At the movies

Something I had yet to do with my son was to go see a movie at the theater. Part of my reluctance was his propensity to act as a living commentary track, and part of it was the unpredictable nature of taking an almost 5-year-old to see a movie and expect him to sit still and be quiet.

My mom had already taken him, and she said he did fine, but Brody tends to be on his best behavior with anyone who isn't me or my wife, so I wasn't sure.

But I decided to take him tonight, and he did great. He's been watching Return of the Jedi a lot of late, at his request, and I thought Iron Man might be something he's interested in as well.

I know it's rated PG-13, but he's handled all the Star Wars movies, Superman movies, etc., so I figured he'd be all right.

We had to kill time at the mall since the show we were going to catch was sold out, and I was worried that this would make him cranky when it was time to watch the movie, but I worried for nothing.

I think my favorite part was before the movie, when we saw the trailer for Speed Racer. I thought it might get Brody's attention since he's a big car nut. After it was over, he whispered to me:

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"I want to see Speed Racer."

So we might have plans for next weekend as well. As for the movie itself, he did fine. He only asked one question, "Where's Tony?" and he was eerily quiet for the remainder of the movie, which, by the way, was awesome.

Of course, he did fall asleep after the first half, but I was impressed with how well he behaved while he was awake. I guess I tend to worry too much about him sometimes instead of just trusting him.

I think this is the start of a father-son tradition: the Saturday movie.

And since he doesn't like candy or popcorn, it's a little bit cheaper. Score!

Isn't it ironic

Well, Free Comic Book Day is Saturday, so be sure to check that out at your nearest local comic shop. I'm sure I won't get the chance, but my goal this weekend is to see a movie. Which one? I'll give you a hint:

Hey, Joshua, it's your birthday!

Well, technically, it's tomorrow, but since I post so late, chances are you're reading this on May 2, in which case, yes, it's my brother's birthday.

I give my brother a lot of crap, and pretty much, he deserves it. But as my parents claim, he is my brother, so I guess I should say something nice about him.

Hmmm.

He's my favorite brother. There. That was nice.

In honor of Josh's 29th birthday, here is one of our favoritest public service announcements that we used to watch growing up.

Happy birthday, Scrote.

The results are in...

Did a guest post on my friend Genevieve's blog again this morning, but I figured I'd post it here, as well as on my parenting blog.

So, getting an official diagnosis of autism hasn't made everything as different as I thought it might. I guess I was a little surprised that my son was diagnosed as autistic rather than having Asperger's syndrome, but since there is a list of criteria that gets checked off, if you have enough checkmarks under the autism umbrella, that diagnosis trumps Asperger's.

The phrase "high-functioning" was mentioned a lot, though that wasn't much of a surprise, as Brody has taken recently to becoming a walking billboard, writing "www.thx.com" on his arm and filling up reams of paper with all his favorite words.

An official diagnosis, I suppose, not only gives us a starting point, but it will make getting assistance for him a little easier. I hope.

But in the big picture, not a lot has changed. After all, he's still my son. He still does all the goofy and amazing things he's always done. I think it's important not to lose sight of that.

My wife will likely roll her eyes so hard she will see into the past when I say this, but when I think about talking to my son sometimes, I'm reminded of the episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation where Captain Picard is on a planet with an alien captain who speaks in metaphor. So instead of things like "Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra," it's "She's gone and I'll never see her again," which is something he says when he's sad or overwhelmed. It's from an episode of Spongebob Squarepants.

I think this is hardest on my wife, because she has to deal with both of us. But even then, knowing the reason behind something makes it a little easier to understand. Of course, knowing why your husband is obsessed with old TV commercials and crappy movies probably doesn't help when it comes to you know, actually helping to take care of the kids, but she's pretty awesome.

So it's kind of an adventure for the whole family. We never know quite where the day will take us, and we don't know what TV show or movie Mr. Total Recall will use to convey a point (seriously, it's a little eerie watching him perform stuff he's seen only once. He gets the inflection down pat and everything), but underneath it all, he's a great kid, and I love watching him grow up.

Perhaps some day I'll join him.

Two things

First of all, if you are on Facebook, now you can show everyone what great taste you have by joining like-minded sorts. Get in on the ground floor and become a fan today!

Second of all, this is one of the most disturbing songs I've ever heard. Naturally, I'm sharing it with you.

An 8-year-old's brush with The Fuzz

Summer, 1983...

"Kool-Aid! Ten cents a cup! Kool-Aid! Ten cents a cup!" her booming voice rattled windows around the neighborhood. But that's one of the reasons I asked my friend Felicia to be in charge of my advertising campaign; she was a year older than me, and that extra experience gave her more impressive market penetration.

