To Be President (Let’s Play a Game)

Presidential debates are a joke, right? It’s just two (sometimes three) candidates from opposing parties criticizing each other while competing in mental gymnastics to avoid answering questions placed by the moderator who lost control of the event before it even started. Or in the case of Donald Trump, debates are an opportunity to be creepy and follow your opponent around like some sort of menacing sexual predator.

I remember when the debates were actual debates. Some boring newscaster would ask the candidates what they would do about various issues facing Americans; then the wannabe presidents would provide a vague semblance of what they believe to be the best course of action. Their opponent would poke holes in those policy plans then the same question would be posed to the second candidate with the first hopeful to dismantle the opposing ideas.

Those days are gone. I don’t have any hope of such a format returning to American political discourse. However, I’m not thrilled about the current approach of letting all the monkeys fling poo at each other until the broadcast is terminated. Besides, we already know what positions the candidates support. We’re not learning anything new from the debates.

Many people have suggested adding an age limit for presidential qualifications but I have a better idea. Instead of an arbitrary number, what if we could use the debates to filter out those who are too old due to incompetence or mental decline? What if we created a method far more educational and entertaining than what we do now? At least it would be fun and informative for the average voter; I’m not sure how much the candidates would enjoy it. All nominees in the general election (3rd parties included) should compete in a series of game shows based on high school civics exams, citizenship tests for immigrants, and introductory level understandings of things like economics, law, and geography. Instead of pundits from various news networks hosting these competitive debates, they should be hosted by the comedians of late night television.

The first round should be a Jeopardy style game with trivia from high school civics classes. All clues will be read in the form of an answer. Contestants, ahem, I mean candidates should buzz in to answer with a question. Categories could include topics like Current World Leaders, Cabinet Positions, Constitutional Amendments, Checks and Balances, War on Drugs, and Immigration Policy.

Round Two: Hollywood Squares. Just like the classic game show, celebrities fill up a 3x3 tower of booths to help (or decidedly not help) the candidates as they take turns with questions taken straight from the test immigrants take to become citizens. When a would-be president answers a question correctly, they get an X or an O for a competitive game of tic-tac-toe.

Next up, round three is Hot Ones. Candidates are asked a series of questions about the functions of the government and various branches of the armed forces. If they answer correctly, nothing happens. If they get a question wrong, they have to eat a chicken wing covered hot sauce. Or meatless wing if they’re a vegetarian. The wings get spicier with each subsequent wrong answer. The more they get wrong, the hotter their wings get.

Where in the World are American Interests? fills up the fourth round with geography questions. In this Carmen Sandiego spoof, candidates are the gumshoes answering questions focused on the locations of our foreign allies, military assets, and global conflicts.

The fifth round features kids. In Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader? each candidate is paired with an elementary student to answer basic questions about American history, ethics, business, money, and culture. If the candidate gets a question wrong while it is successfully answered by their fifth grade partner, the moderator will make jokes about the failing potential president’s educational degrees and professional accomplishments.

The final debate is a revamped Price Is Right. In this competition, those running for president will play a bunch of mini games to guess how much money it takes to live in America. The idea is to see which candidate is most aware of what American consumers pay for basic necessities of housing, transportation, utilities, education, food, clothing, health care, and electronics.

We don’t need to hear candidates spout their opinions about hot button issues because we know those will fall into ideological lines of their parties. It would be helpful to know if these potentially most powerful people in the world are smart enough to handle the basics of the presidency. Do they know what they’re talking about - even if you don’t agree with their biases?

Six rounds of game shows replacing debates. Attendance mandatory. Everything is scored so there can be definitive winners and losers. All facts, no opinions. Hosted and moderated by funny folks like Steven Colbert, Jimmy Kimmel, Conan O’Brien, Amber Ruffin, Seth Meyers, and John Oliver. Losing doesn’t remove POTUS hopefuls from the ballot but (hopefully) sways voters to pick better Presidents. This plan even has the potential to create a smarter electorate. Perhaps the viewer will learn something about this country while learning about their favorite contestant. I mean candidate. Perhaps, with a better educated populace, we could avoid repeating the mistakes of our past.

Theoretically speaking of course. What do I know? I’m just a DJ and an author.

Through the lense of a former 90s youth group kid.

If you're a long time reader you probably know I grew up in a conservative evangelical church. I was also a teenager in the Seattle suburbs during the grunge era. Those years were the Wild West of youth ministry. Youth pastors today want to be relatable and relevant. Youth leaders back then wanted to know how much crazy shit they could get teens to do before the kids revolted. If youth pastors were mad scientists, we were the guinea pigs.

One of the most predominant highlights of any church youth event during the 90s is what I’ve lovingly (and regrettably) described as pudding through the nose games. They didn’t actually consist of slurping pudding through your nose, but the nasal consumption of a Snack Pack was always a possibility. These games were designed to induce a gag factor, inspire PG-13 levels of comedic violence, or encourage what modern youth leaders call “purple.” No idea what I’m talking about? Allow me to provide some examples.

The Toothpick Lifesaver relay. Teams lined up boy/girl/boy/girl with toothpicks in our mouths. Without using our hands, a package of Lifesavers had to be passed toothpick to toothpick from one end of the line to the other. And we had to start over if the candied fruit flavored ring was dropped. First team to pass along all 14 candies through every member wins.

image courtesy of Sterling College

Or The Chip Race. In this game, a boy and girl held a potato chip between their lips while trying to reach the finish line before the other couples. If the chip broke or was dropped, the pair had to start over.

