Is It December Already?

At long last I might be able to say that all is more-or-less calm and/or somewhat bright (the children are even nestled all snug in their beds); it seems that the Christmas Marathon has passed the finish line. I find to my astonishment that I haven't posted during the entire month of December, but it's really just a byproduct of my seasonal strategy -- I even decided to postpone my much-loved Christmas letter till sometime around the New Year.

I'm not telling anyone anything they don't already know; I'm pretty sure that if you need a sketch of my December to-do list, you need only consult your own. But as busy as it got, I really made an effort this time not to try to jam 10 pounds of Christmas into a 5-pound Santa sack, so this had to wait... even though I ended up missing my own Third Blogiversary (traditional gift for the Third Blogiversary is apparently "forgetting to post").

One reason December is always hectic for me is that I'm incapable of being Christmasy before its time. My wife did almost all the shopping by November; much of the wrapping was done in (very) early December (The wrapping is also complicated by the fact that -- having done zero of the general shopping -- I'm obligated to pitch in. But her philosophy is: cover each object with paper as quickly as possible. On the other hand, I'm about hospital corners, and creative packaging to disguise the gift, and getting the maximum number of packages out of the minimum square footage of wrapping paper. In keeping with one of my core tenets: The Wrapping is Part of the Gift).

I can't even think about planning to start making a list of things I might later buy until Thanksgiving has passed and it's time to crank up the Christmas music. I have semi-famously written about this topic before, of course -- still one of my favorites, though I have to admit that the Waitresses selection was at least partially an intentional effort to be provocative, somewhat hip, and an out-of-the-box thinker. That was before I demonstrated to everyone's satisfaction that the quickest way to locate me was to look inside the box.

Seriously, drop everything and watch this version of the Waitresses piece...You'll thank me.

The holiday music experience, like everything else in my frighteningly circumscribed existence, was revolutionized this year by my iPod. In fact, I maxed it out several weeks ago, at almost 2000 songs, transferring the over 200 Christmas songs in my CD/cassette/LP collection. And I've been carrying it around with me every chance I get.

In my original post on Christmas music, I concentrated on the traditional (secular) "seasonal favorites" you might encounter, or be assaulted by, in any mall... although admittedly it would have to be a pretty New-Wave mall to be playing the Waitresses. I sometimes have somewhat mixed feelings about Christmas music that does have spiritual significance, however.

Almost every Christian artist has a Christmas album, of course; not to record one would be a little like a baseball player deciding to take a sabbatical while his team played in the World Series. I've collected albums from many of my favorite artists, but it leads to a bit of a conundrum.

Nobody really needs 9 different versions of Silent Night -- as I find from my iTunes that I have (actually, that's from an alphabetical sort; I'm pretty sure I have at least 2 more in there somewhere as part of medleys). Even the artists themselves know this and often end up putting a new spin on an old classic... with not always predictable results. Audio Adrenaline does a version of Little Drummer Boy that is, ah, not for the faint of heart. Rebecca St.James did an entire Christmas album in a rather alternative style, and it's not bad but I often get the feeling when listening that I'm just not quite hip enough to get it. Albeit that might be said about me for anything on the far side of Perry Como.

So I find when looking at an album that I shy away from it somewhat if it's just the Same Old Titles. But on the other hand, it surely doesn't need to be reiterated that I am traditional right down to my argyle socks (not kidding, it's a great wardrobe day when I find a way to work argyle socks into the ensemble) -- so I get kind of scared about an album with mostly unfamiliar titles (i.e. new original Christmas songs) as well. I can't say I'm entirely paralyzed, since I do have over 200 Christmas songs... but as with every other decision in my life, I'm given much pause before triggering the buy.

I am one of the most ardent living fans of Steven Curtis Chapman, so I was able to overcome my reluctance and purchase both of his Christmas albums -- and I find the first one, The Music of Christmas, to be the absolutely flawless combination of classics, reworked classics, and originals. It's probably the only holiday album I own that makes me wish I weren't so completely inflexible that I can only listen to it for one month a year. Technically, as a Christian Jesus' birth and all related topics are relevant to me all year long, but I'm pretty sure a Christmas album in May or June would be a shock to my psychological foundations from which I wouldn't soon recover.

Other songs that are hard to wait for till late November: the first 2 cuts of this album, one of which is Al Green's funky "First Noel"; and a couple of real obscurities, My Christmas by Brett Williams & In Reach, and "Tonight" by Benjamin (The only place I could find this to have you listen to it -- other than, you know, having you all over to the house -- was at Rhapsody, which can be a bit annoying to negotiate but does have the advantage of allowing you to hear not just the whole song but the whole album, which also includes "My Christmas").

Sadly, I sense the statute of limitations expiring on how long I can continue shuffling Christmas... I think I can stretch it through Epiphany without enduring a prolonged and painful personality transplant (or implant, as the case may be).

Postscript: the pieces I've written at past holiday times tend to be my favorites, so I invite you to think of them as holiday specials; you've watched Charlie Brown more than once, haven't you? If you don't mind repeats, these are my absolute favorite pieces...

House of Mouse

As a parent, I spend many, many hours weekly immersed in the antics of animated characters. I've been quite upfront in this space about my lack of regard for Mickey, so I won't rehash that opinion here.

I will concede that he ranks higher than he once did, since I got forcibly exposed to Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, which is at least cheerful and attempts to engage the kids -- and features some of the catchiest music.

It's also worthwhile to note that Mickey's and Minnie's houses -- note carefully, houses; no hint of impropriety in this relationship -- were among the highlights for the kids during our Disney Visit, and they were genuinely pretty thrilled to meet the Great Mouse in, um, person. Mickey made a big deal out of my daughter wearing a Mickey t-shirt... however, both kids were a mite puzzled by one thing: on TV, Mickey is chatty to the point you'd like to stuff a sock in his snout (?) on occasion, but in person he resorted to pantomime and could not be induced to squeak out a single word. Disney should have pamphlets available with advice on how best to handle those types of questions.

Seemingly of a different species altogether is the rodent half of the Tom & Jerry comedy duo. I have to say that I've always harbored a real prejudice against these two as a result of childhood exposure to a lot of Hanna-Barbera dreck such as Magilla Gorilla, Quick Draw McGraw, and Huckleberry Hound (aka the Not Funny Crew), and it's only in the past year I've really studied them closely, albeit involuntarily, every night on Boomerang from 7:30-8:00 pm ET.

I'm compelled to admit that even after repeated (and repeated, and RE-repeated) viewing of Boomerang's Tom & Jerry repertoire, rare is the evening that I don't admit at least once (sotto voce), "OK, that's funny." I do sometimes wonder why Tom sings at times, but seemingly can't speak; Spike the dog, and Nibbles the other little mouse, and that little Yakky-Doodle fellow rarely shut up, but T&J remain resolutely silent.

Of course, hardly anything in the cartoon world makes any less "internal" sense than almost any episode of Heroes (or for that matter, the fact that "According to Jim" is still on), so I suppose it's pointless to quibble.

Animated hijinx aside, I haven't found our last few trips to camp all that amusing. Since our camp is only sporadically occupied, and not exactly hermetically sealed, we've been aware that we're at risk for four-footed visitors. It hasn't been that uncommon to find upon arrival a scattering of very tiny droppings; once we found that a jar of peanut butter had had its top gnawed. Mostly, however, I've been successfully pretending that we're doing a kind of woodlands timeshare where they leave long before we arrive.

A couple of visits back, just after lights-out, we heard dishes being bumped around, so I stepped out into the kitchen to find a frightened mouse scurrying back and forth in confusion. No, wait -- that was me. Anyway, as we both scurried, he dove off the counter behind the stove and disappeared. All I could do, really, was to plug the gap with a big mug and go to bed -- but before we left the next day, I set out 2 traps loaded with (what else?) peanut butter.

The next time we returned, my wife went ahead earlier, and when I arrived with the kids, she said, "Remember the, um, things on the counter? Well, they were, uh, you know... but I took care of them." And having claimed two victims enabled me to return to my deluded state.

That night after lights-out, we did hear the pitter-patter of little feet (and I knew it wasn't my daughter, because she just lies in bed and yells, "DADDY!!"), which we eventually concluded was inside the wall and hence not fixable in any case.

