The Bride is Trying to Kill Me

This is a cry for help.
The Bride is trying to kill me, and I need you to have my back.
I sustained a bad back injury that led to a near death experience.
No, not running or lifting weights or rock climbing or doing something else manly.
No, this 45 year old with 24 pieces of surgical metal in his body hurt his back in the middle of the night trying to get up out of bed to pee. I moved wrong, my back went out, and I went down hard. I went down to the floor in agony, crying for help. The Bride sits up and starts sleep talking, or pretending to sleep talk, “Stop making noise and put underwear on! Your sister is in the living room!”
Then this criminal mastermind lays back down and fakes sleep.
My sister is not in the living room. She’s in Pennsylvania. Also, she has four older brothers with no sense of humility, so it wouldn’t phase her even if I had walked out into the living room with a middle of the night urination boner.
I mean, my poor sister has been through it all. Once, while sharing a bed with her drunken one passed out drunken brother at a wedding, she sits up in the middle of the night and declares in a very emphatic tone that, “if you touch my butt one more time, I’m going to break your arm!”
In his defense, our sister strongly resembles his wife, but that’s another story for another time.
Anyway, point being, if my sister was in our living room and had seen my pee boner, it would not be the worst thing to happen to her. But what might actually be the worst thing ever is that I may die, on my bedroom floor, after having peed all over myself, because The Bride chose to let me suffer and die instead of trying to save me.
Now, you may ask, why would The Bride want to kill off her wonderful husband?
Well, I just sold my business and made The Bride the beneficiary on my bank account. So, for all I know, she was awake, hearing my agonizing cries for help, and she’s just trying to ride it out, hoping I die, while dreaming of herself riding along the coast in her new convertible Corvette, air blowing through her hair, while some dickhead 22 year old dude enjoyed the fruits of my lifetime of labor.
Anyway, after half and hour or so, I gathered myself, got back in bed, and was able to bravely make it through the night and fend off the Grim Reaper. In the morning, I was so jacked up with pain that that I could not bend at the hips.  I took a handful of pain pills, and when it was time for my morning poo, I had three options.
1- Stand over the toilet like a B17 bomber plane and hope for the best.
2- Put together a make-shift bed pan out of The Bride’s cake pan.
3- Shit myself
I went with option #2.
The Bride was driving the kids to tennis camp, so I’d be able to pull it off and get rid of the evidence and she’d never know.
Until now.
So, I survived the ordeal, not because I wanted to, but to spite The Bride, and I want everyone here to know that if something happens to me in the next few months, it was her.
I’m trusting you guys to get me justice.

Penis or Vagina? It’s so confusing.

I just heard a statistic that 40% of people under the age of 25 years old don’t identify as either straight or gay, and my mind is blown.

I used to believe that sexual attraction wasn’t a choice; that you were born one way and that’s how it was. I believed that because I could remember being attracted to girls as early as kindergarten. I didn’t choose that, it just was. I had my first kiss in second grade, but it was forced upon me by the friend of the girl I really wanted to kiss. Yes, I’m a victim of sexual assault by a second grader that was bigger than me.

I later “humped” the furry hooded coat of the girl I really liked, during recess (she was not wearing the coat when I humped it)- I called this “tickling” but, in hindsight, this is probably something Harvey Weinstein was doing in second grade. I don’t recall if I asked her permission before humping her furry hooded coat or not. However, I promise you, if you saw this coat, you would’ve humped it too.

We’re getting off topic.

In my late twenties, I dated a girl who had been a lesbian her entire life until we met. Since that time, she’s been straight and is now married to a man. She went thirty years lesbo and now the last 14 straight. She experienced sexual trauma at a young age, and it subconsciously scared her off men. From that experience I learned that trauma can affect and change sexuality.

I also learned that I was able to turn a woman and I manage to work this into 67 percent of the conversations I’ve had since then.

