Play One on TV

Happy Mother’s Day! I have two wonderful reasons to enjoy this holiday: my wife, the mother of my son; and my mother, the mother of me. Here’s hoping that you can find a like cause to celebrate the day.

And now its time for the obligatory “MotherOde.” Let me tell you a little about my mom.

My mother is Japanese by virtue of birth and an American citizen by virtue of growing up on the island of Guam. As a result, she speaks fluent Chamorro (a Polynesian homogeny of Japanese, Spanish, and French) and almost-perfect English. She also knows enough Japanese to find a restroom, which is more than most Americans can accomplish without socially embarrassing gestures.

Mom comes from a family of eleven children. That’s right - eleven. The island of Guam is a bastion of Spanish Catholicism, which means that everyone loves big families, and the big families love to get together and arrange marriages to have even bigger families. Think My Big Fat Greek Wedding, move the nationality a few thousand miles to the west, change the religion to one with fewer icons and more popes, add soy sauce, and you’ll get the picture. This phenomenon of culturally-driven reproduction has gifted me with over 45 first cousins on my mother’s side alone. By contrast, I have one child. The extended family considers me to be a heretic of the highest order.

My parents first met while my father, a US Navy seaman, was stationed on Guam. They went on a seemingly low number of dates (legend places this number at two) and were always accompanied by several of the brothers and sisters (this family gives new meaning to the word “togetherness”). Dad then shipped out to Great Lakes, USA and wrote letters to her for two years. He proposed to her in the mail, and she accepted. Everyone say “AWWW.”

Dad came back to Guam, married Mom, and took her away to the United States. Because of the cost of air travel, it was ten years before she had a chance to visit her home once more. If she ever resented this financially-forced exile, she never let on. For all my siblings and I could tell, Mom was perfectly happy as an adopted Oklahoman.

How did your mother punish you? I know this is an unusual topic to discuss, especially on Mother’s Day, but I am very grateful for the way my mother disciplined me. My mother wasn’t a spanker, although she did it when necessary. My mother wasn’t a grounder, which wouldn’t have worked on someone as imaginative as I.

My mother was a lecturer.

I don’t mean to say that she lectured me occasionally — heck, every mother does that. No, my mother was a Lecturer. She was capable of oratory that would put Cotton Mather to shame. She could lecture for long periods of time — two hours was not unusual — and she never reused material, figuring out new ways to make me feel sorry not only for the things I did, but also the things I wouldn’t get around to doing until next week. When Mom said, “Wait until your Father gets home,” that wasn’t a threat — it was the glimmer of hope on the horizon. Although the arrival of my Dad usually meant a spanking, it also meant the lecture would be over. For that, I would have endured a Biblical flogging.

My mother has an accent, although I have to listen carefully to hear it. It will occasionally lead to some humorous malapropisms, especially during the dreaded lectures. In one instance, my mother meant to say, “Don’t give me any of that crap.” It came out as “Don’t give me any of that crab.” Being old enough to know better (age 9) I kept the grin off my face. My kid brother, ever the impulsive one, smirked “Do you want lobster instead?” That earned both of us another hour on the lecture circuit (yes, both of us. In Japanese families, the eldest brother is responsible for the actions of his siblings, That’s why my brother has more balls than I do — he would write the figurative hot checks and I would pay them).

One side benefit of growing up with Mom’s odd take on the Queen’s English is that I can understand Asian-accented English, no matter how crude the attempt. This has come in handy at Vietnamese markets and in meetings with third-party software vendors.

Mom loves a good joke, although there are times that more prurient forms of humor escape her reasoning. On more than one occasion, Mom graced our dinner table with the repetition of a joke she heard at work, the contents of which she clearly failed to understand completely. Our household was very “clean”, without so much as an episode of “Three’s Company” to pollute our young minds, so these occasional utterances from my mother were as if Jesus Himself had come down and done a Richard Pryor monologue. Again, these situations would find me valiantly maintaining the stone face while my brother rolled under the table laughing his head off.

Mom has always supported my ambitions. She has always defended my actions in public, even when she questioned or disagreed with them in private. She is always trying to do something nice for me; I am convinced that, on her last day, she will refuse to go to her deathbed until she’s had a chance to make me something to eat.

Mom loves my wife as she does her own daughters. This act alone makes up for any lecture I ever endured.

