Truths and Half Truths

... At Which Point, A Wise Father Gracefully Withdraws From The Conversation.

My daughter Allison volunteers at the Humane Society.  One of the "foster parents" at the society was taking her job very seriously, doing her best to acclimate her charge - a kitten - to all sorts of social settings.  She introduced the kitten to adults, to toddlers, to teenagers - to every age group a cat might encounter in whatever her new home was to be.

She asked Allison if Allie knew any black people.

I said, "What?"

Allie said "Well, evidently, black people's skin has a different natural scent to it than our skin.  I'm not sure why - maybe something about the pigment ...?"

I said, "OK, I guess that makes sense.  And since scent is a powerful attractor, that may be why many women are attracted to black men."

"Uh, yeah, Dad ... there may be other reasons."

A Gentle, Good-Natured, and Hopefully Persuasive Note To Some Of My Favourite Bloggers

You know that book you picked up the other day, the New York Times Best-seller with the black pages and the red type inside?  Oh, wait, no, maybe it was navy blue pages and black type.  Or red background and pink type.

No?  You don't remember that book?  Well, may I suggest to you that it's because the publishing industry kinda knows what works and what doesn't work, visually speaking.  And they know that as boring as it is, the easiest format on the human eyes is a light background and black type.  Like, say black on white ... or buff ... or ivory.

People of the Blogiverse:  please take note.

I know you want to be creative, and I know you want your blog to look good.  We all do, dear.  But what good is it if people think "Nice looking blog - damn, I wish I could read it."?

It's not JUST that I'm old, although that certainly might be weighing into it.  But honestly, sometimes I have to squint to read your blog - especially if there is glare on the screen.  And when that happens, as often as not, I'll just move to the next blog on my list.  Maybe you had a great post that day, maybe not.  I'll never know.  And if I, who love your stuff, am moving on, how many others who are visiting for the first time are saying "Yoiks - (s)he's not worth the migraine."?

Look at the blogs you love.  I would guess that most, if not all of them are black on light.  Look at the blogs and sites designed by pros.  Black on light.  Feel the pattern, baby.

Look, I respect your creative urges.  But I respectfully suggest you channel them into your writing (which is wonderful, or else I wouldn't be there), or your photography (which, ditto).  Eschew creativity in backgrounds, font colour, or the font itself. 

I look like crap when I squint.  And I'm homely enough to start. 

Spare us all.  Thank you.

Alright, Already! Jaysus.

So, yeah, I haven't posted recently, a point that was made in a somewhat less than subtle way during a discussion of my nuts in the Comments section of the last blog entry.  I don't know how my nuts got dragged into all this (and to be honest, getting my nuts dragged anywhere sounds rather painful).  Let me just say, though, that of all the people whom I might want to be obsessing about my nuts, those are certainly two I would choose. 

But be all that as it may, I have been remiss and - since there is nobody online to chat endlessly with about my nuts or any other topic that might pop up (how's that for an invitation to a ham-handed double entendre?) - I shall remedy the situation forthwith.

Six  Now SEVEN Things That Piss Me Off When I Travel By Plane

1.  Slobs.  Okay people, I know you like to be "comfy" when you travel.  I know you're just as cool as the other side of the pillow, and that you don't really care what the rest of the world thinks about how you're dressed.  Well, aren't you just all that and a bag of fucking chips?

Now, put on some decent clothes before you go to the goddamn airport to catch a plane.

I'm sorry if this offends your "Hey, I'm free to be me" bullshit philosophy that is just a thinly veiled rationalization for being a lazy-ass slob.  But the sweats, the craptastic polyester warm-up suits, the hockey jerseys on anyone above the age of thirteen years?  Nuh-uh.  Not appropriate in public, first of all, and really not appropriate in a place where civilized people are trying to get from Point A to Point B. 