Again, off topic. (But awesome)

A few years ago, I learned about imprinting. This happens mostly with boys and it explains why so many molested boys turn out to be molesters later in life. Something terrible and horrific and tragic happens to them; however, because they don’t know what is going on, it also feels good. This is what is so confusing to them. They are being assaulted and forced into doing something horrific and this damages them for life. At the same time, they forever, subconsciously, associate that with pleasure. Statistically, a VERY high percentage of molested boys become molesters. This doesn’t happen to girls. From this, I learned that there is a LOT that still needs to be learned about sexuality.

Now, today, I’m hearing that 40% of kids under twenty five identify as neither gay nor straight. I guess this means bisexual? Or asexual? I’m honestly not sure. Now, I’m wondering if I had it wrong from jump. Maybe, sexuality is actually a choice. Or maybe its affected by genetics and trauma and choice. Or maybe our sexuality can be impacted by the societal standards of our time. Maybe social norms help form our sexuality. In today’s world, all kinds of things are “acceptable” and “normal” that weren’t when I was a kid. Maybe this actually affects children’s sexuality. Or maybe my generation was repressing things regarding their sexuality without even knowing it.

I’d bet that less than 3% of my generation is unable to identify as gay or straight as compared to the 40% now. That can’t just be due to chance. There’s no way that it increased 37%. Either someone isn’t being honest or societal norms impact sexuality far more than previously believed. There has to be something about the way people are growing up now, in an environment that is more accepting and open to these ideas, that makes them more likely to identify as bisexual or something else altogether.

Now, is it the environment that made them that way? I don’t know. How could I know. I do know; however, that this current generation isn’t the first to identify this way. In Ancient Greece everyone was having sex with everyone else, regardless of gender. That was the norm. Maybe that was the societal norm and maybe that affected the sexuality of the individuals. Maybe that is what we are experiencing now.

I could never see myself being attracted to anyone other than a woman, but maybe, if I were fifteen and growing up in this new era, maybe I’d have turned out differently. Same genetics, same lack of sexual trauma, different setting, different outcome.

Who knows? I certainly don’t. I’m not going to be one of those tough guys that says “no way, not me, bro.”
I’m not homophobic, so that thought doesn’t scare me. I just can’t imagine being attracted to guys. But who knows what affects our sexuality; it gets more complex as I get older and learn things, rather than becoming more simplified.

Basically, we should never pretend to have all the answers.
Also, why does it matter? Why can’t we just accept people for what they are? And why do we have to put labels on our sexuality?
For that matter, why do we have to discuss it so often? Why is our society so obsessed with sexuality and labels? Why am I discussing it right now?
Sexuality is just one more way to play identity politics, and it’s probably no good for us to inject it into every conversation just like it’s not good to inject “race” into every conversation.

That said, understanding these things may help us figure out a way to stop pedophilia from occurring.

So let’s leave it to the scientists and let’s stop judging one another in the meantime.

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Hey Superman, Go Back To Your Country

I watched the new Superman with my son the other night and I had a realization… I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Sci-Fi movie in which other-worldly aliens lived on their home planet separated countries?

If there is a movie like this, I’m unaware of it.

If aliens are able to leave their planet and travel the galaxy, they are more evolved than us, and it would seem that the idea of having separate countries on a single planet doesn’t feel right in a story line about higher evolved beings.
It seems then that arbitrary borders are a very antiquated idea.

At some point, as we continue to evolve and progress, you would hope we’d reach a point where we would do away with the arbitrary make-believe lines that we draw in the dirt between us.

In the modern age of the internet, where all information is shared globally, an age in which all the air that we breathe is the same, an age in which pollution is no longer local and affects us globally, and an age in which we’ve come to learn that we have much more in common than not, doesn’t the idea of living on a planet with imaginary lines drawn in the sand already seem out-dated?

I mean, 500 years ago giant walls were built around cities to protect those cities from the neighboring city. We no longer do that, right? Wouldn’t it feel crazy if Los Angeles built a giant fence to keep out all the beach folk from Manhattan Beach and then Manhattan Beach built a giant fence to keep out everyone from Hermosa Beach?

