Childhood Conspiracy Theory

Daniel and I were sitting in a booth at the local Grill and Chill, finishing up the “grill” portion of our meals.  We were surrounded by vintage pictures of Dairy Queen days gone by.  Daniel eyed one hanging over our booth from the 1960’s.  It featured a band called The Zonks.

“I wonder why all old pictures are in black and white,” he said.  I finished up my French fries.

“That was all they knew how to do a long time ago,” I said.  “They invented black and white film first and didn’t invent color film until much later.”  Daniel swallowed the last of his double cheeseburger, but seemed to have a hard time swallowing my explanation.

“That’s not right,” he said.  “That can’t be right.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.  Daniel paused for dramatic effect… and to test his Blizzard by turning it upside-down for a moment.

“Think about it,” he said.  “Color pictures must be easier to make because they just show the world like it is.  When you take a black and white picture, all the colors have to be changed.”

“Shades,” I corrected.  I couldn’t help myself.

“Shades?”

“Sorry,” I said.  “Black and white pictures have shades of gray, no colors.”  Daniel gave me a long look.

“Dad, are you obfuscating me?”

I almost choked on my malt.

He continued, “I can save color pictures on my computer and make them black and white after I take them.  My camera has a setting to make pictures look old fashioned, but it normally just takes color pictures.”

I asked, “Did you ever think maybe pictures were always in color, but the world was in black and white back in the old days?”

“Where did you hear that?” he asked.

“I read it somewhere,” I said.

“I think I read that too,” said Daniel.  I nodded.  We’re both fans of Calvin and Hobbes.  After a moment he shook his head.

“That’s not it,” he said.  “They still took pictures in black and white after color film was invented.  Why would they do that?”  I shrugged and sipped the last of my malt.

“Money,” I said.  “Color film cost more than black and white film when it first came out.”  Daniel almost leapt over the table.

“A-ha!” he exclaimed.  “That’s why they did it.  Money.  They wanted to save color film for later so they could make more money.”  Daniel sat back with the smug satisfaction of someone with all the bases covered.  I had to admit it made an odd sort of sense; it didn’t even occur to me ask who “they” were.

“Follow the money,” I said to myself.

“Where did you hear that?” Daniel asked.

“I read it somewhere,” I said.

“I think I read that too,” he answered.  I was surprised.  I didn’t think Woodward and Bernstein were required reading in the sixth grade.

“Congratulations.  You’ve uncovered your first conspiracy,” I said.  “So, what do you think?  Did man really land on the moon?”

“Sure,” said Daniel waving his hand dismissively.  “But don’t ask me why they only took black and white television pictures.  You don’t want to know.”

All of Me

My body is made of trillions of cells grouped together.  Most of them contain DNA, so they are indeed “me” at a very deep level.  Individually, these parts of me are born, live and die each day.  In fact the cells that make up my outside – the epithelial cells of my skin – are some of the youngest cells I have.  People spend millions of dollars on anti-aging creams for their skin when the cells themselves are only a few weeks old.

The cells in my stomach lining live only a few days (probably less when I eat something spicy).  The red blood cells that flow through my veins rarely last more than six months.  While the cells in my major organs may be months or years old, most of them have been replaced at some time in my life, perhaps twice, perhaps more.

Some cells – such as the ones making up the lenses of my eyes, the muscle of my heart and the neuron cells that send brain impulses throughout my body – don’t get replaced.  However, they were part of me before I was “me”, dividing and dividing while I was in the womb, pre-dating my official date by up to nine months.

My body is made of something like 7,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 atoms.  About fourteen nitrogen-14 atoms are created in my body every minute from the decayed remains of the carbon-14 radioisotope.  The carbon-14 itself is not that old as far as atoms go.  Sadly, a number of them were probably created in the last sixty years or so during the age of above ground nuclear tests along with some atoms of caesium-137 and strontium-90 that lurk deep within the marrow of my bones.

As Carl Sagan liked to say, “We are made of star stuff”.  Atoms of carbon and oxygen, potassium and iron in my body were created in the cores of ancient stars.  The zinc and selenium, iodine and even the silver in my fillings required the tremendous heat and pressure of an exploding supernova to come into being.

