The Ugly Duckling sucks

I like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Dumbo a lot.

These are stories in which protagonists who look decidedly different from their counterparts ultimately accept their oddities and differences, and in doing so, force the world embrace and celebrate their oddities and differences as well. These are stories in which differences are honored. Diversity proves to be essential.

At first blush, you might think that The Ugly Duckling is a similar story, but no. It's not even close.

The Ugly Duckling is actually a story about conformity, a process that I very much despise. In the end of the story, the ugly duckling transforms into a beautiful swan, thus unburdening itself of its oddities and differences through a blending in with those around him.

The duckling finds acceptance from its peers through that awful and pervasive process of conformity. 

There are no celebrations of differences here. No glorious victory of the strange over the common. No big-eared, red-nosed act of heroism. Just a duckling-turned-swan who finds happiness by emulating others, and through no real effort of his own.

The message is clear: The solution to your problems, children, is to find a way to look like everyone else. Find a way to appear conventionally beautiful and your troubles will be over.  

I found this utterly depressing. This classic children’s tale is nothing more than a treatise on the importance of conformity. Acceptance through imitation. The stripping of individuality in favor of submission to the collective. 

It's a disgusting book. Truly. 

I don't believe in the banning of any books, but if I were forced to ban a book from school libraries, it might be The Ugly Duckling. The duckling may be ugly, but the story itself is far uglier. 

Dan Kennedy is right. Reach out to people whose work means the world to you.

Dan Kennedy, writer, storyteller, and Moth host, tweeted earlier this week:

 (@DanKennedy_NYC) Gonna get better at sending notes to people whose work means the world to me. Feels fanboy, but beats waiting to send an RIP tweet.

I like this advice a lot. 

I receive emails, tweets, and Facebook messages almost daily from readers around the globe who have liked my books and/or have questions about my stories. Every time I receive one of these messages, my heart skips a beat and I find myself more excited than ever about writing.

It occurs to me:

Despite all of this generosity from my readers, I've never followed their example and done the same.

In short, I'm a jerk. 

Dan says that reaching out to people whose work I love feels a little fanboy, and perhaps that's why I've hesitated from doing so in the past.

That, and I really am a jerk.

But as a daily recipient of these messages from readers - this morning from a teenage girl in Newberg, Oregon - I can assure Dan and everyone else that it doesn't feel fanboy at all from the recipient's perspective. 

It's a joy. A blessing. A spark that often arrives at the moment I needed it most. 

Next month I begin deciding upon my goals for 2018, and I think this will be one of them. I will write to at least one person per month whose work I admire every month in 2018. 

It's a good goal. 

As a warm-up for 2018, I'll mention that Dan Kennedy - dispenser of this excellent advice - is someone who I admire a great deal.

I first heard Dan's voice back in 2008 when Elysha and I listened to his memoir Rock On: A Power Ballad together in the car. We loved that book. I listened to it again a few years later on my own.

I heard Dan's voice again in 2010 on The Moth's podcast. Each week he delivered new stories to my ears.

In July of 2011, I met Dan for the first time when I took the stage at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe and told my first story for The Moth. By then he was an icon in my mind. I couldn't believe I was standing beside him. Dan hosted my first Moth GrandSLAM a few months later (I lost to Erin Barker, someone else who I admire deeply and will probably write to in 2018), and then slowly, over the years, I've gotten to know him better and better as I attended and performed in more and more Moth events. 

Eventually we performed together on The Moth's Mainstage. I listened to him tell stories for the first time about the death of his therapist and his ill-advised trip to find an enormous snake, and I was blown away. Those stories are still trapped inside my heart. 

Dan is a brilliant performer. An incredibly gifted storytelling host. A talented storyteller. 

But it's Dan's most recent novel, American Spirit, that I love most. I listened to that book on the way back from Maine last year, and I have never laughed so much by myself. There are certain books that are so exquisite that you remember exactly where you were while reading or listening to them, and American Spirit is one of those books for me.

I will never forget that too-bright sun, that impossibly blue sky, the blessedly open road, and Dan's voice, making the miles melt away.

It's a hilarious, poignant, brilliant book. You should read it. 

Thank you, Dan, for sharing the book and your voice with the world.

I hope this doesn't feel too fanboy.  

How can you possibly have so many stories?

It's a question I get a lot. Whether it's stories that I'm sharing on the golf course or at the dinner table or on the stage, I always have a new story to tell.

A small part of this is the unusual life that I've led, filled with chaos, bad luck, and at times, disaster. My friend and the Artistic Director of The Moth Catherine Burns has said to me, "You either have a good time or you have a good story."

A much larger part of it is the system that I use to find stories in my life called Homework for Life. People who use my system with fidelity and rigor find themselves awash in stories about their lives. It works.

