Pain and fear and joy all wrapped up in a stone

Here's a game I used to play as a kid which strikes me as fairly stupid today:

My friends and I would gather handfuls of stones, ideally a dozen or more in both hands, and stand back-to-back-to-back in an open area. A beach was ideal, but a gravel driveway, a lawn or field adjacent to an ornamental bed of stones, or any similar location would do. 

We would then countdown backward from ten as if we were launching a rocket, and at zero, we would shout "Blast off!" Then we would throw the stones into the air as high as possible and run as fast as possible, trying to escape the impact zone before the stones returned to Earth. 

Your success in avoiding being struck by stones was highly dependent on the trajectory of your friend's throw. If he managed a nearly vertical launch, your escape was all but assured. But if one or more of your co-conspirators launched his stones at an angle or sprayed them in an arc, escape was a 50/50 proposition at best.  

Those stones hurt like hell when they struck our heads. 

It was so fun.

The one modification to the game that we wanted to make but never did was the painting of the stones so that each person could be assigned a specific color. Then we could've determined whose stones hit which person and kept some kind of score.

Instead, we accused our friends of bad throws based upon a complex formula involving who we hated the most at the moment, who looked the most guilty, and who was the easiest to unjustly persecute. 

I know it all sounds stupid and dangerous and tragically un-fun, but it was a joyous game filled with laughter, fear, pain, hilarity, suspense, and high stakes. 

It was a stupid, stupid game, but rarely have I had so much fun. 

I don't see it.

I'm constantly told that Clara is the spitting image of Elysha. 

I don't see it. I've never seen it.

People are always dumbfounded when I say this. But my explanation is simple:

When I see my daughter, I see a little girl who loves to read and draw, still calls me "Daddy," skips joyously across the lawn, and makes a mess of every room she occupies.   

When I see Elysha, I see a beautiful, funny woman who I can't take my eyes off who I always want to make out with regardless of the circumstances.

Of course the two never look alike to me. 

Right?

Don't be selfish. Tell a story.

I tell people to tell stories a lot. I know. It's my clarion call.  

But allow me to say it again. 

Last Wednesday night, I performed in The Moth GrandSLAM at the Cutler Majestic in Boston. My plan was to take the stage and tell a story that was a lot more humor than heart. It was a story about meeting my girlfriend's father for the first time and trying desperately to bridge the gap between his traditional, hulking masculinity and my inability to do anything traditionally masculine. 

"He's the kind of guy who can take down trees, and if necessary, put it back up again. I play Miss Pacman on Friday nights at the arcade and read Shel Silverstein poetry."

A funny story, filled with amusing contrasts and healthy doses of self-deprecation, but not something that pulled at heartstrings.

I honestly didn't think it would be a winning story.

Then something amazing happened. It shouldn't have seemed amazing in retrospect, since these things happen all the time, but I still find myself surprised every time. 

Three young men approached me at different times during intermission and at the end of the show to tell me how much my story had meant to them. In each case, these were men who struggled in environments where traditional masculinity is prized above all other things. Each young man described himself as someone who did not represent traditional masculinity in any way and often felt unappreciated and even unloved as a result.

Each of these men were so grateful for my story. One of them was teary-eyed as he spoke to me.  All three hugged me before stepping away. 

This is why we tell stories. This is why authenticity, honesty, and vulnerability are so important. I take a stage planning on telling an amusing story about soft hands that can't change the oil in a car or repair plumbing, and I unexpectedly touch the hearts of at least three people in the audience that night. 

I tell a story that, in the words of one man, "means more to me than you'll ever know."

"I needed this more than you could imagine," he told me. 

You never know who is waiting for your story. You never know who needs your story. You never know when something amusing or incidental or seemingly benign will touch a heart, change a mind, and perhaps make a real difference in the life of a human being.

We tell our stories for many reasons, but perhaps the least selfish reason of all is the possibility that something we say might make a difference in the life of another human being. 

Resolution update: April 2018

PERSONAL HEALTH

1. Don’t die.

Healthy as could be. 

2. Lose 20 pounds.

Two more pounds lost in April, bringing my total to eight. 

3. Eat at least three servings of fruits and/or vegetables per day. 

I had three servings of fruits and/or vegetables on 24 of 30 days in April. 

A lot of these servings were admittedly fruit, and specifically bananas, apples, and grapes. Still, a fruit is a fruit. 

4. Do at least 100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, and 3 one-minute planks for five days a week.

Done.

5. Identify a yoga routine that I can commit to practicing at least three days a week.

No progress.

6. Stop using the snooze button.

Done and highly recommended. 
Science is right. Snoozing is a terrible practice that you must end immediately.   

