Saint, Ellen

If you've ever been in an amazing relationship, then you've probably had this experience. You're sitting there, doing some thing or another with your partner, and you take a moment to ask yourself, "What could I possibly have done to deserve this person?"

"How am I so lucky and fortunate to have found this woman?"

And not just to have found her (or him). But for some serendipitous series of events to have been triggered that made them think you were somehow reasonable too. A chain reaction that led to that moment of bliss. 

I'm not talking about wedding day moments, or first dates, or that kind of thing. Not that I mean to diminish those situations by any means. But for all the romance of a wedding day, let's say, it isn't one of these moments. You don't get married to someone because of a connection you felt on your wedding day. And you can't force these blissful connections on a wedding day. That's a different thing. I'm talking here about something divine and unexpected. A moment of clarity on a sofa somewhere, wearing sweatpants, and you blink. And in that blink you understand that something magical is happening.

Last night, I had one of those moments of bliss.

My wife and I had gone out to dinner with her family on Saturday. And dinner was followed by drinks. Nothing crazy by any means, but somewhere in the night, baby names came up. At that point, my father-in-law mentioned that he had been born on his Saint's Feast Day. For those of you not in the know, Catholics are all named after saints. If you know a Catholic, there exists at least one saint after whom that person is named.

The conversation didn't have anything to do with any of that. It turned to me giving my father-in-law a hard time, and saying that we really liked the name Karl for a boy, and wanted to give him the middle name of Mark, after him.

Karl Mark.

Ellen's father is hilariously not a communist. This has nothing to do with this story. I just think it would be really fun to name our potential son Karl Mark Dagostino.

So the night carried on, the conversation moved to another thing, and the entire episode was forgotten until last night.

I had just gotten home from a rather long day, and Ellen and I were hanging out on our sofa. At my greedy prodding, we began looking at our baby registry, to see if anything new had been bought. (It had... very exciting. [I'm a ridiculous person.]) Some synapse fired in my wife's brain, and she recalled the Saint's Feast Day comment from the night before.

"I wonder if I was born on a Saint's Feast Day," she said.

"Yes. You definitely were."

"Really?"

"Yeah, every day is a Saint's Feast Day."

"Really?"

"Yeah, probably a whole shit ton of Saint's Feast Days, actually."

She was intrigued, and pretty quickly, we were on Google: "Saints Days September [Enter]."

We were brought to a Catholic website, and sure enough there were like 15 Saints Days on my wife's birthday.

"Some of these names are silly. I'm glad I wasn't named after a saint," she says.

"You were..." At this point, I tell her what I told you above. All Catholics are named after saints. Ellen isn't currently Catholic, but she was Baptized. 

She becomes super intrigued. And now she's looking for Saint Ellen.

News Flash! There is NO Saint Ellen!

Who knew?

In searching for Saint Ellen, we found a blog called thereisnosaintellen.tumblr.com, which seems semi-reasonableish. But more importantly, we found Ellen Saint. The number two Google hit for "Saint Ellen" is the Wikipedia page for a porn star named Ellen Saint. Hit number three is her Twitter account!

"Holy shit! She's Czech and she shares my birthday!" I exclaim.

Ellen clicks on the page.

"What if she bares a strong resemblance to you? How crazy would that be?!"

"A series of wild coincidences," Ellen responds. "Hmmm... no picture on Wikipedia." Ellen (wife) brings us to Ellen Saint's page on imdb.com.

"Still no picture! Come on!" My wife exclaims. "Dripping Creampies 6!" And she explodes into laughter. We both giggle, as my wife scrolls down Ellen Saint's filmography.

"Oh man, she was super productive in 2007," I notice.

"Yeah, no kidding. Prolific." More laughter. "Sperm Swap! It's gold!"

In my excitement at hilarious porn film names, I skip over the best one. "Canibales Sexuales 4," I say in my worst hispanic accent. We giggle. But then Ellen's giggles turn into an explosion of laughter. Spittle flies from her mouth as she reflexively brings her hand to cover her mouth. Her face is bright red. There are tears in her eyes. She has found the gold mine that I missed.

"THE ART OF THE CUMFART!!! THE ART OF THE CUMFART!!! SOMEONE MADE A MOVIE CALLED THE ART OF THE CUMFART!!!"

Our eyes connect in laughter. And I feel God's light shining down on me and my Ellen, as we laugh at the exploits of Ellen Saint. What grace has brought this woman into my life? This perfect soul with whom I can casually note that Ellen Saint had a solid streak of anal films in '05 and '06.

This woman who responds, "Yup. They're all there: Ass Drippers, Cum Filled Asshole Overload, Cum In My Ass Not In My Mouth 3, and Elastic Assholes."

I note that she made her film debut in Cum In My Ass Not In My Mouth 2 back in 2003. Then I rest my head on my wife's pregnant belly and whisper to my unborn child, "I hope you never tell someone to cum in your ass, not in your mouth."

And Ellen follows up my first parental advice with some of her own, "Please don't do anal."

Sweet bliss!

An Enema for Grandpa

So I'm cleaning out my old shitty computer in preparation for the coming of my baby. The last thing that's got to get out of there is the computer. But I found a whole bunch of nonsense I wrote years ago. It was kind of fun finding it and rereading some of it. Most of it us unpublishable. But this little story is semi-reasonable. Not the best writing, but kind of a funny story about me witnessing my grandfather getting an enema.

An Enema for Grandpa

“Can someone bring some soup to Grandma and Grandpa tomorrow?” The request was simple enough, and since I’m currently unemployed, I figured it would be the least I could do to help out. Besides, they’re old and lonely. It’ll be good to spend some quality time with the grandparents. I volunteer my services.

