“It’s 7 a.m., you said I could open a present,” Bryson said. And so I did. Christmas had started.

He opened his stocking and, with Hannah, Ryan and Paula soon joining us, the presents, and the time, flew by. Books, gift cards, clothes. Sometimes even a few thank-yous. Until there was not a gift left under the tree.

I’d asked Bryson this year is he would want a big, rather expensive present, and only get a few more things in addition; or would he rather get the customary number and forego something truly special. I knew what his answer would be the moment I asked.

“Did you get everything you wanted?” I asked, knowing the gift at the top of his list was not to be found.

“Pretty much,” he said. “Well, except for the Havoc Heli, but that’s OK.”

He spoke of a small indoor remote control helicopter he’d been wanting for months.

“So was my big present one of these?” he said, looking at the small pile of books and video games surrounding him.

“Well, I’m not sure, I hope your Christmas isn’t in ruins,” I said.

“What? No.”

“Because that would be a shame if your Christmas were in ruins. Or should I say if your Christmas were in the ruins.”

“What are you saying?”

“I said it wouldn’t be nice if your Christmas were in … the … ruins.”

Bryson stood and looked around, knowing a clue when he heard it. He just had no clue what the clue was supposed to mean.

“Should we play the hot-cold game?” I said. It was the clue of the last resort. “Because right now” – as he looked through the wreckage of wrapping paper on the floor – “you’re cold.”

Within a minute he was standing next to the bookcase near the Christmas tree, his hand darting out to The Ruins, from the top of which protruded a white envelope. He pulled the envelope from the book, opened it and began to read.

Hi Bryson, remember us, it’s the elves and we’re back.

2007 was such a great year and that’s a fact, Jack.

You’re getting so old, next year you’ll be teening,

Though your dad says you’re already primping and preening.

But enough of this small talk, you know the drill.

We give the clues and you follow them still.

Of course now that you are so much more older,

These clues will be so much more bolder.

You’ll look to your dad when you must confess

That you need help, but he will be clueless.

This time, Bryson, the hunt is on you,

And the fact is, if you don’t rather than do

Find the present that we have hidden so true

The lights outside won’t be the only thing blue.

Because this is the search to end all the searches.

And should you fail, your IQ it besmirches.

This is a present worth much diligence,

For it cost so many dollars and cents.

Thus for you we are surely not making it easy,

Our clues will be tough and our clues will be tease-y.

What do you say, is it time to get started?
Is your attitude one that is fun and good-hearted?

Because you need to go to the place where you find,

A stick you use to find joy all of the time.

“A stick?” Bryson said. “What kind of stick?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “Ask the elves.”

Each year since Bryson was 3, the North Pole elves visited our home and sprinkled rhyming clues around the house, leading him to his big present. One year it was a bike, another time a scooter, once a giant-sized Lego set. Even when his belief in elves dropped to an all-time low when he was 9, he asked that they still visit. I imagine they’ll come to our house as long as he is here.

“Read the clue one more time,” I said.

“A stick you use to find joy all the time.”

“The answer is right there.”

An idea popped into Ryan’s mind and, because he is 10, an age where thinking things through doesn’t apply, he blurted, “Your bike!”

And Bryson, being 12 and not having a clue, bought it.

The two of them traipsed into the very-cold garage. Bryson looked at his bike. His scooter. He picked up and examined his Air Soft rifle.

“This is a stick that gives me joy,” he said. No argument from me.”

“It’s not in here,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “Think of two words in that clue. Look at it again.”

“Stick?” Bryson said, back in the family room.

“Yes.”

“And, uh, find? Stick find? Find the stick?”

“No.”

“Joy? Stick joy.”

“Close. Turn them around.”

“Joy stick?”

“Bingo.”

Bryson headed to the Xbox 360 cabinet and, after a little more guidance, found the next clue hidden in the battery compartment of the controller. He unfurled the scrap of paper and read.

You found it, that’s great, did you need some assistance?

Now outside you must seek where warm air sometimes vents.

(Apparently elves knew a short clue was needed given lack of space inside the joystick. Clever, those elves. )

Bryson threw open the back door, stepped into the pair of tired old sneakers kept on the patio for such occasions, and was on the hunt.

“I know where this is,” he said, heading toward the AC unit on the side of the house. “Too easy.”

He looked around the mechanical box but found nothing. I explained to him the basic working of the AZ unit, that it blows air into the house. “You need to find something that vents to the outside. What blows air from inside?”

“I don’t know. Seriously, I have no idea.”

From a know-it-all to a know-nothing-at-all in a matter of seconds. Such was the nature of these yearly hunts.

Bryson would have no clue about the vent. He’d never done laundry in his life. As far as he was concerned, he put dirty clothes in the magic plastic bin and in a few days or so, those clothes would return to his bed, fresh and clean.

We resorted to the hot-cold game. A few minutes later he was pulling a clue taped carefully to caked-up lint on the lip of the dryer vent.

We’re a little surprised that you were so able,

To find a clue that wasn’t just out on a table.

To get the next one you just might need permission

From two roommates who are probably hopin’ and wishin’

While you’re at their favorite spot doing some fishin’

You’ll do the one thing that will make them quit their bitchin’.

He read it once. Twice. Again. And again. Pausing each time, for emphasis, before the word “bitchin.’”

Stationery: 5 cents. Printer ink: 12 cents. Having an elf-written poem giving you license to say “bitchin’”: priceless.

“Can we just get on with it,” I said.

Bryson went back into the house and, getting past “bitchin’” enough to think about the clue, puzzled over it.

“Two roommates? Roommates … do dogs count?”

“Of course.”

Bryson headed into the laundry room and carefully inspected the bag of dog food, looking inside and out. Right idea, wrong location. After finding nothing, he looked at Dusty’s food dish. Then water dish. Nothing.

“What about where Sandy eats?” I said.

“That’s where I was going next.” He picked up her metal bowl and removed the clue taped there.

You found it, that’s fine, but we’re so not done yet,

With Sandy (claws) eyeing you, that we will bet.

You know how your dad says you must do your chores,

(Hard work in the future will open all doors.)

Your next clue has nothing to do much with that.

It’s more of a pun and it may leave you flat.

Read closely these words to learn of your fate,

And you will be trained to pull your own freight.

“Do you know what a pun is?” I said.

“Not really.”

What the heck are they teaching these kids in school? “It’s a play on words. Read the last sentence again.”

He did. “Oh, oh. I so have this.”

Bryson walked to the electric-train layout in the family room and kneeled down. He peered at the cars, eventually opening the doors to the boxcar where he extracted a piece of paper. “That was way too easy.”

