Take Me Out To The Ballgame

M's Uncle Don died this week.
He was a baseball player.
He pitched for the 69 Mets.
He pitched a NO HITTER in Wrigley Field for the Chicago Cubs.

This is the Holy Grail of American childhood dreams... He was an American mythological hero.

I wrote some more about it on a new blog I've begun with my production partner Zach because Zach is a major baseball fan and it seemed like the proper place to put it.

Go there... Read it... and Remember. If you can't remember... Imagine.

Buy me some peanuts and CrackerJack... I don't care if I EVER get back.

I'm Gonna Paint A Sign So You'll Always Know...

Yesterday was my daughter Jennifer's 26th birthday and when I came into my office yesterday morning I found the above image from StoryPeople.

It pretty much says all I have to say about what Jennifer means in and to my life; what she has ALWAYS meant in and to my life.

Back 26 years ago I was a pretty serious person - some folks would suggest that this is still the case, some would suggest I'm being delusional to even suggest it - and I really did not only WANT to "change the world as we know it," but I was pretty sure that I was, somehow, going to do so. I also figured that if I didn't pull it off I would at least (and probably) die trying. Those expectations (even desires) are not as intense as they once were and the realities of time, age, frustration and disappointment have shown me that anything that one is likely to accomplish along those lines will probably only come to fruition in ways that you can't really plan and certainly can't foresee.

Hence, the story of my daughter.

I know it's a cliche... and I'm sure that the several men I know who have recently seen the birth of their own daughters are feeling pretty much the same thing tonight... But it is really true that my life is divided easily and cleanly (well sometimes not so cleanly) along the meridian of January 14, 1982.

Jennifer really is my best thing, my greatest love and my true hope for good in the world. She carries, sometimes consciously and sometimes less so, the hopes and dreams I have for justice, truth and beauty, and along with that she's pretty good at moving around, making funny noises, and making me laugh my hardest and cry my deepest.

So yeah... It think that maybe I really did change the world after all.

And Jennifer... From butterfly kisses, to dancing on my toes and riding on the back of my motorcycle, from Great Books and choreographing to Janet Jackson, from Danger Mouse to Angry Angry Beavers, from Montessori to UCSC, from boogey boards at Ocean Beach to Triathlons at Lake Berryessa, from worrying about you walking to the corner to journeys to Ireland and England and beyond... It's really true that there could never be a father loved his daughter more than I love you.

Every Little Bit Helps

Last Thursday a little touch of New Orleans rolled into Petaluma's Mystic Theater. It was a rockin' night of blues when Henry Butler came to town and the show was another of those weird "Mystic Moments" when a person I've seen dozens of times in all kinds of environments pulled off the best show I've ever seen him perform.

There were two delights in this. The first was simply the chance to have that little touch of New Orleans all the way out here on the west coast (where I am significantly more comfortable than I've been in a long time, though I still feel somewhat in exile). The second was the show itself, witnessed by less than 100 people in a theater that - in it's intimacy and comfort - feels a lot like a club in The Crescent City. It was a good night, a good show, and I was in very very good company.

These really are the moments that matter, the ways in which I hold on to my sanity when all else seems to be disrupted and chaotic.