 If you’re like me, you have a bunch of friends who are absolutely fanatical about football. They know the stats, they know the players, they know the players’ hamstrings and rotator cuffs and groins and all the other body parts that might get pulled on or off the field. They wear the jerseys and they keep the faith through every loss and setback and Broglio trade.
(Yeah, Broglio was baseball and not football, but it’s the only monumentally awful trade I know and I’m too lazy to research these things. And, yeah, that's a picture of a baseball at the top of this post because, did I mention lazy?) Also, if you’re like me, you think they’re vaguely, just a bit, not-so-that-anyone-would-notice, ever so slightly idiotic about the whole thing. Games are fun, but they’re called games for a reason, and it’s just possible our friends are excessive about the whole thing. Still, it’s the holiday season and we’re all up to our eyeballs in major, incredible, life-and-death, storied-rivalry, earthshaking match-ups that cannot be missed. And, when we see our friends for our weekly wassail, we should probably make some effort to sound interested in their passions. How to do it? Actually, it’s very simple. All you need to do is know the name of their favorite team and the name of the quarterback. Once you’ve done that, it’s just a matter of priming the pump. Even better, this system works best when your friend is an absolutely rabid fan. It’s like talking to someone about politics, when simply mentioning a name will spark a half-hour diatribe. Use these icebreakers:
The best thing about these questions is that they work every time, no matter what teams are playing or how well they’re doing. That’s because all sports fans have three things in common:
But, “Wait,” you’re thinking, “What if I get some push-back or my friend asks me what I think about this crap? I just want to sound interested, but without any of that, you know, effort.” Never fear, grasshopper. Your sports-addicted friend is only asking you what you think as a prelude to telling you why you’re wrong. Did I mention they love to share their opinions? When they ask you what you think they’re just being polite. They’ve yielded the floor, but only so you can give it back…and quickly. If you get challenged, simply reply with one of these absolutely unfailing responses:
And there you have it, the perfect way to enjoy the party and make your friends feel good about themselves while putting in zero effort at research or empathy. Best of all, you’ll be keeping them from talking about politics, which will make all our holidays just a bit happier. Subscribe? Why, yes, I'd love to, and all I need to do is click here?
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 Every so often, I think I should get out more, but the world outside my apartment just gets stranger and stranger…
Subscribe? Why, yes, I'd love to, and all I need to do is click here?  I’ve got a seriously big week ahead, beginning with a day of mourning on Monday as the sun crosses the equator (really, it’s vice versa) and the darkness grows to nearly 15 hours at the winter solstice. I swore to myself that I’d get more enjoyment out of summer, which I did, and that I’d spend more time on the bike, which I did, but summer in Chicago is never long enough and our blue marble follows its own path, not mine. That’s not the biggest challenge for this week, though, as Rosh Hashanah begins later the same day and I confront the greatest illusion in my life. The Jewish High Holidays are always a period of meaningful introspection for me and I’ve been focusing lately on the false belief I share with almost every other person on this planet. Control. Somehow, despite all the evidence life throws at us, we have a (Oxymoron Alert!!) seriously goofy habit of thinking we have some control over our existence. It would be a mistake to say we have no control at all, of course. We get to choose whether we have sausage or mushrooms, or both, on our pizza. We get to choose between boxers and briefs. We even get the pick the excuse we’ll use when we tell mom we can’t help her clean out the garage next weekend. That’s small potatoes, though. When it comes to the big things in life, we reach our limits very, very quickly. We don’t control our health or our smarts or our height or who will hire us or whether our subway train will stay on the rails. We can’t make our rideshare show up on time or ensure that our pizza arrives with the toppings we ordered. A major message of the Days of Awe, the period between the start of Rosh Hashanah and the end of the Day of Atonement on Yom Kippur, is that we have no control. At this time last year, we had no idea whether we would live to see today and, as Yom Kippur comes to a close, we will have no idea whether we will make it to the next Days of Awe. The whole process is belittling and liberating at the same time. We spend our lives obsessing over things we cannot control, getting angry or stressed or impatient with people or events that we cannot even influence. Sometimes, we feel responsible when things go wrong, as if we really could have made the difference, or take unearned credit for successes we didn’t really create. Freed from that conceit, we can focus on the only thing we do control, which is our own actions. I agree with Louis Pasteur that chance favors the prepared mind, and I’m a big fan of planning ahead, but that doesn’t mean I think I can control much of anything. Almost the opposite. Preparation makes it easier to make good decisions when, inevitably, things don’t go as planned. If I had more control, I wouldn’t need as much planning, but I don’t, so I do. After the High Holidays, I’ll keep on making plans, if only to give God a good laugh. I’ll also try to keep both my stress and hubris in check by remembering control is an illusion. Subscribe? Why, yes, I'd love to, and all I need to do is click here?  Re-posting from a few years ago, because a few of you haven't signed the petition...yet.
