I like this song. It's always a hit when I play it at a wedding.
But the video has not aged well. In fact, I would argue that it's become nearly unwatchable. If Michael Jackson were alive today, it would behoove him to scrub it completely from the Internet.
It's not good in a really not good way.
The oddity of being a writer is this
You often find yourself constantly explaining that yes, it's true. You are in fact a published writer. A paid writer. A professional writer. A person whose career is to assemble words in an entertaining and informative order.
While eating large amounts of protein at a tailgate recently, my friend, Shep, joked about how you never know when something you say or do might end up in one of my books.
"Wait," the guy standing next to me said. "You really write books?"
"Yes," I said.
"Real books?" he asked. "Like on Amazon?"
Happily, Shep came to my rescue. "Yes, he publishes books. He gets paid to write them. He writes for magazines and other stuff, too."
I was happy for the assist. It's always awkward to justify your existence. Always a little embarrassing to be forced to validate your career. Sometimes I wish I had a business card that read:
"Yes, I'm a writer. I've published four novels and have three more, plus a nonfiction book on storytelling, coming out in the next two years. My books have been translated into more than 25 languages, and one of them is an international bestseller. Three are optioned for film. I also write the humor column for a regional magazine and occasional for publications like Parents magazine. And I've been writing a daily blog for more than a decade. Also, I'm not rich. I'm not close to being rich."
Hand the card over and end the interrogation.
"Interrogation" is not an exaggeration. I can't tell you how many times I tell someone that I'm a writer (or Elysha tells someone that I'm a writer) and we are immediately bombarded with questions about the validity of my claim. Questions that include:
And the shockingly common:
Do you sell your books out of the back of your car?
I suppose there are other professions that get similar questions. If I was a professional baseball player, actor, sculpture, or musician, I might be asked to justify my career, too.
But why?
If asked what you do for a living, and your answer is, "I'm in a band," you should not be required to provide a tax return in order to prove that you make money playing your guitar and singing backup vocals in your folk-metal fusion quartet.
Or that yes, people buy my naked lady sculptures for their gardens. Or yes, I am paid to perform Shakespeare onstage. Or yes, I'm the backup catcher for the Rochester Redwings of the International League.
I suppose that because their are no amateur attorneys or accountants or astronauts, it is presumed that these people earn a living from these pursuits, and thus proof of income is not required.
After all, I've performed in local theater and never been paid. And my son came home yesterday with a sculpture of a mouse that has yet to receive any offers from collectors. And yes, there was a time when I was writing and not earning any money for my efforts.
Still, when someone asks what I do for a living, and I say writer, it would be nice if people would assume that "earning a living" means "Yes, I get paid to write stuff."
For the first time in the history of the world, a company wants you to pee on their magazine ad, and it's brilliant.
It's rare that a document can bring joy to my heart and enrage me all at the same time.
King Jordan, the student who wrote this journal response, clearly has strong and justifiable feelings about Columbus Day and the reality of the explorer's accomplishments. While his journal response might not be the most measured and thoughtful reflection of his learning that day, he is being both honest and passionate. A teacher should be thrilled with a journal response like this.
I would be. I loved this journal response. I admired it.
King is also a kid. While he was admittedly not as respectful in his response as I might like, he should be afforded some latitude when it comes to expressing his feelings in writing. He was angry. He felt powerless. And he's a kid, damn it. Give him a break. He's writing. Finding his voice. Experimenting with the craft. Help him write a more respectful and perhaps effective response, but celebrate this attempt. Cheer him on. Encourage this level of passion and honesty always.
Instead, the teacher makes a bunch of terrible choices. Rather than being open to criticism and the possibility of divergent thinking, he reacts emotionally and defensively. He takes his student's criticism personally.
Instead of offering the constructive criticism that this student deserves, he responds in a single sentence, and his feedback is both irrelevant and thin-skinned. He also puts this meaningless and atrocious feedback in writing, thus making it both public and permanent. He doesn't encourage further conversation or reflection. He simply tells his student that he doesn't like what he wrote and that it makes him sad.
He also randomly and incorrectly capitalizes the J in journal in his response, which annoys me to no end.
It's a selfish, stupid response that does a disservice to the teaching profession and a greater disservice to a student who is passionate about his education.
King's response to his teacher's feedback is brilliant:
"OK." A single word that offers nothing by way of emotion or agreement.
It's all a response like this deserves.
My son Charlie, age 5, watched episodes 4, 5, and 6 of Star Wars with me and Elysha over the past two weeks.
It was quite the experience.
