Since the advent of MAGA, I have heard many terms and phrases thrown around. Most are completely nonsensical, devoid of all logic, but there is one phrase that I keep coming back to: "I don't believe in science." Da fuq?! After thinking on this for an exorbitant amount of time, I found myself trying to find an answer for this mode of thinking and asking myself, "Self, do you believe in science?"

If I didn't believe in science, what would I believe in? The best answer I could come to was magic. I would believe in magic if I thought science was a joke. Let's explore the major differences between science and magic and maybe come to a definitive conclusion once and for all. Who knows, I might even find some common ground with MAGA folks.

A Case for Science

You can't talk about science without first discussing the scientific method: you know, that archaic piece of logic that dictates how to find the answers to the universe. If you don't know what the scientific method is, go back to middle school... or just Google it. It's science!

The first order of the scientific method is to make an observation and ask a question about it. "Huh, the sky is blue. I wonder why?" Boom. An observation was made and a question asked. Now we can move on to the next piece and do some damned research.

What does this mean? It means that you Google the answer to your question, and if there's an answer, case closed. If you aren't satisfied with the answer, you can move on to finding out for yourself. Let me see what actually makes the sky blue.

After reading a plethora of nerd words, this is what the consensus is: Rayleigh scattering. Ray-who whatering? According to some dorks in lab coats somewhere, it's where the sun's light hits molecules in our atmosphere, and because blue has the shortest wavelength, it gets reflected. Boring words! Sounds like elitist propaganda to me! That can't be right! What nonsense! Or, at least, that's what I imagine most members of MAGA would say.

This is the point where you can form a hypothesis, which is your own stupid idea. For this experiment, I tried to put myself in the same type of headspace as someone in MAGA.

I think the sky is blue because it was painted by a giant (and not the New York kind, because they can't execute anything successfully right now). Now that we have a BETTER hypothesis than Riley Scootering, we can conduct experiments to test my much superior theory. In this case, I'm going to take a paintbrush, load it with a different hue of blue, attach it to my drone, and fly it up into the sky to see if I can paint a different color. This is definitely going to work.

It didn't work... This "experiment" just ended in my drone flying up to about 400 feet and subsequently dropping a loaded paintbrush into an unsuspecting squirrel's nest like a tiny B-2 bomber. It didn't paint the air, and now we have squirrels running around the neighborhood in a freakish shade of blue.

Now what? According to the scientific method, we can either revise our hypothesis and continue experimenting, or we can draw a conclusion. In this case, I'm just going to take the nerds' word for it and accept that it's Bailey Smootering.

I would say that this entire idea of using the scientific method is shaky at best. My experiment definitely didn't prove my hypothesis, so my NEW hypothesis is that science is bullshit. I wonder if I can learn anything from MAGA's complete denial of reality and science. But since science didn't prove the best hypothesis ever (Sky Giant Paint), maybe I should explore what MAGA actually believes. It almost seems like they believe in... magic? Hmm.

Abra Ca MAGA!

Detractors of the MAGA movement often criticize this group for participating in what academics call "Magical Thinking." This term can be loosely defined as believing unrealistic things involving all aspects of life, most notably insane ideas about the economy, politics, and Democrats stealing children in the night (probably true).

Tariffs are a perfect example of magical thinking. According to MAGA die-hards, tariffs will generate unseen amounts of money for our country because other countries pay the tariffs! You don't need "science" or "basic economics" to prove this stuff; you just have to believe it and it will happen. Magic.

This mode of thinking permeates the ideology... but it's not a cult. I think we need to change MAGA's very egregious "cult" moniker to an "illusion"—as in an illusion of magicians. That's right, I think MAGA illusion members are actual apprentice wizards, as they've been able to establish policy and persuade others to their cause solely because it feels right. It's a vibe. It's, dare I say, magic?

Let's use the scientific method to prove that MAGA can actually weave magic spells that affect the whole U.S. population or, at the very least, Republicans.

I have a theory! My theory is that MAGA is actually an illusion of magicians, warping the world to their own weird, horrible reality. I meant to say "awesome reality," sorry. Anywho, I'm going to use observable evidence to prove this claim.

Point 1: Renaming Reality

Trump renaming the Gulf of Mexico to the Gulf of America.

Trump reshaped reality just by signing a piece of paper. Sure, Canada, Mexico, and the Associated Press threw a fit, but guess what? If you open up Google Maps, it now reads the Gulf of America! Magic! If you just start renaming shit whatever you want, the magical information machine that is Google will make it a reality. Let's be real, how else could you make everyone (or at least all the members of your illusion) believe that 500 years of historical reference are done and we can just start naming shit whatever we want? Hell, that Grand Wizard in the Oval Office just renamed Lake Ontario (such a weak name) to Lake America (strong name)! It's magic!

Point 2: Foreign Policy Presto-Chango

The Iran War: a masterclass in misdirection. These magical geniuses actually started a war on the basis that Iran was weeks away from gaining a nuclear weapon... a spell Iran has been casting on Israeli intelligence for 20 to 30 years now. But this time, our Grand Wizard used his crystal ball to discern the truth!

Never mind that we are now engaged in a protracted war to seize their oil and indiscriminately murder schoolgirls; short-term pain equals long-term gain, baby! The stock market is the best it's ever been! Also, never mind that this soaring stock market doesn't do anything for everyday expenses or the "wealth" of the average American. Oil is also insanely expensive, and you know what big numbers mean, right? Prosperity.

Do you think that muggle Biden could have achieved such heights? His stock market may have been up but his oil was down. Nay! Only our Grand Wizard, Trump, could drive up gas prices to the highest they've been in living memory. Not only that, but these masters of magic are trying to use spells to align our next military budget with Israel's. Magic! What could possibly go wrong with aligning our defense strategy with another country that has recently proven to be bereft of all moral decency?

Point 3: Blame Biden

My last magical truth is that this illusion of wizards is exceptionally adept at creating illusions. For years, they have been able to successfully hoodwink an unsuspecting (stupid) public that all of their woes are because of that fool, Biden.

It's true, anytime something appears unpopular or amiss, they cast a spell of misdirection and... blame Biden! Oh yeah, what better way to defeat your opponents than to fabricate totally true stories about them and then do the exact thing that you're shitting all over your rivals for? MAGA put this man through the wringer for things like Ukraine, taxes, immigration, and trying to stimulate infrastructure development. They even wove a spell implying that Biden and his ilk LOVED children. It's in caps to give obvious emphasis in case anyone from MAGA is reading this.

This entire process has really showcased their ability to vilify anyone and everyone, then fail miserably without taking any credit. Think about it, our Grand Wizard-in-chief is one of the most named individuals in the Epstein files but has successfully magicked most of his base into believing that he's not a pedophile... which, I mean, of course he's not. He also made everyone think that Hunter Biden's laptop was the Necronomicon, the digital book of the dead. I call it this because MAGA used this very inane object to raise their dead political standing. I'm still waiting to see all the very damning evidence on that laptop that I'm sure exists.

Conclusion

Three points were listed, but I have many more if anyone is interested. This illusion of magicians has effectively taken a country that was actually moving in the right direction before their coup and made it even better... by destroying it. And then all they have to do is use magic to make people believe it. It's absolutely incredible.

Forget science; I've been convinced magic is real because how could that many people be that stupid... it has to be magic!

Dad out. I'm going to go join the illusion.

School is back in session, and with it, a recurring phenomenon. My oldest child turns into a pterodactyl when she gets home. She is typically a big sweetheart. She’s kind, listens well (usually), and even still enjoys our company. For some reason when she gets home from school, she regresses into a screeching monster, demanding food and terrorizing everyone around her. This regression is temporary but always present at the end of the school day, so it got me wondering, what’s going on at school to cause such a transformation?

Nothing, nothing happens at school.

Or at least this is what I’m often told. Currently her favorite things to update me on are how lunch tasted or “Look at what I made!” Her art is always beautiful, but it is also abundant. That got me thinking that maybe...just maybe, they’re running a children’s art sweat shop at her school.

It makes so much sense now! The massive amount of art that those kids generate isn’t just for the fridge. They run a closed-loop cartel: they use free child labor to manufacture the product, and then guilt-trip the parents into buying it back on overpriced mugs and tea towels. My kid is being exploited for her creative talent to rake in money for the PTA fund. That’s how they can afford all the nice events throughout the year: because of our kid’s hard labor, working in an art manufactory for 7 hours a day. “You want that waterslide at field day, kid? Get to painting!” And I thought there were child labor laws preventing this. Schools have found a way around such nonsense. But maybe it’s not just art that these kids are churning out; perhaps they’re having these kids do horticulture as well. Hmm.

Paging Dr. Green Thumb

I don’t know about anyone else, but we get hit hard every year, multiple times, to buy plants. Yes, plants. I think this is a pretty popular tactic across all schools to raise money for teachers so they may continue living their lavish lifestyles. The only problem I see here is that I’ve never seen, nor could I find, a physical location for where these plants are grown. Weird.

I’ve looked these places up, and they are miles away! Which makes me think that these “businesses” are just a digital front. There’s no possible way that they’re transporting that many plants to the school from such a great distance. Those kids are clandestinely growing those plants in an underground lair beneath the school.

Think about it; this makes the most sense. The school can use free child labor to grow plants throughout the year in their underground factory of verdant doom and pass it off as “fundraising”. I would even guess that there are more insidious things grown in that dank terrarium of child exploitation. She hasn’t been learning state capitals; she’s been working a 7-hour shift in an underground sweatshop, hoeing out mumkins and drying magic mushrooms under UV lamps. No wonder she’s dysregulated. Her lower back is probably killing her.

“Green” Energy

Another one of my working theories is that the school is stealing our life essence via our children. I’ve stated before that children are tiny vampires because all they do is steal your energy, time, and money. Where do you think they learned how to do this? Not from us, that’s for sure! It’s school; that’s where. Picture this. Your sweet, darling children are sent home from school as empty vessels. While at home, they begin the process of sapping all of your strength and energy, recharging like a battery. That’s how we can visibly see them improve when they’re home; they’re stealing all your metaphorical shit (lives)! That’s where this inverse relationship comes from; you pick them up after a day’s separation, and suddenly you feel that scale tipping back to your kid in terms of energy and happiness.

Your children are being drained of all of this stored energy at school. When fully extracted by the end of the day, they come home hungry, ready to feed again. This seesaw of disaster continues back and forth through the entire school year until you have full control again in the summer and can slowly recover some of your lost vigor. My real curiosity is finding out what they’re doing with all of that stolen vitality. Are they storing it in vats in the teacher’s lounge for a midday bump? Or maybe they’re selling it directly back to AEP to fuel all these new data centers popping up. What better, infinitely renewable energy source to power the AI revolution than the stolen life force of a second grader?

I’ve discovered the only known antidote to a case of the dinoroars: carbs and toons. You would think, after being locked in a classroom all day, she’d want to run free in the yard. No. She wants to sit motionless on the couch, staring blankly at a screen while systematically dismantling a bag of Goldfish. It’s like watching a smartphone recharge, just with way more crumbs.

Reality sets in

It could just be that making children concentrate and interact with each other is just that taxing. It takes a lot of energy to physically grow, let alone mentally grow, but doing both at the same time is exhausting. These poor kids are probably also holding in all of those weird urges that we often tell them to repress while in the presence of others. Adults still do this, and it’s tiring for us, so I can’t imagine the load that this puts on a child. This perfectly explains when your kids just start yelling at you without cause or start speaking in gibberish. They just have to get all of that repressed weirdness out. I often find myself doing the same thing after a long day but at least have the wherewithal to do it in private. As my father once famously told me in my youth, “We know you’re alright, but other people may wonder.”

Regardless of the reason, I’ve found that taking their grievance with as much understanding as I can muster will usually start to resolve the situation. I know, I’m making my kids out to be terrors, but in reality they’re great kids with sometimes big emotions. Maybe we should be taking a page out of their book, instead of steering them towards a calmer path. All of these feelings have to go somewhere, and bottling them up just worsens it. People have to get that crud out, and if we can’t teach them to fully recognize those emotions and move on, they’ll be just like us. Internalizing everything and being none the better for it. So, maybe let your kids fly those flags of unrepressed emotions and weirdness, and perhaps the world will eventually become a better place.

Dad out.

Sitting in a quiet theater, the lights dim, the trailers begin, and the crowd starts to quiet down. Eventually, the movie starts, but only after getting you thoroughly excited for what’s to come. Finally, the film rolls, and the sound makes its transition from loud and in-your-face noise to measured, nuanced movie magic. This effect of audio mastery fully accentuates the intended emotion that the director envisioned.

But then you hear it: people whispering LOUDLY.

Oh, how you wish they would just shut up. Don’t they know they’re in a theater with other people? Then the popcorn munchers begin their descent into a never-ending bucket of despair. They crunch and munch loudly and slurp their overly large sodas intermittently, laughing or gasping at all the right parts that I, in turn, am missing because all I can focus on is this symphony of phonal distractions.

I hate this. I hate it so much that I will often perseverate on it for a prolonged period of time after the whole ordeal has ended. I don’t go to movie theaters anymore.

I have misophonia. When appropriately translated, it means a hatred of sound, and it is one of the most aptly named maladies to plague mankind. I would guess that many folks have never heard of this scourge. It’s a recently recognized disorder, but I would wager that many people are afflicted with this disease of hypersensitivity without even knowing it.

For those of you wondering what exactly this affliction is, the PubMed article “Beyond the Sound: The Role of the Source of Human-Made Trigger Sounds in Misophonia” describes it accurately:

“Misophonia is a neuropsychiatric disorder characterised by abnormally extreme reactions to certain sensory stimuli. The term ‘misophonia’ was coined in the early 2000s, combining the Greek words miso, meaning hatred, and phonia, meaning sound... Triggers in misophonia can be human, such as throat clearing, chewing, slurping, smacking, breathing and gasping... The intensity of the emotional response to the trigger is expressed through emotional reactions (anger, anxiety, disgust) and physiological activation (muscle tension, increased heart rate, skin reactions)... Common behavioural responses include staring at or imitating the person making the sound, verbal agitation or aggression, and rarely physical aggression.”

I have experienced almost all of the aforementioned reactions—except for physical aggression. It’s bad. This plague upon my auditory system waxes and wanes in intensity, but it is ever-present. Just ask my family. They’ve all become accustomed to my customarily contained rage around the dinner table.

My absolute worst trigger is the sound of eating. That includes all variations of consumption: slurping, munching, crunching (especially crunching), sipping, lip-smacking, loud breathing, swallowing, silverware clanking, and many more I’m unable to recall until they happen and my rage-o-meter explodes.

You may be reading this and wondering if I’m a complete psychopath. No, not according to my therapist. She assured me that I’m not a psychopath, but maybe a little OCD and probably autistic. In this specific scenario, that’s entirely relevant because misophonia typically afflicts a very narrow group of individuals, with autism frequently being a comorbidity.

The Thirst for Quiet

Another one of my major triggers is loud music. Not loud music that I’m playing, mind you. It’s the type of loud music that radiates through the walls of your home and is predominantly muted except for a repetitive bass track that permeates my peace and quickens my pulse. I can’t tell you how enraging it is just hearing a hint of someone else’s music invading my home.

I have several stories about how I’ve reacted to these triggers over time. I like to think I’m handling these episodes much better than when I was in the Army, but I can still recall many different confrontations I’ve had throughout the years simply because people were doing things that triggered my misophonia. Granted, in most of these cases, the destructors of my inner zen were most assuredly being inconsiderate to those around them. BUT, most people in these situations would probably just shrug it off and move on with their day.

Not me. I have to address these grievances. If I don’t, I suffer physical repercussions. I would liken it to being thirsty. Have you ever been so parched that you were forced to forgo all else in the moment just to get a drink? It’s that type of compulsion, and it all stems from the overwhelming desire to eradicate the source of my sensorial assault.

Over time, I’ve mostly been able to cope, resisting the urge to flip tables and throw chairs when I hear and see someone chewing with their mouth open. Most of the time, I’m even able to stop myself from saying anything because snapping usually results in unintended hurt feelings that I always feel guilty about after the fact. When I do find myself vomiting out a verbal assault on someone’s inability to consume food like a civilized human being, I usually have to immediately apologize and explain, “It’s not you, it’s me.” And that’s the truth! The problem is that most people still become deeply embarrassed and, typically, offended.

Exposure Therapy at the Dinner Table

Do I wish I didn’t have this affliction? Yes. It’s awful and makes me feel like an asshole all the time. It makes benign things, like family meals, a daily test of willpower and a grueling exercise in enduring constant discomfort. “Discomfort” seems like too light of a description, but I don’t know of any other way to describe it without sounding like I need to be in a padded cell.

There is no cure for misophonia; there are just strategies to mitigate the effects. And ironically, one of the best strategies I’ve found for combatting this is having kids.

My kids have broadened my ability to contain myself, bigly. I think most parents can easily see how. Have you ever been around a child eating? It’s horrendous. Those tiny, uncouth monsters have absolutely no ability to contain the myriad of sounds coming out of their rat-holes when consuming sustenance. They can’t help it... until they can.

Maybe that’s the underlying point of all this. Having misophonia forces me to crave control and quiet, but being a father forces me to let go of that control and build patience instead. I give myself a little grace for the way my brain is wired, and I give them grace as they figure out how to be humans in the world. It’s my job to raise ‘em right and teach them how not to be savages. It’s too late for adults, so hopefully the exposure therapy that my kids are giving me pays dividends. If I raise them well enough, maybe I’ll save some other poor, misophonic soul in a movie theater twenty years from now.

Dad out. To get some earplugs.

As we begin a new school year, I want to offer a friendly reminder that I am not a woman.

Huh? What does that even mean? You are obviously not a woman.

You’re right, I’m not; I just live in their world.

I’ve been a stay-at-home dad for about seven years now, and one thing I’ve come to accept is that my day-to-day environment is entirely dominated by humanity’s better half. This is fine, but it makes relating to people with similar daily experiences incredibly difficult. Let’s face it: platonic friendships between men and women rarely exist, and being a "good friend" is often a one-sided endeavor where someone is secretly hoping to kindle a romance. Don’t get this confused with friendly acquaintances. I would say it’s perfectly normal to be friendly towards others of the opposite sex, just not friends. Most of the other moms I interact with are all considerably friendly, but I don’t think we’d ever hang out with each other outside social events or school functions.

Early on in our dating, I offered this exact theory to my wife. Her response was less than validating, claiming she had male friends and those relationships were absolutely platonic. I conceded that you can, indeed, have friends of the opposite sex, but that comes with very heavy caveats.

So, for all the other dads navigating a feminine world where your glorious beards make women (and sometimes men) swoon, I’ve broken down this complicated dance between men and women into a simple, easy-to-reference guide so you may actually have girls who are friends… just not girlfriends. This guide applies specifically to heteronormative individuals. If y'all want something outside of that, make it yourself.

The Degrees of Friendship

The 0th Degree: The first obvious caveat to my sage advice above is that you don’t have to worry about unwarranted feelings between opposite sexes if your “friend” is gay. Yes, I said it: male-female platonic relationships actually work when there's zero biological opportunity for attraction. If both parties find the idea of sleeping with the other repulsive, congratulations, you can be friends!

I know this one’s a little on the nose, as “the gay friend” is often portrayed in pop culture by a flamboyantly gay man who loves going shopping with his “gal pals” and engaging in traditionally female tasks. You know the exact stereotype I’m referring to. But it checks out: men and women can be friends if one party is gay. (Although I often wonder why the gay party in this cinematic trope is rarely a woman... weird.)

The 1st Degree: The One-Sided Tryst This is where things get appropriately convoluted. On the surface, this looks like a platonic relationship, but it is secretly a one-sided friendship with one party wanting something more. The individuals in this dynamic live in a constant state of ignorance and desire, diametrically opposed but still existing together in a delicate balancing act. One side thinks they have a great buddy, and the other wants to get in that buddy's pants: literally, figuratively, or both.

Eventually, these friendships detonate when the romantic offender inevitably professes their love to their unsuspecting “friend.” At this point, one of two things happens. Scenario 1 is the complete dissolution of the friendship because, let’s face it, it was never real. Scenario 2 is that these feelings of unrequited love are, incredibly, returned. I would wager Scenario 2 rarely ever happens, because if the feelings were mutual, they would already be in a romantic relationship. Scenario 2 is further evidenced from reality by often being a featured plot twist in rom-coms. Which automatically means that scenario 2 is more of a dream than reality.

Some might argue there is a scenario where the friendship just continues, but feelings don't go away after a confession. They don't evaporate; they are just shut down. What's left is awkwardness and a clear understanding of intent. Continuing a friendship past that point would take work that both parties probably don't have the capacity for after the fact. This degree of friendship is more commonly known as the Friend Zone.

The 2nd Degree: The Committed Friend This one is easy but dangerous. This degree focuses on pre-existing relationships—marriages, traditional dating, etc. The 2nd Degree relies on the belief that if two people are in a committed relationship, then it is perfectly appropriate for both parties to engage in “friendships” outside their own sex.

Extreme caution is advised here. Both parties must be in absolutely committed relationships, lest they fall prey to the 1st Degree. Yes, this is technically possible when only one party is spoken for, but it only works under certain specific conditions. Namely, the 3rd Degree.

The 3rd Degree: Mutually Assured Revulsions (MARs) In this degree, both parties are physically or intellectually repulsed by each other, and they frequently voice that revulsion within the safe confines of their friendship. Usually, this is delivered via innocuous, playful banter: “Eww gross, that would be like kissing my brother,” or “Absolutely not, I could never be with a [insert opposing political party here].”

MARs relationships absolutely exist in the real world. They aren't limited to physical revulsion; they also thrive on character revulsion, where one or both parties hate specific aspects of the other person’s personality that make them a terrible choice for copulation.

Now, when I say "revulsion," I don't necessarily mean you think the other person is a bridge troll. Often, this revulsion is just a subconscious "nope." It's a small, microscopic incompatibility, something you just can't put a finger on, that neutralizes any romantic spark. It's the mechanism that creates true indifference.

If there is no attraction, it is inherently because of this conscious or subconscious revulsion. This applies to general dating anyway and the typical laws of attraction. You are attracted to someone because something about them, albeit physical, emotional, or intellectual, drives you toward that person. Without that pull, you have that baseline indifference and revulsion. I would argue that the 3rd Degree is often the most likely avenue of friendship between the sexes. You aren’t going to want to be with someone you revile on some level. This can also neutralize the One-Sided Tryst: if one party is blatantly informed of how unattractive they are to the instigating party, those feelings of attraction will either fade or be redirected.

This is proof that revulsion and hate can be highly effective tools in life! Thanks, Emperor Palpatine.

The Wrap-Up

So, now that we know the basic tenets of friendship, why does it matter to me?

It matters because, in my current environment, I am almost always surrounded by women, and these tenets directly bottleneck my potential friendships. Because I have a Y chromosome, the old saying rings true: birds of a feather flock away from dudes because they aren’t women. Most people, men or women (I’m guilty of this), just don’t have the capacity to deal with these types of friendships, so why bother pursuing them?

There is zero animosity on my part. I completely understand that most moms in this same season of life keep a safe distance from cultivating friendships with me so as not to fall prey to one of the degrees listed above. I get it; I’m terribly attractive, with a heavy emphasis on terrible.

So, until I can effectively become friends with other school moms by either becoming gay or wearing a sandwich board proclaiming I’m happily married and completely uninterested, I’ll have to keep hanging out with the guys and standing on the periphery of social events with the ladies. Guys who can’t relate to my lived, day-to-day experience whatsoever.

Oh well. Beggars can’t be choosers when it comes to friendship.

Dad out. 

In case there was any question. This image was generated by AI. I can’t afford an artist.

Beam me down, Scotty.

If you were to ask me what I feared most, I would usually answer with, “I fear no man alive, but aliens? They’re terrifying.” Aliens inspire great fear in me, but most people laugh at this because I usually get the, “Hahaha, idiot! Aliens aren’t real!” Well, the joke’s on you; I know for a fact that they’re real because I’ve seen their chariots of fire!

When I was a young man, I had an encounter of the first kind. For everyone who isn’t a huge nerd, that means I saw a UFO. I was probably somewhere in the realm of 16-17 years old. I was over at my girlfriend’s house at the time when we experienced a rather sizable electrical storm. No big deal, a little storm is nothing to be scared of, right?

She lived pretty far out in the country, so it was a decent drive to get home, probably about 10 minutes, which is a pretty good distance in a small community. Anyway, the storm had ended, and so had my date, so it was time to head home. When we went outside to say goodbye, we noticed a heavy fog had rolled in. Now if you can remember back to all of those early experiences in dating, you may also recall that goodbyes can be drawn-out smooch fests with lots of sweet talk, bodies close to each other, not wanting to let go because God forbid you leave each other’s presence. So, needless to say, we were saying “good-bye” for a few minutes.

While going through the ritual teenage dance of saying farewell, my girlfriend noticed an odd light coming over the road. I said it was probably a car, because you know, teenage boys confidently know everything. Lo and behold, a car came over the slight hill in the road right before her house, and all was well again. Shortly after, the same lights appeared in the sky, and this time there was no car.

It was at this point that things didn’t feel right, and we mutually agreed that it was finally time for me to go, as we were both a little nervous about this new phenomenon. Now, I never would have admitted that when I was young because… I was a man! Right? Right. So being the big, strong man that I was, I got in my car and headed home.

It was a warm night, so I had the windows down, and all I had in my 1985 Mercury Topaz was a traditional AM/FM radio, so I flicked it off. I pulled out of her driveway and started making my way down a short stretch of road that ended in a T, where I would turn and take that way in an almost straight shot to my house. As soon as I made my turn onto that long stretch, my car was instantly bathed in full illumination, and that’s when I knew I wasn’t alone.

I heard no sound except for the pulling of wind through my open windows, and as I accelerated, so did this strange, overwhelming light that was above my vehicle. I looked up to see if I could find its source, but everything past that light was obscured by dark sky and fog. Uneasy and rapidly proceeding to the feeling of terror, I started to accelerate to outrun my unwanted shadow of brilliant light. I made it all the way back to a state highway that was well lit with the amber glow of streetlights and closed businesses. It was on this road that I made another right turn that would soon lead me to the driveway of our family home. As I made it to the intersection, that ominous glow above me disappeared. Whoa, that was crazy, but at least it’s gone now. Probably just the reflection of my headlights or something. You can imagine all the things running through my head at this point.

When I made the turn into my drive, I was relieved. There’s no better feeling than making it home after an arduous journey, albeit a short one. I figured it was some silly trick of my imagination or some other phenomenon involving light bouncing off low-hanging clouds. All very logical and reasoned and running through my brain in a matter of seconds. We had a relatively long driveway, and when I came to the end and parked my car, I was once again fully bathed by a light of unknown origin. This is where I skipped right from unease to terror, as my lights were off at this point, and all logical reasons for this encounter had completely dissolved, leaving me with one final conclusion: it’s a freakin’ UFO!

I did the manliest thing possible at this point. I ran inside and woke up my mom, of course! I told her about the whole experience and was sure at this point we were about to be abducted by aliens. I don’t remember the full context of the conversation, just the feeling of it. My mom recognized that I was terrified and essentially gave me the ultimatum of calling the police to see if I was indeed serious about the threat of alien invasion. I was serious, and I did call the police. Talk about awkward phone calls.

The call went exactly as you can imagine. I regaled them with my entire experience in full dramatic detail, expecting them to instantly send out a cruiser or the entire department, the FBI or the Army, to combat this new menace to humanity! Instead, they asked if I had been drinking. No. Taking drugs? NO! My God, you have to believe me! We are about to be abducted and probed and cut apart and put back together with no recollection of this ever happening. Send help! But that’s not what they did. Their final question was, “So what do you want us to do?”

