What is spring break? Looking at the words alone implies stopping when spring comes, taking a rest from the busy things you normally do. You wouldn’t think it actually means speeding up to do thousands of things for thousands of dollars.

But if you take spring break to New York City, that’s exactly what it means. It’s a five-day, whirlwind, wallet-exploding adventure on taxis and trains, boats and planes, sidewalks and crosswalks, escalators and elevators. Even the walks—brisk ones through parks, fast ones over avenues, long ones across the island—are taxing and purposeful. It’s not a spring break. It’s a brakeless trip made possible by broken piggy banks. And it’s a crapload of fun.

Hello, New York

We flew into JFK Saturday afternoon, a dreary and stormy day casting doubt on what we could do. Our cab driver was a friendly fellow from Bangladesh, who told me about his journey to become a U.S. citizen. He commented on how the U.S. is unique in its support for helping immigrants into the country, compared to other parts of the world. It was interesting this was his experience and it made me thankful I never had to worry about living in a great country.

We stayed at a cozy yet satisfying hotel in Chelsea, with our room facing southward and offering a view of One World Trade Center. We dropped our stuff and made our way to Empire Diner, joining a bustling lunch crowd to tasty soups and sandwiches. As we stepped outside the overcast skies became clear and sunny, and we headed toward Hudson Yards on the High Line, our destination being the Edge, a 1,200 ft. skyscraper with an outdoor deck and glass floor. Disappointingly the sky deck was closed due to severe wind conditions. We had to make a choice to transfer to another day or go up with the chance they could open the deck back up. Given there was nothing else planned and the fam was given me the “better do something soon, in-charge man” vibes, we opted to go up. 

The clear day afforded us remarkable 360-degree views of the city. We were about to leave when we saw two staff members go outside with a wind meter. I was hoping and praying they’d let us out there. But as I was, I realized how fortunate I was to be up there in the first place. The fact that I lived in the year 2023 and could go to the top of a skyscraper to see such views was a gift in itself. They didn’t open the deck, but it was well with my soul.

Once that fun was over there became an unexpectedly urgent need for a hot dog. We found a nearby stand and did our first very New York thing: eating a sloppy hot dog on a bench with pigeons on standby for our crumbs. That was enough for the day. We’d need to conserve energy for the next.

American Museum of Natural History, Midtown, and Times Square

The plan on Sunday was to walk down to Washington Square for a bagel (20 minutes, come on people, that’s not so bad). Not so bad if you have man legs and don’t mind 35-degree wind whipping at your face. We made it 3/4 of the way, I took a wrong turn, and it was game over on that plan. New plan was find the nearest cafe for something warm. My tax for imposing a thoughtless, cold-weather-dad walk was a pair of four-dollar hot chocolates. The stop at Partners Coffee Shop in the Village was worth it. Alas, we needed an activity where we could be indoors, so we shifted gears and took a subway to the American Museum of Natural History. I love this part of Manhattan, the open, Central Park West area, home to trees, big streets, amazing buildings, and more hot dogs. We arrived at the museum, though not at its entrance, which was a decent walk from the subway. I didn’t realize how big this building was. There must be more stuff in there than I thought, I thought. 

Indeed, AMNH is a gargantuan museum. It’s five stories tall and covers the entire natural history of the universe. As a grown, introverted man not much would give me more pleasure than transporting my mind to civilizations that lived thousands of years ago or geeking out on the evolution of sauropod feet in the Jurassic era. Yet my crew doesn’t share this affinity for museum deep dives. They’re largely content to have a gander at a gander but not read about its complex migrational habits.

So the day’s mentality had to shift from “read stuff” to “look at stuff.” From “that’s interesting the megalodon had no cerebral cortex” to ” ‘dem bones were cool.” The fam did let me read some stuff, I just had to jog through exhibits to catch back up with them. Truly, we loved the experience and it really captured our wonder. Learning about natural history reminds me of how small I am, a tiny, almost insignificant speck in time and space. Yet that time and space is so majestically designed, so diverse and vast, so miraculously held together by the great Invisible. And that we tiny homo sapiens are significant and can actually do outstanding things.

From the museum we strolled Central Park, walked up to Belvedere Castle, and took a cab into Midtown. Hudson treated the Nike and NBA stores much like I did the AMNH, gawking at slick duds and memorabilia. Ella enjoyed the American Girl Doll Store, essentially a paradise for doll babies and their kid mommies.

