped in clear glass bottles which, aside from Newcastle, seems to be a killer of good beer.  Light and beer are not friends.  If light tells you otherwise it is lying.  Last year Mr. Smith got smart and started bottling it in a darker bottle and I've had nothing but good taste since.  Really.  Besides, any beer that quotes Shakespeare (not his sister) on the label has got to be top notch.

Truth be told, there are more and more seasonal beers every year, and the three I mentioned are just 3 of the more popular options.  I would guess that I've had over 20 different types of winter brews over the years, and these are the few that I MUST have every December.

If you would like to check out a few more look no further than our own Mr. Big Dubya.  He also likes beer.

Now here's something that should have been done long ago:

Cribs, Redemption and the Mile

Thing 2 was a kept man.  His crib was his cell.  Prison life consists of routine, and then more routine.  He slept sound.  Sound enough, for someone still shy of his second birthday.  It was the crib.  He seldom slept away from it, and the few nights we tried to stay with friends or in hotels were quickly added to the pile of experiments we regret.  He was a kept man, and he was comfortable.

These walls are funny. First you hate 'em, then you get used to 'em. Enough time passes, you get so you depend on them.

He depended on them.  He stood at the railing and waved the day goodbye each night and rose to meet it again each morning.  He was alone, but he was not lonely.  Thing 1 visited often with hugs and nail files baked into cakes. 

I dreamed of you. I dreamed you were wandering in the dark, and so was I. We found each other. We found each other in the dark.

Freedom found him today.  One moment he was fighting the battle of boy against nap and the next he was walking down the hall with his pants in one hand and his shoes in the other.  It was as if someone had returned his belongings to him and sent him on his way.

We asked him what happened.  We asked him how he got out.  He just nodded and handed me his shoes, filled with dirt and bits of clay.  I dressed him and let him wander into the yard, a nap beaten and freedom gained.

I went into his room, bracing myself for the inevitable Rita Hayworth poster across the headboard of his crib.  There was nothing but memories and questions that he wouldn't answer.   

What happens on the mile stays on the mile. Always has.

________________________

-with all apologies to Stephen King