#330

I asked myself an important question today: What have I taught my son? What skills, habits, useful know-how have I passed on? I asked myself this and was discouraged by how little came to mind. Michael is polite and social (maybe I've influenced these behaviors); he loves and respects his grandparents; he can hit a baseball a country mile; he eats and sleeps well; he has acceptable hygiene... I'm really scraping now. Although, maybe he's gleaned more than I realize, because I'm certain my dad taught his son more than is recognized and credited. My dad taught me:

1) How to have a great mustache. It's not a skill I use often, but it's there; Papa was mustachioed for most of the 70's and 80's.

2) How to build a fire. Use paper and matches, or a lighter, or a cigarette, or lighter fluid if it's really stubborn. Foul language helps.

3) How to insult and disparage slow drivers, bad drivers, "dickweed" drivers. We all learn to name-call, but some of us learn from the best.

4) How to catch a fish. In 1980, Clear Lake, Iowa was full of a lovely, underappreciated species called bullheads. They ate any bait, even bare hooks, which they swallowed, guaranteeing their capture (and death). I caught tons. We cleaned and ate them. I fancied myself Babe effin' Winkelman and have my dad to thank for taking me to the dock when I was only knee-high.

5) How to fix major appliances. Curse, complain, get the yellow pages, call someone. Truthfully, Papa knows how everything works and I call him when my oven, furnace, dryer, sump, water heater, whatever piece-of-shit thing – see, I learned – quits working. Goddammit.

6) How to love and win at most sports.

7) How to confront a person if necessary.

8) How to tie a necktie. How to polish shoes. How to look like a fucking stud.

9) How to tell a joke.

10) How to be a fun, awesome dad on holidays.

11) How not to argue about chores or you'll end up cutting the lawn with scissors. I never had to cut grass this way but my dad did.

12) The ashes trick and the moron test.

Dad's can teach us a lot. Mine did. He's still at it.

#329

Black Friday. Oh, Black Friday. Has Satan finally won? (In 2OT like Ohio State / Michigan yesterday?) We go to malls and shop now on Thanksgiving day? Some think it's evil. Like Donald Trump. But they said Barack Obama was evil, or Muslim, or not a citizen, or whatever. My point? I don't know, look on the bright side? Black Friday throws consumerism and materialism in our faces, it's true, and in a clamoring, oppressive, not-nice way, if you ask me, but it was still easy to see the bright side. Like... Megan shopping only for other people, passionately, preparedly (she had a massive, beautiful list of recipients, pictures of gifts, best prices - Yay, Megan!). And Sophie doing the same (and always taking Megan under her wing), and Michael and Cole showing me VR (and me thinking, is this how folks will date someday), and all of us happy and high on sugar (the kids) or caffeine (me). I have a feeling Black Friday isn't going anywhere, so we cleared the air and understand each other now.

Thanksgiving was awesome. We're fortunate. While eating seven million calories, I tried to reflect and snag images from memory of various Thanksgivings. I can't tell you the name of the person I just met, but I recalled some vivid scenes of long-ago holidays and gone-but-deeply-loved relatives. Yes, we're very fortunate.

Megan is still little-girlish in most ways, but I know a certain shift, a passage, is on the horizon. When I fold her laundry, I still see many hearts, rainbows, puppies, kitties, and her favorite: unicorns. And my favorite: elastic waistbanded skinny jeans. They're effing cute, that's all, cut and sewn like adult jeans but with adjustable, elastic waists; a reminder my little girl is still little. Your jeans aren't elastic-waisted, are they? Maybe when we're older, we go back to it? Maybe excessive elastic is for the beginning and end of life? Maybe Megan will wash elastic pants for me someday, instead of vice versa, and she'll think, oh, he's so cute and little now (and old and feeble)?

In 1979, there were 4.4 billion people and hundreds of millions of mothers on the planet...

... AND LOOK WHO WON MOTHER OF THE YEAR?!?! M 'n' m's great-grandma! I'm not surprised. Remarkably intelligent, an unflinching negotiator and problem-solver, never cowed by chaos... that's her!

And here she's just a super-hot, young bombshell before kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids

I found these in M 'n' m's great-grandma's basement...