But having many stories to tell also has a lot to do with the understanding that a story is not always a series of fantastic events or shocking developments. You need not move mountains to have a great story to tell. A story can be small. Infinitesimal, really, if it speaks to something about your heart, reflects your experience as a human being, or offers some fundamental truth about who you are.

That's why I love Bill Bernat's story "Oreo Relapse," which was featured on The Moth Radio Hour last week. Bill's entire story - more than five minutes long - takes place in a grocery aisle as he tries to decide if he will purchase a bag of Oreo cookies and thus fall off his dietary wagon.

That's it. If I were to summarize the story, I would say, "Man battles his inner cookie demons as he tries to decide if he should purchase a bag of Oreos."

And yet the story is filled with humor and heart. It speaks to something universal in all of us:

The power of temptation. The fragility of will power. Our constant inner battle of right vs. wrong. The shame of not having full control over our desires.

Bernat's story is brilliant in its simplicity. Very little happens in the story, yet when he is finished, I feel like I have been offered an honest, unflinching look at the man's soul. I feel connected to the man. I love the guy.

I don't know Bill Bernat, but I bet he has lots and lots of stories to tell.

"Nothing interesting ever happens to me."
"My life is boring."
"Nothing too terrible has ever happened to me."

Refrains I hear all the time to would-be storytellers who worry that unless you've died on the side of the road or been arrested for a crime you didn't commit or lived on the streets, you won't have any good stories to tell.

Not even close to true.

If you are willing to speak honestly, embrace vulnerability, think introspectively, and share a part of you that most would not normally share, you will have more stories than you could ever imagine.

Do your Homework for Life.

Listen to Bill Bernat's story.

Become the person who always has a new story to tell.

5 things that you can do to help me sell books (and one unusual thing that I do)

A reader named Sarah sent me this photo with the accompanying message:

"My friend wanted to go Black Friday shopping and I couldn't help manipulating this shelf."

It means a great deal when a reader helps me sell books. In addition to this rogue redesign of the shelf so that my books are facing out, there are a few other things you can do to help an author:

1. Buy the book. Don't wait for a copy to be available in the local library. Just buy the damn thing. I can't tell you how many people - friends and family included - who have told me that they can't wait to read my book just as soon as it's returned to the library. 

Buy the book. Please. Or at least tell me you did. 

2. Give the book away as a gift. Books are easy to wrap and make outstanding gifts. In the case of my books, I invite readers who don't live locally to forge my signature so that they can give a prized "signed copy" as a gift.

I'll never tell. 

3. If you discover that a bookstore is not carrying an author's titles or has run out of an author's books, mention the book and/or author to one or more of the employees. Tell them about the book. Tell them about the author. Tell them that they lost a sale today by not having the book available. 

4.  Preorder the author's next book. I'll be asking you to do that shortly for one of my upcoming books. Preorders help to boost production orders and increase the chances of a book landing on bestsellers' lists during its first week in print. 

5. Leave a review on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Goodreads, or all of them. It takes just a minute to rate a book and offer a review, but the benefits to the author are enormous. 

This last thing won't help sell any books, but it will make an author feel good:

Write to the author if you loved the book. Just this week, I heard from readers in Guatemala, France, Mexico, and Florida. These emails mean the world to me. It's remarkable that a story once in my head is now being appreciated by people around the globe. 

Stephen King calls it telepathy, and he's right. I had a thought, and now that thought is entering the mind of someone in Central America or Europe.

It's amazing. 

This is the kind of thing that sends me back to the manuscript every day with enthusiasm and excitement. 

Here's something unusual that I do with my books that has unintentionally increased sales:

I occasionally drop real people into my fictional worlds rather than inventing new characters. I'm not talking about starting with a person who I know and transforming then into a fictionalized version of themselves. I insert the entirety of a human being into my worlds, making no attempt to alter them from their real life version in any way, and this has oddly generated additional book sales.

In Memoirs of an Imagery Friend, Mrs. Gosk is an actual teacher and friend who I worked with for years before she recently retired. The Mrs. Gosk in the novel is exactly like the Mrs. Gosk in real life, right down the mentions of her husband and children. As a result, friends and fans of Mrs. Gosk have bought the book just to read about their friend 

In The Perfect Comeback of Caroline Jacobs, a man named Eric Feeney makes a brief appearance on the first couple pages of the book. He's the most minor of characters imaginable, but Eric, a teacher in my school, has made the most of his fame. He has attended my book signing and offered to sign alongside me. He has directed friends, family, and complete strangers to purchase the book. He has even signed stock in bookstores after telling the booksellers that he is featured in the novel.

He's worked so hard that I'm looking to include him in the next novel in another very minor role. 

Anything to increase the telepathy. 

Cats and writers don't mix

The end of 2017 is a busy time for me.

I'm finishing my fifth adult novel.
I'm finishing my first middle grade novel.
I'm copyediting my nonfiction book on storytelling. 

