Matt Taibbi the sportswriter...

... is now a political writer, but he played pro basketball in Russia, is a rabid (Boston) sports fan, and wields language to slice and dice like no other. Below are excepts from a column he scribbled for Men's Journal from 2008 to 2010. He can be a smidge negative and unsweet and politically incorrect, but he fearlessly satirizes the self-inflated and greedy and what's more important than that?! He's hilarious. And sometimes he just wrote about lovable, goofy characters like John Madden....

He was tough to take in the end, when his heart clearly wasn't in it, but Madden was a solid entertainment vehicle for years. Watching the early-'90s Madden tele-diagnose a tense Niners-Cowboys playoff game raised frenetic incoherence to new levels. It was like watching a giant-size Elmer Fudd on a strychnine high.... He may have done too many commercials (by the mid-2000s, I was rooting for athlete's foot in the Tinactin spots), but you never got the sense that Madden was a bad guy, that he stiffed waiters on tips or (was demeaning to women).  

There are probably camel herders in Kazakhstan who've heard the whole (A-Rod – Madonna) story by now. The problem with A-Rod is that he's... a confluence of supreme athletic excellence with insatiable narcissism and an agent who would interrupt the Gettysburg Address to announce that his client was exercising his opt-out. We're talking about a guy who announced that he was signing a deal with William Morris to "broaden the scope" of his celebrity at a time when even Kalahari Bushmen were getting tired of hearing about the Cynthia – Madonna – A-Rod – Lenny Kravitz love rhombus.

In general, sports coverage is entertaining, useful, and competent. The problem is that there's too much of it, and it's too loud. When sportswriters aren't pimping asinine story lines, they're writing hysterical screeds about steroids or greenies or gambling, like they're real problems in the grand scheme of things.... suddenly you're picking up the paper in the morning to see a yammering loudmouth like Jay Mariotti of the Chicago Sun-Times screaming "An Ethical and Moral Disaster!" about the Donaghy (NBA betting) scandal. Not just an ethical disaster, mind you, and not just a moral disaster – an ethical and a moral disaster.

Once upon a time most athletes were working-class kids who would have labored for free meals and $1,000 a year. Then the mass media age came, and next thing you know, even backup catchers are in the news more often than the Secretary of the Treasury. Pro athletes are drowning in so much money and attention.... And we increasingly get to play the role of the psychiatrist who listens to them lie back in their furs and complain about it all.

Instead of remembering where they were when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, young people of this decade will recall where they were when Jahri Evans signed a contract for $57 million – which also happened to be the same day they whispered to themselves,"Who the hell is Jahri Evans?" The thing is, nobody knows who Jahri Evans is. Even guys who played with him during the Saints' Super Bowl run need a minute to place the team's starting right guard. "Good for him. I love his albums," Reggie Bush said when asked about the Evans deal. Okay, I made that last part up.

The prototypical '70s coach, John Madden, was a bellicose, overweight loudmouth. The prototypical '80s coach, Bill Walsh, was an effete, self-congratulatory innovator/genius. The top '90s coach: Bill Parcells, another fat, loud asshole. His successor last decade was Belichick, a glowering, maniacally suspicious introvert. 

Lax on-field regulation, easy scores, and grotesque stat inflation – the 2000s NFL was the perfect sport for the financial-bubble era.

It was bad enough when sports franchises started selling the rights to name supposedly timeless and iconic new stadiums and playing fields to fly-by-night corporations 10 minutes from bankruptcy and/or indictments like Enron and Pro Player and TWA and National Car Rental and PSINet, turning the arenas for pro sports into genuinely comic symbols of America's boiler-room stock-scam economy. But pretty soon the networks started selling naming rights to their broadcast features, letting companies buy everything from the strike-zone graphic ("The Amica Strike Zone!") to the electronic review system in the U.S. Open tennis ("The Chase Bank Review!").... I estimate we're five years away from some enterprising executive coming up with a formula for selling naming rights to the actual play-by-play. Are you ready for the "IBM third down and seven"?  

It took the entire 100 years since the legalization of the forward pass for football coaches – all of them collectively innovating at the speed of a Greenlandian glacier – to embrace the idea of using the maximum five allowable receivers at the same time. Even in the 2000s, the spread offense was used almost solely by teams with excellent quarterbacks like Manning, Brady, and Brees.... But this decade, coaches will finally catch on.... The spread will be used by everyone, even teams with absolute morons under center.

