I am writing this in the local Chuck E. Cheese, where we have brought our kids, as all good parents must, in order to amuse them, feed them, and prepare them for a life of gambling. It's a "gateway drug" of amusement. From here, they will feel at ease on the carnival midway, forking over mounds of cash in the hopes of acquiring one of those adorable stuffed animals the size of an NFL linebacker.
When they're older, it's on to Dave & Buster's, the adult version of Chuck E. Cheese, without the climbing tunnels. Good thing, I suppose; it wouldn't be wise to locate those tunnels too close to a full-service bar, especially with all those adults around. (shudder)
The next nefarious step is, of course, Las Vegas, or Atlantic City, depending on which is either 1) closer, or 2) a place you are less likely to see anyone you know. Of course, here in California, we have the "Indian casinos," thus allowing all of the folks who are too old for Chuck E. Cheese a more convenient place to lose all their money.
The final destination on this forbidding road is, of course, Bingo at the local Catholic church. That's one place you REALLY don't want any alcohol served -- some of those folks are as likely as anyone to be packing heat, ready to use it whenever some young punk in a Dave & Buster's t-shirt yells "Bingo!" when the caller read G-53, instead of the G-52 that was needed.
The whole point of a place like Chuck E. Cheese is, obviously, to get you to into a place that is noisy enough, flashy enough, and scary enough to distract you from noticing how much money you are spending. I have this image whenever I enter of the very nice young person at the gate, first stamping all the hands with a number in invisible ink (The mark of the beast? Perhaps. I'm always careful to proffer my left hand, just in case.), then inserting a vacuum hose into my wallet.
A trip to Chuck E. Cheese, however, is a gift that keeps on giving. The kids enjoy whatever little toys they get with the tickets they win. My wife and I enjoy how much quieter it seems at home, after having subjected ourselves to someplace much, much noisier for a while. And we all share the most lasting effect of the trip: Indigestion.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Friday, May 27, 2005
Depriving my children
I am a bad father.
At least, that seems to be the message I'm getting, whether explicitly or subliminally, from various quarters around me. I have deprived my children of one of the basics of life in the 21st century. They don't have an Xbox. Nor do they have a GameCube, PlayStation 2, Gameboy, GameGear, Nintendo DS, or Sony PSP. How DO they ever survive?
I did break down and buy a Nintendo 64 a couple of years ago, just before it was relegated to antique status by the GameCube. And I do mean only "just before." By a matter of weeks. I knew the GameCube was coming, and yet, I bought my son a dinosaur waiting to happen. And only four games. We've since added three to that count, thanks to eBay and a couple of garage sales.
I don't feel compelled to buy anything newer right now, of course, since Micro$oft and $ony have announced their new consoles, and I'm may have missed mention of whatever Ninten-dough is coming out with next. I need to wait until a few weeks before their release to buy something obsolete.
When I talk to other parents, they seem rather shocked that I don't have one of the current-generation game consoles. Some are surprised because they know that I am a computer and electronics junkie, and it would be only natural, in their view, for me to want to keep up with gaming electronics, as well. Others are suprised because they know that I have an 8-year-old son, which, of course, means that I have a person in the house who begs and whines for whatever the latest thing is, especially when "...everyone in school already has one!" These folks seem shocked that I could resist the begging and whining. "I finally just gave up and gave it to him so that he'd be quiet!" seems to be something of a mantra shared by way too many parents.
Now, I don't want to get on a rant about other people's parenting skills, especially since I know my kids are probably on the fast track to being part of, at some point in their lives, an organization whose name beings with, "Adult Children of...." (insert some disease here, like "bookaholic," "caffeine-dependent loser," "computer geek," etc.) But it seems to me that when you give in to whining, you're training the kids to whine. They whine for something, you resist. They whine more, you resist more. They whine long enough, and you give in. It's a battle of endurance, and whoever gives up first is saying to the other, "I recognize that yours is the dominant will in this relationship, and I look forward to surrendering to you in some future battle."
I don't like these kinds of battles, and I'm hoping that by not giving in to them, my kids will eventually give them up, in favor of some more socially-acceptable way of getting whatever they want out of me. Like blackmail.
Hey, now, there's an idea for a video game: "Parent-Child Power Struggles." They come up with that for the MicroSonyTendo XGamePlayBoxCubeStation, and I'll buy one! Of course, my kids'd still probably beat me at it.
At least, that seems to be the message I'm getting, whether explicitly or subliminally, from various quarters around me. I have deprived my children of one of the basics of life in the 21st century. They don't have an Xbox. Nor do they have a GameCube, PlayStation 2, Gameboy, GameGear, Nintendo DS, or Sony PSP. How DO they ever survive?
I did break down and buy a Nintendo 64 a couple of years ago, just before it was relegated to antique status by the GameCube. And I do mean only "just before." By a matter of weeks. I knew the GameCube was coming, and yet, I bought my son a dinosaur waiting to happen. And only four games. We've since added three to that count, thanks to eBay and a couple of garage sales.