“I’ll go. It’s not like I’ll be working.”

“Well, you might get a call to substitute in the morning.” Ah, my mother, ever the optimist. Or at least ever pretending to be the optimist.

“Let’s be honest here. No one’s calling me tomorrow morning. I’ll take them the soup.” It’s settled. Sometime upon the ‘morrow, I will set out on a quest to deliver soup, and beef stew, to my grandparents. It seems simple enough. Show up, chat for a while. Listen to my grandpa bitch. Listen to my grandma respond to a question I didn’t actually ask. It’ll get me out of the house. And that’s a definite plus. In reality, there is nothing that could have prepared me for what I would witness that fateful Winter day.

I wake up in the morning around ten. As is the routine, I make my way to the shower where I marvel at the sheer hilarity of soap. No more than a few hours ago, my brother no doubt was rubbing this object on his balls, ass, and the rest of his body. Now, I rub it all over mine. No way does that seem right. But that’s soap for you. I turn off the shower and dry off. As I’m putting on my attire for the day, my father tells me that he’s going to the store and has left the soup for my grandparents on the kitchen counter.

“All right, see you later,” I yell back. I begin contemplating my day. First, I’ll eat some cheerios so I have an excuse not to eat the microwaveable Tyson chicken my grandmother is undoubtedly going to offer. Then, I’ll have the house to myself for a bit, so I will probably sit around with music on. Probably around noon I’ll drive out to the school district office to make sure all my substitute teaching paperwork is in order. Finally, I’ll go spend an hour with the grandparents. I’ll get there at about 12:30, put in an hour, and tell them I have a 2:00 racquetball game to get to. I’ll have gotten out of the house. Sounds like a reasonable day.

So I stick to the plan. I read the newspaper while eating my cheerios. There’s really nothing in there that’s very exciting. I put on some music, sit around for a bit, and I’m finally off.

When I get to my school district they tell me that my fingerprints, which they lost once already, have not yet arrived, but should tomorrow. “So I’ll get a phone call?” One lady laughs. I don’t know why. I was supposed to get a phone call a week ago when I originally got fingerprinted for the job. They “misplaced” them. Somehow I’m supposed to feel better though, because they lost somebody else’s too. Now it’s a week later, and I still haven’t been called to substitute. One more week, and I abandon substitute teaching altogether. Life.

So now it’s time for my surprise visit to my grandparents. Deliver the soup. Oh boy. I put on the Talking Heads, which is weird, because I don’t like them. I think their music is generally trite, dishonest, and absurd. But I can’t stop listening to “Road to Nowhere.” It’s troubling. “Psycho Killer” is ending as I pull into my grandparent’s driveway.

The front door is unlocked. It’s not supposed to be unlocked. They’re old. They’re really old. Pushing 90. My grandfather had a heart attack a few months back, has something like a 99% blockage in the artery that goes to his brain, he doesn’t move well, and my grandmother had recently fallen down the stairs again. They’re old. There are people who prey on old people. Rob them. What have you. The door should be locked. When I enter the house, I soon find out why it’s unlocked.

It’s nothing but delight to see me, though my grandfather looks considerably worse than he did when I last saw him, one week ago. I’m soon informed that my cousin Timmy is coming back from Walgreens. Tim is a couple years older than me. He lives closer to them, so he gets charged with lots of errands.

“Yeah? How’s he doing?”

“He’s getting Father a Fleet Enema.”

And there it is. Too much information. Lately, the point of “too much information,” T.M.I., as I’ve come to call it, is usually reached within a half hour. That’s how long it takes for my grandmother to start telling me about my grandfather’s bowel movements, or lack thereof. Today, though, the T.M.I. has been breached under the minute mark, a new record.

And it continues.

“He hasn’t gone in three days now. So Sally, the nurse who comes, told us we had to get a Fleet Enema. First I thought she said ‘Speed Enema,’ so I wrote that down here-” She holds up a notepad that, sure enough, says, “Speed Enema.”

“-but then she spelled it out for me. Fleet.” She makes an effort to pronounce every letter. “Fleet Enema. It’s supposed to help get the bowel movement going.”

“Do you know what that is?” My grandfather chimes in.

“Nope.” I don’t know what a Fleet Enema is. I know what an enema is. But not a Fleet Enema.

“It’s to wash out your rectum.” Now every word is pain. Part of me wants to say, “Yup, well, there’s the soup, and I’m going now. Have a good enema.” But part of me doesn’t want to offend. Maybe even a small part of me wants to be able to tell this story. No. No part of me wants that. But I stay. After all, I’m not going to have to deal with it. They probably won’t even do it while I’m here.

I hear the door opening. “Timmy!” My grandmother is delighted. Sure enough, Tim comes walking up the stairs with a bag from Walgreens. And a cluster of emotions is on his face: embarrassment, regret, awkwardness, surprise, and countless others.

“Hey, what’s going on.”

“Hey, what’s up.” We exchange pleasantries.

“Uh, I got your enema. Two pack. Easy squeeze.” He says it all with a smile. We’re both in on the joke. It’s pretty funny.

“Oh, how much was it, honey?”

“Uh, two dollars.”

“Really? That’s it?”

“Yeah, I guess the enema market is pretty flooded this time of year.”

“Two for two dollars. Wow.” My grandmother is genuinely surprised. But it’s a plastic bottle filled with salt water. How much could it cost?

My grandmother retrieves two dollars, and out of the bag comes the two pack of Fleet Enemas. Fleet, it turns out, is the company cashing in on the do-it-yourself enema market. Somewhere out there, people produce enemas for a living. That’s pretty funny.

