January is dads on ladders taking down the lights and moms deciding when to toss the half-dead poinsettias. January is obligation and diets. But it's real.
I think it was a successful season, though there are always misfires – something I said in jest taken seriously, a flubbed or forgotten gift.
As the old song says, we were happy in a million ways this past holiday, amid our fellow misfits and malcontents. In fact, it's sometimes hard to tell friends from family.
Here’s the thing: If you get Christmas 60% right, you’ve still got a lot of Christmas. Chasing a perfect holiday leads to stress and disappointment.
As gifts, I’m giving my kids a digital currency based on the value of mermaids and unicorns. I mean, who even knows what bitcoin looks like?
Under this new holiday plan, the first day of Christmas would be Dec. 20, roughly coinciding with the first day of winter. Pancakes and PJs would also have their own day. This 12-step plan would mean more friendship, fewer things.
The 300-pound beagle has more ego than I do. But at least the new wolf loves me. At least I think that's love. Do I care?
This is the stuff of real life. The faucets leak and so does the roof. You sure don't see these issues come up on "This Is Us."
During a pediatrician visit, Dad voices concern over the boy's behavior. But it turns out that being goofy is quite normal for that age.
On a road trip up the coast, I linger too long over lighthouses and eat way too much pie. Surprised?
Off I went, in a cheesy rental car, ugly as a fire truck, on airless tires that rattled over every road seam.
The lake is the color of Charlize Theron's eyes. And the weather? Much like the Med (at least for now).
It's a village smothered in sour cream. Fifty years ago, I roamed the backyards barefoot, snatching apples and other kids’ Schwinns.
Sure, 20% of the population believes in unicorns. But don't judge too quickly. Besides, L.A. changes from minute to minute anyway.
Readers reach out to Los Angeles Times columnist Chris Erskine and his wife, a.k.a. Posh, after he revealed her cancer diagnosis.
You can’t see the answers because there is A.1. steak sauce all over his homework. Where his name should be, there is ketchup. Like Jackson Pollock, the little
So we’re getting into the new school year routine, and it’s going very well. We wake at what must be 3 in the morning. My coffee tastes like cigarette butts.
It’s late August and the dog needs a bath. Actually, he needs three baths. After his third bath, he needs to be rolled in powdered sugar. He’d still stink, but
Chris Erskine's younger daughter has moved to Cincinnati but visits L.A. often on business. He's trying hard not to let his feelings show.
I used to write with music playing in the background till I realized the rhythms were interfering with my work. Like music, writing relies on attractive
Go ahead, moms and dads, try to solve parenthood. Chris Erskine ponders the issue while tallying the cost of hiring a math tutor for the little guy.
My goal this summer is to get the little guy to listen to one Harry Chapin song. And to paint his bedroom. That's it. One song, one bedroom. Simple dad, simple
If you’ve had teens before, you know what flawed yet wonderful insects they are about to become. They lose their freckles. They lose their puppy breath.
The one where our columnist finds himself caught between one kid who won't grow up and another who's flying the coop.
Someone had a funny line the other day about barking dogs. He wondered if, when we yell at the dog to stop barking, the dog is thinking: "This is awesome! Now
Chris Erskine makes 60 new friends who are just off-kilter enough to join the Happy Hour Hiking Club.
Chris Erskine goes jogging and has a close call with a Prius; then some cyclists get involved. All he wanted were banana pancakes.
This trip to Dodgers spring training in Arizona includes a truck fire, a budget motel and, thank goodness, prime rib and baseball.
Needing a break from his workaday routine, Chris Erskine forms a neighborhood group to explore the great outdoors (and pub grub).
Chris Erskine writes that braces are just another step in parents' crusade for perfect show dogs, er, children.
Chris Erskine's contemplation of the end of the road leads to bacon and the Cubs. Maybe Beyonce will sing at the funeral.
Chris Erskine: An all-tuba concert brings depth to a Christmas that sparkles with the pride of parenting (look at our cards!).