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I can vividly remember my first concussion. Well, kind of, because it was the opposite of vivid. During my freshman year of high school football, while playing cornerback, I shed a receiver’s half-ass block and drove up field towards a running back who just received a toss. For those who don’t know what that means, I ran fast at man with ball who also ran fast. Like all smart, undersized corners (I had not hit a growth spurt yet), I dove at the running back’s knees. You can’t run without your knees. I made the tackle in the backfield, receiving one of those knees to the temple, and got up ready to celebrate. It was a solid knock, but I was fine. I looked up at the once blue sky and only saw gray. The players with the darker gray jerseys came up and hugged me, the players with the lighter gray jerseys sulked back into their huddle. I was confused. Where did our green jerseys and the opposing team’s white jerseys go? Color did not return to my life until the end of the game.

It was an odd sensation going completely color blind. I’ve always been color challenged – not being able to see the subtle differences between blue and purple or brown and green – but only seeing in shades of gray and black should have scared the shit out of me. If this didn’t happen mid-ballgame I would have shit my pants and called an ambulance. But it did happen during a football game of which my entire self-worth was tied to, so I didn’t tell a soul. I played the rest of the game understanding lighter gray bad, darker gray good. Caveman like. We won the game and that’s all that mattered to me at the time.

This was probably one of many concussions I’ve had in my football career that went unreported. Toughness is a key attribute for any football player worth his salt, and I had my fair share. Shit, I had enough to walk on to the D1AA football squad at Monmouth University. This, fortunately or unfortunately, is where I would receive my final concussion that would send me on a path to writing.

Before my last unreported concussion and end of my football career, I enjoyed reading but never considered writing for a second. I hadn’t so much as written a single word of fiction before the age of 20 unless you count writing prompts in elementary school. About a month after quitting football and having significantly more time on my hands, I started reading more than ever. I’m a slow reader but the books started to pile up. All of Hemingway, all of Bukowski, all of the other old dirty white men went down the hatch and, at the end of about a 6-month period of devouring as many books as I could, I decided to try writing. For about a week or two I tried to write short stuff, which read like hot garbage, and then, out of nowhere, the words came to me. Something clicked and everything became clear. An entire story, with an entire voice, spread like wildfire in my mind. I saw it all so vividly. It came to me the same way color left me that day on the football field. Suddenly. All at once. Knee to the dome.

Every night starts the same. The pregame. The debauchery before the debauchery. An excuse to get drunk before the actual drinking starts.

Since then, the spout in my brain that connects words to page has flowed. I couldn’t turn it off if I tried. I wouldn’t want to. Full stories come to me in an instant. Sometimes in dreams, sometimes with my eyes wide open. Sometimes in a second, sometimes over hours. I have no idea why. But the spout was nonexistent before that final concussion. It’s possible that once my football career ended, I was simply bored and that boredom turned me to the pen. But it’s also possible, and well-studied, that brain injuries can affect creativity.

This phenomenon is well documented, and two cases fascinate me.

The first time I heard about brain injuries affecting creativity was listening to Chuck Palahniuk on Joe Rogan. Talk about being an Alpha fucking Male, huh? That’s right, I listened to this podcast while at the gym, bro. Get over it.

The entire podcast was captivating. The way Palahniuk attacks writing is very interesting and he seems like a certified psychopath nice guy. But the most illuminating part of the podcast was when the two go down the rabbit hole of brain injuries. The tangent kicks off with a conversation about two comedians, Roseanne Barr and Sam Kinison, who had reportedly been hit in the head at some point in their life and were completely changed post injury. Roseanne Barr, at the age of 16, was a good girl, proficient in math, perfect grades, until she was hit by a car while walking. She suffered a traumatic brain injury and was institutionalized. She (obviously) survived but began acting erratically post institutionalization. She went on to become the legendary crazy Ambient loving comic we know today. Joe then goes on to talk about a book written by Bill Kinison, Sam Kinison’s brother, called Brother Sam. In the book Bill outlines “Kinison one” and “Kinson two”. At a very young age Kinson was hit by a car. Before the accident he was a docile kid but after, he could not be contained. Shit, just listen to Kinison preaching (yes, he was a preacher before becoming a comedian) and you might actually be converted.

They go on to talk about some telltale signs of a person who has suffered a brain injury. They can become narcissistic, violent, impulsive, reckless. Some of these things sound like perfect ingredients for a writer, or just a description of a writer. If you expect people to read your words at all, ding-ding, you’re a narcissist. If you sit down to write something that has popped in your head out of thin air, ding-ding, you are probably impulsive too. Reckless? How about self-publishing or publishing anything at all. A writer is clearly not thinking about consequences when they hit send on their latest post. Luckily, I’ve not become violent yet, but three out of four ain’t bad.

The podcast makes a quick left turn into toxoplasmosis, an infection caused by a parasite in cat shit. The infection has a weird effect on rats. It rewires the rat’s brain to not feel fear when they see/smell/hear a cat. It actually attracts them to the smell of cat piss. There is a similar effect on the human brain when testing positive for toxoplasmosis. Fear becomes minimal. Impulsiveness increases. Erratic behavior abounds. Sounds like a brain injury. I’ve never had a cat, I am allergic, so this can be ruled out in my case unless at some point in college I drank too much and passed out in a litter box. (This didn’t happen, I swear.)

Speaking of drinking too much, another classic in brain injured behavior is the proclivity to imbibe in substances. Many people who have had brain injuries tend to get hooked on some legal or illicit drug at some point. Whether this is some way to become even keel, sort of like a crutch for the brain, or whether it’s the erratic, reckless, irreverent behavior that comes with injuries to the brain, is unknown. Hemmingway boxed. Hemmingway was involved in not one, but two plain crashes. Hemmingway drank heavily. Was it the chicken or the egg?

A few minutes later in the podcast, Palahniuk reveals something he had never talked about before - his own brain injury. One day he was leaving the gym in Portland. It was a Friday night, and he needed to hit the ATM post pump sesh. Alpha. After the stop he was walking home and was subsequently jumped and beaten by a bunch of teenagers. Beta. The teenagers were yelling out numbers. 100 points. 200 points. 500 points. It was a sick game teenagers played at the time where they received “points” for hitting an unsuspecting victim in certain areas, as if they were playing a video game. It’s kind of funny, if it weren’t so fucking awful. The teenagers beat the living shit out of him, breaking his jaw.

Before the beat down Palahniuk says, “I was a fantastically shitty, cowardly writer.”

After the beating Palahniuk says, “I started writing really good stuff. I was writing off the charts stuff. I’m not saying go outside and beat your head against a concrete wall, but it was night and day.”

Palahniuk won’t say it, but I will.

Do it.

Kidding…but seriously.

Not to weigh in on the MFA debate but the last thing Palahniuk says is, “I think every MFA program should include boxing, or at least one good headshot.”

I vote to run this new MFA/boxing program. I’d sign up for that shit immediately.

Another example of this is Liam Gallagher, the lead singer of Oasis. I’m a fan of theirs since they got back together. I am NOT an OG. I am a bandwagon Oasis guy. Their first album came out when I was four. At the age of ten I got swept up by Country Grammar and had no time for rock n’ roll. But I got hooked after going down a treacherous yet hilarious rabbit hole of Noel and Liam interviews, documentaries, and listening to songs other than Wonderwall. I now understand the reunion hype. They fuck.

Pre Oasis, Liam Gallagher was a hard drinking footballer. Not the same kind of football I played, but soccer. He was an athlete with no fucks in the world given about music, unlike his older brother Noel. Then the magical beatdown occurs. He’s out at a pub (at the ripe age of 15) and gets hit on the head with a hammer by some blokes who were afraid to go fisticuffs. He woke up in the hospital with stitches in his head. The way he describes it is that a couple weeks later he started listening to music. Not just music from the outside world, but music in his head. Before the head injury all he cared about was fucking around, drinking, smoking, and playing football but suddenly he hears Like a Virgin by Madonna and thinks…“That’s a chune man”. Next thing you know, he’s the lead singer in a band.

Rogan goes on to say in the podcast with Palahniuk that the problem with head injuries is that they are hit or miss (literally). Some people become geniuses and others are never the same in all the negative ways. He’s seen it up close. He’s been in and around martial arts his entire life. He understands that some people go onto become great writers or comedians or artists and others die on the streets, either drugged out or schizophrenic or both. And of course, the last thing Joe says on this topic is that he would let his kids fight because if you are a properly trained in martial arts you can avoid a lot of damage, but one thing he would NEVER let his kids do is play football…

Perfect!

My hero growing up was a guy named Brandon Hoyte. You probably have never heard the name unless you are from Central New Jersey (yes, there is such a thing) or an insane Notre Dame football fan. I happen to be both.

Brandon Hoyte was an ALL-STAR football player at Sayreville high school. He played quarterback and linebacker, which is an insane feat, and went on to win a ton of awards as a high school athlete. He received a full scholarship to Notre Dame University to play linebacker and ultimately became a captain on a stacked 2005 team.

But the football accolades pale in comparison to his life outside of football. He held a high GPA in both high school and college. He wrote poetry. He was a Jehovah’s Witness. Don’t hold that last bit against him because he was one of those very few Christians who actually practiced what he preached.

In a piece titled, A Man For All Seasons, Katie Stuhldreher writes, “Most poets can’t hit a quarterback hard enough to separate his shoulder. Most Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t attend Catholic universities. Most college football players don’t have time to work three jobs, maintain a high grade-point average, and engage in volunteer work. Irish fifth-year senior linebacker and co-captain Brandon Hoyte is not most people. In fact, he is the exception to almost every rule.”

Brandon Hoyte was something special.

Hoyte was born in Trinidad, moved to Harlem at the age of three, then moved to Brooklyn, and finally ended up in New Jersey, which is where I got to meet him.

My best friend Sean’s uncle, Coach Pat, was a football coach at Sayreville high school when Brandon Hoyte played. A couple of years later he was a coach for our Jr. Pee Wee team along with Sean’s dad. I was close to Coach Pat and to Sean and to Big Sean and spent a lot of time with their family. On special occasions Coach Pat would bring Brandon around to family gatherings or even to training sessions. The first time I realized I would not be going pro in any sport was the day Brandon Hoyte played tag with an entire team of 14-year-olds in a 20 foot by 20 foot square room and none of us could touch him. But what I remember most is Brandon always talking about using your head instead of your body. How important school was and how important watching film was to becoming a great football player. He constantly talked about how football was a sport about brains and not just brawn. When he talked his voice was soft. He was kind. He was this jacked dude, captain of the Notre Dame football team, an absolute beast on the football field, and yet off the field he seemed gentle. He wrote poetry for fucks sake! He was a real-life hero. A north star any young boy could point to on how to live a good life.

It came as an immediate shock when I heard the news that Brandon had been arrested. What could this man have possibly done to get arrested? Be TOO nice? Be TOO kind? He must have sat in on a protest or something for a great cause and got rounded up. But no. The shock turned to something different. Something incomprehensible. Something I still can’t put into words. It was worse than devastation. It was like an unshakeable pillar that held up my entire world view horizontally cracked. Brandon, after playing in the NFL for a couple years and going on to a successful career outside of football, had cracked. Something in his brain stopped working. He became manic and depressed, showed schizophrenic tendencies, and had been living on the streets. The arrest came when an interaction between a police officer and a homeless Brandon went awry. At least that’s what I was told. I don’t know the entire truth. I don’t know if I could stomach the entire truth.

Regardless of what happened, and where Brandon is now, it’s clear to anyone what occurred. Too many hits to the head had caught up with him. A once thriving brain with an impeccable moral compass matched with creativity and insane work ethic had faltered. It just stopped working. There’s no other rational explanation except that the game that Brandon loved betrayed him. It’s fucking heartbreaking.

Another hero of mine is my best friend Dr. Kevin Pecca. Kevin was a hockey stand out at Red Bank Catholic in New Jersey and went on to play in college. Hockey, if you didn’t know, is just as contact filled as football with even less head protection. If you’ve never been to a live hockey game, I highly recommend you do. You’ve never seen speed and mayhem in a sporting event until you’ve watched a hockey player fly on ice and throw his body into another person’s up close. It’s like a fucking car crash.

Kevin, unfortunately, had a bunch of real, diagnosed concussions throughout his career. The ones where the pupils in your eyes stay dilated and you puke and you are forced to take time away from the game to let your head heal. These took a toll and ultimately forced Kevin to stop playing collegiate hockey. But the worst part came next…

The symptoms never went away. Kevin felt depressed. He had blurred vision, as if he were walking around in a fog all day. He couldn’t concentrate. He got debilitating headaches. His joints hurt. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The Kevin Pecca I know is the exact opposite of an anxious person, yet he was filled with a deep anxiety all the time. The scariest part of all of this is that outwardly Kevin looked like himself, but inside he was falling apart.

What seems like something not so terrible, but in retrospect was, is that Kevin couldn’t really hang out with the boys for a long time. He couldn’t go out for a couple beers and watch the game. Every time he drank the symptoms took over tenfold. Our entire friend group’s MO around the time this happened to Kevin was partying. I remember one time Kevin decided to be the DD one night because he couldn’t handle any alcohol. How did I reward him? Puking all over his dashboard 1 minute from home. Sorry pal!

Kevin goes into full detail of what happened to him. I tear up every time I listen to this. Kevin is one of the best people I know and one of my best friends and even I didn’t know how deep his pain was.

Luckily for Kevin, after years of searching for a solution, when doctors told him he would either have to live on painkillers or just deal with the pain the rest of his life, after he considered ending it because he couldn’t take it anymore, he found Upper Cervical Chiropracting. It saved his life. It also changed his life because he is now an Upper Cervical Chiropractor himself, making sure that no one feels the way he felt after his head injuries. This type of luck is rare.

Life is a game of tradeoffs.

Before I started playing football, I was afraid of everything. Roller Coasters. Girls. Halloween. Etc… I’m still kinda scared of Halloween and I’m definitely scared of my wife (she’s Sicilian). This fearful behavior was beaten out of me, partly due to confidence in being good at something, partly possibly probably maybe due to head injury after head injury after head injury. It’s not the ones that make you lose color that do the damage, it’s all the mini ones you shake off that add up. Not all boys start like this. Some are born fearless. Some are born with that IT factor. Some are born as if they came out of the womb with head trauma. Narcissistic, violent, impulsive, reckless, fearless.

If I had to do it all over, the same exact way, I would. I’m lucky…for now. Maybe the writing ability was always there. Maybe it came from a few thousand knocks on the head. Maybe one day I’ll be drooling a different tune. But, for now, I’ll try to take care of my brain the best I can and try to harness it creatively. Maybe I’ll put down the bottle. Maybe my proclivity to drink is a way to combat what is surely a deteriorating brain. Maybe I’m one of the lucky ones. Who knows. The brain is a fickle beast. It’s also insanely durable. I guess you could say the same about consciousness in general. Fickle and durable. The human condition. Are we all just firing synapses and neurons? What is the soul? These questions are unanswerable, especially when you’ve seen the good and the bad of how a faulty brain can change a person. There is a fine line everywhere you look just waiting to be crossed. You can ditch the writing class and bash your head against a wall but beware – madness lurks around the corner.

P.S. - Don’t ditch the writing class.

Here is what the legendary had to say about the novel:

“If Jay McInerney hailed from dirty north Jersey instead of genteel New England, worked within the 2010’s digital marketing hellscape instead of old media fact-checking, and wrote with zero whiny ploys for reader sympathy, he might have come up with something akin to Hell or Hangover. But he couldn’t have matched it since Alex Muka is, at base, a much better scribbler.”

Sorry Le Way - this blurb will live on in infamy. If you haven’t purchased The Wayback Machine I highly recommend you do and, if asked, I would write an equally scathing blurb because I fucking loved this book so much. Wayback and myself are both McInerney fans which is why this is all kosher. In the spirit of McInerney and his novel Bright Lights, Big City the below piece is written in the second person. Enjoy!

With trepidation, you walk into the house. One kid is hanging off the back of the couch, feet pressed up near the top, arms holding on for dear life, head upside down, hair like a Troll doll suspended in gravity.

“Hi, Daddy,” she says, smiling at you, lunacy in her eyes.

“How many times do I have to tell you don’t do that,” you hear from the other room. “This is exactly how you got that boo boo last time.”

Your wife is right but your daughter is like you. No matter how many times she gets hungover a boo boo, she doesn’t learn her lesson. You should probably get her off the back of the couch but she’s still smiling at you, hanging backwards, perfect in all her childish glory, and then she says, “Hi, Daddy” again and you can’t help but start laughing your ass off. You finally pick the three-year-old up, hold her upside down for a second or ten, flip her right side up, then kiss her cheeks until she begs you to stop.

With the same trepidation you entered your home with you turn the corner into the dining room where your wife is feeding the one-year-old. Both are covered in yogurt. Both look disheveled. One has the brightest smile on her face. Fat cheeks pinching her eyes shut, dimples the size of moon craters. The other looks like she has been taking cover fire in a WW1 trench.

How, at this particular moment, are you supposed to remind ask if you can go to Brooklyn tonight for a book reading? The balls on you for even thinking it. You should ditch your plans, stay home, help, but you’re a selfish son of a bitch. You have one single goal in mind. The same goal that’s been driving you up to the attic for 10 years to write every morning. The same goal that has kept you up countless nights. The goal, the story, that just won’t let go of you.

But how is this night in Brooklyn supposed to further that goal? This night won’t help you with your final edits. You know as good as anyone that you will not be getting up at 4 AM after a night out in Brooklyn. But still, that is what you’re thinking about. Even if you tell yourself you are going to meet up with , or to meet the great , or to see again, or to hear what all the hubbub is about concerning ’s new novel, you are going to show face because of your novel. Selfish son of a bitch, indeed.

You decide to trick yourself. You train your mind to say that you are going to be around like-minded people. You’ve lived 35 years outside of any real literary scene and now you finally have a chance to be around people who enjoy and write books. And you’ve gotten a taste. Just two nights ago you were in the Lower East Side rubbing elbows with real writers. . Pearson. Barkan. You’re an addict now. You want to be around these people. Learn from them. Talk to them. Hear what they have to say about books and life. But this is all a trick. You are going because of your book. You selfish son of a bitch.

Deep down you know all this as the words leave your lips.

“Can I still go to that thing in Brooklyn tonight?”

Your wife, with yogurt in her hair, gives you one of those looks that says your death is rapidly approaching. You deserve that look. And death by wife is as good an excuse as any for leaving Adam high and dry the one time he’s in NYC. But her face lightens. The crease between her eyes flattens. She knows how much this means to you. She wants you to be successful almost as much as you. And she knows why you’re going. She knows you’re a selfish son of a bitch and still loves you. This is why your book is dedicated to her. Because without her there is no book.

“You have to go,” she says. “But you better fucking help before you leave.”

And help you did. You played with the girls to give mommy a break, then you tried your best to get them in bed (mommy had to help a little), and you left for your trek to Brooklyn. This time, unlike the train ride to the Lower East Side two nights before saddled with two Modelo tallboys, you decided to drive. If you didn’t drive you would’ve had to leave an hour earlier to hop on a couple trains and if that was the case you’d certainly be a goner. The wife would’ve had you buried under the house in no time. Maybe you’re not so selfish after all, you tell yourself. But you are, because you are giddy the minute you hit the road enroute to a place where all your dreams will come true.

But your dream is actually hell…or a hangover? Oh god, shut up about your own book. You’re not even hungover. It’s been two days since Ross’s reading and you didn’t even drink that much. It’s hell because as you park the car you realize you’re in the midst of a few abandoned buildings in the middle of Brooklyn. You can pretend you’re cool all you want because you lived in Hoboken for a year but let’s be honest…you’re a soft suburb boy at heart. These dilapidated buildings give you the creeps. You wonder if The Brooklyn Center for Theatre Research could really be located here of all places. But you check the address again and again and unfortunately…you’re in the right place.

