I Rocked Too Hard

Some extended family of ours is in the process of moving. During that process, they weeded out and handed down some older belongings of theirs. Among these belongings were an older video game system, a collection of games compatible with said system, and some controllers. When my daughter, Brianna, was handed these items; her reaction is what many physicians and scholars have referred to as going gaga. She didn't actually make an audible gaga sound. Nonetheless, you could see the glazed look in her eyes and her unnaturally widened smile and know she had definitely been afflicted with gagas.

The next Sunday morning, Brianna had wasted no time in hooking the video game system to our television in the living room. It wasn't long before she and her brother, Caleb, were playing a game together. This wasn't just ANY kind of game. This game simulates playing guitar in a band before an audience. It even included a guitar shaped controller. I say because there are no strings and no pickups. There are several colored buttons on the neck as well as a toggle controller on the body where one would normally pick the strings. You choose from a selection of real classic songs. You then use the screen to cue you as to when to press which button on the neck. You must also simulate playing the notes by moving the toggle controller on the body. Anyone who knows me knows that the mere mention of the word guitar is enough to get my attention. So, I sat down and watched Caleb and Brianna do their thing.

I was watching Brianna choose songs from bands like Foghat, Mountain, and Pat Benetar among others. Many of these songs were songs I knew from when I was younger than any of my kids. This made it even more interesting to watch Caleb and Brianna try to tackle songs they had probably never heard previously. The song was cued up and Brianna started ripping through the song like a seasoned axe slinger. I figured some of this was due to the fact that Brianna can play a few chords on a real guitar. This theory was quickly proven wrong. Caleb's turn came up and he chose a Mountain song. Now this was a classic song but I had doubted Caleb had ever heard the song before. You'd have thought that I had Leslie West, himself, sitting on my couch the way Caleb was ripping through this. He wasn't familiar with the song and does not play guitar. That didn't matter because he had played this guitar game quite a few times previously. The kids were having a blast and I was having fun watching their virtual shredfest.

Brianna then held up the guitar shaped controller and said "You wanna give it a try?" Now, I not only had heard these songs many times over my lifetime. I actually knew the chords to a few of them. All the same, I chose the Pat Benetar song. It was a song I knew and I knew the chords. What happened next can only be described as a quick exercise in humility and humiliation. I didn't make it halfway through the song when I was told by the game that I failed and was booed by the virtual audience. Here I was thinking I could get Pat Benetar to fire her husband. Apparently, I wasn't even good enough to get an audition for Spinal Tap. I could actually see Nigel Tufnel shaking his head at me and saying I was "dreadfully, frightfully, bloody awful". I actually went upstairs and grabbed my red Squier Affinity Telecaster. I HAD to assure myself that I KNEW the chords to this song and the passage of time had not erased my memory of those cool power chords.

Caleb took the controller (once he and Brianna stopped laughing at me). He chose another song and started jamming. He was REALLY getting into it. He had his body hunched over and even had a cool grimace on his face. You'd have thought he was headlining a great summer outdoor concert. He suddenly shifted his body back. This motion tugged the controller cord connected to the video game system. Suddenly, the video game system slides off the bottom shelf of the entertainment center and onto the floor. The cool thing was that it landed face up and didn't cause a skip in the game. Caleb kept playing right through to the end. He then looked at the system on the floor and smiled. "I guess I rocked too hard". We all had a good giggle out of it. Caleb and Brianna kept playing the game. I remained content to just hold my red Tele. Pat Benetar still has her husband playing by her side and Spinal Tap STILL won't return my calls.

The Wait Vol. II: CHILLAX!

The days continued. With each day that passed the ritual remained the same. I would wait for the time when the mail was due to arrive. The now seemingly scripted dialogue soon followed: "Did the letter come today?" "Not today, honey." "Do you think it'll come tomorrow?" "I dunno, honey. We'll see." My wife and kids had been very patient with me. They accommodated the daily questions. They would occasionally would pat me on the shoulder and tell me it would be okay. They even let me be when I ultimately began rocking myself in a chair (sans rocking chair) and repeating "They said it would be two weeks but it's been more than two weeks. Two weeks is FOURTEEN DAYS." They DID become a LITTLE concerned when I began marking each passed day on the wall with a chalk mark.

