For me, it was revolutionary technology. As I listened to the song, I thought about our high tech world. How it’s all around us. Ever-changing. Even assaulting. Yet, how much of it is truly revolutionary anymore? Like that first CD player?

Some of it, yeah. Video phone calls? That’s pretty cool. So is HDTV, Google Maps and the day I realized I could turn down the beeping buttons on my digital stove. We’re talking life-changing!

But most of modern day technology? Not so much. Have we peaked? Have we hit the height of the revolution?

Maybe we just need to re-focus engineers, tech giants and all those inventor geeks out there searching for the next great idea. The next revolutionary invention. So I have rigorously and methodically spent 22 minutes coming up with high tech ideas that I think will change how we see the world:

• It’s time kitchen appliances got some attention. For instance, the lowly toaster. Why is it we can land a giant, technology-laden rover on Mars — it’s like a billion miles away and one of the most inhospitable environments in the solar system! — but my bagel still gets burned after 5 seconds in the toaster. Doesn’t matter what setting I put it on. Flaming, torched bagel. Invent me a toaster that can make the perfect bagel.

• What about a device that connects to my home phone diverting all calls from marketing solicitors to the desks of other solicitors. How cool would that be?

• A robot butler. I’m not even sure what I would do with him. Iron my socks? Make coffee for the neighborhood kids? Chase squirrels? Count leaves? Who cares? I just know I’ve always wanted one. Well, with one caveat: It can’t be smarter than me. I want a dumb one. Just as bad as math, and forgets simple household things, like where the bathroom is when you really have to go.

• How about a text message that pops up on peoples’ phones that reads: “Hey, stupid-face, did you forget you’re driving!?! You just ran over your neighbor’s cat!”

• Actually, this next one I’ve read a little about. Apparently the next wave of technology and handheld devices will be in clothing and accessories. Imagine your phone as an ultra-trendy watch. Or a camera as a pendant. But what I really want is a technology cape … like Dracula. How cool would that be? No one wears capes anymore. I don’t know why. They’re pretty awesome. So I think technology companies should bring the cape back and fill them with tablets and WIFI and recordings that automatically say, “Make fun of my cape and my iPad will suck your blood!”

• An idiot detector. You know, something that detects them BEFORE you start talking to them. Like at a party. Ever start talking to someone who looks pretty normal and harmless, then 15 seconds into the conversation they say something like, “You know what I think the world needs? Technology capes!” But you’re locked in. You can’t extract yourself. The idiot detector (patent pending) would alert you of the danger. Maybe it will spot pockets of hot air blowing. Or notice how other people run from certain people.

• Google and others are experimenting with self-driving cars. Pretty cool. But is anyone working on self-driving cars that get angry? What fun will it be riding in passive, non-confrontational vehicles? No one will get cut off. No one will get the finger. No one will get in fights on the side of the road. No, that’s not revolutionary. That’s a train. We want anger and frustration. Getting out blood boiling. Just don’t run over the neighbor’s cat.

Actually, such a thing does exist. I looked up “vacation brain” on Urban Dictionary. It defined it as “the 1-2 days before vacation when you can’t get much work done because your brain is already on vacation.”

Only, I’m more than a month out from my first trip, and I’m already suffering. I’m busy planning. Busy day-dreaming. Busy thinking of some rest and relaxation and … oh, who am I fooling. Vacations are never restful and relaxing! Most of the time you come back more stressed out and exhausted than before you left.

As I research, I keep coming across Web sites with tips and vacation planning advice that is supposed to help make my trips perfect. But they all lack really important stuff. So I’ve put together this list of planning tips for those of you who are also suffering from VOTB:

• Understand this: You will over-pack. You will load up a suitcase until the zippers are screaming for mercy. You will take along things you haven’t worn in your life. And when all is said and done, you will totally forget to pack one thing: your underwear. It’s a fact of life. It’s going to happen. Just accept it and add a roll of paper towels and safety pins to your packing list so you can fashion temporary underwear in a pinch.

