Worst Halloween treat ever

When I was a kid, a woman living on our street gave out plastic bags of Chex mix on Halloween. Even though we knew that it would be Chex mix, we stopped at the house every year for the same reason that some people slow down when driving by car accidents.

Bearing witness to the horror is sometimes unavoidable.  

I did a lot of egging of houses and people in my childhood, but surprisingly, I never egged that lady's house. Perhaps even back then, I was judging people's actions based upon intent instead of results. 

However, if she had given us chocolate covered Brussel sprout, which Mark Sparrow will be giving out this Halloween, I might have burned her house down. 

But toffee-covered onions?

Hilarious. 

Catholics should be able to scatter their ashes wherever they damn well please.

My wife once said that amongst the many noble reasons that I became a teacher, it was also because I don't like to be told what to do.

This has never occurred to me before, but she's probably right. Teachers spend most of their day deciding how and when and what they will do. There is curriculum, of course, and procedures and schedules, but in the end, teachers dictate the course of each day.   

It occurs to me that perhaps this is one of the reasons why I struggle to find faith as well, particularly in light of the Catholic Church's recent announcement on how to handle the ashes of the cremated (though they continue to stress that burial is preferable to cremation):

Ashes must be kept “in a holy place, that is a cemetery or a church or in a place that has been specifically dedicated to this purpose. The conservation of ashes in the home is not allowed."

“Furthermore, in order to avoid any form of pantheistic or naturalistic or nihilistic misunderstanding, the dispersion of ashes in the air, on the ground, on water or in some other way as well as the conversion of cremated ashes into commemorative objects is not allowed.”

I'm not Catholic, but this still annoy me.

The words "is not allowed" repulse me.

The rationale ("...to avoid any form of pantheistic or naturalistic or nihilistic misunderstanding") is essentially admitting to a fear that cremation and the spreading of ashes might lead people to believe that religion need not be so codified, structured, and authoritarian. 

The decision over how a person's remains will be handled following their death should absolutely be made by the deceased. Death is hard enough without a church adding complication, unnecessary specificity, or guilt to the process by supposing that God would give a damn about how a person's atoms are returned to the universe.

I don't believe in God (despite my desire to do so). I don't speak or pretend to know God. But I am nevertheless fairly certain that if God exists, the disposal of a soul's earthly vessel is not on his radar.

And what about all the Catholics who have come before this edict? What about all the believers who have had their ashes spread over hill and dale? Were they given the stink eye by God upon their arrival in Heaven? Has their decision caused unhealthy levels of pantheism or naturalism or nihilism their loved ones? Have they doomed their family members to a lifetime of doubt?

This whole business strikes me as unnecessary, silly, and a little cruel. Also, Elysha is right. I can't stand it when someone tries to tell me or anyone else what to do.

My new TV gig

Tomorrow Seasons Up Close, a news program from the publishers of Seasons magazine, debuts on channel 3 at 11:30 in the Hartford market.

This will also mark my television debut. Much like my role in the magazine, I will be doing the final segment of the show (and future shows), which will be a short bit of humor and observation at the end of the show.

Sort of like the Andy Rooney spot on 60 minutes, but without a desk and far better looking.

I haven't actually seen the segment yet. They sent it to me, but I have decided to watch it live. If you're in the Hartford area and are free from 11:30 until noon, check it out.

And if it's eventually made available online, I'll be sure to share it here (if I don't hate my performance).  

Here's a little taste of what you may see:

Be happy for the good fortune of others. It's a happier and more productive way to live.

One of the saddest and most inexplicable things that I see in this world is the inability to be happy for the good fortune of others.  

Sometimes it's a large bit of good fortune. A friend's early retirement. A sister-in-law's pregnancy. A colleague's promotion. A friend's wedding proposal. 

But more often, it's the small things that I fail to understand. 

