I’m asleep. Not completely out, like to the point where I’m drooling and involuntarily twitching and nonsensically calling out that I need to empty the dishwasher, but my eyes are still closed and it’s early.

His door opens.

He walks around to my side of the bed, climbs up and crawls over my head to get between Hot Wife and me.

He pulls the covers off of me.

Once he gets comfortable, he begins to sniffle and cough and clear his throat. This is how he tries to wake us up so we can begin to serve him in the manner of his choosing. He wants French toast. He wants to watch TV. He wants company.

I want him to go away.

It’s early.

He puts his cold feet on my legs. Sniffle. Cough. Sniffle.

“Mommy?” he asks. “Am I buying lunch at school today?”

“I think so,” she answers.

He pumps his fist. “Yesssssss!”

“Guess what, Dad,” he says to me. “I’m buying lunch at school today – and I’m gonna have peetzaaaah!”

“Go away. I’m trying to sleep.”

“Whatever, Mr. Grumpy. You’re just jealous.”

I pull the covers over my head and try to stick little pieces of the sheets into my ears.

Sniffle. Cough. Louder cough.

His squirming shakes the whole bed. Through my makeshift earplugs, I can hear the mumbles of a conversation between my son (who is not asleep) and my wife (who is also not asleep).

“Snarfle mumble wah-wah-wah,” he says.

“Mumble mumble your wah-wah,” she replies.

I’m trying to sleep. It’s early.

“Garbled mumble snarfle,” he says.

I’ve had it.

I sit straight up in the bed, flinging the covers off of myself as I do so.

“GUYS! GUYS! SERIOUSLY! I’M TRYING TO SLEEP! IT’S EARLY! TAKE IT SOMEWHERE ELSE, OK? PLEASE?”

I plop back down onto my pillow, pull the covers over my head and try to silence the frustration in my mind so I can get back to sleep.

I feel the bed move as the two of them dismount, walk into the bathroom, start mumbling and snarfling again. Someone switches on the bathroom light, and the glow from underneath the door permeates my warm, blue, flannel sanctuary.

I’m up. There’s no going back.

This is parenthood in its purest form.

It pains me to have to write this. Back when I first started this site, I wrote about the following subject matter with such repulsive frequency that I developed a reputation as being “scatological” and “juvenile” (both of which, by the way, are absolutely true). But since my kids grew old enough to monitor and manage their own bodies, I’d secretly hoped that human excrement and hijinx related thereto would no longer provide literary inspiration.

No such luck.

My son has a friend named Corey. They’re in the same first grade class. Corey has a younger sister the same age as my daughter, which makes play dates doubly easy. And given that Corey’s mom and Hot Wife have developed a comfortable friendship, Corey is more than just a friend – he’s a convenience.

But there is a story behind that story. Behind the façades of video gaming and soccer in the front yard and sandwiches with the crusts cut off lurks a deep, dark, virtually unmentionable reality:

Corey has twice been to our house. He has clogged the toilet both times.

There have been phases of my life when I’d feel compelled to congratulate Corey. When I was in college, my dorm buddies and I would engage each Tuesday in something called Family Night, whereupon we would order pizza, drink beer and watch porn videos deep into the morning. If I’d been witness then to a diabolical feat of excretory potency like that which Corey has perpetrated on my home, he’d have been a legend. But this isn’t 1993. And my home isn’t a college dormitory. Today, legends are people who don’t spill chocolate milk on the couch.

To truly articulate the scope of our predicament, I’ll need to get somewhat graphic. If you’re squeamish, now is a good time for you to click over to Cute Little Puppies Who Don’t Poop dot com.

Two weeks ago, Hot Wife called me at work to tell me Corey had clogged the toilet in the kids’ bathroom to the point of overflow. Beyond the spillage of water, little brown bits of Corey’s deposit pocked the bathroom floor – and Hot Wife, Ms. I Think I’m Pretty Tough herself, was rendered impotent to get in there and clean it up. Such a wuss, my wife. And because of her wussiness, there I was that night, breathing through my mouth as I scooped, wiped, Swiffered and disinfected the bathroom because someone else’s kid decided to unleash an apocalyptic turd in our home. (When they tell you parenting is about making sacrifices, this has to be what they mean.)

To my thinking, there is just something wrong about a seven-year-old producing enough, um, production to clog a shitter on back-to-back visits. I think I was old enough to drive a car before I ever pulled off a stunt like that – certainly old enough to know the unwritten rules about courtesy flushes and lighting matches and saving the really big poops until I got to Target or Home Depot (where they have those awesome industrial toilets that shoot air and water with each flush, simulating the sound of opening the bomb bay doors on a B-1 Bomber). Naturally, a little kid like Corey lacks the tact, the street smarts and the self-awareness to know such things.

