On Saturday night, my son's preschool held its annual silent auction. This year's theme was to be a recreation of Truman Capote's "Black And White Ball," except in a tent. In a parking lot. In Silver Lake. With parents.

The event went off quite well. The DJ stuck to the theme with lots of Cole Porter-ish music. A black-and-white Tony Curtis movie played on the roof of the tent. The moms all looked good and the dads looked good enough. And silent auctions are always fun in L.A. because the quality of items tends to be very high.

I was at the center of the action on Saturday, because I'd volunteered to be a "table host." This means I carried a clipboard. I also wore a tuxedo jacket with a fake-velvet collar, which was my choice. My job was then to sell drink tickets, parking validations, and tickets for the annual raffle for the most treasured possession of all--a reserved parking space in the school lot. This job suited me nicely, because I could do it stoned and also because I got to stand watch on various purses that Regina wanted to buy.

For the auction, Regina donated a stool painted with a cartoon tiger and a lovely jungle pattern. This ended up getting bid on multiple times, finally selling for $105.

The decorative hatbox she donated ended up coming home with us, even though she attempted to push it late by lowering the price and writing the word BONDAGE!!! on the bid form. She blamed it on miscategorization. My contribution to the cause, autographed books by John Hodgman, Sarah Vowell and Dan Savage (plus a bonus copy of Alternadad), went for a not-shameful $50.

As for what we took home, Regina secured a couple of purses and made an overly sentimental bid on a piece of artwork featuring pictures of all the members of Elijah's class. I got an appointment with a lady chiropractor.

But nothing could top the skateboard.

There were three of them. One seemed kind of ordinary and the other was nothing but an ad for the Vans Warped Tour. The third featured a logo for something called Eric Koston Super Hot Cock Sauce. There was a red bottle with white lettering, and a bright yellow background. I recognized the bottle as a parody of sriracha, the generic hot sauce that you find in every Thai restaurant. I thought it was very cool indeed.

Conversation with other dads ensued.

"So do you think this would be appropriate to give to my four-year-old?" I asked.

"I don't know," said another. "You're cutting it pretty close there with the Cock Sauce."

"I know," I said. "But it's so cool. I don't even know how to skate."

"That's OK," said a third dad. "No kid wants to learn how to skate from his parents."

"He needs to have a cool uncle or something," said Dad #2.

"His uncles aren't skaters," I said.

"You'll figure something out," he said.

"Hot Cock Sauce," I said. "Crazy."

I never skated as a kid, something I've always regretted. And doesn't every parent want for their children what they were unable to have? My attempts to get Elijah involved in karate had already failed. I didn't want to overplay my skater hand. So I wavered. Plus Regina said: "No fucking way. Elijah doesn't even ride his bike with training wheels."

No Super Hot Cock Sauce would cross our threshold.

As the auction wound down, the emcee, who also plays a ukelele in our school's Shabbat band, laid it on thick and ironically: "Now you've been drunk all night and you're feeling guilty, so buy your kids something so they'll know you love them..."

Another couple came away with the Hot Cock Sauce.

"You got the skateboard!" I said. "Awesome!"

"Neither one of us know how to skate," said the mom.

"Our son is totally uncoordinated," said the dad. "We figure he might grow into it by the time he's seven."

"Good for you," I said.

"Someday," said the dad, "He's really going to like this."

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