Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 251

HBO had some interesting offerings on Christmas Eve

As I started to wrap gifts on Christmas Eve, I switched on HBO, thinking, "Maybe I'll watch that Elf movie for the first time. Or A Christmas Story. National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. Love Actually. Hey. Maybe Die Hard will be on."

You know. One of those classic Christmas staples. 

HBO had apparently failed to notice that it was Christmas Eve. When I flipped through the HBO channels, the offerings included: 

The Terminator: A seemingly indestructible humanoid cyborg is sent from 2029 to 1984 to assassinate a waitress, whose unborn son will lead humanity in a war against the machines, while a soldier from that war is sent to protect her at all costs.

Fifty Shades Darker: Erotic romantic sequel to Fifty Shades of Gray. While Christian wrestles with his inner demons, Anastasia must confront the anger and envy of the women who came before her.

A United Kingdom: The story of King Seretse Khama of Botswana and how his loving but controversial marriage to a British white woman, Ruth Williams, put his kingdom into political and diplomatic turmoil.

Assassins Creed: Callum Lynch explores the memories of his ancestor Aguilar de Nerha and gains the skills of a Master Assassin, before taking on the secret Templar society.

Rock Dog: When a radio falls from the sky into the hands of a wide-eyed Tibetan Mastiff, he leaves home to fulfill his dream of becoming a musician, setting into motion a series of completely unexpected events. 

Going in Style: Desperate to pay the bills and come through for their loved ones, three lifelong pals risk it all by embarking on a daring bid to knock off the very bank that absconded with their money.

What the hell was HBO thinking? Not one Christmas movie on Christmas Eve? If I was fringe lunatic Republican, I might accuse HBO of engaging in a war on Christmas. 

No bother. I had plenty of movies recorded on my DVR and on demand programming

I watched The Bourne Ultimatum instead. 

My 2017 Christmas haul

Every Christmas, I take inventory of the holiday gifts that my wife gives me.

Some people wish for cashmere sweaters, the latest gadget, stylish watches, and jewelry. My hope is often for the least pretentious, most unexpected, quirkiest little gift possible, and she never fails to deliver. 

For the past nine years, I’ve been documenting the gifts that Elysha gives me on Christmas because they are so damn good. Every year has been just as good as the last, if not better.

The 2009 Christmas haul featured a signed edition of a Kurt Vonnegut novel.
The 2010 Christmas haul featured a key that I still use today.
The 2011 Christmas haul featured my often-used Mr. T in a Pocket.
The 2012 Christmas haul featured my fabulous No button.
The 2013 Christmas haul featured my remote controlled helicopter.
The 2014 Christmas haul featured my "I Told You So" pad.
The 2015 Christmas haul featured schadenfreude mints: "As delicious as other people's misery." 
The 2016 haul featured a commissioned painting of the map of my childhood Boy Scout camp.   

I wept when I opened that painting last year. A high bar. 

Once again, my wife did not disappoint.

It's an incredible collection of gifts. It feature a specially designed set of playing cards for poker, a Tom Brady Lego set, a device that replaces the cumbersome cords that connect my phone to my laptop, and that fabulous blue ribbon that reads, "I survived another meeting that should have been an email."

Best of all is the Atari 2600 simulator, which will allow me to play some of my favorite games of my youth. When I opened that gift, I told Elysha that it was hands-down the best gift of the year. It is my vehicle into boyhood. A chance to dive back into one of my favorite things from childhood.

Unbeatable.

Then I opened this: 

A commissioned painting of my grandparent's farmhouse. 

I grew up next door to my grandparents, and in many ways, their land was my own. It was truly my adventure land. A place where I ran in the sun and sledded down hills. Forests to explore and mysteries to uncover.

Hulks of ancient cars that my father and his brothers raced in the backfields.
The foundations of burned out farmhouses from decades ago. 
Apples and peaches and pears and chestnuts for the taking. 
Streams and ponds and fields that I would spend hours hiking. 

With the passing of my great uncle this year, it looks like the farm will be broken into pieces and sold off as housing lots.

It breaks my heart. 

Unbeknownst to me, Elysha took photos of the land and the house this summer and commissioned a painter in the Ukraine to produce this work of beauty. 

I wept when I opened it. For the second year in a row, my wife caused me to cry on Christmas morning. 

