Each Halloween, we are haunted by a familiar phantom.
He sits there on the front porch all night, barefoot in his pajamas, eating Reese's Puffs cereal, scaring the shit out of our hastily carved Jack O' Lantern.
He's cute -- in a creepy, "why do they always throw in these cracked out pre-schoolers in horror movies?" kind of way.
It'd be great if we could get him to hand out the candy while he's there, but somehow I think he's all about the cereal.
They say one thing they can never take away from you is your education.
Go to college, boy. Get that education. Nobody can take that from you.
Sounds like good advice.
I think sometimes about to what extent my life is owned by others. For the most part, I view that through the prism of whatever debt I might be in.
Not too bad, really.
I've got a mortgage and a car payment -- but at the end of it all, I could just give all that stuff back. You know, that whole "come follow me and I will make you a fisher of men" thing.
But there's one debt that I can't escape: my wife's student loan for the master's degree she earned seven years ago (thanks to an intense work ethic I could only hope to emulate the smallest sliver of).
My undergrad student loan was paid off a few years back. I'm done with that. Pell Grants helped make that possible. Finally, all that no-legitimate-head-of-the-household shit as a kid finally paid off for me.
But not my wife's student loan. No, sir. That's all us.
I realize -- as I wonder the many ways in which people could possibly lay claim to me and how I can win my freedom -- that an education is something they can never take from you.
But, damnit, you can't give it back, either.
They work on me.
The Miller Lite "Man Law" commercials.
I know, I know. Not one kegger in this great land of America can get through a night without a group of pink-polo-shirted frat boys yelling, "Oh shit, bro! I love that commercial! Dude, Kenny's dad totally knows somebody's dad who can get us on one of those commercials. Man Law!"
But hear me out ...
If I could have a super power, it would be the ability to eat whatever I want at any time during the day or night without fear of plumping out and becoming a flabby mass of dude. I love eating. I love carbohydrates. If I didn't get as much excercise as I do, I'd be a bit of a flab-ass.
I also love drinking beer. You can give me a regular Budweiser and I'm right with the world. I figure that somewhere else in the world a Budweiser is considered an import.
(As Ellerby from "The Departed" might say: "I'm gonna go have a beer right now. You want a beer? You don't drink beer, do ya, right? What are ya? One of those fitness freaks? Go fuck yourself").
But I don't get to drink a Budweiser. If I get to drink a Budweiser, I get to drink a Budweiser Select.
Allow me a moment to prove I'm secure in my own sexual orientation and say that again: If I drink a Budweiser, I drink a Budweiser Select.
Except, I don't drink a Budweiser Select. Not usually. At least not publicly.
Same for Michelob Ultra.
You could say those beers are gay. Or metrosexual.
I'm neither (but I'm cool with anybody who is, you know ... it's cool ... and ... like ... I don't mean it like ... whatever ... go fuck yourself).
But what I will drink is a Miller Lite. The carbohydrate count is just as low as these two other low-carb beers that bill themselves as such. Miller Lite doesn't go out of its way to make this point.
Of course, what's ironic is that they used to. Remember two years ago when Budweiser had those commercials that told consumers to decide by taste because all light beers had less carbs? They were in response to Miller Lite advertising that it had less carbs than a Bud Light (in fact, about half the carbohydrates).
The end result after all the advertising? The birth of Budweiser Select. Having proved its point, now Miller Lite -- which in the past has sponsored gay pride parades and advertised in gay magazines to penetrate the gay market-- is moving on to more ... macho ... endeavors.
So, what's the difference?
Certainly not that Miller Lite tastes any less like piss than a Michelob Ultra.
It's just that it's OK for a guy like me to drink it and be seen buying it.
Imagine for a moment a college football pre-game tailgate. Part of the fun is to see the raw, tribal rituals that take place in this fascinating social setting (which allows you to piss behind some kudzu on a Saturday where you'd get arrested for indecency on a Wednesday).
You've perfected the mechanics of the beer-drinking football guy that requires you to keep the beer steady in one hand as you throw and catch the football with the other.
You've parked your car. You've pulled out your cooler. You've grabbed your football.
You're ready. Now, just make sure that whatever you do you don't drop that Budweiser Select.
That doesn't work for you?
Try this one:
You enter the gas station at 10 p.m. You've had day that won't quit at work. You're still dressed in your tie, but, hey, you like to drink the 24 oz. beers if you're just looking for a fade to wind down for the rest of the night. If you do the math, you see that buying three 24 oz. beers costs less than buying a six pack.
These boys are big. They're gangsta. And for whatever reason, they make you look more like a drunk than a genius. Maybe it's because the clerk and all the people waiting behind you in line know that if you're opening one of them bad boys you're committing yourself to two beers right off the bat, and you've got two more waiting and only two hours until midnight.
So you head up to the counter, surrounded by a dozen eyes, looking like the interstate-commuting, worker drone guy you've decided to stomach being. And cradled ever so gently in your arms are three, sweating, 24 oz. ...
... Miller Fucking Lites.
I have to admit, I've gotten pretty confident that it's nearly impossible for me to be a sucker for obvious manipulation.
