Skip to main content
Oui c'est Macron!

Macron Is the New Chocolat

(Mah-krOHH Is the New Shah-kol-AHH)

Every few years a delectable French word splashes into popular culture to the absolute delight of many. They lust for an opportunity to say the word with a robust, over-pronounced French accent, even if they don’t actually speak the language beyond “bonjour,” “oui” and “fromage.”

Allow me to take you in the Wayback Machine for a quick trip to the year 2000. The movie “Chocolat” had just been released and countless people were imploring me to see it, just so they could flamboyantly drop the movie title into conversation. They never said the title just once. “Chocolat” coming from their mouths was more tantalizingly delicious than actual chocolate going in. Their hands and faces were sticky with saying it. They couldn’t resist repeating the movie title over and over with a flourish of Frenchification, often joined with a flip of their hand or hair. And, it was never a movie. It was a “film.”

Have you seen the film ShahkolAHH?

You absolutely must see ShahkolAHH!

ShahkolAHH is such a divine film!

ShahkolAHH is to die for!

Please do tell me when you’ve seen ShahkolAHH! We must discuss ShahkolAHH!

With every insult of “ShahkolAHH!” I flinched and knew something mean was being conjured out of me. I couldn’t help it. I would respond to the offense with my face contorted in obvious confusion and then suddenly smile broadly with recognition and say “OH! You mean Chocolate! Yup, yup, pretty good movie. A bit pretentious, though. It seemed odd to have a French actress speaking English in France, instead of using subtitles. But, I guess that’s just so the American audience could understand it. Unless you speak French…? No? Oh, that’s a shame.”

I believe that outburst is my involuntary defense mechanism in response to overt pretense. Whenever a lofty & haughty conversation becomes overly conspicuous in its flamboyance, a force may be released from within me to drag the conversation down in order to restore balance in the universe. This internal force is the anti-pretense hero, put on this earth to combat the evil forces of extreme pretense. My ability to contain him is inversely proportional to the extent of the pretentious transgression. When faced with overt pretense of fabulously grand proportions, I am no more able to contain him than a werewolf can resist the full moon. We all have our cross to bear.

I struggle to suppress the furious anti-pretense hero whenever someone speaking typical American English throws in one foreign word with a flourish of over-pronunciation. This is true for any language, but always seems most obvious with French. There will always be internal rumblings from my anti-pretense hero when foodies vigorously praise fancy restaurants awarded stars by “Meeshaylahhn,” and when recent travelers breathlessly describe their visit to “Paree” where they went to the top of the “Toohr EefEHLL” in a conversation otherwise devoid of French. There is always a consistent baseline occurrence of these offenses for my inner hero to endure. The anti-pretense hero usually stays quiet on the outside during these ostentatious skirmishes, but I am struggling mightily to contain him within. It’s a hard-fought battle nobody ever sees.

A few years ago, there were intense rumblings from my anti-pretense hero when the Broadway show “Les Miserables” was made into a heavily promoted movie. The entire country immediately learned how to over-pronounce “Lay MizEHRahblooh.” I feared the worst from my anti-pretense hero. This was luckily a brief uprising from the evil forces of pretense, however, softened by the many years over which everyone had become accustomed to simply calling the stage show “Les Mis.” The movie was quickly referred to by the same abbreviation. And, so was the film.

The anti-pretense hero was adequately mollified. This allowed us to endure the overtly pretentious academy awards show during which Meryl Streep and many other Hollywood elite put their heavily practiced language skills on grand display with lofty compliments for the fully pronounced “Lay MizEHRahblooh!” Thankfully this only lasted a few hours. Any more of that nonsense and the insuppressible hero would have mercilessly advanced on Hollywood to lay it in complete ruin.

Other than the brief Les Miserables insurrection, and the consistent baseline assault level of unnecessary Frenchification, it has been relatively quiet since Chocolat. The constantly agitated hero has been contained. Until now…

The evil forces of pretense are once again swarming aggressively ever since the final month of the French presidential campaign battle between Emmanuel Macron and Marine Le Pen. The speed with which our entire nation taught themselves to over-pronounce “MahKrOHH” and “Le Pehh” without learning any other word of French was nothing short of incredible.

This startled the anti-pretense hero, and that is not without consequence. The belabored enunciation of those French names thrown into a sentence otherwise spoken in a thick New York or Boston accent has me writhing on the floor and foaming at the mouth in a losing effort to suppress my anti-pretense hero. The hero is fueled by the magnitude of a pretentious action embraced by so many with persistent duration. We learned this from Chocolat. But…this is so much worse.

Please help. My inner battle with the anti-pretense hero has escalated dramatically. Ever since “MahkrOHH!!” won the election, his name has become everyone’s new favorite French word. Please understand me…I get it. I really do. Macron is worth celebrating. A win for Le Pen would have suggested that the world supported the nationalistic ideals of Donald Trump. Everyone on the right would have proudly called it “the Trump effect” and felt validated in their affection for The Donald and all that he does.

Macron is the anti-Trump hero for many. They want to show how much they appreciate Macron…and well they should! But, if we go about this the wrong way, there could be disastrous consequences. A display of support for Macron cannot be confused with a need to flamboyantly butcher the man’s name. Otherwise, the anti-pretense hero may be forever on the rampage, viciously stomping his boot into the neck of pretense until it behaves itself. I fear that if I lose this greatest of battles to suppress my anti-pretense hero, he will take me over completely and I will cease to exist.

I fear that a permanently unleashed anti-pretense hero could wreak unending havoc on this earth at cocktail parties, museum exhibit openings and book groups everywhere…perhaps near you. Anywhere. No one would be safe. I’m begging you to help. Please. Pull back hard with all your might on the reigns of “MahkrOHH!!” Don’t just do it for me. Do it for the safety of all those poor souls at polo matches, gallery openings and poetry readings whose events will be ruined if the anti-pretense hero is unleashed. An incensed anti-pretense hero rampaging to quell such a substantial uprising of overt pretense is incapable of distinguishing good intentions from bad. The collateral damage could be extensive. My only request…unless you are speaking fluent French…please pronounce “Macron” with only the very slightest roll of the “r.” Nothing more. Don’t overdo it. Don’t bring attention to yourself. Please. It hasn’t been this bad since ShahkolAHH!!

Most Dangerous Animal

The Most Dangerous Animal On Earth

Of all the creatures roaming this earth, I used to think the most dangerous was perhaps the death stalker scorpion, maybe the black mamba snake, the saltwater crocodile or possibly the Bengal tiger. They’re all deadly, and any one of them could be considered the most lethal.

But, nope, years of experience has taught me that the deadliest creature you can encounter is a woman shopping for her guy in the men’s department. She’s convinced her lazy idiot is incapable of doing it for himself. The lady has had enough of his ineffectual buffoonery.

