TERMINAL CANCER PATIENT AND GAMER BURGLARIZED WHILE RECOVERING FROM SURGERY

At 24, Tom (aka PhantomHalfling) should have died. Medulloblastoma, a highly malignant brain tumor, wracked his body leading to brain surgery and a long, grueling, recovery. But Tom fought the cancer and survived.



Tom went on to marry and to have two daughters, now aged eleven and fourteen. Tom is not only a super dad, but a great family man who enjoys life the way only someone who has come so close to death can. He is a loving father, a great uncle, and a great friend.


Twenty three years later, life has again kicked Tom squarely where it hurts. First, Tom's wife walked out on him the day after New Year's. After she unexpectedly filed for divorce, Tom lost his job - a victim of downsizing. When Tom thought things couldn't get any worse, Tom's cancer roared back with a vengeance. This time attacking not only in his brain, but also his spine- costing him the use of his legs.


But Tom wouldn't give up. He continued to fight. He fought the cancer and kept on being the best dad he can on the too short occasions he gets to see his kids. On Xbox, Tom has fought against nazis, zombies and nazi-zombies. He patrolled the radioactive wastelands of New Vegas and fought the denizens of the post-apocalyptic wasteland.


But there was one thing Tom could not fight: thieves.


While Tom was hospitalized, recovering from surgery, some fine citizens decided to drop by for a visit. It's unknown if they came like thieves in the night or boldly during the day, but what is known is that they came up the wheelchair ramp to Tom's front door, kicked it in, and stole him blind. Not dissuaded by the sight of two wheelchairs in the home, they set upon Tom's meager belongings like locusts. Everything Tom could enjoy while confined to his bed or wheelchair was stolen. Tom's TV, his surround sound system, his blueray player, his laptop, his printer, the replacement Xbox he'd purchased just months before- all gone. Along with his games, music, and movies. Anything that Tom could enjoy as a paralyzed adult was taken from his home.


Maybe the thieves thought Tom was too old to play Xbox. Maybe they thought the entertainment center was for when he got to see his kids, every other weekend. I mean, why would someone who is so sick even want an Xbox? Wouldn't they rather sit around and contemplate the not-to-distant end of their life? And Tom's kids shouldn't be inside- they should be playing in the yard, instead of spending time with their paralyzed father.

Who could have done such a thing? Was it the two guys who had helped move a couch from the home a few days earlier? Or maybe the juvenile delinquents across the street?Or someone else from the neighborhood who knew Tom's predicament and his recent surgery? It doesn't really matter. Afterall, surely Tom has insurance that might cover this loss...

It's All Fun and Games, 'til somebody lases an eye

Lasers. They're very cool. And very dangerous. And that's apparently something people need to be reminded of.

 

When I was a kid, lasers were the stuff of TV. I remember watching Professor John Robinson battling rubbery-costumed aliens outside the Jupiter 2, his laser gun blazing. I'd have given anything for a laser pistol of my own back then. Fast forward forty years, and lasers are fairly common. While there are some capable of igniting paper, most are strictly of the low-wattage, pointer-variety. I can't blast annoying varmints in the backyard with average laser. Yet. 

 

Today's lasers come in a variety of colors, some small enough to fit on your keychain. They are for use as pointers during presentations, to aim digital thermometers or tapeless measuring systems, as levels for home improvement work, and even for tormenting your pets. All of these lasers share one very important feature: a prominent warning message on the side, advising you NOT to point them at anyone's eyes. That you could risk blinding them.

 

I carry a laser with me all the time. It's built into my flashlight. I carry a flashlight on my belt because I often have to retrieve files from the dimly lit, baasement storage room at my day job. I didn't order this flashlight off the internet solely because it had a laser. I was just looking for a super-bright, LED, AA-battery powered flashlight. The laser was just an unexpected benefit.

 

Having desperately desired a laser as a child, I of course have to use my laser flashlight as much as possible. It's a sort of repressed childhood wish come true. My most common use of a laser at work is when I'm consulted as an advanced computer user.

 

"How do I change my wallpaper?" my co-workers will ask. "Where did my tool bar go?" they ask. "Why isn't my document printing?" they ask. How people who use computers daily lack these simple, basic skills is beyond me. But I step in and try to help. Before my laser light, I would have to lean over their shoulders and extended a hammy hand to their screen, pointing out exactly where they needed to click on their tool bar. I'm a teach-a-man-to-fish kind of guy, and I insist on people learning how to solve the problem in the future, rather than keep bugging me about it. Now that I am armed with laser technology, I can stand back, all Professor-like, and point at their screens from a safe distance.

 

On my most recent foray into teaching Windows Basics for Dummies, one of my co-workers was more interested in my laser flashlight than learning how to solve problems for herself. She asked if she could see my gadget. I handed it over after a brief explanation of how to alternate between LED light and laser emitter. I then turned back to the computer of another co-worker to solve the pressing computer problem.

 

And promptly got my eye lased.

 

You would think that a 60-something year old grandmother would know better than to shine a laser in someone's eye. But no, like a small kid incapable of reading the laser warning, she was oblivious to the danger of lasers. She thought it would be funny to shine the laser around at people.

 

Some online resources may tell you that brief exposure to a laser-pointer device cannot cause permanent eye injury. That it takes several seconds of continuous staring to do significant damage. But do you really want to gamble with your vision?

 

Just last year I learned that not only can lasers damage your vision, they can trigger migraines.

 

There I was illuminating various objects around the house with a laser for my children's amusement. It was an impromptu laser light show. The finale of the show was when Iilluminated a crystal one of the kids had picked up at a museum giftshop. Instead of just hitting it with the laser from afar, I set the crystal on the laser. I'd already shown the kids how the crystal could diffuse light from a flashlight. The crystal glowed brilliantly, but didn't produce a lightsaber or any cool multi-beam effect. But it did sparkle a little. I was hypnotized by the odd sparkling. I kept staring at it. For several moments. I then thought- should I really be staring at a laser?

 

About ten minutes after the light show, we all sat down to watch TV. I noticed a floater in my field of vision. It began to grow. Over the course of fifteen minutes, it went from the size of a quarter held at arm's length, to the size of a dinner plate. The floater was surrounded by a dazzling, rainbow-hued line, surrounding an out of focus blob in the middle. This was accompanied by an excruciating headache. Panic set it.

 

Some ibuprofen and a multi-hour nap later, my vision came back. I paid my doctor a visit and learned that the symptoms I described indicated I had a migraine but no lasting eye damage. Lesson learned.

 

If you own, or find yourself using a laser, please be responsible and heed the safety warnings- they are put there for a reason. Don't point them at your own, or other people's eyes!

 

 

GODADDY: Feeding the Children One Elephant at a Time

For years, one of my favorite things to say is "Save the Whales- I'll eat them Later".

 

Not because I hate whales (I don't) but because it absolutely drives me crazy everytime I see some animal nut going on and on about poor abused dogs when there are countless children starving around the world right now. Those morons that ram Japanese Whaling ships should be ashamed to show their face in public. The money they piss away on protecting whales could feed more children than Sally Struthers could ever think of.

 

Today, I did my afternoon check of Twitter news blurbs and saw that Marlee Matlin is having a fit about an elephant being killed in Africa by GoDaddy CEO on safari. The article she linked to went on to say how the elephant in question was actually destroying crops near a village. This wasn't Dumbo harmlessly entertaining kids in the big top, gunned down by anti-fun terrorists. This was a dangerous animal causing villagers to starve.

 

Now, maybe Mr. Parsons shouldn't have posted graphic videos on the internet (I haven't seen them yet, so I don't know if they're that bad). But how can anyone with one iota of intelligence condemn this? Especially when said elephant was eaten by the villagers (and their children). Do you think that any of the little M'Timmies there shed a tear as they got a decent meal for what could have been the first time in months? I sure don't.

 

Ms. Matlin is a mother herself, and after seeing her on the Celebrity Apprentice (which was why I was following her in the first place) seemed like a pretty sensible woman. But after her tirade all in the name of poor Dumbo, I have to re-evaluate that.

 

I've been a godaddy customer for several years now, but was considering changing to a different company. After seeing Mr. Parsons aid to the children of Africa, I will be staying a GoDaddy customer for a very long time.

 

TALL PEOPLE DON'T GET PAID MORE- SHORT PEOPLE BITCH MORE

There it was again on the morning news- the myth that tall people get paid more. What utter bullshit. And it annoys me more and more everytime I hear it.

