Tag Archives: fiction

Finally, An Adult Conversation

I’ve waited nearly 24 years for the conversation I had with my oldest daughter last night. She was close to 14 months old when we adopted her in the PRC, but I was 55 years old. My father had died two months shy of his 60th birthday and I’d been told all my life, “You’re exactly like your father”. I had good reason to believe I was rapidly approaching my “Use By” date, yet it deter me from becoming a first-time, adoptive father.

Part of the reason is my partner at the time (now my wife) is seven years younger than me and her family has a history of longevity. I nevertheless had some reservations about adopting, just not enough to stop the process. To, perhaps, add insult to injury I did it again at 59. Now my daughters are 25 and 22. My 25-year-old has been incredibly reluctant to spend any time with me or my wife at all for at least the last close to ten years. It’s been seriously frustrating.

At any rate, last night I was able to spend well over an hour with my oldest, talking about life, the universe, and everything (oblique Douglas Adams reference). From day one, a primary goal of mine was to ensure my girls had a good understanding of who I am and why I lived the somewhat unconventional life I lived, which included why I adopted so late in life. I didn’t have a reasonable expectation of being able to accomplish that, especially given my oldest’s reticence to converse.

Last night put all my fears to rest. We had a good, adult to adult conversation. She asked me pertinent questions and I was able to fill her in on some of the blanks in her life, such as I know them. They are few and far between, since she was abandoned at two days old. I can now look forward to at least a few more conversations before I shed this mortal coil, and leave her more than just my life insurance and the equity in our house. I am content.

One lucky guy here. PS – I’m well aware of the irony our family represents, i.e. if my girls were equally lucky, they would likely still be with their birth parents. My wife and I are just the next best thing given their circumstances.

PPS – I was best man and they were flower girls at the retaking of vows of close friends … a while back. The other pic is of us going out from Long Beach to scatter the ashes of a cousin who was taken from us far too early. 

Best Man & Flower Girls

MAGA Are Delusional Fools

The world according to Donald Trump is a kind of bargain-bin epic, but the real masterpiece is the fan club that keeps insisting it is hard-hitting non-fiction. At this stage, his separation from reality is less a “difference of opinion” and more a hard launch into an alternate dimension, yet his supporters gaze upon this rift in the fabric of truth and declare, “Yes, finally, someone who tells it like it isn’t.”

They are handed claims that collapse under the slightest contact with evidence—record-breaking crowds that weren’t, landslide victories that didn’t happen, conspiracies so vast they apparently include anyone who has ever read a document—and the reaction is not embarrassment, but enthusiasm. Each debunked story is treated not as a warning sign, but as a plot twist in their favorite show. Courts, investigations, and basic arithmetic all line up to say, “This is nonsense,” and the response is essentially, “Exactly what the villains would say.”

In this saga, Trump is both the almighty genius and the world’s most persecuted man, a flawless winner who somehow keeps being robbed, a champion of law and order who is, coincidentally, never supposed to be subject to it. His supporters nod along as if these contradictions are profound rather than incoherent. The more impossible the story, the more eagerly they embrace it. It is magical realism, minus the realism.

By now, nobody can reasonably claim they “just don’t know what’s true.” The pattern has been flashing in neon for years: lies dressed up as revelations, vindictiveness posing as strength, and constant attacks on any institution that dares to say, “That’s not how reality works.” To stick with him at this point is not an act of confusion; it is a lifestyle choice. It is the decision to treat facts as optional accessories and outrage as a core identity.

So the indictment is almost generous: Trump spins the fantasy, but his supporters keep the franchise alive. They supply the demand for delusion, renew the subscription to unreality, and call it patriotism while doing it. Whatever they tell themselves, they are not being “bold” or “independent thinkers.” They are simply choosing the comfort of a flattering fairy tale over the discomfort of the real world—and insisting the rest of society live inside that fairy tale with them.