Do? I want you to come save us! But that’s not what I said. It was something akin to, “I just wanted to let you know and find out if anyone else has seen it… I guess.” The police assured me they would record the encounter and let me know if there was anything else.

I can imagine that they didn’t even take a report, and I’m not surprised. I probably wouldn’t have taken me seriously either in their position. But since that day I’ve always wondered what that voluminous light in the sky was.

The few people I’ve told said it was probably a helicopter or lights from a car. All of the reasonable explanations, of course. But since my time in the Army, I know it wasn’t a helicopter because those things are loud, and I know it wasn’t a car as I’ve repeatedly witnessed the event of car lights on low-hanging clouds. I know that what I saw wasn’t natural and there was a high likelihood that it wasn’t man-made.

So what does this story have to do with the random bruises that have been appearing all over my body for the past few years? I’ll tell you. Alien abduction, that’s what! Considering the aforementioned encounter, it only makes sense that I’ve been repeatedly abducted because, after all, I’m special. They’ve been following me and studying me throughout my entire life to see what makes me so special, and their latest experiments are a little more rough, hence the bruises. Makes perfect sense.

This is probably the most likely scenario, but there is one more plausible explanation.

The first rule is you don’t talk about it.

The only other possible explanation for my ever-bluing body is that I’m unknowingly participating in a fight club. It’s the only other thing that makes sense. Just like the movie, I have no recollection of it because I have multiple personalities to pair with my multiple sclerosis, and as previously stated, I’m special. Only special people participate in fight clubs.

This would also explain why I’m so tired all the time and why my body hurts every day. It couldn’t be the MS, arthritis, or degenerative disk disease… Nah, that couldn’t be it.

I’m leaving my family in the middle of the night while they’re sleeping so I can go to an underground club where we work out our problems by beating the shit out of each other. And, unbeknownst to my other self, we’re planning the absolute downfall of a capitalist system run rampant. I just don’t remember any of this happening because, like I said, it must be my other personality.

I also constantly ask my kids to fight me. I don’t know why, but it just feels right. Sometimes they take me up on it, much to their eventual regret and much to my own glee. Don’t worry, I don’t actually “fight” my girls; I just throw them around a bit, and they love it. This desire to fight my kids is probably just another lingering side effect of my alternate personality. It couldn’t possibly be the subconscious insanity that they are slowly causing me, right?

This completely normal theory would perfectly explain the bruising on my ankles and abdomen. It’s all the kicks and body blows I’ve been taking. Yeah, that’s it.

Or could it be from all the meds I’m taking or the several vitamin deficiencies I have? Nah, that can’t be it. It’s definitely aliens or multiple personalities… It has to be.

Dad out.

I may have mentioned this before, but I’m a cyclist. Specifically, an endurance cyclist. You can probably guess what that entails by the title alone, but in its simplest essence, it's riding a bike for a really long time over really long distances.

Over the past few years, I had gotten away from this passion project and fell entirely out of riding shape. But this is my year, and I am once again entering the arena of endurance sports. And the number one thing I’ve learned by coming back to this kind of punishment?

The body remembers.

In the Army, we called this phenomenon muscle memory. In basic training, drill sergeants threw the term around constantly. I used to think the concept was a giant crock of shit, just an excuse to give leadership a blank check to legally torture you. I can't even begin to calculate the number of push-ups, sit-ups, Iron Mikes, burpees, roll-lefts, roll-rights, up-downs, cherry pickers, overhead arm claps, and front-leaning rests I've done in my life, but I know it's a lot.

But here is the one thing I discovered in their absence, and my subsequent return to them: I can still do it.

It's not a matter of cranking out hundreds of these things like I used to. The average untrained adult male can do approximately 5 to 15 consecutive push-ups with proper form before reaching muscle failure. Well, just for kicks the other day, I felt the sudden urge to do some push-ups. I haven't done an actual push-up in years. I've been out of the Army for seven years this month, and frankly, it shows.

You know what? I knocked out twenty of those puppies and stopped simply because I didn't want to do any more. I'm a big boy now and I can make my own decisions. Could I have eked out a few more? Probably, but that's beside the point. I haven't trained on that specific exercise in seven years, but the body remembers.

I've found this principle applies to all kinds of things in life, increasingly so the older I get. As I mentioned, I haven't done any distance cycling in a few years, but it didn't take long to get back into form. My first ride of the season, after having not ridden a single mile for months, was challenging but respectable. Not because I'm some kind of stud, my wife and oldest daughter would gladly assure you that I am most definitely not, but because I put in the work earlier in life. Now, the body remembers.

That is the crux of it all. You can do hard things, and those things get easier the further you push yourself. If you're afraid of going out for a run because you haven't done it in years (CAUTION: avoid this if you have osteoporosis, you'll break your damned knees), just go do it. Try it out. I bet, on some level, your body will remember too, provided you've actually run in the past.

Because the key factor to this entire, stupid theory of mine is that in order to benefit from this miracle of human anatomy, you first have to establish a baseline. If you've never done something physically challenging, you have to literally train your body for the task. You can't expect to benefit from physical recollection if you've never established a physical memory to begin with.

One of my biggest rationales behind all of this is learning to get comfortable being uncomfortable. Being miserable is an art form. Most people want to skip the discomfort and teleport straight to the end result. Do you think all of those marathon runners crossing the finish line with smiles (or grimaces of unimaginable suffering) just woke up one morning and said, "Yeah bro, today's my day! Let's go run 26.2 miles for fun!"

Hell no. They put in constant, incremental hours of agonizing training.

Which reminds me of a guy from my previous unit. In his younger years, this dude was a fantastic distance runner. I think he ran track, cross-country, or one of those boring-ass sports in high school. Anyway, some guys from our unit were gearing up for the Columbus Marathon, and out of the blue, he decided he was going to run it with them. We were all shocked. He had recently recovered from an illness and hadn't been on any consistent running program whatsoever. Everyone was highly skeptical.

Well, we all ate shit.

Not only did our boy finish that bastard, but his average pace was somewhere in the 8-minute mile range. For those of you who don't know, that is insanely fast for someone who didn't explicitly train for a marathon. When his training failed, his body remembered all the work he had put in. Just another piece of anecdotal evidence.

All of these thoughts resurfaced recently because, by the time this is published, I will have completed another metric century (100 km) with my brother.

I know, I know. If any serious cyclists are reading this, they're probably thinking, "Ha! A metric? That's a warm-up ride for me!" And yes, it probably is. But for me, it will be a return to confidence. Am I in any real danger of not finishing this ride? I'd confidently guess not, but that isn't the point.

The point is, I've done all of this before, and I'm proving to myself that I can do it again, despite chronic disease and an infinite number of physical setbacks. I can do hard things because my body remembers. More importantly, I want to show my kids what a person can do when they put in the time and effort. Hopefully, one day, they too will do hard things that are worthwhile.

Thanks for reading, and let me know in the comments if your body remembers anything... besides staying in a seated position for hours on end. I already have that one on lock.

Dad out.

Each year about 2%-3% of motor vehicle crash deaths are bicyclists. Although child bicyclist deaths have declined over the years, deaths among bicyclists age 20 and older have increased almost fivefold since 1975.

— Insurance Institute for Highway Safety (IIHS)

I always like to start us off with a little positivity. I am an avid cyclist. Many moons ago, in my 20's, my hip surgeon told me that I should "never run again" at least if I didn't want a hip replacement before the age of 40. Well, I guess he was right, as I mostly stopped running and haven't needed that hip replacement yet at the age of 44. I will state for the record that I tried going for a light jog last year and ended up with stress fractures in both knees. The orthopod that I saw for that one also stated, "You probably shouldn't run anymore." Ok, ok, I get it. So what else could I do to get my body moving and prevent further transformation into a potato? Cycling, that's what.

Since I was still in the Army at the time of my hip surgery, I had to find an alternative event for my biannual PT test. The old test consisted of push-ups, sit-ups, and a 2-mile run, but since my surgeon banned running, I chose cycling over walking or swimming (no thanks). This actually brought me back to my roots. I used to bike everywhere as a kid—it was my ticket to freedom, friends, and the larger world. Like many things we enjoyed as children, I stopped in adulthood, but getting back into it just made sense.

I started on a hybrid bike: straight bars, a big seat for a big ass, not aero but comfortable. This bike wasn't fast, but that didn't keep me from riding it like it was. After a few sessions, I was hooked.

I soon realized that if I wanted to move faster, I would have to get a road bike. So I bought a bike from a work buddy for $100, a Fuji Roubaix. It needed some minor work to get it up to snuff, but a local bike shop got me up and spinning in no time. I had never ridden a proper road bike until this moment. Frankly, road bikes are a little scary! They have pencil-thin tires, handlebars that look like a charging ram, and a tiny hard, hemorrhoid-inducing seat that you're expected to plant your bulbous ass on for hours at a time. I was a little intimidated, so I kept my riding strictly to improved bike trails starting out. As my speed increased, so did my confidence, and I soon found myself speeding down country roads and later, city roads.

It was at this point that I embraced the need for speed! This was before kids, so I could go out on weekends and ride for literal hours, and before I knew it, I was signing up for organized bike rides. Now, I ride predominantly on roads, and in the 13 years I've been cycling, I've noticed some really disturbing trends around road cyclists. People really hate you when you ride a bike on the road.

I know it's happened to all of us while driving. You're cruising along, listening to Miley Cyrus because she's wonderful, and you come upon a cyclist pushing and pulling their way down the road. It inevitably puts you, the driver, on edge because you typically have to slow down for this rolling piece of road trash. You can't pass because there are cars coming in the opposite direction, and you find your rage building because how dare someone force you to slow down your speeding in a 35 mph zone! That's when you become enraged to the point of taking action. You may start honking your horn and swerving back and forth in your lane to somehow drive the point home that you've been incredibly inconvenienced! How dare they! They're subhuman for subjecting you to such inconvenience! When you finally pass, you've reached the point of no return and decide that if you don't shout your fury at that subhuman piece of shit, you may just explode. So you do, and in doing so, you've completed the circle of anger by letting that unsuspecting road terrorist have it, ignoring the surprise and abject terror in their eyes because after all, they aren't real people. You keep driving, feeling just a little better for sticking it to 'em, and subsequently forget about the trauma of having to wait an additional 10 seconds for a cyclist until you come across the next one and repeat this operation of ire.

So, there I was, riding my bike down a lovely piece of road. I was riding the paint (the white painted line delineating the berm on the side of the road), as they say. I started to hear the revving of an engine, shortly followed by prolonged, aggressive honking. I look behind me to see an insanely lifted truck spewing flames out of the tailpipes and a man in the bed dressed in leather and chains playing a guitar. He also wore black and white face paint and had the craziest look in his eye. All of this was accented by the overly greased hair carefully manicured to resemble punji sticks and painted in alternating patterns of red and white. It was then that I noticed the overtly aggressive metal riff that he was churning out, and on every downbeat sparks would fly out of the tippy top of his musical machine of madness.

OMG. I have been transported to the world of Mad Max! I'm going to die. Maybe if he just passes, so too will the danger. Oh man, oh man, what do I do? I know, I'll slow down so it makes it easier for him to pass me. Yeah, that's what I'll do. Oh shit, that just seemed to make him angrier! He's swerving now; is this the end?

Oh, ok, it just looks like he's passing now, but man, he's close. Wait, why's he slowing down in the opposite lane to pace me? He's rolling down his window now; is he going to shoot me in the face with a sawed-off shotgun just like Max would've done?

"F***k you, you stupid piece of shit!" "Ride on the bike paaaatthhh!"

Wait, what? There is no bike path... At least he's gone now.

And this is what a typical day of road riding looks like.

I can't tell you the amount of times I've been screamed at, almost hit, passed aggressively close, honked at, and given every objectively profane hand gesture under the sun. Oh, and I forgot my favorite of all, the monster truck assholes out there, "rolling coal" where the offender makes their ridiculously overcompensating truck spew black diesel exhaust all over the road like an idiotic smoke screen. I have some strong feelings about these assholes. I often fantasize about them rolling coal and subsequently rolling right over a cliff because they're awful humans.

Paired with the statistics I listed right off, I've come to a very definitive conclusion. Many motorists don't view cyclists as people. The very phenomenon I listed in great detail above illustrates what cyclists all over the country experience regularly. When these feelings of dread and stories of terror are put online, they are met with jokes about how many "points" you can rack up for hitting different types of cyclists. This is compounded by the overwhelming response of motorists saying that cyclists aren't humans and shouldn't be allowed on the road. OK, let's unpack this a little bit.

Unlike our European cousins, car culture has permeated the American psyche by implying that driving is superior and roads are exclusively for driving. Now I'm not going to sit here and make arguments that bikes are better for the environment (they are) or that because of a pathetic public transportation system here, cars are ideal for travel. America is a wide-open country with wide-open roads so yeah, I get it. Driving is the preferred method of transportation to get you quickly from point A to B. I too love the simple act of motoring down the road. But, having lived on both sides of the proverbial road, I have a unique understanding of both perspectives.

Are many cyclists inconsiderate assholes, not paying any attention to traffic law or the consideration of their neighbors on the road? Yes, yes they are. I've often found myself scolding other cyclists just for ignoring basic common sense on the road. Things like running red lights, stop signs, and riding in the middle of the road when they aren't turning. Not to mention the complete lack of hand signals that indicate any deviation from going straight. Yes, cyclists can be big jerks too, and this only adds to the fury of drivers sharing the road. The most considerable difference between jerk cyclists and asshole motorists is the potential damage they may inflict because of their recklessness. Most road bikes only weigh around 20 pounds, and when compounded with a rider, we're talking 170-250 lbs of mass barreling down the road. Cars, trucks, or whatever weigh thousands of pounds, so the potential for inflicting injury or death is much greater as a consequence of their actions. It's a simple math game; cars will kill more people.

NHTSA data shows that bicycles are involved in less than 1% of pedestrian fatalities in the United States. Bike-caused deaths are exceedingly rare. The same can't be said for vehicle-on-bike or pedestrian deaths. Sure, you could make the argument that the volume of cyclists doesn't equal motorists, but that's not the point. Even if you run a compensatory study adjusting for volume, the statistics don't bear out.

In the future, drive like it's your brother, sister, mother, father, aunt, uncle, son, or daughter on that bike in front of you. I know, it sounds strange, but cyclists are people too. I think if you keep the mindset of looking at people objectively instead of instantly focusing on how much you've been inconvenienced for about 30 seconds, you may begin to start exercising a little more patience and compassion for your fellow man... or woman. Beard Dad is equal opportunity. So yes, cyclists can be annoying, but you usually aren't in danger of us killing you, so please don't try to kill us on the road. I promise that literally 30 seconds (or less) of waiting will make you feel better for not putting someone in immediate danger. And I might just get to go home safely to my family because of it.

Thanks for reading; please let me know about your worst/best incidents of motorist-on-cyclist road rage. I have some fun ones too. If you show me yours, I'll show you mine.

Dad out.

Humble brag: The time I finished my first century. I ended up riding 107 miles, not 100, because I can't read a cue sheet. For those of you unfamiliar, this is a REALLY good time for an amateur.

I used to be fat...and just for clarity, I'm talking F-A-T fat, not phat. Although, you could still apply the latter? Regardless, yes, I, a medical retiree from the Army, used to be on the larger side of the body mass index. You might be thinking, "Oh, he probably only had a few extra pounds", but otherwise he presented as a regular guy. No, I was fat AF, as they say. I was definitely considered morbidly obese by definition. Fat.

So you might be naturally curious about a few things. Did I lose the weight? Yes. Was I always fat? No. Do people treat you differently when you're fat? Yes. Why did you get fat? Well, I suppose all of this will be explained in today's post.

The Early Years

As a child moving through adolescence into adulthood, I never would've been considered fat by today's standards. I also wasn't skinny. My mom would've and did often qualify me as "husky". I remember clothes shopping in early adolescence, you know, that time when your body begins morphing into something other than a child but not quite an adult. For boys, at least, we sometimes get stuck halfway, changing into pseudo-werewolves. Rapid growth, new hair, an oscillating voice that goes from high-pitch to gravelly smoker in a moment's notice. That time of life where hunger is never satiated, and we raid refrigerators like primitive hunters searching for the presence of easy prey that we may consume. That awkward, in-between phase, where things start changing and every day brings new surprises. "Huh, what's that off-white mound with an angry red border, popping up on my face?" "Why do girls look so good? Don't they have cooties?" and "Why are my balls hanging so low?!" Who can run with these sensitive, fleshy, ovoid orbs slapping back and forth between your legs?" By this point, I'm sure you're picking up what I'm putting down. Puberty.

By the time I hit puberty, I was "husky" but not fat. And moving forward into the teenage years, my weight would ebb and flow from physically fit to physically shit. Back and forth like a carnival ride. Everything was predominantly under control in those years, just not constantly.

He's not fat, he's big-boned! He's not heavy, he's my brother!

No, I was fat. When I left home and started college for the first time, I may have lost all ability to self-manage. I dropped out of school early into my first year and started working full-time for a small IT company. This was the early 2000s, and that's when a lot of these companies just needed warm bodies who weren't complete idiots to do things for the public that made them seem like wizards. I had a strong work ethic and an "OK" brain, so I moved up quickly in the company and became the Operations Manager after a few years. Mind you, this was a small company, and I don't think we ever employed more than 10 people at any given time. So, it sounds more impressive than it really was. I often found myself practically babysitting people who were the same age as me or older. Not all, but some.

It was at this time when my transition into a human globe started to occur. I found myself working close to 12 hours a day, 6 days a week, at a desk. I stupidly lived about an hour away so I could be closer to my girlfriend at the time. Stupid. So you add in two hours of sitting in a car each day, and you have a grand total of 14 hours of being camped out on my voluminous ass. You may also assume that I didn't move much in those 10 hours I had outside of work each day. You would be correct in that assumption.

I had no ability to cook anything outside a box at the time, so you can imagine that my diet predominantly consisted of foods that were "fast" in nature. So you take all of these factors combined, and that equals Captain Fatass! Or, in the real world, a rapid weight gain of over 130 lbs within a year. Remember? I did say I was fat.

I don't specifically know how rotund I had become, but I do remember stepping on a scale at one point and seeing 330 lbs. It was then that I stopped stepping on scales because if you don't see it, it didn't happen, right? Not only that, but I'll assume that I ballooned past that 330 and would wager I was in the 350 lb range at one point. I suppose it's also important to mention that I'm 6 ft tall, so it's not like I was wearing it well. Shaq at 350 lbs looks a lot different from Beard Dad at 350 lbs.

Do you remember that girlfriend I had mentioned before? Well, she wasn't my girlfriend no more. Soon after my reverse quickening (I realize how obscure this reference is, so I'll spell it out for you: look up Highlander), she made her exodus to the tune of cheating on me with another dude in another state. Her original excuse was that God was telling her to, but my best friend had it right, "She found Jesus!" but it was said in the Hispanic pronunciation. Ah, who am I kidding at this point? I would've left me too. At the time, I was convinced that any woman who said she cared about personality was lying to my face.

So there I was, in my early 20s, over three hundred pounds, single, and soon-to-be unemployed. My former boss started going through an involuntary divorce and, in doing so, closed the business. I feel just as badly for him, as his wife at the time was shacking up with the neighbor. Yikes! All the variables in this scenario added up to equal... sadness.

Have you tried not being fat?

Yes, actually, that's what I did at that point in life. I made the very grown-up decision to move an hour away, back home, with my parents and live in their basement. A cliched basement-dweller, living and playing video games in their parent's basement. You can imagine how embarrassing it was coming home in that state, but that's precisely what I needed. Something familiar, stable, and careful. I have to give credit to both of my parents for letting an adult child become their "roommate" after what I'm sure they assumed was going to be the best years of their lives empty-nesting. And they did it without judgment but with a healthy dose of reality. My mom graciously started cooking for me again in an effort to right the sinking ship that was my diet. She started me on The South Beach Diet probably because that was the fad diet that she was adhering to at the time, but you know what? It worked. The weight started to come off in noticeable increments. It was also around this time that I started a temp job working in a factory.

Paired with my new diet and the fact that I was no longer sitting on my ass all day, my body started to move back to a state of equilibrium. I wasn't huge anymore, but I wouldn't have considered myself fit either. That would come later. But this is about the time when I realized that people started treating me differently.

Appearance matters.

Recently, there has been a sizable movement towards positive body image. Things like being happy with your body the way it is, giving yourself grace, and all kinds of nonsense that justifies being fat. I get it, and I think there is a lot of benefit from the mental perspective of being kind to yourself and being happy in your own skin. BUT, and this is a gigantic "but" (Baby Got Back!), no matter how good you feel about your appearance, people will still judge and treat you differently because of it despite how you feel about yourself. People would ask me after the fact, "Did you know how fat you were?" The honest answer to that was yes and no. I had a vague understanding that "I was packing on a few pounds" but I don't think I had realized how much and how bad until I stepped on that scale.

Subsequently, I didn't know how much your appearance affected people's treatment of you until I experienced both ends of the scale. People I had known for years would hardly give me the time of day after my weight gain. Employees in businesses treat you differently; typically, they're more rude to you without cause. Often, people would talk to you like you were simple...the fat didn't destroy my cognitive capacity, just my ability to run any distance without wheezing. Hell, even kids notice fat people without filters: "Why's that man so fat?" I don't know, kid? Why are you so ugly? If I did know, don't you think I would've fixed it by now?

Even the least likely of all people would treat you with scorn: medical providers. I remember one instance vividly. I was sick and therefore took my thick ass to the doctor. It turned out I was sick, but she walked in and gave me one of the worst dressing-downs of my life! She started ticking off all the reasons I was going to die an early death, and frankly, she seemed angry about it. "You're obese, your blood pressure is high, etc, etc... You're going to die an early death!" Every word was a gunshot.

After I lost the weight, I began to notice how nice people were being to me again. Showing attention and kindness without preconceived judgment. This is when I fully understood that weight not only affects health but also how easy it is to interact with the world and the people in it. It unknowingly made everything harder.

In summary.

Look, I could write a whole book on everything that happened next, but let's just hit the fast-forward button. Here is the highly accurate, chaotic timeline of my adult life:

• Got fat after high school
• A few years later, lost weight
• Realized people treat you differently based specifically on how much you weigh.
• Started back to college without any idea of what I wanted to do. (Declared English major)
• Took an aptitude test with a college counselor and joined the Army. WTF?
• Got fit.
• Met my wife
• Graduated college (not English major)
• Went to war
• Came home and got married.
• Kept Armying
• Hit a groundhog on my bike and got MS.
• Had a kid.
• Medically retired from Army.
• Stay at home with kid, while wife works.
• Had another kid...she autistic! Oh shit!
• Take care of kids.

So that's the very accurate timeline of my adult life. Sure, there might be some things, here and there, between those events, but, eh. If you really want to hear about it, please let me know, and I can expand on that later. I probably will anyway since I have nothing better to do.

I try to always have a point to these musings, and I'm finally getting to it now. My point is, weight has been a constant struggle for me, as I know it is for many people today. I'm not always winning the battle, but I think it's important to continue the fight regardless. If not for yourself, for your family. People will always treat you differently based on your appearance, and if for nothing else, maintain your appearance to reduce the amount of stress in your life. I would like to be around a long time for my kids. You know, watch them grow up and become judgmental assholes like their dad. I love my family and want nothing but the best for them, and if I can't lead by example, what kind of parent would I be?

If you're reading this and you're struggling personally with any issue that affects your health, know that you aren't alone. If a grumpy, physically old,man like myself can make major life changes, I know you can too, and you don't have to do it alone. Thanks for reading, and please don't hesitate to comment on any major hurdles you've overcome so we can celebrate the wins together.

Dad out...I gotta go take a walk... I walk myself like a dog. Ugh.

I had an idea for a short story a while ago. I often have these ideas, which, I believe, would make for a captivating story. When I get an idea, I have a hard time letting it go, even if I know it's a bad one. One of these lightbulbs is a story about tiny, warring islands. This concept got me to thinking, and I think I may have inadvertently thought up an allegory on life.

Tiny Islands There exists a world, far away from the one we know, covered by tiny islands. The islands are not vast as their people are not large, and they are located close together, but a greater void could not be realized between them. Each tiny island has at least one tiny person as its inhabitant, and every island was at war with the other. No one knew why the fighting began, but since it's what they've always done, it's how they've always continued.

Every so often an island would fall, but with no one to mourn the fallen, their history was wiped from existence as if it had never existed at all. When the inhabitant(s) of an island perished, so too did their island. Sunken into a pockmarked sea, returned to the earth, hastened to an aqueous grave.

New islands would spontaneously pop up without reason or pattern, adding to the chaos of an ever-changing world. Like the solid bits in a boiling cauldron, churning to the top just to be pulled back down, over and over again. And, keeping with tradition, that island's inhabitants began warring with their neighbors. No one ever really knew how these islands kept appearing nor where the people came from, just that they existed and needed to continue the turn of that wheel into oblivion.

There was no prize either for defeating a neighbor, just the innate feeling of triumph that you can sit securely on your island and the urge to fight another day. Did anyone ever experience any real security from all of this warring, this endless slaughter? No, but that didn't matter because they were all consumed with the singular purpose of defeating all that was around them.

You may also wonder, what joys could be had in such a world? Joy, if you could call it that, was only experienced in the fleeting throes of triumph and faded as quickly as it was attained. What purpose was there to such a forlorn world? Well, no one knew, but one person began to wonder...

And scene!

Back to reality; bear with me. As I was pondering this, I realized this wasn't just a fantasy concept—it was an unintentional mirror of reality. The tiny island allegory applies perfectly to the world we are actually living in.

Humanity has been engaged in constant warfare throughout the entirety of recorded history. I'm no historian, but I would wager that there isn't a point that is completely free of conflict or war. Just look at the past 100 years of American history. Hell, look at the past 250 years! I believe that there's only a 5-year stretch in our complete history where we haven't been involved in war or conflict. Almost my entire adult life was spent in the middle of multiple wars, which included physically fighting in one. I still don't know to this day what we were fighting for. I know what I was fighting for, but damn, what was the point of Iraq?

Sure, there's the official narrative, 9/11, weapons of mass destruction (that didn't exist), and the list goes on. But it's all bullshit. Not to go off on a tangent, but I can definitively tell you that Iraq was not fought over supposed WMDs. I can also tell you that we weren't in Afghanistan for approximately 20 years because we were stamping out terrorism. Hell, we should've pulled chalks and come home when Osama Bin Laden was killed. At that point we were effective in predominantly eradicating Al Qaeda. So what was the purpose of another 10 years of death and destruction? What was the point?

This concept isn't novel. We have been pointlessly warring forever with no real end in sight. God, we are a petty species.

But we don't just build these islands with physical borders and weapons; we do it digitally, too. The next allegorical mechanism at play here is current Internet culture. Dependent upon where you spend your time, people come out of the ether just to attack strangers on the Internet and then disappear as if they never existed. This isolationist culture that we've created just by separating people by their politics or their identity or their station in life puts people on tiny islands. We are all so close yet so far away when it comes to basic human interaction. Respectful discourse is the product of a bygone era. Now it's just strangers yelling at each other on the Internet.

That got heavy fast, but that's where the journey led today. I'm not really exploring unique ideas here, but I do think it's fun to see where the writing process goes. Writing is a journey that can take you places you never expected, and if I effectively do my job, the reader comes along with me. I don't honestly have a point today but more of a glimpse at how my brain works before offering you a semi-polished product. I suppose this is about the journey instead of the destination, as they say. Thanks for riding shotgun, and don't steal my idea.

Dad out.

Do You Hear That?

Do you hear that sound? No? It's because I use an electric mower. The only sound it makes is the dull roar of the blade spinning, lulling me into a stupor because it invokes the memory of sleep. (Yes, I am also one of those weirdos who has to sleep with a fan.)

