Coke. Red Around The World

Coke. Red Around The World, originally uploaded by The Searcher.

Jeff, I thought you would like this...

Dark Knight

Loved it.

Good Article on Happiness

I like this blog - I'm trying to pare down my RSS reading list but this one is a keeper.

Alien preparedness

Stumbled across the movie Signs on TV the other night. I’ve always liked it. And while it’s not one of those rare flicks (e.g. The Godfather, Heat, The Game) that compel me to drop everything I’m doing to watch, I did get sucked in for a few minutes.

During that brief time, it hit me.

I’m not prepared for an alien invasion.

You probably know the film’s plot. The world is invaded by extra-terrestrials. These malevolent aliens are everywhere, even in a lovely two-story country home (with basement) occupied by a family of four.

The part I saw was when the men of this house (played by Mel Gibson and Joaquin Phoenix) team up to nail strong and uniform planks of wood across doors and entryways. The result: Efficient, well-crafted, even aesthetically pleasing barriers that keep the aliens from advancing.

I can’t help but imagine how that scene would play out at our house.

Assuming the aliens would come in through the roof, they’d first complain about the lack of cool air circulating upstairs and that stain on the carpet.

I’d remind them they’ve landed on a hot and flat part of the planet that’s subject to the volatile price swings of a deregulated electricity market. At seeing their collective alien eye glaze over in macroeconomic confusion, I’d change my tactics. “Hey, I’d like to see you scaly intruders shell out 700 bucks a month for energy to keep this house cool.“

But I digress . . .

My wife and I would probably hear the aliens rattling around upstairs, perhaps jumping up and down in a series of unplanned and, frankly, undignified gravity tests. They’d be speaking very loudly, too, quite possibly in their frustration with the poorly maintained recumbent bike they’ve encountered in the guest room.

At hearing these dull thuds and indecipherable dialects, we'd look at each other and spring into action.

“We can’t let them downstairs!” I’d heroically proclaim.

Just like in the movie, we would grab some wood and start building a barricade at the base of the stairs to repel the aliens.

Only this isn’t the movie. This is our house.

“Honey, didn’t we have a 2 x 4 left over from the fence?” I’d yell while running into the garage.

“Look behind the workbench,” my wife would say. “If it’s not there, the kids might have taken it out to the fort.”

Behind the workbench, all I find is a paint can lid, two Pokemon cards, and a CD case for Foreigner 4 (disc missing). So I grab the wood I find in the garage, which amounts to a couple of mismatched shelves buckling under the crushing weight of pool chemicals and pavestones, a 31-inch Johnny Bench bat, a dog-chewed broomstick, and my son’s losing Pinewood Derby entry.

“Where’s the hammer?” I’d shout over the bizarre alien dialogue, which is growing louder – either because they’re getting closer to us, or they just succeeded in burning 200 calories on that dusty bike.

Upon only partially hearing my question, my well-intentioned wife makes a dash for the baking soda.

Hammer-less, I’d use a picture frame to pound the finishing nail I found in my rusty toolbox through the broomstick into the bat. That sad endeavor would fail spectacularly. Out of view from my wife, I’d sheepishly lay the bat and broomstick across the bottom two stairs with hopes the aliens might step upon either awkwardly and suffer a temporary loss of balance. Psychologically, this could be a victory for earth.

Then in a flash of brilliance, I’d remember the emergency terror kit my wife dutifully assembled after 9/11, tucked neatly away in the hall closet. Surely that packed box of utilities would offer some relief and, ideally, some defense in this dire situation.

I’d open the closet, push the ironing board aside and pull out the box . . . only to discover I was the only member of this household over the past six years not using the terror kit as a mini-hardware store. Grabbing the two remaining items in the kit – an unwrapped tarp and a Sharpie – I’d pursue a diplomatic approach with the aliens by writing a persuasive and, if I may say so myself, a very clever headline across the tarp.

Needless to say, we all get probed.

WWII Poster

17-0744a, originally uploaded by bpx.

The Spirit of Radio

Last night was another of life’s simple joys.

