Settled for a nice spot in the L.A. suburbs, within ear shot of one of the finest freeways ever. Instead of ferry boats, I hear big rigs.

I mean, who doesn’t make the occasional compromise? You? Well, OK then. Congrats.

The rest of us aim high, shoot low, make peace with the results.

The other day, I was telling my pal Schwartzy that I had been brooding a bit over not having a few of the material things a man my age ought to have.

As my son Smartacus points out, life is a 12-layer dip. The layers: Beans, sour cream, disappointment, disgust, grief, longing, envy …

Then I thought to myself: I can read the same great books a billionaire can, I can listen to the same incredible music, appreciate the same harvest moon. Suddenly, my pockets felt fuller.

Sure, I’m a jackass … a glass-is-half-full lush. But it’s a big glass. And it’s still half full.

Cheers!

Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer…

Then there’s these grandkids, three if I’m counting correctly. They are a rebellious bunch, with freckled noses and sticky chins, two of them still in diapers.

Here’s what I worry about: Cakes, Puddles and Mookie glow like light bulbs every time I show up at their homes. Why are they so easily impressed?

Yet, I worship my grandchildren in that hokey way all grandparents do. Apologies. If you have grandchildren, maybe you’ll understand.

In a perfect world, you could skip children and go straight to grandkids. The price is better … the payoffs devine.

FYI, Suzanne has a new granddaughter, Miss Charlie, born on the back of an oak leaf, up there in wine country a few weeks ago.

Charlie is a popular name again, especially for baby girls. My pal Jeff also has a granddaughter named Charlie. In five years, all the kindergartens will be full of Charlies again, mostly little girls.

Isn’t life amazing? Surprise is such a wonderful sensation, as elemental as hydrogen, or phosphorus, or platters of grilled chicken.

Charlie was a bit of a surprise, and now it’s hard to imagine a world without her. She is suddenly this beacon drawing in family and friends from across California.

I hope to meet her soon, while she’s still a gumdrop, a bead of magic, a tincture.

When I do, this is what I’ll tell her:

—Don’t be foolish. The $7 wine at Trader Joe’s is just as good as the $100 vino down the block.

—A Ford is just as fine as a Ferrari, at least till you’re 50 or so, then maybe a Ferrari. Real life moves fast enough.

—Sometimes the world feels like a giant scam — don’t be disheartened.

—When it comes to men, never confuse bravado for confidence, they wear the same brand of jeans.

—When you get the chance, take your lovely grandmas to brunch (I’ll buy).

And never forget — are you listening, Charlie, are you writing all this down?

Family is everything, I mean everything. Friends too. They are your army, your strike-out pitch, the ace that fills a straight-flush with the whole room watching.

Never fret for family, Charlie, because you have a fine one…a gorgeous and loving mom (like sunshine) and a boyishly handsome dad (an ebullient Dodger fan!).

They will be your Ferrari.

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Coming Saturday: Boomer Wisdom and the enormity of kids.

Having trouble finding comments in Substack? Try clicking on the thought-bubble icon at the bottom of the post (see below). Again, thanks for you patience and support.

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Also coming soon: Happy Hour Hiking Club invites.

“If you’re lucky!” I respond, because not everyone makes it to the age where wistfulness can mellow out your mind. To me, better to grow old and melancholy than to never have had the chance.

Our screwy culture glorifies youth and beauty, vitality and verve. The young don’t have a lock on that, though it does come easier to them.

Young people seem to have the quick-twitch impulses — the buzz, the curiosity. Just look at Coachella’s bee hive of quivering flesh.

Me, I am less restless these days, though curious as ever. I don’t know how water pumps work, for instance, or why crowds line up for Trader Joe’s tote bags. Some issues defy understanding. Especially TJ’s tote bags.

I also don’t understand the phases of the moon. I need one of those sun-earth-moon mobiles they used to have in science class. Even then, I’ll never understand moons.

By the way, how do you kick back, how do you unwind? Might I recommend beer — it’s so good on cereal. Also, the more I move, the happier I feel.

In that vein, I trimmed a tree for Suzanne the other day. As we know, life can be a cascading waterfall of crud and obligation. When that’s not enough, you blow out a knee.

But shaping up a crabapple tree is a glorious task. I’m sure the pain in my right shoulder is only temporary, and the pelvic thrusts I do, as a warmup every morning, have been put on hold.

Otherwise, trimming a tree is good and heavenly work.

As you may know, I am a son of the soil. And Mother Nature was my biological mom (picture her in heels and a trippy French skirt while walking a yappy dog).

So I work feverishly in a stiff morning breeze, under April’s latte clouds. I trim with every molecule of my bod, my tendons tight as crossbows. As I work, clumps of crabapples thud to the ground. They sound like children scampering across the floor.Glorious.

Of course, applewood is quite heavy, dense as marble. As I struggle with this 40-foot tree, I keep imagining the brisket I will smoke with it.

Life tip: Being away from your phone, even for an hour or two, is a gift. I don’t have to deal with push notifications, or alerts that my bank card had been used online. Kaiser can’t bug me, nor the hundreds of L.A. contractors who want to cheat me.

Digitally, don’t you feel as if you are being pecked to death by ducks?

Well, I was away from all that, though I still faced challenges. The telescoping tree saw kept binding, as they always do. I pushed, I pulled, I cursed, I cussed.

“Is cursing worse than cussing?” I wondered. Then I cursed and cussed some more. It’s what men like me use in lieu of logic.

Yet, little by little, the tree takes shape. I recall how we used to taste crabapples as kids, a tart candy. I tried one. Still in my esophagus two days later. Yep, still tart.

So, if you’re ever melancholy, I suggest trimming a tree. At the very least, it will give you an appreciation for the workers who do this all day, the heft of the tree saws, the importance of finding the right angles (which don’t even exist).

In any case, we’re now entering The Season of Yard Work. I think we outsource too much of that, and it can give us a sense of accomplishment to knock out some of this ourselves, whether it’s threading a new vine through a trellis, or replacing a crummy old bird bath.

Meanwhile, a public service announcement: I read recently were mosquitoes prefer blue-eyed victims over brown-eyed folks. Is it the melanin in the skin? The beer in the blood? The purity of our hearts?

In any case, relish your beautiful smoky-brown eyes.

Damn mosquitos. They’ve always been lusty for me. They leave hickeys, made worse by my clawing nails.

For Suzanne, it’s even worse. Skeeters leave 10-inch Whoopee Cushions on her arms and legs.

She’s still dashing, of course. Like Lindy. Or Ted Turner. Or Justin Bieber in a blowing scarf that makes me hate him.

Point is: Dashing people have their challenges too. Don’t we all?

“We beat on,” Fitzgerald said, “boats against the current.

Indeed.

Next week: Another grandchild! Plus, tapping into Boomer Wisdom.

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Save the date: How about a Descanso Gardens hike May 2? Invites to come.

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Whoa, Nellie! Guess what: Almost all the women I’ve ever slept with had troubles worse than my own. Or why would they?

Listen, I was never much for taking my own advice. I just spew these half-baked wisdoms, like a loose garden hose that boogie-woogies around the driveway.

That’s my life as well: a misbehaving garden hose. “Dr. Freud, clean up on Aisle 6. Dr. Freud…”

Hope you laughed. I get very uncomfortable with silence. And garden hose metaphors.

Honestly, I don’t know day from night, hot from cold, a raven from a goose.

I don’t understand Plato’s notion of an ideal plane, or why dogs drag their butts. I still buy artisanal honey in jars, not squirt bottles. So stupid.

I still read at a first-grade level, sounding out syllables as I go. I also struggle with proper nouns and coordinate conjunctions.

Yet, I find that reading slowly is like savoring a lovely slab of lamb. The better the book, the slower I swallow it. Sometimes I just stop, trance like, and let my eyeballs soak in the words. As if admiring Grace Kelly, and wondering: “How did God do that?”

Similarly, Bach embraced beautiful things. He doubled-down on concertos. As did Ted Williams with 3-and-2 counts … as did Einstein with the vagaries of light. They doubled-down.

Me, I do that with great books and zoftig cheeseburgers you can’t quite pick up. Both are newborns. You never know quite where to grab them…under the armpits, behind the head?

FYI, Miss Suzie is an omnivorous reader. She devours three books in the time it takes me to write this sentence.

There is hardly a topic I top her at. Perhaps cribbage. Perhaps the off-sides rule in hockey. Perhaps plumbing, though she recently bought the world’s best book on home renovation and will soon lap me in that realm as well.

For the record, I adore smart women. I detest smart dudes. Dr. Freud? Dr. Freud?

I interviewed a very renowned doctor recently, famed for his treatment of troubled relationships.

“Aren’t all relationships a little troubled?” I wanted to know, just as all families are slightly dysfunctional.

There are many things — families, relationship, ball clubs — that are broken yet still worth our time. The Chicago Cubs for instance.

The Cubs are broken, yet the fans still attend, the beer vendors doing their very best to ensure the fans are drunkenly stupid, so as not to realize the fiasco unfolding before their eyes.

A lot of that goes on with government too. Give the peasants just enough to keep them content.

It works until it doesn’t.

That was always my philosophy on parenting as well. Give them just enough. Too much spoils them. Too much turns them into a Kennedy.

A core belief: Not quite enough is better than way too much.

Lord, we’re weird creatures, aren’t we? We fuss over our appearances more than any animal I know, even influencers. We crave emotional sustenance, feel unworthy of our hard-earned success.

What’s to become of a species like this? Are we our own worst fate?

Oh well. As I always say — philosophically, as sort of a joke — “we live in interesting times.”

So did the Druids. So did witches. Now us. Congratulations. Like the Hindenburg, we’ve become historic.

Don’t you wish current events were a little less frantic though? Don’t you wish bad news took the occasional day off?

