Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 66

How long is your commute?

Recent data indicated that from 2006 to 2019, the average one-way commute for an American worker rose from 25 minutes to 27.6 minutes.

The pandemic was a bit of a reprieve for many workers. The average commute time slipped back to 25.6 minutes, but as employees began returning to the office, the 2022 average commute was back up to 26.4 minutes

That’s 52.8 minutes round trip.

More than 13,200 minutes per year for anyone working five days per week, 50 weeks per year.

About 220 hours per year.

A little more than nine days per year spent commuting to work.

About 2.5 percent of an entire year.

Almost 4 percent of the average time spent awake in any given year.

That is an enormous amount of time moving back and forth between two places.

For many people, their commute is non-negotiable. Unless they want to live in the middle of the city where they work or start sleeping under the desk, they will need to commute to work, and that commute may be lengthy.

I get it.

But I am always quick to remind people that time is our most precious (and most wasted) resource, so when you are choosing where to live and your place of employment, carefully consider your commute time. Many factors should be considered when making these choices, of course, but the time it takes to get to and from work should be one of those factors given the amount of time you might be spending away from your friends, your family, and anything else you might want to be doing with that time.

An hour per day is an enormous amount of time. It’s about six percent of the average time spent awake every day.

That’s gigantic.

I live less than five minutes from the school where I work. My commute, roundtrip, is less than 10 minutes per day.

Even though I’ve lived in five different homes in the past 25 years (two houses and three apartments), my commute has always been about five minutes.

This was not by accident. Elysha and I chose a home near our places of employment, and before Elysha, I did the same for myself. We passed on certain wants and desires in favor of proximity to the school where we worked.

Time, we decided, was more important than central air or additional kitchen counter space.

In fact, for the past 30 years, I have lived less than ten minutes from my place of employment.

This was also not by accident. I chose my homes, and in some cases, my workplaces, to maximize my time and reduce my commute.

The average American has spent about 275 days commuting back and forth to work over the last 30 years.

I’ve spent less than 40. It’s still an enormous, horrendous number, but not even close to the commute time of the average American.

When people wonder how I seem to get so much accomplished in my life, there are many answers. I wrote a whole book, Someday Is Today: 22 Simple Actionable Steps to Propel Your Creative Life, just to answer that question.

It’s available online, by the way, or wherever you get books. It also makes a great holiday gift, and if you’d like a signed copy, simply sign my name and tell the recipient that I signed the book.

I’ll never tell.

But in addition to the many ideas in that book, this is part of that answer, and it’s a simple one:

I’ve had an extra 235 days to accomplish goals over the last three decades compared to the average American.

More than two extra months per decade.

For a long, long time – ever since a gun was pressed to my head and I thought my life was over – I have been exceedingly deliberate with my time. I have factored time into most of my decision-making. As a result, I often manage to squeeze more minutes from the day than most people, and that has made an enormous difference in my life.

For many, their commute is non-negotiable. I understand this. For many, nothing can be done to reduce their time spent in a car or on public transportation.

But some people like to tell me that they love their commute. It’s their alone time. A chance to listen to music or a book. Decompress. Get lost in thought. I understand this, and I, too, value this kind of time, but you need not be locked into a 50-minute roundtrip drive to and from work every day to accomplish these goals. The same thing could be done with a ten-minute commute and a 40-minute walk around the neighborhood with some earbuds, and you can get a little exercise in the process.

Or if it’s the driving and isolation of the car that you adore, how about a ten-minute commute home and a 40-minute drive wherever the hell you want to go, along with the optionality to toss aside that long drive on any day when a better option is available or you need to be home to meet the furnace technician?

My round-trip commute is less than ten minutes, but it wouldn’t take much effort to turn it into a 50-minute, traffic-free scenic drive if I needed some quiet time in the car.

Again, I know these options don’t exist for many people. The commute is simply non-negotiable given the nature of their work.

But for many others, decisions can be made to reduce your commute time. I’m not suggesting that it’s the most important factor is choosing your home or your place of employment, but it might be.

It should at least be a seriously considered part of the decision-making process.