We wondered if you could have figured it out,

As here at the Pole we sure have our doubts.

Did you sit there and wonder or perhaps even pout?

Our puzzle skills are mad which we like to tout.

But now let’s continue upon our Christmas way,

To a gift that surely will make your best day.

(Though that day will not come for many more weeks

thus the gift of patience will make waiting less bleak).

A character you are, we know that it’s true.

And in your fine house is a character of you.

Find what we mean and look on the back.

You’ll find one more clue to put you on track.

“A character of me, like a photo?” Bryson said. “I think I know this one.”

He headed into the computer room and picked up the photo he himself with Pluto, Disney’s vocally challenged dog (in Disney’s world, everything can talk, from chipmunks to ducks. So what the hell is wrong with Pluto. Even his genetic brother Goofy, who clearly is not as intelligent, can talk. Was it an accident? A birth defect?)

Bryson looked to the back of the frame. Nothing.

“I think the clue was a character of you, not you with a character,” I said.

Bryson sat on the couch where the answer was just a few feet away. “Look around,” I said.

As soon as his eyes found the painting, in which he was drawn by a colleague of mine, they lit up. He took the drawing off the wall and removed the clue from the back.

You found the next clue, that is great but not all,

(first please put the picture back up on the wall).

We talked once before about you and your work,

(and while doing it you may think your dad is a jerk).

But a chore you do weekly will lead to a clue,

A chore that done weekly has you seeing blue.

For some reason, Bryson spent the longest time figuring this one out. Not because he has all that many chores. (“I pick up dog poop, but that doesn’t have blue. I vacuum. Mop. Clean my room.” “Is that stuff you do every week?” “No.” “I wish you did them weekly.”)

Back to hot-cold. As the hints led him outside, it finally occurred to him. He raced to the side of the house and threw open the lid of the very blue recycling barrel, the same barrel that every week he took to the curb, The clue was taped to the inside of the lid.

We knew that you’d do it, you would find your own way,

We hope you dressed warmly on such a cold day.

Your present by now we’re sure that you’ve earned,

It’s time that its spot is something you’ve learned.

When you were small, much smaller than now,

(seems so long ago, time flies by and how)

You’d hide from your dad and the dog and us all

You’d hide in a place where you’d duck and you’d crawl.

If you remember that spot, that one and the same.

Go there and end our fun Christmas game.

For the next few minutes, Bryson visited his favorite hiding spaces in a time he was small enough to fit in tiny spaces. Under his bed. Under my bed. The back of his closet. The back of my closet.

And, finally, behind the couch in the computer room, where a package wrapped in a silvery paper dotted with candy canes waited.

He ripped it open to find his Havoc Heli, in all of it’s $29.99 glory.

“Cool, thanks,” he said.

“You are very welcome. Merry Christmas,” I said.

“Yeah, merry Christmas.”

His disappointment was obvious. Was this the big present I had hinted about for months? The one I would not even hint about, though he often would ask if it was bigger than this or more expensive than that.

A stupid Havoc Heli? What’s the big freakin’ deal?

I changed plans slightly. I was going to let him discover it on his own, but a little alteration was necessary.

“Why don’t you just go ahead and play with the Havoc Heli?” I said.

Bryson noticed a certain tone in my voice, as well as the anticipation in my eyes.

“Open it?” he said.

“Sure. That’s up to you.”

The excitement returned. He pulled the Havoc Heli from the box, as well as an envelope. Inside was the elves’ final poem.

We hope that this toy does not disappoint,

We hope that you’re not just a bit out of joint.

Is this the big present your dad said he’d got,

The present he said had cost quite a lot?

Well, we’ll tell you this and know that it’s so

For the answer to that is a yes and a no.

Your prize really isn’t this small Havoc-heli

Though it’s nice and you’ll like it just find and just well-y

But your present does involve a whirling helicopter.

But one much bigger than this little chopper.

Far out in the desert and a few months away,

You and your dad will have the best of best days.

For on March 1, and this is the topper,

You’ll ride for an hour on a big helicopter.

You’ll fly over ghost towns and fly over mines,

And enjoy an adventure of a lifetime.

We hope that this meets all expectations

We expect that we’ll get your adulation.

Merry Christmas young Bryson, we hope that you’ve had,

A wonderful time with Santa (your dad).

An Afternoon With Grandpa

Sam scrunched his eyes but he couldn’t keep all the sunlight out, and it started to hurt. If the light were just coming from the sky it would be OK, but the way it bounced off the water made it hard to look out over the lake.

He put his right hand up next to his eyes and that helped. He kept his left hand on the fishing pole, worried that if he set it on the dock the only fish in the whole lake would suddenly grab it. Even though he and grandpa had been out here for what seemed like a whole day.

Sam knew it really hadn’t been that long. Even at 6, he was pretty good at time and knew that when he was bored, minutes would go by really slow. He turned his head and looked down at his grandpa’s wrist, and then remembered. Grandpa lost his watch. He saw the white stripe on Grandpa’s skin, a perfect watch shape with a bulge in the middle. And a the top of that bulge there was a red mark, a cut but not a cut because Sam couldn’t see any blood.

Sam looked up at his Grandpa, who was wearing his floppy fishing hat as usual. He wore the had even when he wasn’t fishing, and his mom told him it was to keep the sun off Grandpa’s head because he lost his hair a long time ago. But not all of his hair. Puffs of gray sprung from below his hat, and he noticed his grandpa would take off his hat every now and then to run his hand over his head, as if seeing if he still had any hair. “When you’re my age,” his grandpa would say, “you’re lucky to have any hair at all.”

“Grandpa, what time is it?” Sam said.

“Time enough to fish,” Grandpa said. Grandpa said that a lot, even when they weren’t fishing. Sam knew it was his favorite thing to do, and last year on his birthday he and his mom surprised Grandpa with a new pole. Only it was in the basement, Sam knew. He wasn’t sure if Grandpa ever used it, and mom told him it was because Grandpa was “set in his ways.” And one of his ways was fishing.

“Your grandpa has a certain way of doing things, so it’s just best to let him be,” mom said. “You get into a groove in life and it gets to you just want to keep things the same. Grandpa’s not one to change.”

That was why Grandpa was still up her at the cabin, even though mom wanted him to live with them. They had a room at the house that mom kept calling Grandpa’s room, and there was a bed, even a TV. Sam would to in there sometimes and watch TV. Sam didn’t think of it has Grandpa’s room, though. It was his safe room. He found out that if he shut the door and turned up the TV real high, he couldn’t hear all the other stuff. And if he couldn’t hear the other stuff, he felt better.

