Not long after 4 a.m., as I whirled away on the elliptical machine at my local gym, three men on the machines behind me were engaged in conversation. Two, a 60-something Hispanic and 52-year-old African American junior-high school teacher who often came at that time, were talking politics with a 50-something Anglo who, I’d never seen before. Wearing a gray sweatsuit with a towel tucked around his neck, he hunched over the machine and cycled slowly.

It started innocently, the white guy butting in on a conversation between the other two gentleman about how the teacher was thinking about taking dancing lessons. The man said how great it was to do something new, to put different things in your life. That when one thing gets boring, you can go on to something else.

“Last night, for example, I was at Encanto Park with a bunch of buddies practicing kenpo. That’s a martial art. For two hours we’re beating the hell out of each other. Sure, I have a few bruises, but I’ll live. And I delivered a few bruises as well. Enough to be remembered, you know?”

No, I don’t know. But what happened next, yeah, that’s what I’ll remember him for.

“Barack Obama scares me.”

Yup, just like that. The teacher, being a teacher, asked him why.

This is the monologue, as I remember it. And I remember it pretty well.

“Well, a lot of reasons. First, the Muslim thing. He says he isn’t a Muslim. OK. But then he dresses like a Muslim. What’s that about? Muslims aren’t like us. Sure, some of them are OK, but al-Qaida? Muslim. Terrorists? Muslim. There’s something seriously wrong with people who only want to spread violence.

“But past that, I just don’t know what he stands for. Let’s take the economy. Nobody wants to talk about it, but we’re headed to a depression, just like the 30s. It’s not if, only when. People are blind if they can’t see it. This country is going to be in sorry shape and no one is doing anything about it.

“Then gun control. That’s a huge thing. Terrorists are coming here, if they’re not here already. And unless everyone carries a gun, we can’t defend ourselves. They’re gonna come over here and just take us over if we’re not careful. Al-Qaida knows that, knows we’re soft. Unless we do something about that right away, and I don’t mean a year from now, I mean now, it’s going to be bad. And all those people who wanted gun control are going to see what it cost them.

“Here’s the thing – you know how that guy walked into that college class and started shooting? No one could defend themselves. No one. But if just one guy had a gun, game over. The shooter would have been toast. And all those people who died would be alive today. A happy ending. But no, we don’t want guns in schools. As long as we continue with that mentality, more innocent people are going to die.

“You know what we need to do, right? Everyone should have a gun. Take them to the mall, school, church, wherever. Because when that one guy who wants to kill people takes out his gun, forget it. He’s gone. But see, that’s the thing. He knows everyone has a gun, and you know what happens? He never even takes it out. Everyone is safe. Guns keep us safe. Now you’re getting my point, right? How can you argue with that? You just can’t.

“Remember what I said about the depression? It’s gonna be bad. Real bad. If people were smart, this is what they’d start doing now. First, get their money out of banks before it becomes worthless. Next, buy a bunch of water and food. A ton. More than they thought they would ever need. Then get rifles, pistols, maybe two or three per person. And lots of ammo. Like food, more than they’d think they’d ever need. Now they’re ready. When the depression hits, hunker down because there will be people who will come for them. Because they were ready and no one else is. That’s what I’m doing. I’m taking no chances.”

A series of beeps interrupted him and the two other gentleman climbed off their machines. As did he, following the older man into the weight-machine area.

About 10 minutes later I saw the teacher working out with free weights.

“Nice friend you made,” I said.

“That was disturbing,” he said. “People like that make me really nervous.”

“No kidding.”

I hit the shower, hoping to wash all that crap off.

Some of life’s better moments occur when something goes wrong (notice I said “some.” Meaning “pretty few,” because stuff CAN really suck when things go wrong, from a flat tire on the freeway to the admittance of Florida as a bonafide United State).

Something had just gone wrong a few minutes ago when I found myself walking more than a mile home with my son (a bike repair thing; his was in the shop and since I did not want to ride my bike home, leaving him alone, we walked together).

Not long after leaving the repair shop, the conversation drifted to politics. I forget how exactly. Normally in front of my almost-13-year-old son I refrain from saying, “I can understand how we can elect the dumbest US president in history; hey, even Millard Fillmore made it to the White House. But twice? Are you kidding me?”

Either way, the following conversation occurred, and because of it the world was made a better place because another Democrat was born, though I now he will sell his political soul should he ever fall in love with a Republican (“You’re right, honey, if this country is ever going to have a right-wing evangelical president bent on making the world safe for the narrow-minded, gun-holding, unforgiving non-Hispanic majority, a vote for Huckabee isn’t just essential, it’s also the only morally correct thing to do”).

It went something like this (quotes mostly accurate, relying on this aging mind as I must):

“Dad, this is George Bush’s last year, right? I don’t really like him all that much.”

“Why is that?”

“Because so many soldiers are dying. Why can’t we just get everybody out of there?”

“Well, as much as I would like to see that happen, I’m not so sure that would be the best thing. Not leaving all at once. But slowly. Even though I’m not so sure that would do any good either.”

“Why not? I don’t understand. Either we leave or we just take over, right? We leave, I mean, who cares, right?”

“But look at what we’d leave behind. A country in a lot of turmoil. There are people there who don’t get along, and they haven’t gotten along for hundreds of years. Right now we’re doing out best to get them to talk, to form a government in which they all have a voice. If we can do that, great. But even if we do that, I’m not sure peace will last.”

“Because they’ve been so long?”

“Exactly. OK, you’ve studied the Civil War, right? The North and South really hated one another. Imagine in the middle of that another country invaded. France, let’s say. And they came in and took all of our weapons and started setting the rules. Then they made us put together a government with half North, half South. When everything looked OK, France said, ‘See ya.’ What do you think would have happened?”

“We would have started fighting again.”

“Pretty much. And the North and South didn’t get along for just a few decades or so.* The Shia and Sunni, who are both Muslim but don’t agree on all the particulars, have been kinda miffed at one another for centuries.”

“So why did we even get involved?”

“Ah, there’s the question that has split the nation. Most of this goes back to 9-11. You know that the attackers were from al-Qaeda, right? OK, we went into Afghanistan because we had proof that al-Qaeda had been training there, and that its leader, right, Osama Bin Laden, was living there. Fine, right?”

“I guess. I mean, if they sent people to kill us, we should go get them.”

“Later on, George W Bush tells us that they have developed intelligence that Iraq … well, the leader of Iraq, who was a pretty …”

“Bad guy. Saddam Hassan. We talked about him in school.”

