#281

Ashton Kutcher is a spokesman for the company I work for. He's a colorful actor, of course, but also a startup investor and consultant. He's outspoken about concepts like staying busy and working hard. Amen. He created, produced, and hosted the show 'Punk'd,' which I didn't particularly like but thought was bold. Kutcher's from Iowa City. M 'n' m have a munificent aunt and uncle in Iowa City, and enjoy family dogs and holidays there, and tolerate the glut of Hawkeye fans who march like ants to Kinnick on Saturdays, where the Hawks were undefeated in 2015, and should continue kicking ass in 2016. Ashton Kutcher said the following, and I will preach this to M 'n' m: "The sexiest thing in the entire world is being really smart, and being thoughtful, and being generous. Everything else is crap! I promise you! It's just crap that people try to sell you to make you feel like less! So don't buy it! Be smart, be thoughtful, and be generous." I hope M 'n' m know this, or learn it, find it, discover it, relearn it, keep it close. It's a process, a difficult one. And while I'm at it, I'll throw in this from Jim Carrey: "The effect you have on others is the most valuable currency there is. Because everything you gain in life will rot and fall apart, and all that will be left of you is what was in your heart." Can I get another AMEN! Carrey said this in Iowa, of course, at his 2014 commencement address at Maharishi University of Management. It's really a must-watch. I realize a guy could respond to this as nonsense from Kutcher and Carrey, "Easy for them to say. Haven't they had Demi Moore, Jenny McCarthy, and Mila Kunis for wives? Yes. Yes they have, and Lauren Holly, and probably others and more to come, but I can't assume any marriage – or life of fame or not-enough-fame – is easier than the rest. On the contrary. Run your own race; be thoughtful, be generous, and have a good effect on others.

Prince died. Nearly as iconic and innovative as Michael Jackson, he is known without exception by my generation. It's sad. Kurt Cobain, Scott Weiland, Michael Hutchence, Shannon Hoon, Layne Staley, Brad Nowell. Maybe being a rockstar isn't so easy or natural? Many survive it, but many do not.

Speaking of music, Michael's been downloading, converting, and compiling. He gave me a playlist on a USB memory stick for our minivan. (We are unabashedly, unashamedly minivan-ers now; the trunk is full of baseball and softball gear and muddy shoes and hoodies – the weather's been shit lately but we don't mind – and we can still taxi around six more teammates and friends and their gear.) The first song on Michael's playlist is 'Ode To My Family' by the Cranberries. It's a nice nod, from a good kid whose 'family' isn't so conventional these days. And I'm a fan of Delores O'Riordan and pretty much everyone from Ireland (Conor McGregor, Rory McIlroy, Liam Neeson, U2).

#280

The kids and I buy used books at Goodwill. Paperbacks are ninety cents. It's so affordable, it feels like stealing. It's unpredictable, exhilarating, maybe like digging for treasure, panning gold, diving shipwrecks, raiding tombs, sifting through the attics of centenarians. None of which I've done except steal. But only small things, like Halloween candy from M 'n' m, and a friend's Cal Ripken rookie card (that was thirty years ago but I remember it vividly; my conscience kicked in and I was sleepless and panic-stricken until I made it right). Sometimes, the Goodwill gives up gems. Other times we leave disenchanted. I use the term 'we' loosely. It's usually just me mumbling, huffing, reading spines with my head tilted gaping at the bookshelves. Meg wanders off looking for crafty stuff. Michael stands around half-interested. If I recommend something, he'll take a look, but he's not wild-eyed and rabid like his dad. (He's very calm in the batters box also, so I let him be him without fussing about it.) Thumbing through books at Barnes & Noble is fun too, but everything's twenty bucks. Even so, we also buy plenty of crisp, shiny, new-smelling, new books at retailers at full price. Karma is important here; we don't want any giants from the great beyond – Melville, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, London, L'Amour, Leonard, Trevanian, Robert B. Parker – pissed at us. So we give real money to books (and presumably authors) on top of our Goodwill habit. And we donate books back, although I underline, highlight, scribble in, dog-ear, and batter most of mine. It kind of renders them permanently under my ownership. Is this purposeful? Only if the books are good. I hope M 'n' m love stories and books as much as they love Minecraft, Xbox, and iPads.

I have a library at home, and I'm willing to share, but if the kids borrow one of my annotated favorites, they better agonize over its care. They better pamper and polish and return it better than before. Naturally, I'm thinking of cars now, and how Michael will drive soon. That's fine. I'm fine. Everything's fine. Kidding; I'm more worried about my books.

At Goodwill last time, I saw the title "The Overachievers: The Secret Lives of Driven Kids." I didn't buy it. I didn't even look at it.

If you read only one book in your lifetime, it should be "City of Thieves" by David Benioff. If two, "A Soldier of the Great War" by Mark Helprin.

I don't know if TV news has always been a caricature of itself, but it is today. Interviews can be interesting, and short pieces informative, but outrageousness and negativity dominate so much I wonder how they'll take it further. They will take it further. It's the same in print news. They'll out-do themselves in unimaginable ways I'm sure; maybe our screens themselves will bleed and weep and gasp at every controversy. That sounds callous, but I'd like M 'n' m to see non-dramatized positive news, also. Maybe, by definition, that's not news. Of course, 'reality TV' isn't news either. And sports are sports. I understand the psychology and strategy (for profit) behind over-covering pain and fear. But the unrestraint makes it feel like everything is a bit from 'Saturday Night Live,' 'Ron Burgandy,' or 'The Onion.' It's a Frankenstein now, on steroids, drugs, and edited for maximum shock. I try to minimize my exposure; I skim headlines and avoid TV news altogether. I don't want this to be M 'n' m's serious impression of what 'news' should be; the concept and service has a place in our lives, just not in its current form of sensationalized ridiculousness. I know it's always been lusty for hysteria and destruction and the shattering of heroes, but it seems to be ratcheting up its invasiveness and ubiquity, trying to secure a kind of distorted omniscience. Technology plays a part, obviously. Is there a 'normal' anymore, a safe haven, an outlet for 'just the news?' Of course there is, and there's backlash and always counter-movements for silence, nature, privacy, decorum. This is how it's always been. I'm just getting old and crotchety. But Trump won five more states tonight.

