My older sister, who lives in NW Indiana loves the Cubs largely because she says they’re the “cutest” team in baseball. She also loves politics; her husband and family; and if my brother-in-law is to be believed, most of all, buying new shoes. She’s the best, better than the rest.
So I texted her Tuesnight, “Team El-Sayed or Team Stevens?” Reply. “Stevens has better numbers now against the R.” Pause, bubbles, then, “Stevens is too pro-Israel for me.”
We know now Michigan voters agreed, but that’s not the real story. The real story is the continuing underrepresentation of redheads in Congress and a bubbling up of previous “Red Scare” rhetoric about communism which is obviously a cover for normalizing ginger-hate.
My reply to my sissy, “I never recovered from McMarrow’s exit. Redheads severely underrepresented in Congress.”
We cannot restore our democracy without having Congress grow a pair and we can’t expect that to happen without a Red Hair Wave in November. Bring the fire! Michigan swung and missed. Don’t let your state do the same.
My brothers, not as lovely as my sister. They taunted me throughout my childhood with, “I’d rather be dead than red on the head.” I think they speak for the vast majority of people with inferior colored hair, for example, blondes, brunettes, people with black hair.
To blunt the probable protests, “You don’t have any hair, how can you identify as a redhead?!” Put this picture in your pipe and smoke it.
Yes, you’re absolutely right, whoever gave me that haircut is a bigger threat to the common good than any nefarious political administration or movement. Can a lawyer please weigh in on whether there is a statue of limitations for suing for Intentional Infliction of Emotional Distress? DM your contact info if you’re willing to take my case.
Scott Galloway was two years behind me at UCLA. Never met him which is no surprise given the size of the student body and the fact that he was in a fraternity and I was in Powell Library.
I listen to most of his podcasts and would like to know him. He’s super funny, profane, whip smart, a dedicated father, and leans into his emotions in ways one rarely sees in the male species. Also, he describes his 18 year old self as “unremarkable” and still has tremendous gratitude for the Regents of the University of California taking a gamble on him. That sentiment always hits hard with your humble blogger. I see you and raise you SG. I was probably more “unremarkable” than you. I don’t know what prompted the Regents of the UC to gamble on me, but I too will be forever grateful. But unlike you, I doubt Gavin Newsom will ever appoint me to be a Regent.
Despite all the love I have for SG, he sporadically expresses some views, about gender especially, that make me shudder.
Double mic drops. To his credit, SG unplugs for August. Completely. When he resurfaces in September on his pods, I expect him to address these most thoughtful and recommended comments and others like them. Why? Because he’s a Bruin and that’s the way we roll.
Sam Miller, a comedian from my hometown, Olympia, WA, has lived a few lives. As a comic, he has a lot of momentum, performing before increasingly large crowds.
Speaking of momentum, no family ever sits still. Families are organic, every single one always with some degree of momentum, either positive or negative, based upon the adults’ collective decisions. Often, the momentum is barely perceptible. In Sam Miller’s family’s case, it’s plain as day.
Today, online, he wrote this. I’m guessing he pounded it out, not overthinking it. But lo’ and behold, it couldn’t be more profound.
“One time my dad picked me up and threw me off a dock into the cold waters of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. There was no warning. Before I realized what was happening, I was airborne. I hit that water, and even though I was a good swimmer, it was hard to peel my elbows from my side. I wanted to stay curled up in a ball but I also wanted to breathe and so I swam back to the dock. My dad’s hand came down and pulled me out. I don’t remember what time of year it was, but I just looked it up. Temperatures in the strait of Juan de Fuca hover between 41 and 54°.
He told me he did it because we spent a lot of time fishing the Straits. He wanted me to know what it would be like to fall off the boat or off the dock. That way I would know what that water felt like and I wouldn’t panic.
I thought I did something wrong. I thought he was angry. He told me he wasn’t. I believed him then. I don’t believe it now. I think he got angry and he lost control and he threw me off that dock because my dad was really bad at dealing with his emotions.
I bring this up because I just spent 8 days with my kids and my mom on a vacation/comedy tour. There were multiple moments where I became incredibly frustrated. There was a couple moments where I was just downright angry. I feel like I had really good reason to be angry a couple times.
I’m really proud to report that I did not yell or scream or pick anybody up and throw them.
I know it’s not true, but I used to think me and my family was cursed. My dad died when I was a kid. I don’t know too much about how he grew up because he didn’t talk about it that much but I know my grandma on my dad’s side had schizophrenia. When my dad and his brother were kids, she drove them to Long Beach, California from Salem, Oregon and just dropped them off in the middle of nowhere. My dad had to hitchhike back while taking care of his kid brother. Pretty sure my dad was 12 or 13 when that happened.
What I’m getting at is this…
I have such an opportunity today to do better and I’m so grateful that I have the tools to keep trying.
I’m a pretty good dad, I’m a pretty good husband, and I’m even a pretty good son now. It’s hard but it feels really good. There are times I wish I could throw people off docks.
but…
I don’t think I ever would. It’s not fair to them and it’s not fair to me. Whatever curse my family had, I’m going to try to keep doing the work to make it stop with me. I owe it to the people that I love and most of all I owe it to myself.”