Finally, as much as they love me, my wife and kids had endured as much as they could take. They had grown tired of the daily questions and the rocking. My wife insisted that I clean the chalk marks off the wall. We had begun to incur legal costs as the postman had sued and filed an order of protection against my wife for her "unprovoked attack during the performance of the postal carrier's duties". Some people can be REALLY touchy I guess. Finally, I got up one day to discover that my daughter had written a message on my bedroom mirror: "It will come when it comes so CHILLAX!" So I decided to pull myself together. After all, my wife keeps telling me "Good things come to those who wait." I'll try to remember that the next time I am in the doctor's office waiting to undergo a "routine diagnostic procedure".

Then, one fine summer Saturday, I stood outside basking in the sunshine. My wife and daughter were both out of the house. I watched the cars as they passed by my house. I was beginning to embrace the day as a long overdue return to normalcy. It was around this point that this feeling began to overcome me. It was a good feeling but, all the same, it felt unusual in light of the self-induced near catatonic state from which my wife and daughter had all but forcefully ejected me (though they use the words "gently nudged").

Out of the corner of my eye, I began to see a shade of blue. I had seen this shade before but couldn't place why it was so familiar. As I turned my gaze to finds the source of the color it became clearer. A nice man in a blue uniform toting a satchel on his shoulder approached me. He seemed REALLY nervous. "Your mail, Sir", he said. I thanked him as I accepted the delivery from his trembling hands. This guy was shaking like Don Knotts in a deep freezer. "Your wife's not here, is she?" I told him she was out and he went his way. For the life of me, I don't know what it was about my wife that apparently made him so nervous.

I took the mail inside and began to sort out the bills and the mail that goes directly to the recycle bin (addressed to "Current Occupant". Suddenly, as I looked at the last piece of mail, the good feeling that came over me turned to ecstasy. IT CAME! IT FINALLY CAME! The letter read: "Congratulations, you have been accepted….into our BS in Heath Information Management program for the Fall 2010 semester….A transfer credit evaluation including the number of credits accepted will be sent under different cover." I'M IN! I'M IN! I'M IN! I whipped out my handy dandy cell phone and took a picture of the envelope. I then sent to picture to my wife's cell phone. She called me right away and proudly congratulated me.

Alas, the next few days passed by and I began to wonder: "Hmmm, what about that transfer of credit letter?" Then, it began again. "Did the letter come today?" "Not today, honey." "Do you think it'll come tomorrow?" "I dunno, honey. We'll see." My wife was kind enough to call the college and inquire today. They said the transfer of credit letter had been signed off by the director. I should receive the package in about a week or so. I have decided to NOT panic over this (thanks to the advice of Douglas Adams). After all, the postal carrier was kind enough to drop the suit. I think I'll relax and listen to the radio. OH, MAN! The radio station is playing Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods AGAIN! UGH!

The Wait Vol. I: Wait A Minute, Mr. (or Miss) Mail Carrier

    I have found myself at the figurative crossroad recently. I have a hard time speaking about a crossroad without hearing Eric Clapton playing an A chord riff; but let's stick to the subject. I spent two years serving as a Hospital Corpsman in the United States Navy. When I got out in 1986, I worked in several hospitals over the next ten years as a phlebotomist (the guy in the lab coat that draws your blood for testing). In 1998, I was no longer in that field and, with the encouragement of my wife and a few loved ones, decided to go back to college.


   I completed my degree program in 2001. I spent most of the next eight years working in software/hardware quality testing. I now currently work in technical support. There have been some bumps in the road along the way (i.e. layoffs). Overall, I would definitely have to say that it has definitely been worth the investment of my time (and my family's time) to pursue that degree. Nearly ten years later, I find myself in my mid-forties at the aforementioned metaphorical crossroad. I know that it is MY crossroad because I can look up and see a pair of sneakers hanging over the power line. I could continue to maintain my current career in Information Technology (while picking up new skills along the way via experience). Alternatively, I could begin to move things in a different direction in the interest of acquiring new skills and becoming a better-rounded individual (and feed people a straight line about my physique). The one option I knew I did not have was to just stand at the corner and watch life pass by. I had to follow the wisdom of Yogi Berra: "If you come to a fork in the road, take it."


