#287

I have never seen eyelashes more beautiful than Megan's. They stand out, especially, when I glance down at her profile; it's a view that highlights their unusual length and shape.

I don't use Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Vine, or WhatsApp. I don't have a YouTube channel. I've taken Uber rides but since I didn't arrange or pay for them – my colleagues did – I can't say I've used Uber, the app. I still play mp3s; I don't use Spotify. I don't stream movies either. I don't monitor my biometrics with sensor-bristling watches or bracelets. My point? I'm on the downslope of the "technology adoption rate" curve, or whatever graph illustrates a slowdown in trying the latest in tech. It peaks in young adulthood. We happily try everything with an intuitive energy and understanding that propels the innovations-of-the-moment into mass use, acceptance, ubiquity (for my generation it was stuff like the internet, email, ebay, iTunes, all-things-online). Then we stagnate; we get stodgy, too comfortable with the old, uncomfortable with the new. Slowly, increasingly, the whiz-bang-y things of the moment annoy us, confuse us, or just remind us we have bronze spears and the iron age is upon us. Obsolescence of our ways, and ourselves, is no longer unimaginable. The shit is real (the new shit), and we aren't the shit anymore. When M 'n' m take a rocket to Mars, I'll be the uninspired one asking stupid questions. I wonder what the Ubers and Twitters of M 'n' m's similar 'downsloping point' will be. The rate at which they try and adopt new tech will peter out too; it happens to all of us. We've talked about self-driving cars and planes; M 'n' m may learn and prefer to steer themselves. Naturally, from the next generation, I'm rooting for quantum leaps in healthcare, longevity, and disease-treatment. Social media is played out. Right? Of course not. We have real VR coming.

Complaining is fun, a whole art form, but don't get carried away. Life if good. – Garrison Keillor

Creativity is a contact sport. – Walter Isaacson

#286

I know this is about M 'n' m, and not me, but... I'm on Chicago's Metra (commuter train) and all I see is hair. It's everywhere. I'm not talking about women; I'm talking about dudes, all around me, with coiffures as dark and perfect as Darth Vader's helmet, gleaming in the places they fashionably curve and flourish. I wanna lightsaber that shit. Or Edward Scissorhands it. Sweeney Todd? (No, not that one; I haven't seen it but I think he murders people). This is jealousy and I hope it stays away from M 'n' m. It probably won't. It tastes like a rusty knife. Actually, John Cheever said, "Fear tastes like a rusty knife, and do not let her into your house" but I know that jealousy is fear. And so, apparently, I'm scared shitless of all the salt-n-pepper hair on this train also, thick, even, stylish. Bastards. Jason Stathem. Vin Diesel. Real men. I hope Michael lives to be two-hundred, outlived by a beautiful family and a plush, full, fabulous hairdo.

I recently heard a Navy SEAL – in a podcast interview – say that oversharing is a major dysfunction in modern society. Maybe so. The good news is I don't think SEALs hunt and kill people for it. Or I'd be hiding. Which doesn't work against those guys anyway. But even SEALs aren't unanimous on this. Several have shared; they've opened up, written. I've read their books. Rogue Warrior by Richard Marcinko, Lone Survivor by Marcus Luttrell, The Heart and the Fist by Eric Greitens, No Easy Day by Mark Owen, American Sniper by Chris Kyle, First SEAL by Roy Boehm, Good to Go by Harry Constance, and – perhaps my favorite, with many contributors – Hunters & Shooters: An Oral History of the U.S. Navy SEALs in Vietnam.

Megan slipped on a pair of my ratty sandals yesterday and said, "Geez Dad, how long have you had these flip-flops?" I said, "A long time Honey, longer than I've had you."

I learned something today: Pee-wee Herman's dad was a founding pilot in the Israeli Air Force and took part in the 1948 Arab-Israeli War. Interesting. M 'n' m don't know who Pee-wee is. I have mixed feelings about this. Scandalized? Yes. Unique and really funny? Also yes.

