#298

Aroldis Chapman can really bring it. He just hit 103 (mph) against the White Sox. He's touched 105. He looks good in a blue hat with a red 'C.'

Grandpa Swede's brother told me, "Your grandpa wasn't very big, but he could really rush it up there. He overpowered hitters." And Grandpa Byard was signed by the Cubs to a contract (but then went to war in Korea). My point: M 'n' m have good genes. They also have good jeans. Or at least Michael does, and he's nearly my size; if they're cool, I won't hesitate. I do the laundry after all. How did those end up in my closet?

Parenthood: Tiny, sweet-smelling babies arrive. The amount of noise and feces they create is remarkable, and their smiles and laughs delight, and you take megabytes of photos like the one below, and then one day... the popularity of goatees sinks lower than fanny packs, or socks with sandals, or whatever is horribly old and un-fly! Style is as fickle as parenting. 

There's no normal life, Wyatt. There's just life. Now get on with it.
           –– Doc Holiday in Tombstone

And the best thing you've ever done for me

is to help me take my life less seriously.
It's only life after all.

Well darkness has a hunger that's insatiable,
and lightness has a call that's hard to hear.
I wrap my fear around me like a blanket.
I sailed my ship of safety till I sank it....

I went to see the Doctor of Philosophy
with a poster of Rasputin and a beard down to his knee.
He never did marry or see a B-Grade movie.
He graded my performance, he said he could see through me....
There's more than one answer to these questions
pointing me in a crooked line.
And the less I seek my source for some definitive,
the closer I am to fine. The closer I am to fine.

          –– Indigo Girls, Closer to Fine, genius

#297

As an instructive and meticulous parent, I am negligent at times. Yeah, as they say, shocking. For some reason – laziness, faith, a conscious choice, my propensity to people-please – I never batter M 'n' m with do's, don'ts, reminders, warnings, and tips. I'd say some dads overdo it, and some under-do it (like me), and then there's a guy in Switzerland or wherever who gets it right, a shining, perfect father. But he's the only one. And I'd say, regarding my laxity, extreme matters of behavior and safety are excepted, and basic expectations are clear. (Be polite, positive, and productive. Period. Megan's politeness is generally lacking, but I'll indict myself for that later.) Indeed, the daily, common-sense, little things I fail to monitor and illuminate can brew into catastrophe, literally. My example? Michael's laundry basket. It's just gross and scary to begin with; he's a teenager now, 6' and 150lbs, and no one like that has laundry undeserving of a Jolly Roger or a hazmat warning. It's poison, dude. I should make him dump his own laundry in the machine, but he's a millennial, and they don't do shit. (That's just a wink to common generational criticism.) So I grabbed Michael's laundry basket and it felt heavy. I pulled some clothes out and discovered a kind of wet-towel sandwich. A 'wrap,' actually, chicken Caesar, buffalo chicken, you get it. Although it was covered, so maybe a Burrito suizo? Sorry. Thankfully, no black mold yet and only the beginnings of some fantastic aromas. I barked at him, but he's been traveling, I've been traveling, excuses, excuses. It was a teaching moment, although he already knew better. We'll see if it happens again. It probably will.

More about teaching moments: Yesterday, it was a thousand degrees outside so I decided to edge our sidewalk on hands-and-knees with a knife. I just severed and pulled the spreading grass. I poured sweat, and no doubt smart guys do it standing up with expensive tools – yes, that's some low-hanging innuendo there – but the dumb part is actually how I cheese-grated my finger-flesh on the concrete and then ran inside and squeezed lemons. It's a fine acid. I was thirsty. Anyway, it didn't hurt as much as remind me of the time I was really dumb: I de-seeded my potted jalapenos and then took out my contacts. Holy Mother of God. And that – my searing eyeballs I mean – reminded me of the time I really hurt my eyes: I arc welded all night in college and caught too many flashes. Eyes heal fast but I still looked like Bob Marley's roommate for a few days; I could only manage the minutest bloodshot squint. The lesson? Make sure M 'n' m take care of their eyeballs.