#279

I like to grow things. Children, yes, they're fun to grow. Marijuana, no. Houseplants, yes. Also ficus and citrus trees, coffee plants, and succulents grow nicely indoors. But this year I go big-time, I go outdoors; the new house has a vegetable garden and I'm gonna fill it. Tomatoes, peppers, beans, beets, basil. We also have lilies. The bounty of Mother Nature will come bursting forth! In breathtaking fullness and beauty, as far as the eye can see, which is to the fence, and the ugly escarpment for buried utilities, and the untrimmed bushes and scrubby overgrowth, but everywhere else, I promise you, everywhere else the robins will sing and cardinals flutter, in sunbeams and soft breezes, above sprouts sprouting, squirrels playing, and the tender greenery, stalks, and vines of my plush and perfect plantings. Heaven on Earth they'll call it. The garden of Eden. Before Adam messed it up. Or was it Eve? And that was before they had kids? I'm doing better than Adam, at least.

A word on bunnies and edible vegetation: I hear Bunnies are tireless, gluttonous trespassers and devastators of gardens. Fuzzy and insatiable. Total disregard for property lines and ownership. They don't care that I pay taxes. The so-called deterrents are ineffective. Marigolds and human hair? They laugh like the raccoons in 'The Great Outdoors.' Megan loves bunnies, so I can't shoot them. People used to eat bunnies; Papa Mike says they taste like chicken. I won't yak about when I was a kid, but when I was a kid, Grandpa Swede shot a rabbit in their garden, and I thought he killed the Easter Bunny. A serious charge. I was very upset. Will I have to battle rabbits? Bugs Bunny comes to mind. Also Carl and the gopher in Caddyshack. I don't want any trouble with varmints. Varmints? Varmint: noun, a troublesome wild animal. Okay.

This is supposed to be a portraiture of M 'n' m. Not so much a vault for random thoughts and my bullshit. But I'm a parent, human, and Cyclone fan in frequent existential crisis. Especially during football season. And when I talk to adults who were once kids (it's remarkable, every one of them was once a kid), they wish the photos and mementos from their childhood were less focused on them and more focused on their parents. Interesting.

#278

I told Megan, "The best thing about you, Megan, is that you're Megan." She looked mildly offended – a practiced expression – because she didn't understand. I barely understand. We just live it, and feel it, the force of it all, being parent and child. And Megan prefers a more lustrous specificity when I say something good about her. I prefer that too. Parents love their kids powerfully. What can be added? Some say the emotions and instincts are only evolutionary for species propagation, protection, and development. I think that's unimaginative. It discounts many things. Being a dad is incredible, wonderful, perplexing, and ponderous. It's simple and not simple. Daughters don't have to 'earn' their daughter-hood. Meg doesn't. What about dads and dad-hood? Could I be a better father? Oh God yes, I let Meg walk all over me; it's preposterous at times and entirely not healthy. But we move forward and do better. I hope. We learn and improve ourselves. I hope. We have fun and laugh at stupid shit to preserve the fragile sanity we possess in the moments we aren't over-busy or fussing or freaking out. We get along very well, actually. I know relationships can be strained, soured, even ruined. My wish is that Megan and I always treat each other with love and respect. Simple and not simple. Meg didn't appreciate the unspecific, un-awesome 'best thing' I said about her, which was basically: "You're Meg, I love you, you can't really top that or take away from it." I wasn't being disingenuous, of course; or silly, shallow, distracted, or dumb, surprisingly, if you ask me. (No one asked me.) Meg will be a parent, aunt, teacher, coach, counselor, caretaker, friend-of-babies – something – someday that will likely make this resonate a little more.

It would be interesting to leapfrog to spiritual parallels, and consider the simple and un-simple in that realm, but nothing there intellectualizes at all as simple to me. I suspect my puny human brain is lacking some power, perspective, or dimension to grasp any of it. I do intuit, however – poorly and incorrectly I'm sure – that a similar dynamic exists between Creator and created (similar to parent and child), that nothing has to be 'earned' in any kind of typical human contract or construct. 'Profess this, do that,' and so on. I'm rooting for goodness, but also more profundity. I have a headache now.

#277

When I was a kid, we had a magic, moving-picture box called a television. It wasn't thin. It was fat. It was big with big parts that warmed and hummed and blasted me with hungry, arcing static whenever I touched it. To turn it on, I had to touch it. To change the channel, also. To turn down deafening white noise or turn up campy dialogue and singing. And the dust. There was a static-held, ever-present layer of dust on the TV. Thick dust. It snapped, crackled, and shocked the shit out of me every time I ran a finger through it. It was impossible not to run a finger through it. I did it often and now have many tics. I don't believe television hurt my vision, though. I knew it was better to stab myself in the eye than sit too close to a TV. Every adult said so and I believed them. A few years later I heard something similar about eyesight and masturbation. I was 20/20 until I was a teenager. Anyway, moving on. The television picture was grainy and fickle, and tended to scramble if the weather was bad (a perfect time for TV), or something good was on, or the antennas were unskillfully pointed, bent, or broken. Every adult was an antenna expert with wire hangers and Reynolds Wrap. As furniture, TVs were a focal point, a centerpiece, and this demanded design. Makers like Zenith tried wood finishes, ornamental edges, and so on. None of it worked. Neither did the buttons and dials. Or rather, some were useful, some were functional, but few were both. Many times, I saw televisions without color. No kidding. Think of black-and-white photography, but blurry, and always Western-themed. Movies were at theaters, not on TV. Except for "The Wizard of Oz." There were three networks that went by similar, three-letter names. Now they remind me of the Jackson 5, peacocks, and stupid amounts of CSI. Today, of course, other channels and services for the same thing (television content) exist by the thousands. ESPN and MTV launched when I was a kid. To my generation, this has the gravity of, "I was a kid when Kennedy was shot." And then it faded. Not the television picture, that was always crappy. I mean the golden age; it ended. Remote controls, for example, appeared and with them a deluge of unfunny jokes in every Father's Day and birthday card for dads. But there was a time when TV was a kind of awkward adolescent, and we loved it.

So this isn't a real exchange...

... between Megs and me... yet. Josiah (Godfather and undefeated in professional MMA), I assume you're paying attention also. Very well. Carry on.

