Another cool thing I get to do as Fury's dad is to actually play with these toys -- and observe him as he improvises smack-talk between 4-inch plastic combatants. In fact, everything that comes out of his mouth when we're playing with toys is the stuff dad-blog posts are made of. Lucky me. Some of my recent favorites:

This particular Lego build took me an entire three days:

Which is why remembering this little exchange still makes me cringe:

(From next room) "Hey, Fury. That Star Destroyer still in one piece?"

"Yup... *crack* I mean two...*crack* I mean three..."

I also remember the time he really impressed me with his creativity.

"Wow, Fury! Did you make this yourself?"

But there's also something to be said about his honesty:

"Nah, I broke it myself."

I don't know about you, but when I was a kid, action figure scenarios were all about good vs. evil. I guess today's kids subscribe to kinder, gentler, Spring breakier fantasies.

"Look, dad! It's the Star Wars Party Truck!"

I think I bring my work home a little too often. Because this is the kind of tour Fury gave me when he recently set up his Playmobil Pirate Island playset:

"This is where the secret cave entrance is, and here is where you hide the treasure. And the cannons are right here to protect the fort. And in the back here... is the conference room."

Because it is imperative that today's pirate know his "Three P's" - Plundering, Pillaging and PowerPoint.

And mash-ups? You may think that these are a "Web 2.0" phenomenon, but really it's a "Kid 1.0" thing:

Today's superhero is one part Bionicle, one part Spiderman, one part Ben 10, one part Superman, one part Darth Vader, one part Yoda, one part The Children's Place, one part Nacho Libre and ten parts awesome.

When I was a kid, I remember playing with Tonka trucks and Matchbox cars in the same scenario, despite the fact that they weren't to equivalent scale (being able to pile 10 sedans into the bed of a single pickup truck kind of clues you in on that). When did kids get all up in arms about compatibility? I blame Windows Vista.

"Fury, how's this for a cool motorcycle!"

"Dad, you can't do that. You mixed a Mega Bloks gun with a Lego motorcycle!"

"What?"

"Dad, you would go to jail for that. Well, in some states. You're lucky California is a free state."

"OhmygodIhavetoblogthat."

And finally, it's nice to know that my kid can distinguish the really important life skills in today's world:

"Dad, this Bionicle has a throwing knife, thundersword, shark knife, superswords, small and large claws, energy sword, thunderblade, spinning blade, spinning hook, swinging glass breaker, energy shooter, super zapper, strike claw, 3-handled razor-sharp knife, stickblade, crab blasters, infected masks, canyon crusher, ice wall crusher, superbomb, machine blaster, pickup and drop, remake life power, lasers, poison out of their mouth, ultrakick, superkick... and he's a really good dancer."

It must be nice to know that you have a fallback career in case saving Mata Nui from the clutches of the evil Makuta doesn't really pan out.

Now you know why we've got a playroom that used to be a garage, stacked floor-to-ceiling with toys. They inspire me to write, while doing less damage to my liver.

I'm also going to give away a $100 Home Depot gift card. You know, happy father's day, bribing my readers to leave comments, buying your affections and all that...

Step 1

Move your family to a new city and find the cheapest gas station in town. Fill up twice a week because you have a crazy ass gas guzzling truck that only gets 6 mpg. Bitch constantly to the owner of that gas station about having to fill your tank up twice a week. But since you have a 34 gal. tank and your twice-a-week fillups pretty much cover the rent for his station, he's really cool with you.

Step 2

And because filling up your tank takes about 2 hours at a time, you end up spending lots of quality time at this gas station, just talking about random stuff with this guy. Pretty soon, you find out he's exactly your age, and knows a lot more about lead generation, sales channel management, ROI, Powerpoint and Excel than your average dude who works at a gas station. Turns out, he is a disillusioned corporate refugee who one day just said "Frick this crap. I'm going to open a gas station." And just did it. At around the same time, he finds out you work in the field of online marketing. "Hmm..." he thinks.

Step 3

One day while you are hanging out at the station, Toheed (it's too tiring to type "gas station dude" over and over) casually brings up the online marketing thing, and asks if he can pick your brain about something. But he gets as far as "I wanna sell fish..." before I freak out. "FISH! I LOVE FISH! I am a total fish nerd. Let's DO this!" And we just did it. That was the genesis of OceanPets.com (the site is still up, but the business is defunct - keep reading).

Step 4

Get $800 worth of sales just a couple days after launching the site. Which means you drive your 6 mpg truck to the fish wholesalers near LAX (Los Angeles International Airport) to fulfill orders each day and do it like the big boys -- in special styrofoam containers, pumped oxygen and ice/heat packs (depending on the region to which you're overnighting your tropical fish). Start generating sales of $2,000 per day before long. But then you realize why only the big boys ship live fish: DHL and FedEx often (VERY often) deliver to the wrong address, lose packages and run into storms. All of which does not fare well with Nemo and Dori who are sitting in a plastic bag that only has enough oxygen for a 24 hour trip. And unless you are a big boy with lots of money in reserve, you simply cannot re-fulfill the order, plus pay again to ship it (out of your own pocket) while you wait 6-8 weeks for DHL and FedEx to "review" your loss claim and ask for evidence that the shipment has been damaged. Um, how about "turns out the fish I delivered has ceased to be. It is bereft of life. It is an EX-FISH!" (bonus fish for you if you got that reference).

