Anyway, I’m in this burger joint with some buddies Wednesday afternoon and I see this fella with a toe issue that makes me look like a foot model. Homeboy’s trotting around in flip-flops as if no one’s gonna notice that his second toe—I guess that would be the “index” toe if we’re using the finger nomenclature—is literally residing on top of his the gap between his first and third toes. Like toes one and three were messing around on the side and decided to move in together, thereby evicting the index toe, who, without any other recourse, decided to build a second story on top of the pad owned by the salacious 1-3 toe combination. And now all he does is sit there all day and listen to uno and tres go at it all day like the insatiable whores they are.

So I get up to go refill my large Diet Coke at the fountain because lunch isn’t over until my bladder is howling for sweet death, and on my way over I stop at the nasty foot dude and say, “Dude, your feet are fucking nasty, and I have webbed toes so I know what I’m talking about.”

And he’s all, “Hey, don’t try to bully me, man.”

“Not bullying. Just stating facts here. As a card-carrying member of The Fucked Feet Fellowship, I know some nasty when I see it.”

“Well, I think it’s only fair,” he says, “that if you think my feet are nasty, I should get to see if you’re just as nasty.”

“Wait,” I say. “Did you just call me out?”

And before he can answer me I’m ripping off my New Balance, peeling off my tube sock, and wiggling my ducky-ass webbed toes right over his burger.

“You think mine is worse than that?” he guffaws. “That’s disgusting!”

“Dude! Are you on glue? You’re sporting a double-decker over there! At least mine are on the same horizontal plane!"

Anyway, a crowd gathers and starts egging us on and long story short our bare feet touched and now I’m standing here naked waiting for my Silkwood shower. How was your day?

I can’t help it though. I love my pillow. It feels like an extension of my own head. I’ve taken it on trips all over the country. It’s comforted me when I’ve been sick. It’s propped me up while I’ve read amazing things. I think it’s fair to say there have been times when “Pilly” has been my best and only friend. It doesn’t judge me. It doesn’t yell at me when I fart in bed. It’s just a really understanding, really ugly, really smelly friend.

Still, as we learned in Fiddler On The Roof, there is a sunset for every sunrise. Every beginning has its end, no matter how painful it may be to face. As Bruce Springsteen sings in Atlantic City (which is the same jam in which he talks about blowing up the Chicken Man): “Everything dies, baby. That’s a fact.”

I guess what I’m trying to say is that last weekend I had to euthanize Pilly. I stripped it naked and threw it in the trash like I was a frat boy initiating a drunk incoming freshman. As we speak, my pillow, my best friend, is probably sobbing at the bottom of a landfill with the discarded food scraps and dirty diapers.

With my permission (and a 20% off coupon), Hot Wife came home last week from one of those linen stores with a two-pack of mondo, self-righteous, “oh-look-how-big-and-fat-I-am” pillows. No stains. No Danny scent. No personality whatsoever. Just a big, puffy bag of fluff.

The adjustment has been rough. The new pillow isn’t as malleable as my old one. It doesn’t smell like me, doesn’t caress my head quite the same way. My neck hurts. My soul hurts. But my wife has never been happier. She seems content with the fact that she no longer has to sleep next to my own little biology experiment.

But I’m not content with her being so happy so last night, right after she got into bed, I deployed the kind of throat-searing, eye-watering, septum-burning hate fart that borders on felonious assault. She started coughing and choking and waving the covers back and forth to try and dissipate the high concentration of ass blast in the air.

And that I was content again.

The tree has been thriving—its branches soaring so high into the air that it has become entangled in the telephone wires that outline the eastern edge of our property. Its branches are gnarled, round, eight-inch-thick fingers sprawling skyward from a twisted knot of a stump. It blocks the sun from my neighbor’s yard, and I decided this weekend that it was time to finally fix that.

I have not been thriving, at least not creatively. Six weeks or so ago, after I half-heartedly pitched another half-hearted book idea to her, my friend lovingly but candidly suggested I should consider the possibility that maybe there just isn’t a second book in me. Blasphemy! The thought had never occurred to me, and I was indignant that it occurred to anyone else. But my anger soon gave way to genuine self-reflection. Maybe she was right. Maybe the reason I’ve been having so much trouble with a second book is that I’m trying to force something that just isn’t there.

So I’ve wallowed. I’ve written sparingly. I’ve walked around with these thoughts in my subconscious, challenging myself to determine once and for all if I was a one-trick pony as an author. Has the writing career I’ve tried to craft for myself already come and gone?

I had no answers.

