The Didactic Pirate

This Is How Students Say "Thanks for a Great Semester!"

2011-12-19T09:01:00.000-08:00

Had to share this one. The back story: This semester, I used an online platform to receive and grade student papers. I was told it helped streamline the whole evaluation process, that it was easier for students to receive and implement feedback, and most importantly, that it would help me grade thousands of papers in less time. I used it, and still haven't decided whether I like it or not. But what you REALLY need to know is that it's incredibly easy and user-friendly for students. A knuckle-dragging Cro-Mag could submit an essay on it with no problems. Literally, it's a one-click submission process. And my students have been turning in work on the site for months.

The following email correspondence took place between me and a student last week, the day before the final assignment deadline.

Dear Professor,
Hey it's Jordan from your 9:30 class. I just wanted to let you know that I've been trying to upload my paper to turnitin.com but it's not working. I've tried everything, including reformatting the document as a different document but the document still won't go through. I just wanted to let you know, fyi.

Dear Jordan,
Thanks for checking in. Since you've successfully submitted all of your previous work this semester on the web site, I'd say go back and see what format you used for those earlier essays. Everything you've turned in so far has made it to me without any problems.

Dear Professor,
The last time I turned something in to you it was a Word document and I know it was fine but it's not working now. Respectfully I think the problem is with the web site and not with me so you let me know when you fix it and I'll turn in my paper in after that.

Jordan,
I just checked online, and so far, two-thirds of your class has turned in their final essay without any problems. And again, since you've submitted your earlier assignments online without experiencing any difficulty, I'll leave it to you to go back and fix the issue. Remember that the deadline is tomorrow at 9 a.m.

(Two hours later)

Dear Professor,
I've tried everything. I don't know why it's not working, but I know it's not my fault. I strongly think you should either fix the web site, or let me turn my paper in to your mailbox later this week. I don't have time to do so until Thursday because of my busy schedule. I know the deadline is Wed but I'm assuming you'll make an exception for me due to this difficulty which is out of my hands.

Jordan,
As of now, 85% of your class has turned in the final paper without incident. Are you using the same computer you used to submit past assignments? Are you sure you're online? I'm sure that sounds somewhat patronizing, but I really don't know what advice to give, since you've been able to turn in all previous work online without any problems. Since you live in the same dorm as several of your classmates, maybe you could ask a friend to help you troubleshoot. Beyond that, I'm not sure what to tell you. Do be aware that you're required to meet the same deadline as everyone else. This situation doesn't warrant an exception.

Dear Professor,
I think you should know that I'm deeply offended by your response. I'm just trying to do the right thing and turn my paper in on time. You are being incredibly unreasonable about your deadline and you've been that way all semester which I think is ridiculous!! You care more about turning essays in on time than about the content of the essays themselves. I consider that to be very irresponsible for a teacher! This paper is a big part of my final grade and the fact that you don't even care is incredible to me. Thanks a lot for nothing. I will remember your disrespect of me for the rest of my college career.

Dear Jordan,
I'm sorry you feel that way. After the holiday break, if you feel the need to register a formal complaint with my department, you can do so by contacting my department chair.

(Two more hours later)

Dear Professor,
Oops, sorry. I was trying to turn our paper in to a different class by mistake. My bad. Have a happy holiday break!

New Pirate Posts!

2011-09-09T09:46:00.000-07:00

Hey you guys, you know how I have badge over on the right side that claims I'm a contributor to DadCentric? And how I haven't posted over there in so long that it's amazing I haven't been asked to relinquish that badge in shame?

I've posted over there this morning, for the first time in just four short months (ish.) We had this county-wide blackout last night, I had a couple hours worth of battery life left in my laptop, and a little too much time to kill. And as we know, inspiration strikes at the weirdest times, so voilá: new postage. It's mainly about my uncanny ability to panic in the face of uncertainty. Yay! Go here to see.

Also: if you're a TV-lovin' sci-fi geek like me, maybe you'll be interested in reading my predictions for some new shows that are rolling out over the next few weeks. If so, you can read that action over here at Culture Brats.

Check me out, two whole posts today! Three if you count this one! Which you shouldn't! Because this one is really just a post telling you about two other posts! But what the hell, I say it counts! Three, count 'em, THREE whole pirate posts! You're welcome!

Giddyap... maybe.

2011-08-08T08:58:00.000-07:00

So. I've been off the Internetz grid for a while now. I'd like to say it was due to the high demands of my job as a top secret sniper-ninja-spy for the government, which sometimes sends me on dangerous missions for months at a time. And any fool knows you don't send tweets when you're in the middle of covert ops. Rookie mistake.

But I have in fact popped my head up a couple times here on this blog, over the last few months. I've posted twice since April. And even that was rough. And if you read those posts, you know my absence is due to a more predictable reason.

I've always found it hard to write about experiences as they're happening. Especially difficult ones. It's like reflecting on the scariest part of the roller coaster ride while you're still screaming in panic with the wind rushing in your ears. It's much easier for me to wait until the ride is over, stumble through the exit, maybe go puke in a trashcan, let my stomach settle... and then wrap some words around the entire thing later.

That, essentially, is why I haven't been posting anything here in a while. I'm still in the middle of the goddamn ride, and it hasn't let me off yet.

But if I engage in the Big Fat Cliché that tells us life itself is just one long roller coaster adventure, then what am I gonna do: wait until I'm 90, and start a blog then?

Not so much.

Last weekend, I attended BlogHer, the Godzilla-big blogging conference which took place here in my hometown this year. BlogHer, the conference where women bloggers are celebrated, and men bloggers are... tentatively let into the building. (I'm just kidding. Actually, if you're a dude, you're welcomed with open arms and nuzzling at BlogHer. Or, if you're Whit, you have women throwing panties and hotel room keys at you. Seriously. Crowds of women were following that dude everywhere. He's the Elvis/Justin Bieber/Robert Pattinson of blog conferences.)

I only attended the evening parties during the weekend. I didn't attend any discussion panels, although now I wish I had. I could've learned more about how to monetize my blog. Or how to maximize SEOs. Or what SEO means.

There was a lot of learning, strategizing, networking and business card passing happening at the conference. I knew going in that that wasn't going to be my deal.

I went to BlogHer because it was a once in a lifetime opportunity to meet some writers I greatly admire. And be in the same room with some creative, funny and talented people.

Which is exactly what happened. I could list all the cool bloggers I met, and I could litter this post with all kinds of inside jokes that would be totally irrelevant and irritating for those who didn't attend the convention. But that wouldn't really serve a purpose. Plus, I'm sure I'd forget to mention some super-amazing people, and that would just make me feel bad for the rest of the day.

Although I will say that I finally got to meet more of my DadCentric compatriots, which was the highlight of the whole event for me. (Muskrat. TwoBusy. Whit.) I finally got to meet one of my fellow Culture Brats (My beloved new BFF The Weirdgirl.) I also got to confirm the high-quality charisma of Kristine from Wait in the Van. The vivacity of Jules. The infectious energy of HipMamaB. The make-me-snort-vodka-out-my-nose-from-laughing-too-much wit of Lexa. The absolute kindness of Sweetney. The Go Get 'Em kick-assitude of Doug the Laid-Off Dad. Among many others. Many, many others. Many people with great blogs I'm now discovering for the first time. On one evening, I attended the "Listen to Your Mother" open mic session, and heard some outstanding women read their wonderful works. Put it all together, and that's a lot of awesome sauce in the ladle.

Basically, I had the privilege of hanging out with people that made me want to write again.

That's what I wanted, you guys. That's really, really all I wanted.

I talked to a lot of people who gave me a lot of support. I also met people that are blogging while, yes, going through some serious shit in their own lives: I don't have the market cornered on personal upheaval, apparently. There's value in writing about it. There's value in the writing, and in the sharing of it all. I can do that, if I proceed cautiously, step by step. I can't guarantee it'll be always be funny, but I can at least try and provoke a little back-of-the-throat vomit. How does that sound? Awesome, right?

The next sound you hear will be a very small, tentative "Giddyap."

Just don't give me crap if my next post doesn't go up until November. 'Kay?

The Father's Day Showstopper

2011-06-19T14:32:00.000-07:00

How do I know our daughter is going to be ok once the divorce dust settles? Here's how.

Here's the gift I received for Father's day.

I was in my office this morning checking email, when the Mini-Pirate called down from upstairs, "Daddy! Go in the living room and sit on the couch."

"What's going on?" I called back up, skeptical.

"Just go sit there! There's a surprise!"

I peered out from my office, into the living room. The couch looked harmless. There was no painted X on a particular spot, or a bullseye. I looked up, but didn't see an anvil hanging from a fraying cord, or a bucket of pig's blood balancing precariously over head on a beam. (Mini-P is still dealing with anger issues, at both Saucy and me. Understandable. Still. Hence my misgivings about going to sit somewhere at her command.)

Saucy, upstairs, with the Mini-Pirate, called down to reassure me: "Just go sit down. It'll be totally worth it."

I went and sat, as instructed. Moments later, Mini-P and Saucy made their entrance, elegantly descending the stairs. My daughter was wearing: her favorite skull T-shirt, a showgirl feather in her hair, gigantic butterfly wings, and a pair of her mother's lace-up boots. Saucy was wearing a jaunty scarf, and an expression of amiable chagrin.

It turns out that Mini-P wrote me a song for Father's Day. I would find out later that she worked on it all day yesterday, and made Saucy rehearse it with her several times while they were at the grocery store. In front of people.

I sat and witnessed something awesome. This was not a half-hearted, self-conscious little non-performance. This was Idol. This was Best New Artist Grammy. This was my daughter channeling Selena Gomez, her favorite famous person, currently touted as the Mariah of the current Tween Generation. Only without the voluminous talent. (Or slutty wardrobe, so that's a plus).

Move over, Selena. There's a new rockstar in town.

Right there in the living room, my daughter gave me the showstopping performance of a lifetime. Not only that: her Mom totally delivered as her back-up singer.

It was a ballad, but I could tell that if there'd been a band backing her, it would've provided a solid, driving backbeat. I did not have a video camera to record it, and I know that if I try to get them to recreate it on film, it won't be the same. That's ok.

Afterwards, I received the lyrics. Here's what my girl wrote and performed:

Ha-pp-y Father's Day
Thanks for all the care and love you give
every day of the wee-ee-eek
and the times that we get a little saa-aad.
You make us feel a whole bunch better.

(Mommy: Shoo-bee-doo, Shoo-bee-doo)

I'm a little high strung
Just because I'm young
Daddy we adore ya
And we'll do anything for ya
Although some days do make us frantic,
with one single crazy antic,
and when we're bouncing off the walls
you're the one who stays caa-aalm.
Because you love us for who we are
We'll always love you-oouuuu Daddy!

(Mommy: Ooh-ooh, ooh-ooh)

And the crowd on the couch went wild.

And that's how I know things are going to be ok.

She Skips.

2011-06-15T17:03:00.000-07:00

My daughter has never walked.

That is to say, she's never just walked. When going from Point A to Point B, she doesn't merely put one foot in front of the other.

She skips. She spins. She leaps. She gamboles, shimmies, sidesteps, saunters, wheels, hops.

She doesn't walk. She dances. Ever since she was able to stand on two tiny, plump legs, this has been true. I don't think I've ever seen her simply walk anywhere.

Example: For the last four years when I would drop her off in front of her school, the Mini-Pirate and I had a ritual. I'd stop the car, she'd unbuckle herself, lean forward as I leaned back, and she'd kiss the back of my bald head.

"Ouch!" She'd say every time. "Your bald head just shocked me!" And we'd laugh.

Then I'd try to impress upon her some nugget of advice, some little tip about whatever it was we'd been talking about lately: Remember to be a listener. Treat other kids the way you want to be treated. Stand up for yourself when you need to. Remember that your teacher is only trying to help you. Think about the tone of your voice when you talk. Count to ten when you feel frustrated. Just a last minute review, my way of trying to say, "Let's be careful out there," before she would head out into the world.

Then she'd get out of the car, hauling her gigantic pink backpack behind her, stand on the sidewalk as she got her arms through the straps, turn and wave at me, and then off she'd go, heading towards school.

Never just walking. Skipping. Always skipping. Even on days when she was in a bad mood, days when she was worried about a teacher, or a project, or recess politics. She would always skip. She couldn't help herself.

Monday was her last day of fourth grade. Big school-wide pizza party, games, fun stuff all designed to say Happy Summer.

Two days earlier, Saucy and I sat her down and told her, as gently as possible, that we are not going to be married anymore.

It was awful. So awful I won't be writing about the details here. For now, I'll just say that we rehearsed the conversation very carefully, consulted with a family therapist beforehand, made sure she knew there is no Bad Guy in the situation, and then were by her side for the rest of the weekend as she wrestled with the hardest emotions she'd ever had to deal with, at age nine: anger, sadness, desolation, rage, depression, confusion.

It was a long and painful weekend, but it had to happen. Our daughter can't start the healing and rebuilding parts of the process until the horrible parts happen first. Still. Worst experience ever.

We didn't know if she would want to go to school on Monday for the big end-of-the-year party. Saucy and I were ready to stay home with her and just hang out, talk, let her continue to vent all of her frustrations if that's what was necessary. But when Monday morning arrived, our Mini-Pirate got up, had breakfast, and got dressed, preparing for school. Saucy and I looked at each other over Mini-P's head, silently agreeing that if she wanted to go, then so be it.

I drove her to school that morning, glancing back at her in the rear view mirror all the way. She was quiet. All I could do was drive, and worry.

We pulled up to the drop-off point, and she unbuckled her seatbelt. She leaned forward, and I leaned back. She kissed my bald head, wordlessly. She climbed out of the car, and pulled her backpack onto her shoulders. We waved to each other. I watched as she walked up the sidewalk.

Halfway up to the school gate, I saw her pick up her feet. And skip. Only for a few steps. Halfheartedly. But she really tried.

***

(P.S. Dear Loyal Crew Members: This blog will return to form soon, I promise. Thanks to those readers who have emailed, showing concern about my absence. I miss blogging. I miss writing on my site, I miss the sites that I used to visit, I miss interacting with you guys. I'll be cranking this site up again on a regular basis. And not with sad stuff, either. I really do have a lot to tell you. My students this Spring? HOLY GOD, YE CATS. They gave me some great stories. I kept track. And will absolutely share. Remind me to tell you about the kid who blamed his late paper on his roommate's malfunctioning bong.)

Scary

2011-04-25T07:29:00.000-07:00

I walk into Mini-Pirate's room, carrying an armload of clean laundry not really paying attention to my surroundings. It's a warm and bright Spring afternoon, and her room is a cozy nest of light, color, and fuzzy stuffed animals, as usual. A very comfortable environment.

I stop. I stand in the middle of the room.

Something is not right.

I look around. I feel a strange creeping sensation at the back of my neck, icy fingers. Possibly Icy Fingers of Doom. At the very least, Lukewarm Fingers of Possible Disgruntlement.

I feel as if I am not alone in this room.

I glance around, increasingly nervous. Everything looks normal. The menagerie of stuffed animals on the bed looks normal, not a bear, bunny or penguin out of place. Books are stacked on shelves, arts and crafts supplies spilling off Mini-P's work table, as usual. Nothing seems out of the ordinary.

And yet... I feel a sense of foreboding.

The closet door is closed. Is it usually closed? No? Is that why my spidey sense is tingling? Is that why my parental instinct to protect and/or run away screaming is starting to bristle beneath my skin? Could it be possible that... someone is hiding in there? Some sort of Ghostface-esque invader who likes to enter rental houses in nice neighborhoods at 2:00 in the afternoon, the perfect danger hour, since no innocent resident would ever expect a butcher-knife wielding maniac at such a time?

That's just silly, Pirate, I say to myself. There's no one hiding in my daughter's closet, crouched behind that gigantic pile of laundry and leotards with a big knife.

I open the closet door, a quick yank. My breath catches.

No one there.

I drop Mini-P's clean jeans onto the shelf and close the closet door behind me. Of course there was no one there. That would be ridiculous.

Under the bed, though... that's very different.

Mustering every thread of bravery I can pull from deep within my SOUL, I hunch over and peer under Mini-P's bed, ready to see an evil leprechaun, or a demon clown doll with glowing eyes, grinning at me.

Nothing.

I stand again, surveying the room. There's nothing out of the ordinary here. Truly. Everything looks the same.

Yet different. The more I gaze around, the more it feels like my daughter's room is actually a movie set made to look just like her room, to fool me. That if I push away the props and knock over a couple stage flats, I'll find a diabolical new setting, maybe an evil mastermind creature lounging in a Director's chair, rubbing his hands together and laughing at me.

That's what it is. This feeling, I realize. Someone is watching me.

I slowly turn, 180 degrees. And when I do, that's when I see. Right there, on the wall. It's eyes have been boring into my back the entire time, while I unsuspectingly looked everywhere else, like Drew Barrymore in the beginning of the first Scream movie. Poor, naive, stupid, stupid Drew. Now I know how she feels, the scream that caught in her throat when she saw the face of pure evil staring at her.

I see the face before me. He has invaded my daughter's room, her life, and all our lives. We are the last household in America to fall, I realize. He looks right at me, ready to laugh his maniacal laugh, tear his way right out of the poster taped to the wall, and forcibly enter the room:

He's in the house. He has finally come for my daughter.

Bad Blogger

2011-04-20T08:58:00.000-07:00

Psst.

(Cracking open door with a slow creeeaaak, peering into blog discreetly)

Hi.

Are you still there?

Hi.

I've been away. I'd like to tell you that I've been on a mysterious and exotic journey. I'd like to make you wonder if maybe I've been gone because I've been so busy fulfilling my duties as a secret, globe-hopping crime boss. I could be the Keyzer Soze of the blogosphere. You can't prove otherwise, right? The greatest trick I ever pulled was convincing the world I don't exist. ("And like that, poof: he's gone.")

Ok. Maybe not. Still. My last post was February 24th, seven weeks ago. For those of you who have emailed me asking where the hell I am, thank you. I appreciate your asking. I'm still here. SaucyWench and the mischievous Mini-Pirate are also here. Everyone is well.

I haven't taken such a long break from blogging since I launched the Good Ship Didactic almost three years ago. I haven't posted here, or on DadCentric, or on Culture Brats. (Bad blogger. BAD.) The Big Cheeses at both sites are being very patient with me while I'm on this hiatus, and I want to thank Pet Cobra and Chag for that, a lot.

And you people have been very busy, haven't you? A lot seems to have happened in my absence. Apparently the world does not stop when the Pirate pauses to tend to Life Stuff. I can make my peace with that. Blogs written by pals of mine have flourished and gained readers, which makes me happy. If you want to read some good stuff, funny stuff, insightful stuff, check out my blogroll to the right. These are good folks, folks. I have not being keeping up with them as I should. I hope you are, though. I plan to make my rounds soon, and apologize profusely for my neglect.

There have apparently been some kerfuffles in in the blogiverse that I missed during my hibernation: something about some Mom collective creating an award or a list of Best Dad bloggers, or some other such deal? Which created some animosity, or bad vibes? Not sure what that was about, but it sounded like yet another way to turn the creative, cathartic act of blogging into a competition. Not a fan. I'm glad I missed that. I've never liked those situations, and not just because I never make the lists. (To make a Top Blogger list, you have to... erm, blog. Which, again, I have not done for seven weeks.)

There was a big-time blog conference out in New Orleans last weekend, yes? Some buddies of mine from DadCentric attended and spoke at Mom 2.0. I hear that my esteemed bro-in-dadhood BetaDad in particular pretty much rocked the event like Elvis. (Or maybe Sting.) BlogHer is happening this summer here in my own San Diego. I want to go to that, although I can't say for certain that I'll be able to. I'd like to, though. I've made a bunch of bloggerific friends over the last couple years, who I'd love to meet face to face. So I may still try to attend the drinking and socializing parts of that event, if nothing else.