No matter how much teams juice their players, or steal signals, or turn off the hot water in the opposing locker rooms, the games still come down to which team can block in the fourth quarter. What you see on the field is actually happening: honest competition. And you can't say that about the action on C-SPAN.... In the U.S. Senate it is not against the law, or even against the Senate rules, for a lawmaker to own stock in companies whose share price is directly affected by his legislative behavior. It's not even considered bad form. Unlike the NFL, where you can't come within a hundred miles of rigging the game's outcome without breaking a rule, the United States government is a landscape of complete and total moral chaos.... That we don't care nearly that much about Congress, or the presidency, or our tax dollars, or healthcare for war veterans, or the future condition of the planet we'll be leaving to our children – well, that's kind of embarrassing, I guess, and it sucks. But what the hell. None of that shit is as fun as football.

This is America, after all: If you don't suck, we'll forgive you!

It used to be that if you, the NFL player, wanted to say something insanely stupid to the whole world, you needed to hire a greaseball agent to call a press conference on your front lawn so you could expound extemporaneously on your personal philosophy.... Now, thanks to Twitter, there is absolutely no filter....

Talking to (Scott) Boras about baseball executives is like talking to a lion about red meat.

If you actually pay attention to your life as a sports fan, you’ll probably notice, as I have lately, that you spend most of your time trying to cope with the disappointment and shame of (a) desperately seeking an escape from the reality of your day-to-day life through the fantasy of sports, but finding instead that (b) in 99 cases out of 100, you’re spending the off-season nursing agonizing memories of crushing defeats. “Why couldn’t the wind have pushed that field goal a little to the left?” or, “If only Fernando Freaking Rodney hadn’t hung that one slider!” ... The German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, who, depending on your point of view, was either the funniest human being of all time or the most relentlessly depressing motherfucker who ever lived, perfectly described the awful dynamic of sports misery well over a century before Bill Buckner. Schopenhauer believed that the essential calculus of existence was skewed toward pain and misery. He constantly chided human beings for their baseless, ultimately self-defeating optimism, which leads ostensibly rational people to voluntarily sign themselves up for the pain of misplaced expectation in addition to the pain they’re already getting in huge doses, just by virtue of being citizens of the perpetual misery factory called Earth. Happiness and pleasure are the temporary absence of the horrible norm, he insisted. We revel in those moments, but they are fleeting, temporary, and, as it happens, seldom comparable in duration, intensity, or scope to the miserable.... It’s hard to think of a better description of a business in which each year, only one team out of 30 or 32 actually wins.... If you’re a sports fan, the system is set up so that you always lose. In the end, that’s actually what they’re selling you: loss and pain. But you don’t know that, not at first. Because they get you when you’re a kid. When you’re stupid. When you don’t even know what pain is yet. Here’s how they got me: When I was five years old, my father took me to a World Series game. It turned out to be the greatest baseball game in the history of the sport. No lie, I was really there. Game six, the 1975 World Series.... The pro sports leagues, they can’t sell you the winning feeling every year. They can’t even promise you’ll experience it once a decade, or even in your lifetime – hello, Detroit Lions and Chicago Cubs fans (not anymore!). What they can promise you is pain and disappointment, and lots of it, lots of watching other cities pick Michael Jordan (six championships for Chicago!) instead of Sam Bowie.... the sharper the pain, the more intense your desire for even a temporary reprieve will be, and come April you’ll be tuning in again for that almost-daily chance at having it all go away for a few hours. Meanwhile, between innings, your local TV network will be selling you lots of shit, including a vast array of very fattening foods that by an amazing coincidence have the curious property of temporarily allaying psychic pain by flooding your bloodstream with temporarily stupefying endorphin-inducing fats and oils.... Men laugh at women for buying Cosmo and Marie Claire and all those other magazines full of pictures of impossibly thin models with perfectly fitting clothes and $1,800 handbags, wondering why the other sex has such a bottomless appetite for self-abasement. Then those same men spend 340 nights a year following, with racing pulses and gritted teeth, sports teams doomed to disappoint them in 98 percent of cases. What we don’t realize until it’s too late is that we are watching the same show. They’re selling us disappointment, and we can’t get enough of it. Just so long as there’s a next year to think about.