Sadly, I have I’ve watched many people fail to account for the massive loss in time that a new job or a promotion will cause. Earning more money is a fantastic idea, and climbing that ladder to nowhere can be rewarding, but when it comes alongside an additional hour or two spent driving in the car, it’s oftentimes not worth it.

The average American spends more than 50 minutes per day shuffling back and forth to work. That number is staggering, tragic, and appalling to me.

Maybe, hopefully, for you, too.

No socks. Except one sock.

Before leaving for “Winter Wonderland” at Southwick Zoo in Mendon, Massachusetts, Elysha and I warned the kids that we could be outdoors for about two hours, so dress accordingly.

As expected, the children gathered winter coats, hats, and mittens.

Three hours later, we were wandering amongst the twinkling lights and holiday music when Charlie declared that his feet were cold.

I looked down. He was wearing Crocs and no socks.

In December.

Each of his feet was covered by a piece of rubberized Swiss cheese. It was about 38 degrees and getting colder.

Elysha and I empathized with him but also reminded him that our warnings about dressing appropriately were clear and specific. Then we made fun of him. Endlessly. Taunted him with every frigid step.

So he suffered a bit. His feet were cold. His toes were numb. His pride was wounded.

All natural consequences of not listening well.

A few minutes later, he said, “Wait! Look! I found socks in my pocket!”

It was true. Somehow, he was pulling a sock from his coat pocket. Not a clean sock, mind you, but still, a sock. I couldn’t believe it.

“How did socks get in your coat pocket?” I asked.

“I dunno,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Put them on!” I said.

Then he frowned. “I only have one.”

So my son went to an outdoor Winter Wonderland event in mid-December in Crocs and no socks, then halfway through the event, as his feet were freezing, he just happened to find a single, unplanned, mystery sock in his coat pocket.

Only my son.

As we made our way to the exit, we walked by some signs thanking sponsors of the event. One of them just happened to be Woo Sox, which Charlie assumed was a sock company placed there by the universe to further torment him. He shook his fist at the sign then looked to the sky and shouted, “Why?”

A snow machine was sending flakes into the air, making us think for a moment that it was actually snowing, which was a perfect addition to this moment.

I still haven’t told Charlie that the Woo Sox are the Worcester Red Sox, a minor league team of the Boston Red Sox.

I may never tell him.

The Worcester Red Sox happen to play baseball in Polar Park, which given the state of Charlie’s feet, at least seems fitting. But I prefer to let him think a sock company was somehow tormenting him for his terrible decision alongside his merciless family.

As I relentlessly tell my students, mistakes are valuable.

In this case, they can also be a little chilly.

Sir Snail makes me mad

I received a text message from Elysha that read:

“In other news, Sir Snail is rivaling you as the most industrious member of this household. I cannot believe how the tank looks after less than two weeks of his arrival.”

Sir Snail is the snail that Charlie recently added to his aquarium. In a matter of days, this tiny snail had eliminated most of the algae that had collected in the tank.

Good news, of course, unless you’re rivaling me as “the most industrious member” of my household, which makes me want to kill you.

Here’s the thing:

It makes no sense to be angry at a mindless little mollusk for efficiently cleaning my son’s aquarium, but if he’s going to rival me in any way regarding productivity, then yes, I will be a little angry.

No joke.

It’s not like I’m going to kill Sir Snail, and I won’t wish death upon him, but I’m certainly not a fan.

Also, I’d like to see him wash and fold two loads of laundry, empty the dishwasher, make breakfast for the kids, feed the cats, pack the lunches, do 50 pushups and 50 situps, and write the next chapter of a book all before 6:30 AM.

Sir Snail rivaling my productivity?

I don’t think so.

Old, simple, and falling apart, but it’s still a keeper

In the spring of 2002, I was living on my own for the first time in my life. I furnished my apartment with a few pieces of furniture, a rear projection television that would look like a dinosaur today, a small collection of pots and pans, two lamps, and eventually, a shower curtain.

Also, this paper towel dispenser.

As far as I can tell, it’s the last item I own from those two years living alone. The last item still standing from those two years spent at 353 Willard Avenue in Newington, CT before Elysha and I moved in together.

