You’re Not Paying Attention
My mother was flipping through photos from last week's Canal Room show. "You look so tired," she said. "I can always tell what's going on with you from your eyes."
That was a pretty major bummer as a kid 'cuz there was no faking her out. I couldn't play sick to avoid school; she'd just look into my eyes and say, "No you're not." And when I was big into the pot, I really had to avert my eyes. Which only made it worse.
As I was getting ready to leave Miami on Tuesday morning, I caught a long look at myself in one of those big hotel
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First Annual Mister Rogers Madaket Triathlon
The inaugural staging of the Mister Rogers Madaket Triathlon went off without a hitch today. I finished with a new course record -- heck, the only recorded course time, ever -- of 1:26:19.
It was a blustery 60 degrees, windy and full-on rainy when I sprinted down the dunes and into the bay. I've never swam in such chop. I lost sight of the buoy almost immediately, and was way off course when I finally saw it through the waves. As the water fell away, deeper and colder, I kept reminding myself, 'Dude, Mr. Rogers swam here all the time.
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An Empty Crooked House
The Crooked House -- Mr. and Mrs. Rogers' summer cottage for nearly 50 years -- sits empty next door. King Friday's kingdom away from the Kingdom of Make Believe is sad, and quiet. With the steely gray skies overhead and crisp fall breeze blowing through the dune grass, so am I.
I had hoped to see Mrs. Rogers this weekend to add my remembrances to her pile of well-wishes, and speak with her about my documentary proposal, the memoir I call 'Mister Rogers & Me'. I brought the painting I'd pledged to send Mr. Rogers so many months ago,
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Writing “Shiver”
I was born to David Wagner and Mary Catherine Bolster 31-years-ago today in Iowa City, Iowa. They were 25. I was induced on a Friday, and born on a Saturday morning at 12:51 a.m. Sunday afternoon, my father left for Waldorf, Maryland, to begin teaching chemistry at the local community college. My mother, brother and I would join him some three weeks later.
This birthday finds me a little groggy, unshaven and sunburned from the long weekend in Nantucket. It's a magical place, there on the edge of the Atlantic. The fog rolls over
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