#275

Michael and I ate at 'Mexico Uno' last night and talked about Emily Dickinson. It felt like God was smiling at me, or 'The Most Interesting Man in the World' was smiling, at least, or whatever he does, suavely approving in voiceover narration? Nodding agreeably from the bar, while sitting next to a grizzly bear and shoulder-pressing two women in chairs? (I enjoyed a Dos Equis last night, also). There we were, two gentleman stuffing ourselves with greasy food and conversation, dripping salsa everywhere from chips and falling-apart tacos. It was great. We talked about poetry, the power of imagery, the force of language, how words are more than pleasantries and information; they can be momentous, calamitous, all-inspiring, all-inciting, arranged with passion and genius they can CHANGE THE WORLD! Whoa, I'm out of breath. I wish I had passion and genius. Michael's on his way, that's good. We talked about guy shit too, the War of 1812, Andrew Jackson, Tecumseh, British versus early-American warship-building, that sorta thing. I felt like a good father, like I do when Michael is composed in conversation with adults, or composed in the batters box with a kid throwing BBs at him.

By the way, 'The Most Interesting Man in the World' campaign is ending this month, March 2016, after running for a decade. In the final ad, he is a celebrated hero, of course, dashing, irresistible, perfect ('Just like Papa Mike' is what Papa Mike would say) being sent on a one-way mission to Mars. And the final words: "His only regret is not knowing what regret feels like."

Baseball season is here. The Pony draft is this week. It's actually an anxious and difficult night, after so many spring and fall seasons, as I know so many great kids and can't draft them all to a single team. But I learned long ago that the world is imperfect, or not fair, or I am imperfect, or something depressing. But hey, it's time for baseball.