#306

One of the great pleasures of parenting M 'n' m has been witnessing how much Megan adores her older brother. She can be unruly and bullheaded – especially with me – but she has a loyalty and affection for all-things-Michael that makes me proud of both of them.

I like this from Susan Minot: "When siblings share a trauma – one could argue that childhood itself is a trauma – they will be either bound closer together or driven further apart. Our mother died at 48 in a car accident, leaving behind her husband and seven children between the ages of 7 and 21. We were all in shock, moving together like stunned zombies. But it was in a group that we moved, and in a group that we huddled on the life raft together. Though you come from the same place, it doesn't necessarily mean you'll get along, or relate to one another. But if you do relate, your relationship might be the closest that a human can have."

Divorce isn't the loss of a parent, but it's the loss of a certain lifestyle, a preferred, smoother, more stable lifestyle for most kids. Minot refers to siblinghood as "an overlapping of souls." How can we disagree? She says, "My (three) sisters and I share many things: political beliefs, a worship of the temple of the movie theater, a facility with water colors. We have the same voice and the same feet...." Admittedly, since Michael hit puberty, M 'n' m have very different voices and feet.

The mind is very resourceful. Harness it for your benefit. Don't let it harness you for its benefit. This is some of the best advice I will give M 'n' m. It's a little cryptic, corny, koan-ish, whatever – and it's partly just the adage, "Control your thoughts or they will control you." – but it's so fucking important. That's a bad word, sorry (although, be honest, it's not that shocking these days) but nothing is more important. I struggle all the time to keep my internal dialogue positive and productive. Internal dialogue drives human performance (I stole that line from Navy SEAL Thom Shea). A negative internal dialogue is killer, when all else is boiled away, and we face life's challenges. The writer Elizabeth Gilbert says this: “You need to learn how to select your thoughts just the same way you select your clothes every day. This is a power you can cultivate. If you want to control things in your life so bad, work on the mind. That's the only thing you should be trying to control.” At a minimum, I hope M 'n' m agree with this, and at a maximum, they master it. No shame in not being a master, however; I, for one, am far from it.

"Choose not a life of imitation....
Go write your message on the pavement....
Complete the motion if you stumble....
This life is more than ordinary....
This life is more than just a read through."
     –– Red Hot Chili Peppers, 'Can't Stop'

"You spend years wishing your parents would get off your back, only to realize they're the only ones who ever really had your back." –– Unknown

#305

Megan has a potent instinct to complain. She's a grumbler and problem-finder in the AM especially, and no slouch at mealtimes either. "Ugh, we're having that again?" She's a master at disappointment. The frowning, slumping, gesturing... the moaning, groaning; it's not my favorite Megan. But I'm patient because I had a negative streak as a kid myself, sore-losing, scoffing, the usual bratty stuff. I didn't whine as much; I was parented better, which is to say more sternly. Threats like, "Quit whining or I'll give you something to whine about!" were swift and real. I cushioned myself against disappointment by expecting it. And then, slowly but surely, I matured. I learned that disappointment happens – shit happens, as they say – and you deal with it. I learned that positive energy serves us better, and we create our own energy. I hope Meg follows a similar path, but she won't. She'll follow her path. We're all different; our lives, loves, journeys, blah blah. So at the moment, I'm not looking for books and therapies to make Megan more 'positive.' She's not unhappy; she adores her friends and Sophie; she's active in sports and expresses herself artistically; she reads, laughs, plays, and sleeps well; and she even eats, but never before complaining! For now, we'll flounder on. I'll keep barking at her and banging my head against the wall.

I heard a favorite writer and journalist, Sebastian Junger, say in a podcast interview that one of his favorites is Joan Didion. When a favorite has a favorite.... This is from Joan Didion's essay On Keeping a Notebook:

"Why did I write it down? In order to remember, of course, but exactly what was it I wanted to remember? How much of it actually happened? Did any of it? Why do I keep a notebook at all? It is easy to deceive oneself on all those scores. The impulse to write things down is a peculiarly compulsive one, inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself. I suppose that it begins or does not begin in the cradle. Although I have felt compelled to write things down since I was five years old, I doubt that my daughter ever will, for she is a singularly blessed and accepting child, delighted with life exactly as life presents itself to her, unafraid to go to sleep and unafraid to wake up. Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss. ... How it felt to me: that is getting closer to the truth about a notebook. I sometimes delude myself about why I keep a notebook, imagine that some thrifty virtue derives from preserving everything observed. See enough and write it down, I tell myself, and then some morning when the world seems drained of wonder, some day when I am only going through the motions of doing what I am supposed to do, which is write – on that bankrupt morning I will simply open my notebook and there it will all be, a forgotten account with accumulated interest...."

