Look right here! One wish for my daughter.

God is not without a sense of humor – or he has a firm grasp of irony. For the early part of my adult life I had no desire for children. Not because I was egotistical and wished to remain the center of my world; the thought of parental responsibility scared me senseless. I had convinced myself all children grow up to be degenerates where boys skip school and get into fights while girls sneak hoochie clothes in their book bags and slip out of the house after everyone has gone to sleep. I just knew if I were to become a father I would spend the better portion of my remaining years bailing a son out of jail and babysitting a daughter’s love child.

It should be noted that most who meet me say I’m very optimistic.

While being responsible for children terrified me in general, the thought of having a girl forced me to reconsider the mythical Spartan ritual of child selection. I looked at it like this, I could always resort to beating the crap out of a boy to put him on the straight-and-narrow or send him off to some militaristic boot camp if necessary, but what options do fathers have with girls? As far as I was concerned it would have been a perfectly wonderful life if no female were ever produced from my loins – until I had one.

My first child, not planned, was none other than a beautiful long lashed angel. From the moment I laid eyes on her chalky whiteness I was absolutely in love – and my life would never be the same again. Today there are only two females with whom I have difficulty telling ‘NO’. If my daughter grasped for a moment the tightness with which I am wrapped around her decade old finger she could already have a car.

I’m convinced when a man has a daughter his outlook on life should change entirely. I once had a fondness for The Swimsuit Issue and the occasional Playboy – now I go ballistic at seeing a Cosmopolitan or Vanity Fair cover in the grocery isle that shows more of the model’s skin than a nun’s habit. I’ve also become hypersensitive to what she watches; especially shows which center too much on appearance, beauty, or exhibit the occasional ‘boyfriend’ dynamic. The Bratz are Satan’s spawn.

As her father I feel this overwhelming sense of dread as my sole responsibility to be the counter-balance to a culture that will do it’s best to tell her value and worth begins and ends with her looks. Shopping malls across America are filled with untold numbers of tween and teen girls who have already drank that Kool-Aid and my anxiety hits new levels when I consider what she has waiting for her outside the purity of her elementary school hallways.

I’ve met and dated enough women to form this conclusion. The small minority I’ve known who grew up having strong, healthy, and honorable bonds with their fathers all seem to possess a higher self worth and place their value on something contrary to the vast majority of women. Just to be clear I’m not talking about ‘daddy’s girls’. I know plenty of these types who still demand a pedestal even though daddy’s been dead for 20 years – they’re lost and spoiled. Instead I’m talking about the one whose daddy not only told her she was his princess he instilled in her how value and self worth ultimately come from something more than her reflection in a mirror.

Through his complete acceptance and guidance she was given the confidence and wisdom to successfully avoid the traps and pitfalls boys – and later men – would attempt to snare her in. From him she realized she didn’t need to seek validation from strangers in unhealthy ways because her value was in something more than mere aesthetics. He accomplished this by continually reminding her, through his deliberate words and deeds, that she simply needed to

“look right here”

Meaning anytime she was tempted to take destructive paths to gain temporary approval and ultimately experience unnecessary heartache she should keep her eyes looking square into the one man’s who would always honor and respect her for who she is. By looking to him she learned how boys and men ought to treat her and she has the confidence and self-respect to demand nothing less from them. And in so doing she possesses the strength to take a step back from the edge of disaster while everything and everyone says otherwise.

Being that type of father is an admirable albeit intimidating responsibility, the result of which can be far-reaching. I believe, for me, it’s a journey that will go far beyond the occasional daddy/daughter dance or ubiquitous ‘date night’. It will require an intentionality on my part that will often be uncomfortable. Because one thing is for certain, the opportunities for her to take detours will be many and the consequences from heading down the wrong path potentially life shattering. I believe every little girl must know she’s worthy in the eyes of a man, especially her father, and that the man values her unconditionally; and I’m convinced if the girl goes long enough without either she’ll find what she’s looking for in – or from – someone else.

Parenting like nobody is watching

                       
As a boy I was mesmerized by what could be done with a handful of dominoes. Not for their original purpose, I still have no clue how the real game is played. My fascination instead came in the way magicians and other conjurers using hundreds or thousands of them could create complex geometric shapes full of colors and strange patterns.

I was no more than ten years old when a PBS station documentary featured a long forgotten illusionist as he constructed a masterpiece with over ten thousands dominoes set to resemble the Statue of Liberty. The program reported the painstaking detail and effort that went into his preparation aligning one domino strategically beside the next, piece by piece, line by line, hour by hour remaining ever conscious of how one misstep could erase his hours of work in a matter of seconds or how one misplaced domino could bring the finale to an immediate halt.

My favorite part was right before the artist turned his imagination into reality. With the pieces laid out, the anticipation ran high as his gentle nudge set into motion an arranged spectacle of clicks that brought his design to life.

This trivial event has remained in my conscious for its symbolism. Propelled forward by the one adjacent to it those dominoes have come to represent the potential behind a single human act.

Not long ago I read an article from a woman defending her open marriage and touting its benefits. Her distorted interpretation of marital fidelity didn’t shock me near as much as her declaration of being a mother of two pre-school aged children. As I read her arguments for how open marriages were far superior alternatives to conventional matrimony, I couldn’t help but wonder how she juxtaposed her stance on commitment with the understanding of her responsibilities as a parent.

Of all the duties fatherhood demands of me, I feel the most important is preparing my children for adulthood. Loving them is paramount, protecting them is natural, but modeling the behaviors that will serve them throughout life and help to shape their futures is my overarching mission. And as my children have become older I’ve began to realize one important principle towards achieving this goal – what I say isn’t nearly as important as what I do. Because they are children doesn’t negate the fact that, like all of us, they pay more attention to my actions. Talk is cheap is a lesson learned at an early age.

Yet one of the greatest delusions I now witness among parents is the belief, in fact the conviction, that kids don’t pay attention and it would’t matter if they did because parents aren’t accountable to their kids for their actions.

That was all I could think about as I read how this mother and wife gladly walked her husband to the door for his date night with another woman while she stayed home to take care of their children. I couldn’t help but wonder how she rationalized this against her motherly instincts and how would she eventually explain to their children why mommy and daddy don’t come home some nights. While an extreme example it is no less representative of many parents albeit on a less questionable yet just as damaging moral scale whether that be alcohol abuse, drug use, infidelity, pornography, or any other on the laundry list of behaviors most parents would immediately condemn their children for participating in at any age.

The justification I most often observe when it comes to these questionable behaviors and their role as a parent is the argument that “I’m an adult and they are children and I have gained the right to do things they can’t”. And though this may sound logical on the surface it altogether discounts real life and frankly assumes children in general are morons.

My daughter is eight and already she has the insight to call me out when she observes me acting the hypocrite – she’s eight! At ten I’ve noticed behaviors in my older daughter similar to mine yet we’ve never talked about them. This has forced me to concede what so many parents before me already understand – our kids are watching us and they’re also taking notes. It’s because of this I must constantly remind myself, like those dominoes, that my actions can and do have consequences on my children.

One of the primary motivators that led me to finally break my pornography addiction was my son. Having struggled with the shame and guilt, I never wanted him to experience that same humiliation. But the more I thought on it, as his father, how I could I lead him down a better path if I was still on the one I was trying to keep him away from? How could I be the father he needed while I being crushed by my own deceit? How would he ever hear me over the sound of my own hypocrisy?

I’m thoroughly convinced that parents will be held accountable for their actions if not with their children’s words it will be with their children’s deeds. The parent who abuses alcohol shouldn’t be surprised when their child does the same; the mother whose most pressing concern is looking younger shouldn’t be shocked when her teenage daughter suddenly equates her own self worth to how she looks. When we parent like no one is watching we invariably leave it up to our children to discern the difference. We fail to recognize that if our children see mom and dad doing what we tell them they should because we are ‘mature’ they will still assume it must be all right for them too. When we parent in such a way we leave it up to our children to determine right from wrong allowing them to set the direction on their own morality GPS.

From all this experience and observation I’ve discovered that the more transparent I can be with my children – in word and deed – the better parent I will ultimately be because I’m able to father without feelings of guilt at keeping secrets or hiding behind the shame of hypocrisy. I must remember the domino because the fact remains any one of my actions might be the very one that propels my children’s lives forward in a direction I never intended.

Can A Dad Take His Daughter Clothes Shopping (and Other Indignities of Modern Dadhood)

I'm on a rant about fathers who are treated as second-class parents.

The other day was filing out some paperwork and got to the bottom of one of the pages and saw the picture above.

To say I was offended would be a huge understatement. I’ve had full custody of my daughter for almost 5 years and to see “NAME OF NONCUSTODIAL PARENT/ALLEGED FATHER” was like a kick in the sack.

I hate to sound like an old lady but “How dare they assume that the noncustodial parent is the dad?”
Are there way more noncustodial fathers than mothers? Absolutely, but to automatically assume the father said “Peace out” to his responsibility is bullshit.