This last time when we went back, I moved some throw-pillows on the bed... and found an acorn. I'm not sure whether the mice are getting bolder, or whether they're inviting the squirrels to party with them, or what. I am a bit concerned, though, that the next time we're going to find red shorts and a pair of white, 4-fingered gloves in the laundry basket, though.

Bloglet #1: Chickening Out

It has also occurred to me, to resume my previous thought, that not every post has to be War and Peace... in the old days when I was very concerned about my stats, I tried to make every post 'legitimate'. I think I may experiment a bit with smaller posts, although the real issue for me is the time it takes me, not the number of words I put out. So here goes...

This evening, my daughter & I had a little "date"-- her brother was at their grandmother's, and mom was out for the evening, so we decided to have a little adventure. We took advantage of one of the great inventions of recent years: the fast-food location with two franchises. I suppose it's mostly that the food business has consolidated lately, but I sure wish they'd had this when I was a kid. In our area we have an A&W/KFC, a Taco Bell/Long John Silver's, and a KFC/Taco Bell, so plenty of fat & calories available in many varieties.

We chose the latter tonight; Taco Bell has a 99-cent taco that qualifies as a feast for her at a price it's not hard for me to love. And I am all about the fried chicken... ok, I know it's not really fried, it's Pressure-Cooked. With zero-trans-fat oil. So really, it's almost health food. You probably know that they don't use "fried" in their name any more -- it's just plain KFC -- but I really enjoy the way they get the subliminal benefit from the Implied Fried while at the same time sort of disavowing it.

When you go out for fast food, it's probably better not to think about the nutritional angle, and frankly I probably wouldn't have except in visiting the KFC website to see whether they really play up the pressure-cooking angle (I couldn't find a mention), I discovered a nifty nutrition calculator.

Here's the scoop on my relatively modest meal (2 pc thigh & drumstick, extra crispy; mac & cheese, a biscuit and a Pepsi):

• 1110 calories
• 87% of the recommended daily value for fat
• 51% for cholesterol
• 113% for sodium
• 5% for dietary fiber (that's almost all the biscuit, of which I only ate about half)

I should probably pause here to request that if I die before I finish this post, please tell my family I loved them...

After eating and before my arteries hardened all the way, I took my daughter to the rest room. Rather than turning her loose in what I'm sure was an absolutely pristine ladies' room, I took her into the men's room. As I opened the door, I was confronted face-to-face with the "men's products" vending machine. I got her settled into what she needed to do and sort of sidled over to the machine to begin to prepare the spiel for the inevitable... she always notices everything and wants to know why and how and who and where.

Here's what KFC thinks every man needs: (1) a small pack of Tylenol (2) a pack of temporary tattoos (although the label was actually spelled 'tatoos') and (3) a pack of glow sticks. By the way, the glow sticks had a disclaimer: should not be taken internally. In case you were feeling really literal about trying to get that 'inner glow'.

And of course, since I was prepared with an answer to "Daddy, what's that?" (although I would have been absolutely stumped by the inevitable follow-up, "Why do they have glow sticks in the bathroom?"), she didn't even notice.

I'm pretty sure the conversations are going to get worse anyway...

Time Keeps On Tickin' Tickin' Tickin'

My wife loves to make lists. There's almost always a legal pad lying about somewhere, covered from top to bottom with all the things she wants to get done in the next day/week/lifetime. Quite often there's a second column with my name at the top with a separate list. Sometimes it's actually the first column.

I don't tend to write anything down, but I do make mental lists as well. Of course, one problem with a mental list is that it's pretty painful to try to cross something off. For me, in any case, a lot of the list is taken up with standing items anyway... stuff I always have pending and that never gets crossed off. Things that hang over my head like the anvil over Wile E. Coyote's.

Many's the evening when, after finishing off my daily tasks -- and that's a whole different list, by the way, and sometimes it's pretty late before they're complete -- I sit down on the couch and think to myself: how should I pass the rest of my evening? Should I read, or watch TV, or simply spend time with my wife? I could surf the net, or rip some of the music I have recorded on my hard drive to my iPod. There's always e-mail to catch up on...

As I run through the options, I always bump into at least one item on the master list: the blog. I can tell you that it's a very rare day when I don't stop and ask myself, "How long has it been since I posted?" I do feel an obligation to post often enough that anyone checking in semi-regularly won't have to wait too long to find something new. I'm well aware that if someone tries a couple times and comes up empty, they're probably not coming back. And I'm not so swamped with visitors that I can spare any.

Here's the rub: it won't be worth bothering if I just write something to fill up a date. As I've said before, I've only had like about a half-dozen original ideas in my whole life -- so considering I've got what, 130+ posts, I may be in danger of repeating myself.

On the other hand, I don't want to shut the thing down. I do still have things I want to say, at intervals, and I've put too much effort into this -- too much of myself -- to just walk away.

So this is what I want to do. I want to keep the blog going, and I want to post when I have something to say. But I want to declare independence from the notion that I need to post on schedule 'X'. Frankly I feel it pulling me toward writing crappy stuff. And I certainly don't need any extra push in that direction.

I hope you will keep coming back to visit when the spirit moves you, but I hope you will give me the grace to be somewhat erratic in my schedule. I do have some ideas for some things I want to write, which I believe will be better if I take the time to write them as they sort of ripen in my head rather than because oh no it's been 3 weeks and if I don't post something now no one will ever come read me again.

After all, I do have well over 100 posts and I would bet good money that no one but me has ever read all of them... so browse the back issues while you're waiting to be served! Kind of like the doctor's office.

Decisions Decisions

Possibly no one makes more decisions in quite such a transparently public manner than a football coach. On each play, he must decide which players to use and which play to run, so every game is something of a referendum on the wisdom of his choices.

On the other hand, in modern football, the head coach has a phalanx of faceless assistants who share the responsibility -- in fact, a head coach is often thought to be a bit of a megalomaniac if he calls the plays himself (it's all about 'delegating' and 'managing', you know). Besides, even once the play is called, the quarterback may still change it if he has what he thinks is a better idea based on the defense he's looking at.

Contrast that with baseball -- as we know, the only true, pure sport and frankly the only one worth talking about or even giving much thought to -- where the manager holds the keys, or I suppose the steering wheel, solely in his own hands. He may consult a small group of advisers, but the manager makes out the lineups and carries out the pitching changes and determines the strategy.

Unfortunately, the inescapable flaw in his Master Plan is that he is then dependent on other, imperfect humans to carry out his will. If the pitcher throws a bad pitch, or a ball goes through somebody's legs, or a guy pulls a hamstring as he's rounding third, it's quite possible that a genius blueprint will fail to add anything to the 'win' column.

As a consequence, smart baseball people don't really judge a manager on whether he wins or loses (at least not on a day-to-day basis). You'll often hear the losing manager say, "Well, we had the gun loaded." Meaning: we got our best hitter to the plate with the game on the line, or our best pitcher against the other team's slugger; if our guy pops up, or the other guy hits a tough pitch out of the park... we can't control for results, just the process of making the decision.

And... may I suggest that that's a pretty good model for evaluating decisions in general -- our own, or others such as in the case of evaluating a political candidate (to choose a less than random example).

For me, the question is not, "Did the decision 'work'?" but rather, "Did the decision make the most sense given the available facts?" I might feel a wave of regret from a bad outcome... but I ought to be able to forgive myself if I made the decision the right way.

Likewise: in voting, we're choosing someone essentially to make decisions for us. It would be great to find someone who agrees with us in every respect, who would make all the decisions we'd make ourselves. Assuming we were smart enough to do so, but if I've been hearing the political rhetoric correctly lately, we should trust good ol' Joe Sixpack to be wiser than, you know, actual smart people.

Anyway, I've never found anyone running for office that I thought had the 100% perfect plan -- so the way I'm trying to evaluate now is to get a sense not of what decisions someone would make, but how he or she would make them. I'm looking for someone who's willing to surround himself (allow me to be pronoun-specific for the sake of simplicity) with smart people, people who don't necessarily agree with him down the line, listen to all their opinions, then put it together and make the call decisively.

I feel that a person of integrity and intelligence who's capable of using information to reach conclusions might be more valuable as a public servant than a person with nearly any defined set of convictions you could name -- left, right, or center.

