One of the reasons I scribble here...

"The idea muscle is like any other muscle: if you don’t use it, you lose it. Leg muscles atrophy after just two weeks of non-use. You actually need physical therapy to walk again. And yet, how often do we really use our creativity? Come up with ideas. Write down ten ideas a day. Does that mean you use them? No! It’s just practice. Throw them out. But I guarantee within six months you will be an idea machine." — James Altucher, a hedge fund manager, entrepreneur, bestselling author, venture capitalist and podcaster, founder or cofounder of more than 20 companies (and 17 times he's failed at company-building, he says), publisher of eleven books, and frequent contributor to popular publications.

After more than a decade I may not be an idea machine, but I write things, inelegant, overwritten, nonsensical this-or-thats perhaps, but about my favorite subjects (M 'n' m) who I love powerfully – so powerfully I can selfishly harness the energy to force into exercise this supposed idea/creativity muscle. I do, in fact, fear it will atrophy. I fear tight spaces too, and panic attacks, and many things, but my worry that everything can wither isn't unreasonable; technically everything does, my loved ones, your loved ones, even institutions and ideas themselves go through summers and winters, if history is evidence. But maybe that's where God comes in. And life is good and I'm grateful, especially for M 'n' m.

No wonder the Cubs signed this guy

M 'n' m's great grandpa was an impressive pitcher and catcher from central Illinois. He threw no-hitters, pitched 10-inning shutouts, you name it. He was a helluva backstop too. The Cubs signed him to a contract but he joined the Army and went to the Korean War instead. They are the greatest generation; there's simply no doubt about it.

Michael graduates from 8th grade today

So it's not high school, but it feels like a time to reflect. So I'm reflecting. Wow, elementary and junior high, done. Eight grades – ten including preschool and kindergarten – kaput, finito, history. Man it flew by. Only four years – high school – left? If this is a hockey game we're in the 3rd period already. Holy shit! Are we winning? Fuck, I don't know how to skate!

If it bleeds, we can kill it...

The first intense movie I watched with my dad – rated R for violence, F-words, jokes I didn't fully understand yet – was Schwarzenegger's 1987 film called Predator. I was a little younger than Michael and it blew me away. (Back then we rented movies as VHS tapes from storefronts with names like 'Dollar Video' that sometimes had an adult section behind a curtain. The good ol' days.) In Predator, Arnold's best-in-the-world team of pro soldiers is wiped out by an unbeatable enemy. Or so it seems. The bad-guy killing machine is an ugly mo-fo of an alien shaped, oddly enough, like a big human. But then there's Arnold. Naturally, Ahhnold goes native, all-in, all-warrior to face the thing, head-on, do-or-die, despite the odds, camouflaging himself in mud (but not enough to hide his overdeveloped muscles), and then, in his warpaint, he whips up a bow, arrows, spears, rope, and booby traps with a knife (Rambo was good at that shit, too). I was so engrossed in the film I wouldn't have noticed if a swimsuit model walked by, or the cutest girl in school (a tossup then, as I recall, between Gina and Shane). What's my point? Do I need one? Why can't I just babble about a movie? Actually, my point is this: I've listed mantras here before, motivational bits, and there's one from Predator I haven't included because it's cheesy, but I gotta tell ya... it's oh-so-good: "If it bleeds, we can kill it." I just can't deny this has an alternative meaning to me and a place in my list of phrases that fire me up. Arnold says this after his team fires hundreds of rounds at the alien, which they can't see because it's cloaked and invisible – they are technologically outmatched for sure – so they don't even know what they're up against, it keeps picking them off and vanishing, but they find a florescent substance on a leaf that can only be their enemy's blood. This is when Arnold says, in his glorious accent: "If it bleeds, we can kill it." Awesome. There ya go. Any sign, any hint of headway, progress, don't give up. Keep going. If you can nick it, cut it, chip away at it, you can finish it. Press on. Back to basics, guts, will. Find a way. Get it done. Because Arnold says so.

The movie also introduced me to a favorite song, Long Tall Sally by Little Richard.

More and more, Michael is acting like a teenager...

... which is expected, naturally, and mostly a relief, given the way I see the world, myself, and how the best and not-so-best among us navigate youth. It's a minefield and a gold mine, both. It's fucking exciting, eye-opening, full of blessings and trials, fun and discomfort. I know my opinions are just that, 'opinions' and, even more disqualifying, 'my' opinions, but I offer them nonetheless. I want M 'n' m to act exactly like teenagers when it's time. I believe a certain aloofness, and willingness to strut and defend oneself and be dismissive of certain things (peer pressure and pestering peers and pestering fears, to name a few) will serve them well. I believe I lacked any kind of real rebelliousness, and now look at me (that there was not a statement of self-flattery by the way, more like a confession of self-mediocrity). So, a little attitude can be helpful. Quite often in fact. Life takes toughness. Mental fortitude, stubbornness, attitude, okay then, just don't give ME any attitude Michael, or Megan, because I'm your father, and I don't take any shit. And if that's not laughable, I don't know what is. I'm not a stern enough father – I'm lacking 'attitude' perhaps! – but thankfully, so far, they're good kids. For that, and for everything else they are, I'm grateful.

A favorite quote...

... although I find it a bit sad and cynical, it's true nonetheless. And from a holy source:

"The world is made for people who aren't cursed with self-awareness."
     — Annie Savoy, Bull Durham

... but someone – Socrates? – also said, "The unexamined life is not worth living," and I tend to agree with that, as well. What would I do if I wasn't constantly ruminating? Be more productive and happy, you say? Oh.

More old bits, part 2

It's interesting to read stuff I wrote here years ago, much of it eager and stupid, but I remember the enthusiasm; I still feel it, am grateful for it, so, uh, I got that goin' for me. Here's more old stuff:

I told the kids I was off to meet Papa Mike and friends – and their dogs! – to hunt pheasants. (6-year-old) Megan asked if she could come. I told her she was too young for guns. She said, “Oh, I’ll hunt with a bow and arrow then."

The other day I heard, “Daddy is always happy.” It was (6-year-old) Megan’s sweet voice in the backseat, and she said it again, pointing out a thing to her brother, as she often does, “Daddy is always happy, Michael.” One of my proudest moments as a father

(8-year-old) Michael wants a gecko for Christmas, a real lizard. I think I’ll put this one on Santa while I still can. On Christmas morning: "Hmm, Legos but no gecko? Sorry, Bud, Santa’s gettin’ old, his memory’s probably shot. And he's probably depressed; you know, depression's more prevalent in northern latitudes..."

