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.

Stranger in Our Midst

The unmistakeable signs of spring are all around us: We've had that last, false-hope-crushing snowfall.... The drive-in up the road is open, and the locals are huddled around the picnic tables in forlorn knots of 2 and 3, eating their First Ice Cream of Spring.... Tax season is upon us, and I'm getting my laptop charged up so I can finish my return next Tuesday on the way to the post office.

My Leading Indicator is always the crack of the bat being heard all across this great land of ours. Around here, we've been observing our own forms of Spring Training, on two fronts -- first, I used the March exhibition games to get the troops a little hyped on watching the Mets again... hoping that if I can amass three votes, I might prevail against our local Superdelegate, who is definitely voting "against." And, rare is the day when the girl doesn't jam on her Mets cap and say, "Dad, will you play catch with me?"

She's even starting to recognize individual players on TV. Naturally, most sports enthusiasms and loyalties are acquired virally, from someone close to you who already has the bug (although I think mine was definitely a spontaneous genetic mutation).

I just consider it responsible parenting to do whatever I can to nurture the ardor for baseball in general, and the Mets in particular -- although last fall my son, especially, figured it might be cool to be a Red Sox fan, since they were the champs.

So I was a trifle surprised when my girl came home from a trip with her grandmother to Wal-Mart with a shirt bearing the logo of...

I can't even say it. Suffice it to say that it's rumored that there's a second major league that also has a team located in New York. The New York Yonkers, or something like that.

She saw it in the store, it was sporty, they didn't have any Mets stuff in her size; so she begged Nanny, who ended up going back to get it for her.

At first, she thought it was the coolest shirt ever... then she said she didn't want to wear it to school and have kids laugh at her (as she herself has been known to do to perfect strangers -- perfectly large, beefy strangers, whom she spots on the street wearing similarly non-Mets attire).

But then as we were snuggling later that evening, she suddenly said, "Dad, what happens if I like the Yankees?" One of those times that tests your parenting skills.

I hugged her tight and said, "Sweetie, you can like whoever you want to." She seemed pleased with that answer... and fortunately has not yet noticed that Dad, who does the laundry, has somehow not yet gotten that shirt back in her drawer...

Math for Everyday Life

Once upon a time when I was a math teacher, I tended to specialize in the basic algebra courses. I should just leave it at that... I was a "specialist" -- yeah, that's the ticket. You know, like I turned down the higher-level stuff to pursue my calling of helping the confused entry-level guys.... Sounds better than the truth: as a long-time adjunct, I often got stuck did I say stuck? I meant assigned the courses that had a lot of sections to cover and were perhaps not quite as popular with the regular faculty.

In any case, I probably taught some variation on Elementary Algebra 20 or 30 times, and while I wouldn't say I did it in my sleep (OK, some of those 7 AM classes were borderline), I did definitely develop a somewhat ritualized shtik.

For example, opposites. Low-level math students are conditioned to think of - as "minus" or perhaps "negative"... but is "-x" a negative number? I tried to get them to read this as "the opposite of x", and I told them: it depends on where you're standing. If you're on the number line to the right of zero (positive), the opposite is in fact negative; but if you're on the other side of zero, taking the opposite results in a positive number. Make sense? All right, for your homework, do the odd-numbered problems on page 117....

Well, as I so often told my students: the math you're paying for, but the philosophy you get for free -- and so it is that so much in life depends on where you're standing.

Like Robin Williams. It's amazing how many of his movies I've seen, but I can't think of too many of them that really involved me viscerally. That may be because we never quite lose the awareness that we're watching **Robin Williams**; a high percentage of his movies exist for the sole purpose of allowing him to do his running-around, arms-flapping, funny-voices, high-energy thing he does... but again, maybe it depends on where you're standing.

Recently I re-watched Mrs. Doubtfire, many years after my first viewing. First of all, I have to say it's really not a documentary. It might be in the same zip code as plausible, but it's certainly not walking distance. The mere fact that a man who's obviously hairier than several species of apes can pass for a woman is actually only the tip of the iceberg.

And, OK, it's not trying to be. It's a fairly broad comedy with an inoffensive "awwww...." kind of moral to it, and it's enjoyable enough on that level. Then, we reached the pivotal courtroom scene.