She’s showing him how it’s done with a bloodthirsty display of territorial box-out moves, jabbing sharp elbows and exceedingly rapid decision-making. She’s flicking through the hangers faster than a bank’s cash counting machine devours a stack of dollar bills. This gyrating F-5 tornado of razor blade body parts is followed by oppressive demands that he try on every single item she picked out and sheepishly parade around in his socks with his head down while she loudly casts her verdict on his improved appearance. About time he wore something that actually fits. She’s doing the best she can given the horrible shape he’s in. Now, get your rear end back in the changing room while she charges like a rhino to the clothing racks for more.

This is the moment of greatest danger. If you should happen to get in her way with your typically plodding male shopping habits, especially when her guy is within eyesight to learn from momma “how we hunt for food,” she will bulldoze right through you for his awe and edification. And, if you should just happen to grab the item she wanted in his size before she can get to you, well, you’re done. There is no surviving this. You may as well have picked up a grizzly bear cub right in front of its mother and repeatedly smashed its little head on a rock.

Cul de Sac Cred

As they say in the movies, the following is “based on a true story.” It’s embellished just enough that it needs to go here in the “Stuff I Made Up” topic category. If I embellished any further, it would need to be described as “based on real events,” just like when you add enough stuff to chocolate milk, it needs to be described as “chocolate flavored milk,” or even worse, “chocolate flavored dairy product.”

Cul de Sac: From French “cul-de-sac“, literally the bottom (cul) of a bag (sac).

I had never seen a cul de sac, or even a suburban development for that matter, until I got my driver’s license at the age of sixteen. I had seen urban, and I had seen rural, and the deepest woods. I had paddled lakes of Northern Canada and Alaskan rivers above the Arctic Circle. I had been all over Europe, and in many of America’s largest cities. I had some growing street cred for a young guy in those cities. But, I had never seen suburbia. The place in between. Not one or the other. The taint of America. I didn’t have a clue about it. I had no cul de sac cred whatsoever. And, I didn’t know what I didn’t know.

Here is an idea which was completely foreign to me in my mid-teens: People are born and raised in suburbia. They don’t just end up there. That’s where they’re from. A planned development is their ‘hood. It’s their “normal” and many of them identify with it. Some may repel this upbringing and go elsewhere. They may leave the nest. But, they are seeking a difference from the “normal” upon which they were raised. That sense of “normal” is something I didn’t even know existed.

Soon after getting my driver’s license, I was invited to a suburban house party by my buddy Jeff. The house of some friend-of-a-friend. Suddenly with access to a car, I was able to decide on my own whether or not I would go. I was so focused on my new empowerment, that I didn’t think about whether any real adventure lay ahead, or if I was prepared for it. I just knew I would go.

Remember when you first got your license? It created a new sense of freedom. You could go wherever you wanted without asking anybody. I would drive just about anywhere I’d never been before. I was always looking for an excuse to drive, to practice my manual shifting. Party in the ‘burbs? Don’t know the people? Never been there before? Great…Sure! I wanted to venture out from the rectilinear grid of streets, avenues and boulevards that is downtown Chicago and go to a party in the ‘burbs. Road trip!

Rectilinear Chicago
Rectilinear Chicago

The sun went down as I left my city, guided by just a scrap of paper offering hand-written directions on how to get to a place I’d never been before. Just imagine kids…no GPS, no turn-by-turn directions, no interactive map that spins around while you turn in circles. Back then, we used landmarks, maps and a keen sense of direction. When we got lost, we asked for directions. From people. We got out of the car and asked them where the hell we were. I know, I know…totally crazy, right?

I was in my comfort zone heading out of town North on 90. That’s how we usually went to the airport. And 94 North looked the same as 90, just with a different number. No problem. Everything was fine until I turned off the expressway and plunged into the heart of darkness. Literally. That was the first thing I noticed. It was so damn dark! No blaze of light from stores or restaurants on the sides of the road to break up the pitch black. Stores and restaurants were where you asked for directions! Where were all the people? If I got lost, there wasn’t an obvious way to get found again in such a place.

I’d been to many places where there weren’t supposed to be any people at all. But, people lived in suburbia. Where were they? I suddenly realized I’d never felt so lonely before. I wasn’t out in the woods or on top of a mountain where you fully expect to be all alone. That would have been entirely different, and expected. The absence of people in a place where they lived troubled me. That only happened in Twilight Zone episodes with “last man on earth” scenarios. Suburbia was so dark. So barren.

The street lamps were surprisingly far apart, and not always the same distance between them. There also weren’t intersections at regular intervals. That made it so much more difficult to know how far you’d gone. Road signs only identified the cross roads. Not the road you were on. They assumed you knew what road you were on? Bad assumption.

At least I was still on a “road.” The same road I was instructed to use when I exited the expressway. Not a street or an avenue. But still familiar! We had roads in Chicago. We had Roosevelt Road, Cermak Road, and, and, and….well, hmm, we definitely had roads back in my lit up rectangular home, didn’t we? I couldn’t think of any more Chicago roads. That idea made me uncomfortable. Maybe we only had those two roads back home, and I was from a street, avenue and boulevard place. The name of what I was driving on shouldn’t have been so significant. But, I expected suburbia to be much more similar to the city, and I was hypersensitive to the many signs of just how different it was. I knew I had to focus and figure it out. The drive wasn’t as simple as I thought it would be.

The hand-written directions were pretty clear up to that point. There was only one traffic light I was looking for after the expressway, after which I was supposed to make my first turn. The light was about three miles after the expressway. I hadn’t made any turns yet, but I already felt lost. I had no idea how far I’d gone, and the road wasn’t straight. Roads are supposed to be straight! Why hadn’t I checked my odometer when I left the familiarity of the expressway? As the road pitched, rolled and yawed I lost my usually excellent sense of direction. It was like being out on a boat at night in a rolling sea. I was heading East when I left the expressway, but wasn’t sure if that was still the case.

Up ahead, just how far away in the murk I couldn’t tell, there was a light. That must be my traffic light. As I would crest a hill I saw it turning yellow in the distance, just before I would lose sight of it when I rolled down the other side of the hill. I was focused on the last position where I’d seen it, like a lighthouse falling out of view as you roll down the back side of a wave and also get pitched off to the left or right. When you pop back up the light is once again ahead, but it’s further off to either side than you expected. You gain confidence in your landmark, but are troubled by your inability to perceive all the constant movement. Each time I saw it, the light was just turning yellow again.

The rolling sea of the road finally abated and it brought me up gently to the light, which was just turning yellow again. And again. And again. What the hell? It was just blinking yellow. Why? No red followed by green. Was this my traffic light or not?  I rolled through the lunatic flashing yellow light, ignoring its witless blinking. I downshifted so my right hand was free to scramble in the passenger seat for my hand-written directions. Dammit! What next?