My relationship with my mother has only one downside — where her grandson (my son) is concerned, the lecture tour appears to have come to a halt. She has succumbed to the lure of grandmotherliness, a disease that convinces elderly people that their grandchildren can do no wrong. Somehow, I feel as if my son is benefiting from all the doubt that should have rightfully been mine. But then that’s what grandparents do, isn’t it?

In my own crude and halting way, I try to emulate my mother’s long-winded ways when disciplining my son. Unfortunately, my work cannot compare to that of the master, with my best efforts resembling those of a mere dilettante. It seems my son will never gain the benefit of a stern, four-hour hair curling lecture in accented English. I say it’s his loss, although I’ll bet he wouldn’t agree.

Too bad. This time, I would be the one making the lobster jokes.

Yesterday, it became legal in the state of Oklahoma to stand your ground in the face of a criminal attack. Technically, the law takes effect in November, so I’ll be sure to avoid any muggings or carjackings until then (smirk).

In an unusual coincidence, my wife had referred me to a Townhall article by Jonah Goldberg about how men get “riled up” over guns. He cites a study by psychologists at Knox College in Illinois that made a correlation between gun handling and general man-type behavior.

One group was asked to take apart and reassemble a large handgun and then write down instructions on how to put it together. The other group was asked to do the same with the game Mouse Trap.

Afterward, those who handled the gun showed a jump in testosterone levels. Subjects were then asked to drink a cup of water with hot sauce in it and then prepare a similar drink for someone else. Those who handled the gun were more likely to add more hot sauce than those who didn’t. This means, according to the paper, that “handling a gun stirs a hormonal reaction in men that primes them for aggression.”

I’m quite sure there are some Oklahomans who are convinced that November will bring about the resurrection of the Old West in Oklahoma, with gun battles on every street corner and vigilantes in every downtown alley. According to this research, they don’t need to worry. Testosterone drives a heck of a lot more than violence. It seems more likely that we will see a resurgence in truck purchasing, professional wrestling attendance, and marital sex. And perhaps a slight increase in the price of Tabasco stock.

On an unusual side note, the legislation was authored by Rep. Kevin Calvey. I played baritone with him in high school. Had I known he would become such a man of influence, I would have been more careful not to empty my spit valve on his foot.

My wife has asked my why I have never blogged about the dog. I could say, “it’s been done before” but it’s not like the blogosphere is exactly riddled with originality. Therefore, here is my official Dog Blog™.

My wife and I are both pet people. At the present moment, we have two non-human dependents: a cat, named Alisa, and a dog, named Aussie. Aussie is the loveable pile of shedding fur depicted at left.

My wife and I both grew up as pet people. She grew up with little yappy dogs and I grew up with big “I want to herd-your-sheep and kill-your-intruder” dogs. As a married couple, we compromised by obtaining a dog sturdy enough for demolishing small housing blocks.

But let me start with the cat, as she was here first, a fact that she would point out to you if: A. you had bothered to ask her, and B. she could grant the time out of her busy schedule to tell you. She’s the loveable pile of indignation at right.

Editor’s note: A cat discussion in a Dog Blog? Now that’s original.

Alisa was given to my son when he turned five years old. She was a pound kitten, rescued from the evil clutches of the Oklahoma City Animal Shelter, whose advertising slogan is “we produce more ammonia than Mister Clean.”

We had an unusual means of picking out a cat from the many varieties at the pound (well, two varieties — ugly and not-ugly). My wife had read somewhere that you could discern the potential skittishness of any cat by turning them upside down. After a few false starts involving some reacquaintance with certain aspects of first-aid care, we found Alisa. Not only did she react well to being held in a recumbent position, but she could do a fair imitation of that boneless-cat thing from the Peanuts comic strip. We decided that any cat that could tolerate this could tolerate our son.

Alisa is good-natured, for a cat, which is to say she ignores you pretty much the same way that cats have ignored mankind throughout the ages, all the way back to the days of the pharaohs. (I can see it now. Ramses II, Lord of All He Surveys and the Pyramids too, crooks his Egyptian-crook thingie at his loyal pet and bids him come forth to the throne for a little “scratchy-watchy”, at which time the cat slowly turns its head and blinks, exactly once, as if to say “Uh, not in this dynasty, bub” and then proceed to dig scratch marks in the Royal Coffee Table of Ra.)