“Right. Saddam Hussein. Definitely a bad guy. Killed thousands of his won people. According to George W Bush, Saddam was a threat to the US. Not only was he connected to al-Qaeda, but he was developing really powerful bombs. Nuclear stuff, bombs with chemicals that can wipe out everyone within a few miles. Weapons of mass destruction. So George W Bush decided we needed to invade Iraq.”

“But we captured Saddam. Why didn’t we just get out then?”

“We did get Hussein, but in the meantime, guess what happened? Turns out Saddam wasn’t connected to al-Qaeda. And he wasn’t making weapons of mass destruction. See, when Saddam was doing all this bad stuff, the rest of the world cut him off. Didn’t send him food or money. Iraq became a very poor country. Thousands were starving. You think this is the kind of country we should be afraid of? No. But George W Bush was.”

“So we sent soldiers because of what Bush thought? Man, that is so stupid.” (Ah, the Democrat emerges like a butterfly from the cocoon.)

“A lot of people still believe that invading Iraq is a good thing, that Iraq was a threat to us. Others believe it had something to do with oil.”

(Conversation ensues about oil supply and political ramifications, which goes largely over his head.)

“But dad, I don’t get why the Iraqis keep blowing themselves up and killing everyone. We’re trying to bring peace and they won’t let us. That doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re right, but let’s put it another way. We’re the most powerful nation in the world and no one would dare invade us. But let’s just say that one day America is not so powerful, and other countries think we’re dangerous. So one day all these soldier show up from different countries, and none of them speak our language but it’s pretty obvious they’re telling us what to do. And they make sure to tell us it’s for our own good. They’ll even help us set up a new government where everyone will have a say. What do you think we’d do?”

“We’d fight back … yeah, I don’t think we’d just sit there. I kind of get it.”

“I wish things would be more peaceful in Iraq, and I do think there are some really bad people over there, people who would kill civilians to make a point. And I would never defend them. But I also think it’s important we at least try to understand it from another point of view.”

“How long are we going to keep being over there?”

“I wish I knew. I just hope we pull out long before you turn 18.”

“But we could be there another 10 years. Or even 50 years. A hundred years. And when we leave, they could all go back to fighting anyway. So what’s the point?”

“I have no idea. But hopefully whoever’s elected president will.”

*Having not studied the Civil War for a few decades or so, my apology to the stick-up-their-butt historians who insist my figures are wrong.

Ah, it's almost spring training once again. Is there any better time in the universe than the start of baseball? Let me answer that for you -- no.

A close runner-up, however, is the beginning of Sausage Racing Season. Last year, I was lucky enough to be the chugging Chorizo, going against such wiener luminaries at Italian, Polish and the Hot Dog at a Milwaukee Brewer spring training game.

Check out the video here (and if copying and pasting this link does not work for some reason, go to azcentral.com. Scroll to the bottom and click on "Videos" in the site map. Once at the videos screen, scroll down to Arizona Republic videos and click on More videos. Scroll to March 07, go down about three-quarters of the way and click on Sausage Races. Yes, you will probably be disappointed. So? It's only 90 seconds) :

www.azcentral.com/phpAPP/multimedia/flash.php?path
=rtmp://azcentral.com/news/azr/0310sausage_r','mediaplayer',
'toolbar=no,scrollbars=no,resizable=no,width=300,height=300'

As I get older, generalities lose their veracity and mean less and less. For example, when I was 20, I knew that everyone going the speed limit in the fast lane was a jerk. Now that I’m 50, I realize that only some of those people are jerks, the ones who insist the speed limit is absolutely the fastest you should go, thus they are “proving a point” (and being jerks) by remaining in the fast lane. Others are simply misguided or not paying attention. And I’ve also come to realize that relatively slower people in the fast lane are not there solely to tick me off.

Not everyone comes to this realization as their brains ferment (becoming more refined and of a higher quality) over the decades. There are millions who firmly believe such generalities as “Iraq is a threat to America” and “Illegal is illegal.” Yet if they were to pause and think of those statements on a case-by-case basis, they would realize the words are as hollow as a Wal-Mart promise to pay its clerks a living wage.

With that in mind, here are generalities that I still generally believe:

Aisle seats are way better, mostly at sporting events, with theaters and airplanes right behind.

Those 80 and older should not be driving. Those 70 and older should not be driving without an annual driving test. Anyone who thinks, “I love being behind the wheel of this RV” should not be driving at all.

Just because you can afford to buy something way bigger than you need does not mean you should.

If there truly was a God, chocolate would cure cancer.

George W. Bush may not be the dumbest U.S. president ever, but he is certainly in the top 3.

Once I get to know a Republican, I can actually get to like him or her. Given time.

We don’t own up to our problems like our parents did (yes, I’m talking to those people who took out risky home loans and then blamed the availability of those loans when financial troubles started).

Not everyone who buys a Hummer is trying to make up for having a tiny penis. Women, for example.

Leave Britney alone.

Spirituality can be fulfilling. Religion is merely polarizing.

It is not a crime to want you hair cut in silence.

Dogs rule, cats drool.

Those who believe abstinence is the solution to teen pregnancy either have forgotten their own teenage years or were such total geeks they never had a shot at getting any.

If the Super Bowl continues to hire talented yet irrelevant halftime acts, Earth Wind and Fire would be an excellent choice.

Double Stuf Oreos with peanut butter crème are the best mass-produced cookies in the US.

Molly Johnson’s peanut butter chocolate chip cookies are the best homemade cookies in the US, if not the world.

Ugliest English word is definitely the “c” word – “censorship.”

A sharing of opinions and ideas can be enriching, especially when those opinions and ideas conflict. Spewing vile thoughts anonymously across the Internet is cowardly.

Arrested Development was one of the best shows on TV, and I blame you for not watching and having it canceled.

I am a decent man with a few dickish tendencies rather than a dick with a few decent tendencies.

If you are caught in this country illegally, let’s still treat you humanly, if not humanely.

Worst household chore: dusting.

Best household chore: yeah, right.

Those who ignore history are most likely high school students, and are certainly doomed to repeat it if they don’t get their act together.

Superman could beat any other superhero in a fair fight.

As you get older, you become more appreciative of others’ talents. Not counting those talents of romance writers.

Loyalty to your company stopped being an admirable trait about 15 years ago.

In more cases than not, he who smelt it is not the one who dealt it.

If you are against affirmative action and belong to a class that has never been subject to centuries of racial oppression, from slavery to systematic segregation to profiling, four words: Shut the hell up.

Two statements guarantee to make any reasonable person cringe: “Everything in my life has led up to this moment” (true whether you’ve just made love for the first time or decided on cherry over raspberry Toaster Pastries) and “He died doing what he loved to do” (apparently far worse than dying while doing what you don’t like to do).

Marriage is a flawed institution, and kudos to those who make it work.