I was working on a post called Oscar Mayer Is Full of B-O-L-O-G-N-A but now that I’m in full rant mode I see how the paperwork and a company that runs commercials portraying men as idiots are both drinking the Bad Dad Kool-Aid.
I’m sure you’ve seen the commercials. The dad is portrayed as simultaneously whipped and also a complete idiot.

If you want to see for yourself take a peek at the thirty-second commercial below.

                                               

As you can see from the picture and video, modern day dads don’t have a lot of street cred. That’s sad. And they get stereotyped all the time.

I was once in K-Mart (a store I will NEVER go back to) and my then seven-year-old daughter was trying on some clothes. The lady running the dressing rooms gave me the “Why are you bringing your daughter to buy clothes?” look and I proceeded to ignore her.

About three minutes in I heard my Drama Princess shouting that she was lost in her turtleneck and needed some help.
I looked at the gatekeeper and began to ask if I could go help my daughter when she said, “No men are allowed in the women’s dressing rooms.”

“OK,” I replied. Can you go help her?”

“You should have her mother take her to buy clothes,” the woman said with a straight face.
Meanwhile my daughter was ignoring my request to stop trying to find a way out of the sweater and just wait for help to come. I know this because she shouted; “Now I’m more stuck than I was stuck before.”

Lovely.

As politely as I could I asked the woman to call a store manager. When he finally came out he was even worse then the woman.
“It’s not appropriate for you to take her clothes shopping,” said the guy who was barely old enough to drink legally. “Her mother should be doing it.”
That was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. Let the rant begin.

“First off,” I said in a voice that was loud enough that the people over in electronics probably heard me.

“Her mother isn’t around. I have full custody of my daughter and I take care of her.”
I should probably tell you that I was easily five inches taller than the Assistant Manager and I was playing Handball a couple of times a week. Also I was playing the intimidation card.

“Don’t you ever,” I said while glaring into his eyes. “And I mean never tell a dad he can’t take his daughter shopping. Who the hell are you to tell me how to raise my daughter?”
At this point a female customer came over and asked me if she could go help Her Majesty navigate her way out of a turtleneck.

I happily accepted her offer and moments later my daughter appeared. As soon as she did the manager grew a pair.

“I’m going to ask you both to leave the store,” he said. “And ask that you don’t come back. You should be happy I don’t call the police.”

At that point I got livid and whipped out my cell phone.

“You want me to call them for you?” I asked. “Because I smell a cop giving you a verbal beating for being a dumbass. Or maybe I should call your district manager and tell them that you’re kicking a guy out of your store for taking his daughter clothes shopping.”

The guy was visibly shaken by my reaction. He assumed his nametag gave him ultimate authority but he was wrong.

“Listen up slick,” I quietly said as I stuck out my hand.

“This is my business card. It has my name, phone number and e-mail. Go ahead and give it to the police or whoever you want. I would love to talk with someone about this.”

I then took my daughter’s hand and proceeded to walk out of the store. Looking back at the manager and small crowd of employees I said, “And don’t worry about us coming back to this K-Mart or any other.”

That was the most colorful encounter but it’s not the only one. When I take my daughter to places like Forever 21 I get the “You’re a pervert and are standing outside the dressing rooms to get a peek,” glance.

I’m not kidding. Women waiting for their daughters or friends eye me and on my daughter’s birthday an employee of Forever 21 asked her manager to come find out why I was standing there.

“My daughter is in the dressing room,” I explained. “Is that a problem? Because if it is we can easily go to other stores in the mall.”

The manager apologized and one mom standing around there gave me a fist bump.

The reason I’m telling you these real-life stories is to illustrate how dads are perceived. I sometimes think that people don’t know fiction from non-fiction.

Is Phil Dunphy, the bumbling dad from Modern Family, an idiot?
Yep.

Phil Dunphy is a character. He’s fictional and he’s there to entertain us. I laugh my ass off at the dumb stuff he does but I know that (most) dads aren’t anything like that.

Disney Channel and Nickelodeon are famous for portraying dads as clueless, whipped and as someone who brings home bacon but has no say in anything else.
Kids see this night after night and I truly believe it sends a message that dads are a step below a mom.

What can we do to convince society that dads aren’t bumbling, whipped idiots?
My best advice is to make people aware of communities such as Good Men Project and to encourage others to read the stories from literally hundreds of men who are sharing their tales of being good dads and good men.

Maybe Oscar Mayer executives, Forever 21 managers and K-Mart assistant managers should be required to do an hour of Good Men Project reading every day.

That would definitely show that most dads don’t build tree houses that fall down immediately after building it. It would also show that men aren’t whipped, perverts or second-class parents.

With the exception of my mom and dad when I was a kid I don’t think I’ve ever asked, “Can I” continue to do whatever I was doing.

“Do you mind if I stay out a bit longer or do you need me to come home for something?” is how you ask.

It shows that you have respect for the other person’s feelings and needs while expressing your desire to keep eating fried chicken and waffles with your friends at 10:30 PM.

If you say, “Can I?” You might as well pay your part of the check because you’re going home.

I know this rant went off on several tangents and it might seem a little disjointed but there is a point to all this.

As men and as dads we need to clean up our reputation and change the stereotype. We need to show people that we can take care of our kids and that we can think for ourselves.

Yeah we need our spouse/partner/significant other to keep us from doing dumb stuff (like Facebook friending the babysitter or quitting your job to start a blog) but to portray us as unable to make decisions without the blessing of mom and to assume that the man is always the noncustodial parent is wrong.

I love this quote from Thomas J. Watson, the CEO of IBM from 1914-1956.
"But remember this: A man flattened by an opponent can get up again. A man flattened by conformity stays down for good."

Don’t let the stereotypes of dads and men keep you down. Let people know there are plenty of good dads in their city and their neighborhood. Show the doubters and non-believers that good men are everywhere, they just have to open their eyes and look around.

A Big Miss for Clean Teeth

Why is it that my youngest daughter makes so much of a mess when she starts the several times daily ritual of brushing her teeth? She makes such a huge mess and leaves so much caked on tooth paste all over the sink that I really thought that I was going to have to rent some sort of industrial equipment to blast some of that stuff off. I have tried and tried to instruct her on the way to get this done in a more easy and neat manner.

I usually tell Jasmine to go in there and get the tooth brush ready so that she can brush, then potty, and then get into bed. I usually wander into her bathroom about two minutes later to finish her up and check to make sure she did a good job.

This is when I find that that spit has been dribbled all down the side of the sink, tooth paste all smashed into the carpet, and some spittle up and on the toilet since someone thought it would be “so cool” to spit into the toilet since the sink was a little crowded. I really don’t know what to do. Some company needs to come out with some sort of conveyor system that starts from the very beginning of getting the tooth brushes ready and then being the system that facilitates the entire process without making a mess. Knowing my daughter is one of them would go into the process standing on their head and that would throw the whole thing off. I think that she will eventually grow out of it though and maybe I should save for her college instead of tooth brushing machinery. Then again I could take some of that money and invest in a couple of tooth paste companies since most of ours is on the sink instead of her teeth.

I’m a single dad, not a child molester

Let’s play a game.
Let’s say there’s a little girl we’ll call Brittany. Now Brittany is in the secound grade at a school she’s been attending since kindergarten. She’s outgoing and cute, dresses odd at times, can be very funny, is a tad bookwormish, and is most definitively a Taylor Swift fan.

Brittany meets and becomes fast friends with another little girl in her class named Mallory. They both like the TV show Good Luck Charlie and Tap Pet Shop on their iTouches, not to mention Mallory loves Taylor Swift to. They quickly become inseparable pals eating lunch together every day, playing during recess, and drawing pictures of one another under rainbow and butterfly filled skies.
One afternoon Mallory comes running home from school asking her mom and dad if she can have a sleepover at Brittany’s house this weekend. It seems Brittany recently got Just Dance 3 for the Wii and they plan on having a dance party late into the night.

The usual next step entails Brittany and Mallory’s mom talking on the phone or maybe meeting up for a quick ‘get-to-know’ and it’s party on. But if that was all it wouldn’t be much of a post. Well it isn’t all because there’s one small detail I left out. In this story you’re Mallory’s mom or dad and the sleepover she wants with Brittany, well, it’s going to be at my home – her unmarried, and single father.

If the quality of a parent is based on aptitude and performance I’ll be in the Mommy and Daddy Hall of Fame.

Now let me ask you this question. What is the very first thought going through your mind after realizing the place where your daughter is going to spend the night is a single dad’s house?
You don’t have to answer that because I already know. It’s something like this…
Not a chance in hell!
And here’s a secret, it would probably be the same for me.

