Owen: 2000-2016

I lost a friend yesterday.

After a short battle with an indeterminate disease, our cat of died peacefully in our arms yesterday.

Owen was an incredibly healthy cat until his final month, and he lived a life filled with love and leisure. Our hearts are aching today. He will be missed.

Making this loss doubly difficult was the loss that our children experienced. For both of them, this is the first death that they experienced. 

Owen's life was an interesting one.

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Though he was 16 years old at the time of his death, he only learned his name in his last year of life. 

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About ten years ago, he took a fancy to wool and began eating through Elysha's cashmere scarves and sweaters. He would eat the clothing right off your body if you let him.

One morning he sat in my lap and ate a hole in the front of my wool pants which I only discovered at school after I removed my sweatshirt. I was standing in front of the class, teaching, when a girl in the front row said, "Mr. Dicks. I can see your underwear." 

Assuming a little bit of my waistband was poking from my band, I said, "Knock it off," and started reaching around my waist to tuck in the offending bit of cotton.

"No," she said, pointing at my crotch. "I can see a lot of your underwear. Like a lot."

She wasn't kidding. It was a hole the size of a softball.

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I was putting clothing in the dryer one day while listening to music on my headphones. Once all of the clothing was loaded, I closed the door and turned the dryer on. I walked away, listening to the music blare through my headphones, but just as I was about to turn the corner and leave the room, I heard a bang. Then another. Then another. I removed my headphones and realized what was happening. I ran to the dryer and opened the door. A wet, frizzy, terrified Owen leapt from the dryer and sprinted away.

Had the music been a little louder or I had been a little faster, I shudder to think what could've happened. 

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Owen threw up a lot. He was a cat who loved to eat enormous amounts of food and then purge. He also routinely ate plastic, ribbons, paper, and a host of other items and would later (and thankfully purge them as well. It was only through the purchase of the Bissell Spot-Bot, a small carpet shampoo device that Owen was allowed into any room with a carpet.

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For years, Owen wanted to get outdoors, and it was a constant battle to keep him inside. One day he finally managed to escape for an indeterminate amount of time. When we found him, he was standing by the back door - which was made of glass - desperately trying to get back in. For a cat who took 16 years to learn his name, he learned this lesson quickly. He never tried to escape again

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Owen once caught a mouse in our old apartment and would not let it go. He held it in his mouth and made a strange huffing sound as he walked throughout the house with it. Finally, I got Owen to go into the bathroom. I locked myself inside with him and went to battle with him over the mouse, finally extracting the disgusting thing from his jaws. 

It was a battle unlike any other.

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Owen had a brother named Jack who he loved dearly. Jack died back in 2009, and soon thereafter, Clara was born. Losing his brother and suddenly having to share attention with a baby was difficult for him. He lost his mind for a couple years. His grief was palatable and tragic. It was a terrible thing to watch, but eventually, he seemed to accept the loss of Jack and find a new spot on the pecking order that was acceptable for him.

In his last few years, he became a truly sweet and tender boy.

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Owen was easily over-stimulated. Pet him for more than a couple minute and he would bite you. It wasn't a bite born from aggression but from love, but it still hurt like hell. To his credit, though, Owen never bit either one of our kids, no matter how much petting, tail pulling, and hugging they did. He bit Elysha and me hundreds of times, but he knew better than to bite a child.

Owen didn't love Clara at first, primarily due to her constant pulling of his tail and crushing hugs, but over the past few years, the two grew incredibly close. Owen began sleeping with Clara for a portion of the night, and she fell head over heels for the big boy in his last couple years, making his death even more difficult to bear. 

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Owen was an enormous cat. He weighed about 17 pounds. My friends often made fun of me for owning a dog smaller than my cat.

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Owen and Kaleigh, our dog, got along well unless food was involved.

Kaleigh is an asshole when it comes to food.

Kaleigh is 15 years old, so she and Owen grew into old age together. They weren't best friends but more like amicable roommates with occasional moments of surprising affection. I suspect that she will miss him. 

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Owen loved us all, but he loved Elysha most of all. She adopted him from the same animal hospital where he died yesterday, and they were together longer than she and I have been together. Owen was fond of sleeping at Elysha's feet every night and lying on her chest when we watched television. He purred so loudly that we sometimes couldn't hear the TV.  He would wake her up with a nuzzle in the morning and do everything possible to sit in her lap when she was sitting. 