The screw holding it together is a little loose, and it wobbles a bit, but I love it. Every time I see it, it reminds me of those heady days when I first fell in love with Elysba.

It’s not a great paper towel holder, and it lives today in a cabinet under the sink, but we’ll be keeping it.

I’m a nostalgic guy, even if it’s just a paper towel holder.

Who Owns the Streets?

I have the honor of working with filmmakers from time to time, helping them find ways to tell their stories best.

I often consult with documentary filmmakers, but I’ve also worked with screenwriters for television and film and producers and directors.

It’s great fun. One of those “I can’t believe I told a story on a NYC stage back in 2011, and now I’m doing this for a living” moments.

They happen a lot.

The video below is a short documentary about how automobiles have come to define our shared spaces in American culture. It’s directed and produced by Justine Underhill, with whom I have had the pleasure of working many times.

I worked with Justine in this particular film to help structure and refine the story.

I even received a credit at the film’s end, which rarely happens. Thanks, Justine.

It’s an example of fascinating reporting and illustrative filmmaking that I highly recommend.

You won’t see the American landscape in the same way ever again.

I have no one to thank for this great fortune

I was speaking to a client last week – the vice president of a company that you likely interact with every day. She had recently decided to accept a position at a new company, and that change was working out brilliantly for her.

“I just thank God every day for my good fortune,” she said. “I know how lucky I’ve been all my life.”

I appreciated her willingness to acknowledge her privilege – something I don’t often see in this world – but her gratitude to God was interesting to me.

One of the problems with being a reluctant atheist – someone who would like to believe in a higher power but cannot – is that there is no one to thank for much of my good fortune.

When you don’t believe in God, your good fortune is just stupid luck.

I was born a white, straight male in the United States in the late twentieth century. That alone provides me with advantages that billions of people do not enjoy. In the grand scheme of things, these simple facts alone have made the greatest impact on my life.

Had I been born in many parts of the world, I would’ve likely faced considerable hardships:

Disease, hunger, an absence of fundamental human rights, economic limitations, political upheaval, lack of access to clean water and medical care, and millions of other factors would have hindered my success.

Had I been born a woman, I would’ve spent my life battling against sexism, wage discrimination, the constant threat of violence at the hands of men, and the lunacy of high heels.

Had I been born a minority, I would’ve undoubtedly faced prejudice, racism, and the threat of violence throughout much of my life.

Had I been a member of the LGBTQ community, I would’ve faced bigotry, the threat of violence, and a lack of fundamental freedoms throughout my life.

Had I been born before 1971, I might’ve faced combat in Vietnam, Korea, or the European or Pacific theaters during the World Wars, as my father, both grandfathers, and at least one great-grandfather did. I might’ve suffered through the Great Depression or the Civil War or been subjected to untold numbers of illnesses and diseases that have since been eradicated.

I was also born at the dawn of the internet and personal computing. I’m a member of the last generation of human beings who spent their entire childhoods without computers or the internet but entered adulthood during the emergence of both. As a result, I enjoyed an utterly offline childhood but an online adulthood.

Perfection, in my opinion.

I’m also healthy and intelligent. I don’t suffer from mental illness, physical disability, anxiety, or depression. I don’t require much sleep and have perfect blood pressure. Even my cholesterol is low.

I haven’t even mentioned my remarkable wife, my often perfect children, or my assortment of amazing friends. I’m already ahead of billions of people on this planet, and it was through no real effort of my own.

I certainly had my struggles in life. At various points, I was economically disadvantaged, hungry, and homeless. I was arrested, jailed, and tried for a crime I did not commit. I have been a victim of extreme violence.

It wasn’t always easy, but it would’ve been exponentially more difficult had I also been facing racism, sexism, or bigotry at the time. If I were also struggling with mental illness or a physical disability, my ability to survive and thrive would’ve been exceptionally more difficult. Had I lived in a country without the opportunities that America offers, I may never have recovered from my struggles.

I worked hard and remained relentlessly determined to succeed, but most was simply a geographic, genetic luck of the draw.

