"We are no longer the knights who say ‘Ni!’ We are now the knights who say ‘Ecky-ecky-ecky-ecky-pikang-zoop-boing-goodem-zoo-owli-zhiv’!’ We must give you a test."

"What is this test, oh Knights of . . . Knights who until recently said ‘Ni!’"

-Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

Night before last, Ryan and I got some take out for dinner, and ended up spending about three hours sitting at our dining room table, talking about all sorts of things. Our relationship grew several levels, and while I’m keeping the details of that to myself, I will do something I rarely do: I’ll take some credit for being a good parent. I will also do something I quite often do: I’ll marvel at how wise Ryan is. Both of the kids have their pod-people days, of course, but over the last several months, those days are fewer and farther between than ever before, and I’m grateful for that.

Late on Wednesday night, while we cleaned up our dinner dishes, Ryan said, "You know, I’ve wanted to watch Monty Python for a really long time."

"I have Holy Grail in the living room," I said.

"Do you think I’ll like it?" He said.

"Well, I’m not sure. It’s a blend of absurdity and dry British humor. It’s one of those things that you either grok right away, or just don’t respond to."

"Will you watch it with me?" He said.

"Sure," I said, "we’ll watch it tomorrow after dinner."

And that’s what we did. Anne and Nolan went back into our bedroom to watch TV, and Ryan and I fired up Monty Python and the Holy Grail on our home theater.

I was unsure if he’d like it or not, because his generation has been raised on the comedic stylings of films like Anchorman and televison shows like MAD TV — not exactly the type of humor you’ll find in Flying Circus.

I dimmed the lights, and hit play.

"Why are there subtitles?" He said.

"Just watch."

Around the time "a moose bit my sister once . . . " came up on the screen, he was holding his stomach, convulsing in giggles.

"Ah, good. He gets it." I proudly thought.

He loved all the things I loved when I was his age: the French Taunter, The Black Knight, The Castle Anthrax, and the Killer Rabbit.

"I can see why you liked this so much," he said when it was over. "How many times have you seen this?"

"Between eighty and a hundred, I guess," I said.

"Will you watch it with me again?" he said, "I feel like I missed some funny stuff that I’ll catch next time."

"Of course," I said.

"Okay, I’m going to bed now," he said.

He walked back to his room singing, "Brave Sir Robin ran away . . . bravely ran away, away . . ."

He laughed to himself as he closed his bedroom door.

I’ve been fooling around with Intellivision Lives! on Xbox, and it’s lead me down one of the most enjoyable rabbit holes I’ve ever dug on the Internets. The Intellivision Lives homepage has a metric assload of information about "Intelligent television," including catalogues, screenshots, history, programmers, all that cool stuff. I hit up WikiPedia for some extra information on the console itself (I had no idea that Intellivision was 16-bit all the way back in 1980!) and eventually found myself at The Dot Eaters.

Okay, If you’re a 1980s gamer geek, you could easily spend an entire day at this website, which is a comprehensive history of video games, beginning in the years that preceeded Pong, and heading all the way up to the Vectrex/ Atari 7800 years. The whole site is wonderfully put together, with old adverts, screen shots, and pictures of consoles, machines and designers. You know what it feels like? If Ken Burns did a documentary on video games, this material would be the companion book. So if you damn kids today want to research your Xbox’s family tree, or understand where your PSP came from, go check it out, but only if you have a lot of free time.

I just read the following over at Iggy’s:

Somebody was once asked to define blogs. They refused and said:

I
don’t care. There is no need to define “blog.” I doubt there ever was
such a call to define “newspaper” or “television” or “radio” or “book”
— or, for that matter, “telephone” or “instant messenger.” A blog is
merely a tool that lets you do anything from change the world to share
your shopping list. People will use it however they wish. And it is way
too soon in the invention of uses for this tool to limit it with a set
definition. That’s why I resist even calling it a medium; it is a means
of sharing information and also of interacting: It’s more about
conversation than content… so far. I think it is equally tiresome and
useless to argue about whether blogs are journalism, for journalism is
not limited by the tool or medium or person used in the act. Blogs are
whatever they want to be. Blogs are whatever we make them. Defining
“blog” is a fool’s errand.

Iggy agrees, and so do I.

 I didn’t go to Jeff Tweedy last night. Because of the blizzard in New York, my friend’s friends were stuck in town, and I gave up my ticket so one of her friends, who loves Wilco as much as I do and was stranded here for an extra day, could go to the show. (It helps to draw a little picture with arrows connecting friends, so you can see who is who in that paragraph.)

Instead, I had dinner with them before they headed to the show, and came back home, intent on spending the evening with the family.

When I walked in the door, Nolan and the dogs greeted me in the entryway.

"Hey, Wil!" He said before I even had the door closed, "do you have any plans tonight?"

"I’m just hanging out with you guys," I said, as I hung my keys on the designated key hook (you’ll find one in every house, you’ll see.)

"Cool! Can we play a game?"

"Sure," I said, "figure something out while I check my e-mail."

Nolan ran off to the back of the house, and dug through the big trunk of games. I opened my laptop and did a little TCBing from the dining room table.

He dug through all sorts of games, as simple as Jenga and as complicated as Illuminati. Finally, we settled on Gold Digger, which is a simple but incredibly entertaining game (especially when you call the mine with all the fool’s gold in it ‘the booty mine,’ and you sing a song that goes, "It’s booty time, in the booty mine; it’s mighty fine in the booty mine!")

So. We played several games of Gold Digger at the dining room table, while Ryan and Anne watched this total trainwreck of a show called Wife Swap.

Oh. My. God. Okay, seriously. How in the hell did that pile of shit get on television? How many great dramatic shows or brilliant comedies were passed over so that monument to completely disfunctional fuckups could pollute the airwaves? When it was about 2/3 of the way through, I asked Anne if she’d ever seen it before. She said that she hadn’t, and would never watch it again, but it was like picking at a scab: once she’d started she couldn’t stop. Ugh.

Anyway, Nolan and I did our best to tune out the "reality" television that snuck in from the other room like stink from the dump, and we had an absolute blast while we played.

We played three games, and Nolan ended up beating me by one point, thanks to his genius card-counting skills, and a bonehead play by me which set him ahead by four after the second game.

When we were done, he went to get ready for bed, while I cleaned up the cards and put the game away. Alone in the dining room, I thought about how totally awesome it is that my fourteen year-old kid wants to play games with me, and asks me to do things with him all the time. When I was fourteen the last thing in the world I wanted to do was hang out with my totally lame parents, much less play games with them, because they so totally didn’t understand me.

I have prided myself, these last ten years, on never trying to be a friend to Ryan and Nolan. I have always taken my responsibilities as a parent very seriously, and I believe that trying to be your kids’ friend is one of the fastest ways to screw them up. My thinking goes: they make friends at school, and they need parents at home. But this never meant that I didn’t want to play whiffle ball with them, or introduce them to geeky games, or anything like that. I guess it’s a parenting philosophy that one either intuitively groks or doesn’t, so I won’t spend a lot of time trying to explain it. The point is, even though he’s fourteen, (and occasionally has serious pod-person days,) he still wants to hang out with me. We make an effort to do things together, and I always feel like it’s important and rewarding to us both. It’s more than awesome. It is the hawesome. In fact, it is the reason hawesome was invented.