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What Are We For?

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What Are We For?

A while back I read something interesting about the word “demonstrate”. I can’t remember exactly where I saw it, but it was a real book, not some fake news site or that guy Keith who sits in the back of the bar selling cut-price but totally genuine iPhones that for some reason only run Android. The author cited the word as an example of how important it is to take account of subtle usage differences between cultures. 

In the West, for example, one meaning of to demonstrate (derived straightforwardly from the Latin demonstrare, to "point out") means to make a protest against something. Its traditional usage in Russia and some other Eastern European countries, however, was to make a visible sign of support for something. Not only is that diametrically opposed in intent, it manifests an interestingly different slant on activism.

The reason why I bring this up is the forthcoming marches over the weekend. Sounds like they’re going to be quite a thing. I really hope so. I'll be there. But a thoughtful friend of mine was dismissive of them the other day, questioning what people thought they were protesting, and what good it would do. He’s got a point. You can’t just “protest Trump”, or not meaningfully. While I understand (and fully share) the sentiment of #NotMyPresident, it is just that — a sentiment, and as of a few hours ago, factually incorrect. And I worry (excess empathy is one of the curses of being an elitist libtard snowflake) about what will happen within the psyche of a deeply insecure man who finds that even becoming the freakin’ president won't stop people ripping the piss out of him, his hair, his hands, and his achievements. He's never going to stop chasing validation, and the search may become more desperate and dangerous. 

He’s the president now, God help us. Yes, it seems he’s an asshole and a philistine and a narcissist and a liar and would quite possibly not be in the White House were it not for the actions of a foreign state. But the latter has yet to be proved beyond reasonable doubt and negative personality traits do not explicitly disbar you from holding high office, as history shows. It seems possible Trump will fall foul of various constitutional restrictions, but he hasn't (impeachably) done so yet. Walking the streets merely yelling “Trump out!” and breaking windows and setting fire to things is not only futile, but a spasm of panic that leads nowhere — giving the #MAGA crowd another excuse to bleat about sore losers and Liberal Tears. 

So on what basis do you march? You borrow the other inflection of "to demonstrate". You march not against, but for. You march in favor of things. You demonstrate not to say how much you hate something or someone — that is the alt-right/Trumpie way — but to point out your ardent support for something. Anger is so much easier to muster than hope, but it’s the latter that leads to positive change. So you demonstrate for women’s rights, in society and the workplace and with regard to power over their own bodies. For the rights of the LGBTQ community — rights that not merely legal, but relate to the basic respect they are due. For voting rights. For racial equality, and the land rights of indigenous peoples. For the right  not to get shot — including in schools — just because some dickhead in another state yearns to own an assault rifle. For the crucial role of arts and humanities in our culture (the Trump team, FYI, is considering eliminating the National Endowments both for the Arts and the Humanities). For the protection of the environment. For support of public schools. For encouraging and celebrating diverse communities of race and religion, in a society that is open and inclusive and bold. For… I'm sure you get the picture. 

The Trump playbook is to keep throwing sticks — spewing little knee-jerk pieces of bile. It’s hard not to chase after every one, like desperate dogs, hoping that if we collect them all like weird chunks of ideological Pokémon then the world will realize what a moron the stick-throwing man is. That won’t work. He has infinite sticks. We all need to pick our own particular stick or sticks and chase them down… chewing until they break. The marches are for people to say what their sticks are — the things they’ll work to preserve or protect or improve. The marches aren’t against Trump, in other words, they’re for the things that matter: and as such are an extremely positive and long-overdue expression of the specific ways in which people care deeply about the world. That’s actually a great thing. It’s bigly huge, and it could lead to meaningful long-term victories. It’s just a shame an utter loon had to get into power to make it happen. 

Anyway, what the hell do I know and why on earth should you listen to my simplistic musings? No reason. I'm sure much of the above is implicit and rather obvious, but I guess I’m just trying to work the thing through in my head. The bottom line is that as of now, Trump is in charge. (Well, most likely it’s Steve Bannon, which is even more worrying, but Trump’s the guy with his name on the door). And my point is that — to VERY heavily paraphrase Obama in his farewell address — there's only one of him, and there's a lot of us.

The more clear it becomes that Liberal progress is not inevitable, the more actively and stridently it has to be chosen. You don’t march to say “no” to the bad things.

You march to say “yes” to the good.