I'm not complaining (or trying not to, at least) because I know how fortunate I am to have three different publishers willing to pay me to write, but it's also like having three enormous homework assignments all due at the same time.

I'm spending a lot of time in front of the computer. Early mornings. Late nights. Weekends. Lunch breaks. I'm working hard. Often enjoying the work, as much as there is to accomplish. 

But not everyone is helping me get the job done. 

The wealthy are often playing an entirely different game than the rest of us.

I like this explanation of the difference between the wealthy, the middle class, and the poor a lot: 

"Entrepreneurship is like one of those carnival games where you throw darts or something.

Middle class kids can afford one throw. Most miss. A few hit the target and get a small prize. A very few hit the center bullseye and get a bigger prize. Rags to riches! The American Dream lives on.

Rich kids can afford many throws. If they want to, they can try over and over and over again until they hit something and feel good about themselves. Some keep going until they hit the center bullseye, then they give speeches or write blog posts about "meritocracy" and the salutary effects of hard work.

Poor kids aren't visiting the carnival. They're the ones working it."

I'd add to this metaphor the following:

Rich kids also have the additional advantage of enormous safety nets to protect them before and after they play the game. Private schools and tutors to insulate against failure before ever throwing a dart and family businesses and inherited wealth to fall back on if they decide to stop playing the game altogether.   

The Trump family is a perfect example of this.

Donald Trump is not a self-made man but the beneficiary of his father's immense real estate fortune. Incidentally, Fred Trump's real estate career was marked by investigations by the U.S. Senate for wartime profiteering and the Department of Justice for violating the Fair Housing Act for refusing to rent to African American tenants.  

Not exactly a fortune earned through hard work alone. 

The Trump children are all third generation beneficiaries of that fortune as well. They all work in the family business and have benefited from the free capital of the Trump fortune when launching businesses of their own.

No matter how many entrepreneurial darts Trump and his children threw, they would never be without wealth. Their family business served as an enormous safety net to failure, misfortune, or incompetence.  

Even Ivanka Trump's wealthy husband, Jared Kushner, is the product of an enormous family fortune. He, too, works for the family business. 

None of these people are self-made, boot-strapping, rags-to-riches people. They take credit for their wealth at every turn but are merely the stewards of a fortune that was amassed a long time ago. 

In fact, economists have demonstrated that had Donald Trump merely placed his father's fortune in an index fund and done nothing, he'd be more wealthy than he is today.  

Fred Trump went to the carnival in the second half of the twentieth century to try his hand at throwing darts. He probably cheated while playing the game and scored big, and the Trump family has been the beneficiaries ever since.

Are we surprised that the tax cuts currently proposed by Republicans vastly favor the wealthy while increasing middle class taxes?

Are we surprised that Trump and his wealthy supporters are hell bent on eliminating the inheritance tax?

Trump doesn't want to throw darts. He doesn't want to take any entrepreneurial risk. He and his wealthy supporters don't want to go anywhere near the carnival. Those darts were thrown long ago. They simply want to benefit from the risk taking and fortune building of their predecessors.  

On this Thanksgiving, I choose to be thankful to Taryn.

I've made it an almost annual tradition to spend a portion of my Thanksgiving writing about the people, places, things and institutions to which I am thankful. 

On this Thanksgiving, I'd like to give thanks to just one person:

My literary agent, Taryn Fagerness. 

It occurred to me while writing the acknowledgements for an upcoming book that Taryn is directly responsible for making my wildest dreams become a reality. 

This is no exaggeration.

When I was a boy, I dreamed of one day becoming an author. The writer of books. A person whose thoughts and ideas and stories would be of interest to others.

It was a ridiculous dream, of course. I wasn't given the opportunity to go to college after high school. At the age of 18, I was already on my own, living without a safety net, struggling to make ends meet. I was managing McDonald's restaurants, working 60 or more hours every week, constantly dreaming of bigger and better things.

But even so, I was writing. Since my senior year of high school, I have written every single day of my life without exception. In those early days this writing took the form of letters to friends, journal entries, zines, newsletters, and even a blog (though it would be years before "blog" would even become a word) on an early, localized version of the Internet called a BBS.      

I wrote constantly. Still, I never thought my writing would amount to anything of value. 

A few years later, I found myself homeless, jailed, and facing a possible prison sentence. I didn't have a penny to my name. My ridiculous dream of one day becoming an author seemed utterly impossible. 

Years later, after a lot of hard work, the impossible became possible again. I finally wrote my first novel. But it turns out that writing a book is only the first step. It's a huge step, to be sure, and worthy of celebrations, but without a champion of your books, it is likely that your stories will go unseen and unread by the world.

Enter Taryn.