Those who have asked “What part of ‘illegal’ don’t you understand?” should meet the girl from Mexico who came with her parents when she was two, received outstanding grades while working two jobs to help her family, saved enough for college and, after a routine check of records just prior to her graduation and the start of her job at a bioresearch company, was deported to a country she considered foreign. Yeah, that’s the part of “illegal” I don’t understand.

Feel free to leave comments. Who knows, I may have a part 2.

The youngster knows how to rock ... in the living room with a toy guitar. But hey, he's got style. And as far as I know, he did not know the camera was on him until the end.

Each day we are overwhelmed with bad news. It can be as grand and painful as the war, as small as a traffic accident that takes a life or two. And there’s the news that merely makes us shake our heads and wonder what this world’s coming to (imploding celebrities, mindless crimes, a loss of human decency).

That’s why I consider myself fortunate to be associated with one story that proves, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there is a goodness to life which makes everything worth it. It’s a story of pain and heartache, a story of joy and undeniable spirit. And it’s a story everyone should know because it speaks to the essence of what life is all about.

Most importantly, it’s a story still being written. And I hope I continue to be lucky enough to follow along.

It starts, for me, in 2000 (I play such a small part, and my presence is necessary only as narrator). When I indicated on the juror form that I would be available for a lengthy trial, I was not surprised when I was asked to report in a week for further interviews. But as a journalist for the Arizona Republic, I was shocked to be named to the 14-person jury. I figured no one would want a reporter. Especially for a case this big, involving the Avondale quads. At the time, I think local news shows even had a graphic that said Avondale quads, so ubiquitous was the case.

There were nights during that trial that all I wanted to do was come home and give my son an extra long hug. He was 3, just a year older than the quadruplets I had been hearing about all day, kids who has been brutalized. The only question was who did it.

We heard testimony, saw x-rays, examined reports. There had been broken ribs, arms and skulls. One child, a doctor said, had been shaken so hard that it was as if he had been in a head-on collision at 45 mph. The doctor surmised the child, who was just six months old at the time, had been picked up and slug down, his had slamming into a wall or table.

By the time we were allowed to talk about it, each juror had been affected by what we’d heard and seen.

Those responsible were convicted, and this story is not about them or the trial.

The real story starts in another courtroom, one festooned with balloons and smiles and laughter.

Because not long after the trial, the three foster families of the four children appeared in family court for the finalization of the adoption process. New names accompanied the new start: Brandon, Michael, Matthew and Hannah.

Michael and Matthew, identical twins, raced around the courtroom with their sister Hannah, showing few signs of injuries that had kept them in the hospital for months.

Brandon was in a wheelchair, his skull sloping unnaturally on one side because of an injury that, doctors had testified, should have killed him. As it was, they said Brandon would never hear or see, and likely no live past the age of two.

Brandon was now three, smiling when his brothers and sister appeared at his side with a bright red balloon. He could barely move his arms or legs, and he could tilt his head only slightly.

Yet he was the biggest miracle in the room.

Ken and Becky Rowin were Brandon’s proud parents, a couple who had devoted themselves to special-needs kids over the years, fostering or adopting children to whom most people would gladly donate money. But time? Well, it’s just that these kids are so much work.

So much work.

Sandy and Lyle were much the same way. The new parents of Michael and Matthew, Sandy and Lyle also had dedicated themselves to children that you, nor I, without some sort of blood relationship, would ever take on.

And Hannah would be the princess of Sherrie and Rick, who would dote on their young daughter. Sherrie had always wanted a daughter, having had sons who now were zooming toward adulthood.

Imagine having seen nothing but x-rays and heard nothing but dire tales of the abuses heaped upon four children, and then finally meeting those four children, now wearing their Sunday finest.

This is when you may start to believe in miracles. I did.

Flash forward about two years. More balloons, a colorful pile of gifts piled on a table next to a pink and blue birthday cake. Children of all ages running to and fro in barely controlled pandemonium. Several bowls of chips lining the kitchen counter, at the end of which is a large plate of cookies.

Brandon, Hannah, Matthew and Michael are 5. Personalities have emerged. Hannah in playful and outgoing. Matthew is sensitive and loves to draw. Michael prefers to act out the adventures of Spider-Man, his favorite superhero. Just check out all the presents wrapped in Spidey paper.

Off in the dining room is Becky and Brandon, who’s defied every prediction of medical science. In the past few months, he’s begun to recognize colors, patterns and sounds. He is reacting to the outside world, and the family’s favorite moments include Brandon’s laughter as be watches Dora the Explorer (another miracle is the video, which remains in great shape despite dozens and dozens of viewings).

But in her darker moments. Becky wishes it wasn’t like this. She wishes Brandon is a carbon copy of his brothers, that instead of this wheelchair, he would be on a bike, wind blowing against his face as legs pumped harder and harder.

Becky would give anything – anything – to make it so Brandon could step out of the prison that is his body and experience the normal joys that, right now, his siblings are enjoying. In fact, she would give anything – anything – to make it so Brandon could blow out one candle on his cake.

But those are just her darker moments. They come and they go. In between, she realizes she is lucky to have Brandon for one more day. And another. And another.

She still cries. So does Ken. And when I think of this story, so do I. But it isn’t just about the sadness and unfairness. It’s much more about hope, about Brandon being able to experience things doctors said he would never experience.

But let’s wait for more on that. Because the story continues.

Five years later. And just a few weeks ago. Another room decorated with balloons, this one inside a warehouse-sized fun factory filled with rides, video games and flashing lights. Several buffets are filled with kid-friendly foods.

Another birthday. The quadruplets are 10, and this is their annual gathering.

Years ago, the children would get together several times a year for dinners or outings. It always has been important for the parents to have the children keep in touch, to keep thas part of the family together.

But over the years, life has pulled them apart. Because there are soccer games, friends’ parties, and various other commitments that keep families busy.

Because they have attained normalcy. There are routines that include favorite dinners, special nights out, arguments, shopping trips, homework, games, hurt feelings, miscommunication, movies, and etc and etc and etc.

They were no longer the Avondale quads. They were Hannah and Matthew and Michael and Brandon. Those who knew their background would also call them remarkable.

Anyone else would just call them rambunctious kids.

Matthew and Michael are happy to run in and around the various game machines. Matthew is still the shy and sensitive one, who prefers time with a good book or sketchpad (and, Sandy says, Matthew was just chosen student of the month at his school and is in an advanced reading program). Michael the active one who can definitely be more than a handful. Hannah’s personality lies somewhere between her two brothers, and she is spending most of her time with friends she’s invited.

Brandon is much the same, and now uses a computer that leads him though colors and pictures where he can tell a story. He still loves Dora, and has displayed quite a sweet tooth.