I feel incredibly fortunate, through no effort of my own, but unlike my client, I’m left with no one to thank for some of my greatest blessings.

Religion provides some people with the notion that God has placed them in this place, at this time, for a specific purpose. Fate and chance had nothing to do with their birthplace, their gender, their sexual orientation, the color of their skin, or the period in history in which they were born.

For the devout, God had a hand in all of these decisions.

They have someone to thank.

While I’m envious of the idea that life is not determined in significant part by stupid luck, I also find it inhumane and cruel to believe that an all-powerful deity has blessed one person with such great fortune ahead of billions of other human beings who are doomed to a life of poverty, subsistence living, and early death.

Why would a good and just God doom so many people to such hardship, pain, and suffering based solely on where they were born while blessing others with unfathomable good fortune?

“God works in mysterious ways” is often the explanation, but I find this to be a nonsense response, lacking logic or reason and dodging the essential question:

If God can prevent children from starving and suffering but chooses not to, what the hell is wrong with him?

If you are devout, I might also worry about what God would say if he were generous enough to place you in America during a time of relative peace and prosperity only to discover that you spend 28 hours a week watching television or scrolling TikTok.

If he’s the Old Testament version of God, watch out for the trapdoor you’re likely standing upon.

I would love to thank someone for being born where I was, when I was, and who I was, but in the end, I can only see it as dumb luck. I can only thank the roll of the dice for my good fortune, which doesn’t feel like thanks at all.

So, instead, I offer a sigh of relief that I was born so lucky, the daily acknowledgment of my unearned privilege, a relentless attempt to lift others less fortunate, and a constant effort to maintain humility in the face of my incredible good fortune.

The moment when all is lost

Pepsico, the maker of Doritos, estimates that 85% percent of U.S. gamers have consumed Doritos in the past three months.

But at the same time, nearly a third of gamers reported that other people’s crunching via microphone and headphones distracts them from playing well and impacts their performance.

To “help gamers keep the crunch to themselves,” Pepsico developed Doritos Crunch Cancellation software, which detects and silences the crunching sounds while keeping the gamer’s voice intact.

The software, which took six months to develop, used artificial intelligence and machine learning to analyze more than 5,000 different crunch sounds and systematically eliminate them as possible sounds that could be transmitted to another player’s headphones.

Hundreds of years from now, when historians are trying to determine the exact point at which human beings began the process of devolution, they may point to the development of this software:

In order to accommodate a human being’s need to remain isolated and sedentary in their home and play an ultimately meaningless game on a screen while eating flavored tortilla chips, software was designed to remove the transmission of crunching sounds that caused distraction.

The descent has truly begun.

A great story makes for brilliant advertising

Sometimes, the best advertisement doesn’t scream, “Buy my thing!” but instead offers a story that makes you cry like a baby at your desk, hoping no one walks in before you can pull yourself together.

I can’t say if my next car will be a Chevy, but I know that somewhere deep in my heart and soul, I feel differently about a company and its association with family, tradition, and my country.

Well played, Chevrolet.

If you plan on watching – and you should – grab some tissues first.

It’s my blogging anniversary!

It’s a big day.

Today is the eighteenth anniversary of my blog – Grin and Bare It – and its earlier permutations, Perpetual Perpetuity and Conform Me Not.

My blog is old enough to vote.

My blogging career began on December 10, 2005. In the fall of 2005, I took a class on blogging at Trinity College with Colin McEnroe. Part of that assignment was to create an actual blog of my own, which I did. That first blog only contained assignments for the class, but once I finished the course, I began blogging on my own, titling that first blog Perpetual Perpetuity.

That blog existed from December 10, 2005, through June 11, 2007, when I removed it from the internet after an anonymous group of cowards excerpted that blog in deliberately deceitful and misleading ways in order to compile a 46-page packet demanding that I be fired from my position as a teacher based upon the things I wrote.

They sent that packet to the Superintendent of Schools, the Board of Education, the Town Council, and ultimately about 300 families in my school district. They compared me to the Virginia Tech killer, complained that I was benefiting from favoritism in our school, and implied that I was a sexual deviant.

