For Jack-Archived

While I was on vacation I saw much wailing and gnashing of teeth on twitter (I wasn’t tweeting that much myself, just reading my stream occasionally) over adjustments to the upcoming Star Wars releases on Blu Ray.

There didn’t seem to be that many people complaining over the replacement of puppet Yoda in The Phantom Menace with a CGI Yoda – presumably on account of nobody liking that film anyway. I think it makes sense, actually, and at least should keep it consistent with CGI Yoda in the second two prequel movies. I’d be even happier if Yoda turned into a Muppet after being blasted by Palpatine’s Force lightning at the end of Revenge of the Sith, though.

Ah well, not to be.

Apparently there will be a bunch more changes, but one confirmed one is what people do seem to be getting in a tizz over – being the addition of Vader shouting his now unfortunately trademarked “Noooooo!” as he saves Luke by picking up the Emperor (one-handed, mind) and chucking him down a conveniently placed shaft at the end of Return of the Jedi. Well, conveniently placed if you’re Vader, less so if you’re the Emperor.

Now, I’d say I’m a pretty big fan of Star Wars. I know most of the movies backwards. I have toys that I bought as recently as earlier this year. There’s a better than average chance that I’ll buy some more before the year is out. I read the EU books. I’m one of those guys that should get upset by this.

And I don’t care.

I’ll buy the Blu Rays, and if the originals are ever released, I’ll buy them too. Star Wars has given me a lot of pleasure over the years and I can cope with changes being made here and there. Do I think they’re necessary? No. Do I understand why George Lucas keeps on making them? No. I’d assume he has better things to do, like roll around in wads of cash and light cigars with $100 bills.

But if he wants to keep making pointless changes, I’d say it’s up to him. Star Wars belongs to him, as far as I’m concerned, not us, not the fans.

I relayed all this in a conversation to my wife while we were driving between Glasgow and Manchester on vacation.

“It’s stupid,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Him making changes to them. Completely unnecessary.”

“Well, yes, but it’s up to him if he wants to. I mean, they’re his to do that to if he wants.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s like touching up the make up on the Mona Lisa.”

I had nothing to say to that.

Except that that’s why I married her.

Today, barring complications, the Space Shuttle Atlantis will launch at 11.26A.M. EDT on it’s final mission – and the final mission of the Space Shuttle Fleet, which has included the shuttles Columbia, Discovery, Endeavour Atlantis itself, and of course the ill-fated Challenger.

In addition, the first shuttle was named the Enterprise, which performed the early test flights in 1977 but was never orbital – and yes, it was named after a certain starship:

Current NASA director Michael Griffin may have said he believes that the shuttle program was a huge mistake, but – from a completely non-scientific, non-budgetary standpoint at least – I can’t agree, because it gave people the chance to dream.

We can’t all be astronauts or pilots, or afford to go into space ourselves, or be Brian Blessed (not completely random, as last I heard he was undergoing astronaut training), but we can dream of it and the space shuttle helped us do that. Watching the shuttle be launched into space inspired me – and millions more – and that can’t be underestimated. It looked like the future, and we’re so jaded by special effects in movies, and by the economy, and by wars at home and abroad that I think sometimes we forget that dreaming and wonder are important.

The next stage of NASA’s mission calls for a return to capsules mounted on top of the boosters. The Constellation project was canceled by the Obama administration, but the President maintains that returning man to the moon – and taking man to Mars in the next 30 years – is an achievable goal.

The space program gives us the chance to meet that goal. It extends our reach and reminds us that we can make what appears to be impossible possible (or possimpible). I hope it succeeds, and that we send manned craft back into space soon – because I want my son to grow up looking at the stars knowing that there are people up there, instead of asking me why we no longer send men there.

I’ll be watching the launch on NASA’s site later this morning, and chances are I’ll be a little misty-eyed while I do.

Yesterday while the better half was out I was playing with son Jack, now a year old, and the television was on in the background with the volume on low.

We were playing with blocks and some Little People (the Fisher Price toys, not actual little people which would be a bit strange) when he got distracted by something. I looked up and saw that the football show that was on – not that I’m in any way into sport, but I figure that shouldn’t stop me trying to imprint an interest on Jack – was being sponsored by the upcoming Yogi Bear movie, and Jack had been distracted by a trailer.

He was smiling at it. Worse, he was laughing at it.

In case you haven’t seen anything of it yourself, allow me to present a trailer for you so you understand where I’m coming from here:

This is what Jack was laughing at.

It hit me then that there are horrors of being a parent that I hadn’t even considered: I will, in the not-so-distant future, be forced to watch things like this aberration with my son. There’s no way out of it. I had anticipated things like Despicable Me and Megamind – things I may watch myself – but this?

Good lord.

My wife assured me when I told her about it that it’s because he doesn’t know better yet.

I pray that’s true. I pray that I can educate him as to what’s right and what’s wrong before it’s too late and I’m forced to watch this kind of thing – no, this kind of abomination.