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Life vs Art


Life vs Art

I don’t mind being a writer. It's what I do — and that's a lucky position to be in. There are however few professions where the gulf between how civilians think is is, and the reality, is quite as wide. As a public service I’m therefore going to outline how a typical day in the life of an author works. But first…


I wake to the sound of my assistant standing outside the palatial bedroom suite, whispering the current bestseller positions of my most recently-published novel. By the time she reaches the news that it has held its #1 spot in Turkmenistan for yet another week — the same position it holds in the US and all of Europe and everywhere else — I am ready to greet the day. While I am in the shower the sound of the water drowns out some of the sales information about my backlist, but I am reassured by her frequent use of the word “unprecedented”. 

Arrive at my desk at ten thirty sharp. Spend a while being updated by my agent on negotiations for the upcoming book contract, specifically the advance money on offer. He is concerned that conventional mathematics cannot readily cope with numbers this large. I suggest he gets in contact with Dr. Stephen Hawkings — he’s a fan — and see if he has any advice. 

Work tirelessly for twenty minutes, in which ten thousand words of profound and moving prose drip from my fingers like nectar from a fecund bloom. 

After a simple repast prepared by my personal chef, I spend an hour listening to my editor on the phone as she pleads that I not change a single word of the first draft of the novel I wrote yesterday: she insists that it is a thing of immaculate perfection, citing as evidence the fact that the head of the publishing company, upon reading it, “passed out with joy”. Reluctantly, I agree to leave it as it is. 

Read over my morning’s work, and am astonished by how good it is. I am sufficiently accustomed to my own prose to avoid losing consciousness with delight, though when I appreciatively read aloud one especially good sentence, my assistant — who has been standing nearby, fanning me with a palm frond — keels over into the corner and remains insensate for an hour. 

Spend the late afternoon choosing between cover quotes for the next novel. Decide against using the one from JK Rowling on the grounds it’s perhaps a little too gushing. Opt instead for the one that Ernest Hemingway insisted — unsolicited — on providing via a spirit medium. 

After a light supper I attend a book-signing event for my current bestseller, exchanging cheerful waves with people waiting patiently in the seven-mile-long queue. After inscribing a little over a billion copies, I allow the grateful store owner to ply me with foie gras and Chateau d’Yquem, before being carried home in a chair by the last four winners of the Nobel Prize for Literature, who ask only for the opportunity to serve. The townsfolk doff their caps and bow as we pass. Only a cynic would put this down to the meteoric rise in house prices in the area since I moved in. 

Because I am tireless, on my return I spend an hour dictating responses to fan mail. How bittersweet it is to reply to the one from President Obama, knowing that he may be the last president who knows how to read. 

Retire contendly to bed. I drift off to sleep lulled by the distant sound of my assistant, who is now standing outside in the garden shouting the names of every A-list star who is desperate to appear in the avalanche of upcoming movie adaptations of my work. For all I know, this continues all night.

As opposed to…


Wake far too early with a howl of despair, remembering it’s my turn to do the school drop-off. Enjoy a tiny beat of relief on realizing at least that means it’s not a day I’m supposed to go running. 

Lurch out of bed, putting foot in small but strategically-placed puddle of cat sick. Drink seven cups of tea. Wake child by hitting him rhythmically on the head for forty minutes with a brick. Haul him through process of dressing, eating breakfast, gathering school materials. Drive to school, late. 

Visit Safeway on the way back, find self standing blearily in checkout line with a basket containing nothing but capers and jam. Have no idea why.

Approach desk with weary trepidation at 8:45. Ignore emails from just about everyone, as they involve hassling me over things I’m late on. Explain to the credit card company that when I said I'd be paying their bill today, I meant “today” in a metaphorical sense. Also “pay”. 

Spend morning editing the previous day’s prose, wondering where on earth I got the idea I could write, and specifically why the fuck I thought this was a good idea for a short story, as it’s clearly a piece of worthless crap. Waste time on email instead. Notice that agent has started using quote marks whenever he refers to my "career".

Realize that child had clothes to wear, all the lights work, and the place is not a complete pig-sty. Assume all this has somehow been achieved or co-ordinated by spouse. Consider making mental note to thank spouse. Decide this constitutes extra writing, and will do later. Forget. 

Eat hurried lunch of whatever looks least dangerous in the fridge. Spend afternoon wrestling with editor’s suggestions for draft sixteen of the current novel. Consider emailing explaining that her apparently simple and uncontroversial suggestions will actually provoke the irrevocable collapse of the book’s structure, but settle instead for spending two hours banging my face on the desk instead. 

