Resolution update: 2016 in review

In 2016, I completed 19 of 32 goals (one goal was cancelled early in the year) for a success rate of 59%. While this is not great, it compares well to previous five year average of 51%. 

My previous year success rates:

2010: 44%
2011: 62%
2012: 30%
2013: 60%
2014: 60%
2015: 59%

I also recently pointed out to a friend that I set many goals each year, knowing that I won't come close to achieving all of them, but would rather set high expectations that I fail to reach rather than set a list of reasonable expectation that I know I can achieve.

And I had some areas of great success in 2016. I performed especially well in the areas of writing (8 out of 12 goals completed) and storytelling (7 out of 8 completed). 

While I'm pleased with the overall results, there were some missed opportunities. My biggest disappointments were my failure to lose 20 pounds and my failure to write a new screenplay.

Both of these were very doable in 2016. 

There were also a few pathetic failures.

I failed to write a new screenplay. I failed to finalize any details for our Heavy Metal Playhouse 25 year reunion. My television is still without a streaming service, even though my mother-in-law bought us an Apple TV and nearly installed it herself. I didn't find time to play six games of poker. 

These were not difficult goals to achieve..

This was also the third consecutive year that I failed to schedule an evening of Shakespeare in my home, despite interest among many friends. Apparently I'm not that interested in this project.

In fairness, the friends most excited about this evening have now moved away. Still...

I also accomplished half a dozen goals that did not make my initial list but became important as the year progressed.

1. I was paid to perform at venues in Boston, MA, Champagne, IL, North Hampton, MA, New York, NY, and various venues throughout Connecticut. 
2. I launched Boy vs. Girl, a podcast that I produce and cohost with Rachel Leventhal-Weiner at the end of 2015. We just celebrated our one-year anniversary.  
3. I expanded my roster of clients with whom I consult for on screenplays, pilot scripts, and TED Talks. 
4. I taught storytelling and public speaking at Yale University, the University of Connecticut, the University of Hartford, Miss Porter's School, and The Berkshire School. I also booked three more workshops (including a weeklong workshop) at Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health. 
5. I taught storytelling to a dozen rabbis as part of a rabbinical retreat in upstate New York and to the administrators of Windsor Public Schools.  
6. I booked weddings for 2017, extending my DJ career into its 21st season.   

Here are my specific successes and failures from 2016: 

PERSONAL HEALTH

1. Don’t die.

No death in 2016. Given the fact that I actually died in 1982 and 1988, it's not as obvious an accomplishment as you might think. I also had tubes put in my ears this month, which felt like I was going to die, but I didn't. 

SUCCESS.

2. Lose 20 pounds.

I gained four more pounds in December. Ear problems and weekends spent performing in the Berkshires and Illinois didn't help. I finished the year eight pounds lighter and missed this goal by 12 pounds. 

FAIL.

3. Do at least 100 push-ups and 100 sit-ups five days a week.

Done.

SUCCESS.

4. Practice yoga at least three days a week.

I took a yoga class as Kripalu this month, but that was it.

I also took the class in jeans and a tee shirt.

Even though I took four yoga classes in 2016 and engaged in yoga for a solid month, a separated shoulder and two months of physical therapy derailed my momentum. 

FAIL.

WRITING CAREER

5. Complete my fifth novel before the end of February.

Done!

SUCCESS.

6. Complete my sixth novel.

I have two novels that are more than halfway finished and one that is finished but requires a complete re-write. However, I'm not sure if any of these will be my next novel.

Not surprising, my editor has some say in this.

I turned in final revisions on my next book last week, so the decision process on the next novel begins next month. The book was not be finished by the end of the year.

FAIL.

7. Write a proposal for a middle grade novel.

Done! The editor and her team love the book. Minor revisions were finished this week. We hope to have an offer soon.

SUCCESS.

8. Write at least three new picture books. 

My now-former student and I have finished the first draft of our picture book.  

In November, I wrote a picture book about the Presidential election that I sent to my agent and a children's book editor. Both had very good things to say about the book but feel that it is too closely aligned with a specific moment in history to be marketable. I was disappointed. I think it's a great book.

In December I wrote the first draft of a picture book based upon a real life animal rescue from the 1950's. It needs work, but I'm very excited about it.

SUCCESS.

9. Complete a proposal for a book on storytelling.

Done! Five chapters are finished now, plus an outline and comparisons have been re-sent to my agent. She LOVES it. Hopefully a publisher loves it just as much.  

SUCCESS

10. Write a new screenplay

No screenplay. One of my biggest disappointments of 2016.

FAIL.

11. Write a musical for a summer camp

Done! I had the pleasure of watching the musical performed at the summer camp, and it was fantastic.

SUCCESS.

12. Publish at least one Op-Ed in The New York Times.

I've submitted three Op-Ed pieces to the New York Times and been rejected all three times.

