The Mall with kids on a Saturday.

I get my two kids every other weekend and every Wednesday night. Kind of the regular divorced parents schedule. I love having the kids. My son is 11 and my daughter is 8. They're very cool kids. And when they're with me, they kind of expect us to be in constant motion, full-speed ahead, destination: fun. If I don't have the weekend planned out on Friday night after picking them up, chockful of fun and interesting things to do, then I have some explaining to do. It's not that they're brats. They just like to know that dad is fully in control, with hands on the reins of excitement, ready to keep downtime at bay and continued occupation at full surge. So, today, I slapped the reins on that chariot of adventure and we went to the mall. I know, not very imaginative. But they do like it. Look at it through the eyes of kids. It's a literal smorgasbord of lunch options, a veritable plethora of cool shit to beg for, and a easy way to breeze through a wad of dad's cash.

So we started with lunch, which can be a pain, since no one in our little gang of three can choose one place. My son wants Taco Bell, the princess wants McDonald's, but we had that last night, so she settles for Nathan's. I go for a melange of rubbery chicken and mushrooms in brown sauce from the somewhat-Chinese food place. And I just now tasted it again, even though we ate lunch nine hours ago. And had dinner in between. That's powerful stuff there. It's like I french-kissed the alien creature and he spewed his acid spit down my gullet.

Now, let me say this much: I don't mind shopping. No, I'm not gay and saying that doesn't make me less of a testicle-carrying member of the Man's Club. I really kind of like shopping. Target pretty much friggin' rocks. And getting a box of Honey Bunches of Oats at Wal-Mart for just a measley $2.58 compared to like $4.97 at the supermarket can almost make my day. So hopefully, we established the fact that shopping can be okay for a guy, unless you're left holding the handbag for your girl as she's trying on the nineteenth pair of jeans. Especially when you're with kids and you're going in stores that hold some interest for a geeky dad such as myself.

Take Hot Topic, for example. This kind of suburban-punk, faux anti-establshment, corporate run, gothy loner stoner head banger store. It's got speakers blaring music that would make your mom shit her old lady panties, lots of pretty cool t-shirts, and people behind the counter who have been pierced more than Jesus on his last day. (Just tell me one thing: How the hell do they get the stud through the bridge of the nose. Damn, that's freakin' nasty.) My little 8-year-old prissy princess just happens to think goth girls are the coolest thing ever, and I do often pray that she goes the black eyeliner route, if just to piss off her grandparents. She enjoys checking out the goth wear. You know, plaid mini-skirts, shirts with skull prints, and black patent-leather hi-heel sneakers. I picture the day her grandmother's cerebellum bursts in a spray of brain matter and skull fragments when her former angel enters looking like she was conceived by an unholy union of Wednesday Addams and Mad Max.

Then there's F.Y.E. What the hell were they thinking with that name? Sure, it means "For Your Entertainment," but who the hell calls it that? You just bastardize the name as "Feeyah." At least that's what we do. Anyways, the kids are now into The Beatles, after they insisted I take them to see that "Across the Universe" movie. So I bought "A Hard Day's Night" on DVD, just so they could see the real Beatles, not some Brit soap star trying to sing "I've Just See A Face," as teenagers bop across a bowling alley. I also like looking through the used DVD sections and often wonder why the hell people would actually buy some of the DVDs they do, only to return them for a fraction of what they paid. Did someone really pick up a new copy of "Night at the Roxbury" and consider how much they really couldn't wait to watch it over and over, and show their friends as well? But there it is, in the used bin, where it will surely end up fueling a sparking pyre full of other crappy DVDs.

Of course, there was the obligatory stop at the toy store, the book store, Spencer's, where you can pick up your new life-sized Chucky doll and a vibrator shaped like a gopher that plays the theme to "Caddyshack" while you take care of business. How do you explain that to an 8-year old girl?

As we left, I considered all the other things I might have done with them instead. But where else could I have better bonded with my children than in Hot Topic as we laughed over a t-shirt that read, "I don't remember your name, so I'll just call you dumbass!"

Okay, next time I have the kids, I'm planning better.