And here are just a few things Brandon has seen, touched and heard that doctors swore, just about 9 years ago, he would never experience: a sandy beach, waves lapping against the shore, the scent of his mom’s favorite perfume, squeals of children on a thrill ride, a high five from Mickey Mouse, a balloon disappearing into the blue, the rich sweet taste of his own birthday cake.

And so much more.

Becky and Ken still have their dark moments. They did not talk about them, but I would like to think that in this story, those moments are much fewer.

This is what I will remember most from that day: I look at the LCD screen on the back of my camera to make sure each child is centered in the frame: Brandon in the front, surrounded by Michael, Matthew and Hannah. I wait a second, two, for all of them to smile, that perfect moment.

It hits me just as I snap the picture. I put the camera down and look again at this scene. This, I realize, is the perfect moment. And I am so very lucky to be here.

The story is still being written. Becky and Ken and Brandon will appreciate each and every day together. And the other three kids will grow, go to junior high, cop attitudes, go to high school, get into scrapes, meet a special someone, break up, meet another special someone, learn to drive, go to college, kiss their parents goodbye, meet another special someone, get married, come home for Christmas, be together on their birthday..

Life as it should be. And only those who know their whole story will realize how remarkable life can be.

“It’s 7 a.m., you said I could open a present,” Bryson said. And so I did. Christmas had started.

He opened his stocking and, with Hannah, Ryan and Paula soon joining us, the presents, and the time, flew by. Books, gift cards, clothes. Sometimes even a few thank-yous. Until there was not a gift left under the tree.

I’d asked Bryson this year is he would want a big, rather expensive present, and only get a few more things in addition; or would he rather get the customary number and forego something truly special. I knew what his answer would be the moment I asked.

“Did you get everything you wanted?” I asked, knowing the gift at the top of his list was not to be found.

“Pretty much,” he said. “Well, except for the Havoc Heli, but that’s OK.”

He spoke of a small indoor remote control helicopter he’d been wanting for months.

“So was my big present one of these?” he said, looking at the small pile of books and video games surrounding him.

“Well, I’m not sure, I hope your Christmas isn’t in ruins,” I said.

“What? No.”

“Because that would be a shame if your Christmas were in ruins. Or should I say if your Christmas were in the ruins.”

“What are you saying?”

“I said it wouldn’t be nice if your Christmas were in … the … ruins.”

Bryson stood and looked around, knowing a clue when he heard it. He just had no clue what the clue was supposed to mean.

“Should we play the hot-cold game?” I said. It was the clue of the last resort. “Because right now” – as he looked through the wreckage of wrapping paper on the floor – “you’re cold.”

Within a minute he was standing next to the bookcase near the Christmas tree, his hand darting out to The Ruins, from the top of which protruded a white envelope. He pulled the envelope from the book, opened it and began to read.

Hi Bryson, remember us, it’s the elves and we’re back.

2007 was such a great year and that’s a fact, Jack.

You’re getting so old, next year you’ll be teening,

Though your dad says you’re already primping and preening.

But enough of this small talk, you know the drill.

We give the clues and you follow them still.

Of course now that you are so much more older,

These clues will be so much more bolder.

You’ll look to your dad when you must confess

That you need help, but he will be clueless.

This time, Bryson, the hunt is on you,

And the fact is, if you don’t rather than do

Find the present that we have hidden so true

The lights outside won’t be the only thing blue.

Because this is the search to end all the searches.

And should you fail, your IQ it besmirches.

This is a present worth much diligence,

For it cost so many dollars and cents.

Thus for you we are surely not making it easy,

Our clues will be tough and our clues will be tease-y.

What do you say, is it time to get started?
Is your attitude one that is fun and good-hearted?

Because you need to go to the place where you find,

A stick you use to find joy all of the time.

“A stick?” Bryson said. “What kind of stick?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “Ask the elves.”

Each year since Bryson was 3, the North Pole elves visited our home and sprinkled rhyming clues around the house, leading him to his big present. One year it was a bike, another time a scooter, once a giant-sized Lego set. Even when his belief in elves dropped to an all-time low when he was 9, he asked that they still visit. I imagine they’ll come to our house as long as he is here.

“Read the clue one more time,” I said.

“A stick you use to find joy all the time.”

“The answer is right there.”

An idea popped into Ryan’s mind and, because he is 10, an age where thinking things through doesn’t apply, he blurted, “Your bike!”

And Bryson, being 12 and not having a clue, bought it.

The two of them traipsed into the very-cold garage. Bryson looked at his bike. His scooter. He picked up and examined his Air Soft rifle.

“This is a stick that gives me joy,” he said. No argument from me.”

“It’s not in here,” I said, rubbing my hands together. “Think of two words in that clue. Look at it again.”

“Stick?” Bryson said, back in the family room.

“Yes.”

“And, uh, find? Stick find? Find the stick?”

“No.”

“Joy? Stick joy.”

“Close. Turn them around.”

“Joy stick?”

“Bingo.”

Bryson headed to the Xbox 360 cabinet and, after a little more guidance, found the next clue hidden in the battery compartment of the controller. He unfurled the scrap of paper and read.

You found it, that’s great, did you need some assistance?

Now outside you must seek where warm air sometimes vents.

(Apparently elves knew a short clue was needed given lack of space inside the joystick. Clever, those elves. )

Bryson threw open the back door, stepped into the pair of tired old sneakers kept on the patio for such occasions, and was on the hunt.

“I know where this is,” he said, heading toward the AC unit on the side of the house. “Too easy.”

He looked around the mechanical box but found nothing. I explained to him the basic working of the AZ unit, that it blows air into the house. “You need to find something that vents to the outside. What blows air from inside?”

“I don’t know. Seriously, I have no idea.”

From a know-it-all to a know-nothing-at-all in a matter of seconds. Such was the nature of these yearly hunts.

Bryson would have no clue about the vent. He’d never done laundry in his life. As far as he was concerned, he put dirty clothes in the magic plastic bin and in a few days or so, those clothes would return to his bed, fresh and clean.

We resorted to the hot-cold game. A few minutes later he was pulling a clue taped carefully to caked-up lint on the lip of the dryer vent.

We’re a little surprised that you were so able,

To find a clue that wasn’t just out on a table.

To get the next one you just might need permission

From two roommates who are probably hopin’ and wishin’

While you’re at their favorite spot doing some fishin’

You’ll do the one thing that will make them quit their bitchin’.

He read it once. Twice. Again. And again. Pausing each time, for emphasis, before the word “bitchin.’”

Stationery: 5 cents. Printer ink: 12 cents. Having an elf-written poem giving you license to say “bitchin’”: priceless.

“Can we just get on with it,” I said.