• You're trapped in an endless meeting that a colleague has managed to avoid through accident or subterfuge.  
• A teacher or professor has failed to notice that a fellow classmate didn't turn in an assignment and has inadvertently given her credit for completing it.
• A golf ball is launched into the trees but somehow ricochets out onto the fairway.
• You are pulled over and ticketed for speeding by the police while the friend who you were following manages to drive by undetected. 
• A coworker at the same level as you and being paid commensurately is not required to complete an assignment that you consider onerous.

In situations like these, the instinct is often to become angry at the injustice and unfairness of the world. I've actually seen people attempt to mitigate the good fortune of others in order to achieve greater equity.

But why not simply be happy for the person's good luck or clever maneuver or strategic bit of thinking? It's so much easier. Such a better and happier way to live. 

In the spirit of being happy for the good fortune and strategic thinking of others, I offer you this:

At a recent concert in Chicago, Green Day frontman Billie Joe Armstrong noticed a kid in the audience holding a sign saying “I can play every song on Dookie” and pulled him up on stage to prove it.  

I am so happy for this guy. I couldn't stop smiling as I watched.

Collaboration is great. Right?

I teach my students to collaborate. I believe that collaboration is a good and useful and a productive means of getting things done. It's good for people and the world and all of humankind.

And yet... doesn't this also seem ABSOLUTELY TRUE? 

Put stuff on the Internet and watch what happens

You should write. 

Regardless of your self-perceived skill or experience, you should absolutely write stuff and stick it on the Internet. This is what I have been doing for more than a decade. Every single day since 2005 - without exception, I have posted a thought or an idea or an observation to the Internet in the form of a blog post.

Many remarkable things have happened as a result of this.

• I am quite certain that it has made me a better writer.
• It has connected me with people from all over the world.
• I have made friends as a result of my writing.
• It has created an archive of my life and my thoughts that I reference constantly and with great zeal. 
• I have been offered jobs and landed writing gigs as a result of my writing.

My blog posts were also excerpted, misquoted, and presented out of context by a lunatic or a small group of lunatics in attempt to destroy my life and the lives of others, but that was a unicorn. An "impossible-to-believe of act of insanity" in the words of one attorney. A one-in-a-million disaster that could only happen to me. 

It also resulted in a Moth story that won me a GrandSLAM championship and ended up being heard on the Moth Radio Hour by millions of Americans. Listeners reach out to me all the time about the story. It's become a story that the victims of hate-mongering, prejudice, and cowardly anonymous attacks listen to for solace, hope, and inspiration.

So it wasn't all bad. 

Then there are the bizarre, the unexpected, and the unbelievable things that have happened as a result of writing stiuff and sticking it on the Internet.

Here are just a few:

A few weeks ago, I wrote a post advising Hillary Clinton to take certain strategic steps in her next two debates with Donald Trump. That post made it into the hands of a senior staffer on the Clinton campaign and was passed around. I don't know if Clinton herself read it, but I like to pretend that she did. 

I have yet to be offered a speech writing job, but I haven't given up hope. 
________________________________________

In June of 2010, a wrote a post about the Blackstone Valley sniper. When I was a child, a pair of men spent almost two years firing bullets into windows in my hometown and the adjacent towns, forcing us to turn out our lights at night and crawl under the picture window as we passed through the living room. We lived in fear for a long time. There was a total of eleven shootings from 1986-1987 (in addition to acts of arson and burglaries), and though no one was killed, four people were wounded in the attacks. 

The two men guilty of the shootings were sentenced to prison in 1989 and were released on probation in 2008. 

Five years after writing that post, the girlfriend of one of the shooters saw the post and wrote to me, complaining about my disparaging remarks about her boyfriend, who was turning his life around. 

It was an interesting exchange of ideas.  

________________________________________

In April of 2011, I wrote about my desire to become a professional best man. I declared myself ready and able if anyone needed my services.