How then is it not crazy that decide that being born within the imaginary boundaries of one patch of dirt means that you can’t go to that other patch of dirt without having special permission.

What are we doing here? It’s non-sense.

I guess, for safety sake, it’s necessary right now to “have borders” and “protect those borders” because there are people in the world that want to harm us. However, maybe if we didn’t have an “ours” and “theirs” society, and all of us were just humans with equal rights to go wherever we wanted, then maybe there wouldn’t be the need to “protect our borders”.

But probably not. That’s probably just some hippy-dippy day dreamer stuff, huh?

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The Dad Needs Your Help

Today’s Advice Request FROM The Dad-

Sometimes, I get on here and doll out advice that is thinly veiled behind some crass humor. This is my clever little way of acting out my agenda on the world. It’s the first step in my 72 step process of achieving world domination (muwahahahahahaha).

At any rate, I’m mostly bull-shitting and my advice is garbage. I don’t know too many things about too much stuff. Today, I’m tucking the bull-shitting skill in my back pocket for a minute to reach out to you guys, with an open mind, to ask for some advice from the rest of you. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the process of running this page is that ALL of my fans?followers? (whatever) are beautiful people with high IQs, infinite life experiences, and the ability to tackle sensitive world issues in a rationale, logical, calm, and considerate manner. You are better humans than me.

You’ve taught me so much. And now, like Scott Staff from Creed, I’m reaching out, with arms wide open, asking for you to wrap your big strong arms around me to keep myself, The Bride, and the boys on the straight and narrow.

These are important life questions. So-

At what age is it considered to be no longer appropriate for my boys to spend time together, in the bathroom, laughing and giggling, while one of them is pooping?

If I hate it when people eat off my plate, and The Bride has known this for ten years, and we are out for an expensive dinner, and when I’m in the bathroom she eats off my plate, and I know she ate off my plate because I calibrated my plate before I went to the bathroom, then is it too much to ask the prosecuting attorney to go for the death penalty?

If I’m stuck in traffic, and a cute girl catches me picking my nose, is it okay to roll down my window to tell her that ‘I had an itch?’

If we’re having dinner with friends that happen to be people with a higher concentration of melanin than us, and the 5 year old asks their young son, “at night time, when the lights are out, do you become invisible” what is the appropriate way for a parent to handle this situation?

If my son is good friends with a kid from school and that kid’s parents are constantly wanting to have “play-dates” but that kid’s parents are the most annoying people in the history of the Universe and I’ll probably have to kill them if we have to hang out with them even one more time, then did I not ‘save a life’ when I made my child change schools?
Is a BJ and some ‘butt-stuff’ not a fair trade for saving lives?
Would it be better to state this case to The Bride in an emoji? An Instagram story? Or an old fashioned letter?

If The Bride refuses to engage in a threesome for about eleven different reasons, and I go out and find a working girl to pretend to be a civilian and to approach The Bride and woo her and seduce her, am I breaking any rules?

If Filipinos are considered to be the **ggers of the Asian community (and I’ve been told by various black people and Asians that this is the case), then is it acceptable for my Filipino sons to sing all the words to Kanye’s “Gold Digger” out loud, in mixed company?
Since I’m their Dad, is the same okay for me?

If I’m using a restroom at a McDonalds and after I stand up to put my pants on (before I flush) I drop a twenty in the toilet, is it okay to fish it out?
And if so, it okay to then give that twenty to the pimple faced cashier for some lunch?

If I haven’t had a “release” in a week because The Bride is a liar and has had a cold all week, and I have to use my memory and imagination, while in the shower to resolve the situation, and I go all the way back in time to high school, do I have to do my best to age the classmates in my imagination (even though I haven’t seen them in twenty years) or is it acceptable for them to still be juniors, if I too am a still a junior?

If one of the boys makes a tragic mess and I’m the first to come across it and I pretend not to see it, and The Bride later sees it and gets mad at me for not noticing it first, is it a lie to just shrug my shoulders?

If my boys think I’m the strongest man in the world, but, in reality, I’m only like second or third strongest, is it lying to allow them to this think?