I don't plan to talk about what's kept me out of the loop for seven weeks, at least not for a while. (There is no health crisis, no one is sick, no one has a strange lumpy growth. Everyone is fine here, so do not worry.) But I'm just about ready to resume regaling you, my hearty crew members, with stories of the Mini-Pirate's major adventures, creative new excuses my college students have given me for late work, and the various ways I retain my title as Dorkiest Guy In All the Land. I'll be back at DadCentric and Culture Brats again too, if the Powers that Be haven't replaced me with a talking monkey, or Justin Bieber. (That damn kid is everywhere. Including on my daughter's bedroom wall. More on THAT soon.)

I'm very glad you're out there. Just so you know.

My Daughter and Superman

2011-02-24T11:44:00.000-08:00

My wife and daughter and I were hanging out in the living room recently, reading. Saucy had the latest New Yorker in front of her. The Mini-Pirate was reading Harry Potter. I was reading the latest issue of Entertainment Weekly, the magazine I go to in our household when I have a thirst for high quality, culturally affecting journalism. It's basically my Scientific American. On the cover was a picture of the young upstart actor who's apparently going to play Superman in the next reboot of recent reboot of the franchise. Some pretty boy I've never heard of.

Superman? I don't see it. I'm not judging.

I was halfway through a fascinating article about how Snookie is now dating Liam Neeson, and together they're planning to go feed orphans in Africa this summer with Bono.

My wife noticed the cover of my magazine and said to our daughter, "Hey, look--that's the guy who's going to be Superman in the next movie they make."

"Let me see," said the Mini-Pirate. I tilted the magazine up for her to see, while still reading about how Snookie, Neeson and Bono are tired of the paparazzi following them around the globe while they're engaging in their philanthropic efforts.

Mini-P gazed upon the picture of the actor on the magazine cover, appraising him for a moment, and then said, "Whoa, he's hot."

And then my head exploded.

Too soon too soon too soon too soon too soon.

I get that kids have childhood crushes. Believe you me. Loyal readers might remember the first time Mini-P tried to give me an immediate embolism the first time she informed that she was getting married. The embolism was avoided, though, when she explained that her intended groom was Aquaman. I sighed with relief, since that wasn't so much her first engagement as her first crush on a gay guy. (You know it's true -- embrace yourself, A-Man.)

Her second crush was more intense. Perhaps you recall? The time she and I were watching Raiders of the Lost Ark, and Mini-P screamed in lovesick delight when she realized she was in love with (young) Harrison Ford? That infatuation lingered for a while. It's actually still going on. We're still not allowed to say "Han Solo" around her, because she says it makes her fall in love with him all over again. (Although sometimes we still tease her by sneaking up behind and whispering, "That's no moon. That's a space station.")

And of course that crush, albeit way more intense was still pretty cute. And easy to nip, if necessary -- I'll just show her a recent photo of Indy, circa that horrible, franchise-murdering Crystal Skulls movie. That oughta put the ol' kibosh on.

This little moment in the living room, however, was different. First of all, the kid has never called someone "hot" before. Nary a Jonas brother has provoked that from her. She has proven so far to be immune to Bieber Fever. And second all, she never did so while lounging in a chair, one leg dangling over the chair arm, looking for all intents and purposes like a bored, lackadaisical...

...teenager.

See, she wasn't supposed to respond to the new Superman by casually assessing him and calling him "hot." She was supposed to light up and say, WOW! There's gonna be another Superman movie? That's awesome! Daddy we have to go see it! I wonder who'll be the bad guy maybe Lex Luthor or General Zod maybe he'll go to the Phantom Zone and maybe there will be Kryptonite I totally want be Supergirl for Halloween next year if I had a dog I'd name him Krypto the Superdog like what I read in my Superman book is there a real city named Metropolis cuz I wanna go there and hey lets play a game where I'm Supergirl and Daddy you can be Superman and Mommy is Lois Lane and blabbity blabbity bloopy blop bleep yaddah yaddah........

Because she's nine.

No one told me "nine" is actually "thirteen."

Seriously, you guys. Someone should've told me.

The Homework Enforcer

2011-02-18T06:23:00.000-08:00

Mini-Pirate and my SaucyWench wife are sitting upstairs in the kid's room, when I get home from my Sunday morning run. I poke my head in, and see that they're hanging out, doing something creative with little squares of fabric -- something related to Barbie fashion. I enter the room and and plop down beside them. It's nice watching them enjoy a little morning leisure time because in a little while, as Saucy and I have previously agreed, Mini-P is going to have to stop playing, go downstairs, sit at the dining room table, and do some actual homework.

She has a Social Studies project to finish, a project about our town's oldest Spanish mission. All 4th graders in our public school district have to do it. The project requires the kids, at their various schools, to choose one of California's missions and two do things: first, they must create a visual replica of it (model made of sugar cubes, photos on posterboard, shoebox diorama, etc.). That's the fun part. But the second part of the project requires them to... wait for it...

Write a 2 page report.

I know. Gasp. Cry. Whimper. Wilt.

My wife has already helped Mini-P do a ton of the work for this, particularly with the report part. I feel a little bad about that since I am, by trade, a bona fide Writing Teacher. Complete with a special I.D. badge. And a decoder ring. And a cool cape that I wear for when I want to jump across rooftops at night fighting grammar crime. That makes me a Resource for this sort of thing, no? Helping with the report part of the project should be my responsibility.

Saucy and I talked about it earlier this morning and agreed: since the kid has completed an outline of what to say in her report, I can now step in and ~~be the Enforcer~~ gently encourage her to take the steps necessary to cross the finish line by actually writing out the report itself, one painstaking paragraph at a time.

So. The three of us are sitting there in Mini-P's room, me watching as the girls pin pieces of cloth to a tiny Barbie mannequin. They're having such a nice time, playing on a square of sunlit carpet together. I really hate to bring it all crashing down. But Saucy and I agreed that when I got back from my run, that would be the time to transition into homework mode. So sad, really.

Oh well. Screw that. It's work time. And I shall make it happen. For I am The Enforcer.

Me: Hey, kiddo? In a little when you and Mommy are done, you and I will sit down and get that mission report going, ok?

Mini-P: (not even bothering to look up from her fabric pieces) Awww.

Let me stop right here and say that I know that Awww. I've heard it many times, and not just from her. I hear it from my college students every time I assign a writing task. Every. Time. They're legal adults. And they still say Awww. It's like, they're surprised when I assign an actual WRITING assignment in our WRITING class, every time.

I actually spend a lot of time imagining what my daughter will be like as a college student. Will she be like the people I teach everyday? Will she be a princess with a bedazzled cell phone that she'll refuse to put away when class starts? Will she sleep her way through classes and then look irritated when the teacher busts her for it? Will she email her teacher the night before a big project is due to ask if it's required that she use "paragraph form" in her research paper? Will she walk into her writing professor's office, having missed an important deadline, and burst into tears in front of him, saying that she's really sorry about not having her paper done on time but, you see, pledging a sorority is just soooooo stressful and time-consuming that she just couldn't concentrate, and couldn't he give her some kind of extra credit to make up for everything? Please oh please oh please, Professor?

I'll do whatever it takes to keep her from becoming any of those students. Whatever. It. Takes. And the best way I can think of is to teach responsible habits now through consistent brainwashing. And that means being firm when it's time to put away the fabric squares and writing Social Studies report. Trust me, I know how to handle procrastinators.

Me: Hey, now. There's no reason to go Awwww. It'll be easy. You've already done a ton of the work already, right? You did your research, you brainstormed what you wanted to say, and you and Mommy even made an outline

Mini-P (looking up from her fabric, brow furrowed): I know, but....

Me: We don't have to do it right now. I said in a little while. We just can't put it off until the last minute.

Mini-P: I know, that's not what I was--

Me: Because putting things off until the last minute is called what?

Mini-P (deadpan): "Procrastinating."

Me: Right. Procrastinating. And who are the people always drive Daddy crazy when they procrastinate after I ask them to do things?

Mini-P: "College Students."

Me: And what are college students, again?

Mini-P: "A plague upon our land."

Me: Exactly. So no procrastinating today, ok? You don't want to be like my students.

(Saucy is lying low, humming gently to herself, working on a fetching barbie ball gown in plaid. She's enjoying this.)

Mini-P: I wasn't going to procrastinate. That's not what's wrong.

Me: So what's wrong?

Mini-P: Why can't Mommy help me with the writing part instead of you?

Me: You don't want my help? I'm a bonafide Writing Teacher, you know. You have an actually Someone Who Knows Stuff About Writing Essays right here in your very own house.

Mini-P: I know.

Me: I know things about writing reports. Important things. Secret things that Mommy doesn't know.

Saucy tries her best not to snort.

Mini-P: I know, already.

Me: So what's the problem?

Mini-P: I know you're a writing teacher. But Mommy's smart.

Ouch.

Me: Well, that's true. Mommy is very smart.

Mini-P: And also she's not mean during homework time.

Yikes.

Me: Hey. I'm not mean... I'm just focused on you getting it done correctly.

Mini-P: It's probably because you're a teacher. Sometimes teachers have to be mean.

Yes. That is true. Sometimes, teacher have to be mean.

Mini-P: It's ok, Daddy. We're almost done here. I'll let you know when I'm ready to get started on the report.

Me: I... you... um... er... ok.

Someone just learned a valuable lesson here, but I'm not sure who.

Pirate vs. Thin Mint (Diabolical Cookie of The Beast)

2011-02-10T05:00:00.000-08:00

Here's how it always goes.

I come home from a brisk, refreshing morning workout. Burning those calories, working that core, doing all those things that infomercials tell me to do. I arrive home from the gym feeling healthy and energized. And virtuous, and self-congratulatory. Good job, Pirate. You can walk by everyone else today and hold your head high and think about how healthy healthy healthy you are, and how sad it is that all those other people are sad, saggy and sloth-like.

I set my gym bag down just inside the front door, and think for a moment.

Hmm. I'm hungry.

I could use a healthy snack. Something appropriate for a post-workout situation. I need to replenish some of those what-do-you-call-em, electrolytes? Endorphins? Dilithium crystals? I should have an apple. Or one of those great protein bars that taste like a combination of calcium and ass.

Hey... what's that big box over there on the table?

Well, what do you know. It's a carton of Girl Scout cookies. Oh yea, that's right. My daughter's a scout. And a few days ago, she and my wife filled a wagon with cookie boxes and peddled them around the neighborhood. (If you don't have a Girl Scout in your house, the way it works is, before you start selling, you back your car up to the the Super Magic Cookie Warehouse and they fill your trunk with all the cookies you're supposed to sell up front. The idea is that you'll sell more if you can deliver the product immediately upon purchase, rather than collect orders and deliver them later when the shipment arrives.)

I peek into the open box. Why, look at that. I guess Saucy and Mini-Pirate didn't sell all the boxes over the weekend. There appears to be an unpurchased box of Thin Mints left.

Intriguing.

You know, there's no rule saying parents aren't allowed to eat any of the cookies themselves. You can -- you just have to pay for them. And each box can't be that much, right? A few bucks? Hell, that's no big thang. What kind of miser would I be if I wasn't willing to donate a few paltry dollars to an organization that helps nurture and mentor young girls to be the Leaders of Tomorrow?

Well. Clearly, I'd be a selfish ass if I wasn't willing to contribute something.

I open the box of Thin Mints. For the cause.

Each box of Thin Mints contains two cellophane-wrapped columns of 16 cookies each.

I just worked out. I lifted heavy things and put them down again -- like a bunch of times in a row. Do I not deserve one Thin Mint?

Sure I do. And so I open one column, pluck out one cookie: thin, elegant, savory. I eat it carefully, and I enjoy it to the fullest: the chocolate coating, the crisp break of the minty cookie that crumbles into my mouth. Delicious. And I'm pretty sure there's a hearty helping of electrolytes in a Thin Mint. I think I read an article about that.

Mm. Very good. A good snack. Well done. Ok then.

I start to wrap up the tower of cookies and put it back in the box with its twin, when it occurs to me that these individual Thin Mints are really very thin. Super thin. Like, they're barely even a whole cookie. In fact, it would probably take three Thin Mints to equal one regular-sized cookie. Which means if I eat two more, I'm really only finishing up one cookie, right?

I eat two more.

Delicious. My fingers have faint chocolately smudges on them. Which I will wash off. After I have one more cookie.

Did I say one more? I meant three more. That's so funny how that happens.

Within two minutes, half of the first cookie column is gone. And it occurs to me as I look at the remaining half, that it's just silly to put half a column back in the box. If you're going to have a snack, have a snack, am I right? And I ate those first eight Thin Mints so quickly that I probably burned as many calories as I would've gained eating them in the first place. PLUS, I'm still sort of sweaty from working out, which means my body's metabolism is still clicking at a higher, post-exercise pace for a few more minutes anyway. That's not an opportunity one should squander.

A few minutes later, I look down at an empty cellophane wrapper and realize I've just eaten one whole column of Thin Mints. That's 16 of them. Wow. That was fast. How'd that happen?

You know what's lame? leaving a box of cookies with one remaining column rattling around in it. Who does that? I mean, it makes no sense.

Fifteen more minutes pass. That's when I realize I've just eaten an entire box of Thin Mints. 32 cookies in less time than it takes to watch a sitcom. 32 is 32, even if they're pretty thin.

Urp. I'm not proud of what just happened. I definitely just undid whatever good might otherwise have come from my morning workout. Plus I don't feel so good. My stomach is too full, and not with a bounty of nutrients and electrolytes. I'm feeling jittery, weighed down, and my teeth are black with crumbs. I'm shaking. I think I might have the Cookie Madness.

But it was for a good cause, I try to remind myself shakily. I have to remember to put some money in Mini-P's cookie envelope. I'm paying for her and her fellow scouts to do something awesome someday, I know -- maybe this money will help them go to space camp. I tell myself I just did a good thing.

I go to fetch some money from my wallet when I pass by that open carton again.

Hey, that wasn't the last box of Thin Mints at all....

God help me.

What It's Like for an Asshole.

2011-02-02T11:50:00.000-08:00

It's not easy being an asshole. If you, like me, tend to be one, you know it's exhausting. And not as emotional rewarding as others might think.

What a regular person sees:

What an asshole sees:

If you are an asshole, you know that being one takes a lot out of you, with very little payback. So much so that maybe you might've recently thought, "Say, perhaps life might be easier and less stressful if I didn't spend so much time being such an asshole to the people around me."

Of course, you're a realist. You know you probably can't just stop being one completely. After all, you've been an asshole for what, 40 years now? So it's not like you can just stop. You've spent decades standing in supermarket lines behind people who choose to pay for groceries with a check but refuse to get out their checkbook until they're standing in front of the cashier, where they write out their payment with slooooooow, painstaking care for their penmanship. You've tapped your foot at them.

You've gotten snippy and assholish with baristas across the city who take forever to pour you one cup of coffee. With people who take too much time at the light. You've actually snapped at McDonald's employees for getting your order wrong.

And let's not talk about what you're like when you drive. Let's not even try to tug on that thread.

Inevitably, there comes day when every asshole wake up and says, "You know, maybe today could be the day I decide to exhibit a little more patience with the world! A famous person once said that showing a little bit of grace to one's fellow man costs nothing. Today could be the day that I take that idea to heart. I could start putting myself in the shoes of others, and not get so pissy with them just because their world doesn't revolve around me, a person they don't even know. Today could be a New Leaf Day! Goodbye Asshole, hello Kinder, Gentler Soul!"

And you feel great! You have this great plan! This No More Assholery Plan! You love this plan! With this plan, you could experience what all those Up with People people always sing about!

That was me earlier today. I'd had a slightly rough morning rushing around the house as my wife, daughter and I were all getting ready to head out to work/school. I wasn't being a full-blown asshole, but I could feel myself working my way up to it. I had that foreboding feeling. If you're an asshole, you know what I'm talking about -- that feeling that you're about to morph into an asshole at any minute, and you can't do anything about it. It's like The Hulk, only not awesome.

So as my daughter and I left the house, I checked myself and made the big decision not to be an asshole today. As the Mini-Pirate and I buckled ourselves into the car, I decided that I didn't have to be an asshole if I didn't want to be. I didn't have to get all pissed and impatient and jerky with people who might cut me off, or take the last bagel, or show up late for a meeting. Not if I didn't want to. I was the boss of me.

It felt good. I felt empowered. It was 7:30 a.m., and I'd not only taken command of my day, but I quite possibly kickstarted a Life Change. Good for me!

We pulled out of the driveway.

At 7:32 a.m., we turned the corner onto a street that's been crowded with some sort of re-construction off and on for the last six months. Just as I was about to drive down the street, a construction guy set up a Detour sign right in front of us. He pointed at me, then jerked his thumb towards a left turn he wanted me to take to get, a circuitous path out of the neighborhood. I've seen him before. He had the ethos of someone who clearly thinks he's in charge of the neighborhood, a bored king who thinks his subjects are idiots.

I looked him in the eye, revved the engine, zoomed around the sign he was setting up, and drove straight down the street he wanted me to avoid, ignoring his sign and his gestured instruction. Irritated.

Oh. And slowed down just enough to make sure he'd see me flipping him off. For doing his job.

Daughter was in the backseat reading. She didn't see. This time.

7:32 a.m.

(Sigh.)

Blog awards are like syphilis.

2011-01-29T08:17:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-25T07:27:00.000-08:00

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.

Happy Anniversary, Saucy. How does a nice blog post sound as a present?

2011-01-22T09:07:00.000-08:00

I wanted to share just a few quick thoughts this weekend. See, it's Saucy's and my 11th anniversary.

Eleventh.

Big-time #11.

The big One-One.

The Steel Anniversary.

Seriously, I looked it up. 11 is steel. If I were a traditional sort of fellow, I'm not quite sure where I'd go with this. Maybe a nice, romantic dinner at a refinery? A bouquet of ball bearings? A seductive evening that involves me dressing up as Remington Steele, and wooing Saucy with a particularly dashing accent?

I must confess, we don't actually have any real plans today. Steel-related or otherwise.

***

I'm not a man who forgets anniversaries, I swear. I'm no Ricky Ricardo, who forgets the magical date until Lucy demands that he remember, then tries to sneak a look at the inside of his own wedding ring to get a glimpse of the date inscribed there, only to get busted by Lucy, who then cries and Waaaaaaaaaaahs until he surprises her by singing a romantic ballad at the Club Babalu that night in front of a teary audience. (Those TV husbands. They do seem to have the uncanny ability to pull their asses out of the fire, do they not?)

But Saucy and I never got it together to make plans this weekend. Neither one of us feel bad about that, really. We've been busy and stressed lately. Plus tired.

And I mean, come on. Once you hit that ten-year milestone, shouldn't you get to relax a little? Rest on your triumph of a full decade of matrimony? Maybe take it easy on the pressure for gifts and gestures for a little while? Be given a free pass for one year, at least? Don't you think? Maybe?

What do you mean, why do I sound so defensive and guilty? You shut up.

Fine. I know what you're thinking. "Nice job, Pirate Asshat. It's your job to make your wife feel special on your anniversary. Even if she says she doesn't want to do anything to celebrate, even if she says she's 'perfectly happy staying in.' Doesn't matter. If you don't do something nice, you're going to set Husband-hood back decades. Do you want to do that? Do you want to be the poster boy for BAD SPOUSES everywhere? If not, then you better break out some bonga drums, warm up the pipes and get ready to sing a nice Cuban Apology Song at the club tonight."

You're right, you're right. I know. I'll work on something.

***

Last year, I wrote about how I proposed to Saucy. That is to say, how I super-fake-out didn't propose to her. TWICE. Making it all the more impressive that she finally said yes when I actually did it right. It's pretty ridiculous. Here's what the critics have said about this post:

"Surreal."
"Tragi-comic on a Stooge-like level."
"What are you, some sort of idiot?"
"Dude, you're so freaking lucky that woman said yes when she did."