Step 5

Before calling it quits on the fish business, you insightfully conclude one day that 1) people like to buy live fish 2) it is futile to try to ship fish 3) Toheed has all this empty space inside his gas station 4) you can fit about 23 fish tanks in here with the proper rack set-up 5) you're here all the time anyway 6) the slogan "Fill Your Tank" is the perfect catchy phrase for a gas station/tropical fish store 8) Petroleum products and aquatic life can co-exist, Exxon Valdez notwithstanding.

Step 6

Sell 6 fish in 6 months out of the gas station. Craigslist all the fish tanks. Dust ourselves off and decide with Toheed to sell something less alive through the internet. That was the genesis of Silverguys.com. Let's just say I have a very nice ziploc bag in the closet with all kinds of silver jewelry in it. None of which has been sold. Talk to me, my friend. I give you best price.

Step 7

Go back to your day jobs and stick to what you're good at. Which in me and Toheed's case is being the real-life "Harold and Kumar" wherever we go.

Step 8

Go back to the corporate grind while Toheed buys a smog station in Sacramento. And tries to remodel it. But then is told by the city that he cannot hire any crews to do it unless he goes through a general contractor. So in genuine Toheed style, what does he do? He takes the general contractor's license exam and passes it. Since he now has his license, he throws a couple ads up on Craigslist to see what happens. He lands a ton of jobs and pretty soon he's bringing in more money than selling gas has ever brought. A year later, he brings me in to help him do sales and business development.

Step 9

Not knowing jack about construction, I buy a book and attend a few tradeshows. But Toheed teaches me that that your ability to put a real proposal together, use a spreadsheet and speak English far outweighs any knowledge of construction when you're selling commercial projects. And he is absolutely right.

Step 10

Decide that it's time for another kid, which means the house needs to be bigger. Perhaps a second story? Toheed tells you he can totally do that, so you hire an architect, draft some plans, and send your wife and kid overseas for 2 months so construction can begin. After your wife and kid leave, and you pack all your belongings in boxes and store them in the garage, find out that your zone is the hardest zone in Los Angeles County to get approval for a second story, and it ain't happening without months of jumping through hoops.

Step 11

Make lemonade out of lemons. Rent your house out for two months and go live like a frat boy with your friend Joey the Fireman. That's all I'll say about that.

Step 12

Wait for the economy to slow down and construction projects to dry up along with it. Go back to your day job. Work two more years. Realize you still have construction loan money left and decide it's no longer worth it to try for that second story. Draft new plans (which include your dream kitchen and bar area, which make you feel a lot better about not getting that second story), and then move your family into Toheed's house while he begins construction. Unleash your kid and dogs on this single guy's house and in 30 days? Voila. NEW HOUSE.

* * * * *

I apologize for the length of this post. I really do. We're almost done.

So Toheed succeeded in building us the pimpinest house in only 30 days and I cannot thank him enough for doing this for us (at cost!!). It just proves that in life, there is nothing better than good friends. They stick with you through thick and thin, get into trouble with you, bail you out and laugh with you the whole way through. Really, what more to life is there?

For my good friend, please do me a favor. If you know anyone in the Southern CA area who needs a general contractor, tell them about his company, Complete Construction. He is a great guy and I can vouch for his honesty and committment to service. And if you don't believe me, check out this slideshow I made about our home remodel. It'll blow you away:

Awkward segway time (because d Wife and Fury are waiting for me to finish this post so we can get on with Father's Day festivities and can't think of any way to seamlessly weave this giveaway into my post)...

Hey, Happy Father's Day! What goes with remodeling posts and dad? Why, Home Depot of course! And looky. I happen to have $100 Home Depot gift card for you right here! In true BusyDad style, I dropped the ball and failed to put this post up before Father's Day so that the winner would actually have this card in hand to spend on Father's Day. But it actually turned out for the better because now I have a little game to play:

See these really clever gift cards?

I'll give one to the poor soul got the lousiest Father's Day present this year. If you're a dad, leave a comment on this post describing your lousy present. If you're a mom and you gave a less than ideal gift and would like to make up for it, describe that necktie in detail right here. I'll give you till next Saturday 11:59 pm to get these all in (and pass this post along) and then select a winner.

And if you're really down to the wire and HAVEN'T gotten the father in your life a present yet, here's a link with more info on Home Depot gift cards. I'd want the drill bit one myself. I'm always losing or breaking drill bits, because, you know, I'm only good at doing contruction proposals.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY!! 

ADDENDUM:
My first commenter on this post suffered a tragedy that none of us should ever have to face, and in light of that I know some of you felt bad telling me about horrible neckties to win a gift card. Home Depot stepped up (thank you! you rock) and offered her family a $100 Gift Card apart from this contest. So... bring on the bad neckties! The $100 gift card is yours to win - and I've changed the rules, because I can. I will let fate, aka the Randomizer, decide which story gets the card.