(9-year-old) Michael’s been taking an archery class offered by the park district. It takes place in a school gym. A bunch of kids with longbows, nice ones, powerful, I figured nothing was safe: the basketball hoop, scoreboard, conference pennants, clock, storeroom door, lights overhead; all of it behind or above the targets. But so far, no inadvertent damage.

(7-year-old) Megan likes broccoli but she’s picky about its freshness and greenness; it must be perfect. A single decaying floret and, "There's a brown spot here," she says, squinting, glaring at the poor vegetable. "It's rotten," she adds, and I know a door has slammed in her head. It's a pinhead of discoloration. I tell her it's nothing to worry about; it's rinsed, steamed, safe as can be, and tastes the same. But none of that matters now; she's a brick wall. I hope Meg scrutinizes men this way. If she can detect – or even imagine – the tiniest flaw, it's rotten! All rotten!

On the way to a birthday party, (6-year-old) Megan said, "Dad, you don't have to stay at this party with me. I'm a big girl now. I don't need daddies anymore." My heart thought about shattering, then it smiled. It would be swell if Megan always needs me, even just a little, forever.

I have been laminating scraps of paper that I've collected over the years. They are handwritten notes that say things like, "I WOT DODDY RIT NOW, I LOVE MI DADDY." That one's from little Megan and it's more valuable to me than anything else I have on paper, except similar notes from Michael and my grandfather's WWII letters.

(I wrote this five years ago; who knew he'd be President) Birthdays come and go, things fossilize, glaciers move, Donald Trump's hair would even crack or unravel! in the time it takes my children to tie their shoes... when we're in a hurry to go somewhere.

Megan is a crumb factory. The most prolific and industrious of its kind.

I saw this quote recently: "Parenthood immediately makes you a hypocrite."

I thought about Grandpa Byard over the holidays; he was missed, of course. (I wrote this after Christmas 2012.) Michael’s baseball team had a game on the Saturday morning I awoke to the sad news; there was a voicemail from my mom that she couldn’t finish. I am not exaggerating when I say Michael began to hit the baseball during that game, that Saturday, consistently, confidently; he suddenly became a tough out. Now he's comfortable and fluid at the plate; he fights and fouls off tough pitches and crushes good ones. He has a nice swing and sees the ball well. Just stating the facts here. Grandpa Byard signed a contract with the Cubs and played in their farm system before he served in the Korean War. He would be pleased that they finally won a World Series.

Men's Journal magazine profiled the world's 25 most adventurous men...

... and a few things surfaced about parenthood and fatherhood. And Mars.

Jimmy Chin: Yeah, my parents had a fairly fixed view of what I'd be: lawyer, doctor, professor. They had me playing the violin at three, swimming competitively, and starting martial arts at 5. But I also had that rebel phase – well, not phase, 'cause I'm still in it – where I got expelled from my boarding school.... I had a problem with authority. My dad was so strict that he was the only person that I feared, so everybody else was like a joke.

Richard Branson: I think sometimes when you come from a conservative background you want to rebel a little. I dropped out of school at 15 and learned early in life that saying yes was a lot more fun than saying no.... I was damned if I was going to sit around watching television...

Ben Stookesberry: My father was really good at reverse psychology: He'd tell me I couldn't do something to give me a shove. He'd been hoisted into the family lumber business and had that dream that I'd follow my passion in some way. He passed away in a car accident when I was 21, but the day before we lost him, he got to watch me on the river. I remember how happy he was...

Jimmy Chin (when asked how his parents took it when he announced, after college, he intended to live out of his car and climb Yosemite): Well, they stopped speaking to me for a while, so not great. I'd told them it was for a year, to get it out of my system. But then one year turned to two, which turned to three or four, and I was doing expeditions in the Himalayas and, well, you know, there went law school. (But his mother got over it, apparently.) So we were in the Karakoram Mountains, on these walls that hadn't been climbed because it was a war zone and no one had gotten access. We were sending back daily dispatches via satellite phone when I took a big fall, and my teammates were like, great, let's post that! Two days later, we're about to summit and we see this team of soldiers at the base of the wall. We're all freaking out – are they here to arrest us? – till one of them goes: "Jimmy Chin... your mother wants to know if you're okay?!" Somehow, she'd gotten hold of the brigadier general and demanded they send a team to check on me. It was the most mortifying moment of my life.

Jimmy Chin: We've evolved not to just sit and let our fingers do all the work. We're programmed to do certain very physical things, and if we don't do them, we get depressed and sick. If you don't get in the sun, and feel the bite of cold, you start to dull or fucking die. Steel sharpens steel, and I'll never forget it. That's something my dad taught me, and I'll teach my kids.

Richard Branson: Ten years ago, Larry Page and I posted an April Fool's Day ad asking for volunteers for a one-way mission to Mars. Within four hours, 10,000 people signed up! Needless to say, we had to come clean about it being a joke, and I can tell you, a lot of those people were sorely disappointed. But one day in the not-too-distant future, there will be a one-way journey to Mars, and that will be the ultimate adventure.

Some old excerpts (again)...

I put M 'n' m in a bath together. Things didn't go well. (6-year-old) Michael said, "Megan kicked my penis and that is really terrible for my penis." True. It's also true that a pronoun can be used to avoid repeating a noun.

M ‘n’ m and I were eating at a diner and some college-age women walked in. Excited by her new membership, (6-year-old) Megan said, “I wonder if those girls are in Girl Scouts, Dad!”

Whenever (3-year-old) Megan sees baseball or football or any sport whatsoever on TV, she says, “Look, Daddy, the Cubs!”

(4-year-old) Megan still puts her shoes on the wrong feet. It should be 50/50, right? As in, half the time she gets it right, half the time wrong? No. We’re not even close to that.

(7-year-old) Michael asked me, “Do Jedi take baths or showers?”

I told (5-year-old) Megan that Grandma and Papa picked out a new puppy. A little girl. Megan liked that! She did NOT, however, like it when I mentioned the puppy has to stay with her mommy at the breeder for another month. Megan said, “A month?! How many minutes is that, Daddy?”

(5-year-old Megan) decided to teach me about ‘the birds and the bees.’ She said, “Daddy, did you know girls have a special pipe?” I was confused and said, “Pipe?” She said, “Yes, girls have a pipe in their tummy, it’s a special pipe for babies. Mommy has one, and I have a little one.” Not ready for this discussion yet...

