The honest author bio

Author Ellen Potter complains that most author bios make her jealous, claiming that they “sound enviable. Tidy, picturesque. No bad smells. It’s just not fair.”

In that spirit, she writes the honest author bio:

She lives in a house which is perpetually being renovated by boozy, perspiring construction guys, located on a woody road plagued with black flies in the summer and black ice in the winter.  She is surrounded by her loving family who do not pick up after themselves and leave the soy milk out of the refrigerator all night. Her poorly-groomed dogs have chronic ear infections. She spends her days trying to find time to shower. Oh, and also, she writes.

Since my newest author bio was written by a reader, I thought I’d attempt my own honest author bio in the spirit of Potter. 

Matthew Dicks has yet to reach his target weight of 185 pounds and actually managed to gain two pounds this summer rather than losing weight.  Despite his recent loss of more than thirty pounds, he still can’t believe that his weight once exceeded 230 pounds.  What an idiot and a sloth.  And though he’s lost much of the unwanted weight, the idiot and the sloth probably still reside within, just waiting to emerge.  How could they not?  Matthew is terrified of death, unable to build or repair the simplest of machines and cannot even change the oil in his car.  He is a polarizing figure, often inspiring a fierce loyalty in people or an unbridled desire to destroy him at all costs.  His perpetual plague of bad luck has presumably not come to an end but has merely gone on sabbatical, determined to return with a well rested vengeance.  He has difficulty dressing himself appropriately and has the smallest bladder known to man.  He has enough hair on his body to cover five men and still cannot hit a tee shot after almost four years of playing golf.  Oh, and he also writes.

If you’d like to write an honest bio of me in the same vein as the one written above, please feel free. 

I’ll brace myself for the worst. 

Author bio finalized

After a few small revisions, Charles’s author bio has been approved by my editor and publicist. 

Congratulations, again, Charles.  It should begin appearing on websites like Amazon in about ten days. 

The final version reads:

MATTHEW DICKS, who is not one for long, crafted sentences, preferring the stylings of Vonnegut over those of Saramago, is an author whose works, to date, include the novels Something Missing and Unexpectedly Milo; a successful blog and a number of Op Ed pieces, all of which, at some level or another, tend to examine the outcomes of the quirky and/or rebellious individual when forced up against staid society; however, to say that he is an author is an understatement (or possibly an overstatement, since he devised a contest to compose this author bio and then chose the ramblings of a theoretical biophysicist as the winning entry), for this husband and father from Newington, CT, who has faced a number of near-death experiences, lived in his car, and been tried for a crime that he did not commit, is also an acclaimed elementary teacher who has received the Teacher of the Year Award, is the co-owner of a DJ business, and still wishes that he could beat some of his friends at golf.

Happy and dissatisfied

In a rare ripple in our otherwise sea of marital bliss, my wife became rather annoyed with me last night. It was the final night of summer vacation, and I was lamenting the fact that I had not accomplished my goal of writing my next book in eight weeks. Hoping to use my vacation to write full time, I thought that I could easily accomplish this goal, and while I failed, I still think it would have been possible had I applied myself more. An unexpected revision of my third book and my book tour took more time from my schedule than expected, and I found it surprisingly difficult to pry myself away from my cuter-by-the-day daughter.  But perhaps with more work in the late evenings or early mornings, and maybe an earlier institution of my plan to sleep less would have allowed me to realize success.

After listening to this diatribe, Elysha fired back, declaring that my original goal was ridiculous and that I had worked more than enough during the summer and should be satisfied with the result. Furthermore, she explained, I should not be annoyed or angry with myself for not reaching my goal, because doing so was not fair to me or to her.

I understood where she was coming from, and it turns out that she has supporters.

In Leo Babauta‘s latest book, a simplicity manifesto in the age of distraction, in a chapter on “letting go of goals,”  he writers:

(Goals) are artificial — you aren’t working because you love it, you’re working because you’ve set goals.

They’re constraining — what if you want to work on something not in line with your goals?  Shouldn’t we have that freedom?