In 2017, I will write goals that depend less upon the opinions and judgments of others and more upon my own effort. For example, a goal like this will read:

"Submit at least five pieces to the Op-Ed editor for the New York Times."

FAIL.

13. Publish an article in an educational journal.

No article.

FAIL. 

14. Submit one or more short stories to at least three publishing outlets.

Submissions completed in December. One rejection so far. 

SUCCESS.

15. Select three behaviors that I am opposed to and adopt them for one week, then write about my experiences on the blog.

I spent a week backing my car into parking spots (which initially struck me as insane) and wrote about it in August. It actually received a lot of attention from readers.

In September I engaged in a month of daily affirmations. I wrote about my experience this month.

In November, I engaged in the "sport" of bottle flipping, which is all the rage amongst many young people. I wrote about my experience this month.

SUCCESS.

16. Increase my author newsletter subscriber base to 1,000.

Done! My subscriber list now stands at 1,284 readers. My list has grown by 36% in 2016.

SUCCESS.

17. Collaborate with a former colleague on an educational book.

This project has been cancelled. After meeting with my collaborator, we determined that I am not best suited for this project.  

Oddly enough, that collaborator is now my principal. 

STORYTELLING

18. Produce a total of 12 Speak Up storytelling events.

Done! We produced two shows at Real Art Ways and the Yale Cabaret in December, bringing our total number of shows to 19 in 2016.

SUCCESS. 

19. Deliver a TED Talk.

Done twice over! 

I spoke at TEDxNatick in January. The title of the talk was "Live Your Life Like Your 100 Year-Old Self." 

I also spoke at the TEDx conference at The Country School in Madison, CT in April. The title of the talk was "Speak Less. Expect More."  

SUCCESS.

20. Attend at least 15 Moth events with the intention of telling a story.

Done! In December I attended two Moth StorySLAMs at Oberon in Cambridge and The Bell House in Brooklyn. This brings my total number of Moth events in 2016 to 29.

SUCCESS.

21. Win at least three Moth StorySLAMs.

Done! I attended two StorySLAMs in December and won, bringing my total number of wins to five in 2016 and 28 overall.

SUCCESS.

22. Win a Moth GrandSLAM.

Done! I won the Moth GrandSLAM in Somerville in March. 

SUCCESS.

23. Launch at least one new podcast.

The podcast launches today. Live Better Now. 

I cut this one close, but it's an excellent argument in favor of yearly goals and deadlines. I may have continued to push the launch of this podcast off if not for the end-of-the-year accounting of success and failure.

SUCCESS. 

24. Launch a storytelling project that I will otherwise remain vague about here but will become a primary focus of 2016. 

Work on this project is specifically tied to the sale of my storytelling book, which has yet to publish. I can't move forward on this project until the book is done.

FAIL. 

NEW PROJECTS

25. Host at least one Shakespeare Circle.

No Shakespeare Circle.

FAIL.

26. Learn to cook three good meals for my wife.

I cooked two new meals for Elysha in August and one meal in November thanks to Blue Apron and a friend who was kind enough to pass on meals to me.

SUCCESS.

27. Plan a 25 year reunion of the Heavy Metal Playhouse.

I'm still seeking a location for the reunion near the Heavy Metal Playhouse (since the apartment complex does not have a room to rent) and will then decide upon a date.

FAIL.

MISCELLANEOUS

28. Replace the 12 ancient, energy-inefficient windows in our home with new windows that will keep the cold out and actually open in the warmer months.

No new windows.

FAIL.

29. Optimize our television for a streaming service. 

No progress.

FAIL.

30. Set a new personal best in golf.

I tied my previous personal twice in 2016 but failed set a new personal best.

FAIL. 

31. Play poker at least six times in 2016.

I tied my personal best twice in 2016 but failed to set a new personal best. 

FAIL.

32. Do not speak negatively about another person's physical appearance except when done in jest with my closest friends. 

Done. 

SUCCESS.

33. Post my progress in terms of these resolutions on this blog on the first day of every month.

Done.

SUCCESS.

What is wrong with Queens?

My daughter Clara is angry that Super Wings - a TV show about anthropomorphized planes that visit other countries - hasn’t visited Israel yet.

“Or Argentina, at least! Or how about Queens! What’s wrong with Queens?”

Yes, she's talking about Queens, NY. The place we drove through yesterday on our way home from New Jersey.

My 2016 Christmas haul

Every Christmas, I take inventory of the holiday gifts that my wife gives me.

Some people wish for cashmere sweaters, new video game systems, stylish watches, and jewelry. My hope is often for the least pretentious, most unexpected, quirkiest little gift possible, and she never fails to deliver. 

For the past seven years, I’ve been documenting the gifts that Elysha gives me on Christmas because they are so damn good. Every year has been just as good as the last, if not better.

