Words, Part 3: Sense and Sensability

It's not only an admonishment for my blog posts, it's also etched inside my wife's wedding ring.

Blogger's note: "Words" is an ongoing feature in which I take a look at special qualities and misrepresentations of the English language, how much fun it is to play with its words, and why it reigns as one of the hardest languages to master.

By definition, this is a stereotype

used as sarcasm in a satirical form,

which may or may not be humorous

depending on your point of view.

Stereotype - noun; 1. a conventional, formulaic, and oversimplified conception, opinion, or image, 2. one that is regarded as embodying or conforming to a set image or type.


Sarcasm - noun; 1. harsh or bitter derision or irony, 2. a sharply ironical taunt; sneering or cutting remark.


Satire - noun; 1. the use of irony, sarcasm, ridicule, or the like in exposing, denouncing, or deriding vice, folly, etc., 2. a literary composition, in verse or prose, in which human folly and vice are held up to scorn, derision, or ridicule, 3. a literary genre comprising such compositions. 


Hypocrisy - noun; 1. the practice of professing standards, beliefs, etc., contrary to one's real character or actual behavior, esp the pretense of virtue and piety, 2. an act or instance of this.

I previously posted my 25th blog entry, making this my 26th blog post. And that means...nothing. It's like a 51st birthday, which is only notable for meaning you made it past 50. But 25 is a quarter of some sort that people generally identify as a cause for celebration. I could have celebrated my 25th posting on my 25th post, but that's cheating. That's like me someone buying years of service credit toward my their retirement and counting those years as years I they actually worked. To be fair, I posted a true 25. Now I have 24 more posts to justify shortchanging the next 25.

For #26, I'm taking a look back at where I started, not so much at the blog posts themselves but in my style and creative process holding true to what I anticipated them being. There should be no confusion as to what my writing is about. There's a description of what motivates me and influences my writing style in the right hand margin, a sort of mission statement. But before a reader is able to read that or anything I've posted, there's a content warning that has to be accepted before proceeding. Even if the reader doesn't know me personally, he/she gets the "look before you leap" admonishment. 

(You may take a short pause at this time to allow yourself an opportunity to read or re-read the "About Grainiums" side note. Or have someone read it to you.)

So why open with definitions? Because when presenting an opinion, editorial or formulating discussion open for debate, I believe it's important that I let anyone participating know which end of the gun the bullets come out of. As I am also a participant, it's important that I know, too, so I don't accidentally shoot myself. I hold myself accountable to the definitions dictating my actions, and my expectation is that others not only hold me true to that accountability but hold themselves true to it, as well. To that end, my process is a simple one to me: 1) find a topic, hopefully one that's made the transition from common to non sense, 2) establish a basis for my point or counterpoint, 3) present that point via example, satire or sarcasm, and 4) draw a conclusion that is every bit as far to one side as the topic is to the other. Load, aim, fire. The rules I set for employing that process are even simpler: 1) be able to support what I write, 2) be prepared to take my lumps for what I write, and 3) while I may have to make some personal compromises, don't be a hypocrite.

In writing what I do, I set my goal as being like the kid in the story who points at the Emperor and says to the crowd, "He has no clothes on," then goes on to point at the Emperor's dick and asks everyone if they think it's that cold, too. That's important, as it's sometimes the little things that are overlooked when it's the little things that make the biggest statement. Everything that is open for public consumption should also be open for commentary. And when I say everything is open to commentary, that includes me. I have no problem with that. I am just as fallible and affable and full-of-bull as the next person. Granted, some topics tend to be off limits, like special needs kids - not retards, they're entirely different. While I wouldn't poke fun at a special needs kid, I would poke fun at the ridiculousness of the retards who perpetuate the concept that the rest of us shouldn't keep score and that everyone deserves a medal.

