The following conversation took place on May 6, 2006. The time: 7:17 p.m. The place: El Chorro Lodge, Phoenix, Arizona. The people: A woman named Cecilia who prefers to be called Cece, and a Somewhat Rational Human Being (me).

The conversation is written as recalled. Though alcohol was involved, memory of the conversation remains vivid because, well, see for yourself.

Cece: “Oh my god, did you just say illegal immigration?”

RHB: “Well, we mentioned it. It’s pretty much the topic of conversation now.”

“It’s so huge. And it’s so messed up. I can’t believe where this country is headed.”

“Yeah, it is a pretty big mess. It has to be addressed at some point, yet everyone wants to dance around it.”

“Exactly, and I don’t get it. The answer is so obvious. I mean, all you have to do is listen to the tadio. Like Hannity and Colmes. Why aren’t people paying attention?”

“I’ll admit I don’t spent a lot of time on talk radio, especially-“

“Well you should because they’ve figured it out and I totally agree. It’s what I’ve been saying all along and I just love hearing them talk about it. You get rid of the illegals. That’s it. End of story. You catch them, you ship them back to where they came from, and this country gets back to where it should be.”

“And how do you propose catching all these people, because there’s-“

“See, that’s just it. This country has become so weak. No one wants to tell it like it is anymore. No one wants to do what’s right because it may hurt some people. But it’s pretty obvious who the illegals are, it’s not like we have to hunt for them. They’re all over.”

“So what do you propose, just stop everyone and ask for papers, because there’s this thing we have called the Constitution.”

“Oh my god, that’s what someone always says, and it’s just such an excuse. The Constitution was written to protect Americans, not people who come here and get free health care and free schools and free everything. They are draining our counry.”

“I guess you would, what, put up checkpoints on the roads and check everyone?”

“Sure, if that’s what it took.”

“Then there’s a problem with illegal search and seizure. The Constitution protects us from that, saying specifically the police or whoever can’t go around stopping people unless there is probably cause.”

“They can stop me anytime, I have no problem with that. Especially if it meant they’d catch more illegals and ship them back, or put them in prison.”

“If you put them in prison, they’d wind up costing taxpayers more than they do now, and they wouldn’t be able to pay taxes at all, which most do.”

“Look, that’s beside the point. Ship them home, prison, whatever. Just deal with them because they shouldn’t be here. Like Sheriff Joe is doing, go round them up and throw them in jail. He has the right idea.”

“If Sheriff Joe knocks on your door and asks you if you were illegal, that’d be OK?”

“Of course.”

“What if he demanded papers to prove it?”

“He should. And I’d show him and that’d be that.”

“But a lot people don’t have those papers lying around.”

“All it would be is a birth certificate, passport, anything. Everyone has those.”

“I’d disagree, and I don’t want someone knocking on my door asking for my ID. I’d ask them why they were there, and then slam the door in their face.”

“Then that just means you have something to hide.”

“No, it means I believe in our Constitutional rights.”

“Oh, that again. If we had the guts to do what’s really right, we wouldn’t have this problem. Because we need to be honest here.”

“How so?”

“Of course they wouldn’t go around knocking on everyone’s door. Just the people who are pretty obviously illegal.”

“Oh, you mean Mexicans. That’s racial profiling.”

“Not just Mexicans. Brazilians, Latin Americans, wherever they’re from. And it’s not profiling, it’s dealing with the obvious.”

“How is it obvious?”

“If they don’t speak English, if all they know is Spanish. People who are here legally learn English. If you’re going to spend any time in this country, you learn English. You only speak Spanish, it’s pretty obvious.”

“You propose going out on the streets, stopping everyone who looks, what, like a Latin American, and see if they speak English. And if they don’t, your arrest them.”

“That’s it. And this country is too gutless to do that.”

“And you don’t think the Constitution has anything to do with it.”

“Please, we’ve been there. Illegals don’t deserve that kind of protection anymore than they deserve to be here taking advantage of the things that should be for Americans only.”

“What if it turns out someone arrested is here legally?”

“Then you let them go and tell them they need to carry proof wherever they go.”

“Well, why not just make this a police state? Anyone can be stopped for anything, and if you’re arrested you have to prove your innocence?”

“That works for me.”

“Seriously?”

“Absolutely.”

“So if there aren’t enough police, we should bring in the militia. Establish curfews. Monitor everyone at all times.”

“I, for one, wouldn’t have a problem with that. It would make this nation strong again like we were after World War II, when people respected and feared us and other countries couldn’t do whatever they wanted because they’d have to reckon with us later.”

“Wow, I don’t even know what to say to that. Except that I have to go to the bathroom.”

For mind-numbing activities, it’s tough to top five hours of watching kids run. We can wrap wet towels around the heads of suspected terrorists and only a few Amnesty International types complain. But if you were to show a live broadcast of a five-hour track meet for kids to the captive audience at Guantanamo, you can bet a few generals would be busted down to corporals, or whatever it is generals are busted down to.

It is a cold blustery night at Higley High School in Gilbert. Very unusual for April in Arizona, so plenty of people (that’d be parents) are shivering in shorts and T-shirts.

I entered Bryson in just three events – softball throw, the 100-meter dash and the 4x100 relay. That last event is really why Bryson wanted to be here tonight, to run with his friends. Maybe they weren’t the fastest kids at the meet, or the second or third and probably fourth or fifth fastest, but competitive against the sixth and seventh fastest, that is if they got a good start and a couple of runners fell down, but it wasn’t about winning. It was about subjecting parents to five agonizing hours watching kids 9-14 (mostly 9) run.

Organizers of the Hershey Track and Field Meet for Kids Who Would Never Otherwise be Considered Talented Enough to Run in a Real Meet Where the Starter Even Has a Pistol told us to be at the high school by 5 p.m. to register. And so we were, with Bryson and his running mates Cody, Luke and Roy. Roy was the anchor because Roy was the fastest kid on the block, and the block was all these kids knew. If you could run faster than every kid on the block, then damn, you had Olympic potential.

After checking in, the parents go over the schedule. It starts with the youngest children running the shortest distance – 50 meters. Then, after all the youngest kids sprint, there is the 1600-meter run. OK, best times in the world are three minutes and something. Joe Weekend Runner can probably make it in about 7 minutes. But a kid? That’s like a marathon. And everyone has to wait for the slowest kid. It was dawning on me – this was going to be a long long night.

About a dozen races later, Bryson would be in the 100. I continue to look down the list. 200 meters. 800 meters. 400 meters. Five heats here, three heats there, six heats down there.

Last event – the 4x100 relay.

Jeee-sus.

The races begin. Kids line up. The younger ones, the cutest ones, who look so damn adorable waiting on the start line, get their instructions from one of the officials. She explains to them the meaning of on your mark, get set and go. She points the way they should go, in case someone is confused. She has them toe the mark. The starter raises his pistol. The girls run, but there is no shot. The gun misfires (this would happen more often than not). The girls line up again. One of them starts too early. They line up again. The gun sounds. They’re off! About 45 seconds later, the last one crosses the finish line. The next group lines up …

After three races, these kids aren’t adorable. They are pains in the ass who should know what the hell “On your mark, get set, go” means, and they should not take nearly a minute to cover 50 damn meters.

The night goes on. Races get longer (and the 1600 is as much a speed bump as I predicted, the last-place finisher walking half of it, yet everyone waits patiently because we sure as hell wouldn’t want to dent her self-esteem, and when she crosses the line in 18 minutes, yes, 18 minutes, we all applaud politely even though we really want to flip her off and bitch-slap her parents) and the sun goes down and the temperature drops faster than interest in our kids’ track fortunes.

About halfway through, Bryson, Roy and Cody line up in their 100-meter heat. In watching many of the races before them, I see there are a lot of blocks that have very fast kids, and maybe our block isn’t among the fastest. Roy, our anchor, takes fourth. Bryson is fifth. Cody, well, he tries really hard, but his running style in which he moves his legs in a spiral motion – you’d think his knees were made of Jello – doesn’t lend itself to victory.