The 2009 Christmas haul featured a signed edition of a Kurt Vonnegut novel.
The 2010 Christmas haul featured a key that I still use today.
The 2011 Christmas haul featured my often-used Mr. T in a Pocket.
The 2012 Christmas haul featured my fabulous No button.
The 2013 Christmas haul featured my remote controlled helicopter.
The 2014 Christmas haul featured my "I Told You So" pad.
The 2015 Christmas haul featured schadenfreude mints: "As delicious as other people's misery." 

Once again, my wife did not disappoint.

The best gift (and one of the best gifts I have ever received) is this artist's rendering of the map of Yawgoog Scout Reservation, the place where I spent many of my childhood summers and my favorite place in the world. She found an artist on Etsy, contacted my brother and two of my former Scouting buddies, and together, they ensured that all of the most important landmarks were included. 

I am not ashamed to say that I cried upon opening the gift and realizing what she had done. 

In addition to the map, she also included this set of fabulous Christmas stocking stuffers, including two Shakespeare related items, two Patriots-related items, a golfer's multi-tool that was admired by fellow golfers on Christmas day, and the pen whistle, which should make my days at school much more interesting. 

I love each and every one of these gifts and will put all to good use. 

Unfair assumption #28: Parents who threaten to disown their children based upon their marital choices are the lowest form of human life.

You know these people.

These are the parents who will refuse to attend their child's wedding and sometimes disown a son or daughter for failing to marry someone who shares their religious belief, racial composition, socioeconomic standing, national or cultural origin, or does not conform to their heteronormative expectations of marriage.

They are the despicable cretins who think that their assumptions about who their child should fall in love with and marry should have any bearing on their child's actual life or future. 

In many cases, these misguided parents lose their sons and daughter for years (or lifetimes) over this ridiculous nonsense.

Even worse, their child may miss out on the possible love of their life when they inexplicably conform to their parents' selfish tribal wishes.

Credit people like my in-laws, who didn't bat an eye when my wife - their Jewish daughter - agreed to marry me, a former Christian-turned reluctant atheist. Instead, they embraced me like a son and have stood by my side ever since.

Many parents would have made Elysha's life exceedingly difficult for marrying outside the religion. I know people in circumstances like these. I also have gay friends who have experienced similar exclusion from their parents, and I know people who were only permitted to marry a person from the same country of origin.

I will be forever grateful to my in-laws - Barbara and Gerry - for their rational, loving, open-minded, unquestioning acceptance of me and our relationship. 

I know that to most people, my in-laws acceptance and embrace of me this seems like a no-brainer. The only reasonable reaction to our engagement and marriage. But I know that in many cases, across many dividing lines, parents are oftentimes less than reasonable, incredibly selfish, and sometimes downright disgusting in situations like this. 

In regards to Russian hacking: "I think we ought to get on with our lives." Also, word salad.

Donald Trump took a few questions at Mar-a-Lago last night and said this about Lindsey Graham, John McCain, and many Senators - Democrat and Republican - who are pushing for Russian sanctions following evidence of hacking in order to tip the balance of the Presidential election. 

His answer strikes me as slightly incomprehensible, questionably incompetent, and (at least in terms of the first sentence) possibly treasonous. Have you ever seen anything this inarticulate come from the mouth of a President?

Lest you think this is a mischaracterization of his answer, the actual video of the moment is even more disturbing. 

Bottle flipping: I gave it a month. Here are my thoughts.

When I was a kid, we climbed the highest trees. Rode our bikes without any hands. Jumped across roaring streams. Skateboarded down concrete steps. Threw tennis balls at each other.

Today children flip half-filled plastic water bottles in the air in hopes of landing them in a standing position.

Perhaps this is unfair. Simply because they flip water bottles incessantly doesn't mean they don't do all those other things. I don't see them doing these other things, and they seem overly concerned about dirtying their clothes or getting their shoes wet, but maybe I'm not looking closely enough. Maybe today's youth are scampering up trees and splashing through streams with reckless abandon when I'm not looking. 

Still, they flip bottles. And when they capture their flip on camera, they get millions of views on YouTube. There are even apps dedicated to water blottle flipping. 

As part of a New Year's resolution to try things that I don't understand or have a negative view toward, I spent a month flipping bottles with kids at my school. During recess and after school, I joined in, flipping half-empty water bottles into the air in an attempt to land them in a standing position.

Here are my observations:

1. It's not hard to get fairly proficient at simple bottle flipping. I became adept at this practice relatively quickly. 
2. Filling the bottle about one-third of the way seems ideal for flipping.  
3. The kids have NO DESIRE to add any layer of competition to this activity. They simply want to mindlessly flip water bottles on their own, almost unaware of the bottle flippers around them. This was the most surprising and disappointing aspect of this exercise to me and mildly disconcerting in terms of the future of our civilization. 
4. Bottle flipping would have been impossible in my childhood, since the ridiculousness of bottled water wasn't sold in stores until 1983 and only gained significant market share in the 1990's. But try explaining to anyone under 30 that there was a time when water wasn't readily available in stores and people were forced to quench their thirsts via drinking fountains (bubblers where I grew up), garden hoses, and taps. Minds blown. 
5. Ultimately, I did not enjoy bottle flipping and felt that it was a tragic waste of time. I tried to compare it favorably with the time I spent as a child playing my Atari 5200 and pouring quarters into pinballs machines and video games at arcades throughout the northeast, but in the end, I found the two activities incomparable for a few reasons:

• First, kids spend more time playing video games than ever before, so it's not as if bottle flipping has replaced any time in front of screens. They have simply layered this time-wasting activity atop their time spent gaming.
• Second, there is also almost no socializing aspect to this activity. The kids bottle flip in near isolation, even if there are fellow flippers beside them. When I played video games, we collaborated and/or competed against one another depending upon the game. We watched the best gamers perform, hoping to learn tips and tricks for next time. Video games brought my friends and I together in basements, living rooms, and malls. We challenged one another, taunted and boasted mid-game, and created memories that I still have today: specific, joyous, heartbreaking moments of standing alongside my pals, joystick in hand, battling it out over silver balls, enlarged pixels and electronic beeps.  
• It's not difficult to master this skill. Admittedly, there are bottle flippers on YouTube who have done some incredible things, but the average bottle flipper is simply looking to land that bottle upright. Not hard. Video games were high stakes and difficult. You invested money and time in order to beat the game, flip the machine, conquer the highest level, and add your initials to the high score. This took dedication and  persistence. I don't see this from today's bottle flippers.

In the end, bottle flipping will go away. Disappear into forgotten history. I already see it happening. Even as I flipped, kids became less enamored by the activity. Fewer children joined the pursuit. This is good, because it is a stupid and mindless way to spend one's time, and its waning popularity is an indication of this.

Sadly, I don't see the demise of bottle flipping leading to an increase in tree climbing, stream jumping, or skateboarding. These soulful, physically demanding, high stakes activities have not disappeared into the ether, but they are not nearly as popular as they were in my youth. They will not go the way of the bottle flip but instead continue to be practiced by those children who still seek to challenge elements and are fortunate enough to have parents who allow them to exist beyond fences and leashes and into the world of water and rock and sky.      

"Merry Christmas" is perfectly fine. But the existence of Jews should not be a secret.

Conversation between a cashier and me at a local restaurant on the morning of December 24:

Me: (handing over a signed receipt) Happy holidays!

Cashier: You know what? I'm going to wish you a merry Christmas! Donald Trump said that we need to say 'Merry Christmas' more often, so I’m going to do that... (leans in and shifts to a whisper voice) ... even though there are a lot of Jews in West Hartford. 

Me: (shifting to a whisper) Like my wife and kids over there? And lots and lots of my friends?

Cashier: (looking a little startled) Yeah. She wouldn’t be offended. Would she?

Me: Not nearly as offended as I am about Americans voting for a bigot and sexual deviant. 

Cashier: (stares) 

Me: Happy Hanukah.  

Elysha missed all of this, of course, but as she left the restaurant, she waved to the owner and shouted, "Merry Christmas!"

Icing on the cake. 

For the record, I have no problem with people wishing others a "Merry Christmas."

A "Happy Hanukah," "Joyful Kwanza," or "Blessed Eid al-Adha" either. 

It's slightly presumptuous to automatically wish others a "Merry Christmas" given that more than 20% of America is non-Christian, but I judge on intent. No malice is intended with a simple "Merry Christmas." It's a simple pleasantry that is occasionally off the mark.

No different, really, than people who say, "God bless you," to me when I sneeze. I could explain to them that I'm a reluctant atheist who has been unable to find faith in God (and I sometimes do), but I never take offense to their offer of Godly intervention on my part.

They mean well. 

Frankly, "Happy Holidays" is just as presumptuous given that about 20% of Americans now consider themselves non-affiliated to religion. Atheists. Agnostics. Secular humanists. For them, December is just another month, absent of any holiday whatsoever.    

If you're Jewish or Muslim or an atheist and are wished a merry Christmas, you can either accept the sentiment as intended kindness or take the time to explain your belief system. 

No big deal.

But when you feel the need to whisper about the existence of Jews in a town and base your seasonal greeting solely on the advice of bigot, I'm probably going to respond in a snarky manner. 

The truth about red meat (and an ugly truth about me)

During our Christmas Day open house, a debate was sparked over the claim that the red juice in a piece of raw steak is blood. 

I argued that it was not blood. Everyone - and one friend in particular - disagreed. Facing a wall of opposition, I faltered. Doubted my claim. Wondered if I had been wrong about something so ubiquitous for all of my life.

Feeling uncertain, sensing defeat on the horizon, I decided to check the Internet.

I was correct. Not blood. Confirmed by many-a-website.

Apparently this is a frequently asked question. Most succinctly:  

"Meat bought from a store contains very little and in most cases no blood in the red liquid. It's actually a mixture of water and a protein called myoglobin. Myoglobin is a common protein, which has the ability to store oxygen in muscle cells."