 

I'm 6'5".

 

This whiney myth- typically told by short people- really irks me to no end. I've been tall all my life and have had a variety of jobs. In not one of them have I had a co-worker taller than me. And in not one of them was I the highest-paid employee.

 

My current job, the other guy working with me in the same position made the exact same money as me- despite the fact I had 13 years seniority on him and was a foot taller. Before him, I had 12 years seniority and 6 inches height advantage- we made the same. The guy before him... well, he was my supervisor and had 15 years seniority on me, and was 8 inches shorter- and made a buttload more than I did.

 

What about in the military? Nope- height had nothing to do with it. Rank and how many mouths you had to feed did. Despite the fact I had been in three years, I remember new guys coming in, two ranks lower than me, but with a wife and kids, making far more than me. And they were all shorter.

 

I could go on and on, but I've proven my point.

 

Short, ugly people also like to claim that beautiful tall people get paid more. Now, I'm not vain, so I don't think I'm handsome- I am just me. My wife likes to tell me I'm handsome all the time- when she's not telling me I'm gross. And I've had an unnerving amount of older and married women work-stalking me. But I still never made any more money.

 

It's all bullshit. Nobody makes more money because they're tall- except basketball players. All you whiners that keep claiming this need to shut up. The reason you get paid less is because you're a shitty worker or have a bad attitude. In fact, in my experience, the short, ugly, overweight folks tend to stick together and be envious of those they wish they could be like. They hire and promote other insecure, obnoxious people.

 

I don't play sports. I sit at a desk. I get paid far less than I think I should or than what people in other areas get paid for my same job. Being tall hasn't done me any good- except maybe making it easier to change light bulbs.

LICENSE TO FART

I am gross. I am SO gross. Just ask my wife.

 

When I'm sucking down a home-cooked meal a little too fast and have to let fly a gut-rumbling, table-shaking belch, I'm gross.

 

When I'm in bed for the night, my body relaxing, and I unleash a bed-shaking, cheek-slapping, nose-burning fart, I'm gross.

 

Even when I'm using a kleenex to sound the air horn and expel snot from my head, I'm gross.

 

My wife pretty much either tells me she loves me, or that I'm gross. It's a 50/50 chance at any given time.

 

I don't think I'm gross. Do I not courtesy flush when emitting stomach-churning, paint-peeling fumes from the porcelain throne? Do I not roll down the window of the van when I've ripped a silent-but-deadly?

 

The kids don't think I'm gross. They love potty humor. They think I'm funny. Especially when they can join in. They clearly took the potty training book title Everyone Poops  to heart. Not so the wife.

 

And as I get older, it's become harder to resist the constant barrage of condemnation from the wife. At long last, I had to point out she is living in a glass house. Wives- in particular moms- are pretty gross, too.

 

First off, everyone breaks wind. It's a biological function. It is true many folks manage to hold it in until they can get to a safe blasting distance, but the occassional emission is had. Same thing with belches- especially when drinking carbonated drinks. Everyone does it.

 

And let's not forget morning sickness.

 

Oh, yes, my wife forgot all about that. She forgot her all-hours-of-the-day-and-night Linda Blair impersonations. Her fountains of projectile vomit that went on for weeks and weeks. She forgot how I had to clean up her half-digested sweet tea and pineapple chunks. From the carpet, bed cover, walls, and even refrigerator. Even with the wet/dry shop vac I bought with our second child, it was a disgusting task. I don't like vomit, and I sure didn't enjoy having to clean it up from wherever Mommy Appleseed happened to drop it around the house. Multiple times a day. But did I complain? No.

 

Then there were the diapers. I helped change them too. The nasty, liquified peanut-buttery like messes that made me wish for a hazmat suit. In fact, my worst memory of child rearing was the time my child walked up, pulling a hand from where she'd been scratching her butt, as if to initiate a secret father-daughter handshake. In the midst of reading the internet, I absent-mindedly took the sweet, innocent hand of my barely-walking baby. That was covered in crap. I wish she had kept that handshake a secret. Not the best way to let da-da know she needed a butt change.

 

I think, nay, I KNOW that I've earned the license to be gross. It's like uncouth Karma. Even more, I think my wife should shut up about it. Did I constantly tell her that her projectile vomit was disgusting while washing it off the walls? No. I pulled my t-shirt up over my nose, ground my teeth and fought the urge to vomit myself as I blotted up congealed stomach solutions and chunks of her last craving. I soldiered on.

 

It's not like I walk up to the wife and ask her to pull my finger. Or dash across the room, whirl around and stick my wallet in her face immediately prior to a discharge. I don't blow the hair from her eyes with a massive burp at the dinner table. These natural body emissions just happen on their own. She should accept this, be polite and pretend to ignore them- even if she does occassionally turn green and have to physically pinch her nose shut.

 

And it's only going to get worse. I remember my grandfathers. I remember how they bubbled and hissed and filled a room with all sorts of port-a-potty-like smells from time to time. As I get older, my self-control will decrease and my bodily functions will increase. The Fart Factory is just coming online.

 

The next time the mother of your children lets fly a barb about your grossness, look her square in the eyes and reply "Glass Houses, baby... glass houses...".

 

Or you could burp-talk "Sorry." I think that works pretty good, too.

 

 

The Blankey of DOOM

Just when you think you've seen it all, your kids unleash some new, horrifying ability. My daughter, Indy-manda Jones (age 5)  sure did last night. With her blankey.

 

I should start by pointing out that "White" isn't really a blankey. It's a tattered, faded, two sizes too small Hello Kitty body suit made of faux velvety goodness. She carries it around everywhere, Linus-style. It is part security blanket, part napkin, part germ gathering drag along, part car pillow, part night time teddy bear/rag-thing. White has many cousins: Blue, Pink, Black... they too aren't really blankets, but rather pillows, pajama tops and even a sheet of fabric that could have been made into a blanket, but which we never got around to doing. But like in the Highlander, there can only be one. And it is White.

 

So there we were settling down to watch TV in the dadcave, Mandi clutching White and doing the sleepy time head nod. Big Sis, age 11, moved a neatly folded quilt onto the couch. Mandi immediately sprang awake, snatching the quilt and using it as a pillow. Rather than admit she was outwitted by her 5 year old nemesis, my older daughter regressed a few years and began to bicker with her sister about the quilt. In mere moments, the damage had been done. Mandi leapt into a Hulk-like rage, screaming and crying and declaring that "Nobody Loves Me!" before storming off to the playroom, germ-encrusted White dragging on the ground behind her.

 

Wishing I could just once have some peace and quiet during one of my television shows, I first begged, then later demanded, Mandi come back, sit down and be quiet. My plan almost worked. Until Big Sis tackled me on the couch- wrapping me in a death grip and evilly declaring to her little sister "My Daddy!" The Shrieking She-Hulk immediately returned.

 

Apparently intent to beat her older sister to a bloody pulp with the dirty, plush softness of White, Indy-Manda began whipping her White back and forth over head. On the second back stroke of her enraged fly fishing routine, she snared a prize. A half empty bottle of cream soda Big Sis had left out on the dry bar- because kids never put stuff away.

 

Had White been made of kangaroo leather or some material with just the slightest surface friction, I have no doubt the glass soda bottle would have been plucked from the bar, flown across the room and struck me square in the temple just like how David felled Goliath. Instead, the dirty softness of White merely pulled the bottle over- dumping the contents all over White. By this time, though, White was arcing around and snapping back toward Big Sis. Who ducked just in time for White to snap out, releasing its cream soda cargo in a mighty gusher of spray. Coating me and the couch in drink.

 

There's no real moral to this story. I just thought that I should share the amazing The Cape-like ability of Blankeys, formerly hidden from parental eyes.

TROGLO-VIEW: The Cheesecake Factory- bird food for the whole family

So it's spring break and we once again take our kids out to local attractions to broaden their minds and my wife picks restaurants to broaden her waistband. It's our week of splurge.

 

Well, it would have been.

 

It's my fault, really. I should have known that with a girly name like "Cheesecake Factory" the place wouldn't be worth a damn. But I was feeling all magnanimous and happy to be away from my craphole of work for a week. So I caved in.

 

Man, the prices in the over-decorated restaurant were high. But seeing as how the decor was right out of an old folks home or a 70s gangster movie, I kind of expected that. Being a bit of a rebel and a cheeseburger connosieur, I opted for a burger, instead of some fru-fru platter of poached pomegranites smothered in sissy sauce.