"All writing, all art, is a wild leap off a cliff because there's nothing to support you, you're creating something out of nothing really, no one is telling you to do it, it comes from within." – Jhumpa Lahiri

"What the really great artists do is they are entirely themselves, they're entirely themselves and they've got their own vision, their own way of refracting reality, and if it's authentic and true you will feel it in your nerve endings." – David Foster Wallace

Feast

#296

Forget, for a second, your disbelief that someone could actually vote for Donald Trump or actually vote for Hillary Clinton, italicized for that sort of pent-up, election-year acidity, or bitterness. The other side is crazy! How could they vote for a candidate so obviously corrupt, vain, or dumb?! Folks are freaked out. I get it. The future is at stake, our children, our planet, the evils that threaten. This isn't mockery. Every four years it's intense, and it should be. It's always important. This year, the number of people firmly in the 'neither' camp feels unprecedented and scary – indicating they're both, indeed, very poor – but I think we'll survive. I recall when Ross Perot got nearly 20% of the popular vote. One of every five voters? Maybe the 'neither' or anti-establishment movement isn't new after all. And our founders were geniuses; Congress is as powerful as the President, in the event we need saving. We'll see who wins. We'll see what happens. If M 'n' m are passionate about politics, no sweat, but I'll impress upon them the usefulness of civility and a certain distance, when going there in conversation, if they value their likability and sanity. Sometimes, however, it's unavoidable. Even I have a spine, a stance, an immovable position on certain matters with political feel. Take, for instance, the following 'candidacy' that I support so absolutely that I'm incredulous, belittling, accusatory, and sarcastic when I encounter disagreement; I literally see zero sense in anything that sounds antithetical, and the slightest hint at the slightest agreement with the slightest position held by the other side sounds aggressively antithetical. What am talking about? Let me put it this way: Why the f*ck would anyone choose regular Oreos over Double Stuf? Seriously. WTF is wrong with people? Double Stufs are so much better. The originals are thin and weak and should be off the shelf, period.

I mentioned here that Megan still draws. This is good because I just learned – via science and documented research, although I've always suspected and felt this to be true – that when we draw our brains emit serotonin and oxytocin. When we make things, in general, we are given these wonderful chemicals; we give them to ourselves, technically, but describing them as gifts makes the most sense to me. They help us feel happy, creative, and capable. Bam. I want Megan to feel this way always. I'm no stranger to running low on good-chemicals. And that isn't a joke about drugs. Low seratonin is an interesting place to find yourself. You might be the luckiest, safest, most fortunate person in the world, and yet it's a battle to feel calm and secure. And so we draw, paint, build, write. Awesome. Let's do it. A lot about life makes sense when I reflect on this logical – and to me, essential, magical, simple – equation. If you want to feel better, create. Memories, experiences, relationships, skills, art, music, a career, a home, a life. But M 'n' m will also discover, as I have, that it's not easy. It takes work, energy, habit, ritual. As Pablo Picasso said, "Inspiration exists, but it has to find you working." And Jack London put it this way, "You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club."

"Writing is very difficult for me, it takes a lot of time and energy." — David Foster Wallace

"I think we're less divided than we think we are (in the human experience).... But my description of this room will differ from your description of this room, and everyone else's, because we are limited and graced by our own pair of eyes.... I think this is the beauty of creative work." — Jhumpa Lahiri

Below is my bookmark...

