Sh*t happens. In my case, it’s another book.
The first apology, of course, goes to mom.
J.D. Salinger, in The Catcher in the Rye, said it best:
She looked like she might have a pretty damn good idea what a bastard she was the mother of. But you can’t always tell—with somebody’s mother, I mean. Mothers are all slightly insane.
At this point though, I’m pretty sure she knows.
There was the first book about Rochester, which was actually the second one.
Then came Buffalo.
Syracuse was next.
And now it’s Toledo.
Freaking Toledo.
At each point, she has felt obligated to buy a few copies, secretly hoping—I’m sure—there would be no sequel.
There comes a point, after all, when the garbage starts to cut into the retirement fund.
For that, I’m sorry.
The next apology, as you might imagine, goes to the wife.
Little did she know how much she would rue the day in October 1997 when she said hello.
Not accustomed to so much attention from the opposite sex, I’ve hung on to that hello like my life depended on it, turning it into 22 years of marriage.
Initially, things looked okay—you know, a doctor in New York City.
But when that turned into a blogger in Upstate New York, things took an indisputable turn for the worse.
To add insult to injury, the wife has to proofread, along the way pretending she gives a crap about yet another book on yet another crappy city.
One word: Sorry.
The final apology, undoubtedly, must go to the kids.
It’s a fact of life—all dads are screwed up.
It could be yelling at the kids when no one’s watching.
Maybe it’s sneaking whiskey in the basement.
Or perhaps it’s just staring off into space, ignoring that which the family says.
The point, however, is to feign normality and save the bizarreness for behind the scenes.
But to air one’s dirty laundry—aka an unhealthy Rust Belt obsession—publicly, now that’s just wrong.
Sorry.
With all that said, and despite the crippling guilt, another book it is.
If you liked the first few, you might like this one as well.
If you didn’t, you won’t.
And if you haven’t read any of them, trust me, you’re not alone.
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