I'm not sure if you know this about me, but I like being right a lot. I like being able to say, "I told you do" a whole lot. 

Later, after the defeated parties had left, I received a text from his spouse indicating that her husband was still mad that I was right.

His son chimed in. "Wow, I've never seen Dad be wrong before."

It was the final Christmas present of 2016, and it was a good one. Perhaps not in the true spirit of the holiday, but still, a merry Christmas indeed. 

Bruce Springsteen understands the cliff. Do you?

I'm listening to Bruce Springsteen's autobiography Born to Run. It's incredible. The man speaks truth with eloquence again and again. 

How can someone be this talented?

One of the aspects of this book that speaks to me most is the way in which he understands the cliff. If you've never stood on the edge of the cliff, it's hard to describe or understand, but once you have stood there, it's difficult - perhaps impossible - to step away, even when all seems right in the world.

The cliff is the place where you have nothing. No money. No home. No future. No hope. The cliff is the end of the line. The place were unbelievable misfortune and unknowing misstep have taken you against your will.

The cliff is the place where you turn around and see nothing. No mother or father standing in support. No childhood home awaiting your return. No safety net waiting to catch you when you fall. There is a wasteland behind you and the cliff ahead you, and there you stand, alone on a sliver of substance in between. 

The cliff is the place where you wonder about your next meal. You worry about staying warm. It's the place where you learn to stay low and dodge the law and the lawless. It's where you wrap worry around you like a blanket because it's all you have. The cliff is the place where you endlessly debate how to spend the last $10 that you think you will ever have.  

The cliff is the place where you wonder why your life didn't turn out like everyone else's life. It is a place of shame and regret and fear and resignation.

But the cliff is also the place where you find strength. It's the place where every cell in your body universally and unequivocally points in one direction for the first time in your life. You become a being of one purpose. One singular goal. If you do not fall - do not plunge into the abyss as so many will - the cliff is also the place where you can rise up. It's the place where your mettle will be tested, and relentlessness and confidence are forged in the fires of solitude and survival.

Once you stand on the edge of the cliff, I don't believe you ever leave. You stand or you fall. If you stand, you remain in place, feet planted firmly on the edge of oblivion. Someday, you may turn around and discover that you are no longer alone. No longer lost. The wasteland once behind you you is now green and lush and full. But the cliff remains before you. A reminder of what could have been and still could be.

The cliff is both destroyer and salvation. Shame and pride. Fear and courage. The cliff was where I became me, and I believe it is where Bruce Springsteen became The Boss.  

Springsteen's second album was abandoned by his record company. Executives at Columbia Records did not believe in his sound, and so they did not support his music. In fact, the actively petitioned against it. Torpedoed it. Fought for its demise.

It could have been the end of Springsteen's musical career. He was standing on the cliff. He faced oblivion. No money. No career. No safety net. Little hope.

Here is what he writes about this moment.  

"The basic drift was these guys thought we were just going to go away. Return to our day jobs. Go back to school. Disappear into the swamps of Jersey. They didn't understand that they were dealing with men without homes, lives, any practicable skills or talents that could bring a reliable paycheck in the straight world. We had nowhere to go, and we loved music. This was going to be it. We had come to liberate you, confiscate you, and all the rest." 

This is the edge of cliff. Springsteen stood. He remained, and the world is better for it.

If you are standing on the cliff today, please know that you do not stand alone. Hope exists even when it is impossible to see or even imagine. I find myself on this Christmas morning in a warm home, alongside a loving wife and two happy children. I am the teacher and writer that I once dreamed of becoming but never thought I could be. I am more than I ever imagined I could be.   

But like you, I am still standing at the edge of the cliff. I will likely be here forever. But today my feet are planted firmly, and that once arid wasteland at my back is now green and lush and full.

It can be like this for you, too. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but someday. 

I am living in my someday. It's a someday I never thought would come. 

Stand firm and fight for your someday, an inch at a time if necessary.   

When someone suggests that we give Donald Trump a chance, say this.

When someone fires off this Trump talking point:

"He's our President now. Why not at least give him a chance?" 

... please do not remain silent.

I inform these people that I have a policy against giving bigots, misogynists, sexual predators, and liars a second chance, at least when it comes to governing our country and determine the fates of hundred of millions of people.

As the husband of a Jewish woman, the father of a little girl, the teacher of an enormously diverse group of children, and the personal friend to Mexicans, Muslims, immigrants, and the disabled, I will stand in opposition of a man who has insulted and threatened all of these groups both in both word and deed. 

I need not give the man who has hurt so many that I love a chance. I will not normalize indecency, ignorance, disrespect, and the purposeful attempt to divide people with intimidation, violence, and hatred.    

I don't think this is an unreasonable position. 