So it’s now incumbent upon us to devise a strategy for Corey’s next visit to Evans World Headquarters (assuming there IS one, which is no guarantee). I’ve asked Hot Wife to inform Corey’s mom that the night before his next visit Corey is required to carbo-load: rice, pasta, potatoes, etc. I don’t want that kid in my house unless he’s constipated to the point of complete abdominal lockdown.

Hot Wife said that was a cruel and unusual prerequisite. But she wasn’t the one wading ankle-deep in Corey’s breakfast that afternoon.

In parenting, as in life, you learn as you go. Sometimes you can’t know if certain decisions are tragic mistakes until they’ve played out disastrously. And sometimes actions you take spontaneously or unintentionally evolve into powerful moments of bonding and learning and whatnot. Every day is a roll of the dice.

The element of fatherhood to which I haven’t been able to adjust is the time when teaching my children coincides with pure misery for myself. When people talk about the sacrifices one must make in order to raise healthy, well-adjusted kids, they never mention that those sacrifices include self-mutilation and, if we’re being completely honest, the emotional equivalent of getting gored in the ass by one of those runaway bulls in Pamplona.

Last night I took my daughter to her first hockey game – but it was more than a typical midweek game against some creampuff team from the Northeast. The Ducks hosted the LA Kings, our “cross-town” rival. You may infer from that fact that the levels of vitriol and contentiousness in the stands were, ahem, “elevated”.

“Welcome to hockey,” I could have said to my daughter. “See that guy? He’s a Kings fan. That means he’s a booger-eating shitbag.”

“OK, daddy.”

Obviously, that scenario couldn’t possibly have transpired last night because her response was not in the form of a question. Given that she was in an unfamiliar setting with lots of noise and flashing lights and people around us yelling at the officials to “drop the fucking puck!” my daughter found some sort solace in asking me question after question after question, from before the National Anthem until the minute we left the arena.

“Daddy, why did they turn the lights off?”

“Daddy, why are you screaming?”

“Daddy, why did the Ducks score a goal?”

As I mentioned, this is one of the more excruciating moments I have encountered as a father. My team was playing its hated rival in a game that was, in the narrow focus of NHL hockey, “important.” But my attention was incessantly wrested by a bright-eyed little girl who wanted to know everything there was to know about the game, the arena, the mascot, the atmosphere, the crowd behavior, and the definition of “booger-eating shitbag.”

“Daddy, why are they fighting?”

“Daddy, is that beer? Why do you like beer?”

“Daddy, where’s the man in the duck costume? I don’t like that man, daddy.”

With a remarkable assist from Hot Wife, who agreed to occupy The Queen of Questions for extended parts of the game, my attention was sufficiently focused on the ice to enjoy the Ducks’ 3-2 win over our rival. (Which, by the way, has never won a Stanley Cup.) (Did I mention that the Ducks won it last year?)

When we got back to the minivan and started toward home, it got quiet in the back seat and I thought perhaps the kids had fallen asleep. But suddenly:

“Daddy, why did the Ducks win?”

“Because you were there, honey,” I said. “You brought them good luck.”

That was a lie. The Ducks won because the Kings are booger-eating shitbags. But she didn’t know the difference.

Wondersis and me, Thanksgiving Day, 2007.

Also, I want to provide some information on THIS.

You'll notice that Kindle owners will be charged 99 cents per month to read Dad Gone Mad on their devices, which seems odd given that they can read it online for free. Less than one-third of that monthly fee comes back to me. The subscription fee is more significantly relative to the Kindle device than it is to the RSS feed of Dad Gone Mad.

If this somehow ruffles your feathers, please refer to the photo above.

I can’t remember what she did to earn her trip to the Penalty Box (our version of the “Naughty Chair”) (because we like hockey), but she wasn’t being cooperative about serving her time. That wasn’t altogether surprising because she’s four and a half now and in case you didn’t know, four-and-a-half-year-old girls have special powers that enable them repel order and discipline and consequence. It just bounces right off of them like a tennis ball hitting the sweet spot of a racket.

“Let’s go,” I said sternly. “It’s time for you to sit in time out.”

“Actually?” she said, “I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean you don’t think so?” I said. I was incredulous. This wasn’t merely run-of-the-mill defiance; it was blatant disregard. “It doesn’t matter what you think. I’m the daddy and I’m not asking you to go. I’m telling you: go.”

(Remember: I’m six-foot-three and she’s barely tall enough that the top of her head hits me in the crotch when she comes running to greet me. She should be intimidated, right? She should fear my wrath.)

(She doesn’t.)

She sat down right where she was standing and folded her arms. She got her Ghandi on.

I’ve never encountered anything like this, at least not from a wee lass with my DNA pumping through her veins. My mind began to churn all sorts of wonderful ideas for escalation of the situation. I could tell her Cinderella thinks girls who don’t follow directions are worse than her bitchy stepsisters. I could tell her the slobbery monster under her bed would be very upset by her obstinacy. I could tell her I was going to round up all of her dolls and rip their heads off.