Since I wrote that post, four grooms and one bride have attempted to hire me (scheduling prevented those bookings from happening), and a fifth groom actually hired me for his wedding but cancelled later on. 

I've also been contacted by three different reality television producers about the possibility of doing a show in which I would be a professional best man at a series of weddings. None of these shows came to fruition.

In 2015, comedian Kevin hart wrote to me upon the release of his film The Wedding Ringer, in which he plays a professional best man. He acknowledged that it was my idea first. 

________________________________________

In 2012, I wrote about my desire to find my first library book. I recalled a few details about the book - the color of the cover and a few details about the plot - but nothing terribly specific. 

Two years later a reader correctly identified the book. It now sits on my bookshelf. 

________________________________________

Earlier this month, I wrote about Mrs. Carroll, the woman who taught me how to tie my shoes in kindergarten.

One day later, I was informed that she is 94 years old and still going strong.

By the end of that day, I had been given her home address by a reader. I sent her a letter last week telling her how much she meant to me and how I think about her every time I tie my shoes.

I'm waiting to hear back. 

Random chairs in restrooms make me uncomfortable. Justifiably so. Right?

I will never understand why a restaurant would put a random chair like this in their restroom. It serves no purpose other than to make me feel awkward and nervous and a little afraid.

Why should I experience unnecessary minor pain? Because I choose not to be soft.

In a piece entitled Pain Is Silly! Be Prepared With Your Own Mini-Pharmacy, Slate's Mark Joseph Stern writes:

“I live in the 21st century. Why should I have to experience minor pain? The miraculous pharmaceutical developments of our age have created a treatment for virtually every ache and malady. The vagaries of our regulatory system allow us to purchase many of these treatments in bulk, over the counter, for very little money. There is no good reason to leave the house without a cure for what might ail you in a few hours. And that is why I carry around a portable mini-pharmacy with me everywhere I go—and you should, too.

Everyone scoffs at the mini-pharmacy, which comprises one full pocket of a raggedy old backpack I tote around all day, as it clatters audibly up and down. I have everything in there, but the focus is on painkillers for headaches. Have you ever stoically suffered through a headache? That’s stupid. You should never do that. And if we were friends, you’d never have to. If you and I are ever in the same room, I will happily provide whichever pills you require.”

Why should you have to experience minor pain?

How about this:

 The world is getting soft. Too soft. Also overmedicated. Overindulged. Coddled.  

I attended college full time, earning two degrees simultaneously at two separate universities while serving as the Treasurer of the Student Senate, President of the National Honor Society, and columnist for the school newspaper. I did all this while managing a McDonald's restaurant full-time, working in the school's writing center part-time, and launching a small business that is still operating today.

Minor pain? Give me a break.

And I certainly wasn't the only one I knew who was doing everything possible in order to excel. 

I had friends who worked two and even three minimum wage jobs in order to avoid living at home with their parents. I had friends who joined the military and fought in Operation Desert Storm for the sole purpose of paying for their college education. I had friends living three and four and five in a single bedroom apartment to make rent. My best friend graduated from Bryant University (with honors) with a degree in computer science and then took jobs as an assistant manager at a department store and an overnight cleaner at a fast food restaurant for almost a year until he finally landed a job in his chosen field. 

These were not men and women who worried about minor pain. These were not soft people. These were not folks prone to medication in order to relieve a sore back, a wrenched knee, or a stubbed toe. These were individuals who stepped over pain and suffering and sacrifice like it was a meaningless, insignificant nuisance in order to make their dreams come true.

I like Mark Joseph Stern. I read his work in Slate quite often. I listen to him when he appears on their podcasts. He's an excellent writer and an interesting thinker. 

But I am not a fan of this piece, nor am I a fan of his idea of carrying a mini-pharmacy wherever you go or medicating every minor pain you experience. 

In Stern's own words, neither is anyone else.

