Adam Carolla - Daddy, Stop Talking! - And Other Things My Kids Want but Won't Be Getting

Natalia got into skating early. I took her and Sonny roller-skating for the first time in 2011. She was definitely better at skating than he was. Sonny was like a Keystone Kop. He couldn’t keep his feet under him at all. He was like a Stooge and the whole floor was banana peels. Natalia did pretty well right off the bat. I think she got Daddy’s balance, though she did need to use my arm as a support, like a chin-up bar. This was a little tough on the torn meniscus I had at the time.

But like all attempts at joining in an activity with my kids, some asshole adult had to ruin said activity for me. We were at your standard-issue roller rink so of course there was shitty tween music to contend with. The tunes were to be expected, and were therefore tolerated. I knew Katy Perry and Taylor Swift were going to be on the playlist. I didn’t imagine I was going to hit the roller rink and be treated to a rock block of Dave Edmunds, Joe Jackson and Elvis Costello.

What drove me nuts was not the music, but the DJ. It was a female DJ. I think that, when you graduate DJ school, there’s two lines: one for all the guys that says “Future Strip Club DJs,” and one for the gals that says “Future Roller Rink DJs.”

She did a couple things that outraged me. First, she made an announcement as we were circling the rink that the next song would be for “couples and people who want to go solo only.” Isn’t that all human beings? Unless there’s some special polygamist skate, couples and individuals encompasses everyone on the planet.

That was just confusing, but not enraging. Then there was, “The next four songs are all request.” As if she wasn’t going to just play the same Hilary Duff song she intended to play, and pretend someone requested it. I’m pretty sure if I got up there to ask for “Burn” by Deep Purple, that request would not have been honored.

The thing that really got under my skin was when she announced that it was time to play that special four-square game and told everyone to choose a corner if you wanted to play. And if you didn’t, then it was time to leave the rink.

Well, the kids were still a little shaky and Daddy needed a break, so we shuffled to the opening in the wall, exited the oval, found a bench and sat down. We then sat there as they rolled a big fuzzy three-foot die and slowly eliminated each corner. They’d roll it, it would come up four and she’d proclaim, “Okay, everyone from corner four off the rink.” And every time she felt the need to announce, “No new people on the rink.” She’d then play another bit of a shitty song, everyone who hadn’t been eliminated would circle the bowl and get in a corner before they rolled the die again and kicked out another corner. This went on for about two minutes before I looked at Lynette and said, “What the fuck? Can’t we just skate in a circle? We paid. We have to sit here and watch this retarded game of musical chairs without the chairs?” Meanwhile, Natalia was pulling on my sleeve, saying, “Daddy, let’s skate,” and I was responding, “No, honey, the people have to do their dumb game.” Eventually, it was whittled down to a small group, and whatever number the die landed on that corner was the winner. But there was no prize and we were all losers.

Before I had even hit the rink, I had to contend with bullshit policies and the peons making minimum wage to enforce them. I hadn’t even set one wheel on the parquet when someone from the rink came over and said, “No hats, sir.” I was still wearing a ball cap and hadn’t even considered that it would be an issue. I certainly didn’t see any signs warning me that this was a no-hat zone. I guess they’re afraid it could fly off when I hit the breakneck speed of three miles an hour and someone could trip over it. Thanks, lawyers. Awesome society you’ve crafted.

The skating rink is an aquarium for people, the human version of the manta rays just going in a circle in that pool at SeaWorld. So when you want to break from the pack, it’s an issue. After a few laps, Sonny wanted to get back on Carpet Firma and hit the arcade. But when he decided he was done, we were about twelve feet past the opening in the half-wall circling the rink. So we were faced with a choice: go completely around again, or hug the rail and backtrack. I wasn’t going all the way around and Sonny was done. He’d fallen one too many times and was crying. So we went salmon-style up the skating stream. As soon as our skates hit the carpet, the guy from the rink gave me the infuriating “Next time…” speech. He had to let me know that what we had done was against policy and that he’d let me get away with it this time . Or what? What the fuck are you going to do? Call the skate cops? And, by the way, do you think I’m coming back tomorrow with another set of kids to relaunch my master crime spree? But I bit my tongue. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of my kids. It just drives me nuts when peons try to wield their minuscule power. Either let me break your stupid rule or don’t, but spare me the “I’ll let you get away with it this time but…” bullshit.

Then, to top it all off, Lynette lost the rental ticket stub for our skates, so I got to deal with a hassle when I was turning them back in. I tried showing the chick behind the counter the receipt for thirty-eight dollars, which proved we paid for four tickets. Again, I got the “Okay… this time ” speech. As if pilfering used roller skates is my career. “Yes, wily rental-counter girl. I’m an international skate thief. I’ve run this scam in every town and have a warehouse full of well-worn skates that I put up on eBay. But you’ve finally caught me. You should sell your story to Hollywood. Think The Music Man meets Zero Dark Thirty, but instead of Bin Laden and his terrorist underlings, it’s me and my skate-stealing cohorts, Al-Skata.”

The only fun I had that day was the belly laugh when Lynette was telling the twins about how she went roller-skating all the time when she was young and Natalia asked me, “What kind of roller skates did you have when you were a kid?” Hilarious. Skates? We were lucky we had sneakers. The Carollas’ car barely had wheels, never mind our shoes.

So, anyway, now Natalia loves ice-skating. She’s done a couple of Christmas skating pageants and even tried out for a production of The Wizard of Oz on ice. One day, I ran into Natalia as I was leaving for work. She had just come back from the tryout. She was very excited. She said, “Daddy, I got the part!” I told her I was proud of her as I skimmed through all the possible roles in my mind. Was she Dorothy? Glinda the Good Witch? I guess they could have a girl playing the Tin Man. I asked her which part she landed. She said, “I’m playing the flying cow.” I said, “What?” I remembered the flying monkeys, but I didn’t remember any flying cow. Lynette clarified that she was in the twister scene, playing the part of a cow getting thrown around by the tornado. My daughter was playing bovine debris. When they write the TiVo description of The Wizard of Oz, I’m pretty sure the flying cow doesn’t make the cut in the cast list. It was admittedly a failure of parenting when I couldn’t help but laugh, crushing her spirits like Dorothy’s house on the Wicked Witch.

I’d like to close this chapter on a positive note, showing that sometimes participating in your kids’ lives can be worthwhile. Let me tell you about a nice outing I recently had with Sonny. As you know, Sonny and I have enjoyed a few delightful trips to the vintage-car races on Coronado Island. It’s always great working on my wheels and bunking up with my boy, but Sonny snores, even though he always denies it the next morning.

I don’t understand the guy who denies that he snores. I’m sorry to say that Kimmel is one of them. What do I stand to gain by accusing you of snoring? The whole interaction is uncomfortable. Why would I lie? Do you think I’m a perv that gets some sort of sexual gratification by making people think they have sleep apnea? What kind of sadistic maniac would you have to be to tell someone who lay there motionless all night, like Michael Jackson in the waning moments of his life, when he woke up, “Hey, man, you were snoring last night. I couldn’t get any sleep.” I said it because it’s true. Whether it’s snoring, halitosis or the piece of parsley stuck in your teeth, when someone musters the courage to tell you an uncomfortable truth, believe it.