I’ve been struggling to make this blog a cultural icon for our millions of readers and I think I’ve finally figured out the perfect plan to make it happen. From now on, we’re not Dad Writes anymore. We’re French Dad Writes.

See, isn’t that better? Yes, everything is still written in proper English, or as close to proper English as we get around here, but we’re going to get a lot more respect because we’re French now. Because, let’s face it, everyone gets more respect if they say they’re French.

“Look at that woman with her top inside her pants in front and hanging out in the back. What a slob!”

“No, no, no! That’s a French Tuck.”

“Ooooh. Tres coolio.”

No matter what it is, from fashion to food to furniture, adding French to the name creates a certain panache, a je ne sais quoi, a savoir faire that no other nationality can offer. Greek salad and Turkish taffy and Brazil nuts are all descriptive, but tying those foods to nationalities adds no prestige.  Link anything to France, though, and the effect is incroyable.

Nobody wants greasy potatoes, but French fries are a hit. Even better, call them pomme frites and you can charge $12.50 for an order. Drop a slice of bread into your eggs and it’s a mess, until you call it French toast. Slobber all over someone when you’re smooching and you’re gross, unless it’s a French kiss. Drop a slice of onion and a grilled cheese sandwich into a tureen and, voila, it’s French onion soup.

It doesn’t matter if anything comes from France, is used in France, or is even known by the same name in France. Manicures, salad dressing, hair styles, postcards, vanilla ice cream…just call it French and we’re all agog.

Meanwhile, over here in the States, the best we can do is American cheese?

You’ve got to give credit where it’s due. France has won the culture war and the rest of us don’t even get a participation trophy.

We’re not quitters over here at Dad writes, but we are realists. The surest way to gain cultural credibility and unassailable status is to become French. (Turning Japanese? I don’t think so.)

Now that we’re French Dad Writes, all our posts will reek of the arrogant superiority that only a cultural icon can ooze. Our articles de blog will be so much more compelling, so much more convincing, and tres something or other I’ll have to look up later.

Doesn’t this blog sound sexier already? Why yes, yes it does. Or as we like to say over at French Dad Writes, mais oui very much.

Bon voyage, y’all.

We were going to translate our subscriber request from English this week, but we’re pretty lazy over here at French Dad Writes, so just pretend this is cleverly written in French and click here to subscribe.
 
 
 

Happy Beams Day! Hoping you are having the most special holiday ever.

What? You’ve never heard of Beams Day? Maybe that’s because we just created it, and it’s the holiday we’ve all been waiting to celebrate togeth…uh, celebrate. Anyway, you’ll love it, just like all the other holidays we’ve added to the calendar to brighten your years.

Okay, so here’s the deal. Inspired by one of my favorite passages from the New Testament, Beams Day celebrates the moment we become aware of the giant two-by-four sticking out of our skulls, rather than picking endlessly at the pimples on our neighbors’ noses. (Not very sanitary, btw.) Jesus said motes and beams, or some Aramaic version of those words, but I think pimples are funnier and this is my blog, not his.

Anyway, I was torn at first about whether to call this Beams Day or Motes Day, since the New Testament mentions both, but it ended up being an easy decision. Looking around the world, both online and IRL, it appears that every day is Motes Day, and it’s only fair that beams get their own acknowledgement.

And it turned out to be really easy to find the exact right spot on the calendar for Beams Day, which is observed on the first Monday of November in every even-numbered year. By a remarkable and unplanned bit of timing that nobody could have foreseen, this is also the day before Election Day in the United States.

It’s a really lucky, and did I mention unplanned, coincidence that Beams Day comes before our elections. Based on all the ads we’ve been unable to avoid over the past eternity, this holiday is seriously overdue.

As always, the guy who voted against funding for the police department is complaining about crime and the woman who voted against cheaper insulin is complaining about the cost of drugs. I think there were two or three ads this year from people who wanted to tell us why we should vote FOR them, but those folks are dopes. The real money is in demonizing our opponents, and doing it so much that theirs is the only name voters can remember when they vote. I have no idea who I want to vote for in my area, but I absolutely recognize the satanic beasts they are running against.

Fortunately, today is the day when we don’t say a single word about any of our neighbors’ failings and only pay attention to our own.  This is the day when we look deep inside and recognize our own limits and those of our own tribe. On this very special holiday, which we just made up, we avoid the hypocrisy of castigating kettles.

From all of us at the Dad Writes Holiday R&D Lab, have a simply fabulous Beams Day. Hurry, though. Motes Day returns at midnight and it will be a lot like the purge.

If people actually switched targets for their vitriol for just one day, would all the algorithms on social media have a nervous breakdown? Hmmm…worth a shot, right after you click here to subscribe.
 

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.
 
 
 
 

I ended up owing a bunch of money for taxes earlier this year and I’ve been looking for a way to reduce my burden going forward. Of course, the stock market has been helping quite a bit lately, nearly guaranteeing that I’ll never pay a capital gains tax again.

