During the Cold War, P.J. O’Rourke got a lot of mileage from his persona of ’60s radical-turned partying conservative. With drink in one hand and Groucho glasses in the other, O’Rourke lampooned the joylessness of communism. But after the Wall fell, he seemed to have lost his way. With this latest collection of essays, O’Rourke has found a new persona – bewildered, late-in-life parent.

In “Holidays in Heck,” O’Rourke warns us he’s hung up his war correspondent flak jacket for family vacation fun. He has an odd definition for this term, though. We find him hiking in 95-degree weather, landing on an aircraft carrier and reporting from Red China. He hasn’t completely abandoned making political statements out of his encounters. Seeing the dangers firsthand of F-16 piloting, he finds conservative virtues of courage and responsibility in the otherwise RINO Sen. John McCain. O’Rourke confidently predicts that the low-level capitalism he finds in Hong Kong will eventually overthrow the top-level communism.

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There’s nothing less punk rock than changing a smelly diaper.

The new documentary “The Other F Word” shows what happens when some of the biggest punk rockers around are confronted with fatherhood. It’s not what they teach you at Rock School, but being a daddy might just be the best thing that ever happened to the tattooed rockers in this heartfelt feature.

The film only grazes past a few nagging questions, most notably whether becoming a neo-Ward Cleaver debunks those anarchist rock anthems. This “Word” rings true whenever it shows how the parental bonds are even mightier than the need to rock.

“The Other F Word” interviews a wide array of musicians from the punk rock landscape, from ex-Black Flag singer Ron Reyes to Blink 182’s Mark Hoppus. The documentary’s main subject is Pennywise frontman Jim Lindberg, a soft-spoken father of three trying to balance his punk rock duties with the demands of fatherhood.

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It was a glass mug that I treasured dearly. My sophomore year in college my little sister, Carole, had given me the mug for Christmas. As a special treat she had engraved my nickname, “Joey” into the Mug. It wasn’t fancy or expensive; just a regular glass mug. After my sister passed away the mug took on a sentimental value and I loved it. It was a beautiful reminder of a sister that was also my best friend.

This mug had survived a year of dormitory life, nine years of Brooklyn apartment living, a move to New Jersey, a cross-country move to California, and three moves around the city of Los Angeles. Alas, the mug couldn’t survive children. (more…)