Enlivened by a mild concussion, have literally just hit my stride and am about to produce some real work when child arrives home from school, requiring immediate assistance with math homework that I don’t bloody understand. This takes approximately forever.

Drink a couple of moody beers on the porch afterward. Wonder if there is any other way I can earn a living. Conclude for the millionth time that the answer is no, especially after local circus issued a restraining order. 

Cook dinner, an improvised pasta dish whose main ingredients are capers and jam. 

After threats of physical violence fail, eventually get the child to go to bed before midnight by offering to give him fifty dollars tomorrow. Hope he doesn’t start comparing notes with the credit card company. 

Go to bed. Sleep fitfully. Dream of supportively attending the launch for a friend’s new book, to find myself joining the back of a line that is seven miles long. 


We All Like To Sing The Die Song


We All Like To Sing The Die Song


I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole.

I don’t usually do a lot of research, to be honest. As a novelist my method has generally been to just make stuff up. Stephen Jones has asked me to write a story for an upcoming project, however, and suggested I set it in Santa Cruz in the 1930s. I thought I’d better at least pretend to be professional, and look into the town’s history for half an hour. 

Weeks later, I haven’t even started the story. Why? Well, it turns out there’s a heck of a lot to look into. 

I knew some of it already — including that there was a time when Santa Cruz was dubbed “the murder capital of the world”. I’ve speculated wildly about the underlying causes for this in a novel I wrote a couple of years ago — but which has not, for reasons too tedious to relate, yet been published. The factual basis for the town’s nickname was that in early 1970s there were not just one, but two serial killers operating in the neighborhood.

The better-known is Ed “The Co-Ed Killer” Kemper, who killed his grandparents when he was sixteen because he “wanted to see how it felt”. Kemper was intelligent and personable and after some years in institutions convinced people he was cured. He was released to the (not very) tender care of his mother, in nearby Aptos, after which he murdered six young UCSC students before eventually dismembering his mother and her best friend in an evening of Grand Guignol that makes the Saw movies look like Great British Bake Off. During the period of the murders he hung out with local police in a Santa Cruz bar called The Jury Room, which is still in business and a strong contender for the dive-iest dive bar on this or any other coast. He was convincing enough that the cops not only accidentally kept him up to date with the progress of their investigation into the killings, but loaned him a pair of hand-cuffs to play with. The Santa Cruz Police Department acknowledges that this was not their finest hour. 

I’ve spent a while trying to get inside the heads of people of this type — as the Straw Men novels hopefully attest — but even by the standards of the breed, Kemper's behaviour was dispiritingly unpleasant. The other man killing at the time was a little different, however, at least to my mind. 

Herbert Mullin spent his teenage years in Felton, a mountain town fifteen minutes’ drive from my house. In the month during which he killed ten of his thirteen victims (late January to mid-February 1973), however, he may have been living in the McCray hotel, a building I’d already become intrigued by in relation to the novella I’m planning for Steve. 

Originally a grand Victorian villa on Beach Hill, near the Boardwalk (the beach-side fun fair featured in seminal 1980s vampire romp The Lost Boys), by the 1940s The McCray had become a low-rent rooming house. As you can see from the photo above, it looms. It’s believed, in fact, to have been the visual inspiration for the domicile of Norman Bates’ mother in Psycho: Hitchcock owned a property in nearby Scott’s Valley for many years, and though the design of the McCray is a little different, the building’s presence on a hill, poised above a motel, is clearly mirrored in the film. In a delicious irony, the McCray was redeveloped in the early 1990s and is now an assisted living facility for the elderly. The photo is from when it went on the market in 1985. 

It took three years to sell, at two thirds of the original asking price, possibly because of its reputation. In my digging I discovered the hotel had already attainted a little notoriety back in September 1933, when a female resident stalked, shot and killed a former employer living next door — and that it’s also only a couple of houses from another striking Victorian mansion called the Golden Gate Villa, in which Major Frank McLaughlin killed his daughter and himself in 1907, on the anniversary of his wife’s death. The owner of the McCray in the 1880s, E. J. Swift, died in the hotel for no apparent reason one afternoon, immediately after a nice lunch. And to add yet further to the building's spooky cred, I eventually came upon a story in the Santa Cruz Sentinel from June 28, 1908, concerning skeletal remains, a battle axe and a cache of shells that plumbers had found during excavations nearby. It appears that the McCray Hotel, therefore — inspiration for Psycho, and also the (almost certain) home of a real-life serial killer during the height of his murdering spree — was built on an honest-to-god Indian burial ground. 

