Megan updated her message on Michael's whiteboard

It's generally some form of adoration like this. Michael's lucky.

#339

Megan's laundry was a pain in the butt today. Everything was inside-out and impossibly twisted; every sock was in a ball, every undie knotted in pantlegs (I assume because they're removed together). I do more unfolding than folding. And I do a lot of folding. Megan helps, but not much. Someday soon, she won't need me for this stuff. I grumble, sure, but when that day comes, I won't be thrilled.

I learned that baldness in Native Americans is rare. I've been touting my Native-American-ness for years now; I think I'm one-sixteenth. Or maybe less. Clearly not enough to dodge alopecia.

We assume our kids can fix simple things. Tighten a screw, patch a hole in the wall, do a little painting. What could go wrong? Well... tools get lost, materials are broken and wasted, paint get spilled and tracked through the house. Murphy's law. That Murphy was a fuckin' genius. It's kind of inspiring actually, the creativity with which things get screwed up. Wow, I would've never thought to do it that way (thereby guaranteeing disaster). We all mess things up when we're kids. We lack experience and attention to detail. So now, as parents, the way I see it: we have no choice but to let our kids do and learn. Start simple, start cheap, be safe, have insurance, hold your breath, pray....

Megan had a basketball game yesterday and wanted to go early – a full hour! – to shoot around. Oh my God, if Meg becomes a gym rat... I will love her even more... which, of course, is impossible; pretty sure the needle swings to max when they're born and never moves. We might think it does, dipping, bouncing, like the needles in Papa's old marantz receiver, but it doesn't move; it's pegged, pinned, permanent. Even Darth Vader's needle wasn't moved by the Emperor and the Dark Side. And everything in life is analogous to something in Star Wars. Duh.

#338

I noticed if I set things on the stairs that belong to the kids – like shoes, books, shit that needs to be put away – it will sit there until the end of the world.

M 'n' m applied for passports. I didn't get one until I was 20; I'm happy they're way ahead. I heard only 36% of Americans have valid passports. I hope that number climbs. I hope it's always easier, cheaper, safer for the next generation to go abroad. I want M 'n' m to see 50 countries. When I was Megan's age, my parents toured Asia (with my Dad's employer). I was impressed. But it was another decade before I left America myself, excluding Niagara Falls, which makes me think of The Breakfast Club and Brian's lie to Bender, "She lives in Canada. I met her at Niagara Falls; you wouldn't know her." ... "Well, in addition to the number of girls in the Niagara Falls area..."

Let's examine, for a minute, the hug. According to family lore, my great-grandma Dora was a bigtime hugger; you couldn't enter or exit her house without one, without a big embrace. They don't make 'em like Grandma Dora anymore; I remember a tenderness, but there was a toughness too; she lost a young son to drowning for one thing; I can't imagine how that affects a mother. And now I suddenly understand why she hugged so much. Wow, writing gives me perspective. Anyway, predictably, Dora's daughter and granddaughter became leading huggers themselves, distinguished and exceptional, which brings us to the grandson, me. I hug M 'n' m a lot. And I'm hardly alone; people in sports, for example, get busy hugging and back-slapping each other all the time. Awesome. Hug it up! Michael's not the most enthusiastic hugger, but he accepts one when I'm proud of him, or happy Iowa State won, or excited there's a new GOT episode. Megan is different. If I outstretch my arms in invitation, she expresses annoyance. I feign hurt. She sighs. Too bad, gimme a hug! I love you! Of course, when she wants money, or help, or permission to do something, well then, different story, she's all about it....

#337

I listened to an interview of Connor McGregor this morning. When asked, "At what age did you realize you were good at fighting?" he said, "I'm Irish, we're all good at fighting." Naturally, this made me think of... Megan. Does her stubbornness, her combativeness, come from her Irish ancestry? (Along with, maybe, her charm?) She likes a melee, especially with me. She can come out swingin'. Only with words, of course. Although, maybe I should put boxing gloves on her and headgear on myself. I'd prefer this to the verbal shots, jabs, complaints.

Meg-Pie was the first at our house to finish Christmas shopping. She made a big list (a Google doc, actually, which they use in school now; what cavemen we were for using loose leaf paper). Then we hit Target, and what was left, ordered online. She quickly had 20 gifts, wrapped and ready. I asked her to wrap some presents for me and she did it cheerfully. I said, "What have you done with Megan?" No, I didn't; I said thank you. Meg has an unselfish, practical streak, and a powerful organizing instinct (not reflected in the rubbish and rubble comprising her room, most days, but still). She's a bit of an artist also, and studios aren't spotless. She's painting on canvas now. It's cool. I really love the shit out of my daughter. Ooh, that's maybe too much, not right, gross... but reminiscent of the days she was small enough to fit on a changing table; that was a cute little Megan.

