Raising an Evil Scientist

When you watch a movie featuring an evil scientist like Lex Luthor or Doctor Moreau or any one of the many James Bond villains who have created Nobel Prize-worthy devices designed to wreak havoc upon an unsuspecting public, do you ever wonder about their parents? I mean, who raised these unhinged geniuses? Movies generally don’t delve into the genealogy of these characters, so the best one can do is speculate about their upbringing. I’ve always assumed evil scientists were brought up by unusually intelligent, absurdly wealthy, extremely detached parents who have a variety of offshore banking accounts and may have accidentally killed someone whilst fox hunting. I’ve never really pictured evil scientists as being brought up in an average middle class household with loving parents who are trying their best to set a good example for their offspring—that is until the last couple of years.

Now I’m not saying for sure that my six-year-old son is going to become an evil scientist. I mean, he hasn’t expressly stated that as what he wants to be when he grows up, but there are a variety of indications that if he took a career assessment test today, “Evil Scientist” would be toward the top of the list.

First off, my son has an actual super power, which in many movies—especially comic book movies—seems to be a prerequisite for evil scientists. My son’s super power is that he can read at an alarmingly fast rate. Do you remember those FedEx commercials from many years ago with the guy who spoke ridiculously fast? That’s what it sounds like when my son reads aloud. Indeed, when my wife and I went to parent-teacher conferences last month, his teacher told us that at this point in the year the goal is for first graders to read 23 words per minute and when our son was last tested he was at 187. I’m not saying this to be a braggart, but rather to point out that my son has an unusual skill that could possibly be harnessed for nefarious purposes. (Don’t ask me how.)

But my evil scientist suspicions are not based solely on my son’s speed reading skills. My mom read incredibly fast, too, and she wasn’t an evil scientist—she was a preschool teacher. No, beyond my son’s supernatural reading skills, are the various bizarre comments he makes that often give me pause and sometimes have me looking over my shoulder.

A couple of weeks before my son started Kindergarten, when he was a scant 5-years-old, he and I had this exchange…

Him: When I become an astronaut, should I blow up the moon so it's always day time?

Me: If you blow up the moon it wouldn't always be day time. There just wouldn't be any moon out when it's night time.

Him: Okay, then I’ll blow up the sun.

I had a bit of a chuckle about this exchange at the time, but a couple of years later, I wonder if it was my son hatching his first evil plot.

At the beginning of first grade my son asked a question out of the blue that, on the surface, seemed more inquisitive than sinister…

Him: Can germs see the smallest particles in the world?

Me: Well germs don’t have eyes, so I don’t think they can see anything. But even if they did, I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t be able to see quarks.

The question seemed relatively harmless at the time, but now I wonder what his motive was in asking in the first place. Was he developing a scheme to equip germs with microscopic devices to split atoms? Probably not, but just to be safe I decided not to buy him the Little Tikes Nuclear Fission kit for Christmas that year.

More recently my son and I had an exchange that I found particularly disturbing. About a week ago I was trying to wake my son up in the morning and he was completely zonked out—snoring heavily and not responding to my gentle shaking of his shoulder as I stood over him. After a few failed attempts, I sat down next to him on his bed. No sooner did my butt hit the mattress, then my son sat bolt upright, turned to me and said…

Him: Were you trying to collect human DNA?

Me: Um…no.

Him: Then why were you watching me sleep?

Me: Uhhhhhh. (I then nervously got up from his bed, gave him a queasy smile and backed out of the room.)

The fact that the first thought my son had upon seeing me looking at him when he awoke was that I might be trying to harvest his genetic material, tells me that seems like a reasonable possibility to him. And perhaps collecting human DNA is something that he, himself, has been contemplating. If I ever wake up to see my son standing over me in the morning I’ll be sure to check my body for small scars.

There have been other statements my son has made over the past couple of years that have given me pause, such as when he asked, “How do yams communicate with other yams?” (Is he hoping to harness an army of tubers?) Or when he confidently stated, “I fart in cursive.” (Perhaps he’s developing a second super power beyond speed reading).

My son’s cornucopia of strange statements is only one of the many clues to the unique way he sees the world. His artwork also reveals his skewed view of reality. When most first graders draw a picture of their family, you see basic smiling stick figures holding hands and/or joyfully waving. Not so much with my son’s art, which seems like some sort of twisted collaboration between Pablo Picasso and Gary Larson.