(5-year-old Megan) learned the Hail Mary prayer. She recited it correctly except for, “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for the scissors.” Scissors, sinners, nearly the same...

When Michael gives (5-year-old) Megan a command like, “Pick up your mess, Megan,” or “You need a jacket, Megan,” she says, “You know Michael, you’re not the daddy!” That’s right, Honey-Bunny! Good girl! I’m the daddy!!

(From 2010) I'm off to China again for work. The kids will visit Houston while I’m gone. “Megan asked me, “Do we go past China to get to Houston?” No Lovebug, but I wish.

We play T-ball in the front yard. Of course only the kids hit. Finally, Michael said, “We should let Daddy hit too.” Megan said, “Oh no, Daddy will hit it all the way to Africa.”

I took Megan to school and must’ve deviated from the usual route. She said, “Daddy, you’re going the wrong way.” I said, “Okay My Love, can you show me how to get to your school?” She said, “Yes, I will show you when I see it.”

(6-year-old Megan) read to me last night. "Go, Dog. Go!" was the book. Megan said, "It's pretty long, Dad, but I can read it to you fast if you want."

We were watching the Cubs and Meggie said, "Dad, the baseball players spit on their court. It's crazy, right? You can't spit on your court!"

Megan said, "Dad, did you know a long, long time ago in Egypt, they didn't wear underpants? I said, "Really, that's interesting, how do you know that?" Megan said, "I saw it at the museum, there was a picture of an Egypt man, and he was naked." 

From the top of the Sears Tower looking down at massive, busy Chicago, (7-year-old) Michael said, “I can’t believe God has this all under control.”

I started the shower for (8-year-old) Michael. He said, “I don’t wanna take a shower.” I said, “Five minutes ago I asked you, and you said you’d shower instead of bathe today.” Michael said, “Well, do you ever answer a question without thinking?” “Yes,” I admitted. “Well I do too,” he said.

(7-year-old) Michael said, “For some reason, I have an effect on girls. I don’t know what it is.”

(6-year-old) Michael asked me, “Daddy, does looking at cake make you want to eat cake?” Deep, Michael. Very deep.

(From 2011) The other day I heard, “Daddy is always happy.” It was Megan’s sweet voice in the backseat and she said it again, just pointing out a thing to her brother like she often does, “Daddy is always happy, Michael.” One of my proudest moments as a father….

#354

The most professionally successful person I know is also the most impulsive. He's a dynamo, a titan, whatever the trendy word is, but his impulsivity is titanic also. A prominent person in the lives of M 'n' m, I thought of him when I read this quote from Baltasar Gracian: "Let the first impulse pass. Wait for the second." ... And yet, how can I suggest impulsivity is something – for M 'n' m, I mean – that needs restraining or softening in every sense? The guy I'm referring to always compulsively worked his butt off, starting off every day knocking out tasks, checking things off his many professional and personal to-do lists, etcetera etcetera. He can be a force. Grandma is a workhorse too – uh-oh, have I given it away? – and she's not impulsive at all, so that muddies up the clear answer I was searching for in my little philosophical dissection here. And there's a pretty massive difference between teenagers and adults to consider. One group can act like a racecar without a driver, but the other, arguably, always acts like that. I guess this is the point where I say: if life was cut and dry and neat, it wouldn't be life at all. Just teach your kids to be impulsive about the right things. Easy, right? Whatever the case, I don't wish to entirely dispossess M 'n' m of any particular impulsivities. Yet.

From the American Academy of Child & Adolescent Psychiatry: "Many parents do not understand why their teenagers occasionally behave in an impulsive, irrational, or dangerous way. At times, it seems like teens don't think things through or fully consider the consequences of their actions. Adolescents differ from adults in the way they behave, solve problems, and make decisions. There is a biological explanation for this difference. Studies have shown that brains continue to mature and develop throughout childhood and adolescence and well into early adulthood. Scientists have identified a specific region of the brain called the amygdala that is responsible for immediate reactions including fear and aggressive behavior. This region develops early. However, the frontal cortex, the area of the brain that controls reasoning and helps us think before we act, develops later. This part of the brain is still changing and maturing well into adulthood.... Pictures of the brain in action show that adolescents' brains work differently than adults when they make decisions or solve problems. Their actions are guided more by the emotional and reactive amygdala and less by the thoughtful, logical frontal cortex. Research has also shown that exposure to drugs and alcohol during the teen years can change or delay these developments."

Great, they had to go and mention drugs and alcohol, on top of the rest. Life isn't cut and dry and it's full of wildcards.

Let's talk about good things....When I reflect and mine for great childhood memories with my parents – excepting those at school or only with friends – there are many, but it's interesting to see what commonly surfaces. And this, in turn, possibly reminds me what things M 'n' m may fondly recall. The 'childhood' ship has almost sailed for Michael; it will be unmoored very soon, but hopefully not rudderless, or frontal-cortex-less, or fond-memory-less. Here are some experiences and memories from my youth that I'm grateful for (grateful to my parents): Washington DC, Boston, the Badlands, Hawaii, San Antonio, lots of California, lots of Florida, Disney, every sports hall of fame, Niagara Falls, Summit County (Colorado), Mount Rushmore, the No. 10 Saloon, the Old North Bridge, Gettysburg, Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, Salem (Mass. – that freaked me out a little but what a lesson), Ford's Theatre, Kennedy Space Center, every major attraction in the cities I mentioned, and on and on. Holidays were fantastic, and the support in school and sports. M 'n' m have that for sure. I wouldn't give myself a bad grade overall. I'll be able to paint a wall with my coaching plaques someday. But that is selfish; I enjoy coaching so much I see it as a gift from M 'n' m, not the other way around. But they owe me, so it all works out in the end...

And more good things, books.... there are three books that I've read, in my 40 plus years, that are so good I reread them backwards; well, not quite, but I pick them up, sniff and sigh happily, and crack them open anywhere, thumbing upstream or down, re-enjoying the bits I've underlined, starred, bracketed, and accidentally darkened with delicious food residue like chip-cheese and grease. They're just awesome stories, and the writing is like the richest thing you've ever eaten; they are: A Soldier of the Great War by Mark Helprin, City of Thieves by David Benioff, and Gentleman of the Road by Michael Chabon. I wonder what M 'n' m's 'three' will be in about twenty years?