All of us at Dadwrites are about to begin a national movement. It’s a movement that will gladden the hearts of all Americans and heal the wounds of our universe. This is the one common goal left to humanity in the internet age. We are divided irrevocably on pretty much everything, but we finally have a cause to unite us and restore our faith in each other. We must rise up in an unrelenting and ultimately victorious campaign to move Labor Day to October. As it stands, Labor Day is a depressing holiday, a final three-day weekend to mark the end of summer. Everyone slumps in their lawn chairs and talks about getting back to work while they complain that the fireworks were better on Independence Day. When it’s time for all the guests to leave, nobody talks about their plans for the week ahead, because everyone is planning to be in the office on Tuesday morning. Alas, what began as a celebration of the labor movement has deteriorated into a celebration of Mondays. Yep, we get this one off, but then we’re working every Monday until MLK Day 21 weeks from now. But Labor Day can be much happier, and more apt, if we make the logical choice to move it back a month. The reasons are compelling and, dare we say, irrefutable. First, the equinox won’t come until September 22 this year, fully three weeks after we bury the season with a holiday marking the “official end of summer.” Insanity!!! Summer is a gift to treasure, not a curse to be canceled. Much like our participation trophies, regrets, grudges, and sixteen, we should hold onto summer as long we can. Second, the weather is going to stay summery well into October in most of the country, because that’s how weather works. Temperatures will still be warm, humidity levels will drop from their August peaks, and mosquito swarms will finally subside. We won’t notice it, though, because we all went back to work four weeks too early. What are we, nuts?? The sad reality is that September barbecues are never as relaxing or enjoyable as the same gatherings before Labor Day. Something is missing, and the missing ingredient is summer. We bury our best season prematurely at the start of September and then we just go through the motions. So sad. But when we move Labor Day to October, we can finally return the holiday to its rightful role as a celebration of working stiffs, the people who build the buildings and plant the plants and assemble the assemblies. We can transform Labor Day into an upbeat extension of summer, rather than its forced execution. “Yeah, the days are shorter now that it’s officially fall, but we have about two weeks left until Labor Day,” we’d say, and we would be happier as a result. When should the new Labor Day occur? We humbly propose the first Friday in October, which is the perfect date for a national holiday. Slotting Labor Day on a Friday will preserve the tradition of three-day weekends while dulling the sting of returning to work a few days later. At long last, people will have a real justification for all those TGIF memes. Admit it. This is such a great idea that you’re already wondering two things:
We understand how you feel. The brainstorming team at Dadwrites is very proud of itself for this earthshaking idea and we are fine with sharing the credit with all the fans who inspire us to be creative geniuses. Or genii. Or whatever. Enjoy your holiday and take heart. By this time next year, we will have achieved our goal and we will all be looking forward to another month of summer weekends.  Welcome to Father’s Day, also known as Mother’s Day Lite, a day so important that it only took our nation six decades after the first Mother’s Day to add fathers to the holiday calendar. “Hmm, we have a special day to honor all the mothers? Is there anyone else we might want to recognize? I dunno, maybe we should think about it for 58 years.” Bitter? I’m not bitter. You’re bitter. Long-time subscribers know this is not exactly my favorite holiday, and I’m not alone in that feeling. On average, people said they planned to spend $259 on Mother’s Day this year, but Father’s Day spending plans came in at $199, fully one quarter less than for dear old mom. Rodney Dangerfield wasn’t the only guy who can’t get no respect. When I was a kid, back when dinosaurs ruled the earth, we respected dads. Hell, there was even a TV show called Father Knows Best and—here’s the crazy part—the father on the show really did know best. And that was even before Jim Anderson went to medical school. (Yes, it’s an obscure reference, but I like to think of it as an Easter egg.) And Jim Anderson wasn’t the only dad we respected. There was Ward Cleaver and Lucas