It was a love story like no other. 

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Losing Owen was tough on all of us, but the kids have been surprisingly resilient and strong. We told them on Thursday that Owen was sick and could die any day, giving us one more precious day to love him. This was an especially difficult 24 hours for Elysha and me, and at one point, I was weeping. Clara took my hand and said, "Daddy, try to think of all the good memories we have with Owen. Tell me an Owen story and you'll feel better. Stories always make people feel better."

She's so wise and strong for a seven year-old.

Charlie doesn't understand death as well. But since Owen's death, he has said:

"Owen's gone and we can't have him back." 

"Is he gone forever?"

"What does it mean to die."

It hasn't been easy on any of us.

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Owen's last day has hard. Elysha took him outside for a final moment in the sun. The kids said goodbye as they left for school and playdates, unaware that they would never see him again. But they knew that he was dying, so these last farewells were touching and meaningful. 

In his final moments, I told Owen that I loved him, and I thanked him for all that he has given to us and our family. I've known Owen for 13 years, and he has been a friend and companion who I will always remember.

Readers of this blog might know that I do not deal well with death, and this was no exception.

Rest in peace, Owen. I hope I am wrong, and that there is a heaven, and I hope that you and Jack are there now, curled together once again.  

A broken lawnmower, a fifth grade boy, and CragsList.com make me wonder if God is real.

Last Saturday I spoke about teaching at a TEDx conference at The Country School in Madison, CT.

My talk was about the capacity of students and the importance of expecting more from them on a daily basis. As a part of the talk, I told the story of a former student named Jack Murphy who I had hired to be my classroom personal assistant. Throughout the school year, Jack strove to be my best personal assistant ever, constantly asking if there was more that he could do for me.  

One day, after Jack had asked me one too many times if he could help, I said, "Fine, Jack. I have a broken lawn mower in my shed at home. The town dump won't take it, and my wife won't let me illegally dump it. It's been sitting there for three years. Get rid of that lawn mower, and I'll be impressed."

By the next day, Jack had found a person on CraigsList.com who refurbishes broken lawn mowers and had arranged for pick up at my home. I left the lawn mower at the bottom of my driveway, and a day later, it was gone.

And the guy paid me $50 for the broken machine. 

Jack Murphy became the greatest personal assistant of all time. 

On the way home from the TED Talk, I took a bend on a country road and saw three lawnmowers at the bottom of a driveway not unlike my own. They had red and white "For Sale" signs affixed to them. They looked old, not unlike the one Jack had sold for me.  

I laughed. Less than an hour ago, I had been talking about a broken lawn mower at the bottom of my driveway. "That's quite a coincidence," I thought. "They need Jack Murphy to sell their lawn mowers for them."

Then I looked across the street. Directly across the street from this driveway was a garage. 

Murphy's Garage

I was so stunned that I had to pull the car over to the side of the road for a moment. I could barely breathe.   

I'm a reluctant atheist. I'm a person who wishes he believed in a higher power but thus far has been unable to do so. Faith has been elusive for me. God is someone I want to be real but simply can't accept. 

But moments like this - of unbelievable, seemingly impossible coincidence - make me start to wonder if someone is offering me a sign.  

A question I don't want my wife to be asked

My son, Charlie, and I were on our way to our first haircut together. 

From the back seat, he asked. "Why does the car always drive so much faster when Mommy isn't in it?"

In my defense, we were running late. Also, I we weren't exceeding the speed limit by an entirely  unreasonable amount.

Boy vs. Girl: Episode 25 - Income in Dating, Mansplaining, and Tallywackers

In this week's episode, Rachel and I discuss income as a determining factor in dating, the ridiculousness of mansplaining, and our thoughts on the new restaurant Tallywackers and public nudity.

I tell Rachel that her boobs are not very special. It's great.

You can listen here or - better yet - subscribe to our podcast in the iTunes store or wherever you get your podcasts.

And if you like the show, please consider leaving a review on iTunes. It helps readers find the show, and it makes me feel even better about myself.

Firemen became firefighters. Penmanship became handwriting. Great. But there's one gender neutral word I can't support.

