On page 14 of the new issue of Writer’s Digest, the mystery writer Morgan Hunt wonders aloud whether or not she should use foul language in her writing. I know this subject intimately. The most common criticism of Dad Gone Mad is…? No, not that I’m a t-shirt whore. And no, not that the “Recently” links on the left sidebar are busted. It’s that the language used here is “salty” and “scatological”. I therefore wondered if Ms. Hunt might have an argument I could use in my own defense.

(Wow. A whore AND a thief. Mom must be so proud.)

Ms. Hunt claims to ask herself three questions when facing the decision to have a character use a profanity:

1) Does it work for the reader?
2) Does it work for the character?
3) Does it abridge my integrity?

I felt compelled to turn these very mirrors on myself, if only for the exercise in self-deprecation and some good blog fodder.

I consider myself fortunate that I have long since eviscerated my own integrity, leaving only two criteria to examine. One point for me.

Does it work for the reader? For some, especially my sister, it works like Peaches and Herb. For my lawyer friend Brian, it’s poetry. But I can’t speak for the rest of you. I suppose if you’re here and you’re fucking reading this shit, you’re wise enough to see that the “salt” is entirely in context. If you can’t see that, you’re probably a douchebag cocksucker anyway, in which case you should be reading that blond Republican glory hound who hates Jews and gays and talks like someone with half a testicle.

Does it work for the character? Hard to answer. Are there characters here? Perhaps. And maybe my character is a guy who doesn’t know when to stop cursing. In that case, it completely works for the character. It IS the character.

I’m over-thinking this. Everybody just leave your favorite profanities in the comments. A vote for shit-eating cockmaster is a vote for FREEDOM!

Hot Wife and I celebrated our 11th anniversary last week with dinner at one of those swanky, upper-crust restaurants in Newport Beach – the kind where all of the snotty rich folk go with their shirts unbuttoned down to their navels so everyone can see which men have the best chest hair waxjob and which women have the fewest stretch marks on their fake boobs.

We don’t usually do this. We’re not the kind of couple that goes out for expensive dinners in restaurants where they offer Peloponnesian Beet Salad a la Foo-Foo for $13. But we decided to splurge a little this time, for no good reason other than there were no kids with us and we could spend all of our time talking to each other as opposed to, say, blotting grease off of some whiny kid’s quesadilla with a napkin. The idea of having a romantic meal together, alone, was quite thrilling for us.

And wouldn’t you know it, we got the chatty waiter.

I don’t recall his name, but that’s not really relevant. All you need to know is he was QUITE portly, excruciatingly talkative and generally just not the kind of servant you want when you’re trying to be alone. See, I made the mistake of indicating on the online reservation form that it was our anniversary, but I only did so by way of asking for a quiet, private, romantic table – which we did NOT get. And mere seconds after had we placed our napkins on our laps, Blabbermouth came over to kibitz.

“Well I hear congratulations are in order for you two,” he said. “How many years?”

“Eleven,” I said.

“That’s just wonderful. My sweetheart and I celebrated our 14th a few months ago. Marriage is a great thing, isn’t it?”

“Uh-huh.”

Blabbermouth stood there for a moment, resting his forearms on his rather considerable belly and staring through us like we weren’t even there. My impression was that he was silently thanking his God, or perhaps his other personalities, for showing him the glory and wonderment of wedded bliss.

This scenario played out at our table again and again and again, all evening long, and with it came the reminder of how differently Hot Wife and I operate. When he’d walked out of sight after another sermon – this one about the pure majesty of the crab cake – I looked at her with an unimpressed expression.

“I know,” she said. “He talks a lot. But he’s very nice.”

“I disagree,” I said.

“You don’t think he’s nice?”

“Nice would be taking our order, maybe checking back to see if we need another drink. What he’s doing is called smothering. If I wanted to be smothered while I eat, I would have taken you to Hometown Buffet.”

I won't lie. It sucks.

The air smells like a smoldering Marlboro and it's virtually impossible to walk outside without squinting through the ash and smoke. It's hot. The wind has blown down trees and scattered leaves across the entire breadth of Southern California.