#398

I gotta be honest with you about something... Jeanette dragged me to a concert last night and it blew my effin' doors off. It was fucking fantastic. (If you allude to it, you might as well say it; it was F-word awesome.) Jeanette is a believer in live music, and I'm happy she's a gentle evangelist to a person like me, who may otherwise choose the couch over the concert (after a long week). Last night – a Friday night – that would've been a mistake. To be clear, Jeanette kindly invites me; she doesn't 'drag' me. I was tired, but a trio called The Record Company made me untired. The show was at Gallagher Way, outside Wrigley Field, and the Gods of Rock said, "Let there be Rock," and from a stage, through rising smoke and beams of light, the Rock came forth, and the Rock was good, and it was poured out richly like wine at a wedding feast, and the people were quenched (because there really was wine and beer, of course) and their souls were restored, and their minds blown and faces melted, and the Rock was part blues and part punk, and it was perfect. And at least one person (me) was grateful to another person (Jeanette), and also grateful to his kids (M 'n' m) who have for several years now been musicians.... I've mentioned before, Megan is a cellist and Michael is a bassist (formerly a cellist). And since M has a bass guitar now, I took a video of a bass solo last night and sent it to him. I hope M 'n' m choose the concert over the couch, more often than vice versa. There is a time to work and a time to rest, but there is also a time to rock.

"I wanna rock!"
     — Twisted Sister, 1984

I remember three 45 records I owned when I was about 9 years old. Huey Lewis and the News, Hall & Oates, and Twisted Sister. The Twisted Sister single was actually We're Not Gonna Take It (not I Wanna Rock), but it was Rock, and it was good. My first cassette was New Edition which featured Cool It Now. Another cassette I"ll always remember buying – at a Ben Franklin store in Clear Lake, Iowa – was The Joshua Tree. Def Leppard (Hysteria) and Bon Jovi (Slippery When Wet) were a couple others. I feel bad that M 'n' m will never record a mixed cassette tape, track by track, laboriously – listening and dreaming and pushing clunky, plastic buttons – for someone they have a crush on. Nor have they, or will they ever, receive one, and know how much time it took to make it. 

A friend of mine saw Van Halen open for Journey who opened for Ronnie Montrose. Neither of those warmup bands were legends yet, obviously. What a show. And a guy next to us last night said he was at Pink Floyd at County Stadium in 1978, and "everyone that day saw God." I believe him. Such is the power. I know County Stadium was in Milwaukee back in the day, because my dad had Brewers season tickets. We lived outside Milwaukee for two years. I started school there. Then Iowa, then Illinois. But always rockin'. Or if I wasn't, I shoulda been. 

I wanna rock! Rock!
I wanna rock! Rock!
I want to rock! Rock!
I wanna rock! Rock!
Turn it down you say
Well all I gotta say to you 
Is time and time again I say no! No!
No-no! No-no! No!
Tell me not to play
Well all I gotta say too
When you tell me not to play I say no! No!
No-no! No-no! No!
So if you ask me why I like the way I play it
There's only one thing I can say to you
I wanna rock! Rock!
I wanna rock! Rock!
I want to rock! Rock!
I wanna rock! Rock!
There's a feelin' that
I get from nothin' else
And there ain't nothin' in the world
That makes me go! Go!
Go-go! Go-go! Go!
Turn the power up
I've waited for so long
So I could hear my favorite song
So let's go! Go!
Go-go! Go-go! Go!
When it's like this
I feel the music shootin' through me
There's nothin' else that I would rather do
I wanna rock! Rock!
     — Dee Snider, Twister Sister, I Wanna Rock

On Vikings

I sent in my DNA and received my "Ethnicity Estimate." Unsurprisingly, I am 39% Scandinavian (my maternal grandfather was Swedish), 27% Irish (or Scottish/Welsh, but I know I have Irish ancestors from a town called Horseleap), and 15% British. The rest is a broad mix of other European regions, including "European Jewish" and the "Iberian Peninsula," among others. Presumably, M 'n' m are comprised of half of this mixture, although I understand it can be more or less of a given lineage. Experts say we should think of DNA as marbles or beads that aren't evenly apportioned; Michael may get more Scandinavian 'beads' from me than Megan, for example. Their percentages won't match, despite having the same parents. That is very interesting, isn't it? Despite this variation, I know M 'n' m will get a hearty bit of Scandinavian from me, which I shall heretofore refer to as "Viking"; yes, M 'n' m have Viking in them!