If, at Christmas, I go out for bagels early in the morning, and while I’m out for bagels, Santa shows up with a sack full of presents for my boys, and by the time I get back Santa is gone, and this has now happened five years in a row, am I an absentee parent?
Also, do you think Santa is fucking The Bride?

If our niece is at our house and she poops in her diaper and The Bride isn’t home, and I have no experience changing little girl’s diapers, and I’ve read some things about infections and such, and I decide to be a good uncle and go for it, but when I get her diaper off there are all kinds of folds and crevices and nooks and crannies that I’m unprepared for, should I:
A- hose her off in the backyard
B- ask our elderly neighbor to come over and help
C- wipe her as best as I can and hope for the best
D- Put her in a basket and drop her off at the police station?

If The Bride is lactose intolerant (she is), and she eats ice cream for the one millionth time in a row despite my suggesting that she shouldn’t, and then she farts in public and it smells incredibly bad, and then I tell everyone it was me, then am I being hyperbolic by suggesting to her, that night, that I was a hero?
Is it ridiculous for me to try to parlay that into a threesome?
If she says no, is it not bigoted for her to say, “I’m not attracted to women.”?

If I’m playing laser tag with my boys, and I reset my vest (when nobody’s looking) to give myself more lives, and it’s done as part of teaching the children a lesson, and that lesson is that their Dad is better than them at laser tag, am I a bad dad?

If The Bride comes into the living room, at 1230am, while I’m in the final five minutes of an episode of my favorite show, and she proceeds to ask exactly 17 questions, and she insists that I answer every single one, and I do this, and then she falls asleep with four and a half minutes remaining in the show, only to wake up when it’s over to ask me exactly 14 more questions, and she miraculously does this 100% of the time that I ever watch anything on TV, then, should I not get custody of the children in a divorce?

Thank you all for your love and support, and thank you for taking the time to answer these very pressing questions.
I love you.
And this has been Today’s Advice FROM The Dad.

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I’ve seen Heaven and I’ve seen Hell

Today’s edition of Storytime from The Dad:

So I had a crazy experience yesterday. I was dead for like 5 minutes, but when you’re dead, for those of you who have never died, time is nearly infinite, and it felt like days.

First, I went to heaven and I was outside the pearly gates and this dude was looking at me sideways, and I was like “yo, stop lookin at me like that.”

Then, this black preacher dude showed up, and I recognized him as being that preacher, from the newspaper, who had previously been busted for selling pictures of heaven from the last time he died, and I was like- “yo, dude, you’re that preacher! You’re innocent! You weren’t lying. You really did take pictures of heaven. Wow.”

Then, the gates opened up and I saw heaven and it was beautiful. It looked exactly like one of Puff Daddy’s white parties, and yeah, all the liberals were right, Jesus is totally black. Dreadlocks even. And he was smoking a spliff, and then he was like- “You wanna hit this”, and I was like, “fuck yes, black Jesus!”, and he was like, “Brah, that was a test, and you just fucked up, Bye Felicia!”

The gates closed, everything started spinning, and then, yo, my ass totally caught fire.
Like literally.
My ass was on fire, so I stopped, dropped and rolled just like they teach you in school, and when I stopped rolling I looked around and I was like, fa-uck!

I was in hell.
This serpent appeared before me and he was fucking HUGE and he had a giant fiery dick and big titties, but they didn’t have nipples, they just had tats where the nipples should’ve been, and I don’t know why but the tats were Norm MacDonald’s face, and that kinda made me laugh, and then music started playing, and it was pretty cool. The song was “Happy” by Pharrell, which I thought was ironic, given that we were in hell and everything, and then the serpent started dancing on his belly and I started dancing and then Anna Nicole Smith showed up and she was, like, totally grinding on the serpent, and then Marilyn Monroe showed up and I was grinding on her and it was awesome, and then the song ended, and Marilyn’s face turned into Dennis Hopper’s face and he tried to kiss me and I started running and Dennis Hopper’s face on Marilyn Monroe’s body was chasing me around hell and then “Happy” by Pharrell started playing again and suddenly it wasn’t ironic anymore and by the fourth time it played in a row I totally understood what they were going for down there in hell.