Ironically, I'm a person who believes in being prepared for almost everything. My years in Boy Scouts drilled this habit into me. The trunk of my car contains a first aid kit, blankets, and an extra set of clothes. My backpack has office supplies that I will probably never use. I stock every type of battery in my home at all times. I have 20 gallons of water stored in my basement in case of an emergency. 

But in a world where children are now wrapped in bubble wrap and treated like China dolls, where playground surfaces are made of rubber and the idea of turning off a cell phone for the duration of a movie is unthinkable, and where young people would prefer to live at home rather than work long hours at terrible jobs for terrible pay, a little bit of minor pain strikes me as something that we could use a little more of in this world. 

There's a lot to be said in favor of toughness. Grit. Tenacity. Relentlessness. Resilience. Physical, mental, and emotional fortitude. The acceptance of struggle and hardship and pain on the road to success.   

There is no room for mini-pharmacies on that road.

Grin and bear it. Accept a little minor pain every now and then. You'll be the better for it. 

Professional Mini Golf: Competitive, cutthroat, and quirky?

This is not meant at a slight in any way, but it strikes me that the men and women who play professional mini golf would fit perfectly into any one of my novels.

Wardrobe malfunction

Charlie: Dad, you took off my pajamas, and then you put on other pajamas.

Me: Those are pajamas?

Charlie: Where's Mom?

Great first sentences (and an analysis of the first sentences of my own novels)

I have no definitive favorite first line of a novel, though I am partial to the first line of Slaughterhouse Five:

"All this happened, more or less."

Also, Fahrenheit 451: 

"It was a pleasure to burn."

Of all my books, I like the first sentence of Chicken Shack, my unpublished novel that will hopefully see the light of day someday, the best: 

"They tried not to receive corpses on the same day as chicken, but since it was impossible to predict when a logger might fall from his bucket truck and break his neck, the two deliveries occasionally coincided."

I like to think that it works well because it’s unexpected and a little mysterious but contains enough specificity to make the initial image real for the reader. Why chicken and corpses would arrive anyplace on the same day is strange, but the specific image of the logger’s fall is enough to also establish the reader within the story. 

At least I hope. 

I also like the first sentence of Unexpectedly, Milo:

"The moment that Milo Slade had attempted to avoid for nearly his entire life finally arrived under the sodium glow of a parking lot florescent at a Burger King just south of Washington, DC along interstate 95."

Again, the sentence contains that combination of mystery and specificity that I like. The moment that Milo has been trying to avoid for his entire life is left undefined, but the setting is clearly established. In doing these two things simultaneously, I like to think that I both intrigue and ground the reader in the story at the same time. 

However, this sentence was not originally the first sentence of the book. Prior to the addition of the prologue, this sentence appeared closer to the end of the book than the beginning. The original first sentence was:

"When he spotted the video camera the first time, sitting on the end of the park bench beneath the dying elm, Milo didn’t take it."

While I like the new first sentence better, this isn’t bad. The use of the phrase "the first time" lends an air of mystery, yet I again attempted to make the specifics of the scene (park bench beneath the dying elm) clear to the reader. 

The first sentence of Something Missing reads:

"Martin opened the refrigerator and saw precisely what he had expected."

I don’t like this one nearly as much, but it accomplished the goal at the time. Compared with the other two books, I put in significantly less thought into the first sentence of Something Missing, but my intention was to begin with action, knowing how much of the story would take place within Martin’s head. I also revised the sentence much later to include the words precisely and expected, knowing how appropriate they are to Martin’s character. 

The first sentence of The Perfect Comeback of Caroline Jacobs is a good one, too:

"Caroline Jacobs rose, pointed her finger at the woman seated at the center of the table reserved for the PTO president and her officers, and said it."

Truthfully, though, it's really the first paragraph as a whole that works well. The first sentence contains that same blend of mystery and specificity, but it works even better in concert with the four other sentences that make up the first paragraph.  

The same holds true for Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend. The first sentence is:

This is what I know:
My name is Budo.