No, I’m not making this up. This is what Santa Cruz is like — which is possibly why the town makes a far bigger deal of Halloween than it does of Christmas. 

Anyway. Having already been dragged a long way from material even tangentially relevant to the story I’m supposed to be writing, I wound up reading a slew of books about Mullin, in an attempt to find corroboration for the claim that he briefly lived in the McCray. I do this stuff so you don’t have to, and I hope you’re grateful. I haven't yet established that alleged fact to my satisfaction (though an email I've received this morning suggests it might happen very soon), but I have learned some other things. 

The bottom line is that it’s clear Mullin suffered from schizophrenia. This is a common defense offered for the murderously deranged, but episodes of echopraxia and periods when he was able to control his behavior through medication appear to confirm the diagnosis. He heard voices. They told him to do things. To kill people. One of the most distinctive aspects of Mullin’s mania is he believed that through this he was helping stave off an earthquake, a concern doubtless related to the fact that he was born on the anniversary of the devastating San Francisco quake of 1906. April 18th is also the anniversary of Albert Einstein’s death, and Mullin became convinced this gave him alone the foresight to help the world avoid catastrophe.

So, yes, he was — in the common parlance — something of a nut. But the curious thing is that in many ways Mullin does not fit the standard rules-of-thumb for becoming a serial killer. He was not a loner. He was decent-looking, popular, good at sport, smart — even voted “Most Likely To Succeed” at the end of his senior year. Though relations with his ex-Marine father later became strained, he came from a close family. He had a long-term girlfriend, who was kind. He did not, unlike Ed Kemper, have a strange and domineering mother. He had not, unlike John Linley Frazier (another Santa Cruz murderer, who in 1970 disposed of an entire family, including two children, before setting their house on fire) suffered a head injury that might have contributed to his behaviour. 

So what happened?

It seems that Dean Richardson happened. 

Dean was a boy on the same football team at San Lorenzo Valley High School. He and Herbert had become inseparable friends — like brothers, people said. Then one night, on June 17th, 1965, Dean was driving in the mountains near Felton when he lost control of his car, rolled it. And died, alone, on a forest road. 

And Herbert Mullin changed. He built a shrine to Dean in his bedroom. Became distant from family and friends. Before long he was experimenting with pot, and then LSD. There’s little doubt that heroic doses of these, and the kind of people they brought him into contact with during a period living in San Francisco's Tenderloin district, contributed to Mullin’s future steep decline. And yes, there was the schizophrenia. 

But within a few years of Dean’s death Mullin was taking male partners, having finally worked out that’s who he was. I'm speculating here, I admit. But it's hard not to wonder if unrequited and probably unacknowledged and deeply buried emotion underlay Mullin's dramatic change.

Why am I telling you this? I guess because when trawling deep into the newspaper archive, I came upon a tiny piece in the Sentinel from September 12, 1965 — and it stopped me in my tracks.

I’m not defending Mullin, nor trying to excuse his actions. He killed thirteen innocent people, including a priest, and ruined countless associated lives. 

But seven years before any of that, he was a boy helping to carry a coffin, a young man whose mind — I suspect — was breaking in half with grief at the death of a friend he hadn’t realized he was in love with. A friend who could have taken that bend in the road a little more slowly that night, and lived. 

That's real horror. Sure, there are spooky buildings like the McCray Hotel, tales of gothic deaths gone by, dressing up like vampires or Frankenstein’s monster or putting on Dias de las Muertos makeup. But there’s genuine horror in the world, too — the kind that will touch all our lives from time to time. Things that happen and change everything — from terrorism and murder to simple acts of fate or unkindness that cause people to believe the world is against them, that make them pull down the shutters and hide. Things that we have to try to understand, and treat with compassion and respect and love, if we’re ever to get to the bottom of what it is to be human.

These things happen, and we are drawn to them. As Mullin said in one of many interviews with the psychiatrist who judged him fit to stand trial: “People like to sing the die song, you know, people like to sing the die song”. 

This is why horror is so important. It’s about the deep stuff. It’s about us. Our secret selves, the inner lights. The things we truly feel, that make us who we are, even if we have to keep them hidden inside.

And it’s also the only genre with the balls to look the die song in the eye.

Happy Halloween.


Let's Deconstruct A Meme, Kids!


Let's Deconstruct A Meme, Kids!

