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2 A.M.
Can’t sleep. Find myself stepping up to the plate once again. Mortality takes the mound and fires away: Your Aunt Bosky has cancer. You’re overweight, so you’re at risk, too. Your father had a stroke at your age. You’re afraid of dying. You don’t really believe life continues after death, do you? If nothing remains, does anything matter? One after another, hour after hour, right over the plate. Hey batter batter swa-wing! Strike! Strike! Strike! I should be hitting ‘em out of the park by now. I should have Death’s number. But after all these seasons, I’m still a rookie. Every pitch sizzles by. Sure, I tip one or two with a weak prayer or philosophical chestnut. But truth is, I don’t got what it takes. My faith can’t stand up to this stuff. I’m minor league all the way. At least, that’s how it feels at... now it's 3 A.M. Need to figure Death out. If not for me, then for Chip. Sooner or later, he’s going to ask about Aunt Bosky, about death, about life after death, about What It All Means. His storehouses of Google-knowledge are going to burst and he’ll finally turn to his dad for a little rock of wisdom. I need something to give him. Something to put into the palm of his hand. Something he can hold on to. 4 A.M. Keep watching for dawn on the curtains, as if I’m not even sure the sun’s coming up. Another good ol’ Charlie Brown dark night of the soul. Sigh. Comments 
Media Jean: If not for his blog, I’d never know your dad was having such a rough time. When I see him face to face, he seems like his old cheerful self. 
Chip: Yeah. Since he types his journal on a manual typewriter, I think he forgets everything gets posted online.
Media Jean: When are you going to ask him about Aunt Bosky?
Chip: Well, I was going to ask him tomorrow, but…
Media Jean: Yeah.
Chip: I was thinking, maybe we can help him.
Media Jean: What do you mean?
Chip: Maybe we can figure out what Death is all about. Solve the problem, then let him in on it. He’s taken care of me all these years. Maybe it’s my turn to take care of him.
Media Jean: I’m in! Let’s do it.
Chip: You think we can really figure out this whole Death business?
Media Jean: How hard can it be?
Chip: When should we start?
Media Jean: Right now! I’ll come over.
Chip: How long do you think it’ll take? Haven’t philosophers been working on this problem for a while?
Media Jean: Yeah, grown-up philosophers. Give me a break. I’m on my way, and I’m bringing a fresh bag of kettle corn.
Chip: Fresh kettle corn! I got a 4-pack of Izzie soda. Sparkling Pomegranate, I think.
Media Jean: Mom gave me some Fair Trade Chocolate.
Chip: I can slap together a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
Media Jean: Great! We’ll tackle ol’ Death for a while, then have a feast!
Chip: I rented Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium online. We can stream it while we eat.
Media Jean: A movie and a feast? What a great night! Death doesn’t stand a chance!
Chip: See you in a few.
Media Jean: On my way! 
Comic strip from the series "The Fortress of Childhood"
(Kid, Inc. Volume 2: The Batcave of Childhood) Have a thought for Bob? Write to us at [email protected]
I can see Chip percolating on Aunt Bosky’s diagnosis.
I miss how it used to be. He’d climb into my lap, we’d talk, and all his troubles got sorted out right there, with my arms around him. Of course, most of his worries were the sortable kind. His little Rubik’s Cube was never more than a few turns out of sync. Now? I’m not sure how it happened, but most of my fatherly tasks have been delegated. So when Chip heard about Aunt Bosky’s cancer, he took his questions to Google. Meanwhile, I stand in the wings, waiting like an understudy to be called on stage. Let’s face it, dads. Fatherhood is being outsourced:
Wake up, dads of America! The Father Fire-Sale is on! The marketers and sellers and branders have hijacked your role! Task by task, you are being replaced! Stand up before it’s too late! Unplug those computers, turn off those Wi-Fis, box up those game stations! Take a page from Howard Beale’s notebook: get up, stick your head out the window and shout, “I’m a mad dad and I’m not going to delegate any more!” Whoa... Got a little carried away there. Take a breath, Bob. Wait a minute! Why am I apologizing? Maybe I need to get carried away. Shouting is appropriate in a burning house. Comments
Media Jean: I sometimes forget that your dad doesn’t just dislike technology. He kinda hates it.
Chip: Yeah. Once I tried explaining how the newspapers and books he loves are also technology. I mean, newspapers were new at some point. People used to gather in the town square. News was a real community event. If you asked a Town Crier, he might say newspapers ruined everything.
Media Jean: I never thought about it that way!
