#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.