You can read that post here. Just don't give me any more crap about it.

***

Here's a picture from our wedding reception. There we are, eleven years ago. Pre-kid, pre-life, pre-hair loss:

Here's the silent conversation that was taking place between us as this shot was taken:

Me: You're so beautiful. I'm so lucky.
Her: Are they almost done taking pictures?
Me: In a minute. I love you.
Her: You know I hate having my picture taken.
Me: Just hush and be a bride, ok? Did I mention I love you?
Her: I love you too. God, will they stop with the pictures already? I've never had to smile for four hours without a break before. If I have to do this much longer, I'll either pass out or kill somebody with a butter knife.
Me: I know. But you look amazing.
Her: Ok. That's enough out of you, Mr. Spiffy Tux Man.
Me: In eleven years, I'm so gonna post this picture on a blog to show off how hot you are.
Her: You BETTER NOT. If you do, I'm leaving you.
Me: Whatever, big talker. Ok, I think they're almost done taking the pictures.
Her: Finally. My face hurts.
Me: Still love you, even though you're ridiculous.
Her: Ditto.
Me: Let's go to Hawaii.
Her: Hell yea.

And then we smooched it up real nice.

Happy Anniversary, Saucy.

You're still my girl.

CHICKS ROCK.

2011-01-19T07:07:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-14T10:44:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-10T05:00:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-01-06T07:19:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-01-03T07:09:00.000-08:00

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.

New Year's Day: Deep Breath

2011-01-01T16:03:00.000-08:00

Taken January 1st, 2011, at 3:00 p.m.:

Clearly, 2010 was exhausting for everyone.

Saucy and I both like New Year's Day much more than the eve before. The Eve is about drinking a lot and getting loud and raucous, and pretending that the universe gives a shit about an imaginary page-turn that takes place at the stroke of midnight. We went out with some friends, drank some champagne, toasted, watched the ball drop, smooched it up, and then went home.

Then this morning, New Year's Day, we went to the beach. It's been a tradition of ours since the Mini-Pirate was a baby: we drive up to La Jolla Shores, we walk around on cold, packed sand, look up at an impossibly blue sky as it dissolves at the ocean's horizon, laugh as our daughter dances in the shallows...

... and we breathe deep.

This year, we tell each other. This year we will achieve some of the happiness that we're so convinced we deserve. We will remind ourselves that we're not pawns in some sadistic game of chess played among titans. We are the ones driving.

Saucy and I both share the belief that resolutions are for the naive, and since we hate feeling like hypocrites in February, we don't do a lot of preening or posturing about all the amazing things we're going to (not) accomplish this year.

We do, however, appreciate the idea of a good, cleansing breath -- and this is how we achieve it every year: the salt air scrubbing our faces, the slap of the waves against our shoes, the brace of cold air filling our lungs and getting inside our blood cells -- it's a deep-cleansing exfoliation for the soul.

The gloss of New Year's Day will wear off in a few weeks. We know this. The shiny brass of 2011 will start looking dull and green soon, and we'll reestablish routines again as the year settles into its grooves.

But for now: we stop, and we breathe.

Happy 2011, crew members. I want nothing but good things for you this year. If you had a great 2010, I wish you even more of the same. If you had a crappy one, than I say join me as we grab this year by the throat and shake hard.

Your pal,
The Didactic Pirate

2010: The Year in Pirate

2010-12-30T09:18:00.000-08:00

And... we're back.

Like a lot of bloggifiers, I took a week off for holiday merriment. And when I say "merriment," I mean heavy drinking.

I hope you had a good Christmakwanzukkha. Our was fine. I didn't do a lot of Yuletide posting this month, mainly because I just didn't have a lot to say about the season. I'm not a huge Christmas fan anymore, so I mostly just kept my head down throughout the whole extravaganza. I did, however, enjoy reading holiday posts on several of my favorite blogs, as well as great stuff by my compatriots at DadCentric and Culture Brats.

All good. But I'm ready to put the holiday behind me. In fact, I'm all set to put 2010 in my rear view mirror and hit the gas. Not that nothing good happened. This year had a fair share of crap baked into it, but there was some good stuff too. The handy thing about maintaining a personal blog is that you can actually go back and see what you did throughout the year, see what you felt was worth documenting at the time, and reflect on the whole hot mess.

Of course, you have to make sure you look past your own creative spin when you do so. Most of the blogs I follow are written by great storytellers. They embrace the part of blogging that we all love: turning our messy lives into tidy chapters and essays. We take our day-to-day-interactions and knead them into something with a narrative structure: there's a premise, rising suspense, a climax, all the good literary devices. We try to find Funny in events that maybe weren't so amusing at the time. Plus drama. We bloggers love good drama.

And best of all, we get to place ourselves at the white-hot center of our little pocket universes. Which means we get to portray ourselves any damn way we want: in some posts we're the Hero, in others we're the Victim, and every so often, we decide to be the Bad Guy.

And then sometimes we don't realize exactly how we do illustrate ourselves until we go back and read later.

When I read over past posts of mine, I seem to present myself in one of three ways:

1. The Village Idiot

I know such a portrayal is not entirely accurate. I don't live in a village.

In several of my posts from 2010, I illustrated myself as the dumbest guy in the room, despite the fact that I'm a teacher with one degree more than I need behind my name. This is because I do feel that way a lot of the time in real life. I frequently assume The Idiot Stance when I'm around other people, selling myself as your basic good-natured dumbfuck as a result.

People who know me (*sheepish wave at wife*) call me on it. A friend of mine once said it was my default shtick:

"You do it all the time," he said. "You expend a lot of energy in social situations claiming that you're a know-nothing moron. It's like a pre-emptive defense mechanism."

"Duuurrrfff?" I replied at the time, looking up from my drool cup and trying to keep my dunce cap from toppling off. We would've discussed it further, but I was distracted by my toes.

2. The Cranky Old Man

When I go back and read some posts, I swear I sound like I'm 90-years-old. I'm actually 40. I don't know how this particular ethos surfaced. Whether it's about dealing with "young people" today, or grousing about current music, there have been several posts where you'd think I wrote them while standing on my front porch in a bathrobe, black socks and slippers, grumbling at the world while shaking my fist in the air and clamping my teeth down to keep my yellow dentures from slipping out.

"Do you think I act older than I actually am?" I asked Saucy recently.

"Not at all," she soothed while tucking my Snuggy around my legs and giving me my camomile tea and rheumatism medicine, "Now stopping fretting and tell me another story about the Depression."

3. The Bad Cop

And then there are the posts about my daughter or my students where I tend to present myself as Terminator McBadass: a hardcore ass-kicker who wields his power with unholy, unstoppable fury. I talk the BIG talk about making foes cower. I say my day wasn't productive unless I made at least three students cry. Is that portrayal even remotely true, you ask?

Yes. Yes that one is actually completely and totally true. I am a pirate, after all. A ten-foot-tall, cyborg pirate enforcer with laser eyes. So don't piss me off. I will eat your babies.

I think I'm getting a little off-track. Sorry. All I really want to do here is link up to a few posts from the past year that highlight the big events that we on the Didactic Pirate Ship experienced over the last 12 months. For example:

The time my daughter and I considered how social gender rules apply to Godzilla.

The time I had to fight The Walking Dead in my 8:00 am class.

The time I killed four elderly people with a single assignment deadline.

The time I couldn't keep up with that goddamn twenty-year-old.

The time Mini-Pirate went from battling knights to crushing on them.

The time we all wondered why Saucy stays with me.

The time Mini-Pirate fell in love with the guy who made the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs.

The time I was "the meanest Daddy of all the Daddies in the Land."

The time I totally could've solved that dead animal problem on my own.

Not to mention the time Saucy and I celebrated our 10-year wedding anniversary. Or the time we sold our house. Or the whole Movember ordeal.

Turns out this year made for some pretty ok storytelling. Good times, 2010. Thanks for the memories. Now get the hell off my lawn.

Scroogin' It Up for the Holidays

2010-12-23T08:12:00.000-08:00

When I was seven, I only wanted one thing for Christmas:

A Millennium Falcon. The one that would accommodate my fleet of action figures, with the working swivel cannons and retractable landing gear, and secret cargo hold for stashing contraband in the event one was boarded by Imperial guards. It was the end all, be all of my existence at the time. If it hadn't shown up under the tree, I'm sure that Christmas would've been ruined for me forever. But Santa came through, despite the fact that I was certainly on the Naughty List that year. Like most years.

My daughter never expresses the desire for any one big present for Christmas. If you ask her what she wants, she never has an answer. She just gets excited by the whole idea of gifts showing up on Christmas morning, as if by magic.

And yet she hasn’t believed in Santa Claus for at least two years.

“Tell me the truth,” she says to me. “You and Mommy are Santa, right?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say. “But if I were you, I'd keep your heretical beliefs to yourself.”

“Why? And what’s helvetica beliefs?”

“If Santa finds out you don’t believe… I’m just saying. He doesn’t give gifts to fickle, jaded children.”

Cue my daughter’s eye rolling. “Fine,” she says in an exaggerated tone, “I totally believe in Santa.” And then she leaves.

She’s a cynic. That’s ok. I am too. In my post-Millennium Falcon years, I’ve really grown to dislike Christmas. It’s a big, bombastic tribute to fanatical consumerism. Plus, picking out presents for other people makes me tense.

It's not just Gift Stress that's made me dislike Christmas, though. For the last few years, I've had a hard time evoking any shred of Christmas spirit. Maybe it's just part of getting older, but all the sentiment that drenches the holidays just seems thin and forced to me. In short, I've become pretty Grinchtastic this time of year. I'm not proud of this, but there it is.

The good news is that even though I've felt this way about the holidays for a while, things always come together right at the last minute. By the time we get to ~~Defcon One~~ Christmas Eve, I somehow find some holiday spirit that turns it around for me, enabling me to appreciate this time of year.

It's December 23rd, and I'm not quite there yet. But I have to admit that there are a few things that do help:

Living in a place where I can see this at dusk in December.

Having one of these in the house, making our living room smell like Colorado.

Being married to Saucy.

Ok, this isn't actually a picture of my wife. But Saucy always (wrongly) thinks she looks horrible
in every picture I take of her, so we're going with a stand-in.
I've always thought Saucy and Scully looked a lot alike.

And this little badass plays a small role too.

So it's all good, really. I fully expect the Christmas spirit to smack me between the eyes any minute.

Although a new Millennium Falcon with my name on it under the tree certainly wouldn't hurt.

Happy, happy holidays to you, stout-hearted crew members. You are noble and good. If the world was a cafeteria and there was a Cool Kids' Table, you'd all be sitting at it. I'm grateful you let me hang out with you.

P.S. My gift to you this year? A couple of links:

1. The annual Gift Guide for Dads is up over at DadCentric. Haven't bought the patriarch in your house the perfect present yet? Shame on you. Go now. (Be warned that I went full on, balls-to-the-wall Geek for my personal picks.)

2. Culture Brats presents 100 hours of Chrismupchuckkhah: a Christmas song every half hour until the December 26th. Some well-known, some really obscure. All awesome. And none of that Bing Crosby bullshit either.

Ladies' Choice: How to Give Your Wife the Perfect Birthday

2010-12-18T13:32:00.000-08:00

Before this post begins, I want to say Hi to the newest Didactic Crew members. Over the last couple of weeks, I've been fortunate enough to gain several new followers, for which I'm all grateful and stuff. I'm glad you're here. And now that you are here, you should know that you hold my ego and entire sense of self-worth in your hands. I assume you're cool with that.

And now back to our post.

*

This is Saucy Wench's birthday weekend. As in the past, I've arranged for a babysitter to come in and keep up the Child Maintenance while she and I go on a date. She gets to decide what we do: Dinner at a plush restaurant overlooking the Pacific? A lavish night at the theatre? An evening spent visiting our city's swankiest nightclub venues? The sky's the limit, because you know what? She's my girl. Whatever she wants, she gets. Her birthday, her choice. In planning something for us to do, her interests should obviously come before before mine, right? Her birthday shouldn't be about me. It should be about her.

Obviously.

To prove it, here's the conversation we had yesterday about her birthday plans:

Me: Ok, I got our sitter set up for Sunday.

Saucy:  Excellent.

Me: So what's your preference? Anything you want to do, Babe. The world is your oyster, from-1:00-p.m-to-5:00-p.m.-on-Sunday-afternoon-and-we-can't-come-back-any-later-than-that-because-babysitters-cost-money-and-I-don't-want-to-pay-for-an-extra-hour-but-seriously-anything-you-want-to-do-because-you're-the-best.

Saucy: Um. Well... let's see. Anything I want to do? For real this time?

Me: Abso-blooming-lutely. Anything you want. It's your day. And what do you mean "this time?"

Saucy:  Nothing. Let's see...anything I want... wow. (Her face suddenly lights up) Ooh, I know! There's this great exhibit going on at the art museum right now, celebrating the artistry of Early American ceramic doorknobs. I've really been wanting to see it! Let's do that!

Me:

Saucy: No, really -- I hear it's really interesting. I think it would be totally fun.  Don't you think so?

Me: Sure. You know, if that's what you really want. I mean, you chose that awfully quickly. You sure that's what you want to do? Because we can do anything you want. Anything.

Saucy:  Well... I guess we don't have to see the exhibit this weekend. It's going to be around for a while. Let's see, what else could we... Oh! I just read in the paper that the largest Arts and Crafts Fair in the state is happening in North County last weekend! And this year's theme is Weaving! Apparently, they have the world's biggest loom on display! I'd love to see that!

Me:

Saucy: ..... on account of how it's my birthday and stuff. Like how you said.

Me:

Saucy: Or we could... go see a movie, I guess.

Me (sitting up straighter): Hey! A movie! Now that sounds like a great idea! Good thinking! That'll be fun! We haven't seen a movie together in forever! A movie for you on your birthday! I happen to have Fandango booted up right here on my computer. Let's look and see what's playing. Is there anything in particular you want to see? Your birthday, your choice.

Saucy (Eyebrow of Skepticism lifting): My choice?

Me: Of course, Super Awesome Birthday Girl.

Saucy: Well in that case, I just read a review about a movie I really want to see.

Me:  Excellent! Which one? (Please say Tron please say Tron please say Tron please say Tron please say Tron)

Saucy: It's about this Yugoslavian ballet dancer who's smuggled out of her country in a crate, and then she adopts orphans and teaches them to read.

Me:

Saucy: I hear it's really good. It's got Colin Firth and subtitles.

Me:

Saucy: You said, my birthday, my choice.

Me: And I meant it, Heart of my Heart. We can.... totally go see the Yugoslavian ballet movie.

Saucy: .... or not.

Me: No, no, it's fine. It's your birthday, Honey. This should be about what you want. It's your day to put your needs in front of everyone else's. Apparently.

Saucy (audible sigh): Or we could go and see Tron.

Me: Hey! There's a thought! Tron! Are you sure? I mean, is that a movie you want to see?

Saucy: Sure.

Me: Really? You know, I think you'll really enjoy it. I heard it was really good.

Saucy: Fine.

Me: Like I think it got a ton of great reviews.

Saucy: Whatever.

Me: I read somewhere that Colin Firth has a cameo, actually.

Saucy: Right.

Me: Well, there we go! Decision made! A cool birthday movie date for you! And you're sure that's what you want to do?

Saucy: Yes.

Me: Cool! You know what's so funny? I had a feeling you'd want to see that, so I actually bought tickets for us in advance. It's like I just knew that would be what you wanted.

Saucy: Wow. It's as if we're one mind. (Gets up and leaves the room)

Me (calling after her):  Total soulmates!

Saucy: Right.

Me: Happy birthday, Baby!

Manly Man Vs. The Rotting Carcass

2010-12-13T07:08:00.000-08:00

About six weeks ago, Saucy and I started to notice a smell in the house. We had no idea what it was.

Saucy: Seriously. What is that?

Me: It smells like old diapers.

Saucy: It’s not diapers.

Me: I swear it smells exactly like when we used to have the Diaper Genie and it got full.

Saucy: Do you mean when I’d ask you to empty the Genie in the trash, and you’d say sure, and then I’d ask you three more times and a week later you’d get around to doing it once the house finally smelled like one giant used diaper?

Me: That’s not relevant. But yes, that’s what the smell is.

Saucy: We don’t have any diapers in the house.

Which was true. Whatever the smell was, it was somewhere on the second story, and it was pervasive. Total mystery. I was convinced it was diaper-related, despite the fact that we haven’t bought a diaper for our daughter in seven years. My main working theories ranged from an old wadded-up diaper hidden somewhere by the previous tenants, to the spirit of a unearthly demon baby who used phantom stinky smells to drive out residents.

I presented all my theories to Saucy who considered them thoughtfully for .856 seconds before rejecting them. Then she presented an alternative idea which was infinitely more plausible:

Dead animal.

Which was the obvious answer. A couple weeks earlier, we’d actually heard a noise in the middle of the night that we now realized was some sort of critter who’d possibly fallen or sprung some old trap while foraging within the walls, and was now dead and rotting.

Well. Merry Damn Christmas. No wonder I haven’t been in the holiday spirit this season. I’ve been living in a pungent haze of decomposing carcass.

Once we realized what the deal was, we felt foolish that it took us so long to figure it out. But I saw it as a problem that I could absolutely handle. I’ve had plenty of experience dealing with pests. We’re no strangers to invading rodents; our previous house was perched on the lip of a canyon, so we got our fair share of mice and rats sneaking in. When we’d see something furry dart under a cabinet, Saucy would suddenly go all Girl (complete with a dainty “Eek!”), and I would step up and Deal With The Situation.

Which, of course, made me feel all awesome and stuff, with an extra helping of Y Chromosome.

This isn't me. This is a picture of UFC fighter Forrest Griffin.
But this is exactly what I looked like when I killed mice in our old house.

My method for removing mice had two steps: First, I’d lay a strategically placed sticky trap to catch and immobilize the creature. Then, once I had little guy stuck and scrabbling, I employed a swift downward motion with my Complete Works of Chaucer (the heaviest book I own). I’m not saying it was the most humane. But it was quick. It’s a really big book. I wielded it like a gladiator. I was the Manly Man who struck vermin down with unholy fury.

So, when Saucy and I realized we had a dead something in our walls, I assumed I’d just be awesome and handle it. Whatever was in there was already dead, so I wouldn’t even need my Chaucer. I just needed to extract the thing. And to make things even easier, Saucy discovered that we could access the inner wall space in question by removing some drawers from a built-in hall closet. With a little luck, the corpse would be within arm’s reach! I could just grab a broom and a garbage bag, bang around a bit, and voila! No more smelly carcass! And after saving the day, I’d still get to wear my Man Crown for the rest of the day. And wave my Man Sceptre around proudly while booming, “OVER ALL THIS, I RULE.”

But Saucy said no. No, I could not get it myself.

Me: But it might be totally easy.

Saucy: You’re not digging around between the walls. Dead rat means old feces. Not healthy. You could breathe in stuff.

Me: I’ll hold my breath.

Saucy: There could be contaminants.

Me: But I’m Superman.

Saucy: You could get hantavirus.

Me: Santa’s virus?

Saucy: Hantavirus.

Me: What’s that?

Saucy: Seriously?

Well, excuse me for not knowing what exactly Fanta virus was. So I Googled it. The first thing I learned is that Hantavirus is in fact one word. Beyond that, I learned that it’s a gnarly airborn virus that you can from breathing in particles from rat and mouse corpses and feces and stuff. You can presumably also get it by rubbing a rodent on your face, or possibly French kissing one. Symptoms include dry coughing, vomiting, fever, headache, and malaise. (Seriously. Malaise is on the list. Which makes me wonder if maybe I’ve had the fucking hantavirus for the last decade of my life. But I digress.)

Oh, and on WebMD, it also says that possible complications from hantavirus include cardio-respiratory failure, kidney failure, and death.