That’s why Sam liked it up here so much, even though he really didn’t like to fish. It was quiet. When Sam would wake up, all he would hear is music from the radio in the kitchen. So much better than the other stuff at home.

Sam squirmed because his butt was starting to hurt. Then smiled because he thought of the word “butt.” Butt butt butt. He wasn’t allowed to say that word at home, because there were con-say-kwensees. There were con-say-kwenwees for lots of stuff, like not doing what he was told (and he had to do it “right away”). Or talking back. Or not talking at all. And sometimes there were just con-say-kwensees. Mom would cry. And then she would have con-say-kwensees.

Sam wondered what con-say-kwensees there would be now.

“Butt,” he said. Again. “Butt.” Testing.

“But what?” Grandpa said.

“Nothing,” Sam said. “Only my … only it’s getting hard sitting so long.”

“We’ll just stay out here a little longer, that OK with you? Not too much longer, I promise.”

“OK, Grandpa.”

The sun didn’t hurt as much. Most of it was behind the trees now, and that helped a lot. Sam loved the nights here. Grandpa let him bring in the wood from the stack outside and build a pile in the fireplace. Sometimes Grandpa would even let him use the lighter. Then Grandpa and Mom would tell him stories about growing up. Mom was a “tomboy,” which was a girl who wanted to be a boy, or maybe just did boy stuff. Sam wasn’t sure, but it was fun thinking of his mom playing baseball and climbing trees and swimming faster than anyone else. And he also liked how his mom smiled and laughed, because she didn’t do that a lot.

He wondered why Mom couldn’t have stayed a tomboy. She never played baseball or climbed trees or swam anymore. Sam found it hard to believe his mom did any of those things. Now all she did was make dinner and wash dishes and do what she was told (and it had to be right away, or there were con-say-kwensees).

That’s another thing he liked about Grandpa’s house. There were no con-say-kwensees. He still had to follow all the same rules, do what he was told and not talk back and stuff, but it didn’t hurt if he forgot sometimes.

He felt a tug. In his left hand. The fishing pole. There was a splash.

“Hey there boy, ya got something?” Grandpa said.

There was another pull on the line, and Sam held on with both hands and tugged up like he’d seen his grandpa do. But he forgot what else.

Suddenly there was another hand on the pole, and Sam felt Grandpa at his back.

“That’s good, you want to keep him on the line by pulling toward you,” Grandpa said. “But you have to reel him in too. You remember how to do that?”

“I think so,” Sam said, lifting his right hand off the pole and grasping the reel’s handle between his thumb and middle finger. He tried to turn it, but it wouldn’t come.

“It’s stuck,” he said. “ I can’t, Grandpa, I can’t get it, I’m sor-“

“Sammy, relax, everything’s fine,” Grandpa said. “What we’re gonna do is pull up, right, just like that. Now as we dip back down, you start to wind that reel, OK?”

Sam tried it again, biting his lower lip. Only this time it turned. And it was easy.

“Grandpa, I’m doing it,” he said. “We’re going to get him, Grandpa.”

“That we are, Sammy, you’re doing great.”

They lifted together, pulling the line taut as it danced back and forth. Sam heard a splash and suddenly he was tumbling backward, his arms shooting up over his head and striking something soft.

“Jesus, ow, dammit!”

If they were home, Grandpa would face con-say-kwensees for bad words. But they weren’t home, and Sam was not sure he’d ever seen his grandpa face con-say-kwensees.

Sam leaned forward, still gripping the pole, and sat up. He turned around to look at Grandpa, who was holding his face. There was only a little sunlight now, but just enough to see a splash of red between Grandpa’s fingers.

“Grandpa, you all right?”

Grandpa stood up, one hand pinching his nose together. “Oooh boy, that smarts. And twice in one day.”

“Sorry Grandpa, I was pulling and then I don’t know.”

“He just got away, Sammy, right when I thought we had him. Sometimes that happens. They get away. But if you get the big ones, you can go home happy.”

“Was that a big one, Grandpa?”

“Not so bad, but not the biggest today, that’s for sure.”

“For sure.”

The worst part of fishing, Sam thought, was the end. When you actually saw the fish flopping around. Sometimes Grandpa would being a bucket full of water and toss the fish in, where it would wriggle. But that would only make Sam even more sad because he knew what was coming and the fish didn’t. Once Grandpa showed him how to “clean” a fish, only Sam thought it was everything but “clean.”

Once Sam asked Grandpa why the fish flopped around so much when they were out of the water.

“Well, if you look on where their necks might be, if fish had necks, you’d see little slits,” Grandpa said. “Those’re called gills. I’m not exactly sure how they work on account I never was very good at biology, but somehow gills grab air from water so fish can breathe.”

“Fish breathe? Then why don’t they just breathe regular air like we do?”

“You see, they need the water to bring the air to them,” Grandpa said. “They were built to live underwater, just like we were built to live on land.”

His grandpa sat back down next to him, fingers still pinched around his nose. Grandpa reached with his other hand into a back pocket, taking out a handkerchief. He flapped it a few times and put it up to his nose.

“Body gets too old to put up with this abuse,” Grandpa said. He looked at Sam. “And a body can be too young, huh Sammy?”

Sam kind of knew what Grandpa was talking about. But Grandpa promised things were going to change. Sam knew Grandpa kept his promises.

Sam hadn’t noticed how little sunlight was left until he noticed another light coming from behind him. There was a sound too, an engine, then some doors slamming.

“Well, Sammy, guess it’s that time,” Grandpa said, standing and shoving the handkerchief back in his pocket. Even in the fading light, Sam could see Grandpa wasn’t looking so good. He bad a black eye and a cut right below the brim of his fishing hat. And his nose was bloody again.

Sam stood as well and took one last look out at the lake, where he could still make him out, barely. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just a piece of wood.

“Grandpa, only fish have gills, right?”

“You bet, Sammy. Just fish. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Cause I don’t want con-say-kwensees.”

“Neither do I Sammy, but if one of us has to face consequences, I’d rather it be me.”

Sam reached across, his hand swallowed by Grandpa’s, who gave his a reassuring squeeze as they walked back to the cabin.

I was having a few beers with a friend not too long ago and the subject of religion came up. Usually it happens when Lisa (not her real name, as she may be one of the three people that actually read these meanderings), aware of my heathen ways, asks me if I believe in God yet. I ask her if the Bible’s writers ever thought their tales would be taken seriously (“Dude, love the parting of the Red Sea, but don’t you think that’s just a little over the top?”)