When in NYC, you have to go to Times Square at night, right? Probably not, unless your kids haven’t experienced it, and then you just have to venture into all that fluorescent, commercialized cacophony. We arrived to street performers doing unimpressive things and people selling very expensive junk. We got a pie at Joe’s Pizza, a very New York experience. It was like standing, waiting, ordering, and eating a pizza with a crowd of people in an Amazon box. While having to pee. Thankfully we hustled our way into a nearby hotel and enjoyed their lavatorious spoils. When you pee semi-legally in Times Square, you’ve won.

World Trade Center and Statue of Liberty

The next day we subwayed to lower Manhattan and started walking the grounds of the World Trade Center. I hadn’t seen it since it was nothing but a cleaned-out crater ~10 years ago. The area is beautiful and the memorial was moving. It’s really an impressive tribute to such a world-altering tragedy.

The rest of the day was spent at Liberty Island and Ellis Island. The whole thing is an incredibly efficient New York operation. Getting hundreds of people onto a boat in mere minutes is the stuff Old West cattle herders would admire. The story of the Statue of Liberty was rich and intriguing and being up close to the monument was awe-inspiring. It was a picturesque day that gave us incredible views of Manhattan. Definitely a highlight of the trip. We also went to Ellis Island, also rich in history and something I’d love to do a deep tour of one day. But on this day the kids had museumed enough and could only stare at so many old pictures and glass-encased frock coats.

We returned to Battery Island and took a cab up to Midtown for dinner. Definitely the most interesting cab ride of the trip. I asked the guy how his day was, he said “good,” and then it was quiet for 15 minutes. Quiet inside the cab, that is. Outside was honking and sirens and bystanders gasping at near-death crosswalk encounters. Toward the end of the ride the cabby and I actually bonded over a very “I don’t give a damn” driving moment in front of us. It was sweet in a we-don’t-really-understand-each-other-but-we’re-trying-to-in-New-York kinda way. We enjoyed a tasty dinner at Javelina. It’s basically a Mexican restaurant that costs $125. New York wins again but I still felt like we won, too. The day ended with checking out the Harry Potter store and a nightcap of butterbeer.

Culture and couture – Midtown and Broadway

Tuesday was full of walking and visiting landmarks. Madison Square Garden, the New York Public Library, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Rockafeller Center, and boutiques and megastores in between. That afternoon, we thought we’d visit a few Broadway box offices and see if there were any tickets for the night’s performances. First we stopped at Wicked. There was only one group of four tickets left and I decided to not pull the trigger so we could visit a couple more places. So we walked briskly to Hamilton, which had one ticket left. But we saw Thayne Jasperson, a cast member, exit the theater on his bike, which made Ella’s day.

Then we hustled back to Wicked, with me saying little prayers like “if those tickets are still there, Lord, I know it would brighten my daughter’s day, but if not, I trust your will in me not dropping 500 bones on a play.” When we arrived, two of the tickets were still there–with another two in the very front row for the same price. One of those moments where you just gotta splurge. So we went back to the hotel to freshen up, had a nice Italian dinner at Chelsea’s Zia Maria, took a subway back to Broadway (which featured the train getting stuck for ten agonizing minutes followed by a healthy rat greeting us as the doors opened), and made it just in time for the show.

On our last day we visited Chelsea Market and indulged in various tasty treats, a taste of New York if you will. It was a great way to end the trip.

What New York is like

What can I say about New York? Perhaps I’ll try with how it appealed to my senses.

New York smells like marijuana. When you leave your hotel, when you step off the subway, when you walk into a park. Early in the morning, too, New Yorkers are consuming it like a cup of coffee. But really, NYC is full of smells. You pass through the stench of sewer fog to enter a bakery redolent of fine butter and the sweetest creams.

New York sounds like horns and talking. But there’s so much of that, it becomes white noise. It’s my family’s laughter I’ll remember hearing most.

New York tastes delicious. Food is good everywhere. It has to be because there’s so much competition, such high rental costs, such diversity in cuisines. Restaurants and cafes have to bring it, and we enjoyed the spoils.

New York looks huge, impressive, monolithic, dingy, and picturesque all at once. You walk by a building you’d surmise criminals or ghosts had been living in with the next one having a 200-year-old gothic design.

And New York feels like cold wind whipping between buildings to hot sun reflecting off of them. It feels like you’re in a metropolis that goes on forever. It feels like a great city in modern civilization, and it is.

We’ll always remember and be thankful for our amazing trip there.

Life—all life—is precious. I’ve treasured this truth steadily more over the years. It’s taken me from my aggressive youth of smashing countless caterpillars upon an oak trunk, or waylaying helpless fireflies into gold dust with a tennis racket, to my enlightened (perhaps) adulthood of trapping bugs and taking them outside.