Not saying you have to wear a suit or formal attire.  But please, couldn't we do just a little better than the clothes you might wear to clean a stable?  And yes, I DO have to look at your raggedy ass, because we're sharing a narrow aluminum tube together and I can't avoid it.  Just saying you can be comfortable and still not look like a homeless person.  Is that a lot to ask?  Mmmkay then.

2.  Your Right To Reek Ends Just Before My Nose.  This was added thanks to Laura's comment.  She makes a valid point, but her good manners cause her to pull up short.  Not being encumbered with good manners where these things are concerned, allow me to expand upon her line of thought:

Listen, Bobo.  I honestly respect whatever your heritage is.  It is a proud and noble heritage, and your civilization goes back milennia, and yadda yadda political correctcakes.  But here's the thing:  when you get on a plane with 200 other human beings, we're not all gonna share your love of whatever spice is so dominant in your culture's cuisine that most maps have little cartoon smell lines emanating from your borders.  Not saying you shouldn't eat what you eat.  Just saying "Would it kill you to tone it down a day or so before you end up in the middle seat beside me?"

And I know the above sounds racist, so let me just state for the record that I am an equal opportunity, affirmative action hater when it comes to odours.  I am as revolted by the white, middle class businessman who couldn't control his garlic fetish last night as I am by someone from Outer Alphabetolia who reeks from a feast of cinnamon-and-nutmeg goat entrails.  I despise the man-scent of fresh gym workout and I loathe the woman-scent of "My Kid Gave Me This Perfume For Mother's Day Four Years Ago and the Quart Container Is Almost Gone".

There are any number of perfectly good products on the market that will minimize your malodorousness ... osity.  Altoids, breath strips and other similar products not only keep your breath fresh but have other recreational uses.  Deodorant, soap, laundry detergent - all good things.  Or even just eating something bland on the day before you know you're going to be jammed into a giant cigar tube with scores of other human beings. 

Just remember, we're trying to control the stench, not flavour your existing funk with yet another level of olefactory toxicity.  So doing a swan dive into a vat of perfume isn't going to do much more than make you reek like a flower farted.

Look, we all smell.  I'm just saying that in a narrow, aluminum tube, personal space is at a premium.  I don't get to move away from your funk.  So do what you can to control it, and I'll do the same, and maybe we won't both spend the flight gagging.

3.   Yeah, Good Call on the Bling, Bitch.  Let me take this really slowly for you.  You are going to go through a door marked "Security", right?  And they will ask you to put all your metal objects and whatnot into a little bin so it can go on a little ride through the pretty machine (we'll get back to that in a moment).  With me so far?  Good.

Now you are going to be asked to go through a - pay attention now - METAL DETECTOR.  And you know what a METAL DETECTOR detects?  Cereal?  Ooops, no, try again.  Water?  Nope, I'll give you one more guess.  That's right!  It detects METAL.

Now, when you got dressed this morning, what did you put on, besides that slightly skanky outfit?  Yes!  You got it first time!  You put on JEWELLERY!  And .... careful now, this is where it gets tricky:  what is JEWELLERY made from?  No, not Jews.  I'll just tell you, because clearly this will take forever for you to guess:  it is made of METAL.

So really, there is no need to look so surprised when all your skanky-ass phony gold bling makes the metal detector light up like a Christmas tree and everybody behind you has to stand and wait while they pat you down.  And no, we don't find this all so very amusing.  We hate you, and we secretly wish they would take you into a small room and do a body cavity search, just to see if your head really is stuffed up your ass.

And while we're on the general topic of "Security", here's a li'l update for you:  in 2001, some really really bad things happened with airplanes, so they're a leetle more assiduous in checking passengers out now.  So that crack security check you went through to board the bus to get to the airport?  Yeah, it's a little more rigorous than that. 

And please, would you spare us all the stories about how back in the day you used to just drive your car into the airport, park it on the runway, and jump onto a plane as it taxied past?  We don't care.  It's not like that now.  Security is there for a reason, and it's a necessary evil, but it does not have to be as excruciating as your little dog and pony show makes it.

