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The snowstorm over the weekend had us buried and, in some cases, it still does.
The combination of my Trans Am’s torque and the height of the snowfall made me believe that waiting for the spring thaw would be a good idea; no sense digging out what I can’t drive. I’m not sure but the melting snow on my car may be a more official indicator of the season change than that silly groundhog. On the other hand, maybe not.

After some sweat, tears, and a bit of digging, my other vehicle threw down the shackles of the clingy white stuff and ventured into the world. It was a fun trip. My normal excursion to work was highlighted by the sights of giant earth movers and abandoned cars buried in snow drifts. The Xterra rumbled over the terrain, just happy to have terrain to rumble over. The feeling of a good snow pack underneath your no-so-paid-for SUV is a bit like wanderlust. That four wheel goodness wasn’t a total waste of money. Let’s drive around the neighborhood just for fun. Let’s do it again.

A couple days later most of the snow has been pushed to the side. The little powder left near the road is now nasty shades of black and brown. No one need remind my shovel and I that I live on a corner lot. This whole sidewalk thing is vastly overrated.

Parts of me are still wishing for Sunday to return. Watching the snow fall while you sip hot apple cider in front of a fire is my idea of relaxation. Other parts of me are beginning to yearn for spring. Once the rains of this weekend wash away the weather of last, the T-tops of my Firebird will be waiting. The baby is ready to see much more of the sky. His mother will be pleased to accomodate him.

I hope this snow wasn’t a one time deal. In a few years, I’ll have another shovel next to me and a sled yearning for the slopes in the shed. Tiny snowboots will be on order. They better have something cold to walk on.

It’s going to be a stormy kind of weekend. Stormy in a good sense,
that is. I know, snow can be a bitch if you have to travel, but
there is something about the prospect of buckets of white stuff falling
from the sky that gets me excited. The fridge is full. The wood is
split and nestled by the fireplace. The Wootton family is home, safe
and sound. Let’s do it.

It’s always fun to watch the snow totals fluctuate as a big snow approaches.
Every forecaster wants to be the first to predict doom. Every network
wants the ratings (Frosty the Snowman spotted at Walmart – news at eleven).
This time not only can’t the networks agree but
neither can my web sources. There seems to be some consensus that
Sunday will be the day of reckoning. The actual total, though, is
still quite up in the air. Somewhere between five and twenty inches
of snow is virtually assured. I can’t wait.

I’ve found that I no longer have the patience to watch the news.

It’s not immediate enough. I don’t care about the miraculous rescue of some man’s poodle. I want to hear about the impending war and I want to hear about it right now. Don’t push me off to Sally or Rod for a sidebar. I don’t respect their opinions. Their knowledge of canines is surely lacking. A kitty at home does not count.

The internet has me spoiled. Not only can I pick and choose what news I want to hear, I can pick specific angles or writers. Related information is at my fingertips. If I want hear what others are saying, I simply pick a new site (like
here, here, or here), unafraid that the news I desire has already been covered and the station has moved on to other material.
Often I filter out the noise right from the start.

I’m particularly bad when it comes to the weather. Why should I wait twenty minutes into a broadcast to hear that it is snowing outside? I can find what I need in seconds along with radar maps and satellite feeds if I want them and only if I want them. Put the pointer down, Bob. I just want to know if I should wear a coat.

More and more, I find myself searching for news with a mouse in my hand, not the remote. Fact finding missions leave me staring at the search screens of CNN or MSNBC. Waiting for clock to strike 11:00 pm or for Larry King to leave his desk is a thing of the past.

My son will never know that there was a time where you had to sit through the fluff to get to the information you want. He may think of the television as an extension of the internet, rather than the other way around. Heh — I thought it changed my world.

Much to my dismay, I’ve found that I have a system for changing my
son. I should have known it would happen. Our once well-decorated shelf
is no longer; functionality won out over form. Baby wipes replaced
knick knacks. Diapers now reside in the previous home of picture
frames. It didn’t take us long to realize the tools of the trade
needed to be handy.

Now these tools are used in a sequence of very repeatable steps. Just
as a carpenter hones his craft, my skills have been sharpened to
a razor’s edge. I do this completely without showing my butt crack
(even though a butt crack is still definitely involved). Here are the steps:

The Preparation

Lay Cambell down on the table, making sure that no remnants of the
last change remain. Just where did that spot on the sheet come from?

