Understanding the Dad on the Fence

I never understood why he was always there. Standing alone along the fence line or hanging out in the empty, sun-drenched stands. It was high school soccer practice. Practice, for goodness sake! But there he was. Every day it seemed. Every time we rolled out onto the field. I just couldn’t understand why he would hang out and watch a bunch of knuckleheads run through monotonous drills, get yelled at by a coach and try at every opportunity to drop some poor, unsuspecting teammate’s shorts. Most of us didn’t want to be there. So why would a parent? Tampa’s weather can be terminal. It’s such a ferocious mix of heat and humidity. In 20 minutes, it could fully cook a bag of rice left out on the sidewalk. Dense and sweltering, it burned your lungs and squeezed you like a sandwich press. Then a man with a whistle barked at you to run laps until your feet swelled up like watermelons. When guys dropped, we would just bury them right there on the field and keep on running. So to me it made no sense why my dad showed up all those afternoons. There wasn’t much to see, and there had to be better things to do at the end of a long day. Why was he always there?

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Saving the Planet, One Worm at a Time

It’s called vermicomposting. The “vermi-” is Latin for “stinks like stale feet.” That’s the only thing that explains it. Because it smells that bad, and worse. Pickled stale feet, maybe. Imagine that. That’s the scene – check that – the smell in our utility room. Vermicomposting central. What is vermicomposting? Good question. I wouldn’t have been able to answer a month or two ago. Not to save my life. But I’ll tell you now: It’s when you take a lot of worms – in our case, at least 1,000 Internet-bought red wigglers – drop them in a container with holes in it (so the smell can seep out like a backed-up sewer) and then toss in all your vegetable scraps and other food the wigglers find appetizing. (Lucky for us they’re not fond of filet mignon or a nice cabernet.)

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Listen Up, Mom, It’s Mother’s Day

A telephone conversation, as I heard it … almost word-for-word: Phone rings. I see it’s my mother on the other line and I pick up. Mentally, I buckle myself in and say a prayer. Me: Hello. Mom: Brian? Me: Yeah, mom. Mom: I’m calling to see what you want me to bring to the Mother’s Day picnic. You know, the one you’re having on Sunday.

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To All the People Who Make Stuff that Breaks

Letter to the dumb people who make stuff that breaks: Hey you! You know who you are. I’m talking to you, the designers and builders and head honcho-ponchos of companies who make stuff. Stuff that we, the ordinary stiffs with credit cards, buy. Remember us dopes? Well, we’re not happy with you right now. Why? Because all that stuff you sold us keeps breaking. Yeah, that’s right — it broke. All of it. At the same time. Everything. Kaputski! Why, you ask? That’s what we’d like to know! We’re suspecting it has something to do with the fact that it’s all crap. Yeah, that’s right. We think you sold us a bunch of crap. All of it. And we ain’t happy. We’re thinking about coming to your house and busting some of your stuff.

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