Happy Father’s Day to the Leader of the Band

“My life has been a poor attempt
To imitate the man.
I’m just a living legacy
To the leader of the band.”

Father’s Day 2017 was a difficult one for my brother and me. Lots of talk about it being a “different kinda summer”. The Leader of the Band had died in September, which meant that our concert-going triumvirate was reduced to a duo. We forged ahead that summer and recalled some of the most memorable concert nights with dad. These memories included:

The good: Tim McGraw dedicated “Live Like You Were Dying” to anyone battling cancer, and dad stood proudly as 50,000+ fans cheered.

The bad: On that same night, we lost my dad in a sea of 50,000+ sun-soaked fans who nearly trampled him in the Met Life parking lot.

And the ugly: Brett and I stayed for Vince Gill’s encore at the Allentown Fair, which meant that the funnel cake stand closed before dad could get one. “Hey assholes, you can’t whet my appetite like that and then screw me out of a funnel cake!”

No matter how good, bad, or ugly the night was, Brett and I always posted a wholesome photo that, to the casual observer, showed:

A) 2 sons still enjoyed hanging out with their 70+ year-old dad.

B) A 70+ year old dad was still cool enough to hang out with his sons.

C) My guns aren’t big enough for cut-sleeves.

D) All of the above is the correct answer.

Blake Shelton – BB&T Pavilion, August 2013

Yes, casual observers only saw the obvious sweetness in these photos. But Brett and I knew so much more. Today, I’m remembering the countless classics as if they happened just yesterday. What I remember the most about our concert nights together is how perfectly imperfect they really were. I could almost set my watch to the precise times that each of the following would occur:

  • Dad, feeling left out of a “young-guy” conversation: “This is why old people shouldn’t hang out with young people. Not one God-damn girl has checked me out all night! It doesn’t help that I have tits!”
  • Brett, feeling left out of a “smart-guy” conversation: “Hey Icabod, was I supposed to study for this conversation? Will there be a test tomorrow?”
  • Shane, feeling left out of a “tough-guy” conversation: “Dad, how old was I when you first realized I might be gay?”

We never felt more free to be ourselves than when we were together at a concert. Just three big personalities; one giant powder keg filled with our unique set list of emotions. We talked. We yelled. We sang. We fought. But mostly, we laughed…until we cried!

Kenny Chesney/Tim McGraw – MetLife Stadium, August 2012

Summer 2017 and beyond…
Sure enough, the concert tradition continued with Brett and I as a duo. Names like Bosephus, Zac Brown, Garth, and Skynyrd come to mind. In fact, it was during our time as a duo that we created our bucket list of acts to see in concert. After all, Elvis died just two weeks before a young Brett would have seen him in concert. That story inspired us to see all of our favorites in concert before they died. The results were mixed.

Tom Petty and Don Williams: They both died before their respective boxes could be checked off our list.

Gordon Lightfoot: He looked like he was dying on stage instead of singing. Once he started sucking on oxygen (I wish I was joking), we checked off the box and called it a night.

(Note: The story of Brett and I seriously considering the Air Supply concert in Morristown has been greatly exaggerated and is also completely true).

Despite dad’s absence, Brett and I always fell into our familiar/familial concert-going roles. He was still the tough guy in the black Elvis T-shirt, which accentuated his guns. I was still the straight-laced/straight-A kid in any shirt that accentuated my “#2 pencils”. (That’s how Brett described my guns).

For a few pre-pandemic summers, we were still dad’s duo, playing our parts to imperfect perfection. We talked. We yelled. We sang. We fought. But mostly, we laughed…until we cried!

Zac Brown Band – BB&T Pavilion, July 2018

Father’s Day 2021
Which brings me to Father’s Day 2021. For obvious reasons, this will be an especially difficult Father’s Day for me. After The Leader of the Band died in 2016, Brett and I became a duo. When Brett passed away in April, I became a solo act. Does that make me the Leader of the Band now?

Fortunately, a love of concerts runs deep in my family…so we have a full slate of post-pandemic concerts scheduled. They include Rock: Green Day, Kings of Leon; Country: Eric Church, Luke Combs; Pop: Harry Styles, The Biebs; and Comedy: Ricky Gervais and Bill Burr.