I suspect that many of the people who suggest that we give Trump a chance do not spend their days alongside little Muslim girls, Mexican immigrants, and the disabled. I suspect that they have not worked in restaurants alongside undocumented workers just trying to make a living and on construction sites with men who do not speak English but are willing to work in subzero temperatures when many will not. They are not friends with minorities, the poor, and the disenfranchised. They do not know (or don't know that they know) the victim of a sexual assault.

It's much easier to give someone like Donald Trump a chance when he has not hurt anyone you love, but for many of us, the world is decidedly less white, less homogeneous, and less affluent. For many of us, he has already done great harm to the people we love.  

I have many loved ones - these included - who deserve a future much better than what he has promised. 

Why I cry when looking at old photographs like this.

This is a photo of A.A. Milne, the author of the Winnie the Pooh stories, along with his son, Christopher Robin Milne, and the stuffed bear that inspired Winnie the Pooh. 

A.A. Milne died in 1956.

Christopher Robin Milne died in 1996.

The stuffed bear, which was given to Christopher Robin in 1920 before his first birthday, can be found in the New York Public Library.

People love this photograph. The combination of father, son, and the bear that inspired so many beloved children's classics warms the hearts of many.

When I look at this photo - really look at it - I am forced to hold back the tears every time. This is what happens to me when I look at old photographs. I know that's strange and unfortunate, but it cannot be helped.

Here on some day in the late 1920's, a father and son sat before a long forgotten photographer, so much of their future still ahead of them. So much love and laughter and joy as yet to unfold. They must have felt so alive in this moment. So primal. The days and hours and minutes of their lives stretching out before them like a seemingly endless chain of light and warmth and surprise. 

Thirty years later - perhaps in the blink of an eye from their perspective - the father would be dead.

Forty years after that, his son would also be dead. 

This joyous union of father and son, creator and inspiration, would be broken forever. And if not for a series of books that parents read to their children before bed, these two people - father and son - would eventually be forgotten, like almost every other person alive in the world when this photograph was taken.  

A planet full of people, most dead, almost all forgotten forever in both body and deed. Every beautiful moment of their lives lost to the death and the dirt.  

All that survives from this particular moment is a stuffed bear, an inanimate object that magically comes to life in the pages of books and the minds of readers, but still, nothing more than stuffing and button eyes, a gift once purchased at Harrods in London for a boy who had been alive for days instead of years but is now gone forever. This small gift, which inspired so much more, has outlasted the two people in the photograph.

It remains while they do not. 

I see this photo and think about the moments just after it was taken. Father and son rise from their seated position, thank the long forgotten man behind the camera, and walk off, perhaps hand in hand, the little boy clinging to his toy, each step bringing them closer to dissolution and death, unaware of the moment just captured would endure when they would not.    

I see this father and son - both dead and buried - and I see every photograph of every father and son, a captured moment of potential and primacy that will end the same way.

This is why I must hold back tears when I look at old photographs like this. 

I know what you're thinking:

What the hell is wrong with this man? Is he okay? 

Fear not. I've been carrying this stone for a long time. Most of my life, in fact. It is how I have always seen the world. I've actually written about it before. It's a part of me. Not something I like but something I've grown accustomed to. 

I'll be fine. I promise.

If you forbid jeans at your place of business, you're not thinking straight. You might even be a coward.

Although there is no formal dress code at the school where I teach, staff members are allowed to make a $1 charitable contribution on Fridays in order to wear jeans.

Having no explicit dress code, I'm fairly certain that if I wanted to wear jeans every day, I could, but I'm not ready to rock that boat. I'm not so attached to jeans (at least not yet) that I feel the need to wear them every day.

That may change someday, but so far, I'm happy to give my dollar and wear jeans on the day that has been assigned.

But if we were to look at this issue objectively, reasonably, and absent the stupidity of conformity or tradition, you have to ask:

What exactly makes my jeans any different from the khaki pants, corduroys, or dress slacks that I wear on any other day?

Is it the denim? Is the material designed by Levi Strauss many years ago so clearly unprofessional in its blueness or elasticity or durability that it can't be worn in a professional setting without the offer of a charitable payment? Is denim so uncouth or unkempt that employees wearing jeans are incapable of appearing professional to potential customers and clients? 

Or is it the fact that those long haired, rock-and-roll types are wearing jeans as they shake their hips onstage and play their electric guitars, and as a result, the wearing of jeans automatically confers the sense moral degradation and societal breakdown?

That may have been true in the 1960's when old people were stupid, but I don't think this perception applies today. 

Is it perhaps the rivets? The stone-washed texture? The way that denim encapsulates a person's ass or thighs?

Or is it simply because James Dean popularized jeans in the movie Rebel Without a Cause, and as a result, wearing jeans became a symbol of youth rebellion during the 1950s, and that reputation has remained in place ever since? 

I think it's probably that, because objectively, there is little difference between the jeans and the and the khaki pants or corduroy slacks that I wear. In fact, there's nothing objectively different between denim and any other fabric.

I suspect that the only thing keeping people from wearing jeans every day at the workplace are the old people in charge who are stuck on tradition and conformity and unwilling to examine their world through an objective, logical, and clear lens.

