Born and raised in Cincinnati and schooled in Bloomington, I now live in Salem with my beautiful and long suffering wife, two fast-growing sons, and a golden retriever who patently refuses to do so.
There is a fantastically good chance that the header image you see above was stolen from the excellent If We Don't, Remember Me. I sure do hope that's OK, because they are all so awesome.
For distorte it’s redoubtable. For me it’s:
Googling it often won’t help you, though. In an dastardly scheme to nonplus the rest of the world, we Americans have begun to use the word in a sense nearly opposite its formal meaning.
This may well be the greatest Wondermark of all time.
Today shadowfirebird linked to an article about the Boston ironworkers who, while constructing new buildings at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, paint the names of children undergoing treatment onto the beams of the new buildings.
The article mentions the first such tribute, back in 1996. I remember, back then, this touching video about the tribute playing in movie theaters before the previews, and theater employees passing hard hats through the audience to raise money for the Jimmy Fund.
This One’s Mostly for Me
This morning my son and I were quietly sitting on the floor playing together. He was sitting in my lap, the hair of the back of his head brushing lightly against my lips, as we searched out and fit the pieces of a puzzle together. He stopped of a sudden, twisted around in place, put his arms around my neck, kissed my cheek and said, “I love you.”
It wasn’t the first time. He’s recently begun spontaneously letting his mom and I know his feelings for us. It wasn’t the first, but it is a joy each and every time. What came next was a first.
He turned himself back around and began scanning for another puzzle piece. After a moment he hesitated and cocked his head slightly to look at me out of the corner of his eye. With a shy half-smile he said, “You’re my best friend.”
That’s what sublime means.
Don’t tell his mom.
Resolution #7,153
Never—and I mean ever—play Scrabble against Mills.
Maggie Jackson in an interview with Wired. (via)
This is one of a number of terrific observations about interruptions and their debilitating effects on thinking, relating, and creativity. I would hang this on the outside of my door…if I had an office. With a door. That closed.
We’re fine. We’re all fine here, now, thank you. How are you?
(via powerpig)
