Five TV shows I will stop and watch any time, anywhere

I've mentioned before that I don't watch much TV. And it's not because I have any philosophical objections to it, I just have too many other things going on.

But when I do sit down for some tube time, and I actually have control of the remote (NOTE: THIS HAPPENS APPROXIMATELY TWICE PER CENTURY), I am for whatever reason drawn to the channels that air old shows.

Maybe I'm just nostalgic, but the shows I like all aired in the 60s and 70s. I don't necessarily think TV was better then than it is now. But I think it was more suited to my tastes. And we're talking about me here, so the older shows get the nod.

If I'm flipping through our 47,000 digital cable channels and come across any of these programs, I will stop and watch. Every time. Guaranteed:

(1) M*A*S*H

There was a period in the early and mid-80s when WUAB Channel 43 in Cleveland would show a rerun of M*A*S*H every night at 7. And my brother would record it on our old, 50-pound Curtis Mathis VCR. This was a VCR that came out back when "VHS or Beta?" actually meant something. It was heavy. And it lasted a long time.

Anyway, my brother recorded all the episodes of M*A*S*H, which got me into watching the show. There was nothing else like it on TV, nor has there been since. If you're a M*A*S*H fan, usually you have to declare your allegiance in four important areas:

• Henry Blake or Sherman Potter? (correct answer = Sherman Potter)
• Trapper or BJ? (correct answer = Trapper)
• Frank Burns or Charles Emerson Winchester? (correct answer = Frank Burns)
• Old Hateful Hot Lips or Later Sympathetic Hot Lips? (correct answer = Old Hateful Hot Lips)

I think I would pay $20 just for the chance to watch an episode of M*A*S*H right now. I wonder where my brother's stock of recorded VHS episodes is?

(2) Hogan's Heroes

Sticking with the military theme...

Everything about this show was wildly inaccurate and improbable. But that was the point, right? You either enjoyed seeing the Nazis portrayed as semi-lovable buffoons or you were appalled by it. I think I've always been a little of both.

The guy for whom I felt the worst was Kinch, also known as Sgt. Ivan Kinchloe. Kinch was the African-American guy. He also had the best fake German accent. But he could only use it over the phone or the radio because...well, because not even a show like this could get away with having a dark-skinned guy pass for an Aryan in person. So Kinch always had to stay back at the POW camp while the other guys went out on wacky adventures dressed as genocidal psychopaths. Poor guy.

(3) The Andy Griffith Show

Who made this show? Don Knotts made this show. Barney Fife is easily one of the top five funniest characters in television history. And I'm willing to argue him up into the top three.

Special mention goes to Otis the Town Drunk, who wins the award for Best Portrayal of a Perpetually Inebriated Person Back When It Was OK to Make Fun of Alcoholism. Otis even let himself into jail every night just to get away from his wife. I love 60s TV!

May I present to you an excellent scene in which these two classic characters interact? Don't mind if I do:

(4) The Carol Burnett Show

The fun here was figuring how far you could get into any given episode before Tim Conway would get Harvey Korman to bust up. Harvey didn't necessarily want to bust up, of course. He was trying to stay in character. But Tim was so brilliant, and so spontaneously funny, I can't imagine anyone could have held a straight face for long.

And let's not forget Carol herself. And Vicki Lawrence. All four of the main cast members were outstanding comedic actors...to the point that I think they spoiled us for any other comedy variety show. The genre sort of fell by the wayside once the 80s hit, and I think it's because The Carol Burnett Show was so good.

(5) All in the Family

If you make me watch one sitcom over and over for the rest of my life, I'm probably going with this one.

It's dated in many ways, and part of its genius lies in how far ahead of its time the show really was. But I still think much of the writing was timeless, and it worked because Carroll O'Connor and Jean Stapleton were so darned good.

Please, if you do nothing else today, watch this scene (my favorite one in the show's history). I can't imagine you not at least smiling at it, if not cracking up. Just awesome:

Does The Calendar rule your life, too?

Our life is controlled by The Calendar.

This is both a good and a bad thing.

It's good in that The Calendar, by which I mean the large "Mom's Plan-It Calendar" hanging on our refrigerator, is an invaluable tool in helping us organize our life.

I always say, "If it's not on on The Calendar, it doesn't exist." If you want a ride, if you want to make sure the family attends your event, if you simply want to remind yourself, write it on The Calendar.

At the same, it's a bad thing because, well, since when did we surrender control of our schedules to a sheaf of laminated paper?

Since about three kids ago, I would say.

You people with children know what I'm talking about. Especially if that child is school-aged and/or involved in a lot of activities. Sports, music, Scouts, whatever. They all involve practices, meetings and games, and they all seem to happen at once.

You people with multiple children are already shaking your heads and saying, "I hear ya, brother."

As I type this, our family has, over the next four hours, a track practice (Chloe), a track meet (Jared), a soccer game (Jack), and another soccer game (Melanie).

I coach both Jack's and Melanie's teams.

Do you see the problem there?

This is not the first nor the last time this will happen. And I don't ask for pity because we brought this on ourselves.

But that doesn't make it any more fun.

If you wonder how I made the choice to coach Mel's game and not Jack's, it came down to the relative "importance" of their games.

I put importance in quotes because it's kids soccer. No game, no practice is anywhere really close to "important."

Their overall experience and what they take away from participating in organized team sports: That's important. Not a game. Not the final score.

But when you compare the two, I selfishly picked Melanie's game to attend because we're playing our intra-city rival tonight. Our opponents are a great bunch of girls with a great coach, but when we play each other, nobody holds back. It's actually a lot of fun, and win or lose, all the girls involved get something out of it.

So that's what I chose.

But I never like to choose at all. And I'm actually surprised how often I don't have to choose. With five kids (even with one in college), the potential for Event Conflict is enormous. Yet the schedules tend to balance out, for the most part.

Still, activities and events leave us very little down time. When we can, we all like to just stay at home and do whatever we want. Everyone in the family appreciates that.

But when we're "free," other people expect that's a good time for us to get together. And we really should, but those rare free nights are the nights when we rest and recharge.

Again, we made the choice in all this. I know that. But I'm still going to whine because it's my blog.

Except that I'm already late for a soccer game and I have to go...

Welcome to America, where we're not especially grateful for anything

Do you know what the three biggest problems in my life are at this moment? I'll tell you:

1. As I type this on Saturday the 20th of April, I still don't have a job and I want to get one. And soon.
2. My right ear is blocked with fluid and it's annoying me.
3. I seriously can't think of a third problem.

So two, then. I have two problems. And neither one is especially harrowing.

I honestly believe I'll be employed very soon (and am grateful I have the skills and opportunities for employment that come with my particular socioeconomic condition). So #1 isn't likely to be a problem for much longer.

And as for my ear, I'm guessing it's just a bacterial thing and will go away. If I need to, even as an unemployed person, I can still afford to pop down to my doctor's office or the urgent care to get the right medicine to treat it.

So #2 isn't really that much of a problem.

Which leaves me with exactly zero things that can be classified as "problems" in the way most of the world thinks of "problems."

There is a minuscule chance I will be in danger of losing my life today.

My refrigerator is stocked to overflowing with good, healthy food.

I have access to virtually unlimited quantities of clean drinking water.

I live in a house with people I love and who love me back.

I own two cars.