 

Our waitress was fantastic. Despite the fact she looked like she was barely out high school, the girl was an old pro at the serving game. Plenty of smiles, graciousness, neat and clean and superb service.

 

And when the food came I was shocked to see the bathtub-sized platter of food my wife got. Same for my oldest daughter, who got a ginormous platter of spaghetti. It was clear both the girls would be taking food home. My mouth started to water at the idea of a Fred Flintstone-sized bronto burger. Instead, I got a happy meal. Without the toy.

 

I shit you not, I have gotten burgers from Dairy Queen the same size. Maybe bigger. Americana Burger? More like, tiniest-assed country in Central America burger. A Texan would have bitch slapped somebody if they were served something that small. My God, it was like White Castle catering a fancy dinner. But on a giant sized plate. You could have fit three or four of those burgers on there. Did the waitress drop some of my food on the way from the kitchen? Do I really need a foot-long plate for a single quarter-pounder? I sure as hell didn't need it for the bouquet of french fries served in a metal cup on the side. Wrapped in paper and planted in the cup to make it look like I got more than I could count on both hands- but which I really could.

 

You know, I can understand a restaurant that hikes it's prices sky high and serves diet-sized portions. It's for a healthy profit margin. But why in the hell do you serve a bucket of spaghetti and a kiddie burger in the same place? I damn well know that I didn't order off the kid's menu.

 

My wife sat there and gorged herself on a major protion of the Atlantic's shrimp population, pushing her plate away and complaining she was stuffed. Same for my oldest daughter- lamenting that she just couldn't eat any more of that wonderful spaghetti. Me and my cheeseburger crumbs were not amused. My littlest made it worse by not eating her grilled cheese. It was "yucky". So we got her a second dinner of kids' chicken strips. Which I'll note was more food than my happy meal.

 

After everyone else finished- I had been done with my dining experience in like five minutes- we ordered cheesecake. At $7 a slice. I was expecting a candy-bar sized sliver of screw-you, but we actually got some decent-sized slices. Of course, at that price-to-food ratio, a whole cheesecake would have cost Donald Trump prices. My wife and oldest again lamented how full they were. I of course didn't have that problem, since the mouthful of cheeseburger I got was rolling around in my stomach all alone.

 

End result: $93.00 for our family of four, which I calculated was the same as almost three trips to Five Guys.

 

Will I return? Not very likely. Unless I have a bag of carry out from a real restaurant with me. Like sneaking food into the movie theater.

 

Cheesecake Factory: Not Dad friendly.

BATTLE: LOS ANGELES- Kid Friendly?

One of the things many a dad wrestles with is deciding if a movie is suitable for their kids. Kids often want to watch the same thing mom and dad do. Digital Video Recorders at home have really helped in the family watching, as they allow parents to skip past objectionable parts of movies and even television shows- assuming you are watching those programs on a delay.

 

This past weekend though I had to go it without a remote control and chance taking my girls, ages 5 and 11, to go see the new alien invasion flick, BATTLE: Los Angeles. (Not to be confused with the Syfy Channel's lame-o Battlefield Los Angeles).

 

I based my decision to take the girls on two factors: first, I've made a real effort to make sure my kids know movies are make believe. We watch all the behind-the-scenes stuff on the DVDs/Blurays, and we watch as many Movie Magic-type programs as possible. Syfy's reality competition, Face Off, has helped immeasurably with my youngest, showing her step by step how makeup effects are done. That being said, I do still limit a lot of horror or gore-type programs. Make believe or not, I don't want my kids being scared to sleep in the dark or getting bad nightmares.

 

Secondly, I read several reviews of the movie friday. Roger Ebert had one particularly scathing review in which he compared Battle Los Angeles to Independance Day- one of our family favorites. It was this comparison (with which I heartily disagree) that made me decide to take the whole family to watch some invading aliens get their asses kicked by the Marine Corps.

 

Both my kids fell asleep during this movie.

 

Shockingly, my 5 year old lasted far longer than her big sister, dozing off only moments before the big climax of the movie. My 11 year old dozed off twice during the movie, for very prolonged naps. How either was able to sleep through the ear drum bursting, chest-thumping loudness of the theater is beyond me. And I'll note I find it odd that as I get older and become hard of hearing, movies seem louder to me. One of the main reasons I dislike going to the movies is the brain-jsotling volume levels. I can control the sound in my home theater.

 

Is this movie appropriate for kids? Well, aside from boring mine to sleep, I'd say that it is. Sure, we see innocent civilians being killed by aliens. There are bodies in the streets everywhere. But this is a war/diaster movie and nothing on screen is going to be any worse than what children see on the news. Sadly, death and violence occur in plain view in the real world, and I am of the opinion we shouldn't encourage or shield kids from it. They need to be aware of it. I'm not saying they should be forced to watch violence, or that we as parents should drag the kids to a movie because it has violence.

 

Where does the level of violence fall in Battle: Los Angeles? It's not SAW. Nor is it Saving Private Ryan. The best analogy I've read is comparing the film to Black Hawk Down. And maybe that's why it bored my kids to sleep. The violence wasn't over the top. It's wasn't particularly bloody or gruesome. There weren't flesh eating zombies or disemboweling monsters. The violence, aside from being excessively loud, is fairly low key. Possibly even realistic. The violence isn't bad at all.

 

What about profanity? Well, it's a war movie. As a veteran I can tell you, soldiers do swear. In fact, I swear at home: "Clean up this (blank) room!" "Didn't I tell you to put these (blank) (blank) toys (blank) away!!!"  My kids have heard swearing- or "movie talk" as we like to call it. They understand that movie talk is reserved for adults or those people appearing on TV. Preferably both. I admit to cringing at the G-D I heard in the movie, but again, swearing is something kids are going to hear in real life.

 

What I do hate to see in movies is sex and nudity. My kids aren't going to see that in plain view. There's a far greater chance of my kids seeing a horrific traffic accident as we drive somewhere, then two consenting adults going at it on the side of the road. I shield my kids from the sex scenes and anyone who argues that sex is natural, it's no big deal for kids to see, etc. etc. I'll gladly accuse of being a closet pedophile. Thankfully, there's no sex in Battle Los Angeles. The only f-ing you see is the alien invaders f-ing up Los Angeles, and the Marines f-ing kicking their asses afterward.

 

All in all, I'd have to say that Battle Los Angeles is kid-friendly. It may bore them, it may give them a headache, but it's not going to scar them for life. And, in the end, the good guys win, so they hopefully won't come away being particularly worried about any aliens invading.

 

Yes, you can bring your kids. And you should, because this is a great movie for adults. If you like the whole scifi genre, this is a definite must see. Most of the goofiness of similar movies, plagued with technical inaccuracies and ridiculous writing are gone from Battle Los Angeles. Sure, there are a few corny moments, but you have to have a few in every movie. Sure there are a few errors- but again, every movie has them, and 2 of the 4 I noted were required due to the limitations of filming. For example, the Marines moving on patrol only a few feet from one another. They shouold have been at least 5 meters apart- the kill-radius of a hand grenade. But then they wouldn't have all fit in the frame, and the scene wouldn't have had the same impact. I can forgive the director that. In another scene, the Marines fail to use smoke to obscure their movement. If they had, some fantastic special effects and CGI aliens would have been obscured from my view. So I can live with that too.

 

And speaking of the aliens... they're great. They are tougher and more advanced than the humans, but our bullets do kill them- unlike many a movie where a 5.56mm round (capable of penetrating concrete blocks) doesn't even tickle the alien/monster/zombie/etc. Nor do the aliens look like people in crazy prosthetics like a Star Trek rerun. Nor do they use fancy lasers or energy-spitting weapons- they shoot projectiles just like we do, because a projectile does far more damage for the energy used to send it. The aliens, and their technology, blend seamlessly with this extremly well-made movie.

 

Battle Los Angeles is a great movie, and Roger Ebert has again confused entertainment with art.

 

 

 

WHEN GOOD GADGETS GO BAD... RETURN THEM!

I have a knack for buying those rare factory defects. You know the ones- those items that slip through quality control at the factory and go to the store then your home, then fail spectacularly. Like my first Canon camera. It had a rare lens motor defect that caused the auto-telescoping lens to jam in place. Or the microwave I bought one New Year's Eve. Spent the whole day installing it, then when we fired it up, amazing sparks started flaying around inside.