Next month marks seven years since her mom and I broke up. That’s seven years of co-parenting on my own. That’s 2,555 days full of diaper changes, potty training episodes, nursing nosebleeds, performing tuck-ins, and reciting bedtime stories. I’ve doctored diaper rashes, attended parent/teacher conferences, and sat through a dozen God-awful elementary school musicals. I’ve read to classrooms, been a teacher’s helper, and ate $2.30 school lunches with a table of seven year olds. There are only two feats I’ve yet to check-off from the parenting manual – breast feeding and giving birth and that’s only because I don’t come with the necessary accessories.
If you’re going to judge a parent based upon his or her aptitude and performance, go ahead and induct me into the Mommy and Daddy Hall of Fame, right now.
So why is it when Mallory asked if she could have a sleepover at my house you looked at your spouse and thought “how are we going to get out of this?”

It’s one of the harshest realities I’ve ever faced as an man, and a father – since I don’t live with a woman I’m less of a parent. In the court of public opinion I’m a dad who’s guilty until proven innocent and even if I am acquitted I still need an ankle bracelet and must check in with my parole officer once a month. Because I failed to be married I’m no less inclined to fail as a parent.

Why, and this question is directed at me as much as anyone else, do I feel way more uneasy if my kids are in a home where the responsible parent isn’t a woman? Why do I believe it isn’t a good idea since there isn’t going to be a mom around and therefore I make up some lame lie excuse about why my kid can’t spend the night with her friend? Why do feel I need to ask around, run a complete background check, and ask for blood and urine samples because the dad isn’t married? And why would I be more relaxed if it were at moms?

The fact isn’t lost on me that my daughter has tons of sleepovers but none of them are at my home. In the last 2 years she has only had one friend spend the night and it was a neighbor who lived 200 yards away and her parents had me on speed dial. Sure, my daughter wants friends over but it never seems to materialize, as if by magic the other kids are always busy…until the next weekend she’s at her moms.

Why are single dads looked upon more critically than any another parent? While single moms are virtually sanctified to the level of Mother Theresa for their seemingly endless supply of self-sacrifice; single dads are expected to be self-centered, negligent, and unreliable – especially as a parent. It’s undeniable that a single father is first and foremost regarded as single. Because I’m not with a woman why is it assumed I must have the parenting skills of a green sea turtle? That I will invariably let my and your kids watch too much television, drink gallons of soda, and run with knives.

But let’s be completely honest. The actual reason there’s a problem, whether you want to admit it or not, is the idea of your daughter or son staying at my house fills your mind with dreadful images better left unsaid.

I could tell you that I, like most dads, just want the best for my kids and for them to have happy and joyful childhoods. I could also tell you that as a single dad I guarantee I work harder towards that than any married dad ever will. I could mention it offends me that you think your child would be any less safe and secure with me just because a woman isn’t under my roof. And I could bring up that if you actually got to know me you’d quickly realize I, and many other single dads like me, aren’t anything like the deadbeats you hear about in the media.
But chances are it wouldn’t do any good, so instead I’ll just leave you with this remainder

I’m a single dad not a child molester.

Spring Break Memories

Santa Cruz, Half Moon Bay, Lake Tahoe, and Yosemite…

Today’s guest bartender for Happy Hour is Elle, a Twitter friend/part-time blogger from Northern California. [Raiders, baby!] Drinks are free for happy Hour so be sure to tip your bartender with a comment or two. There are appetizers in the corner and the bathroom is the second door on the left.


When Benjamin asked if I would do a guest post, I was super flattered. I am not a “blogger” by any stretch of the imagination ( I have a blog that rarely gets updated these days) however I was more than glad to join in. When he asked me to write about Spring Break, my first thought was “What’s that?!?!”
Of course, I know what Spring Break is—see that picture? That’s me on Spring Break in Hawaii many, many years ago. This was me before I had my daughter, before I truly understood what “responsibilities” were.
(Note to self: blowing your entire savings on a last minute trip did NOT fall under the responsible category)


                                                             
I just have not had a Spring Break, or any type of break in a very long time. Spring Break used to be a bunch of sunny days at the beach and long nights filled with friends, laughter and the kind of freedom only experienced by people with absolutely no responsibilities or worries. There was no homework, no chores, nothing to stop me from living it up.
Living in Northern California afforded me the opportunity to have many wonderful spring breaks. Santa Cruz, Half Moon Bay, Lake Tahoe, and Yosemite—all those places hold many great memories for me. Those were the days before I became a Mom.–the days when I only had myself to worry about and even then I wasn’t all that great at that!
There are honestly not too many things I miss about my pre-mommy days. Spring Break however is definitely one of them. I miss the freedom to come and go, to stay out late and sleep in, to do anything I wanted to do without any worries. It’s wishful thinking, I know.
Once I became a mom, my life became everything but worry free or relaxing! My daughter turned my life upside down and inside out. Throw in a divorce a few years later and you have a recipe for insanity that I am sure many of you are familiar with.
My Spring Breaks now consist of coordinating an insane schedule of daycare, play dates and enough fun activities to make up for the fact that NO, we are not going to Cabo San Lucas like her other friends and their families.
Lucky for me, I have a great little sports fan as a daughter so the last Spring Breaks have consisted of opening season baseball games and play off hockey games as well as random trips to the beach. They are a far cry from my carefree days but they are my reality now and as much as I miss those days (and I really do!), my new Spring Breaks give me even better memories like the one below. Hugs like that make life worth living.

An amazing voice

Christina’s rack isn’t the focus of this post. Seriously.



Dateline: Monday night
Around 9:30 I began channel surfing and came across The Voice. I’ve never seen the show but I heard some dude singing and he sounded good. Damn good actually. With one of my favorite train wrecks (The Bachelor) cutting in and out thanks to my POS antenna, I decided to listen to the guy sing.
Apparently they were in some sort of battle round and Christina Aguilera paired a dude named Jesse Campbell against a guy named Anthony Evans. Both have rad voices but I was most intrigued by the story of Jesse. Jesse is a dad who was once homeless with his daughter after his wife left them.
Dude was as down and out as you can be but he never gave up. He kept singing and praying and finding ways to make life better for his child and for himself. I respect the hell out of that. I really do. If he were here now I would give him a man hug and a fist bump, though probably not in that order.
This guy has a set of pipes that seriously blew me away. Last night they showed Jesse’s blind audition and just moments into his song all four judges buzzed in, which I believe is a good thing. I’m not really sure how the whole competition goes but I think if more than one judge wants you, the choice is up to the singer.
If I’m right, that explains the massive cleavage Christina shows on every commercial for the show. And on last night’s episode. I’m a huge fan of cleavage (and the cleavage doesn’t have to be huge to be nice) but I think that the amount of exposed bosom the former Mouseketeer was showing could be deemed public nudity in several countries around the world. To be clear, I would never visit any of those countries.
Christina’s rack isn’t the focus of this post. Seriously. This is about a dad who never gave up and who though sleeping in a car with his daughter, made something of himself. Whenever I get that “feeling shitty about my lot in life” attitude I’m going to try and remember Jesse. He’s an inspiration to me and to anyone who feels that they can’t find a way out of the rut they’re stuck in.
Believe it or not, I don’t have a lot to say about this. That’s probably because the story of Jesse is pretty clear. It doesn’t matter what life throws at you, if you keep trying, eventually opportunity will find its way to your door and God help you if you don’t answer it!
 One final thought. My daughter Breana forced me to watch American Idol last week and both Jesse and Anthony were better than any of the dudes remaining on Idol. WAY better.
I’m not sure what happens on The Voice from here because as I said at the beginning, I’ve never watched the show before. I haven’t heard any of the other contestants sing but I’m certainly pulling for Jesse, the pastor’s kid from the Windy City. Want to know who won? Jesse did, but no way would I have wanted to be Christina last night. This contest was too close to call. Check out the head-to-head battle between Jesse and Anthony.

                             

        *Jesse is wearing a white shirt and doesn’t have glasses.

The baby at the gas station

You are truly rad. Your friend? Not so much.

UPDATE: It’s now being reported that the mother GAVE the baby to the woman at the gas station and that the baby was never actually dumped in a bag. Let’s go ahead and add “What kind of crazy bitch fakes this story?” to the mix.