I live on a nice street with great neighbors.

I am, by all accounts, among the incredibly blessed.

I bring all of this up because I was just looking at my calendar for the next week, and this is how I reacted:

"Oh man, there's a soccer game for me to coach almost every day. And I have all of these lunches and meetings to go to. And when am I going to find time to study for my public relations accreditation class? This week hasn't even started and it's already horrible."

Feel free to laugh at me. Because I'm laughing at myself.

And crying a little, too. I don't think I had any idea how ungrateful I was for the life I lead until just a few minutes ago when I actually stopped to think about it.

I am light years better off than, for example, the people helped by the City Mission, the wonderful Cleveland-based organization that works with people in crisis and for which I serve as a proud member of the board of directors.

(By the way, the City Mission folks could really, really use your support. I'm telling you, you will not get more impact for your philanthropic dollar anywhere else. Here's a handy link to donate online, if you're so inclined.)

There's a popular Internet theme called "First World Problems," and I find it a useful reminder to be grateful for what I have. Which is a lot.

I guess I just wanted to make sure you felt the same way.

If you have access to an Internet connection and can read this blog, you're already better off than two-thirds of the world.

If you know when your next meal is coming and that it will be filling, you're doing extremely well.

If you have people who love you, you're blessed beyond measure.

Please remember that the next time you start complaining about your leaky faucet or your packed schedule. And please remember to smack me in the head the next time I complain about the same stuff.

Deal? Deal.

Anzac Day and other holidays you didn't know about

I just looked at the calendar and noticed that today is Anzac Day.

But of course you already knew that.

Your calendar probably doesn't tell you that today is Anzac Day. Mine does.

That's because it's an Australian calendar, given to us by our Australian friends, the Jones family.

We love the Joneses. They're wonderful people. Their daughter, Chelsea, is coming to stay at our house for a few days this summer.

When Chelsea arrives, it will mark exactly the second time any of us has ever actually met a member of the Jones family in person. The other time was a couple of years ago when the whole family (all seven of them) toured the U.S. in a gigantic R.V. and spent a weekend with us when passing through Ohio.

For the most part, though, we only know them electronically. My wife met Kerri Jones through a church-related email discussion list, and the relationship grew even closer with the advent of Facebook.

Now we consider them to be very close friends, even though we hardly ever see them. Because as you know, Australia is farther away than Saturn.

Anyway, as I mentioned before, today is Anzac Day, according to our Australian calendar.

I actually know who/what the Anzacs were, but only because of my strangely intense interest in the First World War. Otherwise, I would have guessed that they were some sort of insect ("We had a terrible infestation of Anzacs, but the exterminator was able to get rid of them.")

"Anzac" stands for "Australian and New Zealand Army Corps," a military force that fought the horrible Gallipoli campaign in Turkey against the Ottoman Empire in 1915 and 1916. It was a badly conceived operation, and as is usually the case in such instances, it was the poor infantry on the ground who had to pay the price for strategic errors made in some staff meeting room thousands of miles away.

Anzac Day is observed every April 25th to remember those young men who fought at Gallipoli almost a full century ago. It's actually quite a solemn occasion in Australia and New Zealand.

Seeing as the majority of the readers of this little blog are American, I'm guessing 99% of us didn't know that. We in this country have a hard time understanding or even caring about anything that happens outside of our neighborhoods, let alone half a world away.

But then again, we already have quite a list of holidays and observances here that makes us all a little immune to, well, holidays and observances.

Anzac Day is not our holiday, but Arbor Day is. That's tomorrow. I know it has something to do with trees, and that you're supposed to plant one, but that's the extent of my Arbor Day knowledge.

Armed Forces Day this year is Saturday, May 18th. Which is of course not to be confused with Memorial Day nine days later when we watch parades, eat candy, cook out in our backyards, and vaguely remember that the day has something to do with soldiers.

Then there's also:

• Parents Day (July 28th...really)
• Senior Citizens Day (Aug. 21st)
• Grandparents Day (Sept. 8th)
• Leif Erikson Day (Oct. 9th)
• Boss' Day (Oct. 16th)
• Pan American Aviation Day & Wright Brothers Day (both Dec. 17th)
• Dog Vomit Appreciation Day (Dec. 20th)

I only made up one of those. The rest are real holidays. For better or for worse.

The holiday I dislike the most is Sweetest Day, which is held on a Saturday every October.

I assumed Sweetest Day was a universal holiday, but apparently not. Wikipedia suggests that it's celebrated primarily in the Midwestern U.S. and "mostly in Cleveland."

Why exactly do we in Cleveland get stuck with this fake holiday? Because it was thought up in the 1920s by a group of Cleveland-area candymakers.

Not that they would profit by the existence of such a holiday, of course. No sir, that was just a coincidence.

Terry and I don't celebrate Sweetest Day. If I try to buy her anything that day, she yells at me for wasting money.

Which is one of the reasons why I love her. I think I'll save that Sweetest Day money and wait to buy her something instead on Leif Erikson Day.

Coaching girls sports: The easiest(?) gig on the planet

I'm nearing the end of my 11th season as a youth soccer coach. Through the years I've had the opportunity to coach all five of my kids, plus countless other Wickliffe soccer players ranging in age from 4 to 12.

One thing I've learned (as detailed here) is that the single most important item young soccer players want to know is what's for snack.

Dribbling, passing, shooting and soccer tactics are important, sure, but nothing captures their attention quite like the thought of those Mini Chips Ahoy bags and Capri Sun juice boxes just waiting on the sideline when the final whistle blows.

They also want to know what position they're going to play. And what the score is. And how much time is left. All information they could easily ascertain IF THEY WOULD JUST PAY ATTENTION FOR ONE SECOND.

Not that I get frustrated or anything. I'm perfectly fine with teaching them something and then five minutes later realizing they have no recall of what they just learned. After a decade of this, you kind of get used to it.

But that's really just with the younger ones. Once they get up to the U12 level (5th and 6th grade), it's a lot easier and a lot more fun to coach them. Especially if they're good.

I've had the great fortune of coaching some excellent soccer teams over the years. You just show up at the game, tell them who's starting at which position and who's going to sub in, and sit back and watch while the whole thing goes onto automatic pilot and they methodically destroy the other team. It's a lot of fun.

Of course, I've been on the other side of that equation a time or two, as well. That's not so fun. But you take the good with the bad, and on balance I've really enjoyed my years as a soccer coach.

My favorite thing is coaching girls. Not that I don't like coaching boys, but girls are more enjoyable for two reasons:

1. They listen (for the most part). They're actually coachable.
2. Contrary to stereotypes, they very much care whether they win or lose.

This second point is key. The older they get, the more vicious girls become on a soccer field.

I coached Chloe's high school girls indoor team this past winter, and they were nasty. Not in a bad way. Just in a "we're better than you and we're going to pummel you" kind of way. There were times when these normally bright and cheery girls actually frightened me.

You play a variety of roles when you coach girls, but perhaps none more important than that of team psychologist. Girls care so much, and are sometimes so fragile in the confidence department, that you have to keep their spirits up. You have to let them know it's OK to fail. You have to praise them a lot before you offer up criticism.

And I've gotten pretty good at it. Having three daughters has been excellent practice.