It's a bittersweet symphony, this life.... I let the melody shine, let it cleanse mind, I feel free now. – The Verve

#285

Last weekend in Clear Lake, Iowa, I made a great discovery about Megan: she really loves to fish. I saw signs of a budding commitment – dare I say obsession? – that I will nurture into full bloom, if it truly exists and I play my cards right. How to fully indoctrinate her? A trip to Canada, a charter on Lake Michigan, a deep-sea adventure? I must stoke the flame! Michael enjoys fishing too, but has shown a disturbing lack of fanaticism. He doesn't join me before sunrise, and he can sleep the night before, and even the morning of. I suppose making Megan an addict depends on why she loves it. She's a fan of animals, but so are most kids. She's also a fan of sports and water and buying things (bait and tackle, in this case), but again, so are most. The big reason I fish is surprise, the unknown; it's a grab bag of sorts, like Forrest Gump's 'box of chocolates,' or an unopened pack of trading cards. What's it gonna be? Every catch is fun, but some are exceptional. I don't buy lottery tickets; I fish. Meg and I caught walleye, bass, and crappie, and we know the lake has huge catfish, carp, and muskies. The lake itself is big; it's deep, spring-fed, and very generous in recent years. Meg hooked into a lunker walleye – approaching two feet – that snapped her line. Surely she noticed the heart-stopping urgency and excitement with which I scrambled for the net. I hope she was seized the same way. She chirped that it felt big and then it surfaced and proved her frighteningly correct, a monster, with eyes the size of quarters and massive fins; then it sneered, showed teeth, and released itself. I'm not exaggerating. Much. Hours of casting and waiting are worth it. I think Meg agrees. The greatest book ever written – which I finally read cover-to-cover last year – is about a similar thing: Moby Dick. Hemingway took a stab as well: Old Man and the Sea. Fishing is fun.

Piercing minnows with hooks is problematic for Meg, but she understands it's necessary for the bigger fish, which in turn are cleaned and eaten. It's a fine illustration of the food chain. We caught and kept three walleyes over the limit (14 inches). These are food, good food. Proper culling actually helps the cycle, but I haven't explained that to Megan yet. Yes, when I was her age, I rose before the sun to fish, and barely slept the night before; it was like Santa in the summer. I fished whenever the adults would let me. Michael loves to fish at Paul's in northern Minnesota (Meg hasn't joined us for that), so his 'addiction' involves different details and energies. Besides, Michael needs his sleep; he seemingly grows an inch every week which must be exhausting.

Megan and walleye

More Ryan Reynolds on parenting...

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

"When my daughter was born, my first thought was, 'Oh yeah, I can do this.' It's not that I felt ready or that I knew exactly was I was doing. The exact opposite. I had a cactus in my 20s, and I killed it. A cactus! (But) the best directors I've worked with, they all have the same thing in common. They're the first to say, 'I don't know.' If you ask them, 'How are we actually pulling off this movie?' they'll just shrug and go, 'I have absolutely no idea.' I think that's a sign of strong character. I want to raise my daughter like that as well. I'm going to admit when I'm clueless, and I'm going to ask people for help when I don't know the answer to something.... We've gotten so addicted to knowing. It's the Google generation. We want the answer to everything right now. Every little piece of knowledge has to be instantly accessible. You can't even have a passing thought like, 'Wait, who sang "St. Elmo's Fire" again?' You just have to..." (Ryan rips his cellphone from his pocket and violently taps on the screen.) "John Parr! I knew it! Gotcha!"

"(Field of Dreams) is the best movie I've ever seen about being a father. I'm a blubbering, weeping, shivering mess at the end of that movie."

(About his infant daughter's inevitable sexual maturity) "We've had the talk already. Which frankly went right over her tiny head. The great thing about having the sex talk now is that she can't say I didn't do it."

"In my dad's dying moments, we were making him laugh. We were all in there together, me and my brothers, just joking with him. And of course we end up busting each other's chops. I recommended that the doctor raise Dad's dose of Dilaudid in order to make my older brother more tolerable.... I understand the idea of filtering pain through a prism of comedy."

