Today is the first Tuesday in November. A voting day. I’ve voted since I was eighteen. I remember standing in the booth that first time thinking how much power I wielded as I randomly selected names from a list of people I didn’t know. I thought about voodoo dolls – and whether Bruce Some-last-name, competing for Clerk of Courts, got a little tingle when I chose him instead of the other guy. Then I thought about how stupid I was…
She took the bus home from school tonight. She said she didn’t mind. When I saw her depart, I knew why. He lives in our neighborhood, gets off at her stop, and walks home in the opposite direction. She didn’t see me standing at the end of our drive at the top of the hill. As the bus pulled away, she talked to him for a moment, turned, and skipped in my direction. When she spotted me, her skipping morphed into…
Make no mistake, I’m no fan of the Boston Red Sox. I used to like them back in the day when they had Jim Rice, Dewey Evans, and Fred Lynn. And sure, they were a great story in 2004. But there’s something about the air of entitlement Boston sports fans carry around that doesn’t agree with me. Celtics. Bruins. Pats. Sawks. It’s unnatural. But I digress, this post isn’t about the Red Sox. Or even Boston sports. It’s about heart…
I’m not a party guy. And by party I mean a gathering of revelers under the guise of a concept for justification to drink and publicly enjoy the side effects of alcohol. Namely, feeling different than we normally feel. Wilder. Crazier. Free from the shackles of real life. I used to drink. And was quite good at it. I would even sometimes go to parties where groups of people would grind against one another, sing silly songs, make fools of…
Earlier today I watched this video, and it made me sad. Then I read about how ISS astronauts are preparing to monitor a comet passing close to Mars later this year. And that made me sad. I became sad because it occurred to me how life is so big that we never get to experience everything we’d like. No one can do every cool thing there is to do, or have every cool job they’ve ever dreamed of working. Instead…
Between talking to kids about homework and doing other domestic chores, I managed to ask my wife about Syria tonight. She didn’t want to talk about it. I did. “I don’t want us to bomb them. That’s it. That’s final.” She was serious. She wanted to talk about our busy little life and how we were possibly going to manage taking the kids to commitments every night of the week.
