Yes, it's true. I was pwned by an 8 year old.

I went to visit my niece this weekend; we were out in the court to try her new Estes Hydrogen Fuel Rocket.

This thing is amazing as it is educational. It splits water into hydrogen and oxygen, and then electronically ignites the gases in an enclosed space, sending a rocket soaring into the air 200 feet or more. No special igniters. No solid fuel cells. In other words: safe, reusable, fun.

Well, right in the middle of the launch sequence, she looks at me and asks, "is that your phone ringing?"

I was pretty sure I had my phone on vibrate, but I pulled it out to double check. "Nope..."

Before I could continue, she said, "It must be mine," and she pulled out a cell phone from her back pocket, nods that it was her, opens it, and excuses herself to take the call, stepping back toward her driveway.

Meanwhile, the rocket was still bubbling and the launch pad was spewing out verbal facts about Hydrogen.

But I wasn't paying attention. I was trying to figure out if she had her mom's cell, but she didn't. It certainly wasn't a toy. And at that point, I'm pondering between the wisdom of giving a child a cell phone to call home or be reached, versus the certain insanity that would result come billing cycle if a child didn't understand cell plans.

She comes back, closing the cell phone and putting it in her pocket, "it was my friend; she was letting me know she's has a sleep over. Where are we at in the launch?"

I had to pause, we weren't at the launch phase yet, "Uh, maybe another minute." I was still thrown off guard that she was that entrusted.

Then I got to thinking, why don't I have her number? Or why doesn't she have mine, for that matter.

"What's you number?" I asked.

"Huh?" She shrugged. "I dunno."

Ah! Perhaps that what the parents did. They got some special plan where she can receive inbound calls or something. Now I was determined to figure out what it was.

"Do you have my number in your phone?"

She thought for a moment. "No, I don't think so."

"You want it?"

"Sure!"

I pull out my cell phone, retrieve my number and show it to her.

"I don't know how to add it to my address book."

Fine, what I was really after was her number. I'd get her to call me, caller ID would save the number, and I'd save it.

"Can I get you to call me."

"Ok."

She looks at my number, types it in, and holds the phone up to her ear.

My phone's dead and lifeless.

"Ring ring." She says, waiting.

I'm still waiting for the call to connect.

"Ring ring." She's looking impatient.

Still nothing.

Before I can deduce that perhaps she misdialed the number, she starts giggling. "Why aren't you answering?"

"My phone isn't ringing."

"Yes it is, I'm saying 'Ring ring'."

Then it hits me, her parents gave her a dead cell phone to play with. And at this point she realizes I thought she was serious the whole time and bursts into laughter at my foolishness.

"I thought you said you had a cell phone!" I exclaimed, trying to dig myself of out the trap with a logical justification.

"I do," she said, "my parents gave it to me." And with that, I realized I'd been set up from the beginning.

She hit the fire button, and the rocket shot upwards with a loud bang, startling me. I had been paying more attention to the phones than the rocket. Clever kid.

There's a fairly large chance that you've been to a Japanese Steakhouse before. You know the kind, where you sit down at a huge flat grill, the chef comes out and whips knives and spatulas around his fingers, throws food here and there, and you've got yourself a meal.

When it comes to the part with tricks using fire, I've often thought: "I could do that myself!"

And I'd be wrong.

Last night I ( [Oh dear God, read more...] )

Those who know me have come to terms that I'm interfaced into the Internet almost in real time. eMail is always the best way to reach me. When I'm sitting in front of a terminal, whether for work or pleasure, numerous chat clients are active in the background. Even away from a machine, my phones and automated scripts keep some kind of virtual presence active of one form or another. As a result, friends, family, and co-workers can see my status, location, and reach me with impressively short response times.

Today something interesting happened.

Last night, I was working on a fairly complicated piece of code and had set up a rather complex environment that I didn't want to have to reinitialize in the morning. Rather than shutting down the machine, I took all my instant messaging clients off-line, and this morning I didn't start them up, relying on the built-in chat facilities of Google's GMail.

However, as I was researching, I accidentally closed the GMail window unknowingly, and to the Internet, I went dark.

I had not realized how connected I had become, using chat and emails as a primary means for others to reach me. Well, that was until a co-worker came rushing in to see if I was alright with genuine concern.

He was fairly certain I was in the next room, his email didn't get a near instant reply, and there was no way to reach me interactively. For anyone else, this would have been no big deal. However, my heart was warmed by this sincere response.