   My family has been telling me for years that I needed to find a way to mesh my hospital experience with my information technology experience. I finally found a degree program that appeared to do just that. Further research (with the assistance of my wife, Renee) showed that I could even pursue this degree entirely over the Internet (with the exception of internships). In the space of less than two days; my wife had called the college, we had filled out financial aid forms, and I had applied for admission to pursue a Bachelor's degree in Health Information Management. The college told my wife that they were waiting for my transcripts from my two year college. They told her that in approximately two weeks, I would receive a packet that would confirm my admission and tell me how many credits transferred from my two year college.


   I patiently waited a few days before I decided to get antsy. Mind you, my wife would probably suggest that I am apparently working on a different solar cycle (with much shorter days). I became the kid in the back of the station wagon destined for the family vacation spot. Every day I went by I would ask my wife if the acceptance letter had arrived. Very day she would patiently respond with "Not today, honey". Another day would arrive and the process would start again. "Did the letter come today?" "Not today, honey." "Do you think it'll come tomorrow?" "I dunno, honey. We'll see." If my wife was not available, I'd ask my daughter. Some days, Brianna would anticipate the question and just say "No, Dad. It didn't come today" You could almost FEEL Brianna rolling her eyes when I asked her.


   This waiting game is only exacerbated by the fact that I am beginning to notice there are a lot of artists singing songs about sending or receiving a letter. These artists include (but are not limited to): REO Speedwagon, The Box Tops, The Marvelettes, Brad Paisley, Pat Boone, John Prine and Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods. Bo Donaldson and the Heywoods have prompted me to get something off my chest here. So, please forgive me while I go down a brief bunny trail. Billy, I don't know who you are. What I DO know is that your young and lovely fiancée does not wish for you to be a hero. Can you please just tell the little lady that you WILL be a hero and to go on with her life? Otherwise, she is just going to get a letter and throw it away and we will still be hearing about it 35 years later. Therefore, I ask you, Billy. PLEASE cut us a break.

So, the days pass (as well as two weeks) and still no letter. The daily call-and-response continues between my wife and me. I know that any day now, I am going to ask my wife about the letter. My wife is going to turn to me with those gentle eyes and say: "NO! NO, YOU DID NOT GET YOUR STINKIN' LETTER! AS A MATTER OF FACT, WHEN THE POSTMAN CAME TODAY, I PUNCHED HIM IN THE MOUTH FOR NOT PROVIDED THE ONE THING THAT WOULD GET YOU TO SHUT UP!" When this happens, I will just have to lovingly look at my wife and ask: "Do you think it'll come tomorrow?"


    I did follow up with the college. They confirmed they DID (finally) receive my transcript and should receive something "any day now". I guess they work on a different solar cycle too. I think they have shorter days in the Arctic North. I guess I will just try and relax for now and maybe listen to some music. OH, MAN! They are playing that song AGAIN. Come ON, Billy. I can't take much more of this.

Georgia Trip 2010 Vol. II: Home of the Braves

I had settled in my sister's house quite nicely. My sister and her husband have a very nice finished basement which includes a TV with two recliners, a separate room with a nice pool table, and another separate room that has couple of dressers, a few knick-knacks, and a bed. The bed rests on a bed frame that has been in the family since around 1973. I can still vaguely remember when my parents bought it. Over the years, it was handed down to my sister who has had it ever since. The wood is painted dark black. It seemed gigantic when my parents first got it. That may have been because I was 7 years old and a runty kid. The bed frame looks nearly the same as when my parents bought it. I say nearly the same because there is one difference. The frame came with a post in each corner that is about 7 feet from the floor at its tip. About two years ago, my Dad was putting some things away in that room. Dad lost his balance and grabbed at one of the bedpost to break his fall. He not only broke his fall; he broke the bedpost. In the end, my father was unharmed and the bed became asymmetric. I still envision my parents putting it together whenever I look at it.

I spent the next day with my brother from another mother — Stephan aka "Happy". Happy and I hugged when I got to his place. We hugged again when I left. We spent pretty much every other second between those two points reminiscing about old times, bragging about our kids (whom are bound to collectively save the world), and point out how much the other has begun to age. After all, only a loving brother would point out that some apple juice, hair treatment, and some iron supplement would be worth some consideration.