The directions suggested that the “entrance to Cheltenham Meadows would be Cadwallader Court.” They lived in a meadow? A meadow with an entrance. Was there a town called Cheltenham nearby? I slowed down, straining to detect either Cheltenham Meadows our Cadwallader Court in the darkness. Why did it suddenly sound like I was in England? All the overt Britishness. What the hell was a “Court?” It was all very new to me, and confusing. With images of the Wimbledon Championships and white-wigged barristers in my head, I leaned forward and was just able to make out a sign that looked like Cadwallader…Run? Not Cadwallader COURT! Wait! What…What’s a Run?! To hell with it. Close enough.

I turned into further darkness, assuming I was headed into a murky meadow near the town of Cheltenham. There were no more overhead street lamps at all in the “meadow.” Just dim lights pointing up randomly from a bush here or there. As I pressed forward into the gloom, I held the directions up to my overhead light; “Right on Cadwallader Court then right on Higginbottom Way.” Higginbottom? Way? Was this a joke? My buddy Jeff wrote the directions. Was he riffing off some Monty Python skit and I didn’t get it? I pressed onward into the murk searching for any sign of Sir Edwin Bartholomew Higginbottom Esquire and his merry band of Arctic explorers drinking tea and being carried by Sherpas. The whole thing had to be a joke. Thanks a ton, Jeff. I was so being punked, but I pressed on.

There were dark outlines of houses pushed back a fair distance off Cadwallader Court, Run, whatever. The random up lights were sometimes illuminating a house number. Sometimes just lighting up a small tree. All the trees were unusually small, all the same size, and held in place with ropes staked into the ground? The house number was sometimes on a mailbox, sometimes on a little sign on the lawn, sometimes on the door, which you could barely make out from the Run, Court, Way whatever I was driving on! Why weren’t the house number locations consistent? And why did the houses all look the same?

As Cadwallader started to roll and pitch me back and forth, up and down, I was shocked that the forms of all the houses looming in the dark were exactly the same! There was no such thing as a unique landmark upon which to anchor yourself in the meadow. It all ran together. At that point, I actually started to get scared. The “meadow” was so foreign. So odd. It made no sense. I felt like I was playing that party game in which you bend over and spin around with your head on the end of a baseball bat before trying to run a straight line, only to fall flat on your face. I was spinning, spinning…Getting unsteady. Losing my balance.

Anxious and insecure thoughts started nibbling away at my mind, most prominently that I wasn’t a very experienced driver. Young guys don’t usually admit that’s a problem. But, the idea gnawed at me there in the meadow. What am I supposed to do if I hit an animal? I’d never dealt with that before. How would I change a flat tire without a flashlight? Would I just pull over there, or there…as close to one of those dim up lights as I could? When I looked over to the side of the road, imagining the “wump, wump, wump” of an abruptly flat tire, I noticed the most jarring thing of all. I should have seen it right away.

There weren’t any sidewalks! What? That’s insane! Maybe that was because there weren’t any people to walk on them. But, there were houses everywhere, that same exact house again and again, so there had to be people somewhere. Or, maybe they didn’t walk at all. Maybe they just left their houses by car directly from those attached garages, shutting out the world with tinted windows and air conditioning on full blast. Maybe. But, that would be deranged!

I’d become momentarily lost in the horrible idea of a world without sidewalks when suddenly another sign appeared…Cadwallader Circle. What? Circle? I was already ON Cadwallader dammit! If I don’t turn am I no longer on Cadwallader? Since I was instantly at the intersection, I swung my car right to stay on Cadwallader and accelerated with my growing frustration, grinding a gear and quickly moving past the consistently repeated shape of that same house again and again, everything blending together in repeated forms, twists and turns, the absence of light. That evil Cadwallader then threw me into a sweeping left turn which almost seemed to bring me all the way around to where I started. Wait….it had. What the hell? That’s impossible!

I must have missed something. I slowly crept into the left turn again, carefully looking for the way out, to avoid coming right back to the same place…just like that scary movie scene in which someone is lost in the jungle. That moment when they freak out over unintentionally coming back to the same spot is usually when they’re killed in the jungle. So…Don’t freak out. Try it again.

I saw an opening. An escape route! Nope, it was just a driveway with two garage doors firmly announcing the end of it. Another driveway. Another two doors. And another. Another. And, once again…I was right back where I had started. I hadn’t missed anything.

Cadwallader was designed that way on purpose! Why?? That’s madness! Why would anyone do such a thing? A street that doesn’t go anywhere? A street to nowhere. What a horribly sick joke! I was suddenly struck by that feeling of knowing you’re completely lost. My body temperature started to rise and my mind rapidly chased answers, tripping over itself. I became less certain about certain things about which I had always been absolutely certain. Stop it! We said we wouldn’t freak out. Stop thinking in circles!

I took a deep breath and calmly yelled at myself “All right now! Calm down! We can figure this out.” I decided not to follow Cadwallader back around that ridiculous never-ending left-hand turn. Needed to get off that street to nowhere. I headed back where I had come from, the only option I was given, until I arrived back at the last intersection. Where Cadwallader met Cadwallader. How do you do, Sirs? I allowed that to be funny for a moment so I would start thinking more clearly. Twin old, fat white men both dressed just like the Monopoly game guy, complete with top hats and monocles. Bowing and tipping hats to each other. The humor did help me think. I decidedly took a right to stay on the first Cadwallader, and continued looking for Higginbottom. As I passed Scrivener, Brimble, Pemperton and Birtwhistle I was openly laughing like a maniac behind the wheel.

The obvious two-by-four-to-the-back-of-the-head delivery of a British theme was brutal. Okay! Okay! I got it! The meadow was classy! Charles Dickens must have lived there! The Queen as well, perhaps? The charade had quickly become completely stupid. How could people live with such obvious fakery? Or…maybe they actually loved it? Maybe they really did think it classes up the joint to give fake British names to streets (they’re streets dammit!). Maybe they even gave their kids haughty names that sounded like where they’re from. Classing up the kid, too. Colin and Courtney from Cadwallader Court. Ha! I laughed imagining such great pride in something that matters so little, and is completely made up. My laughter was cut short. There it was…Higginbottom Way!

I scrambled for the directions and pulled them back up to my light. After totally awesomely classy Britishy Higginbottom Way was a left on Birtwhistle Lane and the house number was 36. I surged ahead with my renewed sense of progress. After passing just one street, directly ahead was Birtwhistle. Okay then! I was finally figuring out that ridiculous meadow that wasn’t a meadow! Screw you town of Cheltenham!