I love my EGO electric mower. I didn't always own one of these modern marvels of grass evisceration. Oh no, I was part of the gas-guzzling status quo for years. But when we bought our new house, I jumped at the chance to join the electric revolution and bought the Tesla of mowers.

I see all types of lawn equipment in our neighborhood, but the theme that inspired today's musing is that everyone else seems to be making the switch, too. It hasn't been a sudden onslaught of homeowners clamoring to join this astonishing family of quiet lawn custodians. Rather, it's been a slow trickle over the years. Every time I see a neighbor with a new electric mower, I give them the nod—like bikers passing on the open road. For a brief moment, we share the silent acknowledgment that we have evolved past a society wholly reliant on fossil fuels.

No longer are my fellow champions of clean mowing adding to the din of small-engine noise on the weekends. You know the time: those hallowed hours when everyone has to keep up with the proverbial Joneses by manicuring their lawns to absolute perfection. God forbid my neighbors mow their grass first and make mine look inferior! That would be an outrage.

Since going electric, I've noticed just how incredibly loud those few remaining gas mowers are. Do you think you can hear my mower from inside the house, let alone from across the street? Nay. I contribute nothing to my fine community but a sharply kept lawn, sparing them the roaring engines that pollute the ears and the exhaust that fouls the air. How dare anyone continue to use such archaic implements of mowing? With the amount of carbon those menaces loudly belch into the sky, they may as well just light their lawns on fire.

Wait. Am I becoming a mower snob?

Oh shit. I better rein it in a bit and reflect. Hmm. So, why is it that people aren't rushing to use what is obviously superior technology? I have a few ideas.

People hate change. My own father comes to mind when envisioning this exact trait. Dad has always been a handy fellow—good with tools and ready to tackle any home project. But he insists on doing all of this with the familiar implements he's always used.

An old exchange about cordless drills comes to mind.

"Dad, you should get a cordless drill instead of running a 100-foot extension cord out into the yard," I suggested.

"Why would I want one of those?!" he said, genuinely incredulous. "My drill works better than any cordless drill out there. They don't have enough power."

It's usually at this point that I stop arguing, as my father is an immovable object once his mind is set. This was in the early 2000s. I don't remember the exact year, but I do know that cordless drills at the time were just as powerful, if not more so, than their corded counterparts.

So, I did what any good son would do: I bought his ass a cordless drill.

I will say his reaction was positive, and he seemed genuinely intent on "trying it out." Which he did. Soon after, I got a phone call from my mom relating the entire experience.

"Your dad finally tried out that cordless drill you got him, and he said he was 'very impressed.' He's using it all the time now."

Huh. How about that? You can teach an old dog new tricks... if you force them to.

This story is representative of aging people everywhere, and not just when it comes to mowers and drills. After careful thought, I realized that the older we get, the more resistant we become to change. I often catch myself falling into this exact cliché. I'll look at new technologies, trends, or music and think, "Ugh! Why would anyone like that when the old stuff is so much better? It just works! Bleh!"

That's when I answered my own question about those archaic mowers. Why would anyone buy a newfangled E-mower when their trusty gas-guzzling companion has worked fine their entire life? The short answer is: they wouldn't.

So there it is. It's not that people are so set in their ways that they're totally unwilling to try something new. It's that we are so inherently afraid of change and disruption that we will actively ignore the potential for something better, just to keep something comfortable. Something known.

Try to be more cognizant of your own biases. I know I've been rambling about lawnmowers, but that's just the vehicle for this newfound enlightenment. Do a little reflection before shitting all over something new. Ask yourself: Is this actually worse than what I currently have, do, or think? Or am I just being resistant to change?

My guess is it's usually the latter. (Though you will never convince me that music today is better than it was in the 90s. I will readily die on that hill.)

Go try something new, like buying an electric mower. My ears, and the environment, will thank you for it. Thanks for reading, and let me know in the comments what hill you are willing to die on when it comes to change. I might just be willing to die on it with you.

Dad out.

I have a shadow. Okay, I know everyone has a shadow unless you're a vampire, but I have another shadow. One that moves independently and follows me regardless of ambient light. If you just thought, "Oh, bro's got an autistic kid." You just won the satisfaction of being right! Yes, my autistic child follows me (us) everywhere regardless of what I'm doing.

My youngest daughter is extremely delayed and exceptionally autistic. She's nonverbal and still not potty trained at the age of 5. To say this is abnormal considering her age and sex would be an understatement.

The Onslaught of "Elmos"

She does have a limited, spoken vocabulary, but it is predominantly limited to a few choice words, which she uses to exhaustion (us, not her.)

Oh, what was that? What words does she say, you ask? "Elmo" that's her go to whenever she wants something, and she ALWAYS wants something. She also says more but pronounces it like "mooah". Usually it's just snacks or videos, but it's always something.

Think of her as being the autistic, 5-year-old incarnation of Limos (Greek personification of starvation, hunger, and famine.) Albeit she isn't gaunt and is incredibly well-fed.

This kid will eat snacks all day if she could, and I mean ALL DAY! She is insatiable. And this leads me to the point of this musing: she follows me around everywhere, all the time asking for snacks and videos.

I can't believe I forgot to mention this earlier, but she also asks for the, "Cah". Translated to car. To get the correct pronunciation, just say car in your thickest Bostonian accent.

She does all of this to enforce her will upon us and make us question reality itself because the constant cacophony of utterances can't be real. She is seriously relentless. I haven't counted the number of times that she's said Elmo in a given day, but I know it's well into the hundreds.

In case you couldn't tell, it's maddening, "Elmo, Elmo, cah, mooah..." And there is always more. This heightened state of emotional decline is amplified by the constant fear of getting my balls smashed by her "talker". I'll be sitting in a chair, minding my own business when she'll appear out of the shadows and smash her talker down into my unsuspecting nards in the hopes that she can more effectually deliver whatever message she wants to relay. The only reprieve we get is when we put her to bed, after which we just blankly stare at each other in fearful anticipation of the coming onslaught of Elmos that we know we are going to awake to the next day.

Cultivating a Superpower

To survive this without checking into a padded room, you have to cultivate a superpower. Ours is an extreme, highly evolved sense of patience. Since having our youngest daughter, I have evolved my patience to insane levels; otherwise, I think we'd both have been moved to an asylum. Seriously, nothing tests you quite like a child with a disability. All of you parents out there in a similar situation know exactly what I'm talking about.

The most frustrating aspect of the situation is that we know what our child is doing; she is being driven by impulse and obsession, and it's not her fault. Typical kids do the same thing, except they have the capacity to articulate what they want and the wherewithal to stop when you tell them to (usually).

A child on the spectrum does not always understand the subtle or overt ways that people typically express dislike or frustration. Or, in my daughter's case, the direct usage of the word, "NO". Often when we say no, it seems like she takes it as a challenge to see how far she can drive us to the brink. Think of that schoolyard bully from your childhood, who didn't know when to stop and tortured other kids to excess. It's not like we can mail her to Abu Dhabi like Nermal in Garfield... or can we? Does USPS offer flat-rate shipping for relentless toddlers? Hmm.

My wife, being a pediatric OT, has evolved patience well beyond the normal boundaries of human tolerance. Seriously, her patience levels are, as Gordon Ramsay would say, "elevated." But even our child has driven her to the brink. So, you may be asking how we continue to live like this. It's because of our hopeful understanding of time. We know that this is just a season in our lives, and it will pass. Hopefully.

An Alternate Peter Pan Universe

Although delayed, we see wonderful glimpses of what she will be someday. We know that she will eventually get to wherever and whoever she needs to be, but it's not going to be on our typically understood timeline. It's called neurodivergence for a reason. It's a divergence from everything we, as parents, expect on a preordained timeline. This, of course, is a constant challenge, as most days we just want the torment to end but remain hopeful for better days.

In reality, it could be much worse. She doesn't have any behavioral issues, and she's a generally pleasant kid. We've observed some families with kids who have frequent meltdowns and are destructive. We are far from that reality and instead live in an alternate Peter Pan universe where our shadow is alive and just wants snacks and videos all the time. You know what? I want the same thing, so I can't be too upset over it. With a little patience and time, maybe we can all get those videos and snacks, and one day our resistance to persistence will pay off.

Let me know in the comments what your most frustrating, tear-your-hair-out experience has been while parenting a neurodivergent kid. Misery loves company, especially if it comes with snacks.

Dad out.

I bought an e-scooter. Never in the entirety of my life did I think that I would buy one of these modern abominations, but here we are: a middle-aged man on a self-propelling scooter. I would be at peak Wall-E here if I decided to buy and install the optional padded seat from Segway. Yes, they even have a seat for this beauty, and I genuinely considered buying it.

So what would possibly possess my sick, cynical, bearded self to buy one of these sins against self-locomotion?

It was on sale!

That's right, a sale! Nothing gets that gelatinous blood of mine pumping like a good sale.

The Setup

So there I was, making my way into Sam's Club, miraculously kid-free and in a chipper mood. Nothing relaxes you quite like going into a store by yourself. People who don't have kids won't have any idea what I'm talking about, but to every parent out there—I see you.

I was making my way through the entrance when I was greeted by an employee and several tables filled with miscellaneous goods. And then I saw it, sitting right up front: the Segway E3 Pro ES. An entry into the premium scooter market boasting a top speed of 20 mph, a maximum range of 34 miles, and weighing a mere 40 lbs (which is roughly the same weight as my youngest child, whom I often have to carry great distances).

It was marvelous. Beautiful, even. The sleek lines stood out boldly, and the color palette was set in my favorite hues of black, red, and grey. I knew right then that I had to have it.

Not because of the aforementioned aesthetic pleasure it invoked, but because IT WAS ON SALE for 350 dollars. What an incredible deal. I knew it was astonishing the moment I spotted the price tag. I have to be fully transparent and say that I had looked at electric scooters before this serendipitous moment, so I knew exactly how good of a deal this was.

The main reason I've been considering one was purely for camping. It's not always convenient to walk to different portions of a campground, and it's not always ideal to unhitch and drive, either. Think about tasks like taking the trash out in the middle of the night while your kids are sleeping. It's just a pain in the ass. With an electric scooter, I would be able to move myself and something small from one point to another without sweating my ass off, which frequently happens at this stage in life.

Ah, who am I kidding? I've always been a sweater.

Getting back to the task at hand, I knew what I had there, and I wouldn't be leaving without it. I just couldn't give the impression that I was too excited, so I told the nice lady sitting there, "I'll consider it," and "Maybe I'll be back." It's important not to seem too eager.

But of course I'd be back! Who could pass up such an offer? I had to hurry so as not to return to an empty table.

I went about my regular shopping, stopping once I was well away from that impromptu kiosk to check my phone and make sure that this was indeed a remarkable deal. Heavens to Betsy, the lowest price I could find online was $550, and that specific listing was a sale price! I had to have it.

Well, as long as El Jefe gave me permission, that is. I conducted a preliminary text recon with the boss, just floating the idea. I received almost instantaneous permission from my wife, who, like me, loves a good deal (and as an occupational therapist, probably supports any gadget that keeps me from throwing out my back at the campsite).

As I was finishing my shopping, I casually made my way back and slyly started to load the scooter into my cart, barely able to contain my anticipation. I politely asked the woman sitting there how she was doing, and she replied, "Not too good."

Serendipity

What? Not too good? She blatantly ignored the social constructs of idle chat by being honest? I had to know more, so I asked, "Do you want to talk about it?"

She replied, "Yes, I do."

Huh. Honesty and a willingness to expand? Color me intrigued. As she began to paint the picture of her current station in life, I realized a few things. First, it was genuinely nice to have a candid conversation with a stranger. Second, sometimes life hits you hard, and you just need to talk about it regardless of the audience. In this case, I was the audience, and she had my rapt attention.

I will just touch on the key points of this conversation, as I don't want to unintentionally dox anyone, but through our discourse, I discovered that she was indeed in a tough spot. She had recently moved here from an adjoining state and was having a difficult time settling in. Not only that, she was dealing with an assortment of physical ailments that were making life harder than it needed to be.

And then it happened. That infamous Spiderman-pointing-at-Spiderman meme moment.

After informing me of her broken vertebrae, she continued on to that aha moment. "I have MS."

"WHAT? I have MS too!"

I think it took a moment for it to register because she briefly looked at me like I was speaking a different language. I interpreted that look as a rapid succession of thoughts all ending at the same place: This normal-looking man has MS?

Yes! We're alike! It's like two unicorns meeting in the wild, except not as rare. We finished our conversation relating all of our ailments that were alike and different. You could definitely say that we became fast friends at that point... even though neither one of us knew the name of the other.

And that was that. She kindly called a supervisor to escort me to the front with my brand new deal of a scooter. I paid and went on my merry way to try out my new purchase.

Who Cares?

Well, I care. I can legitimately say that was the first time randomly meeting someone in a similar situation as myself. Sure, I know others who have MS, but I was always introduced through a friend or family member. I have never met a fellow MSer out in the wild.

It left me feeling good. Living with something like MS can feel incredibly isolating, even when you have a great support system. To just stumble into a 10-minute conversation with a stranger who implicitly understands that weight? It's a rare gift. I like to think that I made her day better, but she definitely made mine. This was all because a stranger felt the need to be honest and vulnerable.

Apart from the beautiful exchange that we shared, I also got a sweet scooter at a wonderful price. Who wouldn't be happy with that? In full transparency, I've been riding that thing around my neighborhood like a crackhead at all hours of the night and day. It has brought me such childlike joy zipping around that I can't even fully articulate the feeling.

If you ever find yourself in a warehouse club that has doorbusters in July, get that sale item that you've been eyeing for a while. It just might lead to something unexpectedly wonderful—like a candid conversation with a complete stranger, and a scooter that invokes childlike joy in a grown-ass man.

Dad out... to go scootering.

Video games will rot your brain and make you murder people!

At least, that's what I was told growing up. I've been a lifelong gamer, and I don't regret a single second of it. I have core memories of my dad bringing home an Atari 2600 when I was just three years old. Magical.

I can literally form my life's timeline on the memories of video games that were so profoundly impactful they etched themselves permanently into my gray matter. When I was five, my brother and I got a Nintendo Entertainment System for Christmas. It came with the combo Mario/Duck Hunt cartridge, and our parents also got us the golden Legend of Zelda cart to go with it. It was at this point that I was officially hooked.

I have subsequently owned and played every generation of game console in existence, minus some of the unattainables because we weren't rich (I'm talking about the Neo Geo, 3DO, etc.). Not only that, but I can distinctly remember my rough age and major life events purely based on the release timeline of different video games and consoles.

If you asked me what my favorite console of all time is, I would emphatically tell you about the Super Nintendo Entertainment System (SNES). The graphics were revolutionary, the game library was remarkable, and I remember hours of playing with my friends. Pure magic for my growing brain.

My parents would often tell me that I would "grow out of it" or that "that stuff will rot your brain." My brother did grow out of it, but I refused... probably because of oppositional defiance. Regardless, I've been playing since I can remember and still play today, albeit not to the same extent. Needless to say, I am fond of video games, in case you couldn't tell.

This love would eventually progress into sharing my passion with my two kids. We curtail their playtime extensively, but I'll admit to participating in a few prolonged sessions of Mario Kart and Mario Party. Being a parent, I am constantly asking myself, "Self, is this helping or harming my kids?" I didn't think I could answer that question on my own, so I did some digging.

Pros before... no's

I have heard all my life that video games are detrimental to your mind, body, and soul. I, of course, never fully subscribed to those points of view, but that doesn't necessarily mean I am right.

I vividly recall that politicians in the 90s really hated video games and wanted them eradicated because they were big poopy heads. The actual reason video games were so heavily scrutinized was because of their use by the perpetrators of mass shooting events, such as Columbine. These politicians attributed their violent behavior to playing violent video games like Doom and Mortal Kombat (both are completely kid-friendly, amazing games, obviously!).

Of course, correlation doesn't equal causation, and those ideas were eventually proven false through careful research. Not only that, but because of those hearings, video games won the day by falling under the auspices of protected speech. You know, that pesky First Amendment always getting in the way. You can say almost anything you want, even when it's complete BS, and be OK because of free speech. Don't even get me started on the Speech and Debate Clause—if you don't know what I'm talking about, look it up. I might even do a whole separate piece on that someday.

But getting back to the point: I had to ask myself if there was some merit to their original statements. Probably not, but let's see what the current research says.

Let's first explore the potential positive effects of video games.

Wow! Look at all the positive benefits through your entire lifespan. This scientifically accurate, completely unbiased, AI-generated infographic perfectly encapsulates the benefits of gaming. It appears that the major level-up from playing video games happens in your brain. Let's look specifically at the childhood phase of gaming goodness.

Through ages 5-12, those digital daemons of pure awesome are working hard to improve critical thinking skills (can confirm), enhance reading skills, and increase motor coordination. Moving into adolescence, these skills are still present but seem to focus more on teamwork and interpersonal skills. This makes sense, as this is around the time kids evolve into online, competitive play.

I would also posit that adolescence is where they refine their insults and cursing in anticipation of military service. Back when I was playing Call of Duty: Modern Warfare competitively online, I lost count of the numerous times I was cursed out and called just about everything in the Urban Dictionary for pwning their n00b @5535. If you can't take the heat, kid, get your ass out of my kitchen!

These same positive effects are seen throughout adulthood. It's crazy how playing video games keeps your mind sharp, reflexes strong, and encourages social engagement throughout your entire life. But is it all roses?

The Brain Rot

Again, I put in hours of grueling work generating this highly accurate, totally scientific, AI-generated infographic for your lazy viewing pleasure.

Holy crap! That's a lot of negative effects. Were my parents right? Have I been rotting my brain and body since childhood?! Eh.

Looking at this infographic, it would indeed seem that the deleterious effects far outweigh the positive, but wait a minute... a lot of these negative metrics are directly competing with what makes video games good for you. What gives! Let's do a net positive/negative correlative infographic to see what's really going on... again, completely scientific.

Putting everything into perspective, I see what's happening now.

All Things in Moderation

My grandfather used this phrase extensively. He was a would-be priest (thanks, Grandma) turned electrical worker, so you could say he had some chops when it came to solid philosophical advice. He literally graduated from a Catholic seminary but never took his vows because he met my grandmother.

So, the big question still lingers: Are video games bad for you, especially your kids? The answer is a very unambiguous yes and... no.

As clearly stated, video games are good for you in MODERATION. It's like all things in life: too much of a good thing becomes a bad thing. That old man from North Dakota may have been on to something here.

Just think about the implications of that statement across the board. Eat too much, you get fat and develop health issues, but you still need sustenance to survive. Drink too much, and you'll destroy your liver, but small amounts can be considered good for you (still debatable) depending on what study you adhere to. Hell, even too much water can be bad for you, as you run the risk of a malady known as hyponatremia.

Finally, video games can be good for you—as long as you don't let them rule your life or the lives of your children.

So, let your kids play those video games, but just be sure to curtail their time and attention to them. Give them varied experiences and don't forget to give them food and water... just not too much. Remember the wisdom of my grandfather and probably clergy everywhere: all things in moderation.

Let me know in the comments if you've had similar experiences in gaming or if you simply think I'm an idiot. Thanks for reading, and if you enjoyed any of this, please like and subscribe to get all of my musings in the future, completely free of charge.

Dad out. Time to pwn s0me n00bs.

My wife left me... to go on vacation. Yes, I'm alone with the kids for a full business week, and I'm scared. Don't get me wrong; I'm fully equipped and capable of taking care of my children without assistance for a duration. I'm not ignorant to the fact that women and divorced parents have been doing this for a very long time, but I'm always surprised by how lonely it feels. It's almost like being Tom Hanks in the movie Cast Away, except your kids are filling in for Wilson, his makeshift friend made from a volleyball. They provide companionship, just without much substance—unlike the companionship my wife provides.

This is not the first time my wife has gone away for a few days, but this will, by far, be her longest duration of absence. I want her to go do these things unimpeded without feeling guilty for being away, and I'm grateful that we're both in a position that we can do this. But my body had other plans. So with all of that said, I reached the point in my life that I had to be evaluated by medical professionals before she left to make sure I wouldn't die while she was away.

Dad man walking

I suppose my last statement requires some explanation. If you've read anything else I've ever written, you would know that I have extensive health issues. None of them are life-ending, just life-altering. My major malady is multiple sclerosis, which causes an abundance of interesting side effects. This is relevant, I promise.

Two days before my dear wife's departure, I suffered what I would deem a Mountain Dew-level EXTREME (yell it out or silently for effect) headache. I've been getting headaches and migraines my entire life, but seldom do I have one of this caliber. It's like getting punched repeatedly in the face. That's not an exaggeration, as I have actually been punched in the face. One of my best physical attributes is having a punchable face.

Anyway, this aching bastard of a headache resolved by the next morning (the day before she left), even though my sleep was adversely impacted. The headache is exhibit 1.

Later that day, I started having chest pain. Okay, again, this on its own isn't a big deal, as I've been having intermittent chest pain throughout my adult life. I'm even regularly monitored by a cardiologist. Shoot, I'm having sharp chest pain as I write this! It's not a big deal, but an idea subconsciously started to worm its way into my head. Am I having a stroke or heart attack? Did my brain start hemorrhaging overnight? My nervous system is already consuming itself, so why wouldn't the rest of my body start to rebel? It's only a matter of time, right? Chest pain is exhibit 2.

My final item for your consideration is that my entire left arm went numb sometime around dinner time. I was in the middle of cooking dinner, and zap, dead arm. Don't freak out; I could still use it, just not much feeling there. Again, this on its own is not anything to be alarmed about. Numbness, tingling, pain, etc., are all common and occur frequently, but all of these symptoms combined form... a medical emergency? Numb left arm is exhibit 3.

A physical specimen

It was at this point that my wife and, admittedly, I became concerned. She was leaving the next day, and I might be ruining her well-planned and well-deserved vacation with her friends. We came to the determination at this point that I should take my inaugural trip to the emergency room. Out of an abundance of caution, naturally.

So, I loaded up, kissed my family goodbye, and made my way to the ER. I'm no stranger to hospitals. I would consider myself a de facto timeshare owner of hospital real estate, considering the amount of money and time I've poured into them. So, I know the drill well upon arrival and have a pretty good comprehension of what's about to happen based on my current symptoms.

When I got there, I got checked in and was quickly moved back to a room where several staff appeared and started the evaluation process: EKG, blood work, monitors, and more! They moved fast and efficiently, and I am always grateful for the folks that decide to do this type of work. If someone has never experienced this, I can imagine how frightening it may be. I knew that nothing was immediately concerning at this point as the overall pace slowed down dramatically after my EKG. Great!

Then the waiting game begins, more tests, imaging, etc... Still moving at an exaggerated pace but slow if all you need to know is that you aren't going to die. Just tell me if I'm being a hypochondriac or if I need to provide my living will and get on with my inevitable death. Either way, I'm always anxious to get it over with so I can sleep for eternity or get on with my day. There is no animosity towards my care team for this. It's just how things work.

So after a battery of tests and images, I was informed that I was indeed a physical specimen, nothing wrong at all, except for my ever-present disease-riddled body. Despite the knowns, I was in perfect shape. This was, again, just the MS.

What a relief and disappointment all at the same time! Sometimes, this dad just needs a nap, even if it's a dirt nap. Kidding aside, now the wife could go on her trip knowing that I won't die in her absence. I'm too considerate for that anyway; I will wait for her to be fully present when I die. I'll get her full attention then!

What a relief to be normal

I'm used to getting bad medical news, so it often comes as a mildly welcome surprise when everything is fine. The lesson here is that you shouldn't ever be too proud or blasé to get something checked out; it could save your life and your wife's vacation from impending doom.

I always feel like I'm burdening doctors and nurses whenever I go into the ER, but they always assure you that you did the right thing. One of my doctors said it best, "We're much better at telling you what it isn't, not what it is." That's good enough for me, doc. I'll keep having these problems, but as long as I know I'm not going to die when I experience them, I'm good. Now I just have to navigate 5 days of filling the shoes of the best activity planner in the world. I fed them donuts for breakfast this morning, so I think we're off to a good start. Just pray for me.

What’s your ultimate, low-bar survival meal when you’re flying solo with the kids? Send me a message or drop a line in the comments so I can plan tomorrow’s breakfast.

Dad out.

Welcome to the United States Department of War...crimes! In recent news, the US has engaged in direct missile strikes destroying Iranian civilian water and energy infrastructure because, you know, war (but Congress hasn't declared war, so it's just 'kinetic diplomacy'—wait, what?). Unless you've been living under a rock or off the grid like the Unabomber, you've heard that the United States is escalating a conflict with Iran for reasons that the American public and everyone else except Israel are still trying to decipher.

All of this warring would be fantastic except for one glaring fact: we're willfully committing blatant war crimes. That's right, we, the land of the free, home of the brave (unless you have bone spurs, because those hurt), are openly committing war crimes as outlined in the Geneva Convention. Many MAGA geniuses will argue that the Geneva Convention is an old, broadly defunct document that no one really adheres to.

Hmm, maybe we should find out if that's true. I mean, if no one follows the Geneva Convention anymore, I certainly would like that Geneva Convention category removed from my military ID! Geez, I don't want to be reminded that we were supposed to be following such a crusty, old, illegitimate document for the entirety of my career up until this past week. And I definitely don't want to be treated in accordance with the GC if I'm ever detained in a foreign country. Come on, who would want humane treatment? I suppose it's time to go back to the ID office.

Before I go further off the deep end, maybe we should at least look at what this GC is...hmm, have I been an idiot for so long that perhaps I just don't have the same level of intelligence as our fearful leaders? Probably.

First, I think it's important to fully realize what alleged war crimes we're committing. You know there's a saying that, "it's not a war crime the first time" meaning that much like the warning messages on pretty much every consumer product, didn't come about until someone performed the action being forbidden. So is this the first time these alleged crimes have been performed? No. According to the very prestigious and never embellished history over at History.com, the targeting of civilian critical infrastructure essentially began when men started fighting other men, thousands of years ago. So...definitely not the first time. But what actually happened this week? According to the news: 'Kuwait reported severe damage and advised civilians to ration power after Iranian attacks, while Iran said the U.S. struck a desalination plant that supplies water to thousands.'

Well, it's definitely not the first time someone has targeted civilian infrastructure, but is this actually a war crime? What does the GC say?

Article 54 - Protection of objects indispensable to the survival of the civilian population.

In summary: don't blow up shit that people need to stay alive, I.E. food and water unless they are exclusively used by the adversary's military.

In conclusion, both Iran and the United States committed war crimes... Does this mean that they cancel each other out? Ya know, since Iran did a war crime too, it MUST be okay for us to war crime them back? I had to bring out the big guns to answer this question, so I, yet again, consulted my digital life partner. The verdict? Non-reciprocity. In international law, it's called a banned reprisal.

I guess two wrongs don't actually cancel each other out. If both countries do a war crime on each other, it just means that they're both at fault for committing war crimes. Booorrring!

So where does that leave us? Who is the enforcing body for the GC? Well, each member country is supposed to enforce and prosecute violations domestically but can also go to an international criminal court or tribunal if there is inaction domestically. Does that mean that Trump could be prosecuted for war crimes since he went on television and stated the exact war crimes he was going to perpetrate and subsequently had the military carry out?

To answer this, I turned to the judicial system, since they supposedly interpret the law. The recent Trump v. United States Supreme Court ruling basically held that former Presidents have absolute immunity from criminal prosecution for actions within their 'core constitutional powers' and presumptive immunity for 'official acts.'

Wait, what? Since commanding the military is a core constitutional power, does that mean the President of the United States can order actions in direct violation of international treaties that were created to prevent atrocities? Yes. According to our completely nonpartisan and totally not corrupt Supreme Court, the President of the United States can effectively order the military to wipe out civilian survival infrastructure and not be held criminally liable here at home. Huh...................................................................