You get to the door and there are a couple hipsters smoking clove leaf cigarettes. You ask them if this is the place for the reading and they confirm it is while judging the shit out of you. You are wearing a short sleeve button down, blue slacks, Chelsea boots, and a Yankee hat. You have more meat on your bones than the three of them combined. They are shocked that your big, dumb, jock looking ass is attending such an event. They don’t even check your ticket.

You walk up the stairs to Gasda’s studio, somehow miss the entrance, and end up on the top floor of the building where trippy music is playing and about ten people are laying on mattresses. It smells like incense. They are surely on some cocktail of psychedelics. This is your nightmare. If this is the reading you might as well hop back in your car, stop at a bar, pound a shot and a beer to clear your mind of what you just saw, and hightail it back to Jersey.

But you call Adam Pearson and he says, “Music? Mattresses? We’re out on the terrace right now. None of that shit going on here. I don’t know where you’re at,” in his southern drawl.

You walk back downstairs thanking God you didn’t use your capital with the wife for some weird Hare Krishna shit. Because let’s be honest here – if the reading was going to be on mattresses and if joining in on the ritual was going to help you and your novel you would have sat your ass down, took some of what they were having, and went along for the ride. You social climber. You ass kisser. You selfish son of a bitch.

When you arrive on the correct floor, you are relieved that there is a bar and a tender and people standing upright. A bar you can handle. You’ve been to one or two before.

You order a couple Miller Lites to Pearson’s disgust, yet you both enjoy them on the terrace bullshitting about this and that. You have no pretense when it comes to beers. Cold is your criteria. The setting helps. It’s a hot day and you can see tall buildings in the distance and you are in Brooklyn for a book reading. For half a second you forget about your book all together. You are just enjoying a beer with a friend.

You both walk back into the studio where the reading is going to take place and take seats in the middle of a conversation between Pistelli, Barkan, and Gasda about the 9/11 novel or lack thereof. They all agree that there hasn’t really been one except the one by Jay McInerny and how ends her critically acclaimed My Year of Rest and Relaxation (if you haven’t read it by now and are upset at this spoiler, I don’t know what to tell you). You want to add to the conversation that Beware of Pity by Stefan Zwig ends in the same way, with the beginning of World War 1, but you are too star struck to insert yourself in the conversation. Also, you forgot the name of the book.

You keep quiet, mainly because you are an idiot compared to these guys. You’ve been listening to Pistelli’s voice for a while now via his great Substack . You’ve learned more about the great books through him than any other person on planet Earth. No teacher in high school or college ever made you want to read Goethe before. And his real life personality matches the guy you’ve had in your earbuds for the last year. His voice is soft and measured. He’s calm. He thinks before he speaks.

So it surprises you when, in the middle of the conversation, he asks, “Why did I lug all these books here again, Gasda?”

There are six total people in the room and five of them, including me, already have Pistelli’s book (one is an ex-student of his) and he’s brought a ton of copies for sale. He didn’t want to, he admits, but Gasda assures him there will be more people. It’s funny to you, and noted by the group, that after all the talk about male readers and male writers that the six people in the room are all men. White men!

“Except you,” Pearson blurts out.

The room looks at you, confused. Hispanic? Dominican? Cuban? Yea right, white boy! You’ve gotten this all your life and you still get a perverse joy when this information is revealed. Maybe this is a good time to mention your book. The character in your book resembles you. Half white – half Hispanic. But you don’t say shit. You are failing your mission.

After you get up, go grab a couple more beers for yourself and Pearson, you realize that even more men are rolling in. Sure, there are a couple ladies, but the ratio is probably 3:1. So much for the long-lost literary man. Ray Carver is somewhere smiling down on the event. After you hand Pearson his beer he slides into conversation with Pistelli, someone that matches his highbrow-ness, and you head to the terrace for some air.

Out on the terrace you run into Gasda. He is on a flip phone, coordinating something, finger pressing his teeth, look of concern on his face. The man is clearly busy. With all the books, plays, and Substack writing he clearly has a full plate. When he hangs up you thank him for the event and ask him about the space, about coordinating events, about his book (that you’ve just bought). He answers all your questions with a hint of worry in his voice, like he is paying attention to you while trying to spin fifteen plates in his head. But when you start talking about sports he seems relieved. This was something you did not expect. On the surface Gasda is your typical Brooklenite. The de-facto leader of Dimes Square. If you were to judge a book by its cover you would assume that he hated sports. That he found them to be cheap entertainment. He is a playwright and a novelist and has no time for frivolous activities such as athletics. You would have been wrong. By the end of the conversation Gasda is recruiting you to play in his touch football league that runs every Sunday. You would love to, but driving from Jersey to Brooklyn every weekend to play football would surely end in divorce or a torn ACL. You still have not brought up your book.

You head back in for the reading and Pearson does your dirty work for you. He tells a couple people about your book and you finally have an excuse to talk about it. People seem interested but you can’t tell if it’s because you are standing right in front of them, half a foot taller, 60 pounds heavier, or if it’s genuine interest. You guess you’ll find out when the book is released but it’s good that the entire trip wasn’t a complete waste of time. You’ve done what you set out to do. Get your name out there. Talk yourself up. But as people fill up the room and the readings start you finally come to the realization that none of this is about you. Each reader pulls you in in their own way and you feel equally awed, self-conscious, and competitive all at once. During Gasda’s reading you did in fact lean over to Pearson and ask if yours was better than his. You don’t know what depths of hell this question gurgled up from, but you had to know.

Post readings you asked each author to sign your copy of their book. They each did with a smile. You will be stealing Pistelli’s way of signing books going forward. You feel lucky to have a signed copy of his beast Major Arcana. Gasda signs The Sleepers not to Alex, but to Anthony. You wonder if he thinks you are a certain Anthony who just recently panned his book. If he does think this, you wonder why he was nice to you at all. Then you wonder how you would react to someone panning your book and then you finally understand why Hemmingway bullied Max Eastman. You’re probably less concerned with your manhood than Hemmingway but it would still be hard to resist the urge to smack someone in the head after shitting on your book. But then again, you would be happy with any review at this point. And you remember how Gasda deals with good reviews and pans. He eats it up, feeds it into the machine, and for weeks on end everyone is talking about his book. This is the way. There is no such thing as bad publicity for us novelists.

Barkan’s signature and note in your copy of Glass Century is your most prized possession of the night. You would like to tell the world what he wrote, but you’ll keep it close to your chest. It’s too good to just reveal it on Substack. It will only live on in your copy. But you will reveal here that it has to do with the Mets and Yankees.

You give Pearson one last hug before leaving. That’s right, a big old man hug. He has the same look as the first night you said you were leaving – like you had just kicked his cat. You remind him that you got the wife and kids at home and…again…he is shocked. You wonder if he has confused your main character with you. Drinking and drugging all night is a young and single man’s game, something you are neither of anymore. You’re going to miss your talks with Pearson. You are brothers in this writing thing now.

On your drive home you were struck with mixed feelings. Wanting to be a great writer. Wanting to be better than other writers. Embarrassed that you actually want this. Conflicted with how you will feel about shamelessly marketing your own book in the future. You know books are a business, a tough one, but they’re also deeply personal. Each one of the readers that got up and read their book were putting their hearts on the table. Sure they want you to buy their book but they also want you to like it. They put just as many hours in that you have on your book. Possibly more. They care just as much about their work as you care about your own. They want to be better than the next guy too. You are happy you came to this conclusion because you were worried. You don’t want to be the selfish son of a bitch you thought you were. Or maybe you still are that selfish son of a bitch, but not only that. The book game is a mind fuck. But you’re happy to be in the game.

There’s no way you missed the first link but if you did - here it is again. Shameless plug for the win. This is my Substack after all. Hell or Hangover out now!!!!!!!!

My debut novel Hell or Hangover will be released this week now that the clowns at Amazon have gotten back from Bezos’s wedding and finally approved it for publication. Here’s what the man, the myth, the legend had to say about it:

"Hell or Hangover reads like coke-snorting early Bret Easton Ellis and Charles Bukowski had a wild night in the city with some crazy Cuban cousins, dabbled in Santería, and woke up hungover in suburban New Jersey. Alex Muka has written a voice-driven banger about a young man spiraling through shots of booze, lust, and existential angst in search of something real. It’s a romance, a reckoning, and a raucous coming-of-age novel full of guts, grime, and poetry. A bold debut from a writer with serious chops and a worldview all his own."
—Andrew Boryga, author of Victim

I couldn’t have said it better myself…which is why I’m forever grateful he agreed to read it.

Pre-order the e-book here - it will be available July 4th - or order the paperback which can get to you in two days if you’re a on that Amazon Prime teat.

Every night starts the same. The pregame. The debauchery before the debauchery. An excuse to get drunk before the actual drinking starts.

These are the opening lines of my novel Hell or Hangover and also the same thing I thought on my train ride into New York City. You didn’t think I would attend my first reading dead sober did you? So there I sat, tall boy of Modelo wrapped in a brown paper bag on my lap, wondering what the hell I was doing riding the train into New York City to attend ’s Glass Century book launch event.

I’d never been to a book launch event. Never heard a published novelist read from their book in public. I’ve never so much as met another person in real life who read an entire book of fiction. I love my friends dearly, wouldn’t trade them for the world, but the extent of their reading stops at the days betting lines. I’ve always thought of this as a gift. I’d never been exposed to literary terms like Romanticism, Realism, Post-Modernism, Surrealism, so when I write, I am part writing something I would like to read and part writing for a group of numbskulls who might never read what I’m writing. This gives my writing a kind of everyman quality, I tell myself. I am the new Ray, I tell myself. But when I sat on that train, fortifying myself with booze, I had never felt more like a fraud.

I guess you could blame this entire thing on Ross in the first place. If Ross had never written his piece about literary men (or lack thereof) titled From Misogyny to No Man’s Land, and I never DM’ed him telling him I loved it and that I was pitching my own novel, and him actually responding with interest in my book, and then him saying “give it another six months and if it doesn’t work out, do it yourself”, I wouldn’t have been pre-gaming by myself on NJ Transit. I also wouldn’t be self-publishing my own novel. What I probably would have been doing instead of attending his book launch event was sending out a new batch of queries to agents that would inevitably get rejected, becoming more and more bitter by the day, assuming I was clearly a genius and these agents were part of the Literary Industrial Complex, and throwing my hat in the ring of think pieces on just why WHITE HETERO MALES JUST ARENT GETTING PUBLISHED. Considering I have no publishing experience, have no idea how the publishing industry actually works, my piece would just be another one of those bitter, whinny, smug-ass diatribes that crop up every other day on this lovely website. So thank God Ross answered my DM. Thank God he sent me some self-published novels to read. Thank God the small amount of bitterness I had that my novel wasn’t getting accepted disappeared when I decided to publish it myself. But the fact that I was publishing the book myself, that my words would be out there, that Ross told me if I sent the book to him he’d have someone review it for his new publication The Metropolitan Review, caused me to crack open a second Modelo tallboy in pure terror.

I watched the stops go by on the North Jersey Coast Line. Middletown, Aberdeen-Matawan, South Amboy, Perth Amboy, Woodbridge, Rahway. Rahway always gives me the creeps. There’s a prison in Rahway. Rubin “Hurricane” Carter (of Bob Dylan and Denzel Washington fame) and Chuck “The Bayonne Bleeder” Wepner (of Rocky fame) both did their time at that lovely house of horrors. So did a friend. So I chugged about half a tallboy and decided to text , a fellow Substacker who I would be meeting up with, to clear my mind of ever being locked behind bars.

Me: Where you at?

Adam Highbrow: No idea, trying to figure out this damn subway.

Me: Oh boy. Just get an Uber.

Adam Highbrow: No, I want the full New York experience.

Me: Watching someone drop trou and shit on the floor of an underground train isn’t really an experience you want.

Adam Highbrow: Okay, an Uber is too expensive.

Me: Didn’t I just venmo you a couple hundred for editing my book?

Adam Highbrow: Yea, and you still owe me a couple hundred.

Me: Fair. Take the subway.

I had never seen Adam before. Only heard his CLEARLY southern voice over a Zoom call where he lied and said his computer didn’t have a camera. What’d you buy that thing in the 90’s bud? I was getting to the point where I was seriously considering self-publishing and wanted someone, in particular a male-millennial, to take a crack at it. Adam begrudgingly obliged. He is a high brow man of letters, or at least his online persona led me to believe he was. I warned him that my novel was no Faust, no Faulkner, and definitely not something would ever add to his curriculum. It was quite shocking when he read the book in a couple days, liked it, and decided to help me tune it up. So much for being highbrow. Regardless, he will remain in my contact list as Adam Highbrow forever.

I was not only looking forward to meeting Adam but also the elusive and mysterious . He is now saved in my contact list as Le Wayback and even though I know his full name, I will never call him by it. He is Le Way to me and always will be. Along with the two Modelo tall boys I decided to bring my copy of his book The Wayback Machine. I had asked him if it was weird to bring a copy for him to sign and was told that is not weird at all. Shit, if someone asked me that question I’d probably shed a tear that my writing was worth my signature.

When I first read The Wayback Machine I almost shed a tear myself. This was the type of book that made me love books in the first place. A grungy story about a fuckup fresh out of jail, the early 2000’s rock scene, hysteria, drugs, alcohol, a shit ton of heart – right up my alley. But the book’s content and the Substack persona of Wayback did make me wonder what type of character I would be meeting. Would I walk into the bar we were supposed to meet at and find it empty except for a man in the corner wearing a fedora and a trench coat? This man and I would make eye contact, he’d say, “You looking for Le Way?” and I’d say, “Yes,” and he’d say “Right this…le…way…” and then lead me down a cellar, through doors and hallways to Le Way’s Lair, where a man that looks like Mads Mikkelsen sits behind a desk, drink in hand, smoking a cigarette. He’d stare at me, head tilted, finally smile and say, “So you liked my book?”

This, in fact, is exactly what happened.

Kidding.

Wayback Machine aka Daniel Falatko was sitting at the bar, sipping on what I believe was a gin and tonic. He looked nothing like Mads Mikkelsen. He looked more like a skater version of Sam Rockwell. His voice is softer than what I’d imagined, friendlier too. I guess most people can confuse a writer with their characters. Instead of fanboying out we immediately slipped into conversation about , about our favorite writers here, about where we were born and raised over a couple of shots and beers. I was trying to fortify myself further, trying to gain as much liquid confidence as possible before heading to the reading. I bought the drinks. This was THE Wayback Machine for fucks sake.

Most of all we laughed about his diss tracks. He admitted the only people he felt okay about dissing, except one (you can guess which one that is), were people that he actually loved that failed his expectations of them. This is exactly what his novel is about at the roots. Someone who believed in something only to get the rug pulled out from under them. This is something that clearly drives Wayback’s life, because as we walked towards the reading through the streets of the Lower East Side, he would point out to me places that used to be drug dealing dens, or money launderers, or even places where sex was sold. They’d all been turned into fancy tapas bars or high-end clothing stores. The rug, indeed, was pulled right out from under him.

We entered P&T Knitwear, where the reading was to be held, right past a building where a woman used to sell the best weed out of a laundromat, and showed our e-tickets to the girl behind the desk. I had bought two tickets, one for me and one for the wife – both included books with the package. The wife couldn’t make it. The life of a parent trying to find a baby sitter is almost as bad as me trying to find an agent. Hundreds of rejections to watch our little girls on a Tuesday night. So instead of having a nice night out with my significant other, I held two hard cover copies of Glass Century and tried to make a bee line for the bar. It occurred to me that it would be tough to hold a beer while also holding two books so I turned to Wayback and asked if he wanted one. I had already pre-ordered Ross’s book so now I was strapped with three total copies. I thought of it as an investment. If Ross turns out to be the next Edith Wharton a couple decades from now those three first editions will be worth a pretty penny. Unfortunately for my future bank account, Wayback did want a copy and accepted my gift. We will only know how much that gift was worth in the distant future.

If the jury is still out on whether Ross is the next great New York novelist, it’s been decided that he is the Gertrude Stein of Substack. He is the one gambling on new writers through his publication The Metropolitan Review. He is the one reviewing self-published books like The Wayback Machine. He is the one taking chances that no one else seems to have the balls to take. So, when I finally saw him in person, enroute to the bar, I was kind of shocked. He wore a blazer and tie, slacks, dress shoes. He was deep in conversation with someone, I assumed talking about one of three things – the literary landscape, politics, or the Yankees. I have to admit, he looked baked. High as a kite. His eyes were half shut. Maybe he was just bored from the conversation or he’d imbibed as much as I did before entering the bookshop. I’d be much more than baked if I had to read from my own book in front of a hundred or so people.

Before getting to the bar a large oaf stood out among the rest. He looked like Isaiah Hartenstein only shorter in height and a bit larger in girth. I don’t know why, but I knew this was Adam Pearson and went up and hugged the big bastard. He introduced me to his girlfriend, Chelsea, who was very nice and very not interested in the whole charade of the book launch. It was endearing. I immediately liked her.

We all finally made it to the bar, I bought a round, drank mine too quickly in conversation, and went back for another without them. Okay, another two. The problem with me and drinking in public is that I don’t know what to do with my hands. So the hand inadvertently goes up to the mouth, the drink gets drunk, and the drink magically disappears. On the second trip to the bar I found Ross unusually alone and introduced myself. I was wearing a Yankee hat not only because I didn’t shave my head but because why not suck up to the boss?

“Nice to finally meet you. And nice hat,” he said.

It worked.

In the same way Chelsea was not interested in the reading in an aloof way, Wayback was not interested because he’d seen this and done it before. Only, according to him, to much less fanfare. If it made my stomach churn thinking about reading in front of hundreds I almost threw up thinking of reading in front of two.

The reading was great, so was the Q&A, and at some point in the middle of one or the other the infamous conversation in Adam Pearson’s piece If I Should Return To Society about this same night occurred. This is the only factual part of his account. You’re telling me it doesn’t look like this guy is receiving a blowjob from on high? Geyad damn.

After the Q&A was over we went up to get our books signed. Well, Wayback and Adam did. I gave another piece of my kid’s college fund to Adam as he had forgot his copy of Glass Century all the way back home in Louisiana. So just like that, my two copies turned to none (except for the one at home) and now my kids won’t be able to attend college. Thanks guys.

Regardless, we all went up and shook Ross’s hand, congratulated him, and they got their copies signed. I ended up in conversation with Ross’s mother as Wayback and Adam, both published or reviewed in The Metropolitan Review, actually had something of value to talk to Ross about. Ross’s mom is a fucking character. It doesn’t get more Brooklyn than Ross’s mom. Strong accent, no fucks given attitude, small but can still kick your ass. She reminds me of my mother in law. She probably uses made up Brooklyn words and phrases that no one else in America knows what they mean. I can imagine her looking at her son and saying, “He thinks who the hell is.” If any characters in Glass Century resemble the short yet energetic and loud woman laughing with me in that bookstore, Ross will have a serious hit on his hands.

I was also lucky enough to run into who is just as lovely in person as she is online. She is a small, unintimidating figure yet I found myself nervous when I saw her. She smiled at me and gave me a hug. If Ross isn’t the Gertrude Stein of the Stack then Vanessa surely is. She has also edited my novel and if she’s as prescient about my book (she liked it) as she is about the latest New York City Mayoral Democratic Primary, then I am in luck.

Wayback and I left and headed back to the bar we were at earlier. This bar, he told me, was one of the haunts the main character in his novel, Nathan, used to hit up before the gentrifying hordes took over. Adam and Chelsea had to go try Katz’s Deli. I didn’t blame them but I questioned how late one can stay up when they are filled with a sandwich the size of one’s head. At the bar, I finally popped the question, and Wayback signed my copy of his book. I will cherish it forever. Adam and Chelsea returned an hour later, wobbling from all the food, and we kept drinking and talking and laughing. It is good to meet people you’ve talked to online in real life. Not IRL. In real life. Spell it out. Don’t let the internet fuck your brain too much. Alas, it was time for me to go. I have a wife and kids for chrisake. When I said I was leaving Adam looked at me like I had killed his cat. Chelsea punched Adam in the shoulder and yelled, “Can’t you see he’s a family man!?” But all I could think of was the opening lines to Bright Lights Big City.