#276

I can still tuck Megan in, lay beside her, say nighttime prayers, then hold her hand and wait for it to slacken and for her breathing to even out in peaceful sleep. Then I slowly turn, slide, roll, lift, grimace, and attempt to free myself from the bed without any massive squeaks or groans from the box springs and bed frame. I always fail. I am too big. Megan stirs and whispers, "Goodnight, Daddy," and this ritual is one of the most favorite of my life. It will end soon for Meg and me, but I hold out sweet hope that I can repeat it with a granddaughter someday.

"There's strength in needing others, not weakness." From the movie "Burnt," which I saw on my way to Beijing (without 14 hour flights, I'm afraid movies about chefs go unwatched). On some deep level I know it's true - we are stronger expressing, embracing, living this need - but the grind in corporate America convinces me otherwise, as does divorce, joint-custody, and other things that scream vulnerability and exposure. But I'm grateful for friends and family. And I know I need them.

Being a dad has made me a better son. Only speaking for myself, of course, but a reverse look through the father/son lens was like a bullhorn. A different, and complete, emotional - and material - picture bloomed. It's like reading a putt from the place you'll strike it, naturally, but then walking to the other side of the green and reading from behind the cup, and all the slopes and bends in between that threaten your birdie. I still miss the putt, but for a glorious moment I look wise and skillful.

#275

Michael and I ate at 'Mexico Uno' last night and talked about Emily Dickinson. It felt like God was smiling at me, or 'The Most Interesting Man in the World' was smiling, at least, or whatever he does, suavely approving in voiceover narration? Nodding agreeably from the bar, while sitting next to a grizzly bear and shoulder-pressing two women in chairs? (I enjoyed a Dos Equis last night, also). There we were, two gentleman stuffing ourselves with greasy food and conversation, dripping salsa everywhere from chips and falling-apart tacos. It was great. We talked about poetry, the power of imagery, the force of language, how words are more than pleasantries and information; they can be momentous, calamitous, all-inspiring, all-inciting, arranged with passion and genius they can CHANGE THE WORLD! Whoa, I'm out of breath. I wish I had passion and genius. Michael's on his way, that's good. We talked about guy shit too, the War of 1812, Andrew Jackson, Tecumseh, British versus early-American warship-building, that sorta thing. I felt like a good father, like I do when Michael is composed in conversation with adults, or composed in the batters box with a kid throwing BBs at him.

By the way, 'The Most Interesting Man in the World' campaign is ending this month, March 2016, after running for a decade. In the final ad, he is a celebrated hero, of course, dashing, irresistible, perfect ('Just like Papa Mike' is what Papa Mike would say) being sent on a one-way mission to Mars. And the final words: "His only regret is not knowing what regret feels like."

Baseball season is here. The Pony draft is this week. It's actually an anxious and difficult night, after so many spring and fall seasons, as I know so many great kids and can't draft them all to a single team. But I learned long ago that the world is imperfect, or not fair, or I am imperfect, or something depressing. But hey, it's time for baseball.

#274

Megan plays her favorite songs through my car speakers using my phone (compliments of YouTube and Bluetooth). I'm curious what music is appealing to her, and often I like it too. So Meg was DJ'ing and put on something by 'The Chainsmokers.' Okay, I didn't love the band name (for a 4th grade fan) but the song was called 'Roses.' Fine. Then came the lyrics 'Smoke a little weed on the couch in the back room' and I had to overthink it. It's what parents do. Nevermind liberal views, legalization, medicine, hypocrisy, hazards versus alcohol, so on and so forth. I was annoyed because it seemed like stooping to me, like pandering, preying on an undiscerning demographic. Kids everywhere love this song. I'm sure of it. Mention 'weed' to middle-schoolers and they giggle. So it was decision-time in my Honda with Meg-Pie. I don't love people who abuse free speech, but I don't love book-burning, Footloose towns, or making mountains out of molehills either. And I noticed 'Roses' didn't carry on about 'sex this and sex that.' (That's probably on the next track.) So I didn't lecture my ten-year-old about drugs. Right then, bemoaning and banning 'Roses' would've only brought it more attention. Bang. (That was the gavel.) Case closed. What's next?

For the record, Megan finds new, favorite songs all the time. Her latest is interesting. It's more of a jingle perfectly titled 'It's Raining Tacos.' If you find the simple and literal refreshing (which I do on occasion, versus the incessant complexity I feel battered by elsewhere in life, all my own fault by the way) this song is for you! It goes like this: "It's raining tacos, out on the street. Tacos, all you can eat. Lettuce and shells, cheese and meat. It's raining tacos!" Awesome. I prefer these lyrics to the ones about 'weed.' Although I can't help but think there's a correlation. I mean, what unhigh, sober person writes a song about raining tacos? Since I'm no expert on drug use, that question is rhetorical.

"There is nothing wrong with loving the crap out of everything. Negative people find their walls. Never apologize for your enthusiasm." — Ryan Adams

#273

Recently, in a conversation about families, siblings, parenting and so on, a guy I work with grumbled about a childhood marred by sister-favoritism. He remembered and reflected with eye-rolls and head-shakes, and clarified that his father was the primary offender. I thought, oh shit. I also thought, opinion isn't fact, and then I thought but perception is reality; it's reality for the perceiver, plain and simple. And this is all stuff that's fluid, subjective, capricious, fragile, and kind of important. I think I just described everything in life that involves humans. Regarding my parenting of M 'n' m, I can say with a straight face, fingers-uncrossed, unevasively, without any surefire tells of truth-fudging, "I don't favor Megan." I don't favor her. Not at all. I am, however, more lenient, tolerant, coddling, fawning, kowtowing, beggarly, and spineless. But only at times. Most of the time. Always? Let's talk about sons. They are different animals. Michael's a boy, older, bigger, undemanding, less defensive and oppositional, more flexible about food and activities, less stubborn in argument, and, well, who do I favor now?! Nothing to be gained here, ending this paragraph.