We are the fortunate. We have not been evacuated, nor even seriously threatened by the blazes. We live closest to the so-called Santiago Fire, but we are several miles from the actual fireline. Some of our friends have not been so insulated. One has voluntarily evacuated his home. Another is on stand-by.

The Orange County Fire Authority has confirmed that the Santiago Fire was started by an arsonist.

I've been locked onto the all-news radio station for three days. This morning on my drive to work, the anchorman mentioned the San Diego city where Hot Wife's sister lives as a candidate for mandatory evacuation later today.

I've lived in Southern California for 37 years. "Wildfire season" is somewhat commonplace here -- as much a fact of life as snow in the Northeast, hurricanes in the Southeast, and tornadoes in the Midwest. In exchange for the mild climate and physical beauty in which we live, baring an occasional earthquake and a few fires is the least we can do.

But I can't recall it ever being as ominous as it is now. There are 16 fires burning between Santa Barbara and the Mexican border. Most of them have taken homes. We have been living in a drought for several years, the byproduct of which is miles and miles of dry, flammable brush. It's as if all of it is burning simultaneously. The air is virtually devoid of any humidity. The air temperature is in the 90s. The wind is fierce.

It's hard to keep the kids from being scared, but the best way is to shield them from the televised images of crying people, burning homes and flummoxed public figures trying to be helpful. We rented Cheaper By The Dozen 2. The kids have watched it nine times.

Thank you all for your emails expressing concern for us. We're fine.

“How come you have all those zits on your back, dad?”

“What? What zits?”

“This zit and this zit and this zit. There’s like five of ‘em.”

“Does that bother you?”

“It’s kinda gross, dad.”

“Lemme tell you something, boy: you don’t know from gross. Wait until you get to junior high and you have to take showers and see all of your classmates with no clothes on.”

“Why? Do they have zits, too?”

“Zits. Hair. Scabs. Stretch marks. Little divets.”

“Ew.”

“Yeah. Ew.”

“Will I look like that?”

“Maybe. Probably. It’s best that you know now, bud, that the male body is ugly and stinky and gross.”

“Do girls have all those zits and stuff, too?”

“No idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because the other thing that happens when you get to junior high is girls become pretty and there are things about them that you might start to like.”

“Like what?”

“Ask your mother.”

One of the most life-affirming side effects of writing this site is the door it has opened for me to reconnect with people I haven't seen or spoken to in years. It happened again this week. An old high school and summer camp friend named Mikhail surfaced in my inbox the other day -- a guy about whom I'd long since forgotten but was so pleased to hear from. I remember thinking he was a pretty smart, entirely cool kid back in the day, and it turns out he's become something of an intellectual big shot in the NYC educational community.

During the course of catching up, we exchanged the standard demographic information: family, job, location of residence, and so forth. That's sometimes an odd exchange for me, especially when it comes to describing my kids. In business, people are trained to develop an "elevator speech" -- an explanation of the mission and products/services of one's company that is short enough to be delivered within the span of one elevator ride. I've tried over the years to develop an elevator speech about my kids for use on occasions such as this reconnection with Mikhail, but I just can't do it.

When I start talking or writing about my kids, logic and restraint get trampled under a stampede of gush. I find so much to love and applaud about them that my mind develops a mind of its own. I suppose I used to feel as though that isn't OK -- that bragging too much about one's kids is off-putting and a recipe for making the listener tune out.

I decided this morning that I want to change that, and I want your help. I want us to brag about our kids. I want us to shoulder restraint into the gutter and let the gush flow. I'll start:

My son is the boy I wish I could have been. He's aware of his strengths, confident in them and unafraid to show them off. He's a leader, comfortable around other people. He has a zillion friends, and I'm certain I'd want be one of them if I was seven. He is in his second month of first grade but last night he read a book labeled "second grade reading level" cover to cover. He is a very strong baseball player, a good roller-blader for his age and, when he wants to be, an extraordinary big brother. I always dreamed of having a son, but I never knew how wonderful having one could be. He is a great, great kid.