She takes one out of the box and shows it to me, “This is in your future.”

“Not if I start smoking again.”

She starts reading the directions. Out loud.

“Remove orange protective shield from enema comfort tip before inserting. With steady pressure, gently insert enema tip into rectum with a slight side-to-side movement--oooh, side to side--with tip pointing toward navel.” She stops. “I don’t think it’s going to get all the way to there.” “Insertion may be easier if person receiving enema bears down, as if having a bowel movement. This helps relax the muscles around the…”

She looks at me. “A-N-U-S?” I blush. “What’s ‘A-N-U-S?’”

I’m too…horrified, I suppose? To respond. Apparently so is Tim. So she continues to spell out the word she doesn’t recognize, “A-N-U-S.” Finally, my grandfather informs her, “It’s your hole.”

“It’s not my hole. It’s your hole.”

“Anus.”

“Oh, anus.” She laughs. Then continues, “Do not force the enema tip into rectum as this can cause injury. Well if I’m not supposed to force it, how is it supposed to work?”

Tim, braver than I, offers, “I think they mean to be gentle. Just don’t force it.”

Trying to help out, I make a stabbing motion with my hand, and say, “Not like this. Soft.” Immediately, I laugh as I realize that I just made a stabbing motion, referencing sticking something up my grandfather’s ass. It’s pretty funny.

“Squeeze bottle until nearly all liquid is gone. It is not necessary to empty the bottle completely, as it contains more liquid than needed. Well, why do they have so much then?“

“Probably just in case. It’s better to have more than you need, than not enough.“

“Remove Comfortip from rectum and maintain position until urge to evacuate is strong (usually 2 to 5 minutes).”

“There’s a diagram on the box of how you do this,” Tim says.

She struggles to find it.

“It’s underneath your hand.” He has to forcibly remove her hand from the box and point out a diagram of a man in two positions. First, he’s lying down on his stomach. Below that, he’s on his hands and knees with his ass in the air like he’s going to be mounted from behind. Either way, there’s no way my grandfather can do this.

“Well he can’t do that. He’ll never get up.” The entire time this is going on, my grandfather is growing more and more nervous, embarrassed, and tense. But my grandmother just won’t stop talking about it. “Well this is no good. We’ll never be able to do this like this.”

“Well I’m going to go,” Tim says. “I’m probably going to go to work. Then I have to go to welding class later tonight. But call me if you guys need anything.” Then he looks at me, “You really picked a great day to visit.”

“Oh yeah.”

But my grandmother continues asking questions about the administration of this enema. “But how much do I do? How will I get it in him?”

So, Tim sticks around. He tries to explain everything to her some more. I’m still smiling, but trying not to. I can’t help but let out the occasional giggle as memories of Sex Education class run vividly through my head.

Suddenly, I’m back in Mrs. Kufta’s classroom in the 5th grade. The teacher says the word “penis,” and I can’t help but laugh. My laughter is followed by everyone’s laughter is followed by Mrs. Kufta yelling at the top of her lungs, “Babies! Real babies!”

Back in reality, I know I need to get this laughter under control before my grandfather has an aneurysm from embarrassment. But my grandmother keeps making light-hearted remarks about the whole thing. “An enema a day keeps the doctor away.” Finally, he yells at her, “Stop making jokes about this Hank!” (Short for Henrietta.)

She defensively turns to Tim and remarks that she has to try and keep it light. Which is true. He calms down. She takes off the cap of the enema bottle and is in awe, “It’s all greasy.”

“Yeah, I would imagine it would be,” I say. Meanwhile, Tim has moved to the bathroom to scope things out. When he returns, he mentions that it would probably work if grandpa leaned up against the metal bars they have in the shower. Handrails cover the walls of the shower in pretty much all old people’s homes. It seems that age and safety precautions are inextricably linked in life.

Tim’s got a plan. And I’m all for it. As long as I don’t have to witness anything. And it seems that this is the case. My grandmother is going to take care of everything. Tim and I are going to hang around just in case the old patriarch falls down or something. Bottom line is, I am not going to have to see my mother’s father naked. I’m pretty excited about that. I’m pretty sure that Tim is too.

So, the two of us clear out the bathroom. I move the hamper into the bedroom, and Tim takes care of some other stuff. I really don’t know what, because I was moving the hamper into the bedroom. And taking my time with it at that. As my grandfather made his way over with his walker, I made sure that Tim was closer, just in case.

Now the two of them are in the bathroom. I stand in the doorway.

“Where is she?” Barks an anxious old man.

“Grandma?” I call. “Uh, she’s coming. She’s getting something or another.”

“Well, I guess these are going to have to come off.” And that’s when it happens. That’s when he drops trout and I see my grandfather’s ass in all of its wrinkly, veiny glory. If there is a God, he is playing the greatest joke of all times at that moment. The pathetic history of the Chicago Cubs, a second President George Bush, Scientology, laserdiscs, Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch, and the Bible being taken literally can’t compare to the punch line that God has been setting up my entire life. Because in all the cosmos, I exist, and have now seen my grandfather’s 89 year old ass. A glimpse of things to come. My ass in 66 years. That is not pretty funny.

And like that, I am down the hallway. That is a glimpse I am not ready for. If he falls, I’ll be there a little bit later. My grandmother is in the bathroom with the enema soon enough. Tim joins me in the hallway immediately thereafter. And are our faces red. Laughter. Awkward laughter. Apparently, he recognizes that we’re the butt of the greatest joke of all times too. So, we take our minds off of what is happening. Which is, my grandmother, separated only by two thin layers of drywall, is sticking a squeeze bottle into my grandfather’s, “A-N-U-S.”