I read an article about how dads should have a "stern but encouraging paternal hand." Slick writing. Which is my way of deflecting. "Stern" is not a strength. I'm so not stern that this article reminded me of Bronson Alcott, father of the famous Louisa May. (You'll see why I remember him in a second.) Bronson sought to reform schools about 200 years ago. Perhaps his most controversial idea was to have students punish teachers. Yeah. A guilty student, having committed some error or offense, would punish the teacher, who was also to blame for allowing the failure to occur. Or something. A misbehaving child would strike the teacher's hand, for example. Think back to your school days now.... It was supposed to illicit shame in the student. Regardless, I don't wish to disparage Bronson Alcott. He had a special daughter for one thing. He was an abolitionist, an activist for women's rights, and a philosophic, progressive thinker who sought to awaken both the minds and souls of young people. Right on.

#336

Michael shaved. No shit. First time. You turn around one day and they're big. And hairy.

Oh, the ups and downs of parenting.... It's painful when M 'n' m exhibit issues I can see, especially in hindsight, may come from my biology and chemistry, my heredity in other words – oversensitivity, insecurity, anxiety, social unskillfulness, no need to list them all – which compounds my frustration in trying to help them. For example: Megan needs to be more aggressive in sports. She's gifted with athleticism. She needs to care less about appearances, and more about playing with intensity, competing, staying focused. If I sound crazy – there's that synonym for 'parent' again – rest assured I'm not too tough on Meg. Many of you know this. My point, and the part that puts a little zing in the heartache, is that I was the same way, and even today struggle with competitiveness and intensity. Expecting Megan to change overnight is ludicrous. Expecting her to change at all perhaps....

My favorite scene in the movie Forrest Gump is when Jenny shows Forrest a little boy...

Jenny: His name's Forrest.
Forrest: Like me.
J: I named him after his daddy.
F: He got a daddy named Forrest, too?
J: You're his daddy, Forrest.

And then the touching part, Forrest knows what his shortcomings are; his expression changes; he's instantly worried about the obvious...

Forrest: He's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen but is he smart or is he...?
Jenny: He's very smart, Forrest. He's one of the smartest in his class.

Some of our flaws flow downstream, so to speak, but not all. This is good. And maybe it would be good if parenting was more like... the army?

Drill Sergeant: Gump! What is your sole purpose in this army?
Forrest Gump: To do whatever you tell me, Drill Sergeant!
DS: God damn it, Gump! You're a god damn genius! This is the most outstanding answer I have ever heard. You must have a goddamn I.Q. of 160. You are goddamn gifted, Private Gump.
F: [narrates] Now for some reason I fit in the army like one of them round pegs. It's not really hard. You just make your bed real neat and remember to stand up straight and always answer every question with "Yes, Drill Sergeant."
DS: ...Is that clear?
F: Yes, Drill Sergeant!

Since I share old, bad notes...

... that I save and find in random places, drawers, piles, wedged in favorite books – I mean notes from Megan like "Daddy, If you don't love me just take me to Mom's and I won't come back" – then I can share nice ones. I like the one below. I preach the shit out of gratitude, and I preach it primarily so they feel better, M 'n' m – though a neat side effect is parental pride – because the science is in; practicing gratitude is loaded with benefits. I know that high-energy, high-achieving people – the sluggers in business and life, the doers, the winners – often have gratitude and optimism rituals, or see the world naturally this way. If you're grateful for the glass and its contents, you probably see it as half full.

I bring my son to work too sometimes

Yep, this little fella's a son and not just a young assistant (at last night's postgame press conference). God I love the Iowa State Cyclones. And it's true that Michael – and Megan – join me at work too, on occasion. They love it. And I love that they love it; I love that they're interested. I love commuting with them, catching trains, walking city streets, sniffing the urban air, feeling tiny among towers and thousands of restaurants, drifting in the bustle and muscle and energy that made a poet think of big shoulders. I love Chicago. And I love Iowa State. And I love M 'n' m. It's just like Tesla told me (the band), "Luuuuu-ooooove is all around you."

Hog Butcher for the World, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and the Nation’s Freight Handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of the Big Shoulders: ... Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning. Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities ... 
     – Carl Sandburg

#335

We put the Christmas decorations away. Now we can be crabby until April. Sub-zero Monday mornings, short days, dirty snow, windchills at negative-absurd, frozen vehicles, dangerous ice on roads and walkways (four people I know have slipped and suffered serious injury in recent years). Chicago winters are pretty good at reminding us we don't live in the Caribbean. But I tell M 'n' m there's no reason to be crabby. "We're very lucky," I preach, "And besides, if you're crabby, you only poison yourself." Then I bitch and moan about something and feel like crap. To be a parent is to be a hypocrite, practiced and unapologetic. "Do as I say, not as I do" is wisdom I received from the Greatest Generation in fact, from my grandfather, so I know it's tried and true.