In that scene, the ex-wife (Sally Field) is petitioning for sole custody of the kids, and he delivers a speech about how losing touch with his kids would devastate him; there's no way he could live without them. And suddenly I found myself on the verge of tears, putting myself inside the scene and thinking what it would be like not to see my kids every day.

Now, I saw this 10 or 15 years ago and enjoyed it -- certainly wasn't traumatized by it -- but this time it was like all the air was being sucked out of the room. I'm surely standing in a different place now... maybe even the opposite of where I was then.

TFD: Like Looking in the Mirror

I am always mindful of writing for a varied audience -- granted, my 'usual audience' could probably assemble in a standard cubicle, and my circle of acquaintances doesn't reach the level of diversity of the average reality show cast (or war movie, if you prefer). A high proportion of my connections are made through the church, so we share that faith vocabulary; others of my readers don't relate to that topic as much. So while one of my major categories is "Theology For Dummies", I try to balance out my subjects.

Last year during Holy Week, I tried something a little different... I was a bit tentative about combining, you know, crucifixion & jokes. I'm not sure there's a huge overlap between my audience and Monty Python's, but I just read it again and I think it came out all right. It still makes me smile a little, at least.

Anyway, here we are at Holy Week again and I didn't set out to write a "Holy Week piece", but I kind of fell into it by rereading the story. The story of Holy Week is of course focused on Jesus and His sacrifice; but what struck me on this reading was really the story of the people around Jesus:

• Judas is of course the agreed-upon villain of the piece, and he makes such an inviting target. Probably the most famous betrayal in history, don't you think? And none of us would ever do a thing like that. Except... some scholars think he really did it to try to force Jesus to do something miraculous, or publicly declare himself a king. We can't know for sure, of course, but something about that explanation resonates with me. Is it just vaguely possible that the reason that makes so much sense to me is that I'm personally familiar with the concept of Knowing Better Than God? No, Lord, your timing's pretty good, but you'd be better off doing it my way...
• Peter takes a fair amount of abuse too, traditionally. He's the one who takes front & center claiming, "What, are you kidding, Lord? I've got your back!" and then of course, given that blatant foreshadowing, it's seemingly a matter of moments before he's saying, "What, are you kidding? Never heard of the guy!" Now most of us probably don't cuss out somebody who "accuses" of of being Christians... but I know for myself it's not quite unprecedented to make a promise to God about my behavior or my attitudes, only to see that promise slip away when the opportunity comes to follow through.
• You can group the rest of the disciples, whose major contribution to the story really consists of dozing off while Jesus needs them the most. And again, while they come off as buffoons, I don't think it's a huge stretch to see in their failure a reminder that all of us (OK, I'll just speak for myself) tend to fall asleep at the switch when God calls us to do something. For that matter, I can be much more literal and admit that bedtime prayer & reading time sometimes has about the same effect on me as diphenhydramine.

I've heard it said that one way to read Scripture is to put yourself in the story... and all I can say for myself in this case is that it doesn't take much imagination. I think I've probably mentioned this before (since I've written over 110 posts and I've only ever had about 17 ideas) but one of the fascinations of the Bible for me is that I can open it at random and find a story about someone I know. A lot of times it's me, in fact... and not usually wearing the white hat, either....

Spring Ahead, Fall On Your Face

Any parent with more than a few weeks' experience can tell you that medical crises don't occur at 1:00 on a Tuesday afternoon. No, in fact, even children too young to read a clock are inclined to wait till the household's abed. Bonus points are awarded if the episode coincides with the beginning of Daylight Savings Time.

So I was less than astonished Saturday night when my bedtime preparations (early to try to beat the time change) were interrupted by a fit of barking. In fact, it took mere seconds to recall that we don't even have a dog. Well, of course that's hyperbole: it sounded more like a seal, and I was instantly sure we didn't have one of those.

The daughter had progressed directly from a slight cold to full-on croup (again, not surprisingly, since I had just told my wife I'd looked in and she was sleeping peacefully). This could only mean that it was sauna time -- facilitated by the phone-booth dimensions of our shower. In fact, our entire bathroom could fit inside a lot of the showers you see on HGTV.

Needless to say, the early-to-bed -- which wasn't going to turn out all that early anyway -- was completely by the boards, but at least my pores got a good cleansing.