“Is that okay?” Goddamnit.

“I guess. Is it in?” Goddamnit.

“Yeah. Here it comes.” Goddamnit.

“Oh!” Goddamnit.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt?” Goddamnit.

“No. It’s just cold.” Really Goddamnit.

Tim, “I suppose maybe I should be timing this.” Smiles. Laughs. Pulls out his watch. The sound of water splashing on the floor rings in my ears.

“Oh no.” Goddamnit.

“Well I guess that’s going to happen.” Goddamnit.

“What are you taking it out for. Just leave it in there.” Really really Goddamnit.

“Well I don’t know if it’s in there.” Did I mention, Goddamnit?

“Just leave it in.” More water splashing. “Oh no.”

“I have to take it out to let more air into the squeeze bottle.” Understandably. He’s supposed to be lying down. From the sound of it, he’s mostly upright, which can’t make it easy to drain the salt water solution from the bottle.

“It’s getting all over the floor. Is anything even getting in there?” Goddamnit.

“I don’t know. I hope so. I don’t think it’s coming out of you, it’s just spillage.” I shouldn’t be hearing this.

I start looking at pictures of all the grandkids as babies. Underneath the pictures, there’s everyone’s birthdates. Anything to take my mind off of reality. I didn’t know that Andy was born in July. Interesting.

“I’m all wet now.” Goddamnit.

“All gone. Now just get on the pot.” Godblessit. It’s finally over. And he didn’t fall over. No sweat. I practically sprint to the kitchen. The worst is behind me. Tell yourself again. The worst is behind me.

A few minutes pass and Grandma reenters the kitchen. “Nothing.”

“Oh no?” Tim inquires. But it’s not an “Oh no,” meaning, “Tell me more,” so much as, “I’m obligated to inquire, but spare me the details as much as possible.”

“Just a couple little-” she indicates a small amount with her thumb and forefinger.

“Nuggets?” I finish the sentence.

“Yeah. Nuggets.” She agrees. That’s pretty funny.

So it didn’t work. All of that for nothing. And the next day, they’re going to have to do it again with the help of Sally, the nurse. Let her deal with it. I’m scarred. What was supposed to be an excuse to get me out of the house turned into a joke of cosmic proportions at my expense. Contemptible Prankster, you’ve won this round.



As I explain these happenings to my father, he delights, “You should turn that into a story.” When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Or in this case, cut them up and put them in a pitcher of margaritas. Maybe that will help mellow the sounds and images forever scarred into my brain. “What’s A-N-U-S?” That’s pretty funny.

Avoidance Learning

A few years ago, a coworker of mine and I were having a conversation about movies. It was a pretty light-hearted conversation, "Have you seen such and such movie?" "I have." "What'd you think?"

All that jazz.

Just the kind of easy-going water cooler banter that makes the day pass a little faster. Especially on a day when there's not a lot of work to do.

At some point, though, the movie conversation got weird.

"Have you seen Taken?"

"I have," I replied. "I just saw it the other day. I thought it was pretty good. I couldn't really picture Liam Neeson in an action movie, but I bought it."

"Oh my God. I loved it. I watched it by myself because my husband gets anxious about kidnappings, but I thought it was badass. Did you see The Taking of Pelham 123?"

Wait. What? I did see The Taking of Pelham 123, but what was that thing in there between the "I loved it" and the question? I kind of make a funny face, but ultimately decide not to get weird and press her on her husband's aversion to mainstream action movies.

"I did see that. I didn't really like it. But it was what it was. I've actually seen a lot of movies lately that I'm indifferent to."

"Oh yeah, like what?"

"The Road, The Book of Eli, The Lovely Bones. Meh. Meh. And big meh."

"I REFUSE to watch The Lovely Bones. REFUSE. I just can't handle stories like that."

Wait. What? I'm all for "it take all kinds," but that's a weird thing to say, right? Stories like what? The husband has an aversion to action films, and she's adamantly against ghost stories? I know this woman has a penchant for Adam Sandler movies, so I wasn't expecting her to be a movie nerd, but this is weird I think. Right? It's weird. I can't let it go.

"Stories like what? Ghost stories?"

"Anything that has to do with killing or molesting children or rape REALLY bothers me. It makes me sick that someone is out there writing stories like that."

Okay. It's confirmed. That's weird. Because that's an event that happens in the book/movie. But it's not a story about raping and murdering children. It's not a snuff film. If it were two hours of a 10-year old girl in a basement getting raped, that would REALLY bother me. But it's not. It's a 30-second scene where a terrible thing is alluded to, and then magical realism sets in and the dead girl reflects on how the lives of her loved ones change because of this horrible event.

I mean, I thought the movie was shitty. But only because it bored me and didn't really break any new ground for me. It didn't shed light on any Truths or challenge my thinking. It was just meh. But it wasn't offensive. And to be sickened that someone is out there writing a story about a terrible thing that actually happens? That kind of sickens me. Well, no, it doesn't sicken me. But it makes me sad.

If the author was at home fingering herself as she typed, "...and then the bad man became aroused as he thought of murdering the child..." and then at the end of each sentence drank a pint of baby's blood and drowned a kitten, that would be weird. That would be grounds for sickening. But that's not happening. At least I don't think it is. Alice Sebold seems like a reasonable person. Not a pervert.

I mean murder, rape, molestation, genocide, incest, etc.... These are things that happen. They're bad things. And I wish they didn't happen. And the fact that they happen makes me mad, sad, and disgusted. But acknowledging that they happen seems almost like, I don't know, an important thing. Right? Am I crazy?