These are the rules followers. The lemmings. The cowards who would rather perpetuate some misinformed, illogical, nonsensical stereotype about a fabric and the people who choose to wear it rather than standing for what is right and logical and sensible.

I suddenly find myself wanting to wear jeans every day of my life.  

I went to the bathroom alongside a bunch of ladies, and something surprising happened.

I competed last night at a Moth StorySLAM at The Oberon in Cambridge, MA. 

The Oberon has two restrooms. When I started performing there in 2013, these restrooms were identified by placards as "Men" and "Women."

About a year ago, the "Men" and "Women" placards were replaced with placards that read "All Gender." Since then, I had only found myself in the restroom with a woman once, and it was alongside several other men. Though the placards had changed, people for the most part continued to segregate themselves according to sex.

Last night, however, I found myself in the restroom at one point with one other man and three women, and when that man exited the restroom ahead of me, I was the only man in the restroom with these women. I almost didn't notice, but as I stood at the sink washing my hands alongside two of the women, it occurred to me that I was using a public restroom with a majority of women for the first time in my life.

Also, none of us cared a bit.

At the end of the night, I returned to the restroom and found myself alone with one other woman. As we approached the sink together, we began talking. I had won the StorySLAM, and she had recognized me from my previous victories and wanted to know how I managed to win so often. As we washed our hands, I gave her a few storytelling tips, and she told me about her battles with stage fright and her desire to tell a story someday. 

I was back on the street, walking to my car, when I realized that I had just engaged in my first conversation with a woman in a public restroom, and I couldn't get over these two facts:

1. It was no big deal at all. 
2. So many dumbass jerk faces (I'm looking at you, North Carolina) think it's a very big deal.

If your opposed to allowing people to use the restroom of their choice, it's time to put on your big boy or big girl pants and grow up. Sooner than you think, "all gender" or "gender neutral" restrooms will be the norm, and people will wonder why gender segregation was once required in order for people to sit on toilets and wash their hands. 

After last night, I'm wondering it myself.

The perils of the road

This is what happens when you spend the weekend performing in Illinois:

You miss a dance party that was apparently held in your own home.

My problem with honorifics

I'm not a fan of titles, which is a nice way of saying that I really, really hate titles. 

Let me explain. 

I have several good friends who have earned doctorates in a variety of fields.

Some are actual medical doctors. If a person is having a heart attack on an airplane and the flight attendant asks if there is a doctor onboard, these are the people who can rightfully stand up and offer assistance.

Others possess doctorates in various non-medical fields: education, public policy, sociology, literature, mathematics, and more. These are folks who remain in their seats during the onboard medical emergency, keenly aware of the limitations of their doctoral title. 

Some of these people make use of their doctoral title in professional settings.
Some use it in personal settings, too.
Others do not.
It was years before I learned that some of my friends had earned a doctorate.  

Here is my problem with titles like these:

A title like "doctor" is a signal of exceptionally hard work and great academic accomplishment, but it also quite often coincides with the opportunity to engage in this level of academic pursuit. These are intelligent, dedicated individuals who in most cases benefited from parents who supported them at some point during the pursuit of higher education. These are people who were sent to college by their mothers and fathers. Dropped off at the dorms with futons and small refrigerators and desk lamps. These were folks who had some or all of their college education paid for by their parents.

There is a lot of research on the socioeconomics of doctoral candidates that support this assertion. 

Doctoral candidates tend not to be people who were forced to work 40 or 60 hours a week while attending college just to feed themselves and keep a roof over their heads. While their accomplishments are no less impressive, they have almost always been earned alongside a certain degree of unwavering familial support.

But what about the people who are perfectly capable of earning a doctorate or other title-conferring degree but did not have the opportunity to do so because of life circumstances?

Take my friend, Amy, for example. Amy is a woman who was raised by a drug addicted mother and an abusive father. She taught herself to drive at the age of 12 so she could bring her mother to the grocery store and force her to buy food for herself and her sisters. Her childhood was filled with uncommon struggle and an unacceptable level of neglect and abuse. 

When Amy was young, she was shot in the head and survived. She earned a large settlement as a result of the shooting that she intended to use to pay for college only to discover that her mother had spent the money on drugs. Seeing no other way of paying for college, Amy transformed herself into an outstanding soccer player and earned an athletic scholarship to Sacred Heart University. She graduated with honors and began a teaching career by day and working at night as a waitress and bartender in order to pay off student loans and eventually fund and earn a Master's degree.

Working two jobs while attending college is an incredibly difficult thing. I know. I did it myself.  

Amy taught alongside me for several years before rising to the level of vice principal. She is currently home with her first child and expecting her second, but someday in the not-to-distant future, she will be the principal of a school. She has no doctoral degree and may never have the opportunity to earn one given her life circumstances, but is Amy any less deserving of such a title?

I don't think so.

