That’s a lot of TV

In 2018, the average American spent 15 minutes per day reading for pleasure.

As an author, I’m appalled. I think.

If you read 15 minutes per day, that means you read 5,475 minutes per year. If you’re spending this time reading books, and it takes you about 10 hours to read your average book, that means the average American is reading about 9 books per year.

This isn’t great, but it’s also not terrible. It’s actually more than I would’ve guessed. Not high enough, to be sure, but it’s something.

I’ve published five books so far (with a sixth on the way in November), so it’s especially not terrible if five of those nine books are mine.

Meanwhile, the amount of time spent watching television was 2 hours and 50 minutes per day.

This number is horrific. This means that 45 days - 12% of the year - are being spent watching television by the average American. If you consider just the average number of waking hours per day, the number rises to almost 20% of the time. If you consider the average number of leisure hours per day, that number rises to an astonishing 56%.

More than half of leisure time in America is spent in front of the television.

But even that number seems relatively small compared to men over age 65. That particular group spends just over 5 hours of television per day in 2018.

Admittedly many of these men are retired and have more leisure time, but damn… retirement sucks.

Here’s the only positive spin I can find on these unfortunate numbers:

It doesn’t take much effort to use your time more wisely than the average American. When the average American is spending enormous amounts of time sitting on their couch, watching a screen, you can just get off the couch, go for a walk, and already be living a better life.

I picked up a hitchhiker. Not everyone is happy.

I picked up a hitchhiker on the way to Boston yesterday.

While pulling out of the Charlton Plaza rest area on the Mass Pike, I saw a woman standing in the grass just before the rest area’s onramp to the highway with her thumb extended. She looked like she was in her early thirties. Smiling. A small backpack affixed to her back. Dreadlocks.

She looked a lot like she might be hitching her way to a Grateful Dead concert.

I’ve picked up hitchhikers before, but not in at least 20 years, partly because hitchhikers are far less common on the roads today and also because I tend to also be on a schedule. In a rush. Trying to get somewhere on time.

I’ve picked up a bunch of people in more recent years who were caught walking in a rainstorm or snowstorm, but these were people surprised by weather. Not actively trying to get somewhere with their thumb.

But my gut said that there was nothing to fear from this woman. It was broad daylight on a busy interstate, and she was young, smiling, and seemed to have someplace to go. Like me, she had a destination somewhere to the east.

So I pulled over and offered her a ride. She accepted. Her name was Sophie. She was from Utica, New York, making her way to Portsmouth, NH to surprise her mom with an unplanned visit. She was a perfectly lovely person, and for the 50 miles that we shared the road together before I dropped her off at the rest area in Natick, MA, we talked about our lives, our families, our careers, and our hometowns.

At one point, early on in our ride, I asked her if she worried about getting picked up by a crazy person. “There are buses,” I told her. “You could probably just take a bus to Portsmouth.”

She told me that she liked hitchhiking. It was full of adventure and surprise. She liked meeting new people. She also told me that she almost never accepts rides from men and that far more women offer her rides.

“Three out of four people who offer me rides are women,” she told me.

“Then why’d you say yes to me?” I asked.

“You looked nervous,” she said. “Like you were more afraid of me than I was of you. And you have a car seat and books in the backseat, so I knew you have kids. People with kids aren’t axe murderers.”

I learned a lot about Sophie, and while the 50 mile trip wasn’t exactly an adventure for me, it was something different. I met another human being, spent about an hour with her, and then I said goodbye.

I called Elysha to tell her about my decision to pick up a hitchhiker, thinking she would find this cool.

She did not.

On Facebook, she posted:

“Matthew Dicks just informed me that on his way to Boston this evening he picked up a hitchhiker. She didn’t murder him, which is fortunate for me, because when he gets home I am going to.”

I understand. I really do. I’m not sure if I would want her picking up a hitchhiker, but I still didn’t think what I had done was wrong.

The vast majority of comments on Facebook sided with Elysha, though a few agreed with my decision. One commenter wrote:

“The last time I picked up a hitchhiker was when I was in college. Cute guy hitched at the same entrance ramp from UConn Storrs every Thursday and I picked him up a few times. Never amounted to more than a few rides to Manchester. I have given rides to people I didn’t know when it looked like they needed one. Live without fear. Tell the kids too. There are many more trustworthy people than not.”

I liked this comment a lot. And there is statistical evidence to support this claim.

This Vox piece entitled The forgotten art of hitchhiking — and why it disappeared explains that our fear of hitchhiking was not formed from the murders of young women at the hands of hitchhikers but from a few specific sources:

1. As cars became easier and cheaper to own, the perception of hitchhikers shifted from perfectly normal people in need of a ride to people who were probably problematic because they didn’t own cars.

2. Starting in the 1960s and '70s, some of the first laws against hitching were passed, and local and federal law enforcement agencies began using scare tactics to get both drivers and hitchhikers to stop doing it, including campaigns describing hitchhikers as murderers and rapists even though crime statistics do not support this claim. Hitchhikers aren’t any more dangerous than anyone else in this world when it comes to criminal behavior. In fact, you are far more likely to be raped or murdered by a friend, family member, or coworker than a stranger.

3. Movies featuring murderous hitchhikers lodged themselves in the American psyche in the 1970’s and 1980’s.

4. The fear of strangers has dramatically increased in the last 20 years even though crime has continued to plummet for those same 20 years.

I also think that mass media plays a huge role. When I was growing up, the Blackstone Valley sniper (which turned out to be two men) fired rifles into the homes of unsuspecting victims for a period of almost two months. Four people were injured, two seriously, in the series of at least 11 nighttime sniper incidents around the 1986 Christmas holidays in Cumberland and North Smithfield, RI and Bellingham, MA.

All towns surrounding my hometown of Blackstone. The shootings stopped after Gov. Edward DiPrete called out the National Guard to patrol the North Smithfield-Cumberland area.

Think about that:

The National Guard was patrolling the streets of American towns because an unknown assailant was shooting at people as they passed in from of their windows at night, but I’ll bet you never heard of it.

Why?