Ten minutes on Twitter — if one wanders cautiously outside the elitist libtard echo-chamber that is my natural home — demonstrates that one of the alt-right’s very favorite things is the creation of memes, especially ones targeting the Democratic candidate for president.

Here’s a recent favorite:

The allegation being that, while working as a staff attorney on the Watergate Investigation, Hillary was fired for unethical behaviour, thus “proving” forty years of corruption, concerted attempts to destroy the United States and its constitution, and general evil naughtiness. 

In fact, two seconds on Google will show the assertion is nonsense, and that Clinton remained on the Watergate Committee until Richard Nixon resigned and the Committee’s business was concluded. Here’s just two take-downs, from leading (and politically neutral) urban myth sites — Snopes and UrbanMyths.

So what does this meme actually demonstrate? That Clinton has been subject to counter-factual right-wing smears for decades, of course — but something more important, too. It illustrates that she has been working as a public servant, at the heart of American politics, for over forty years. The emails that the alt-right go on and on and on and on about actually show the same thing: a dedicated, compassionate professional doing her job, day after day. No, of course she isn't perfect. Do you know anybody who is? Especially a politician, particularly one who's spent decades making judgement calls? But also — have you seen the choice? (And don’t start bleating to me about “Dr” Jill Stein. She’s a clueless dilettante.)

Trump, of course, has never held elected office, nor spent a moment of his gilded life working for the good of the people, in any role. As a matter of interest, what was he doing in 1975, you may ask, when Clinton was on the Watergate Investigation? Well, in 1973 the Department of Justice sued Trump Management for a concerted policy of discrimination against African Americans in buildings they owned — a practice that included attaching a piece of paper to applications with the letter C for “colored” on it. In 1975, Trump and his father were finally compelled to sign an agreement with plans to desegregate their properties. You’ll be unsurprised to hear this was not discussed during his outreach spectacle in Detroit on Saturday night. [UPDATE: this did come up in the first debate, in which Trump answered the charge by bragging he was able to settle without admitting fault.]

Within this meme, therefore, is interesting truth — but the opposite of that claimed by people who hate Hillary with a pathological fury that’s hard to comprehend, and borders on disturbing (have a brief look at the #SickHillary tag on Twitter, to see how luridly obsessed these people are). The Internet is creaking under the weight of this bullshit, gleefully brandished and recycled by people who — despite the insight they feel they have on politics — deploy grammar that makes my eyes bleed (and yes, I know I keep going on about this like some dreary elitist bore, but if you can’t learn the simple rules of apostrophe use then I’ll be damned if I’ll take your word on the complex issues of international political praxis. Or even the best place to buy a breakfast burrito).

This election has become rabidly personal in a way none has ever been before. Even major news agencies are conducting their coverage with a degree of relish for the ad hominem that is shoving all issues of substance into deep background — and it's hard to avoid, when Trump's entire campaign strategy rests on attaching a pejorative adjective to the name of every opponent. The process is not bringing out the best in anyone. I am, for example, intrigued by the — curiously generally undiscussed — suggestion that Trump may be required in October to attend a pretrial conference in the matter of Doe vs. Trump et all, for a Personal Injury - Assault, Libel, & Slander suit. But I know that I have to fight against a predisposition to believe that Trump has a case to answer here (you can do your own research to find out what this case is (allegedly) about — I don’t have sufficient proof it's real, and we libtards tend to like a bit more evidence before we head to the meme-generator) on the basis not even of a distrust of the man himself, but a fervent dislike of his swivel-eyed fans, and the people out there monetizing their discontent.

The truth is that Clinton and Trump are barely important any more. They (and Bernie, and that dreadful wanker Milo Yiannopoulos, and others) are merely talismans on the tattered flags brandished by sides at war, images of conflicting ideas of what the country — and by extension, the world — should stand for. Perhaps it’s always been that way. But this time it's worse, and the Internet really isn't helping. Social media is becoming increasingly allopathic, continually smashing opposites against each other, crushing reality to dust in the process. That's not taking us anywhere good — and I choose to believe we're far better than this. That there is no wall that we cannot climb over, or knock down... and the most powerful direction of attack is always through a centre line. In the meantime, let's stop dignifying the alt-right with the idea that it's a political position. It's not. It's a psychological condition, born of fear and ignorance, and nurtured on a diet of lies. 

