#291

Last Sunday morning, Michael greeted me with "Happy Father's Day," gave me a hug, gave me a card, watched me open it, and hugged me again. We exchanged thank yous and love yous. It was a Hallmark moment, and genuine. What about Meg? Well, not surprisingly, she wasn't as charitable. It's unlike her, of course, to lavish me with gratitude and praise on Father's Day or any day. But she says sweet things, once in a while, and is very love-y when she needs something. That last part is a smidgen unkind, but true and not unheard of among people her age; there's much to learn when we're kids, about ourselves and others and everything. Ideally, we keep learning. Forever. That's not simple or silly to me. It might be easier to stagnate, rest, be self-assured, withdraw. We'll see. I hope to keep working, traveling, reading, enjoying loved ones. I wish the same for M 'n' m, in both their early and golden years. Meg's a good girl. Am I a good dad? Not sure. Even the great dads have weaknesses, too much of this, not enough of that (attention, affection, discipline, consistency, whatever). My philosophy: It's nice to have room for improvement; nobody's perfect, except Papa Mike.

I looked at Megan's little toes and winced. I told her to 'trim her talons.' I don't think she understood; she looked puzzled. "Your feet, Honey," I said, "They need your attention, some TLC. Do you have nail clippers?" For once, she didn't argue. "I know," she said, "My toenails. They keep snagging on my bed sheets." Such a picture of refined and delicate beauty.

From a commencement address given by a favorite writer, David Foster Wallace, and relevant to Michael's brand-new teenhood: "There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, 'Morning, boys. How's the water?' And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes 'What the hell is water?'"

#290

On his first day as a teenager, Michael was showering and broke the glass door which shattered and sent shards into his feet, one of them very deeply. I'm told it was bloody; I wasn't there. We can take this story in several directions, but two of them I'll avoid, specifically: 1) a common suspicion of what teenage boys do in the shower and 2) how I've mercifully missed every one of my kids' serious or semi-serious injuries including Michael knocking out a front tooth and Michael gashing his head on the corner of a file cabinet, and Meg splitting her chin open and also getting bit in the face by a dog. Regarding 2) and violating my promise not to comment further (for fear of documenting the case against me for DCFS, for one thing), I'm generally at work when these things happen, bloody messes all, although I was on a golf course in Galena, Illinois – striking the ball very well, albeit temporarily, as you can imagine, but that's usually how it goes for me with or without nontrivial distraction – when my cellphone buzzed in the golf cart and I was notified that the most precious thing in my life had been bitten and punctured very near her eye by the teeth of a dog. My next shot I hit fat and short into the water. Ironically, to this day, Meg loves dogs more than anything on the planet. She asks for a puppy every single day. Should I remind her that a dog...? No? Okay, back to Michael and his newly-minted teenhood, and the fact it kicked-off with an injury. I think Michael is lucky. Glass can do terrible damage to human flesh. So can file cabinet corners and canine jaws. So I'm grateful today, although here's my dilemma: is it really 'looking on the bright side' to applaud or accept something because 'it could've been worse?' This is a stupid philosophical quandary that has plagued me forever. I agree with Jack Kerouac that 'comparisons are odious,' but what about expectations? Expectations are comparisons, aren't they? Comparisons to hoped-for or ideal outcomes? And the only time I'm disappointed by something is when I expect it to be better. Although, why demonize disappointment? I expect M 'n' m to behave appropriately and get good grades. We can't be free of expectations. The rule of law and civilization itself would crumble. What do M 'n' m expect of themselves and their lives? Will these expectations inspire or disappoint? I'm rooting for the former, of course, and I'll try to coach them accordingly. But what do I know? In general, I hope M 'n' m stay positive and productive, expect to be so in fact, and when there's a hiccup or curveball or fuckup or injury, they roll with it, keep truckin', count blessings, find silver linings, and live life. And the teenage years can be an intense part of one's life. Good luck, Michael. So far, so good.

#289

Today is M's birthday. He's 13. Yesterday, Megan said, "It's Michael's last day of childhood." (Megan is keen on the teenager designation.) Without thinking, I responded, "Not really Meg, men are children forever. They just get bigger toys and bigger egos." I felt a stab of remorse for saying it, because I wasn't joking, and it felt cynical and sad, because it's absolutely true. I'm not qualified to disparage, as an insider, the other fifty-some percent of humanity. So, moving on.... Yeah, WTF, Michael's a teenager already?! Time flies. I remember crying more than he did, on this day 13 years ago. He was a big baby, barrel-chested and puffy-faced. I was overwhelmed, amazed, grateful. And proud. I was proud because at one hour, M was already acting like a three-hour-old. Very advanced. He did push-ups in his hospital bassinet, and declined the local anesthetic during his... nevermind.