News was local. The crimes were plastered across the front page of every newspaper in the area where the shootings were taking place. My mother had us crawling through the living room at night lest we get shot. People were genuinely terrorized. The judge who sentenced the two men to 95 and 115 years in prison respectively said the crimes were “nothing short of a reign of terror perpetrated by two men for some perverse sense of release.”

But it never received a mention on the national news.

Conversely, when two men were firing a rife at motorists in the Washington, DC area a few years ago, the entire country knew about the crimes. We heard about each and every incident.

Even though the world gets safer every day, we think it’s getting more and more dangerous.

I like to think that my decision to pick up Sophie was a rejection of that belief. It was an acknowledgement that the vast majority of people are good. It was an affirmation that when the time and conditions are right - a young woman hitchhiking on the side of a busy interstate in broad daylight - we can lend a hand to a stranger.

People are generally good and kind and safe.

Yes, a considerable minority of Americans may inexplicably be supporting a racist, ignorant, corrupt President who brags about serial sexual assault and is running a short-sighted, chaotic administration designed for personal profiteering, but that doesn’t make them dangerous people.

Just bad decision makers. Partisan voters. Tribal. Self-serving.

If Elysha doesn’t want me picking up hitchhikers in the future, I will probably honor her request. She’s my wife, and she has that right.

But if she ever tells me that she picked up a young woman named Sophie while heading east on the Mass Pike and spent an hour getting to know her, I don’t think I’d mind one bit.

The world is safer than we think. Strangers are better than we think.

In the world of one Facebook commenter, “Live without fear.”

Within reason, of course.

Someone doesn't like how happy I am.

I learned this week that someone doesn’t like how happy I am. This person actually complains about my general level of joy, my persistent optimism, and my tendency to believe that all will turn out well.

All of these things are true, of course. I’m a happy, optimistic person who tends to believe that there is more good than bad in this world. More right than wrong.

I love my life. It’s not without problems, of course, and I’ve most definitely had my share of struggle, but when I think about where I once was and where I am now, how could I not be thrilled with my existence?

But now that I know that someone is actually unhappy - even angry - with my level of happiness…

I’m even happier.

Disney World Shouts and Murmurs

According to our phones, we walked a total of 61 miles in 7 days, though I almost never had my phone on my person for the half-day we spent at Blizzard Beach. This is astounding given the fact that our children walked every one of these miles, too, almost without complained.

The Disney World fireworks show stands alongside Hamilton and the original cast of Rent as one of the best things I’ve ever seen. Elysha and I were brought to tears while watching it.

Less than five minutes after arriving in the Magic Kingdom on the first day, a parade appeared in the middle of Main Street, complete with floats, dancers, and all the Disney characters. It was a joyous celebration and a perfect start to our Disney vacation. Later, as we approached Cinderella’s castle for the first time, a live show hosted by Mickey and Minnie erupted at the front gates, almost on cue. The Magic Kingdom’s timing - at least for us - was magical.

On the first night, Elysha decided to sleep on my side of the bed. As a result, she spent much of the night violently shoving me and elbowing me in her sleep, which made me feel less-than-wanted. We switched back the next night.

Two women were sitting together in the hotel pool, clearly a couple. At one point, they kissed - not gratuitously - but still earned the visible scorn of several people nearby. Damn I hate bigots.

Thanks to Laura, our remarkable trip planner, we waited in almost no lines during our entire stay at Disney. Well-planned FastPasses, secured weeks before the trip, combined with some clever managing of the FastPasses during the day, kept every wait except one under 15 minutes. I saw people waiting in line for three hours in the Florida heat to ride a very good roller coaster, but also just a damn roller coaster. People simply don’t understand the value and finite nature of time.

One of my favorite parts of our Disney vacation was walking though the FastPass lanes, passing hundred of sad souls who were waiting hours for a ride that I would be enjoying in moments. This makes me sound a little terrible, I know, but it has more to do with my extreme fondness of efficiency than the happiness I admittedly felt in knowing that forethought and planning had made my Disney experience better than theirs.

Elysha spent 20 minutes talking to a guy at the Moroccan pavilion oin Epcot about the meaning of a single word. I can’t believe the kids ands I didn’t kill her.

During Charlie’s battle with Kylo Ren as a part of his Jedi training, the Jedi Master said, “You must concentrate as a Jedi. It is critical to your success.” Clara leaned over and deadpanned, “I can’t be a Jedi. I have a hard time concentrating.”

Disney sound designers are astounding. Music shifts from location to location seamlessly. They have inexplicable ways of fading away music in one area using architectural features and brilliant soundscapes and bringing in new music by making you think it was always there.

We skipped the Hall of Presidents after hearing our friend, Mike Pesca, on The Gist talk about the round of applause that Trump received when his animatronic robot spoke. Elysha and I agreed that we simply couldn’t risk witnessing that during our otherwise delightful vacation.

Elysha was bitten on her belly by an angry, evil Floridian insect. When she went to the hotel management to ask if they recognized the bites, the hotel staff went into emergency bug mode. Paramedics were called to examine the bites, a hospital trip was offered, and an expert on insect identification came to our room at 11:30 PM to disassembled our beds down to the frame to ensure that the bites weren’t caused by bed bugs. The bites were awful, but to Elysha’s everlasting credit, she did not allow them to slow her down or ruin her trip.

I sent Charlie through airport security with a backpack containing a full bottle of Powerade and a carton of milk. He was not pleased with me when security stopped and questioned him.

Charlie made a friend from Tallahassee named Bobby who he played with for three straight evenings at the pool. On the last night, a thunderstorm cut our pool time short. As we walked back to our rooms with Bobby in tow, Charlie said, “I don’t think I’ll ever see you again, Bobby.” Bobby tried to imply that maybe they could reconnect if we visit again in a couple years since his family visits Disney regularly, but Charlie repeated, several times, “No, I don’t think I’ll ever see you again, Bobby.” I felt so sad for my little boy who had made such a good friend, but I felt worse for Bobby, who soul was crushed again and again by Charlie’s tragic repetition.

