Indiscreet

Hypothetical: If you were house-sitting and dropped by one morning to find a couple of long-stemmed roses, a pair of crystal wine glasses with a little red still lingering in them, and a receipt for a deluxe box of chocolates in a place that you expected to be vacant - what would you think?
More clues: There was no sign of forced entry. Nothing in the house had been disturbed, just the addition of these objects from "outside." Oh - and one more thing: the eighteen year old son has gone away with his parents.
Here's what I put together: The son had told his buddy that he and his parents were going to be out of town for a few weeks, and if he had any notions about entertaining a young lady friend, he knew where the hide-a-key was.
An alternative notion: Roving bands of serial datists have been terrorizing the neighborhood and they had carefully entered the house by some nefarious means, executed a brief bit of compulsory seduction, and slipped off into the night.
Ockham's Razor is the principle proposed by William of Ockham in the fourteenth century: ``Pluralitas non est ponenda sine neccesitate'', which translates as ``entities should not be multiplied unnecessarily''. In this case, should we ignore the easy connections between the scheming minds of boys in their late teens, or should we instead start a search for the love-bandits. I know that boys will do what they need to do to help their buddies out when they can - especially when it means that a romantic notion can win out over a back seat. I wasn't able to get upset with this kid - I've been that kid. He brought her flowers - he spent twenty-eight dollars on Godiva chocolates. He didn't leave beer cans in and around the house. What really happened that night will be a mystery for all time - tearful farewell? freshman foreplay? innocent rendezvous? A gentleman wouldn't reveal - that would be indiscreet.

Burning Down the Road

Somewhere they're buying crepe paper and confetti. They're making up lists and printing them out. I'm not on the mailing list, however, so I don't expect an invitation. They won't have to make a name tag for me. My twenty-fifth high school reunion will take place in my absence.
This is interesting to me for the following reason. I have a friend who has told me that it didn't even occur to him that his high school had football games on Friday nights until we attended one together as adults. By stark contrast, I can say that I never missed a game that Boulder High played while I went there. It certainly helped that since I was in the band, I got in for free - and the away games were a matter of a bus ride and playing in the Pep Band. For a deeply cynical band geek, I had a lot of Panther Pride.
Many of the most profound relationships of my life were forged in those years. I return to that era with great affection again and again. I feel fortunate that my wife shared many of those experiences and allows me to (periodically) wallow in them.
I remember where I parked my Chevy Vega most mornings - Bandiland (a geek ghetto of sorts) across the street from the school. I listened to a lot of Styx back then - and AC/DC. I remember bringing home my first DEVO record along with my first Elvis Costello. My girlfriend's shocked reaction: "You're not going to get into that punk rock, are you?" I remember the bus rides to exotic locales like Douglas County and Cherry Creek. During lunch I would hang out in the band room keeping an eye out as we liberated Mountain Dew from the pop machine. My wife likes to tell people that the first time she saw me I was perched on top of the pop machine - acting like a monkey. I wouldn't deny the action, but I think we'd met - however briefly - before that.
Looking back, it all seems hyper-real - full of drama. Everything was the epitome. When we listened to "Stairway to Heaven" in the studio (in the band room - wouldja believe it?) we weren't happy until the sound would actually begin to bow the plexiglass windows when the Zep really started to rock out. I taught a lot of people how to drive stick shift on my poor car. I made a name for myself as a leader among geeks. I lost my virginity. These were heady times. 1980.
Twenty-five years later, I consider going back. I wonder what happened to the gang of mine - "the kids."
But I know - the stuff that matters still does. I don't need a party to remind me.
"And in the darkest
If my memory serves me right
I'll never turn back time
Forgetting you, but not the time"
- Green Day

Comick

This came to me in the middle of the night. It seemed funnier than a lot of my dreams, so I thought I'd share it.

Tights

All this discussion about super heroes lately has me thinking about uniforms. When I was in eighth grade, I tried out for the middleweight football team (thank heaven for that distinction, I never would have lasted with the bigger boys and was never exactly a lightweight). After the second day of practice one of the other guys, who was blessedly less familiar with the whole team sports concept than I was, asked me when we would be "getting our costumes." In retrospect, it wasn't a really dumb question, but of course we wouldn't be wearing costumes so much as uniforms, right? Costumes were for play - uniforms were for work.
As for the super types, most of these guys are running around in what amounts to long underwear, and we're not talking about baggy wool union suits either. These deals are Lycra or some space age miracle fiber that leaves very little to the imagination. Superman seems to have a bit of discretion - he wears a pair of red shorts over his blue tights, limiting his exposure. The rest of these fellows don't seem to be as concerned with the impression they are making. We can only hope that none of them resorts to stuffing their codpiece - that would be decidedly un-super.
Then, just like the concern in sports, will they be needing any protection down there? I will only assume that Lex Luthor, Dr. Octopus, and the Riddler would result to a kick in the groin when cornered. I was a wrestler for a couple of years, and we did wear tights - and a cup for just such an eventuality. Proper laundry and hygiene was an absolute must for that particular get-up.
But the costume I will always remember most was one of my first - I was selected to play Peter Pan in Kindergarten. I felt fortunate because I knew that I owned the perfect green shirt already, and I had already figured out how to make the hat - feather and all. All that was missing was the tights. It was my first collision with macho. How to maintain a five year old boy's masculinity in green tights? I remember tears and a lot of frustration and eventually the realization that I was playing a part - after all.
These days NFL players wear all kinds of shiny undergarments and call them "Body Armor." So be it - but I'm guessing that they still don't call them costumes.