There's no better gift giver in the world, people. Every year, Elysha looks into my heart, finds a hole in need of filling, and fills it with thoughtfulness, generosity, creativity, and love.

So much love.  

Any gift that includes murder, blood, and betrayal is perfect in my book

I never expect a holiday gift from my students, and when asked what I want, my reply is always the same:

"Word hard. Be kind. That would be more than enough for me."

Despite these protestations, I often receive gifts. 

This year the class was kind enough to give me my very first pair of footie pajamas (New England Patriots themed) and the opportunity to take my kids to dinner and a movie over vacation. It was a thoughtful and generous gesture. 

I also received gifts from individual students, including notes and cards with words that I will save forever. It's the words that students write to me that mean the most.   

But this year also included one of those unforgettable gifts, created by a boy named Henry. Built from his own imagination, Henry recreated a moment from Macbeth, a play that we studied earlier this year, in Legos, with eerie precision.

He didn't purchase a kit. He didn't download directions. He made this with the Legos that he already owned. He demonstrated knowledge and understanding of the play and his own incredible creativity.  

Honestly, just the idea alone is genius. 

It will sit in a place of prominence in my classroom for years to come.

Lest us not forget the real story of Christmas

It's a damn shame how racism, homophobia, xenophobia, and disregard for human life outside our borders keep getting in the way of the those God loving conservatives like Mike Pence and Jeff Sessions and what should be their desire to help those less fortunate. 

If only they knew the true meaning (and origins) of Christmas. 

I was a coward. I'm filled with regret.

Standing in line at a Moth StorySLAM in New York earlier this week, I found myself sandwiched between two young couples. 

The woman in front of me was listening to headphones when her male companion arrived. After a bit of chit chat, she said, "I found this new band that I totally love. I think you'll love them, too." 

She removed her headphones, and as she passed them over, she quickly added, "But you might hate them, too, which is fine. I just started listening to them." 

My thought: C'mon, woman! Own your passion! Confidence is attractive! Confidence is sexy! Waffling sucks! 

I said nothing, of course. But had she been my friend, I would've called her later that night to offer her some advice, but this was a stranger, living her life.

Who was I to interject?

As this musical transfer began, I heard the young woman behind me say, "It's a little weird, but he's a lot older than me, so I think it's fine. I think of him like a father figure instead of a boss."

"What does he do?" her male companion asked, sounding confused. 

"Rubs my shoulders," she said. "You know. Like a massage. That's fine. Right?"

My thought: Tell her it's bad! Tell her it's wrong! Tell her to make it stop!

The man said, "I don't know. I guess it's okay, if you're okay with it."

No!

I wanted to interject so badly. I wanted to say something. I wanted to fix this.

But I didn't. Again, these were strangers. It would've been odd for me to intrude on them. Contradict this man's opinion. Insert myself into a private conversation. Tell an adult how to live her life. 

Except this time was different. The stakes were higher. If her male companion was unwilling to speak the truth (or was too stupid to know the truth), I should've spoken up. I should've said something. 

What was the risk?

An angry retort? A few minutes of social awkwardness? An embarrassing encounter?

It would've been a small price to pay to tell a young woman who is clearly being sexually harassed by her older, male boss that she has a right not to be touched in the workplace and offer my support.

Especially now. In today's world. With all that we have recently learned. 

I've been regretting my silence ever since. I suspect that I will always regret it. 

I hope she finds someone with more courage than me who can help her.     

Penguins were mating at a little girl's birthday party

My daughter Clara, age 8, was sitting at the neighbor's dining room table with about half a dozen other kids, eating a birthday cake that was originally shaped and frosted to look like a penguin. 

Between bites, she turned to the little girl beside her and asked, "Do you want to know how penguins mate?"

My eyes widened. I looked across the table at the other adult at the table. Her eyes were wide, too.

Clara said, "The male penguin goes out, and if the female penguin takes it, it's kind of like they're married."

If the male penguin goes out? If the female penguin takes it?

I didn't ask. I don't want to know.

Trump isn't fit to clean toilets

In response to Trump's tweet earlier this week about Senator Gillibrand:

USA Today's Editorial Board wrote:

“With his latest tweet, clearly implying that a United States senator would trade sexual favors for campaign cash, President Trump has shown he is not fit for office. Rock bottom is no impediment for a president who can always find room for a new low.