While I’m flattered that my son decided to make me the central figure in our family portrait, I’m not sure why he sees me as some sort of monstrosity with a head 75 times the size of my body and wildly hypnotic eyes. (Although it is accurate that my nose runs a lot.) Or maybe he doesn’t see me like that right now, but once he gets ahold of my DNA, that’s the direction that I’m headed.

So maybe the question I should really be concerned about isn’t “What kind of parents turn a kid into an evil scientist?” so much as, “What can an evil scientist turn his parents into?” I don’t know the answer for sure, but I’m definitely keeping a close eye on my son’s science fair project this year.

Raising the Bar For Children's Excuses

As a parent of young children I have become quite used to my kids coming out of their room every 20 minutes after they have supposedly gone to bed. The excuses they have for coming out are usually pretty standard: “I’m thirsty,” “My head hurts,” “I heard a noise,” and of course the generic “I can’t sleep.”

But tonight, not long after my six-year-old went to bed, he came out and said, “I was wearing socks but my feet weren’t cold, so I took them off and threw them and one ended up on my ceiling fan blade.”

The fact that my small son somehow managed to hurl a sock from his bed, seven feet into the air onto a ceiling fan blade was so impressive to me that I didn’t even question why he felt compelled to throw them in the first place, rather than gently placing them on the floor next to his bed.

He didn’t get into any trouble for his bizarre feat, but the truth is he has now set the bar for excuses for leaving his bedroom pretty high. After the fan blade incident I won’t be satisfied with “I’m thirsty” anymore. If my son comes out of his room again I’m hoping for something epic. Maybe something involving wire hangers, Venetian blinds and a bucket of marbles.

Star Wars: The Force Has Never Awoken In This One

I feel compelled to begin this blog entry by saying that I DO NOT hate the Star Wars movies. I don’t even dislike them, for the most part. But my horrible confession—the shadowy burden I must release from my soul, is that I just think they’re okay; not amazing or stupendous or life-changing, but just pretty good.

I’m not saying this to offend anybody or to say that I think the gazillion people who do find Star Wars amazing, stupendous or life-changing are wrong, because I don’t; but rather I make this admission to come clean, so I can walk in the light of day without people thinking I am something that I am not.

Indeed, admitting this is difficult, because when people find out that I don’t share their unbridled passion for Star Wars, they often look at me differently—like I’m a cute puppy with really bad halitosis. Okay from a distance, but you don’t want to get too close.

The original Star Wars (I refuse to call it Episode IV or A New Hope, or whatever other ridiculous moniker it has since accrued) came out when I was seven. I saw the movie with my family a couple of months after it came out when the hype surrounding it was at its height. I remember thinking it was okay, but I also remember dozing off at some point during the film and being startled awake by the baleful wailing of a giant furry creature trapped in a garbage disposal. Mostly I remember wondering why all my friends were going bonkers about this movie. It wasn’t bad (although even at seven I recognized some of the acting was) but it certainly wasn’t rocking my world.

Indeed, the sensation that Star Wars caused was a mystery to me. My friends were acquiring Star Wars toys and paraphernalia at an alarming rate—action figures, model kits, lunch boxes, pajamas, and of course the light saber. I will admit that I did want and got a light saber, but not because it had anything to do with Star Wars. I got it because every other kid my age had it and that made me want it. If every other kid played with a neon green, rubber cow I would have wanted that too.

When The Empire Strikes Back came out three years later and Return of the Jedi came out three years after that, I saw them and had more or less the same reaction as I did to the original. Did I enjoy them? Sure. Did I feel compelled to see them over and over and over again until I memorized every line? Surely, not. (Indeed, the only movie from that timeframe that I felt that way about was Airplane!)

When the next trio of Star Wars flicks came out from 1999 through 2005, I eventually got around to seeing all of those in the theater as well. While they each had their moments, these were nothing more than mediocre in my mind. A decade or so later I don’t remember much about this grouping of movies other than the fact that Darth Maul was a badass and, had Jar Jar Binks been crushed under foot by an AT-AT walker in the first five minutes of the first film, it would have made the rest of the series infinitely better.

And that brings us to 2015 and Star Wars: The Force Awakens, which, as far as I can tell, everybody on the planet who does not live in my household has seen. In the past nine days since the movie has opened I have been asked by many friends and coworkers when I plan on seeing the film, to which I respond, “I don’t know, maybe March or April when the crowds start to die down a bit.” Sometimes I get a chuckle in response (although I’m not saying it to be funny) and sometimes I get a nasty or incredulous look conveying the unspoken “What the hell is wrong with you?”