All of these atoms are not only older than me, but all of us as a species, our planet and even our solar system.  And some – perhaps most – of the hydrogen atoms that make up two-thirds of my atomic population date back to the time when the universe first cooled down enough after the Big Bang for baryonic matter to exist, somewhere around thirteen billion years ago.

I am somewhere between 1 minute and 6.8 x 10¹⁵ minutes old; you’ll forgive me if I don’t answer with greater precision.  My age is irrelevant.  It’s inaccurate at best and breaks down laughably as you get technical about it.  It’s a measure of how long I have been an individual entity, nothing more.  It has no bearing on who I am.  It has no bearing on how I think, act or dress, what I buy or watch on television.  As far as birthdays are concerned, they are absolutely meaningless.  They are a good excuse to eat cake and should be given no more credence than that.

And the fact my 41^st birthday happens to be coming up this week has nothing to do with my attitude.

“Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)”

— Walt Whitman

The Elvis Alternative

It was the end of January.  I had just come to Ann Arbor to ask Meka to marry me.  We were sitting at one of our frequent haunts; pop in hand and waiting for appetizers.  Meka was all smiles and kept admiring “the rock” on her finger.

“What kind of wedding should we have?” asked Meka.  I wanted something small and simple, informal and fun.  I said I wanted a “hippie wedding”; to be barefoot in a meadow, maybe take our vows by a stream.  Meka was on the same wavelength.  She thought it would be nice to get married with a few friends and close family in her parents’ backyard.  After the ceremony, we’d have a cook out on their deck.  We had the whole thing figured out by the time our entrees arrived.

This sense of accomplishment lasted about a day, until we told our respective parents.  Wedding invitations – we were instructed – were based upon social obligations.  They had been attending weddings for years; we had to reply in kind with invitations of our own.  Meka called me at work that week and said her mom had a list of 100 people to invite.  I laughed… until my mom handed me another list of 100.  The backyard idea was out.  I was threatened under pain of death to wear something nice at my own wedding.  Shoes were mandatory.

Meka drove into town that weekend and we went out to dinner.  We sat shell-shocked in the booth waiting for our food.  There was a lot more to wedding planning than we realized.  One of Meka’s co-workers asked when we were getting married.  When Meka replied June, she asked what year.  I remembered setting up one of my first database projects to help out a friend of mine at work.  We had to come up with a table arrangement for her reception.  She was planning on several hundred guests, all of whom apparently disliked one another.

“I’m beginning to understand why people cry at weddings,” said Meka quietly.  The whole thing was beginning to spiral out of our control.  We discussed what was really important about getting married and decided almost everything – frankly – didn’t matter.  We decided if someone had an idea, we’d put them in charge of it.

“What if it still gets out of control?” asked Meka.

“Easy,” I replied.  “We elope to Vegas and get married by Elvis.”

It turned out delegation was the key.  Meka’s mom and her aunts had a great time planning the details.  My mom worked on getting wedding pictures.  Every so often, things would still get crazy.  The invite list went through about six hundred revisions.  Someone would remember someone needed to be invited (“though I’m sure they won’t come”).  Meka and I would sit back, smile and nod, look at each other and think “Elvis”.

In the end, we didn’t have the wedding we originally envisioned, but it was remarkably similar in spirit.  I wasn’t barefoot, but I wasn’t in a tuxedo either.  We split the difference and I bought a suit.  We didn’t get married in her parents’ yard, but we did get married outside next to the Fox River.  We didn’t have a cook out, but we arranged a nice dinner for everyone that did not include rubbery chicken.  And while we weren’t forced to elope to escape the craziness, five years later we flew out to Vegas to renew our vows under guidance from “The King”.

Tinth Anniversary

It was our tenth anniversary and I wanted to make it a day Meka wouldn’t soon forget.  I knew people celebrated their diamond anniversary after sixty years.  I was pretty sure the fiftieth anniversary was symbolized by gold.  I looked up ten years on the Internet and found out the traditional gift is tin.