A president who would all but call Sen. Kirsten Gillibrand a whore is not fit to clean the toilets in the Barack Obama Presidential Library or to shine the shoes of George W. Bush. ”

USA Today is generally considered to occupy the center in terms of its political leanings, and it does not formally endorse political candidates. 

But these are not normal times, and the editors of USA Today recognize this. 

I thank them for breaking from tradition, responding to this truth, and taking a stand. While I would not characterize my blog as political, I am writing more about politics now than ever before, simply because these are not normal times in America. 

This is not a normal President.

And yes, I would agree. Donald Trump is not fit to clean the toilets in the Barack Obama Presidential Library or to shine the shoes of George W. Bush.

Awful human being alert

It's hard to believe that someone could be as lacking in self awareness as the woman who wrote this letter to advice columnist Dear Prudence. 

How could anyone read this letter and not think they are coming across as an classist, elitist, repulsive snob?

Dear Prudence,

Recently my friend Amy made a new friend, Mary. I’ve met her a few times, and while we were polite to each other, she isn’t someone I’d care to interact with more than necessary. I don’t seek her out, nor do I invite her to social events. Mary has slowly become part of my circle of friends. She has made a few comments intimating she’s upset that she hasn’t been invited to some of our get-togethers, but she is in a very different financial bracket than the rest of us. The restaurants and events we choose to go to are pricey. I recently hosted a dinner party for my friends and their plus ones, and Amy brought Mary. I didn’t want her at my house. We’re not friends, and I don’t enjoy her presence. I’m hosting another dinner party for the holidays, and I know Amy will bring Mary. I do not invite people I don’t want to be around to my parties. How do I politely tell Amy to stop bringing Mary?

—She’s Not Invited; She Comes Anyway

You can read Prudence's response to the letter here.

All I want for Christmas is a machine gun

Not really, of course, but damn do I love this sweater.

For those of you who can't quite pick up on the reference, it's Die Hard, the greatest Christmas film of all time.

In the movie, our hero, John McClane, has just managed to kill his first terrorist and acquired a machine gun. He sends the lifeless corpse down to Hans Gruber, the terrorist boss man, in an elevator with this note written in red Sharpie on his sweatshirt.

There's nothing better than a barefoot underdog taunting his well armed enemy.

For the record, while I'm not interested in owning a machine gun, I'm not at all opposed to the second Amendment. I believe in the right of Americans to own firearms. I simply want every gun owner to undergo a thorough background check, restrictions placed on criminals, perpetrators of domestic abuse, individuals on the no-fly list, and the like, and a complete ban on assault weapons. 

You know... reasonable, rationale gun ownership. The kind of gun ownership our founding fathers envisioned with they wrote the Constitution. 

Except for John McClane, of course. He can have as many machine guns as he wants. 

When cowards hide behind digital walls and hurl grenades...

Someone did something rotten to me a few weeks ago.

A person who I have never met but who performs in the same New York storytelling community as me, who knows many of the same storytellers that I do, and who was connected to me via Facebook, decided to block me.

I didn’t notice. Though I post to Facebook regularly, I don’t routinely scroll my feed. Even if I did, I have more than 1,300 Facebook friends and 1.400 fans. It’s unlikely I would’ve noticed the departure of someone who I had never actually met.

Once I was blocked and unable to see any of her content, she wrote a scathing post about me. 

Already disenchanted with me (thus the block), this person had seen my post on an NYC storytelling group promoting my monthly author newsletter (which includes storytelling tips), and this had apparently sent her over the edge. She took to Facebook, calling me, among other things, obnoxious, egotistical, self-important, average, and “Mr. Full of Himself.”

She didn’t name me directly but included enough biographical info to make it perfectly clear it was me. “Produces his own show.” “Published author.” Multiple Moth StorySLAM winner. Other details very specific to me.  

There was no doubt over who she was writing about.

It was a cruel and scathing post that painted me as a self-absorbed, opportunistic narcissist who treats the storytellers in my shows with contempt. She called for someone in the community to “sit me down” and inform me that I’m “not all that.”

“He needs to STOP,” she wrote.   