It doesnt take Sherlock Holmes...

... to solve this one. Six of us ate dinner here. Where did Megan sit?

#304

And they're off.... Megan to 5th grade, Michael to 8th, Cole to 6th grade and Sophie to 7th (our biggest 'transition' of the four, Sophie to junior high). Since Michael and Cole are BMOCs now, I told them, "Nothing makes a big dog look weaker than picking on little dogs." This, of course, was followed by confused silence. Let's face it, advice from parents that's clunky, preachy, and out-of-date is a time-honored tradition. Nonsensical, pointless, impossible, dumb... who will carry the torch if I don't? I'm a master at awkward too. So M and C looked at me funny, felt sorry for me, then explained they don't see younger kids much, and don't notice them, and no one really picks on anyone else. Wait. Now I was confused. No one picks on anyone else? What about the skaters mocking the preppies? What about jocks picking on skaters and metal-heads picking on jocks? Or whatever. I took some shit from dudes. That doesn't happen anymore? That's not fair! So bullying isn't funny, and I know it's both policed and perpetrated differently than it was back in the '80s. What's important – besides the security and confidence of our youth – is for kids to know there's nothing lower than demeaning or humiliating others, especially the vulnerable. And we're all vulnerable; with discomforts, soft spots, things we hold dear, exploitable weaknesses. So my message to Michael and Cole was really just a bumper sticker: Mean People Suck.

"It was not easy, it was a war. I'm happy it went that way. I got to show my heart in there.... The whole lot of it brought out the best in me, it forced me to look at myself truly.... I'm just grateful.... You win or you learn, and this time I stayed with it and got the win.... I didn't make any excuses.... Since the last fight, he grew, so I knew I was up against it, and I was thinking in my head, maybe this could be a mistake but I said, 'Fuck it,' you train hard, be smart, learn from your mistakes, and go in confident." 
     –– Conor McGregor after his fight with Nate Diaz at UFC 202

"Creativity requires the courage to let go of certainties." –– Erich Fromm

"There was a long time in Chicago when I kept thinking, 'Am I like one of those people on American Idol who doesn't know they're not good?'"  
     –– Cecily Strong, breakout star of Saturday Night Live, who persevered despite her innate anxiety and fears

I wish this was standard business practice....

I wish this was every restaurant and store, every place that charged for products or services.... Megan, for one, could use the training. Michael would get a 'deal' almost everywhere. Neither, however, are as unfailingly polite as I am, but I'm weird. We'll keep working on Megan.

#303

Megan's Bambi eyelashes haven't shortened, thinned, drooped, or otherwise diminished whatsoever. I pay attention. They're still perfect.

Michael unhumbly told me he has mannerisms like Papa Mike, or so he's heard. Oh brother. He hasn't been so proud since he went deep and home-run-trotted in a real game. That's memorable, and so is having kick-ass grandparents. I'm grateful Michael has four fantastic ones. But is Michael's emulation of Papa something to worry about? Oh God yes! YOUNG Papa Mike especially! Holy shit, the stories.... I suppose when you name a guy after a guy you send a message, and though I joke about it, let me be clear: it's a message I'd shout louder every day if I could; I never thought for a second about other names, the easiest decision of my life: Michael Byard Cox.

One thing we associate with Papa Mike – although he's too modest to agree – is extraordinary professional success. On success, I saw the following from the New York Times: "It turns out that for all their diversity, the strikingly successful groups in America today share three traits that, together, propel success. The first is a superiority complex – a deep-seated belief in their exceptionality. The second appears to be the opposite – insecurity, a feeling that you or what you've done is not good enough. The third is impulse control. It's odd to think of people feeling simultaneously superior and insecure. Yet it's precisely this unstable combination that generates drive: a chip on the shoulder, a goading need to prove oneself. Add impulse control – the ability to resist temptation – and the result is people who systematically sacrifice present gratification in pursuit of future attainment." Papa Mike and impulse control? The guy always striving and failing, in his own words, to be Mr. Patient and Mr. Frugal? Well, he's never failed to be Mr. Working-His-Ass-Off (my words now). So there's that. Which takes impulse control, or focus, or something that must lend itself to success. Grandma Barb busts her ass too. When there's work to do, they do it; shit gets done. Period. I hope M 'n' m have a work ethic like their grandparents.