And then I felt a slap in my face and I woke up and The Bride had just injected my heart with adrenaline from a long-ass needle like the one from Pulp Fiction, and I jumped up in the bed, terrified, and I said, “what happened?”

And she was like, “Dude, I finally gave you that threesome you’ve been begging me for for the last decade, and against my better judgement, I kissed that girl the way you wanted me to, and I guess it was too much for you and you had a heart attack.”
And I was like, whoa, damn, and she was like, “yeah, so next time you bug me for a three-some, I’m going to remind you of this.”
And I was like, “fuck, I totally blew my shot, huh?”
And she was like, “you sure did, bud.”

(Disclaimer: this story is not 100% true… except the part about me bugging The Bride for a threesome for the last decade. That’s 100%)

Hermosa Beach, CA set to Forbid Marriage Between White Men and Asian Women

The Bride and I attended a recent California wedding in which the diversity was so broad that we covered pretty much every box in one of those skin tone swatch charts. We had a great time and I danced my buttocks off, but as a man whose skin tone would match up with one of the lighter boxes in the skin tone swatch chart, I caught a lot of judgy looks from people.
“Pointy nosed people” like myself, do like to cut a rug every now and then, even if we pointy nosers don’t typically move as well as button nosers and squishy nosers. And for a guy like me who really loves to have a good time and who is typically surrounded by a lot of “people of a higher concentration of pigment,” it bothers me when other’s judging glances suggest that I may have just come down with a case of cerebral palsy. So please, if you happen to be a “person with a typically superior booty,” and you’re at a party where there are “pointy nosed people” trying to dance, if the dancing looks more frightening than Tara Reid’s boob job, then just look away… or consider joining us in getting really drunk, acting a fool and dancing like one’s rhythm meter has just been broken to the wedding theme song for people of the pointy nose tribe. You may like it.
Jump up, jump up and get down. Jump Around!
Lastly, for the record, I may match up against the lighter shades on the skin tone swatch chart, and I may not dance in perfect rhythm with the beat of whatever song I’m dancing to (actually, I’m probably not even in the same neighborhood as it), but I gots soul, muthafuckas; so back off.