Chip: That’s nothing compared to books. Books were a bigger change than the Internet ever was.
Media Jean: I guess that’s true. Books changed how people got and shared information. The internet is just an upgrade.
Chip: Right! If you look at today’s technology as just the next step, then it’s not so scary because there was a step before this step, a step you were comfortable with. From that point of view, changing technologies are as natural as changing seasons.
Media Jean: I love that kind of thinking! What’d your dad say to all that?
Chip: He said, “That may be technically true, but it’s not emotionally true.”
Media Jean: Uh… What does that mean?
Chip: Beats me. He tried to explain it, but lost me after the fifth Thoreau quote.
Media Jean: Your dad has read us the Thoreau Riot Act so many times, I practically got that book memorized.
Chip: The Thoreau Riot Act. That’s funny.
Media Jean: Thoreau! What a sour puss! I bet he wasn’t invited to a lot of parties.
Chip: Ha ha! Thoreau the party pooper!
Media Jean: Ha ha! Instead of, “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately,” maybe his first draft of Walden really read, “I went into the woods because nobody liked me.”
Chip: Ha ha!
Media Jean: Let’s go to Project Gutenberg, download Walden, and publish an “unauthorized first draft.” We can rewrite the whole thing from a whiner’s point of view.
Chip: I don’t know. It’s pretty preachy already.
Media Jean: That’s true. Man, you can’t even make fun of Thoreau for long. What a sour puss! 
Comic strip from the series "Bob's No Tech Igloo"
(Kid, Inc. Volume 2: The Batcave of Childhood) Have a thought for Bob? Write to us at [email protected]
Boy, it’s been a while since I sat down and wrote. Now I’m holding on to this typewriter like an anchor. A hatch popped open somewhere and the big Unknown keeps sucking all the air and warmth and gravity out of my little spaceship.
Hold on, Bob. It all started two months ago. Aunt Bosky called long distance to say she had been diagnosed with cancer. And BAM! Right then, right there holding the phone, I thought of the composer Charles Ives. In 1927, he came running downstairs with tears in his eyes and told his wife, “I can’t compose anymore! Nothing sounds right!” He never wrote another piece of music. I always wondered how his wife felt, hearing the Incomprehensible. How she reacted when the Impossible came tumbling down the familiar stairs of her everyday home. And exactly at that moment, with the phone pressed to my ear like an oracle’s shell, I knew. Hearing the Impossible was like playing Red Light/Green Light. Someone shouts, “Red light!” and you stop. Then you wait for “Green light.” You wait, your entire body poised. The only thing that matters is what comes next. That’s what “I have cancer” in Aunt Bosky’s voice did to me. It hit the Pause button in my soul, and I just can’t get around it. She’s the kind of woman who doesn’t get diagnosed with anything except Life and More Life. She’s that big. When I was a kid, she held up the sky. When a day was grand and blue, we said it was, “Bosky.” When mom’s apple pie put dad’s peach cobbler to shame, we didn’t say, “Mom’s apple pie is tastier.” We said, “Mom’s apple pie is Boskier.” Bosky was our blessing. She settled family disputes, took in wayward sons, marched in rallies, and practiced “social justice” back when it was called “manners.” How can cancer take root in a heart on fire? That’s like God getting sick. You have to get to the end of your innocence to accept that reality. Maybe that’s the last bit of growing up a man has to do. So here I am, knocked flat as a cartoon character. And you know what I keep thinking about? Ives’ wife, Harmony. Can’t get her out of my mind. Harmony standing at the foot of the stairs, looking up at the Impossible. Comments
Media Jean: When was the last time you saw your Aunt Bosky?
Chip: Couple years ago. She lives in New York and travels a lot.
Media Jean: How’s she doing?
Chip: She just started treatment. The doctor said she’ll probably lose her hair.
Media Jean: What color’s her hair?
Chip: Red.
Media Jean: That sounds like the right color for her.
Chip: It used to be bright red like crayons. Now it’s red like watercolor. It’s really pretty.
Media Jean: Wow.
Chip: But she’s not going to wait for her hair to fall out. She’s cutting it off herself and donating it to Locks of Love.
Media Jean: She’s not a sit-around-and-wait kind of person.
Chip: Nope. She takes everything head-on.
Media Jean: I’d love to meet her someday.
Chip: She’d really like you. She’d think you were totally Bosky.
Media Jean: Thanks. I think you’re pretty Bosky yourself.
Have a thought for Bob? Write to us at [email protected]
My son plays a lot of video games. If I’m honest about it, it bothers me. What a waste of time, right?