This is the beginning of a list of nine things that comprise the opening page, and these items work well together. In fact, the last item is the sentence that hooked by editor when she was considering the book. 

Sometimes a first paragraph is more relevant than a first sentence.

One of my favorite first lines of a book (and many people's first line) comes from Charlotte's Web:

"Where's Papa going with that ax?" said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.

It’s probably my favorite because author EB White appears to have the same goal in mind as I do when writing a first sentence. "Where’s Papa going with that ax?” is certainly intriguing, but White also firmly establishes character and setting in the second half of the sentence.

My wife’s favorite line is the classic line from Pride and Prejudice:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

I recently attempted to challenge the merit this line, claiming that it may have a foundation in sexism, patriarchy, and materialism, but my wife threatened to go out to the shed and get Papa’s ax if I said another word.

But still, doesn’t it?

An alternative to this line can be found in Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, the retelling of the Jane Austin classic with “ultraviolent zombie mayhem!” Expectedly, the famous first line of Austin novel was re-written for this retelling:

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains.

No question of sexism there.

Do you have a favorite first line to share?  If so, please do.

"Yeah, but..."

I despise these two words. 

It's not that I don't say them, but when I hear myself saying them, I despise myself. I remind myself of how stupid I sound. I'll even apologize for them if the moment is right. 

"Yeah, but.." is never good. It's a disingenuous agreement. An artificial attempt to move on. It's the language of those who cry over spilled milk. People who perseverate over past injustice. Individuals who are incapable of putting the unchangeable and implacable behind them and moving on.

It's also the language of the unaccountable. The complainers. The blamers. The finger pointers. Those who cannot give credit where credit is due. Those unable to acknowledge the wisdom or success of others. It's the blunted, ineffectual weapon of the jealous. The envious. The small minded.  

"Yeah, but..." is also often a leap into an illogical argument. An unreasoned appeal. An emotion-riddled mess of verbal detritus. 

No one likes a "yeah, but..." person. These people are the whiners of the world. They are the people who make bring moments of genuine productivity to a grinding halt.

Seek out the "yeah, buts..." in your own conversations and remove them whenever possible. Despise them as much as I do.

Make the world a better place. 

Quite possibly Bruce Springsteen's most brilliant and perfect observation ever

Bruce Springsteen on Fresh Air: 

“Most people’s stage personas are created out of the flotsam and jetsam of their internal geography. They’re trying to create something that solves a series of very complex problems inside of them or in their history.”

— Bruce Springsteen

Springsteen is an obvious musical genius. A brilliant writer and musician and performer. My favorite. 

It also turns out that he also has the clearest of windows into my soul. 

Unfair assumption #27: People who object to mothers breast-feeding in public are freakish, worthless prudes and more

It's crazy that some people - mostly men - object to women breastfeeding in public.

Some of these people are downright despicable about it, making passive-aggressive comments to these mothers or aggressively chastising them for exposing some or all of their breast.

Their objections are inappropriate. Disgusting. Sexist. Stupid. Narrow minded. Ignorant. Inane, Cruel.

None of those are unfair assumptions. They are simply facts.

But it's perhaps unfair to assume that the people who object to public breast feeding are small minded ignoramuses. Mealy-mouthed twits. Unlovable cretins. Stupid, friendless losers. Creepy slime balls. Worthless bags of beaver dung. 

One or two of those might be unfair. Maybe.        

This Playmobil bicycle helmet does not appeal to me, and for good reason.

Two or three years ago, this prototype of a bike helmet would have meant nothing to me. I didn't grow up with Playmobil toys. I wouldn't have even recognized this as Playmobil hair.  

Now my house is filled with these tiny, plastic things. In fairness, most of them have been purchased by my seven year-old daughter, who diligently saves her money and buys purchases them for herself.

Despite the fact that I step on Playmobil pieces all the time, this bike helmet does not appeal to me. It's clever and amusing, but I would never consider wearing it.