“I’m going to try to keep doing the work to make it stop with me.” Amen, brother.
Slate notes that Erling Haaland, the Striking Viking, is having hella fun while on a Scandinavian run of a lifetime.
“The Norway national team striker scored two goals to send soccer royalty Brazil home. After the game, he’s chuckling to himself, telling reporters that even he’s surprised he won that game. Haaland has spent most of this World Cup looking like two completely different people. On the field, he is still the ‘Striking Viking,’ a terrifying 6-foot-4 goal machine who runs at defenders like a marauding berserker. Off the pitch, he’s posting selfies with Shrek, trying on a Southern accent, and generally behaving less like one of the most accomplished athletes on Earth than a very tall guy having the best summer of his life.”
And then this.
“There’s a clip of him in Dallas trying on a cowboy hat and cowboy boots, and then with Team Norway, doing the Viking Row after games with a huge smile on his face. It’s clear: The dude is having so much fun out there doing something that you’d think an 8- or 9-U soccer team would do.”
That Viking Row clip is so great. Everyone, unabashed joy.
Brad Stulberg with another paragraph to ponder:
“Imagine Michael Jordan and the Bulls in the middle of the NBA playoffs—not after winning it all, mind you, just after winning a playoff game—going to half-court and doing a celebration. They’re not doing that. They’re all business. They’re going back to the locker room. The Michael Jordan thing is: You’ve got to suffer for greatness, everything needs to be serious, you always need to be angry.”
Further into the piece, Stulberg shares how he approaches his teens’ athletic endeavors.
“I don’t pretend that winning doesn’t matter, because I think that’s dumb. Competitive kids are going to be like: ‘Dad, that’s dumb. Winning matters. Why else do we keep score?’ So I say: ‘Winning matters. Winning is part of the game. We’re trying to win. And you know how you’re going to have the best chance of winning? By having fun. If you’re not having fun, I can almost guarantee that you’re not going to win over the long haul.”
“Then I tell them that there are things we can’t control. We can’t control the points, because we don’t know how the other team is going to play. We don’t know what the weather is going to be like. All we can control are these two things: What’s our effort—are we trying hard? And are we appreciating the moment and having fun? If we do those things, then we’ve already kind of won the internal game. And if you play sports for long enough—which is the goal, because you’re having fun—you’re going to lose a lot and you’re going to win a lot.”
There’s a lot of ink being spilled about the exorbitant costs of US junior soccer travel teams. And how that is an impediment to the USMNT being among the best in world. This Slate conversation makes me think it’s probably the raised expectations that come with all the $. More specifically, having fun gets lost in parents’ emphasis on some sort of return for their investment. Like winning each match, increased social status, and college scholarships. Again, that combo drowning out Viking Striking-like fun.
Inertia is a bitch. After six months, I’ve finally started culling Lynn’s files. Yesterday, the first file I mindlessly grabbed was her “adoption” file. Which details her search for her birth mother, a couple of phone calls with her, and lots and lots of journaling about her feelings about her birth mom’s inability to embrace her. Most of the journaling was from Lynn’s 30s and 40s, her beautiful penmanship a reminder of her healthy pre-MSA self.
Despite the beautiful penmanship, the writing was sometimes blurry, since I was reading it through tears.
File two was a much needed relief. Labeled, “Swimming records”, I thought to myself, what the hell? I did not know my wife of 38 years kept a detailed list of all her personal records, some set alone “off the wall” while lap swimming at the Briggs Y and some in events Mel Smith organized at the Briggs Y, and some in a sprint triathlon or two she entered. She even had researched sprint tris in the area and notated them with things like “hilly run”. Mind blown.
My athletic experience with her was dusting her when we worked out together at the Y. Because, of course, I had to let her know who was the bossman. But in fairness, she did beat me in HORSE once and she routinely beat me when we wrestled. She’d brag about how strong her legs were and make such a serious funny face that I would laugh so hard that she would easily get me in a leg wrap and pin me.
Dig this artifact from the “Swimming records” archive. And remember what “they” say. No one remembers who came in second.
“Rates of ‘gray divorce’ — splits among those 50 and older — have risen sharply in the United States, doubling between 1990 and 2010. Though those rates have stabilized since the pandemic, nearly 40 percent of divorces today occur between people 50 and older.”
Key definition.
“‘Empty-shell marriages’ are ones in which there is no real connection or vitality, where one or both partners are not happy. . .”
The key reasons according to Justin Garcia, the executive director of the Kinsey Institute in Bloomington, Ind., and the author of The Intimate Animal: The Science of Sex, Fidelity, and Why We Live and Die for Love.
“’We as a species are in longer relationships than our ancestors ever were,’ he said. ‘Lifelong monogamy maybe meant a few decades.’ Now, though, there are couples who have been together for 50, 60 or even 70-plus years.
‘That is evolutionarily unprecedented for our species,’ Dr. Garcia said.
