Fruit Salad

Like Babe Ruth calling out his shot, the Bean decided in June what he wanted to be for Halloween this year. Apropos of nothing one day he declared, “I want to be a banana for Halloween.”

I had my doubts. Halloween was four months away and I figured that he would decide to be a character from Cars or learn that a from a friend at school was going to be Batman or something and he'd change his mind. However, WonderWife™ was confident in his decision. She recalled how last year the Bean got it in his head very early that he wanted to be a cat, even though at 2 ½, he barely had any idea of what Halloween was all about.

WW™ was right (of course) and sure enough the Bean is going to be a Banana. More than that, he’s also dictated what costumes Sprout and I are to wear. Last year I went as the patient from the game Operation. This year, I have been instructed that I am to be an apple. Sprout is going to be a blueberry. Since the Bean did not chose a costume for WW™, to complete the picture she is dressing as Carmen Miranda.

So if you see a bunch of fruit and a foxy woman in a colorful dress out trick-or-treating this year, you’ll know it’s the Geek Boy clan.

Happy Halloween!

Ghost Story

It's Halloween week over at the Venus vs. Mars blog and I'm there today to share a story. Here's a peek:

To this day I can’t explain what actually happened that night, but not a Halloween has gone by since that I haven’t thought about it.

Click over there to check it out. Happy (early) Halloween.

Oh...Dolores!

I crawled into bed with the Bean for his bedtime story. He picked out his current flavor of the week, Horace and Morris, But Mostly Dolores. I started reading and as soon as we got to the first mention of Dolores, the Bean said, "No, it's Mulva."

Did he just...? I thought. "Say that again," I said to him.

"Mulva," he said matter of factly.

I lost my shit. I started laughing uncontrollably. Tears formed in my eyes.

The Bean recognized the trigger for my hysterics and said it again, "Mulva."

I tried to read the book, but couldn't compose myself.

"Daddy, stop laughing and read the book."

"I...can't," I said and started another fit of hysterics.

Interactivity

During the Bean's infant and toddler years, I waited for the day that he would become truly interactive. Cause let's face it at those ages, you don't really play with them as much as watch them play. The Bean would always ask me to play trains. This meant we would sit on opposite sides of the train table. I would push a train around the track to his side until I couldn't reach anymore and he would gladly pick it up and continue it on its journey. But when it came back to me, he would get upset that I was "taking away" his toy.

I've spent more time than I care to admit trying to stay awake while he plays.

But now he's at the age where interactivity is starting. And with that comes Candyland--the most boring game in the history of all board games. It's a game brilliantly designed to be easy enough for a kid who can barely count to play, but hard enough that they cannot play it by themselves. Not only is it dull, but the Bean likes to cheat. He'll pick two cards or skip spaces or dig through the pile for Princess Frostine. He doesn't care about winning, or losing. When he's a space away from the end and the game will finally be over, he'll move his piece back to the beginning because he likes the gumdrop space.

For a while there, we were in the thick of Candyland. Thankfully we seem to be getting out of this phase. For a while the only thing that was really interactive was that game. If you're over 4, Candyland gets old really fast. However, like being thrown up on, I've come to learn that suffering through it is a parental right of passage.

I always want to be enthusiastic about playing with my son, but sometimes turning on the fake excitement is exhausting. This doesn't make me a bad parent, does it?

1Up

I had grown tired of being the only one in house who played video games. I was sad at the layer of dust that was collecting on the second Wii remote. So I made a decision that it was time to broaden my son’s horizons and introduce him to the video game.

The Bean’s prior game experience has been limited mainly to driving simulators at Chuck E. Cheese’s. He didn’t really “play” those games as much as sat there turning the steering wheel. It didn’t seem to matter to him if I’d even put a token in the machine or not. Complicating maters is that as a rule, the Bean isn’t much for instruction. Try to tell the kid how to do something, even if it’s something he’s struggling with, and he’ll howl “noooo!” and quit. I knew that I would have to tread lightly if this plan was going to work.

I lured him in with the so-classic-it’s-almost-a-cliché, “Wanna see something cool?” The Bean watched intently as I set up the game. Until now, he had only known the TV as something that played a movie or a TV show and the idea that it had another function intrigued him.

We started with bowling—an easy game with a very high action to reward ratio. He liked it well enough and although there were a few close calls when he either came close to crashing into the TV or throwing the controller through the window behind him, he got fairly decent at it.