Or Wink’em Blink’em. Everyone of one gender stood in a circle while kids of the other gender sat in front of them with one empty seat. The person behind the empty chair winked at someone who tried to escape the grasp of the person standing behind them to sit in the empty seat. Originally, the rules stated the fleeing player would be stopped with a tap on the shoulder but my generation never liked rules. When we played this game (it was a favorite at Marysville Naz) we played it like a full contact sport. The standing player could use any means necessary to stop the runner. Nights with Wink’em Blink’em on the itinerary usually ended with pulled hair, scratches down the back, torn t-shirts, and rug burns on the knees and elbows. Ironically, the popular kids were more likely to be tackled or dragged than the uncool kids like me.

Or the Caterpillar Relay. Teams laid face down and shoulder to shoulder on the beach to form a human caterpillar. (Note: I said caterpillar, not centipede. That's something wildly different.) The person at the end of the end of their team's line rolled over all of their teammates to the front of the line where they resumed the face down position as other players rolled over the top of them. New competitors began rolling as soon as they were the last in line. First team to get their whole caterpillar across the finish line won.

Or Eat That Food. This was played like Name That Tune but with food. Teen versus adult volunteer took turns claiming they could eat a food item in a certain number of bites, each challenge lower than the previous. If that number reached a point where one player couldn't eat the food in fewer bites than the other, they dared the other player to "Eat it." If a player scarfed the item within the promised number of bites, they won. They would lose by failing to complete the challenge or throwing up. I saw people eat a whole can of spam in one chipmunk-cheeked bite, pour an entire tin of Altoids into their open maw, chomp a foot long raw carrot with a diameter of their in three bites, cram a king size Snickers in their mouth while drinking a can of Pepsi, and chug a large jar of applesauce in a single gulp. There was always a garbage bin on stage for vomit.

And Shaving Cream Wars. A section of the football field was cordoned off to separate spectators and warriors. Teenaged campers and adult leaders purchased hundreds of cans of shaving cream to battle each other in a one vs all battle royale. Combatants ran around with aerosol cans of shaving cream, filling their hands with foam, and smearing it into the faces and onto the bodies of other willing participants. Extreme players Duct taped their shaving cream cans into their hands with fingers hovering above the spray triggers.

image courtesy of Baltimore Sun

Between the inappropriate entertainment, the purity culture teachings, and attempts to dictate what kinds of movies we could watch or music we could listen to, my generation was subjected to an ongoing clash of contradictions and double standards. It is no surprise why so many of my peers have left the church in the decades since then.

Youth group was weird enough bit summer camps is where it got really awkward. Teen camp had a different theme every year and games were tailored to match the theme. One year our theme was “The Doctor is In.” Bed pans (if you couldn’t already tell where this was going) were used in a majority of the games that year. One of those bedpan games was a root beer relay. Teams lined up 20 yards away from a bedpan filled with root beer. Everyone was given a straw to hold with their mouth. First person in their team’s line ran to the bedpan, laid face down with hands behind their back, and drank through their straw. As soon as they sucked up as much root beer as they could, they ran back to their team and the next person sprinted to lie down and chug through their straw, then repeat until their team drank all of the root beer. First team to finish a half dozen 2 liters won.

If you’re thinking it would have been funnier for the camp organizers to use Mountain Dew, I agree. However, despite the shades of violence and confusing sexual boundaries, there were still lines that Nazarenes were not brave enough to cross.

I thought this game would be easy. I could guzzle a can of Dr Pepper in one shot - proved it a couple times before. Drinking soda should be easier with a straw, right? Wrong, so very wrong.

When my turn came, I ran the 20 yards as fast as my scrawny teenaged legs would carry me. I laid down in the prone position, hands clasped behind my back, dunked my straw into the warm brown liquid, and began to sip. Then I discovered something: I couldn’t drink. I could barely breathe. Gravity pulled my body weight down onto my lungs and I lacked any alternative to support that weight because my hands were clasped behind my back. The position of my hands also stretched out my chest cavity and tightened my pectoral muscles making it difficult to expand my rib cage. My ability to draw a breath was smothered.

Instinctively, my brain knew breathing was more important than drinking soda. My desire to live outweighed my hopes to win a pudding through the nose game. I couldn't drink even if I wanted to. I got up, ran back to my line, and hoped everyone else on my team had better luck than me.

To be clear, while I was scrawny weakling, I was also healthy. I kept fit by spending summers hiking all over the Northern Cascades and walking/biking everywhere during the school year. I didn’t have asthma, didn’t smoke, didn’t suffer any underlying health issues. I was a normal (even if socially awkward) teenager, spry and energetic. Yet despite everything in my respiratory favor, I still struggled to breath when laying prone with my hands behind my back. I can’t imagine doing the same thing with a police officer kneeling on my neck.

I have frequently pondered this story from my youth while watching the Derek Chauvin trial over the last couple weeks. It’s been heavy on my mind. Watching the videos, listening to testimony and cross examination, I keep imagining myself in George Floyd’s place.

image courtesy of Dazed & Confused Magazine

Laying prone with your hands behind your back isn’t like getting a back massage as Chauvin’s lawyer claimed during closing arguments. If it was difficult for me to breathe in that position as a healthy teenager with no weight on my neck, logic leads me to believe it would impossible for George Floyd to do the same under the weight of Derek Chauvin.

That is a conclusion any reasonable person should be able to understand. Thankfully, the jury agreed.

The Idea

It started with an idea.

My oldest son’s favorite game is D&D, both as a player and a creator. He is often asking to DM a campaign for the whole family. He listens to podcasts and watches videos filled with tips and lore. His world rotates around school, homework, chores, and D&D. I sometimes wonder if thoughts of gaming occupy his mind at school and while he’s supposed to be completing assignments or folding laundry.

While we were all quarantined for Covid in December, he demanded a moment to talk about an idea he had for D&D. Normally, these requests involve his plans for upcoming campaigns or a world he’s designing. This time was different.

“Dad,” he said, “I want to make a D&D character who has autism. I know autism didn’t exist in the dark ages, but I want to explore what it would be like for a person on the spectrum in a medieval fantasy world.” We discussed the possibilities of what could happen, how such a character would react to the sights and sounds of a pre-industrialized feudal society. As we spoke, he grew more excited – feeling as if this was a real thing, giving bones and flesh to a figment of his imagination.