At the same time, societal expectations for what marriage can or should be have changed. Baby boomers who got married relatively young — in part because that was simply the norm — are now living through a time when marriage is seen as a vehicle for love and self-actualization, said Claire Kamp Dush, a professor of sociology at the University of Minnesota.
‘We’re not just partnering based on this idea that someone’s going to be the breadwinner and someone’s going to be the homemaker,’ she said. It is possible, she added, that our collective tolerance for staying in just a so-so relationship ‘is going down.'”
RX from the Bay Area, commented, “. . . it’s mostly because women are over it.”
Three other top commenters point to an uneven and unfair division of labor as a key catalyst for calling it quits after decades of being together.
Because the author of the piece only used heterosexual examples, and the author and top commenters focused almost exclusively on unfair workloads, we end up with what feels like a relatively simplistic understanding of “gray divorce”.
For example, the author of the piece references, and the top commenters repeatedly emphasize, that women want to finally be free of caring for their male partners while men who divorce tend to remarry, often quite quickly, because “men need to be taken care of”.
Classic painting with a broad brush. “Some” men, even “many men” would be a much better way to word that.
Let’s consider a counter example. Your fave blogger. At first glance, your fave blogger’s decision to begin dating someone three months after his beloved wife died, after 38 years together, might be further proof of men being woefully dependent upon someone to cook and clean for them. Because, as the female author and top commenters seem to think, men can’t cook and clean for themselves.
Sigh. I don’t know how much depth to go into here, with respect to sharing with you dear reader my rationale for deciding to date before learning it was way, way before my daughters were ready for it. But suffice to say, my rationale had nothing to do with being taken care of. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Not to brag, but I can hold my own in the kitchen and I will out clean you. Just sayin’.
How ’bout a four-word summary of what could be a four thousand word explanation. I began dating because I sought emotional connection. Which is one word more than it takes to say I was lonely. Weirdly, the concept of emotional intimacy is completely skirted around in the article and top comments.
A friend and I have been sparing a bit on the topic of the patriarchy. Often while hiking. This will surprise no one. I’m losing. She runs circles around me on the topic because she thoughtfully articulates the negative consequences of the patriarchy on men. A key point that too many feminists gloss over. In particular, she correctly points out that entrenched patriarchal norms make it very difficult for men to develop much, if any, emotional intelligence. Without which, emotional intimacy is a non-starter.
Despite some countervailing evidence, most men can learn to vacuum and load and unload dishwashers. And pick up their underwear. Much, much more easily than they can learn to communicate about their inner lives. And much, much more easily than they can learn to tap into their partner’s innermost thoughts and feelings.
I am not an expert and any reader of the female persuasion correct me if I’m wrong about what follows.
I have a strong hunch that many women would like to have their partners do a load or ten of laundry and make them dinner and clean up afterwards, but what every woman would love, especially in empty-shell marriages, is the opportunity to talk about each other’s inner lives in as vulnerable and patient and regulated a manner as possible. So as to feel safe, to feel seen, to feel loved unconditionally. And then to reciprocate. Over and over. For however many years are left.
If you are a parent in the (dis)United States, recent research suggests you are worrying more and more about your children’s futures.
These numbers blow my mind. Even the 2019 baseline represents a serious break with the post- World War II past when parents assumed their children’s lives would be better than their own. Now, that has completely flipped.
The most cited culprits include the rising cost of higher education, the utter lack of affordable housing, rising health care costs, a gerontocracy that continuously games political and economic systems in their favor, and a tax code that favors investors who tend to be older. It’s no wonder so many young people choose not to vote, thus creating another hurdle.
A picture I took this weekend of an old, solitary tree. I wonder if it worries about its seedling’s futures.
When it comes to Lynn’s estate details, we’re rounding third base and heading home. As the trustee of her estate, this sentence from an “outline of important details of the trust administration process” stopped me cold.
“You are under a duty to exercise the judgment and care that a person of prudence, discretion, and intelligence exercises in managing his or her own affairs.”
If my estate attorney knew me better, she’d lower that bar. Or Washington State more generally. :)
I’m off to Canada tomorrow. I know you will miss me. Gonna be rough, so many fond memories with Lynn. However, I am taking two friends. Seth Harp, in the form of his book, “The Fort Bragg Cartel: Drug Trafficking and Murder in the Special Forces”. And James Rebanks, in the form of his book, “The Place of Tides”.
Maybe I won’t run to Oak Bay. Maybe I won’t swim in the salt-based 25-meter pool underneath the hotel. Maybe I won’t sit in the steam room after not swimming in the pool. Maybe I won’t go to my fave restaurants or Victoria’s REI, MEC—Mountain Equipment Coop. Maybe I won’t go to “our” theatre. Maybe I’ll just cocoon with Harp and Rebanks. No outdoor equipment required for that. You know, just lean into the grief and Howard Hughes it.
If the Canadians look at my application for asylum, and conclude, “Oh, they don’t send their best.” I’ll be back midweek.
If I do have to return, I hope you will have used Monday to rethink your plan to completely disrupt the global world order and Tuesday to put it back together. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.
Pressing Pause 