I have a cunning plan

Sound the trumpets and wake the kids and old folks....I have a new goal in my life.

Not that that's anything new, mind you. Dig into my history deep enough, and you'll see there are plenty of goals I have created, half-heartedly attempted, then slunk quickly away from with my tail between my legs.

Like my goal of becoming either a naturalist or a marine biologist. Oh, how I pored through college catalogs, painstakingly weighing the pros and cons of each of my potential choices in secondary education as to the strengths of their biology programs. I'd sit with brochures spread in front of me on the family dining table, with visions floating through my mind of myself hiking rugged backcountry trails to catalog the effects of erosion, or crashing through sea spray as I piloted my sturdy craft across the leaden seas, in pursuit of the radio beacon emanating from a majestic blue whale.

Then, I took my first upper-level biology class, and spent vain hours trying to draw pictures of the little feelers on the single-celled organisms swimming beneath my microscope. Which is why I am now a beatdown, burnt-out journalist.

And the list goes on and on. How about the old Honda motorcycle I bought with visions of taking a cross-country motorcycle trip? Parts from that unfinished project still pop up from time to time in moldering cardboard boxes in my garage.And there's my never-ending quest to become a competent guitar player, which has resulted in my useless ability to play minor bits and pieces from dozens of songs (but never a whole tune).

So, why should this new goal be any different? Because this time, I'm motivated, buddy. Because, as Dylan said, the times they are a changin', and if I don't want to spend the rest of my days sitting around wondering what might have happened, then I really need to get down to the brassiest of tacks and put my proverbial nose to the good, ol' grindstone.

You see, it's time I learned Mandarin Chinese.

Why? Well, there are plenty of reasons. First of all, I think it would be a blast to go the the Chinese take-out place and blow the minds of the staff by ordering my Happy Family in their native language. But more importantly, word on the streets is that the Chinese are going to be on the cutting edge in the business world in the decades to come, which means that us Mandarin speakers are going to be in high demand in all walks of life. Imagine the feeling of confidence at a job interview where you know your potential bosses are dying to bridge the language gap between themselves and our friends in Chairman Mao's country.

Potential Boss: So, I understand that one of you qualifications for this enjoyable, highly-paid position is that you are fluent in Mandarin Chinese?

Me: Ni hao. Ni chian bian (Hello. You deserve a beating.)

Potential Boss: That's great! How about $100k and six weeks of paid vacation to start?

Me. Wo ai ni. By ts. (I love you. Idiot.)

See, you can talk like that because us English/Mandarin speakers aren't going to have to take any guff from anyone. We'll be in beaucoup demand in a world where China is the big time economic force everybody says they are going to be. So I have some serious motivation to push me toward this goal.

Not to say that there aren't going to be a few hurdles. For one, apparently Mandarin is incredibly difficult to learn. That's in no small part because it is a "tonal" language, which means that the same word can mean wildly different things depending on the inflection in your voice when you say it. For example, the word "ma" can mean either to scold, horse, mother, or hemp depending on how you say it. That could conceivably lead to a situation in which you asked someone where your mom was, and they either give you rope, or point at a horse. So, I'm going to have to be careful there.

And then, there is my past track record of trying to learn languages. That started in 8th grade, when my hormone-addled 14-year-old mind convinced itself that learning French might me a good way to impress girls. Sadly, I quickly learned that girls are rarely impressed by angry French teachers wringing you out on an academic rack in front of the class. My French class name was "Jean-Francois", and my teacher usually had a hard Gallic edge in her voice when she used it.

Teacher: Why don't you have your homework, Jean-Francois?

Me: (trying to make myself very small at the back of the room) I don't know.....

Teacher: (shouting angrily) En Francais, Jean-Francois!!!

Me: (stifling an urge to bolt for the door) Je ne sais quoi?