But I didn’t tell her anything at all. I decided to leverage my competitive advantage with a method of discipline she couldn’t possibly repel. I simply reached down, applied the Vulcan death grip and “escorted” her to the Penalty Box.

I got my Malcolm X on.

She didn’t much care for that, which is her right, but I got my “Don’t Mess With Daddy” message across. I didn’t strike her; I carried her. No bruises, no trauma, no reason for the Post-Menopausal Abstinent Vegan Warriors for The Ethical Treatment of Four-and-a-Half-Year-Old Girls to picket outside my front door.

Besides, now she has something for which to be truly thankful on Thursday: all of her dolls still have their heads. Which is more than I can say for myself.

I scolded myself last December. With another new year approaching, I looked back on 2006 and beheld the same tired pattern I saw in years past. Blood-boiling frustration. Empty promises. Settling. Another year of cubicle-encased woe and bitter self-talk about how circumstance and responsibility kept me from my own self-satisfaction and self-realization. I became so sick of hearing myself bitch that I challenged myself to make 2007 meaningful, if only to change the monotonous December self-talk.

For a change, I followed through. I’ve changed the trajectory of my personal existence. The byproduct of the steps I’ve taken is that world has been spinning faster than I’m used to, so fast that I’ve stopped smelling the roses in my own home. I’ve been so caught up in running through this imaginary brick wall that I’ve sometimes forgotten about the goodness that surrounded me before my attitude changed.

I was mindlessly flipping through the channels last night when I stumbled upon an episode of VH1’s Storytellers featuring Bruce Springsteen. Twenty years ago, The Boss became the first musician whose lyrics seemed to grab me by my lapels and speak to me nose-to-nose. In the words of Darkness On The Edge Of Town and Badlands I became aware of what it meant to truly express oneself, and though it seems silly to say, I think earliest seeds of my desire to become a writer were planted in the words to Springsteen songs.

Last night it hit me that some of those same lyrics so perfectly articulate my mindset from last December.

Talk about a dream
Try to make it real
You wake up in the night
With a fear so real
Spend your life waiting
For a moment that just don't come
Well, don't waste your time waiting

The last song Springsteen discussed on the Storytellers episode was Thunder Road, one of my favorites. I must have listened to that song 10,000 times during high school, although I’d be lying if I said I knew what it meant. I liked the intimacy of the words but I don’t think I had the amount of life experience one needs to comprehend the weight of the message. But I do now, and hearing them anew last night reminded me of something else I’d forgotten to enjoy during the attack mode of the past year.

My wife. My marriage. My best friend.

Roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair
Well the night's busting open
These two lanes will take us anywhere
We got one last chance to make it real
To trade in these wings on some wheels
Climb in back
Heaven's waiting on down the tracks
Oh-oh come take my hand
We're riding out tonight to case the promised land
Oh-oh Thunder Road, oh Thunder Road, oh Thunder Road,
Lying out there like a killer in the sun
Hey I know it's late we can make it if we run
Oh Thunder Road, sit tight take hold, Thunder Road

Later in the song, Bruce uses the phrase, “in the lonely cool before dawn.” I love that imagery because being a morning person, that time is when I feel the most lucid, the most grounded, the most aware of myself, my life, my heart. In the lonely cool before down, I have no distractions, no stress, no ulterior motive. This is when my thoughts turn to her.

A lot about the past year has been unclear. Unknown. Mysterious. I’ve fumbled my way through it, humiliating myself at times, but she has never wavered. She believes in me more than I do. What greater gift could there be? She knows me. She reads me. She loves me.

More mysteries abound in the coming year. I may realize my dream. I may land flat on my face. But no matter. Whatever the outcome, I’ve already won. I have a wife who loves me.

B’s Mom: How do you find time to work, be a father/husband, blog, AND read? (I just noticed the DGM bookshelf over on the left there. I heard the author of Foreskin's Lament on NPR a few weeks ago -- sounded like an amazing book/interesting guy.)”

I want to respond to the parenthetical thought first. I loved Foreskin’s Lament, so much so that I sent an email to all of my Jewish friends telling them they would have to read the book if they wanted to continue to be my friend. (Surprisingly, no one has read it yet. Hmm…) The author, Shalom Auslander, so perfectly captures what it’s like to grow up as a Jewish boy from whom much is expected. In reference to the bacon question in the previous post, there’s a great chapter in the book where Auslander details the first time he broke the laws of “kosher” with a Slim Jim at the community pool. Absolutely hilarious.

Finding the time to devote to my wife, my kids, you guys and myself is actually not as hard for me as it might seem. I wake up fairly early every morning and the solitary hours that follow are perfect for blogging and/or reading. I work all day, then go home and hang with the chillins. When they go to bed, Hot Wife and I hang out. I read on my lunch hour and before I crash. But don’t be mistaken: I’m by no means a voracious reader. I read about a book per month, nothing more.

Maya: “Where are all the Southern California bloggers (I mean besides you and Fussy, I don't know of any in particular) at?”