Death? Gulp.

All that to say… me being the Big Save-the-Cheerleader-Save-the-World Man was probably not going to happen in this case. Saucy admonished me to call an expert.

Hmph.

Dolefully, I called a pest control company which sends its own Manly Men to deal with such matters. The guy on the phone, Eric, said he’d come over the next day to assess the situation. Over the phone, he explained that he’d probably have to drill a hole in the wall, use a special snaky camera to spot the animal, and wear a hazmat suit for extraction. It sounded both high-tech, and dangerous.

I asked if he might bring an extra hazmat suit for me to wear, in case he needed back-up. He said no.

He came over on Saturday. I was all ready to provide assistance for the extraction, in case he was overcome by the smell, or he broke a limb trying to reach back into the recesses of the house to get the rat corpse. Or if the corpse wasn’t a rat at all, but something larger. Like… a BOBCAT! A bobcat that wasn’t completely dead yet, and when Eric reached in to grab it, it would clamp its steel jaws around his arm and rip it off. Eric would definitely need help then. This was about to become very exciting.

Eric: Hi, I’m Eric from Pest Control.

Me: Eric! Welcome! Glad you’re here! This could be a tricky case.

Eric: It sounded pretty simple over the phone. You have a dead rat in the walls, right?

Me: I may have underestimated the situation. It might be a bobcat.

Eric: O… kay. Show me.

Me: I did some recon earlier. It looks like a real situation.

Eric: Probably not.

Me: I have rubber gloves. See?

Eric: That won’t be necessary.

I led Eric upstairs, and I pulled out the drawers out of our built-in closet that revealed an open space between the back walls. Eric shined his flashlight and…..

…THERE IT WAS.

Cute, furry carrier of global plague death.

A small, brown and white rat that had gotten caught in a long-forgotten trap left by the previous tenants. Right there, easily within arm’s reach.

Me (grabbing Eric’s arm and yanking him back to safety): Careful. There’s hantavirus.

Eric: I think we’re safe. But you can take a couple steps back, if you’re worried.

Me: Should we be wearing surgical masks?

Eric: Sir, please back up.

I watched from ten feet back as Eric whipped out a garbage bag, reached in, and swept the rat out, dropping it neatly in the bag.

Me: FOR GOD’S SAKE, MAN, BE CAREFUL.

Eric: Done.

Me: That’s…. what? You’re done?

Eric: That’ll be 200 bucks.

After Eric left, I went into my wife’s office to let her know that Eric and I had “handled the situation.”

Saucy: Is the rat gone?

Me: Damn right it’s gone. Eric and I took care of it.

Saucy: What did he say about the smell?

Me: He said we’ll be able to tell a big difference in less than an hour.

Saucy: Good. Glad that’s done.

Me: It was pretty touch-and-go there for a bit. But we got the job done.

Saucy: “You” did, eh?

Me: No need to thank us.

Saucy: Ok, then.

Me: It’s a good thing you didn’t watch. You probably wouldn’t have been able to handle it.

Saucy: I bet.

Me: I totally could’ve done it myself, by the way.

Saucy: No.

Me: I’m not afraid of Fanta virus.

Saucy: I know. You’re manly.

Me: THAT’S RIGHT.

We're back to Defcon 5. Situation: Stable. I’ll be wearing my Man Crown for the rest of the week, waving my Man Sceptre around to see if anyone notices.

**

P.S. In an rare act of Cosmic Blog Alignment, Kristine over at Wait in the Van has a mouse story of her own to tell. No lives were lost. You can read it here.

From my Inbox: One student's crusade against my cell phone policy

2010-12-08T05:00:00.000-08:00

Dear Professor T------,

I am writing this email to you in the hopes that you will not be offended, but I feel the need to express my unhappiness about one of your class policies after certain things happened in class today (I think you know what I am referring to). I am talking about your policy regarding cell phones in class. I understand that you do not like students to use them (you say it all the time!) but I find your policy to be WAY harsh and I am not just saying this because you yelled at me today for using mine. The fact is, I did not intend to use my phone during class but I received a very important text from my boyfriend about a personal matter that I needed to respond to right away because he and I going through a hard time right now. You need to understand that sometimes things happen and we have to respond because that is life. I know that rules are rules but I think you were very disrespectful of me when you spoke to me the way you did in front of the entire class in the way that you did. Before today you were of my favorite teachers here but after your this I am sorry but I will have to rethink that belief.

I hope you will reconsider your cell phone policy for other students who deserve to be respected and not ridiculed as you did with me today. We are paying a lot of money to go here and teachers like you do not make it easier.

Very Sincerely,

Brittany R--------

***

Dear Brittany,

Thanks for your email. Like all teachers, I'm always eager to receive feedback from students, whether their suggestions are about my curriculum, classroom policies or fashion choices. On behalf of teachers everywhere, I salute your directness and honesty.

You should know that my cell phone policy has gone through several adjustments over the past several years, based on my experience with students. You know, at first I didn't even have a policy about phones in my classes. Can you believe that? The idea that a student would allow his/her phone to ring during a class session, let alone use said phone, was unthinkable! And inconceivable! Surely, I thought, any decent person with a modicum of awareness of his/her surroundings knows better than to allow such a blatant disruption! We live in a civilized nation, do we not?

That was before I had a student allow her Kanye West ring tone to go off at full volume in the middle of a class. I was leading a discussion about the use of logical fallacies in famous political speeches. The ring tone was West's tour de force collaboration with Daft Punk entitled Stronger ("You know how long I been on ya/Since Prince was on Appollonia/Since OJ had Isotoners/Don't say that I never told ya"). Such an awesome song, right?

However: while the song is a true new millenium classic by a humble musical icon, it didn't contribute to our discourse that day. I was shocked that the student allowed her phone to go off. I was even more shocked when she answered the phone and proceeded to have a conversation with the caller about where they should go for lunch later. Right there in the middle of class. While I waited. With the vein in my forehead starting to throb in anger.

So the next semester, I added a cell phone policy to my syllabi.

At first, my policy was a gentle one. It read: "Please avoid letting cell phones go off in class, to minimize disruption." Very non-confrontational, I felt. I mean, I said please and everything.

But then I started noticing that my students were looking down into their laps frequently during class. At first I just thought those students were just oddly curious about their post-adolescent development, gazing down at themselves in wonder. After all, most Freshmen are in their late teens, possibly still learning about their bodies. Sure, it's inappropriate to stare intently into one's own groin in a classroom, but better than staring into the groin of one's neighbor, am I right?

And I realized that those same students who were staring downwards also seemed to be experiencing a strange neon glow originating from their laps and illuminating their faces. It concerned me: were they experiencing some sort of rapture? Were they actually aliens preparing to shed their human flesh shells and emerge as brilliantly lit, amorphous creatures like in the classic mid-80s film Cocoon?

I later discovered that, while students were technically adhering to my policy by not allowing their phones to make noise, they were instead texting, albeit silently, under their desks. And weren't smart enough to turn the brightness of their screen displays down.

I don't mind telling you that was a difficult day for me, Brittany.

Shocked, I was. Absolutely shocked and appalled that students would find such a devious way to use their phones in class. Because you see, fair Brittany, the real point here is that, when you're in class, you really should be focusing on that class' agenda, rather than texting friends about where to do for lunch, or what color nail polish will be appropriate for the party next weekend, or whether or not Josh was lying when he said never hooked up with Ashley during Winter Break, which is such a lie because everyone knows Ashley is such a total slut.

So I revised my policy again. It read: "Please do not allow your cell phone to disrupt class proceedings. Doing so is disrespectful to both the teacher, and your fellow students."

I felt this was direct. And polite. Hell, I kept please in there.

It didn't work. Students insisted on peeking at their phones in their backpacks. They kept trying to text. And every once in a while, their phones would sound off in the middle of class. When that happened, I would halt the proceedings, search for the student with the guilty look on his/her face, present my Expression of Extreme Disapproval and wait for them to quail, feel appropriately chagrined, turn their phone off, and return their attention to the class session. It usually worked.

But I still felt the need to revise my policy once more. My subsequent statement about cell phones is the one currently articulated in your course syllabus, which I reiterated to everyone on the first day of the semester: "Please turn off all cell phones before entering this room. Leave them off until class is done. Do not check your phone during class. Do not text during class. Do not look at your phone during class. Consider this fair warning; violating this policy will have an immediate impact on your in-class participation grade."

I do not know how to be clearer than this, Brittany. And you'll note that I still say goddamn please.

I'm sorry you feel I showed you some disrespect today when I asked you to put your phone away. From my perspective, I was quite polite. I asked if you were texting. You look up from the bright, otherwordly purplish glow of your phone and said, "No." I said, "Brittany, I'm certain that you are. Rather than lie about it, just put the damn phone away." You revealed that you did in fact have a phone in your lap, which you turned off. You exhaled audibly through your nose, and mumbled something I couldn't quite make out. An abject apology, surely.

Perhaps I shouldn't have used profane language when I addressed you. But I didn't think the word "damn" was inappropriate, considering how often I hear you walk into class while in the middle of a phone conversation, littering your own side of the dialogue with language that would make a sailor call home and apologize to his mother. You often seem to be speaking to a romantic partner on your phone when you arrive. Earlier this week, your final sign-off before hanging up was: "Oh yea? Well Fuck you, Shane. Fuck you with a fucking nine-foot pole. I hope your dick shrivels up and falls off."

Perhaps the "personal matter" you were texting about in class today had something to do with Shane's medical problem. If his dick had in fact shriveled up and fallen off, and he needed you to take him to see a doctor, I must admit that would qualify as both a personal matter, and an emergency situation that couldn't wait.

For now, I will be keeping my cell phone policy as is, even though it will knock me off your Favorite Teacher list. But again, I thank you for your constructive advice. I do hope you won't hesitate to suggest other ways that my class could be improved. I look forward to hearing from you.

Please give Shane my best wishes for a full recovery.

Sincerely,

T-----------

P.S. You might be interested to know that other teachers actually have far more stringent rules about cell phones than I. Check out this video. I'm pretty sure it's faked, but it could inspire me change my policy again someday.

Cruelty, Thy Name Is Woman

2010-12-03T07:12:00.000-08:00

First: Man alive, did it feel good to shave this week. Thanks again to all of you who donated for Movember. I thank you, my now-smooth-as-a-baby's-butt upper lip thanks you, prostates across the land thank you.(Ew.)

Moving on: we have a situation with the Mini-Pirate. One that is normal, expected, but one that looks to be very dramatic. And moving. And blogworthy.

A boy in Mini-P's class has a crush on her.

His name is Ryan. He's this nice, sweet-faced kid with a Batman backpack who's always sort of hanging around Mini-P at the start and end of each day. Saucy sees him at the morning drop-off, and I see him in the afternoons when all the kids are spilling out of their classrooms at the end of the day. The interaction I witness between Ryan and Mini-P usually goes like this:

Ryan: Bye!
Mini-P:

Ryan: I have a new Pokemon card!
Mini-P: Ok.

Ryan: If you want, I'll bring it tomorrow so you can see it!
Mini-P: Ok.

Ryan: Ok, then. See you tomorrow, ok? Bye!

I know. It's Casablanca. It's an Affair to Remember. They're Harry and Sally. The same romantic story since time began. The seeds of romance blossom in the wild garden of the heart, am I right?

This is a sweet kid. He goes out of his way to talk to my daughter, and share some bon mot or interesting fact about ninjas. On her side of the romance, the Mini-Pirate seems to be playing it cool. She'll talk to him, draw the occasional superhero comic book scene alongside him during free time. Details beyond that are a bit hazy -- Mini-P's recess time is mainly spent playing tether ball, where she smashes her way through opponents like it's Thunderdome. But since Ryan doesn't play tetherball (he's more the shy, artistic type), they don't really hang out during those times. He does hover nearby, though -- just a few feet outside the range of the swinging tetherball (known as Mini-P's Zone of Terror).

I asked Mini-P what she thinks of Ryan (totally casually), and she revealed nothing beyond what I already know: 1) He's in her class. 2) He likes superheroes. 3) He doesn't play tetherball. 4) One time in class he picked his nose and pulled something big out.

Obviously, she doesn't recognize that the kid, who is always lingering a few feet away from her, is smitten. In fact, I didn't really notice what was happening myself -- Saucy was the one to point it out to me. She also pointed out that Mini-P is playing the whole situation cool. Basically, she has this kid eating out of her hand.

I'm a little worried about Ryan. This may be just the beginning for him, the first of a string of memories: about girls who held his heart in their hands, girls who ignored him, or laughed at him. In a couple decades, he'll have his own Cee-Lo video running on endless replay in his head.

I want to pull himaside and tell him not to try so hard with the Mini-Pirate. Or at least, to not get too hung up on her. Maybe I could clap a hand on his shoulder and explain about girls, and how they do what they do. You know. Just the whole thing where they see how much you like them and they keep you at arm's length while they wait to get noticed by the asshole with the motorcycle who sits in the back of class drawing tattoos on his own arm with a Sharpie. I want to tell Ryan to hang in there. Nice guys get theirs later, after girls grow up.

* * *

The thing is, I remember being Ryan in fourth grade. My backpack had Scooby Doo on it instead of Batman, but still.

I had a huge crush on Amy Smithson, which was unrequited. Our parents were friends, so I'd see her at our neighborhood pool every summer, and we were in the same class for the first few years of elementary school. And I secretly loved her.

Fourth grade was the year I decided to tell her. She and I were both in Mrs. Barry's class, and I chose my Romeo-Juliet-balcony moment carefully. I didn't push her into hedges or pull her hair the way we're told boys do when they're expressing affection. I decided to show my love to her in Math.

I used poetry. I used the power of words. I chose those words carefully, composing just the right poem that would paint the portrait of my devotion for her. Once I new what I wanted to say, I inked the message right into the palm of my left hand with a magic marker. Then, when Mrs. Barry was busy writing a division problem on the blackboard, I waved at Amy to get her attention, and flashed my hand at her, giving her time to read my sonnet:

I like you do you like me?

She had to look carefully to see my hand from two desks away. But after squinting and reading, one of her eyebrows rose and she gave me a look that clearly said: "Are you fuckin' kidding me with this? I'm so totally going with Robert Tomaso, and everybody knows it."

Yes. The look said all that. I was crushed. I felt my heart crumple like a cheap soda can. I slumped in my seat, heartbroken.

And then, after taking a minute to regroup, I dealt with the pain the only way a lovestruck lad can: I embraced it. With my magic marker, I wrote a second message on my other palm. And when Mrs. Barry had her back turned again, I got Amy's attention once more and flashed the hand. This time I used bigger letters, so Amy could clearly see:

AMY S. SUCKS

Amy's eyes grew wide. I felt instantly vindicated. She clearly saw the hurt pushing through my eloquent words. I assumed she would recognize that my cruelty was really just the result of my heartbreak; she would see this, become smitten by my passion for her, and use her own palm and magic marker to tell me that not only did she love me back, but she'd only been using Robert Tomaso to make me jealous. And after school, we could go find a carnival somewhere nearby, just like the end of Grease (which everyone at my school had seen except me) and I'd win her a teddy bear, and we would be known from then on as America's favorite couple.

That's not what happened.

Instead of pledging her secret love back to me, Amy raised her hand.

"Mrs. Barry!" she called out. "Seth wrote a bad word about me on his hands!"

My entire body went cold. My heart plunged into a bucket of ice water, and I'm sure I turned pale out of total embarrassment. Mrs. Barry walked over to me. Everyone was looking. Seriously. I'd already been in trouble a lot that year: for daydreaming, for whispering, for tipping back in my chair. In other words, Mrs. Barry already hated me. She told me to hold out my hands.

I did. She looked down at both of my messages. I went from cold to burning hot. Face flushing at incendiary levels. Mortified. I don't remember what Amy was doing while I was getting in trouble, but in my mind, I picture her sitting primly, waiting for Mrs. Barry to haul me up, grip my wrists, and turn my hands towards the rest of the class, so they could see me in all my lovesick vulnerability. Magic marker tattoos to prove it.

She didn't do that. She made me stay after school, and gave me a stern lecture then -- about wasting class time, and about writing profanity ("Sucks." At the time, very profane.) on myself. And she said she was going to call my parents and tell them what I had done.

I remember walking home slowly that afternoon, scuffing my shoes on the sidewalk, my face still burning with shame. And anger. And love, still. Because I still loved Amy Smithson, with her brown hair that curled up at the ends, and her blue eyes and the faintest spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose and her striped knee socks. And this whole thing could've been just a big wacky misunderstanding between two lovers, like in The Philadelphia Story.

My parents weren't home when I arrived. At the time, my dad worked during the day and my mom was taking college classes in the afternoons. So I sat alone in the house for a little while, dreading their arrival. It didn't occur to me that Mrs. Barry's threat had been completely empty.

I decided to do something about my pain. I picked up the phone, and called Amy. She answered, and I said, "You got me in so much trouble today."

I thought she might show remorse. Maybe she'd even take this private moment to finally confess that she'd only narced on me today to protect her own feelings. She loved me with the same fervent fourth-grade devotion that fueled my passion for her. She would tell me this, and we were agree to be boyfriendandgirlfriend.

She didn't say any of that. Instead, she hung up on me without a word.

* * *

Dear Mini-Pirate,
I don't know how much you like young Ryan. He seems like a sweet kid who really likes you, probably just as a friend. There's no issue here, for now -- but next year, or the year after, if Ryan decides that he likes likes you, more than a friend, more than a fellow devotee of superhero comic books, if he ever opens himself up to you by pledging his love for you on his hand, showing you affection in a way that most boys in grade school never do... be kind to him. Let him down easy.

But do let him down. I'm not having some little snot-nosed punk sniffing around my daughter.

P.S. Speaking of Cee-Lo. This is my new favorite earworm. Saucy doesn't get it.

Movember Day 27: The Final Shave

2010-11-27T08:21:00.000-08:00

If you celebrated Thanksgiving, I hope you had a great one. We did. We journeyed over the river and through the woods (and through airport security) to get to Grandma's house in Colorado. Some of my cousins came to town, people I haven't seen in a long time, and it was all very Rockwellian. I could list everything that I'm thankful for, but the Internet doesn't have enough bandwidth for that.

So here we are at the end of Movember, the month-long drive to raise awareness and money for men's cancer research.

First, let's all agree that we're sick of my face. I know I am.

It's been a good month, though. We've fought the good fight -- my fellow DadCentricians, and guys all over. Many great guys whose blogs I follow have been posting pics documenting their evolution from clean-shaven, smooth-faced adolescents, to mustachioed paragons of supreme machismo. We only have a couple more days to generate the cash, so come on: click here for my Movember page, and here for the DadCentric page. Couple o' bucks. I know you just got back from the UFC Championship Cage Match that is Black Friday at the mall, but still. We're down to the wire here.

Before I share my final stachedown, how about a recap?

Day 5

Some healthy, translucent stubble. That's not gonna cure any diseases. I pledge to do face clenching exercises to push out some faster growth, even if I give myself a hernia in the process.

Day 8

More growth, making me feel a little out of control; in the way that a mountain-dwelling, wild-eyed surivalist feels out of control. I like the feeling. After taking this picture, I go outside and troll the neighborhood, looking for bears to wrestle.

Day 12

Some good cultivation emerges. Students start asking me "what's up with my face." They should talk. Stoopid students. What's up with your faces?

Day 17

Kneel before Zod. I post this picture, and experience the best fundraising day of the month as a result. That's what fear does. THIS is what I need in my classes. The goatee of a Kryptonian terrorist, and a footstool, to ensure that I hover over everyone else.

Day 19

I've actually had a goatee like this before, but I'd normally keep it trimmed more. This looks more like something furry sat on my face, shed, and left. I can't stop stroking my own face and offering it a bowl of milk. SaucyWench tells me she fully supports my endeavor, but will not make out with me until the month is over. Ha. That's what she thinks.