The other crucial role you play with girls is Official Jewelry Holder. The rules state that, for reasons of safety, players cannot wear dangly earrings, necklaces or bracelets during games. Most of the time they remember to leave these at home.

But when they don't, they take them off and I hear the familiar, "Coach Scott, can you hold this for me, please?" And of course I do, because really, what else am I going to do?

Besides taking a peek into the snack bag and maybe pulling out a sample for myself, of course. Let's make sure we have our priorities straight here.

I'm losing my ongoing battle with red lights

Let me start by saying I understand the value of traffic lights in our society. One of the first in the world was installed right here in Cleveland, and I get why we need them.

Let me also say how much I hate them.

Or, maybe more accurately, how much they hate me. Oh, don't give me the old "they're just inanimate objects that can't think or feel anything." I know the truth. I know they're out to get me.

Just ask my family.

One of the long-running jokes in our house is how I attract red lights. My son firmly believes there are sensors built into every intersection in our area, and that when they detect my car coming, they ensure I'll have to wait three full minutes before I'm allowed to pass.

This is silly, of course. It's rarely more than 2½ minutes.

Honestly, though, it's astounding how often I encounter red lights. At first I thought it was just me, but then years ago when I started driving my wife (then girlfriend) around, she noticed it right away.

"How come you hit every single light red?" she would ask. "How is that possible?"

I don't know, Terry, I don't know. It's just one of those things that...is. Like snow in winter and the Indians in last place in October, it just is. There's no point in questioning it.

Yet I do question it. Because it doesn't seem possible. I've long figured there must be some logical explanation I simply haven't been able to discern.

Do I drive at the exact speed at which I'm most likely to be caught by multiple lights in any given stretch of road? Do I just drive in areas that are more traffic light-intensive? Am I simply a victim of probability?

I can't tell you. What I do know, however, is that I want to be a traffic engineer. Because the ones we have programming our lights now are either mentally deficient or sadistic. Or both.

I say this because I am constantly − constantly − sitting stopped at lights with no cross traffic there to take advantage of the green light in the perpendicular direction. I just sit and watch an empty street in front of me for one, two, or yes, even three minutes at a time.

Has traffic light technology not progressed to the point that we can vary the frequency with which the lights change based on time of day, traffic patterns, etc.? Or is it already tied to other, more arbitrary factors, such as the orbit of Saturn or the value of the Belgian franc? It may as well be.

I understand that some lights are programmed to control traffic flow. But it seems the flow they're always trying to prevent is me flowing to my destination. What exactly did I do to deserve this?

If a given car trip takes a regular person, say, 15 minutes, it will take me 20. I always build in 5-10 minutes of ESLT (Extra Scott Light Time) because I know it will be coming.

And who do you talk to about this anyway? It's probably someone in our local government. When I find out the person's name, I'm going to get in my car and drive to City Hall to give them a piece of my mind.

The trip shouldn't take any more than, I would say, four hours. Five at the most.

LIVE BLOG: Walking 16 miles to Downtown Cleveland...again: FINAL UPDATE: 2:25 pm

So today we're going to try something different.

I plan to walk this morning from my house in the beautiful metropolis of Wickliffe, Ohio, to Tower City in not-quite-as-beautiful-but-still-nice downtown Cleveland, Ohio. A distance of about 16 miles.

I've taken this walk twice before. I actually enjoy the experience, particularly having several hours with just me and the iPod.

Only this time I'm going to chronicle the journey for anyone who, for whatever reason, might care. Check back here throughout the morning as I attempt to navigate the thumb-breaking process of Blogging by Smart Phone while I walk.

I'll post updates throughout the trip, which I expect to begin around 8:30 a.m. EDT and to take somewhere in the neighborhood of four hours.

I'll try and change the headline to this post every time I update it (with the approximate time of the update). That's assuming I can walk and type at the same time without killing myself and others.

I hope you'll join me!

8:29 am -  And we're off! Game time temperature: 41 degrees. The shorts may or may not have been a good idea...

8:43 am - Are we there yet? Walking and typing = hard.

9:14 am - 3.16 miles down. About 14:15/mile. No chafing. Yet. Hello,  Richmond Heights!

9:54 am - Will be meeting my wife and daughter for lunch at Tower City.  Brought snacks, but that Subway sub sounds awfully good about now. 5.75 miles covered in 1:23.

10:45 am - In beautiful Cleveland Heights. Always seems like a nice place. Also, I have to pee. 9.01 miles down.

11:15 am - Crossing into the City of Cleveland proper. Next up: Little Italy. 11.06 miles covered.

Noon - East 71st and Euclid. Legs hurt a little. 13.72 miles down. People looking at me strangely. Need a second wind!

12:45 pm - Done! 16.58 miles. 4 hours, 10 minutes. Just over 15:00/mile for the walk. Let's eat.


FINAL UPDATE 2:25 P.M. - SAFE AND SOUND AT HOME:
Terry, Elissa and I had a very nice lunch. We dropped Elissa off back at her dorm (she joined me for the last mile or so of the walk) then drove back here to Wickliffe. My quadriceps muscles are killing me. Good gracious they hurt. Hamstrings, calves, etc. are all fine, just the quads. Ouch. That's going to take a few days to recover from.

I have to say that while it was fun, I have to retire that particular walk after three successful attempts. It's not the safest route (parts of it, anyway), and I think I want a new challenge. Maybe a 20-miler. We'll see. In the meantime, thanks for checking in! We'll see you tomorrow for a post in which I mindlessly complain about red lights...

10 things I miss from the 1980s

(1) Parachute Pants
I never wore them myself. But I liked the fact they even existed. Here's a photo:

How many times in the 80s did I say to myself, "It would be perfect if I had a zippered pocket just above my right knee to carry this object around, but darn it, these stupid Bugle Boy jeans just don't offer what I need!" (The answer, by the way, is zero. I never said that to myself. Nor did any other sane person. By the way, nice white socks, Mr. Model.)


(2) The Music
You actually can't classify every piece of popular music released from 1980 through 1989 as "80s Music," because it's all so different. (The same is probably true for any decade.) There was late-era disco, New Wave, hair metal, second-generation punk, etc. I liked almost all of it.


(3) The Hair
We rocked us some pretty rad hair in the 80s. Most guys I knew favored the parted-in-the-middle-and-feathered-back style. Early in the decade, girls used their curling irons to dangerous extremes. Later in the decade, they just teased up their 'do to record heights. Then there was the Flock of Seagulls guy:

That's Mike Score. He's bald now. So it goes...


(4) The Blatant Disregard for Anything But Making Money
This is not the most socially redeeming feature of the decade, but it was pretty funny to watch. No one even tried to pretend they had anything resembling altruistic motives (see Gecko, Gordon).


(5) The Ties
For whatever reason, we in the 80s decided that neckties should be no more than about 2 inches across. Which isn't necessarily a bad look. Except if you take it in this direction:

In which case, it probably doesn't work. (I also never liked tying those things. I like the appearance of a wide-tie knot much better. I was either ahead of or behind my time, depending on how you look at it.)


(6) Young Mike Tyson
Before the prison term. And the ear biting. And the face tattoo. Before all of that, there was just Iron Mike. And he was fearsome, both as a boxer and as a human being. Will Smith even did a five-minute rap about him that white people loved. Mike not only beat people, he destroyed them.

I miss that Mike. He was fun to watch. As long as you weren't the poor guy he was punching in the head.