The truth is I do want to see it. I’ve heard great things about the new movie and my hunch is that when I finally get around to seeing it, I’ll think it’s okay. And okay isn’t bad. Of course if Airplane! suddenly had a reboot and a new movie hit the theaters I’d be first in line for the midnight showing. Surely I can’t be serious, you say? I am serious! And don’t call me Shirley!

Woefully Out of Touch With Modern Music

Recently, I was reminded of how woefully out of touch I am when it comes to current music. This realization happened as a result of my organization’s annual “No Talent Talent Show.” The show, which is perhaps the most anticipated event of the year among employees, showcases our staff’s utter lack of talent, often to hilarious effect. Proud of my own ineptitude, I enter the show every year and as such, always see the list of acts the day before, when we are informed of the order in which we’ll go on.

When I looked at the list of acts in this year’s show I noticed that one group was doing the song “Hello.” I immediately assumed it was the Lionel Richie song released in 1984 and was excited to see the performance, since I bought the album Can’t Slow Down when I was in junior high and listened to it incessantly at that time. I waited with bated breath to see their send up of Lionel’s iconic song, but when the music came on, it was quickly evident that this was a totally different song.

I looked around the room and it was clear that almost everyone there other than me was familiar with this song. It wasn’t a bad song, and the spoof of the video done by my coworkers was quite entertaining, but I couldn’t help but feel like an old, out of touch relic.

A couple of acts later it was my turn, so I got up and did my well-rehearsed finger dance to Soft Cell’s 1981 classic “Tainted Love.” People seemed to respond well (if you consider nervous laughter a good response) and afterwards our emcee made a comment that made me have an epiphany. She said, “So, half of you were born before that song came out, and half of you were born after.” Looking at the crowd, I realized she was more or less correct, and perhaps “Tainted Love” wasn’t as current of a song as I thought it was.

After the glow from the No Talent Talent Show faded (about 6.3 minutes after the show ended) I decided my next task would be to familiarize myself with current music. I didn’t want to be the old dinosaur I’d swore I’d never become as a teen, so I decided to listen to the top ten songs from The Billboard Top 100. (Part of me was amazed The Billboard Top 100 still existed, but apparently they have it on this thing called the internet.)

As it turns out, the number one song for the week of November 28, 2015 was the very song that sparked this journey—“Hello” by someone named Adele.  I’ve heard the name Adele in recent years, but had no idea if she was a singer, actress, or UFC fighter. Turns out she’s a singer and a decent one, too. Although it’s not generally the style of music I go for, I don’t mind the song “Hello.” I think this Adele has a pretty good voice and might be a star someday.

Number two on the charts was a song (and I use that term loosely here) called “Hotline Bling” by Drake. A “drake” is a male duck, and I’m pretty sure I would rather have heard that for four minutes and nineteen seconds than what I did hear. This song was about as tuneless as they come and poor Drake seems to have a hard time enunciating. But I guess that’s okay since lyrics like, “I know that when that hotline bling, that can only mean one thing,” aren’t really worth understanding anyway.

The number three and number six songs on the list were both by Justin Bieber—“Sorry” and “What Do You Mean?” I figure I don’t really need to write separate reviews of these songs since they are essentially the same sappy, uninspired tune. Of course I’ve heard of Justin Bieber. I may be out of touch, but I’m not quite at hermit-living-in-a-cave level. I’ve heard of him because of all of the ridicule and scorn that seems to be heaped upon him on social media, not because I’ve ever heard any of his songs before. Well, now that I’ve heard two of his songs, I can fully appreciate all of the ridicule and scorn being heaped upon him on social media. He basically sounds like a breathless baby goat.

The current fourth most popular song in popular music is a tune called “The Hills” by a band called “The Weekend.” Apparently this band is under the impression that there is a moratorium on using complete sentences. When the best line in your song is “Keep our business on the low-low” you might want to hire a new lyricist.

When the number five song started I heard a guitar and it made me realize that this was the first guitar I was hearing on this musical journey. Everything up until now was just keyboard and percussion. So I was ecstatic to hear a guitar. But about ten seconds after the song “Stitches” starts, its artist, Shawn Mendes, starts singing and the joy brought to me by the guitar is suddenly overshadowed by the 12-year-old boy sounding voice and impossibly corny lyrics. At the point at which he sang, “Now that I’m without your kisses, I’ll be needing stitches,” I frantically stopped the song so as to avoid vomiting.