Taryn was working at a large literary agency on the west coast in the summer of 2007 when she discovered my query letter and the first three chapters of my first novel, Something Missing, in the slush pile, alongside hundreds of other letters from hundreds of other hopeful, desperate writers. It was Taryn's job to read through these unsolicited submissions, searching for a diamond in the rough. She liked my query letter, and she liked my first three chapters, so she wrote to me and asked to see the rest of the book. 

Other agents had made similar requests, but as the summer drew to a close, nothing had materialized. After sending letters to 100 literary agents, it looked like I'd be sending out my second batch of 100 letters before long.

Then, on the very last day of my summer vacation, Taryn called and said that she would like to become my literary agent. 

There have been many important phone calls in my life, but as I look back on my life, Taryn owns the top three spots in my personal pantheon of life altering phone calls:

  • That night when she called and became my literary agent
  • The afternoon when she called to tell me that my first novel had sold to Doubleday
  • A frantic, excited phone call she placed immediately after reading the first half of Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend, telling me that I had written something great.

Each of these phone calls changed my life. 

In each instance, Taryn changed my life. 

Yes, it's true that my hard work was also required. I had to write the books. I spent 17 years of my life writing every single day before ever publishing a story. But Taryn has become the champion of my work, and that role cannot be overstated.

Taryn is not only my literary agent, but she is also my collaborator. My co-conspirator. My friend in words. Before an editor ever sees one of my books, Taryn sees it first, offering her advice on plot, characters, and story. 

She makes my stories better. She makes my writing better.  

Taryn is also directly responsible for the publication of my novels in more than 25 countries.

She is responsible for the film options on three of my novels.

When my third novel didn't sell and I thought my writing career was over, Taryn's words to me were perfect:

"You just need to sit down and write your best book ever."

It is no exaggeration to say that the relationship that Taryn and I have is the envy of so many of my author friends. They cannot believe my good fortune. While they often describe their literary agents as difficult-to-reach, slow-to-react, and less-than-supportive, Taryn is exactly the opposite.

I have often described our relationship like this:

Taryn and I own a company together that publishes books. We are partners in the creation and dissemination of stories. I admittedly own more shares in the company than Taryn, but the company would not operate without each one of us doing our job. 

Taryn is my business partner. She is also my creative partner. She is also my friend. We stand together. We make stuff together. 

On this Thanksgiving, I give thanks to Taryn Fagerness, a person who has made so many of my dreams come true. I have become the thing I never thought I could be. 

I hope you are all lucky enough to find your champion. Your creative co-conspirator. Your dream-come-true maker. 

I performed stand up comedy for the first time for one very important reason.

Last year, a friend asked me to try stand up comedy with him. 

I said no and moved on with my life.

But knowing I had to follow my "Say yes to everything" philosophy, I called him back the next day and said, "Fine, I'll do it, but I won't like it."

We agreed that in addition to performing comedy, I wasn't allowed to simply tell a funny story. I have plenty of stories that could fill the five minute requirement and make people laugh throughout, but this had to be different. I had to tell jokes. Not stories.

I thought this was fair, but I was also terrified. 

Almost a year to the day after declaring my intent, I took the stage on Monday night at Sea Tea Improv in downtown Hartford to perform stand up comedy for the first time. 

It went well. I was not fantastic. I performed for the requisite five minutes, telling jokes about parenting, marriage, Jewish food, and sex. People laughed. A few people complimented my performance afterwards, and a couple more found me online the next day to offer positive feedback. 

Most important, Elysha thought I was funny, and a couple friends in the audience were supportive as well.

A friend (but not the friend who challenged me to comedy in the first place) also took the stage on Monday and performed. He did well, too. As he pointed out later, some of the comics were asked by the host if it was their first time doing comedy.

Neither he nor I were asked that question. We were at least good enough not appear new. 

But it was a strange experience, too. I took the stage without any real plan. I had a couple opening sentences which I knew I could use to launch me into a riff on the realities of being a father, but after that, I was winging it. I said funny things that came to mind, but immediately after saying them, I knew that there was an even funnier way to say them. 

And I wasn't telling stories. I was telling jokes. Trying to make people laugh with words instead of story. 

And for the first time in a very long time, I felt nervous as I took the stage. Those nerves evaporated after I began speaking, but for a few moments, I felt the nerves that so many of my storytelling students feel just before taking the stage. 

I'll try stand up comedy again. I'll keep a running list of possible funny ideas as they occur to me, and when I think I have five minutes worth of material, I will prepare another set and give it a shot. Perhaps I'll take the five minutes that I did on Monday to another club as well. A producer at a comedy club in Manhattan has asked me to do 20 minutes at her club, and I could definitely stretch the 5 minutes that I did on Monday to a much longer set if I wanted. 

But here is the important part about Monday night:

I tried something that was new, frightening, and hard. That is why I did it. Complacency is tragic. Monotony is death. The absence of new horizons is an unfulfilled, wasted life.