(7) 80s Malls

There are still malls, of course, but they're different now. 80s malls had their own hip aura. They were the place to be, socially. And they had Chess King. And Spencer's Gifts back before it got scary. And Orange Julius (it was required by law in the 80s that all malls must have at least one Orange Julius store.) My daughter works in a mall now and I don't enjoy going there nearly as much as I used to. Maybe because malls also lost their bookstores. I could spend hours in a mall bookstore.

(8) David Hasselhoff

The Hoff is still around, I know. But he doesn't look like this anymore:

Simply put to all of you kids out there, our Hoff was way better than your Hoff.

(9) The Commodore 64

The Commodore was my first computer. I got it for Christmas 1983. In the following five years, I amassed an impressive collection of pirated software. And I met a kid online who, weeks after my friend Kevin and I went to his house, was arrested for running some sort of credit card scam using his Commodore. Cyber crime didn't originate in 2002!

I'm including a picture of a Commodore 64 only because it makes me happy just to look at it:

(10) Having This Much Hair

A runner's reaction to the bombs in Boston

The horrible events at this week's Boston Marathon broke my heart, for reasons obvious and not so obvious.

The obvious stuff is readily apparent (as obvious stuff tends to be). Three people killed and more than 100 wounded, some whose limbs had to be amputated. Sickening, maddening, wildly unacceptable stuff. I hate the fact that it even happened.

But there's an added dimension to the whole thing if you've ever competed in a long-distance running event, particularly the 26.2-mile marathon.

I don't claim to be an expert on this subject, as I've only ever run one full marathon. And that was nearly 12 years ago. I've also done one half marathon of 13.1 miles and countless local races of shorter distances ranging from 5K to 10 miles.

I've heard the process of training for and running a long-distance race described as "spiritual," and in many ways that is spot on. You put your heart and soul into preparing not only your body but also your mind and spirit for what is often a grueling but deeply fulfilling experience.

I've been there and done that myself many times. Not at anything resembling world-class levels of performance, of course, but I've been there.

Which is why my thoughts turned to the runners who were nearest to the two explosions as they happened.

Being near the explosions meant they were near the finish line. Within yards of it, in fact.

Over the course of the nine months I spent training for the 2001 Towpath Marathon, I often envisioned what it would be like as I approached that finish line. Just the thought of it (without having yet experienced it) gave me chills.

Then, when it actually happened, I felt overwhelmed. I can hardly describe it. When you set yourself a goal like that and work so hard to attain it (through literal blood, sweat and tears), you feel almost every emotion possible when the moment finally arrives.

So here these people were, yards away from completing the most prestigious marathon there is, and then the whole world turned upside down for several minutes.

Please understand, failing to finish a race is nothing compared with the tragedy and loss of human life that occurred on Copley Square. It's inconsequential, at best.

But I couldn't help but feel sorry for those people who came so close and then had the whole thing go wrong.

These were not the people whose stories you would know. These weren't the fleet-footed Kenyans and other supremely talented athletes who log sub-6-minute miles and finish marathon courses in just over two hours.

These people were...well, they were me. My time in my one and only marathon was 3 hours, 46 minutes, 22 seconds. (You don't EVER forget your first marathon time. The numbers are burned into your brain.) The bombs in Boston went off about 4 hours and 9 minutes into the race.

Given that the Boston course is markedly more difficult than the Towpath, and given that I'm a little older and slower now, 4 hours and 9 minutes is probably just about where I would have been finishing had I achieved one of my life goals and run this year's Boston Marathon.

Not that this has anything to do with me, but I can relate to these people. I'm sure every one of them is more grateful to be safe and sound than to have run the last several feet of a race they had essentially completed anyway.

It's just that for those who pull on running tights and get out on the roads day after day to log their miles, there's an added degree of empathy for what happened that goes beyond even the anguish felt by the American public at large (and that's saying something, given how deeply this seems to have affected the average person).

So God bless my running friends who were in Boston that day − fast, slow, or in between. I'm glad you're OK physically, and I hope you're all OK inside, as well. Keep on keepin' on, as they say.

Flying without a license

I'm finding that I accidentally leave my zipper down all the time these days.

Not just, say, once every few months. But all the time.

I'll look in a mirror and everything will seem to be reasonably OK (as "reasonably OK" as my appearance gets at this point), except my fly will be down.

Why is this? What's happening to me?

Two theories:

(1) Mental decline (see yesterday's post about impending brain death)

(2) Weight loss

I've been doing the Weight Watchers thing for a little more than four months now, and the results have been excellent. I feel great.

One of the byproducts of significant weight loss is, of course, that your clothes no longer fit. I have an array of pants with waist sizes a good 2 to 4 inches larger than what they need to be.

That may not sound like much, but even a couple of inches can make you look like a NutriSystem "before" photo when it comes to pants.

So I have all of these big pants. I'll put on a pair and button them, and then immediately I'll go to a mirror to see if they look too big or baggy. I'll pull the waist out (again, like a "before" picture) and stand sideways while looking at myself at the mirror, thinking "I really need to go out and buy some new pants."

It takes me 20 to 30 seconds to go through this ritual, and by the time I finish it, I'm on to the next thing. Putting on my shirt or whatever. Well, actually, no. Pants are always last in my daily dressing routine. Do you do that? Put your clothes on in the same order every day? I do. And I always will. Don't judge me.

Anyway, I move on, and I forget that all I've done is snapped up the pants. I've not actually zipped them. So I walk around like a doofus, which while not an entirely unnatural state for me is still not a desirable one.

And then later, say when I have to go to the bathroom, I discover that I've been walking around with a security breach at Los Pantalones.

That's embarrassing.

By the way, I never realized there are so many ways to say "your zipper is down" until a few seconds ago. The list includes:

• You need to bring your tray table to the upright and locked position.
• XYZ (Examine Your Zipper).
• Mind the gap (for our British friends).
• Your barn door is open.
• You've got Windows on your laptop (a personal favorite).

How many people notice that my zipper is down and don't say anything? I'm hoping the answer is "none" and that I'm blowing this problem out of proportion. But there's a part of me that knows everyone notices and you're all laughing at me.

And I thought we were friends.

Should I be worried by the fact that I'm essentially brain dead?

Next month will mark 21 years since the last time I was officially a student (that's how long it has been since John Carroll University, in a stunningly ill-advised move, conferred upon me a Bachelor of Arts degree in English and History).

I was a pretty darned good college student. And that's because I learned the system.

I learned the secret to getting an "A" in every one of my courses while working nearly full-time and juggling the other everyday responsibilities of life.

I'll let you kids in on what that secret is right now.

(I'm not even sure I'm supposed to be telling you this, but what the heck.)

The secret to academic success and getting good grades is...do the work.

If your professor assigns you reading to do before the next class, do the reading. If you have a paper due next Wednesday, write it and turn it in on time. If you're attending a lecture, pay attention and take notes.

Amazing, right? Like, I should put this into a book and sell it. I'll make millions!

The point being that there IS no secret. There's absolutely no substitute for hard work in school. So work hard and you'll be fine. Don't cut corners. Is that clear? I hope so.

Of course, that assumes your mental faculties are reasonably sharp. And mine were sharp in my late teens and early 20s. I could absorb new material at an astounding rate and spit it back out perfectly in a two-hour exam or 20-page paper. I was just good at it.