Even a series my mom used to tape off of our local PBS affiliate and force me to watch, called "French in Action", failed to help me through the intricacies of that so-called "language of love". I can recall her sitting me in front of the television on sunny spring days, while I tried in vain to understand the strange French kids (One named Robert...pronounced RO-bare) dressed in horrible 80's fashions and chirping happily together on the screen. Indeed, all I remember about those tapes is the terribly catchy theme song and it's lyrics....Au, champs elysees... Au, champs elysees, Au soleil ou sous la pluis, a midi, ou a minuit. Il ya tout ce que vous voulez au champs élysées. (Rough translation: Oh, Champs elysees... Oh, Champs elysees...In the sun or in the rain, on today or on tomorrow, you will learn to hate our language on the Champs elysees, you stupid American).

And I won't even start on the conversational Spanish class I took a couple of years ago at a local community college, where all I learned is that folks who speak Spanish pronounce Chevy "Chebby" because the "v" doesn't come naturally to them.

But all that is behind me now, and I think I have a real shot at becoming handy in Mandarin, if I can just stick it out. For one thing, I am fascinated by the culture and art of Asian countries, and hope to one day travel in that part of the world. And then, there is the aforementioned potential for making obscene wads of cash as a Mandarin-slingin' employee for some fat-cat American business.

Most of all, though, I am convinced I can make it work this time because I plan to get the rudiments of the language from a popular series of audio CD's. And that means no fearful classroom moments in front of a vengeful teacher, and no gut-wrenchingly boring afternoons belly-down on the living room carpet watching outdated video tapes.

And, of course, no RO-bare. That guy seriously chian bian.

Gifted underachiever

Live long enough, and modern medicine will give you an excuse for anything _ I'm living proof.

You see, as a kid growing up in the wilds of northern Indiana, I developed a reputation among my teachers and other adult peers as being a bit of what they called a "daydreamer". They said my mind wandered freely (and darned if it didn't) when I was supposed to be focusing on other, more important tasks, such as learning algebraic formulas and memorizing the names of deceased historical figures. The end result, besides startlingly mediocre grades, was the label of "gifted underachiever", which I swear was inked on every report card I received between the ages of 7 and 18.

But thanks to the miracle of medical research, I know nowadays that what my teachers chalked up to general laziness was actually a serious medical condition known as Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), a condition which apparently makes otherwise normal kids think compulsively about things like jumping bicycles off of staircases and launching crabapples at the neighbor's house instead of applying themselves to their studies.

What's more, I still am affected by this insidious disease. And I know this because of the mix CD's I make.

You see, I enjoy occasionally sitting down to download music from the Internet, and I love to record this music onto CD's for my listening pleasure. But when I am out there surfing through cyberspace for some tasty musical morsels, I often end up losing my focus and making downloads on pure whim, rather than any actual pattern.

The end result are recordings that map out, in often ironic fashion, the convoluted course my mind was weaving as I cued up the tracks for my latest masterpiece. Sadly, this fact makes these CD's nearly unlistenable to anyone but me...a fact which I suspect irritates my wife to no end.

Here's a case in point. I was recently out looking for some songs to make a CD for my seven-year-old son. And because his early musical taste has been heavily influenced by Cartoon network, I was pulling a lot of songs from that network's programming. One song I thought he might like is performed by a duo of thirty-something Japanese women who go by the moniker of Puffy AmiYumi, whose predilection for perky Jpop/punk numbers has somehow landed them an animated series _ the Hi Hi Puffy AmiYumi Show _ on the aforementioned network. I knew my boy would appreciate a recording of that show's theme song, because he once launched into an impromptu rendition of it while we were discussing the merits of various television programs.

But I digress. As I often do...didn't you read the first part of this post? Anyway, I downloaded that song. And I checked out a few other Puffy AmiYumi songs as well, finding them engaging enough to download them as well. Also, I thought that my son would like some songs from the movie Spider Man, which is one of his favorites. So, I jetted on off to Amazon.com to check the track listing for the soundtrack, which I found contained a song by one of my favorite bands _ The Hives. Naturally, that led to the downloading of several Hives songs.

Then, I made the mistake of listening to a couple of the Hives songs. And one of them, in it's overall rhythm and timbre, reminded my of some classics from my misspent skateboarding adolescence by a band called the Dead Kennedys. So I downloaded a few of that band's tracks as well.