... while reading about the most powerful Indian tribe in American history, the Comanches. M 'n' m have Native American ancestry through Grandma Barb, whose grandma was French-Indian we're told, and had the appearance – facial structure and skin tone – to corroborate the claim. Funny, it's probably un-PC to describe someone this way, but she was my Great-Grandma Florence, mom to my esteemed Grandpa Swede (nicknamed as such because his dad was 100% Swedish) and I saw her many times when I was young and loved her dearly. I am proud to have Native American ancestry, but have yet to determine definitively what nation. Pawnee, Fox, Ojibwe, Cree, or Lakota perhaps. Grandma and Papa Mike live near a reservation in Minnesota and at a shop there – an awesome place that sells native weapons, instruments, art, leather goods, and bear claws! – the native shop-keeper told me she'd guess I was Ojibwe, based on my facial, physical, and complexion characteristics. Maybe she was full of it, but I walked outta there feelin' ten feet tall! As cool, in my opinion, as Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull, Tecumseh, Red Cloud, Cochise, Quanah Parker, Geronimo, Black Hawk, or – he's fictional but a favorite – One Stab. I say so without any humor whatsoever; I am simply proud of the possibility of this heritage and ancestry, for myself and M 'n' m.

#295

My spaces in our home are overrun with books. Bedside table, dresser, shelves, office table; often I leave books on the eating tables and counters. I can be cluttery and messy with books. I wish the same for M 'n' m, now and always.

M 'n' m spend over a month a year under the roofs of their grandparents' houses. For you math and calendar wizards, this is a twelfth of their days; equivalent to a night every two weeks spent in the full sunny, happy, generous, loving influence of grandparents. I'm grateful.

"His witty grandfathers were a serious influence on (Peter) Arno’s humor, especially in contrast to his strict, ambitious father." From Vanity Fair. I'm not a 'strict, ambitious father,' but I want M 'n' m to be influenced and broadened by the varieties in personality, style, disposition, wit and wisdom, and energy they will witness genuinely in those they share a deep, reciprocal love with. 

I found this note I scribbled on Father's Day: The era of Facebook has given us a broad and popular canvas for 'tribute,' if that makes sense; we thank and praise loved ones on holidays, birthday, anniversaries. It's Father's day, and I can't put into words – a phrase, of course, that is always followed by... more words – my gratitude for my grandfathers, uncles, father-figures, and father. The toughness, the wit, the entirety of their lives, energies, and stories; I feel very lucky.

When I was young, my dad was a cigarette-smoker and often called them 'bogies.' "I'll be right back," he'd say, "I'm gonna have a bogie." It went like that. He also had a mustache. He was cool. He still is. Bogart is cool, too; a master cigarette-dangler, and the voice. But clean-shaven. Rollie Fingers, Burt Reynolds, Tom Selleck, Clark Gable, and Einstein are really cool. The mustache musters a mini-comeback now and then, and I'm always supportive.

Why can't the National League win an All-Star game? With this week's loss, the NL has won 3 of the last 20. They're impressively inept. I'm both disappointed and confounded by the AL's dominance. Michael, less so. He likes the Royals and Twins. I don't give a shit about the Royals and Twins. If the World Series comes to Wrigley, I want home field advantage for the Cubs (determined by the 'Midsummer Classic' result now for a decade). And obviously, this means if things go seven, four come to Wrigley, not three. Are you laughing because the Cubs never go to the World Series? Well, you're wrong. They did. In late 1945, my Grandpa wrote home from Austria (still in ETO after surviving WWII) predicting the Cubs would beat the Tigers in the World Series. He was wrong (the Cubs won game 6 in extras to force a game 7 which they lost). Grandpa Swede was likely somewhat objective, because he was a lifelong Cardinals fan. Nobody's perfect. So it's 70 years since an appearance, and about 110 since a win. That's rough.

#294

I've noticed parenting is often "do as I say, not as I do" or, in a word, hypocrisy. So be it; between parent and child, it's always been this way ("Never fight a mammoth, Son. Now where's my spear so I can kill that woolly mother-f*cker," and so on and so forth, for millennia.... I know that wasn't funny, but effort is important; at least that's what I tell M 'n' m.) So this morning's hypocritical act for me goes like this: I always tell Michael to cover his toes when he's moving heavy objects, mowing, working in the yard or the garage (otherwise, he often lazily stays barefoot and I visualize one of his toes getting gashed or crushed like a grape). So a few hours ago I was prying off paneling in the basement and I dropped the pry bar on my... bare foot. Hurt like a mother-f*cker. Blood and bruising. Okay, I'll shut-off the foul language, but bad words have an artistic place in the contemporary writing I find clever and moving. It's all about being cool, right? WRONG! M 'n' m, it's NOT about being cool. Profanity, which will never escape your lips or be scribbled by your fingers – is about emphasis and the purest conveyance of feeling, raw, unfiltered, the ugly no more hidden than the pretty. It's about connection, honesty, and the spectrum of reality, about the flexibility and flaws, beauties, and extremes of expression via language. And, as I mentioned above, from parent to child, for eons, it's been 'do as I say, not as I do.'"