From Men's Health magazine: "The Vikings were feared for many reasons: They were strong, skilled, and brave.... They were in astounding shape.... Most people don't know the Vikings were farmers despite the severe terrain and climate. But when population growth in Scandinavia made living off the land less favorable, they set sail to conquer new territory. The pillaging was just a bonus; what they really needed was elbow room. The western expansion was basically an agrarian homesteading kind of thing. The exploration was good for the tribe and for the soul.... The Vikings were truly bold. They got in boats and didn't know if they would go off the edge of the earth or hit land.... The Norse warriors spread their DNA rather liberally across Europe; yet they had a relatively enlightened view of gender equality. Vikings respected their women. Unlike the rest of Europe circa AD 800, Viking women were considered equal to men; they had rights to own property and have money. Plus, if you got out of line, they could ditch you – or worse: Some Viking women trained as warriors called Shieldmaidens. In Viking society, if a woman's husband treated her badly, she might stick a knife in his ribs. Or she could divorce him, in which case he had to give back all the property that came with the marriage. If any men in the ninth century were in touch with their feminine side, it was the Vikings. Research also reveals that Vikings took grooming seriously; they wore jewelry and colorful silk. They were savage warriors but they carried combs, razors, tweezers, and even ear spoons (early Q-tips). Anglo-Saxons at the time thought of the Viking invaders as clean freaks because they washed frequently. The Vikings were also style trendsetters, with tattoos, braids, and bleached blond hair (dark-haired Vikings used lye to get the look). Blame the Vikings' fearsome rep on bad PR. They had no written language, so it was Christian monks who wrote about the conquering pagans as devil-like. The monks had a vested interest in portraying them and their religion in the worst possible light, so it matters who tells your story. The Vikings' rich oral tradition of storytelling led to the writing of the Icelandic Sagas, which helped correct the record. Poetry was considered a high art, and the ability to give really amazing speeches and toasts for people was held in high esteem. Scandinavia circa AD 850 was a harsh, dog-eat-dog world, with everyone trying to impress the gods. The ultimate way to do that was by dying courageously in battle, which Vikings believed might gain them admittance to Valhalla, where men battled all day and feasted all night. You went down swinging."

 

Stuff About Things #22

From Mark Oppenheimer, father of four children under age seven: "Those who do have four children are presumed to be very religious or not very educated or both. My wife and I are but a little religious, super-duper educated, and just love children.... The writers Michael Chabon and Ayelet Waldman, who are married to each other, have four children. So does the psychologist and author Sonja Lyubomirsky, author of The How of Happiness.... John Updike had four children (but he and his wife then divorced, so, you know, asterisk).... I am very mindful that many people want more children than they have but have been unable to have them. My wife and I talk about our good fortune almost daily.... I know what you are thinking. Yes, this was indeed the plan. The first time we met, my wife and I discussed the fact that we both wanted four children someday.... My wife is one of two children, and they grew up in a small apartment. Her visions of larger families came from books, which she read by the dozen in the bedroom she shared with her older sister.... I come from a family of four siblings, three boys and a girl. We were usually happy, not always (what family is?). But I don’t think any of us believes that he or she would have been happier with fewer siblings.... Several times someone has said something like, “Four! Oh my God, that’s insane!” – and then quickly apologized. But I like that reaction. I’m 39 years old now, too old to be special in much. It’s all downhill for my tennis game, for my eyesight, for my memory. Number of children is still something I can win at.... I hear that Italians and Spanish and Germans and Japanese are all having 1.2 children or something like that. They are becoming countries of old people. If you don’t think that’s sad, you’re some sort of zealot. What kind, I am not yet sure. I’ll let you know when I meet you.... Yes, I worry about the environmental cost. But not as much as I should. I justify my actions by saying that the next Oppenheimer may be the one to find an antidote to climate change.... I do think that more people should have four children. But I also think more people should have zero. Those who wants lots of children or none are equally tyrannized by the reign of the two-or-three-child norm.... You know how, when you’re driving, everyone going faster than you is an asshole, and everyone slower is an idiot? For me, family size is like that. Parents with more children are insane, parents with fewer are pussies. I am aware that those with more or fewer children than my wife and I have may feel the exact same way about us.... I am very, very tired. But not as tired as my wife..."

     — Mark Oppenheimer, writer

"I have concluded that we are in a world made by rules created by an intelligence. To me it is clear that we exist in a plan which is governed by rules that were created, shaped by a universal intelligence and not by chance."
     — Michio Kaku, world-famous physicist

"Be polite, on time, and work really fucking hard until you are talented enough to be blunt, a little late, and take vacations and even then... be polite."
     — Ashton Kutcher

From Mike Rowe, famous for Dirty Jobs and other TV shows, in response to being complimented on his impressive vocabulary: "I read a lot.... I just think there's something really elegant, and maybe indulgent, about finding a different way to say a thing. And so, I think, often in an attempt to turn a phrase, I'll play with the language a lot, and stumble across words I wouldn't ordinarily use. Look, I've read Elmore Leonard and Hemingway and understand how important it is to be simple and brief, which is why I think it's a little indulgent to go the other way, but I do. I think the lexicon is extraordinary."