Of course, even if worse comes to worst -- and you have to define that for yourself-- at least in two more weeks this 'election cycle' will be over (I could certainly write reams more about the political process... but on the other hand you could argue that I already have). Then we'll have 6 to 8 weeks of Christmas ads and Christmas specials, then about 10 days of vacation (or if you prefer, Bowl Season)... so that puts us to at least the middle of January before the first candidate declares for 2012.

Something to Sing About

I sometimes suspect that if I were Superman, my Kryptonite would be nostalgia. Any time I take any part of my past out of its lead-lined box, I begin to get weak in the knees. I must say that, unlike Superman, I am still able to speak in complete sentences; nevertheless, my romance with the past has undeniable power.

I should have noted the faint green glow emanating from an envelope I got a couple months back, announcing that the 125th anniversary of my alma mater would be celebrated during this fall’s Homecoming weekend. As further catnip – and now I have mixed my metaphors beyond recognition – the weekend would feature a reunion of the College Choir, singing with the current College Choir under the direction of the director who left at the same time I graduated. Or “was graduated”, if you’re the stickler for grammar I just got done telling you I was.

Despite my known weakness, I’m not a total dupe; it occurred to me that my time-machine experiences in general have not been all I had dreamed of, so I did hesitate before saying yes. But at the same time I had the distinct sense that, whatever the weekend turned out to hold, I would regret it intensely if I missed it – so at pretty close to the last moment, I sent in my registration.

This past Friday morning, I set out on the 300+ mile journey into my past; I drove through clouds and drizzle all day to arrive at a sun-drenched, picturesque campus right out of the college's promotional materials. There was a full schedule of activities planned, and I decided the best way to get a good experience out of the week was to participate in as much as I could.

As I roamed the campus alone, I realized that part of what made the whole experience feel so familiar was the loneliness. Allowing the rosy haze of nostalgia to lift a little, I remembered what a lonely place college had been for me. The difference now was that mine was the loneliness of someone temporarily separated from his loved ones... rather than the loneliness of a kid trying to find a place in the world and wondering if there would ever be a place he'd fit in.

I came to terms early on with the idea that it wasn't going to be a storybook reunion for me; instead I asked myself, why did I come this weekend? First, this is a place that was important to me, so just being there is a treat; second, to enjoy the experience of the choir event -- working under my old director, singing challenging music with a high level of skill. And as it turned out (largely due to managing my own expectations), I had a wonderful time.

One thing I had forgotten is just how chilly it gets out on the Southern Tier this time of year. It was pleasant and sunny during the day, but really plunged after sundown. Of course, it could have something to do with the fact that I have a bit less insulation on my roof than when I lived out that way.

I also realized along the way that, having left teaching 11 years ago, it's been awhile since I spent extended time around a critical mass of college-age kids. It was a little odd to be immersed in that force field of energy and hormones and interesting fashion/hair choices. But the good news is that it's a Christian school and the vast majority of the kids are well-behaved and pleasant to be around.

The centerpiece of the weekend for me was rehearsal and performance with the current College Choir kids and my old director. I found out for one thing that I've really been coasting for the last 25 years. Nothing against the church choirs I've sung with over the years, but nobody's expecting us to be pros. I immediately noticed that I couldn't sustain my notes as long as a bunch of 20-year-olds! I was gasping like I'd been punched in the stomach.

It was a privilege to work with our old director again, and a thrill to sing with the choir to a packed house; I felt like we really did a terrific job with very little preparation -- and almost all of us 25 years or more away from our last truly high-level performances.

But the experience I'll never forget came before the concert, after we old-timers had had our group photo taken. We were still standing on stage on the risers, with little knots of conversation here & there. Then someone started to sing one of our old numbers (and again, remember, none of us had sung it in at least 25 years!).  Within seconds the entire group was singing along; underneath the music you could hear the faint sound of aging brain cells straining to access the long-locked-away brain-file that contained the song.

Then our old director looked up and, with a look of amusement, walked over and started to direct us.  We got some notes wrong, I know, and we forgot some words, but when we got to the big finish -- sforzando, a strong initial sound, then instantly very quiet, then surging to full voice -- it was like all the years dropped away and we were back in the moment, feeling the joy and pride of making a beautiful sound with great skill together.  It was a sensation of pure exhilaration such as I rarely have a chance to experience.

So while the weekend as a whole was not generally the Perfect Nostalgia Experience, the little voice in the back of my head was right: if I'd missed it, I would have felt a great regret.

Let a :-) Be Your Umbrella

Our family spends a lot of time, particularly in the summer, at garage sales and book sales. Garage sales are popular at least in part due to the availability of cheap second-hand toys -- often the "guys" of which I wrote some time ago -- but we're all always on the lookout for books as well. I'm afraid the kids are more enthusiastic about owning books than reading them, but I'd rather go way overboard in the quest to make them lovers of reading.

And yes, I did say "we're" always on the lookout; I rarely buy a book that I can't get for free at the library (unfortunately, we have some trouble with due dates around here, so even the library ain't free, but then...), but on occasion I stumble across a gem I know I've got to have for keeps. Such was the case recently when I found a used copy of Eats, Shoots, and Leaves.

Since I have a somewhat unusual sense of humor and a love for language -- and I'm a bit of a pain in the keister -- this is unquestionably the book for me. She writes with what is called, in almost every review (and there are over 500 extremely assertive reviews, both pro and con, at amazon.com), "biting wit" about the use and misuse of punctuation.

I admit that blogs as a whole are not thought of as bastions of grammar, syntax, spelling, or punctuation -- and my blog punctuation may seem a tad idiosyncratic. In point of fact I am so OCD about such issues that I've even leveraged it into a part-time role in my other gig (the one I'm actually paid for (should that be "the one for which I'm actually paid"?) ); I'm the editor for one of my department's newsletters, so my word on commas, dashes and semi-colons is law.

Scary, huh?

So anyway, I was reading along chortling the chortle of the guy who knows he's on the right side of the battle against the punctuation evildoers. Then the smug rug got snatched out from under me when she turned her scorn laser upon... emoticons.

Forget the idea of selecting the right words in the right order and channelling the reader's attention by means of artful pointing. Just add the right emoticon to your email and everyone will know what self-expressive effect you thought you kind-of had in mind.

Don't get me wrong; I know emoticons aren't cool. My problem is that in my business life, I conduct an enormous percentage of my interpersonal exchanges are via instant message or e-mail. And for better or worse, I don't consistently suppress my sometimes-inscrutable wit.

I find that my variety of humor, if I may be permitted to describe it as such, is extremely oral -- dependent upon emphasis, pacing, volume and the like... every possible nuance of spoken language. Emoticons can be helpful in that regard, along with all the other tricks I use such as boldface; italics; and, as already confessed, my somewhat quixotic punctuation.

At work I have frequent recourse to emoticons (and delight in collecting new varieties ), not least because I spend a lot of time conversing with casual acquaintances. And for some reason, I have a particular genius -- I like to think of it as genius, at least -- for saying/typing things that are very funny... unless you interpret them a little differently than I intended, at which point they make you angry.

The irony that struck me not long ago is that I use emoticons much more in my IMs than I use smiles, or maybe even expressions, on my own actual face. Boy, I've said some unflattering things about myself in this space, but that's gotta be in the top 10!

I'm working on balancing that ratio... I'm trying to use fewer emoticons . But I think it might also be a good idea for me to be a bit more expressive; I can point to at least one person who'd appreciate that. In fact, I'm pointing at her right now.

So if you're out and about, and you run into someone who looks like this , stop by and say hi.

Happy New Year

I spent an astonishing proportion of my life in school... all the way through high school & college, then graduate school, then teaching at the college level for lot of years. Now, of course, I'm in 3rd grade -- OK, my son's in 3rd grade, but since I am such an active participant in the homework I'm really hoping to get credit for the year.

So in a lot of ways, the academic calendar strikes more of a chord in me than the one hanging on the fridge. It's only reinforced by the church calendar; even though we have church all year round, there's certainly a sense that a certain portion of the church family, let's say, is on vacation for the summer months, and then we restart in September.

It also represents a different kind of new beginning; it was in September, a number of years ago, that I made one of my first steps toward applying the faith I said I had toward my actual, you know, life.

