Hey Dad, You're Track Lagging Again
Some people stay fully present as they age, updating their stories and advice to match the moment. Others get stuck in the year they felt most unbeatable. Their favorite war stories, punch-lines, and nuggets of “must-know” wisdom sit permanently at the top of their mental stack, so every fresh listener looks like a rookie who needs the same old download.
Add two drinks and the pattern locks in. Alcohol narrows attention to whatever memory burns brightest right then, while a warm rush of confidence convinces the speaker he’s sharper than ever. He seizes the floor, blocks every redirect, and starts looping—re-explaining a point he made thirty seconds ago, restarting the anecdote from the top, believing each pass is clearer, funnier, more instructive. Everyone else hears a record skipping louder with every refill. He hears encore after encore.
I’ve watched this happen for decades and I can feel how easily it could happen to me. So, ahead of Father’s Day, I’m sharing a letter I wrote to my own kids. Maybe you’ll send something similar, or maybe you’ll adopt our family’s new code word—“track lagging”—to keep your stories and mine from getting stuck on repeat.
Here’s the letter.
Dear kids,
For Father’s Day I’m asking for just one gift: a code word—“track lagging” (or “track lag” for short). Any time you hear me replaying a story that belonged in another decade, or notice that a couple of beers or a splash of bourbon have pushed me into long-winded mode, say, “Dad, you’re track lagging.” No need to soften the blow. Those two words are enough; I promise I’ll take the hint, stop, and reset.
I want this safeguard because I’ve seen the trap up close. When I was twenty, your grandfather and his circle of friends, trusted employees, and advisors held court—beer in hand—with a steady stream of war stories, hard-earned lessons, and hallway wisdom from the sixties and early seventies. Back then all of it felt like gold. By forty I realised the problem wasn’t the words; it was the delivery. They kept serving that same mix to everyone around them as if we were wide-eyed rookies, never noticing that the room had long since filled with people carrying decades of their own experience. I swore I would never become that frozen-in-time instructor—but now I’m sixty-one, and I can feel how easily it could happen.
Here’s how the slide usually goes.
First, you fall in love with the era when you felt most powerful. The details of that time burn so bright in your memory that they start to feel universal. You keep reaching for them, convinced they’re still useful—even when everyone else has moved on.
Second, a beer or two makes the old memories feel even warmer, like loading a favourite song at full volume. A little bourbon adds the drumbeat of certainty: “This is brilliant, everyone needs to hear it.” Meanwhile your focus shrinks to the story you’re telling, and you miss the eye glances and half-smiles that say the room has heard it all before.
Finally, you slip into broadcast mode. You keep the floor. You give advice nobody asked for. You talk twice as much as anyone else because your own words sound so clear in your head—even as they turn blurry for everyone listening.
That, in a nutshell, is track lagging. It’s what happens when yesterday’s soundtrack drowns out today’s conversation, boosted by a little alcohol and a lot of misplaced confidence.
So use the code word freely. If I drift back to the good old days one too many times, say it. If the bourbon makes me louder than I am helpful, say it. If my voice has filled the air for more than a minute or two and yours hasn’t, say it. I’ll pull back, pour some water, and hand the mic to you.
My promise is simple: I will judge my stories by whether they help you now, not by how brightly they once lit up a room. I will stay curious about what you’re seeing that I’m not. And if you have to shout “track lag” more than once, I’ll listen harder the second time.
Thank you for keeping me in the present. The stories that still matter will survive your interruption; the rest can retire gracefully. Our conversations should stay alive to the moment, not sealed in amber.
With love, open ears, and a ready reset button,
Dad
We all drift into track lagging sooner or later; some of us just need a louder reset button. If you’ve got a dad, a mentor, or a buddy who sometimes loops, gift them a code word—then keep the conversation moving forward.