A brief interview with Yin and Yang

The month of April marks milestone birthdays for both of my daughters; Zoe will turn 15 and Lauryn will be ten. I've often listened to their varying takes on life, but I've never posed the same set of questions to each of them. The time has come. I sat down with my girls over a dinner of taco salads and pineapple, pulled out a list of pre-determined questions and wrote as quickly as I could. Hopefully, the answers will remain true to their voices.

Lauryn, what advice would you give the parent of a ten-year-old?
Let your kid do whatever they want, except drugs, alcohol and get pregnant.
Zoe, what would you say to the parent of a 15-year old?
Let them drive short distances before they have a permit, and you should let them text as late as they want if it's important.

Lauryn, if you could change anything about your first ten years, what would you change?
I would change the bad words I've said to people, and I would've spent more time with my sister.
Zoe, how about you?
When I was four, I wouldn't have peed on the floor of my room and wiped it up with my dad's towel and put it back, thereby forcing my dad to dry himself with my urine.

Lauryn, ten years from now, what do you want to look back upon and say that you've accomplished?

Ummm...drive a car and make a lot of friends. And over ten years, I want to walk 30 miles.

Zoe, when you're 30, what do you want to say that you've done?

I want to have had a 20-point scoring average by my senior year, and have graduated from high school and college with at least a 3.7 GPA (brief pause in the conversation). Mmmmm...my hair is soft.

Lauryn, what will ten-year-olds have in ten years that you don't have now?

TVs as big as a wall and cell phones in their brains.

Zoe, what will 15-year-olds have in 15 years?

Trampoline floors, cars will be powered by air and teachers will be robots. 

(At this point, the girls' mother points out that she plans on still being a teacher in 15 years.)

Okay, last question: If you have ten- and 15-year-old children, respectively, what would their names be and what would they be like?

Lauryn: Her name would be Skyler and she would be very unique and creative and she would grow up to be a painter and sometimes I would need to give her cash.

Zoe: His name would be Blake and he would be very cute and always have short hair and he'd be a ladies' man with a lot of cool Nikes and he'll be really funny.

Thanks for your time, both of you.

Interviewer's note: I'm not sure I'd want a ladies' man for a grandson, like a little mini David Hasselhoff. Wait a minute... I'm  jealous of a non-existent person. Anyway, now that we've got everything mapped out, I guess my work as a parent is done.

Of shattered dreams and Area 51

Damn it. Another cool legend bites the dust, and this time, it's dragging a lot of believers into the abyss.

Most of us have heard or read about the legend of Area 51: An alien spacecraft crashes in the southern Nevada desert. People see and photograph the event. Dark government figures confiscate film, pay off witnesses and deny everything. Alien beings are whisked to secret locations, examined, probed and dissected. An entire movement is born out of the seeds of conspiracy and a new-found public obsession with UFOs.

After nearly 50 years, according to a front-page feature in The Seattle Times, a few of the shadowy characters have come out of the woodwork to discuss the true goings-on at Area 51. Apparently, this remote area was a testing site for state-of-the-art reconnaissance aircraft, or spy planes. Prior to satellites and other high tech surveillance devices, the United States employed high-altitude, ultra-fast jets to spy on the Soviet Union. One such aircraft, the SR-71, could fly at altitudes of 90,000 feet and achieve a speed of Mach 3.29, or 2,200 miles per hour, and its predecessor, the A-12, ended up being the "alien" craft which crash landed in the desert that fateful day in 1963.

Due to the extreme secrecy of the project, government operatives descended upon the crash site, cleaned up all the debris and confiscated the film from the camera of a vacationing family who happened upon the scene. No aliens. No space-age technology to be harvested from the discovery.

I have to admit, I'm a little disappointed by these revelations. I really wanted to believe that our government possessed proof that living beings visited our primitive planet in the 1950s and 60s. I yearned to buy into the whole conspiracy theory, just like I'd like to think that Sasquatch, the Loch Ness Monster, Crop Circles, that rumor about Jamie Lee Curtis and the Bermuda Triangle are factual phenomena.

I'll tell you one thing—if I were ever elected President, and there's still time, I'd ask some tough questions about what our government has on aliens and the Kennedy assassination. I'd also ask for a hot fudge sundae every Thursday night, and for all the White House's carpets and upholstery to be replaced in any room that Bill Clinton spent a "significant" amount of time.

