7:30AM
DAD: “Ugh, I look so unattractive in this shirt.”
SON: “It’s okay, Dad. You’re already married.”

9AM
DAUGHTER: “Dad, I wish you were a dog.”
DAD: “Why’s that?”
DAUGHTER: “Because then I’d have a dog.”

1PM
DAD: “I wanted to put a big peace sign on the side of the house, but Mom vetoed it.”
SON: “Good. We’re not hippies, Dad.”

4PM
DAUGHTER: “In 1978, God hadn’t made me yet. I was still a cloud.”

5:30PM
DAD: “Do you know where Mom keeps that black pot we use to steam vegetables?”
SON: “You mean the one I used to throw up in?”
DAD: “Nevermind.”

8PM
DAD: “… and that’s the moral behind the Wizard of Oz. Nothing’s more important than home.”
DAUGHTER: “Not even sunscreen?”

8:45PM
DAD: “Goodnight, you Prince of Rhode Island.”
SON: “Goodnight, you King of New England.”

So I guess, in the end, it’s better that I just be the man you wanted.

“I am quite certain J.D. Salinger was murdered. Probably by something this man wrote.” - Ingrid Dthomzig, Editor at Large, Carpe Articulum Literary Review and The Bitter Oleander, among others

“Aside from the Onion parody and maybe the Fran Tarkenton thing, it’s not his best work. Or anyone’s, really.” - Bono Vox, Famous Musician, Humanitarian and Personal Friend

“As the Associate Publisher of a quarterly dedicated to model railroaders whose rails are more than 7 inches apart – formerly The 7-Plus Narrow Gauger – I am unsure as to why I would be reviewing Mr. Silvia’s writing in the first place. That said, back issues are available upon request. Thank you.” - James David Schtekel, Associate Publisher, 7-Plus Model Railroad Enthusiast Quarterly

“Personally, I was disappointed by the glaring omission of Alone Again (Naturally) in his ‘Ten Songs You Need to Know.’ Probably revenge for my making Clair available on iTunes only as part of the Margot at the Wedding soundtrack. Touché.” - Gilbert O’Sullivan

“There are some halfway decent – I use the term loosely – ideas in there, like the whole fake reviews thing. Although it did go on a little long. Why not lose the Bono review? Yes, we know, you are friends with a famous person. Good for you. We also know about the fucking Fran Tarkenton toy. Enough.) In the end, the whole thing is a colossal waste of time that has not once sniffed the likes of Messrs. Strunk and/or White. And then he goes and uses two E.B. White references in the same fucking entry? What the fuck? - Atlantic Monthly (And no, not just some individual editor, all of us. The entire publication. That’s how thoroughly offended we are.)

Yeah, that was awesome.

And no, I’ve never actually seen Out of Africa, but maybe I do have a movie problem.

Legends of the Fall. Joy Luck Club. Terms of Endearment. Love Actually. Even Notting Hill and the whole whoopsie daisies thing that I can’t believe I’m actually typing out loud.

See, I just don’t like “guy” movies much. I’ve seen a total of no Rambos, zero X-Men and only parts of one Terminator. I don’t get that Lord of the Things, I think Something About Mary is stupid, I can’t quote The Godfather and I swear to God I have yet to see any of the Star Wars’es. Not even the first one.

Now that I think about it, even the bad-ass stuff I do like is all Brad-Pitt-Pretty. Fight Club? Snatch?

I need help.

I’m just saying.

Last night, in all their infinite wisdom, the esteemed members of the BS town council approved the measure by a vote of 3 to 1, with one abstention and one dentist appointment that could in no way be rescheduled, absolutely not, don’t even think about it.

Yes, it looks like we’re getting a stoplight. Big news for a town whose previous claim to fame was as the location for the “village green” scenes in Back to the Future, and that when, at the wrap party, Merry Quincy Adams brought her 1/125th scale model cake that took 18 straight hours to bake and decorate, Steven Spielberg ate half of the courthouse himself before anyone could take a suitable photograph, even though he claimed to be both Orthodox and a vegan.

And now we’re getting a stoplight. Welcome to the 21st century, folks. The next chapter in our story.

Around here, we’ve got lots of stories (though few as brush-with-Hollywood as what would come to be referred to, in hushed tones, as the, “Jew-Know-Who-&-The-Cake” Incident).

My dad was one hell of a storyteller. Hand the guy a PBR and he’d regale you for hours on everything from real truth behind FDR’s supposed “heartfelt concern” for the common man, to the night he met our mother at Post 1217, saving her from a life of squalor with that ne’r-do-well Tommy Roe (who went on to own a chain of 25 hardware stores. “The Hammer of Hamming County” would ultimately meet an untimely fate when a ball-peen fell on his head during a particularly vigorous Pre-President’s Day Sale’s overnight shelf-stocking. And for about a month after, Dad referred to Mom as, “The Widow Roe.”)

My dad also made sure we were writing our own stories, like the summer he arranged for me and my brother to work part-time driving cabs in Miller’s Falls, a full two years before either of us had a license. There was the time I stole a pack of Luckies off the bench seat of his Gran Tourino and he looked the other way, knowing I’d end up with my head in the toilet all night and no desire to ever smoke again. Ever. And then there was the Wednesday he took off work, pulled us out of school and spent half his paycheck on clamcakes and Mister Pibb at Walker Point, home to the world’s fourteenth fastest carousel.

He died last month. I think he would’ve thought the new stoplight was a good thing, if only as another opportunity to sit and talk for a few seconds.

Anyways.