We met several great couples while visiting Disney, oftentimes on bus rides to and from the parks, and including two couples from Connecticut and one from Milford, MA, which is a town I spent a lot of time as a teenager. I got the sense that these were adults craving adult interaction after days of inescapable contact with their kids. I enjoyed talking to these folks, but I also couldn’t stop wondering if any of them - especially those from particularly red states - were Trump supporters. In the past, political differences would’ve meant little to me, but if you’re a Trump supporter today, you support a racist, sexist, bigot who brags about serial sexual assault, stole millions of dollars from the American people via a fake university, lies with impunity, defends Nazis, and attacks our intelligence agencies and longtime allies while simultaneously befriending mass murdering dictators who offer him nothing in return for his validation on the world stage. It’s different today. It’s not about politics. It’s basic human decency. I hated that this bit of curiosity lingered in the back of my mind so often during the trip.

Happily, those negative jackasses who warned me about the struggles and pain of spending a week at Disney with your kids were wrong. Not surprising, of course. If you’re the kind of person who would tell a parent on the cusp of his first Disney vacation with his kids that it won’t be fun, you’re the kind of person who probably doesn’t have a lot of fun in general. We had a fabulous time with nary a complaint from adult or child. It was a vacation to remember forever, and any negativity projected upon me before leaving only confirmed in my mind that I am a better human being than those people, thus making my trip even more enjoyable.

When Harry Met Sally, and When Matt Met Elysha

Yesterday, July 14, was the ten year anniversary of my publishing career, but today, July 15, is an even more important anniversary.

Today Elysha and I celebrate our thirteenth year of marriage.

I was recently listening to The Rewatchables, a podcast about films that people love to watch again and again. They were discussing When Harry Met Sally and debating how realistic it would be for Harry and Sally to end up together at the conclusion of the film. Both women on the podcast argued that although it’s the happier, more satisfying ending. these things don’t happen in real life.

Friends like Harry and Sally never marry. Improbable relationships never end up happily ever after.

I was debating the truth behind these jaded statements when it occurred to me that Elysha and my marriage was just as improbable as Harry and Sally’s marriage.

When I met Elysha in the waning days of summer of 2002, I was married to another woman and Elysha was engaged and just a few months away from being married to another man. Yes, my marriage wasn’t ideal, and yes, Elysha was beginning to have doubts about her engagement, but still, we were both committed to other people in long term, serious relationships.

Elysha and I first laid eyes on each other on a late August day during the first faculty meeting of the school year.

I remember thinking that Elysha was beautiful, young, and impossibly cool. The kind of girl who would never even look in my direction.

She remembers thinking of me as one of the cool kids, laughing and joking my way through that first meeting with my faculty friends.

We started out as colleagues, a single classroom separating our two classrooms. Our first real conversation took place during a hike with students around the lake at Camp Jewell in Colebrook, CT. Elysha was telling me about her upcoming wedding, and as a wedding DJ about five years at the time, I offered her advice on her upcoming wedding and told her about my own wedding.

An improbable movie moment if ever there was.

Eventually Elysha and I began friendly. She asked me to do her taxes. I dropped her off at the garage to pick up her car. She and I took students to lunch at The Rainforest Cafe at the end of the school year as part of a school fair raffle prize.

We were friendly, but after that meal, we said goodbye for the summer, never speaking until the beginning of the next school year.

We were friendly, but we certainly weren’t friends.

Elysha called off her engagement about two months before the wedding, and around that same time, I separated from my wife. Even then, we didn’t get together. After picking ourselves off the ground, we eventually began dating other people. Elysha was set up by a colleague and started an almost year-long relationship with another man. I dated a few people, including our school psychologist.

Our friendship, like Harry and Sally’s, deepened during that time, but still, there was no romance. We were simply good friends dating other people.

About a year later, as our relationships with those other people began to wane, we turned toward each other. In truth, I had noticed Elysha right from the start but had always assumed tat she was too beautiful and - more importantly - too cool to ever be interested in me. The fact that she was my friend was thrilling enough.

But as out late night phone calls grew longer and longer and we shared more and more of our lives with each other, I started to wonder if it was possible that Elysha Green could actually like me.

Like like me.

Elysha made the first move during a hike on Mount Carmel in Sleeping Giant State Forest. On the way down the mountain, she reached out and held my hand.

I couldn’t believe it.

Later that night, in the parking lot of our school, she told me that she liked me, and my response - chronicled recently on this blog - was, “I’m flattered.”

Don’t ask me why. I’m stupid sometimes.

Five minutes after she drove off, I replayed the conversation in my head and realized how stupid I had been.

“I’m flattered?” What was I thinking? She likes me!

I panicked.

I called and called to apologize and tell her that I liked her, too, but Elysha was famous back then (and now) for not listening to voicemail messages, so I went to bed worried that I had blown my chance with the coolest woman I had ever known.

Classic romantic comedy misconnection.

I corrected things the next morning, chasing her down and rejecting a note she had written to me asking if we could still be friends. That night, we kissed for the first time in the parking lot outside my apartment.

Two months later, we moved in together. Six months after that, I asked Elysha to marry me on the steps of Grand Central Terminal in New York City while two dozen friends and family secretly watched amongst the throng of holiday travelers.

On July 15, 2006, we were married.

Friends like Harry and Sally never get married? Improbable romances never work out?

Nonsense!

I could write a movie about our relationship - a great romantic comedy - and those two jaded women on the podcast would probably say the same thing:

A boy and girl meet at work. One is married. The other is engaged and about to be married. Their first conversation is about the girl’s pending nuptials. Over time, they become friendly.

Then the boy’s marriage ends in divorce. The girl calls off her engagement just a couple months before the wedding. They engage in new relationships with new people, all the while becoming better and better friends.

Those relationships with other people begin to fail, and then one day, while hiking together on a mountain, the girl reaches out and takes the boy’s hand.

His heart bursts with joy.

Later, she confesses her love to him. He fails to reciprocate because boy’s are stupid. Eventually he chases her down and corrects his mistake. Confesses his love.

They kiss. Marry.