Time to get back to my National Enquirer.

That time I appeared on Oprah

Here we go again.

If I were ever lucky enough to appear on Oprah, and I wouldn't be, I could imagine her introducing me with something like, "You all know him or somebody like him. He's gained and lost enough weight to fill up my Chicago mansion with gooey stomach and chin lard. Well, today, we have him at the Harpo studios. Tim Haywood is heeeeeeeere!"

I'd walk in slowly from stage right, lugging a Radio Flyer wagon brimming with the equivalent of my most recent flab loss. I would drop the handle, leaving the disgusting display in the middle of the stage, stroll over to Oprah, and experience the charms of her loving embrace. We'd sit down on her L-shaped couch and get down to business.

Oprah: "So, first of all, welcome to the show. I could have had Harrison Ford on today, but my friend Gail talked me into this, since you and I seem to have the same problem with gaining weight, losing weight, gaining, losing, etc."

Me: "Well, Oprah (I can't believe I'm saying, "Well, Oprah"), a lot of us ride the weight roller coaster. Most people ride something you might find at the Western Washington Fair, but mine is Vegas-sized, with a couple of loop-the-loops. By the way, is Dr. Oz going to be here? If he is, I don't want a lecture, and I really don't want to see him with his shirt off. And what's with those scrubs? Is he performing prostate exams during commercial breaks?"

Oprah: "Don't worry about him, honey. He'd be nothing more than an HMO hack working at a strip mall clinic if it weren't for me.

So anyway, why can't you seem to control your weight?"

Me: "I've got an obsessive/compulsive personality, Oprah. Once I start a diet, I get a little manic about it. I can shed pounds in quick order, which irritates my wife to no end. I weigh myself every day, sometimes twice, and ruminate over everything I put into my body.

"I usually take off twenty to twenty-five pounds, maintain for about six months, and then maybe indulge myself for a weekend. Sometimes I get back on the wagon, but usually I say to hell with it, and slowly return to my gluttonous ways. You know what I mean, Oprah? That extra beer, that extra helping of risotto. But the worst temptation is the workplace, where treats abound and around three o'clock is the witching hour for sweet temptation—birthday cakes, cookies, a stray gummy worm on the carpet..."

Oprah: "I feel your pain. And by the way, you're welcome for my mentioning UGGs on my 'favorite things' show and singlehandedly making it your company's best-selling shoe."

Me: "Oh, yeah, thanks for that."

Oprah: "When we come back, we're going to have everyone look under their chairs, and whatever they find, Tim will eat. We'll be right back."

The preceding dramatization was intended solely for the self-motivational purposes of the author, as a tactic to lose some weight and prevent the purchase of clothing with elastic waistbands. 

Where have you gone, Joe Camel?

This morning as I waited on the sidewalk for King County Metro Route 54, I spotted that familiar, well-groomed woman, again walking purposefully toward our bus stop. She abruptly stopped, as usual, roughly fifty feet from where I stood next to the brown shelter. We each spotted the bus on the horizon and removed our passes to prepare to board our ride, but she didn't move an inch closer to the bus' stopping point. It was as if she were straining against an invisible fence. Why?

She hadn't finished her cigarette.

It wasn't always this way. Smokers didn't always cower in the dark corners of the great outdoors, keeping more distance from the masses than Howie Mandel at a handshaking convention.

With today's state of nicotine affairs, I can always tell when someone at work is leaving the building for a butt break—they wear comfortable walking shoes, because in Washington State, smokers have to reside at least twenty feet from buildings (also known as "in the street") or constantly moving. I guess it can't hurt to keep the heart rate going while ingesting those twelve-thousand toxic chemicals, or however many there are.

Smoking used to occupy such a large swath of popular culture. Most people my age remember candy cigarettes or bubble gum cigars. Made sense to me, since most of our parents smoked, and these were simply tactile vehicles to prepare us for big boy and girl cancer sticks. Lighting up was allowed anywhere—in church, in the malls—I can even recall people firing up courtside at a 1969 Seattle SuperSonics basketball contest.