Then we’re done because we know we’re not going to convince the other that we’re right and they’re wrong (a “live and let live” approach that would probably work pretty well globally: Anyone know where the existential suggestion box is?).

But this time, God and religion came up in a more roundabout way, and as such the conversation went on longer than it should. Still, I remember much of it (I was still on my first beer when it started, and had not finished the second when it was done) and I thought it worth recounting. Why? Because this is my blog, not yours. Any more questions?

First, a bit of background. Lisa was diagnosed with breast cancer a few months ago. Thank goodness (or God, depending on your point of view), it was very slow growing and treatment was successful. When the news is that good, I’ll be happy to attribute God, science, cells that fought bravely to slow cancer’s advance, whatever.

Then I asked her about her old high school friend, a guy she had gotten in touch with and found she had some feelings for (her marriage has been rocky for many years and she’s stuck with it, though I am not going into particulars because I don’t want to get all Dr. Phil, even though there are probably many people who consider that pompous, overbearing, holier-than-thou jerk some sort of god).

But, she said, there would no further attempts to contact him. And this is where our conversation began.

Me: “Why not?”

Lisa: “It was a wake-up call.”

“What was a wake-up call.”

“Just … things. Circumstances. My life has changed now. It’s time to go down a different path.”

“Wait, what things? Are you talking about your cancer?”

“Look, I’m … maybe-“

“Cancer is a wake-up call? Are you serious?”

“Yes. It make me see things in a whole new light.”

“A wake-up call from who?”

“You’re not going to like the answer.”

“OK, God. Cancer was a wake-up call from God. That’s what you think.”

“I know you don’t see it that way, but we believe differently. Everything happens for a reason and yes, God is trying to tell me something. It was a wake-up call.”

“See, this is the kind of thing I have a problem with. When I ask for a wake-up call, I expect that at some ungodly hour the phone will ring and I will pick it up and get out of bed. I do not expect someone to come into my room and inflict a potentially mortal wound.”

“Come on, that’s not what I mean at all. It was just a message. God wants me to think differently, to analyze the things in my life. Cancer was the way he deemed the best way. Who am I to question His wisdom?”

“Oh, so then God wanted to send a message to everyone in Bangladesh, so he sent an earthquake and thousands died. And he sent a message to Indonesia via tidal wave. What the hell is wrong with an email?”

“That is so ridiculous. See, you just don’t get it. You’ve never taken the time to think about it yourself. Who knows why those things happen? I don’t know, but I do know there is a reason for them. And I’m not going to pretend I have those answers. But what I do have is faith. What do you have?”

“Here’s the thing. I’m not saying God doesn’t exist. I’m saying I don’t know. There are so many incredible things in this world that I would like to think there is some design, that there is something behind it. God, a force, whatever. What I have a problem with is your God.”

Lisa: “My God?”

Me: “Your God.”

“What is your problem with God?”

“The problem is how you see him. Essentially, I can live an exemplary life, be kind to my fellow man, never be accused of a felony, raise an amazing family and be a pillar of the community. Hundreds of people attend my memorial service to proclaim how loving and generous I am. Meanwhile, a serial killer responsible for 12 deaths is about to be executed and he tells the attending pastor that he has accepted Jesus into his heart, and he sure seems to be sincere, what with the needle about to slip into his vein. Now, which one of us is going to hell?”

“That is not up to me to decide.”

“OK, fair enough. But according to your beliefs, who is going to hell?”

“My beliefs? Because my beliefs don’t really line up with the church.”

“How about your religion then? According to your religion, who is going to hell?”

“You are. But that’s-“

“And there is one of my biggest problems. Not so much with God, but religion. According to Christians, not only am I going to hell despite trying to live a good life. So are Muslims, Buddhists, Hindi, atheists, etc. Hell is like the mall at Christmas, seriously overcrowded. Heaven sounds like an exclusive country club where only certain people get a tee time. I just can’t buy that.”

“I’m not sure I can either. Which is why I don’t think God separates people like that. He’s not so black and white. I believe that when you die, God gives you another chance. He asks, ‘Do you believe that Jesus is my son, whom I sent down from heaven to you?’ Then it’s up to you to make the choice.”

“So when you die, God let’s you have a do-over.”

“Yes, in simple terms.”

“And if you say no?”

“You’re going to hell.”

“So I’m dead, chatting with God, he introduces me to his son, then says if you still don’t believe, I’m going to that place down there with the fires and screaming and eternal damnation. Or I can say, ‘You know, God, I see the light, mind if I join you in the clouds and the fluff and the softness?’ Given those terms, wouldn’t hell be empty?”

“Maybe. Look, you make it sound ridiculous, and it isn’t. Besides, it’s not about heaven and hell. It’s about having faith, knowing that there is so much more than this. It encourages you to live a better life. Look at you, you’ve led an exemplary life, right? Why? What’s it going to do in the long run? You’re just going to die. What’s the point? How can you live with that over your head?”

“I want to live an exemplary life for my son, for the people in my life. And I don’t think I’m different from 99 percent of the people on this planet. I think we all want to do good. Somewhere along the way as we evolved, we got this ‘help fellow man’ thing that keeps us chugging along without killing everyone. Yet.”

“So what’s the payoff? Why do you do it?”

“Simply because it’s the right thing to do.”

“That’s fine, but for you it all comes to an end when you die. That’s so depressing. I know there’s something else. That takes a lot of the fear away. Life is much more enriching. I’d hate to be in a world where there was no faith, where there was no God. That’s a life not worth living.”

“Even though my life is apparently not worth living, it’s still worth a beer, right? Want to get the next round?”

“Of course.”

The other day, a colleague asked if anyone knew what a euphemism is. We all pretended to know until the smarty-pants of the group said, as if quoting the dictionary, “It’s the substitution of a less-offensive state to describe something that could be considered offensive.” Oooh, we’re all so impressed with your incredible brain.

Anyway, she was right. For example, “making water” is a euphemism for “I’ve so got to piss.” It’s a really stupid euphemism, but that doesn’t make it any less an example of what we’re talking about.

But it seems that, as a culture, we prefer reverse euphemisms. That is, substituting something more offensive than using the phrase that is considered just fine for use in the general public. And more often than not, it involves the f-bomb (hey look, it’s a euphemism – or wait, according to rules, it should be an euphemism, but that sounds retarded).

In an effort to make this a more gentle society, here are a few ways you can avoid reverse euphemisms:

“You’re kidding!” instead of “The fuck you say!”

