Meg can be a real sweetheart. Sometimes.

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

#323

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#322

After lampooning Michael in #321, and busting on young men in general for having undeveloped brains with diminished averseness to risk and, oh yeah, amplified appetites for pleasure; seriously, emerging science confirms adolescent boys are wired to experience pleasure more intensely than anytime before or after in life, but we knew that already, and I digress... after being negative in #321, let's get back to the positive. I could talk about Megan's eyelashes, how they're long and flawlessly curved and uniform, God's finest work and on proper display whenever I stare at her profile, when she's absorbed in a book, for example, or more likely, because it's too often, her iPad. But something else Megan-related is mention-worthy here: her birthday gift to me this year. She knows I love words and quotes and bullshit — ah, I'm only kidding, of course, about the BS — she knows I love words and their power to inspire. So she made me a book of "Inspiration quotes." To describe it, I can only use my favorite word: Awesome. Well, I can't help but add that it's thoughtful, creative, befitting, and one of the best gifts ever. (One word? Ha.) Here it is:

The quotes she used:
Think positive, be positive, be strong
Every scar I have makes me who I am
It's a good day for a good day
Life is tough, my darling, but so are you
You are stronger than you think
NEVER give up
Life's a journey, not a race
Be you and stay you
Nobody makes you angry, you decide to use anger as a response

50 mantras, reordered, re-posted for this week's mindset

If it doesn't suck, we don't do it. – Navy SEALs
God's lookin’ out for us. – Marcus Luttrell
If it disappoints you, think of it less.
Be a force for good.
You can measure a man by the opposition it takes to discourage him.
There is nothing wrong with loving the crap out of everything. – Ryan Adams
My song is love. – Coldplay
Love is all around you. – Tesla
Be anti-fragile.
Your bad habits are in the hallway doing push-ups.
Brother, stand the pain, escape the poison of your impulses. – Rumi
The intelligent want self-control, children want candy. – Rumi 
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
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
It's okay to live a life others don't understand.
Traveling hopefully is better than arriving.
Love more, worry less.
I can do this all day. – Captain America
Sell your cleverness and purchase bewilderment. – Rumi
Oh hell, Max, I been in tighter places than that. – Grandpa Swede (after his Model T rolled and Uncle Max thought for sure it had crushed and killed him)
We carry our own. – Grandma Bev at Grandpa Swede's funeral
There is power in optimism.
There is power in ritual.
Make practice a practice.
Terror is a fine instructor.
Pioneers take the most arrows.
Bet on him, if you like. – Herger the Joyous
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.

I made a comment in #321 about creation...

... and wanted to follow up with this, excerpted from a letter to Jackson Pollock from his father:

I think your philosophy on religion is okay. I think every person should think, act and believe according to the dictates of his own conscience without too much pressure from the outside. I too think there is a higher power, a supreme force, a governor, a something that controls the universe. What it is and in what form I do not know. It may be that our intellect or spirit exists in space in some other form after it parts from this body. Nothing is impossible and we know that nothing is destroyed, it only changes chemically. We burn up a house and its contents, we change the form but the same elements exist; gas, vapor, ashes. They are all there just the same.

#321

It's 40 degrees this morning and Michael wore shorts to school. I didn't stop him. I said if I shined a flashlight in his ear, light would come out his other ear, but I didn't make him change. Lots to discuss here, namely:

1) Am I a shitty parent?

2) Has Michael lost his mind?

3) Do teenage boys have minds to begin with?

3) Is my son oblivious to the world around him? Heedless of freezing temperatures and the perceptions of others – like teachers and normal people – that he's a dumbass or, worse, an unparented dumbass?

4) Is he trying to be cool? (Great pun in this situation.) Maybe the in-thing for junior-high boys is to reject jackets, act tough, chatter teeth, be like SEALs in surf torture (that's the cold water / hypothermia training they do that must be really, really miserable). I know certain boys 'love' spicy food and regard it as a measure of toughness. Sure, but I don't feel untough when I use ketchup instead of habanero hellfire burn-your-face-off death sauce.

They say the adolescent male mind is like a car without brakes. It's missing important shit. Awesome. It's not fully-formed, rounded, balanced, tested. It's lousy at impulse resistance and self control. Young men are crappy at postponing pleasure, delaying gratification, calculating consequences. You get it. Bodily developments can outpace mental developments that really should accompany the physical changes, but oh well. At least young men do, in fact, have minds, and they aren't easily lost or missing even. So Michael has a mind, it's just fucked up right now, which is standard. I realize these things makes sense from an evolutionary standpoint, but not a modern one whatsoever. We live in a funny universe. I'm pretty certain it's created, and not random or accidental, but whenever I'm struck by the incredible precision of its physical structure, shortly thereafter I'm struck by the unbounded chaos of pieces like consciousness and culture. I don't wish, however, for Michael to be as predictable as gravity. That would be boring as shit, frankly. Consistency, yes, but constancy in all things would seem to nullify personalities, histories, and life itself.

Every dude should get a lot of sympathy because of what we go through when we're young. With our half-baked brains.

Sophie told me today that beards are 'dude makeup.' I'm wearing a lot of dude makeup right now.

So this happens when you get laid off...

... and you've been neglecting your yard. We have a jungle out back that I'm thinning. I chopped down a huge tree with an ax (pretty sure that was on my bucket list) and now I can juggle chainsaws. Also hatchets, flaming brands, and skunks. Or maybe I'm just excited because I used a chainsaw for the first time in my life. My nails are dirty and there's a campfire burning everyday.