I turned a hard, tire-screeching left onto Birtwhistle to show Cheltenham I was serious. I was a number 36-seeking cruise missile. But, those damn house numbers were hiding all over the place in the murk, quickly screwing up my missile guidance system. Confidence retreated as quickly as it had overcome me. I thought I saw one of those little yard signs, but it was already behind me. Then a mailbox appeared on my left with a number. Why weren’t the numbers always on the mailbox? So much easier. The mailbox sign read number five. Odd number. Okay, so 36 would be on my right. Even number. Luckily another mailbox was coming up on the right with a number on it…number seven. What? Odd numbers on both sides? Why? What’s the point in make it any harder? What the hell was the matter with those people? Body temperature was rising again. Don’t freak out! Fine! We would just look on both sides. Okay! Fine!

My rapidly boiling anger insisted on crushing the accelerator and flying out of the meadow loudly screaming obscenities into the darkness for no one to hear. I narrowly resisted the outburst, and moved along at a furiously slow crawl so I wouldn’t miss any of those stupid little signs. There’s one! House number 24. We were getting somewhere! Another mailbox…with number 27! I could feel my target finally approaching and drove on with slightly enhanced poise, gathering myself again as I heard my tires crush some clumps of dirt on Birtwhistle. Take that, Birty.

I was lulled into enjoying the sound of my tires turning small clumps into even smaller clumps. It was a comforting trance from which I awoke too late to realize there were no more houses, mailboxes, up lights, no yard signs…nothing. Just pitch black dark until…what the hell was that? A bulldozer?! Directly in my path was a large yellow bulldozer with its nose planted firmly into a looming mass of rocks and dirt. Birtwhistle ran right under the mountain and out of sight, that sniveling coward. He just left me there in the dark with this large earth-mover and its mountain of moved earth. Birtwhistle was more evil than Cadwallader could ever imagine. This wasn’t even a crazy never-ending left-hand turn on a street to nowhere. Birtwhistle had viciously served up a truly cold, dead end with no warning, and no suggestions on what to do next. He just ran away and left me there. Birtwhistle was a genuine bastard.

Were they still building Birtwhistle? Maybe the mountain was all that’s left of the meadow after it had been pushed aside by all those evil, fake British streets? But, why was it right there in my path? Maybe somebody else has been through my same ordeal and escaped to inform the authorities…so, perhaps they were destroying Birtwhistle for the good of all mankind? Birtwhistle you bastard! Birtwhistle!

Shouting his evil name lit up my brain with a flash of memory, like that strong feeling of déjà vu although accompanied by a few details I could grasp. Right! I passed a Birtwhistle on the way. There was another Cadwallader. Could Birtwhistle have an evil twin as well?

I squeezed my brain like a washcloth over the sink, crushing out everything that it had to offer. I forced out the recollection that I had made two lefts after seeing a sign for Birtwhistle, so, hmm. While none of those damn lanes, ways, runs and courts were straight, if I was on a “block” like back home, then the other, or same, Birtwhistle could be straight ahead, or at least pointing in the direction I was facing. That actually made sense to me there in the dark, staring at a bulldozer and a mountain of dirt lit up by my headlights. What was on the other side of that mountain?

I needed to get on the other side and find out what was over there. My newfound recollection of the path I had taken to the base of the mountain told me to turn around and make two rights to find the other Birtwhistle. That would have worked well in my rectilinear home. But, nothing worked the way it should in the meadow. If I tried back-tracking, would I just get more turned around? I felt like I was getting close to where I should be. I didn’t want to lose that sense of progress. I was afraid that if I drove any further, I would only get more lost. Everything I tried in that strange place just made things worse. My instincts were all wrong. I didn’t trust myself anymore. Suburbia had beaten me with its darkness, curviness, sameness and loneliness.

Defeated and tired, I turned off the ignition and got out my car for some fresh air. When the loud thud of my slammed door disappeared into the night, it was followed quietly…by…by people sounds. I held my breath to hear better. It wasn’t close enough to hear well, but close enough to know what it was. Definitely laughter, music and conversation coming from somewhere on the other side of the mountain. I had to abandon my car. I didn’t trust it anymore. That damn thing was nothing but trouble anyway. Driving in the meadow just didn’t work for me. I couldn’t take it anymore. The mission would be completed on foot, or not at all.

I stood breathless with my eyes shut, confirming the direction of the human noises and enabling my sight to adjust somewhat to the darkness. Wrestling feebly with my impatience, I allowed far too little time to see any better, and climbed unsteadily up onto the lower reaches of Mount Birtwhistle. The sounds were coming from far off to the left, so I worked my way far around the left side of the mountain to avoid the larger rocks embedded in its mass. I was stumbling upon them in the dark, and didn’t want to crack my head open tripping over one boulder just to land skull-first on another. I was walking towards the people sounds, waving my arms back and forth in front of me. I could see the outlines of trees, but kept getting surprised by branches in my face as I moved forward, trying not to think about spider webs, bees nests, snakes and whatever else might be out there.

Trees at NightThe more I thought about all those stinging and biting critters, the thicker and more densely the trees appeared to stand in my way. The darkness didn’t help my claustrophobia. Most of the branches felt shoulder height, however, so I crouched down and kept moving forward, pushing lower branches out of my way. Tree trunks and branches were replaced by thorny bushes, and I worked to carefully push aside sections of the bushes, trying to slide past while avoiding as many thorns as possible, with moderate success. Just as I was beginning to think that maybe I better give up on this painful plan and go back to my car, I emerged from the bushes onto a thick lawn. A huge open space with one of those exact same houses far on the other side, with only a castle between me and the house. A castle?

I took one step to the side to confirm that, yes, that was a castle. It had a turret with a flag on top, parapets adorned with coats of arms and a drawbridge…and…and a slide and swings. Oh. That castle was the most elaborate playset I had ever seen. I stood there stunned, staring at it and hearing the people sounds a little more clearly off to my left. Colin and Courtney of Cadwallader Court truly were being raised as fake little royals. I imagined them in little Victorian waistcoats and hoop skirts, and holding parasols as I took another step around the castle to take it all in. Instantaneously the dark yard was ablaze in blinding white light. It wasn’t until that moment that I realized just how wrong it was for me to be there. That was private property, and I’d been busted.

I did the only thing you should do when completely innocent and meaning no harm…I ran. I sprinted to the edge of the yard in the direction of the people sounds, crashed through the thorn bushes that bordered all around that large space and crouched on the ground trying to steady my breathing so I could better hear whoever was chasing after me. The yard was still flooded with harsh white light, but there were no sounds coming from the house. Nobody was chasing after me yet. I remained motionless waiting for the sound of urgent footsteps, but none came, and the lights went out just as suddenly as they came on, returning the castle and yard to darkness. What? Why turn on your lights when you see an intruder and then just shut them off again without doing anything? That made no sense. I decided they’d probably called the cops and I better get moving.