You are not the kind of guy who would be at a place like this at this time in the morning.

Unfortunately for my wife, I am that kind of guy. I could have stayed and drank and laughed until the wee hours. But times have changed. 10 PM for a dad might as well be 3 AM. I wondered how I would swing going out again in just two nights to the reading was putting on in Brooklyn. Gasda, Barkan, and Pistelli in one room. Appointment television. (Substack IRL part 2 will be out next week) But you don’t just get to go out as a parent. You pay for it in one way or another. And two nights in the same week? Forget it. Rent would be due. I had to get my ass home.

At Penn Station I bought one last road soda. Why the hell not, right? Modelo tall boy please. The train ride back was long and arduous and when I passed Rahway I didn’t even think about the prison. I was drunk and happy and finally, not nervous at all.

If you didn’t preorder my debut novel Hell or Hangover before reading this - do it now.

Here’s a quick synopsis.

Lou Kennedy wants out. Though he doesn’t admit this to anyone, and barely admits it to himself, there has to be a reason to stop the debauchery of his current life, he just hasn’t found it yet. That is until a drunken night out in New York City leads him to Marissa, the girl who just might inspire him to clean up his act. She’s a Spanish spark unlike any woman he’s ever met. But there’s a problem. At some point late in the night Lou’s bad habits get the better of him. He blacks out and wakes up in his ex-girlfriend’s bed with no recollection of how he got there and no evidence Marissa ever existed. No phone number. No photos. After furious online searching he can’t even find an Instagram handle.

Desperate, irrational, and questioning if the Marissa he met is real, Lou seeks out his mother’s Babalawo who says he has five days to find Marissa or he will lose her forever. In a bibulous jaunt through the streets of Hoboken and Manhattan, where family, friends, addiction, old flames, the spiritual, and the superstitious all play a part in hunting down the beautiful apparition that just might change Lou’s life forever, he faces a choice - find Marissa or succumb to a life of depravity, enroute to the brink of insanity.

This, my friends, is a first. According to the dictionary wisdom is the ability to use knowledge and experience to make sound judgements. You’d think hangover number 5,000 would be considered both knowledge and experience to cut the drink. You’d think agent rejection number 155 would be considered both knowledge and experience to let my book die. You’d think baby number one would be considered both knowledge and experience to avoid number two. Wisdom, clearly, is not my forte.

Yet the other day I felt wisdom welling up inside me. True, unabashed, wisdom. It all started with a harmless pizza order for the office. Three pies - one plain, one chicken parm, one pepperoni. When the pies arrived I grabbed two slices, scarfed them down, and headed into my office for a three-hour meeting. After the soul-sucking concluded, I came out hungry. I needed a third slice. This is usually not wise. A third slice is nap inducing at this old age. But I was adamant. As I lifted each box, I found that all the pizza was gone.

“Damn, you guys ate all that?” I asked the Gen Z’ers now crowding up our office.

“No, there’s some left over,” one said.

“I think two pepperoni,” another shouted.

One employee kept his mouth shut but he shot me a side eye glance coupled with a squirely smile. Keep in mind I am the boss’s son. There is an unearned fear employees have of me every time I speak. As much as I try to just be a normal employee it is impossible for them not to look at me as someone who could ruin their life. It’s sad. I am not that person. But it does have its advantages.

“Is there any more pizza left?” I asked the silent employee.

“Um, I packed two slices up for dinner,” he said.

“What? For dinner? Didn’t you just eat it for lunch?” I said, laughing. Inside I was fuming. The company paid for the pizza and you’re wrapping up the leftovers? Fucking Gen Z, amiright!?

“I hate cooking,” he said. “This is so much easier.”

“Hate cooking?” I asked, pulling up a seat next to him. “What do you mean?”

“I’m so tired after a long day. Cooking is so much work. It’s a waste of time. It takes an hour to make something that I could have just ordered. I’d rather be playing video games,” he said.

I was flabbergasted. I’d never heard such defeated language out of another human’s mouth. In one instant all the goodness in life was sucked into a vacuum of doom and gloom. Cooking, a waste of time, video games? It was all too much. Instead of pulling this youngin’ aside and sharing my wisdom with him, I went the ribbing route. I poked fun at him a little bit, he poked fun back, the office donned him a new nickname (Chef), then I went in my office, closed the door, and cried.

I’ve never really worried about the younger generation. Maybe this is naive or maybe after having two kids of my own I automatically have some stake in the future. I assume every generation looks on their predecessors and successors and sees stupidity, but I am not confident enough in my own assertions, nor cocky enough about my own life choices, to assume the older or the younger generation have it right or wrong. I’m just surviving here.

But this…this made me lose hope for the youngsters. Forget their cell phone addled brains, their lack of work ethic, their inherent whininess, giving up cooking was a bridge too far. And to replace such an act with video games? Hopelessness set in.

The reason for my despair is that cooking holds a special place in my heart for several reasons.

First, the physical act. Is there anything better, after a day of work staring at a computer, than a semi-mindless task? There should be something called chopping therapy. Taking an onion, cutting it in half, peeling off the skin, smelling the pungent sweetness only an onion can produce, making a slice into the width of one side, getting a little sting in your eyes, then slicing thin lines in the top, and then finally dicing it is so therapeutic it should be used by shrinks the world over. Just get a bunch of anxiety-ridden Gen Z’ers in a room who think they have ADD, ADHD, and depression and instead of doping them up with the latest drugs, have them chop a few fucking zucchinis and watch their worries float away.

Or how about this…give them about twenty garlic bulbs and have them frustratingly smash, peel, and chop a hundred cloves. Their hands will be sticky, there will be garlic sheaths everywhere, but at least they will have completed something with their hands. We can even add another dimension. Put a glass of wine and a cigarette in front of each of these poor souls. After they have cut the garlic (which has probably taken them hours) reward them. There are studies that show the combination of wine, cigarettes, and garlic can drastically increase your testosterone levels (these studies were done by me). Just THINKING of that combination - the smells on my hands, the first sip, the first puff - are making my pants a little tight if you know what I mean. At the end of their work, cigarette and wine in hand, looking like Serge Gainsbourg, these Gen Z’ers existential dread will dissipate and they will have become real human beings. I can admit that cigarettes and wine are probably not good for your overall health but I assure you that combination is better than whatever chemical cocktail their physicians have currently got them on. Chopping therapy will imbue these children with a purpose. Purpose has more health benefits than a measly glass of wine and cigarette can negate.

As these youngsters begin to prepare a meal they will realize, if they haven’t gone full Kendall Jenner, that they are doing something worthwhile. Something real. Something that involves actual work. They might even realize, if they are as wise as me, that they want to do this again on their own and not in chop therapy class. This is where problems may arise. I can relate this to writing.

It’s not easy coming up with a plot for a book, or writing the first sentence, or writing a million sentences after that, and then going back and making sure all the words fit in the right places, and then doing that again and again and again. But it’s this act that makes the end product all the more special. Yet, we live in an age where people actually believe typing a prompt into an AI generator like “write me a short story about a man, while cooking a meal for his family, begins to ponder how scared shitless he is that the world is too much and too frightening to be raising a family,” means you actually created the story the AI spits out. (I’ll actually write this story one day). Like ’s latest piece (The Novelist in the Age of AI) highlights perfectly, soon we may not know if what we are reading was made by a human or a bot. This will never happen in the case of food. Of course you can order in, but there is no mistaking whether you made that meal or not. Of course you can google a recipe. Of course you can subscribe to one of those pre-packaged ingredient companies that set you up, step by step, but you still have to PHYSICALLY cook it. If there ever comes a day when a robot can cook an edible meal out of plastic, when soul food is replaced by soulless food, I pray I am long dead before then.

The best part about making a meal is that my mind tends to wander while I’m doing it. It looks out the window, it semi-focuses on the task at hand, it thinks about the day, sometimes it doesn’t think at all, but ultimately, it all comes back to who I am cooking this meal for. These Gen Z’ers desperately need to get out of their own selfish heads and this act, no doubt, will do it for them. As you cut the ingredients, then sauté them, then start timing which things go in which pot when, then raise or reduce the temperatures as needed, you begin to lose yourself. You are no longer you. You are worriless. You are just cooking. And then the real magic happens. One of your daughters or your wife breaks the spell and yells from the other room, “Is it ready yet? It smells so good.”

Cooking is inherently about bringing people together. God damnit that sounds corny but sometimes corny is true. There are no worthy human gatherings without food and every memory I have as a child revolves around it. I can’t remember any Substack note or Instagram post I’ve scrolled by in the last hour but I can remember my sister’s 3^rd birthday where there was a huge pig roasting with an apple in its mouth like it was yesterday. Cooking requires you to put the phone down. To concentrate. To be around people you love sans devices.

But besides the memories and the gatherings, the real reason I love to cook is that it’s tied me to my roots. For all intents and purposes, I am a white boy. My skin is white, I was raised in the suburbs around a bunch of whites, and if I happened to be walking down the street at Columbia University no doubt the students would think there goes another entitled white male again. But the reality is more complex than skin color (the horror, I know!) My grandmother was born in the Dominican Republic. My sperm doner grandfather, who I never met, is Cuban. I am a half cast. But maybe because of my skin and where I was raised I never truly got indoctrinated into Hispanic culture. I can’t speak Spanish, I can barely dance bachata, and I certainly don’t know how to properly smack a domino. The only way I’ve ever connected with my Hispanic side is through food. Eating and cooking it. My grandmother taught me. My grandmother still teaches me. My mother’s step-dad, her defacto father, was a Cuban restaurant owner. Tragically, I never got to meet him either, but he taught my grandmother how to cook all the Cuban dishes and in turn, she taught me. So cooking has become the one thing I have that connects my gringo ass to my family history.

Lechon. Pernil. Empanadas. Ropa vieja. Cuban sandwiches. Tostone. Maduro. Sancocho. I’m so white I don’t even know how to get accent marks over some of the vowels that require them in that list. But I can cook each one of these dishes and many more. Cooking and eating Hispanic food is what I know and what I love and every time I do I thank my grandmother and the Caribbean.

So, after I cried in my office, and thought about these things, I came out of the office a new man.

The employee said, “You can have those two slices if you want, I’ll just order something else for dinner.”

I replied, “You can take them. I’m cooking tonight and I want to be hungry.”

How’s that for wisdom?

P.S. – Shoutout to for the title inspo. Go order Why Teach? Now.

P.P.S. – Go cook this recipe tonight for your family. It’s easy as shit. ALWAYS USE THIGHS INSTEAD OF BREASTS. Thank me later.

Half Baked Harvest You Bastahds (Gangsta Grillz voice)

P.P.P.S – If you like cooking or food or wine or half casts or cigarettes…Hell or Hangover…out now!

The building is called Bell Works now but it was originally made as a research center for Bell Labs. For those of you who don’t recognize the name Bell, it was once the leader in telecommunications throughout the country. For one hundred years they dominated the telephone game until they were broken up by anti-trust laws in the 80’s and were subsequently gobbled up by AT&T. The building went unused for many years until it was bought by a local developer and turned into a mini town. There is office space for rent, restaurants, laser tag, a gym, and a ballet studio sprinkled throughout. Even creepier is the fact that they built a miniature neighborhood around the building. Identical town homes litter the outskirts and one can only imagine, when driving up the ¾ mile entrance, that the people living there must be severed for deciding to live there.

The whole vibe of the place really does match the show and they clearly made the right decision shooting it here. If you haven’t seen Severance I highly recommend you do. It’s a fantastic show. Well acted and well written with a spooky vibe that doesn’t leave you once the show ends. On top of that, the theme of the show really speaks to our current moment of what working feels like. How many times a day have you thought about how much you hate your job? That you feel like a rat in a cage? That you wish you were doing anything other than sitting in front of a computer from 9-5?

This particular note by hit me in my plums. (I’ve just started reading his novel Cubafruit and really love it. Also, read his Vollmann piece at – worth every minute of the 45 min estimated read time).

I thought about this note just yesterday when I walked out of the office to a balmy 75 and almost started to weep knowing I was inside for the majority of a perfect day. We’ve all been there and the Severance showrunners came up with an ingenious idea: what if there was a medical procedure to turn off your brain the minute you walked into work? What if you didn’t remember a single thing from your work day? What if the person that was working didn’t remember a single thing of your outside life? And what if that medical procedure was made by a massive, freaky, all-knowing company who was using your work hours for nefarious purposes?

Sever Shiver me timbers, that makes for good television!

(I have no idea if I’m using that pirate term right, but let’s just go with it).

Now, as I mentioned, I’ve actually worked in this building. I’ve been to the depths of the severed floor. I’ve seen this hell up close and personal and you know what? It’s actually not so bad. The reason it isn’t so bad is for the reason I was working there.

My wife has held a long time job as a Veterinary Technician. It’s a pretty thankless job. She gets beat up all day by different dogs and cats, comes home with scratches up and down her arms, her back hurts, her neck hurts, all for the low price of $25 an hour. But hey, she loves it and I love to see her happy. Which is why it killed me to watch her give up the job to take care of our two beautiful daughters. She’s made a sacrifice for our family that I could never repay. But my wife’s not a complainer and instead of letting the boredom takeover she decided to start a little business.

The business is called PeanutBoards (www.peanutboards.com). In all of her spare time (around 5 minutes a day) she designed a children’s toy to help our daughter learn how to spell. It’s a wooden letter board with a slide out chalk board. Our daughters love it. Other kids love it. So she decided to take the product to market. (If you like any of my writing and want to show it – go buy a board for a kid please!)

peanutboards

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If you’ve ever started a small business you know how tough it is. Not only do you have to create a sellable product, find financial backing, manage expenses, etc… but once you have said product you have to get the word out and pray for sales. The best way my wife decided to do this was to start going to fairs, local events, and vendor shows to show off what she’d built. As a loving husband (and forced at gun point) I decided to tag along to the these events and help her with anything she needed. Turns out, just like at my real job, I am the salesman pushing product while my wife just sits back and collects her cash like a Don.

One of these events just so happened to be held at Bell Works. When we drove down that long entrance my asshole puckered like a fish’s mouth. I felt that the minute I entered I would suddenly have my memory wiped. I felt the hands of Big Brother at my neck. I felt the ghost of Lenin looking down on me. But instead, what I found inside, was hundreds of people who had put hard work into making stuff that they could sell. There were guys who made wooden cutting boards, women who made jewelry, a couple who did dog training, even a woman who self published a set of children’s books. This place that looked like it was made to breed robots was filled with the exact opposite. It was awesome. It was America. At least the part of America everyone is still trying to hold on to. Local people, local businesses. The American dream.

What I learned was that even in a place that is the epitome of corporate hell there are still people out there trying to make a living off something small, off something simple, off something they built with their own brain and hands. And finally, it reminded me of self-publishing. It reminded me how authors can now get their very good work out there with no backing from an agent or a publisher. The last two novels I’ve read, Why Teach? by & The Wayback Machine by - (aka Daniel Falatko), are both self published and fan-fucking-tastic. I highly recommend them. They are novels that could have easily been published by the Big 5. But instead these guys have done all the work themselves, put their nuts on the table, and hopefully will reap the rewards they deserve, much like the people selling their stuff at Bell Works.

Now enough praise for them - this reminds me to remind you that I’ll be self-publishing my novel Hell or Hangover this July. When it comes out, buy it. Buy the other two novels I mentioned too. Buy a PeanutBoard. Support people who are doing shit on their own. Get off the corporate teat so that not everyone has to be severed to be happy.

P.S. - I am going to keep screaming this from the rooftops - Mr. Milchick fucking ATE in that marching band scene.

First and foremost, your parents have baggage that you are forced to pick up. In my case that baggage was becoming a Philadelphia Eagle fan. Doesn’t sound too bad, right? Wrong. Growing up the Eagles sucked for a long time. It was tough being an Eagles fan living in Giant Country. Not only did you have to watch your team suck year in and year out, but you had to hear it from the surrounding Giants fans. Just take a look at the three most formative years of my football fandom.

It was putrid being an Eagles fan for a long time and there is a reason Eagles fans have gotten a bad rap over the years. When your franchise was, until recently, one of the 13 teams that had never won a Super Bowl, you tend to get frustrated and if Santa Clause or opposing fans have to eat the brunt of that frustration then so be it. It didn’t help that during the 97’-99’ seasons was when I learned how to lose my mind about sports via my father. We would sit down to watch the game, he would lose his mind at another loss, my mother would try to calm him down, and I’d be stuck watching another blowout loss all alone. I do not wonder why I am a psychotic football fan. It’s been handed down to me. It’s baggage I will have to carry.

The Eagles franchise has since turned it around. Since meeting my wife the Eagles have won two Super Bowls. I cherish her for how she cares for our kids, I’m lucky that she’s hot as shit, but I love her because she is good luck to my Birds. I feel less guilty that I am raising two Eagles fans now that we have a winning franchise. I am not sure how I would feel if I was brainwashing them to enjoy watching the same 97’-99’ teams. I am sure there is shit I am putting on my kids that they will have to deal with someday, but being an Eagles fan is not one of them.

Now the second mind blowing insight about my parents is in regards to their wedding. They’ve explained their two weddings to me before but now that I am a married man (and parent) myself, I am astonished at both of them. The first was an elopement in Margate after four months of dating. If my daughters told me they got eloped after four months of dating some little shit I would have to buy a gun, find the boy, and force an annulment so quick his head would spin. That shit aint’ happening on this Daddy’s watch. But the elopement is less crazy than their second wedding because…hold your breath…their second wedding was hosted on SUPER BOWL FUCKING SUNDAY.

That’s right, my parents were THOSE people. It’s unjustifiable. It’s insane. It’s pure selfishness to the nth degree. When they first told me this little nugget I didn’t think anything of it. Who cares if your wedding was on the same day as the Super Bowl? Keep in mind this was when I didn’t have to worry if the Eagles would be in it. Of course they wouldn’t. But now, after Superbowl LIX, I can’t look at my parents the same.

Why?

Well…I had an event I had to attend this year at 5:30 PM on Super Bowl Sunday.

I’d like to state here loud and clear, before I go in, that I love my family. I would do anything for them. I will sacrifice life and limb for anyone I am related to. This includes the family that I’ve adopted by getting married. Anything they need I will try and provide. But after the Eagles beat the Redskins Commanders to win the NFC Championship and I realized that my nieces Sweet 16 dinner was scheduled for 5:30 PM on Super Bowl Sunday, there was a moment of pure terror. What would I do? My beloved Birds were scheduled to play in the biggest game of the year at 6:30 PM and I would be where? At a Sweet 16? There’s just no way.

But I am no animal, dear reader. Sure, I love football but I love my niece more and wouldn’t have missed her Sweet 16 for the world (unless I wasn’t getting a candle, then I would’ve probably skipped it). To quell my growing concern my wife found out that we would be in a room with a bar that had multiple TV’s. This did not quell my concern. I thought of all the things that could go wrong. I wouldn’t be sitting in my seat or wearing my lucky sweats or paying close attention to every single second of the game that all clearly have an effect on the outcome of a game being played a thousand miles away from me that I am not playing in. In the end, I had no choice. You only turn 16 once.

I didn’t think things could get worse but of course, they did. I woke up around midnight the night before the big game with a 103 degree fever. I am told this is hospital level heat. I was having delirious dreams about playing safety in the Eagles Secondary and having my face on one of the Exciting Whites t-shirts that I currently have sitting in my cart, waiting to be purchased.