#353

One the heels of mentioning love, let's talk about vulnerability. To be alive is to be vulnerable; might as well embrace it. Pretty sure M 'n' m will have their hearts kicked around; happens to the best of us. Pretty sure M 'n' m will be vulnerable to mockery, needling, discomfort, insecurity, and minor embarrassment in social situations once in a while, especially involving anyone they're crushing on – is the term 'crush' even used in this century? – and I hope they handle it well, and still act and do and express (in all the ways that are fun, healthy, and legal I mean) as reward for not avoiding vulnerability. I like what Brendon Burchard says (I'm paraphrasing): "I realize fear and doubt aren't going to serve me in social situations.... and I choose to say, okay, I don't know how this will go, but I'm confident if I engage and talk, things will go fine, I might stick my foot in my mouth, say stupid things, but if they give me another three minutes, I'll turn it around.... Emotional health comes from vulnerability and vulnerability has gotten this weird rap in the world because a lot of people, I think, have been teaching it in a poor way.... Real vulnerability is voice.... Does the world know what you think? Do your friends and family know who you really are, and what you really feel, and what you're really after?"

Some people – Megan? – have zero hesitancy, and no filter or inhibitions, about expressing discontents, and God knows the world, myself included, is really good at oversharing these days, but I believe the vulnerability piece is about genuineness, authenticity, and the well-being that comes with finding and being true to yourself, and not being afraid to express the truths that you subscribe to, that inspire you, that inform the way you show up everyday to live. And love. It is okay to love things, and love other people. It's not just okay, it's good. Or, as the musician Ryan Adams says, “There is nothing wrong with loving the crap out of everything. Negative people find their walls. So never apologize for your enthusiasm. Never. Ever. Never.” Amen, brother.

Sharing – whether it's your writing, music, art, or any other hobby, love, or work – has a little to do with vulnerability. But it's also a lot about catharsis, and health, and sanity, and joy.

This from Sheryl Strayed, author of the book Wild and also famous for the terrific phrase, given in her advice column, "Write like a mother#^@%*&." Specifically, when asked by a woman named Elissa Bassist,“How does a woman get up and become the writer she wishes she’d be?” Strayed replied: “Writing is hard for every last one of us – straight white men included. Coal mining is harder. Do you think miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine for coal? They do not. They simply dig. You need to do the same.... So write, Elissa Bassist. Not like a girl. Not like a boy. Write like a motherfucker.”

"I would say the most cathartic thing in my life, right alongside motherhood, has been writing." — Cheryl Strayed

#352

Couple comments on young love. Megan, in particular, has unwittingly revealed special interests in special someones before; lately, she insists on riding the school bus – even if a drop-off or pick-up by parent is available – and we think it's about a boy. Oh brother. I had my first crushes on girls named Desiree and Ashley – I'm sure, thankfully, they don't read this – and I remember the feelings as not silly or insignificant (at the time, when I was a little younger than Meg). I wanted badly to impress. Oh brother. Yeah, again. Oh, Megan's little heart. I'm no expert on love – never was, never will be – but mercifully I see in plenty of other decent folks what I see in myself, a sort of effortful but scuffling amateurism, when it comes to reading and loving your person expertly, for their optimal happiness and yours.

expert
noun 
1. one with the special skill or knowledge representing mastery of a particular subject

mastery
noun
1. command or grasp, as of a subject
2. the upper hand in a contest or competition, superiority

That settles that. So M 'n' m are lucky to be at the starting line. It's fun; it's painful; it's novel, eventful, and more human than almost anything else, the rush and energy of emotional love. Hopefully their young experiences serve to wisen, strengthen, and point them in the best direction.

From Rainer Maria Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet: To love is also good: for love is difficult. Fondness between human beings: that is perhaps the most difficult task that is set us, the ultimate thing, the final trial and test, the work for which all other work is only preparation. Therefore young people, who are beginners in everything, cannot know love yet: they have to learn it. With their whole being, with all their strength gathered about their lonely, fearful, upward beating heart, they must learn to love. But apprenticeship is always a long, secluded time, and therefore loving is for a long while, far into life.... Loving in the first instance is nothing that can be called losing... it is a sublime occasion for the individual to mature.

And another applicable quote? When stricken with 'bad luck' and heartbroken?

“You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from.” — Cormac McCarthy

I blew past 350 posts...

... and something John McPhee wrote comes to mind, about – paraphrasing now – how the subjects you write about must be of powerful interest to you; they must see you through the process of learning how to write well, or not so poorly you're afraid to share; and I'm afraid of many things; although I feel that energy soften sometimes as I age, before it roars back; after all, we have more things, more people to worry about as we age. Don't we? I believe so, if we live well. And yet we only have a single windshield to look through, truly, as humans, as we go, so our speed and direction, obstacles, traffic, ice, breakdowns, flat tires, thoughts of why my 'car' isn't as expensive as that one, and bugs – summer bug explosions on windshields are worthy of mention, aren't they? No, not if I follow McPhee's advice and write well – and run-on sentences are bad, and staying on message is essential – so every age and moment we look through our one-and-only view, our windshield, can't be that unimportant, consciously or not (we are complex creatures with some pretty persistent Darwinian horsepower, if nothing else); we should keep moving if we're blessed with the means; our future is a kind of structure made of bricks, one for every day before it, mortared and stacked – I've gone from cars to buildings now – so put some design and intentionality in it, right? Oh, what happens when cars drive themselves soon; we won't have to keep eyes forward anymore. So... M 'n' m are my subjects, obviously. I am very, very grateful for them. I express that often. Most importantly, to them. And in the context of this M 'n' m canvas, which kind of has a life of its own now, here and there I drop a note, a jot, a wordy and confusing scribble about sports, music, history, Iowa State, or writing itself. It took me years to learn – though I wander off the path and only every time, albeit happily – that good writing is really about omission. 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.... Write on subjects in which you have enough interest on your own to see you through all the stops, starts, hesitations, and other impediments along the way. Ideally, a piece of writing should grow to whatever length is sustained by its selected material – that much and no more." 

Indeed, the "that much and no more" part is unsurprisingly what I struggle with. 350. I never feel comfortable going back to any of them. Thank God a picture speaks a thousand words. Thank God for digital cameras (in our smartphones now and ubiquitous, my life's work to this point it occurs to me). But thank God for creative catharsis, I'll call it; for me it's this. And the music I'm listening to on YouTube right now. Thanks for reading. It's fun to have an audience; incidentally my readership is larger than it's ever been. Did I mention being human?

