And I knew that wasn't right

Me to my wife: Hey, that movie we couldn't remember the name of, the gangster one with Leonardo DiCaprio?

Her: Yeah?

Me: "The Departed."

Her: That's right! God, that's a relief. All I could think of was "The Disabled."

Wackos on parade

Do you ever feel you’ve walked into an episode of “The Twilight Zone?” So much weirdness surrounds you that it couldn’t possibly be real?

We who work at home probably get this sensation more than others. We don’t get out much, so we’re less inured to other people’s strange behavior.

The other day, I stopped by a drugstore to shop for sunglasses. When I say “drugstore,” I mean a modern-style drugstore, which is really a department store with a pharmacy in the back. Along with the usual ointments and remedies, my neighborhood drugstore has cosmetics, school supplies, housewares, groceries, a liquor department (my personal favorite), small appliances, DVDs, batteries and a sporting goods aisle, complete with fishing gear.

But that’s not the weird part.

The weirdness came from the customers. While I stooped to a tiny mirror to see how I looked in various sunglasses with large, dangling price tags, I heard so many strange things, I could only assume I’d barged into a “Twilight Zone” set. I kept looking around for Rod Serling.

First came Warren and his mom. Warren was a standard-issue small boy, full of energy and questions and noise. But Warren’s mom was another story. She had the loudest voice I’ve ever heard from a person who wasn’t actively rooting for a sports team.

“Warren! Come over here! Warren! Watch where you’re going! No, Warren, you can’t have that! Warren! Look at this! Warren!”

You could hear her all over the store. She didn’t seem angry or particularly frustrated. Just oh-my-Lord loud. She either had no idea that her voice carries so well, or she was one of those daffy look-at-me types who wanted us all to share in her shopping adventure with Warren.

I’m sure I wasn’t the only customer to wonder about Warren’s future sessions on a psychiatrist’s couch.

Once they left, more yelling distracted me. A middle-aged couple started arguing over a certain product and whether it was cheaper elsewhere. This seemed a minor point to me, but it was enough to set off this happy couple. They screamed and growled and spat like a couple of angry alley cats. The argument went on for several minutes.

I’m sure all married couples have moments of disagreement. Many even get loud. But in public? In a store? Over prices?

Clearly, this was a troubled couple. I could only hope they didn’t have any little maladjusted Warrens at home.

Then a lady walked past me, talking to herself. OK, I know people talk to themselves. I do it all the time at home. But I rarely ask myself questions, then provide the answers. In public.

“Do we need some bread?” this lady muttered. “Yes, I think we do. There’s some bread over there. Hmm. Is this the brand I like? No, it is not. But I guess it’ll do. Now we need some coffee.”

As she wandered off, I thought: Wouldn’t it be easier to make a list?

The sudden lack of distracting conversation allowed me to notice the Muzak, which was playing a song that I hate, hate, hate. The music stopped when an employee came over the speaker to make an announcement. My relief lasted only a moment because, two rows over, a customer took up the tune, loudly whistling. He whistled all the way to the end of the song, including a guitar solo.

That’s when I gave up on buying sunglasses. Better to escape this “Twilight Zone,” even if it meant I’d go around squinting like Rod Serling.

I can always pick up some sunglasses the next time I buy fishing gear.

Showing off their smarts

We were sitting around the dinner table as our two teen-aged sons discussed their annual federally mandated math tests, and up jumped the subject of quadratic equations.

One son says to the other, "You don't know that formula? That's an easy one. It's--" And he proceeded to spew a series of letters and numbers that, to my untrained ears, sounded like "booga-booga-booga-googly-moogly."

Yes, my sons were showing off. Yes, they know Dad barely passed algebra in high school and that was more than 30 years ago. And, yes, they like to rub his nose in it occasionally.

Being a mature adult, I threw food on them.

Kidding! Instead, I subtly cocked an eyebrow at my wife, in the international parenting signal for: "They're doing it again." She gave me her usual saintly smile, and we went back to chewing while the boys vigorously debated coefficients.

This incident illustrates one of the Basic Facts of Parenting. Children learn things their parents a) don't know, b) have forgotten, or c) never wanted to know in the first place, and the kids can't keep this knowledge to themselves. When they realize they know something we adults don't, they're compelled to share it, so we'll feel a) stupid, b) annoyed or c) homicidal, depending upon how much smirking is involved.

With our sons (and maybe with all kids), it started at an early age. When they were mere toddlers, they were enthralled by an inane TV show called "The Power Rangers," and they lorded it over me that I couldn't remember which Ranger wore which color Lycra costume.

"No, Dad!" they'd say, shaking their heads in disgust. "Jason was the green Ranger. Then he morphed into the white Ranger. Everybody knows that."