I am reading Rob Lowe's autobiography. Say what you will, but 'The Outsiders' and that generation of actors and their films informed a lot of my life when I was Michael's age. Unlike me, and unlike Michael also, Rob Lowe didn't have a consistent, present father-figure. This alters his lens, I'd say. Despite this difference, here's an excerpt from Lowe's 'Stories I Only Tell My Friends' apropos for the occasion, the beginning of M's teenagerhood: "Everyone knows that the teenage years are a time of profound emotion. The moody, exuberant, passionate, lethargic teen is a figure that has a special place in the hall of fame of cliches – and for good reason. It's all true. There is no point in reflection. We are so inexperienced, there is very little to reflect on. If we fail a big test, we just move on. We win an award and we smile and say thank you. We fall in love and it's a thrill. We get our hearts broken and we suffer. And we feel all these highs and lows in our absolute core; it feels as if it's never happened to anyone else because it's never happened to us before. Only later can we look back in the comfort perspective brings. I'm writing this looking out the window at my younger son playing with his dog. He is (14 years old). Every parent feels that wondrous, prideful pang when they see glimpses of themselves in their children. I'm no different. I'm looking at him now rolling in the grass, backlit by the afternoon sun. He is a boy-man, wanting everything the world has to offer and ready for none of it. Wanting a girl, with no idea how to get one. Wanting to make a mark in the world but unsure of how to do it. I look at my boy and I'm looking at myself. I want to run out into the yard and tell my young self that it's okay, all will be revealed in time. I want to give the advice I know he needs to hear. And on the occasions when I do talk to my boys about love, career, family, and all of life's unknowable mysteries, I realize that I am also talking to myself. And I wonder: Would my life have turned out differently had I had this perspective."

#288

I have a lot of one-sided conversations with Michael. This is predictable given my personal peculiarities and his, and likely exacerbated by the fact we're father and son. For example, I don't blame him for being silent when I mentioned masturbation. I recall being similarly unchatty when my father alluded to this eventuality when I was Michael's age. In an above-average effort for fathers, I'd say, Papa Mike hazily illuminated the changes, thoughts, and behaviors I might encounter during teenagerhood. I'm grateful; it helped preserve some sanity. I paid it forward. It's a good, strong father who advises his son, for purposes of love, respect, and health, not to run around like a bonobo monkey or sleazeball or drunken asshole. But I digress. Today's one-sided talk with Michael was actually about the famous order, "Burn the ships." I heard it referenced twice this week (it must be the entrepreneurial or self-help theme du jour), although I've heard it before. Destroy the means, and therefore the temptation, to quit. 'Burn' your escape, your excuses, your comfort. A gutsy, risky move. "99% is a bitch" is another good one about commitment and focus. Scuttle the ships and go forward, literally, metaphorically, as a conquering force, a team, an individual. Wikipedia says it was Hernán Cortés, a Spanish Conquistador, who gave the order in 1519 after landing in Veracruz, Mexico. His mission was to overthrow the Aztec Empire. He succeeded. Not surprisingly, he is regarded as an unusually persuasive, effective, and controversial leader.

Michael can't start the mower without me. It's a crappy, sticky pull-start (they are generally smoother, easier). But this makes me happy; I'm still the man of the house.

I discovered a short story by J.D. Salinger in which the narrator quotes Dostoevsky's The Brother's Karamazov. That's a double whammy. "Fathers and teachers, I ponder, 'What is hell?' I maintain that is the suffering of being unable to love."

#287

I have never seen eyelashes more beautiful than Megan's. They stand out, especially, when I glance down at her profile; it's a view that highlights their unusual length and shape.

I don't use Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Vine, or WhatsApp. I don't have a YouTube channel. I've taken Uber rides but since I didn't arrange or pay for them – my colleagues did – I can't say I've used Uber, the app. I still play mp3s; I don't use Spotify. I don't stream movies either. I don't monitor my biometrics with sensor-bristling watches or bracelets. My point? I'm on the downslope of the "technology adoption rate" curve, or whatever graph illustrates a slowdown in trying the latest in tech. It peaks in young adulthood. We happily try everything with an intuitive energy and understanding that propels the innovations-of-the-moment into mass use, acceptance, ubiquity (for my generation it was stuff like the internet, email, ebay, iTunes, all-things-online). Then we stagnate; we get stodgy, too comfortable with the old, uncomfortable with the new. Slowly, increasingly, the whiz-bang-y things of the moment annoy us, confuse us, or just remind us we have bronze spears and the iron age is upon us. Obsolescence of our ways, and ourselves, is no longer unimaginable. The shit is real (the new shit), and we aren't the shit anymore. When M 'n' m take a rocket to Mars, I'll be the uninspired one asking stupid questions. I wonder what the Ubers and Twitters of M 'n' m's similar 'downsloping point' will be. The rate at which they try and adopt new tech will peter out too; it happens to all of us. We've talked about self-driving cars and planes; M 'n' m may learn and prefer to steer themselves. Naturally, from the next generation, I'm rooting for quantum leaps in healthcare, longevity, and disease-treatment. Social media is played out. Right? Of course not. We have real VR coming.