"Your secret was as quiet as the thunder."
     — Cochise

"To talk of it is not hard. To live it is hard."
     — Cochise

"If a big wind comes, a tree must bend, or be lifted out by its roots."
     — Cochise

"Let there be such oneness between us that when one cries, the other tastes salt." 
     — Rosabelle Believe

"Now you hold that boy and tell him you love him.... No, old man, say it like you mean it.... I ain't a good man, ain't the worst neither, just a different breed.... Say it, Mack, don't cost nothin'.... God, that's beautiful."
     — Butch Haynes, played by Kevin Costner, A Perfect World

"Self-esteem is the reputation we acquire with ourselves."
     — Nathaniel Branden

We don't see things as they are, we see them as we are.
     — Anaïs Nin

We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect. 
     — Anaïs Nin

"The early yogis were really psychologists. They were interested not in dogma, but in the way things work. How do perception and delusion work? What causes suffering? How can we see clearly? The system they devised is way more sophisticated that anything we have in the West."
     — Stephen Cope, author of The Wisdom of Yoga

"It is better to light a candle than curse the darkness.... Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.... Do what you feel in your heart to be right – for you'll be criticized anyway.... With the new day comes new strength and new thoughts.... No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.... The purpose of life is to live it, to taste experience to the utmost, to reach out eagerly and without fear for newer and richer experience."
     — Eleanor Roosevelt

"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself."
     — Franklin D. Roosevelt
 
"Our fears run broad and deep, and are every bit as diverse as we are. The 2017 version of Chapman University’s Survey of American Fears tabbed “corruption of government officials” as the most common fear, afflicting nearly 75 percent of respondents; concerns about the health-care system, the environment, personal finance, and war also figured in the top 10. Such spine-tingling triggers as public speaking and enclosed spaces landed in the bottom half of the 80 fears polled; clowns were slightly more scary than zombies, who were only slightly more scary than ghosts.... In the wake of 9/11, airplane ridership plummeted in the United States as many people opted to travel by car. A German psychologist estimated that in the 12 months following the attacks, 1,595 more people were killed in car accidents than would be expected in an ordinary year. That’s more than six times the number of passengers (246) who died on the four hijacked airplanes."
     — Ben Healy, The Atlantic

"It was early in the morning, the sun was just coming up, and this lioness is out with a fresh buffalo kill, calling for her cubs. We were 15 yards away, and I'm just looking at it like, 'This is why I play football.' (Such worldly sentiments are rare among his fellow NFL players.) When I first started traveling, everybody was like, 'Oh, it's weird, dude. Why are you out there doing this?' Well, I think it's weird if you have endless resources and the only place you go is Las Vegas or South Beach. To me, that's asinine."
     — Deandre Levy, from Men's Journal magazine

"This may not surprise anyone aged 18-34 but according to US Census data, if you're in that age bracket, your life differs wildly from your parents. Gone are the steady jobs and home ownership of yore. Gone too is married life – more 18-34 year-olds live with their parents than with a spouse.... about a third of millennials still live at home with their parents.... Last year, research found it was the most common living arrangement for young adults – for the first time in 130 years."
     — BBC, April 2017

Elena Herdieckerhoff: The Gentle Power of Highly Sensitive People

This is quoted entirely from Elena Herdieckerhoff; I couldn't see how to condense or omit any of it; it's perfect; it's important; it informs, right or wrong, how I parent M 'n' m, how I coach, and maybe how I try to understand some of my own problems, shortcomings, and disappointments. Children, by nature, are very sensitive, and I think that changes in us less than we think it does, as we crash into adulthood and careen through life...

Highly Sensitive People (HSPs) are like everyone else except that they experience the world in a more vivid way. And if you think that all HSPs are alike, that is not true; no two HSPs are the same. Every HSP has their own unique sensitive fingerprint alongside other identity markers like gender, ethnicity, and cultural and personal background.

I would also like to point out that being an HSP is not an illness, and it is also not a choice. It is a genetic trait. We are essentially born to be mild. Every time you tell an HSP they are 'too sensitive', it’s like telling someone with blue eyes that their eyes are too blue. Chances are, no matter how often you tell them, you’ll still have the same blue eyes looking back at you.

