October 14th, 2024 - Hi Daddy
Dear TNY,
Here we go motherfuckers, with “Hi Daddy”, on this bright new Monday.
And it’s fucking good. It’s like Treisman’s penchant for stories that contain nothing and go nowhere finally hit. Because does this story go anywhere? No. No it does not. But it goes nowhere the same way that we, as people, are always going nowhere. And all the minutiae that fill it? Crackles with life. For one, there are quite a few characters. But the pace they are introduced and the detail around them ensure that I don’t lose track in the first page. In fact, I knew who everyone was and what their “jam” was as they appeared. I mean, the author didn’t even introduce the wife. Just said, “Marla,” and I knew exactly who he was talking about. And the dichotomy in these people. The mom and her language and humor in the face of death. The MC thinking of throwing his dying father off a bridge. God, the youth just dripping off of his daughter. This story…what’s the quote from The Outsiders…Stay gold, Ponyboy. This story stayed gold from beginning to end. I felt like I was being lowered into a delicious world that fucking made sense of all this insanity that is Us. And did it actually? No, because living doesn’t make sense. It’s nothing but discord, confusion, sadness, and misplaced hope. But if lived right, one shakes all that shit off and can be fucking gold. And goddamn it if this isn’t that. Bravo, people. You picked a good one.
The closest this thing felt like was “Annunciation”. Not that it was as good. But it did world building that was cozy and buzzy and had something to relate to in every character. And no one was the victim. Just like life. It’s all just happening. All the time. The world’s greatest palette that, if you’re an artist, you dip your brush in and paint in the truest colors. Every painting splashing with giant doses of vibrancy that stop motherfuckers in their tracks as they are trying to walk by. Colors that say, “HEY MOTHERFUCKER LOOK AT ME!!!!”
Sorry, I got excited there. Why?
Because, guys, I’m happy.
Did you fucking hear that?
I’m fucking happy.
Why?
Well, there were a couple of things that led up to that this week. Firstly, I re-realized that I’m the prize. I’ve been rolling in this trough of horrible blame, like I’m fucking terrible and sad and broken and I don’t work right and I hurt everyone that touches me and I should just die and do everyone a favor and fucking end it. Right? That’s the data I was hearing externally. But that’s not the real data. The real data is that I’m a World Beard and Moustache Champion, Hungarian Category, 2009, I’ve published 24 stories and have a handful of awards, I’ve built four boats, I’ve remodeled four homes, I’ve rebuilt a handful of cars as well, one of which was from this summer, on a blown out MCL, that my kids and I drove 800 miles home and my youngest is still driving today with no fucking issues, I had a lovely 12 year marriage in which she felt adored and safe, I have two sons who are friends with adults and fascinating little wonders and people consider it a privilege to hang out with them, I’ve made all the money and blew it all on goddamn adventures that my kids and I will talk about for the rest of our lives, I’ve built people’s childhood fantasies and watched them cry when they saw them, I’ve dug people out of financial debt, I’ve danced with humans and told them how beautiful they were, I’ve had at least four careers, wildly different, and excelled at every one, I was top in my class in almost every learning path I’ve ever taken and was profusely thanked by the people I dragged up to that level because I knew they could do it, I’ve disarmed IED’s in war, saved lives, worked with the CIA and Secret Service, flown all over this world, jumped a car 55ft through the air, done more backflips on the ground than I can remember (most recent backflip was a giant cliff in the Salt River with samesaid blown out MCL), I’ve taught my kids to read, think, talk about Georgia O’Keefe’s work as “vaginal”, to understand the humor in The Big Lebowsky, to be empathetic, such that my oldest saved his friend who was in the process of killing himself, my youngest reverse bullying bullies, I’ve taught them to dance with abandon, to crack jokes like adults, taught them where the best fried chicken in the US is, how to fix a car, a house, a heart, to love and to be loved, to grow and to flourish and to be so much better than I ever will, I’ve been called an angel at least 6 times this year, for real, by people that believe in them, I can swim and run and hike and carry and listen and love and be loved, and do so in gigantic quantities, I can drink more than most people you’ve ever met and take care of all of you when you fall short of that mark, and sex, Christ, sex, I have been told so many times how safe I make people feel and how freeing it is, such that we do the shit they were always afraid to ask for, no shame, just two little kids (weird, I know, but stay with me) exploring stuff we don’t understand, chatting and laughing the way through, like the most important part of the activity was and always will be intimacy, intimacy as a fucking currency that gains more value each time we hand our bounty to the next person, back and forth for a night or months or years, I asked Heidi Klum to prom and I got a fucking response, I’ve written stories that saved people’s lives and relationships with their family, I’ve affected so many lives, guys. I fucking matter. I fucking matter so much. In so many practical, emotional, superficial, artistic, loving, angry, creative, explosive, bombastic, wild wild wild ways. I fucking matter and I always have. Whew!
It was very hard to type all of that. I just sat here crying. But, motherfuckers, I have value. To spend time with me is something. And I appreciate every one of you motherfuckers out there that wants to. Because I struggle to want to spend time with myself. But, as a friend once told me in reference to the Dos Equis commercials, I might be the most interesting man in the world. It’s hard to take all of this. I’m a little kid who is still struggling with his mistakes.
Speaking of, my therapist asked me if I believe I was responsible for my brother’s death last week. And I had a response.
So in 1996, I was popping some bubblewrap next to a road on a walk. I was nearest the road of five of us and then I threw it over my shoulder. He called me an asshole and went to grab it out of the road. And I switched places with him. And then he got hit by a car along with the other fella. And they are both dead now. So, on one hand, I know that that 15 year old kid that watched all that go down, and didn’t flip his brother over in the dry ditch because he was afraid of fucking up his spine, and wishes he didn’t throw the bubblewrap, that kid was raised to be a superhero and he failed. He failed so catastrophically that his brother died. Right in front of him. You guys ever do that? It’s fascinating. I watched him die, right there. So that kid, he would do it differently every time. But I’m also a 43 year old man and I understand that kid more than anyone ever will. And I know it’s not his fault. It’s just not. There was nothing to be done. We can “what if” it until we puke. But it’s not that kid’s fault. That does not mean that kid inside me won’t always be trying to fix it. That’s his job. And I’m proud of that kid. He survived to be 43 years old and build a beautiful life filled with people who adore him because of who he is. He can’t even take how much these people love him. Because it’s too much. He’s just human. But they never stop. He’s a miracle. An angel. A spirit here on earth. A genius. He’s brilliant. And special. And different. And wonderful. And it’s a privilege to be around him. Christ is it hard to hear. But they don’t stop. Even though it gets to a motherfucker.
So that’s where we stand. I. Have. Value.
Seemingly an immense amount.
And it’s not for me to understand. I just have to keep being me. Trying to find happiness. Make others happy. Be here for my boys. Keep teaching them the deep shit. And also how to fuck off. And love their partners and be good men. And build shit for cool people. Write my heart out. And love. LOVE. And try really hard to keep people from taking me away from me. Because I have value.
Fuck my face, buds. Crying my eyes out.
I hope this doesn’t come off as egotistical. It’s not intended that way. It’s just love. But maybe a little for myself this time. What a concept.
Later.
Nick