#284

I have a friend in China who has a daughter the same age as Meg-pie. He's a professional colleague from Tianjin and now an appreciated longtime friend. I've been around him for countless meetings, dinners, beers, and brutally long and stressful workdays. Early in our time together I discovered a fascinating thing about him: he loves his daughter as much as I love mine. Seven thousand miles away and the cares, concerns, and feelings are the same. I was like, holy shit this is crazy! Right?! Of course not; I'm being facetious, but only a little. Because I can't deny I felt something worthy of notice and reflection, when it was made plain to me personally, experientially, on the other side of the world, that dads are the same everywhere. The same! I felt refreshed, reassured, and a little stupid, yes. I felt the reinforcement of a harmony or solidarity that I knew existed, but that I needed to touch, apparently, to poke at and examine firsthand. Even if expected, a moment can have impact. As a dad, I'm loving, clueless, vulnerable, bewitched, too-much-of-this, too-little-of-that, and I know it's the same everywhere. There are no experts, and no perfect kids. The preacher's son? The principal's daughter? Lamas, gurus, saints? They don't have kids. With the right promptings, we all overthink, overshare, overfeel. Stoicism and Zen and all that can wait, along with simplicity, certainty; we're parents.

Michael said, "I tried to hack the WiFi at school." Being a technologist, myself – although not a coder or hacker – I was intrigued. I said, "Oh, what does that mean? Did you get access without a password? Defeat security, steal data, download secret files, unleash a worm, change your grades like Ferris Bueller? What'd you do?!" He didn't expect interrogation. He said, "Oh, I just tried to glitch it out, you know, the network." I was comforted that he didn't make sense. I'll assume he doesn't have the knowledge or tools yet to be Edward Snowden. It's interesting though, that he finds the concept inspiring. So now I can add "cybercriminal activity, prosecution, felony, prison" to my ever-expanding list of irrational father fears. And this reminds me: it's essential that our kids know how to protect themselves from cybercrime. So "cybercrime victim, theft, privacy protection, reputation destruction, complete and total devastation" can be added, also.

As I write this, I'm looking out the window at 333 West Wacker, a curved glass tower on the river and the location of Ferris's dad's office according to the movie. Legends of the Fall, Good Will Hunting, Rocky II, Saving Private Ryan, Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Five best movies ever. Honorable mention: Gladiator, The Revenant, Last of the Mohicans, 310 to Yuma, The Last Samurai, Wedding Crashers, The Departed, Blood Diamond, Hoosiers, Tombstone, Predator. I shouldn't have started a movie list.

Michael is pretty efficient with his words...

... which means we have a lot of exchanges like the one below. So far, no signs of him becoming an over-talker. Or an awkwardly self-deprecating, obsequious, insecure, attention-seeking over-discloser. The genes for those must be recessive.

It's been a pleasure watching M hit lately

50 Mantras

Rage, rage against the dying of the light. – Dylan Thomas
Free yourself from the tyranny of constant thought.
This mustn't register on an emotional level. – Sherlock Holmes
My cup runs over. – Psalm 23
The only easy day was yesterday. – Navy SEALs
I can do this all day. – Captain America
If it doesn't suck, we don't do it. – Navy SEALs
There is no tomorrow. – Apollo Creed
Confrontation's never been something we've had trouble with. – Rick TWD
We won't get weak, that's not in us anymore. – Rick TWD
Relax Luther, it’s much worse than you think. – Ethan Hunt
Every warrior hopes a good death will find him. – One Stab
But Tristan refused to speak of her. – One Stab
The wind cannot defeat a tree with strong roots. – The Revenant
You're okay. Keep fighting. – Ronda Rousey
Comparisons are odious – Jack Kerouac
If it disappoints you, think of it less.
You can measure a man by the opposition it takes to discourage him.
Traveling hopefully is better than arriving.
My song is love. – Coldplay
Love is all around you. – Tesla
Love more, worry less.
There is nothing wrong with loving the crap out of everything. – Ryan Adams
God's lookin’ out for us. – Marcus Luttrell
Your bad habits are in the hallway doing push-ups.
Brother, stand the pain, escape the poison of your impulses. – Rumi
Sell your cleverness and purchase bewilderment. – Rumi
The intelligent want self-control, children want candy. – Rumi
Oh hell, Max, I been in tighter places than that. – Grandpa Swede
We carry our own. – Grandma Bev
It's okay to live a life others don't understand.
There is power in optimism.
There is power in ritual.
Be a force for good.
Make practice a practice.
Terror is a fine instructor.
Pioneers take the most arrows.
Bet on him, if you like. – Herger the Joyous
Be anti-fragile.
I’ve been through worse. – Wolverine
Pay no attention to the critics. Don’t even ignore them. – Samuel Goldwyn
The painting isn't done in the middle.
Life makes goats of us all. And heroes.
A smooth sea never made a skilled mariner
Does iron wrought, in furnaces hot, in withering heat, complain?
Which is the greater pleasure?
Keep making shots.
I am not an atheist. – Albert Einstein
Enjoy every minute of it, Hon.
Great multitudes came to him, and he healed them all.

