HondaReport.com - Oh, by the way

Is there a way to permanently set a cellphone to JOLT? I don't need a feel-good buzz of 10,000 watts, but when I found out hours after the fact that twins arrived for my brother and sister-in-law yesterday, it was another exhibit of compelling evidence that I am the Dave Kingman of modern technology.

Once again, as is the case every year at this time, I am not in control. In fact, I'm just navigating my way through a hurricane known as the fall season. And I ain't talking about Season 3 of Lost.

Yesterday, my brother and sister-in-law brought twins into this crazy world, sometime around noon. It wasn't until I was driving my nephew to practice around 4 p.m. that I found out. "After practice, me and mom are going to the hospital," he says.

Yep, my nephew, the bringer of good news, no matter how out of touch I am. I discovered the news by 'word of mouth.' Maybe I'll perpetuate this oral tradition, refusing forevermore to learn big news by TV, radio, cellphone, e-mail, text message, telegraph (Morse Code™ is so 1890s, don't you think?), banging drums, conch shells or any other newfangled modern doohicky object of communication. Yep, I'll just stick to the ol' 'I don't know what the hell is going on, but my 10-year-old nephew can keep me apprised of pertinent information, such as lava flows, avalanches, tsunamis, floods, hurricanes, tornadoes, blizzards, hailstorms, invasions by locusts, polar bears and crocodiles.' Super Bowls? Who needs to watch them? I'll just sit in another room and have my nephew bring me verbal updates every 30 minutes or so as I cook freshly threshed rice (from my 30 x 30 open-field patty) in an iron pot over an open fire. One that I started by rubbing two dry wooden sticks at a 45-degree angle. For 2 hours.

Maybe I'll just hang my cellphone around my neck. That seems to work for Flavor Flav and his clocks. He always seems to know what time it is.

There are no names yet, and I'm finally going to see the babies this morning. I would have preferred being there as they arrived, but this thing called a cellphone has me completely at its mercy. Seems that every time I touch that thing, I must be pressing the volume buttons. So the rings are either waaaaay too loud or completely silent, at least to my ears.

So I wasn't there when my baby brother got the news from the docs. Or maybe he was right there in the delivery room. I still don't know. I was too busy steering through a day of volleyball and football. I'm not feeling pained, but I'm definitely wincing at the fact that I wasn't there at Kapiolani Children's Hospital for a day that I'd anticipated for so long.

I don't have suggestions for the babies' names. I know the new parents can have all the debates they want about those. I just hope they don't give them names that require a few minutes to explain. I'm all for the simply-spelled names. That's me, the sports writer talking. When I get names by phone or in person and I have to ask how to spell them, it doesn't hurt me physically. It just takes more time. And there's a higher chance that their names will be misspelled, especially by people who don't really care about correct spelling.

Now, I grew up with a lot of guys who were immigrants. Koreans. Chinese. Taiwanese. Microneseans (Trukese and Palauans don't love one another as they really should, you know). Samoans. Tongans. Vietnamese. The ones who kept their native names have to live with the whole 'This is how you spell my name' deal. Fine. But when an English-speaking parent gives their child an insane spelling, well, what's that all about?

I used to think my first name was so boring, and it actually sounds boring. But as I grew older and more knowledgeable, I came to appreciate the origins of my name — not the "definition: small" one, but rather, the biblical reason. Not that I hope to suffer on distant voyages, face persecution and eventually be executed. But a righteous death wouldn't be a bad thing for any average man.

So I go, hoping that my new nephew and niece forgive me. If this column survives the ages and they read it someday, they might want to stick burning matches into my eyes, but before that, I'll take 'em to Chuck E. Cheese and quell the uprising.