The following day was just as eventful. My sister has scored some tickets to see the Atlanta Braves play against the Pittsburgh Pirates. We left to go to the game. I couldn't help but notice that my brother-in-law, Larry, was driving in the opposite direction of Turner Field. They eventually pulled into the parking lot of a hotel. My sister, Marlene, got out and entered the lobby. I patiently waited and chatted with Larry in the car. I saw Marlene coming out accompanied by a young lady. She opened the door and said: "Jenny, this is my brother —Shane." Jenny graciously shook my hand. "It's nice to meet you, Shane." Suddenly, in the backseat next to me sat a man who looked me in the eye and "SURPRISE!" It was one of my closest friends from high school — Bill. Bill and I had not seen each other face to face in 25 years. Jenny, it turns out, is Bill's lovely wife. My sister had planned to surprise me by having Bill and Jenny come to Savannah and visit with me. I say she planned because I already knew about it. For starters, Bill had inadvertently let it slip when we chatted over the Internet the previous week. Also, I had recognized Jenny from pictures Bill had sent. I just wasn't about to tell somebody's wife that I recognized her from the pictures I saw on the Internet. Bill and I kept mum until we were about half way to Turner Field. After all, I didn't want to ruin the surprise for Marlene.

Now, I had looked forward to this game since I bought my plane tickets 3 months prior. Reuniting with Bill was icing on the cake. We even took a picture together with the bust of Hank Aaron. I mean, c'mon. When you have three Georgia legends side by side, you MUST get a picture. It was shortly after this that things changed. A few drops began to fall. Suddenly, it was pouring. We ran to the gift shop and Bill scored us all some rain ponchos. 81 minutes later, we all headed to our seats. A talented chorus of kids from Dacula Middle School sang "The Star Spangled Banner". The Braves lineup was introduced. The stadium was full of fans waiting with bated breath for the game to start. Then, it happened again: drip, drip, drip. The grounds crew began covering the field with tarp again.

The game resumed a short time later. Chipper Jones, Martin Prado, Yunel Escobar, and the rest of the Braves were in top form. We were riding the wave of this great game. Perhaps I should have not let the image of a wave enter my mind. It was the top of the 9^th inning. The Braves were ahead 7-3 and had already given the Pirates one out. Then, it started again. Rain came down fiercely and suddenly. The raindrops were as big as your thumb. People got up in droves and made a mass exodus to leave their seats. We tried to hold out and keep hope alive. I was very thankful for the poncho Bill provided. A couple sitting in front of me whipped out umbrellas. Had it not been for the ponchos, the runoff from the umbrellas would have soaked my pants. We finally relented and began to make our way out. An announcement came over the PA system: "ONLY TIME HAS BEEN CALLED. WE STILL INTEND TO RESUME THE GAME. WE THANK YOU FOR YOUR PATIENCE."

About halfway to the hotel where Bill and Jenny were staying, we found the game on the radio. It was clear the commentators were getting quite tired as they kept fumbling their words. Finally, at 12:32 AM, the Braves finished the inning and finalized the score of 7-3. As of this writing, the Atlanta Braves are at the top of the National League East. I knew there was something special that night when Bill and I took that picture with that bust of Hank Aaron. When you get three Georgia legends in the same place, you KNOW it's going be fun.

Georgia Trip 2010 Vol.I: Defy the Slaw

Well, folks, the day have finally arrived. I am now in transit to the great state of Georgia to visit my friends and family. I am typing this from an altitude of about 10,000. You may wish to drink some water or chew gum to adjust to the pressure change while reading this.

