Among my many neuroses, I have a problem with people who turn left when it is completely unreasonable to turn left. This is one of the many cultural battles that I have lost (right up there with an insistence that all youth sports leagues have picture day). Americans believe that their inalienable rights include the ability to make an unprotected left turn whenever they damn well please and with zero notice to the 500 drivers behind them. In any city run by modern transportation engineers, they address this by simply not allowing unprotected left turns during rush hours on congested routes in and out of downtown. Austin is not one of these cities.

When Charlie asks an open-ended question, he already knows the answer. This is a fairly advanced conversational skill for a six-year-old. So when he asks yesterday, "Dad, what's the most dangerous thing you can do?" I immediately turn it around on him. "I dunno, what do you think, C.K.?"

"Jumping out of an airplane without a parachute. Or standing really close to a volcano."

He thinks for a moment, not wanting to short change his imagination.

"Oh yeah, I know something really as dangerous. Being eaten by a shark. That's not good!"

Robert Fulghum did his best to convince us that everything we needed to know we learned in kindergarten. We are supposed to share and take our turn and be kind and, perhaps most importantly, not to take joy in the misfortune of others. College football fans tend to suspend this last one on fall Saturdays. Although fans of the major powers don't do well sharing or taking turns, either. Nick Saban is not really into it being someone else's turn. That's why Alabama hired him. But, for most fans, it is the joy in the misfortune of others that really takes a beating. It is the "thou shalt not covet" of the college football religion. I, therefore, will not play that card today.

The storefront reads "In God We Trust." It's written in biblical/motivational font on a functional building in a dilapidated strip center. I assume it is either a Charismatic church of some sort, or else it is a very clever front for a counterfeiting operation. Or "was" I should say. There is a FOR LEASE plastered over the "We." Let's save the metaphors of a failing American economy for Thomas Friedman. The back story is probably not social justice, but indifference. Guy starts a congregation, rents some cheap space, expects people to show, or maybe God to provide. No one buys what he is selling, God doesn't provide (or at least the bank doesn't consult God) and someone selling used office furniture picks up his sanctuary on the cheap.

Every time the Eagles' Desperado comes on, it raises my stress level. This happens in some odd places, like behind the customer service desk at my neighborhood grocer where the girls are listening to some soft hits of the 70s and 80s channel. I think it's called Magic 95.5 in my town, but I digress. You see, the initial and unmistakable piano notes take me directly back to Camp Summerlife in New Mexico, where Desperado was THE slow song at all the dances (She Believes in Me by Kenny Rogers does not have the same effect).  It set off a mad scramble to find the right dance partner; if you are between the ages of 12 and 17, this is a life and death proposition. You hoped you were just a few short steps from your current love (crush, infatuation, curiosity) before the singing started or else you had to settle, or go outside to "get some air" with the kids too cool to dance. Even at 44, this stress only subsides by slow dancing in the kitchen with Mrs. Jones Top Ten, often an impractical solution, or by putting the Mojo Nixon classic Don Henley Must Die on the stereo.

Whatever happened to Gnarls Barkley? Zach the Eldest and I are listening to the song Crazy on the way to a morning run. It reminded me that I had actually seen Gnarls Barkley at ACL Fest years ago. I figured they had the one hit and sort of faded into oblivion. Music to me seems very disposable in our present age.

"Dad, their lead singer was Cee Lo Green." Oh, so he is kind of a big deal. Apparently Cee Lo sold about a jillion records over the last year. How am I supposed to know? My musical knowledge is roughly current to 1994 (Dave Grohl is still "Nirvana's drummer" as far as I am concerned). Zach was born in 1995. There is a correlation. I have kept up in spots (Son Volt, White Stripes, Neko Case...), but mostly this is lost to me. The younger sons now pay very close attention to the top 40 on my behalf. This subjects me to large doses of Taio Cruz and Katy Perry. Ah well, I know that this too shall pass. As long as I have Exile on Main Street on my i-Pod, I can survive.

Any man who ponders a small plastic toy from McDonald's while children chase each other through enormous plastic tubes resides in the full throes of adulthood. So I hold Greedy Smurf. He smiles. But this doesn't strike me as the mean-spirited smile of avarice. Greedy Smurf doesn't look sinister. More whimsical, almost generous, which would seem to undermine the character. It's possible, of course, that I misread Greedy Smurf and that this gaze is the ugly smile of self-satisfaction. Or perhaps he is just a little blue man who enjoys having lots of options.