I’m so excited to have live concerts back this summer. I also feel fortunate that I can still share these experiences with the people I love. Still, it’s sad to realize that I’ll never experience another concert with my father and brother. No, I guess the band won’t get back together for several more decades. In the meantime, I’ll spend the rest of my concert-going life checking off all the boxes on our list. In their honor. With my #2 pencils, of course!

Lynyrd Skynyrd/Hank Williams Jr. – BB&T Pavilion, August 2017

I shared the following words of wisdom with my kids on the day Tom Petty died:

If you have a chance to see your heroes in concert, don’t wait! See them now!

I’ll also share these words of wisdom that just came to me as l was crying through the writing:

If you have a chance to see concerts with your heroes (like I did with my father and brother)…go with them every chance you get!

Remember: Life’s too short, and there are still so many buckets left to check off your list.

Happy Father’s Day in Heaven to the Leaders of the Band! Brett, I hope Elvis performs all your favorites. And Dad, I hope they’re still serving funnel cakes long after the encore.

George Strait – XL Center Hartford, February 2013
Bill Burr – Madison Square Garden, November 2018
Brooks & Dunn – Mohegan Sun, July 2011

Darkness and Light: A Superheroic Life, Starring Brett Smith

After my brother Brett’s passing on April 8, 2021, I heard a lot of stories about his heroic acts as both a Marine and a Police Officer.

There were stories about late-night, high-speed drives home from Camp Lejeune. Fellow Marine John Mendelson told me that whenever Brett would order fast food at a drive-thru, he’d always order as Elvis Presley. I’m not an Elvis impersonator, but I’ll bet it sounded something like this:  

“Hey mama, give me one of them hunka-hunka-burnin’ quarter pounders with cheese. Thank you. Thank you very much.”

There’s even one from a young officer in Dover who was inspired to emulate “this mystery cop from Motown who would jump out of trees and climb buildings like Superman to catch criminals.” One of the greatest compliments in this cop’s career was being called “Baby Brett” by a criminal.

So, I decided that my eulogy should read more like a superhero origin story. It’s all about Brett’s greatest superpower: his ability to turn darkness into light; to generate laughter in virtually any situation. To paraphrase one of his former colleagues, “I mean rolling on the floor, tears streaming down your face laughter.”

I’ll do my best to re-create some scenes from the Brett Smith cinematic universe.

Instant Laughter – Scene 1

In his late teens, Brett was picking up hundreds of dollars worth of Formica for our carpenter dad. Now to really appreciate this story, you have to fully picture Brett…circa 1985. He’s wearing his orange Houston Astro’s plastic baseball helmet turned backwards. His hair is dyed jet black to look like Elvis Presley. And Elvis’s “My Way” is blaring through his Sony Walkman headphones.

Suddenly, horns began to honk and Brett took a quick peek thru the rearview mirror. To his surprise, the truck bed was empty. To his horror, huge Formica sheets were now careening off cars and splintering across Route 46 like a debri-filled hurricane.

When Brett returned to the job site, still wearing the plastic helmet by the way, my father started to boil: “Hey Numb Nuts, where’s the Formica?” Without skipping a beat, Numb Nuts replied: “Dad, the question isn’t where IS the Formica. The question is where ISN’T the Formica!” After hearing the full details, my father, now out several hundred bucks, just laughed his ass off.  

Instant Laughter – Scene 2

When I was in college and Brett was home on leave from the Marines, I told him that I was embarrassed to make a certain purchase for the first time. I asked him if he could go with me to Thrift Drugs Pharmacy and, you know, buy the box with me.

After picking up the box and approaching the cashier together, Brett realized a fatal flaw in my plan. He whispered, “Shane, if we go up to buy these together…that old lady’s gonna think we’re using them together.

So Brett darted to the nearby magazine rack as I nervously approached the cashier. Staring at me with knowing eyes, the old lady asked: “Will that be all son?” But before I could answer, Brett shouted out from a distance: “YEP! JUST THE RUBBERS!” I laughed right in the old lady’s face.

Instant Laughter – Scene 3

Several years ago, as my father rested peacefully in his final days on Earth, Brett asked me, “Hey Shane, what does hospice mean?”

I said “Brett, remember when we visited our friend’s mother just before she died of cancer? That was hospice.”

Brett responded confidently: “Ohhhhh yeahhhhh, that’s right! His mother had prostate cancer too.”

