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When you get older, you get these nostalgic impulses.
A glimpse of color, couple notes of music, the way someone says a word, the breeze across your face when the screen door closes. Things you don’t even notice. But somewhere down in the basement, a domino falls, and tap tap tap, up comes the past until, hours later, you got this little ache in your chest. That’s how I ended up in an arcade with my son, Chip. After twenty years, I suddenly missed pinball. Why now? What does this mean? I have no idea. When I asked Chip if he’d like to visit an arcade, he looked at me like I was joking. This is a kid with an arcade on his phone. But like Linus said to Charlie Brown, a son is a built-in best friend, and Chip is usually game for anything. That kid saves me, I swear. We walked through an arcade the size of the Goodyear Blimp hangar. Wall-to-wall video madness. Kids blasting zombies, hunting T-Rexes, slashing ninjas. One game encouraged kids to heft a sniper rifle and blow a criminal’s brains out the back of his 3D skull. Chunks flew and stuck to the screen (I’m not kidding). At the end of the game, the FBI logo popped up with the words, “Winners don’t do drugs.” But I guess they do splatter brains against brick walls. This is entertainment? I grabbed Chip and headed for the door. And that’s where I saw it. One (just one) beat up, worn out pinball machine. But not just any pinball machine. Bally’s Space Time. Space Time! I just stood there, kind of crying, to tell you the truth. I felt so stupid. Heck, I’m kind of crying now. What’s wrong with me? It’s a pinball machine! But I know better than that. It’s never just the final thing. I think we all have domino souls. I don’t know what sensation makes the first tap, don’t understand the random or determined path they follow, clacking up up up, fanning out like those Guinness Book domino extravaganzas, spilling through my subconscious, streams of memories and emotions and archetypes all falling in different directions, then somehow coming back to one purposeful line, tap tap tap, until that final brick falls flat on my heart and I feel absolutely certain that something just happened, but have absolutely no idea what. I wish I came with a User’s Manual. I’ll have to finish this journal entry later. I’m too worked up to write. I need to go to Sears and sit on the riding mower. Comments 
Media Jean: I’m worried about your dad. 
Chip: Yeah, me too.
Media Jean: He takes everything so personally.
Chip: I know.
Media Jean: Maybe he should see someone.
Chip: Like a doctor?
Media Jean: Or a dance instructor.
Chip: What?!
Media Jean: I don’t know, something! He needs to do something that’s just fun! Something that doesn’t make him think about everything!
Chip: Everything makes him think about everything.
Media Jean: Maybe he should go to Clown College.
Chip: Ha ha! Clown College?
Media Jean: Yeah! I read about stressed out grown-ups going to Clown College. They learn to juggle, walk a tight rope, get hit with cream pies, the whole clown thing.
Chip: I don’t know...
Media Jean: We can sign him up online. We have his digital signature, credit card numbers, email password.
Chip: Yeah, but he thinks we deleted all that after we bought those stem cells.
Media Jean: Oh, yeah. But this time it’s for him, not us. We can sign you both up. Father and son, clowning around together!
Chip: Actually, I think I’d like Clown College.
Media Jean: Who wouldn’t? Maybe we can sign Johnny up, too.
Chip: Don’t you think that’s going a little too far?
Media Jean: Ha ha! We can say it’s a new employee benefit! 
Johnny: I’m not an employee! I’m an officer of this company. I wrote the Employee Handbook. Clown College is NOT a benefit!
Media Jean: Too late! I just signed you up!
Johnny: You can’t sign me up for anything!
Media Jean: Hmmm. On your registration page, they’re asking for a Clown alias. You know, like Bozo or Hobo Kelly.
Johnny: You better be kidding about all this!
Media Jean: How about Nickels? Or Greenbacks?
Johnny: That’s not funny!
Media Jean: Greenbacks the Clown. I like it! It’s YOU!
Johnny: Oooh, you make me so mad!
Chip: She’s kidding, Johnny. But you do stress out kind of easy. Maybe a week at Clown College would be good for you.
Johnny: AARRGHHH!! 
Comic strip from the series "Employee Handbook"
(Kid, Inc. Volume 1: Look Out, Tomorrow, Here We Come!) Have a thought for Bob? Write to us at [email protected]
When I was a kid, I got my hair cut at Carl’s Barbershop, down on Snelling Ave. In those days, there were only two places for a guy to his hair cut: mom’s kitchen table or Carl’s barber chair.
