Chasing Veruca

I'm a little afraid of losing some readers on this one, but hear me out. I'm starting to believe that lots of kids today... are basically little assholes.

Not your children. I'm clearly not talking about yours. I find yours to be charming and startlingly intelligent.

I'm talking about those other rotten little bilge rats, like the ones I observed last week when I took Mini-Pirate to our local children's science museum. I'm talking about the two 10-year-olds I saw shoving a toddler around, and laughing when said toddler fell down and cried. I'm talking about the kid who tried to break an exhibit about sound waves just to see if he could. And the pack of whelps who literally laughed in an employee's face before ignoring his request that they NOT try to tip over the photo booth to test their strength. And, of course, the little girl who screamed murderous threats at her dad because he accidentally bought her the wrong popsicle from the adjoining snack shop.

It was a hands-on museum. Still. This was like scenes from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I kept waiting for kids to start disappearing one by one, each followed by an Oompa Loompa song and dance sequence explaining where wretched children go once they've crossed the line. But that part never happened.

Even more interesting: while I watched all those kids getting rampage-y, I also saw their parents hanging out in the background, watching idly, completely nonplussed, like they were just their children's Secret Service detail, whose job was merely to watch, occasionally scan the perimeter for lurking assassins, but otherwise let their kids rip the place apart.

Look. I'm not implying that my own kid is perfect. OH Believe me. Far from it. Sometimes, my daughter will act so snotty that I'll look at her in disbelief and think, Whose kid are you? How can you act that way and still sleep at night? Seriously, you feel NO guilt about your behavior?

But those moments don't rear up too often. Partially because I've always been so paranoid about my daughter discovering and embracing her inner Veruca Salt that I tend to come down on her really quickly at the first sign of bad behavior. Some might say a little too quickly.

Here's how I do it. Consider it The Pirate's five-point system of Shock and Awe Discipline:

1) Overreact Quickly. At the first smirk, wail, clenching fist or demonic eye gleam, go straight from Placid to Angry. Skip Concern, Mild Irritation, and Growing Annoyance. Those will just slow you down. Just head straight to the top of the emotional scale and set up camp.

2) Descend Like Hellfire. Swoop down on them like a satanic valkyrie. Forget warnings, reprimanding "tones," or any of that. And definitely don't give them that whole "I'm counting to three" crap. It just turns the entire confrontation into a High Noon situation where they can smell your desperation, especially when you start inserting fractions between 2 and 3.

3) Go Eyeball to Eyeball. Get right up in their face. Your bigger than them, right? Use that to your advantage! If you're not going to scare the shit out of your children, why have them in the first place? Emotionally scarring for them, fun for you!

4) Tears, Tears, Tears. If you don't make them cry within ten seconds, you've already failed. Last weekend I made my daughter cry at a pool party just by looking at her.

5) Embrace the Guilt. Afterwards, plan on several hours of guilt for the psychological damage you've undoubtedly just inflicted on your child. If guilt last longer than four hours, swoop child up in arms and offer to buy her ponies.

What, too much?

I'm not saying it's a perfect system. I'll learn how it all plays out in twenty years when I get a phone call from Mini-Pirate where she tells me that she and her therapist just had a breakthrough, and it turns out that all of her self-esteem issues are my fault.

But I'll go out on a limb and say that my kid probably isn't going to come up to me any time soon and demand that I buy her an Oompa Loompa NOW.

A Three-Hour Shower Should Do The Trick

Sights seen at Comic-Con this weekend:

One (1) fleet of battle-scarred Stormtroopers in line for the Men's room, lamenting over the absence of convenient zippers in their uniforms.

Seven (7) Batmen of varying styles ranging from vintage Adam West to post-modern Bale-esque. One of which carried his own cartoonish explosion-shaped sign that said "POW!" It was learned that members of the Bat family tend to travel together, likely for security reasons.


Eight (8) fathers toting crying toddlers through the main exhibit hall. Most of them were dragging their children on leashes. Only one father thought of the obvious solution: Dress up as Luke Skywalker circa Empire Strikes Back, dress your kid as Yoda and put him in a backpack.

Lou Ferrigno. Wandering around by the main doors. As always.

One (1) guy dressed as a giant pot leaf. We thought he was lobbying to legalize himself, but it turned out he just wanted to promote some web TV show.


Three (3) 40-something mothers wandering around moaning, "Edward.... Edward....I can't believe we missed Edward..."

Thirteen (13) Princess Leias, in varying forms of dress (white Star Wars wraparound sheath) and undress (Return of the Jedi gold bikini). Waited for two Leias to see each other and start wrestling, but sadly, didn't happen.


Five (5) members of the Justice League of America posing for photographs. When asked why they didn't have a Batman among their contingent, they all bowed their heads in a moment of silence as the Green Lantern murmured, "Fallen hero." Did something happen in comic world that I don't know about?