My daughter is the most adorable child I've ever met. She's enthusiastic, bright and has enough energy in her tiny body to power the state of California for a week. She treats her dolls like human beings, her brother like a bully, and her daddy like king. She loves to give kisses and tight squeezes around the neck. Because of some food allergies she has to eat a rather uninspired diet, but she knows why and she hardly ever feels sorry for herself. She reminds me of her mother, and I love that about her, too. She is insanely loyal -- to her dolls, her favorite books, her "boyfriends", and her TV shows. Our father-daughter is like nothing I've ever felt before. I'm so lucky and proud to be her daddy.

Your turn.

I’m a simple man. I don’t ask for much. An occasional hug from the kids. A cold brew from time to time. Sanctioned marital acts now and then. And total dictatorial control of the remote control when there’s a hockey game on.

Is that too much to ask?

Apparently so.

Last night I was sitting on the floor and watching the Ducks game on TV. Hot Wife was on the couch, reading her book. The kids were asleep. All was well and right and good.

“Honey? Is there an intermission coming up?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Three more minutes. Why?”

(If you’re a male, you need to sit down before you read the blasphemy in the next sentence. Trust me. Sit. Ga'head.)

“Because during intermission I want to watch the Desperate Housewives I Tivo’d the other night.”

The earth ceased to rotate.

In our 11 of marriage, I have never quite understood the term “wedlock.” I do now.

“You’re kidding, right?” I said.

“Oh come ON, Danny. It’s intermission! Nothing happens during intermission.”

“BLASPHEMER! HERETIC! DEMON! I’ll have you know that intermission is only in place so wimpy little Nancies can go wait in line to pee with their friends. And your novice assessment that nothing happens during intermission is as wrong and baseless as the idea of WEARING HEELS AND LIPSTICK TO A HOCKEY GAME! Hockey is about blood and desire and flying teeth, not Jimmy Choos and that glittery shit you people put on your faces so you look like one of Neil Diamond's performance outfits.”

“Mellow out, dude. You’re gonna blow an O-ring.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You love it if I blew an O-ring. Something else for you to talk about while waiting in line to pee.”

“OK, you’re starting to scare me.”

“I’M the one who should be scared! You’re trying to take away my hockey! You might as well just kick me in the nuts.”

"You're a freak."

"You're a dufus."

"Shitbag."

"Assmaster."

"Douchebag!"

"Cork soaker!"

"Shit for brains!"

"Douchebag!"

"HA! I already said that! You lose, Holmes! The game stays on!"

I’m a simple man.

The Evans family went bowling Saturday afternoon, an adventure that saw my son roll his first-ever strike and The Goose entertain the entire alley by jumping and giggling for the whole 45 seconds it took her ball to reach the pins.

As we pulled the minivan into the driveway and opened the garage door, our dog Rusty came out to see us like she always does. But there was something different this time: she was limping. In fact, she seemed unable to put any weight at all on her left hind leg. Once we got her inside, we laid her down and did our own novice examination – nothing stuck in her paw, no discernible injuries.

Rusty is 13 years old, a year beyond the standard life expectancy for a golden retriever. Naturally, any sign of injury or physical breakdown is cause for concern, so after a brief discussion with Hot Wife, I decided to take Rusty to The Ho Depot.

As I walked Rusty into the reception area, I could see that whatever had been bothering her leg was relenting; her walk appeared to be normal. I deduced that she’d probably fallen asleep with the leg under her and it was on pins and needles waiting for the blood to flow back in again. But I figured as long as I’d brought her in I might as well let the vet take a look at her. We were assigned to examination room 3. I read an old issue of People while we waited.

After almost 10 minutes, a thick brunette woman walked in. Her name badge said, “Yvette, Vet Assistant.” She had a clipboard with her and began to ask me a litany of typical demographic information about the dog and my thoughts on her health. When I’d answered everything, she walked over to Rusty and performed a tertiary, 15-second exam of her hips – hardly detailed enough to really learn anything about her. It was as though she was merely checking to see if Rusty had blown a hip.

She stood, made a note on her clipboard and walked toward the door. “The doctor will be right with you,” she said. Then she left.

About five minutes later, the door opened. But it wasn’t the vet. It was Yvette again.

“OK,” she said. “Here’s what we’re going to do.”