ADDENDUM #2:
Geeez how could I forget?? Toheed is getting married this weekend. Please congratulate him (I'll have him check comments)!

Since this is a recipe post, I won't bog you down with details of the evening. Suffice it to say that it was a blast, and I should have known better than to pour my first beer into a glass at dinner in an attempt to be all proper and stuff, because she just chuckled, took her bottle, swigged it and said something along the lines of "you're dealin' with a Texas gal, here." Cowboy up.

Only reason she has a glass here is this bar gave it to us that way. Otherwise, we'd be cuttin' fools in a bar fight.

The next morning Fury, d Wife, her friend "Panda" and I headed to LA State Historic Park to check out the Grilled Cheese Invitational. I had heard reports that it was crowded, but really, how crowded could an event that started out as some guy inviting his friends over to his loft apartment in Downtown L.A. seven years ago really be? Um, Batman-movie-opening-night-two-mile-line crowded, that's how. Luckily, Rachel met us out front, gestured a few hand signals, muttered something in hushed tones about "friends of ours" and just like that, we were chomping on grilled cheese sandwiches, guzzling Izze sodas and listening to free-form poetry about the wonders of cheese. It was Woodstock, with less mud and more dairy.

If you want to get on Fury's good side, offer him cheese.

Watching the teams grill up new interpretations of an old favorite was inspiring for an improv cooking enthusiast like me. And the general excitement and buzz were contagious. But as I made my way from booth to booth, I picked up on something else. It started out faint, but as the day wore on, it eventually even overpowered the aroma of sizzling butter and gooey cheese. It was the unmistakable and familiar smell of competition. And it was summoning me.

"I'm SO doing this next year."

So there you have it. I've put it in writing. Whether I follow through or not is yet to be seen, but at least it gives me an excuse to experiment with butter, cheese and fire all year round. And I don't think it is scientifically possible to be against that. Especially when your first experiment involves lobster.

* * * *

Clambake Grilled Cheese

Like so many things that I cook, this came about because I was looking for a way to recycle leftovers. We had a craving for lobster the night before so I went and bought two. Problem was, the market only had behemoth 4 pounders, which meant we had a ton of lobster meat left over. Like I always say, when life gives you lobster, make grilled cheese. I call this Clambake Grilled Cheese because it uses lobster and smoked sausages, two key ingredients in a New England Clambake. And it sounds better than Lobster and Sausage Grilled Cheese. Makes 3 sandwiches.

Ingredients:

• 4 ounces lobster meat, chopped
• 3/4 to 1 cup shredded Mozzarella
• 1/4 cup shredded Parmesan
• 9 thin slices smoked sausage
• 6 slices French bread
• Mayo
• Old Bay Seasoning (or if you're awesome and she sends you some, Rachel's Simple Seasoning)
• Dried basil, parsley, thyme
• Butter

Preparation:

In a bowl, combine lobster, Mozzarella and Parmesan. Mix it all up. Throw in a small dollop mayo, to your liking. This is really just to help hold everything together as you grill it. Sprinkle seasoning into the bowl, again, to your liking.

Lay out the six slices of bread, side by side and place the sliced sausage on every other piece. Then put the lobster mixture on the other three slices. Make them into sandwiches.

Melt butter in a skillet and before it gets too hot, sprinkle a little basil, parsley and thyme into the pan and let it sizzle a bit. You want to semi-rehydrate the herbs. With butter! MMM. Throw your sandwich on the butter and herb mixture and lower the heat. I usually do grilled cheese on medium to high heat, but since there's cheese throughout the sandwich and not just on the bread, you need to give this sandwich more time on the grill so that the heat really melts everything, which means you need lower heat so your bread and herbs don't become a blackened smoky mess. Plus, the French bread is a little thick, so you need extra time for the heat to penetrate. As it grills, press down on the sandwich with a spatula to squish it all down (I prefer using my hands, but I know you're not into that). Like a manual panini.

Keep checking the bread (a little peek underneath) to make sure nothing is burning. You want a nice golden brown. I didn't time this, but my guess is with lower heat, you'll be wanting to flip these over in about 3 or 4 minutes.

When you are ready to flip, set the sandwiches aside on a plate. Do the butter melting and herb sizzling once again, then throw your sandwiches back down on the other side this time. Squish and wait accordingly.

When everything is crispy, melty and golden brown, lock your family in the closet and eat all three sandwiches by yourself.

If you enjoyed this recipe, make sure to check out Rachel's Mouthwatering Mondays series. I really hate this series because I check it out every monday morning, when I have nothing but a cup of coffee and a pile of work in front of me. I may have short circuited my laptop drooling on it a couple times. Also, there's this link thing at the bottom where people link their weekly recipe posts as well. Check them out or link your own. It's pretty cool.

One more favor before you go. Rachel's blog has been nominated in the "Tastiest Blog" category in the BlogLuxe Awards. Please go there, select Tastiest Blog and vote for the first one: Monkeys and Princesses: A Southern Fairytale. She's winning right now. Let's keep it that way. You make the Foodie Mafia happy, they make you happy.