As a society, we have come to think of sensitivity as a flaw; an unfortunate, emotional Achilles heel, that tempers with our ability to become ever more optimized, detached, and robotic. We all too readily belittle the idealists, the dreamers, and the creators. This was, however, not always the case.

In previous centuries, philanthropists, philosophers, poets, artists, and painters were all venerated for their sensitive contribution to society. Who would we be without Leonardo da Vinci or without a Mozart? Without Anaïs Nin or Balzac? Or Mother Teresa or Gandhi? Our world would certainly be a shade darker.

Now, I’m not suggesting that all HSPs are geniuses that shaped the world. But, most HSPs have a genuine urge to create connection and meaning. Because they feel every pain they see, they want to elevate the forgotten and save the misfortunate. When HSPs try to hide their sensitivity to fit in, we all lose. For would a society not be poorer that lacks the beating heart of sensitive creation? That discredits imagination, intuition, and empathy? I believe so. That is why I think we need to urgently start to accept and appreciate sensitivity for the temperature regulating effect it has on an often hot headed world.

I believe we’re all sensitive to different degrees and in different ways. HSPs are simply at the far end of the spectrum. That is why how we think and talk about sensitivity concerns all of us. We need to come together as a society to rewrite the negative cultural narrative about sensitivity, and turn it into a positive one. We need to erase the notion that sensitivity is a weakness to finally benefit from its many strengths. By doing so, we will create an environment where everybody is safe to express their softer side, not just HSPs.

How can we go back to creating more positive awareness and acceptance for sensitivity? On a public level, I believe the two most urgent changes need to happen in schools and in the workplaces. In schools, we need to better train our teachers to recognize and understand sensitive children. And for parents and teachers alike, the often well-meant desire to toughen them up, to survive in the big, mean world out there, needs to stop. We should not try to force sheep into wolves’ clothing.

On a corporate level, the system is set up to favor those with steel elbows. Because sensitive people typically are more soft spoken and co-operative instead of competitive, they often get left behind on the corporate ladder. To change this, we need to create an environment where all personality types can flourish, and not just a select few. That is why I believe, for corporations, it is in their own best interest to invite sensitive people to the table. Because without sensitives they risk lacking innovation, integrity, and ultimately, humanity.

On a personal level, we can all make an impact simply by refraining from judging the delicate difference of the sensitives around us. The next time you feel like telling someone, 'You’re too sensitive!' I would ask you to stop and pause. Fill that pause with understanding. You will see that the simple act of acceptance will uplift both of you.

To my fellow HSPs, I say: Take heart and be unashamedly yourselves. Stop trying to toughen up. Stop hiding; you’re beautiful as you are. Don’t feel weird, because it’s not you who can be considered wrong but rather a world in which corruption, violence, and greed are the norm. As Krishnamurti said, 'It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.'

When I was a little girl, I loved chasing butterflies in our garden and I admired their fragile beauty. I felt a deep urge to protect them, so I decided to trap them in little mason jars filled with grass and flowers, to keep them safe with me in my room. I quickly understood: butterflies do not like captivity. This made me understand: they did not need to be rescued, their colorful contribution to the natural ecosystem was exactly as it should be. Similarly, HSPs should not hide away from the pain of this world in a protective incubator. It is their role to step up and share their sensitive gifts with all of us. I believe, as humans, we are all united by our experience of sensitivity and empathy. Also I don’t believe you need to be an HSP to care and to make a difference. We are facing grave political, cultural, and environmental problems today. Now, more than ever, we need the contribution of sensitive minds and hearts to pave a path for the troubled times ahead. The more we all allow ourselves to connect to our innate sensitive gifts, the more we can heal ourselves and the planet we live on. Inspired by John Lennon who perhaps wrote the biggest sensitivity anthem of all times with 'Imagine', let me close by saying: Please, don’t tell me I’m a dreamer, for I know I’m not the only sensitive one. Have faith that you’ll join hands with me to make this world a gentler one."

     — Elena Herdieckerhoff:

Retro M 'n' m – 2007 – #2

Friday, September 07, 2007

Megan was feverish yesterday; she's getting her molars or maybe a little illness. Fevers subdue her. She slows, softens; she's very snugly. It's heaven. I hold her and she settles, sighs, loosely grabs my shirt with her little fingers. Or I take her entire hand in the palm of mine, or both of her hands in one of mine. She is small. I love her.