I cannot stress this enough: You must find and try things that are new, frightening, and hard. This is the elixir of youth. Days filled with excitement and anticipation. A life absent of regret.

As a child, my life was filled with things that fit all three of these categories. I took new classes in new subjects every semester. Played new sports. Changed schools. Learned to drive. Asked girls to dance. Hiked up new mountains. Swam in new ponds. Made new friends. Played new musical instruments. Learned to speak a new language. Had sex for the first time. Earned my first paycheck. 

A young person's life is inextricably filled with things that are new, frightening, and hard. As we get older and experiences begin to pile up, those opportunities become fewer and farther between. People settle into routines. They establish patterns. Their zeal for risk taking wanes. 

Before long, they cannot imagine trying something new, frightening, and hard. They become set in their ways. They plod through life. They can't imagine staying up all night or driving to some faraway place on a whim or otherwise disturbing their routines.

They are getting older while getting old. 

I say yes to everything because I don't want to get old as I get old. I want the promise of days that are new and frightening and hard. I want to know that what I know now will not be all that I ever know.    

I cannot recommend the new, frightening, and hard enough. Stay young before you get old. 

Bad boy and breakfast companion

His sister wasn't ready to eat breakfast, but Charlie wasn't alone. His furry pal kept him company as he devoured Cheerios, strawberries, and mango. 

It's moments like these that allow me to forgive and forget the bag of oats that he tore open and spread all over the kitchen floor last night. Or the moment he leapt upon my head and clawed my forehead, not understanding the meaning of 1:37 AM. Or the scarf he stole from Elysha's closet, brought downstairs, and attempted to pull through the cat door and into the basement, where he undoubtedly has a hidden storehouse of other pilfered items.  

He's a bad kitty, and there are moments when he makes us crazy. After living with children for almost nine years, Elysha had to childproof her first cabinet yesterday just to keep him out. 

He can make life difficult at times. But he's pretty great, too. 

Crazy just got crazier (if that was possible)

Trump is always making disturbing, undignified, self-serving statements, but this weekend, he took a decidedly crazy turn (even for him) when he launched a barrage of attacks at the UCLA basketball players who he helped to secure their release, the father of one of these players, and Republican Senator Jeff Flake. 

Included in these tweets were the following:

  • A bizarre reference to himself in the third person
  • A even more bizarre reference to himself as "your favorite President" despite his historically low approval ratings, his loss of the popular vote by more than 3 million votes, and the commonly held understanding that normal human beings should never to refer to themselves as anyone's favorite anything. 
  • A middle school-like reference to Republican Senator Jeff Flake as "Jeff Flake(y)"
  • The implication that China's shoplifting penalty of 5-10 years in prison is perfectly appropriate
  • An expression of regret for helping to secure these American's release from Chinese custody because one of their fathers failed to acknowledge Trump's role in the process

California Congressman Ted Lieu responded to this last week well:

"As public servants, we help people because it is the right thing to do, not because we want to be praised for it. Also, the US President should never wish for Americans to be locked up in a foreign jail."

Apparently Bob Mueller's team directed the Justice Department to turn over a broad array of documents this weekend related to Trump's firing of FBI director James Comey and Jeff Sessions decision to recuse himself from the inquiry. So perhaps this bizarre tweet storm was the result of the intense pressure being applied on Trump and his White House in relation to the investigation into the Trump campaign's collusion with Russian operatives.

Or perhaps he's even crazier than we thought. 

Be kind to yourself. Celebrate your accomplishments. Have wild sex.

I've been speaking to a lot of writers lately. People who have written books and are hoping to find agents and editors and publishers who love their work and are willing to turn their words into physical objects that can be found on shelves in stores and libraries around the world. 

Throughout all of these conversations, something has become abundantly clear to me:

People are not kind to themselves. Writers and non-writers alike.

It might be true that you can't find an agent to represent you. Or perhaps you've found an agent, but you still can't find a publisher willing to buy your book. Maybe your spouse doesn't love the book. Perhaps your mother refuses to read it. Maybe your father thinks you're wasting your time. 

But here's the thing:

You wrote a book. You did the thing that millions of Americans claim that they will do someday but only a tiny fraction ever do.

You've joined the tiny fraction. You wrote a book. Celebrate, damn it. 

Early this week, I suggested to a group of unpublished writers that they throw themselves a party upon the completion of their first book. Lots of music and cake. Balloons, even. I also suggested that they hang a banner at the party that reads: 

I WROTE A BOOK. I'M BETTER THAN ALL OF YOU.

Perhaps the banner is excessive, but I'm serious about the party. When engaged in a monumental task - writing a book, earning a college degree, raising a child, building a house, planning a wedding, climbing the career ladder - I believe in celebrating every step of the way. Positive reinforcement is important. If we wait to celebrate the final product, we may never get there. 

