#307

Recently, in a short story by Jhumpa Lahiri, I read: “My father was extremely particular about his stereo components,” then something like, "The stereo was his most extravagant purchase, which he carefully, lovingly cleaned every Saturday, wiping the parts with a special cloth, before playing his favorite songs," etcetera, etcetera. Oh man, this resonated powerfully with me, maybe like mention of the Kennedy assassination stirs up baby boomers; they remember with exceptional richness the moment they found out. In a similar fashion, I recall my dad’s stereo with an unusual sensorial allness; I remember how different parts of it smelled, looked, and felt, and, of course, I remember the sound, unforgettable melodies and voices, the music of the ‘70s. The smell was that of power-hungry early-electronics and warm, scarred plastic. The needle and record grooves could be touched, and the speaker fabric, and the buttons, knobs, switches, and wires. The clear plastic lid of the turntable is a primary visual in my mind, also the massive dials for station tuning and volume control. And there was gilding and wood trim; some stereo components and speakers were encased in wood or faux-wood. The mechanism that lowered and raised the needle was fascinating and impossibly precise (at the time). The records themselves were precious and cared for but handled frequently; their labels and cardboard jackets showed signs of wear, and the aromas and residues of beer, food, and other contraband maybe transferred a little. Milk crates were perfect for storing and filing through records. I could go on. I’m grateful my dad’s stereo wasn’t an iPod, or Bluetooth speaker, or Spotify. It wasn’t even a cassette or CD player yet in my fondest recollection; it was a system of multiple pieces, hand-selected, spec’ed out, brand-named, and expensive as shit – pricey, at least, for parents like mine who married young and were dirt poor before they hit their stride. A stereo system included, give or take, a record player or turntable, a receiver, radio tuner, big speakers, and humongous headphones (that made me think of Princess Leia’s hair), and maybe an equalizer and additional amps. To confirm these wistful memories, I emailed Papa Mike for more details. This is his response: Dan, you can ask your mother... our stereo was always the most valuable thing we had... even more than the car sometimes... and I/we had multiple stereos through just our first five years or so... when we couldn't trade in our car because it had a crazy rotary engine (Mazda '73) when they gave you $500 cash back (and that was like two month's rent) I always ended up selling my 'stereo'.... always a fine receiver, Marantz or Pioneer, and a fine turntable, magnetic cartridge only, Garrard I think, and oh, Advent speakers... then when we got some money from my working at the Clark station in town in Ames or for the raccoons my neighbor and I killed and got $35 each, we would buy another decent plus component system and play those LP's... btw, I can 'cut' a USB drive of Mike's 339 most favorite songs if you like….

That, friends, is awesome. Stories, memories, life. I’m grateful to be a son and father, and a person who lived in the '70s!

Don't get me wrong, technology ain't bad. I use Spotify (but only after Michael got me started; previously I used Pandora without his help). We have many Bluetooth speakers (a few purchased cheaply in the knock-off bartering markets in China). But a balance between old and new is essential. For example, I don't think I'll ever stop making fires, and reading words on paper, and writing words on paper. I'll never stop reflecting on the wisdom of Jesus, and the Stoics, and Native Americans, and the classic rock songwriters of the '70s that are simply peerless!

"There's nothing that I enjoy more at night than reading Rumi, the Sufi mystic; he is a transcendent thought leader maybe like Seneca; he has tremendous wisdom. And so I think the wisdom of the ancients has a lot to offer; I find a lot of use in these texts, the Bible, the Quran, the Zen parables and Sufi stuff. For me, it's not like you have to be slavishly obedient to them, take what you find useful, move on, but I found a lot of use in those texts." –– Kevin Kelly. Sort of paradoxically, Kelly is the founding executive editor of Wired magazine, and a very prescient voice about the future, technology, and digital culture.

#306

One of the great pleasures of parenting M 'n' m has been witnessing how much Megan adores her older brother. She can be unruly and bullheaded – especially with me – but she has a loyalty and affection for all-things-Michael that makes me proud of both of them.

I like this from Susan Minot: "When siblings share a trauma – one could argue that childhood itself is a trauma – they will be either bound closer together or driven further apart. Our mother died at 48 in a car accident, leaving behind her husband and seven children between the ages of 7 and 21. We were all in shock, moving together like stunned zombies. But it was in a group that we moved, and in a group that we huddled on the life raft together. Though you come from the same place, it doesn't necessarily mean you'll get along, or relate to one another. But if you do relate, your relationship might be the closest that a human can have."