I didn’t want Meka to miss a minute of our special day.  I woke her up early with breakfast in bed.  The tray was a bit beat up; they haven’t made TV trays out of tin since I was a kid.  I found one on eBay in reasonably good condition.  Meka held it tight in her lap so the left leg wouldn’t give way.  She passed on the canned fruit cocktail I had poured out.  It was in heavy syrup (and when they say heavy, they mean heavy; it was essentially fruit flavored gravy).  I guess she didn’t care much for the guava nectar either.  It was imported from Mexico and the only kind of juice I could find in an actual tin can.  Most beverages are in aluminum cans these days.  Meka got up to brush her teeth.  I heard her gasp.

“I probably should have mentioned the new toothpaste,” I said through the closed door.  “Crest Pro Health uses stannous fluoride instead of sodium fluoride.”

“What happened to the lights?” she asked.  I had forgotten about that.  I put in brand new fluorescent tubes.  They have a tin based powder inside.  It’s what gives them that special kind of light that accentuates all the detail on people’s faces.  She got dressed and followed me downstairs.  I had picked up one of those special magnets made of tin and niobium they sell through the scientific catalogues.  I had stuck it to the fridge, but I couldn’t seem to pull it loose.  Well, she’d find that later.  I had plenty of gifts.  I handed her an envelope.  Meka opened it slowly.

“Stock?” she asked.  She pulled out the certificate and looked at the attached print-out.  “What’s Temple-Inland?”  I explained they were a company out of Texas.  They specialized in making cardboard boxes and building materials.  The housing bust had hurt their business.  They had closed some plants and let a lot of people go.

“I thought it was symbolic of us,” I said.

“Moving from ‘buy’ to ‘neutral’?”  I laughed and pointed to the Dow Jones ticker initials: T-I-N.

“Get it?”  She got it.  Meka smiled when I handed her a small present.  She opened it up and looked surprised to find it was Altoids.

“You think I have bad breath?”

“Of course not,” I lied.  “They come in a tin.”  She nodded.

“I was kind of hoping for something… you know…”  I knew what she wanted.  Over the years, I’ve tried to shower Meka with jewelry.  Unfortunately, it’s been more of a thin drizzle.  She was excited I had something for her to wear while we were out.  She closed her eyes and I placed the tinfoil crown on her head.  I got the idea from Lone Star Steakhouse.  They make you one special when it’s your birthday.  The tin is impervious to rusting by water.  I told her it would last a long, long time.

“We’ll see about that,” Meka replied.

We jumped in the car and drove downtown.  A number of buildings in Belvidere date back to the late 19^th century.  The town was a transit hub and one of the biggest makers of tin toys.  Meka wanted to stop and take a look at the antique stores and maybe have some ice cream, but I kept her moving.  Eleven stores still have their original hammered tin ceilings.  I wanted to make sure she didn’t miss a single one.  After that, we drove down to Byron to look at the nuclear power plant.  Maybe I seemed a little too excited when I explained a tin based alloy coats the fuel rods.  Even though it was our anniversary, the guard at the gate wouldn’t let us in.  It was still a nice drive; about an hour there and an hour back.  I explained they use a lot of tin alloys in manufacturing processes, including making beer and pharmaceuticals.

“Did you get me any pharmaceuticals for our anniversary?”  I laughed and shook my head.  “I don’t suppose you bought me any beer,” she asked.

“They haven’t made beer in tin cans in a long time,” I replied.  “Besides, you wouldn’t want to start drinking so early, would you?”  Meka didn’t say anything; I think she was admiring the view.  We got home as the sun was setting.  I put on the movie I ordered from Netflix.  Believe me, it wasn’t easy locating an industrial film on the Peruvian Mining Industry.  It was in black and white, but the sound was pretty decent, considering it was produced in 1937.  They probably used tin ribbon microphones in the studio.  It was a very educational hour and a half.  I got up and gave her first choice for dinner.

“We have Beefaroni and Spam,” I said.  I heated up the tins and handed her a dish and silverware from an old Boy Scout camping kit.  We sat on the couch and ate slowly while watching The Wizard of Oz on BluRay.  Meka seemed pretty engrossed in the movie.  I slowly leaned over, put my arm around her shoulder and whispered in her ear.

“Oil can.”