My life at the time: junior in college, but since I had lived at home for the first 2 years of community college, setting out on my own for the first time -- a good time, if not a bit tardy, to really mull over what my own values were. Also, and of course this is pivotal to the story, I had a girlfriend.

She was also in college in another state, but we'd been dating for over a year and it felt pretty solid. We had had the boat rocked a few times, but overall it seemed reasonably happy.

When I got to school, it was made clear to me in a number of ways that faith was not something we took out of the drawer on Sunday morning and then returned to its cotton-batting-lined box once the service was over. We had prayer before classes, and chapel services 4 times a week. There were special speaker series, and even the entertainment was faith-based.

I have to admit that, as much as September prompts this look back, I was also prompted by my recent music-recording efforts. I was recording one of my favorite old Christian artists, De Garmo & Key, when I realized I was missing an album: "No Turning Back", which was recorded on the same tour they were on when I saw them that September.

It was the sort of raw, hard-charging faith message they presented (and rocked out with), along with a few pointed comments by one of those visiting speakers, that made me think back over a few things in my life. Such as this: why didn't my girlfriend & I ever discuss faith matters?

We had spent a lot of time together -- in fact, we worked together that summer; we'd had innumerable phone calls and dozens of long, long letters. And while it's easy for me to sit here and note that she didn't talk about faith, I also had to realize that I hadn't either.

This isn't a TV movie, it's a slice of my past... but nevertheless you probably know how the next scene goes already. But honestly, I guess I hadn't seen enough movies at that point, because I went into it with a sense of excitement. I wrote her a long impassioned letter about what I was learning and feeling, how I was changing, and I invited her to tell me about her faith experience. I promise you that what I was expecting was to open up a whole new level of communication and closeness...

... but somehow that's not what I got. I've long since lost track of the letter I got, so there's a chance I'm not portraying it accurately, but here's what I remember: she felt like I was accusing her of not being spiritual enough, and she told me that her faith was too personal to her to discuss.

Well, of course I backed & filled, and tried to repair the damage... but what I didn't understand was that I hadn't caused a breach, I'd merely revealed one I didn't see before. We struggled on till Thanksgiving break, keeping in touch and trying to find common ground, but I think we both knew that it was over. When we both got home, I went to her house to talk to her, and before I left we broke up.

I guess 'broke up' isn't quite the right term; we really acknowledged to each other that we were already moving in opposite directions, and affirmed the wisdom of continuing that way. When I left, she told me she was sure we'd get back together someday, and I did get a couple letters from her in ensuing months, but it really was over.

I can't honestly say I learned the lesson all the way that first time, but I'm thankful that our God of second chances gave me enough opportunities so I could finally get it right.

Going for the Gold

There was a TV show in the '60s called The Outer Limits -- or so I'm told; clearly I'm far too youthful to have first-hand knowledge -- a kind of knock-off of The Twilight Zone, with less imagination and 50% less William Shatner (not that that's necessarily a bad thing). The opening narration said, "There is nothing wrong with your television set. Do not attempt to adjust the picture. We are controlling transmission," then at the end of the episode they "returned control" to you (a power coveted by today's advertisers).

You may recognize that sensation from the just-concluded Olympics. Thanks to the far-flung tentacles of the NBC-Universal octopus (in turn, part of one of the solar system's largest conglomerates... yet one near and dear to my heart, and bank account), you could turn on your TV pretty much any time day or night and find a channel with an event being contested -- or at least a feature on Michael Phelps, Michael Phelps' diet, Michael Phelps' mom, Michael Phelps' mom's dentist....

I was pretty well invested; by my rough count I watched at least 15 different sports, though I still felt like I was missing out a bit on the Constant Variety of Sport that Jim McKay was always spanning the globe in search of. There were actually many hours of preliminary rounds for swimming, diving, gymnastics, track, and beach volleyball... rumor has it there were even some events happening in other sports where the athletes were fully dressed!

And I know for a fact that they missed out on a number of events that may not involve world-class athletes -- and a bunch of people from tiny islands you never heard of who get to go to the Olympics by virtue of being better at a sport than the other 2 people in the country who play it -- but which are contested every day right here in this venue (a certified Olympic Word). For example:

• Weightlifting. Every other night my son says to me, "Dad, will you carry me to bed, dad?" and I get to heft his angular yet nearly 60-lb. frame up the stairs to his room. During times of misbehavior, on the other hand, if he will not willingly repair to his room for "quiet contemplation", I get to perform the Clean and Jerk.
• High hurdles. It takes a finely-tuned athlete to make your way from one end of the playroom to the other.
• Figure peeling. One of my latest obsessions: see if you can peel an entire apple in one continuous piece.
• Individual medley. A solo competition to determine whether dinner can be assembled from the previous week's leftovers.
• 2-meter dash. It's time to go; let's see who can get to the door first. Although this is a land-based event over a relatively short distance, it's actually a cousin in spirit to the open-water swimming competition, which as I understand it is in turn akin to floating roller derby.

I could, as I have proved many times, go on and on. I am concerned that if I keep at it for too long, I'll give in to the obvious "wrestling" joke, although around here that event's usually held in conjunction with the Synchronized Shrieking competition. This is just a taste of the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat as it's experienced here daily... you may scoff, but some of this stuff is way closer to being a sport than rhythmic gymnastics.

Caught in the Shuffle

Some weeks ago, I had something happen to me that straddled the line between amusing and embarrassing. Although I was in a rather… well, sticky situation, one of my first thoughts (as is so often the case) was: can I get a blog out of this?

Well, reliable sources very close to me persuaded me that some things are best left unsaid/unwritten. After all, there are some topics that any conversationalist – and I’m counting this forum in that category – should probably avoid… including those you might describe as TMI.

I also seek to avoid MEGO (that is, My Eyes Glaze Over). I could certainly regale you with the exploits of my fantasy baseball team – if only I got points for injuries! – or perhaps relate the story of the latest work crisis (thanks to mobile technology, you can actually have a conference call, send e-mails, and cook dinner at the same time… oh, and “parent”, advisedly in quotes). I can only hope that I don’t reach that point with Tales of the iPod.

It would be an exaggeration to say the iPod has changed my life… but not a vast one. So far I’ve ripped all my CDs, a good pile of LPs, and I’ve gotten a nice start on my cassettes as well. In fact, I’m coming up on 1000 songs (having added over 100 since I wrote the first draft of this piece)!

One of the great things about iPod technology is that it allows you to parse out your music in so many different ways: by artist, by album, by genre; even make up your own playlist arranged any way that suits your fancy. However, virtually all the time I use it, I choose shuffle mode – in which the songs come up in more or less random order.

This is more than a little ironic, because I chose not to buy the much cheaper iPod Shuffle principally because I wanted to control the order… or thought I did. But apparently I could’ve saved a pile of money (if they get any cheaper, they’ll be sticking them in boxes of cereal). Of course, if they did, you’d be in danger of eating it by mistake anyway, since it’s not much bigger than a Mini-Wheat. Which is another reason I didn’t buy it: I figured it was too small to handle or keep track of.

I guess I should’ve known that shuffle mode was the preferred option for me, since it eliminates the necessity to choose – an activity I’m known to avoid when possible. Especially when there are more than 900 options to choose from.

It also adds an extra layer of excitement due to the irony of juxtaposition. Ever have 2 friends you really liked, but you didn’t really want them in the same room because they were too different to get along? My collection is pretty much equal parts '70s rock and recent Christian music. OK, I’ll admit that the “rock” side of the house is not exactly heavy metal … but on the other hand, '70s radio hits (like much of the '70s in general) are not known for displaying a significant spiritual side. I’m not counting this one. Well, OK, I think this guy tried, but I’m not sure anyone got it:

Read Do Right lyrics

As a result, I hear some interesting contrasts as illustrated by the following sequences from a recent shuffle:

• Hot Blooded (Foreigner's rock classic) => Walking in the Light (WhiteHeart)
• Praise You with the Dance (Casting Crowns) => Killer Queen (or, for that matter, virtually anything by Queen)
• You Better Run (Pat Benatar) => Mountain of God (Third Day)

So when the worlds collide, it sure makes it look like my iPod was programmed with a rather mischievous sense of humor.