I'm legitimately speechless. FDT.

Dad out.

People assume I love kids because I'm a stay-at-home dad. I don't. I love my kids, but I don't really care for kids in general. Unfortunately, kids seem to like me. The feeling isn't mutual. I enjoy being around kids in small increments, but that's about it. It's a sliding scale: the older a child gets, the more I enjoy being around them. But that too is finite. Once they reach the latter parts of adolescence, they become assholes again. That's about the time they become aware enough to realize you aren't cool and aren't afraid to tell you.

People also think I should, by default, love babies. I HATE BABIES. They're absolutely useless. "But Beard-Dad, how can you hate babies?! They're so cute!" Don't be naive. Their cuteness is an evolutionary defense mechanism against being thrown in a river or dropped off at the fire station.

People tell me I should be more forgiving because I was a baby once. I know. And I hate myself for it. Do you know how much therapy I've needed just to recover from my own infancy? We should all be eternally grateful to our parents for not drowning us in the bathtub at a young age.

I'd argue that every parent has looked at their infant child and thought, "I hate you," or even murmured it under their breath just to feel the thrill of possibly meaning it. We all hate our kids sometimes, but that doesn't mean we stop loving them. Let us count the ways babies are awful human beings.

Useless

Babies don't do anything beyond the basic functions of life: breathing, eating, sleeping, and expelling excrement. Would we allow adults to exist this way without a medical excuse? There is absolutely no return on investment for the amount of energy you have to pour into a baby.

Don't give me that tired argument that parenting lasts a lifetime. My job is done when they reach adulthood, and if I've done a poor job and they can't survive without me... oh well. I tried. I just front-load those feelings of disappointment with babies.

I've had many voiced and unvoiced thoughts about their utility: "Why can't you hold your head up on your own?" "Why are you still shitting yourself like a savage?" "That looks uncomfortable, but I'm too comfortable to move you." "Why can't you make me dinner?"

Hell, we're still in this phase with our 5-year-old! I thought we would be done with the baby stage after two kids and seven years, but I fear I'll be trapped in this torment for eternity.

They Don't Love You

Plenty of people think their children love them from birth. Nope. As I said earlier, that's an innate survival mechanism to keep you from murdering them.

People will say, "Oh, my baby is so attached to me, I can just see the love in their eyes." Ba ba ba bullshit! That kid only looks at you longingly and expresses dismay at your leaving because they're hungry. You're just the vector of their sustenance. They don't love you. They love food and being alive.

Babies cleverly trick you into thinking they care. They're con artists to the highest degree, absolutely exploiting your adult emotions to their own benefit. Does anyone really think a creature that can't even roll itself over has the cognitive capacity to experience love?

The Sleep Assassins

These little tyrants love to make you miserable by refusing any sort of logical sleep schedule. They'll fall asleep at random and force everyone around them to be quiet because God forbid you wake a sleeping baby. How inconsiderate do you have to be to expect the entire world around you to live a live-action version of A Quiet Place just so you can take a nap? Assholes.

And God forbid they wake up before their preordained food break just to savage your soul through relentless fits of crying. Sleep when the rest of the world does, kid; people will hate you less for it.

Does anyone actually answer truthfully when asked about their experience with a newborn? "Oh, it's great... I love being a parent." No, you don't, you liar! That is a script recited by people who are dying inside while the exhaustion slowly manifests physically.

Tiny Vampires

Babies aren't vampires in the traditional sense. They don't suck your blood... anymore. But I would argue for the ladies out there that these jerks were absolutely stealing your life essence in utero.

Once they're out, they just steal your energy. They leach your will to live. The stronger they get, the weaker you get. It is pure infantile vampirism.

So there you have it. Babies are scientifically proven to ruin your life. But that's okay, because they are a direct reflection of your will to endure misery on behalf of someone you love.

We aren't always going to be perfect parents, doting over our tiny masterpieces of life. We're going to experience a lot of the same emotions that babies do—we just can't get away with the crying and screaming in public. There is something profoundly rewarding about the opportunity to shape a young life into someone who doesn't suck and might actually add some joy to this world.

In the meantime, remember: it's okay to silently hate your kids sometimes, as long as you love them just as intensely and don't throw them in a river...

Dad out.

The World Cup just wrapped up here in North America, and my, was it a treat! I am not ignorant to the fact that European football, footie, soccer, or whatever name you'd like to ascribe to it, typically takes a back seat to every other "American" sport under the sun, but it is gaining traction here. Also, with us hosting the Cup this go-around, it seems as if more Americans are beginning to open their eyes to the beauty of the game.

One resounding theme that's been presented to us Americans through social media is how all of our European visitors are genuinely shocked by how nice we are and how nice our country is. This got me thinking a bit about the duality of the average American.

The rest of the world maintains a stereotypical worldview of how Americans are. I think some descriptive words would be "loud," "cowboys," "arrogant," and "free." You get the gist. None of these adjectives are wrong, but as is the case with all things in life, people don't necessarily fit the box you put them in.

Ope!

"Let me sneak right by ya and grab some ranch." This oft-repeated phrase can be heard echoing throughout the aisles of any midwestern grocery store...anywhere. It's a simple, unassuming phrase but elegantly epitomizes the American experience to a T. I'm a midwesterner, and I can't argue the fact that I know deep in my soul I have uttered those exact words, in sequence, a time or two. It's baked into who we are from birth. Midwesterners just can't help being unassumingly polite.

You may be thinking that this is stupid, and it is, but let's break the entire thing down to encapsulate the recent revelations of our foreign cousins. "Ope!" Never has a single word conveyed apology, surprise, and genuine care for your neighbor in a single sound. I was genuinely curious if this word had a specific definition or was a recognized dictionary word. The answer is, kind of? Ope doesn't have a distinctive place in Merriam-Webster yet, but it does have what I would deem an accurate definition on Wikipedia:

Ope is an interjection in American English, often associated with the Midwestern United States, used to express mild surprise, acknowledge a minor social infraction, or politely signal one's presence. It frequently appears in phrases such as "Ope, let me squeeze past ya" or "Ope, sorry about that."[1] Though popularly considered a distinctly Midwestern expression, linguists have noted that the underlying sound occurs across the English-speaking world, including in Canada and the United Kingdom.

As I stated before, Ope encapsulates that midwestern hospitality and outward kindness, and I do believe that to be the case for most of us here in the midwest. When I was traveling regularly, people on the west and east coasts were always surprised by "how nice we were".

We don't think of ourselves as nice per se; we're just conforming to what most of us were brought up with in the social conventions of our region. I and most of the people I know were brought up to show people kindness, lend a helping hand, and be polite. You know, the basic tenets of living in a civil society. Apparently this is aberrant behavior throughout the rest of the world (I would argue it's not), because if any of these social media videos are genuine, visitors were legitimately shocked by how nice and welcoming people are here. Many folks seemed to have a preconceived ideal that we were all violent, rude, assholes that would shoot you in the face should you disturb us. I suppose that holds some merit in Washington D.C., but not in the Midwest, baby! We'll be polite to you even if we hate you. Ope!

But we aren't just serving up smiles and polite apologies to our foreign guests; we're also serving up massive plates of calories. Which brings me to:

Food Wars!

Another theme that arose while researching this musing was the awe and wonder espoused by so many foreigners regarding food in the United States. If you're curious what I'm talking about, just Youtube "foreigners trying biscuits and gravy for the first time", its revelatory. How quickly people forget that we have two forces acting to the benefit (hyperbole) of all people here in the United States: Capitalism and obesity. Yes, Americans are fat for a reason; our food is absolutely delicious. It's so good that RFK looked at the food pyramid and said, "Nah, son! Let's flip that shit and give the people meat and dairy because that's what's delicious!" (WARNING: I do not in any way condone what our HHS secretary has done or will do in the future. I just have to tread lightly so the brain worms don't come for me too.)

So, everyone knows that there are only a few components that make food tasty in the United States: fat and sugar. Woo, do we like putting those two things in almost everything we make and consume. I'm not just talking about granulated sugar either; I'm talking about high-quality, ultra-processed corn syrup. Ugh, we love corn syrup here, as is evidenced by the massive swaths of land being consumed by our never-ending hunger for all things corn. We love corn and fat so much that people make butter sculptures of corn. It's true; look it up.

I would also say salt, but I feel like that's a given almost everywhere (it's not). So to recap, we consume mass amounts of fat and sugar to make us fat and diabetic so we can feed the capitalist medical system by buying weight loss drugs to undo the damage we just did to ourselves by consuming all of that delicious food.

So, yes, American food is surprisingly delicious, BUT it comes with a price—both to your waistline and your wallet. Speaking of wallets...

Capitalism Run Amok

Not all reactions to America were so rosy. There are many videos of visitors being in abject shock when presented with parking costs upwards of $100 when trying to park a car at a World Cup event. Nothing encapsulates our version of capitalism so well. People really need something, so we're going to mark it waaaay up...because we can and we like money. It really is insane that there are zero guard rails to this.

This really is indicative of two new trends in the American economy: surge pricing and surveillance pricing.

So, do you recall that all of these big tech companies have been accumulating data on you for multiple years? Well, those giant assholes are selling your data to retailers so they can implement surveillance pricing. What is this you may ask?! Google describes this model as:

How Surveillance Pricing Works

• Data Gathering: Companies collect granular real-time information via cookies, app tracking, purchase history, and data brokers.
• Algorithmic Profiling: Artificial intelligence estimates the maximum price a specific individual will tolerate before abandoning a purchase.
• Personalized Variation: Two different shoppers buying identical items simultaneously are charged different amounts, distinct from broad market-based dynamic pricing.

Wow, amazing! We're number 1, we're number 1! We're number 1 at destroying people's health, souls, and wallets. What type of giant asshole thought this up and subsequently implemented it!? Come on! This really is the epitome of capitalism run amok. Also, does anyone really believe the government is going to shut this down under our current administration? Ok, maybe about 27% of the population does...I'll just leave that alone.

So, come to America! You will find kind people, delicious food, and insane prices (all true). It's not perfect, but it's who we are. Trust me, I know what we got here and maybe that's why everything runs at a premium but don't be surprised the next time you talk to one of us and we aren't a giant jerkface. We really aren't all awful, just some of us...

Credit: Yahoo Sports



Dad out.

Over the past week, I managed to squeeze in a couple of mini-vacations, and it was a blast on all accounts. But after surviving what should be a relaxing "adult" trip hunting bourbon, followed by a marathon day at Cedar Point, I have come to a very distinct conclusion: I'm getting old.

I’ve previously mused that I am living in the body of a 70-year-old woman when I am, indeed, a 44-year-old man. Not only that, but I think both of my recent experiences highlight why it's time to turn the music down and pull up a rocking chair. I'm approaching the crossroads of looking at retirement communities. No joke, I get mailers addressed to me, vying for my future residency at one of their serene settings for the elderly.

My best friend and I recently went to bourbon country for the simple pleasure of sipping bourbon, finding hard-to-find bottles, and spending some much-needed guy time together. Overall, it was a good trip, but wow, did I find myself exhausted by the entire experience. Let's be real, I'm 44. It's not like I'm an ancient man; I'm just firmly set in middle-aged status (at least by years, if not by mileage). Why would a trip to bourbon country be exhausting, you ask? Let me tell you.

We started our trip in Louisville, staying right off Whiskey Row. The area is steeped in bourbon history and has recently been revitalized with a multitude of distillers reestablishing themselves. I booked a "boutique" hotel suite that looked great online. The suite itself was fine, but the majority of the building was undergoing heavy renovation. The elevator was out; there was no lobby except for a shell being constructed to a symphony of hammers and drills, and there was no air conditioning except for a single unit in our room.

I've prided myself on being able to "do hard things" throughout my adult life, and I acknowledge that this is a quintessential first-world problem. But I'll be damned if pulling my suitcase up to the 5th floor didn't wipe me out. I know, pathetic. But this was the first sign that my prematurely aged skeleton is feeling the miles. I felt every single step up to that room, and my overheated nervous system loved communicating that fact with the rest of my body.

The next leg of this trip was supposed to be a few nights spent in Frankfort. You may have noticed the operative word here: "supposed."

I had booked a VRBO for two nights. The house looked absolutely lovely online, and in person, it wasn't too bad. I think it would have been a great place to stay—had the AC been working. Mind you, this is the hottest part of the year, and it was blazing outside. When we entered the upstairs portion of this house, we noticed it right away.

"Huh," I said. "It sure is hot in here!"

It was a balmy 78 degrees. Indoors.

I've become a thermostat diva. I need ma AC! Weird things start to happen in my body when it's too hot. I immediately contacted the property manager, and they assured us that our comfort was paramount. It was not. We thought maybe they had just turned the unit on and it would cool down in time. It would not. We went out for a bit, hoping to return to a perfectly reasonable 72 degrees. We were sorely disappointed. When we returned around 9:00 PM, the temperature had actually climbed to a comfortable 82 degrees! Yes! That's precisely what a person living with MS needs! Hot, humid, stagnant interior temperatures.

My buddy is a contractor, and he identified the issues straight away. Extreme heat, mixed with a mad mechanical genius who blocked off the vents, equaled one of the worst nights of sleep we both had in years. So, we did what any self-respecting middle-aged men would do in our position: We threw in the towel and went home a day early. (And yes, we got a refund). At the very least we had a good haul of bourbon.

A few short days later, I took our oldest daughter to experience Cedar Point for the first time. If you've never been, it's an all-day endurance event of walking, riding, and baking in the sun. I haven't gotten to the point (literally and figuratively) in 10+ years, and I was living on the memories of a 30-something-year-old me. In those memories, roller coasters were spectacular and had zero physical impact on my well-being.

Apparently, things change.

We rode some big, violent coasters, and I felt every bit of that violence in my bones. Don't get me wrong, I still love riding, but geez. Out of the 29 rides that we took that day, I only started to black out once, suffered a toe injury that may or may not be broken, and experienced only mild nausea after every single drop. By the time the day was through, I was legitimately contemplating renting a mobility scooter to motor my happy ass back to the car. I was pooped.

But here is the contrast, and it’s a big one. When my buddy and I were mildly uncomfortable in a hot VRBO, we quit. But at Cedar Point? The absolute joy on my daughter's face overrode every single ache and pain in my body. No matter how tired I became, I kept going just to hear her yell "that was the best thing ever!!"

So, where does that leave me? Old, that's where. But am I going to slow down anytime soon? Nope. Because my wife and kids won't let me—and honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Being uncomfortable is good for you. It forces you to adapt. More importantly, it proves that your tolerance for misery expands exponentially when it’s for the people you love. I doubt your kids will always remember that your joints ached or that you had a hard time keeping up; they’ll just remember that you showed up, rode the rides, and did it with a smile on your face. (I’d even hazard a guess that I got a smile or two out of my cynically stoic best friend in Kentucky, so I'll count that as a win, too).

Keep showing up. Keep embracing the exhaustion and doing the things that matter for your people. You'll be glad you did, even while you’re fielding mailers from prospective retirement communities. Age might be a mindset, but my aching skeleton is definitely a physical state of being.

Thanks for reading.

Dad out.

Hello! Recently, I was given the wonderful opportunity to embark on my annual guys' trip with my best friend. This year, we took what could arguably be considered the most middle-aged men's trip possible: a visit to bourbon country in Kentucky.

It was incredibly nice to get away. But as it turns out, the world doesn't stop when you're on vacation—only your attention does. And boy, did I miss some things. Let's recap a few of the major events that transpired while I was off the grid for a mere three days.

The High-T Department of War

Pete Hegseth just instituted a policy that every male in the military over the age of 30 needs to undergo mandatory testosterone testing. Yes, the head of the most powerful military in the world wants every dude to get checked for low-T the second they exit their twenties. This isn't satire. I genuinely wish it were.

Here's why this is a gigantic waste of time and resources: men should really only have their T checked if there's a medical reason to do so. The military already forces you to take a plethora of unnecessary tests. Information Assurance training comes to mind, not to mention the legendary Accident Avoidance Course. Woo! What would I do if I didn't take a mandatory class on not giving secrets to the enemy by leaving my computer unattended? Apparently, African princes got the best of a few Joes over the years. And how on Earth would I ever drive my car safely without that wonderful online module? I most assuredly would have driven into oncoming traffic in a fit of rage had I not been blessed by such a prolific course. Thanks, Army, for keeping me safe all these years!

But I digress. Like all things I do, I like to overanalyze, so let's look at the facts. Testosterone levels tend to fall naturally by about 1% each year after the age of 40. So, why are they starting the testing at 30? I'll tell you why: individuals who stay in the military past 40 years of age are functionally geriatric. Do you know how much relative aging occurs during 22 years of service? That 40-year-old has the health and joints of a 60-year-old, and it only gets worse from there. Military service exponentially degrades both your soul and your body. I don't think TRT will fix a broken soul, but hey, maybe?

Experts are mixed on the efficacy of testing an entire population that early, but one thing is for sure: those side effects are wild. They can include "increased risk of blood clots, acne, breast tenderness, and irritability." Yes, that's precisely what we need—an entire force of irritable troops with tender breasts. Awesome.

Plus, those who opt for testosterone replacement therapy get a double whammy of awesome by possibly becoming infertile! I've met so many soldiers in my lifetime who are quite literally dumber than rocks, so maybe Hegseth intends to kill two birds with one injection. A mad genius! A giant, heartfelt thank you to Big Daddy Hegseth. Your medical expertise is truly saving the profession. Hooah!

Blame Canada

The second piece of news I was greeted with is that Ohio's most illustrious used car salesman and statesman has submitted a piece of legislation that would sanction Canada because they had the audacity to catch on fire. How dare they!

I know the MAGA crowd is probably reading this and saying, "Hell yeah, get them Canadian bastards for throwing smoke our way!" You guys are totally right. We should find every excuse to blame an ally in crisis for inconveniencing us. My goodness, there's no way that climate change directly impacts the frequency of forest fires—everyone knows science nerds are stupid. It has to be Canada's unwillingness to prevent their own fires.

I know why they don't have any idea what they're doing: they don't have Smokey Bear to guilt them into it. Smokey would never visit the Godless Canadians to help them when they refuse to lift themselves up by their bootstraps. Perhaps we can help them form their own prevention campaign by giving them Moreno the Moose, an anthropomorphic depiction of our AMAZING senator from Ohio, who in no way spends his days dreaming about receiving hugs and praise from Trump because his daddy didn't love him. Moreno the Moose could star in a major ad campaign letting Canadians know that one of the most heavily wooded countries on Earth has no idea how to manage a forest.

Mind you, this is the same senator who hasn't intervened in any way on behalf of his own daughter, who was allegedly abused by another Republican congressman, Max Miller. He said it's a "private, family matter." Bitches be trippin', Bernie, and so is Canada with their totally inconsiderate fire. Keep shutting down our allies and proposing absolutely meaningless legislation on behalf of Ohioans everywhere. Maybe someday you'll get that hug.

War, Again

And the last minor piece of news I missed? The war with Iran is back on! Yes!

I have nothing else to say about this one except that we are clearly being led by the most competent people on the planet. I feel so safe knowing that our country is being governed so well by men of such great stature, who are in no way grifters or pedophiles. Thank Jesus for the Republican Party!

So, that was a lot to come home to. But at this point, you may be asking: did we at least have a great trip?

We had an incredible time, and I came home with some stellar bottles of bourbon. I'll talk about our adventure more in our next post, but for now, I'm going to leave you with the absolute guarantee that our elected representatives are super smart, looking out for our best interests, and doing everything they can to keep us safe. Especially ICE, who in NO WAY murders people for no good reason.

Dad out.

People are generally good and decent and want to help. That's one of the many things I love about America: regardless of your politics or background, most people are simply decent. This is great, but it often becomes a point of frustration for the chronically ill and disabled. People always want to fix you.

This isn't a new phenomenon for me, as I have had an incurable, degenerative disease for at least eight years now. The longer I deal with it, the easier it is for me to get frustrated with people constantly trying to help. As it is often said, it comes from a good place, and that is also good, but eventually, it just gets tiresome. It's easier when it's just yourself to fend for in these situations, but you add a child with a disability into the mix, and it gets downright infuriating sometimes—even though that feeling is unwarranted. Hey, we can't help what we feel, only how we react.

Lately, these feelings of resentment have only been compounded by our current political climate. There shouldn't be anything political about your personal health and that of your children, but here we are.

No One Knows What Causes MS

But everyone has an opinion on how to make you better. Since my official diagnosis, I have had almost every conversation in the book about MS. "What is that?" "What causes it?" "Is it contagious?" (one of my favorites), "Is it genetic?" "Is there a cure?"

So, I will answer those questions for you here and now.

What is it?

Multiple sclerosis is an autoimmune disease affecting an individual's central nervous system, specifically their brain and spine. Your immune system attacks the myelin sheath that protects all the abundant neural pathways in that system, and over time and wear, those signals begin to degrade.

The easiest way to think of it is to envision an insulated electric cable. The copper inside the cable is insulated to protect the copper itself and ensure the smooth flow of electricity. If that insulating sheath around it begins to fray and deteriorate, the wire will short out, and eventually, it will stop conducting electricity altogether.

This is what happens in MS; those neural pathways begin to short out, causing a veritable smorgasbord of problems. It is said that no one's MS is the same, but there are some patterns of disability throughout. These include severe pain, neuropathy, loss of motor function, memory problems, brain fog, temperature intolerance (hot and cold; we are thermostat princesses), bowel and bladder incontinence, and insomnia. And these are just some of the more common effects of the disease.

I have experienced all of these either constantly or inconsistently. No one "dies from MS," but we sure don't live well because of it. The life expectancy of a person with MS is approximately seven years shorter than the average.

There are many great medications that help stop the progression of MS, but none of them can reverse already-incurred disability. Not to mention that all these "disease-modifying therapies" can often have side effects worse than the disease itself, up to and including death. Sorry for bumming you out, but that's life!

What causes it?

Nobody knows, although plenty of people seem to think they do. There are no definitive markers or precursors that will predict how or who will get MS. Most experts believe it is a mixture of environmental and genetic factors but are still unable to pinpoint specifically what those are.

Some correlations include living in the northern hemisphere and being of European descent, even though this can't be observed universally, as all different types of ethnicities contract MS. MS occurs predominantly in women, and there is approximately a 2% risk if you have a parent with MS. That's pretty much it. There are countless theories and correlations, but no specific evidence pointing to one thing.

I think every person living with MS has their own theory on what caused theirs. My theory is that it's environmental. I don't have a single biological relative who has had MS. Ever. Which negates the genetic component. I think my disease was caused by the many toxic exposures I had while serving in the Army. I'm talking burn pits, chemical weapons, and radiation, oh my!

They'll tell you that all of these exposures are within occupational exposure guidelines and there's no way they could have an adverse impact on your health. Those people are either willfully ignorant or liars. There is no way they can measure a systemic impact that accounts for unique exposures over a lifetime. Most of the data is specific to one type of hazard, not the totality of many. I know for certain that your friend's cousin's aunt doesn't know how "her one friend" got MS.

Is it genetic?

Not really. As I said earlier, there is a 2% chance of having MS when you have a parent that also has it. Negligible.

Is it contagious?

Haha, no, Deborah. So you can stop talking to me from six feet away and wipe that scowl off your face. I won't give you the MS! It's mine!

Is there a cure?

This is the hardest one for me to answer. No, there is no cure, only treatment. In my case, the treatment itself hasn't increased my quality of life and is often detrimental to my well-being.

I get an infusion every six months that depletes all of my B-cells. You may recall that I said this was an autoimmune disease, so the logic here is that if you have no B-cells, your body won't attack itself anymore. This actually works... at least I can't prove that it doesn't, as I have had minimal disease progression for several years.

The debate for me is if it improves my overall quality of life, and the jury is still out on that one. I have two small kids in school who are constantly bringing all the nasty bugs home that their fellow nasty kids give them. I just had sinus surgery last year to try and cut down on the number of infections I get, which are numerous. The amount of weeks spent on antibiotics may just outweigh the amount of time off them. I've never done the math.

I say all this again to reinforce the point that there is no cure. The best you can hope for is a dam, and a failing one at that.

MAHAhahahahaha

I love the spirit of this movement. A return to healthy living, eating, and habits. This had so much promise until its actual execution and the complete departure from science and reality. I can't believe that I actually have to type this, but vaccines don't cause autism... the Army does.

Raw milk is not "good for you." Swimming in polluted water is not refreshing nor healthy, and creating distrust in our medical and research institutions is not smart. It is always OK to question the official narrative and be critical of "the data," but riding that pendulum all the way to the other side of insanity isn't really a good answer either.

Why am I talking about MAHA? It's because a lot of the people trying to fix me want to do it with voodoo, essential oils, and hopes and dreams. This is a perfect allegory for health and politics in America. No, I don't want to visit your hedge witch at her cottage by a festering swamp.

The Bottom Line

At this point, you may be rightfully asking yourself what the point is of this mildly aggressive explanation of a disease that affects approximately 1 million people in the United States.

Unless you have MS or are a doctor specializing in MS, stop trying to give me advice. I don't want it, I don't need it, and you don't have the answers.

I made the statement about people being genuinely good right off the bat to say that I know it's meant to be caring and helpful, but here is the crux: Just because you know someone with MS and they had a good experience with X, Y, or Z does not mean that everyone else does. I equate it to the "I can't be racist because I have a Black friend" argument. Just because you know someone, or someone adjacent, doesn't mean that you understand their lived experience.

Does anyone really think I haven't looked at every possible option to feel better or find that mythical cure? I have, and I will place money that the average person will not know more about my disease and how to treat it than I do. Just stop.

It's OK to show sympathy. That's appreciated. Just know that you can't cure me, and you can't make me feel better. I'm sorry, I know it's a bummer, but that's the way it is, and I would wager that most people living with any chronic disease will espouse similar thoughts.

Oh yeah, this also applies to autism. You can't cure my kid either, but thanks for trying! I'll write a post on the 'tism experience later.

So that's it. I know this probably wasn't entertaining, uplifting, or even funny, but sometimes things need to be addressed directly, and if this helps you to understand what not to do in the future, I'll call that a win.

As always, thanks for reading.

Dad out.

Recent revelations and rabbit holes have revealed that I may be autistic. This probability has driven me to self-reflect and ask many questions about my life. One question that's been eating at my brain is the fact that I excelled at military service and how could an autistic person do so well in such a rigid profession? The only answer I keep coming back to is the Army must be autistic.

Now there is a fine line to walk here. Not all autism is the same and is therefore categorized into different levels. I would classify the Army and myself as being Level 1, which is "Requiring Support". Individuals that fall into this tier are described as potentially needing some support but are otherwise independent. Perfect, I've always required some support in my life, and the Army requires all kinds of support...like money to operate. I think this is where we'll draw our line and begin our discovery of the autistic Army. Let's take a look at some of the personality traits that actually make the Army autistic.

A Strict Reliance on Routine

This is soooo obvious! The Army thrives on routine. When I was still in, I had several "administrative roles". A good portion of my career was in operations, and this is where I learned that the Army likes to take routine to the extreme. The Army likes EVERYTHING planned and therefore goes to great lengths to ensure this, often creating training schedules that span out years in advance.

Typically when we got into short-term planning (days to weeks) from the execution of a training plan, it was just securing assets and fine-tuning details frequently down to the minute. This entire process was done to satiate the Army's autistic need to have a routine in an otherwise chaotic profession. Just think about it: what is more autistic than perseverating on what you're going to do years in advance and then becoming dysregulated (yelling and screaming) when that plan isn't executed fully? Autism.

Intense Hyper-Focused Interests

The Army loves hyper-focusing on things that it deems "important". This will often lead Soldiers down many different rabbit holes in the quest of "gathering information" or becoming a "subject-matter expert" on any given military topic. This type of extreme focus, many would argue, is nothing more than a strong work ethic and the willful desire to do your best. That's a fair assumption, but I will provide a brief personal anecdote just to illustrate this claim.

