2024 Rewind

A Year in Pics

It was the best of times, it was the worst….well, let’s not get carried away. But Dickens got there first, and the same could be said about any year, before or after—it’s all a matter of perspective.

Here are a handful of memorable moments, where the image can (and should) summarize things more eloquently than more words from me.

The year began, as all years should, with poetry. There was quite a bit going on (in my world; in the wider world), but my third collection of poems, Kinds of Blue, dropped early in 2024. More about that, here.

I was back in the classroom, and it was a blast. I designed—and taught—a class called “Creativity in Culture,” which looked at the 20^th Century, decade-by-decade, assessing the most significant (artistically, politically, aesthetically, etc.) pieces of music, media, and literature. It was, needless to say, both exhilarating and impossible. How can you make a reasonable list of the best works in a given year, much less an entire decade? Any act of list making involves compromise and a concession to failure, but also opportunity: we can acknowledge what’s left out while focusing on what—and why—things made the final list. And it’s instructive in ways that might not be anticipated: it was genuinely revelatory to consider vampire movies in the ‘30s in the wake of Wall Street’s Great Depression inducing meltdown, and how the weasels of Wall Street were, appropriately, referred to as vampires even as they had their intentional, unconscionable follies paid back in full during Obama’s first term.

Some decades, as you can imagine, were more difficult than others to summarize in one or two lectures, but other decades offer so much data, at once conflicting and connected (that, of course, is the point of art), you feel like you’re taking a teacup and dipping it in the ocean. Depending on how one looks at it, does what’s collected represent the whole or just hint at the hidden and expansive depths? Both, which is the point of such endeavors.

We had a wonderful time discussing and debating as the semester progressed: which decade was most influential, which years had the most heft, which ones both reflected their era and anticipated trends to come? Some powerful cases could be made for any individual decade, obviously. Still, some seemed undeniable. The ‘20s, that extended celebration with a welcome inclusivity of non-white cultures and influences, like a collective national exhale after The Great War; the inevitable intoxication and hangover, the gasp of exhaustion before the shit hit the fan—all summed up in the gift that keeps giving, the Great Novel of the century, Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby (more thoughts on that seminal text here).

Still, the types of sweeping generalizations that cultural aficionados are usually allergic to become inevitable. Thus, we appraise the ‘50s, broadly, as a time of conformity, of art that sought to establish a normality (again, a response to the next great war), a time of ostensible peace & prosperity despite the suffocating racial and sexual constraints. Thus, the ‘60s reflected a certain response to stasis, the combination of righteous indignation and optimism. The ‘70s: inexorable malaise and a holding pattern (were we making progress or taking two steps back, the art of the time saying same as it ever was?). And then the ‘80s, a weird combination of ‘50s follow-the-leader fealty and those iron guardrails of American shame (inculcated from our Puritan roots) beginning to loosen, aided by the Greed is Good ethos underpinning the Reagan Revolution (Government is The Enemy, etc.) and immortalized by Gordon Gekko in Wall Street. Who knows what, exactly, happened in the ‘90s: cable TV and the weird wide web opening a fissure in our spiritual ozone layer, making everyone the star of their lonely fantasy life. The 21^st Century? Check back in a decade or two.

My wife and I celebrated the tenth anniversary of our first date, and this pic proves that we are allowed to make many mistakes, but if we’re smart—and lucky—the really big decisions are wisely made.

Appropriately, a love poem.

The Ways My Wife Tells Me

She doesn’t compare parts of me to nature, or find similes—much less metaphors—in the way I speak or smile; she does not liken me to notable or minor characters from classic texts; she never feels inclined, her inhibitions lowered by the wine she seldom drinks, to wax rhapsodic about how I make her feel the way no other…; she is not a fan of PDA or anything that needily shrieks look at us!; she is a mother with an endless reserve of encomiums for the children she bore, and after I came to accept this I learned to cherish it; she doesn’t adore me the way she does our dog—even or especially when he curls up on freshly-washed sheets; she understands, instinctively, that a meal made with intent is a novel, the simple act of acceptance a poem that ceaselessly composes itself; she does not apologize for lacking a particular ease with words that her husband possesses; take me as I am she’s never said; above all, she knows show don’t tell is a lesson that makes life into art, and men who happen to be writers do well to remember.