By the way, I'm not mocking Seasonal Affective Disorder. It's real. I'm not immune. It pulls many of us down and I, for one, have to fight it tooth and nail (or maybe tooth and pill). I badger myself to stay active and positive, and in doing so achieve a kind of normal. I think.

I said to Megan, "Sweetheart, you should cut your toenails more than once a year." She took the hint. They don't look like bear claws anymore.

I read an article about Mark Wahlberg. I'm a fan. He says, "You do things when you're younger that when you become a father make you go, 'Well, I'll have to explain that to the kids.'" Wahlberg and his wife have two boys and two girls ranging from 6 to 12. They don't watch Dad's grownup movies. And Wahlberg says, "We don't give them access to computers and YouTube and Google and all that shit." The moment you realize someone in Hollywood is a better parent than you.

#334

I'm grateful Michael has a cell phone, and I'm grateful for texting. I'm not grateful for the monthly cost, or the expensive devices Michael drops and breaks. But the texting... M 'n' m have just boarded a flight from Kansas City to Chicago. How do I know this? The very same way I'll know instantly when they've landed. Hey, I never said I'm not an anxious person. I was gonna say 'a worrywart crazy mother-f*cker' but that sounds self-critical. I go easy on myself. So now I wait for Michael's "we've landed" text. I know flying is the safest way to travel. I do it myself a bit. But M 'n' m don't fly much, and I've seen 'La Bamba' too many times. I've stayed away from 'Sully,' Denzel Washington's 'Flight,' 'United 93,' and others. Flipping through channels, I stopped on 'Snakes on a Plane' though; there's a limit to my paranoia. I'm just a little crazy, which is the same, to me, as admitting I'm a parent.

Ah, here it is; they're safe:

I need to clean up the language on this blog. Look at all the complaints I'm getting in the comments below (yeah, that's a joke). It's funny, I've used the F-word before, but paired with a 'mother' I felt inclined to buffer it with an asterisk. I was raised right. I do, in fact, have mixed emotions about the pervasiveness of profanity in TV, the media, the workplace. We are funny and crazy, aren't we? Human beings, I mean.

#333 and Happy 2017!

I came home the other day to Michael blasting music in his room. It made me happy. It's just a very teenager thing to do; it felt normal. As a parent, I appreciate normal sometimes. I realize it's a floating concept – what we think of as 'normal' – different for different people, cultures, ages, deluding us in some ways, guiding us in others. Michael hasn't gone off a cliff behaviorally, so his music – even if mildly profane, loud, annoying – is fine. Our shared future will involve cliches and surprises both. I know this. Lets hope the 'normal' and the pleasant outnumber the unpleasant.

My daughter has a flatulence problem, or, stated in a positive way, she is exceptional at 'accumulating and expelling intestinal gas.' (I like definitions and dictionaries.) This will sound sexist, but I always thought my son would be the household champion, not my daughter.

Megan asked me, "Can I see your bald spot?" I tilted my head so she could see it. She said, "It's not getting any smaller, Dad." I know, Honey, thank you. I'm not sure if she was being sympathetic or being a smartass. Sarcasm: not my favorite. I think it was sympathy. Or pity. Pretty sure Meg knows it'll take pills or surgery to reforest my head at this point. Spring has passed; there won't be another (on my scalp), but I still have loyal follicles, many, and I salute them!

Does Rogaine make you eyebrows go gangbusters? What about hair in your ears? I'm just wondering for a friend of mine that uses it...

"It was like the army: Be careful, find a cool dry place to stash your mind, and hang on until it was over. Except, of course... it never would be over. You never would get through to the end of being a father, no matter where you stored your mind or how many steps in the series you followed. Not even if you died. Alive or dead or a thousand miles distant, you were always going to be on the hook for work that was neither a procedure nor a series of steps but, rather, something that demanded your full, constant attention without necessarily calling on you to do, perform, or say anything at all.... Fathering imposed an obligation that was more than your money, your body, or your time, a presence neither physical nor measurable by clocks: open-ended, eternal, and invisible, like the commitment of gravity to the stars." 
     – Michael Chabon, Telegraph Avenue

"Everybody knows their mother loves them unconditionally, but fathers have to say it out loud I think."
      – Marnie, The Meddler

"She's a good girl. Good kids don't get that way by accident."
      – Einar, An Unfinished Life

"Having a baby, it's massive, and on a very unexpected level. Suddenly I understood my parents much more profoundly than I ever had before."
      – Benedict Cumberbatch

HAPPY NEW YEAR! All the best to you and yours in 2017!