I love my son. He's impressed me enough lately that I've found myself anatomizing his routines and habits, hoping to learn as only a witness can. (Reading about people who are good at things is interesting, but there's a BIG difference between that and living with them.) So I'm paying attention selfishly now, in addition to what's necessary and presupposed as a parent. Naturally, parenting has selfish components to it already – we get great purpose and fulfillment from it – but that's beside my point here. Michael is efficient, happy, not a big talker, unpompous, a straight-A student, a helluva baseball hitter, a first-chair cellist, a routine-driven early-riser during the week, a loyal friend, an attentive and affectionate son, an even better grandson, somewhat clean and organized, not high-maintenance, etcetera, etcetera. It will be difficult to avoid striving for a kind of brotherly rapport with Michael. It's way too early for that. I'm his father. I won't be the dad cracking beers and lighting bowls for my kids and their underage friends. We all know parents like that exist. I saw a few. But it's father first, friend second. It's also 'law-abiding citizen' first. Someday, however, I hope Michael and I have what Papa Mike and I have: we do things with his friends, we do things with mine, we do new and exciting things, we enjoy life as both father/son and friends/brothers. We've been called 'the Cox brothers,' in fact, especially during trouble like the altercation we had with Duke fans at the Iowa State / Duke bball game at the United Center. Some rude assholes pissed us off and we had to call them out. Speaking of grandfathers, I had two great ones, really cool, strong, smart, and interesting men. I miss them.

Megan's basketball season ended and I'm tempted to get sentimental. It was a solid season for Megan and one of my best coaching experiences. The girls were spirited and coachable and always fun. Our losses were tough and our victories sweet. I'm sad it's over.

Ryan Reynolds on parenting...

... quoted from Men's Health magazine. Ryan says:

"I'd walk through fire for my daughter. Well, not fire, because it's dangerous. But a super humid room. But not too humid, because of my hair."

"I love writing nursery rhymes for my daughter. Her favorites are 'Sunshine Cuddle Time!' and 'Everyone You Know Will Eventually Die.'"

"There's nothing better than spending an entire morning staring into my beautiful daughter's eyes and whispering, 'I can't do this.'"

"I still check on my daughter in the middle of the night and put my fingers under her nose just to make sure she's still breathing. Is that insane? I feel like it might be a little insane."

#272

Megan has asked for a puppy seventy-five million times. So far, no puppy, but my defenses weaken during hunting season. Also when Megan gets schmoopy-faced and pines for Tyrion, the family dog at Mom's house. I want Megan to whimper and yearn for Dad's house. I wonder what it feels like to be a sure-footed parent. Or at least one who doesn't worry about competing for a child's approval.

Michael is Megan's rock. It's sweet and it's strong, the bond. He's like her woobie (of "Mr. Mom" fame) except he isn't snugly. His presence comforts her. I've observed it for years and I'm grateful. With joint custody, Meggie needs a woobie, a rock, an awesome brother and she has one. He's perfect, except he doesn't hug her enough. Would it kill you to throw an arm around your sister once in a while? But perfection is dull. Megan loves him undyingly and he knows it; he knows he's deeply important to her. Even when she's dreadfully whiny and irritating, his retaliations are half-hearted. He's never mean. He's a rock, an anchor, a vital big brother.

Michael said, "There are tons of good police shows on TV now." Then he listed some, "Criminal Minds, Castle, Major Crimes, CSI, Law and Order." I said, "You ever heard of Hill Street Blues or Miami Vice or Starsky & Hutch?" He shook his head. "Pioneers," I said. "And Hawaii Five-0 is a remake." Then I walked away, smug, like I'd won an argument or something. I'm getting old and defensive about it apparently. Magnum, P.I. and Moonlighting were good too (before everything was good); I'll throw those in his face next time.

When my dad tells me not to worry about something, I believe him. Hopefully, I have this same calming influence on my son. Life knocks us around and it helps to have great cornermen.

From Neil Gaiman's Commencement Speech "Make Good Art"

“The moment that you feel, just possibly, you are walking down the street naked, exposing too much of your heart and your mind, and what exists on the inside, showing too much of yourself.... That is the moment, you might be starting to get it right.” ... Watch it on YouTube. It's excellent.

My Brazilian friend Marcio with his daughter... a lot of metaphor here

#271

I asked Michael, "Do you know what masturbation is?" He looked at me funny. I know my choice of words was a bit clinical, like asking him about 'intercourse' or 'prophylactics.' But I wasn't going for Amy Schumer comedy. I didn't want a Eugene Levy moment, either (a la 'American Pie'). I was off to a bad start. Blunt but brief, I told myself, respectful but real. Nothing to be ashamed of, etcetera, etcetera. I switched to the vernacular. This involved a few phrases more descriptive and obvious. Something flashed in Michael's eyes. Recognition? Horror? I couldn't tell which. Actually, I'm exaggerating; the talk was relatively short and unawkward. We covered respect and disrespect, health and unhealth, normal and not normal. We'll talk again.

In my high school library, back in the day, there was a slang dictionary with many fantastic inclusions, like lingo for male parts and female parts and deeds involving them. The lists of expressions and crude synonyms were impressively long and creative. Such metaphorical wizardry. I shed tears on the book I laughed so hard. And that was in the school library; imagine what kids hear in hallways, locker rooms, parking lots, and private parties. Now we have the internet, a thousand TV channels, and a million movies. And yet I have faith. I have faith that M 'n' m and every kid will know the difference between what's funny and not funny, what's real and not real, what's right and wrong. Amen.

#270

Megan went on a date. The gentleman was chivalrous and handsome, suited and booted and bearing flowers, and balding (which is beside the point). The Girl Scouts host a daddy-daughter dance and we had a blast. We supped at a cozy Argentinian place before we annihilated the dance floor at school. Dinner was splendid. Megan had tomato soup, breadsticks, and a meatball. I had scallops on crostini with a balsmic reduction, followed by crab-stuffed tortellini in saffron cream. We chased it all with molten chocolate cake, which Megan ate 98 percent of. Megan declined my drink offer. Good girl. (She prefers water, even when greenlighted for Sprite, lemonade, or a Shirley Temple.) She was awkward about some of the overstated courtliness, and I can't blame her; I get doors for her and her coat and so on, but we were dressed to kill and making a show of it. She wrinkled her perfect nose at me when I scurried and fawned and fussed, and before dinner she emptied her purse on the white tablecloth, just for fun. And, as usual, she got chocolate on her face. My heart sang. She is still cuter than a thousand puppies. She is approaching, however, the delicate frontier called beauty. She looked spectacular in her new dress, fancy shoes and matching purse, terrific jewelry, a corsage, and – this one's a biggie – eye makeup. Hmm. Okay. She was happy and confident and never stopped dancing. Her daddy can shake it too. We finished the evening with friends at a lovely ice cream shop. It was a terrific date. I'll never forget it.