Day 24

Taken while in Colorado for the holiday. You can't really tell in the shot, but the sun glinting off the silver on my chin is blinding other hikers on the trail.

Which brings us...

to...

the final shave:

Day 27

Blammo.

What's that? You want a little more? Yea? Maybe this mustache next to a martini glass?

Feeling weak in in the knees, Ladies? Line forms to the left.

I've decided. I'm keeping it. Whether I return to my former career as a porn actor (circa 1973), or as a California Highway Patrol Officer (circa 1975), or Tom Selleck (circa always). This baby is gonna bring the sexy back to my face.

Hey, what's that rustling behind me?

AGH! It's my wife! She's got a razor in her hand, and she's brandishing it like a sword! No! I'll never shave this mustache! Get away, woman! You'll learn to love it! STOP! STOP SPRAYING ME WITH SHAVING CREAM ! I'LL NEVER SURRENDER THE MUSTACHE! NEVER!

SOMEBODY HELP GET HER OFF ME I CAN'T TYPE FGHSFGKJSDFGBWWTPNSAKHQF
.................................

Movember, Day 24: The Goatee Is Thankful

2010-11-24T10:23:00.000-08:00

The girls and I are currently visiting my parents in Colorado, where I grew up. Here are a few highlights of our trip so far:

1. Jilted by TSA
Total letdown by TSA at the San Diego airport. I wore my best cologne, some special "form-enhancing" underwear, and my patented Come Hither smile, but the screeners didn't even give me a look. What the hell, security? You think you can lead me on like that and then ignore me when I'm right in front of you?

I won't be ignored, Dan.

2. Weather rocks
Colorado remains as awesome as ever. I love coming here, no matter what time of the year it is. I especially enjoy this month, the softly graying limbo between Fall and Winter. The trees have officially lost their leaves, which means when I wake up in the mornings and go out to stand on my parents' porch, tree branches make the stark silhouettes of a crone's fingers against the sunrise, which itself looked like someone spilled gold and pink paint across the sky today.

I love it. I love it when it's so cold the sky becomes even more intensely, impossibly blue in the middle of the day. I love it when it turns slate-gray before a coming snowfall. I love how nighttime here is the hush beneath a warm, dark blanket. Every time I visit, I wonder why I ever left to go to stupid ol' Southern California.

3. Held Hostage by the Rockettes
My mom arranged a special treat for the Mini-Pirate this year. She bought tickets for the whole family to to go see "Christmas with the Rockettes," which is basically a Capade without ice at a nearby sports arena. We all got dressed up yesterday and drove down to Colorado Springs to witness the spectacle, which is allegedly a scaled-down, leaner version of what they do at Radio City in New York this time of year. Two hours of tap dancing, Christmas merriment, some pop-and-lock performances by the Radio City Singers, a mammoth nativity scene, and many, many costume changes.

For SaucyWench and me, sitting through the entire spectacle was like being strapped into that Clockwork Orange brainwash chair with our eyelids taped open, our retinas seared with cheerful holiday imagery until our wills were broken.

But for Mini-P... it was sheer Magic Time. I kept looking over at her -- she was on the edge of her seat, clapping wildly after every number. I don't think she blinked the entire time. Which made the whole thing worth it for us droogs.

4. Movember Thanks
Which brings us to a Movember update. I was going to shave the goatee down to the classic Burt Reynolds mustache today as promised, both in honor of Thanksgiving and to prepare for my audition in case Hollywood ever follows through with that Cannonball Run remake. But, well, we're here staying in my parents' house, and Senior Matriarchal Management has informed me that I will not be permitted to ruin our family holiday photos with a giant fuzzy caterpillar moseying across my upper lip.

Message received, Mom.

I'll do the final stachedown on Friday, after the last piece of pumpkin pie has been scarfed down, the last thanks have been given, the last family photo snapped.

Here's the last Movember photo with the full goat. It's probably good to wait a couple days before baring the bottom half of my face anyway. I gotta say, the goat keeps my mug warm:

Jealous, Grizzly Adams?

Me and Mini-P on a hike below the Boulder Flatirons.
If you look closely, you'll see that we're dancing, in preparation
for the Rockettes. Ok, she's dancing. I'm going for more of a sashay.

I'm thankful for a lot this Thanksgiving, as always. I'm thankful for the same stuff you are. And I always feel sheepish that I'm not thankful enough during the rest of the year. But I do have a particular item on my Gratitude List that wasn't there a year ago:

I'm thankful that two good friends of mine who had cancer last year do not have it this year. One had prostate cancer. He doesn't have it anymore. I'll never say this to his face (and luckily he only reads this blog when I badger him), but this guy is one of my best friends, someone who's made my existence better. And last year when he told me had cancer, I was scared. He's better now. And so I am better now.

No better reason for Movember, in my book. We have six days left to raise funds for men's cancer research. That's right, I slid that "we" in there, in case you haven't thrown a couple bucks in over at my page, or the Team DadCentric page. There's still time.

Happy Thanksgiving, my loyal and steadfast didactic crew members. Have a great holiday, and enjoy that tryptophan coma tomorrow night. I know I will.

Going to the Airport: The Amazing Race

2010-11-22T09:15:00.000-08:00

I'm not great with travel.

I say "not great." My wife prefers to call me "tense." Also, "high-strung." And "antsy." And "tight as a brand-new sphincter."

It's not the actual flight. I have no weird flying phobias. Once we're in the air and I have my book and three peanuts, I'm so relaxed I'm comatose. No, my stress is solely about getting to the airport.

This is me every time we leave on a trip:

It starts as soon as I wake up on the day we leave. I'm roving around the house. Checking windows. Turning lights on and off. Double-checking our luggage, reconfirming the flight online about fifty or sixty times, just in case there's late breaking news that the entire flight traffic system has accidentally switched the fight numbers for all airlines, and the only way to identify our own flight is to get to the airport really, really early, scout the runways for our own plane, and be prepared to wrestle other passengers to secure the seats we need.

"We're fine," my wife says. "Relax. I checked us in online yesterday."

Relax. Right. That's just what the terrorists are hoping I'll do.

We need to leave roughly eight hours ahead of time to make sure that we navigate our five-minute commute to the airport. That's just the way it is. Be prepared for any and all emergencies, am I right?

The real race begins when we leave the house. As soon as we lock the door behind us, we're racing the clock, as far as I'm concerned. It's a race, the countdown is ticking away the seconds, and I'm Jack Bauer. We get in the car, and I rev that engine. Everybody in? Everybody buckled? Bags in the trunk? Then let's go! Go! Go!

Saucy always wants to leave later than I do, and I always overrule her. Why? because there might be traffic. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, THERE MIGHT BE TRAFFIC. Or a train derailment. or a circus train derailment, with overturned cars that releases a legion of monkeys across the city, which will obviously make us miss our flight.

"No," my wife says, shaking her head. Naive wife.

She has no idea what I'm prepared to do so get us to the airport on time. I will mow down every other car on the freeway like that bus in Speed. I'm prepared to crash this car and commandeer a faster one. I will ditch the car altogether and leap across traffic with our luggage strapped to my back, run across the roofs of buildings, and ride a zipline down to Passenger Drop-off if I have to.

We pull into the airport, which is clogged with people coming and going, everybody in my way. Families picking up arriving travelers out front and just standing there, in the middle of my path, hugging each other! Standing there! Hugging! MOVE THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY! I HAVE A FLIGHT TO CATCH!

I park us in the long-term lot and leap from the car, ready to sprint down the covered walkway to Check-In. My wife and daughter do not sprint. I swear, those two are going to bring down this entire great nation with their slowness. I do my best to match their meandering pace, all the while trying to nudge them just a little faster.

"Stop nudging me," my wife says.
"But we have to hurry," I plead. "We're going to be late."
"Take a pill."
"We have to goooo!"
"No."

Inside the terminal, everything in the Check-In area is designed to slow us down. We stand in line while I tap my foot, check my watch, and listen to the countdown timer in my head. We've got morons with fifteen kid and 75 pieces of luggage in front of us. We've got slow-moving idiots who don't know how to work any of the self-check-in kiosks, excited because this is their "first time on one of those miracle flyin' machines!" I whisper into my watch: Come in, Central. Need assist. We've got idiots. Repeat: we have idiots.

"Stop talking to your watch," my wife says.
"I wasn't."
"Yes you were."

I want to leap over them, knock out all obstacles with throat punches, and clear a path for my family. I want to throw our bags onto the conveyer belt, and tell the attendant behind the counter a ready-made story about how there's a kidney waiting for us in Denver that's not getting any fresher. Whatever it takes to speed this shit up.

We make it through check-in. We're now unencumbered by luggage, which means we can bob and weave more quickly. We can navigate like jungle cats, darting past strollers, wheelchairs, the group of ambling nuns that just "happen" to suddenly appear in the corridor in front of us.

They will not slow me down. Not even my family will slow me down now. I grab my wife and daughter and we race towards the gates and NO THERE IS NO TIME TO GO THE BATHROOM. YOU CAN GO IN COLORADO, NOW MOVE, MOVE, MOVE! GO, GO, GO! NOW, NOW NOW!

Then we get stuck waiting in line at security.

I'm in agony. Our plane is probably boarding this very minute. They're moments away from closing the big heavy door. Gaahhh!! Doomed!

The security proceedings inch forward, of course. Luckily, I had myself prepped and ready before we even reached the end of the line, four miles back. My shoes off, my belt off, pants off... ok, by the time I get up there I'm naked, but it's because we need to get through this process quickly, people! Why aren't the rest of you naked!!! Someone strip that little old lady in the front down and get her ass x-rayed! (Sure, TSA has now made sure that I don't need to get physically naked anymore -- they do it for me with their radioactive-bombardment machines that will eventually turn us all into The Hulk. But I like to at least lose the pants, to streamline the process.)

We get through security. Having a kid usually means they don't give you a hard time. Plus the being naked thing.

"Sir, please put your clothing back on and proceed to your departure gate."

We race up the stairs. Sometimes the fastest way is to sprint up the Down escalator on the heads and shoulders of arriving passengers. I drag my wife and daughter relentlessly. They don't realize what's at stake if we're late. I scan the main gate area frantically. 4C... 4C... FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHERE'S 4C???

And then I see it. Our gate. The sign shows our flight number and departure, which looks to be on time. We arrive. There's not even a line yet. I flop myself on the counter, breathing hard, sweat dripping from my brow. We made it. Thank God, we made it just in time. I look up gratefully at the attendant at the console in front of me. I grasp her hand. Thank you, I say. Thank you for being here. We're here now too.

I look out the window next to our gate. There's no plane out there.

The attendant informs me that the plane is still en route from Seattle. In fact, it isn't due to arrive for two hours. And there may be a slight delay in takeoff.

I nod. Sure. I mop my face with sleeve. We're going to have to wait here for a few hours. But the important thing is, we made it on time. When that plane arrives, we'll be first in line to get on it.

Behind me, my wife is shaking her head at me. I go to her, and we situate ourselves in some deeply uncomfortable chairs. Mini-P cracks open her DS and starts playing a game where Mario and Luigi wear penguin suits.

"Excellent," my wife says, settling in with a magazine. "Now we get to sit here for four hours." I nod. I feign being apologetic, but in my head, I'm still Jack Bauer, and I got us here in the nick of time. Just barely.

We sit idly for a couple minutes, and then my wife looks around. "I'm hungry. Is there a Starbuck's somewhere?"

I leap up. I'M ON IT.

*

P.S. Big thanks to Studio 30Plus, who made me their Featured Blogger this week. Someone's has a hefty muffin basket coming their way.

At DadCentric: Me at the Parent-Teacher Conference. It's Not Pretty.

2010-11-19T08:34:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting in a tiny red plastic chair designed for a 4th grader. It's like trying to get comfortable inside a yogurt spoon.

Parent-Teacher Conference. These meetings aren't supposed to emotional roller coasters. And yet:

"So," Ms. S says, flipping through a folder with my daughter's name on it, preparing to dive in to a peppy discussion of my daughter's performance so far this year. I haven't gotten to know Ms. S that well yet this year. At this point, I know that she is young, bright and enthusiastic; and my whole goal for this conference is to please her. It's very important that I be her favorite parent in the class. So much so, that I'm actually a little nervous in this moment. Because obviously, none of this is about my daughter at all. It's about me.

Click here to DadCentric to read the rest of this post and find out what neurotic parents like me are thinking during these meetings.

P.S. This post is dedicated to Meangirl Garage, who recently finished up Parent-Teacher conferences from the other side of the table. Check her out. She writes about other stuff beyond just teaching. Like sex toys, for example.

***

How about a quick Movember update? Day 19.

The goat's looking a little rough around the edges. It's time for the next step, as we work our way down to the final 'stachegasm. You tell me: Mustache and chin moss? Mustache and soul patch? Mustache and gigantic clown wig?

And have you donated, either in my name or Team DadCentric? Cancer bad cancer bad cancer bad. Couple of bucks. Don't make me bring General Zod out here. He has a mustache and laser eyes.

Movember, Day 17: Cower Before the Goatee

2010-11-17T06:57:00.000-08:00

So this whole Movember thing is moving right along. Turns out it takes very little effort to devote your face to helping fight men's cancer by basically... not shaving for a month. I've been making some extra effort, though. Each morning before I get dressed, I do forty Face Crunches to tone things up, reinvigorate the follicles, and increase the growth. I'm also rubbing my face with Rogaine every night, for good measure. It burns the eyes, but all for a good cause, am I right?

The actual Movember rules state that participants are supposed to grow a 'stache only, sans beard, presumably for maximum public ridicule. I'm going to get there in stages; I started off the month with an unkempt, feral-looking mess, and am now whittling it down week by week. My plan is to end on the 30th with a finely cultivated, dapper mustache.

This week's stage: Goatee.

Goatees are tricky. If you grow one, you have to know what it says about you. On some guys, a goatee says, "Hi. I enjoy Green Tea Tea Lattés and reading poetry at Open Mic Nights. I like talking about feelings."

On others, it says, "I'm a badass. Check out my Daughtry cover band tonight at the Doubletree off Route 45. We play after the headlining band because I don't get off my Wal-Mart shift until 7. You should totally check us out."

And on some, a goatee says, "Good morning, class! I'm an authority figure, but I'm cool like you! Twitter! Cee-Lo! TFLN! See?"

Hmm. On me, a goatee seems to be saying something different:

Kneel. KNEEL BEFORE ZOD.

Cower before me, Puny Cancer. I shall CRUSH you, with my army of facially hirsute warriors. You shall feel the pain of a thousand mustaches! You shall be pulverized, shattered into powder. I shall stand over you, and laugh with the strength of one who leaves only despair and chaos in his wake. You shall REGRET THE DAY YOU EVER CAME TO EARTH. HAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

And you, Human: you, who have not yet donated to fight Earth Man Cancer. You will go here now and contribute in either my name, or that of my team. If you do not, my goatee will seek you out, make you crumble to your knees where you will writhe in agony and RUE THE DAY.

Dying is Easy. Comedy's Hard.

2010-11-15T15:16:00.000-08:00

Her: Daddy, I have a joke. Do you want to hear it?

Me: Absolutely. Tell me a joke.

Her: You’re going to laugh so hard, it’s so funny! Are you ready?

Me: I’m ready. Lay it on me, Leno.

Her: Ok. These two dogs walk into a bar. I mean, wait – not dogs. Two men. There are two men, and they walk into a bar, and they have dogs. They both have dogs. I messed up before. And also, they’re blind.

Me: Who’s blind? The dogs are blind?

Her: Yes. I mean, no. Don't mess me up! Let me start over. There are two men who walk into a bar, and they’re blind, and they have dogs, and then there’s a bartender and the bartender says that there are no dogs allowed. Oh, and one dog is a Chihuahua. That’s really important, so don’t forget.

Me: One dog is a Chihuahua. Got it.

Her: So there are the two men, and the one dog who's not a Chihuahua, and the other dog that is a Chihuahua, and the bartender says........ wait. They walk into the bar and they say that they want beer. So they ask the bartender for beer, and the bartender says they don’t serve beer there.

Me: The bartender says they don’t serve beer at the bar?

Her: No, they…hold on. They do serve beer at the bar. But they don’t serve beer to dogs. I mean... wait, thats not right. What it actually is, is the bartender? He says they can't have dogs in the bar, unless they're the kind of dogs that help blind people. What are those dogs called again?

Me: Seeing-eye dogs.

Her: Yes! Seeing-eye dogs! The dogs are seeing-eye dogs, ok, that help the blind men with stuff, and the bartender says "No Dogs Allowed in This Bar!" And then one blind man says but this is my seeing-eye dog so it’s ok! And then the bartender says, "Nuh uh, that’s a CHIHUAHUA!!!!"

(Daughter collapses in hysterical laughter at own joke.)

Me: .........

Her: Do you get it?

Me: I'm not sure. I think I missed something.

Her: See, the second man is blind!!!

Me: No, I know. But I don’t… did you skip a part?

Her: No I didn't! It’s so funny!

Me: Ok.

Her: Why aren't you laughing?

Me: I am. I think I just got a little confused.

Her: See, ok, see, the two men are in the bar, but they’re blind, and so they can’t see! And the bartender says that the one dog is a Chihuahua, and the second man is all, "Chihuahua?" HAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! (Daughter falls to the floor in a laughing fit.)

Me: Huh?

Her: Chihuahua!

Me: Um. Ohhhhhhh. Ok, sure. Sure, Chihuahua. Yea, Chihuahua! I get it! Boy, that’s a good one. Well done, kiddo.

Her: Don't you get it, Daddy?

Me: Oh, yea. I definitely get it. That’s really a good one.

Her: I don’t think you get it. Here, let me start over. There are two men, and they have dogs.

Me: And one of the dogs is a Chihuahua?

Her: DON'T MESS ME UP!

Movember, Day Twelve: Situation Getting Hairy

2010-11-12T15:01:00.000-08:00

It's time to make a decision. I can't keep walking around like this. After not shaving for 12 days, I'm experiencing some challenges. I mean, I'm tough -- I can take it. My face is curing cancer here. There will need to be sacrifices. But after 12 days off the razor, here's what's happening:

1. My daughter is starting to stare at me with increasing suspicion. She doesn't trust my face anymore. Apparently, I look shifty with a beard.

2. My face is starting to distract my students. You don't think they notice when you change your appearance, but they totally do. I walked into class the other day and one of my students raised his hand and said that he'd been selected by the group to ask "what was up with my face."

3. My wife isn't down with the smooches when my face is this hairy. She says it's like kissing a yeti. (She used to date one in college. Apparently he was a dick.) I've said from the beginning that if this whole Movember thing gets in the way of me getting the smooches, I'm out.

4. My entire face is ITCHY as hell.

5. Turns out a full beard coupled with a bald head looks even weirder than I expected. It's not uncommon for me to go a few days without shaving -- in fact, I'm usually most comfortable with some scruff on the mug. (When both my head and face are freshly shaven, I look like a giant thumb.) Originally, I'd hoped that a full beard coupled with a bald pate would make me look like a badass lumberjack, or maybe a bouncer at a cool club. Instead, I look like a frequent patron at a bear bar in the more colorful part of town.

I haven't seen recent face updates from most of my DadCentric teammates, but somehow, they're managing to maintain a more gradual, carefully moderated growth. (Although I will say that the stubble on Homemaker Man's upper lip is looking impressively lustrous lately.)

No one said curing cancer would be easy. I'm still in, all the way. But it's definitely time to do some grooming. By Monday, I'll return with something that helps me look a little less like Tom Hanks in Castaway, and a little more like someone who lives in the civilized world. I'm thinking I might slowly whittle this hairy mess down over the next couple weeks: maybe a more trimmed beard first, then a goatee, then a mustache/soul patch situation, culminating with a full, glorious Magnum P.I. at the end of the month.

