I think I’ve mentioned more than once that I have a fuzzy memory, or maybe I only meant to mention it and it slipped my mind.

The past 102 years have been a blur for me, as evidenced by my inability to remember anyone at my high school reunion or my college reunion or the receiving line at my wedding. Somehow, I can remember a handful of formulas from chemistry class, my phone number from 60 years ago, the year King Kanye signed the Magna Carta and, of course, advertising jingles.

Everything else? Good luck.  

I can remember that I saw a movie, but not what it was about, and I can remember that I read a book, but not what it was about. The only thing I can absolutely remember is how to do the Hokey Pokey, because that IS what it’s all about.

There’s a sadness to this hazy recollection. People will remember great times and share details with each other and I just smile as if I was actually there, which I was, or so they tell me. I’ll run into someone at an event and they’ll ask a million questions about my wife, my kids, my hobbies, how I got that stain out of my shirt after our last meeting…and all I can think is that I might have met them once.

Sometimes, after a great evening with new acquaintances, I will warn them that I will absolutely not remember them the next time we see each other. It’s embarrassing, but it’s one more fun fact for them to remember about me while I forget everything about them.

Still, if you look hard enough, you can find an upside to anything.

It turns out that I am very bad at holding a grudge. I try. Really, I do, but it all gets blurry and I can’t remember who started it or who said what or why I’m ticked off, anyway. My circle of friends is probably five or six times as large as it would be if I could remember how terrible all these people are and how much I hate them.

I almost never miss an appointment, which might seem counterintuitive, but it works. Since I know I’m going to forget half the things I promised to do, I keep a very thorough to-do list and check it about 20 times a day.

I never say anything embarrassing to people, because I always forget which ones are on drugs and which ones have been indicted and which ones are having sex with goats. Or maybe it’s chickens. I forget. But the good thing about forgetting is that I can't spill the beans if I don't remember what kind of beans they are. I still say lots of stupid stuff to people, but much, much less than I would if I could remember anything about them.

People think I’m really interested in whatever they have to say, even if it’s an old story they’ve told me a million times. I give everyone the impression I’m savoring their story as if it was the first time, mostly because I think I am hearing their story for the first time.

I’m much calmer than I used to be, and I sleep better, too. When you can’t remember all the bills you owe and how many people are out to get you, the dark isn’t nearly as scary.

Beyond calm, I think I’m actually happier. Life is much more pleasant when you’ve unburdened yourself of the slings and arrows, the resentments and regrets. I really think forgetfulness, intended or otherwise, can add measurably to our joy in life.

Now, if only I can remember to post this message, the rest of you could be happier too.

Of course, both of us would be immeasurably happier if you’d click here to subscribe to Dad Writes. Do it now, before you forget.
 
 
 
 

If you’re lucky, you run out of things to teach your children. If you’re lucky, you wake up one day and recognize that there are at least a few areas where they have surpassed you, and that is quite all right.

It could be dealing with extended family or maintaining friendships, work-life balance or cooking, sales or Wordle…slowly the kids turn into adults and the relationships shift. If you’re lucky, you end up in a ton of peer-to-peer conversations, where you’re sharing ideas instead of imparting wisdom.

If you’re lucky.

The idea of my kids surpassing me isn’t new. I recall thinking about it one afternoon as I was clearing the set from a theater after one of their shows. I walked out on the stage, looked across at the empty seats, and realized that my kids would be more comfortable dealing with people, more competent in a crowd, and just a bit less fearful than I was, because they put themselves out on a stage to perform in front of strangers. I knew they already had a power I would never have, or never have in as great an abundance as my teen-aged daughters.

If you’re lucky, you can watch your kids—I shouldn’t call them kids anymore since they have kids of their own—as they build a life and create a home and plot their own journeys. You can hope they learned something from watching you, paying attention to your mistakes and your successes.

You can hope they’ll avoid your mistakes, but you cannot hope for them to replicate your successes, because their journey is all about their successes now. Consciously or not, they’ve sifted through their memories and all the dinner-table conversations and set their own priorities for their lives, so any resemblance to your journey is curated, not ordained.

I like spending time with people who are younger than I am, gaining new ideas and varied perspectives about the world. I enjoy the opportunity to update my thinking, master the slang, and generally be much cooler than all the other oldsters I deal with the rest of the day. My favorite companions are a couple of women who are very smart and likable adults, generous hosts, and very open to extended conversations. Yes, I fed them and clothed them and dealt with all their nonsense for 20 years, but that was then and this is now.

If you’re lucky, you can step back one day and take a fresh look at your children. You can see them as they are now, ignoring the path that brought them there, and recognize these are adults you would like to know today. These are adults who are interesting and smart and accomplished and level-headed and a joy to be with. These are adults you can debate ideas with and share experiences with and respect as they forge their own paths.

If you’re lucky.

Some days, we just feel really grateful over at Dad Writes and we always feel very, very grateful when someone clicks here to subscribe.

