Who Gets to Tell Your Kid’s Story?
David Himmel David Himmel David Himmel David Himmel

Who Gets to Tell Your Kid’s Story?

I hated when my mother would talk about me to her friends when I was a kid. Hated it. Even the most bland of stories, like, say, that I was playing little league again that spring would infuriate me. And I know she shared way more about me than my pre-teen baseball career to her friends and family. Hated it. As if she knew anything about me whatsoever. As if my challenges and wins and all-inclusive experiences—as if my life—were her story to tell.

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I Like to Watch | Gerard Butler Movies
Don Hall, I Like to Watch Don Hall Don Hall, I Like to Watch Don Hall

I Like to Watch | Gerard Butler Movies

Less enchanted by the romcoms in his IMDB (P.S. I Love You, The Ugly Truth, or Playing for Keeps) or even his super badass phase (300, RocknRolla), my Gerard Butler jam happens once he gained a bit of weight, got the slightly droopy underchin, and did his level best to do one of the least convincing American accents since Kevin Costner tried an English accent in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves.

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Primo
Paul Teodo, Tom Myers Paul Teodo Paul Teodo, Tom Myers Paul Teodo

Primo

“I’m gonna do the dago hop on my 80th birthday. I’ll be good by then.” Primo struggled to slide off Dr. Anthony Choy’s exam table.

“The Dago hop?” Dr. Choy asked.

“It’s an Italian folk dance.” Romolo, Primo’s son, answered.

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Conspiracy Theorists Are Simply CosPlaying to Avoid Crushing Reality
Don Hall Don Hall Don Hall Don Hall

Conspiracy Theorists Are Simply CosPlaying to Avoid Crushing Reality

Conspiracy theories grow during times of institutional failure. If you can't have the life you were promised by your personal and flawed interpretation of the "Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness" clause at least you can paint yourself as a hero struggling against a greater evil. You can be a knight or a superhero or a great revolutionary.

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I am Santa Claus: A Parenting Journey
David Himmel David Himmel David Himmel David Himmel

I am Santa Claus: A Parenting Journey

Christmas Eve. Just after somewhere between 7:30 and 8:57-ish at night. My wife was hurried away in the kitchen preparing tomorrow morning’s breakfast—an egg casserole that’ll put hair on your mother’s balls. Delicious. I was lulling the child to sleep with three books. One about trucks, another about construction trucks, and the third, Goodnight Moon.

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