FatherSon Ventures

Building a Relationship through Adventure

The Really Awesome Improv Show

Written By: Scot Butwell - Nov• 23•17

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“Where are you?” L’s text says.

As I glance down at my phone screen, a girl in her early twenties clucked like a chicken as she officiated a wedding ceremony for Michael Jackson as part of a hilarious improv comedy scene.

I type the words “kids’ comedy show” and tap the “send” button, wondering how L will respond, as the bride and groom slide backwards on their toes moon-walk style across the stage.

“Where?” her text back says.

Okay, I felt nervous because of L’s five-mile radius for our father-son adventures. But when I look over at D I see a smile spreading across his face and turning into heartfelt laughter.

He was becoming a fan of improv, and in that moment, sitting beside one another in a small black box theatre, I am reminded of what I have come to know about D: he has a creative mind.

“It’s in Hollywood,” I text back.

It all began with breakfast at Chic-fil-A and an urge to break out of our normal destinations and zip codes and to go somewhere totally new and different. D and I were overdue for a change.

“Want to go to Hollywood?” I asked D, after he ate his usual Saturday breakfast of two eggs and two boxes of hash browns. I had googled “kids’ comedy show” and “Hollywood.”

There was a show in an hour at noon.

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“Yes,” he said.

“We’re going to HOLLYWOOD,” I cheerily boomed as we turned on the freeway for the 30 to 45-minute ride. “Hollywood, here we come! Woo-hoo, we are going to…HOLLYWOOD!”

Yes, my enthusiasm was overblown. However, it represented pent up frustration from mostly adhering to L’s five-mile radius for our father-son adventures for the past five years.

A week ago, D asked me to go to a baby store to look at books, plush toys and other stuff. He walked up to a female employee and asked her if she could help him find an old favorite book.

I listened as my nine-year-old son inquired about a book for toddlers. On the one hand, he was taking initiative in asking for help. On the other hand, he inquired about a toddler book.

It felt weird. Maybe, he missed the characters from his early childhood. However, as the employee searched for the book, I pretended it was a birthday present for a toddler–if she asked.


So this is what prompted our trip to “The Really Awesome Improv Show,” voted the best kids’ comedy show by LA Magazine, at Second City theatre on the famed Hollywood Boulevard.

We parked and had eight minutes till showtime. D and I started running, and I pointed out a few names of stars on the sidwalk, and we made it to the theatre with two minutes to spare.

The theatre had seats for 50 to 75 people. We sat in the front row and our feet touched the stage. It felt like the stage was in our living room and the actors performed just for us.

The actors played improv games, taking suggestions from the audience to create zany characters and scenes, and encouraged kids to participate. Wackiness ruled the one hour show.

REALLY AWESOME IMPROV SHOW photo by Second CityI wanted to nudge D to be part of a game on stage, but I sensed he was not yet ready. To be honest, it was an accomplishment just to make it here; and this would be an intro to improv.

I wish I could describe more of the scenes, but all I can remember is the actors demonstrated the symmetry and principles of improv beautifully. Listening and responding.

Saying Yes.

The biggest surprise of all, L was okay with us going outside her five-mile radius without me having discussed it and getting her approval–or, at least, she didn’t seem to be upset about it.

She approved an hour long trip to Malibu Wine Safari last December–to which she declined an invitation–and granted permission for us to go the Griffith Observatory without her.


But she vetoed several of my ideas this year for longer trips, so her five-mile radius seems to be an arbitrary thing, depending on her mood or perspective on my parenting skills at the moment.

She suggested I take parenting classes during a recent heated argument.

And whenever she walks in on one of D and my “improv” scenes, which are of course ridiculous, she says, “do you guys ever have normal conversations?”

She is, apparently, not an improv fan; and I will be the first to admit our scenes are non-sensical and lack any logical progression, but they foster a social reciprocity like nothing else.

And that’s what’s important–especially for a kid on the spectrum.

This is why I love our “creative” conversations. It’s the way D and I bond with each other, just as L connects with him in their deep conversations–though I am capable of having serious talks with D, too.

I wrote a few years back, I thought an improv class would improve D’s social skills, and I think it is time to test my theory and take D’s improv acting from the living room to the stage.

He came in the bedroom as I edited this with a towel around his body, no shirt, pretending to be a caveman, and I volleyed lines back and forth with Jack the Caveman for ten minutes.

So, yeah, I think Jack the Caveman is ready for an improv acting class.

