Blog awards are like syphilis.

I got a blog award this week, one of those acts of kindness that originates with one blogger, then gets spread to five friends, who then spread it to five more friends, and next thing you know, it's moving through the Internet like a social disease.  Except nicer and without the embarrassing phone call and need for penicillin later.

It's always great when a fellow blogger takes the trouble to say, "Hey.  You there.  You're cool."  But here's what's extra bonus-great about this particular blog award:  Kage gave it to me.

Ever read a blog belonging to one of your own readers and wonder, "How could this person, with this life, and these interests, be remotely interested in my lame little dog-and-pony show?"

That's me and Kage.

I don't know her personally, but her blog is an awesome trip into a rockstar life that I will never know.  It's called Sex, Sequins and Sociopaths.  That should tell you something awesome about her right there. When you read her posts, you discover that she is many things:  a kick-ass chick.  A wild child.  A stripper.  A woman obsessed with Henry Rollins' nipples (and with getting into his pants).  Someone who may or may not be into bondage.  A girl who takes no prisoners, and doesn't censor herself one iota on her blog.

While Kage is out crowd-diving at concerts every night (as I like to imagine), I'm yelling at my kid for the fiftieth time to brush her teeth before bedtime.

I'm pretty sure this woman could eat me for breakfast.  And yet she's incredibly nice to me, and is a particularly funny and welcome commenter on this site.

And she's generously given me this LOL Award:

I have no idea where this award originated, but I accept it and place it on my blog's mantle.  I appreciate it a little extra because it's coming from someone so different from me.  This is why I love the blogosphere itself: it provides a way for me to sort-of know people with lives far removed from mine.  People who are way cooler than me.

As with most of these award dealies, there are obligations.  This one requires me to share seven things about myself that readers may not know, and foist this award upon seven other bloggers.

So quickly.  Seven Previously Unknown Didactic Pirate Fun Facts:

1)  I used to perform stand-up comedy.  I did pretty good.  I never bombed, which is part of why I quit.  The longer you perform stand-up and don't bomb, the more scared you become of the possibility of bombing, and the more intense the stomach ulcers.  I loved doing it once I was up there with a mic in my hand, but every second of that day leading up to a seven-minute set was torture.  So I quit.  Stand-up comedy is, however, what enabled me to meet my SaucyWench wife.  That's a story for another post.

2)  The first concert I ever went to was David Bowie, Mile High stadium in Denver, 1987.  The Glass Spider tour.  I was 16, we had great seats, and I thought I was soooooo cool.

3)  On the first night I went out with Saucy (back in 1996), we went to a bar downtown where a transvestite licked my neck and asked me to go home with him/her.  I said, "Sorry, sounds great, but see that girl over there?  (pointing at Saucy) Uh... she and I are engaged."

4)  Until I was 19, I was the World's Skinniest Human.  Skinny-ass kid.  I could've been in medical journals.  I started lifting weights in college to impress some girl I had a crush on.  It didn't work,  she didn't notice, but I bulked up anyway and twenty years later, exercise is one of the only things in the world that can get my brain to stop spinning, make my always high stress-level sink a couple notches.  If I don't exercise five days a week, I get real, real cranky.  According to Saucy.

5)  Like a lot of bloggers, I write fiction.  I've had stuff published in places.  I also have drawers full of tiny rejection slips.  Each time I get one of those, I still take it completely personally, even though I cavalierly tell others it's just "part of the process."

6)  I like to sing classical music.  I'm in a choir of 10-12 people where I get to do that.

7)  I'm not actually a pirate.  Ssh.

I hereby foist bestow this award to the following seven blogs.  I hate this part, because I always forget someone awesome.  One thing I thought I would do, though: I give a lot of my attention to mom and dad blogs since that's the cyber neighborhood in which I dwell, but I read a lot of other ones too.  So these are some blogs that I originally discovered outside the parent blogger clique, all of which made me spew liquid out of my nose at some point recently (Kage is ineligible, since she gave me this syphilis in the first place):

CYNICISM 101
Doc Cynicism took a break from posting for a while, but I think he's back in the saddle.  He's a teacher like me, but funnier.  I'm glad I don't know his name, because if I were to compare our reviews on ratemyprofessor.com, it would just make me feel bad about myself.  A funny, funny guy.  I'm hoping if I give him this award, he'll post more often.  Peer pressure!