Now, some folks may have the urge to try and fix things themselves. Or download firmware updates. Or anything rather than go to the time-consuming task of returning an item to get a new one. I empathize. But the best advice anyone can give is that you fully check out your new gadget BEFORE you leave the parking lot.

Take my latest smartphone. I had been using an Android Developer Phone since early 2009. Basically the same thing as the G1, on T Mobile's crappy network. I know that T Mobile likes to condemn AT&T with all those ads with the scrawny girl in bright pink dresses, but where I live AT&T's network blows the doors off T Mobile. it's like comparing DSL to dialup. So anyways, after much research, I closeted the venerable G1 and picked up nice Samsung Captivate- AT&T's version of the Galaxy S.

Right off, the phone is remarkable. It has a very high resolution display. 16Gb of internal memory, a micro SD card slot. Video out, micro USB charge slot... it's a sleek, easy to use Android phone. Despite the fact that it was a little too sleek for my big butterfingers, I soon became enraptured with my new Captivate. I bought a special Otterbox Defender case for it. Extra charging cables. A belt holster.

Then I noticed the GPS wasn't working. Spectacularly not working.

I tried the online troubleshooting. I tried downloading a firmware update. I tried a special GPS repair app from Samsung. Nothing. My wristwatch would be better for GPS navigation- and it can't receive GPS at all.

Resigning myself to the fact that I was going to have to reload all my apps, redo all my contacts, passwords, etc. etc, I decided it was time for a return.

So I head over to the local AT&T store. I wander in, explain to the Hostess on duty out front that I'm there to return my defective phone and she summons Emo Vampire Boy to help me.

Call me crazy, but the Elvira-version of Justin Bieber just doesn't inspire confidence in me. I want a nerd like they have at Bestbuy when I have a technical problem. Someone with bad skin, mad scientist-hair and a pocket protector. But, I play the game and start explaining to Count Emo-youla what's wrong with the phone.

Emo Vampire Boy wouldn't let me finish explaining I can't lock on to ANY satellite. He compels the phone from me and wants to "show me a trick". He then turns on the "Use Wireless networks" options and triumphantly shows me that he can show the location. I explain to him that only approximates your position within 500 feet- I want GPS triangulation. Emo Vampire Boy bares his fangs and tells me that all AT&T phones use Wireless triangulation and can only get you within 500 feet.

Quickly debating whether I should stab him through the heart with a wooden steak or make him listen to happy music, I tell Emo Vampire Boy that I want to exchange the phone for one that works- I've only had the broken one for a few weeks. Knowing that even his emo-vampire strength isn't a match for me since he's barely a third my size, he sighs and tells me there'll be a $37 restocking fee. Unless I have my box.

I tell EVP I don't need a box. He can keep the box for the new phone. EVP tells me doggedly/battedly that no, I have to have my box.

I storm outside. Then I stop and go back in. Dammit, I'm the customer and it's going to be my way. No emotionally-confused, black nail polish-wearing, blood sucking fairy is going to push me around. I demand a manager.

"Tim" comes over to help. I again explain the GPS situation. He wants to know if I use the AT&T Navigator. I tell him no- I don't want to be one of those idiots who turns into the side of a building. I use GPS with Google Maps to find out where I am, or where I'm going. I tell him my previous phone, a G1, was easily able to lock onto satellites. I tell him I've updated the phone to Froyo (Android 2.2) and loaded a GPS fix program from Samsung- but still no GPS signal. I tell him all my online research and troubleshooting points to it's a bad phone.

"Let's step outside", Tim suggests. Did he want to duel? Was he scared Emo Vampire Boy was going to bite him? No, he just wanted to see for himself (since GPS generally works better outside). And then he turned on the Use Wireless Networks and shows me the phone. I wonder if AT&T teaches a special wrist-flip, show-the-customer-their-own-phone move during employee training?

Again, I explain that no, the phone should be receiving a GPS signal. I turn on the GPS Test App and show him NO satellites are detected. He almost sneers and tells me, "Oh, that's just an app you're using."

Say what?! It's an OFFICIAL App. From the Android Marketplace. Does he think all the other functions of the phone aren't controlled by applications? Apparently Mentally-Tiny Tim doesn't understand how computers or phones work. I tell him I want a new phone. Being Management, he doesn't really care and takes the easy way out. He agrees I can have a new phone. Then Tiny Tim also parrots the box thing. I demand to know why I can't just use the new box to return the defective phone. Tiny Tim explains there's a unique serial # on the side of the boxes to match the phones. Okay, that makes sense. EVP must have been just too exhausted to tell me that. So I tell Tiny Tim I'll go home- I live nearby- and get my box. But first, I want to make sure there are some other Captivates in stock. I explain I'm sick, and if I go all the way home and return to find they're out of stock, I'll be pissed. Tiny Tim goes to the back, then confirms there is some in stock and he's put my name on one.

I drive home, get the damn box and return.

Now, at this point I'd like to interject my opinion on returns. If I'm within the 30 days, no-questions asked period the sales rep told me when I first got the damn phone, why did I get the whole Inquisition route? I should be able to walk in and tell them anything, and end it with -so I want to swap for a new phone. Anything. "Every time I talk on this it shits in my ear." "It levitates and flies around the room at night... I think it's haunted." "I seem to be picking up alien transmissions- or maybe it's Al Franken on Air America." Whatever I say, I expect to be able to return the phone... since that was what I was promised.

Once I'm back to the Store of Many Questions, the Hostess greets me again and gets some blonde chick to help me. She initially appeared to be a hot blonde. A very hot blonde. As we walk over to her register next to a guy who looks like a Chubby Simon Pegg, I'm thinking- why couldn't I have talked to her instead of Emo Vampire Boy when I first came in. Hot Blonde begins to ring up the exchange and finally asks for my sim card to put in the new phone. When she reaches across the counter for it, that's when I notice the dirty nails. Like she'd clawed her way out of the ground or something. Really weird, considered she has clean skin and hair, sparkling teeth and was very neat and cleanly dressed- not even any lint on her AT&T black sweater. Perhaps she dug Emo Vampire Boy up and brought him to work earlier in the day? Or maybe she had been helping Chubby Simon Pegg fight zombies before her shift?

So I get the new phone turned on, and check it's satellite signal. None. Ruh-roh. Dirty Nails comes around the counter to see if she can help. I download the GPS Test app and tell her I want to check the phone before I leave. Chubby Simon Pegg perks up and wants to know what app I'm using. Instead of telling him he had red on his shirt, I told him the name of the app. Chubby Simon Pegg laments about the problems the Captivate has had in the past but how it's supposed to work, blah, blah, blahbbity blah. He eventually goes back to his console, mumbling to himself.

Eventually, I got the phone to work. Where with phone #1, I was able to see a grand total of 8 satellites in view when outside, but couldn't lock on to any of them, phone #2 immediately sees and locks on to 8 satellites. Now that's more like it! I thanked Dirty Nails, who didn't seem so hot anymore, went outside, got in my Mystery Machine and got the hell out of there.

Moral of the story... don't waste time trying to fix or download or talk to some English-is-my-second-language customer support rep when something you bought doesn't work. Just take it back. Even better, don't take it home in the first place until you KNOW it works. All it's features.

And save your box.

Got a Smartphone? You otter box it...

A crucial piece of gear for any dad is the smart phone. This versatile pocket computer may at first seem like an umbilical cord the wife can jerk you around with no matter where you are, but they are actually quite handy.

 

Can't remember all those doctor's numbers, addresses and appointments? Put them in the smartphone.

 

Worried about how you'll remember baby's first words, when they first walked, or your wedding anniversary? Put it in the smartphone.

 

On your way to the store and you can't find pen or paper to make a shopping list because the kids have stolen every scrap of paper and writing implement in pursuit of their future art career? Type the list into the smartphone.

 

Can't fit enough pics of the kids in your wallet? Put them in the smartphone- which also holds video, a trick your wallet will never match.

 

Or maybe you're stuck in a doctor's office lobby, waiting for that annual check up for the kids. They inevitably get bored with estrogenized parenting magazines and aren't into Oprah, Ellen or whatever other  daytime fare all the mommies are glued to. No problem, whip out the smartphone and stream some Dora from Youtube. Or maybe play a movie you had the foresight to shrink and drop onto the smartphone ahead of time.

 

And that's when the baby butterfingers strike.

 

Down goes your phone, smeared with tiny, juice bag fingerprints, tumbling in slow motion before landing precisely on the one corner that had some microscopic factory defect. The "unbreakable" gorilla glass face shatters on impact. Or maybe the back flies off in one direction, your battery in another. Now what are you going to do?