Life is good.

On doubt, upbringings, moms and dads, hope, finitude, cliches, gritting it out

From The Tim Ferriss Show...

Question: What do you do to overcome doubt?

Answer from YouTube sensation Shay Carl: That's a tough one because you go in fits and bouts with doubt, depending on the morning, depending on the mode... and it's different for different people. I think it starts at your upbringing, you know, what did your mom and dad tell you? Did your mom and dad tell you you could do it? Or did they tell you you couldn't do it? I think a lot of it, more than we would like to admit, comes from our upbringing, the personal, internal struggles that we have, and that might, like, feel bad to some moms and dads out there, but a lot of the kind of crap that we carry around out there like self-doubt, inferiority, you know, anxiousness, all that I think stems from those developmental years of being a kid, and that's why families are so important, that's why moms and dads are so important, because we carry around a lot of this baggage for the rest of our lives. So how do I get over doubt? Some days you don't. You know, it's like a battle, everything is a battle, 'happiness is a choice' is a battle, being confident in what you're saying and what you want to do is a battle. And a lot of the time it's a 'fake it 'til you make it' kind of mentality. There's not a good tip or trick, other than just do it. Other than you have to tell yourself, "Do not doubt. Believe. Just hope for good things to come." At the end of Shawshank Redemption, Andy says, "Hope is a good thing, and it's maybe one of the best of things, because without hope, there is darkness." ... The only thing you can have sometimes is hope, and that's what you have to do to overcome doubt. And I always go back to this, because I think it's a little jarring for people, but I'm just like, "You're going to die." If you have this healthy realization... it will give you, hopefully not anxiousness but a sense of proactivity, where you realize we have limited amount of time... so just go for it. What have you got to lose? You have to look at failures as just stepping stones, because people are always like, "What if I mess up, what if I fail, what if I lose everything?" Then that's like, so what, start over.... It's all about how you get up, you know, all those little cliches are true. It's sometimes just gritting through it.

#320

At every opportunity, Megan points out she doesn't have a cell phone yet. On the way to a sleepover, I'll say: "If you need anything tonight, Lovebug, just call." And Meg says: "I can't call, Dad, I don't have a cell phone." But I win with: "You say all your friends have phones now, borrow one." I suppose keeping a win / loss record for arguments with your kids isn't praiseworthy. It isn't mature either. But Vince Lombardi said, “Winning isn't a sometime thing, it's an all the time thing.” Packers suck, but I agree. Lombardi also said, “People who work together will win, whether it be against complex football defenses, or the problems of modern society.” Thinking of sending a few thousand copies of When Pride Still Mattered: A Life Of Vince Lombardi to Washington DC.

So the bottle-flipping thing is annoying. I hope it's like Gangnam Style, Rainbow Looms, you know, stuff that's crazy-popular and then vanishes. I thought Rainbow Looms were cool and creative by the way. I don't think twerking is cool and creative. I'm happy the NFL is flagging and fining for it. I wonder what Vince Lombardi would say about twerking.

Speaking of fatherly maturity, or immaturity, my temperament on Sundays is a little too governed by fantasy football. My day is brightened or broken by my team's performance... which sucks right now! It's making me crabby on Sundays.

"Since I had started to break down all my writing and get rid of all facility and try to make instead of describe, writing has been wonderful to do. But it was very difficult, and I did not know how I would every write anything as long as a novel. It often took me a full morning of work to write a paragraph."
     — Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast

#319

M 'n' m keep doing well in school. Their grades are shipshape, and I have nothing dramatic or troublesome to report about school (knock on wood). Life can be a buffet of trouble and drama if we look for it. And we look for it. There are reasons we do; it makes perfect sense. We're drawn, as observers, to havoc and chaos and mudslinging; our presidential debates are disaster-circuses and we watch them. It's important stuff to keep tabs on. (M 'n' m watch them too and I probably shouldn't allow it; that's sad.) And then the kids come home and tell me the nation is being attacked by creepy clowns. I say, "You mean the politicians?" and they say, "No! We mean real clowns!" Huh? I think the kids are nuts but I google it and sure enough, sightings everywhere.... Humans are wired to look for danger. We're built to identify, escape, avoid, and prevent the destruction of ourselves and our social groups. We can thank evolution. We keep tabs on things that threaten, like celebrity break-ups. Brad Pitt is imploding and we need to know why. It could happen to us, movie-stardom and mega-millions and then a faceplant. Ben Affleck, Tiger Woods. I'm being facetious, of course, but I truly believe life isn't easy for any of us. It can be awesome, but it isn't easy. So, umm, M 'n' m are doing well in school.

According to Men's Health, the poet Walt Whitman left us advice — over 150 years ago — on developing "herculean strength, a sparkling eye, and an ever-happy soul." He says get up early, take brisk walks, "pull the oar," eat a lot of meat, and avoid being a "puny, hollow-breasted fellow" by "swinging the dumbbells." And my favorite, dedicate yourself to a "cheerful temper" or risk a life of "gloom and feebleness." Amen, Walt! Nice beard. M 'n' m have dumbbells and meat but no oars, no boat. They're cheerful. Sometimes. Sort of. We're working on that, especially with Meg. Regarding a sparkling eye, I told Jeanette last night (during the Cubs NLDS ending victory!!): I understand that Kris Bryant is a 'handsome fellow' — as Walt Whitman would say — and I can see why the ladies swoon (and the dudes when he's blasting homers the Cubs desperately need to make a World Series for the first time since dinosaurs) but Javy Baez is the guy that has a sparkle in his eye. He's special. She didn't disagree.   