Meka screamed and acted like she was trying to stab me in the chest.  The knife was made of tin and just bent on my shirt.  I thought it was a pretty good joke and had a good laugh.  Meka apparently laughed so hard, it made her cry.

A Long Time Ago…

I really wanted to see Star Wars when it first came to theatres over the long Memorial Day weekend in 1977.  It was an uphill battle though.  It may have been coming to a galaxy nearby, but the closest theatre showing it was at the Yorktown shopping mall, almost an hour away.  My parents had never heard of the movie and as I was only finishing up the first grade, my opinion on cinema was not yet taken seriously.  Still, I managed to cajole my dad into taking me opening weekend.  I spent the night at my grandma’s house in LaGrange.  The plan was to pick me up first thing in the morning and we’d catch Star Wars at a matinee before heading home to Schaumburg.

We got to Yorktown early, but the parking lot was already packed.  My dad was a salesman and spent much of his time on the road.  Slowly circling a mall on a Saturday morning was not his idea of fun.  I could hear him mumbling low under his breath as we searched for somewhere – anywhere – to park.  The line for Star Wars stretched out of the theatre lobby; outside and around the building.  My dad continued to grumble.  Can’t believe this… this is crazy… all these people… just to see a movie… The line slowly moved forward.  We finally got to the box office.

“Six dollars?!” he roared.  “This is a matinee!”  The young guy in the ticket booth was wearing a yellow coat like Howard Cosell on Monday Night Football.

“It’s opening weekend, sir,” he explained.  “All movie showings are full price on the opening weekend.”  My dad gestured at me.

“But he’s only six!” he cried.  To be technical, I was seven.  However, I knew the drill.  If I was six, I got in for free.  But not today.

“Sorry, sir,” said the boy behind the glass.  “It’s opening weekend.”  My dad continued to pantomime protest.  If we had been at a ball game, I’m sure the umpire would have changed his call.  However, Howard Cosell Junior was having none of it.  He waited impassively behind the glass while my dad – grumbling again – took out his wallet and pushed six dollars through the hole.  Our tickets popped out of the stainless steel counter and we walked inside.  The popcorn smelled good and I almost asked my dad if we could get some candy.  One look at his expression and the words died somewhere in my throat.

“Six dollars…”  I could hear him say over and over.  “Six dollars for a movie…”  We stalked past the concession area and waited behind a velvet rope.  More and more people filled the hallway.  I was basically at butt level and getting a bit nervous as the crowd closed in.  My dad picked me up and sat me on his shoulders.  Packing us in like sardines… six dollars… He shook his head.  The doors opened and a crowd of people poured out of the theatre, laughing and whooping, making comments and quoting things that made no sense.

The ushers quickly cleaned the theatre and finally opened the floodgates.  My dad waited for the teenagers to push past.  That turned out to be a mistake.  The whole audience was teenagers except us.  My dad always likes to sit near the back of the theatre, preferably to one side.  Those seats were taken, of course.  In fact, the only two seats together were in the first row, right in the center.  My dad just stood for a long moment, hands on his hips.  He sighed and we sat down, leaning way back to stare up at the billboard sized screen.  I heard one more refrain of “six dollars” before the lights dimmed and the movie began.

In retrospect, we had the best seats in the house for Star Wars.  I remember just staring – mouth agape – as the gigantic Star Destroyer cruised into the opening scene.  It just went on and on and on; endless spectacle.  The whole movie was like that.  I blinked in the garbage compactor scene; it hurt because I hadn’t dared close my eyes for an instant up to that point.  The final space battle over the Death Star can best be appreciated front row, center, at a full sized movie theatre.  I felt my stomach fall into my legs as we dropped altitude and dipped into the trench to fire our torpedoes.  It was just like being there.  I was glad I didn’t have any popcorn.  When the Death Star exploded, so did the audience.  Everyone was cheering the screen and applauding, even my dad.

Making a Computer Sing

My friend Greg was the first person I knew who owned a computer.  We spent many hours after school working on his TRS-80 Model I from Radio Shack.  We played games, we connected to Bulletin Board Systems via his modem, we wrote programs in BASIC.  In the spring of 1981, he got a music synthesis package called Orchestra-80.  It consisted of a little hardware device that attached to the back of the CPU and a cassette tape of software that allowed us to enter musical notes.