On the Road with Alarm Clock Boy & Gossip Girl

Somehow, it can't officially be considered "summer" without the Summer Vacation -- the kind of grueling marathon of enforced family togetherness we undertake yearly in an effort to stockpile Family Memories. This year's iteration was a 1700+ mile roundtrip in the trusty family minivan... or as my daughter thinks of it, 30 hours of captive audience.

I refer to her as Gossip Girl in the title in part to establish my hipster bona fides; you can see how tuned in I am to what the Youngsters are watching on the television nowadays. In addition, while my girl doesn't exactly gossip (though she's definitely not above tattling), she does serve as the near-constant voiceover narrator of our daily program.

Once as we were observing our daily craft time, a tradition we share with mental institutions, I sought to stem the word flow with a suggestion that she need not comment in detail on each individual color choice; she just smiled sweetly and responded, "But I like talking."

Since our vacation plan basically boiled down to a trip to North Carolina (state motto: "We Ain't Messin' Around with None of that 'Dry Heat' Nonsense"), it wasn't like we could just tell her to go play outside, unless we wanted to retrieve her with a sponge. Apart from the daily beach time, most of our outside time was confined to dashes to/from the van.

On the way back from the beach, we did make our now-apparently-traditional stop at Hersheypark, probably the original if not the only intersection between choocolate and roller coasters. I wrote a piece not long ago (well, OK, it was quite a while back; I should more honestly say "not many ago") about how I feel like I'm putting money much more in perspective... but the Vacation Trip and in particular the Theme Park Experience will definitely test you on that. It may just be me, but I find I really have to totally disengage that gear in my brain that triggers the "How much did you say this is?" flag. The admission gate, the concessions, the hotel desk, and of course the gas pump afforded me numerous, frequent opportunities to almost literally put my money where my mouth was (although I have to say that this felt worth every penny).

Perhaps it's unique to my family, but I think we take a sort of perverse pleasure when things go wrong. My parents can (and will) list for you every faulty appliance, lemony auto purchase, and grueling customer service experience they've ever had. And we welcomed our niece to that fraternity; she waited for close to an hour in line for one of Hershey's water rides... when she finally reached the top, they closed the waterpark because there was a thunderstorm warning. Not that it did, in fact, rain whatsoever.

But the real Hershey shocker for me came the next day. We had tried to squeeze the max out of her Hersheypark experience; by the time we reached the hotel and got the kids down, it was 90+ minutes past their bedtime. And the next morning, at precisely 7:00.0 AM... nothing whatsoever happened.

Yes, the Amazing Alarm Clock Boy -- extensively chronicled over the years in this space -- experienced chronometer malfunction, finally appearing at my bedside to remark (in a tone that can only be described as bewildered): "Dad, it's 7:51, dad!"

So make the change in your scorecards; the list is back down to the traditional Death and Taxes.

Travel Advisory

A primary reason for the long period of silence here is that I have been planning, and now executing, the Annual Family Vacation. Regular visitors here will recall that the Vacation is basically the Joker to my Dark Knight, so a high percentage of my waking hours -- and several where it was hard to tell -- have been occupied by the Quest for perfectly-spaced stops, accommodations that handle a family of four without inducing homicides, etc.

Now we're on the road, relaxing with all of our might. We will be back on familiar ground next week, and I'm sure there will be tales to tell. Pray for us!!

Read the Verse Again

Years ago, when my wife was teaching in the public school, she came home on a Friday, amazed at what she'd seen. She had stopped in the office to pick up her check, but was told the checks were delayed till the following Monday.

The outcry from her colleagues was loud: how could they make it till Monday without their checks? And while we were both aware, then and now, that there are plenty of folks who are getting by from check to check, we were a bit stunned by the idea of well-paid professionals who couldn't forego their pay for three days.

That spoke to a somewhat different attitude toward money than I have, for sure. Even when I was a kid, if someone handed me a dollar, I'd stuff it right into my bank (however, if someone gave me a dime, I took it right to the drugstore down the street and bought a pack of baseball cards).

As I matured -- OK, got older, at least -- and got a few more dollars to play with, I didn't change the way I thought about money very much. When I commuted to college, and later in the working world, I always packed a lunch (incidentally, working folks who buy lunch regularly might as well cut a hole in their pockets). If I saw a magazine I liked, I'd go back to the store 2 or 3 times to make sure it was worth the $2.95. And once I discovered the Entertainment Book, we never ate out anywhere unless it was buy one/get one.

This made loads of sense when we first got married; I was competing in the World's Worst Waiter reality competition, and my wife was still in school, so we were not rolling in it. She was keeping a budget book, like a prudent new bride, recording every penny that went in & out, and I finally had to make her stop. Month after month of going in the hole while not spending much more than rent and a little food had put her on edge -- good thing I still had all those dollars from when I was a kid.

Later, she got that teaching job, and even though I was only teaching part-time, we had (for a young childless couple) a very comfortable income. So of course, being altogether unencumbered, we ate out all the time and took frequent vacations....

No, we didn't. We stayed close to home and ate lots of hot dogs and just generally behaved as if we were going broke. Looking back from here, it's hard to imagine what we were thinking; we could have had a lot of fun. It did keep us in practice for when my wife quit her job and went to seminary, of course -- about a 70% family income cut.

Since she is now a pastor and I'm up to 3/4 time at a very generous pay rate, we're now in a spot where we don't have money concerns. I don't say that in a boastful way; we recognize that we've been crazy-blessed by God, and we try to give back. However, I did want to assert that I have....

I can't even say it. OK: Changed! Over the years I've come to terms with it: it's just money, and it doesn't do any good whatsoever sitting in the bank (especially at the interest rates we're getting these days!). But it's kind of awkward because not all of our friends & family are in the same boat. We want to help, and I'm actually enjoying the opportunity to be generous, but I'm also very sensitive to others' feelings. I don't want anyone to feel I'm trying to big-time them.

Some time back we met some out-of-town friends for lunch halfway in the middle. We had been missing them so we invited them out for pizza, and since we invited I quite contentedly picked up the check. As kind folks with impeccable manners, they were grateful; but I did feel like they thought it an extraordinary gesture. I just did it because I could, and because I'm finally understanding the joy of giving... and because it was the best investment of 20 bucks or so I could imagine: I got back way more than I spent.

It's probably a relief to those around me that I really can change in some aspects. We know that Scripture gets misused all over the place, but perhaps nowhere worse than this: "Money is the root of all evil." People claim all the time that money is bad and sometimes it's thought to be more spiritual to be poor. I can't truthfully say I've ever been poor, but I've certainly had struggles, and I don't think I was way more spiritual. What the verse actually says, for those unaware, is this: "The love of money is the root of all kinds of evil." No question it can pull you off-course... but I thank God he's allowed me to learn you can have money without it having you.

More Than Just a Plaque

When I started the blog -- back in 2005, can you believe it? -- my wife was very concerned that I maintain our privacy, especially in the case of the kids. She didn't want some Internet predator targeting us; that's one of the reasons I only use my first name here. Of course, we're not exactly on the main drag here; we don't get a lot of walk-in traffic. Virtually all the people who read this on any kind of regular basis are only here because I begged -- I mean invited -- them to read it.

Nevertheless, even though we're pretty much all friends here, I tend to avoid personal details, never even mentioning my family's names. The funny thing is, I'd guess that any regular reader -- if such there be -- has a pretty clear idea of who my daughter is. She has a really large personality; although as I've said, I don't want to write the Funny Kid Story blog, I can't resist sharing one once in awhile.

My son's a little less defined in these pages. Maybe it's just that he's harder to sum up briefly and my writing skills aren't up to it. In this blog he's probably mostly The Kid Who Used to Love Emeril and Always Gets Up at 7. Anyway, something happened this week that made me want to tell you something a little more substantial about him.

Our boy has had his share of struggles. He's sort of the classic ADHD kid, not exactly laserlike in his focus; he has some difficulty managing his emotions, particularly his frustration. He spent an extra year in preschool, kind of gathering himself both socially & academically for school. He was fairly successful in kindergarten, but in 1st he ran into a teacher who was pretty inflexible; he was always anxious, always behind the class -- and all she could say is 'work harder with him at home'.

Last spring he was so miserable that we started doing testing, medication, counseling... basically trying anything we could to throw him a life preserver. We also requested a 2nd-grade teacher who was known as nurturing and gentle.