Later, the top three fastest 100 times are announced, and the winners ascend a makeshift stairstep platform where first place occupies the highest spot, and so forth.

“We’d like to direct your attention to the medals platform to award winners in the Boys 100 Meters Group 3 race,” says the lone guy in the press box, voice booming over the PA system.

Yeah, whatever, nice job, more applause from the few hundred fans (parents) trying to keep warm in the stands. The kids with the blue and red ribbons (“medals” platform my ass) hold up the letters inviting them to the next step in this amateur competition, the district meet where each city’s best will compete for a spot in the state meet.

We were now in the third hour and not halfway done. The boys took their practice baton to a grassy area on the other side of the track to practice the handoff. As more kids finish, the crowd dwindles.

Finally, at a few minutes to 10, the call comes over the PA system – “First call for Girls Group 2, Boys Group 3 and Boys Group 4 4-by-100-meter relay. Bryson, Cody, Luke and Roy sprint to the holding area and, in retrospect, had they exhibited that kind of speed in the race, they might have had a shot.

They march the entrants onto the track, but we see only five teams, one of them comprised of 9- or 10-year-old girls. One of the boys teams was clearly older Bryson and the rest, while another clearly was younger. The last looked just right.

“Looks like they’re going to run them all at the same time,” I say, and the parents within earshot nod as if to say, “God, I hope so.”

There are only a handful of fans (parents, siblings) remaining. We can see bats flitting about in the stadium lights. They outnumber us.

The runners take their marks and, sure enough, everyone is racing at the same time. The gun sounds and Cody, our leadoff, backs up since he started to run about a second before everyone else. By the time he takes off in the right direction, he’s far behind everyone else save for the girls. Because they are little girls.

Cody slows as he approaches Bryson and Bryson kind of stands there. They make the handoff like shaking hands in the middle of the street, and Bryson runs his leg, the team still ahead of the girls.

Roy makes a valiant attempt on the last leg, but he finishes a few meters behind the third-place finishers, the kids who look to be younger. Then the girls finish at some point, but I’ve lost all interest in this point.

All I can think is, “It’s finally over, let’s go.”

But no, each team walks slowly to the medals platform. The remains of the crowd gathers at the fence right in front of the stand, cheering the competitors.

“We’d like to direct your attention to the medals platform…”

Thank you for the heads-up, Pressbox Guy.

The girls hop to the top step to accept the blue ribbon in their age group and gender. Hurray little girls.

Next are the oldest boys, who are given the blue ribbon for their age group (and they actually finished first).

The other three teams then take their spots. Bryson, Luke, Cody and Roy stand proudly on the third-place spot, holding their third-place white ribbons.

“Well, the good thing is that at least they didn’t qualify for district,” I say. The parents of Luke and Roy agree. Cody’s parents chose to stay home, not a bad decision at this point (even though I couldn’t imagine not seeing this anyway, five hours or not).

But there is some discussion at the medals platform. The second-place team is returning its ribbons to an official and vacating the platform. Bryson’s team steps up to the empty spot, trading their white ribbons for red. Seems the other team won first place for their (younger) division, meaning Bryson’s team took second. Out of two teams.

“Yeah, we’re going to districts, baby!” Bryson screams as jumps off the platform, holding up his invitation letter. “Districts! That’s like the finals! We’re going all the way!”

Districts. We’re going to districts.

Hurray.

What if operators aren't standing by? What then?

I was at the vet’s office with Sandy, who I was pretty sure had an ear infection. She’d been scratching at her left ear and after about the third scratch, she’s start to groan. Not that, “Oh man, this feels good” groan, but a “Boy, this really hurts but I can’t stop” cry, a mix that’s about 20 percent pleasure and 80 percent pain.

My son Bryson and I arrived about 10 minutes before the appointment, taking a bench section near the back of the office. Small partitions blocked off sections, allowing you to sit with your ill pet in semi-privacy, so dogs didn’t start barking at cats or at each other. Not a bad arrangement.

Every now and then Sandy would peek around the corner of our partition. She’s a small Australian Kelpie, a breed I had no idea existed until the guy at the Humane Society said, “She’s an Australian Kelpie.” All Bryson and I knew at the time was that she was a very timid 28-pound dog with dark brown fun, a wide black stripe running down her spine.

When we had entered, I noticed a man at the counter filling out a form. He’d apparently just asked a question because one of the clerks said, “Let me show you.” I signed Sandy in as she reached under the counter and retrieved a small ceramic jar, with the word “Cremains” below a brass plaque.

“You’ll get one of these in a couple weeks,” the clerk said. “And you engrave the plaque.”

“And how much is that?” the man asked. I walked away before she answered.

The vet was running late. We were about 15 minutes past our appointment time when Sandy yipped and strained at the leash. A large dog of indeterminate breed approached, a woman of indeterminate breeding at the other end of his leash. The dog leaned down and gave Sandy a lick with a large pink tongue, his tail wagging excitedly.

“Look at that, he’s always so friendly,” the woman said. “Some people are put off by his size but he’d never hurt a fly.”

That was plain to see. The dog looked at Bryson and me, his tail going into double time. There was a sparkle in his eye and I am sure if I had a ball in my hand, he’d sit patiently at my feet waiting for me to throw it. If he were human, I’d want to go have a beer with him.

“I got another one like him at home,” the woman said. “Blue Labrador. Not many people heard a blue labs, but they’re real good dogs.”

“What’s his name?” I asked. I would regret it later.

“Royce,” she said. At the sound of his name, the dog looked up and lifted his front legs a few inches off the floor, wanting to jump on his master but knowing while this was an expression of love, it was always greeted with, “Down!” one of the bad words. So he hopped, and hopped again.

I came over and kneeled in front of him, cupping my right hand and scratching his neck. His tongue darted out and licked my forearm.

“So what’s he in for?” I said. “Something wrong? Or just a checkup?”

“Well, uh, we’re doing a little down time, if you know what I mean.”

I look at Bryson, hoping he didn’t know what she meant. But he’s not stupid.

“How old is he?” I said, thinking maybe I was missing something here.

“He’s 6, around there. Seven. No, 6.”

“Just 6?”

“Well, yeah, but he’s been real sick. We just can’t keep up with it anymore.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Allergies. And look at this.” She grabbed the dog’s tail and lifts, yanking it but the dog only looked back in curiosity. “See that? How it’s all swollen?” She dropped the dog’s tail.

His anus was red and swollen, but it didn’t seem to bother him.

I returned to my seat and tried not to look at Royce, whose name I wish I didn’t know.

“And it’s a little bit more,” she continued, knowing the whole “something not right about this” was plainly apparent. “We’re moving soon and we just don’t have the room anymore. So we had to make a decision about them.”

“Them?”

“Yeah, that’s my husband over there with the Weimariner. I remember when we got him several years ago that no one ever heard of them, now they’re real popular. We got another one at home. And another blue Lab too.”

“How old is the Weimariner?” I didn’t ask his name.

“He’s about maybe 12 or so. Doesn’t get along very good, not like he used to.”

I wondered, where is the line here? What can I say that will get her to change her mind but won’t be so incredibly rude as to have her stalk away thinking I am being the unreasonable one?

This is what I wanted to say: “It’s too bad people don’t have to meet minimum qualifications to own a pet, like being at least 10 percent human with shades of compassion mixed with a vague feelings of responsibility. Because if we did that, you’d be forbidden to care for any living thing beyond a fern, and even then you’d only get supervised visits.”

This is what I said: “You know you can take him to the shelter” – I am careful not to say “pound” – “and they’ll take him off your hands.”

“I know, but then he’s only got 30 days and you’re just putting it off.”

“But he has 30 days for someone to take him home. He’ll have a chance.”