WRITING CAREER

7. Complete my seventh novel before the end of 2018.

My agent and I have settled on the next novel. Progress has begun. 

8. Complete my second middle grade/YA novel.

I've submitted my first middle grade novel to my editor and am awaiting word. I can't choose or start the next book until the first is complete. 

9. Write at least three new picture books, including one with a female, non-white protagonist. 

No progress. 

10. Write a proposal for a memoir.

My agent and I have decided upon the memoir, and progress has begun. 

11. Write a new screenplay.

No progress.

12. Write a musical.

The musical originally planned for a summer camp is no longer needed. I have an adult musical in mind that my writing partner has been asking me to write for a long, long time, so perhaps this is the time.

13. Submit at least five Op-Ed pieces to The New York Times for consideration.

I've submitted one piece for consideration in April, for a total of two. Both were rejected.

4. Write a proposal for a nonfiction book related to education.

No progress, though Elysha has told me what this book should be. 

15. Submit one or more short stories to at least three publishing outlets.

No progress.

16. Select three behaviors that I am opposed to and adopt them for one week, then write about my experiences on the blog.

No progress. I'm still looking for possible behaviors to adopt. Suggestions welcomed. 

17. Increase my author newsletter subscriber base to 2,000.

Twenty-one subscribers added in March. A total of 110 added since January 1. At this pace, I will come close to hitting my goal by December.  

If you'd like to subscribe to my newsletter and receive tips on writing and storytelling, as well as links to amusing Internet miscellany and more, please subscribe here:

18. Write at least six letters to my father.

One letter written in April, bringing my total to two. 

19. Write 100 letters in 2018.

Eight letters written and mailed in April. Twenty-three in total so far. 

20. Convert Greetings Little One into a book.

No progress.  

21. Record one thing learned every week in 2018.

Done! My favorite from April:

Rouketopolemos is the name of a local traditional event held annually at Easter in the town of Vrontados on the Greek island of Chios. As a variation of the Greek custom of throwing fireworks during the celebration of the service at midnight before Easter Sunday, two rival church congregations in the town perform a "rocket war" by firing tens of thousands of home-made rockets across town, with the objective of hitting the bell tower of the church of the other side. 

It's insane. 

STORYTELLING

22. Produce a total of 12 Speak Up storytelling events.

No shows produced in April. Our 2018 total stands at two. 

23. Deliver a TEDx Talk.

Both of my TEDx Talks - at Wesleyan University and The Birch Wathen Lenox School in New York City - have been cancelled.

Annoying.

I've applied for two more TEDx conferences and await word. Suddenly this goal became a lot more challenging.    

24. Attend at least 15 Moth events with the intention of telling a story.

I attended a Moth GrandSLAM in Boston in April, bringing my total Moth events in 2018 to three. I'll make up ground this summer.  

25. Win at least three Moth StorySLAMs.

I won my 35th StorySLAM in NYC in February. I have not competed in a StorySLAM since.
One down. Two to go. 

26. Win a Moth GrandSLAM.

Done twice over! I won my fifth GrandSLAM in February and my sixth GrandSLAM in April.

27. Produce at least 25 episodes of our new podcast Storyworthy. 

Logo created.
Format decided.
Music chosen.
Stories chosen. 
We are ready to record.

28. Perform stand up at least four times in 2018. 

I performed in at an open-mic night at a local comedy club in April, bringing my total stand up performances in 2018 to one. 

29. Pitch my one-person show to at least one professional theater.

No progress.  

30. Pitch a new Moth Mainstage story to the artistic director of The Moth. 

No progress.  

NEW PROJECTS

31. Write a syllabus for a college course on teaching. 

No progress, but I am frustrated, annoyed, and disappointed by developments with a local college in terms their curriculum for student teachers, so I'm doing a lot of thinking on this issue. 

32. Cook at least 12 good meals (averaging one per month) in 2018.

No progress. 

33. Plan a 25 year reunion of the Heavy Metal Playhouse.

No progress. 

MISCELLANEOUS

34. Pay allowance weekly.

Done! 

35. Ride my bike with my kids at least 25 times in 2018.

No progress. But the weather is finally ripe for bike riding. 

36. I will report on the content of speech during every locker room experience via social media in 2018. 

Done. I spent 24 days at the gym (including the locker room) in April, and I did not hear a single comment related to sexually assaulting women.  

37. I will not comment, positively or negatively, about physical appearance of any person save my wife and children, in 2017 in an effort to reduce the focus on physical appearance in our culture overall. 

Done. Also not hard. Once you stop commenting on physical appearance, you quickly realize how pervasive it is in our culture.