STEAM ME UP, KID
This woman probably doesn't need any more blog awards, but ah well.  Steam Me Up has been making people laugh long before I fenced off my tiny corner of the blogosphere. She's ridiculously, effortlessly funny.  You're probably already following her.

THE MONSTER APATHY/THE ROARING DORK
Meet Kurt.  He runs two blogs, and they're both over-the-top funny.  The Monster Apathy is the main one.  I'm one of his lurkers.  I never comment, because I'm not funny enough to leave a footprint over there.

YO MAMA'S BLOG
Another wickedly funny chick.  When I read her recountings of conversations with her husband, it makes me and my wife seem so boring by comparison.

WAIT IN THE VAN
If you follow me, you probably already follow Kristine.  I'm hoping to meet her in person if the comes to my home town for BlogHer this summer.  I want to find out if she's as lovably neurotic as she seems to be.  I'm pretty sure she is.

THINK.STEW
Smart blog by a quick-witted, funny guy.  He turns the English language into his own personal playground, and I'm always entertained when I visit.

CALLING PEOPLE NAMES
Kage, you'll love this girl.  I've adopted her as my little sister (without her consent): she's another butt-kickin', take-no-prisoners chick who bares it all about her love life, her family, her work, all of it.  And a great writer.

NAKED CUPCAKES
Yea, I added an eighth.  Because I'm the boss, that's why.  This is another blogger who doesn't need yet another award, but I can't not give it to her.  I suspect she's a deeply, deeply twisted soul.  But I don't want her to get better, because I like reading her stuff too much.


There were other blogs in contention, but it turns out many of them have already received this badge (I'm talkin' to you, Moooooog35 and Vinny C.)

Okey doke.  Now go meet these people.  And thanks again, Kage.

At DadCentric: A Letter to the Girl Returning from Sleepaway Camp

First, a quick housekeeping note:


You people.  When you give, you give all the way.  I asked you to help me compile some awesome Chick Rock for the Mini-Pirate, and the results were tremendous.  You covered the 80s, you covered the 90s, you acknowledged some most excellent tunage from the 70s, as well as music from the current decade that makes me feel better about steering my daughter away from Ke$ha and Katy Perry as she grows older.  And that was just limited it to one gender.  Clearly, I'm going to have make this a multi-volume project -- Music for Mini-P. After I burn the CDs for her, I'll post a list of the songs that made the cut.  Which is just about all of them, frankly.


Meanwhile.  The wheels keep turning and my latest post over at DadCentric is up today.  A letter to this same daughter, who recent abandoned her parents to attend a a two-night sleepaway at Girl Scout.


And apparently survived without her mother and I for the entire trip.


Here's the kick-off:

***

Dear Daughter,

I’d like to congratulate you on your recent achievement.  You and your Junior Girl Scout troop completed a weekend away from home, staying two nights at a mountain camp three hours away.  All 14 of you packed up your pink sleeping bags, loaded your backpacks up with Skittles, SillyBandz and stuffed pandas, and you headed up to the high timber, away from your mother and me.


Since you’re nine, I think we can agree that this is impressive.


Sure, you were reticent the week prior to the getaway.  You approached your mother and me with what I’ll call “certainty,” explaining to us that you did not wish to make the trip.  It was far, you explained.  And away.  And two whole nights.  Not just one, like a regular sleepover at a friend’s house.


Your mother and I explained to you that the trip would be fun.  Fun? you said incredulously.  You did not agree.  I know this because of your dextrous, well-placed air quotes around the word.  (Kudos to you, future sarcastic pundit.  And kudos again.)


The trip would not be “fun,” you said.  You continued making your case for staying home with what I’ll call “tenacity.”  (Between you and me, your mother used the word “whiny.”  She’s so mean to you.  I don’t know how you put up with it.)


You said that perhaps such a journey might be fun, if your mother or myself were to accompany you on the trip.