Firemen became firefighters.
A serious improvement. I'd rather be a firefighter than a fireman. 

Stewardess became flight attendant.
Also an improvement.  

Policemen became police officer.
A solid choice. I'd rather call a police officer for help than a policeman. 

Mailman became mail carrier. 
Fine. More descriptive, even.

Penmanship became handwriting.
A more modern alternative.  

Waiter and waitress became server. 
I don't love it, but I can live with it. 

Freshmen became first year students.
A little awkward. Not the greatest. But I can live with it if I must.

I appreciate the attempt to create a more gender-neutral language, particularly when so many of these words traditionally skewed male. 

But there's one that I just can't get behind:

Fisherman has become fisher. 

In 2013, Washington state completed a six year process of rewriting their laws so that they were written using gender neutral terminology. Certain words like manhole cover remained because a better alternative could not be found, but fisherman became fisher, and I hate it.

And it's not only Washington who has adopted the new word. Many websites and news organizations acknowledge fisher as an appropriate alternative to fisherman.

I'm not saying that fisherman is the right word. I'm saying that despite it's obvious male slant, fisherman is a hell of a lot better than fisher. 

But I'm open to better options. I asked my students for alternatives, and their suggestions weren't all that appealing, either. 

Fisher person
Fish hunter
Fish catcher

To be honest, they didn't love these ideas, either. They also agreed that fisher was a terrible alternative.

One of them pointed out that a fisher is actually a small mammal that doesn't eat fish.

Another terrible use of the word.

So I'm looking for an alternative to fisher, and until I find one, I think I'm going stick with the admittedly male leaning and possibly sexist word fisherman.

Sometimes a word - even when wrong - just feels right. 

I don't know any professional fishermen - male or female - but I can't help but think that they would agree with me.

#Biblebuffet

Protip: If you're using The Bible to justify your opposition to same sex marriage, don't forget to stone to death any woman engaging in premarital sex. And not just your garden-variety stoning, either. You must gather all the people of the town at the doorstep of the woman's father and kill her there. 

God is very specific about this (Deuteronomy 22:20).

Side note:

If you are a man engaging in premarital sex, fear not. God does not condemn you to death. However, if you were engaged in premarital sex, it must logically be with either with a woman who was also engaging in premarital sex (meaning you must now stone her to death, which strikes me as awkward given the intimacy of your relationship) or with a married woman, at which point you and the married woman must both be killed.

So caution is advised.

Every thing doesn't need to be a thing

My friend and podcast host Rachel was recently told me about a recommendation she received about the joy of drinking a glass of bourbon while in the shower.

This is, of course, a ridiculous idea. And it's indicative of something that seems to be gaining purchase in society that I would like to publicly take a stand against:

Making a thing out of every thing.

It's happening all around us. It must stop. 

Remember a time when guacamole was prepared in the restaurant's kitchen and delivered to your table by a member of the waitstaff rather than prepared at the table by a member of the kitchen staff, momentarily stifling conversation so you can watch someone do their job for reasons that are ultimately meaningless and slightly awkward?

Remember when weddings didn't require signature drinks named after the bride and groom?

Remember when children's birthday parties didn't end with overflowing goodie bags? 

Remember when soccer was played on fields within your town limits? Remember when terms like "travel soccer" and "weekend tournaments" had not yet been invented? Remember when hundreds of dollars were not spent on hotel rooms so kids can run around on a grassy field just like the one down the street from their home?

Remember when the word promposal didn't exist and you asked someone to the prom by asking them to the prom?

Remember when lattes were not canvases upon which baristas created art?

Remember a time before the use of the ubiquitous use of the word barista?

Every thing doesn't have to be a thing. It's getting ridiculous.

I am a person who prizes simplicity. Efficiency. Productivity. Minimalism. I despise ornamentation. Ostentatiousness. Unnecessary complexity and purposeless expense. I cannot stand when something is made precious that is not precious and was never meat to be precious.

A glass of bourbon in the shower is a stupid idea. Take your shower, get dressed, and then, if you want a glass of bourbon, drink one. Don't turn the act of washing your body into anything more than it is.

Get in. Get out. Get dressed.

Be happy that you're able to shower at all. More than half of the world's population still doesn't have access to hot water for showering on a daily basis. A shower is already a thing. It's an amazing thing. You don't need to add bourbon to the mix to make it any more precious than it already is.   