They put pressure on us to achieve, to get certain things done.  Pressure is stressful, and not always in a good way.

When we fail (and we always do), it’s discouraging.

But most of all, here’s the thing with goals: you’re never satisfied. Goals are a way of saying, “When I’ve accomplished this goal (or all these goals), I will be happy then. I’m not happy now, because I haven’t achieved my goals.” This is never said out loud, but it’s what goals really mean. The problem is, when we achieve the goals, we don’t achieve happiness. We set new goals, strive for something new.

I don’t agree with much of what he writes in regards to goal setting, but it’s his last argument that I quibble with the most, because it goes against everything that I believe.

My life philosophy goes something like this:

My hope is to always live in a perpetual state of content dissatisfaction.

Sure, I want to be happy, but I never want to find myself thoroughly satisfied with my position in life either. I wish to remain on a lifelong mission of realizing my dreams, which requires a never-ending list of unfulfilled dreams.

Friends (and perhaps my wife) have found this philosophy both bizarre and impossible, since one cannot be happy and dissatisfied. Yet I think I have somehow achieved this result. Yes, I am disappointed and annoyed with myself for not having finished my manuscript, but these feelings of discontentment do not preclude me from being happy overall.

Is this so hard to understand?

Recently, I’ve been talking about my plan to retire after twenty-five years of teaching. If I was able to make this happen, I would be retiring from the profession in thirteen years at the ripe old age of 52. When I tell my older friends about my plan, many tell me that they are already worrying about how they will fill their days after retirement and could not imagine leaving the workplace in their early fifties.

But here’s the thing:

I live in a perpetual state of content dissatisfaction. I have accomplished my childhood dream of teaching and writing for a living. But these are not my only goals. Since childhood, new goals have been piling up, and while I have continued to tackle many of them, there are some that still await my attention.  Retiring from teaching does not mean retiring from life. It simply means opening a new chapter in my life, and I have more than enough unfulfilled goals and dreams with which to fill it. My list of ideas is a mile long, and the only difficulty that I anticipate is determining where to start.

And who knows?  After twenty-five years of teaching, I may find myself wanting to teach another twenty-five, unable to give up the job that I love so much. But my interests are so varied and my desires so great that leaving the profession after a quarter century seems entirely possible as I enter my twelfth year in the classroom.

Babauta is correct when he says that when we achieve a goal, we set a new goal and strive for something new. But he is incorrect in assuming that this results in unhappiness.

Content dissatisfaction, perhaps. And yes, therefore happiness, too. At least for me.

Golden Rule, Golden Shmool

The Golden Rule doesn’t always work. I always prefer that people be direct, honest and forthright with me at all times. Brutally honest if needed. No behind-the-back gossip or back-channel suggestions through a third party. Just let me have it.

And a few of my friends actually adhere to this desire quite well, and I thank them for it.

When I do something stupid, for example, I like to be told. But when I attempt to tell someone else that they are acting stupid, they are considerably less appreciative than I usually am. In fact, I have found that the more direct and honest I am with people, the less I am appreciated.

Furthermore, my directness often results in less direct and more passive-aggressive behavior on the part of the recipient, who often chooses to speak to my wife or my boss rather than me.

Essentially, they tattle on me rather than facing more of my honesty and directness.

I can’t tell you how direct and honest this tattling then makes me, thus propagating a vicious circle that never ends well.

So much for the stupid Golden Rule.

Oh, The Golden Rule also failed miserably when I was a single man on the dating scene. The idea that “I hit on you because I want you to hit on me” was a complete flop as well.

Can I survive on even less sleep?

Tell me if this makes sense.

I’m thinking about cutting down on my sleep.  Here’s my rationale. 

I go to sleep sometime between 11:30 and midnight every night. 

I wake up sometime between 5:00 and 5:30 every morning.  Sometimes a little earlier.  

This routine does not vary regardless of vacation schedules and weekends.  I never use my Saturdays to “catch up on my sleep.”

This means that I average about five hours of sleep a night.