After lunch, I took Fury with me to the dog park. The dog park in our neighborhood incorporates a huge fenced-in dog area with a playground next to it. Since I can't see the playground from the dog area, we brought along our walkie talkies so I could check on him every once in a while (an underrated parenting tool - one of my first posts ever was about these) . Once parked, we went our separate ways, me with the dogs and him with his scooter.

Being such a nice day, the dog park was pretty crowded. So I'm sure this brought a few glances my way:

*beep* "There are no survivors. Do you copy? I'll keep searching. Over." *beep*

Eh, what the hell, how often in life do you get to play the leader of a ragtag band of humans fighting the tyranny of robots hellbent on exterminating you and yours?

*beep* "Agent Fury, this is John Connor. Continue searching for human survivors and watch out for the T-600's. There's a lot of them in your area. Over." *beep*

*beep* "They're everywhere! I just killed 20 of them!" *beep*

*beep* "Keep me posted on your location and progress." *beep*

*beep* "I just found Kyle Reese!" *beep*

*beep* "Bring him back to headquarters! The resistance needs him. Good job Fury. Over and out." *beep*

For the next ten minutes or so, I chilled with the dogs (and also dropped my phone in Krypto's poop, which was fun), then decided it was time obtain another status report from the front lines.

*beep* "Agent Fury, what's the progress of the prisoner extraction. Are the Terminators still in your area? Over."

*beep* "Dad, I'm just playing right now." *beep*

*beep* "Oh ok. You're ok?" *beep*

*beep* "Yeah. Over and out." *beep*

Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

A few more minutes passed, when I heard the thump-thump-thump of a low flying helicopter approaching. This was a golden moment not to be squandered...

*beep* "Agent Fury. Hunter-Killers on the horizon. They're headed your way!" *beep*

*beep* "They just tried to kill me! Luckily I wore my armor today!" *beep*

And with that, and a smile on my face, I went to round up the dogs. Once they were leashed and ready to go, I pushed the call button one more time.

*beep* "I'm returning to base, Agent Fury. It's time to end this mission." *beep*

No response.

*beep* "Agent Fury, this is John Connor. What's your 20?" *beep*

Nothing.

I made my way with the dogs toward the playground to pick up my errant soldier. As I got closer, I spied two figures in the distance. One, my boy on his scooter, the other, a little girl on a pink bike. As they came around the bend, I flagged Fury down.

"Time to head home, Fury. Hey, did you lose your walkie?"

"No, it's here," Fury said as he lifted his shirt to reveal the device clipped on his waistband.

"But it's not working... see? [pressing call button] Agent Fury, Agent Fury!"

At that very moment, I realized some things.

That the channel on his walkie had been switched from 1 to 29.

That the girl had stopped a little ways ahead, and was waiting for him.

That John Connor may have saved the human race from annihilation, but right now, he was totally salting Agent Fury's game.  

This proves a few things:

• I actually can blog more than once every 23 days (I actually have 4 or 5 posts up already).
• Writing about how you don't like cleaning, why you shouldn't clean, and teaching creative ways to avoid cleaning constitutes writing "about how you clean." Take that, suckas!
• People are happy whenever you give them free stuff -- even when it's people you or your wife work with, and the free stuff is cans of spray cleaner.
• Even though I don't take advertising on this blog or ever do paid reviews, I can be bought. Quite easily. As long as I perform what I need to perform outside this blog (BusyDad wears a mean sandwich board, people. Just show me a check).
• I will go to absurd lengths when I run out of ideas.
• Like making moustaches out of dog hair:

This didn't make it into the post. Imagine what did.

• Or cleaning shoes with bread.  

 Don't drink & clean

You get the idea. They let me be me. Which is why I feel ok sending you there to read my posts. And while you're there, you might recognize some other familiar faces who weren't chosen solely because they were the only male to raise his hand. These lovely, talented and legitimately chosen bloggers are Katja, Casey, Erin and Susan.

Go see how I clean. Or at least how I write about it. And be sure to check back there on Tue, May 26 when they post the video of my cleaning intervention from the Style Network's Trish Suhr. They sent a camera crew into my house and it felt like being on MTV Cribs, yo. Minus the Bentley and the art pieces that I know nothing about but got anyway because I'm a rich celebrity who can afford them.

Also there's a contest that ends tomorrow, which means that I should have done this post ages ago. Procrastination. Now there's an art I know something about.

Here's that link again: How I Clean Now

Until Twitter came along. And one blogger's wistful tweet sparked a social movement and a call to action, which I paraphrase as "BuzzeeDad, give us a reason to drink alone at home again! You're our only hope."

BuzzeeDad. Now that's a name I've not heard in a long time...

And I have answered the call.

BLOG HOPPERS IN BACK. TONIGHT, FRIDAY MAY 15. FOR ONE NIGHT.
and if you are on Twitter, the hashtag is #bloghoppers

Join us, won't you?