#302

As I watch M 'n' m get closer to 'full-grown' (I realize they aren't puppies), an impossible question keeps nagging, or the desire for a certain formula, although I know one doesn't exist; God herself would say it's too complex for a precise, simple rendering, a nice pie chart, for example. I don't think God uses PowerPoint. The question: Is nature or nurture a more powerful forming force in our children? Heredity is a factor, and sometimes massively so, but isn't environment the bigger hand, the hand that moves us versus the one we're dealt in genes? As parents, we're huge contributors to both, obviously. It seems our biology and brain chemistry are less congealed than we thought in previous centuries; we have modern fitness and diet trends, and cosmetic medicine. I had braces, as in orthodontia; that's not cosmetic 'surgery,' but it's cosmetic something. It's prevalent and useful. And now we're told our brains are neuroplastic. You gotta love science; it's so sure of itself until it's not. Don't get me wrong; science gives us incredible progress, understanding, technology, but the 'accuracy' and authority of claims that are later controverted (e.g. 'all dietary fat is bad') can be frustrating. And yet, despite new trends and breakthroughs (like gene therapy), there is a stubborn fixedness to the composition and habits of our minds and bodies, our heredity. And, clouding things further, it seems that human sensitivity to environment varies; some people appear impervious to things others are oversensitive to. Some people walk to the beat of their own drum. I envy them. I am naturally more at the people-pleasing, socially-anxious end of the spectrum, versus the side that's achored by folks who feel zero self-consciousness and are oblivious to social cues. Of course, these conditions have neurobiological determinants, and I don't mean to speak of them flippantly. Are we back, full circle, to the rigidity of biology and brain chemistry? See, it's very confusing. Who knows, maybe astrology and fate determine everything! I'm simply curious where M 'n' m fall on this scale I've poorly described. And will they move one way or the other, become more of this or less of that. I attempt to move and improve. It's often arduous and disheartening, frankly. We are who we are. But we can 'move,' too.

M 'n' m are finally home from their many travels this summer. They were on the road – not exactly like Kerouac, but that's a cool reference – for about five weeks. I missed Megan maybe like those 33 miners in Chile.... When my Grandpa Byard was in the Korean War, he kept a diary and filled much of it with expressions of how badly he missed "Marilyn and Mike." Grandma Marilyn was his beautiful bride, and Papa Mike his newborn son. As the story goes, Marilyn showed their baby a single black-and-white photo of his father everyday until the months passed and they were reunited. It won't be intuitive for M 'n' m to understand this; in those days it was truly a gulf, a distance, an isolation from your most precious people, without video calls, email, cell phones, bundles of digital photos and videos as reminders of closeness.

I've been mouse hunting lately, or trapping, in my shed and woodpile. It's not as fun as fishing – and I see why mice give even elephants the willies – but there are similarities. Bait, gear, and location can be micro-analyzed, as can the hooks/traps left bare and empty. Little bastards. And so I strategize, and what's more fun than that?

There's something satisfying about sharpening my mower blade. Building walls for Michael's bedroom is satisfying also, but not like honing the edge of a fine blade. A 'fine blade?' Yes, I've over-glorified my mower, but the smithing and sharpening of steel is an exquisite metaphor for life! If that sounds cheesy, I give you this: Ever tried slicing a tomato with a dull knife? Indeed, you can only smash them, like poor Lennie lovingly crushes everything he touches in Of Mice and Men, which Jeanette got for Michael from the library, and Chris Farley spoofed hilariously on SNL. Remember him? Tommy Boy? We grow tomatoes in containers; I'm happy to demonstrate to M 'n' m that food isn't 'manna from heaven,' or Jewel; it requires seeds and growth. And cubing tomatos, mincing onions, chopping cilantro, and slicing limes – we love Jeanette's pico de gallo! – is impossible with a dull knife!

#301

I saw a meme on Facebook that said:  
"I never know what to say when people ask me what my hobbies are. I mean, I'm a mom. I enjoy trips to the bathroom alone and silence."
And similarly themed, a meme that had Jeanette howling:
"Ever heard of a swear jar? I started a Mom jar. The kids have to put $1.00 in every time they say 'Mom.' So far I'm up to 59 billion. We started 30 minutes ago."

So I was thinking... can you put 'dad' in there? The answer, of course, is no. It just doesn't work. It doesn't mean we're less needed or less involved. Umm, it doesn't mean that, right? Shit, what else would it mean?! Actually, we're different. In many ways, in many homes, we swap, overlap, mesh; we're the safety net, the warm blanket, the everything, together.