I’m gonna start with the obvious and ask, what kind of a lowlife douche abandons a baby at a damn gas station? How much crack do you have to be smoking to think that’s a good idea? I mean, why not drop the kid off at a safe place on your way to the methadone clinic?
In case you haven’t heard, some soulless person abandoned a baby at a gas station in Long Beach Monday night. Picture this. You head over to the convenience store in a sketchy part of town to buy your Lotto ticket. [You don't win if you don't play.] Suddenly you see a bag against the wall and since you’re nosy, you look inside. There’s another bag inside the first bag so you open that as well. Imagine your surprise at finding a baby with the umbilical cord still attached.
I love the fact that in the video below, the woman rats her friend out by saying the friend told her to “just leave it” and the reporter doesn’t even flinch. If I was the reporter I’m pretty sure I would have bitch slapped the friend for being straight up mean.
All kidding aside, who the hell does something like this? I mean, if you don’t want the baby take it to a church or hospital. Just because you’re some kinda disturbed doesn’t mean your child has to die. I seriously cannot envision a single scenario that would end with me dumping my baby at a gas station. I can’t envision dumping her at all, but if I had to do it I would take her to a hospital or a fire station.
I don’t know what to say other than, I don’t get it. I really don’t. My Drama Queen is everything to me. She’s partially the reason I’m greying but she’s the reason I get out of bed every morning. If you think I’m mean with that greying comment, chill. You know every parent goes bald or gets grey at the amusement of their children.
When she’s in school I worry that she’s not paying attention in class or that she didn’t study hard enough for a test. When she’s at tennis I wonder if she’s paying attention to the coach so that she can reach her goal of going from frosh/soph to JV next fall. When she’s at home I worry that she may be trying to read her Kindle instead of her science notes. We worry because we care and we care because we’re parents. And because we want our children to have good jobs so they don’t have to put is in a home someday.
I hope they find the loser who did this and I hope that person never gets out. I won’t go so far as to say they should be shanked in the yard, but I could see it happening. The baby is alive and thankfully in stable condition at a local hospital. I pray that baby gets a home with people who love it. I’m totally at a loss for words right now, so I’ll keep it short and sweet. Thank you to the lady who took the baby home and called 911. You are truly rad. Your friend? Not so much.


Watch local news video

P.S. I’m in a slightly classier neighborhood. Slightly.

Diversity

I am a diverse Motherf*****

I was tweeting the other day with my friend Tara about dating and I (for some reason) said that I was a “diverse motherfucker”. Tara replied back immediately and said that I should “use the term the ‘Renaissance Man’ on your online profile. You never know who/what you’ll attract with ‘diverse motherfucker’.”
I appreciated her concern and this got me thinking about myself. I am diverse. I’m also hip, cool, rad, eclectic, horny and occasionally even sane. I’m just me. Love me for who I am or kiss my ass. It’s your call. If you’re hot, female and single I would love it if you were to kiss my ass, but that’s a whole different blog post for a different time.
Why do I consider myself diverse? I have all kinds of interests and various personalities that come out at different (and occasionally inappropriate) times. I am a dude, but still can be a gentleman. I can throw down shots with the boys on a Saturday night as we talk about scoring with chicks (or our lack of game) and I know how to handle myself in church.
I like vanilla AND chocolate. Strawberry too. There’s not much better at 2 AM than a bowl of old school Cap’n. Crunch Peanut Butter cereal. A hot fudge sundae is off the hook, but hot fudge sundae Pop-Tarts are weak. Have I ever tried one? Shit no! How do I know hot fudge sundae Pop-Tarts are weak? I just do. There are some things that a guy just knows.
I like women (and occasionally women like me) and I am in no way gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that) and I am not at all ashamed to admit that I occasionally enjoy spending a quiet evening alone on the couch sucking down (down. Not off.) Jack Daniels, Jose Cuervo or Ron Bacardi.
I dig all kinds of music. Looking at my Top 25 Most Played list on my iPod I have Foo Fighters, Linkin Park, Sublime, No Doubt, Muse, Dropkick Murphys, Michael Buble, Daughtry, Black Eyed peas, Dee-Lite, Reel Big Fish, Brian Setzer Orchestra, Dean Martin and Disturbed. What I listen to depends on my mood.
I’m not big on rap, but I’ll kick on some Snoop from time to time. Why Snoop? That’s easy cuz—me & Snoop are just a couple of gangstas. I’m not a big fan of country music, but if you threw me on a tour bus with Carrie Underwood, Faith Hill, Shania Twain (vintage Shania, not recent Shania) or Miranda Lambert, I would do my best to try and seal the deal.
I love surfing and skiing. Back in the day we used to go surfing at the Huntington Beach cliffs in the morning, come home, shower and head up to Big Bear for some night skiing. Oh to be young again and think I was cool…
The last almost 20 years I’ve been a dad first and foremost. I’m a way cool dad, but I know how to drop the hammer when I need to, I know how to drop the hammer when I’m dating, but once again, that is a different blog post for a different day.
As we come to a close boys and girls I would like to leave you with another tweet from Tara. “You do deserve a hottie, and one who will love and embrace you for the incorrigible middle-aged man you are.” What does this have to do with the rest of the blog post? Nothing really. I just like reading it and am thinking about making it my personal mantra. Your thoughts???

Other priorities

What do you have?
Here’s a great story for you. My ex, Baby Mama, is behind on paying child support to me. When we first split she was hurting financially so I didn’t pursue the issue. I was trying to be a nice guy. Almost nine years later she decided to step up to the plate and pay what I deemed an acceptable amount per month. That lasted only a few months.                                   

The bottom line is she’s past due on what she owes and I’ve been leaving messages for her with no response. On Tuesday I finally got a call back. Strangely enough it came right after the voice mail I left her saying that if she didn’t return the call that evening I would call her work tomorrow (she works outside of the office) and leave a message saying we need to talk about her unpaid child support. If you’re gonna tell me that I legally can’t leave messages like that, save it. I’m not interested in hearing it.
Once Baby Mama returned my call I was told she has “other priorities” and that she wasn’t going to explain what those priorities are. “Uh,” I stammered. “OK.” There was a moment of silence and I said I had a question. “Do you realize that your daughter is your first priority?” Baby Mama told me she understood but that she still had other priorities.
This whole situation totally baffles me. She went almost nine years without paying child support and went periods of months and years with no contact whatsoever. I can’t describe what I’m feeling other than to say it’s a combo of anger and sadness. I mean, how does a person seemingly care so little about the child they carried for nine months?
You want to talk about priorities? How’s this for a priority. Near the end of our last strike in 2003 I wasn’t working and was waiting to get approved for food stamps On several occasions I would go two or three days at a time without eating so I could make sure my daughter had plenty of food. Apparently every parent doesn’t have that kind of commitment to their child. I find that sad.
I was talking with my daughter this evening and I mentioned that I couldn’t afford to pay for something I said I would. She asked why and I told her I simply didn’t have the money right now. “What about the money from my mom?” She asked.
After taking a deep breath, I told my daughter that her mom was behind in paying me and that she wasn’t sure when we would be giving me more. I hated telling her that, but she’s old enough to know the truth. The first thing she asked was, “Is my mom mad at me?” That question was like a knife in my heart. When she was younger I made up reasons to explain why her mom wasn’t around and that nearly killed me. I told my daughter that I was very sure her mom wasn’t mad but she was welcome to call and ask.
I’m choosing my words very carefully in this post because I don’t want to come off as overly bitter or opinionated. If I seem that way, sorry. My goal is to stay factual and don’t say something I’ll later regret. You have no idea how hard that is for me at this moment. I mean the “say something I’ll later regret” part. Being factual is easy.
“Benjamin,” you ask. “Is there a point to all this or are you simply venting?” Yes there is a point and its a simple one. I don’t have a priority. I have a daughter. What do you have?

Cruising on a Saturday

My teenage Drama Queen’s first semester of high school was officially over Thursday and the students had a day off on Friday. With that in mind, I arranged to meet my friend Steve at his son’s apartment a block from the beach in Seal Beach for a bike ride.
As I read what I just wrote I realize that sounds vaguely homosexual and I want to assure you he’s not that kind of friend. I have gay friends. Steve’s not one of them. As usual, I digress. Allow me to begin again.