#269

In the culture of my upbringing, which was something like Judeo-Christian, suburban American, we didn't believe much in reincarnation and past lives. (Note: I'm mostly a Western European mongrel by ancestry, with a touch of Native American.) My world has diversified over the years, into a melting pot without a predominant shade. This has been M 'n' m's reality from the beginning. Their schools are a great assortment, although I suspect they don't even notice. For kindergartners, the differences are minimal between Sikhs and Swedes, for example, or Koreans and Kenyans, Hondurans and Hindus, and so on. But my youth was less heterogeneous than M 'n' m's. Technology had yet to shrink the Earth. Needless to say, my childhood never exposed me to things like karmic cycles or Dalai Lama incarnations. The first time I heard of a lama was in Caddyshack. "Big hitter, the Lama." I am Christian. But speaking with certainty about the afterlife, or lack thereof, teeters on hubris to me. It seems there are limits to what we can prove and disprove. I know why mustering even a mustard seed, to echo Jesus, is truly enormous. I believe there's energy in our thoughts and memories, and if we've been somewhere before, even ancestrally, there's a faint, informing imprint somewhere, in our souls or minds or DNA. I watched "Legends of the Fall" repeatedly – looping it while I studied in college – to hear One Stab's voice. I don't know why I was fascinated with Sitting Bull, Red Cloud, Crazy Horse, Black Elk, Chief Joseph, Tecumseh, Quanah Parker, and books like "Last of the Breed," all before I learned of my native ancestry. Meanwhile, Papa Mike is more intrigued by the Founding Fathers, General Patton, Davy Crocket, Rasputin, and Carlos Castaneda. And Holden Caulfield! (Papa Mike's a paleface; my native ancestry comes from Grandma Barb.) And so I think about M 'n' m.... What 'memories' or energies will inspire them? What histories and biographies will resonate, what stories, and why?

"Crazy Horse, about this time, was grieving for his little daughter They-Are-Afraid-of-Her, who had died, probably of cholera. When he returned to his camp and found that she had died, he located her burial scaffold and stayed with her for several days.... He loved her deeply. Her loss took some of the fight out of him for a while."

#268

I wore Michael's shoes the other day. It could be fleeting, but right now we're the same size and I have a burgeoning selection of footwear at home. There's a pair of Nike Free Flyknit something-or-others (probably $130) that are amazingly comfy and snazzy. And if I stumble into a bball game, I'll be wearing Micheal's Lebron XIIs (price $150 at least). I can't afford tennies this lavish, but my son is spoiled by those who love him. Grandma and Papa buy him shoes every time he visits them. Or they visit him. Or the sun rises. I love my parents. And I love my son. They are a good match for each other.

By all accounts – and a photo I've seen – my great-grandfather was a handsome man. His name was Ben. In this old photo I speak of, the features of his face are perfectly formed, his eyes are striking, and he is coolly expressionless; it's the kind of handsome that would fit in a modern fashion or cologne ad. Ben's grandparents were off-the-boat Irish. When I was younger than M 'n' m, I remember visiting Grandpa Ben in a nursing home. He was no longer physically flawless. In fact, he was ancient and scary-looking and I was terrified as I was coaxed, by him and others, to approach his chair and give him a cookie. In his twilight, Ben was grumpy and ornery and fond of chewing tobacco, none of which endeared him to the awesome women in his life. But they loved him even more probably – and a woman I adore absolutely called him Daddy – and at least four girls I know prevented him from shuffling into traffic (in search of that tobacco). I hope I'm blessed this way, and many decades from now, on a random Sunday, a great-grandson thinks of me with gratitude and intrigue. I imagine Ben could tell me about old cars, guns, moonshine stills, and the world a hundred years ago. And, most importantly, Ben had an incredible wife and exceptional daughter. Those things I would really ask him about. Maybe someday I will.

#267

On politeness: I shamefully and proudly – a little dichotomous, I know – relate wholeheartedly to Paul Ford's words below. 'Shamefully' because, even though my politeness is not disingenuous – and I am dismissive of precisely no one ever – I can appear overly or falsely obsequious and socially awkward. I know this. This is a flaw. It's related to my conflict-averseness and other shortcomings. Flaws beget flaws. Bummer. But I can also say – proudly – that my politeness usually comes from a strong, confident place of genuine gratitude, respect, or admiration. Usually. This is good. I really want M 'n' m to be polite. Not just polite to me. And not polite for me (i.e. polite to adults who say, "Oh, look at those polite kids, they must've been raised right"); no, not that either. I want M 'n' m to be polite because I think it is, in fact, noticed. It's not super-noticed in contemporary urban America, and it's not as popular today as in, say, Elizabethan England, but I believe it's noticed. And it's antithesis – repeated rudeness and selfishness – is definitely noticed. I want M 'n' m to have friends; I want M 'n' m to be self-possessed, likable, and respected. I want them to be positive and polished. And for them to be these things, manners matter. I know my politeness isn't purely altruistic. If it was, I wouldn't feel a tinge of annoyance when I hold the door for someone and they breeze through without a word. Apparently I expect something. I expect acknowledgement. In the end, I suppose we should master both; we should give courtesy but also demand it in return. Papa Mike is a terrific example; he can alternately, with pretty much equal ease, attack or ingratiate, appropriately measured and based on how he himself is treated, either poorly or positively. This impresses me.