Then I had a revelation.

“You know,” I said, “This would make a good story.”
“I know, that’s why I want to use this character in a campaign.”
“No, no, no. Not a good D&D story. I mean, it’s that too but not what I’m talking about. When I say it would be a good story, I mean like an actual novel kind of story. Words on paper, printed and reprinted, sold in bookstores kind of story.”
“Oh, that.”

Then he changed the topic, reverting back to his plans of D&D campaigns but I wasn’t listening. The creative gears inside my brain where spinning like they got a fresh coat of WD-40. While Christian’s voice filled the room with all of the things he wants to do in a game, my mind was occupied with thoughts of what could happen in a book. I fell asleep pondering extra characters, sidekicks, and villains. I gave my thoughts freedom to wander through the geography of where such characters would live, queried what conflict would drive the characters to do what they do.

By the time I went to bed the next night, I had a rough idea of a plot from start to finish. I had a bare description of the main character, the party that will accompany him on his quest, and the enemy he hopes to defeat. The day after that, I pulled Christian aside while throwing hay and told him everything I had been thinking about. The inspiration for the book came from him so I wanted his blessing, permission to use his sliver of a plan to create something bigger.

His response: “Dude, you need to write this book.”

So I am. What, but what? Am I not already writing a book? Yes, it can wait though. I have several ideas for books, all non-fiction inspirational/motivational type stuff. I intend to complete them eventually. Why switch to something new? Because this is different.

I’ve previously balked at the idea of writing fiction. There were a variety of excuses preventing me from even trying. I convinced myself I couldn’t do it because I wasn’t good at it. I believed it would be better to stick within the safety of what I knew I could do well – essays about faith, parenting, politics, and geekery. Writing novels was something for others people, more talented writers. I believed these lies until Christian approached me with the idea of an autistic person in a medieval realm filled with fantasy and magic.

This is now a story I can’t not write. The other book I was working on can wait because it’s only something I wanted to do. This work of fiction is something I need to do. There is a difference. I’m now more motivated and determined to write a book than I ever have before.

Christian and Annie frequently ask me if I’ve worked on the book, helping to keep me on track. It’s a slow process considering I still have a full time job and live on a farm filled with animals who need fed twice a day. But I keep going. First was a world map in the tradition of Narnia from CS Lewis and JRR Tolkien’s Middle Earth. Then research. Then the preparation employing Evernote to keep track of random ideas, Word to complete character profiles, and (because I’m a nerd) drafting the plot outline in Excel.

Last night I found myself doing something I haven’t done in years: sitting in a coffee shop with my laptop. Writing. And it all started with an idea.

Bailing Out

Through geekery alone, my knowledge is significant. I can crack open a book, read, and absorb information; surf the internet and flex my Google-Fu; take classes and attend seminars. The possibilities seem endless. But there are limits. There are things that you cannot fully understand until experienced through hands-on application. I can argue superiority between Star Trek and Star Wars because I've seen all the movies and TV shows; I've played video games and board games related to both franchises. I've experienced both fandoms so my knowledge is equally practical and intellectual.

However ...

There are things where (until recently) I've had no need to learn through visual, auditory, or kinesthetic pursuits. Farming is one of those topics. During 1985’s Farm Aid concert, I knew American growers faced a financial crisis, fighting against political pressures. However, I was only six years old so the technical details and shifting dynamics in our economy were far beyond my grasp. I knew nothing of the changes corporate agriculture had on independent and small family farms. First grade curriculum doesn’t include the concepts of supply and demand, property rights, mass production, or GMOs. Even as I got older and learned about economic principles and American civics, costs and efforts required to harvest food were irrelevant to me. I was a product of the suburbs, completely disinterested in the agrarian lifestyle. I saw the American heartland as endless amber waves of grain, boring scenery between me and Grandma's house. I valued purple mountain majesty and fruited plains, preferred the scent of cedar groves and alpine meadows over dairy air, and would rather hear honking horns than mooing bovine. I was content to keep it that way. If I could go to the grocery store and buy prepackaged delights, then the plight of the farmer was not my concern.

Priorities have shifted over the past several months. Farming is no longer something other people do; it's a part of my daily life. My health improved because of the work it takes to build fencing and stack hay. I appreciate the view from my back porch where I watch the sunset every evening. I love the darkness at night, revealing a vast expanse of stars undiminished from the light pollution plaguing city folk. I also understand how hard you must labor to enjoy this life and how much it costs to maintain it.

We love our horses. Horses eat a lot of hay. Hay can be expensive - especially when the horses eat (roughly) a ton of food each month.

Until now, the financial side of equestrian care was a foreign subject. Money spent on field fencing is staggering for someone who has never investigated those prices. A trip to the theater for the newest Marvel movie (including soda and popcorn) is cheap compared to the price tags on saddles at the tack shop. I've been exposed to the world of rodeos, household repair, and farm maintenance. I now spend time in North 40 and Home Depot the same way a younger version of me once occupied Hastings and GameStop. I’ve become familiar with how expensive it is to maintain a farm with goats, geese, ducks, chickens, horses, and a free-spirited rabbit who does whatever it wants; I also see how hard my neighbors work with their pigs and cattle. We purchased hay from local farms - all of which are grown and harvested by young families or old men wanting to be productive after retiring from the workforce. I’m grateful for how much they spend on equipment and the hard work they do to cut and bale the hay we buy to feed our animals.

