Revolutions don’t die; people grow tired.

An old bear, kept in a chest, waiting to see his person once again.

At the time of this writing, my wife, Katie, is experiencing her period. My puppy, Molly, is also experiencing her period. They’ve both been pretty pissy. This morning, Harry, my one-year-old son collapsed to the floor and pounded his head on the hardwood in unbridled misery because I wouldn’t let him put the television remote control into the kitchen trashcan. All of my Apple devices are slowing down and I can’t wrap my head around navigating the storage on my hard drives and my cloud servers. It makes me want to pull my hair out and gag myself to death on it.

 We’re not a happy home. We’re not an unhappy home either. We’re a moody home.

Oddly, I love Christmastime, which may be weird for an atheist, but not uncommon. I have plenty of atheist and agnostic friends that love Christmas too. I have fond memories of the season, which I am sure accounts for more than half my favor for the yearly celebration — I mean, what’s not to like about holiday music, gift-giving, mashed potatoes (with lots of gravy), friends, family, and the general merriment of yuletide cheer?

I apologize for losing out on this year’s Secret Santa exchange, and that I won’t be receiving a scented wax warmer for the fifth year in a row.

Abigale Walters had been found in the morning by her young nieces and nephews on the couch. They couldn’t wake her, so they called their mother who called 911. When responders arrived, they couldn’t find a pulse. CPR was performed for over two minutes before bringing her back. They did not know how long she had gone without breathing.

There once was a young woman who dreamed of the day she could become a mother. Holly was beautiful, full of life and laughter and of an easy temperament. In the late 1970s, she was like dandelion seeds blowing everywhere in the wind. Whimsical and free.

My son Paul was starting to come through. His cocky smugness began to vanish. The good kid I knew that was deep down inside him was starting to peek out from behind his veneer of twelve-year-old arrogance.

The visitor’s eyebrows arched at the sound of his name and he entered the room. He took Mary’s hand from C, then turned his head upwards exhaling blue smoke to the ceiling. And with great fanfare Massimo kissed her hand, precisely on the wedding ring she still wore. 

I always planned on being a singer and as it turns out I am a pretty successful jazz singer in the city. But at 18, I had decided to be an opera singer. In my search for a teacher, ballsy me, courageous me, determined me, sent a letter to Beverly Sills, one of the greatest coloratura soprano’s in the world, asking her for a voice teacher recommendation.