And you know what?  The people doing security are just really not into negotiating on the rules.  So when they open your overnight bag and say "Ma'am, we can't allow these razor blades on board," please don't debate them.  If you want to loudly question how effective your knitting needles would be as a weapon, please step to one side, hand the needles to me, and bend the fuck over. 

When they say "No", do us all a favour, wouldja?  Just assume that's their final frigging answer, and that you really are not going to get them to change that "No" into "Well, OK, but don't try anything funny, you."   

Now, move.  We have planes to catch.

4.  Boarding the Goddamn Plane   You just heard the woman say "In order to facilitate General Boarding, we will be boarding the aircraft by Row Number, beginning with Rows 21 - 33."  Your boarding pass says you are in Row 14, but you know if you jump into line, when you get to the front she's probably not going to turn you away and you can get on the plane and out of the departure lounge and have an empty overhead bin for all your stuff. 

Know why it pisses the rest of us off when you do that?  Because it's selfish, rude, and inconsiderate, you moron.

Because you're going to get to your row and stop, and the line will begin to back up as you  open up the overhead bin.  Then comes this giant game of Airplane Fucking Tetris while you turn the goddamn Maytag dishwasher you brought on board this way and that way and the other way, trying to find the perfect angle to make it fit in the overhead bin although any idiot looking at it can tell you instantly that there is no fucking chance it will ever go in there. 

But will you give up after only five minutes?  Nooooo.  No way you want to be inconvenienced by having this giant box under the seat in front of you, eating up all your precious goddamn leg room, so you keep flipping it and pushing and grunting and meanwhile, the rest of us are backed up the jetway to the goddamn passenger agent, standing there waiting to get on board our goddamn plane and carry on with our lives.  And nobody can move because of you.  We all want to play airplane Tetris with YOU.  We hate you.

We hate you just as much as we hate the moron who got to the front of the line to board the aircraft and said to the sweet passenger agent who had only moments ago clearly announced that we needed our boarding passes and picture ID to get on the goddamn plane "Oh, really?  Again you need to see my picture ID?  No kidding?  Martha, did I give you my wallet?  No?  Well, where did I put it?  Yes, I checked my pockets. Here, pass me my jacket with the forty zippered/velcro pockets, it's gotta be in one of them ..."

HATE.

5.  Hey, Hippy McWaddler - Do You Goddamn Mind?  Look, I know what it's like to be overweight.  I feel you on it.  But dude, seriously, you need to figure out how to get back to the bathroom without brushing your ass against my shoulder when I'm sleeping.

I take an aisle seat.  People who travel by plane a lot ALWAYS take aisle seats.  We are no longer thrilled by the view.  We just want to get there.  And if we have to pee in mid-flight, we know what a pain in the ass it is to crawl over people, so we go with the aisle seat.  And then we nod off.

And then we wake up, because you had to go to the bathroom and couldn't manage to negotiate the goddamn aisle without rubbing up against us.   Look, you were able to get ON the damn aircraft, weren't you?  The aisle is just slightly narrower than the width of a standard door.  Can you not go through doors without your hips brushing each side?

Of course you can.  If you were going through a door that was freshly painted, I bet you'd make it through ten times out of ten without a single paint spot on you.  And why?  Because you care.  It's about you. 

But when you waddle your fat ass down to bug the Flight Attendant for just a few more packages of those yummy Roasted Peanuts, do you care that you just hip-checked me out of a dream where I was in a hot tub with Julia Roberts?  No, you goddamn don't.  I hate you.

6.  Hello?  We're Here, Goddamn It.  MOVE!  Do you think they just go on the intercom for fun, these people? 

A half hour before we land, we hear "Ladies and Gentlemen, we have commenced our descent into Toronto.  The Flight Attendants will be coming around to collect your shitty, next-to-useless headphones and the ten pounds of garbage you have managed to scatter all around yourself."