• Don’t get your hopes up about where you’re staying. Get your hopes down. That’s very important. See, today we depend on those tiny, little photos of hotel rooms and attractions that we see on the Internet. They make a place look amazing and beautiful. But remember: a dumpster that hasn’t been emptied in 6 months looks amazing in a tiny, little photo on the Internet. So, instead of thinking you’re going to be staying in luxury, expect that it’s going to look like … well … a dumpster. That way you’re never disappointed with what you get.

• Don’t stress over a vacation. No, instead … FREAK OUT! For instance, if you’re on vacation and you get your family lost in a really, really bad area of town, recognize that getting nervous and anxious and slightly tense over it won’t help a bit. No, you have to go totally bonkers! Scream a lot. Throw your hands around in the air like an orangutan on seven cups of coffee. Get so worked up that one of your eyes starts to spasm uncontrollably. No one would ever think to rob you in that state. In fact, bad guys will actually come over and offer you directions out of the area just so you’ll stop scaring off their usual victims.

• Yes, vacations are really expensive, and it’s probably not the best idea to splurge and go overboard on your spending. But on the other hand, numerous studies say social security is a wreck, and we’re already failing to save enough for retirement or our kids’ college. So what’s a little more debt when you’re already doomed? Lobster anyone?

• Understand that choosing the time in the morning that you leave for vacation is not a simple conversation between you and your significant other. No, it is a negotiation that rivals U.S.-Soviet nuclear talks in the 80s. If you want to leave at 6:30 in the morning, then you better tell everyone 3 a.m. And if you want to leave at 3 a.m., you better tell them you’re leaving a week earlier. Then maybe you’ll get out of the driveway by 6:30.

• Make sure you pack an entire suitcase of games and books and toys that you lug around from place to place, but never open the entire trip.

• Make sure you do NOT pack that bathing suit of yours with the tear in the unfortunate location. No sense getting arrested for indecent exposure at the hotel pool.

• Make sure you DO pack plenty of brightly colored drinks and snacks that crumble and stain so your child can totally destroy the backseat of your car.

• Make sure you forget to pay all of your bills before you leave so you can come back to a house that’s been padlocked shut with no electricity, running water, Internet or cable.

• Make sure that when you’re booking flights or hotels that you get your dates completely wrong so you arrive a day early and have to endure the embarrassment of being told your family will have to sleep on a park bench for the first night.

• And most of all: never, ever, under any circumstances take any tips from a vacation planning advice column.

Don’t you think? Let’s make it standard on every new vehicle.

Or better yet, right after you sign-off on the paperwork and hand the dealership a check, they should offer you a ball-peen hammer so you can go outside and ceremoniously put the first ding in your brand new auto. The inaugural ding.

Or maybe once you drive it off the lot, you take it straight out to a field where you find the gnarliest looking tree and just scrape the door against it. Right off the lot. Go do it. Get that first scratch out of the way.

Wouldn’t that be great? Wouldn’t that make sense? Wouldn’t that eliminate so much of the stress from the new car experience?

Because if buying a car isn’t stressful enough — finding what you want, haggling over the price, explaining 19 times to the finance office why you don’t want the 74-year warranty that covers you in the event that Martians invade — you then have to get in that new car — that beautiful, perfect, shiny, wonderful new vehicle! — and drive it into this horrible, unforgiving, careless, accident-prone world.

The worst part about a new car? That dread and anxiety over keeping it safe. Knowing that first ding or scratch could happen at any moment. Call it new car paranoia.

You know what I’m talking about.

And I’m speaking from experience here. Because we bought a new car. We’ve had it for less than a month. There weren’t even 500 miles on it. It still had that new car smell and clean floor mats. I hadn’t even figured out how to turn on the AC.

And it was terrifying. When would the first spill on the seats come? When would the first scrape from a low-hanging tree branch ruin the paint? When would the first high-speed interstate pebble mar the finish?

I couldn’t sleep at night. I parked out in the hinterlands at stores, away from other wide-swinging car doors. When I couldn’t park away from the crowd, I tried to interview people parking next to me about their driving abilities: “Has your wife ever called you a careless jerk? Yes!?! Then I’m sorry. You can’t park here.”

Then it happened. Like a God-send. Like the universe said, “I have what you need. Let’s get the pain and the punishment and the torture out of the way so you can live your life.”

