For the last several days, The Angel Of Irritating And Mildly Disgusting Illness has hung over our house, affecting my wife but not, unfortunately, her cat. I won't describe the nature of Regina's sick, only to say that it's been unpleasant but also that it's on the wane. If I were a lesser Internet writer, I'd post some photos here or perhaps to my inactive Flickr account, you know, because every moment of human experience on earth must be chronicled by a camera or else it doesn't count.

I didn't come to the keyboard today intending to sound like a cranky old Luddite, though I suppose that's my inevitable future voice if not my present one. No, instead I came to tell you that because of my wife's temporary indisposition, I've been taking up a lot of the parenting slack. This I've done willingly. But when a man's child stands up in the middle of a crowded restaurant on a 100-degree day and shrieks like he's being murdered even though he's only spilled a little lemonade on his pants, that man's thoughts inevitably turn to alcohol.

So on Friday night, after getting the boy safely to bed, I headed out on foot to my local tavern, seeking fellowship and fermented calories. Generally, when I walk into my neighborhood bar, I find one of the following: A decaying old man, a fat Mexican prostitute, or some local artists congratulating themselves at having lived in the same zip code for more than two consecutive years. But on this night when I arrived, I found the place had been done up in pirate decorations, and that there were many attractive women walking around, dressed as pirates.

Jackpot.

I ordered a Negro Modelo and sat down, waiting for someone to say, "I've been waiting all week to talk with a bald married guy who's drinking by himself on a Friday night." Instead, I quickly deduced that most of the women present were gay, and not only because they were denying themselves the grand prize of my company. Instead, I came to my conclusion from more concrete evidence. They all gathered around the end of the bar, staring up at the TV, which was showing a women's kickboxing match on ESPN2. A palpable volume of drool puddled at their feet.

After one and a half more beers, I found myself drawn toward home, and TIVO. I asked the birthday girl if I could have one of her balloons, which bore the visage of The Jolly Roger.

"My kid will die and go to heaven if I bring him home a pirate balloon," I said.

She handed it over, and I walked home happily. About a block away from home, I passed by a house where a woman was sitting on her porch, waiting for her dog to have his before-bed pee.

"Evening, miss," I said.

I'm sure she didn't expect to see a guy with a pirate balloon trailing behind him at 11 PM on a Friday, but then again it's kind of hard to surprise people in a city where overturned tractor-trailers are a major source of public amusement,

When I got home, Regina agreed that the pirate balloon would be an awesome surprise for Elijah. I tied it to the back of a chair and went to bed confident of winning major fatherhood brownie points. About eight hours later, I emerged from slumber to find Elijah completely immersed in CBS's pointedly retarded Saturday morning kid's lineup. He barely acknowledged me.

"The balloon scared him," Regina said.

"Oh, for god's sake," I said.

I'd been planning to tell the boy about my night out, and about the crazy birthday party. Then I'd intended to explain to him the concept of lesbianism. This may have been somewhat ambitious considering that Elijah still believes that babies get into their mothers' stomaches because their mothers eat them, but the kid seems overall to be pretty smart and open-minded. Instead, I had to say,

"Elijah, that isn't a scary balloon. It's a funny balloon."

"Go away, daddy," he said. "I'm watching TV right now."

Some men would see this as an insult.

I saw it as a glorious excuse to go back to bed.

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