Look, we’re still in the game. Like the Cubs.

Bad example. We’re still in the game. Like the Dodgers — rich, magniloquent, feisty, famed.

FYI, Dodger Stadium used to be my man cave. Like me, that old place has mustard in its pores.

Now I can’t even afford to park there.

Yet, as with other royal families, I can still appreciate their shine, their glimmer, their outsized self-regard.

See, mankind is in the eighth inning. They’ve shut down the beer stands. The rookie left-fielder, just up from Oklahoma City, is at the plate, the one who swings like a rusty gate.

Only the whole world is watching.

Swing hard, kid. In case you hit it.

Coming Saturday: How to offset a bout of melancholy: beer, yard work, TJ’s tote bags…

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Please stay tuned for the next Happy Hour Hike, to be held at Dodger Stadium or Descanso Gardens in late April or early May.

Speaking of rich internal lives, I realized the other day that children share their honest thoughts till around age 8, then some mechanism activates — some heart valve, some latch — that makes them overly cautious about their opinions, secrets and observations.

They become guarded. They remember recent hurts caused from being too honest, from being different from the pack, or vulnerable, or even kind.

So they begin to pull the curtains around themselves. And the best part of children starts to disappear.

Wow, right?

New lovers are like that too. At first, we share it all. Then little by little, we pull back, wounded by minor judgments.

Seems that the secret to a lasting relationship is the willingness — the courage — to share it all. Me, I overshare, so I’m probably OK. Or will oversharing be my undoing?

I mean, I don’t overshare all the time. I’d get punched out probably. They’d bundle me like a tent and ship me off to Mars.

But if you can’t confide in another person, what’s the point? Get yourself a dog, you’ll be much happier.

FYI, I wear my dogs like socks. They surround me as I write this. Look at my daughter’s dog, this golden retriever. One brain cell, maybe two. A retriever? She couldn’t retrieve a meatball if you left it in a warm wad of fries.

But she’s good company. The golden retriever inspires me. When she sighs, it’s almost human. It’s as if she is doing my worrying for me.

Dogs, they own me. Grandkids too.

Questions? Let’s move on.

I’m very taken lately by the shimmer in the eyes of my granddaughters. One is almost 5, the other just off the lot (nine months).

Lately, their eyes are Swiss lakes.

The other day, Rapunzel brought little Mookie by the house. When I went to retrieve her from the carseat, she’d just awakened from her nap. Her eyes glistened. Big jewels. The kind kings keep in their pockets to rub during meetings.

“”She just woke up,” Rapunzel explained, yet that doesn’t fully explain these high-beams, this majesty … the beauty of watching your grandchildren bloom.

As they say, God lives in the margins. You see him in the seams of sunsets, and the shimmering eyes of your kids and grandkids.

Another person, this Cakes character, was at dinner with me at the Mexican joint the other night.

The restaurant is overpriced and underseasoned, like many Santa Monica eateries. But the servers are patient, attentive and all-around wonderful. So I throw money to the wind.

It was just Smartacus and me, in a booth with Cakes and her toddler brother, Puddles. Cakes’ big eyes caught the evening light. You could canoe those eyes. You could launch several thousand ships.

Happy Hour!

Now, sometimes Cakes wiggles loose the bolts of the universe. She is as impatient as the wind, to borrow from Wordsworth — a particularly active child, a restless and curious little girl . Often, she is soothed only by the screen of some phone or tablet. “Zootopia” is her escape. Or “Frozen.”

We realize that’s wrong. Just as our parents knew it was wrong to plop us in front of “Hogan’s Heroes” re-runs for hours at a time.

But we turned out all right, didn’t we?

Maybe.

Anyway, we’re in this booth at the Mexican joint — no screens, no parents — and all hell is breaking loose, as it will in a restaurant with young children.

Ever been to a bullfight? Kinda like that.

At one point, Puddles shoves the laminated menu away from himself, nearly dumping all the beer and water glasses in my lap.

Also, Puddles refuses to eat, which is unusual in our family. We breathe to eat, and we eat to breathe. Food and family are our sole reasons for existing. But mostly food…sometimes family.

Honestly, it’s just the food.

Smartacus and I realize that we can’t return Cakes and Puddles to their loving parents without something in their stomachs, it would be irresponsible of us. And it could jeopardize future culinary bullfights such as this.

So we stop for a quick ice cream on the way home.

Yes, they love ice cream — way more than family, far more than life itself.

We could see it in their eyes.

Next week: Never sleep with someone more troubled than you are.

I really want to thank everyone for your patience and generosity regarding the shift to Substack. I’m reading some wonderful notes from old friends who have been with me for decades. It’s quite inspiring.

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We’re still figured out a few things. In the meantime, here are some answers to frequent questions:

Q: Why is the type smaller?

A: If you click on the email, the columns seem to appear smaller than you might be used to.

Q: The solution?

Access the column by opening Substack first. Also, you can go directly to the website: ChrisErskineLA.com. In both cases, the type is larger, as is the entire presentation.

Q: The photos don’t enlarge when I click on them, like before.

A: Again, if you access the column through Substack, you’ll have more options with the photos. You can enlarge them, or click through them. You can also do this by going directly to ChrisErskineLA.com

Q: Can I still “like” or “comment” on a post?

A: Yes. There are little icons under the byline. You can also comment by scrolling to the end of the column. Often, the post-game banter is better than the original story.

Q: When is the next Happy Hour Hike?

A: We will hike Descanso Gardens in a couple of weeks. Please stay tuned for details. “Founding Members” will get first choice.

Q: What’s a “dirty” Bloody Mary, which you mentioned the other day?

A: Add a jigger of olive juice to a typical Bloody Mary.

Cheers! Have a great weekend.

Know about these pup cups? So simple… a Dixie cup brimming with whipped cream.

Free! Boom!

What’s free anymore? Pup cups at Starbucks. At least for now.

Not sure vets would recommend them, but the dogs certainly would. They are voracious about these pup cups. They eat as if it’s their last supper.

Then we swung (or is it swang?) by the park, where we caught the final moments of Sunrise Service. As we listen, young voices finish a song, then someone issues a final “Amen, go forth…” and all that.

That was about as much formal religion as these pagan dogs require. They are forever pulling at their leashes. So we turn and head for home.

Hey, did I ever tell you about the source of Easter eggs? Probably, since I’m nearing that age where all I do is repeat myself.

Anyway, Eostre was the Saxon goddess of this season, a beautiful woman with a Hermes smile and a heart so big you could hear it thump from 40 feet away, ba-DUMP, ba-DUMP, ba-DUMP-DUMP-DUMP. Think Ginger Baker, loud and a little crude.

One day, someone found a bird with frozen wings and took it to Eostre. To save its life, she turned it into a bouncing baby bunny. But because it used to be a bird, the bunny could still lay eggs.

Boom! Free eggs!

See, I know some stuff. It just never reveals itself, since all I ever talk about are baseball, dogs and kids. That’s why I was never very successful at first dates or job interviews. We never got to the really entertaining stuff that I know: Ernie Banks’ lifetime batting average, the secret to a good marinade, how to pour a “dirty” Bloody Mary.

In any case, our Easter was wonderful, as Easter always is with young children and pagan dogs.

Two of my own grandkids were in New York visiting Grandpa Tom, so we celebrated them through photos mostly. It’s quieter that way, though I was never very fond of quiet.

Closer to home, Maggie swang by, Rapunzel’s new nugget. She is a smiley little thing, much like her mom and dad. At 9 months, she makes the same coos and tweets as baby sparrows.

Smartacus contributed to the Eostre feast, handling the deviled eggs. For this special occasion, he made Chicago-style deviled eggs. He also made deviled eggs with capers and Sriracha. In N Out deviled eggs were also on the menu, but I think he ate those himself.

Tell me, does anything ring your chimes like a well-made deviled egg? To this day, I’ve never been able to walk by a platter of them without stopping.

Yet, I find it somewhat interesting that on a day devoted to our Savior, we celebrate with deviled eggs. I mean, show some consistency.

Or is this how God works?

I also find it odd — and pretty wonderful — that my kids are now trusting me to host major holidays: first Christmas, now Easter, the two biggies.

Among my kids, the conventional wisdom is that I don’t respect expiration dates quite enough. Which is true, I don’t. Like birthdays, they’re just a number to me.

Still, these eggs were fresh and creamy good, as was the flank steak I marinated overnight.

Can I give you a major life secret? Flank steak. We grill it maybe twice a year, and each time we decide it’s the most delicious of all the beefs — then we lapse, as Lutherans are known to, into the more-predictable cycle of ribeyes, burgers and kabobs.

I declare this a flank steak summer. The thin slabs grill up easy, in minutes. I promise you’ll think about the succulent slivers of beef for days after, as you would a great book or a major movie.

Here’s my marinade: olive oil, soy, apple cider vinegar, honey, paprika, oregano, garlic, salt and ground peppa.

Be sure to fingertip it into the meat, as you might a lover. Soak it overnight in that incredible booze you just made, flipping it first thing in the morning.

I’m telling you, as the self-proclaimed pagan God of Barbecues, that flank steak can change your life in unexpected ways. It will make you taller, smarter, wiser, even more charming than you already are. You’ll heal faster, suddenly sing on key, be able to back your car into the tightest spaces.

Or, you can just go with that grilled cauliflower you like so much.

It’s your life. Try to enjoy it a little.

Coming Saturday: The glimmer in the eyes of grandchildren.

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In April, you can either count your blessings or you can curse your tax returns. Both work. Both are real and forgivable.

In either case, we motor right along, our stomachs knotting over some deep eternal fear, something we can’t shake or conquer.

We keep motoring just the same.

Which brings us to today. Easter shimmers on the horizon. Summer awaits the next train.