Today they celebrate 13 years of marriage. They have two kids. A home. Two cats. A brilliant, beautiful life together.

“Yeah, right,” those women on the podcast would say. “Never happens.”

Improbable? Maybe.

Impossible? Nonsense.

Happy anniversary, honey.

Three amusing Disney moments

When riding alongside with me on his very first ride, Peter Pan’s Flight, Charlie took one look at Disney’s remarkable animatronic characters and shouted, “Robots!”

Later that day, when riding alongside me in The Haunted House, he pointed at a group of ghosts dancing together in a ballroom and shouted “Projections!”

The boy is ruled by logic.

Yet when we watched Tinker Bell streak across the sky at the end of the Magic Kingdom fireworks show, he declared that as proof that fairies were real, as he’s always argued.

He’s ruled by logic, but he can still be fooled.
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After walking by a group of rowdy teenagers, Charlie asked Elysha what it was like when she was a teenager. Then he told us that teenage boys are crazy. “So I’m just warning you”.

He’s seven years-old and is already trying to prepare us for his teenage rebellion.

_________________________________________

I overheard three very stupid people in the course of 30 minutes while walking through Animal Kingdom:

1. A man in the tiger exhibit asked a staff member where he could ride a tiger. When the staff member said he didn’t know of any place where that was possible. the man insisted that it was true because his grandmother had once told him that she had seen people ride tigers before, and he had been looking for those tigers ever since.

2. A few minutes later, we walked by large monkeys walking and swinging on cables overhead. A man began arguing with his wife, claiming that the monkeys were just humans dressed in monkey suits.

3. About a minute after that, I overheard a young man explaining to a young lady that Disney Paris and Disney Tokyo and Disney Shanghai are so much better than Disney World, but Disneyland is the best. “You can judge these parks by their pirates,” he explained. “Good pirates mean a good park. Disneyland’s pirates are the most committed to the roles.”

It was ten minutes of astonishment on my part. Not quite as astonishing as tigers and monkeys and little boys preparing to become rebellious teenagers, but still pretty surprising.

Best and worst of our Disney adventure

For the last seven days, my family and I have been vacationing at Disney World in Orlando, Florida. I have purposely not written about the trip until now - as we fly home - because telling the world that your cats are being fed by neighbors and visited by your friends but your house is otherwise empty isn’t a great idea.

But now that I'm just a few hours from home, I have much to share.

I’ll start with this:

My least favorite part of the trip were the moments when I witnessed parents losing their patience with a child and saying something - both in tone and words - that broke my heart. Thankfully, I didn’t see this too often, but I remember those unfortunate moments all too well.

My favorite parts of the trip were the many, many times when Clara and Charlie thanked us for bringing them to Disney World. The multitude of moments when they told us how happy and excited they felt and how grateful they were. Their unprompted remarks of appreciation meant the world to me.

Yes, there were amazing rides and joyous parades and a fireworks show that left both Elysha and me in tears, but not surprising, it was the words and smiles of our children that I loved most.

Perhaps we don't disagree on sleep as much as you think. Perhaps.

Yesterday I bestowed favored animal status to the giraffe, based primarily on its ability to sleep less than 30 minutes per day. People were surprised - as they often are - by how much I hate to sleep, and particularly how irritated I am every night when I need to fall asleep.

In response, many readers and friends declared their everlasting love for sleep.

Here’s a question I’d like to pose:

Do people really like to sleep, or do they like to fall asleep and possibly wake from sleep?

Since human beings are functionally unconscious while they sleep, the ability to take pleasure in the act of sleeping seems almost impossible. You can certainly love the subsequent feeling of renewal and vigor that sleep has on your body and mind, but when sleep is actually taking place, it’s impossible to experience pleasure in the act of sleeping because you’re not aware of your surroundings or even of your own body.

Is your arm under the pillow? Resting on your chest? Draped over a loved one? You don’t know, so how is it possible to experience any kind of pleasure given that level of unconsciousness?

Do people really love to sleep, or alternatively, do people enjoy occupying a horizontal position in a space of comfort and relaxation, unburdened from the expectations of the world?

This is what they really love when they profess their love for sleep. Right? They actually adore that period of time prior to sleep and immediately following sleep. The feeling of coziness. The removal of most of the physical demands on the body. The ability to push aside responsibilities and worries for a period of time.

Isn’t this - and not the unconscious state of sleep that follows - what people love?

Shouldn’t people be saying:

“I love assuming a horizontal position on a soft surface, my head slightly elevated by similarly soft surfaces, while simultaneously covered by soft linens. And while in that position, I enjoy closing my eyes and pushing the worries and cares of the world aside for a time.”

Isn’t this - and not the unconscious state that follows - the thing that people love?

I’m just asking.

Though I hate to sleep and am genuinely irritated almost every night with the need to stop my life for a period of time to recharge my brain, I admittedly enjoy lying down in my soft bed (particularly if my wife is present) and assuming a position of comfort.

That part of sleep is great. No complaints whatsoever. If that part could last about 15-30 minutes, and if I could remain conscious for the entire time, I would also profess my love for sleep. The problem is that I remain conscious for less than a minute before I drift off into stupid, unproductive, unconscious sleep for a ridiculous 4-6 hours.

Yes, it’s true. I despise sleep. But lying down in a soft place beside my wife for a little while? That sounds great, just as long as I can remain conscious and therefore aware of the enjoyment that I’m experiencing.

Isn’t this how you feel, too?

Again, just asking.

New favorite animal for a damn good reason

I have a new favorite animal, people. Prior to today, my favorite animal was the badger because it’s one of the only animals (other than humans) that kills for sport.

But I mostly said that to annoy people.

My new favorite animal is the giraffe, and for good reason. I just learned that giraffes sleep less than 30 minutes per day in naps that are 2-6 minutes long at a time.

I’m so impressed. Also envious. While the stupid humans are sleeping away a quarter to a third of their lives, giraffes are making the most of every moment.

As I climbed into bed last night, I honestly thought, “I can’t wait for this stupidness to be over.”