You know what you should do? Go to Team DadCentric's Movember page and donate a couple bucks that goes straight to men's cancer research.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to outside and chop down some high timber.

The Mighty Cheating Weasels of UCF

2010-11-11T11:34:00.000-08:00

I only cheated one time in school. It was 11th grade. I was taking AP Physics, due to a major scheduling misstep. The class was comprised of 25 overachieving brain trusts... and me. In terms of intelligence, I was less of a brain trust and more like Bobo, your pet golden retriever, staring around at everyone else with a big stupid grin on my face: Hey! Hey! Hey! Hi everybody! What's that big shiny thing over there?! Are we inside or outside?!?

I was in over my head, and my assignment grades were plummeting. So I cheated on a test by looking onto a fellow student's paper and copying answers. I cheated out of panic. I cheated because I was sure I was too dumb to pass on my own merit or intelligence.

I got caught, of course. The teacher called me in for a meeting afterwards, to confront me. I sat in his office, feeling trapped, miserable and terrified. He gave me the chance to confess, which I did, immediately. Because of that, my teacher showed great leniency; rather than failing me in the class and reporting me to the administration, he had me retake the test. I probably looked so terrified and pathetic sitting in front of him, he realized that an receiving a big fat F would send me into paroxysms of guilt so intense I'd end up having some sort of seizure right there on his Formica floor.

I learned my lesson. I never did it again. Not in high school, not in college.

Now that I teach college writing, I have an absolute zero-tolerance policy when it comes to cheating. It's the quickest way to fail my class in one shot. No bargaining, no mercy, no second chances. I tell my students on the first day of the semester: Plagiarism is an immediate sledgehammer to the kneecap of your grade. Don't do it.

So when I read about a Massive Cheating Event (or as we say in academia, a Confluence of Crapweasels) that took place this week at the University of Central Florida, I felt my pirate ire rising. Both by the event, and by some of the student reactions later.

This is being called the biggest cheating scandal this school has ever seen. Here's the lowdown:

Dr. Richard Quinn teaches undergraduate business classes at UCF, and after giving a recent mid-term, he discovered that one-third of the class had cheated by using a stolen answer key. It's a class of 600, so we're talking about 200 students cheating. Soon, Dr. Quinn had a list of the cheaters' names, thanks to some fancy forensics and digital fingerprint work.

This ABC news video sums it up well, and includes sound bytes from a couple students, one of whom I want to smack hard. Watch it and guess which one. (Update: the original link has changed. Apparently, Yahoo News doesn't keep their links up for more than 24 hours or something. Sorry.)

After learning what his students had done, Dr. Quinn delivered a lecture to his class the next day where he gave his class a full-on, no-holds-barred beat down. But, y'know -- professionally. He maintained his composure, although you can see how upset he was. He explained to the students that he'd tossed the old test results and that there would soon be a new, cheater-proof exam ready. Everyone would have to take it, whether they'd cheated or not. He then went on to explain that while various entities on campus were gearing up for an even bigger smackdown on the cheaters, he'd decided to approach the Dean with a deal: if the cheaters confessed, individually and privately, they'd be allowed to retake the exam with everyone else and there'd be no penalty beyond that. Stay silent, and risk Big Bad Repercussions that might include expulsion. (The video below is his full 15-minute speech.)

Professor Speech About Cheating from Knight News on Vimeo.

This was a class of seniors, by the way, all expecting to graduate this year. Seniors. About to graduate with a Business degree. Hoping to enter the world of Business. You know, Business? Where ethics should be sort of a big deal?

I'm particularly outraged at what the second student says in the ABC video -- this kid is all pouty about the disciplinary actions, calls the investigation a witch hunt, and says it shouldn't be made into a big deal. Why? Because, as he says, "This is college. Everybody cheats. Everyone cheats in life."

Seriously, Kid? That's the big lesson you're talking out of college? Please, depress me more. (SaucyWench pointed out something awesome, though. This guy, with his Everyone-Does-It-Therefore-It's-Not-Wrong theorem, has now been televised, with his name pasted across the screen. Good luck getting a job after graduation, bro.)

I'm sure students have cheated in my classes and gotten away with it. Since my assignments are all papers instead of tests, plagiarism is actually harder to pull off. Typically, I stumble upon accidental plagiarism more than anything else: a student who overquotes a source and puts his citation in the wrong spot, stuff like that. Which is part of my job to teach anyway.

But every once in a while, I do come across a paper from a student that he or she clearly didn't write. It's actually pretty easy to catch when it happens.

When it does, the resulting conversation is never fun. I don't enjoy busting cheaters, despite what some of my past posts might say (heh). There's no pleasure there. True, I don't take it as personally as Dr. Quinn did. When a student cheats, it's never a vendetta against me, an arch-villain's effort to destroy my mission for Truth, Justice, and Proper Source Documentation. And while it's true that some students cheat because they're lazy, arrogant, or just possess inherent weasel-like qualities, others students will cheat because they're panicking, or feeling trapped. Or convinced they can't pass the course on merit and brain power alone. Sort of like me in 11th grade AP Physics.

This case in UCF is different. Remember, we're talking about 200 students in this case, who seemed to feel totally comfortable in their cheating weaselhood. Frankly, I think Dr. Quinn was way too lenient on them, allowing them a retake. These people knew exactly what they were doing, and felt totally fine with it. Some of them were bragging to non-cheating friends about it later.

When I watch this footage of Dr. Quinn delivering his High Noon lecture, I feel bad for him. What's he supposed to do, now that he feels surrounded by Cheating Weasels? This has permanently changed the way he's going to view students from now on.

What will I do the next time I discover a Cheating Weasel? Propose a do-over, like Dr. Quinn did? Offer redemption, like my 11th grade science teacher? Or will I go with a sledgehammer to the academic kneecap?

At the moment, I'm sticking with sledgehammer. Why? Because if I don't, I'm perpetuating what that second kid said in the video:

"Everybody cheats."

And I just can't live with that.

Wordless Wednesday: How to Give My Wife a Heart Attack

2010-11-10T06:32:00.000-08:00

Me: Honey, look what we found in the backyard!

Her: GAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!

Random Tuesday Thoughts: Muy Macho Edition

2010-11-09T06:44:00.000-08:00

I haven't gone Random in a few weeks, but this is a good day for it. So let's roll. (With word up to Super Keely the Unmom, proprietor of RTT.)

1. Movember, Day Eight
Here's the latest progress in my face's ongoing quest to a) fight cancer, and b) turn me into a bald, wilderness-dwelling survivalist:

It's probably a little tough to see the freshly grown machismo on my face, due to the blinding light reflecting off my shiny forehead. But it's coming along well.

You can get an update on Team DadCentric's progress here. There's some very, very manly scruffiness happening across the board. Still no idea what Movember is all about? Itching to find a fast and easy way to donate a few bucks towards men's cancer research? Click here.

I'm going to have to make a facescaping decision soon: full beard? Goatee? Chin moss? Soul patch, for the obnoxious coffeehouse poet in me? I'm pretty sure the official Movember rules state you're supposed to grow out just the 'stache, with no other facial adornment. But if I do that, you guys, I'm going to look like a discount 70s porn star who's desperate for work. Even if I had hair on my head, a solo 'stache would look strange -- but considering I have no head hair, it would just look freakish. I have to stand in front of 100 students twice a week, people. I'd like to try and hang onto that last tiny shred of respect I've got left in the classroom. As it is, they're already looking at me apprehensively with the facial hair I've cultivated so far. One student (who feels way too comfortable being honest with me) said that a full beard makes me look like a serial killer.

I don't know what he's talking about. Although I did decide that I'm going to walk into all my classes looking like this today:

Wait! Come back! Let's diagram some sentences!

2. Climbing the Mountain on the Backs of the Oppressed
If I ever write a memoir about teaching, I think that will be the title. I just finished ~~scaling Everest~~ grading a mammoth stack of papers. The assignment was to write a researched editorial piece that presents a unique take on a local or regionally focused issue -- something current. (I had to add a special addendum on the assignment sheet explaining that the paper must be plagiarism-free. Sometimes you have to actually articulate it.) They could pick any issue they wanted; it didn't have to be something on last week's California ballot, although that was fine if they wanted to go that way. I told them they could pick any topic they wanted. Here's a sampling of some of the titles I received:

Pot Rocks!
Marijuana for the Masses
Freedom to Toke
It's for Medicinal Purposes, Dammit
Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of a Sweet High

and:

Mexico: The Silent Storm Lurking at Our Doorstep

I'm still not quite sure what that last one is actually about. And I read it twice.

3. Atrophy, Thy Name Is... My Name
Thanks to work, child, and personal lassitude, it's been about a week since I've gone to the gym to pick up heavy things and put them down again several times in a row. Sure, I know what you'll say: cultivating this massive beard is a form of exertion in itself. Shouldn't it count as exercise? Yes, yes it should. It doesn't grow like this on its own, folks. It requires effort. I've actually been doing 15 face crunches a day to help push this scruff out so quickly.

Most people think lifting weights is boring. They're right. But I like that. Lately, it seems that the only way my brain can stop spinning in its pan is to do something repetitive and monotonous that requires little or no cognitive reasoning. It helps me stop thinking, lowers my stress, keeps me chill, and apparently ensures that I'm more pleasant for my family to be around later. (What am I like when I don't exercise? See above photo.) I need to get back to my routine soon. It's good for me, good for family, and frankly, good for America.

4. Links: DadCentric and CultureBrats
I'm over at DadCentric today with a new post. It's about how the Mini-Pirate came up with a great pretend game to play with me, and how I subsequently crapped all over it. And made her cry. Awesome. Yet another entry in my ongoing (lifelong), "How to be a Better Dad than Me" series.

On the less guilt-ridden side, I've also been recapping AMC's new zombie series The Walking Dead over at Culture Brats. My take on the second episode is here. Check it out. There's viscera.

Movember Day Five: Does watching my beard grow count as procrastination?

2010-11-05T05:00:00.000-07:00

Day Five in my face's ongoing quest to fight men's cancer (click this Movember link to understand what exactly the hell that means):

Not channeling Chuck Norris yet, but I can see some decent progress. The good news is my facial hair grows pretty quickly. The bad news will be when I see exactly how much of said hair is gray.

This entire Movember process is clearly a worthy cause, but I can already tell I'm going to get real sick of posting pics of my sorry mug every few days. Which means you're probably going to get sick of seeing it. Sorry 'bout that. Just remember: Cancer bad! You can click here to get to my Movember page, and donate anything you can by clicking on Donate to Me or Donate to My Team. (Team DadCentric -- a noble team of 'stache growers if ever there was).

In other news: I'm currently buried under a stack of student research papers which I collected this week, but I'm trying really hard not to complain about it. After all, I'm the one who gave the assignment in the first place. If I could only teach writing via rigorous multiple choice tests. Would that be so wrong? Do you actually have to write stuff to become a better writer? Discuss amongst yourselves.

I'm sure I'll grade my way through the stack quickly. I just need to buckle down and do it. No procrastinating. Just sit down with a sturdy pen, my grading scale, and a healthy amount of angst and vindictiveness. (I kid.)

Before I get started, though, I should probably organize my desk. I mean, it's seriously cluttered. How can anybody work like this? Post-its and soda cans everywhere. And where did all these potato chip crumbs come from? I'll just put a few things away, clear some surface space, then settle in for some productive grading.

I should probably check my email first too. My inbox is pretty full. There could be some important correspondence in there. Who knows how many distressed Middle Eastern heiresses currently need my help and bank account information to temporarily store their funds as they prepare to sneak out from under the oppressive regime of their war-torn country? So I'll organize my desk (for better grading efficiency), and check email (to help heiresses).

And maybe run out and get the oil changed in the Volvo real quick. It's been a while, and you don't want to let that sort of thing go. I'm pretty sure it's long past the miles written on the little windshield sticker. Sometimes when it's warm, cars with dirty oil circulating in their engines literally explode on the freeway. It would be irresponsible if I didn't get that taken care of right away. I drive my child around in that car for God's sakes. So: desk organizing, email, and oil change. Then straight to grading.

And get a flu shot. I literally just read an article about how we can expect five different strains of exotic influenza this winter, all of which come with a fever so dangerous it can melt your brain until your skull is nothing more than a bowl of bubbling goat cheese. That's not ok! I wouldn't be any good to my family then! Or my students! Putting off a flu shot would be damn irresponsible. So, ok: Desk. Email. Oil change. Flu shot. Then straight to grading, where I will methodically evaluate 93 essays and not stand up until I'm finished.

Of course, by the time I'm ready to start grading, it'll be time to check on my beard progress and write another blog post about it. I can't blow that off -- we're fighting cancer here, people. Cancer. How can I possibly grade essays when there's cancer out there? If I don't document my facial hair growth in meticulous detail, CANCER WINS.

So: Organize desk. Check email. Change oil in Saturn to prevent spontaneous engine explosion. Get flu shot to prevent brain bubbling. Write another blog post about my face that will cure cancer.

Then I'm totally going to get to work on those essays.

Unless you need me to run any errands for you. Just let me know.

Sources of Depression: Election Results vs. Grading

2010-11-03T09:04:00.000-07:00

Big fat depressing day today.

Possibly slightly vaguely a little bit because of the election results. I'm not particularly pleased with what I read in the paper on this post-vote morning, but I doubt I would've been doing the Happy Spaz Dance if things had turned out differently. I don't know. I voted, I made sure I knew what the hell I was doing. I read up on the candidates and the big ballot issues, found articles written from multiple perspectives. I gave my options careful thought before I filled in my little bubbles. Like a lot of other moderates, I saw two paths diverging in the wood, and had to pick one.

My problem is what my problem always is: imagining the big-picture, long-term results of my choices. I don't have the confidence that others do when I vote -- that Magic 8-Ball Faith that my vote will lead to the civil rights protections, fiscal healing, smarter spending, yaddah yaddah. But what's done is done. New votes, new paths. The media loves calling this year a "Republican resurgence." ("Republican tsunami" was probably a tad over the top.) In a few more years, we'll all see how that went.

But even though I'm not particularly thrilled with how the election went, I don't think it's why I've got a big, grumpy Depression Monkey sitting on my shoulders today, picking Lice of Malaise of its sorry self. (Heh.) The real reason might be because I just collected stacks of essays from all my students yesterday, and every time I think about cranking up the grading machine, I want to crawl back into bed.

My classes focus on argument: examining them, reacting to them, and writing them. My students just handed in papers with an editorial focus, some sort of persuasive intention. Past experience has taught me that I can expect to find the following when I start reading:

5% of the papers will fulfill the job I assigned, written by students who put real effort into writing a well-crafted essay that both meets the assignment requirements, and shows some creative thought. Excellent. Awesome. Aces to those students. Ye make my job enjoyable, ye do.

10% of the papers will come from students who may have missed the mark, but tried really hard. They're intimidated by writing, they were freaked out by the assignment itself, but they worked through their fear of writing and really tried. Those are the hardest papers to grade. If I could give A's for effort alone, I would. While I'm at it, I'd also like to give A's for nobility, courage, and stout-heartedness. Still. This particular group makes teaching feel worthwhile and important.

10% will start strong, but will start to meander around on page 2, explore new ideas, and show some impressive stream of consciousness. This is because those students wrote the first couple of pages early on, and then wrote the rest of the essay one hour before it was due. You can literally see the spot on the page when things start to fall apart. If the spot occurs late in the essay, they're likely looking at a B-. Any earlier, and they can expect something around C level.

15% of these papers will be about the same topic. That topic will be why California should legalize pot. 15% of the papers are always about that, no matter what the assignment is. Intriguing.

20% of the papers will meet the length approximations I gave them, but will do so by exhibiting margins fatter than damn picture frames in the Louvre. Plus line spacing so wide you could drive a luxury car through the paragraph breaks. Because they think their teacher is an idiot who won't notice that sort of thing.

15% of the papers will not actually address the assignment they were given. I sat down with those students a week ago when I read their rough drafts, to explain this to them. They nodded at me and said, Yea I get it, I'll make sure this works better. I said Great, talk to me if you have any questions. None of those students did so. Their papers will exhibit the same off-topic craziness, but those students will prefer to hand that in instead of going back and crafting some new writing

5% of the papers will be plagiarized, but it'll be done so effectively I won't be able to catch it.

And...

20% of the papers will have big, lofty, authoritative opinions running through them... but with virtually no evidence or support to stand on. We've spent weeks in class discussing how to draw conclusions based on what we discover through research. Which is awesome, except that students hate research and will do anything to get out of it. They think a two-minute Google search (pot+legalize+awesome) counts. That's the big challenge, I've found -- teaching the idea that having an opinion comes with the responsibility of knowing where it came from, and being able to substantiate it. Too many of my students have no problem showing off big opinions, but don't seem concerned with figuring out what's influenced them.

I wonder how many people like that walked into voting booths yesterday. (Zing! See what I did there?)

I probably shouldn't schedule essay deadlines on election days. it just feeds the Depression Monkey.

Welp, I better get started with the grading. The future certainly won't crap all over its own potential by itself, will it?

Movember: Grow a 'Stache to Kick Cancer's Ass

2010-11-01T20:38:00.000-07:00

Know what I hate? Shaving.

Know what else I hate? Cancer.

So participating in Movember is a no-brainer. It's a movement to help raise awareness about men's cancer and generate funds for research. Clearly a big deal. Because as it turns out, 1 out of every 2 men will be diagnosed with some sort of cancer in his lifetime. 1 in 6 will be diagnosed with prostate cancer. In fact, a man is 35% more likely to be diagnosed with prostate cancer than a woman is to be diagnosed with breast cancer.

One of my best friends was that 1 in 6 last year. Thanks to early detection via the miracle of a deeply-unpleasant-but-incredibly-important physical exam, he came out of it healthy. He's a few years older than me, and now that he's back in action he's bugging me all the time to make sure that my future physicals include that extra bit of intimacy between me and my doctor. I'm 40. He's right. It's gonna be time to say hello to the finger in a few years.

In the meantime, the least I can do is cultivate a manly growth of alpine facial hair with my buddies at DadCentric for the month of November. I believe the official rule is just to grow a mustache, but I'm going for the full 'stache/beard action. It's sort of a tough call because when you're rockin' the bald like I am, you're sort of limited in what you can do with your face without looking ridiculous. I've had a goatee in the past and only looked semi-douchy, so I'm confident that with a full beard, my wife will be wilting at my feet, beholden to my machismo.

Of course, this whole hirsute pursuit is useless without money. You should give us some! Go here to my Movember page to give anything you can. You can click on Donate to Me, or Donate to the Team. Either is good.

Here's me (breaking my blog anonymity) on Day One:

Day One: Smooth as a Baby's Butt

If you're of the Dude persuasion, you can join too: you don't have to go all Grizzly Adams. Just some good, thick upper lip action will do the trick. You can sign up here.

If you're a Lady person, you can take part too by signing up to be a Mo Sista. I think you should. You could even do what honorary DadCentric Sista Cheryl is doing -- you have armpits, right? Haven't you always wanted to grow them out for a month? Doesn't cancer SUCK? So you don't wear any strapless dresses for a few weeks. Do it for the men in your life.

The interesting part is going to be when I have to walk into my classes in a couple weeks sporting what's likely to be a very weird look. With any luck, I'll look like this...

...and they'll be even more scared of me.

Walk Like the Dead

2010-10-31T08:55:00.000-07:00

Finally, Halloween. Here at the family pirate ship, there's a lot of excitement going on. Mini-P is itching to put on her vampire costume, get out there and terrorize the neighborhood in the interest of getting a bagful of Mini-Snickers bars. I'm all set to inspect said Snickers, deem them "unfit for child consumption," and retreat with them to my office.