"Remember, you are a thought machine, everything you see, hear, experience is usable... whatever makes you unique... do it, and know that there's room for you."
     — Steve Martin 

"You could damn yourself with silence but never so effectively as by running your mouth."
     — Michael Chabon, Telegraph Avenue

But I say – fishtailing through life haphazardly, or intentionally haphazardly; sorry, but I've never seen another way, despite some impressive and enviable facades; slapping down those bricks, every day a new one, and it looks good, really, it looks good because everything is art and heart and expression, every step, every slip, every crash; enjoy the ride – do it anyway.

#351

The weather's turning and this morning I hear a beautiful sound outside my bedroom window. April showers? Warm winds? Airliners with spring-breakers leaving O'Hare? No. Songbirds? Yes, actually, if any get drafted. You know, Cardinals, Bluejays? (The Cubs open tomorrow in St. Louis, coincidentally.) Yeah, I'm thinking baseball; our home abuts an area high school and they're at it again; I hear bats crushing baseballs, hard throws popping leather, shouts over the diamond. To me, a symphony. Released from the gym, the weight room, the indoor cages, free on the dirt and grass. Pounding baseballs into nets is a poor substitute for driving them over fences or into gaps. The feel of spikes on a good field, fingertips on seams, batting gloves and grips. Megan has her first softball practice this afternoon. I'm excited to coach her 5th and 6th grade team this year. Michael's been practicing all winter and has another session tomorrow. As Bruce Buffer says... "It's time!"

"People ask me what I do in winter when there's no baseball. I'll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring."
     — Rogers Hornsby

"Any ballplayer that don't sign autographs for little kids ain't an American. He's a communist."
     — Rogers Hornsby

"I don't like to sound egotistical, but every time I stepped up to the plate with a bat in my hands, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the pitcher."
     — Rogers Hornsby

#350

I mentioned Michael watches Saturday Night Live skits on his device. By the way, this was my device:

And this:

But my point isn't to lampoon the seemingly Flintstone-era Walkman or Atari or Apple IIe. My point is to go on record with a momentous avouchment, one surely to endure, be proven indubitable following some distant-future deconstruction – with technology that makes the shit we have today look Flinstone-era by the way; that always happens let's not forget – so as to answer, with scientific rigor, which ironically means by folks more left-brained than right-, what to me is a very fun but slippery question: why is this so fucking funny?! The Debbie Downer at Disney skit is THE funniest SNL piece of all time. There, I said it. And a thousand SNL seasons from now this will be as true as it is today.

#349

I ate sardines from a tin yesterday. Michael would've eaten them too, but he was eating swordfish on a cruise ship in the Caribbean. M 'n' m are on spring break and it 'isn't my year' as those of us engaged in divorced, joint-custody parenting must enumerate to clarify. M 'n' m have called or texted me from the Bahamas, the Dominican, and St. Thomas so far. Their first time outside the continental US; I'm excited for them. I can't wait to see their travel-widened and -wisened eyes when they return; and I said take lots of pics please. Regarding sardines and swordfish, I'm applauding Michael's palate; he tries everything. He enjoys every kind of fish and seafood, raw (oysters, sushi, poke) or otherwise; game meats and birds like pheasant, Thai noodles, soups, curries; Indian buffets; good ramen (restaurant prepared, I mean, with any number or unusual things in it); Vietnamese pho; sauerkraut, strudel, schnitzel, vinegar and cooked cabbage; kimchi, bibimbap, japchae, and Korean dishes; Greek food, eggplant, lamb, olives, feta; anything with lots of onions; wild morel mushrooms; hot Chicago-style giardiniera; teppanyaki and teriyaki; Middle Eastern fare; and, of course, anything from the Chinese, Mexican, and Italian places we patronize. He even eats my cooking. I read Anthony Bourdain's Kitchen Confidential. I don't wish that broad of an experience for Michael – Mr. Bourdain recounts some racy stuff, and still pursues uncharted culinary territory it seems – but something of a similar enterprising and open spirit.

The depth and everlastingness of my love for Iowa State basketball leaves me pretty vulnerable this time of year. It's a possessive, obsessive love like the kind I have for M 'n' m. I am especially possessed, so to speak, during conference tournament week and March Madness. I'm joking but only a little; I want badly for the Cyclones to do well; how will I handle M 'n' m in high-stakes competition? I guess I'll be fine if I can pace, turn away, turn back again, and so on. It's stressful, dude. Iowa State won the Big 12 tourney, but were ousted playing for the Sweet 16. Overall, a good season. My blood pressure is normal again; I can enjoy Spring. I was pretty lousy at watching the Cubs in the field during the World Series, also. When they batted? No problem. But when pitching and on D? Different story. One pitch left over the plate, one mistake, can put you in a hole. Then maybe you hope for a rain delay and, for sure, a comeback. It's a little like life around a diamond. 

I'm thinking of giving Michael some mandatory reading assignments. The first? Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke. The second? Either Meditations or The Emperors Handbook by Marcus Aurelius. The list is long. If I can get distract him from SNL skits on YouTube....

#348

We still have an issue I mentioned before: the kids wear something for five minutes, then toss it in the hamper. No! The clean hoodie you wore downstairs for breakfast? Not dirty! The t-shirt that covered you from bedroom to shower. No! Underthings are different; I get that; one day, tops. Those are the rules. Period. No mountains of dirty clothes! Maybe if I did laundry more often... but I'm not on trial here, YOU ARE, M 'n' m! I set a good example: it's shameful how many reps I get from jeans and sweaters. Sweaters = years.

Meg was wonderfully unwarlike this morning. She was pleasant. It was unusual. Eerie, in fact. A movie title popped into my head: Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It's a 1956 film I've never seen, but in desperate search of explanation... and from there, repetition! Repeating positive results, an engineering problem, for which my training and career should be suited...

This weekend, Megan told her friend, "My dad says yes to everything." Again, something popped into my head. This time, not a cute movie title. More like an air raid siren; in 1940 the Luffwaffe bombed London in one stretch 56 out of 57 days and nights. Lots of loud sirens, bad things. The Blitzkrieg. I do NOT say yes to everything. I am, however, open to creative ideas and activities my kids propose. I felt complimented. And I felt un-complimented. Dads should be feared; isn't that time-tested wisdom? Proverbs 13:24 and all that. M 'n' m are good kids. Good grades, good friends; no behavior issues at school. Good developing minds, hearts, and energies. Could Megan be more polite? Uh, yeah. (But I exaggerate her crabbiness; what else am I supposed to write about?) Could Michael be more proactive about responsibilities at home? Sure. I'm hesitating now; be careful what you document; maybe this paragraph will disappear. M 'n' m certainly aren't stifled by rigidity and authority in my company. Is this the best approach? Time will tell.