Merry Christmas!

This pic is a few years old but a good one!

This is the kind of BS...

... I put on Michael's whiteboard. But I don't think it's BS; I need it, and maybe Michael does too. A little mental toughness goes a long way in life. And here's a trace of the sweet messages Megan leaves for her brother. Megan can be a pill, crabby and pissed off at everything, but she always thinks of her brother; her affection for him is vehement. It's remarkable, powerful and I fucking love it. I'm grateful. Because I give myself exactly zero credit for the intensity of it in a positive sense. It's the challenges, tough times, tragedies that often really teach us love. Following the divorce, when Meg was too little to understand it really, Michael was her only ever-present person, a nearby heartbeat that wasn't, suddenly, somewhere else three or four nights a week; Michael was her rock. She won't forget that and neither will I. Now, enough with the mush, what was I saying about Michael's whiteboard and Conor McGregor and mental toughness...

If I had a time machine...

... I'd go back and visit this version of Meg-Pie (below). Even before I went to see Jackie Robinson play ball, and Roberto Clemente, and tried to catch a glimpse of Crazy Horse, the warrior-mystic, although that could be dangerous; I hear Crazy Horse was strange. But who isn't? It's fun to hit a game or a concert, or see someone 'famous,' but those we truly love the most, family and friends, can be close to us always, physically near or a video-chat away, or recalled in warm, vivid memories, vivid and real because we were there, because we live our lives with them, our 'most importants.' We're all famous to someone. We're very lucky. Amen.

On Parental Control...

... from actress Pamela Adlon, paraphrasing: "My daughter watches The Bachelorette and I watch it with her, which feels really dirty and bad and awful, like I'm watching porn with my 13-year-old. But we can't monitor what kids watch anymore. Parents are in a lot of denial: 'My kid's not on the internet.' Really? Well you're a fucking idiot, because kids are watching ISIS behead people on cell phones. So I tell my daughter, 'It's all out there, and it's your choice, but I'm telling you if you see certain things, it will stay with you. You can't un-see it.'"

I tend to agree. I know with any mischievousness and ingenuity whatsoever – and even the angelic ones have that – kids can pretty much see anything online. Obscene, gruesome, you name it. It's scary. It's alarming for me as a parent, and I don't have a meaningful reference point from my youth; we had dirty magazines and videos, and I saw some, but inappropriate content wasn't accessible on devices all around me via cloud or online galleries and websites. Even the niftiest parental controls are pointless when they're teenagers. So I'm trying two things: 1) I talk to Michael about respect, decency, reality, integrity, character, and 2) I give Michael the warning from Pamela Adlon above, and I add: You have to police yourself at times, be your own filter; you know what's right. Take care of your mind. Guard it; protect it; it sounds corny but it's true. What you put on the 'movie screen' in your head, and then into your rushing, repeating thought-stream, can be very good or very bad for you; your thoughts are impactful; they're sensitive; they're nearly everything that's you, this can't be overstated. Nobody's perfect, but don't be a dirtbag. Maybe I should revise that last sentence?  

#332

M 'n' m and I have a new habit: stand-up comedy in the car. YouTube over bluetooth and voila! my minivan is a comedy club. The hard part, of course, is cleanliness. Clean comedy isn't diamond-rare; it's like bigfoot-rare. (Although, there are 75 TV shows now about finding Bigfoot, Sasquatch, killer Russian Yetis, whatever.) Jim Gaffigan is pretty clean and funny. Also Kevin James, Jeff Foxworthy; thank you guys. Richard Pryor, Eddie Murphy, off limits. No surprise. Louis C.K., Sarah Silverman, Amy Schumer would all teach M 'n' m things I don't want taught. Ever. Dave Chappelle is a genius, but he's on hold too. Another place I go for humor is The Onion. It's often offensive, cynical, crass – so pretty much like everything else in comedy, not for mushy, young minds like M 'n' m's – but it can be hilarious, even if scathing, and many articles apropos to fatherhood. Some favorite Onion headlines:
  
Miracle Of Birth Occurs For 83 Billionth Time

Eminem Terrified As Daughter Begins Dating Man Raised On His Music

Reality Of Fatherhood Never Truly Dawned On Man Until He Held Newborn Son’s Hospital Bill