Our Tax Dollars At Work

Don't get me wrong - I'm a huge fan of NASA. I realized one of my childhood dreams on my fortieth birthday by visiting the Kennedy Space Center. I spent more than a hundred dollars in the gift shop. I'm wearing my Apollo Thirteen sweatshirt with the words "Failure is not an option" on it as I sit here typing this blog. The National Aeronautics and Space Administration is probably my favorite government institution.
That being said, I can't help but wonder what is going on there these days. We are about to spend three hundred and thirty-three million dollars on a space probe that will land - ever so briefly - on a comet. Check that, they hope that the probe will make impact with the comet, Tempel 1, on the Fourth of July. If they did all their calculations correctly and the solar winds don't shift and nobody forgot to tighten the nut that holds the air orifice "O" ring in place...
If everything works right, scientists hope to get "some really great pictures" of the collision. Mostly they want to see what happens when one smaller thing going pretty fast runs into something much bigger going much faster. Scientists have likened it to standing in the middle of the road and being hit by a semi-truck going 23,000 mph — "you know, just bam!" NASA, it seems, has been taken over by a group of thirteen year-old boys. To support this conclusion, I offer up the evidence of the name of the space probe: Deep Impact. They picked the name of the disaster movie about asteroids hitting the Earth that wasn't very good. "Armageddon" has a much tougher ring to it.
So, on July Fourth, if they got everything just right, they hope to make a big hole in Tempel 1 - "the impact should produce a stadium-sized crater about 150 feet deep and 650 feet wide." At the same time, these same scientists are pretty sure that what they're doing won't send the comet on a collision course with Earth. But that would be pretty cool, wouldn't it? Sheesh.

Three Wishes

I can still picture the corner in Three Wishes toy store. Located in Crossroads shopping center, it was by no stretch of the imagination a warehouse along the lines of Toys 'R' Us or Kay Bee Toys. Instead, it was a small to medium retail space that was crowded with the toys of my youth. I kept primarily to the first two aisles on the right. If I went straight down the center, I could find plastic model kits and Airfix toy soldiers of all eras and armies. The aisle behind it remains the grail of my toy dreams: the GI Joe aisle.
For many years my grandmother would take me to Three Wishes to give me - ironically one wish. I could buy one toy for my birthday. I knew what I wanted, and I knew what my conscience told me (and what my mother reminded me: "Your grandmother is not made of money."). On those summer days I would stand in the dim light afforded by the towering shelves and consider my options. I could buy another model plane or box of Afrika Corps soldiers and have our neighborhood experts come by in a day or two to criticize my glue and paint technique. I could get new molds for the thingmaker, or some glow-in-the-dark Goop. I could get a new GI Joe, or some new equipment for the Joe and pals.
Then one year it was different. Among the GI Joes I spotted a character I had only seen for a moment on TV - Captain Action. We were a solid Hasbro GI Joe household, and I was making an awful brief of toy etiquette by branching out like this, but here's the deal: Captain Action wasn't just any action figure. It turns out that Captain Action was secretly all the super heroes - he had all the costumes and abilities of Superman, Batman, and the Lone Ranger. He was made by Ideal.
I brought him home that day. He stood a head shorter than the standard GI Joe, but I didn't let that bother me, he had a ray gun and a sword. I even got an extra prize - the Batman costume. Go ahead and fight the commies if you must, I'll be back here fighting crime on the home front. Each one of the new costumes came with a comic that explained Captain Action's connection to Flash Gordon, the Phantom, or Aquaman. It really hit me where I lived.
Captain Action's retail life was only a few short years, but I still carry a bit of a torch for him. When a retro-repro came out a few years ago, I bought one to share with my son. It was nearly impossible to find any of the super hero costumes for him, and I cursed myself for not taking better care of my originals. Still, I have my memories, and that's where Captain Action rules - thanks Grandma.

Your Teeth Are Jewels, Not Tools

Today was dentist day. My wife and I packed our mouths up to the dentist's office at eight in the morning for a little dental prophy. I made sure to get up early enough to brush, floss and rinse with Listerine before the visit. This would be the dental equivalent to cleaning the house before the maid arrives, but it's the way I do things.
Why? Dental guilt, plain and simple. I yearn for those "good checkups" when I can be lifted from the chair with a bright smile and a clean conscience. I have a history of cavities in my youth, and I learned to expect a second appointment - a return for fillings. As an adult I have become much more aware of my oral hygiene - compulsively so. I use a Sonicare brush and floss twice daily. I use a mouthwash to prevent decay and gingivitis.
Still, I have surrendered to the notion that no matter what I do, my mouth is a plaque factory and each visit will involve a certain amount of scraping and prodding. It is during these sessions that I reflect on the absence of ceiling art in dentists' offices. Most of the time spent in a dentist's office is flat on your back, staring at acoustic tiles. I've counted the holes and made an estimate of the square footage of the room by counting the number of tiles - you get the idea. All of this because I have to wait for the grinding and polishing and picking to finish so I can receive my scolding.
"Are you using floss?"
Yes. Twice a day.
"And you said you're using a Sonicare brush?"
Yes.
"Brushing for the full two minutes?"
Yes.
"We're going to put a watch on that number thirty - it's starting to get a pretty deep groove in it."
Okay.
"Here's some new floss and a medium bristle brush. Are you using tartar control toothpaste."
Yes. I don't run screaming from the office. I have to go out to the lobby where the hygenist recounts her findings with the dentist and anyone who happens to be within earshot. I take my nice clean teeth and go home. For lunch I have an Oreo just for spite.