I asked, “Brett, you do know that only men have prostates, right?” He said,  “Well, I know NOW!” Laughter in a hospital!

Darkness Into Light Prelude

I didn’t pick that last story just to help you understand why Brett’s former police partner, Jared, had to help Brett write his police reports. I shared it because it’s a perfect example of Brett’s superpower in action. No matter the situation, even in death, he could turn darkness into light. I also watched him do the same thing with his children and the little league players he coached.

I truly believe that Brett’s light shined so bright for so many others that it was all burned out when he needed some light for himself.

I can share countless stories from fellow Marines, police officers, and actors who bragged about how tough, courageous, loyal, and talented Brett was. But what makes Brett stories so uniquely Brett, is that they’re also peppered with little moments where he turned darkness into light when you least expected it.

Darkness Into Light – Scene 1
I remember the time when Brett noticed that the physical symptoms of my medical condition were similar to those of his friend on the force. Brett said he couldn’t help me because his medical expertise was limited to whether or not wearing baseball hats and plastic helmets caused his receding hairline. The next day, however, I received a phone call from Brett’s colleague. It turned out we didn’t just have similar symptoms. We had the exact same medical condition. Thanks to Brett, the medical detective, his colleague is now my friend and he’s been checking up on me ever since.

On the set of Beyonce’s “Dance for You” video shoot, 2011.

Darkness Into Light – Scene 2

There was another time when I was complaining to Brett about my clients. I told him I was tired of being so nice because it made me feel like a pushover. And let’s face it, Brett knew I was a bit of a pushover growing up. One time he asked Santa Claus for 2 pairs of boxing gloves for Christmas. But he didn’t tell Santa that he might use them to kick my ass every day.

There was also the time he hacked off the top half of our bunk beds and threw the remains out the window before mom and dad got home. When I asked him why he did it, he told me we needed more wall space for a big surprise. The big surprise was a 6-foot tacky velvet Elvis poster. And for many days forward, I slept on shag carpet and Elvis never left the building.

Getting back to my client story: I told Brett that I was tired of always being the nice guy. Sensing an opportunity to make amends for the butchered bunk beds, Brett told me that the world needed more nice guys. He then went on to compare us to the Curtis brothers from The Outsiders. He was Darry (the tough-guy older brother played by Patrick Swayze) and I was Darry’s sensitive younger brother, Ponyboy (played by C. Thomas Howell). Several hours after the call ended, still buried in work, I received a screen shot of the Robert Frost poem featured in The Outsiders. It was followed by Brett’s simple, 3-word text: “Stay gold Ponyboy.”

Darkness Into Light – Scene 3

Or like the Christmas when our beloved mother’s heart shattered because her favorite antique porcelain candy cane sled broke. This news shattered Brett as well because 1) He adored his mom and knew how much pride she took in her Christmas mantle; and 2) Christmas turned tough-guy Brett into Buddy the Elf. And like Buddy the Elf searching for his dad, Brett searched high and low to find the identical antique porcelain candy cane sled for mom. And it’s been on mom’s Christmas mantle ever since.

There were so many other little ways in which Brett could wield his superpowers. He’d make you laugh at his own expense, he’d show you his vulnerability just to make you feel less vulnerable, or he’d expose that big Buddy the Elf heart laying just beneath his rugged exterior.

Closing Scene

This past Easter Sunday, Brett and I took a long drive to nowhere in particular. He started to wax nostalgic about “better days” and how the past couple of years had been such a struggle. He wondered what it meant for his legacy. Could a couple of dark years really be enough to overshadow the 50 bright ones?

I don’t have to share my answer because you’ve all given him the same one in recent days. I truly believe that your visits, social media posts, phone calls, texts, tributes, and contributions have been heard loudly and proudly by Brett. Just as they’ve been so warmly received by Leigh, Noelle, Billy, Christian…and our entire family.

Even in death, my brother still possesses that same superpower I spoke of earlier. My sisters and I have experienced moments in the past few days where we found ourselves infused with our brother’s spirit, acting the part of Brett, while helping others laugh through the pain.  

While writing a story about Brett’s remarkable life and legacy, a local reporter asked me, “Do you remember the last thing your brother said to you during your Easter Sunday drive?” I told him that I honestly didn’t know. Actually, I’d like to believe that Brett sang his final words to me. In his most perfect Elvis voice, he sang:

And now the end is near,

And so I face the final curtain.