Erik Estrada. Sitting at a table waiting for someone, anyone, to approach him for an autograph.

Twelve (12) zombies.

Two (2) female ghostbuster recruits in newly designed, fashion-forward uniforms. Thank God Bill Murray never wore this.


One(1) person (gender undiscernable) in a green furry suit that was either Lime Chewbacca, or Walking Phlegm.

Actor (identity unknown), sitting at an authograph table, proud to have played Cylon #17 in the original Battlestar Galactica. Just ask him and he'll tell you all about it. Oh, the memories he must have.

Seven (7) Rorschachs. (Who's Rorschach, you ask? Don't even. Go back under your rock, you non-geek, and don't talk to me.)

One (1) creepy bastardization of two American pop culture icons.


Three (3) pirates, all of whom trying to impersonate famous wish-he-was buccaneer Johnny Depp.

One (1) woman in a silver Barbarella jumpsuit who we kept seeing throughout the day, oddly, who we had no choice but to name Boobs McGee.

Two (2) comics fans engaged in a passionate, near-violent argument, that seemed to be an ongoing repetition of the following :

"You're WRONG, Dude. The Barry Allen Flash was the one who disappeared into the Speed Zone!"
"You're on crack! The Wally Webb Flash disappeared. It was in issue #28! What's wrong with you??"

Fisticuffs followed. Or rather, a geek slapfest.

One (1) attendee who basked in the whole, glorious, geeksweaty mess of it all. Thanks, Comic-Con.

"I'll Take Insanely Obscure Klingon Trivia for 1000, Alex"

It's Comic-Con this weekend here in San Diego. Geek flags are flying high all over downtown as 35-year-old virgins who are really good at role playing games emerge from their basements and converge at our convention center to bliss out together. My wife works a few blocks away from the event, and has informed me that this year's nerd parade looks like it's going to be truly epic.

Out on the street, you can see a lot of pale, pale people in Goth Action Wear heading down to the Con. It's a great time to have lunch at an outdoor cafe in the Gaslamp, and watch them shuffle past. But that's nothing compared to being inside the conference itself -- seriously. Inside, it gets hardcore: you got your guys wearing authentic Middle Earth orc armor. You got your roaming gangs of Jedi knights hoping to stagefight with some unsuspecting 13-year-old dark lords. Zombies looking to swap a little geek spit with some hot vampirellas. Dudes strolling around the main floor in Stormtrooper uniforms so accurate in detail, even Obi Wan Lucas himself wouldn't be able to spot any flaws.

Oh, you geeks. HA ha ha ha ha ha ha. You so funny.

How do I know what one sees at Comic-Con? Because I go every freakin' year, that's why. That's RIGHT.

I've been going with the same friends for at least five years, and by now we've perfected our ritual. We arrive early to snag a good place in line and look for Lou Ferrigno just inside the main doors (where he always loiters, waiting for someone to ask for an autograph and beg him to hulk out). Then we wander the arena marveling at the retina-searing, seizure-inducing colorful craziness of it all. We take pictures of giant rubber aliens. We usually attend one previou
sly agreed upon panel that will relieve some particular geek itch we've decided needs scratching. Then, when we start getting that surrounded-by-klingons feeling, we bail and go to a nearby bar for drinks and a discussion of the day, which at some point always has one of us saying, Man, that one Leia had no business wearing that gold bikini. YIKES.

No, I myself do not dress up for Comic-Con. Not even as a pirate. But you know what? Only because I lack the hefty balls required.

I don't plan on advertising to my friends where I'll be this Saturday, but let me officially say this: I love Comic-Con. I really do. Over the years, the event has morphed into an all-consuming, many-tentacled pop culture beast that is pure spectacle. It's the one event I attend that's guaranteed to shove me into close quarters with packed crowds and minimal hygiene -- and I don't even mind. The Vein and I have an agreement on this day: no getting impatient or agitated until the day is over.

It's not just because my own inner (fine--outer) geek is tickled by the whole thing. I mean, if you check state records, you'll see that I passed my Geek Qualifying Exam with flying colors (points deducted only for having actually touched a female breast), but I doubt I'd be able to hold my own in the advanced rounds of Geek Jeopardy.

But here's the thing: I love the people who go to Comic-Con. Every snarky little joke I made above is totally false bravado. I love the geeks. And not just because I come from humble geek origins myse
lf. I have a true and unabiding appreciation for people who have something -- be it Batman, Star Trek, X-Men, Star Wars, whatever the hell -- for which they have a complete, wholehearted love. Something they're so enthusiastic about, they just don't care what you have to say about them. Know what I mean? People who really love Star Trek don't do it halfway. These people, these fans, know every minute detail about what happened during Episode 47 where Kirk had to battle the scimitar-wielding Battle Vixens of Planet Playtex-5. In fact, they know the character name of every Vixen, including the one who stood in the back near the cave entrance during the fight and didn't even have any lines. They know it all.