“I did that once. Took a dog down there and two years later I get a phone call cause I guess the people never changed his license or something, and they tell me he died in a car accident. That just ripped out my heart. No, I’m not going to go through that again.”

I had nothing to say in the face of such ignorance. Logic was not something she was going to grasp. I looked down and muttered, “Hmm, well,” in that “We’re pretty much done here” way.

But she wasn’t done.

“You want him?”

Now her conscious was clean. It wasn’t her fault after all. She made an attempt to give the dog away. It didn’t work. This was the only alternative.

She had just granted herself absolution in her Holy Church of Only I Really Matter.

“I’ve already got two dogs,” I said, as if I were already doing my share but taking on a little bit of her guilt, though she didn’t deserve it.

“Yeah, well, guess we’ll get back and wait.”

A few minutes later they were called in. Bryson and I didn’t watch them walk past. He leaned over and gave Sandy a hug. I didn’t take my eyes off the two of them.

Conversation between Dusty, an Australian shepherd mix, and Lizzie, an Australian cattle dog – Part 8: The argument.

Lizzie: “What is that?”

Dusty: “My bone.”

“Your bone?”

“My bone.”

“No. My bone.”

“No. Mine.”

“I want it.”

“You have a bone.”

“Yes, I have a bone.”

“That is your bone.”

“This is my bone.”

“And this is my bone.”

“That is my bone too.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I am getting angry.”

“Yes, you are.”

“My lip is curling up.”

“It is.”

“I am showing my teeth.”

“I see your teeth.”

“Now I am growling.”

“I hear your growl.”

“Leave me alone or I will hurt you.”

“I want that bone.”

“Stay away or I will growl louder.”

“I want that bone.”

“It is my bone.”

“I will take it now.”

“Stay back!”

“!”

“!”

“I have your bone.”

“You have my bone.”

“I wanted your bone.”

“You have my bone.”

“You are hurt.”

“I am hurt.”

“?”

“I am hurt.”

“I smell something.”

“I am angry.”

“I smell blood.”

“I am scared.”

“Let me see.”

“Stay away.”

“Let me help.”

“Stay away.”

“I am sorry.”

“I am hurt.”

“I am sorry.”

“My neck. My ear.”

“I am sorry.”

“Stay away. I am sick.”

“You are bleeding.”

“I am going to my safe spot.”

“I will stay here.”

“I will wait in my safe spot for the Food Man.”

“Wait.”

“He will help.”

“I am sorry.”

“He always helps.”

“I only wanted your bone.”

“Have my bone.”

This is a story of how I went from groggy to super-wide-awake, gaining the kind of clarity in two seconds that typically would require five cups of a beverage supplied by named Juan Valdez.

There was something. A creak. A whisper. Shuffling. My eyes opened almost involuntarily, and they noticed an outline at my bedroom door, framed by a nightlight across the hall.

The silhouette was still, a little more than four feet tall. Quiet. Could only be one thing.

“Bryson, buddy, it’s late, you really should be in bed at this hour.” That’s what I’d intended to say. What I heard was, “Whu …. Huh?”

Bryson, of course, hadn’t heard anything. He was sound asleep. If there had been enough light, his glassy stare would have given away his current state of not-even-semi consciousness.

I turned my head to see the glowing green numerals on the clock. 1:16.

When he started sleepwalking a few years ago, I would dutifully climb out of bed and gently steer him by the shoulders back to his room. I would lift him into his bed, tucking the sheet around him, giving him a peck on the forehead. I would watch him for a minute or two, making sure he was truly back to sleep, his brain settling into its usual post-ambulatory state.

“Bryson, you’re asleep. Go back to bed.”

That’s where I was at now. Words. Simple ones, the kind we can understand given the stages of sleep we were both at – his was at “sound,” I was hovering between “pre-REM” and “Please just go away so I can return to Slumberville.”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

Many people are under the misconception sleepwalkers are in a dream world, responding to stimuli found only in their heads. But Bryson will respond to outside stimuli, a cranky father for instance, as if he were awake.

But he was not. I knew the difference. Much of his sleepwalked seemed to stem from a desire to relieve himself, which he did surprisingly given the fact he was likely dreaming.

“OK, go to the bathroom, then back to bed.”

His head bobbed. It could have been a nod, maybe an involuntary spasm. Either way, I took it for acknowledgement.

Then he stepped forward. Brain, I said, is that right? Shouldn’t he have altered course to go toward the bathroom. Brain? Brain, are you online?

Bryson took another step forward. And another. Brain, we have a problem. Something is not right and we could really use the firing of a few synapses to explain the situation.

A light flicked on. Brain, that is not the light to the bathroom. Repeat, that is not the light to the bathroom. Explain please.

Brain, subject is entering light. Wait, not just light. Lighted room. Wait, not just lighted room. Closet. Lighted room is closet. Repeat, subject has just entered walk-in closet. Brain, please respond. Your assistance in this matter is mandatory.

Wait, change of position. Subject has turned. He is now facing to the left. Toward laundry basket. Brain, subject has stopped. He is now inserting both thumbs into waistband and

“Evacuate bed now! Repeat, evacuate bed now! Situation urgent!”

In a fluid move my body had not been capable of since I was 25, I threw off the covers and vaulted the width of my mattress to land within a few feet of Bryson (I should have thrust my arms up in Olympic fashion upon the perfect landing, but there were more important thing to do. Like scream).

“NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!”

Brain was back in full control. “Grasp subject around wrists and assume control of situation.”

No problem.

“Bryson, hey, this is not the bathroom.”

He twisted in my iron-like grip. “What? Yes it is.”

“No, trust me, it isn’t. Seriously. You’re in my closet. That’s not a toilet, that’s a laundry basket.”

I walked him the 12 feet away from the dream bathroom to the real one, where his motor skills took over and completed the task.

I steered him toward bed, wondering what book I should read for the next half hour to get back to sleep.

I am listening to Holaback Girl by Gwen Stefani. I heard it first at the gym since, for the most part, I listen to music from my teens. Not that I don’t keep up, I do. It’s a lot easier for baby boomers, since our music keeps cropping up, either as remakes or samples. My dad never had that luxury of turning on a pop-music station knowing that at some point, a tune from his childhood would flow from the speakers. In the 70s, my teens, no one was borrowing from Artie Shaw or Frank Sinatra. That was then, and it remained then.

As I listen to Holaback Girl, with its infectious beat and nonsensical lyrics, I am back at Marineworld, an amusement park in Northern California. Bryson has paused briefly in front of a basketball toss game on the midway. Or was it the football throw, or the baseball toss? I am not sure. But I am looking across the midway, next to the squirt-gun game (which we had already played, winning a stuffed monkey that Bryson gave to a little girl passing by, notching another smile – for him, for me, for a little girl we’d never see again who may or may not remember that time a boy just walked up and gave it to her).

It has been a hectic day, the park choked with high school students on an end-of-the-school-year field trip. Teens have been everywhere, in lins, in stores, in restaurants. Screaming. Cussing. Jumping over rails in line.

I am looking across the midway as Holaback Girl comes over the loudspeakers. I am familiar with it just enough to mouth the chorus, bobbing my head. Then my gaze settles on a girl, perhaps 15 or 16. Latina. Tank top and blue shorts. Black hair past her shoulders, clutching a stuffed animal. She is singing along, her hips swaying, stepping side to side in time with the beat. She dips one shoulder, does a slow shimmy as the other shoulder dips. Each shoulder then rises, one at a time, and she repeats the move. It is simple, yet with an elegance and grace that is surprising, that demands people to stop and watch. But no one does, except the young girl with her. She looks much like the teen, but is no more than 8. She is riveted to the performance in front of her, tries to copy it, remains about 1 ½-steps behind, enough out of time with the music to be jarring if it were not for her wide smile. She is laughing as (her sister?) dances and sings. The song continues, her dance is seductive.