Saturday morning my daughter and I loaded our beach cruisers onto the back of my car and headed to Seal Beach to meet my friend Steve and ride around the beach. To be clear, I did all the loading. She just stood there.
It takes 1 hour 15 minutes to get from home to downtown Seal and as soon as I started the car DQ began yammering. “Did you know on Monday we start reading the Odyssey in English?” She asked. “Uh,” I replied. “Yeah. Who told you that you were starting it and who suggested you get a copy for your Kindle so you can begin reading?” She had no answer to the question which was odd considering we had the Odyssey conversation less than 18 hours prior.
After reminding her it was I who suggested she get the book, my daughter began to ask detailed questions about Homer and his Odyssey. I explained that I hadn’t read the book in years but My Muse loves the book so she should point any questions that direction. She then started asking questions about Greek gods and I once again explained that she should discuss this with My Muse because the only thing that I know about Greek gods is that Aphrodite is supposed to be the hot one.
I’m pretty sure you can see where this is heading, right? For the next seven minutes I swear to God she asked me thirty different questions about the book and the gods and I only had two responses for her. It was either, “I don’t remember anything about Greek gods. Ask My Muse.” Or, “I don’t remember the book. Ask My Muse,” Actually, the last Greek god one started with, “Seriously?” And the last book one began, “Holy crap!
We were three blocks from our destination when she finally stopped yammering and I was enjoying the quiet. As we approached a stop sign on Main St. I noted that we were the fourth car back. And that we had a cop in front of us. Suddenly, dude throws on his lights and barrels around the two stopped cars and through the intersection.
“Damn,” I said to my daughter. “Somebody must have really messed up.” At the same moment I saw the car screech into a parking spot directly in front of Nick’s Deli. The only parking spot within a half block of Nick’s, I might add. Then they casually walked in to the deli, presumably to pick up breakfast burritos. Is the siren used for dinner only or do they have to be traveling further than 500 feet before they use it?
I would say I’m surprised the cops did it, but My cousin grew up in Seal Beach and frankly it would take a lot to surprise me with the Seal Beach Police. This is the same force that in the spring of 1984 sent a police dog after three of his friends who were toilet papering my uncle's house.
They were hiding in the bushes three houses down and the officer knew where they were, but this lunatic had just gotten the dog and wanted to try him out. After they arrested his friends and took them to the police station (seriously) the cop pulled my cousin’s car in front of a fire hydrant and gave him a ticket. Nice, huh? If I remember the story right, that officer was later dismissed from the force for something crappy. What a shock.
Once we got to Shawn’s (Steve’s son), we unloaded the bikes and headed down Ocean towards First. We passed beach front house after beach front house and as I glanced at the ocean and blue sky between the houses, I vowed that I would try to get out and do this a couple times a week. I also vowed that I would do it when DQ was in school so that I could keep my sanity.
Why do I bring up my sanity? My daughter isn’t “uncoordinated” but it’s safe to say she could use a little more. She’s never had much desire to ride a bike until this past summer and she’s not overly steady on it.
My brother got her a cruiser for her birthday in April and she loves it. She and I have been out together a few times, but she has this tendency to not ride straight and it scares the crap out of me. Just before we ended the ride this morning I pulled to the side because I’d gotten slightly ahead of my daughter. I turned to look just in time to see my angel (only riding about 2 MPH) ride straight into the back of a parked Infiniti. Not the corner of the car but dead center of the back end.
In her defense, it was black and one could make the argument it was hard to see. Who am I kidding? There’s no defense for hitting a parked car when you have a whole street to ride on. I apologize for even trying to spin that in a positive manner.
After an hour of cruising through the streets of downtown Seal Beach we stopped for a donut and coffee before biking to the pier to take a couple of pictures. For some reason I don’t have a lot of pictures of the two of us together and I have none of the slimmed down me (15 pounds in three months) and my daughter.
There’s a grassy area next to the pier and we stopped there to take a couple shots. Drama Queen got off her bike and I turned towards the beach to look for a good spot to stand. Suddenly I heard a smack and quickly spun around. Seeing my daughter with her hands cupped closed, I ask what happened.
“I caught a butterfly,” she proudly said. “No,” I thought. “You killed a butterfly.” As you can see from the picture, the butterfly was unharmed and stayed in her open hand for almost 30 seconds.

I totally needed this bike ride and I’m going to make it a priority to get out on a regular basis. I think I’ll hit Bolsa Chica or the Huntington Cliffs next weekend so I can ride with a prime view of the ocean and chill while I exercise. I think I’ll even put together a Beach Cruisin playlist for my iPhone. That way I can stick in my earbuds and listen to some tuneage as I ride.
I’m thinking Sublime, Katrina and the Waves, Blink 182, Oingo Boingo, The Smiths, Harvey Danger, Red Hot Chili Peppers and anything else that was played on KROQ since 1980. Any suggestions?

A teenage life lesson

I need to go find a way to accomplish that. Somehow.

Yes. That’s me in 1983. I’m not sure where to start mocking myself. Is it the hair? The glasses? Maybe the fact that I was 5 ft 5" 160 pounds and chubby? Just don’t mock the suit and tie. If you do, we’re gonna have a situation.




Tomorrow my daughter is supposed to play her violin at Disneyland. But she’s not. Let me explain….
Drama Queen’s high school orchestra was invited to play at Disneyland and when I found out about this a couple months ago, I was very excited. So was she. But not anymore. Why? Daddy pulled the plug on the Happiest Place on Earth. Why did I pull the plug? School.
Before Christmas break I sat down with my daughter (a senior) and her mom to discuss her grades. She’s doing really well in most subjects, but is having some difficulty in English and Biology. Both classes are easy fixes and it’s really just a matter of putting in the right amount of effort, but she apparently didn’t want to go bad bad enough. Because of that, last night I told her I was pulling her from the all day trip to Disneyland.
I’m bummed that I had to do it, but I don’t have second thoughts. I know I did the right thing. She needs to learn that everything has a price. Of sorts. Anything good in life costs something and it’s not always about dollars and cents. The stuff that really matters is paid for with something far more precious than the almighty buck. It’s paid for with effort, commitment and desire.
I see a lot of my high school self in my daughter and quite frankly it scares the crap out of me. I didn’t like high school much because I felt like I never fit in. I was the preppy dude rockin the argyle like a mo-fo, but I didn’t fit in. I’m kinda pimp now, but I wasn’t like that in the 80′s. Really.
I felt socially awkward in high school and was made fun of. A lot. I know the guys who made fun of me are complete tools, but somehow that didn’t help much at the time. I had no self esteem and I was so sick of hearing the word “potential” that I do my best not to use it on my daughter.
My high school years were filled with getting blown off by people and listening to my classmates tell stories about the awesome parties they went to and the fun things they did as a group. I rarely dated because I was sure the girls would say no. I never experienced a swirly or got stuffed in a trash can, so I have that going for me. Through the magic of reconnecting with a lot of my former classmates I found out that had I only asked, a lot of the girls would have gone out with me. That’s info I needed 29 years ago. Oh well.
Don’t think I was a friendless loser, because that’s not the case. I mean, I felt like a huge loser, but I had some great friends. I don’t talk with them as often as I should, but I still consider them to be friends and I’m fairly sure they consider me one.
I want Drama Queen to enjoy her high school years and to have more fun than I did. I’m not saying I want her to be one of the ‘popular kids”, because I don’t. I’ve never pushed my daughter to be popular or the best at anything. All I ask her for is effort. That’s it. I just want her to be able to relax, enjoy these years, get good grades, and get better at tennis so she can get a scholarship and save me a few bucks.
I really took notice of Drama Queen’s stress last week and it started bringing back a ton of memories. Most of those memories sucked and I remembered the stress and worry I constantly felt in my teen years. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I’ve lived more than 30 of my 47 years carrying a ton of stress and that way of life is getting passed to Her Majesty. I don’t want that for her or for me.
I’ve been making a conscious effort to try and relax more. I
tend to
constantly worry about stuff I have no control over and I know it’s not healthy and that I should stop, but for some reason, I don’t. At night I can’t get my brain to slow down or shut off and it kills me to think that my daughter may be doing the same thing. I need to stop this not only for my health, but to make sure my daughter has a long, happy life.
I told Drama Queen that missing a full day at Disneyland so she could stay at school is a “Life Lesson” and she understood. I asked her how many people (relative to the entire population of the world) get to perform at Disneyland even once and she said, “Not many.” My daughter took it well and didn’t argue with me. She completely understands that the reason she’s not going is all on her and that I gave her every opportunity to go. For that I’m both happy and proud.
Now I’m faced with a dilemma. I’ve spent several years trying to deal with my stress and to find a way to relax and I haven’t been successful. Now I have to figure out how to take my daughter, whom I love a lot, and help guide her towards the path of a happy, stress free, worry free life. I don’t suppose Mapquest can get me there, can it? I didn’t think so.
I guess I’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way and figure it out for myself. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go come up with a plan to accomplish that. Somehow.

Pass it to the left…

No child should have to hear her parent say, “Yo, bring me my bong.”