New Parents Wisely Start College Fund That Will Pay For 2 Weeks Of Education 

Third-Grader Clearly Biting Off More Than He Can Chew At Elementary School Book Fair

Parents Wish Weak-Willed Daughter Would Push Back Against Violin Lessons Just A Little

Failure To Get Into Private College Could Be Most Financially Responsible Act Of 17-Year-Old’s Life

Man Makes Quick Call To Parents So Next Week’s Call To Ask For Money Doesn’t Seem That Bad

Pair Of 26-Year-Olds Hit It Off After Learning They Have Massive Student Loans From Same Bank

Wealthy Teen Nearly Experiences Consequence

Family Watching Movie White-Knuckles It Through Unexpected Sex Scene

Posters of Naked Women Fail To Draw Real Naked Women To Dorm Room

War On String May Be Unwinnable, Says Cat General

Report: Bananas Still Most Popular Fruit For Pretending To Receive Phone Call

Man Doing What He Loves for a Living Needs to Borrow 50 Bucks

Renamed Arena Will Always Be Verizon Wireless Amphitheater To Locals

Even CEO Can't Figure Out How RadioShack Still In Business

Buddhist Extremist Cell Vows to Unleash Tranquility on West

Matt Damon Mans Warner Brothers Booth At College Campus’s Career Day

Apartment Broker Recommends Brooklyn Residents Spend No More Than 150% Of Income On Rent

Study Finds 68% Of Americans Unprepared For Financial Stability

HR Director Reminds Employees That Any Crying Done At Office Must Be Work-Related

Sean Penn Demands To Know What Asshole Took SeanPenn@gmail.com

Shaq misses entire second half with pulled pork sandwich

Jurisprudence Fetishist Gets Off On Technicality

Gang members don't have the heart to tell police informant his cover is blown

Heroic PETA Commandos Kill 49, Save Rabbit

New Dog Digs Up Old Dog

Free-Thinking Cat Shits Outside The Box

Archeological Dig Uncovers Ancient Race of Skeleton People

Ground Still Least Desirable Surface For Breaking Fall, Study Says

Economically Healthy 'Daily Planet' Now Most Unrealistic Part Of Superman Universe

New Study Recommends Insects Spend At Least 30 Minutes Skittering Per Day

Report: Most Americans Have Enough Saved For Retirement To Live Comfortably On Streets

Accidentally Closing Browser Window With 23 Tabs Open Presents Rare Chance At New Life

#331

I try to write funny shit here, and I'll try again, hopelessly, in a second, but first, a serious comment. serious [seer-ee-uh-s] 1. characterized by deep thought. 2. of grave or somber disposition. (I enjoy definitions, and synonyms, and coffee.) So 2 fits, somber and grave. My comment: Christmas decorations make me sad. But only briefly, and only exterior things, outdoor lights and sleighs, reindeer, North Pole signs, big plastic candy canes and Santas. My thoughts turn to my father and his father (M 'n' m's great-grandpa), both exterior illuminators of renown – think Clark Griswold with the antics but less megawattage, but only a little less. Inevitably, this reminds me of my father's eulogy of his father. There is no word for it other than perfect. The reminiscence, affection, and humor were flawless. Then I wonder if Michael will eulogize me someday. If so, Michael, no pressure, but when your namesake did it, he hit it outta the park.

Michael could win a gold medal in sleeping. Although, most teenagers are likely the same. I was a world champion myself at that age. Uncle Bill called me Rip Van Winkle. How long did Rip sleep; I can't remember? How did we live before Wikipedia was only a tap away? Washington Irving – he of the Headless Horseman and Sleepy Hollow mind, also – wrote the tale about 200 years ago. But Rip, it seems, only napped for 20 years. This is the sweet part: Rip, at the end of the story, much older now of course, with a long beard and a rusty musket, is recognized by his daughter. His Megan! She takes him in and he lives happily ever after. Awesome. My new favorite story. Ranks with Gladiator, 300, The Revenant, and Rocky II.

The Selfie Generation. At least she included me in a couple.

#330

I asked myself an important question today: What have I taught my son? What skills, habits, useful know-how have I passed on? I asked myself this and was discouraged by how little came to mind. Michael is polite and social (maybe I've influenced these behaviors); he loves and respects his grandparents; he can hit a baseball a country mile; he eats and sleeps well; he has acceptable hygiene... I'm really scraping now. Although, maybe he's gleaned more than I realize, because I'm certain my dad taught his son more than is recognized and credited. My dad taught me:

1) How to have a great mustache. It's not a skill I use often, but it's there; Papa was mustachioed for most of the 70's and 80's.

2) How to build a fire. Use paper and matches, or a lighter, or a cigarette, or lighter fluid if it's really stubborn. Foul language helps.