The people noises were much clearer. Through a stand of trees and bushes in front of me I could see another huge yard, beyond which were lights. Lights! Finally, something other than gloom and murk! The people noises were definitely coming from there! I chose an opening in the bushes from which to launch myself into another full sprint across the next yard. I was a good runner, so I wouldn’t give them time to see me like in the last yard where I stood marveling at that castle like an idiot.

I placed my hands firmly in the dirt, lowered my head, raised my ass and bolted into the yard. After just four strides the yard was suddenly ablaze in white light! Dammit! Just like the one before! That person had to be standing right next to the light switch! Horrible luck! I sprinted as fast as I could and rammed into bushes lining the far side of the yard, and quickly found the ground, once again in a crouch, taking deep breaths, listening and waiting for the chase. Again none came, and again the lights soon went out just as surprisingly as they had come on. Certain that two people had already called the cops on me, I knew I was on borrowed time. At that point, I was also acutely aware that I was not only on private property, but also creeping around in the bushes. I was a creepy, creeping creep. And, I had no good excuses for being there. My situation was unexplainable, but there I was.

I crawled towards the edge of the next yard to have a look at the lights and people sounds. There was a pool lit up in the yard, but oddly nobody was in it. A crowd of people stood around the edge of the pool, and they were all dressed exactly the same. All the guys had on brightly colored Izod shirts with collars flipped, tucked into khaki shorts. I’d never seen so much turquoise, pink and yellow on guys. Of course, they all had on top siders. They all had a drink in one hand, the other in their shorts pocket. The girls all looked like they were in tennis outfits in which you would never actually play tennis. Lots of pony tails to top off their sporty look. Dammit, I didn’t know any of those people.

I carefully and nervously scanned the crowd looking for my friends, the whole time knowing the police were already on their way. I knew I was stuck there just waiting for the cops to bust me if that was the wrong party. I couldn’t just walk into a party from the bushes to mingle in with a crowd I did’t know while cops searched for an intruder. The interloper would obviously be ME…sticking out like a sore thumb in this crowd with my T-shirt, jeans and Converse All Stars. I was so screwed.

Just as I was considering briskly walking non-stop through the party with a polite smile, right on through the pool area, into the house and out into the street is when I saw two other guys dressed like me coming out of the house. Jeff and Tony! My friends were in the meadow!

They each had a beer in their hands, said hello to a few people, but didn’t seem to engage the group much. Yeah, that wasn’t really our kind of crowd. My bad luck continued as they worked their way over to the far side of the yard and sat down near some kind of huge built-in grilling station. That put the pool between me and them, so I worked my way around the periphery of the yard through the bushes, trying not to snap too many branches, avoiding as many thorns as I could. Still had only marginal success with that. Screw it. My luck improved and they stayed by that huge grill made out of bricks while I struggled through the sharp bushes to their side of the yard. Finally, I was on their side trying to figure out how to come out of the bushes unlike a psycho killer.

A loud shout broke from the house when some guy in a bright collar-flipped Polo shirt and Ray Bans loudly announced himself with “let’s get this party started” as he walked out toward the pool. He was clearly popular with the crowd. Most of them turned towards him and he got a loud chorus of “Chip!! Woohoo!!” Sensing my moment, I crawled out of the bushes, straightened up and walked as casually as I could towards Jeff & Tony. The crowd gave Chip a golf clap as I got close enough to my friends to give them my most confident “Hey, what’s up guys?”

Tony bounced around in his chair and turned to me first, jerked backwards in surprise and squawked out a sharp “what the hell!!” He just barely caught his falling beer, spilling most of it on his jeans. Jeff turned slowly then shot up from his chair when he saw me, gasping “Hey man, are you okay?” Their thoroughly disgusted responses shattered my veneer of casual confidence.

They were both looking up and down the freakish display that I was…the mud covering my sneakers and ripped jeans, my T-shirt torn all over, the bloody scratches all over my chest, arms and neck, continuing up my horrifically puffy, sweating face, topped by my matted hair sticking straight up in the air with leaves, thorns and twigs around it like a muddy crown. Despite my attempt to be calm, I was breathing hard, and my eyes were wide with panic. That had become my feral state in the bushes. I was a disheveled, twitchy, bloody mess, and didn’t even know it. I hadn’t really given my appearance any thought until I was standing there in the sudden silence of the party and some of the Izod and tennis outfit crowd started to take me in, gawking at me and whispering. It was only then that I started to feel all the thorns. It was not my best moment.

Tony did just about the best thing he could have at that moment and sharply broke the silence by bursting out laughing at me, and Jeff joined him. The preppy crowd followed with some light, nervous laughter then turned back toward the familiar tidiness of each other to continue whatever they were talking about.

After the brightly colored crowd turned away, Jeff asked “Hey, seriously man, are you okay? Need a beer?”


“Yes, please. Thanks, Jeff. And, I think Tony needs fresh one, too. Sorry about the spill, man. This place really freaks me out. I’ve had a bad night. I need to get out of here soon.”

Jeff frowned and soft-punched me on the shoulder; “Okay. Just one beer. This place freaks you out because it isn’t a place. Tony would probably look like you if I didn’t drive him here tonight.” Tony looked around and shrugged, easily nodded agreement.

As Jeff fetched the beers, I told Tony all about how lost I was there, admittedly the place scared me, that I had to abandon my car…they really needed to help me find it, and I had to follow them out of there. No way I could figure it out on my own. The meadow was completely foreign to me, the curvy streets confused me and I’d never even heard of the town of Cheltenham.

That’s when Jeff walked up with the beers and handed them to us. He had on his serious and knowledgeable face, with his chin tucked in, saying; “Remember, Dan, this isn’t a place. You’re lost because you’re trying too hard to make it fit what you know. There is no Cheltenham. There is no meadow. There never was a meadow. That’s just the name, a theme really. Some real estate developer gave these homes and streets the name when they built this. You may as well be in a pavilion at Disney’s Epcot Center right now called Cheltenham Land.”

Enjoying his knowledge of the foreign place, Jeff continued; “None of this was even here two years ago. But, if you ask any of these people where they’re from…they will say ‘Cheltenham Meadows’ like it’s an actual place. But, this development has no real history, no relevance to what’s around it. You’re used to names of towns and neighborhoods that fit into their surroundings in some way that makes sense to you. Lincoln Park is by, well, Lincoln Park. This thing was just given a stuffy name to make it sound like it’s been around for hundreds of years. That name sounds pretty good to the people who bought these homes. That’s it. No other meaning. My father lives in a place like this called Canterbury Woods and it doesn’t even have any trees. He’s in the “woods,” but he had to attach a big canopy to the side of his house to get any shade at all. He loves it there. But, the first time I spent a weekend with him, I probably looked like you, too. This isn’t good or bad. Just completely different from what you know.” He nodded slowly at me while I took a desperately long pull on my beer.