Complaining is fun, a whole art form, but don't get carried away. Life if good. – Garrison Keillor

Creativity is a contact sport. – Walter Isaacson

#286

I know this is about M 'n' m, and not me, but... I'm on Chicago's Metra (commuter train) and all I see is hair. It's everywhere. I'm not talking about women; I'm talking about dudes, all around me, with coiffures as dark and perfect as Darth Vader's helmet, gleaming in the places they fashionably curve and flourish. I wanna lightsaber that shit. Or Edward Scissorhands it. Sweeney Todd? (No, not that one; I haven't seen it but I think he murders people). This is jealousy and I hope it stays away from M 'n' m. It probably won't. It tastes like a rusty knife. Actually, John Cheever said, "Fear tastes like a rusty knife, and do not let her into your house" but I know that jealousy is fear. And so, apparently, I'm scared shitless of all the salt-n-pepper hair on this train also, thick, even, stylish. Bastards. Jason Stathem. Vin Diesel. Real men. I hope Michael lives to be two-hundred, outlived by a beautiful family and a plush, full, fabulous hairdo.

I recently heard a Navy SEAL – in a podcast interview – say that oversharing is a major dysfunction in modern society. Maybe so. The good news is I don't think SEALs hunt and kill people for it. Or I'd be hiding. Which doesn't work against those guys anyway. But even SEALs aren't unanimous on this. Several have shared; they've opened up, written. I've read their books. Rogue Warrior by Richard Marcinko, Lone Survivor by Marcus Luttrell, The Heart and the Fist by Eric Greitens, No Easy Day by Mark Owen, American Sniper by Chris Kyle, First SEAL by Roy Boehm, Good to Go by Harry Constance, and – perhaps my favorite, with many contributors – Hunters & Shooters: An Oral History of the U.S. Navy SEALs in Vietnam.

Megan slipped on a pair of my ratty sandals yesterday and said, "Geez Dad, how long have you had these flip-flops?" I said, "A long time Honey, longer than I've had you."

I learned something today: Pee-wee Herman's dad was a founding pilot in the Israeli Air Force and took part in the 1948 Arab-Israeli War. Interesting. M 'n' m don't know who Pee-wee is. I have mixed feelings about this. Scandalized? Yes. Unique and really funny? Also yes.

It's a bittersweet symphony, this life.... I let the melody shine, let it cleanse mind, I feel free now. – The Verve

#285

Last weekend in Clear Lake, Iowa, I made a great discovery about Megan: she really loves to fish. I saw signs of a budding commitment – dare I say obsession? – that I will nurture into full bloom, if it truly exists and I play my cards right. How to fully indoctrinate her? A trip to Canada, a charter on Lake Michigan, a deep-sea adventure? I must stoke the flame! Michael enjoys fishing too, but has shown a disturbing lack of fanaticism. He doesn't join me before sunrise, and he can sleep the night before, and even the morning of. I suppose making Megan an addict depends on why she loves it. She's a fan of animals, but so are most kids. She's also a fan of sports and water and buying things (bait and tackle, in this case), but again, so are most. The big reason I fish is surprise, the unknown; it's a grab bag of sorts, like Forrest Gump's 'box of chocolates,' or an unopened pack of trading cards. What's it gonna be? Every catch is fun, but some are exceptional. I don't buy lottery tickets; I fish. Meg and I caught walleye, bass, and crappie, and we know the lake has huge catfish, carp, and muskies. The lake itself is big; it's deep, spring-fed, and very generous in recent years. Meg hooked into a lunker walleye – approaching two feet – that snapped her line. Surely she noticed the heart-stopping urgency and excitement with which I scrambled for the net. I hope she was seized the same way. She chirped that it felt big and then it surfaced and proved her frighteningly correct, a monster, with eyes the size of quarters and massive fins; then it sneered, showed teeth, and released itself. I'm not exaggerating. Much. Hours of casting and waiting are worth it. I think Meg agrees. The greatest book ever written – which I finally read cover-to-cover last year – is about a similar thing: Moby Dick. Hemingway took a stab as well: Old Man and the Sea. Fishing is fun.

Piercing minnows with hooks is problematic for Meg, but she understands it's necessary for the bigger fish, which in turn are cleaned and eaten. It's a fine illustration of the food chain. We caught and kept three walleyes over the limit (14 inches). These are food, good food. Proper culling actually helps the cycle, but I haven't explained that to Megan yet. Yes, when I was her age, I rose before the sun to fish, and barely slept the night before; it was like Santa in the summer. I fished whenever the adults would let me. Michael loves to fish at Paul's in northern Minnesota (Meg hasn't joined us for that), so his 'addiction' involves different details and energies. Besides, Michael needs his sleep; he seemingly grows an inch every week which must be exhausting.

Megan and walleye