Though I recognize the importance and need for sleep, and I take my actual sleep time very seriously, I am almost never happy about going to bed. Most of the time, I’m genuinely irritated about the whole thing.

To sleep just 30 minutes per day would be amazing.

I also learned that giraffes only drink water every few days. Most of the water they need to survive is processed through the food they eat.

Also highly efficient and impressive.

Sadly, because they need to eat 75 pounds of food per day to survive, giraffes spend many of their waking hours eating. Then again, it’s not like they can read a book or attend a Patriots game or write a novel or catch a Broadway show, so in that case, why not eat? Eating all day isn’t a bad way to spend your day given the giraffes’ limited menu of options.

Lest you think giraffes are docile and easy prey for predators, think again. Although they're more likely to run from an attack than fight back, a swift kick from one of their long legs can do serious damage to—or even kill—an unlucky lion.

I like this a lot. Whenever possible, avoid a fight., But when your back is to the wall, know how to throw a good punch.

On top of that, giraffes live about 25 years in the wild and twice that age in captivity, which isn’t long by human standards but is considerable in the animal world. They don’t live as long as a tortoise or an African elephant or a macaw, and they aren’t immortal like certain types of jellyfish, but who wants to be a jellyfish?

I believe in carefully choosing choosing your favorite animal. You need a reason to award an animal that coveted most favorite status. I’ve always loved giraffes, and my heart always leaps when I see them in zoos, and now I know why.

Not only are they beautiful, but they are an animal who shares my philosophy of making every moment count by achieving maximum efficiency in all things.

Important notes on this Fourth of July 2019

1. I’ll never understand the fascination of some people to light their own fireworks, which are always subpar in comparison to the real thing and occasionally result in serious injuries, permanent maiming, and house fires.

2. When I was growing up in Massachusetts, the purchase or ownership of fireworks was illegal. This, in my mind, made a hell of a lot of sense, even as a child.

3. Only 58% of Americans understand what actually happened on July 4, 1776 (which is almost nothing, since the vote for independence was actually taken on July 2, 1776), but still… c’mon people. You should know what we’re celebrating today.

4. Presidents Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and James Monroe - Founding Fathers who all played important roles in the Revolutionary War - died on July 4. I don’t support death, but if you’re going to die, I appreciate a well-timed demise.

5. Meteorologists are predicting extreme heat and intense thunderstorms in Washington, DC today. Given that Trump has illegally diverted money from the US Park service to pay for his vanity project and politicized the event by giving VIP tickets to wealthy Republican donors, I’m happy to see that Mother Nature has decided to spoil his party at least a little bit.

6. Military leaders, reportedly extremely uncomfortable with the politicization of the armed forces by Trump, have refused to allow tanks to drive down the streets of Washington. Instead, two tanks will be placed on flatbed trucks and remain stationary throughout the day, so what Trump once envisioned as a military parade is now a slightly more intense version of your everyday Touch-a-Truck event. Another reason to celebrate.

7. My favorite Fourth of July celebrations took place on my grandparents’ farm. I grew up next door to my grandparents, and nothing was better than smelling the burgers and the hot dogs from by backyard and running up the hill to celebrate.

8. Please take a moment today amidst the parades, fireworks, and hot dogs to reflect upon the sacrifices made by our Founding Fathers, who built this country through sweat, blood, and desire. As for me, I’ll be thinking about Samuel Whittemore, who might just be the toughest old guy in the history of the world.

   Born in England in 1694, Whittemore went to North America in 1745 as a captain in the British army, where he fought in King George's War (1744-48) at the age of 50 and the French and Indian War (1754-63) at the age of 64.

   Then on April 19, 1775, at the age of 80, he engaged British forces returning from the Battles of Lexington and Concord at the onset of the Revolutionary War.

Whittemore was in his fields when he spotted an approaching British relief brigade under Earl Percy, sent to assist the retreat. Whittemore loaded his musket and ambushed the British from behind a nearby stone wall, killing one soldier. He then drew his dueling pistols and killed a grenadier and mortally wounded a second. By the time Whittemore had fired his third shot, a British detachment reached his position; Whittemore drew his sword and attacked. He was shot in the face, bayoneted thirteen times, and left for dead in a pool of blood. He was found alive, trying to load his musket to fight again. He was taken to Dr. Cotton Tufts of Medford, who perceived no hope for his survival. However, Whittemore lived another 18 years until dying of natural causes at the age of 98.

In 2005, Whittemore was proclaimed the official state hero of Massachusetts. Not bad considering this is a state that produced such wartime heroes as Paul Revere, Israel Putnam, John Hancock, Robert Shaw and John Kennedy.

All great men, but if I were sent to war, I’d choose Samuel Whittemore to stand on my side above them all.

Happy Fourth of July everyone.

Your negativity sucks. Shut up.

Elysha and I are taking the kids to Disney World for a week. It will be their first time frolicking at the Magic Kingdom.

I can’t wait.

Elysha visited Disney World as a child, but I did not. My first visit came when I was about 19 years old. My best friend, Bengi, and I drove from Massachusetts to Orlando to visit the Magic Kingdom.

I spent most of my time chasing after a girl.

Elysha and I were fortunate enough to have our friend and Disney expert plan the trip. Our meals are planned. Reservations made. Fast passes are secured. Wrist bands and luggage tags have arrived. An Amazon Prime shipment of snacks and other necessities is scheduled to arrive in our room just as we land in Florida.

Everything is ready to go.

As we’ve mentioned our upcoming Disney trip to various friends and acquaintances, their reactions have fallen into two distinct camps:

1. Excitement about our upcoming adventure

2. Warnings about the potential pitfalls of a trip to Disney World

As you might imagine, I adore the people in the first category and am astounded and appalled by those in the latter category.

It’s shocking how negative people can be when you tell them that you’re planning a vacation to Disney. They groan. They complain about the heat and humidity. They warn you about the long lines and large crowds. They whine about the drudgery of dragging kids through the parks. One person actually warned me about how annoyingly happy everyone will be.

Sadly, these awful, negative jackasses outnumber the folks who are excited for us by at least 2:1.