That is all I remember. I am sure at some point that either Bryson said something to bring me out of the moment, or the crowd converged, or the song merely ended. It was a moment designed to occupy a single memory, a tic on the clock. And it firmly attached itself to Holaback Girl, the image coming back each time I hear that song, no matter where I am.

I had many such songs when I was younger, though my aging mind refuses to cooperate and keep them where they belong. They are gone, or perhaps a sliver might return when that song returns. Either that or the memory and song are disassociated. Through much of my 20s and 30s, there was a song that took me back to my old room, where I curled up in a beanbag chair, a ragged paperback resting on my knees. I cannot forget the book. The Exorcist, by William Peter Blatty. But I cannot hear that song anymore. I have no idea why the two had been linked. Was it my favorite song on an album I had listened to exclusively while reading? Had I reached a particularly compelling passage? I don’t know. And I miss that connection.

Other song-memories have lost their clarity. I remember working up the nerve to ask a girl to dance at a dorm party during my freshman year in college. I worked up the nerve because I knew the song well, That’s the Way of the World by Earth Wind and Fire. Every word, every beat was familiar. Yes, I could slow dance to that with confidence. But I was used to the album version. The DJ played the radio edit. Halfway through there was a stutter and I was hopelessly lost. It also was the song played at my wedding for the first dance with my new bride, but the tune already had its link. Though details aren’t as clear, I remember that dorm-room disaster dance more than the first dance. It’s not like you can choose.

You hear of other people talking about their song, of a melody that brings them back to a special moment. Music’s magic has not been the same for me. It brings back moments, whether they are magic or not. I’ve learned that the “special” part of it isn’t so important. Just sparking a particular memory is enough, like the girl who in the middle of her peers showed a lack of self-consciousness not characteristic of her age group. She danced for no one but herself.

Maybe it was a special moment after all.

Conversation between Dusty, a mutt, and Lizzie, a visiting Australian cattle dog:

“It’s time.”

“Time?”

“Time.”

“Time for what?”

“To go to the Go Out door.”

“The Go Out door?”

“The Go Out door.”

“Why?”

“To go out.”

“To go out?”

“Yes, to go out.”

“I don’t have to go out.”

“I have to go out.”

“…”

“So I am going to the Go Out door.”

“I’m coming.”

“Where?”

“To the go out door.”

“You have to go out?”

“No.”

“…”

“…”

“This is the Go Out door.”

“How do you know?”

“Because this is where I go out.”

“But you can’t go out.”

“Why not?”

“There is no place to go out.”

“That is because the door is closed.”

“Open it.”

“I can’t open it.”

“Why can’t you open it?”

“Because only the Food People can open it.”
“The Food People? It’s time for food?”

“No, it’s time to go out.

“…”

“So I am at the Go Out door.”

“Waiting for the Go Out people.”

“No, waiting for the Food People.”

“Not the Go Out people?”

“The Food People are the Go Out People.”

“What if the Food People do not come?”

“Then I push my nose against the Go Out Door.”

“That opens the Go Out Door?”

“No.”

“…”

“It brings the Food People.”

“How?”

“…”

“…”

“I don’t know.”

“Push the door with your nose.”

“I am pushing the door with my nose.”

“The Food People!”

“The Food People.”

“The Food People are here.”

“Because I pushed my nose on the Go Out door.”

“Your nose is magic.”

“Yes, my nose is magic.”

“Yes.”

“But not always.”

“Not always?”

“Sometimes the Food People do not come when I push my Magic Nose on the Go Out door.”

“They don’t come?”

“No. And the Go Out Door does not open.”

“…”

“Yes. The Go Out Door does … not … open.”

“Oh.”

“But I still have to go out.”

“What do you do?”

“If the Go Out Door doesn’t open?”

“Yes.”

“I go to …”

“Yes?”

“The Poop Place.”

“The Poop Place?”

“The Poop Place.”

“What is the Poop Place?”

“It is much smaller than the Go Out Place.”

“How much smaller?”

“Very much smaller. But the ground …”

“Yes?”

“Is much softer. And smells different.”

“Where is the Poop Place?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No. But it is close.”

“How do you know?”

“I can always find it with my nose.”

“Your Magic Nose!”

“Yes. My Magic Nose tells me where it is. Only …”
“What?”

“The Food People, well-“
“What?”

“After I use the Poop Place, the Food People bark at me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“They bark?”

“Loudly. So loud I put my ears down.”

“…”

“Then another thing happens.”

“What?”

“The poop disappears.”

“What?”

“The poop in the Poop Place is gone.”

“It’s gone?”

“Yes. Not like the poop in the Go Out Place.”

“…”

“You must be careful in the Go Out Place.”

“Yes.”

“And go only in the place you smell yourself in the Go Out Place.”

“Of course.”

“Yes.”

“I have to go out.”

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“But you said you didn’t.”

“Now I do.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

“The Food People are getting closer.”

“Yes.”

“Wag your tail.”

“OK.”

“Faster!”

“Why?”

“It pleases the Food People, and they are the ones who open the Go Out Door.”

“The Go Out Door is opening.”

“Yes. We are going out.”

“We are out!”

“We are out.”

“Only …”

“Yes?”

“How do we get back in?”

An actual excerpt from "What I did over my smmer vacation: the gross part"

(Background -- my 10-yr-old son and I were visiting my parents in an undisclosed locations. The names probably should have been changed to protest the extremely embarrassed.)

Everything was going nice and smoothly. Then dinner hit the fan.

We hade chosen Applebee’s because, well, it just seems that what people do when faced with so many decisions. They pick the easiest and safest, partially explaining the popularity of such mediocre restaurants like Applebee’s, Chili’s, TGI Fridays and the worst culinary offender of them all, Outback. I, for one, will never understand Outback’s appeal. It can’t be Foster’s, which somehow passes as beer in Australia (like we have something to brag about with Bud, Coors and Miller). I have been to an Outback only because of misguided friends who think a $50 gift card there is actually a good thing. However, when told there is a two-hour wait for a steak that is as overpriced as it is mediocre, even a gift card isn’t worth hanging with people stupid enough to take a coaster-shaped beeper who spend the wait talking about how nice it is when they’ve saved enough aluminum cans to be able to get out of the trailer park for a nice meal.

So we were at Applebee’s because Bryson’s grandparents, are, well, how do I put this – too old to worry about being discerning anymore. They smile when told the wait will “only” be 20 minutes. Hell, that ain’t nothing for the fine fare that is served at one of America’s finest dining establishments, heck no.

Once seated, each of us perused the 76-page menu (because when you don’t have quality, you better depend on quantity). Except for Bryson, who stuck to the kid’s menu. He is young enough to order off of it, too old to color it (guess that’s what they mean by being a ‘tweener).

A young, cheery woman approaches, her radiant smile almost screaming, “Sure, I’m making minimum wage right now, but I will make your brief stay here excruciatingly joyful if it kills me, because I’d do damn near anything for a 20 percent tip, so please don’t fill up on the appetizers.”

“Hey everyone and welcome to Applebee’s,” she said.

“What? We’re at Applebee’s? Holy fucking Christ, how in God’s name did that happen,” I wanted to say. But didn’t. One day I will. When Bryson is old enough to hear his dad curse for no good reason. Because he’s already heard me curse for good reason – like that time I was at stop sign and despite a lack of traffic, the three cars ahead of me were not moving, leading to a well-earned, “Will someone please fucking go at some point in time?”

“I know you probably haven’t had a chance to look at the menus,” she said, “but I can take your drink orders if you’d like.”

“Actually, I think we’re ready to order,” said my dad.

Yeah, the guy who comes here weekly and orders the same thing is ready to declare his food desires. Mom was ready as well. On those rare occasions when they do try a new restaurant, my dad looks up the menu on the Internet, and know what they are going to choose even before they leave.