Finally, from Paul Ford's essay called "How to Be Polite," as mentioned above: "Every year or so someone takes me aside and says, you actually are weirdly polite, aren’t you? And I always thrill. They noticed. The complimenters don’t always formulate it so gently. For example, two years ago at the end of an arduous corporate project, slowly turning a thousand red squares in a spreadsheet to yellow, then green, my officemate turned to me and said: “I thought you were a terrible ass-kisser when we started working together.” She paused and frowned. “But it actually helped get things done. It was a strategy.” (That is how an impolite person gives a compliment. Which I gladly accepted.) She was surprised to see the stubborn power of politeness over time. Over time. That’s the thing. Mostly we talk about politeness in the moment. Please, thank you, no go ahead, I like your hat, cool shoes, you look nice today, please take my seat, sir, ma’am, etc. All good, but fleeting.... People silently struggle from all kinds of terrible things. They suffer from depression, ambition, substance abuse, and pretension. They suffer from family tragedy, Ivy-League educations, and self-loathing. They suffer from failing marriages, physical pain, and publishing. The good thing about politeness is that you can treat these people exactly the same. And then wait to see what happens. You don’t have to have an opinion. You don’t need to make a judgment. I know that doesn’t sound like liberation, because we live and work in an opinion-based economy. But it is. Not having an opinion means not having an obligation. And not being obligated is one of the sweetest of life’s riches.... This is not a world where you can simply express love for other people, where you can praise them. Perhaps it should be. But it’s not. I’ve found that people will fear your enthusiasm and warmth, and wait to hear the price. Which is fair. We’ve all been drawn into someone’s love only to find out that we couldn’t afford it. A little distance buys everyone time. Last week my wife came back from the playground. She told me that my two-year-old, three-foot-tall son, Abraham, walked up to a woman in a hijab and asked “What’s your name?” The woman told him her name. Then he put out his little hand and said, “Nice to meet you!” Everyone laughed, and he smiled. He shared with her his firmest handshake, like I taught him."

#266

Michael has raced into adolescence. No question about it. His voice is deeper, his face is changing, his feet are like a hobbit's, and he'll be over 70 inches tall any minute. The problem I'm having isn't Michael's sprint out of childhood, but my feeling that nothing goes any further, myself included, after junior high. No country or culture or government – no man to be sure; I know very little about women – ever exits adolescence once it's entered. From here on, nothing changes. Look at what motivates our governments, corporations, and media. It's terribly simple, and I sound terribly cynical, and yet... junior high was exciting! Full of novelty, hard work, and accomplishment, deeper friendships and girlfriendships, more elaborate education (both academically and socially) and way-better athletics. Naturally, there was nervousness and a little bullying, but only enough to spice things appropriately (perhaps I was lucky). So I'm not being entirely negative. A favorite writer, David Foster Wallace, mentions something similar, calling U.S. culture in particular "both developmentally and historically adolescent." Hard to argue. And yet again, I just watched a presidential debate and refuse to disrespect any of the candidates. (In front of M 'n' m, at least; I made a few cracks to others.) Why? It doesn't feel right. I'm not running for President; I'm not at a podium in front of millions of viewers. I want M 'n' m to respect the scope and scale of certain things, even if, in so many ways, we never really graduate adolescence.

#265

Meg's lips are constantly chapped and bleeding. It's obvious and graphic, like it's Halloween and she's a vampire, or she's Ronda Rousey. Megan has ChapStick, Vaseline, Carmex, and EOS. She has Bath & Body and Burt's Bees. Botanical this, citrus that; it's not working. Chapped lips are an awful spiral, we lick, pick, and chew until they're cracked and horrible. Maybe Meg's EOS is the problem. People are documenting rashes and reactions and, of course, filing suit. Meg has a lavish collection of EOS 'spheres.' She lines them up like I did army men. EOS has more colors and flavors than Jelly Belly. Marketing geniuses over there. Chicago winters and winds can be testy, unkind, not good for lips, hands, dry skin. But there are eight million people here that don't look like they're in Fight Club, or whatever bloodies lips. I can't blame Chicago or Jay Cutler. Is Megan dehydrated? Allergic? Nervous? Fishing for a day at the spa? "I'm fine, Dad," she says. No, you're not. Here we go.

After an oh-and-two start, the girls won their first basketball game. I'm the coach. Megan shot the ball well and finished with 10 points. I've never been happier. They're young but surprisingly coachable; we've implemented several plays, and they execute our plays and concepts well. Most importantly, they're positive and fun and they smile when I'm silly. They're also serious when I'm serious. They're scrappy and competitive and I've seen a few tears from frustration and minor injury, and I can tell you with certainty that if I coached them long enough, and they achieved great things, they'd see me cry too. And that's no big admission; I see athletes and coaches get emotional all the time. Makes perfect sense.

#264

"Dear human: you've got it all wrong. You didn’t come here to master unconditional love. That’s where you came from and where you’ll return. You came here to learn personal love. Universal love. Messy love. Sweaty love. Crazy love. Broken love. Whole love, infused with divinity, lived through the grace of stumbling. Demonstrated through the beauty of messing up. Often. You didn’t come here to be perfect, you already are. You came here to be gorgeously human. Flawed and fabulous, and then to rise again to remembering. But unconditional love? Stop telling that story. Love in truth doesn’t need any other adjectives. It doesn’t require the condition of perfection. It only asks that you show up, and do your best. That you stay present, and feel fully. That you shine and fly, and laugh and cry, and hurt and heal, and fall and get back up, and play and work, and live and die as you. It’s enough, it’s plenty."

— Courtney A. Walsh

I should probably read this to M 'n' m. And make them listen. Make them turn off their devices and listen. Make them think about it. And then we'll turn the Cyclone game back on. Actually, the Cyclone game is over. They just beat the #1 team in the country at Hilton. And the cool thing is... they were favored. So what about condition and expectation? They are powerful frames or lenses. I love the Cyclones, but conditionally; I expect them to win. I love M 'm' m without condition. It's true; my love for M 'n' m doesn't have an adjective; it doesn't need one; none would work anyway; they would be woefully inadequate, even a very, very long list of adjectives. It's awesome and terrifying. But mostly awesome; as parents we wouldn't trade it for anything. And I've mentioned this before: What if God loves us this very same way, as a parent? Hmm. It's easier to think about the Cyclones.

#263

No one plans on divorced parenthood, on ping-ponging the kids between separate homes. It's annoying for M 'n' m. Of course it is. We talk about it. I say things like, "It's challenging, I know, but you're extraordinary! And besides, unbroken homes are boring." So that's dumb and NOT what I say, but I do hint at things like adaptability and breadth of experience. Michael flies on airplanes by himself, and has no qualms about long visits to any of seven or eight different places annually (in different states with different relatives). He's pretty comfortable anywhere, and he's not possessive of things; his stuff is often at Mom's when he's at Dad's, anyway, and vice versa). Divorce isn't the only thing that exposes kids to home-life imperfection, but it's not a happy moment for me as a divorced parent to see the research. I know the statistics. But I know M 'n' m also; I know their teachers, friends, schools, communities. I'm impressed and grateful. There's hope! And I can't really coddle and shield M 'n' m too much, which is good if all the criticism of 'helicopter parenting' is valid. Millennials are mocked for being spoiled, entitled, and expectant of praise and reward for everything they do. I praise the shit out of M 'n' m, frankly, but in some ways, related to the inconveniences of their lifestyle, I wouldn't call them spoiled. (In other ways, hell yeah, they're so spoiled it's crazy.)