Michael likes 'The Crocodile Hunter.' It's an energetic show and Michael absorbs it, watching, imitating, running "like a cheetah," attacking "like a lion," wrestling pillows "into a death roll like a crocodile." But Michael's favorite animal is the orca. I didn't know killer whales are called orcas. Michael teaches me things.

Friday, September 21, 2007

Michael looked up from a book about whales and told me that orcas fight bears. He said orcas win because they are more "bitery." Phonetically, that's "bite-er-ee" and Michael clarified for me, "It's like the word bite, Daddy." Thanks, Bud. He must've sensed it's not a common word or a word at all. There's a feeling-out process with new language, and I love observing it with Michael. He speaks with authority, even as he's learning. He's expressive and clear and unafraid of errors. Good. I don't correct him much, unless he asks for help or is wildly unclear; I have a powerful instinct not to stifle his creativity and eagerness to share. He'll be challenged and corrected a million times in life, no need to rush. As for orcas and bears, they simply aren't in the same weight class. Male orcas can weigh over six tons. They can eat 500 lbs of food a day. And yes, they will, though rarely, take polar bears as prey. Wow. By the way, did you know that a blue whale's heart is the size of a car, and capable of pumping 60 gallons of blood per minute. Nature is amazing. Michael knows this, and I'm grateful he's reminding me.

Megan has a baby. She calls it "dollie." She wraps dollie in a blanket, holds her, rocks her, feeds her a bottle. She says "dollie" in her sweet, soft voice. Then she gets bored or flustered and drops dollie on her head on the hardwood floor.

Thursday, October 09, 2007

Megan practiced a valuable skill yesterday. All day long. Putting on shoes. And taking them off. She put 'em on, took 'em off, on, off, on, off. Her patent leather shoes, too. Fancy. Makes sense; women love flashy shoes. This pair is toddler-small and to-die-for cute, but as shiny as any pair ever made, ever polished, and Megan was intent on mastering the method to wear them. For the record, I know men who love shoes as much as any woman; Papa Mike's no slouch – his shoe rack is full and often restocked – and I love a nice pair myself (but at a DSW discount). We need baseball cleats, hunting boots, golf shoes, running shoes. But women also have heels, flats, pumps, platforms, straps, ties, bows, buckles, wedges, high boots, low boots, boat shoes, sandals, slip-ons, slides, espadrilles, and clogs. (How'd I do?) I'm not even sure what some of those are, but I've heard them mentioned. And there's one variety I forgot: Velcro. Meggie's shiny shoes have Velcro straps which, indeed, she mastered in a day. Good job, Megs.

I came home from my softball game just before the kids' bedtime. Michael, freshly-bathed and jammied-up (as in P-jammied-up, not constipated, although that's no joke with Megan; we've tried everything but coffee and cigarettes) greeted me at the door. He noticed it was dusk and said, "Daddy, can I come outside and see the darkness?" Michael goes to bed all summer before sundown. Being outdoors at night in warm, wonderful air is novel to him. Especially in the fall, when it's been months since the early sunsets of the previous winter. Michael's only four; he hasn't experienced many seasonal transitions. I reminded myself of this and smiled. Then we went outside. We admired the moon, the stars, and the lights of several airplanes approaching or leaving O'Hare. Michael commented on a high American flag spotlit and glowing at our neighborhood's entrance. And he enjoyed padding through some shadowy, lush, cool grass with his bare feet. Simple pleasures and amazements abound.

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Michael asked if they make "small wetsuits, like wetsuits for kids." Michael asks good questions for a four-year-old. These days, he wants to be a marine biologist. Back-burnered are his dreams of driving a train or a racecar. He told me he would like to "swim with cetaceans." I said, "Sure, Buddy," then I had to look up "cetacean." So they're marine mammals of the order including whales, dolphins, and porpoises. I guess if he said "swim with whales" he wouldn't have included dolphins, and vice versa. Okay, smartypants. Of course, I love Michael's curiosity, vocabulary, and unfurling intellect.

Monday, October 22, 2007

Megan is a chatterbox now. This is good; she was a bit language delayed compared to her brother, although her brother is very loquacious and maybe not a fair standard-setter for comparison. Whatever the case, Megan can complain and fuss and harrumph more clearly now, thankfully, because nothing is more annoying that a grumbler who can't be understood! And when she says sweet things, like "Hi Daddy" or "Bye Daddy" or "Daddy hold you" or "Daddy hep" or "Pees Daddy" or "Daddy, pees hep" or "Daddy, fix it" – when a toy comes apart, for example – my heart swells and threatens to explode.