Next, I took it up a notch and brought out the balance board to get him skiing. The game, We Ski is a skiing simulator that gives the player free range of a replica of a 9 run mountain, complete with chairlifts, annoying music and announcements from the loudspeaker and other skiers who sometimes get in your way. I had nearly returned the game after growing bored with it the first night, but because of it’s ease I decided to keep it for exactly this occasion.

I set the kid up on the board, placed the controllers in his hand and ran him through the controls. I was amazed that he was listening intently to the instructions, but I figured that his appetite was whet from bowling and he was now properly motivated. In a matter of minutes, he was “skiing.”

It didn’t surprise me that he loved it, but it did surprise me how quickly it all clicked for him. He was pressing buttons and navigating menus. Catching air on jumps and slaloming through moguls. I sat on the couch behind him with a goofy grin, watching the surreal image of an avatar of my son being controlled by my son. It was like when you aim a video camera which is plugged into a TV at the screen.

It took less than a half-hour for him to be completely hooked, making the experiment a rousing success. Though we’re a long way away from playing Rock Band together, or even any of the Lego games, all journeys begin with a single step. And as a bonus, the Bean now talks about wanting to go skiing—for real. My evil plot to get him to love all of the things that I love to do, but WonderWife™ does not, is coming into fruition!

Wimpy Activity

I am a huge wimp.

Let me rephrase that. I am a huge wimp when it comes to all things scary. Growing up, this was especially true of horror movies. This phobia was particularly difficult seeing as I came of age in the 80s, the decade that birthed the modern horror flick. My friends saw just about every one. So naturally, despite me never having seen any of them, I knew all of the grizzly details.

I was 10 years old when I saw Poltergeist on cable. Even though I knew in advance nearly every scare, and even though it was a sunny Saturday morning when it was on, that movie had a profound effect on me. I tied a rope around the doorknobs of my closet for over a year after.

During horror movie nights at summer camp, I would be forced to spend the evening hanging out with the kids who were “docked”—a suspension of sorts for campers who had gotten in trouble that day and were not allowed to participate in that evening’s activity. When my bunkmates returned I was subjected to mockery while they spent the rest of the evening talking about all the gruesome scenes they had earlier witnessed in The Thing or Creepshow.

Only a handful of my closest friends knew of my fears and I tried very hard to keep it that way. This was not always easy to do. One weekend night in junior high there was a screening of Aliens at the house of a girl I kind of liked. As we gathered around the TV, I purposely positioned myself in a corner that had an obstructed view of the screen. I sat there trying not to listen and wishing for time to accelerate when somebody popped up behind the couch and screamed “boo.” Weather or not, this was actually intended for me will forever remain a mystery. Instinct took over and before I knew it I had leapt over the couch. My next memory is that the lights were turned on and I was sitting on top a guy whose head I had pushed through the drywall. To call the aftermath mortifying is an injustice to that word.

Now that I’m an adult, and a movie geek, I’ve shed a lot of my fears about horror movies. I’ve seen a handful of them and for the most part, have emerged unscathed. I can openly and honestly admit my wimpish tendencies.

There is a movie out right now called Paranormal Activity. Over the past few weeks, it has been shown to sold out audiences at midnight screenings. It is fast becoming a phenomenon, similar to The Blair Witch Project of a decade ago. I don’t usually listen to platitudes, but Paranormal Activity is being called one of the scariest movies ever. Like Poltergeist, it takes place in a regular suburban home. I have heard it’s the kind of flick that creeps the skin and haunts you long after you’ve left the theater.

As a fanboy, I am compelled to see it. But as a wimp, I’m afraid. Most of the time, I go to movies by myself. Nearly all of the time, I see them at night. After the movie is over, I would have to walk alone through a subterranean parking garage to my car and arrive at a darkened house where everyone is sleeping.

Total. Wimp.

I am not the type to miss out on a pop culture phenomenon, but in this case I’m afraid that I may have to make an exception.

Everyone Needs a Little Redirection in Life

Wow...I've been busy and have really spread myself around the internet today. Check me out at the following locations:

At Venus Vs. Mars I have a post about romance, my dad and my wife. (No, it's not as scandalous as it sounds. What do you think, my life is like Gossip Girl?)

Over at Offsprung, I'm running a contest sponsored by the movie The Vampire's Assistant.