 

Oh, sure, you could have bought a Casio waterproof/shockproof phone. Their G-shock watches are damned near indestructible. But smartphones are so much better. The internet, an organizer, a movie and music player- all in one pocket-sized device.

 

The alternatve is to defend your phone from inevitable droppage. By wrapping it in the strong embrace of an Otterbox polycarbonate box, that is itself surrounded in thick synthetic rubber. No slippery surface anymore. And even if it does get dropped, those delicate corners and smooth, polished plastic surfaces are shielded from damage. Otterbox has been making these cases for years and they really know what they're doing.

 

At first, you may scoff at spending $50 for a top-of-the-line Otterbox for your smartphone. They aren't even waterproof! But then, you couldn't use that phone in the rain anyway, could you? But think of the peace of mind. Drop protection (not to be confused with G-Shock level protection). Isn't $50 worth that?

 

Still not convinced? Well, Otterbox also throws in a handy polycarbonate hard holster that clips to your belt. Yes, your wife may call you a nerd, but did you know that putting a phone in your pocket shortens battery life? Your own body heat diminishes the talk time of the phone. Wear it proudly on your bat belt however, and the phone is only subjected to the ambient air temperature, and not your sweaty, man-furnace fumes. Plus, being on your belt, you probably won't accidentally wash it, or test the scratch resistance of the screen protector with whatever man-gear you regularly carry in your pockets.

 

For the sake of your phone, your sanity and your wallet, drop some coin on an Otterbox. The alternative is too terrible to imagine.

 

(This is not a paid advertisement for or onbehalf of Otterbox. Other companies also make protective cases for smartphones and PDAs, I just like Otterbox the best) 

Daddy's Little Cheaters

Recently, I read an article about a study that was released confirming what most gaming dads already knew: it does girls good to play video games with their dads.

 

I've been playing video games with my two girls (5 & 11) for years now. It's good bonding time that I enjoy way more than tea parties, playing Barbies & GI Joes, or watching High School Musical for the 3 millionth time.

 

In my pre-console gaming days, I had my desktop connected via composite cable to the basement TV. I'd fire up a game and get comfortable while my then-4 year old would settle in on the recliner-couch with a bowl of popcorn and some juice bags. She'd giggle and laugh as I waged war on whatever virtual enemy I chose for the evening. Her favorite was watching me Force-push Stormtroopers to their doom in the classic Jedi Academy First Person Shooter.

 

When we graduated to the Xbox, I rearranged the old dadcave and we got to both enjoy the couch and a larger TV. My youngest soon joined the party. I even began to play games with the kids. Like the great LEGO series of games.

 

My latest innovation in family gaming though involves one of my favorites. Cheating.

 

Not cheating against real people in multiplayer. That would be wrong (and potentially get me banned from Xbox Live). No, I'm talking about online walkthroughs and tips and hints for single player campaigns. In the past, I'd have to pause the games, get on the laptop and try to figure out why the hell I couldn't complete a level. When I was a PC gamer I'd get frustrated and read about doing console commands and making myself invulnerable or giving myself unlimited ammo. The kids always enjoyed it and quite frankly, so did I.

 

Now though I have cheater co-pilots. In particular, we've been playing Fallout New Vegas, a first person role player that has you criss-crossing the post-apocalyptic Mojave wasteland looking for stuff and helping/killing AI players. My kids love the game, and were quit eager to break out the snacks and backseat-game along with me- pointing out giant, irradiated spiders; offering their opinion on whether I should shoot or negotiate; and face palming when I screwed up and died spectacularly.

 

But as all casual gamers do, I finally got to points in the game I just couldn't finish on my own. I needed help. I needed an online walkthrough and some maps of hidden locations. Unfortunately, my kids didn't have much patience with me pausing the game for ten minutes or more while I read what the hell was wrong. My eleven year old finally decided to take matters into her own hands.

 

"When you're ready, daddy," she told me one night, "let me know and I'll look it up." I looked over and there she was on the other end of the couch, the laptop set up on a TV snack stand, notepad and pencil ready.

 

I've learned that having a gaming co-pilot is quite helpful. Especially one with a detailed online map. Instead of wandering aimlessly in the radioactive wasteland, I can just demand "Where the hell is the Vault 21 entrance?!" In minutes- while I pass the time killing mutated geckos- she's located the coordinates, spun the laptop around and pointed the location out.

 

My five year old is in on the cheating fun also. While she lacks adequate search-engine skills, she's eager to see the maps as well, and parrot the criticisms my older child gives when I go in the wrong direction.

 

"No, you're going the wrong way!" older child says.

 

"You're going the wrong way, daddy!" younger child echoes two milliseconds later. You know, in case I didn't hear the first child.

 

So if you're a gamer dad who is constantly pestered by your children, or who have children that like to stand between you and the TV screen, don't lose your cool. Put their asses to work. Snack fetching and drink preparation is a great aid to serious gaming. And if they have the skills, set them up to co-pilot on the internet. It's an experience you'll all enjoy.

 

Just watch your language when die in the game....

Man Van, or Ham Van?

Wow, what timing. I was JUST lamenting the chickification of the minivan- that totally unfair stereotype that minivans are feminine. Chrysler wasn't listening- instead they are perpetuating the myth with a stupid-ass "Man Van".

 

It's a special Dodge Grand Caravan with "man" features. Like racing stripes. A lowered chassis. Over sized, chrome wheels. A black interior with red stitching. Performance suspension and a ginormous sound system.

 

Man Van? More like Ghetto-Man Van.

 

What the Hell? Why do car manufacturers think man=race car? On the contrary- all I see driving sports cars are little malnourished, pantywaist metrosexuals, who think squeeling tires = macho. It doesn't. I don't care how fast your car, how much nitrous or chrome you add to it. You little punks are still asking for an ass-whoopin'. One you will surely get because you spent too much time eating Doritos and Mountain Dew instead of bulking up on meat, cheese and potatos. As a result, you have the physique of a girl. Which explains all the hair care products and body perfume.

 

A Man's Van would have a trailer hitch. An extra 6" of ground clearance. AWD. Rally lights. A spare, full-sized tire on the rear hatch. Front and rear winches. Diamond plate floorboard for the driver. Brush Guards. A dual gas tank, for extended operation in the wild.

 

A Man Van wouldn't rely on faux race car looks. It'd back it's manliness with horsepower and unbridled ruggedness. "Dodge" wouldn't be the name of the manufacturer- it'd be a warning to anyone even thinking of stepping out in front of it. Mike Rowe would consider driving one to his next Dirty Job.

 

A Man Van would have full sized rear seats too. So you could haul your screaming kids to football practice, or your best buds to the super bowl. The Roof would have a protective coating so that when you actually used the upper roof rack you didn't have to worry about scratching paint.

 

Stow N Go seating? How about with carbon fiber backs so you could throw lumber, deer carcasses or your favorite tools in the back with no worry about knicks or scratches.

 

Finally, a Man Van would be multi fuel. Not Hybrid multifuel. No, Deuce-and-a-half, M35, Mil-spec multifuel. Where you could burn gas, diesel, cooking oil, jet fuel, or any flammable liquid that would fit in the tank. This wouldn't be to combat gasoline prices or save the ecosystem. It'd be to get you anywhere and back, gas stations or not.

 

Chrysler thinks racing stripes are manly. The only stripes they really know are the yellow ones on their backs. Because they're too chicken to make a real man's ride.

 

 

 

 

TOOLS OF FATHERHOOD: The Mallet

When I was growing up, the way to fix things was to strike them. TV not picking up a channel? Whack it on the side. Post in the yard crooked? Whack it. Dog keeps peeing on the carpet? Whack it. Hitting things is the American first line of repair. And when you're a dad, you're expected to fix a lot of things. Not because you want to DIY, but because everyone who isn't a dad will want to DDI- Dad'll Do It. That means you need tools. My personal favorite is the Leatherman WAVE Multi-tool. But don't overlook the whacking tools. They're very handy. And there is one whacking tool many a dad may have overlooked.

 The Mallet.

 Now, don't get me wrong- claw hammer's are great when you're doing some carpentry. Ballpeen hammers are great for gear heads. Sledgehammers are great for busting bricks or driving posts. But the reality for those of us that aren't in the trades is that we're going to be hitting things that are far less durable than a claw hammer. Things made of plastic or wood.