My friend, I’ll say it clear,

I’ll state my case of which I’m certain.

I’ve lived a life that’s full,

I’ve traveled each and every highway.

And more, much more than this,

I did it my way.

Road House Rules: The Lost Art of Being Nice

Like my father before me, I’m a fairly simple and uncomplicated man. I find more wisdom in films than books; more poetry in country music than anthologies. My favorite poet is Robert Frost, by way of The Outsiders’ Pony Boy Curtis.

It’s a poem about the fleeting beauty of innocence:

Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day,
Nothing gold can stay.

And my father’s favorite poet was Patrick Swayze, by way of Road House’s Dalton.

“I want you to be nice.
Until it’s time to not be nice.”

In the greaser mode of the aforementioned Pony Boy, my father was born with a heart that was two sizes too [big]. While his slow-strut and southern-like drawl suggested a countrified upbringing, he was a northeastern greaser right down to his plain-white-T and “dungarees”. The least political man I ever knew, dad had a healthy respect for politics but a disdain for political rhetoric. “Never discuss politics and religion” were the words he preached; “be nice” were the words by which he lived.

Long before Patrick Swayze made it noble to not “put Baby in the corner” and cool to “be nice”, my father had already chosen “nice” as his preferred vice. That is why I listened intently when he prophesied that social media would be “the ruination of civilization.” For my dad, social media broke all the rules. Most notably, it was far too easy to not be nice when it came to the polarizing topics that he vowed never to discuss: religion and politics.

Before my father passed away at 76 years young at heart, he was reminded daily that Elton John had erred. In dad’s eyes, “nice” (not “sorry”) seemed to be the hardest word. And I’m sorry to say dad, it’s getting harder every day. Today, nice may very well be the least appreciated 4-letter word in the English language. It lacks the hard-consonant punch of F*CK; the satisfaction of a solid SH*T; or the sexually charged sting of C*CK or C*NT. Nice isn’t sexy, and it sure as shit ain’t easy.

But to dad, nice was effortless. I guess that’s why he couldn’t quite grasp why nice was so hard for so many others. At times, it infuriated him…

  • Dad’s reaction to the unfriendly woman at the checkout counter: “Ooooh…would it hurt that dipshit to say thank you???”
  • Dad to the recipient of his kind traffic gesture:
    “Ooooh….ain’t you gonna thank me, you tick-turd???”

Determined to be one of Frost’s few outliers, dad stayed as gold as the pack of Winston Lights that used to peek from his shirt pockets. He entered every room with a smile,  and he never exited a room that wasn’t filled with laughter. In short, he always led with nice. Nice was his brand. And in the words of his cowboy hero, it was a brand that stuck.

If dad’s cigarette vice ultimately played a role in his death, then nice was the vice that fueled his 76 years of happiness. There may even be some science to back-up this claim. According to Lara Honos-Webb, Ph.D., “When we help others and do kind acts, it causes our brain to release endorphins, the chemical that gives us feelings of fervor and high spirits — similar to a runner’s high.” Keep in mind, my dad wouldn’t know the difference between an endorphin and a Dolph Lundgren. So I doubt he clung to nice for its health benefits like a vegan pounces on tofu. Nice just made him feel really good. So good, in fact, that he’d routinely peek through a restaurant window just to see the waiter’s joyful reaction to his overly generous tip.

“Ooooh…he didn’t even smile! That waiter’s an ass-hole!”
[See, dad also knew when it was time to not be nice. ]  

Some can argue that dad’s perpetual happiness was fueled by caffeine, nicotine, and yellow Marshmallow Peeps. I disagree! Dad’s greatest buzz came from his vice for being nice. Curious to know what dad looked like when it was time to not be nice?

If you dared to cross my father or a member of his family, he’d go OG Buford Pusser on your ass. But I digress…

My point is that dad understood both parts of Dalton’s rule. I fear that we, as a society, have forgotten the first part: Being nice starts with listening to one another. And we jump straight to the second part: Not being nice is so easy from behind the safety glass of our mobile devices. What happened? Did the endorphin response to being nice get trumped by the quick fix of a cheap laugh (eg, mean tweets) or an even cheaper like (my political views rule, your’s drool)? Or, like the gold in Pony Boy’s favorite poem, has our nation lost its collective innocence due to the endless onslaught of very real and troubling news that I only wish we could “fake” away? Sorry dad, I have no answers.