My mornings start kind of sooty now, black as Bibles. The little lamp near the bed glows like a lighthouse, calling me back under the covers after I feed the dog. I resist, I relent, I resist, I relent … storyboard of my young life.

Honestly, I’m a tug-of-war. You too? All these comforts call out to us.

I was noticing all the vape shops on Lincoln Boulevard the other night, on my way to see Miss Suzie. The smoke shops sizzled in their LED high-beams. They looked like space ships. You could almost hear them hum.

These weed shops are an urban occurrence now, a trend, a blight, lit up like major airports.

My questions: Do you stoners need extra light? And what’s to become of The Great American Liquor Store?

There was an ambience and a dignity to an old liquor store — especially late, when it was just you and the cops and the clerk behind the counter reading the latest Playboy. Liquor stores felt like small favors.

As teenagers, we’d wait outside liquor stores for someone to buy us six-packs of beer in brown paper bags. We’d try to pick a younger customer, someone in his 20s, because the older dudes could be scolds.

Hey, whatever gets you through the night, right? A book, a gummy, a big chocolate bunny … perhaps a sip of Bud Light.

I was swimming the other day, another med, another tonic …an activity that manages to unknot me.

As I left the gym, this Easter Bunny of a girl, jaunty in the way of teenagers, parades past, flaunting her cheesecake glow.

Judging from her looping walk, she might’ve been a baroness, or the heir to a major toy company. Whatever she was, she seemed to have the world’s car keys in her hand.

What awaits a kid like this? What awaits all our sassy kids and grandkids? What awaits this cruel and wobbly world?

Can we fall asleep each night with hope in our hearts? Or is it dread we always seem to feel?

I say spring forward, no matter your spiritual side. Chase some guiding star, some beacon, some hope. Go ahead, eat that Peep. Cave to the candy.

Because to be a parent is to worry two generations ahead. Parenthood spikes the punch. It raises our sense of responsibility (and sometimes shame).

For believers, this is the wildest week — when God took back his baby.

For non-believers, please note that I’ve gotten almost all the way through an Easter column without using the words “rebirth” or “resurrection.” Lord, it wasn’t easy.

Meanwhile…

“Any time not spent on love is wasted,” said an old Italian writer you maybe don’t even know (Torquato Tasso). If old Italians understand anything, it’s probably lust.

Now, you can probably define a person solely by the things they lust over. Work? Fame? Family? Boats? Bix Beiderbecke? The B-52s?

Tell me all that you love and I’ll tell you whether I like you or not.

And if you love April, I’ll probably love you too. There is something explicit about a bed of daffodils in the morning sun … a big bowl of Monet.

And a gushing creek just seems to wind my clock.

A frisky dog splashing through that hilly creek adds to the moment. There is no happiness quite like dog happiness, or the happiness of young children on a warm spring weekend, chasing after colored eggs in the park, stumbling through the lush spring grass, shirts and smiles coming untucked.

Who doesn’t like that?

For every bad thing, there are two good ones. That’s just the ratio I’ve always used — nothing scientific, more of a hunch than a fact, that’s for sure.

Science has its limitations, we all know that.

For this moment, forget moon launches and biotech. Give me dogs and children and other classic beacons — the stuff no one can ever take away.

Give us our blessed April hearts.

Happy Easter.

Next week: These kids’ shimmering eyes. You could canoe in those eyes.

Some thanks on this holiday weekend:

Thanks to all of you have been reading me for years, some for decades. Thanks for following me now on Substack.

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Also, thanks to all those who supported the Erskine Family Compassion Fund, honoring my late wife and son. You pulled together nearly $15,000 to help families across Los Angeles. Still like to help? Please make out checks to LCPC Parent Ed, and send to LCPC Parent Ed, 626 Foothill Boulevard, La Canada, CA 91011. Or click here: LCPCparented.org/give/

If you have problems on the donation site, or with Substack, please email me at Letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

Finally, a poll: What would make you happiest for our next hike? Descanso Gardens? Santa Monica Pier? Dodger Stadium? If you have a preference, please email me at Letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

Happy Easter, and all holidays, from our home to yours.

My challenge: I know nothing of eroticism. But I’m learning, I’m learning. I shop at L.A. boutiques, I watch a lot of Starz.

Honestly, I don’t know a streamer from a channel anymore, or a mood from a vibe, or a server from a waiter.

Beware: Every word eventually gets a cool new sister wife that becomes all the rage, when really that new word is just describing the same old stuff.

That’s the paradigm in which we now live.

FYI, I am best with the same old stuff. I’m built of spare parts and Silly Putty. That’s why a goof like me could one day succeed at eroticism.

Meanwhile, half of what happens on my computer seems to be by magic.

Magic. Miracles. Good fate. We don’t respect them enough, especially when it comes to cheap foreign electronics.

Sometimes I think magic and good luck are actually God’s caress, but that’s probably wishful thinking.

Faith is faith and we’re lucky to have it. Love is love, hope is hope — all those abstractions that go unseen. Yet they are the most-powerful possessions we own, if own is the proper word.

Who owns love? Not me. At best, I get a six-month lease.

Yet, the really good concepts — Hope. Love. Gratitude. —never go out of style. Call them the holy trinity of a really solid life.

Look, who am I to give advice? I sleep on a pillow stuffed with old sports sections.

Is that a tribute? A bribe? A so-called baksheesh?

My latest fascination: The idea that there’s no edge of the universe, just as there is no flat Earth. Every delicious thing in the cosmos seems conical or elliptic: Easter eggs, pizzas, Dolly Parton.

Why not the universe?

So, if you rocket off into the stars one afternoon, heading straight up, wouldn’t you maybe just circle back and end up where you started, like a space-age Magellan?

If you walked the Earth, heading straight north around the poles, you’d eventually end up back in Glendale, right?

Same with the Cosmos. In the end, you get Glendale.

Imagine heading off to map such a universe, brushing the hair from the eyes of angels, smooching them softly on their sun-burned lips? Would that be erotic or spiritual?

You decide.

This concept of an oval universe, gleaned from physicist Carlo Rovelli, blows my mind a little.

Obviously, I hail from a different world from everyone else. Suzanne teases me over all my Tony Bennett references, my fondue jokes, the ascots I wear to workouts.

She is essentially — please keep this between us — dating my father.

Ewwwww … ick.

Two other things that are the same thing: Me. My father.

Early on, I adopted too many of his mid-century tastes. We both loved my mom, for instance. And we both got all pie-eyed over Angie Dickinson (please note that Suzanne has Angie’s car-fender cheekbones. Coincidence? Or a cheekbone miracle?).

Like my dad, I adore rental rowboats and crisp autumn days. Half his face was forehead, just like mine. Dad also had a bunch of Donegal in his Irish grin, every wink a pub.

From my father, I learned what was funny: Ted Baxter, Tim Conway, Don Rickles.

“Know who was really hilarious?” he used to ask. “Rasputin.”

From him, I learned irreverence; I learned the universe.

From him, I also learned to tie a fish hook and knot a tie. I learned how to curse other drivers for not using a turn signal.

Dad hated phonies. He loathed cheats.

Best of all, I learned from my father a love for family.

Dad used to say, “If you have kids, you have everything.”

I’d say, “Cool, Dad. Thanks!”

“Well, I wasn’t talking about you specifically,” he’d say. “Just kids as a concept.”

Man, I miss his laugh, especially on holiday weeks like this. I miss his love for hard-boiled eggs and good sports sections.

That’s where the revolutionary writers of his day lived, on the nation’s sports pages, surviving on jabs and wisecracks.

Maybe that’s why sports sections are still stuffed in my pillow?

On this holy week, here’s to fathers everywhere, the ones who push the strollers on Saturday mornings so Mom can sleep in.

Here’s to the dads who rake the infields, pour the pancakes, set up soccer goals, fix the stuff they didn’t break.

Love all you dads.

As a concept, anyway.

Coming Saturday: Eat a Peep. Cave to the Candy.

Some thanks are in order.

First, thanks to all who are supporting me now on Substack. Note that even if you’re a so-called “free subscriber,” you can get one free post a month. That kicks in April 11. If you prefer the twice-weekly posts, please subscribe.

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Secondly, thanks to all those who supported the Erskine Family Compassion Fund, honoring my late wife and son. You pulled together nearly $15,000 to help families across Los Angeles. Still like to help? Please make checks out to LCPC Parent Ed, and send to LCPC Parent Ed, 626 Foothill Boulevard, La Canada, CA 91011. Or click here: LCPCparented.org/give/

If you have problems on the donation site, or with Substack, please email me at Letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

Thank you. And Happy Easter from our home to yours.

• Baseball is church bells.

• Baseball is a call to prayer.

• Hey batter, batter…

• I prefer longing to regret.

• I prefer whimsy to sentiment … gratitude to self-pity.

• I prefer crickets to clocks.

• “Singing is like a celebration of oxygen.” —Björk

• You can quote me: Movies have become about as fun as toe fungus.

• Comedy genius Bill Lawrence (“Scrubs, “Shrinking,” “Ted Lasso”) should run a studio.

• FYI, I got rich the moment I had kids.

• Pets are riches too though.

• Hey, whatever fills your heart, right?

• Coaching tip: A dugout is where dreams are made, not careers.

• Pro sports credo: “More than enough isn’t enough.”

• “Laugh and the world laughs with you. Snore and you sleep alone.” — Anthony Burgess

• Prediction I: The Dodgers three-peat.

• Prediction II: The Rams win the next Super Bowl.

• Meanwhile, the Lakers remain an enigma wrapped in an egg roll.

• If I ever open a chicken joint, it’ll be called “What the Cluck.”

• If I ever write another parenting book, it’ll be called “Dad to the Bone.”

• Yep, like the old song: Da-da-da-daaaad-to-the-bone…

• Lucky Boy breakfast burritos make me mental — in a good way.