Divorce isn't the loss of a parent, but it's the loss of a certain lifestyle, a preferred, smoother, more stable lifestyle for most kids. Minot refers to siblinghood as "an overlapping of souls." How can we disagree? She says, "My (three) sisters and I share many things: political beliefs, a worship of the temple of the movie theater, a facility with water colors. We have the same voice and the same feet...." Admittedly, since Michael hit puberty, M 'n' m have very different voices and feet.

The mind is very resourceful. Harness it for your benefit. Don't let it harness you for its benefit. This is some of the best advice I will give M 'n' m. It's a little cryptic, corny, koan-ish, whatever – and it's partly just the adage, "Control your thoughts or they will control you." – but it's so fucking important. That's a bad word, sorry (although, be honest, it's not that shocking these days) but nothing is more important. I struggle all the time to keep my internal dialogue positive and productive. Internal dialogue drives human performance (I stole that line from Navy SEAL Thom Shea). A negative internal dialogue is killer, when all else is boiled away, and we face life's challenges. The writer Elizabeth Gilbert says this: “You need to learn how to select your thoughts just the same way you select your clothes every day. This is a power you can cultivate. If you want to control things in your life so bad, work on the mind. That's the only thing you should be trying to control.” At a minimum, I hope M 'n' m agree with this, and at a maximum, they master it. No shame in not being a master, however; I, for one, am far from it.

"Choose not a life of imitation....
Go write your message on the pavement....
Complete the motion if you stumble....
This life is more than ordinary....
This life is more than just a read through."
     –– Red Hot Chili Peppers, 'Can't Stop'

"You spend years wishing your parents would get off your back, only to realize they're the only ones who ever really had your back." –– Unknown

#305

Megan has a potent instinct to complain. She's a grumbler and problem-finder in the AM especially, and no slouch at mealtimes either. "Ugh, we're having that again?" She's a master at disappointment. The frowning, slumping, gesturing... the moaning, groaning; it's not my favorite Megan. But I'm patient because I had a negative streak as a kid myself, sore-losing, scoffing, the usual bratty stuff. I didn't whine as much; I was parented better, which is to say more sternly. Threats like, "Quit whining or I'll give you something to whine about!" were swift and real. I cushioned myself against disappointment by expecting it. And then, slowly but surely, I matured. I learned that disappointment happens – shit happens, as they say – and you deal with it. I learned that positive energy serves us better, and we create our own energy. I hope Meg follows a similar path, but she won't. She'll follow her path. We're all different; our lives, loves, journeys, blah blah. So at the moment, I'm not looking for books and therapies to make Megan more 'positive.' She's not unhappy; she adores her friends and Sophie; she's active in sports and expresses herself artistically; she reads, laughs, plays, and sleeps well; and she even eats, but never before complaining! For now, we'll flounder on. I'll keep barking at her and banging my head against the wall.

I heard a favorite writer and journalist, Sebastian Junger, say in a podcast interview that one of his favorites is Joan Didion. When a favorite has a favorite.... This is from Joan Didion's essay On Keeping a Notebook:

"Why did I write it down? In order to remember, of course, but exactly what was it I wanted to remember? How much of it actually happened? Did any of it? Why do I keep a notebook at all? It is easy to deceive oneself on all those scores. The impulse to write things down is a peculiarly compulsive one, inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself. I suppose that it begins or does not begin in the cradle. Although I have felt compelled to write things down since I was five years old, I doubt that my daughter ever will, for she is a singularly blessed and accepting child, delighted with life exactly as life presents itself to her, unafraid to go to sleep and unafraid to wake up. Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss. ... How it felt to me: that is getting closer to the truth about a notebook. I sometimes delude myself about why I keep a notebook, imagine that some thrifty virtue derives from preserving everything observed. See enough and write it down, I tell myself, and then some morning when the world seems drained of wonder, some day when I am only going through the motions of doing what I am supposed to do, which is write – on that bankrupt morning I will simply open my notebook and there it will all be, a forgotten account with accumulated interest...."

It doesnt take Sherlock Holmes...

... to solve this one. Six of us ate dinner here. Where did Megan sit?