When I woke up in the morning I for sure thought that a 103 degree fever would leave me on the sidelines and at home watching the game all by myself. Not the worst outcome. I felt like the luckiest guy in the world even though my skin could burn someone to the touch. But my wife urged me to go to the doctors and somehow I was able to get meds, take a nap, and sweat the whole thing out before it was game time Sweet 16 time. 103 degree fever down to 98.7 in the time it takes you to watch the ridiculous pregame festivities (do we REALLY need a segment with Gordon Ramsey making a poboy?)

So not only was I recovering from a fluke illness, and not only was I headed to a Sweet 16, but I was also on antibiotics. Do you know what you’re not supposed to do on antibiotics? Drink. Now this, this was the hardest part of the entire day. I’m not always an alcoholic, but not being able to drink for the biggest sporting event starring my team was the hardest part of this whole affair. I was on edge. I couldn’t stop tapping my foot. My mind raced. I was going to have to raw dog the most consequential sporting event of the year. After the Yankees lost in the World Series and Notre Dame lost in the National Championship if the Eagles lost in the Super Bowl and I wasn’t allowed to drink my sorrows away I’m pretty sure I would’ve just called it as a sports fan.

Now for those of you who don’t know how the game turned out you can probably unsubscribe because…who the fuck doesn’t know how the Super Bowl turned out? But I will remind everyone that the Philadelphia Eagles DOMINATED the Chiefs for four quarters. Even though I walked into the dinner more nervous than my niece (who had to give 17 speeches) the game turned out exactly as I hoped. The Birds didn’t let me down because I didn’t let my niece down. And so I’ve made a promise to myself. It’s a weird promise, but a promise nonetheless. If the Philadelphia Eagles make it back to the Super Bowl I will be forced to find a Sweet 16 to crash. It will be weird, it will be creepy, but it will be necessary because that is my new good luck charm. I would like to thank my niece, wish her a happy birthday, and tell her to keep an eye out for anyone turning 16 next year when the Eagles decide to run it back.

Go Birds!

P.S. – Just kidding, that sounded very creepy. Gaba, your Uncle Alex does NOT want you to keep an eye out for Sweet 16’s.

P.P.S. – But if there happens to be a Sweet 16 on Super Bowl Sunday next year and the Eagles happen to be playing in the game…I’ll be your designated driver.

P.P.P.S. – A little novel update if interested – I am eyeing June or July as publication date and will be releasing sections here during the lead up. This book is a summer read and if you’re looking for a laugh, this will be the book for you! Stay tuned!

I know what you’re thinking. But Alex, you’re married! You write about your two daughters all the time! How could you stay at a hotel with a strip club sans wife and kids with a clear conscience? Well, let me set the stage.

By sheer generosity of good friends, on the Friday before the big game, I was given a ticket. I could probably write a novel on Devon Levesque, the guy who bought and gave me the ticket with no strings attached, but I’ll just say that he’s an insanely interesting and successful dude (did a backflip on Mt. Everest, bear-crawled a marathon, started and sold a few companies, etc…). He bought 8 tickets to the game. I was not originally part of the 8 because I bring nothing to the table. Money, mainly, is what I don’t bring to the table. Sure, I can bring some laughs, but a $4,000 ticket is about $3,900 over budget.

I’ve known Devon for a while, we are good friends, and we have a mutual best friend – Sean Smith, my Irish brother from earlier Notre Dame posts. By the grace of the Football Gods one of the original eight dropped out, I was given the 8^th ticket and a spot in one of the already booked hotel rooms. I didn’t care if I slept in a bed, on a cot, or made nice with the homeless and slept outside in front of the stadium. I had a ticket, I booked a flight, I was going.

The next day, about two hours before arriving at the airport, I come to find out that the hotels are booked for Sunday-Monday. I am to meet up with two lunatics who also have Saturday flights - Sean Smith and another friend Rob Doran – in Atlanta and we are going to wing it for a place to crash. I haven’t wung (?) anything in quite some time. You don’t wing anything when you have kids. You Your wife has everything planned out, you she prints out confirmations, you she double and triple checks everything you she can think of, and still, you she ends up missing something. But wing it? It’s been years.

In Rob’s words, we didn’t care if we slept at a fucking LaQuinta as long as we were in Atlanta, Georgia. But Rob was able to procure some information from someone he knew who used to live in Atlanta. The person recommended a few hotels in a cool area and I picked the first one on the list, booked it with Hotels Tonight for a quarter of the price (highly recommend Hotels Tonight), and didn’t think anything of it.

Fast forward about four hours and I am hammered drunk. A few airport cocktails, a few plane cocktails, and anxious nerves coursing through my veins about the game had me cross eyed by the time I touched Georgian soil. To distract myself from the general nausea I felt I had to chat up the passenger next to me, a young Notre Dame fan, and forcibly make him convince him to sign up for my Substack. Mystery passenger, I hope you’re reading this (and sorry).

When I got to Hotel Clermont it looked like the party was just beginning. Mind you, it’s 11 PM, a whole two hours past my bedtime. There are people outside smoking and drinking and the lobby gives off Chateau Marmont vibes. My first thought was this is the type of hotel that rock stars go to trash and die in. When the concierge gave me a Miller High Life with my room key I knew my intuitions were correct.

Next stop was meeting my friends at a bar called Ladybird. I’d come to find out this place was fantastic but at the time I was already pretty hammered, didn’t care about the place, and was just happy to be on solid ground surrounded by people who were fired up about the game. That fire pushed the night into the wee hours and around 2 AM we found ourselves back at our hotel. By this point, multiple groups of people on multiple occasions had told us that if we were staying at Hotel Clermont we had to go to the Hotel Clermont basement. That there was no choice in the matter. We had to see the strip club. We had to watch Blondie’s show. To say the least, we were intrigued (and closer to bed, thank God).

Now fellas – it’s at this point where you text your wife exactly where you are. She is asleep, sure, but she needs to know you are still alive when she wakes up to two kids smacking her in the face. You text your wife and say I am back at the hotel. You say there is a strip club in the basement. You say you want to go to bed. You say you miss her. You keep constant contact no matter the time of night. This is the only way. And then, when you enter the strip club after getting patted down (this is still Atlanta after all), and you understand what kind of strip club you are in fact entering, you text your wife a play by fucking play.

Me: Holy shit, there really is a club in the basement of our hotel.

Me: Holy shit, it really is a strip club.

Me: Holy shit, the strippers are all over 60.

Me: Holy shit, the strippers are all obese.

Me: Holy shit, this is the craziest place I’ve ever been to. Thanks for letting me come.

These five texts were actually sent to my wife. There was a club in the basement, it really was a strip club, all the strippers were over 60 (at the very least), at least ¾ of the strippers were over 300 lbs., and it was the craziest place I’d ever been to. Blondie was the star of the show, a woman in her 70’s, who’s specialty was crushing a beer can with her breasts. You just can’t make this stuff up.

I went to sleep convinced that Notre Dame had to win the National Championship after such a night. Clearly, I had too much to drink.

The rest of the weekend was a sprint, a blur, a smorgasbord of drinks and food and snippets of conversations. There was an anxiety around every exchange. You were talking, in the moment, but just behind the thought of the next thing you had to say, or what someone just told you, was an even bigger looming thought. What would happen during the game Monday night? Who would win? How would they win? It was the only thing that was truly on my mind.

The weekend was like a time vortex and suddenly, as if it happened in the blink of an eye, all the distractions are gone and you are in your seat, 8 rows back on the Notre Dame sideline, and LOCKED into the game. I could barely eat, could barely breathe, could barely think about anything except the plays that were happening in front of me (and the beers that were going down my gullet).For the next three hours I didn’t move. For the next three hours I didn’t so much as get up to take a piss. Three hours, give it all you got, and Notre Dame becomes National Champions.

If I could live in the first fifteen minutes of that game for the rest of my life, I would. Notre Dame gets the ball first and they put a drive together to take the life out of the raucous Ohio State fans. I will give a shoutout to the few Ohio State fans that were part of our group. Good guys, just rooting for the wrong side is all. There was some good banter and I respect good banter. And Ohio State fans travel well. I’d say the stadium was 60-40 in Ohio State’s favor. Their fans were loud, their fans were passionate, and their fans were QUIET after that first drive. 18 plays, 9 minutes and 45 seconds, 75 yards ending in a touchdown for the QB Riley Leonard. If only the game could have ended there.

The next three possessions Ohio State scored and Notre Dame was stopped. I was down bad and starting to feel the effects of the weekend. Tears were welling up behind my eyelids. If I made one wrong move, if I decided to stop believing, I’m sure I would have broken down right there and cried. But I never stopped believing and I never will stop believing. Through my belief (yes, this is how EVERY fan thinks) Notre Dame made a late comeback and for a second I thought they might actually pull it off. But, alas, it was Ohio State’s night. My belief was not enough. The stadium was a mere half mile from the hotel and instead of walking the 15 minutes back in frigid temps I decided to pay a guy $100 to ride me back on a fucking bike. Pain and misery is the life of a sports fan.

For the second time this year my team lost at the pinnacle. Yankees lose in 5. Notre Dame lose 34-23. You would think at this point I’d stop taking this so hard. These are college kids for fucks sake. They played their hearts out. Yet here I am, two weeks since the loss, and finally able to write about it. Okay, maybe that’s not 100% truthful. The reason it’s taken me so long to write about it is because hangovers in your mid 30’s after drinking for three days straight take a LONG time to get over. I think I just started feeling normal today. But I digress…

Madness is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Yet every year, like every sports fan, I get my hopes up that this will be the year my team wins the whole damn thing. At one point, on the depressing flight home, I thought…maybe I should stop doing that. Maybe I should not get my hopes up. Maybe I should be a normal person. Maybe I should watch the game as a surgical, non-caring, robot. But where’s the fucking fun in that? I put it all on the line (with my emotions, of course) and either reap the rewards or get depressed for a couple weeks. The only way to be a fan, for me, is all or nothing. It’s been nothing this year…one year it might be all. Regardless, it’s better to watch sports with some skin in the game. It’s better to do ANYTHING with some skin in the game. Otherwise, you’ll watch the world pass you by in some fake, cool, nonchalance without having cared about anything and you’ll be lesser for it. Caring is actually cool.

The craziest part about this latest loss is I have one more shot at this. I am a Philadelphia Eagles fan. Yes, my three favorite teams have all gotten to their respective championships and right now they are 0-2. If I go 0-3 this will be the most legendary run of loser sports fandom this world has ever seen. It coincides with me starting a Substack and I will have to genuinely think about shutting this whole thing down before the losses get out of hand. But once again, I believe, and I will be losing my mind on February 9^th like I have for the last two championships. This is the nature of the beast. This is the nature of caring. If you can’t be there for the losses you don’t deserve to be there for the wins.

And fuck the Chiefs, amiright?!

P.S. – I’m actually still hungover from the Natty…

P.P.S. – Posts will be ramping up again once this hangover finally leaves me in peace.

This is a new irrational fear I’ve discovered. It is probably due to age and responsibilities. When you are sick and incapacitated enough that you can’t even take care of your own children, the thought of mortality begins to set in. Luckily my wife has the immune system (and looks) of a Greek Goddess and was able to fight off any illness to take care of her three children (2 little ones and me).

I am better now. I wouldn’t wish this bug on my worst enemy. If you haven’t heard the term “shuke” before then I’ll let you intuit what the meaning is. My belief has returned. The belief that I will be okay, that I will be able to take care of my children, that I will live to see another day. Through this little harrowing experience, as well as Notre Dame’s latest win over the Georgia Bulldogs, I have been thinking about belief. What it does, how it’s formed, and what it means.

Let’s start with Notre Dame…

Three years ago Brian Kelly, that fucking scumbag rat piece of human garbage low life shit for brains assfuck, left Notre Dame for “greener” pastures. At the end of the 21’ season, before Notre Dame was passed over for the college football playoffs, Kelly decided to leave the University after a fairly successful 11 year run. 113-40 aint’ so bad a record and Notre Dame had a couple big wins in that span of time. But they never won any REALLY BIG games. Kelly felt, or rather, BELIEVED that Notre Dame could never win the big game. He felt that because Notre Dame is a school that cares about grades meant that Notre Dame couldn’t get the recruits that big schools in the SEC could. The SEC schools don’t give a flying fuck about academics which turns out to be a winning strategy when you are trying to recruit football players who have been gifted with insane talent and size but zero brain cells. Kelly believed Notre Dame could never compete at the highest levels and this belief trickled down through to his players and, ultimately, the fans. There was a period where I too believed that Notre Dame could not compete with the big boys because the sacred University would never drop it’s academic standards.

Enter coach Marcus Freeman.

First of all, this guy just exudes cool. Yes, it’s partly because he’s young and black, but also because he is a guy who has supreme confidence. He is a guy with supreme belief in himself.

And can you imagine where that belief extends to? His players. Every player on this Notre Dame team believes they can win any game. Even after losing to NIU earlier in the year this team has not stopped believing. The win against Georgia is one Notre Dame losses 100/100 times because they never believed they could beat an SEC team. That’s because their previous coach didn’t believe they could either. But Freeman believes, and through that belief, Notre Dame Football has a new outlook on the years ahead.

Looking back on my football playing days, it is now clear how much belief played a part in not only my success but every team I’ve been on’s success. (I have no idea if on’s is grammatically correct, nor do I care).

There are two examples that live rent free in my head.

The first example is of unbelief. My high school football coach, who I won’t name, was a fun guy. I liked him as a person. But a good football coach? Not at all. Our coach was more interested in us winning the off-season weightlifting competition than actually dialing up plays that would work against opponents. Every time a play call was run in from the sidelines you could almost feel the eyes roll in the huddle. He’s calling that? Now? There were times when our quarterback my senior year, Chris Chiarelli (a sophomore with a huge set of balls), would have to call a completely different play. Those plays usually worked because we believed in Chi. But our coach? We simply did not believe in him.

This all culminated in one of the worst coaching calls in high school football history.

I went to Colts Neck High School, though I grew up in Howell. Howell is a massive town in Monmouth County, New Jersey that has its kids split up into three different high schools. A few go to Freehold Township, about a quarter go to Colts Neck, and the remainder go to Howell High School. Luckily for Colts Neck’s football program, the 25% that attended were made up of pretty solid football players. Otherwise, Colts Neck most likely would have never won a football game in its existence. Colts Neck is a rich town where 45% of its inhabitants make over 200k a year. Not necessarily a recipe for creating high caliber football players.

I had grown up playing Howell football. A totally different beast. We were always good. We had a wealth of talent. We played hard, fast, and physical. Howell, along with Jackson, was a football factory growing up. The Colts Neck kids called us Howell-abamans. We were the red neck to their white collar. Granted anything less than 200k a year was red neck to these blue bloods.

The stars would align and in the first round of the playoffs my senior year, it was Colts Neck vs. Howell. It was a chance to beat the kids I grew up playing with. They were all very good. They beat us earlier in the season. They were undefeated. They ran the fucking spread offense in HIGH SCHOOL and were lead by my friend and Pop Warner quarterback Timmy Lamirande. This kid was the Johnny Manziel of New Jersey Group 4 Football. He would make defenders miss and throw dimes like you read about. We had our work cut out for us.

The game was close. It was back and forth. It came down to the fourth quarter. 27-21 Howell was up. We were driving to go up. We got down to the goal line. Fourth down. Three yards away from immortality. Three yards away from bragging rights. Three yards away from continuing our playoff run to a state championship. So what does our numb nuts coach call?

A half back toss pass.

Keep in mind our running back, who goes by the name of Ashton Jackson (how can you not be elite with that name?), is first team All-Shore. He can get us three yards. If anything, I am the backup running back and I am KNOWN for getting three yards a pop. Give me the ball and I can get you three, I promise.

Nope.

Half back toss pass from the three yard line. When that play was called in the huddle you could have seen the loss on everyone’s face. No one believed it would work. To put a cherry on top of this banana-land call, I am put in at tight end. My goal here is to run across the field towards where Ashton will be getting the toss and I should catch an easy touchdown pass. But…we are playing against kids I GREW UP PLAYING WITH! They’ve never seen my skinny ass in a three point stance in their life. I’ve never played a single down on the line in my 15 years of playing football. So what do they do? They all yell out “Muka’s in a three point stance, watch Muka, watch Muka!”

The play failed. We lost.

Now to the belief.

My best friend Sean’s dad, Big Sean, who I’ve written about here (The Fighting Irish) was the best football coach I ever had. He knows football better than anyone can know any subject. He eats, breathes, and lives football. There isn’t a scheme or play he doesn’t know. Him, and Sean’s uncle Coach Pat, were our Jr. Pee Wee coaches. To say I was given a plethora of football knowledge at a young age is an understatement.

Let’s set the stage…

We are playing Long Branch. We are down 20-0 in the first 10 minutes. Everyone is dejected. We’ve never been down like this. We were the bullies, we never got bullied. But there we were, getting the brakes beat off us. But Coach Sean and Coach Pat don’t let us get down. They methodically and meticulously call a game to get us back within striking distance. By the 4^th quarter it’s 20-15. There’s a minute left on the clock. And Coach Sean calls a half back toss pass. The SAME play our high school coach called. Keep in mind we are 10 years old. For the uninitiated, we should not be able to pull of such a play. We are too young, too slow, too stupid to pull it off. Our high school team couldn’t pull it off. But lo and behold, we believed. Coach Sean would never steer us wrong. If he called a play we know it’s going to work. And work it did.

I get the toss, drop back to pass, Sean is streaking towards the end zone. Ball perfectly placed.

Touchdown.

Belief is a wild thing.

So this whole diatribe on belief, of course, comes back to me. Maybe writers are just narcissists. I certainly am. Or, maybe, they are filled with a belief that they have something to say.

Over the past ten years I’ve written three books, but I can’t get passed this one. The one this Substack is named after. Hell or Hangover. I have to publish it. I have to get it out there. I’ve probably read it, edited it, and read it again over 200 hundred times at this point. I still like it. I still think it’s good. I still think that it represents the 2010’s more so than any other book I’ve ever read. It’s been rejected by hundreds of agents but I won’t let it die. There’s only one option left…self-publishing.

I guess, by self publishing, I am putting my taste on the line. I guess that’s what any writer does really. They think their book is good and if their taste is good, other people will agree. We’ll have to see if my taste is up to par or not. That’s for other people to decide. What I’ve decided is this book is worth getting out there whether anyone else believes it (literary agents, mainly) or not. Maybe they are right. Or maybe they are stuck in a game of trying to, you know, keep their jobs and have to really think about what publishers will actually publish so that they can get paid. I do not dislike literary agents. They should be crucial in taste making but, more importantly, they have bills and children and lives to pay for. In that regard, they are beholden to publishers who are intent on schlepping shitty books for profit. This is the nature of the game. I am deciding not to play it. I am deciding to do it myself and put my money where my mouth is because…

I believe my novel is good enough.

I’ll be posting here and everywhere I can when the book is ready. The goal is to have it published in April or May.

Fuck it.

I believe.

P.S. – Go Irish.

P.P.S. - If you are interested in the novel, here is the gist…

Lou Kennedy wants out. Though he doesn’t admit this to anyone, and barely admits it to himself, there has to be a reason to stop the debauchery of his current life, he just hasn’t found it yet. That is until a drunken night out in New York City leads him to Marissa, the girl who just might inspire him to clean up his act. She’s a Spanish spark unlike any woman he’s ever met. But there’s a problem. At some point late in the night Lou’s bad habits get the better of him. He blacks out and wakes up in his ex-girlfriend’s bed with no recollection of how he got there and no evidence Marissa ever existed. No phone number. No photos. After furious online searching he can’t even find an Instagram handle.

Desperate, irrational, and questioning if the Marissa he met is real, Lou seeks out his mother’s Babalawo (a Santeria priestess) who says he has five days to find Marissa or he will lose her forever. In a bibulous jaunt through the streets of Hoboken and Manhattan, where family, friends, addiction, old flames, the spiritual, and the superstitious all play a part in hunting down the beautiful apparition that just might change Lou’s life forever, he faces a choice - find Marissa or succumb to a life of depravity, enroute to the brink of insanity.

