Great Moments on the I-15

I'm driving on the freeway this morning. Clear skies, post-rush hour, not too much traffic, toe-tappy song on the radio. (I like that Coldplay song. Don't start.)

I change lanes. Yes, I signal. No, I'm not simultaneously changing the radio station, or eating a Whopper, or talking on my cell phone. Yes, I look first to see if I'm all clear.

I merge over. Next thing I know, I hear a loud honking behind me. Not a short ahem of a beep, but a sustained blaring that actually sounds like it's getting angrier as it continues. I look in my mirrors, but the driver leaning on his horn has already pulled up in the lane next to me, as we continue down the 15. At first I think the driver is having some sort of epileptic episode, and his wild arm gestures are actually some sort of involuntary motion that happens right before he bites through his own tongue. I almost mouth Are you ok? to him.

That's not so much what's happening here.

He has already rolled down his passenger window. He is screaming. At me. Have I mentioned my own forehead vein before? His is bigger, a rage-filled cord running down the side of his face. Possibly resulting from rampant steroid abuse.

My window is rolled up, but I can still hear him screaming and swearing at me as if we were right next to each other. Let me say: I've never been in the military, so I can only imagine what it feels like to have a commander screaming directly into your face from inches away on the first day of boot camp, saying things to you that make you want to run home to your momma. But I imagine it must feel a little like this.

He is pulling out every stop; he's combining profanity in new, exciting ways, creating what we in the writing business call "word pictures." They don't all make sense, but they are wrought with drama. You'll forgive one sample from the string: "You Mother Fucking Piece of Pussy Ass Shit Fucker Cock BITCH." He is a high-decibel poet.

He keeps going, keeps screaming at me, driving right alongside me, his car inching closer to mine until our side mirrors are almost touching. 70 mph the whole time. By now I can only assume that I cut him off when I merged. Either that or I screwed his girlfriend after kicking in his widescreen TV and beating his dog with a baseball bat while calling his mother a dirty whore.

I've never experienced this level of rage directed solely at me before. Should I pull off the freeway? I think. Or will he pull over too and pull a shovel out of his trunk? I want to take a Sharpie and write "have daughter who needs me" on my window, in case it might make him change his mind about killing me.

And then, abruptly, he wraps it up. Yells one more piece of instructive advice on the best way I should fuck myself, flips me off for punctuation, and revs ahead of me.

I'm shaken. But not so much that I miss the bumper sticker on his car as he roars away:

Oh. Ma. Gaw.

Devils in disguise.

I was sitting in a campus-adjacent coffeehouse today, minding my own business, preparing material for the first day of class at SDSU, which is galloping towards me, closer and closer, like a Horseman of the Apocalypse (Heh. Whoooo's excited for school! Raise your hand!)

I had a difficult time concentrating, though, due to the vigorous conversation taking place at the table next to me by three female students. I finally gave up working on my syllabus and started taking copious notes. Here's what I heard:

Girl #1: You guys? Seriously? I feel bad even talking about it.
Girl #2: OHMAGAW, I know. I feel the totally same way. I feel so sad for her. It's like, I look at her, and I want to cry.
Girl #3: Totally. I mean, she gets so upset because Bryce won't talk to her, and I want to just come out and say it for her own good: Like, You. Are. Obese.
Girl #2: It's not like she's totally obese, but, like yea, she's basically obese.
Girl#1: I feel so horrible about it. I want to say, you know what Christy? You should come with me to Pilates. But then I don't, because I think that would just make her feel even worse about herself.
Girl #2: It's not like she's not cute.
Girl #3: She's not un-cute. But she could be cuter.
Girl#1: She's totally depressed too, and she totally doesn't get how that's directly related to being overweight.
Girl #2: We read a thing about that in Psych.
Girl #3: Oh yea, I remember that. There was a term for that. Like a phrase.
Girl #1: Listen to you, you're like, all talking about school like a scholar.