“That’s surprising” instead of “What the fuck.”

“I agree” instead of “Fucking a.”

“Wow” instead of “Holy fuck.”

“I disagree” instead of “Go fuck yourself.”

“I can’t quite get a handle on this task I’ve been assigned” instead of “Fuck this.”

“Really?” instead of “Get the fuck out!”

“I don’t care” instead of “I don’t give a fuck.”

“I really don’t care” instead of “I don’t give a flying fuck.”

“I believe I erred” instead of “Fuck me in the ass.”

“I see your point” instead of “Fuck you.”

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Warning, profanity ahead, read at your own risk, goddamn it.

Whatever happened to respect for personal space? By that I mean the inherent right to a certain amount of emptiness between strangers.

For example, several mornings each week I work out at a nearby gym. I know gyms can get crowded and there are times when the only treadmill open is the one between two people. But I arrive at 4 a.m., a time you would think people are way to fucking cranky to intrude upon personal space. Yet on most mornings, as I sweat away on the elliptical trainer (of which there are eight in a row, and I am on one end because I am usually first and thus get my pick, which at 4 a.m. I sure as hell deserve), without fail one of two regulars take the machine right next to me. What the fuck? Where is the respect for my territory, being the alpha exerciser for arriving first? When they climb onto the machine next to me, it is as if they are saying, “I reject the elliptical dominance you assume for arriving first, and to show you my utter disrespect, I am going to ignore the other six empty machines and take the one right next to you, hoping you will notice this giant ‘Fuck you’ as I sweat mere inches away. Asshole.’” So now not only do I have to squeeze back any farts, but I have to look over every now and then to make sure they are not going faster than me because they have the gonads to challenge my dominance. The only way to truly fuck’em right back is to kick their miserable ass in speed. But even then, do they see the nearly empty line of machines and say, “Don’t want to get too close to that guy who has kicked my ass numerable times when it comes to vigorous exercise”? Do they respect the minimum one-machine-space (and more when the whole line is empty) as they clamber aboard? Of course not, forcing me to kick their miserable ass once again. What the fuck? How many times must I prove the fact I totally own you? Even worse is the woman who chews gum as she exercises. No, not just chew. She snaps, crackles and pops like a goddamn breakfast cereal. Her mouth remains wide open as if chewing cud instead of gum (thus I have given her a nickname like I have all the other early morning regulars; she is Cow Bitch and, since I’m thinking of it, others include Echo Boy – he drives that particular Toyota even though he’s a grown-up – Long Tall Baldie in a Black Shirt – or a green shirt or yellow, etc. – and the Fuckleheads, these three numbskulls who talk loudly as they trade off on a machine, and talking way more than exercising). If you are chewing gum that loudly, you need to be at least four machines away at the very least. Maybe more. Or you just need to stop chewing gum as if you were 5.

There are also very specific, if unwritten, personal-space rules that apply to movie theaters. Early arrivers earn a personal sphere that stretches several seats in every direction (and more if the movie is not crowded). For example, let us say the first people to arrive take and aisle seats in a particular row. Their sphere now stretches two rows in front of them as well as down their entire row, save for the aisle seats on the opposite side. Of course, this sphere shrinks as more people arrive, and disappears should it be a very popular film, as the opening weekend of the Pirates of the Caribbean, even though that movie was a big steaming pile of crap. But why is it that an allegedly intelligent species can’t seem to grasp these basic rules of personal space? May times I will have established myself at the end of a row (again, being first asserts dominance) and with many many seats still open, someone will brush past me and sit a mere 3-4 seats away. Or worse, sit right in front of me, at which point they might as well just turn around and say, “Go fuck yourself, ace.” Because those seats directly in front of someone are the most dear when it comes to personal space. Imagine the alpha lion laying on the sunny rock, a rock that suddenly becomes the best sunny rock on the whole fucking savannah because that particular lion has chosen to lay on it. Now, there are plenty of other rocks and, quite honestly, are pretty much the same. And the other lions stretch out on them, knowing that while they may not be the best rocks on the savannah, they’re pretty fucking good. Now imagine the lion who decides the only rock he wants is the one occupied by the alpha male. Now as he attempts to take a spot on that rock, he is going to get his head taken off by the alpha lion. And the other lions are going to think, “Man, that guy was a complete dumbass, these rocks are just fine.” This is the attitude you need to adopt as you enter a movie theater, especially if you arrive late because, unlike everyone already seated, you can’t get your act together. They have all chosen their fucking rocks and while they may not be the best, they deserve room and respect. So don’t go plopping yourself down in front of them or right next to them. Especially if you are the type to make really annoying theater noises, like chewing ice or pawing through popcorn. Just because no one will tear your fucking head off doesn’t mean you’re not a dumbass.

And bathrooms. I am not sure what proper protocol is in the women’s room (nor do I care), but in the men’s room, it’s pretty simple. When there is room, you need to be far enough away to make it clear you are not interested in glancing at another guy’s johnson. This means at least one urinal away, and if the bathroom is empty, then you should take a urinal at one of the ends, allowing the next guy to take the urinal at the other end. Then fill in as needed (next guy takes urinal in middle, and so on). There are times when this is impossible, like in most airport bathrooms since those thing are always so fucking crowded because no one ever wants to piss on a plane because the only worse bathrooms are the porta-johns at the Arkansas State Fair. So there is no need to hold it just because the only available urinal is next to someone (and if you do wait, or you take a stall to pee, then people will think you can’t step up to the plate like a man). Take the open urinal and stare straight ahead the entire time, making it clear you are not there to glance at another guy’s johnson. Stall etiquette also requires you to leave at least one empty between squatters. Unless you happen to be a U.S. senator determined to deny his homosexual tendencies until he enters an airport bathroom, which apparently is the best place to launch your ass rocket.

These are just some of the places people need to be more mindful of personal space. But it’s something that should always be at the back of your mind when in public. For example, as you peruse the shelves of your local grocery store, you may want to ask yourself, “By placing my cart in the center, have I hindered shopping traffic, or do I own the whole fucking aisle like I think I do?” The answer may surprise you.