• As do Charlie’s cheeseburgers, in the Fairfax Farmers Market.

• As do soup dumplings at Dan Modern Chinese (various locations).

• “When your children are teen-agers, it’s important to have a dog so that someone in the house is happy to see you.” —Nora Ephron

• March is madness.

• March is buzzer beaters.

• Best breakfast spot: the patio at Brookside, overlooking the driving range and the Rose Bowl.

• Menu tip: Avocado toast with salmon.

• I love baseball the way Abercrombie loved Fitch.

• Sure, Streisand was a bit cringy on the Oscars. Still, how wonderful her Redford tribute.

• I love cringy.

• Trivia question: Name three famous novelists who were also physicians.

• My advice to aspiring writers: Linger in bed.

• More advice: Close the bar (in L.A., that’s 9 p.m.)

• Hey, I’m not forgetful; I’m just buffering.

• Descanso Gardens is out of control right now — in a good way.

• Take a bow, Pasadena Playhouse. Your production of “Amadeus” was sensational. OK, maybe a little long.

• Note: Playhouse head honcho Danny Feldman is a local treasure.

• A good play is a slow stroll through the human heart.

• “I prefer neurotic people. I like to hear rumblings beneath the surface.” —Stephen Sondheim

• FYI, “The Cat in the Hat” uses only 220 words.

• So? Most of my columns use only about 10.

• Hey batter, batter…

• FYI, the best coaches call your bluffs.

• Got a good feeling about this Chesney dude now coaching UCLA football.

• Note to Mick Cronin. Nobody loves a sore winner.

• Hockey fact: Anze Kopitar is L.A.’s Ice Mamba.

• Flower fact: Descanso has more than 700 types of camellias.

• Fun fact: When they fall in the creeks, they make camellia soup.

• “Just remember, once you are over the hill you begin to pick up speed.” —Charles Schulz

• At Grand Central Market, the older the food stand the better the grub.

• Big props to Duke’s in Malibu for the recent reopening.

• Sometimes happiness finds you; most times you have to get off the couch.

• Yeah, I hate that too.

• But Duke’s or Descanso are good places to start.

• Hot tip: Duke’s Barefoot Bar.

• Cold tip: Graham Central Station ice cream at Handel’s.

• ’Tis the season for naughty little desserts.

• Favorite sundae topping: irreverence.

• My new motto: “Honestly, who cares?”

• Newborns remind us that we’re all touched by an angel.

• “Television is an invention that permits you to be entertained in your own living room by people you wouldn’t have in your own home.” —David Frost

• Something I miss: Grass stains.

• Other things I miss: Milk Duds and Jiffy Pop.

• And finally: Siskel & Ebert.

• Happy heavenly 100th to Miles Davis (May 26).

• Poetry can make you “remember what you didn’t know you knew.” — Robert Frost

• Ditto, Bombay gin.

• After two gins, I turn into an Irish pirate.

• FYI, after 100 years, Phillippe’s is doing away with the sawdust on the floors, citing safety and insurance standards.

• Bring your own?

• Trivia answer: Novelists who were also physicians: Arthur Conan Doyle, Somerset Maugham, Michael Crichton.

• When a doctor dies, I’m always a little shocked.

• Thank God for babies.

• Thank God for March.

• Thank God for Thin Mints.

• If laughter is prayer, jokes are whisky.

• “To acquire the habit of reading is to construct for yourself a refuge from almost all the miseries of life.” —Somerset Maugham

• Best two words in the world?

• “Play ball!”

• Best three words in the world?

• Hey batter, batter…

• Shaaawiiiiiiiing!

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Props to everyone who has supported this new Substack venture. Please keep the comments coming. Like the photos of the grandkids, they are often the best part!

And, again, cheers to those who turned out for the Happy Hour Hiking Club last Saturday. As you might’ve guessed, I’m a big believer in the f-words: fun and fellowship. Thanks to Armando at El Portal for hosting us, and for Diana Gould for helping set it all up. Thanks to Nina Hoffmann for her terrific photos, as always.

Upcoming hikes: Santa Monica Beach and Descanso Gardens. Stay tuned for dates and details (Reminder, paid subscribers get first dibs).

Next week: Here’s to Easter and “the blessed slenderness of spring.”

In two weeks: A salute to so-called Boomer Wisdom.

The Happy Hour Hiking Club at El Portal in Pasadena.

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Not sure I’ve ever been more proud. That’s such a Chicago remedy … an Irish front-end-alignment.

“You’ve trained her well,” someone assured me, though my older daughter remains feral and largely untrainable, which in itself is an achievement. These women today, right? They breathe hope.

Look, life is a series of little ouches: car repairs, moldy cottage cheese, burning your fingertips on toast.

It’s the big ouches you hope to avoid.

So far, I’ve done a fine job of blending big hurts with little ones. I mean, haven’t we all?

In the evenings, I’ll now start to self-medicate with baseball, our nation’s most ornery and eloquent game.

By the way, these Dodgers! They’re older than your local Kiwanis Club, yet look at how they play. They’re an inspiration for seniors everywhere.

One more year, and the Dodgers will have to wheelchair through airports. Who cares, as long as they can muster the energy to stand on stage, strong and proud.

One day, the Dodgers will have to pay the piper. Ohtani’s ransom will come due, and this aging team will shift its focus to shuffleboard and the proclivities of Medicare.

Till then, admire and appreciate this marvelous baseball club, led by Dave Roberts, the best coach in all of sports.

Baseball is life, baseball is a tone poem. Los Angeles gets this more than most places, though most places love this magic game.

I’ve never seen it healthier. I’ve also never seen it more broken and expensive.

I hope — wait no, I pray — that baseball can avoid the big ouches. An owners’ strike looms, for instance, and more and more they’re trying to mechanize this lovely, bucolic game, a game that allows us — more than any other activity — to slow down and connect.

One day, I’d love to lead a fans’ strike, over $40 parking and $19 beers.

Till then, rejoice.

We are better when we all laugh together; we are better when America has something to cheer. Baseball is our opera.

By the way, here are the best baseball books of all time, no arguing allowed:

1. “Shoeless Joe,” W.P. Kinsella

2. “The Boys of Summer,” Roger Kahn

3. “The Art of Fielding,” Chad Harbach

4. “Catcher in the Wry,” Bob Uecker and Mickey Hershkowitz

5. “Perfect Eloquence: An Appreciation of Vin Scully,” edited by Tom Hoffarth.

Scully? Ever heard of him?

Honestly, I thought Dodger baseball would end the day he retired, and in some ways it has. When he died, baseball lost its Beethoven.

But oh my, does baseball go on.

So swing hard. Rejoice.

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Saturday: They’re taking the sawdust out of Philippe’s? Sigh.

Next week: Here’s to Easter and “the blessed slenderness of spring.”

You are super-sumptuous for the internal stuff too. For the stuff that bangs around your minty, mirthy mind

Can you quoteth Shakespeare, for instance? Allow me:

“For summer and his pleasures wait on thee.”

Honestly, that’s about all the Shakespeare I’ve got.

More easily, I can quoteth Sir Rodney Dangerfield:

“I’m so ugly, the proctologist keeps sticking his finger in my mouth.”

When pressed, I can dig out a quip by Moliere — “Nearly all men die of their remedies, not of their illnesses” — yet I am decidedly more comfortable with old movie lines.

“My childhood was typical. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. When I was insolent, I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds.” (Mike Myers as Dr. Evil)

See the wonderful things we hold in our heads? They define us, make us fun to be around. Some are very useful. Some are mere silly string.

The silly stuff sugars us. It’s the silly stuff that makes you so sumptuous and happy to be alive (at least most mornings). So send in the clowns. Please.

“I like to rock n’ roll all night and part of every day. I usually have errands….I can only rock from, like, 1-3.” (Paul Rudd in “Role Models”)

I can fake knowledge of almost anything. It’s why I’m so adept in bar debates and at charity dinners. As Miss Suzie will attest, I can talk for two hours and reveal absolutely nothing.

Know people like that? We seem full of helium. Like Beyonce, we generate our own wind.

Among the stuff stuck in my brain:

• The lyrics to “Last Train to Clarksville.”

• Directions to a perfect French Quarter oyster house.

• The length of the Gettysburg Address (272 words).

• Frank Sinatra’s birthday (Dec. 12).

• Ernie Banks’ lifetime homers (512).

We are all a little unhinged, right? Normal is so abnormal — and pretty boring. It’s our devotion to silly stuff that makes us special, that separates us from the pack: guacamole recipes, chord progressions, sports stats.

Only you know the variety of things you know. Bravo to that. And tomorrow you will be even more interesting. Let’s hope, anyway.

Speaking of unhinged….

“Last night you were unhinged. You were like some desperate howling demon. You frightened me. Do it again.” (Conversation between me and Suzanne)

Ha! Gotcha. As you know, that was actually Anjelica Houston, in “The Addams Family,” a deliciously sly film.

Look, I’m approaching 200 years old, and I’m smarter now than ever before — wiser, breezily sarcastic, brimming with trivial information that — given about 15 minutes — I can retrieve almost at will.

Who needs AI? Well, me for one. I’m one brain cell away from being a brick.

As with professional baseball players, I can only hope to get 1% better every day. Over a lifetime, that might be statistically significant. Guess we’ll see, right?

In The Times the other day, the Dodgers’ Freddie Freeman explained how he was unhappy with batting only .295 last season, third best in the National League. In most previous seasons, he’d topped .300.

I will share that little Freeman nugget, over beers, with probably 50 people before etching it into my permanent hard drive, which isn’t as hard as it used to be. Still, it gets the job done, trust me.

Thanks, Mom! Thanks, Dad! My folks always cherished a funny story and a good laugh. They shared them with me like heirlooms.

