Prang! Go out and play!

What a job title!

Peter Cornall, of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents, must get great reactions when he hands over his business card. One look at his title and you have to wonder, is this the work of a stuffy, isolated, alarmist nerdy guy or cool, suave, favorite camp counselor guy?

Perhaps he's a favorite stuffy, cool, suave, alarmist, isolated, nerdy, camp counselor.

Whatever the case, Mr. Cornall is RoSPA's "Head of Leisure Safety." And as such, Mr. Cornall has a message for all of us parents. Namely:

Throw the kids out of the house!

He doesn't mean abandon them, of course. He just means send them outside, and fret less about doing so.

The RoSPA notes that the modern parent is overprotective. For example, 43% of the parents they surveyed said kids should not be allowed to play outside unsupervised until they are 14.

Fourteen?

If anything, fourteen is when the supervision should resume! I mean, it's cute when a toddler says, "Happy Burfday, Gramma," but if the candles on the cake have the numbers 5 and 3 and they are not in that order, it's a problem.

While it sounds counter-intuitive, the RoSPA rightly points out that kids need to get hurt more, and can only do so if parents stop being such ninnies. Kids need scrapes and bruises - and occasionally a cast - to learn for themselves what they can and can not do and, more importantly, why.

Overprotective parents, myself included, teach their kids to fear injury, when what kids ought to be learning is how to smartly avoid injury. And by constantly stopping the kids from feeling any pain, parents fail to teach them how to live with the pain they will inevitably feel in their lives.

Besides, as the RoSPA points out, sheltered kids are not necessarily remaining free from injury. Carpal tunnel syndrome and tendonitis in the trigger finger aren't exactly the best things for a kid to face.

I must say that since I moved out of my apartment, which was located next to the intersection of a freeway and major arterial route, behind a gas station and across the street from a row of motels that turned into housing for some less than upstanding members of the community, I have been much more generous with giving the kids outside time. It certainly helps that my daughter is more than happy to walk or bike to her friends' houses.

I'd like to think that the years being cooped up will give the kids an appreciation for the freedoms they are getting now. I'd like to think that they've at least gained an understanding of some of the hazards that exist, which is helping them make better decisions when they are looking for stuff to do now. I'd like to think that they'll look back on this time in their lives and say, "Wow, although he was rightly concerned about our safety and well-being, he was a cool, suave, favorite camp-counselor kind of dad."

I'd like to think all of that, but then I listen to my daughter nad realize what kind of stuffy, isolated, alarmist nerd I've been all this time.

More fun from the In-Bin

OK, so some of you have seen this before, but I just got such a kick out of it I wanted it saved for posterior, er, posterity. Many thanks to the original author, wherever you are.

This simple test illustrates the extent to which people today have become too dependant upon their computers.

To determine your gender, look down.

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(It said look down, not scroll down, dummy!)

One of those pound-me-into-ash prisons ...

I just got done watching Office Space, one of my all time favorite movies, on E!, one of my all time least favorite networks.

I have this movie on DVD -- the "Special Edition With Flair!" even -- but for some reason (such as accidentally letting Ms N near the remote again) I am watching the edited-for-content, riddled-with-commercial-breaks, safe-for-TV flairless edition.

I never figured out why it is that people do this. You could have a full movie, complete with extras, deleted scenes, subtitles in English, French, Spanish, Swahili, and Klingon, the original colorful metaphors as originally spoken by the original actors, and every last body part in its full unblurred splendor sitting on your shelf untouched for the past seven months, but flip through channels and find the TV version with the best lines dubbed over and nary a nipple in sight and that you watch. And while you complain about the stuff that's edited out, as you get up during the many commercial breaks to either get a drink or get rid of one you won't simply grab the DVD so you can watch the real thing.

Actually, there is a side benefit to watching a movie that's been edited for TV. For while the scenes that answer the age-old question "Why does my DVD remote have a slow-motion button?" are cut completely (and any remaining naughty bits deemed too essential to be cut obscured by that dang blur box), the voice-over substitutions for the original potty-mouth scripts can be quite comical.

Nothing quite beats the voice-over of Kurt Russell when Backdraft was first aired on network TV. Amidst a tense argument between Russell and some other guy, Kurt, teeth a-glistenin' and hair a-wavin', shouts, "Well, Forget-it You!"

Forget-it you? Forget-it you? Who the forget-it did they get to write the voice-overs? And what the forget-it was he thinking?

If all they wanted to do was clean up the language, they could have Kurt say "Forget you!" Granted, it's not nearly as forceful as the original, but it is actually something somebody might actually say in such a moment. Such a dub might even go unnoticed by the viewing public, what with their attention diverted by those a-glistenin' chompers and all.