“But Sweetheart,” I said, “we are not Girl Scouts, you see.” 


You explained to us that several other parents were going on the trip.  Therefore, we could too.  Chaperones, we explained.  They are chaperones, and we are not.


“So just be a Sharpertone,” you said plaintively.  I will concede this was where I too detected the slightest hint of whininess, which I attributed to a justifiable Fear of the Unknown.


Click here to read the rest.

CHICKS ROCK.

Hey, Crew Members.  Before I get into the main item on our ship's agenda today, I want to say that Delurking Day was a ginormous success for this blog.  A lot of you ventured out from the shadows to say Hi, and I really appreciate it. You know how it is with blogging -- comments are sustenance, the only real evidence you have that people are reading your verbal discharge.  (That's... not a phrase I'll be using again.)  So for those of you that chimed in on Friday and over the weekend, thanks.  One particularly cool thing I'm learning:  There's a handful of teachers out there who told me they found this blog through some of my posts about school, but there's also a growing number of students.  I really dig that, and I'm especially glad that you guys are out there.  I like your perspective on those posts where I talk about teaching, academics, classroom etiquette, (heh heh) etc.

Delurking Day buoyed my spirits.  Which I hadn't realized needed buoying until then.  I won't shamelessly beg you to contribute again.  Although I hope you do.

So.  Moving on.

*

Today's topic: chicks who rock.

I'm enlisting your help today.  I need to expand on a particular side of the Mini-Pirate's cultural education.

See, young Mini-P loves to rock.

No -- Mini-P LIVES to rock.

This was made extra apparent at Christmas, when she received a Paper Jamz guitar from my parents.  If you're not familiar with Paper Jamz, we're talking about a cardboard guitar with batteries and a little speaker in it; you turn it on, and the guitar can play original recordings of three different classic rock tunes.  Only it doesn't include the guitar in the mix unless you yourself strum, twang, or tap the "strings" on the front.  So you get to become the guitar player for AC/DC, Cheap Trick, or maybe Van Halen, without having any sort of talent or knowledge whatsoever.  Which is the only way I personally would ever be able to play in a band, myself.

It's pretty awesome.  I can't say that I completely endorse the product, because you can't program any more songs into the guitar itself.  It plays three tunes, and that's it.  If you want to jam to more songs, you need to buy other guitars in the product line.  There's a whole series.

Mini-P has the pink-and-white Chick Rock version.  It plays three 80s classics:

Blondie's One Way or Another.

Pat Benatar's Hit Me With Your Best Shot.

The Pretenders' Middle of the Road. 

Hell yea.

That's right.  No Mylee Cyrus in this house, my friends.  No Selena Gomez.  Sorry, spangly little tween pop tarts.  We have no time for you.  We're too busy.  We need to ROCK.

Yes, rock stars do SO wear SpongeBob pajamas.

Thank you, Cleveland!  GOOD NIGHT!!!!

That Pretenders song, by the way, is one of my favorites.  And I've had a great time sitting in the hall outside my girl's room as she plays her cardboard guitar and sings along with Chrissy Hynde, her sweet little canary voice mixing with Chrissy's throaty rasp.  (Have you seen Hynde lately, by the way?  I don't know how old she is, but she's still all muscle and sinew, like a bundle of wires twisted together.  The woman can still kick ass.)

So. now that I know Mini-P is obviously going to herself pierced, tattooed, and join a band before she's 16, I think it's important she receive the right schoolin', in preparation for it.  I want to start putting some great rock in front of her.  Starting with the chicks.

Women rockers have always seemed a little under-appreciated at the school of rock's lunch table, so I want my girl to start listening to some awesome 80s Chick Rock.  Compliments of a CD I will make for her.

The problem is, my mental hard drive is having a hard time coming up with a list of chick rockers.  I could go online and make with the Googling... but but I'd rather have your help.  That would be more fun.

Here's the game: in the comments section, name of at least one awesome song by one of your favorite girl rockers from the 80s.  If I get enough, I'll find them, and make my daughter the best freaking CD my she's ever heard.