Honor the process. Acknowledge the struggle. Celebrate each significant step along the way. Even if you fail to achieve your goal, the struggle is valuable. Essential. Life altering. Honor it.   

That celebration can come in the form of a party (which I support wholeheartedly) or a dinner in a fine restaurant or a weekend in Vermont or even a night of wild sex.

If you're like me, it can also come in the form of positive self-talk:

The ability to look in the mirror and see someone who has accomplished something difficult and unexpected and unforeseen or uncommon and feel damn good about it. 

That "I wrote a book. I'm better than all of you" banner hangs over my proverbial head every day. It's a fact I reminded myself about constantly. It hangs right beside the banners that read:

  • You put yourself through college while working 60 hours a week and starting a business
  • You married Elysha.
  • You paid for your honeymoon through poker winnings. 
  • Your closet is clean and organized. 
  • You went from homelessness and jail to college graduate, teacher, and author.
  • Your in-laws love you. 
  • You're an elementary school teacher. You change lives every day.
  • Your children are kind. They love to read. They laugh all the time. They love you.  
  • You haven't missed a day of flossing in more than a decade.
  • You've won 32 Moth StorySLAMs and four GrandSLAMs.
  • You haven't ruined any of Elysha's sweaters in nearly five years.
  • You're still teaching despite the efforts of a small group of despicable cowards who tried to end your career ten years ago.  
  • You've published four books and have four more on the way.  
  • Your cat loves you most. 
  • You teach public speaking and storytelling all over the country. 
  • You didn't make anyone cry today. 

You have banners, too. Accomplishments worthy of celebrations or ice cream sundaes or wild sex. So often we fail to celebrate our achievements or the steps along the way. We discount our own success. We wait until a project is complete before daring to pat ourselves on the back.   

I'm not suggesting that you remind everyone everyday of the banners that hang over your head, but I'm suggesting that you remind yourself everyday. 

You'll rarely find me standing on a stage speaking about my own personal accomplishments. If given the choice, I'd prefer to tell you about my failures. My most despicable moments. My tiny acts of cruelty.

But in my mind, I'm constantly reminding myself of my accomplishments, great and small, particularly when the road becomes steep and bumpy. When deadlines loom large. When I'm feeling stupid or weak or incompetent. 

Be kind to yourself. You deserve it. 

The Republican tax bill is legitimately but expectedly evil. These two tidbits are surprisingly evil.

Two things happened yesterday that make it seem as if the Trump administration is trying hard to appear as evil as possible.

Almost as if they are auditioning for the role of the next Bond villain. 

And no, it's not the Republican's deeply unpopular tax bill that will cut taxes on the ultra wealthy, raise taxes on millions of middle class Americans, and increase the deficit by enormous amounts. That's admittedly evil but almost any standard, including and especially by the standards of Jesus Christ, who the Republicans constantly profess to love.

But we knew this was coming. It's straight out of the Republican playbook. 

And no, it's not the additional tax cuts that Republicans have added to the bill for (no joke) golf course and private jet owners. These cuts are also unbelievably evil, especially when you consider that more than one-quarter of all American children are food insecure on a daily basis.

But Republicans have been doing this kind of thing forever. 

No, yesterday the Trump administration decided to allow hunters to bring trophies of elephants they killed in Zimbabwe and Zambia back to the United States, reversing a ban put in place by the Obama administration in 2014. 

Trump has gone out of his way to take the side of elephant killers.

Can't imagine why they might decide to further threaten this already endangered species...

Meanwhile, Treasury Secretary Steve Mnuchin and his wife Louise Linton, who is famous for being born into enormous wealth, marrying into enormous wealth, and insulting Americans for not being rich enough, visited the Bureau of Engraving and Printing in order to take one of the most tone deaf photos of all time:

It's takes a special breed of narcissism and/or stupidity to look at this photo (and the photo of Donald Trump Jr.) and think, "Yes. Perfect. That's the one we want America to see."

Stupid, evil narcissists running the country and not even trying to hide it anymore. 

Take a cold shower every day.

One of my yearly goals was to select three behaviors that I am opposed to and adopt them for one week, then write about my experiences.

During the month of October, I took a cold shower every day in order to increase my productivity.

More accurately, I spent the last 30-60 seconds of my shower with the water switched over to cold. 

The idea is actually backed by science. From a 2016 piece in Inc. magazine by Jessica Stillman:

A 2007 study published by a molecular biologist named Nikolai Shevchuk found evidence that cold showers can help treat depression symptoms, and, if used regularly, might even be more effective than prescription antidepressants,” he writes. How is that possible? In layperson’s terms “cold water can flood the mood-regulating areas of your brain with happy, sparkly neurotransmitters.”