He doesn't make the cello look big anymore. I love him.

(Click on / touch the image to increase resolution)

#318

While 'in between jobs' and at home last week, I made a remarkable discovery: The cast of Days of Our Lives is the same after 25 years! I see signs of age — pulled faces, fake hair, the usual — but I'm impressed; I'd look like George Burns or Larry King next to these folks. Grandma Barb watched Days of Our Lives while she ironed, cooked, did everything at home for the rest of us. During summers, running in and out of the house, maybe eating PB&J, I caught scenes here and there, also Guiding Light and As the World Turns, but never General Hospital; that one wasn't steamy enough for Grandma. (Kidding?) There's stiff competition now, but I hope the soaps and 'daytimes' are alive and well.   

Megan doesn't say 'please' and 'thank you' enough. She's improving, but it's a battle. It's not as natural for her as it is for me; that sounds like a horrible parenting cop-out, but I truly believe some of us have a stronger people-pleasing compulsion than others. We're more overtly, outwardly, palpably bent that way. It doesn't make us better or worse, but courtesy, graciousness, basic manners must be learned and habituated. No exceptions, no excuses. This is where good, firm parenting comes in. I'm lousy at good, firm parenting. I don't want M 'n' m to be obsequious or soft; I don't expect them to gush or fawn like I do on occasion (although I'm always genuine), but I'll keep hammering on them about polite expressions, greetings, postures, and so on. And when I see a headline like "Chik-fil-A is Beating Every Competitor by Training Workers to Say 'Please' and 'Thank You'" I raise an eyebrow. The article references interesting data, and while 'customer service' isn't what I'm preaching to Meg-Pie, I want her to know and feel the power of politeness. I don't use it to disarm, dissuade, or deceive people; I use it to express sincere gratitude; I use it to connect and show solidarity with fellow humans; I use it to make life richer and fuller. Come on Megan, don't you see? Get with the program!

Colonel Ludlow: Your daughter needs an education.
Decker: She can read and write, Colonel. School might be awkward for her.
CL: I'll teach her myself. I'll teach her history and mathematics. With your permission, Decker, and yours, Pet.
D: What will she do with all this education?
CL: She'll live a richer, fuller life, of course.
     — Legends of the Fall

Decker: She's a half-breed.
Colonel Ludlow: Not in this house.
     — Legends of the Fall

Megan is a half-breed also. Sort of. Her great-great-grandma was Native American.

Important scientific news: A recent study proves that male pattern baldness is the result of high testosterone. The study was paid for by a bunch of dudes with male pattern baldness.

#317

M 'n' m don't think it's funny anymore, every morning at breakfast, when I say, "Oh man, I had a nightmare last night that I lost my job!" Jokes sour fast. And I guess kids aren't the best audience for gallows humor. They're like spring flowers, tender, fresh, facing the sun. Meg, however, has a wicked fondness for sarcasm already, and cynicism and skepticism; my least favorite attitudes. Kids have a way of finding their parents' 'least favorites.' Michael, on the contrary, is encouraging and cheerful and told me this morning, "Good luck searching for a job today, Dad." How sweet. He's probably worried sick. Actually, he's not; that was me being melodramatic. He's fine and Meg is mostly oblivious. Perfect.

"I don't think the heavy stuff's gonna come down for quite awhile."
     — Carl, Caddyshack

Years ago, a self-improvement article I skimmed challenged readers to 'think of some successful cynics.' I thought of some comedians who use cynicism as shtick, but otherwise I got the point. The best around us kill their inner cynic. Or they silence it, manage it, show up every day positive and productive, confident but compassionate, ready to give and receive good energy. I sound like Tony Robbins!

"Oh, Ed, you sounded like Dirty Harry just then."
     — Grace, Ferris Bueller's Day Off

I listen to the Tim Ferriss Podcast. It's been #1 on iTunes; his guests are remarkable and he mines them for valuable wisdom. Today, renowned chef Joshua Skenes said this: "To me, success is living what brings you joy, and I think doing whatever process brings you happiness." Joy and happiness. I'm in. We know it's true; if you love it, it will bring out the best in you. Your best effort, energy, focus, desire. Find what you love. Trite but true. (I love coffee. I will go find more coffee in a minute.) But I mention this also because of the word 'process.' It speaks to me. 'Moments' can be wonderful, but our 'process' — our daily rituals, habits, routines and the paths and pursuits we choose, the ones that consume our hours (not just a few moments) — is indeed our life.   

Megan let loose some astonishing flatulence last night. Laying on the couch, on her stomach, on her iPad (of course). The volume and length were shocking. I said, "Good lord, how were you not blown up like a balloon before that?!" She just laughed but I thought about calling her doctor. It's not hereditary.

Found this...

... lovely little note in a pile of papers. It's a few years old; Meg is finally clear it doesn't work this way, with divorce or otherwise, and her threats and provocations like this are generally met with a smile, and not any kind of acquiescence or anger. Of course, she doesn't see me smile; I think mocking and shaming kids is noxious, frankly. It's just that life isn't so simple. And every divorced parent knows it's a pendulum; you could be favored one moment, ill-favored the next, but hopefully, always, your kids are certain in every cell that both of you are steady, solid, loving parents.