On a slightly related note, today represents the fiftieth anniversary of my family first coming to live in the United States, when I was one year old. I am very grateful that this country allowed the huddled mass of the Smith family to settle here: though we were, of course, white and ideologically suitable, which always makes it easier. I know that my mother — an old school feminist, and also involved in the movement to unionize black domestic workers in Florida, a non-trivial enterprise in the South during the late 1960s — would be shocked by how this election demonstrates that issues of race, sexism and homophobia remain front-line battles to be fought on a day-to-day basis. But they are wars that must be won. And they will, eventually. Not through memes, but through hope, patience, and a willingness to walk a long, long road.

Happy Labor Day. Now, let's grill. 


Fathers’ Day


Fathers’ Day

A few years ago, on a drive up through the Monterey Bay — the trip after which we decided to leave London and come live in Santa Cruz — we stopped for coffee at a tiny town called Moss Landing. From the highway there’s not much to see (there’s not a lot to see in Moss Landing from any angle, to be honest) and the only reason you’ll stop is a line of food stalls by the road, hawking produce from the Pajaro Valley that surrounds it. Suspiciously cheap avocados, artichokes, garlic, a wealth other fruit and vegetables. As I was wandering up and down the aisles I came across something that triggered a sudden visceral memory. It was a small, cookie-like thing, peanuts bound with a pale pink sugary substance. I picked it up, and smelled it, and was transported back forty years, like some low-rent Proust wearing shorts and sunglasses. 

I spent a year of my childhood in New South Wales, Australia, in a small town called Armidale. One day a week I was given a little money to buy lunch at school. My mother made it the rest of the time. She didn’t get into viral-on-Facebook parenting porn like drawing a different picture on each lunch sack, but she put them together with quiet efficiency and love (mainly efficiency, I suspect, because cranking out stuff day after day is a large part of real parenting, and the love is unspoken, and comes with the territory). On that one day a week, I always bought a little box of candy that tasted identical to the thing I found at Moss Landing (I have no idea what it’s called, and it’s impossible to describe the taste except by saying it’s self-evidently not even slightly good for you). It was my favorite thing, and decades later, that’s all I remember. Not the countless times my mother made my lunch. I have no idea what she made. The usual fairly healthy stuff you put together for your kids when there’s not much time, I guess, though in the early 1970s “healthy” meant something different to what it does now. Anything that wasn't provably radioactive was pretty much fine.

Sadly I have no memory of my mother's efforts, but that’s ninety percent of parenting: providing the dependable, forgettable backdrop against which other events and people stand out and will be remembered. Moms are the bedrock of this (still, even in these slightly emancipated times, usually that unseen force that magically creates clean beds and towels and paired socks, in addition to socializing you, and providing a cloud of non-negotiable and (largely) unconditional love that will always have your back, even if at times you wish it didn’t). 

But dads do it too. Quietly, covertly, distantly, even a little bad-temperedly — which is useful, in its way, because when you eventually emerge into the real world not everyone’s going to be nice to you the whole time, especially if you’re being an asshole. Father figures, regardless of their gender, give a different spin on childhood, and collaborate with you on it. You shape and constrain their path through life just as much as they help you find yours. They show you other things, provide additional information and different styles of support, and every important decision they make will have you at its heart.    

To be clear, I’m not talking about me — I’m a fucking useless parent. No, seriously — ask around. I’m talking about my dad (whose love for his family is boundless, and who has relentlessly supported us regardless of how daft we're being), and other dads. They’re not just about bad jokes and mocking your choice of music and being excessively invested in sports and dutifully pushing the shopping cart back across the supermarket lot and refusing to ask for directions and obsessing about work and being grumpy for no obvious reason. Amongst other roles they bar the door against the zombie hordes of your future life and responsibilities, holding that world at bay for as long as they can; but it’s often them, too, who’ll crack it open once in a while, to give you a glimpse at what’s coming down the road; before finally throwing it wide, declaring — “Time to go slay your own zombies, my child. Call your mom once in a while, for crying out loud. Oh, and we’re putting your room on Airbnb.”

At a time when more and more people are brandishing the simplistic and divisive term “toxic masculinity”, let’s remember there’s a non-toxic type, too, and plenty of humans with a Y chromosome (and some without) who are doing the best they can to be a person worth knowing, and loving, and a dad worthy of the name. And that one of those might be your dad, and today he deserves a hug.

Make it brief, though. Don’t freak him out. Especially if he’s trying to watch the game.

My dad. He's nearly 80, you know. 

My dad. He's nearly 80, you know.