Guacamole being prepared at the table is ridiculous. We get excited about watching avocados being smashed before out eyes because we think it denotes an exceptional level of freshness and offers an artisanal flair.

It doesn't.

Having your guacamole prepared in the kitchen one minute earlier achieves the same damn thing and doesn't interrupt the conversation with a ridiculous, artificial, ultimately meaningless moment during dinner.

Promposals are atrocious. Teenagers perform and record these elaborate displays because they want attention. They want their prom to mean something more than it already does. They want the recording of their promposal to get more likes or views or shares than their friends' promposals.

There was a time - not so long ago - when a prom was a moment significant in its own right.

Actually, it still is. Teenagers just can't stop staring at YouTube long enough to realize it.  

Signature wedding drinks are created by caterers and bartenders who know that guests will consume these drinks in large amounts, thus allowing them to manage their inventory more effectively and maximize profits. Bride and grooms embrace the concept of  these signature drinks - sometimes spending hours deciding upon the name for each one - because they apparently don't think they are going to get enough attention on their wedding day. They've become such a thing that magazines and websites are now dedicated to the challenge of "perfecting the art of naming your signature drink."

It's an art now.

It's an art apparently capable of achieving perfection, despite the fact that a week after a wedding, no one could tell you the name of the bride and groom's signature drink. 

People love the art that baristas design in their lattes because everything about coffee has been fetishized in our culture. If anything in this world has ever been made into a thing, it is coffee. Drinking a cup of coffee is no longer a means of quenching a thirst or warming you up on a chilly day or injecting caffeine into the bloodstream or even drinking something that tastes good. Coffee has become a ritual for people. The coffee culture has taken something that was once small and simple into something of enormous import and great meaning. Coffee is no longer a warm, tasty beverage that people enjoy in the morning. It has become a means by which people define themselves. It has become a constant source of conversation. It is precious and artisanal and zen, and latte art reinforces these silly beliefs.   

Competing with coffee on the highest level of things being made into things are travel sports. Parents drive or fly their kids to soccer tournaments and swim meets and baseball games around the country because they believe that their children need to compete against the best of the best or be seen by the best coaches or because every other parent is bringing their kids to Timbuktu to play basketball this weekend and "my kid can't be left out!"

I hear from these "travel" kids all the time. Kids who travel from city to city, state to state to play baseball and soccer and swimming and hockey and basketball. They always tell me these four things:

1. They don't care where they play or who they play. They just want to play.
2. Their parents take sports way too seriously and are overly involved in their sporting life. 
3. They worry about making the travel team only because of the enormous pressure they feel to play on the team or else be perceived as inferior by their peers. 
4. They love travel sports not because of the games or the competition but because they love staying in hotel rooms and swimming in hotel pools.

We have turned this thing called youth sports into a thing. An enormous, expensive, ego-driven, parent-centered thing. A thing it was never meant to be and never needed to be. 

I'll say it again. Every thing doesn't need to be a thing.

Showers can just be soap and shampoo and water. 

Coffee can simply be a beverage.

Soccer can be a sport that kids play after school and on Saturdays on the field around the block or even across town.

Asking a girl or a boy to the prom can be a simple - albeit courageous - question posed privately after school. 

Every thing doesn't need to be a thing. We are all important enough already. Life is sufficiently complex. There is already great meaning in simple things if you pay attention. There is no need to make food or drink or sports or toddler birthday parties so ostentatious and grand that we garner undeserved meaning from them.

When a thing is made into a thing, it's usually done in an effort to bring false meaning to a process or undeserved attention to a person. Allow the thing to just be a thing. 

A shower without a glass bourbon has been relaxing and joyful experience for a long, long time. Don't add an alcoholic layer to the process in order to make it any more precious than it already is. Instead, pay attention to how precious and lovely and perfect it already is. See the beauty and meaning and import of the world as it already is.

Things are already things. See them as such. Embrace them for what they already are.  

From the mouths of babes...

Clara tells me that she doesn't like Donald Trump. She says that she heard him say mean things to "a lady named Megyn Kelly" on CBS Sunday Morning.

"Megyn asked a question, and Donald Trump started making mean compliments about her."