#304

And they're off.... Megan to 5th grade, Michael to 8th, Cole to 6th grade and Sophie to 7th (our biggest 'transition' of the four, Sophie to junior high). Since Michael and Cole are BMOCs now, I told them, "Nothing makes a big dog look weaker than picking on little dogs." This, of course, was followed by confused silence. Let's face it, advice from parents that's clunky, preachy, and out-of-date is a time-honored tradition. Nonsensical, pointless, impossible, dumb... who will carry the torch if I don't? I'm a master at awkward too. So M and C looked at me funny, felt sorry for me, then explained they don't see younger kids much, and don't notice them, and no one really picks on anyone else. Wait. Now I was confused. No one picks on anyone else? What about the skaters mocking the preppies? What about jocks picking on skaters and metal-heads picking on jocks? Or whatever. I took some shit from dudes. That doesn't happen anymore? That's not fair! So bullying isn't funny, and I know it's both policed and perpetrated differently than it was back in the '80s. What's important – besides the security and confidence of our youth – is for kids to know there's nothing lower than demeaning or humiliating others, especially the vulnerable. And we're all vulnerable; with discomforts, soft spots, things we hold dear, exploitable weaknesses. So my message to Michael and Cole was really just a bumper sticker: Mean People Suck.

"It was not easy, it was a war. I'm happy it went that way. I got to show my heart in there.... The whole lot of it brought out the best in me, it forced me to look at myself truly.... I'm just grateful.... You win or you learn, and this time I stayed with it and got the win.... I didn't make any excuses.... Since the last fight, he grew, so I knew I was up against it, and I was thinking in my head, maybe this could be a mistake but I said, 'Fuck it,' you train hard, be smart, learn from your mistakes, and go in confident." 
     –– Conor McGregor after his fight with Nate Diaz at UFC 202

"Creativity requires the courage to let go of certainties." –– Erich Fromm

"There was a long time in Chicago when I kept thinking, 'Am I like one of those people on American Idol who doesn't know they're not good?'"  
     –– Cecily Strong, breakout star of Saturday Night Live, who persevered despite her innate anxiety and fears

I wish this was standard business practice....

I wish this was every restaurant and store, every place that charged for products or services.... Megan, for one, could use the training. Michael would get a 'deal' almost everywhere. Neither, however, are as unfailingly polite as I am, but I'm weird. We'll keep working on Megan.

#303

Megan's Bambi eyelashes haven't shortened, thinned, drooped, or otherwise diminished whatsoever. I pay attention. They're still perfect.

Michael unhumbly told me he has mannerisms like Papa Mike, or so he's heard. Oh brother. He hasn't been so proud since he went deep and home-run-trotted in a real game. That's memorable, and so is having kick-ass grandparents. I'm grateful Michael has four fantastic ones. But is Michael's emulation of Papa something to worry about? Oh God yes! YOUNG Papa Mike especially! Holy shit, the stories.... I suppose when you name a guy after a guy you send a message, and though I joke about it, let me be clear: it's a message I'd shout louder every day if I could; I never thought for a second about other names, the easiest decision of my life: Michael Byard Cox.

One thing we associate with Papa Mike – although he's too modest to agree – is extraordinary professional success. On success, I saw the following from the New York Times: "It turns out that for all their diversity, the strikingly successful groups in America today share three traits that, together, propel success. The first is a superiority complex – a deep-seated belief in their exceptionality. The second appears to be the opposite – insecurity, a feeling that you or what you've done is not good enough. The third is impulse control. It's odd to think of people feeling simultaneously superior and insecure. Yet it's precisely this unstable combination that generates drive: a chip on the shoulder, a goading need to prove oneself. Add impulse control – the ability to resist temptation – and the result is people who systematically sacrifice present gratification in pursuit of future attainment." Papa Mike and impulse control? The guy always striving and failing, in his own words, to be Mr. Patient and Mr. Frugal? Well, he's never failed to be Mr. Working-His-Ass-Off (my words now). So there's that. Which takes impulse control, or focus, or something that must lend itself to success. Grandma Barb busts her ass too. When there's work to do, they do it; shit gets done. Period. I hope M 'n' m have a work ethic like their grandparents.