I've also noticed that when you stop commenting about physical appearance, you stop noticing it as much. While there are occasional comments that I think but don't say (a very large man on a very small motorcycle comes to mind), those moments are fewer and farther between.  

38. Surprise Elysha at least six times in 2018.

I surprised Elysha once in April with a brand new blow dryer with some mystical qualities. She found it waiting for her on the bathroom sink when she awoke. 

Two down. Four to go. 

39. Replace the 12 ancient, energy-inefficient windows in our home with new windows that will keep the cold out and actually open in the warmer months.

I've received some more reasonable estimates for this project. It might actually be doable.     

40. Clean the basement. 

I threw away another handful of items in April in preparation for a full cleaning later this year.

The actual cleaning might take less than an hour at this rate.  

41. Set a new personal best in golf.

I played several rounds of golf in April, including in the rain on Sunday morning. 

None of my rounds have come close to eclipsing my personal best. 

42. Play poker at least six times in 2018.

For the fourth time this year, a poker game was cancelled, this time in the home of a friend when he became ill. A May poker night is planned. 

43. Spend at least six days with my best friend of more than 25 years.

No progress. I invited him to a Patriots-Green Bay football game in November, a Def Leppard-Journey concert in May, and standup in April. All declined.    

44. Post my progress in terms of these resolutions on this blog on the first day of every month.

Done.

These people exist, and I can't stand them.

There are few things I despise more than a person who attempts to use their authority, wealth, or privilege in order to procure unearned or undeserved favors or benefits, which is why this video so appalling to me. 

Though I believe that we should never judge someone by their worst moment, this particular moment (captured on video) is especially egregious. It's the kind of behavior that could only be perpetrated by someone who possesses a great deal of entitlement, elitism, and privilege.  

The number of times Port Authority Commissioner Caren Turner attempts to bully these police officers with her position, her residency, her ties to politicians, her children's Ivy League education, her law degree, and threats of retribution are unconscionable.   

Conversely, the police officers performed brilliantly. They were calm, professional, frank, and followed the rule of law. In case you're curious, the car was pulled over for overly-tinted windows and an obscured license plate and was then found to also be unregistered. 

It will come as no surprise after watching this video that Turner has already resigned her position at the Port Authority (a political appointment of former Governor Chris Christie) in the wake of an ethics probe.  

It may surprise you to learn that Turner chaired the Port Authority’s ethics committee.

It will also come as no surprise to learn that while Turner has issued an apology, she also asserts (in that same apology) that she did nothing wrong, and that the police need to do a better job in the future. She writes:

"As a long-time Tenafly resident, I have always taken an active role in the community, including working with law enforcement officials, and I encourage the Tenafly Police Department to review best practices with respect to tone and de-escalation, so that incidents like this do not recur."

I thought the police officers made heroic attempts to deescalate the situation while operating within the rule of law. The driver of the car was an adult and unrelated to Turner. The police offerers had no right to reveal the driver's legal standing to a third party.     

They did their job. Turner no longer has a job. As it should be. 

Before you worry about Turner making ends meet, fear not. This former commissioner of the Port Authority is also is chief executive of Washington, D.C.-based lobbying group Turner Government and Public Affairs. She's going to be fine.

Despicable and entitled and possibly facing ethics charges, but fine. 

She's studying volume.

I went to bed at 3:30 AM because Elysha went to bed early and didn't make me come to bed with her, so I stayed up all night writing and drinking A&W root beer.

Then Clara woke me up at 5:20 because she sleeps like her father, which is to say not much at all. She sat on my bedside, shook me awake and said, "Hey Daddy, we started a new math unit yesterday. Want to know what we're studying?"

I did not. I had been asleep for less than two hours at that point and had hoped to sleep until 6:30 AM. 

Not surprising, she told me anyway. 

It's 11:30 AM as I write this, and I'm a little tired, and it's all their fault.

Writing is already hard enough without this.

I'm trying to complete the revisions of my next adult novel, and it seems like at every turn, someone is hell bent on slowing my progress.

Last night it was the cats, Tobi and Pluto, choosing the space on the table directly in front of me to commence their battle.

How is a guy expected to get anything done with this to distract him?

I was probably typecast.

About a dozen years ago, I starred as the ogre in Plato Karafelis and Rob Hugh's children's musical Stone Soup at the Park Road Playhouse in West Hartford, CT.

Tonight the roles were reversed, and I had the pleasure of watching middle schoolers perform the musical while I was sitting in the audience alongside Elysha Dicks and our overly verbal, mistakenly participatory children.

At one point during the show, the ogre rhetorically asks why nobody likes her.

Charlie shouted out, "I love you!"