Most mornings in elementary school, I would stop off at the home of my friend, Terry, whose mom was really nice and always gave us a ride. I would enter the kitchen, greeting my friend as he stuffed his face with Eggos, and his mom, as she took massive pulls off her unfiltered Pall Malls. As we waited for Terri to finish his Jimmy Dean patty sausage, the conversation would turn to Richard Nixon or Olivia Newton John or the new Ford Pinto. We'd pile into the car, windows  sealed tightly, as Terry's mom lit another cigarette for the five-minute drive to school. Occasionally, the car got so smoky, she would open her window a good quarter of an inch for maximum ventilation.

Throughout my childhood, smoking was frowned upon, but not that much. Underage smokers at my high school convened on the sidewalk directly in front of the building. In an effort to curb such a public relations nightmare, a brand new, state-of-the-art smoking patio was built behind the school, safely tucked away from the public eye. Nothing but the best for tomorrow's leaders.

Any time our marching band traveled to an overnight destination, a smoking bus was always included in the convoy. As a direct result of this foresight some important bridges of understanding were forged between the smoking youth and their equally inhaling chaperones. Lighters were lent, cigarettes were shared and a general feeling of esprit de corps permeated the foggy vehicle.

I'm not going to elaborate on the ever-increasing exploitation of smokers throughout the ensuing three decades. The current cost of a monthly supply of smokes rivals what this guy on the left probably paid for his Camero. It's probably good that he's not around to see what's happened to this once noble pastime.

What women really want: Like I know

What do women look for in a man?

This question arises occasionally, and today it reared its head again as I watched an interview with Gene Simmons, leader of KISS, on The Joy Behar Show.

We all know that this guy is the poster boy for male rock-n-roll sluttiness. He's claimed to have biblically acquainted himself with over 4,600 women...and counting. I watched as Gene sat there, his dyed, jet black, spray-on hair and sunglasses portraying the appearance of a living police composite sketch. Perched next to him was his live-in girlfriend of 26 years, Shannon Tweed, nodding and smiling as Simmons elaborated on his scores of sexual exploits.

Naturally, I understand that a lot of females are attracted to wealthy, bad-boy rock stars—always have been and always will be. Am I envious? Sure.

However, even if this guy carnally sampled half of the women he claimed to have, he would officially qualify as the bacterial equivalent of a chewing gum-covered concrete wall the size of Orange County. With all the fame and riches stripped from his persona, he's at best nothing more than the Crown Prince of Chlamydia, Nasty McYuckerson. What is it about seemingly repulsive dudes that draws these women to them?

I decided to fire up the google mobile and found a site which lists the top ten traits women look for in men, at least according to one woman. Money, fame, power and rock stardom weren't on the list, which was refreshing, so I decided to assess how I might stack up:

1) Appreciation—I'd like to think I exhibit appreciative qualities, like when I lovingly say, "Thanks for finding the remote."

2) Organization—I'm more than willing to organize everything into a large, neat pile.

3) Observation—I'm quite adept at gauging a woman's moods and emotions, most notably her subtle irritation that occurs after I've demolished any kind of weight-bearing wall.

4) Drive—I definitely know what I want...and this time I want it with extra cheese.

5) Intelligence—I've utilized my intellectual tools to determine that deep within her soul, she yearns to discuss football. Say the word, my sweet.

6) Outlook—I realize that a positive outlook goes a long way, which is why, when I'm the driver, I'll never admit that we're lost.

7) Genuine Chivalry—I could have pitched the tent that dark, rainy night, but knew it would serve us much better as a blanket.

8) Spontaneity—Go ahead and get your coat. We're going for a beer.

9) Confidence—Of course I can eat all of that.

10) Self maintenance—If I can't take care of myself, how can I take care of her? That's why I bought us each a pair of sweat pants at Rite Aid.

Wow. Looks like Simmons has nothing on me after all.

A day with my kids: This is it.

My kids and I spent an enjoyable day together yesterday. It began with my older daughter and I coaching my younger daughter's indoor soccer team, the Blue Fire. During the second half of a hotly-contested match, Lauryn wound up and fired off a shot from half court, about two feet off the ground, directly toward the goal.

It scorched the back of the net. She had just scored her first goal of her soccer career, from about twenty yards out.