But I am almost never tired when I go to bed, and I am almost always ready to jump out of bed go with the sound of the alarm.  I rarely, if ever, find myself wanting to go to bed or remain in the bed. 

So perhaps I could be sleeping even less.  Carve out a little more time to get things done.

I sort of think it’s crazy, but it seems to make sense, too.  Especially with my school year beginning and so much to do.   

No? 

Merriam Webster’s Top 10 Commonly Confused Words

My most frequently confused word did not make the list. I don’t know be happy or sad about this. For me, it’s peek and peak.

Even with the see and peek pneumonic (both have a double-e and both relate to vision), I still have to pause and consider the distinction whenever I use either word.

I can also never remember how to spell calendar.

So I understand when a writer confuses words.

But the one word pair that makes the list that should never be confused is its and it’s, because using them correctly is simply a matter of effort.

It’s is a conjunction, and therefore it stands for two words, it is.  Substitute it is in any sentence containing it’s or its and you’ll know if you’ve chosen correctly.

After years of writing, I still have to do this from time to time in order to ensure that I am using it properly.

And after years of writing, I have still been known to use these words incorrectly. But whenever I do, it should be attributed to laziness and not an inability to understand the distinction between the words.

And if you’re the kind of person who struggles with these kinds of confusions, I am available on retainer for a very reasonable fee.

Dead people’s jerseys

A couple years ago, my friend’s daughter, Katie, played on a softball team that was sponsored by Bailey Funeral Home. I think this is fabulous. Kids running the bases while advertising a funeral home on their backs. Do the proprietors of the funeral home think that this type of advertising is effective?

“Hey, I heard that your aunt died. Have you checked out Bailey Funeral Home? They seem very community oriented. Good with men in scoring position, too.”

But at least Katie’s team knew who was footing the bill for their season. When I was twelve, my Little League team, sponsored by Joe Wojick and Son’s, won the league championship.

Thanks to Joe and Sons, my team sported bright orange uniforms. The ugliest uniform I’ve ever seen. Even worse than the old Houston Astros uniforms.

And I still own mine.

But I never had any idea what kind of business Joe Wojick and Son’s did.  And I still don’t. Apparently Joe Wojick and Son’s is now a wholesale fruit and vegetable company, but this business was incorporated in 1986.

My Little League team won our championship in 1983.

So there’s no way of telling what the company was doing back then. In my mind, it had been some kind of construction company, but perhaps not.

Hard to imagine transitioning from construction to fruits and veggies.

There’s a phone number listed on the webpage, so perhaps I’ll call and find out.

Either way, it would’ve been a hell of a lot more interesting had Joe Wojick and Son’s been a funeral home.  The jokes and one-liners would have been endless.

Katie was so lucky.

"Be an unbeatable person and avenge my death.”

I write a daily blog to my daughter entitled GreetingsLittleOne.com. I’ve written every day since we learned that my wife was pregnant and have not missed a day. Sometimes the post is merely a collection of photographs and videos from the day. Other times it’s an account of the day’s proceedings. Occasionally I dispense fatherly advice or share stories about our family or our childhoods.

Coming from a family with less than two dozen photographs from my childhood and nary an account of my childhood days save my sister’s remarkable memory, I hope that this blog means something to my daughter someday.

For me, it’s meant a marking of the days and a purposeful recognition of each of Clara’s milestones. When asked by people if I think that time is flying by and Clara is growing up too quickly, I always say no. I think that the need to sit down each day and write something to her has helped me soak in every moment.

But nothing that I have written to Clara thus far holds a candle to the farewell letter written by Masanobu Kuno, a Japanese bomber pilot, to his 5-year-old son, Masanori, and 2-year-old daughter, Kiyoko, on the eve of his kamikaze attack against Allied vessels.

Translation:

Dear Masanori and Kiyoko, Even though you can't see me, I'll always be watching you. When you grow up, follow the path you like and become a fine Japanese man and woman. Do not envy the fathers of others. Your father will become a god and watch you two closely. Both of you, study hard and help out your mother with work. I can't be your horse to ride, but you two be good friends. I am a cheerful person who flew a large bomber and finished off all the enemy. Please be an unbeatable person like your father and avenge my death. From Father

“…be an unbeatable person and avenge my death.”