But if I’m honest with myself, I got to admit: I played a lot of video games, too. Back then, they were called “pinball machines.” Was playing pinball a waste of my own fleeting childhood? I’m going to have to think about that... Summer. Around 1975. I was ten years old. Mom and dad worked, so I was on my own from breakfast to dinner. Some of those days, I swear, Mark Twain could have followed us around and learned a thing or two about being boys. Me and my best friend, James, we’d just go. Remember that? When kids could just go? We climbed telephone poles and sat in the crow’s nest, our legs dangling over the edges, debating the big issues of our day (who would win in a fight, Hulk or Thor, New Avengers or Old Avengers, and don’t get us started on who is faster, Superman or Flash?). The wires just inches above our heads, humming. God, we felt plugged into something. We raced everywhere. I mean, we’d just be walking along when suddenly one of us yelled, “Race to the post office!” or “Race to the old oak!” No ready, set, go. No plan. Just a shout and bang! you were running, that wild, rubber boned running, James hooting the whole way, whooping like Woody Woodpecker because he knew it drove me crazy. We unrolled sleeping bags in backyards and on front porches and even up on rooftops. It took a long time to fall asleep, face to face with the Milky Way. In those days, when you looked up, you saw heaven. Stars round the rim of the world. That summer we pitched our first tent in the woods. In the wilderness! Was that a squirrel on a dry branch or the footstep of a stranger? Were those pine needles rubbing their hands in the breeze or bears sniffing at the flap? Can crickets really make that much noise? Can moonlight really shine that bright? What was that shadow on the tent wall? We jangled up our nerves until we ripped out of there, running with true terror and pure joy choking our hearts, leaving tent, sleeping bags, comic books and food behind until morning. How many times that summer did we sit in the cool dark of the Pacific Theater? How many matinees? Boy oh boy, I remember watching Jaws, screaming and laughing and spilling our Cokes, then running through the woods, down to Silver Lake, sitting in our trunks on the diving rock, afraid for the first time in our lives to jump in. I can still hear James shouting, “This is so stupid!” The echoes of our laughter came back over the lake, sounding hollow like the men we would become if we weren’t careful. I can see it like looking through a window: we just sat there, staring down at the dark water until the sun gave up on us and went looking for braver kids on the other side of the world. We walked home in the dusk, not saying a word. Happy. Just plain ol’ happy. And on top of all that, we played pinball. Every chance we got. Back then, Star Bowling Lanes was on Santa Monica Ave. I can still see it: lanes glowing in the dark, shelves notched with bowling balls, long tables crowded with high stools, ceiling lamps so dim their circles on the red carpet never touched, the shoe wall filled with row after row of numbered heels facing out (those big funky numbers, 3 to 15—who wore size 15?) And over and under and through everything, those long, low rumbles, fading away from you, then suddenly breaking into claps of thunder. To this day, I love the sound of a bowling ball rolling to its fate. The arcade wasn’t much. Just two pinball machines (Space Time and Monte Carlo), a claw machine and a gumball rack. Of course, we had a ritual. Kids always do. First, we hesitated a few seconds, standing respectfully in front of Space Time. We tried to stare it down, tell it telepathically that we were here to PLAY. The machine stared right back, the Time Traveler dressed in green, smiling over his shoulder as he tumbled into the vortex of past, present and future. Next, the quarter. We always came with just one quarter, and we were lucky to get that. One precious chance. In other words, we brought everything we had into that bowling alley. That’s sacred stuff, whether in prayer or pinball. I rubbed the quarter between my fingers, then handed it to James. He spun the coin as it fell into the slot, putting his whole body into the action. We acted as if the quarter itself was magical, as if the contest began long before the game started. And why not? When everything is at stake, everything matters. The entire day was on the line. We could turn that one quarter into a replay, maybe two, maybe a run. We could win the afternoon for ourselves. Heat and boredom vanquished outside! That’s big stuff. I remember my heart beating faster and faster as our score climbed. I remember hoping, really hoping, for just one more game. I remember the high fives when we won, James taunting the machine with every name he picked up on the playground. And I remember the canyon when we lost, James cursing the machine with every insult he could improvise. Shakespeare would have been impressed. Maybe I’m reading too much into all this, but I think we actually learned about life. From a pinball machine. Right there in Star Lanes. On days when we won too easily, we learned how happiness could turn to boredom. On days we lost too quickly, we learned how to leave; hanging around sadness was like standing in quicksand. What else? Friendship. We learned about friendship. Sometimes, when the game was on the line, when everything was on the line, 5,000 points for a replay, down to our 5th and last ball, I would turn to James and say, “Want to take this one?” He’d look at me and nod with a shrug as if it didn’t matter to him. Sometimes he’d have that 5th ball balanced on a flipper, ready to hit the flashing 3D tunnel for a replay, and he’d say, “You want to do it?” And I’d nod with a shrug as if I could take it or leave it. Now that’s friendship. When you’re willing to step back and let your friend save the day, you know all you need to know. So was pinball a waste of my childhood hours? No, I don’t think so. Maybe it’s not what you play, but how you play and who you play with. I guess that’s my problem with Chip’s video games. Half the time, it’s just him and the computer or him and the phone. He doesn’t have to become more human because he’s playing a machine. It’s just not the same. Is that a fair assessment? I honestly don’t know. But that’s how I honestly feel. Being a dad is hard work. Comments
Media Jean: Wow, pinball meant a lot more to your dad than video games mean to me.