Speaking of which…

“Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries.” (John Cleese in “Monty Python”)

I just threw that in for you, Yvonne and Chris. In certain cases, with certain types of jokes, I can still hear my dad’s har-har-hearty laugh.

FYI, I miss movie houses and living rooms full of laughter. I miss comedies the way I miss creamy desserts, were creamy desserts suddenly obsolete due to corporate consolidation and studio malfeasance. The Industry, as they say, seems stuck on stupid.

Question: If the screenwriters go on strike again, as threatened, do we really even care?

Did Shakespeare ever go on strike? I don’t know. He was probably too busy ripping off Christopher Marlowe.

We care because the actors don’t make up their lines, as we all once thought. Writers make up the delicious retorts, the spinning thoughts, the malapropisms. It’s the writers, so wonderfully unhinged, who tap into the silly string that rescues us all.

For Hollywood, writers remain our only hope.

So, yeah, if they all go out on strike, I might lose my mind — and some of what sugars it.

We all might.

Props to everyone who has supported this new Substack venture. Loving the comments and feedback, often more witty and readable than the column itself. Damn you!

And cheers to those who turned out for the Happy Hour Hiking Club on Saturday. What a cheery bunch. I think you’d been pre-drinking, like me and Smartacus before Dodger games. Or is that just your personality? Whatever the reason, the fun and fellowship of that great afternoon will not be forgotten. Thanks to Armando at El Portal for hosting us, and for Diana Gould for helping set it all up. Thanks to Nina Hoffmann for her terrific photos, as always.

Upcoming hikes: Santa Monica Beach and Descanso Gardens. Stay tuned for dates and details (Reminder, paid subscribers get first dibs).

Coming Saturday: Lucky Boy burritos make me mental — in a good way. Plus other Random Thoughts.

Next week: Here’s to Easter and “the blessed slenderness of spring.”

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Lot of good it’s done, right?

Who knows? Perhaps these prayers shield you from worse calamities than you’re already facing. Perhaps they do you no good at all.

Still, we stroll and hope — the wobbly dad and his frisky praying dog.

I’m a simple man, obviously. I still drink from garden hoses, still kiss under porch lights. I marvel over vapor trails. My stomach barks after I eat spicy Thai.

I never know which button to push (apps, elevators, people). I blush too easily, especially for such a manly man.

I push ahead mostly to see what happens next, what fiasco awaits us all, and how the bureaucrats will bobble it.

Most times, I have more faith in the neighbor I don’t know than I do in the candidate I voted for.

I default to my usual state: horrified yet hopeful.

Look, I still believe in all the mainstream myths of our day. That kindness counts. That God has a plan. That most people are honest and good.

By the way, I was haunted the other day to realize that I dress almost exactly like the actor Steve Carell. In fact, if he were a brand, a sub-species, a phylogeny, I would be him.

Also like Carell, I’ve grown “comfortable with being uncomfortable,” in the words of TV critic Robert Lloyd, who wrote recently about the affable actor.

That’s not a bad outlook. Bookmark that. Mention it to your bartender or your shrink.

Comfortable with being uncomfortable…

Discuss that concept over a nightcap with someone you adore. Bittner, for instance. Or, that rascal, Mark J. Miller. Jeff or Pete or Charley.

We’re a band of brothers, my buddies, a fleet of cheerful suburban dads, all subsets of Carell, whom I’ve always hoped is as gentle a soul as he seems on screen.

So authentic in “Little Miss Sunshine.” So awkward in “The 40-Year-Old Virgin.” Such a devoted dad in “Crazy, Stupid, Love.”

Another writer once deftly described Carell as resembling a bemused forest creature.

Yet, over the years, Carell has become, like Tom Hanks and Jimmy Stewart, an American “Everyman.” That’s not a bad accomplishment. In fact, I’d take that over an Oscar any day.

Bravo, Mr. Carell. Take a bow but keep moving along. Because we might soon change our restless and fickle minds.

Speaking of change, I surprised myself last week by being almost completely relaxed over an impending jury summons.

In the past couple of decades, I’ve done maybe eight stints of jury duty, and there was always a gut-twist the night before: the parking, the cattle call, the schlepping from court to court to court.

As you know, court personnel sometimes round you up and send you to trials in Hollywood or East L.A. Fine places, of course, gritty garden spots. But who wants to schlepp there after already schlepping downtown?

This time, I had no anxiety at all. Kinda threw me.

Attention, class: Getting older is not so bad. Eventually, you become comfortable with being uncomfortable, to the point of being at peace with all your misfit quirks.

Meanwhile, here’s the thing about L.A. jury pools: There’s always one woman with a bag so big that you could fit a sheepdog. She could tumble head first into her bag at any moment, and rescue teams would never find her.

Till then, she can’t find anything in this gigantic canvas bag: her jury summons, her mortadella sandwich, the bridal dress she’s sewing for her niece, “who’s prematurely pregnant but really loves this Draymond guy.…”

Also, there’s always one L.A. juror with bitchin’ hair — obviously an actor. The rest of the jury pool looks like me or Steve Carell.

Is that a crisis or a cry for help? Neither? Both? Let me get back to you.

Finally, here’s something to chew on: One of L.A.’s top trial lawyers tells me that winning a case relies primarily on three things: jury selection, opening arguments and the facts of the case. Jury selection, he believes, accounts for 80% of winning.

Me, I wish the facts were 80% of it.

Takeaway: There is the way we wish the world worked, and the way it actually functions. They seldom share a sandwich.

That bother you? Me too.

Come on, let’s pray.

Next week: ’Tis the season for naughty little desserts and Random Thoughts.

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Can’t thank you enough for supporting me on Substack. I’m grateful beyond words, which I’m not much good at anyway. English isn’t my second language. It just seems that way sometimes.

If you have problems or complaints, please email me at Letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

Hiking note: Today’s (March 21) Pasadena hike has bout four spots left. Interested? Starts at 3 pm and winds through Old Pasadena. If you’d like to join, please email me at letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

Cheers and thanks!

Such is the life of an artist.

FYI, when Van Gogh was beginning to lose it, he got into a raging argument with Paul Gauguin — you know geniuses, prickly about the stupidest things.

In the course of the argument, Van Gogh cut off his own ear and later presented it to a prostitute. This caused a stir, because most people back then paid for affection as they do today, with cash and broken promises.

But an ear?

The next day, French police hurried Van Gogh to a hospital, where they treated the ear but not his bigger emotional needs. Were they more astute, Van Gogh might still be alive today. He’d be almost 200 years old, living in Big Sur and painting cottages for tourists.

That’s my theory anyway.

I have a theory on everything. It’s why I’ve been banned at dinner parties and thrown out of three colleges (four if you include beauty school). I’m what they call a disruptor … a revolutionary … a goof.

No wonder I can’t get many baby-sitting gigs.

I was watching my wee granddaughter the other night. “Cakes,” I call her, for she is sweet and fluffy and celebratory. Angel food.

Remember that stretch of time, two summers in a row, where I attended four weddings and didn’t manage to acquire a single slice of beloved wedding cake? As journalists point out, the first time is an aberration; the fourth time, a trend.

I wrote extensively — and quite well — about how weddings no longer offer cake to their guests, which to me jeopardizes the entire marriage.

No cake? What other traditions will you forsake, what other tribal pleasures will you deny those who love you? Every society offers tiny signs if impending collapse. This may be ours.

Which brings me to this living room in Santa Monica, where I’ve agreed to sit my two grandkids, Cakes and Puddles. It’s a little like caring for raccoons.

They own me, as grandkids often do. When Mom and Dad leave, they take the rules with them. “No ice cream,” they say as they dash out the door.

So the very first thing we do? Gobs of ice cream, one of the last great tribal pleasures that America has left.

This improves morale immediately. Yum, Papa!

Then I let them watch too much TV and stay up past their bedtimes, mostly because the bedtime routine sucks the marrow right out of my tired bones. There are teeth to brush, and now Cakes has even started flossing.

Have you ever helped a 4-year-old floss? It’s like putting lipstick on a lemur.

And Puddles? He’s 1.7 years old now; hence, a squirmy acrobat. You can’t put pajamas on such a creature. You would have better luck getting him to sit for a tattoo.

Doesn’t help that they both just had gobs of ice cream, which triggers in them revolutionary impulses.

By the time, I start putting them to bed, it is well past their curfew, and even I am starting to fade, as I do every night around 9.

Out front, we hear a car door slam, then another. Boom-boom. Oh no! It’s the cops: Mom and Dad.

If Mom and Dad catch them up at this late hour, I will lose this baby-sitting gig, my only remaining legitimate work. If I lose this job, the only client I will have left is baby Mookie, who lives down the lane with Aunt Rapunzel and Uncle Truck.

Word will get out about the ice cream and the broken curfews, as it always does in L.A.

“GET IN BED! GET IN BED!” I yell, and the kids giggle quickly toward their beds, as if some sort of air raid. Cakes and Puddles both know that they will be busted too if Mom and Dad walk in at 8:30 on a Friday night to find them still up with Papa.

“They have a schedule, you know,” says every mother since the dawn of time.

Oh, sure. Blame all your parenting problems on me, the free baby-sitter who drove through Friday rush hour to get here.

I raised four kids, you know. And that was before baby monitors or sleep sacks or specially made “night diapers,” the ones with little cows and moons.

It was a simpler time, and we mucked that up too.

Point is, I know what I’m doing. I’m just a little rusty, that’s all.

And look, Mom: After 40 years of this insanity, I still have both ears.

Coming Saturday: I still drink from garden hoses. I still kiss under porch lights.

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Can’t thank you enough for supporting me on Substack. I’m grateful beyond words, which I’m not much good at anyway. English isn’t my second language. It just seems that way sometimes. Especially when I try to be grateful and sincere. I am also blown away by your nice notes.