The Really Awesome Improv Show is every Saturday at 12 pm for only $5.

This show has been running for eight years straight and is great for the whole family. No scene suggestions are accepted that are inappropriate for kids (my diarrhea idea was rejected), and because there is a rotating cast, you’ll see a different cast and games if you return a second or third time.

Second City’s is located at: 6560 Hollywood Blvd, Los Angeles, CA 90028.

Phone: (323) 464-8542.

Visit their website for a wide range of acting classes: www.secondcity.com.

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Zombie Dad

Written By: Scot Butwell - Nov• 22•17

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I didn’t want to go trick-or-treating without a costume since Halloween has become an annual night of father-son bonding with D, and here it was four o’clock and I had no costume.

D was a scientist. He had a white lab coat, goggles, and boots, so I thought if there was any last-minute way to complement his costume. And then I hit on it…I could be a Zombie Dad.

L allowed me to use her make-up, dabbing black rings around my eyes, and I took over from there, adding splotches of red blood to my face, thanks to a bottle of her nail polish.

I shredded a dress shirt and jeans, ransacked bathroom cabinets for accessories like a blood-splattered band-aid for my forehead, and wrote Zombie Dad on my teacher badge.

An image from Plants vs. Zombies guided the last part of my costume: a clip-on tie from D’s closet, a tan suit jacket from mine, and I applied nail polish generously to my costume.

“You are overdoing it,” L said of my increasingly gory appearance.

But D thought I looked good. So did D’s friend C, and when we rang the doorbell of my former high school Journalism-English teacher, she complimented me on my creativity.

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“You are so creative! You are a fun dad!” she texted the next day. D and I even made it on her Facebook page with the title, “1987 South High grad trick-or-treating at my door.”

I felt like Cinderella under the ballroom lights, and knowing the clock was ticking on my zombie persona, I cherished this chance to shed my everyday identity for a few hours.

“My dad is my creation,” D the Scientist told a few neighbors.

So I must have serendipitously succeeded in complementing his Scientist costume, and in my effort to bond with D, I had finished just in the nick of time to go trick-or -treating.

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We joined up with C and his dad, plus two middle-school girls and their mom. D’s pillow case filled up, and we roamed the streets until we all began to wear out, and it was another sweet Halloween in the memory bank.

What I learned is that it only takes a modicum of creativity to enter my son’s imaginary world; a pair of scissors, an old shirt and jeans, make-up and a bottle of red nail polish.

It was an old lesson, as I remember, a few years back, making a homemade Tin Man costume with an oil funnel, silver make-up, a plastic ax, a poster board with a Sharpee drawn red heart.

As soon as I walked into the living room on that Halloween, D began checking out my make-up, hat, and ax and jumping off the living room sofa and chopping down imaginary trees.

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He had a similar reaction last year when I stuffed pillows under my shirt and painted my face green to be the Incredible Hulk. He ran up and body slammed into me like in a mosh pit.

This is why I love Halloween. With a   tiny spark of imagination, D and I can become the Scarecrow and Tin Man, Captain America and Incredible Hulk, or a Scientist and his creation.

I am already looking forward to next Halloween, and those few precious hours to wander the streets with D, and to shed my Dad identity and assume the persona of my costume.

I saved my shirt and jeans–just in case my creativity wanes, and I need a last-minute costume; plus, I enjoyed my alter ego of being a Zombie Dad and could see bringing him back to life.

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The Great Pumpkin Hunt

Written By: Scot Butwell - Nov• 20•17

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I’ve driven by the South Coast Botanical Garden in Palos Verdes many times without even giving a second thought to what I might be missing.

Now, I will not.

I will think about the 87 acres of blooming trees, shrubs, flowers, meadows, winding trails, benches in shady garden niches, friendly volunteers and crisp autumn air.

I will think of these things and fondly remember our visit to the Garden, and it will be a lot harder to pass by the Garden, knowing how much beauty lies within this 87 acre haven of nature.

D is a lover of treasure hunts, so we went to experience “The Great Pumpkin Hunt” in the Garden which involves locating clues in birdhouses to find a clandestine pumpkin patch.

But since I’m not much of a map navigator, and more prone to wander and enjoy nature, we got lost in the Garden while on the Great Pumpkin Hunt; and that was just fine with me.

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The Garden map was sound, I just didn’t feel like following it; and no one we asked knew the locations of the birdhouses, so getting lost in nature seemed preferable to finding clues.