Pull out a baby wipe. Ready the pee rag. You want these
two primed and ready. If needed, prepare the Desitin by opening
the tube and squeezing just a bit out the top. You don’t want
to be searching for tools once the fireworks begin. In this case,
it is him with his pants down, not you.

The Change

Release the shoot. Set the pee rag in place. This is purely
a protective measure.

Remove the diaper, taking care to keep the child clear of
the waste below. Wipe the bottom clean, making sure to get
every crease and crevice. This is not a job for the shy.

Quickly replace the old diaper with a new one.
You never know when Mount Saint Campell can erupt.
Your speed could make the difference between filling a new diaper
or firing a round across the changing table. (I can assure both
of these events have occurred. In fact, this morning, he filled
three diapers. Yes, three.)

If the fountain of youth erupts, hope that the stream can be directed
into the rag or led into the new diaper. Take heed. An unprepared
parent can end up with a wet child or a wet shirt. A golden shower
does not smell like lemons.

The Finale

Close up shop. One last note: we have a boy. The last step
before the diaper is sealed is just as important as the change
itself. I sum it up in two words:

periscope down.

I’m not so sure I have the authority to do this but I’m not
going to let that stop me. Circumstances have intervened.
It has become necessary. I’m moving Valentine’s Day.

I’ve always assumed Valentine’s Day was secular in nature.
Cupid, the son Venus, the Roman goddess of love, is the
poster child. Candies and flowers decorate its borders.
Love, in this instance, didn’t seem to have a direct connection
to the church.

But, history
tells
me different.
It turns out the holiday may have been a convenient way for the
Catholic church to rid the world of some old Roman traditions they
didn’t much appreciate. That’s all fine and good but the fact that
the church, not
Hallmark, officially declared
the date makes my action a bit more dubious.
I hope Pope Gelasius doesn’t mind.

The reason I’m doing this is to counter a recent change in lifestyle.
The wife and I are now
parents.
We, being lovers (even if, in the future, it’s in that, “Ewww, mom and
dad.” sort of way), would still like to celebrate this romantic holiday.
However, this just isn’t as convenient as it used to be. In other
words, you try to find a babysitter on Valentine’s Day.

An official move should rectify this problem, provided the word doesn’t
get out. You see, we are moving Valentine’s Day but we aren’t
going to tell everyone else. They are free to celebrate on the old
Valentine’s Day, oblivious to the fact that the holiday has been moved.
Go ahead. Give candies on the 14th. We’ll try not to laugh and point.

If you are interested, and this is strictly on the down low, the new
date is the second Saturday of February. Yes, I realize this means
it will no longer occur on the same day every year, making it
more of a kin to Mother’s Day than April Fool’s Day. At least
there’s a precedent for this. I’m all about tradition.
This year, because we got a bit of a late start, it will occur on
the third Saturday of the month. There was a lot of paperwork
to fill out. It’s the exception to the new rule.
I’m also all about personal convenience.

You may worry that I will abuse my newfound power over the calendar.
It must, no doubt, be held responsibly.
Rest easy. Thanksgiving is staying right where it is – for now.

For the last 4 days, I’ve been disconnected. Millenium, my
current cable provider, had a surprise in store for this
weekend: they were “upgrading” the lines. Lucky for me, it
was the gift that kept on giving. The end result was that
I didn’t have access to the internet from home for quite
a while.

I put “upgrading” in quotes very much on purpose. It’s not
the first time and it most certainly won’t be the last time
an upgrade occurs in my neighborhood and I never see any
benefits. I’m not begrudging Millenium in particular.
Being used and abused by a cable company is par for the course.
I’d probably shed tears if these mysterious upgrades were
accompanied by offers of discounted service. Without
the proper amount of bitching, the meter
keeps on ticking even when service stops.

Four days away made me very aware of how much I rely on the world
behind my little mouse pointer. I needed to know what
was on television and I had to consult a TV guide. The shuttle
went down and I had to rely on the newspaper for facts. I
wrote a quick
blog and had to resort to 3 1/2 inch floppy to
transport my words to a machine worthy of internet access.
A 3 1/2 inch floppy! Is there no justice in this world?
The little lights on my router would occasionally blink and
then fade away in dispair. I felt its pain.

The three weeks I spent at home with my son left me with
similar feelings of disconnection. Although, in this case, it was the
focus on something not the lack of something that
fueled my separation anxiety. The baby controlled my
sleep schedule. Cold weather prevented expeditions
outside. It was me, the wife, and the baby. Everything
else was secondary. The world was definitely still turning.
It was just hard to see from the bedroom window.

