Author: Wil

I just found out that Dancing Barefoot is number three on Mysterious Galaxy’s 2003 Paperback Bestsellers list!
I know for a fact that this wouldn’t have happened without WWdN readers. Thank you 🙂

Over the last eight years, I have always looked for ways to connect with the boys. It’s a delicate dance that I have to do, respecting their limits while pushing them to give new and different things a try. It’s made even harder by my position in their lives as a Stepparent™. Most of the things I love are rejected out of hand, because to embrace those things would be to wholly embrace me, which (in their minds) would be to somehow betray their father. I have shared my interests and passions with them, but beyond poker, and Ryan’s limited affection for 80s alternative music, we have little in common at this point in their lives. It makes me sad from time to time, but it’s something I have to accept; they’re just not interested in geeky things like comics and RPGs. I’m sure that part of it is their age, and the differences in our generations. There are times when we make wonderful connections, but I still lay awake some nights and wonder if I’ll ever be able to fully close the gap that currently exists between us.
I’m not a car nut, by any means. I think American muscle cars from about 1960-1974 are pretty damn cool, but I could care less about today’s expensive sportscars . . . Nolan, on the other hand, positively loves them, and while we were at the car show, he made an effort to share that love with me, the same way I’ve attempted to share my love of science fiction with him. On the surface, this is just a car show . . . but it’s much, much more to me . . .

Over the next hour or so, we slowly moved from one booth to the next across the West Hall. I watched Nolan as he sat in several cars that he likes to drive in various Xbox games. I could see the far away look in his eyes while he was in the Audi TT, gripping the wheel tightly as he pulled through turns across Trafalgar Square in Project Gotham Racing, and I smiled. He finished his race (in first place, no doubt) and got out of the car.
“Nice driving,” I said. “Ready for the South Hall?”
“You know it,” he said, and took my hand.
We left the hall, and headed down a long corridor. Our walk was uneventful, until we neared a small chamber called the Concourse Hall. Nolan looked in as we passed, and stopped abruptly.
“Oh my god, Wil! We have to go in there! I just unlocked a Lotus in PGR2, and they’re totallygoing to have the real one here!” He said, “Can we? I’ve never seen one in real life.”
“Of course!” I said, “That’s why we’re here.”
We walked into a room that was packed (well above its capacity) with hundreds of exotic sportscar enthusiasts. In addition to the Lotuses, this hall contained the Bentleys, the Ferraris, the Lamborghinis, and the Saleens.
“Man, this room is really full. Should we come back later?” Nolan said.
I looked around the room. It was hot, and a faint reek of greasy hair and sweat hung in the air, like an elementary school hallway after lunch recess. Several people pushed their way past me, one of them knocking me off balance. Nolan squeezed my hand and steadied me.
“I think the Lotus booth is just to the right,” I said, “I think we can at least see that, and if it’s too crowded, we can come back later on.”
“Are you sure?”
In the far corner of the room, a group of men cheered, and I saw several arms reach into the air.
“Yeah. I think there’s just some sort of giveaway happening over there.”
“Maybe it’s a free whack at the GTO,” Nolan offered.
“Oh! Where can I sign up?” I said.
We giggled and slowly wove our way through the teeming masses yearning to win prizes, until we were pressed right up against the rail in front of the Lotus booth.
We hadn’t even stopped moving when Nolan went off on this car. He was like an audio version of Car and Driver.
“Can I take pictures?” He asked.
I handed him the camera and told him to go nuts.
A few minutes and about a thousand pictures later, we squeezed out of the suffocating room.
While we walked past a booth selling Auto Show T-Shirts, Nolan said, “Wil, I can get so many Kudos with that car in PGR 2 –” He stopped, and turned to face me.
“Is this boring for you?”
It was a very unexpected question, and caught me completely off guard.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I keep stopping you to look at cars.”
“Nolan, it’s a car show. What else are we going to do?”
“Okay, I’m just checking.” He looked away, then back to me. “Are you sure you’re not bored?”
“Nolan, I’m really happy to just be hanging out together, and I think it’s totally cool that you’re into these cars. I’m having a fantastic time.”
“Okay,” he said.
We walked another fifteen feet or so before he stopped again.
“Thanks for bringing me here, Wil.” He hugged me, right there by the Los Angeles Times booth.
I hugged him back, tightly, in spite of myself. “You’re welcome, Nolan. Thank you for telling me that.” I smiled. I’ve spent most of the last eight years teaching both kids to be compassionate and appreciative. I love it when I see a little glimpse of my parenting in action.
“I’m really glad we did this today,” he said.
“Me too.”
(Next time: The real return of the muscle car!)