Megan goes to Kansas City every summer for a long grandparent visit. I miss her. Michael goes too, but I feel more connected to him when he's far away. He calls me; I call him; we're good. It's not so with Meg-o. She's just not an Olympic-caliber long-distance communicator. When she's in Kansas or Minnesota I'm certain she'll call. I wait. And I wait. But no. So I call her – about once a day – and she's terse and distracted. And she's not even a teenager yet. Can I use the F-word again? It's funny, now I'm wondering if my parents are reading this and judging me; although Papa Mike is a man of oaths, for sure, and M 'n' m have heard his colorful best – I'm Mr. Rogers compared to Papa – so even though parenting is hypocrisy, remember, Papa Mike won't cuss me for cussing. I digress. Back to Megan. She'll be home soon and I'll give her a crushing hug and smother her with kisses, none of which will graze her cheeks or her lips because she stubbornly exposes only her forehead – an instinct or habit I'm okay with I suppose. Besides, my favorite spot to kiss her has always been right above an ear on the side of her head. I know when she changes shampoos. 

"I had heard that word at least ten times a day from my old man. He worked in profanity the way other artists might work in oils or clay. It was his true medium; a master." – Ralphie, A Christmas Story, 1983, genius

Recognize anyone other than Hosmer?

Hint: Right above Hosmer, hands blocking his face a little, hopefully yelling, "Go Cubs!" Great seats to see the defending champs.

#293

It's funny that a mischievous thing for M 'n' m to do is enable the 'WiFi hotspot' on my phone to siphon off data. They do this sneakily in the car, for example, where WiFi is painfully absent. It's odd, I guess, because the mischievous things I did involved spitballs, whoopie cushions, playful theft of tangible shit. Times have changed. Are fart jokes even funny anymore? Regarding WiFi, places still exist without it. Parks, pools, lakes. OMG! No WiFi?! Ugh. I suppose the height of inhospitableness these days is no WiFi. How rude, primitive, barbaric. It forces us to look at each other and not our devices, and talk face-to-face. It's so refreshing, quaint. Michael gets a small amount of cellular data every month. Meg doesn't; she has an iPad and Android phone but no cell plan or number yet. At home, of course, WiFi is taken for granted as much as electricity, toilets, water. Kids enter their houses and bam, they're connected. It's instant and automatic (isn't everything these days?). I'd love to see a Millennial deal with dial-up. Never mind fat, low-res monitors, kilohertz processors, horrible graphics, s-l-o-w networks. PCs that hourglassed forever. Floppies. Today we are super-connected and over-informed. We're lucky. I remind M 'n' m, however, to be human beings also. This means talking to other people in person, understanding social mores, recognizing social cues (that aren't texted, IM'ed, emoji'ed, instagrammed, or snapchatted), and once in a while being present to the physical surroundings and five senses (or is it six?) that God gave us. Technology is cool, useful, powerful. This is good. But tech can depersonalize and shrink us, too. And as long as I'm lecturing M 'n' m about crap, I intend to mix in this little unrelated tidbit I'm big on lately: Do not squander your credibility. Squander money, candy, energy, material things that don't matter in the end, whatever, if you must, but do not squander your credibility. Accidents and poor choices happen, but credibility and honesty are genuine and deep and they need to be preserved, solid, unflimsy, unfragile. We need to have mutual sincerity, trust, and respect. Amen.