I still haven't seen Logan, the movie. Wolverine is the best superhero. Come on, everyone has a favorite. When I was little, it was the Hulk; I had the Underoos; I had the doll, I mean action figure. Hugh Jackman does a perfect Wolverine, conflicted, protective, dangerous. Jackman is 48. I like the oldest ballplayers now too, veterans and journeymen. Michael is an Iron Man guy. (Robert Downey Jr. as Sherlock Holmes ain't bad either.) Meg loves Guardians of the Galaxy. Chris Pratt's pretty great as Star-Lord, but for her it's Groot and the racoon.

Well on my planet, there's a legend about people like you. It's called Footloose. And in it, a great hero, named Kevin Bacon, teaches an entire city full of people with sticks up their butts that dancing is the greatest thing there is.

     — Star-Lord

You just wanna suck the joy out of everything!
     — Rocket Racoon

I am Groot.
     — Groot

Quit smiling you idiot, we're supposed to be professionals.
     — Rocket Racoon 

I come from a planet of outlaws: Billie the Kid, Bonnie and Clyde, John Stamos...
     — Star-Lord

Dance-off, bro. Me and you.
     — Star-Lord

No one talks to my friends like that.
     — Drax

This is what life looks like, people who love you, a home, you should take a minute and feel it.
     — Professor X to Logan

A perfect description of what I am...

... when putting down and rearranging words here: a 'sublime fool.' And what I wish (within the bounds of reason and personal responsibility, of course) for M 'n' m: regular moments of creative sublimity. Whether they're artists, cellists, gardeners, chefs, ballplayers, basket-weavers – even if the output sucks, and I know what that's like – I hope they find and love the process, and I hope they do so in many creative forms and outlets, professionally, personally, in every way possible.

"If you want to write, if you want to create, you must be the most sublime fool that God ever turned out and sent rambling. You must write every single day of your life. You must read dreadful dumb books and glorious books, and let them wrestle in beautiful fights inside your head, vulgar one moment, brilliant the next. You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads. I wish you a wrestling match with your Creative Muse that will last a lifetime. I wish craziness and foolishness and madness upon you. May you live with hysteria, and out of it make fine stories – science fiction or otherwise. Which finally means, may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world."

     — Ray Bradbury

I enjoy writing; skill be damned, the sublimity and flow of creating – even turning out shit – is as effectual as a drug. I wish M 'n' m habits and hobbies that put them here often, especially as adults, where their energy and focus go bulletproof, where little burdens and bindings fall away and time is imperceptible, where boredom, drudgery, depression are not just impossible, they're absurd. Because we're busy being foolish, crazy, and in love. 

Naturally, I find parallels between creative flow and parenthood. For every complexity and responsibility parenthood heaps upon us, other things seem to crystalize in a kind of symmetry and order; for every confusion and conflict added, others are obliterated.

Yes, I hope M 'n' m are creative 'for the next 20,000 days' (and then 20,000 more, you can check my math). Those around me do this well, some in fulfilling careers, some by other pursuits, and when I realize I'm preaching to the choir, I see it's my own vulnerability and weakness I'm worried about; I'm preaching to myself: stay active, creative, and in love with life. Amen.

"If your everyday life seems poor to you, do not accuse it; accuse yourself, tell yourself you are not poet enough to summon up its riches; since for the creator there is no poverty and no poor or unimportant place." 
     — Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

#347

Megan's digestive system is superb at breaking down fiber. I know this because of sounds and smells I won't attempt to describe here; my writing would badly underrepresent their shocking acoustic and olfactory effects. 

At the train station every morning there is a gentleman with a dog. The man's eyes are partially closed in a way that suggests visual impairment. And the dog is leashed and behaves in a way that suggests the same: the dog is the man's eyes. How lucky are those of us who can see. But here's the thing: the guy is always smiling; he's cheerful. It's preachy, proverb-y to say so, but I try to remember: in life we always have a choice. Even when we think we don't, we do. Easier said than done in storm and disaster, but we do. The choice? Our attitude. Our response. The first and last of our freedoms. Viktor Frankl said it better. I'm grateful for the guy at the train.

Last week at Meg's basketball practice, on the track above the courts, I noticed another man. He was moving, as my Grandpa Byard would say, like a turtle in a windstorm. No faster than the sun across the sky on a long, lazy afternoon. He shakily gripped a railing in one hand and a walker in the other, shuffling, clearly fighting back from illness or injury. He wasn't a middle-ager, but not a centenarian either. He was decked in a shiny new running suit and, I suspect, a pair of kickass tennies. As a member of the Greatest Generation, I doubt he was thinking exactly this, but something like: I'm gonna get healthy and mobile again and I don't give a fuck if I look ancient, fragile, as everyone races by me on the track, kicking high, gliding, bouncing; my skin and bones were young once too; I'm here to do my thing and get walking again. His choice. His attitude. A good one. Maybe not so easy to muster.

Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms – to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.