Yes, in those halcyon days in which Gummi Worms were bought seperately, and given to you by a cashier wielding plastic tongs, my 8-year-old entrepreneurial self decided to go into business selling liquid refreshment to the sweaty masses of our Livermore neighborhood.

We lived on a corner, so not only did I have a prime location, but it was also under a giant tree, so I'd stay a little bit cooler. Made in the shade, right?

I offered Felicia a cut of the profits, but she said she'd just be happy with a cup or two of Kool-Aid, which was just fine with my money-grubbing little heart. Besides, we hung out all the time anyway; we'd just be hanging around my parents' card table, me pouring and collecting money, and Felicia convincing any kids who came by that they should buy a cup or two.

I contracted out for the actual making of my product; my mom was happy to mix up batches of Kool-Aid for me, and I was fine with her using whatever flavor was on hand. I had already stashed away my favorite flavor, Sunshine Punch.

So aside from making a sign with my Crayolas and sitting in a chair, ready to make change, I really didn't have much actual work to do. That was the beauty of it.

With it being summertime, kids were out all day long, so we'd get them coming and going. And if it got slow, we could discuss the merits of Knight Rider or The A-Team. Every now and then her brother Nathaniel would come by to see how we were doing, but we were kind of boring, so he'd go find something more fun to do.

Felicia took a break for a little bit during a particularly slow part of the afternoon, and I was left to man the stand on my own. I read my tattered copy of The Great Brain at the Academy and waited for customers.

A black-and-white police car cruised by, and I saw him look at me as he drove by. I realized that technically, as I didn't have a business permit, I was breaking the law.

Yes, I swear to you, I was 8 years old, worrying about not having a business permit to sell Kool-Aid. I was a weird little kid.

I got even more nervous as he turned around and parked across the street. The officer got out of his car, his sunglasses hiding his eyes, and walked over to the stand. I thought he was going to run me in.

"How much?" he asked.

"Ten cents," I said, nodding at my sign with its faux-Superman lettering.

The officer fished in his pocket and pulled out a quarter. Sweet! That was enough for two and a half glasses.

"I'll take one, please." And he handed me the quarter. I already had the dime and nickel ready for him, and I tried to hand it to him. "Keep the change."

I thanked him profusely, and he got back in his car and drove away. Kids were starting to get called in for dinner, so I closed up shop for the day. I was so excited by my profit that I was probably visibly glowing.

Wow, I thought. Imagine what I could do with a flavor besides orange...

The heat is on

I think we've officially seen the last super cold day in my neck of the woods. It's already getting into the 90s on the weekends, which is just a shame for those of us who are pale and doughy.

But now that it's likely going to be sunny all the time, it makes me pine for a vacation. And I don't know about you, but when I think of vacation, only one song comes to mind.

As luck would have it, I found it on YouTube. So while you think of where you want to go on your next summer holiday, you can have this song stuck in your head.



Oh, no, no, no. You're quite welcome.

Because funny never gets old.

One day in high school art class, many moons ago, I decided to answer everything my friend Heidi said with the phrase "That's what she said."

Not like I woke up in the morning and decided, but after the third time I did it and it was still making me giggle, I just stuck with it.

That's what she said.

Oh snap, I just did it to myself.

That's what she said.

Here for your annoyance/enjoyment, here's a compilation of Michael Scott's best joke on The Office. It's hard not to laugh.

That's what she said.

People are people, too

When I was about 5 years old, while riding in the car with my family, I had an epiphany of sorts as I gazed at all the cars on the freeway.

Everyone in all of those cars had entire lives separate from mine. All the stuff I'd experienced in my 5 long years on Earth -- they'd gone through that much stuff a few times over.

It's kind of obvious, I suppose, but as a little kid, trying to wrap my head around all the intrapersonal connection those number dictated, well it was weird.

Other people had other jobs and went to other schools, and lived in different places. I guess it was the first time I saw the world as a micro- and macrocosm, though I wouldn't learn those words for a while.

I think that's part of why I write. Once I realized that all the people were doing all sorts of things, I wondered exactly what it is they were doing. Even now, sometimes when I'm daydreaming--mostly on BART to or from work--I wonder what it is that brought these specific people on this specific car at this time. Where they're going; where they've been; why they seem oblivious to the concept of personal space.

Before too long, I'm writing a story in my head. Sometimes, it will give me an idea for something I want to write, but often it's just a mental exercise, I guess. Like doing crossword puzzles or Sudoku.

Sometimes I see people while walking around San Francisco that sets that process in motion. Yesterday, for example.

