What Wikipedia Doesn't Know About Seahorses.

Here is some Wikipedia knowledge:

The male seahorse is equipped with a brood pouch on the ventral, or front-facing, side of the tail. When mating, the female seahorse deposits up to 1,500 eggs in the male's pouch.

Here’s what Wikipedia doesn’t know:

Pretty early in the history of the ocean, the first lady seahorse sleeked out of the holes in the coral reef, and saw him.  He was curling a sea twig with his tail.  She was impressed by the bulge that proceeded the descending first string of the tail that seemed to throb with every curl.  In and out.  In and out. It entranced her and she felt drawn to him.  As she inched over to him, she felt as if the ocean had been placed on a stove on high heat.  And she didn’t even know what a stove was, which really freaked her out, but she knew heat.  But she never knew heat like this.  Just inches away from him and he didn’t notice her.  He was lost in his curl.

“Hundred and one...breath…hundred two…breath…hundred three…breath”

He was already over a hundred.  Just how far could he keep this up?  Who knew?  There seemed to be no end in sight.  She floated closer to him, revealing her left side to him, the side, she thought, showed her best curves.  There is nothing more attractive in the seahorse world than a perfect S.  Artists have attempted to portray it, but no one could do justice to the real shape of the S.  And she had the best S in the reef.  And she knew it. 

“hundred twenty-one…breath…hundred twenty-two…breath…”

She refused to be overshadowed by sea twig.  She didn’t need this.  And she turned to walk away, but something kept her.  Something inside her needed him to notice her.  Was it destiny?  Desire?  Or the fact that there she was, this perfect S seahorse woman who is putting out her best side to this lunk, and he doesn’t even break from his curling trance to at least cop a look.  Was he gay?  She had to find out and repair her ego. 

She quickly picked up a rock and whipped it at his head.

“Hey!  What the…”  He was ready to fight, until his eyes were able to regain their focus and he saw that it was a chick who threw it at him.  He doesn’t fight chicks.  And what a chick!  She had about the fourth or fifth best S in the reef.  And the other three or four he had only seen in movies, so she was actually the best he had seen in person.  His heart raced when he saw her looking at him the way she that was looking at him.  It was like that one time when he saw a barracuda look at his friend Willie before it devoured him.  It was like that, but he was sure that she didn’t want to eat him.  Or did she?  No, he thought, her mouth is too small to devour him.  So he was safe.  Physically.  From getting eaten.  So, he could relax.  Play this cool.  He knew what to do.  All of his training and breeding had prepared him for this moment.

“Hey!” she says.

He whipped the sea twig down so hard that is stuck into the reef.  Slicked down his head fin with his tail, and positioned it down and slightly to the left and grinned at her.

“Hay is for horses.”

She returned his grin with one slightly more confident than his.  Not too confident that it over powered him, but just enough to let him know that she could match him: look for look, pose for pose, confidence for confidence.

“What’s a horse?”  She didn’t really ask.  She didn’t really care to know the answer.  She just wanted to play the game. 

And he knew it. 

He slightly lowered his head a little further and inched closer to her, just hovering the comfort zone, but not crossing it. 

“What’s hay?”

The temperature of the reef seemed to boil.  She thought that’s what water must do on this stove thingy she thought about earlier.  But then she pushed that thought out of her head.  Hot seahorse guys like this one don’t like seahorse girls who think about a world full of crazy things like stoves and stuff.  She concentrated on being cool.  As ice.  Actually, more like an iceberg. 

“I don’t know what hay is, but I have a sudden urge to roll around in it.”

“Rolling in the hay?”  He was trying to keep up.  She was obvious one of those smart-thinking types.  “Sounds kinky.  What is it?”

She slid her tail slowly up the ridges of his chest.  Taking in every bump.  Every cranny. 

“Care to find out?” 

And with that, like a dominatrix, she whipped her tail around his neck and pulled him in a coral cave just around the corner. 

Definitely not gay, she thought.

Jalapenos

Fermenting in their own juices they

sit in a mason jar on a table next to

my father.  And one by one, he pulled each out and ate them whole,

 

saving the stems

which he collected like trophies on the

rim of his plate.  The satisfaction in

his face as he bit into each, as if

he were sitting on his father’s shoulders

after working in the fields and together

they grew something

they would always share

even in separation—

even in death.

 

He forked one and offered it to me.

This green, kidney-shaped vessel covered

in moisture dripped on the table

in slow, broken rhythms. And I

hesitated.

“Is this thing hot?”

“No, not at all.”
“Are you sure?”

“Trust me.”

I then took a bite as deep as the pride I felt

when I heard the stories of my grandfather

who worked with my father in the

fields.

 

The heat was a belt cracked across

my face and lightning strikes of white

light segued through a kaleidoscope

of red, green, and brown that converged

into the shape of my father’s eyes—hot  

with impatience because I was too

slow to learn:

the family ritual, my grandfather’s language, the strength

of the men who worked

long after their eyes burned, their  

hands bled, their backs stained

with the permanent mark of the heat.