The number seven song, called “679” by Fetty Wap featuring Remy Boyz is an intense hip hop song with lyrics I can’t print in a family friendly blog. I don’t know anything about Fetty Wap or Remy Boyz, but my hunch is that neither Justin Bieber nor Shawn Mendes would want to run into them in a dark alley.

Coming in at number eight is a song by Taylor Swift, yet another artist I’ve heard of but know nothing about. The song, called “Wildest Dreams” is actually not that bad, but as with the Adele song, simply not my cup of tea. In fact, I think Adele and Taylor Swift should team up and do a song entitled, “Not Andrew’s Cup of Tea.”

At this point on my journey I started to wonder if I would come across any song that I genuinely liked, and with number nine, it almost happened. The song “Like I’m Gonna Lose You” by Meghan Trainor featuring John Legend is a bluesy duet that didn’t make me want to rake my eyes out like most of the other songs in the top ten. It was also only the second song on the list that contained guitar. (Are Fender and Gibson going out of business?) The song was okay and I can almost perceive a scenario where I might willingly listen to it a second time.

With that glimmer of hope, I cued up the number ten song—“Ex’s and Oh’s” by Elle King. I thought the title suspect, so I didn’t go into this with much hope, but then the song started…wait a second here. Was this a full band? Like several instruments at once, including a guitar? What was I hearing here? Was this a good song? After listening to so much mediocrity I was starting to lose my understanding of good music, but I think this song was good. Like, really good. It was as though a torch song singer met a hard rocking band. And the lyrics were fun! How did this song sneak into The Billboard Top 100? Here was a song I would actually listen to a second time, and in fact, have.

So now that I’m familiar with ten popular songs from 2015, and even like one of them, does that mean I’m no longer out of touch? Hardly. There are still a good 20-plus years’ worth of songs that I’ve never heard and I haven’t the time nor inclination to backtrack and listen to them all. And based on the overall quality of the ten songs I did listen to, I’m not particularly inclined to start listening to new pop music on a regular basis moving forward.

Where does this leave me? Will I remain out of touch the rest of my life? No, no, no. I figure I’ll listen to the top ten songs again at some point. Probably in 2045 when I do my No Talent Talent Show finger dance to “Ex’s and Oh’s.”

A Day Without a Computer...I Survived

At first I was afraid, I was petrified. Kept thinking I could never live without it by my side. But as it turns out, going an entire day without turning on my computer didn’t kill me. I did survive.

The date was November 7, 2015. It was a Saturday just like any other Saturday in Chandler, Arizona—sunny skies; highs in the 70s; birds chirping; scorpions scurrying. It was all very ordinary, except for one thing—at no point that day did I turn on my computer. I didn’t flip open my laptop. Didn’t press the power button. Didn’t enter my password. And most importantly, I didn’t surf the internet. No checking my email. No scrolling through my Facebook feed. No tweeting or retweeting. No randomly searching Wikipedia or the IMDb. Just digital silence.

And for those of you thinking, “Big deal! Who needs to turn on their computer to do any of that stuff anyway? You just use your phone for all that,” I should let you know that I never use my phone for any of that. Yes, I’m about a decade behind when it comes to electronic technologies. My iPhone is certainly capable of doing any of those things, but I don’t use it in that way. Mostly I use it as a phone, a camera, or a paperweight.

And so it was that I spent an entire day without looking at my computer screen. More than a day, really, since I went from about 11:00 pm on Friday, the 6^th until about 8:30 am on Sunday, the 8^th without booting up. That’s 33.5 hours for those of you doing the math at home.

When I finally turned on my computer on Sunday morning, I wondered what kind of world would await me. Would cats have evolved to be winged-creatures? Would purple now be the new black? Would the Donald Trump presidential run all have been an elaborate prank that culminated with his appearance on SNL? (One can dream, anyway.)

As it turns out, nothing particularly earth-shattering seems to have occurred during my computer hiatus. I had 45 new emails in my inbox, of which I deleted 34 without opening. Of the eleven emails I did look at, the most important one informed me that my brother Mark’s 91^st favorite album of all time is Venus and Mars by Paul McCartney and Wings. Again, nothing earth-shattering. (Had it been 90^th instead of 91^st that would have been earth-shattering.)

On Facebook, I missed the birthday of three friends. But unless any of them keeps an Excel spreadsheet of their birthday greetings, I doubt they would have noticed that I didn’t post amongst their hundreds of well-wishers. But just to be safe, happy birthday to Michele, Kevin and Joanna!