While my pal Karyne and I were walking down the street from work to get some lunch and fresh air, respectively, a woman walking the opposite way caught my eye.

Now for those of you reading this who are married to me, when I say she caught my eye, it wasn't in the "homina homina homina" kind of way where your eyes bug out of your head and your tongue unfurls to the ground before rolling back up like a classroom map of the world.

She was wearing casual business attire, for the most part; dark colors, nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the -- and I'm not exaggerating -- 4 inches of cleavage that bounded with each step.

Yes, I realize you're probably thinking that I walk around all day in a daze mumbling "boooooooobies" everywhere I go, but I assure you this is not the case. It wasn't titillating (sorry); I just wondered about the practicality. You know, like "Can that be comfortable with them all squooshed up like that?" or "What would happen if she took a deep breath?"

I'm not the gawking type, honest, but sincerely, it looked like she'd bolted someone's butt on her chest.

I thought to myself, hmm, I wonder what the story is behind that outfit?

Am I just being the stereotypical breast-obsessed straight guy? Is there an accepted cutoff point after which cleavage is considered excessive?

I mean, if it were me, I wouldn't get anything done all day because I'd be checking myself every few seconds to make sure I wasn't busting out (sorry again; can't help it). Maybe I'm just overly self-conscious; I try not to bound down stairs too energetically, lest my heaving manboobs display any untoward jiggling.

Help me out here, ladies. Is there a way she was oblivious to her appearance? I'm trying to keep abreast of things like this.

The Ballad of Double Boy

I get home from work, and my wife shows me my 4-year-old son's writing from earlier in the day: many pages of various words. Generally speaking, anytime he writes, chief among the words are variations of "Pixar," "THX" and "Lucasfilm Ltd."

Yes, he's obsessed with Pixar movies. Can you tell?

Now this part is totally my fault. He was sitting next to me, and I didn't notice that he was being quiet, partially because I was tired, and partially because I was watching Battle of the Network Stars. I love my video collection sometimes.

I turned to say something to him when I saw that he had a pen in his hand.

"Brody Alexander!"

"No, I'm Double Boy."

"Huh?"

"Double Boy." He held out his arm. "See? W-W-W..."

Sure enough, for some reason, my son decided he'd be a walking billboard for THX by writing www.thx.com on his left arm.



"Oh boy," I said. "Go show your mom why you're Double Boy."

As he hopped off the chair, I noticed he gave himself stylized kneecap tattoos as well.


Moral of the story: Beware of quiet kids. They're up to something.

I still hate being sick.

Dumb Things I've Done (11 in an unnumbered series)

As a budding 6-year-old comedian, I was always studying what people thought was funny. While over at my parents' friends' house, we caught Every Which Way But Loose on HBO. While not an out-and-out comedy, I noticed there were a few laughs from the grown-ups very now and then.

The biggest laugh was after Clint Eastwood beats the crap out of the Black Widows, a biker gang. As our hero makes his getaway, Clyde the orangutan pops out of the back of the truck and flips them off.

I didn't know why it was funny, but I couldn't ignore the laughs it got. I made a mental note to try it out on my friends.

A few days later at lunch, I saw my friend Jimmy waiting in the hot-lunch line. Now was the time.

"Jimmy!" I yelled across the cafeteria. He whipped his head around, saw it was me, and waved.

I held down my ring and index fingers down with my thumb (as novice bird-flippers often do), and let the bird fly. Jimmy practically exploded with laughter, and I glowed, proud that I had performed the gag satisfactorily.

I saw a shadowy figure swoop in from my left; it was one of the other first-grade teachers, and did she look pissed.

"I don't ever want to see you do that again!" she yelled at me. "Do you understand me?"

I was so shocked--I had no idea I'd done something wrong--that I could only nod numbly. Jimmy came to the table a few minutes later, and I was still so shaken that my eyes were welling up with tears. Yes, I was a wuss.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

I held up the half-eaten sweet pickle from my lunch and explained that while eating it, I bit the inside of my cheek. Somehow it was OK to almost be in tears for that rather than being shrieked at by a teacher.

Now here's the clip that lead me down the path of unbridled evil. DO NOT copy what Clyde the orangutan does if grown-ups around. Learn from my mistakes, people.

Today's serving of WTF

Now, I watched the Donny and Marie show a lot as a kid. I had a little crush on Marie, despite her being a "little bit country." I'm a sucker for brunettes; what can I say?

However, this YouTube clip is just, I mean, I can't decide if this is better or worse than The Star Wars Holiday Special. I'm going to give this a few bonus points for convincing Kris Kristofferson to dress up as Han Solo.