Though he knew almost nothing about Star Wars, he owns about a dozen action figures and received a Millennium Falcon for Christmas this year. He knew there were good guys and bad guys, but that was about it. He had sadly realized just a couple weeks before that the movie's title is Star Wars and not Star Whores.
He was primed for viewing.
He loved the first Star Wars movie, originally titled Star Wars when I sat in the aisle in The Stadium in Woonsocket, RI back in 1977 to watch it for the first time.
Today it's titled A New Hope, and although George Lucas has tinkered with the film several times over the years, it's just as great as it was when I watched it as a six year-old boy.
The first picture was taken as John William's opening began and the famous Star Wars scroll appeared. He was saddened at the death of Obi Won Kenobi and shouted with joy when the Death Star was destroyed.
When I told him that the next episode was titled The Empire Strikes Back, he said, "Uh oh. Doesn't sound like the good guys are going to win."
It was a tough movie for him. The Rebellion struggles throughout the movie, but what was most upsetting to him was the discovery that Darth Vader is Luke's father. The second photo was taken as that information was revealed for the first time.
He was genuinely upset. Confused, too.
A day later, he asked me in a hushed tone, "Dad, will you ever turn to the dark side?"
I realized that this was the first time Charlie saw a father behave badly. It shook him to the core.
Later, he said, "Dad, I think Darth Vader will turn back to the good side."
Of course, he was right. In Return of the Jedi, Darth Vader sacrifices himself in order to save his son's life and kill the Emperor. Charlie cheered again but was saddened to discover that Darth Vader was dying.
"But he's good now. Why does he have to die?"
Later, Luke cremates Vader's body. Charlie asked what was happening, and I explained that some bodies are buried and others are burned into ashes. Charlie said, "You'd better not burn me."
He has all three movies available to him now on his iPad, which is unbelievable to me. I watched that first film in a theater so jam packed that I had to sit in the carpeted aisle, and then I didn't see the movie again for more than a decade.
He has them at this fingertips.
He's watched A New Hope a couple times since that first viewing and still cheers when the Death Star is destroyed. I suspect that he may go back to Return of the Jedi at some point, too.
But it might be a while before he returns to The Empire Strikes Back. Charlie prefers to live in a world where fathers never turn to the dark side and the good guys triumph in the end.
Who can blame him?
I've managed to do this several times in my life, and it's true. Life becomes a lot easier when you simply forgive, absent of any apology.
It's like lifting an enormous weight off your shoulders.
I've also failed to find this type of unsolicited forgiveness at least twice in my life. In both cases, I know that my peace of mind would be far greater if I could just find forgiveness in my heart, but alas, it has thus far eluded me.
Some things are just harder to forgive than others.
Today is my daughter's ninth birthday.
As I write these words (at 5:40 AM), she's standing about seven feet to my left, listening to the music of Grace Vanderwaal and, in her words, "enjoying an early morning Grace Vanderwaal dance party."
The cats are sitting on the counter, watching her dance. Transfixed by this not-so-little-girl move across the kitchen floor.
If only I could freeze these moments forever.
Watching her dance on her birthday morning reminded me of this tweet and photo, posted by a high school senior in 2017 on her last day of school.
Killed me.
"My dad has been peeling oranges for my lunch since kindergarten & on my last day of high school I got this instead."
During my 21 years as a wedding DJ, I have played Billy Joel's "Piano Man" at 9:00 on a Saturday whenever possible.
Hundreds of times.
Only once - La Renaissance, September 2011 - did someone notice.
The New England Patriots defeated the Jacksonville Jaguars on Sunday in the AFC championship game at Gillette Stadium. It was the eighth AFC championship game that I have attended in my lifetime.
Patriot fans have indeed been blessed over the last 16 years.
Prior to the game, about ten of us gathered in the parking lot across the street from the stadium for our traditional tailgate. My friend, Tony, does this cooking. My friend and seat mate, Shep, brings tables, grill, and a TV.
I hand over money and thank them for taking care of me.
After the game, the group gathered back in the parking lot for a post-game tailgate. Since we remained in the stadium to watch the championship festivities on the field, we knew it would be at least an hour before we could exit the parking lot, so burgers, dogs, and the first half of the Eagles-Vikings game was on tap.
That is, until we realized that one of our friends decided to skip the post-game festivities, flee to the parking lot, and escape the traffic. This would have been fine except he took all the food with him, knowing full well that a post-game tailgate was planned.
Needless to say the eight remaining souls were not pleased to discover that all we had to eat were five sausages and a little cornbread.
Not exactly a meal for eight people who had just spent five hours standing in the stadium, cheering on their team.