I’d like to think my high-falutin philosophy of life held true for all creatures. For if it didn’t, I’d invite the risk of being labeled a hypocrite—nay, worse, a ruthless Darwinian who picked and chose my victims based on their size and value to me.

And therein lies the rub, for not all bugs are created equal. Some are worthy of our greatest efforts of salvation, while some I’m content to damn to the deepest depths of my toilet bowl.

With that I permit myself to determine the destinies of these invertebrates like Caesar in the Colosseum with an outstretched arm and wavering thumb.

Live and let live

Ladybugs

Good golly if you kill one of these you have no soul. What is it about polka dots and teeny legs that transforms insect repulsion into grins and giggles? A litmus test for hexapod hanging is if the bug has a costume for babies, you shouldn’t kill it.

Crickets

They’re hoppers, not crawlers. Does that not add to the no-kill quotient? And it’s hard to think of this critter without a monocle and cane telling a boy that a dream is a wish his heart makes. How can you squash a dream weaver? You can’t, though they do make excellent fishing bait. Still, have fun catching it with the kids and taking it safely outdoors.

Butterflies

How did a butterfly get into your house anyway? Rejoice and just let that sucker enjoy the space, cuz who doesn’t love to watch its beautiful fluttering? Who can’t help but pause and wonder at its motions? Dogs, that’s who. Trap the monarch and release before nature clashes.

Use your best judgment

Spiders

Some of us respond to a spider in our house as if it’s a KGB operative. It snuck in from some crevice unannounced and is three seconds from killing us. We forget in these moments we’re roughly 76 times a spider’s size. If their eight eyes can see anything, they’re convinced they’re done for and would love nothing more than to exit back through the crevice. Most spiders can be gathered in a tissue ball and dropped outside. Unless it’s really hairy, fast, or looks like it dropped into your crib from the Amazon rainforest. Then you should find your biggest boot and pound it before it crawls onto your face and you eat it while sleeping. (Hey, “they” say that happens eight times in your life, so just know I’m not being provocative here.)

Seek and destroy

Woolly boogers

There’s not really a better name for those hairy fellas with 36 legs that scoot across your living room floor. Just like you’d handle any booger, that thing belongs in a tissue and a toilet, pronto.

Cockroaches

They’ve survived natural disasters, nuclear wars, and ages where other species were entirely annihilated. Somehow they’re designed not to die. Yet the sight of one fills us with such murderous rampage, we have to check if we care for living things at all. But then we justify that a cockroach isn’t really a living thing. It’s a filthy, brown-armored terrorist tank that will require the heaviest tome in the room to exterminate. Usually that won’t even do the job. We stomp the book over and over, jar it around to squish every angle, yet inexplicably and inevitably that sucker’s legs are still twitching like it’s training to scale a landfill. Even as you flush its carcass down the toilet, it’s in fact not a carcass but seemingly a slightly handicapped invertebrate swirling to its next adventure. All said I’d bet even the kindest entomologist would be keen to send this dastardly critter to an eternal abyss. So should you.

Mosquitoes

There’s no bug on the planet that makes life so miserable. Not only are they annoying blood suckers, they kill more people than any other animal. Murderous menaces. Is there any animal on earth we’re so immediately ready to kill with zero conscience? We feel its bite and simultaneously smash it to pieces. As soon as we realize it exists we end its life violently. Its parting gift to us is at best an itchy bump and at worst a life-threatening disease. Its contribution to civilization is death for itself and others. When you piece it all together, mosquitoes are pretty much Satan’s demons and must be dealt with mercilessly. That’s why they hold the dubious top spot of the bug most worthy of death.

Well, now you know what happens to bugs in my home. So what happens to bugs in yours?

I turned 40 in December. It was actually hard typing that, I literally felt a tweak in my carpel tunnel. 

It’s possible some of you are worried about me, that this roll over the hill may have caused me some emotional trauma and existential burden that’s rendered me swaying back and forth clenching a teddy bear in the corner of my office. 

But I’m OK. Quite well, in fact. And I wanted to fill you in on what 40 is like. 

Lawyers

I have two lawyers right now. That’s so stupid. Lawyers are for people who commit a complicated murder and almost get away with it on Law and Order. But not for me. I live by the law. I’m afraid of doing anything wrong. A great triumph for my family would be to not land myself in jail and be a decent warm body for the remainder of my life. So I shouldn’t need a lawyer. 

But I am getting older, which means I have to think about dying and keeping the government from getting all up in my property. So I have an estate attorney for setting up my will and an eminent domain attorney for helping us settle a road widening project running through our backyard. 

Forty equals two lawyers. Forty is spending lots of money to ensure excrement doesn’t fly into the fan of life. 