I was compelled recently to look in the mirror and ask myself if I had been conforming to the guidelines I'd set for my blog. I asked myself if I thought I'd crossed the line at any point. The honest answer was "sort of" in the sense that I saw myself crossing to an opposing line in order to regain a sense of moral equilibrium. (Picture a ship listing to one side and me going to the opposite side, hoping the ship will level off...and that the ship's captain is not Italian.) Here's an example: I didn't post about this, but the animal activists at PETA filed a lawsuit basically seeking rights for animals based on the 13th Amendment. For those who didn't realize there were any constitutional amendments beyond the First and the Second...surprise! The 13th was the one that abolished slavery - of people - and PETA wanted to apply it to orcas at Sea World. To me, PETA went way past the line of sensibility and was deserving of having their noses rubbed in their shit and told, "No!" So when an organization or an airline or a legal process or an opposition to gay people or opposition among gay people strikes a ridiculous chord, I wanna join the band. I want to play their song in a different key, maybe change the tempo. I want to play Stairway to Heaven with a kazoo.

Meanwhile, back in front of the mirror...did I conform to my rules? Yes, I believe I validate what I write where it needs validating or, at the very least, I support my opinion with an explanation. Yes, I'm prepared to take the criticism that may come from what I write. I welcome it and would enjoy more of it because it tells me what the voices in other peoples' heads are saying, and I'd love to set up a play date between their head voices and mine.


Am I a hypocrite? That's tough to answer. I think asking a person if they're a hypocrite is like asking a person if they're modest. If they say yes, they're immodest because a person who truly is modest can't say they're modest. It's like a nickname...only other people can put that tag on you. So, similar to modesty, you can't answer the hypocrisy question for yourself. Being a hypocrite is one of those things that others tell you you are, and something you generally can only acknowledge after you're told you are one. On the other hand, wherein modesty can be a trait, I believe hypocrisy to be situational, therefore an individual can make an effort to avoid placing him/herself in that position. So my best answer is that I try not to be, which is why I stand prepared to take my lumps. When I write something I put some considerable effort into reading what I wrote several times over and asking if I went too far or if this makes me look like a hypocrite before I post. I also look at how I've reacted to past situations (part of that research I mentioned) to ensure I'm not making room in my mouth for one or both of my feet. They're big. 

So in the reflection of my 25 posts, I'm satisfied that my fly is up and I have matching socks. Yeah, my tie is a little crooked, but overall I think I've maintained a consistent appearance and I find myself looking forward to the next 25 posts with confidence so when I look in the mirror again I'll just need to comb a few hairs down to be presentable. For those of you who have gained enlightenment from what I've presented, you're welcome for the insight. For those who found a chuckle, I thank you for the encouragement. For those who took offense, well, there's that red admonishment button you clicked, so...

I gotta go. Celebration's over, and I've got some writing to do. Besides, I'm hogging the mirror and others need to use it.

A Bad Sunset

Sunset Magazine, the magazine for those "living in the west," issued its February edition which included an article on the 20 best fantasy places to live. There were four categories: Woodsy, Wine Country, Tropical and, for those wanting to move verrrry west, Pacific Rim. Listed in each of the four categories were five towns along with an interview of a family who offer advice to help you make that move "from daily grind to living in paradise." To my surprise-bordering-on-utter-disbelief, Boulder Creek, California, landed one of the five Woodsy spots.

Other than their short, poetic reference, which I reprinted below, Sunset didn't offer any substance in the article to support its picks. I emailed Sunset to ask them what research was involved in their decision-making process. I have received two thank you responses for my inquiry, but no explanation. What they printed in the article was laughable and deserving of criticism. Before I blast them for what they wrote, however, it is only fair that I establish a basis for why I believe they failed.

Even the Boulder Creek bear is brown bagging.

First, before any of you hill people get all up in my ass about stereotyping the Santa Cruz Mountain culture, remember that you stereotype yourself - and do so openly - with every drink you take from your brown-bagged bottle at the bus stop/Probation Department shuttle, with every snide comment you make about people coming "over the hill" and encroaching on your way of life (those would be the people with jobs and money contributing to the tax base and property values), and with every reference you make to living a rugged, throwback lifestyle while your generator runs because another fallen tree took out the power. I am merely acknowledging your opinion of yourself before offering mine, which is open to allowing you to freely insert any grammatically correct form of the word "hypocrite" after the word "you." That said, if anyone in the San Lorenzo valley is offended by criticism, you should stop reading. Or interrupt the person reading this to you.