Am I better off because people aren’t lying to me anymore, and why do the worst people in my life have the best stories? Let’s take a random walk through Meyers-Briggs, Wordle and the sexual revolution…

1. Yes, we all know that more than one million people died, life expectancy in the United States fell for two years in a row, students fell behind in their education, supply chains collapsed, the deficit soared, businesses scammed $billions from the government, and polarization only increased. Even worse, it’s almost impossible now to find a restaurant that will give you a menu instead of insisting that you scan their QR code. If I ever lose my phone, I’ll starve.
2. Looking back on my life, my biggest regret is that I missed out on the sexual revolution by about two years. It’s too bad, since I was actually willing to volunteer for that one.
3. I used to hate it when I would call a cab and then nobody showed up and the dispatcher would insist the driver would be there in a minute when they were really miles away. Thankfully, I don’t need to deal with those lying bastards anymore. Now it’s my app that insists they’ll be there in a minute while I can see—in real time—that they are miles away. I love progress.
4. Speaking of progress, have you noticed that when you go somewhere, nobody actually works for the place you’re visiting. There’s a franchisor’s name on the door, but it’s owned by another company, managed by a third, the employees are leased from a fourth, and no one is in charge of any of it. And you’ll be harangued a million times by a fifth company to review it, because your opinion is very important to all of them.
5. I know some really nice, decent, law-abiding people who are incredibly boring, while some of the biggest louses in my social circle have amazing and entertaining stories about the times they got caught, the near misses when they didn’t, and their plans for revenge. Life is so unfair.
6. After everyone on Twitter complained about censorship and Elon Musk announced he would buy the company and solve the problem, I decided to take a look. Every day, Jim Jordan complains about Joe Biden, Chuck Grassley posts a picture of himself in a corn field, The Lincoln Project posts a story mocking Donald Trump, and some guy announces that it isn’t Ted Danson’s birthday. It’s incredibly repetitive, boring and predictable, but somehow I’ve gotten hooked on this thing. It’s like Groundhog Day, and I keep looking to see if someone will say something they didn’t say yesterday and the day before and the day before…
   
7. My daughter talked me into taking a personality test the other day and I’m glad she did. First, it turns out that I actually have a personality, which has sometimes been questioned by those who know me best. Second, and even more remarkable, my personality seems to have improved since I took the same test a couple of decades ago. I had always thought this stuff was fixed, but it turns out you actually can grow as you age. Maybe things really do get better when the kids move out, the mortgage gets paid and you don’t have to deal with cranky clients.
8. One of these days, The New York Times is going to screw up the whole thing by adding a timer to Wordle, or maybe they’ll put it behind their paywall. Whatever happens, we all know it’s only a matter of time before someone decides to tweak the model and ruin the fun for everyone else. That’s because the most contradictory phrase in American business is new and improved. Also, tomorrow’s word will be “zippy.”

 
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I know a guy who had a very troubled life when he was a kid. It was the kind of life that could have turned him into a bitter and vengeful individual, except that he made the decision to change the course of his journey and pass up the opportunity to infect his kids.

Actually, I know a few guys like that, along with quite a few more who are repeating the destructive patterns of their childhood homes. That’s what they know, they think they turned out just fine, and there’s no compelling need to switch gears.

In every family, in every home, the time-honored processes repeat until someone decides to break the chain. We’re all victims of our pasts until, maybe, one day, we’re not. One day, somebody decides that the past isn’t prologue, that “it's just the way our family is...,” is a poor excuse for doing the wrong thing again and again.

I encountered the permutations in my own family as we dove into some ancestry investigations over the past couple of years. As with all family trees, mine has a few diseased roots. We all want to discover that our ancestors slew dragons and cured diseases, but sometimes we’re disappointed to learn that we have more crooks than champions along the line. Sometimes, we look at some of our forebears and we’re very, very grateful that they didn’t have more kids.

Every family has its black sheep, but I’m more intrigued by the white sheep, the ones who changed the family’s arc for the better. We all learn how to become parents by watching our parents and we all learn how to live our lives by our families’ model. Most of the time, nothing is so toxic that we’re repulsed by it, and sometimes the toxic stuff is the only thing we know.

And then there are the unsung heroes on the family tree, the people who decide enough is enough and it’s absolutely not good enough for the next generation. They’re largely invisible, because doing good doesn’t generate much of a splash, but you can see the inflection points through the lens of time. Look back a few generations and you’ll find the person who flipped the script, who jettisoned the scourge and created a new model for an enlightened family.

Whatever our situations today, we can be pretty sure there were twists and turns along the way. A good family turned bad, a young person was led astray, a single malevolent parent created a multi-generational pandemic…until somebody broke the spell.

The people who set the earth back on its foundation can seem pretty regular, exceedingly normal, in everyday settings. You’d never suspect their heroism, because they aren’t looking for the spotlight. Instead, they’re quietly and steadily moving the needle toward sunlight, leaving the dark side behind. Maybe they deserve more recognition, or at least a clever T-shirt. The world would be a helluva lot worse without them.