Hair

I also have to spend money on my hair. I don’t want to. I got spoiled during the pandemic having my wife give me free haircuts in our garage. Results varied. Not Dani’s fault, she’s a novice clipper working with a struggling head of hair. 

But my barber budget went to bupkis. That was 20 bucks more a month I could spend on necessities like gasoline and cheese. 

Dani’s first garage cut was a true COVID cut. Nothing more than a perfunctory hair hack you’d endure checking into a prison camp. It didn’t matter. The only people who’d see it were your family and in-public quarantine randos who couldn’t tell who you were anyway because of your mask. It wasn’t a bad time for people who don’t care about hair. 

But Dani endeavored to up her game and give something semi-pro-grade. There were OK cuts and not-so-OK cuts, but no matter what, the hair only grew back so much. And when it did, it grew back in non-uniform ways, like sprouting weeds curling upon an untreated lawn. Like my lawn, actually!

Now that we’re back to being a society where people see each other’s heads—and me going back to work—I had to enlist a pro. Not just any pro. I’m used to bargain cuts from folks who probably got their cosmetology license watching YouTube videos. I needed someone who could look at my head and make magic. Like unbalding me. 

A tall task, but the barber’s solution was sound. Cut it really damn short. Not military grade but not far off either. A little more money, but worth it, I think. And now I need to keep it short to keep it looking OK, which means an expensive haircut every three weeks instead of a cheap one every six. 

Health

Everybody says 40 is the age when things begin hurting. Parts you always counted on start to literally crack under pressure. Your body subversively decides you need to pay for all the time you took off focusing on basic healthcare. 

So to feel better about ourselves and remind the body that we care, we get a physical. I hadn’t had one in a decade, probably because I’ve been concerning myself with keeping my own children alive. But enough of the children, I’m 40 and I deserve some self-care. 

I’m thankful and fortunate I haven’t spent much time in doctor’s offices. I didn’t know what to expect of my visit, whether I’d need to strip down and wear a hanky-thin gown or if I’d just be having conversations about regular medications and earwax buildup. Thankfully it was more of the latter, and also thankfully my earwax buildup is next to nil, quite a feat for such a prolific earplug wearer as I. That reminds me another 40 thing is adding the earplug value carton to my Amazon cart. And…done. 

But the physical went well. It was more of a “social,” just an interview of my health problems (I eat too many Cheez-It’s) and health concerns (I don’t stretch my groin like I used to and what if end up in a chase sequence and have to sprint and jump without warning?) Good news is I’m healthy as a horse—that is—the kind eating grass in the pasture and not the war-torn steed smoking cigarettes in the ice bath. I feel for that guy. 

Maybe that’s what 50 is like. 

The hot shave. Not a particularly helpful moniker if you’re trying to unlock its mystery. Cold shaves are only a thing for the masochistic few. Even with just plain shaves there’s an expectation of some heat to open the pores and shear them whiskers. Indeed, we’ve evolved from the cowboy countenance care of water and a Bowie knife.

But to some degree we’ve evolved too far. When I was a young man, I wasn’t introduced to a hot shave, but a cheap Bic razor and a Barbosol can. Shaving became utilitarian, jettisoning any possibility of relaxation or facial appreciation for the man.

The hot shave returns a man to simpler times. Prior to being shaved, a hot towel is wrapped around the man’s head, allowing him to relax, have his pores opened and his face ready to receive a very sharp blade to shear his stubble smooth as butter.

Not every barber offers a hot shave. It’s a lost art – men aren’t looking for it. But I was. My buddy Jason and I were ready to expand our masculinity and have another man give us a very hot shave. But we’d have to look for it.

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We’d heard word of a barber bar in an adjacent town called “Revelry,” where presumably men could disappear for a day playing pool and checkers, drinking beer, getting haircuts, and if they wanted – a hot shave.

Both of us had prepared for the hot shave, choosing not to pick up a razor for several days. Jason was especially unshorn and couldn’t wait to part with his scratchy patches.

As we walked up to Revelry, only moments from our first ever hot shave, a few smoking men standing outside informed us that they were having an opening anniversary party that day, and would not be cutting hair.

It’s odd to go to an open barber shop and be told your hair won’t be cut. That’s like going to an open ice cream parlor and being told you can’t have ice cream, or an open rental car shop and being told there are no cars to drive.

But we couldn’t make them give us a hot shave. These were manly men with an astounding assortment of tats, noserings, and cigarettes, not to mention skilled pros in brandishing blades. If they didn’t want to shave us by golly I was going to be okay with that.

Sadly, similar establishments around town were booked for the day and similarly rejected our requests for a hot shave. We’d have to shave ourselves, grow back our whiskers, and return in a few weeks.