Hey, take a look at this, from Alan Graham:

I normally don’t ask for help, but this is a situation where all I can do is make an appeal. My friends could make all the difference in the world. My wife recently became the Director of a non-profit art program that serves thousands of children . . . in a major budget crisis. They have no usable computing gear (their ONE Dell is ready for pasture). So I donated a lot of my personal gear and time . . . including one of two computers I plan to donate (we’re not rich, but I do have some stuff I can spare).
Well this morning my wife fell and injured herself . . . and the clamshell iBook I donated . . . which now has a cracked screen. Cannot be used and cannot be fixed (screen is more than the machine is worth). We’re not asking for one penny . . . but are looking for some folks who might help, out there in the blogosphere, to turn those lemons into some lemonade. I don’t have the money to repair the machine (and not asking for any), but I could use a little word of mouth.

Alan is a great guy, and it would be really cool to help out. Take a look at his page, and learn about the program (The Children’s Art Network) his wife is directing. It’s fantastic.
If you know someone who has some extra Apple computer stuff they don’t want or need, or maybe have a connection to a Dickensian Mysterious Benefactor, pass it along, okay?

My pal Sean brought this lovely photo to my attention.
It should give the restless WWdN reader something to do for, oh, six or even eight seconds today!

I had the strangest dream last night: I was working in my office, and there were hundreds of Dreams standing in my hallway, making a cacophonous racket as they fought with each other to be the first through the door.
I got up from my desk, threw my glasses down in disgust, and flung the door open so I could tell them to quiet down.
The hallway was empty and silent, and that’s when I woke up.
Here’s part two of The Exciting Adventure of Wil-man and Nolan-boy and the Strange Case of The 2004 Los Angeles Auto Show:

“So where should we start?” I said. My answer came in the form of Nolan running toward the biggest SUV I’ve ever seen. Seriously. It was a few feet shorter than a Star Destroyer.
I caught up with him as he climbed into the back seat.
“Wil! Look at how much room there is in here!” He said as he bounced and extended his legs to barely touch the back of the seat ahead of him.
“Yeah, but the power to destroy a planet is insignificant next to the power of The Force.” I reminded him.
He looked at me with a furrowed brow. “What?”
“Sorry,” I said, “I was having a nerd moment.”
“Oh, good. I hope we can have lots of those today.” He said, dryly.
“I find your lack of faith disturbing.” I said, and twitched my fingers.
He shook his head and laughed, “Whatever, Wil . . . ”
He hopped out of the truck, a Bvlgari-styled Cadillac Escalade, (which, I must admit, while being quite possibly the most environmentally irresponsible vehicle on Earth, was pretty damn sweet. Its interior was more like a Gulfstream jet than a car) and took my hand.
“Let’s go see the GTO,” he said.
“Do you think it’s going to look any less ugly than last year’s?” I asked him.
“I sure hope so!” he said, and we were off.
We made our way through the crowd, which was quite similar to the 405 on a Friday afternoon, and landed at the Pontiac booth. The 2004 GTO turned slowly on a raised platform in front of us.
“Oh –” he began, and looked up at me. “Can I say a cuss word?”
“What word?”
“The cuss word version of ‘dangit.'”
I looked at the abomination that is Pontiac’s “updating” of the GTO, and heard thousands of voices cry out in disgust, only to be suddenly silenced.
“Yes,” I said, “yes, you may.”
“DAMMIT!” He said, emphatically. “What an ugly pile that is!”
I nodded. “It sucks the most,” I said.
“Aren’t muscle cars supposed to be cool?” He said.
“Yep.”
“Like mom’s Mustang. That’s cool.” He said.
“Yeah. This isn’t a muscle car. It’s like a Taurus that is pretending to be a muscle car. Let’s get out of here before anyone sees us and thinks we’re admiring this thing.”
We hurried out of the Pontiac booth, past a middle-aged couple.
“Oh my god,” the man said as we passed, “I can’t believe they did this to my car.” His wife put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
(More next week. Have a great weekend, everybody!)