We had used a simpler program called Micro Music.  It allowed you to enter musical notes by name (A, B, C) and note length (quarter notes were 4’s, half notes were 2’s).  So, Mary Had a Little Lamb looked something like this in Micro Music:

E4	D4	C4	D4	E4	E4	E2
Ma-	ry	had	a	lit-	tle	lamb

That had been pretty cool… in 1978.  It sounded like someone plunking out the melody on a piano with a single finger.  Orchestra-80 had four “voices” that could play notes simultaneously.  This allowed us to not only play the tune, but the chords as well.  However, more abilities meant more work for us.  Notes were converted to numbers based on how close they were to Middle C (which was zero), whether they were sharp (+) or flat (-), and how long the note should be played (like Micro Music, quarter notes were 4’s).

It wasn’t enough to just type in long strings of note information.  With four voices going simultaneously, it was easy to get out of sync with a single mistake.  Like real music, Orchestra-80 split a song into discrete “measures” that only contained a small number of notes, rests and voice information.

M01						M02
	V1	2n4	1n4	0n4	1n4		V1	2n4	2n4	2n2
	V2	R4	0n4	R4	0n4		V2	R4	0n4	R4	0n4
	V3	R4	2n4	R4	2n4		V3	R4	2n4	R4	2n4
	V4	0n4	4n4	4n4	4m4		V4	0n4	4n4	4n4	4m4
		Ma-	ry	had	a			lit-	tle	lamb

The beginning of the song contained information relevant to all the measures: clef, key signature, tempo, what instrument each voice was playing the notes on.  Greg and I spent a lot of time entering a single song – Maxwell’s Silver Hammer by the Beatles – into Orchestra-80.  We had to translate the musical notes on the page to the numbers the application would understand.  We had to come up with a way to write out the chords so they would simulate a beat.  Finally, as we started playing the song back, we had to make corrections to the music from typos and actual goofs in the music book where they had one note, but we heard a different one played on Abbey Road.  We debuted it in our music class at school that fall.

The syntax of the Orchestra-80 software was based on the MUSIC programming languages developed in the fifties and sixties.  When we were typing in songs, we were actually writing a program that would be compiled into music.  I haven’t typed a song into Orchestra-80 in twenty years, but the idea of breaking up a large “song” into smaller pieces – measure, voice, note – is something that resonates with me when I write programs today.  Almost all programming languages are “object oriented”; they split a complex program into smaller, manageable chunks.  When any programmer finishes their latest “killer application” and they run through it successfully for the first time… no matter how dominant their logical right brain might be, it’s literally music to their ears.

Hey, Hey, We Were the Monkees

I was six years old in the spring of 1976.  We had moved into a new house the previous summer and I was making new friends and going off to Kindergarten in the afternoon.  I was growing up.  My television watching reflected this new maturity.  While my shows still included Sesame Street, Mister Rogers Neighborhood and the rest of the PBS lineup, I started checking out my options on other stations and one afternoon I discovered The Monkees.

The bus dropped me off from school a few minutes before the show started.  I would race home down the street to catch the opening teaser.  I didn’t always make that, but I never missed the theme song.

Here we come…
Walking down the street…
Get funniest looks from…
Everyone we meet…

I wasn’t the only fan of The Monkees in my neighborhood.  My friends Scott and Dave from school would watch with me sometimes.  Charlie – when he wasn’t busy throwing my toys in the lake behind the house – also liked the show.  I was surprised to find a record by the Monkees in my parents’ collection in the living room.  I played it practically to death on my little portable record player.  Most of the songs were featured on the show and – with a little practice – we all knew the words to Daydream Believer and I’m Not Your Stepping Stone, I’m a Believer and Mary, Mary.

It was my dream that we could be just like the Monkees.  There were four of us and there were four of them.  Out of our group, I was the only one who played any kind of musical instrument, but – even then – I didn’t see that as a major obstacle.  We watched the show, we knew the songs, we could even act out a lot of the skits (though we couldn’t figure out how they could run so fast).  I had the Monkees on the brain and talked at my parents about them all the time.  They smiled and nodded a lot.