When I hear people talk about their motivations behind voting or Trump, it makes sense to me. Vibrancy fades once you get out of urban centers and bedroom communities. Small towns in rural America have been shrinking. I've driven through many dwindling municipalities with boarded up windows, signs announcing store closures, and empty streets on what should have been a busy day filled with people shopping for goods, services, and supplies. Their populations are leaving for better opportunities in bigger cities, costs of running a farm are increasing, profits from selling meat and produce are slimmer. Their way of life is slowly disappearing. Livelihoods of many Americans depend on their land, their crops, their livestock. They see an uncertain future, a possible end to their lifestyle. Justified or not, many of them blame Obama and Democratic policies for these changes. Afraid of losing everything they've ever known, they believe Donald Trump was the only candidate who cared about them. They thought Trump was the one would protect the familiar, he would be a champion of their values and interests.

Economic, social, political, and demographic insecurity. They were unsettled by changes in the populace from gay rights and immigration to lower attendance in their churches every Sunday morning. They saw massive societal shifts and it scared them. People who are anxious of losing their status, power, or influence can act irrationally. Fear makes us stupid. Trump tapped into those fears and exploited them. Now, the farmers who voted for him need rescue from the negative impacts of his administration.

It's sad because it was all entirely predictable. We could see this coming. Trump campaigned on promises of trade wars and tariffs. Democrats raged against his plans. Comedians and late-night talk show hosts mocked him. Conservatives voiced tempered concern. Economists predicted disaster. When Trump threatened trade wars, we all knew it wouldn't end well. We all knew what would happen. Those of us who opposed Trump tried to warn everyone. Yet Trump still won the election. The predictions of doom came true and the people hurt the worst by Trump's tariffs are (or were) his biggest supporters. Trump offered a $12-billion bail out to offset the consequences of harm caused by his trade war.

Money fixes everything.

How do you get a slice of that $12-billion pie? Our farm needs two more pastures fenced in, a new round pen, deer fencing erected so we can start our garden, privacy landscaping planted to shield our pool from view of people driving by, and several trees need to be felled or pruned. A pest control treatment would be nice. Our work truck broke down and needs replaced. When you live on a farm, there are always a list of projects you'll complete if/when you get a little extra cash. Our list is a little longer than most.

Realistically though, my family won't qualify for any funds. Nor will my neighbors, or the ma & pa farms where we purchase hay. Operations like ours are ineligible. The $12-billion will not be going to independent and family farms with small acreage. Instead, large corporate owned farms are getting it. Companies who stock the frozen foods isle at major grocery stores. Ag-industry giants who supply beef and French fries to fast food chains. The bailouts are gifts to big businesses, not to the people who need it most.

Let’s treat those poor farmer-CEOs the way many conservatives malign impoverished Americans. They don't deserve welfare, need a hand up not a hand up. It's time they pull themselves up by the bootstraps. They're just lazy. I don't pay my taxes so these people can have money handed to them – no strings attached. Who do they think funds their free lunch? They better not be buying beer or cigarettes. If they're unable to pay their bills, they should go get a second or third job. They could drive their tractors for Uber or list their farms on Airbnb. Perhaps they should be drug tested before they get a bailout. Why not drug test all their employees? Hopefully none of those employees are undocumented workers; we'd have to deport them.

If all else fails, we can vote differently in November than we did in 2016. We might still be scared; hopefully we're smarter.

Bubbleworld

I have great respect for Mark Wahlberg. Although, I am not a huge fan of his acting career. He has roles in some films I thoroughly enjoyed like Three Kings and The Italian Job. However, it's been a few years since I have been excited to see one of his movies (2013's 2 Guns which was a disappointment) and since then it seems most of his work is either based on recent true events like Deep Water Horizon and Patriots Day or cash grabs like the Transformers sequels. Over all, his on-screen work doesn't impress me. But in his personal life, he seems like a decent guy. He's a devout catholic and a devoted dad who is teaching his kids that they're lucky. In an interview with USA Weekend, he said he wants his kids "to know that not everyone is as fortunate and how important it is to work hard and give back." Wahlberg is also active with charities benefiting youth and homeless women.

He might be a model citizen now, but he wasn't always a saint. His teen years were marred by drug use, violent crime, and gang activity. He harassed and assaulted minorities in racially motivated attacks and spent some time in jail after being charged with attempted murder.

With his wayward younger years behind him, Wahlberg is deeply religious and adamantly liberal. He was a supporter of Obama's reelection campaign in 2012, donated money to several candidates for the Democrat party, and has been vocal in his support of same-sex marriage. Last November, he was interviewed by Task & Purpose Magazine where he said that celebrities shouldn't talk about politics. In recent weeks (since Meryl Streep's speech at the Golden Globes), a quote from the Task & Purpose interview has been frequently shared through social media - predominantly (and ironically) by people who skew to the conservative end of the political spectrum.

There is a lot of irony here. A celebrity that is vocal about his political ideals claiming celebrities shouldn't talk about politics. A person who lives in a bubble accusing others in Hollywood of living in a bubble. An actor criticizing others for how they earn a paycheck even though his paycheck is earned in the same manner. The words of a die-hard liberal being passed around by conservative voters as if it was from the voice of God.

Yet I understand what Wahlberg was trying to say. The interviewer was asking him about the surprising results of Trump's election and Wahlberg's answer was an attempt to explain how so many of his peers don't understand the typical American. He was providing a rationale behind the grandest of ironies - how a populace tired of coastal elites who are out of touch with society voted for a coastal elite who is out of touch with society. Those who live in a bubble have a hard time understanding what life is like outside of the bubble.

The magazine interview contained more from Wahlberg that clarified his perspective. Because of his tough past, he understands what the real world is like for the common person. Thanks to his successful career, he also understands what life is like inside the bubble of Hollywood. He has lived life both inside and outside that bubble. Not everyone has had the same opportunity. Many of Hollywood's biggest stars were born into either fame or wealth. Many of them have been pursuing their dreams since they were kids or got their breakthrough as a child star. Their lives are contained within the 30ish square miles of Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and Malibu. The closest some of them have been to a Midwestern wheat field or a slum apartment was on a soundstage. For most people, it is easy to look at famous faces and see that they don't understand what it is like to be us.