But now I'm finding that's not the case anymore.

I know this because I've been taking review classes in an attempt to gain my APR certification through the Public Relations Society of America. APR stands for "Accredited in Public Relations," and as I've explained to people who've asked about it, earning it is the equivalent in my field of saying, "Yes, I know what I'm doing."

The APR process consists of two major elements:

* A one- to two-hour "readiness review" in which you present a PR plan to a group of seasoned professionals to show you understand the elements of research, planning, execution and evaluation.

* A three-hour computer exam in which you answer multiple-choice questions about the art and science of public relations.

I'm not sweating the readiness review, really. That should be fine. It's that darned test that has me a little worried.

Mostly because I am stunningly good at selecting the wrong answer on multiple-choice questions. It's like I have a God-given talent for being wrong. I defy the Law of Averages and all of its corollaries.

And you just know they'll throw some tricky questions in there. Like the ones where answer A and answer B both sound right, and one of your choices (answer C, the one you should apparently always default to if you're not sure) is "Both A and B." I HATE THAT! DARN YOU, TEST-MAKERS!

Then there's this: As part of the very helpful series of review classes I'm taking, we have to read significant chunks of a textbook called "Cutlip & Center's Effective Public Relations." This book is something of a bible in my industry, and it's pretty comprehensive.

It's also, as I say, a textbook. It has been two decades since I've had to read and retain material from a textbook. Let's just say that my abilities in this area have slipped in the interim.

Quite a bit.

There was a time when I could read a 20-page chapter once through and tell you all of the salient points, including what was most likely to be on the ensuing quiz.

Now I read a 20-page chapter (twice), and if someone asks me what it was about, I'll say, "Well...it was kind of....you know, the chapter really covered....basically....I think it was about public relations. Or something business-related. One or the other. I think."

I can't retain anything I read. And I can't tell you how much this distresses me. Is it because I'm 43? I mean, 43 isn't really old, right? It's early middle age. One should not be exhibiting symptoms of advanced dementia at 43.

But then again, I can never remember why I walk into a room anymore. So why I think I should be able to read a textbook at 43 like I could when I was 22, I don't know.

We have two more review classes, then I'll probably have my readiness review in June and take the computer exam before the end of summer. In the meantime, I have a lot of material still to go over and absorb. And I'm not sure I'm up to it.

I just read a chapter from "Effective Public Relations" earlier today, and the only thing I can tell you is that it was generally about public relations.

Or business.

One or the other.

I think.

What people in my family actually mean when they say certain things

When my kids say, "There's nothing to eat in the house," what they mean is...
"Of course I know there are things to eat in the house. But they all require actual time and effort to prepare, and I'm stunningly lazy. I need you to fix me something to eat immediately while I sit and stare off into space."

When my wife says, "You're so weird," what she means is...
"You're a fool. I knew this when I married you, of course, but I never really thought it would be this...bad. How do you even live day to day?"

When my son is getting yelled at for something and asks, "Why are you freaking out?" what he means is...
"I know what I did was wrong and that I'm clueless. But I'm going to try and save face here by turning the tables and making it seem like you're doing something wrong. This has never actually worked to date, but I'm going to keep on trying."

When my youngest child says, "I didn't do it" what he means is...
"Well, yeah, I did do it."

When my children are asked if they have homework and they say, "No," what they mean is...
"Yes. Yes, I do have homework. But I'm going to wait and do it tomorrow in homeroom instead of doing the smart thing, which would be to finish it now while I have time. Instead, I'm going to watch this episode of 'Pretty Little Liars' that I've already seen. That sounds like a pretty solid decision."

When my 19-year-old daughter is asked if she spent the money she's supposed to be saving to pay for college on concert tickets (again) and says, "Yep, I did," what she means is...
"Yep, I did." (Elissa doesn't beat around the bush. She pretty much tells it like it is.)

When my son is told he needs to get off the Xbox in 10 minutes because we're all going to watch a movie, and he says "OK, I will," what he means is...
"Nope, I won't. Amazingly, you keep believing me when I say I'll get off the Xbox at a certain time. Then, when I don't do it, you act like this is the first time it has ever happened. As long as there are no consequences to this action, as repeatedly appears to be the case, I'm going to keep on doing it."

When my wife says, "Someone needs to go pick up Chloe from track," what she means is...
"YOU need to go pick up Chloe from track."

When my wife says, "Someone needs to go to the store and get me some pizza sauce," what she means is...
"YOU need to go to the store and get me some pizza sauce."

When my wife says, "Someone should clean up the cat puke in the living room," what she means is...
"I could theoretically clean up the cat puke, but I know that if I keep saying it enough times, eventually you'll clean it up yourself because, for some strange reason, it makes you feel guilty. You're such a sucker!"

When I was a paper boy...

The Cleveland Plain Dealer recently announced that it is going to cut home delivery of the newspaper back to three days a week beginning this summer. The paper will still publish every day, but you'll only be able to get it delivered to your front door three times a week.

Actually, "delivered to your front door" is a phrase that probably dates me. Of the relatively few people who still receive a newspaper at home, even fewer actually get it placed in or even near their front door. Most of the time, it's thrown into your driveway or placed in a newspaper tube in front of your house.

Another highly visible change is in the people who still deliver newspapers. When I was growing up, those people were almost always kids with paper bags slung over their shoulders. Nowadays, they're almost always adults driving cars.

I understand the economics of this. Newspapers, which are running on razor-thin profit margins, are better served giving larger routes (i.e., hundreds of customers) to adults than smaller routes (i.e., dozens of customers) to kids.

But that doesn't mean I don't miss the prototypical paper boy/girl. I was one myself.

Back in the early 80s, I delivered The Lake County News-Herald to 40 or so customers in my Wickliffe neighborhood. I had the brown and orange News-Herald paper bag, and every day I would make sure those customers received the news of the world.

This is back when people actually got their news from print newspapers, of course, and not from phones, tablets, iPods, etc.

I never minded delivering the papers. That part was actually kind of fun. It was the collecting I hated. Every two weeks you had to walk around to your customers' houses and hound them to pay you. And for some people, you really did have to hound them.

The good part about collecting, though, was that was obviously how you made your money. The lady from the newspaper would come around every two weeks to take the money and leave me with $30 or $40 profit, which I would use at arcades and to buy video game cartridges for my Atari 2600 system. In retrospect, I probably should have saved some of that cash...

I gave up my paper route in 7th grade once I started getting into more extracurricular activities at school. But I returned to the delivery business several years later as a 24-year-old adult.

By that point in my life, I was a full-time sports writer for The News-Herald. We didn't have any kids yet and we needed the extra money, so I took on a paper route. Again, didn't mind the delivering, but the collecting was less than fun.

I only kept that route for about six months, then dropped it once Elissa was born. But two memories stand out in my mind from the experience:

(1) It was fun doing full-service journalism. I would write articles for the paper, edit copy, help lay it out, etc., then get up the next day to actually deliver it, too. How often do you see that in anything other than a really small town?

(2) Mrs. Piacente, one of my customers, would always wait for me to show up with the paper on Saturday mornings. When I got to her house, she would ask what page my weekly Bowling Notes column was on so she could read it (she was a big bowler, that Mrs. Piacente). She would also occasionally ask me to do little odd jobs for her, including knocking the icicles off her house and changing the batteries in her kitchen clock. These were clearly tasks that fell under the "other duties as assigned" section of the paper boy job description.