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Indeed our whiskers regrew and we were poised to return to Revelry Barber Shop on a day they were in fact barbering. This time we were joined by our friend Dave, who was supportive of our adventure and no stranger himself to the hot shave. Upon arrival we wandered around and pointed at things for a few minutes until someone told us how this whole hot shave business went down.

One of the barbers pointed to a sign-in sheet with many names on it, and told us what most people do is sign in and go run some errands and come back. He told us he could probably get to us around 6:30. It was 2:15.

I’m not sure what kind of father and husband is allowed to be away from the house that long “running errands” but I knew I wasn’t one of them. Jason obligatorily signed the sheet, just in case aliens came and miraculously exterminated all the men who were in front of us in the lobby or running errands. So we left and Dave started calling around for hot shaves.

Like the first time, it wasn’t easy to find a barber shop that offered a hot shave with no wait. After several calls, we found one: Chicago Style Cuts Barber Shop.

We headed across town and pulled into the parking lot of a slightly sketch shopping center. There were some international grocery stores, a vape shop, a laundromat, and a used electronics place where I bet you could negotiate over a $17 microwave. And then there was Chicago Style Cuts.

The name itself was already troubling for me, considering my head has no style, and if it did, I doubt it would look like Chicago. But it was only a hot shave I was after. Nothing fancy, just there to make my face bare.

As we walked into the barber shop, it was quickly apparent that diversity lived here. Black dudes, Arab dudes, and Latino dudes all in the house. My buddies and I added to the diversity as the white dude contingent. No records scratched at least, so I didn’t completely feel like I was in a movie.

When I say dudes I mean this place was filled with dudes. Like 8 barbers cutting as many people’s hair, and 10 more waiting for their seat. Yet again, our first activity was to put our names on a remarkably long sign-in sheet. No doubt we’d be waiting at least another hour to get our hot shave. We took a seat.

I had barely begun to unzip my jacket when one of the barbers pointed at us behind his empty chair and asked “who’s up?” There was no time to get more uncomfortable. I would be up, and I would be the first of my brethren to receive a hot shave in this foreign land.

I walked to the seat and shook hands with Stephen, a fairly young black guy wearing air pods and a backwards Yankees cap. I sat down and made my intentions known.

“I’d like to do a hot shave today.” It felt weird, but it felt good.

Stephen shook his head to the side. “Yeah, I don’t do a hot shave, man. You want a haircut or something?”

I definitely did not want a haircut or something. At this point I didn’t even want a hot shave. But I was in this chair, and Stephen was poised to do business.

“Nah,” I said. “Just hadn’t had a hot shave before and I wanted to do that today.”

“Yeah man, well I don’t have the towel and all that,” Stephen replied. “But I can shave ya.”

Oh was I in a pickle now. To drive across town to a rando barber shop for a regular shave was preposterous. But I had sat down in the man’s chair. I had an audience, who in my mind were undoubtedly thinking “what kinda Chicago-style cut is this white dude gonna get.” What was I going to do? Tell Stephen I didn’t want anything if I couldn’t get a hot shave, get up from the chair and go wait for a barber who could execute the hot shave? Not me, who for my sake or someone else’s is always going to keep the peace. So I said it.

“Yeah that’s cool. Shave me.”

The next 10 minutes weren’t particularly satisfying. Now, Stephen was a cool guy. We talked about LeBron a little, the being who bridges gaps across all demographics. Stephen told me to relax. But I was a man in a barber shop getting nothing but a regular shave. Not to mention I had zero cash and that’s all this place took. I was going to grab some from Dave after we walked in but didn’t get a chance because I was called to the chair so quick. So even if Stephen executed the most outstanding shave known to man, he wouldn’t get paid for it, until my buddy Dave came through and lended me his cash. Who knows if he’d be in his own chair by the time my regular shave was up.

Well, Stephen shaved me. With some foam and a straight razor. There was also some nose pinching, which I had to trust him with. I wasn’t really breathing anyway. When he finished, there was no grand aftershave solution. My face stung a little and I took it like a man who doesn’t tell people what he wants as often as he should.

“How much do I owe you?” I asked. According to the sign, a beard trim was $10-15. Surely a regular, non-hot face shave was less than that. Nope. $15 according to Stephen. I looked over at Dave, still waiting, who came and rescued me with a crisp twenty. I handed it to Stephen and thanked him. He replied the next time I came back he could maybe do a hot shave for me. I could only think that I was never coming back, a hot shave would’ve been most excellent TODAY, and I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get one.