Awesome.

Nothing I have told my daughter so far comes even close to being this good.

And yes, I know he was a kamikaze pilot who flew a suicide mission into an American ship, killing American servicemen, but please remember that Kuno believed that his nation was under attack, his Emperor was a God, and that his mission was just. Japanese high command can be blamed for Japanese aggression and war crimes during World War II, but soldiers like Kuno were merely following the orders of their superiors who received instructions from God.

On a side note, I’ve recently launched a new blog with my sister (107FederalStreet.blogspot.com) in which I will attempt to mine her extraordinary memory in an attempt to resurrect my own childhood memories. Kelli is an excellent writer, so with some prompting from me, I’m hoping that we can begin a back-and-forth exchange that will provide me with a new and better picture of my time growing up. Probably not of interest to any of my readers, except for the stalkers.

And when it comes time to write my memoir, I’ll just do a lot of cut-and-pasting.

Give kids a reason to write

I was on an escalator in the MOMA, and I heard a mother ask her son, “What was your favorite exhibit?” The boy hemmed and hawed and ultimately failed to answer the question.

I wanted to explain to the mother that a better question would have been, “What exhibit did you hate the most?”

This would have most certainly generated a response.

A fundamental truth about human beings, and especially about kids, is that they are more likely to remember the things that they despise rather than the things that they love. I can’t remember a single gift that my grandparents ever gave me save the socks and underwear that I received on Christmas.

It’s just more fun to complain.

And while the mom on the escalator might have preferred to know that her son loved the Mattisse exhibit the most rather than listening to him gripe about the creepy photography, getting him to gripe and complain about the worst exhibit would have been a more effective way of getting him to talk about his visit, and ultimately, he might have gotten around to talking about his favorite as well.

The same holds true in writing.

One of the most common essay topics in the history of mediocre writing instruction asks students to write about their favorite moment from summer vacation.

I find that I get a much more enthusiastic and interesting response if I give the kids the choice to write about their most miserable moment of summer vacation instead. More than half of the class typically chooses this version of the topic, and the responses are often humorous, detailed and utterly engrossing. Most important, the kids appreciate the choice and are more engaged.

Everyone is a critic, so why not embrace this tendency and get kids excited about writing.

It’s why kids took the time to write hate mail to author Neil deGrasse Tyson regarding his mention of Pluto’s recent loss of planetary stature in his book.

People write most enthusiastically when they are angry.

You’ve probably noticed this about me from time to time.

CAPS LOCK

What is the point of the goddamn Caps Lock button? And why must it be as almost as large as the Shift key. And why did the morons who designed this keyboard put the damn button beside the letter A, making it a button that I am constantly striking by mistake. Who the hell uses Caps Lock?

Why is it so big?

Why isn't the button written in caps?

Why not put it beside the letter Z?

Or somewhere above the row of numbers?

And why not shrink the thing to a reasonable size?

If I had my way, I’d force the designer of my keyboard to swallow this dreadful key and laugh as it lodges somewhere in the idiot’s throat.

How’s that for a design standard? If you can’t swallow the key without choking, it’s too big.

I’m upset.  Perhaps I’m overreacting a bit.

No place like home

As summer vacation draws to a close and my school year begins, I can’t help but think that I am returning home after a summer abroad. After a dozen years of teaching, my school has begun to feel a little like home. It has become a fixture of my life, and during my years spent teaching, I have worked among people who have become some of my closest and dearest friends. I have taught children who return to my classroom on a weekly basis to apprise their former teacher about their adventures in middle and high school. Some of these students have become legitimate friends. I play basketball with them, counsel them on difficulties that they are experiencing and share in their accomplishments and joy. As my first class of students enter college, I find some of them now babysitting my daughter and attending important family events.

I have also developed friendships with the parents of some of my students, and these friends have become some of the most important people in my life.  I count many of them as my best friends, and one is even my daughter’s godmother.