Of course, I say none of this.

"Oh. What was the last Adam Sandler movie you saw?"

I then avoided talking about movies with that coworker ever again.

Recently, this came up for some reason with my sister. My sister has two kids. And we were talking movies. A synapse in my brain fired and I remembered this conversation.

"Oh man, how weird is this..." I then went on to recount this entire story to my sister. My thinking and my retelling of it was completely from an angle of, "You'll totally be on my side, and I'll be able to say all of the things that are in the above paragraphs about how this person is a weird. And you'll agree, because you're a thoughtful, reasonable human being who's not at all sheltered and weird."

Only my sister cuts me off as I'm getting into how the author isn't fingering herself and drinking blood.

"Kids, Lou. It's kids. I'm the same way. The thought of violence towards children just disgusts me."

"What the fuck are you talking about?! No one is advocating violence towards children! The husband wouldn't watch Taken because of a kidnapping! Taken! He saves her and kills the bad guys!"

"I know. I get what you're saying. But it happened to me. It's biological. Once you have a kid, something happens, and you can't watch that stuff anymore."

"But it's not even 'stuff.' These aren't even mildly challenging films we're talking about. It's not the Lord of the Flies and kids are killing each other for survival, and it's dark and it's weird. It's not Hostel where it's just an orgy of violence for no real reason. It's not even Sleepers, that shitty movie about the kids who get raped and then get vengeance and it's got heavy themes and shit."

"I know. But I can't watch Law and Order: SVU anymore because it sickens me."

"What the fuck are you talking about?!" The conversation ended with me getting mad at the world, and vowing to prove everyone wrong.

When my baby is born in eight weeks, I'm going to keep watching movies where kids are harmed. I might do it exclusively. If a child doesn't die, I'm not watching. I will not raise my child to believe in a fictional world where nothing bad happens, and no one has to think about anything challenging or disturbing. I will not teach my child to bury his/her head in the sand.

On this day, I put forth this proclamation to the world. If you ever hear me say anything along the lines of, "I can't watch movies like that, because the content matter disturbs me," I hereby give you permission, nay, I encourage you to kick me in the nuts.

Unless it's an Adam Sandler movie. It REALLY bothers me that someone out there is writing stuff like that.

"Those Chinese Have Done It Again"

Back in high school, I ran into a friend of mine as the 4th of July fireworks were coming to an end.

"Those Chinese have done it again!" he exclaimed, tongue planted firmly in cheek.

Every 4th of July, as I watch the fireworks, I'm reminded of that. It made me laugh. It's a funny statement, but it's also true. The Chinese invented fireworks. And for all I know, most of the fireworks we see every year are probably manufactured in China. I say that with absolutely no knowledge of where fireworks are manufactured.

But there is something about fireworks that still mystifies for me. Colored sparks in the sky, burning bright, and then they're gone. Watching them disintegrate into smoke. Watching that smoke hang in the air, and slowly drift in the wind until it disappears. Better yet, before it disappears, another firework goes off and my attention is stolen away from the smoke.

I've become jaded about a great many things. Cynicism often gets the best of me. And I'll be honest, last night when my wife wanted to go up to our roof to see the fireworks going off 360 degrees around us, all across Chicagoland, there was hesitancy in my mind.

Who cares. Seen it. It's just sparks. And on and on and on.

But I went to the roof. And the Chinese did it again. The fireworks took me back to being a kid. The first time I saw the fireworks, I was terrified. I thought of how we couldn't leave, because I was the youngest and it would have ruined it for my siblings. So I buried my head in my mom's lap, covered my ears, and probably cried until they ended, every once in a while working up the courage to look at the green explosions in the sky.

I thought about the next year, going with my younger cousin. This time I was the older kid to someone, and I watched him melt in fear and hysterics, while I watched every firework, guessing which color would come next.

Last night, it sunk in that my favorite thing about the fireworks is the distance between the sight and the sound. Every year, we witness this simple spectacle, and it's scientific law in action. I do not know how fireworks work. Some combination of chemicals add color. Gunpowder makes them blow up. I don't know. But I know that light moves faster than sound. And you can see the canister reach its peak in the sky, start to sink a little, then there's a flash of light. Moments after you see the colors begin to separate from each other, you hear the boom.

I don't know why, but it's really comforting to me. It's reassuring. There are laws of nature. And the boom will always come.

Fireworks have been around since the 7th century. People have been watching them light up the night sky for 1400 years. How many billions of people have stood under the darkness and watched in awe as the darkness gave way to the colors? How many different occasions have been celebrated? Revolutions. New years. Ends of wars. Baseball games.

It's a pretty amazing thing that fireworks are a constant. There aren't many constants across the world. Christmas has all kinds of different traditions from country to country. Rites of passage from childhood to adulthood differ from culture to culture, religion to religion, and place to place. Within a culture, things evolve over time.

The biggest hit song 200 years ago sounds absolutely nothing like the hit songs of today. But then, as now, some 4-year old boy buried his head in his mom's lap because he was terrified of the fireworks. Maybe he was okay with the flash, but scared of the boom. I don't know. But I do know that the boom always comes. And that's pretty cool.

The Increasingly Poor Decisions of Me

I recently accepted a job offer at a new company, so I will be leaving my current place of employment after seven years. I've got one week left to go, and I'm pretty stoked to be leaving. But at the same time, I've worked with my coworkers for a long time, so I thought I would try to go out with some style. Apparently, "go out with some style" in my world means "bring donuts to work." I don't know what it says about me that buying donuts is my version of a classy gesture, but I do know that I love long johns (vanilla).