Just like that — BAM! … someone backed into our new car.

The waiting was over.

Had the car for three weeks, and already there is a dent in the back hatch.

The auto body guy just shook his head when he saw it.

“How long will it take to fix?” I asked him.

“Better count on about five days,” he said.

“Five days!” I shouted. “You’ll have this car longer than I have!”

He chuckled. Then I think he caught himself. Auto body guys have a keen sense for situations that might end up on the 5 o’clock news.

Add this to the many offshoots of Murphy’s Law. We already have Murphy’s Mutt — if a dog can throw up in your car, it will throw up in your car. Now we have Murphy’s Car — anything that can damage your brand-spanking new car will damage your brand-spanking new car.

But I figure, as with so many things in life, there is an upside. A positive in this whole situation: my new car paranoia will be gone. My new car jinx vanquished. I won’t have to lose any sleep over it anymore. I won’t have to park in the hinterlands. It’s done and out of the way, early. I can live my life and drive my car, not worrying and waiting for that moment when the first scratch comes.

Which is why I’m proposing that factory-installed dent. Or that self-inflicted ding. Just get it out of the way quick. Eliminate all the dread and worry in one quick swing. You’ll sleep better at night. With all the modern technology in cars, I think we can at least offer consumers that.

The end of the semester.

Exam week looms. Graduation sits perched on the horizon, taunting, haunting, teasing students. “Come and get me!” Some desperately want it. Others want it to go away. A few have been chasing it for so long, but still don’t have a clue how to bait the hook and catch it.

What was that line from Jim Morrison of The Doors? “This is the end. My only friend, the end.”

It never made sense to me that song, but you work on a college campus and that line always takes on new meaning.

I love having an office in the library this time of year. It’s like going to a sporting event the final week of classes. You witness the highs and the lows. The thrill of victory. The agony of defeat. The smiling faces. The kid standing by the printer, mumbling to no one in particular as pages of a final paper are spit into his hand: “In your face! I did it. Ha!” Or the tears. The same kid: “What do you mean you’re out of paper!?! I have class in 13 seconds!”

Others are so worked up and exhausted from the stress and late nights that they sit at tables staring at books, struggling to remember how to open them. “I don’t get it! Does it need a password? It worked for me yesterday! Where’s the on button?”

The pressure. The fatigue. If you’re graduating, the age-old question of what you’ll wear under the robe. Because, I mean, no one’s going to see what you’re wearing, yet you still have to spend time figuring it out.

This is the time of year that students race up to my office on the third floor, panting and out-of-breath. There’s a wild look in their eyes. Fear!

“Mr. Thompson! Mr. Thompson!” they call out, knocking on my door.

“Yes,” I answer casually.

“Nobody was in class … I finished my paper … Is it late? … Here it is … Please don’t be mad … I don’t want to work in an insulation factory … I need to graduate … I’m so sorry!”

“Oh, OK, thanks,” I tell them, wanting to be encouraging. Not wanting to crush them. But I have no choice. I have to tell them the horrible, awful truth. “Um … so, uh … you know your paper isn’t due ‘til Thursday, right?”

They stand there and stare at me. I’m afraid a circuit has fried. Then finally they scream out: “OH MY GOD! WRONG CLASS!!!” and then they race off in search of some other teacher.

My 7-year-old daughter listens to me tell these stories and then laments, “Those college kids!”

Indeed.

They come in carrying huge coffee cups. Massive, Big Gulp-size cups. The size of a small child. They cradle them like babies.

“Wo, man!” I said to one of my students snuggling his cup. “How many of those you had?”

He looked wired, like I might get electrocuted if I stood too close to him.

“These? Oh, only three. I’m cutting out milk and sugar. I might just start eating coffee grounds straight.”

He’s graduating next week. The pressure is on. Caffeine is his best friend.

It’s a tough time to be a college student. You feel the weight of the world riding on your shoulders. Parents, peers, teachers. Student loans are looming. You’re facing an economy that is chuckling under its breath as it slogs along. The real world is always a scary place. But for a lot of students across the country, it must feel like they’re being kicked out of the nest into a prickly briar patch.