Every now and then, I come across brief descriptions of upcoming movies issued by film studios. Here's the favorite so far, submitted by 20th Century Fox for Aliens vs. Predator opening Dec. 25:
“In this follow-up to the worldwide hit Alien vs. Predator, the iconic monsters from two of the scariest film franchises ever, wage their most brutal battle yet in an unsuspecting Colorado town.”
See, it's the unsuspecting towns that always leave themselves open to tragedy. In fact, we can envision this conversation between two members of the police department of the unsuspecting Colorado Town.
”Something terrible happened here, so much death and destruction. I suspect drug dealers.”
”Yup, may be. Though I suspect this is due to the actions of a a covert domestic militia, maybe even a government experiment gone wrong. Hell, it could be anything. Terrorists.”
“I agree, but you know what I don't suspect? Predators. Nope, doesn't look like Predators.”
“Right. Or Aliens. I'd be real surprised if it were Aliens or Predators. Can you imagine Aliens and Predators in this small unsuspecting town?"
"No way. Can't even believe we're talking about it."

So I was listening to Chicago’s “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is” and realized the guy who wrote it was being such a dick.

As he’s walking down the street one day, a man comes up to him and asks him what the time was that was on his watch (not that anyone would phrase the question like that, but OK, dramatic license).

So the man with the watch, instead of saying, you know, “It’s 2:15” or whatever, launches into this lecture about does anybody really know what time it is, or does anyone really care?

In answer to that first question, yes, tons of people really know what time it is. Even when this song was written about 15 BC (Before Cellphone), you could get the right time by calling a certain number, or checking the bank sign, or asking a guy on the street who wasn’t being a dick.

In answer to the second question, again, it’s tons of people. If no one really cared about time, what good would plane schedules be, or a three-minute egg, or the half-hour your girlfriend tells you she’ll be ready by (which is more a gross mis-estimation of time than not caring about time).

And if the guy with the watch doesn’t care about time, why the fuck is he wearing a watch?

So instead of getting an answer, the guy asking about time instead has to listen to some existential bullshit about we all have time enough to die, when all he really wanted to know was if he had enough time to get to a meeting or catch his favorite show or meet his buddy for a couple of beers.

But he doesn’t find out the time because he happened to ask a guy who’s a complete dick.

Junior high is tough, tougher if you fall into the 57^th percentile (or lower) in growth development.

Junior high is that time when bullies establish themselves and, worse, refine their techniques. The shove in the hallway is no longer enough, not when you’re in seventh and eighth grades (bullies occupying them simultaneously, taking eighth grade classes while trolling the seventh grade for fresh victims).

In junior high, bullies begin to network, passing along valuable tips (“The boys bathroom outside the media room is the best for swirlies – water level is an inch or two higher and flush goes on for several more seconds, resulting in a great dunking every time”). They open themselves up to methods that were impossible to perfect in elementary school for two reasons: first, kids stay in the same room all day, eliminating those four minutes between classes (bullies call that “primetime”) and secondly, elementary school teachers often develop an affection for smaller kids (“prey”) and thus watch out for them.

I became an unqualified expert in bullying in junior high. As a popular victim, I was able to see and experience what each bully in school had to offer. On my first day in seventh grade, for example, I apparently stepped on the Eighth Grade Lawn, a small patch of turf just outside the A wing (though I would discover later that the Eighth Grade Lawn was any bit of grass trod upon, or coming as close as a foot or less, by any smallish seventh grader).

It was then I met Robbie, who a year later would rely on my ability to lower my shoulder and write my answers in large easy-to-spot-from-space lettering to finally pass eighth grade. (We never became friends, but my assistance was frequently rewarded with less-severe noogies and titty-twisters).

“Hey, you,” Robbie said before the bell for first period rang. “Stop right there.”

I was 4-10 and 82 pounds, and thus very aware of my stature as victim. I immediately stopped even though there were probably 17 kids within 10 feet of me. I turned and saw a blond-headed kid about the size of a dumptruck with a face to match.

“Do you know where you are?” he asked.

At this point, I would love to remember me saying, “Well, based on your size I’d say college, but based on your intellect I’d say first grade” and then assuming a king-fu stance. But I really don’t remember saying anything. Having your fate sealed does that to a guy.

“You’re on the Eighth Grade Lawn, and I know you’re not in eighth grade,” he said. “Come here.”

You know how in the movies that time can freeze for all but one person, and that person starts walking around with this dazed look in his face because, though he has no idea what’s going on, it can’t be good.

I moved toward him, the world around me frozen. One step. Another. Soon I was within a few feet on him. The world unfroze and there was a small crowd around us. Just at bullies can sense victims (seriously, it is like sharks smelling blood from miles away; bullies pick up the scent of fear anywhere on a playground), bystanders can sense a confrontation worth watching. Suddenly they find themselves in a semicircle, their hive consciousness telling them something bad and really cool is about to unfurl.

“Since this is the first day of school,” Robbie said, “I’ll give you a break. Normally I would have to pound you, smack (the derogatory term of the day, don’t ask me why). But this time I’m just going to trash you.”

Suddenly I am free, soaring above the crowd, a miracle of flight. Until I realize I’m not flapping since my arms are pinned to my side, and supporting my horizontal nature is Robbie’s shoulder. And just as I realize what is happening, I fall back to earth. No, not fall. Thrust. And not just to earth. Into a trashcan. I can tell because it is very dark and even smellier. And yes, I am upside down. Definitely upside down.

I would later learn just how wondrous Robbie’s trashing technique was. First, he knew the perfect trash barrel, one filled about a quarter-full of leavings, preferably foodstuffs which offered a bad smell as well as a nice cushion. If the can were too full, it would topple shortly after landing, depriving the crowd of the anticipated spectacle of the kid scissoring his legs and screaming as he attempted to escape his predicament. If the can wasn’t full enough, the hollow thud of skull on metal often doubled or tripled the odds of someone in the crowd finding his/her conscious and telling a teacher. Robbie also had perfected the trajectory, his victim sailing into the precise center of the can with plenty of clearance on all sides.

It truly was a thing of beauty.

Other bullies would make rookie mistakes, not so surprising since this was junior high, kind of the spring training for social predators. They would pick the wrong trashcans or toss their victim awkwardly, lucky to hit a 65 or higher on the humiliation scale (Robbie often topped out in the 90s, greatly increasing his chances of scarring his victims for life).

Some even committed the greatest sin in all of bullydom – their victims would escape before their humiliation was complete. This was unforgivable. If it happened too many times (and one was too many), the bully lost all his status. He would no longer be able to sense fear and, far worse, instill it. Soon he would find himself in a semicircle with bystanders, a fate that could eventually turn him into a B student and, finally, a productive member of society.

