Should the money present itself sometime before my skin starts to sag and become filled with liver spots and scars from melanoma scares, I would like to get a portrait done of my dad. I would most likely choose from these three photos I have, since they are my favorites and make up the entire collection of father photos that I possess.

What a fucking bad-ass: strutting his stuff in front of the grandfather clock kit that he completed, victory cigar in hand; opening a Penthouse puzzle on his birthday; and getting it done in a garden. Well played, BBM¹.

photo by Young

My dad, perhaps inspired by this entry, sent me an N scale train set today. It is now running on top of the bookcase between Lucie and myself.

It should be noted that a few weeks ago Lucie, Young and myself moved to a remote corner of the office, now known as The Fun Zone. Naturally, the train is the Fun Zone Express.

Full disclaimer: I realize I’m taking a risk by showing you the state of my pizza stone. Yet I don’t feel like I need to pretend I’m something I’m not (i.e. neat, competent) with you. Plus: I love you.

Perhaps you remember the fallen comrade who passed earlier in the year? To refresh your memory, it was my pizza stone who survived many years of ill-fated “pizza” and “bread” experiments. And like me under a tight deadline when I forget the difference between margin and padding, it cracked. It was replaced. I spilled sauce on the replacement the first night I got it and it cracked. I brought it back for a full refund, hoping the man at the returns desk wouldn’t look inside the box. Now, some many months later, another pizza stone has cracked, mostly likely because it grew brittle from being the bottom rack mainstay.

I priced new stones last week and thought of the day when the HearthKit would be mine, yet I also thought “I can’t bring ruin to yet another pizza stone through a combination of messy pizza-making habits and laziness. I can’t bring another pizza stone into my house.”

That’s when the BBM [Big Boss Man] came through with a pizza stone via UPS, as if he was telegraphed his sons distress signal. It arrived last night. Thank you daddy!! Perfect timing on two counts!

The signature illustrations on the front page of The Wall Street Journal are easily my favorite item about the paper, which is a sad thing since I’m illiterate.

Back in 1996, they ran a story (slow news day) about how budget restrictions were affecting blood drives, and that Nutter Butters® would no longer be offered. The illustration appeared with the caption above.

It was all captured for the future—FOR THIS VERY MOMENT—by my dad, who was genius enough to cut and tape the perfect clipping on an index card. He also sent me sour gum today that had been eluding me in the SF Bay area. This entry is for you old man: well played.