I feel for them.

Yet, there’s an energy there. Fear hasn’t crushed them. This is a generation with a lot at stake. A lot to overcome. And they’re criticized for being slack or weak of spirit or apathetic. Maybe so. But I also see perseverance. Pride. Passion. A little spark that isn’t always evident. They’re hungry, and they can work incredibly hard if given a shot. They just want a shot.

Maybe it’s not all panic and fear. Maybe they’re not doomed. They have some things in their corner this last week: coffee to fuel them, a printer full of paper and a fuzzy Doors song to get them through. “This is the end. My only friend, the end.”

I’m talking about being sick. Or more importantly, being able to stay home when you were sick.

It was just what the doctor ordered.

Didn’t matter if it was mild sickness or dancing on death’s door, the minute your mother removed that thermometer from your mouth and uttered these words — “Nope, you’re not going to school” — it was party time!

Of course, you couldn’t say that. No, you had to say something wily. Something convincing like, “No, really? Come on. I think I’m fine. There’s a math test today. I don’t want to miss it. Please let me learn!”

“Nope.”

“Awww, man! So … can I go outside and play now?”

I would pepper my fake disappointment with a little writhing and forced coughing, just to play it up a bit. But no matter how sick, or not sick, I was, victory had been sealed. It was a day at home, not at school. Freedom. Even if it meant spending the whole day laid out on the couch watching nothing but really bad movies in the days of only five TV channels. Remember that? At worst, you got stuck watching soap operas with your mother. But I didn’t mind. I always had a soft spot for “Guiding Light.”

I was thinking about this the other day when I was home sick with an evil stomach bug. I spent the day praying to the porcelain gods like a man possessed.

I found myself in that familiar position — laid out on the couch, watching nothing but really bad movies. Actually, even some good movies. I watched “Ghostbusters!” I had 500 channels at my disposal. I had the whole day to myself. This was my childhood dream. Yet … it was horrible. I wanted to be anywhere but there. I wanted to be well.

“What’s wrong with me?!?” I wondered. “How am I not loving this?”

But it wasn’t to be. Maybe some things we just outgrow.

A sick day home from school did miraculous things to us as children. It was like no prescription drug or treatment a doctor could ever order. It had nothing to do with rest. Because there is no rest when you stay home as a kid. Nonsense! Maybe the adrenaline and excitement coursing through our veins in a tidal wave of fury instantly wiped out the bug that ailed us.

I’m not talking about the days we were faking. Oh, no. I’m talking about the genuine, full-on, tomorrow-I-might-die sick days when we had verifiable, sometimes-infectious ailments that should have plastered us to the bed. Had us lying in pools of sweat. There were purple splotches all over our bodies. There were sounds emanating from our lungs that sounded like freight trains colliding. There was absolutely no proof that we HADN’T just seen a pink Easter Bunny and Alex Trebek.

Yet, the minute I heard those glorious words — “Nope, you’re not going to school” — I was totally fine. Miracle! And off I went to plot my day. I remember sitting at my desk and making up lists through coughs and wheezes. “Italy!” I would say. “I’ve always wanted to travel to Italy. I’ll do that today.”

“Back to bed,” my mother would demand. “You have a fever of 123 degrees. Some hospitals would have pronounced you dead.”

“But, mom, you don’t understand. I’m sick! I’m home from school! I have a lot to do. I need to go climb an oak tree!”

Even from bed you could do a lot as a kid. Play with G.I. Joe figures. Build LEGO forts. Play 18 straight hours of video games until ghosts and asteroids were burned into my retinas. Call every five minutes to the kitchen for a glass of water or a donut or something that would really make me feel better. Like a plate of Oreos for breakfast. Being sick was the closest I had ever been to a luxury hotel.

And then it would all end. I hated getting well.

But this week, laying on the couch I couldn’t fathom why. I couldn’t see the joy of my deplorable state. All I wanted to do was go back to work. “Please just let lightning strike me dead,” I cried.

I would have embarrassed my young self. I wouldn’t have understood what all the moaning was about. Nope, I can hear myself now: “Come on, man, ‘Guiding Light’s’ on in 15 minutes and I’ve ordered a package of Oreos for breakfast.”