What a wonderful trip down memory lane to the many, many nights of rehearsals and weekends of shows that brought a small band of actors together for a short but unforgettable moment in my life.

More than a decade later, I could still sing all the songs, including my solo, and I remembered most of the lines. Had the girl playing the ogre been sick, I could've filled in admirably.

Sadly, I was made to be an ogre.

In fact, during our first performance way back when, I broke the third wall as I was directed me to during the first scene, running up to audience members and roaring my disapproval. But I was apparently too frightening, sending Plato backstage between scenes to calm me down.

"Kids are crying! A couple of them already left!"

I loved that. I still do. I loved all of it.

For a few months, the cast of Stone Soup were like family. That is one of the many beauties of the theater. Human beings comes together, relying wholly and completely on one another to do something hard and wonderful, and through that process, experience a trust and a harmony rarely seen outside the walls of a theater.

Thanks so much to my former cast mate Sara Demos Avery for getting me to the show tonight. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

Philosophy explained. For real.

I'm not a philosopher by training, but I studied philosophy in college and have continued to pursue my study to varying degrees in my personal life.

This does not make me an expert.

But if I were to teach a class on philosophy on the high school or college level, I would use this board as both the syllabus and the final. It's a brilliant, succinct, and amusing summary of the general tenants of philosophy.

I love it so much. 

Run to The Moth. Allow stories to lighten your load.

Here is my suggestion:

Run to The Moth. On the radio, the podcast, or a live show. 

As you probably know, The Moth changed my life. It gave me a stage to tell stories. It provided me with a platform to be noticed. It opened the door to a new career. A bunch of new careers. Storyteller. Teacher. Consultant. Inspirational speaker. Producer. Most recently stand up comedian and the author of an upcoming book on storytelling.

In many ways, these careers (alongside my writing career) have allowed Elysha to stay home with the kids for these last nine years. For that, I will be eternally grateful.  

Seven years after telling my first story at a Moth StorySLAM in New York City, and after having traveled the country and the world, performing on stages and teaching and consulting with individuals, nonprofits, schools and universities, the clergy, hospitals, museums, and more, one of my favorite things in the world is still to go to a Moth StorySLAM, drop my name in the bag, listen to stories, and hope to be called. 

But even if your dreams do not include performing, I still say to run to The Moth. Listen to the podcast. Tune into The Moth Radio Hour. Go to a live show. The magic of The Moth (and excellent storytelling in general) lies not the opportunity to stand on a stage and perform but in the opportunity to listen to another human being tell a story and realize that you are not alone in this world.

Case in point:

On this week's Moth Radio Hour and podcast, Daniel Turpin tells a story tells a story about an encounter with a armed man that was eerily similar to my own experience in a McDonald's restaurant 25 years ago. Listening to the story triggered my PTSD and guaranteed me a long night of nightmares, but in listening to the story, I found another human being in this world who understood my experience. 

Suddenly I was not alone. 

Though I have spoken at length about my robbery, first to a therapist for years and then on a Moth Mainstage, there have always been parts of the story that have remained locked away. Aspects that I have never spoken about. Moments that I was still unwilling to admit. 

Included in those locked away parts was the guilt I have always felt about not fighting harder for my life. Not battling to the death and the dirt. The paralyzing fear and inexplicable surrender to men who I knew were about to kill me. 

This is the first time I have ever admitted to this to anyone, and it is because Daniel Turpin did so first. He spoke the words that were hidden away in my heart.  

Near the end of this story, Turpin says:

"I stared at the ceiling and I'd go back to that moment, that moment when he told me to get on my knees and feeling that gun press up against your head, that gun loaded with lethal possibility. And the sorrow that I felt, the shame of my inaction, its a guilt that doesn't go away. I couldn't under stand how I gave up on my life so effortlessly. 

But there was I was, kneeling on the floor. I wasn't pleading I wasn't struggling, I was waiting. Waiting for this stranger to kill me. People try to make you feel better. They say everything happens for a reasons. And I understand the sentiment, I do. But I don't agree with it. When they say that, it sounds like there's some arcane justification for senselessness. There's some cosmic fatalism at play. What I believe is that everything happens. And it's our job to give reason to it. To give reason to the inscrutable. 

I'm a little more suspicious today. Maybe a little more guarded, because moments like that - they shape you. They change you. You never forget them and that's the terrible beauty of the past. You remember the good and the bad."

I wept when I heard those words. Something hidden inside of me that I had thought was mine alone was suddenly less ugly. Less frightening. Less terrible. 

Daniel Turpin opened a door to my heart. I feel lighter today because of it. Less burdened. Happier. The anger, disappointment, and guilt over my surrender on that greasy floor on that terrible night is gone, not because anything in my past has changed, but because I feel less alone in the present.