Now, speaking of “people of a greater concentration of pigment,” I’ve decided I have to divorce The Bride.
Shortly after the end of the American Civil War in 1865, The Bride and I met at a dive bar in Hermosa Beach. At that time, even in progressive ole’ California, it was unusual to find many couples of mixed ethnicity.
Nowadays, you can’t spit out your gum in Hermosa Beach without it getting caught in the long, lusty hair of some Asian girl who’s holding the hand of her “pointy nosed” boyfriend.
The white guy/Asian girl demographic has become an epidemic in this town. Now, I’m all for the pigmental mixing of people; I feel like the sooner we get all our genetics all entwined, the sooner we can stop framing every argument around the issue of skin color. That said, if we’re going to stir up the gene pools, how about a little diversity amongst our choices? I’d like to see some Latino guy/Asian girl combos or Indian guy/Latina girl combos or, if you want to be super unique, how about an Asian guy/black girl combo? In the 110 years of Hermosa Beach’s existence, it is historical fact that there has never been an Asian Man/Black girl couple. On the other hand, the white guy/Asian girl trope is so over-done, that Asian men and white women have started dating one another, not out of desire, but out of the fact that they have no other options.
At a recent birthday party that I had to take my son to, an all-white married couple showed up with a package wrapped tightly in soft blankets. Given that we don’t actually know any all-white couples, when they showed up with their package, which turned out to be a baby; it affected me the way American Indians were affected by European ships when the Europeans sailed to America. It’s said that the Native Americans didn’t even see the ships out on the ocean because they’d never seen ships before and their brains couldn’t process them. That’s what this white baby did to my brain. Eventually, once I finally realized their package was a baby, I couldn’t get over how white his skin was; it seemed almost unnatural. His skin color was probably normal for an all-white baby, but I hadn’t seen a 100% Caucasian baby in Hermosa Beach in at least three years, so I can’t be positive.
Basically, if you can’t process all my offensive hyperbole, what I’m trying to get at is that the white guy/Asian gal has become a cliché around here, which makes The Bride and I a cliché. I can’t regard myself as a clever, hip, and smart guy that’s unlike all the other jerk-offs I know, if I’m living a cliché. So I’ve made a proposal to the City of Hermosa Beach; it’s called the Marriage Protection Act, part two, and it’s designed to keep marriage sacred by forbidding all future marriages between white men and Asian women. If the city shoots me down, the I have no choice but to divorce The Bride. The illusion that I’m hip and clever is very important to me, and I will not allow one more white guy/Asian girl combo to ruin my self-esteem.
I believe this measure will pass, but in the event that it fails, and I’m forced to divorce The Bride, the good news is that it shouldn’t be too hard to make that happen.
First, she doesn’t like me very much, so I don’t think I’ll get much of an argument out of her on the proposition, but, more importantly, I don’t believe we’re technically married.
I mean, we got “married,” once upon a time. However, we may not be married in the “traditional” sense.
And by “traditional,” I mean “legally.”
When we were married on the beach by some guy whom we paid a hundred dollars, The Bride assumed I mailed in our marriage certificate.
She was wrong to assume.
We’ve been together so long that I’m sure we’re in some kind of binding domestic partnership by now, but that shouldn’t be much for me to undo.
In hindsight, it’s a miracle we made it this long in the first place. Were it not for a case of explosive diarrhea, we wouldn’t even have had a second date.
But I’ll have to tell you that story another day.


Queer as Fuck Vs Master of None

Insecure, Master of None, Dear White People- all these new shows are preaching at me, and I don’t appreciate it.

More than fifteen years ago, Queer as Folk came out on Showtime, and I found it to be the most interesting show of its time. It was entertaining and and funny and interesting and smart, and it was all about gay dudes acting super gay. Pittsburgh bath house sex, pre-Grinder public park meet-up sex, and graphic gay orgies. They put dicks in places I never knew dicks could dare to go. I didn’t love the sex scenes, but the characters were riveting as hell. The hero, “Brian Kinney” a super-gay stud that was a self-centered sex-addict that somehow always seemed to do the right thing and was such a fascinating character that I even bought a t-shirt reading, “What would Brian Kinney do?”

The show was so gay it should’ve been called Queer as Fuck, but I dug it because it didn’t preach at me; it just gave me a little sneak peek into a world that I wasn’t a part of. It was fascinating as fuck and it wasn’t ever being political just for the sake of being political. Back then, being political wasn’t cool. There weren’t phonies out there pushing agendas just to get “likes.”

Today, all these shows want to score little political brownie points on social justice issues by forcing their opinions down your throats. I watched only one episode of “Dear White People” because it was a terrible show, but the first episode seemed to want to convey the message that white college kids are terrible people that like to dress up in black face at frat parties. After that debacle, I gave it a second chance. I made it ten minutes into episode two. It’s awful.

Now, I made it four episodes deep into a semi-entertaining show called “Master of None” before I had to quit. It’s starring an Indian guy (Aziz Ansari) who’s playing a normal Indian guy and making millions of dollars while playing a normal Indian guy, but the premise of the show is that Indian men can’t get acting roles unless they are playing 7/11 clerks. First of all, you’re an Indian guy that has his own show, and you’re one of the biggest selling comics in the world (despite not being very funny); so you’re probably not the one who should preach that Indian guys can’t get television roles unless they are playing 7/11 guys, even if that concept is true.

Regardless, if I’m tuning in to watch your show, I obviously don’t have a problem with watching an Indian dude in a lead role. You’re preaching at a guy that doesn’t need to hear it. The guy who needs to hear it isn’t tuning in because that guy isn’t interested in watching a show starring an Indian guy.