 That's where the Mallet, or more specifically, the rubber mallet comes in handy.

 Imagine you're a new dad and you're putting together the baby's pre-fabricated crib. You screw this and that, but at some point you're going to need to tap some wooden pegs in place. Use a trusty metal claw hammer if you must, but don't be surprised when you miss with one swing and put a huge gash in the finish. If you can't turn the crib so that gash is against the back wall, you're going to catch nine kinds of hell from the missus- who is out of her damned mind anyways with all those pregnancy hormones.

 Fast forward to little Johnny's first camping trip. You're driving tent stakes into the ground. You beat the hell out of them with a claw hammer- because claw hammers are the everyman of hammers. The tent stakes are going to look like Fido got ahold of them.

 When Little Johnny starts getting school pictures, the wife is going to start demanding that you put up frames. Sure, sure, you could use a claw hammer to drive nails into the drywall. But again, miss, and you've got a hell of a dent. Worse, when it's a billion degrees in the house, and you've ben holding that frame up so she can stand on the other side of the room to see if she likes it there, your arms are going to get tired. Sweat+fatigue=butterfingers. A claw hammer is going to hurt your feet way more than a nice rubber mallet.

 What about when you slip on the ice loading the van for that trip to the in-laws, and you put a small dent in the hood? With a rubber mallet, you can pop that sucker out and the wife will never know.

 Mallets are awesome.

 Look at the name: M-A-L-L-E-T. It's like a cross between MALE and WALLET. "Male" means man, and wallets are of course the more masculine, pocket-sized versions of purses. Every man needs to own a mallet.

 Some of you may want to point out that the way to prevent denting with a claw hammer is to put a piece of wood between the hammer and the object you're striking. Pashaw, I say! The right tool for the job is ALWAYS the better way to go. Claw hammers are for nails. Not building furniture, popping dents or camping!

 The next time you're out shopping for tools, grab a mallet. They're pretty cheap- I got mine at Target for $1. That's a lot of banging for a buck.

 

 

LET THERE BE LIGHT!

Whether you believe man climbed down out of the trees and traded poop slinging for insults, or accept Adam and Eve's eviction from Eden, one thing you have agree with is that early man relied on Fire. It's a wonderful tool. It provides us heat. It cooks our food. We can make tools with it. We can keep wild animals at bay. And it gives us a sense of security by driving away the darkness.

 

In our modern homes, fire has been replaced with electric light. It's something most of us- including our kids- take for granted. But what happens when the lights go out? Imagine being in your windowsless dadcave and the power goes out due to a storm or some drunk driver hitting a utility pole. The first thing you might think is "now I can't watch the rest of the game!". But your kids are going to have a more immediate concern. IT'S DARK!

 

When there's an emergency, you've got a lot of options on how to provide this simple luxury item your kids can't do without out. Modern light comes from four main sources: The Sun (through your windows), from Fire, from Electricity, or from chemical sources. How many of these have you thought about, or prepared with?

 

Power outages by day aren't so bad. You just leave the darkened dadcave and open the curtains or blinds through out the house. If it's cold, you grab a blanket. If it's hot you open a window. But when it's night time, or maybe during a thunderstorm or other overcast weather, you have to bust out some lumination assistance.

 

Fire is great if you have a fireplace, unless it's a really hot summer. If not, you might resort to candles. The technology's been around for thousands of years. A more modern twist on the candle you might choose is the kerosene lantern. But these all have some major safety issues- especially when mixed with pets or children. Take kerosene- how many western movies feature a lantern being broken by sabotage or negligence, thereby consuming barns full of straw? Candles can be tipped over by curious children. If you can, keep the fire outside. There are much safer alternatives.

 

And what about ignition sources? How many non-smokers keep matches or lighters ready for all those tea candles the wife bought from co-workers' candle parties? Even if you don't prescribe to candling, it's a great idea to keep a simple Bic-type disposable lighter in the house. It can be submerged under water, allowed to dry, and it'll still work. Just make sure the kids can't get to it.

 

Maybe fire isn't for you. The power might be off in your home, but that doesn't mean electricity can't come to your aid. Flashlights are the darkness-battling weapon of choice in modern America. But flashlights require batteries in most cases. And where is the flashlight? Do you remember that in a pinch? You could keep a flashlight in every room of the house, in a universal location- say, the left hand side of whatever drawer you put it in.

 

There's also the bulb issue. Kids drop stuff, and a dropped incandescent bulb, even a super-bright krypton bulb, will break on impact. LED is much better. Resists impacts and uses far less electricity. And many LED flashlights are capable of changing color, or switching to a blinking mode. USeful for emergencies, or just amusing the kids.

 

Battery powered flashlights are so old-school, though. Instead of raiding the remote controls in an emergency to find batteries, today you can turn to crank-powered and even solar-powered flashlights . Crank lights are great for kids, who always forget to turn flashlights off anyway. Not only can your neanderkid have their own source of light, they can be amused for some time cranking and cranking on it every couple of minutes to recharge. Just make sure you get enough crank lights for all the kids, and that you make sure they put them back where they belong. Like hanging from a wriststrap on a wall hook or door knob.

 

Flashlights are swell, until you have to go potty. For us dads, we need our hands for other than lght holding. It's instances like that where an electric lantern is a life saver. And unlike flashlights, you only need one for the family. It can light up a room, is free-standing and there's simply no need for each kid to have their own. Although you can get AA powered lanterns for under $10 so each kiddo can carry light around with them. And, like flashlights, there are now crank-powered lanterns. Many have built in radios and ports for charging cell phones.  

 

Finally, there's one truly awesome light source that I highly recommend for emergencies. Cyalumes, or "glowsticks". These simple plastic tubes, filled with chemicals separated by a glass ampule, create a whole night's worth of cold light, simply by bending (breaking the ampule inside) and shaking (mixing the chemicals up). They can light up a room fairly well, with no fire hazard. Most even have hooks which fit quite nicely on ceiling fan pull cords. Or you can put them on string and make each of the kids their very own glow necklace. Put one in a jar or glass and now you've got a table top glow lantern. They work under water. They come in different colors. They also range in price from cheap up to as much as $4 a stick. Every camping section carries them.

 

And don't forget that glowsticks come in different shapes and sizes. I prefer the 6" camping kind. They can be kept in drawers and are often found in first aid kits. You can also find glowstick bracelets and necklaces that are designed to be kid friendly. Our local Target sells tubes of bracelets- fifteen for $1. Not much light to read or pee by, but the kids love the novelty of them.

 

Glowsticks do have some safety concerns though. For one, if you let your neanderkid bend it back and forth, over and over, it won't get brighter. In fact, the plastic will crack and spray glowing liquid out. Sometimes into your kid's eyes. As long as no glass gets in, it isn't very serious. Maybe just a trip to the hospital E.R. to have the eye flushed. And the expelled glowstick liquid fades to invisibility on carpet and curtains after just a few days.

 

Glowsticks are also temperature sensitive. Leave one in the hot glovebox of your car and the plastic starts to break down. So that when you go to bend and crack one to life, it bursts open and sprays glowing chemicals all over the carpet. Better to keep your glowsticks in a cool, dark place. In fact, once activated, you can put them in the freezer to extend their life span an extra day or two.

 

There are other emergency light sources you can have around the dadcave and house. Expensive battery packs or battery powered emergency lighting. Flashlights that stay plugged into the wall until needed. Just remember that anything fancy is going to get broken once your kids get their hands on them. Stick to the cheap glowsticks and crank lights and you'll stay out of the darkness.

 

 

 

DON'T COME A KNOCKIN' MY ROCKIN' MINIVAN

After ten years of arguing, I finally convinced the wife that we should get a minivan. Actually, I gave up on one and wanted an SUV. She decided we'd have more room for our two kids and her parents, in the minivan.

 

I have to say, the minivan is pretty spectacular.

 

First off, we wisely chose not to pay depreciation- we got a 2005 van from Carmax, with their super-duper guarantee. Which means that for less than a new van, we got something that was fully loaded in 2005. Leather, heated seats, and ALL the extras. Yeah, it has a few miles, but with kids we put about 5000 miles a year on our vehicles. Used will last us quite a while.

 

But as much as I'm enjoying the minivan, with all that increased interior cargo space and old man-comfort, I have to take issue with something. The minivan's image. Even my wife remarked how a minivan is a woman's vehicle. Say what?!