The rules:

1) Let's try to avoid Pop.  Not that I don't like Pop.  I do.  But I'm looking for less Go-Gos and Madonna, and more Joan Jett.  Unless you have a song that you know will rock my girl's world.  Then any genre will be fair game.

2)  Nothing too raunchy.  I'm not that protective of my girl's ears, and I don't restricting her listening to music that's been scrubbed clean of any innuendo whatsoever -- but she's nine, so we don't need to get too hardcore.  Let's say, no lyrics about blow jobs.

3)  I'm targeting 80s, but I could swing into the 90s.  That's the birth era of Alanis Morrissette, after all.  If you've ever visited me over at Culture Brats (which just kicked off its own weekly LIVE RADIO SHOW, yo) you know that I'm a true Child of the 80s.  But I can extend this into the next decade as well.

You don't have to contribute, of course.  I mean, if you yourself don't rock, then by all means don't add anything.  That's totally cool.  You're probably too busy drinking tea and listening to Hootie and the Blowfish.  No worries.  I'll still respect you.......... (ahem)

So bring it on, you guys.  Hit me with your best shot.

To show my gratitude, here's a little Chrissy for you.  This song has some serious swagger, does it not?  She should totally perform it wearing SpongeBob pajamas.

De-Lurking Day. Plus, Bowling for Zombies

Did you know today is National Delurking Day?  I didn't, until I was lurking over at Luke, I Am Your Father, and Musings from the Big Pink this morning and saw.  (Follow them, by the way.  Funny gentlemen, both.)   I don't know if it's like a national holiday or anything.  I mean, they didn't close school, and we got mail today.  But it's apparently the day to draw your silent readers out of their caves to see if you can get them say Hi.  So I hope you do that today.  My little site meter tells me your out there, quivering in the dark.

Even if you don't chime in, though, I'm glad you're here.  I frequently like to picture all of you in a gigantic pirate ship, loyal crew members, working hard, pulling ropes, swabbing decks, keelhauling each other at random, singing didactic sea chanties -- and I'm your captain, standing above you with big clomping pirate boots and a hat.

In my fantasy, you both love and fear me.   It's awesome.

(Also, in my fantasy: my wife the SaucyWench gallivants around the deck, frequently checking to make sure my mug of grog is ever full, and to see if maybe my shoulders need rubbing.  While wearing a fetching outfit.  And my first mate daughter, the Mini-Pirate, does chores, follows my instructions, and accepts everything I say without question.)

*

So there's that.  Moving on to the quick topic of the day:

I thought I'd give up a little nugget of info that illustrates the kind of family we are, here on the Good Ship Didactic, by talking about our favorite Christmas present from the holidays.

We all received very nice gifts.  The Mini-Pirate in particular benefited from Santa's kindness all over the place.  Lots o' presents.  Saucy and I didn't do so bad ourselves.  

But what was our favorite gift this year?  What was the surprise that, as we ripped away the festive paper and ribbons, left us with mouths agape, eyes shining in wonder?  Was it a car?  Was it a bike?  Was it a Playstation?  Puppy?

No.

It was this:

Zombie Bowling.

That's right.  Other kids are spending this post-Christmas month playing a cool video game where they dance on a big pad, or playing a guitar for points, or slicing aliens with light sabers (all of which sounds perfectly rad to me, by the way).  But in our house, the Mini-Pirate and I have spent the last two weeks bowling for zombies.  Courtesy of my parents.

Note the fine craftmanship -- ten not-quite-regulation size pins, each hand painted to depict a different type of walking dead:

The Slow-Moving Zombie.  Easy to escape unless you're an idiot, or a non-virgin.

The "I Can't Chase You Till I've Had My Coffee and Brains" Zombie

The "GAHH!!!!! RUNNNN!" Zombie that gave my daughter nightmares the other night.

Innocent Victim included.

Perfectly good for bowling.  Also for creative roleplaying.

All stunningly handcrafted.  You can't get THAT shit on Etsy.
(Just kidding.  I'm sure you can.  Don't email me with the link.)

Hours of fun.  This is how my daughter and I roll.