Then she told me that she doesn't like Ted Cruz because he's not nice to mommy-mommy and daddy-daddy families.

Not to get too political, but if Clara can figure this stuff out...

Opposing Donald Trump while defending one or more of his positions is not doubly odd. It's called objectivity.

Marlow Stern of The Daily Beast - in writing about Bill Maher's recent criticism of the charge of battery against's Trump campaign manager Corey Lewandowski, says:   

“Maher’s defense of Lewandowski seemed doubly odd considering his anti-Trump stance during the earlier portions of the program. In his monologue, Maher proudly branded the GOP frontrunner “a bipolar five-year-old” for branding Ted Cruz a liar and cheat after losing Wisconsin to him. “He has two settings: you cheated, and you started it!”

— Marlow Stern

There is nothing doubly odd about this at all.

While Bill Maher clearly despises Donald Trump - who once sued him for $5 million over a joke - he is not so biased and slanted that he can't defend a candidate's position in one regard while opposing his candidacy overall.

In fact, it's the farthest thing from odd. It's admirable of Maher to defend someone who he despises. Whether or not you agree with Maher in this matter, I want my political commentators to look at each candidate's decision impartially rather than painting a broad brush based solely upon political leanings or personal vendettas. 

I want independent thinkers who can tell me that a candidate is right on this issue but wrong on this one. I want commentators who are willing to criticize the candidates who they support and defend the candidates they oppose depending on the issue.

I don't always agree with Bill Maher, but I have always admired his willingness to criticize Democrats despite his support for them. 

It's the ideological purity that political parties require now that are grinding our government to a halt. Compromise is dead. Politics have become black and white. There is no room for any gray. 

Maher’s defense of Lewandowski seemed doubly odd considering his anti-Trump stance? 

I don't think so. I think it seemed objective. Unbiased. Open-minded. 

The things we expect from writers like Marlow Stern. 

Mike Pesca's favorite sentences of 2015 (and mine)

Back in January, Mike Pesca of Slate's The Gist discussed some of his favorite sentences of 2015. When Pesca attributed the sentence to someone., I included the attribution. 

• Bill Raftery on how he enjoys learning something and immediately sharing it: "That's why I went into broadcasting rather than espionage." 
• "It's easier to condemn than to figure out the charge."
• "They're against changing the flag because that's against they're identity. I don't mean the flag is their identity. Being against change is their identity." - Mike Pesca 
• "Grief is our compensation for death."
• "Some voters do not share democratic values, and politicians must appeal to them as well." 
• "The tradeoff of living in a country where California gets to set the standard on auto emissions is that Texas gets to set the standards on textbooks." - Mike Pesca
• Frank Luntz, acknowledging the anxiety of Trump voters: "But they're also out for revenge."
• "Bravery is easy when you defend yourself from other. Humanity is more difficult. It's when you defend others from yourself." - Nino Markovich of Montenegro 

Like Pesca, I am a serial collector of words, sentences, dialogue, images, and ideas. You can't write five novels, three musicals, a magazine column, and a blog post every day for almost ten years without being a good listener and connector of ideas. 

 Inspired by his list of favorite sentences, I went to my Evernote to recover some of my own favorite sentences from 2015:

• “What is happiness? It’s a moment before you need more happiness.” - Don Draper
• "In a world where superheroes, and more importantly super-villains, exist, being a glazier must be a great job." - Michael Maloney
• "He was the fourth of three children."
• "Whisper to yourself what you love most, and that's how you can be brave." - Clara Dicks
• "The saddest of all the ribbons is the white ribbon." - Matthew Dicks
• "You make me want to come to school every day, and that is what every teacher should try to do before everything else. All the other stuff isn't as important as that. Just fill the classroom with hilariousness and love." - a former student (currently in eighth grade) writing to me
• "None of us marry perfection, we marry potential." - Elder Robert D. Hales
• “I trust my story. I always betray my heart with my tongue.” - Clara Dicks while reading Neil Gaiman's Instructions

A fashion designer who doesn't know she's a fashion designer

On the same day that my wife told me that she wanted to be a fashion designer when she was a little girl but doesn't have that same passion or desire anymore, she made this for our son.

The vision can change. The outcome can be different than what we originally imagined (sometimes by choice and sometimes by necessity). Childhood passions are often ignored but they rarely die.