Wahlberg has a valid point, but it brings up some other concerns. If we truly believe that celebrity opinions don't matter, then why should we give any credence to Wahlberg's opinion? Is this a case of confirmation bias? Do we only care about celebrity opinions when they align with our own? Not all celebrities were always celebrities, so at what point do their opinions cease to be important? Are their opinions less valid the day after they find fame than they were the day before? What makes my beliefs and experiences of any greater value than a professional athlete, musician, or movie star? What if famous people have just as much right to possess an opinion as the average citizen? What if you and I have the same rights to voice our opinions as celebrities?

I have met a few famous people. I've had conversations with authors, artists, film producers, comedians, and rock stars. In all those interactions, one thing was apparent: they are just as human as any other person walking the face of this planet. Like anyone else you encounter on a day to day basis they have hopes and aspirations; they have fears and pet peeves. They might eat at more expensive restaurants, live in bigger houses, and wear fancier clothing, but they are as capable of experiencing joy and sorrow as anyone. The biggest difference between them and me is the size of our platforms. If I share my thoughts, it will reach 100 people. They share their views and millions will hear. I am allowed to speak my mind. Freedom of speech demands celebrities be afforded the same liberty, even if I don't like what they have to say.

Most celebrities might not be able to understand what it is like to be me, a single father and part-time writer. Yet I don't understand what it is like to be them. I will never know what it is like to spend a thousand dollars on drinks at a swanky Los Angeles nightclub - my eyes double in size when I see that my mojito cost eight bucks. I'll never attend a party in the Hollywood Hills - my idea of a good time is a game of Quelf with a few close friends. I can't imagine what it would be like to pay hundreds of dollars in a boutique for a single pair of shoes - most of my wardrobe was purchased at a thrift shop. Hollywood A-listers might not be able to relate to me because they live in a bubble, but I can't relate to them because I live in a bubble too.

In fact, we all live in bubbles. Mine is suburban life; I have lived most of my days in the suburbs of Seattle, Boise, and Spokane. I wouldn't have a clue to what life is like for a celebrity, but I would not understand what life is like for a kid growing up in inner-city projects either. Or someone who has lived and worked on a ranch for their entire life. Or someone who lives in a community dependent on one or two factories on the brink of closure. Or in a mining town. Or a city along the Mexican border.

We all live in bubbles. Someone who has never left the five boroughs of New York City will only understand life inside their urban bubble. They wouldn't begin to understand what it is like for the kid who grew up in a cornfield outside Yankton South Dakota. And the kid from the farming bubble doesn't know what it is like to live and work in the resorts around Aspen Colorado. And the ski bubble resident doesn't know what it is like to rely on catching lobster along the coast of Maine. We all live in a bubble and the only way to understand what life is like in someone else's bubble is to get out of our bubble.

The best explanation I have heard to explain how Trump got elected is the belief that those in the bubble of Hollywood elites and liberal media are out of touch with the American heartland. So middle America voted for an absurdly wealthy man who lives in a literal gilded bubble.

Maybe Trump isn't the problem. Maybe he is the logical conclusion of issues that existed long before he ever announced his candidacy. Maybe the biggest dilemma is how we don't understand each other. All of our racism and xenophobia and hatred is a result of spending too much time in our own bubble. We came to believed our fear of others was justified. We fed our fears and created enemies out of people who are just as much American as we are.

I don't think Mark Wahlberg's quote from Task & Purpose was a condemnation of everyone in Hollywood. He was demonstrating how he's more uniquely aware of life outside of of fame. How? Because he grew up in the bubble of a rough neighborhood on the south side of Boston. He spent time in the bubble of prison. He sorted through his troubles in the bubble of a Catholic parish. And he has worked and thrived inside the bubble of Hollywood. Wahlberg understands both the life of luxury and what it is like to struggle. He knows because he left his bubble.

If we want to heal the divides in America, if we want to survive the next four years of Trump's presidency, if we want to elect better leaders, we should probably follow Wahlberg's example. We need to burst our bubbles. We need to spend some time outside of our little worlds. We need to get out of our comfort zone and experience other slices of American culture.

Serial Complainers

Serial complainers prior to July 6th, 2016:
"Kids these days. All they do is sit inside and play their video games and binge watch Netflix. When I was their age, I didn't have any of those fancy phones or iPads. We played outside until it was dark. We got dirty and no one cared. We know how to talk to other kids. Today, young people don't have a sense of community. They probably don't even know how to get to the grocery store unless their parents drive them. You know what they need? They need to get out more. Interact with their peers. Go to the library. Visit a park. Take a hike. No more of this watching TV all night mumbo jumbo."


Serial complainers since July 6th, 2016:
"Kids these days. They're every where. Like big masses of dimwitted cattle roaming the streets. Every park, every sidewalk, every coffee shop, every church. There is no escaping them. Hordes of youth taking crazy mumbo jumbo about Squirtles and Pidgeys, and Snorlaxes. Why do they have to invade the park and the library and the grocery store. I just wish they would stay home. They are even out after dark. Doesn't anyone care?"

***Full disclosure: I have not downloaded Pokémon Go onto my phone and don't intend to do so anytime soon. But many of my friends play and I am enjoying the pictures and stories and memes everyone is posting. Despite what the curmudgeons are saying, I believe this game is doing a great amount of good in our world.***

Doing Something Right

Parenting can be like a lot of modern video games. It does not come packaged with any instructions, just a list of credits telling you who made what. The expectation is that you figure it out as you go along. You receive skill points (XP) for achievements, some parts are more challenging than others, and there is little motivation to go back and replay levels you previously conquered. You can get by with the basics, but to truly experience raising a child or playing a game, you have to find all of the hidden collectibles, earn each of the trophies, and unlock every upgrade. It can be expensive. Downloadable content (school clothes) and microtransactions (Christmas presents) greatly improve satisfaction; on their own they don't seem costly, but after a while the prices add up and look shameful in retrospect.