The authors of the following blogs live in SoCal (and I’m certain there are many others I’ll forget to name): Fussy, The Cheeky Lotus, Joy Unexpected, Queen of Spain, Whoorl, LA Daddy, Girl's Gone Child, Baby on Bored, Leah Peah, Honest Planet, Whiffleboy, Honea Express, and Jenelle's Journey. If I've missed you, feel free to chime in.

Jules: “What about the worst DEDE ... Danny Evans Date Experience?”

On the night of the senior prom, my friend Andy and were prepared to take our respective dates into LA in Andy’s blue Corolla. When we stopped at the home of Andy’s date – a sophomore cheerleader – her mother casually informed us that she would need to be home by 1 a.m. We pleaded a little bit (“This is the night we’re supposed to remember for the rest of our lives! Yet you want us home in time to watch the end of Letterman? Have you no soul?), but we were forced to leave LA at 11:30 to make it home by 1. Not only did we NOT get laid that night (as if there was even a chance of that to begin with), but Andy and I ended the night at Denny’s. By ourselves.

Elysia1: “Did you/we reach your t-shirt selling goal yet?”

As of Wednesday afternoon, you guys have purchased 53 t-shirts since Nov. 1. Combine that with the unfathomable generosity of a few “angel donors” and I’d say we have definitely made an impact. Thank you hardly seems adequate. But remember: the proceeds from all sales THROUGH THE END OF NOVEMBER will be delivered to Jimbo’s ever-growing 14-year-old son.

Pat: “How much of your life as a father has ended up being as you might have imagined it 10, or even 20 years ago? What kind of misconceptions about the life of a patriarch might have carried over from your own childhood, and what advice can you give young guys who'd like to have a family someday, and have an ideal of fatherhood in the back of their mind?”

Off the top of my head, I’d say fatherhood has been about 30% what I expected. I don’t think I ever could have imagined or understood the other 70% until it was right in front of me. Notable among that majority is the depth and breadth of the fatherly love and pride I have felt. There’s just no way to articulate some of the emotional and spiritual sensations that come from knowing that kid right there, the one with the big heart and gorgeous face, came from me. Last Saturday, my son had the best baseball game of his life: 4 for 4, three doubles that went all the way to the outfield wall, and some of the best defense you’ll ever see a seven-year-old play. My chest just about exploded. Conversely, there was my daughter this morning demanding to have someone else wipe her ass for her even though she knows how to do it herself.

I would say the greatest “misconception” I had about fatherhood is that I would be a great dad without really having to try. I presumed it would be instinctual and automatic, that since I know right from wrong and good from bad, I knew enough to be a dad. That’s so wrong. Fatherhood is work. Beyond simply teaching one’s kids to be happy, polite, respectable little people, a father has to redouble his efforts to be a proper role model. Like it or not, kids see EVERYTHING we do. If you pick your nose in church, they’ll do it to. If you drink Diet Coke like it’s water, they’ll want to do the same. I don’t suggest that you have to give up who you are just because you’ve become a dad. It’s just that now, for me, there is an automatic line of self-talk that triggers whenever I’m doing something remotely controversial or hedonistic. It says, “Wait. Stop. Think this through. Do you really want the kids to see you scratching your ass with the barbecue tongs? They’ll want to do it too, you know.”

Slightlytilted: “What was the most unexpected situation your kids have put you in? (something that made you take a step back and go..... wtf? or how the hell?)”

Two words: explosive diarrhea.

Hannah: “How did you meet Hot Wife?

I graduated from college in May 1993 and felt determined to take some time off before jumping into the sordid world of newspaper journalism. Knowing that I needed either money or shelter, I accepted an invitation to work as a counselor at the sleep-away summer camp I’d attended as a kid. The day I arrived, I met Hot Co-counselor. You should have seen the smile on this chick. And her eyes! We talked and snuck around under cover of darkness. I though she was the coolest person I’d ever met. About a week later, she became Hot Girlfriend.

Kris: “Was there a single moment when you knew Hot Wife was the woman you wanted to always dance with?”

As the summer of ’93 marched on, I became more and more enamored with Hot Girlfriend. I felt things for her I’d never before felt. I loved her. But the time had come to start thinking about what would happen when summer ended and the camp shut down and we all went back to our lives again. Hot Girlfriend lived two hours south of me, and I remember one day sitting outside and contemplating the future in my journal. About 50 feet in front of my view was a very tall (palm?) tree with enormous seedpods near the leaves (about the size of three watermelons, had to weigh at least 100 pounds apiece). At the very moment I was writing that I wanted to be with her, two of these enormous seedpods broke loose of the tree and plummeted to the ground. Boom! Boom! If someone had been standing under that tree at that moment, they’d have been killed. Somewhere in the recesses of my 23-year-old mind, I took the simultaneous plunge of these two big melons as a sign that we should be together.