So I drive an hour away to go to work, and when there's about one mile left to go, I pull into the Dunkin' Donuts drive through. (I'm now wrestling in my mind as to whether it's drive-thru or drive through. I think drive-thru is pretty stupid, but I also think I have seen that on actual drive throughs quite a bit. And I've officially spent too much time thinking about this.)

There's a line of cars in front of me, which is mildly frustrating. Despite my classy gestures and going out with style, I don't have it in me to show up on time for a job I'm leaving in a week. So the long line is going to make me more than the 30 minutes late that I already am. Were I not at Dunkin Donuts, this time in the drive through line would be dedicated to me hating myself while debating how much of a fatass I'm going to be on this trip.

Well, I definitely want two double decker tacos, because those are my favorite. But I'll need a third thing as well... It IS a Taco Bell slash KFC... Don't want the colonel to feel left out. Of course, I am really fat. And though the joy that all this food will bring me will be satisfying, it will probably leave me hating myself and feeling greasy pretty shortly thereafter. Maybe I'll just get a cheesy gordita crunch then. That won't be as bad as three chicken strips. It is less things. One gordita. Three strips.
Of course, my lunch is then going to be a series of not real food... double decker tacos? Cheesy gordita crunch? Fuck it, I'm getting the chicken strips. And three tacos. To balance it out.

At Dunkin Donuts, it's so much easier. I just have to say, "Give me a dozen donuts, mix them up. One extra vanilla long john. And a large coffee: black." End of transaction. Well, I have to pay still. But there's no debate between my fat voice and my self-respect voice.

The car in front of me pulls up, and I get closer to the little black box with the muffled voice. And I see a problem.

You see, this Dunkin Donuts is a Dunkin Donuts slash Baskin Robbins. This has never in my life been a problem for me. But on this day, there is a sign up next to the little black box:

"Small soft serve cone! 99 cents!"

And just like that, my sleepy morning has taken a wild turn.

FAT VOICE
Soft serve ice cream! What a great idea! I haven't had a soft serve ice cream cone since I was a little kid! It would be summertime at Ridgeland Commons, the swimming pool in Oak Park. My siblings and friends would all be there swimming in the summer heat. Even though it was probably only an hour or two, in my mind it always seemed like we were there for a gloriously long day of water games and jumping in. And when the day ended, I would wrap a towel around myself, put on my flip flops and beg my mom to buy me something from the concession stand: a soft serve ice cream cone. I should totally get one now. It's been so long!

SELF-RESPECT VOICE
You. Are. Fat.

FAT VOICE
Yeah, but nostalgia!

SRV
But nothing! But jelly rolls! You've got stretch marks on your love handles, you fat piece of shit!

FAT VOICE
Touche. But, it's 99 cents. It's going to be so small. It'll be just a little taste. Not even 100 calories.

SRV
You sit at a desk all day. You don't burn 100 calories in a day. Because your job requires you to do nothing.

Now at this point, I need to explain a little bit about this job that I'm leaving. It's true. I sit at a desk in a cubicle for 8 hours. I would get more exercise if I were working at a sleep clinic taking naps under observation. At least there I might work up a sweat while engaged in R.E.M. The most I exert myself in a day at the office is when I fart.

Beyond that, my job is such that I am required to make zero decisions. I never have to make a decision at work. I have a series of tasks that I need to accomplish. Each task is dictated by the result of some prior task. At no point is creative thought coming into play. Never do I need to debate the merits of one possibility versus another. My job is actually designed so that I do not need to make any decisions. Critical thought is discouraged.

This is a key piece of background to this story, because as I sit in line at the Dunkin Donuts drive through, I am actually facing the biggest decision I will make all day long. The effect of the decision of whether or not to buy the 99 cent ice cream cone will be felt all day. If I fuck this decision up, I'll have the rest of the day to think about it. At no point will I make another decision that will make up for or make me forget about a poor decision here.

FAT VOICE
But ice cream...

SRV
Look. I'm going to break this down. Fat is energy. Pure and simple. Right now you have massive amounts of energy reserves. And that can be a good thing. If you're going to get stuck in the desert and all you have is water, you'll tap into that energy. In which case, this ice cream cone would be a great idea. You'd be helping to build up your energy stores.

But you're not going to get stuck in the desert. You're going to a cubicle farm where you will sit in front of a computer and play sudoku online when no one's looking. And you're not going to go to the gym today. And you're not going to go for a run. And you don't need any more energy. Because you DON'T. DO. ANYTHING.

FAT VOICE
Okay. You win this round.

And a feeling of pride washes over me. It's weird. I've made the decision.

The car in front of me pulls forward, and I pull up next to the crappy stupid speaker. A muffled voice come out.

"Welcome to Dunkin Donuts, can I take your order?"

"Yes, I'd like a dozen donuts, just mix them up. And can I also get a vanilla long john as well. And a large coffee."

"Cream and sugar?"

"No, just black."

"So it's a dozen donuts, a long john, and a large coffee?"

"Right."

"Will that be all for you today?"

Shit. Will that be all for me today. That's where it all goes wrong, isn't it? When the stupid voice asks if that will be all. Are you sure? Nothing else? It's almost like the voice is implying that you haven't ordered enough.

"Will that be ALL? Really? That's it? We have lots of other things you could also be ordering, you know."

And I don't totally know how to describe it, but I guess I would say I was in a panic. I could literally feel my temperature rising as the fat voice reengaged my self respect. I momentarily forgot how to function, because I was so desperately battling myself in my mind. I wouldn't have been surprised if my ears started bleeding. It was nuts. And almost against my will, a voice rose up from within me and words spilled from my mouth...