And go ahead: try to make fun of them. Make your pasty virgin jokes. I just did. They don't give a shit about you. You with your jaded, cynical snarks are nothing more than a red tunic-wearing, disposable crew member to them. And when these people come together at Comic-Con, their deep love and pure enthusiasm will squash you like Jabba trying to get to the buffet table.

I'll tell you my personal geek passion right now. I'm a huge fan of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I just am. And a fan of anything Joss Whedon does, including any limericks he might choose to scribble on toilet paper during his morning constitutional. I'm in. So that's mine.

You have one too, and you know it. If you go to Comic-Con, there's a bunch of kindred spirits who will find you and draw you into their reveling.

Suit up, Geeks. See you this weekend. Let's bond.

Call Me Ishmael

At Mini-Pirate's request, we decide to do another day at the beach. That's fine. Unfortunately, she wants to go not to our nearby beach with its convenient accessibility, plenty of easy parking and limited Zonies clogging up the shore, but to the "pretty one with the nice sand" up in La Jolla. And because today I'm a big-time pushover daddy, I say ok.

I'll admit that it's a nicer beach up there. It's just a Pain in My Pirate Ass: three freeways, followed by neighborhood streets clogged with camper traffic, and endless parking challenges that force us to park the car in a spot that might as well be our own driveway back home. By the time we arrive, The Vein in my forehead is waking up. And it's cranky.

We park the car on the corner of Hell and Gone, gather up our beach bags filled with every possible necessity (towels, pails, shovels, sunscreen, toys, snacks, anvil, snakebite kit, weed whacker, two stone gargoyles, a partridge, a pear tree and a fold-out sofa), and trudge down to the sand.

The Vein decides to chill a bit when we arrive. Beautiful day at the shore. Clear water, blue skies, and very breezy.

We drop our stuff in the sand, and Mini-Pirate barrels towards the water. This same kid who still can't reliably swim.

I make my way down to the water so I can do the Dad Hover. She's standing ankle deep, looking out at the ocean which is throwing banks of waves up onto the sand, one right after the other. Big waves. Bigger than they looked from our towel spot. Taller than her.

Then she does this thing. Some internal coil either tightens or snaps, I'm not sure which. But my daughter literally raises a mighty fist, shakes it at the roiling, turbulent ocean, and yells, "Come and get me, Wave!" And then she plunges forward.

Umm... Come and get me, Wave??

On any given day, it's impossible to predict my kid's bravery level. I don't know if other kids have such a fluctuating needle on their Courage Meter, but she's a real mystery. A month ago, I was sure she'd freak out at the prospect of riding a horse by herself, but she hopped up on one, took the reins with confidence, and spent an hour smiling proudly astride a creature that could so easily have flipped her off at the slightest spookery and crushed her beneath its iron hooves.

Then again, when I asked her if she wanted to go see "Up" (reported to be the nicest, most non-scary movie ever made) at our nearby movie theater last week, and her eyes got wide as she said, "No way! Too dark, too loud!"

I'd kill for a little consistency. But that's too damn much to ask. Any parent who thinks consistency is part of the contract needs to read the fine print.

Come and get me, wave!

I don't know much, but I know that when your kid goes all Captain Ahab right in front of you and challenges the sea (with aforementioned mighty fist), you step back. It's time for the kid and the sea to throw down on their own.

I hang back and bite my tongue to keep myself from saying "Come-back-it's-too-deep-the-waves-are-too-big-the-tide-is-too-strong-and-oh-yeah-in-case-you-forgot-YOU-CAN'T-SWIM!" Mini-P charges deeper into the surf, jumping over waves as they unravel in the shallows. Yes, my scurvy pirate heart be thumping with pride. She keeps going deeper.

The inevitable happens. In a battle between my 7-year-old and the raging sea... well, ultimately it's just not a contest. She doesn't see it coming. One really big towering wave crashes down, right on her head. She disappears.

In a couple seconds (those seconds that last eight hours each in the parent time continuum) she pops back up, spitting, coughing, wiping her eyes.

I make my way to her. She looks stunned, like she was just slapped down.

"Looks like that one took you out, huh?" I say, reaching for her hand.

"Yea," she gurgles, still coughing a little. Water drips off her eyelashes.

"Want to go dig a hole for a while?"

"Ok."

We go back up and dig a really awesome multi-purpose hole in the sand. This girl is fearless in some situations, and easily cowed in others. And I've learned that I'll never be able to predict which way she'll go. As we dig, I watch her face to see if she's going to tell me that she doesn't want to go to the beach anymore. It's happened before -- one little setback can take root in her mind and erase hours of enjoyment.