Perhaps I ought to explain my personal feelings about cats. I think that cats are the stupidest animals ever allowed to grace a human habitat. They are difficult to train, don’t come when called, and cannot seem to grasp the concept of “thou shalt not scratch the stuff”, not even at the point of a water pistol. There are some that would chalk this behavior up to the “independent feline nature” or the idea that cats are too contemptuous of us humans to obey our orders. Not me. I am convinced that the little shrimps are simply too stupid to learn.

Still, as far as cats go, Alisa is more affectionate than most. She was allowed to keep her claws, yet she seldom, if ever, uses them on us. She does use them on the furniture, but I feel this is mitigated by all the water pistol practice this imposes on me. She loves to sleep with us and is bright enough to get out of my way when I roll over. She generally enjoys being with us, I think, but for all I know she could be secretly planning the downfall of all mankind. Or maybe dreaming about the next can of tuna. Possibly both at once.

Her one major saving grace? She purrs. This purring thing is probably the single reason I allow cats to share my abode. When an animal purrs at you, all is right with the world, if only for that moment.

On the other side of this furry coin is our dog, Aussie. He was yet another birthday present for Matt, this time when he turned eight. We had tried dogs twice before, and both had regrettably failed the “don’t eat my son” test (Laika tried to eat Matt’s ankles when he was three, and Spencer gave Matthew his first experience with stitches at age four). We wisely decided that Matthew needed to be older before we tried the dog things again — old enough to defend himself, and old enough not to pull the tail of the nice doggie with sharp teeth.

Aussie is what is known as an Australian Cattle Dog, sometimes referred to as a Blue Heeler. The “Blue” is somewhat of a misnomer, as they also come in red, and this is Aussie’s coloring. He is a mutt, but Australian Cattle Dogs breed so true that any other dog genes tend to cower in the recessive corners of his cells. He could have a Chihuahua somewhere inside him, battling to get out and star in taco commercials, but we’ll never know.

Aussie was acquired from a local pet rescue organization, and we assume he was about nine months old at the time. Matt didn’t choose Aussie - Aussie chose him. Aussie literally grabbed Matt’s legs with his paws and wouldn’t let go until Matt agreed to wrestle with him for about 20 minutes. It was love at first juicy lick, and it was obvious to us that this was the dog for Matthew.

All 40 pounds of him.

Aussie is… well, exuberant would come close to describing it. His preferred greeting involves knocking you over and licking your face until first-degree burns set in. His tails wags hard enough to knock over unsecured pieces of furniture. Thankfully, he has learned enough about inanimate objects in the last few years to keep me from going broke in the “replace this household fixture” department, but when we first brought him home, I didn’t know if we had purchased a dog or an enforcer for a Mafia protection racket. (Nice little television youse have here - it would be a pity if somp’in were to happen to it, ya know? *crash*)

To make matters worse, Aussie is intelligent. Like most herding dogs, Aussie has a lot of instinctive smarts buried in his genetic makeup. Those of you with intelligent dogs (collies, retrievers, hounds, but not dobermans) know that intelligence is a two-edged sword. Smart dogs pick up concepts quickly and easily, like “fetch the ball” and “do not pee in Daddy’s shoes”, but if they are left long enough without stimulus, they will find something to do. Anything.

In Aussie’s case, finding something to do is equivalent with finding something to destroy. It doesn’t help that he has jaws strong enough to crack engine blocks. Aussie can, and does, disassemble things for fun. Fortunately, we recognized this tendency early on, and we were able to train him to stay away from important things, like shoes, furniture, and the Nissan. However, there are a few items in the backyard that have become, over the course of time, his and his alone. Suffice to say that my son’s old Tonka dump truck won’t roll in a straight line anymore.

Aussie takes canine affection to absurd heights. Dogs are pack animals, and they thrive on companionship. Aussie must have scored an A+ in this course at Doggie University, because he plainly lives for the possibility that someone in this house might actually be within ten feet of him at any given time. If you are in the room, he is right there next to you, as close as possible. I mean close. He presses up against you as if he wants to reassure himself that you’re there and not going anywhere else. I think the only thing that keeps him from getting any closer is the fact that nuclear physics won’t allow his atoms to fuse with mine.