After speaking about our departed friend in the most vile of terms and declaring him dead to us now and forever, we decided to take the one item we had in abundance - alcohol - and attempt to barter for meat from our fellow tailgaters. Before long we had traded hard liquor, beer, and space around our TV for a little bit of chicken, two pieces of steak, a small army of pigs in a blanket, potato chips, and more. A couple people came over with cooked food and brownies, offering us some of their food out of pity for our miserable condition. Our huddle mass of eight grew to as many as fourteen at one point, and I had the pleasure of meeting and chatting with some fellow Patriots faithful.
Don't get me wrong. Burgers and hot dogs would have been fantastic, and they should've been there, damn it. You don't leave early with the food when you know that a large group of hungry football fans are expecting to eat.
Leaving with the food was not cool. It will not be forgotten.
But the result - bartering for food, the chance to meet new people, and the collective, creative resentment for a single individual - was kind of great. A otherwise ordinary post-game tailgate turned into something memorable and meaningful under the sodium lights of that dirt parking lot.
There's a phrase that my friend, Catherine, uses about storytelling:
"You have a good time, or you have a good story."
In this case, we were lucky. We got both.
I was writing this morning. It was quite early. The sun had yet to rise. Words were flowing. Paragraphs were forming. Things were good.
Then my daughter, Clara, age 8, appeared at the table. Early. The sun still wasn't up.
Her very first words of the day to me were these:
Clara: "I know Hawaii became a state in 1959. Right?"
Me: "I guess so?"
I had no idea. Maybe? Why are we talking about this at 5:42 AM?
Clara: "And before that, Hawaii was a United States territory. Right?"
Me: "Yes. Definitely."
I knew that one.
Clara: "But my American Girl book says that Hawaii was the only state in America to enforce laws about people staying in the state, on the island, during World War II. And they were the only state had blackouts from 6:00 PM until 6:00 AM, too. So the Japanese couldn't see them."
Me: "Okay..."
Clara (rolling her eyes): "But World War II happened in the 1940's, Dad. If Hawaii wasn't a state until 1959, why does the book say that Hawaii was the only state doing those things during World War II? It wasn't a state during World War II."
My response was perhaps a little less than what she hoped,
Me: "It's not even six o'clock yet, Clara."
Not great. I know. Her response was better.
Clara: "That's not an answer, Daddy."
And there you have it. The end to the writing that morning.
I wasn't able to attend this year's Women's March, which saddened me. Last year's march was one of my highlights of 2017. It represented hope and possibility in a time when all seemed bleak.
My kids loved the march and still talk about it today.
Last year's march was was also comeuppance for Trump on the day after his unimpressive, embarrassing inauguration turnout and the sad, poorly attended parade that followed. I love it when rotten people (particularly those obsessed with image, popularity, and perception) are publicly shamed and humiliated.
But thanks to the magic of the Internet, I was able to see photos and videos of the enormous gatherings from all over the country, including some of this year's best signs.
Below are some of my favorites, but this first one is by far my favorite. A simple promise from a younger generation that all the damage Trump and his administration has caused will one day be swept away by smarter, wiser, kinder, more noble people.
Elysha met a person who read my first novel, Something Missing, and refuses to read any more of my books because after reading the first, she is worried that I'm a nefarious person.
I wrote a novel about a burglar who breaks into home and only steals items that wouldn't be noticed missing (and ultimately becomes a guardian angel to these homeowners), and in response to this work of fiction, this individual, who knows me and once respected me deeply as an educator, is now concerned that I am a man with criminal inclinations and a devious mind.
I had two thoughts:
A person is crazy only until everyone else agrees with their particular brand of crazy.
And if this is the case, what other conclusions are people drawing from my books?
Also, my next novel is not going to sit well with crazy people like this, either.
My partner and I started our DJ business 21 years ago on a whim. We had no experience and no equipment but thought we could make it work.
Since 1997, we’ve performed at more than 400 weddings. I’ve also served as the minister at more than two dozen weddings, including the wedding of an ex-girlfriend.
We’ve done weddings for the same groom after his marriage, divorce, and second marriage.
I've DJ'd the weddings of Elysha's college boyfriend, my ex-girlfriend, and my ex-wife's ex-husband.
We have many, many stories.
Though we constantly contemplate retiring, our company goes on. We’ve reached the point in our careers that we turn down many weddings. We pick-and-choose our clients and wedding venues carefully. We only work when we want to work.
2018 might be our last year in business.
A lot of time has gone by since our first wedding. When I started my career as a DJ in 1997:
Twenty-one years is a long time to be doing anything.
I learned something new this week:
"Onset" is a word that signals the beginning of something, but it specifically signals the beginning of something unpleasant.