Still, I need something more certain than a stock market collapse to cut my tax bill forever and I think I’ve found the perfect venue. I’m starting a new religion, the Church of Eternal Victimhood, and I hereby declare that everything about me is tax exempt from this day forward.

I know what you’re thinking. It cannot be that easy or everyone would do it. Well, that’s what I thought, too, but the framers of the Constitution clearly wanted everyone to be free to create their own faith and the framers of the tax code absolutely insist that all true faiths be unburdened by taxes. Who am I to rock the boat by complicating things?

All you really need to form a new religion—and appease the Internal Revenue Service—is a set of beliefs that define your faith. Done and done. Here at the Church of Eternal Victimhood, we recognize that each individual is unique and precious and deserving of special care from the Supernatural Spirit that Guides our Path.

We even have a Statement of Faith to show we’re serious about this whole thing; not quite 95 Theses, but enough to claim our status among untaxed. At the Church of Eternal Victimhood, our faith is powerful and unshakeable:

1. I believe in the rule of law, unless one of my friends is arrested.
   
2. I believe in free speech for everyone who agrees with me.
   
3. I believe in keeping government out of business decisions, except for any decision that limits my freedom to do whatever I want whenever I want on their property.
4. I believe schools should teach facts, not theories, but only the facts I want somebody else’s kids to learn.
5. I believe in majority rule, unless my side loses.
   
6. I believe any judge whose rulings don’t reflect my learned interpretation of the law is an activist who should be impeached.
   
7. I believe in following the established science, unless I uncover even better new science on the internet.
   
8. I believe we need to rebuild our manufacturing base, improve education, clean up the environment, fix the infrastructure, balance the budget and eliminate the federal debt, as long as I don’t have to pay anything or make any effort or suffer any inconvenience to achieve these goals.
   
9. Whatever the problem is, I believe that someone else is at fault, someone else should fix it, someone else should pay for it, and someone else should be canceled/fired/deported/killed as a result.
   
10. I believe typing a comment on social media to demand a solution is the equivalent of actually doing something to make things better, so my work here is done and I deserve a vacation.
    

Based on our excursions into social media, it’s clear that our new faith already includes millions of followers who share these beliefs. Unfortunately, almost all of them are lost souls who mistakenly assume these tenets apply to them when they really apply only to me.

Still, showing people the error of their ways is one of our most important missions at the Church of Eternal Victimhood. As soon as they donate to our new church, we are ready to inform them that they have made a big, big mistake.

Usually, we ask people to click here to subscribe when they’re done reading our posts. This week, though, we encourage everyone to join our new church and send us alms and tithes and bearer bonds to show your faith is true. Amen.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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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Our 50th high school reunion finally arrived and I can’t tell you how relieved I am about the whole thing. Thinking back on my high-school years, I knew I would be ridiculed the instant I walked in, mocked for the failure I was then and the loser I’ve continued to be, while all the rest of my class flourished in universal adoration.

As it turns out, not so much.

Thankfully, nobody seemed to remember when one of the cool kids convinced David and me to go together to the homecoming dance because lots of girls went solo and we could find dates there. It goes without saying that we didn’t find any unattached females when we arrived, so we left very quickly for a hamburger with a side of regret. David didn’t show up at the reunion—clearly too embarrassed by our humiliation—but it turns out I was worried about nothing. No one mentioned it, so maybe it’s long forgotten and I can just keep this disaster a secret for another 50 years.

In fact, not many people seemed to remember me at all. A few recalled my name or where I lived and two people remembered something specific that we did during our high school years, but the rest mostly nodded as if we’d just boarded the same elevator. To be fair, I didn’t remember them either, or anything in particular that I did during those years. I know I had one math teacher who farted a lot during a tutoring session with me, we had to swim naked in gym class, and our  sports teams made us much more stoic about the setbacks in life…but that’s about it.

I don’t know what I was expecting after fifty years, but the whole thing felt like a retirement dinner where everyone was the guest of honor. Maybe they were whooping it up in other corners of the room,  but almost all I heard from people were stories about the career they left behind, the ailments they’d gained, the grandchildren they did—or didn’t—see regularly, and the fogginess of their memories about teachers, classes, and the four years we spent in a shared space.

And why not? We’re all a bunch of 70-somethings who moved on to have full lives between then and now, replacing teenage torment for the glories of adulthood.

On the upside, I met a few people I’d like to know better; not to rehash our distant pasts, but because they seem to be interesting people today. My life includes a constant search for enjoyable conversations, challenging ideas, and maybe a free lunch or two. Now that we’re all over this high school thing, maybe I should reach out to a few and make a connection.

Gee, I hope they like me. I hope they don’t think I’m weird or desperate or really, really needy. I hope they don’t reject me. What if they all just text each other with mean notes about what a loser I am? What if they’re still laughing at me when our 100-year reunion rolls around?

Ah, the joys of high-school. Like Hotel California, you can never leave.

Will I ever make friends with the cool kids? Will I be the laughingstock at my next reunion? Find out by clicking here to subscribe to our weekly lamentations.