She would give him hugs when he needed them. She told him over & over: it's just a piece of paper, it's nothing to get upset about. When he started to get edgy in class, she'd say, "OK, everybody up -- we're going to wiggle!" Or dance. Or go outside & run to the fence and back. In first grade, teacher conferences were: here's all the things he can't do; this year, every conference was "I love him, he's doing great."

And this past Tuesday I stood in a stuffy cafeteria and listened as she stood on stage and told the assembled kids and parents about my son: how at first he had been anxious and timid, how she had seen him grow in confidence and ability, how much she loved and would miss him. Then she called him up on stage and presented him with a plaque as the most improved student in her class.

I have to tell you -- no, literally, I feel like I have to -- that not only did I cry right there in front of everybody, but I was proud to. I had some success in school myself; I've had a decent career; my kids' births and adoptions were great thrills. But I don't think I've ever had such a surge of pride as I did that morning. He's not suddenly going to be on the path to valedictorian, and he's probably not going to win the Nobel or the Pulitzer, and all the other classes gave out the same three-dollar plaque. Never mind all that... Tuesday was his day, not to mention a huge day for me.

On the Job

We had a kids' birthday party at our house last week, and the conversation turned -- as it so often does on such occasions -- to the question of each guest's favorite animal. One boy replied "tiger", and I had the pleasure of showing him a picture of me, standing next to a tiger.

That photo's a souvenir of my time (6 summers, if you can imagine) working at a nearby amusement park -- sadly now defunct, and there's not even much of it left on the Internet to link to. At the park I filled a variety of roles, from cleaning toilets to singing & acting in shows; it gave me a huge boost in the "weird jobs held" competition. It was in the highly coveted role of singing waiter that I encountered the worst boss I ever had.

He was the manager of the Opera House, the theater/snack bar where I waited tables for $2/hr plus all the tips an average check of less that $5 can generate. Actually he was officially designated the head waiter, but he had the power of scheduling, and he used it with particular vigor against me. I had been there awhile before he showed up, and I made no bones about the fact I didn't think he knew what he was doing (back in those days, I was a bit outspoken...).

More than anything else, he committed what I consider the unpardonable sin for a manager: power was his primary goal and motivation. I'm fortunate that almost none of my subsequent bosses since has behaved that way (especially my present manager, if you're reading this as I know you occasionally do. Love ya! :-). I've found that most bosses I've encountered have been about enabling me to do a better job, and often they take more responsibility than power.

I'm thinking about all this because of something I heard on the radio recently. The speaker was talking about the husband as "Head of the Home"... a concept that I've heard about, and wrestled with, since I was a kid.

When I got married I was very clear that I didn't want to be in charge -- you may have heard the expression that no committee of two elects a chairman, and I've never had any ambition to manage anything (well, OK, maybe the Mets). I figured that any decisions needed could be made together.

All that is still 100% true, but I'm starting to see things from a different angle. I'm realizing that being "head" doesn't mean giving orders or being in control; it's not about power. It's about taking responsibility... being the one to "stand out front" or "take point". It has a lot more to do with sacrifice than with authority.

So once more I find myself at one of those difficult junctures: trying to determine whether status quo is adequate, or whether I need to make a change... and if so, how does that play out in real life?

I had quite an honor some weeks back when my wife asked if she could read my blog. Some she really enjoyed, some were just OK -- but she called me on this one. She wanted to know why I spent the whole time setting up the problem, but didn't really resolve it. Part of it was probably cowardice, but also: these are not exactly true/false questions!

Believe me, I wish I had a nice neat punchline both for the piece and for my life. As you may know, not only is truth stranger than fiction, it's also more complicated.

Find: hy - Replace: i

You get a chance to learn all kinds of skills if you stay in your job long enough. I've been a programmer for 10+ years now, so I hope I've developed some proficiency in a programming language you've never heard of. I should note that was not a foregone conclusion at the beginning; I was not really a programmer when I was hired, I was just a math teacher who had taken some programming courses.

Other lessons you pick up along the way. Since my job often seems to take me into subjects where I don't know what I'm doing, I have to ask for help a lot... so I have acquired some world-class groveling skills. I will flatter, cajole, and basically prostrate myself to get information out of someone.

I always assumed as a programmer I'd just sit in my cube and write code, but in my position I work on many kinds of projects, so I've also had to get pretty good with the ever-present Microsoft Office applications. The best part is that they share a lot of functionality, so once you know something you can use it anywhere. For example, Ctrl-H is the find & replace function: find any text in your document and replace it with the specified text. It turns out I need to use that here.

Almost exactly a year ago, I wrote a little piece called My hyPod in which I talked about why an iPod sounded cool, but was not in the cards for me. Then a few months ago, I mentioned what fun I was having recording all my old LPs to my PC. Well, add the two together (and include the fact that, since my wife was thinking about getting a motorcycle, a tiny little mp3 player seemed cheap)... plus the added incentive of a (minuscule) employee discount thanks to the Gigantically Enormous corporation I work for... it all adds up to a shiny new iPod. No problem: just find all the "hyPod"s and replace them with iPods!

When I thought about this last year, I had two major reservations. One was the time and expense to get the music content. But by the time I bought it, I had already recorded more than a dozen albums (and counting), so I already have well over 200 songs loaded up without surfing anywhere or paying a penny. And I have an amazing wealth of music left to go, even if I never connect to the internet again.

In particular, I must confess I have not yet made the move to download the songs I featured in my hypothetical playlist. I haven't given up on that yet, but I think I'll be focusing on acres of vinyl and miles of cassette tape, and probably also megabytes of CDs, long before I spend a whole lot of time on iTunes.

My other concern was that I didn't figure I had a lot of opportunity to walk around with earbuds, oblivious to the world (and by the way, who did they use as the model for earbuds, Andre the Giant? Apparently they take seriously the admonition to never put anything into your ear that's smaller than your elbow. Or Andre the Giant's elbow. Honestly, it feels like I'm trying to get a golf ball in there).

It turns out there's a multitude of opportunities -- although I usually use more conventional over-the-ear headphones, and I often leave one ear uncovered as a show of good faith. I'm not really ignoring you, of course. I have plenty of time at work to listen, but the best part is during my various chores. Laundry, in particular, is virtually revolutionized; it's really boring to sit in the upstairs bathroom (where the machines and the hamper are located) and sort, sort, sort. Reading tiny tags -- tag manufacturers are another group in cahoots with optometrists. I've tried bringing along some good reading material, but for some odd reason that seems to slow the process down. However, if I crank a bit of Styx, or Petra, the time seems to fly by. Dishes, cooking -- almost none of my mundane daily activities aren't improved by having some handy tunes. And while it's great to have a CD player in the car, I can't carry all my CDs with me all the time (nor am I in the car that much, as a dedicated non-commuter). This way I have lots of goodies at my fingertips. Literally; it doesn't even take up my whole hand!

I did feel a bit silly as a 46-year-old man checking out the product in person in the Apple Store, but fortunately there was a very nice young lady with magenta hair and a nostril ring who was able to answer my questions (and explain how this clickwheel thingy works, exactly) and contain her snickers until I left the premises.

I don't suppose I've exactly caught up -- I don't even have a BlackBerry, or anything Bluetooth-enabled -- but I feel like I've almost made it into the 21st century... not to mention a lot closer to having the chip implanted directly into my brain. Or maybe that's just the earbuds.

Accessory Before the Fact

Since two of the things I love best are baseball & reading, naturally I love to read about baseball. I know that sounds one-dimensional or even shallow, but there's all kinds of baseball reading out there:

• kids' books
• novels
• mysteries
• nonfiction -- seriously, check this one out; it's not really a 'baseball book' -- part biography, part travelogue, part history lesson, part philosophy, part poetry -- mostly just wonderful reading
• fantasy baseball

And since I also love math & statistics, and I enjoy learning more about how baseball 'works', I've read a lot of what's sometimes called sabermetrics -- baseball research often using statistical analysis. The patron saint of sabermetrics is Bill James, whose work has always been dedicated to the idea you can understand baseball if you find and apply the right tools. But it ain't all square roots and logarithms... he always writes wickedly funny stuff (occasionally more wicked than funny).