I will be reformatting the page today and adding everyone new and old who has requested to be a part of this reunion. Email me, tweet me or leave a comment if you want to be added to the new blog hoppers section (so fellow hoppers know to hop your blog tonight). I just need your name and blog URL.

And now I leave you with a random funny picture:

When you play charades with a kid who just learned to read, make sure he reads the word "Rowboat" the same way you do before you start acting it out, because then the buzzer goes, and one of you is paddling and the other starts breakdancing, all your relatives go "WTF??"

“That cat probably liked the smell of my Axe.”

“Your what?? Did you just say your ass?”

“No. Axe.”

“Axe?? Like the body spray?”

“Yeah, my Axe underarm deodorant.”

“How did you get Axe underarm deodorant?”

“From Tyler at daycare.”

“How old is Tyler?”

“He’s eleven.”

“Well, you don’t need to borrow his Axe. You don’t need underarm deodorant. Yet.” 

And I do not need to explain to my son all the connotations for cat synonyms. Yet.

She is also the most humble person I have ever met, so I risk getting a phone call after this post where my mom screams frantically "Jim!! take it down, take it down!" So, while I can, I'm going to tell you about the little woman that could.

My mom came to this country as the wife of a diplomat. She decided she wanted a job. So she got one. Her first job in the US was as a bilingual kindergarten teacher. As much as she loved her students (and they loved her, evidenced by full grown adults stopping her in the street to thank her for being the best teacher they ever had), she needed a bigger challenge. Maybe a Master's degree. So she got one. Working full time, taking care of my sister and me, and hitting the books in the basement "study" after we were in bed, she achieved it. And she moved on to teaching high school. But she needed a bigger challenge. Maybe a Doctorate? So she got one. In the same way as she got her Master's. And she eventually made her way up the ladder. This time into the (major metropolitan city) school department, where she has been runnin' thangs in the foreign languages department for close to a couple decades now.

But the tale is not over. Back in my early martial arts days, I did Shotokan Karate. My mom, who failed at anything athletic she had ever encountered (her high school gym teacher once told her "you couldn't run even if a tiger was chasing you") was intrigued by Shotokan's graceful power and decided to try a class. And maybe eventually earn her black belt. She got one. And along the way, this woman they all called "mom" at the dojo was throwing back Black & Tans with the boys every thursday night after training (when prior to this, half a glass of Lite beer would knock her out).

So a little over a year ago, when my sister gave mom a gift certificate for a few ballroom dance lessons at a local studio, we all should have known. We all should have known that we'd get the phone call that went like this:

"Hi Jim! I'm going to be in Las Vegas in April."

"For a conference, ma?"

"No, to compete in the Ballroom Dance Nationals!"

 And a picture like this:

With mom and her dance partner Chris, Fury (with medal) and sis

Of course, I made you all a video. Because you have to see this. My mom is 60 years old with only a little over one year of experience. And also, I wasn't allowed to film this and it's always more fun when you don't have permission. And last also, Ford had contacted me about 2 weeks prior to our trip and asked if I would like to drive the Ford Flex for a few days and review it. A free tank of gas, a pimpin' ride to Vegas, and a fridge in the middle console (of all things, that is what made me say yes)? Bring it on.

For those of you not interested in cars, my review appears below the video (it's about 6 min long).

Click To Play

What I Think of the Ford Flex

Style: Urban, but not too urban cool that you look like a fool driving it at 36 yrs of age. But I have to say I did feel a little bit over my head in hip factor when I was driving the Flex. It didn't help that so many people would turn their heads and look at the car when they drove by. I'm hoping it was because they admired the styling rather than because they were laughing at me.

Mileage and Safety: Excellent. Not that I tested the safety features... but the brochure points out that it has earned a 2009 Five-Star rating and gets 24 mpg highway. That stuff matters now that I have a family and no discretionary income to waste on gassing up a huge 4x4.

Handling: I have read the reviews stating that the Flex has great pickup. I guess if you measure this vehicle against other vehicles in its class (i.e. compare it fairly), it probably does. But to me, it felt sluggish. Then again, my car is turbocharged, and my other car has an 8.1 liter, 6 mpg behemoth of a engine. Not good comparisons. But the ride is smooth. So smooth that you won't even notice going 110 on the highway to Vegas. Theoretically.

Interior Room: Oh lordy! It's like a limo in there. You could probably play raquetball in there too. Room for days. It's the low floor, high ceilings and spacious boxy design. Awesome.

Amenities: This is where the Flex just kicks major ass. Power liftgate is awesome. I hate having to put 10 grocery bags and two 12-packs of soda down just to close the liftgate in my wife's SUV. Being able to press a button is a luxury you don't realize you need until you have it. Also, the Flex's SYNC system, that lets you hook up your phone, MP3 player and whatever other gadgets you have, and then control it all with your voice makes you feel all warm and futuristic. It's also safer, but I'll go with futuristic.

My Favorite Thing: The fridge in the middle console. So you lose a potential seat with the fridge, but I would gladly tie an extra passenger to the roofrack to be able to enjoy a cold beverage whenever I want to. Especially in LA, where traffic and heat are a daily challenge. It even has freeze mode -- perfect for keeping specimens from field trips that didn't make the drive home and are starting to smell.