Let me preface my completely personal spew by stating that I have nothing against the people in the community of Boulder Creek. But other than a mailbox, I don't have much in common with them either. Although I have lived in Boulder Creek for the past two years, I am not of the "mountain folk." I was born and raised over the hill, in the Santa Clara valley, in a culturally diverse, San Francisco bay area suburb where flannel is preferred for use as a bedding material rather than clothing. I live in Boulder Creek only because I married into the mountain environment, the very act a testament to my love for my wife, who was also raised in the same suburban area I was before she moved into the woods some 25 years ago. I would hazard to guess - and why wouldn't I hazard - that like me a large number of the 4,000+ people in Boulder Creek also do most of their "living" in Scotts Valley, Santa Cruz, Los Gatos, and a number of other places where hygiene is a practice and not a greeting to a neighbor named Gene.

Contrary to what I imagine Sunset Magazine believes, Boulder Creek is not a fantasy destination. It's a place to pass through. Granted, I haven't explored the entire town border to border, but excluding a few residential pockets around town, I've found it more rusty than rustic. While there are a couple of knick-knack shops, the town has no particular attraction that would encourage one to stop any longer than it takes at the town's lone stop sign. If your definition of living is similar to mine, it includes having certain amenities related to keeping members of the community in the community. For example, I live close enough to town to take a leisurely stroll for a morning cup of coffee, and would if a) there were places to sit and enjoy it other than curbs and retaining walls and b) if the people sitting on the curbs and retaining walls weren't polluting the air with cigarette and pot smoke. In fact, there's nowhere in town to just sit and relax.

Boulder Creek, Ca, coffee shop                    Auburn, Ca, coffee shop

Even as I write this, I received the February 24th edition of the Press Banner, the local paper, which has a cover photo of a Boulder Creek child enjoying a sunny day at the park...7 miles away in the town of Felton! BC has a park in town, Junction Park, and the people I've seen hanging out there the few times I've gone by make it look like a failed Occupy encampment.

But Sunset Magazine thinks this could be your dream move. And who am I to argue with the experts at Sunset? And they are experts because it says so right on their website. "Sunset is the premier resource for achieving the ultimate Western lifestyle. Our experts focus on travel destinations in the 13 Westerns states, home design outdoor living ideas suited to our region,..." The magazine has been publishing their expertise in pretty much the same manner since the second World War. So here is the magazine article verbatim describing why Boulder Creek landed one of the top five "woodsy" spots:

"Just over the hill from schmancy Woodside, absurdly rural Boulder Creek (and neighbor La Honda) has the open space to keep cyclists, hikers, and horses happy."

Wow! That's some definitive, fact-filled sales pitch. Here's a fact they left out: According to Google Maps, Boulder Creek is about 34 miles from Woodside, or about a one hour drive. That's "just over the hill" the way Hawaii is just a short flight from Los Angeles. And our "neighbor" La Honda is just as far. In fact, at 12 miles and 24 minutes, La Honda is actually "just over the hill" from Woodside. And how about the four families they interviewed who made these fantasy moves? None of them moved to Boulder Creek. Of the four, three of them had businesses that didn't require local commerce to sustain them, and the fourth started a niche bakery, which would die in a place like Boulder Creek because a $3 gluten-free, vegan cupcake doesn't go with chainsaws, cigarettes and liquor. Might help with the pot munchies, but having those folks hang out at your front door while the yeast rises won't entice mom and dad to pull the Lexus over to grab a snack on the way to Santa Cruz. Or the park in Felton. Three of those families also had children, and I would question why you would want to raise your kids in an environment where most parents want them to be able to leave after graduating high school.

Apparently Sunset Magazine feels its reputation is solid enough that they can piss on your leg and make you believe it's actually raining, which in Boulder Creek is a pretty bold feat considering it gets about 48 inches of rain per year. Those climatically challenged pussies living just over the hill in schmancy Woodside get less than 29 inches. So if you want to move to "absurdly rural" Boulder Creek to happily bike, hike or horseback ride as Sunset suggests, you better be happy doing it wet. Otherwise, hold onto your dreams and wait for another sunset.