(They laugh merrily at their accidental foray into academics. Or maybe about their own cuteness, compared to their apparently Prius-sized friend Christy. I edge a little closer and hope they don't notice me. I shouldn't worry. They clearly have more important issues on their plates. A knife-brandishing terrorist could rush into this coffeehouse, and these three girls would just stare him down with their sculpted Brows of Disdain, before returning to their conversation.)

Girl #2: You guys, we shouldn't even being talking about her like this.
Girl #3: I know. Oh, plus, she eats like it's her last day on earth.
Girl #1: If she worked out, it would be different. But she doesn't even try. If I invited her to come to Pilates with me, she seriously would never go.
Girl #3: I went with you that one time. Do you remember when you were all freaking out about the teacher?
Girl #1 (laughing): Well, yea. That teacher was all hitting on me, just because I can do the splits three ways. So she's always complimenting me and stuff.
Girl #2: Maybe she'd be into Christy.

(Howling laughter at the thought of lesbianism as their friend's last chance at love. They're laughing so hard I worry one of them may split a seam in her breast implants.)

Girl #3: She's so sweet, though.
Girl #1: Ohmagaw, she's a total sweetie.
Girl #2: Hmm.

(Pause for contemplation. I assume.)

Girl #2: You know how I can eat whatever I want and not gain weight?
Girl #3: Yea. You're so lucky.
Girl #1: Yea. I hate you.
Girl #2: I know.
Girl #3: I'm so glad we talked about this, you guys.
Girl #1: I know, right?

They stand up, take their mocha-frappa-non-fat-extra-whip-achinos and leave. I sit back, stunned. I want to find Christy, whoever she is, and advise her she should tell her friends to go to Hell. I want to explain to her that the reason she's depressed is because she has piranhas for girlfriends, but it's nothing a good baseball bat to their pretty dimpled kneecaps won't fix. Then I want to go home to my seven-year-old daughter, who is about to start third grade, and tell her something about mean girls. I want to tell her to -- well, not stay away from them, because I don't think that's possible. And clearly, mean girls have a way of disguising themselves to the weaker members of the pack. I don't know what to tell a girl about other girls. Something about how she should pick her friends carefully, not let others measure her self-worth for her...something.

But of course, if advice like that actually worked, mean girls wouldn't be able to exist in the first place.

That's No Moon

Big, big time milestone on the family pirate ship this week. I'd been planning it for a long time, literally since SaucyWench told me she was pregnant eight-and-a-half years ago. One of my first thoughts (after the many rounds of Holy-shit-I'm-not-ready-to-be-a-Dad-someone-get-me-the-Hell-out-of-this had passed, of course) was about a particular rite of passage I would someday share with my offspring, boy or girl. A torch I would pass down.

My wife worried I was setting my expectations a bit high for this. I didn't care. I'd been biding my time for years, gauging the Mini-Pirate, and had finally decided that she, at seven-almost-eight years old, was ready.

"I think you're building this up a little too much," Saucy said to me that morning before heading off to work.
"No I'm not."
"Honey, you're putting a lot of anticipation into this, and you know how she gets."
"She'll be fine." I was resolute. Possibly in a bit of denial. Didn't matter.
"Just don't be too disappointed if it doesn't go well."
"It's going to go GREAT."
"But what if--"
"Begone, woman."

I was not fazed. Mine was a greater purpose on this day.

*

First, I took Mini-P with me to the DVD section at BestBuy to make The Purchase. When she saw what I was getting, she became both skeptical and nervous.
"I don't know about this," she said.
"Trust me. This is a great movie. It's probably one of the best movies ever made. You're going to love it."
"I don't think I will."
"Listen," I said, mustering all the confidence I could, "have I ever steered you wrong about stuff like this?"
My daughter is too young to have perfected the Raised Eyebrow of Skepticism. Yet there it was, right there in the sci-fi aisle. The eyebrow that says, I don't know what the hell you're trying to pull here, "Dad," but I'm not falling for it.

