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Sitting here trying to decide which stories to tell. Stories I haven’t told Chip before. Stories to leave behind when I move on.
Sometimes a little snack helps me get started. But there’s not a bag of chips to be found. No tater tots or pizzas in the freezer. No tubes of Pillsbury biscuits, no tubs of butter, no shrink-wrapped cold cuts, and no mayo in the trusty fridge. The pantry is usually dependable. There’s always something forgotten in the back, behind the cans of pinto beans and creamed corn. But not today. No crinkly bag of Newman’s O’s. No long matinee boxes of Red Vines. Where’s my backup stash of Ginger Ale? Where are my Slim Jims and vacuum-sealed pouches of jerky? Top shelf, right side. My stack of Jell-O boxes are gone. Not one box of my beloved cook-and-stir chocolate pudding! Even the cookie jar is empty. When I ask Chip and Media Jean where all the snacks have gone, Chip shrugs and says, “That stuff isn’t good for you anyway.” Media Jean gives me one of her all-knowing looks and adds, “You’re entering the Drop Dead Zone, Mr. MacMurray.” “Drop Dead Zone?” “She means risk factors,” Chip smiles. He always tries to soften Media Jean’s straight talk. Before I could ask another question, they flew out the door. Something’s going on, and as usual, I don’t know what it is. Comments 
Media Jean: He’s going to figure out that we threw out all his unhealthy food. 
Chip: Then he’ll just go to the store and buy more artery-clogging food.
Media Jean: Maybe we need to take a stand.
Chip: Uh oh. When you say “take a stand” we usually get in trouble.
Media Jean: This time will be different.
Chip: That’s what you say every time.
Media Jean: And I’m right. Every time is different.
Chip: That’s true. We get into a different kind of trouble every time.
Media Jean: Ha ha! I’ll give you that one. But not this time. I think we should just tell your dad the truth. Hit him with statistics on heart disease, POW! Prostate cancer, BAM! Osteo-what-cha-ma-call-it, SLAM!
Chip: Osteoporosis.
Media Jean: Right! This is serious, Chip! It really is life and death. So let’s step right up and say, “We love you, and we want you to live a long, long time. So shape up!”
Chip: But what if he wants to compromise?
Media Jean: I’m not much of a compromiser. I say we declare a health war.
Chip: Ha ha! A health war?!
Media Jean: He brings a bag of Doritos in the house, we take it out. He sneaks in a box of Twinkies, we sneak it out.
Chip: He could hide food where we’ll never find it.
Media Jean: Not if we install hidden Nanny-cams with night vision to catch those midnight munchies.
Chip: I see only one flaw with this plan.
Media Jean: Impossible! It’s foolproof!
Chip: If there are no snacks in the house, what will we eat?
Media Jean: Uh oh. I hadn’t thought of that.
Chip: Tomorrow is our Ray Harryhausen Film Festival. We’ll have to eat carrots and celery during Clash of the Titans.
Media Jean: We can have the Harryhausen Film Fest at my house.
Chip: I don’t know. If we start this war, I bet my dad calls your dad.
Media Jean: Yikes, I hadn’t thought of that!
Chip: Your mom is always trying to get you to eat healthier.
Media Jean: A Parent Team-Up! That’s the Dr. Doom and Magneto of Childhood! 
Johnny: You can have the Harryhausen Film Festival at my house.
Media Jean: The lurker surfaces like The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms.
Johnny: I wasn’t lurking! I just logged on to see what you idiots were talking about. And why wasn’t I invited to this Harryhausen thing?
Media Jean: Do you know who Ray Harryhausen was?
Johnny: No.
Media Jean: That’s why.
Chip: My dad will call your dad, too, Johnny.
Johnny: So? You think your dad can out-negotiate my dad? Give me a break!
Media Jean: Really? What about Screen-Free Week? Remember how Chip’s dad talked your dad into banning all screens in your house? No TVs. No tablets. No phones. You cried.
Johnny: I didn’t cry! That was stress. But you have a point. Chip’s dad might be an economic failure, but when it comes to the moral high ground, he’s tough to beat.
