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I grew up in a little town called Rialto. Just the three of us, me and mom and dad. I have so many vivid memories from those days. Real memories from real experiences.
When I was 10, a big avocado tree stood in the front yard. I loved to sit high in those smooth branches, read and think and, on windy days, feel the whole world move. If the wind was really gusting, we’d drag tumble weeds to one end of the street, turn them loose, and race them down the block. Sometimes the wind was so strong we could lean into its buffeting arms, held up by the breath of the spinning earth. When the wind dropped us onto the warm grass, we rolled onto our backs and stared up at so much blue we couldn’t move. 10-year-olds spellbound by nothing but the sky. Am I the only one with these kinds of memories? Collecting blue belly lizards from the sunny library wall; racing stick-and-leaf boats down rain-rushing gutters; trying to catch red autumn leaves before they touched the ground; carrying one precious quarter like a pilgrimage to the bowling alley arcade; spending all afternoon flying, losing and finding kites made from the Sunday comics; riding our bikes round and round the same residential streets, slipping into a meditative stillness long before I knew what meditation was; camping in the backyard with just a sleeping bag, searching so long for constellations that the moon crossed half the sky before I fell asleep. These memories sound like clichés now. But only a great truth can become a cliché, and my childhood feels like a great truth—though not knowing exactly what that truth means does diminish the satisfaction a bit. I hope my son, with all his technology and social media, with all the libraries of knowledge at his fingertips—I hope his memories are as rich. I hope his virtual experiences carry the same heft as my physical ones. When he’s my age, I hope clicking and watching will be as real to him as touching and seeing were to me. I doubt it, but it’s a father’s nature to hope. Of course, that’s a cliché, too. Comments 
Media Jean: No offense, but your dad’s memories do sound like Hallmark Cards. Sheesh. 
Chip: He doesn’t come right out and say it, but I think he feels his memories are better than our memories.
Media Jean: I wonder if parents have always been that way.
Chip: You mean, throughout history?
Media Jean: Yeah! Like during the Industrial Revolution. Did dads walk around saying, “When I was a kid, we grew our own food. We sewed our own clothes. Those were good memories! What’re you going to remember when you’re my age? Factories and machines!”
Chip: Ha ha! I bet that’s exactly what they said!
Media Jean: We spend a lot of time doing things virtually, but that doesn’t mean our experiences and memories are less real.
Chip: According to the latest brain research, everything is virtual anyway.
Media Jean: What do you mean?
Chip: Our brains convert data into images and sensations. Things don’t exist literally the way we experience them. Our brains create a simulation so we can interact with the information. I mean, a rose isn’t red just because roses are red. A rose is red because of the way light in the red spectrum bounces off the rose and is interpreted by our eyes.
Media Jean: So everything is virtual!
Chip: In a way. Especially memories. All my dad’s “real” memories are just bits of information stored in his brain, kind of like a text file or photo is stored on the internet.
Media Jean: I love that!
Chip: When he accesses a memory, it’s like accessing a web site. He’s retrieving information.
Media Jean: That puts everything he said into a whole new context.
Chip: What context?
Media Jean: The “You’re Wrong” context!
Chip: Maybe we can keep this one to ourselves.
Media Jean: I don’t know. It goes against my deepest beliefs to let a grown-up off the hook.
Chip: I know, but my dad is so overwhelmed already.
Media Jean: OK. For you, I’ll give him a pass.
Chip: Thanks.
Media Jean: Heck, I’d give him a pass anyway. Your dad can be annoying with all his “those were the days” sermons, but he’s never mean about it. He’s as sincere as Charlie Brown.
Chip: He calls himself, “The Charlie Brown of the Google Age.”
Media Jean: Ha ha! See? He knows he’s fighting a losing battle, but he still has a sense of humor about it. I love your dad.
Chip: Me too. 
Comic strip from the series "So-Duh"
(Kid, Inc. Volume 1: Look Out, Tomorrow, Here We Come!) 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]
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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