Yes, folks. If my Borg-like collections goes down, please check on me. I might have died or be in need of immediate medical attention.

This morning as I was leaving the house to go to work, I gave the wife a hug and a kiss goodbye. And let me tell you, she smelled awesome.

So, I stuck around an extra minute.

“You smell fantastic! What are you wearing?” I asked, plowing my nose behind her ear.

She thought, “Uh, nothing. Maybe it’s the laundry?”

I smelled the fabric of her soft shirt. Instantly the scent of wild flowers, babbling brooks, and summer breezes sent me reeling into fond memories.

Without thinking, I replied “Yup. That’s it. You should wear clothes more often!”

She went red.

Apparently I like my women dressed. I didn’t know that about myself.

So some of our really cool friends who live in the neighborhood hold this amazing backyard party each year, in which they rent an enormous water slide that's about as tall as their two story house.

The day after the party, their real friends head back over to help clean up. And that was what we were doing tonight.

As it started to rain outside, we all gathered the external lights, furniture, food, tables, and so forth. I made a run for a huge extension cord, feeling that electricity and water wouldn't mix.

Their little girl decided to help me. And, while untangling the cord, she engages me in the most adult conversation that I've had with her in the past three years.

She begins, "So, how come you didn't go down the water slide with me?"

"Well, we had some friends come over, and they wanted to talk."

"I know. That's all you do guys do is talk. It's so boring."

Remembering this feeling exactly while I was a kid, I thought I'd get her perspective. "Yeah, I know - what should we be doing?"

She paused, placing her finger on her chin. "I think you should do video games and play board games more."

With a look that I had been given total enlightenment, I replied: "Oh my gosh, I feel like I've just been wasting my whole life away."

"I know," she agreed a little too quickly.

"Where's you learn all this?"

She puffed out her six year old chest with pride. "I'm in the first grade." And as I took in her achievement, she added "Yes, it's true. I graduated from pre-school. I'm very, very smart."

And together we wrapped up the rest of the cord, she carried it in, and I went down stairs to play video games with the adults. Honest to God, cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.

The other night my seven year old niece came over and wanted to do some star gazing, so I grabbed my nice pair of binoculars, handed them to her, and we headed outside.

As we were walking through the front door, she bumped them against the door frame pretty hard. Now these are fairly expensive optics, and perhaps I should have known better. I didn't say anything, but it must have been obvious from the brief sharp squint on my face that I had concern, as Madison looked up and apologized without prompting:

"Uncle Walt, I'm really sorry I bumped your binoculars. I didn't mean to." She paused for reflection, "I think it happened because I wasn't paying attention."

I was impressed by this very forthright and honest assessment on her part. "Are you paying attention now?"

She thought for a second, "I'd like to think so."

Ah, if only we all could have this kind of open dialog at work.

Need I say more?

We're driving on Rt. 7 West, coming up on the Borders, when all of the sudden there's squealing of tires in the left lane and horns go wild. My wife, who also happens to be in the left lane and driving, notices the pile of cars stopping in front of her and makes a spiffy abrupt lane shift into the safety of the left turn lane.

In front of us a rather large woman has come to a DEAD STOP on the LEFT LEFT on a THREE LANE HIGHWAY. Why? She forgot to get in the left lane and is now trying to cut into the front of the line. Meanwhile, cars coming over the hill behind her are going 50 miles an hour, seeing a row of green lights, and getting a rude awaking.

Everyone is hitting their horn, and she's insistent she's got to make the left THERE.

It's stupid actions like these that really make me want to release Walt's Driving Tips to the public in book form. While everyone is throwing her the finger, I'm making eye contact from a few cars back and signaling with hand gestures to go up to the next light and make a legal U-turn. She nods, pulls out, and does just that.

As we pass her, we discover that she's a Maryland driver (ah, that explains it), but that there are also three heavy set men in the car with her. My thought: there should have been enough testosterone in the car to have known that was a bad idea.

I'm all for natural selection taking people out -- I've even made generous donation to the Darwin Awards, but when it comes to endangering innocent bystanders, or bydrivers, that's totally off the mark.

Stupidity knows no speed limit, as moments later we're pulling into our neighborhood from Rt. 7, and for those who don't know there's two left turn lanes into the subdivision. There's also two new lights, just to undo any conveniences we might have from the former.