Media Jean: By the time he’s through, you’ll be eating rice cakes!
Johnny: All right, you made your point!
Media Jean: Your dad will start investing in broccoli stock!
Johnny: I said all right!
Chip: We have to call off the war.
Media Jean: I think you’re right.
Chip: If we tell our parents the “right” thing to do, but then don’t do it ourselves, aren’t we doing what we always criticize them for doing?
Media Jean: Hmm, a “we have become the enemy” kind of thing.
Chip: Right. Either we all do the right thing, or we live and let live.
Media Jean: Rats. OK, call off the health war. We’ll have to find another way to get your dad healthy.
Johnny: So... does that mean the Harryhausen Film Festival is still on?
Media Jean: Just kidding! Yeah, the festival is still on. Your house, tomorrow after school.
Johnny: One of these days I’m going to buy this company and fire you.
Media Jean: Yeah, yeah. Just don’t forget the snacks, Mr. Surround Sound. 
Comic strip from the series "Johnny Green's Avatar"
(Kid, Inc. Volume 2: The Batcave of Childhood) Have a thought for Bob? Write to us at [email protected]
Just flipped back and read my last journal entry. All those memories. All that time passed.
Now here I am again, awake at 3 in the morning, sitting with my mortality and a cup of hot cocoa. We all take turns at the wall; we all have dark nights of the soul. Soon, too soon, all my atoms will be recycled into cosmic potting soil and that’ll be the end of me. Or, soon, still too soon, my soul, my essence, my Me, will continue on to the grand, mysterious Whatever Comes Next. Is there a heaven? What form will it take? Is reincarnation the way it works? If so, I’ll be like Albert Brooks in Defending Your Life, trying to prove myself fearless enough to continue onward rather than being shipped back to remedial earth. Or will heaven be scriptural, and if so, which scriptures apply? Will heaven be purely metaphysical, consciousness without form, and if so, what the heck does that even mean? Or will heaven simply be another place? Just as we go from the womb to the world, will we go from the world to some wider place? I could keep spelunking on mortality until these typewriter keys are hammered flat. Instead, I’ve decided to do something immortal here and now: I’m going to tell my life story for my son. Not the whole story. I’ll try to leave out the boring parts. I just want to leave enough information for my son to know me and remember me after I’ve traveled on. I want to leave him a typewritten time machine through which he can meet his father as a child, as a teen, as a young man. I can secure that small immortality for him and for myself, here and now. As for the Big Forever, I’ll just have to wait and see. Comments
Media Jean: Have you seen Defending Your Life? It’s hilarious!
Chip: I like “The Pavilion of Past Lives.”
Media Jean: You know, your dad overlooked one kind of possible heaven: man-made heaven!
Chip: You mean bioengineering?
Media Jean: Bioengineering, nanotechnology, artificial intelligence, cloning, resetting biological clocks. There’s a lot happening on the frontiers of mortality.
Chip: I don’t think any of that will be ready in time for my dad.
Media Jean: Actually, it probably won’t be ready in time for us, either.
Chip: Yeah. If it was ready, right now, would you use it?
Media Jean: Heck yeah! Wouldn’t you?
Chip: Definitely! But I don’t think my dad would. He’d probably say it was unnatural.
Media Jean: You know, technology usually leaps ahead faster than we think.
Chip: Yeah! Maybe a longevity treatment will be ready in time for my dad!
Media Jean: Exactly! We just need to make sure he lives long enough to take advantage of it.
Chip: How are we going to do that?
Media Jean: First, he goes on a low calorie diet! I read that reducing your caloric intake by 30% can increase your lifespan by 30%.
Chip: Really?
Media Jean: In lab rats, anyway. But I’m betting the science holds up for humans.
Chip: I don’t know. My dad loves food.
Media Jean: He’ll need to start exercising, too.
Chip: He hates exercise, unless you mean hiking?
Media Jean: Hiking, jogging, walking, aerobics, pilates, weight lifting—all of it. He needs to hit the gym!
Chip: He doesn’t belong to a gym.
Media Jean: We’ll sign him up online. We have to extend your dad’s lifespan a little until science can extend it a lot.