Megan is on her device too much but she's also very artsy-and-craft-y the old-fashioned way. She still draws (and I hope she does so forever). Her latest thing is acrylic painting. And she frequently embarks on random, awesome, creative misadventures with Sophie (involving food, chemicals, clothes, clay, wax, soap, plants, makeup, pretty much any raw material you can think of). Stains, dirty sinks, and beautiful messes are encouraged, even if I bitch about them. Recently, the girls made banana ice cream and ate it as they planted cacti in pots they intricately painted. God bless Sophie and her influence on Megan.

"... our mother has always stressed the fact that our familial relationships have a kind of permanence that we will never meet with again." – from Pulitzer winner John Cheever's short story "Goodbye, My Brother"

From the same story, a favorite piece of writing and a kind of koan or question of philosophy for M 'n' m: "Oh, what can you do with a man like that? What can you do? How can you dissuade his eyes in a crowd from seeking out the cheek with acne, the infirm hand; how can you teach him to respond to the inestimable greatness of the race, the harsh surface beauty of life; how can you put his finger for him on the obdurate truths before which fear and horror are powerless?"

#292

We are home but Michael isn't. I picked up Meg though, which always puts a little more air in my lungs. Michael is in a favorite place, Minnesota. When he returns, I'm afraid I'll be looking up at him. Meg is rather like bamboo, also (the fastest growing plant on the planet), and a very thin stalk; she eats, I've seen her, but one could wonder. Meg's softball team won the championship. There were several good teams and great players, but the 'Bulldogs' were the only ones standing at the end. Meg was easily the most improved player and a massive difference-maker for the team. She pitched two scoreless innings in the final – the max allowable per player – and played perfect 1B – another super-critical position at her level. And she batted clean-up, just like her brother! (She adores Michael – her rock, her consistency,  throughout the divorce and life, in general, for her so far – so to mimic him in some efforts and accomplishments is motivational; did I mention she starts the cello this year, too?). I'm so happy for Megan; she worked hard – accepting nearly all of my offers for additional practice during the season – and earned her softball success.

Our trip was extraordinary. Every place stunned us in one way or another. Jeanette and I fought off tears in Venice – Jeanette lost; I only misted – we were so moved by its stark singularity and beauty. Its style, spirit, charm are momentously unlike anything we'd seen. And the history, of course, of the Venetians and simply everyone and everything in Italy is, well – and this was the symbolic intent I'm sure – like its basilicas; gigantic, pharaonic, seemingly never-ending. Florence blew us away, also. The abundance of things there – the Duomo, David, Piazzale Michelangelo, the architecture, galleries, masterpieces – is effin' crazy. Then the Italian Riviera. For me, something like Cinque Terre has to be seen to be believed. I don't write well enough yet to describe it, but it must be some of God's finest work here. In Stockholm, the Vasa left us speechless. An unrivaled piece of history. The coastline and Gamla Stan, the 'Old Town,' were unforgettable. The meals in Sweden were as good as the pasta in Italy, in my opinion (but I have Swedish ancestry). I had meatballs in Stockholm three times, along with reindeer, elk, and herring. We loved our last night in Zurich, where we stumbled upon the largest Swiss festival, Züri Fäscht, which attracts millions of people, literally, over three days. By the way, it's a party they only throw every three years. We were shocked again; we had no idea we'd be there for an incredible event; we were still hungover – not from alcohol – and awestruck by our Alpine train ride through northern Italy and Switzerland. And our first stop, a layover in Edinburgh, put us in the UK on the day of the Brexit vote. Talk about history, and another coincidence. The weather was flawless the entire time. That's the trip in a nutshell. Jeanette and I are grateful. I hope and pray M 'n' m have similar experiences. On the trip my quick mantra-prayer (when I was moved to goosebumps and/or muttering gratitude) was, "God, thank you for my children, and my loved ones... and my travels."  

Happy 4th. The country we live in is still the best ever.