     — Viktor Frankl

Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
     — Dylan Thomas

Mantras, again

Sell your cleverness and purchase bewilderment.
– Rumi
The intelligent want self-control, children want candy.
– Rumi
Free yourself from the tyranny of constant thought.
What you do defines you.
It's okay to live a life others don't understand.
Be a force for good.
Be anti-fragile.
Be comfortable being uncomfortable.
Discomfort is growth.
Keep making shots.
Keep moving. – Rambo
Just do it.
Push yourself.
Press on.
Be calm, be strong.
Train your will.
Life is an attitude. Have a good one.
You can measure a man by the opposition it takes to discourage him.
Pay no attention to the critics. Don’t even ignore them. – Samuel Goldwyn
The painting isn't done in the middle.
Pioneers take the most arrows.
There is nothing wrong with loving the crap out of everything. – Ryan Adams
My song is love. – Coldplay
Love is all around you. – Tesla
God's lookin’ out for us. – Marcus Luttrell
If it disappoints you, think of it less.
Brother, stand the pain, escape the poison of your impulses. – Rumi
Self-respect comes from hard work.
Do work, Son.
Finish it.
One more.
We gonna do this, or we just gonna talk about it?
There is no try. – Yoda
Satisfaction lies in effort.
How may I serve?
Sprinkle kindness, scatter joy.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
– Dylan Thomas
This mustn't register on an emotional level.
– Sherlock Holmes
My cup runs over. – Psalm 23
The only easy day was yesterday.
– Navy SEALs
If it doesn't suck, we don't do it.
– Navy SEALs
There is no tomorrow. – Apollo Creed
Confrontation's never been something we've had trouble with. – Rick TWD
We won't get weak, that's not in us anymore.
– Rick TWD
Your bad habits are in the hallway doing push-ups.
Relax Luther, it’s much worse than you think.
– Ethan Hunt
Every warrior hopes a good death will find him.
– One Stab
But Tristan refused to speak of her. – One Stab
The wind cannot defeat a tree with strong roots. – The Revenant
You're okay. Keep fighting. – Ronda Rousey
Comparisons are odious – Jack Kerouac
Traveling hopefully is better than arriving.
Love more, worry less.
I can do this all day. – Captain America
Oh hell Max, I been in tighter places than that.
– Grandpa Swede (after his Model T rolled and Max thought he'd been crushed and killed)
We carry our own. – Grandma Bev at Grandpa Swede's funeral
There is power in optimism.
There is power in ritual.
Make practice a practice.
Rust never rests.
Terror is a fine instructor.
Bet on him, if you like. – Herger the Joyous
Grow stronger. – Herger the Joyous
(I am not a warrior!) Very soon, you will be.
– Herger the Joyous
I’ve been through worse. – Wolverine
Life makes goats of us all. And heroes.
A smooth sea never made a skilled mariner
Does iron wrought, in furnaces hot, in withering heat, complain?
Which is the greater pleasure?
I am not an atheist. – Albert Einstein
Enjoy every minute of it, Hon.
I honor the power within me.
I only harbor healthy thoughts.
Within us is the power of self-repair.
But the dreamers of day are dangerous men.
Thank you for M 'n' m.
Thank you for ....
Great multitudes came to him, and he healed them all.

"Deep within man dwell slumbering powers; powers that would astonish him, that he never dreamed of possessing; forces that would revolutionize his life if aroused and put into action."
      ― Orison Swett Marden

"For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love, and of self-control."
     ― 2 Timothy 1:7

"Iron is full of impurities that weaken it, but, through forging, it becomes steel. It is the same with human beings."
     ― Morihei Ueshiba

"In the midst of winter I found within me an invincible summer."
      ― Albert Camus

"Some people hear their own inner voices with great clearness, and they live by what they hear. Such people become crazy, but they become legend."
     ― One Stab, Legends of the Fall

#346

Illinois law mandates that kids in our state are taught about the Holocaust and modern genocide. And so, on Monday, I found myself with Michael and his classmates at the Illinois Holocaust Museum & Education Center. I offered to chaperone, as I was eager to return after donating artifacts to the museum from M 'n' m's great-grandfather only a few months ago. Our Grandpa Swede, as we called him, was in the 11th Armored Division (of Patton's 3rd Army) which liberated Mauthausen Concentration Camp. He brought home 15 photographs. As you can imagine, they are images of atrocity. Two pictures are of German guards beaten to death, the rest are of emaciated bodies, some living, most dead; all of it because of human-to-human cruelty and brutality. Obviously, this left a mark on my grandma; in his thinking; in his heart. He survived frontline combat also, shellings, minefields, infantry fighting. I donated the photos and a letter that provides context. The curators were grateful. My Grandpa's letters were kept by his mother and passed to me by his wife (my grandma), and there is little I would grab before them if my house was burning down. So I returned to the museum with Michael. It's somber, sobering, very sad, but there's a purposeful spirit also, a message: 'look straight at it, study, remember, don't let it happen again' and never forget that even in the worst human madness, there is triumph; there were 'upstanders' and people who risked or sacrificed everything to do what is right.

I forgot that school buses are built without shocks or suspensions. Holy shit that's a bumpy ride. It's been decades since I had the pleasure. Reminded me of turbulent flights that would've banged my head on the ceiling if I wasn't buckled. Also reminded me of an old puzzlement... "No Standees Permitted?" That just isn't common language. We know what it means, but why not "No Standing?" Wouldn't "while the bus is in motion" be implied, or would smartass kids mock it, argue, who knows, maybe they'd crawl down the aisle? I was nagged and sleepless over this in the '80s; here I go again.

Michael said, "Remember when we were little, and you had to do the hardest Angry Birds levels for me and Megan?" Yes, I remember, I remember fondly, but I hope my legacy as a father includes some uses and importances of, you know, a more significant variety; the lessons I taught, the love and support provided, teams coached, holidays celebrated, bills paid, lousy meals prepared, and so on...

Basket

by Carl Sandburg

Speak, sir, and be wise.
Speak choosing your words, sir,
like an old woman over a bushel of apples.

I gave Megan cornbread for dinner last night

That's it. Nothing else. No apples. No carrot sticks, Go-Gurt, baked beans, cottage cheese (with pears or pineapple rings plopped in; I know all the fillers). Just a cornbread square. Not even a muffin. My worst offering ever. But she ate three pieces, almost half the pan, and survived, and had a great basketball practice afterwards. And I made the cornbread myself, from a box, something like four ingredients, gotta mix it, bake it, not burn it, pad it with butter, pair it with a glass of milk... shit, that's a fine meal.

 

Maybe Michael is standoffish to Megan sometimes because...

... we made him pose for pictures like this. Cheek-to-cheek is excessive I suppose. His smile looks about 50% forced, not holding steady, enthusiasm in the red and still plummeting, skin crawling, cheek burning, Mayday, Mayday, Mayday!

 

An old photo of an old note

Megan spells 'think' correctly now, thankfully. Michael, however, still isn't sure how to handle Meg's undying adoration. He's nice to her, but only if he acknowledges her existence, which is too infrequent and then emotionally dry, negative, insufficient to demands. But Meg still adores him. Even more. Is she dismissive of me because I'm too attentive and nice? Bingo.

#345

Talk of eccentricities in people is always interesting. Talk of a lack of eccentricities is also interesting. Because they're in there somewhere. Quirks and sillinesses, odd preferences, hobbies; they love trapeze artistry or Kung Fu (see the movie Office Space!) or rare orchids, Russian dolls, breakdancing, pipe cleaner art, collecting geodes, whatever. No one is average in every interest. When you're a parent, you see what your kids gravitate to, eccentric or otherwise; it's the 'private' version of a person (in the early stages of development, no less). We also see unguarded bits of our parents, siblings, and others we're close to, their facade-less and natural selves. Regarding 'public personas,' we see those too; but it feels tricky for me with M 'n' m now; is their real self more with me or with friends? I catch glimpses of them speaking, acting, posturing around friends, when they might presume they're unmonitored until I turn a corner, climb the stairs, run into them somehow. In those moments they seem to be the same M 'n' m I know, and that's good. I don't spy but I don't stay away either. My uncle Kirby used to tell his kids, "Don't forget who you are." I like that. Is it more difficult in teenagerhood to be authentic? Maybe it's easier. We're youthful, energetic, emotionally novicelike and not sewn up; we've yet to bury forever the interests that others – or we, ourselves – throw dirt on. I will tell M 'n' m: If you like to paint, paint. Sing? Sing. Dance the samba, the mamba, tango, salsa, cha-cha, rumba, merengue? Uh, I'm sure there's a studio or club somewhere. I wish I could do a latin number. And if you like to write... okay, I'll keep writing. Earning a living is important, and it takes money to do things, but always remember what One Republic tells us: No more counting dollars, we'll be counting stars. (And that sounds nice but you'll still need to fly the nest, launch, get a job.)