Overall, I have to say I really like the Ford Flex. I wouldn't give up my current car to have one, but my wife would. And has been asking for one ever since Vegas. Hook it up, Ford.

She started a website back in 2001 (the dark times, before blogs as we know them even existed). ModernMom.com has since grown to become quite an immense online community of 250,000+ moms.

And me.

I'm kicking off their ModernDads section (right now it's just a blog, but if they can pull off what they are trying to pull off, this is going to be huge). Please check out my first post. It's about life as a dad in this day and age, where everything is so different, yet totally the same.

If you survive the log-in process, please leave me some comment love so that the higher ups over there believe me when I tell them I actually do have readers.

Thank you much!

Let's see, it all started when we finally got your room set up after our massive renovation.

"Dad, can I get a fishtank?"

As a fish guy (15 fishtanks at home when I was in high school), I lit up when you said that. As a dad who just got rid of a 125-gallon pimped out fishtank over a year ago because you didn't seem invested enough in it to justify taking up 5% of our livable square footage, I smacked my forehead. And got you a smaller one. Mom and I both explained to you that this would be your birthday present. And you were ok with that.

And you totally got down n dirty with it! From washing the gravel to placing the decorations, to setting up the filtration system. As those of us in aquarist circles would say, you're a regular "wet sleeve."

And when you found that piece of gravel floating on the surface and picked it up, you completely validated my conclusion that you are indeed the coolest kid in the world.

Why? Because you said "hey dad, very small rocks DO float!" (dear reader, if you don't know why that makes him the coolest kid on the planet, watch this clip from 2:00 onward).

Now that it's nearly a month later, I look back upon our fishtank adventure and think "money well spent." Having a fishtank is a great way to foster a sense of responsibility in a child. You learn how to take care of a living creature, you understand in a less painful way the realities of life and death...and you learn to develop your own inventory tracking systems to monitor said life and death:

X in the face means you're dead. Ok means you're not dead yet. 1/2 means your fins got chewed off and you're halfway dead.But unlike in nature, we have tupperware. Which means if you're unlucky enough to be designated as 1/2 dead, you win a stay at the floating fish veterinary hospital, where you will enjoy private quarters, have the finest flake food delivered to your door, and most importantly, be protected from the filter intake (where we found you) while you try to grow your fins back.

We boast a 50% success rate with filter suckees. One got his "1/2" removed. The other earned an X.But you want to know the best argument for getting you a fishtank? It does what TV can do, without the TV!

And also, this is quite cool.

Ok, so after your present was taken care of, we had the issue of your birthday party to deal with. Mom did some research. Laser Tag you say? For 35 kids? Pretty much a mortgage payment. Let's keep looking. I hear sticks and leaves are the latest rage in kids parties.

Lucky for us, grandma called us around this time. And extra lucky for us, she is a really awesome ballroom dancer. Who is competing in nationals! In Vegas, baby, Vegas. You were more than happy to forgo your kids party for a weekend at the Luxor. (In this household, Vegas trumps all. Even to my seven-year-old. What... the magic shows are awesome).

"But what about my rowdy friends party!"

Oh yes, there's that. You're a sharp kid. You know that my friends are single guys with discretionary income and no kids. You know that means presents your kid friends would never get you (like that one-hand opening Smith & Wesson deer-gutting jack knife care of Uncle Magnus). And you will totally wear ridiculous tin foil hats and let women in tank tops and orange shorts do the birthday hokey pokey around you ("you put your frontside in, you put your frontside out" -- hmm you ARE smarter than I thought), and tolerate drunken high fives from my rowdy friends in order to get them. Four years running.

But that shirt they gave you. Mind if I borrow it until you grow into it?

And then there's that promise we made you. The one where we swore up and down that we would find that wii in Lolita's garage full of boxes. The extra one that she had packed away ages ago and said you could have. The one that I had to purchase avalanche insurance for before I could set out to find it.

The one I failed to find that day. And we felt terrible about because that was a promise we made to you for Christmas. And now it's your birthday. A promise is a promise...

Then your actual birthday rolled around just two days ago. A birthday where I have never been more thankful for the simple fact that I can put my hand on your little (but growing) shoulders, give you a squeeze, kiss the top of your head and just say "Happy birthday, Fury! I love you." Because life may be beautiful, but sadly, it isn't forever.

Your actual birthday wasn't supposed to be a big deal. Just a small dinner with mom, dad and auntie mei. But sometime around late morning, my phone rang. And the cosmic forces of "life is stranger than fiction" called upon Donald Sutherland, a crazy old lady with teal shoes, and the Los Angeles Federal Building to bring auntie Mr Lady to you, bearing Darth Vader puffy slippers, a Darth Vader watch and a set of metal wire 3D puzzles that would (did) drive a Harvard grad crazy trying to figure them out. And dinner went from a small informal night out with mom and dad to "well damn, it's a party now so let's call Lolita and her boys too."

Auntie Mei, Jaden and some Harry Potter thing that Auntie Mei is trying to indoctrinate you with. Ugh.Wow, kiddo. This month has been quite the party. And you are indeed a force to be reckoned with. Example?