Ten minutes before we land, we hear "Ladies and Gentlemen, we have started our final approach into Toronto.  Please be sure you have your seatbelt fastened securely, your tables and seats in an upright and locked position and all cabin baggage is securely stowed.  And for everyone's comfort, if not safety, you can cease and desist with that annoying, excruciatingly loud conversation you have been inflicting on everybody within four rows of you, not to mention your oh-so-unfortunate travelling companion, who clearly wishes he had spent the flight in the cargo hold."

When we land, we feel the BUMP-bumpbump of the undercarriage hitting the runway, then "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Toronto.  Local time is 1:37.  For your own safety and for the safety of those around you, please keep your seatbelt fastened until we have arrived at the gate and the Captain has turned off the Seatbelt Sign.  Hey, asshole!  That means you!  If buddy slams on the brakes here, do you really think I want you zinging down the aisle at 30 MPH into my face?  Now, do that goddamn belt back up."

So, to review, you have been warned THREE TIMES that we are 1. about to land,  2. about to land really soon, and 3. Oh My God we have just landed.  So ... please, tell me:  WHY have you not come up with some sort of plan for what happens next, like oh, I don't know, maybe getting your fat ass up and out of the goddamn plane? 

Why do I have to stand around in the aisle waiting, watching as the rows in front of you empty out of the goddamn plane and THEN you're all like "What?  Ohh, right, we're supposed to ... to ... umm ...  to get off!  Right!  Oh, just a second, I think my dishwasher might be in the overhead bin.  Have you seen my wallet, Martha?"

Feel those daggers?  That's every frequent flyer behind you, staring at your back.  We hate you.

7.  Dude.  Get your muckers off my suitcase.   Yeah, you know the cardboard suitcase you bought from frigging WalMart for $39.95?  So did everybody else in the world.  So when the luggage comes spilling off the belt, every second suitcase is going to be a black, fabric - covered soft-sided suitcase, virtually indistinguishable from every other black, fabric-covered, soft-sided suitcase.

Ah, but fortunately, we are higher primates.  We can foresee that there might be a tiny issue of luggage identification when a hundred similar suitcases are on the merry-go-round.  So we are able to put an identifying marker on the one that belongs to us.

Now, if we're idiots, like, oh, say, you ... we rely on the handy name tags that we fill out at the baggage counter and snap onto the handles of suitcases with elastics that we would not trust to restrain a frigging ponytail but oh, for sure it will withstand being juggled by burly baggage handlers and slammed around in the bowels of the airport before being tumbled down a ramp and onto the carousel.  And then when every suitcase comes down, you dart forward, stop the suitcase, read the tag, make a cute pouty face, stomp your foot, and wait for the next one.

I lose sleep worrying that you won't actually read the tag, that you'll say "Oh, that one HAS to be mine, it's all black and fabric-covered.  Funny I never noticed that huge red plaid luggage tag before.  Oh, well." and you'll toddle off with my suitcase and I'll be spending the next three weeks dressing in your craptastic polyester warm-up suits.

Don't touch my suitcase, mmmkay?  And if you do, and I wrench it out of your hand, don't even think of giving me a dirty look.  I have places to go, things to do, and I just want to get out of this goddamn airport and do them.  And you are in my way.

But hey ... have a nice trip.  :)

And Then My Head Exploded

So I said to myself, "Let's suppose, for just one second, that there was no such thing as a hypothetical situation ..."

If Book Titles Were Honest

My friend Gerah, who is a lovely writer and is currently "in the family way" (you know, "up the stump"?  "Bun in the oven"?  "Knocked up"?  Yeah, that way.) reviewed a book of truths about pregnancy that she feels many expectant mothers should read.  It sounds like this book serves up some real facts about those nine months, as opposed to the sanitized versions of pregnancy that we read when our kids were coming down the ... er, pike.