Magic Manballs

The following is a product advertisement for Magic Manballs

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Here's how Magic Manballs work: Simply remove the balls from their protective sack and gently cup them in your hand. Turn your hand upside-down and ask your question. Then turn your hand over and read the response. It's that easy!

With Magic Manballs, the left ball gives you the answer, and the right ball gives you a simple-to-understand explanation why you were wrong to want to ask in the first place.

Rather to go to the golf course this weekend instead of the in-laws? Want to have a few of the guys over for poker night? Think a 70" high-def, flat screen television would look better in the house than the new drapes she wants? With Magic Manballs, you'll know the answer before you ask the question!

Oh, no! Did your wife or girlfriend take your balls from you? Not to worry. Magic Manballs are coated with a patented polymer that senses the proximity of a woman and deactivates them. Yes, just like in real life, even slightest sensation of your woman's touch will render your balls useless. But here's the best part about Magic Manballs...when you purchase your Magic Manballs, we guarantee a replacement pair for only the cost of the shipping! That's right! Just one phone call and a new pair of balls will be in your hands over night! Think of it! Now women won't be able to control your balls and you'll never be without your balls again! Guaranteed!

Here's what you get with your purchase:

*A pair of Magic Manballs with our patented estrogen-sensing polymer coating.

*A protective sack made from high-quality, softened leather that won't tear - even if it gets wet!

*And you get our lifetime guarantee that we'll replace your balls if you lose them or they stop working...for any reason.

What a deal!

So guys, stop worrying about having the balls to ask that question. With Magic Manballs, we've put the answer right in the palm of your hand!

Soft Balls

Last November, a Seattle, WA, court ordered the North American Gay Amateur Athletic Alliance to pay an undisclosed settlement amount to three men who were disqualified from the 2008 Gay Softball World Series because of their perceived heterosexuality. The men's sexual preferences were apparently called into question when a protest was filed against their team for violating a league rule limiting teams to two heterosexual players per team, a rule which I assume was created to ensure every team had at least two "pitchers." The aggrieved players countered claiming they were not straight, but bisexual, and because they were not full-blown gay they were being discriminated against.

In response to the complaint, lodged by other teams in the league, a protest committee was assembled to question each man about their sexuality and lifestyle. Then, according to the report, the committee voted on whether or not the man being questioned was, in fact, gay. The committee ultimately judged only two of the five men subject to the probe were gay. Those two were handed a single red rose and allowed to continue to the elimination round... Okay, that last part didn't happen.

Anyway, the other three men were determined to be "not gay." But here's the rub, um, issue. The three men appeared to have met some qualification at some level to support their assertion that they were bisexual. According to NAGAAA rules, bisexual is considered to be gay for team roster purposes. Anyone who follows sports recognizes this as an important point because that means being bisexual doesn't count against what could only be described (by me) as the heterosexual hard cap (think "salary cap for penises"). In hetero-layman's terms, you're allowed to fill a roster with switch hitters who can handle any position instead of having a roster that's loaded with catchers.

Perhaps it was the team photo that raised suspicion.

As part of their argument, the players asked the court to throw out the roster limit on straight players as discriminatory, which I don't get. There are only three categories in question here: gay, bisexual and straight. If you are either of the first two, straight discrimination shouldn't be part of your argument, and to me using it kind of implies you're straight. I think this because I played for a church softball league for a couple of years. In order to play, I had to be a member of the church. So guess where I was every week during the season? Back pew with three other "Christians." I got away with it because nobody made me prove I was a Christian. I could have been asked anything about God and, well, I'm not going to get any points for saying I thought about reading the Bible. Likewise, to play in a gay softball league, I don't believe you can get a pass for saying, "Well, I thought about blowing a guy once."

I don't condone the exclusion of one particular lifestyle in favor of another. I've played sports with gay men and gay women, straight women, straight men who played like they were gay, guys with physical disabilities - hell, I played on a team where you'd think we were all disabled. We respected each others' personal differences and got along with our lives. Unfortunately, not everyone thinks like that. There exists a need to stay in one's comfort zone, so I understand the importance of establishing an organization subscribing to a certain philosophy that generates acceptance and stimulates member growth openness within that membership, and they should be allowed to make the rules - whether good or not - to maintain that solidarity. Legal precedence has been established to support this. The Boy Scouts come to mind, having successfully prevented the openly gay from participating in their organization (Remember, it's Boy Scouting, not boy scouting).