If you have problems or complaints, please email me at Letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

Hiking note: Our Saturday March 21 Pasadena event is a sellout. If you made the list, you should have received details by now on place and time. If not, please email me at Letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

More hikes and gin events just ahead. Cheers!

• If it moves, kiss it.

• If it stinks, eat it.

• Admit that “last call!” is merely a suggestion.

• Be playful.

• If that fails, still be playful.

• Underwear? Optional.

• Deodorant? Optional.

• Let your hair go.

• Sharpen your tongue.

• Snore.

• Smirk a lot.

• Tempt fate.

• Embrace your inner brat.

• Waste every opportunity.

• Pry into everyone’s business.

• Dilly-dally.

• Dupe.

• Hoodwink.

• Bamboozle.

• Take the low road.

• Max-out Mom’s Visa.

• Kill that keg.

• Boo Santa Claus.

• Hiss at heroes.

• Date an heiress.

• Marry a Munchkin.

• Loiter.

• Dawdle.

• Procrastinate.

• Hone your vices.

• Mumble your prayers.

• Follow every sneaky impulse.

• Lose your way.

• Climb rainbows, flaunting all the usual safety protocols.

• Kid a kid.

• Tease a teacher.

• Deny the obvious

• Break your promises.

• Snag that last slice of pizza.

• Forget to brush.

• Forget to flush.

• Twist the facts to your own advantage.

• Cheat. Bet. Swindle. Covet.

• Tip sparingly, if at all.

• Always leave your wet towel on the bedroom floor.

• Complain vociferously.

• Never listen to reason, especially your dopey dad.

• Carry carrots (in case you meet a unicorn).

• Harmonize.

• Twinkle.

• Twankle.

• Truckle.

• Tempt.

• Rush through dinner.

• Steal a kiss.

• Take all the credit.

• Mock every good idea.

• Never make your bed…ever.

• Dance to church bells.

• Flirt with disaster.

• Laugh in the face of actual work.

• Wiggle out of everything.

• Spit a lot.

• Let your laundry pile up.

• Ignore your obligations.

• Win at all costs.

• Throw rocks at the A students.

• Go to a nice steakhouse. Order the fish.

• Favorite color: ginger.

• Favorite crush: Emma Stone.

• Favorite sport: belly rubs.

• Investment plan: a lottery ticket.

• Life savings: none.

• Health plan: none

• Regrets: none.

• Favorite workout: a tall glass of beer.

• Favorite song: “You’re So Lame.”

• Hug a mother.

• Pet a Pekingese.

• Noogie a nun.

• Talk back.

• Slouch.

• Drool.

• Entice.

• Titillate.

• Razz.

• Rib.

• Sing.

• Rejoice.

• Make every day St. Paddy’s Day.

Wow. Whew. Wowza. I am humbled and amazed at your outpouring of support as I hold my hat out. It’s more than I ever dreamed. And it’ll definitely ensure a few more years of these often silly, sometimes serious missives. Thank you.

Please go to ChrisErskine.LA for signup info. Questions? Please email me at letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

COMING SOON

Next week: I still drink from garden hoses. I still kiss under porch lights. I still marvel at vapor trails.

Easter beckons: Jellybeans and jasmine and what Updike called “the blessed slenderness” of spring.

More Random Thoughts are ahead too: Baseball is a call to prayer.

Quote of the day: “Singing is like a celebration of oxygen.” —Bjork

Hiking note: We had a little glitch (imagine that!) with the signups to the March 21 Happy Hour Hike. We’ve resolved the issue. If you RSVP’d after 4pm Sunday, please RSVP again to letters@ChrisErskineLA.com. The hike begins in Old Pasadena at 3 pm and moves to El Portal at 4. About a dozen spots remain. If you RSVP and don’t hear back from me, that means you’re on the waiting list. Thanks for your interest. If you miss this one, we’ll have more soon. Note that, from here out, Founding Members get first dibs on hiking spots. But we’ll get as many thirsty hikers in as we can.

Finally, really enjoying the personal notes you’re sending with your subscriptions. Not sure I can respond to all of them. But I do read all of them and appreciate them very much. I’m glad we’re able to keep this thing going.

According to mathematician Thomas Bayes, being rational is not about true or false. Bayes’ Theorem is about forming opinions based on the best available evidence.

He insisted our beliefs are only as good as the evidence they are based upon. And those beliefs improve over time, as more valid evidence pours in.

Sound reasonable? Sound obvious? Then how do you explain Clippers fans? Or, how do you fold faith and compassion into how you feel about certain issues?

How do you explain impossible dreams: colonizing Mars, curing cancer, writing the Great American Novel?

How do you explain Walt Disney, for instance? Or Mother Teresa? Or even, pardon the politics, Elon Musk?

This junction of faith and logic is where value systems get interesting. That crossroads, my dear, is the gumbo of life…of politics…of art…of humanity itself.

So, next time you hold the door for someone and they don’t say “thanks,” congratulate yourself.

With no assurance that the other person will appreciate your gesture, you do it anyway.

That, too, is the essence of a gumbo life: Being kind without any assurance of reciprocation.

Call it “Erskine’s Theorem.” To this day, not one of my kids has ever said thanks.

Oh, just kidding. Easy joke.

Yet, parenthood is prayer, parenthood is humor.

Watching the lovely and patient older daughter scurry after her two wildcat babies might be the definition of faith itself. It is the cabaret music of the human spirit.

Of course, young children have their moments. Their hearts unsullied, disappointment not even entering their minds, small kids will gift you a wild dandelion out of sheer kindness.

Do they get anything in return? Maybe a smile and a hug. Or, what they really crave, a moment of your time.

Or, maybe you’re texting at the time and can’t be bothered. Will they bring you another dandelion anyway?

Yes, over and over and over again, into sunshine piles.

See, young children have a culture all their own, untainted yet by rules and ruffians. It’s a culture of feety pajamas and bedtime stories, of innocence and sweetness.

That’s why moms get all collywobbles when they send their kids off to kindergarten, knowing the child’s wide-eyed innocence, her inherent sweetness, will soon be tested.

Into the jungle they’ll go. Have fun, baby! Be sure to write.

Will the kid be better off than before — tougher, smarter, more socialized?

Absolutely.

Will she be, in some ways, worse — less open, less kind, increasingly leery of what the goofy kid next to them might do?

Probably.

We blast through those collywobbles anyway, because gumbo is gumbo, spice is spice, life is not knowing any outcomes and marching boldly ahead.

Damn amazing, right?

In the course of a lifetime, we see fire, we see rain.

As I reminded Miss Suzie the other day, there are the scenarios we can plan for. But there is always that added scenario that no one could ever imagine.

Life is so short, really. As my reader/friend Judy noted, we never really know when we’ll do something for the very last time: The last time we’ll hug our mom; the last beer with an old buddy; the last meal in a favorite pizza place before it suddenly closes.

Life is a lot of “lasts.” Be sure to live a little.

My son Smartacus is finishing up college soon. It was a place, like kindergarten, where group-think thrived and individuality was mostly crushed.

Smartacus loved college anyway, the whole colossal muck of it. Starting a few months ago, he started counting his lasts.” Last football game. Last midterm. Last meeting with his adviser.

I’m not sure what the real world has in store for this kid, who still seems a kid. He’ll soon be home, cutting onions in our kitchen like his late mother did: chop-chop-chop…pause for tears…chop-chop-chop-chop-chop.

Fortunately, Smartacus knows the value of Bayles’ Theorem, of solid data on which to base his values and beliefs.

My son also knows the value of compassion, faith and kindness.

As a family, we always tried to push that.

Which may explain all the collywobbles.

Coming Saturday: Just in time for St. Paddy’s Day, a “Leprechaun Code of Conduct.”

Hi and welcome to Substack. Hoping your experience has been as seamless as possible. The quick outpouring of paid subscriptions feels like a minor miracle. I’m very grateful. I value your friendship and support. If you haven’t subscribed yet, be sure to sign up as these will be behind the paywall in a month.

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As always, you’ll get e-mails with each new post. If you have problems or complaints, please email me at Letters@ChrisErskineLA.com. Here’s to all the smiles ahead. FYI, I could not have done this without the help of the lovely and patient older daughter, who guided me through the tricky tech. Hugs to her and all my kids and friends for being such good sports through the years. Hugs to all of you, my friends and readers.

Hiking note: Spots remain for the March 21 Happy Hour Hiking Club event in Old Pasadena. We’ll step off about 3, hit a venerable old watering hole about 4. Interested? Please RSVP by emailing Letters@ChrisErskineLA.com. This is the last one before we put it behind the paywall benefits for founding members (first) and paid members.

Hi everyone,

What do I know about Substack? I thought it was a sandwich shop. Turns out it’s a way for writers to make a few shekels for their work… “to keep the smoke coming out of the chimney,” as Mickey Spillane once put it.

So, starting Wednesday, you’ll be receiving my twice weekly posts from Substack instead of Wordpress, my former carrier. The columns will be the same material you’ve come to love – or at least like - still hosted at ChrisErskineLA.com. Once subscribed, they’ll keep coming directly to your inbox (if not, check your junk folder). For the first month, they’ll continue to be free. After that, there will be some nominal costs to get the same content.

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• Founding Members: - For $50 per year, you’ll get all that and more, including first-come access to all hiking clubs, gin tastings and any events, virtual hangs and holiday parties.

If you sign up before April, you can take advantage of an introductory 20% discount with the button below:

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I hope you find this fair. After all, your doctor and plumber don’t work for free. And I haven’t busted any pipes – at least not yet.

Thank you for your continued support. I (with IT support from the Lovely and Patient Older Daughter) have done everything we can to make this as smooth as possible.

Cheers,
Chris

PS: I promise more of these, too:

He sent me Bittner. Am I lucky or what?

Speaking of love, I came across an old Barry Alan Pinkus TV special the other night, the singer still young…some 40 facelifts ago. You probably know him better as Barry Manilow. 