... and felt simultaneously depressed and amazed. Since they are horrifically primitive, and yet younger than I am, they are convincing evidence of my own advancing antiquity... but it's incredible how far we've come and fast; we raced out of the computer dark ages. Moore's law, miniaturization, and all that. I showed these suckers to M 'n' m and they were stumped. Music? No. Movies? No. Coasters? Yes, that is exactly what they are now, coasters made by Apple.

#328

M 'n' m and I loved the movie 'Guardians of the Galaxy.' They're making a sequel. Yay! (Megan trained me to say this whenever something happy happens.) Chris Pratt is a funny guy. I told M 'n' m that humor is the highest form of intelligence. They looked at me with fear, pity, discouragement, something that clashed with the tenor of my telling them — what I considered to be — very good news: See kids, we're smart! Thank you, genes! Of course, their interpretation was a little different: Uh-oh, Dad has lousy comedic timing and instincts; for every one thing he says or does that's funny, there are like 99 misfires; we're doomed. Fine. If they think I suck and am unfunny, now they have to worry about themselves.

I love great stand-up comedy. There's incredible vulnerability involved. Big doses of vulnerability, preparation, courage, and awkwardness (if it's just one of those nights that you bomb, so say the professionals and experts who've been there). I'm sure my drollery makes M 'n' m feel awkward on occasion. Yeah, well get used to it. Awkwardness is ubiquitous during teenagerhood. It can't be avoided.

Michael's sartorial choices confound me. Sweatpants and hoodies? Every single day? Where are the turtlenecks? Where are the sweaters, oxfords, rolled jeans, buck shoes? It's not like I wore berets and scarves indoors or anything, but I cared about (my ridiculous, preppy, overdone) appearance. At least Michael smells good, thanks to Axe. In my day it was Polo, Drakkar, and Cool Water (colognes). The chicks dug it, man. We were cool as shit. 

There are two types of beings in the universe. Those who dance and those who do not.
     — Drax, Guardians of the Galaxy

Megan leaves sweet notes for Michael. Michael doesn't reciprocate.

#327

I feel lucky, as a parent, to have texting. Especially with divorce. Joint custody reduces direct contact (but so does work, travel, and general busyness for the undivorced). If your kids are amenable, or you enforce it somehow, you can chitchat to your heart's content from afar. Even if brief and infrequent, it's there. How was your test? How was the mile run you dreaded, etcetera etcetera. And sometimes: Where the hell are you, Michael?! I've spooled out a little freedom to Michael. They have apps to locate and track phones, but I haven't conjured this magic yet. How will they get away with the shit I pulled? Lying and misdirection — I'm at Greg's house (not Lisa's) — and so on. I'm not that naive; they'll figure out a way. And I'll figure out the truth. I'm sure my parents always knew the score, even if they didn't let on. Some rules were law and some were bendable. A little give and take is okay. I saw it soften rebellion. In college, it was evident that a few kids were stifled and stunted socially at home. This didn't serve them well when suddenly things were totally unsupervised.

I mentioned the election. I was frustrated more with the media than the candidates. And that's saying something. Everyone who covered the election earned a big, fat, clown nose. Big, fat, and red. Ha, an electoral map pun. Everything was so dripping with bias it was absurd. One huge outlet rarely referred to Clinton as anything other than 'felon,' and another — leaning the other way obviously — wouldn't portray Trump as a serious candidate, even though his candidacy resonated with voters; clearly it did because he won. These were the big-names and acronyms we count on for 'news.' News will always have bias. The choice of what to share as news is itself a bias. But no one even attempts to be unslanted or positive. Imagine my surprise today when I read that in the UK, media anchors / presenters are governmentally mandated to be impartial. I don't know how that's judged, but it's an interesting concept.

Megan's basketball team won a tournament in Huntley last weekend. Years ago, a friend said that coaching kids is twice as exciting as playing. Yep. I don't put undue pressure on the girls, it's just that pushing them, and wanting them to improve and achieve, and then watching it happen... it's the best.

My unemployment has been hard...

... on these gloves. I spend my days in the yard. Megan's whale duct tape was called into service. She has different colors and designs for crafts.