The secret patch turned out to be behind one of the Garden’s Kid’s Adventure Club Stations–a once-a-month activity–where kids and parents alike could dig for marine fossils.

D and I were given plastic spoons for shovels, a plot of dirt bracketed by string, and a volunteer explained to D how the garden had been a marine environment thousands of years ago.

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“Do you know what a person who digs for fossils is called?” she asked D.

“A paleotologist.”

“What do you expected to find since it used to be a marine environment?”

“Shark teeth.”

“Wow! You are really a smart boy!”

We got so into digging for fossils that we didn’t pay any heed to a pumpkin patch in front of us. The pumpkins looked like they had been ravaged by some hungry animals in the Garden.

One pumpkin looked like a basketball without air, and we were told the Garden held a contest a year ago, to guess the weight of a giant pumpkin, but it had mysteriously disappeared.

Bite by bite, that is. As the squirrels, rabbits, mice and racoons ate the prized pumpkin and, apparently, they did same this year, judging by the appearance of the pumpkin patch.

Getting lost in the nature, or sitting on one of the Garden’s many benches, and just feeling the warmth of the sun, I concluded, is what I’ve missed driving by the South Coast Botanical Garden.

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“Climb the mountains, get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their freshness into you…while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.”

John Muir’s words came to me while D and I sat on a bench after walking through the labyrinth of trails, and as I pondered Muir’s thoughts, I could sense nature’s peace flowing into me.

True, D asked to look at my phone as he leaned back into my chest. But I enjoyed the lush greenery and warmth of the sun on my face as I wondered about the people who walked by us.

I reminisced about the 17-mile drive in Carmel when a tram passed by us. Walking on the Garden’s scenic trails and roads brought back to mind L and my trip there on our honeymoon.

My mind wandered to the missed opportunity 18 years ago to ride a bike in a slight drizzle; in retrospect, it was the perfect condition–though I chose wisely to not abandon my new bride.

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This got me thinking if biking is permitted in the Garden–I didn’t see anyone riding a bike–but the program staff is always expanding new ways for visitors to experience the Garden.

In December, the Garden will pipe in Christmas music on selected roads/trails and host bands playing holiday music; in January, guests can listen to a pop music playlist while walking through Garden trails.

A sign outside the front gates also announced yoga will be coming soon to the Garden. In addition, the Garden hosts plays, concerts, and movie nights in its meadows–Mauna played in July.

D and I enjoyed acting out scenes from the Wizard of Oz in a small shaded amphitheatre with a canopy of trees. An acting class would make a great addition to the Garden, I thought.

We ran into a troop of girl scouts, and one girl ran over to D and said, “D, what are you doing here?” And then he was surrounded by a group of girls, who were all saying the same thing.

He hid behind a tree watching them before he was spotted. I gave him some space to interact with the girls, but he seemed overwhelmed, and we walked and ran on with the map in my pocket.

D liked the numerous opportunities to pick up dirt clods along the trails. He’s still a sensory kid at heart, and frankly, that may have been his favorite part.

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We appreciated the quiet solitude; sometimes, a father and son need to escape into nature–you know, to get away from family life stresses–and the Garden was a perfect nature getaway.

You enter through the gates, walk through an enchanted garden with small miniature houses, grazing cows and other ornaments, and you forget all about the various stressors in  life.

You walk along trails or a road, turn right or left down a myriad of trail/road options, and you will feel tempted to chuck the map, and you may decide getting lost in nature is preferable.

That’s what I felt like doing–and so we found only two of the six birdhouses with clues to the pumpkin patch. But time stopped, and that’s the best way I know to enjoy an afternoon with D.

The next time we drive by the Garden, I will assuredly give more than second thought to what I will be missing. And I am sure I will planning a return visit to the Garden in the next few weeks.

Full Disclosure: I received two tickets at my request in exchange for writing this blog post. However, all opinions in this post are mine, and I hope you enjoy the Garden as much as we did

The South Coast Botanical Gardens Hours are: 9 – 5 everyday (open 364 days a year). The address is: 263000 Crenshaw Blvd., Palos Verdes. You can learn more about the Garden by visiting their website:southcoastbotanicalgarden.org.

Tickeprices are: Adults $9, students $6, children (4 – 12) $4, and toddlers are free.

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Dance Party

Written By: Scot Butwell - Oct• 28•17

It had been a long day for all of us.