That's when I realized that three hours had passed by, and I needed to get on with my life. So, my goal of compiling a gift CD for a third-grader forgotten, I mixed up the songs I had downloaded and burned them to a disc that I could listen to while working around the house. Therefore, I now own a disc containing the cheerful chirpings of the Puffy ladies wrapped in some kind of unholy mess with the frenetic crash-beats of the Hives and the thrashy anger rock of the DK's. I titled it "Puffy Hives", and inscribed the title on the front of the disc with a black Sharpie.

The question is, just how often will I find myself in the mood for that particular combo? Or the disc I burned that has the Ween classic "Push the Little Daisies" back to back with Johnny Cash? Or any of the other impulsive, ludicrous mix CD's I've compiled since I got a computer with a CD burner?

I blame ADHD.

One freakin' wheel

Today, for $5 at a garage sale, I bought myself a new identity.

Now, I am no longer simply "journalist", or "father", or "husband". No, I have slipped the surly bonds of conventionality, and I have joined a new and elite group, one which accepts only the brave, the nimble, and, um, clowns....

I, ladies and gentlemen, am a unicyclist.

I spotted the 1970's-era Schwinn one wheeler at a garage sale my friend C. and I stopped at today. Of course, I am always on the lookout for bicycles at these types of events, and I thought from the road that the unicycle was actually a BMX bike. But no, it was a 20-inch, chrome plated Schwinn, which I have come to discover, after a bit of research on the Net, is a highly respected tool in the unicycling world, due to it's robustness and simple design.

So, this afternoon, my wife and I adjourned, first to the back yard, then to the driveway, and I set about learning the art of one-wheeled riding. The drill? sitting back to back formed a perfect launching gate, from which I would sally forth bravely, wobbling this way and that, searching for the knife edge of both side to side AND fore and aft balance. To be frank and honest, it was an absolute blast. Maybe not quite as giddy as the first time you learned to ride a bike, but it was dang cool to know that this old dog can still learn a new trick if he has to. By the time the afternoon was over, I was regularly making it down the driveway and into the street, where a small child a few houses away gaped at me in amazement.

It's too bad I dislike clowns so much. With this newfound skill, I probably would have made a great one.

Lip service

Is there anything quite like a bicycle to make a man feel like he's flying?

The wind caressing his face, the singing spokes whirling in their merry dance as he soars almost silently along the road. Why, it's the next best thing to growing a pair of gossamer wings to slip those old surly bonds.

And it's a good thing, too. Because sometimes, it sucks.

Like a few days ago, as I stretched my legs with my regular morning 20 miler on a rural road out east of town. I'd been kind of taking it easy, as my flirtation with jogging in recent days had prompted protests from my left knee. But as the sun peeked over the horizon, I kicked it up a gear as I crested a hill, pouring on the coals for the sheer joy of sweat and speed. That's when I sucked a bee into my mouth.

At first, I thought it was a Japanese beetle or something of that ilg, as it locked itself tenaciously to my lower lip with I attempted to spit it out. That theory bit the dust right about the time the bee shoved it's stinger into my tender inner lip, sending a wave of fire through my cheek.

Finally, I hacked him up. Coasting along, I reached down and pulled out my lip to try and get a look at it. That's ehn I realized that the stinger and the venom sac were still stuck in there, looking like a little tree growing out of the pink beach of my lip. I then reached up an yanked it with my gloved paw, inadvertantly squeezing the little poison bulb again and sending even more bee venom into my maw.

By the time I rode the 10 or so miles back, my mouth and face puffed up to the point that my speech was completely impaired. I had to e-mail my boss that I would be taking the day off. And of course, the next day, my office mates and co workers had a field day with it.

Like I said...good thing riding is fun.

Styrofoam peas

I'll eat anything the Japanese put in front of me.

Seriously. The whole country could be involved in some big kind of practical joke, where callers are invited to phone in and vote as to what ridiculous thing they'll try to get me to eat next, and I'll fall for it every time.

I think it started when sushi surprised me. I really didn't think fish parts and rice could be so refreshing. But I'll gobble that stuff down with gusto these days, even if it's been sitting in fridge for two days. That's how dedicated I am to eating Japanese food.