Carl Schulz was a third generation barber. His grandpa opened the shop in 1925 and cut hair through the Great Depression and the War to End All Wars. Carl’s dad took over in 1938 and cut through the Good War and on into the Baby Boom. Then Carl stepped up in 1968 and cut his way through Vietnam and Woodstock, Disco and the personal computer, and all the way to the digital frontier. Carl only had one rule: no reading in his shop. No magazines, no newspapers, no books. hen I pulled out a slug of Bazooka Gum, I knew I had better pop it in my mouth quick and stuff the comic strip wrapper back in my pocket. If Carl caught you reading a Bazooka Joe gum wrapper, he’d hold out his hand and everyone would look right at you until you handed it over. I thought Carl was the smartest guy in town. I’d sit in those big red chairs, waiting my turn, and just listen. He’d talk Wall Street with the bankers, books with the teachers, taxes with the accountants, girls with the guys and kids with the dads. Sometimes, a bunch of us would try and stump Carl. We’d meet at the library, a crowd of 10-year-old knuckleheads, hunched over a Britannica that was three feet square when opened flat. We learned a lot of new stuff trying to stump Carl. Carl had a stroke a few years back and closed shop for six weeks. I finally broke down and made a reservation at a salon. People sat in their own little worlds, reading hair magazines and swiping who knows what on their phones. Half a dozen people got their hair cut at the same time, talking to stylists they didn’t really know, sitting next to strangers they didn’t know at all. Hair dryers blaring, rock music piped in from the ceiling. I went home and let my hair grow down to my shoulders. When Carl came back, we threw a heck of a party right there in the barbershop. You never saw so many shaggy-looking men. Carl cried. I did, too. Heck, I’m almost crying now. Getting your hair cut used to be a community event. No one read at Carl’s because it was rude to read in front of your neighbors. Get to know somebody, for goodness’ sakes. That’s what it was about. Talking and listening, laughing and thinking, waiting your turn, getting your hair cut with a few squirts from a water bottle, letting it air dry, then sticking around after you were done because you really couldn’t think of anywhere else you’d rather be. Comments
Media Jean: Your dad cries a lot, doesn’t he?
Chip: He’s kinda soft-hearted that way.
Media Jean: I bet I walked by that little barbershop a million times, but I never thought twice about it. It looks so… old.
Chip: Carl is great. He’s like Yoda. He knows everything.
Media Jean: Would he cut a girl’s hair?
Chip: Hair is hair, I guess.
Media Jean: Maybe I’ll go to Carl’s Barbershop next time. I’m curious. I’ll bring my dad.
Chip: Just so you know, you can’t use your iPhone in Carl’s.
Media Jean: What?! I’ll do it on the sly, he’ll never know.
Chip: Carl’s way ahead of you. He has a signal blocker in his shop. Cell phones don’t work.
Media Jean: Ha ha! Sounds like something I would do! I like him already!
Chip: He has an old soda machine. You can get a bottle of ice cold root beer for a quarter.
Media Jean: Heck, why wait?! Let’s get a haircut right now!
Chip: I’ll meet you there!
Have a thought for Bob? Write to us at [email protected]
On our way out of Sears, I see one of those old-fashioned photo booths. Sure, it’s got a computer screen now, but the idea is the same: a space so small you’re forced to squeeze together.
A curtain, one seat, four poses, and a film strip in three minutes. I ask the kids if they want to take a picture. They pull out their phones. Of course, they have a photo booth app. They can make as many film strips as they want. “No, no, no!” I say. “That’s not the same thing!” I rustle them into the booth. “See, there was a time when you couldn’t undo and redo everything. A time when you couldn’t carry everything in your pocket.” I insert $5 (inflation!) The monitor comes to life. The kids stare at their faces. “In my day, the photo booth was a magical, romantic, dangerous place. That cheap red curtain blocked out the whole world. It was just you in there. And when the camera flashed, it froze four moments in time. “I remember when I was 16, sitting in here with my first girlfriend. Looking at our reflections. Trying to pose without looking like we were posing. Waiting for that first flash. Waiting. Waiting. “Then FLASH! Caught by surprise, staring straight ahead. "FLASH! Smiling, glancing at each other. "FLASH! Leaning against each other, laughing. "FLASH! Turning in for an awkward kiss. I still have that photo somewhere—” That’s when I notice the kids are laughing. I always get romantic at the wrong time. I know that laugh. They’re going to mimic me now. Adults mock. Kids mimic. The first one hurts, the second one breaks down all your defenses. Pretty soon, you’re laughing, too. Media Jean hits the Start button. They try to recreate my story, starting with that deer-in-headlights look my girlfriend and I had in our first photo. But they can’t keep straight faces. “Smooch booth!” shouts Media Jean. “This is a smooch booth!” Chip laughs so hard, he almost falls over. I was laughing too. Kids find romance hilarious. If we grown-ups could hold on to that, there’d be a lot less heartbreak in this world. Anyway, I got a good laugh and a great photo out of it. What more can you ask of life? Comments
Media Jean: Did your dad keep that old photo?
Chip: Yeah. I found it in one of his scrapbooks. He has a lot of scrapbooks. Wait a sec. I’ll take a pic and post it to his blog.
Media Jean: Got it. Wow, your dad is so young! Is that your mom?
Chip: No. He met my mom a couple years later, at city college.
Media Jean: You must miss her.
Chip: I was pretty little when she left. I don’t remember much.
Media Jean: Sounds like you really miss her.
Chip: Yeah.
Media Jean: Think your dad still misses her?
Chip: He has a lot of scrapbooks.
Media Jean: Yeah.
Johnny: Hey, it’s me. I wasn’t lurking. I, uh, my mom’s making dinner. She’s on a low-fat craze, so I can’t promise anything. But I thought maybe you’d, you know, want to come over.
Chip: Really?
Johnny: Yeah. And it’s Yahtzee night. My mom loves Yahtzee. We play for hours.
Chip: That sounds like fun, Johnny. Thanks.
Johnny: We start at 7.
Media Jean: For a lurker, you’re OK.
Johnny: I wasn’t lurking!
Chip: See you at 7, Johnny. 
Have a thought for Bob? Write to us at [email protected]
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AuthorHey, I'm Bob, and I hate technology. So why am I blogging? Because I love my son. He upgraded my typewriter to wirelessly post every keystroke online. It makes him happy, so here I am. Archives
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