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.