"Forget-it you," on the the other hand, sobers everyone out of their a-glistenin' stupor and forces them to consciously think about what must have been said in order to warrant such an odd comment.

Office Space is chock-full of great lines. Unfortunately, most of the best were voiced over.

I missed one of my favorite lines, where the character Michael Bolton calls his Grammy-winning namesake a "no-talent ass-clown", but luckily Bolton was not finished.

This particular gem:

If we get caught laundering money, we're not going to white-collar resort prison. No, no. We're going to federal pound-me-in-the-ass prison!

did not escape the censor's attention. Safe-for-TV Michael Bolton fears being sent to one of those "pound us into ash" prisons.

The commercial breaks also gave me a chance to go Googley, which is how I came to find bullshitjob.com, a site where you can listen to many clips from the movie in all their original glory. Not only do they have their tribute to Office Space but they also have their own Bullshit Job Title Generator.

One can but wonder what kind of exciting work a Dynamic Optimization Orchestrator gets to do for a big company. Oh, the excitement! It's almost enough to give you the O-face.

Forget-it yeah!

Upsides to Allergies

The latest storm surge of pollen has crashed against my immune system's protective seawalls. Unfortunately, some overzealous and somewhat misguided first-responder Immunoglobulin E antibodies have triggered an excessive activation of leukocytes, causing a breach in my levees of nasal mucosa, releasing a flood of phlegm from my Lake Ponchartrain of goblet cells.

Not only am I suffering from a swollen, teary eye and continual runny nose, but from this poorly developed rhetorical trope as well.

I have at least come to the realization that there can be upsides to allergies.

For example, if you are ever feeling insufficiently blessed, sneeze at work.

(This works best if you are in a high-walled cube farm. Having your own office means few co-workers will be within earshot, having low or no walls means more co-workers will be able to see you when it happens, which, of course, means you are less likely to hear the desired "Bless you" and more likely to hear "Eeewwwww".)

The other upside is only theoretical at the moment. However, based on my recent tissue consumption and apparent nasal discharge rate, I think it's safe to say that by day's end I just may drop a few pounds.

We are mostly water, right? Does that not mean that losing water is essential to losing weight? I may have stumbled across the next miracle in weight loss!

Be sure to look for my upcoming book, Snot: The All-Natural Secret to a Thinner You in a bookstore near you.

Abitu Haiku

A bit too chilly?
That became a bit too hot
a bit too quickly.

Sleeping on it

Supposedly you're supposed to do some of your most creative thinking while sleeping. While that may be true, it certainly was not reflected by my draft of the post I was planning for today. Apparently, in the midst of my typing I drifted off to "creative thinking," for when I went to review what I had written thus far I saw this on my screen:

The weather lately has been incredible. Save for a storm front that blew through the area Tuesday night, it has been mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

(I'm paraphrasing, of course, for space purposes.)

The weird thing (is if there is ever only one weird thing in my life) is I was certain I had typed more of the legible stuff than that. This means that I had been dreaming that I was sitting at my computer typing.

Sitting? Typing? What kind of effed-up dream is that?!?

It was not that long ago that my dreams consisted of, well, the stuff that dreams are made of. And while it may be somewhat of a letdown waking up and realizing that I am not really visiting a tropical resort at the same time as the convention of billionaire nymphomaniac bikini models, once that disappointment fades there are still residual memories to relish.

Even a bad dream is good in its own way. Ever wake up startled, only to be suddenly quite relieved that a) you're still alive, 2) all of your toes are still attached, and c) you don't really drive a Pinto?

I've woken up startled, relaxed, afraid, relieved, inspired, ecstatic, angry, perplexed, determined, awed, aggravated, content, liberated, confined, motivated, de-motivated, excited, energetic, (ahem) relieved, devoted, dejected, enthused, laughing, crying, arguing, hungry, horny, hopeful, pessimistic, optimistic, antagonistic, proud, happy, confused, uncertain, certain, convinced, impressed, depressed, pressured, and serene. I've woken up unsure of the time, unsure of the day, unsure of the year, and unsure that I can make it to a restroom in time. Sometimes I've woken up filled with a deep sense of wow-I-sure-hope-nobody-ever-finds-out-that-I-thought-that!

Good or bad, those varied reactions to my nocturnal musings have had their effect on me. If nothing else, they've helped me feel more alive.

But just how alive am I supposed to feel when my dreams have withered to the point that the all I can come up with is me ... sitting at a computer ... typing?