And then there's divorce. I've spoken softly here about the 'silver linings' of the big D. It's sensitive, it's un-PC, and it's probably bullshit too, but being a single parent, even with Jeanette always present and immensely helpful, means I don't compete for the roles of late night savior, nurse, tucker-inner, confidant, coach, kleenex-getter, whatever. At our house, for M 'n' m, it's me. Mom is elsewhere. We never hesitate to call her – we often do – but the dynamic is altered. Jeanette is terrifically tender and maternal to hers and mine both, and like any dad, I underestimate her contributions to our 'Brady Bunch' home, but there isn't much I pass off to someone else. Like Vanilla Ice said, "If there was a problem, yo, I'll solve it." Oh man, that was rapped into my high-school ears too much back in 1990.

The topic of Mom-ship versus dad-hood is one to avoid. So here we go. Interesting to note, from the get-go, that my instincts were to use mom-'ship' as in kingship, and dad-'hood' as in peasanthood; the former clearly feels like the authority, the heavy-lifter, when it comes to kid-raising. Although, didn't the peasants do all the lifting? Indeed, this is a multifarious and testy topic; I'll only say ignorant, un-modern things, I'm sure. Every family is different, every person is different, so moms and dads differ too, and shouldn't be bucketed or stereotyped. But I still plainly see many moms as moms, and dads as dads, traditionally speaking. Regardless, we're all huge in the lives of kids. Things have changed over generations, but how much? How much should they change? I don't know. I only have my own experiences as son and father, and the glimpses afforded outsiders to these relationships between others. There are tons of amazing and incredible parents out there. I'm grateful – because they make the world a better place – and hopeful to keep learning from them. It doesn't matter if they're moms, dads, traditional or not, foster-this or adopted that; we know who we are.

A Liar's Guide...

... to bending the truth, another thing from Men's Health, 10 indisputable facts about lying, although that sounds dubious, facts about lying? From Will Arnett. As a parent, it's best to remember that...

1) Liars always lie about lying. Liars begin sentences with 'To be honest' because they're always trying to convince people of their total bullshit. They also say things like 'I'm not a very good liar.'"

2) It's okay to lie to children, obviously, because they're not emotionally equipped for the hard realities yet – like that Santa Claus is bullshit.

3) And it's okay to lie about children who know too much. When my 7-year-old lost a tooth, he told me a kid at school said the tooth fairy isn't real; it's the parents who put money under the pillow. So I did the responsible thing. I explained to my son that the kid must be a delusional psychopath.

4) It's okay to lie to your family about politics. If it gets you out of talking to an obnoxious relative about why he thinks so-and-so should be president, and the other so-and-so is the lord of evil, then lying is okay 100 percent of the time.

5) It's okay to lie about religion. Never give an honest answer if someone asks you, 'What do you think about the cult I joined?' If it's keeping them relatively sober and out of trouble, I'm always like, 'They seem like a fun bunch.'"

6) Even animals lie. You ever see those documentaries about the mating rituals of birds, and how male birds puff themselves up with insane feathers to attract females? Yeah, that's absolutely just lying. No way those birds keep that up after they've sealed the deal.

7) Liars eventually get caught.

#300

Michael brought a shooting range target home from Minnesota. It was Swiss cheese. Papa Mike's SIG SAUER was the weapon. Papa has others. A lot of talk these days about guns. It's debate the country should absolutely have, followed by votes. I'm afraid lobbyists write our laws now. Whatever the case, I'm 100% okay – in fact, grateful – that Michael is learning how to handle guns with respect and safety. A proper introduction removes mystery, and maybe the kind of distorted, inflated allure that causes problems.

I feel like an idiot for mentioning two people here. First, Rob Lowe. I enjoyed his autobiography and then someone at work said, "You know he was busted with a minor?" He is sober now, was pretty young himself at the time, and tells great stories, but there's no excuse. Sorry for mentioning Rob Lowe. And then the Cubs traded for Aroldis Chapman. I was thrilled and then someone at work said – yeah, always someone at bloody work – "You know about the domestic violence?" No, I only knew he could throw a baseball through concrete. Sorry for mentioning Aroldis Chapman. Moving forward, I intend to say nothing about famous people, except for actors, athletes, artists, writers, politicians, and historical figures. And the Kardashian Real Housewives. Actually, I can't comment on them; I've never seen the show; I'd rather put jalapeno oil in my eyes again.  