And recently, I came to realize that some of the most important events of my life have taken place inside the walls to my school.

On September 11, 2001, I watched the second plane strike the World Trade Center and the first tower fall on a television in my principal’s office. Immediately thereafter, I retrieved my students from music class and went on with my day without telling them that anything had happened, giving them a few more precious hours of normalcy in a world that had suddenly changed.

In the fall of 2002, I met my future wife in our first staff meeting of the year.  Ironically, our first real conversation would take place a few weeks later at a YMCA camp as we hiked around the lake with students. That discussion centered on the plans for her upcoming wedding, an engagement that she would later break off.

In the fall of 2004, I revealed plans to ask Elysha to marry me to a colleague and friend in our Curriculum Specialist’s office. A month later, while Elysha was trapped in an after-school meeting, a committee of teachers and friends helped me choose Elysha’s engagement ring.

In the spring of 2005, I received a call from the veterinarian before school informing me that my dog required life threatening spinal surgery. I went on to teach for the rest of the day while Kaleigh was in surgery, waiting to hear if she was alive or dead.

In February of 2007, I was sitting at the desk in the principal’s office when my aunt told me over the phone that my mother was dead. I spent a few moments alone before returning to class to finish the day with my kids.

Early in 2008 I was sitting at the desk in my classroom when a call came in from the geneticist, informing me that I was a carrier of the muscular dystrophy gene, and that I was almost certain to contract the same disease that killed my mother.

That same year, I was sitting at the same desk when I received the call from my agent informing me that Doubleday had made a preemptive offer on the book. I spent a moment collecting myself before finding Elysha alone in the hall and informing her of the news. She collapsed to the floor in tears, sparking great concern throughout the faculty that something terrible had happened. I was standing by the library after the school day had ended when negotiations over the book had finished and the call came in with the final purchase price.

With experiences like these, and so many more, is it any surprise that a school can begin to feel like a home?

More importantly, does this happen to everyone at the workplace, or is there something different about working in a school?

Skookum!

Elysha rarely calls me by name. Like most couples, we have developed a series of pet names and nicknames for one another. Skookum, a word that means the best (and ironically also means monster) is our most commonly-used moniker but honey, sweetie, and the like make their way into the lexicon as well.

This left me wondering:

Do couples fall into these patterns early on in their relationships in order to avoid accidentally referring to their current lover by the name of a previous beau or gal?

I thought I had stumbled upon a brilliant revelation here, until Elysha informed me that a song has already been written on the subject.

Figures.

Did they use straws to empty the pools?

Did you know that skateboard parks began with southern California skateboarders in the 1970’s known as Z-Boys, who would trespass into neighbor’s backyards, empty the pool and use it as a half pipe and concrete ramp? The 1970’s were such an odd time in America.

Is it time for product placement in fiction?

A month after my first novel, SOMETHING MISSING, hit the store shelves, I began receiving the occasional but persistent email from readers asking and oftentimes accusing me of having made product placement deals during the writing of my book. It would seem that my frequent use of specific brand names in the book had struck a nerve and caused them to wonder why an author would choose to be so specific. Clearly, they had not read anything by Stieg Larsson.

I answered those emails with the assurance that my attention to detail and use of brand names was only an attempt to paint the clearest picture possible in my reader’s mind. But I also told readers that if Subaru had wanted to pay me for my mention of my protagonist’s Outback, I would not have complained.

A year later, at my first author talk for UNEXPECTEDLY, MILO, a reader asked if I had ever considered contacting Smucker’s and working out an endorsement deal with them. The protagonist of that book, Milo, is saddled with the compulsive need to open jars of Smucker’s grape jelly, and so this particular brand of jelly is featured prominently in the book.

Again, I told the reader that the use of the brand name was not intended to garner any corporate attention or an advertising windfall, though I also admitted that it would have been a great idea had I thought of it soon enough.

The Wall Street Journal created quite a kerfuffle with a piece suggesting that it won’t be long before ads find their way into e-books.

With e-reader prices dropping like a stone and major tech players jumping into the book retail business, what room is left for publishers’ profits? The surprising answer: ads. They’re coming soon to a book near you.