Run to The Moth (and if you live in Connecticut, run to our show, Speak Up, too). Listen to stories. Open your heart. You'll feel better for it. 

Stop with the woke. You'll look just as clueless and horrible as everyone else someday.

I can't stand the notion of being woke. I can't stand the assertions of those who claim to be woke. 

For those of you fortunate enough to be unaware of this term, "woke" was originally used to describe a continuing awareness of issues concerning social justice and racial justice that came to widespread use as a result of Black Lives Matter.

This was good. It made sense. It's a fantastic call to action.

The term has since been co-opted by mainstream culture to refer to any situation where a person believes they are more aware of and actively attentive to important facts and issues than others (especially but not specifically issues of racial and social justice).

While the idea of being more active and attentive to racial and social issues is also a very good one, the use of the word "woke" in many circles has come to imply new state of being. An enhanced level of social consciousness. A more evolved understanding of the injustices of the world.

I find this silly and annoying. The world has been evolving in this way since the dawn of time. As Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. famously said:

"The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice."

The people who take so much pride in being woke today will appear just as problematic and incomprehensible as we did 25 years ago when restaurants featured no smoking sections, public buildings were not accessible to the disabled, we still used words like "midget" and "retarded," and I was riding in the way-back of my parent's station wagon, seatbelt-less and fancy free. 

Like ever previous generation, the woke of today will be the shame and ridiculousness of tomorrow. 

Bill Maher makes this point better than I can, so please watch, particularly if you are a person who takes pride in being woke. 

Live forever?

Every Friday, students and teachers in my school gather for an assembly called Town Meeting to celebrate children's voices.

Through writing, art, and song, kids share their work with hundreds of fellow students and parents. Part of this process is an interview with one of the writers, and one of the questions traditionally asked is, "If you could have any super power, what super power would that be?"

For twenty years, I have waited for a child to answer the question in the way I would answer the question, and last month, it finally happened. 

When a little girl was asked what her super power would be, she said, "I would live forever."

I happened to be the person emceeing Town Meeting at the time, so I was able to ask the young lady why she wants to live forever. Her followup response was just as brilliant:

"There's just so much I want to do. And never enough time."

Precisely. 

Somehow, this young lady understands the fleeting nature of time and its inherent, immense value, even at such a young age. While super powers like teleportation and super speed also hint at an understanding of the value of time, living forever (presuming you're living in such a condition to allow you to experience a full and complete life) demonstrates a wisdom beyond her years. It demonstrates a curiosity and a zest for life. A desire to do experiment. Experience. Try new things. 

I have a list of jobs I'd like to hold at some point in my life. The list looks like this:

Behavioral economist|
Bookstore owner
Therapist
Instructional coach
Attorney
Camp director
College professor
Financial analyst
CEO of Boy Scouts of America
Firefighter
Filmmaker
Newspaper columnist
Postal carrier
CEO of Girl Scouts of America
Professional poker player
Hot dog vendor at an MLB stadium
Bartender
Sociologist

I'll need half a dozen lifetimes to try all of these professions, and I'm adding to the list constantly. 

That little girl gets it. There's so much to do. 

 I was so impressed. So happy to find a child who thinks like me.

It only took 20 years.

Setting goals is almost always important, except in this case

After being tucked in for bed every night, our five year-old son, Charlie, sits in bed, reflecting on his day before assuming his customary and bizarre sleeping position (on his face) and going to sleep.

This is something he started doing on his own more than a year ago. One night, before the lights went out, he decided that it would be good to think back on this day and consider all that has happened.

Kind of remarkable.

Recently, he explained this to one of our babysitters as she was putting him to bed. She was impressed, too. "Do you think about tomorrow, too?" she asked.

"I can't," he said. "I don't know what we're doing tomorrow."

"Maybe you could set some goals for tomorrow," she replied. "Make some plans."

Charlie thought about it for a moment before answering, "I think I want to talk about poop more." 

And reader, as my wife, Elysha can attest, he did.

Just in case that his decision to be reflective each night made him sound like some soulfully advanced, hyper-mature kindergartener.  

Not so much. 

Billy Bishop Toronto City Airport is as quirky as it sounds

If you're ever flying into or out of Toronto, you'll probably be flying into Toronto Pearson International Airport. 

But there is another, lesser know international airport in Toronto called Billy Bishop Toronto City Airport, and it's an interesting little place for a few reasons.

First, the name: Billy Bishop Toronto City Airport. Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue. It's named after World War I Canadian flying ace Billy Bishop, who was credited with 72 victories and later trained Canadien pilots during WWII.  