I just realized this is post #300. And it's about criminals, guns, and unbearable celebrities? My timing and filters betray me. So 300 is ceremoniously unceremonious, I guess, the usual random, honest bullshit. (300 was a cool movie too; I'll tell M 'n' m I was cast for it, but they were babies and I loved them so acutely I decided to give up movie stardom.) Speaking of babies, I wonder what I was thinking 290 scribblings ago? I hate diapers? I'm delirious with love and exhaustion? I can't wait to be done with onesies, cribs, and car seats? I wish they could talk to me? Definitely the last one, wanting to know their thoughts, wanting to converse; I remember that precisely.

My favorite tool is the shop vac. Not sure what that says about me. I have decent saws, axes, knives, and so on, but the shop vac is a force. I need it frequently. When Michael is my age (40) and I'm 65, I'll ask him what his favorite tool is. Drone? Droid? Spacesuit, VR gear, memory implant? I hope not. I hope it's something made of forged steel.

Another tool, or appliance, deserves honorable mention: my sump pump. Man I love it. The rain was like a waterfall from the sky this spring. And our sump just kept running and running and running. All night sometimes. One glitch and big trouble, but no. I was lovin' the sump as much as I love Megan. That's a lot.

I called and asked my dad today about mower maintenance. Mowers have engines after all, and filters, oil, blades and so on. And that's how it goes: you do right by your son and he'll be a burden your whole life. And that, to be blunt, is fuckin' cool. My heart goes out to folks who've lost their dads. I hope Michael calls me for answers, advice, instructions thirty years from now, about his house, career, children, finances, his mower, whatever. I hope I'm helpful, although I'll probably say, call Papa Mike.

Reasons the Future May Suck...

... from Men's Health. These stood out to me:

• When your buddy tells you another story about an epic night with a stunning woman, you won't know if he's conveniently omitting the fact he was wearing a virtual reality headset.
• Genome editing. Guys with Donald Trump haircuts disappear, along with our mockery of them. Nobody explains a full head of hair anymore with "I have good genes." Now it's "My dad bought me a gene splicer."
• Jetpacks are cool. But not when our news feeds fill up with headlines like "Another dumbass dies in jetpack selfie mishap."
• Thanks to self-driving cars, using a steering wheel while fiddling with music, eating french fries, and holding a Coke without spilling it is now a useless and kind of stupid skill.
• Clever new dating app, Cringe, transmits your horrified reaction to her profile photo instantly, and vice versa, bringing loneliness, alienation, and despair to depths unmatched in human history.

#299

I've heard from more readers lately. Thank you. I'm happy you stop here for amusement, or a dose of superiority, which is a natural human need, by the way, don't kid yourself (although people who seek it insatiably are kind of annoying). It's okay to think: they're pretty weird, more than us at least.

A few of you indicated that reading this feels like stalking. It's not. I over-disclose and write poorly; the writing you're used to is crisp and great and decidedly never makes anyone feel creepy. You haven't stalked anyone. Not since your teens anyway. And twenties. But you were in love. Stalking is nothing to joke about. Blog stats indicate hundreds of you visit per post, and overall in increments of 10k. You're not alone. And very sincerely, thank you.

Jumping right into more awkwardness: Michael is a teenager now and big. His physicality suggests otherwise but he's still a kid. This is the opposite of my junior high experience; I was short, scrawny, high-voiced, and a dolphin. During every basketball game, I'd think, shit, I can't match-up with this guy, he has armpit hair and muscles. This sucks! (Then I'd drop 20 points on him and shut him down on D, but it was tiresome.... Humblebragging: transparent, shallow, and fun.) Although it's very much in his DNA from me, Michael doesn't have a chest pelt yet – think Barry Gibb with three buttons unfastened and a medallion – but his physical maturation has to be outpacing his mental and emotional growth. And he's a guy. Recipe for disaster? Of course not. The male brain isn't fully developed until our mid-twenties, and this makes zero sense to me – lots to add here by way of humor, sorrow, dysfunction – but men are men, and without us, things would be a lot different and not for the better! Also, regarding youth versus age, it's the older guys, and not the young ones, who cause the big problems. Politicians, of course, are a perfect example.

I wonder what happens when Michael discovers these scribblings exist. I can tell him there's no audience (which was true at the beginning), and if I had one, it wouldn't include him until he's much older, like my current age, which is to say on the precipice of his own little midlife trough, hoping he's a good dad, feeling a little restless or rueful perhaps, you know, which happens to men at 'halftime' before we rebound, kick-ass for a few more decades, then ride off into the sunset.

#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