Happened as I was preparing to read to my son in his bed. As I approached his top bunk, I could see he was fiddling with some piece of plastic.

Turns out it was the cheap transistor radio he scored during the July 4 weekend. Juxtaposed against the Wii, PlayStation2 and various electronic gadgets and gizmos in his room, this tiny radio seems, at best, quaint.

But there he was, curiously spinning the dial. He zipped past the gospel hour preacher. Past some guy jabbering in Spanish. And almost past the classic rock station. I stopped his itchy trigger finger before he could dispatch “Peace of Mind” by Boston, allowing me the chance to extol the virtues of one of the greatest debut albums, the first LP I ever owned.

The next spin of the radio dial yielded something beautiful.

A little context might help. The weekend had been tough on the boy. Some sketchy choices of his resulted in some discipline from me. Plus, a big family gathering overstimulated and exhausted him. So by the time he crawled into bed on Sunday night, he was weary -- and probably a little wary of me being there. With good reason. I had been irritable and quick-tempered.

The simplicity of the radio softened my mood, flooding my mind with memories. For Andrew, it was little more than a novelty. A sly smile would creep across his face with every station received.

Then we heard baseball.

I immediately detected the rhythm of the play-by-play announcer. The roar of the crowd. Quickly I told Andrew what he’d stumbled upon: His first baseball radio broadcast. And this was not some meaningless mid-summer Rangers game.

This was Red Sox vs. Yankees. Top of the 9th inning. 54,000+ at Yankee Stadium screaming as Manny Ramirez comes off the bench to face Mariano Rivera, who is trying to preserve the 4-4 score.

I tried to explain the situation. Two outs. Runner at third. The league’s best hitter against the league’s best pitcher. A classic confrontation in one of sport’s greatest rivalries. We were swept up in the moment, cheering and fist-pumping with each pitch. (Alas, there were only three; Manny struck out without even lifting the bat off his shoulder.)

The rally was quashed, the half-inning was over, and the announcer proclaimed the heart of the Yankee lineup was coming up in the bottom of the ninth.

“Dad, do we have to read?,” Andrew asked.

So we spent the next few minutes listening to the game on the radio and talking about baseball. I’d interpret clichés and jargon for him, while explaining how the announcers try to create theater of the mind for us, the listeners.

And how, when I was a kid, the radio would transport me to games. I vividly recall family road trips, listening to Lon Simmons call the Giants games. Or (much to my sisters' chagrin) the ever-present baseball game coming through Mom’s kitchen radio, perpetually tuned to a Dodgers, Angels, or Padres game. Southern California summers allowed us to enjoy the company of Vin Scully, Jerry Doggett, Dick Enberg, Don Drysdale and even Jerry Coleman. What great memories. What joy.

I hope last night will be the first of many play-by-play memories for my son.

My Talented Son

He has more guts than I ever did - the only Freshman to perform a solo at the RHS Spring Choir Concert.

So this is how the other 56% lives . . .

That I'm enjoying a coffee poolside isn't necessarily worthy of a blog post.

But that I'm doing it on a Sunday morning at 10 a.m., and guilt-free, seems like front-page news.

My leisurely Sunday morning comes courtesy of some construction at our church, requiring that our morning assembly take place elsewhere during the afternoon.

So after 40+ years of conditioning -- including mad scrambles against the morning clock, speed shaving, extreme ironing, breakfasts hastily consumed -- I'm having to reprogram myself to actually enjoy this leisurely Sunday morning. Without pretending to be sick.

Old habits die hard, though.

Exhibit A: My instincts to hush my actions in the backyard a few minutes ago as our Baptist neighbors were dutifully loading up their car for church. Wouldn't want them to get the wrong impression of us . . . Just like the cafeteria trick of dressing up to go to Sunday lunch after sleeping all morning. Alas, the reflex to seek approval and to maintain the illusion of piety is still alive. Ugh.

Here's hoping our summer schedule change provides the chance to let down our collective starched guard and enjoy a more casual, relaxed and joyful time together.