In case it wasn't completely clear in Thursday's post, SaucyWench is really ready to put this whole season to bed. She does the holiday up right for Mini-P and me, but by end of October, she's a bit more, uh, verbal about how she feels about Halloween. She's just not a fan. For her, October apparently lasts six months. I've resigned myself to the fact that I'll never convince her to actually dress up in a matching costume with me (Frankenstein and his Bride? Batman and Catwoman? Bacon and Egg? Dangling Participle and its Misappropriated Noun? No?)

October's always a great time of year for late night TV. Networks usher out all of the older movies that make my skin crawl: The Shining. Carrie. The original Halloween. It's gruesome, nostalgic fun -- but Saucy refuses to watch any of them with me. Which is sort of a big problem; because as much as I love those flicks, I don't want to watch them by myself. (Wuss.)

In particular, she refuses to watch zombie movies. There's something about the End of Days premise inherent to the genre that freaks her out. I get it. I do. I just get off on it.

I had to watch the original 1968 Night of the Living Dead recently for our Top Zombie Flicks list on Culture Brats, and asked Saucy to watch it with me.

"No," she said firmly.
"Oh, come on. 1968. How scary could it be?"
"No no no no no no. You're on your own, bucko."
"But it's so old, and it's in black and white. It's totally cheesy, it's funny; like when the first zombie sort of staggers up and--"
"No no no no no no no no la la la la la la la I can't hear you I can't hear you OHHH SAY CAN YOU SEE, BY THE DAWN'S EARLY--"
"Ok, ok. Fine. Geez."

So I had to watch it alone. Dammit. Freaked me all the hell out, I didn't sleep well, and the next day Saucy just gave me the I Told You So look.

"At least tell me you're going to watch The Walking Dead with me," I said. (This is the new series on AMC premiering tonight. Looks completely awesome. And disturbing. I'm psyched. And sort of scared.)

"We'll see," she said vaguely.

We'll see? We'll see?? You know what? That's fine, Wife. I'll remember this abandonment when the Zombiepocalypse comes. Good luck defending yourself when our daughter is chasing you through the house trying to gnaw off your arm. Don't come crying to me.

Happy Halloween, everyone. Have a fun, safe night. And remember: you need to actually crush the skull or sever the head to keep zombies down. Anything less and they'll pop right back up again like toast. Don't half-ass the job.

P.S. Here's a behind-the-scenes clip from The Walking Dead. Turns out walking like the dead takes training.

SaucyWench and the Village of the Damned

2010-10-28T06:02:00.000-07:00

First, I need to say thanks to you guys -- moments after I published Monday's self-deprecating-yet-self-aggrandizing post, I felt like a serious tool. In fact, I almost went back and took it down; but one of my very few self-imposed rules is that I won't take back the stuff that I post here. So I let it ride, despite the fact that rereading it made me feel like I was literally begging for affirmation. Your comments were kind, encouraging, and insightful. You made me feel a lot better. I'm not kidding. I'm very grateful for you, and now I have several new blogs of yours that I'll be frequenting.
P.S. If I start to feel sorry for myself on this blog again, feel free to slap me around a little. Sometimes tough love is the only solution.

*

Now, moving on to what this post is actually about:

Halloween.

We love Halloween here on the S.S. Didactic. Seriously, the whole family. Big spooky Halloween love. Ok, most of us love Halloween. Two-thirds of us really, really love Halloween.

The Mini-Pirate and I put it right up there with Christmas as the best time of the year. To celebrate, we have several traditions:

1. We light the traditional Franken-lamp.

Fire bad.

2. We read from our favorite book of Halloween Franken-poems.

Buy this book. I'm not kidding. There's a poem in it entitled "Godzilla Pooped on my Honda."
Do you need another reason?

3. And in the evenings, I rock my awesome Franken-pants.

Hands off, Ladies. He's married!

But that's nothing compared to what my wife does. Every year, SaucyWench breaks out our four giant boxes of Halloween decorations, and does the house up right. She makes the place look great: decorations everywhere. Fake spiderwebs, piles of bright orange pumpkins, grinning wooden skeletons, candles and knickknacks on every surface. When she's done, the house is festooned in Halloween decor. That's right. Festooned. Saucy creates serious Festoonage.

Part of the massive Festoonification includes the assembling of The Halloween Village, a kitschy ceramic cityscape that takes up more and more space in our living room every year as my own mother, sponsor of the village's urban expansion project, sends us new buildings.

The Village ("of the Damned," growls Saucy)

This badly taken picture only shows part of it, and doesn't come close to doing it justice -- we're talking about a true kitsch explosion. It's actually becoming a Halloween Megalopolis. It takes my wife hours to assemble: shelling each little building out of its styrofoam cave, arranging and hiding all the cords (yes, it lights up), and engaging in meticulous set dressing: placing the figurines, nestling the miniature pumpkins and trees, sprinkling tiny autumn leaves across the landscape. It takes forever, and drives my wife crazy. By the time she's done, she's exhausted, cranky, and in need of a stiff drink. The killer part of it all? She does all this despite the fact that...

...she doesn't even like Halloween in the first place.

"Why does the mean lady hate us, Bobby? Why?"
"I don't know, Alice! Let's get her! EVERYBODY GRAB YOUR TORCHES!"

I wouldn't say she hates it, but it's not her favorite holiday. She just doesn't have a lot of love for it. But she knows that Mini-P and I do, so she goes through the trouble of decorating, of festooning, and of village assembly, every year. She knows it makes Mini-P and I happy. The kid jumps up and down and spazzes out when the village lights up, knowing it signals the start of Spooky Season. And I dig it because I love traditions. I can't help it. I love pulling the boxes out of the garage every year. I love seeing our house transform. I too love our kitschy, ceramic village, just like I love Franken-lamp, and reading Halloween books with my daughter.

Thank you, Wife of Mine. As always, you make every holiday special, every year. What do you say I put on my Franken-pants this weekend after the kid collapses into her trick-or-treat sugar coma and show my gratitude.

Hey, come back.

Why We Blog (or: No One Likes a Whiny Pirate)

2010-10-25T14:24:00.000-07:00

I've been experiencing a bit of an existential crisis recently, blog-wise.

I place part of the blame on a good friend of mine with whom I had lunch last week. She's a regular reader of this blog, although it should be acknowledged that she has no choice -- we've known each other since 8th grade, and if she didn't read my blather, I'd know. (I quiz her regularly about recent posts: "So! Which funny thing that I wrote recently did you find the most funny? You can give more than one answer.")

We were talking about my recent blog frustration, which has been caused -- well, by a lot of you people, frankly. You fellow bloggers. I'm reading you regularly, and you're putting out a lot of great stuff lately. You know who you are. You, with your sharp wit and smart writing, your ability to draw me in with your great stories, the way you open windows into your lives. You do this thing where you get me reading a post, get me to follow along, chuckling here and there, and then you laser me with an insight I didn't see coming, leaving me sitting in my chair, dumbfounded. You're quite talented, you know. But how the hell is your talent supposed to make me feel, huh? Who failed to get the memo about how the universe is supposed to be constantly validating my existence? You, Mr./Ms. Talent, that's who.

I was describing my inadequacy issues to my friend, who's heard it all before. This is someone I've known since 8th grade, which means she's been listening to my "Why aren't I more talented?" bullshit for decades. The only other person who hears all this crap is my wife, who's kindly and patiently endured my bellyaching ever since we met fourteen years ago. Pity her. I'm no picnic, is what I'm saying.

So my friend listened to me moan for a little while: I've got writer's block, I'm not doing anything new or interesting on my blog, all the other bloggers in the world are better than me, the universe loves them better, yaddah yaddah blah blah blah spew belch shutthefuckupalready.

It was embarassing, now that I look back on it. No one likes a whiny pirate.

"I have a question," my friend finally asked me when I stopped being pathetic long enough to take a breath.

"Ok," I said hopefully, ready for heaps of praise about how I'm so awesome and I don't even know it, which makes me even more awesome.

"Here's the thing about your blogging," she said. "I like reading your writing. I think it's good stuff, and it's cool that you do it. But... what's the point?"

Huh? I looked at her blankly, unable to comprehend the question.

She continued. "I mean, what's your purpose in having the blog? Is it supposed to further some goal? Is there money in it? You're a writer -- do you picture it as a way to help you sell a book someday? Is there a reason to make a name for yourself in the blog world? What do you personally get out of it?"

I forget exactly how I replied. I think I said, something like, "Um, well, erg, uh... I don't know, what do you get out of.. your face!?!"

Her question was, of course, excellent. Damn her.

What do I want to get out of blogging?

I realized that I'd gotten a little confused about why I blog. Hence my existential spiral.

Most of my posts are about parenting and teaching, the two endeavors that fill my days, so those are my main contexts. Within the realm of Mom and Dad sites, I've seen that some blogs give advice, while others ask for advice. Some tell funny stories, some teach lessons. Some report news, and others promote products. Some blogs are about contributing to a community of like-minded folks; others are about getting more page hits and drawing more eyeballs to the site.

Well, let's face it. We all want more eyeballs. I'm no exception.

There's nothing wrong with any of the above reasons for having a blog. Readers have different tastes, and there's an audience out there for everyone. We all know what type of blog keeps us coming back, and which ones we only visit once.

But that last part? The getting more eyeballs part? That's become a bit more of an obsession for me that it should. When I read over recent posts, I see several that I wrote purely because I thought they'd get me more readers. "Now this is funny stuff," I thought right before hitting Publish. "This will definitely get me more readers, several of whom will try and figure out where I live so they can camp outside my house. Excellent!" And those posts are, predictably, pretty shitty. Wild flails.

My friend asked the question, "Why do you blog?" and I was forced to engage in some introspection about this humble pirate blog and about myself. Here's what I'm slowly figuring out:

1. I like Funny, but Funny isn't easy. Funny is hard to pull off on a blog, and there's a thin line between Funny and Trying Too Hard. I've been guilty of the latter often in my life. I'll bet money that I'll be guilty of it again. Possibly before the end of the day.

2. Obsessing about followers doesn't work. When I write a post solely in the hope that it will increase the number of little pictures in my Follower box, I write some pretty rotten stuff that isn't worth anyone's time. Sorry 'bout that.

3.  Good stories come from real stuff. This one I already knew, actually, so that's good. I have yet to make up a story just to fill a post. Between my family and my job, there's a surplus of interesting stories out there. So that's a bit of good news.

4. I suck at strategizing.  Some say a successful blog is one that's positioned very distinctly: Dad Blog. Mom Blog. Teacher Blog. Gossip Blog. Wacky Humor Blog. There's plenty of evidence that this is true. This blog is not well-positioned, sadly. I do like defining myself as a Dad Blogger;  I like being a part of that contingent; there are some great guys/great writers in that group. And I like writing about the ups and downs of teaching college too. I need to be able to do both, and more. So I bounce around a lot.

5. I am a pretentious ass.  There's an element of Look at me look at me look at me! in every blog, and this one is clearly no exception. The fact is, writers by nature are pretty self-absorbed. Writing an entire post like this one to discuss my worth as a blogger is Exhibit A, right? I will never talk shit about other writers/bloggers who seem obsessed with themselves, since we all are. It's just true.

6. I might use this blog for a promotional purpose some day.  I won't pretend otherwise. Like so many others, I too have a novel-in-progress that's currently crouching in a dark corner of my hard drive, mocking me. If I ever finish it, and if it ever gets sold, I can absolutely imagine using this blog to help put the word out about it. For this reason, I'll never knock blogs that have some promotional content.

*

My friend asked, "Why do you blog?" and I gave it a lot of thought. I decided to write a post about it in an attempt to feel better about what I'm doing. So here's what I've come up with:

At the end of the day, I have this blog because I want to fill a space in the world. I want a reason to write, even when I don't feel like I have anything valuable to say. I want to, yes, call attention to myself.

Most of all, I want to write things down and interact with other people who write things down. I want to have a seat at that table. I think that's as good a reason as any to have a blog.

You know what? I do feel better.

It's Alive!

2010-10-21T05:00:00.001-07:00

Monday morning. School day. 6 a.m.

I walk into her room.

Me: Goooooood morning! Rise and shine! Time to start the day!

The motionless lump under the blanket does nothing.

Me: Time to get rolling! School today! Let's hit it!

Motionless Lump twitches. I poke at the lump until it shows the first stirrings of life.

Me: Okay! Do you want toast for breakfast!

Lump: Gronk.

Me: Sorry, didn't catch that.

Lump: Not getting up.

Me: Of course you are. Let's get a move-on! It's a school day!

Lump: (nestling further under her blanket) Don't care. Comfy here.

Me: That's great, but every kid in America is getting ready to go to school right now. So get up!

Lump: Can't go to school.

Me: Why?

Lump: Sick. Sniff. See?

Me: Come on, you. It's getting late. It's time. Up we go.

Lump: (pulling blanket back over head) Gronk. Go 'way.

Every morning we do this. Every weekday morning, that is. I go in, I try to wake her, I use all my Mr. Nice Guy/Up And At 'Em tactics first, but it only gets me this. Lifeless child. And soon, I start to lose a little patience.

Me: Get up. Now. I mean it. Don't make me get out the electric paddles.

Lump: Mfffffrrrmmk. (She rolls away from me, apparently unable to articulate words anymore.)

Me: Get. Up. Now.

I reach down and yank away her blanket. Beneath, the clenched figure of my 9-year-old daughter squeezes itself into an even tighter fetal ball. Yes, it's cute. Sure, fine, all kids are precious when they're sleeping. Sometimes at night, right before I turn in myself, I poke my head into her room to check on her. I'll watch her for a minute, this tiny sweet bug of a girl whose feet are drawn up beneath her, who sometimes curls one arm around a stuffed animal in her sleep without realizing it. Her eyes dart beneath her lids as she dreams. I listen to the occasional huff and sigh of her breath. She's safe in the nest of her warm room, just like she was safe in my arms as a baby, when I'd rock her to sleep after a late feeding.

Yea, yea, yea. Adorable.

On Saturday mornings, this precious kid is awake and bouncing off the walls before sunrise, by the way, refusing to let her parents sleep in.

But during the week, on mornings when we have work and school breathing down our necks? I get this. This unmovable dead thing on the slab.

But I will not be denied.

I will raise it, this lifeless creature. I will harness the elements, draw lightning down from the heavens and pierce the flesh of this doomed corpse, this soulless mass of meat and bone, and jolt its heart. I WILL GIVE MY CREATION LIFE.

Or I'll just tickle her until she falls out of bed.

Which I do, poking her ribs relentlessly, making her squeal in resentment until she finally rises, grumpily. I smile down at my 9-year-old girl. From somewhere deep within her, a surly, vengeful monster stares back. Or maybe a future 15-year-old.

Doesn't bother me. For I am the creator. I am near mad with delirium, the joy of having raised the dead. Again. I do it every school day.

Me: It's alive! I've done it! IT'S ALIVE!!!!!!! MWAAA HAHAHAHAHA!!!!!

She raises one eyebrow at me.

Lump: Do you have to say that every morning, Daddy?

California Wussification

2010-10-19T06:47:00.000-07:00

I live in Southern California now, but I'm originally from Colorado. That's where I spent my childhood and adolescence, which means my hobbies included skiing, rock climbing, base jumping, and grizzly bear wrestling. Of course.

It gets cold up in them thar Rockies. Weather frequently happens. They get a lot of that snow that you read about in books, and they start getting it pretty early in the season, sometimes as early as... right around now. When I was in elementary school, cold weather wasn't something to dread. It was just a spoke in the ever-changing color wheel, from summer greens to autumn golds to winter's stark black against white. I remember a lot of Halloweens as a child, arguing with my parents about how my super awesome Scooby Doo costume would be totally ruined if they made me wear a big heavy down coat over it. Even if there was snow on the ground that night, I would've been happy to go trick or treating with only my thin, vinyl store-bought costume to protect me from frostbite, teeth chattering happily all the way through the neighborhood, my breath making clouds behind me. (The Mini-Pirate will never know how lucky she has it -- when she canvasses the neighborhood for bite-size Snickers bars in a couple weeks, it'll likely be coat-free.)

In Colorado, the ground freezes by mid-October and next thing you know, each day starts with a thin veneer of ice over your windshield. Your lawn is crunchy, you see your breath, and after that, you buckle down for the season. You got your big clompin' boots making puddles by the front door. You got your thick gloves that make it impossible to press the buttons on your Walkman while waiting for the bus to school. You got Snow Days.

Back in high school, my friends and I would wander around town late at night in the dead of Winter, hanging out... outside. We'd walk up and down Boulder's outdoor mall on Pearl Street, or hang out in some downtown park or parking garage and play music, and smoke, and just be teenage. The insides of our noses would freeze, and we usually lost feeling in our feet before the night was over, but it never seemed to bother us.

Sometimes we'd spend our Saturday nights wandering up and down the Pearl Street mall, a red-brick promenade lined with trees and little boutiques. In the summer the mall would buzz with street performers and tourists strolling around with ice cream cones until late into the evening. But after the first big frost of the year, it would start to clear out after sunset, the pedestrians retreating into the bars and restaurants that threw squares of light onto the snow banks outside. And by the end of November, it would be just us -- hanging out under street lamps, chain smoking, perfectly content in ten-degree weather, wearing carefully ripped and frayed clothing in an attempt to pretend we were homeless runaways.

Older folks would hustle past us on those evenings, bundled up in fur-lined coats that made them look like yetis in a hurry. Sometimes they'd see us and say, "What is wrong with kids today? They don't have the sense to come in from the cold."

We'd laugh. Cold? It's toasty out here! Stupid thin-blooded old people. Ha! So fragile, we laughed. We will outlive you, you brittle adults, and after you've wasted away, we will RULE THE EARTH! Because of our awesome youth and toughness!

Good times.

*

It's twenty-(ahem) years later, and I'm living in Southern California, where the Fall temperatures, which usually hover in the toasty Indian Summer 80s, dipped down to an invigorating 65 degrees this past weekend, bringing in a wee bit o' unseasonal rain. (Cue the Minnesota readers: Oooooh. Brrr. How hard for you sad, sad Californians.)

And I was frakkin' freezing here.

My blood is thinning. My skin doesn't heat itself with an internal youth fire like it used to. I'm now adding something new onto the list of Things I Never Thought I Would Become, beneath Parent, Teacher, and Bald: Big Weather Wuss.

I blame California completely, of course.

I was sitting around our house yesterday afternoon huddling under a damn blanket. Wearing slippers. At one point I considered donning a hat, because my ears were chilly. I could barely remember walking around with my friends in Colorado, braving low temperature and arctic winds, and not caring.

It's ridiculous. Do I need to move up to the Klondike to give my circulation something to fight? Develop walrus skin? SaucyWench and I are debating moving out of California someday; if we do, it will be to a place with weather. The way I see it, I'll have two options if that ever happens. either toughen up and develop a sturdier epidermis, or invest in one of these:

Not me. Yet. But give it time.

Color choices include Ruby Wine, Hunter Green, and Chocolate Brown, apparently.

(Sigh.)

P.S. I'm over at DadCentric today, writing about a little Halloween costume debate the Mini-Pirate and I are having. Check it out here.

The Terminator Vs. Narcolepsy Boy

2010-10-14T15:03:00.000-07:00

I walk into my 8 a.m. class this morning and see my thirty Freshmen. They're in various stages of waking. Many of them have Starbuck's cups in front of them, a couple have brought snacks, all of which is fine with me. On the first day of the semester, I always tell my early sections that they can and should bring whatever they need to help them come in awake, alert, and ready to roll. Coffee? Fine. Absolutely. Foul-tasting energy bar? Sure. DIY adrenalin shot to the heart? By all means. Do what you gotta do to bring your A game into a class discussion.

I ask everyone to get out their books, and we kick off our discussion of the day. It's good -- not only is everyone awake, but they appear to have read the material closely enough to have some opinions about it.

Everyone, that is, except Narcolepsy Boy.

