One of the reasons the man is so brilliant.
I always say, in an ironic moment of brevity, that my daughter has more confidence in her little finger than I will ever have. The sentiment encompasses that entire poem. When she worries over wearing glasses, or wonders why someone's being nasty, I just shake my head at her. "You don't worry about it. You be you." It seems, so far, to fix her hurts.
I pray I could somehow be that parent for my son.
I've been listening to Ray Bradbury (drank Coors) and Neil Gaiman talk about writing--only they talk more about living. Go out, people, and live. My friend Stuart, whose name EVERYONE will know shortly because he is, in short, one of the most brilliant writers I know and has a book coming out next summer that will rock your fucking world, is living this week. He's in NYC. I wish I could be there. I've never been.
My son wants to keep a journal in Jamaica. He wants to write every day about something special that happens there. I'm going to go buy him a moleskin and (hopefully) remind him to write. And me. It's our assignment. Sometimes the pen must suffice. Incidentally, his drum teacher gave him this rocking cool little keychain--a block of plexiglass with a 3D drumset inside. Truly, you can view it from all angles. It's an amazing little trinket. I'm putting it on his backpack.
Oh, and I bought a new teeny weeny polkadot bikini for Jamaica. No. Really. Polkadot.
Thank God it's a private beach so the paparazzi won't be able to splash me all over the tabloids. That would SUCK.
No. Really. It's a private beach. And pool. And house. And staff...
We know people who know people.