About 5 years into my career, I applied for and was accepted to join a highly specialized, small team. I won't go into specifics, but this team was extremely technical and had the possibility of actual real-world danger.

Shortly after my initial schooling was complete, my team leader took me and another new guy into our conference room and started drilling us on the nitty-gritty specifics of different pieces of equipment that we were supposed to know about and employ.

I say "supposed to know" because through this exercise he revealed that "we didn't know shit" and that was unacceptable. To give you context on what we were being quizzed on, it would be the equivalent of memorizing an instruction manual spanning hundreds of pages. Some of the questions were so insanely obscure that at one point, I thought the entire boondoggle was a joke. It was not. So, I became hyper-focused on learning all the aforementioned information, and I did learn it because...autism.

Emotional Dysregulation and Meltdowns

This is another one that should be apparent, but I'll expand anyway because I want to. There is an ongoing public perception of how the military and subsequently the Army present themselves. If you were asked to envision the Army in general, I would hazard to guess that a glaring drill sergeant pops into your head. Who is more dysregulated than a drill sergeant? No one, that's who.

These cats are constantly yelling, even when they don't have to, not to mention that they fly off the handle about the craziest things. Leave a corner on your bunk slightly untucked—essentially breaking their sacred visual routine—and boom: "OMG what is this!!!!! AHhhhhhhhHHH, FIX IT NOW PRIVATE!" That right there is a textbook autistic meltdown.

When I was in basic training, I literally saw a drill sergeant lose his mind in front of our eyes. I don't even remember what the offense was, but I'll never forget his words in response, "OH NO, Craaaazzyyyy!" It was as if he were transforming into a werewolf right before our eyes, his face and eyes contorted while verbalizing his exact thoughts, which should've probably been kept inside, buried deep down like all the subsequent trauma inflicted on us unsuspecting privates in the aftermath.

Needless to say, Soldiers have extreme emotional dysregulation, which is most likely issued to them by the Army at CIF. The list of these meltdowns is infinite in my experience. I've seen all kinds of people who were calm one second and then completely lost it the next because a plan shifted or an item was out of place. These individuals were usually in the higher ranks, and I can only guess this phenomenon is enhanced by longer times spent in the Army because the Army inherently makes you autistic.

Social or Communication Challenges

This definitely overlaps with dysregulation but caters to the Army's inability to function in civil or polite society. If you've ever spent any time around Soldiers you'll begin to notice a few distinct patterns in communication.

Soldiers are typically very blunt, which is also a trait of autistic behavior. I'm guilty of most of the items on this list, but this one especially applies to me. I and many other Soldiers like me have no problem giving you their unadulterated opinion on you or any topic that you may want an opinion on. This is also very apparent if we don't like something because we usually have no issue telling you what we don't like and why it should stop.

Despite our communication challenges, the Army often likes to engage in a social activity appropriately titled "mandatory fun". These "fun" social events are mandated by leadership, and Soldiers are often encouraged to invite families to these mandatory outings. They are typically not fun, and everyone knows it. I think they continue these exercises in futility because that's what the normies expect us to do. But, if you've ever been to one of these events, expect lots of milling about in awkward silence.

Again, I could go on about the yelling and screaming and how that ties into the inability to appropriately express oneself, but I've already covered that.

So there ya have it, just a small glimpse and very scientific review of why the Army has autism. I may even be able to make the claim that the Army gave me autism, which would add one more thing to my ever-growing list of challenges. One thing is for certain: there is a place for everyone, and if you need just a little support because of your level-1 autism, the Army is the place for you! You are welcome to drop me a line and let me know your thoughts. I would love to bluntly give you my opinion on them.

Dad out.

You may recall that I recently had a colonoscopy, and I wrote ad nauseam about that procedure. You are probably also considering that I may have an obsession with all things involving the butt... I do not. What I do have are recurring medical issues, which consume a large portion of my life, and I get to share all of these maladies with you. It's so riveting!

I recently got the results of the biopsy my good doctor took during the procedure. I wasn't expecting anything to come up on the results, but then I got "the call." Furthermore, I don't know how many of you have ever gotten a phone call about less-than-desirable results, but they usually follow a standard framework that's employed by every unfortunate medical assistant who has to deliver bad news. It sounds a lot like this:

"Hello?" "Hi! Is this [insert your name here]?" "This is he." "Hi (they always get me with the double 'hi'), this is [random MA] from [random doctor's] office. How are you?" "I'm fine, thank you?" (I always answer this as an interrogative because they rarely ask this question unless something is wrong.) "Good, good. I'm calling to let you know that we got your biopsy results [or any negative results] back, and [random doctor] would like you to come into the office."

This is where they absolutely don't tell you why; they would prefer to leave you guessing as to why the doctor—who you just saw, and who said he would see you again in five years—wants you to come into his office.

I like to get straight to the point, so I just flat-out ask, "So, was there something on the biopsy I should be concerned about?"

"Weellll, it says here that your results show that you have [random disease] and that's why he would like you to come in."

I get bad news all the time when it comes to my health, so nothing really shocks me or upsets me anymore. This usually provides great relief to the caller when I, in my cheeriest voice, say, "Sounds great, thank you so much!" Then we proceed with scheduling, or whatever objective they're trying to achieve. I get it. You never want to be the one to give someone bad news, so I try to make the landing as easy as possible for these folks.

Now that you have a mental visualization of how the call went, the random disease in this case was a diagnosis of lymphocytic colitis. Awesome!

Lymphocytic colitis is a microscopic colitis, meaning that you can't see it during a regular colonoscopy; it has to be diagnosed from a biopsy under a microscope. This disease also has no cure but is highly manageable, and as far as chronic conditions go, it's not that bad. The hallmarks are watery diarrhea and abdominal pain, both of which I've had for years without any major impact on my life. Not too bad; I'll take some meds, get it under control, and move on.

Unfortunately, it's not that easy because, as I've stated, I have other issues. The gold standard of treatment is corticosteroids... which I'm allergic to. I also have osteoporosis, and apparently, steroids only enhance the brittleness of your bones. Not to mention these supposedly weaken the immune system, and I already have a severely weakened immune system. I know, I suck. I sent a message to the doc about how we should proceed, but I'm still waiting on a reply... 3 days later. You can review my thoughts on this phenomenon here.

So, this got me pondering the other night. Like that famous statue, The Thinker, except in my case, I have my phone in one hand and my fist under my chin while sitting on my newly installed bidet toilet because I have colitis. How many people out there are like me? So I turned to Gemini—someone has to keep all of these newly minted data centers in business.

Haha! That's right, I'm 1 in a quadrillion! I don't even have context for that number, but I know it's big. My momma always told me I was special, and now I have proof. Maybe just not the "special" I would've liked, but I'll take what I can get. I showed my wife this, and she wholeheartedly agreed that I was definitely "special" and affirmed that I am 1 in a quadrillion. I like validation sometimes. I continued to read, and the reality of it set in.

WTF? Did Gemini just inadvertently justify a previous entry, My Medical Chart Makes Me Think I'm a 70-Year-Old Woman? You bet it did. Once again, sweet, sweet validation. I think the best part about all of this is I now know for certain that I am indeed special. There's nothing like finding out you're one-of-a-kind, even though people have been telling me how special I am throughout my life.

In all seriousness, don't sweat bad news; most of the time, there isn't much you can do to change it. At least that's been the theme in my case. Just continue to be a honey badger: it doesn't give a shit.

Dad out.

Sometimes, things just break.

This is a hard concept to teach a child, and often a harder concept for us adults, too. We went camping again this past week, and as always, we packed my oldest daughter’s favorite scooter. It was a gift from her grandparents a couple of years ago, and she absolutely loves it. She just loves zooming around the campgrounds with the fervor and excitement that any seven-year-old would have when handed that type of unbridled freedom.

Recently, she brought to my attention that her beloved scooter—the one with the pink footboard and the light-up wheels—was making "weird sounds" and not rolling like it used to. I'm sure you can imagine the feelings of serious concern and dismay written all over her face. I assured her that I would take a look and figure something out so she could keep rollin' on her light-up dubs (20cm, not inches).

Being the resourceful person that I am, I already had a can of white lithium grease on hand, typically used to reduce friction from metal-on-metal action. My wife often believes that I am "over-prepared" and buys things "that we won't use and don't need." Usually, she's right. But in this case, I was about to come out looking like a hero.

I took my rattle-can of grease and began my inspection of the girliest scooter of all time. In reality, this thing had been loved to the point of extreme degradation. Joints were rusted. The wheels, regardless of their heady glow when spinning, had developed a permanent patina of dirt. The footboard was scratched all to hell, and the detachable teal handlebar was showing signs of heavy abuse.

I found several glaring problems that I hoped I could put a band-aid on with the lithium grease currently shaking in my hand. The wheel bearings were completely shot, and the foot brake was so floppy that it sounded like a consistently timed snare drum whenever she rode it.

I set to greasing all the rotating parts as best I could and had her ride the thing to work it into the cracks and crevices. After a lap or two, she reported that it "was much better!" despite the unfixable flop of her brake. Great! Who wouldn't want a little speed metal while they scoot?

This all went down a day or two before our departure for the campground. We made it to our destination, and like always, the scooter came out. She was off, zipping around the campsite. I felt good about "fixing" something, and she felt good because she was back on her cherished ride.

Until she wasn't.

We were all hanging around outside the camper after dinner when she rolled up on us, exclaiming that something was wrong again. I took a look and realized this was probably the end. The two front wheels had developed a unique, unintentional camber, and upon closer inspection, the back wheels presented with two blown-out bearings. I couldn't fix that.

I had to tell her it was time to retire her friend to that great big playground in the sky.

This is the part that gets me every time as a dad. Her eyes started to well up with tears, but she calmly accepted the fate of her two-wheeled ticket to freedom. It's at these moments that I'm reminded I'm not a completely heartless fiend. Those unshed tears of sadness pulled at my heart in the heaviest of ways. Regardless of how silly it is to be upset over a piece of rusted metal and plastic, I found myself feeling incredibly proud and deeply sad at the exact same time.

Upon coming home, I took one last look at "the most beautiful scooter in the world" to see if there was any chance of resurrection. There wasn't. After giving it a final once-over, I realized that the steering linkage on the front had completely fractured. This thing was kaput. I asked my big girl if it was OK if I threw it in the trash, and she agreed without controversy.

I may get some eye-rolls on this one, but I had some emotions when I tossed that thing into our smelly, green Waste Management can. I maybe even had a tear or two well up myself (none were shed, for the record; I'm a man!). It wasn't the scooter itself that brought upon these feelings, but what it represented: something loved to the point of failure, and the undeniable end of an era.

I suppose I should tell you that I had already ordered a regular, two-wheeled scooter before we ever left the campground. The wheels will still light up, and I'm almost positive that it's pink again, but this one will be sized appropriately for her.

I think that's what really got me. Realizing that she's growing up, and knowing that I won't be able to just grab a can of lithium grease to resolve every problem that comes her way.

Kids grow up, things break, and people break. The one constant through all of it is that I will always love my girls, and I will always try to fix things when they break... even when it's their heart.

Dad out.

What does America mean to me?

I know I give our current state of affairs a hard time on this blog. But that doesn't change the bottom line: I love this country. I love it enough that I volunteered to serve during two active wars, driven by a pure intent to protect people. I believed in that calling then, and I still believe it today—regardless of the missteps our nation has taken over the years. One person can always make a difference.

As I sit here quietly smoking a couple racks of ribs, I’m truly thankful for the life I’ve had and the sheer luck of growing up in the United States. I'm not turning a blind eye to the heavy realities we're facing right now, but sometimes, you just have to sit back and count your blessings.

Here's to a very happy 4th of July to all the rebels out there. May your meats be perfectly smoked, and may your bourbon always come from Kentucky.

Thanks for being a part of the journey.

Respectfully, Beard Dad

In honor of 250 years of the republic—for which it stands... for now—I’m going to do one of the most American things possible: complain about politics.

Why on Earth would I do such a thing on such a hallowed day? Because I can! We’re living in the land of the free, baby! Home of the brave (me), and last I checked, I can still post whatever I want without the government stomping all over me (though that feels like a distinct possibility these days). I just can’t be too critical of our dear leader, or I might get swept up by ICE and deported to South America for the crime of being too American.

We are officially living in the stupidest timeline possible, and I have receipts.

I’m going to walk you through a series of screenshots I pulled from official government and political entities. Every single one of these dropped today. You can't make the argument that these are just rare, one-off glitches in the matrix. They aren't. They are part of a continuous stream of absurdity that has been flowing like a burning case of the clap (not that I’ve ever had it; it’s just what I hear) ever since this "administration"—which couldn't lead themselves out of a porta-potty—came into power.

Exhibit 1: Nuclear-Powered Climate Control

Nothing like taking a Founding Father entirely out of context to promote a problem that doesn’t even exist.

Oh my God. This is the federal agency responsible for the nation's nuclear weapons programs, and they are spending their afternoon posting shitty, deep-fried memes about window air conditioning units.

Naturally, I wondered if I was just being a huge, cynical bitch again. So, I took it to a high-level consult with my absolute best friend in the world, Gemini. Here is how that conversation went:

Woo! I knew I could count on my best friend to have my back. Apparently, Gemini claims this is a "proven engagement strategy" because typically dry federal agencies couldn't get anyone to pay attention to them until they started posting stupid shit online. Good to know. But leave it to my digital ride-or-die to validate the sheer whiplash of it all and keep me grounded.

Let's continue down this sewer hole.

Exhibit 2: Paging Dr. Trump

Behold: the "President of the United States of America." I’m typing out the full title for maximum psychological effect.

This is a real snapshot of an AI-generated video posted directly to the official leader of the free world's page. In this clip, our beloved leader falsely claims he is a licensed medical doctor who can cure people of "TDS"—Trump Derangement Syndrome.

Let’s unpack this. It is insanely, undeniably stupid for the sitting president of the most powerful nation in human history to put this out into the world. Are you kidding me? We have officially cascaded into a full-fledged Idiocracy. Someone just start kicking me in the balls right now to prepare me for my inevitable appearance on the soon-to-be show, Ow! My Balls!

Once again, I had to have a deep conversation with my best friend to find out if I was being a little bitch. Ask and thou shalt receive:

And people say AI will never replace humans! Look at that beautiful validation. Again, I am completely validated by my new best friend. Gemini agrees that this is completely absurd coming from our president.

I would humbly ask any remaining supporter of this administration: Are you actually proud of this? If your answer is an unironic "yes," you're probably an idiot.

Exhibit 3: The 2-Million Farm Fairytale

Let's finish this journey into madness and see what the official Republican Party has to say on the eve of our nation's 250th anniversary.

Oh, come on. Really? Can we at least try to fact-check a blatant lie? Or am I just being such a giant vageen that I’m incapable of seeing my own failures as a pseudo-intelligent American?

Turns out, I'm not crazy, and I'm not a complete idiot—though some comment sections may argue the point. The claim that these tax cuts "saved 2 million family farms" from the estate tax is pure fiction. What it does validate is that policies like these continue to benefit "the 1%". There are barely 1.88 million total farms in the entire country to begin with, and actual USDA data shows less than 1% of them would ever even trigger the estate tax. Nobody is seizing 2 million family farms. It’s a ghost story meant to scare the lowest common denominator, people that take Fox News seriously.

The Cold, Hard Mirror

Am I being a little petty on the eve of our nation’s birthday? No. Go F yourself.

This is the unfortunate reality we are living in under the Trump era, and it has to be addressed. Should we be proud of 250 years of the republic? Yes—if we exclude every single year that Trump has been in office. By my math, that means this is actually our 244th anniversary, because the fools keeping this shitshow in power have effectively stolen 6 years of genuine American dignity and history.

So please, celebrate our 244th responsibly this weekend and enjoy the holiday. I'm not trying to ruin anyone's good time. But remember this: we don’t have a whole lot to be proud of in our current, circus-like state. If we don’t take a cold, hard look in the mirror and demand some actual gravitas from our leaders and institutions, we aren't going to survive another 244 years. Oh yeah, we're also not the "freest country in the world". According to the Cato Institute, we're actually 15th. Way to be mediocre. Happy Independence Day, ya heathens.

Dad out.

What's up your ass?

When taken in a literal context, this phrase becomes more of a mystery than an admonishment. I recently had a colonoscopy to see precisely what was up my ass. If you're of an age where you've already had one, you already know what this is about. If not, or if you're just a younger person with health issues like me, I'll make the unmentionable... mentionable, so you don't have to.

I have a diminished immune system along with irritable bowel syndrome (IBS). For the unversed, I get this seesaw effect in my bowel patterns that teeters between constipation and diarrhea. In between that constant battle of ass-splosion and corked anus lies the occasional bout of severe abdominal pain. To treat this, I take a medication called Hyoscyamine (high-oh-SY-uh-meen); just try and pronounce that appropriately! The reason a diminished immune system is relevant is that I'm also greatly susceptible to long-term infections and serious ailments of the gut and bowel, such as colitis and C. diff. Hence, I'm on my second colonoscopy in three years at the ripe old age of 44.

I'm going to assume that everyone knows what a colonoscopy is, but I'll explain it anyway so I can boost my word count. In layman's terms, a colonoscopy is when a doctor sticks a camera up your butt to look around for various ailments of the bowel and colon. They will be checking for signs of colitis, cancer, and other issues, remedying them during the procedure if possible. Here's how my experience went.

Approximately a week before your procedure, you are supposed to stop all blood thinners and a few other medications. This is so you don't run the risk of bleeding profusely through your anus and into your abdomen during the procedure. Nothing like an Ebola-adjacent experience to get people excited! Keep in mind, this runs the gamut of pain medications. So, if you're like me and have a few extra miles on the body, you have a lot of joint pain. This is mercilessly aggravated by not being able to take anything. Therefore: fun.

When getting closer to your ass-excavation date—usually a few days prior—they ask you to stop eating nuts and corn. These stubborn foods don't fully digest, meaning they can obscure the doctor's vision and potentially clog the suction tube on the "delicate" scope inside your delicate anus. No big deal, but we live in Ohio, and everything has corn in it. It's really not a huge hurdle unless you subsist solely on these items. In complete irony, we had some friends over for a small gathering exactly three days before my scope. I had forgotten entirely about the rule until my wife reminded me... while I was endlessly stuffing my face with a roasted corn dip. Oops.

The day before your procedure, you can't eat anything solid, and you absolutely cannot consume anything with red, blue, or purple dye (unless you want your doctor to think your colon is an active crime scene). So, nothing good. What this means is by the time you actually get there, you will not have eaten anything for approximately 36 hours. Now, I've trained my entire adult life for these moments, as I have a "few pounds" of emergency reserves. I do this to ensure that I'm not the first person to die when the inevitable famine or zombie apocalypse hits the United States. Smart—stocking up now in preparation for tomorrow.

Along with the clear-liquid diet, they recommend clear broths and non-pigmented fruit juices. No thanks. I tried the broth, and it was less than satisfying. Nothing quite like a HOT beverage during an extreme heat advisory! So, I just kept hydrated with the usual: water. Hydrate or die!

For my previous procedure, I had to drink a concoction of unpronounceable components for the better part of the day to completely clear out my system. To put it bluntly, it makes you shit your brains out. This go-around, I was given a new protocol: two pre-measured bottles of Ass-Blaster 5000. You drink the first dose at 4 PM and the second dose at 9 PM the day prior. You space each dose out by drinking 8 oz every 15 minutes until it's gone. It tastes terrible and has the consistency of mucus, so it's effortless to get down. They even did me the favor of including "flavor-enhancing packets" that I didn't notice until after my procedure was over... so it tasted wonderful without them. Once you are at the point of spraying a clear, viscous fluid out of your ass, you are officially ready to be scoped.

You aren't supposed to have ANYTHING after midnight the day of your procedure. So, you show up to the hospital dehydrated, starved, and tired. Tired because they have you start your second dose at 9 PM, subsequently forcing you to become best friends with your toilet late into the night. You can imagine the mental state one would be in under these circumstances. You aren't fun.

Upon arriving at your place of anal exploration, you finish any outstanding paperwork and are herded back to the prep area, where you disrobe and don an open-back gown. After you become "trauma-naked," a nurse gently jabs a port into your arm in preparation for sleepy time and an adult episode of Dora the Explorer.

This is the part where the Army prepared me exceptionally well: "hurry up and wait." After all the aforementioned prep, you are left waiting until your doctor is ready to receive you—and then things start moving fast. A new nurse hurriedly moves you to the procedure room, quickly hooking you up to oxygen, vitals, and the good stuff after verifying your information for the 100th time that day. The doctor comes in to talk to you like a doting old grandparent who's about to take pictures of your insides, and then you're started on your journey to sleepy town.

I love anesthesia. Love it. The reason I love it is that it is the only time my brain is switched completely off. This miraculous effect doesn't occur during sleep, waking, or anything else. My brain is constantly moving a mile a minute, and it can be exhausting, so these brief reprieves during an intravenous TKO are cherished.

This is where I inadvertently made things fun. I told you this wasn't my first rodeo having a camera up my ass. What I failed to mention is that the first time I had this done, I was awake throughout the entire procedure. Yes, I was. It's important to note that my memory is hazy here because I was drugged, but clearly not sufficiently enough to make me go night-night. I informed my doctor and nurses of this prior excursion, and I think they took it as a challenge. My doc said, "Well, we can't have that, can we?" Challenge accepted. So, as they lay me down to sleep, my last recollection for the majority of the day was, "Oh, this feels nice. I hope I go to..."

And I was a goner, dude! I remember nothing until approximately 4 PM that day.

Luckily, my wife was there to take in all the day's proceedings—things such as me swearing that I was good to go to a sit-down restaurant immediately after the procedure. I was speaking to everyone like I wasn't under the influence, noting that, had she not known better, I would have passed off as being completely fine. There were other stories I was regaled with but had zero recollection of, and I'm done embarrassing the family enough for one update.

So that was it. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. You're probably wondering what the outcome was. I had a polyp that may or may not be pre-cancerous, but my doctor felt confident it was benign. He also confirmed that I did indeed have IBS and hemorrhoids, and he took biopsy samples from various parts of my colon. Super easy. I got to stuff my rapidly emaciating face with Maple Street Biscuits and take a much-needed brain vacation. I hope this has inspired you to take a similar journey.

Furthermore, I know talking about this stuff can be uncomfortable for plenty of people. Colon cancer is one of the largest killers of young people today, but it is highly treatable if discovered early. Don't be ashamed to talk to your doctor about your bowel habits, especially going into great detail about your poop and how you poop. It may just be a lifesaver one day. My kids share stories about poop all the time, so if you take a page out of their book, it shouldn't be a big deal and could even be something quite fun.

In summary, go find out what's up your ass if something's bothering you. There is never a reason not to. You are welcome to drop me a line about your ass-capades to let me know that I'm not alone. Thanks!

Dad out... of toilet paper.

I think lifelong learning is one of the key aspects of keeping your mind sharp. I'm not saying that you have to constantly audit classes at a university. But doing things as simple as reading—or, in my case, learning a new language at the ripe age of 44—is great for keeping the ol' grey matter in good shape.

The last time I formally studied a language was in college, where I took four quarters of Arabic. Arabic is a notoriously hard language, but I thought, “English is a hard language too; why not?”

What an idiot.

I didn't do well in Arabic, but I didn't do poorly either. I was just average. I hovered somewhere in the B-C range throughout those four quarters, but I was proud of those average grades because, like I said, Arabic is hard. I was mildly conversational at one point, but now? Now I can just read things that I don't understand. You want a cool party trick? Learn an alphabet completely unlike your own and wow people with your ability to read it out loud with ZERO comprehension of what you just said. Me so smart.

Fast-forward nearly twenty years, and we now have such an abundance of self-directed language learning software that I suffered a severe case of the paradox of choice. I eventually settled on two different software models to learn Spanish because the American way of life got the better of me: more is better, right? I landed on Duolingo as a free model and Babbel as a one-time paid subscription. Furthermore, I previewed several different software suites but landed on those two because I like to make random decisions with absolutely no logical reasoning.

Haha, that's not true. It follows my common theme of being cheap, and those were the best deals.

I have to give you some backstory here, as my poor wife gets quite weary of my constant shifting of interests and endeavors. She flat-out asked me, "Aren't you a little old to be learning Spanish?"

Yes. But I was going to do it anyway because I have Oppositional Defiance Disorder and, "You can't tell me what to do, Tina!" My wife fairly accused me of executing another whim that I would quickly lose interest in and subsequently quit. Well, joke's on you, Tina; I'm currently on a 223-day streak on Duo, baby! Haha, look at that!

You're probably asking what I've actually learned in my 223 days of consistent learning. Well, all kinds of things. I know where the closest mercado is and how to order tres cervezas. All very useful life skills. But I found one thing glaringly lacking in both pieces of software and in language learning as a whole:

Where are the curse words?

My wife is well-versed in the Spanish language, so I asked her to teach me some cussing. She didn't know any because they didn't teach that in the first grade. Bah! She also says I curse too much in my writing. That's horseshit.

I firmly believe that, when done correctly, cursing is one of the finest forms of communication. Sure, it's not fit for polite conversation, yet almost everyone I know curses in some form or fashion. I'm talking about even the most perceivably proper individuals letting out the occasional curse word when presented with the appropriate opportunity.

This led me to ponder, as I often do, a few things: Why don't teachers and software teach you a language's cursing, especially when it's so intrinsic to the culture? And why is cursing so damn satisfying?

There have been several theories regarding a correlation between cursing and increased intelligence, but as they say, correlation does not equal causation. From a purely scientific perspective, psychologists Timothy Jay and Kristin Jay note that increased cursing is actually a sign of verbal fluency, not necessarily intelligence. It follows an almost obvious pattern: the larger your overall vocabulary, the more curse words you'll know. That's fun, but what else can we glean from dropping an F-bomb?

Cursing is scientifically proven to lessen pain. This can be observed universally; when someone experiences a pain response, you can almost guarantee they're going to belch out an expletive.

• Ever stub your toe? "Shit!"
• Break a bone? "Fk!"
• Drop a hammer on your toe? "Damn it!"

According to researchers, letting out a solid curse word can lessen perceived pain by up to 33%. That's huge. What an astonishing benefit of the uneloquent. It also perfectly explains why I curse so much.

Unfortunately, I wasn't able to find any scientific data on why cursing isn't taught in traditional learning, but people have numerous opinions on the matter. In summary, it boils down to being "polite." Perceivably foul language could offend someone's more delicate senses in a classroom environment and is therefore omitted.

Poppycock! Words, no matter how offensive, are still part of a language and should be taught to unsuspecting learners. That way, they aren't caught off guard when they inevitably butcher the dialect in front of a native speaker and are appropriately insulted.

I'm not sure that we've actually learned anything useful through this exercise, but I do know a few things. I'm going to continue to curse because I like to be pain-free, and I'm going to learn how to curse in foreign languages because I want to know if someone is insulting me. Furthermore, I would like to know this so I can politely congratulate them on their expansive verbal fluency. Additionally, it's important to know these words so people know when you're in pain while visiting far-off lands. How else would they know that you need el hospital?

My fatherly advice for the day is to continue to learn new things throughout your life. It will often take you to interesting places and introduce you to interesting people whom you can offend in exciting new ways. I encourage my girls to explore and learn new things daily, but they usually ignore me, so I get to tell you instead.

Padre fuera.

Making Memories (Whether We Like It or Not)

Recently, you may have read that we went on an epic family vacation. It was long for us, and we had a good time. You may also recall that we have a five-year-old autistic daughter. Traveling—and specifically doing anything in a "normal" way—is extremely challenging when you have an autistic child.