Chip: You’re right! I’ll go through our kitchen and toss all the high fat stuff.
Media Jean: Great! I’ll come over and help. I bet we can boost your dad’s lifespan to 100, maybe 110!
Chip: Which should give technology enough time to develop a more permanent solution!
Media Jean: Right! Immortality, here we come! 
Comic strip from the series "Johnny Green's Avatar"
(Kid, Inc. Volume 2: The Batcave of Childhood) Have a thought for Bob? Write to us at [email protected]
Chip has been carrying a book everywhere he goes.
That got my attention. He hauls entire libraries on his cell phone and Kindle, but one physical book? I tried to remember the last time he carried an actual book. I think it was, Brown Bear, Brown Bear. The book turned out to be, The Truth about Santa: Wormholes, Robots, and What Really Happens on Christmas Eve, by Gregory Mone. I read a few pages and couldn’t put it down. Mone sets out to prove, scientifically, that Santa is real. I figured Chip was reading it for the same reasons: it’s a smart and funny spoof on the whole Santa myth. But that night, as I tucked him into bed, our conversation took an unexpected turn. CHIP: Dad, do you believe in Santa Claus? I mean, really believe? ME: Well, uh... CHIP: I think I believe in Santa. Almost everything he does is theoretically possible. ME: I don’t know... CHIP: Santa probably isn’t true. But I like the idea. It makes me feel better about things. ME: OK, but-- CHIP: Say there’s a 99% chance something isn’t true. Is it wrong to hold on to that 1%? ME: That’s kinda tricky-- CHIP: But what if that 1% is really, really great? What if it made you feel braver, or kinder, or happier? Shouldn’t you believe it then? I mean, there’s still a 1% chance that it’s true, right? By this time, I was lost. What was the best answer here? I needed time to think! So I took the Parent’s Prerogative: I stalled. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” I said, which as all parents know is code for, “I don’t know the answer.” I tucked him in, read, The Twelve Bots of Christmas, kissed him goodnight, and got out of there before he could pile anything else on. Sometimes, as a parent, you just have to retreat until you’re ready. Comments
Media Jean: Parents have a code??
Chip: So all those times my dad said, “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” he really meant, “I don’t know.”
Media Jean: This is our Rosetta Stone! Now we can decipher all of their hidden messages!
Chip: Like, “We’ll see.” That’s parent code for, “I already decided and the answer is No.”
Media Jean: Ha ha! “Time for bed” is code for, “I need a break from my kids!”
Chip: “I’m the parent” = “Do as I say, not as I do.”
Media Jean: “This hurts me more than it does you” = “I don’t know what else to do!”
Chip: “You don’t always get what you want in life” = “I never get what I want in life.”
Media Jean: “I’m not going to ask you again” = “I’m going to keep on asking until you give up and do as I say.”
Chip: This is fun.
Media Jean: Yeah! Let’s turn this into a card game. We’ll call it, The Parent Code: A Game for Over-Parented Kids. It’ll be a classic, right up there with Uno and Go Fish!
Chip: I’d buy one.
Media Jean: Heck, what kid wouldn’t? We’ll sell a million copies! 
Comic strip from the series "Santa's Wormhole-Powered Sleigh"
(Kid, Inc. Volume 1: Look Out, Tomorrow, Here We Come!) Have a thought for Bob? Write to us at [email protected]
Darndest thing happened last night.
