At three, they become opinionated

So I'm driving The Boy home after an afternoon spent at Jax Junglehouse, a local drop-off daycare and playroom, when from the safety of his carseat The Boy makes a not unexpected pronouncement:

"Dad," he says, "I need to pee!"

I say "not unexpected" because my final question of him before we get in the car to go anywhere is always, "Will you head to the bathroom and try to go potty?" About three-fifths of the time he'll oblige, heading dutifully to either our bathroom at home or the nearest "Man Potty" for a quick round of Firehose before we hit the road.

But lately there are those two-out-of-five times where he'll issue denials rivaling anything from Karl Rove. "No, I don't need to go potty," he'll say, sticking to his story even though his belly is jutting and the whites of his eyes are turning yellow. Naturally, within a few minutes of any such denial, nature will call and we'll need to improvise a stop. To call my driving "flexible" these days would be an understatement.

On this occasion, we were lucky enough to be nearing Fresno's Fig Garden Shopping Center, a fancypants-for-Fresno strip mall bearing sushi joints, awning misters, a Jamba Juice, and any number of venues for bladder relief. Improvising, I decided our potty destination of choice would be the center's Chipotle restaurant, even if it would require massive self-control for me to avoid entering the chow line for a chicken burrito.

Owing to a nearly full lot, we had to park a bit of a distance from Chipotle, however. And that distance necessitated both a short walk on the sidewalk under the awning, and a litany of "Keep holding it, buddy" from me as we made our way.

We're most of the way there when we pass in front of Cigars, Ltd., a "man's boutique" for tobacco, bearing a massive humidor and a de facto smoking lounge of small tables and wrought-iron chairs right there under the awning. With the weather acceptable that afternoon, the air bereft of oppressive heat or particulate matter from the burning forests outside Big Sur, that smoking lounge was filled with men, their watchful eyes keeping tabs on an impressive collection of Harley-Davidsons parked nearby, all while they puffed away on fat Macanudos and Camachos.

Those bikes weren't "accountant's Harleys," either. They were the real deal, and with The Boy's bladder interested at that point in the most direct route, I held his hand tightly as we walked right through the outdoor lounge, passing through clouds of cigar and testosterone.

It's at that moment, when we're effectively surrounded, that The Boy pipes up.

"What is that stinky smell?" he says, loudly, emphatically, eyes squinting, just as we reach the tobacco cloud's center.

"It's okay, Buddy," I say, trying not to acknowledge any behind-sunglasses eyes, perhaps speeding up my walk a bit.

"That stinks so bad!" he continues, apparently unintimidated by the presence of big bikes and dragging knuckles. "That's stinky poo butt smell!"

So we leave the cloud hastily and I say nothing, just as The Boy fires off another salvo. "Yecch! That was the stinkiest thing ever!" he says as we enter Chipotle's doorway, loudly enough to be heard all the way back to the cigar lounge. I see heads turn, and we head for the head.

We get to the Chipotle men's room, he pees (having successfully held it that long), and while he washes, I dab the beaded sweat from my forehead and offer some tips on common courtesy. Like why it's not a good idea to tell a group of Harley riders that their cigars smell like butt.

Leaving Chipotle, we hang left and make our way again down the sidewalk. The cigar men are there, watching intently as we approach. Maybe one of them is cracking a smile; it's hard to tell. But we're walking quickly, and I'm hoping against hope that my little man will keep his mouth shut.

"Daddy?" he says, looking up at me as we near the tobacco cloud.

"Yes, buddy?" I say, the chagrin already breaking across my face.

"You tell those men to stop smoking those stinky, stinky cigars!" he announces proudly, his little index finger in the air for emphasis. "They're yucky!"

"I think they heard you just fine, Buddy," I said to The Boy. And we kept walking.

An aging realization

While waiting in line this morning at the grocery store and seeing the "You must have been born before this date to buy alcohol" sign above the cash register, I had a sudden, terrible realization:

Kids born on the day I turned 21 can now legally buy alcohol.

Crimony, time flies. To think, it's now possible for someone half my age to buy me a beer. Where did all the time go?

But wait... there's more!

I'll finish my Hawaiian ruminations with this: a short video exploring The Boy's attempt to learn the hula. Shot at the obligatory luau included in our trip, it shows how our otherwise concentration-challenged Boy remains freeform at first, but tries really hard to follow the other instructees' moves during the second part.