She put a piece of paper on the examination table. It said ESTIMATE at the top. Yvette kept speaking but my attention was diverted to the itemized list of procedures she said she needed to do.

At the bottom of the page was a number: $377.

I interrupted her.

“How is it possible that you feel the need to x-ray the dog and run all of these blood tests on her when the vet has even been in to examine her yet?" I said. "You guys haven’t even seen her walk, but you’ve decided you need to run $377 worth of tests anyway. Can you explain that to me?”

Her response can only be categorized as “scare tactics.” We need to know X because it might be a sign of Y, which would probably necessitate Z. And so on.

“Let me ask you something, Yvette,” I said. “I don’t mean to sound crass but isn’t it possible that this is merely a sign of old age? If that whole seven dog years for every one human year formula is true, she’d be 91 years old.”

More scare tactics.

It had become clear that Rusty and I were sponges to this woman and it was her job to wring us out for as much cash as possible. They showed barely a scintilla of concern for the dog.

I told Yvette I needed to call my wife and discuss this estimate with her, so Yvette left the room to give me some privacy.

I never called Hot Wife. I simply grabbed Rusty’s leash and together we strode out of The Ho Depot. Forever.

When we got home, Rusty bounded out of the car and sprinted into the house.

It would take me weeks to itemize the myriad reasons why I’m grateful for my wife, but one of the first reasons on the list would be that she’s terrified of bugs. I’m grateful for that because there’s just something hilarious about hearing a grown woman shriek like a two-year-old at the sight of a daddy long legs.

I’m certain this is commonplace in all parts of the world but Evans World Headquarters is prone to squatters with varying numbers of legs, wings and whatnot. The most common invaders are wee little spiders and crickets, and although their presence is by no means threatening or even concerning, the process of finding and exterminating these creatures is the same each time:

1. Hot Wife screams like a woman being groped by a zombie in a horror movie.
2. I hear her wail and presume (based on its pitch and the level of commitment behind it) that an errant javelin has struck my wife in the head.
3. I run to her.
4. I find her (usually in a bathroom) shivering and cowering and pointing at a tiny bug, which, if she had even a “no thank you” helping of balls, she could kill with her pinkie toe.
5. I laugh at her.
6. I kill the bug. (WITH MIND BULLETS!)
7. I pick up the carcass and put it close to her face so she can see how preposterous it is to be scared of something so unintimidating.
8. She screams again.
9. I laugh again.

A few nights ago while she was giving the kids a bath and I was looking at boobies doing research on the internet, I heard the familiar shriek.

"EEEEEEEEKK! DANNY!”

I went running. When I arrived at the bathroom door, I saw her backing up and followed her eyes to a wimpy little cricket about the size of a dime. The kids had stood up in the tub and appeared perplexed, as if they were thinking, “Why is mom screaming? Is that cricket going to eat us?”

Over the years I’ve learned that accosting a cricket is more difficult than taking custody of, say, a spider. It’s feeble to try to catch crickets with a wad of toilet paper because they jumps. Far. And sometimes right at me. They are the insect version of a kamikaze pilot.

The best solution for crickets is bug spray. I’m not a big fan of spraying lethal chemicals around the house (unless they come from my butt), but a man must defend his home by any means necessary, right? I mean screw the environment! We have a man-eating, four-millimeter assassin in our house and I’ma kill that sumbitch no matter WHAT Al Gore says.

I returned to the bathroom with the spray, scooted Hot Wife out of the way, closed the shower door to protect the kids and lit that cricket up like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center. (Between you and me, if Hot Wife hadn’t been there I would have shown the kids that cool blowtorch effect you can do with an aerosol can and a cigarette lighter.)

A second or two later, the cricket stopped…um…cricketing. Peace was restored. I grabbed a few sheets of toilet paper, wiped up the chemicals, and picked up the cricket carcass.

As I turned to stick it in my wife’s face, she slapped me upside the head, ran into our bedroom and locked the door.

So I put it in her purse.

"I think we should get a cat."

"The Goose would love it."

"Well, what better reason is there? Let's get one."

"We can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm allergic to cats. Our daughter would be happy but I'd be sneezing and miserable."

"You could move into the garage. Or the backyard."

