After eating a bit too much curry at lunch, my son had to spend a long time in the bathroom yesterday evening. When he finally came out, he said:
“I thought I had dysentery! But not like Oregon Trail, more like Oregon ROAD!”
My husband started the morning by showing our young boys the indestructible power of an old Commodore 64 joystick. Now, I could write about how we are low on money and I eat mostly crackers at the end of the month just to save while apparently my husband NEEDS to buy two old Commodore joysticks for the Commodore that collects dust on our shelf and is never played…
But that’s not what this is about.
No, this post is about the dangers of letting young boys know that something has been labeled ‘indestructible.’ This word doesn’t exist in a young person’s vocabulary. Instead, it is automatically processed as a challenge. I have a feeling that even though these joysticks aren’t hooked up, they won’t last long.
My son likes to tell the story of a friend who claimed his new phone case protected his phone so that the screen would never break, and then demonstrated this by throwing his phone directly on the edge of a piece of concrete where it of course the screen was completely crushed.
I think this destructive habit never really goes away in boys or men. It’s the reason fireworks sales are huge.
Once at the optometrist, a man in front of me complained to the receptionist that he was not happy with his ‘indestructible’ glasses. He said, ‘I throwed ’em on the floor, stomped on ’em with my boots and the lenses got all scratched up!’
Again, it’s not a selling point, it’s a challenge. A challenge that should be reserved for water balloons or pie. Cause at least that would make me laugh.
I realize that I haven’t written much on my blog the past week or two. Normally, I’m quite good at updating every day. I blame this lack of blog activity on a little game called Mini Metro.
This is why I can’t start up new games. They’re too addicting. I have to figure out how to get my subways across the Thames with a limited number of tunnels. I also have to figure out how to design a system for Osaka to manage the population boom while using the Shinkasa fast train.
You see my dilemna. I don’t have time for blogging, eating, cleaning, picking up children, etc. I’ve got to get the triangle people to the square and the circle people to the plus sign. Mini Metro needs me!
(Don’t worry if you don’t understand any of this. That means you’re better off and Mini Metro has not yet got its clutches on you.)
I saw a commercial for a “new” Nerf gun. You know, the kind that shoots the foam darts? You had that around when you were a kid, right? Well they sell the exact same gun you remember, but now it’s “Zombie defense gun!” I watched the commercial. There is nothing zombie about this gun except for the “Z” on the side. This is the same gun that probably used to be called the Space alien gun, the G.I.Joe gun, the Terminator gun, or whatever was popular at the time. I think I’ll wait until next year when Werewolves are all the rage and get the Werewolf defense gun.
I went to play pool this week in Stockholm with one of my friends. I haven’t played in a while, so it was fun, plus we were evenly matched, which is to say we were both quite terrible.
Playing in this extremely clean, smoke-free, empty pool hall in Stockholm (with pop 80s music on the speakers) got me thinking about where I usually play pool once a year – at a dark backwoods marina in east Texas.
This place is located on the bayou near the border of Louisiana. We always arrive by boat. You can get a great hamburger at this place if you don’t mind that the guy cooking it smokes cigarettes, is 300 lbs and has a stained shirt that probably hasn’t been washed for at least 4 days. (It just adds extra flavor.) While you wait for your hamburger to arrive, you can borrow a bag of marshmallows to feed the alligators in the bayou. Always a treat for the kids. Or you can play a little Ernest Tubb on the jukebox, which is only loaded with old-time country, while you play a game of pool.
You might think it’s nicer to have a smoke-free pool hall all to yourself, but I say it’s missing the ambiance of the little Texas marina. If I ran the Stockholm place, I would make it where you can only arrive by sled, a 300 lb man chewing tobacco with stains on his shirt would make meatballs, and you could feed the moose with marshmallows out back. Now, that would be a real Stockholm pool hall.