Aussie is also fiercely protective. He isn’t an incredibly noisy animal, but if anyone who isn’t on the guest list comes anywhere near the house, he is already on a buildup from growl to snarl to “I’m going to eat you now” barking. He especially hates the postman, which proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s read one too many Marmaduke strips.

Aussie is also extremely good with children. The only problem is that he is a herding animal. His ancestors were raised to herd cattle, a creature that is a monument to the inverse proportion of size to smarts. If a kid tries to go off and do his own thing, Aussie’s herding instinct takes over, and he promptly wraps his paws around the kid’s leg and refuses to let go, or pushes the kid in an opposite direction.

Fortunately, we have this “alpha male” thing all settled. We’ve gotten to the point where a single harsh word from me will flatten his ears, roll him over on his belly, and convince him that my righteous indignation will bring about the Apocalypse if he doesn’t change his ways right now. As long as we have this understanding, Aussie does just fine.

Alisa (cat) will quickly disagree with just about everything I just wrote. I think she has never forgiven us for bringing the 40-pound brakeless wonder into our home. In fact, for the entire first week of dog ownership, our cat went out of her way to treat me to several unappetizing views of herself licking body parts that, on me, never even get looked at, not even in a mirror.

Alisa and Aussie get along okay. They tend to avoid each other, although Aussie cannot resist occasionally chasing her about the house. When he catches her, he usually slobbers on her and tries to pick her up with his mouth. When Alisa decides she’s had enough, the claws come out and Aussie learns, for the umpteenth time, that cats do not equate “having a good time” with “being in a dog’s mouth.”

Both animals have a special place in my heart, one that would not be easily filled were something to happen to one or both of them. I also believe Matt is a better person for having pets who depend on him for companionship, love, feeding, and general care. So I have to put up with hair all over the place, a continually-wet kitchen floor where the water dishes sit, and a regular supply of carpet cleaner under the kitchen sink. It’s worth it, if for no other reason than it’s nice to have something in your life that loves you no matter what you look (or smell) like at 6:00 am.

The Good: Child goes to the library and checks out nine books all on his own.

The Bad: Every single one of them is a Calvin and Hobbes collection.

The Ugly: He begins to read them to you. Every. Single. One.

“Okay, Dad, now here’s a really good one, and I mean it this time. So, okay, like Calvin and his tiger are up against this wall, and he’s doing “Spaceman Spiff” and all, and this monster… Dad, are you listening? Anyway, this monster, he says, “What?” and Calvin, like, says “Whoa” and then in the next panel…”

Almost makes me wish he’d start talking about Pokemon again.

Be careful what you blog for. You may get it.

Some of my readers will remember my recent appeal for an industrial-strength shower scrunchie that can stand up my shower practices. Today I was gifted with the froggie scrunchie shown at left, courtesy of my kid sister Jane. Note to self: never let family read your blog. They know too much about you already.

I figure this scrunchie has what it takes to surpass the 30-day half-life of my regular brand of scrunchie. This has nothing to do with its construction and everything to do with how silly I’d feel scrubbing my armpits with a frog. It’s kind of like asking Kermit to wash your back. eeeeeww….

Fortunately, the Fifth Amendment to the US Constitution says I don’t have to tell you whether or not I ever actually use it.

My son learns that some names are suitable for both boys and girls:

Matt: Shelby? A guy’s name? You gotta be kidding me!

Daddy: No joke. Haven’t you ever heard of the Shelby Mustang? It was one of the hottest custom sports cars of the 60’s.

Matt: What does that have to do with it?

Daddy: It was designed by a guy named Shelby. That’s why it’s named the Shelby Mustang.

Matt: His name was Shelby? Weird.

Daddy: Actually, that was his last name.

Matt: What was his first name?

Daddy: Um… Carroll.

Matt: Carroll? A guy’s name? You gotta be kidding me!

Daddy: Don’t you have some homework to do or something?

Next week: My son asks me about male menopause.

The other night, I was playing Civilization IV and my wife happened to walk by (this also being her house and all). The game is in the habit of throwing little historical quotes at the player every time a milestone is reached. The one she overheard was a quotation from the poem Ozymandius by Percy Bysshe Shelley:

And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandius, King of Kings,
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

At this utterance, my wife snorted and muttered “Ozymandius. Huh!” under her breath. I looked at her quizically and realized, to my incredible surprise, that my wife hates that poem!