When I went to sit down, I noticed my buddy Jason had settled into a chair in the corner of the shop. He had a steaming blue towel wrapped around his head, and his barber was preparing the hot shave. I rubbed my cheeks jealously and chuckled to myself. Another afternoon set aside for a hot shave, another afternoon I’d remain hot shaveless.

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After two tries, Jason had his hot shave. Yet on this day, I got a Stephen shave. A Shephen shave is a helluva lot like my own, but costs $20 and doesn’t feel as good. It may be the worst kind of shave. It’s not Stephen’s fault. He’d yet to be trained in the ways of the hot shave. And I didn’t have the intestinal fortitude to tell Stephen, “If this shave ain’t gonna be the hottest, most refreshing one of my life, then I’d prefer not to pay you a legit Jackson for something I could do on my own in half the time for free while naked.” I couldn’t say it.

Perhaps one day I’ll get the hot shave. Or perhaps I’ll wander this life, always looking for one, only to find barber shops that don’t barber, or thousands of men nowhere to be seen but somehow in line before me, or barbers who have no problem shaving a man but wetting a towel with hot water and wrapping it around a head is a skill only attained by the few truly experienced. Who knows? Herein lies the mystery of the hot shave.

“I’m ready for a dog,” she said.

Innocent words, seemingly, fell off my wife’s lips that late summer day. Surely it was time. Two years sans pooch, kids growing, memories in the making. A soft, wet-nosed little buddy would do nicely.

So my brain twitched and joined the ranks of “dog ready.” The problem with being ready for a dog is you’re prone to get one, dammit. And nothing better cements that fact then when a precious puppy becomes available in your neighborhood.

The kids were at grandma’s that week, so surprising them with a puppy when they got home would make us be like those baller parents in the commercials.

So we went to meet the puppy. I don’t know why you go to meet a puppy. What criteria could it not meet for me to fall instantly in love with it? Am I making sure it’s not too adorable, as if I’d be concerned I’d stop going to work and paying bills and putting on my underwear due to fawning over the dog?

I guess you go to meet a puppy to make sure it doesn’t find you revolting. Look at the big scary ugly not-dog trying to grab me. No thank you.

Really, unless the puppy has more than one head, it’s coming home. And it had one head in the picture.

So we met the puppy and took him home. He did really cute puppy stuff like fall over himself, paw at balls, and nibble on our fingers. The kids came home and just hated him, of course. We named him Finley.

Finley did all the not cute puppy stuff, too. Initially he had no preference where in the house to pee or drop a solid. Feeding him was like trying to put down a bowl of gizzards for a wolf. When we crated him he shrieked and moaned like we were preparing to put him in a soup.

We were going slightly mad. Something had to change.

So we talked strategy and made a game plan for Operation Keep the Dog. I would run Finley every morning to give him exercise. We would confine him to the kitchen. We would teach him to wait for his food. We would be vigilant and take him out every 15 minutes.

Our adjustments, while well-intentioned, couldn’t solve the issue that Finley was an anxious mess and appeared to have a bladder the size of a kidney bean. He asked to go out every 10 minutes. If we didn’t take him he’d whiz right there, no questions asked. If we did take him out, he’d mosey around the yard and when he finally went, all we got was a two-second trickle. Then back in the house for more puddle making. Yippidy-dee.

Often the door opening led to nothing. It seemed that he just wanted to go on our back porch. So exasperated we were from opening the door that we just kept it open. Thus the porch became his tinkle and turd room. Even days where we thought we were watching him the whole time we’d find pee spots and cold, hardened little dookies back there. It became so regular I knew I could look out the porch window every night before bed and spot them. When you know there’s a place in your home you can routinely find feces, that’s a problem.

The one thing a puppy usually has going for itself is you can pet it. It’s where the special, mutual bond is formed between the dog and the human. We couldn’t pet Finley with any regularity without him gnawing on our hands like they were his monkey kong. Even if we didn’t want to pet him he would jump and bite at our clothing as we walked by. Like, hey, you won’t forget me after I put these fresh holes in your pants.

But the coffin nail was him becoming possessive over food, or things he treated like food. Once he got a paper towel, you’d better offer him a t-bone to let go of that thing, or he’d sink his teeth into your hand like a junkyard dog.

In one final food-fanatic hurrah, Finley got up on the table and devoured a whole corncob, which is roughly the size of his torso. Thankfully his body overpowered his brain and he yacked it up immediately. Then he and I had a misunderstanding. I thought it time to clean up, while he was primed to snarf wild on cob puke. Personally I’m puke-eating-averse, so I grabbed the back of his collar to keep him off of it. But you know how it feels to grab a wild animal. One contortion and growl was enough for me to let him return to the feast. Yikes. Seriously, what’s more primal than a beast snarling at you like a demon to keep you from taking away its vomit? This activity repeated itself, until somehow I managed to get a leash on him before he could return to his corny yack for a fourth time…It’s just a damn low moment for the animal kingdom.