I’m reminded of a quote by a different Luigi, the Italian writer, Luigi Barzini Jr:

"The reason why Sicily is ungovernable is that the inhabitants have long ago learned to distrust and neutralize all written laws and to govern themselves in their own rough homemade fashion as if official institutions did not exist. This arrangement is highly unsatisfactory because it cures no ills, promotes injustice and tyranny, leaves crimes unpunished, does not make use of the Sicilians' best qualities, and has kept the country stagnant and backward in almost every way."

A sceptic might say, but what if the institutions fail? What if the supposed law & order you like so much does not exist? What if people are committing crimes and not being prosecuted? What if asshole CEOs of massive health insurance companies are using AI to falsely deny peoples claims? What if it takes a “hero” like Luigi Mangione or Batman to take matters into their own hands?

To those skeptics I must admit, you have a point. There is a serious problem on our hands. For a while now it has felt like the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer (though if you just take a little step back into history and remind yourself that the majority of people that have ever lived didn’t have a hot shower, then even poor people are doing just fine thanks to capitalism). It feels like the wealthy and privileged are living on a different planet than the rest of us. It feels like your everyday common man could go to jail for mis-using a pronoun while CEO’s of insurance companies who are illegally denying claims get off scot-free. I can see where the disgust comes in. I can see where the anger comes in. But do ends justify means?

I certainly don’t think so, but I’m normal. According to some poll or another, more than half of young people think Luigi Mangione is a folk hero. You can also read latest Substack post were he says “murder is bad but…” and goes on to fellate Luigi Mangione for a thousand words. Apparently many people feel this way about Mangione (and it’s not just because he’s good looking).

So I’d like to do a little thought experiment…

What is the one thing I want most in life? What is the one thing I would try any means to get an end result I wanted? A happy family? Sure. Healthy kids? Of course. Or…a New York Yankees World Series win? For the sake of this here Substack I’m gonna go with the Yankees winning it all and I am going to try to justify the sickest means possible to get there. At the end of it, let’s see if I am pro- or anti-Luigi.

The star: Steve Cohen, a fellow University of Pennsylvania graduate like Mangione, hedge fund manager, New York Met’s owner, and convicted criminal.

The Backstory: Mr. Cohen started his hedge fund in 1992 called SAC capital. Real original name, buddy. From 1992 all the way to 2007 Cohen’s hedge fund turned a profit. A 15 year run the likes of which had never been seen on Wall Street. The first year they lost money happened to be in 2008, when the entire economy went to shit, banks went belly up, the tax payer bailed them out, and NO ONE served serious time for it. This was the beginning of our distrust in institutions and also the beginning of what should have been the end of one Steven A. Cohen.

After the global collapse of our economic institutions the FBI had their antenna up for all sorts of white-collar crime and they decided to treat this crime like they had previously handled the Mafia. They made broad and sweeping investigations, they focused their small resources compared to the Mafia hedge funds on finding out how these hedge funds got their information and whether that information was illegal. In theory, they thought they were building another team of Untouchables.

This may come as a shock, but SAC capital made hundreds of millions, possibly billions, on insider information. One of the biggest trades SAC made was shorting an Alzheimer drug after one of their employees swindled their way into the life of a doctor who was on the trial team. The doctor had just lost his son and the SAC employee became almost a surrogate son. Heartbreaking shit. At the very end of the trial the doctor showed the SAC employee the results, that the drug was not going to work, and that employee called Steven Cohen. SAC capital just happened to hedge their current position and short the shit out of the stock. They made $275 Million including avoided losses on that one trade alone.

But of course these big hedge funds could buy their way out of this problem. Instead of the FBI prosecuting individuals who had dug in their heels ready to fight the charges, unabashedly loyal to Steve Choen, the FBI were forced to press charges on SAC capital as a whole instead of personally charging Mr. Cohen. SAC was fined billions of dollars, Steven Cohen ate the fine, and still had 10 billion dollars in the bank. 10 years later, Steven Cohen had enough money to BUY the New York Mets.

The Inciting Incident: Luigi Mangione is fuming in his UPENN bedroom where he has just taken a class about how bad and mean capitalism is. He is fuming at the unfairness of it all. Somehow, due to time travel, I run into Luigi at a coffee shop where I inform him that the person that should be in jail is one Steve Cohen. I remind him of all his crimes against the people and how he got off. I start to fill his head with sick ideas that Steve Cohen needs to get what is coming to him. I place a handgun under his pillow and I disappear into the ether. Luigi holds on to both the handgun and the ideas I’ve incepted into his head until…

The Climax: The date is December 4^th, 2024. The Juan Soto contract talks are in full swing and the number keeps growing. 500 million, 600 million, 700 million for 15 years to play baseball! This number infuriates Luigi Mangione. 700 million dollars to play a kid’s game? Capitalism is the worst! That 700 million could go to saving puppies or solving world hunger. Do you know how many meals 700 million could buy?! Luigi can’t take it. And then he finds out that the highest bidder is looking like it is going to be one Steven A. Cohen. The same Steven A. Cohen who didn’t spend a minute in jail for his crimes. The same Steven A. Cohen who a random person in a coffee shop warned him about. Mangione switches his plans and heads up to Queens. He finds Cohen, puts one in his leg and two in his head, collects the shell casings, and rides off into the sunset, feeling like he’s done some good in this world.

The End: Steve Cohen is pronounced dead, the Mets are in turmoil, and Juan Soto decides to stay with the Yankees. The Yankees go on a tear in the year 2025, win the World Series, and begin a new dynasty the likes of which have never been seen, all thanks to the folk hero Luigi Mangione.

The 700 Million Dollar Question: Do the ends justify the means?

My first thought is…of course! Give me Juan Soto back for fucks sake. That signing had me watching the Dominican Winter League in a puddle of my own tears. One year the Yankees have the best hitter in baseball and the next…poof. Gone. And so I imagine a world without Steve Cohen. I imagine a world where the Yankees still have the biggest purse strings. And through this imagining I start to think like those two inbreds sticking up for John Gotti.

But, after thinking it over, I realize I don’t want to win that way.

Let Cashman cook and build a new team around new players and let’s see what happens. Cohen, you can keep Soto and your life. I’ll ride with the Yankees until the wheels fall off and sleep easy at night knowing I didn’t murder anyone to get what I wanted.

P.S. - I miss Soto already, that fat fuck.

P.P.S. - The true folk hero this city deserves.

The reason I know nepotism so well is that I work for a company my parents started and own.

I have worked there since I graduated college in 2012 (fine, 2013, I fucked up a couple classes on my way to the top, so what?). Before you start unsubscribing like mad because you now know I am mommy and daddy’s little helper, let me tell you a story.

The story occurs in the year 2014. I am sitting at my desk, viciously hungover on a Wednesday after attending Bar Anticipation’s (Bar A, to the cultured) Beat The Clock night in Belmar, NJ. Beat The Clock occurs every Tuesday between Memorial Day and Labor Day. It is a race to drunkenness and debauchery. Beers start at 25 cents (at least in my day) and go up a quarter every hour. Granted the beers are in small cups, that doesn’t change the fact that by 10 PM you could drink about 100 of those small cups for the steep price of $20 and find yourself holding a one-way ticket to Black Out City. I often attended Beat The Clock night on Tuesdays. By often, I mean I did not miss a Beat The Clock Night in my 20’s. Like clockwork (pun intended), I was pretty much incapable of working on Wednesday’s.

It just so happens that this Wednesday in particular was my yearly review. I wasn’t worried. I’d faked my way hungover before and I could fake my way again. And what was my dad gonna do, fire me? Ha! Nepotism for the win, baby!

But here’s what happened…

My dad was in his office, working. I was in my cubicle, staring blankly at my computer screen trying to figure out how not to puke all over my keyboard.

My dad yelled from his office, “Hey, Alex!”

I started to shake, and it wasn’t solely because of the copious amounts of shitty beer I drank the night before. It was time for the review.

He continued, “We don’t need to meet.”

Relief washed over my dejected body.

Then he said, “Because you know you’re not getting a raise right? You’re lucky I haven’t fired you yet. But we’ll see next year.”

And that was that. No eye contact. No big speech. Just a shout from his office to my cubicle. The yearly meeting was over in all of five seconds and I had a year to figure out if I wanted to put my dad in a position to fire me or not. It took me a few more years of getting no raise (and my dad having a massive heart surgery - This Father's Day - Fake A Heart Attack) to finally grow the fuck up and earn my keep. So although my father did not fire me when I deserved to be fired (nepotism, baby!) he also allowed me some grace to figure out what kind of person I wanted to be.

I would like to think that all fathers can balance this line of caring for their kids while also pushing them to be better, but that is definitely not the case. I look at my two little girls and realize I am half the man my father is. I would probably lie, cheat, and steal for them. Those two little girls could blink at me with wet eyes and a pout and the next thing you know daddy is robbing a bank to buy a horse. For now, I have no morals when it comes to them.

As much as I learned from my father in dealing with me at work, I learned even more after watching the movie Blow with him. What I learned was that my dad has always held two hard and fast rules. He said he would not help me if I was a drug dealer or if I was a murderer (unlike George Jung’s dad). Anything else was fair game, but those two crossed his moral line in the sand. He would not be going to jail for me, ever. Now that I have kids I think my dad’s rules were pretty good. No matter how much pouting or tears well up in my daughters’ eyes, if they are in fact drug dealers or murderers, I might have to let them deal with it themselves and just chalk it up to bad parenting. I can’t speak for my wife. She would no doubt launder money and hide the bodies for our daughters – she is Sicilian after all. But I think I will also live by my dad’s rules in those two cases.

Which brings us to the topic de jour...

Would all this change if I was the President of the United States of America? The answer is simple…yes. Of course it fucking would. I am a moral midget and I know if I got a whiff of Presidential power for even a single minute I would take bribe money, make my family rich, pardon my daughters even if they were on death row for mass murder or turned into Griselda Blanco, and sign about 12 future book deals with a publisher before leaving office. I don’t blame Joe Biden pardoning his son. The majority of people, Republican or Democrat, would do the same fucking thing if they were handed the power to do so. If anyone is saying they wouldn’t, they are liars (or they don’t have kids). Hunter Biden is not a drug dealer or a murderer. Yes, he is a nut job. Yes, he is someone I’d probably love to party with. But if he hasn’t crossed my father’s moral line in the sand then he hasn’t crossed mine either.

The ONLY issue I have with pardoning Hunter Biden is that I am currently dreaming of a day where Hunter Biden writes a novel. That’s right. Fuck his paintings, I need him to write a book.

Here’s why…

1 – Most of the publishing industry is fucking boring. If I have to read another contemporary novel about how bad white people are or how awful America is I might off myself. Thank God there are people like and getting published to keep me from throwing myself off a bridge. There have been countless think pieces on the subject of where the publishing industry is today by people who know way more than I do about the subject. There have been pieces on the fact that young males are not being represented in the market, the fact that there are no new exiting debut authors, the fact that every book seems to be about the same things, the fact that most books are poorly written yet still published. Even in my own hunt for an agent I’ve gotten the feedback multiple times that my main character would not be good in this “cultural climate”. The mere thought that there is such a thing as sensitivity readers makes my skin crawl. For those who don’t know what a sensitivity reader is – it is someone that reads a book and figures out if the book is going to offend anyone. There is nothing more sacrilegious than someone reading a piece of literature with an eye out for parts of a book that might trigger a microaggression. What a crock of shit. The minute sensitivity readers were introduced we should have burnt the entire institution to the ground. The whole point of literature is so that people can experience emotion through fake characters, so they can feel connected or ashamed (or, if it’s a good character, both) at people who are not real, so they can feel mad or angry or sad or happy through characters on a page. I can’t think of a better way to light a fire under the publishing regime then sending in a cracked out Hunter Biden with a novel filled with hookers, money laundering, and drugs all under the umbrella of daddy the fucking President! It will be the perfect antidote to soft men writing about soft shit. And once Hunter Biden breaks down the barrier, the rest of us “insensitive” writers will flood the gates.

2 – Most writers are boring right now. In my head, writers used to be rock stars. Maybe that’s just because I’m a nerd and thought literary figures were rock stars, but c’mon. Hemingway, Bukowski, Didion, Ellis, McInerny, Tartt, Hunter S. Thompson. These people not only wrote amazing books, they were also cool fucking people who experienced the fullness of life – the good and the bad. Granted the aforementioned Gowani and Boryga are probably the coolest people I’ve ever talked to, the majority of writers are just boring as fuck. Half the books published by men these days aren’t actually written about real men, they are written about “men” publishers think they want to read about, as has written on consistently (and amazingly). I don’t need any more cookie cutter authors. I don’t need Sally Rooney opining about communism. I need Sally Rooney to do a line of blow and make a scene at a cocktail party. Talk about marketing - I’d buy all of her books if she showed up in the tabloids looking like a picture taken off Hunter Biden’s laptop.

3 – Most book covers are boring. When I walk into Barnes and Noble with my daughter every Sunday (she goes for the Starbucks cake pops, I go for the books) it’s like staring at lines and lines of the same thing. A woman on the cover, oversized glasses on her face, and pastel colors. That’s it. That’s every book you see when you walk into a Barnes and Nobles. There are some really awesome graphic designers out there like who are making cool and interesting covers, but the majority of the books being pushed are just the same old drivel. Maybe Hunter can write this novel and then spruce up the best seller table with some of his own shitty artwork on the cover. At the very least it would break up the monotony.

Now, when will Hunter Biden find the time to write this book?

In jail.

Lock him up!

P.S. – Thank you to for the inspiration for this piece.

P.P.S – You all know you would read the Hunter Biden novel.

P.P.P.S. – Thanks for not firing me, dad!

I’m not writing this to convince anyone to put down politics, or video games, or anything else people become rabid over to pick up a favorite sports team. I do not recommend falling in love with anything you have no control over (except if it’s a person, of course). I’d rather use my spare time to write, to do something I love that I can control, but I am riddled with the disease of sports addiction. I wouldn’t want anyone to end up like me - that being someone who has found themselves checking their phone before they go to bed and when they wake up to see if Juan Soto has signed with any major league baseball team. Yet, I feel the need to come to my own, and sports, defense.

Maybe I am writing this to make myself feel better. To convince myself that time wasted watching sports isn’t time wasted at all. To spell out why there is something deeper to sports than just cheap athletic entertainment. We’ll see if I can prove it in the following paragraphs. But as every fan knows when they tune into a game, there is a feeling that what they are about to watch is bigger than sports.

Love & Hate

Sports undoubtedly give us the two deepest emotions we know as humans – love and hate. A detractor might say us sports fans are just loving or hating different colors, jerseys, cities, states, or players – but this isn’t the case at all. Us sports fan know different. When I turn on the TV to watch a Philadelphia Eagles game I am not rooting for my colors to beat your colors or I suddenly became an Eagles fan because I am a Saquon Barkley fan and followed him to the Eagles when he left the New York Giants. In fact, just a short year ago I rooted against Saquon Barkley for being a New York Giant. And it’s not like I personally know the owners of the Philadelphia Eagles. At any point they could up and sell the team and ship them out to Las Vegas like they did to those poor Athletics.

Sure, my dad growing up in Pennsyltuckey had something to do with my Eagles fandom, but I don’t live there and I am still a die hard. Why?

I think it has something to do with memories and experiences. I don’t remember when I “became” a fan of the Philadelphia Eagles. But what I do remember is the fire burning every Sunday in the home I grew up. The house smelled like my mom’s cooking. The comforting voices of the Eagles television announcers rang out and my dad and I sat in front of the TV watching a game that equally meant everything and nothing to us. We had all we needed around us. A house, food, comfort, family – and yet we both worked ourselves up into a frenzy based on whatever was going on during that game. And, as a kid, I yearned to see the joy on my dad’s face when the hapless Eagles finally won a ball game. I hated to see him dejected in his recliner like the dad in Silver Linings Playbook on many occasions. It was Go Birds for him and it’s Go Birds for me. Forever.

Knowing all that, what could make me hate another person for having the same memories and experiences for another team? What could make me hate a player on an opposing team? Well – my experiences vs. theirs. My memories vs. theirs. My fandom vs. theirs.  My ideas vs. yours. My vision vs. yours. My team vs. yours. Me vs. you. It really gets down to the heart of human experience. Sure, at the end no one dies, but if that doesn’t sound a tiny bit like tribal warfare, I don’t know what does.

Just as with politics, any good rivalry has two teams and fanbases that hate each other, but the difference is that the two teams in politics SHOULD come together at the end for the good of the greater team, for the country itself. This never happens with sports. There is no good of the greater team. It is always us vs. them. For now, forever. And so, I would never hate someone for who they voted for…but I can’t promise I won’t hate you if you route for the Dallas Cowboys. Yuck!

The Fruition

As an ex-athlete I understand that maybe, just maybe I’m taking the fandom thing a little too far. The people on the field usually work their ass off, try as hard as they can to win, and if they don’t they move on. The professional athletes also get paid a bajillion dollars to do what they do, so why should they care about winning and losing? They’ll be rich before, during, and after the game and that’s all that matters, right? Wrong.

You couldn’t be more wrong.

Because why do grown ass men cry after winning a big game? Why do they sulk in interviews after losing? You think they do it to play nice for the fanbase? To show random people that watch them play that they really do care? Abso-fucking-lutely not. These professionals give a shit because THEY feel what WE as fans feel. They feel it even more so. They are in it. They are the ones in the trenches. They are the ones putting their bodies on the line. And they are the ones that have given their entire life to be the best at what they do and then, after hundreds of thousands of hours of sacrifice, when they finally accomplish the biggest feat they have ever dreamed of (or fall short) they are overcome with emotion. Shit, if I ever got that email that my novel was going to be published I’d look like this too…

But sports are even different than that. Sure, I sacrificed hundreds of thousands hours to write, but no one else did. There wasn’t the team aspect where everyone sacrifices to come together to make this one thing happen. Fanbases are just teams, rooting for teams. It doesn’t matter how old, experienced, or how much you get paid to really understand The Fruition of which I speak. An example occurred yesterday.

My wife and I were driving and she randomly said, “I can’t believe she did it.” Her eyes were wet and she got so choked up that she could barely finish the sentence. The day before she had received pictures and videos of her niece making it to nationals for cheerleading. My wife has never cheerleaded (cheerled?). My wife never so much as attended a team sporting event until I dragged her ass to a Notre Dame game. Yet she was still overcome with emotion when she saw two separate videos:

1 – my niece bawling her eyes out because her team of bases dropped a flyer, ruining a perfect routine.

2 – my niece’s team losing their mind in joy when they came in 3^rd, despite the mishap, sending them to nationals.

My niece is 9.

The lows, the highs, The Fruition of all the work and sacrifice coming together. Falling. Getting up. You can’t write better theatre than sports.

Sports Don’t Lie

The most important case for sport is the truth of it. That’s right. Sports are the truest form of entertainment there is. Sports are truer than the news (LOL), than history, than books, than movies, than television shows, than all of it.

I remember when I would get high in college (sorry mom) and watch a movie and think, this is the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever seen. That’s just Denzel Washington PRETENDING to be a gangster. That is just Russel Crowe PRETENDING to be a cop. This isn’t real.

There is none of that feeling when you’re watching sports. The highs, the lows, and most importantly the outcome are exactly what they are. There is no contesting it, there is no changing it, the final stat line is what it is and it stays that way forever. No one remembers second place. You win or you lose. Binary as computer language.

And if you compare sports realness to political realness, well that’s where you get the biggest laugh of all.

Two candidates get on stage and lie continuously and everyone says, well, that’s just politics! Nothing to see here! Whoever tells the better lies get elected and runs the country! Woohoo! Sure, politics is a competition. Whoever has the better lies vision for the country wins. And sure, some wackos can be seen crying when their candidate loses.