Once, when our younger son was around four, he raised his tiny fists at the breakfast table and loudly declared, "I am made of unstable molecules!" This, apparently, was a line from a superhero cartoon, but I didn't recognize it and couldn't hear the explanation over the hacking that followed ejecting coffee out my nose. The kids rolled their eyes at the idiot in their midst.

These days, their knowledge tends to be more esoteric (algebra) or picayune (rock band trivia) or absolutely useless (computer game cheats), but they still enjoy showing it off, especially if dumb old Dad will be left in the dark.

We were driving home from music lessons (one son plays guitar, the other plays the bass; Dad plays the radio), and I overheard a conversation that centered around "pickups" and "humbuckers." Had my sons acquired a sudden interest in rodeo? Monster trucks? Prostitutes? No, those terms refer to parts of the electric guitar, as the boys were delighted to inform me after I calmly interjected, "Say what?"

The trick for parents is to channel the children's interests into areas that might do the family some good, such as computer repair.

When I'm having computer problems, I summon our older son. He knows more about computers than I do, and he's only too happy to stand around, making suggestions and spouting jargon.
I gladly pretend to listen, smiling blankly, while in my head, I'm hearing, "Boogity-boogity-boo." He might as well be talking algebra or unstable molecules.

Whatever. If he can save my hard drive, the little humbucker can show off all he wants.

Madison Ave. meets the New Testament

Irreverent 19-year-old: What would Jesus do for a Klondike bar?

Today's special

Me: What's your strong coffee today?

Starbucks barista: Our Thanksgiving blend.

Me: Does it tastes like pumpkin?

Barista (not missing a beat): Mashed potatoes and gravy.

Air traffic

Don't listen to the pundits, pollsters or politicians. If you want to take the pulse of the American populace, go sit in an airport for a few hours.

That's right, an airport. I've spent a lot of time in airports in recent years, and I'm here to tell you, everything you want to know you can hear right there in the crowded corridors and boring boarding areas. That's because everyone in the place is yakking on a cell phone.

You needn't strain to eavesdrop on these one-sided conversations. Most cell phone users seem to believe the following maxim: The smaller the phone, the louder you must talk.

From my airport visits, I've learned that the American people are extremely interested in:

--Business and the economy. Everywhere you turn, people are conducting business on their cell phones. They speak in a strange argot about arcane products, but they all seem to be desperately selling something. The shakier the economy, the louder and more desperate they become.

One sweaty businessman sounded as if he said, "Tell them we'll deliver 350 eunuchs." That pricked up my ears. Then, as I listened further, I realized he was saying units, not eunuchs. Units of what? I never determined. Perhaps units of eunuchs.

--Their own place in the world. Most airport phone conversations begin like this: "Hey. I'm at the airport." This is said with a certain smug satisfaction, as if the person on the other end of the line harbored some hope that the plane wouldn't make it safely to the ground, and the caller is pleased to disappoint.

--Their own convenience. The second most-popular topic after "I'm at the airport" is the traveler's struggle to get this far. Delayed flights, missed connections, lost luggage and $7 sandwiches all dominate these conversations. From the epic retellings of these travails, you'd think we travelers were being forced to tow that 747 through the skies ourselves. The truth is that we're simply required to sit still, either on a plane or in an airport. But we manage to inflate the experience so that every blip in the schedule is an "ordeal" worthy of the Iditarod.

--The weather. We love talking about the weather, wherever we are. During one springtime trip, I was trying to read when a guy sat down next to me, dialed up his phone, and reported that he was at the airport. Then he said, "It was snowing in Denver! Can you believe it? This time of year?"

He went on like that for, oh, four hours. Just when I was thinking I'd have to stick a carry-on bag down his throat, he hung up. Then he immediately placed another call. Apparently the person he called was hard of hearing because he repeated every line thusly:

"It was snowing in Denver!"

"SNOWING! In DENVER!"

"Can you believe it?"

"CAN you BELIEVE it?"

I closed my book and moved to a different gate. Better to miss my flight than to risk yet another manslaughter charge.

Every conversation I overheard was some variation on the above categories. No one discussed the world's problems. No one made plans for the future (beyond when they should be picked up at the airport). No one was saving the world.

Not a single person mentioned terrorism or any resultant fear of flying.

Airports are full of the same chitchat as the rest of the country -- the weather, creature comforts, making a buck. That's what we care about.

If you want to see for yourself, go out to the airport, get yourself a $7 sandwich, sit down and listen.

Trust me. It's one "ordeal" you shouldn't miss.

Clueless in Seattle

An amorous young couple in a swank Vietnamese restaurant are discussing whether they believe in ghosts:

Him: "If I died, I'd still be looking down on you and you'd be doing my laundry and stuff and I'd be admiring how you do it--"

Her: "What the hell are you talking about?"

Overheard in Seattle

College girl and guy walking together around Green Lake.

Girl: "I called you a strapping brute like four times yesterday!"