What is wrong with these people? How awful and dreary must your life be to denigrate Disney World to an excited parent? How stupid and sad must you be to listen to a smiling, happy father talk about how excited he is to bring his kids to the Magic Kingdom and then spend the next ten minutes warning him about the heat?

These are probably the same rotten souls who tell glowing, pregnant women how challenging and impossible parenting will be. Probably the same sad sacks who spend most of the Christmas season complaining about the crowds and shopping.

If you are one of these people who thinks that warning parents about the pitfalls of Disney World is a good idea, STOP.

You’re not helping.

Also, no one wants to hear it. People probably don’t like you.

I certainly don’t.

I was explaining this post to my ten year-old daughter, Clara, when she said, “Sometimes I feel negative about things. I can’t help it. But I’d never try to make someone else feel the same way I was feeling, especially if they looked excited or happy. That would just be mean.”

Exactly.

So if you’re about to tell a parent why their trip to Disney won’t be as magical as they’re hoping, shut your stupid mouth. Take a lesson from my daughter. She gets it.

So should you.

Good week in the press

The Hartford Courant’s Christopher Arnott was kind enough to include me in his piece, The Nine Muses Of Summer In Connecticut: A Divine Arts Preview.

He writes:

“The muse of storytelling in Connecticut is Matthew Dicks, a Moth StorySLAM champion and bestselling author who’s taught many of the top storytellers in the state. Dicks is leading a weeklong “Storytelling Boot Camp” July 29 through Aug. 2 at the Connecticut Historical Society Museum and Library, 1 Elizabeth St., Hartford.”

That’s some serious kindness.

That bootcamp is already sold out. Remarkably, the roster includes two folks from China, one from British Columbia, one from San Diego, and one from Illinois.

Kind of crazy. Huh?

And a lot of pressure. I’ve recently had folks from Montreal, Maryland, and Kansas City attend my workshops, and though the day always goes well and my instruction is well received, I feel a lot of added pressure to perform considering the distances traveled.

China? British Columbia?

The next day, a piece on Latestly.com featured one of my tweets directed at Donald Trump in response to one of his tweets in which he oddly (though now routinely) complimented himself in the third person.

No wonder why he has not actual friends. Can you imagine spending time with someone who talks like this?

The writers of the piece quoted my tweet in their piece.

"Don’t you see how pathetic and needy this sounds? People all over the world are laughing at you, Donald. Laughing at your sad, desperate need for attention and praise," commented noted author Matthew Dicks.

See that?

“Noted author.”

I’m not sure how true that really is, but it was fun to see! And it’ll be something I can look back upon with fondness when someone isn’t so kind to me in print, because that happens, too.

My recommendation to you

On Tuesday night, I told a story at a Moth StorySLAM in Cambridge, MA and won.

It was my 40th victory in a Moth StorySLAM.

When I think back to my very first Moth StorySLAM - back in July of 2011 at the Nuyorican’s Poet’s Cafe in New York City, it would’ve been hard to imagine that 8 years, I would win 40 StorySLAMs and 6 GrandSLAMs.

I like to win, so it feels great, and I love entertaining audiences with stories of my life, but there were even better, more impossible-to-imagine moments from that night:

The person who accompanied me to the slam was a friend named Kevin. Kevin and I grew up in the same small, Massachusetts town on the same street - just one grade apart - yet we were never friends while growing up. But we managed to reconnect on Facebook years later, and back in 2013, when Elysha and I produced our first Speak Up show at Real Art Ways in Hartford, Kevin surprised us by driving from his home in Massachusetts to attend.

Since then, he’s attended several Speak Up events. I’ve appeared on his podcast. We’ve become friends. I never would’ve imagined becoming friends with someone from my childhood so much later in life.

Even better, the host of the StorySLAM and two of the storytellers who made it to the stage on Tuesday night have also appeared on a Speak Up stage, and two of them have also been featured on our podcast.

Moth royalty meets Speak Up.

Even better, there were at least eight people in the audience on Tuesday night who I had taught in one of my storytelling workshops. At least six of them were introduced to storytelling and The Moth via my workshops, and at least two of them had put their names in the hat.

As a teacher, it’s always thrilling to see your students engaging with the world, taking risks, and trying new things. Sitting amongst them and performing for them was a gift.

But best of all, as I was pulling open the door to my car at the end of the night, I was stopped by a young woman who had been sitting in the audience. She told me that she’s seen me perform many times in Boston, and that my stories convinced her to call her mother after years of estrangement. It wasn’t a story about my mother or anything related to parents or children that helped her make the phone call. It was just my willingness to share so much onstage.

“I figured that if you could tell stories like that to strangers, I could call my mother.”

That was the best part of the night.

In July of 2011, I went to a Moth StorySLAM in New York City with the intention of telling one story and never returning to the stage again. Instead, impossible-to-imagine things have happened.

Recently, while being interviewed for a podcast, the host asked me where I see myself in ten years. I told her that it was a ridiculous question.

Last year I was teaching storytelling on a Mohawk reservation to Native Americans. I was substitute ministering at Unitarian Universalist churches. Elysha and I had a United States Senator telling a story on our Speak Up stage. I went to work as a storytelling consultant for one of the largest advertising firms in America.

I could’ve predicted none of this.

Just this year I’ve taught storytelling at Yale, MIT, and Harvard. I had people drive from Kansas City, Maryland, Toronto, and Philadelphia to attend my workshops. This summer two people from China and a person from San Diego will be flying to Connecticut to attend my storytelling bootcamp.

It’s crazy.

Craziest of all, a young woman living in Belmont, Massachusetts is now talking to her mother again because I told some stories onstage.

There is no predicting.

But what I know for sure of that none of this happens if I don’t find the courage in 2011 to take a stage in New York and tell a story. I won my first StorySLAM that night, and as satisfying as it was to win my 40th slam on Tuesday night, the victories are a lovely bonus to a life transformed and made immensely more interesting and meaningful thanks to a stage, a microphone, and a story..

Thanks to engaging with the world. Taking risks. Trying new things.

I can’t recommend it enough.