It seemed everyone was ready to order. Dad asked for fish, mom chicken (most of which would go in a doggy bag that, yes, would go to there 18-year-old “You mean that dog ain’t dead yet?” Basset hound), Bryson mac and cheese, and me, well, the only page of the menu I was able to examine was alcohol, so I flipped to sandwiches and picked out the French dip. Mm mm mm, that’s good eating.

Food arrived within five minutes or so, since “profit margin” = “table turnaround” (and reflects directly on potential tips).

Bryson ate with the fury of a child who had not consumed solids for at least two hours. It took him longer to drench his dinner in ketchup than it did to eat. Dad had taken a few forkfuls of the halibut, while mom continued to talk about how delicious her chicken looked. She would not actually start eating it until well into the meal.

I dipped my tepid roast-beef sandwich into the slightly warm au just, which is French for “Whatever those drippings are at the bottom of the grease trap, add some water and heat it up.” Yeah, pretty much what I expected.

As I took my second bite, Bryson was done, my dad was surgically separating his green beans from his fish, and mom was searching for another adjective to describe her chicken (“This just looks so yummy.”)

I was dipping my sandwich when I heard a noise that, had I been in a hospital, I would have guessed someone else just died. It was a quick gag and silence, a breath so short it seemed to have been stolen away by Death.

I looked up and saw my dad’s eyes wide, cheeks bulging. He dropped is fork and quickly waved at his with his right hand as if to say, “Yes, I am choking to death but please don’t make a scene. This is, after all, Applebee’s.”

I could think of only one thing – “Please, if my dad is going to suffer a humiliating death at the hands of halibut, please let it be at a dining establishment that does not reek.”

Another gag and, still waving, he coughed up bits of fish swimming in a mixture of bile and saliva. Another cough, another upheaval of bile and saliva. Vomit, yet dainty vomit. His throat finally relented and allowed him air, my dad gulping it in in huge mouthfuls, coughing between each struggling inhalation.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, wrong pipe, that’s all,” dad croaked. “Nothing to worry about.”

And with that pronouncement, he picked up his fork and scraped the regurgitated halibut under the green beans and within 10 seconds, started eating again. With gusto. As if, it were possible, he would have ordered the halibut with a side of bile and partially chewed fish.

Once he seemed as if he would live to see another meal, I looked at Bryson, who had turned his head and was staring at the Applebee’s bar.

“Bud, don’t worry, he’s all right,” I said. “He’s not going to embarrass us by dying.”

He said nothing, but continued staring at the bar.

“Bryson, that’s rude,” I said. “He’s your grandfather. It was an accident. Now turn back to this table.”

He swiveled his head and looked at me. That’s when I knew.

This was only going to get worse.

His cheeks puffed up and his Adam’s apple bobbed. He bent over and there was a splashing noise of liquid on vinyl. Looking down, a thick, odorous liquid was splattered across the bench.

He convulsed again, and this time he struggled to hold it. Instinctively I grabbed a napkin and cupped it in my hands. He vomited into it like a pro. This time it was a viscous yellow liquid. Another gag and, napkin full, I balled it up, placed it on his empty place and grabbed my own dinner, holding the platter in front of him. A torrent of macaroni bits and fries spewed forth, engulfing the remains of my sandwich.

Later, after we had cleaned up and waited outside while dad paid the bill, I marveled at the talents of the stomach to separate and expel like ingredients. Ketchup, then cheese, than macaroni and fries. I wondered how we might be able to turn that into a circus act.

But only briefly.

Many years ago, my father surprised me when he asked for my help in buying a computer.

“What do you need a computer for?” I said. “You’re retired and you spend most of your time around the house. You get the newspaper and Time. What else could you possibly need?”

“The weather,” he said.

“Weather?”

“Yeah, I want to be able to look it up. Anytime, anywhere.”

“You could go outside for that.”

“Not if I want to know the weather tomorrow.”

And so we went down to the local computer store and bought him a machine that far exceeded his needs (and now, five years later, is hopelessly out of date, which is fine, he says, “because it suits my needs, like checking the weather”).

I was surprised again during a recent visit home when my mom asked for my help in buying a cellphone.

“Why?” I said. “You’re always home. Mobile phones are designed for people who are mobile.”

When my parents do go out, it is to shop for groceries or have lunch. Mostly lunch.

“We don’t go out to dinner,” my mom says. “Too crowded. Even at 4 now you’ll have a lot of people out. Sometimes we’d have to park two or three rows away from the front door. So now we just go out to lunch.”

This is not the demographic Alltel and Cingular had in mind when introducing unlimited anytime minutes for $79.99 with a free camera-phone. My parents’ telecommunication needs had been well-served by the touch-tone phone that had hung on the kitchen wall for more than 20 years. The six-foot radius of the cord satisfied their mobile needs.

A cellphone seemed about as necessary as dinner reservations. This is, after all, a couple that has refused to get an answering machine because, “If anyone wants us that badly, they can call back.”

“It’s not for me,” mom said. “It’s for your dad.”

Ah, so the gadget-master had something to do with this. My dad, like most men, has a desire for devices that is inversely proportionate to the device’s usefulness. When I was a young child with no understanding of man’s lust for gadgets – especially those that came with manuals that would be picked up only in case of emergency, like sparks and fire – I did not question my dad’s request for a bottle cutter. According to the commercials that blanketed each of our five available TV channels, with the Amazing Bottle Cutter, you could cut various bottles to make ashtrays and any other items requiring a cut bottle (which were numerous in the ads, but I think each was a variation on the ashtray).

My dad used the gadget to produce any number of weapons-grade cut bottles, not always successful in avoiding the lethal edges that never appeared in the ads. Many a Michelob bottle was magically transformed into shards, since the bottle cutter employed techniques (etching a line with the cutter portion, which was supposed to crack cleanly using heat and cold) that now would feed a generation of personal-injury attorneys.

Later on my dad would ask for, and receive, a winemaking kit (the smell from the first and last try lingered for weeks), a flashlight powered by squeezing its handle (leading to the invention of carpal tunnel syndrome), and a weather radio (real-time weather for those not blessed with windows and a door).

“Does dad really need a cellphone?” I said. “Or is this another bottle-cutter moment?”

“Well, he’d carry it,” my mom said. “But it’s for me too. Sometimes he’s out and I want to know I can call if I need to.”

So I accompanied my dad to the wireless store. Good thing because left to his own devices, and a clerk who could not understand how anyone could pass up unlimited minutes including voicemail and text messaging for just $79.99 a month, my father would have walked out of their with the Cadillac of phones when all he needed was a two-wheeler.

“Let’s call mom,” he said the second we stepped out of the store. “To see if it really works.”

Sure dad, because maybe the pixie magic required to make phone calls out of thin air hasn’t been fully charged.

“OK, just punch in the number-“

“Wait,” he said, holding the phone to his ear. “Something’s wrong. I’m not getting a dial tone.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” I said. “You dial the number first, then press the send button. The phone then connects and makes the call.”

“You mean I don’t need a dial tone?”

“You will get a dial tone, but only after you hit the send button.”

“What’s the send button?”

“That green one right there.”

“This one? It’s pretty small. Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Size has nothing to do with it.” Why does that sound familiar?

“Is there anything I need to do before I just start dialing?” dad said. “Or do I just start hitting numbers?”

“You can turn on the phone.”

“Where?”

“That button on top.”

“Here? I don’t see a button.”

“Just press it and see what happens.”

A tinny chime came from the phone.

“Well, how about that?” dad said. “The button’s right there but you can’t see it. Clever.”

“OK, now dial your number and press that green button there.”

“No, you do it. I just want to watch for now.”

He was open to more hands-on exploring when we arrived home. For the next hour we added phone numbers to the address book (there were only five, though I regret not putting 911 on speed dial) as I showed him the various features.

“Now I’m going to show you have to use the voice tag,” I said. “That way you can just say the person’s name and the phone will dial it automatically.”