I know many parents of profoundly autistic children can commiserate. I also know the parenting experience is wildly different between typical kids and autistic kids. We know this because we have one of each, and we thought we liked variety.

So what? We have a little challenge in parenting; everyone does, right? Yes, but the two are not the same. So, I’m going to give you a unique glimpse into the lived experience of a family navigating the wild with autism. During our vacation, two very distinct events reminded us that we are definitely not having a typical experience.

Our oldest daughter is seven, and our youngest is five. I will refer to my oldest as Turd 1 (T1) and my youngest as Turd 2 (T2)—not to be confused with Terminators, maybe.

My wife is an excellent planner of activities; for real, she's next-level. She refuses to let a single minute of schedule "white space" go unfilled throughout the day, and that often translates to EVERYONE having a filled day when we are together.

The Setup: A "Family-Friendly" Lie

My wife planned what should’ve been a lovely, easy hike that everyone in the whole family could enjoy and, most importantly, complete.

This was a lie.

We made our way over to the "family-friendly" trail after already completing a two-mile hike through a gorge in the rain. No big deal, right? Everyone is a little wet and tired, but spirits are high. Oh, how wrong we were.

We arrived at the trail and began our approach, following the signs for the designated scenic lookout my wife desired to see. The terrain was extremely rocky, wet, and muddy. I led with T1, putting a 10-to-20-foot gap in our column so T2 could follow me. (If we hike too close together, T2 constantly pulls on me asking me to carry her, and as previously noted, she beefy.)

Round 1: The Muddy Retreat

The hike started out slow but okay. I kept checking behind me, and my wife and T2 were making progress. But as we progressed, the terrain became more erratic, rocky, and—in my humble opinion—dangerous for a 45-pound living weeble wobble.

We were continuously passing (and being passed by) other hikers, often waiting precariously on elevated rocks. Then, I saw it: My wife was having to constantly lift and place T2 because our youngest simply couldn't traverse the terrain. Also, the hikers coming back from the lookout looked gassed and warned us that it got a lot worse.

That’s when I called it. No more. Not safe. We're going back.

It should be a no-brainer, right? Apparently, I have no brain, because this unilateral decision instantly launched my wife and me into a heated, albeit abbreviated, row. Tensions flared. I may have been engulfed in flames for just the tiniest of moments, taking daggers from my wife's eyes (not wholly unjustified).

We executed our exodus back to the car, where further "words" were exchanged.

My wife and I are both extremely hard-headed individuals. I will go the extra mile to die on a hill I believe in, and safety is one of those hills. For her, executing the plan is the hill. We were at an impasse. Finally, I offered a compromise: Let's try the trail from the opposite direction (supposedly easier) and I’ll pack T2 if it gets too rough.

Round 2: Death Stranding Dad

So there we were, back in the parking lot. Round 2, FIGHT!

I strapped on the kid-toting backpack and started the advance with T1. The wife and T2 were moving up the trail at a steady pace. Nice. Maybe we can do this.

Then, the smooth, ambling trail became steep steps of natural stone interspersed with flat areas of trodden mud.

Backpack time. I began to load up our tiniest turd to get us all the way through, doing this against the apparent admonition from my wife that I was "going to break something because she’s too heavy." Honestly, it’s a fair concern. T2 is 40-45 pounds (depending on if she’s had a good poop that day), meaning I was pushing 55 pounds of new weight on a body that legitimately has osteoporosis.

But guess what? I'm a man, and I do stupid things! You can't tell me what to do because my Oppositional Defiance Disorder instantly gives me the compulsion to do the opposite. So, I loaded up my tiny package like Norman Reedus in Death Stranding, and we continued our trek.

Wow, we're moving so much faster! I'm only mildly uncomfortable!

The trail continued to be rocky and steep, but doable with deliberate movements. We finally found a nice outcropping to rest and gaze at the remarkable beauty of nature.

And then, the trail started descending.

The Epiphany and the Rear-Nekkid Choke

We came to a 40-degree downward slope of pure rocks. I took a good, long, hard look at it, and logic finally won out. If I try this and it goes south, it's not just me that gets hurt. We don't always like our kids, but we always love them and don't want them injured.

Being the good Soldier/Boy Scout that I am, I pulled out two walkie-talkies. I handed one to my wife, conducted a proper radio check, and turned back. My wife and T1 would finish the trail; T2 and I would take our march of shame back to the car.

Going downhill with a load is infinitely harder than going uphill. About a mile in, my knees and back were aching. I was sweating. It was raining on and off. I most likely looked—and rightfully felt—like a giant, wet sack of shit.

This is where having a non-verbal child is a blessing. I was cursing about this God-forsaken trail the entire way back, talking entirely to myself. Sporadically, I’d turn my head to check on T2. She would just smile and start playing her own version of Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes—a version where she tries to poke me in the eyes, smack the top of my head, and put me in a rear-naked choke.

If anything, she keeps things interesting.

And there I was... wet, tired, overladen, and mumbling to myself when I had an epiphany: Am I enjoying this misery?

Yes. I was. And I think T2 was as well, given the giggles that accompanied her chokeholds.

T2, all tuckered out from choking me out.

The Takeaway

We finally made our way back to the car, radioed our advance party, and waited. They eventually came off the trail, all smiles, and we loaded up for lunch.

"Well, whoopty-doo, Beard Dad! You had a hard hike; why should I care?"

The fact is, you shouldn't. But I hope this simple, drawn-out story makes you think and maybe even appreciate the people and moments we have with one another. Life is really hard for some, but it doesn't invalidate everyone's individual experiences. I was tired, frustrated, and admittedly a little defeated. But my kids ended up having a good time, my wife had a good time, and who would have thought? I experienced a little joy myself.

Living isn't always clean, nice, and happy. We're people. We do people things, like get mad at each other and curse in front of our non-verbal kids from time to time. But it doesn't take away from the fact that at the end of the day, we still love each other.

As my mother-in-law often says when things are going awry, "We're making memories!"

Indeed we are.

Dad out.

TRIGGER WARNING: This post is going to piss some people off. If you're weak of mind, body, and soul, just keep scrolling because this will likely hurt your feelings.

"Haha, whatever Beard Dad, I don't get offended! I'm no snowflake."

Fair enough. If you’re still reading, buckle up.

Most Americans aren't patriotic, even though they’re entirely convinced they are. I am a patriotic person, but I don't confuse the word patriotism with blind loyalty. So, if you're one of those Americans sporting improperly displayed, tattered flags year-round, getting outraged over football players kneeling for the anthem, and thinking anyone left of center is a communist, this post is for you. You aren't a patriot. You just play one on the internet.

"Whoa, pump the brakes, Beard Dad! That's a mighty bold statement. I love America!"

It is bold, and I don't care. I've been to 44 out of 50 states, and I pay attention. One of the most glaring patterns across this country is the loose definition of "patriot" that people hide behind. Merriam-Webster defines a patriot as "one who loves and supports their country." Seems obvious, right? It isn't.

Let's explore this. We hear the word nationalism thrown around a lot lately. What's the difference? Merriam-Webster defines nationalism as "an ideology that elevates one nation or nationality above all others and that places primary emphasis on promotion of its culture and interests."

Patriotism and nationalism are not synonyms, and therein lies the problem for most self-proclaimed "patriots."

And before you start whining that I’m painting with too broad a brush or unfairly lumping "patriots" in with extremists—save your breath. I know exactly what I'm looking at.

We are living in an era where the line between "mainstream political rhetoric" and "white nationalist manifesto" has been completely erased. When the people you vote for are openly peddling the "Great Replacement" theory, when the government strips domestic terrorism classifications from white supremacist groups, and when politicians use literal neo-Nazi talking points as campaign slogans, you don't get to hide behind the American flag anymore. You aren't just "conservative." You are actively participating in an ideology built by fascists, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not.

This revelation hit me hard while driving through impoverished, rural communities in the Northeast and my home state of Ohio. It is a surreal experience to drive through obvious American squalor and simultaneously see massive, blatant displays of this exact brand of "patriotism" screaming from the porches. You see a similar phenomenon in affluent, predominantly white suburbs—they share the exact same ideology as their rural cousins, just wrapped in a more polite, expensive presentation (usually omitting the rebel flag, for example).

It is a sea of American flags, accompanied by the classic "Don't Tread on Me" banners, Confederate flags, and aging Trump signs. Let's call it what it is: at best, they are nationalists, which isn't a title to be proud of.

"So, what's wrong with being a nationalist? I love America!"

There is nothing wrong with being proud of your country and your heritage (provided your "heritage" isn't just a thinly veiled excuse for bigotry, white supremacy, or some other dumbshit hate group). But the real rot is the idea of American exceptionalism. Are we, as a people, inherently exceptional? No.

It only takes one interaction with a card-carrying MAGA diehard to know that Americans are not exceptional. What is exceptional is the system that was put in place 250 years ago and enshrined in our Constitution. That unique system of government is the only American exceptionalism I will argue for—and even that borrows heavily from the Romans, Greeks, and Venetians. So, get off your high horse. You ain't that special.

So, what is the point of this rant?

The point is that most of these loud, self-proclaimed patriots have done absolutely nothing to better our country. Sure, you buy a flag made in China, go to a 4th of July parade, and vote. But what has the average citizen actually sacrificed for the greater good? Usually, nothing.

Have you served in the nation's military? Have you peacefully dissented against government overreach? Have you held public office? Are you a good neighbor and a decent human being? That is patriotism.

Unless you are actively serving your neighbors out of love for them and the country you live in, you are just a nationalist. And if that's the case, take a real look in the mirror and ask yourself, "Am I really a patriot?" I would wager that you can't truthfully answer that question. So, let's get back to building the country I actually fought for—that shining beacon on a hill—instead of the literal deteriorating swamp on Capitol Hill.

Dad out.

I'm so sorry I've been gone. I hope everyone has gotten along without me as we embarked on the greatest of all American vacations: the Great American Road Trip. That's right, we packed our little 24' camper and car to the brim with all kinds of "shit that we would need," effectively used about 50% of that "needed shit," and embarked on a nearly 2,000-mile journey across the Northeast United States with our little family and home-on-wheels in tow.

I have... some thoughts.

First off, we had a great time. We really did. But like any environment, when you put people in close quarters, there will be emotions, and let's just say, interesting exchanges. Just think back to college and remember the Stanford Prison Experiment. In this experiment, I'm the prisoner and my kids, are the guards. BUT, we made it through this adventure with our marriage intact and both kids still alive... mostly. Our youngest looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame coming home. One eye was literally swollen shut from a bug bite, and she meandered about mumbling inaudible phrases that no one but us could decipher. "The bells!"

There are many things to observe while traveling across the United States, and being the observant person that I am, I noticed a few patterns starting to emerge.

Our journey started in Pennsylvania, specifically Presque Isle. It was lovely. We stayed in a private campground that appeared to offer peaceful tranquility on its website. Part of that tranquility was because it was surrounded by a large industrial complex! Awesome. I have to offer a short backstory: we typically stay in state or federal parks, which are usually spectacular. This trip, we were staying solely in private campgrounds due to a lack of public availability. With that being said, I believe this was our first experience staying in a private campground. Regardless of the interesting surroundings, the campground itself was nice and predominantly quiet. Our site was right on a bay that was part of Lake Erie. It had a lovely view.

Nice, right?

I caught this majestic bastard mid-flight. Who knew Lake Erie could look so... nice? Weird.

And it was nice. Despite the insane location, we had a predominantly good experience—regardless of the tornado sirens and an incredibly strong storm that rolled through an hour after we pulled in.

Next, we made our way to Mount Morris, NY, to adventure through Letchworth State Park. This was another mom-and-pop, family-owned campground nestled in the hills of New York, not far from the park and a short drive away from the Finger Lakes region. Our campsite was, again, absolutely charming. It overlooked a valley, and we were surrounded by things for the kids to do.

How pleasant.

Holding true to the current theme, it was pleasant, and this is when I started to see a pattern emerge. Private campgrounds all have their own "vibe," meaning no two are quite alike. In contrast to the previous spot, this one seemed to be more of a party destination. The camp store was festooned with magnets and tchotchkes, blatantly bragging about the copious amounts of alcohol one might drink, or espousing the opinion that booze makes everything better. The wife and I kept musing that this place must be wild on the weekends, because during our stay, it was quiet and somewhat dead. I even recall that their webpage advertised a "campground crawl" weekend. What better way to go camping than to get hammered and meander through a campsite with a bunch of strangers? I can think of a million other things I would rather do.

Regardless, this campground really was great, and the ownership was warm and accommodating. Also, Letchworth State Park was astonishing! Copious waterfalls and vistas were found throughout, and this hidden gem touts itself as "The Grand Canyon of the East." It really was. I would highly recommend taking a day here if you ever find yourself in the area.

Marvelous.

Our next stop brought us to the Green Mountains of Vermont. What can I say about the Green Mountains? They are green, and they are mountains. They are also beautiful! Verdant, rolling peaks with wide-open skies that make the heart sing.

WOW!

This campground was one of a kind. A true family-owned and operated spot. The interesting part was that it wasn't commercialized at all. The owner communicates solely through email, which, at first, I found quite odd. After arriving, I figured out why. He and maybe a few of his immediate family members were the only staff on hand. It makes sense to keep a form of communication that isn't immediate but allows you to be responsive based on precedence. Smart.

The other part of this campground's overall vibe was that rules were few and met only the very basic requirements to keep the place functioning. It was refreshing not to have to worry about all the tiny nuances of typical campground rules. This was the only place where the owner didn't care if I flew a drone. Worth every second, just for that.

I also have to be transparent and say that we drove six hours through high winds and fierce storms to get to this site. When we finally arrived, the poor owner was working hard to clear debris and trees that hadn't survived the weather, but he didn't fail to offer us his very best hospitality. A real personal touch. There was also an abundance of ramshackle buildings, which made the area even more fun to explore, and some of the more colorful permanent campers gave off a mountain-hippy vibe, adding to the overall motif. This was one of our favorite sites; it was entirely unique, offered beautiful mountain views, and was run by friendly, interesting people.

Woo!

We continued to the White Mountains of New Hampshire, our furthest destination. I know why they call it the White Mountains: quartz, snow-capped peaks, whatever. These mountains aren't remotely white this time of year. False advertising!

We stayed at another private campsite, which was probably the busiest of our entire trip. Our time here happened to fall on Father's Day weekend, which explained the volume of people. Yay. I absolutely love being around people. (I don't).

A beautiful overlook.

Regardless of everything else, this was another lovely spot. We were tucked into a thicket of white pines, offering remarkable seclusion and forested beauty. The owners were very nice, even when they double-charged us for firewood. Oops! We also arrived during one of the rainiest parts of the year, so everything was soaked. That's OK, we're camping. We stayed at this site the longest—three nights—which I think was just enough time to hit all the highlights of the area. I have a few stories involving this leg of the trip that, in retrospect, would be funny now, but certainly weren't then. I'll save those for another time. I'll just say it involves me backpacking our youngest, 40+ pound child, up "an easy, family-friendly trail." HA!

One of the highlights was riding a 100+ year-old train up to the summit of Mount Washington. A memorable experience for sure. The train to the top.

The top. "We ain't found shit."

As you can see, it was a memorable experience for everyone, even though you couldn't see past your nose. My father-in-law was gracious enough to send me a picture of what the summit looks like on a clear day so I could see what we were missing. It looked impressive. This was on Father's Day, and the wife and kids had marked their bodies—specifically their hands—with temporary tattoos of my face. That way, when they inevitably got lost, the authorities would know who to return them to.

Without boring you with even more detail of our activities, we departed for our final destination: the Finger Lakes of New York. My wife and I have been to the Finger Lakes previously without kids. That excursion was much more fun than with kids, but we made the best of it.

This final campground, I will admit, was chosen because of its proximity to the highway. Did this make it a terrible campground? No, it was still quite nice, but not without its quirks. One interesting part was the abundance of seasonal campers. This means someone pays for an entire season of camping, and in return, they get to park their camper there in perpetuity. Not for us, but good on you if that's your thing. Every campground we stayed at had a permanent population, if you will, but not at the scale and volume of this one. The place was completely dead except for a few fellow transient campers and a handful of perma-campers.

So, you're probably thinking... "So what, Beard-Dad? I'm bored and don't care about your stupid vacation." Fair point, but this is where things got ridiculous.

Our first night, there was a gaggle of campers carousing about 200–300 yards away from us. They played loud music into the evening and were of a colorful nature. If you're thinking, "Colorful nature? Does he mean white trash?" you would be correct. OK, we can weather one bad set of neighbors, considering this is typically aberrant behavior among campers. We were relieved that they were packed up and gone by the time we returned to our site the next day from our adventures. Great, peace for us!

Nope.

The next evening, we were treated to a playlist of country-western and smokin' oldies blaring loudly out of a slow-rolling golf cart carrying a few geriatrics and their presumed grandkids. Really? Now, I don't typically judge a book by its cover, but their campsite had no fewer than 5 American flags split between traditional stars and stripes and the tackiest America 250 merch, not to mention the two flags sadly flapping behind a golf cart that would've been proudly owned by any rapper in the game. So that explains it. What's more American than being rude and annoying the shit out of your neighbors? Absolutely nothing. It sums us up perfectly these days.

The most insane part of this divergence was that they were located at a wholly different part of the campsite but made it a point to slow-roll by us and innocently wave at every pass, as if taunting me to say something. I didn't, mostly because my wife is already embarrassed by me enough as it is. But this entire, plodding process went on for literal hours before they probably got tired of their passive, drive-by tauntings and had to get their daily allowance of Ensure just to pass out to the sounds of a CPAP machine.

Despite the tranquil river flowing behind us, this was our least favorite campground. Seneca Lake was still looking good, though!

From there, we made the final six-and-a-half-hour trip home, downloaded all of our gear, and crashed out.

So, after regaling you with the mundane details of every campground, what have we learned?

• Paved roads are a myth in private campgrounds. My back has a problem with this one.
• Private campgrounds are like a box of chocolates: sometimes great, sometimes overpriced, and disappointing.
• Weird people enjoy camping. Yes, we're weird too.
• Most of these places are owned and operated by families that really do want you to have the best experience possible.
• Each campground has a vibe that can't be replicated. They may have similarities but are distinctively unique.

So, that's the long-winded overview of our vacation and the reason for my prolonged absence. I have a few more stories and commentaries to share, but like I said, I was gathering content and don't want to vomit it out all at once. Thanks for reading!

Dad out.

I'll be out for a few, collecting material for future posts.

Dad out.

Why Social Media is a Swamp (and Why I Started a Blog in 2026)

Social media is a swamp. I have had several people ask me why I started a blog in 2026. To me, the answer is obvious, but to others, it might look like a lapse into a bygone era. Engaging with modern social media is akin to intentionally dumping Miracle-Gro on mosquito eggs. Harmless at first, but over time, it breeds a relentless swarm of distractions that just leave you angry and itching.

I was an early adopter of social media. Yes, me. This grumpy, bearded man trapped in a 70-year-old woman's body could once be considered cool. I'm still trying to confirm my actual account creation on Facebook, but I have posts going back to 2005, which means I would be considered an "early adopter" of the platform. I don't know how old anyone is reading this, but I even had a short stint on MySpace, and before that, I used AOL Instant Messenger. Not only that, but I even have a memory of using bulletin board services (BBSs) during the early rapid expansion of the Internet. Yeah, I guess I am getting old.

Why am I telling you this? It's called establishing credibility. I have been using social media so long that I have become a de facto expert on the topic, and that is precisely why I can tell you how horrible it is.

In the early days, it started out innocent enough. It was a fun way to keep up with friends and share stupid Internet content. A far cry from what it is today. But, in watching its evolution, it's become something else entirely, and it's not great, not great at all.

I don't specifically know when that transition occurred. Maybe it was when I started to get old. You know the saying: "If the music is too loud, you're too old." Well, the social media machine is deafening, and I absolutely hate it. Do I continue to use it? Yep!

Why do I continue to use something that I absolutely detest? I don't really know anymore, and that's the worst part. I, and I'm sure many like me, continue to use the excuse, "It's the only way I can stay in touch with friends and family, of course." That's bullshit. For the most part, the people I want to keep up with, I do, and everyone else, meh.

Why Social Media is Trash

I could list a plethora of reasons why social media today sucks, but I'm going to give you just three simple reasons:

1. The User Base. In the early days of Facebook, it was strictly college students that could use it. You couldn't have access unless you had a .edu account. What was the reason for this? It was a simple way of gatekeeping to ensure that you kept the population of users that they desired. That's back when Facebook was fun and new, and you could take great joy in sending someone "a poke". It was an easy, indirect way to flirt with people and post all the dumb shit you were doing because, let's face it, college students are the stupidest group of people on earth, and Facebook provided an outlet for their (our) antics.

Since then, the platform has been opened up to all people, and that's part of the problem. When it was all college students, you had a predominantly like-minded body using it: stupid f*****g college students. But since everyone now has access, it has become a place for everyone to be shitty to one another. Just look at all the trash on Facebook these days. Damn it, even governmental organizations are posting things that belong in the movie Idiocracy. Everyone has a voice, but that doesn't mean they should always use it. Sometimes it's best just to STFU. Facebook should've stayed with the college students...because they're stupid like social media.

2. Monetization. Money ruins everything. Correction: the American way of capitalism ruins everything. Facebook gave rise to "The Influencer" and the world has been worse for it since then. So you may be asking, what about all the other platforms, "like TikTok!" or "Snapchat," or "Instagram", or whatever other ridiculous, mind-destroying platform there is out there. You may also think that, "Wow, I really love all of those platforms!" No, they propagate stupidity, and you are dumber for it. Stop using them immediately, and it doesn't really matter what the platform is because they all function the same way.

All of these platforms make money off advertising revenue and capturing your data to better sell you shit you don't need. So, the monetization of social media has vastly deteriorated the welfare of everyone that uses it.

3. Mental Health. Social media doesn't make you feel good about yourself or others. Frankly, it has an inverse effect. I don't know anyone who feels better after wasting time on social media. If you do, you're a sociopath. It has been proven repeatedly that the use of it increases rates of depression and potentially contributes to increased suicide among youth. The worst part is all of these companies know what they're doing to people, and they don't care. The only solution to reining them in is government intervention, and because of lobbying, they don't do anything about it. Our politicians just keep gargling the balls of all of these tech bros.

The Real Alternative

In getting back to my original point, I started a simple, unadulterated blog to avoid the pitfalls of the aforementioned blight of mankind. I know people are looking for real connection and something that is real. Not the filtered, monetized garbage that you get everywhere else.

The other reason I write is purely because I want to, and if people read it, great! If not, that's OK too because you still have that freedom to choose without the nagging thought that some AI may be forcing you into it. So, help me help you. Read something real. And maybe, just maybe, someday you can throw a little cash my way to support the effort. I mean, I hate the monetization of the internet, but a dad's still gotta buy pepperoni pizza and camper fuel. Kidding... mostly.

Dad out.

I Might Be Autistic.

That's a pretty bold statement from Beard-Dad! That "might" also might be doing a lot of heavy lifting because I probably am autistic.

When our youngest was born, she seemed relatively typical, if not overly subdued. Pretty nice, right? Nice to have a baby that rarely cries and isn't overly stimulated... except for the occasional instance where she would just start crying at random and would go on for prolonged periods of time without any sign of a trigger.

That's normal, right?

That should have been the first red flag, but as parents, how would you know anything is a little different without it being apparent?

The "Different" Track

By the time she was one, we came to the difficult realization that she was exceptionally delayed. Not crawling, not babbling, not responding to her name... she just wasn't doing much of anything. So, we contacted a local county organization that helps kids with delays get on the right track... or a different track. (I could probably make a whole other post about what "right" actually is or isn't).

Anyway, early in this process, my wife and I came to the conclusion that we should probably have her evaluated. What we really thought was: she needs to be evaluated for autism. If your memory is better than mine—which I'm betting it is—remember my wife is a pediatric occupational therapist. She knows.

So, being the good parents that we are, we got an appointment with our local children's hospital neurology department. The wait times for the autism clinic were over a year to be seen (read my take on healthcare in The Burden of Care). These insanely long wait times prompted us to get into neurology because we had potential concerns for other neurological deficits. I believe the wait time for that clinic was a "short" 6 months. Oh boy!

Without further boring you with the mundane details, she was subsequently diagnosed with autism and global developmental delay, which often go hand in hand.

The Light-Bulb Moment

You might be wondering why I'm going into the long, drawn-out backstory about my daughter and her diagnosis. It's because, being the overly curious person that I am, I began to notice a pattern in all the related educational materials about autism.

Most of what I was reading painted a picture of my own life and the things that I've experienced. Imagine, if you will, me sitting at my computer, digesting all of this information, and a light-bulb instantly pops over my head! (Or an exclamation point for all of you weird nerds out there).

"Ah ha!" I thought, "I might be autistic." And, as my wife can attest to, I am almost always right. If you're reading this, honey, I love you, and you're always right.

So with my newfound revelation, I embarked on a journey of self-discovery. Just kidding, I opened up Dr. Google and went to work. There are many great resources for individuals looking for answers in their own lives. Specifically, Embrace Autism has amazing screening tools that you can use (for free) to see if you have the potential of being on the spectrum.

Disclaimer: No, they are not paying me for this bump, and I have no affiliation... but I'm open to it! (wink, wink) Ironically, my wife sent this site to me somewhat as a gaffe because she had received it through work channels. Well, the joke's on you, babe; I took those tests and scored so well that I would put Trump's cognitive scores to shame.

Putting It to the Test

In reality, test after test strongly suggested that I'm probably autistic. Recently, I again took three surveys: the AQ, RAADS-R, and the CAT-Q. I'll share the most recent results with you now.

1. The AQ (Autism Spectrum Quotient) According to Embrace Autism, this is "A general overview of autistic traits across communication, social interaction, attention, and thinking style." Neat. I thought I blew this out of the water. I took it intending to prove how non-autistic I am. Wrong. You would think higher scores are good, right? I learned as early as kindergarten to always do my best and get a high score. Shoot, games are also based on the premise of getting high scores. Also, wrong.

Huh.

Must be an anomaly. Let's take another one.

2. The RAADS-R Next on the autism train of self-discovery, I took the Ritvo Autism Asperger Diagnostic Scale Revised. That one is not fun to type out. Once again, Embrace Autism explains, "A detailed look at autistic patterns across your life. This test was developed to identify high-masking autistics as well." Surely, you don't hide your perceived autism, Beard-Dad, you're so "normal." Well, I might be autistic, and don't call me Shirley. Double "huh." Let's see what my score says.

Well, shit. Could just be a coincidence, right?

Wrong again!

3. The CAT-Q The third test I took today was the Camouflaging Autistic Traits Questionnaire. What does Embrace Autism say about this one? "Explore how you adapt or mask/camouflage autistic traits in daily social situations." Pfffft. Get outta here, I'm not "masking" anything. Let's see the score.

Oh. Maybe this one is inverse, and higher means lower?

...Well, shit. There ya have it.

Connecting the Dots

I took all of these tests and more previously and just so happened to be in therapy at the time. What providence! Remember, I was diagnosed with a chronic illness, had a major life change with retirement, and shortly after that, had a profoundly autistic child. So you could say it was good for me to talk to someone.

I approached my therapist about it, and she also felt like this revelation wasn't so unfounded, although it was beyond her scope of practice to officially diagnose autism.

You may be curious if I've sought out a diagnosis. I haven't because, as stated previously, I'm cheap and this is one of those things insurance doesn't cover. Maybe someday...

I haven't taken this many tests since college, so that's all the personal insight I'm giving you today, but I think we have a major takeaway: I might be a little neuro spicy! This explains a lot in my life. This also confirms a hunch that I've had for some time: the Army is autistic. (I'll elaborate more in a future post).

