A Dude's Guide. . . to everything

It Can Wait. Or Else.

More American teens die from the result of texting than drinking.

Serious as a heart attack here, dudes. It’s not drinking and driving that is taking out our teens (although it is doing its share, no question), but, rather, it’s texting and driving.

Chilling new research from the Cohen Children’s Medical Center in New York suggests that texting while driving has become the number one cause of death amongst teenagers behind the wheel, surpassing drunk driving for the first time.

An estimated 3,000 teenagers die each year due to sending and receiving text messages while driving, as compared to the 2,800 who died due to drunk driving. Another 300,000 teenagers were injured via texting – a number again higher than the 282,000 injured due to intoxicated drivers.

This is bad, dudes. Appallingly bad.

I mean, really. Just how important is it to know that your friend laughed. Or knows which is the 11th letter of the alphabet.

To sound just like the advertising campaign started by AT&T and now endorsed by the four major cellphone carrier companies, It can wait!

Seriously. We as parents need to drill this into the heads our our teenaged drivers and, more importantly, the young dudes and dudettes who aren’t drivers yet, but will be soon.

The best way to teach these impressionable minds not to text and drive is by making sure you — VISIBLY — don’t mess with your phone when you drive. Talk to them. Lecture them. Show them newspaper articles or vids from the nets. . . Whatever it takes.

Texting is not worth someone’s life. It’s not worth my son’s life. It’s not worth your life. My wife. Anyone. It’s just a text. Heck, if it’s that important, pull over and stop before taking the text. If it’s that important, you’ll want to give it your full attention.

And, you know, it’s not just teenagers who are being stupid behind the wheel. I mean, it’s not like they have a monopoly on the practice, even though it might seem that way sometimes.

The researchers involved in the study suggest that the problem isn’t that texting behind the wheel is more dangerous than driving under the influence. The problem is that teenagers text far more often than they drink, especially while driving. Having more opportunities for accidents results in, predictably, more accidents.

Though the survey only took a look at the driving habits of teenagers, it would be safe to assume that texting while driving is just as dangerous to adults. A recent study by AT&T showed that nearly half of all adults text while driving– a rate even higher than amongst teens.

Do yourself a favor. Heck, do me a favor. Stay off the phone when you’re behind the wheel. Show your young dudes the right thing to do.

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Before We Begin. . .

So while we’re getting ready to get serious, I thought I’d check back in with Barry before we start the seriousness in a serious manner for serious people. Or something like that.

Barry? Over to you, Barry.

. . .

Barry?

. . .

What’s going on? Does anyone know what’s going on with Barry? Barry?

–ody well fix this thing before I come over there and stomp on your.  . . er. . . um. . . well.

Yes.

I can see we’re all better now. Thanks for handing back the mic, Richard. I appreciate it. I wanted to drop by and let you know about a horrific new threat we’ve been experiencing over at my house. It’s a little thing I like to call Manopause.

And, no, it’s not me going through this.

My 13-year-old son has begun suffering from a horrific disease that can, after extensive research and untold hours of imaginative leaps and counterintuitive logical progressions, be called accelerated menopause, rule 63 variant.

Yes, that’s right. He’s a teenage boy, suffering from a syndrome most notably known for affecting women in their 50s and signaling, among other things, the end of their childbearing years.

Now, I understand that you dudes might be a bit hesitant to accept this diagnosis for the reasons outlined above. I understand that. However, let me run through a couple of the symptoms and you tell me what you’re reading about. Fair enough?

My son is burning hot and sweaty and then, one second later he’s cold as ice and demanding a sweater. He might walk into a room whistling and feeling like he’s on top of the world, but within the five steps it takes to cross the room, he’ll sink into the most red-tinted rage imaginable. He’ll be playing nicely with his younger sisters until he snaps and begins berating them and searching for dolls so he can snap their heads off.

I do not mean any of these in a metaphorical fashion. Dude is suffering.

And it hurts me to watch it. I feel for the pain he’s going through, not having a handle on his emotions, feeling like his body is having a party and he’s going to have to pick up the bill. It’s inconceivable that he’s going through this.

Although, now that I think of it, I do not think that word means what I think it means. And I–

What?

No, really?

Huh. Well.

Ah, so it seems, if my wife the pediatrician is to be believed, that what the little dude is going through is perfectly normal for boys his age. Apparently it’s not Manopause, which would be a totally new syndrome that would need somebody to get out ahead of it and be the face of Manopause prevention and be on talk shows and sign lucrative endorsement deals and be invited to red-carpet movie premiers. It’s apparently puberty, which everybody knows about and goes through. And certainly doesn’t need someone going around warning people about it. Which is no fun at all.

Well, poo.

Even worse, if this is puberty and my oldest little dude is, indeed, going through it, that means this isn’t a one-time deal and I’ve got to face one more little dude and two little dudettes going through it.

Oh. Oh, my.

I need a vacation. 

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Singing The Beatles

So I was in my office the other day, plugging away at the typewriter when I heard this warbling coming from out in the hallway. The voice was hauntingly familiar, as was the melody, but I couldn’t place it.

Then Hyper Lad ambled in from the hallway and it all clicked into place.

The voice was that of my youngest dude and the melody belonged to the Beatles. The dude was singing “Help,” for absolutely no reason at all. It was just something that slipped out of his mouth because he was feeling a bit of all right.

How cool is that?

I mean, the Beatles broke up when I was still in diapers. What? I had. . . issues. Sue me. Still, it was a long time ago. And my youngest, definitely a child of this era, still is singing along to one of their songs. From 50 years ago!

That’s some good music, that is. To be able to be enjoyed by people of such diverse cultures and time frames. And, dudes, this still is very, very catchy.

I found myself joining in for the last couple of lines.

At least until Hyper Lad shot me a look of disgust and walked out of the room.

Okay, yes, sure he’s got a much better voice, but that was no reason to just talk out on mine. It’s not like he hadn’t suffered hearing damage from all the loud video games and suchlike. I’m surprised he can even hear my singing voice. Mostly it just makes dogs howl, but beside the point.

Moving on.

It’s something interesting I’ve noticed with two out of my three little dudes. The oldest, Sarcasmo, will listen to a few oldies, but mostly finds his musical enjoyment from the current decade, along with a love of electronica-derived instrumentals.

The middle dude, Zippy the College Boy, loves all kinds of music, from my oldies, taking a detour through country, around ska-punk, and into the current alternative music scene. About the only thing he doesn’t like is rap. Which is something Hyper Lad gladly adds to his playlist along with stuff like dubstep.

We’ve all four decided that straight pop music — whatever the era it was released — is garbage we wouldn’t waste our bleeding ears on. Snobs, but snobs together so that’s all right.

So here’s to you, Paul. Here’s to you, John. Here’s to you, George. And even you, Ringo. It’s an amazing accomplishment, but, seriously, thanks for the music.

Thanks for making something that, almost a half a century later, I can enjoy with my young dudes. At least until I open my stinkin’ mouth.

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