A homework battle, a struggle for D to get started and to stay focused on his one page of math and grammar, plus a writing graphic organizer and three-sentence introduction paragraph.

Plus, thirty minutes of reading.

We were all tired. Ooops!! L doesn’t like me to use that word–tired–even though it is a description of my mental and physical state on most days after teaching squirrelly 14-year-olds.

D whipped through the graphic organizer with his three reasons and three details for each reason, and he whizzed through writing the three-sentence introduction on his topic.

He likes to write–although it can often veerbetween real and imaginary–and his intro was about being kidnapped by an animatronic bear Nightmare from the Five Nights at Freddy’s.

Maybe, this is his writing style–his voice–though he may struggle with academic writing (thesis, evidence, explanations) in the future because of his preference for imaginary over real.

I like the writing homework. It is an chance to share what I’ve learned about writing with D, and the math (rounding to tens, hundreds, and thousands) is time to spend with D.

“You’re yelling at me like a Mad Man,” I overheard D say to L the other night when she was helping him with one part of his homework assignment.

She screams at me too if I interfere with him doing homework by himself.

My approach is different than hers. I like to make it light and easy, to banter a bit and, yes, to embrace the jagged process. Though I have to remind myself several times to be patient.

I tell ninth-graders every day to stay on task in my job as an English teacher, so my preference would be to not have to do this again at home–thus, the reminder to be patient.

Be patient.

This is the “brand” I want to be remembered by D: a patient dad who isn’t prone to fits of rage if his attention happens to momentarily drift away from a math problem.

Which it will.

Being patient is what works with nine or 14-year-olds, both of whom I’ve come to realize share common traits, like losing focus and tearing off the eraser nubs off the top of pencils.

Impatience will only escalate a situation to a toxic level, and that’s why I sit next to D on the sofa, to let him know I am with him in this task. This is just how I choose to do it.

And being this close to him in proximity not only provides a sense of comraderie, but it also allows me to redirect him if his mind does happen–which it will–go down a rabbit hole.

Sometimes, to break up the monotony of the homework, I even go off the grid with him to spice up the daily grind of grammar, math problems and writing (which has become his favorite).

So after D finished his introduction paragraph, I tell him about Steve Pressfield (War of Art) and Shawn Coyne (The Story Grid), and how Steve is a writer and Shawn is his editor, and Shawn’s job is to improve  his friend Steve’s writing.

“You are the writer, and I am the editor,” I say to D. “You be Steve and I will be Shawn. My job is to look for how to make your writing better.”

And after he finishes, I explain to him how “everyday” words in conversation can be replaced with more precise action or descriptive words, and he receives my input like a real writer.

His assignment was to use “sound” and “motion” words, so he changed said to murmured, goes to speeded, and added caw-caw in on his own, and then we shared his writing with L.

L said she thought his teacher would think his paragraph was too polished, but I explained it was an opportunity to share my knowledge on writing and to teach D about the revision process.

His writing did sound professional–though his handwriting is still a work in progress–but his homework never returned in his backpack, so I guess you will have to take my word on it.

After his homework was completed–this story is really about this moment–D cued up a catchy song with a fast tempo and beat on my phone, and a dance party broke out right there in the living room to a song from Sing.

D kicked his feet left, right, forward, and backwards, he executed a 360-degree spin move a few times, he nearly completed a few handstands, and his arms and legs moved rapidly for the duration of the entire song.

I joined D in the Dance Party as L cheered him on (“Do it again…Woo-hoo”, she said after his spin moves.), mimicing his moves except for the head stands, and by the end of the 4-minute song, we were sucking in air.

This is how we capped a Tuesday evening, and the homework saga, his writing style, our collaborative effort and the dance party, I thought all added up to…the Fourth Grade D.

The dance party infused my body with newfound energy, and a new appreciation of my son, and his wonderful, spontaneous spirit.

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Culver City Steps

Written By: Scot Butwell - Oct• 16•17


This was one of those ideas–hiking up 279 stairs at the Culver City steps–that sounded like a good idea at the time, but it didn’t feel so great when we were  on, say, step number 133 or 208.

At step number 279, I was more than grateful we had made it to the top, and forgive me for the cliche, but I realized I ain’t no spring chicken any more.

I don’t want to say I am getting old, but I will soon be able to round up my age to a hundred, and not having a regular exercise routine isn’t the best preparation for a 279 stair workout.

I needed to catch my breath several times, but D didn’t have this problem. He kept scaling up the steps, only stopping occasionally, and was not fazed by the two-foot block stairs.