Naturally, in the end the beat just gets to him as he finishes with a twirl and a flourish. Helluva dancer, that one.

FTF: Surfcast Hawaii

So, for a podcast episode would it be better for me to go on and on about how great it was in Hawaii? Or do I let the beach speak for itself? That was the dilemma I faced when fulfilling my promise to FreeThought Fresno listeners about doing an episode right there from the beach.

In the end, I decided to let the beach speak for itself, and came away with an 18-minute episode in which I say very little. Instead, my Edirol WAV recorder captures the crashing of ocean waves at high tide, the distant laughter of beachgoers, and the eerie sound of the coral reef "breathing," created when waves rolled past a natural cavern in the reef.

"Surfcast Hawaii" runs just a little over 18 minutes, and is definitely best experienced through headphones; I invite you to download it. But should you want the full "virtual beach" effect, turn on a tabletop fan for breeze and stare at my Oahu sunrise photo while playing the episode. Spritzers are optional.

Those photos I promised

To borrow a line from Mel Brooks' "Spaceballs": How come nobody told me my ass was so big?


Man, was Hawaii fantastic. An uncrowded stay at the Turtle Bay Resort on the northern tip of Oahu, plenty of beach and pool time, great food, a clear day at Diamondhead, a cool aquarium visit, and a reverent time at Pearl Harbor all added up to a great family vacation. Even The Boy was amazed, having looked us in the eye on the final day to say, "Can we stay here forever and ever?"


With views like this I don't blame him. If you need a few minutes of virtual getaway, please feel free to peruse the rest of my promised photos on my Flickr account. Enjoy!

Through the nose, via the rear

Understand, I'm under no delusion that gasoline prices will go down anytime soon. In fact, in some sick way I'm thinking this is actually good for us because it'll weed quite a few Hummers, homemade monster trucks and ne'er-laden SUVs off the roads.

But man, I've been prepared for neither the speed nor the scope of the increases. Driving north on Fresno's Blackstone Avenue on May 22, I snapped a cam-phone shot of the pricing board at the Spruce St. Chevron. Bemused, I sent it to a few out-of-town friends who were still paying about $3.80, just to show them that $4-per-gallon gasoline was already a reality here.


Yesterday, I thought I'd send along an update. Sitting at the same corner of Spruce and Blackstone, I snapped a new photo.


That's a 30-cent increase in slightly more than two weeks. But then, on the very next day, less than 24 hours after my update shot and long before I even had an opportunity to get that shot out of my cam-phone, we found ourselves again at the same intersection. So I snapped another.


Jeezuz-freaking-crimony... that's a seven-cent increase in less than 24 hours! That's no longer paying "through the nose"; it's paying "through the nose via the ass," with Big Oil jamming it greedy hand so far up our tails it can grab our sinuses from the back.

If this keeps up -- and I have no doubt it will -- I'll have to trade in my Boy-hauling Suzuki for something less gas-powered. Like a Radio Flyer. Or a rickshaw. My bet: $5.25 by July 4.

And by the way: Does anyone know why diesel has actually dropped four cents a gallon over the same period?

How to throw the entire Presidential campaign into complete, absolute and irrecoverable chaos

Here's it is: "McCain-Clinton 2008."

Think about it. A McCain-Clinton ticket would secure the votes of most Republican-or-bust loyalists and die-hard Hillary fans while ensuring the GOP runs this Fall against a deeply divided opposition.

Given his loose-cannon status and her center-to-right record, I'm not sure it's absolutely beyond the scope of possibility. Especially since given her refusal-to-concede speech tonight, she's clearly keeping her supporters in line until she gets whatever it is she wants. And if that "whatever" doesn't come from the Obama camp, is it possible she'd seek it elsewhere?

One high-profile John McCain supporter did say today McCain would actively seek Sen. Clinton's supporters. Hmmmmm.

And as for Senator Clinton, ask yourself: Was her never-ending campaign really for the good of her party? Or was it just plain old ambition? And if the latter, is there any chance she'd jump ship to run with John McCain?

Perish the thought. But if I were strategizing, I'd have to believe this bizarre possibility to be a stronger ticket than "McCain-Romney." Or even "McCain-Rice."

Sleep soundly tonight. If you can.

UPDATE: Whew.