Bryson went back into the house and, getting past “bitchin’” enough to think about the clue, puzzled over it.

“Two roommates? Roommates … do dogs count?”

“Of course.”

Bryson headed into the laundry room and carefully inspected the bag of dog food, looking inside and out. Right idea, wrong location. After finding nothing, he looked at Dusty’s food dish. Then water dish. Nothing.

“What about where Sandy eats?” I said.

“That’s where I was going next.” He picked up her metal bowl and removed the clue taped there.

You found it, that’s fine, but we’re so not done yet,

With Sandy (claws) eyeing you, that we will bet.

You know how your dad says you must do your chores,

(Hard work in the future will open all doors.)

Your next clue has nothing to do much with that.

It’s more of a pun and it may leave you flat.

Read closely these words to learn of your fate,

And you will be trained to pull your own freight.

“Do you know what a pun is?” I said.

“Not really.”

What the heck are they teaching these kids in school? “It’s a play on words. Read the last sentence again.”

He did. “Oh, oh. I so have this.”

Bryson walked to the electric-train layout in the family room and kneeled down. He peered at the cars, eventually opening the doors to the boxcar where he extracted a piece of paper. “That was way too easy.”

We wondered if you could have figured it out,

As here at the Pole we sure have our doubts.

Did you sit there and wonder or perhaps even pout?

Our puzzle skills are mad which we like to tout.

But now let’s continue upon our Christmas way,

To a gift that surely will make your best day.

(Though that day will not come for many more weeks

thus the gift of patience will make waiting less bleak).

A character you are, we know that it’s true.

And in your fine house is a character of you.

Find what we mean and look on the back.

You’ll find one more clue to put you on track.

“A character of me, like a photo?” Bryson said. “I think I know this one.”

He headed into the computer room and picked up the photo he himself with Pluto, Disney’s vocally challenged dog (in Disney’s world, everything can talk, from chipmunks to ducks. So what the hell is wrong with Pluto. Even his genetic brother Goofy, who clearly is not as intelligent, can talk. Was it an accident? A birth defect?)

Bryson looked to the back of the frame. Nothing.

“I think the clue was a character of you, not you with a character,” I said.

Bryson sat on the couch where the answer was just a few feet away. “Look around,” I said.

As soon as his eyes found the painting, in which he was drawn by a colleague of mine, they lit up. He took the drawing off the wall and removed the clue from the back.

You found the next clue, that is great but not all,

(first please put the picture back up on the wall).

We talked once before about you and your work,

(and while doing it you may think your dad is a jerk).

But a chore you do weekly will lead to a clue,

A chore that done weekly has you seeing blue.

For some reason, Bryson spent the longest time figuring this one out. Not because he has all that many chores. (“I pick up dog poop, but that doesn’t have blue. I vacuum. Mop. Clean my room.” “Is that stuff you do every week?” “No.” “I wish you did them weekly.”)

Back to hot-cold. As the hints led him outside, it finally occurred to him. He raced to the side of the house and threw open the lid of the very blue recycling barrel, the same barrel that every week he took to the curb, The clue was taped to the inside of the lid.

We knew that you’d do it, you would find your own way,

We hope you dressed warmly on such a cold day.

Your present by now we’re sure that you’ve earned,

It’s time that its spot is something you’ve learned.

When you were small, much smaller than now,

(seems so long ago, time flies by and how)

You’d hide from your dad and the dog and us all

You’d hide in a place where you’d duck and you’d crawl.

If you remember that spot, that one and the same.

Go there and end our fun Christmas game.

For the next few minutes, Bryson visited his favorite hiding spaces in a time he was small enough to fit in tiny spaces. Under his bed. Under my bed. The back of his closet. The back of my closet.

And, finally, behind the couch in the computer room, where a package wrapped in a silvery paper dotted with candy canes waited.

He ripped it open to find his Havoc Heli, in all of it’s $29.99 glory.

“Cool, thanks,” he said.

“You are very welcome. Merry Christmas,” I said.

“Yeah, merry Christmas.”

His disappointment was obvious. Was this the big present I had hinted about for months? The one I would not even hint about, though he often would ask if it was bigger than this or more expensive than that.

A stupid Havoc Heli? What’s the big freakin’ deal?

I changed plans slightly. I was going to let him discover it on his own, but a little alteration was necessary.

“Why don’t you just go ahead and play with the Havoc Heli?” I said.

Bryson noticed a certain tone in my voice, as well as the anticipation in my eyes.

“Open it?” he said.

“Sure. That’s up to you.”

The excitement returned. He pulled the Havoc Heli from the box, as well as an envelope. Inside was the elves’ final poem.

We hope that this toy does not disappoint,

We hope that you’re not just a bit out of joint.

Is this the big present your dad said he’d got,

The present he said had cost quite a lot?

Well, we’ll tell you this and know that it’s so

For the answer to that is a yes and a no.

Your prize really isn’t this small Havoc-heli

Though it’s nice and you’ll like it just find and just well-y

But your present does involve a whirling helicopter.

But one much bigger than this little chopper.

Far out in the desert and a few months away,

You and your dad will have the best of best days.

For on March 1, and this is the topper,

You’ll ride for an hour on a big helicopter.

You’ll fly over ghost towns and fly over mines,

And enjoy an adventure of a lifetime.

We hope that this meets all expectations

We expect that we’ll get your adulation.

Merry Christmas young Bryson, we hope that you’ve had,

A wonderful time with Santa (your dad).

An Afternoon With Grandpa

Sam scrunched his eyes but he couldn’t keep all the sunlight out, and it started to hurt. If the light were just coming from the sky it would be OK, but the way it bounced off the water made it hard to look out over the lake.

He put his right hand up next to his eyes and that helped. He kept his left hand on the fishing pole, worried that if he set it on the dock the only fish in the whole lake would suddenly grab it. Even though he and grandpa had been out here for what seemed like a whole day.

Sam knew it really hadn’t been that long. Even at 6, he was pretty good at time and knew that when he was bored, minutes would go by really slow. He turned his head and looked down at his grandpa’s wrist, and then remembered. Grandpa lost his watch. He saw the white stripe on Grandpa’s skin, a perfect watch shape with a bulge in the middle. And a the top of that bulge there was a red mark, a cut but not a cut because Sam couldn’t see any blood.

Sam looked up at his Grandpa, who was wearing his floppy fishing hat as usual. He wore the had even when he wasn’t fishing, and his mom told him it was to keep the sun off Grandpa’s head because he lost his hair a long time ago. But not all of his hair. Puffs of gray sprung from below his hat, and he noticed his grandpa would take off his hat every now and then to run his hand over his head, as if seeing if he still had any hair. “When you’re my age,” his grandpa would say, “you’re lucky to have any hair at all.”

