Each night as I put my three-year-old son to bed we read our books, we sing our songs, and I tell myself that he may not survive to see the morning. When I revealed this to my mother the other night, she said it made her sick to her stomach. "How could you do that?" she asked. "How could you possibly think like that?" She sat on the couch in my living room, the light from the fire roaring in the fireplace danced across her face as she looked at me with earnest concern. I sat on the hearth and took a beat to digest the moment. Then I inhaled deeply, and started to explain. About two and a half years ago, I became fascinated with the philosophy known as Stoicism, an ancient school of thought that urges us to own the immediate present, and in doing so, to achieve true freedom—and, perhaps, even happiness. |
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| It's Time to Drink Champagne Like You Drink Beer |
A while ago, I made a decision: Champagne was appropriate for breakfast. Not every day. But on the weekends? Or for room service? Yes. Scrambled eggs with toast and bubbly, followed by a coffee to even things, is an easy way to choose happiness in the a.m. This habit soon poured into other parts of my life. Sunsets on the beach. Bubble baths. And, eventually, on the couch with a bag of chips . . . just because it's Wednesday. There are some awesome things that you can have too much of. Butter. Drugs. The sun. Champagne is not one of these. Once you start weaving it into your drink-ing life, something clicks: I can have it this good all the time? |
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Sex, Love, & Marriage Behind Bars |
I first heard about the trailers, prison vernacular for conjugal visits, on Rikers Island. It was 2002, I was twenty-four, and I was awaiting trial on murder charges. The guy the next bunk over in the communal dorm knew I was facing a lot of time, even if I didn't know that. I was delusional in the beginning. We all are. The bunkmate had just finished a dime—a ten-year sentence—for assault and was now in on a parole violation for breaking curfew, caught on a tip called in by his wife. Still, he loved her, and he loved telling me about going on conjugals with her up in Auburn, a maximum-security prison. It wasn't just about the sex, he said. It was forty-eight hours of freedom, or close to it. Most of New York's maximum-security prisons had them. They weren't trailers, not anymore, but modular homes. It was, the fella in the next bunk told me, an opportunity for good times, good eating, and good sex. An incentive to stay out of trouble in the hope of experiencing a touch of love. There was a hitch: Your partner had to be your legal spouse. Close family members were also eligible, of course, and this was really the objective of these visits: to build and maintain better family ties. But that was beside my bunkmate's point. If I was convicted, he said, he recommended I put an ad on one of those prisoner dating websites (Prison Pen Pals, Write a Prisoner), find a woman, fall in love, make it official, then head for the trailers. |
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80 Best Holiday Gifts For Dad That'll Arrive in Time |
Dad, in the simplest, plainest term, carries, whether he's the have-it-all kind who emanates pure, unconcentrated coolness, or just a solid average Joe who's been giving you hand-me-down baseball gloves and shotgun driving lessons since day one. After all, dad is someone we can turn to for wisdom and consolation. What's the best whiskey for sipping on the rocks? Ask dad. What's the niftiest gadgets to handle? Ask dad. What's the most foolproof grooming regimen? Ask dad. Hence come his birthday, Christmas, anniversary, or any gift-worthy situation for dad when you find yourself stuck on finding unique gifts for dad that'll match his wit. At Esquire, we know a thing or two about dads, and we're more than prepared to tell you what to gift the man who probably likes to sit back and watch you scramble for a gift: A new luxe staple to add to his closet, a fail-safe tech upgrade he'll actually appreciate, an affordable but still extraordinary watch, a last-minute subscription he can't turn down, and all the more. In fact, we've got 80 best gifts for dad below that can prove you as the best kid he could ask for. |
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Will Smith Hasn't Earned Redemption. Still, Emancipation Is a Story We Need. |
There they were: A collective of Black culture royals—Rihanna and beau A$AP Rocky, Dave Chappelle, Tyler Perry, Kenya Barris—all of them (save RiRi and her puckered lips) all smiles as they served as the affirmative background of a Will Smith selfie. The occasion for that mirthful photo of elites was a private screening of Will's movie Emancipation. He took the pic and posted it back in October, and the intent was clear. Damn, we were to think. Look who's all standing with him. Emancipation had been one of several of Will's projects reported to be imperiled by his ineffable, indelible, unprecedented decision to saunter onto the stage of the Academy Awards and slap Chris Rock for joking about his wife, Jada. Prior to that infamous deed, Emancipation was anticipated as an Oscar contender and Will's performance in it hyped as yet another worthy of an Academy Award. (Recall he won Best Actor that night for King Richard.) Post-slap, Will was, by and large, persona non grata in Hollywood, a censure that included the Academy banning him from attending the ceremony for ten years, as well as hella Hollywood stars condemning both his actions and him. But oh what a difference eight months has made. For reconciliation or not, Apple decided to release the film this year after all. And it's no small coinkydink that its December 2 theatrical release date makes it eligible for Oscar consideration. |
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How to Unfriend Your Dead Brother |
Something curious happened on the way to my brother Andrew's funeral: He FaceTimed me. Three days after his fatal car accident, my phone buzzed with a familiar jingle. Andrew MacLean is FaceTiming you. It was the call I didn't realize I'd been waiting for. I answered, disbelief eagerly suspended. A familiar voice leapt out: "You on your way?" It was almost Andrew. Almost. My other brother Gregory's voice sounded so similar to Andrew's over the phone that for one glorious moment I believed it was him. "I lost my phone, so I'm calling you from this laptop.…" I snapped back to reality. Andrew was dead. Greg was calling from Andrew's laptop. Video conferencing from the other side was not yet an iPhone feature. New to grief's first stage, denial, I'd fallen for the ultimate crank call. Andrew would've gotten a real kick out of it if he'd been there. Andrew was a nurse, someone who provided disaster relief around the world. When there was a tsunami in Sri Lanka, Andrew went. When there was an earthquake in Haiti, he dropped everything. He was my eldest brother, a relief worker. He'd struggled with addiction since he was a teenager, and I lived for years half braced for that call. But when it came down to it, I'd sooner accept that a dead guy was giving me a ring than that the guy was dead in the first place. His digital ghost had pulled a fast one on me—and not for the last time. |
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