I pat myself on the back for what I see as an ability to see through the Matrix of advertising, to call bullshit on people underhandedly trying to secure my allegiances.
I even analyze the use of exclamation points. The more there are, the more suspicious you should be.
Risk Free!
Buy Two Get A Third For A Penny!!!
Going Out Of Bizness!!!!!!!!
But when it comes down to it, I'm an American. And that means I have been programmed by advertising since birth. Any aspiration to completely conquer the subconscious forces that lie beneath is wishful thinking.
So ...
I have a molar tooth that had its bonding come apart and caused quite a bit of pain. A month ago I had it reinforced. The dentist told me the pain that I had had whenever I chewed would go away after time. A month later, though, it still hurt.
I went to the dentist again the other day. The talkative hygenist lady tortured my gums into an inflamed but exceptionally clean flaming red mush. The dentist came in, looked at the X-ray of my nerves touching the new bond in the tooth and told me that it would take another month or two for it to all "settle down" and feel better.
He told me a good way to help the process along would be to brush with some Sensodyne toothpaste. Just for a few weeks. No more than a month.
I had only heard about this stuff on commercials, when I was a kid. Maybe when Bob Barker had some old lady on "The Price Is Right" trying to win a new dinette set: "Which costs more, Esther? The tube of Sensodyne or this fine pair of Jordache jeans?"
I decided to follow his advice. The dentist's, that is.
So, I went into the grocery store and looked for my sweet elixir of raging-tooth relief.
My eyes immediately keyed in on the "Fresh Mint" flavor "Maximum Strength" Sensodyne.
I thought, "'Maximum Strength?' Should I go with that? Or is that too much? He told me not to brush with it for more than a month or so. I wouldn't want to overdo it."
I moved on to the rest of the selection -- the "Tartar Control" and "Whitening" specials.
But then I noticed something.
They were all labeled "Maximum Strength."
I felt it wash over me. A kind of, let's say, QVC moment of suckerness. The kind I felt as a young adult emerging from a childhood of mass indoctrination and realizing that Isotoner gloves weren't really any more special just because my hero Dan Marino shilled them on TV.
There is no "Minimum Strength" or "Moderate Strength."
It's like "Green" on the terror alert scale: It exists, but only in a hypothetical world that will never materialize because the point is to give you a false frame of reference to start from. You'll never see cable TV news slap up a graphic that reads "Terror Alert: Low."
I don't know. I guess the toothpaste gives me comfort knowing that there is still room in my life for a pure and genuine gullibleness that I thought had left me long ago.
And there's comfort in knowing that my toothpaste isn't for wussies.
I've often thought of the conventional wisdom that describes what sets us apart from animals.
We can talk about God and self-awareness and our advanced understanding of the universe.
Those are all good and valid reasons. But sometimes we need convincing in ways that speak to only ourselves, because one of the many things that sets us apart from animals is that we want to be considered separate from them. By something or somebody.
What I often hear is that it is our capacity for good. Our ability to do great and wonderful things. That's a reasonable explanation, I guess.
But that doesn't resonate with me. Not really.
What is branded into the reality that I see is a comfort in knowing that we are set apart from the rest of the world not for our capacity for good, but our capacity for evil.
What do we do that is good? The stuff we all know about. The good stuff. The stuff we read about it in inspirational magazine articles and see on PBS.
But think, for instance, about cobras. Male cobras determine who gets the female by means of an age-old ritual of wrestling. They don't use their venom. They don't kill to prove themselves. They kill to eat. They do what is necessary and leave the rest to fulfilling nature's course and keeping balance.
Humans do for each other, too. It makes us feel good. And it helps our survival, as well.
What sets us apart, however, is our willingness to do things that are out of harmony with the world. To do what can best be described as evil.
We do things that are destructive to ourselves. We know greed and hate and fear of the things that we might never see and that we can't possibly control.
It's what makes us bad. And, in a strange way, what makes us good.
Because it's what makes us meaningful. It's the struggle to make goodness more than a means of survival. To make it a victory of transcendence over evil.
Meaningfulness is a symptom of choice. The power to look within ourselves, at what we're really capable of, both good and bad, and transcend our world to make it a better place.
More than just a place.
Over the past summer, I visited Chicago for the very first time.
So many things I'd never seen. I defined the city through my own perspective of how I see the world. Very different these Chicago people, but not nearly as interesting as me, because I was me and I was from somewhere else.
I was so taken by what I saw, I decided I should plant a South Carolina state flag in the Millennium Park Botanical Garden, fly back home and proclaim to everyone with ears to hear that I had discovered Chicago.
But I thought better of it.
First, come to find out, I had it all wrong.
I thought at first I had landed in Boise, Idaho. People were curious why I kept calling them "Idahoians," but I figured it must be because they were mindless savages who couldn't possibly be content without a discipleship to my religion, my culture, my economic worldview.
Then it really hit me. I came to realize that it comes across as at least mildly retarded to claim you discovered a place where people already lived and had been living for just about ever.
Too bad, though.