As the two lanes of slow moving traffic are driving by, the woman in the red car next to us decides to start coming over into our lane. I suppose she saw no problem with this, because she certainly didn't see us, and she had the forethought to put on her blinker signal when she was already half way over.

I start calling out, look out, look out. And Tamara, still driving, starts to swerve for invisible squirrels. To the best of her knowledge, she had been solidly in her lane with plenty of space before and after -- and she was right. Tamara starts grabbing her heart like she's having a heart attack, as my panic is not calming down as this lady is now an arms distance from me.

I wildly start pointing out my window, saying look out, and Tamara abruptly takes the shoulder, nearly run off the road entirely, as VA JYC-8896 is half way in our lane and I'm squarely looking at her as our side mirrors almost interlock. She's got this totally surprised look, like we've got the gaul to spontaneously materialize during her blind maneuver, and retracts into her own lane, and then drifts in behind us.

As if death defying experiences aren't funny in their own right, I suddenly realized how this had to have looked to the other driver.

While I was frantically pointing out the window indicating the direction of danger, and surprised by seeing the face of the other driver so close, that driver most likely looked over and interpreted the scene as a passenger in another car chastising her for drifting over and doing a finger gesture that looked like scolding implying "you look what you just did!"

I don't know how serious the other drive could have taken me. Minutes before, Tamara had me rummaging for sun glasses for her, and her purse, which is where she thought they'd be, was delicately balanced in a very prissy manner on my knee at the time of said scolding.

We were playing DND at a friends house the other week, and in the middle of the game, we heard a burst of tears come from the basement. The adults went running down to see which child was crying and why.

It was Philip. Our host's 3 year old son.

Alligator tears were streaming down his face, and his mom asked him: "Philip, where did you hurt yourself?"

Philip stopped crying for a second, looked up at mom, and pointed to the sofa, replying "Over there."

I suppose as a parent, it's difficult to employ the proper degree of empathy when your child causes you to burst into laughter.

I don’t practice Lent. After looking at the top twenty list, maybe that’s for the better.

20. Personal Hygiene
19. Private Bathrooms
18. Shelter
17. Self Control
16. Doors
15. Charitable Donations
14. Lent Itself
13. Gravity
12. Sobriety
11. Spell Check
10. Use of My Thumbs
9. Underwear
8. Verbs
7. Going to Work
5. The number 6
4. Mandatory Medications
3. Taxes
2. Virginity
…and the number one thing to give up for Lent…

1. Monogamy


Walt-O-Matic

After traveling all over the West coast, attending computer conferences, getting sick, and playing catchup, I felt like it was time to unwind and just do something fun before work snuck up on me Monday. So, I surprised the spouse by announcing I'd like to have the niece (6.5) and nephew (3) come over for the day. My intent was to take photographs and go out to dinner. Connie, their mother, was happy to oblige.

The kids showed up and made a bee-line to the toy area. I'd seeded it with a number of things from a My Pretty Pony and Barbie to trucks and a Nurf airplane. The kids tore into the cache and had a blast, and as always, this escalates to chases around the house, and it ended with Erich and I throwing the Nurf airplane back and forth back and forth from the top and bottom stairs.

With the sun going down, I decided it was time to pull out the photography equipment before we lost what light we had. I had this new setup that was a huge backdrop, allowing the kids to spread out and not have a cluttered scene. Erich insisted on wearing a tie that was far too long, and Madison wanted to make exaggerated body contortions -- which, as we were all surprised, turned out to be some of the best photos we got of the event.

We wrapped up by going out to eat, and the kids asked for Mac'n'Cheese and a salad. With this meal came a set of saltine crackers. Two in a sealed pack.

I looked over at Madison and complained "I didn't get any crackers!" And in her nearly 7 year old playful way, moved hers safely out of reach from me.

That's when Erich tugged on my shirt. "Uncle Walt, you can share mine." And he handed me his one and only cracker package. It's things like this that tug on your heart strings.

"Thank you Erich," I said, not really wanting the crackers, but appreciating the gesture, and started to open it. I was quickly interrupted.

"No, no -- they're special, for dessert," he corrected me. So, I took the crackers and proped them up against the table decoration so we could watch them in growing anticipation.

The meal progressed better that you might expect for two kids who might be more interested in playing with their uncle than eating. But finally the moment arrived, Erich declared we were done and may now have our crackers.