That’s when you decide that the one that has been in your house since you bought and renovated it will no longer do. That your past self was a cheap neophyte with the wisdom of bread mold. That the old commode with its non-stop running should be replaced, not merely fixed. And that you should take the next step up to luxury and water closet bliss with a modern, convenient, comfortable and truly sophisticated … dude, that just sounds ridiculous!

It’s a frickin’ toilet!

Which is why I feel so ridiculous. I actually went on Consumer Reports to see what the testing experts had to say about all the models and frills and accoutrements of today’s ultra high-tech porcelain palaces.

Because, if you haven’t shopped for a toilet recently — and I can’t even believe I’m saying this! — it’s option city out there.

There’s lots of new technology to consider. NASA-like technology. For instance, I had to learn the difference between — get this — pressure-assisted and gravity-fed. WaterSense certification. Dual-flush technology. The engineering behind the modern-day flush mechanism.

Then there are the different looks and styles, which sounded a little like bathing suit shopping. You have one-piece models and two-piece models. Rounded, elongated and even new “comfort” height models.

There are no-slam seats. The days of getting really angry, going into the bathroom and taking your frustration out on the poor, defenseless toilet seat are over. Now I need to go outside and kick a rake around.

No-slam seats? Comfort height? Dual-flush?

People, not too long ago our ancestors’ considered high-tech and super comfy a bush that didn’t have a hornet’s nest in it. Is this the measure of how far we’ve come?

Today’s modern toilets do everything. They save water. They travel to Africa on their summer breaks and dig wells for poor villagers. They calculate taxes and predict weather patterns and darn your socks if you ask them nicely.

Last weekend I was at a hardware store asking highly technical, incredibly embarrassing questions like: “Does it really dispatch solid waste with only 3 teaspoons of water?”

I’ve become a pooper nerd.

Then there are the names — the ultra-fancy, sophisticated, utterly ridiculous names. Once upon a time we had simple names for toilets. You know, like “toilet.” If we needed description we jazzed it up: “white toilet.”

But here’s a sample of today’s toilets: Titan, Colony, Cimarron, Wellworth, Highline, Devonshire, Yorkville, Champion, Cadet, Siphonic and the Vicki.

The Vicki? I don’t really want to use something called “the Vicki!” It would be like using “the Steve” or “the Barbara.”

This was, I kid you not, the actual description I read online: (The Vicki) captures the grace and charm of a bye-gone era with this delightfully attractive arctic white Elongated Front Water Closet. Truly a fixture reminiscent of the Victorian age with its simple edging along …”

For a moment I thought I was reading a Dickens novel.

Have toilets become the new status symbol? Are you supposed to invite people over, skip showing off the high-end pizza oven or the Jumbotron home theater and instead lead them to the lavatory where they marvel at your new Chesterfield Classic with a flush that sounds like mockingbirds.

“Brian, you will truly be the envy of high society.”

I did it. I’ve arrived! Please have some Crudités and relax in my WC.

I have seen the end of civilization, and it rides in on a frilly toilet named the Winstonian.

Who am I to fight it? Might as well just accept it. Go buy one of the newfangled commodes with the heated seats that recline like a Barcalounger. Get the one with surround sound and 3-D technology. That will promise to end droughts in Africa and make me feel like a Medieval king, or Cary Grant. Someone please bring me the Vicki. I’m ready for the grace and charm and styling of a bye-gone era.

I am also legally obligated to say that pillow fights are bad. That they can lead to serious injuries, and should never be performed with actual pillows. Air pillows — the imaginary kind — are the only kind that should be used in a pillow fight. I am legally obligated to say that if you do use real pillows, bad things can happen. Horrible things. Major injuries may ensue. Society might collapse. You will spend the rest of your days starting sentences with, “I am legally obligated to …”

And that’s no fun.

I brought it on myself. I have no defense. I’m pretty certain I have, for the second year running, won the Doofus Dad Award. Been crowned King of Calamity. I might just be the only man on the planet who can turn a pillow fight into a trip to the emergency room. That’s exactly where my 7-year-old daughter ended up a couple weeks ago with a mild concussion.