"Close to the chest" or "close to the vest?" The answer annoys the hell out of me.

I've heard this idiom spoken both ways:

• "Play your cards close to the vest."
• "Play your cards close to the chest."

So I wondered: Which of these is correct?

The answer: Both.

There is no definitive answer to this question. While it appears that "close to the vest" appeared first, "close to the chest" followed almost immediately, and today, both are used with equal frequency.

This annoys the hell out of me. I want there to be an answer. I want one of these idioms to be correct, and frankly, I want it to be "close to the vest."

This middling, indecisive linguistic uncertainty is stupid. 

As a writer, I'm thrilled with a variety of ways to express a single idea, but that variety should contain some actual variation rather than two words (vest and chest) that essentially mean the same thing in this context and rhyme. 

And it shouldn't be the result of an inability to decide upon a correct way of expressing a specific idiom.  

So I'm taking a stand. I say that "close to the vest" is correct and those who say "close to the chest" are heathens and cretins and socially unacceptable monsters. Linguistic criminals. Language murderers.

Disagree with my selection? Unsure if I'm right? Do a Google image search on "close to the vest" and "close to the chest" and see which set of images more closely capture the meaning of this idiom and which set of images make you marginally uncomfortable. 

Who is with me?

Seasons: Spring 2106

My column in the spring 2016 edition of Seasons is now available online.

I write "Last Word," the humor column on the back page of the magazine. This month I write about the oddity and pain of dance recitals. You can read it online here.

I've never done this medically inadvisable thing that you probably do often

Two years ago I posted a list of 9 things that I have never done that most people in the world have tried at least once. 

Today I add a tenth item to the list:

I've never inserted a Q-tip or cotton swab of any kind into my ear.

Every doctor in the world will tell you that you should never clean your ears with a Q-tip or cotton swab. It is bad for many reasons and can cause permanent hearing damage. 

Even Unilever, the company that makes Q-tips and depends upon people ignoring this universal warning in order to stay in business, advises its customers not to insert their product into ears with warning labels on the packaging.

Nevertheless, I've watched countless people, including my wife, clean their ears with Q-tips. I've watched mothers clean their children's ears with Q-tips. And even though they have read the warning labels and are fully aware of doctor's warnings about this behavior, they continue to risk permanent hearing loss for the sake of an ear with slightly less wax than before.

Insanity.

I didn't grow up with Q-tips in my home, so the habit of cleaning the ear with cotton swabs was one that I never developed.

As an adult, I was fully aware of the dangers involved and have always avoided this process.

In fact, I don't think I've ever purchased Q-tips in my life. They are in my bathroom closet because my wife purchases them, but I have never used one on myself or my children.

And so my list of things I have never done that most people have tried at least once is now ten items long.    

1. Never watched a single episode of The Real Housewives, The Jersey Shore, or anything involving those Kardashian people
2. Never used an illegal drug in my entire life 
3. Never bought a lottery ticket
4. Never smoked a cigarette
5. Never revealed a secret that I was asked to keep
6. Never swore in the presence of my mother
7. Never shoplifted
8. Never taken a selfie
9. Never actually said the word “selfie” aloud
10. Never inserted a cotton swab of any kind into my ear

Boy in blanket fort offers lesson on happiness

It's just a sheet spread over his crib, but it makes him so happy. There's so much joy and wonder in this simple thing.

It's an important reminder to me about how little is required to make you happy if you're willing to open your eyes and see something as new and different. 

Happiness isn't what or who or how much. It isn't what others are thinking or offering or seeing. It's simplicity in the moment. It's wanting little and receiving so much in return. 

It's also a reminder about how invaluable and unforgettable a momentary burst of pure joy can be if you allow it to be so. Happiness sometimes comes to us in flickers of light and sound that we must see and hear and hold and remember. So often we are looking at the wrong thing and worried about the wrong stuff that we miss the thing right in front of us.

Like the limitless joy of a little boy in a blanket fort.

Find your blanket fort. Or make one of your own.

An important (and painful) lesson about the people closest to me and the things I write

One of my wife's friends told me yesterday that she reads this blog daily and feels like she has an oddly intimate relationship with me as a result.

Then she said that there have been times when she has told my wife that she loved something I wrote on my blog, only to discover that Elysha never read it.

