Today I remember you laughing with blood in your mouth. When we were young and wild with our heads on fire. When we thought integrity and poetry were enough to fill our stomachs. You were only ever a boy in the blue city. You were never supposed to be 50 and you aren't, but happy birthday anyway.


The Consequences Of Losing Bunny

“As truths are the fictions of the rational, so fictions are the truths of the imaginal.” —James Hillman

When my daughter, 9, recently unpacked her suitcase and discovered that she had left her oldest friend, a pink bunny named Bunny, 9, in a San Diego hotel room, she lost her mind. Here, I choose my words carefully. She lost her mind. Or a big part of it. The rich, important part.

I once caught her talking to her bike. “You are a very good bike, you know? Yeah. Uh-huh. Of course I will ride you. A good bike makes little girls happy and happy girls love to ride good bikes. I like your horn. Are you hungry? I will ask my daddy for a treat and then we’ll go for a ride. Okay? I will be right back but don’t you dare go riding without me because that would be silly. Okay? Good!”

And once, after gulping down a refreshing glass of red juice on a very hot day, she exhaled with a satisfied Ahhhh, held the purple cup to her face, and said with solemn sincerity, “Thank you, cup.”

I’m not relaying these stories as cute little anecdotes about the whimsical nature of childhood. Rather, I want to assert with the same solemn sincerity my daughter uses when talking to cups that the imagination is real. Without going into lengthy investigations into the history of ontology (the philosophy of what things are) and religion, allow me for the sake of brevity to point out that, at some catastrophic point in our pasts (both cultural and personal), the imagination, once an aspect of our experience as viable as any other, was demoted to being the opposite of what’s real as opposed to being a part of what’s real.

Everything speaks to us, yearning to be heard.

But it’s just our imagination, right? You see how we do that? We say it’s “just” our imagination. And when our children talk to bikes and cups and form intimate relationships with stuffed animals and invisible friends, we smile and chuckle because it’s “just” their imagination. But the imagination hasn’t always been thus degraded by being “just” so much nonsense in comparison to what’s reallier real. It was once collectively considered JUST as real as the scientifically measured stuff that monopolizes reality today.

And to what end? Well watch the news. Take a look outside. And ask yourself this: If we all believed, and acted as if, the myriad things that inhabit our lives were sentient; that our bikes and cups did talk to us, not through audible waves that vibrated our ear drums, but through our newly restored and esteemed imagination; that we genuinely do hear the whispers of our dead friends and relatives; that the whole world, all of it, was as alive as you and me; that, indeed, you and me were but lively voices in this enormous choir of liveliness; and we crowned it all off, this big teeming lively thing, with some fancy word like psyche or anima or soul or God—again, if we believed all this and acted as if it were true, how then would the world appear when we looked outside? Of what then would the news consist?

Put more simply, what if we were as kind to each other and the things of this world as my little girl is to her bicycle? Is racism, sexism, homophobia, environmental crisis, etc. and so on, even conceivable in a world where we feel sincere gratitude for the cup that provides our refreshing red juice?

Can you imagine?

These ideas would be certifiably insane (indeed, what is insanity but a way to label and marginalize an imagination that won’t cooperate?) if we didn’t have constant everyday proof of their reality parading right before our eyes in the children we’re raising. They are living examples of the way things really and truly are until those ways are stamped out of us by the tyranny of growing up.

And that’s precisely why my daughter lost her mind when she lost her bunny. I don’t want to minimize my daughter’s living relationship with Bunny by abstracting it into some deeper issue, so let me be clear. Her relationship with Bunny is real and it’s the primary thing. They’ve grown up together, shared all their nights together, and they’ve maintained a lively dialogue since the days my daughter first emerged into the evocative power of language. However, because she is 9 and approaching the appalling threshold where rationality begins to assume its imperial dominance (in our culture), the loss of Bunny amounted to nothing short of my daughter losing one of her last portals to a vital world where imagination retains its airy substance and becoming trapped in the rigid adult world of the way things are. And she lost her mind. She couldn’t sleep. She was inconsolable. Just like us, back when the reality of the imaginal vanished into being just our imagination.

On a happier note, Bunny has been discovered asleep beneath the hotel bed in San Diego. She is right now flying home, first class, where a raucous tea party will be had with a caterpillar, a guitar, and the ghost of my dead friend, Skip.


Originally published in Brain, Child Magazine


What's A Girl For?

“Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad.” This is how my daughter gathers up my scattered attention into one focused lump. “Watch!” She runs toward the pool, jumps, transforms from a 9-year-old girl into a cannonball, and makes a hugeSPLASH! Wet old people grimace. The sun continues to hurl 100+ temps at the valley. The earth spins on its axis, devoted. Anxious traffic crawls and honks. My daughter emerges from beneath the water, smiles at me, and swims away, a happy little fish with yellow hair. My God how I love her.

In order to avoid thinking, a lot of fathers immediately inhabit an outworn stereotype when someone mentions the prospect of boys eventually dating their daughters. They become caricatures of anger and make wisecracks about running boys off with guns or keeping their daughters locked up until some ridiculous age. But I’m curiously warm to the idea of my daughter going on dates someday. Mostly because I think she’s really cool and falling in love is a wonderful thing to do between broken hearts.

“Are you looking for Gate B-8, sir?”

“Indeed,” I reply.

“Nonstop flight to Chicago?”

“How did you know?”

“Because that’s exactly where I’m headed,” she beams, “Climb aboard!” She’s too small to climb aboard—I would crush her—so I latch my hands on her shoulders and follow her around the room. Her arms are outstretched. She’s a little airplane in a yellow dress. The clouds are fat and happy ghosts that haunt, lazily, as if from big celestial hammocks, the fearless blue sky. I listen to the drone of propellers and Bob Dylan. My daughter offers me honey roasted peanuts and a diet Coke. My eyes hone in on a suburb of 100s of tiny houses below and I dream about the various dramas occurring simultaneously and ignorant of one another. A man is yelling something about a wet dog and an open door. Another one hopelessly pays the bills. A woman paints her toenails blue and remembers what the boy said on the playground years ago. A door slams. Somewhere, two people have sex as if the fate of the world depended on that frantic brutal deed.

As she grows up, as the boys and men inevitably gaze at her more and more from that perspective of apprehending her only as an object with which to have sex, it will become increasingly important for her to not permit those gazes to construct the woman she sees in the mirror, to refuse becoming a prisoner of that perspective. In this regard, I consider it an essential responsibility of my fatherhood to provide my daughter with an endless supply of avenues to otherness, keys out of the jail of certainty and the stasis of identity. Which means taking her to modern art museums, constantly using the words or and maybe, and celebrating the myriad ways she girls in the world. There are as many ways to be as there are stars in the sky and more. Of course a sexual being will be one way for her to understand herself, indeed a wonderful way, but in the end only one facet of numberless ways to shine.

“Tick… tick… tick,” my daughter is hiding beneath my desk and tapping my ankle and ticking. I’m trying to write this essay. People are dying in the war. People are dying in the street. My neighbor is in jail for selling methamphetamine. There is more than just our story. We are more than who we are. “Tick… tick… tick… Guess what I am, daddy. Guess what I am.”

“A clock,” I guess, thinking about deadlines.

“Nope,” she grins, “I’m a bomb—KABOOOOOOOOM!”

One of my biggest hopes for my daughter is that she never sells herself short in terms of what a girl’s for. What’s a girl for? A girl’s not for anything. Nothing. Not a single thing. A girl is for holding the space between, for or. And only from this space between, from nothing, can she ever and continually participate in the groundless potential of anything. She’s everything. My daughter is a cannonball, a fish, an airplane, and more—may she never stop exploding.


Originally published in Brain, Child Magazine


The Fact Of Kids Fucks With My Head

There’s only so much you can say after awhile about being a parent because what I want to say, what most wants to be said is sealed off by a brick wall of unsayable presence. See. I’m not so much interested in humorous little anecdotes about kid wackiness or the powerful life lessons they teach via their wise childishness. I’m obsessed with something prior to what a good parent is or the things kids do. It’s really hard to talk about. I guess I’m just perpetually shocked by the incomprehensible fact that there was a time when my kids—they were no one—and the way that contrasts with the original fact of their suddenly being these things we call people. Over and over. They just exist exist exist and I’m like what? Who are? How did? And these dumbstruck unformulated questions ultimately dissolve into what I can only assume is love.

Do this. Go in the bathroom and turn off the light. Count to 10 and flick it on. That. That’s what I’m talking about. The way nothing erupts into something. How in the?