"OK. Sure. But that would mean we wouldn't be sleeping in the same bed anymore, meaning you'd lose access to certain things you enjoy."

"Hmm. Well. Never mind then. Cats are pussies anyway."

By my estimation, this site has been dogshit for about two months. Based on the 25ish percent drop in readership over that span, it’s clear I’m not the only one who feels that way.

Given the loyalty and support I’ve received from Dad Gone Mad readers over the years, I believe an explanation is warranted. The simple fact is that my head has been elsewhere, little pieces of my attention spraying out in all directions like buckshot. Although I show up on the page everyday with best intentions of generating something witty and entertaining, I haven’t had much success with it lately. Here’s why:

1) I’m watching my friend die. My neighbor Jimbo, about whom I’ve written here before, has been fighting liver cancer for more than a year. Two weeks ago when his doctor called to discuss the results of his latest tests, Jimbo was told to “prepare himself” for the inevitable. Over the last month or so, the evidence of his condition has become more visible. He’s gaunt. Walking is a chore. He is in constant pain. His eyes are yellowing. And is deterioration has reached a point that asking how he feels is preposterous. He feels lousy. It’s a gut-wrenching experience to watch someone who was once so rugged and tough succumb to this disease.

2) I’m chasing a personal goal. A literary agent with whom I spoke two weeks ago offered some incredibly insightful thoughts about the book I’ve been trying to write. As a result of our conversation I have elected to discard most of what was written and approach the story entirely differently. The second attempt necessitates that I reveal some intensely personal thoughts and memories – vastly different from the typical DGM-style joking and light-hearted gibberish. I suppose the task at hand has caused me to sink inside of myself a bit.

3) I’m remembering what it means to be married. Over the course of seven years of parenthood, I’ve somehow managed to take for granted that before there was them, there was us. But I’ve had an awakening, and I see now that it’s not enough to say “I love you.” I’m on a campaign to show, not just tell.

I could go on but I won’t. Suffice it to say that I’m surfacing from whatever the last two months were and am trying to return this site to consistency and hilarity. Also, although I’m not sure if this is too ridiculous an offer, I’d be happy to answer any questions you all might have about the site, the writer, the family or other such things.

But before you ask the question I know you all want answered, I’ll answer it for you:

Yes, DGM and Hot Wife t-shirts are still available. And if you go to the t-shirt page, you can see some of the coolest people on the web wearing them (including Jimbo at Yankee Stadium).

(Good news, I suppose. Although the site hasn't been as funny lately, I haven't forgotten how to be a whore.)

[Ed. Note: I will stipulate at the outset that we Jews are a strange lot. Please make a note of it.]

When my daughter was an infant, she was flat-out adorable (obviously!). Everyone wanted to hold her because her infectious smile was the facial expression most closely resembling a syringe full of black tar heroin and a fat, thirsty vein.

One day when my mother-in-law was cuddling with my daughter, she said, “Oh, you’re such a little katschke!” (That’s pronounced like Scotch Key, without the S).

“A what?” I asked.

“A katschke!” she repeated.

“Do me a favor,” I said. “Cover the baby’s ears for a second.”

She did.

“What the fuck is a katschke?”

“It’s a goose, you nit,” she said. “It’s Yiddish for ‘goose.’”

“Why would you call her that? She’s not a bird. She doesn't shit on my car. She's a little girl.”

“No she’s not,” she said to me, although she was looking at my daughter and making a funny face at her. “She’s my katschke!”

As word spread through the family about her new grandma-bestowed nickname, the subject became a source of heated debate. My father, who’s as hardcore Jewish as a circumcised matzo ball at Woody Allen’s Bar Mitzvah, felt confident that a katschke is a duck, not a goose.

Research ensued.

And my dad’s suspicion turned out to be correct: katschke means “duck”.

In the end, although I wasn’t thrilled with my daughter being associated so closely with ANY type of water fowl, there was no way in God’s back pocket that I would let my child be called a duck. From where I sit, a goose kicks a duck’s ass all the way to Jerusalem and back any day but the Sabbath, because that's the day when all the ducks and geese and cranes stay home to watch college football.