3) How to insult and disparage slow drivers, bad drivers, "dickweed" drivers. We all learn to name-call, but some of us learn from the best.

4) How to catch a fish. In 1980, Clear Lake, Iowa was full of a lovely, underappreciated species called bullheads. They ate any bait, even bare hooks, which they swallowed, guaranteeing their capture (and death). I caught tons. We cleaned and ate them. I fancied myself Babe effin' Winkelman and have my dad to thank for taking me to the dock when I was only knee-high.

5) How to fix major appliances. Curse, complain, get the yellow pages, call someone. Truthfully, Papa knows how everything works and I call him when my oven, furnace, dryer, sump, water heater, whatever piece-of-shit thing – see, I learned – quits working. Goddammit.

6) How to love and win at most sports.

7) How to confront a person if necessary.

8) How to tie a necktie. How to polish shoes. How to look like a fucking stud.

9) How to tell a joke.

10) How to be a fun, awesome dad on holidays.

11) How not to argue about chores or you'll end up cutting the lawn with scissors. I never had to cut grass this way but my dad did.

12) The ashes trick and the moron test.

Dad's can teach us a lot. Mine did. He's still at it.

#329

Black Friday. Oh, Black Friday. Has Satan finally won? (In 2OT like Ohio State / Michigan yesterday?) We go to malls and shop now on Thanksgiving day? Some think it's evil. Like Donald Trump. But they said Barack Obama was evil, or Muslim, or not a citizen, or whatever. My point? I don't know, look on the bright side? Black Friday throws consumerism and materialism in our faces, it's true, and in a clamoring, oppressive, not-nice way, if you ask me, but it was still easy to see the bright side. Like... Megan shopping only for other people, passionately, preparedly (she had a massive, beautiful list of recipients, pictures of gifts, best prices - Yay, Megan!). And Sophie doing the same (and always taking Megan under her wing), and Michael and Cole showing me VR (and me thinking, is this how folks will date someday), and all of us happy and high on sugar (the kids) or caffeine (me). I have a feeling Black Friday isn't going anywhere, so we cleared the air and understand each other now.

Thanksgiving was awesome. We're fortunate. While eating seven million calories, I tried to reflect and snag images from memory of various Thanksgivings. I can't tell you the name of the person I just met, but I recalled some vivid scenes of long-ago holidays and gone-but-deeply-loved relatives. Yes, we're very fortunate.

Megan is still little-girlish in most ways, but I know a certain shift, a passage, is on the horizon. When I fold her laundry, I still see many hearts, rainbows, puppies, kitties, and her favorite: unicorns. And my favorite: elastic waistbanded skinny jeans. They're effing cute, that's all, cut and sewn like adult jeans but with adjustable, elastic waists; a reminder my little girl is still little. Your jeans aren't elastic-waisted, are they? Maybe when we're older, we go back to it? Maybe excessive elastic is for the beginning and end of life? Maybe Megan will wash elastic pants for me someday, instead of vice versa, and she'll think, oh, he's so cute and little now (and old and feeble)?

In 1979, there were 4.4 billion people and hundreds of millions of mothers on the planet...

... AND LOOK WHO WON MOTHER OF THE YEAR?!?! M 'n' m's great-grandma! I'm not surprised. Remarkably intelligent, an unflinching negotiator and problem-solver, never cowed by chaos... that's her!

And here she's just a super-hot, young bombshell before kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids

I found these in M 'n' m's great-grandma's basement...

... and felt simultaneously depressed and amazed. Since they are horrifically primitive, and yet younger than I am, they are convincing evidence of my own advancing antiquity... but it's incredible how far we've come and fast; we raced out of the computer dark ages. Moore's law, miniaturization, and all that. I showed these suckers to M 'n' m and they were stumped. Music? No. Movies? No. Coasters? Yes, that is exactly what they are now, coasters made by Apple.

#328

M 'n' m and I loved the movie 'Guardians of the Galaxy.' They're making a sequel. Yay! (Megan trained me to say this whenever something happy happens.) Chris Pratt is a funny guy. I told M 'n' m that humor is the highest form of intelligence. They looked at me with fear, pity, discouragement, something that clashed with the tenor of my telling them — what I considered to be — very good news: See kids, we're smart! Thank you, genes! Of course, their interpretation was a little different: Uh-oh, Dad has lousy comedic timing and instincts; for every one thing he says or does that's funny, there are like 99 misfires; we're doomed. Fine. If they think I suck and am unfunny, now they have to worry about themselves.