They signed their work “The Concerned Parrent Body of West Hartford,” though it was quickly determined that they were not who they claimed to be.

Here are just a couple of examples of their deceit:

On the day that my mother died, I wrote that my principal told me that I could take as much time as I needed to deal with my loss. “Do whatever you want to do,” he said. “No worries.”

Under the heading “Favoritism” in the packet, these cretins wrote that my principal told me I could “Do whatever you want to do,” failing to mention that it was about the death of my mother and implying it was a permanent policy.

In another post, I questioned the decision of parents who sent their children into the world wearing sweatpants with the word “Juicy” on the butt. I wrote, “The eye is automatically drawn to text, so I find myself inadvertently staring at girl’s butts, which is stupid and terrible.”

In the packet, the cretins only quoted, “I find myself staring at girl’s butts.”

Example after example of this kind of deception. Also some terrible formatting, a whole bunch of poorly written sentences, and some nonsensical content. Also, content they did not like but in no way indicated that I was violent or dangerous as they claimed.

The authors of the packet also called for the firing of Elysha and my principal. They also threatened to take their concerns to the press and take “legal action” if their demands were unmet.

Can you imagine?

A few specific things motivated the actions of these monsters, including my winning West Haertford’s Teacher of the Year in 2006 and becoming one of three finalists for Connecticut Teacher of the Year.

Other things, too, which I will save for another day.

It was quite an adventure. Ultimately, the ordeal involved a team of attorneys, a police investigation to determine the authors of the packet, a fair and admirable Human Resources department, a relentlessly supportive group of colleagues, and an actual concerned parent body of West Hartford rising up in a spectacular, almost cinematic way, demanding that I continue to teach their children.

It’s quite a story.

More than 17 years after that act of cowardice and deceit, I’m still standing, doing my job, loving my career, and still writing this blog, and those unnamed scumbags (whose identities I have since determined) remain hidden under some rock where they belong.

Happily, I still have the content from that first blog—every single post. I’ve re-posted some of the more relevant and evergreen content over the years on subsequent blogs, but most remains on my hard drive. Maybe someday I’ll return the blog to the internet just for spite.

The last post on the day I took that blog off the internet was this:
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I see Elysha half-naked every day! All the way naked, too!

The photographer at Saturday’s wedding informed me that lingerie photos are the latest wedding craze. Brides are giving their future husbands photo albums of themselves wearing lingerie as a wedding gift.

I don’t get it.

Can’t the average husband expect to see his wife in lingerie from time to time, and if so, why the need for a photo album? If a bride is so willing to pose in lingerie for a stranger with a camera, isn’t it reasonable to expect that she will occasionally don a negligee or teddy in the presence of the love of her life?

Elysha gave me a new golf bag and a sand wedge on our wedding day, and this was better than a slew of half-naked photos.

I can see Elysha half-naked every day. Fully naked, too! I don’t need a photo album to remind me how good she looks.
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As you can see, not much has changed since 2007.

After removing that first blog from the internet at the request of my school district, I stopped blogging for precisely zero days before launching a new blog entitled Conform Me Not. Amid a public firestorm over my first blog and fighting for my job and future, I refused to be deterred. Conform Me Not was initially launched quietly, without any attempt at publicity, but as I began winning battles that summer and ensuring that my teaching position was secure, I started letting people know that I was writing again.

That blog still exists online at conformmenot.com.

Elysha used to design the mastheads of my blog. This is the masthead for conformmenot.com.

Conform Me Not ran from June 25, 2007, through November 1, 2008, when I switched from a purely blogging platform to a website that supported blogging. By then, I had published my first novel and realized I needed a place for readers to land that included more than just a blog. I needed links to my books, a schedule of my author talks, and more.

So began Grin and Bare It, which I am still writing today.

That’s 18 years of writing a post without missing a day.

Not always a good post, mind you. Looking back, some are ridiculous, purposeless, and moronic. Some of my opinions, in retrospect, are ill-informed and stupid. Not surprisingly, I have changed over time, and my blog represents that in all its ugliness and glory.

But quite a few posts are pretty great, too. Things I’m proud to have written.