And as for Twitter, I gained one follower in my absence—someone I never heard of named Ali Spagnola. I’m guessing she’s someone famous because she has one of those blue “verified account” symbols next to her name. Why she decided to follow me, I have no idea, but given that she follows 1.78 million people, I’m not going to take it to mean that we’re going steady.

So what did I learn from this grand experiment? Was it worth it to not be tapped in to our cyber society for an entire day? And will little Billy be rescued from the well? This and all more on the next exciting episode of As the Days of Our Lives Turns into the Shadow Knows. 

Ghost in the Big Red Machine

As I drove to work this morning listening to the Doug and Wolf Show on the radio, it was reported that the hotel the Arizona Cardinals are staying at leading up to their game with the Pittsburgh Steelers this Sunday may, in fact, be haunted.

The hotel—or more accurately, resort—located in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, is called The Greenbrier and has been serving guests since 1778. Presumably some of the original guests of the resort are now dead and, having grown bored of taking advantage of the same amenities for the past 200 years, are messing with the minds of the Cardinals players. Indeed, one such poltergeist—a little girl named Carol—has been whispering in the ear of Cardinals’ safety, Tony Jefferson.  It’s unclear what it is she’s trying to communicate, but hopefully she’s giving him some advanced intel on the receiving routes of the Steelers’ Antonio Brown.

In the meantime, other players are reporting hearing noises at night. They haven’t specified what kind of noises so it could be anything from a creaking door to someone in the adjacent room playing World of Warcraft a bit too loud, but the implication is there is something otherworldly afoot.

It’s tough to say what affect all this paranormal activity will have on the Cardinals this Sunday, but as long as Carson Palmer doesn’t start suddenly spinning his head around and spitting pea soup in the middle of a play, I think they should be okay. Then again, maybe if he does do that, defenders will back off of him and he’ll have more room to throw. Hmmm…here’s hoping the phrase “possession Cardinals” takes on a whole new meaning this weekend.

Is it Healthy to Take a Selfie?

Recently, a video of a bunch of sorority girls taking selfies at an Arizona Diamondbacks game went viral to the tune of more than 36 million views. (If you’re one of the few lucky people who haven’t seen it yet and feel you must waste the next minute of your life viewing this mind-numbing spectacle, click here.

When I saw this video my inner curmudgeon came raging to the surface with fists in the air and my old man voice in full tremble. “What’s wrong with these kids these days, with their cellphones and their picture taking and their obliviousness to the world around them? Why can’t they put that devil’s technology down and watch the perfectly wholesome baseball game going on right in front of them?”

Disgusted, I was! What kind of narcissist would ever desecrate the great American pastime by completely ignoring the game and taking a selfie? Then I thought back to the last time I was at a Diamondbacks game a couple months ago and remembered this:

Yep, apparently I’m the kind of narcissist who would desecrate the great American pastime by completely ignoring the game and taking a selfie. I could try to pawn off the idea on my son, but that would be a bald-faced lie. I thought to do it, I held the phone, and I pressed the button. So don’t aim your pitchforks at my kid—this is all on me.

Indeed, selfies are just the latest in a long line of technology-borne behaviors that I initially abhorred and eventually embraced (at first reluctantly and then enthusiastically.) First I swore I would never text, because you should just call somebody if you need to tell them something! Now I text. Then I swore I would never tweet because why in the world would people who I don’t know care what I’m thinking in 140 characters or less?!? Now I tweet. Then I swore I would never blog because I’m a real writer, dammit, and my work is supposed to appear on the printed page. Now I blog. And finally, coming back to the topic at hand, I swore I would never take a selfie, because I’m not a vapid, self-absorbed, vain, egomaniac who needs constant photographic evidence of my existence. Now I take selfies. 

In my defense, it’s not like I’m taking selfies on a daily basis. I could go weeks between selfies. In fact, I didn’t take one selfie in the entire month of September! That’s right, my last selfie was the one below, taken on August 31, 2015.

(Of course, that selfie was taken in a men’s room, which brings up a whole other range of psychological questions.)

Ultimately, I think the lesson to be learned here is that cultural norms change, especially when spurred on by new technology. Perhaps the thing to do is just roll with the punches and jump on board the technology train when it comes into your station. Unless, of course that train wants me to read books electronically, in which case I hope it derails, because the only way you would get me to let go of a printed book is by prying it out of my cold, dead hands.