#316

I was given a severance package last week. Or, in the words of M 'n' m, "Dad, sorry you got laid off." I tend to compulsively, awkwardly self-deprecate, but right now I prefer phrases like 'impacted by downsizing,' 'let go,' 'your position was moved to China,' or 'you're awesome'; yeah, that's it, just 'you're awesome.' I can't say, however, I'm awesome next to the superb, all-world talent that survived this long. I wouldn't say I was a turtle running with hares or anything, but over and over again I was impressed by the remarkable, technical minds there (I'm smart enough to admire greatness; participation is a different story). And the products we made; innovative, cutting-edge, and really damn complex, frankly. (This is starting to sound like my resume.) My layoff wasn't without warning, thankfully; it happens every year; we've been a profitless, shrinking company for too long. A news piece reported our headcount is 95% reduced from four years ago, tens of thousands down to a few hundred. BUT! But... it's an awesome company, with a long and lustrous history, and I truly believe it'll march on, recover, stabilize, kick ass. The company has hemorrhaged talent to companies like Apple, Google, Facebook, Amazon, Snapchat – the list is long – but I'm telling you: You haven't heard the last of these people. It's a special group, a special company.

In life's rough patches, in challenging, uncertain times, it's pretty fucking great to have kids. I'll say that. Children are an awesome thing for purpose. For lots of other things too. Energy, love, inspiration. I believe I'd find all that without M 'n' m, but I have them – Thank you, God, for my children; the same prayer I say every day – so here we are. I'm excited to move forward.

This might be the first post I just fire off without much editing, e.g. the voice, as I reread what I've scribbled, that says okay, make this funny or witty or SOMETHING, and crisp, this sentence is too wordy, actually, shit, they're ALL too wordy, what's wrong with you, too much caffeine? And don't use the F-word; it's not in your nature to use it anyway; write better and you don't need the 'emphasis,' and you used 'awesome' 17 times, that's the best adjective you can come up with? Blah blah, criticism, edit, blah blah. As always, thanks for reading. I look forward to seeing the spike in readership when I post to Facebook especially. And when you mention, "I enjoy your blog," etc. Thank you. I really appreciate it.

They aren't so little anymore. And nice Atari shirt. He's never played Atari. But I have. Pretty sure I hold world records in Space Invaders, Frogger, Pitfall, Asteroids, Pole Position, and Q*bert (Atari's version of Pacman was so inferior to the arcade version I didn't play it much)

#315

Megan is very interested in makeup now. She likes to apply it, wear it, and shop for it, although shopping is mostly just browsing at CVS or Target, not killing anyone's wallet at MAC or Sephora or some Chicago boutique. I don't know makeup like Boy George or Dee Snider (my examples show my age), but I know it can be pricey. I thought of suggesting chicks are more expensive than dudes — as young people I mean — but it's simply not true. Michael's baseball bats are worth a lot of cosmetics. And Michael doesn't play hockey or football; I imagine the equipment cost for those sports approaches obscene. I can tell you how eye shadow, eyeliner, foundation, and lipstick work. I don't intend to be clueless, in matters of female adornment and style, especially as a divorced dad. So what is the stuff that goes on eyelashes called, applied with that little cylindrical brush? I know eyeliner is a pencil. I suppose it's inevitable, Meg beginning that transition from cute to beautiful. And regarding makeup, I hope she learns quickly that less can be more.

One of my favorite and most trusted advisers, Jimmy the Bartender from Men's Health magazine, handled a relevant question in a recent issue: "Do I really need to have a birds-and-bees talk with my 13-year-old boy? Don't kids get all that from the internet these days? (I've had a few talks with Michael already, and I've mentioned the internet in those talks, although not as a substitute for the talks themselves.) Jimmy the Bartender's answer: "The sex talk is a time-honored tradition: Anxious father sits down with son to explain stuff the kid's known about for years. There's no 'these days' about any of this. When you talk to the boy about sex and women — and yeah, you should — focus on respect and responsibility. That's what boys need to learn from their fathers, and it's something they won't find on the internet."

Right on, Jimmy.

"The greatest gift I have received is my son — he has taught me more than anyone, not just how to love, but how to keep it simple....The storms and shoals of the journey help make the man, so I try to bite my lip when I can bear it, and let my son undergo his own mistakes and learning."
     — John Hickenlooper

Bears at Dallas tonight. Bear down. Remember: It's never as good or as bad — or as terrible — as it looks.

#314

We went to the roller rink for Megan's school skate night. M 'n' m wear rollerblades, which are an abomination; it's roller skates for me, baby; with rainbows, pom-poms, bell-bottoms, disco; actually, I missed all that; I don't remember skating before 1980. I remember sucking at it though. Indeed, my roller rink memories are conflicted because I had fun but was horrible on wheels and it was embarrassing to be so bad at a thing and Josh, goddamm Josh, could skate like Travolta could dance and I knew Desiree and Ashley were starry-eyed under their feathered bangs, whenever Josh glided by and through and around them, backwards, spinning, squatting like a catcher on one leg and sticking out the other leg — fucking Josh; what is that move called anyway, made me wanna be Josh before I wanted to be Robin Yount or Rickey Henderson even. Old jealousies die hard. Josh was one hell of an athlete. Pretty sure he doesn't read this, or Desiree or Ashley. I don't know when rollerblades become popular, but they aren't for guys born in the seventies who pushed the pumpkin and not the puck (I was a basketball player).

Rickey Henderson stole 130 bases in 1982 and 1406 in his career. Lou Brock is second with 938 career stolen bases, and Vince Coleman was no slouch, but Rickey was the man; he was my favorite player when I was a kid. He had longevity and quite a personality too. In the early '80s, the Oakland A's discovered a $1 million accounting error. They investigated and determined Rickey was the reason. The GM asked him about a $1 million bonus he had received and Rickey said instead of cashing it, he framed it and hung it on his wall.