Now that window is open. I’ve returned to work. But the
blessings are mixed. I see less of my wife. I see less
of my son. On the other hand, I see other adults on
occasion and get to plug into the real world for short
periods of time. There’s also the nice side benefit
of being able to provide food for my family without donning
a codpiece and spear and venturing into the nearby woods.
It fills some holes while leaving others empty.

I just wish I felt I was venturing into the world rather
than being dragged along by it. The happy faces at
home tug me away from the hustle and bustle.
Maybe that’s why I’m always so anxious to return to them.

Some pictures stick with you, forever emblazoned in your subconsious.
The fragments of space shuttle
Columbia falling from the sky
on Saturday morning formed one such picture. The helmet to the right
is a stark reminder of the loss of life it included.

By odd coicidence, the wife and I watched Columbia rise
from the sky two weeks ago. I was quite excited.
I hadn’t witnessed a live lauch of the shuttle since I was young.
We just happened to turn on the TV. I waited 20 minutes
for the countdown. Incredible science wrapped
in a fiery display of power. For a couple of minutes, I was
that kid again. The anticipation was real. Danger does not
have to be explained to a child of my generation. We remember
Challenger. We remember the last time it happened.

I was in middle school. Class was stopped. A TV was rolled into
the room and we were shown a story with not such a happy ending.
As a kid, I don’t know if I truly understood the events.
Something was wrong but it’s meaning was tough to explain.

As an adult, I don’t know if I can do much better. The event
itself is tragic. But the world is full of tragedy. One of
my biggest memories of Saturday was that my first thought, and
the thoughts of many others, lead to questions of terrorism.
It didn’t help that I learned of the event via a telephone call:
“Did you hear the news?”

The difference in this case is that tragedy befell an American
icon. The shuttle bears our stars and stripes. The
passengers
inside were heroes. They had the job that every little boy’s
heart desires. This felt a bit personal.

My son visited church for the first time this morning. The pastor
mentioned he was glad we picked this day. The joy of a new life
could temper the loss still fresh in the minds of the
congregation. I hope it helped. The shining faces around me
made me believe it did.

Now we hear concerns about launching another. These concerns sound
silly. It is
dangerous. That’s no surprise to the brave souls that don the
orange spacesuits quite regularly. Not everyone returns. But that
won’t stop us; it can’t stop us. Whatever pause is necessary between
this one and the next should be short. Those that put
their life at risk for the advancement of science should not have
to wait in the stars for long before we send them some company.

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve lived in Middle-earth. Yeah,
I know. You may have seen me around. You may have talked to me
on the phone. A keen observer would notice that I’ve posted
a couple of blogs during that time. No matter – that’s where I’ve
been. The commute has been killing me.

The long distance charges are starting to pile up. You wouldn’t
believe how hard it is to find a decent internet connection in
the Shire. All these Hobbits want to do is eat. Their furry
little feet scuffle here and there, off to fetch a morning meal or
afternoon tea. No I don’t want a pipe or early supper.
All I want is an ethernet port.
Maybe I’ll talk to Gandalf. He should be able to help.

The world of Middle-earth has me enthralled.
I’ve spent some time with Mr. Tolkien’s creations directly.
I’ve begun to read the series once again, starting with
The Hobbit.
Bilbo has had quite a journey thus far.

I’ve also spent some time peering at Middle-earth through the
keen camera lens of Peter Jackson.
The 4 disk set of The Fellowship of
the Ring has to be the best DVD set I own. I’ve spent weeks
sifting through the extra material available on disks 3 and 4.
Each disk contains about 3 1/2 hours of footage, along with
galleries of art and photos. Somehow, it’s all quite interesting
and worth the time to watch. All future DVD sets
will be judged by this one. It is the new standard.

This weekend, I finally got around
to watching the extended version of the film, introducing
my stepfather to it in the process. One day I’ll try to tackle
the four included full-length commentaries.

Thursday, I returned to the theater to drink in the Two Towers once
again. I’ve already
gushed about this movie once. I have
no need to do so again except to say get to the movie theater now.
Right now!

To be honest, no one is more surprised than me that I’m not totally
sick of Middle-earth. To say that I’m overexposed is certainly not
an understatement. Heck, I even got giddy to find out that one
of my favorite bloggers, was
recently exposed
to the world of Orcs and Goblins and, much to his chagrin,
loved it. It’s fun to experience the world once again for the first time
through another’s
eyes.