Chip said he wanted to read me a bedtime story. He looked so sincere, what could I say? So last night, he was the father and I was the son. He watched as I flossed and brushed, and waited while I settled under the blankets, finding my spot. He sat on the edge of the bed, took out a couple sheets of printer paper, announced, When Death Comes, by Mary Oliver, and started to read in his small voice: When death comes... I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering: what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness? When it’s over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms. When it is over, I don’t want to wonder if I have made of my life something particular, and real. I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened, or full of argument. I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.* Then he made me close my eyes and listen as he read it again. Next thing I knew, dawn was on the curtains. I had slept the night through. I woke rested and calm and at peace. How did that happen? After all my sleepless nights, all my metaphysical strike outs, one little poem read by my son changes everything. Go figure. Maybe you need more than prayer and philosophy when facing Death. Those are the basics, good in most situations. But sometimes prayers bounce back. Sometimes philosophy rings hollow. Sometimes you need something else. Maybe a joke, or a battle cry, music or a poem. Some other kind of reminder spoken in someone else’s voice. A whisper not your own. A whisper to live, live, live, because when you lease all the rooms of your mind to Life, there’s no vacancy for Death. When you wrap both your arms around the waist of Living, Dying can’t get close to your heart. Here’s to you, Life. * From When Death Comes, by Mary Oliver, from New and Selected Poems (Beacon Press). Comments
Media Jean: Wow, he got a lot more out of that poem than I did.
Chip: Yeah. I’m not even sure what it’s about. I just found it online and it sounded kinda comforting.
Media Jean: You know he’s gonna ask you about it.
Chip: Yeah. He’ll want to know what I think the poem means.
Media Jean: Well, what do you think it means?
Chip: I’m not sure. I like “cottage of darkness.” That doesn’t sound scary at all.
Media Jean: I think it means don’t capitalize Death.
Chip: Ha ha! Lower case death. That makes me think of the Grim Reaper wearing short pants.
Media Jean: It’s like Voldemort in Harry Potter. Wizards calling him “You Know Who” and “He Who Must Not Be Named.” Give me a break! That just made everyone more afraid of him. Harry and Dumbledore had the right idea.
Chip: My dad likes Harry Potter.
Media Jean: Tell him to stand up to death the way Harry stood up to ol’ Snake Face. Stand up for life and love and friendship and truth and all that jazz.
Chip: All that jazz. That’s funny.
Media Jean: Maybe we should get him one of those Harry Potter wand remotes, so every time he watches TV he’ll feel like a wizard.
Chip: Ha ha! That’s a great idea! 
Comic strip from the series "Bedtime Stories"
(Kid, Inc. Volume 1: Look Out, Tomorrow, Here We Come!) Have a thought for Bob? Write to us at [email protected]
2 A.M.
Can’t sleep. Find myself stepping up to the plate once again. Mortality takes the mound and fires away: Your Aunt Bosky has cancer. You’re overweight, so you’re at risk, too. Your father had a stroke at your age. You’re afraid of dying. You don’t really believe life continues after death, do you? If nothing remains, does anything matter? One after another, hour after hour, right over the plate. Hey batter batter swa-wing! Strike! Strike! Strike! I should be hitting ‘em out of the park by now. I should have Death’s number. But after all these seasons, I’m still a rookie. Every pitch sizzles by. Sure, I tip one or two with a weak prayer or philosophical chestnut. But truth is, I don’t got what it takes. My faith can’t stand up to this stuff. I’m minor league all the way. At least, that’s how it feels at... now it's 3 A.M. Need to figure Death out. If not for me, then for Chip. Sooner or later, he’s going to ask about Aunt Bosky, about death, about life after death, about What It All Means. His storehouses of Google-knowledge are going to burst and he’ll finally turn to his dad for a little rock of wisdom. I need something to give him. Something to put into the palm of his hand. Something he can hold on to. 4 A.M. Keep watching for dawn on the curtains, as if I’m not even sure the sun’s coming up. Another good ol’ Charlie Brown dark night of the soul. Sigh. Comments
Media Jean: If not for his blog, I’d never know your dad was having such a rough time. When I see him face to face, he seems like his old cheerful self.
Chip: Yeah. Since he types his journal on a manual typewriter, I think he forgets everything gets posted online.
Media Jean: When are you going to ask him about Aunt Bosky?
Chip: Well, I was going to ask him tomorrow, but…
Media Jean: Yeah.
Chip: I was thinking, maybe we can help him.
Media Jean: What do you mean?
Chip: Maybe we can figure out what Death is all about. Solve the problem, then let him in on it. He’s taken care of me all these years. Maybe it’s my turn to take care of him.
Media Jean: I’m in! Let’s do it.
Chip: You think we can really figure out this whole Death business?
