IPODs are the great Sony walkman of the 21st century. Contents of an IPOD reflect the personality of the owner. My IPOD is an electronic expose’ of being a turbo dork. Here is a list of what is on my IPOD: Aly and AJ - my daughters loaded this, Bon Jovi, Hannah Montana - my daughters loaded this, Frank Sinatra, Bruce Hornsby, Tracy Chapman, Norah Jones, Chris Tomlin, Paul Baloche, Michael Buble, John Prine, John Mayer, Amos Lee, Jersey Boys Soundtrack, Wicked Soundtrack, Gordon Lightfoot, David Gray, David Wilcox, Counting Crows, Hootie and the Blowfish, Green Day, Josh Groban, Tony Bennett, Les Miserable Soundtrack, Van Morrison, Neil Young, Neil Diamond, Toad the Wet Sprocket, Wilco, PODCASTS - Bob Edwards Weekend, This American Life, Truth for Life, Selected Shorts. Schizophrenic is a good description of my IPOD contents. The information is disjointed and reminds me of a man without a country. I draw the line at country music. You will not find country music on my IPOD but scrolling through you might question my identity on a variety of fronts. Over 2232 songs on my IPOD and the cross section above is multiplied 10 fold on the device. The contents lack theme or connectivity. Disclosing the private contents of my IPOD expose something about me that I am afraid to type. Good thing that I am married because if I had to date and my IPOD was in my car I can imagine picking my date up for dinner. As I open the car door for her and she sits down I walk around the car. Unfortunately for me I leave my IPOD on the seat and she scrolls through. I open the door and sit down while putting the key in the ignition I state that we are going to go to a … Empty passenger seat as my date walks up the sidewalk leaving me with an empty car but a full IPOD. I don’t think my wife has ever scrolled through my IPOD. My secret life of soundtrack singing and dorky podcast enjoyment should remain forever private. Don’t let anyone ever scroll through your IPOD it could kill your relationship.AH  

On June 14 at 7:00pm I will be attending my 21st dance recital at the Mary Ann Wood School of Dance. My daughters and I will be performing a dance together. I do not dance well, I dance in the shower and in my house when no one is around. The music of choice for me is usually Robert Cray or a Keb Mo tune fully clothed and lacking rythm but no passion, enough of that. Dance recitals are painful. Most of them could be used to extract information from the most hardened AlQueda terrorist. After the tune Lollipop is played four times in a row and the 25th little girl cries on stage Jihad is over. Now, let me qualify that statement by saying that I have attended 21 years of them so I am an authority. My kids are great and my wife spectacular. I love to watch them enjoy the crowd and music. I also attend because the most important thing happened to me at my first dance recital -  I fell in love with my wife. You know it was one of those awkward situations where the new boyfriend has to attend with the smothering family and the overbearing intimidating dad.  I showed up trying to figure out the legal size front and back quadruple folded program would take for an ADD hyperactive guy proned to sweating out of his clothes. My girlfriend’s dad fell asleep and prior to snoring somewhat inconsiderately tasked me with waking him up one number before my girlfriend came on. I marked each number and diligently went to work. Most of the night is a boring blur but my girlfriend (now wife) had a private number where she was performing ballet. I knew she could dance because she attended a special school for gifted kids so nothing new there but I had never seen her dance. As the lights went down and the stage was dark except a lone spotlight, she stepped into the light wearing a beautiful white flowing dress. She was more than beautiful. She was radiant and I was sold. I knew that she was the person for me because where I had to fill every moment of silence with useless mind numbing blather she spoke volumes to the world without saying a single word. After the recital, I stayed out until 1:00 am with her family at a Denny’s eating pancakes and two pieces of bacon with a coke. Her grandmother asked the family, “Who is the Oriental boy eating with us?” My girlfriend’s brother answered and said, “Nana that is the lawn boy, you know Albert Amy’s new friend, the boy who cuts the grass.” Thus was my introduction into the family. Everyone laughed at my expense but I knew something they didn’t. The best part of that family would be my wife someday and then my brother in law could introduce me with something like, ” This is Albert the lawn boy who looks somewhat Oriental to old people, uh, Amy’s husband.” On the evening of June 14th 2008, the lawnboy will watch his beautiful graceful wife take the stage again. He will also trip the light fantastic much to everyone’s mockery with his two beautiful daughters. I am looking forward to June 14th not because I enjoy 4 hours of buttock numbing endlessness but the opportunity to bask in warmth of my family whom I love very much. Warning to all parents, watch out for lawn boys. They work awfully hard and sometimes they want more out of you than a tip. I know I did. AH