Last night Drama Queen and I were in the car with my neighbor. We we’re heading towards home around 8:15 when the neighbor suddenly blurted, “Let’s stop at Papa John’s on the way home and get a couple of slices.”
I paused for a second and said, “Uh…OK. I guess if you want to.” There are several great pizza places around Redlands and Papa John’s isn’t one of them. Their pizza sucks. Maybe in another part of the country they would be pretty good, but not around Redlands. There are too many awesome pizza joints for me to waste my time on Papa John’s.
“OK,” she said. “Hey! There’s this place right up the street from here that I’ve been dying to try. Let’s stop there.” I asked if she meant Giovanni’s and she said yes. I’ve never tried it, but have heard good things. I was totally down with stopping there.
They were out of slices for the night, so we decided to order a small pizza and have them throw it in two separate boxes so we could eat at our respective places of residence. We sat down at a table to BS while we waited for the pizza. What I heard at that table absolutely blew my mind.
My neighbor teaches adult education (GED classes) in Fontana and, as you can imagine, she has some pretty interesting students. She told us of a conversation she had this afternoon with one of her students. I know I shouldn’t be shocked by this, but for some reason I kinda am.
This particular student came into the room and my neighbor said, “Hey…how you doing?” The reply is classic. “Better now. I just smoked a blunt in the parking lot.”
Yeah. She said she was doing OK because she just toked up a fattie in the school parking lot. Nice.
The two started conversing about her marijuana use and somehow it came up that not only does she smoke in front of her 11, 13 and 15 year old girls, but she also smokes WITH her 13 and 15 year olds.
Where do I start? How about we start with the 11-year-old. No child should have to hear her parent say, “Yo, bring me my bong. No. Not that one. Bring me the tall one. Yep. Thanks. Got a lighter?”
A lot of parents won’t buy cell phones for their kids until they’re 15, yet this mom rolls blunts with her 13-year-old. I sense a very different parenting style here. Very, very different.
What kind of a Sweet 16 party does a mom like this throw? Maybe at 16 the daughter gets a meth pipe. “Time to graduate, baby.” Mom probably goes so far as to introduce her daughter to Tommy, a local meth dealer who’s giving her the first hit for free. As a birthday gift.
What criteria does she use for determining when her children are ready for their first puff? Do their grades have to slip enough that mom feels they’re well on their way to being a full time slacker or is it strictly an age thing? I’m really not sure.
With a mom like this, there’s no telling how these girls will turn out. There’s a high probability that they will be all kinds of messed up. I hope not. Fingers crossed.
This might be a good time to mention that the students my neighbor teaches are all placed in her class by social services. These people are all receiving public assistance of some kind and since they don’t have a high school diploma, they attend school instead of job hunting.
That means the weed was paid for by the people of California. With our tax dollars. I helped buy that chick and her daughters weed. No one invited me to the party. I wouldn’t attend, but if I helped pay for it, an invite would be nice.
I’m totally shaking my head right now. I can’t believe this is a true story. But it is. Every time I wonder if I’m being a good parent, I hear stories like this that tell me I’m doing OK.



P.S. For the record, the pizza was pretty damn awesome.

A tale of two years

It’s finally 2012 and for that I’m glad. 2011 was a shitty year for me, but I have big hopes for 2012. Of course, a year ago I said I had big hopes for 2011 and we know how that turned out.
2011 saw my health deteriorate and lots of financial stress, but my teenage Drama Queen and I somehow made it through. I have great friends, both online and off, who have helped keep me sane and I want to make sure they all know how much I love them and appreciate them.
I’m most thankful to my Muse who is as great a chick as I’ve ever been involved with. I know at times I’ve been a dick and a pain in the ass to deal with, but she’s stood by every step of the way. I truly believe that when you find someone willing to put up with your shit that you should keep them around. Even though it’s a struggle living on separate coasts, we’re somehow finding a way to make it work and I’m optimistic that we can continue making it work for a long time.
Six years ago I had an idea for a book, but had zero self confidence in my fiction writing, so I put it aside. I started working on it a dozen different times over the next few years, but never got more than a couple thousand words in when I figured it was shitty and not worth continuing.
Finally in late 2010 I started feeling better about my ability to write fiction courtesy of the Red Dress Club (now Write on Edge). The encouragement I received there gave me the confidence I needed to seriously attack the book in 2011 and I’m happy to say that it’s still not finished. During 2011 I asked a few of my Twitter and blogging friends to look at some of the book to give me feedback. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but my confidence ebbed and flowed and I wanted some assurance that I was on the right track. Imagine my surprise in October when a friend pointed out that someone put up a WordPress blog called “Benjamin's Shitty Book”.
This person posted three chapters online and talked about what a dick I am for sending the chapters to them and they spent a lot of time mocking me. I have no idea what caused someone to do this. I really don’t. The only explaination I have is that either someone who said they wanted to look at it, didn’t really want to or I accidentally sent it to someone I didn’t ask to read it. Either way, the person can feel free to kiss my ass.
I think my biggest accomplishment in 2011 was somehow getting my daughter ready for Collage. She’s in a good school and doing well academically, which makes me very happy. She made the frosh soph tennis team and has great coaches who work with her and who think she has the ability to make Varsity next year.
Drama Queen has played violin since third grade, but the reality is that she’s a mediocre player. The orchestra at her school is very, very good and D.Q. asked if she could change to Drama at the end of the semester. I’m happy to announce that later this month, my daughter will officially be a drama queen. I’m not sure how that’s going to turn out, but I’m pretty sure it will make for some good blog posts.
I’m still struggling with my health, which has made me kind of a loner, but I’m appreciative to my long time friends for checking on me and keeping me involved. Steve, Crystal, Bone, Shawn, Steph, Victor, Viviana, Josh and Cat are some of the best people I know and I love them all.
I keep telling myself that 2012 will be good and I’m pretty sure that one of these days I will come to believe it. I know I haven’t blogged in more than a week and my posting frequency has been spotty at best, but the truth is that my brain needs a rest.
In the half hour I’ve sat here writing this, I’ve become mentally exhausted, so I’m going to end this here. Steve and Shawn are huge Oregon fans and invited me to watch the Rose Bowl with them, so I’m going to go rest for a bit before donning my Wisconsin shirt and hat. I’m hoping for a Wisconsin ass kicking so I can do the taunting. I hate being the one getting mocked, but sadly I’m kind of used to it.
Thanks for supporting me in 2011 and here’s to big things for all of us in 2012. Word to your mother.

Closer To The Edge

Can you imagine a time when the truth ran free?
The birth of a song, The death of a dream
Closer to the edge

Thirty Seconds to Mars



I was listening to Pandora last week and this song came on. I’ve heard it a bunch of times, but for some reason the beat caught my brain and I paid more attention to it. Later in the day I was on YouTube and decided to check out the Closer To The Edge  video. About 58 seconds in, I came to the conclusion that I liked this video despite the fact that one could argue the possibility that the “Thousand to one and a million to two” move is a sign of which team lead singer Jared Leto plays for. The white leather belted coat doesn’t help your case either. I’m not saying I believe it, but I can see how someone might.
I don’t remember the moment I tried to forget
I lost myself, is it better not said
Now I’m closer to the edge
The straight up truth is that I’d like to forget the last seven or eight years of my life. It was going well, and then it all went to shit. I’m not throwing blame around. I’m a grown-ass man and with a lot of hindsight in my past, and it’s my fault. Not that it matters who’s at fault. The point was that I’d like to forget the last seven or eight years of my life. Let’s just leave it at that.
Also, that edge I’m getting closer to better damn well be the top of the shit hole I’m trying to pull myself out of. If it’s not, I’m gonna be really  pissed and go off on some gnarly rant. Guaranteed. Stay tuned.
It was a thousand to one and a million to two
Time to go down in flames and I’m taking you
Closer to the edge
I find it ironic… I truly believe in my heart, the good shit is right around the corner, yet if you said that to me a week ago I would tell you that you’re smoking crack. I’ve learned a lot about myself as a writer, especially over the last year. I’m not sure how I got on this writing high, but hands off. This shit is mine. My point with this is that I’m going for it. I feel great about the way my life is heading and if I go down, I’m going down in flames. As in, pushing myself closer to the edge of a happy, successful rest of my life. You’re invited to come along for the ride, just be sure to wear your seat belt. If we do near the “going down in flames’ part, I’ll be sure to eject you all from your seats. You’re welcome.
Also, how can something be both 1000-1 AND a million-2? If it is possible, what’s the vig on that gotta be? Sounds like shady gambling to me. You’re better off staying away from that action.
No I’m not saying I’m sorry
One day maybe we’ll meet again
As funny as that may sound, the last year or so, I’ve really isolated myself from almost everyone and I hate it. I really do. I’m not entirely sure why I’ve done it and still do, but I think it has something to with the health limitations I’m presented with right now.
I’m not my normal self and I don’t want people I know to see me like this and I feel like if they do, they’ll feel like they don’t know how to react to me. I know that sounds totally ignorant considering they’re all great, loyal friends who I’ve known anywhere from 16-25 years. The reality is they’ve all seen me worse than this, but it was only for a night, or until I yakked it out of my system. This is different. My message to those friends is to get in touch with me and call me the same shitty names you always have.
If you actually watch the video (which I encourage you to do for its one two punch of normal looking guys from their The Kill video? OK. They weren’t all normal. One guy was getting fellated by a giant teddy bear, but it was only for like two seconds or something, so he’s probably still relatively normal.
I’m not at all sure why, but Jared has this Adam Ant thing going on Dude’s wearing war paint like Adam did in Goody Two Shoes and he has what I believe is a white weightlifting glove on one hand. Hate to break it to you J-Lo, but Michael Jackson barely pulled off that look and his glove had sequins.
I told Drama Queen that I wanted her to watch the video and she asked why. “Just shut up and do it,” I said. So she did. And she liked it. As I knew she would. My daughter wanted to know why I wanted her to watch it. “Two reasons,” I said. “First is that I thought it might inspire you to accomplish great works or something.”* She stared at me like I was wasting her valuable time and asked what the other thing was. Shaking my head, I sighed and explained that she needs to, “Get over this Rhianna, Lady GaGa and KIIS FM bulllshit” she’s been listening to.
I reminded my daughter that KROQ roqs the FM dial, plus she already likes Muse, Evanesence, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Veruca Salt, Garbage, Puddle of Mudd, No Doubt, Paramore, All-American Rejects, Brian Setzer Orchestra, Good Charlotte, Linkin Park (she LOVES Linkin Park) and now, Thirty Seconds to Mars. That seems like a good foundation for alternative. I’m trying to get her interested in Silversun Pickups, but no luck yet. I could tell you I’ll keep you posted about that, but the reality is that I wont. No point blowing sunshine, ya know?
I’ll end it like this. Watch the video and listen to the song, then honestly ask yourself this question. “If I were at this concert, would I be bouncing up and down during this song?” At least a little? Let me know your answer…

*“Or something” is the PG version of, “And shit.”
P.S. If you picture Jared Leto as a blond Faith-era George Michael with a pink mohawk, the video makes a lot more sense.