I don't feel compelled to buy anything newer right now, of course, since Micro$oft and $ony have announced their new consoles, and I'm may have missed mention of whatever Ninten-dough is coming out with next. I need to wait until a few weeks before their release to buy something obsolete.
When I talk to other parents, they seem rather shocked that I don't have one of the current-generation game consoles. Some are surprised because they know that I am a computer and electronics junkie, and it would be only natural, in their view, for me to want to keep up with gaming electronics, as well. Others are suprised because they know that I have an 8-year-old son, which, of course, means that I have a person in the house who begs and whines for whatever the latest thing is, especially when "...everyone in school already has one!" These folks seem shocked that I could resist the begging and whining. "I finally just gave up and gave it to him so that he'd be quiet!" seems to be something of a mantra shared by way too many parents.
Now, I don't want to get on a rant about other people's parenting skills, especially since I know my kids are probably on the fast track to being part of, at some point in their lives, an organization whose name beings with, "Adult Children of...." (insert some disease here, like "bookaholic," "caffeine-dependent loser," "computer geek," etc.) But it seems to me that when you give in to whining, you're training the kids to whine. They whine for something, you resist. They whine more, you resist more. They whine long enough, and you give in. It's a battle of endurance, and whoever gives up first is saying to the other, "I recognize that yours is the dominant will in this relationship, and I look forward to surrendering to you in some future battle."
I don't like these kinds of battles, and I'm hoping that by not giving in to them, my kids will eventually give them up, in favor of some more socially-acceptable way of getting whatever they want out of me. Like blackmail.
Hey, now, there's an idea for a video game: "Parent-Child Power Struggles." They come up with that for the MicroSonyTendo XGamePlayBoxCubeStation, and I'll buy one! Of course, my kids'd still probably beat me at it.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
It's not a hiatus, it's a lull.
Well, I'm back. I realize that I haven't written anything here in... oh, well, a 'coon's age," perhaps a geriatric 'coon's age. I am not going to promise that I will try to be more prolific, more faithful, more diligent at this. I will write when I will write, and leave it at that. Didja ever hear the old line about, "When I feel the urge to work, I lie down until it goes away." Well, when it comes to blogging, I've been lying down quite a bit lately.
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Okay, I realize that this topic has probably been overdone by way too many stand-up comedians, but I think I'm just a tad fed up with the "model years" of cars being offset from the date they actually hit the showrooms.
In April 2003, we bought a brand-spankin' new 2004 Toyota Sienna van. We got ours when people who had been on the waiting lists to buy them were still waiting. (It was a matter of timing and luck, when my wife happened to call a dealer who had taken delivery of the vehicle, but the person who had ordered it backed out of the deal.)
But let's face it. That "2004" vehicle, which was available in the early second quarter of 2003, was probably assembled in early 2003, based on prototypes made in 2002, based on design work done in 2001. It's already three-year-old technology when you drive it off the lot! No wonder cars can't seem to hold their value!
Still, we love our van. On road trips, it's a great step up from my wife's 1999 (1997?) Camry. And it was cool to be driving one of the few on the road, at the time we bought it. About a week into our ownership, though, we pulled into a parking lot in San Diego (about 500 miles from here) and parked next to our van's twin. The polish was already wearing off.
Now, of course, you can't stroll through a Wal-Mart parking lot without seeing three or four vans just like ours, down to the color and options (running boards, moon roof, DVD player, tinted windows, just to name a few). The incidence grows ever higher the closer you get to the location of gymnastics lessons, dance classes, little league parks, and other such kid-saturated locations. There's practically one in every garage -- right next to the potof chicken.
------------------
Okay, I realize that this topic has probably been overdone by way too many stand-up comedians, but I think I'm just a tad fed up with the "model years" of cars being offset from the date they actually hit the showrooms.
In April 2003, we bought a brand-spankin' new 2004 Toyota Sienna van. We got ours when people who had been on the waiting lists to buy them were still waiting. (It was a matter of timing and luck, when my wife happened to call a dealer who had taken delivery of the vehicle, but the person who had ordered it backed out of the deal.)
But let's face it. That "2004" vehicle, which was available in the early second quarter of 2003, was probably assembled in early 2003, based on prototypes made in 2002, based on design work done in 2001. It's already three-year-old technology when you drive it off the lot! No wonder cars can't seem to hold their value!
Still, we love our van. On road trips, it's a great step up from my wife's 1999 (1997?) Camry. And it was cool to be driving one of the few on the road, at the time we bought it. About a week into our ownership, though, we pulled into a parking lot in San Diego (about 500 miles from here) and parked next to our van's twin. The polish was already wearing off.
Now, of course, you can't stroll through a Wal-Mart parking lot without seeing three or four vans just like ours, down to the color and options (running boards, moon roof, DVD player, tinted windows, just to name a few). The incidence grows ever higher the closer you get to the location of gymnastics lessons, dance classes, little league parks, and other such kid-saturated locations. There's practically one in every garage -- right next to the potof chicken.
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