Golf Cart

Diana found us an amazing rental house in Mexico. It’s one of those places with wall-less rooms overlooking the ocean, lots of amazing bric-a-brac, and just enough metal spikes along the walls to make you double check the locks before bed.

To acquire amazing views of the ocean, the house is situated atop an extremely steep hill. So steep, every morning we hear cars and trucks lose their grip on the rutted, loose cobbled road. We half expect to see a Bimbo truck land in our little outdoor tub over coffee.

On our first hike into town, we all said, “Buns of steel! We sure are gonna get a workout, huh gang?”

On our first hike back from town, Luca said, “Carry me!”

Luckily, there are lots of little golf cart rental places around. We went with the one recommended by our rental manager because he knew the telephone number. They delivered the cart and showed me how to siphon electricity from a nearby telephone pole. They also demonstrated how to put a little rock under the back tire to prevent the cart from rolling into the ravine.

“Wait! How do you drive this? Any tips?” I asked as they happy sauntered away.

“Go slow!” they said with a wave.

I decided to try a test run before taking the whole family down Road De Los Muertos. I took Elijah with me because he was almost eleven and had a good life.

We executed a jerky, panicky 27 point turn in our driveway and crept down the hill. The nobby wheels held wonderfully and we only slipped a billion times. Our napping neighbors were awakened by Eli’s screams of, “We are going to die!” And, “This is the best day of my life!”

It’s funny how tequila makes you a great golf cart driver. By the end of the first day, I was flying up and down our hill. I’ve even secretly taken the boys on little morning excursions where I work the pedals and they steer. Diana is not a fan of these trips.

When we get back to the states, I plan on trading in my Prius for a far better Mexican model.

Gun March

You can guess where Diana is on the violent videogame debate. Especially after the most recent tragedy in Florida. If it were up to her, she would round up every violent video game in the world and blow them all to smithereens. But that’s violent in its own way, Diana. Shame on you.

I’m far more lenient. I won’t let them play the ones where you kill realistic looking people with blood all over the place. But I’m ok with the ones where realistic looking aliens kill realistic looking robots and cartoony people kill cartoony people.

Why? Because I love playing them.

On the Eve of the anti-gun “March For Our Lives,” Diana suddenly declared all gun games off limits. The boys reacted to this like getting shot by a super cool gun in a video game. The kind that liquefies you.

Apparently, when the kids in Eli and Luca’s school participated in an anti gun walk out earlier in the week, one of Luca’s friends spotted a helicopter in the sky above the event and shouted, “I’m gonna shoot you out of the sky! I’m gonna shoot you!”

Diana and the offender’s mom decided it was the video games’ fault and the ban began.

Diana couldn’t make the gun march, so I kept the boys’ spirits up by playing “Parent’s Just Don’t Understand” by the Fresh Prince on the way.

Eli muttered, “Yeah. Parent’s just don’t understand about gun games.” I said, “Yes. That’s exactly why I’m playing…never mind.”

We attended the march and were properly inspired, but the boys were still long faced about their digital arsenals. Over lunch, I suggested we look up “Best non-violent video games” and I would buy them one.

The website’s suggestions included, and I am not making this up, “Flower” and “Desert Golf.”

We ended up buying a baseball game and something called “Ultimate Chicken Horse.” By the sounds of it, “Ultimate Chicken Horse” will do more damage to them than blood splatter.

Later that night, our neighbors came over for pizza and wine. And instead of screams of death and maiming from the basement, we heard laughter.

And chickens.

Science Fair

Thursday night, I arrived at the school science fair to conduct my own experiment: How Many Parents’ Names Will I remember? My hypothesis was zero. My results were zero.

I love the science fair. I love the one potato clock that seems to be passed down from student to student every year. I love the dueling volcanos. I love the kids who just let their nerd dads do their projects. I love the kid who thinks two Star Wars ships in a blackened shoe box counts as science (it does and if there was an award for best science he would’ve won).

I chatted with a fellow ad dad who showed me his son’s work: A white poster board with a hand drawn lemon. He said, “We had some tears last night.” I told him I liked his lemon.

Elijah and Luca’s science experiments were both great this year. Why? Because both boys teamed up with kids whose parents were far more organized than Diana and I could ever be. Eli’s buddy had parents who scheduled multiple science sessions, helped print out photos of crystals, kept them on task and cracked the whip when they wanted to do stuff like play or hang out.

I assume Luca’s pal was in the same situation. Because his little “Which materials cleans pennies best” display was not the result of a child who prefers iPad viewing over eating.

The boys and I went home after a half-hearted attempt to find Luca’s sweatshirt. “I didn’t like that sweatshirt anyway,” he said. I told him that wasn’t the point.

Diana was at work, so we decided to play an xbox game together. Diana, when I write “xbox game,” I mean “volunteered at a soup kitchen.”

Where the boys got to observe another experiment: How many times dad can say the F-word while playing xbox. The result? 14.

Play

The series of events that had to fall into place perfectly for me to attend Elijah’s school play would make Robert Ludlum shake his head in disbelief. I planned my escape weeks in advance. By not only blocking out my calendar, but also threatening the guy who always seems to schedule things over my calendar blocks. My disguise of “guy running down to get coffee” was perfect. I didn’t end up using my chloroform and handkerchief combo, but it was in my trench coat just in case.

I raced home as fast as my sensible, fuel efficient auto would allow and then spent 45 minutes in the parking lot of Eli’s school waiting for the play to begin. Because dad loves to be early.

In the week leading up to the play, I attempted to give Eli a few stage freight pep talks. But it’s hard to comfort a kid who couldn’t care less.

The future Laurence Olivier said, “If I screw up, no on in the audience will know. If I forget my lines, I’ll just make them up.”

The concept of the play was brilliant. The acting troop collected the written accounts of first through fourth grader’s dreams and then acted them exactly out as written. They were hysterical and scary and delightfully poorly written.

Eli’s part was about a kid who dreamt about escaping a big blue monster in a dish washing machine. I’m not sure who would find it more interesting, Freud or DCSF.

And he was the best.

I am not saying this because he is my son and I love him. He was objectively the best actor. The other kids performed their lines well and hit their marks, but Eli WAS that kid who escaped the blue monster in the dish washing machine.

The crowd roared when he delivered his lines. I’m fairly sure two people were hospitalized for hyperventilation. At least seventeen moms fainted. And somewhere in Hollywood, Brad Pitt sensed he should probably retire.

After the play, we all went home and ate leftover chicken, the meal of every great thespian. I think Eli was proud of himself. At least enough to ask if he could take the following day off.