#291

Last Sunday morning, Michael greeted me with "Happy Father's Day," gave me a hug, gave me a card, watched me open it, and hugged me again. We exchanged thank yous and love yous. It was a Hallmark moment, and genuine. What about Meg? Well, not surprisingly, she wasn't as charitable. It's unlike her, of course, to lavish me with gratitude and praise on Father's Day or any day. But she says sweet things, once in a while, and is very love-y when she needs something. That last part is a smidgen unkind, but true and not unheard of among people her age; there's much to learn when we're kids, about ourselves and others and everything. Ideally, we keep learning. Forever. That's not simple or silly to me. It might be easier to stagnate, rest, be self-assured, withdraw. We'll see. I hope to keep working, traveling, reading, enjoying loved ones. I wish the same for M 'n' m, in both their early and golden years. Meg's a good girl. Am I a good dad? Not sure. Even the great dads have weaknesses, too much of this, not enough of that (attention, affection, discipline, consistency, whatever). My philosophy: It's nice to have room for improvement; nobody's perfect, except Papa Mike.

I looked at Megan's little toes and winced. I told her to 'trim her talons.' I don't think she understood; she looked puzzled. "Your feet, Honey," I said, "They need your attention, some TLC. Do you have nail clippers?" For once, she didn't argue. "I know," she said, "My toenails. They keep snagging on my bed sheets." Such a picture of refined and delicate beauty.

From a commencement address given by a favorite writer, David Foster Wallace, and relevant to Michael's brand-new teenhood: "There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, 'Morning, boys. How's the water?' And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes 'What the hell is water?'"

#290

On his first day as a teenager, Michael was showering and broke the glass door which shattered and sent shards into his feet, one of them very deeply. I'm told it was bloody; I wasn't there. We can take this story in several directions, but two of them I'll avoid, specifically: 1) a common suspicion of what teenage boys do in the shower and 2) how I've mercifully missed every one of my kids' serious or semi-serious injuries including Michael knocking out a front tooth and Michael gashing his head on the corner of a file cabinet, and Meg splitting her chin open and also getting bit in the face by a dog. Regarding 2) and violating my promise not to comment further (for fear of documenting the case against me for DCFS, for one thing), I'm generally at work when these things happen, bloody messes all, although I was on a golf course in Galena, Illinois – striking the ball very well, albeit temporarily, as you can imagine, but that's usually how it goes for me with or without nontrivial distraction – when my cellphone buzzed in the golf cart and I was notified that the most precious thing in my life had been bitten and punctured very near her eye by the teeth of a dog. My next shot I hit fat and short into the water. Ironically, to this day, Meg loves dogs more than anything on the planet. She asks for a puppy every single day. Should I remind her that a dog...? No? Okay, back to Michael and his newly-minted teenhood, and the fact it kicked-off with an injury. I think Michael is lucky. Glass can do terrible damage to human flesh. So can file cabinet corners and canine jaws. So I'm grateful today, although here's my dilemma: is it really 'looking on the bright side' to applaud or accept something because 'it could've been worse?' This is a stupid philosophical quandary that has plagued me forever. I agree with Jack Kerouac that 'comparisons are odious,' but what about expectations? Expectations are comparisons, aren't they? Comparisons to hoped-for or ideal outcomes? And the only time I'm disappointed by something is when I expect it to be better. Although, why demonize disappointment? I expect M 'n' m to behave appropriately and get good grades. We can't be free of expectations. The rule of law and civilization itself would crumble. What do M 'n' m expect of themselves and their lives? Will these expectations inspire or disappoint? I'm rooting for the former, of course, and I'll try to coach them accordingly. But what do I know? In general, I hope M 'n' m stay positive and productive, expect to be so in fact, and when there's a hiccup or curveball or fuckup or injury, they roll with it, keep truckin', count blessings, find silver linings, and live life. And the teenage years can be an intense part of one's life. Good luck, Michael. So far, so good.