One day, the show ended with a clip of the Monkees playing a concert.  They mentioned they would be playing “at a town near you” very soon.  Well, I had to be there.  I began pestering my mom and dad about it.  They continued to smile and nod, say “we’ll see” and so on.  That wasn’t good enough for me; I needed a firm commitment.  Finally, my dad had enough.

“Bobby, the Monkees broke up a long time ago; before you were born,” he said, exasperated.  “You’re just watching the reruns.”  I was a step ahead of some of my classmates.  I knew that little men weren’t hiding inside the television.  Still, I had assumed the people in the shows were live out there somewhere and living in those houses and apartments they showed.  The idea that none of it was real and that it could have all happened a long time ago…  I was shocked.  It was a sober moment after school when I gathered my three friends out on our new patio and had to tell them the Monkees were no more.

“I guess Mike went north, Mickey went south, Davy went east and Peter went west,” I said.  Charlie’s normal shit-eating grin vanished.  Scott’s jaw hung open and Dave was uncharacteristically still as he worked through the news.  We shared a long, quiet moment together, with the cool wind whipping the dust of the uncompleted neighborhood around us.  No one felt like playing.  Scott took off on his bike and Dave walked around the front of the house.  Charlie headed east, walking slump shouldered; he didn’t even pause to throw anything of mine in the lake.  I slipped open the patio glass door and went down to the basement.  It was too late to watch The Monkees and none of my regular shows were on.  I found PBS showing a movie about four other guys who looked like the Monkees.  They got chased by girls and played music on a train.  I liked the songs they did.  I liked them a lot actually.  But that’s another story.

In Case of Tornado

We had our first tornado scare of the spring a couple of days ago.  In Belvidere, when we hear the sirens go off, we don’t mess around.  A tornado tore through town back in 1967.  We didn’t live in Belvidere then (none of us were born yet), but – if we had – the path of the tornado would have taken it down our street.  Last January, a tornado dropped out the sky north of us and wiped out the apple orchard we frequent for our Halloween needs.  I was upstairs in my office when I heard the sirens come to life.  I didn’t waste any time.  Daniel was already in the basement.  He had been watching television in the family room and had the shortest distance to cover.  I was pleased to see he hadn’t stopped to collect any toys or stuffed animals.

I was surprised to be in second place.  Normally, I open my office door and Meka is already down at the foot of the stairs in the foyer, calling for me.  When I heard the screaming and the clucking, I knew why she was bringing up the rear.  Meka staggered down the stairs with Pepper tucked under one arm, flapping wildly.  One hand was trying to hold the claws of Pepper’s feet down and the other was trying to hold her beak.

“I’m trying to save your life, you stupid bird!” she said, setting the ruffled parrot on the cement.  Pepper waddled towards the throw rug like E.T. and inspected the underside of the old blue couch.  When we came up with our tornado plan, I have to admit I only thought of the human beings in the household.  That may be selfish; on the other hand, our species is the one paying the mortgage.  We had about twenty minutes to kill while we waited for the signal all-clear.  Meka and I decided that – next tornado – we would have a pet plan.

I’m afraid that in the event of a tornado, the fish will be the first to go.  We only have a small aquarium, but ten gallons of water would be too much to try and lug down the basement stairs.  Besides, we only have the two fish left.  They hide from us all the time; it’s almost like having an empty fish tank as it is.  If they can’t be bothered to show up for us to admire, I don’t have too many qualms not showing up to rescue them.  Our first priority is Hamstersaurus Rex.  He will jump into his ball in a moment’s notice.  Even if Meka has to grab him in her hand, he’s a pretty tame hamster and doesn’t bite.

This brings us to the rental parrots.  Akane doesn’t like to be touched and doesn’t like to leave her cage.  Meka has a better rapport with Pepper (at least she did until the tornado watch).  Still, she was nursing a parrot-induced cut on her hand.  Next time, we plan to just open the cages on the way down to shelter.  We always open a window to equalize the pressure. Meka and I decided both Pepper and Akane – though tame – would probably be smart enough to fly away in the event of a real tornado.  In fact, we liked our idea so much; we may just keep the cages open by the window all the time from now on.