Later, we pack up our stuff and prepare to hike back up the hill to our car, to battle traffic again, back to our hot, hot house.

"Good day today?" I ask as we dig our flipflops out of the sand.

"Definitely," she says. Good, I nod. We will come again.

As we leave, I'm convinced I see her stare out at her nemesis, The Cruel Ocean. She's almost curling a fist. I can hear her:

I shall return.

Head Like a Puppy

My birthday is this week. I'm turning 39, a placeholder year, barely worth mentioning. When you hit 39, you sort of want to say, Big freakin' deal. Let's wait till next year for the parade and big cake and the funny, funny cards with old people on the front, and dirty captions inside.

I don't have much of an opinion about this birthday, one way or the other. I'll admit I do hear the faintest ticking of a clock somewhere, a countdown to 40, each tick listing something I still want to accomplish. Tick: skydive. Tick: learn to surf. Tick: get a tattoo. Tick: play guitar in a Van Halen cover band. Tick: have beers with Chuck Norris and then challenge him to a cage fight so I can show that pussy what's what.

There's time. Maybe that countdown will get louder over the next twelve months as 40 approaches, but for the moment, I'm pretty content with things.

So to balance out my supremely well-adjusted sense of self, I'd like to write about something designed to keep me from ever feeling too good about myself: my hairline.

Those of you who know me can kindly shut it, thanks. I do so have a hairline. It just happens to start about two inches above the back of my neck.

A few years ago, I decided to buy a pair of clippers and start shaving my own head. Not to the point of gleaming, but close. It's a common tactic among guys like me: why watch the back of your head slowly turn into a swirling, thatchy crop circle when you can just beat God to his cruel punchline and shave it all off first! As if it's something you decided to do! You can walk around with your cue ball scalp and pretend you made a choice: you shave your head! You're cool! You're edgy and dangerous! You don't spend your weekends cultivating your farmer tan as you mow your lawn, nope! You ride a Harley up and down the PCH on weekends! You party downtown with rockstars! You have a throng of nubile supermodels back at your house who enjoy crowding (topless) around you in the evenings, massaging your smooth scalp, and anointing it with scented oils!





Bald Look #1: Cool Bald
We head-shavers fool no one. But it could be worse. We could be out there buying Porsches.

I'm pretty okay with having no hair. I don't think I necessarily Rock The Bald, though. Head shape is important. You need good phrenology. Mine's adequate. It's not as Ving Rhames as I'd like, but it's not like my skull's an octagon or anything. Shapewise, I'd like to think it's relatively Picard-esque.




Bald Look #2: Evil Bald


My wife is gracious about it, never actually stating that if she'd known when we got married that I'd be Lex Luthor within ten years, she would've bailed before the reception. She supports my head shaving -- but she won't actually do it for me. I've asked several times, because it's hard to do your own without missing spots. More than once I've left the house with stripes of hair running up the back of my head. She's remained firm on this, despite my cajoling: Come on Honey, I've said, it's totally safe. There's no way you'll slice off an earlobe. It'll be fun! It'll be whimsical fun! It'll be foreplay!




Bald Look #3: Douche Bald


She won't budge. It's possible she doesn't find the act of feeling the bones in my skull to be erotic.

I don't think my daughter the Mini-Pirate even remembers me with hair. But recently, I found her in the living room staring at a framed picture of my wife and me, taken at our wedding. It's a nice shot. SaucyWench looks breathtakingly beautiful, of course. I look like a thrilled maitre d'. But with a full head of dark hair.

"Daddy, you look different in this picture."

"Well, it was taken almost ten years ago, kiddo."

"Huh." She stared at it the picture, turning her head one way, then the other. I wondered if she was looking for proof that the guy standing next to her mom is the same guy who makes her lunch everyday and reads her stories at night.

"Daddy, you have hair in this picture."

"Yes. Yes I do."

"You looked young and handsome when you got married."

Sigh. Wretched child. "Thanks, Sweetheart."

"Why do you shave your head now? You should not shave it and let your hair grow again."

"Nah, I like it better this way." That's a lie. Because if I didn't have to shave my head, I wouldn't do it. Just like if I wasn't a year away from turning 40, I wouldn't have to spend so much of my time telling myself how fine I am with it.

"Ok." She rose, patted my fuzzy head (due for another shave) and said, "I like it this way too. Your head's like a puppy. Let's go play."

Ok. I'll take it.


Bald Look #4: Dad Bald

And the Worst Dad award goes to... Not Me (this week)

As a parent, I'm riddled with flaws. I own it, embrace it, and will acknowledge it publicly on a T-shirt as soon as I find a good silk screen place. I let my daughter watch way too much summertime TV. I allow her to spend not enough time reading, and too much time on her little pink Nintendo DS, which she recently named Brenda because it's becoming her new best friend. I have no knowledge of the food pyramid. (Fats and sugars are the smallest top part, right? And the base level is probably... what, vegetables? Whatever it is, it's not hot dogs. Which is what we had for five lunches in a row last week.)