“Really?” dad said, his eyes lighting up like when he saw the Amazing Bottle Cutter for the first time.

“I’ve programmed a few, so let’s try this one,” I said. “Press this button here, hold it and say ‘Call mom.’”

He took the phone, put it an inch to his mouth and leaned forward. “Call mom.”

“No, you have to press and hold this button, then say it.”

“Call mom.”

“OK, first you don’t have to be so close to the phone. Hold it out here. Now when you press that button, you’ll hear a series of tones. Then say, ‘Call mom.’”

The phone beeped. “Call mom.”

“See, you have to press and hold the button,” I said. “If you just press the button, the phone beeps and your address book comes up. Here, watch.”

I press and hold, and the phone chimed. “Call mom.” A few seconds later, the kitchen phone rang.

“Got it,” he said, taking the phone. “I just press this and … Call mom.” The phone chimed.

“You have to wait for the tone,” I said. “Maybe it would just be easier if you dialed. Now let’s see if you’ve got voice mail.”

Abandoning all that my dad had taught me, I reached for the instruction manual, opened it to the appropriate page and learned how to do something without 15 minutes of fruitless experimentation. It was an odd feeling.

“This seems pretty easy,” I said. “I think I’ve got it. I’m going to call the number from the kitchen. Just let it ring.”

“OK.”

I lifted the kitchen phone off the hook and dialed. The cellphone trilled.

“Hello,” dad answered.

“Dad, what are you doing? I told you to let it ring.”

“I did let it ring. Then I answered it.”

“Well, hang it up. I need you to let it ring to see if it goes to voicemail.”

“But that phone doesn’t have voicemail. We’ve never had an answering machine.”

“Not this phone, the cellphone.”

“Oh, right, right,” dad said. “This phone is separate from the phone we have now, right? Or do we have to buy an answering machine? Because I don’t think we’ll want that because the only people who call us want to sell us new windows.”

The lessons ended shortly afterward. I just hope my dad never discovers the “Accessories” part of the menu. How am I going to explain web surfing and ring downloads?

“You have to get the Mango Sugar Glow, it’s absolutely amazing.”

I had just remembered that advice as I finished scheduling my “treatments” at Tucson’s Canyon Ranch, a very high-end fat farm that has a gym, hundreds of classes geared toward getting you to ear right and exercise, and a dozens of massages for people who forget to go to the gym and blow off diet class (which applies to 98 percent of the people here).

“OK, you’ve got the Hot Stone Massage, the Shiatsu Massage, the Swedish Massage and the Watsu Water Treatment Massage,” said the woman at the front desk. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, there’s some sort of Mango Massage, a sugar glow thing?” I said.

“You mean the Mango Sugar Glow? It’s absolutely amazing.”

“Yeah, that’s it. The Sugar Glow.”

“OK, let me print out your schedule for you,” she said as a machine below the counter began to hum. “You’ll need to arrive 15 minute before the appointment, just come back here to the waiting area and your masseuse will come out to get you.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said, pulling on the cottony soft belt of my plush white robe. Every guest here wears a robe and slippers because most of them are at some point getting a massage, and it’s just cool to walk around as if you’re at the Playboy Mansion. It’s amazing how quickly you stop worrying about robe gappage, since most people are strolling around in bodies you wouldn’t want to look, so voyeurism is about as much a part of this place as fried food (there are guys at the Ranch’s gated entrance whose job includes turning away pizza deliveries as well as any unauthorized food ordered by guests dying to eat something other than 2.5 ounces of boiled halibut served on a few sprigs of lemon grass, oh my God, don’t you people have a conscience?!)

“Wait, I forgot one thing,” she said, scribbling something on the schedule. “For the Mango Sugar Glow, go through the men’s locker room to the sauna area. Tell the attendant what you’re there for and he’ll take care of you.”

“Ok, no problem,” I’d already been to the men’s locker room, where you can toss your robe in a wicker basket and get a freshly laundered robe at absolutely no extra cost, though it’s probably factored somewhere into the $2,288 per week charge. Did I say meals are included? Because they are. That’s several ounces of fish and vegetables thrown in for free, a $12.18 retail value.

No matter, because it’s all about the massages. Well, except for that Hot Stone Massage, which consisted of an older woman hoisting smooth rocks from a crock pot and placing them on your body in places you don’t even think about until someone places a hot stone there. Near the end this rubless treatment, the attendant (she can hardly be called a masseuse, since that implies a massage is taking place) wedges small skipping stones between your toes. Perhaps they found this practice on the Abu Ghraib website.

It was nearing time for my Mango Sugar Glow, so I slid into my slippers, closed my robe and walked the quarter mile to the men’s locker room, passing the gym where the only sound coming from inside was that of crickets and the whisper of a tumbleweed.

I sat in a plastic chaise lounge next to the hot tub currently being shared by two large, sweaty, please-don’t-forget-your-robe men sipping in ice water with a wedge of lemon (damn, where’d they get the lemon? That could’ve been lunch). Men in robes occupied the other four chairs. Looked like the Mango Sugar Glow was a popular treatment.

I snagged a white fluffy towel from one of the 12 stacks of white fluffy towels strategically placed so that you would never be more than an arm’s length from cottony comfort. I put the towel under my head since I really couldn’t think of another use for it, and with the resort filled with such towels, it would be just wrong not to use one. Hey, it’s free. And now someone has to wash it (doing the math later, I discovered that of the $2,288 per week, $2,200 goes to the laundry. The rest is split between the kitchen and the guy who bitch-slaps the Domino’s dude).

“Mr. C--?” said a man who had emerged from the back. A white T-shirt clung to his wiry frame, sinewy muscles rippling along forearms that once belonged to Popeye look. His white pants lent to his clinical look, save for the snake tattooed on his left bicep, the serpent dancing as he swung his long arms by his side while walking toward me.

“That’s me,” I said. Leaning forward, I grabbed the towel and threw it into a small wicker basket that, I assumed, was for soiled linens. On its way to the basket, the towel was intercepted by a laundry attendant who, and I swear this is true, suddenly appeared as if out of a wormhole. As he disappeared into the back, I could swear each of the towel stacks raised the height of one more towel.

“Good, I’m Jim, nice to meet you,” he said, crushing my hand. “Now let’s see, you want the, uh, the Mango Sugar Glow?”

“Well,” I said, hesitating because the way his voice went up at the end of the sentence. It started as a statement, ending as a question. “Yeah, the, uh, Sugar Glow.” Had I just said “Sugar glow”?

“That’s what I thought,” he said. “Could you just wait here a few minutes? I need to go over to the ladies’ side to get the mango, uh, glow.”

The two sweaty guys in the hot tub looked at me. Smirking. The other guys sitting in the plastic lounges pulled their robes a little tighter, eyes glued on their magazines that included Maxim, Sports Illustrated and Popular Mechanics (Popular Mechanics? Who knew that was still around?)

“Ladies’ side?” I said. “Why?” Just asking this seemed to rub more Sugar Glow into the wound.

“It’s not something we offer on the men’s side,” said Jim, emphasizing “men’s.” “Don’t worry, it’ll just take a few minutes.”

Before my testosterone levels dropped to levels from which they could never recover, I waved him off.

“No, that’s OK,” I said. “I really don’t know anything about this mango thing. A friend suggested it. A woman. So it really isn’t that important to me. At all.”

“OK, if you’re sure.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“If you’re still interested,” Jim said, “what we do on this side is a sea-salt scrub.”

“Definitely, then let’s do that,” I said. “Yup, sea-salt. Scrub. That sounds perfect.”

“It’s pretty abrasive,” Jim said. “But it’s a great exfoliate. Your skin will really breathe when it’s over.”

Exfoliate? Hey, Jimbo, doesn’t that belong on the women’s side?

“Sounds perfect,” I said.

Jim smiled. Not a warm “Welcome back to the men’s side” smile, but a “You say that now, but just wait” smile.