The only sad thing is that one day I’ll have to leave. I must
return to the “real” world and my everyday problems. I’ll leave
that to the future. I can’t go anywhere until Frodo finally rids
the world of that ring – that darn ring.

In about a week my son
will turn zero. That’s right — zero.

The 31st day of January was my wife’s official due date,
the date when it was all supposed to happen. The wife and
I were to rush to the hospital on this day – hope in our
eyes – to finally see the infant kicking inside her.
As it turns out, all of that is
well over and done.
In fact, it happened what feels like ages ago.

On the 31st, my son will be just over 4 weeks old, going on zero.
He wasn’t supposed to be around yet. We were to spend this
month planning – anticipating. I was supposed to dive under the
house and bring out all the hand me downs. My wife was supposed
to let the worries of childbirth weigh on her a bit. Cambell would
spend the month in his womb, close the beating of his mother’s
heart, listening to the muffled voices outside. All of us would
get some rest in the final month leading up to the big day.

Instead this month was a blur. Diapers and feedings crowded
our days and nights. Our previous sleeping schedule became a
distant memory. The bassinet sprang up in our room.
Visitors appeared in our doorways, eager to pile love onto
our newborn son.
We began to watch our tiny infant begin to sprout into the child
he will one day be; a person began emerge from the tangle of
his legs and arms. It’s been quite a ride, but definitely a
pleasant one.

It may sound like I’m complaining just a bit. I assure you
that couldn’t be farther from the truth. After two and one half years of
trying, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with something coming early for a change, especially when it is a gift as blessed as this.

As I promised, or threatened, depending on your point of view,
here is the list the games that came close but didn’t quite
make my previous list of the five best games I played this year.
These are numbers six through ten, presented in their unordered
glory.

Warcraft 3

Warcraft 3 is simply the most polished real-time strategy game
around. Everything about the game just oozes quality.
Great graphics? Check. Well-designed interface? Check.
A blast to play? Check. Everything that makes a good game
is ready and waiting. But that’s my only problem with it so
far: it is still waiting for me. The game got a bit lost in
my shuffle to get a new computer and has yet to reside on
my newest machine. As a result, I haven’t finished it.
No matter – the time I spent on the beta was fun enough.
This is just a damn fine game.

Aggressive Inline

Without the recommendation from a friend, I would never have
touched this game. It’s published by Acclaim – a company that
has a spootty record, a record that is even more questionable
when you consider that this looked like a simple clone of the
most popular extreme sports game out there,
Tony Hawk.
But it wasn’t. It took away the chains of a time limit, offered
a bunch of new and inventive tricks, and gave you
environments that you could change (e.g. in one level, you can sink
a cruise ship, opening an entirely new area). This one
gets quite hard near the end but, while it lasts, Tony
Hawk 3 can’t compete. Now Tony Hawk 4, that’s another story.

Medal of Honor: Allied Assault

If I had only played the level where you storm the beach at
Normandy, this game would still have made my top ten.
Immersion is this game’s forte. Explosions rock the boat,
the gate drops, gunfire peppers the beach, your squadmates
go up in a nearby blast – it’s Saving Private Ryan in
videogame form. The rest of the game is pretty entertaining
as well, sporting some of the best sound and event scripting around.

Dungeon Siege

Dungeon Siege could really be called
Diablo in 3d – beautiful, wonderful 3d.
Click and kill is the mantra here. The gameplay is simple but addictive.
The fact that the game never loads once is a special treat. It
garners special marks because the wife and I play it over my
local network. If they added a town portal spell, allowing you to easily
stop and sell your newfound junk, it would be darn near perfect.

Grand Theft Auto III/Vice City

I list both of the latest incarnations of GTA here because I played
them both this year. Both of them are great examples of open-ended
gameplay. Here’s a city. You aren’t such a nice fellow. Go have some fun –
a lot of fun. Steal cars, run from the cops, and cause havoc. The great
part of this very mature game is that it is what you make of it. You
don’t have to beat the prostitute with a stick if you don’t want.
But if you do …. Congressmen get all up in arms about its content.
I’d be surprised if
Joey Lieberman, media’s personal watchdog, hasn’t mentioned
it at least once. Just remember folks, keep the kids away from this
guilty pleasure.

That’s it. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a year with so many quality games and
so many quality choices. And if
Metroid Prime, my current game of choice,
is any indication, next year could be even better.