iPod, reshuffled

An occasional feature where we see what's on my iPod

A-ha? Oh yeah!

"Take on Me," A-ha: When you're ranking the best Grammy-nominated Norwegian '80s pop trios, A-ha is definitely in the Top 30. "Take on Me" makes me feel old because a decade ago, I could hit the song's famous high note, even at (or especially at) the end of a night out in college.

Now, most times when I go for "In a day or twoooooo!", I sound like the Gingerbread Man from "Shrek" getting punched in the stomach.

But I'll keep trying, much to the neighbors' dogs' chagrin. Because if Morten Harket taught us anything, it's that it's no better to be safe than sorry.

"Push," Matchbox Twenty: When I was in middle school, there was a girl I liked named Kristen who had cut her hair fairly short. One night, we were at a friends' house and the music video for this song came on TV.

(Yes, kids, there was a time when people watched music videos on TV. It was the Stone Age, or at least the Stone Temple Pilots Age.)

Anyways, as "Push" was playing on TV, I mentioned to someone that Kristen had hair much like Matchbox Twenty lead singer Rob Thomas. Word got to Kristen and she was not amused. And that's how I learned a valuable lesson: If you tell a girl in middle school she has the hair of a twentysomething dude, you better hope the bottle lands on her when you spin it because that's the only way you're going to kiss her.

"I Can Love You Like That," All 4 One: While "I Swear" is the group's best-known song, I always liked "I Can Love You Like That" better. As I was driving with Belle one night when we first started dating, she requested some music. So, of course, I began singing, for some unknown reason choosing this song.

When Belle threatened to jump out of the moving car, I turned on my iPod. The first song? "I Can Love You Like That."

We both sang along to the song about two years later during the first dance at our wedding.

"Go All The Way," The Raspberries: The song my dad says he wanted this to be his first dance at his wedding. My mom rejected the idea but still married him.

"The Rubberband Man," The Spinners: I turned on the TV early one morning a few months ago and stumbled across an infomercial for "Soul of the '70s." It was one of those offers for a 23-disc, 17,000 song collection where they show snippets of live performances of many of the songs, interspersed with gems of dialogue such as:

Host: Platform shoes! Big hair! Crippling inflation! The '70s were a crazy time!

D-List'70s starlet with a face that's only 20 years old: Ha! Ha! You are so right! And speaking of crazy, here's Wild Cherry with "Play That Funky Music."

Naturally, I watched the entire infomercial. One of the video clips was for "The Rubberband Man" and it is amazing. True to their name, The Spinners do a lot of spinning in their shiny, blue suits. The lead singer moves at times as if there is a bee inside his ruffled shirt, and the backup singers don't dance so much as shuffle behind their microphone stands. The group also is backed by what appears to be a 64-piece band.

Then, just when you think the video can't get any better, it happens -- the backup singers bring out giant, elastic bands as props while they dance. That's right, THEY BECOME RUBBERBAND MEN! One guy even ropes an lady onto the stage to play with his rubber band, and that's not a euphemism.

I had to watch this video multiple times just to take in everything. Now I know why The Spinners warn you to prepare yourself.

"Hold My Hand," Hootie and the Blowfish: I thought of a great joke about this song involving a fantastic, late '90s pop culture reference. But it's totally slipped my mind. Perhaps I'll remember it IN A DAY OR TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

End of the road

I sat in the sterile waiting room, trying to read the newspaper to keep my mind from thinking the worst. Mostly crappy, light rock music played softly overhead. An innocent, happy child, oblivious to what was going on around her, made enough noise to make me wish the crappy, light rock music was playing louder.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a man approached me with a serious look on his face.

This is what 170,000 miles looks like on the inside.

This is going to cost me a lot of money, I thought.

"We just had to give it some more oil," he said.

"OK, great," I said calmly, while imagining myself doing the backstroke Scrooge McDuck-style in a swimming pool filled with all the money I just saved.

"The only way to permanently fix this, though, is to replace the engine," he said.

As my money-filled pool quickly emptied, I asked him how much more time I had with my car. Could I make it to the end of the year?

"Yeah, that shouldn't be a problem," he said.

And, just like that, my blue, two-door Civic had a terminal diagnosis.

I'm not sentimental over many material possessions, but my visit to the mechanic got me thinking about how my car is one of the longest relationships I've ever had. We met in the middle of my senior year of high school. I remember picking it up and driving right over to a friend's house for what was to be first and only meeting of the Franklin Gentleman's Club. My car would have been a topic for discussion except for, um, the business at hand. (Although the use of our hands was forbidden during the meeting.)

The Civic now has almost 170,000 miles on it, plus a few dents and spots with chipped paint. It has been filled to the brim as it moved me into two apartments, one condo and one house. It can practically drive itself to the beach. It has a knack for finding nails to run over, one time even getting a razor blade stuck in the tire tread, which impressed the guy at the tire shop. It has made countless runs to the grocery store and been a personal recording studio to countless songs, mostly sung off-key.