Media Jean: How hard can it be?
Chip: When should we start?
Media Jean: Right now! I’ll come over.
Chip: How long do you think it’ll take? Haven’t philosophers been working on this problem for a while?
Media Jean: Yeah, grown-up philosophers. Give me a break. I’m on my way, and I’m bringing a fresh bag of kettle corn.
Chip: Fresh kettle corn! I got a 4-pack of Izzie soda. Sparkling Pomegranate, I think.
Media Jean: Mom gave me some Fair Trade Chocolate.
Chip: I can slap together a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
Media Jean: Great! We’ll tackle ol’ Death for a while, then have a feast!
Chip: I rented Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium online. We can stream it while we eat.
Media Jean: A movie and a feast? What a great night! Death doesn’t stand a chance!
Chip: See you in a few.
Media Jean: On my way! 
Comic strip from the series "The Fortress of Childhood"
(Kid, Inc. Volume 2: The Batcave of Childhood) Have a thought for Bob? Write to us at [email protected]
Boy, it’s been a while since I sat down and wrote. Now I’m holding on to this typewriter like an anchor. A hatch popped open somewhere and the big Unknown keeps sucking all the air and warmth and gravity out of my little spaceship.
Hold on, Bob. It all started two months ago. Aunt Bosky called long distance to say she had been diagnosed with cancer. And BAM! Right then, right there holding the phone, I thought of the composer Charles Ives. In 1927, he came running downstairs with tears in his eyes and told his wife, “I can’t compose anymore! Nothing sounds right!” He never wrote another piece of music. I always wondered how his wife felt, hearing the Incomprehensible. How she reacted when the Impossible came tumbling down the familiar stairs of her everyday home. And exactly at that moment, with the phone pressed to my ear like an oracle’s shell, I knew. Hearing the Impossible was like playing Red Light/Green Light. Someone shouts, “Red light!” and you stop. Then you wait for “Green light.” You wait, your entire body poised. The only thing that matters is what comes next. That’s what “I have cancer” in Aunt Bosky’s voice did to me. It hit the Pause button in my soul, and I just can’t get around it. She’s the kind of woman who doesn’t get diagnosed with anything except Life and More Life. She’s that big. When I was a kid, she held up the sky. When a day was grand and blue, we said it was, “Bosky.” When mom’s apple pie put dad’s peach cobbler to shame, we didn’t say, “Mom’s apple pie is tastier.” We said, “Mom’s apple pie is Boskier.” Bosky was our blessing. She settled family disputes, took in wayward sons, marched in rallies, and practiced “social justice” back when it was called “manners.” How can cancer take root in a heart on fire? That’s like God getting sick. You have to get to the end of your innocence to accept that reality. Maybe that’s the last bit of growing up a man has to do. So here I am, knocked flat as a cartoon character. And you know what I keep thinking about? Ives’ wife, Harmony. Can’t get her out of my mind. Harmony standing at the foot of the stairs, looking up at the Impossible. Comments
Media Jean: When was the last time you saw your Aunt Bosky?
Chip: Couple years ago. She lives in New York and travels a lot.
Media Jean: How’s she doing?
Chip: She just started treatment. The doctor said she’ll probably lose her hair.
Media Jean: What color’s her hair?
Chip: Red.
Media Jean: That sounds like the right color for her.
Chip: It used to be bright red like crayons. Now it’s red like watercolor. It’s really pretty.
Media Jean: Wow.
Chip: But she’s not going to wait for her hair to fall out. She’s cutting it off herself and donating it to Locks of Love.
Media Jean: She’s not a sit-around-and-wait kind of person.
Chip: Nope. She takes everything head-on.
Media Jean: I’d love to meet her someday.
Chip: She’d really like you. She’d think you were totally Bosky.
Media Jean: Thanks. I think you’re pretty Bosky yourself.
Have a thought for Bob? Write to us at [email protected]
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AuthorHey, I'm Bob, and I hate technology. So why am I blogging? Because I love my son. He upgraded my typewriter to wirelessly post every keystroke online. It makes him happy, so here I am. Archives
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