“When you get pure joy out of ‘being’ rather than ‘doing’ or ‘seeing,’ that’s when you realize how big and unexplainable some things are and being a dad is one of those very few things.”

I like Math because there’s only one right answer.

Distance makes the heart grow fonder, a little bit, but there’s a certain maturity level that just comes with experience and growing up.

Where my dad taught me everything about writing, Graham Paterson, who gave me my first job at The Times, taught me everything about journalism, which is that it’s no big deal, and it’s more important to have a glass of wine.

My dad died when I was young; my mom remarried with more haste than sense to a fellow… he wasn’t evil or anything, but he was worthless.

When I was about 12 years old back in Houston, my Dad used to take us to the driving range.

The first thing I remember is that my dad had a big iron Olivetti typewriter and he worked all night.

My dad is the best and funniest newspaper columnist. There is nobody anywhere near as good.

My dad was very successful as a journalist, so I didn’t want to be one. I wanted to be a novelist.

The world’s most competitive man, my dad. Wouldn’t let us win at Monopoly… he wouldn’t cut any slack for his children.

My dad Alan loved Westerns and we watched them together when there wasn’t much else on TV. I had toy cowboys I’d call Richard Widmark or Gregory Peck and we’d restage the Battle of the Alamo.