If you look through your family and you can’t find the person who broke the chain, maybe this is a good time to be a hero. Just a thought.

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I don’t wanna sound like some PC cop or First-Amendment hater, but there are some words I never want to hear again. They really don’t mean what they’re supposed to mean or, even worse, maybe they do. Either way, it’s time we stopped saying…

Side hustle. I have to work two jobs to make ends meet, but I want to feel like I’m hip and cool, so I’ll call it my side hustle. No, no, and, did I mention, no. Nobody in the C-Suite has a side hustle. Nobody who owns three companies refers to two of them as side hustles. The only people with side hustles are delivering Uber Eats or trying to start a business as a way to escape their crappy day jobs. Stop. It.

Tragedy. Okay, there really are tragedies in the world, but let’s stop calling it a tragedy when some guy heads to the shopping mall to kill a dozen people. That’s not a tragedy. It’s a murder, an assault, an act of domestic terrorism, but not a tragedy. It’s a tragedy when a car runs off the road and a family is killed. It’s a tragedy when a toddler dies. When it’s a crime, it’s a crime, not a tragedy.

Conservative. Yes, there really are conservatives in the world and I count myself among them. Well, I did count myself among them until the entire term got hijacked by isolationists, insurrectionists, neo-Nazis, anarchists, and know-nothings. At least the far-lefties call themselves “progressives” and not “liberals,” so we know how to tell them apart. I believe in free speech, but we should start jailing all the frauds who call themselves conservative when they’re really just jerks.

Widespread fraud. Speaking of frauds, it’s time the mainstream media found another term to use in all their election stories. I get it. You cannot say there was no fraud at all in the 2020 election. There is always someone who votes twice or votes in the wrong precinct or votes after dying, or all of the above. Still, when the media say there wasn’t enough “widespread fraud” to change the results, they’re keeping the door open for everyone who bases their belief on any fraud at all.

Bully. If you ever want to sound really weak and helpless and victim-y, call somebody a bully. Of course, there are lots of people who push others around and use their position or strength or intellect to cow others into submission. No doubt about it. Still, nobody has ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, had an epiphany and changed her ways after being called a bully. Frankly, the word makes me cringe, so everyone who says it is actually bullying me. Please stop. I’m very sensitive about this stuff.

Woke. So the people who hate cultural appropriation decided to appropriate a bit of Black vernacular and transform it into a way to bully people who might engage in cultural appropriation. Who could possibly disagree with that?

As long as I’m on a roll here, I’m not exactly thrilled with both sides, whatabout, triggered or poutine, either, but we’ll have to wait for my next rant on those. Gotta head out to my side hustle at Wokester's Digest, and it would be a tragedy if I’m delayed by some conservative bully.
 
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The race is on, and I’m losing yet again.

Every year, I swear it will be different. I’ll be organized. I’ll resist the interruptions, the intrusions, the urgent-but-unimportant disturbances that break my stride. I’ll do two century rides, I’ll take 2,000 photos, I’ll spend 100 days with the grandkids, I’ll make this year different from the nearly 70 that preceded it.

And here I am again, with the calendar about to shed another page and the impending solstice mocking me like my first three psychiatrists. Coulda, woulda, shoulda, didn’t, didn’t, didn’t. The best we can say here is that I’m remarkably consistent. 

The Yiddish proverb says that man plans and God laughs, which would make me the most successful comedian in the heavens. Here on earth, though, I’m not sure I’m in on the joke. My only consolation is the absolute knowledge that I’m not alone, that a life of distractions is the human condition.

But why?

What is it about us that we’re so easily distracted, lured away from the things we value most to give away our lives to the unimportant, the foolish, the transient goofiness of strangers? How do we allow ourselves to invest our reputations, our emotions, and our irreplaceable time on earth in bagatelles?

When the calendar flips over to September 1, daylight in Chicago will be two hours shorter than on the solstice and about equal to April 9, when the low was a rainy 34 and the high was a balmy 49. I’d like to say I used my days well since then, but I’ve spent more time reading Twitter than I’ve spent on the bicycle and more hours on Facebook than with my friends. Yeah, I know, they’re “friends,” on Facebook, too, but I haven’t met most of them.

Nope, I’ve blown most of the 90 days the sun spends north of the equator and I’ll miss the remaining three weeks if I don’t get moving. Now.

Sadly, I’ve been here before, and before, and before. Like all the times I’ve finished my fourth slice of pizza or my fifth beer or my sixth rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody, I promise that this is the last time I’ll make that mistake and, oops, I do it again. Next time, though, that’s the charm. Just wait and see.

Okay, enough of this tomfoolery. I need to get serious if I’m going to reclaim the summer. No more lallygagging or shillyshallying or making up words like himbydimbying just to stall for time. I’m heading out right now to pull the spider webs off the bike and greet the open road. There’s no stopping me this time.

Right after I check my feed on Tik Tok.

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