Back to the roller rink: When Michael had skates on and I didn't, he was two inches taller than me. A glimpse into the future?

Against a very good left-handed pitcher who plays travel baseball for Hoffman Estates, Michael hit a ball almost to the parking lot yesterday. I love watching M 'n' m compete. I love watching them play music. I love watching them do just about anything except cop an attitude and not pick up after themselves and not put away their clean clothes. The clean clothes one really bugs me.

#313

I don't know yet if M 'n' m will seek too much attention from friends and peers, or too little. Of course, they may be perfectly balanced, in a perfect world. If they seek too little attention, I mean they'll error on the timid, quiet, 'background' side of things, versus the more memorable 'first-to-try,' 'center-of-attention' people (who may also be needy and self-destructive). Gosh, I sound uncomplimentary of the extremes and I don't mean to; we need both kinds of behavior, and sometimes predominantly so; acute caution may be called for one minute, and fuck-all ass-kicking the next, and teams, families, and friends need members who can naturally and powerfully bring the extremes. Of course, humans are too complex to bin and label so simply; to some degree, we're all likely either/or depending on the circumstances, timid in some ways, bold in others. But in retrospect, I mostly regret the times I was timid. In my life, I have chickened out aplenty. And so I appreciate the following I heard in a podcast today....

When asked, "What advice would you give your younger self?" Stephen J. Dubner (of Freakonomics fame) said this, and I want M 'n' m to hear it, especially if they tend to be a 'fraidy cat more often than over-confident: "My advice is pretty simple, don't be scared. I was just, ya know, there are a lot of things I did not do, a lot of experiences I never tried, a lot of people I never met or hung out with because I was in some form intimidated or scared and, look, I still deal with that all the time, and it's not like I've solved that problem, but that is what I'd go back and say to my younger self, is that almost always, the thing that you fear is ridiculous, and it always plays into what psychologists call the spotlight effect, like, 'everybody must be caring about what I do' when the fact is nobody gives a crap what I do, so that's what I'd say, don't be scared."

Now, as always, the caveats... I was scared to do drugs as a teenager (not alcohol, but drugs), and I would still get panicky today at the sight of them I'm sure. Which ones? I don't know... mushrooms, pills, powders I might've seen at parties or clubs, whatever, and even if I experimented with anything legal in some states now, it was years after everyone else. My point: It's okay to be scared of drugs. M 'n' m, I'm talking to you! But don't be afraid of important shit like challenge, growth, conflict, emotion, failure, success. And be aware of the spotlight effect — the phenomenon in which people think they're noticed more than they really are, because, let's face it, one is, in point of fact and reality, in the center of one's own world; we only have one physical perspective, windshield, set of eyes. The spotlight effect is useful to grasp and remember because if you ever have social anxiety, this awareness dampens those insecurities and people-pleasing energies that can make you sweaty and bewildered — and over-talkative and over-trying and annoying — in social situations. Obviously, I speak from experience. Hey, the biggest weakness is pretending you have none.

"I don't do drugs, I am drugs."
     — Salvador Dali

"I did some drugs, but not much truthfully, not as much as most people at that age, I don't have the nervous system to handle it."
     — David Foster Wallace

#312

When you aren't making millions on Wall Street, but instead find yourself at Goodwill shopping for 79 cent paperbacks, you occasionally spot a gleaming jewel, although it's brilliance may be hidden — an unfamiliar title or author — until you take it by the spine, examine it, sample it, and go for it; it's an investment (79 cents feels like shoplifting but time is precious), and then later set upon it with knife and fork — or pencil; I underline, bracket, and star — to lustily feast and confirm it's something very rich indeed. A treasure. From Goodwill. Cheapskate? Sure. But I tell myself it's also very green. Book recycling. And some titles are out of print. My latest discovery is a gem called Logbook for Grace by Robert Cushman Murphy. It's a scientist writing to his new bride, Grace, while collecting specimens aboard a whaling brig in 1912. The writing is at times humorous, tender, lyrical, gritty, and as good as Melville. And Megan's middle name is Grace.

I am a world champion lunch-maker. School lunches. I'm a pro, a master, a gold-fuckin'-medalist, whatever, M 'n' m get awesome lunches. I pack 'em while slamming coffee and maybe doing a few countertop push-ups. But usually not the push-ups. Feels good to hit a task out of the park so early in the morning. Even if it's just cramming sugar-laden, over-processed, half-plastic crap into two containers. Megan's goes in a cute, pink, zippered, nylon thingy, and Michael is a brown-paper-bag man. Inside both, quality, variety, abundance. Some of it's fresh, some of it will look the same a thousand years from now in a landfill. I never get complaints. Except from Meg. But she grumbles about everything, and that's only a 50% customer disapproval rating. Better than the airlines. I ate hot lunch as a kid. Plastic pizza, rubber tacos, hockey-puck burgers, and once — this is true, I shit you not  — I ate a raw chicken nugget. I gagged and heaved but it stayed down. I remember the sensation of my stomach turning and my mouth undergoing a pre-vomit watering, once I realized the nugget's chewiness had a perfect explanation. But I didn't puke it back up. Great story! Oh, thanks :)

Michael wears a shirt for five minutes then throws it in his dirty clothes. Of course, that will change when I stop doing his laundry. My clothes can practically walk and talk on their own before I toss 'em in the washer. (Not true. Mostly not true.)