And now the slow, painful death of newspapers is upon us. The three-day-a-week-home-delivery model, or other scenarios like it, will become increasingly prevalent. And eventually the print newspaper will die out in favor of e-news.

Which I'm actually fine with. But I'll always miss the feel and smell of newsprint. Newspapers have been a part of my life for decades, and they never really go out of your blood.

As long as we're being nostalgic here, may I suggest you watch the following video of a song written by a favorite artist of mine named David Francey? It documents his experiences as a paper boy back in his native Scotland. It's a tune I almost could have written myself. Enjoy:

Watching Mom grow old

My mom turns 81 years old today.

I'm not sure if I was supposed to tell you that. But considering the fact that she has never really used a computer in her life and has no plans to use one any time soon, I think it's safe to assume she won't be visiting our little blog to see this.

In many ways, it doesn't seem like my mom is or should be 81. She doesn't have gray/white hair, and she still moves fairly well.

I'm not sure anyone ever envisions their mom being 81. Their grandma, sure, but not their mom.

Yet there are plenty of signs that eight decades of living have indeed taken their toll on her. She's had a lot of health problems to deal with in the past year, including breathing and sinus issues and some nasty back pain. She wears an oxygen tube when she's sitting around the house (doctor's orders...believe me, it's not by choice).

And most of all, you can see it in her eyes. Getting old is not for the faint of heart, and the limitations it puts on my mom are clearly frustrating to her. She's used to being active. Getting things done. Working into the late hours on her sewing.

She's a seamstress, you understand. For years, that was the definitive image of my mom: either hunched over a sewing machine or pulling a needle and thread through a pair of pants or someone's new jacket that needed to be taken in.

She would sew and sew and sew. We would tell her she needed to take a break and she would just laugh and say, "That's OK, I need to finish this." It was only years later that I realized she did it because she loved it. She loved keeping busy.

After my dad died 14 years ago, Mom stayed active (and still did plenty of sewing). But year by year, you could see her slow down. It was almost imperceptible, but it was there.

My sister Judi started doing more and more things for her. Then, when Judi passed away four years ago, it was my sister Debbie who took over. Whether it's picking up a prescription or making a bank deposit or just dealing with the cable company over an unnecessary charge, Deb is the one who takes care of the mundane, increasingly difficult tasks in Mom's life.

And God bless her for it, too. I step in whenever asked, but it's Deb who keeps Mom feeling safe and happy. I'm not sure I could be more proud of my big sister.

I drove my mom to a doctor's appointment the other day. When we pulled up to the front door of the medical building, she opened the passenger side door of the car and got out. But it clearly took some effort. And a few seconds longer than it used to.

I watched her do all of this and was ready to get out and come around the car to help her, but she managed by herself (and she would have waved me away anyway).

As I drove away to go and park the car, I got a little misty-eyed. It wasn't because I suddenly saw that Mom is getting older, and that our bodies slow down as we age. That I already knew.

It was because, for whatever reason, it was at that moment I realized we had turned a corner. Mom is never going to smoothly get in and out of a car the way she used to. She's not suddenly going to become pain-free or never have to see a doctor.

The reality is that, for the rest of her life, she'll face increasing physical and mental challenges. That's just the way it works. When you get to be 80 or 90 years old, your body and your mind start to wear down. Unless you're blessed with exquisite genes, that's the reality of life.

And I know that. But in those couple of minutes between dropping Mom off and parking the car, I very quietly mourned the loss of the mother I grew up with.

I know that sounds morbid and probably overly dramatic, and I don't mean it to. It's just that, the 40-something Mom I remember from my childhood is gone forever. And for that matter, so is the 5-year-old Scott that depended on her for everything.

As Kurt Vonnegut used to say, "And so it goes."

I know I'm not the first person ever to deal with the reality of an aging parent, nor will I be the last. My own kids will go through it themselves in a few years. (Of course, they think I'm old now...)

It's just one of those life experiences you know will eventually come, but that you don't spend much time thinking about in advance.

Life goes on. Time moves forward. And we either move with it or get swept up.

I just hate seeing Mom getting swept up in it after so many years of being the one pushing forward. But that, if I'm being honest, is more my problem than hers.

Happy birthday, Mom. I hope you enjoy your day. You deserve it.

People sure do love their daddy-daughter songs...

I find this amazing:

The second-most-read post in the history of this blog is, for reasons I cannot fathom, one titled "Street Walking," which I wrote last year after I walked 17 miles to work. It has received 837 page views, meaning that particular page has been viewed 837 separate times.

OK, fine.

What, then, is the most-read post in the history of this blog? That would be one headlined "Five Songs That Make Dads of Daughters Start Blubbering," which appeared here a little over a year ago on April 6, 2012. That was one where I listed five of the top daddy-daughter songs that are sure to bring on the tears. Fun, a little sentimental, but certainly nothing special.

Or at least I thought so.

How many page views has that daddy-daughter post received? In a little more than a year, that one post has been viewed 9,319 times. Yes, 9,319 (or 11 times more frequently than the second-most-read post).

I cannot begin to explain this. Or I suppose I can. But it would be a total guess.

For one thing, the daddy-daughter bond is a sacred one. Dads love their sons, no doubt, but their love for their daughters is, while no more intense than what they feel for their boys, different. It's just different.

It's a clinging, protective bond, and our society encourages it. It expects dads to hate their daughters' boyfriends. It expects them to put their little princesses on a pedestal. It expects them always to look on their daughters as "Daddy's Little Girl."

I'm not sure if this is all good or bad. But I do know that people are interested in getting ideas for daddy-daughter songs, and I can only assume it's to play at weddings or other special family events. I mean, really, why else do you need a daddy-daughter song?

Other than to start crying randomly as you're driving along and, say, Bob Carlisle's "Butterfly Kisses" comes on the radio. Or at least that's what I've heard. From a friend.

Go to Google and search for any of the following phrases, and you'll see this little blog appear on the first page of results for all of them (or at least the last time I checked it did):

• "daddy daughter songs"
• "songs about daughters"
• "songs about dads and daughters"
• "songs about fathers and daughters"
• "songs about daughters and dads"
• "songs about daughters growing up"
• "songs for dads from daughters"
• "songs from daughters to fathers"
• "songs for dads and daughters"

Like many webmasters and bloggers, I use Google's popular Analytics tool to keep track of visitors to "They Still Call Me Daddy." It tells me how long you all spend on the blog, what you read most, where you live, what operating systems you're using, what links or websites brought you here, etc.

I don't even bother checking the section of Analytics that tells me which search engine keywords bring the most traffic to my blog. Because it's always (always) those phrases above.

I would like to think that sometime in the past year, a wedding has taken place somewhere in the world that featured one of the five songs from my list. And that the bride and groom secretly thank me for making their special day perfect with the ideal Father-Daughter Dance song.

I will, in the interest of making their joy complete, accept a cash donation in return for this service. It's the least I can do.

The fun and routine of putting your kids to bed

Some years ago, I wrote a song that I would play on our old Yamaha keyboard for the kids before they went to bed. I honestly don't remember why I wrote it in the first place, or why it started to become a bedtime staple in our house. But I did, and it is.

