Green Acres Is The Place To Be...

Here I sit on the LIRR, knees pressed against the back of the seat in front of me. Usually women sit like this or teenage girls. Business men sit upright, drinking beer and reading the Wall Street Journal. 

Doesn't anybody know that the news is forever a day late and a dollar short? 

Kids press their noses against the mucky windows and prop their gum laden sneakers on the faux leather. 

Some commuters sleep.

I don't know why but I've never been able to sleep on the train.

Sitting with my knees up is comfortable but only for a few minutes at a time. 

I have old knees. Old like Brian Dennehy old, not like George Burns old. So, I shift back and forth, up and down and an inch here and there. Seems like a lot of work but it's a hard habit to break.

I love the 5:40 train. Especially during the spring time. 

For the most part, the sun is at our back. Sometimes it peers through the windows from the South West, a subtle reminder that the day's not over until the sun calls it.

The train gives me time alone to review my day. 

Was I fair? Was I kind? Was I selfish? Did I lose my temper? Did I listen? Did I judge? Did I hold the door for someone? 

How can I be better? Tomorrow I will have the opportunity to make adjustments. I can always make adjustments.

The train passes things on the way to anywhere. Trains are forever passing things.

That's what trains do. 

We pass Green Acres Mall and I think of my grandma and grandpa. They used to take me there when I was a kid.

My grandpa isn't around anymore but it's easy to conjure up his image. 

I see an overly generic mesh baseball cap bought at the 5 & 10. I reminisce with the dancing mouse he'd make from a table napkin. I can taste the salt on the cashews and walnuts that sat in the marble dish. I hear the fizz of seltzer, freshly dispensed from an old fashioned blue glass bottle, fully equipped with trigger. I smell his Brut by Fabergé and I manage a half smile. 

Small gifts, courtesy of the 5:40.

Perhaps this is why I don't sleep on the train. 

In order to receive the gifts, you need to keep your eyes open.

Always remember to keep your eyes open.

The Flying Shit Can...

If I really had any nuts at all, if I really wanted to be profound, I would have just hit the publish button right after I typed the title, "The Flying Shit Can..."

But I can't contain myself.

I am flying in a 130,000 lb shit can.

American Airlines, you can suck a bag of dicks sour pickles.

Why?

Because this plane sucks.

It sucks in so many ways that it's hard to narrow it down. But let me give it a shot.

1. The interior of the plane smells like a foot. It smells like a foot that stepped in shit. It smells like a foot that stepped in shit, then stepped in roasted vegetables and then stepped in shit again.

2. The plane is so crowded that I'm sitting with my jacket on my lap. This wouldn't be so bad if I didn't already have my bag on my lap. Which wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have my laptop on my bag on my jacket on my lap. 

3. The television monitors hanging from the ceiling are square. There are 7 of them. Every last one of them is in the shape of a God damn square. Nobody makes fucking square televisions anymore. This means your televisions are old. Really old. Older than both of my daughters put together.Which means your plane is old. If I had to guess, and by guess I mean I've already googled it, I'd say the plane is about 15 years old. This scares the piss out of me. If you don't care enough to replace your old, square televisions with new, rectangular televisions then what does the inside of the plane look like? And by "inside" I mean the important shit, like propellers or ball bearings or what ever the fucking technical plane terms are. At least humor us and get the rectangular televisions and lie about the other stuff. Jesus.

4. The fat, native American lady laying on me is snoring and drooling on me. I think she might be dead. This is not your fault but it's driving me insane. Maybe she's the one that smells like a foot that stepped in shit that stepped in roasted vegetables and stepped in shit again. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt but if she doesn't step off, I'm gonna knee her in the uterus.

Warning: Only Jews need read #5 or non-Jews that speak or understand Jewy things. 

5. My tray is broken and my seat doesn't recline. That in all other nights some eat sitting and others reclining. On this night we are all reclining? I guess not.  Ma Nishtana Muthafucka!

It also bothered me that your safety video warned me to NEVER inflate my life vest while on the plane. When the fuck am I supposed to inflate it? Do I blow into the little red tube when I'm flying through the sky, strapped to my seat with my ass on fire? Or shall I inflate it while submerged in the freezing cold ocean with poop in my pants and a fucking hammerhead shark gnawing on my kidney? Get back to me as soon as possible.

I have broken all of the cosmic laws of Karma by writing this post. It would be ironic and yet fitting if I were to publish this to the web and then minutes later come crashing down in this flying shit can in a fiery blaze.

At this point I don't give a crap. Either way I'm taking the native American woman with me.

Look for us on the morning news. 

American Airlines Flight 336.

My Birthday Reflections On Life And Death; A Plethora Of (Six) Haiku.