Entertainment and catchy music along with a positive message for the youth of today), you’ll see this is a new look for the band. What I want to know is what happened to the normal looking guys from their The Kill video? OK. They weren’t all normal. One guy was getting fellated by a giant teddy bear, but it was only for like two seconds or something, so he’s probably still relatively normal.
I’m not at all sure why, but Jared has this Adam Ant thing going on Dude’s wearing war paint like Adam did in Goody Two Shoes and he has what I believe is a white weightlifting glove on one hand. Hate to break it to you J-Lo, but Michael Jackson barely pulled off that look and his glove had sequins.

I’ll end it like this. Watch the video and listen to the song, then honestly ask yourself this question. “If I were at this concert, would I be bouncing up and down during this song?” At least a little? Let me know your answer…


*“Or something” is the PG version of, “And shit.”
P.S. If you picture Jared Leto as a blond Faith-era George Michael with a pink mohawk, the video makes a lot more sense.

The wrong side of 48

“Buttercup took the dirt nap.”

I'll be turning 48 in March, which means I’m now officially on the countdown to 50. I really don’t care about the number, because I believe it’s about how old you feel. Unfortunately I have days where I feel like I’m 90 and others where I feel 17 and that I’m old enough to know better, but the reality is that I know jack shit. The only problem is that I don’t know that I know jack shit. I think I know more than I really know. Ya know what I mean? Probably not. Moving on…


I’m not gonna blow sunshine up your ass (or anywhere else) and say that my life has been awesome, because it hasn’t. On the plus side, I’ve never been on Cops and I’ve never lived in a trailer park or in a state in which the Confederate Flag flies from every liquor store, bait shack and gun shop. So I’ve got that going for me.
My daughter (A.K.A. Drama Queen) has turned out much better than she should have and I’m constantly amazed by that. She has a mom who has been mostly non-existent in her life and is stuck with a douche bag for a dad. When Her Majesty was five, she had a rough six month period. Her “Papa” (ex's dad) died of colon cancer, her mom moved out and her hamster died.
The hamster was named Buttercup, not because it’s the type of name a five-year-old girl chooses. It’s not that easy with my daughter. “Why did you name her Buttercup?” I asked on the day we bought her. “Because,” she said with hands on her hips and an eye roll. “Buttercup is my favorite Power Puff Girl because she has a bad attitude.” That’s my angel. I vividly remember the day Buttercup left this world.
After I broke the news that her furry friend was taking what’s called, “The dirt nap”, D.Q. asked if we could bury Buttercup next to Papa. My  ex's dad was cremated and his ashes are buried in a family burial plot. There were some flowers in the plot and I said we could bury Buttercup with my ex's dad. “Buttercup is family,” my angel told me. An hour later I walked down the hall and I heard my daughter crying and talking.
Walking into her room, I noted that she wasn’t there, so I listened closer. It was coming from my bedroom and I crept down the hall as quietly as I could and peeked in the door. What I witnessed made me retreat to my den and cry. My daughter was sitting at the sliding glass door and had it cracked open just enough to get the dog’s nose in the door. “Lucy?” Drama Queen cried to the pet she received as a birthday gift seven months before. “Papa left me, mommy left me and now Buttercup left me. Please don’t leave me Lucy.” I cried like a baby at that one.
I’ve been thinking about my daughter a lot lately and I’m proud of the way she’s turned out. In her younger days I dated a couple of women who weren’t the nicest to her and I stayed in those relationships longer than I should have. It was never abusive, but wasn’t cool. Like any parent, I make mistakes, but I tend to keep revisiting mine and breaking them down in intricate detail. That drives me up the wall.

There’s a rad chick in my life who listens to me whine and then helps me chill da fuck out. I keep telling her she can do way better than me, but apparently she’s under the delusion that I’m the shiz. I keep telling her she’s wrong, but she won’t listen. “What the hell does she see?” I ask myself. I’ve got no clue, but I’ll hang around as long as she lets me.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my writing and my life as a writer. When I was in high school I was on the school paper staff, but had an adviser who was less than nurturing. She thought my writing wasn’t any good and I barely got in the paper. To be honest, that criticism knocked myself confidence as a writer down to zero. It was almost 20 years later that I had the balls to pursue writing again and when I did, it was pretty good.

I honestly believe that I’ve gotten better with age. I’m way cooler than I was in my teens-mid 30′s and even though I’m having a momentary self-esteem crisis, I kn0w I feel better about myself than I probably ever did. I’m also going to go out and fire up a New York steak, some Pacifico and red velvet cupcakes courtesy of my Muse. See. More cool shit I don’t deserve.


P.S. I put Butercup in foil and Ziploc bag before shoving her into the bottom of the freezer. That would preserve the body so we could bury the damn hamster the next afternoon. My daughter wanted to go back a few days later to pay her respects and I eventually gave in. We got there and the spot I buried the rodent had been dug up and my daughter asked what happened. “When hamsters go to heaven,” I said. “This is what happens. Buttercup went to be with Papa.” For some reason she actually bought it. Apparently the cemetery has cats. And I’m probably going to hell for telling my daughter that.
P.S.S. The day after this happened, the kindergarten teacher wanted to talk with me after school. Apparently she didn’t appreciate that my daughter shared with the class that, “Buttercup took the dirt nap.” I don’t know why not…

Drama Queen’s visit to the Scary Farm

The Halloween Haunt experience isn’t complete until someone goes to jail for being a dickwad.