I told him about the unbelievably cruel never-ending left turn, the street to nowhere. Jeff snorted at that and said; “That’s a cul de sac. They call them circles here. Crazy, huh? You call it a street to nowhere. Well, buddy, you got no cul de sac cred whatsoever.” Tony and I both laughed hard at that one, me feeling much better already. Good, one, Jeff.

He went on to remind us that the massive city of Chicago, with all of its many streets, avenues and boulevards, had just installed its very first cul de sac in the South Loop. And that wasn’t until the mid-80’s. The intent of that cul de sac was to prevent drive-by shootings as they developed the neighborhood, to make it safer for the residents they wanted to come and stay there. Yes, the goal of that cul de sac was defensive, to slow down traffic, and ensure drivers couldn’t pass through the neighborhood, but instead just go round and round. Like getting stuck in a Roach Motel. An intentional “street to nowhere.” And so far, Chicago only had one. In the ‘burbs, Jeff explained, the cul de sac provided a quiet space where kids learned to ride their bikes without getting mowed down by through traffic. Suburbanites really liked cul de sacs. They were considered prime locations for homes in developments. Maybe the intent of those cul de sacs were defensive as well, and that’s what people who live there were looking for. If so, mission accomplished. Well done.

ChicagoMy first suburban adventure was as horrifying and educational as our exploration on the dark side of the moon. I would learn much more about those suburban places over the years, and I would also learn to respect the normal they represented for so many others. That works for them, and I get that now. I would also learn to deeply respect the vast differences those suburban places represented from my normal. Yes, I also had a normal. The strongest impression I gained from that night was that I am truly a city person. That’s just how I was raised, and it is who I am. I never would be entirely comfortable in suburbia. I can now easily navigate the ‘burbs without the trauma of my first visit, but I will never strive to have cul de sac cred. That’s an arena in which I will simply allow others to compete.

Asshole, Arse, Jerk

Don’t Be Such an ARSOL

Wouldn’t it be amazing if we came up with a new form of punishment for chronically aggressive drivers which forced them to walk the same way they drive, no matter what the consequences? I’m not talking about speeding. That has its own clear set of rules enforced by speed traps, radar guns, speed limits, etc. We’re all set there. Plus, we can’t expect speed demons to run as fast as their cars hurl them down the road.

I’m talking about all that other selfish, in-your-face, fuck-you-buddy aggression like tail-gating, blowing through stop signs and cutting people off. I’m talking about that childish behavior most people only exhibit when they’re safely wrapped in two tons of automobile. That car provides a lot of protection from retribution. That security blanket creates a lot of bravery these assholes wouldn’t otherwise display. If these drivers enrage some murderous psycho, they can just hide in their car like a turtle in its shell. But…What if that was all stripped away? Imagine their bravery disintegrating once the turtle has no shell, its frail little body is exposed. What effect would this have on the psyche of an aggressive asshole?

I don’t know the best way to prove someone has a chronic issue with aggressive driving of this type. But, let’s just say that an asshole…like that pickup truck-driving skinhead we’ve all met…yeah, him for example…let’s imagine he gets “dinged” by other drivers turning in just enough dashcam video of him cutting people off & flipping them the bird. The case has been made thanks to overwhelming evidence provided by his fellow citizens. He gets a court summons in the mail. The tape is reviewed. Yep, it’s confirmed, you’re a complete and total asshole buddy. The gavel comes down. Guilty. Mr. Wannabe Vin Diesel gets a heavy fine and is sentenced to 6 months of walking the way he drives, no matter what.

If Mr. Faux Vin Diesel refuses, his only alternative is a minimum of 2 year’s hard labor…toiling away at…you guessed it…building roads. Quaint, safe roads with school zones, lots of speed bumps, stop signs, cross walks & flower beds right down the middle. The chain gang is supervised by gold minivan-driving mommies and cautious old ladies. That’s hard time to serve for a guy like him. It’s too humiliating for his fragile ego to withstand. So, Mr. I-wish-I-was-Dominic-Toretto accepts the 6 months of walking the same asshole way he drives. He’s appointed a court supervisor & must also wear a bodycam to ensure he can’t cheat on this program one bit. The sentence begins.

He is now officially enrolled in the Aggression Rehabilitation System Obligatory Listing, or ARSOL. Enrollees will be called ARSOL’s for short. Everyone can quickly grasp what an ARSOL is all about, which helps greatly with building program awareness in the community. His car is affixed with a large sticker displaying a scarlet letter “A” to identify him as an ARSOL. But, when no longer in his car, and he’s walking the streets, there’s nothing to identify him as an ARSOL other than his uniquely bad behavior.

For the next six months, regardless of the risks or consequences, our friend needs to approach a line for movie tickets, the airport ticket counter, the DMV or even the buffet at a wedding…exactly as he did behind the wheel before he got busted. He must slowly cruise along the line like he has no intention of joining, then suddenly jump in when he sees the slightest gap. He then stares firmly off to the side, refusing to make eye contact, arms folded tightly across his chest, clenched jaw belying his casual pretense of “What? I didn’t do anything. Just drivin’ here.” Exactly what you would expect from an ARSOL.

If anyone in line complains in any way (any verbal honk or beep whatsoever) he quickly flips the bird over his shoulder without even looking back. He’s also sure to flex his bird-flipping arm as hard as he can, regardless of whether there’s anything worth flexing or not. If the complaint behind him gets any louder, the flipped bird clearly not having done its job, he gestures a parody of the shadow puppet quacking duck “wa wa wa” to say “whatev…can’t hear your noise. Take it bitch.” He still doesn’t look behind him, just as if he were safely encased in those two tons of steel, rubber & plastic.

Now, if that person behind him barking complaints should happen to be a short-fused mixed martial arts fighter on his first date with a girl he really wants to impress…and he only knows so many ways to impress…then the ARSOL gets a vicious public beating. Small children will casually step over his mangled body when it’s over. Oh well. So be it.

Anyone who regularly insults and further provokes random people is eventually going to detonate a bomb of rage. That rage could be manifested in the form of a dozen high school girls ferociously attacking him from all sides like piranhas…or perhaps one solid, swinging-for-the fences whack to his head from old man’s cane. Danger is all around the ARSOL in many forms and he has no protection. He quickly learns there are brutal consequences for being an ARSOL. As the months of his sentence wear on…with retribution at McDonald’s to CostCo to his busy local bar on a Friday night to the amusement park with his kids…he might be cured of a wide range of ARSOLishness through repeted aversion therapy.