Candy: “What would a blogger have to do to get on your links page?… I just wondered what it would take to get someone with a blog like yours to read ‘the little blogs’ out there.”
and
MP: “Do you read any of the little peoples’ blogs? (aka us) or are you just too darn busy?”

I’ll be honest with you: I loathe this question. I fear there is no diplomatic way to answer it and it makes me feel defensive. I’ll simply say this: this site was once a “little blog” too. When I started it, I was desperate for traffic and I went to great lengths to whore myself out for readership. I remember a day when I got 30 page views and thought I was on the verge of superstardom. My most prominent traffic-generating trick was to leave short, witty comments on Dooce and Amalah and an almost daily basis. Ultimately, that tactic bore fruit and I was able to claim “a readership.” But it wasn’t easy and it didn’t happen overnight. Furthermore, I don’t consider Dad Gone Mad to be any better or worse than these so-called “little blogs” just because there may be more traffic. I still read Dooce and Amalah, but I also read the blogs you guys list in your comment IDs. In fact, I discovered a few of my favorites, like this one and this one and this one simply by following your links. Judging the “value” of your site based on how many link lists include your URL is a big mistake.

Keagansmom: “How does one begin to make money from blogging? Obviously, you are talented and funny, but how did you begin to get advertising and how does that work?”

The best response I can give is to refer you to the podcast of our (meaning Amy, Tracey, Asha, Marrit and me) SXSW panel on this very issue. CLICK HERE

Cindy: “What inspired you to write this blog, and share the bits and parts of your life with all of us? And (if I may be so bold as to pose a second question) have you ever been tempted to delete the site and stop writing for us altogether?”
and
Kristabella: “Have you ever wanted to stop blogging?”

I started this blog several years ago because I was stuck in cubicle hell and needed a diversion. I once called myself a writer but Corporate America had sucked the marrow from that title and rendered me someone who pushed paper around a desk and someone whose only writing was variations on the sentiment, “No, we don’t cover that. We have shareholders to whom we must answer and paying for the treatment that might save your life might cost so much that our CEO won’t be able to stay at a five-star hotel in Aspen this winter. So no. Piss off.” I have never overtly wanted to quit blogging, but there have been times (recently, in fact) where I thought what I was writing here was so bad that I thought I should take a break. I generally ignore that self-talk and carry on.

Schweeney: “I would like to know how long it takes you to get to work in the morning. And boxers or briefs (though I feel I should know this)?”

It takes me 45 minutes to drive 12 miles home from work. I wear boxer briefs.

Procrastamom: “What year did you graduate from high school?”

1988.

MisssyM: “Aside from the general mountains of love I see you receiving with every post, what has this blog done for you that you never expected since you started it?”

First of all, let’s not so easily cast aside “the general mountains of love”. More than anything else I’ve gained from this site, the positive feedback and support I get from DGM readers is more than I can fathom. It blows me away. The blog has created a platform by which I can help others, be it by raising money for my neighbor’s son with t-shirt sales or existing as the epicenter for a collective effort to support a DGM reader in Iraq. There’s no way to quantify how much that means to me. The blog has given me an avenue by which to meet some extraordinary people, some real creeps, and to build the confidence to pursue my dream of becoming a published author. In short, this site has given me more than I ever could have imagined.

Melanie: "Have you ever tasted pig in any of its forms - bacon? pork chop? ham? What were the circumstances? (Or maybe you eat it regularly, I don't know ...)"

Oh dear. Yes, I have tasted pig and I love pig and pig is who I am. Bacon is like water to me. Sausage is oxygen. And ham is a warm summer day. I know this does not bode well for my ultimate acceptance into the kingdom of heaven, but I'm OK with that. If I am to be cast into eternal damnation for eating bacon, what kind of boring bran products must they serve in the heaven cafeteria?

(More later)

Bloggers get a pretty rough ride from those who claim to be too smart to blog. The word itself -- blog -- is ugly, and the proliferation of such sites gives critics the ammunition declare (wrongly) that a blog is nothing more than an online platform from which idiots can spew their idiocy.

If I'm ever asked to defend the viability and value of a blog to a holier-than-thou pundit, I'll use your comments over the last two weeks as evidence of their potential to be more than a soapbox. The sincerity and generosity of your support for Jimbo's son and my family has been remarkable. Your time, money and comforting words have left me in awe. I'm aware that what I have written lately is unconventional -- both in terms of the content of this site and the emotional expectations of The Male. But your willingness to support it has left me feeling that starting this site was one of the smartest things I've ever done for myself.

I've wracked my brain all week, trying to engineer a way to articulate my appreciation in deed, not word. If I could, I'd buy each of you a puppy or a Benz or one of those new Snickers with almonds inside. But doing so would be a logistical, financial and animal impossibility. In fact, the only viable means of thanks I can concoct is to answer whatever questions you have about this site, its author or the characters frequently mentioned herein.

