How I fit my teenager for a GPS without her knowledge

This cool dad thing is starting to wear off.

My wife and I are always encouraging our fifteen-year-old daughter to invite her friends over to the house. It's nice to meet the people she hangs out with during these pivotal years, and if they're here, they're not somewhere else (obviously, but you know what I mean).

These kids hang out in large social clusters, quite similar to gorillas and elephants with expanded vocabulary, but only recently have these groups become co-ed. Crushes do exist within their ever-morphing amoeba, but very little pairing up actually occurs—fine with me.

A few weeks ago, a group of twelve boys and girls assembled at our house to eat frozen pizza, drink high fructose corn syrup and get ready for the high school's fall homecoming dance. The girl faction had gathered earlier, and were ready to go when the males arrived. As they entered, the aroma of "Pink Sugar" perfume, the latest incarnation of adolescent female essence, hung thickly in the air, melding with the slightly burnt odor of ten Red Baron combo pizzas.

Since I'd not met most of the dudes, I tried to kick things off on a cool note. You know, make sure they noticed my ear piercings, maybe try a nonconventional handshake on one or two of them.

"Hey, guys, I'm Zoe's dad." Obviously. What other middle-aged man would be plodding around the house in shorts, slippers and a torn UW hoody with no drawstrings.

I continued, "You can call me Tim." Okay, that was kind of stupid. Chances are very slight that they'll ever call me anything. But at least I haven't messed up too badly yet.

But I didn't stop there. "I won't make you call me Dr. Haywood, even though that's how most people refer to me, since I'm a neurosurgeon."

Sparse, uncomfortable teen chuckles sprinkled the room. as my daughter's glare tore into me.  "He's not a doctor. He's a graphic designer. Bye, Dad,"

Well, that sure went well, I thought. It used to be so much easier to win these kids over. A solid knock-knock joke, followed by their favorite flavor of frozen Gogurt and a Capri Sun, and I was golden. Now the only golden object was my silence.

I retreated into another room and didn't emerge until I could hear them preparing to head out for the evening. I re-entered their domain, planning on saying as little as possible, but lost my game plan at the sight of three shirtless sixteen-year-old boys. Apparently, they decided to change into their dance shirts just prior to leaving, and my living room looked like the Chippendale's Apprentice Academy.

It was easy to stick to my no-speaking strategy, since my mouth and the mouth's of the girls in the room stood agape at the display of muscles I haven't seen on my own body since the Carter administration.

The wardrobe change took all of two minutes and everyone was out the door before I realized that my daughter had entered a new realm in her dealings with the opposite sex. And next time everyone comes over, I'll be much more prepared.

I won't be there.

Mr. Manners has a few words for Mr. Moss

I have to admit, I'm feeling old today.

Most days, when I hear the sound of my voice, I picture a guy who's maybe thirty-one years old, 160 pounds...and then I look in the mirror.

But today, that's not the reason I'm feeling old. It has to do with something I heard about the other day, which reinforced my belief that our young folks are quickly losing their grasp on manners, politeness and basic human decency.

Randy Moss, a thirty-three-year-old, All-Pro wide receiver for the Minnesota Vikings, was released this week following a public tirade during a team meal. Every Friday, the team receives a free catered lunch in the locker room, and apparently, Mr. Moss wasn't pleased with the fare. According to one of the food servers, Moss approached the buffet line and immediately began screaming, "I wouldn't feed this (expletive) to my (expletive) dog," and stormed away.

The rest of his Viking teammates stood dumbstruck and embarrassed at the boorish display and many apologized to the caterers. Moss was jettisoned from the team three days later.

I'm not going to generalize about an entire generation due to the behavior of one out-of-touch diva who catches a football for a living. But tell me if you haven't noticed an erosion in basic etiquette in the past twenty to thirty years.

As parents, we continually badger our kids to say "please" and "thank you," especially to those outside the immediate family. And I know how much it embarrasses my ten-year-old daughter when I hand one of her friends a grilled cheese sandwich (sharp cheddar only, no crust) with tomato soup (made with milk, not water), allowing roughly ten seconds to receive the "thank you." After that, I won't hesitate to tell her she's welcome. Ungrateful little...

My kids are still working on saying "excuse me," in the appropriate situations and eating with their mouths at least seventy percent closed, but the pleases and thank yous are finally part of their vernacular.

