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.

There is evidence that O’Rourke has shifted to are-we-there-yet parenting mode. He is now chasing kids at Disneyland. Women with guns are no longer Sandinistas but his quail-shooting wife. But O’Rourke retains enough of his war correspondent persona to give this new one comic bite.  The man who once faced artillery shells is ill-equipped to deal with riding Space Mountain or waking up at the tender age of 63 to feed the babies.

Still, one wishes for the political O’Rourke, especially in the age of Obama. Now more than ever we need the journalist who loudly celebrated the victory of anti-communist candidates in Nicaragua in front of Ed Asner, or the jeering travel companion of Old Lefties visiting Brezhnev’s Soviet Union.

O”Rourke has been compared to H.L. Mencken. “Holidays in Heck” emphasizes this connection. Toward the end of his life, Mencken stopped jeering at politicians and began writing reminisces of newspaper days, just when perfect enemies such as Adolf Hitler were available. The same has occurred with O’Rourke. He has always defined his enemy as ’60s wannabes and big government Democrats. In President Obama, he has both, and the president’s kamikaze-like determination to socialize as much as possible before he gets the boot provides O’Rourke the ultimate foil.

This is the worst possible moment to navel watch.

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.

Lindberg isn’t as old as geriatric rockers like Mick Jagger and Roger Daltrey, but he still has to dye his goatee jet black and deal with missing parent-teacher conferences due to touring conflicts. Something has to give, but coming to that decision won’t be easy.

“The Other F Word” scores as an undiluted look at the modern rock tour. We don’t see a gaggle of groupies lining up to keep our rock gods company. Instead, we watch Lindberg and his mates settle into three star hotels and foul-smelling tour buses. The only way to stay in touch with their loved ones is via Skype-like devices, but watching a flickering image of your children hardly makes one Parent of the Year.

Few rock documentaries nail the finer details of the touring musician with such elegant strokes.

The rest of the film involves touching footage of fathers spending quality time with their wee ones or using their talents to sing their kids to sleep. The film gently milks the humor found in seeing heavily pierced men putting their public selves aside to play with their kids. There’s a reason why these punk rockers put their music on hold to be good daddies. Most of them didn’t have fathers themselves, or some had the kind you wouldn’t wish on an enemy. The ache in their hearts won’t let them abandon their children. Flea, the manic bassist of The Red Hot Chili Peppers, tears up while describing his own dysfunctional family.

And, in the film’s most touching sequence, we watch Everclear’s Art Alexakis sing a solo version of “Father of Mine” while staring defiantly into the camera.

“Daddy gave me a name, then he walked away,” he sings, looking like the same little boy hurt so many years ago.

The documentary briefly explores how the artists abandon their quasi-anarchist mantra to maintain a roof over their families’ heads. One wishes writer/director Andrea Blaugrund Nevins pushed her subjects harder here, but her delicate touch elsewhere is so rewarding it’s hard to blame her for that approach.

“The Other F Word” shows grown men who dedicated their professional lives to defying authority putting that aside to raise the best kids possible. It’s the kind of family values both the left and right can embrace, and it’s a powerful tribute to the role dads play in their children’s lives.

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.

Unfortunately for me, my favorite glass also struck the fancy of my number one son. When reaching for a mug to drink from, this was the one he often chose. I explained the significance of the mug to him and he promised to be careful. Of course little boys always promise to be careful just like they always promise to be good. Given enough time they always end up breaking both promises. One day while not paying attention he went to set the mug on the edge of the counter and missed. The glass fell to the floor shattering into 20 pieces. My wife was sure that all hell was about to break loose, but I have really been working hard on understanding what is important in life. It would be a lie to say that I didn’t remind my son of the mugs history through slightly clenched teeth. However, to my credit (I think) and my wife’s surprise, I didn’t yell. I took a breath, reminded myself that this was only a glass, grabbed the broom and dustpan and swept the pieces into the garbage. Se la vie.

A wise man once told me that nothing real can ever be taken away. The mug is gone, but the love, respect and admiration I feel for my sister remains. That’s the good stuff. The same is true of being a parent.

A few weeks ago I watched this same son perform a karate form for his school talent show. It was one of those moments that parents are all too familiar with: your heart swells, your throat tightens and the water comes to your eyes. It is a feeling of transcendent euphoria that is difficult to describe to those that have not felt it.

My sons often ask me what heaven will be like. I playfully respond it will be like taking a bite of the most perfect pepperoni pizza you have ever tasted or lifting your head into the most perfect breeze. I think I will add that heaven must certainly be something near to the good stuff of parenting: kissing the softest, fattest, most milk smellingest cheeks of your new born, the sweet comfort in the hug made with little arms, bathing in the most radiant smile of your son when he hits his first homerun or scores his first touchdown, or watching from the audience as your child performs.

I have often wondered about parents – fathers in particular that choose NOT to experience the good stuff. These are the fathers that choose not to take an active role in their children’s lives. We know the statistics all too well: 85% of children from “this” group do not have regular contact with their fathers, 55% of children from “that” group do not see theirs.

The studies are clear on the negative impact absentee fathers have on their children. What we don’t know is what affect absence has on fathers. I can only imagine that a man that fathers children yet chooses not to raise them suffers some deep damage to the soul. If being immersed in the good stuff is heaven then being removed from it must certainly be hell.

I treasure fatherhood especially because it’s replete with broken mugs, broken beds, sunflower seeds in the dryer, socks on the ceiling fan. All of it is the good stuff. I wouldn’t miss any of it for the world.