#302

As I watch M 'n' m get closer to 'full-grown' (I realize they aren't puppies), an impossible question keeps nagging, or the desire for a certain formula, although I know one doesn't exist; God herself would say it's too complex for a precise, simple rendering, a nice pie chart, for example. I don't think God uses PowerPoint. The question: Is nature or nurture a more powerful forming force in our children? Heredity is a factor, and sometimes massively so, but isn't environment the bigger hand, the hand that moves us versus the one we're dealt in genes? As parents, we're huge contributors to both, obviously. It seems our biology and brain chemistry are less congealed than we thought in previous centuries; we have modern fitness and diet trends, and cosmetic medicine. I had braces, as in orthodontia; that's not cosmetic 'surgery,' but it's cosmetic something. It's prevalent and useful. And now we're told our brains are neuroplastic. You gotta love science; it's so sure of itself until it's not. Don't get me wrong; science gives us incredible progress, understanding, technology, but the 'accuracy' and authority of claims that are later controverted (e.g. 'all dietary fat is bad') can be frustrating. And yet, despite new trends and breakthroughs (like gene therapy), there is a stubborn fixedness to the composition and habits of our minds and bodies, our heredity. And, clouding things further, it seems that human sensitivity to environment varies; some people appear impervious to things others are oversensitive to. Some people walk to the beat of their own drum. I envy them. I am naturally more at the people-pleasing, socially-anxious end of the spectrum, versus the side that's achored by folks who feel zero self-consciousness and are oblivious to social cues. Of course, these conditions have neurobiological determinants, and I don't mean to speak of them flippantly. Are we back, full circle, to the rigidity of biology and brain chemistry? See, it's very confusing. Who knows, maybe astrology and fate determine everything! I'm simply curious where M 'n' m fall on this scale I've poorly described. And will they move one way or the other, become more of this or less of that. I attempt to move and improve. It's often arduous and disheartening, frankly. We are who we are. But we can 'move,' too.

M 'n' m are finally home from their many travels this summer. They were on the road – not exactly like Kerouac, but that's a cool reference – for about five weeks. I missed Megan maybe like those 33 miners in Chile.... When my Grandpa Byard was in the Korean War, he kept a diary and filled much of it with expressions of how badly he missed "Marilyn and Mike." Grandma Marilyn was his beautiful bride, and Papa Mike his newborn son. As the story goes, Marilyn showed their baby a single black-and-white photo of his father everyday until the months passed and they were reunited. It won't be intuitive for M 'n' m to understand this; in those days it was truly a gulf, a distance, an isolation from your most precious people, without video calls, email, cell phones, bundles of digital photos and videos as reminders of closeness.

I've been mouse hunting lately, or trapping, in my shed and woodpile. It's not as fun as fishing – and I see why mice give even elephants the willies – but there are similarities. Bait, gear, and location can be micro-analyzed, as can the hooks/traps left bare and empty. Little bastards. And so I strategize, and what's more fun than that?

There's something satisfying about sharpening my mower blade. Building walls for Michael's bedroom is satisfying also, but not like honing the edge of a fine blade. A 'fine blade?' Yes, I've over-glorified my mower, but the smithing and sharpening of steel is an exquisite metaphor for life! If that sounds cheesy, I give you this: Ever tried slicing a tomato with a dull knife? Indeed, you can only smash them, like poor Lennie lovingly crushes everything he touches in Of Mice and Men, which Jeanette got for Michael from the library, and Chris Farley spoofed hilariously on SNL. Remember him? Tommy Boy? We grow tomatoes in containers; I'm happy to demonstrate to M 'n' m that food isn't 'manna from heaven,' or Jewel; it requires seeds and growth. And cubing tomatos, mincing onions, chopping cilantro, and slicing limes – we love Jeanette's pico de gallo! – is impossible with a dull knife!

#301

I saw a meme on Facebook that said:  
"I never know what to say when people ask me what my hobbies are. I mean, I'm a mom. I enjoy trips to the bathroom alone and silence."
And similarly themed, a meme that had Jeanette howling:
"Ever heard of a swear jar? I started a Mom jar. The kids have to put $1.00 in every time they say 'Mom.' So far I'm up to 59 billion. We started 30 minutes ago."

So I was thinking... can you put 'dad' in there? The answer, of course, is no. It just doesn't work. It doesn't mean we're less needed or less involved. Umm, it doesn't mean that, right? Shit, what else would it mean?! Actually, we're different. In many ways, in many homes, we swap, overlap, mesh; we're the safety net, the warm blanket, the everything, together.