Now before we go any further, I should make the honest disclaimer that saying "I wrote a song" is probably a little ambitious. I mean, it IS a song. And I DID write it. But in reality, it's just a short melody with a small bridge section. Playing it through once probably takes something like 30 seconds.

OK, wait, here's what I'll do: I'll run upstairs right now, play the song, and take a quick cell phone video so you can at least hear what I'm talking about. Here it is:

Sorry for the poor camera work in the second half of the video. Not only am I not a songwriter, I'm most definitely not a videographer, either. But you get the idea.

Anyway, the point is, this song has become a strange nighttime ritual for us. I've played it many hundreds of times since it was written (in, I think, 2005?) At first I did it for Elissa, Chloe, Jared and Melanie when they were little. Nowadays it's played only for Jack's benefit, since he's the first one to go to bed each night.

As you heard in the video, I like to put background music to it to spice things up a little. Sometimes I do it as a samba. The next night might be heavy metal. The following night could be ska or punk or country or whatever other musical styling our Casio keyboard (a definite step up from the original Yamaha on which the tune was written) has to offer. But it's always the same melody played in essentially the same way.

This got me to thinking about bedtime routines we parents have with our kids. As they get older, they of course start getting themselves into pajamas and brushing their teeth and all of the little activities they'll likely adopt for the rest of their lives.

But when they're little, you as Mom or Dad have to drive the process. You brush their teeth. You get them into pajamas. You tell them to go pee. And if you're so inclined, you say prayers with them. It can be time-consuming, but it's also very comforting.

I've always enjoyed bedtime with the kids because it's a nice opportunity to wind down from the day's whirlwind of activities and just spend a few one-on-one minutes with your child. When Elissa was really little, after she said her prayers, I would pretend to spread ice cream all over her and build "an Elissa Sundae," which I would "eat" off of her belly and tickle her when I was finished. She loved and always looked forward to it.

Now she's 19 and we don't do the Elissa Sundae thing anymore. Well, maybe she does it herself, in which case that's her own business and I don't want to know what weird, cultish bedtime rituals she's into.

Anyway, I would be most interested to hear what nighttime routines you all have, or what memories you have of routines with your own kids, or even from when you were a kid with your parents. It's not often we step back and realize how much our children will remember those night-in, night-out activities the rest of their lives.

Especially if they involve weird, synthesizer-based music or ice-cream-related tickling practices.

What it will be like when my kids move out someday...

Reasons I Want My Kids to Grow Up and Move Out

1. I'll no longer have to chauffeur them every time they have a practice or school activity, or want to go to a friend's to hang out.
2. My house will be 57 times cleaner.
3. If someone eats the last apple (the one I wanted), I'll have no problem identifying the suspect (my wife).
4. I can devote an entire room, or even two, to whatever I want. Like having an office. I've always wanted an office.
5. You will never again hear any complaints about dinner, seeing as how everything Terry cooks is awesome and a full 100% of dinner-related objections in the house emanate from our offspring.
6. I'll be far less inclined to wear pants on a regular basis.
7. The designated electorate charged with selecting what movie we're going to watch will consist entirely of Terry and me...and not five other people with far different cinematic tastes.
8. I'll no longer feel obligated to coach or volunteer for sports and school-related activities. I will, with a clear conscience, say, "Sorry, but I can't."
9. If a toilet in the house gets clogged, I know it will be fixed right away. Because Terry and I always grab the plunger and remedy the situation immediately. Others in the house who shall remain nameless do not.
10. When it's time to go to bed, we'll go to bed. And it will be quiet. No one in the living room watching TV or playing video games. No one stomping around upstairs. No one making ungodly amounts of noise in the kitchen at 1 a.m.

Reason I Do NOT Want My Kids to Grow Up and Move Out

1. I will, without a doubt, miss every single car trip, sock left on the floor, last apple eaten, room filled to capacity, dinner complaint, forced-pants-wearing situation, movie night, youth coaching opportunity, clogged toilet, and loud middle-of-the-night snack run. I will miss each of these things, and especially the munchkins who perpetrate them, desperately. Which is why I'm trying my darnedest to appreciate it all while I still can. On balance, I think they can stick around for a little while...

Another Friday, another set of random thoughts...

(1) What's your philosophy on owning the railroads and utilities in Monopoly? I can go either way here. On one hand, your maximum return if you own all four railroads is just $200 in rent. That's nothing compared to having hotels on any of the medium- or high-priced color groups. But then again, that 200 bucks comes in handy for buying those houses and hotels. You can nickel and dime your opponent to death.

(2) If you force me to choose just one Monopoly token to use for the rest of my life, I'm going with the iron. Not the dog, not the thimble, not the race car. The iron. It says you're willing to be different. It says you respect the history of the game (this year's edition of Monopoly is the last one that will feature the iron, which is being retired). It says you're an old guy who has been playing Monopoly for more than three decades.

(3) Jared and I are going to see a Lake County Captains baseball game tonight. The Captains are a low (Class A) minor-league affiliate of my beloved Cleveland Indians, and they play just 10 minutes from our house. I honestly don't care what level of baseball you're talking about, though, because I get excited at the prospect of seeing a game...any game. Even though the temperature tonight will dip down into the 30s. It's baseball, baby!

(4) Speaking of Jared, I sometimes watch him play the very popular "Call of Duty" game on our Xbox. And I think back to the days when my friends and I would spend hours on our Atari 2600 game systems. Those early 80s graphics were brutal, but instinctively I think we knew that video game technology would improve exponentially during our lifetimes. And it has. Amazingly so. Watching "Call of Duty" is like watching a movie. I can't get over it. But I do sort of long for the simplicity of Pac Man and Combat...

If my children want to make me happy, here's what they'll do...

(1) Stop leaving lights on in unoccupied rooms
If you leave a room and there's no other person left in that room, and if the light is on, turn the light off. Off. Turn the light off. Just turn the light off. Don't leave the light on. Turn it off. On = bad. Off = good. Is this clear? You're shooting for the light being in the "off" position here. That's what I'm trying to get across. If you leave the room, and you're the last person in the room, the light should be off when you leave. Not on. Off.

(2) Be respectful to your mother
Most of the time you do this. Sometimes you do not. It makes me extremely angry when you are not. If you want to talk disrespectfully to me, then you and I will have a conversation that will result in you changing your attitude. But if you're disrespectful to your mother, then you and I are likely to have a physical altercation that will also result in you changing your attitude. And a possible trip to the emergency room.

(3) Don't spill anything on the kitchen floor I just washed
I always want you to be careful not to spill anything on the floor, but you need to be extra careful in the 24 hours after I wash the floor. I work very hard on the floor. I like it to be nice and white and clean. At least for a little while. I understand that eventually it will get dirty. But please, not in the day following a floor washing. Please. Keep your juice, popcorn, and/or crumb-producing foods away from my nice floor, OK? OK.

(4) Don't lie
You will be in trouble if you break the rules. You will be in Level 1 Trouble if you also lie about it. Most of the time (I would say 85%), we know when you're lying. And your mother especially knows when you're lying. It's scary. Like she has some superhuman sense for untruths. Don't cross her. I'm telling you, don't cross her.

(5) Give me a hug
I don't care if you're a male child of mine. And specifically if you're a nearly-6-foot-1-inch male child of mine. I like when you just come up and hug me. Continue doing this. Always. Your father will be greatly appreciative.