And it would happen. Taylor (never sure if that was his first or last name) once lost his grip on a seventh grader as he was taking him to the ground for a pink belly. Taylor had failed to properly pin his prey’s arms, allowing the kid to wriggle out of his shirt to freedom. Not a week later, in the midst of pantsing one of the fattest kids in school (biting off way more than he could chew), Taylor had neglected to keep an eye out. His deed was witnessed by a teacher (the only time I knew this to happen before or after at good old Pine Hollow), and thus was force to take the March of “I Can’t Believe I Was Caught, Don’t Look at Me” to the principal’s office. Last time I saw, Taylor was pointing threateningly at sixth graders visiting to see what their new school would look like.

Robbie had them all beat. It was almost and honor to be bullied by the best. And I would like to think that one time in particular might still be remembered by those fortunate enough to witness it.

Pine Hollow was comprised of four wings, long halls lined with roughly 10 classrooms per side. The furthest distance between halls was no more than 200 feet, a distance that could be traversed on foot in no more than a few minutes. There were eight periods in the day, not including lunch. Time between periods was seven minutes (six minutes to the warning bell, another minute to start of class). Given that it took no more than three minutes to completely cross campus, that left four minutes for prime bully time. Four minutes is an eon to those who have perfected the random victimization of others.

And so it was on this day, roughly halfway through the year, enough time for Robbie to establish his position as Alpha Bully and for me to well known at Easy Pickings. And I had no idea I was about to walk into the perfect storm (as I pieced together later).

Robbie was leaving geometry in which he just received his latest test: a D, expected given his permanent spot in the gradebook’s subterranean layer. Apparently, however, Robbie was extremely upset since the smack he usually copied (a position I would one day hold) was either sick that day or had been moved to a desk out of Robbie’s view. I was never able to confirm, not that it mattered. Because Robbie was angry, and there was only one way to salve that particular wound.

Somebody had to feel worse than he did.

I was coming out of, well, I really don’t remember. Things don’t really kick in at this point. I was probably just looking forward to lunch like I usually did, where I could hang in the comfort of other smacks who felt absolutely no compunction to toss me in a trash can or give me an Indian burn. It was a pretty decent existence.

What I do remember is I was leaving the A wing and, from what I was to understand later, I stepped into Robbie’s peripheral vision.

“Hey, you,” he shouted. Remember that whole “world frozen, crowd gathers” thing? Yeah, exactly. Only now it was in the A Wing instead of one of the several Eighth Grade Lawns.

“You know what would look good?” he asked. “Because I have an idea. A really great idea.”

Oh, Jesus. It’s one thing to be summarily swept up and tossed in a trashcan. But when a bully engages in patter, that, people, is a bona fide “Oh shit” moment.

A simple trashcanning wasn’t going to do. This was going to be special.

Here’s another thing I would learn later – the trophy case in A Wing was normally locked. Not that it needed to since it was empty due to the fact Pine Hollow’s athletes did not excel like its bullies did. There wasn’t even a “Good sportsmanship” plaque, given to the league’s most inept teams as consolation. And thus all that gathered in this case notched into the wall was dust.

Today, the case was not locked. One of the A/V kids (read “victim,” occupying a level even below smack) was cleaning it and neglected to replace the lock that kept prevented its sliding doors from moving.

Robbie stepped over to the case and hurled one of the doors aside. The crowd actually parted before he made his move over to the case, so tuned into him they were starting to anticipate his moves.

“You need to be on display,” he said. “You deserve it.”

Robbie grabbed me in the usual fashion, in a bearhug, and lifted. The way between us and the display case remained clear of students.

I began to analyze the situation. The display case was roughly six feet wide, thus each sliding glass door was slightly more than three feet wide, allowing for overlap. Once scrunched, there would be plenty of clearance for my body.

The case looked to be about nine inches deep, a measure difficult to attain due to its mirrored back. Maybe six inches. This could be a problem. Though my frame could easily fit lengthwise, I’m not so sure that is depth would be adequate. Now if I were to shift so that my shoulders were –

Wow, I did fit. Robbie, not one for math, relied instead on mechanics and brute force, applying enough pressure and torque until I was within the display case. He slid the door shut. And left. It was like the baseball player who launched a ball into the stratosphere. Rather than standing at home plate and admiring the view, the true professional merely flicks his bat aside and begins to trot, his eyes never leaving the basepath.

That’s what Robbie’s exit was like. Perfect.

I wasn’t there for long, easily sliding the glass out of my way and flopping out. It was then I noticed the true artistry of Robbie’s performance. There, right across the hall, was the school office. There, not far from the front counter, were two secretaries who had either missed the whole thing or, more likely, chose not to get involved.

But that wasn’t the best part. The best part was that the vice principal’s office faced the front counter, and he had a direct line of sight to the display case. One of his jobs was to make sure no students were harmed at any point during their education, and yet there he sat, busy with paperwork. It was like stealing the patrol car after an officer pulled you over for a ticket. Audacious and brilliant.

Sure, I was stuffed into a display case. That didn’t stop me from appreciating the boldness of such a spontaneous and cruel move.

Well, it did back then. Of course. But I have since come to terms with the fact Robbie was a poor, pathetic boy who could relate to others only through aggression as a means of dealing with his extremely low self-esteem.

My hunch is that today Robbie is serving 10-to-15 for aggravated assault. Or he’s a CEO.

Any questions I had about how my dad would accept new technology were answered shortly after I plugged in his new computer (his first) about five years ago.

Though he had decided months earlier he wanted to be part of the Internet, staying abreast of the weather reports without having to wait 10 minutes for the next radio report, he waited until I visited so someone of some knowledge could help him with the purchase and setup.

Midway through the lesson, I introduced him to the mouse, telling him how it controlled the curson. Peering over his shoulder at the screen, I told him to move the mouse and note how it corresponded to the cursor. Only the cursor wasn’t moving. I told him to move the mouse. “I am,” he said. I looked to my right and saw him waving it in the air like a wand.

OK, this was going to take a while.

So as my son loved the idea of packing our Nintendo Wii for the annual trip to see his grandparents, I wasn’t so sure how well it would go over. My mom wants nothing to do with technology, clinging to her corded phone (no answering machine), her pen and notecards, her VCR (trusting its operation to my dad).

My dad is a little more open, as noted by his ability to tape various TV programs. But his last encounter with video games was the Atari 2600 we played in my teen years. One joystick, one button, a stick figure or two on the screen – as far as he knew, videogames hadn’t changed much over the years. Putting an Xbox 360 controller in his hand would have been akin to putting him behind the wheel of a 747 and pointing toward the runway.

But with the Wii’s simple remote, hell, he just might find something to like.

Not long after our arrival, my son plugged the Wii into their 14-year-old RCA 27-inch TV and its cutting-edge (at the time) video input. (In fact, the TV was almost 14 years old on the nose, as my mom had not only retained the receipt, but filed it in such a way as to be able to retrieve it in just a few minutes, proof that life in analog still works).