So we turned up our noses at Yiddish (it’s a stupid language anyway) and declared that for our purposes, katschke means “goose”.

No matter what they call her, she's still my little girl.

“Daddy, I want you to retire.”

“Why?”

“Because. I don’t want you to go to work anymore and I don’t want you to go out to play basketball in the nighttime either.”

“Honey, most people don’t retire until they’re much, much older – like mommy’s age. Besides, I have to go to work because that’s how we get money. If I don’t go to work, we don’t get to do fun things because we won’t have the money to do it.”

“I want you to do your work at home. On your computer.”

“Believe me: I would if I could, Goose. Someday I will. But for now I have to go into my office to do my work.”

“I don’t want you to, daddy.”

“Why not?”

“Because I want to be with you all the time.”

I got chewed out this morning because I had the gall to let my son watch TV at 5:45 ay em (as opposed to forbidding him to do so, which would have resulted in his weaseling into our bed and repeatedly kicking me in the nards).

Hot Wife is of the mind that before they even THINK about turning on the TV, the kids should be dressed, brushed, peed and pooped, have their beds made, have some cereal in their guts, check the status of their 529 accounts, cure an infectious disease, hold disarmament talks with a rogue dictator and put a fresh coat of paint on the house.

Conversely, I'm of the opinion that children have an inalienable right to watch cartoons while they rub the sleep from their eyes. This isn't China, for fuck's sake. It's not like they're going to be late for work at the sweatshop.

In the bigger picture, all of this is irrelevant. Would you like to know why? Because today is the official start of HOCKEY SEASON! (See: The Stanley Cup Champion Anaheim Ducks.)

As it turns out, today is also a day many of the coolest bloggers have declared to be Official De-lurking Day.

You all know the drill. Let us know you're out there.

My kids do lots of things I don’t understand but foremost among them is their penchant for playing under the table at restaurants.

I remember doing the same thing when I was a child and although I have reviewed the microfiche from my personal archive, I have no idea why the act of frolicking mere inches from the gum, snot and sundry other yuck other diners discard down there is so damn appealing. Knowing what I have personally discarded on the underbelly of compressed wood tables at Denny’s and Coco’s and Norm’s throughout my life, I can’t see how any kid would want to play down there without being disinfected, deloused, and vaccinated against hepatitis A, B, C, D and Z afterward.

We went to dinner at a place called Islands last night. It’s one of those strictly SoCal institutions that takes a burger joint, dresses it up in Hawaiian garb and shows surfing and skateboarding videos for dramatic effect. I sat next to The Artist Formerly Known as Barney’s Biggest Fan but Currently Known as The Goose (Which Is a Long Story That We’ll Save For Another Time). Hot Wife sat across from me, next to The Champ.

For the first 15 minutes, all was well. The kids colored on their menu/placemat/coloring books until our food came. They each ate a respectable percentage of their food. But the problem with kids is when they’re done eating, they’re done sitting still.

That’s when they slide under the table.

Hot Wife and I learned long ago that resistance is futile. The effort of trying to get them to sit still on their butts after they’ve eaten is wasted. It’s like trying to keep a dog in the bathtub long enough to be washed. Why bother fighting a fight you can’t win?

Shortly after the kids retreated to their bacteria-roofed fortress, Hot Wife stopped chewing and stared into her salad bowl (we both ordered the cobb salad).

“What?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

She scooped a piece of chicken with her fork and held it out just far enough for me to see a winged bug embedded in it. As luck would have it, I had a piece of chicken in my mouth at that very moment.

There is something very disturbing about finding bugs in your food. It usually doesn’t happen until you’re at least halfway through with your meal, which sets up a scenario of disgusted wonderment about how many bugs you’d already eaten before you discovered one.

We summoned our waitress to the table and showed her Mr. Buzz-Buzz in Hot Wife’s chicken. She apologized profusely (the waitress, not the bug) and took our plates away. We looked at each other immediately thereafter and shared an expression of repulsion and sickness to our stomachs.

Just then, our son surfaced from under the table. He held in his hand a piece of chewed purple bubble gum, which he had obviously pried loose from the cesspool of filth under the table.

“Dad?” he asked. “Can I have this?”