If you do the math, that’s 6,574 consecutive days of blogging.

More than 6,574 actual posts, though, since there were many days, especially in the past, when I would post more than once on a single day.

7,486 posts in total, counting this one.

A diary of sorts, except instead of cataloging just the events of the day (which I sometimes do), my posts often reflect my thoughts of the day. Opinions, feelings, arguments, beliefs, questions, and rants.

Occasionally, something sweet.

I’m so grateful for the last 18 years of blog posts. Not only have I created a written record of my life, but blogging has proven to be an excellent training ground for my storytelling, comedy, public speaking, and the magazine columns and newspaper pieces I write today.

When you’re required to say something every day, you get really good at generating new ideas.

I’ve also met an enormous number of people through blogging. Some have gotten to know me online, and others have become friends in real life. My life is filled with acquaintances and friends who I would’ve never met had I not been writing every day.

My blog is also an excellent way to stay connected to friends, especially those who have moved away. Though we can’t talk daily, many read every day and send me emails or messages through social media that keep us connected.

Yes, it also created an enormous problem for me in 2007, but even that will likely work out well. It will probably become the subject of a memoir, including previously undisclosed information on the horrible people responsible for the attack on me, Elysha, and my principal, including many things that I have never spoken about before.

It’s quite the story.

Also, I didn’t do anything wrong. It took purposeful deceit to make me look terrible, so although 2007 was challenging for Elysha and me, it was not my doing. I was not at fault. Tiny, infantile monsters were entirely to blame, either through their direct action or their awareness of the packet prior to its dissemination and their failure to stop it from happening or warn me when the opportunity presented itself.

In addition to all of that, some amazing things have happened as a result of putting so much of my life into writing for anyone to read.

Here are just a few:
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In the fall of 2016, I wrote a post advising Hillary Clinton to take specific strategic steps in her subsequent two debates with Donald Trump. That post made it into the hands of a senior staffer on the Clinton campaign and was passed amongst campaign staffers. I don’t know if Clinton herself read it, but I like to pretend that she did.

Though based upon her performances in the debates, she did not.
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In June of 2010, I wrote a post about the Blackstone Valley sniper. When I was a child, a pair of men spent almost two years firing bullets into windows in my hometown of Blackstone, MA, and the adjacent towns, forcing us to turn out our lights at night and crawl under the picture window as we passed through the living room. We lived in fear for a long time. There was a total of eleven shootings from 1986-1987 (in addition to acts of arson and burglaries), and though no one was killed, four people were wounded in the attacks.

The two men guilty of the shootings were sentenced to prison in 1989 and were released on probation in 2008.

Five years after writing that post, the girlfriend of one of the shooters saw the post and wrote to me, complaining about my disparaging remarks about her boyfriend, who was going to be paroled and was turning his life around.

It was an interesting exchange of ideas.
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In April 2011, I wrote about my desire to become a professional best man. I declared myself ready and able if anyone needed my services.

Since I wrote that post, four grooms and one bride have attempted to hire me (scheduling prevented those bookings from happening), and a fifth groom actually hired me for his wedding but canceled later on after paying me a nonrefundable deposit.

I’ve also been contacted by three different reality television producers about the possibility of doing a show in which I would be a professional best man at a series of weddings. None of these shows came to fruition.

In 2015, comedian Kevin Hart wrote to me upon releasing his film The Wedding Ringer, in which he plays a professional best man. He acknowledged that it was my idea first.
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In 2012, I wrote about my desire to find my first library book. I recalled a few details about the book – the color of the cover and a few details about the plot – but nothing terribly specific.

Two years later, a reader correctly identified the book. A couple of months later, another reader sent it to me. It now sits on my bookshelf.
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In 2016, I wrote about Mrs. Carroll, who taught me how to tie my shoes in kindergarten.

One day later, I was informed by a reader that she was 94 years old and still going strong.

By the end of that day, I had been given her home address by yet another reader. I sent her a letter telling her how much she meant to me and how I think about her every time I tie my shoes, and on the last day of my school year, I received a letter detailing specific memories about me from my year in kindergarten.
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In June of 2017, I wrote about the death of a classmate, Joey Makar, and how he saved me with a simple act of kindness when I was feeling small, sad, and vulnerable.