#326

The presidential election? I talked to the kids during the whole circus, about ads, the debates, scandals, and finally the results. Topics were easy to come by: respect, language, reputation, the media, 'seek first to understand,' 'be careful what you say,' 'be careful what you do,' free speech, 'everyone is entitled to an opinion,' and on and on. Great fodder for discussion with kids, right? I mean holy shit, teaching moments everywhere. Megan is staunchly, vocally anti-Trump. Understandable. Michael, consistent with his nature (so far), mostly absorbed it all without comment. I tried to emphasize good things: the classy, positive speeches from President Obama, Secretary Clinton, and Mr. Trump after the election, for example. Institutions, offices, and elections deserve respect. I may have sounded like a spineless milksop — Dad, seriously, you don't have a raging reaction to all this! Everyone else does! Not necessarily; but there was hysteria on both sides, and that's typical and okay - but it's the tack I maintained mostly and I don't regret it.

I have never admitted here to a certain addiction. It's quite acute, and I will confess, but first a story: I asked the kids one time to guess what my favorite drug is? Jeanette stepped in, certain I was over-disclosing, inappropriately, once again, as usual. But my answer? Caffeine. I would've also accepted cookies. The first is self-explanatory; the second does the opposite in pleasing fashion; cookies, cake and such make me drowsy. So wonderful. Sugar can ignite a fit of hyperactivity, over-talking, and beat-boxing, but then I sink and feel full, content, cozy. I can eat cookies like Kobayashi does hotdogs. It's why they're hidden from me after 9 PM. Actually, they're always hidden from me. Megan can hammer the cookies, also. As for my addiction? It's houseplants. I have about 50 at home. If I see a seed I want to plant it. It's not Little Shop of Horrors here, but it gets jungle-y at times and I have to be restrained. We give some away. I currently have baby citrus and ficus everywhere. Let me know if you want a tree. Megan, lately, is showing a similar interest. I love Megan.

#325

Do you remember the JCPenney catalog? Or Sears? At Christmas, we marked up the Penney's catalog. Toys! No clothes! A wonderful sensation of greed and joy. I was lucky; I didn't get it all, of course, but the possibilities; an Incredible Hulk doll, a lego castle, a slot car racetrack — how would that look in my room, racing my buddies! — or the Star Wars set from Dagobah with a foam 'quicksand' pit and Yoda's hut. One year I received the Millennium Falcon. I probably wet myself. And Ralphie wasn't the only one; I remember obsessing about a BB gun. These memories popped up yesterday when Megan showed me an Ikea catolog. She was tagging things with Post-its. She wants to redecorate her room. Ahh, not everything is online yet, or only online.

Now I'm wondering if Penney's sold BB guns. I bet Montgomery Ward did. Pretty sure I thumbed that catalog too. It's almost embarrassing; we were spoiled as shit. All of my friends had fantastic Christmases also. So lucky, so fortunate. At least I look back with intense gratitude. And I know I was taught to express it at the time. Here's a story: A friend of mine has a hundred-year-old letter his grandfather wrote to Santa. He asked Santa for an orange — yeah, the fruit, it wasn't common up nort' in those day — and a new pair of boots to wear while milking the cows. Oh, and the best part: he asked for a doll for his sister. How fucking awesome is that! Worthy of an f-word, sorry. Times have changed a little, eh? They have, but we're still the same awesome, generous, and caring people. Let's keep showing it and make our ancestors proud. That sounds preachy, or like I should hand out pom-poms or something, but I really love that story.

A couple good ideas and a couple bad ones, I'd say...

#324

"At first they behave very well, they're obedient and prompt and they don't seem capable of killing a fly, but as soon as their beards appear they go to ruin."
     — Ursula in Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude

Michael's beard is appearing. A few chin hairs, long ones, but that's it. No fuzzy mustache; no chops, chinstrap, tuft here, patch there; no Fu Manchu. But it's coming; he'll try something horrendous soon, prematurely; we all do. Right of passage and all that I guess. Teenage boys and beard fails are as common as a World Series without the Cubs. Wait a minute! That doesn't work anymore and I love it! So I was reading Garcia Marquez joyfully and came upon the sentence above and paused. The first part applies to M; he behaves very well. Must I brace for ruin? Sounds drastic. But I assume nothing. Michael has a simmering, rumbling rebelliousness in him. We all do; dealing with that is another passage. And Michael does, in fact, want to kill things larger than flies. He wants to start hunting. We'll give it a try, as long as we do so with Papa — as an instructor and safety observer — and we hunt respectfully. What does that mean? Well, it means honoring property lines, protected animals, gun safety, seasons, laws, rules — written and unwritten — and eating what we hunt. Michael already eats pheasant and venison, and in general, back to One Hundred Years of Solitude: "She could not conceive that the boy the gypsies took away was the same lout who now ate half a suckling pig for lunch and whose flatulence withered the flowers."