My wife was an English major in college. She considers Shakespeare and the Brontë to be light reading. Finding out she hates something by Shelley is like discovering that the Pope hates red wine. This is quite a revelation, especially considering we’ve been married 20 years.

I need to haul her down to the university library and figure out what else she hates. Maybe we can find something we both hate and have a good old time making fun of it. I can see us now, getting thrown off campus for making catcalls at the Byron section.

A subtle shift in the balance of power has taken place in my household. My son has crossed over to the dark side. Like his mother before him, my own son now like crunchy peanut butter.

For the first time in my life, I find myself in a minority of “one” on the eternal debate on smooth versus crunchy. To make matters worse, we’re all out of smooth. I’m going to have to go to the store — me, lord and master of the mansion, go to the frickin’ store — for a small jar of smooth peanut butter. Never have I been forced so low.

The ultimate capper? The reason we’re out of smooth is because they fed it to the dog. Help me, George Washington Carver — you’re my only hope.

Overheard my son humming to himself while doodling. It was the second movement (Largo) of Antonín Dvořák’s “New World” Symphony.

Kid’s going to turn out all right, I think.

My wife is taking a leadership development course. As part of tonight’s homework, she was to seek the advice of a trusted friend. She needed to identify areas of her life where she lacked consistency; in other words, where she “talks the talk but doesn’t walk the walk.”

For some twisted reason, she turned to me, her husband, for this advice. If you have ever been asked the question, “Honey, does this make me look fat?” you will understand my sudden urge to bolt for the horizon.

I’m not sure how I managed it, but I came up with advice that was honest and diplomatic at the same time (a first for me). Not only did she accept my answer, but she gave me a little kiss for my trouble. I’m not telling you what I said. It’s my death-defying experience — go find your own.

If my son ever asks me for advice on marriage, I will strongly suggest that he lobby for a Fifth Amendment clause.

The Black Knight scene from “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” as recounted by my 12-year old son, Matt.

So, there’s this knight, and he’s really mad at the King and won’t let him pass. So they start fighting with their swords, and it’s like boom and swoosh. You remember what happened next, Dad? His arm goes flying off like whirrrrrr and blood starts squirting out like this (mimes a fountain of blood).

And the knight, he’s like, “Oh, that didn’t hurt. Come here, you loser, and take that” *wham* and then they start fighting again, and soon he’s got them all cut off. And the King goes away, except the knight is going, like, “Dude, come back here and fight like a man!” Remember that part, Dad? Yeah, that was cool.

And then later someone threw a cow at them. And there was a Trojan bunny. That was cool, too.

Now I know how I sound when I try to retell George Carlin jokes.

Most parents live for the day that they can embarrass their children in front of a boyfriend or girlfriend. The usual weapon of choice is the dreaded Naked Baby Picture.

Imagine poor Junior, decked out in his first tuxedo and nervously trying to pin the corsage on his date without drawing blood or touching a Forbidden Body Part. Suddenly and without provocation, Dad pulls out the Naked Baby Picture. Junior surreptitiously tries to dig a hole to China with his big toe.

We don’t have any Naked Baby Pictures of my son. No, I have something even better. Behold the Geek Baby Picture.

If my son ever grows up and hijacks a schoolbus full of nuns, psychologists will cite this picture as a proximate cause.

My wife spent her birthday money yesterday. She bought a skillet and a self-straining saucepan.

Don’t get me wrong — they’re very nice examples of the skillet-and-saucepan persuasion. T-Fal, even, which is one of the brands they do allow at Dillards. But kitchen stuff for a birthday present?

Long ago, I learned the best way to marriage hell was for a husband to buy his wife a food processor for her birthday. So I’m entirely baffled why she would go and spend perfectly good birthday money on totally mundane living-type stuff like a skillet and saucepan. I mean, those kinds of purchases are what paycheck money is for!

If you ask me, she needs to be more selfish. Just think of what she could have bought — computer parts, power tools, car parts, or even a new science fiction TV series on DVD!

I’ll never understand women.

Last night, my wife and I went dancing at her employer’s Christmas party, held in the Petroleum Club atop the Bank One Tower (those of you in Oklahoma City may now make your appreciative whistling noises). The food was good, the conversation was engaging, the view was engrossing, and the dance floor was dark enough to hide my two left feet. We were having a great time. That is, until “Shout” happened.