We had MTV. Now they have YouTube. It is exactly a zillion times more nonsense than we had. Although, some of it's good and useful; I'm on YouTube a lot also, for TED talks, lectures, interviews; content that's a far cry from the unimpressive stuff M 'n' m watch, imitate, and howl at. And the stuff they watch only gets like a hundred million views... must not be very good.

#311

311 (pronounced "three-eleven") is the name of a favorite band from my college days. They were popular then, a million years ago, so long ago it's a marvel they had electric guitars, steel drums, music videos. Not funny? Agreed. I'm just smarting from my birthday a week ago. And I need more Rogaine. Here's a little trivia: 311 is named after the police code for indecent exposure in Omaha, Nebraska, after the original guitarist for the band was arrested for streaking. People don't streak like they used to. As a parent, this makes me happy. As a person, it makes me sad. Absurdity is part of life, and blatant reminders of this are helpful.

Advice for M 'n' m: You don't have to scratch every itch, and feed every craving. Don't scratch a mosquito bite until it bleeds; don't eat candy until you puke; applies to daring, dangerous misadventures, drugs and alcohol, unrequited love, crabby people and people who don't reciprocate respect, etcetera etcetera.... More unasked-for advice: Lean into things that scare you, at least some of them. Talk to that crush. Push yourself, express yourself, make yourself uncomfortable. Suffer (once in a while, because the sweetest, best moments are the ones that follow busting your ass; I have moments of laziness, I have to face and fight this one every day). More UFA (Unasked-For Advice): Failure is a great teacher. You learn more from wrecks, wipeouts, and defeats. Smooth sailing and coasting victories are exactly zero percent of the best training (think BUDS, Olympic training, Russian ballet, the movie Whiplash, whatever). One of Jeanette's favorite quotes: "A smooth sea never made a skilled mariner." MUFA (More Unasked-For Advice): Sometimes there isn't an option, there's isn't a choice, you can't skip it, you can't bow out, it's what you need to do, you know it, SO GET ON WITH IT! The sooner you do it, the sooner you can stop doing it. 99% is a bitch.

"Things work out as long as you are as relentless as the problems are."
     — Brady Corbet

"Children are expensive"
     — Me

#310

So I wasn't great at describing parenthood in 100 words (#309). If I had a do-over, I'd put a phrase stolen from Vanity Fair in my opening sentence: "God hands you a soft, little, crying, pooping, attention-sucking vortex." That is precisely what you get. And thank you, because it's awesome. Except M 'n' m weren't very little; they were 10-pound newborns; think bowling ball, sack of potatoes, watermelon, something you'd prefer not to carry around all day long. But that's how it starts. And it works, because exhaustion and awesomeness are often bedfellows. Parenthood, the beginning. "It's a time of long days but fast years." I stole that line too, from my friends Greg and Katie.

"Everything has been said, but not everything has been said superbly, and even if it had, everything must be said freshly again and again."
     — Paul Horgan

As an adult, I enjoy reading what 'has been said superby' which I take to mean 'the classics.' Funny how they're awfully dull when we're young. Kafka, Camus, Sartre, Dostoevsky, Fitzgerald, Salinger, Steinbeck, all dreadfully boring. Now I read them for pleasure. I've got "A Moveable Feast" by Hemingway in my backpack today. Last year I cover-to-covered Moby Dick. It's a beast, but remarkable. I savored parts of it like steak-lovers do buttery, seared ribeyes, the fat and meat perfectly marbled (a nice analogy for a good piece of writing, actually). When it comes to literature, I finally see what all the hubbub is about. Not so with other 'adult' things, like the pleasing bouquet of a California Cabernet, or a rare Kentucky bourbon. Those don't trip my trigger. What will M 'n' m gravitate to? Will they be auto or art or cigar aficionados? Coffee connoisseurs? Gamblers, fitness nuts, divers, world-travelers, yogis, poets, pilots, gardeners? Will they study and collect Japanese tea sets or 19th century shotguns or ancient Pompeian phallic art? (Yeah, not the last one I hope.) I could see M 'n' m collecting old, creepy-looking daguerreotypes. Michael used to love "Five Nights at Freddy's." I'm not a fan, but I see the horror genre is alive and well. Papa Mike still talks about the night he went to The Exorcist in the theater. Paraphrasing Papa, "People were crying, hysterical, freaking out; other people walked out in a mind-blown daze," I bet they were in a daze; it was the early seventies. Anyway, where were we? — I hope M 'n' m are themselves, original. I suspect eventually, we all get there. But why not find it sooner than later?

"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma, which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice, heart, and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.... Stay hungry, stay foolish."
     — Steve Jobs (who, we like to brag, called our house one time, to talk to
          Papa Mike and set up a meeting with him)

"I think whatever you read... affects your mind and your sensibility, and even your body in some ways and your senses... reading poetry and writing poetry has... made it second nature for me to pay attention to the sound of words and their arrangement in a sentence or on a page and their relation to each other in a way that reading ordinary fiction doesn’t encourage... poetry, once you internalize it, changes how you view language, you tend to see individual words more as objects, rather than beads on a string or things that just carry information. You’re more conscious of the music of the language, and the individual notes of the words.... And unabashed and unashamed honesty, just in every aspect of my life that was available to me, was important.
     — Russell Banks

Megan's go-to, goofy selfie-face

#309

For 13 years – since Michael was born – I've been trying to describe fatherhood. My literary powers are as yet insufficient, which is a little disheartening after 13 years of practice. I wanted to be a professional athlete, also. At least I'm not full of shit when I tell M 'n' to m to pursue their dreams, ideas, and creative energies. Go for it, kids. Do creative work, build stuff, throw paint, throw music, throw words. Spin your wheels. Do donuts in the high school parking lot in your 1984 Buick Century after basketball practice with fresh snow falling... actually, don't do that. But challenge yourself creatively. If it sucks, who cares. So I was thinking: If writing about fatherhood for 13 years is one extreme, let's try the other. Describe fatherhood in 100 words or less. Go.... 