Though the lady above looks pretty upset, you can tell this is fake. If you saw me staring at the ceiling during the top of the 5th inning in game 5 of the World Series, spiraling into a comatose like state, you would have at least seen honesty. Nothing pulls a truer emotion out of people than sports. And as a sports fan, we know this intuitively. Why else would we watch? Why else would we let it overtake our lives? Why else would we come back, year in and year out, to put all of our emotions on the line? Because sports are real and people like real.

P.S. – Sports don’t lie…except when the Astros cheated

P.P.S. – I know as an Eagles fan many of my compatriots have been absolutely grotesque in their fandom behavior. Though I do NOT condone throwing snowballs at Santa or pummeling an opposing team’s bus, I certainly understand the feeling…

P.P.P.S. – Yes, I’m still reeling over the Yankees World Series loss.

P.P.P.P.S. – But I think I am finally mentally over it (and physically over taking a shot every time Judge was due up) enough to get back on my regularly scheduled posts. Thanks for reading.

I mentioned this to my wife and when I began my thesis she stopped me dead in my tracks. My wife is a very down to earth person so when I started my dissertation with the sentence “I feel like we were dropped on the planet Arrakis,” she almost went cross eyed. I figured I wouldn’t go on to tell her the myriad of ways I felt that me, her, and our two daughters’ lives were in mortal danger. I am the man of the house and I am supposed to be strong and protective so I don’t know if noticing every single thing that can kill your family while you’re in the middle of the desert is being a good patriarch or being a pussy. This is why I feel the need to get this down on paper (or the internet).

We can forget the nickname the Grand Canyon State. The state should be renamed to what it actually is – The State Where There Are 1000+ Ways to Die.

Way 1 – Death By Bugs

If Arizona is any inclination of what happens when the apocalypse strikes then it is not the meek that shall inherit the earth, but the bugs. I saw bees as big as my fist, moths the size of bats, and ants that looked like they were walking on stilts. These are just a few of the bugs I can name because most of the bugs I had never seen before in my life. It didn’t help that we were not staying in the actual city of Tucson but at a boutique hotel outside the city which according to the hotel’s website is “located at the heart of the Sonoran Desert.”

At night when we would return to our room there were armies of bugs hovering around a spotlight at the entrance. At least three times a day I would hear a scream from my wife that sounded like someone was torturing her at Guantanamo. I became the heroic Bug Killer Man over and over and over (Daddy, Get The Bug). It wouldn’t surprise me if I was told that half the bugs I ended up killing in our room were poisonous and that my life was in danger every time.

Way 2 – Death By Heat

They call it a dry heat. The sentiment is laughable. I don’t care if it’s wet or dry, 106 is 106. And that is actually the temperature it got up to on our little stay in Tucson. One hundred and fucking six! If I hit a sauna session it would feel no different than what I felt laying out by the pool around 3 PM. In normal climates heat peaks between 1 and 2 PM until the sun begins it’s descent. Not in Arizona. The heat starts at 11 AM and doesn’t quit until hours after the sun has finally gone down.

Besides staying hydrated myself it was a 24/7 task making sure my three-year-old daughter had some water every ten minutes. If you’ve never been around a three-year-old then you should know they tend to remember that you promised them a cupcake a week ago but can’t quite remember to do the tasks that will keep them alive. They also tend to refuse the things that are necessary. So, every time my daughter said she wasn’t thirsty I had to force feed her water like she was Bobby Sands (okay, that joke went a little too far, but I couldn’t resist).  

Because daddy has a death wish, I made the family take a trip to see the San Xavier del Bac Mission which is a church about thirty minutes outside Tucson. The church is extraordinary. It’s like a weird, white mirage in the middle of nothing. It’s hard to imagine the people who had the balls or the gall to start such a church in the midst of hostile territory and you wonder if those people themselves had a death wish too.

The church was unbelievably beautiful and it felt like you were walking into a cave made for worship. But when you get up to the pulpit, and look to your left, you will find what looks like a dead man caged in a see-through box. I looked at my wife and made a hand motion to take the kids away because I didn’t want them to see a DEAD FUCKING BODY at such an impressionable age. When I walked up to the tomb I concluded the guy inside clearly died of dehydration. He was sucked out, mummified, and I figured this could easily be us if we didn’t get to the car quick and rehydrate. We found out that the body inside the clear box was not a dead body after all, but a sculpture of one. It didn’t change the sentiment. The desert is a dangerous place.

Way 3 – Death By Cliff

When your three-year-old daughter loves museums you try and find one wherever you go. Even if that museum’s name is “Desert Museum” you don’t except the museum to actually be in the desert. Boy was I wrong. This museum was a couple of buildings dropped out in no-mans-land that you have to walk to and from with signs that say “you are in the wilderness, watch out for snakes.” But it wasn’t even the “museum” that was the most dangerous part, or the paths to get from building to building, it was getting there.

The worst part about travelling to new places is getting used to a rental car. If I’m in my own car I know the appropriate pressure on the gas and break pedal (which is a lot of pressure in my very old Jeep Wrangler), the proper turn radius on the wheel (which is 360 degrees on my very old Jeep Wrangler), and the exact mileage you have when the gas light turns on (which is very little in my very old Jeep Wrangler.) For the first five days of the seven day trip I was causing my entire family whiplash by breaking too hard or speeding off the line too fast simply because I wasn’t used to the car. It was especially scary when we drove to the museum through a very hilly area with thousands of cacti lined in rows that looked like ominous crosses on the road to Rome. Eventually the drive went from hilly to mountainous and as we climbed higher and higher, steeper and steeper, we eventually came to a point where we had to go straight down through a a curvy mountain pass with no guard rails. The view was beautiful according to my wife. I wouldn’t know because my eyes were dead set on the road. Any wrong move and me, my family, and the brand new Budget rental car would have taken a thousand foot long tumble.

Way 4 - Death By Drug Addicts

There are a lot of homeless drug addicts in Tucson, Arizona. I’m not sure if it’s the “nice dry heat” or the black tar heroin just over the boarder that brings them there, but it’s definitely not a pretty sight. I know not all drug addicts are homeless and not all homeless are drug addicts, but when you combine the two it feels like you’re in a zombie movie.  The men that are homeless drug addicts are scary enough but the women look like the Cynthia doll from Rugrats, which is much more terrifying.

At one point in the trip I stopped at a Circle K (luckily by myself) to fill up my gas tank and grab water. I pulled up to the lovely scene of a homeless man shitting into the garbage can just off the side of the store. When I left the store the man was done his business and holding the door open for a women entering the store. Can I glean anything from this? Probably not, except that the world is grosser, scarier, and more chivalrous than I previously imagined.

Way 5 – Death By Dry Skin

I’ve found that the more you make fun of people the higher the chance of the thing you are making fun of them for happening to you. This is the case with me and my mom. I’ve made fun of my mother’s dry feet for many years. The bottoms of her feet look like pre-historic riverbeds. So it was only right that after four days in Tucson a big gash opened up at the bottom of my foot. This big gash had come about on its own. I didn’t step on any glass or a kid’s toy. I didn’t kick anything sharp. All I did was go in and out of a chlorinated pool a few too many times in 106 degree “dry heat” without properly moisturizing and bam – a three inch cut split open on my heel. Which makes the next way to die in Arizona even easier to understand. Because it’s hard enough trying to chase around your three year old on vacation with two working feet, now just imagine your walking with a painful limp.

Way 6 – Death By Children

By far the easiest way to die on this trip was sharing one room with two kids under the age of three. We took this trip as a family because I had a business meeting that coincided with my daughter’s third birthday. I’ve made a vow to never miss one of my children’s birthdays and if that means dragging them across the country on a five hour flight from hell (The Mile High Club) to a place where there are thousands of ways to die then so be it.

There are millions of ways your kids will kill you on a daily basis but on this trip reason number one was that my daughter was awarded her own bed. She was very excited and that excitement turned into elation and that elation turned into a four hour attempt every night to get her to actually sleep. By the end of the trip my wife and I had taken turns sleeping in her bed with her for five out of the seven nights. Together we might have scraped together three or four hours of sleep a night. It doesn’t help that my daughter is a wild sleeper. She moves, she hits, she kicks and somehow all of these movements find the places you least want them. Sleep with one eye open is either a warning about your kids enemies or what actually happens on vacation when one kid has their own free sleeping arrangement.

Now, having taken two thousand words to express the fear I constantly had in Tucson, I feel the need to recommend the place. The beauty of it made the fear worth it. For every way to die there was something so amazing that it almost defies description.

-           The sunrise over the Saguaro National Park every morning

-           Wearing sun dried clothes you hung outside (because it was 106 fucking degrees)

-           Watching your daughter’s face when she sees a mountain lion

-           Watching your daughter’s face when she sees a wild javelina

-           Watching your daughter’s face when she gets to have room service

-           Listening to your daughter pick up the hotel phone and pretend she’s ordering room service

-           Celebrating your daughter’s third birthday

-           Watching your daughter sit on a whoopee cushion she received for her third birthday (my dad’s idea) and crack up every time

-           Watching the sun set behind the Tucson Mountain park every night

There was an endless amount of joy on this trip but as everyone knows…the best part about going anywhere is returning home…alive.

P.S. - I haven’t made a post in a while because it’s impossible to get up early and write when you’re up every night until the crack of dawn losing your mind over playoff baseball games.

P.P.S. - I may not make it through October alive.

P.P.P.S. - Let’s fucking go Yankees.

I started looking at the schedule ahead and thought…this might be the season. This might be the time that Notre Dame rewinds the clock to its glory days and wins the whole damn thing. Wins one for the Gipper. Wins one for Lou Holtzshhhhh. Wins one for Rudy for fucks sake. Boy was I wrong. That whole beautiful mirage of a national championship came crashing down in week 2.

With that in mind, I will continue this post as intended. The gist is to explain how one becomes a Notre Dame fan and in turn what that fandom means. I was going to leave out the perennial heartbreak, but I guess this year the heartbreak just came a little bit earlier (and unexpected) than it would have in years previous.

Without further ado…

How One Becomes a Notre Dame Fan

Notre Dame is one of those brands that is country wide. There are fans from California to Florida to Maine. They are like the Yankees or the Cowboys. Geographical nearness to the team means nothing. I’ve been to Indiana a handful of times and don’t really want to go back (unless it’s to South Bend), but I am still a diehard Notre Dame fan. You could also assume that most Notre Dame fans actually attended the school. But if we are being honest, the majority of fans are WAY too stupid to actually get in to Notre Dame (myself included). So how does something like this happen? A rabid fan base crossing the entire country that all bleed Kelly green? Well, the first and most obvious answer is…

1 – You watched Rudy at a malleable age

You want to know how to make a grown man cry? Throw on Rudy and watch the waterworks flow like Niagara Falls. If this movie catches a boy at the right time of his life, usually around 10 or 11 years of age, when the hopes and dreams of becoming pro in any major sport have not been dashed, then that boy will never be the same. The probability of that boy becoming a Notre Dame football fan are impossibly high. The boy will want a Notre Dame varsity jacket, the boy will know the name Ara Parseghian, the boy will know the Gipper speech, the boy will find a stool to stand up on and say “were gonna go inside, were gonna go outside, inside and outside…”, the boy may even want that ridiculous middle bar facemask.

What’s even crazier about Rudy is that as you grow up and realize you will NEVER make it in any pro sport then the movie takes on an entire new significance. Some movies lose their luster as you grow old, Rudy ages like a fine wine. It teaches you that no matter what life throws at you, you have to keep fucking dreaming and keep fucking working to make that dream come true. I consider myself the Rudy of the publishing industry. All I need is one glorious play published novel to consider myself a success.

Rudy is so crucial to a Notre Dame fan’s upbringing that we can even forgive Sean Astin for becoming a #WhiteDudesForHarris member (and Frodo). To us he is, and always will be, Rudy.

2 – You grew up around Irish people

Irish people are a very fun bunch. This is undeniable. It is one of the reasons I wouldn’t trade growing up in New Jersey for the world. Jersey is filled with exports from the Emerald Isle. They drink, they dance, they sing, they laugh, and they don’t care how loud, long, or often they do so. The fact that one little island in the Atlantic has spun off such an amazing diaspora is a testament to the American dream. The Irish have a way of making you feel at home no matter where they are. They have a knack for pulling you under their wing and never letting go. You want to be around them and they want to be around you. And in order to really become one with the Irish, you have to root for their favorite team.

I met my best friend, Sean Smith, at the ripe age of 7. If you couldn’t guess, he is very Irish. He has gotten sun poisoning. He can chug a Guinness in 2 seconds flat. He can poke a hole in a can with his bare fingers and shotgun a beer all in one motion. He drinks, dances, sings, and laughs for longer than I could ever dream of. But most importantly, his dad was my lifelong football coach.

Big Sean, Sean’s dad, would lock us in the basement at a very young age to watch film. That’s right, around the age of 10 I knew how to read defenses and find tells in a Mighty Might team’s game plan all before I could get a boner. Football is in my blood because of Big Sean. It will never leave. And you know what we did after each film session? We watched Rudy of course. You know what we did after every Saturday game we played? Watched Notre Dame of course.

If you’ve grown up around Irish people and are as charmed by them as I am, then you really have no choice.

3- You are Irish

The cherry on top, for me, is that I am Irish too. My Grandmother’s maiden name was Kennedy. She had a picture of JFK on her bedside table. She drank scotch. She was a devout Catholic. She referred to herself as Carolyn Kennedy Muka, even though she never legally hyphenated her name. She liked clovers and green and she LOVED being Irish.

If you are Irish it’s hard to imagine routing for any other team. If there was a baseball team called the Fighting Cooking Cubans you bet your ass I’d switch allegiance from the Yankees. It’s just so easy to fall into the trap of becoming a Fighting Irish fan when you are a Fighting Irish yourself.

The craziest part about Notre Dame’s team name is that some morons have called for a name change. They find the name runs counter to their “morals”. “The Fighting Irish is a stereo type the Irish need to fight against, every day,” these weirdos might say (the irony isn’t lost on me). According to a poll the Irish’s mascot, a leprechaun, is the 4th “most offensive” college football mascot in the country. The dope Max Kellerman said “Pernicious, negative stereotypes of marginalized people that offend even some among them, should be changed.” This just goes to show that if you are listening to a talking head on a TV screen, you are doing it wrong.

Little does Mr. Kellerman know the term “the fighting Irish” was originally an insult hurled at the school and its players for being Irish and Catholic. But in true Irish Catholic style, they used this as a rallying cry. Instead of whining about the prejudice others held against them, they flipped it like B Rabbit in 8 mile and made it their team name.

Any true Notre Dame fan, especially the Irish ones, have a sick and twisted pride about the name. I would chain myself to the stadium entrance in protest if they ever thought about changing it.

What being a Notre Dame fan means

What it means to be a Notre dame to me personally is something that goes back to the days of the Smith’s basement watching film and Rudy and Notre Dame football. I feel like a kid every time I watch those gold helmets run out of the tunnel. Though at one point I had wished to be a Notre Dame player, I came to the realization that I am too slow and too stupid, but that still has not taken away my fandom. But what being a Notre Dame fan means to most of the world is…

1 – You are either loved or hated

Everyone has an opinion on Notre Dame. They are like Duke in basketball. You are either in love with the team or you absolutely abhor the team. This hatred goes deeper than just the team though. People hate the team, the pomp, the fans, even Rudy! It’s sad to see everyone who is not a Notre Dame fan hate them so much. It’s jealousy, I know. It can be forgiven. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t there at all times.

2 – You may never win a championship again

This is the bitter pill all Notre Dame fans must swallow. It is quite possible that the heyday of Notre Dame University football will never return in my lifetime. Notre Dame has won the 4^th most national championships out of all college football teams. They’ve won 13 to be exact. The problem is that the majority of those championships were won before the 1950’s. The last time Notre Dame won a national championship was 1988, 2 years before I was even born. Every year I go into the season with absurdly high expectations only to watch the team crumble against behemoths like Alabama or Ohio State. It’s a sad state of affairs when Notre Dame is losing to Northern Illinois, a MAC team, as three touchdown favorites in week 2 of a season you thought might be the one.

But there is clearly something to glean from the way I became a Notre Dame fan. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Rudy it is to never give up. I will bleed green for the rest of my life and I will follow in Rudy’s metaphorical footsteps. I will always have hope that Notre Dame will win the whole damn thing until my dying day. And if they don’t, at least I’ve been lucky enough to live a life surrounded by Irish people, rooting for the Fighting Irish.

P.S. – The NIU game almost broke my fandom. It was a pathetic loss I may never recover from.

P.P.S - The 66-7 beatdown of a dogshit Purdue squad last week has me all the way back into thinking this is the year.

P.P.P.S. – There’s nothing like watching a bunch of college kids try to get a ball across a line to make or break your entire weekend!

P.P.P.P.S. - Rudy was not offsides, you’re just a Notre Dame hater.

This is all new to me. I’d never heard of a lot of this stuff because I got my degree in Software Engineering and am a jock at heart. I know this might sound crazy, but when my friends and I go to the bar we very rarely discuss the importance of James Joyce in 20^th century literature. The most important topics we’ve ever tackled at the bar are which gambling apps have the best Notre Dame line (they were +3 this weekend and won outright, suck it A&M) and who is buying the next round of beers.

But there has been one large piece of discourse on Substack that has caught my attention that is actually bar worthy conversation. You see, a few of my friends have read my book. For some, this is the first book they’ve ever read. For others, it’s their second. The reason I wanted these uncultured, unread, and unhinged friends to read my book at all is because they are the toughest crowd to please. For instance, when I started to lose my hair they were the first people to forcefully tell me to shave it off. When I wore a pair of Birkenstocks out for the first time I was trashed relentlessly. If I happen to miss-match a color, or dress too fancy, or dress too disheveled, or dress at all, I will get shit for it. What I’m trying to say is guy friends pull no punches and they did the same for my book. But the main reason I wanted them to read it is because I wanted to see if younger men could relate to the character. So, when the topic of young-male-contemporary authors or lack thereof spread through Substack like wildfire (via pieces like ’s Do we really want more male vulnerability in fiction? and ’s From Misogyny to No Man's Land ), I figured I’d finally had a reason to tell my friends why I hadn’t been signed by an agent yet (besides the crushing fact that my book just might not be good enough).

Of course, they are aware of the stigma of being young and male in today’s day and age even outside of the publishing world. They aren’t blind or dumb even if they haven’t read the latest Taffy Brodesser-Akner novel (I know this might come as a shock to some of you). But when I explained to them that the possible reason I haven’t signed with an agent is because my young male character might be too “politically incorrect” or “too honest” about the male millennial experience, this didn’t surprise them.

“But isn’t your character half spic like you?” one friend might ask or “Is there even any money in writing a book anyway?” another might say. To those questions I really have no good answer. Yes, my character is half spic like me but he’s not saying the things publishers want to hear. And no, the question did not offend me coming from a friend who has sat at my dinner table, has hugged my Dominican born Nana, and is just making a funny fucking joke. Also no, I am not writing for the money (yet) and all I ever wanted to do with my book was to portray a millennial man-child who is struggling to grow the fuck up in the funniest way possible. But yes, I do think the book would be a hit, I think it would make any publisher money, and I think now more than ever people are desperate for a laugh when they crack open a book (which I provide in fucking spades).

But when a third friend asked: “You’re not gonna’ just let them win right?” … now that, that fired me the fuck up similar to ’s piece The American Man Is the Problem .

So, I’ve come up with a genius plan. All the young male writers need to learn a thing or two from the female authors of yesteryear. Remember, there was a time where female authors could not be published under female names, thus you have authors with the names of Isak Dinesen, The Bell Brothers, George Sand, George Elliot, and plenty of others. Even as recent as Joanne Rowling was thought to be too feminine of a name for her books about witches and wizards for God’s sake. She even decided to go male with her detective novels using the pen name Robert Galbraith! Seriously, what the fuck goes on? She’s J.K. fucking Rowling. So, it is completely understandable that females might not give a shit about our little problem of masculine voices in fiction. That doesn’t mean us guys should roll over and die. We’ve fought in World Wars, we’ve got stuck on the Titanic while women and children were whisked away on lifeboats, we even survive colds! So, here’s a list of pen names I may or may not have to publish under if my book is good enough to be published in the first fucking place.