I looked forward to a father-son moment taking in a vista of Los Angeles, but when we reached the top, D looked back for a split second and followed the trail around a curve.

Ho-hum, he must have thought.

I was thinking something along the lines of  “hey, this isn’t everyday you see a view like this, and I was really hoping (re: needing) to take a much longer break…to get a second wind.”

We passed through a building with a display on the history of Los Angeles on the way back down. However, D looked at the pictures for around 20 seconds before exiting out a door.

The way down was easier. I realized near the bottom I needed to find bathroom asap. All the step on the way upmoved my breakfast through my intestines at a faster rate than usual.

Plan A…was a nearby Dunkin Donuts which I remembered passing on the way to the steps, but there was a sign on the bathroom door: Out of Order.

Plan B..Smart and Final next door. I needed to make it in a hurry, but the stall was occupied, and there was no time to search for a nearby restroom.

Plan C…required expediency. I saw a nearby trash can. There was no time for Plan D–just immediate action.

D looked at me with a surprised look. He had never seen me poop in a trash can before, so I felt a need to provide life lesson of some sort to what he saw.

“Sometimes, you have to do what you have to do in an emergency. This was an emergency and, maybe, you will be in an emergency like this one day.”

Yeah, I am not proud for what I did–and I only accidentally hit publish on this–but I think, all things considered, that I would do the same thing if such a situation happens to arise again.

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When the Birds Come

Written By: Scot Butwell - Oct• 16•17

Yep, that’s me launching an angry Bird. It was Big Brother Terrence. He connected with a pig, and the rest of birds came. Bomb. Chuck. Red. Hal. The Blue Birds. The Mighty Eagle.

The Mighty Eagle swooped down and crashed into the pigs’ towers. Hal boomeranged in and activated a button on the side of a monkey’s truck.

The truck started up, rammed into the towers–or at least what was left–and the monkey screamed ,”Ewwww! EEEEEEE! Ewweee! !EEEEEEEE!”

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Homework Mariachi Style

Written By: Scot Butwell - Sep• 04•17

I had just finished reading about Robert Rodriguez’s “mariachi style” of low-budget movie making by using only the props, actors, costumes locations and music available to him.

In addition, I listened to an interview where he talked about “doing one thing well” to be creative. Both were prep for my English class reading his book on making a movie for $7,000.

Rodriguez’s El Mariachi turned into a three-picture deal with Columbia Studio. His book about making the film, financed by being a subject in drug tests, is Rebel Without a Crew.

I was inspired by Rodriguez’s statement to try to “do everything creatively,” so when it came time for him to film a scene, it would not seem all that different than other tasks.

If he had been creative in cooking breakfast or cleaning the living room.

I wondered if Rodriguez’s philosophy of creativity could apply to helping D to complete the last four pages of his monthly homework. I figured it was worth a shot to test out his theory.

I knew I could do it L’s way. D sitting at the kitchen table while I fought the urge to assist him to stay focused. This usually results in L getting upset at me for not letting D do it by himself.

Ultimately, I chose Rodriguez’s “do-everything creative” approach because D had crashed my Sunday afternoon lesson planning, and I got no reply when I called L in the living room.

Apparently, she fell asleep on the sofa. Thus, she wouldn’t be aware of my homework experiment, so D and I kneeled on the floor with his homework on the bed blanket.

In this comfortable position, I exhorted and bantered our way through a page of subtraction problems, patiently explaining the rationale for regrouping tens.

I made funny ammnoises, assumed personas of movie characters, and turned into a  “savage” Nick Wilde from Zootopia after being shot in the next by a dart filled with serum.

We wrested during breaks, and at one point, D leapt on my back and I turned into a rodeo bull. This was all part of my effort to turn homework from a dreaded task into a creative endeavor

We hissed at each other like two cats in a fight, bearing our teeth and our claws, to reboot our brains before the final page of what initially I had thought seemed like a daunting task.

We stretched out on the bed for the last page, and if L would have walked in, she would have criticized me, and my “do everything creative” approach jettisoned like balloon on a windy day.

My arm looped over D’s shoulder as we alternated reading Mauona, and when Chief Tui said,  “no one goes beyond the reef,” D went off the script and called me (Cheif Tui) an idiot.

I looked at him and furrowed my brow, not sure if I should get upset at him since I was acting out Chief Tui’s voice, when D said, “I’m sorry.” And so I un furrowed my brow, letting it pass.