Are there are others out there who have done this, too? Support groups? Counseling sessions?

At this point, I am legally obligated to mention that I’m no longer allowed to have pillow fights anymore. Not unless both my daughter and I are wearing bike helmets … and we’re swinging air pillows. Even then there are conditions. That’s my wife’s decree. Understandably, she doesn’t want to go back the emergency room. Same goes for my daughter and me. So we’re onboard.

It started innocent enough. Pillows are, after all, made of feathers. So while you might swing them like mighty weapons, it’s hard to do any serious damage. My daughter and I have epic battles. EPIC! Huns and barbarians would have fled the room, cowering and calling for their mommies. Our pillow fights shook walls and left us utterly exhausted — near our breaking points. But we’ve never had a problem — not a serious one.

Not until that night when my daughter, standing on the bed, took an errant swing at me while I was bending over. She whiffed, and the momentum sent her little body hurtling through the air and off the bed. She landed on her back, her head colliding with the floor. Even with carpet I could hear the thud. It’s a sound I won’t forget. Nor the glossed over look in her eyes as she stared blankly at the ceiling. It was like she wasn’t there.

I’ve been scared in my life, but never like this. I’ve been guilty of under-reacting to situations, but not this time. I ran to her and felt behind her head. I panicked for a moment when I felt something along her skull that wasn’t right. It turned out to be a ponytail. Relief! But it took her a couple long, agonizing, stomach-churning moments before she came around. Before she could finally let out a cry. As a father, it was the most helpless I’ve felt. Paramedics checked her out. Sent her to the hospital because she was woozy and couldn’t remember what had happened. We waited with her until two in the morning. The Cat Scan results told us she was OK. That it was a mild concussion. That concussions are serious, and that another hit to the head could be bad.

Relief! We trudged out, exhausted, traumatized, thankful.

My wife has always warned me that our pillow fights would go bad. I thought she meant it would turn us to a life of crime. Not that someone would get hurt. Not that one of us would end up in a hospital. I always shrugged it off. That’s what men do. It’s a pillow, for goodness sake! There’s something hard-coded in our DNA to blow raspberries at common sense. To let things get too rough, or go too far. To miss that opportunity to dial it back, even slightly, before things go wrong.

But when she’s right, she’s right. So my daughter and I have sworn off pillow fights, at least for a while. The doctor has decreed it. My wife has made it legally-binding. We’re both on lockdown. I’m not even allowed to sleep on pillows.

I’m not fighting it. I learned my lesson. The memory of cradling her head in my hand while she stared straight through me — straight through me! — is too fresh in my mind. It was a haunting look, and it shook me up. I’m not legally obligated to say it, but for once, honey, I’m taking it seriously. Call me a changed dad. No longer the King of Calamity. Let someone else carry away the Doofus Dad award for once. I can’t promise how long it will last, but at least for the moment, I’m on board.

A Leprechaun Trap! Hot diggidy dog!

It’s supposed to encourage her imagination and ability to write about a sequence of steps. But I don’t know why it kept talking about her. I GET TO BUILD A LEPRECHAUN TRAP!!! WOOHOO!

As you can see, I’m a bit excited. Oh, the possibilities.

“We could incorporate your toy that shines a rainbow onto the wall, luring the Leprechaun in by making him think there’s a pot of gold. Genius, huh?

“Uh, no,” my daughter said. “That wouldn’t work. Leprechauns know better.”

Ouch! Shot down by a 7-year-old. But I won’t be deterred. I’ll sit at the desk for a while, sketching endless ideas on dozens of sheets of paper. I’ll drink coffee until all hours of the night. I’ll try to come up with something incredible and sure to work.

“How about this: The steam turbine powers a giant industrial fan which blows the Leprechaun into this electrified titanium cage …”

Go grandiose or go home.

That was always my motto as a kid. I would get projects at school — build a birdhouse, add 2 + 2 — and then go off to my desk to come up with amazing solutions.

As a kid, there was no better homework than a project like this. It was a chance to let your mind run wild, to invent, and to dig through cabinets in the garage that hadn’t been opened in 20 years. (Often they contained hazardous materials that had been banned for causing tumors in metal.) But it was a treasure-trove for an inventor. “Asbestos and benzene-laced paint? This will work perfectly on my windmill model.”

