Late one morning, long before children, I sat on the edge of a New Orleans hotel bed and exhaled audibly. Inside my skull, a spicy Jazz Fest bisque of bourbon and psychotropics simmered from the night before. I bent down and tied my first shoe, and it wasn’t until I’d finished tying my second that I realized I wasn’t wearing pants. Laissez bon temps rouler! In the brilliant documentary, The Other F Word, aging punk rockers like Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers “transition

“I arranged for Kai and me to fly over the Golden Gate Bridge in a seaplane. Can you believe how cool that’s gonna be!!” I told my wife recently. Kai is five. That was her cue to say, “Wow … he’s gonna be BLOWN AWAY! I wish my dad did that. You’re one AMAZING FATHER.” Instead, I got a sour look of disapproving concern. I understand that her job as mommy is to be wary of danger, yet this irked me, because the boy in me knew that this would make a father-son moment for the reco