From Neil Gaiman's Commencement Speech "Make Good Art"

“The moment that you feel, just possibly, you are walking down the street naked, exposing too much of your heart and your mind, and what exists on the inside, showing too much of yourself.... That is the moment, you might be starting to get it right.” ... Watch it on YouTube. It's excellent.

My Brazilian friend Marcio with his daughter... a lot of metaphor here

#271

I asked Michael, "Do you know what masturbation is?" He looked at me funny. I know my choice of words was a bit clinical, like asking him about 'intercourse' or 'prophylactics.' But I wasn't going for Amy Schumer comedy. I didn't want a Eugene Levy moment, either (a la 'American Pie'). I was off to a bad start. Blunt but brief, I told myself, respectful but real. Nothing to be ashamed of, etcetera, etcetera. I switched to the vernacular. This involved a few phrases more descriptive and obvious. Something flashed in Michael's eyes. Recognition? Horror? I couldn't tell which. Actually, I'm exaggerating; the talk was relatively short and unawkward. We covered respect and disrespect, health and unhealth, normal and not normal. We'll talk again.

In my high school library, back in the day, there was a slang dictionary with many fantastic inclusions, like lingo for male parts and female parts and deeds involving them. The lists of expressions and crude synonyms were impressively long and creative. Such metaphorical wizardry. I shed tears on the book I laughed so hard. And that was in the school library; imagine what kids hear in hallways, locker rooms, parking lots, and private parties. Now we have the internet, a thousand TV channels, and a million movies. And yet I have faith. I have faith that M 'n' m and every kid will know the difference between what's funny and not funny, what's real and not real, what's right and wrong. Amen.

#270

Megan went on a date. The gentleman was chivalrous and handsome, suited and booted and bearing flowers, and balding (which is beside the point). The Girl Scouts host a daddy-daughter dance and we had a blast. We supped at a cozy Argentinian place before we annihilated the dance floor at school. Dinner was splendid. Megan had tomato soup, breadsticks, and a meatball. I had scallops on crostini with a balsmic reduction, followed by crab-stuffed tortellini in saffron cream. We chased it all with molten chocolate cake, which Megan ate 98 percent of. Megan declined my drink offer. Good girl. (She prefers water, even when greenlighted for Sprite, lemonade, or a Shirley Temple.) She was awkward about some of the overstated courtliness, and I can't blame her; I get doors for her and her coat and so on, but we were dressed to kill and making a show of it. She wrinkled her perfect nose at me when I scurried and fawned and fussed, and before dinner she emptied her purse on the white tablecloth, just for fun. And, as usual, she got chocolate on her face. My heart sang. She is still cuter than a thousand puppies. She is approaching, however, the delicate frontier called beauty. She looked spectacular in her new dress, fancy shoes and matching purse, terrific jewelry, a corsage, and – this one's a biggie – eye makeup. Hmm. Okay. She was happy and confident and never stopped dancing. Her daddy can shake it too. We finished the evening with friends at a lovely ice cream shop. It was a terrific date. I'll never forget it.

#269

In the culture of my upbringing, which was something like Judeo-Christian, suburban American, we didn't believe much in reincarnation and past lives. (Note: I'm mostly a Western European mongrel by ancestry, with a touch of Native American.) My world has diversified over the years, into a melting pot without a predominant shade. This has been M 'n' m's reality from the beginning. Their schools are a great assortment, although I suspect they don't even notice. For kindergartners, the differences are minimal between Sikhs and Swedes, for example, or Koreans and Kenyans, Hondurans and Hindus, and so on. But my youth was less heterogeneous than M 'n' m's. Technology had yet to shrink the Earth. Needless to say, my childhood never exposed me to things like karmic cycles or Dalai Lama incarnations. The first time I heard of a lama was in Caddyshack. "Big hitter, the Lama." I am Christian. But speaking with certainty about the afterlife, or lack thereof, teeters on hubris to me. It seems there are limits to what we can prove and disprove. I know why mustering even a mustard seed, to echo Jesus, is truly enormous. I believe there's energy in our thoughts and memories, and if we've been somewhere before, even ancestrally, there's a faint, informing imprint somewhere, in our souls or minds or DNA. I watched "Legends of the Fall" repeatedly – looping it while I studied in college – to hear One Stab's voice. I don't know why I was fascinated with Sitting Bull, Red Cloud, Crazy Horse, Black Elk, Chief Joseph, Tecumseh, Quanah Parker, and books like "Last of the Breed," all before I learned of my native ancestry. Meanwhile, Papa Mike is more intrigued by the Founding Fathers, General Patton, Davy Crocket, Rasputin, and Carlos Castaneda. And Holden Caulfield! (Papa Mike's a paleface; my native ancestry comes from Grandma Barb.) And so I think about M 'n' m.... What 'memories' or energies will inspire them? What histories and biographies will resonate, what stories, and why?

"Crazy Horse, about this time, was grieving for his little daughter They-Are-Afraid-of-Her, who had died, probably of cholera. When he returned to his camp and found that she had died, he located her burial scaffold and stayed with her for several days.... He loved her deeply. Her loss took some of the fight out of him for a while."

#268

I wore Michael's shoes the other day. It could be fleeting, but right now we're the same size and I have a burgeoning selection of footwear at home. There's a pair of Nike Free Flyknit something-or-others (probably $130) that are amazingly comfy and snazzy. And if I stumble into a bball game, I'll be wearing Micheal's Lebron XIIs (price $150 at least). I can't afford tennies this lavish, but my son is spoiled by those who love him. Grandma and Papa buy him shoes every time he visits them. Or they visit him. Or the sun rises. I love my parents. And I love my son. They are a good match for each other.

By all accounts – and a photo I've seen – my great-grandfather was a handsome man. His name was Ben. In this old photo I speak of, the features of his face are perfectly formed, his eyes are striking, and he is coolly expressionless; it's the kind of handsome that would fit in a modern fashion or cologne ad. Ben's grandparents were off-the-boat Irish. When I was younger than M 'n' m, I remember visiting Grandpa Ben in a nursing home. He was no longer physically flawless. In fact, he was ancient and scary-looking and I was terrified as I was coaxed, by him and others, to approach his chair and give him a cookie. In his twilight, Ben was grumpy and ornery and fond of chewing tobacco, none of which endeared him to the awesome women in his life. But they loved him even more probably – and a woman I adore absolutely called him Daddy – and at least four girls I know prevented him from shuffling into traffic (in search of that tobacco). I hope I'm blessed this way, and many decades from now, on a random Sunday, a great-grandson thinks of me with gratitude and intrigue. I imagine Ben could tell me about old cars, guns, moonshine stills, and the world a hundred years ago. And, most importantly, Ben had an incredible wife and exceptional daughter. Those things I would really ask him about. Maybe someday I will.