Aside from the threat of constantly being beaten senseless in public for all to see, our friend could face many other tough social repercussions. In his office lobby waiting with coworkers for the elevator…as the doors open to let other people out, and his group begins to shuffle forward…he cuts in front of them so they all need to pull up to a full stop. Our friend jumps on just as the doors close, flipping the bird over his shoulder. Now they all know they work with a complete and total ARSOL, and the word gets around fast. He will be eating lunch alone for the rest of his career. And he can forget about that promotion.

Maybe he pulls that same ARSOL move just before a job interview. And, very soon afterwards, he’s looking across a desk at the cut-off victim, answering that famous interview question; “So, tell me about your greatest weakness.” Gulp. Gotta be honest. How best to answer the question? The ARSOL may have many weaknesses. But, the interviewer just witnessed a big one moments ago. Gotta fess up on that. No choice.

“Okay. My greatest weakness. Right. Well, you see I’ve got this passive-aggressive asshole streak whereby I make myself feel better by depriving others of their peace and space. But, I only do this when cloaked in anonymity and encased in the protective shell of my car. I’m basically a shallow coward who watches way too many action movies…I never really grew up…I’m a real selfish prick when I can get away with it…not exactly the team player you’re looking for…uh, but, crap, uh, then you already knew that…soooo…there’s no sense wasting any more of your time…I’ll be going now…oh, but first…sorry, do you validate parking? I need to escape your garage, get back behind the wheel…and continue my ARSOL rehabilitation. I’ve only been an ARSOL for two months. But, it feels like it’s been forever.”

It has been forever, buddy. It has been. You were an ARSOL long before that sticker was ever put on your car.

As the ARSOL skulks out of the office with his head down…past all the staff workers who now know what he’s all about…because the word has gotten around fast…they’re all mulling over the same thought: The fact that these ARSOL’s didn’t previously walk the way they drive suggests that fear of retribution was the only ingredient missing to cure them of their chronic ARSOLery. They just needed to be ripped out of their shell and exposed to the real fear of physical harm, public shame and loss of opportunity. The effect on these AROL’s is dramatic. Why had we never thought of this before? Thank goodness for the ARSOL program. Thank goodness it is here to stay. But just one question…why is the sentence only six months?

Baby Rattled

Shaken Baby

Why is violently shaking a baby getting passed off as a syndrome? Shaken baby syndrome. That makes baby murder sound so much more nuanced, like there are victims on both sides of the situation. C’mon man! It’s murder. Call it what it is.

See…If I light you on fire…don’t worry, I won’t. It’s okay. But, for the sake of argument, let’s just say I light you on fire. I’m going to jail for a long, long time. Because, I tried to kill you. Murder or attempted murder. Not arson. Arson means something else entirely. And, if you just suddenly burst into flames on your own…well, we call that spontaneous combustion. We’re not even really sure if that exists. But, to say “spontaneous combustion” certainly frames it in a very guiltless, faultless manner. It just happened. It’s absolutely tragic that you died a fiery death and now you’re all crispy. But, there’s no implication that I or anyone else did it. It was an event. It just happened. Spontaneously.

Maybe I’m alone in this, but we seem to be labeling something a spontaneous event when we allow it to become a “syndrome.” A baby doesn’t just start shaking spontaneously unless it’s having a seizure or it’s possessed. Those events have their own names, too. Demonic possession is just that, and it has a cause. They’re called demons. With shaken baby syndrome, however, someone had to grab that baby, and shake it. Really hard. While labeling baby murder as a “syndrome” won’t get the guilty baby shaker off the hook…the softening, the nuance, just strikes me the wrong way, as though sympathy should be our primary response…

“Their baby fell prey to the syndrome. Those poor people. Their baby got the syndrome. The syndrome visited that house in the dark of night. Does this plague have no mercy? It could have been any one of us. Here’s a check from Medicaid to pay for your grief counselling.” Yeah, yeah, I know I took a leap there. But, let’s call murder just that. Murder.

It’s the same way with SIDS…sudden infant death syndrome. This one is more of a mystery to me. How does that work, anyway? “So, let me get this straight, ma’am. Your baby was absolutely fine, and then suddenly it just stopped like a watch when the battery runs out? It just expired. Got it.” On your way then. So very sorry for your loss. Never mind that you live in a broken-down trailer with 6 other kids who are running to the store for your cigarettes and beer while you lay here and watch your stories. And, is that a crack pipe laying there? Nope. No suspicious signs here. That syndrome is a devious thief.

I mean if a guy is going through a horrible, nasty divorce and his wife is tragically befallen by sudden wife death syndrome or shaken wife syndrome…we have a name for that guy. The primary suspect. Take that baby out of the picture, and we become pretty damn clear about it pretty damn quick.

Taffy's Grave

Taffy Has Gone to a Better Place

It’s an old expression. A gentle way of saying somebody has died…when we say they “have gone to a better place.” By not offering specifics, we allow the recipient to imagine what that better place might be. Heaven. A beach. A rolling meadow, washed in sunshine with tall grass swaying in a gentle breeze. Whatever. They use their imagination to fill in the blanks and have happy thoughts about something horrible. Much easier on everyone.

When we hear that someone has gone to a better place, we also know we are supposed to agree that they indeed have gone to a better place. And, we also get the message to not ask any questions about what happened. We’ve been offered a platitude which clearly communicates that the details behind the situation may be too painful to share.

When telling a child that a relative or family pet has died, saying they have gone to a better place helps us avoid a conversation which might be too difficult for them to grasp. The thought of that person or pet no longer being with us is already difficult. That’s enough to deal with. There’s no need to burden the child with trying to understand that person or pet no longer exists at all, and that they may have endured pain in their final hours. Parents also tell their children the family pet has gone to a better place when they’ve had it put down by the vet. A child might not grasp the need for such a decision. They might accuse mom and dad of murder.

My mom and dad told me that our dog Taffy had gone to a better place. And, as many parents do in this situation, they embellished to help me out. They described a wonderful farm to which they had sent Taffy in New Hampshire, near where we spent our summers there. I didn’t know the “the farm” was such a typical story with dead dogs. And, they knew the concept wouldn’t be too foreign to me, even as a city kid. They knew I loved New Hampshire. Taffy was now at a farm with chickens and sheep for him to chase all day long. He could run free. Taffy always was a country dog, they reminded me. A big yellow lab that was raised in open spaces by my grandfather. When my grandfather died, we took Taffy to Chicago. They reminded me that Taffy never seemed happy in the city. He hated being on a leash. He was always running away.