All of this food-related insanity felt all too familiar, for it was the indelible characteristic of my last dog, Lilly. Lilly was a beagle in the worst way, and we actually came to find that Finley’s litter mate had a DNA test and turned out 25% beagle.

So basically, our new dog had the indefatigable energy and chewing penchant of a labrador, the devour-anything nature and howl of a beagle, and the neuroticism of a caffeinated squirrel. The perfect storm of an exhausting dog was Hurricane Finley, bless his little heart.

We returned Finley to the foster to find a better home for him. By better home I mean someone who’s there all day and likes to go in and out of their house in 10-minute increments and finds it endearing to be bitten while attempting to connect.

I have learned more about dogs and myself in this ordeal. Mostly, I’ve learned what kind of dog I can tolerate. I like a dog that doesn’t bark, that isn’t high-strung, that doesn’t whimper and moan, that doesn’t need my attention, that doesn’t pursue food like a starving dinosaur, that doesn’t wake me up in the morning, or at night, or ever. I like a dog that I have to wake up. I like a dog that doesn’t move. I like a dog I can pet for 10 minutes and then gives me that look like “OK, are we done here?” or just walks away to its bed. I like a living, furry, non-ugly dog but not much more than that. I like a dog that becomes part of the scenery of my house, like a chair or a fern.

There. That’s a good boy.

The unfortunate nature of bread loaves is that they must be baked all around and inevitably have two end pieces.

Few appreciate the end pieces. They’re harder, have less of the good stuff, more crust than class. I know they’re less appreciated, not because of any real research, just firsthand observation that no matter how much of the loaf has been consumed, there are always the two end pieces.

Perhaps the most horrifying moment for the sandwich maker is to be at the bottom of the bread bag with nothing left but the end pieces. All hope for a delicious sandwich is lost; the end pieces will see to that.

It’s not that the end piece is bad, it’s just not as good.

Yet when you’re forced to eat an end piece, you may realize that it made little difference in the quality of your sandwich.

Armed with this wisdom, should we not always take the end piece, if for no other reason the next sandwich maker will likely have a slightly better experience?

Of course, being thoughtful as the “sacrificial” end-piece taker doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme. I doubt this is a good deed the Maker applauds (though perhaps He gives notice).

But if we see all of life as end-piece taking, as thousands of tiny moments to think of another, to not take what’s best, to busy oneself with gracious things that no one ever sees, perhaps we’ll ever so gradually be crafted into a man or woman of blessed life losing, an end-piece-eating being for other beings.

The bonus is we may even enjoy our sandwiches more.

A short stroll on the beach could leave you with the conclusion that we humans are very much the same.

Watch men and women collect shells. These are rocks that little animals lived in. Most are broken, dull, and unnoticed. Some are pretty, shiny, whole, or unique. Regardless, we look for them. We perambulate forward staring at the sand to uncover the gem. Many do this.

Then observe what we humans don’t do. We don’t grab the garbage shells and juggle them, or rub them on our heads. We don’t take the pretty shells and stuff them into our belly buttons. We don’t stoop down to snort the sea foam. We find the best shells, wash them off, and put them in our homes.

Or watch men and women fishing. They cast out their line, they wait, they wait some more, and then they reel their line in whether they’ve hooked a fish or not.

Notice that they don’t wrap themselves in monofilament, nor thrust extremely long sticks with nets into the air to catch gulls. They don’t pack their tackle boxes with sandwiches, nor do they swim out into the ocean to see the fish for themselves. They just cast their lines and try to catch fish.

Or witness the construction of a sand castle. The humans take shovels and pails and sea water and craft the sand into an area of more structured sand. Rarely does it resemble a castle, yet it doesn’t matter because we like the idea of it.

See that we don’t take the sand and spread mustard onto it, nor stuff it in our pockets to sell to children, nor count the grains one by one in our fingernails. We simply dig, pile, and smooth away for hours to construct something that will only last for hours.

We creatures, though in some ways quite distinct, go to a place and do almost exactly the same things. An alien observing these activities may deem them trivial, and they may very well be right. Unless what appears mundane and useless are flecks of what’s truly real and common to humanity.

That a great many of us would find beauty in a tiny shell, or happiness in reeled-in fish, or purpose in an ephemeral build-up of minerals. See our brother there, our sister there. Acknowledge that wonderful sameness on the stroll.