If I try to look at this stunt from your point of view, my reactions vacillate between being disgusted by the narcissism and feeling intrigued by the possibility. I choose to pledge allegiance to the latter, but I can see how the former might come into play as well. Trust me: this is coming from an attitude of appreciation for you and what you've done for me.

Obviously, some things need to remain private, and I'll trust you to be respectful. But within reason, anything is on the table.

What would you like to know?

Given that I was the 1988 Marmonte League speech and debate champion (translation: The King of All Nerds at Simi Valley High School), I felt strangely compelled to write a short eulogy to share at Jimbo’s memorial service last Friday. I was propelled further into duty by my neighbors, several of whom said it was up to me to carry the torch for our ‘hood since they all would be too busy blubbering to form coherent sentences.

I wasn’t altogether sure about my own ability to make it through the speech without breaking down, especially when I saw that the chapel was filled to standing room only. There also existed in my mind a concern that I hadn’t yet cried for Jimbo. I knew there was a wellspring of tears and snot cued-up behind my face, and that the deluge could be unleashed upon my gold tie at any moment. I’m a born worrier, and I was concerned about losing my shit in front of 200+ people. I have a reputation to uphold, you know.

Given the opportunity to remember Jimbo and perhaps help other find some comfort, I stood and walked the 150 feet from my seat to the lectern. I cleared my throat and said, “Hi, I’m Danny. I lived across the street from Jim for nine years.”

As I spoke, I felt the quiver in my throat. The looming flood behind my eyes began to ripple like a glass of water in an earthquake. I forced it back. I refused to lose it. I distracted myself by reading my speech aloud.

Jimbo was a Budweiser man. You learned that the first time you showed up at his house with something other than Bud – a Heineken or a Coors Light or heaven forbid: a Newcastle.

“What’s that wussyboy crap?” he’d ask in his inimitably grumpy tone.

“What’s it look like?”

“It looks like foof,” he’d say. “Make sure you don’t spill any on your purse.”

Even under the relentless pressure of his neighbors to expand his horizons, Jim’s only concession was to drink Tecate, which we all know as the Mexican equivalent of Budweiser.

Laughs arose from the gathered mourners and I became emboldened. I knew that there were poignant moments ahead in the speech, but I felt as though I was “in the zone.” I became less concerned about crying and more focused on enunciating.

When he was first diagnosed with cancer almost two years ago, his doctor gave him six months to live. We were fools to believe him. We knew Jim better than that. He would just as soon drink a dark, imported beer with a fancy label than take no for an answer. And last January when a group of neighbors took Jimbo to Vegas for the Super Bowl, we did so solemnly believing the trip would be his last hoorah. Although he still looked like his old self – the white goatee, big ears, the same loud chuckle I’ve been hearing in my head all week – the results of Jim’s medical tests seemed to get more and more dire each week. Any day now, we all thought. Enjoy every second because any day now Jim’s body will start to cave in on him.

Lo and behold, stubborn old Jimbo kept kicking until week eight of the next football season, almost a full year later.

As I read these words aloud, something unusual (for me) occurred. I actually heard myself. When I speak or read in front of an audience, I generally become separated from my mind. I go into autopilot and fall unaware of what I’m saying, how I’m saying it and what reaction is being elicited from the audience. But this time I was hearing my own words and suddenly – finally – it was hitting me.

Jimbo is gone.

It would seem appropriate to close with some desperate and somber remembrance of the man and his legacy, but Jim would have hated that. He’d dutifully sit through it, but when it was over he would lean over to the person next to him and say, “Whatever. When do we eat?”

When the service was over, we mingled with neighbors and friends outside the chapel for a few moments. Lots of hugs and feeble attempts to give comfort and tears plummeting down cheeks from behind dark designer sunglasses.

Hot Wife and I got into our minivan and prepared to head home, I turned on the ignition and suddenly the flood was upon me. The tears were unstoppable and the sound of my sadness was so loud, so awkward. I hadn’t cried that hard since 1999, when our first pregnancy miscarried. We held each other and passed Kleenex back and forth. Some of the white Kleenex lint got stuck in my eyelashes. She asked if I was OK to drive. I said yes.

When we finally returned to our neighborhood, a group of us huddled round and raised at toast to Jimbo. With Budweiser.

Since the night he transitioned from a crib to a bed – must have been five years ago or so – we have made it a nightly tradition to lay with our son for a few minutes before he drifts off to sleep. Sometimes we talk about what’s happening in his life. Sometimes no words are spoken.

I think he likes that time as much as we do. At least he used to.

When I walked into his room last night and plopped down next to him, he said matter-of-factly, “Dad, in two weeks I don’t want you to lay with me anymore. Just come in here, say goodnight and leave.”

I’d never heard such commitment and certainty in his voice. He sounded like he had thought this decision through, performed the proper amount of due diligence, and was absolutely positive about what he was saying. But I know him better than that.

“OK,” I said.

