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The whole point of Fallout 3 is to find your dad.  See what he’s up to.  Discover why he left you behind.  Unravel a mystery that only begins with your father taking off without you and leaving no answers to exactly why.  I’m missing the point.

It’s not that I’m not interested.  At some point I’ll find the time and energy to pick up his trail through the vast and desolate post apocalyptic world that make up my not so welcome home.  The mutants and nasty moles between him and I aren’t to blame.  I find them everywhere.  Another 1 or 20 don’t serve as much of a deterrent.

It’s just that my dad isn’t the sole story worth exploring.  I need to help a woman write a book, nearly sacrificing myself in the process.  I have to help a lady send a message to her family, discovering things she’d rather not.  Hell, a little boy just asked my help to find his father.  How can I refuse?

And each of these stories don’t end simple or even easily.  Many can be considered adventures all by themselves, both in scope and in the hours lost while following their twists and turns.  A simple bit of playing messenger ends in a murder mystery and the discovery of a cult whose methods and message are very mixed.  An attempt to bring light to a traitor ends badly for those I wanted to help.

These stories frame the world.  They make Fallout what it is, something beyond the rubble and depression, something very eager to tell you its story.

Rather that story really involves my dad, I can’t tell, at least not yet.  I assume it must.  I won’t know for a while. First, I want to explore that abandoned school over there.  And see what I can do about that nuclear bomb.  And see about delivering this bit of naughty nightwear. And…

A six year old worked on this.  He never considered his use of color.

“I’m 4 years old and ready to get hair under my arms,” Chase stated proudly to his mom while putting on his pajamas this evening.

Mom hesitated.  “Who has hair under their arms?”

“Daddy.”  He paused. “And you.”

More than a few chuckles came from the computer room, quite possibly indicating some type of knowledge regarding the current miscommunication.

My son’s elementary school, located in a bustling small town of around 4000 found squarely within the big battleground state of Pennsylvania, voted Barack Obama into office today.  I believe that settles it, far ahead of schedule.  I hope that CNN doesn’t get too upset that I’ve broken the news so early.  At least everyone can get to bed early tonight, my son in particular.  He voted for McCain.

I wonder if he had to wait in line.  His mother and father did.  My 50 minute wait to vote was an extended finale to weeks of politics overload.  Pennsylvania is a swing state and you can feel it.  The constant phone calls don’t allow you to forget.   The mailbox is filled with pamphlets.  My doorbell often signaled that another chat about our future president was about to begin.

As a long time Maryland resident and registered Republican, this pleases me greatly.  Concrete statistics aside, it’s nice to feel that your vote matters.  It’s nice to live in a state that doesn’t hand out its electoral votes almost as a celebration of a singular mind set.  It’s fascinating to live within easy driving distance of a place where a presidential candidate actually makes an appearance.  It’s nice to be loved or, at least, have your vote loved like it matters.  I’d tell you that it is not all sour grapes brought upon by my political affiliation but, I’d mostly be lying.

So, I guess you might say, I didn’t take voting lightly.  This one mattered.  I watched every one of the debates.  I read up on the issues.  I took a look at my vote from 2004 and reexamined why.  I wondered who’d I’d trust to shore up the economy and spend wisely.  I read about health care plans and considered their feasibility.  I looked for things to love with regards to education.  I weighted tax plans against simple macroeconomics.  I paid attention when campaigns shifted from the issues to name calling and accusations.  And then I did something interesting.  Something that may be interesting only because it marked my first such vote in my relatively short voting history.

I voted for a Democrat for the highest office in our country.

Good luck Senator Obama.  You have a bunch of little kids voting for you.  I’m just one of them.

My heart leapt as I watched and listened to my son puzzle out the words on the page. I watched his face twist as he found the words. I saw his little fingers trace the letters, first above and then below. I listened as short ‘O’s became long ‘O’s and vice versa. He listened as I tried to shake a few common rules out of the English language.

I didn’t expect to be so excited about red fish and blue fish. Certainly, I’ve read it before. There are sad fish and glad fish. I know how it goes. I have an idea how it ends.

Reading is something that comes out in fits and starts. It’s a true learned skill, something that the five year old rarely has to wrestle. Books are often met with interest and enthusiasm. Reading, however, has its moments of victory and frustration. It doesn’t come easy or, at least, it doesn’t come without trials. Luckily, I’m a parent of little boy who isn’t about to give up, a little boy who senses that he’s getting it, and a little boy who couldn’t be more proud to read to his little brother.

As I sat down on the floor today with my two boys on my lap and a book in my hands, my heart leapt on a little on each word. It wanted to force each word from his lips. I hoped it would stay in my chest.