The establishment of the legitimacy of the rules isn't the question here; the skirting interpretation of the rules is. The NAGAAA, to its credit, moved to clarify the rules regarding bisexual and transgender players, welcoming them as participants, and further stated the disqualifications in question were not consistent with its goal. As one official put it, "We fought hard to protect ourselves and our core identity and I am relieved this issue is finally behind us."

Which, given the circumstances, seemed to be where they'd prefer to put it.

Happy New Year!

Welcome to 2012. Sorry I'm late.

According to an interpretation of the Mayan calendar, it's going to be a short year. Doomsday is predicted to fall on December 21 because that's when the Mayan calendar ends. Apparently that's all it takes. A calendar ending.

My wife made a calendar last year. Even though her calendar ended on 12-31-2011, there was a 1-1-2012. I was surprised until she told me her secret to preventing human extinction: she made a new calendar for this year. Sounds relatively simple enough. All you have to do is start the months over, change the last digit in the year, and add an extra day in February every four years. You can pretty much do that until you die, or until your hand cramps up and you simply stop. Which is what I believe happened to the Mayan's official calendar maker. He just stopped.

It would be understandable if he did. It was a big calendar. And not because it was made of stone. I've kicked myself for writing the wrong date on a check. With a pen. On paper. This guy's cutting rock. Can you imagine the pressure of not missing a day? He could have triggered some sort of cultural faux pas by accidentally putting a little chip on a Thursday in June. Yeah, I know they didn't have Thursdays or Junes back then. This is an analogy, so unless you're Mayan, don't be so critical.

Anyway, put yourself in this guy's sandals...

Blogger's note: For all of you women asking, "Why is it a he? Why couldn't the calendar maker be a woman?" the answer is as simple as it is sexist. The supreme Mayan court - all men - reviewed a lower Mayan court's all-male decision that women could not engage in any activity, other than birthing and basket weaving, that was outside of the food service industry. The higher court upheld the decision 4-1, with the lone dissenter having his head chopped off by a vote of 4-0 for being a pussy. The supreme court's decision, literally written in stone, was interpreted by an archaeology expert, also a man. So until someone finds a Mayan basket calendar...it's a he.

As I was saying, you're the official Mayan calendar maker, and you're sitting around chiseling out that calendar...chiseling out year after year after year. You get to 100 or so years and take it to the boss. He likes it, but says, "Better take it out a bit more. Just to be safe." So there you sit and you knock out a couple hundred more years. Maybe you add a another fifty, not to kiss his ass, but as a thankful gesture for him giving you the time off to watch the sun set during the solstice celebration. Whatever.

But things change and now you have a new boss, a real forward-thinking, go-getter type. He says, "When can you stop? There is no stop. That's why Oxzectlata got his head lopped off...no ambition." The new boss tells you the Gods told him the dynasty will last forever, "So keep chipping the rock, Jack." Anyone who's ever worked for this type of boss knows the party is over for him as soon as the punch bowl is empty.

A few years go by and the boss is scheduled to get his new string of beads to show he's vested in the organization. When he leans over so the shaman can bestow the honor, dude gets the ax...right across the back of the neck. One big schwap! and there it goes, right down the ceremonial steps into the crowd. How's that for announcing a job opening! So all you can do now is go back to the stone and keep adding years until they hire a new boss who can tell you to stop. But it's a civil service job and the hiring process is painstakingly slow. Now you're 5,000+ years into the project and the civilization is predicted to become mired in a decline caused when men with white skin show up and start subdividing chunks of high-end real estate on the coast with mortgages backed by superior fire power. You say "Fuck this", drop your chisel, and tell everyone you're going north to San Diego because you heard the weather there is awesome.

I may have embellished the story a tiny bit, but you get the picture.