More importantly, all of this gives me a little bit better perspective of my daughter and what she may be experiencing, especially because she can't voice it. It's important to remember that we're all different in different ways, and we all bring gifts to the table no matter how apparent or hidden they may be. We just have to look.

Dad Out.

It's come to my attention that a few of my posts have disappeared! My sincerest apologies. Unfortunately, this is part of the experience with a single-point developer, writer, and manager of an unpopular blog page. I'm still living in the early 2000s, baby! Please peruse the restored and NEW posts below, as I had recently transitioned to a new framework and something was "lost in the sauce." Again, my apologies, and enjoy the unfortunate machinations of my life.

Dad out.

Beard-Dad: What Do You Do Every Day?

Seriously, without work, what do you do? My wife can definitely tell you, as she is relentless in her quest to fill every minute of time to the max. Which leads me to my question for other people: what do you do all day?

Every time this question comes up, I'm often reminded of the line from Office Space, "What would you say you do here?" I love "The Bobs." Seriously though, this is a true curiosity of mine. This is also a question I continuously ask myself as it pertains to my own situation.

Like I've said before, I am an Army Veteran. While in the service, I was constantly busy; workdays would often span out into all seven days of the week. When I had just a moment's free time, I wouldn't want to fill it with chores or additional work. I wanted to relax. Reasonable, right? Wrong. According to my wife, relaxation is a myth.

Now, I could get away with the proverbial lazy day now and again before marriage, but after, my days of quiet relaxation were quickly gone. Since kids entered the mix, relaxation really has become a mythic endeavor. This sounds like a dig on marriage, my kids, and my wife. It's not, and I'll tell you why. Being the way she is makes me a better person; I get more done, and I like to think I do the same for her.

I believe there are several different types of people in the world when it comes to rest, relaxation, and filling time—and all of them can complement each other. Let's explore.

The Lazy POS (LPOS) This one might be the most obvious. Some people we know are just lazy pieces of shit. There's no working around it. Now, I think there is some value in learning what makes someone a Lazy POS. Do they have a mental or chronic disease? Are they allergic to work and activities? I hear work allergies become really strong in the summer. But we've all come across someone in our work or social lives that's just plain lazy. In the work environment, these people are horrid to work with because they always take the path of least resistance, even if it's a path to nowhere.

In social circles, this individual may be a little harder to spot, but often you can tell (at least in dad-world) by the state of their lawn. Yes, dads love a well-manicured lawn. Our partners might believe we take lawn care so seriously because we love it. Not true. We love lawn care because of the solitude. What I've learned over time is that most kids fit into the "Lazy POS" category. Those little turds will find every excuse not to do something, even when it's to their benefit. There aren't a whole lot of kids that want to do lawn work, hence the solitude.

There are a few exceptions to the lawn rule: the elderly, the indigent, and the overly busy individual. I could go on about those subcategories, but I think you get the point. These individuals can be incredibly hard to identify as they have become masters at doing nothing but making it look like they do. I'm not going to name names, but if you're reading this, you know who you are.

The Party Animal (PA) The Party Animal is someone who loves to be around other people, and when they aren't at work (around other people), they fill their free time with... other people. I understand this one the least, as I absolutely do not like being around people. I already know what you're thinking: "Oh, wow, Beard-Dad is a curmudgeonly old curmudgeon."

False. I am not. What I am is probably an extreme introvert. It's not that I dislike people. Quite the contrary, I like most people I meet. The only issue here is that being around people saps all of my energy, quickly. Think of me as a car battery in -30 degree weather. I still want to work, but I'll fade fast.

Despite my inappropriate desire to be by myself, I still recognize that other people don't like to be hermits. So, what are the hallmarks of the Party Animal? First, it is the complete inability to be alone. These folks absolutely can't function by themselves. I know that's an exaggeration, but their mental and physical well-being quickly deteriorates if they aren't around at least one other person. Does this mean that every Party Animal likes to party? Nope, but they absolutely thrive in that environment and actually get energy from being around others. It's insanity.

The second hallmark of the Party Animal is that, much like the Busy Body, they always have to be doing something—but with one major difference. The Party Animal only engages in activities that involve being around other people. If you need a perfect example, think of escape rooms. Talk about a nightmare for me: being locked in a room with others whom you may or may not know or like. Torture. But not for the Party Animal! Again, I think most kids fall into this category because they are always up my ass.

The Busy Body (BB) These people are weird, but I've been surrounded by them for most of my life, so I have some insight. Both my wife and brother fall into this category in the truest sense. These individuals thrive on to-do lists and constantly need something to do, even when it isn't fun.

I don't know why, but in my conversations with Busy Bodies, they have alluded that being this way brings no satisfaction. It's more of a compulsion, and when they complete a task, they have a very short-lived feeling of happiness, but only in the fact that they finished something. For them, it is more about the destination instead of the journey. They are never satisfied.

Other traits of the Busy Body include a lack of hobbies. They don't have hobbies because they "don't have time for hobbies." Which is BS, because their hobby is being busy. These people tend to be incredibly successful in their chosen endeavors because they doggedly pursue them, often to their own detriment. But hey, at least they get some shit done.

I do love this category, probably because I'm not one and it creates a little jealousy. Kids are also Busy Bodies, because they are always giving me stuff to do. You might be asking why. It's because their lack of ability makes me do their desired tasks for them.

"Daddy, can you open this for me?" "Daddy, can you play with me?" "Daddy..."

The list goes on forever.

The No Work All Play (NWAP) These are some unique individuals. Contrary to the Busy Body, these folks only want to engage in leisure activities, with or without people, which separates them from Party Animals. Gamers—which I am—definitely fall into this category. These folks just want to do fun things or things that interest them. It doesn't always involve screens, but can also translate to outdoor activities or pseudo-academic pursuits.

Think of professional rock climbers, cyclists, or willful participants in any sport; they will typically fall into the NWAP category. Does this mean that they are also Lazy POSs? No, because these individuals work exceptionally hard at playing. Unlike Lazy POSs, their pursuits are met with the same energy as the Busy Body completing tasks. There is a high probability that these individuals fall somewhere on the autism spectrum. They are usually quite passionate about their interests and won't waste an opportunity to tell you about them in great detail, regardless of your feigned interest or lack thereof. I am definitely a NWAP. Infer what you will, because I don't really care what you think.

Kids are also NWAPs, as their pursuits tend to lean toward what they consider fun. Unfortunately, things that they most often consider fun, I don't.

Borings (Bs) This is somewhat of an unfair title, but unfortunately, it is very accurate. The Boring is simply that: boring. This is the personality type that I interact with the least, but not intentionally. I find that this is the rarest of all categories. Is everyone boring to someone else? Absolutely, because not everyone shares the same interests. But the Boring just doesn't do much or have any interests. These individuals just kind of exist.

One of the biggest identifiers of a Boring is that they don't have anything to talk about, ever, because they don't engage in anything. Oftentimes they are toted along to events by Party Animals simply because of their proximity or out of pity.

The really odd thing about the Boring is that they don't care either way. Think of this person as indifferent to everything. It's not that they're Lazy POSs, because they usually find an occupation and do well enough, but their occupations tend to be pretty mundane and then they don't pursue much outside of it. My description of the Boring might be a little harsh, but in my interactions with them, they fully comprehend and identify as being... boring. It's just totally foreign to me.

I think kids are super boring, but I don't believe they predominantly fall into this category. They are always doing things that kids definitely don't think are boring by any means.

"But Beard-Dad, you've incorporated kids into every category, why not this one?!"

Why? Because I'm fair and objective, unlike Fox News; get off my case!

The Wrap-Up This was a fun excursion into the intricacies of differing personalities! Much like a Myers-Briggs test, I even broke these down into acronyms so you can code people based on their personality types! I'm an LPOSNWAP. What's yours?

As always, I know that I say a lot of this in jest, but I have a few points.

I think it's important to try and understand the ones you love. What are their motivations? Why do they do the things they do, even when it drives you crazy? I think we often struggle to get along because we are so absorbed with ourselves that we fail to understand the very real and important traits of others. Try to discover who they really are.

Kids are all of these things because they haven't been fully developed into their ultimate persona yet. Tabula rasa, if you will (blank slate). It's a really cool thing to see different personality traits emerge, but I think it's even cooler that these little monsters are so open to all of the wonders of the world without self-imposed limits yet.

I'm done melting your brains for the day, so I'll leave you with this: Just because we're all different doesn't mean we don't have to be kind to one another. In the future, before jumping to conclusions, try and think about the personality type you're dealing with and the struggles they may be experiencing because of it.

Dad out.

Take the BeardDad Personality Test here

I’m sorry for my absence. We were away undertaking one of America's finest family traditions: the family camping trip. We bought a 24-foot travel trailer about three years ago and have made it a point to actually use it. We strictly go "glamping" because I'm a diva and I need that 30-amp service to run my AC! Unfortunately, we also have to take our kids, which I suppose is the entire point of a "family camping trip." I've camped both with and without children, and I have to say the latter is a much better experience, but we persevere regardless.

Based on our experience camping with children—one of whom has a rather significant disability—I feel like it's my duty to offer some friendly advice for anyone considering such an endeavor.

Tip 1: Remember your chargers. Reaching many of our favorite campsites requires towing the camper, which slows down travel significantly. Thus, you need a constant stream of entertainment to occupy those active little minds. If you don't, they quickly turn feral, and your car will soon devolve into a very bad screamo concert. And unless it’s Wage War or Lorna Shore, that’s a concert you didn't want to attend—nor pay for, because let's face it, just having kids around costs money. Therefore, it is IMPERATIVE that you remember to bring chargers for all the devices that keep those wannabe vocalists busy for the duration of the trip.

How do I know this? We forgot to bring the charger for literally three iPads that we use in beautiful harmony to bring us the only peace we'll have on our vacation. It's a quiet bliss only penetrated by the soft dueling of different kids' shows being played at the exact same time. You know what I don't hear during this time? Whining, complaining, "How much longer?" and "Can we have a snack?" The answer will always be "no!" to all of those things, including requests for time, as you can clearly see it on the dashboard screen. Open your flipping eyes!

We started with only one iPad that had an 80% charge, so I eventually caved and bought an overpriced charging cable from a gas station. Not my finest moment, but you have to do what you can to survive. In the future, just remember your chargers.

Tip 2: Wear your kids out. Our youngest child can be kind of a pain in the ass. She's non-verbal autistic with a global developmental delay. What does that mean to you? Absolutely nothing, because she isn't yours. But for us, it means lots of experimental parenting. I say "experimental" because typical styles of parenting just don't work on this kid. For example, when we tell our oldest daughter it's time for bed, you know what she does? She goes the f*** to sleep. You know what our youngest does? She throws a rave in the camper while we are just trying to get some much-needed downtime around a cozy fire.

It's not that she isn't tired, oh no. It's that she's so excited about camping that she physically can't sleep. Yelling doesn't work, gentle pats on the butt don't work, and laying down with her doesn't work. Nothing works except waiting her out... or does it?

No, it doesn't. You know what we made these kids do the next day after a night of waking up to "ga ga ga, da, eyes, wook!"? We took a two-mile hike through some hilly woods, followed by more walking, and an afternoon in the pool. It all sounds fun, right? Yes, but fun isn't the only goal here. The primary objective is to exhaust those tiny parasites so they go to sleep. And it worked; that night and every subsequent night, they went right down. Other acceptable forms of "wearing your kids out" include forced ruck marches, running laps until you get tired (your kids are the ones running the laps), and burpees until, again, you get tired. All proven methods.

Tip 3: Bring reinforcements. My in-laws also enjoy camping and, much to our surprise and joy, they also like our kids (their grandkids). I'm still trying to figure out why. Anyway, the one trip where we all went camping together was amazing. When you inevitably get tired of your kids—which typically happens in the first five minutes—you just send them to grandma and grandpa's camper! Often, when we go to retrieve our human luggage, they're having a grand ol' time without Mom and Dad. It makes me think they conspire to make us miserable on purpose, as we always get glowing reports about their behavior from the grandparents. Hmm.

I know it sounds like a no-brainer, but bring someone to watch your kids while you do absolutely nothing, read a book, or even take a nap. The only caveat here is that you want to bring someone who actually likes your kids; otherwise, you're just adding another whining voice to the cacophony of misery.

Tip 4: Give them ice cream daily. I know what you're thinking: "Ice cream every day? That's horrible, we should call CPS on Beard-Dad!" First off, no. Second, hear me out. Who is ever sad when eating ice cream? The answer is no one (at least, no one you ever want to be around). Even the mere thought of getting ice cream puts kids into a trance-like euphoria where they'll pretty much do whatever you tell them.

"Go clean up or we can't get ice cream." "OK, Daddy!"

It works absolute wonders, and the best part is, you get to have ice cream too. Everyone wins. If you're lactose intolerant, your toilet won't, but it's worth it.

Those are all the tips I'm willing to share for free. Any more and I'm going to have to start a premium tier to give you the real tricks of the trade. Kidding... for now.

I know I say a lot of silly things and gripe a lot about the frustrations that come with child-rearing. But, in the end, it's all incredibly worth it to witness firsthand the core memories the girls are creating with us. There is a special kind of magic that comes with family trips, regardless of the headaches. So, my last tip is simple: cherish these moments and memories, for they are fleeting and can only be captured once in a lifetime.

Dad out.

I'm currently sitting in a doctor's office. This isn't a new occurrence. In fact, if waiting rooms offered loyalty points like a credit card, I’d be in the titanium high-roller tier. This is often the theme with chronic illness: time and burden.

It's a burden for me; it's a burden for my loved ones, as it often takes me away from them and the many happenings in their lives. It's a burden for the caregivers and the system as a whole because of the financial cost and the fact that our healthcare system is extremely overwhelmed. Not only that, but it is all just... a burden.

We are very fortunate in the sense that we have insanely good healthcare. Like, really good. If we had to pay for my annual care out of pocket, it would be close to half a million dollars, and that's just for regular treatments and checkups. But we only have to pay a maximum of $3,000 annually. Woohoo!

I’ve had over 21 personal doctor visits in the past year alone. That doesn’t include the ER or urgent care runs. That’s nearly two a month. Two a month might not sound terrible, but keep that schedule for eight years continuously and tell me how it feels.

You might be thinking that I'm completely full of it, and you know, that's a fair assumption. "Oh, so just because you see a lot of doctors, you're an expert?" Yes. Damn right!

It is exhausting for all the reasons I listed above, AND I'm still sick! Bobby Brokearm gets to go to the doctor for an acute injury, get some physical therapy, and actually get better. That doesn't happen for me. I don't get better, and I am excellent at following orders. All of this is just to stymie a rapid descent into disability.

So, yeah, I'm an expert. Said in Keanu Reeves' best John Wick voice. Let me tell you why.

I am a casual observer of all the systemic problems in health care. I often hear people say, "I'm glad we don't have socialized healthcare! America is the best!" First off, pull your head out of your ass and do a little research and traveling. Our healthcare is NOT the best. Sure, we attract plenty of top doctors because of capitalism. Most people like to be compensated well, and if the opportunity is there, they will take it. Does that mean that everyone gets to see those doctors? Nope! Be prepared for months-long wait times all while you gradually sink into medical despair. This point is exceptionally ironic because "wait times" is one of the largest reasons people are against socialized medicine.

Now, I'm not saying that other doctors are bad. Quite the contrary, in my vast experience, most doctors I've dealt with have been excellent. Most. BUT, you'll still experience insanely long scheduling times to see them too. Why? Because, as I've stated before, the healthcare system is overburdened. Is this the fault of the doctors? Absolutely not. It's the fault of the capitalist system that's invaded healthcare.

"OMG, Beard-Dad, are you a commie bastard?!" First off, kindly direct your head to the nearest garbage disposal. Second, no. I just don't think profiteering belongs anywhere near healthcare. It muddies the waters and provides poor patient experience and high physician burnout.

What is one of the first questions someone is asked when seeing the doctor? "Do you have insurance, and what insurance do you have?" Why TF does it matter? (I'm well aware they need to know who to bill... besides me.) Help me without my quality of care being affected by the insurance I carry. Many people will tell me that it doesn't matter. Those people are called liars, as I've witnessed this repeatedly firsthand. The extent of my care is based specifically on what my insurance "covers". Which, lucky for me, is just about everything!

Which leads me to the crux of this specific observation. I'm on socialized healthcare. It's true! The government has set prices on my behalf, negotiated drug costs to almost nothing for me, and carries the brunt of the financial burden.

The VA is the truest version of socialized medicine in the country, and ya know what? I get the same level of care there that I do in the civilian systems.

One of the weirdest reasons I'm an expert on healthcare is that I usually know more about my disease than many of the doctors I see. I get it; unless you're a neurologist or someone specializing in MS, you probably aren't going to be too knowledgeable on it. Here's the problem with that. Oftentimes, my MS overlaps with other ailments that are written off by doctors under the umbrella of having MS.

• "Numbness and tingling? Probably the MS."
• "Gastrointestinal issues? MS."
• "Your body hurts? Just part of the MS."

It drives me crazy when I see a specialist and this is their default conclusion without even giving me a proper exam. I will concede that most of the time they will do appropriate testing, but their initial inclination is always, "Oh yeah bro, MS. Duh."

Well. That's about it. I'm going to continue waiting to see this doctor as I have been waiting for the last two hours. And I'm not counting the four months it took to get this appointment. Why? Because I'll continue to take care of myself the best way I can, even when the system is as broken as my body. I also want to offer a sincere thank you to all the doctors, nurses, and professionals that have helped me and continue to do so because they're good people. Thank you for consistent work in trying to make me feel better. Your efforts are noticed and appreciated. Just stop telling me, "It's the MS."

Dad out.

I Planted Trees Recently.

Well, okay—I paid someone to plant some trees recently.

We live in the suburbs in a beautiful neighborhood where you can see your neighbors every time you look out the window. We like our neighbors very much, but I don't necessarily want to watch the live-action broadcast of their lives playing out in our backyard. We also have some incredible living space back there in the form of a partially covered patio we had installed last year. It has a built-in firepit that is aesthetically appealing and a real joy to use. The only problem? Zero privacy. Two houses sit right on the opposite side of our fenceline.

So, to combat living in a fishbowl, we had a row of emerald green arborvitae planted along the back fence.

Here's the catch: They're three feet tall.

Those trees "ain't blockin' shit" --yet, and probably won't for a few years. Am I so far gone into the early throes of dementia that I had no idea these trees were so small? No. I did this because I'm cheap.

To give you some backstory, my family loves trees. Like, really loves them. I grew up on an intentionally and exceptionally wooded 3-acre plot of land. I remember my dad being outside all the time "planting trees"—though in reality, I think he just liked the peace of being outside. Over the course of his tenure there, he probably planted hundreds of trees. That is not an exaggeration.

This obsession with greenery started with my grandmother, who originally cultivated the land from a barren brick factory (true story) into the lush landscape it is today. Out of the three generations that have lived there, it was my grandmother and father responsible for its majesty. Shoot, we had so many varieties of trees on our property—over fifty—that middle school classes would take field trips to our house just to collect leaves for school projects. You could definitely say we had a little bit of "privacy" there. If by privacy, you mean a literal Fortress of Solitude.

BEHOLD!

Now that you have the backstory, you can understand my deep-seated desire for a secluded backyard. So, what's the point of this musing? I don't know that I have a specific point, except that much like a glass ketchup bottle, good things come to those who wait.

I have found that planting something and watching it grow is a slow, boring, and miraculous experience. Trees usually don't grow perfectly. Sometimes they get sick, and sometimes they need a little pruning.

I'll lean fully into the dad cliché here: planting trees is a lot like raising my two girls. It takes time, patience, water, food, and a solid foundation to grow them into beautifully cultivated adults who, I hope, flourish because of the effort we put into them.

So the next time someone asks me why I only planted three-foot trees in the backyard, my answer will be simple: "Because I like watching things grow."

Dad out... to water some trees.

If you looked blindly at my medical chart, you'd picture a 70-year-old woman. Actually, I’m a 44-year-old cisgender dude, but at this point in my life, my immune system and my skeleton are fully ignoring my genetics. As I've stated before, I have plenty of medical issues. I'm not shy nor ashamed of that; it is what it is. One thing I was not prepared for in my rapid spiral into complete disability was the ever-increasing list of predominantly female-related illnesses that I am afflicted with. Let me tell you!

I have multiple sclerosis (MS). According to WebMD, the ratio of women diagnosed with MS vs. men is 4 to 1. I think it would be safe to say that MS is a predominantly female-oriented disease. I was first diagnosed back in 2018, and this was the ultimate reason for my departure from the Army. MS is a progressive neurodegenerative disease that affects everyone differently and is underpinned by common symptoms and disabilities. For me, I have a lot of the mild to moderate hallmarks of the disease, such as debilitating fatigue, numbness and tingling, visual problems, pain, etc.

I actually have a pretty funny story about how I was diagnosed, so if we ever cross paths, feel free to ask. It involves a groundhog and a bike on a rainy day. MS sucks. It really does, but I and millions of other ladies out there are making the best of it.

I have fibromyalgia. Another female-dominated disease. According to the NIH, "It is most prevalent among middle-aged women, encompassing 75%-90% of those diagnosed." Wow, that's an even higher prevalence than MS! I guess my parents really should've named me Hailey despite my apparent birth as a male.

Fibromyalgia is basically just a pain disorder. I have pain all the time. No big deal, I'm used to pain, which makes this disease manageable, if not psychologically secondary to MS. It is often difficult to decipher what is causing what sensation at any given time, so I don't give this one much thought even though it's part of my medical history. I know some folks who get absolutely wrecked by this one, and there is no judgment here. They just so happen to all be women. Girl power!

I have Raynaud's disease. This one isn't as large of a gap, but damn it, I'm going to use all the ammo I have to make my case. Again, according to the NIH, "Community-based surveys estimate Raynaud's may be present in 5-20% of women and in 4-14% of men." Wow, I suppose I should get my estrogen checked! Actually, I have, and I have normal levels... for a man, hmm.

Raynaud's has to be the most annoying of all of my afflictions. It's a vascular disease that also makes the furthest reaches of your body turn magical colors, lose all blood, and then throb for hours on end. In my case, I also develop ulcers on my fingertips in the winter. Neat! Raynaud's can eat a bag of dicks. In case you can't tell, I really hate this one, as I've been presented with no treatment options for it.

Finally, this leads me to the real reason for this musing. Today, I was diagnosed with osteoporosis. WTF. I'm a 44-year-old dude, or at least I thought I was. The NIH is banging out some hits! They state that "osteoporosis is four times more common in women than in men..." putting it on par with MS in diagnosis prevalence. I'm still learning about this one, but the current options offered to me are a daily self-injection of magical bone grow for 2 years, followed up by a maintenance med that I would take in perpetuity.

This particular affliction has been a specific pain in my ass for years. I break a lot of bones. Apparently more than the average Joe, as I have logged 18 fractures over my lifetime. Apparently, this is what some in the medical community call a problem.

The real red flag is when I broke my foot in two places last year by walking and subsequently fractured both knees in November because I went for a light jog... twice. So, bing bang boop, I got a DEXA scan at the Women's Health clinic (no bullshit, that's where they sent me), and several months later arrived here today with osteoporosis at the age of 44.

So, because of the totality of the circumstances, I believe that I am indeed a 70-year-old woman, at least by medical history. I would almost guarantee that any doctor looking at my history without specifically knowing my sex would be like, "Wow, this lady has many problems!" The frustrating part about all of this is I actually follow medical advice! I exercise regularly; I don't have a stupid diet like a vast majority of Americans; I try not to drink too much; I follow all the prescription protocols given to me, and I don't smoke! What gives! I'll tell you what gives: absolutely nothing. My genetics just have a dark sense of humor. Can I identify as a 70-year-old woman?

Chronic disease has become a big part of my story. What I've experienced throughout the medical community as a professional patient is that we are not all treated the same based on the diagnosis. I have often found that most of the aforementioned maladies, when researched, are predominantly based around women with the disease and not men. That's fair considering the disproportionate amount of women diagnosed with these things, but it doesn't do a lick of good for individuals (men) like me. For example, most resources for MS are geared specifically to women and the age-related problems of being a woman.

I guess what I'm ultimately trying to say is that gender discrimination or bias can affect even a cis white male like myself. (I hope I said that correctly.) I won't say it's eye-opening because if you aren't a complete piece of crap, you can recognize that other people go through this all the time based on different factors, but it is humbling to experience it yourself even when it isn't overt or intentional. I have to go pee in a jug for 24 hours and somehow keep it refrigerated without making my family vomit when they open the fridge.

Dad out.

Here's some slop for ya! I fed this post into an AI and had it generate this image. Thanks, Google, you're hilarious.

OH COME ON!

It's bad enough that I'm tormented inside the house. Now this cretin is stalking me in my own yard! I promise you, I am not staging this thing for effect. It just magically appears where I least expect it and continues to ensure that I'll keep going back to my cardiologist (yes, I have one of those too). I am warning all parents not to buy this terrorist!

"People of all ages love its presence and charm, whether it's in the living room, playroom, or store front."

False advertising. I do not love it and I would categorize myself as a person of all ages.

I snuck up on this asshole to get this shot. He was too engrossed in freaking out the neighbors to notice.

Dad out...to get an EKG.

Find the original terrorist sighting here.

School's out now, so my body has once again become corporeal! Some of you may have to look that word up... You are probably wondering what the hell I'm talking about. "Beard-dad, you're a human being with a solid body, blood and cholesterol coursing through your veins." When it comes to child rearing, school, pretty much anything involving children, dads are not considered relevant in any serious conversations, decisions, etc. I can already hear the slow turn of eyes rolling, creaking in their sockets, but please hear me out.

I’m a stay-at-home dad or SAHD—which, conveniently, is pronounced 'sad,' fitting for a guy whose school presence is basically a haunting. I'm not just some dude ranting on a daily basis, even though that would be a fair assumption. So, I have some street cred when it comes to all of the aforementioned issues. In my current role, I am the primary contact, caregiver, comforter, diaper changer, and adult face for my children. Most people I've come across in my 7 years of doing this have been very kind and supportive. BUT, when it comes to the school side of things, which happens to be dominated by women, I am nothing more than a warm body and, more often than not, a ghost.

"What do you mean, a ghost!?! Is this the Sixth Sense?" No, it's not and I'm not actually a ghost. Since we've started our journey through the school system, we have had the pleasure of attending multiple parent/teacher conferences. I believe that my wife and I have attended every single one that's come up except for maybe one. Conferences or meetings with teachers and staff have become almost a comedic enterprise for me over the years because oftentimes I am entirely ignored during the discussions.

When we first started, I would often say to my wife that "Teacher X didn't look at me the entire meeting" and would disregard my questions or answer them to my wife. At first, she didn't believe me or would write it off as a non-issue because, as I've stated before, she works in schools and has never done nor witnessed such a thing.

For a while I thought that maybe I was overreacting, but these occurrences just kept happening over and over again. Since I made my wife aware of the perceived issue, she has become more perceptive of the body language and overall responses from school staff and is now on team Beard Dad.

You might wonder what the precipitating moment was for her epiphany. I remember distinctly we were sitting in a conference for my oldest. I asked a question directly to the teacher and in response, she looked directly at my wife and full-on answered to her as if I weren't even there. The teacher even looked her directly in the eyes while she was speaking. To be fair, I did notice everyone in the room begin to shiver and become visibly disturbed while I was talking. Weird. The entire exchange was so outlandish that I began to find great comedy thereon out. Hence, I knew then that I very well may be a ghost but only inside of school buildings.

Now, am I exaggerating a little bit? No, I am not. The absolute disavowal of my existence is quite prevalent, BUT I'm not even mad or bitter about it. Honestly, I'm kind of enthralled with the entire thing. Since I’ve accepted my afterlife as a phantom, I’ve been observing the patterns of the living. Here are my working theories on why this haunting happens.