I don't think I'm going to like this," she said firmly.
Here's the thing about this kid: if I show any enthusiasm about anything I want her to try, it causes an instant Emergency Shutdown in her brain. When she can sense how desperately I hope she'll like a book, movie, song, new brand of toothpaste, whatever, her mental gates slam shut, and we're done. The only way I'll ever get her to like something is if I act like I couldn't care less about it. (That, incidentally, is how I oh so craftily got her to love Harry Potter -- she saw the books on our shelf and asked, "Hey, I didn't know you had Harry Potter books," to which I casually replied, "Whatever. They're ok." She took the first two volumes into her room and read them within 48 hours, tucking them under her pillow at night. Ha! See, I thought then, I'm smarter than you, Short Skeptical Person!!)

In other words, I realized right there in BestBuy that I'd set this up all wrong. I'd forgotten about reverse psychology and gotten a little too excited, possibly ruining everything.

*

That afternoon, I set up Mini-P on the couch next to me. Pop Tarts, milk and The Greatest Movie Ever.

She was not happy. She was worried. I should mention: for a pirate-in-training, she's a serious wuss about movies. After she's seen one once and liked it, she'll watch it a thousand times (see: Kung Fu Panda). But getting her to watch something new is tough. Even this.

She dutifully sat next to me, eyebrows crunched into unhappy question marks as the movie began: blue letters on a black screen, in silence:

A long time ago... in a galaxy far, far away...

And then that first big bombastic John Williams blast pasted us into the couch. Because that's right, my friends: we were watching Star Wars.

Original Star Wars. 1977 Star Wars. The one that counts. Luke Skywalker, Princess Leia, Han Solo, jawas, droids, the cantina, the Death Star, the quasi-death of Obi-Wan Kenobi. The mother of all Underdog Triumphing Over Evil stories.

Like I said, I'd been waiting for a long time to show my kid this movie. When she was born, I couldn't imagine helping her ride her first bike, or teaching her how to drive... but I did imagine this.

I'm not saying she had to love Star Wars as much as I did when I was a kid. I'm just saying if she didn't, I'd have to sell her.

We watched. The yellow-texted background narrative for Episode IV started scrolling up, against that big majestic instrumental score...

...and Mini-Pirate ran out of the room.

Shit.

"What's wrong?" I called, my spirit immediately sinking.
"Too loud, too scary," she called from the dining room.
I was momentarily devastated. If the backstory is too scary for her, I thought, what's she going to do when Darth Vader chokes his first underperforming lackey?

I turned the volume down, and she tiptoed back in and sat next to me, almost in my lap. And then she watched Star Wars, while I watched her watch Star Wars. She stopped fidgeting. As the twin suns rose over Tatooine, I predicted every moment when she might run out of the room for good.

But it didn't happen. The music did get loud again, but she stayed. You know the part where Luke gets attacked by the grunting, primal Sand People? She stayed. Or the part in the Millenium Falcon when things get really scary and ominous and you realize that our heroes are headed for big-time trouble ("That's no moon.. that's a space station")? She kept right on watching. When they almost get squished in the big trash compactor? She stayed. And remember the final do-or-die scene, when Luke is racing down through the Death Star gauntlet in his X-Wing fighter and John Williams' brass section is virtually sawing you in half with suspense, and you yourself are watching and suddenly you're 7-years-old again yourself, the same age as your daughter, the same age you were when you saw this moment for the very first time, and you were truly worried about the fate of the galaxy if Luke failed to hit his target?

She stayed. I don't even think she realized she was still sitting next to me.

The ending remained the same. The final shot was still the tableau of our heroes, resplendent in their finery and medals.

I looked over at her as she watched the credits roll, eyes still wide.

"So. What did you think? Did you like it?"
She turned to me. "I LOVED it. Can we watch it again tonight?"

Whew. Thank God. The kid stays.

Of course, if she doesn't like The Empire Strikes Back, I'll have to pack up all her things and have them sent to her new home. But I'll worry about that later.

Why Seven-Year-Olds Totally Need Cell Phones

The phone rings today, and when I answer it, it's Charlotte calling. I don't know Charlotte very well, but my daughter does. They're friends. They were in the same first grade class, and were recess buddies last year.