Why have manners evaporated? Well, I've got a theory, and it starts with anonymity. We text, we email, we comment online under dumb pseudonyms like "Reflections of a Shallow Pond," and human contact is lacking. When we're driving and someone cuts us off, we don't hesitate to honk and maybe flip them off. But imagine walking down the sidewalk and someone walks right in front of us, forcing us to alter our path. Are we going to scream at them and gesture in a threatening manner? Maybe if it's Rush Limbaugh or Alex Rodriguez, but otherwise, I doubt it.

It's because we're human, we can see that they're also human and neither of us is insulated by metal, a high rate of speed and anonymity.

It's time for me to take my own advice. It's so easy to email someone, especially at work, when Ive got a problem with them, but so difficult to confront them face-to-face. I consider it sport to cut someone off in traffic as retaliation for their bad driving, but I need to try to see their face so the urge passes.

And even though I don't want to, I really have to be nicer to clowns.

I'm not being critical. It's just that you're sort of ugly.

It's no secret that we live in a highly competitive market economy. Every day, there's a war waged for our time, our attention and most of all, our hard-earned cash. And in order to gauge or satisfaction, to maintain that precarious grasp on our business, our feedback is constantly solicited:

"Your call is important to us. Please hold and the next available operator attend to your every whim...all the way from somewhere in India."

"How's my driving? Call 1-800-123-4567 and we'll make sure our driver is notified...all the way from somewhere in India."

At home the other day, I'm not sure how, but I noticed that the bottom of the Kleenex box even listed a customer service number and website for consumer grievances. It's comforting to know that I've got an advocate in the absorbent paper product genre.

This critical world we inhabit, where actions and behaviors are scrutinized, dissected and even mocked, has created a highly cynical culture. Satisfaction may be guaranteed, but it's never really attained:

"Excuse me, I asked for the McRib with chipotle sweat and sour, not regular sweet and sour sauce. I hereby demand a complimentary supersize."

"Honey, stop booing the quarterback. He's on our team."
"Hey, I'm entitled to voice my displeasure. This is America."
"Okay, Dear. But he is only ten...and he's your son."

Living within this supercharged critical atmosphere, we all end up on the receiving end from time to time. I could really stand some improvement when it comes to being criticized. In fact, just yesterday, some guy read another of my "top ten" posts. Granted, it wasn't one of my better ramblings, and here's what he said:
"Really? I can't believe I actually wasted time reading this 10 List." 


Did I take the high road and simply brush of a rant from some random ignoramus? Of course I didn't. I replied:
"Thanks for the valuable feedback. Let's see what you've got." 

The maturity, composure and tact arrows have never filled my quiver. I swear, if my skin were any thinner, I'd resemble something served for dim sum. Some anonymous dude slams something I wrote, and I react like he gave me a wedgie which led to bleeding and scarring.


How are some people able to withstand certain jobs—the umpires, the Presidents of the United States, the drive through workers—and stand tall in the face of sheer nastiness and personal insult?

I completely understand why millions of Americans oppose Mr. Obama's progressive agendas and philosophies. I even accept that people are irked by his personal style and demeanor. But come on—displaying his likeness on a huge sign, resembling Hitler or a monkey? That's vaulting over the line from criticism to hatred and vitriol. It contributes nothing to political dialogue or debate, and portrays the demonstrator as nothing but a cretin.

Let's try and check ourselves, just a little bit, next time, and I'll include myself in this reprimand. I'm going to work on not correcting my co-workers mispronunciations (like "sherbert"), not getting irritated when the bus is five minutes late and not getting irked that my Jamba Juice wasn't filled to the top of the cup.

It's going to be very difficult to keep my mouth shut, however, if my wife doesn't improve the way she irons my underwear.

Ten reasons why I'm glad tomorrow is election day

10) I get one last opportunity to watch Wolf Blitzer's hairdo against the undulating backdrop of CNN's red and blue touch screen election predictor. It gives my cat grand mall seizures, but it's well worth it.

9) Tea Party candidates can finally stop being so freaking ignorant about civics and learn about government the same way I did—by watching the complete Schoolhouse Rock collection on DVD.

8) I don't have to watch any more obnoxious political ads during football games. From now on, it's back to beer, car and Cialis commercials. And speaking of Cialis, what's up with those twin bathtubs? One of you is going to have to eventually get out of your small, single tub without slipping, and into the other small, single tub, just like Fred and Wilma did when they wanted a little Yabba Dabba Doo.

7) The Tea Party Candidates can return to their wives and children. In Utah, that means one candidate per every four wives and sixteen children.