We were reading stuff like "It is not uncommon for the expectant mother to feel some pressure during the process of getting an ultrasound" ... a far cry from what they should have said, which would be something like "OK, in the hour before the ultrasound, they want you to drink eight glasses of water and not pee.  You are already peeing nine times an hour.  Guess what not peeing will feel like?  No, way worse.  OK, now, they'll be late getting you in, just so you know.  Have a good day."

But the lies didn't start inside the books.  The titles were lies.  Titles like "Everything You Need to Know About Pregnancy" and "What To Know When You're Expecting" and "What's Happening to Mommy's Tummy?" all gave this Disney version of pregnancy, where everyone smiles, all the pains are "slight", and nobody promises to rain hell down upon you and everyone else in this goddamn room if she doesn't " ... get some decent fucking drugs right fucking NOW, do you hear me?"

With all that in mind, herewith some suggested honest titles for books on pregnancy, childbirth, and those early childhood years:

On Pregnancy:

They're All Liars - Yours Won't Go Anywhere Near That Smoothly Or Painlessly (And By The Way "You Might Feel A Little Discomfort" Is Their Code for "Ever Shit A Watermelon? Yeah, Way Worse Than That.").

"Honey, Can You Come In And Look At Something For Me?" - Some Changes To Your Body They Don't Mention Anywhere Else

"Well, Maybe Just A Little Fat, But ..."  - Things You Don't Say Even If She Says Them First And Tells You It's OK To Be Honest, Which, If You Didn't Know She Was Lying About THAT, What Are You, NEW?

Your Bodily Functions And You - Places You Didn't Think Stuff Could Come Out Of

Competitive Childbirth, or "Pain?  You Call That Pain?  Mine Weighed 12 Pounds, Came Out Sideways, and The Doctor Couldn't Find His Scalpel in Time"

Why Did Mommy Stop Drinking And Get Mean?

On Childbirth:

Fuck Tom and Katie - How To Reduce Pain Through Screaming, Swearing, and Threats of Bodily Harm

Easy As Pushing a St. Bernard Through A Cat Door!

Childbirth Without Pain, or Hey, Everybody, Let's Go on a Unicorn Hunt!

Tell Me I'm "Doing Great" One More Time And You're a Dead Man - or, 20 Suggested Phrases for Birth Coaches

What To Say Later If You Might Have Possibly, At Some Point,  Suggested That If He Thought Pushing Was So Fucking Easy, Maybe We Should Try Pushing A Two Litre Bottle Of Coke Up His Penis, Bottom First

Early Childhood Books:

NOW Do You Understand Why Your Mother Always Hated You?

Here's What Worked For Us - or, Thanks For The Tip, Fuckwad With Perfect Kids, I'll Get Right On That

Advice From Mom, or "I Wouldn't Do It That Way, But Of Course, It's Your Baby, Dear"

Oh, You Thought You Were Through The HARD Part?  Yeah, Sorry About That

Feel free to add your own honest book titles in the comment section.

A Sign The Apocalypse Is Nigh

An Ode To Modesty (!)

Talking of successful rackets,
Modesty deserves a mention:
Exclamation marks in brackets
Never fail to draw attention.

- Piet Hein

This post may or may not start out funny, and may or may not end up funny. Or we may slide into pathetic.   I'm not sure yet.  You're welcome to come along and find out at the same time I do.

When I was first notified, I was sure it was a joke.  Now I see that - tragically, perhaps, or maybe comically - it was not: 

I have been nominated for a Best of Blogger Award.  (Oh, it gets better - clean the coffee off your keyboard and continue.).

I was nominated by my friend Effie.  Now, Effie is a sweetie, and I can't say enough good about her.  She has a lovely blog and many talented people come by and write poetry which she shares with everyone - not many blogs tend to focus on poetry.  I love to drop by Effie's blog - it always gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling.

But as much as I admire Effie's taste in poetry, I do have to question her judgement.  And possibly her sanity.

The award she nominated me for?  Sexiest Male Blogger. 

Oh, yes, you did read that right. 

