Self Discovery

I just watched a popular show on the Discovery Channel called “Deadliest Catch.”

Yes, go ahead and heckle me. I know you’re thinking how old and unhip I am to land on television programming that is akin to my grandparents watching Mutual of Omaha’s “Wild Kingdom” back in the 70’s.

Look, I’m razzing myself right now, so save the comments and references to prune juice and adult diapers. I beat you to the punch and realize I’m probably a year away from tuning in to “Discovery Health.”

I even busted myself on using the term “tuning in,” as if my channels are tuned in like a HAM radio. That I even know what a HAM radio is and can recall some jargon to speak on a “CB” is frightening enough to call my broker and increase my life insurance coverage.

I still catch the occasional verbal slip-ups that sound off the “middle age” alarm.

“Leave me a message on my answering machine” shows a man who once lived in the 80’s. Why don’t I just say “Dictaphone” while I’m at it?
Another antiquated term I use is “dig it.” I “dig” Springsteen, frosted cereal with whole milk, and driving in a convertible without a seat belt.

My kids would “dig it” if I never spoke in front of their friends while trying to blend in. I’d be better off saying, “groovy.”

Speaking of convertibles, but did I miss the memo that said that a “sun roof” is now a “moon roof”?

And sun? My children have never put on a bathing suit without first having mom lather them with sun block SPF 72 like they’re being camouflaged for a polar bear hunt. I tried to tell my boys that people actually tried to get more sun exposure by putting on SPF-less baby oil. I got stares recently when I accidentally shouted out, “Did anyone pack suntan lotion?”

I still refer to “records” being played by a “Deejay” on the radio when I get “reception.” Now it’s a “radio personality” with (ironically) no personality and DJ’s are in nightclubs (I still call them discos), mixing techno beats with old school music while using records to scratch an improvised hip hop beat. If a record of mine was scratched it got thrown out and I hunted down the culprit who ruined it.

“X Games” were Tic Tac Toe. Motocross was riding dirt bikes in a construction site; and certainly no one watched poker being played unless we stumbled upon some dads playing cards in a smoky basement.

When I plan one of my kids’s birthday parties, I now have to consider what expensive gift I am going to bestow upon a five year old attending my son’s celebration. Oh, I must not forget to hire a party planner, caterer and come up with a theme to top the last Pre-K soiree we attended. The most we did when I was a child, was get two alleys at a bowling alley and serve dogs that had been on a stainless steel roller for 9 hours.

Birthday parties are now treated like a movie premiere with expensive activities and props.

That reminds me… can the youth of America actually add up their own bowling scores? If we want to know how our country’s math scores plummeted, let’s start there. Our skills developed on overhead projector calculating ten plus the next two balls added to the cumulative total in the last frame. Now, if the screen goes out during a bowling day – game over.

And dare I utter the words “Pin the tail on the donkey!” Yes, that would make me the biggest ass of all, and you might as well pierce my rear with a knitting needle.

Oops. “Knitting needle.” Keep that between us too, along with “thumb tack,” “bulletin board” and “Xerox machine.” I recall making fun of ancient teachers who made copies on a “ditto machine,” but always enjoyed sniffing the fresh ditto ink when the tests were doled out of the class.

Speaking of sniffing, do they use airplane glue at school anymore? I’m afraid to ask. All I know is that I lost a few brain cells dabbing toxic drops of liquid adhesive to my plastic model of a starship. Based on the amount of times I have been high from constructing an Aurora model toy, I could never run for president.

I’d run for the highest office if I thought I had the power to change some things about our next generation.

I didn’t have a dad when I was a child, so I always longed for something virtually every boy wants to do with his pop – have a catch. I bawl my eyes out at the scene in Field of Dreams where the father asks Kevin Costner if he wants to play ball with him. I’m getting a little misty when I think of that screen moment.

Now my sons demand to play 2K baseball on their Xbox. Pressing buttons on a portable controller directed at something I called “the boob tube” is how we’re supposed to bond as a family?

That’s it! I’m taking away their little controller and going outdoors to play some REAL games.

Thumb dependant no more! They’ll use all their fingers, toes, arms, and legs to play some old fashioned baseball, with a ball that’s not softer for the younger players!

But for now I’m going to kick back in my Sharper Image chair, sip a Goji berry blended smoothie, read some emails on my Blackberry, DVR some HD MLB games from my sports package and then watch some BlueRay DVD movies on my flat screen in my sound engineered home theater.

It sure beats getting up to adjust the “rabbit ears.”