Since I'm the coach, I have to demonstrate a little composure out there. You know, can't play favorites, and I suppose that's why, after Lauryn's goal, I had to jump around and scream like I was on Family Feud every time someone on our team scored. Got to cover my tracks.

After the game, flush with fatherly pride, I took my daughters out to dinner. My wife had retreated to her classroom to catch up on some work, and I tend to spoil the kids, and myself, in these situations. The restaurant just happened to be conveniently located a stone's throw from a place which offers a dessert called "The Blizzard," so we celebrated America's many unhealthy food choices by swinging through the drive-through for a little helping of mud pie heaven.

The plan at this point was to return home, switch on the TV, and tune into some trashy reality show, like We Live in a Cake or Furry Millionaires on Four Legs or I Sleep on Pizza Boxes. Unfortunately, none of the evening's offerings met our high standards, so we decided to rent This Is It, Michael Jackson's swan song documentary of his last rehearsals before the shows that weren't to be.

I loved this movie. I know, like everyone else, about his strange personality, his checkered history, his odd behavior. But as a performer, as a musician, no one tops him. His charisma seeped right through the screen. Michael is probably the single musical artist about whom my daughters and I can agree. He hadn't really released any hit material for the past twenty years, yet my kids seemed to know so many of his songs; we all sang along, surprised that each knew the words.

He sang, danced and conveyed himself with such vigor, it was hard to fathom that these were his final days. Lauryn reminded me that he had a serious drug problem and that his doctor had been charged with "Manslaughtering."

I recommend this movie to anyone who craves nostalgia. I recommend spending a day with your kids to anyone period.

Coaching tweens: one man's struggle

I can't really get a read on these people.

They're referred to as "tweens," but they're actually a compilation of almost every year of their lives from zero to ten.

I've signed on, yet again, to coach kids' indoor soccer. This time, it's a gaggle of eight- and nine-year-old girls, including my daughter. We practice every Thursday night in an archaic, dusty elementary school gym, where the parent-spectators hug the sides and try not to get nailed with an errant line drive to the chest.

We are the Blue Fire. I guess that's a good team name, since it implies scorching hot play, so hot that it's...blue? My teenage daughter is the assistant coach, and it's a good thing, because she handles the warm-up exercises and plays good cop to my impatient, old school bad cop. Every practice, she assembles the kids into a circle for stretching, but before long, about half the players are just sitting, cross-legged, chatting. Here's an example:

Teenage assistant coach: "So...how was everyone's day at school?"

Player #1: "It was good. I got in trouble yesterday. It was my fault, but it wasn't my fault. You know what I mean?"

Teenage assistant coach: "Oh, yeah. I know what you mean."

Player #2: "I got in trouble, too."

Player #3: "I got in trouble, too."

I watched the girls as they sat and talked. It seems like girls this age are just a bit off in their appearance. They're all really cute and bubbly, but their hair always seems a little stringy and oily; their shoes aren't usually tied all the way.

A few of them wore their shin guards on the outsides of their socks, and it reminded me of a kid I knew in seventh grade. On the first day of gym class, each boy was issued a shirt, shorts and an athletic supporter (jock strap). This poor kid walked out of the locker room wearing his jock outside of his shorts. Luckily for these girls on my soccer team, they will never be stigmatized for wearing their shin guards over their socks they way that poor kid in gym was. His name was Chuck.

We always try different drills for the first half of practice, like dribbling, passing and shooting at the goal. Again, half the girls usually pay attention, while the other half try strange things with their soccer balls. As I demonstrated how to properly trap a soccer ball, one girl decided to stand on hers with both feet. Naturally, she fell, landing hard enough on her side to break the hip of your average eighty-year-old.

"You guys. Please don't stand on your ball," I said. "See what happens? It's really dangerous."

Another kid stood on her ball and wiped out hard. Then another one.

"Okay, let's start our scrimmage early."

I really do love this team, an I try to be patient with them. They attend school all day, where things are segmented and structured, so soccer practice is a great opportunity to blow off some steam. Plus, this is a YMCA, free-to-be-you-and-me activity, not the ultra-select, premier, all-star platinum soccer league.

But next time one of those kids stands on a ball, we'll see how well a nine-year-old can do push-ups.