…one of my best friends (sorry, Ian, not you) became something more. We’d met a year before and hit it off instantly, bonding the first night she joined the firm I worked for over copious amounts of alcohol and, against all odds, Star Trek and Star Wars.

A beautiful girl who (a) laughed at my jokes, (b) liked Star Wars and Star Trek, and (c) was beautiful (did I mention that?)?

Well of course she wasn’t going to kiss me. That would be too easy.

She told me that quite bluntly in the cab we shared on the way home from the pub, and she stuck to it for a whole year despite the fact that I was quite obviously after something more than simple friendship.

Something odd and unexpected happened in that year, though. I eventually stopped pursuing her romantically; I never stopped hoping, but it stopped being the sole basis of our relationship. We both moved on and continued to work together and go out for drinks with friends from work together.

And somehow we became friends. Really good friends. The kind that sit in their respective homes on a rainy Saturday night watching a movie and talking about it on the phone the whole time. The kind that ask each other for advice and can cheer each other up when the other one’s down.

I got a job with another firm a year after we’d met, and my last assignment ended up being with her, and turned into an away job (thanks to a petrol crisis and a wee bit of finagling on my part, I have to say). At the end, when we came back to Manchester and went out for my goodbye drinks with everyone, I finally plucked up the courage (dutch and otherwise) to kiss her. That was all that happened that night, even though she stayed over and hung around the whole of the next day and watched movies and cooked dinner. She was pretty clear that it wasn’t going to happen again, and she was firm about it.

We went out for drinks in the middle of the week and that was still her stance. I was pretty much at wit’s end: clearly that was it, and we were just going to be friends. Luckily for me she talked with her best friend Es on the phone who gave her a metaphorical slap around the head and set her straight.

That Friday when we were once again out for drinks with the work crowd (even though I’d left the week before), she leaned over the table to me and said “I’ve got something to tell you and I think you’re going to like it.”

I did. And ten years later to the day, we’re married, living in New York and have a beautiful baby boy and an awesome dog.

Here’s to the next ten. Love you.

A few nights ago after Jack had his bath, I put him down on the towel on our bed to dry him off before putting him in his pjs and giving him his nighttime bottle.

As soon as he was down, he rolled over onto his front, back onto his back and then over again onto his front again, grabbed an ointment bottle and shoved it in his mouth cap first.

We watched him for a moment before I picked him up, put him onto his back again and started to put cream on him as he tried to roll over again.

Gill smiled as she watched him. “It’s funny that a couple of months ago I was worried because he wasn’t interested in rolling over.”

I recalled what the doctor had said on one of his scheduled appointments about parents who worried about their babies getting teeth. “Well,” I said, “have you ever met someone who couldn’t roll over?”

“No,” Gill replied. “But he could only have wanted to turn over in one direction.”

I looked at her as Jack went for the tube of ointment again. “Nobody can only turn in one direction.”

She smiled. “No.” She paused. “Well, except Zoolander.”

As an Englishman, you might imagine that St Patrick’s Day isn’t that big of a deal to me, and you would be right – but you would also be wrong.

I have a tiny, tiny amount of Irish in me – maybe a quarter, but possibly an eighth depending on whether I’m remembering something correctly – but that’s not why it’s important.

Partly, it’s because of this:

Guinness is one of those drinks that takes some getting used to, in my opinion. It’s thick, heavy, plays havoc with your head and stomach if you drink too many (but what doesn’t?), but it’s also full of flavour (I’m back to my traditional correct English spelling today, ignoring my pandering to US readers) and, let’s face it, it’s a meal in a glass.

It’s also, in case you didn’t know, good for you.

This 1920s campaign for Guinness ran on the fact that researchers found that people felt better after drinking it. And, er, it had iron in it, so it must be good for you. Of course, once the UK developed a body to police advertising, the campaign was pulled because if there’s one thing we Brits can do, it’s take the fun out of something.

Anyway, years later, it turned out that Guinness may actually be good for you after all – providing, of course, you don’t drink too much. Or drink and drive. Or get into a fight after drinking a lot of it.

But I digress.

The point is, a lot of my fondness for St Patrick’s Day stems from the fact that, yes, I enjoy a pint of Guinness. I really only developed a taste for it – and therefore only started ‘celebrating’ this day – after I started work in Manchester in an office where a trip to the pub at lunch for a couple of pints was the norm. St Patrick’s Day was an excuse (not that we ever really needed one) for a massive booze up, and even though you’d normally be paying for it for days afterward, it was always a good day or night out.

Still, I don’t think anywhere does St Patrick’s Day like the US does it (well, maybe Ireland but even then I wouldn’t be too sure), and it’s always amusing to me how many people suddenly become Irish around this time of year.

St Patrick’s Day last year (or the weekend before it) was spent at a Pogues concert here in NYC with my wife’s cousin (who’s as Irish as Scotch Canadian can get) and his footballsoccer mates, where much was drunk including several rounds of slightly dodgy vodkas.

A few weeks after, we found out my wife was pregnant and would have been at the time – which makes this little guy stewed in a little bit of St Patrick’s Day broth whether he knows it or not:

And really, that’s just the best reason to like St Patrick’s Day as far as I’m concerned.

