Under the Spell of Serial

This week, I realized that Thursdays are great. Thursdays mean the work week is winding down. Thursdays -- well every other Thursday -- mean a paycheck. Thursdays turn into Fridays.

But there's something else about Thursdays, something new, something exciting: Thursday means a new episode of Serial. 

What's Serial? Well, I imagine most people know by now. But if you don't: Serial is a new podcast from the creators of This American Life. Serial is different from most other podcasts, though, because it focuses on a single story -- a true-life murder mystery -- released in 40-minute segments every week. It is, in a word, engaging. No, that's not quite enough. Serial is engrossing, gripping, and captivating. Serial is awesome.

The story follows Adnan Syed, an imprisoned man in his 30s who may or may not have killed his ex-girlfriend in Baltimore 15 years ago. Each week, host Sarah Koenig introduces us to a new character (like Asia, Nisha, and Don) and a new plot twist (like how long it takes to get from the high school to Best Buy or the location of a certain cell phone call). We listeners, of which there are millions, try to solve the crime along with Koenig, an expert storyteller, who weaves the twists and turns into a highway of aural delight. (<-- Worst line of my writing career.)

Anyway, Serial, now nine weeks old, has become a phenomenon. It's typically listed No. 1 on the iTunes podcast chart and has created more water cooler chatter at the office than anything I can remember in the past decade. (Game of Thrones is a somewhat close second.) Every Thursday or Friday, depending on when people finish the episode, several colleagues on my team at work trade ideas, theories, and favorite characters. Some of us think Adnan is guilty and the story won't lead anywhere. Some of us think Adnan is innocent and will be a free man when the podcast reaches its dramatic conclusion.

And it's not just my office. Serial has captured the attention of millions around the world. There's a Reddit page dedicated to Serial. There's a Twitter account. There's even an entire Slate podcast about the podcast. Yes, a podcast about a podcast. Crazy. The New Yorker called it the podcast we've been waiting for. 

Whether it's the dawn of a new Golden Age of radio is up for debate, but it has certainly started the trend of binge listening. I kept trying to convince sometimes stubborn Bridget to give Serial a listen and, finally, after five weeks, she gave in. She was caught up on all the episodes 48 hours later. Another colleague at work had the same experience. Once you start, it's pretty damn hard to put the earbuds down. 

As a former journalist, I'm thrilled about the attention Serial is getting. It's like we've gone back 100 years and people are crowding around their clunky living room radio to hear a boxing match. It's fantastic storytelling and serious reporting, and people are hooked.

If you aren't, what are you waiting for? Here's episode 1. I promise you won't be disappointed.

The Baby Boy Bias

Last week, during our family vacation in Seattle, a man approached me and Annabelle at the Chihuly Garden and Glass Exhibition.

"Hey," he said. "I saw you yesterday. I recognize your (San Francisco) Giants hat."

"Oh, yeah, right," I said.

"Yeah, you were reading to your son in the library. I wanted to yell, 'Go Giants,' but it was a library and all."

"Oh, it couldn't have been me then," I said. "I don't have a son. This is my daughter, Annabelle."

"Oh, right, whatever. Well, yeah, go Giants!"

Then he walked away. I chuckled at first, but then I thought, wait, no. No, dude. Not whatever. There's a big difference in what you just said. What if I walked up to you and said, "Excuse me, miss"? So, no. Not whatever.

Baby boy bias, that is, the belief that every father wants only sons and that every small baby who doesn't have super long hair and earrings is a male, is very real. I started experiencing it long before Annabelle was born and now, a full 9 1/2 months later, it's still popping up almost weekly.

It started about halfway through Bridget's pregnancy, when we found out the little bump in her belly was made of sugar and spice. I said I didn't care if it was a boy or a girl, and I meant it. But some of my friends didn't believe me. Come on, they said, you tell everyone you don't care because that's what you're supposed to say. But you want a boy, right? Everyone wants a boy.

But why? Why does everyone want a boy?

So I can teach him how to play sports? (Girls play sports.) So I can relate to him? (Dads relate to daughters.) So we can become best friends? (I fully intend to be best friends with Annabelle.) Because I rule over the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros and need a male heir to sit on the Iron Throne? (That's silly, but what a great season finale, right?)

Since Annabelle was born, things have gotten even worse with the baby boy bias. When he walk down the street, people ask about the "little guy's" name. In elevators, they ask us how old "he" is. And when Annabelle wears a blue shirt (like the one in the photo above)? Forget about it. The shirt might as well read: "100% Stud. Proceed with Caution."

Now, sure, I'll admit that Annabelle's gender isn't immediately clear. She's mostly just a squishy lump with a wispy head of hair and no teeth. But why does everyone always think boy first and girl second? Does she need to wear all pink all the time? Tiny, little pig tails? Or should we just get her high heels and a mini skirt, and teach her how to wear mascara?

We hope to have another child someday. And yes, part of me wants it to be a boy. I'd say just about 50 percent of me. The other 50 percent is hoping for another girl. Either way, if they are anything like Annabelle, they'll be absolutely perfect.

In the meantime, I'll just keep correcting people and hope the ripple effect will make people think twice before immediately fist-bumping my little slugger. (And by the way, girls hit home runs, too.)