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.

#306

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

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

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

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

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

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

#305

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

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

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

It doesnt take Sherlock Holmes...

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

#304

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

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

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

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

I wish this was standard business practice....

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

#303

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

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

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

#302

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

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

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

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

#301

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

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

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

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

A Liar's Guide...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

7) Liars eventually get caught.

#300

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reasons the Future May Suck...

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

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

#299

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

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

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

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

#298

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

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

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

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

And the best thing you've ever done for me

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

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

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

          –– Indigo Girls, Closer to Fine, genius

#297

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

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

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

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

Feast

#296

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

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

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

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

Below is my bookmark...

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