In fact, she might be more deserving of a title than anyone I know. 

Honorifics and titles rarely tell us much about a person. They are capital and lowercase letters and bits punctuation that we place ahead of a name as a moniker of some significance, but truthfully, they mean little when it comes to taking the measure of a person.   

I know some remarkable people in possession of doctoral degrees. I know some wholly unimpressive people in possession of them well.   

And while their title may indicate a certain level of education, they are also often indicators of stable childhood homes, loving parents, a certain level of socioeconomic upbringing, a absence of debilitating injuries or diseases, and much more.

This is why I hate titles. People mistake them as meaning something. Worse, they leave people like Amy without a much deserved title.  

This TED Talk by Regina Hartley speaks to this issues well. I highly recommend it.

Driving in cars (and planes) with complete strangers

Yesterday morning, in the midst of the snowstorm, I drove past a woman walking in the road. She had an umbrella braced ahead of her and a CVS bag in her hand.

I pulled over and offered a ride. She was wary at first, but I assured her that lunatic killers don't go out in snowstorms.

The only lunatic on the road in a snowstorm is the one in search of an Egg McMuffin, some donuts for his kids, and a grande decaf for his wife.

Her name was Denise. She lives nearby. She owns a car but is afraid to drive in the snow. She underestimated the strength of the storm when she left the house and didn't realize that none of the sidewalks would shoveled. She works as a receptionist in a doctor's office in Wethersfield. She was grateful for my offer of a ride, saying that it "felt like it was the 1970's again," when drivers picked up pedestrians all the time.

Later on, I was at Bradley International Airport, approaching the security gates when a woman standing beside me said to an airport official, "I've never been in an airport before. What do I do?"

I offered to help her through her the security check and get to her gate. We removed our shoes. Emptied our pockets. Took off our coats. Removed laptops from our bags. After we passed through the scanners, I walked her to her gate and left her with an American Airlines agent who promised to get her on the plane.

The woman's name was Janie. She lives in Old Lyme. She was on her way to Philadelphia for her friend's wedding.

An hour later, I was flying somewhere over Pennsylvania, talking to a man named Jim who was seated beside me. Jim lives in Chicago but does business in Hartford regularly. We talked about the Chicago Bears, Gillette Stadium, his decision not to have children, and backgammon.

Six hours later, I was standing in a Chicago living room, surrounded by strangers, in the midst of their Christmas celebration. Several of the people at the party knew me from my appearances on The Moth Radio Hour and were excited to meet me. They had been listening to my stories on my Youtube channel before I had arrived. I was offered borscht. I showed them photos of Elysha and the kids. I met a Jewish rabbi amidst this family of Catholics who happens knows a rabbi who I worked with a month ago in New York. We discussed the economics of the Jewish temple. I learned about the role that storytelling plays in The Lost Boys of Peter Pan.

An hour later, I was sitting in the passenger seat of a white sedan, driving through miles of Illinois cornfields with a family from Urbana, telling stories about life and love and professional disasters.

Needless to say, it was an unusual day for me.

It also occurs to me that other than the variety of locations, it might be a normal day in the life of my wife, Elysha, who seems perfectly capable of making a new and lifelong friend wherever she goes.

I am perfectly comfortable in the company of strangers today, happy to chat and tell stories and listen with an open heart. I might even enjoy meeting new people and spending time with them, as long as I'm not in a hurry or hungry.

I suspect that Elysha has a lot to do with this. Spend enough time in the company of someone like her and you can't help but realize the value of reaching out to people whenever possible and seeking a connection.

I'm still not likely to make a brunch date with a stranger in a Starbucks line or arrange playdates for the kids with random mothers in the doctor's office (both things Elysha has done), but I'm getting there.

Of course, if given the choice, I'd still choose these three over strangers any day.

Gas stations suck (at least in this regard)

Can we all acknowledge that placing the gasoline octane choices in reverse numerical order on gas pumps is done with the sole purpose of causing people who might be distracted to accidentally choose a higher octane than intended?

Not exactly a fair business practice if you ask me. 

Truth about meetings (at least most of them)

The three worst things ever

Sometimes characters in my books speak words and think things that I would never speak or think myself. 

Other times characters say words and think things that are directly from my heart and soul. In these cases, these characters are speaking on my behalf.  

In Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend, Budo lists the three things he hates most in the world.

His list is my list.  

1. Waiting
2. Not knowing
3. Not existing

My favorite sentence of the year

Earlier in the month, a friend of mine took some advice about living life well, and as expected, it worked out perfectly.

In telling me how well things turned out, she wrote this sentence:

"It's annoying how right you always are."

I don't usually identify my favorite sentence from a given year, but if I were to, this might be it.

It's got everything I love:

• Acknowledgement of my genius.
• Evidence of my ability to annoy even as I am proven correct.
• The delightful inverse of "I told you so" - "You told me so," which is almost as satisfying.

Makes you want to solicit my advice on a daily basis. Doesn't it?