They did a pretty good sales job on me. While I was really upset that Taffy was no longer around for me to play with, I knew they were right. I was actually walking Taffy on our street just a couple weeks before. When I knelt down to tie my shoe, he ran away. I chased after Taffy, yelling his name. He didn’t even look back or slow down one bit. He bolted as fast as he could, and turned the corner before I’d even run thirty feet. I knew he loved me. But, he still ran away from me the first chance he got. So, yeah, we all agreed that Taffy wasn’t very happy in the city. I embraced the idea of the wonderful farm, and Taffy running free…chasing those chickens and sheep all day long. I got over his not being around pretty quickly. My visions of the farm helped me feel happy for Taffy. He was indeed in a better place.

About a week later, I was playing at my best friend Scott’s house. When I was going home for dinner, his mom was down on one knee, helping me put on my coat. I liked her a lot, and she liked me. She always said so. She always smelled nice, and was always very kind to me. I always wanted to hug her. So, I always let her get close to me.

She was leaning in close, her face just a few inches from mine. After my coat was on, she was straightened my hair, and asked me in a soft voice how Taffy was. She liked Taffy a lot. So, I happily told her that Taffy was now in a better place. He was on a wonderful farm where he could chase the other animals all day long. Lots of open space, where he would be happier. My parents had taken him there. I was too young to understand why her face changed so suddenly. I didn’t understand her expression. She instantly went from soft and caring to sickly. I didn’t get it at all. I thought maybe she was going to be sick, and I was worried about her. And, even though she was probably about to throw up, she also seemed very worried about me. I never forgot that moment. It would keep coming back to me over the years. I eventually grew to understand exactly what had happened.

I eventually grew to understand there was no Santa, Easter Bunny or Tooth Fairy. I eventually grew to understand that the reassuring story about “the farm” was just a common dodge for parents to get out of a tough conversation about dead dogs. Just as common as saying someone “had woken up on the wrong side of the bed” to avoid saying they’re being a total asshole today….or every day. I was long over Taffy’s departure when I learned all this. So, I never asked my parents why they had lied to me. What’s the point? I had also grown up to understand the concept of a white lie. I know my parents would do everything they could to avoid being accused of murdering our dog. But, I also know they wanted me to be happy for Taffy. They wanted Taffy’s departure to be easier for me. I understand that. So, why bring it up? But, none of this ever faded away for me.

The reason it always stayed on my mind was because of that moment at my best friend Scott’s house. That sudden change in expression on his mother’s face, so close to mine. That sickly look, when her soft face turned hard, and all the lines in her face were sharp. As I eventually learned about the common “farm” dodge for parents who’ve just put down the dog, I understood her reaction. That poor woman. I had learned what it feels like to wish you hadn’t said the worst possible thing. I had learned what it feels like to see that someone is being a gullible fool, they’ve clearly been lied to, and they’re living in a dream world. I had learned what it feels like to be the first one to tell a kid…there is no Santa Claus.

I had also learned that I have a pretty dark sense of humor. So, the fact that I had so effusively shared my parent’s lie with Scott’s mom is pretty damn funny to me. Here’s this kid in front of her, so happy to share that his parents have murdered his dog. He’s repeating one of the most common phrases to describe a dog’s death, and he has no idea what he’s saying. He sounds like a complete idiot. She was just innocently making conversation with a child and stepped on a land mine. She must have really felt awful, and wished she could just vanish. She was probably thinking that even this idiot child would now suddenly figure out what had really happened to his dog, just by hearing his own stupid response to her innocent question. She winced after hearing the “click” when she stepped on the mine. She was clenched, waiting for the explosion when I suddenly figured out the truth. But, nope. She didn’t get blown up. She was safe. I’m a moron. I didn’t figure it out until years later.

My parents are getting older now. And, lately, I’m always sharing my memories with them. I’m in that whole “don’t let anything go unsaid” relationship with them. I turned 50 this past year, so that’s a lot of history to share. While at their dinner table a few months back, I suddenly remembered that moment with Scott’s mom. I chuckled while taking a sip of wine and asked them if Scott’s mom had ever said anything to them about that time after they had put Taffy down, when she and I had this awkward moment together. She must have told them, because she felt like total hell. She was probably worried that she was the reason I would figure it all out sooner than I was supposed to.

My parents looked at each other, then turned back at me…Put Taffy down? What do you mean put Taffy down? No, no, no…we took Taffy to a wonderful farm in New Hampshire. A truly wonderful place where he could run free, chasing the other farm animals all day long. Chickens. Sheep. Such a wonderful place.

I put my glass down hard…C’mon guys. Enough with the bullshit. I got over this years ago. I’m fifty years old now! Stop treating me like a child. Taffy was getting old. You had him put down. And, just like telling me to be good or Santa wouldn’t bring me any presents…you soothed me with the most common “in a better place” story ever. The old “farm” dodge? C’mon guys. I’m not stupid. Why are you still keeping this up, even now?

No, Dan. Really. You know Taffy wasn’t doing well in the city. He was always a country dog. He was suffering in Chicago. He went to a farm on Gardner Hill Road in Tamworth, New Hampshire. We had met the people during one of our summers there. Lovely people. They loved dogs, and they really loved Taffy. We visited with them a bunch of times, and Taffy simply loved it there. We let him stay over a few times, eventually for a week at a time. He was so happy. It was a much better place for him. We knew it was the right thing to do. And, we didn’t want to get into it with you. A clean break. We knew when we left him there, he truly was indeed in a better place.

I stared at my parents. They stared back at me.

I’ve grown up a lot over the years. I’ve learned a great deal. I’ve matured. I have much more self-control. I’m much more aware of who I am, and how I got here. I know my selfish tendencies. I know I can be deceitful and charming when I’m trying to get what I want. I might even lie a bit in the process. I’m honest about these traits I have. I also know where I got them. From these people.

These people…who are staring me down now…and sticking to their story.

Is this a test? Are they waiting to see if I really have grown up? Are they wondering if the immature Dan will surface, and loudly accuse them of being liars and murderers, rather than continuing the polite dinner conversation? Or…Are they wondering just how gullible I might still be, if maybe they can suck me back into believing the farm is real? Or…Maybe they just don’t know how to back down from a lie, regardless of how ridiculous it sounds, even as the truth becomes obvious. Or…Or…Is the farm real? If I don’t trust them and accept that the farm is real, then maybe I am still just their child…only thinking and believing what I want to, just disagreeing with them to be difficult.

So…wait…Taffy really did go to a farm?

Yes. A much better place.

The farm is real?

Yes. It’s a real farm. Chickens. Sheep. Lot of open space for him to run. Chase the other animals all day long. A better place for Taffy. I’m sure you can imagine just how wonderful it is. I’m sure you can imagine how happy he must have been in such a place.

Huh. Okay. It does sound pretty nice.

Yes. It’s wonderful. We should all be lucky enough to go to such a place when we die.

Wait. WHAT?

Oh, never mind, Dan. The farm is real. The farm is real.