Obviously, the guy can pen a torch song. His best hits are world-weary, heartbreaking, melodramatic, needy. 

I like that in a song!!!

Speaking of music, my buddy Doug calls me the other night. He’d dusted off his old turntable, purchased an amp and was drinking wine and listening to old vinyl, the delicious snap, crackle and hiss of it, prompting the surprise phone call from 2,000 miles away. 

FYI, the longer the distance, the better the phone call.

Anyway, Doug tells me he is really enjoying the old Chicago albums on the turntable. As you probably know, old vinyl has a richness to it that is almost lurid.

Me, I like a little lurid. In moderation, of course. 

You know, sometimes life comes down to “achieving grace in the face of trauma,” in the words of writer Colum McCann. 

Sometimes life is just about getting out of bed in the morning. One cold step, then another, on the way to the coffee maker, which is my daily defibrillator.

Clear! Jolt-jolt-jolt! He’s alive!

Well, mostly.

Colum McCann also said: “I think the real bravery comes with those who … look at the world in all its grime and torment, and still find something of value, no matter how small.”

Look, sometimes life is about lining up the mundane stuff we all face — taxes, moving, jury duty — knocking them out one after the other, like bowling pins, proving to yourself that you can knock things out, even when your level of disinterest is only slightly less than your sense of obligation.

Sometimes life is jelly beans.

Sometimes life is avocado toast, crispy on the bottom, soft on top.

Sometimes life is that burrito you drive all the way across town for, so fat and wonderful. 

Treat yourself, OK? To be honest, you seem a little tired. Should I send God over? Or maybe Bittner? Or even Searles?

My pal Steve Searles tells me that the Paiutes insist that tribal members pray for themselves before they pray for others. Why? Because you can’t help someone else till you have yourself in order.

Sometimes life is about amusing others in order to amuse yourself. 

I firmly believe that when you help others, you are helping yourself.

This is the best excuse I know for charity, generosity, fellowship, laughter, song, long-distance phone calls.

Making others laugh helps the heart. Best cardiologist I ever knew? My son, Dr. Smartacus, who continues to lighten my heart as only sons can.

He’s like a human bypass, this kid.

See, I’m Irish by blood, Yiddish by temperament. 

So, basically, I’m double-doomed. I whistle past funeral homes, I sing past cemeteries. I’m prone to optimism, even denial, which is a helluva way to go through life, trust me.

I’m also hobbled by the deep belief that laughter is the best medicine — no prescription necessary. You can take it on an empty stomach, with alcohol. You can’t overdose on laughter. You can only have too little.

Guy goes into a bar. “Barkeep, gimme 12 beers,” he says. 

Bartender opens 12 bottles and places them on the bar. The customer proceeds to pound down the beers one after the other, boom-boom-boom-boom.…

The bartender says, “Why the rush?”

Customer says, “You had what I have, you’d drink like this too.”

Bartender says, “Sorry. What do you have?”

“Twelve cents,” says the customer.

Boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom….

When it comes to life, subtext is everything. Character counts. Humor is the secret sauce.

Comedy is the dapper bank president walking to work, pausing to step gingerly over the rain puddle in his expensive shoes, then plunging down an open manhole.

Meanwhile, what do you call a camel with three humps? 

Pregnant.

Thank you. I’ll be here all week. 

Coming Saturday: Why none of my heroes wear neckties.

One last plea for the Erskine Family Compassion Fund, which honors my late wife and son. The donations help struggling families across Los Angeles, providing everything from blankets to financial support. Any amount helps. Click here to donate.  If you prefer to send a check, please make it out to LCPC Parent Ed, and send to LCPC Parent Ed, 626 Foothill Boulevard, La Canada, CA 91011. Thank you in advance. If you have any problems with the donation site, please email me at letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

I mean, sometimes I hear harps.

I like the way cream clouds your coffee, like the dreamscapes in a Ken Kesey novel. I like old pickup trucks, a little rusty, or tureens of hot soup. I like the way the sauce bubbles in a cheesy tray of stuffed shells.

Obviously, I’m fond of forming these mini-heavens in everyday life. You never know for sure what really awaits you after the clock expires. Some folks are so sure they’re headed to some heavenly afterlife. Me, who knows?

Mostly, I like when stuff comes apart, unplanned bursts of real life (see cornbread above). I like when the dog gets loose, and someone has to chase him frantically up the cul-de-sac in the rain. I like when waiters drop a big stack of dishes in the middle of one of my incredibly wry and witty toasts. 

Bam! Silence! Cheers!

There is, in the universe, an anti-force. It exists — as sure as cloudy days and Christmas — to keep us humble, to ward off vanity. Still, we are not humble. Still, we chase perfection, knowing the universe is rallying against us.

This cosmic anti-force is the source of clenched jaws, mental anguish and that nagging feeling that you’re not doing enough with your life.

Honestly, do you get that too?

The other night, I was putting pajamas on my grandson. Still damp from his bath, Puddles’ arms would not slide into the PJs as planned — he may as well have been smeared in pine tar. 

Then he does a quadruple spin, a gold medal move, trying to worm his way back to nakedness…total purity and freedom, the uniform of the womb.

Even when difficult, my 1-year-old grandson is another little heaven. He’s got these Tony Bennett eyes and a crooner’s gift for mischief.

On a walk the other night, Puddles and I spot the popcorn vapor trails from a Vandenberg launch. Dusk. Heat. Galileo. Harps. 

“Isn’t family everything?” I ask him in the moment.

“No,” he says. But he’s still pretty young.

I was having that same conversation with a friend the other day, how family is such a source of playfulness, scandal, bemusement, germs, frustration. Not my family necessary. But yours and most others.

My buddy spoke of an elderly sister who, scouting her local McDonald’s for new friends — as older folks will do — latched onto a couple who happened to be heading to Asheville, N.C., just as she was. They invited her along on their roadtrip, promising companionship and adventure.

Being old, what did she have to lose?

The road-trip goes fine. She enjoys the scenery, the conversation, the company of fascinating new friends. Till she discovers they were actually going to Nashville, not Asheville. Oops.

Point is: There is nothing more entertaining than the triumphs and failures of our own families. They are an anti-force within the anti-force.

I was thinking about all this the other day as I was planning a chili contest. Other than the birth of a child, there is nothing more life-affirming than a good mid-winter chili contest. It has the glint of resurrection, of a sun-splashed Opening Day.

Chili today is even more magnificent than it used to be, perhaps the only item in the world that has improved with time. Has TV improved with time? College football? Media? Rom-coms? Corporations? Ma-and-pa diners? Your marriage. Medicine?

OK, maybe medicine. Maybe your marriage. Way to go!

Chili has definitely improved over time. There are all sorts today:  turkey, chicken, beef, bison, vegan. You plop on some sour cream, christen it with Tabasco, dip your cornbread. 

Heaven.

Chili contests are best held when it’s raining or snowing, and there’s a fire in the fireplace.

Warning: Everyone wants to have a personal moment with the person who wins a chili contest. These bursts of attraction are temporary, last about 3 seconds, but for a mega-moment, this chili champion is a rock star.

Don’t we all relish the thought of being craved?

OK, not everyone. Who even needs other people? Not me.

So, my ultimate point — finally — is that if you happen to find yourself a chili contest hero, please don’t let such fame change who you are — you imp, you ump, you lovable grump.

Because, one day, you may happily be headed to Asheville.

And then you’re not.

Hi. Me again. Reaching out on behalf of the Erskine Family Compassion Fund, which honors my late wife and son. The donations help struggling families across Los Angeles, providing everything from blankets to financial support. Any amount helps. Click here to donate.  If you prefer to send a check, please make it out to LCPC Parent Ed, and send to LCPC Parent Ed, 626 Foothill Boulevard, La Canada, CA 91011. Thank you in advance. There are many good causes; this is just one of them. If you have any problems with the donation site, please email me at letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

Mark your calendars: Happy Hour Hike planned for March 21 in Pasadena! Stay tuned for details.

Many of us are still coming off the glorious weekend featuring that tiara of white atop the local mountains. 

Heading east, it filled your windshield. The vistas stretched from Tujunga to Mt. Baldy and beyond. 

Sublime is too weak a word.

Pretty sure we store these postcard images in some sort of memory bank — our subconscious, perhaps. Or that little ZipLoc where we save our hopes and aspirations, and the guilty little secrets we don’t tell nobody.

These images sugarcoat the mind, season our dreams, soothe the soul. It’s one more reason to celebrate a winter weekend in Los Angeles. 

Threw open the windows to the fresh, post-rain air … we all did on Saturday. Know what they call that? Burping the house.

The New York Times just ran a piece on it. Burping the house is based on a German tradition called Lüften.

Essentially, it’s the airing out of the house by opening the windows, encouraging cross-drafts, thereby eliminating stuffiness, smells, germs, mold, bad juju, thereby fostering a healthier living environment.

Will it get rid of lingering houseguests? Pretty sure. Will it wake the sleepy kids? No doubt.

Just barge into their bedroom — always knock first, trust me — then throw open the windows as the dog jumps around the bed. That should do it.

Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!!!

And please don’t forget to burp the bathroom, the most-important room in the house.

By the way, when I visited my sis in Portland recently, I was pleased to discover the joys of a heated toilet set.

You might think that an affectation, a pleasure for the rich and famous. And it is.

Yet, for 130 bucks, you can plug in a Home Depot toilet seat, and I promise you a life-changing experience (make sure an outlet is nearby). 

The only things better? 

—First love.

—Movie popcorn.

—Ferris wheels.

—Taking off your ski boots after a long day.

—The first bite of a really good cheeseburger. 

That’s about it. 