“Grandpa, what time is it?” Sam said.

“Time enough to fish,” Grandpa said. Grandpa said that a lot, even when they weren’t fishing. Sam knew it was his favorite thing to do, and last year on his birthday he and his mom surprised Grandpa with a new pole. Only it was in the basement, Sam knew. He wasn’t sure if Grandpa ever used it, and mom told him it was because Grandpa was “set in his ways.” And one of his ways was fishing.

“Your grandpa has a certain way of doing things, so it’s just best to let him be,” mom said. “You get into a groove in life and it gets to you just want to keep things the same. Grandpa’s not one to change.”

That was why Grandpa was still up her at the cabin, even though mom wanted him to live with them. They had a room at the house that mom kept calling Grandpa’s room, and there was a bed, even a TV. Sam would to in there sometimes and watch TV. Sam didn’t think of it has Grandpa’s room, though. It was his safe room. He found out that if he shut the door and turned up the TV real high, he couldn’t hear all the other stuff. And if he couldn’t hear the other stuff, he felt better.

That’s why Sam liked it up here so much, even though he really didn’t like to fish. It was quiet. When Sam would wake up, all he would hear is music from the radio in the kitchen. So much better than the other stuff at home.

Sam squirmed because his butt was starting to hurt. Then smiled because he thought of the word “butt.” Butt butt butt. He wasn’t allowed to say that word at home, because there were con-say-kwensees. There were con-say-kwenwees for lots of stuff, like not doing what he was told (and he had to do it “right away”). Or talking back. Or not talking at all. And sometimes there were just con-say-kwensees. Mom would cry. And then she would have con-say-kwensees.

Sam wondered what con-say-kwensees there would be now.

“Butt,” he said. Again. “Butt.” Testing.

“But what?” Grandpa said.

“Nothing,” Sam said. “Only my … only it’s getting hard sitting so long.”

“We’ll just stay out here a little longer, that OK with you? Not too much longer, I promise.”

“OK, Grandpa.”

The sun didn’t hurt as much. Most of it was behind the trees now, and that helped a lot. Sam loved the nights here. Grandpa let him bring in the wood from the stack outside and build a pile in the fireplace. Sometimes Grandpa would even let him use the lighter. Then Grandpa and Mom would tell him stories about growing up. Mom was a “tomboy,” which was a girl who wanted to be a boy, or maybe just did boy stuff. Sam wasn’t sure, but it was fun thinking of his mom playing baseball and climbing trees and swimming faster than anyone else. And he also liked how his mom smiled and laughed, because she didn’t do that a lot.

He wondered why Mom couldn’t have stayed a tomboy. She never played baseball or climbed trees or swam anymore. Sam found it hard to believe his mom did any of those things. Now all she did was make dinner and wash dishes and do what she was told (and it had to be right away, or there were con-say-kwensees).

That’s another thing he liked about Grandpa’s house. There were no con-say-kwensees. He still had to follow all the same rules, do what he was told and not talk back and stuff, but it didn’t hurt if he forgot sometimes.

He felt a tug. In his left hand. The fishing pole. There was a splash.

“Hey there boy, ya got something?” Grandpa said.

There was another pull on the line, and Sam held on with both hands and tugged up like he’d seen his grandpa do. But he forgot what else.

Suddenly there was another hand on the pole, and Sam felt Grandpa at his back.

“That’s good, you want to keep him on the line by pulling toward you,” Grandpa said. “But you have to reel him in too. You remember how to do that?”

“I think so,” Sam said, lifting his right hand off the pole and grasping the reel’s handle between his thumb and middle finger. He tried to turn it, but it wouldn’t come.

“It’s stuck,” he said. “ I can’t, Grandpa, I can’t get it, I’m sor-“

“Sammy, relax, everything’s fine,” Grandpa said. “What we’re gonna do is pull up, right, just like that. Now as we dip back down, you start to wind that reel, OK?”

Sam tried it again, biting his lower lip. Only this time it turned. And it was easy.

“Grandpa, I’m doing it,” he said. “We’re going to get him, Grandpa.”

“That we are, Sammy, you’re doing great.”

They lifted together, pulling the line taut as it danced back and forth. Sam heard a splash and suddenly he was tumbling backward, his arms shooting up over his head and striking something soft.

“Jesus, ow, dammit!”

If they were home, Grandpa would face con-say-kwensees for bad words. But they weren’t home, and Sam was not sure he’d ever seen his grandpa face con-say-kwensees.

Sam leaned forward, still gripping the pole, and sat up. He turned around to look at Grandpa, who was holding his face. There was only a little sunlight now, but just enough to see a splash of red between Grandpa’s fingers.

“Grandpa, you all right?”

Grandpa stood up, one hand pinching his nose together. “Oooh boy, that smarts. And twice in one day.”

“Sorry Grandpa, I was pulling and then I don’t know.”

“He just got away, Sammy, right when I thought we had him. Sometimes that happens. They get away. But if you get the big ones, you can go home happy.”

“Was that a big one, Grandpa?”

“Not so bad, but not the biggest today, that’s for sure.”

“For sure.”

The worst part of fishing, Sam thought, was the end. When you actually saw the fish flopping around. Sometimes Grandpa would being a bucket full of water and toss the fish in, where it would wriggle. But that would only make Sam even more sad because he knew what was coming and the fish didn’t. Once Grandpa showed him how to “clean” a fish, only Sam thought it was everything but “clean.”

Once Sam asked Grandpa why the fish flopped around so much when they were out of the water.

“Well, if you look on where their necks might be, if fish had necks, you’d see little slits,” Grandpa said. “Those’re called gills. I’m not exactly sure how they work on account I never was very good at biology, but somehow gills grab air from water so fish can breathe.”

“Fish breathe? Then why don’t they just breathe regular air like we do?”

“You see, they need the water to bring the air to them,” Grandpa said. “They were built to live underwater, just like we were built to live on land.”

His grandpa sat back down next to him, fingers still pinched around his nose. Grandpa reached with his other hand into a back pocket, taking out a handkerchief. He flapped it a few times and put it up to his nose.

“Body gets too old to put up with this abuse,” Grandpa said. He looked at Sam. “And a body can be too young, huh Sammy?”

Sam kind of knew what Grandpa was talking about. But Grandpa promised things were going to change. Sam knew Grandpa kept his promises.

Sam hadn’t noticed how little sunlight was left until he noticed another light coming from behind him. There was a sound too, an engine, then some doors slamming.

“Well, Sammy, guess it’s that time,” Grandpa said, standing and shoving the handkerchief back in his pocket. Even in the fading light, Sam could see Grandpa wasn’t looking so good. He bad a black eye and a cut right below the brim of his fishing hat. And his nose was bloody again.