Heat that grows from the ground

and created entire cultures of men

who passed this heat

onto their sons.  Heat that cannot be

softened by water, or sweat, or tears, or the

trust a son has for his father. 

Heaven, Hell, and Kid’s Meal Toys: A Meditation

I once heard a story on NPR about an Evangelical minister who was excommunicated because he no longer believed in Hell.  He was a very charismatic minister, a disciple of Oral Roberts, and lost everything because he came to discover that Hell didn’t exist in the afterlife.  Instead, he believed that Hell is right here on earth.  I happen to agree with him.  Because it’s right here, in my car.

           We have to save Springfield.  We have to save Springfield.  We have to save Springfield.  We have to save Springfield.  We have to save Springfield.  We have to save Springfield.  We have to save Springfield.

            Hey-Hey, it’s your old pal, Krusty.  Hey-Hey, it’s your old pal, Krusty.  Hey-Hey, it’s your old pal, Krusty.  Hey-Hey, it’s your old pal, Krusty.  Hey-Hey, it’s your old pal, Krusty.

            We have to save Springfield it’s your old pal, Krusty, we have to save Springfield, it’s your old pal, Krusty, we have to save your old pal, Krusty, Springfield Hey-Hey Springfield Krusty Krusty…

            Like most people in this country, I grew up with a predominately Christian view of Hell: Hell is a horrible place with fire, and bad people go there to burn for eternity.  It’s quite a powerful image.  Especially for a nine-year-old who burned his palm by keeping a grill from falling into an open pit fire.

            However, as I grew older, that image didn’t fit anymore.  Here are some of the reasons why:

1.      Burns eventually heal even if in various degrees.

2.      If one is burning for eternity, eventually, the nerve cells would die and that person would no longer feel any pain.

3.      After a while, one actually would become dependent, and maybe even begin to love or derive pleasure from the pain.  This would defeat the entire purpose of Hell.

4.      We are talking about a soul.  An abstract, intangible phenomenon.  So, what burns a soul?

…we have to save Springfield, it’s your old pal, Krusty, we have to save Springfield, it’s your old pal, Krusty, we have to save Springfield, it’s your old pal, Krusty…

           I never thought I would be the kind of father who would take his children to Burger King.  I was horrified by the idea.  When my ex-wife was pregnant with our first child, I would thumb my nose at those parents who would feed their kids fast food.  What kind of people were they?  Do they not care for their kids?

           Five years later, I have found my local Burger King to be a haven.  This is for one reason: the indoor play structure.  Those evil geniuses in the fast food industry have offered a necessity for every parent—the serenity of momentary separation.  And those money-sucking, manipulative, sons-of-many-ugly dogs have also beautifully constructed the most powerful tool in the history of propaganda—the kid’s meal toy.  Those cheap molds of plastic are like heroine to five-year-olds.  Also, short of locking my children in a small dark room, there is no way to escape it.  This is because they talk to other kids.  And those kids show them these cheap molds of plastic.  And they will judge my kids for not having the cheap molds of plastic.  And the other kids will band together and point at my kids as being those losers who are not the possessors of the cheap molds of plastic.  And this mark of Cain will eventually lead to a life mired in Dungeons & Dragons, on-line dating, and a permanent residence in my basement.  So, to save their lives, we went to Burger King.

…we have to save Springfield.  It’s your old pal, Krusty.  We have to save Springfield.  It’s your old pal, Krusty…

           I’ve never read Dante’s Inferno; although, I have pretended that I have.  But I did see the movies Seven and What Dreams May Come.  So, I think I’m covered.

           I’ve also never read The Five People You Meet in Heaven.  I have no intentions of reading it.  I’m not interested in Heaven.  I know what that’s like.  I only have to hold my children.  Also, I don’t believe that one meets people in Heaven.  Heaven is filled with people I have already met, liked, and enjoyed being around while I was alive.  I don’t have to cope with Heaven.  That’s why Hell is far more interesting.

           I have read Sartre’s No Exit and agree with his idea of hell: being locked in a room with people who cannot connect.  So, with this thought in mind, I’d like to share my idea of Hell: The Five Most Annoying People I Have Met and Have Purposely Devoted My Entire Life Avoiding, Locked in the Same Room Together, and They All Want to Be My Friend.

           The people in this room:

1.       Paris Hilton.  I know we don’t run in the same circles.  That’s because I’ve chosen to stay out of those circles.  She is useless and needs to get off my TV.

2.      My ugliest girlfriend who caught me at a weak moment.  A month after we broke up, she found out that I had set up a date with another girl.  The day before the date, she went to visit this girl in her dorm room and spent the entire night crying. The girl cancelled the next morning.  I don’t blame her.

3.      Evan.  A three hundred pound ego maniac.  A friend of a friend.  He once proclaimed that half the girls on our college campus wanted his body.  I laughed.  He told me that he wasn’t joking.

4.      My tenth-grade English teacher.  He once proclaimed to be a professional actor and thought that we were blessed to hear him read Julius Caesar in its entirety.

5.      My Grandma.  I know that most people’s grandmothers are grey-haired, sweet old ladies who baked muffins.  My grandmother had dark hair and fed me greasy tacos.