I mentioned rebellion:

There's only a few things that everyone goes through. Rebellion is one of them.
     — Shep Gordon (manager for Alice Cooper)

You don't have kids at home, do you, Bernard. If you did you'd know they all rebel eventually.
      — Westworld, a new show on HBO that's a remake/spin-off of a 1973 science fiction Western thriller created by Michael Crichton, written and directed. Is there a genre better than 'Science fiction Western thriller?' No. Crichton was a master creator. The Great Train Robbery, Eaters of the Dead, and everything else is worth the ride. Jurassic Park, Sphere, Timeline, Disclosure. And ER. Remember that show?

Megan asked me about hunting. I showed her some pictures of the Minnesota Horse and Hunt Club, where we hunt with dogs — like her beloved 'aunt' Anna! — and we shoot pheasants mostly, but also turkeys, chukars, and other birds. We shoot roosters and hens there — the boys and girls both. In the wild, hens are protected; as with humans, ladies are more important (when things get real). Ringneck roosters have brightly colored heads and long tail feathers. They're handsome fellas. The females aren't so fancy. I explained things to Megan as she looked at the pics of the hunters and hunted. She said, "Oh my gosh, you kill the mama pheasants?!" She noticed the difference between roosters and hens. I said, "Uh, well, gosh, do you have to make it sound so horrible?" No answer. I don't think Megan will hunt. But I assume nothing.

Meg can be a real sweetheart. Sometimes.

Snapped in a mirror today at Macy's on State in Chicago. I still tower over him. But he's much taller than I was at 13!

#323

Sometimes you just gotta get the Led out. (That's Zeppelin for you poor, unfamiliar souls born recently.) AC/DC works, as do others, Smells Like Teen Spirit, Sugar We're Goin Down, whenever I need a jolt, a pick-me-up, something to pop the goose bumps! Caffeine helps too. I wonder: What will it be for M 'n' m? Gangsta rap, Twenty One Pilots (not bad), the Biebs. The Biebs? I won't judge. Whatever works. Energy is good.

Ah, sometimes I grow so tired
But I know I've got one thing I got to do
Ramble on
And now's the time, the time is now
To sing my song 
    — Led Zeppelin

Speaking of goose bumps and emotion... CUBBIES!!! Incredible. Everything about it. The best game seven ever followed by today's speeches in Grant Park. Simply perfect. The fact Rizzo and 'Grandpa Rossy' (holy shit that makes me feel ancient) couldn't say the words without quivering faces and tears. I love that the kids see this class and gratitude and happiness for our city. I love that M 'n' m see this LOVE! That's what it is, baby, everywhere! Now if we can just ignore the political ads and get through the election, their faith in mankind can soar again! Away with cynicism, disrespect, and negativity, I say! Okay, the song Dream On by Aerosmith just popped into my head. No negativity? Dream on. Sad face. But it says 'Dream until your dreams come true!' Several Cub analogies in these lyrics, actually....

Every time when I look in the mirror
All these lines on my face getting clearer
The past is gone
It went by, like dusk to dawn
Isn't that the way
Everybody's got their dues in life to pay **Oh yes, I've given a shit-ton to Wrigley over the years; all Cub fans have**

I know nobody knows **except for Epstein and Maddon?**
Where it comes and where it goes
I know it's everybody sin
You got to lose to know how to win **self-explanatory**

Half my life **...Cubs have been series-less, if I kick the bucket at 82**
Is books, written pages
Live and learn from fools and from sages
You know it's true, oh
All these feelings come back to you

Sing with me, sing for the years **108**
Sing for the laughter, sing for the tears **Rizzo's and Ross's?**
Sing with me, just for today **at Grant Park!** 
...

Dream on
Dream on
Dream on
Dream until your dreams come true