Anyway, there sits the Mayan calendar, waiting on someone's dynastic to-do list to get extended. Unfortunately, the prophecy of a hostile takeover holds true when boats full of Spaniards hit the beaches, so #1 on the list changes to "survival" and a few things don't get done. A few millennia later some pith-helmeted post-grad on an archaeology fellowship weed-whacks some vines off a pyramid in the Yucatan and finds a big, round rock with inscriptions cut into it. He determines it's a Mayan Long Count calendar and takes it to his professor. The professor announces this incredible find and takes credit for the discovery. The post-grad is pissed off because he knows the professor is an idiot who can barely wipe his ass, let alone write a grant. But the post-grad can't do anything about it because the professor has tenure. So the post-grad says, "Fuck this", walks away from his incomplete dissertation, and tells everyone he's going to San Diego because he heard the weather there is awesome.

Meanwhile, the incomplete dissertation gets passed around and because it ends without an ending, "scholars" believe the ending is the end. But they'll be wrong, because my wife made a calendar and her calendar ends on 12-31-2012. And rest assured my wife will make another calendar that will start on 1-1-2013. It, too, will go a full year.

So fear not the claims of the end of the world. As long as my wife makes a calendar for subsequent years, there will be subsequent years to calendar. And civilization as we know it will continue to exist. At least until she gets tired of making calendars. When that happens, I'm going to say "Fuck this", pack my things, and go to San Diego because I heard the weather there is awesome.

A Grainiums Holiday Greeting

Ah, yes. 'Tis the season. I wanted to put together a holiday play as a gift to all of you, but...well, I had a bad day. Here's some of what happened:

"Ladies and gentlemen, take your marks! Time to rehearse the second act of this three-act play. You! Yes, you in the corner! The Thanksgiving feast is over. Put the food down somewhere besides your throat. We already have a Santa. I don't need another fat ass knocking over stage props. Come on, folks! We still need to get set up and do a run-through of the New Years scene today. If you have plans to get home in time to celebrate the last Christmas before the 2012 doomsday, get your shit together!

"All right. House lights! Cue the fake snow! Aaaaaaannnd...orphan kids...start crying. Come on, real tears! Show some feelings. You're not selling the pain of this scene without real tears! Remember, you're orphans! You have no family. You're not getting an Xbox! Oh, for Christ's sake, where's the woman with the pepper spray?! That's right. Beautiful! Those are tears!

"Okay, stage left...enter the park carolers to sing to the 99%ers. More feeling! Make them want those five gold rings! Wait...hold it! CUT! Where are the damn protesters? What!?! What do you mean the Occupy characters have left? They went home? They can't go home, they're fucking homeless. How can we stage a protest against corporate greed if the protesters leave to celebrate one of the most commercialized holidays of the year? You! Yes, you! Stop spraying the kids and help move all of these empty tents off the stage. What? I don't care where. Empty here, empty there...move them!"

So you see, things didn't go very well and, regrettably, I called the production off. But I didn't want to let this stop me from sharing the in spirit of the season, so I called upon my editing staff and went looking for a  backup plan...

W.A.T.C.H. This!

WARNING: This blog contains sharp language, pointed remarks and words that can be choked on. Under certain circumstances, it may have a shock potential. Reading this blog could result in head trauma and/or irreversible brain damage. May be used indoors or out. Not advised for children under, oh, let's say twelve years of age.

There. I have disclaimed you.

The consumer advocacy group W.A.T.C.H. (World Against Toys Causing Harm) has published its list of what it believes are the 10 worst toys of 2011. The toys are allegedly dangerous, meaning they have "the potential to cause childhood injuries, or even death." Most of the toys are manufactured for small children. Their hazards are by and large of the choking variety, with a few strangulation and head injury potentials thrown in. W.A.T.C.H. has been doing this list since 1973. I applaud their efforts to promote toy safety, efforts that have prompted numerous product design changes that undoubtedly have reduced injuries and saved lives. But...