*

Remember, crew members today's the day to take a break from lurking and speak up on the blogs you follow.  Your hardworking bloggers will thank you.  I'm going to go through and visit the blogs I read but don't typically comment on, and try to do the same.

Yarrrrgh.

No Country for Bald Men

There was an interesting news story making the rounds over the weekend.  Different mainstream sites covered it, and their headlines were all in a similar vein.

New Hope for Bald Men

Balding Breakthrough: A Cure to Male Balding in 10 Years?

Bald Men Rejoice at Scientific Advance

Bald Men Halt Suicide Attempts at Rumor of Hair Loss Cure

"Perhaps My Life Will Have Meaning Again" Says Sad Bald Man

I first saw the story here, in a video report by the luxuriously maned George Stephanopoulos on abcnews.com.  "Help may be on the way for men suffering from hair loss," was the way George opened the segment.  Yes.  Help is on the way.  Galloping on a big hairy white horse to save men collapsing in the street from the shame of having thinning hair.

I had a hard time concentrating on the story itself, being distracted by the gorgeous luster of George's own hair, thick enough to lose a quarter in.  (What a clever idea those segment producers had, having the story covered by a guy whose hairline comes down to his eyebrows.  Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.  Good one.)  But the basic gist was this: scientists have made some discoveries regarding the nature of stem cells in your scalp.  Essentially, the main stem cell thought to be responsible for male pattern balding is actually not the cell they thought it was.  There’s a second stem cell that makes your hair fall out.  And if those secondary cells can be spanked on the ass and woken up, men may be able to grow hair again, an option that had never seemed possible before.

Story of the Decade.

Apparently.

I've spent a significant amount of time making my peace with my hair loss.  I've written at least one post about this before, but what with this new "breakthrough" and all, I started reflecting again on... well, how my head reflects.  Light, that is.

When I was young, I had great hair.  Here's my senior picture from high school:

I know.  You don't have to say it.  I had Awesome hair.  It took a lot of product to get that high-gloss look.

I first discovered I was losing it on my honeymoon with Saucy, actually.  Almost eleven years ago.  The bathroom at our romantic Kauai cottage had two mirrors that faced each other, and I happened to catch the back of my head in one reflection.  I was shocked to see it; a thin crop circle in the back of my head.  I never mentioned it to Saucy, but I did think, Thank God we got married when we did.  If we'd waited a couple years, after this little spot became more pronounced, who knows if the woman would've met me at the altar.

I'm not saying she's that shallow.  That's just where my thoughts were back then.

Back then, I did investigate a couple hair loss remedies.  But that phase of denial didn't last more than a few months.  I tried Rogaine for a few weeks, but it was expensive and a pain in the ass.  Trying Rogaine was actually a good way for me to come to terms with the whole thing:  I realized that even though losing my hair would be a bummer, I didn't care about it enough to commit to rubbing weird-smelling chemical foam into my scalp twice a day.  That was an important conclusion to reach.

(There was a brief period where I acted on the advice of a hair stylist who told me that rubbing the juice from chili peppers into your head stimulated hair follicles and help with hair growth... but we shan't speak of that.  I'll just let you imagine your pal the pirate standing in his bathroom, rubbing a sliced pepper on his head, and then sticking his head in the sink to wash off the incredibly painful burning sensation as quickly as possible.)

I hung in there for a while, trying to hold onto the diminishing hair I had left, ignoring the chill I felt on the back of my head when the wind blew.  I focused on the front view--if you stood in front of me, you wouldn't have known that in two years, my bald head would be able to be seen from space.

Then the Mini-Pirate was born in 2001, and the rest of my hair fell out in a month.  I'm saying.  Her fault.  The stress of fatherhood.  None of this "blame the men on your mother's side of the family" bullshit.  I blamed my daughter completely for the speed of my hair loss.

And now?  When I shave my face and head on the same day, I look like this:

My head is now a giant thumb.