Love Across the Miles

It was my first overnight trip away from my family since – well, since I had gotten a family. I was off to Las Vegas to attend a GoldMine Forum for a few days. I have to admit that the first day was fun. I learned a lot, I hung out with my co-workers, we went to dinner, I watched the Olympics from my bed and went to sleep.

The next day was more of the same and – frankly – I found myself feeling a little lonely. I decided to get out of the casino and take a walk outside. It was clear and cool with a bit of a breeze. Las Vegas is not the greatest location to stargaze; only the full moon was visible in all the lights.

That gave me a thought.

I called home from the parking lot of the Boulder Station casino. Meka answered on the first ring.

“I want you to go outside,” I said.

There was a long pause. “Okay.”

“Look up,” I said. “Do you see the moon?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m looking at the moon too.” I thought it was romantic. Here we were, a thousand miles away or more, but we could both be together in spirit, looking at the same moon.

“All right,” Meka said flatly. “Is that it?”

This wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.

We were still in that gooey afterglow of newlyweds. We still sent each other cards and wrote little smoochy e-mails to one another… even though we were in the same house.

“Well,” I stammered, “I just thought that – you know – we’re apart, but still together looking at the same moon…”

I got a sigh. “It’s ten below zero here,” she said. “I’d feel more romantic if I wasn’t freezing out here on the driveway.” She hung up, leaving me to the moon and a bunch of parked cars in Las Vegas in early February. As I walked back to my room in my short sleeve shirt, it dawned on me that love is blind… and also kind of clueless at times.

Back in the Day

I just turned 38 this week. It was a pretty good birthday, all in all. We had a little cake and I got the new Stephen King novel. We debated whether or not to go out to eat and ultimately decided against it. It was “Super Tuesday” and we wanted to see the election results. Besides, it was snowing out. We didn’t feel like driving in it.

I suppose to some people that sort of sensible behavior makes me sound kind of old. I have to admit, sometimes I do feel old. I realize that my 20^th high school reunion is this year. I have friends I’ve known for 30 years or more. My son doesn’t help the situation. We were playing with his Hot Wheels cars one afternoon and I mentioned that I had Hot Wheels when I was a kid.

He looked at me surprised, “Did they look like stagecoaches?”

Ouch.

One fundamental rule of parenting that I’ve learned: what goes around comes around. I used to tweak my dad all the time when he’d bring up the “good old days” when he was a kid. That was different though; my dad used to ask for it.

He’d complain about the high price of movies. “But Dad,” I’d explain, “movies cost more because they have sound now.” [BUH-DUH-BUMP]

One rainy Sunday, I was down in the basement going through my record albums. Daniel came down to take a look, “What kind of movies are on those big DVD’s?” That was just so wrong on so many levels; I felt that it was my parental duty to set him straight.

1)These are LP’s not DVD’s.

2) They do NOT play movies.

3) I am NOT old!

4) Don’t argue with your elders!

Other times, I have to admit, I have an easy time with Daniel. He likes to talk to me about sports and all the Super Bowls I have watched over the years. I can tell him stories about history; he likes to hear all about the presidents. I like to think that he appreciates my story telling prowess; I am able to make the past come alive in a way that is interesting. However, when we talk about Andrew Jackson for example (he’s Daniel’s favorite president), I have a sneaking suspicion he thinks I can tell these stories because I remember him being president.

All kids have a sort of tunnel vision when it comes to the past. I am a big fan of the Beatles. They were technically still a group when I was born, but they broke up officially when I was a few months old. I really like their music, but I could never figure out what the big deal was when they played on The Ed Sullivan Show. The people around from that era seemed to think it was this huge defining event in their lives. I’d seen the clips and thought they were pretty good, but hardly earth shattering. It wasn’t until I saw the complete shows that I could understand the Beatles in context with what was going on. In 1964, the rest of the 60’s hadn’t happened yet.

So, armed with this new wisdom (who says an old dog can’t learn new tricks?), I was hardly mad at all when Daniel came up to me and asked – in all seriousness, “Dad, when you were a little boy, did they have chairs?” I smiled, explained that – yes – chairs had been invented by the 1970’s and that we had a very well-appointed cave when I was a kid.