We shouldn't need groups telling us what's hazardous to our health. Anyone paying attention already knows what's hazardous: EVERYTHING! Everything is potentially life-threatening, which means everything should come with a warning label because somewhere there is a guy - odds are it's the male of our species - who will find some way to use some thing contrary to its designed purpose. That results in lowering the bar of stupidity juuuust enough for another attorney to jump over and before you know it, everything with a pointed end has a sponge tip. And the only people that's good for are the Nerf product development people at Hasbro, the toy company that manufactures a fully automatic Nerf blaster. Fully automatic, because "semi" is half-assed. (Rumors about the development of a long-range, unmanned Nerf bunker buster are unfounded.) Incidentally, the blaster was recalled, but not because of potential injury to the person being shot. It was recalled because the plunger might pinch the skin on the shooter's hand. Medic!

As a parent, I generally placed proper concern about the toys I bought for my children where it belonged. If I knew I wouldn't enjoy playing with them, I knew my kids wouldn't, either. Sure, there were times I'd cave in and buy them something that would distract them from "my" toys. On those occasions, I put faith in my child's I.Q. that toys having parts that could be inserted into most any orifice wouldn't be inserted into those places. Hell, there were times I had enough trouble getting food into their mouths, so they're gonna swallow plastic? Hah!

The Polly Pocket Hospital, which

comes with two nurses and an on-call 
Ear, Nose and Throat specialist.

My daughter, for example, had a large collection of Polly Pockets, miniature plastic figures that lived in pocket-sized cases. Her collection was large enough that she could have crapped an entire Liliputian town - including pets - out of her tiny little butt. Never happened. My son also had plenty of toys perfectly capable of fitting comfortably up his nose or scarring his flesh. Yes, there were occasions when my ear caught the muted, painful cry that preceded the slipper-footed child running toward me holding an "owie." Then came the story of what happened, followed by me telling them what my parents told me: "Well knock it off before someone really gets hurt." I'd slap on a cool bandage adorned with patterns of Ninja Turtles or kitties to impress their friends and send them on their way. Won't happen again, because next time is "I told you so" time, "Clean up this room" time, or "Put it away and read a book" time. Sometimes all three.

Like me, my kids learned to respect pain. When you respect pain, you respect risk and you avoid extreme pain. Simple. I know this because as a kid I owned two of the three top-rated banned toys in the United States: Clackers, which were two very hard plastic balls attached to a string, and Lawn Darts, which need no description. (The third, in case you're interested, was the Slip 'n Slide). Want to guess how many times I hit myself with the Clackers? If you guessed "once" you were right. There was no second time because the first time hurt way too much. Want to guess how many times we played Lawn Darts contrary to the manufacturer's instructions or warnings? Are you kidding? I couldn't begin to count the number of modified games that didn't include "how far," "how high" or "how close can you get it to me." An easier question would ask how many times one of us got hit with the darts, with the answer being "zero." Know why? Because enough of us got hit in the head or arm with the fucking Clackers!

I'm not saying I didn't look out for the welfare of my children. I'd have been heartbroken had something serious happened to either of them. But sometimes I think we put warnings on things or make rules that do nothing more than shift accountability. By trusting groups with cute names like W.A.T.C.H. instead of a group with a to-the-point name like D.A.R.W.I.N. (Dangerous Activities Reducing Worldwide Inhabitant Numbers) telling us how to play, we merely add to the shifting of responsibility away from ourselves as parents to teach our children a) to be cautious and, b) that there are avoidable consequences for not paying attention to "a." A helmet doesn't make a bicycle safe, just saf-er. Safe is only good when it's

put it in the proper perspective. Some meaning must be attached to it, so you occasionally have to let the kid on the Big Wheel roll down a steep slope and hope his equilibrium is better than his judgment.

Today, it's all fun and games until someone gets an eye poked out an attorney shows up. Labels to us were nothing more than a third parent, which means very little when you don't pay attention to the two you already have. Still, I'd hate to think where I'd be today if I hadn't learned first-hand that concrete is hard, electricity shocks and fire is hot. Sometimes I learned painfully, and sometimes playfully. Would we have been safer growing up heeding any of the warnings we frequently disregarded? Doubtful. Because even if there had been a warning label on the dryer drum telling us not to shove my brother inside and roll him down the driveway...well, Lawn Darts.