One passage I remember vividly (hence, probably, inaccurately) was an analysis of a trade. He pointed out that 'team X' had traded for a pitcher who pitched really poorly, and then almost immediately suffered a career-ending injury. They gave up two players who played well for many years afterwards, and who played positions that 'team X' also then had trouble filling. In other words, basically the Perfect Storm of bad trades... or as Bill put it, "that's what I call hanging yourself with a custom-fit noose."

This weekend, it was my turn to measure out the rope.

For years upon years, my wife has regaled me with tales of her childhood dirt-bike adventures. And the stories always seemed to end up in the same place: "When you're dead, I'm going to get a motorcycle."

Myself, I have no Need For Speed. When it comes to transportation, I want the wind in my face to be coming from the factory-controlled climate system. Given what I experience on the roads these days, I think it only prudent not to venture out without hundreds of pounds of steel and safety glass between me and everyone else. It's not like I'm the life of the party at amusement parks either; when I was a kid, my grades always got me free rides at Hoffman's Playland... except I could never find rides that didn't terrify me. And a 10-year-old doesn't cut a very impressive figure on the Ladybug ride.

So I have always dismissed the motorcycle talk in the minimum possible number of words. But lately, the song has been crescendoing.

Now she's talking about riding a "scooter" -- you know, just around town. OK, maybe a few miles down the highway. If you're thinking of the things you stand on with one foot & push with the other... guess again. She doesn't even want to consider anything with a top speed under 55 (actually, we've had cars that weren't that comfortable at 55).

Given my reluctance to see my bride of nearly 21 years become the shiny silver ball inside a giant pinball machine, why would I do anything to add fuel to the fire? Such as...

This past Saturday, while the kids were on their Annual Amusement Park Outing with their aunt, we had the whole day to ourselves for whatever fun and romance we could dream up.

Instead, I took her to look at scooters.

I guess in part I was hoping that seeing the scooters close up would remind her that not only is it an expensive habit, but also that driving something that unprotected in traffic is a little like trying to fight a forest fire in a tank top, shorts, and flip-flops.

But I'm also a husband, and let's face it: there aren't too many times I'll be able to help put that look of delight and joy and anticipation on her face.

I continue to (gently) remind her of my reservations, and I think she may hold off for now-- but I wonder whether it's just a matter of time till the other boot drops. So do me a favor: if I let you know, if and when it does become a reality, would you mind very much all staying off the streets around here?

Truly Blessed

I usually think of myself as a pretty healthy person. I'm the guy who, if you ask who my doctor is, generally replies, "I don't really have one." I did have a problem with my ear a couple years ago that included some blockage and a truly awful spell of vertigo; I meant to blog at that time about how it was to suffer Medical Care, but by the time I felt like sitting up at a keyboard again, the moment had passed. And if you heard the noise that emanates from my spine when I twist, you might be inclined to call an ambulance... but that may just be the joys of being 46.

As a matter of fact, aside from one ER visit more than 10 years ago, the last time I was in the hospital, I was wrapped in a cozy blue blanket. Never even broke a bone in any of those childhood misadventures. All of that notwithstanding, I take my medicine every day.

I have one of those weird nonspecific allergies; if I don't dose up on Claritin-D every day, I get this annoying little tickle right at the spot where the clavicles come together, and I start barking. The reason my allergies are nonspecific is that the doctor I went to didn't seem to care why I was barking -- he just said, "Oh, that's allergies; here, take this." I thought it might be nice to have some sense of what I was allergic to... but since the alternative is being poked full of holes, I decided it wasn't altogether crucial.

In those days, Claritin was prescription-only, so I was able to get the insurance company to help me out, but that came to an end a couple years ago. Now I pay the freight solo, which in the most recent instance came to $18.95 for 15 pills. I'm well aware that's not much to people who are paying way more for real heavy-duty meds -- but it's kinda painful to me to pay over $400 a year (and think about it: I'm not even really sure why).

I do know I can't do without. If I miss a day (or even sometimes when I don't), in the mid-evening I start to get that tickle and here comes the bark. I have a pretty short, sharp cough, and usually a single instance at a time (my wife has been known to castigate me for not warning her it was coming; it often makes her jump). For some reason it's quite frequently mistaken for a sneeze, even though it really doesn't sound like my sneeze, so I really hear "God bless you" quite a bit. And at the risk of confounding my public persona, I don't like to make people feel uncomfortable, so instead of correcting them, I usually just say thanks.

And just when I feel like I have the whole thing under control... spring arrives. I've written several times about all the wonders of the season, but of course all that comes with a price. In my case the toll is exacted by a sticky yellow substance wafting in the breeze that makes my eyes itchy and my sinuses fill up with goo and just generally makes me want to send my entire head out to be steam-cleaned.

I was gleeful to the point of being smug when the really nice weather arrived almost simultaneously with my new work laptop. Since I have not only wireless internet access, but also the capability to make & receive phone calls through my laptop, I can work literally anywhere in the house... or even outside the house. A sunny day, relaxing on the deck -- I mean, focused on my work with laserlike intensity while happening to be sitting on the deck. So the first decent day, I packed my stuff and got right out there.

I should point out that, in addition to my susceptibility to pollen, I also have eyes like one of those fish that live at the bottom of the ocean. A lot of times I'm squinting on a cloudy day, so bright & sunny is not always what it's cracked up to be. And while a laptop is plenty portable, it's not really designed to be viewed with an 800-watt bulb glaring in your eyes.

So I sat on the deck, sneezing & blowing my nose, squinting and more or less unable to read my screen. Yes, it was a red-letter, and -nose, day for me. But, you know, it was the symbolism of the thing.

Anyway, if you come looking for me on any vaguely summerlike day, just walk around the back -- you'll find me on the deck. And if you happen to catch me sneezing, you don't have to say God Bless You... I've been blessed enough for any two people.

Interjection Junction

I have to admit that I was never an enormous fan of Schoolhouse Rock back in the day; it appeared on ABC and I always thought their kids' shows & cartoons were somewhat cheesy. CBS (channel 10 back in those days!) was the home of the Bugs Bunny/Roadrunner hour -- hence the home of me, as well. I am on record as stating the cartoon universe belongs to Bugs and everyone else is just drawn into it. He's the king of 'em all, y'all.

No, I had to get my grammar education the old-fashioned way: by diagramming sentences. I really don't remember anything about diagramming sentences at this late date; I have convinced myself that I was really proficient at it, but I suspect that may just be the standard memory trick we all play on ourselves.

Regardless, my zeal for grammar (and punctuation, and spelling, and syntax) remains to this day. In fact, I'm pretty much the Spanish Inquisition of grammar etc. Well, OK, like most of the universe, when using Instant Message I suffer a strange paralysis when it comes time to capitalize and punctuate... but other than that, don't come in here with any of that weak stuff.

Today I'm musing about interjections: any member of a class of words expressing emotion, distinguished in most languages by their use in grammatical isolation, as Hey! Oh! Ouch! Ugh! The problem for me is that I feel like most of the really "popular" interjections related to frustration, anger, distress, etc. seem to be... not a great idea to use around small children. I hasten to add that I'm altogether aware that language you wouldn't use in front of children is most likely language to eschew entirely.

In fact, as pointed out by a favorite book of mine (regrettably I can't lay hands on it right now), the majority of our common exclamations -- even "darn" -- are actually euphemisms for words you can't use in polite company. Wow, I just thought: that's really an archaic concept, isn't it? I should say, words you wish people wouldn't use in polite company, or any company. And I have to be doubly careful, because I frequently stress to the kids that they shouldn't look for sneaky ways to say bad words without really saying them ("poopy" is one of the ones they try to sneak in).

This is slightly off the point -- at least I think it is; no one knows better than I how challenging it can be to deduce my actual point -- but I'm reminded of a recent occurrence here. My son was having one of his occasional meltdowns the other day, during which he quite often screams the angriest, rudest words he can think of. I had more or less tuned him out when I realized he was shouting, "Did you hear me? I said 'the S-H word'!" Alarmed, I did a mental rewind to discover he had hollered, "shut up!" which of course is not acceptable, but still a relief compared to what I thought he meant.

And as a bonus, a digression from the digression: why is it that 'be quiet', 'hush', and 'close your mouth' are acceptable, but 'shut up' is a capital offense? Don't they all mean I don't want to hear anything you say?