Fine. All fine. Like I said. Riddled with flaws.

I may not be the best dad, but for the moment, I know I'm not the Worst Dad. Nope, this week that award goes to someone else.

I like to give Worst Dad awards out at least twice a month, solely to make myself feel better about my own deficiencies. More often than not, the recipients end up being show biz dads. It's just too easy. Joe Simpson (creepy, perv father of Jessica). Michael Lohan (mercenary convict father of Lindsay). As targets go, I know they're obvious, but come on: when Jessica Simpson's dad talks about the fashion designers who are most adept at showcasing his daughter impressive rack, I'm sorry. We break out the award for that one.

Who knows -- maybe it's part of show biz. If my daughter had a future in the entertainment industry, maybe I'd fall into the same traps. (At the moment, it's too early to tell if Mini-Pirate has a future as a Disney Channel Tween Sensation. On the one hand, she loves to dance and is addicted to the warm glow of the spotlight. On the other hand, her singing can get a little pitchy. Dawg.)

Regardless. This week, the Worst Dad in the World award goes to yet another backstage father--I'd call him the Mother of All Backstage Fathers. He's responsible for screwing up at least eight children, maybe more. I'm not actually sure how many kids he has. There's the five boys, and at least three girls. And possibly a few more that tend to end up in the background of pictures. Some say this guy's procreative output has changed the world, and I agree. And since one of his children recently died, you'd think that would be cause for some sympathy.

Not today. Pirate don't play that.

I'm talking, of course, about Joe Jackson. Father of Michael, Jermaine, Marlon, Janet, Guido, Shermie, Jimmy Bob, Sue Ellen, etc.


He receives the award this week NOT because of the way he pretty much bullied all his children into show business, even the ones that had no business getting near a microphone (I'm talkin' to you, LaToya) -- not because of the scary, scary mess his face has become after a lot of plastic man surgery -- not because of the "tough love" allegations that have surfaced over the years, when it comes to how he raised his kids -- not even because he wants the city of Los Angeles to pick up the tab for the freaksome, awkward pageant that was his son Michael's not-remotely-subtle memorial service.

Because that's all old news.

He gets the award for one reason: after he and his family shoved an 11-year-old girl up to the front of a world stage last week at MJ's Memorial service to make her give a sound byte about how much she loved her own daddy, he offered a fateful quote to the Associate Press that chilled me to the bone. He said he thinks young Paris Jackson may have "a future in show business."

No. No no no no no NO.

When I read that, it scared the holy crap out of me.

Dear Someone-In-Charge-Of-The-Welfare-Of-Children: DO NOT LET THIS MAN GUIDE THAT LITTLE GIRL'S FUTURE. Do not let him turn her into America's Next Jackson. Let her go to school! Make a DNA model for the science fair! Go to college and become a General Liberal Studies major! Anything!

If she wants to sing in Glee Club, fine. Pep Squad? Awesome. But someone, please, do not let him become her new "daddy." If he does, you know what will happen next: she'll have an AT40 hit record, a new nose, a Vicodin dependency, and the inability to have a coherent conversation with any non-Jackson adult. All before she's 18.

(Bonus: In addition, Jackson was also quoted saying that MJ's youngest son, "Blanket," can "really dance." And again I say: Noooooooooo!)

So Joe Jackson gets the Worst Dad award this week. I'll take the trophy back next week and return it to my own mantel of shame. But for now, please: Someone step in and save those Jackson kids. In return, I'll ban my own daughter from talent shows for life, even if she has the chops.

(P.S. Three hours after I posted this, a new article showed up on MSN.com: "Joe Jackson Wants to Take Kids on Tour in 2010" proving two things: 1) I'm psychic and amazing, and 2) nothing short of keelhauling will stop this man.

Ten More Minutes

My daughter the Mini-Pirate is rolling around on the floor of my home office, explaining to me in meticulous detail exactly how bored she is. Deeply, very, majorly, as it turns out. She's using modifiers I've never heard her use before. That's how bored she is.

Fifteen minutes ago, I told her I'd play with her in ten minutes. I'm employing the great Dad Skill of making time slow down, but she's not going to fall for "Ten More Minutes" much longer. I tell her I'm sorry, but if she can just be patient for five more minutes, we'll go look for buried treasure or keelhaul some of the neighbor kids or something.

She chews on that for a bit, sprawled at my feet, silent while I continue working. She rubs her nose on my foot, and then she idly says to me: "Hey Daddy. You know who I'm in love with?"

Um... what? Excuse me?