Let me guide you through the experience, so your heart (and butt) don’t stop from pure happiness: 

On a chilly morning you plop down, as you’ve done a ba-zillion times before, pre-cringing, as if entering a bad dinner party, then discover that the throne is warm as a lover’s thigh.

Wow is all I can say. Double-wow. Wow to the 15th power.

Did Da Vinci ever invent anything as wonderful as a warm toilet seat?

It may also explain Rodin’s “The Thinker.”

By the way, these are just some of the many important ways I’m here to help you. Thanks to me, you can now burp your house, pamper your posterior, enjoy all these tactile pleasures that you otherwise might not even know about. Every day, I’m out here in the trenches, dodging enemy fire, just so you can live a little.

Right now, you’re probably asking: “Why doesn’t this guy have his own empire, like Caesar? Or at least a home shopping channel? Why doesn’t this guy start his own church?”

Tell you what, in my empire, all the toilet seats would be heated. There’d be a Zankou chicken on every stove, a little British convertible in every garage.

And on Saturdays — Sundays too — my subjects would throw open their doors and windows to rejoice in their amazing good fortune. 

“What a Shagri-la!” they’d sing. 

Or, in tribute to those mountains with the frosted tips, Shangri-LA.

Burrrrrrrrrp.

Coming at you once again on behalf of the Erskine Family Compassion Fund, which honors my late wife and son. The donations help struggling families across Los Angeles, providing everything from blankets to financial support. Any amount helps. Click here to donate.  If you prefer to send a check, please make it out to LCPC Parent Ed, and send to LCPC Parent Ed, 626 Foothill Boulevard, La Canada, CA 91011. Thank you in advance. There are many good causes; this is just one of them. If you have any problems with the donation site, please email me at letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

Coming Saturday: Chili contests and rocket ships.

Well, there is plenty of ludicrous to go around — then and now.

Like, the fact that McDonald’s now relies on self-help kiosks. Obviously, McDonald’s has given up all its Michelin-star aspirations and decided to go after bottom-feeders like me.

During one recent visit, my order number vanished as I tucked my credit card away.  Luckily, the place wasn’t busy (those kiosks doing an excellent job of keeping the crowds down).

Indeed, the road can be a harsh place, Jack Kerourac taught us that, as did Napoleon, as did Thelma & Louise. Bad things happen out here on the gusty 395, which is one of the reasons I enjoy it: the suspense.

It’s just White Fang and me up here for a couple of days in the sugar-frosted Sierra. I lure the handsome husky into the Honda with promises of winds through the aspen and snow napping on the highest boughs. 

Our first morning looks like a weather alert. We wake to ice on the walkways and snow pushed 40 feet high. They get so much snow here — more than you’ve ever seen — so super-sized plows push it back off the parking lots into Seussian piles. 

You could ski the piles, if you wanted (no lines, no waiting). You could also hollow them out and build a condo, as they do almost everywhere else up here these days.

Remember Whiskey Creek, right there by the light? That whole area will soon be high-end condos. 

Meanwhile, my buddy Steve Searles, this town’s former wildlife guru, says authorities have killed or driven off most of the resident bears. Once a model for co-existence, Mammoth has few bears left, Steve says,. That’s a permanent black mark on Mammoth’s resume — if you ask me anyway, which you didn’t.

I’m here to tell you that money may finally ruin Mammoth just as it’s ruined many Western ski towns of once-glorious virtue. “The mountains are calling…” said John Muir, and he wasn’t talking about day spas and hyper-luxe log cabins. 

By the time they are done, developers will have paved over everything that made Mammoth irresistible in the first place.

But we’re not here to criticize. We’re here to appreciate … to get high on the wood smoke, the fresh snow, the starry-starry nights.

Our room at the Motel 6 is so cozy that when White Fang goes one direction, I have to go the other. But it is tidy, and they do that fancy thing with the toilet paper where they fold it into the shape of an arrow.

The message: Welcome too Mammoth! Watch your butt.

On every walk, White Fang and I hear the hymns blowing through the pines. As you know, Brahms wrote lullabies, he wrote symphonies. But did he ever write anything as beautiful as this?

Here’s hoping they don’t do to these amazing trees what they’ve done to the poor wild bears. What a lack of taste and finesse. In five years, this place could look like a West Hollywood strip mall.

In winter, Mammoth Lakes has always been a great place to visit but a tough place to reside. Lord knows when the cold wind blows it’ll turn your head around, etc., etc.

As a result, Steve says there are only a handful of restaurants left in town here. They never really bounced back after Covid, so now it’s down to hyper-busy Roberto’s and a few other joints. Before long, they’ll have to put up one of those nice McDonald’s. 

Till then, I’d recommend Toomey’s for the buffalo meatloaf, a slab the size of your ski boot. Tasty too. 

So, come on up. The skiing is phenomenal, thanks to the recent storms. But I gave up skiing just as I gave up golf: for emotional reasons.

Also, a day of skiing, though never a bargain, is now ludicrous. 

A one-day lift ticket now goes for up to $239, depending on the day of the week. A Tuesday night at the Motel 6 will run you $200 (weekends $350-$500). If you can find a restaurant, add another $50 per person for a cheeseburger and a beer. 

How do you get Dad buzzed and happy at those prices?

“Like standing in a cold shower and tearing up $100 bills,” my buddy Ulf used to say of a family ski trip.

Still, they come. Because Mammoth is California’s annual winter Olympics. Mammoth remains the antidote to rush hour on the 405 and the yakety-yack leaf blowers next door.

Stuccoed, paved, denuded, emasculated, de-beared, and soon to be unrecognizable, Mammoth Lakes is so wondrous that it may withstand all this cold-hearted greed.

But hurry.

Coming at you once again on behalf of the Erskine Family Compassion Fund, which honors my late wife and son. The donations help struggling families across Los Angeles, providing everything from blankets to financial support. Any amount helps. Click here to donate.  If you prefer to send a check, please make it out to LCPC Parent Ed, and send to LCPC Parent Ed, 626 Foothill Boulevard, La Canada, CA 91011. Thank you in advance. There are many good causes; this is just one of them. If you have any problems with the donation site, please email me at letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

Photo of cottage courtesy of Darlene Liptak

Trust me, I could listen to a star murmur all night long. Sure beats the dog snoring.

Margaret Atwood wrote that winter is the time “to eat fat and watch hockey.” She seemed especially smitten with the common french fry, as we all are. The best phases last a lifetime. FYI, when I love something, it lasts forever. 

Oh, don’t sigh. It’s kind of a curse, actually. My heart wears handcuffs.

Most recently, I seem to have fallen for the semi-sport of curling, which runs for hours,  in some sort of Olympic loop.

Love the intensity of the players, as they release that big doorstop down the ice …the focus, as if they are about to chisel-whack an expensive diamond. 

Curling is a game of finesse, like mending a bird’s wing, or making an omelette. The average fry cook or columnist could do it.

I’ve threatened to take “Miss Suzie,” as the grandkids call her, to curling lessons in Panorama City, where they teach the sport to beginners. 

At first, she seemed meh over the idea. Then, as with the rest of the worldwide audience, curling began to intrigue her. I suspect she will love curling forever — or till closing weekend, whichever comes first.

Miss Suzie is coming off a triumph of her own, the baby shower for her middle child. Like her mother, Claire tilts her head when she smiles. For a moment: Chopin.

Of course, the baby shower was lovely, as winter sports go. The setting was sensational, the weather held out, 40 or so guests showed up showered, shaved and spritzed. Handsome crowd too. Like extras in a Nancy Meyers flick. 

Claire glowed, as preggy mothers always do. Lloyd, the preggy dad, did too.

By the way, have you noticed what a great generation of young fathers we’re seeing? It threatens to knock the cynicism right out of me (don’t fear, I have a plenty).

Honestly, this generation of fathers might be the best of all time. They didn’t win a world war, or bring on the computer age — they left that to their dads and grandpas.

What makes them special, though — possibly The Greatest Generation of Fathers — is the way they relate to their kids.

They have embraced fatherhood with total passion. I see it in my sons-in-law, I see it in other young dudes, mostly in their 30s, who wear a baby on their shoulders with pride and joy, who gladly race off to change a diaper, warm a bottle, start the nightly bath.

I mean, our generation did too. But today’s young dads have taken fatherhood to the next level. It’s like they’ve discovered life’s secret sauce.

Honestly, if you want to add passion or purpose to your life, there’s nothing grander than a baby. 

Listen, parenthood will always have an imbalance, the mothers bearing the brunt of it. But these guys have really stepped up. In return, all they’ll get is the most-profound experiences they’ll ever have.

So there’s that to look forward to.

Meanwhile, Miss Suzie and I replay the highlights of the baby shower for a day or two after. Didn’t Claire look happy? Weren’t Lloyd and his mother terrific … Todd and Tracey…Kelly and MaryLou…Lynda, Nick, Blaine?

At one point, I tell Suzie that I would love to hear the other guests’ post-party reactions — what they said on the drive home, what they all ruminated about later over dinner.

Were the drinks cold, the food memorable? Did the party have a playfulness, a vibe? Were the speeches witty and warm? Did we, collectively, all 40 of us, manage to make a memory?

In a glum world, on that wintry L.A. afternoon, did this baby shower offer us a sunny spot in our lives?

I think you know.

Coming at you once again on behalf of the Erskine Family Compassion Fund, which honors my late wife and son. The donations help struggling families across Los Angeles, providing everything from blankets to financial support. Any amount helps. Click here to donate.  If you prefer to send a check, please make it out to LCPC Parent Ed, and send to LCPC Parent Ed, 626 Foothill Boulevard, La Canada, CA 91011. Thank you in advance. There are many good causes; this is just one of them. If you have any problems with the donation site, please email me at letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

Caption: Claire, bottom right; Lloyd, in white shirt directly above her.

Coming Saturday: Visiting L.A.’s winter wonderland.