It's cute that Megan likes certain themes and characters that were formerly favorites of Michael's. Thomas and Percy are making a comeback; Lightning McQueen is popular again. Whales, dinosaurs, musical instruments, Legos, woo-hoo! Megan would be the perfect daughter except for some unpleasant crabbiness and a strong, insulting preference for Mommy. I am, as they say, chopped liver.

Megan is a resourceful little thing. Yesterday, I brought a chocolate shake home for M 'n' m to share. I offered Megan some. She loved it, and would've drained the whole thing, but I saved her from a crippling brain freeze and took it away again. She protested as I set it on the counter out of her reach. I turned to look for Michael but he wasn't there. I expected Megan to continue protesting – teased by the ungettable, heavenly treat overhead – but she was suddenly quiet and self-possessed, like she was thinking. Well, she was thinking. She waddled over to her step-stool by the fridge, dragged it to a spot beneath the shake, climbed aboard, stood up, and reached for the cup. She could touch it, but barely; she couldn't move or grab it. I watched her stretch and struggle and try, and then realized she might tumble off the stool if I didn't intervene. I intervened. I gave her another sip.

#397

I'm going to get cynical for a moment, which I hate to do, because cynicism is easy, lazy, and unbecoming. So please excuse me, and excuse this, and mistrust it accordingly, as you should any crabby accusation; I mean my just-stated cynical opinion about cynical opinions, and also the following: Impartiality, factuality, and objectivity in 'news reporting' is about as dead as altruism in politics. And it kind of annoys the shit out of me. I feel like when I was a kid, morning newspapers and the 'nightly news' put forth at least some information commonly agreed upon, even by opposing sides, as factual. Entertainment, extremism, presumption, profit, and outright bullshit were creeping into news reporting, but they hadn't taken over. They've taken over now. It's all tabloid. It's funhouse mirrors and Snapchat filters. It's obnoxious distortion. Utterly, shamelessly, and it sucks (even if our politicians deserve it). Other indecencies, for some reason, annoy me less. Maybe because they aren't masquerading as public service institutions; I think some journalists still believe they're 'informing' us. Cue the laugh track. Thankfully, M 'n' m already know the news media isn't seeking to arm and protect them with information. It isn't seeking to enlighten. It wants their eyeballs for ratings and ad revenue. Period. And it does this by stirring up controversy, conspiracy, fear, hate. Sadly, that grabs more eyeballs than good news. It's an evolutionary / survival thing. I think it's shitty to do this for staggering profit, which is then given to prostituting politicians, among other ill uses, but oh well. Whiners never win, and I am whining. M 'n' m don't read or watch 'news' anyway. They read what they're assigned in school, and they watch YouTubers, hip-hop artists, Fortnite clips (Michael), how-to-make-slime videos (Megan), horror movie trailers (Michael), and so on.

Now, let's talk about something happy, rosy, like springtime or puppies. Here's something: Megan found a baby racoon yesterday. It's eyes were still closed, and limbs curled and unlengthened; it was a newborn. Fuzzy, exposed, abandoned (I think Mama would've come hissing otherwise). It's nose and eyes were cutely colored and ringed like you'd expect, but not as distinct as they will be in adulthood. I thought of my favorite Beatles song. I recalled how raccoons can be fierce fighters. (I've seen it in Iowa, pheasant hunting, when dogs poke their snouts into raccoon nests, typically well-hidden in creek beds but olfactorily obvious to canines, who don't appreciate being swatted and sliced, on the nose of all places, by little razor-tipped hands out of nowhere; raccoons have hands, not paws, in my inexpert opinion. Then a loud and bloody brouhaha ensues, until it's interrupted, after which a louder and bloodier brouhaha ensues, but this time with humans and possibly more dogs getting all they can handle from a single, smaller, but ferociously committed, opponent. It's a mess.) And I recalled how raccoons are comedic actors (see John Candy and Dan Akroyd's The Great Outdoors). Megan's furry baby was safely delivered to a 'raccoon specialist.' I don't know what that means either. Raised and returned to the wild? But then it won't be 'wild' anymore. Oh brother. See, it's hard being a parent, caretaker, rescuer, foster-parent, or any such thing. Every decision can be second-guessed, picked apart, blamed for everything that happens, might happen, or won't happen but was ignited by thought anyway, and will now stressfully burn and spread like a wildfire. But this was supposed to be the happy paragraph. Well, I'm on a metra train in Chicago as I write this, and outside my window the sun is beaming off the glass towers and it's 74 degrees. As Megan likes to say, and I do too, Yay!