#289

Today is M's birthday. He's 13. Yesterday, Megan said, "It's Michael's last day of childhood." (Megan is keen on the teenager designation.) Without thinking, I responded, "Not really Meg, men are children forever. They just get bigger toys and bigger egos." I felt a stab of remorse for saying it, because I wasn't joking, and it felt cynical and sad, because it's absolutely true. I'm not qualified to disparage, as an insider, the other fifty-some percent of humanity. So, moving on.... Yeah, WTF, Michael's a teenager already?! Time flies. I remember crying more than he did, on this day 13 years ago. He was a big baby, barrel-chested and puffy-faced. I was overwhelmed, amazed, grateful. And proud. I was proud because at one hour, M was already acting like a three-hour-old. Very advanced. He did push-ups in his hospital bassinet, and declined the local anesthetic during his... nevermind.

I am reading Rob Lowe's autobiography. Say what you will, but 'The Outsiders' and that generation of actors and their films informed a lot of my life when I was Michael's age. Unlike me, and unlike Michael also, Rob Lowe didn't have a consistent, present father-figure. This alters his lens, I'd say. Despite this difference, here's an excerpt from Lowe's 'Stories I Only Tell My Friends' apropos for the occasion, the beginning of M's teenagerhood: "Everyone knows that the teenage years are a time of profound emotion. The moody, exuberant, passionate, lethargic teen is a figure that has a special place in the hall of fame of cliches – and for good reason. It's all true. There is no point in reflection. We are so inexperienced, there is very little to reflect on. If we fail a big test, we just move on. We win an award and we smile and say thank you. We fall in love and it's a thrill. We get our hearts broken and we suffer. And we feel all these highs and lows in our absolute core; it feels as if it's never happened to anyone else because it's never happened to us before. Only later can we look back in the comfort perspective brings. I'm writing this looking out the window at my younger son playing with his dog. He is (14 years old). Every parent feels that wondrous, prideful pang when they see glimpses of themselves in their children. I'm no different. I'm looking at him now rolling in the grass, backlit by the afternoon sun. He is a boy-man, wanting everything the world has to offer and ready for none of it. Wanting a girl, with no idea how to get one. Wanting to make a mark in the world but unsure of how to do it. I look at my boy and I'm looking at myself. I want to run out into the yard and tell my young self that it's okay, all will be revealed in time. I want to give the advice I know he needs to hear. And on the occasions when I do talk to my boys about love, career, family, and all of life's unknowable mysteries, I realize that I am also talking to myself. And I wonder: Would my life have turned out differently had I had this perspective."

#288

I have a lot of one-sided conversations with Michael. This is predictable given my personal peculiarities and his, and likely exacerbated by the fact we're father and son. For example, I don't blame him for being silent when I mentioned masturbation. I recall being similarly unchatty when my father alluded to this eventuality when I was Michael's age. In an above-average effort for fathers, I'd say, Papa Mike hazily illuminated the changes, thoughts, and behaviors I might encounter during teenagerhood. I'm grateful; it helped preserve some sanity. I paid it forward. It's a good, strong father who advises his son, for purposes of love, respect, and health, not to run around like a bonobo monkey or sleazeball or drunken asshole. But I digress. Today's one-sided talk with Michael was actually about the famous order, "Burn the ships." I heard it referenced twice this week (it must be the entrepreneurial or self-help theme du jour), although I've heard it before. Destroy the means, and therefore the temptation, to quit. 'Burn' your escape, your excuses, your comfort. A gutsy, risky move. "99% is a bitch" is another good one about commitment and focus. Scuttle the ships and go forward, literally, metaphorically, as a conquering force, a team, an individual. Wikipedia says it was Hernán Cortés, a Spanish Conquistador, who gave the order in 1519 after landing in Veracruz, Mexico. His mission was to overthrow the Aztec Empire. He succeeded. Not surprisingly, he is regarded as an unusually persuasive, effective, and controversial leader.

Michael can't start the mower without me. It's a crappy, sticky pull-start (they are generally smoother, easier). But this makes me happy; I'm still the man of the house.

I discovered a short story by J.D. Salinger in which the narrator quotes Dostoevsky's The Brother's Karamazov. That's a double whammy. "Fathers and teachers, I ponder, 'What is hell?' I maintain that is the suffering of being unable to love."

#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.