Now, granted, Effie did nominate me as a sort of afterthought in a long list of men she considers sexy, and did qualify it admirably by saying " ...he's great on the more mature level ...".  But still, she nominated me. 

Oh, Effie, Effie, Effie.  Can open, worms everywhere.

Go visit the site and vote.  It's fun.  I voted for a guy I admire whose path I cross from time to time, Ol' Hoss.  I think he's sexy, in a totally hetero, haven't-even-seen-Brokeback-Mountain (although I hear it's quite good and don't have an actual aversion to seeing it, just don't get out much) kinda way.  I also think Hoss has very good taste in reading, which has to count for something.

Because the voting is broken up into heats (insert your own damn joke here), I didn't have to stop with Hoss.  I was able to vote for Greenie, whom I also admire, who is also very sexy, was also nominated by Effie, probably has seen Brokeback Mountain several times (perhaps even re-enacted a scene or two from it) ... and is the runaway leader in the section of the poll in which both our names appear.

That is right, folks.  That is exactly how sexy I am.  I am so sexy that many women are choosing to vote for a gay man over me in a contest for sexiest male.  In other words, as my daughter pointed out while laughing derisively, women find me not nearly quite as sexy as a guy who, given a choice between sleeping with them or sleeping with some of the other contestants, would be much more likely to choose the other contestants . 

Think about that.  These women are saying "Even though this man is and will forever be totally unavailable to me as anything more than a treasured, platonic friend, I still find him far more sexually attractive than ... Nils." 

All this is just ... disconcerting in a way I'm not even sure I understand.  I'm not saying I disagree with these women - not at all.  And I'm certainly not saying Greenie is not sexy.  Hey, I voted for him.

I'm just saying the whole situation certainly would give one pause, if one were, say, me.

But hey ...  thanks, Effie.  I don't know whether to laugh or cry.  Maybe I'll do both.

Something That Will Never Happen Again - At Least For Americans

Courtesy of my friend, the ever-amusing (and easily-amused) Mary Bishop , We learn that early this morning, at precisely 1 hour, 2 minutes, and three seconds past midnight, the time and date could be written like this:

01:02:03 04/05/06

Cool.  How many times will you see that in your lifetime?

Well, twice, in fact, if you follow the Canadian (and I believe - but am not certain, the British) method of time notation, which puts the day before the month.  That makes today's date actually read 05/04/06. 

So, keep that in mind for May 4.

I Love Ice Fishing

Monsters

It's my brother's birthday today, so this morning I gave him a call, just to tell him a couple of jokes and see how everything was in his life. 

It was good to have a little yak.  We talk every few months - not a lot for two guys who once almost got killed together by a monster.

He's my big brother, four years older, and like many big brothers he did his best to make my childhood Hell on Earth.  We shared a room, the only two males of six children.  My dad was a pilot in the Air Force, and he had bought/borrowed/liberated a set of those iron bunk beds you see in the barracks in war movies.  My brother, being older, was up.  I had the lower bunk.

The fact that we were reluctant roommates meant for at least ten hours a day he was Lord and Master of my Known Universe.  Once bed-time arrived and the door closed, there were strict rules about leaving our rooms - mainly "Don't, unless you are in imminent danger of soiling yourself or there are actual flames licking at your heels." 

I understand why my parents made those rules - that's how you end up with six kids instead of, say, two.  But the rules created an opportunity for a bully to boss his younger brother around. On the pain of getting roughed up pretty thoroughly, I had to do his bidding - everything from getting him a glass of water from the bottle on the cabinet to cleaning up his toys to closing the closet door at lights out.

I hated having an open closet door.  It scared me, and I don't think I have to tell you why.  My brother, of course, knew it terrified me.  That fact provided him with endless entertainment.

He would deliberately leave it open just to torment me.  He'd hop into his top bunk, get under his covers and say "Oh, darn, I forgot to close the closet door.  Oh, well.   It'll probably be OK ... the monsters are most likely asleep.  I mean, the odds are pretty good ..."