Our household's Crack Medical Staff determined that the best arrangement would be for the girl to sleep on the floor in our bathroom -- a warm, moist space close at hand -- and further that occasional scheduled check-ins would be necessary throughout the night. Scheduled, as in setting the alarm... and since I am both the keeper and the hearer of the alarm, I would also have scheduled wakeys.

It's not like I ever get much sleep on Time-Change Night anyway. For the "fall-back" event, I always seem to stay up way too late, figuring I'll get it back anyway, and more often than not end up in deficit.

And I've slept with one eye open on Spring-Forward night ever since the fateful events of 2000. I've alluded to this before, but I think I'm finally ready to talk about it. I am, as established, in charge of anything electronic in the house, particularly the items with digital display. However, in 2000 I was a bit preoccupied with my 4-month-old firstborn son, and I neglected to make the rounds of the clocks on that Saturday night... most importantly, of course, the alarm clock.

So it was that, Sunday morning at "7:55", I sat in the rocker feeding the boy as my wife began her leisurely preparation for the morning's first church service. That is, the 9 a.m. service. I happened to glance toward the TV....

Can I just say, while I'm not a huge fan of The Cable Company -- although I'm sure yours is very different, of course -- there is one thing they do that's an indisputable, maybe even indispensable, public service: they deliver the correct time to your home. And that was how I discovered that it was actually 8:55... I'm sure there was an audible clicking of mental levers and switches as my omission dawned on me.

Naturally the scene devolved into a Keystone Kops short from there, but we were able to phone ahead (to a neighbor, since the church itself had no phone!) and basically ask them to start the service and keep it going till she could get there.

So... perhaps you can understand why I get a little bit unsettled round about this time of year.

I did find a way, for once, to foil the Amazing Alarm-Clock Boy. I actually forgot to reset his clock before bed, and then I thought, "Let's see what happens!" Sure enough, he didn' t emerge to use the bathroom till "6:30", little knowing it was really 7:30. Think he'd notice if I set it back another hour?

I'll Take Geeks for $1000, Alex

It struck me today that I have something in common with the denizens of a certain fictional island. If you're a fan, you'll remember the hatch people, having to push the button every 108 minutes.... sometimes the timer would get down close to zero and the alarms would start howling -- someone would have to leap to the keyboard before the time ran out.

I've got that same little clock running in my head all the time when I haven't posted. Once I get past about a week (in recent months I've stretched it to 8 or 9 days), the alarm starts shrieking. I sometimes get tempted to knock out a couple paragraphs just to say I've posted -- I could probably tell a story about one of the kids every other day, but I've just decided I don't want to do the Funny Kid Story blog.

This is the same season I complain about every year because there's so much going on and fitting it all in is an issue. Somehow, though, I always find time to read. I just finished Brainiac, by Ken Jennings, the all-time biggest Jeopardy winner. I found the book utterly engaging, although that may have something to do with the fact that Jennings reveals himself as a family guy with a strong faith who works as a computer programmer and enjoys trivia. I can't say quite why that resonated with me so much.

Here's where it gets weird: another one of my favorite recent reads was Prisoner of Trebekistan, a memoir by ... another former Jeopardy champion. OK, it seems pretty logical -- when you have an interest in something, it can be fun to read about it. Except for one fact: I can't remember the last time I watched Jeopardy. I like the show well enough; I enjoy playing along at home; I've even entertained fantasies of being on the show -- but it's hardly a passion of mine.

In my defense, both books are great reads even for the non-fanatic. Both of them are wonderfully witty; Jennings in particular seems to have been blessed with the same sense of humor as me (I think you should read his book anyway). Brainiac also discusses the history of quiz shows and trivia itself -- I discovered that, like crossword puzzles, the modern enthusiasm for trivia dates to the 1920s. The other book, by Bob Harris, features some interesting ideas on improving memory.

Or maybe I'm just a geek.

I'm not sure I really need to convince anyone of that, but just in case you need further evidence, a story from my past (I was reminded of this recently during my time-travel experiments):

I was, it surely goes without saying, not the top-ranked physical specimen in my peer group growing up. So in my mid-teens, I decided it was time to make a change. I got a set of weights and set them up in the basement, and started a regular lifting program. I decided I'd probably do better with some music to pump me up -- so to speak. Every time I would use the same cassette to help get the pulse racing.

Something screaming, intense, high energy? Van Halen, maybe?

Nah -- This One's for You. Because as you know, nothing says macho like Barry Manilow.