Did I just compare my kids to a $60 polycarbonate plastic disc filled with graphical and audio programming designed for digital entertainment? Maybe. It is a tenuous simile. However, as a mostly former gamer, I have slogged through some games with steep learning curves. I have hit the start button to dive into stories where the studios that created it expect the end user to know what they are doing with minimal explanation or instruction. This button jumps, that button interacts with objects, and the trigger uses your weapon. Good luck. You're on your own for IRL food, sleep, and potty breaks.

Yet even the most difficult game I have ever played is simple compared to the rigors of parenthood. As a trade off, being a dad is infinitely more rewarding than beating the final boss or reaching the end of the last world in any video game. At least, it is if you do it right.

The biggest challenge in parenting is wondering if your strategy is working. I think much of being a parent is composed of not knowing what you are doing while hoping for the best. Ideally, we reach out to some older/wiser types who have been there and done that. We listen to the advice of professionals who might know more than we do about areas of child rearing: teachers, pastors, counselors, therapists, our own parents. We read books and magazine articles. We try new things and go through the full process of failure and revision.

We do what we can with the tools we have been given. At the end of the day, we want greatness for the miniature humans entrusted into our care all with the intent of turning them into the closest semblance of a decent and productive adult before releasing them upon an unsuspecting world. We try. We try hard. Unfortunately, the fruits of our labor are rarely evident.

Every now and then, there are rewards. Achievements unlocked. It could be a friend telling you "You're a good dad." Or a teacher telling you "Your kid is amazing." And then there are moments you realize that your kids are turning out to be better than you ever anticipated.

Last Thursday, we were at the grocery store restocking our diminished supply of perishables. In other words, my kids ate all of the fruits and veggies and we needed more. While wandering through the produce section, we procured more bananas, strawberries, tomatoes, carrots, broccoli, and grapes - all of the organic matter I know my kids will eat without prompting or hesitation. Somewhere between the plantains and the melons, Christian shared an observation.

"It's a shame." he said.
"What is?" I asked.
"All of this food. And so much of it is going to go to waste. I mean, there are homeless people who don't have anywhere they could go to get a meal."

After that explanation, Christian spent the next ten minutes detailing how unsold soon-to-expire groceries should go to food banks and homeless shelters and benefit those who need it most. This from a kid who aspires to be a comedian and novelist when he grows up.

Not to be out done, his younger brother demonstrated his own variation of kindness and generosity.

After church Sunday morning, our kids’ ministry director pulled me aside and said she needed to brag on J. Of course, she asked him if she could embarrass him by telling me a story. JJ granted her permission.

She explained how he already knew the activity that they were doing because he had done it before. And it would have been alright if he did it all over again. Instead, he decided to assist other kids that were struggling making their craft. He got up without being asked to do so and started helping the others in his age group. "Here, let me show you how to do it." After telling me how he did such a awesome job, she looked at JJ and asked him if he could do that again during the next service. He smiled big and nodded his head. Of course he would.

Moments like these make the rougher moments of parenthood worth it. It lets me know I am doing something right. But to be honest, I have no idea what that something is. I do not have any sage advice for other floundering parents out there. There is no formula that I can package and sell for other dads to replicate the amazing things my kids do. Realistically, it is a guessing game, not knowing if it works, and hoping for the best. In twenty years, if my kids are still trying to solve the world’s problems and seeking opportunity to help those in need, I will consider my job a smashing success.

For a New Year (again)

As 2015 draws to a close, I want to take a moment to look back (learn) and to look forward (dream).

One of my groups encourages everyone to have a word for the year. A word to focus on, to motivate and inspire, to keep you driven and moving toward your goals. Last year my word was "healing" and I have done a whole lot of it over the past 12 months. I also wrote a post one year ago about New Year's resolutions - that mine was a simple two word ambition: Be Better. I feel that I've achieved that resolution to some degree and the best thing I could do going into 2016 is to adopt the same resolution all over again. While 2015 was a great year for myself and my kids, I want this next year to be even better. With that in mind - my word for 2016 is "Better." In addition to a word, I'm also picking out a theme song:



Consider what has happened this year. I'm healthier than I have been in a long time. The kids and I are all happier than we were in 2014. There were some great changes at work. I took some big risks in life that I would have never imagined myself taking when this year started. The Faithful Geek blog has seen some successes and I have been blessed with the opportunity to write for a few of my friends. I have also found some unique chances to help and support others in ways that would not have been possible a year or two earlier. If these experiences were a result of me wanting to be better, then I am overly optimistic about what could happen in 2016 if I continue striving to be better.

Now that this year is dwindling into its final hours and I contemplate all that has transpired in the past three hundred and sixty five days, all I can say is this was a great year. For that, I want to express my gratitude. To everyone that has taken a minute or two to read my thoughts here - thank you. To those few brave souls who allowed me to write a guest post for their blog - thank you. To my pastors and mentors - thank you. To those of you that have laughed and cried with me, who have hugged me, who have joined me for spirited games of Quelf or Mario Kart, who have encouraged me or challenged me, who have loved my kids - from the depths of my heart, thank you. To my family - I love you all dearly. And for all who have indulged my geekiness - may the force be with you.

This is it. One more day of the old year and I am wishing you the best. May 2016 be better than 2015. Heading into the new year, here is my hope, my goal. I'm going to scream it from the top of my lungs.

My Scarlet Letter (Part 1)

Times of trial could also times of great discovery.

That lone sentence might be the best description of the last couple years of my life. Dragged through hell and yet emerging (I hope) as a better man.