6) In Washington state, all of those Dino Rossi signs will again be put away for another four years.

5) The Tea Party candidates, including their champion, Sarah Palin, will put forth a colossal effort to become more inclusive. Ms. Palin was recently heard telling Sean Hannity, "If the Devil also wears Prada, then by golly, we've got somethin' in common."

4) Meg Whitman can finally let those people out of her mini-storage unit and get someone to clean her silver tea service.

3) The Tea Party candidates can explain to their voters why their ballots were voided: You're only supposed to fill in the dots, not connect them.

2) Christine O'Donnell can finally move back to her sorority, ditch those stuffy fundraisers and go to the homecoming kegger with her hot new boyfriend. He's a Sigma Nu!

1) Each and every member of the Tea Party can finally stop blaming the President for their morbid obesity, skyrocketing triglycerides and their daughter's boyfriend's meth habit.

Racism is alive and well in liberal Seattle

Racism.

It's such an ugly word, with so much baggage. Some use it for political gain; some dispute its very existence. Most of all, we ignore it.

Last week at a Washington State Supreme Court meeting, the "r word" poked its head out of the sand yet again, as justices Richard Sanders and James Johnson shocked some participants when they stated that African Americans are overrepresented in the state's prison population because they commit a disproportionate number of crimes. They also disputed the view that racial discrimination plays a key role in the disparity.

Before I get all emotional about how my state's most powerful jurists feel about crime and punishment, I'd like to break things down, using some logic:

If what they're saying is fact, that would imply that African Americans are committing more crimes because either they're inherently more evil  than other ethnicities, or because they've learned that crime is more lucrative than attempting to find "legitimate" work.

If you believe the former, go ahead and log out of this blog and turn on FOX News, because Glenn Beck's coming on in a few minutes. If you lean toward the latter view, you may be right, but doesn't this shine a harsh light on our society and its disenfranchisement of a huge chunk of America?

Now let's assume that the justices' stance is merely ignorant conjecture, and in reality, the criminal justice system is unfairly stacked against African Americans. This would acknowledge that "institutional racism" is alive and kicking, and these judges don't want to cop to it.

I'm not a sociologist. I'm just a middle-aged guy who lives in the upper left corner of the country, trying to make sense of my surroundings. My city, Seattle, prides itself on its liberal politics, its open mindedness. We love to think that we're some of the most inclusive, tolerant people in the nation.

But really, things are no different than they were fifty years ago. Black people still live predominately in the lower elevation areas of south to south-central Seattle. The white folks live everywhere else, plus any areas with views of water.

We hear people like Rush Limbaugh spouting off about racism having been rendered moot sine the election of our first African American president. And, granted, we no longer see cereal boxes like this:

or restaurants like this:

But here's an indisputable fact—every position I've ever attained has been the direct result of a relationship with a friend or an acquaintance putting in a good word, dating back to my first job as a dishwasher in 1979. And you can say all you want about bootstrap-pulling and earning everything you've gotten, but isn't that just an easy way out?

If we can rationalize that we're all given an equal opportunity to succeed, that we're all viewed by our economic and legal systems as colorless and classless, then we never have to acknowledge that there's a big problem with race in America.

Maybe we can all dig a little deeper.

The Dream Team Hall of Fame

Dream Team.

It's become such an overused term, such a cliché. It's used to describe any assembly of all-stars or any group of entities stacked mercilessly against its opponent.

Here's the original Dream Team, the 1992 USA Olympic basketball squad:

After witnessing the complete erosion of its advantage in the amateur arena, the US Olympic Committee decided it was time to re-assert American dominance in basketball, kind of like when your big brother switches to his dominant hand after you've beaten him at H-O-R-S-E too many times.

These guys destroyed everyone in their path on the rode to Barcelona gold in '92. It was almost embarrassing to watch Charles Barkley dunk over a 5'10" malnourished Angolan, but the Americans accomplished the task, short shorts and all.


Since then, dream teams have risen up in all areas of pop culture. The O.J. Simpson Dream Team, consisting up of superstar barristers Robert Shapiro, F. Lee Bailey, Barry Scheck, Johnny Cochrane and Alan Dershowitz, muddled the jurors minds with so much doubt, both reasonable and not, that the glove never fit. And oh, did they acquit.

Other dream teams have emerged over time, like the formidable lineup of ABC's The View or my co-workers and I. And just the other night, Chris Bosh, Duane Wade and Lebron James debuted as the new-look, omnipotent trio of the NBA's Miami Heat.