Sometimes I see my daughter dancing or skipping rope or drawing a big dinosaur with chalk on the driveway and I become intensely aware that she’s made of bones. I mean, there’s lots of other parts too but beneath it all there’s a bunch of bones that will outlast all our activities and reveries. It occurs to me then that I will die, that she will die too, and everything we ever shared will exist forever as a story scribbled somewhere on the soul of the world. And then I think something like How can such a pretty girl dance upon the tooth of death? and I don’t know what that means, but I write it down and leave it on my desk until it one day finds a partner to dance with in some poem or story.

Presence is differential, spit from and swallowed by absence. No future and past without contrast. The night sky is never the night sky until it’s salty with stars.

I’m coming at this two ways here and both ways are crooked because that’s how paths meander through the woods. I mean, first, there’s the day before my daughter was born and she wasn’t—you know—she just wasn’t. And let’s not get bogged down by the issue of when life begins; of course she was alive the day before she was born but I’m reasonably sure that she hadn’t encountered enough distinctions to erect a very sophisticated consciousness. Now transitioning from inside the womb out into the world? There’s a contrast upon which to begin building some pretty sound notions of this and that. However, if you insist that life begins at conception, that doesn’t negate the straight up weirdness I’m trying to convey. There was a day when my daughter was no one and then she was someone. I remember holding her in my arms in the hospital and viewing her from an oddly different perspective from all my relatives and their (spot on) assessments that she was beautiful. Stunned, I couldn’t even make it to the sophistication of assessing beauty. Someone, I kept thinking. How are you so suddenly someone? Where were you just yesterday? I bet you know secrets. I bet you understand everything more clearly than all the mystics. For you, so newly someone, have just made the longest voyage.

But the second path is harder to grasp because it moves from understanding being and not being in terms of a lifespan to the more subtle seamless and constant birth and death that flows like a river now now now. From this perspective, death is not something that comes at the end of your life. It’s the very stuff from which our lives constantly shine forth. Beneath her, above her, behind her, snaking in between all of my daughter’s little ribs, death is the just then and in a second, between which, against which, from which, my daughter appears, eating an ice cream cone. And that’s what I struggle to comprehend: the mere fact that my daughter is. Surrounded by, engulfed by, and nearly always snuffed out by darkness, she tenaciously illumines the moment with the light of appearance and being. So happy and blissfully unaware that she’s dancing on the tooth of death, she plays with a kitten, brushes her hair, laughs and eats candy. And I, dumbstruck by the way she comes and goes, dissolve into what I can only assume is love. 



“So you’re 15. For some reason that sounds a lot older than 14.”

“I know. It’s weird.”

“It’s absolutely insane. You’re approaching a time in your life when many young men mistakenly believe they pose a physical threat to their fathers. Have you considered swinging on me?”


“Do you want to take it to the mat for some Greco-Roman style wrestling?”


“You’ve got, like, bushels of hair in your armpits, dude. It’s freaking me out.”


“I just. I can’t. Piaget. The. You understand, right, that I used to wipe your baby ass?”

“I gotta believe that’s true, yes.”

“Like 1000s of times—I wiped your ass.”

“Got it.”

“And now you’re, like, I don’t know, this guy.

“Who’s going to drive your car in 6 months.”

“It’s like this surreal, um, totally not a pipe type of situation.”

“What’s the big deal? So I’m 15.”

“Man, you’re gonna go to college in like 3 frickin years goddamn!”


“And then when you’re done, I’m done. You understand that, right? That’s what your grandpa did to me. He wrote me a check for $1500, told me good luck, and never gave me another thing—not a single penny.”

“Grandpa says you owe him $600.”

“That’s between me and your grandpa. See? That’s exactly what I was talking about. You wanna wrestle?”

“I said I don’t want to wrestle.”

“Wait. No. I think wrestling’s maybe just a metaphor for, like, I don’t know, wrestling to communicate or something but, see, it’s bigger than the standard generation gap. It’s more like this goofy postmodern goop where I want to tell you something but the words don’t mean anything.”

“Circle purple monkey drum.”

“Exactly! Now you’re talking! Listen, boy, it’s like this. When I look at your face and I see this this—this man, I feel like I’m choking on something, like I can’t breathe.”

“Do you detect, in my becoming a man, your own inevitable decline into old age and death?”


“And the absurdity of death creates this crisis of meaning that you’re metaphorically representing with the desire to wrestle me?”

“I think maybe yeah.”

“But why me? Why wrestle me?”