We finished his homework an hour, and even with all the silly banter and playing, and bested the time D would have finished if he sat at the kitchen table and he did it the proper way.

So I am a believer in Rodriguez’s “do everyone creative” and use whatever resources are available to create a work of art–and that’s exactly what we did in our homework experiment.

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Meet the flock

Written By: Scot Butwell - Aug• 11•17

angry birds

From D:

It’s bird time in the house. Terence, Blue, Chuck, Hal, Bomb, Might Eagle, Red and Bubbles are D ‘s wild flock. They battle gains eggstealing pigs: General Frank, Dopey, Ross, General Steve, Grandpa Pig and King Pig, who try to eat the eggs before the birds always come to rescue them.


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The Worst Two Sons

Written By: Scot Butwell - Aug• 11•17

A couple of days ago, I took my mom to her ear doctor appointment, and once the examination was complete, the septuagenarian doctor treated us to a story about his two nephews.

It went something like this:

His sister married and had two sons. She got a divorced and remarried. The oldest son liked jumping off the roof onto a mattress. He was into World Wrestling Entertaining (WWE) moves.

He was 12, I think, at the time.

“His mom didn’t really know what to do with him,” the doctor said.

The younger brother was often rude to his father-in-law, calling his toupee a rug, but when he got laid off from his accounting job, the toupee made him look younger and help him land a job.

“Ageism is still alive,” said the doctor.

Both brothers went to college and graduated. The older brother now travels the world as a WWF wrestler; he also does stand up comedy and voice over work on the side.

The younger brother loved to draw. What can you do with that? the father-in-law used to tell him. But he worked his way up in the entertainment industry to become an animation director for the Family Guy.

“That’s a big deal,” the doctor said, saying it again one word at a time.  “That’s a very big deal.”

“My brother-in-law used to pick at the younger step son all the time, and even now that he has become a director for Family Guy, he watches his son’s show and calls to tell me, “I don’t get it.”

“I don’t get it either half the time,” the doctor confided to me.

I have no idea why he told us this story, of an accountant dad who doesn’t get his creative son, but I’m glad he told the story. My mom is 83, and my brother and I are grown up.

I am 48, and D is nine, so, maybe, the story was meant for me. I thought of D, and how I want him to be whatever he wants to be. His passion is drawing, and he loves animation characters.

He draws characters from Angry BirdsVeggie Tales and Five Nights at Freddies, and loves talking about them, making up stories about his favorite animated characters.

“Who is your favorite Five Nights at Freddy character?” he likes to ask me. “Freddy or Nightmare Freddy.”

“I like Freddy because of his cool hat,” I say. “It reminds me of a hat I used to have.”

I think his penchant for drawing may foreshadow his vocation just like the older brother’s jumping off the roof or younger brother’s saucy attitude led to the pursuit of their unique careers.

The two take always: 1) the father-in-law never learned to embrace his sons for who there are, and 2) the sons vocations were wired into their DNA by their natural proclivities.

I tell the doctor’s story to L, hoping it will help her to understand our son, that he is a boy and sometimes boys tend to be rowdy and leave ther clothes strewn all over their bedroom floor.

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25 Things About Myself

Written By: Scot Butwell - Jun• 29•17
  1. I am a sugar addict.
  2. My favorite is chocolate hostess cupcakes with the cream filling.
  3. I wait until the last minute to tell the wife about stuff.
  4. I rarely go to see the doctor.
  5. I never floss.
  6. I lost my left cornerstone tooth while eating pizza.
  7. I need time by myself to refuel.
  8. I have a paunch from eating pizza, hamburgers and soda.
  9. I don’t drink alcohol or smoke.
  10. I am reading Silence of the Lambs.
  11. I loved playing basketball as a kid.
  12. My favorite drink is coffee, preferably from McDonald’s.
  13. I like to bing watch Netflix series in bed on my phone.
  14. Breaking Bad is my favorite Netflix series.
  15. I like to wear noise reducing headphones
  16. I have one brother.
  17. I once was the director of a faith-based crisis hotline.
  18. My wife say I used to be a good listener.
  19. I like to faint when she gives me a compliment.
  20. Chips and guacamole sounds good right now
  21. My wife thinks I have autism.
  22. I like to lose myself in art.
  23. I have been blogging for five years.
  24. I am a Christian.
  25. I recently volunteered to be cubmaster of D’s Cub Scout Pack.


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