Lately, I've been, I've been losing sleep
Dreaming about the things that we could be
But baby, I've been, I've been praying hard
Said no more counting dollars
We'll be counting stars
Yeah we'll be counting stars
... Old, but I'm not that old
Young, but I'm not that bold
And I don't think the world is sold
On just doing what we're told

... Everything that kills me makes me feel alive.
I feel the love and I feel it burn
Down this river every turn
Hope is a four-letter word,
Make that money watch it burn
... Everything that drowns me makes me wanna fly
... Said no more counting dollars, we'll be counting stars
     — One Republic, Counting Stars

You should write too, songs, stories, poems, lyrics, nonsense; it's all good. Thankfully, I've stirred up the habit in Papa Mike.

"We're comin' with the lyrics and we're comin' strong!"
     — Beastie Boys

"I had a short-lived but troublesome worry. What if writing comedy was a dead end because one day everything would have been done and we writers would just run out of stuff? I assuaged myself with my own homegrown homily: Comedy is a distortion of what is happening, and there will always be something happening. This problem solved, I grew more confident as a writer..."
     — Steve Martin

"I think it's terribly dangerous for an artist to fulfill other people's expectations. I think they generally produce their worst work when they do that. The other thing I would say is that if you feel safe in the area you're working in, you're not working in the right area. Always go a little further into the water than you feel your capable of being in, go a little bit out of your depth. And when you don't feel that your feet are quite touching the bottom, you're just about in the right place to do something exciting.
     — David Bowie

Life is a Smith

Does iron wrought, in furnaces hot,

     In withering heat, complain?

In life we're ore, and forged before,

     The victories can explain.

#344

I mentioned Michael wears shorts outside even when it's colder than Everest, or, my favorite: colder than a well digger's ass. I mentioned that telling him to dress warm is like talking to a brick wall. I mentioned, "To be a parent is to bore your kids with unsolicited info." And then, because life is ironic, poetic, sympathetic, unsympathetic, and so many lovely and contrary things, the kids become parents and the cycle repeats. It's like in the inharmony we find harmony – now I sound like Alan Watts – in the human cycles that have repeated since the beginning of time. Or the beginning of humanity, at least, which is something like 200,000 years ago? Although, 'civilization' – whatever that means – is only a tenth that old or less? What our parents say chaffs, if only just a little (as in my case; my parents are pretty cool). And isn't this the genesis of progress? "No son, we use spears to kill mammoths," while the kids are thinking, wouldn't it be better to like shoot the arrow from a distance? Who imbued our children with the instinct to resist, change, sometimes do the opposite. Indeed, by definition, progress always comes from the next generation. Right? The following from the book I'm reading inspired me to riff on it:

"He recalled with perfect clarity the irrelevance of old men's maxims to him when he was young. Rain against an umbrella, a young man all but sworn to the task of keeping dry. Archy was not so young anymore, and Mr. Jones had been raining down the pointless counsel on him for a good long time. No more able to restrain himself than a heavy-bellied cloud."
     — Michael Chabon, Telegraph Avenue
 
The performing arts are awesome. Concerts, recitals, ballet and dance, musicals, anything on stage. They're important. I'm always impressed and entertained. When I was Megan's age, my parents took me to Camelot at the Chicago Theater. Richard Harris was King Arthur. Not bad for a first Broadway show. My mom wanted the experience for me, and I'm grateful. I saw Cats in London, Les Miserables twice, a few others; Book of Mormon most recently until last night... Jeanette took me to Saturday Night Fever. Disco, baby, disco! It was fantastic. The energy, music, dance; I walked out high as a kite. Yeah, it's not just fun, it's important. I need to get M 'n' m to more shows.

I complained about the media...

... and labeled it a bit of a monster I fear more – as negatively impactful to M 'n' m and our collective future – than even politics. In doing so, it felt like saying I feared the mouse more than the elephant. And then the prescience of that analogy hit me – I don't mean to sound arrogant, by the way, as I think and write very simply, I'm afraid, and only stumble onto anything meaningful by accident – but isn't it the mouse that causes the elephant to stampede and crush everything? In four decades of living, I've sensed and observed political swings, seemingly calamitous, irreparable, scary at the time (to one side or the other), and in fairly short order they lose energy and stall, and then we have a counter-swing. It's a comforting pendulum to me. Maybe someday the pivot point will break, and our so-called pendulum will devastatingly fly away and not come back ... but I have yet to see it. The media, on the other hand, has metamorphosed into something unable to check its own over-tentacled power – as, theoretically, the different branches of government do for each other. (An ingenious construction, by the way; many thanks to our founding fathers.) In a discussion between Tim Ferriss and Krista Tippett, two minds I've learned much from, this was said, and it highlights a primary problem:

When (interviewers) are going for revelation, it's often in the form of making their questions sound tough; it's about how they sound and how they present, and we actually reward and laud interviewers who push their subjects into corners and embarrass them, who put people on the defensive, and then they strike out, and then that creates the conversation we talk about. I think that rarely accomplishes anything aside from something entertaining, something that demeans both sides of the conversation and demeans us by enjoying it. — Krista Tippett

Brilliantly explained, but true and sad. What is the media, the press, if not a kind of official interviewer and fact-gatherer for society, whose work we rapaciously consume and believe? Or we used to believe it anyway; polls show fewer people than ever – less than a third – trust the media "to report the news fully, accurately and fairly." I wish network news was news again, not entertainment, and certainly not a self-important 24-hour pursuit of further divisiveness, intolerance, and conflict in a world that has enough of those things already. 'Bad news' has its place and importance. But creating it crosses the line for me. The news itself is now the news, and it's not useful, meaningful, or truthful; it's just bad bullshit.