You can put a dozen gay guys, a score of black men, some transsexuals and a bunch of illegal immigrants into a show and I’m definitely tuning in because that sounds really interesting to me. If the show is good, I’m staying. If it stinks, I’m out. There are modern shows out there, like Queer as Folk, that are great shows, without a straight white guy in sight, and they don’t preach: Transparent, Blackish, Atlanta, Snowfall, I could go on. I’m all in on these. They tell a story from their characters point of view in an entertaining way. But as soon as you start preaching at me, I’m out.

Just be interesting.
And stop preaching to the choir.
The choir is getting annoyed.
Wow us with your creativity.
Stop playing politics just because it’s become the new hip thing to do.
It’s so insincere.

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Bird Flu/Hepatitis Face all Over my Baby

As a physical therapist who visits people in their homes, I’ve seen some crazy things. I had a patient who was a hoarder that saved all her bowel movements in dated mason jars for over a decade, taking up her entire basement. I had a patient who collected exotic pets like alligators, snakes and even a lion cub. I had a “preacher” with a twenty million dollar house and a wife and girlfriend that both lived in that house. I had an uber-rich, retired Hollywood A-list celebrity who became an agoraphobic hermit with zero regard for personal hygiene and b.o that could be smelled from the bottom of Laurel Canyon Drive. I’ve seen a patient who lived in downtown hotel with 15-20 junkies living in his place. I had an 85-year-old female patient make a pass at me, and I had a 92-year-old male patient do the same. I’ve had patients punch me, offer me drugs, and steal from me. I’ve seen it all.
When I became a father, my son became my No. 1 responsibility, and I had to learn to show more discretion in which patients I chose to take on. I learned this lesson from Bird Woman.
My boy was 3-months-old when I got a new patient in an area of Long Beach that was unfamiliar to me. Her home was in such a remote area that I felt like Christopher Columbus upon finding it. After parking, I considered planting an American flag to claim the seemingly undiscovered land.
I approached her front door with caution. She had the kind of giant door knocker you’d find on the front door of a haunted house in a Hitchcock film. I lifted it and banged it against the big wooden door.
“Come in, quickly,” she said, opening the door a crack.
Upon entering, I felt like I’d walked into an episode of “Animal Planet.” Bird Woman put a raincoat around my shoulders to ‘keep me clean’ (her words). Birds were flying, swooping, gawking and pooping. My first instinct was to turn and run, but I feared sudden movement could be dangerous. There were so many birds in her house that it would be easiest to tell you what kind of birds were not there, so, here goes:
There were no bald eagles.
There were no vultures…
And that about covers it. Unless you count pterodactyls ─ there were none of them, but I think pterodactyls are actually flying reptiles rather than birds. I dunno, maybe not. I’ll just play it safe ─
There were no pterodactyls.
But every other kind of bird on planet Earth ─ Bird Woman had it in her home.
Yes, there was an ostrich. Yes, there was a turkey. There was every kind of parrot I’d ever seen, a couple pelicans, storks, and three flamingos.
For a moment, I considered checking the closet for Ashton Kutcher because I was sure I was being “Punk’d.” But then I remembered that only famous people get “Punk’d.”
Bird Woman had just gotten a total hip replacement, but I don’t think we spent more than five minutes on her hip. We spent most of the appointment talking birds. While she talked, she fed them bird seed out of her hand, before eating some herself from that same dirty hand, surely giving herself bird flu and mouth herpes all in one shot.
Bird Woman was so many degrees of crazy that I couldn’t tear myself away. I was fascinated and certain I could get away with asking just about anything. “Do you breed your own birds?” I asked. “You could probably cross-breed a new species. You could be, like, the first person to ever breed an ostra-parrot.”
“It’s hard to cross-breed birds,” she said. “But I did invent a “sparrow-saurus… Half sparrow and half bald eagle.”
“Seriously? Wow. Can I see it?”
“No, it’s dead. The vet said its heart was too small to support its body size.”
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“How do you keep this place clean…ish?”