And then there's divorce. I've spoken softly here about the 'silver linings' of the big D. It's sensitive, it's un-PC, and it's probably bullshit too, but being a single parent, even with Jeanette always present and immensely helpful, means I don't compete for the roles of late night savior, nurse, tucker-inner, confidant, coach, kleenex-getter, whatever. At our house, for M 'n' m, it's me. Mom is elsewhere. We never hesitate to call her – we often do – but the dynamic is altered. Jeanette is terrifically tender and maternal to hers and mine both, and like any dad, I underestimate her contributions to our 'Brady Bunch' home, but there isn't much I pass off to someone else. Like Vanilla Ice said, "If there was a problem, yo, I'll solve it." Oh man, that was rapped into my high-school ears too much back in 1990.

The topic of Mom-ship versus dad-hood is one to avoid. So here we go. Interesting to note, from the get-go, that my instincts were to use mom-'ship' as in kingship, and dad-'hood' as in peasanthood; the former clearly feels like the authority, the heavy-lifter, when it comes to kid-raising. Although, didn't the peasants do all the lifting? Indeed, this is a multifarious and testy topic; I'll only say ignorant, un-modern things, I'm sure. Every family is different, every person is different, so moms and dads differ too, and shouldn't be bucketed or stereotyped. But I still plainly see many moms as moms, and dads as dads, traditionally speaking. Regardless, we're all huge in the lives of kids. Things have changed over generations, but how much? How much should they change? I don't know. I only have my own experiences as son and father, and the glimpses afforded outsiders to these relationships between others. There are tons of amazing and incredible parents out there. I'm grateful – because they make the world a better place – and hopeful to keep learning from them. It doesn't matter if they're moms, dads, traditional or not, foster-this or adopted that; we know who we are.

A Liar's Guide...

... to bending the truth, another thing from Men's Health, 10 indisputable facts about lying, although that sounds dubious, facts about lying? From Will Arnett. As a parent, it's best to remember that...

1) Liars always lie about lying. Liars begin sentences with 'To be honest' because they're always trying to convince people of their total bullshit. They also say things like 'I'm not a very good liar.'"

2) It's okay to lie to children, obviously, because they're not emotionally equipped for the hard realities yet – like that Santa Claus is bullshit.

3) And it's okay to lie about children who know too much. When my 7-year-old lost a tooth, he told me a kid at school said the tooth fairy isn't real; it's the parents who put money under the pillow. So I did the responsible thing. I explained to my son that the kid must be a delusional psychopath.

4) It's okay to lie to your family about politics. If it gets you out of talking to an obnoxious relative about why he thinks so-and-so should be president, and the other so-and-so is the lord of evil, then lying is okay 100 percent of the time.

5) It's okay to lie about religion. Never give an honest answer if someone asks you, 'What do you think about the cult I joined?' If it's keeping them relatively sober and out of trouble, I'm always like, 'They seem like a fun bunch.'"

6) Even animals lie. You ever see those documentaries about the mating rituals of birds, and how male birds puff themselves up with insane feathers to attract females? Yeah, that's absolutely just lying. No way those birds keep that up after they've sealed the deal.

7) Liars eventually get caught.

#300

Michael brought a shooting range target home from Minnesota. It was Swiss cheese. Papa Mike's SIG SAUER was the weapon. Papa has others. A lot of talk these days about guns. It's debate the country should absolutely have, followed by votes. I'm afraid lobbyists write our laws now. Whatever the case, I'm 100% okay – in fact, grateful – that Michael is learning how to handle guns with respect and safety. A proper introduction removes mystery, and maybe the kind of distorted, inflated allure that causes problems.

I feel like an idiot for mentioning two people here. First, Rob Lowe. I enjoyed his autobiography and then someone at work said, "You know he was busted with a minor?" He is sober now, was pretty young himself at the time, and tells great stories, but there's no excuse. Sorry for mentioning Rob Lowe. And then the Cubs traded for Aroldis Chapman. I was thrilled and then someone at work said – yeah, always someone at bloody work – "You know about the domestic violence?" No, I only knew he could throw a baseball through concrete. Sorry for mentioning Aroldis Chapman. Moving forward, I intend to say nothing about famous people, except for actors, athletes, artists, writers, politicians, and historical figures. And the Kardashian Real Housewives. Actually, I can't comment on them; I've never seen the show; I'd rather put jalapeno oil in my eyes again.  