"I'll also have the, uh, small soft serve ice cream cone as well, please."

SRV
FAT VOICE! Damn you! It's 9:30 in the morning!

FAT VOICE
I believe I've spoken. What's done is done. And this morning, we shall relive childhood in a tiny wafer-like cone.

The decision has been made, and I fucked it up. And I couldn't even embrace it. I'm sitting in my car waiting to get to the window to pay for my mistakes, and I'm just ashamed of myself. I had one decision to make, and I fucked it up.

So I pull up, after what seems like eternity, and the window opens. And there's some snotty little Northbrook/Deerfield high school kid with a shit-eating grin on his face. And when he opens the window, the first thing he does is look me over. Like he couldn't wait this whole time to see what fat asshole ordered the ice cream cone at 9:30 in the morning.

We exchange money, and he's smiling his acne-scarred smile the whole time. He hands me the box of donuts, then a bag with my long john and my coffee. I set them all on my passenger seat. Then, I shit you not, he puts one finger up in front of him, like he's saying to himself, "Oh yes, one more thing I nearly forgot about," smiling the whole time. He disappears from the window, and when he reappears, he's handing me a little soft serve ice cream cone.

He reaches out the window to hand it to me, and he says, "You're making great decisions on breakfast this morning, sir."

I started to hang my head, as I accepted my shame. But then I ultimately looked back up at him, shrugged, and said, "Yeah, well." And drove away.

I will say that I did enjoy the cone. Even though I hated myself afterwards. But more than I hated myself, I hated that I didn't have a better response to his comment. So as I replay my terrible decision over and over, I also replay that interaction.

He reaches out the window to hand it to me, and he says, "You're making great decisions on breakfast this morning, sir."

I reach out the window, accept the cone, look him dead in the eye, and respond, "I had pancakes for breakfast."

That Charles Darwin Is Full of Shit

I believe in the theory of evolution. Bold statement, I know. But I want to get that out of the way up front. Darwin makes sense to me. I also want to come right out and say that I make no claim of being an evolution expert. So much of what follows may be a complete and total misinterpretation of the theory of evolution, actual facts, and science in general. Having said that, I would really like to sit down and talk natural selection with old Chuck Darwin about flightless birds.

I don’t understand flightless birds. To be clear, I’m not talking about ostriches and penguins here—birds that can’t fly, but remain mobile. I’m talking specifically about worthless, immobile birds. And really not even all worthless, immobile birds. The chicken, for instance, I get. Chicken, you were probably mildly useless, but then were domesticated by humans. You were bred to be more worthless as animals, because we ruined you. But dodos? How could you have gotten so worthless?

Now before you go getting all explainy on me, I understand the evolutionary argument. The story goes like this: Birds that could fly landed on an island. There were no predators on the island. There was a whole lot of food on the island. The flying birds didn’t need to fly. And so they evolved into flightless, worthless pieces of shit.

But that’s crazy, right? Is it just me? In order for that to have happened, every bird, when faced with the choice between sex with an athlete and sex with a fatass, chose the fatass?

So the theory of evolution isn’t so much, “survival of the fittest.” But rather, “survival of the fittest, until survival isn’t a challenge, and then just become the laziest pieces of shit you can be”? Does that about sum it up Darwin?

Because it seems to me that’s the case. The dodo bird could fly, once upon a time. It certainly didn’t swim. And since it existed only on an island, Mauritius, off southeastern Africa, it must have flown to the island, right? Upon getting to the island, 4 million years ago, these flying birds noticed how much awesome food there was. Well, they probably didn’t consciously notice. Regardless, they began gorging themselves.

For 4 million years, the dodo had what I would describe as a food and fuck orgy on the island. They lived like Nero, or as I call him the orgy emperor. All of this I understand. Survival of the fittest doesn’t require you to be a puritan. But there’s still no disincentive to flying, right? I mean, if I could, I would totally fly. That would kick ass. Who wouldn’t choose the ability to fly when presented with that option?

I’ll take it a step further. If I met a woman who could fly, it would be “adios wife”!

“Sorry lady, I want my child to be a superhero. And right now, Flying Francesca is really my best shot at that possibility.”

“Yeah. I get it.” My wife responds understandingly. “If there was a dude who could fly, I’d totally be all about that.”

Flightless birds had that option! But their conversations (in bird language) went totally differently.

“Hey ladies, I know there’s a ton of food all over the ground, but check it out. There’s some apples up in the trees. And I can fly up there and get them.” Flying Frank the Dodo says, beating his chest a little.

Tubby Tommy, King of the Island, puts down an over-ripe apple that fell from the tree long enough to say, “There’s more sugar in the ones that fell already. Those ones up there are bullshit.”

“Yeah, you’re a show off Frank,” says Fat Francine. Then she turns around and gives Tubby Tommy a B.J. (beak job).

“Hey guys, what has two wings and doesn’t use ‘em? This guy!” Tommy says.

All of his friends in the orgy laugh in unison.

“Look at Frank. He’s expending energy unnecessarily!”

“What an asshole!”

The barrage of insults continues until Frank leads all of his flying friends back to Madagascar, where life is slightly more difficult, but where their biological makeup remains fundamentally sound.

Fast forward to the 16th century, when humans show up on Mauritius and within 100 years every single fat, stupid bird is eaten.

Right before getting clubbed to death, Tubby Tommy stares at his assailant and says drily, “Dear God, I have wasted my life.”