I hate bike helmets anyway.

But the Internet went crazy over this helmet last week. People clamored for it to move beyond the prototype stage and onto store shelves. Adults dreamed of a day when they could wear a helmet just like this as they ride down the street.

I thought they were a little crazy, but I also understood.

I think that some things - toys, foods, books, movies, specific places - become a part of us as children and never leave. They become infused with our DNA and maintain a powerful hold on us for the rest of our lives. 

For me, it's canned cranberry sauce. The Twilight Zone. Yawgoog Scout Reservation. Star Wars. Treasure Island. The Atari 2600. The New York Yankees. Whiffle ball. Not wearing a bike helmet.  

These are just a few of the passions of my childhood. 

But if we miss out on the opportunity to interact with these things as kids, it's much harder to understand or feel the same level of attraction to these things later on.  

There is something about childhood that makes things bigger and brighter and better. More permanent, too.

Playmobil didn't play a part in my childhood. The toys existed, but I can't recall ever seeing a single Playmobil set or even watching a Playmobil commercial on TV. For me, it's just a helmet. A weird looking helmet. 

It might mean something more to my daughter, though. She may love it someday. She may become one of those crazy adults clamoring for its existence beyond the prototype. 

That said, this video on how the helmet was made was pretty fascinating. 

How Poor Were You?

I spent last weekend in the company of Elysha's 94 year-old grandmother. We call her Nana, and I always love speaking to her. In the midst of our chat, I was reminded of a conversation Nana and I had a couple of years ago. 

Nana told me about a game that she had played with friends called "How Poor Were You?" Players were challenged to provide evidence as to the extent of their poverty at some previous point in their life, and accolades were given to those who could prove themselves to have been the most poverty-stricken.

The game wouldn't have gone well during our visit, as I suspect that Nana (who grew up during the Great Depression) and I were the only people present to ever feel the sting of real poverty, but it sounded like a fun game just the same.

But I also recall that Nana said something to me in the midst of this discussion that I understood fully, and something that I do not think those who have not experienced poverty could ever truly understand. She said, “We were poor, but there were times when it was fun to be poor. You had to be really creative to survive, and to even eat, and there’s a certain joy in that.”

I couldn’t agree more. There have been times in my life when I was barely able to feed myself, but it was often fun trying to do so. 

So in the spirit of "How Poor Were You?" I thought I’d offer some of my poorest moments here.

From kindergarten through high school, I was eligible to receive free breakfast and free lunch from our school system, and during the summers, I also received free lunch from the park service. I can recall enormous blocks of WIC (Women, Infants and Children) cheese being delivered free-of-charge to my home for much of my childhood, and there were days, and perhaps weeks, when this cheese made up a good portion of my diet.

I received my first pair of snow boots at the age of nine after many New England winters spent in tennis shoes wrapped in bread bags.

After high school my roommate and I were so poor that we could not afford to turn on the heat in the winter. We would eat boxes of elbow macaroni (5 for $1) and sit under blankets together on the couch, huddled to keep one another warm while we watched The Simpsons on an ancient black-and-white television set atop an old baby-changing table. The apartment was so cold that the pipes burst in the bathroom and we could routinely see our own breath.

After being homeless and living in my car, I was taken in by a family of Jehovah Witnesses who allowed me to share a converted pantry off the kitchen with a guy named Rick (who spoke in tongues in his sleep) and their indoor pet goat. I did this for almost two years.

I like to think that these challenging times in my life helped to make me the person and the writer that I am today. The constant, almost daily struggle, the need for persistence and perseverance, and the opportunity to experience a varied range of the human condition, from hunger and near homelessness to enormous success and accomplishment, have equipped me with a vast storehouse of memories, experience and understanding from which I can draw.

Sometimes I feel sorry for the people who were born into relative comfort and ease.

Nana was right: Being poor can be fun.