I was a bit tense going into the flight. I love to fly. In spite of this, I am always expecting something to go wrong. Nothing tragic, mind you, I just always expect some kind of inconvenient snag. It's those three laws of inconvenience that hover through my mind:

• Murphy's Law – "If anything can possibly go wrong, it will"
  
• Sod's Law – "Murphy was an optimist"
  
• Cole's Law – Cabbage mixed with mayonnaise (which I detest)
  

First of all, I'd like to publicly thank the kind lady who happened to find my driver's license on the floor while we were both standing in the line for the security checkpoint. I heard someone behind me say: "Someone dropped their license". This was also the point when I noticed that it was no longer in my hands. That could have easily brought my flight to a grinding halt. BAD LICENSE! BAD! BAD! For the record, I did NOT reprimand my license in public. Such behavior would have surely resulted in some additional "processing" at the security checkpoint. I typically have no problem allowing my warped mind to generate suspicious stares from people. Nevertheless, as much as I support the efforts of the Transportation and Security Administration, I'd rather not add to their workload if I can avoid it. Thankfully, the screening went smoothly without a hitch (and more quickly than I anticipated). I had a quiet talk with my license in the men's room afterward. After all, a firm talking to seemed to be all that was necessary.

I arrived at my gate and waited for the boarding call. Since the screening at security checkpoint went so swiftly, I had about 90 minutes to spare. I went online to speak to my wife. I even sent a link to my wife so she could check on my flight status. Then an announcement came over the PA system: "ATTENTION AT THE GATE. THIS FLIGHT IS OVERSOLD. WE ARE LOOKING FOR VOLUNTEERS TO GIVE UP THEIR SEATS SO THAT NO PASSAENGERS WILL HAVE TO BE BUMPED." GREAT! HERE WE GO! I get the security checkpoint and NOW they lower the boom on me. Fortunately, several folks quickly gave up their seats in exchange for a voucher on a future flight. Another crisis has been averted.

Once I was in my seat upon the plane. I noticed a little girl in front of me about 5 years old. Her name was Hannah. Girls named Hannah always bring joy to my heart. It was her birthday. She was thrilled to pieces when the aircraft took off. "THIS IS AWESOME!", she exclaimed. It took a little girl to remind me that I just needed to chill and enjoy the wonders of flight. Thank you for that, Miss Hannah and Happy Birthday. I hope they aren't serving cole slaw on this flight. I REALLY despise that stuff.

Come Out and Play

It is known that you can give two boys a stick and a rock and they will create a game within minutes. They will then spend another 45 minutes deliberating over the rules. What can I say? We males really dig games. I realize women do as well. After all, my wife could probably teach Marv Levy a thing or two about the history of the Buffalo Bills. She probably also has a better chance of throwing a completed pass but I digress. Sports and games are a huge part of American culture. Sports can bring out an esprit de corps that inspire people to shout at the top of their lungs, consume untold quantities of junk food, and spend a week recovering from the horrendous cold brought on by parading around while shirtless and painted in 12° weather. For example, I live in Western New York. As a native Georgian, I LOVE watching the Atlanta Braves (I know, who am I to take shots at the Bills?) I can walk the perimeter of the local mall wearing my Braves hat. There is a good chance that a random stranger will see me and shout: "CHIPPER JONES RULES! GO BRAVES!"


However, it should also be noted that sports are not just for the armchair athlete. You can't go to school, church, or work without hearing somebody talk about their fantasy league. They have fantasy leagues for about any sporting event that come to one's mind: baseball, football, basketball, hockey, soccer, auto racing, lacrosse, disc golf, croquet, bocce, darts, jai alai, or synchronized swimming. Actually I am not sure about all of those. I don't think there is really a disc golf fantasy league.


Then you have the world of intramural sports. Most people have jobs that include some kind of sports league. This is designed to bring out that aforementioned esprit de corps amongst you and your co-workers. You may scoff about that funny, geeky guy on the other side of the cubicle wall. So what if he has the strange laugh and the annoying habit of clearing his throat. This doesn't change the fact the he has a left hook that brings the company's bowling league to a certain victory. Let the jerks from Ignoramacorp® continuously drink the last of the coffee in the break room. You'll get even at the next paintball tourney. I even had one of my colleagues do some recruiting for a league at my job. He asked: "Shane, do you like kickball?" "Say WHAT?" I politely responded. He repeated: "Do you like kickball?" I responded: "I did in third grade." He didn't need my snotty remarks anyway. He quite successfully recruited enough co-workers to form a team without me.