I love great stand-up comedy. There's incredible vulnerability involved. Big doses of vulnerability, preparation, courage, and awkwardness (if it's just one of those nights that you bomb, so say the professionals and experts who've been there). I'm sure my drollery makes M 'n' m feel awkward on occasion. Yeah, well get used to it. Awkwardness is ubiquitous during teenagerhood. It can't be avoided.

Michael's sartorial choices confound me. Sweatpants and hoodies? Every single day? Where are the turtlenecks? Where are the sweaters, oxfords, rolled jeans, buck shoes? It's not like I wore berets and scarves indoors or anything, but I cared about (my ridiculous, preppy, overdone) appearance. At least Michael smells good, thanks to Axe. In my day it was Polo, Drakkar, and Cool Water (colognes). The chicks dug it, man. We were cool as shit. 

There are two types of beings in the universe. Those who dance and those who do not.
     — Drax, Guardians of the Galaxy

Megan leaves sweet notes for Michael. Michael doesn't reciprocate.

#327

I feel lucky, as a parent, to have texting. Especially with divorce. Joint custody reduces direct contact (but so does work, travel, and general busyness for the undivorced). If your kids are amenable, or you enforce it somehow, you can chitchat to your heart's content from afar. Even if brief and infrequent, it's there. How was your test? How was the mile run you dreaded, etcetera etcetera. And sometimes: Where the hell are you, Michael?! I've spooled out a little freedom to Michael. They have apps to locate and track phones, but I haven't conjured this magic yet. How will they get away with the shit I pulled? Lying and misdirection — I'm at Greg's house (not Lisa's) — and so on. I'm not that naive; they'll figure out a way. And I'll figure out the truth. I'm sure my parents always knew the score, even if they didn't let on. Some rules were law and some were bendable. A little give and take is okay. I saw it soften rebellion. In college, it was evident that a few kids were stifled and stunted socially at home. This didn't serve them well when suddenly things were totally unsupervised.

I mentioned the election. I was frustrated more with the media than the candidates. And that's saying something. Everyone who covered the election earned a big, fat, clown nose. Big, fat, and red. Ha, an electoral map pun. Everything was so dripping with bias it was absurd. One huge outlet rarely referred to Clinton as anything other than 'felon,' and another — leaning the other way obviously — wouldn't portray Trump as a serious candidate, even though his candidacy resonated with voters; clearly it did because he won. These were the big-names and acronyms we count on for 'news.' News will always have bias. The choice of what to share as news is itself a bias. But no one even attempts to be unslanted or positive. Imagine my surprise today when I read that in the UK, media anchors / presenters are governmentally mandated to be impartial. I don't know how that's judged, but it's an interesting concept.

Megan's basketball team won a tournament in Huntley last weekend. Years ago, a friend said that coaching kids is twice as exciting as playing. Yep. I don't put undue pressure on the girls, it's just that pushing them, and wanting them to improve and achieve, and then watching it happen... it's the best.

My unemployment has been hard...

... on these gloves. I spend my days in the yard. Megan's whale duct tape was called into service. She has different colors and designs for crafts.

#326

The presidential election? I talked to the kids during the whole circus, about ads, the debates, scandals, and finally the results. Topics were easy to come by: respect, language, reputation, the media, 'seek first to understand,' 'be careful what you say,' 'be careful what you do,' free speech, 'everyone is entitled to an opinion,' and on and on. Great fodder for discussion with kids, right? I mean holy shit, teaching moments everywhere. Megan is staunchly, vocally anti-Trump. Understandable. Michael, consistent with his nature (so far), mostly absorbed it all without comment. I tried to emphasize good things: the classy, positive speeches from President Obama, Secretary Clinton, and Mr. Trump after the election, for example. Institutions, offices, and elections deserve respect. I may have sounded like a spineless milksop — Dad, seriously, you don't have a raging reaction to all this! Everyone else does! Not necessarily; but there was hysteria on both sides, and that's typical and okay - but it's the tack I maintained mostly and I don't regret it.

I have never admitted here to a certain addiction. It's quite acute, and I will confess, but first a story: I asked the kids one time to guess what my favorite drug is? Jeanette stepped in, certain I was over-disclosing, inappropriately, once again, as usual. But my answer? Caffeine. I would've also accepted cookies. The first is self-explanatory; the second does the opposite in pleasing fashion; cookies, cake and such make me drowsy. So wonderful. Sugar can ignite a fit of hyperactivity, over-talking, and beat-boxing, but then I sink and feel full, content, cozy. I can eat cookies like Kobayashi does hotdogs. It's why they're hidden from me after 9 PM. Actually, they're always hidden from me. Megan can hammer the cookies, also. As for my addiction? It's houseplants. I have about 50 at home. If I see a seed I want to plant it. It's not Little Shop of Horrors here, but it gets jungle-y at times and I have to be restrained. We give some away. I currently have baby citrus and ficus everywhere. Let me know if you want a tree. Megan, lately, is showing a similar interest. I love Megan.