We fired up the tennis game and invited my parents to watch. Their innate sense of politeness overcame their complete disinterest in video games. As my son and I swatted the ball back and forth, dad showed his first sign that maybe, just maybe, he was ready to join the 21^st century.

“So you just swing the paddle?” he asked. “And the game can see you? How does that work?”

I had no idea the inner workings of the Wii, beyond the sensor bar placed on the TV. So in accordance with family tradition, I winged it.

“That bar on top of the TV sends out these nano pulses, kind of like radar but way more sophisticated,” I said. “The beams bounce off of us and the game ‘reads’ us, and all our movements are transferred to the screen in a fraction of a second.”

“Just because I still have dialup doesn’t mean I’m stupid,” said dad, in the fine family tradition of knowing bullshit when he hears it.

“I have no idea how it works. Only that it does.”

After a few games, I offer him the remote. “Want to try?”

“Yes.” I was a little surprised how eager this 80-year-old man, who grew up in a time when interactive entertainment was turning the knob on the Philco radio, was ready to try something completely different.

One small step for a dad, one giant leap for geriatric kind.

I should have known. After all, his first instinct with the mouse was to wave it in the air. The Wii’s remote almost came naturally to him.

But not naturally enough. After whiffing at the tennis ball four straight times, thus losing the set in record time, he wasn’t quite fast enough to keep up with the Wii’s nano pulses (or whatever they are).

Time to slow it down.

“You want to try bowling?” I said.

“Yes.”

It seemed to be a much better fit. Bowling required the same motion was in real-world bowling, only with a 6-ounce remote instead of a 16-pound ball. Hell, someone should open a Wii bowling center near retirement homes everywhere. And serve beer. Call it Wii Bowl and Drink. Call me for licensing.

As dad prepared to launch his first ball, the he encountered the first barrier: buttons. The game required twice as many buttons at the Atari, a leap in the learning curve.

Dad is waving the remote like a pendulum, but his character remains motionless.

“How come nothing is happening?” he said. “Your little game broke.”

“No, here, to start you have to press the A button,” I said. “This big one top.”

“What one?”

“Here, let go and I’ll show you. This one. The big one with an A on it.”

“Ah, I just press that and I’m set?”

“That’s it.”

“Great, let’s go,” he said, taking the remote.

His bowler now stood ready to go. Dad swung his remote. His bowler stayed still.

“Jesus, now what?”

“You, uh, have to press the B button.”

“Another button? I didn’t have to press all these buttons when I played tennis. You didn’t tell me about all the buttons.”

“It’s easy, see, the B button is on the back, see, it’s like a trigger. Press it and hold it, then swing your arm like you’re bowling. All there is too it.”

Dad assumed the bowling stance and pressed B, sending his bowler into motion. He swing his arm down and back up, and the Wii responded with a blip and a message, the bowler frozen in place.

“Dad, to let go of the ball you have to release the B button,” I said.

“Criminy, what’s with all the button stuff? There are no buttons in bowling.”

“No, there are very heavy balls so this is a lot easier. You just have to time it. Press the B button, swing your arm and then release B at the point you want to let go of the ball. It just takes some adjustment but once you get used to it, it’s real easy.”

Once again he assumed the stance and pressed B. His bowler swung his arm back and released the ball, sending it into the virtual crowd behind him, who react with a startled “Oh!”

“That was real good, you just released it too early,” I said, remembering how patient dad was with me when I was learning how to drive, a potentially lethal activity given my lack of skill. So I could do this. “You just want to let go of B just as your bowler swings forward.”

He tried again and again. More often than not, he hurled the ball with a high arc, the kind that would have dented the lane and resulted in his expulsion had this been a real alley.

But by the seventh frame he had caught on, scoring his first spare.

“OK,” he said. “Now we’re cooking.”

Not quite. He failed to break 100 but, refusing to quit after humiliation, dad challenged his grandson to another game.

And in the great family tradition of grossly overestimating new skills, he added, “This time I’m going to kick your little butt.”

And he did just that, scoring a 134-126 victory. He eventually played golf and baseball several times during our weeklong visit, and I silently thanked Nintendo for giving my dad a small taste of this century. No, it didn’t spur him to ditch his dialup Internet connection for broadband (“I don’t need to get the weather any faster than I do now”), but it’s a welcome step.

And you have to love a device that not only offers an equal playing field for an 80-year-old grandfather and his 12-year-old grandson, but lets the grandson see his granddad in a different light.

“He was really getting into it,” my son said later. “That was cool. Maybe we should get him a Wii for Christmas or something.”

Sure, but dad would wait six months for us to visit and hook it up. Some things never change.

The good physicians of the AMA don’t know this, but they let me off the hook and made me a better parent with just one vote. They decided that videogame addiction is not a verifiable affliction. Good thing, No, I’m not addicted (not that I need a verifiable affliction to take mood-altering drugs when “because I want to” will suffice should I ever decide to start munching pills). However, my son is walking the line between “I play to fill the time, and there’s an awful lot of time to fill” and “If you turn off the 360, I will be turning you off.”

OK, it’s not that bad. Yet. But he is rather preoccupied right now with a little game called Crackdown. In it, he plays an enforcer of the law who gets more powerful as he enforces more laws (and by “enforces” I mean “kills” and by “laws” I mean “bad guys”). It’s rated M for Mature, and he is fairly mature for his age. Good enough.

You may judge me if you wish, but let the person without tweens on long too-hot-to-go-out summer days cast the first stone. But after watching my son play Crackdown for many hours, I can see some wonderful things happening. Many years ago there was a naïve, perhaps mentally challenged author who wrote “Everything I Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten” (Which is total bullshit, so of course it sold billions of copies.)

With that crap in mind, I present “Everything I Needed to Know I Learned from Playing Crackdown,” as I envision my son writing 30 years from now:

It is not your accuracy, it is the size of your weapon that counts.

Life is not worth living if you can’t roundhouse-kick a car off an embankment.

Most problems are best solved with a rocket launcher.

The most important decision you make each day is what weapon to carry.

Ammunition: Never leave home without it.

Why abuse steroids when you can enhance yourself naturally through the senseless killing of others.

There are two kinds of people in the world: those with 4-star agility who can jump 30 feet in the air, and cannon fodder.

You can kill way more people with a nondescript sedan than with the most tricked-out automatic weapon so seriously, do not piss me off when I am driving.

Nothing clears a traffic jam like a well-placed grenade.