A lady friend (or four) has sat in the passenger seat over the years. There were awkward conversations and a few laughs, and that was just when I was alone in the car before or after a date. But the Civic is also where, after driving home from my first date with Belle, I could not wipe the smile from my face and thought she might be The One.

Speaking of wiping, few things make me happier than a clean car. I've spent many a weekend afternoon lathering, rinsing and vacuuming. And then I wash my car. Granted, it almost always rains after I'm done, but for those glorious, 27 minutes of sunshine, my Civic looks all shiny and new.

Memories might be priceless, but if I can get a couple thousand dollars for my car when I turn it in, I'll take it. That money will not go toward purchasing my new car, though, because that is already in our garage. I'll soon be driving Belle's Corolla, a silver four-door with some pep and a small spoiler so named because it spoils the view out of your rearview mirror.

Belle, in turn, will get a new car. Something a little bigger, something with a bit more room, something that can fit -- gulp -- car seats.

This is going to cost me a lot of money, I think.

A nightly production with produce

"Waiter, there's a scape in my pasta!"
(Salad also contains farm-share veggies)

I was upstairs in the bathroom, probably checking for new ear hairs, when I heard Belle yell from downstairs, "What is this?"

I immediately did what any good husband would do: I tried to figure out, based on the inflection in Belle's voice, what I was in for. A woman almost always knows what "this" is: the question is a gateway to a larger discussion inevitably leading to me apologizing.

There was no sense of urgency or fright in Belle's voice, so I knew there was no bug for me to kill. (Belle does not like bugs.) And I didn't detect any annoyance, either, so I was pretty sure I did not leave a mess in the kitchen or newspapers strewn about the living room.

Instead, I detected a hint of confusion in her tone, a hunch confirmed when she appeared holding large, green vegetable stalks that jutted in all different directions, like Medusa's hair with a bad dye job.

It turns out she was holding scapes, the latest special delivery from our farm share. Every Friday afternoon through October, we pick up fresh produce from a nearby farm. And every Friday night, we wonder how in the world we are going to eat all of this fresh produce in one week.

That I'm even part of a farm share surprises me. Three-and-a-half years ago, I would never have guessed I would be spending time wondering what to do with kohlrabi. In fact, I'm still not sure what kohlrabi is and I have them (it?) sitting in the fridge.

Enter Belle.

The woman has never met a vegetable she wouldn't bite into. To watch her select items in the produce section is to watch a judge crown a champion at the Westminster Kennel Club. I call her "The Watermelon Whisperer" for the way she can pick out a succulent one each time.

To say Belle has expanded my palette would be an understatement. Since we've been together, I've discovered the joy of kale chips and learned "arugula" is not a four-letter word. The only bad thing about this farm share to her has been the realization that, since the produce comes right from the ground, there might be bugs in our vegetables that need to be washed away. (Again, Belle really does not like bugs.)

Once we get our vegetables, Belle figures out a menu for the week. Since the majority of our items seem to be Greens That Look Like Lettuce But Probably Have Another Name I Don't Remember So I Just Call Them "Lettuce," we make lots of salads. Whenever we finish a new dish, Belle asks for my assessment. There have been times when I will rave about a meal and rare times when I say I did not like what we had. But, generally, the conversation goes like this:

Belle: What did you think?

Me: It was good.

Belle: Well, would you make it again?

Me [with a little more enthusiasm]: It was good.

Belle: So you're saying you wouldn't want to make it again.

Me [slightly confused]: No, I said it was good. We could make it again. I liked it.

Belle: It was good but I think it was a little [salty/sweet/sour/dry].

Me: Well, I think it was perfect, just the way it is. Like you.

Belle [rolls her eyes]:

And then that recipe is never used again.

It's probably for the better, though, because it gives Belle a chance to find new recipes to use for our produce. It's like my grandmother always said: When life gives you scapes, cut them into pieces and put them in a food processor to make a pesto.

Just check for bugs first.

Life comes into focus in The Last Frontier

INSIDE A STEAM ROOM WITH FOUR OLD ASIAN GUYS SOMEWHERE OFF THE COAST OF BRITISH COLUMBIA -- In the end, we are all just people, with more that unites us than divides us.

Unfortunately, you can't take them home as souvenirs.

I thought about this while working up a good schvitz during our recent cruise to Alaska (Motto: "Come for the hell of it, stay for the halibut.") The four gentlemen in the steam room with me had also traveled great distances to see one of the most beautiful parts of America, breathe the fresh air and enjoy a slower pace of life in the Land of the Midnight Sun.