The experience, disagreeable as it might be, thus tends to reduce tension, and improve mood and memory. And aside from these biological changes, a frigid dip in the morning also has powerful effects on your psychology, according to a New York Times piece praising morning cold showers by Carl Richards. Getting into a freezing shower is undeniably hard, he writes, but if you can make yourself do that, what else could possibly daunt you for the rest of the day?

After a month of standing in frigid water for a minute at a time, here is what I can say about this practice:

I think it works. 

I step out of every shower with more energy and alertness than ever before. Rather than feeling warm and relaxed, I feel alert and alive. I feel like I've accomplished something. I'm moving faster, and I feel more energized and excited about whatever is next. 

This feeling is echoed by Brian Tracy in his book on productivity, Eat that Frog

"Starting your morning by tackling challenges head-on will help encourage similar behavior throughout the day. And, it turns out, there's a wealth of research to back up this idea as well. People who do hard things first tend to procrastinate less and get more done."

It's unpleasant, to be sure, but over time, as it becomes a habit, the unpleasantness decreases significantly. By the end of the month, it was just a thing I did, 

If I'm being honest, I can't say if this practice is increasing my productivity throughout the day. There is no way for me to measure the lasting effects of this cold shower. And since I take some of my showers in the evening, I may not be enjoying the full benefit of the practice. But I know that after 60 seconds under the cold water, I exit the shower with a spring in my step and a sharpness of mind, and I like that a lot. 

For the last two years, one of my resolutions has been to adopt behaviors that I fundamentally oppose for a week or more at a time, and I think I've finally stumbled upon one that I will continue, as crazy as it may sound.  

When you think the awful cover is the original song

Have you ever discovered that a song you love by a particular band or singer is actually the cover of a much more famous (and better) version of the song?

I hate that. 

I'm not talking about the covers that few people know about. Like Joan Jett and the Blackheart's I Love Rock n' Roll, which is actually the cover of a song by The Arrows. Or Soft Cell's Tainted Love, which is the cover of a Gloria Jones song. Or The Clash's I Fought the Law, which is a cover of a Bobby Fuller Four song.

These are obscure and understandably missed. Also the covers are much better than the originals.  

I'm talking about the embarrassing mistakes. The glaring errors. The classic songs that you simply didn't know existed. 

For me, the most embarrassing song is The Drifter's Under the Boardwalk, which I once thought was a Bruce Willis original from his 1987 album The Return of Bruno. 

Almost as bad was once thinking that Sitting on the Dock of the Bay was a Michael Bolton original. Forgive me, Otis Redding. I was young and foolish. 

These are not the only two. The following examples are not quite as egregious but still fairly stupid. In some cases, one could argue that the covers of some of these songs are better than the originals, but the originals are certainly good enough to be known:

  • Mistaking Hazy Shade of Winter as a Bangles' original
  • Mistaking Killing Me Softly as a Fugees' original 
  • Mistaking Do You Want to Dance as a Ramones' original (it's actually a cover of a Beach Boys song, which itself is a cover of a Bobby Freeman song)
  • Mistaking Respect as an Aretha Franklin original 
  • Mistaking Twist and Shout as a Beatles original 

Here's one I just learned about:

Whitney Houston's I Will Always Love You is the cover of a Dolly Parton original.

Elysha knew this, but she is a legitimate musical savant when it comes to these things, so there's no telling if this is common knowledge or just Elysha being Elysha. 

Just last week, ALL THIS happened...

Donald Trump tweeted that Kim Jong Un is short and fat in response Jong Un's claim that Trump was old and crazy. 

Trump also argued that at age 71, he is not old. He did not, however,  defend himself against Jung Un's insanity claim.   

In response to questions from reporters about Trump and Russian President Vladimir Putin's brief meeting during the Asian summit, Trump said that he believed Putin's claims that Russia did not interfere with the election, despite the fact that all 17 United States intelligence agencies agree that Russia interfered with out election and attacked our democracy. Putin then denied that Trump even asked him about election interference during their brief meeting. In response, Trump then lashed out at former US intelligence leaders as "political hacks" and did not refute Putin's assertion. 

According to the latest poll, evangelicals in Alabama are now more likely to vote for Roy Moore after the disclosures that Moore had sexual relationships with several teenage girls when he was 32 years old and older, including a 14 year old girl.

One Alabama lawmaker defended Moore by arguing that Mary and Joseph of The Bible had a similar age disparity in their relationship, failing to recall that Mary and Joseph were, at least according to The Bible, were not having sex. Mary was a virgin, at least according to the text. 

A 36-year-old attorney and Trump nominee who has never tried a case and who was unanimously deemed “not qualified” by the American Bar Association was approved for a lifetime federal district judgeship by the Senate Judiciary Committee.

Details from the Republican tax bill emerged last week, including the surprise that 47 million middle class households - especially those with children - will get a tax hike while corporations and millionaires will be guaranteed the vast majority of the proposed tax breaks.