McCain and Andy Griffith and even Jed Clampett, who was also a great dancer. (Another Easter egg. I am on a roll.) That was an era when you didn’t have to wait for your father to come home, because dadly wisdom was always available on TV. Dads have fallen behind in popular culture, though, and our current role models are Homer Simpson and Peter Griffin, but they are hardly alone. When I searched for the most-inept father on television, the AI response was: It's difficult to definitively name "the most-inept" television father, as many sitcom and drama characters portray varying degrees of ineptitude. The whole Father’s Day concept seems to bring up more questions than answers for me. For example:
TBH, I already know the answers to all these questions, since I’m one of those old-school dads that knows best, even if I’m not much of a dancer. That's why I've made plans to spend the entire day enlightening my kids with my incredible wisdom. I know they cannot wait for the experience. Subscribe? Why, yes, I'd love to, and all I need to do is click here?  The flash of white pulled me away from the conversation as I refocused on the rows of crosses along the countryside. The uniformity and precise alignment of the memorials announced a military cemetery, where rank and wealth lose their earthly status and every grave is equalized by the last full measure of devotion.
The incursion on the landscape was ours, the Florence American Cemetery, final resting place of 4,392 troops who would never return from their battles in Italy. Tomorrow, at 11 a.m., the cemetery will host a sparsely-attended memorial in former enemy territory, honoring men and women with no one to mourn their passing. A relative handful left children behind when they shipped out, but most graves represent a dead end, the severed limb of a family tree. I’m here because my dad made it home, passing on his ancestors’ legacy to new generations. At the Florence American Cemetery, like all military cemeteries, the graves overflow with both their physical occupants and the multitudes who will never know the beauty of sunrise. Most cemeteries tell the stories of families that make an area their home long enough to raise new generations and memorialize their eldest. Wander through any cemetery and it’s not too hard to see which families have been in the area for multiple generations, which ones did well financially, who reached their three-score-and-ten…and who did not. Military cemeteries in former war zones defy that norm. Each grave is a memorial of one, a life disconnected from family and an interment with ceremony, but no mourners. I was overwhelmed as I took in the sight, wholly incapable of absorbing the lost potential in the cul de sac of war. I felt grateful, but probably not grateful enough, for the accidents of fate that spared my father, and me. I searched the archives and found a Robert Rosenbaum, one who didn’t make it home, in the Brittany American Cemetery in France. He came from Pennsylvania with the 175th Infantry Regiment, 29th Infantry Division, and achieved the rank of staff sergeant on his path to eternity. He died August 9, 1944, close to the time that my dad, the other Robert Rosenbaum, was shipping out. Only one of them came home. As the Florence American Cemetery receded into the way-back and the sight of vineyards reclaimed my vision, I felt immensely grateful. Beyond the appreciation for the vacation I was on and the opportunities ahead, I was suddenly humbled by the fact I am alive at all. Along the same road I was traveling, literally, thousands of unborn souls grieved in eternal silence. That’s the contradiction of Memorial Day. Almost all of us who recall the victims are not their descendants, while the true heirs of the legacy were never born to observe it at all. For all but a few among the dead, no one will tell the story, share a memory, say a prayer. One minor opportunity to commemorate their sacrifice is to visit the American Battle Monuments Commission website and find someone who shares a name with a friend or relative who made it home, or look for a distant relative whose story ended in sacred honor. It isn’t much, but it’s something. Subscribe? Why, yes, I'd love to, and all I need to do is click here? |
Who writes this stuff?Dadwrites oozes from the warped mind of Michael Rosenbaum, an award-winning author who spends most of his time these days as a start-up business mentor, book coach, photographer and, mostly, a grandfather. All views are his alone, largely due to the fact that he can’t find anyone who agrees with him. Archives
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