Internet rock stars have coffee with me.

Not a "Beer with Busy" shot, but close enough

But they go ga-ga over you.

Happy birthday, my little buddy, my partner in crime, my mini-me, my better quarter, my half-teenager. Now go do your thing. I got your back and always will.

Love,

Dad

YOU would say "go away, I hate you."

I, on the other hand, would say "oh no, you won't be able to post? Sure, sure no problem. I'll be happy to continue to neglect my own blog so I can post one of my favorite posts I've been saving for a rainy day onto your blog."

Because I'm down like that. And she is SmartAss Mom. And she buys me shots.

Go read, please. And if you don't already visit Smartass Mom regularly, you should. She is all over the place -- and it's a riot.

They Were Parents First

I didn't know Maddie, Heather or Mike that well, and I only met them once at a gathering recently at their home (of course Maddie won me over right away - who could resist a smile like hers!). But I'm a parent. And that is all the commonality I needed to share with them to feel a stab in the heart when I found out about this last night. If you are a parent, I don't need to go on. You understand.

If there is any ray of positivity at all that I can squeeze from this, it's that Maddie's smile is in the hearts of hundreds if not thousands right now. Her smile has manifested itself in an outpouring of generosity from people like you and me, donating to the March of Dimes in her name; mobilizing to walk as one in her memory; and using our collective voices online to keep that smile alive across the internet.

This isn't a plea to donate. This is simply a request to look into your heart and do what it tells you to do.

Rest in peace, Maddie.

In other words, I deserve a break.

And that's just what I got last weekend (as in more than a week ago, as opposed to yesterday, because I never update this blog anymore. Sorry...), thanks to a most excellent Christmas present from d wife. I got to spend one weekend, by myself, in San Francisco and drink all the fine Scotch I could handle for an entire evening at the Whiskies of the World Expo. Yup, the good stuff. Yup, as much as I wanted. Yup, I'm now inclined to believe that Santa and the Tooth Fairy also exist. For two days I got to shed my dad hat, and swap it out for something a little on the dusty side but still salvageable after almost 7 years in the proverbial garage of all that is me: my classy dude hat.

It's been a long time since I've done something to recharge the guy behind the guy behind the guy, so I was all too excited. So excited that I left my Blackberry on the roof of my car at the airport Park n Ride. Which brings me to my first note on being classy.

Say Thank You

"Sir, is that your Volvo?" said the man.

"Yes..." I replied.

"I think you left some--"

"OH MY GOD! Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!!! My phone!!"

[After leaping out of the bus, sprinting to my car, sprinting back and sitting back down...]

"Thankyouthankyouthankyou... I can't live without my phone. I don't know what I would have done. Thank you. Really. Thank you so much."

"You're very welcome!"

"That was so close. Thanks again."

[Turns to his wife and kids] "See? They'll make you crazy. That's why I leave mine OFF on weekends."

Fly Virgin Airlines

After our nightmare on United Airlines, I had pretty much lost all confidence in the flying biz. But wow, nice airlines do still exist. If you want to be classy, you need to feel classy first. And you don't need to shell out for first class to accomplish that. You don't even have to pay more than you would at United Airlines. Just fly an airline where you can buy a ticket and actually get a seat on that plane (I didn't say my standards were high, just realistic).  So the nightclub-style cabin lighting, leather seats (in coach! nice touch), individual touchscreen TVs and flight attendants with British accents helped too. A little wee bit.

Don't Yell. At Your GPS. Like I do.

The GPS on my Blackberry is either really stupid, or likes to amuse itself at my expense. This is the GPS that sends me off an exit to re-route around traffic, then sends me right back onto the freeway. Then off again at the next exit, then back on. Then off. Then on. For five exits. So I was kind of hesitant to use it when I got off the BART (SF's subway system) at Embarcadero station because the hotel I was staying at was only three blocks from the station, according to its website, and I figured simply wandering around would do the trick. As generations of men have discovered and re-discovered, wandering around isn't really an effective navigation strategy, so I eventually I resorted to firing up the ol' GPS.

With luggage in tow, a laptop bag and far too many layers of clothing on for this unusually warm San Francisco Saturday, my journey began. Turn right here, turn left there, go straight 500 feet, turn left here, "recalculating route" (what? why?? I followed your damn directions to the T!) go straight, turn left... for a good 15 minutes, I faithfully followed every instruction my GPS barked at me. And eventually we made it. Right back to the exact spot from which we started. If I wasn't dripping with sweat, chaffed from luggage straps and cursing the waste of taxpayer dollars we call satellites, it would have been quite amusing. But it wasn't like I was going to ask anyone for directions, right? So I punched in the address and started over.

Off to a good start. I actually found the street it told me to find. Go straight? Yes, I can handle that as well.

"You are not on a street."

"What?"

"Recalculating route."

"I'm ON the $%%#^& street!! LOOK!!" (This is where I run into the middle of the street and hold the phone above my head, because without that extra 2 ft., the satellite hundreds of miles above earth's surface simply cannot see me. Waving it also helps to get its attention.)