Anyway (rejoining the blog, already in progress), I'm kind of casting around for an expression to compensate for the fact that I (a) get frustrated frequently and (b) talk to myself a lot. I need something brief, with sufficient explosive consonants. I still remember an episode of the original Bill Cosby Show in which his basketball team got in trouble for using bad language on the court; by the end of the episode, one of the players managed to substitute "Fudge cake!" I use that occasionally, but usually kind of ironically & not in the heat of battle. And I've tried "dagnabbit', but I always feel a bit like Walter Brennan.

For some other possibilities, check out #6o in this list ... or perhaps #17 here.

I may just have to coin my own word... but of course, if you have any suggestions, feel free to pass them along.

Building a Rep

I finally get out of my basement, and about all I get for my trouble is a shoe full of water.

The weather in our area has been lovely and halfway summerlike, but as a Remote Employee I have been stashed away in my subterranean office, remote from spring as well. However, this week I'm in the midst of a rare business trip. Naturally, as soon as I mount the basement steps, the temp drops 20 degrees and it starts raining.

Tonight I was out shopping for breakfast -- should I go down to the dining room in the morning and wait for them to bring me 10 dollars' "worth" of breakfast, or should I go to the grocery store and buy 2 days' worth of breakfast for less than that? -- and on my way across the soggy parking lot I noted a sudden sensation of wet/cold on one foot. When I got inside, I discovered a big split in the sole of my shoe. Not to worry, I only have to wear it for 2 more days. Rainy days.

I just don't understand American workmanship these days. I've only had these shoes for 10 or 15 years (OK, it might be 20) and they're worn out already?

The good news is that this week's blog is being brought to you by the Official Hotel of Random Access. I do love me some Courtyard. King-size bed, sitting area, deluxe bathroom, and free wi-fi... can't hardly beat that. The breakfast prices are exhorbitant, but if you hit the lobby at the right time, you can find free cookies. OK, 'free' is a relative term -- I'm on record about the scam of 'complimentary' hotel amenities. By the way, this trip is relatively local to home, so this entry is not also brought to you by the Official Airline of Random Access.

I'm reminded of another trip, almost exactly a year ago, when (just like tonight) I was faced with sports-news hysteria. I am way at the back of the line for the Roger Clemens Fan Club, but is this really stop-the-presses news? I was watching the ballgame, and the ESPN crawl at the bottom of the screen -- which usually features headings like 'NL', 'AL', 'NBA' and 'Golf' -- suddenly sprouted a new category: 'CLEMENS'. There is the sense that he's made his own bed... um, perhaps not the best choice of words... but he may have reached the point where whatever he does will be construed as something horrible -- preceded by his reputation.

And that idea -- like almost everything else -- brings me back around to me. Unfortunately. See, this is actually my 2nd consecutive trip; last Friday, I had to make a flying trip (speed, not mode of transport) to the office where I used to be based. I was getting a new computer, so while the swap was in progress, I walked around to say hi to some people I hadn't seen for several years.

One of my old colleagues told me that someone had said something sarcastic the other day, and he told me, "Whenever that happens around here, I always say, 'Boy, I really miss Mark.'" Then someone else in the conversation, who barely knew me at all, recounted something I had said to bust someone else's chops.

And OK, we all know the difference between an affectionate poke at someone and truly ripping them up... but even I had to ask myself, "Is this really what I want to be known for?" I have over the years built up my Lovable Curmudgeon act; I can always make people laugh by grumbling about this and that, especially about work. The workplace is always fertile soil for complainers -- that's why we laugh at Dilbert.

A while back, I heard someone on the radio talking about being a Christian and representing Christianity to others. The hope, of course, is that others can see a difference in your behavior and demeanor (and hopefully ask, "What's that about?"). I want to be that guy, but I couldn't swear to it at this point. They say that entropy is a powerful force and it's easier to knock something down than to build it... unfortunately, it seems I saved my best workmanship for building a rep.

Kerouac Had No Kids

Recently I found myself thinking about Boston, Lexington, & Plymouth MA; Philadelphia; Washington DC; Niagara Falls (both sides) and Dearborn MI. These were the destinations for a few of our family vacations when I was a kid. In my mind's eye, I seem to see a speeded-up slide show: flashes of images like Plymouth Rock, and steelmaking in Dearborn, and the rickety elevator at the Battle Green Inn (the first elevator I ever operated myself), and driving around DC lost -- a family tradition I'm proud to say I upheld last summer. Mostly, it leaves me wanting to say something to my parents:

What were you thinking??

OK, and "thank you", of course; I had some wonderful experiences. But having just survived my own Family Vacation Trip, my initial reaction is wonderment that anyone would do it voluntarily. I don't know whether they went places they wanted to go, or whether they planned it around our Educational Benefit. But I can say from personal experience that a vacation based around Children's Museums can be pretty tough on the parents.

I'm also amazed that they could pull off such complicated itineraries in the days before Google. If I can't do a Web search for hotels -- I'm no Patrick Henry, but Give me a suite with a separate bedroom, or give me death -- and then print off a map with turn-by-turn directions, I'd be inclined to stay home. Maybe we could put a blanket over the dining room table and go "camping".

And while I'm sure the French are still grateful to Gen. Eisenhower for bailing them out of that Nazi business, I'm kinda partial to the Eisenhower Interstate Highway System. Sure, he meant it for transporting troops & missiles and the like, but I'd hate to try a 700-mile trip in 4 days without it. For that matter, while I'm thinking of it, I'm often heard to say that if Eisenhower had had to take small children along on D-Day, we'd all be speaking German now.

The silver lining to any trip is always the resulting blog... particularly if I'm already "behind schedule" (I'm flattering myself to think that someone's missed me in my absence... you did notice it's been a couple weeks, right?) due to taxes and work and church obligations (and planning & executing a vacation). Even better, a trip really lends itself to bullet points:

• Which means I don't have to worry about making it a cohesive narrative with a unified point.
• It can just be a series of observations.
• Opossums have the most teeth of any land mammal (50).
• See how I worked in a random fact there?
• Actually, I learned that at ... a Children's Museum.

So it was 5 museums in 4 days in 2 states. Two of the museums were officially designated as Children's Museums, which mainly served to illustrate that there is no central authority that delineates a Children's Museum from a cinderblock basement scattered with secondhand "educational" toys. OK, really there is; I'm not sure whether there's any qualification process or it's just sending in box tops or something.

We also did three legitimate big-time museums that also feature Interactive Hands-On Exhibits for Kids. I have to say there was some no-doubt cool & educational stuff there, but even so it ended up being more hands-on than interactive (i.e. push all the buttons, yank all the levers, spin all the dials, run as fast as you can to the next one).

I of course found all sorts of interesting tidbits along the way... so that must mean it's time for the Bullet-Point Round!

• You have to love a state like New Hampshire, with state-sponsored liquor stores located conveniently adjacent to their interstate highways. If you must drink and drive, make sure you pay directly to the government before you kill someone.
• It's pretty complicated to nourish kids intellectually AND physically at the same time. It seems like road food always degenerates into chicken nuggets, mac & cheese, pizza, and hamburgers. We also squeezed in pancakes, omelets, and French toast. I'm pretty sure the most nutritious food we saw was the strawberries and grapes they were feeding the opossum -- although I understand that mealworms are awfully good for you too.
• On a side trip to Cambridge to visit family, we ended up at a neighborhood playground dominated by an enormous slide only accessible through an elaborate rope climbing net. I wanted to set a good example for my risk-averse son, so I clambered up myself... only to find myself clinging desperately to the precipice (not quite the message I was trying to send). He did eventually try it -- and I did get down alive. When he was balanced 10' up yelping with fear, I kept telling him, "You're fine, I've got you, just keep hanging on and going upward," but I was thinking, he's going to fall and be killed and there's nothing I can do to stop it. One of my less-favorite things about parenting: I have to keep doing things that scare me, so they don't end up scared of everything.
• You can end up in some odd places killing time with kids. After lunch one day, we visited a costume store. Then my son said, "Hey dad, that one looks just like you!" Was it Superman? A weightlifter? Some other hero-type? No, it was this guy.
• I can't emphasize this enough: Suite with separate bedroom, good; "standard" room with 2 (very) adjacent queen-size beds, bad.