Eat your heart out Dante.

…we have to save Springfield, it’s your old pal, Krusty.  We have to save Springfield, it’s your old pal, Krusty…

           “Benny, Jonah.  Stop.”

           We have to save Springfield.

           “Jonah, give it a rest.”

           Hey-Hey!  It’s your old pal, Krusty.

           “Benny!”

           Hey-Hey!  It’s your old pal, Krusty.

           We have save Springfield.

           “STOP IT!  NOW!”

           Some would say that hell would be out living your children.

           I agree.

           You want a better life for your children.  You teach them to be good people.  You want them to be better than you.  But what happens when they become reflections of you?  When they show you the qualities others find annoying about you?

           We have to save Springfield.

           We have to save Springfield.

           “Hey.  Where’s that Maggie toy?”

           “Here, Daddy!”

           *Suckle-Suckle*

           Hey-Hey!  It’s your old pal, Krusty.

           *Suckle-Suckle*

           We have to save Springfield.

           *Suckle-Suckle.*

           *Suckle-Suckle*

           I guess, if I really think about it, Hell is being locked in a room with myself.  And to be forced to face myself.  My flaws.  My shame.  My annoying habits.  I need others.  If for no other reason than to remind me of the fine line between Heaven and Hell.

          

           *Suckle-Suckle*

           *Suckle-Suckle*

           *Suckle-Suckle*

           “Daddy!  Stop it!”

           *Suckle-Suckle*

Who Wants a Seahorse Daddy?

According to a study of which I don't remember nor do I care to refer to at the moment, the average attention span of a human in the year 2000 was 12 minutes.

Today, the average attention span of a human is 8 minutes.

The average attention span of a goldfish is 9 minutes.

I'll try to make this quick. 

Goldfish, be patient.  There will be more your way.

About two weeks ago, I went to pick up my 5-year-old from school.  I used to love picking up my son from school.  When he went to preschool.  Before the divorce.  I still hold onto that mental image of excitement in his eyes when he saw me walk into the toddler room to pick him up at the end of the day.  It was as if he couldn't believe that I came for him; like he was convinced that he was trapped in that place for the rest of his life, but his daddy had come to bust him out and carry him away to freedom.  And every day he would wobble over to me, exhausted, drop to his knees just inches in front of me and reach up to me like Tim Robbins in The Shawshank Redemption.  This was our daily ritual. 

However, this same son has recently gone through a metamorphosis.  Now, he is a kindergartener.  Now, he is using his words.  And he exercises them.  Often.  And many times, in awkward moments. 

"Daddy?  Why Daddy?  I hate you, Dad!" 

He screams from the sidewalk just around the corner of the school's exit. Then, he slinks down into his snow pants and sits on the icy pavement. 

"I don't mean to pry," says his teacher, gingerly picking her words, "but he had quite a... fit today... because... his daddy was... taking him from his mommy...he started crying uncontrollably... and the counselor had to come down and walk him around for a bit."  Her eyes were sad. Not accusing.  Just sad. 

I didn't know what to say.  No, that's not true.  I knew what to say, but didn't allow myself to say it.  I swallowed my words and instead said, "I'm sorry." 

I then walked over to my son.  Picked him up and carried him to my car.  He cried all the way. 

My fiancé later explained to me to not take it personally; 5-year-old boys want their mommies.  She told me that little boys love their fathers, but need their mothers.  Mothers are a source of comfort.  A source of security.  Mothers are familiar to little ones and they form a bond.  It is when they get older that boys start to identify with their fathers and want to be with them.  And though I love this woman very much for what she was trying to do for me, I must simply (and lovingly) say that she is full of shit.  See, the thing is, I'm not your ordinary father.  I'm a seahorse.  I carried my children in my chest.  And since the divorce, when they were squeezed out of me, I ache for them.  Even now.  As I write these words my chest aches for their loss. 

I read to my 5-year-old that night as I do every night.  And I have to say that I'm pissed at the children's storybook industry.  They are not kind to single fathers.  Especially seahorse fathers.  That night we read the book, Who Wants a Dragon?  For those who haven't read the book, it is a beautifully illustrated story about a little dragon who his looking for someone to take him.  My son and I were enjoying the book.  We were talking about the pictures and pointing out familiar words.  We were sitting on the floor against the wall of his bedroom.  Just the two of us.  He was on my lap and curled up against my chest.  And finally, we were peaceful.  It was familiar.  As we were reading, we both were feeling for the little dragon.  Nobody wanted him.  First, he goes to a witch, she rejects him.  As witches mostly do.  Then, he goes to a knight who is too frightened of him.  Then, to a princess who is disgusted because he is so dirty.  Eventually, everyone in the kingdom rejects him.  And nobody wants the little dragon, except...and this was where I started to see where this story was going...how the only person in this dragon's life who wanted him, will always want him, and will always search to find him...and my son even predicted who this person was...and as we turned the page, I could see his eyes perk up as I read the words, "Nobody wanted the little dragon except his...DADDY!"

"What?  His daddy?  It says, his daddy?"

"Yup.  It says.  Daddy.  And the little dragon flies away with his daddy."