There was a pause. I think he was waiting for me to ask him why he’d come to this decision, but I wasn’t going to bite.

“Actually,” he said, “you can lay with me for one minute. But that’s all.”

“OK.”

The spirit of his words, although flimsy, was quite clear to me. He’s a big, bad seven-year-old now, old enough to make himself a bowl of cereal, to tie his baseball cleats in double knots, to read a book from cover to cover. He’s finding himself. He’s transitioning from the mindset of a little kid to that of a boy who can, on a limited scale, fend for himself.

I’d be lying if I told you that didn’t make me a bit sad. But I’m still young enough to remember how it feels to be in those transitional phases. It’s as though he’s just learned that he is a superhero who can fly and stop a runaway train with his bare hands. He is, as the song says, learning to fly.

A minute or so passed after I agreed to the one-minute rule. I thought perhaps he’d drifted off to sleep. But out of nowhere he piped-up again.

“OK, this is my final answer,” he said. “You can lay with me for three minutes, but that’s all. Three minutes, then you say goodnight and leave. OK?”

“OK, bud.”

“But when you leave, make sure you don’t close my door all the way. Leave it open a little bit because sometimes I get scared of the dark.”

I actually had a lot of fun with yesterday's greatest hits entry. Weeding through four years of entries is at once horrifying and thrilling.

So I decided to do it one more time. Here are Dad Gone Mad's greatest hits, volume 2.

WHAT NOT TO WEAR TO A TESTICLE EXAMINATION -- I get fondled.

DORA THE SCREAMING, PEDOPHELIAC, SHOE-FETISHIST EXPLORER -- This is the entry that caused quite an uproar among the humorless Dora apologists.

SANDWICHED IN -- This didn't really happen.

THE HO DEPOT. WE CAN DO YOU. YOU CAN HELP. -- One of my personal favorites.

CAREFUL, SWEETHEART. YOU'RE SITTING ON SANTA'S TESTICLES. -- I used to place Santa in a shopping mall in the San Fernando Valley.

BY REQUEST: MY FIRST SEXUAL EXPERIENCE -- The title says all you need to know.

Finally, a note about the title of this entry. Galvanize means to shock or excite (someone), typically into taking action. The action I want you to take is participation in the fund-raising effort for Cody, the 14-year-old son of my friend Jimbo who died last Friday. All proceeds from DGM and Hot Wife t-shirts sold in November will go to a fund established in Cody's name. My goal is to raise $1000, and we are slightly more than halfway there. Even if buy just a XXL t-shirt to sleep in, every penny helps a great kid.

In the words of The Chemical Brothers, "The time has come to... galvanize. Don't hold back."

I've always found it somewhat conspicuous when bands release a greatest hits CD. It's as if they're telling their fans, "We have nothing original to give you, so here's some old stuff. Pay up."

That said, I'm going to follow the lead of those bands today. My creative mind is taking a little longer to recover from last week than I would prefer and writing about Jimbo again seems entirely unappealing to me today (although I would like to thank you all for the spirited response to my fund-raising request yesterday. We've raised over $400 so far).

Below are some old school DGM posts that seem to have resonated with people. I'll try to rebound tomorrow with something original.

NICE AND COZY -- My daughter finds The Drawer of Sex and Violence.

GET YOUR HEAD IN THE GAME -- My titillating run-in with a massage therapist.

AND I JUST CAN'T LOOK. IT'S KILLING ME. -- The death of magazine journalism looks like a guy in his underwear.

REDIRECTOR'S CUT -- Hot Wife gets a taste of her own medicine.

SCREAM -- A funny interaction with Jimbo.

Everyday I get about a half-dozen email solicitations from public relations folk who wonder if I might be interested in reading their client’s new book about vegan breastfeeding or hearing the new CD from The Noun Verb Agreements, featuring the hot track, “I Saw Your Mom Shopping For Granny Panties at the Wal-Mart Down On Third.” In the four years that I’ve been writing this site, I’ve accepted only one such offer – and I can’t even recall what it was.

Two weeks ago I got an email from a guy named Rob. He was inquiring about my awareness of a new video game for kids – I think it’s called Brain Age. Never heard of it.

Long story short, Rob sent me a Wii. For free.

I may be a grown man but I’m still young enough to get major wood over free video games. And when I took the Wii out of the box Saturday morning, my kids lost what little shred of composure they possess. It was Christmas morning at Evans World Headquarters – and we’re JEWISH!

It was the perfect anesthesia for me. For obvious reasons, I was in the twilight zone all weekend. I was looking for distractions at every turn, trying to keep myself from crying and simultaneously wanting to let it all out. Jimbo’s white Chevy truck is still parked in front of his house.

What’s funny about the Wii is that in two days it has already become an extension of my son’s right hand. He has spent every waking moment swinging at invisible things in mid air – a baseball, rising balloons, golf balls, and so forth. If the TV were not reflecting back images of actual game play, my son would look like a seriously disturbed little boy. And that’s just funny.