(More odes to love, all courtesy of The Good Men Project, here, and here. Bonus poem and a personal favorite, here.)

The Year of the Tooth. I had a cracked crown (that sounds like something out of Shakespeare, and as it happens, the tale is both a tragedy and a comedy). This necessitated an aborted attempt at a crown replacement, then three (yes, three) root canals throughout the year. The best part? It’s still not resolved. The story is at once too trivial, indulgent, and boring to recap, but I did—and do—see the glass as half full by noting that I have the extreme privileged fortune of good insurance to (mostly) cover these painful inconveniences (both expense and the absolute decimation of countless hours, which none of us can ever afford to lose). To be cont’d., and as always, my empathy to the millions and millions of our fellow humans whose entire lives may be upended by a relatively minor health crisis.

Another book? Proving that the literary industry (and fickle gods of writing) have no interest whatsoever in your convenience or preference; if it is ordained that you’ll have two books come out not only in the same year, but the same season, so be it. This is, in hindsight, an embarrassment of good luck, and I’m grateful that enough people are interested in my work that I keep bringing books into the world. Onward (and, in case you’re joining this redundant broadcast in progress, a bit more about This Kind of Man here).

My thanks to my sometimes partners and always friends at the awesome Peter Bullough Foundation for hosting my favorite reading of the year (find out more about them and support their wonderful cause, here).

It was late June/early July when our Great American Experiment seemed to be going fully off the rails (little did we know—we were just getting started) when I tempted fate by going on a run in 90+ degree temps. Body temp high and spirits low-ish, I almost literally stumbled upon this Mama and her babies, and as I calmly walked away to avoid scaring them, I snapped this pic and while it was a little thing, it helped, and helped me remember it’s always the little things that matter most.

Oh thank goodness! Everything will be okay, after all (or not). I should have known the same America that was scarcely ready for Charles Mingus would not quite be prepared for a remarkable woman who reveres him (as usual, we can seek some consolation in his genius).

This is the moment that almost broke my beloved wife. What can I say? The world may not recognize my handiwork, but the “neural net” did. (Full disclosure: Heather happens to be an excellent picture drawer, and she routinely kicks my ass at this game.)

I’m a total east coast fair-weather workout guy. As soon as it’s above 50, I’m up for a run. As soon as the frost hits, I go into Fat Bear Winter Mode. It’s all about balance, right?

Another wildlife family moment, briefly interrupted by yours truly. I snapped my pic and moved on. Amusing note: it used to be a genuine occasion to spot a turkey on Martha’s Vineyard; they now own the island—hence their nonchalance at my proximity.

It’s always a good day to rescue a dog. Heather and I had an eventful late summer weekend adventure, picking up, walking, playing with, feeding, and briefly becoming infatuated with this rascal. Happy ending: he found a great home and is doing well. Remember you can always make a big difference.

My spirit animal. My 2025 goal is to achieve this level of zen (especially with two schnauzers going ballistic in the background).

Our beloved, bratty, inimitable baby girl. Bootsie turned seven this fall and we are at once in denial, hoping she lives forever, and profoundly happy such a special pup landed in our lives. (My tribute to the incomparable Leroy Brown, 99-09, here.)

Who knows what the future holds? Uncertain times ahead—but that’s always the case, on micro and macro, local and global levels. Trying to channel Benson’s vibe and stay in the moment, take as many naps as possible, and remind everyone that it’s never a bad time for a treat and a snuggle.

If you’re picking up what I’m putting down, consider becoming a paid subscriber, supporting my arts non-profit 1455, buying some books (and leaving some reviews—they help!). If you’re strapped, I understand, but be kind and promote peace—in the immortal words of Bluto Blutarskey, it don’t cost nothing.

Happy New Year!

R.I.P, Family Man.