A few days later, his widow sent me a message, telling me how much my words had meant to her in this difficult time.
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In March of 2016, I wrote about telling a story at The Moth about my former elementary school principal, Fred Hartnett, for whom a new middle school in my hometown is now named. A few days after writing about the story, Mr. Hartnett, who retired after more than 20 years, contacted me after being directed to my post, and we’ve since exchanged several emails.
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In February of 2o22, I wrote about my former McDonald’s manager, Jalloul Montacer, and the important lessons he taught me while working together. After posting, several readers managed to locate Jalloul, now in Texas, and I’ve since reconnected with him.
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In October of this year, I wrote about how much Mrs. Schultz, my sixth-grade homeroom and math teacher, meant to me and how I had been unable to find her to express my gratitude.

A week later, her contact information arrived in my inbox, and we have since exchanged emails. I hope to connect in person when I am back in Massachusetts.
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Over the past 18 years, I have written about my father, whom I don’t know very well. On more than one occasion, people who knew my father when he was younger have written to me, filling in a few of the many enormous gaps I have in his life story.

Those messages have meant the world to me.
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I’ve officiated the weddings of at least three people who I met via my blog.

One of the people who I married had previously gone on a date and discovered that she and her date both knew me. She lived in Wisconsin, and he lived in Connecticut. They met online and eventually agreed to meet in person for the weekend.

She was a reader of my books and blog, and he followed me and read my blog on social media. I had met him two years before in the green room of a local TV studio, where we exchanged contact information.

She (and her mother) loved my work. He saw my novels in her apartment and declared his hatred for me. Their date went nowhere. I like to think it was because of me.

My blog saved her from a potentially disastrous second date.
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Clara has started reading my blog every day. It has resulted in some fantastic conversations and some eye-opening revelations for her about her father.

She is currently my favorite reader.
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These are just a few of the many remarkable things that have happened because I write and publish every single day.

I guess it makes sense. When thousands of people read your work each day, connections will be made. You’re going to occasionally touch hearts and minds.

Sometimes annoy people, too.

But even that can be fun.

Thanks so much for reading every day. I’m honored and humbled by the thousands of people who read my posts here and on the social media outlets where my blog posts go every day.

But even if I had just ten readers, I’d still write every day. The rewards, audience or no audience, have made it more than worth my time.

“Major Tom” is a hit

The kids and I are driving to a restaurant for dinner. I’m playing “The 100 Best One-Hit Wonder Songs” playlist on Spotify.

It’s a favorite amongst the family, at least until we get to the end of the playlist.

My kids may only eat about three foods, pile books everywhere, and leave their damn shoes all over the house, but when it comes to music, they are fantastic:

Open-minded music lovers who love a variety of genres and do not insist upon listening only to new music.

Some of their favorite songs are decades old.

We’re pulling into the restaurant’s parking lot when “Major Tom,” a Peter Shilling one-hit-wonder from 1983 that references David Bowie’s character Major Tom from his 1969 song “Space Oddity” begins playing.

Bowie’s “Space Oddity” was originally considered a novelty song when first released and never charted well in the United States, but today it’s considered one of Bowie’s finest recordings and is one of his most popular songs.

Shilling’s “Major Tom” actually did much better when it was released, reaching #14 on the Billboard Hot 100 and topping the charts in several Europe countries and Canada.

Unlike Bowie, it’s Peter Shilling’s only hit. It’s also a song most people probably don’t remember, but Clara and Charlie immediately and simultaneously loved the song.

“What’s this?” Charlie asked.

“Yeah,” Clara said. “Who sings this?”

Their excitement was palpable.

Mine, too. Few things in this world bring me more joy than watching my children fall in love with something because of their open-minded willingness to try new things, regardless of their age, origin, or genre.

The depth and breadth of their cultural knowledge and appreciation is something I didn’t have a chance to enjoy as a child.

Lucky them. And lucky me for being able to help make it happen and watch it blossom.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wO0A0...