I can’t remember how many times the hazardous materials unit had to shutdown my school, but it was a lot.

My dad taught at the local community college and always took my brother and me into the labs for stuff we could use. There was all manner of cool stuff at our disposal — a school project funhouse. Circuit boards, transistors, switches, lights, unidentified substances growing in forgotten coffee mugs. We plugged them all together and submitted them for literature projects.

I don’t think my grades were ever very good on them. For starters, inventiveness demands veering off course and going wherever your mind takes you. My teacher would say things like, “Mr. Thompson, it’s a very lovely robotic self-charging back scratcher, but the assignment was on the signing of the Declaration of Independence.”

Ooops.

And then there was the fact that my plans often called for materials that were quite expensive, or hadn’t even been invented yet. Disappointment doesn’t begin to explain the feeling of having to settle for balsa wood and modeling cement.

Sleek futuristic space ships ended up looking like ramshackle clubhouses from “The Little Rascals.”

“It’s not a hobo camp!” I would protest. “It’s a vehicle for interstellar space travel!”

Did Edison have to contend with this?!?

My daughter has her own ideas for the Leprechaun Trap. She’s gone to her own desk with her own pencil and paper to sketch out her own plans. I’m fighting the urge to look over her shoulder. To offer advice and suggest little additions to the project, like a warp drive or some kind of plutonium-powered stun gun. It’s tough to let her be. To not jump in. To just be the helper, and not the inventor. But it’s her project — her idea — and a dad’s got to know when to step back, and not step in it. (Damn that growing up!)

It’s her time to feel the excitement of inventing. And who knows? Her project might work. Might get a good grade. Might even look like a Leprechaun Trap, instead of a hobo camp. Wouldn’t that be something?

It’s also a time to look forward — to not dwell on the past, but to focus on the future and where you’re going. Life is meant to be lived, by golly, so in honor of my 40th birthday, I give you “40 wishes for my 40th year.”

1. To invent something really revolutionary and world changing. Like a manly boa, or a Swiss Army shoe. You know, a shoe you can use as a can opener or to fight off bandits.

2. Solve the Post Office’s budget problems while also eliminating junk mail.

3. Discover the secret to totally ripped abs through a workout that involves eating nothing but chocolate chip cookies.

4. Get rich and retire. But not through the lottery. That’s just too much work!

5. To understand college students. I’m around them every single day, but for the life of me, I can’t figure them out. If it’s freezing outside, put a daggone jacket on, friend!

6. To understand 7-year-olds. If it’s freezing outside, put a daggone jacket on, kid!

7. To do something really wild and spontaneous and carefree, like convince someone else to go bungee jumping or cliff diving.

8. To disprove that “40 is the new 30.” Because who wants to be 30 again? You had no money, your furniture was found on the side of the road, and you thought eating regularly at the Outback meant you made it in the world.

9. To finally fix the lattice under my house. I’ve only been putting off doing that for the last 12 years.

10. To finally realize I will never fix the lattice under my house and hire someone to do it for me.

11. To finally realize I will never haul off and hire someone to do the lattice and go back to doing it myself.

12. Hope that the lattice indecisiveness holds out until I turn 41, at which time the pressure of this list will be gone.

13. Come up with a cure for Shedding Dog Syndrome. I mean, how much hair can a dog lose without going bald? Is she buying it in bulk? Does she store it up and run around the house while we’re gone, tossing it around like confetti? It defies the laws of dog physics.

14. Come out and admit that I actually like watching Disney Channel shows. Or at least don’t hate them. I mean, OK, like, “Dog with a Blog” is pretty super awesome!

15. Figure out why my shed is like a clown car, and no matter how much crap I throw away, more stuff always seems to materialize and trip me when I’m carrying extremely heavy, sharp or toxic objects.

16. Figure out why I have a leaf blower, yet never use it.

17. Figure out why my motion detecting floodlights don’t detect motion. I mean, they only have one job and they can’t even do that!