Me: Hello.
Charlotte: (mumble.)
Me: Hello?
Me: It's Charlotte.
Me: Oh, uh... hi, Charlotte. How's your summer going?
Charlotte: Is Riley there? It's important.

This is the first time one of Mini-Pirate's friends has called here of her own volition, out of the blue, to talk to her. I'm intrigued. I go into Mini-P's room, where she's idly playing an unsafe game with scissors. I tell her it's her friend Charlotte calling and hand the phone over, first hitting the Speaker button so I can listen.

Mini-P: Hi, Charlotte!
Charlotte: Hi.

(pause)

Mini-P: So are you having a good summer?
Charlotte: Yes.

(another pause, longer)

Mini-P: Are you at your house right now?
Charlotte: Yes.
Mini-P: I really liked going over there that time and swimming in your pool.
Charlotte: Me too.
Mini-P: I totally want to come over to your house again.

Charlotte (lowering the phone and shouting at her mother, who is apparently several miles away): MOMMM!!!!! RILEY'S COMING OVER TO SWIM NOW.

Me, from doorway: Tell her not today, but maybe this week.
Mini-P: Well, not today. But maybe this week!
Charlotte (again shouting louder to her mother who must've gotten into the car and driven across the state line): MOMMMM!!!! NOT TODAY BUT MAYBE THIS WEEK!

(Lengthy, lengthy pause. My kid is now lounging on her bed like a teenager, one leg crossed over the other, bouncing her foot coquettishly. If our phone was of the pink princess variety and she was wearing capri pants, she'd be Annette Funnicello.)

Charlotte: Ok.
Mini-P: That'll be fun.
Charlotte: Yes.

(Still lengthier pause, the longest pause since the invention of the Pause)

Charlotte: I have to go.
Mini-P: Ok, bye.
Charlotte: Bye.

Mini-P hangs up and comes to give me back the phone.

Mini-P: That was Charlotte.
Me: So what'd you two talk about?
Mini-P (over her shoulder as she heads downstairs to get a snack): Stuff.

I'm not sure what just happened. It feels sort of important, but I'm not sure why.

No More Yankie My Wankie

I'm thinking a lot about some friends of mine from high school today. Not friends from my own high school in Colorado, but my other school, in Shermer, Illinois. You know which school I mean. The one where Samantha went. Remember Sam? She had a big-time crush on that guy Jake? Or Duckie, remember Duckie? With the hats and the bolo ties? You gotta remember him, right, and his whole Romeo-obsession with Andie Walsh? How about cool kids Ferris, Cameron and Sloan? Uber-geeks Gary and Wyatt? Ok. You gotta remember the big five: the Brain, the Athlete, the Basket Case, the Princess, and the Criminal.

Those guys are on my mind right now because, see, John Hughes has died. Heart attack at 59.

I'm not saying I didn't like my own high school. I had great friends, and we had some decent Hughesesque dramas. But during my lonelier teenage moments, I wished I could transfer to Shermer High.

I didn't need to be Ferris Bueller. I would've been content to be Cameron, privileged to be included, sitting in the passenger seat of that Ferrari roaring into Chicago. I didn't have Duckie's sartorial flair, but like him, I was a little too flip and smartassy for my own good in school, thinking it would make up for everything I secretly hated about myself. I never bought a popular girl diamond earrings like Eric Stolz did in that later movie that most people said was just a Pretty-in-Pink-role-reversal knock-off, but my heart broke for the pining Mary Stuart Masterson when she found out about it. I sat on similar sidelines in high school, more than once.

And don't get me started on the life-changing insights I missed out on, just because I was too good to get Saturday detention.

I spent a lot of time watching the kids of Shermer High fight, break up, find each other, use each other, and basically validate every knife-sharp feeling that carved up my own insides during adolescence.