This place that I love will soon be no more

In just a few days, the school where I have taught for 20 years will finally be bulldozing the “portable” classrooms that were affixed to the end of the building long before my arrival and had become decidedly less portable than originally intended.

This is a big deal to me because it means that they will be bulldozing Elysha’s old classroom, where we first met and fell in love.

I hate this.

I proposed to Elysha in Grand Central Station because she once told me that it was her “favorite room in the world. ” But I also chose it because I knew it would still be standing decades after my proposal. I wouldn’t have to worry about someday pointing to the site of some former restaurant and saying, “There it is, kids. I know it’s a sex shop today, but 18 years ago, that was the site of a lovely little Italian restaurant where I proposed to your mom.”

Grand Central will be standing for a long, long time, but Elysha’s former classroom, which for me is just as important, has only a few days or weeks left before it will be turned to rubble.

I stopped by the school yesterday to spend a few minutes in the space and take some photographs. The memories came back in waves.

The time - long before we were dating - when Elysha asked me to help her with her taxes. Wanting to date Elysha but never thinking it possible, I remember sitting beside her at a table in the back of the room, taking far longer than necessary to complete her 1040EZ just so I could spent a few extra minutes with her.

The afternoon when she first read to me a series of letters that she had collected from years before from a pair of overly-involved, possibly mentally ill parents who wrote the most hilarious, ridiculous, outrageous letters to her on an almost daily basis. Listening to her read and breathe life to these unbelievable parental requests and ridiculous protestations is something I will never forget.

The 2002 holiday season when I had paid money to a colleague to manipulate our annual Secret Santa so that I could be Elysha’s Secret Santa. I hid presents around her room, each beginning with a letter of the alphabet that eventually spelled my name.

She later said that she knew it was me from the very first gift.

After we were dating, the many times when I would leave her messages to her - on her white board, chart paper, hidden beneath papers on her desk - professing my love for her.

Those beautiful memories and so many more.

But the memory that I will always remember most took place the morning after Elysha had professed her affection for me for the first time in the parking lot of my apartment complex. Because I had just ended a relationship, and because she was ending one, too, I wasn’t sure what to say when she told me she liked me - mostly because I’m stupid - so when the girl who I already loved said those incredible, impossible words to me, I said, “Thank you,” and allowed her to drive away.

Realizing what I had done about five minutes after she was gone, I called her desperately, repeatedly,, but in those days, Elysha was famous for never turning on her phone, so every call went to voicemail. Absent the ability to send a text message or even an email, I left a voice message pleading for forgiveness and professing my affection for her, too.

“I like you! I like you! I’m sorry! I like you, too!”

The next morning, I raced to school and met her in her classroom before the school day began. As I charged into her classroom and approached her desk, she stood and handed me a letter.

“Did you listen to your voicemail?” I asked.

“No,” she said. Then before I could speak, she said, “I’m sorry. I know that was awkward last night. I hope we can still be friends.”

“No!” I said, snatching the letter from her hands. “I was stupid. I like you, too. I reject this letter. I was so stupid. Forget everything that happened last night, except for the part when you said you liked me. That was the only good part. Please forgive me for being so stupid. I like you, too. I like you a lot.”

Happily, Elysha was willing to see past my ridiculous, terrible, unforgivable “Thank you,” from the night before. We began dating.

It was March 31, 2003.

Eight months later, on December 28, 2003, I took a knee at the top steps in Grand Central Station while two dozen friends hid amongst the throngs of travelers below and proposed to the love of my life.

I never read that letter. I threw it into the trashcan as soon as I left her classroom, never wanting to see the words.

Now the room where all those wonderful and amazing things took place will be no more. Someday soon, I’ll find myself pointing to a spot in a parking lot and saying, “Look kids. See where that Toyota is parked. In that spot, a long time ago, your mother forgave me for being so stupid and gave me a second chance.”

It just won’t ever be the same.

The last day of school suddenly became very interesting

The last day of a school year can be a strange day for both teachers and students.

On the one hand, it’s a celebration. Students and teachers looking ahead at long, lazy summer days. But it’s also bittersweet for most of us. A breaking of a family that will never be whole again.

For my students, the last day of school also signals a momentous step forward to middle school. They are departing a place that has kept them safe and happy for six years.

For some students, it’s smiles and excitement.

For many, it’s sadness and tears.

As a teacher, I find myself wondering if I’ve done enough. Have I prepared them well enough for their middle school adventure? Are they ready to take on new challenges?

I worry about my kids. I can’t help it.

I found myself worrying a lot on Friday. It was the last day of school, and my students weren’t exactly being their best selves. As I tried to read to them, they were chatty and distracted. A couple of them made some poor choices as the day wore on. As I tried to make the most of our final hours together, I felt like some of my kids were doing the opposite.

It was frustrating and sad. And I worried. Are they behaving like this because I didn’t do enough?

A few hours later Elysha and I having dinner together on the patio of a local restaurant, talking about how challenging my day was, when the server arrived at my table and said, “Mr. Dicks?”

I looked up. Standing in front of me was a tall, young man who I didn’t recognize. He was smiling.

I stood up. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Who are you?”

“It’s me,” he said. Then he told me his name. I couldn’t believe it.

Had you asked me before this moment to name the student who I worried about the most in my teaching career, this young man would’ve been on my short list. Maybe at the top of my short list.

I had taught this boy 14 years ago when he was a much smaller third grader. He was a smart boy back then, but he was challenging to say the least. For a multitude of reasons, his path did not seem very bright. I had thought about him many times over the years, and my heart was always filled with worry.

A couple years ago, I had even tried to find him online without success. A few mentions of a high school football career but nothing more.

Now he was standing before me.

We embraced. I asked him how he was doing. He told me that he’d just completed his junior year in college. Preparing to begin his senior year in September. Working his butt off this summer to save money.

College. I couldn’t believe it.

Near the end of the meal, when he brought me the check, he asked if I’m still teaching Shakespeare to kids. I told him I was. “The kids performed Macbeth this year.”

Then he quoted me a few lines from the play he had performed when he was a kid. The Taming of the Shrew. He even threw in a couple of lines from Macbeth that he had remembered for good measure.