And, of course, to try to figure out how to use our digital cameras. There was so much fiddling with camera lenses and settings on the ship I kept looking for Tevye pulling his milk cart around the pool deck. In watching many men take photos, I also developed my Amateur Photographer Theory: The size of the camera lens is inversely proportional to the size of a man's tripod, if you catch my drift.
  
We also cruised to Alaska, if we're being honest, to eat until our stomachs waved the white flag. And then eat some more. For those who have never been on a cruise, imagine the fullest you've ever been after eating a meal. Now imagine feeling that way for seven days straight. (You get used to the feeling by Day Four.) Ordering multiple entrees and appetizers and desserts is not only allowed but encouraged. Note I didn't use the word "or"; if there were not multiple plates in front of me at all times, I felt I wasn't doing my job.

It's not just there is delicious food everywhere you look, it's that it's prepared and presented beautifully, too. For example, each night at dinner there was a chilled, fruit soup on the menu. It would be called something like, "pineapple reduction with buttermilk swirl." But I'm pretty sure the only thing "reduced" was the amount of syrup in the can of pineapples used to make the soup. And yet, each night, I eagerly looked forward to the fruit soup offering. One night, I swear I lapped up daiquiri mix under the guise of strawberry soup.

Our menu was significantly different than that of many of our hearty guides in Alaska. Some go to the food store once a week because that's how often food is delivered to the local grocery stores. Even more amazing were the dozen people living on a glacier for five months with more than 200 sled dogs. All of their supplies have to be helicoptered in, and they live two to a small trailer with one port-a-pot to share. On the plus side, they get better cell phone reception up there than I get in my kitchen.

But there's a friendliness and joie de vive about people in Alaska that we should adopt in the Lower 48. And by "people in Alaska," I mean those we met in the many gift shops near the port. When I was younger, I liked getting a T-shirt from somewhere we traveled during summer break to wear on the first day of school. Sure, it was a bit of a humblebrag, but I needed my fellow Franklin Middle School sixth graders to know that someone among them visited Central Perk during the summer of '95.

On our cruise, however, I noticed a large number of people wearing T-shirts or sweatshirts from the port we just left. Did they think others on the ship were not aware we were just in Skagway? Did they spill something on the shirt they were wearing at the port, requiring them to quickly change? Or, in what would I consider a genius move, did they pack less in their suitcases than they needed knowing they would buy clothing as the trip progressed?

Maybe we'll see these get-ups on "Dancing with the Stars."

Of all the outfits I saw on this trip, the ones that stood out the most were the husband and wife wearing a Hawaiian shirt and dress, respectively, with the same print. (It was so, um, stunning, that I had to take the photo you see to the right.) And that's when I realized that not only are we all just people with more that unites than divides us, but relationship dynamics are universal as well.

This insight led to a peek into my future thanks to Anna and Allwyn, the lovely Australian couple who have been married for more than 30 years and sat next to us at dinner. When I would order a second dessert even as I complained how full I was, Belle would give me a look of disapproval. When Allwyn tried to order one dessert, Anna told him he shouldn't eat that and had him order something else.

Allwyn and I discussed the love of our favorite football teams, his of Australian Rules variety (go Hawks!); our wives shook their heads and wondered how we could spend so much time and energy on a sports team. We dutifully went and fetched glasses of water for our beloveds to have by their bedside at night. Anna and Belle chatted about everything imaginable; Allwyn and I would keep the chitchat limited to in between bites of meat.

Lest you think these relationship traits are limited to men living in democracies, our assistant waiter, Tu, is from China and looked to be in his 20s. He was extremely helpful and friendly but on the quiet side. We found out halfway through our trip he had been dating a Chinese woman who also works on the ship for eight months.

"When we are together," he told us one night, "I mostly listen."

He'll be just fine.

In with the Old Guy

I'm a big believer that age, much like 690,131.42, is just a number. But now that I'm officially out of my 20s, I've started to notice certain signs of getting older.

Not my ear... yet.

It began a few months ago where most of my life-changing moments occur -- in the barber's chair. (I still maintain I was just waiting to be discovered to join a boy band in the early aughts when I was rocking the frosted tips.) Maria, who has been cutting my hair for years, was finishing up with the razor when she gently ran it over my outer ear, almost apologetically.

"Better on the outside of the ear than on the inside," I said with a laugh.

"Just wait a few years," the hair follicles in my ear replied with a laugh.

It was my first Old Guy Moment. And while I don't think I'll be needing adult diapers anytime soon, recently I've been paying closer attention to Old Guys to see what's in store for me.

One of the first things I do when I come across an Old Guy is look down, where I inevitably notice white tennis shoes. And not just any sneakers -- these always look beat up, like they've been on a Saturday errand run from hell. Do Old Guys buy the shoes already used? And where, exactly, do they get them? I swear I've never seen white tennis shoes at a shoe store. Maybe they are a dog whistle to an Old Guy. I guess I'll find out if and when I hear the siren's call.