“Because I love you! Listen, man, we gotta get this done before you go waltzing off into the world and I fade away into the dying of the light. I love you. I mean, damn, it’s so goddamn strange. We’re all just these weird ass sentient goofballs in this bizarre world of crazy shit like hammers and bananas and vacuum cleaners and switchblades and we stumble all over the place and, I don’t know, walk through doors and get haircuts and watch fireworks and give people money for eggs and toothpaste. And for what?!? Who the hell knows? Nobody fucking knows. But here’s the thing and I think this might be the thing that makes me choke. Honestly, I don’t even care about for what. And the reason I don’t care about for what is because of the simple fact that I get to do it with you. I get to do this whole charade of ridiculous nonsense with you. So what I mean when I say I love you is that the bushels of hair in your armpits are existential facts that overshadow the threat of meaninglessness. Absurdity itself is buried in all that armpit hair. See? I love you. Do you understand?”

“Only as far as understanding is possible in a world with no grounding foundation. But I love you too, Dad.”

“Fair enough. Happy birthday. Let's go raise some hell.”


Flux, Tattoos, Snakes, And The Irrational Discontinuity Beneath All The Changeless Things

So not much has changed except everything, but most of the distinctions are blurred so it continues to look as if not much has changed. I love crazy ideas that fuck with the obvious. Like, you know how scientists say that, within a span of 7 years, every cell in your body has regenerated? That’s the kind of shit that gets my attention. Because that means I could see you today and, then, when I see you again in 7 years, you would be an absolutely different entity. Nothing of the you I knew will be the same and yet we’d still call you you. If your name is Jim, the ONLY thing that remains the same is the word “Jim”. Now we can start goofing with ideas like reality itself being constructed with the bones of grammar. There’s no selfsame person to whom we apply the name Jim; Jim is the word that gathers up and calls forth the Jimhoodness of this thing we call a “person named Jim”.

Is this the truth? Real? Verified by science? Who cares? It either interests you or it doesn’t. For me crazy ideas are generative; they open up alternative ways to live in and experience the world, which makes everything a lot more interesting and exciting than what everybody takes to be so obvious. People who hear this and say with sputtery disdain “Of COURSE we’re still US! Myah Myah Myah. So OBVIOUS! DUH!” have already stopped reading this post. If you’ve made it this far, we must be interested in the same kind of goofy things. Or if you’re forcing yourself to keep reading just so you can say “See? Black Hockey Stupid FACE is a stupid pretentious TWAT,” you might go look into reading some self-help books, partner. Go light. Take it slow.

For Hakuun Yasutani, being regenerated every 7 years is a far cry from radical. In his commentary on Dogen’s Genjokoan, Flowers Fall, he mentions that our bodies are created and destroyed 6,400,099,980 times a day. (!!!)—how can you not love Buddhism? Ideas like that are so exciting (and probably borne out by quantum physics but, again, science schmience). The frickin implications are boundless. Ultimately unfathomable. But, at the very least, wouldn’t it be a tad bit liberating to conceive of yourself as being in the midst of a constant process of rejuvenation as opposed to being the same old sack of shit for 80 years. The former generates awe and poetry. The latter generates, well, a sack of shit—albeit an OBVIOUS sack of shit. Commonsense, as they say.

Anyway, not much has changed except everything. I got a tattoo of Miro’s Bleu II across my hip, a painting that expresses Miro’s obsession with the landscape of dream and infinity. How many of you noted, just now, the way I leapt from ceaseless flux to the permanence of a tattoo? Stay on your toes. Me and Gwen are taking off for 2 weeks to go stay in a little cottage on the shore of a little island. I am for the most part excited about this trip except my study of the island revealed an above average density of snakes, like, everywhere. My imagination wavers between a smiling Gwen in a black bikini on the sunny beach and the need to watch my step on an island sized Indiana Jones snake pit. I’ll need to train for my half-marathon on the island and snakes. I’m beginning to lose control of this post’s sentence structure snakes. I’m exaggerating, of course. Mostly. Or not. Snakes are fucked up. Though none of the island’s snakes are poisonous, none of them have legs and they generate locomotion with naught but pure evil. One of the prevalent species is called the smooth green snake and this motherfucker is a bright and horrible shade of green found only in the palette of nightmares. Gwen grew up in the Indonesian jungle so she’s acclimated to an occasional python in the tree or cobra on the path but, as far as I’m concerned, fuck a green snake.

From the cool comfort of this airport, waiting to fly to Chicago, I can logically appreciate the fact that my fear of snakes is completely irrational. However, in the presence of an actual snake, fear’s irrationality trumps logical appreciation. Fear of snakes simmers beneath the skin, in my blood, lurking, like a coiled up snake, in the cellar of my brain. My frontal lobes can tell me all day long how they’re not poisonous or they don’t bite or it’s only 6 inches. But a real snake slashes into me like that streak of red on Miro’s blue background. From whence this fear of the serpent?