Sam stood as well and took one last look out at the lake, where he could still make him out, barely. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just a piece of wood.

“Grandpa, only fish have gills, right?”

“You bet, Sammy. Just fish. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“Cause I don’t want con-say-kwensees.”

“Neither do I Sammy, but if one of us has to face consequences, I’d rather it be me.”

Sam reached across, his hand swallowed by Grandpa’s, who gave his a reassuring squeeze as they walked back to the cabin.

I was having a few beers with a friend not too long ago and the subject of religion came up. Usually it happens when Lisa (not her real name, as she may be one of the three people that actually read these meanderings), aware of my heathen ways, asks me if I believe in God yet. I ask her if the Bible’s writers ever thought their tales would be taken seriously (“Dude, love the parting of the Red Sea, but don’t you think that’s just a little over the top?”)

Then we’re done because we know we’re not going to convince the other that we’re right and they’re wrong (a “live and let live” approach that would probably work pretty well globally: Anyone know where the existential suggestion box is?).

But this time, God and religion came up in a more roundabout way, and as such the conversation went on longer than it should. Still, I remember much of it (I was still on my first beer when it started, and had not finished the second when it was done) and I thought it worth recounting. Why? Because this is my blog, not yours. Any more questions?

First, a bit of background. Lisa was diagnosed with breast cancer a few months ago. Thank goodness (or God, depending on your point of view), it was very slow growing and treatment was successful. When the news is that good, I’ll be happy to attribute God, science, cells that fought bravely to slow cancer’s advance, whatever.

Then I asked her about her old high school friend, a guy she had gotten in touch with and found she had some feelings for (her marriage has been rocky for many years and she’s stuck with it, though I am not going into particulars because I don’t want to get all Dr. Phil, even though there are probably many people who consider that pompous, overbearing, holier-than-thou jerk some sort of god).

But, she said, there would no further attempts to contact him. And this is where our conversation began.

Me: “Why not?”

Lisa: “It was a wake-up call.”

“What was a wake-up call.”

“Just … things. Circumstances. My life has changed now. It’s time to go down a different path.”

“Wait, what things? Are you talking about your cancer?”

“Look, I’m … maybe-“

“Cancer is a wake-up call? Are you serious?”

“Yes. It make me see things in a whole new light.”

“A wake-up call from who?”

“You’re not going to like the answer.”

“OK, God. Cancer was a wake-up call from God. That’s what you think.”

“I know you don’t see it that way, but we believe differently. Everything happens for a reason and yes, God is trying to tell me something. It was a wake-up call.”

“See, this is the kind of thing I have a problem with. When I ask for a wake-up call, I expect that at some ungodly hour the phone will ring and I will pick it up and get out of bed. I do not expect someone to come into my room and inflict a potentially mortal wound.”

“Come on, that’s not what I mean at all. It was just a message. God wants me to think differently, to analyze the things in my life. Cancer was the way he deemed the best way. Who am I to question His wisdom?”

“Oh, so then God wanted to send a message to everyone in Bangladesh, so he sent an earthquake and thousands died. And he sent a message to Indonesia via tidal wave. What the hell is wrong with an email?”

“That is so ridiculous. See, you just don’t get it. You’ve never taken the time to think about it yourself. Who knows why those things happen? I don’t know, but I do know there is a reason for them. And I’m not going to pretend I have those answers. But what I do have is faith. What do you have?”

“Here’s the thing. I’m not saying God doesn’t exist. I’m saying I don’t know. There are so many incredible things in this world that I would like to think there is some design, that there is something behind it. God, a force, whatever. What I have a problem with is your God.”

Lisa: “My God?”

Me: “Your God.”

“What is your problem with God?”

“The problem is how you see him. Essentially, I can live an exemplary life, be kind to my fellow man, never be accused of a felony, raise an amazing family and be a pillar of the community. Hundreds of people attend my memorial service to proclaim how loving and generous I am. Meanwhile, a serial killer responsible for 12 deaths is about to be executed and he tells the attending pastor that he has accepted Jesus into his heart, and he sure seems to be sincere, what with the needle about to slip into his vein. Now, which one of us is going to hell?”

“That is not up to me to decide.”

“OK, fair enough. But according to your beliefs, who is going to hell?”

“My beliefs? Because my beliefs don’t really line up with the church.”

“How about your religion then? According to your religion, who is going to hell?”

“You are. But that’s-“

“And there is one of my biggest problems. Not so much with God, but religion. According to Christians, not only am I going to hell despite trying to live a good life. So are Muslims, Buddhists, Hindi, atheists, etc. Hell is like the mall at Christmas, seriously overcrowded. Heaven sounds like an exclusive country club where only certain people get a tee time. I just can’t buy that.”

“I’m not sure I can either. Which is why I don’t think God separates people like that. He’s not so black and white. I believe that when you die, God gives you another chance. He asks, ‘Do you believe that Jesus is my son, whom I sent down from heaven to you?’ Then it’s up to you to make the choice.”

“So when you die, God let’s you have a do-over.”

“Yes, in simple terms.”

“And if you say no?”

“You’re going to hell.”

“So I’m dead, chatting with God, he introduces me to his son, then says if you still don’t believe, I’m going to that place down there with the fires and screaming and eternal damnation. Or I can say, ‘You know, God, I see the light, mind if I join you in the clouds and the fluff and the softness?’ Given those terms, wouldn’t hell be empty?”

“Maybe. Look, you make it sound ridiculous, and it isn’t. Besides, it’s not about heaven and hell. It’s about having faith, knowing that there is so much more than this. It encourages you to live a better life. Look at you, you’ve led an exemplary life, right? Why? What’s it going to do in the long run? You’re just going to die. What’s the point? How can you live with that over your head?”

“I want to live an exemplary life for my son, for the people in my life. And I don’t think I’m different from 99 percent of the people on this planet. I think we all want to do good. Somewhere along the way as we evolved, we got this ‘help fellow man’ thing that keeps us chugging along without killing everyone. Yet.”

“So what’s the payoff? Why do you do it?”

“Simply because it’s the right thing to do.”

“That’s fine, but for you it all comes to an end when you die. That’s so depressing. I know there’s something else. That takes a lot of the fear away. Life is much more enriching. I’d hate to be in a world where there was no faith, where there was no God. That’s a life not worth living.”

“Even though my life is apparently not worth living, it’s still worth a beer, right? Want to get the next round?”

“Of course.”

The other day, a colleague asked if anyone knew what a euphemism is. We all pretended to know until the smarty-pants of the group said, as if quoting the dictionary, “It’s the substitution of a less-offensive state to describe something that could be considered offensive.” Oooh, we’re all so impressed with your incredible brain.