A.J. Muka

Eh, I don’t know. A.J. sounds a little too masculine. Kind of like the douchebag you went to high school with who may or may not have a reputation for touching women inappropriately. I mean, the only famous A.J. I know is this guy:

If this guy doesn’t reek of douche-baggery I don’t know who does. I’m sure A.J. wants it thata way, but I don’t know how many more books I would sell by using that pen name.

Alexis Muka

This actually doesn’t sound half bad. It’s got a little housewife who drives a high-end vehicle vibe. Alexis Muka is a girl boss. She takes care of two kids at home and in her spare time writes a scathing novel involving a young drunk asshole trying to grow into a man. She speaks to our culture in a different way, she understands the male experience while being totally female. She calls out the hypocrisy of the sexual revolution, how it leads guys into thinking that sex actually comes for free with no emotional or physical cost because that’s what women want!

Little does the public know Alexis is a male and agrees – when sex comes with no cost for a guy he will take it 100/100 times and he will be worse off for it. Only when a boy falls in love and decides to dedicate his life to a woman (or in the novel’s case, a search for a woman who may or may not exist) can he truly become a man. But publishers don’t want that little lesson to come from, GASP, a guy.

Georgina Muka

Sometimes you have to roll with what works. Like I mentioned above there are two VERY famous Georges who are actually both women. Both of these Georges changed the world of fiction under their ugly pseudonyms. I’m not a big fan of the name George or Georgina personally but will do just about anything to get in the good graces of the publishing world. Though Georgina sounds like she wears WAY too much eye shadow and paints her grotesquely large nails in obscene colors, if the name works then I’ll go by Georgina for the rest of my living days.

A. Mann

The double entendre kills me here. Read that again and tell me that doesn’t sound like a woman’s pen name. The subtly, the beauty – this one is really a chef’s kiss of pen names. A. Mann, short for Anne Mann, was terribly misnamed by her parents. They did not know that she would be ridiculed by her young classmates from elementary school all the way through college for her rhyming name. “Anne’s a Mann, Anne’s a Mann” has rung through her ears since she was a little girl. So what does she decide to do? She decides to become a world-famous author by skewering the opposite sex in a raunchy, yet charming, MASSIVE debut about a millennial man-child who refuses to grow up. She is the darling of the publishing world and little does everyone know, she’s a man, man.

Honorable Mentions

Stephanie Queen

Dr. Suessan

Nicholette Flame

Jill Grisham

Dana Brown (this may be confusing to baseball fans)

(not the book agent, but the long-lost daughter of Charles)

P.S. – My wife actually came up with the idea to use a woman’s pen name. Genius level shit and part of the reason I grew the fuck up and married her!

P.P.S. – I’m clearly joking, but if a publisher told me to go more feminine with a penname in order to get published I would do it in a fucking heartbeat.

P.P.P.S. – I’m 34. The “young male novelist” moniker for myself is quickly dying out. I need to get published and fast or will have to use a totally different and younger sounding pen name. Lil’ Muka or Young M might work.

P.P.P.P.S. - Usually these longer pieces come out on the weekend, but I just couldn’t hold on to this one.

The best part about being in said nursing home will be that I will finally have time to talk to my wife again. This might sound weird to someone who does not have kids, but I haven’t had a meaningful conversation with my wife in three years. Sure, we talk every day, but this is how the conversations go:

               Her - “Did you pack the diaper bag?”

               Me - “No, I’ll do it now.”

               Her - “Did you take the garbage out?”

               Me - “No, I’ll do it now.”

               Her - “Did you call the Doctor’s office?”

               Me - “No, I’ll do it now.”

               Etc…

               By the time we are in bed, with the kids finally asleep, we start talking about our day only to find me one of us snoring mid conversation. It’s either that or we decide to watch a show because we can’t muster up the energy to talk and are both passed out before the end of the episode. This has happened so often that we’ve now started a list of shows we will finally watch when we are in a nursing home.

               Here is that list:

               Breaking Bad

               My wife has watched Breaking Bad, I have not. I know this is a sin of grand proportions but with so much good TV out there you are bound to miss one or two. The problem when one of you has watched a show and the other hasn’t is that there is no way we can justify using the one hour we have on making someone rewatch an entire series. I have made my peace with that and can’t wait for the day that I am 70 years old and finally sit down to watch the riveting tale of Walter White.

               The main reason I am so excited about finally watching this show in a nursing home is because I know the general premise. Walter White (or whatever his real name is?) is a chemistry teacher who finds out he can make gobs of money making and selling meth. Though I am aware of the pros of living in a nursing home, I also know the cons. It will be a boring end of life. There will be no parties, there will be no real fun, it’ll just be me, my wife, and the other old fucks waiting around to die. What better way to spruce up the last ten years on this planet than learning how to make some meth in the community bathroom and sprinkling it into an unsuspecting geriatric’s coffee in the morning? Imagine a nursing home filled with brittle, dementia ridden people hopped on meth? The scene will look like a Ralph Steadman illustration (or Florida, ).

If we can learn anything from the movie Happy Gilmore, usually the people running nursing homes are atrocious. I can’t expect any different when I enter my final abode. What I hope to learn from Breaking Bad is how to get an entire population hooked on illicit drugs, including the help, so I can take over the place myself. It will be my own little fiefdom and I will run the show.

Dexter

               Another show my wife has watched that I haven’t. I know, sacrilegious. But again, I understand the premise. A serial killer who only kills serial killers. This will be VERY important when I am in a nursing home. The reason being is you cannot choose your neighbors in a nursing home. Your neighbors are foisted on you. You can have a racist on one floor, a scizo on another, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. This is a big con. I barely talk to my neighbors now and they are decent people. Imagine being locked in a building with people you have no choice but to fraternize with?

               “No, Bob, I don’t want to play Pinochle with you again. Your breath smells like ass and your hearing aid is turned down so low you can’t even hear yourself fart.”

               What I hope to learn through watching Dexter in my mid-eighties is how to kill someone without getting caught. Guy next door is moaning to loud? Offed. Lady smells like cat piss? Bye bye, sweetheart. Some dusty fuck tries to flirt with my hot old wife? I’ll just have to make an example of the poor bastard.

               And in a way this will be similar to what Dexter was doing. These people are already on their way out, I’m just facilitating it a little quicker. Aren’t they already doing this in the Netherlands anyway? ( )

The Free Press

‘I’m 28. And I’m Scheduled to Die in May.’

Zoraya ter Beek, 28, expects to be euthanized in early May…

Read more

2 years ago · 654 likes · 1231 comments · Rupa Subramanya

The Walking Dead

               I think there is a theme here. Another show my wife has watched and I haven’t. But this one is the most crucial of the three. There is no difference between a nursing home and a zombie apocalypse. Think about it. A nursing home is just a place where skeletons walk around in a haze of dementia with no idea what they are doing or where they are going or how they even got there. Just like Covid, ground zero for a zombie apocalypse will for sure be in a nursing home.

               From what I am told, this show is based on different groups that form in order to survive when the zombies take over. This will be crucial to watch when in a nursing home. There will be BIG decisions to make on who the wife and I decide to spend time with while there. All it takes is one conversation to make a “friend” and the group we decide to roll with (literally) will be as important as the groups formed in The Walking Dead.

               Now that I’m thinking about it, I’ve just talked myself out of ever wanting to be in a nursing home. I’d like to spend the twilight years of my life catching up with my wife and my wife alone. Maybe in the next 40 years there will be some type of invention where old people can live their dying years out alone, at home, with dignity. Oh wait, there is that invention. It’s called having kids. We brought you into this world, kept you alive, changed your diapers, cleaned your ass – now it’s time to return the favor. Because there is no way in hell I will be caught walking dead (literally) in a nursing home.

Honorable Mentions

Peaky Blinders – I have watched this, my wife hasn’t. The only trouble with rewatching this one is that I will be forced to smoke unfiltered cigarettes with oxygen running through my nostrils, drink whiskey, and start talking in a brogue. My wife will surely hate this.

Sex and the City – I will never watch this show no matter what age I…oh who am I kidding? I’ve seen every episode of Sex and the City. I can’t wait to rewatch it. Especially at an age where getting a boner will prove difficult. The only thing I am afraid of is that a sex scene with Samantha will make my old heart burst.

The Leftovers – Isn’t that just the name of people living in nursing homes?

The Wire – This is one of my favorite shows. Part of me wants to rewatch it when I’m old but, if I’m being honest, I will not care about the state of the world or where it’s headed. Social issues will be far from my mind. If you think I will give a fuck about gentrification or the state of our inner cities when I’m pissing my pants, you have another thing coming.

Lost – This will be exactly what I am in room 3A at Complete Care in Shrewsbury, NJ.

The West Wing – At the age of 65 is when I will start my political career. Judging by our current political predicament in this country it will be a perfect time. My campaign will be a grass roots movement that runs through the nursing home I am stationed at and travels through all the nursing homes in America. Once I capture the geriatric vote I will move on to the unsuspecting American public with a clear path to the White House. I cannot confirm or deny if meth will play a part in this. Once I am elected, what better way to learn how my future job as President of the United States of America will work than watching The West Wing.

Veep – This watch will be for my running mate, my wife.

P.S. - I can’t wait to read this again when I’m an old codger and realize what a young asshole I was. It will surely bring a smile to my face.

But when you get there the scene is a rather serene one. Your wife and your daughter are wrapped in each other’s arms, on top of the bed, completely whole. Then you look at their faces. One looks like she has seen a ghost, the other is covering her eyes. I’ll let you decide on which was which. The one with the stare of pure horror is looking at the window. At this point you are expecting to see Michael Meyers waiting outside with a machete, soaked in blood, eyeing your house as his next target.  What else could cause such terror? But there is nothing outside. Just the trees in your front yard and a random person walking their dog.

They see the confusion on your face and finally understand that you don’t see what the problem is. Your daughter finally blurts out, “Daddy, get the bug!”

You finally feel some relief and, though you hate to admit this, annoyance. You look at your wife as if to say, “What, you couldn’t kill it?” Equal rights, equal responsibilities. Sorry sweetheart 😉. There is annoyance because you were busy downstairs, probably cooking dinner while listening to a podcast that was just getting good or rewriting a part of your novel in your head for the thousandth time, and instead you’re now trying to bring your heart rate down to a manageable level.

But the biggest feeling you have is purpose. You are filled with what Batman must feel like every time another piece of shit decides to take over Gotham again. Your daughter is looking at you like you are the only person who is up for the task and…your wife is too. You are the almighty bug killer. The savior of this family. Without you, the entire house would be overrun by errant flies and stink bugs. You are Bug Killer Man (it’s a working title).

The responsibility feels good. You smash the bug with a sandal, your reflexes are other worldly, and even though the bug was half dead and couldn’t fly, you feel like you can do anything this family needs. But once the cheers stop, the fans go on with their day, the glory fades, you remember there are a ton of things that you can’t do for your daughter.

For example…

You can’t teach your daughter anything about cars. You are useless when it comes to automobiles. In fact, you’ve never even bought a car yourself. Every car you’ve ever driven is a hand-me-down. You don’t know the difference between two cylinders and six, you don’t know what RPM is, and if you were tasked with driving a stick you’d be stuck in neutral with the engine spinning out forever. What’s even worse is that it was your wife who taught you how to change a tire. That’s right, your own wife taught you where to put the jack, how to yank it to get the thing up a few inches, how to twist the bolts off the tire, remove it, and reattach a new one. Somehow, this did not make her run for the hills. You are the Bug Killer Man after all. What would she do without you?

Another thing you can’t do is teach your little girl how to be a woman. Why? Because you aren’t one yourself. Let’s not pretend that being a woman and a man are the same. For example, you don’t have any hair, which rules out any lessons on how to properly shampoo, condition, and comb a set of curly locks. If you were in charge, her hair would look like Kramer’s from Seinfeld.

Being a woman in this world is a very specific responsibility and her mother will have the lion’s share of teaching the subtle nuances. But where you can be useful, Bug Killer Man, is teaching her the shit not to take from men. You are unique in this perspective because you have doled out your fair amount of shit to women. You are not proud of it. But because you were once an asshole, you can educate on all the warning signs that one is coming.

Because you feel useless in the lessons and ways of womanhood, and your daughter is two and not ready to hear all the way men can hurt her, you’ve decided to teach her how to pee out back. You’ve even been able to teach her this despite the lack of matching parts. Your wife can’t stand this. You can’t help but laugh. And while she squats there giggling her head off and a bee decides to go on the attack, you are the man that steps in front of it, fighting off a foe that moves faster than your eyes can gauge, taking a sting if you have to. You are the Bug Killer Man after all. What would she do without you?

Even though you are superhero in your daughter’s eyes, the most terrifying thing about being dad is that you will not be able to change the nature of the world or the people in it. The world is what it is. A terrifyingly awful place where anything can happen. It is a place filled with malevolence, greed, and so much dreadfulness you can’t even begin to describe it (can you tell I’m on a Cormac McCarthy kick?). But that doesn’t mean there isn’t beauty and goodness too. Your job as a parent is to educate your child on both - to open their eyes to all the good that’s around while also making sure they are equipped to handle the bad. And you can do this, you are Bug Killer Man after all.

So next week’s lesson?

How to kill a bug yourself, kid.

P.S. - When your little girl wants to see the bug after you’ve killed it, you’re doing just fine.

P.P.S. - Okay, maybe not next week’s lesson. You’d like to be Bug Killer Man just a little bit longer.

The bars go like this:

“First things first rest in peace Uncle Phil
For real, you the only father that I ever knew
I get my bitch pregnant I'ma be a better you”

How I’ve somehow concocted a piece connecting these lyrics and the latest news cycle I’ll never know. This is how my brain works.

The past two weeks have upended the world of politics. We’ve all been tuned in unless you’re living under a rock the size of a mountain (or you were holed up wherever Joe Biden was). Political turmoil is not a new phenomenon and if you think the world we live in now is any crazier than other historical moments (1968) then you don’t know anything about history. I will concede that it is pretty fucking nuts right now, but it’s not as bad as it could get. Which brings me to the point of this piece - the current moment is crazy, and will only get worse, because many people have lost their North Star.

In this case the North Star is not physical. It’s not a sparkling little light in the distance guiding our way through a desert (we have a compass in our pocket for fucks sake). What I mean by the North Star is someone to look up to. Someone to emulate. Someone to want to be like.

I can attest that without something to work towards, or someone to want to be like, I’d be lost. I am a carrot guy, not a stick guy. I don’t think about punishment, or about the depths of hell my bad choices can take me, but I often think about the man I want to be. How I learned what type of man I want to be was by looking at people I want to be like. And that right there is where our society has gone a little haywire.

I’ve put together a little guide for all those out there who are on the fence about who their role models should be. There’s a lot of noise out there. Choose wisely.

People Not To Look Up To

Politicians – The kernel of this piece started when I was watching show live at the RNC (Republican National Convention). The event was pure theatre and the analysis was spot on as it always is at The Free Press. is the best in the game. After the event was over there was a journalist outside who decided to do on the street interviews and there was one woman who caught my attention.

Interviewer: “What is it about listening to Trump speak that you like?”

Woman: “He is a great human being. He has faith, family, the American values intact. He is a GREAT human being. If only people would stop twisting his words there wouldn’t be as much opposition.”

For the sake of this piece, I am going to assume this woman is not in any way mentally impaired. I am going to assume she has all her chromosomes. I am going to assume that she never rode the short bus to school.

And then I’m going to say, what in the living fuck are you talking about lady? Sure, he’d probably be a better president than a vegetable but a great man? American values?

This woman has clearly lost her North Star because if you honestly think that this guy, or ANY other politician has even a tiny shred of dignity, than you’ve lost the plot. Politicians are vying for votes and they will do just about anything to garner them. They will say whatever it is that adds another little check box next to their name. I don’t care who you vote for, but what I do care about is pretending that a politician is going to represent some type of moral example. Uncle Phil is a far cry from Donald Trump. And don’t even get me started with Joe Biden. The Fresh Prince would have looked like The Old Crackhead by Season 2 if Joe Biden was head of that Bel Aire mansion.

Athletes – As a kid, all of my idols were athletes. I wanted to be like them in almost every way possible. Then I grew up and realized athletes are fucking DOGS. I get it though. I played sports and turned into a kind of half animal half human during the games. You have to be in a certain mind state to compete at the highest levels and it’s hard to turn off, but god damn…

Take Conor McGregor for instance. I was a super fan when he was coming up. A little scrawny Irish dude that could put peoples lights out with a slick left hand and a mouth to match it. Not only was the shit talking on point, but the way he spoke about dedicating his life to the art of fighting and how he was on welfare before his first UFC fight was all inspirational stuff. But when you put your eggs in the basket of looking up to a professional cage fighter your bound to crack some when it all comes falling apart.

Of course, the fall from grace was brutal to watch. Rape allegations, hitting old men off of barstools in pubs, etc…

I’m not saying all athletes are abhorrent, all I’m saying is maybe trying to be like someone who has all the money, power, and fame at their fingertips isn’t a good idea. Athletes are just one peg down from politicians in their ability to become corrupt.

Writers/Musicians/Artists – Creatives are often revered. They make beautiful things out of nothing and deserve this reverence. But how many of these fucks have ever had a solid personal life? Who has come out and said any famous rock star is a really good guy at home? What famous novelist didn’t have a brush with suicide?

Take Jim Harrison for example.

Jim Harrison is my ALL TIME favorite writer. Every book he’s ever written is the stuff I dream about writing. His best poetry book, in my opinion, is Letters To Yesenin. In this book he writes poems as if he were communing with the dead Russian poet Sergei Yesenin, who killed himself. During the writing Jim Harrison was going through a bout of depression himself and also had thoughts of suicide. This was his cathartic way of working through it. Just so happens he was writing this after his first kid was born. Eerie shit. Luckily, Mr. Harrison made it out of this mental catastrophe and kept on writing.

I always wanted to be like Jim Harrison. Big drinker. Big talker. Big eater. A gourmand. I even thought of poking one of my eyes out.

But after reading Letters to Yesenin I decided that maybe I’ll just be normal Alex. It’s not so bad a life.

Though there are plenty of examples in each one of these groups of people not to look up to, the ones you should look up to are a much tighter circle and you’ll know them when you find them.

People to look up to:

Dad – My dad grew up poor. He started a business from scratch and never missed one of my games. He was tough when he needed to be. He consoled me when I needed it. He never let me win a basketball game against him. When I finally did win, at the age of 17, it was the best day of my life. He taught me lessons. He still does. That’s a North Star.

Wife – My wife didn’t have the easiest childhood compared to mine. She also never complained once about it. She doesn’t complain much except if her back is hurting from taking care of two kids all day. Her back is probably also hurting because she carries this team family on her back. She does it with grace. That’s a North Star.

Grandma – Grandma had six children. Her first child died in the crib. Her oldest son died from AIDS by way of a bad blood transfusion. Her third oldest son died after spending years as a quadriplegic. Her second oldest son was in a car accident, then a coma, and was never the same. Grandma had every reason to be bitter at the world. But Grandma never was. That’s a North Star.

So maybe we need to look a little closer to home when we start putting people on a pedestal. Vote for who you want to vote for, cheer on your favorite athlete, read and listen to the artists you love, but these people aren’t Gods. At least not to me. The closest I’ve ever gotten to seeing God is at the dinner table.

P.S. - I started my Substack because I was sick of the depressing news cycle. These next 6 months are going to be as bad as it gets. If you or a friend need a reprieve from the madness, come on over and subscribe. The water’s fine, the drinks are cold, and we’re laughing into the abyss.