Around the time of my 45th birthday, my normally optimistic tone changed to bitterness during a phone call with my brother. Overworked and feeling undervalued,  I complained to my brother about my job. I complained about my clients. I called them every 4-letter word in the book and vowed to stop working so hard for people who didn’t appreciate me. “Ooooh…would it hurt that dipshit to say thank you???” I felt like a pushover, and I sounded like my father. Why was it so hard for my clients to be nice? And why should I bother being nice anymore?

Shortly after the call, in a moment of perfect clarity, my brother sent me a text that I’ll never forget:

“Stay gold Pony Boy.”

That text, and the conversation that inspired it, made me think about my father. It reminded me of his brand; the only 4-letter word by which he chose to live, and the brand that still “sticks” to me and my siblings. And I decided to write this post when I recalled a speech that my dad gave while accepting an award to honor his many years as a little league baseball coach. Today, the closing line from his speech reads more like his epitaph:

“And when I walk down the street, I hope a former player of mine
will look and say ‘there goes Bill Smith–he was a really nice guy’.”

He really was. And may we all remind ourselves of my dad’s speech; the poetry of Robert Frost; the golden innocence of Pony Boy Curtis; and both parts of Dalton’s Road House rules.

Let’s try to make “nice” the brand that sticks.

Stay gold my friends!


The ’80s: Stranger Things from a Simpler Time


You’re only young once. But if you’re lucky, you’ll be young-at-heart forever. 

My father possesses this rare gift. At the age of 76, he’s still the same dreamer with the Elvis Presley comb-over and a sweet tooth for Hollywood endings.

Lucky for me, all signs indicate that dad’s youthful heart defect hasn’t skipped a generational beat. I don’t just reminisce about those “I want my MTV” wonder years. I’m not merely a nostalgic who watches Freaks and Geeks and The Goldbergs (both great shows) or quotes John Bender like a “neo maxi zoom dweebie.” I go further than that.


  • I’ll disappear into the rabbit hole of YouTube’s memory lane for hours, only to return in Marty McFly’s DeLorean.
  • I’ve ordered 1980’s Sears Wish Books on eBay just to remember what I put on my Santa list.
  • I’ve Googled so many 1980’s TV commercials that I ask myself classic rhetorical questions like “Where’s The Beef?” and try in vein to answer them: “The HAMBURGLAR???”

I’m not your Magic Garden-variety nostalgic who simply remembers the ’80s, I inhale them. I let the ’80s seep so deeply into my pores that I need Clearasil to fix the zits.

Understandably, my significant other thinks I may have a problem. To my wife, being young at heart also means that I’m lost in time…I’ve never grown up…and I still haven’t found what U2’s looking for. I remind my significantly more mature other that I use the fond memories of yesterday as my pop-culture-infused energy source. In today’s youthful terms, they’re like power-ups that help keep me optimistic about the future. When I revisit pop-culture from the ’80s, I also remember time spent with my family, my neighborhood friends, a home that I couldn’t wait to come home to, and a president who made me feel safe…even during difficult times.

By difficult times, I mean like this one time in 1982:
I came home from school like every other day. I changed into my sweat pants, remembering to 
carefully cuff them just below the knees. I pulled my Wigwam tube socks just below my balls. I laced up my Jaclars and raced downstairs to find the end of the world as we know it (5 years before REM did).  


Seeing this TIME Magazine cover story was like experiencing my own private “The Day After”. The mental fallout was so severe that I’d Poltergeist myself into our Zenith at the mere mention of the words NUCLEAR WAR.   

Shortly after TIME Magazine foreshadowed why I’d one day pop Xanax like Tic Tacs, my father introduced us to a SONY Betamax. He also gave me my very own Video Express card. As an escape from nuclear hysteria, that card quickly pimped me into a rental whore. Late at night, when dad was watching the news downstairs, I’d play the movies extra loud upstairs. This way I’d drown out any news of the nuclear arms race and the inevitable extinction of Morris Plains, NJ. No joke, when I wasn’t navigating the aisles of Video Express, I was mapping out the quickest Jaclar route from Sussex Avenue School to my home on 14 Meslar Road. You know, in the event of global thermonuclear war.