 

Okay, for the record, my dream vehicle is a jacked up, AWD minivan with roll bars, off-road rally lights and all the luxuries. I want to be able to go anywhere, in Cadillac luxury. With plenty of room to spare. Our current ride falls a tad short of these goals: It's FWD, but does have traction control. No rally lights, but it has some tremendously bright fog lights. I realize in a roll over it wouldn't fare so well, but to be honest, I drive like a grandpa, so I don't envision any rollovers in the immediate future.

 

In looking online, I see there's lotsa hatin' goin' on for minivans. I can see where Jimbob Singlepants might prefer a 4x4 truck to haul carcasses around in the hunting season, but I don't have that need. Nor am I going through middle-age anxiety and need a car capable of being driven four times as fast as the legal speed limit. Nope, I'm a dad. I have two girls, a wife and a dog. I need more room than a truck can offer.

 

In my online research to determine the origins of minivan hate, I looked at a bunch of sites online. One, Why Minivans Suck sums it up in several ridiculous points:

 

1. They're too big

2. They're too big for drivers stuck behind them

3. They're full of screaming kids

4. The people who drive them have no business driving something that "big"

 

First off, when is big unmanly? And when do women EVER want to be considered big?

 

Should I care people behind me can't see? They can't see past tractor trailers either. Are they going to follow a big rig to a truckstop and tell the tobacky chawin' driver he's driving something better suited for soccer moms?

 

"Full" of screaming kids? Hey, it's a van, it can hold, volume-wise, way more than it has seats. My 91 Toyota Camry, that was "full" of screaming kids. Nowhere for the sound to go but in my ears where it began liquifying my brain. Thank God for the internal capacity of the minivan so I have some room for those bouncing banshee soundwaves.

 

There are loads of drivers on the road that shouldn't be. I don't think it matters one bit whether they're on a Japanese crotchrocket motorcycle, in a middle age super car or a big honkin' 4x4 with huge mudders. Most people don't buy their vehicle based on need. At least, not until they become a parent. Then it's budget first, need second.

 

Minivans are not HUGE. They're mini. Duh. The vans of the 70s, like the Ford Econoline- those were huge vans. Minivans are much smaller and easier to operate, what with the 12 windows and oversized rear view mirrors. And who could possibly not see you in a minivan? No danger of being rear-ended.

 

Yes, Minivans do help moms. In our modern Mom-does-it-all-Dad's-a-boob society, the minivan could help with child and household chores. Like soccer practice and grocery shopping. But they do more. Much more.

 

When was the last time a mom ran down to Home Depot to buy a sheet of drywall to repair that hole in the wall caused by the rowdy kids? That's dad's job. And a sheet of 4 x 8 drywall fits in the back of a minivan much easier than the pick up truck, or Crown Victoria. And it stays dry.

 

What about the drive in? Surely dads go to that as well. Why take dad's truck, forcing the kids to ride (illegally) in the bed, when you can take the DVD entertainment system-on-wheels?

But the real decider for why minivans aren't just for mom goes back to the size. The internal size. Most moms are smaller than dads. Yet minivans can accomodate folks up to 6'4" tall. They have plenty of shoulder and elbow room. More than in any SUV I've ever ridden in (except maybe a Suburban). Why would a tiny mom need all that room?

 

Stow N Go seating? Why, throw in a tarp and I could put JimBob's deer carcass right in the back. Hopefully it will actually be dead when I do so.

 

Minivan's can accept trailer hitches. When was the last time you saw a mom launching a small boat for some fishing with the soccer team?

 

Do mom's need all those internal 12V adapters? My van has five! three up front! I know kids want to charge their Nintendo DS' on the go, but clearly gadgets fall much more in the dad domain, and my minivan expects the driver to have two gadgets just for him/herself.

 

Minivans aren't just for chicks. They're for families. They meet a need for space, luxury and utility quite nicely. And unless Mary Kay gives one out as a sales prize, I don't expect to be seeing any pink minivans anytime soon.

TO THE DADCAVE, LET'S GO!

Whether you're a new dad, or a dad starting out the new year, it's time to think about yourself. Christmas, Thanksgiving and Halloween before the New Year were all about the kids. But they're over. Now you've got a few quiet months with hopefully no yard work and some time to actually relax.

Do you have somewhere to do that?

Every dad needs a special place they can retreat to and unwind from the stress of work and parenting. Lately though, I'm seeing a lack of respect for dad. There's even a new show on one of the DIY channels that mocks Mancaves in favor of family rooms.

That's just preposterous.

Dads, we need our own place. We need a Dad Cave. A place we can call our own, do our own thing, but still be close enough by to help out when needed.

What makes the best dadcave? A basement. It's soundproofed, is easier to heat and cool due to it's semi-subterranean nature, and is fairly storm resistant- so all the cool crap you jam into it for your fatherly entertainment is sure to stay safe and sound.

Oh sure, you could opt for a Fortress of Solitude- an unattached garage- to spend your time in. It worked for Superman, right? Alas, while garages boast lots of cool tools and a sheltered place to work on the car, mower, etc., they lack the creature comforts of a basement. And a bathroom. And let's face it, in winter, you don't want to have to trudge even 20 feet out in the snow to go sit on the throne.

What about a den or library? These above ground retreats may have worked well for the Atomic Dad of the 1950s and 60s, but being above ground, it's easier access for the missus and pretty much guarantees frequent inspections, calls for cleaning and maybe even decorating from her. Best to sequester yourself below the surface where wives fear to tread.

But the best argument for a basement retreat? Batman has one.

Seriously, who is cooler than Batman? He's a billionaire playboy, with a batload of awesome gadgets, cars, motorcycles, boat and planes. He's a dad- albeit a single, adoptive one. He fights crime with no super powers. And unlike some armored, high tech playboys, he's not a drunk. Batman rules. Clearly, he is the coolest dad ever. Just ask Robin.

So now that you've seen the light and are ready to get rid of some of those boxes of crap the wife will never use again, claim a corner of the basement and start tricking out your very own dadcave. As you plan, keep a few things in mind:

BIGGER ISN'T BETTER. My pal recently built a new house and engineered this ginormous basement. I know he married a daughter of the Old Lady Who Lived in a Shoe, and has several dozen family over every weekend- thereby necessitating a large family room- but this works against him on those rare occasions it's just him and his own horde of wife and kids.

You can't get any private time in a vast cavern. A smaller space is easier to regulate temperature and doesn't invite people to come in and rain on your underground parade. You don't have a batmobile, -boat, -plane or a crime fighting lab, so you don't really need all that square footage. Just something big enough for a pool table, a dry bar and four or five of your closest pals to gather around the big screen TV.

IF THEY CAN REACH IT, IT WILL BREAK. Now that you have your own special room, you're likely tempted to start stocking it with all the cool crap your wife made you box up and put in the attic. Like old trophies, matchbox cars, or your childhood GI Joes. Bear in mind though that your neanderkids will come into the dadcave- especially when you're not home. If they can reach any of your prized possessions, they will touch, and more than likely, break them. Keep the valuable stuff up high.

IF IT CAN BE STAINED, IT WILL BE. Whether it's your kids, or your buddies after a few beers, there will be spills in the dadcave. If you don't mind stains, go ahead and put in white carpet and get a comfy cloth recliner. If you want to not have to spend more time and effort than a shop vac requires to operate, go for leather furniture and dark carpets or tiled floors. I prefer the dark, indoor/outdoor carpet, as it helps absorb sound when the kids won't shut up while I'm watching TV.

CREATURES WANT COMFORT. If you get your way, you're going to be spending a lot of time in the dadcave. So you want to be comfortable. Archie Bunker, Al Bundy, Homer Simpson- they all understood the need for somewhere comfortable to sit. Even if the power goes out, squirrels gnaw through the cable lines or a low flying plane knocks out your satellite, you've still got somewhere to sit. Preferably a recliner, so you can sleep there too. I also recommend a blanket and small pillow within arm's reach in case you just decide to take an extended winter's nap.

THE ELECTRONIC WINDOW SEES ALL. Captain Kirk didn't sit in front of a window on the Enterprise. Batman doesn't read telegrams from around Gotham. You need a TV to stay in touch with, or retreat from, the world. Preferably one connected to cable or satellite, the internet and a gaming system of some kind. Before you pump a lot of money into a TV big enough to serve as a dining room table, bear in mind you also need surround sound (to drown out the wife and kids) and a DVD or Bluray for those cable/satellite outage periods. And you don't need a humongous TV. Sit a little closer to that 42" TV and it looks bigger.