Maybe you don't feel the same way. Maybe you prefer Hughes' later John Candy/Steve Martin milieu, or his kiddie fare like Home Alone and the Beethoven movies. Or maybe you're under 25 and you have no idea who the hell I'm even talking about.

But Hughes made a bigger impact on me than Michael Jackson or Farrah Fawcett. Way more. If there was a memorial for him at the Staples Center (picture it: guest speakers Anthony Michael Hall, Emilio Estevez, maybe a musical tribute by Simple Minds, and of course a eulogy delivered by a tearful Molly Ringwald), I can't swear that I wouldn't drive up to L.A. and camp out for it. For him, I just might.

I'm sure I'll read this whole post later and cringe at how completely lame it sounds. If I said anything this sentimental out loud, John Bender would totally kick my ass. But still. I saw him punch the sky triumphantly at the end of The Breakfast Club. Don't tell me he didn't get it.

So, a hearty Yargh for John Hughes from the pirate. Or maybe even a No More Yankie My Wankie, coupled with a sad emoticon. (If you don't get that reference, thou art not a fan of the Hughes.)

Have a favorite Hughes movie? Favorite Molly and Insert-Guy's-Name-Here Moment? Share below.


P.S. For a truly amazing tribute to John Hughes, go here, just emailed to me from SaucyWench. It's by a blogger with a really great story to tell. Trust me. You want to read it.

Sing for Me

Some day, my daughter will not sing in front of me.

I know it will happen. I know it's inevitable, and I know that it's normal.

She'll stop singing to the radio in the backseat when we drive. Be it Gwen Stefani, Elvis Costello, The Clash, Iron and Wine, The Shins, or that ubiquitous Jack Johnson Curious George soundtrack which, yes, I bought five years ago like every other parent in the land. Someday when I look in the rear view mirror, I won't see that expression, the Power Ballad Face that lights her up as her little chest puffs out and her lungs work so hard to blast out a high note that's -- er -- close to the pitch, but absolutely heartfelt nevertheless.

At some point soon, she will absolutely refuse to belt out her favorite song from High School Musical in the middle of our family room, standing with her feet planted and her arms spread wide, as if she's trying to embrace her audience: the trees outside, the sunset, the rising moon and the entire theater of the sky, as my wife and I sit in the background and watch, pantomiming to each other the raising of our lighters behind her.

And if she won't sing in front of me, she definitely won't let me watch her dance. Which is especially tragic because dancing seems to be what brings her the most happiness. She doesn't just spin around when she dances -- she performs some manner of complex choreography that may look like spastic monkey movements, but is, in reality, some serious, intricate Twyla Tharp shizzle. Arms creating sculptures out of the air in front of her. Acrobatic bends and turns that make me wonder if she's been secretly viewing some PBS documentary on The Art of Modern Movement. That's where she really finds her bliss.

But a day will come when she won't sing or dance if I'm in the room. Even if I beg her to perform for me (Just one song, come on, you're so good. What about that Mylee Cyrus one that you used to love so much?), she'll probably say something like, "Ohmigod, Dad, no way."

Please? Just one song? You're so talented.

"God, Daddy, NO." She'll hunch over, embarrassed, and maybe even stalk out of the room, grossed out by her father's cringe-inducing sincerity. If I want to hear my daughter sing after that, I'll have to crouch outside her bedroom door when she has her headphones on, her hairbrush mic held in front of her.

The day kids become self-conscious, aware of how others might be seeing them -- that's the end of one era and the beginning of another, strange and sad. That's it. A heavy door clangs shut and you can't go back. I imagine on that day I'll feel like some colors have been leeched out of the world. Not all the colors. Just some of the brightest ones.

I'm willing to do whatever it takes to keep that day from coming. If I need to sing along with her now when we drive, fine. If I need to rock that Mylee Cyrus song that I truly hate, so be it. If seeing her dad sing off-key and dance like a fool helps push back her own looming feelings of insecurity, no problem. Crank up Hannah Montana, baby. Bust out some show tunes. I'll freaking sell it.

Still. Someday, my daughter will not sing in front of me.

Thank God that day wasn't today.