But that was life in the ’80s. I think we all had active imaginations that fueled our childhood anxieties. We also knew our parents had a lot on their cholesterol-filled plates, so we couldn’t run to them every time something went bump in the night. I now realize, of course, that we were the last of a great generation of kids who solved their own problems. We were dreamers who looked up to the stars, not down at our cellphones. We were the first generation to have VCRs and video games; the first generation to be raised on Steven Spielberg and Stephen King; and the last generation whose parents didn’t have to worry if we strayed too far from the yard.


The 80’s were difficult times, sure, but they were simpler times. As kids, we were able to exempt ourselves from the problems of the adult world by simply disappearing until dinnertime. After dinnertime, I disappeared into the movies that captured the spirit of that time. Classic ’80s movies empowered us and gave legitimacy to our far-flung fantasies. The ones where ordinary, lower-middle-class kids could do extraordinary things.

’80s movies made us believe that:

6 kids, a treasure map, and a pirate ship loaded with booty can save the Goondocks.
(SPOILER ALERT: Their parents didn’t even have to schedule the play date).

With the help of a boy and his flying dirt bike, an alien voiced by Debra Winger can phone home without an Apple or Samsung device.


Boy who sweeps leg no match for karate kid who wax on and whacks off (sorry).

8 kids called the Wolverines can save their high school from a Russian invasion and Charlie Sheen.


When my young heart reminisces about the “good ol’ days”, I’m actually just tapping into the spirit of that simpler time. Take this election season for example. So disheartened by both major-party candidates, I desperately needed to refuel my pessimistic 2016 engine with 1.21 gigawatts of Reagan-era optimism. So on the advice of a friend, I turned my attention to a Demogorgon monster in an upside down world. No, this Demogorgon is not one of the monsters running for president. And the upside down world isn’t the DNC, the RNC, or Run-DMC. It’s the latest binge-worthy sensation from Netflix called Stranger Things. A show that my aforementioned friend described this way:

“It feels like a show written by Stephen King, directed by Steven Spielberg, and starring
cast of the Goonies. Oh, and Winona Ryder is still kinda hot “

No further selling was required. I finished the sometimes scary, always spectacular 8-episode series in 2 days. In bed suffering from a brutal ulcerative colitis flare, Stranger Things proved to be a better antidote than any ass enema. It had me shrieking in fear, blubbering with tears, and goose-bumping like a 12-year-old all over again. In addition to a tremendous cast of kids, it features familiar ’80s faces like Winona “Heathers” Ryder and Matthew “Vision Quest” Modine. The nods to the ’80s classics are endless. The chills feel like they’re courtesy of Stephen King and John Carpenter; the thrills are the work of Spielberg; and the three sides of the teenage love triangle are shaped by the John Hughes classics. But it’s almost an insult to call Stranger Things an homage to ’80s movies. It doesn’t just reference ’80s movies and look like an ’80s movie. It feels like an ’80s movie too. With each new episode, I was reminded how I felt the first time I watched all those kids-can-do classics. Lost innocence found…some 30 years later.


For me, the Duffer Brother’s “Stranger Things” felt like a time portal trip through the Poltergeist TV. After 8 tightly-packaged, swiftly-paced episodes, I triumphantly screamed: “They’re baaaack” in reference to the ’80s. And this child of the ’80s is waiting anxiously to learn if “Stranger Things” will be baaaack for a season 2.

Stranger Things is great entertainment. Escapism at its best. A reminder of a simpler time before far-flung fantasies gave way to far-too-real realities. Today, our worst fears aren’t dreamed up after reading a doomsday scenario in TIME Magazine. They’re not played-out on Dungeons & Dragons game boards in the tree houses and basements of suburbia. Today’s worst fears actually come to life. We watch them in real-time. They’re devoured on social media, recycled on the nightly news, and then spun ever-so-delicately to fit his and her own political point of view.

For a brief 8 episodes, however, Stranger Things offered a welcome respite to the hate-filled campaign coverage that proves we’re living in strange times with the risk of stranger (and scarier) things to come. (Where’s the Xanax?)

So far I’ve been steadfast in my belief that neither of our current major-party candidates is worthy of my vote.

So the next time someone asks me:
“But if you had to vote for one candidate…right here…right now…who would it be?”

My answer will be:
“I’ll endorse Stranger Things right here. And I’ll vote for a season 2. Right now!” 

Like my father, I proudly remain young at heart…and apolitical to the core.