Do tell me what wondrous climax awaits me in this oh-so-titilating fantasy world I created.

Perhaps, had I not woken up so early, there would have been something more substantial. I might have set myself upon some grand (albeit dorky) quest. If my writing was any clue, I might have been on my way to see those M&M guys. Perhaps it was to involve something tasty, like an bottomless bag of Cheezy Poofs.

Maybe I'm being too cynical about this whole thing. For all I know, by waking up, I may have missed out on my chance at enlightenment. I can see it all now ...

There I am, typing away at a Cheez-encrusted keyboard. The clicking and crunching sounds fuse together to form an angelic harmony. Then suddenly, as I reach into the bag, I realize that I hold in my hand the final Poof. My voracious snacking has led me to the ultimate triumph! I have reached the end of the endless supply of Cheezy-Poofs!

I place the final bite-size artificially-orange powdery morsel into my mouth and savor the Cheezy goodness.

And with that, I reach infinity. Transcendence is mine.

Before me appears a light unlike any light I have ever seen. It beckons me closer. I walk towards the heavenly glow and realize that it's the gateway to Nirvana. I pause long enough to take in the enormity of it all, then head through the existential portal.

It is only then that I realize that the infinite supply of Cheezy Poofs gave me an infinitely fat ass, which naturally gets itself wedged into the crappy little gateway.

I'm left at the edge of the universe, staring at Heaven and mooning everything else. There I wait, twiddling my tremendously pudgy thumbs and pondering what kind of idiot would make a gateway that small knowing that you have to eat a whole effing lot of food to get to it, until my alarm finally goes off and calls me back to reality.

Oh well. In retrospect, I guess it's better that I woke up when I did.

Memorable Moments

My son has come to my room a couple times in recent weeks complaining that he "couldn't sleep." Being the obvious problem-solver that I am, I pointed out the obvious - that somehow his TV and light managed to turn back after I last visited the room - and suggested that were I to remove the cables from the back of the TV (thereby making the Static Channel the only option) it might help induce a slumberous state.

Unfortunately, as is often the case, the true problem is not the problem that is brought up initially. And while I have been taking courses on Active Listening wherein I am learning how to better seek out the underlying concern behind outward behaviors, 10:30pm is not the time at which I would like to employ these measures.

Last night, my son approached me differently.

"Dad," he said.

"Yes?" I replied calmly (it was before bedtime - after bedtime the response is "WHAT?!?").

"When can I come and sleep in your room again?" he asked.

In my last apartment, my son shared a room with his sister. When she got older (and when the X x-ited), I moved him into my room, as it was of sufficient size to hold two beds and still have substantial floor space. Until we moved into the house, he had always shared a room with someone else. Getting his own room was bittersweet; he has his own room, but it's just him in there at night.

"You've got your own room now," I said. "You need to sleep in there."

"But you've let me sleep in here before," he countered.

I did? I thought to myself. When?

"I did?" I asked. "When?"

As you see, I am a complex individual.

"That one night when you let me sleep at your feet," he answered.

Oh, yeah, I thought (this time to myself).

Before you get the impression that I treat my kid like the family dog, it's important to specify three things. First, we don't have a dog. Second, the boy likes table scraps. And third, he was remembering the night when he woke me up close to midnight and I was too tired to shoo him back to his room, so I capitulated and told him to get his comforter and pillow he could sleep on top of my bed.

What struck me was how he spoke of that memory so fondly. It was a Big Deal to him that he got to sleep in my room. For him, that was a Special Event, so special that it warrants Capital Letters when writing about it.

It dawned on me then how much effort I expend trying to artificially inflate the importance of one set of things and in doing so overlook another set of much simpler things that wind up having more value in the long run. I try (and often fail) to do a few things that are spectacular, yet I would probably get greater results if I invested the same amount of energy to do more things that are simply good.

"I really liked that," he said.

Wow. Something that cost me neither time nor money (it didn't even cost me much sleep!) turned into a positive memory that he's been holding onto and will continue to do so.

"Well, until the morning when you farted in my face."

Dudey's Dooties

Ms N came back from a three-night business trip today, so naturally I was up early this morning cleaning all of the parts of the house I had failed to clean during the previous three nights.

The kids were at my babies' momma's apartment overnight, so I had no worries of having to break from any tasks to go wake my son up for the third time or anything like that. Today was "schlep your kids to work" day, so I did have to pick up my daughter on my way to the train (which we missed by 2 minutes anyways), but other than that the morning was mine.