Chip: Yeah. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was making all that up.
Media Jean: I’m kinda jealous. Maybe we should try pinball.
Chip: I’ll download a pinball app to my phone. Here’s one called Old Time Pinball.
Media Jean: Got it! Look, we can play together online, just like your dad and James. Ready?
Chip: First ball. These flippers are cool.
Media Jean: I like the bumpers. Look at that ball go!
Chip: Oops, down the gutter. Second ball.
Media Jean: See that popup? We need a million points for a replay!
Chip: Watch out! Left gutter, left gutter!
Media Jean: Let me try. Here we go—whoa! That was fast! Down the right gutter!
Chip: Try another one.
Media Jean: OK, here we—rats! Right down the middle! What’s so great about this?
Chip: We still need 698,000 for a replay.
Media Jean: Ha! Peanuts. Look, Extra Ball is lit! Get it! Watch out—rats! Down the middle again!
Chip: Game over. Want to play again? We could turn on Easy Mode.
Media Jean: That’s okay. Pinball is kind of boring.
Chip: Yeah. I’m not sure what my dad saw in it.
Media Jean: Grown ups. They think everything that happened to them means more than anything that happens to us.
Chip: Well, at least we gave it an honest try.
Media Jean: That’s true! One thing about us, we always keep an open mind. What’s your dad doing now?
Chip: He’s writing in his gratitude journal.
Media Jean: I’ll come over and show him a better way to do that.
Chip: See you in a minute! 
Comic strip from the series "The Gratitude Journal"
(Kid, Inc. Volume 2: The Batcave of Childhood) Have a thought for Bob? Write to us at [email protected]
Alice has been tweeting a “weekly mantra,” thoughts to keep in the grown-up mind as she spends her day teaching the child mind.
Turns out, the kids have been making posters out of her mantras. Knowing I’ll never go online, she prints them out and sends them to me as postcards, via good ol’ snail mail. They’re beautiful. Great strong words to help me through the day. But I have to say, I’m surprised. Thoreau and Emerson, Shakespeare and Dickinson. They seem (I hate to say it) too old to be of any real interest to the TikTok generation. And I can’t help but wonder what quotes the kids themselves would choose for their daily mantras. Comments
Media Jean: If by “old” he means “boring,” he’s right.
Chip: I kind of like them.
Media Jean: Let’s take his advice and Google some mantras and quotes of our own.
Chip: I found a page called Teachers First with great quotes, like, “People in glass houses… better not take off their clothes.”
Media Jean: That’s hilarious! I like this one, “A penny saved is… not much.”
Chip: “Two’s company, three’s… the Musketeers.”
Media Jean: Ha ha! “He who laughs last… didn’t understand the joke.”
Chip: Teachers First is a great web site! Check out, Wise Advice from Kids. I like this one, “Never trust a dog to watch your food.”
Media Jean: Ha ha! “You can’t hide a piece of broccoli in a glass of milk.” I wonder if they’re talking about school or homework?
Chip: “Puppies still have bad breath even after eating a tic tac.”
Media Jean: See? These quotes are as good as anything ol’ Thoreau ever said.
Chip: You really think so?
Media Jean: Sure! Take that one about not trusting a dog to watch your food. That’s about understanding who someone is. Their true nature. That’s philosophy. That helps you make better decisions. Thoreau or Play-Dough couldn’t have said it any better.
Chip: I think that's Plato. But it is pretty good.
Media Jean: Let’s make a poster out of it and snail-mail it to your dad!
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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