Frozen dog shit steams

One less tissue is wasted
Evidence of God

Unavoidable
Red Velvet beacon of light
Death and Life collide

Outback Steakhouse calls
Slaughtered steer sing like sirens
Happy Birthday Me

Sony Dream Machine
Dog lovingly licks my shin
The morning sun waits

Rare seat on the train
Abe Lincoln versus Zombies
Transit nirvana

Vagina spews life

Bloody demise of pigeon
Particles whirling

Stuck Together At 30,000 Feet.

I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to have sex with my wife in an airplane bathroom.

At first, the thought of it seems quite steamy but it's fleeting at best.

I think escapades such as this are best reserved for people like Rebecca De Mornay back when she was stealing glass eggs or Mickey Rourke before he metamorphosed into a bloated and rubbery abomination of himself.

I am not judging people who have, or plan to copulate in a flying toilet. As a matter of fact, I respect their zest for adventure.

I am not a germaphobe by any means.

I have eaten unrefrigerated, three day old spaghetti and meat sauce straight from the pot. I have I have defecated in the Penn Station restrooms. I have consumed sushi on a Monday God dammit!

But there is something about the airplane water closet that sucks the sexiness right out of me.

Maybe it's the close quarters. To begin with, it's tiny and awkward. I can't even urinate without hitting my noggin. I would not want to put myself or my wife at risk of sustaining head trauma.

Maybe it's the turbulence. At my age, I make it a point not to engage in any activity that can make me dead. Even worse, I could break my Johnson. I'm sure that's possible. Hell, the door could fly open and expose us to first class. First class hates when commoners use their restroom. Especially for whoopee and such.

What if there was an emergency and the plane were to fall from the sky in a fiery heap?

Have you seen the movie "Alive"?

Do you remember when the fuselage split apart and people were being sucked out the back of the plane, strapped to their seats? I don't want to fly out the back of a plane, stuck to my wife, with her yelling at me in free fall, my Luckys twisted around my ankles.

This would not be a dignified way to die.

Oh and it smells like minty piss. Yankee Candle does not make products that smell like minty piss. There is a good reason for that.

People are meant to make love on velvet sofas or picnic blankets. Carnal Knowledge is best experienced in romantic places like Best Westerns or your mother's basement.

Call this prudish gentleman me old fashioned but it's not for me.

Unless of course I was married to Rebecca De Mornay.

Where The Dick Is Supposed To Be...

For almost five years, I've been "writing" this blog.

It is called Out-Numbered and it was aptly named.

I am a man. I have a wife and two daughters. I live with them in a house. I am outnumbered.

The reason for the brief history is because over the past few years the dynamic of my family has slowly changed.

Balance.

About three years ago we welcomed a special needs lizard into our home. He is paralyzed from the waist down. At the time, the vet said that the prognosis was not good. My daughter cried.

Today he eats, he climbs and he shits on newspaper just like my two daughters. The only difference is that my daughters don't shit on newspaper.

His name is Cookie Monster and he is a boy.

I am almost positive he is a boy. It's hard to tell. He has some circle things where his dick is supposed to be. The interwebz says that means he's a boy.

Granted, a boy with no dick but I'll take it!

He has an incredible will to live and he has taught my family a great many things. Caring for a special needs lizard is no small task. He has to be hand fed, bathed and quite often moved from spot to spot in order to make it easier on his fragile body but we wouldn't trade him for anything in the world.

Cookie Monster is a miracle.

About two months ago we welcomed a four month old puppy into our home.

He is healthy, happy and he shits in the yard just like my two daughters. The only difference is that my daughters don't shit in the yard yet.

His name is Cody and he is a boy.

I am positive he is a boy. It's as clear as day. He has a little doggie dick right where it's supposed to be and he spends a good portion of his day humping a furry pillow. It reminds me of when I was a teenager.

This dog has completely changed our lives.

There is more joy in the house. There is less yelling, less stress and my wife is sounding like a mental patient again filled to the brim with love and affection. It spews out of her like hot magma in sentiments like, "hello poochie magoochie" and "hello puppy wiggles".

Doggie Goo Goo Ga Ga.

It's like having a baby all over again and it feels nice.

Have you ever stared into the eyes of a puppy? It can be a very spiritual experience. It's like he knows what I'm thinking. He doesn't judge me. He has no expectations. His love is completely unconditional.

Spiritual people might say that about God.

I've heard people say that they can feel God's presence in their dog.

That always sounded melodramatic to me but I'm thirsty so I'm taking small swigs of the Kool-Aid.

DOG

OGD

DGO

GOD

There are only three letters to work with and only so many combinations.

Whether it's true or not, I now have balance in my home.

Three vaginas and two and a half dicks living together in not so perfect harmony.

Progress not perfection.

I'll take it.

Puppy Parts And A Fear Of Dying Part Two...

And then there is death...

My oldest daughter is turning ten this week.