I had my schedule planned out perfectly: Get up at 5:15, go feed the cats, pull the sheets off the bed, get the extra bedding stuff out of my son's room (he got new sheets on Sunday, the old ones were still in a pile on his floor), take all the aformentioned linens downstairs, put the sheets and pillowcases in the wash, scoop up the cat crap from the litter boxes, go back to the kitchen and get the dishes, take the trash outside (it did, after all, have a bag of cat crap in it), put the sheets in the dryer, straighten up the coffee table, clean up the rest of the stuff in my son's room, take a shower, fold the two loads of laundry that I did on Tuesday, put my portion away, put my son's portion in his room, put Ms N's portion in a nice stack, brush my teeth, gather my stuff for work, get the sheets out of the dryer, make the bed, and head out by 7:25.

You know, a typical morning.

Unfortunately, it didn't quite work as I planned. I didn't have time to bring the sheets back up and make the bed, and I left at 7:32, hence the missed train.

Oh, and one more thing ...

Ms N came back home and Leo, the primary cat, was acting a bit strange. Dude, the emergency backup cat, didn't so much as come to the living room to see her. She mistook the attention Leo was paying to her as some sort of "I missed you" gesture. (Ridiculous, I know ... cats don't miss anybody unless they are not being fed. I doubt the cats even notice that we're gone.) When she got upstairs, however, Leo ran straight to my son's door and started meowing.

That's when it dawned on her ... Dude wasn't being lazy or indifferent; he didn't come to see her because he was stuck behind a closed door.

Apparently, while I was in straightening up the room, Dude wandered in. He just failed to wander out before I left.

I got home soon after Ms N and she told me about Dude's traumatic ordeal. He seemed to be recovering well. Then again, Dude always seems to be doing well. If you translate his meows, he says, "Dude".

As I walked into my son's room, I quickly realized that Dude had, ahem, done his dooty while trapped therein. You can't blame him - when nature calls you can't send it to voicemail. The problem is he's a cat, and cats have some sort of turd-topping instinct. When dogs mess on the floor, it's always easy to find (especially if you have bare feet); they let their chips lay where they fall. Cats, though, are modest.

It took a few minutes of searching, but I finally found them ... neatly tucked underneath my son's stuffed turtle. Now matter how hard I try, I can't stop picturing the cat pushing that turtle across the floor just to have something under which he could hide his dooties.

Comb 'em if you got 'em

Last night I had the most uplifting experience a middle-age guy like myself can get (and still talk about publicly, that is).

There comes a point in every boy's life where he looks at older men and realizes "Oh, crap. Someday I may become just as bald as they are!"

Like the platypus, androgenetic alopecia (or male-pattern baldness for those of you who didn't seek out that article on Wikipedia) is proof that God has quite the sense of humor.

The problem is you have no way of knowing if the joke's on you.

It's very unnerving, really. You can spend decades hiding that inner fear. One day life is all fine and dandy, and then you see an uncle you haven't seen in a few years and suddenly you're in front of the bathroom mirror tracing your hairline with your finger to see if it's moved since the last time you checked.

My father, himself part of God's punchline, describes the part in his hair as "very wide." Growing up with him was like watching a stadium roof retract very, very, very slowly. Before I was even out of high school my brother's hair was like Mary-Kate Olsen. (And I do not mean long and blonde - that's Mary-Kate's hair. I mean his hair was no longer thin, it was emaciated.) He finally gave up combing and took up shaving.

Needless to say, it was not the most comfortable environment in which to remain vain.

So last night I got a haircut. After trimming the sides and taking down the length, without so much as asking the stylist grabbed that other set of shears - you know, the ones that cut some hairs out while leaving others in place.

It seems there was a problem with the hair atop my head. And while past performance is no guarantee of future results, it was promising, nonetheless.

My hair was too thick.

Mr. E's medical tip of the day

Replace your Zoloft with Cialis.

Enraged? Become enraptured, instead. Stop giving the finger when you have much better things to give. Turn your F You's into F Me's. Cialis works up to 36 hours, so you don't have to plan, you don't have to rush, you don't have to worry about time. The next time a relaxing moment turns into the wrong moment, you can be ready. While Cialis does nothing to stop the anxiety, Great Smokies does it make it more enjoyable!

Cialis is not for everyone. Do not take Cialis if you are single and unattractive. Before replacing your Zoloft, consult your physician to determine if you are healthy enough to be angry. Anger lasting for more than four hours is the sign of a serious condition which requires immediate treatment, meaning you'd better hope to God that you didn't say anything stupid to your significant other during your fit of frustration, as she is the one who administers said treatment. Piss her off and she'll tell you to go treat yourself, you F-ing A-hole.