God hands you a football. No shit, it's the size of a football and wrapped and shaped like one, and striped even — red, white, and blue in the hospital nursery blanket — and it's slightly soft and deflated the way Tom Brady and the Patriots cheatingly arrange things in their favor. Life is not without sad, unnecessary cheating. Your 'football' is only minutes old and you wonder if poor parenting is to blame for this kind of honorless cheating that you yourself have probably perpetrated too often and rationalized away with no regard for karmic consequence. Whatever, now’s not the time. Forget all that and play football! There is noise. Lots of it. Inside your head, as always, but the game around you is loud; there is grunting and impressive crying. And there is great support and suggestion. Or is it criticism? The football, don't forget the football! It's in your hands, hold it, but gently; don't drop it. And advance it! Advance and protect the football! That's it, the goal. Very simple. There is exhilaration. This is a big play, and you're the guy. Thank God you have teammates and blockers. They aren't perfect and neither are you; you’re highly flawed and this has the feel of a thing that highlights flaws. Awesome. Yes, things start happening that weren't considered when the play was drawn up. There is untidiness and chaos. You feel threatened, and though your instincts flare, and time slows momentarily, you sense it speeding up again. There are opponents; they are big and moving fast. Things blur. Thank God you're wearing a helmet and pads. You're wearing a helmet and pads, right? And don't forget the play. Fuck. The play? What play?! You look for a hole to run through, and then... the football is gone. What happened? You didn’t fumble it; you didn’t pass it; you aren't sure, but you know it's still here, somewhere, the game, the play, it isn't over....

Oh man, I failed; that’s 330 words. I always overwrite. And it's football season; my imagination wouldn't go further.

Here's some advice from John McPhee: "Writing is selection. Just to start a piece of writing you have to choose one word and only one from more than a million in the language. Now keep going. What is your next word? Your next sentence, paragraph, section, chapter? Your next ball of fact. You select what goes in and you decide what stays out. At base you have only one criterion: If something interests you, it goes in — if not, it stays out. That’s a crude way to assess things, but it’s all you’ve got. ... Ideally, a piece of writing should grow to whatever length is sustained by its selected material — that much and no more. Among the three or four dozen pieces that Woody Allen has contributed to The New Yorker, the first one seemed to his editor, Roger Angell, to contain an overabundance of funny lines. He told Allen that even if the jokes were individually hilarious they tended cumulatively to diminish the net effect. He said he thought the humor would be improved if Allen were to leave some of them out. Sculptors address the deletion of material in their own analogous way. Michelangelo: 'The more the marble wastes, the more the statue grows.' Michelangelo: 'Every block of stone has a statue inside it, and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it.' Michelangelo, loosely, as we can imagine him with six tons of Carrara marble, a mallet, a point chisel, a pitching tool, a tooth chisel, a claw chisel, rasps, rifflers, and a bush hammer: 'I’m just taking away what doesn’t belong there.' And inevitably we have come to Ernest Hemingway and the tip of the iceberg — or, how to fashion critical theory from one of the world’s most venerable clichés. 'If a writer of prose knows enough about what he is writing about he may omit things that he knows and the reader, if the writer is writing truly enough, will have a feeling of those things as strongly as though the writer had stated them. The dignity of movement of an iceberg is due to only one-eighth of it being above water.'"

#308

Megan is officially a cellist, joining her brother. Her decision was cute and predictable. I often mention her adoration of Michael; she's proud to follow him this way. Michael, also predictably, has pretended not to notice. He's annoyed. His aloofness with Megan is a constant frustration for me, which is unsurprising since I trip over myself defending and doting on Meg-Pie. In this case though, I respect Michael's reaction. He's a bit young to want a pupil/protege, least of all his sister, and there's the part about his thunder being stolen. He's worked hard to play well, and we celebrate his music and orchestra events. I'll talk to him, urge him to keep the right perspective, namely that Megan's sky-high opinion of everything he does only elevates him. She thinks he's solid gold and why would anyone disagree?

I've been coaching for several years now. In a way, I'm paying it forward. Grandma and Papa were co-skippers during my first two basketball seasons. How cool is that? Two seasons with both parents as coaches (Grandma Barb was the most qualified; she played basketball in high school whereas Papa was a baseball and track star). And Papa coached several teams and seasons after that, baseball and basketball. So I'm lucky. I had other coaches, and other sports like flag football and soccer, but my folks were supportive and involved and, in my mind, left me with an enormous debt to pay forward to their grandchildren. And this, of course, is utter bullshit since I love coaching and it's entirely selfish and has nothing to do with debt or obligation. As expected, it's about the most rewarding thing I've ever undertaken. The feedback I get is positive, and genuinely so from players and parents alike; I don't think I'll ever stop. This means I'll have a roster without M 'n' m soon; they'll go to high school and fly the nest. Maybe coaching will stave off a creeping, ornery depression that threatens when they're gone. I'll only coach what I know from years and years of playing (baseball and basketball) and I'll bring an unusual optimism and confidence. My coaching philosophy is very simple: "No one cares what you know until they know how much you care." Amen.