Princess Palooza in Point Pleasant, NJ. No, I’m not talking about a ladies drink free sweat fest in the back of Jenkinson’s or a gay only night at Martell’s or even a drag show down the boardwalk – I am of course talking about Disney princesses. As a father of two girls, you find yourself getting dragged to events you didn’t know existed and that you never thought you would attend in a million lifetimes. But when your wife asks your almost three-year old daughter if she wants to go see Disney princesses and you watch the purest excitement, almost to the point of tears, and a resounding, ear shattering “YES!! PWEEEEEASE!!!”, you have no choice but to tag along. You can’t miss a moment that your daughter might talk about for the next 24 hours until she forgets and moves on to the next thing. If you saw my daughter’s face and heard the next sentence, which went something like “Can I wear a princess dress, too?”, you would know I had absolutely no choice in the matter. I had to attend Princess Palooza in Point Pleasant.

Here's the thing - Point Pleasant is, well, not pleasant at all if I’m being honest. I’m not talking about the entire beach town, which I lived in for about a year, I’m talking about the boardwalk. Any person with a set of eyes knows that boardwalks are trashy places. Let me just throw out a few names and let the names alone conjure up images of hell. Atlantic City, Venice Beach, Seaside Heights (where the television show Jersey Shore was filmed). Need I say more?

I feel like I need to take a shower and get checked for syphilis after typing out those three locations. I don’t know what attracts the scum of the earth to these destinations but there is never any shortage of the worst humanity has to offer at any given boardwalk. It had been a while since I’ve been to such a place and I think I forgot where I was going because I decided to dress nicely – a polo shirt, shorts, and flipflops. It must have had something to do with my own daughter’s dress request. If she was going to go in a dress I didn’t want her shlubby father embarrassing her in front of the Disney princesses. I dressed for the occasion and for my daughter. To say I was overdressed is an understatement which will make itself clear in the subsequent paragraphs.

When we approached the parking lot near the aquarium I knew we were in trouble because the lot was full and there were about a hundred little girls in princess dresses in the parking lot alone. There were mothers pushing three pronged strollers and fathers being dragged towards the boardwalk and random kids running across the street with no care for looking both ways. All these little monsters had their eye on one prize – the princesses. I hadn’t noticed the adults in my attempts to dodge toddlers in my vehicle. In fact, I didn’t notice much of anything as me and my wife attempted to wrangle two kids and a stroller up to the boardwalk and then down on to the packed beach where the princesses would be performing on a stage in front of a blow-up castle (FYI – strollers do NOT work on sand). Once we found a spot, and I stopped sweating, my eyes finally opened to the hellish scene. I knew this night would be awful.

To start – there was almost a fight. A guy with lips tattooed on his neck decided to stand directly in front of a couple with two kids. That’s right – a grown man with the below tattoo on his neck decided to take the view of a poor little girl because he needed to get a better vantage point of some out of work actresses dressed up as Moana and Elsa.

Lips guy was of course yelled at by the girl’s mother, had some choice words for her until the father got involved, and then said, I quote, “It’s not like I’m the only one standing here.” If I wanted to get involved, and possibly throw hands with this piece of garbage, I would have said something to the effect of - “So if every pedophile jumped off a bridge, you would too?” But he wasn’t blocking my daughter’s view, so it wasn’t my problem. I’m no hero.

Luckily at these types of events I have a distinct advantage. I am tall and when you add a toddler onto my shoulders, she can see above almost anything. So at the stroke of 7:00 PM I propped her up onto my shoulders and waited for the princesses to make their way to the stage. You could cut the tension with a knife.

When I tell you I have never heard a more underwhelming sound than the speaker system they set up for this show, I mean it. The intro music sounded like it was playing off of someone’s iPhone. But that did not stop a raucous yell from all the children in attendance when the seven princesses walked out on stage. There were kids that made mad dashes towards them, there were kids that made mad dashes away from them, but even worse there were parents and kids who were running late that made a mad dash towards the beach from the boardwalk. The place filled up in under 30 seconds flat and we were now surrounded by hundreds of awful parents, with hundreds of awful kids.

If you’ve read this Substack before then you know as much as I may dislike individual people, I am pro human being in general. I have said, on this here Substack, that I think people should have more kids. I affirm life and think there should be more of it. But my faith was shaken in a big way as I stood there with my daughter on my shoulders, smacking my head in excitement. I heard insults hurled at kids from parents, I heard insults hurled at parents from kids, I saw pushing, I saw shoving, all in the name of getting a glimpse at some fake-ass actresses singing “Let It Go” out of speakers that were worse than my old Razor’s.

There was a glimpse of hope, however. About 10 minutes into the show my daughter pointed to the ocean and said “Oh look, the ocean. Can we go?” I immediately took her down from my shoulders and said “Yes, of course” when my wife barged in and said she would take her. I guess, considering my wife birthed her, she has first dibs on just about anything. So as my daughter and wife headed to my favorite place on planet earth, the Atlantic Ocean, I sat with the stroller and watched the show with my three-month-old who can barely see past her own hands. By “watched the show” I do not mean the Disney princesses. I mean the show of deplorable human beings I was surrounded by. One lady yelled at her daughter for not twirling enough in her princess dress for a TikTok she was making. One creepy guy shoved pizza down his daughter's throat unbeknownst to him because his eyes were glued on the princesses. There was even a loner, with no kids in sight, taking pictures with a very high-quality camera. What he was taking pictures of I do not know, but it was at that moment that I wished I had a Niqab or a Burka to cover up any female with the last name Muka. There are sickos everywhere.

When my wife and daughter returned, and my daughter asked to leave, I jumped at the opportunity. There was only one problem. A woman, who I can only describe as a vegetable, had been dragged by her awful caretaker to the show who was blocking the boardwalk I had driven my stroller on to get in.1 Imagine taking someone who cannot breathe on their own, cannot walk, cannot see, to a Point Pleasant Princess Palooza show? I shuttered and whispered to my wife that if I ever find myself in a vegetative-like state to please, for the love of God, smother me. Instead of driving the stroller on the path I picked it up, almost blowing my back out, and ran as fast as I could around the disgusting crowd and onto the boardwalk.

I had hit a low point. Was this the best humanity had to offer? I sure hoped not. I was expecting a depressing ride home. I tried to think about all the people I love and admire and respect but each image was getting shot down by the next group of toothless freaks walking down the boardwalk. It was at this point when a guy walked past us with a sweatshirt that said, “Don’t Let a Crackhead Out Hustle You Today”. You have to ask the question: who reads that shirt and actually gets inspired? I imagine this guy hanging this mantra up in his home like the sign in the Notre Dame locker room the players touch every time they walk out onto the field.

I was down bad. I wanted to flee. I wanted to leave and never come back. I wanted to curl up in a little ball and die. But then something magical happened. My daughter saw hermit crabs. She watched them crawl with such amazement that I had almost forgotten where we had just come from. Sure, the hermit crabs reminded me of the people climbing over one another to get a better view at the princess show, but her fascination with the little critters unthawed my frozen (no pun intended) heart.

We kept walking down the boardwalk and decided to take a detour through the section with rides. My daughter was in awe and I thought my heart was going to break in two when she wanted to go on them. My daughter is short and I thought there would be no way she would meet the height requirements for the majority of the attractions. If she wanted to go on one and was denied I would be writing an entirely different piece. It would probably read more like a manifesto in which, during the off season, with no one around, I would have the entire boardwalk booby trapped with explosives and taken down in one loud ka-boom. But luckily, she just made it by an inch for half of them.

We hit the spinning dragons, the teacups, a pirate ship boat ride, and she even went on her first ride all by herself. The joy of watching your kid on her first ride, smiling as wide as she can, arms raised in pure excitement, yelling and screaming “wooooohoooo” had officially restored my faith in humanity. It was a close call, I assure you, but my daughter rescued me out of the depths of Princess Palooza depression. That’s the thing with kids – they give you your lowest lows but also your highest highs. Be prepared. Cherish the highs. Because the lows…are fucking low.

The best part of having kids is their restorative properties. With every little smile they rebuild your hope. With every yelp of excitement any despondent thoughts of the future seem to drift away. Even the biggest cynic will find it impossible to look into a two years old’s smiling eyes on a Nemo ride and think anything less than children, and in turn humans, are a good thing. And even if half of them turn out to be the mongaloids I saw at the princess show, at least the other half has a chance, and want to go look at the ocean instead.

P.S. - The fact that my daughter wanted to leave the show in the first place means the wife and I are doing something right.

P.P.S – I love New Jersey but even I can’t stick up for boardwalks any longer.

P.P.P.S – I remain steadfast in my opinion – have kids. Even if that means going to a nightmare fueled Princess Palooza show.

P.P.P.P.S - The girl that sang “How Far I’ll Go” (the Moana song) killed it. That must’ve been what inspired my darling girl towards the water. The answer to the question of how far will I go for my children has been answered – I will go to the depths of hell (Princess Palooza at the Point Pleasant boardwalk) and back for them.

But the way my wife and her mother make meatloaf is the way that they named the movie Funny People1. It’s the exact opposite of what it sounds like. The loaf of meat is stuffed with layered cheese and ham so that when it comes out the middle looks like a heart stopping cinnabun. On top there is another layer of melted cheese. A more proper name would be Boeuf Cordon Bleu. It sits in the oven cooking in its own juices and comes out as genuinely one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten.

I’m sure most of you are now convinced I don’t know shit about good food. If meatloaf is one of my favorite meals then my poor taste buds need to get out there and experience the magic of good cuisine. I understand your concern. But do not fret. My pallet is fucking immaculate. My Nana used to cook empanadas in the Dominican Republic out of a cart. She then married a Cuban man who was a chef and restaurant owner who became my mother’s defacto father. He owned a few restaurants in Manhattan and cooked for Fidel fucking Castro whenever he came to New York (when Fidel was still allowed to, of course). Though he died before I was born, Nana learned how to cook all his Cuban dishes. I’ve grown up eating the best food you could possibly imagine and I am a sucker for great homecooked meals.

I’ve become somewhat of a cook myself. It’s the only way I can really bond with my Nana and tie myself to our Hispanic roots. I am a yuppy ass gringo for all intents and purposes. I cannot speak Spanish, I grew up in the suburbs, and I cannot dance the bachata. The way I really feel Hispanic is cooking a ropa vieja or frying up some version of plantains. So when I tell you this meatloaf is to die for, I mean it…and I almost did…

The other night I walked into the house to the amazing smell of the meatloaf in the oven and proceeded to have no less than five thick pieces. When I got up from the table I couldn’t get my back to straighten because my stomach was so filled. I often eat to uncomfortable levels but this was new. It was difficult to walk because my belly had formed into a 6-month-old pregnant woman’s. When my daughter jumped on me to “wrestle” I almost puked on her. I was convinced that I had over done it on meatloaf and that I would never want the meal again. The glorious smell in the house now made me queasy.

Lo and behold, I woke up the next MORNING craving MEATLOAF. It’s just that good. It got me thinking about all the things I should have ruined for myself but haven’t. I tend to take things a step further than the normal person – whether that be a joke or eating or drinking alcohol. I think it has something to do with acquiring a few concussions playing football but I can’t actually be sure. Regardless, here are a few things that I can overdo and not get sick of:

1 – Maduros

Maduros are a type of plantain you make when the bananas have become black as pavement. You cut them up, fry them in oil, and they become the most delicious morsel this mouth has ever tasted. One time I ate two whole plantains worth of maduros, puked, and then ate a third. My family should have started calling me Caligula Muka. It actually has a nice ring to it.

2 – Newsroom (the HBO show - not the actual news)

If you’ve never seen the show Newsroom I HIGHLY suggest you watch it now. Though the show only ran for three seasons it was quite possibly the best television show ever created. It had everything – humor, politics, relationships, current-ish events. I’ve watched the entire show no less than seven times and still tear up at certain parts. What can I say? I’m a sucker for highbrow drama and Fix You by Coldplay (if you’ve watched it, you know). The best part of the entire show is that you think there is no way you can look at Harry from Dumb and Dumber (Jeff Daniels) and believe that he is a top level news anchor. You couldn’t be further from the truth. Jeff Daniels will always be Will McAvoy to me. And Will McAvoy is above and beyond my favorite television show character (I like him even more than Tyrion Lannister). Will McAvoy drinks and he knows things x100. It would behoove the current “news stations” to give the show a watch and then try to emulate it. Maybe they’ll actually start doing the news again.

3 – Reading

There is no better feeling than being sucked into a book. I know this is not the way most people feel, but I’m the moron who still likes to crack open a good old-fashioned paper back. You know what’s even better than finishing a book? Having another one sitting there waiting to be read the minute I’m done. I can even re-read books I love to the point of knowing every sentence like a favorite song (Bright Lights Big City for instance). With two kids it’s been tough to find any spare time to overdose on reading but every time the wife and I hit a vacation sans kids I bring at least four books on the trip that inevitably put my bag over the fifty pound limit. I only end up finishing one.

For all the things I can gorge myself on there are plenty of things that make me sick after the first bite. These are the things that I may nibble on, but afterwards I do not want to touch again.

1 – Chocolate

Oh fuck off with your gasping as you read this. I don’t like chocolate. What of it? The taste just doesn’t do it for me. You mix chocolate with something good, like peanut butter, then I’m in. But chocolate for chocolates sake? Na. I’m good. One bite of just chocolate and I’m satisfied for at least a month.

2 – Politics

I watched Joe Biden walk out on the debate stage last night, wave and say hi to a non-existent crowed, and turned off the debate. Seriously, what are politics anymore? Two morons vying for my vote? I feel like I’m being condescended to at every turn. Unfortunately, this isn’t going to end until November. Someone, anyone, do something – please. It was once the American dream for a kid to look at the leader of our country and say, “I want to be President of the United States.” If any kid says that now they should be checked into a mental facility (or prison) immediately.

3 – Social Media2

I hate bashing people over the head on Instagram, Twitter, and Substack about my writing. Do I want the entire world to read and love my stuff? Sure. Do I like having to post about it every time I write something? No. Because I, like everyone else, get sucked in and when I look up and realize two hours have gone by I want to off myself. The worst part about it is that I know the minute I log on I wont be able to get off. It’s that damn algorithm. They know what I want and boy do they give me it. I can already feel myself getting sick of social media before posting this here piece.

Speaking of this here piece…I guess the entire point of it is really just me trying to rationalize eating so much meatloaf I couldn’t walk. Disgusting, yet satisfying. I’ve begged the wife to put meatloaf in the weekly dinner rotation in exchange for putting a timer on all my social media apps to 30 minutes a day. I’ll be happier and fuller for it. I know I didn’t come up with this groundbreaking theory but sometimes we forget - gorge on the things you like and purge the things you don’t. It’s really that simple.

This little bundle of joy didn’t stop there. No, no. I grew up to be exactly who I was as a child, albeit a lot hairier and uglier. I am still a high energy opinionated loudmouth and if it wasn’t for my general proclivity towards having a good time I think I would be the most insufferable person on planet earth.

So just imagine having to be my father.

It couldn’t have been easy.

But I’m realizing now, as a father myself, that my dad had a plan.

His plan started out straight forward. My son will go to college, my son will then work for me, my son will then take over the family business. God laughs at our plans.

Little did my father know he would spend an absurd amount of money for me to go to college only to have me come out the other side as a bit of a partier. By “a bit of” I mean I fucking loved to party. To me there was nothing better than going out at night, drinking to blotto with my friends, and waking up the next morning with plans to do it all over again. As you might deduce, this was not good for our work relationship. In lieu of my first year review my dad yelled from his office one random day and said, “You know you’re not getting a raise, right?” I yelled back, “Yea,” too hungover to give a shit. His plans were going to hell. He had to take matters into his own hands.

What my father did was diabolical. It was something no one expected. It was something so out of left field that it even surprised my mother. He faked a heart issue.

I remember the exact day my dad came home after a run complaining that his chest was tight. I didn’t think any thing of it except that the old man was getting older. A little five-mile run had the guy’s body in bits. I laughed. I’d never get that old, I told myself. This is hilarious to think about now. My body creaks and moans like an old house. I’m only 34. He was in his early fifties.

He decided to get it “checked out”. What a crock of shit, I thought. You’re fine, I said. You’re my dad, you’ll always be fine...

After a bevy of tests, the doctors confirmed my expert opinion. He was in fact fine. But my dad wouldn’t give up that easily. He went to see “specialists” and “heart whisperers” and after a few months my dad’s plan finally came to fruition. The doctor said that he had an “aortic aneurysm” (a bulge in his aortic valve) and if he didn’t get it operated on within the next two years it could explode. For those who don’t know what an aortic aneurysm is, just know that if your aorta pops you have about 4 seconds to say goodbye to your loved ones because that’s all the time you’re gonna’ have before your donezo.

After the diagnosis he came home white as a clean sheet. He was distraught, he was scared, he didn’t want to die, and most of all he was worried about what would happen to his family and his employees if he did kick the bucket. My dad should go into acting after the performance he put on. I bought the whole thing - hook, line, and fucking sinker.

It was almost overnight that I got my act together. Instead of watching full seasons of Mad Men at work, I decided to actually do my job. I took on a new role as salesman. “If I go, you have to keep selling. You have to keep the business running,” he said to me. My dad was more convincing than Daniel Day Lewis in There Will Be Blood. He really took the whole method acting thing too far when it came to the day of his surgery. He actually got an insane dose of anesthesia, they actually cracked his chest open, they actually took his heart out of his body, they actually fixed his aorta, and he actually made it out alive. All this just to get his son to not act like a shithead? Talk about desperate measures. He even went as far as having a massive flute inserted in his neck with all his “medications” right before I went in to see him post-op. He looked like a bloated ghost. Him and his makeup artist deserved an Oscar.

His devious plan worked. I was scared straight. I decided to grow the hell up. To this day my dad keeps this charade going. I can hear him ticking like the clocks at the end of Hook (they “inserted” a “mechanical valve” to fix his aorta) which is a constant reminder that just because he’s my dad doesn’t mean his aorta won’t blow. It reminds me that I have to continue to be responsible, just in case

As a father now myself I’ve been wondering how I can use my dad’s sick and twisted plan to my own benefit. I have a two-year-old that is just like me. She’s insane. When she’s on a roll there is no stopping her. She barely listens to her father (her mother is another story) and I love it. But sometimes even I need a break. And when I do, I grab my chest. I fall to the floor. I let my tongue hang out like a tipped cow. I stare straight into the air and try to slow my breathing. Even if she’s in the middle of riding our dog like a pony or throwing a vase filled with flowers or spilling her mac and cheese on the floor on purpose, she will stop. She will make sure that her father is okay. She’ll hug me and kiss me and then start laughing, just like I did when my father faked his heart issue. It’ll be the best 30 seconds of the day. So I have to tip my cap to my dad on this Father’s Day. It was a great plan. Pretend you’re gonna die to get your son to grow the hell up. I’ve used the same scheme to get a few minutes break in my household. Game recognize game.

I’d urge all the fathers out there to use this tactic. Scare the living daylights out of your kids. Make them remember how fucked they would be without you. If you’re a shitty father this method won’t work. If you’re a shitty father, as you fall to your knees grabbing your chest, faking your heart attack, your kid might be cheering. You might even catch them saying a prayer, begging the big guy to take you. If you’re really terrible you’ll see them clapping their hands and fist bumping their siblings knowing you are seconds away from being gone. But for the good ones, like my dad, this method is tried and true. Godspeed, good dads. Godspeed.

P.S. - I’ve seen my dad’s hospital records. This is a conspiracy bigger than 9/11 being an inside job. Even the doctors forged the papers saying he did in fact have an “aortic aneurysm” and he did in fact have “surgery”. 

P.P.S - Hug your dad if he’s a good one. Don’t make him fake a fucking heart attack (or have a real one).

P.P.P.S. - Shoutout to all the moms who did the work to make us dads… (Fellas, you might get lucky this Father’s Day if you drop this line on your baby momma.)