Remember this the next time someone bitches that George Lucas ruined Star Wars with Jar-Jar Binks.

A thought before bed.

My children have turned into phlegm factories. This does not bode well for my wife and I this week.

I bet that hurt...

The sad fact that plagues copy editors: the I and the O are right next to each other on the keyboard. Back in my newspaper days, any time I typed "three-point shot" in a sports caption or any reference in news stories to "public meetings," "Department of Public Works" or God forbid, "Public Storage," I asked everyone else on the copy desk to verify that I had in fact typed what I thought.

Hey, it's Friday night...

Friday nights are usually when people hang out, go out, or black out (sometimes all three). In honor of the celebratory nature of Friday nights, I present the awesomest walrus I've ever seen, who I call Chumley. Break it down for us, Chumley:

New commenting system

Trying out Disqus as a replacement for the old-school commenting system. This should make the comments more discussiony, which will be cool.

Thanks to Josh for the tip.

Oh dear God, Microsoft...why?!

We here at Siftin' often celebrate the less than successful. Or in other words, hooray for crap!

I think you can learn more from bad ideas than good ones sometimes, and I came across this post on CNET's Crave blog that runs through the 8 worst Microsoft promo videos.

With all that money and talent at their disposal, how bad could it be, you ask?

Check out Josh Lowensohn's post and find out for yourself. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Tuesday's child is full of FAIL

I've never been particularly graceful, thus shooting the whole "Tuesday's child is full of grace" thing all to hell.

But when I dipped into my baby book to see how old I was when I hit a baby milestone recently, I noticed that I had a lot of coordination trouble. Here are the top 5 greatest hits, so to speak (with approximate age):

5. (5 months) Hit head against fireplace bricks at grandparents' house. Result: "Small bruise on forehead -- fine afterward."

4. (1 year) Fell down in back yard and split open my top lip. Result: "Swelling went down after a couple of hours."

3. (13 months) Stepped on a sewing needed; it almost went completely through my foot. My mom has told me about this one. apparently, the head of the needle was poking up, tentpole-style, in the skin on the top of my foot. Result: "It hardly bled at all. Jeff didn't cry much at all. Fine a few minutes later."

2. (16 months) Fell on the floor while sucking on a bottle. Cut lip on outside. Result: "Cut bled pretty good. Jeff was fine as soon as he was given an ice cube to suck on." One of the big memories of my childhood is the taste of an ice cube wrapped in a paper towel. This happened so often, I thought it was one of the major food groups.

1. This is the first one I actually remember, as I had just turned 4. I was at preschool on the swing set. Always the social butterly, I was swinging on a two-person swing. I think it was one of the ones that looked like a seesaw.

It was almost time to go back inside, and while my classmates weren't having any trouble with this, I was. Being short, my feet couldn't quite reach the ground, and since I was riding solo, I had no one to help me.

Well, I didn't want to be late, so I thought if I grabbed part of the main frame, that would slow me down enough, and I could hop off. Note that waiting for a minute or two while I slowed down naturally didn't actually occur to me.

I grabbed the bar as I was swinging back, and I guess I miscalculated. I heard a giant gong, and it felt like the back of my head was on fire.

Yep, I practically brained myself because I didn't want to be late for making macaroni arts and crafts.

The result: "Bled for a while, but was fine afterward. No swelling."

This filled up the Accidents page in my baby book before I even made it to school, where I was the Gerald Ford of Portola Elementary School.

I'm not exaggerating. I was on a first-name basis with Lindy, the secretary, and every time I came into the office, she'd turn to the mini-fridge next to her and reach for an icepack for me.

I would trip constantly, slide occasionally -- one time requiring a quick trip home to change clothes, as I'd slid all the way up my left side in mud during soccer at recess -- and I ran into stuff a lot.

You'd think a giant storage locker bigger than a Dumpster would be a pretty easy thing to work around, right?

During a game of Soak 'Em (or Bombardment, depending on where you went to school), I saw a random ball bounce near me. I ran for it at top speed to get it before one of the bigger kids did, and somehow neglected to factor in that giant storage locker, which I plowed into with the top right side of my head.

No blood, but a ginormous goose egg was sprouting on my head, which meant that my record, if not my skull, was broken, and it was off for another icepack from Lindy.

To add insult to injury, I had to do a speech in front of the class that day, which I did, holding the ice on my dome.

And no, it wasn't on playground safety.

I'm here, sort of

I'm spending a little too much time at The Prelinger Archives these days. To be more accurate, I'm looking at more than the Prelinger collection, but there's a lot of public domain goodness to be had. Check it out.