Two quick notes:

Bill Harris, the author of one my favorite blogs, has a great post over at Level Up called A Father and Son’s Shared Reflections on the Lessons of Play.  I’d say I’d liked I it because, well, I did.  But that doesn’t quite capture my thoughts.  It might be better to say that, as a dad, I appreciate it.

This morning, two sweet little boys came bursting into the bedroom shouting salutations and toting along gifts.  That wasn’t quite the best part of Father’s Day, even though it was close.  That would be carrying the sleepy bodies of my boys to and from the car last evening.  There’s nothing quite like a drowsy hug — provided just so that a little head might lay on your shoulder — to remind you that you are very much a dad.

When I play Peggle, I can’t help but think about Bob Barker.  In PopCap’s alternative universe, Bob has been replaced by a unicorn, not Drew Carey.  Instead of models, we get animal life, like a rabbit with a helpful little magic hat.  It’s all still colorful and wonderful but here you play Plinko, not some person that has no business jumping up and down like that.

Ok, Peggle isn’t exactly like Plinko.  You don’t drop disks from above.  Instead, they are fired from a tiny cannon.  In addition to being the obstacle, pegs are actually targets.  Aim, press the trigger, and watch the ball dance along, bouncing to and fro, clearing the way as it works its way below.  It’s captivating, addicting, and proof that PopCap has this casual game thing mastered. It’s also much better than its inspiration; something that the new Price is Right is unlikely to be.

I came into March unexcited about Nintendo’s big release for the month, Super Smash Bros. Brawl.  The concept — use one Nintendo character to knock another Nintendo character senseless — is sound and simple enough.  I like Metroid.  Mario is a close buddy of mine.  Make them the main characters in Rock’em Sock’em robots.  Surely, that’s a game that  I should enjoy.  But I wondered about a lot of things.  Almost all of these things were bad. 

I wondered if Nintendo’s attempt at an online service and arcane rules meant to “protect the children” would serve as too much of barrier to online play.   I wondered if I could find suitable opponents in a world where the gap between button mashing (my young kids) and jedi master (the rest of the Internet) often appears nonexistent.  I wondered if a lonesome guy like myself could find something on the disk to play when my far away friends couldn’t visit. 

Maybe I was rationalizing in the hope that I wouldn’t do the inevitable.  Maybe I hoped that I wouldn’t purchase another Nintendo branded product for my little white console that’s simply starving for decent games.  I’m not surprised that I could ignore these rationalizations at the checkout counter.  I am, however, a little surprised that I was so right to wonder.

Right now, I’m wondering why I bought it.

Calling Nintendo’s online service an attempt sounds charitable in retrospect.  It’s simply broken.  Public matchmaking doesn’t appear to work.  In a scene that is perhaps symbolic, it’s an exercise that consists of petering about in an empty room alongside a lonely white punching bag waiting and hoping someone swings by to visit.

Private matches, which requires the exchange of a 12 character code to merely begin the convoluted process, have their own set of problems.  The ability to play games with friends is segregated into its own little corner of the menu.  It’s difficult to determine who is online right now, much less coordinate a match without any real form of communication.  This is a system that damn near requires an actual telephone to work. 

What Nintendo has is a game that demonstrates that they barely understand what this whole online gaming thing is about.  Adequate would be a step up.  I’d settle for functional. 

What I have is something that is surely a great party game without the party.  I should have seen this coming. 

Cambell and Chase got into an argument the other day regarding who is bigger.  Chase is developing a bit of a complex.  He’s the smaller of the two by about two or three inches.  He’s also two years younger.  This fight will be interesting when they are closer to 10 and 8 than 5 and 3.

The wife’s Star magazine rests upon a shelf directly above the toilet of our master bedroom.  Britney, please get your act together.  You are haunting me while I pee.

As a bit of a planning exercise for my upcoming anniversary, I took a look at the local performing arts centers.  There’s nothing exciting happening this weekend but they are showing Underpants next year.  I qualify that search as a success.

The wife was quite unaware of any recent arguments concerning height.  Still, she made magic mashed potatoes for dinner.  You know, the kind that make you taller as you eat them.  According to the lines she drew on the wall, the potatoes had a dramatic effect.  I, however, can report no noticeable changes to the overall results.

From what I understand, 55 word stories have become somewhat of a fad. Neat. I don’t want to be left out.

He was sure she was lying.

An embrace is given more to subdue than comfort. Fleeting promises fade as the darkness begins to close in.

How can she leave me? What have I done?

The truth made him quake. Dread gaped from the open doorway.

There is a monster in my closet. I know it!