I’m still sober, quickly approaching a year, but focusing only on not taking a drink during the day in which I happen to find myself. For instance, today is June 29th and, certainly, I can get my head to a pillow tonight without taking a drink or 9. Each moment, 6,400,099,980 times a day, is a decision, a prayer, not only for me but for you as well: that your island vacation may be free of snakes, that someday, everyday and every moment, you arise into a sense of renewal, and that consciousness itself will appear to you as a great and constant prayer. Nothing need change, and everything after.


Brain, Child, Redefining This, A Charmed Life, And Your Concept Of God

Sometimes you just have to write a post that has no beginning, middle, or end. A post that resists coherence via unified metaphor. A post that begins with a lot of sentence fragments. Because the post itself is a collection of fragments, albeit a bunch of gem like fragments, maybe diamonds or, less cliche, hunks of shimmery black obsidian (oh, obsidian, what secrets do you hide in your resistant black glare?). This is a post like that. Fragments.

First, I am once again writing elsewhere. This time at the highly lauded literary publication, Brain, Child Magazine. If you are so inclined, you can read my first post by clicking here. It's not a happy post, but if all posts were happy, we would soon forget the meaning of happiness and our lives might be one long terrible Khalil Gibran poem and then what? I don't even want to imagine. Feel free to LIKE their Facebook Page, and if enough of you LIKE my posts on that page, I earn millions of dollars. I'm not sure if I was supposed to tell you that, but I don't understand a lot of professional things.


I hereby renounce the label "Dad Blogger" and anyone caught calling me a Dad Blogger will be hunted down and kicked in the shin so hard that you'll wish that you could go back in time and reconsider calling me a Dad Blogger. Dad Bloggers, a horrible collection of delusional men with questionable writing skills, are becoming more and more concerned with how brands portray dads in the media as they earnestly seek more just representations of dads making salads and braiding hair ON THE TV and I give so little of a fuck, hardly a speck of a fuck, about issues such as these that I can't continue to share the label with these men. In fact, they make me yearn for the security of outworn stereotypes by lapsing into macho processes like challenging them to duels with pistols.

Of course, by renouncing the "Dad Blogger" label , I inevitably sacrifice the distinction of being the Greatest Dad Blogger In The World, a position now occupied by Charlie and Andy from How To Be A Dad. Congratulations, guys. Now there's a couple of real swell guys, on the serious, and not anything at all like the above described whiny hucksters squeaking about gender bias.

It remains to wonder, then, what I am. What is Black Hockey Jesus? I was recently discussing this with the above mentioned Charlie (now 1/2 of the Greatest Dad Blogger In The World) and we both agreed that we hated the word "blog" because, frankly, it's a stupid word. Hence, Black Hockey Jesus is not a "Dad Blogger" nor is the space it occupies a "blog". So much for what it's not. Let's cast the fishing poles of our thought into the seas of what it is. Black Hockey Jesus is a Magical Undefined Virtual Space Where Language Emerges To Language Forth, Speak Its Say, And Vanish (MUVSWLETLFSISAV) and I, no longer a "Dad Blogger", toyed with being a Virtual Oracle or Divine Messenger when Charlie coined the phrase "Digital Prophet", which I liked very well, so Black Hockey Jesus is a blurry mess of the place, a magical undefined virtual space, and the digital prophet through which the language gushes. Both nouns, this dual definition of Black Hockey Jesus jams all logical channels until Black Hockey Jesus is itself the act of flying away and/or escaping: a verb. I/this (BHJ) is a verb. Hope that clears shit up. Again, not a "Dad Blogger". Let the Dad Bloggers fight their own little battles with Huggies and Kleenex.


Yesterday I spent most of the day writing a new piece for Brain, Child about my daughter and her inevitable transformation into a sex object by the scripts of our culture and when I say "writing", I mean deleting a lot and ending hours with only about 120 salvageable words. I called my sponsor and expressed my frustration about getting so little done and my reason for including this little anecdote is that, man, I was frustrated. With my focus honed in on what I didn't accomplish, I produced an unhappy man whose primary adjective was "frustrated". Eliciting more talk from me in a general conversational way, my sponsor heard me talk about spending my day as a writer (the way I've always dreamed of spending my days), about going on a 10 mile run, about how I see my kids every day, how they're spending next weekend with me, about the incredible weekend with Gwen I just had in Salt Lake City, about being sober 300 days on Father's Day, about talking to my dads, about how I'm here for two more weeks before me and Gwen go on vacation for 2 weeks, and it was here that he said "Man, you have a charmed life. You have one hell of a CHARMED life." And it wasn't like he was trying to counter my frustration; he just interrupted me to state a fact.