Michael is only in 8th grade, but I'm starting to feel "the looming expanse of college," to steal a phrase from Vanity Fair. The looming expense of college is a concern also, but the expanse of it – which I interpret as the vastness of possibilities, opportunities, freedoms, decisions, momentums, inertias, trajectories, influences, and so on that college-aged people are faced with – is something that has my full attention. The college years are very formative. Education, career, and youthful energy are important. And so is self-discovery, which is another path we end up on whether we like it or not, when we're 17, 18... 20, 21 years old. And this one's a path that keeps twisting and turning and teaching – and throwing light where we want it and also where we don't – until we're 40, at least (I'll be 41 next week). It's all approaching very fast for Michael. Hey man, live and learn.

I read this in Vanity Fair about Rihanna, the popular singer and songwriter: "Rihanna, born Robyn Rihanna Fenty 27 years ago in Bridgewood, Barbados, grew up in a family so close-knit that her report card had to be taken around to every aunt and uncle, and if she didn't take it to them, they came over to the see it. She says that everybody knew how well every child did in school. You couldn't hide your failures; you had to face them. She memorized textbooks (her mother was very strict about grades) and played sports with her two younger brothers. But from an early age she was obsessed with music...." I know M 'n' m like Rihanna's music, and I love these details about her. I agree report cards are super-important, and if a certain spotlessness isn't attainable, improvement certainly is, and accountability, not excuses, is expected after letdowns; I was raised this way, too. And I love young Rihanna's closeness with extended family, her work ethic, and her well-roundedness (family, school, sports, and music). 

Say "cello" to another cellist in the family

M 'n' m's great-great-grandparents were a handsome couple

#307

Recently, in a short story by Jhumpa Lahiri, I read: “My father was extremely particular about his stereo components,” then something like, "The stereo was his most extravagant purchase, which he carefully, lovingly cleaned every Saturday, wiping the parts with a special cloth, before playing his favorite songs," etcetera, etcetera. Oh man, this resonated powerfully with me, maybe like mention of the Kennedy assassination stirs up baby boomers; they remember with exceptional richness the moment they found out. In a similar fashion, I recall my dad’s stereo with an unusual sensorial allness; I remember how different parts of it smelled, looked, and felt, and, of course, I remember the sound, unforgettable melodies and voices, the music of the ‘70s. The smell was that of power-hungry early-electronics and warm, scarred plastic. The needle and record grooves could be touched, and the speaker fabric, and the buttons, knobs, switches, and wires. The clear plastic lid of the turntable is a primary visual in my mind, also the massive dials for station tuning and volume control. And there was gilding and wood trim; some stereo components and speakers were encased in wood or faux-wood. The mechanism that lowered and raised the needle was fascinating and impossibly precise (at the time). The records themselves were precious and cared for but handled frequently; their labels and cardboard jackets showed signs of wear, and the aromas and residues of beer, food, and other contraband maybe transferred a little. Milk crates were perfect for storing and filing through records. I could go on. I’m grateful my dad’s stereo wasn’t an iPod, or Bluetooth speaker, or Spotify. It wasn’t even a cassette or CD player yet in my fondest recollection; it was a system of multiple pieces, hand-selected, spec’ed out, brand-named, and expensive as shit – pricey, at least, for parents like mine who married young and were dirt poor before they hit their stride. A stereo system included, give or take, a record player or turntable, a receiver, radio tuner, big speakers, and humongous headphones (that made me think of Princess Leia’s hair), and maybe an equalizer and additional amps. To confirm these wistful memories, I emailed Papa Mike for more details. This is his response: Dan, you can ask your mother... our stereo was always the most valuable thing we had... even more than the car sometimes... and I/we had multiple stereos through just our first five years or so... when we couldn't trade in our car because it had a crazy rotary engine (Mazda '73) when they gave you $500 cash back (and that was like two month's rent) I always ended up selling my 'stereo'.... always a fine receiver, Marantz or Pioneer, and a fine turntable, magnetic cartridge only, Garrard I think, and oh, Advent speakers... then when we got some money from my working at the Clark station in town in Ames or for the raccoons my neighbor and I killed and got $35 each, we would buy another decent plus component system and play those LP's... btw, I can 'cut' a USB drive of Mike's 339 most favorite songs if you like….

That, friends, is awesome. Stories, memories, life. I’m grateful to be a son and father, and a person who lived in the '70s!

Don't get me wrong, technology ain't bad. I use Spotify (but only after Michael got me started; previously I used Pandora without his help). We have many Bluetooth speakers (a few purchased cheaply in the knock-off bartering markets in China). But a balance between old and new is essential. For example, I don't think I'll ever stop making fires, and reading words on paper, and writing words on paper. I'll never stop reflecting on the wisdom of Jesus, and the Stoics, and Native Americans, and the classic rock songwriters of the '70s that are simply peerless!

"There's nothing that I enjoy more at night than reading Rumi, the Sufi mystic; he is a transcendent thought leader maybe like Seneca; he has tremendous wisdom. And so I think the wisdom of the ancients has a lot to offer; I find a lot of use in these texts, the Bible, the Quran, the Zen parables and Sufi stuff. For me, it's not like you have to be slavishly obedient to them, take what you find useful, move on, but I found a lot of use in those texts." –– Kevin Kelly. Sort of paradoxically, Kelly is the founding executive editor of Wired magazine, and a very prescient voice about the future, technology, and digital culture.