18. Spend less time sitting in front of the TV. Instead, sit caddy corner to it.

19. Ask myself deep, philosophical, motivating questions when I wake up in the morning like, “Are you ready to seize the day?”

20. Reply to myself, “Shut the heck up with your stupid clichés! It’s too early and I need to go to the bathroom.”

21. Figure out how to write a novel by talking into my iPhone while lying on the couch and eating a bag of pretzels.

22. Teach my dog how to catch a ball without looking like a triple jumper who’s been electrocuted. She spastically propels her body up into the air, limbs and other body parts shooting out in every direction. More often than not she lands on her back. And most of the time I haven’t even thrown the ball yet.

23. Finally learn how to follow through with something. Like this list. It’s impossible. I’m never going to come up with 40 things! Not by deadline. I’m out! Maybe next year … or when I turn 50.

Sometimes it IS genius. Look at da Vinci, Einstein, the guy who came up with “Rocky and Bullwinkle.” They shook that bag of rocks atop their head and out popped ideas that changed the world.

But here’s the rub: How do the rest of us schnooks recognize the difference between “genius” and cockamamie ideas dreamt up in a bout of deliriousness, or a mild-overdose of cough medicine? You know, ideas we THINK are genius — Einstein-squared kind of stuff — but are more like Bullwinkle droppings.

And worse still, how do we prevent ourselves from actually — GASP!!! — following through on them? Because we always believe we’re on to something big. That we, too, are GENIUSES!!!

Too often, we’re wrong.

Like my idea. Oh, it was a doozy. Seeing as how I’m turning 40 — on Sunday, in fact — I got it into my head that before lurching into my fourth decade, I should run a race and beat my best time ever, which came way back in college.

Friggin’ genius!

Oh, and it seemed like a great idea when I dreamt it up. Glorious and achievable. A way to show the world, and myself, how smart and awesome I am. Ra-Ra-Me! Ra-Ra-Me! That I’m still young and strong and haven’t gained any common sense.

Only, as the race approaches I’m coming to realization that I might have been exposed to some toxic vapors during the idea’s conception.

What was I thinking!?! And why, weeks later, am I still buying into it? I’ve been running and training and preparing and generally cursing myself. The really sick thing is I ACTUALLY have a shot at beating my best time. And that has me pushing even harder.

Ahhhh! Why can’t I just realize it was an idiot idea spawned by a doofus!?!

So, while I come to terms with how my “genius” got me into this mess, I thought I would share some of what I’ve learned about recognizing, and even preventing, future bouts of hare-brained ideas:

For starters, if you say things like, “Friggin’ genius!” it’s a good indication it’s not. Think da Vinci ever said that?

Look around at your walls. Look specifically for framed degrees and awards — Ph.D. diplomas in quantum physics or Nobel Prizes in any of the respectable fields. See any? Of course not. That means your ideas can’t be trusted.

Does your wife trust you? For instance, if you’re out cutting down limbs off trees or operating heavy machinery, does she stand by the door with 911 partially dialed on the phone? Or kiss you before you head out while saying things like, “I have always loved you, and will miss you when you’re gone”? Or dig out rosaries buried deep in jewelry drawers? Those are really good indications that you’re off-track. Wives are really good at spotting hare-brained ideas. (Although, if that’s true, it doesn’t explain why they went through with marrying us.)

See what friends think. A good, early indication your idea is not genius is when you tell a friend, and he rubs his hands together and says, “Oh, man! I can’t wait to see this. Remember when you tested your idea for the hydraulic gator trap made out of pork and bean cans!”

Do your children run for cover whenever you say, “I’ve got it! What if we …”?

Have you ever tried to apply for a patent at the Post Office? A good sign you’re not a genius.

If you wake up in the middle of the night, nearly drowned in a puddle of nervous sweat and blurt out, “What was I thinking?!? This idea is stupidly crazy! I can’t do this!” but forget to write yourself a reminder for the morning.

I did this multiple times, even though I sleep with a notepad and two pens next to my bed, just to head off my own stupidity! Missed all the warming signs. I’m still running. Still thinking I’m on to something. Still thinking I’ll be up there with Einstein and that guy who thought up the cartoon squirrel and moose. Genius!