The white tennis shoes on an Old Guy are often accompanied by tucked-in shirts, no matter the outfit. I get tucking the dress shirt into slacks, or a polo shirt into khakis. But do we need to tuck the old T-shirt into the bathing suit? For some men, maybe the tuck/untuck decision comes down to how to best downplay the size of the gut. The simplest solution might be some exercise which, on the plus side, means more time wearing the white tennis shoes.

Speaking of the gym, that's about the only place where you see an Old Guy with messy hair. Let's stipulate that many Old Guys don't have much hair to mess up. That will not be an issue for me, however, since I come from a line of men with full heads of hair. In fact, one of my great ancestors, Josephus Jacobus, had a thriving business in Babylonia selling hairshirts made straight from his scalp.

When it comes to modern-day Old Guys with hair, I've noticed very few use hair products and yet nary a follicle is out of place. When they walk in a breeze, the hair moves with the synchronicity of a rowing team and then immediately falls back in line when the breeze stops.

Right now, the front of my head is trained well but the sides and rear flank remain a Wild West without some hair paste, so I have some work to do (and some years to age). On the other hand, the Old Guy with perfect hair probably has to go to the bathroom every two hours while I'm in the prime years of bladder control, so maybe it all evens out.

The thing about all of these Old Guy traits is, I'm not exactly opposed to them. Maybe they are the Boy Scout badges of advanced manhood. Maybe, when you reach the age when you tuck a T-shirt into your jeans, you don't care that you tucked your T-shirt into jeans. We should all be as comfortable in our skins as an Old Guy.

Which is why I'm kind of looking forward to the journey, as long and filled with bathroom breaks as it might be. That just leaves one question: How long after turning 30 do I receive the Old Guy fannypack?

Tool time

As I've mentioned before, when it comes to home improvement, I'm more Tim Taylor than Al Borland. You know the old saying, "Measure twice, cut once"? I was always more, "Cut four times, measure once and then, maybe, look at the instructions." The handymen I saw most frequently when I was growing up were Moe, Larry and Curly.

I managed to get by as a bachelor living on my own. But once Belle and I moved in together, I realized my days of slightly-crooked pictures on the wall would be coming to an end.

But who knew a marriage license also was a contractor's license? Perhaps it's pride in home ownership or the fact I now possess a level, but I've become quite handy around the house.

It started the day we moved in and Belle wanted me to hang several boards on the wall, including a dry-erase board for our weekly dinner menu. (If you don't keep a weekly dinner menu, you should start immediately. It takes the suspense out of what's for dinner and replaces it with anticipation. Plus, you always know when it's going to be pancakes night and can plan the rest of your day accordingly.)

Don't let the snazzy design fool you -- the two chairs on the left are deadly

Anyways, the boards required two things I was not good at: anchor screws and straight lines. Anchor screws always meant to me "a drilling accident waiting to happen." And even with the aforementioned level, my decorating style could be described as "cockeyed."

Nevertheless,the first project in our new house was a chance for a fresh start I was eager to have. After a few stud-finder jokes (those never get old), I got down to work. I was a little nervous, envisioning our wall pockmarked with small holes as if we lived in a war zone.

But I successfully got the boards on the wall on the first try, much to the shock of myself, Belle, my mother-in-law and probably the construction crews working outside. Whoever invented the anchor screws that you screw, rather than drill, into the wall deserves sainthood.

Alas, there have been some construction hiccups along the way -- and by "hiccups," I mean "the small but noticeable crack on the side of our kitchen table." There also were times I thought Belle bought things just to challenge me, such as the TV stand with more pieces that fit together at right angles than a game of Tetris.

But everything has been built, hanged or installed, often with the help of my father-in-law, who is the best measure-er I have ever met. Some people take life one day at a time; he takes it by the sixteenth of an inch.

Then there were our barstools, which are pictured above. We initially bought two and I thought they looked off after the final turn of my Allen wrench. One of my proudest moments was when a professional handyman, who did in a day what would have taken me 52 years, agreed with me that one of the bar stools was structurally flawed. Finally, it wouldn't be my fault! The online reviews noted the stools were "sturdy but wobbly," which they were, but it got to the point I required guests to sign a waiver before sitting on the chairs.

We ordered new stools recently and, so far, they have remained upright and sturdy. Granted, no one has sat in them, but at least they don't look like death traps.

In the most telling sign of my growing confidence as Mr. Fix-It, I asked for a toolbox for my birthday this year, and not one made by Playskool. The only problem is, there are no more projects left to do. All of the major work required during our moving-and-settling-in phase is complete. I am a hammer looking for a nail.

I can hear some people close to me reading this and thinking, "There is plenty to assemble when you're getting ready for a baby." To which I say, "I wonder when the next pancakes night will be?"