Billy Bishop Airport would be fine. A little odd, perhaps, but named after a war hero, so why not?

But Billy Bishop Toronto City Airport? Is Toronto ever referred to as Toronto City?

The Toronto City are actually a Canadian soccer team (presumably for the 43 Canadiens who can't play hockey), but the official name of Toronto is The City of Toronto, which is still a little weird, but not Toronto City.

Billy Bishop Toronto City Airport.  

Very odd. And more than a mouthful. 

Second, the airport located on an island about 100 yards offshore in Lake Ontario, requiring passengers to take a ferry or a tunnel to get to the airport. When I flew out of Billy Bishop Toronto City Airport two weeks ago, my trip to the airport included a car, a train, a bus, a ferry, and finally a plane.

Quite the epic journey. 

Third, while I'm sure the airport is occasionally busier than when I was there, it was the first time that I was the only person passing through security at an airport. I couldn't actually find the security checkpoint (and had to ask someone) because there was no line. Just a guy standing beside a metal detector. 

"That can't be it," I thought. But no, that was it. One guy. One metal detector, and me.

You can imagine my surprise when he informed me that I was randomly selected for a more intensive search of my person and belonging.  

Lastly, the airport is so small that there is no restaurant, fast food counter, or even coffee shop on the premises. Instead, the airport offers free bottled water, coffee, soda, and snacks. An actual refrigerator filled with free beverages. A counter lined with snacks of all kinds. Coffee pods, tea bags, and hot water for the taking. 

Add this to the comfortable seating, lovely side tables adorned by small lamps, and the relative quiet of their small, single terminal, and I was actually disappointed when my plane was called. 

"I could write here," I thought. "This could be my new office."

Alas, my time at Billy Bishop Toronto City Airport was short, so I only had enough time for one Diet Coke, a phone call to Elysha, and a few email responses before it was time to go. And because the airport is in the middle of the city, jets are not allowed to land or take off so I took a prop plane for the first time in my life.

Once onboard, it was exactly like a jet except a little slower. 

Being in the middle of the city, Billy Bishop Toronto City Airport also offers spectacular views of downtown Toronto. 

Not a bad perk.

6 regrets

I'm not a fan of regrets, but as Frank Sinatra once sang, I've had a few. Six big ones in my life, which is probably a small number. 

Happily so. 

Interestingly, almost all of my regrets are from the same period in my life, from the ages of 17-22. No surprise that the memoir I've decided to write encompasses those very years.

Because I love lists (and just finished a novel comprised solely of lists), I've decided to make a list of them here.  

1. I wasn't wearing my seatbelt on December 23, 1988.

Even though I always wore my seatbelt from the moment I started driving, the excitement of Christmas shopping and the rush to get to work caused me to forget on the very day that my Datsun B-210 collided head-on with a Mercedes, sending me through the windshield and destroying my legs as they became embedded in the dashboard. 

Had I been wearing my seatbelt, my injuries would have been minor. 

The accident resulted in months of recovery during the final months of my senior year of high school, multiple surgeries on my knees, and glass still embedded in my forehead today. It also had a domino effect on the rest of my life, as you'll see below. 

2. I didn't attend college after high school.

Despite my excellent grades and enormous number of extracurricular activities, no adult ever spoke the word "college" to be throughout my entire school career, and the expectation was that I would leave home at 18.

While I eventually made it to college five years later, I was forced to work full time while earning at degree in English at Trinity College and a elementary teaching degree at St. Joseph's University. Though I found time to write for the school newspaper, serve as the Treasurer of our Student Council, and compete in statewide debate tournaments, I never lived on campus and didn't have the opportunity to attend school the traditional way or make close friends like so many of my friends did. 

My friend, Bengi, once told me that it was a shame I didn't go to college after high school. "You were made for the traditional college experience. You would've loved it."

I think I would. 

3. I didn't become an Eagle Scout

Though I earned more than enough merit badges for Eagle Scout by the time I was 15 years old, I stalled, partially because no adult supported me in designing the required service project, and once I finally did so on my own, a near-fatal car accident derailed those plans and stalled me once again. Less than two months after my accident, while I was still recovering, I turned 18, and my lifelong dream of becoming an Eagle Scout was dead.

4. I didn't pole vault during my senior year of high school

The same near-fatal car accident prevented me from competing in track during my senior year and kept me from competing in the district championships, where I had placed second the previous year. 

5. I play sports right-handed.

Though I am left-handed, my stepfather would not buy me a baseball glove for a lefty and instead gave me a hand-me-down glove for a right handed player. This forced me to learn to throw right handed (which is why I still throw poorly today) and had a domino effect on almost every other sport. I learned to shoot a basketball right handed and I learned to swing a baseball bat right-handed, which led to me playing golf right-handed.