'Grit' as an indicator of success is all the rage. I'm tired of hearing about it, because I'm not sure I possess it. But I hope M 'n' m do. A good life isn't easy or emotionally safe or linear. In electrical engineering, if a problem or relationship is linear, it's easier to understand and project. Not so with life, for most people I know. My childhood was pleasant and convenient and until a few years ago I was afraid of my own shadow. That's overstated, sure, but I hope M 'n' m are okay with discomfort, adversity, uncertainty, ambiguity, mystery. These are part and parcel of a vibrant, abundant, love-filled life. I hope my children's lives can be described this way. Roll with the punches, kids, keep answering the bell, and in doing so, you will honor those who gave you life: God, your ancestors, your loved ones. And believe it or not, you'll have a lot of fun, too. Amen. 

#262

Michael went to a party Friday with girls. As a refresher, I tried to remember 7th grade parties in 1988. I was at a few. I recall boys peacocking around and girls arranging 'spin the bottle' and 'five minutes in heaven.' Bangs were everywhere. Above every girls restroom was a hole in the ozone. The music was Debbie Gibson and Tiffany. It's coming back in too much detail. If the boys commandeered the boom box, we played Def Leppard and Bon Jovi, and the girls swooned over 'Livin' on a Prayer.' How sad that M 'n' m will never make mixes by pushing clunky buttons to record and rewind shitty low-fi cassettes. They'll never handwrite songlists and mess up sticker-labels because they're head-over-heels for some cute girl (Michael) or some insensitive little shithead punk who thinks he's cool (Megan). Michael will never make tapes because he's hardcore into Ozzy and Maiden, like the kid next to me in 7th grade homeroom. (Great guy. We're friends on Facebook.) As for Michael's party, the parent-hosts, who I know from baseball, said there were no signs of shocking behavior. Michael's pretty mum, but I'm not over-worried yet. He doesn't overdo it trying to fit in (a trap that scares me). He doesn't wear Polo cologne and meticulously roll his jeans and de-lint the sweaters he pairs with matching turtlenecks. I was a stud. They say every generation is wilder than its predecessor. That's bullshit. Exhibit A: I'm a saint compared to Papa Mike. We all have goodness and wildness in us. Whatever the case, no one's an angel; I plan to stay aware and nosy.

#261

Jean-Claude Van Damme turned 55 a few months ago. I liked Stallone, Seagal, and the rest, but 'Van Damage' kicked and splitted his way to supremacy, in my mind. He did cheesy action to perfection, and his formula always involved hot costars pawing at his muscles. (I will objectify men in a second, also.) Stallone and Schwarzenegger mostly kicked ass for its own sake, not for the girl. This didn't make much sense to me. Who cares about revenge, respect, or Colonel Trautman? Heroes get the girl. Period. (Naturally, I'm a Bond fan.) Things like the Terminator, a Chuck Norris Roundhouse, or Dirty Harry's .44 weren't worthy of worship. Arnold's Predator movie is amazing, and Rambo is beyond description, but Van Damme's latest was what I looked forward to. His Belgian accent played well, as did Schwarzenegger's Austrian, and Stallone's Italian drawl ("If you don' wan me mixin' wit Creed no mo..."). Come to think of it, Connery and Stathem speak funny too; apparently you need an accent to kick ass and get girls. Finally, my youth understood. As for movies, Van Damme's 'Cyborg' blew my mind. The good guy was vulnerable because of his niceness, and the bad guy was cruel, deep-voiced, and ripped (as ripped as Justin Theroux's Seamus O'Grady, the Irish-accented bad-boy in Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle). This was before zero body fat was an everyday thing. But it wasn't Van Damme's fitness; he didn't work harder than Arnold, Rocky in III, or Rambo in II (although I was starstruck when I saw Stallone with Bobby Rahal at a race; Papa Mike is friends with Bobby). In the end, there's only one embarrassing conclusion: I simply loved Van Damme's movies. Cyborg, yes. Also Bloodsport was great, perfectly violent but campy. Then he nailed ten in a row: Kickboxer, Universal Soldier, Lionheart, Hard Target, Timecop, Maximum Risk, Death Warrant, Nowhere to Run, Sudden Death. And in Double Impact, we got two Van Damages for the price of one (plus a smokin' female cast). I was engrossed, elated, addicted. It was years before I'd rather watch something like a DiCaprio film. (Blood Diamond, The Departed, Inception, Gatsby, The Revenant... all sensational.) And so I wonder if Michael will have a corny allegiance to admit someday like mine to the canon of Van Damme. I wonder if Michael's ever seen a dubbed Kung Fu movie? Probably not, poor kid. And even Van Damme isn't as awesome as Bruce Lee.

#260

In church on Sunday I noticed a few guys holding their little sons. I noticed little arms around weathered necks. Meanwhile, a pro wrestler couldn't hold my son like that. He's about five-ten now and stout. It happened overnight. I noticed something else in church: I was standing by Michael and we were facing forward, but I glanced sideways and caught his profile and there, faint but unmistakable, I saw the sheen of darkening hair on his upper lip. He'll be shaving soon. Great. Here comes the parade of teenage facial hair abominations. Mustache fuzz, fu manchus, lamb chops, chin straps, chin curtains, whatever, stuff so wispy and thin it can't be named. Is that supposed to be a goatee, Michael? Teeny-tiny stingers, worn loud and proud but only about five hairs. And the Abe Lincoln, patchiest of all. I tried everything; if sculped just right, I looked like a man (in no one's opinion but my own). I sported chops for a decade. Being a late bloomer in every sense, my mustache was cotton-soft until I was 30. Anyway, my plan for Michael is simple: I'll buy him a razor that's expensive and endorsed by the manliest, clean-shaven mother-f*cker around. Be like that guy, Michael, and shave.