Narcolepsy Boy has yet to keep his eyes open for an entire class session this semester. I don't know much about him, beyond the fact that he looks incredibly young for his age. He's a Freshman, so he's got to be at least 18; but he's so baby-faced that he looks 15. I'm pretty sure he has yet to experience his first shave. Beyond that, he's your typical So Cal kid: blond, rangy, always wearing a backwards baseball cap and ear buds that I have to ask him to take out at the start of class. On my roll sheet for this class, I've actually written "frat boy" next to the kid's name. It's just his look. I tell myself I only engage in such stereotyping to help me remember who's who at the start of the term.

A few weeks ago, I pulled Narcolepsy Boy aside and told him he needed to stay awake in class. It was our first conversation about it, so I wasn't a total dick; but I did say that if he wanted to make it through the semester, he'd need to change his habits. Get more sleep, go to bed earlier, hoover down an energy bar or two in the morning, something. He nodded at me, apologized, and shambled out. He may have been sleepwalking.

After that, he started each class session by downing one of these bad boys:

I'm not a fan of Crack in a Can. I think most energy drinks will make your brain explode if you have enough of them. I should know -- when the Mini-Pirate was a newborn, I would kill three cans of Monster energy drink every morning to help me juggle work and new-dadhood. That's in addition to two pots of coffee a day. It got bad. I talked fast. A lot. I would literally vibrate just sitting on the couch. I blame my current Restless Leg Syndrome on it, completely.

So when I first noticed Narcolepsy Boy downing 5-hour Energy supplements, I said nothing. They're not healthy, but his body, his choice, right? And if it helps him stay awake in class, more power to him.

On this particular morning, I see that Narcolepsy Boy has, not one of those little bottles on his desk, but four.

That's not healthy, obviously.

But guess what? They don't even help. Halfway through class, the dude slumps down until his foreheads hit the desk. Asleep, yet again.

Goddamn this kid.

Class ends. Narcolepsy Boy wakes up groggily as the other students rummage in their backpacks and unfold their phones. He sits up, wipes some off the drool of his face, and starts to stumble towards the door.

"Not so fast," I say to him. "We need to talk."

If he were an upperclassman, I'd just say to hell with it. I can't change his late-night behavior, and that's not my job. But this is his first month of college. And however he's spending his free time, if he continues like this, he's either going to flunk out of school, or submerge into a permanent stage of Inception-like dreaming from which he'll never awaken. But he's a Freshman, and I'm feeling the need to be the Fuckin' Terminator, today, apparently.

We've had this conversation once already, so I'm legally entitled to be an asshole this time, right?

Narcolepsy Boy stands in the middle of the room as everyone else leaves. The dude is seriously swaying on his feet.

"Chad, this is getting ridiculous," I say once it's just the two of us in the room. Possibly a little bit louder than necessary. "You've been awake for a total of fifteen minutes since the semester started, do you realize that?"

"I'm sorry," Narcolepsy Boy says. He's not looking up at me. "I know we talked about it before. I've been trying to do better."

"Trying? How, exactly?"

He doesn't answer. That's fine, because I have a lot more to say. "It's not just the fact that you're sleeping through class," I lecture at him. "You're handing in assignments that don't even meet the minimum requirements. Probably because you're not awake to hear the requirements in the first place. You know what I mean? Seriously -- do you have any idea what's we're even talking about in class right now?"

"I know," he says. "I'm really sorry. I don't mean to show any disrespect to anybody."

Apologies? He's giving me apologies? The Terminator does not accept apologies.

"Respect? It's not about respect," I say, hands in my hips. (That's right, I'm really feeling my oats now, boy. I'm ramping up to give this kid the lecture of his life. In one fell swoop I'm going to turn his whole world around. Why? Because I am large and formidable and I AM GOING TO TEACH THIS KID A LITTLE SOMETHING ABOUT PERSONAL RESPONSIBILITY, DAMMIT.) "It's about being an adult! It's about taking some personal ownership! I don't care if you live in the dorms, and everyone's always up late--"

"I don't live in the dorms," he mutters. Is he trying to disrupt my flow? Throw a rock in my path of destruction?

"Oh. Still. Doesn't matter! You're obviously partying way too hard. Are you pledging? Is that what's going on? Because I'll tell you right now that if you have to make a choice between being in a frat and passing your classes, I'd choose the latter if I were you. If you flunk out of school, you don't get to keep going to Greek meetings, got it? You need to check your priorities!"

"I'm not pledging."

"Then what's the deal?" I ask, looming over him, glaring at him with my Terminator laser eyes. Target acquired. Whatever he's going to give me, excuse, belligerence, I'm ready to shoot it down.

And that's when I notice that this kid doesn't look angry or defensive, despite the fact that I'm almost yelling at him. He doesn't look mad, or even sullen.

He looks exhausted. Exhausted and miserable.

When he talks, his voice catches on a hook in his throat. "My daughter is three months old and she has colic," he says. "My girlfriend works during the day, so I stay up with the baby at night."

Oh.

He says 'my daughter' like it's in an unfamiliar language, as if he's never actually said it out loud before, and he's surprised to hear how the phrase sounds in his voice.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "It's just really hard. She cries all night." This 18-year-old who could pass for 15 suddenly looks absolutely defeated by something that has nothing to do with me.

Oh.

Terminator turns off laser eyes and retracts machine gun arm.

I tell him to come by my office later and we'll talk for a while, if he wants.

Which he does.

Fridays Are For Awesome #1: The Art of Darwyn Cooke

2010-10-08T13:45:00.000-07:00

My pal Otherworldlyone over at Calling People Names threw me a meme to complete about a month or so ago. The task was to write posts about seven things you love. Since I received it just as my semester was starting, I never got around to it. (Once school gets rolling, my productivity at home tends to hit three or four speed bumps in a row. A giant mutant super speedbump, if you will. As always, I blame my students and their neediness.)

My plan was to start the Seven Things series this week, but then decided to do something else with it instead. I thought I'd take every Friday (or at least, periodic Fridays... heh) to blog about something that I find to be chock full of awesome, hopefully something that readers may not have been exposed to yet. (Like bird flu. You know it's out there, you just don't know where it's lurking.)

I'm not real big on rules and structure for myself, so I may not do this every single consecutive Friday. But I dig the idea of some sort of ongoing series. And I like things that are awesome. And I really like taking credit for awesome things that other people do that have nothing to do with me. So that's all win here.

This inaugural Awesome Friday is reserved for one of my favorite graphic novelists.

His name is Darwyn Cooke.

I love graphic novels -- good ones, at least. I was first exposed to them through the superhero genre. I think the first actual book-bound superhero story I bought was the Death of Superman, back in 1993. (You comic-loving youngsters may not remember, but DC Comics actually killed off Superman at one point and let him stay that way for a year. No one was fooled into thinking it was anything other than a ploy to booster readership, and I wouldn't exactly call it high literature. Still, it made for a meaty story arc at the time.) That got me going. Years later I read Watchmen and was enthralled. And several years after that, I discovered Cook's two-book series called DC: The New Frontier, written and drawn by Cooke.

The Final Frontier is an origin story about what ~~geeks~~ aficionados refer to as the Silver Age of DC heroes, which took place during the late 50s/early 60s. Cooke took classic hero stories from those years, and retold them against a Cold War backdrop that included the Civil Rights Movement, the Korean War, and the space race. I loved Cooke's retro pastiche artwork -- he did in only a few bold strokes what other artists try to accomplish with meticulous overdetailing. Each frame was a rich, textured portrait to me, with a crispness that was reflected in Cooke's writing.

But what I really love is what I'm reading right now. Last year, Cooke decided to depart from the superhero genre and dive into some good old-fashioned noir fiction. He adapted the classic 1960s hardboiled Parker series by Donald Westlake (written under the pseudonym Richard Stark), and has crafted two out of four planned re-visions from the original novels that are, to put it simply, flat-out gorgeous.

Stark's Parker is a remorseless thief who stalks cities artfully rendered by Cooke in steely black and blue. The plot so far is about revenge on double-crossers and taking down a big crime syndicate. Parker is an anti-hero with a vendetta. The bad guys are big-time. The dames? Schemers. The dialogue is sandpaper-rough, and the two-color format gives everything a dark patina that reminds me of how I felt the first time I watched Double Indemnity.

I'm really enjoying what Cooke has created. You might too. Even if you're put off by the whole comics thing -- if you're into mystery novels and seriously flawed characters, you might like this.

And that's the first edition of what might be a dopey new series. By me. On Fridays. Because Fridays are for awesome.

New Kid on the DadCentric Block

2010-10-07T11:17:00.000-07:00

High drama in the Dadblogiverse this week!

Interesting times, here in the usually idyllic suburbs of dadblogvania. Some recent editorials and online dialogues raised a few buzzy questions about dadblogs: who reads them (Other dads? Other parents? Hot single women with cheerleading outfits?), why dads write them (To vent? To commiserate? To make millions with a marketable brand?), and of course, whether or not dadblogs in fact flat-out suck.

Then, one brand spankin’ new dadblogger came out of nowhere with a new blog, hit the ground running and immediately got 457,288,932,563 loyal followers after writing one allegedly honest and powerful post – and then wrote several more subsequent posts talking about how powerful and honest he is. Soon after that, another dadblogger called shenanigans on the first guy. Some other folks (including me) were like, Fuck Yea, that first dude’s a douche! We call shenanigans too!, then a couple other people were all, No Way, shut up!, and the first group was all, No, YOU shut up!, and then some new readers from somewhere else were all, Whaaa? and then finally a few folks who don't actually have blogs were all, You guys should get out more.

Sort of a weird time for me to emerge from my own dim corner of blogdom and wildly wave a flag to say, “Hey! I’m the new guy over on DadCentric!”

(I can't turn this button into a link.
You have to use the link below, or the actual button up on the right.)

But that's what I'm doing. Waving my flag. Yes, wildly. The guys over at DadCentric are great dads, great writers, and best of all, great storytellers. And it's my love for reading and writing stories that got me into this whole blog situation in the first place.

My first post over there is up now. It's about yet another opportunity I recently had to be a piss-poor parent to my daughter, the always embattled-yet-resilient Mini-Pirate. Go see!

P.S. I've been fortunate enough to get a spate of new readers recently. Hi, new readers!

*waving at computer screen like a big spaz*

This influx is largely due to links providing by some very kind blogging friends -- in particular, the kind maiden behind the hilarious Wait In the Van and the equally kind and soon-to-be-married PBFingers, who writes a great health-focused blog spotlighting seriously delicious food. If you don't read them, it's important that you start. Tell them the Pirate sent you.

Bad Teacher/Bad Cop

2010-10-05T16:55:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while, I lose my zen in class. Not often. But just on some days. Today in one of my morning classes, for example.

This is a writing class, and we've been talking about various strategies for argumentation, illustrated by a range of sample articles in our textbook. I've been assigning from the book for weeks now.

"Alright," I say at the start of class, "Let's look at the article you read for today. It's on page 217."

I wait for students to act accordingly. I don't need their eyes to light up with unbridled enthusiasm or anything: Get out our textbook? Finally! I thought you'd never ask!! I've been itching to pull this bad boy out all day! Let's do it! Let's discuss the reading! Rigorously! Let's take this baby out on the road and really open 'er up !!

That would be awesome, but I don't need it to feel good about our productivity. I just want them to pull the book out and flip to the right page. I'm happy to call that a Win.

And yet, as I wait, no one seems to be doing anything.

"Okey, Dokey," I say again, "Let's get right to it. Page 217."

More aimless staring. At the chalkboard. The door. Their desks. Their shoes. It's weird to have 30 people avoid eye contact with you all at the same time.

"And... we're off. Here we go. Page 217-arooni."

I am nothing if not persistent. And yet there is still only distant staring. Stillness.

"All aboard the train to higher learning. First stop: page 217."

Crickets.

"Time to conquer page 217 with an UNHOLY FURY!!! YEAA!!! WHO'S WITH ME!? COWER BEFORE US, PAGE 217!!!"

Nothing.

It becomes clear that out of thirty students, only two of them brought their textbooks to class today. Despite the fact that they'd all been assigned a reading from it. Despite the fact that I'd said in class that we'd be looking at material that's actually written on pages actually found inside the book, so it would be important to actually bring it.

Despite the fact that the course syllabus, in the Required Class Materials section, says: Please bring our textbook to class everyday. Just like that, in bold.

I wrote it in bold, you guys. Granted, I tend to put a lot of stuff in bold on my handouts. But that's just because a lot of stuff is important. I like to emphasize. And let me also add this: the book I made them buy? Dirt cheap by academic publishing standards. I scoured the industry over the summer and found a book that would cost students less than twenty bucks. Why? Because I ~~want a good rating on ratemyprofessor.com~~ care.

"Guys," I say, feeling my forehead vein start to pulse. "Where. Are. Your. Books?"

No one has anything to say. A couple students make the feeble, fake attempt at rummaging around in their backpacks before coming up empty, shrugging, as if they themselves have no idea what's happened to their books. It's like a mystery. The Case of the Goddamn What the Hell Is The Problem With College Kids Today And Their Total Lack Of Freaking Responsibility. Call the Scooby gang.

So I lose it. Just a little. I don't yell, because I never yell. I do however launch into a little sermon/performance art piece I like to call "What part of 'bring the book everyday' do you not understand?"

I go off. I don't call them names, and I don't swear at them (much), but I do go off. "What makes you think it's ok to just blow off a basic requirement like that?" I say at one point. "Would you act this way at your job? If you boss asked you to bring something to a meeting, would you forget and then just shrug it off?" (Yes, the comparison of classroom behavior to professional behavior is a flawed analogy. Speaking of, did you know that Flawed Analogy is one of 42 defined logical fallacies often found in contemporary arguments? It's one that's actually discussed at length... in a chapter of the goddamn book you people were supposed to read and bring to class today.)

I'm worked up. My face feels warm, despite the fact that I'm not new to this teacher-student Thunderdome-like arena. I hate being a cop in class. This is college. I'm standing in front of them, hands on my hips like I suddenly morphed into my own father. The Vein is throbbing. They can probably see it, like a mini-me on my forehead, just as angry as me. In fact, The Vein probably has a tiny vein on its own forehead, which is also throbbing.

And then one dude slouching in the back, bookless, remorseless, says: "Dude, why do you even care if we bring it?"

Wow.

Good question.

I stand in front of them, listening to a whole new sort of expectant silence in the room.

I have no answer.

Aw, Crap. Another Birthday Post.

2010-10-01T07:43:00.000-07:00

Last week was the Mini-Pirate's birthday. She turned nine. I didn't really do anything here at the cyber pirate ship to commemorate it. I did blather a bit about Disneyland, where we celebrated. But that was more or less a Cranky Old Man post ("What are all these goddamn people here today? Don't they realize I need my space?"). I didn't really talk about the fact that my daughter is, shockingly, older than she was a year ago.

She's freaking nine now. I have to take a minute and wrap my head around that one. This little bean spout that used to be small enough for me to cradle in one forearm and carry around in a testosterone-diffusing Baby Bjorn is now a coltish, always moving, all-knees-and-elbows nine-year-old girl who loves SillyBandz, Selena Gomez, and mystery novels. And Star Wars. And Scooby Doo. Plus she has such a big crush on Han Solo that we're not allowed to say his name out loud because she loves him so much.

I started writing several Happy Birthday posts over the last week, but stalled out every time. They were mostly letters to her -- that's what all the cool dad bloggers seem to do, and theirs always turn out well. I experimented with various tones, but none of them felt right.

I tried Amazed:

Dear Daughter,

I can't believe you're such a big tall amazingly talented girl! You rock the world! You're a star! You're going to grow up and achieve all your dreams! Because you can do anything! You'll be president! AND an astronaut ballet dancer gymnast veterinarian! You're so awesome I have to go lie down for an hour! Don't wake me until dinner!

I tried Sweet:

Dear Princess Sparkle Face,

You're soooooooo special! You are made of rainbow dreams and starlight. I love you more than magical dreams and unicorns. Let's have magical tea parties on fluffy clouds for EVER!!!

I tried Tough Love:

Dear Burden.

You're nine. Get a job.

I finally tried Sincere:

Dear Kid of Mine,
Thanks for turning out so awesome, instead of some spoiled brat that embarrasses me in public. Seriously, I appreciate it. Your awesomeness has very little to do with me or your mom, I suspect. You just are. Your personality has been entirely consistent since you were born:

You've always been quick to laugh. And even quicker to get hiccups when you laugh. Your mom actually felt you hiccuping a lot in her belly before you were born, which means you were seriously cracking up a lot in there.

You take setbacks hard. But you bounce back so fast -- I wish I was more like you in that way. You seem to be intimidated by new situations, but only when your mom and I are around. When you're left to your own devices, you transform into an independent problem solver.

You're interested in a lot of stuff, but you hate to admit it. You're sort of weird like that.

You love superhero stories, like I do. You think pirates are funny, like I do. You love to sing more than just about anything.

When I Google my mental hard drive for memories of the first nine years, a few pop up:

Like this one time, when you were a baby, I was up giving you your 2 a.m. feeding. It felt really special -- you snuggled in my arms, gently slurping away at your bottle, this perfect weight in my arms. Everything was safe and warm -- except for the fact while I was feeding you, I was also watching The Shining on TV. It wasn't until the scene with the blood pouring out of the hotel elevators that I wondered if maybe I was scarring you for life by feeding you in front of the SCARIEST MOVIE IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD.

You and I spent hours trekking through Balboa Park downtown every other day during that first year. We put miles on that fine, fine stroller. We always followed the same route, which somehow involved a lot of me pushing you up steep hills. I had the Body Mass Index of a track star that year, thanks to you.

I remember your first day of preschool clearly. You were three. I had a minor freak out about leaving you there. After I dropped you off that first morning, I called your mother at work and told her I was really worried that one of the other little kids in overalls was going to try and sell you drugs.

I also remember you posing proudly on our front porch on the first day of 1st grade, wearing a backpack roughly twice your size. I was pretty sure you were going to fall over backwards before you got to the car and get stuck like a turtle on its shell.

I still recall the first superhero identities you made for both of us when you were seven, which you solemnly said we had to protect in secret, no matter what. You were Digger Girl, because you carried a shovel. You deemed me Silver Cape Man, because I wore your silver cape. You listed our powers: you explained that you had "all the powers in the universe." (Lucky!) I had the power to... wear a cape. You wrote it all down: our secret identities, our arch enemies, the location of our secret lair. I'd never seen you craft anything so detailed before. Maybe this girl will be grow up and be a writer, I thought. Poor kid.

I remember how brave you were the first time you rode a horse. The first time you danced in a toddler ballet recital. The first time you lost a game of Candyland and got really, REALLY pissed off at me. (Sorry. Life lesson.) The first time we watched Star Wars together. Our first real conversation about death. The first time we sang in the car together and I realized you had a good sense of pitch, Thank God.

So... listen. In a few years, when you cross the threshold into adolescence, could you just remember how you and I were best buds once upon a time? Because I'd really like to keep that going if we can. Oh, and can I borrow some money? Thanks.

Love, Dad.

Think I'll go with that last one.

Sometimes we don't get a lot of homework done in the afternoons.

2010-09-29T13:59:00.000-07:00

"Daddy, can I see your face for a second?"

"You need to do your math."

"I will, but I have to check something about your face first."

"Why?"

"I need to see something."

"Finish your math, and then you can check something about my face."

"Just really quick. Pleeeaaassse, Daddy?"

"Fine." (Sigh)

"Ok, now just hold still."

"Ok. Ow. What are you doing?"

"When I do this to your chin, it looks like a butt."

"You're pinching me."

"When I only do it a little bit, your chin's just a little butt."

"I see."

"But when I do it like this, it's a BIG butt."

"That's really really really interesting. Now finish your math."

"You have face-butt."

"Thanks for letting me know. Now. Math."

"Ok, ok. Geez."

(Five minutes later)

"Oh, Daddy?"

"YES, Sweetheart head?"

"Can I check something about your ears?"