On Daditude

I get the LA Times. 

Sadly, however, I don't always read the LA Times. So the unopened newspapers remain folded, sealed, and stacked on my kitchen counter, practically screaming at me, "Look how much money you are wasting. Do you want to end up in a dirty nursing home?"

Since reconnecting with Ms. Muse -- we worked together at Bozell Advertising in the high hair days of 1987 -- I've been introduced to several LA Times guys who also reside in the Foothills of SoCal, including Steve Lopez, Jim Rainey and Chris Erskine. The latter of particular note.

In addition to being a regular humorist for the paper, Chris also penned some books, including the one pictured above. A copy of Chris's book sat on my living room coffee table for more years than I can remember. It was given to me as a Father's Day gift by my two daughters. They even managed to get it signed.

Apologies to Chris, but for the last few years my reading has been consumed by the former president, whose criminal antics have been documented by a slew of "radical, Marxist, Commie Democrats." I have enough books on Trump to fill a Trump Presidential Library. 

As if that were ever to come to fruition.

At the urging of Ms. Muse, I cracked open my copy of Daditude. I think you should too. 

I don't make a habit of sending my readers elsewhere for funny, insightful, addictive material, but today, and now that I'm an official Amazon Affiliate Marketing Partner able to earn generous life-altering commissions, I will.

Chris writes about the "joys" of parenthood and life in Western Paradise, with a deceptive easy going charm. But if you take the time to slow down while reading any of his collected short stories/essays, you can start to appreciate the density of his work. Each phrase, each sentence, is packed with disarming wit. 

Last week I read an essay about his ongoing love affair with Yiddish colloquialisms. In an unusually timely reference, he writes, "Without Yiddish, I'm Taylor Swift." A stinging indictment of suburban cultural homogeny.

I'm actually going to reread Chris's book. Not only for the gazillion laughs. But also to study his rhythm and syntax.

I might learn a thing. Or two. Like how to write shorter sentences. And actually make them funny. Clearly, I have a long way to go.

The book had me smiling from ear to ear. That is until the last few essays which detailed his late wife's cancer, his efforts at caregiving and his confusing guilt:

         "Why her?" I keep asking. I'm the one who lives like a sailor on shore leave, who mocks kale and anything regarded as "healthful." 

         "Why her?" I'm the one who misbehaves, doesn't read food labels, and wraps myself in bacon and bad wine.

          Why her, over three decades, one of the most devoted mothers you ever saw, very nearly a saint.

          As all this plays out --the IVs, the prognoses, the second opinions -- that's the question that haunts me.

         For the love of God, why her?

Even if you don't live in Southern California, or read the LA  Times, you will find much you can relate to. 

Some, more than most.

To get your copy, click here.