#325

Do you remember the JCPenney catalog? Or Sears? At Christmas, we marked up the Penney's catalog. Toys! No clothes! A wonderful sensation of greed and joy. I was lucky; I didn't get it all, of course, but the possibilities; an Incredible Hulk doll, a lego castle, a slot car racetrack — how would that look in my room, racing my buddies! — or the Star Wars set from Dagobah with a foam 'quicksand' pit and Yoda's hut. One year I received the Millennium Falcon. I probably wet myself. And Ralphie wasn't the only one; I remember obsessing about a BB gun. These memories popped up yesterday when Megan showed me an Ikea catolog. She was tagging things with Post-its. She wants to redecorate her room. Ahh, not everything is online yet, or only online.

Now I'm wondering if Penney's sold BB guns. I bet Montgomery Ward did. Pretty sure I thumbed that catalog too. It's almost embarrassing; we were spoiled as shit. All of my friends had fantastic Christmases also. So lucky, so fortunate. At least I look back with intense gratitude. And I know I was taught to express it at the time. Here's a story: A friend of mine has a hundred-year-old letter his grandfather wrote to Santa. He asked Santa for an orange — yeah, the fruit, it wasn't common up nort' in those day — and a new pair of boots to wear while milking the cows. Oh, and the best part: he asked for a doll for his sister. How fucking awesome is that! Worthy of an f-word, sorry. Times have changed a little, eh? They have, but we're still the same awesome, generous, and caring people. Let's keep showing it and make our ancestors proud. That sounds preachy, or like I should hand out pom-poms or something, but I really love that story.

A couple good ideas and a couple bad ones, I'd say...

#324

"At first they behave very well, they're obedient and prompt and they don't seem capable of killing a fly, but as soon as their beards appear they go to ruin."
     — Ursula in Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude

Michael's beard is appearing. A few chin hairs, long ones, but that's it. No fuzzy mustache; no chops, chinstrap, tuft here, patch there; no Fu Manchu. But it's coming; he'll try something horrendous soon, prematurely; we all do. Right of passage and all that I guess. Teenage boys and beard fails are as common as a World Series without the Cubs. Wait a minute! That doesn't work anymore and I love it! So I was reading Garcia Marquez joyfully and came upon the sentence above and paused. The first part applies to M; he behaves very well. Must I brace for ruin? Sounds drastic. But I assume nothing. Michael has a simmering, rumbling rebelliousness in him. We all do; dealing with that is another passage. And Michael does, in fact, want to kill things larger than flies. He wants to start hunting. We'll give it a try, as long as we do so with Papa — as an instructor and safety observer — and we hunt respectfully. What does that mean? Well, it means honoring property lines, protected animals, gun safety, seasons, laws, rules — written and unwritten — and eating what we hunt. Michael already eats pheasant and venison, and in general, back to One Hundred Years of Solitude: "She could not conceive that the boy the gypsies took away was the same lout who now ate half a suckling pig for lunch and whose flatulence withered the flowers."

I mentioned rebellion:

There's only a few things that everyone goes through. Rebellion is one of them.
     — Shep Gordon (manager for Alice Cooper)

You don't have kids at home, do you, Bernard. If you did you'd know they all rebel eventually.
      — Westworld, a new show on HBO that's a remake/spin-off of a 1973 science fiction Western thriller created by Michael Crichton, written and directed. Is there a genre better than 'Science fiction Western thriller?' No. Crichton was a master creator. The Great Train Robbery, Eaters of the Dead, and everything else is worth the ride. Jurassic Park, Sphere, Timeline, Disclosure. And ER. Remember that show?

Megan asked me about hunting. I showed her some pictures of the Minnesota Horse and Hunt Club, where we hunt with dogs — like her beloved 'aunt' Anna! — and we shoot pheasants mostly, but also turkeys, chukars, and other birds. We shoot roosters and hens there — the boys and girls both. In the wild, hens are protected; as with humans, ladies are more important (when things get real). Ringneck roosters have brightly colored heads and long tail feathers. They're handsome fellas. The females aren't so fancy. I explained things to Megan as she looked at the pics of the hunters and hunted. She said, "Oh my gosh, you kill the mama pheasants?!" She noticed the difference between roosters and hens. I said, "Uh, well, gosh, do you have to make it sound so horrible?" No answer. I don't think Megan will hunt. But I assume nothing.