Dad Entry #173

It occurred to me the other day that securing good email addresses for my kids is nearly as important as getting them social security numbers. I know email addresses are free and everywhere. I know some of you have three of them. I know they’re as accessible as big, fat credit cards (although, hopefully, after the ’08 meltdown those are no longer handed out like parade candy). But it is precisely because of – not despite – their modern ubiquitousness, that proper email addresses are essential. Hey man, there are real consequences to lousy email monikers! For starters, availability is finite, unless you’re okay with random or impermanent extensions. Something like megancox@joeblowcablecompany.com will be defunct in mere months when Mr. Blow’s business is swallowed or squashed by a marauding giant like Comcast. And then AT&T will give you a better deal than Comcast. Even megancox@motorola.com is only good until she accepts her golden parachute. So let's save our children, shall we, from having to craft one of those “my email address has changed” notices every year, which inevitably and ironically end up mass-mailed to a bunch of other no-longer-used addresses. We lose contact with loved ones. And the unreceived, unread messages lead to false accusations, bitter feuds, and missed parties. We can’t have missed parties. Another problem is that of namelessness, or the use of silly pseudonyms or just plain gibberish. Just plain gibberish is just plain annoying. I don’t want people to initiate urgent and serious contact with Michael by entering why.u.hate.me.playa.abc-ya.123-ya@yahoo. Or whatever. That just won’t do. And if including an authentic name sounds reasonable, we’re right back to the part about finite availability. Countless names are very common. (‘Cox’ is no exception, unfortunately. Have fun in high school, kids! It’s character-building. I was saddled with it too). There is a Michael Cox on the New York Giants currently; there was a Danny Cox on the St. Louis Cardinals when I was a kid. And last I checked, ‘Megan’ hasn’t gone the way of Mertle or Herman. Now a word about prefixes and addendums: I don’t believe in prefacing or appending an address with a pigeonholing descriptor or asinine abbreviation. I’m just not a fan of promqueenmegan@ or dr.bball.michael.b.phd@hotmail. Addresses like this, to me, are the same as i.am.an.imbecile@earthlink.net. And finally – phew, is anybody still reading? – the extension ‘hotmail’ brings to mind a concluding concern. A gmail address is preferable, in my opinion, and not just because I work for a Google company. Yahoo addresses are also common; they are clearly recognized and remembered. Hotmail? Hmm. This is the gray area. AOL? Not gray anymore; @aol.com is totally 90’s and unacceptable, and God knows what kind of ancient user interface you're stuck with. So... did I follow my own advice? Yes, I was able to get perfect gmail and yahoo addresses for M and m. They include initials and middle names, but are solely name-based. No confusing tangle of numbers, periods, and dashes. No nonsense or profanity or hip-hop slang. That’s it. They’re set. They have lifelong, clear, and major-provider email addresses. You’re welcome, Michael and Megan; thanks to me, you can avoid the major pitfalls – primarily anonymity and asininity – when it comes to this important matter.

Dad Entry #172

My son is a Vikings fan. I had to kick him out. I sent him on his way with one of those sticks-with-a-handkerchief-bundle-over-the-shoulder thingies. Sorry, Bud. Rain or shine, suck or not suck, it’s Bears here. We love defense and erratic quarterbacking. Michael’s a Minnesota fan because his grandparents took him to the Metrodome. It was Vikes / Cardinals – the Bears weren’t in town, sadly, only Larry Fitzgerald – but it blew Michael’s hair back. There’s a kind of heightened intimacy or immediacy – or frenzy! – that comes with ceilinged, enclosed stadiums at full spasm, packed and ravenous. Open-air joints like Soldier Field just can’t match the uproar. When the dome blares Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” at a zillion decibels over tens of thousands of crazies, even I feel like swinging an ax for glory and a ticket to Valhalla. “We come from the land of the ice and snow…. Valhalla, I am coming.” I wrote about this before – Michael at a Vikes game – but I didn’t think it would stick. Purple? If he gets a horned helmet with yellow yarn braids, it's going right in the trash.

I’m in Brazil on business. I’ve worked hard but also consumed kilos and liters, respectively, of meat and local beer – Bohemia, Itaipava, and Chopp Brahma. Being here – my first time in South America – is a nice reminder that the world is both big and small. Just as people from every corner, to me, are always the same but different. Yeah, I’m like, deep. The cultural contrasts are fun to wade into, the language and food, of course, but fashion and architecture – and beer – always deviate, also. Shoe styles seem to vary between continents, as do license plates and light switches. I’ve blown up electric shavers in Europe and Asia because the outlets are always different. The most obvious dissimilarity, however, is the design of that profoundly utilitarian fixture in bathrooms (or WC's, depending). Yes, I mean toilets. They are surprisingly diverse. The thrones and urinals are different in every country I’ve been to, and it’s an IQ test to figure them out. Is there a button or a lever or a cord or a sensor? And in Brazil right now: What is this thing that looks like a pull-out sink sprayer? I don't like bidets. Somehow, we manage. I think my point is this: I hope my kids travel. It’s eye-opening – and soul-opening, frankly, in my opinion – to bounce around the globe some.

Dad Entry #171

Yesterday, Megan said, “Daddy, can I dumpster dive with you?” I was stepping out of our condo with a bag of recyclables, empty bottles and junk mail and so on. I felt a twinge of emotion but I can’t remember if it was shame or pride or both in some confusing seesaw. I want my sweetheart to be grounded and real, although garbage-picking in crusty, smelly dumpsters is surely pushing it. Regardless, I said, “Of course you can come, Honey-Bunny, but I doubt you’ll see anything you wanna keep.” The recycling dumpster – shared by everyone in the building and almost as gross as its abutting and identical neighbor, the garbage dumpster – occasionally yields a within-reach, unsoiled treasure. For example, someone gets ESPN The Magazine; someone else gets The New Yorker. If the Bloomberg cover is tempting and not damp or sticky, I will consider it. I pulled a True Blood DVD box set out not long ago, which I immediately gave to Sara who was just arriving with the kids. Unabashedly, I tossed it into her car and used the unfortunate phrase ‘dumpster dive’ in my honest recounting of how I came to possess it. I was excited. Megan remembers things.

Megan has the habit of picking up pamphlets when they are displayed at pharmacies, for example, or at interstate rest areas. I find them in my backseat. They say things like “Explore Wisconsin” or “Save Money On Your Medicare” or “What You Need To Know About Your Colonoscopy.”

I saw a bobcat. I was driving home from work at dusk and it ran in big strides across the road. It stopped in some grass and looked sideways at me and was unmistakable. I enjoy nature as much as anyone; I fish and hunt every year. But my excitement was surprisingly intense, to the point I felt an impulse to self-criticize for being childish. I was as excited as Michael would be. Although, am I that foolish? I mean wild bobcats are cool, right? So are red foxes. Those hawks circling overhead? Yeah, they’re pretty kickass too, let’s face it. Bears, wolfs, whales, giant squids? You betcha! Ancient Egypt. Dinosaurs. Outer space. One Direction.... just makin' sure you're payin' attention. As for the rest, however, it's nice that kids remind us.