He reached over, took the two cracker pack, and struggled to get through the plastic wrap. This is what I love about Connie's kids, they've been taught not to whine and fuss when they get frustrated, but simply ask an adult for help.

"Uncle Walt, can you help me open this?" Erich asked in his charming little voice.

"Sure, Erich. I can help you." And I took the crackers, opened the wrap just enough so that he could complete the task, and handed it back to him.

Now remembering that it was difficult to open when he handed it to me, Erich used the same mega-human super strength to remove the crackers after I had returned it to him. One went flying on the floor, the other he caught in his hand in a move that would have made Spiderman proud.

Erich looked at the cracker in his hand, then me, then the floor, then back at me. And in the saddest, most compassionate voice he said, "Ohhhh nooooo,....", he looks back at the floor, "...that one was YOURS."

Then, with cracker still in his hand, he eats it -- right in front of me, no compulsion nor guilt.

It was starting to get late, and Erich had to give up his place on my lap so that Madison could also do situps (it took a while for the check to arrive, so I was keeping the kids busy and trying to wear them out). Erich wasn't happy, started to get a little fussy, so mom started counting slowly to three.

As every child knows, you never want mom to actually reach three. Erich got to mom, wimpering, by two. In his mind he wasn't done doing situps, and it wasn't fair.

We were ready to leave, but Erich didn't want to go until he got to do his set of situps. Unfortunately, there wasn't time.

"Hey Erich!!! You wanna go back to my place?"

"No."

And I blurted it out, the ultimate bribe... "You can drive!"

His eyes lit up, and what I originally intended as a funny joke, became a solid promise in his mind. His demeanor changed instantly, and he announced to mom, the waitress, the people sitting at the table near us, and the hostess that -he- was gonna drive us home. It was cute.

But, as we got the car, it became clear we were going to have a small problem on our hands. Erich realized as we opened the back door and stuffed him into the car seat, his dreams of driving were going to remain shattered for at least another 13 years.

He didn't make a fuss, but it was pretty clear, "You said I was going to drive, and I can't do -that- from back here."

I looked at Connie. Connie looked at me. And a big grin spread across our faces. I looked at Connie and said, "you okay with this?" She smiled. "Sure, why not." ...our dad had instilled in us the importance and difficultly by doing the same. I turned back to face the car seat, "Erich, I promise, you'll drive us home. No kidding."

He was certain there was a trick, "really?" Connie and I both affirmed.

I drove us home that night, but stopped at the top of our court, making sure there was no traffic anywhere, no kids playing, nothing. Connie instructed Erich to come up front, and as he eagerly climbed out of his baby seat, Madison started to have doubts surface. "Are you really going to let -him- drive?"

"Yes we are."

By this time, Erich was in my lap. "Can you reach the pedals Erich?"

"No..."

"Okay, then I'll do them for you. You tell me when to stop or go so we don't hit anything; meanwhile, you steer."

Eric grabbed both hands on the wheel and said "GO!"

And, at a creeping 2 miles per hour, down the dead center of the road, with my hands gently letting the steering wheel pass through them down at the bottom out of site, we crept every so slowly from our stopping point.

Madison in the back was holding on tight, "I really don't think this is such a good idea, Mom."

Now here's the part that was amazing. The kid -could- drive. I didn't have to correct for -anything- he did with the steering wheel. He kept us centered in the road, gently rounding the curve, and then did a perfect hand of hand, putting us into our driveway in the exact place we had left the car, and declared "STOP!" right at the same moment I was going to anyway.

Connie and I were down right impressed. Erich had absolutely no doubt he could pull it off, and he was thrilled beyond belief at having the actual opportunity to drive a car.

Now Madison wanted to try. Opps. Hadn't thought about that.

So, with Connie's permission, I drove us back up to the top of the hill to the same point, and we did the same steps. Only Madison pointed the car, at a parked on. My grip on the steering wheel was far more serious than when Erich was driving.

Erich started instructing her, "Turn left, you're gonna hit it." Madison did so, and over corrected, aiming at another car. "Too much," Erich instructed her again. Madison turned back a little, and, like before we crept into the drive way.

What was interesting was that Madison let the car roll into the center, where Erich had actually chosen a parking spot and placed the car there. This kid is going to be a natural.

Which, I suppose is good news, because when he gets his learners, I'm sending him to the store to get me a cracker.