A final word about Jimbo. He died very peacefully Friday morning. He left behind a 14-year-old son, who is one of the coolest kids I’ve ever known. He’s six-foot-four, 225 pounds and has, one more than one occasion, tackled me to the ground. He plays freshman football, and he is an absolute beast on the field.

A fund has been established in Jimbo’s name to help pay for his son’s athletic endeavors, which I assume will continue beyond his four years of high school. I will be donating the proceeds from all Dad Gone Mad and Hot Wife t-shirts sold through November to that fund. If you feel compelled to contribute, you may do so on the DGM t-shirt page.

Any expression of gratitude I could possibly put here would be feeble in light of the overwhelming show of support you have given us. We read every single one of your comments and felt them completely. Thank you.

The experience of losing Jimbo has put a real charge into my awareness of fatherly responsibility. I feel extraordinarily close to the kids right now, compelled to be near them, to comfort them, and to be as accessible to them as ever before. This morning before I left for work, I taught my son how to read the hockey box scores in the newspaper. And when The Goose woke up, I went into her purple-walled room and laid down next to her for a few minutes. We didn't even speak.

Jimbo is still with us physically, but all reports are that the man we have known and loved is gone. We are told that his death will not be pleasant -- that dying of liver cancer is a brutal way to go, not unlike those who suffer from brain cancer and Lou Gehrig's Disease. Knowing that haunts me. I don't want him to suffer. I don't want him to die.

Hot Wife and I have spent a lot of time remembering the times we spent with Jim. He and I are rabid sports fans; together we've been to World Series games, Stanley Cup finals games, college football bowl games. Two of my favorite memories occurred on the golf course:

I'm a shitty, shitty golfer. I once hit a drive so tragically that it ended up in the fairway of a different hole. When I finally tracked it down, I saw a line of tall trees between where it had landed and where I needed to hit it. Thinking I was alone, I engaged what is commonly known as my "foot wedge." (I kicked the ball into a better position.) Jim saw me do it. That was about three years ago and he was still giving me shit about it as recently as two months ago.

Another time, Jim and our other neighbor, Tom, took me to play golf in San Clemente for my birthday. In fact, it was my 31st, which meant it was my first birthday since becoming a father. After our round, we went into the bar near the pro shop to have a beer and Jimbo and Tom started buying me shots based on the attractiveness of the bottles on the bar. After one that tasted like cinnamon and one that tasted like black licorice, Jimbo chose a bottle with a label that looked straight out of Nazi Germany. I think it was supposed to taste minty but I can't recall for sure. Needless to say, I was completely obliterated. When we finally got home, Hot Wife was holding our baby boy and telling me the two of them had prepared me a special birthday dinner. Ten minutes later, I was puking my kidneys out. To say that Hot Wife was displeased would be a severe understatement. When she looked at me that night, huddled over the toilet and hanging on for dear life, I felt her glare piercing the back of my head.

Needless to say, we have been quite somber. This morning was rough. But then, lo and behold, good old CRYSTAL emailed to tell me about THIS AWARD and the way people have been voting.

I don't know what to say. The breadth and consistency of your support has left me speechless. Thank you.

P.S. -- Two very big supporters of Dad Gone Mad -- CRYSTAL and BOSSY -- are up for THIS AWARD. We need to make sure one of them wins.

I cried last night. Twice.

The first time I cried was while I was out trick-or-treating with the kids. As we worked out way back home, the kids leaning to their sides from the weight of their sweet loot, I saw the ex-wife of my friend and neighbor Jimbo. He is nearing the end of his fight with liver cancer, so close that there is a hospice professional in his house whose mandate is to keep him “comfortable” with a morphine drip. He is not expected to survive through this weekend.

I want to tell Jim I love him. I recognize this desire may be for entirely personal reasons, and maybe that’s selfish. He is beyond the point of hearing my words. And since he has expressed to his ex-wife that he no longer wishes to accept visitors, I must make my peace in my own head. I must trust that Jimbo already knows how feel about him: that he will be loved and remembered and cherished.

I feel such a strange dichotomy. Incredible things are occurring in my personal life. I have seen and read and felt things this week that I have pursued for my entire adult life. But I have internalized none of it. The breadth of my emotional energy is overwhelmed by sorrow and empathy. There’s no room for joy.

The second time I cried last night was while I was telling my children that a man they’ve known since the day they were born won’t be around to love them anymore. I am not a very religious person and I felt like a spineless hypocrite telling them that Jimbo is going to heaven to be with God. But I didn’t know what else to say.

When I told them Jimbo is sick with a sickness called cancer, I said we still love Jim but we won’t be able to see him anymore and we are very sad. I told them we might be doing a lot of crying for the next few days, but I reminded them that they’re OK and safe. Mommy and daddy aren’t sick and we are not going to leave them.

My daughter asked, “What if mommy gets cancer? Who’s going to be our mommy if mommy dies?”