Of course, the Asian foods aisle at my local greengrocer's is one of my regular haunts. My eyes wildly dart from shelf to shelf as I frantically search out my next impulse purchase. Candy with edible rice paper wrappers. Mysterious crackers flavored with fish oil. Melon-flavored chewing gum. It helps clinch the decision if the package is brightly colored or if it has strange cartoon characters on it. There's something so delightfully strange about the whole business of Japanese snack foods.

For example, I am currently finishing a bag of "Saya Snow Pea Crisps" They're little rods of baked crunchy styrofoam-like stuff floavored with corn oil and seafood powder, that are molded to faintly resemble peas in a pod. Texture-wise, they remind me of a more Anglo snack food called Andy Capp's Hot Fries (Does Andy Capp still exist? Is an alcoholic British guy whose wife beats him with a pan still considered good content for the funnies page?) But what sold me on the Saya's was the collection of little cartoon peas scattered across the packaging. One is smiling, beckoning me with his little stick arm to experience the seafood powdery goodness of his product. Others dance across the back of the bag, boogying down with pseudo tough guy looks on their faces and tiny pea mohawks on their head.

I mean, for crying out loud.... who could resist that?

I have an embarrassing personal problem

...It causes me great humiliation in public places, and there's not a thing I can do about it.

You see, I'm invisible to electric eyes.

Picture me, a suave guy who has recently mastered the art of hairspray, sauntering into a big-box retailer with a rakish grn and a jaunty stride. The world is clearly my oyster, and I whistle a snappy tune as I prepare to cross the threshold of the store.

Then, I nearly walk into the freaking door.

For some reason, the modern marvel computer in charge of politely opening the automatic door for me has decided to treat me as persona non grata on a regular basis, only slowly (and grudgingly, if that's possible for a computer) opening when I stop dead in my tracks and take mincing baby steps toward the glass. When I reach a point about six inches away, it creaks open, but by then my cool is most thouroughly blown, and I squeeze sideways past the door and slink past the mirthful, mocking eyes of the greeter and his minions.

Frankly, it kind of sucks the joy out of my shopping trips. I wonder what would happen if I just dropped a shoulder and sprinted into the door as hard as I could, throwing it open on it's hinges and ripping the automatic closing mechanism from its mounting bolts? I'll have to try that some time.

I'm a geezer

...It's true. Barely three decades into my life, and it appears that I am one step away from doddering, toothless senility. It's already started, actually. Just a few days ago, I was reclining in my bed, perusing a publication aimed at bicycle geek types. It was great....except for the random explosions erupting outside my bedroom window. Nice. Es[pecially considering that it was about 11:30 at night, and therefore way past the bedtime of most folks in my quiet little neighborhood. The culprit? A group of kids at the end of the block who apparently took out a mortgage on their mom's house to purchase a metric buttload of fireworks from the 24-hour pyrotechnics palace four blocks from my house. And were not talking bottlerockets, either _ these kids were loosing off barrages of what sounded suspiciously like the RPG's in the movie "Black Hawk Down". In short, they were doing the same kind of stuff I did back in my teens, when I thought nothing of tamping a pound of black powder into a pipe, adding a fuse, and tossing it into the trunk of my car for later fun hijinks at someone's graduation party.

But I'm 30 now. So what did I do? First, I walked out of the front door of my house clad in a rather revealing summer bathrobe. I peered into the darkness in the direction of the mayhem, while the kids (who I could not spot) snickered in the shadows. Then I marched my hairy, disgruntled self back into the house and did what every old person would do in a similar situation.

I called the cops.

I whined about the problem to a tired-sounding dispatcher, who promised to send a squad car around to check on it. And shortly thereafter, the big booms subsided. But at what cost? I lay awake that night, staring into the now-quiet darkness with my snoozing wife by my side, wondering where the hip, edgy guy I used to be had gone to. And at that moment, I made a resolution to myself. I'm going to recapture that youthful spirit. I'm not growing old without a fight. Dammit....I'm going to get some friends together, and we're going to go out in the country and explode something.