I'm caught off guard. Not yet. Too soon. My daughter is seven. Is this actually the age when girls start getting swoony over boys? Is seven the new thirteen? I look down at her, and then feel the sudden intense urge to jump up and consult a parenting book, except dammit, I don't have any parenting books because pirates take an oath against ever reading anything remotely self-help, and ye cats am I regretting that oath now.

I'm afraid of who she's about to name. If it's a boy from her school, that's bad, since they're all rotten bilge rats. Even the nice ones. And if it's a Jonas Brother, that's even worse, because.... Arrrrrrrrrr, it just is, and I shouldn't have to explain it.

My daughter hasn't gone squeee!! over a boy yet, and I've been assuming it would be at least a couple more years before she did. Since I myself was never a girl (despite what members of my 7th grade soccer team might've said), I don't know what girls actually do when they start noticing boys in the "special" way. I only know what boys do. Or at least, what we used to do. It was simple -- we acted like we thought girls were pieces of stale and stinky cheese left on the ground, that we couldn't care less about. Then we went home and whacked off like little maniacs to Victoria's Secret catalogs and pictures of Samantha Fox until we got a bad case of tennis elbow.

So far in our house, actual real-life boys haven't come up much in conversation, beyond the occasional novelty: "Guess what, Daddy? Today at school, Tyler sneezed something green out of his nose in the middle of Group Reading and it landed right on the floor." Blessedly, Mini-P hasn't shown interest in boys that didn't have snot or barf coming out of them.

And call me naive, but I was sort of hoping she wouldn't be the squee-ing type when she grew older. Maybe she'd be too levelheaded for that, like her mother. My wife, as she tells it, has herself never been one to squee. Not over Sean Cassidy way back when, not over Hugh Jackman now (at least when I'm in the room). Not over me. And I work out.

But here we are. My daughter is about to tell me she is in love with a boy. I don't know whether it's going to be Tyler the snot-rocket shooter at school, or Zac Efron. But it's coming right at me like a steamroller -- soon I'm going to have to start knocking on her bedroom door before entering, and when I do, I'll hear "God, Dad, it's called PRIVACY?!?!" I'll have to start imposing time limits on the phone. Cue the brooding boy bands who will pine and cry through her stereo speakers. On Saturday nights, a convertible Mustang will screech up to our house and some rotten little bastard will honk the horn instead of coming up and respectfully ringing the bell, and my daughter will run out the door and leap into his car to smoke and drink and Godknowswhatelsethosekidsdothesedays. And there I'll be, standing on the porch, in slippers and sweatpants and a bathrobe, helplessly calling out to her, to remind her that all boys are horny little weasels who ONLY WANT ONE THING! COME BACK!!!

"So," I say, looking down at her. "You're in love?"

"Yes."

"Love's a pretty big deal. Are you sure it's love love?"

"Of course!"

"So who are you in love with?"

She sits up.

"Aquaman," she says. "He's soooooo handsome."

Then she rises, hitches up her jeans and heads out to find some other way to stave off boredom until her dad is ready to play with her.

Whew. Heh. Funny, I think to myself. Good one. Heh heh.

But somewhere, a clock has started ticking faster. I need ten more minutes.

Getting Fetal

Last night I woke up in the middle of the night with a sharp pain in my stomach that felt so intense and freaky I was instantly convinced I was going to die.

I'm not normally such a hypochondriac. But this pain was particularly new and exciting. I swear it wasn't your typical stomach deal. It wasn't that "Ate My Weight in Cheese and Now I Just Gotta Sweat It Out" ache, or the "Oh Fuck This Is Totally Food Poisoning Like That Time When I Was Nine And I Ate The Bad Potato Salad" ache, or even the "Please God Get This Chipotle Spicy Burrito Out Of Me And I Promise I'll Devote My Free Time To Charity Work" ache.

I don't know what this was. But at one in the morning, any unfamiliar twinge in your gut can feel like a precursor to that scene in Alien. And this felt sharp, stabby, and altogether unfamiliar.

(Let me skip ahead real quick and say that this ends well. There was absolutely nothing exotic wrong with me. But last night I didn't know that.)

I snuck out of bed. SaucyWench rolled over and mumbled "Arr foof hokay?"

"Tell you in a minute," I said.

Some quality alone time in the bathroom yielded nothing.

I went downstairs to the family room, fell onto the couch and got fetal. Tried to distract myself with some late night TV: that old X-Files episode about the serial killer with yellow eyes who slithers down chimneys to kill people. An infomercial for a new type of Soloflex Total Fitness machine so compact it can fold up to fit in your wallet. A Japanese game show where contestants get hit in the junk with live squid.