When everything falls apart, it is easy to direct the blame outward. However, such strategy repeats the cycle and I don't want to redo the past. Rather than deflect, deny, or obfuscate any responsibility, I have looked inward to take brutal and honest assessments of my errors.

I have done, and am still doing that deep soul dredging work. It has been uncomfortable and trying at times. On the other end of falling apart, I find myself physically healthier, happier, more emotionally grounded, and connected to a better support network than I have ever had before.

As I pillaged the remnants of who I was, I have had to rebuild who I am. Not an easy task when you're a thirty something single dad.

Embracing my identity. Redefining what I want out of life. And rediscovering where my heart lies and the passions that drive me.

Here is what I have found: I have a heart for the freaks and geeks. For the outcasts, the left out, and the last ones picked. For the walking wounded. For those who feel like they don't belong.

Why? Because that was me.

If it is not all ready abundantly clear, if you can't tell by the title of this blog, if I haven't told you in conversation: I am a nerd.

Want to geek out over music, movies, or comic books? Come find me, I will gleefully join you. Want to challenge me in Mario Kart? I will throw down. Have questions about symbolic imagery in fantasy and science fiction? Let's go out for some coffee. Up for a game of Cards Against Humanity? Invite me over (really - please invite me).

I am a nerd. These days, I wear that label like a merit badge. But it wasn't always like that.

My childhood existed before the age of geek-chic. Back then, nothing was more degrading than the geek label. Nothing more ostracizing. Nothing more stigmatizing. We were the last ones picked for games in PE. We were the freaks sitting at the lunch table in the corner with other outcasts who were not welcomed at the popular tables. We were teased and bullied and found our tribe at the fringes of what the cool kids rejected.

That's why we had our noses buried in comic books. That's why we hung out in our parent's basements, strumming distorted power chords on cheap guitars. That's why we wrote crappy poetry, spent hours exploring dungeons in role-playing games, and obsessed over the newest technologies.

Then I became an adult. Instead of being liberated, I found more of the same. The people who I thought loved me expressed disgust at my taste in music and said I was weird for watching TV shows like Lost.

What is now a badge of honor was for many years my scarlet letter. It was a label bestowed upon me as a demeaning brand. It was used to disparage. If it had not have been for the introspection of the past couple years, I might have been stuck there, humiliated by the scarlet nerd letter.

So it makes sense that I would have a heart for those who feel left out or overlooked. They are my people.

Youth group alum? No, try survivor.

Yesterday, Rachel Held Evans launched a barrage of the funniest tweets I've read in a long time. She asked her followers to remember potentially dangerous youth group games we played when we were actually in a youth group. Then she proceeded to retweet every reply so that we could all see the hilarious atrocities endured in years long gone. I can't imagine how much fun she had reading through all of those responses.

Looking back, it's amazing that I survived youth group. And I'm not talking about safely navigating the popularity games because we all know I lost there. Nor am I talking about the trip Shane and I took to Nampa during our sophomore year where we (bored and unsupervised) snorted some Altoids and engaged in a two man game of tag. In the dark. Long story.

The grace that allowed me to fondly contribute to Rachel's invitation to reminisce is the miracle that I survived the officially sponsored activities horrors.

I am convinced that the 90s were a special time in youth groups. A time where the risk of life and limb were permissible as long as alcohol and foul language was not involved. A time when youth leaders were convinced that making kids fear for their actual safety was some sort of spiritual lesson we all needed to learn. A time when relay races were scientifically designed to risk either injury or humiliation. Those with no shame and no timidity prospered. I am also convinced that no youth group existing today would be able to do half of the stuff we did without a lawsuit.

There was the camp crowd favorite: Eat That Food. This was a game similar to Name That Tune, but instead of identifying songs, contestants had to eat a food. In as few bites as possible. Through my tenure as a teenager, I witnessed the following feats of Eat That Food: a grown man shoving an entire can of Spam into his mouth, a girl chug a 48 ounce jar of applesauce, and a camp counselor dump a full tin of Altoids in his mouth. Witnessing this game played many times over the course of six years, I saw things I never wish to see again.

There was the Caterpillar Relay. This was a race where teams laid face down and shoulder to shoulder along the beach. The last person in line rolled on top of his or her team mates to the front of the line. This created a new person at the end of the line who also had to roll over and over their teammates to reach the line's beginning. Thus creating a "human caterpillar." The first team to get their caterpillar across the finish line won.

When we went snow tubing, some were too lazy to walk all the way back up the hill so they would try to jump onto other tubes sledding down the hill. It was at one winter retreat that I got buried under four other riders; our overloaded and top heavy inner tube hit a jump and went flying without the tube. When we came down it felt like everyone landed on my head and the side of my face was ground into the ice and slush. I had to go back to the cabins with an eye-patch and a concussion.

Games of tag. Blindfolded. In the woods.

Games of hide and seek that had us kids traipsing through poison oak, poison ivy, and occasional bee hives.

Games of Sardines (like hide and seek, but only one person hides and everyone that finds that person hides with them). At night. No lights allowed.

Blind-man's volleyball. The volleyball net was covered with a tarp so that you were unable to see what the other team was doing. Then the ball was usually replaced with something hard and heavy. Or a water balloon.

Four-way tug of war.

Slip'n'slides that were carved into the slope of a steep hill.

Touch football matches that often turned into tackle football.

Full contact Ultimate Frisbee.

Camps were always the Super Bowl of dangerous and/or embarrassing entertainment. Every year had a different theme and those in charge of group recreation worked hard to have games that fit the theme. That meant many of the games during the year of "The Doctor Is In" involved bedpans. Two memorable relay races sent participants from one end of the field to a bed pan waiting at the opposite end. In one race the bedpans were filled with warm rootbeer and we were expected to drink as much as we could through a straw while laying on our stomachs, without using our hands. In the other race the bedpans were filled with baking flour and a package of M&Ms hidden in the powdery white mess; first team to find 20 M&Ms (again, without the use of hands and laying on our stomachs) were the winners.