Elysha acknowledged this to be true.  

Fear not, dear reader. Only a tiny part of me died at that moment. There's still plenty left of me for her to kill.

Later, while playing poker with friends and strangers, a guy sitting across the table (who I had just met) turned to my friend, pointed and me, and began whispering.

"What?" I asked, irritated. "What did I do?"

After a moment, he turned back to me, smiling, and said, "You're the Matthew Dicks? The writer? You wrote Something Missing? And the yellow book, too?"

"Yes," I said. "That's me."

It was a nice moment for me. It doesn't happen often. 

A moment later, a friend at the other end of the table chimed in:

"My kids actually read his books. I mean... I don't read them, but my kids do!"

Lesson of the day: 

The closer you are to me, the less likely you are to care about anything I have to say.

And I'm not going to lie. It hurts a little.

I may have to write mean things about my closest friends that they will never read.

An important corollary on the two greatest super powers of all time

Last week I wrote that the two greatest super powers of all time are immortality and time travel, with teleportation coming in a possible, albeit distant third.

I'd like to offer a corollary on this:

1. If you're not interested in living forever, then I am willing to acknowledge that immortality might not be the greatest super power for you. But you must also be willing to admit that until you actually face death, you might be wrong about your distaste for immortality.

As someone who has faced death three times (and actually died twice), I can assure you that immortality is appealing.

2. Time travel is better than teleportation or any other super power because of the ability to see into the future and warn humanity about (and perhaps even prevent) certain natural disasters and other calamities.

• Alert authorities about the September 11 attacks in order to stop the terrorists and save lives.
• Issue evacuation warnings ahead of earthquakes, tidal waves and other natural disasters. 
• Stop George Lucas from creating Jar Jar Binks.

It would be an enormous burden on the person with this super power, but morally and ethically speaking, how could you not acknowledge that this power is better than the ability to pop in and out of New York City without having to deal with traffic?   

3. There was some concern over the dangers of traveling into the past and catastrophically altering the future in which the time traveler lives (and possibly threatening his or her very existence in the process). There were also concerns over the potential for paradoxes.

While traveling into the past would be appealing, concern over these issues could be mitigated by simply traveling into the future only, and only traveling for observational purposes. A time traveler need only to travel to a library and spend some time reading newspapers or history books in order to find the information he or she needs while risking almost nothing in terms of unintentionally changing the course of human events 

If you're not convinced now, I don't know what to do.

When I watch children's television, I ask questions about fictional funding (or the lack thereof)

My kids are currently watching large amounts of the television show The Octonauts.

They also own many Octonauts toys.

I tend to avoid watching these shows with my kids, and when I do, I rarely pay much attention. I listen to podcast, work on stories in my head, and make excuses to leave. Despite my best efforts, I've become familiar enough with the show to understand the basic characters and plot. 

The Octonauts follows an underwater exploring crew made up of stylized anthropomorphic animals. This team of eight adventurers live in an undersea base, the Octopod, from where they go on undersea adventures with the help of a fleet of aquatic vehicles.

When I watch this show, I can only think of one thing:

Who is funding this organization? It must cost a fortune to maintain this fleet of aquatic vehicles and this enormous undersea base, not to mention the salaries of these undersea scientists, who seem to be on duty at all times. 

Is this a government sponsored endeavor or privately maintained?

The same goes for Paw Patrol. a show about A boy named Ryder leads a pack of talking dogs known as the PAW Patrol. They work together on rescue missions to protect the city of Adventure Bay. The Paw Patrol has an enormous home base, equipped with a variety of vehicles, all positioned to rescue the idiots in Adventure Bay who can't keep themselves out of trouble.

Who is funding this canine rescue team? Does the government of Adventure Bay have enough tax dollars to fund a police force and a team of canine rescue experts?

I know it's silly to be asking these questions about a show designed for little kids, but I also don't want me daughter to think that these people can act with economic impunity. 

When is it too early to introduce the idea that all things - regardless of the good they may do - cost money?

A not-so-disappointing disappointing night at The Moth

It's always disappointing to drive almost three hours to a Moth StorySLAM and have your name remain in the hat for the duration of the night. 

I went to The Moth StorySLAM at Housing Works in New York on Tuesday, and sadly, this happened, 

I had a good story, too.