…to know that his parents love him.

…to not be afraid to take chances.

…to know that it’s okay to fail as long as you try.

…to be able to trust people.

…to watch Episodes IV, V and VI before I, II and III.

…to not trust the wrong people.

…to love as freely as he can.

…to wear his heart on his sleeve.

…to regret doing something rather than to regret not doing something.

…to know that it’s okay to be different.

…to watch all those old TV shows that his parents own.

…to not make fun of those less fortunate than him.

…to feel free to make fun of those more fortunate than him.

…to be true to himself, even if it means not fitting in.

…to find adventures in unexpected places.

…to know that some trees are there just to be climbed.

…to know why he shouldn’t wear a red shirt when he’s going somewhere new.

…to have respect for other people’s property.

…to learn that complaining doesn’t get you anywhere.

…to be able to ask and tell me anything.

…to tolerate his dad’s childish hobbies, just like his mum does.

…to know that every sunset is one worth watching.

…to look at the stars and dream.

…to listen to people’s opinions whilst making his own.

…to never give up.

…to not be too embarrassed by how much his parents love him.

…to know that ‘home’ means ‘safe’.

…to love animals.

…to know the difference between Marvel and DC.

…to play sports, even if his dad wasn’t very good at them.

…to act first and worry later.

That’s for starters.

It’s funny; neither of my parents are the slightest bit nerdy at all, but both my eldest sister and myself come pretty close. Honestly, I’m not sure that I really qualify as a nerd. I’ve never been entirely sure of the definition, or of the difference between a nerd and a geek – although somehow, I think that geek involves technology in some way.

My father comes closest to either definition, I suspect, but only because as an engineer he’s always been interested in computers and various gadgetry – something I have inherited in a far less hands-on way.

So where do all my interests come from? I think it’s because I was encouraged when I was little to pursue what I enjoyed. Just look at this picture of me aged 8, circa 1982.

Right there is pretty much the genesis of every bit of nerdiness I have – except for my deep and abiding love of all things Star Trek. Yes, even Voyager.

In this picture there’s evidence of my early interest in Star Wars, Doctor Who, fantasy, comics, books, Dan Dare, science fiction, figure collecting (in the form of Kermit and Fozzie) and even talking monkeys – allow me to elaborate:

See?

Right here, in this one photo, is the genesis of a nerd. I have to admit, in spite of collecting comics and toys (not to mention movies and TV shows) pretty consistently from the age I was in this picture to, oh, about now, I’ve always kind of hidden my nerdlight under a bushel.

I mean, yes, there was that picture of me in the Eagle wearing a logo jumper that my mum knitted for me (and believe me, if I can find that picture, I’m putting it up here), but aside from that I think I’ve always managed to come across as relatively…well, normal for lack of a better word.

I think the main reason for this was my shyness. I was – and still am – incredibly shy. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself too much when I was younger; to a large extent I still don’t. And I think because of it I’ve held back a bit from doing things that I always wanted to do. I followed the safe career path because that was easier.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s served me pretty well, and more importantly I met my wife through work so I can’t really complain too much – but I still have this itch that needs to be scratched.

As my wife has said in the past, looking wistfully at the bucket loads of money earned by ubernerds such as Joss Whedon, “Yes, you’re nerdy. You’re just not nerdy enough.”

I feel like my perspective has shifted over the past seven-and-a-bit weeks, and for that I wholeheartedly blame my son, Jack,  and Michael Chabon.

I’ve fallen into a routine – as new parents tend to do, apparently – and at about 11.30 every night, I give Jack his last bottle before he goes down for his sleep. I know that this won’t last that long as pretty soon he should be sleeping from 7pm or so – but right now, it’s probably the highlight of my day.

After he’s had his bottle, I burp him, change him, swaddle him, then hold him until he falls asleep – and while I do this, I read. Sometimes I read out loud, sometimes I read silently, depending on how sleepy he is. I’ve been getting through a few books this way, and the latest one is Michael Chabon’s Manhood for Amateurs.

As is par for the course for Chabon, his first collection on non-fiction i’s exquisitely written. Some of the stories are aimed at his children. Some, such as the one about his teenage sexual experience with his mother’s friend, you kind of hope aren’t.

But as I read them and look at my dozing son, I realize that I want to make sure I tell him my own stories. I want him to be able to learn from my mistakes and know that it’s okay to make his own. I want to tell him about the time I did this, and that, and maybe even the other.

And I want to tell him story-stories. Not just true stories but stories. I’ve become acutely aware over the past two months that time has passed right on by while I haven’t been paying attention. I’m thirty-five years old and I have exactly one piece of published writing, and I think I’m being generous counting even that piece as ‘published’.

So it’s time to change that. It’s time to gird my loins, refocus, giddy up, pick myself up by the bootstraps, and whatever the hell else I need to do to get myself together.

I need to make sure that the stories I haven’t told yet are told by the time my son needs to hear them.