Every year, the pinnacle of camp fun was the annual shaving cream fight. During the week, campers and counselors could purchase cans of shaving cream to save for the final night of camp. On that last night, a section of grass about the size of a tennis court (singles not doubles) was roped off with water filled garbage cans at each corner. All those who wished to participate would climb inside the cordoned area and wait for the whistle to blow. After the shrill cry of the referee's whistle, that small patch of grass turned into a battlefield. The ensuing pandemonium resembled what would happen if the food fight scene from Hook was set in Mad Max's Thunderdome. The war raged until the last man standing or until everyone ran out of shaving cream. The grass and surrounding field was stained a foamy white. Muscles and egos were bruised. And participants still smelled like shaving cream the next morning.

But at my church, when it was just us - the kids in our youth group - our favorite game was Wink 'em Blink 'em. This was an incredibly violent and flirtatious mash up of the Hunger Games and Blind Date. The girls would sit in a circle with one empty seat and a guy would be standing behind each chair including the empty chair (or the guys would sit with the girls behind them). The guys (or gals) would be staring at the top of the head of the person seated in front of them... all except the guy with the empty chair. He would be looking at all the girls and eventually, he'd wink at one of them.* The girl he winked at would try to escape her location, move across the circle, and sit in the empty chair. The guy standing behind her would attempt to catch her before she got away. Or roles reversed with a girl winking at a guy and that guy trying to flee the girl behind him. During my first years in the youth group, a simple tap on the shoulder was enough to keep the sitter in the seat. But as I got older, we got progressively more aggressive. Soon, the person that was winked at was permitted to continue away the single handed tap of the peer behind them. Both hands had to touch the shoulders. But then a two handed tap (one hand on each shoulder) was not enough; the person trying to prevent the escape had to hold the runner in place. Then we allowed those that were winked at to do all they could to elude the grasp of the person behind them.

By the time I was a high school senior, our rounds of Wink 'em Blink 'em produced more rug burns and bruises than I can possibly count. I can recall a few torn shirts. Jimmy got a set of fingernails scratched down his back that tore through both cloth and skin. Hair was pulled. Eyes were blackened. And there was at least one bloody nose.

I can't believe our youth leaders remained trouble free with our parents for such games. I hope my kids never have such insanity inflicted upon them. However, I wouldn't trade those days for anything.

We were young. We were wild. We were free. And we were unashamed. Sometimes, it would be nice to feel like that again.





* Now that it's in print - Wink 'em Blink 'em sounds way creepier than I remember.

More on games

As I mentioned yesterday, I enjoy video games. But I also enjoy table top games - especially party games. I love those games where the number of players doesn't really matter and the rules can be adapted to fit your current party needs. Those games that don't consume hours from start to finish. (Am I the only one that participated in a marathon game of Risk that lasted over a week?) Those games that can be played with a minimal amount of strategy, planning, or explanation.

When it comes to party games, these five are my favorites.

I never would have guessed that matching pronouns to a noun could be so entertaining.

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My father-in-law always wins this game. Always. He has a prodigious vocabulary that is like a hurricane, destroying everything in its path.

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I am really good at this game. I won't say why.

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A spin off from Cranium, this game is all about ranking your favorite things... when other people guess your favorite things.

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I'm cheating on this last one because Uno isn't really a party game. However, it's not really Uno that I consider one of my favorites - but a variant taught to us by a friend. He says his family invented the rules and they call it "Killer Uno." The best way that I can describe it is that it's like combat Uno.

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Honorable mention....

I can't call this one of my favorites, because I've never played it. Which is a shame.

From what I've been told, this game is a lot like Apples to Apples, but more demented. If you own this game, you must bring it over. I'll supply the chips and salsa and we will play.

two much cool for one day

one

Bekah and I periodically eat dinner at her parents place, and last night was one of those occasions.

If Italian food is being served and garlic bread is required, Bekah makes it. However last night Bekah and I were halfway to Spokane when the food was being prepared and Bekah's mom called for instructions: how do you make garlic bread?

Cut the bread lengthwise, in half. Melt a cube of butter, mix in granulated garlic and Italian seasoning. If you don't have Italian seasoning, use parsley and basil. Spoon the butter mixture onto the bread. Bake.

Dinner was wonderful, but the bread had no flavor. My father-in-law even lamented the lack of garlicishness. Mom's explanation was she used garlic but she must not have used enough. As dinner finished, Dad stood up to leave and noticed something out of place.

"Why are the sesame seeds out?" he asks. Apparently, the reason the garlic bread did not taste like garlic was caused by a liberal use of sesame seeds instead of granulated garlic.

two

One the way home Bekah and I encountered a rather bizarre accident. It was one of those sights that make you wish you had taken a picture because no one will believe you when you tell them what you saw.

The accident was most likely caused by someone who had drank a little too much. It was enough to require response from two police units, an EMT, fire truck, and two tow trucks for one car. All the commotion blocked the road to all southbound traffic on Ramsey, forcing us to take a detour to the freeway.

I didn't think it was possible but the car, a station wagon, had driven up the aerial drop of one of the utility lines. The car came to a stop at about a 70 degree angle, back bumper resting on the sidewalk, perfectly balanced on the cable. Who knew those phone wires were SO strong.

I don't know how it happened but I wish I was there to see it happen.

one more for good measure

We found an entertaining way to play Scategories. Instead of picking a list and everybody thinks up words from the same list, you pick a list and everyone thinks of words from a different lists... as long as it is not the list picked at the beginning of the round. When time runs out, everyone compares their wrong answers to the correct list and see who can come the closest to being coherent.

I apologize if that sounds confusing, but that is the best explanation I can think of right now. If you're like me and you suck at Scategories, give this version a try. It is an entertaining spin and who knows... you might fare better.