I'm still reading books the old fashioned way, so I can't say for sure how I feel about the possibility of ads on an e-reader, but I can assure you that I would hate to see them on the pages of a pulp-and-ink book.

However, product placement might be a different story.

While I can’t imagine striking deals with companies before or during the writing of a book, I find myself wondering what would be wrong with my agent contacting companies like Subaru or Smuckers after the fact and attempting to make a deal?

If UNEXPECTEDLY, MILO is made into a film (it's currently optioned for film at this time), the producers will undoubtedly attempt to do the same, and even change the brand of jelly if necessary in order to make a profit.

Why shouldn’t authors also cash in when they can?

As I think about this idea, I find myself wondering if deals could also be struck during the writing of a book as well?

Consider this:

I am writing UNEXPECTEDLY, MILO. I decide that one of Milo’s compulsions will be the need to open jars of jelly in order to release the pressurized seals on the lid. I grew up eating Smucker's grape jelly, so this is the brand that I am inclined to use, but I contact my agent and inform her that jelly will be playing an important role in my next book, appearing multiple times and always in a favorable light. “I’m inclined to use Smuckers,” I tell her, “but the actual brand name is unimportant, so if you can make a product placement deal with a jelly company, go for it.”

Is there a problem with this?

Naturally, there would be a concern that an author might write a book with the sole purpose of product placement, or that the proliferation of product placement might somehow erode the creative process and bastardize stories, but wouldn’t those books stick out like sore thumbs?

Wouldn’t these authors be spurned as sell-outs?

Wouldn’t these stories ultimately be ignored?

Companies investing in literary product placement would want these books to garner favorable reviews and sell well, and as such, the use of product placement would need to be subtle and appear as a natural part of the story anyway. Over-the-top, ham-handed product placement would do these companies no good.

A brand of jelly was predestined to appear in UNEXPECTEDLY, MILO, and if choice of brand name is arbitrary, why not make some money in the process?

I’m not entirely sold on the idea yet, but as a writer who frequently mentions brand names as a means of being specific, the idea of product placement and the profits that it might garner has a certain appeal to me.

Stieg Larsson’s books could have brought in a fortune on product placement deals.

Another fortune, that is.

Knock! Knock!

For the third time this week, I have found myself in a single-person public restroom, door locked, conducting my business, when someone attempts to open the door, discovers it locked, and then knocks. Who are these people?

When you encounter a restroom door that is locked, what goes through these moron’s heads?

I wonder who is in there.

Maybe he will let me join him.

Perhaps he isn’t aware that I am waiting, despite the clear jiggling of the door handle.

Knocking is fun.

In response to these morons and their idiotic knocking, I have officially adopted a new policy that I have been using for more than a year, much to my delight.

In response to the doorknob-rattle-followed-by-knocking, I respond to the knock in a clear, loud voice, stating the first and most ridiculous thing that comes to mind. Phrases like:

Hark! Who goes there? Tally-ho my good man! Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin! Tis MacDuff, come to find King Duncan slain!

Last night I used, “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush!” and I could hear the giggles on the other side of the door.

Last week, while dining in Cosi, I used, “The truth shall set you free!” which also managed to get a laugh.

And thus life has become a little more fun for me.

The backhanded compliment bio

Last night’s appearance at Posman Books in Chelsea Market went well, and the turnout was terrific. Anytime a bookseller must drag out more chairs and offer stools to a standing-room audience, you feel good. And last night marked the debut of my new author bio, read by the bookseller as part of her introduction of me. She asked if there was something on the Random House website that she might use, and though I’m sure there is something (yup, there is), I told her about my recent bio writing contest and the winner, written by Charles Wolgemuth, and we immediately jumped online and printed it from this blog.

Earlier in the day, my publicist gave the new bio her enthusiastic approval, only requesting one small change. We still await the opinion of my vacationing editor, but it’s looking like Charles’s bio will soon become official.