Then he told me that he’s still playing chess, a game I had taught him when he was a boy.

I couldn’t believe it. All that worrying had been for naught. He had overcome his struggles and found success. He was on the path to a good career and a great life.

I was so happy for him. So relieved.

Sometimes, in a moment of great need, as you’re worrying that you haven’t done enough for your students, the universe can be very kind to you.

That was the case for me last Friday. That young man arrived exactly when I needed him most.

I still can’t believe it.

The utterly unnecessary letter of recommendation

I was writing a recommendation letter yesterday for a friend and former colleague. It was the fourth such letter of recommendation that I’ve written in the month of June.

Though writing these letters takes time, I always find a great deal of joy in memorializing in words how I feel about the person to whom I’m recommending. Oftentimes these are people who respect and admire a great deal, so I’ve always viewed the writing of these letters of recommendation as a blessing. It’s my opportunity to let the person know exactly how I feel about them and how much they have meant to me.

It occurred to me while writing yesterday’s letter that I’ve been working at my present job for 20 years. For two full decades, I have been teaching elementary school at the same school, and for the last 17 years, I’ve been teaching in the very same classroom.

It’s been a long, long time anyone has written me a letter of recommendation.

As I was writing yesterday’s letter, I commented to a colleague who has also been working at our school for a long time how unfortunate it is that we don’t change jobs more often. While I write glowing letters of recommendation about my friends and colleagues all the time - letters that undoubtedly bring at least a little bit of joy to them - I haven’t had a letter like this written about me in forever.

Also, the last people to write my letters of recommendation were likely college professors and cooperating teachers who had only known me for a few months at most. Not exactly the kind of people who can speak with any authority or veracity about my skill and expertise.

I’m not saying that I need this kind of praise and validation of my colleagues and administrators. As some might attest, I probably feel a little too good about myself at times.

But still, it would be nice.

But since I don’t see myself going anywhere anytime soon (or ever), I may have received the very last letter of recommendation of my life.

But this has given me an idea:

In my ongoing campaign to write and mail 100 letters in 2019, I have decided to identify colleagues and friends who have been working in the same job for a long period of time and write them utterly unnecessary letters of recommendation:

Glowing reports on how dedicated, skilled, and talented they truly are even though they aren’t changing jobs.

Why should someone have to wait until they jump ship to find out how their colleagues feel about them? I’m going to let them know now, when it might mean even more to them.

I’m excited about this idea.

The cusp of summer

He’s been waiting all year to make use of this gift.

The bathtub doesn’t quite cut it.

Just three more days until summer vacation for him, his sister, and his parents.

There are so many blessings to being a teacher, but as teachers with young children, there are none greater than the two months that Elysha and I will enjoy with our kids. My former principal, Plato Karafelis, used to say that choosing teaching as your profession is a lifestyle choice. You may not earn as much as your neighbor, but some things are more precious than dollars.

Summertime with your children is one of them.

This is a truly precious time in the lives of our kids, who won’t be little forever, and I’m so very happy to know that I will be spending so much of this time over the next two months with them.

I plan on making every moment count.

Nevers

Knowing that I have a novel coming out in November written solely in list form, a friend recently offered me her “Never List.”

It was good.

So I made my own. I encourage you to make one and share as well. _____________________________________________

• Never used an illegal drug in my entire life

• Never bought a lottery ticket

• Never smoked a cigarette

• Never tasted coffee

• Never watched a single episode of The Bachelor, The Real Housewives of Wherever, or anything involving a Kardashian

• Never swore in the presence of my mother

• Never shoplifted

• Never taken a selfie

Winners get ice cream. Losers get nothing.

I was sitting at Charlie's Little League game yesterday, thinking that we might get some ice cream if the game ended early enough, when I suddenly remembered something from my childhood:

When I was playing Little League baseball, you only went for ice cream if you won the game.

As a boy, this made sense to me.

To the victor go the spoils. Winning is rewarded. Champions receive trophies.

But just imagine what might happen if the Little League coaches of today decided that only the winning team of each game would be rewarded with an ice cream cone.

I think parents might lose their minds.

I’m not sure how I feel about this.

As a boy, I know this made perfect sense to me. I remember how exciting it was to pull out of the parking lot, waving my orange cap outside an open car window, knowing that I would be devouring victory ice cream soon.

I always wanted to win the game, but the ice cream was truly the cherry on top.

And I remember losing, too. Heading home absent any frosty reward, thinking that next time, we needed to win so I could get my ice cream cone.

Winners celebrated with frosty treats. Loser got nothing.

This all made sense to me. There were no tears. No pleading. No upset feelings. I think I would’ve been embarrassed to show up at the ice cream shack if my team hadn’t won the game.

The ice cream shack was a place for winners.

But today? I don’t know.

Charlie is playing in a developmental league right now. Coaches are pitching much of the game, and instruction takes place throughout the game. Runs are scored, but the number of runs scored doesn’t matter. Even the kids aren’t keeping track yet. But assuming that Charlie continues playing next year, he will eventually find himself in baseball games where box scores are kept and winners and losers are ultimately determined.

How I would I feel if only the winning team drove off for ice cream after each game?

I’m not sure. Honestly, I think it makes sense to me, but I’m writing while Charlie is asleep in his bed. I’m not faced with a downtrodden boy and his disappointment over his team’s failure to score more runs than his opponent. I’m not battling the notion that he tried his best, so perhaps effort should be rewarded, too.

Maybe I would crack. Maybe Charlie would get ice cream, too. I’m not sure.

But here is the one thing I know for sure:

I’m glad my parents and my coaches didn’t crack. I’m glad I only received ice cream if my team won. It made the victories that much sweeter. And it made sense to me.

Things I Do #14: I assume the world has ended.

When I look at my phone and see “No Service” in an area where I know there is service, my first thought - every single time - is, “Oh no. Nuclear attack. EMP attack. Something bad. The world is ending.”

Then two or three bars appear, and I spend the next hour walking around like a man who has just visited the land of the dead.