That scenario just doesn’t play out in the real world. Look at us. In the United States, no one goes hungry. (Incidentally, that’s kind of cool. We’re pretty fucked up with poverty, racial inequality, homelessness, etc. But you can’t really starve to death here.) There’s food a-plenty, always available at your local grocery store, food repository, or boutique foofy specialty store. And while we have become the fattest pieces of shit in the world, we still make fun of fat people! I have yet to see an 8-year old obese kid pick on somebody for running.

“Don’t you understand! You don’t need to do that!”

When I see that? It’s time to move to Madagascar.

Man of the House

My wife said the scariest thing to me last night. She used the phrase, "You're the man of the house." It's silly I know, but those six words (seven if you count the contraction as two) scared the shit out of me. The Man of the House? That's something that gets uttered in tragicomic movies about adolescence that's been cut short.

"Son, your daddy died in a terrible boating accident. It's just you, your momma, and your baby sister now. You're gonna need to step up, 'cause you're the man of the house now."

And for some reason, in my mind, the 12-year old receiving these instructions is a skinny black male in a tank top and dirty jeans.

"Yes, suh." He says.

What's scary about this isn't the weird racial association I've made between the "man of the house" and the 12-year old who's stepping into those shoes. I chalk that up to 1990s screenwriting. No, what's scary about it is that the 12-year old boy seems WAY more prepared for being the man of the house than I am!

To be fair, my wife was doing the laundry, when she made a verbal inquiry about when I'm going to hang a pot rack from the ceiling.

"Why is it me who has to do everything with the hanging and the hammers and the nails?"

"Hey, you're the man of the house."

(In point of fact, none of this actually happened. I just think it makes a nice introduction to my fears of being the man of the house. The honest introduction would be...

I was sitting on the couch the other day...

Nope. I went astray. The honest introduction would be...

So I'm sitting on the couch, and a scary thought occurred to me. I'm the man of the house...

But that's not a very fun introduction.)

With a child on the way, the man of the house suddenly takes on a whole new level of importance. And it raises questions. Most significantly: What are the responsibilities of the Man of the House?

I think back to all of the times that I was a young child, screaming in the night because I'd had a nightmare. Michael Myers was going to kill me. Jason Voorhees was underneath my bed and he was going to impale me from underneath the mattress with the sharpened end of a pipe. (As the youngest of four, I watched Halloween when I was six. My nightmares were frequent and vivid.)

And there would be my father. The Man of the House. He would reassure me that Michael Myers would never harm me. He'd never let a crazy killer get into the house in the first place. I would protest.

"But what if he did? He could come in the front room window. He'd just have to break the window!" (It was a big window on the porch. So you could walk right up, smash it, and walk in.)

"I would hear it first. And he'd have to get through me!" My dad would reassure me.

And that worked. My father was invincible. I'd seen the man hammer nails! He built a shed with his own two hands. Hell, he built the entire house! When my biggest nemesis, my brother, punched me, my father restrained him like it was nothing! The biggest bully, the most pain I'd ever felt, had been routinely prevented by my father. Surely this man was impenetrable!

But in hindsight, my brother was a 12-year old. Lots of people hammer nails. And if Michael Myers walked into the living room through the front room window, and my dad got there to stop him, Michael Myers would have destroyed my father. We're talking about a guy who's been in over 10 movies now murdering at will! He's been shot with shotgun shells, revolvers, hacked with knives, stabbed in the neck with a coat hanger, and he still dominates people like they're ragdolls. My father is a powerful guy, but come on.

I go to the gym a few times a week. I'm pretty strong by people who don't go to the gym standards. But at the gym, I am a little bitch.

"Oh yeah, I'm feeling a burn. Yeah, my muscles are getting worked! I love it!" I say to a trainer as I curl a 25 pound dumbbell. "I'm a big man!" Then I look to my left, where a woman who's six inches shorter than my 5' 7" miniature self is squatting 300 lbs, racking it, and telling jokes to her buddy.

To be fair, this woman is a freak. Not because she's a powerful woman. Hats off to her. She's a freak because anyone who is 5' 1" squatting 300 pounds and telling jokes like it’s nothing is a freak to me. In a cool way. She just happens to have a vagina.

So I'm not powerful. I can't take Michael Myers. And it occurs to me that my father would have said anything to soothe his offspring.

“I won’t let anyone murder you in your sleep.” Lies!

“Of course there’s an Easter Bunny.” More lies!

“If you keep making that face, it’s going to stay like that forever!” Scarring lies!

Is this the true responsibility of the Man of the House? Is this my destiny? I have dreamed a dream of living a life of total honesty.

"Daddy! What if a strange murderer like I heard about on the news wants to murder me in my bed while I'm sleeping?!"

"Well, chances are that if someone wants to murder you badly enough that they'll break into our condominium building, choose our floor, break into our unit, and find your bedroom to murder you, there's really not a lot I'll be able to do to prevent it. That kind of will is not likely going to be deterred sweetheart.

"On the other hand, chances of someone wanting to do that are very low. Sleep tight! Love you!"

Knowing the probability of a child murderer coming in the night is next to zero, it's a harmless lie. (Plus, if it does happen, the kid won’t be around to call me on it!) A necessary lie? Maybe. As the Man of the House, I see that my desire to always be honest with my children is going to be at odds with my need to sleep.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe the responsibility of being the Man of the House isn’t necessarily to protect your family. It isn’t that I actually have to prevent child murder. I just have to maintain the illusion that I can.

“Yes son, the world is a wonderful mystical place filled with fairies who pay you for your teeth! And bunnies who reward you with chocolate because Jesus 2,000 years ago! And a jolly fat man with presents too! And no…” I shake my head reassuringly, “nobody’s going to murder you.”

“Everything’s going to be fine.”

And it will be.