This made every sport at least twice as hard for me to learn, and it left me with a lifetime of struggle on the courts, fields, and fairways. 

6. I didn't request a lawyer during my series of interrogations before being arrested and tried for a crime I did not commit.

Assuming that if I requested a lawyer, I would appear guilty, and because I had no parent or other adult figure in my life when I was 21 years-old to support or guide me, I allowed myself to be interrogated by police three times over the course of two weeks without an attorney present and without anyone in my life knowing what was happening to me.

I'm not sure if things would've changed had I requested an attorney, but most attorneys who I've spoken with think it would've changed things considerably, and my arrest had a domino effect on my life:

I lost my job. I became homeless. I worked two full time jobs for almost two years to pay for a $25,000 legal bill, and while I was at one of those jobs, I was robbed at gunpoint, guns to my head and triggers pulled, which led me to a lifetime of PTSD. My planned entrance into college was derailed, and my life was essentially stalled for two years while I awaited for my trial and struggled to pay my lawyer. 

Eric Carmen's "Make Me Lose Control" is weird on many, many levels, including being inexplicably stuck in my head.

Standing in McDonald's yesterday morning, waiting to order, a song came on the sound system that I couldn't immediately identify but oddly knew by heart.

I started singing along and was shocked to discover I knew every single word.  

The song was Eric Carmen's "Make Me Lose Control." It was originally released in 1975 and then re-released following the success of Carmen's "Hungry Eyes" on the Dirty Dancing soundtrack. Apparently the song rose to #3 on the billboard charts that year, but I honestly have no recollection of ever hearing this song, and yet I know every word of it.

It's crazy.

I was never an Eric Carmen fan.
I never owned an Eric Carmen album.
It probably hasn't been played on the radio since 1990. 

Isn't that strange... knowing stuff so completing that you didn't know you knew?

A similar thing happened to me a couple years ago when I discovered that I also knew Richard Marx's "Should've Known Better" on a drive with Elysha to New York. Had you asked me if I knew the song before it came on the radio, I would've said no, but there it was, trapped in my brain.

Every damn word. 

Realizing that I knew the song caused me to watch the video, of course, which turned out to be interesting, too. 

The video opens on a beach with a woman listening to the radio. We hear a radio disc jockey and Eric Carmen listening to the end of "Hungry Eyes" and talking about the song as the scene shifts from the beach to the actual radio station. The DJ plays "Make Me Lose Control." Carmen and the DJ shake hands, and Carmen leaves.

Then the scene shifts again. Now Carmen is now driving in a car in the 1950's, recreating a famous scene from American Graffiti when Richard Dreyfuss sees a beautiful woman in a T-Bird who mouths the words, "I love you" but they never meet.

This is odd because Carmen is singing about how much he loves Jennifer, the girl presumably sitting beside him in the car. In order to mitigate this problem, the director puts three people in the car. Carmen (who oddly isn't driving) alongside a woman and a man. Perhaps we're supposed to believe the mystery woman in the T-Bird is Jennifer, but he never meets this woman but sings about Jennifer as if they've been in love for a long time.

It makes no damn sense. 

Carmen is also wearing the same clothing in the 1950's version of himself as he's wearing in the 1980's.

Also makes no damn sense.  

Now for the serious question:

Near the end of the video, we oddly flashback to the radio station for a moment, where the DJ is now throwing darts at the photo of a man on a wall.

Who is this person? Why is he throwing darts at his face? What the hell is going on here? Please tell me. 

The video then shifts back to the 1950's before once again returning to the radio station, where the DJ closes the song with classic DJ speak,  and we then return to the beach, where we hear the final bars of the song as the girl picks up her radio and heads off into the sun. 

That is a lot for a music video. That's meta before meta was a thing. 

Listening to a song being performed by its musician in the 1980's who then introduces his next song so he can go back to the 1950's to pretend to be someone else from a movie in the 1970's about the 1950's before returning to the radio station in the 1980's (absent the musician now) and finally the beach. 

Damn. 

Someone thought all of that would make for an excellent music video. 

Eleven is evil.

Just after the United States launched missile strikes against Syrian chemical weapons facilities, Secretary of Defense Jim Mattis said, "I've never seen refugees as traumatized as coming out of Syria. It’s got to end."

Sure, but over the last three years, the number of Syrian refugees admitted to the United States has been this:

2016: 15,479
2017: 3,024
2018: 11

Even though decades of immigration data and almost every economist in the world will tell you that refugees bring added wealth and prosperity to a nation through entrepreneurship, hard work, and an increasingly robust tax base, and even though Jesus himself was a refugee, Trump has all but stopped the flow of Syrian refugees to our country, and his Evangelical base continues to support him through this cruel and evil process.