Unpleasant only.
I did not know this.
For decades, I've been writing sentences like:
"At the onset of my drive to New York City, Elysha handed me a picnic basket full of bologna and cheese sandwiches, Oreo cookies, and Doritos."
Or...
"At the onset of the long and glorious weekend, Elysha went to 7-11 to surprise me with hot dogs and Ben & Jerry's chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream."
Or...
"At the onset of our wedding anniversary, Elysha proposed that we spend most of the time drinking prosecco and playing poker naked."
More than one of those sentences might have been more aspirational than realistic.
At the Olive Garden in West Hartford, CT there is a men's restroom.
Inside that men's restroom, there is a framed photograph of a house and a tree.
I'll never understand restaurant restroom art. Why?
Below that frame are two words, scribbled in pen.
"Pickle smooch"
Here's what I want to know:
What does this mean? Who put this here? What is the story behind "Pickle smooch?"
Ideas? Thoughts? Suggestions?
These are the kinds of things that have been known to launch my novels.
As an "inbox zero" guy (one who strives to keep his email's inbox empty or as close to empty as possible), you can't imagine how upsetting this particular phone is to me.
It's real, too. This iPhone belongs to someone I know. I took this photograph.
Just knowing that this number exists in the world (and is probably larger) is distressing to me.
If you're looking to gain some control over your own inbox, may I recommend using a mail app like Inbox, which allows you to reschedule your email to a more convenient and appropriate time for you.
For example:
All done with the simple swipe of a thumb.
Amongst the many rescheduling choices offered by the app (Tomorrow, Later this week, This weekend, Next week, a specific time and date) is "Someday," which also allows me reschedule a complimentary email to hit my inbox a second time.
A reader writes to me to compliment me on a book. A former student writes to me thanking me for inspiring her. A friend sends an unexpected email with words of kindness and generosity.
I reschedule it for "Someday," and surprise and joy get a second visit. A second shot of the brain's four "feel good" chemicals: endorphin, oxytocin, serotonin, and dopamine.
Someday...
Inbox has many other fantastic features that I routinely use, but the ability to reschedule your email to arrive at a time that fits your schedule is the feature I use most often.
It keeps things manageable. Prevents me from missing or forgetting about an email. Keeps my mind uncluttered. It allows me to operate at "inbox zero" or close to it every day.
I'm not saying that your goal should be inbox zero. I'm merely implying that you will be a far better human being if you are an inbox zero devotee like me.
My favorite things in the world are those that make me joyous while making the people who I despise sad or angry.
This protest by multimedia artist Robin Bell, projected onto the facade of Trump Tower in Washington, DC on Saturday night, manages to hit this sweet spot perfectly.
Added to my joy is the suddenly plunge in Yelp scores at Trump hotels across the world as scores of protesters are leaving one and two star reviews with hilarious comments.
Yelp has begun removing these fictitious reviews, but for a while, Trump hotels were rated at the bottom of the barrel, which must've made the petulant man-child very angry.
Oddly, it's also been pointed out that the word "shithole" is an anagram for "His hotel."
It would seem that even the universe is fight back in subtle and amusing ways.
I say a big, fat yes to this.
Slay the right dragons. This ain't one of them.
This tweet got a little loss in the political firestorm of the last couple days, which is understandable. Not only did Trump disparage Haiti and refer to African countries as "shitholes," but he managed this act of indecency on the eight year anniversary of the Haitian earthquake and on the cusp of Martin Luther King, Jr. weekend.
Timing is everything, I guess.
Still take a look at this tweet:
The real reason that Trump has cancelled his London trip is out of fear of massive protests (a fact the White House reported before Trump attempted to change the narrative) , but in addition to this lie, the tweet contains three other lies.
His tweet was so inaccurate and disparaging that the US embassy in the United Kingdom put out a press release correcting his lies.
With any other President, a statement containing three deliberate lies in order to support a fourth lie would be an scandal of enormous proportions, but Trump lies so often and with such impunity from his party or supporters that this tweet is all but forgotten amidst the hundreds of other lies and racist remarks.
These are not normal times, even though a small but still astounding 36% of Americans continue to support this racist, coward, and serial liar.
It's hard to understand.
I'm a harsh critic when it comes to speeches and monologues. I often hear that a speech is "amazing" or "remarkable" or "inspiring," only to be let down by something that fails to reach the level of the shouted superlatives.
This is not the case.
Anderson Cooper's brief monologue in response to Trump's disgusting, indecent, and un-American comments on Haiti and other countries is moving, captivating, and brilliant.
Take two minutes and watch. Please.