And my frustration, composed of shortsighted emphasis on what didn't work out the way I planned on a particular day, exploded into 1000s of pieces of many colored confetti that rained slowly to the ground and I felt charmed. My life is charmed. And the only reason I told you that is because maybe your life is charmed too. It probably is.


This last fragment was supposed to be about my developing concept of God, but BORING, and this post is already too long. But I will say this and then ask you a question: the major revolution achieved by my particular brand of substance abuse recovery is the inclusion of the option to CHOOSE your own conception of God and, though this is the most liberating approach to God EVER, it's still been a tripping point for me over the last 20 years because, no matter how hard I try to believe, God is stupid. Nonetheless, despite myself, a concept, and indeed a relationship, is developing but, rather than bumble through trying to articulate it here, I'd rather ask you: How do YOU conceive of God? What God means to me can be evoked by the process described above in traveling the distance between frustrated and charmed. But what's God mean to you?

Email me at blackhockeyjesus at gmail dot com. Comments are for blogs.


I think you are a good person worthy of love and good things, but your vision is clouded by deluded thoughts that revolve around yourself. Forget everything. Climb a tree. Seek council from the wackiness of birds. _bhj


Nothing's Free

Hello Black Hockey Jesus Reader and consumer of absolutely free internet content with no ads. Why are you here? What do you want from me? My heart? My soul? Blood! Guts! Addiction! Sordid Tales of Infidelity!

What? Tell me. I’ll write it. Send me an email. Ask me a question. Give me a topic. Do you want a poem to read at your grandma’s funeral? Send me some details. I’ll write the damn thing. Don’t you see? The Black Hockey Jesus Internet Extravaganza Page (blogs are dead) is for you, Black Hockey Jesus Reader. I’ve got nothing to sell you. Nothing to promote. There’s no big splashy My Real Name across the top to convince you I’m some bigger deal than I am. This is where I have the pleasure to not be “the real me”. This is where me comes to die. I write on the computer. It appears. It vanishes. It’s a metaphor. Think on it.

When I’m writing for fun and for free, I forget to worry about taking. When I forget about taking, I forget about my self. When I forget about my self, I’m paradoxically introduced to my self and—GUESS WHAT—knowing my self is a lot like knowing nothing, and it is, but it’s also more than you ever imagined at the same time.

If you’re confused, then just give me some money. Or if you’ve ever read something here for free that you enjoyed, then give me some money. Please. It’s not for me. If it is for me in any way, it’s a roundabout way for me to inflate my charitable ego and feel good about myself, but at least I’m aware of it. Isn’t copping to a residue of selfishness in my front of selflessness worth something? A measly 5 bucks?

Here goes.

I’m still planning to run the Chicago Half-Marathon on July 21st and I’m still trying to raise $1000 to help cure juvenile myositis. It’s this weird fucked up autoimmune something disease about muscles. I’m not a doctor, man. I’m just a guy who met a guy who has a daughter who has JM. Her name is Megan and this is her:

I raised some money for her in 2009 and then I got to have breakfast with her and I thought things like Man, you can actually do things that are bigger and more important than provoke Internet controversies about obesity and broken marriages. And also, selfishly, it occurred to me that, hey, I have a daughter and, if she was sick, wouldn’t I want people to run half-marathons for her and raise money to help cure her? Of course I would.

So I’m going to run fast, Megan—as fast as I can. So far I’ve raised $495 and that’s really cool, but the awesome part about maybe making it to $1000 is that some Saint named Patty (not that St. Patty) will match my $1000 in reader donations—that’s $2000 for Megan, the kids, and a cure.

If you can make a contribution, no matter how small, please click here and click the blue DONATE button on the next page’s upper right. Also, feel free to promote the next page by spreading the word on Facebook and Twitter.

And I promise to keep writing here for fun and for free with no hidden motives apart from possibly alleviating loneliness and giving some comfort, to break through my readers’ excluded encagement in the self (purpose of literature copped from DFW).

Again if you want to make a donation, CLICK HERE. Thanks ~bhj