And at Hot Dads, we have another awesome installment of our award winning feature* "Ask Hot Dads."

*Do imaginary awards count?

Flashback Friday: Metaphors For...Whatever

This post was originally written on December 11, 2006 for my now defunct Movie Geek Boy blog.

Stream of conscious observations from the Trey Anastasio show at the Wiltern last night:

I noticed that the crowd seemed older and more polished than the usual Trey Anastasio/Phish crowd. Maybe it's because it was an LA crowd. Or maybe we're all just grown up now. I usually have trouble wrangling anyone to go with me to a show, so I'm there by myself. It can be a cool experience going to a concert by yourself. It's pretty easy to meet people and strike up conversation at these kinds of shows. If not, the people-watching is always fascinating. Sure enough, I start talking to a vaguely Winona Ryder-ish woman, whom I immediately pegged as an aspiring actress even before she told me so, and a graying man who was none so subtle in his attempts to pick up this woman. They proved to be a constant source of entertainment for me. At one point, she leans over to me and says, "The music is, like, a metaphor for...whatever" in a way that suggested that she really, really meant it.

The show was killer. One of the best I've seen in a long time. It ended when each member of the band grabbed a cowbell and along with the horn section, began to march and play their way up the aisle through the theater. I was standing on the aisle and soon enough, Trey and the band marched up beside me. When they passed, we followed the band through the lobby of the theater, outside into the street and up the block where they finally disappeared into their tour bus. They never stopped playing the whole time. For a minute it reminded me of a musical like Fame, where everyone pours out into the streets, dancing together. It was a very cool thing to be a part of.

A Young Man's Game

Check on over at Hot Dads today where I talk about the mind being willing, but the body being old.

Here's a peek:

I am not a 24 year old, though I often wish that I was. I want to indulge in the lifestyle of my youth but I cannot. I feel like Tom Hanks in Big, a young man trapped in the body of somebody who's much older with much more responsibility than I should.

Halloween Comes Early

“Look a ghost!” said the Bean.

It was the first of October and the Bean had seen his first Halloween decoration, a small ghost on the front of a house in our neighborhood.

“Daddy, we need to put our ghost in front of the garage,” the Bean said later that day. “The one that says ‘woooo’.”

I was kind of impressed that a year later, the Bean had remembered that decoration. It was one of those $19.99 specials they sell at Target that makes a "spooky" howl through a tinny speaker. Last Halloween, it completely captivated the Bean. It looked like this year was to be no exception.

Last year was the year that Halloween really clicked for the Bean. He picked out what he wanted to be (a cat) and was exciting to wear his costume. He also fully understood the glory that is trick-or-treating, and ventured up to doorways alone, while I watched from the sidewalk.

So even though Halloween was four weeks away, and even though it was 85 degrees outside (stupid global warming), the Bean and I went outside to the shed, dug out the box of decorations and set up the house. Well in a more accurate way, I decorated while he watched, the whole time asking me dozens of questions that I could not answer. (“Why does the skeleton have green eyes? Why is that [severed] foot all red? Where did the guy with the red foot's body go?”) Afterward, the Bean inspected my work and deemed it spooky enough. He especially liked the ghost that went “woooo”.

We are now officially the first house on the street, probably in the whole neighborhood, to have our decorations up. It’s as if my front yard is a giant neon sign that says a little boy lives here and he is very excited about Halloween.

Look At the Big Flames on Dad

If you haven't been over there recently, check out the awesome new look of the Hot Dads site. I've been a slacker and haven't posted anything there for a while, but that doesn't mean you should pop over and peep at all of the hotness.

I've got some new Hot Dads post coming soon, including one on an old frenemy of mine and a discussion about showing affection.

Cure JM Day

My fellow Hot Dad Kevin of the awesome blog Always Home and Uncool has written this and asked me to post it as part of his effort to raise awareness of juvenile myositis, a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with on this day seven years ago.

I am donating my blog today to his cause.

____________________________

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter's cheeks, joints and legs was something he'd never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn't admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions -- none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner -- then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn't know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter's knee showed signs of an "allergic reaction" even though we had ruled out every allergy source -- obvious and otherwise -- that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.

The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.

The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.

The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

This was her gift -- a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago -- Oct. 2, 2002 -- the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter's first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn't tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don't know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter's condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation at www.curejm.org.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to www.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeever or www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.