Which is exactly what he did one crisp December night when I was five years old..

I lay in that bottom bunk and fiercely told myself, “Not this time.  He left it open, he can close it.  I’m tired of him always being the boss of me.”  I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep.  He leaned over the edge of his bunk, grinning evilly.

“ ... although, I thought I heard some rustling in there when I walked by.  Probably nothing ...”  His bullet head disappeared and I could almost hear him smirking.

"You left it open, you close it if you're worried," I said, firm in my resolve.  I bet he was probably just as scared as I was.

"I'm not really all that worried," he whispered with glee.  "By the time they're done with you, I don't imagine they'll be hungry anymore."

Bastard.

I  held out for awhile.  But when you’re five years old, your imagination is your best friend and your worst enemy.

Of course I crumbled.  I got up and stomped across the room to close the closet door, after first switching on the light to chase the mosters safely back in.

That was when he delivered the mortal blow.

“Unless, of course, that rustling came from ... the Monster Under The Bed.  Better be careful of your ankles coming back.”

(That’s what the MUTB does … it grabs your ankles with its sharp pointy claws so it can pull you under and chow down at its leisure.)

Well, I did the only thing I could.  I gathered my strength and composure, snapped off the light, dashed across the darkened room and dove at my bed from about six feet away. 

But it was dark in that room.  I misjudged, came in too high - and smashed my head into the angle-iron rail of the top bunk.  It opened up a huge gash - I still have the scar (nine stiches).  I hit the floor with a resounding THUD, dazed and disoriented and groaning.  My arm flopped under the bed.

When my brother switched on his light and looked over the edge of his bunk, that's what he saw ... me, squirting blood from a split in my skull, lying on the floor, arm under the bed.  He screamed, convinced there actually was a monster (which he had always secretly believed) and now it was in the process of dragging me under. 

I looked up, saw nothing but a bright light and heard nothing but his wails, and I screamed right back, positive that he must be looking at the monster's claw creeping up on me out of the dark. 

Well, my eyes must have been a bit wonky from the blow to the head, because he thought I was looking past him, at some other monster creeping up from behind, so he gasped, turned round to see what horrible creature was going to rip his lungs out ... and lost his balance.

He fell out of that top bunk, tumbling in slow motion through space.  He landed beside me, and for the rest of my life I will remember the sound of his wrist breaking, that brittle *snap* as he hit the floor. 

He screamed, I screamed, both our worlds - real and imaginary - a riot of pain and terror. 

Which is, of course, when my dad burst through the door.  Which should have been reassuring, right?  Yeah, might have been, had the door to the hallway not been right beside the closet door.  What we saw was a huge hulking creature framed by the light behind him.  Oh, they hunt in packs.  Oh, yes, they do.  This would be a feeding frenzy, with us as the main course.

In perfect unison, we screamed again, and again, and louder, and only stopped when we heard that familiar voice roar: “What in God’s name is going on in here?” 

We began sobbing and babbling at him about monsters and sharp teeth and claws and blood ... and he snapped on the light.  He looked down at the two of us and just shook his head sadly.

"Christ almighty.  Mary, your sons need you," he said, then went out to warm up the Dodge for the trip to the hospital.

That was the year I got a room of my own.  It was great.  All the old monsters stayed in my brother's room, hoping for one more chance at a tasty little boy.  They were his problem now.

Of course, the new room had its own monsters, and they've stayed with me over the years.  One of them still lives under my bed to this day.  I don’t tell my wife that’s the reason I jump into bed from three feet away.  She thinks it's eagerness.  Sure, honey.  Not like I'm a kid or anything.

And really, that's the only "kid's stuff" I've kept in my life..  I close the closet door at night and I never dangle my feet over the edge of the bed for too long.  Because while they enjoy the taste of nine-year-old boys, and adore five-year-olds ... everybody knows that monsters prefer little boys in their fifties best of all.