Nothing made me feel better. I lay there curled up under a blanket, clutching my stomach, getting scared. Why was this pain so sharp? Was it my stomach or something else? Was it a kidney? Wait, where's my appendix located? I thought about going to the computer to see what WebMD had to say, but didn't -- which was a smart choice. If I'd typed in my symptoms, my search no doubt would've led me to the description of some funky, lethal disease called Acute Gastrointestinal Herniated Inflammatory Carcinoid Dysplasia, which kills instantly, moments after first symptoms are discovered. (People shouldn't be allowed to search WebMD after ten o'clock at night. They should just shut the whole site down during the late hours. No one has ever searched that site after midnight, found what they were looking for and said, "Whew! That's a relief. Back to bed!")

So I lay there on the couch, feeling miserable and very much like a big, big baby. Here's where my imagination took me: What will happen to me if I'm really sick? Who will take care of me? We already have a child of our own to take care of. What if I can't take care of her anymore? I need to man up. Why am I being ridiculous? Wait... am I being ridiculous? What if I convince myself I'm being ridiculous, and then once I'm complacent, something bursts out of my abdomen in a bloody explosion and scuttles into the laundry room? What THEN? While I'm telling myself stupid alien jokes, what if something truly real and bad is getting ready to happen to me? Maybe not now or soon, but someday?

I actually tricked myself into feeling legitimately scared for about ten minutes.

I think everyone deserves the right to regress every so often, and whine or cry or pout for a few minutes. It's probably healthy to let all that out occasionally. The problem with being a baby when you're a male in your late 30s is that you can only be one when nobody's watching.

I finally did sleep, and I woke up the next morning feeling better, of course. SaucyWench asked how I was, and I said fine. My daughter bounced around the house, singing a song she'd made up and looking for her shoes before it was time for day camp. They left ("Bye Daddy!"), off into the green summer morning.

I felt foolish that I'd been so scared the night before. It. Was. A. Tummy. Ache. Geez, I told myself, going back in to get coffee, turn on the computer, and start the day. Get a grip. What kind of pirate are you, anyway?

It wasn't the physical ache that freaked me out, ultimately. It was how easily a random and baseless fear could sneak in and reduce me to a vulnerable kid who shivers in the dark. Ten minutes of that kind of shame can make anyone go fetal.

Pirate vs. Patriotism

Traditionally, I'm not a big fan of the Fourth of July. It's not a holiday that I get too amped about. In fact, it actually makes me cranky. It's not that I have a fundamental philosophical problem with the day itself -- although that would make sense. Pirates pledge allegiance to no nation. Pirates do not ooh and ahh over fireworks set to a musical simulcast of Sousa marches. (We might rrrr and yarrgh if the display is really amazing -- but we keep it to ourselves.)

Here's the thing: I hate crowds. Chalk it up to my cantankerous nature and overall irritation with all people. I'm just not into plunking a blanket down in the middle of millions of other revelers to celebrate anything, ever. After a couple hours in the midst of a throng, I start getting twitchy, the vein in my forehead starts to throb, and next thing you know, I'm muttering under my breath like a crazy curmudgeonly 90-year-old about the guy over there his goddamn cell phone, the goddamn oblivious smoker behind us, that goddamn snotty kid over there who keeps looking at me, and so on.

My wife knows the signs to watch for -- when she sees The Vein, she knows it's time for Pirate Family to hightail our collective pirate asses outta there.

Plus, in addition to all that, I've just had a hard time generating a lot of "YAY AMERICA! WE ROCK THE MOST!" sentiment lately. Every time I look at the newspaper, I bum hard: the economy continues to suck. Corruption in business and politics abound. Here in California, folks continue to insist that the only people who deserve liberty and justice for all are straight people. And apparently, Sarah Palin is mulling over a campaign to become leader of the free world in a few years.

So... no. I just wasn't in a big time Fourth of July mood yesterday.

But then my wife told me we'd been invited to join some friends for some grilled meat and grog, followed by a trek down to the nearby lakeside park for all the annual community festivities: live classic rock cover band, kids running around wrapped in toxic neon glowy cord, and eventual fireworks.

And yes, a giant crapload of people.

I was torn. On the one hand is my dislike of people, and anger at how they treat each other when they're in a big group. The Vein was already warning me.

On the other hand, we pirates loves us some good barbecue.

SaucyWench and I made a deal: we'd pack up Mini-Pirate and go. I'd be cool about the crowds, keep my attitude under control, and in return, she would not leave me.

So we go. We eat cooked meat with friends. Which is most savory. We clink hearty mugs of ale. Then, as dusk approaches, we all pack up our collective children and walk down to the park for Phase Two, along with the approximately 654,823 other people, all with our blankets and our lawn chairs and our spazzed-out kids, and our grown-up sippy cups filled with covertly smuggled grog. I start to feel the twitch.

But then we're all at the park, sitting on our blankets as the sun sets behind us, and the band on the stage in front of us is actually really good, and they do a kick-ass version of Mustang Sally. And people are dancing, and laughing, and not being dicks to each other. Hrm.