If you’ve lived in So. Cal for any length of time, you know that October means Knott’s Berry Farm’s Halloween Haunt is in full swing. I’ve been going to this thing on and off since the 80′s when it was known as Knott’s Scary Farm. It’s pretty rad. They’ve got 13 mazes set up throughout the park and people dressed as monsters and zombies roaming around attempting to scare the shit out of you.
When she was 10, Drama Queen kept bugging for me to take her, but I wouldn’t. Not yet. The park recommends the event for those 13 and up. After they bone you for $20 to park your damn car about three quarters of a mile away, they make you empty your pockets of metal at the gate and wand you to make sure you’re not bringing any weapons in with you. I’m down with that, but the security dude doing our search made me take off my hat so he could feel under the band inside to make sure I wasn’t bringing any drugs or razor blades into the park.
I never thought about hiding anything under the band, but now I know if I ever have the need to carry a razor blade with me, that I can hide it in there without being detected You never know when you might need to cut someone, right?
We made our way into the park and I noticed that the crowd was a nice mix of white trash, high school punks and wanna-be gangsters along with a few normal folks and some creepy old people who didn’t fit in at all. This was gonna be a fun night.
Back in the day my friends and I would arrive a bit early and, “Tailgate” outside the car. After a (very strong) Jack and Coke in a 32 or 42 oz cup, I was ready to properly enjoy the evening. I felt it was inappropriate to tailgate with my daughter. Not that she’s never seen me drink Jack and Coke, but since she’s now in collage, I thought I shouldn’t show her how one gets easily hammered before entering a theme park. I do have my moments of good parenting. So I entered the park completely alcohol free and ready to have a fun night with my daughter. We decided to turn left inside the gates and start with the first maze we saw, then head towards the back of the park. It was getting dark as we made our way through Ghost Town. As we walked down the fog filled street, I heard the tell-tale sound of metal scraping on concrete and waited for what I knew was coming next. About three seconds later, a zombie slid right up to my daughter, popping back to his feet in front of her and yelled, “Aaaaaaahhhhhhhh.” I swear to God I thought she was going to wet herself right there. I was laughing as the zombie skulked away, looking for another person to freak out. “What the hell?” She yelled. “Why are you laughing?’ I tried to stop, and said, “Because he just scared the crap out of you. Duh.” She glared at me and said, “That’s not funny.”
I reminded her of our earlier conversation, where I warned her there are zombies with steel knee pads who will slide down the street, scaring you.” It was her fault for not being better prepared. We made the left at the wooden roller coaster Ghost Rider, ending up in Gypsy Camp and Lockdown–The Asylum.
We walked right in and about 10 inches inside the door, she grabbed my left arm and proceeded to tug. “What’s the problem?” I asked with a laugh. “You’re not scared, are you?” She said she wasn’t (she lied) but that she wanted to grab my arm. I said she could, but not to yank. I liked my arm right where it was.
We rounded the first corner, where a monster popped out in front of her. She yelled, and I looked at the guy and casually said, “Whassup playah?” Drama Queen said I was an idiot, so I attempted to unlock her grip from my arm. She wasn’t having any of it, and we continued through the maze. As the name indicates, this was supposed to be inside an insane asylum, so the people were acting especially loco.
We finished the maze with only minor bruising on my arm and immediately entered, Delerium. Once again, people popped out at her and once again, she attempted to yank my arm out of the socket. I have no clue what the theme of this one was supposed to be, but it freaked Drama Queen out and I thought it was cool.
There were a few more females in this maze, but I noticed the distinct lack of visible skin on the female zombies and monsters. This got me to thinking. I paid good money to come to this theme park and I should be able to see zombie cleavage. I’m not saying it’s a right, but I think for $36, a little boobie isn’t too much to ask for. Can I get an amen?
As we were eating dinner at home, Drama Queen mentioned that a couple of her friends went the previous weekend and said that one maze was all about John the Reaper. I somehow managed to not spit spaghetti and meatballs across the kitchen, and asked, “You mean, Jack the Ripper?” She didn’t skip a beat and said, “Yeah. Him.” Fast forward a couple of hours to when we entered, Terror of London.
As we approached the entrance, I asked a park employee if this was the maze with John The Reaper. I got a weird look from the dude and D.Q. told me I was an idiot. Oh. OK. She’s the one who dropped, “John The Reaper”, but I’m the idiot? I don’t think so.
She once again yanked on my arm and we went through the maze. About halfway through, I got sick of her assaulting me and told her that she had to do the next maze without grabbing on to me.
We made our way into the Doll Factory (a maze with mainly female characters) and I noted that the necklines were slightly lower, yet nowhere near slutty. I hid my disappointment and as we exited the maze, my daughter was actually laughing. We went through Dia De Los Muertos (in 3-D), then Fallout Shelter, Cornstalkers, End Games, and Virus Z without her grabbing onto me for support..
As we headed towards the back of the park, Drama Queen asked a security guy what the fastest way to Uncle Bobo’s Big Top Of The Bizarre, was. As she was doing this, a zombie walked past me. “Yo, Slick,” I asked. “How’s it going?” He replied. I informed him that it was going just fine and asked if he would mind scaring, “The redhead in the blue sweatshirt.” He said he would and quietly walked up behind her.
As she turned around, there was this 6′ 3″ zombie yelling, then dropping to his knees right in front of her face. The look she had was priceless and I’m sorry to say I didn’t think about videotaping the moment. I was laughing my ass off when she walked up and smacked me. “Are you laughing because that monster scared me?” She asked. “No,” I said as I snorted. “I’m laughing because I asked him to go scare you.”
As we headed towards the clown maze, I saw some douche in his 30′s getting handcuffed by the Buena Park police and I knew that my night was now complete. As a whole, the crowd was mellow and it was a great night, but let’s he honest; the Halloween Haunt experience isn’t complete until someone goes to jail for being a dickwad.
We finished the maze, then hit Slaughterhouse, before beginning the long journey back to the car. As we walked, my daughter noted that I didn’t need to keep asking the zombies in Slaughterhouse, if I could, “Get a couple racks of baby backs.”
“It’s not funny,” she said. “It’s stupid.” I reminded her that I bought the, “Damn tickets”, which gives me the right to say all the goofy shit I want. Goofy shit is what being a dad is all about.
She rolled her eyes and asked if I would take her to the Queen Mary for their Dark Harbor event. I like the Queen Mary one, because the mazes go through parts of the ship that are said to be haunted by actual ghosts and shit. I told her I would think about it, but that I wasn’t sure she was ready to get the ship scared out of her. The Queen Mary advertises, “A trio of She-Demons”, which sounds promising. I’ll be sure to let you know what I decide.

Why kids need disappointment

In his book “The Private Adam” Rabbi Shumley Boteach recounts the following story. A wealthy investment banker fell on hard times after a string of bad investment decisions. On top of losing almost everything he was unable to keep his three children in their elite private boarding school. Upon learning this the rabbi took it upon himself to seek out donors in the community to help cover the costs so the children could stay in their school. His grounds for the request, as he put it, was to save the children from “the shame and humiliation they would face if they were forced to leave their school and friends because their father could no longer afford the tuition”.

The fallout from our ongoing economic crisis continues to leave frustration, anger, and especially fear in its wake. It seems very few lots have been spared from the carnage including our very own government. Families who had grown accustomed to pulling money off the tree in their backyard now find themselves living in a reality nowhere near Kansas. The financial avalanche has led to chic neighborhoods becoming littered with foreclosures as the byproduct of biting off more than one can chew, six figure salaries traded in for unemployment checks, and everyone reminiscing on the ‘ole days asking if it will ever be so good again. Yet anyone who has lived long enough knows that part of the human experience includes a healthy dose of challenge and specifically disappointment. While each handles them differently we all know it’s an occupational hazard.

But when it comes to our kids and disappointment the idea takes on a whole new meaning. As parents we want to shield our children from negative consequences, especially if it was our choices that created them. But if we protect our children from all of life’s ups and downs is that good parenting or are we setting them up for even tougher lessons down the road? If we provide cover for all the arrows our child will surely face does she ever learn to manage them when we aren’t around?

To the Rabbi’s dismay his pleas fell on deaf ears and the children transferred to another school. It’s unknown what was said or how the children reacted, but had Rabbi Boteach been successful in his attempts what might have been the outcome? While their dignity may have stayed in tact how would their future expectations been affected? Would they simply assume someone will always step in to fix everything should it all come crashing down? And would there be any point of reference when making their own life choices?

No father wants his child to experience disappointment or pain. As parents we are hard-wired to protect our kids but trying to cushion them from all adversity creates an adult who doesn’t posses the mental or emotional fortitude to deal with any trials or tribulations. One has to look no further than the proverbial rich kid for an example. The Paris Hilton’s or Lindsay Lohan’s of the world are the quintessential snotty-nosed brats who were never told ‘no’ and their actions and life choices reflect as such.

"Life isn’t always fair and bad things do happen to good people."
I believe the strength of character gained by these children leaving their school far outweigh the shame and humiliation potentially avoided by staying. And the prospective benefactors knew as much and understood a basic life fact the rabbi failed to grasp – life isn’t always fair and bad things do happen to good people.

I want my kids to learn early on that life doesn’t always play fair and the good guy doesn’t always win. They must learn there are going to be times when they win but there will be just as many where they get the short end of the stick. And the best I can do when they do come is be there to support them and offer that most southern of truisms:

“If this is the worst thing that happens to you, you’re going to be fine!”

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPhone]

I blame Bieber

It’s Wednesday night and I’m sitting on the couch watching Criminal Minds when my adorable 19-year-old Drama Queen walks in the room and asks (right in the middle of the show), “Do hermaphrodites have chick dicks or do they have a mangina?” WTF???

“Uh…excuse me?” I replied. She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “I said, do hermaphrodites have chick dicks or do they have a mangina?”

I explained that I heard her the first time and tried my hardest to not laugh out loud. I need you all to understand that these are words she did NOT learn at home. I swear to God. I didn’t teach her those.

I think Lady Gaga has brought hermaphrodites back to the masses. In the 80′s we had the Jamie Lee Curtis craze and today it’s Lady Gaga. I’m not sure where we ever settled on Jamie Lee and her junk, but I can tell you that Lady Gaga is one weird dude.

I don’t imagine that there would be too many positives to carrying both sets of gear, but when someone tells you to, “Go fuck yourself,” you can say, “OK. Now or when I get home?”





I tried to continue watching the show, but the reality is that I started wondering what the real answer to her question is.

I’m not sure how you should properly ask a person if they are a dude or a chick? Do you ask, “Do you carry dual citizenship?” Or is it more appropriate to ask, “Do you have both an innie and an outie?”

Personally I think a direct approach is best, however I think you can’t just come right out and ask it. You need to compliment him,shim,her the person first. Something like, “You know, you have a very nice set of breasts…word on the street is that you’re packing both sausage and the bun. Am I right?”

If a hermaphrodite was a talented basketball player, would they play in the NBA or the WNBA? If they were a golfer, would they have to qualify for the PGA or the LPGA? If they played pro tennis are they more likely to be in a final against Rafael Nadal or Serena Williams? OK. Maybe Serena isn’t a good example. Have you seen the guns on, uh, her?

Kids ask the weirdest stuff sometimes, huh? I have no clue what brought this on, but I’m guessing Justin Bieber had something to do with it. Why blame Justin Bieber? I don’t know. Osama is dead, so it seemed like the right move.









P.S. The truth is that there is nothing funny about being a hermaphrodite. It truly has to be a tough way to go through life. I couldn’t imagine the ridicule and harassment one would get in high school and in the real world. I would not wish that one anyone. Seriously.



P.S.S. Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? Osama Bin Laden. Duh.