Anyway, she was right. For example, “making water” is a euphemism for “I’ve so got to piss.” It’s a really stupid euphemism, but that doesn’t make it any less an example of what we’re talking about.

But it seems that, as a culture, we prefer reverse euphemisms. That is, substituting something more offensive than using the phrase that is considered just fine for use in the general public. And more often than not, it involves the f-bomb (hey look, it’s a euphemism – or wait, according to rules, it should be an euphemism, but that sounds retarded).

In an effort to make this a more gentle society, here are a few ways you can avoid reverse euphemisms:

“You’re kidding!” instead of “The fuck you say!”

“That’s surprising” instead of “What the fuck.”

“I agree” instead of “Fucking a.”

“Wow” instead of “Holy fuck.”

“I disagree” instead of “Go fuck yourself.”

“I can’t quite get a handle on this task I’ve been assigned” instead of “Fuck this.”

“Really?” instead of “Get the fuck out!”

“I don’t care” instead of “I don’t give a fuck.”

“I really don’t care” instead of “I don’t give a flying fuck.”

“I believe I erred” instead of “Fuck me in the ass.”

“I see your point” instead of “Fuck you.”

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Warning, profanity ahead, read at your own risk, goddamn it.

Whatever happened to respect for personal space? By that I mean the inherent right to a certain amount of emptiness between strangers.

For example, several mornings each week I work out at a nearby gym. I know gyms can get crowded and there are times when the only treadmill open is the one between two people. But I arrive at 4 a.m., a time you would think people are way to fucking cranky to intrude upon personal space. Yet on most mornings, as I sweat away on the elliptical trainer (of which there are eight in a row, and I am on one end because I am usually first and thus get my pick, which at 4 a.m. I sure as hell deserve), without fail one of two regulars take the machine right next to me. What the fuck? Where is the respect for my territory, being the alpha exerciser for arriving first? When they climb onto the machine next to me, it is as if they are saying, “I reject the elliptical dominance you assume for arriving first, and to show you my utter disrespect, I am going to ignore the other six empty machines and take the one right next to you, hoping you will notice this giant ‘Fuck you’ as I sweat mere inches away. Asshole.’” So now not only do I have to squeeze back any farts, but I have to look over every now and then to make sure they are not going faster than me because they have the gonads to challenge my dominance. The only way to truly fuck’em right back is to kick their miserable ass in speed. But even then, do they see the nearly empty line of machines and say, “Don’t want to get too close to that guy who has kicked my ass numerable times when it comes to vigorous exercise”? Do they respect the minimum one-machine-space (and more when the whole line is empty) as they clamber aboard? Of course not, forcing me to kick their miserable ass once again. What the fuck? How many times must I prove the fact I totally own you? Even worse is the woman who chews gum as she exercises. No, not just chew. She snaps, crackles and pops like a goddamn breakfast cereal. Her mouth remains wide open as if chewing cud instead of gum (thus I have given her a nickname like I have all the other early morning regulars; she is Cow Bitch and, since I’m thinking of it, others include Echo Boy – he drives that particular Toyota even though he’s a grown-up – Long Tall Baldie in a Black Shirt – or a green shirt or yellow, etc. – and the Fuckleheads, these three numbskulls who talk loudly as they trade off on a machine, and talking way more than exercising). If you are chewing gum that loudly, you need to be at least four machines away at the very least. Maybe more. Or you just need to stop chewing gum as if you were 5.

There are also very specific, if unwritten, personal-space rules that apply to movie theaters. Early arrivers earn a personal sphere that stretches several seats in every direction (and more if the movie is not crowded). For example, let us say the first people to arrive take and aisle seats in a particular row. Their sphere now stretches two rows in front of them as well as down their entire row, save for the aisle seats on the opposite side. Of course, this sphere shrinks as more people arrive, and disappears should it be a very popular film, as the opening weekend of the Pirates of the Caribbean, even though that movie was a big steaming pile of crap. But why is it that an allegedly intelligent species can’t seem to grasp these basic rules of personal space? May times I will have established myself at the end of a row (again, being first asserts dominance) and with many many seats still open, someone will brush past me and sit a mere 3-4 seats away. Or worse, sit right in front of me, at which point they might as well just turn around and say, “Go fuck yourself, ace.” Because those seats directly in front of someone are the most dear when it comes to personal space. Imagine the alpha lion laying on the sunny rock, a rock that suddenly becomes the best sunny rock on the whole fucking savannah because that particular lion has chosen to lay on it. Now, there are plenty of other rocks and, quite honestly, are pretty much the same. And the other lions stretch out on them, knowing that while they may not be the best rocks on the savannah, they’re pretty fucking good. Now imagine the lion who decides the only rock he wants is the one occupied by the alpha male. Now as he attempts to take a spot on that rock, he is going to get his head taken off by the alpha lion. And the other lions are going to think, “Man, that guy was a complete dumbass, these rocks are just fine.” This is the attitude you need to adopt as you enter a movie theater, especially if you arrive late because, unlike everyone already seated, you can’t get your act together. They have all chosen their fucking rocks and while they may not be the best, they deserve room and respect. So don’t go plopping yourself down in front of them or right next to them. Especially if you are the type to make really annoying theater noises, like chewing ice or pawing through popcorn. Just because no one will tear your fucking head off doesn’t mean you’re not a dumbass.

And bathrooms. I am not sure what proper protocol is in the women’s room (nor do I care), but in the men’s room, it’s pretty simple. When there is room, you need to be far enough away to make it clear you are not interested in glancing at another guy’s johnson. This means at least one urinal away, and if the bathroom is empty, then you should take a urinal at one of the ends, allowing the next guy to take the urinal at the other end. Then fill in as needed (next guy takes urinal in middle, and so on). There are times when this is impossible, like in most airport bathrooms since those thing are always so fucking crowded because no one ever wants to piss on a plane because the only worse bathrooms are the porta-johns at the Arkansas State Fair. So there is no need to hold it just because the only available urinal is next to someone (and if you do wait, or you take a stall to pee, then people will think you can’t step up to the plate like a man). Take the open urinal and stare straight ahead the entire time, making it clear you are not there to glance at another guy’s johnson. Stall etiquette also requires you to leave at least one empty between squatters. Unless you happen to be a U.S. senator determined to deny his homosexual tendencies until he enters an airport bathroom, which apparently is the best place to launch your ass rocket.

These are just some of the places people need to be more mindful of personal space. But it’s something that should always be at the back of your mind when in public. For example, as you peruse the shelves of your local grocery store, you may want to ask yourself, “By placing my cart in the center, have I hindered shopping traffic, or do I own the whole fucking aisle like I think I do?” The answer may surprise you.