And the fact is that now, today, at 40, I'm finally ok with it.  I joke about it a lot with friends, having turned self-deprecation into an art form, since I had no choice.  That Head-as-Thumb joke is big hit at parties.  When I make it, someone inevitably says, "But you can pull off a bald head!  Not all men can.  It looks good on you."  And I appreciate that, even though I know it's not true.  See, that's what every single person says to every guy who shaves his head as a last resort to hair loss.  But it's ok.  It turns out that I function pretty well with less vanity.  I'm probably better off that way.  Vanity tripped me up a lot when I was younger.

Having a streamlined head is simple and easy.  Plus, I save a lot of money now that I no longer have to buy kiwi-infused conditioner.  Saucy continues to tell me that she likes me fine without hair.  I have several friends who like to rub my head for luck.  So all is good, all is healthy.

But hey!  Wait!  Hold on a minute!  Scientists have made an "astonishing new breakthrough that could lead to a cure for men afflicted with hair loss!"  There's hope!!!!!

Hmm.  You know what, Scientist Guys?

Screw you.

You too, Stephanopoulos.

At DadCentric: Consider me Outwitted, Outplayed, and Outlasted.

Hey, you crazy young bohemians.  We've got a handful of new crew members who've come here from Wait in the Van where I guest posted earlier this week.  That Kristine, she one nice lady.  So first let me say thanks for following.  I'll have to venture over to your blogs and check y'alls out.  (Just trotting out my accent for those of you in the South.  Y'know -- to make you feel all homey and such.)

Soon I hope to fill this month with posts that are chockful of Didactic Wack, because there's a lot going on -- we're emerging from holiday chaos, the wife and kid are already proving to be even weirder in 2011 than they were in 2010, school is starting soon, and I'm enjoying some truly inspiring rejection letters for my short fiction.  Good stuff.

But today, hop on the link below and you'll get to my latest over at DadCentric: the most recent battle of wills between me and the Mini-Pirate.  It's like Thunderdome.

*

My nine-year-old daughter is playing contentedly in her room.  I am puttering around the house.  I walk through the front hall and stumble on a pair of pink sneakers with super-sparkly laces.

 Me (calling upstairs):  Kiddo, will you come down and put your shoes away please?

Her:  Ok, Daddy.

(Five minutes pass.  I walk through the front hall again.)

Me:  Child.  Please.  Come down here and take your shoes upstairs so people don’t trip on them.

Her:  Can't you just move them?

Me: No, I can't just move them.  They're your shoes.  

Her: But I’m in the middle of something important. 

Me: What, you're in the middle of a teleconference?  Get down here and Put.  Your.  Shoes.  Away.

Her:  Ok.

Me (voice raising slightly):  Now.

Her:  I said ok!

Me: Saying ok isn't the same thing as doing it.  Please do it.

Her:  I will!

(I wait at the bottom of the stairs, listening for movement. I know what she's doing.  She's up there sprawled on the floor, reading comic books.  Just as I’m about to get loud for real, I hear floorboards squeaking.  Whew.)

That's not the end.

Click here to read the whole post.

Guest Post at Wait in the Van: LIFE SUCKS.

Hey!  You guys you guys you guys!  I'm over at one of my favorite blogs today, Wait In the Van, where the funny, crazy and lovable Kristine has generously asked me to guest post.  I started following her about a year, ago, and she quickly became one of my favorites.

My chosen topic?  How Life is the worst board game ever created.

It starts like this:

My daughter received the board game Life from my parents for Christmas this year.  She was thrilled – immediately after opening it, she begged my wife and I to play it with her.  Sure, we said.  Why not?  Board game!  Good Time Family Fun! 

I vaguely remembered the game from my own childhood – mainly I recalled that it was easier than Monopoly, but more boring than Sorry.  But as my daughter set up the game, I started to remember the game’s not-so-subtle analogies: you drive a boxy, affordable station wagon down a winding road (the road of LIFE, mind you), steer through the twists and turns (of LIFE), over hills and valleys (of LIFE!), and as you motor merrily along, you navigate all of life’s super-fun challenges: marriage, family, career.  Kids love it.

Adults, however, play it and end up in a state of clinical depression.

To find out what happens, click here.  Originally, I was going for funny in this post, but, erm... something slightly more bitter may have taken over.  Heh.

Thanks, Kristine.