Other details from the tax plan include:

Students lose help paying off their loans. Teachers can no longer deduct the cost of buying classroom supplies. Grad students get taxed on their scholarships. Deductions on large out-of-pocket medical expenses will be eliminated. Massive cuts to Medicaid & Medicare. Massive cuts to the funding for Head Start and Pell Grants, while at the same time private school tuition will become fully deductible. Brand new tax breaks to the owners of (if you can believe it) golf courses.

Energy Secretary Rick Perry, who didn't know the Department of Energy regulated and protected nuclear power plants until he was given the job and actually campaigned on a platform to eliminate the Department of Energy, said that sexual assault could be prevented if we simply use more fossil fuels to keep the lights on.

Trump appointed a man to the Department of Agriculture whose previous job was cabana attendant at Westchester Country Club.

Trump appointed a man to the Energy Department whose previous job was manager at Meineke Auto Repair in New Hampshire.

A new appointee to the EPA Scientific Advisory Board stated that the air in the United States is "too clean for optimum health."

Trump's pick to lead a State Department office of female empowerment strongly criticized the movie "Frozen" for not having enough men in it.

All of this is not to make you despondent  or disillusioned. It is simply to remind you that if you oppose Donald Trump and his leadership, you cannot become complacent. You must act and continue to act until honest, ethical, capable leadership is restored for our country. 

Write to or call your Senator or Congressperson regularly. Download the 5 Calls app, which will make the five most strategic phone calls for you every day and tell you exactly what to say to be most effective. I don't use it every day, but I use it three or four times a week and vow here to do better. 

Volunteer for a campaign or cause. Make a monetary donation. Run for office. Ensure that your friends, family, neighbors, and coworkers are registered to vote. 

Stay informed.  

Every week Trump and his supporters in Congress are attacking the very institutions that make our nation great. They are doing so quietly, strategically, and ruthlessly. We must stand as a bulwark to their efforts. We must resist at every turn. We must make it as difficult as possible for them to erode our democracy and damage our foundations until the 2018 and 2020 elections. 

Download that app. Do it right now. 

I prayed for a full month. Here is what happened.

One of my yearly goals was to select three behaviors that I am opposed to and adopt them for one week, then write about my experiences.

Back in May, I prayed twice a day, every day, for a month, to see what might happen.

Would my heart or mind experience a transformation of some kind?
Would my prayers be miraculously answered?
Would God talk back to me?

As a reluctant atheist, it had been a long, long time since I prayed. As a boy, I can remember a period of time when I prayed each night before going to sleep. Oftentimes this took the form of the Lord's Prayer, but at other times I would pray for things I needed or wanted and for the health and security of my family.

I as a teenager, I found myself feverishly praying to a God who I no longer believed in when my girlfriend was late for her period.

I was desperate and decided to hedge my bets.

I also found myself asking God for help in a broom closet in the basement of the Bourne, MA police station back in 1993, but that was not a prayer as much as a question in need of an answer. I still didn't believe in God, but alone and in the dark, facing a monumental decision, I asked a God I did not believe in for an answer, and I may have received one.  

Since those desperate days, I had not uttered a word of prayer in more than 20 years.

During the month of May, I prayed in the morning and evening. I thanked God for all the blessings in my life. Prayed for the good health of my family, the future of our country, and the wisdom and strength to accomplish all that needed to be done on that given day. I even repeated the Lord's Prayer on several occasions.  

The results:

Sadly, I felt nothing in terms of greater spirituality. No sudden awareness of an ethereal being. No connection to the unseen entity to whom I was speaking. Not a hint of additional faith. 

Frankly, I didn't enjoy the praying at all. I felt a little... infantile. Like I was praying to some parental figure who would supposedly, arbitrarily, possibly bestow upon me an infinitesimal bit of his (or her) supposedly infinite power. I felt like prayer was the act of relinquishing control of my life and passing it onto some unseen other, placing my faith and hope for the future in someone else's hands.

I didn't like that. 

As much as I might wish to have faith, perhaps only for the existence of Heaven and something beyond this mortal coil, I wouldn't want to place my future in the hands of a God would may or may not decide to help me. As much as want to believe in a kind and just God (who frankly would be very different from the God of The Bible), I think I prefer to have faith in myself, my friends, and my family over an arbitrary, seemingly disinterested, and maybe even cruel spiritual being. 

I believe in me. I believe in the love of my wife and children. The support of my friends and family. The goodness of my fellow man. 

God would be nice, too, but if his (or her) power is infinite and the world continues to disappoint in so many ways, I can't help but think that we might be better off placing our faith in each other.    

I didn't finish my month of prayer with any greater faith or belief in God, but I might have found an even greater faith in myself and the people around me. Or at least an appreciation of it.  

So not a waste of time after all.