Whatever. Bring on the sea salt, baby. I looked at the two guys in the hot tub, hoping they had heard. About being rubbed with sea salt. Not about it being an exfoliate. But they’d closed their eyes, perhaps dreaming of a different ending for “Mango Boy” – “So this big beefy attendant has to go to the woman’s side because this guy insisted on being slathered with some kind of sugar lotion, can you just imagine his humiliation?”

Jim pointed to a door past the sauna. “Go in there and take a shower. Don’t dry off, though, just like on the table and drape this towel over yourself. I’ll be in in just a few minutes.”

White spotless tiles covered every square inch of the walls in the small room. A nozzle jutted from the wall, opposite a drain in the floor. A thinly padded massage table took up the rear half of the room, under which was the familiar stack of fluffy towels.

I twisted the knob underneath the nozzle. Needles of water splashed against my skin, and I turned slowly to soak myself. I turned off the water, grabbed and towel and stretched out on the table, waiting for Jim.

A few minutes later he entered with a clear plastic wide-mouthed bottle. He tipped it toward his palm and shook, a rattling sound echoing off the tiles.

“What I’m going to do,” he said, standing over me, “is rub this salt over your skin, removing the dead cells and reviving the skin underneath. All you need to do is relax. Oh, and let me know if I’m a little too vigorous. Some men have, you know, a lower tolerance for the scrub.”

You mean like men who ask for Mango Sugar Glow? Of course he meant that. Do your best, Salt Man, because I was about to prove I was no Mango Boy.

I closed my eyes as he started on my arms, a burning sensation that could only be caused by intense chafing. I could actually hear my top three skin layers say goodbye. What I could not hear was the distinct buzz of the power sander he must have been using.

“How’s that?” he asked, the salt creating its own wounds in which to be rubbed.

“Really nice,” I said, trying to remember if Jim had said this would take 30 or 45 minutes.

For the next several hours (I was surprised to find the clock had moved just 50 minutes during the procedure), Jim was careful to find every patch of skin previously exposed to air, removing it with the efficiency of a man who nearly had to go over to the ladies’ side, seeing his life flash before his eyes.

The worst was the inner thighs, where his hands came dangerously close to body parts never meant to experience salt crystals, let alone have them ground in. The towel did not stop Jim’s ruthless pursuit of skin cells more than a few days old. As he continued to scrape my inner thighs, I wondered if this was a feeling similar to that of a marathoner in the last mile of the race, his flesh rubbing together to a point where friction should set his shorts on fire.

“Everything OK?” Jim asked.

“This is great,” I said. “I can’t believe I’ve never had this done before.”

“Yeah, it really stimulates the skin.”

That made me feel good, indicating I still had skin left.

When it was over, I was glowing – a very bright red. I shrugged into my robe, a once comfy outer layer that now stuck with a million tiny barbs. I walked gingerly with legs spread, as if I’d just spent the last eight hours riding naked on a horse through Death Valley.

“A lot of guys are surprised how refreshed they feel after a sea-salt scrub,” Jim said. “All that dead skin was just suffocating.”

Yes, exposing muscle and sinew to air was certainly preferable to being suffocated by several layers of epidermis. At least that is what I expressed to Jim as I left, thanking him for his strong hands and determined nature.

“Yeah, it’s great to be able to breathe again,” I said. I just never thought I’d be able to do it through my inner thighs.

This is the story of Bryson’s first curse words. Well, at least the words I heard. Since then, having outgrown the innocence of childhood (which means coming to the realization that dad is not quite as omniscient as originally presented), he’s no doubt added many colorful yet profane euphemisms to his verbal repertoire, but knows better than to share such intimate knowledge of these aural perversities within range of his father’s acute hearing.

And that’s OK with me. Selective ignorance is a wonderful thing when used wisely.

Not that I think my boy frequently salts his language with the spice afforded by the English tongue. He is well aware of profanity’s stars (“Now presenting the one you’ve all come to hear, the head verbal honcho guaranteed to add a punch to any expletive, the F word!”), but probably has yet to express them in ways that indicate a knowledge of the word’s intimacies. I say this only because he still remains hesitant to say “sex,” instead spelling it out, criss-crossing the air with is right index finger when he comes to the X. At this point, the habit is more an endearment than anything else, though by the time he is married (in his late 30s, of course), it might be wise to abandon air-spelling and just come out with what you want.

Let us go back to the start of what surely will be a life partially dedicated to exploring the intricacies of the language as expressed when someone cuts you off in traffic.

Bryson was just 6 when I convinced him (promised him enough sweets and swag to keep him interested for an hour or so) to attend a baseball game while visiting his grandparents in Northern California. For me, it was a trip to one of the premier stadiums in the country, an emerald jewel on the lip of the San Francisco Bay. For him, it was a chance to score a bunch of stuff whose cost was inversely proportional to the probabilities he would want to keep it once TV was again available.

We rode BART into the city, Bryson disappointed there was no one selling BART-related Legos on board. Upon arriving in the City (snoblike reference to San Francisco), we disembarked, headed up the nearest stairway and found ourselves among many people apparently unaware of the advantages of bathing. Bryson was disappointed none were selling transient-related action figures,

It was a spotless sunny day, a fastball God hurled right over the plate. Perfect for a game whose outcome takes entirely too long to resolve.

We walked the half-mile to PacBell Stadium, Bryson climbing, swinging and jumping on all objects offering the opportunity, though not designed, for such antics. The urban landscape became his playground, which was fine until he ascended a statue of Willie Mays, making it precisely halfway to the delight of nearby tourists, cameras firing away.

Once inside the stadium, Bryson was much more focused. It was time for stuff. We hit every team shop (34) between the entrance and our seats on the third deck. On prior vacations, the rule was that I would buy him any souvenirs within reason, which he translated to mean “Stuff we could carry between us, as long as one of us was pushing a shopping cart.” A year ago the rule was changed. Bryson had $50 to spend each vacation, a decision that transformed Bryson from Mr. Moneybags to Mr. Totally Tightass With a Buck.

So we browsed. And browsed. And browsed. He finally settled on a two-foot-long souvenir San Francisco Giant bat. It was not surprising given his penchant for wielding blunt objects, but as long as I watched him closely, everything would be fine. Besides, I planned to ply him with enough crap that his hands would always be holding less lethal objects, like caramel popcorn and chocolate malts. And the resulting sugar-fueled euphoria, he would forget all about the bat.

The strategy worked perfectly. The bat was tucked safely away under his seat, which was in the first row of the upper deck. Where a metal railing and six-inch concrete lip was all that kept Bryson from a bat-related tragedy should it slip from his fingers and tumble toward the higher-income masses below.

The thought of such an occurrence made my daddy-sense tingle from the minute we sat down. Every 3.2 minutes, I would say to Bryson, “If you drop that bat, it’s gone. Hold onto it. With both hands. Don’t drop it. Because if you drop it, it’s gone. Seriously.” The warning came as Bryson poured 12 packets of ketchup on his hotdog. As he squirted another 17 packets on his fries. As he dabbed at his ketchup-sodden lap with a napkin.

In between warnings I watched the game as Bryson eyed vendors for upcoming purchase possibilities. I had hoped he was too busy wondering how in God’s name someone could eat a rock-solid chocolate malt with a wooden spoon to listen to the man one row up and three seats over who shared his enjoyment of profanity with every play not in the home team’s favor.

Besides that, it was a perfect day. I watched baseball, Bryson ate, I uttered the warning, Bryson ate. Beautiful.

Until the fifth inning.

“Hey bud, want a pretzel?” I said.

“No thanks,” he said. “I’m full.

“What? No, no, have a pretzel. Enjoy.”

“No, I’ve had enough.”

Then it hit me. I was now dependent upon baseball to entertain my son. Oh my God, what have I done?