Four little things that make me inordinately happy

(1) Winning $2 on a scratch-off lottery ticket
Every once in awhile when I'm in the grocery store and I have a couple of singles in my wallet, I'll buy an instant lottery ticket. I always buy a $2 ticket on the theory that there are twice as many winners on $2 tickets than there are on $1 tickets. I have no evidence to back this up and it's probably not at all true, but I choose to believe it. Anyway, no matter which lottery game I play, most of the time I lose. My 2 dollars goes to someone else. But every so often (once or twice a year), I'll actually have a winner. And that "winner" is invariably in the amount of $2. Which means all I did was get my money back. Yet I feel like I pulled a fast one on the lottery people. I'm a simple man.

(2) Reruns of the Carol Burnett Show
One of the funniest shows in the history of the television. Tim Conway could make me laugh at a funeral. If I come across an old episode of this show, I no longer need the remote because the channel ain't changing for the next 60 minutes.

(3) Kids playing pick-up sports
I don't even care what it is: football, baseball, soccer, whatever. Just seeing kids getting together informally without uniforms, without coaches, and without screaming parents just to play a game for the fun of it tells me that we, as a civilization, are not nearly as bad off as I thought we were.

(4) Dark chocolate in any amount
If dark chocolate does not prove conclusively the existence of a loving God, I don't know what does.

I sincerely hope you hold me in high regard

I have many flaws, but one of the worst is the fact that I care deeply about what you think of me.

I don't mean "you, the blog reader," I mean "you, the random person living anywhere in the world."

So much of what I do is driven by the idea that I want everyone to like me. Which is why you and I should never go out together for lunch. Unless you're prepared to pick a place where we're going to eat, it won't actually happen.


POTENTIAL LUNCH MATE: Where do you want to eat?

ME: Where do you want to eat?

POTENTIAL LUNCH MATE: Well, I don't know. Do you have a favorite place?

ME: Yes. It's wherever you want to eat.

POTENTIAL LUNCH MATE: How about Applebee's?

ME: Great! I love Applebee's!

POTENTIAL LUNCH MATE: Or maybe T.G.I. Friday's?

ME: Oh yeah, T.G.I. Friday's for sure! Great choice!

POTENTIAL LUNCH MATE (getting suspicious): Or we could eat at McDonald's.

ME: YES! Oh man, you're good at this! I could eat at McDonald's every day!

POTENTIAL LUNCH MATE: How about the town dump? Maybe we can pick through old Styrofoam containers and get our lunches for free.

ME: I can't believe I didn't think of that! You're really smart! The dump, yes! I really hope you like me!


I think it's because I don't do conflict well. So, subconsciously, I figure if I can just keep you liking me at all times, we won't ever disagree. And if we don't ever disagree, I don't have to run away in sheer panic at the idea of working through a difference of opinion.

This, as you might guess, is no way to go through life. Especially when I tell my kids all the time, "Don't worry about what other people think. You just be you, and that's what's important."

I admire people who can just be themselves and who genuinely don't care what others think of them. These are people who are truly living life. Not that we should all go around acting like rude, arrogant jerks toward one another. It's just that I think people who unshackle themselves from the constraints of others' opinions are the only ones who are really free.

Like I said, though, I even care what total strangers think about me. If I'm driving and accidentally cut someone off, my first thought isn't, "Whew, that was close! Good thing no one got hurt. I need to be more careful." No, what I'm thinking is, "I need to get the guy's license number so I can track down his address and send him a note of apology. Now he thinks I'm a bad driver and a jerk AND I CAN'T STAND THAT SOME GUY WHOM I'M NEVER LIKELY TO SEE AGAIN THINKS BADLY OF ME! MY DAY IS RUINED!"

And you know what I'm thinking right now? I'm thinking, "Oh no, I've gone to the trouble of writing this blog post, and when people read it they're going to think I'm weird and neurotic. I just want them to think I'm a nice guy and a good father and a faithful husband and someone they could be friends with! AAAAAGH! I'M  BACK TO THINKING IN CAPITAL LETTERS AGAIN!"

I'm telling you, it's exhausting to be like this.

Ranking the best cartoons of all time

One of my favorite blog posts I've written was one I did last year on the best breakfast cereals ever produced. I love cereal, which is why I enjoyed putting that one together.

I also love cartoons. I grew up on them and I still watch them when I get a chance. And I'm not necessarily talking about the adult-oriented modern ones like The Simpsons or Family Guy, though the writing on both shows is occasionally brilliant.

No, I'm talking about the stuff people of my generation and older used to watch on Saturday mornings. Or weekdays after school. I'm talking about the classics, my friends.

There are many old-time cartoons worthy of inclusion on this list, but here are the five that I would put at the very top. You may, of course, disagree. And you may, of course, be wrong.

Anyway, here we go:

#5 - The Jetsons
I struggled mightily choosing between The Jetsons and Tom & Jerry. Both are great, but I've always been a slightly bigger fan of George Jetson and his space-age family. For one thing, the theme song rocked. For another, The Jetsons had Astro the talking dog, whose approach to the English language was a precursor to Scooby Doo. Speaking of which...

#4 - Scooby Doo
All you need to know about Scooby Doo comes from Norm Macdonald playing the part of Burt Reynolds in Saturday Night Live's "Celebrity Jeopardy": "That was a funny dog, Scooby Doo. Rode around in a van and solved mysteries." That he did. Except he didn't. Fred, Velma and Daphne pretty much solved the mysteries, while Scooby and Shaggy walked around in fear of ghosts and looking for food. There are also intimations (played up in the 2002 movie version of the cartoon) that Scooby and Shaggy would partake of certain illegal organic substances. I can believe that.

#3 - Popeye
It's nearly impossible to expose your kids to the wonders of Popeye nowadays. I just can't find it anywhere (though there's probably a 24-hour Popeye Network in the upper reaches of our digital cable offerings, like somewhere around Channel 7,000). Popeye is outstanding. Not so much the individual plotlines, which almost always involved Popeye having to win over Olive Oyl from Bluto/Brutus. The hilariousness of Popeye comes in the stuff he says under his breath. Popeye can make me laugh so hard I'll cry.

#2 - Looney Toons/Merrie Melodies
Most people just call these cartoon shorts "Bugs Bunny" because he's the character most associated with them. But my favorite episode − by far − stars Daffy Duck. If you are capable of watching Daffy as Robin Hood and not at least chuckling a few times, then I'm not sure you and I are from the same planet. Outstanding writing, outstanding animation. I hear that Looney Toons theme song and I'm immediately transported back to the mid- and late 70s, when I would watch a full half hour of these 'toons every morning before school.

#1 - The Flintstones
It does not get any better than the 'Stones, as far as I'm concerned. But I'm actually very particular when it comes to which vintage. I'm talking about the early Flintstones episodes when the characters were drawn a little more clumsily (with thick black outlines) and Mel Blanc gave Barney a deeper, more "dumb guy" voice. That's classic 'Stones right there. I refused to acknowledge most of the episodes from the last season or two of the show, especially once the Great Gazoo came into play. And the one where the two families traveled back in time was just plain weird. No, just give me Fred and Barney driving to work every morning and the boys somehow extricating themselves from a wacky situation and I'm happy.