#283

This is Megan's prayer. It's beautiful, lyrical, wise. It was crafted by her and her alone; I didn't feed or read any phrases to her, or prep any part. She just started saying it one day, praying after I do, and now she recites it. I don't pray like this myself (about thoughts and powers); I pray like Rocky Balboa, simple, "Yo God, uh, ya know, if it ain't too much trouble, maybe you could be in my corner tonight, please, unless you're with Apollo. Oh, and thank you for Adrian. And Mickey. Amen." Yes, Megan and I still pray, and we don't even proselytize, condemn, or intend to get violent. I say thank you (for M 'n' m first and foremost) and Megan adds a sprinkle of mindfulness and awesomeness. We're a good team.

Megan's Prayer: "God, please help me think of good things. I will open my heart as big as I can so you can help me think of good things. And God, please keep all the harm away from me, even if I have to see your powers. Amen."

It's rote now, but still sublime, every time she says it.

#282

The internet is shaky at my hotel in China, and when it's down, it amuses me to assess my feelings about it. I'm annoyed, of course. F*cking annoyed. But my feelings are deeper and more desperate than that. The internet is down?! Oh my God! I'm alone, helpless, imprisoned, shrinking, severed from the world! Never mind I can simply step outside and chat with three billion people. Sort of. It's unpleasant to feel 'cut off' from my loved ones on the other side of Earth, but usually I've video-chatted with them recently, and the sky isn't falling. Unless North Korea nukes something, Wall Street collapses the world economy (for good this time), or we have a zombie apocalypse (my choice for Armageddon, ala TWD with MHC, my hunting buddies), I should be able to survive five minutes without internet. We have a searing, sizzling need to be connected and productive without interruption. It's manic, it's essential, and it's not a hamster wheel because it does, in fact, take us places that are useful and meaningful. But there’s irony when the 'productivity' item is 'rest' or 'recharge,' which isn't outside the game at all, the race, but integral, like pit stops at Indy. And 'no internet' pales in comparison to ‘no cell phone.’ Misplaced yours lately? Oh my God, my smartphone?! Where is it?! I'm so naked!

Michael is a giant. Seriously. He isn't a teenager yet and his feet are bigger than mine. I don't have Shaq feet, but I don’t have toddler feet either. I'm an inch taller that Papa Mike – which he playfully disputes every time we stand – and Papa will be thrilled if Michael is taller than both of us. We'll see. Maybe he's peaked but I doubt it.

M ‘n’ m have a great-grandmother named Marilyn. She’s very smart, which makes perfect sense from a genetic continuity standpoint (because her son ain’t a butter knife either, Papa Mike; neither are you, Aunt Diane, thank you for reading). Grandma Marilyn has always observed and commented on technology. Advances in computers, television, cameras, cell phones, music, media, and so on. Over thirty years ago, she said to me, “When I was a kid, we couldn’t imagine TVs like this, and video players, and phones without wires. And when you're my age, you'll be impressed with things you never thought possible, like cars that drive themselves.” Cars that drive themselves? I think we were in a car when she said this, and I thought, no way. Well, she’s right. She’s always right. Self-driving cars in urban traffic seemed pretty farfetched decades ago, and yet here we are (with enough sensors on a vehicle and programming from Google). Commercially, full autopilot isn’t available, but cars park themselves now and steer back into lanes and have incredible safety sensors and features. And drones have been flying for years. It's just a matter of time. It goes without saying Grandma Marilyn has an iPhone and Android tablet. And when she came to visit us a few weeks ago, she consulted GPS.

#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."