"Are you mad?"
“I’m not mad at all, sweetie.”
“I’m sorry I threw up.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll get you to bed and get you all better.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy.”
[Cubs tickets for tonight’s game in his hand.] “Nothing to worry about at all.”
As an old white guy who hung up his wedding weekends long ago, I was unaware of “Let’s Get Married,” a song that’s apparently in heavy rotation in today’s wedding receptions. After an office wedding shower over lunch, one of my younger coworkers sent a YouTube link so that I could familiarize myself with the musical stylings of one fresh, clean and bespectacled Jagged Edge. I have to admit: I’m not a big fan. That said, however, I’m glad Mr. Edge and the Right Reverend Run have teamed up with Teva Pharmaceuticals to ensure that the matrimonial ceremonies they’re celebrating aren’t happening as a result of a father brandishing a shotgun.
I miss you!
Thank you. I miss me, too. Let me know if you ever find me, so that I can stop gluing my face to the side of milk cartons.
☛ Real Artists Have Day Jobs
This is for my daughters. I know one of them reads my Tumblr sometimes.
[Note to Parents of Non-Teenagers: Suck on that thought for a while, because it’s coming. They want to know the real you, not just the dad or mom you. So they’re going to find your shit. Go ahead and start that “other Tumblr.” They’ll find that shit, too. Hope you’re cool with that. If not, you better start deleting those pictures of you taking bong hits in fishnet stockings—especially if they call you “Dad.”]
Anyway, this is for you, Ms. Kid Who Reads My Shit. Force your sister to read it, too.
Have you ever dreamt of being a real artist?
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to call yourself a real painter, or a real writer, or a real actress, or a real musician?
Have you ever described yourself as someone who does something amazing and magical and wonderful and…
I reckon what I’m talking about is…the middle part of life. A large part is a grinding affair—working away, having a family, making the whole thing happen. And at the end of it, most people are pretty worn out. They don’t believe in God. They don’t believe in anything beyond this ephemeral existence that we’re in now. Their attitudes are cynical. They’re what we in America call ‘assholes.’ And I was one of them…
…It occurred to me one time when I was driving to work—and I had a lot of reports to dictate that day—that I was still shoveling shit, which had been the way I started my life on the dairy farm. When I looked back on it, I thought: ‘This is the most absurd, stupid way to go through a life that a person could ever dream up.’ But we’re all being pushed on to do this.
And then I had the opportunity to stop.
…Why don’t I just cash it in and start a whole new life? Like, be another person. Reinvent myself. I don’t have to be a doctor to the last minute and keel off into the oblivion that way.
(formerly neurosurgeon Dr. John Kitcin)
I wasn’t a truly genuine trail ultrarunner until March 7, 1992 at the
One stop shopping.
Nailed it. Then nailed it.
Wild Oak 50 near Harrisonburg, Virginia. It was a rainy day and
simultaneously, while I was piddling on the run, chewing on an energy
bar and washing it down with Mountain Dew, my nose was dripping and I farted. That was the ultimate defining moment in my trail running career, if not my entire life.
Bob Boeder, 1994 Grand Slam of Ultrarunning Finisher
Everybody is somebody else’s monster.
I think I’m having a very good day. I think. Maybe not. Either way, appropriate.
My oldest just texted me a very cute selfie (hate that word), but it had boys in it. So I cropped them out.
Now I’m putting it here so that I don’t have to see them when I miss her face.
(Boys. What the hell was she thinking?)