Here's the scene last summer, when James and Bosh signed free agent contracts with the Heat, and before the ink had even dried, the organization staged a little debutante ball for the three.

Tuesday night, someone forgot to tell the Boston Celtics about the chosen three from Miami, so they went ahead and unceremoniously walloped the Heat. Hopefully, those ringers from South Beach will lose all their other games as well.

However, what I'm really here to discuss are some of the lesser known dream teams. We don't often take notice of them, but every one is a tour de force in its own right. First of all there's the male, adult contemporary, easy listening dream team of Kenny G and Michael Bolton. Witness their brilliance for yourself:


Other worthy additions to this juggernaut would have been John Tesh, Yanni or any other dude who played a solo show at Red Rocks.

Another notable triumvirate is the "I can't spell Constitution, so how am I supposed to understand it" dream team of Christine O'Donnell, Sarah Palin and Michele Bachmann:

If you could somehow combine all of their brains into one huge mason jar, you'd have enough room left over to fill one huge mason jar.





Not all dream teams need to be human. How about that magical grouping of hangover treatments:

Eggs benedict,

a nice bloody mary,

and relaxing on the couch with a huge bacon sandwich to watch Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Hits the spot, eh?









There's also the steroid dream team, made up of:

Mark McGwire,

Carrot Top, and

Madonna's arms.


















And don't forget the mullet dream team of:

Billy Ray Cyrus,

me,

and Scarlett Johansson.


So keep your eyes peeled and you'll start to notice these magical combinations. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for a maple bar, coffee and a cigarette.

We owned the streets

October 31, 1972

Since this could be my last time trick-or-treating (I am ten, after all), I've decided to keep a journal of my activities, just in case I want to read it someday when I'm really, really old, like thirty.

5:56—Got out of the house ten minutes later than planned. I can see kids walking around already. I should have practiced putting on this football uniform I've had since second grade. I can't stuff the thigh pads in anymore and the helmet hurts my forehead. I'm hoping no one knows that the black stuff under my eyes is mascara. I look good.

6:07—Kevin was mad at me for being late to pick him up. He told me that the house with the full-sized Milky Ways would be out by the time we got there. He seemed to feel better after he punched me and called me a dumb ass.

6:22—Some older kids rode by and threw eggs at us. Kevin got hit in one of his fake sideburns and it must've hurt a lot because he called them dumb asses in a really high voice like a girl. I got hit in the helmet but you can't even tell because my ram horns are yellow like yoke.

6:47—We accidentally went to the house where the lady wears curlers and hands out raisins. I think she heard us complaining, because she told me that by the looks of me, I could use a few more fruits and vegetables. Mean. Kevin said not to worry about it and that she's a dumb ass.

7:03—I was hoping I'd run into her and I did. She's going either as Mary Tyler Moore or Carol Brady, judging by her pantsuit. She's so foxy. I tried to hold in my stomach as we walked up to her, but these pants are really tight and it's impossible.

I couldn't think of what to say, so I asked her if she got some good candy. Ugh, stupid question! Then I offered to carry her candy for her. Hello? Doubly stupid question. No one lets someone else carry their candy. Idiot!

7:34—Bad move going to that guy's house. The place wasn't even decorated. He was just watching TV with his girlfriend, and he gave us each a quarter and a weird looking brownie.

7:50—The kids on bikes rode by us again, but they must've been out of eggs, because they just called us names. I recognized one of them. He's in my sister's grade, and even though he was dressed like a skeleton, I knew him by that weird divit in his chest that he was born with.

Kevin said he can't wait to go through puberty so he can kick those dumb asses' asses.

8:17—Our pillow cases are almost full and Kevin told me my helmet is making a purple spot on my forehead that's spreading. It hurts a lot and Kevin's platform heels are making his feet ache. Who's the dumb ass now, Kevin? You are, thinking you could walk around all night as David Cassidy.

8:30—Dropped Kevin off and went home. My mom got out the makeup remover and took off my tough football player face while I sorted candy. She saw the brownie and took it. My sister is still out, so she'll probably have more candy and brag about it.

9:24—My dad said it's time for bed, and I won't complain, because I already stashed the full-sized Milky Way under my pillow. I'm going with the comfortable Six Million Dollar Man pajamas tonight, because I've eaten a lot of candy.

I think I'll miss trick-or-treating. If I can't do it anymore, I guess I'll just feel like a dumb ass.