In contrast to the entry that I shared yesterday, which referred to me as the modern-day Mark Twain (someone on Facebook later suggested that the modern day Tom Sawyer might be more apropos), comes this entry that I thought I would share today. Written by Suzanne Thompason, the mother-in-law of a good friend, and someone who I have never met, this was the only entry that does not cast me in entirely glowing terms.

And I sort of admire Suzanne’s backhanded-compliment and her willingness to stick it to me.

It’s the kind of thing I might have done.

Matthew Dicks' partially autobiographical first novel, Something Missing, reveals a somewhat subversive character who enjoys the idea of undetected crime and secretly believes that he is cleaner than most folks (and, by implication, better).  Mr. Dicks himself vehemently denies these characteristics.  To further probe his many-faceted personality, visit his website at www.matthewdicks.com or check out his blog at matthewdicks.com.

Contest runner-up #2

Cheryl Harris entered my biography contest with this entry, which I adore, perhaps a little too much. Since author bios are ordinarily assumed to have been written in part by the author, this one was simply too self-congratulatory for my purposes. I feared that I would sound like a pompous ass.

But I appreciate the sentiments expressed here and will save this bio for a day when my characters refuse to behave, my plot is unwinding and my authorial doubts begin to consume my thoughts.

This bio is bound to make me feel better.

MATTHEW DICKS is today’s Mark Twain. The author of SOMETHING MISSING and UNEXPECTEDLY MILO values knowledge, but does not accept society’s answers for wisdom. Despising political correctness, he is an astute observer of social systems and people’s values, whether he agrees with their ethos or not, and loves to comment on the foolishness he observes. His non-conformist attitude is clear in his blog at: http://matthewdicks.com where he welcomes interaction. As an award-winning teacher (2005 West Hartford’s Teacher of the Year), Matthew also enjoys shaping the minds of fifth-graders.

When not engaged in social construction with young people, he connects socially throughout Connecticut as owner and operator of a DJ company performing at weddings, despite being a self-proclaimed misanthrope. Mr. Indestructible (doesn’t bruise or vomit and has been brought back from death twice) enjoys golf with friends and shooting hoops with former students. He makes his home in Newington, CT, where he shares space with wife Elysha, daughter Clara, Lhasa Apso Kaleigh, and enormous, slightly insane house cat Owen. For more information, please visit Matthew’s website at www.matthewdicks.com.

Name your kid after me or don’t. No middle ground.

I don’t understand people who think that naming their child after a grandparent or other relative only requires the use of the first letter in the name. “My son’s name is Mason. He’s named after his great uncle Mortimer.”

“We’re naming her Piper after my grandmother Patty-Sue.”

There are people who abide by this logic. A lot of them.

I once met a woman named Cara who claimed to be named after her grandmother, Clara. I wanted to tell her that if her parents really wanted to name her after her grandmother, they would’ve stuck the L onto her name and called it a day.

Instead they hedged their bets and honored no one.

Please allow me to go on the record as saying that if any of my future relatives or friends plan to name their children after me (and one almost did once), the child’s name had damn well better be Matthew. If they plan on naming the kid Marcus or Myron or Milroy in my honor, they might as well bestow this meaningless and insignificant honor upon someone foolish to buy into this nonsense.

Because I ain’t.

Susan Stamberg confirms that I’m not old man.

In a character analysis of Eric Cartman from South Park, NPR’s Susan Stamberg played a famous rant from the foul mouthed cartoon boy. She then said, “If you don’t recognize this voice, then you probably aren’t a male ages 18-24.”

Suddenly I felt very hip and cool, youthful and cutting-edge.

No, Susan Stamberg, I'm not 18-24, but I know damn well who that boy is.

Knowing that my wife could have identified the voice with equal certainty made me feel even better still.

The Page 69 Test

Marshall McLuhan recommends that the book browser turn to page 69 of any book and read it. If you like that page, buy the book. It works.

Following this theory, I have written a guest post for the blog The Page 69 Test, as it pertains to UNEXPECTEDLY, MILO. 

Surprisingly, even though page 69 of my book is only half a page of text, it passes the the Page 69 Test quite well.