While I am glad my colleague found a way to have fun and promote camaraderie, I can't help but wonder — Where does it go from here? We have grown folks playing kickball on a self-formed league. You can even watch a spelling bee on a sports network. The worst part is, I run across this bee on the TV and suddenly I am unable to change the channel. I am suddenly shouting at an 11 year old girl for misspelling "colloquialism". Next thing you know, there will be a commentator giving a play by play on a marbles game: "Welcome back from the commercial break folks. Tommy Smitherson is still dominating this round. We now have Scotty Jamison at the taw line. Jamison is returning after a histing controversy in 2008. He seems a bit rattled by Smitherson's perfor…OH MY GOODNESS! JAMISON HAS LOFTED HIS AGGIE AND TAKEN THE TIGER'S EYE! THIS PLAYING FOR KEEPS TOURNAMENT HAS COME TO A SHOCKING AND SUDDEN END, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" Great, I had Smitherson in my fantasy league.

DADDY, I WANT THAT!

As a father of four, I am no stranger to the fact that rearing a child is full of challenges. There were many times during my children's younger years that I would consult my parents on situations that seemed earth shattering at the time. Once, my son Caleb opened a brand new bottle of laundry detergent. He then poured about half of its contents into our carpet and ran his fingers through it. I relayed this story to my mother and frantically asked: "WHAT DO I DO?" My mother stifled her laughter and told me to thank my son for cleaning our carpet. I couldn't believe I didn't see the connection. Soap CLEANS fabric.

Sometimes even teaching simple manners to your child is a frustrating exercise. I am American by birth and Southern by the grace of God. That meant when I addressed an adult, the proper responses included the words Ma'am or Sir. Anything short of that resulted in a firm reprimand. Unfortunately, many Northern parents judged such a practice as a bit too militaristic. When my son, Tom, was about 4 years old, he was misbehaving. I called him over to correct his behavior. When he walked over to me, he said: "What?" I corrected him by saying: "SIR!" Tom then tried to correct his error by saying: "What, Sir?"

While it's true that my wife and I would face challenges much greater than I just demonstrated; a great many of them are behind us now. The aforementioned Caleb is our youngest. He will be 17 in a few short months. My three older kids have all graduated from high school (two are in college). As parents, my wife and I have experienced a similar transition. We have graduated from being rookie parents to being seasoned professionals. This allows us to enjoy the memories we have gained from rears of child rearing. It could just be that we are older now forget the fact that our kids are part of the reason we dye our hair. Such seasoned status allows us to worry less how we handle our kids. Now we do what every other parent does in our position — critique the behavior of other people's kids and their parents' reactions to them.

My daughter, Brianna, and I were in a department store recently shopping for a few items. We were browsing shampoos and conditioners when we heard the voice of a screaming child. This young boy was not being harmed. He was with his father and sister in a nearby section. His father was trying to browse the display of bicycles, skateboards, and other such items. The little boy would see an item such as a bike helmet. He would then loudly shout: "DADDY, I WANT THAT!" He would then put that item down and pick another one up. "DADDY, I WANT THAT!" This little boy did this over and over again. "DADDY, I WANT THAT!" My daughter saw (and couldn't help but hear) this child. This little boy was clearly getting on my daughter's last nerve. After all, when you've not yet had any children, you're not as thick skinned.

It was at this point that the little boy found a toy car. It was one of those toy cars big enough for a kid to sit inside it. This provided with the child with a point of focus. He no longer said: "DADDY, I WANT THAT!" He now announced: "DADDY, I WANT THAT CAR!" My daughter and I began moving to another section of the store. We walked through the cookware department. "DADDY, I WANT THAT CAR!" We walked through the bedding department. "DADDY, I WANT THAT CAR!" We even browsed through the electronics section "DADDY, I WANT THAT CAR!" This curtain climbing orator could be heard throughout the store. If the TV networks were to go under, this kid would be a shoe-in for Town Crier. "DADDY, I WANT THAT CAR!" I couldn't help but wonder if the kid was thinking it through more than it appeared. He may have been banking on the idea that if he said "DADDY, I WANT THAT CAR!" enough times, parents throughout the store would take up a collection to shut him up. Personally, I was hoping that his father would provide this carnival barker of a child with a nice woodshed. My daughter and I would have gladly paid for the lumber.