And as I'm sitting with my wife and our friends in the growing dark, I start to forget about how crowded it is. This is not so bad, I think to myself. And I look over and I see this:



And then the kids jump up and start dancing and spinning around to the music, and I see this:



And I'm watching my daughter dance her delirious dance, and I remember that when you're seven years old, and you're in the middle of a huge party and the fireworks are about to start, and the beautiful, dizzying swirl of lights around you feels like it might lift you right up off the ground, the Fourth of July can feel a lot like this:



My crusty, cynical pirate heart shook off a few barnacles and I found myself in the middle of a pretty much perfect summer night, despite myself. Because with kids around, the Fourth of July isn't just a different ball game. It's a whole different sport.

I'm just saying.

Bad Dad Goes to the Beach

So this is the third week of Pirate Daddy's Summer Camp, and today I was invited by a good friend to pack up Mini-Pirate and hit the beach, to join some other parents and their kids. We live in San Diego, and have miles of suh-weet coastline, beloved by tourists and locals alike -- despite the fact that the Pacific ocean is COLD. As in, the toe I dipped in earlier is still faintly bluish. Unlike all the way awesomer dads there today who had no problem diving into the arctic waters to play sadistic dunking games with their children, I sat back and watched my daughter dance in the surf, thinking how much more pleasant the day would be with a beer in my hand. Despite my unpirate-like wussiness, though, Mini-P had a great day splashing in the frigid waters, only letting me drag her out when her teeth were chattering and her lips were purple.

That's what's so great about kids. Fun is everything. Fun is it. Physical discomfort doesn't even ping their radar when they're in the thick, ecstatic swirl of it.

She had a nice day, and I did too. However, as usual when I'm around other parents, I experienced some personal Bad Dad insights (other than my apparent tendency to put my own comfort ahead of my daughter's quest for fun). This happens a lot. So of course I must share.

My insights today were threefold:

Insight #1) I am a Bad Dad because my daughter is 7 and still can't swim. Swimming is the daddy's domain, so this is clearly my fault. Today I watched other kids her age and younger run down to the water, hit the surf and literally head out to sea without looking back. They set their eye on the horizon and just freakin' went for it, while their parents looked on calmly, waving: "Have fun! Turn back if you see fins!" Meanwhile, my girl had to content herself with spinning and pirouetting in the shallows, every so often looking wistfully at some other kid with a boogie board. (I've promised to buy her a board of her own once she can sport a stronger doggy paddle. Reward-based gratification training. I read an article.)

Every father in Southern CA knows to start dropping his kids into pools when they're zygotes, to help them get acclimated early. Mini-Pirate and I had one parent-toddler lesson at the Y when she was just a squirmer (a mini-mini pirate, if you will) -- she freaked out the first time water splashed in her face. Other toddlers stared at her, wondering what the hell her problem was. Other parents stared at me, wondering if I used waterboarding as a discipline practice at home, because why else would a child have such a reaction to happy, splashy fun?

We left early, and that was pretty much that. As a result, she's now the only seven-year-old on the coast who loves the water, yet can't survive in depths over two and a half feet.

She's getting close though, despite her father's substandard parenting. She's starting to learn that kicking and paddling must happen simultaneously to avoid death by drowning. So, you know. That's a step. I'll feel a lot more comfortable letting her join me for both ship plundering and pool parties once she's a bit farther along.


Insight #2) I am a Bad Dad because my default answer to virtually any question is No. I don't even know why. No is my default setting. I say No without even listening to the question itself. Like today -- Mini-Pirate asks if she can accept a little friend's offer to try his boogie board: No. She asks if she can have some gum: No. She asks if she can go play with the gigantic vine of gross seaweed that just washed up: No.

Why do I do this? Why do I say No, when a Yes would be perfectly harmless? Why not let her try boogie boarding until a wave flips her over? She'll learn a valuable life-lesson about how human's can't breathe water. No problem. Why not let her have some gum, assuming it's not Nicorette? She's already shown outstanding aptitude at chewing and walking at the same time. And where's the bad in some innocent seaweed poking? Assuming it's not carnivorous seaweed, go to town with it! Just don't drag it up to show me.

I do not want to be a No Dad. I want to be a Yes Dad. Yes Dads are fun dads. I need to learn to save my No's for when they're actually important: No, you can't pick up that used needle. No, you can't lick that dried up piece of dog crap "just to see." No, you can't follow that weird dude with the missing tooth out to his gray, unmarked "ice cream" van.


Insight #3) I am a Bad Dad because I serve my daughter s'mores-flavored Pop Tarts for lunch. (That one isn't just about today, but I just thought I'd throw it in. And I'm not too torn up over it -- we always split the two-pack.)

That's it for now. Next time on Bad Dad Adventures: Bad Dad Goes to the Petting Zoo and Refuses to Let His Daughter Touch the Unsterilized Goat!!