There were also factual inaccuracies in the post. Some of her accusations were simply untrue. She was criticizing circumstances that she did not fully understand.

All of this was upsetting, but I’m a grown man. I can accept criticism, as unfounded and unhinged as it may be. After a decade of publishing novels, magazine columns, podcasts, and a blog, in addition to performing on stage hundreds of times around the world and writing and producing my own musicals, I’ve received my share of criticism. I can accept that. I’ve grown a very thick skin.

But there’s one important difference here.

Because this person blocked me on Facebook before posting her diatribe, I could not see (and would never see) this otherwise public post that was fully visible to my colleagues, friends, competitors, and business partners in the storytelling community. Rather than addressing me directly or posting something on the public network that I could also see, she attacked me behind my back. 

It was an act of cowardice. She called for someone in the community to "sit me down" and make me stop while conveniently and cowardly hiding behind her Facebook wall. 

Had multiple friends in the community not sent me screenshots of her post and cut-and-pasted the text of the post into emails to me, and had she not mistakenly remained Facebook friends with Elysha (whoopsie!), I would have never seen this scathing, libelous attack.

This is one of the insidious parts of social media that doesn’t receive enough attention. As an elementary school teacher for 20 years, I have witnessed firsthand the rise of cyber bullying and know all too well how terrible it can be. It’s devastating to see ugliness, hate, and lies published on a network for the world to see.

But this is different. It hurts to hear that someone despises you and is publicly critical of your craft, but to know that everyone who is important to you professionally can read and respond to the accusations but you cannot is downright insidious and terrifying. To think that this person could continue to attack me again and again, behind my back, in such a cowardly, despicable manner, without me knowing or having any recourse, is scary as hell. To know that your community is reading such hateful comments while you are unable to respond is both enraging and unsettling.  

Elysha didn’t sleep well for days after seeing this post. She couldn’t understand how someone who I have never met could be so angry to attack me online in such a nefarious way.

I can’t either. I can’t begin to imagine her motives or what she hoped to gain from this bit of nastiness.

In response, I wrote to the woman, asking to speak on the phone. I promised to be open-minded and polite. I offered to let bygones by bygones in hopes of finding a middle ground of understanding. And I meant it. I'm nothing if not forgiving. 

Not surprising, she refused. Instead, she sent another screed, calling me among other things a liar. She also widening her target package to include Elysha, who she referred to as a “ditz and a flake.”

It’s an email filled with anger and cruelty and stupidity, and I am so pleased to be in possession of it if I decide to take action someday or (even better) simply post our exchange of emails online for entertainment purposes.

It makes for a fun read. Perhaps a holiday gift to my readers. 

But at least the attack was directed at me this time instead of behind my back. At least I knew what was being said about me. At least I had an opportunity to respond. Defend myself. Challenge her blatant inaccuracies with stubborn little facts.     

Human beings have undoubtedly been speaking behind the back of other human beings since the beginning of time. This is nothing new. It’s awful but unavoidable. But with the ability to block people on platforms like Facebook, we can now speak poorly, cruelly, damagingly, and libelously about another person without their knowledge and reach an audience of thousands with a single click. We can malign a person within their own online community without them ever seeing the insult. We can besmirch their reputation. Levy false allegations. Damage their means of making a living.

All without the victim ever knowing.   

This level of behind the back cowardice is new, and it is terrifying.

The good news about my situation is that the community came to my defense. They did the right thing. They alerted me to the post and offered to respond on my behalf. Elysha was then able to find the post and take screenshots as well. 

It’s important that we all do this.

Public criticism, as harsh and even unfair as it may be, is something that I’m willing to accept. As an author, storyteller, podcaster, playwright, and blogger, I accept my position as a public figure. Criticism is part of the deal. Those who create understand this reality. 

But insidious, behind-the-back criticism that allows critics to block their victims while taking advantage of a network effect that allows them reach large online communities must be rejected and repulsed every time. You have a right to know if someone is criticizing you, fairly or unfairly, on a platform like Facebook. You have a right to know if someone is writing scathing, libelous content about you that can be read and shared by the masses.

When we see these things happen, we must stand up and say no. We can’t accept this level of cowardice and cruelty.

I’m grateful that my community rose to my defense, but then again, I wasn’t surprised. Storytellers are good people.

Most of them, at least.