Theory 1: Since education is a predominantly female-dominated profession (except for high school), female teachers inadvertently feel more comfortable talking to other women. In reality, it probably has nothing to do with me or my gender. It's just a natural social tendency. Totally understandable! I wouldn't want to talk to me either!

Theory 2: Men have been so absent in the child-rearing experience over time that it's jarring when a dad is so heavily involved. I am not ignorant to this. Men historically have not been primary caregivers of children. Hell, oftentimes you will see dad's portrayed as clueless, bumbling idiots that can't even put a diaper on the right way.

This perception is actually relevant because that's how most dads were when I was growing up. They went to work, they came home, ate, slept, and repeated the cycle. It would be a special occasion to see dad's participating in the regular happenings of family life, and the mere occurrence of a dad "taking care of the kids" would warrant gushing praise from any woman in the vicinity. "Oh look at the dad, watching his kids, what a good dad!" (Read this in a Canadian accent; it's more fun.)

You don't see women being praised for the exact same thing, that many do all f***ing day?! Do ya?! I too have often been given such warm praises for simply doing what I'm supposed to do, which is taking care of the darn kids! Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the compliments and feeling seen, but the standards are completely different between men and women.

Working Theories:

-I'm just so good-looking and my beard is so magnificent, it renders every teacher that sees it awe-struck. (Probably not true... probably)

-I am a ghost. It is completely plausible that I die whenever I enter a school and that's why no one can see me. The miracle in all of this is that I am resurrected every time I leave. The church may want to study me. (This is probably the least likely scenario)

So what should you take away from all of this? Well, we are all subject to social constructs, even when they can negatively impact you. People adhering to said social constructs usually aren't intentionally being malicious or rude. It's subconscious. Lastly, people are definitely biased against ghosts. To anyone reading this, remember that all dads aren't bumbling idiots, just most of us, and regardless of what you've experienced in the past, gender roles can change. Thanks for reading, and I have to go counsel a sad kid on a park bench now. Dad out.

I don't like to talk politics anymore. It's just not productive to do so in the United States right now. This is sad for me because I actually like politics and even carry a degree in political science. I wouldn't qualify myself as an expert on domestic politics, but I will say that I know more than most people on the topic and I am extremely well-versed in foreign policy.

I also avoid it because the saying is true: "Opinions are like assholes, everyone's got one and they all stink." With that being said, the current administration is an abomination.

The reasons why our current administration sucks ass are infinite, but the true defining moment is this:

Source

WTF. So I'm guessing there are currently two types of people looking at this photo right now. First, the sane kind: if you look at this and automatically feel revulsion, disgust, and anger, those are the correct emotions to have. Second, if you see this and spontaneously vomit out a "Hell yeah, brother!" and subsequently get excited, you should probably stop voting immediately and maybe consider sterilization. This entire display, event, whatever, is abhorrent.

Or... am I just being a big wussy?

I wasn't sure how to answer my last question, so, like a good millennial, I turned to the Internet, which means I asked Google's very own Gemini. I tasked it to: “Convince me that a UFC fight on the White House lawn is a good thing.”

The AI spat out a beautifully orchestrated, fiercely institutional defense. It argued that hosting "UFC Freedom 250" on the South Lawn this June would redefine the "People's House" by embracing working-class culture, showcase the ultimate meritocracy, act as a global soft-power play of national energy, and break Washington's stiff traditionalism.

OK, Google. I hear you, but I don't think I can let this one slide. Let's address those points individually.

Redefining the "People's House"

I would definitely agree that D.C. has historically had a stick up its ass and really doesn't represent its mass constituency. Although, a fight on the lawn? I would argue that this is more akin to redneck politics and doesn't redefine shit. It just shows that America is bereft of class and caters to a male demographic in the 18–49 category. Most of whom probably fantasize about being in that ring but realistically would get their asses handed to them by a stuffed animal. I should know, I'm surrounded by stuffies and they are dangerous. (Please refer to my previous post about the terrorist giraffe for context.)

Also, according to WifiTalents.com, only 1.7% of U.S. adults reported watching UFC per 2022 survey data. Sure, I'll play devil's advocate for a second—more recent survey data from S&P Global Market Intelligence puts the number closer to 9% of U.S. online adults, putting it roughly on par with golf or tennis. But even using that more generous number, 9% doesn't exactly scream "People's House" to me. I would assume since MAGA has grown like a malignant cancer, so has UFC viewership, but I can't imagine that in a few short years it has eclipsed the halfway point of representing all Americans. This is a sham argument at best.

The Ultimate Meritocracy

OK, sure, meritocracy. A fine idea if this wasn't completely hypocritical. The current administration is full of nepo-babies, sycophants, and grifters. Many of whom come from great privilege, including the man at the top. To espouse the concept of meritocracy while exercising the exact opposite is insulting. If you want to base this off of the idea and not its execution, sure, but I'm not seeing it realistically portrayed at all.

A Global Power Play

This one is laughable. I would argue that this will actually diminish America's soft power abroad. We've cut massive amounts of foreign aid, kidnapped the leaders of foreign countries, started an illegitimate war (try and fight me on that one), and allowed the murder and incarceration of both foreigners and citizens domestically in the supposedly freest country in the world—and you're going to argue that a highly moderated cage fight is going to project power abroad? ¡HA! Do you want to know what really conveys true soft power and authority? Practiced morality, working productively with your allies, and—I don't know—maybe adhering to your own laws? Holy shit, this one is stupid.

Breaking Institutional Stridency

This may be the only point that I mildly agree with. Washington D. C. is exceptionally insular. The soft check on this is looking at real estate prices. Your average, tax-paying citizen has no access because they can't afford access. Would any person with at least two brain cells working overtime actually look at Washington and think, "Hmm, wow, they really ARE working in my best interest." I will fervently say that a fight on the lawn is not the way to remedy this. If anything, it is modern-day gladiatorial games diverting attention from the true problems facing the nation. "Look over here at these totally fun games, not over here at our cesspool of inequity."

Well, that was a fun exercise in futility, but I feel a little bit better. I think we determined that I am, indeed, a big wuss—but not because of this. If this is how we're going to celebrate 250 years of independence, we probably don't deserve another 250 without some real reflection and change. I hope you're as repulsed as I am, and if you aren't... go look in the mirror and slap yourself 250 times in honor of America and your own stupidity.

Dad out.

I will be the first person to say that I struggle with Memorial Day. It’s not because of what the day is supposed to represent, but what it has become. This weekend people and families across the nation are gearing up for a long weekend of BBQing, gathering and merriment. Which is why I always find myself wistful on Memorial Day.

Almost every service member today can name at least one person they've lost to war. Often we forget that service members are still fighting long after they return home and often lose to the battles within, but no less a result of their time spent "in country". This is exactly why I don't like this holiday. While most of the people around me are celebrating and often wishing me a "Happy Memorial Day", I don't share in that revelry.

I know the excitement for a long weekend comes from a good place. I even understand that civilians wishing me a 'Happy Memorial Day' is meant as a sign of respect and an affirmation of my service. But, for myself and I'm sure many other veterans, there is nothing happy about Memorial Day.

I've had this discussion many times with my fellow service members over the years and have gathered a few different viewpoints on the subject. Some veterans welcome the holiday with excitement, often saying they don't begrudge people for enjoying themselves, or they look at it as a big, happy party for the fallen. Other veterans despise this holiday and look callously at everyone enjoying themselves on a day which they believe should be marked with somber appreciation. For me, I am a mix between the two.

As I stated previously, I don't fault people for wanting to enjoy themselves without fully appreciating the holiday that affords them that opportunity. I think a lot of this has to do with the fact that most people have not been directly impacted by the loss that war causes. Let me expand.

If you haven't served, or if your family hasn't been handed a folded flag, the concept of war is mostly theoretical. It’s movies and history books. You can't force someone to feel the weight of a loss they haven't personally experienced, and honestly, I wouldn't wish that weight on them anyway. So, for me, I have to acknowledge that most people haven't been touched by the impact of Memorial Day.

I am also guilty of having the cliched family BBQ and, God forbid, even smiling and having fun over the weekend. But, inevitably, I am always hit with the sad realization and remembrance of people whom I've known that are now gone.

This weekend I encourage everyone to enjoy themselves responsibly and maybe pour one out. I would also ask that you take just a moment, in quiet reflection, to remember those we've lost and fully comprehend what that means. So have fun and remember the cost we've collectively incurred so we can continue to live and hopefully thrive here. America is far from perfect, especially now, but I will always be appreciative of what we have and the people that defend it, even when it's broken. I'm going to go smoke some ribs. Dad out.

My musing today reflects on the "adult struggle." I know we keep hearing from all of the Boomers out there that kids are soft, weak-minded, and unable to cope with the stresses of the world. I don't subscribe to that point of view. I don't think kids are better at handling our first-world adversity; I think they are just smart enough to know it's all meaningless garbage. They stick to the basics. We middle-agers, on the other hand, are drowning in it. And speaking for myself, I am just so tired of "the fight." Since you're still reading, I'll expand.

We adults are some of the most unyielding and immovable objects when it comes to change. I think this is true for a multitude of different reasons, but the biggest reason is because we are tired of "the fight". Now I'm not talking about literal fights; it's not like we're living in a world of UFC fighters getting into random dust-ups every day. That would be absolutely ridic....awesome! Actually, in my case I would constantly be getting my ass kicked because my body hurts and I break easily. I wish I knew why... Please envision me staring pensively into space. Sorry, I'm back; I tend to drift sometimes.

Moving back to the point, I'm speaking of the proverbial fight of everyday life. One thing I've learned about being a middle-aged man-baby is that I'm just tired of having to fight for and over everything. Just think about it, ¿enjoy politics? Fight. Your utility bills are out of control? Fight. You have a defective product? Fight. Not happy with a contractor? Fight. You're on an HOA board and not everyone likes what you're doing? Fight. Want your kids to wear shoes in winter? Fight.You don't like your kids' IEP and want it changed? Fight. I might be hitting a little too close to home on that last point, but I think you're beginning to understand what I'm talking about now.

The more I age, the more tired I become due to the struggle of just getting what I've paid for, need, or would like to have. I don't know when things changed from challenging and fun to tired and oppressive but that's where I often find myself these days. Not because I don't enjoy a challenge, but because we have to fight over the simplest, stupidest, shittiest things on a daily basis. Like, why can't people just do the things they're supposed to do or claim that they'll do? It would reduce so much friction. Come on, why is my escrow being adjusted by a thousand dollars every year!? Why is insurance going up when I've never had a claim, ever! Why do I have to reprimand a baby boomer for blatantly cutting in line at Costco? I'm just so tired of constantly fighting over the dumbest things!

This is why I miss war. Now, I know what you're thinking, "What kind of psycho misses war?!" I'll tell you who, this psycho! Please picture me holding two thumbs up, towards my body with a triumphant smile. That's right, war is pretty awful, but it's not all bad. Think of it this way, what do you have to worry about in a Combat Zone? Three simple things: chow, sleep, and not dying. War simplifies life into basic categories instead of all the meaningless BS that we have in a first-world country. Do you think civilians in an active war zone are concerned about their insurance premiums going up? Nope, because those things no longer exist when you're getting bombed and shot at. I know this seems dark, but I'm telling you, it's true!

This brings me to the point of this musing. Kids don't worry about any of those things. They're just like Soldiers; all they care about is the basics (chow, sleep, fun shit). I know that kids' base needs are all that they care about when they're young, but I think there's something to that because, at least for my kids, they're almost always happy.

In closing, let's all try to fight less and be more like kids. Eat a little trash once in a while, throw the occasional tantrum and take naps. I think the world would be a much better place if we all fought less and took more naps. Dad out.

We made it. We've finally arrived at the last day of school for the year and can exhale a long-held breath of relief. Every year comes with new expectations, uncertainties, and a strange resolution at the end.

It feels surreal in the sense that the beginning and end of the school years are specifically marked points in time. By identifying both a beginning and an end, it forces you to reflect with almost melancholic nostalgia on all of the ignored points in between.

I know it's not typical for me to wax poetic, but looking at my kids grow is a revelatory experience in the passage of time.

Being an adult, you begin to take these mini milestones for granted. We're done growing and have been set into who we are as people. There isn't that time lapse of exponential growth that we all see and experience in our early years. That's why observing it in your children is so magical.

Through them, it's a rekindling of that hope, wonder and constant change that, while disruptive, gets you excited and leaves you in awe of what currently is. It's easy to get caught in the doldrums of life; everyone does, but really taking moments like this to appreciate all of the amazing moments in between is such a privilege that only a parent gets to experience.

I know I'm speaking into the ether here, but thank you to all of the teachers, family, and supporting staff that help our kids grow and flourish. It's hard to work in education and you all have my utmost respect for what you do. I'm sorry this post is short, but I'm going to go soak up the last vestiges of the school year while I can. Dad out.

I like to take some pride in my cooking, but my kids sure don't. It's one of the few things that I do relatively well, but as the title plainly states, my kids hate my cooking. Now "hate" might be a bit of an overstatement, but I would estimate that they eat what I cook less than fifty percent of the time.

I get it. I know exactly what you're thinking, "bUt ThAt'S jUsT hOw KiDs ArE!" No. That's how we think they are. Everyone, even kids, is capable of appreciating a good meal. We don't have to feed them constant, processed slop to make them happy. At least that's the hill I'm dying on. I work damn hard to provide quality meals for my family, because I love them. But it get's super old day after day of your kids not eating what you make and then complaining incessantly to give them literal trash that a raccoon wouldn't even touch. I've seen things, I know.

This is also a point of mild debate between my wife and me. Now, I concede that she's somewhat of an "expert" (please envision me doing air quotes for effect) on the topic, being that she's a pediatric occupational therapist.

She consistently claims that our kids aren't picky. Every time it comes up, her face converts into a blank, 100-yard stare, and she states, "You haven't seen picky." in her most ominous voice. I will also caveat this point by stating that she participated in a research study while attending grad school on picky eating in children. Pffft, big deal! I know what my eyes perceive and my feelings feel.

So, what do I do to alleviate this burden on my children and myself? I try to make foods that I think they would enjoy but still aren't made of garbage. This leads me to the crux of my current situation. Eating healthy is expensive. It just is. I don't know why, but I'm guessing that quality products take more time to produce, etc...Whatever, it's horseshit. If it's what all producers committed to, it wouldn't be a big deal, but people and businesses typically like to take the path of least resistance and that means crap food at a discount. So, you can imagine how frustrating it might be when you spend the time and money to plan and execute awesome meals just to have your kids not eat them! It's infuriating.

To add fuel to the fire, my youngest is predominantly nonverbal. While eating meals, she'll often audibly say, "no, no, no" to eating the meal provided. Then to rub salt in the wound, on her "talker" (it's an iPad with pre-programmed words or phrases that will say out loud the picture she touches), she'll then politely say what she does want, which is usually "cookies", "crackers", or "ice cream". Which is fine, we all have our own preferences, right?

Wrong, she'll hammer that picture over and over again until you actually start to believe what she's saying sounds like a good idea. I'm not talking about tapping that thing a few times, oh no. She is incessant and makes sure you know what she wants, even after we say no, by hammering you with that monotone, robotic voice. "Cookie, cookie, cookie, cookie. Cheez-Its, cookie, cracker." I think you get the point.

The point is, I keep trying and I will continue to try regardless of the outcome because I love my family. They deserve my best and I'm going to give it one uneaten meal at a time. Dad out.

(These are a few of the meals both kids did eat...mostly. )

I installed a toilet. Now, installing a new toilet isn't typically something to brag about. Hell, it might even be a basic requirement to obtain your "man-card"—I wouldn't know because I don't usually care about those things. But for me, this was a massive deal.

I am not handy. Like, really not handy. I never learned those typical craftsmanship skills that young boys usually pick up at an early age. There are several reasons for that, but they're inconsequential to where I am today.

Since becoming a homeowner, I have increasingly tried to add practical skills to my proverbial toolbox. I've done tiling, installed faucets, shoot, I even put in an entire pergola. Every single project was extremely stressful to begin with.

You might be thinking, "What's so stressful about installing a toilet?" For me, it's because it takes me completely out of my wheelhouse. Electronics? I got you. Need to disassemble a gun? No problem. How about cooking a meal worthy of the ones you love? Yes. But when it comes to handiwork, I typically don't even know where to begin.

I also have the type of personality where I need to understand something fully before I feel comfortable executing it. For example, before installing this toilet, I had to know exactly how it worked. What type of seal do I need? What are the benefits of the different chair heights? What flush valve do I want? It's insanity. I imagine most people just go buy a toilet and that's that.

But while deciding on a toilet, I knew one thing for certain: I had to have a bidet. I have been waiting years to get one. The Army ruins you on proper hygiene because if you're out in the field with mud-butt or swamp ass, you are absolutely miserable. When my wife and I initially got together, she thought my obsession with having a clean B-hole was quite weird. Sorry, it's just who I am.

The quick backstory is that several years ago we toured Italy for a few weeks, and there were bidets in every hotel. It was divine. My chocolate starfish never felt so fresh, and I've never forgotten the joy of being able to wash up after every number two. I wanted to capture that magic at home.

So, with my wife's blessing, I bought a bidet toilet. Nothing too fancy requiring electricity, a heated seat, or hot water. Just a simple spritz of water. Amazing. Instead of spending the money to have a professional put it in, I felt it was high time I added toilet installation to my repertoire.

This toilet is 110 lbs, and we needed to get it to the second floor. My back is absolutely destroyed from the Army, but I'm functional. So, I enlisted my wife to help me get this thing upstairs. It wasn't pretty, but we got that big bastard up there, just to begin the hardest part of this project: the installation.

Removing the old toilet was no problem. I had that piece of junk out of there lickety-split. But getting the new toilet installed was a whole 'nother animal. For the most part, getting it set and sealed wasn't the issue. Connecting all of the water lines in a tight space was the real nightmare. After getting this porcelain throne of butt cleanliness set, I realized we had a leak at one of the water connections. No problem, I thought, I'll just tighten that thing up, razzle-dazzle, and I'm on my way to fresh-town.

Nope. There was zero room behind this single-piece behemoth to get a wrench in. I had to pull it back out to tighten all of the loose connections. I thought I had it, I really did. But I was wrong. So wrong. I turned the water back on and it immediately started dripping, mocking my manhood.

I called my best friend, who also happens to be a contractor, lamenting my problem. He recommended lathering it with silicone if I was going to be a lazy POS and not pull it back out. So, I made my drive of shame to Home Depot.

Going to Home Depot is always an interesting experience. There are people there whom you can tell immediately know exactly what they're doing, and then there's me and the rest of the lost boys. We always offer each other a solemn head nod in recognition that we don't know WTF we're doing when we pass each other in the plumbing aisle. But that nod of encouragement means everything.

Anyway, I bought that silicone caulk, shamefully drove myself back home, and slathered that shit on. It didn't work. After waiting an hour (30 minutes past the recommended cure time, mind you), the drip actually seemed to mock me by being WORSE.

I again, shamefully, pulled the toilet entirely up. I tightened every single connection to the max and, in total self-deprecation, called my wife for the third time to help me guide the toilet back onto the flange.

Well, this time it worked! No leaks, it flushes beautifully, and the grand finale? It washes my ass. Now, look above and behold my triumph!

The moral of the story? Be uncomfortable and do uncomfortable things. You'll be glad ya did.

Dad out.

One thing I will be eternally grateful for is our community. In today's society, it often feels like we're all living on islands. Sure, your island might be right next to someone else's, but the water between you feels deep. I don't know exactly when this cultural shift happened, but I know it occurred within my 44 years. Folks just don't seem to have the time, willingness, or energy to get to know their neighbors anymore—much to their own detriment.

We are currently living in our second house. Our first was a starter home in an okay neighborhood. It was safe and predominantly quiet—except on major holidays, when every redneck in the subdivision thought it appropriate to light off cascades of fireworks in the small park directly outside our back door. Fantastic environment for a recently returned Soldier from Iraq. 😐

But as I said, the neighborhood was fine. The only thing that felt odd was the total lack of interaction. Everyone kept to themselves. It’s not that people were actively unkind, but there seemed to be an unspoken rule that you simply shouldn't engage. Ironically, the only neighbors I had any type of positive relationship with were immigrants to the US; they were exceptionally kind and always made a point to say hello. The same could not be said for our native-born neighbors. Maybe there's a separate commentary to be made there.

Now, it might sound like we were trying really hard to form a community back then... we weren't. We were absolutely part of the perceived problem.

We stayed in that house for about ten years. Once we had our first daughter, we decided it was time to move. The house wasn't big, and the local schools were hot garbage. So, about seven years ago, we moved into our current home.

The difference was night and day. People actually went out of their way to introduce themselves. They seemed genuinely curious about us, which was a complete 180 from what we were used to. To put a cherry on top, my wife grew up in this neighborhood, so we had family living just a few blocks away. (Free childcare, baby! Yeah!)

We quickly became friends with most of our immediate neighbors. If you think back to seven years ago, we were eventually rolling right into the pandemic. As the kids have gotten older and folks have gotten busier, our opportunities to just hang out have dwindled. BUT, I know I can count on this community to help when we need it.

Which brings me to the inspiration for today's musing.

My oldest is the final hold-out in our house being sick. We thought she was over it, but alas, she started spewing the nonexistent contents of her stomach into the wee hours of the morning. Hence, no school again for the third or fourth day this week. (I don't remember; my brain no workie like it used to.)

This created a massive logistical problem this morning.

If you've read any of my previous posts, you've probably deduced that I've got problems. Lots of medical problems. None of them are life-threatening, just time-consuming and debilitating. I'm essentially a walking dumpster fire. Today, I had a scheduled appointment with an orthopod—an appointment I've already had to reschedule twice because of life. I really had to go, my wife had to go to work, and my sick daughter had to stay home.

She's right in that grey area of being old enough to stay home alone for prolonged periods, but not quite old enough for us to be completely comfortable with it—especially while she's been emptying her guts for days.

So, what did we do? I called a neighbor. Without hesitation, he graciously offered to be on standby if she needed help, and even offered to come sit with her if necessary.

And here we arrive at the entire reason for this post: I have great neighbors. It's not because we live in some anomalous, magical place. It's because we are surrounded by people who decided to put in the effort to make it great. I could go on about all the reasons I love this area, but that would detract from my main point: everyone can have this exact same thing. We just have to put in the effort. We have to actually talk to one another face-to-face. We have to be genuinely interested in each other's welfare. Maybe smile and wave when someone drives by instead of keeping our heads buried in our phones. Take a walk and talk to someone on your street for the simple reason of being a good neighbor.

There's a lot of division in the country today, but if we can all take a little time to actually connect with the people right next door, we can lessen that gap. (It also helps that our HOA doesn't allow political yard signs.)

In closing, I want to offer a heartfelt thank you to all of my neighbors who continue to make life just a little less daunting. Thank you.

Dad out.

So, I have Multiple Sclerosis, or am I a person living with Multiple Sclerosis? I can't keep up with what's socially correct anymore, so we'll stick with me just having the damned disease. I'll be direct in saying that it's a shitty disease. Not just for me, but for the people closest to me. I'll expand more on this pity party in a future post.

By most standards, I'm doing pretty well, all things considered. I have limited disease progression. I'm still predominantly mobile and the permanent damage done to my nervous system is manageable. I have a permanent 6th cranial nerve palsy, which causes double vision or diplopia for you medical nerds. I also have all of the included bells and whistles that come with the disease when you purchase the extended warranty: polyneuropathy, pain, strange sensations, shooting pain, and, of course, debilitating fatigue, to name a few... I don't want to give away all my secrets just yet.

I say all this because it's relevant to my lived experience as a parent, especially considering I am a stay-at-home parent. Most parents are tired and in good health, and I don't want to impugn the lived experiences of other people. But I feel like I can't always relate when others say they're tired. It's not because they aren't tired, but it's because I can still remember what being tired was like before MS, and it's not the same. (There are absolutely too many "tireds" in this paragraph and it's making me tired.)

So, you may be curious as to why I'm droning on about how tired I am and why I'm probably more tired than you? Right? It's because the way I feel has adversely impacted my ability to appropriately feel empathy. It's not that I don't have it! For my kids, empathy abounds (mostly, unless it's something stupid), but when it comes to my fellow adults, I have less of a reserve. I believe this is especially impactful for my favorite fellow adult, my wife.

You may recall that we've had a wave of brown bombers come through our home, painting toilets and ruining underwear. Needless to say, we've had some folks feeling a bit under the weather in the BeardDad household. I've found that finding softness with the ones I love has become a real challenge for me when they aren't well. My current, constant, lived experience is most often rife with pain and fatigue but I'm still expected to function like everyone else and I've come to expect the same from others which isn't fair to them at all. I am sorry for that.

So, what's the point? My point is that, regardless of what you may be experiencing, it's important to show appropriate care and compassion for the people that matter most in your life, if not all human beings. Being a dad and husband isn't supposed to be about feeling sorry for yourself all of the time when things suck; it's about taking care of people and also taking care of yourself so you can continue to do the job and not be a shitty person while doing it. I'm going to try and hold myself more accountable, and I would encourage you to do the same. Dad out.

This giraffe is a terrorist. I know it's dark in the photo and that's on purpose. The reason I didn't highlight this asshole is because this is often how I come into contact with it. It will be in the dead of night or a cloudy day and I'll round a corner to see this silhouette haunting me from a new location.

The rational side of me understands that it's just my daughter playing around and moving the thing, but sometimes I can't help but wonder if it has consciousness. Just look at the way it stares at you with a knowing smirk saying, "I see you and you are lacking". I'm sorry, but I feel judged.

The worst encounters are when I'm going to bed and she placed this thing directly in my path; only it's dark and now I have to contend with a 5' tall stuffed giraffe that I wasn't expecting, all in the dead of night. I can't tell you how many times I've almost come to fisticuffs with a stuffed animal. This giraffe is a terrorist. If you ever see one in the store, walk the other way. Dad out.

One thing you need to get acclimated to quickly as a parent is the full gamut of bodily fluids. Lately, our household has been ravaged by sickness, which isn't completely abnormal having two kids in school, but this bug was on a whole new level. I'm talking about nuclear poops here. Everyone in the house was spraying ass shrapnel everywhere like it was the apocalypse. My youngest, who still isn't potty-trained (more on that another time), was filling diapers up like tiny shit-filled swimming pools. My God, it was horrendous! One morning we awoke to her covered in her own poop like a pig in mud, and no one thought it was fun or cute. I had to wash her sheets and clothes twice. It was that bad. There's nothing more humbling than wringing out poop water in the bathroom sink. If you ever come visit, I swear it's been sanitized.

You would think that whatever has been haunting our household would burn its way through in a few short days, but nope! Like the Cranberries song, this one has to linger. It all started with me and lasted just over five days before I stopped the sewage leak that was pouring out of my 4th point of contact. It subsequently moved on to my youngest... then my wife and finally my oldest. Like I stated earlier, a fast burn would've been much more preferable to the weeks-long affair that this has become. I have cleaned multiple toilets, stocked several rolls of toilet paper and went through so many electrolyte tabs... so much poop.

So, if you too are going through something similar, you are definitely not alone and, if you have the time, please pray for us, for we have sinned. I'm not sure what offense we may have caused the universe, but it seems that it was a grievous injury. Dad out.

Update: We can now add voluminous vomit to this enduring saga.🤮🫠

When learning programming, your first project is typically a "Hello World" project where you, as the student, write a string of text in the editor and, when you execute a specific command, it outputs the aforementioned phrase to the console.

This is my hello world moment in putting my thoughts to the digital page. An introduction, if you will. My intent with this digital memoir is to entertain, poorly educate, and maybe make a few people laugh about the machinations of my life. So stay tuned and, if you've made it this far, thank you for reading BeardDad.