"Recalculating route."

"I hate youuuu!!!!"

Amidst this conversation I was enjoying with my GPS, I happened to catch a glimpse of a street sign. Not anything that my GPS was asking me to find, but an important one all the same. The street that the hotel was on: Battery St.

"Ok, GPS, I'm giving you one more chance. At least let me know which direction on Battery I need to go."

"Turn left. On Clay St."

"Shut the #$%@ up."

I eventually found it. This picture on the right is the GPS, still recalculating.

Ten minutes later...

"You have arrived at your destination."

"Really? Thank you, I wasn't sure if I was intruding on someone else's hotel shower."

Listen to the Bagpipes

If you do what it takes to take care of what you've got to take care of, then allow yourself to indulge in what makes you happy every once in a while. In my case, it's a fine distilled spirit. Saturday's Whiskies of the World Expo was one of those evenings you just can't forget, unless you sampled over 20 different Scotches, bourbons, rums, vodkas and gins. In which case you're glad that you brought your camera, and can piece together your Twitter updates to figure out what Scotch to buy the next time you hit BevMo.

Some highlights of the evening:

The event was held on the San Francisco Belle, a really big boat. It was docked, but you could still feel it rocking on the water. But I guess after a few drams, who can tell the difference?

All three floors of the boat were reserved for this event. The first floor was the food. I shared a table with two other guys who told me I had to "check out the 31 yr. old" on the top floor. Not totally in Scotch drinking mode yet, I must admit the first thing that popped in my head wasn't a bottle of alcohol.  But it kicked in a second later (before I said something stupid) and off I went.

I went straight to the Tomintoul table on the third floor. The 31 yr. old Reserve is the first drink that touched my lips that night, and the last thing that left my mind. It was one of those rare Scotch moments where you recall it more as breathing it in than drinking it. And when you have these guys marching by you during all of this, well damn, you can almost feel the breeze over the glen, kicking up your kilt.

Then the guy tells you that this bottle retails for $450. And you realize that this is not going to be your daily drinker. In fact, you better have another sample and remember it well. Cause you ain't ever drinking it again. (By the way, the Tomintoul 16 yr. old retails for around $50 and is excellent - my recommendation if you want a nice, sweet-ish, not-too-peaty, smooth Scotch). Since they won my "Best in Show" award, even after a night of sampling the best the world has to offer for getting your buzz on, I returned to their table at the end of the night and said to them "can I take a picture with you for my blog?"

Have a Cigar, Sir

Ok, so they stink up a room, and linger for days. But something that's still made pretty much the same way it was generations ago, and whose individual character reflects the artist who nurtured its leaves and the craftsman who rolled it, is classy. In an old school, guy's guy kind of way. And no one will ever change my mind about that.

Don't Harass Celebrity Crushes

I don't have a great record with this, but I'm trying. So the next morning, as I am strolling along the Embarcadero, I have a random conversation with myself.

"Wouldn't it be funny if I ran into Veronica Belmont here? I mean she does live in San Francisco."

"Yeah, good luck. You know how big this city is?"

"Well I'm just saying, if I did it would be cool."

"Ok, let's say you did. So what would you do, ask for her autograph?"

"No, I'd ask her to follow me back on Twitter."

"How nerdy."

Not an hour after this conversation, as I am walking back to my hotel, guess who I see walking my direction? She is with a male companion and looking like she's enjoying the conversation in which they are immersed. I refrain from my earlier plan of action and just keep walking (after a double take and near-trip). Cause I'm (chicken) classy like that (chicken).

Defer to the Experts

I know, I know. Classy is 90% attitude. But really, who doesn't want to hear "youu loook maaahvelous" every once in a while? That is why when the publishers of Esquire's Handbook of Style contacted me a few months back to review their book, I said "yes. please? please? like right now?"

I love this book. It's one of those books that I will always keep within reach of my closet because it answers ALL the questions that men have about style. And it's done with simple charts, pictures, rules and lists. I don't like to read. I want my information in individual ready-to-eat servings. And this book delivers.

Written for the everyday dude, the Handbook of Style uses profiles of style icons like Fred Astaire, Robert DeNiro, Andre 3000 and even Albert Einstein (rock the V-neck, baby!) to illustrate men's style themes, paradigms and trends, so that you not only know the how, but also the why.

And the book is hilarious to boot. Example? The Denim Flow Chart. Are your jeans blue? No. Are they white? Yes. Are you George Michael? No. --> Take them off. Are they black? Yes. Are you Joey Ramone? No. --> Take them off. 

This is a picture of my copy (which usually lives on my nightstand, unless I'm trying to simultaneously shoot a classy picture of it and come up with an excuse to pour some of the "good stuff").

But if you would like your own copy, I've got one more. And I am giving it away. Just indicate in your comment that you would like to be entered in the drawing and I'll do the rest. Because I am nice. And nice is classy.

Please click on over and check out my post on what I feel should be the new child development milestones against which our children are measured.

Crawling, Walking, Talking and... Tweeting?

The signs are all there. Fury will execute a hostile takeover of this blog someday.