Hush money paid to porn stars and Playmates. Accusations of sexual harassment and sexual assault from more than two dozen women. Bragging about sexually assaulting women. 

Evangelicals reject the veracity of these mounting charges and somehow sleep soundly at night. 

But you can't refute these immigration numbers. America has stopped saving the lives of Syrian refugees, despite our ability to do so, despite the economic logic of doing so, and despite the Secretary of Defense's claim that he's ""never seen refugees as traumatized as coming out of Syria. It’s got to end."

From 15,479 to 11. 

It's despicable. 

And this isn't really an issue of immigration because Trump himself stated that he would like more immigrants from places like Norway than "shit hole countries" like Syria. Trump has made his position very clear:

We will take immigrants from the wealthiest, most stable countries in the world, but your tired, your poor, and your huddled masses? 

Not so much. 

Then again, Syrian refugees pose another real problem for Trump:

Just like Jesus, they aren't white, and they aren't Christian. 

Since racism or religious bigotry are a hallmark of this administration, you can see why it would be hard for Trump to accept these brown skinned, Muslim refugees.

When you launched your political career with lies about Muslims on rooftops during 9/11 and been charged multiple times by the federal government with housing discrimination because of your refusal to rent to African Americans, it's clear that Syrian refugees aren't going to sit well with xenophobe in the White House.    

Meanwhile, men, women, and children die in Syrian refugee camps. These are men, women, and children who are willing to come to our country and work long and hard for a better life. 

I don't believe in a heaven and hell, but if they exist, this is the kind of thing that would cause a person to burn in eternity for sure. 

A moment of honest-to-goodness terror

Clara, my nine year-old daughter, early this morning:

"Dad, I'm kind of upset. I don't have any..."

Then she took a sip of milk, leaving me hanging for a moment, waiting for the next word. And in that moment between the word "any" and the next word, my brain fired off:

"Oh no, what's wrong? She doesn't have any what? Friends? Fun at school anymore? Self confidence? Self worth? Does she have no joy in her life? No parents who understand her soul? No reason to live?"

Then she finished her sip and continued. 

"...loose teeth."

"What?" I asked.

"Loose teeth," she repeated. "I don't have any loose teeth right now. I wish I had at least one."

Happily, thankfully, blessedly, I was able to laugh at her for this ridiculous complaint and move on with my day.

But for a second there, my whole world nearly came crumbling down. All things nearly took a backseat to my daughters desperate plea for love or attention or friendship or whatever. For a brief moment in time, the world became very dark and I struggled to see any light. 

She has no idea how much influence she has on my general state of happiness and satisfaction, and I hope she never does, or she'll have me in the palm of her hands. 

Worst decisions ever #1: My SportsCenter hat

I thought it might be fun to occasionally reveal some of the worst decisions of my life. 

Humiliation. Always fun. 

Here's one:

This purple SportCenter hat, which I purchased while on a tour of ESPN circa 1995 and wore religiously for more than two years, was not a good decision on my part.

A purple hat that advertises a television show is not exactly the way one should move though this world. Also, it was purple and cheaply made, so by year two of its tenure on my head, the sun had bleached it to an oddly pink hue.

And still I wore it. It was atrocious. 

Worst of all, I thought it was very cool. 

Although ESPN still sells SportCenter hats today, I have never seen another human being wearing one of these hats, and I live about 30 minutes from ESPN headquarters and have known my fair share of ESPN employees and on-air talent. 

That pretty much says it all.

My daughter meets Chelsea Clinton.

These are photographs of our little girl asking Chelsea Clinton a question about Malala at a lecture at Central Connecticut State University yesterday.

“Best day ever!” she shouted.

Maybe not best day ever, but possibly top 10 for Clara. Not only does she know Chelsea Clinton as a remarkable humanitarian, but her picture book, She Persisted: 13 American Women Who Changed the World, is one of her favorites.

Clinton's newest book, She Persisted: 13 American Women Who Changed the World, also features Malala Yousafzai, who Clara also loves. She's read several books about Malala and has even read portions of her adult memoir, I Am Malala. 

A special day for our girl.

Later, Clara met Clinton personally when she had her book signed. She shook Clinton's hand and exchanged a few words. Charlie, too. 

As an added bonus, Clinton loved the shirt that Elysha was wearing (and that I designed and gave to her for her birthday) and asked to take a photo her to show her mother.

I think Elysha was almost as excited as Clara at that moment.