“How about some licorice? An Icee? I could run up to concessions and get you a Milky Way or …”

“No, I’m done.”

Hands now free of sugar-imbued sustenance reached under the seat and came up with the bat. This called for strident action. The frequency of warnings was increased, as was the decibel level.

Bryson swung the bat back and forth, uttering low humming sounds as if wielding a Star Wars lightsaber. I was OK with this if it resulted in another inning or two of baseball. I returned my attention to the game and, after another half-inning in a very close game, my WPM (warnings per minutes) fell drastically.

My eyes focused on a deep fly ball, I heard something. A sound that did not belong. A clatter of wood upon concrete. As my eyes traveled from field to seats, I heard another sound that did not belong.

“Shit!”

In the midst of turning my head, my concern had shifted from “Jesus, did Bryson just drop the bat, is it now plummeting toward the unsuspecting fans below?” to “What did he just say?”

I stared at Bryson, his gaze meeting mine. My peripheral vision revealed the bat near his feet, but we’d get to that.

“What did you just say?” I asked, pronouncing each word slowly with as much Dadpower as I could muster.

A low, whispery voice answered.

“Sh-i-i-i-i-t?” Bryson said, drawing out the word.

“That’s what I thought. I can’t believe you said that. You know that’s a bad word.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, it happens. And what did I tell you about the bat? Give it to me.”

He reached down, grasped it and handed it to me. He knew he could have made a plea. After all, this was vacation, and Dad was much looser about the rules on vacations. But he knew the “shit” had ended any shot at mercy.

“Come on, let’s go,” I said.

Looking back, it would have been much more of a punishment to make Bryson stay and watch baseball. Actually watch it. And no doubt he never would have cursed in front of me, traumatized by having to watch baseball.

But I didn’t do that, much to my regret.

The next day, Bryson and I went to the nearby water park. No worries about plying the boy with treats this time. Waterslides would keep us occupied all day. The only fear I had was the crowds. The plan was to arrive about 15 minutes after the park opened, early enough to beat most the crowds but late enough so that the line to enter would have dwindled.

“That way we should be able to just about walk in,” I told Bryson as we got into the car. “Plus it’s a little cold still, so I don’t think we’ll see a lot of people.”

“We don’t want to spend all day in line,” said Bryson, who hates waiting in line almost as much as being forced to watch baseball. “That would be a waste.”

“Definitely. But I’m sure we’ve got it worked out just right.”

On the 20-minute drive, we talked about how perfect our plan was. We were smarter than all those suckers getting there too early or too late.

As we pulled into the lot to pay for parking (you get soaked here in more ways than one), only one car was ahead of us.

“See, this is how it feels to have a plan work so well,” I said. “I’ll bet about 15 minutes ago, there were a bunch of cars in line.”

“Yeah, those others weren’t thinking too well,” Bryson said.

“Not like you and I, right?”

“Right.”

The car was so full of smugness, we could barely breathe.

We turned the corner and I could actually hear the hiss of our perfect plan dissolving right in front of us. The line to get into the park blocked our path, forcing me to duck through a narrow gap between cars and park further away. Bryson, busy doing who knows what, didn’t notice.

I stopped and looked into the back seat. I had another plan.

“Hey bud, hop out and go get in line, OK? I’ll park and meet you.”

“Why?” he said, looking up at me.

“Well, the line is a little longer than I thought.”

“What?” He looked out the window and there before him were nearly a hundred people in bathing suits, each holding a towel.

“That’s the line?” he asked.

I nodded.

“God damn it!”

I stared at him, the dilemma clear. Do I do the right thing, having a discussion with him about right and wrong words as well as the proper way to express anger? Or do I tell him to hurry up and grab his towel and get in line?

Since this was the second infractions, sterner measures were necessary.

“Hurry up and grab your towel and get in line,” I said. “We’ll talk about this later.”

I have had many low points in my career as a journalist. Such as covering a Colorado high school football game when it was 10 below, trying to keep notes wearing ski gloves that kept my fingers a degree or two above freezing and upon returning to the office had about five minutes to decipher scratchings in my notebook that resembled petroglyphs inscribed by a prehistoric man with really bad sharp-stonemanship. Then there was the time I had to conduct an interview with Norm Macdonald, alleged comedian, while talking to his agent (also on the line) as he was in the midst of moving into a new home. Me--“Obviously things didn’t work out for you on Saturday Night Live, so did you need time to think about your career or did you want to go-“ Norm-“Jesus, hey Chuck, what the hell is my address here, I think I may have sent some stuff to the wrong place.” Chuck – “I’m not sure, look, is there some mail there? Or maybe you can look for a number somewhere outside.” Norm- “A number? What kind of number? Can you please just tell me where the f--- I am?”

But I could actually hear a the distinct scraping sound of my career hitting bottom (much like the sound that must have kept Ben Affleck awake as he made Gigli) when my office phone had not rung by 11 a.m. on a Monday.

Elmo had definitely blown me off.

Yeah, Elmo. Of Chicken Dance Elmo. Limbo Elmo. Tickle Me All The Way to the Bank Elmo. Yup, 2.3 pounds of foam rubber and red fuzz had told me in celebrity speak (refusing to return a call at the appointed time) to take a flying leap. Maybe I could understand if Elmo was an A-list Muppet, like Kermit or Miss Piggy. I could even understand if it had been Gonzo, because he’s kind of flaky anyway and spends way too much time with chickens.

But Elmo? High-pitched squeaky-voiced redheaded fuzzball Elmo? Whose habit of speaking about himself in the third person has worn thinner than Sesame Street’s relevance?

The publicist had given me a choice. I could talk to either Grover or Elmo in connection with an interactive health-related exhibit opening here soon, since it featured several Sesame Street residents. If I had my preference, I would have wanted to talk to Ernie because we are always striving to represent diversity, and it would have been nice to feature an alternative lifestyle.

Instead I chose Elmo because my instant reaction to Grover was, “What the hell is a Grover?” Besides, I had a picture in my mind when it came to Elmo (never mind it was of moms fighting over the Tickle Me Elmo doll several years ago, which I recall as “The Holiday a Vibrating Muppet Senselessly Boned America”).

After calling Elmo’s official representative (yes, a doll has someone to make appointments), it was set up for 10 a.m. the following Monday. I was asked to remember that Elmo was just 3 years old and, as such, could only answer questions appropriate to that age. So there went my first question – “Elmo, that high voice of yours. Were you neutered?” Which I had assumed would have been a mandatory part of the adoption process.

No matter. I could always ask Elmo his feelings on the – no, wait, that wouldn’t work. Maybe on how he views – nope, that would be inappropriate too, because I am pretty sure no Muppet has a sex life, especially a Muppet that is allegedly just 3 years old. So much for the goal of getting Elmo to say a curse word (a sound bite that definitely would have brought more than a few bucks as a ringtone).

As the appointed time approached, I connected and tested the tape recorder (would not want to misquote someone who is now in Bartlett’s for the quote, “Ooohh, that tickles, now get your hands off me, Michael”). My questions were lined up, ranging from “What’s you favorite color?” to “Have you ever been inside a Turkish prison?” the last to be used only if his agent was on the other line discussing his move to a better Sesame Street neighborhood.

Only the phone never rang.

“I’m so sorry, he was supposed to be in his office by now,” his publicist said. Elmo has an office. Salt in the wound.

“I guess this is the last day of taping and they’re all at the wrap party,” the publicist continued. “To be honest, I’m not sure he’s going to be here any time soon. Maybe it would be best if we postponed.”

I imagined Elmo at the party, having a few too many, bumping into that flaming yellow seven-foot bird and screaming, “You’re not so big!” Or Oscar following him around saying, “Tickle this, Elmo.” And of course the while thing is captured by Bert, who’s been working for the Weekly World News all along.

The bottom line, however, is that I was blown off by Elmo.

Think I’ll just sit down and watch Gigli so I can feel good about myself again.