“I open the basement door, throw food down there, the birds chase it, and then I hose down the upstairs while they’re down there. But I don’t like to keep them there too long, I get lonely without my babies.”
“Doesn’t hosing down the inside of your home ruin everything in your apartment?”
“That’s why everything is covered in plastic.”

To be honest, I hadn’t even noticed the plastic. And typically, when I enter some old ladies home where they have the furniture covered in protective plastic, it’s the first thing I notice. There was just too much going on here for that to be even in the top 10 of odd things about her home.
My next question was totally inappropriate, but Bird Woman seemed to be lacking normal people boundaries, so I just went ahead asked, “Are you attracted to your birds?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said.
To be honest, I was a little disappointed by her answer. But then she elaborated—
“People aren’t anatomically compatible with birds,” she said.
This caused me to simultaneously choke back a satisfied smile and throw up in my mouth at the same time.
Meeting someone of this extreme caliber of crazy is a rare treat, and I was going to fully indulge myself.
As I was reveling in the brilliance of her last answer, a baby chick began pecking at my foot, which got me to wondering, “Do you eat chicken?”
“No! What’s wrong with you? Would you eat your babies? Gross!”
Yeah, I’m the gross one, lady.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I picked up and held the baby chick; this caused my parental instincts to kick in.
I thought of my 3-month-old baby and panicked. What kind of exotic bird diseases was I about to bring home to my young son?
I left immediately. Outside, I wasn’t about to get into my car, the car that Keller rides around in, with bird-parrot flu and other diseases all over me. Since there wasn’t another house within shouting distance, and nobody but crazy Bird Lady around to see me, I took all my clothes off and threw them in her outdoor trash can. I put on some dirty clothes from my trunk, drove back to Hermosa Beach, and went to my gym where I showered for an hour in nearly scalding water, trying to kill the AIDS and cancer and hepatitis and every other exotic disease that was probably incubating on my skin.
At the very least, my gym membership had finally been used.
Back home, I vowed not to lay a finger on Keller for at least three days so I could make sure I hadn’t caught anything. Two months later, I learned that Bird Woman died from a bacterial infection. Not surprisingly, it was traced back to one of her birds. After this, I was paranoid, for weeks. I realized I’d put myself in a position that a new father shouldn’t. The risk taking lifestyle I’d always lived doesn’t jell with fatherhood. If something happened to me, what would become of The Bride and Keller? I realized I needed to make more responsible life decisions.
Now, as a grizzled veteran father, I’m more discerning about what kind of patient’s homes I’ll go into. However, I go rock climbing regularly and experiment with drugs whenever the kids are away for the night, so maybe I haven’t learned anything.
Point being… well, no point—just trying to entertain you with a good story.
I am here for your amusement.

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Am I Gay Now?

A very GAY moment, from The Dad-
At the Costa Ricafort plantation, I went to order pineapple ice cream for The Bride and kids.
“Can I help you,” asked the stunning Hawaiian girl at the counter.
“Oh wow,” I said, not faking it.
“Your eyes are amazing. I’ve never seen eyes like yours. They look like your tropical ocean, but with emeralds floating in it.”
She giggled and blushed.
Behind me, The Bride was cracking up, losing her shit. I assumed it was because she thought I was being cheesy. Anyway, I placed my order and joined The Bride with the ice creams. She was still losing it.
“What is so damned funny?”
“You were flirting with that baklat.”
“What’s a baklat?”
“The tagalong word for gay Filipino man who looks feminine,” she said.
“That was no dude.” I said, emphatically.
“He was a dude.”
“She was most definitely not a dude.”
I walked back over to her. “May I ask what your name is?”
“Makai,” she responded.
I walked over to The Bride. “Is Makai a boy name or girl name?”
“Boy name.”
“Shit, I was flirting with a baklat.”
The Bride snot-bubble laughed.
“He was a beautiful man. This is confusing. What is happening?”
The Bride, now bent over in laughter.
“Am I gay now?”
“No, just stupid,” she replied.

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