Well it must be just over a month before Christmas, for the Raleigh Christmas parade is upon us. Every year, I take my family to experience the joy of driving into downtown Raleigh, making up a parking spot, standing in the freezing cold, and watching many ordinary things go by. But, some things I find quite amusing, which I’ve tried to capture here.

So without further ado, here’s the 2018 Christmas Parade highlights in pictures:

Loud car loathing

Guys who drive loud cars obviously want attention. They like to rev their engine with pride as if they engineered the damn thing.

Do you want me to be impressed that you have a driver’s license and were able to secure financing? Congratulations. This is something the apes still haven’t mastered. If I were traveling with cookies I would toss one right into your rumbling cupholder.

The key to true defiance is to not look at loud car guy. Nothing gives him more pleasure than people turning their heads and him reading their lips saying “Good golly Miss Molly that is so friggin’ loud.” That’s what people like me say, people who drive cars where the loudest thing is an old serpentine belt screaming like live bats in a cauldron. Yeah buddy, don’t act like you’re not impressed.

Metal credit cards

I’m seeing more and more metal credit cards. Boy, what a way to make a spending statement. Look at all the losers and their plastic payment options. When I pay I leave a clink on the table. Don’t you see? I can afford metal. Humans had to mine to find material for my card. I am now a baller the likes of which my social circle has never seen.

My favorite things

Kids are obsessed with superlatives, and it’s largely how they connect with grownups. I’m constantly interrogated regarding what my favorite things are. “Daddy, what’s your favorite movie? What do you think the coolest planet is? What’s the best pine cone?” And this isn’t an opinion, there is most certainly a right answer. Inevitably I’ll say something ridiculous like the best pine cone is a white tree pine cone. “That’s OK, Daddy, but don’t you like the spruce pine cone? Isn’t the spruce pine cone your favorite?” “Yes son, the spruce pine cone is my favorite.” “Yeah, Dad, mine too.” They just want to connect.

The man’s key to comfort

As we age, we think more about comfort. In fact before any activity, like squirrels with their frenzied, pre-winter nut gathering, we prepare and get everything in order to ensure max comfort. How can we watch a kids soccer game without folding chairs, a canopy and a battery-powered hand fan that disperses mists of water? How can we board a plane without earplugs, our iPad and a body-conforming neck pillow? We cannot.

I’ve found that part of becoming an older man is constantly considering the potential temperature of my skin. This is why for the older man the jacket becomes the default apparel. We must wear it everywhere, because we just don’t know if the building is going to have polar A/C, or we’ll somehow find ourselves in shade with a skin-tingling breeze that’s just a little too refreshing. With the jacket, we’re prepared. Because if we find things to indeed be broiling hot, we shed the layer like Superman and forge ahead, feeling completely temperate and ready to live out our heroic lives.

The once rich

Remember when being a millionaire was amazing? The thought of achieving such financial glory was practically unthinkable. But you don’t hear about millionaires anymore. Lots of people can even get there with a lifetime of disciplined saving. So we hear about billionaires, and then we think, “yes, now that person has done something.”

I’m not even impressed with people’s millions anymore. “So-and-so is worth $15 million.” Are they even trying? You’ll never own a pro team at that rate. If you don’t have billions you just aren’t so incredible. One day, we’ll have our world’s first trillionaire, and the millionaires will be serving them at the Arby’s drive-thru. (Trillionaires will be so rich they’ll be bored with the finest foods and just want to hop down the road to a place that has the meats.)

By the way, it seems like all the ultra-rich people are philanthropists. That’s good, of course. It’s great that the rich would use their gift of resources for the greater good. But plenty of people got rich because they were greedy and stepped over others to get where they got. So just because they gave away some money and we labeled them a philanthropist doesn’t mean they’re Mother Teresa. What is it about “philanthropist” that makes everything hunky-dory? Just throw “philanthropist” into a bio and it changes everything. “Mr. Smith is a business tycoon, hostile takeover expert, sweatshop owner, and philanthropist.” Gosh that Mr. Smith is swell.

Saving your breath

Have you ever bought a roll of Breath Savers? Better still, have you ever bought like a 5-pack of Breath Savers rolls? You can’t be any more obvious that you have a problem. No one loves mints so much to buy such a ridiculous amount. And there are countless brands of mints, but you’ve gone for the one that essentially tells everyone your head stinks. You can pull out Tic-Tacs or Icebreakers at a party, but will anything prevent friends like a pocket withdrawal of Breath Savers? Might as well proclaim, “Don’t mind me, I’ll be much less offensive to converse with in about one minute.” Breath Savers need packaging that makes the whole wrapper turn blank when you take them out into the daylight. This will even give you the satisfaction of offering mints to others without giving them the impression their heads stink too.