I just realized this is post #300. And it's about criminals, guns, and unbearable celebrities? My timing and filters betray me. So 300 is ceremoniously unceremonious, I guess, the usual random, honest bullshit. (300 was a cool movie too; I'll tell M 'n' m I was cast for it, but they were babies and I loved them so acutely I decided to give up movie stardom.) Speaking of babies, I wonder what I was thinking 290 scribblings ago? I hate diapers? I'm delirious with love and exhaustion? I can't wait to be done with onesies, cribs, and car seats? I wish they could talk to me? Definitely the last one, wanting to know their thoughts, wanting to converse; I remember that precisely.

My favorite tool is the shop vac. Not sure what that says about me. I have decent saws, axes, knives, and so on, but the shop vac is a force. I need it frequently. When Michael is my age (40) and I'm 65, I'll ask him what his favorite tool is. Drone? Droid? Spacesuit, VR gear, memory implant? I hope not. I hope it's something made of forged steel.

Another tool, or appliance, deserves honorable mention: my sump pump. Man I love it. The rain was like a waterfall from the sky this spring. And our sump just kept running and running and running. All night sometimes. One glitch and big trouble, but no. I was lovin' the sump as much as I love Megan. That's a lot.

I called and asked my dad today about mower maintenance. Mowers have engines after all, and filters, oil, blades and so on. And that's how it goes: you do right by your son and he'll be a burden your whole life. And that, to be blunt, is fuckin' cool. My heart goes out to folks who've lost their dads. I hope Michael calls me for answers, advice, instructions thirty years from now, about his house, career, children, finances, his mower, whatever. I hope I'm helpful, although I'll probably say, call Papa Mike.

Reasons the Future May Suck...

... from Men's Health. These stood out to me:

• When your buddy tells you another story about an epic night with a stunning woman, you won't know if he's conveniently omitting the fact he was wearing a virtual reality headset.
• Genome editing. Guys with Donald Trump haircuts disappear, along with our mockery of them. Nobody explains a full head of hair anymore with "I have good genes." Now it's "My dad bought me a gene splicer."
• Jetpacks are cool. But not when our news feeds fill up with headlines like "Another dumbass dies in jetpack selfie mishap."
• Thanks to self-driving cars, using a steering wheel while fiddling with music, eating french fries, and holding a Coke without spilling it is now a useless and kind of stupid skill.
• Clever new dating app, Cringe, transmits your horrified reaction to her profile photo instantly, and vice versa, bringing loneliness, alienation, and despair to depths unmatched in human history.

#299

I've heard from more readers lately. Thank you. I'm happy you stop here for amusement, or a dose of superiority, which is a natural human need, by the way, don't kid yourself (although people who seek it insatiably are kind of annoying). It's okay to think: they're pretty weird, more than us at least.

A few of you indicated that reading this feels like stalking. It's not. I over-disclose and write poorly; the writing you're used to is crisp and great and decidedly never makes anyone feel creepy. You haven't stalked anyone. Not since your teens anyway. And twenties. But you were in love. Stalking is nothing to joke about. Blog stats indicate hundreds of you visit per post, and overall in increments of 10k. You're not alone. And very sincerely, thank you.

Jumping right into more awkwardness: Michael is a teenager now and big. His physicality suggests otherwise but he's still a kid. This is the opposite of my junior high experience; I was short, scrawny, high-voiced, and a dolphin. During every basketball game, I'd think, shit, I can't match-up with this guy, he has armpit hair and muscles. This sucks! (Then I'd drop 20 points on him and shut him down on D, but it was tiresome.... Humblebragging: transparent, shallow, and fun.) Although it's very much in his DNA from me, Michael doesn't have a chest pelt yet – think Barry Gibb with three buttons unfastened and a medallion – but his physical maturation has to be outpacing his mental and emotional growth. And he's a guy. Recipe for disaster? Of course not. The male brain isn't fully developed until our mid-twenties, and this makes zero sense to me – lots to add here by way of humor, sorrow, dysfunction – but men are men, and without us, things would be a lot different and not for the better! Also, regarding youth versus age, it's the older guys, and not the young ones, who cause the big problems. Politicians, of course, are a perfect example.

I wonder what happens when Michael discovers these scribblings exist. I can tell him there's no audience (which was true at the beginning), and if I had one, it wouldn't include him until he's much older, like my current age, which is to say on the precipice of his own little midlife trough, hoping he's a good dad, feeling a little restless or rueful perhaps, you know, which happens to men at 'halftime' before we rebound, kick-ass for a few more decades, then ride off into the sunset.