Anyone else experience poverty in their lifetime?

If so, want to play "How Poor Were You"?

Unfair assumption #26: Adults who drink milk are lunatics

There's nothing wrong with an adult drinking white milk.

Nothing at all. Truly.

Still, it just seems so wrong to me. Insanity, really.

Sometimes a job is more than a job.

I have been teaching at the same elementary school in West Hartford, CT since the fall of 1999. The way that this school and its people have become intertwined in my life astounds me.  

Just over the course of the Columbus Day weekend:

1. I went to a Moth StorySLAM in Boston with a former colleague.
2. I went apple picking with two colleagues and their children.
3. I played golf with two former colleagues and the parent of former students.
4. I exchanged a lengthy set of amusing text messages with the parent of former students. 
5. I had lunch with two colleagues. 
6. One of my former students babysat my children, as she does quite often. 
7. I spent a great deal of time with my wife, who is also a former colleague. 

Eleven different people in all over the course of four days.

Sometimes a job is just a job. You come and go. Make a friend, perhaps. Eat lunch with coworkers. Share cake in break rooms to celebrate birthdays. You might go home and tell your spouse about so-and-so at work, but the relationships rarely extend beyond the walls of the workplace.  

But sometimes a job becomes a part of you. The people who you work with become a part of your life and your soul. They become embedded in all that you do. 

They are some of the most important people in your life.

I'm not sure if it's the nature of teaching or the length of time that I have spent in one place or simply the extraordinary people with whom I have worked and whose children I have taught, but many of the most important people in my life were met under the roof of my school.

Teachers. Parents. Students.

I often marvel at how different my life would be today had I not been hired for a teaching job at my school on a morning in May almost 20 years ago. 

This is more important than selling shoes and books.

I have a friend who approached me a couple weeks ago and said, "Do you know why Michael Jordan never endorses political candidates? Because Democrats and Republicans both buy shoes."

He went on to say that he was surprised that I was writing so many politically-minded posts when I have books to sell. "Everyone reads," he said. "Democrats and Republicans."

I understood his point. While I always stand on a platform of authenticity and extreme honestly, I have been more politically minded on my blog this year than any other year before, but I explained to my friend that this election cycle is different. These are not two serious-minded, highly qualified people with differing opinions about the direction of our country. Donald Trump is the first candidate in my lifetime who was not fit to hold the office of President (or any position in government). If I did not speak out against this ignorant, racist, misogynist in order to sell a few more books, I couldn't live with myself. 

This is why I am so disappointed in Tom Brady, who was asked by a reporter yesterday how he would respond if his children heard Donald Trump's version of "locker room talk."

Brady thanked the reporters and stepped away, dodging the question completely. 

My hope is that Brady refused to answer the question because it required him to speak about his children, and he often avoids questions related to his family. Perhaps today a reporter will simply ask, "What did you think of Donald Trump's version of locker room talk?" and he will answer.

I hope so. But I also know that Brady and Trump have been friendly over the years. My fear is that he dodged the question because of their previous and perhaps ongoing relationship.  

I hope not. I love Tom Brady and expect a hell of a lot more from him. 

I wish more athletes would speak out against Trump's attempt to excuse his claims of sexual assault as "locker room talk." I wish every athlete in the world would. 

I realize that they all have shoes to sell and games to win and fans to appease, but there are times in life when you must stop caring about the dollar and start caring about this country.
About the perception of how men behave in private.
About the way we want our sons to speak about girls and women.
About what constitutes sexual assault.

The Moth: The Promise

In November of last year, I told this story about my high school sweetheart at a Moth GrandSLAM in Brooklyn. I was lucky enough to have the story air on the Moth Radio Hour and their podcast a couple months later. I can't tell you what a honor and thrill that is.

I hear from listeners all the time about the stories that have aired on the radio and podcast - at least a few emails each week - but this is the story that people contact me about most often by a wide margin.