She is pretty and smart and fragile and strong. She is an open book. She is a puzzle with a million pieces. She is an old soul tethered to a dark past. She is a bright light shining through a gray sky. She is inexplicably unique yet she is exactly like me.

Oldest: "Daddy?"

Me: "Yes baby."

Oldest: "I don't want to turn ten."

Me: "How come?"

Oldest: "I just don't want to."

Me: "But it wouldn't be any fun staying 9 forever, would it?"

Oldest: "I don't care."

Me: "Don't you want to do all the things you can do when you get older?

Oldest: "Like what?"

Me: "Well you can drive. You can go to the mall on your own and with your friends. You can fall in love. All kinds of great stuff."

Oldest: "I don't want to get married and I don't want to have kids or grand kids."

Me: "Wait a second. I want grand kids."

Oldest: "Stop it daddy. I'm being serious."

Me: "Baby what's wrong? Talk to me."

Oldest: "I don't want to get old."

Me: "Baby, ten isn't old."

Oldest: "Yes it is. When I turn ten I'll be half of twenty and when I'm twenty I'll be half of forty and when I'm forty I'll be half of sixty."

Me: "Sweetheart, half of sixty isn't forty. It's thirty."

Oldest: "You know what I mean daddy."

Me: "I'm teasing. Baby, what are you afraid of?"

Oldest: "I don't want to die."

She starts to cry. 

Every time she cries over the real stuff my soul tears just a little bit. I don't mean stuff like losing a bracelet or messing up her homework. I mean the kind of stuff that can make you grow or the kind of stuff that can break your spirit. It's such a fine line. I feel like my job as a dad is to make sure the latter doesn't happen. I have to try and spot her on the balance beam of life. But I know that's impossible. No one has that kind of power. Not even a dad.

Me: "Hey, you have a long way to go before you die. I hope we both do."

Oldest: "But what if we don't?"

Me: "I try not to worry about that stuff pal. It's not up to me."

Oldest: "Are you too old to have a ten year old?"

Me: "I don't feel old."

Oldest: "No. Are you old for having a ten year old?"

Me: "I don't think so. People that are a lot older than me have ten year old kids."

Shit. She's afraid that I'm going to die too. Tear...

Oldest: "Are you afraid to die?"

Me: "Maybe a little. It's normal to be afraid of dying. When I was a kid I felt the same way. I think we only get afraid because we don't know what's going to happen to us."

Oldest: "I guess so. I wish only bad people had to die and good people could live forever."

Me: "I hear ya but that's not the way it works."

Oldest: "I don't think I want to talk about this anymore."

Me: "That's OK. Thanks for telling me how you feel baby. It means a lot to me that you can talk to me about this stuff. It helps me."

Oldest: "Why?"

Me: "It just does. You're a good kid. I love you."

Oldest: "Can we get frozen yogurt?"

Me: "I'll ask mommy."

Puppy Parts And A Fear Of Dying Part One...

My daughters are so beautifully simple and yet complicated at the same time.

The way they look through me. The way they walk from the house to the car. The way they brush their hair after a bath.

Everything about them makes me wonder how on earth I could have had anything to do with any of their inherent goodness.

Sometimes it makes me laugh out loud and sometimes it takes all of my will to hold back the tears.

My wife and I made the decision to adopt a puppy a few weeks ago. It was a surprise to the kids.
For obvious reasons, my only condition was that the puppy had to be a boy.

The other day, my little one asked me where the puppy's penis was. I pointed at it.

Little one: "That doesn't look like a penis."

Me: "Well, that's what a doggy penis looks like."

Little one: "It's hairy."

Me: "Sure is."

Little one: "Why is it so hairy?"

Me: "Because dogs are hairy, so their penises are hairy."

Little one: "But you're hairy?"

Me: "Not that hairy."

Little one: "Where are his peanuts?"

Me: "His what?"

Little one: "His peanuts."

Me: "You mean his testicles?"

Little one: "What are tensicles?"

Me: "Testicles. It's another name for his peanuts."

Little one: "Where are they?"

Me:  (pointing) "Right over here."

Little one: "Can I touch them?"

Me: "No way."

Little one: "Why?"

Me: "Because you can't go around touching people's testicles."

Little one: "But he's not a person. He's a dog."

Me: "You know what I mean. You can't touch them."

Little one: "Why are his tentacles so far away from his penis?"

Me: "Testicles sweetheart. They are called testicles."

Little one: "Why are they so far away?"

Me: "I'm not sure. That's just they way they are."

Little one: "They're so small."

Me: "That's because he's a puppy."

Little one: "Where's his butthole?"

Me: (maneuvering the puppy) "Right back there."

Little one: "Eeww it's hairy."

Me: "Yes. It's really hairy."

Little one: "Can I have a snack?"

Me: "Absolutely."