WAY-ward.

I'm tired. I'm tired of people hurting people. I'm tired of people killing people. I'm tired of gun violence. I'm tired of the conversation around gun violence. I'm tired of racism and sexism. I'm tired of homophobia and hate. I'm tired of Islamic Extremists. And I'm tired of unmerited anger towards Islam. I'm tired of war. I'm tired of bombs. I'm tired. I'm tired of Clinton. I'm tired of Bush. I'm really tired of Trump. I'm tired of an election that is still a year and a half away. I'm tired of pundits. I'm tired of politics. I'm tired of FoxNews. I'm tired of MSNBC. I'm tired of pretending I'm Democrat and I'm tired of pretending I'm Republican. I'm tired of pretending there's a party in these politics for me. I'm tired of the medical bills piling up on my counter. I'm tired of the allergies in my babies' bodies. I'm tired of worrying. I

I have poison ivy. Bad.  Really bad.  Epically bad. Last Saturday I was with our youth group in a rough neighborhood in Detroit reclaiming abandoned and foreclosed houses. It was our task to take a city block and move from one boarded-up house to the next cutting down trees, shrubs, bushes and grass. We brought dignity back not just to houses that once held people, but to neighborhoods that still do.  Our kids were smart. We made sure they were. They worked hard and stayed on task. They stayed in front of houses and worked on curb appeal. I didn't. I was curious.  I walked around each house searching for the story behind their abandonment. I found new homes made of cardboard boxes in the backyard. I entered garages and sheds that had become living rooms. I even went into an "abandoned" house that was not "abandoned" at all - there were mattresses, clothes, books and food throughout. People were living there.   That expedition is w

I forgot to eat the other day. I had meetings from 7AM through 9PM. Around dinner time I caught 45 minutes of free time and meant to grab a bite, but, like I said, I forgot. And so, when I arrived at home at 9:30 that evening, I was cranky.  My wife wanted to talk about her day. I shrugged her off.  My older daughter used every delay tactic she knows so she could see me before going to bed, so she was still up and wanted a story. Standing at her door, I quickly scrambled through a lame-duck narrative.   Once upon a time there was a girl named Molly. She was tired. So was her dad. So she went to bed. And they all lived happily ever after. Good night.   When I crashed on the couch, my wife sat next to me. She wanted a conversation with an adult for the first time all day. I obliged by replying “yea” and “nah” to her questions – too tired to even put an “s” at the end of a one syllable word.  “Thanks for the riveting conversation, Scott.” “Huh? What?” “Exac

So, I'm by myself in Philadelphia, at a bar waaaaaaaaay too hip for me. I'm trying to put a little grub in my belly before heading back to my "prison cell" for a few hours of reading and writing. And...  It's awkward. No, actually, I'm awkward. I don't know how to order. I can't read the chicken-scratch on the chalkboard behind the counter. From what I can tell, my options are seitan (whatever that is) or white bean and roasted red beet dip (ugh).  The bartender mumbles something I don't understand, and I knee-jerk reply, "That'd be great!" She looks at me like I'm a complete and total weirdo. I apologize for misunderstanding and attempt to order a beer. Only, I do it in the most uncomfortable way possible... " Uh .... Sorry... Uh ... Do you... uh ... could I have a beer?" " Uh ..." she says kindly, yet mockingly, "Yes. You're at a bar."  And then, I sit. Alone.