They would have closed banks, held amazingly insane car deals and taught children for centuries what a great guy I was for finding this great city -- because, hey, they'd never been there before, either.
Instead, I'll just wish you a Happy Day-To-Mindlessly-Give-Credit-Where-It-Really-Isn't-Due.
I'm not much for lingering when it's time to put my little boys to sleep.
"Daddy, will you lay down with me?"
Yeah, OK. A little talking, a goodnight prayer and a kiss to seal it. Then I'm done.
Except for tonight.
Tonight I thought I might try to do what I see those perfect dads in those perfect sitcoms do. I just don't make enough effort to be normal enough. I need to. I don't want to give my kids a twitch or something when they grow up.
So, I lay down with my youngest son (he's 3 and his older brother's asleep) who's telling me he wants to hear a story. Every night, every single night, these guys listen to a story on the CD player. That's their thing. That's what they do.
Trying to do that thing I've heard about, I ask if he'd like Daddy tell him a story.
"No," he tells me, unceremoniously.
But I figure he'll get into it once it gets started. I don't even know what I'm going to tell a story about. I just go for it.
---
"Once upon a time, there was a bunny hopping in the woods ..."
Shit. Maybe he's scared of the woods. I am, especially at dark. It's dark now. I don't want him to be scared. I just want to tell him a story about a bunny. Oh well, screw it.
"... and he came upon a carpenter nailing away at some wood."
A carpenter? Where did that come from? Oh God, let me just stick my teeth out like a bunny and make him laugh or something.
"And the bunny said, 'What are you nailing there, Mr. Carpenter'?"
"'Well,'" the carpenter said, "'I'm building a bridge. You see that creek right there? I'm trying to build a bridge so bunnies like you will have a way to cross without getting aaaaaaall wet.'"
"Aww, I don't need any bridge. I'm a bunny, and I hop reeeeeaaaaally high ..."
OK. So this is going to be one of those "Wag Your Finger And Teach Some Kind Of Overly Righteous Lesson In Exercising Patience" story.
"You go ahead if you want to, Mr. Bunny. But I'm telling you, that creek's too ..."
Then my son interrupts me.
"No, Daddy, no! Stop it. I want to listen to stories. Turn the stories on."
"So you don't want to hear my story?"
"No."
"OK. Goodnight."
---
I must say I'm disappointed. I really thought that story had some potential. And I wish I knew how it was going to end. I figure if it's like any of the old "Mother Goose" tales, the bunny meets some horribly humiliating fate.
But really ... it's not like I can keep telling the story to myself.
Or maybe I should record it. Maybe he'll listen to it.
Before you ask, the answer is "No."
No, Hallmark doesn't make an "I'm-Sorry-For-Stomping-You" card. If you need one, though, it's not copyrighted and we would be happy to photocopy one for you for free.
Tomorrow, my first-born son has to apologize to one of his bestest, mostest favoritest friends.
The two were at recess today, taking a break from the daily grind of first grade. They were playing a game where, apparently, someone is chasing someone who has to be arrested. At least that's the explanation he gave me as I watched him write his apology for throwing his friend to the ground and stomping a mudhole in him.
Now, this kid is not a tattletale wussy boy. My son must have been stomping the shit out of him. In fact, he was. The teacher said as much herself. But he didn't do this with the slightest bit of anger. He has big love in his heart (and, as it appears, hearts in his eyes) for Zachary.
After the speech about "You Wouldn't Like It If" and "We Don't Do Things Just Because We Can," I'm left to think about the lecture I should give myself.
In the end, I am responsible for this.
In his U-8 soccer league, I've taught him to play tough. He's almost the youngest 6 year old on a team stocked with 7 year olds. He starts at center sweeper. He's the only one on the team who grasps the complexities of what it means to see the field and pass the ball at the right time. He enjoys helping someone else score.
After the game, I tell him how proud I am of him for playing smart and unselfish. I tell him he ran hard. Then I tell him, "There's one little thing you could do better, son. It's just that you're still a little too scared of the bigger kids."
And he wants to please me.
This is why he stiff-arms those bigger kids, and the small ones, too. All of them.
This is why he cheats at Madden and slams his controller down on the floor.
This is why he gets upset if he can't beat his brother out of the bath and get dressed first.
This is why he can't think of anything but being a winner.
I've held him down on the bed and told him to fight back as if a bigger kid were on top of him. It took him a while to realize I was serious, that I wanted him to shake off fear and punch me, kick me, whatever it took to not be frozen with surprise.
There's a reason why I do this.
I don't want him to be a victim.
I'm preparing him for what I expect to come.
The funny thing about parenting is, you can't foresee everything that will come. His life isn't my life. And it never will be. Never as susceptible to chaos and fear.
The truth is that he senses my fear for him. He lacks faith. He seeks control.
He's just like me -- and, right now, that's not a good thing.
But he has something going for me that I don't.
He's still capable of picking out a piece of paper with a bunch of flowers on it and drawing pictures of himself and his friend and how he sees their relationship. One with smiles and hearts for eyes and words sounded out in phonics.
Tomorrow, he apologizes to his friend.
And tomorrow I make it better for him. 
