How I Got My Ego Out of the Crater

And how maybe you can, too. But my dog won't help.

The Banderschnoot, ego killer, in repose.

Cassidy Steele Dale writes to equip you with the forecasts, foresight skills and perspectives, and tools you may need to create a better, kinder world.

And one of those ways is to talk about how to zombie-shamble over to the sofa and yet-even-still find hope. And give you recipes for your immediate future: this Memorial Day weekend.

So a couple of weekends ago I went to a middle school musical production and I still haven’t recovered. This wasn’t because of the performance of the middle schoolers — which frankly was far better than average — but because of the content.

See, I didn’t know the content of the show until I was standing in line with my family waiting to go in. I got the show program and opened it to see which part our friends’ daughter had and then it hit me: this was a Back to the 80s jukebox musical.

Me: Oh, nooooo…

Beautiful Wife <literally 112 years younger than me, mouths silently>: You are so fucked.

<Both kids read her lips.>

SnarkDaughter (11 years old): Why is Daddy fucked?

Me: Don’t say fucked.

SnarkDaughter: Mommy, why is Daddy not fucked?

Me: Stop saying fucked. These are all songs from my high school years.

<Both kids brain-process and do advanced mathery.>

SnarkDaughter <very sincerely>: I thought you were older than that.

Dervish <our son, 9 years old, even more sincerely>: Are you going to remember all the words?

At which point I realized that all the parents around me were still so young that 80s music was from about when they were born. And then I realized I was The Oldest Man in the World and thus I must already be three-quarters dead. So I stumbled into the cafeteria/auditorium in my state of advanced decay, sat down, and witnessed teenaged historical reenactors play-out a longago war I actually fought in. Felt like the Fisher Price version of the Civil War. And when the less-acute singers yowled out their notes my soul left my body and lifted up and slowly bounced around in the rafters along with some forgotten balloons and I got my preview of hell.

• Our friends’ daughter was very good. And her mullet was far superior than the Aqua Net of the Days of Yore could have ever provided. And the performers were very good overall, actually.

• The show, however, was an emotional torment for me. But at least it was long.

When we got home SnarkDaughter and Dervish dopplered off and Beautiful Wife corralled them toward bed so I zombie-shambled into the house and opened the back door for The Banderschnoot to go out and then I went over and sat on the far end of the sofa to decompose.

And after The Banderschnoot came back in he jumped up on the sofa next to me and put one paw on my leg and looked deeply at me through his Scotch-terrorist eyebrows and I thought Finally, some sympathy from a sympathetic dog. My dog likes me.

The Banderschnoot: Daddy, you smell like the dead squirrel under the shed. The one you won’t let me get at. You remember, right? The one you had to grab me by both back legs and my badonkadonk and then you pulled me back out with all the dirt and the leaves? Yeah, that dead squirrel. Thank you for bringing that smell into the house by being that dead smell. I love you, Puppy-Daddy.

Then he rubbed his face all over my leg to get that smell all-into-his-face-fur and then he jumped down off the sofa and went upstairs to bed.

At which point my ego gave up its last whisp of smoke and settled into its new career as an inert cinder.

After which I strategically deployed YouTube in an effort to climb back up out of the crater.

First I wallowed in something I know isn’t true.

Then I reminded myself of my mortality and my approaching decrepitude and why I should defy them both the last word.

Then I went to my favorite guy who rails against a world gone mad.

Then I went to Ryan Reynolds for advice on fatherhood.

Then I went to my favorite cynic’s reasons for hope.

Then I thought about good, weird food. Like seared tuna coated in crushed Cap’n Crunch (from Sam the Cooking Guy). Which I’ve attempted and my half-failed attempt at the recipe was still amazing.

And the best tomato sandwich that’s apparently ever existed. (I’ve made this as well. It’s tremendously good. From Sandwiches of History.)

And then I went further down an odd food-related rabbit hole (from Tasting History with Max Miller).

And then I regrouped because all of that is just ridiculous and lateraled back to burger ideas like this behemoth whiskey burger (from The BBQ Pit Boys).

And this equally mammoth cheeseburger (from My Self Reliance). Which is just a plateful of Damn, y’all…

And the more reasonable Oklahoma Fried Onion Burger (from George Motz). Maybe use a carrot peeler to slice the onions if you don’t have a deli slicer because no normal person has a deli slicer. More on how to make this here.

And then I tried to get smarter on barbecue. Or at least on its history.

Then I gave up on reasonableness and watched a white guy gansta-rap some Dr. Seuss.

And watched Germans play techno.

Then I listened to a sweet little song.

And then watched someone play a kalimba to a sweet doggie.

And then I watched OK GO do the difficult in the extreme.

And then I watched them do the impossible. In Zero-G.

And yes, I know these things are silly and aren’t real reasons for hope.

Until I remembered that almost all of those above were created very recently and they’re all incredible and almost nobody woulda thunk of any of that back in the 80s no matter how much Aqua Net they huffed. And that means today — despite everything — is still better than yesterday. And that if we keep doing those kinda things then tomorrow can be better than today.

And that was enough to give me two steps of hope. Or at least the hope and the recipes to get me — and maybe you — through the Memorial Day weekend.

But don’t huff Aqua Net.

Don’t do drugs, kids.

Just Say No.

Dammit.