#259

Jeanette and I booked a trip to Sweden, the land of my Viking ancestors. Nice guys, Vikings. My 'Grandpa Swede' was, indeed, Swedish. His name was 'Swede' as surely as I am 'Dan'; he was never called anything else. As for the Vikings, they're probably misunderstood, woven into history as brutal, hedonic pirates or seafaring explorer-adventurers. The truth is often in the middle. I'm certain they didn't work soul-crushing nine-to-fives. This surprises me, but I'm not 100% Viking. My ancestors include Native Americans, British explorers, German craftsmen, and Irish writers, humorists, and first-rate drinkers. Superstars, every one. How else can I explain the awesomeness of my children?

I don't brag about M 'n' m enough. My dad talked a big game about me. In my presence it could be uncomfortable, but I realize now it helped an insecure little boy become... an insecure manchild? No, I'm grateful. I'm grateful Papa Mike was forthcoming and generous in adulating my athletic and academic triumphs. He told tales about game-winning shots and homeruns and academic ass-kickings. And they were true. Tall and excessive at times, but true. I praise M 'n' m in private. I should do more, verbally, in public. It's not my nature, but they deserve it. I've never seen a bad grade. They devour books. They hit homeruns. They're expressive, creative, and witty. Their ancestors would be proud.

#258

Megan told me, "I had a dream that I won the lottery and got fifty puppies." Where's my book on dream interpretation? Fifty puppies is a lot. Powerball can be a half billion though, so if Megan won a jackpot, I'd think about it. We'd need a kennel, a big one, a shelter. Even after taxes, Megan would get a lot of money. I would take most of it. A payoff, for approving the fifty puppies. The shelter would be offsite from home, safe, clean, inexpensive, staffed by incredible volunteers, sweet-smelling, and it wouldn't interfere with 4th grade or, next year, 5th, and so on. I would be very specific in our contractual agreement because - this is critical - among Megan's fifty puppies would be some great hunters. Bird dogs. Hunting breeds like setters, retrievers, pointers. Golden Retrievers and German Shorthaired Pointers for sure. Maybe an English Setter. They would be expertly trained (by my hunting friends, mostly Bruce) and we'd hunt on the game preserve also funded by Megan as part of our deal. We'd shoot birds and eat pheasant every day, pheasant casserole, pheasant chili, pheasant pot pie. Pheasant in bacon grease with biscuits. Pheasant jerky. Fifty puppies. I'm a pushover.

#257

Michael loves Minnesota. There are worse things to love. Smoking, BASE jumping, Helen of Troy come to mind. Things bad for a son's health and hygiene. Smoking is a lousy cologne and worse mouthwash. As for adrenaline addiction and dangerous women, I needn't explain, although I agree a little with this too, roughly phrased: "If she doesn't have the capacity to scare the shit out of you, you're barking up the wrong tree." Or a similar idea, "Love carries wrath. And if it doesn't, it's cheap and it's weak. It's not the love you want, the love you live for." That is very Old Testament, of which I'm not a fan but will give it its due on occasion. Okay, I'm way off topic and falling into melodrama. I'm sure, for example, many BASE jumpers will die of old age. But Michael loves Minnesota instead, and I'm okay with it. Minnesota isn't polluted, for one thing. Last month I was in Beijing. Let's talk about air. It's a substance we consume every few seconds, and one we look through constantly, and in Beijing the quality of it is noticeably poor. It's no longer invisible there, or intangible – which is ironic – but instead it's full of ash and grit. It's smoggy and smelly. The unfreshness is perceptible in every breath, and, of course, there's a greyness through which no human or plant can see or feel the sun. It's depressing. No pilot can see a runway either, I'm sure, but thankfully they have unfailing instruments. It was eye-opening. It was eye-stinging, actually. I wore contacts – which was stupid – and then rubbed my bleeding eyes. My nose and throat had to be cleared often. A war with phlegm broke out. Bad air's a drag. (Sorry.) I haven't hugged any trees lately, but I'm thinking about it. I'm grateful we can breathe in Illinois. And we can breathe in Minnesota too! Things are very clear and fresh up there, in fact, and Grandma and Grandpa call it home now, and Paul too, and Anna, so I can't disapprove of my son's soaring opinion of The Land of 10,000 Lakes. (They must count swimming pools, koi ponds, and golf course hazards.)

Addendum: Michael's love of the Vikings is not supported. We can even bring BASE jumping and crazy women back for that one, and differently. As I write this, however, the Vikings are beating the Packers badly at Lambeau and that's not terrible. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Sometimes.

#256

Megan is sweet as pie. Except for when she isn't. Naturally, I prefer the former. It's frustrating when her sweetness is fleeting or elusive or, frankly, like unicorns or dragons. Or maybe "aliens or dinosaurs" is better there. Because aliens might exist, right? And dinosaurs did? That is way off-topic. Anyway, Sweet-Meg isn't rare, but neither is her crabby opposite. She's predictable though, so I'm happy about that. Silver linings. I know when Megan's gonna grumble. Will things be less predictable when she's a teenager? Yes. Like death and taxes I'm told. "Brace yourself," I hear. The worlds and minds of females deepen. Not so with boys, of which I speak as an insider, but young women evolve and complicate. A sophistication begins its unfurling, and with it a new phase of serious, powerful emotion. Very powerful, they say. Shit. So if I fancied myself, before, a kind of meteorologist for Megan's moods, now I shouldn't kid myself. I know nothing. What I think I know is as tenuous and unreliable as what passes for fact in mass media today. With a teenage daughter, storms can appear and flatten everything without warning. That sounds dramatic. Maybe the 'storms' will just flatten my best efforts and intentions to be a good father. I trust Megan. She's a girl, yes, but girls are sugar and spice and everything nice. Sure. Megan is spice alright, and very saucy too. But Megan, I don't really need the unsweet to know its opposite. Okay? 

Megan, you are a tough cookie, but through ten years now, I think we're in a pretty good place. I hope you agree. Your teachers agree. As do others I interrogate about you.  

Yet again, staring at her, I was struck by something: Megan's eyelashes are marvelous. They are long and perfect. And so it occurred to me that my daughter has my lashes but not my amenability. Perhaps, in the end, that's a better choice, Megan, between those two. But remember that niceness isn't weakness. In fact, it could be rudeness that is precisely weakness, or as I read somewhere: "Rudeness is a weak person's imitation of strength."