A DAD TRAVELS ON HIS STOMACH. Why walk up the stairs to get food when you could have a micro kitchen next to the TV? A simple dry bar with microwave, dorm refrigerator and even a George Foreman grill allows you to maintain a stockpile of food and drinks within arm's reach. And forget putting in a sink. That means plumbing, and plumbing means leaks. Paper plates and plastic cups and utensils work fine at picnics and will do just as well in your basement. Trust me- the first time you can grill burgers while watching the big game, you'll never want to go outside again.

SHELVES ARE MADE OF WOOD. All that cool electronics and creature comforts are going to get expensive. So you need to save where you can. Sure, sure, you could go buy some fancy book cases made of intricately-bent wire and tube steel, but really, why bother? Just run down to the local home-supply store and buy a minivan-full of 1x8s and some wood screws. Throw in a drill and saw, and in no time you'll have custom-fitted shelves for little to no expense. They may not look as nice as the wife's coordinated living room suite, but once you stack all your trinkets, movies and games on them, they'll look just fine.

CAVES ARE DARK FOR A REASON. If you were performing surgeries, or constructing intricate electronic components, lots of light might be helpful in the dadcave. But you're going to be sitting back, relaxing and watching the boob tube. It makes its own light. Don't go overboard with track lighting and reading lights and all that girly nonsense. Throw in a couple of lights with the switch near your recliner (or install a remote control) and you're gold. All you need to be able to see is where you put the remotes.

THEY'RE CALLED "OUTHOUSES" FOR A REASON. Yes, it might seem like a good idea to have one of Thomas Crapper's flushing toilets nearby, but is it really? Do want to do your business, then have to sit in the smell of it while watching TV? Far better to leave the dadcave, go upstairs and do your dirty deeds elsewhere. And imagine if you have the guys over. Do you really want to smell what you fed them? Keep the bathroom as far from the dadcave as possible. Preferably on another floor. Plus, then your wife will clean it.

TWO CAVES ARE BETTER THAN ONE. Once your dadcave is finished, it will be the coolest damn place in your home- at least to you and the neanderkids. Are you really ready to share and watch your manly retreat turn into a romper room littered with Barbie shoes and lego bricks? The best way to keep the dadcave yours is to build an adjoining playroom. Kids aren't so demanding, either. They don't need surround sound, and don't appreciate picture quality. Outfitting them with an older or smaller TV will often do the trick. Throw in your old Playstation 2 as combination DVD player/gaming system, and they're set. Put up a couple of dry erase boards on the walls, and the kids can do cave art to their hearts' content. But best of all, give the kids permission to make the playroom as messy as they want. Then when they leave their toys in the dadcave, you can fling them over to the playroom and the kids will never notice.

　

There you have it. The basics of good dadcave design. You can add more, or fancy it up if you must, but these are the minimum enhancements for an enjoyable winter hibernation.

Troglo 'View: George Foreman in My Basement

The Dadcave is a place where all dads can go and relax, yet still be available for the family. It's a secluded place with a comfortable chair, a big TV, snacks and a refrigerator for cold drinks. But what about some freshly-cooked meat? Do you really want to go outside to the charcoal grill, then back inside to watch your favorite show or sports event? Why not grill WHILE you watch TV?

 

That was my thought, so I purchased a George Foreman, 60 sq. inch, Lean Mean Grilling Machine. I got mine on sale at Target for $24.

 

Let's face it, Cheeseburgers are the ultimate man's food. No utensils are needed to eat them. They have bread, meat, cheese, and if you swing that way, veggies. It's all four food groups (meat, dairy, grains and plants) all in one compact package. And this electric grill proclaims to cook them with ease.

 

For me, charcoal is the only way to cook a burger. I like the burnt flavor of the wood, the singed, crispy outer shell of beef and the ability to lay my cheese on and start it melting before removal from the grill. George Foreman on the otherhand, is all about healthy eating, and draining off the liuid fat trapped inside burgers.

 

In 5 minutes, my 4 burgers came out reasonably well. Albeit a little less tasty than off the old Smokey Joe Weber Grill I keep outside. The fat had indeed been liquified and drained off the burgers. Something that didn't taste so good, but which dead mean I ended up with a clean shirt and recliner when I was done eating. And as an experiment, I overcooked a couple of burgers by one minute and was able to reasonably simulate the crispy, burnt outershell I like from from charcoaled burgers.

 

An added benefit of the grill was the delicious aroma in the dadcave. Forget that girly potpourri crap the wives always want to stink the house up with. My dadcave now smells like burgers. Mmmmmm.

 

Alas, George Foreman's grill is a bit messy afterwards. My dadcave sports a drybar- no sink for cleaning anything. So I'm going to have to carry the grill upstairs to clean it. But that can easily wait until the next day. My bar's big enough I can leave the grill out when done cooking, and still have room for bowls of chips, cups, or whatever food I need for my relaxtion.

 

Overall? It's no substitute for fire from charcoal, but the ease of use and convenience of grilling in the same room you relax in makes this a VERY worthwhile purchase. Cave-tested and Dad approved.

I'm working with a bunch of kids!

Who the f*&k steals water?

 

You put a bottle of water in the communal fridge at work, you shouldn't have to put your name on it... but I guess I should have. Cause when I went back 24 hours later to get me a nice, chilled bottle of water, it was gone. This is doubly perplexing seeing as how we have a water fountain on our floor.

 

It's like being at home.

 

I'm sure it's happen to many a dad. You have those special orange-creme sodas stashed in the back of the fridge, waiting for them to get near-iced. And then the damn kids drink them without telling you. Or maybe it's that pack of oreos you hid by the recliner to munch on during the latest episode of "The Walking Dead". How are you supposed to enjoy a good zombie show without snacks?

 

I need a locking lunch box. Something with a frickin' padlock on it. THEN I could be assured to get the last of the Pringles Cheezums, or that last bag of beef jerky. Or my damn bottle of water.

 

Anybody make one?

Christmas: It Ain't Over When the Fatman Brings

Well, here we are, December 28th, and people are ripping down their Christmas decorations in anticipation of the coming weekend of alcoholism. Gone is any shred of goodwill as people put away all the crap they got and lament credit card bills from their Ho Ho spending sprees.

 

People, Christmas isn't over. It's just begun.

 

First off, Christmas is the celebration of the birth of Christ. Sure, sure, some Roman picked a date that was near to the Winter Solstice so the pagans could still party on. But Christmas still retains "Christ" in the name, so let's not forget the true origin. The whole reason for all of this is Jesus was born. I'm not going to preach to you though. I'm going to point out that the Three Wisemen didn't cross the desert, show up hours after the birth, drop a bunch of presents then say "happy birthday, kid. See you around" then leave. They stuck around.

 

Ever hear of the twelve days of Christmas? Assuming December 25th to be day #1, we're really only on Day 4. We have 8 more days to go! Let's continue to be festive and cheerful. Let's keep those decorations up. Let's play with the gifts our loved ones worked so hard to get us. Let's be nice to one another.

 

Who cares one year is ending and another is beginning? It's just numbers on a calendar. What really changes? Fishing licences expire one year after issue, not on December 31st. The plates on my car expire in a month corresponding with the first letter of my last name, not December 31st. The TV season continues for another couple of months.

 

Why such a fuss over "New Year"? Christmas is way more important. For one, Christ was born, allowing us all to be saved, if we choose. That's awesome. For another- going back to the solstice- our days are getting longer now. Also awesome. We have new stuff. Non-Christians are huge on "stuff". Enjoy your new stuff. If you got a netbook or iPad for Christmas, you're still enjoying it FOUR days later, right? And how many of us are still munching on leftovers and extra cookies? How many schoolkids are still on Christmas break? Mine sure are.

 

The party is not over. Let's keep the wisemen around another week.  Let's all be reformed Scrooges and keep the holiday in our hearts for at least another week.

 

When you really think about it, now is when we truly get to enjoy Christmas. The pre-season stress is all gone. The decorations are already up. The cooking is over with. No presents to scramble and fight over. No wrapping to do. With the shopping over, no more fighting for parking spaces or crowded streets. I bet most of you even have your returns done.

 

Those of us with kids know that birthday parties are a major headache. But afterwards, the kids all run around and play and we can sit back and relax, our mission accomplished. That's how we should treat Christmas too. The hard stuff is over and now it's time to just relax and remember what the holiday is really about.

 

Merry Christmas!