Thankfully, it doesn't happen too often, though 2016 has been unlucky for me so far.

Despite my disappointment, The Moth rarely disappoints. 

Even though I didn't have the chance to take the stage on Tuesday night, there were moments that made the slam unforgettable for both me and the audience.

_______________________ 

Two people who began the careers in storytelling in one of my workshops in Connecticut (and then performed at Speak Up multiple times) dropped their names into the hat to tell a story, and one of them took the stage and performed. When a storyteller who has taken one of my workshops or performed on a Speak Up stage goes on to perform at The Moth, Elysha likes to refer to us as proud parents. 

She's not far off with her description.  

_______________________

I sat beside a woman who I had an ongoing conversation all night long about storytelling. It was her first time at The Moth and was thrilled beyond imagination about finally making it to the show after listening to the podcast and Radio Hour for so long. She knew who I was from my stories on the podcast and had many questions about how slams work, how The Moth operates, and how to craft a successful story. She was over the moon about seeing Dan Kennedy - host of the podcast and host of Tuesday night's slam - in the flesh. He is an A-level celebrity to many storytelling fans. 

I remember feeling the same way in 2011 when I finally made it to my first slam. It was a good reminder about how lucky I am to have found The Moth and its community of storytellers and storytelling fans. I shouldn't take any of it for granted. 

_______________________

If your name is not pulled from the hat, you're given the opportunity to take the stage and say the first line of your story. After doing so, I was approached by a woman who had heard one of my stories on the radio recently about the death of my high school girlfriend. She surprised me with an almost violent embrace and the story of the death of her college boyfriend. She told me how much my story still lives in her heart on a daily basis.

This might have been better than having my name pulled from the hat. Maybe.  

_______________________ 

I had the chance to chat with my fellow storytellers. We talked about recent stories that I had heard them tell at The Moth and other venues and some storytelling strategies. I offered some advice to a couple of storytellers, which is always odd for me. Coming from Connecticut and attending about one slam per month, I have always felt like a bit of an outsider in the storytelling community. I have friends who are storytellers, but I'm not exactly in their city or in their non-storytelling lives. And they are telling stories all the time. I couldn't imagine why such seasoned New York storytellers would want my advice on their stories or storytelling in general. 

It was good. A sign that perhaps I'm not the outsider that I imagine myself to be. 

I also lined up least two of them up for future Speak Up shows. Always good. 

Then I had the chance to hear three of them tell fantastic stories about a snowstorm in a theater, a highly unorthodox dance move, and a questionable orgasm.  

_______________________

I had the chance to watch Dan Kennedy host the show. I love all The Moth hosts dearly, but Dan is the one who seems to inhabit the same brain space as me. I always feel like I'm home when Dan is onstage.

_______________________

To cap off the evening, Moth regular David Arroyo took the stage and told a story about taking his girlfriend to meet his parents in Puerto Rico and then proposed to his girlfriend onstage. An unforgettable moment for everyone, to be sure. David and his girlfriend have been coming to slams together for more than year, so it seemed fitting that he propose to her on a Moth stage.  

My wife doesn't jump into the shower with me on a regular basis, but this thing about her parents is a close second.

I'd like for my wife to love the way I look. I would love for her to think of me as the best looking guy in every room every time.  

I'd love for her to think that I am smart. Funny. Clever. Strong. Capable. Resourceful.

It would be great if she thought of me as cool. 

I would love to imagine that she feels fortunate and lucky to have me in her life. Grateful for the things I have brought into her life.

I'd love for her to think of me as the best of fathers. 

This weekend I listened to Elysha talk to friends about the relationship that I have with her parents, Barbara and Gerry. The love they have for me. The way that each of them feels about me. The specific and special relationship that I have with each of them. The trust and admiration they have for me. The love that I feel for them. 

She spoke about my relationship with her parents with a fondness and an appreciation that I found surprisingly endearing and incredibly fulfilling.

It was a small moment at a dining room table in a home in Exeter, New Hampshire that I will never forget.

Don't get me wrong: I'd still love for her to see me standing in the shower naked and shout, "Damn!"

Maybe even jump into the shower with me, unable to contain herself. 

And maybe that happens on occasion.

It doesn't.

 But that parent thing was still pretty damn good.