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My 12-year old son informed me that he watched a movie adaptation of the Odyssey in his Literature class yesterday. He described it as “the movie version of the Odyssey but for real.” It took a second to decipher this as meaning “live action with real actors” as opposed to “animated.” This probably means he has finally graduated from filmstrips (or their 21st-century equivalent).

He admitted to being slightly ill over what he saw. I understood completely, as some of my earliest movie-related nightmares came from viewing the 1950’s-era Ulysses starring Kirk Douglas (hey, I was seven. Everything scared me. Lima beans scared me. Cut me some slack.)

I asked him which fateful scene was responsible for giving him the heebee-jeebees. Was it the evil Cyclops, Polyphemus, devouring Odysseus’ men until blinded by a burning spear? The bag of winds, blowing men hither and yon? The surprise attack of the cannibals? The escape from the monsters Scylla and Charybdis?

Nope. It was the fact that Odysseus’ men were turned into swine, and the only way he could turn them back was to sleep with the sorceress Circe. It was this tryst that he deemed “highly gross.”

Dismembered and devoured sailors? Uncontrolled gale-force winds? Raving cannibals? Multi-tentacled sea monsters? In my son’s world, none of these hold a tenth of the horror implied in a dalliance with a beautiful woman.

He’s further along than I thought - most guys learn this only after they start dating.

Had a surreal moment this evening. I watched my son play trombone in the fall concert for the Belle Isle Enterprise Middle School winter concert. He did me proud. He has spent most of the semester bouncing between first and second chairs, so he’s pretty good for a first-year player. The rest of the band turned in a very nice performance, too, although the evil parent in me observed that most of them weren’t good enough to bounce between first and second chairs all semester (evil laugh).

During the concert, it suddenly occurred to me that this was the first time in many, many moons that I attended a school band concert. In fact, the very last time was during my high school years, when I was the one on the stage and my parents were appreciatively sitting in the audience. I reminded myself to thank my Dad for sitting through those concerts — I never realized how squeeking clarinets can aggravate one’s molars.

Wow, high school. That was…hmm, let me see… back in 1983? Wow.

The chill of 22 long years shivered up and down my spine for the rest of the concert. I won’t say that I hate getting older, but it sure does give my sense of melancholy a real workout.

Yesterday, my son and I had this conversation:

Matt: Dad, can I have an advance on my allowance?

Dad: What, again? What is it this time?

Matt: Well, you see, there’s this new Star Wars Lego set, only this one is different because it has not one, but two class 25 gigawatt inducers and… (Note: Rest of foaming rant is skipped out of deference to the reader. -Ed)

Dad: Um, no.

Matt: What do you mean, no?

Dad: Son, I think it’s time we started talking about your status as resident and sole heir to the Goodwin household.

Matt: Huh?

Dad: Son, I hate to say this, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to lay you off.

Matt: Lay me off? You can’t do that - the law won’t let you! I have rights! I have a contract!

Dad: I’m sorry, Matt, but with the existing economic climate, projections of slow market growth, a lack of resources for capital improvements to the living structure, and the growing burden of your conditional college fund, my analysts have concluded that I must take immediate steps to reduce outgoing cashflow.

Matt: You’re abandoning your responsibilities as my parent. I’d like to know what a judge would say about this little decision of yours. I’ll strike!

Dad: I wouldn’t bother with court, especially since I won’t advance you any allowance to hire a lawyer. Besides, a careful perusal of said contract will show that I have parental termination rights provided I give a 60-day advance notice. And if you strike, you will forfeit your generous severance package.

Matt: Oh, yeah? How much?

Dad: $100 per year of life. You’re 12 years old, so that makes…

Matt: Oh, no way. You owe me my college fund.

Dad: I’m sorry, but the contract stipulates that you must actually apply and be accepted to an institute of higher learning before said fund may be applied. As it stands, that fund is becoming a prohibitive drain on household resources.

Matt: This is another example of parents lording it over innocent children. And at Christmas, too - - you ought to be ashamed! I’ll go to the media. I’ll see you in court. You’ll be sorry!

(At this point, the conversation devolved into a vicious tickle fight - Ed)

Either my son watches more of the news than I thought, or his current affairs teacher at school has a relative affected by the General Motors shutdown.

He didn’t get the advance.