Saturday morning I grabbed an axe from my garage and began to chop away at the overgrown tree in my backyard. I’ve not had the opportunity to swing an axe all that often in my lifetime, but there is something viscerally and spiritually satisfying about doing so. And after about a dozen chops, I felt my chest open up. All of the angst and fear and hurt of the past six weeks was buried inside the branches in the path of my axe.

I was once taught how to break a board with my bare hand, and the primary lesson was this: don’t aim for the front of the board; aim for the middle of the chest of the person holding it. I adopted that to the swinging of my axe, and soon the branches began to come down faster. There were wood chips in my hair, in my face, on my clothes. I haven’t felt that strong a long time.

What I enjoyed most about the whole experience was the physical pain the next day. The sore ribs. The blister on my hand. The aching back.

For me, there is pain in writing—and that pain is the compensation for the hard work. We all want to feel something, and whether it’s the joy of seeing one’s book on the shelf or the pain that’s necessarily a part of creating something meaningful, the feeling is the real reward. The feeling is what reminds you you’re alive.

I have my answers now.

I was skinny and tall and I had a big nose and an overbite and I was Jewish and I wasn’t very good at sports. I was an easy target.

I was taunted and pushed and teased and pinned to the ground. My lunch was stolen and smashed. Things were thrown at me. I was called names like Jewboy and Skinny Bones Jones. I was slapped in the face. Kids bigger than me tackled me to the ground, straddled my belly, and held my wrists against the ground above my head. “Say, ‘I’m a Jewboy.’ I’m not getting up until you say it.” So I’d say it, and they still wouldn’t let me up.

I cried. I ran all the way home from school so the bullies couldn’t catch me. I pretended to be sick so I could stay home from school, but my mom was a nurse and she knew when I’d stuffed the thermometer under my pillow to make the mercury skyrocket. You don’t see many kids with a temperature of 108 degrees who aren’t warm to the touch.

I never learned how to defend myself. I never summoned the guts to fight back or talk back. I never did anything, and I’m not sure there was anything I could have done. The only reason the bullying stopped is because we all grew up and the other kids became more interested in other things, like girls.

I’ve heard the same stories you’ve heard over the past few weeks; the stories of kids killing themselves because they can’t bare the prospect of being bullied for another day or being involuntarily outed or ridiculed for who they are. It breaks my heart. It pisses me off. It scares the shit out of me.

I’m finding it hard to parent my children on this issue, and I think part of that difficulty is born from the fact that I am not merely an unbiased observer on this topic. It frightens me to send them out every morning into a world that won’t treat them well. Can I be certain that they’d come to me if they were being victimized in this way? Can I be certain that I’ve told them and shown them enough to know that they wouldn’t perpetrate this behavior on someone else? Can I sleep at night because I know in my heart that they’d come to me and let me shelter them before any situation would progress to the point that jumping off a bridge is the only solution?

I can’t know that. Even if I’m hypervigilant, I can’t know everything. And that’s terrifying.

My son has elected to write his report on the curved hockey
stick blade. 

It’s been awhile since I’ve shared some good reads so here’s this week’s Tuesday 10:

* Reading Sucks – Eric DelaBarre

* The Dr. Denis Leary Blogger Therapy Two-Step Program – PJ Mullen

* Check Your Balls – Fatherfolk

* Broken kids are breaking us – Annie Fox

* Curses! – Daddy Geek Boy

* The Cats in the Cradle – SAHD Story

* A Meaningful Playground Scene – Dad Wagon

* Father and Son Time – Super Daddy

* Scariest Day – Tales of a House Husband

* A New Approach to Health Care – Dad Gone Mad

To: Evans, Daniel

Subject: Your Referral

Dear Daniel Evans:

Your physician has asked for a polysomnography (sleep
study). The service requested is being denied by Piece Of Shit Healthcare
because there is a lack of medical necessity.

According to our guidelines, Polysomnography Studies (PSG)
is considered medically necessary when ONE OR MORE of the following indications
are present:

1. Witnessed apnea during sleep greater than 10 seconds in
duration;

2. Any combination of TWO OR MORE of the following symptoms of
sleep apnea:

a. Excessive daytime sleepiness as evidence by inappropriate
daytime napping (e.g., during driving, conversation, or eating)

b. Persistent or frequent socially disruptive snoring or
choking or gasping episodes associate with awakenings

c. Body Mass Index (BMI) greater than 30

d. Unexplained hypertension

3. Violent or injurious behavior during sleep

4. Excessive daytime sleepiness together with witnessed
periodic limb movements of sleep.

The documentation submitted by your doctor does not support
these criteria.

Sincerely,

[Illegible Signature]

Medical Director

Piece Of Shit Healthcare

***

From: Evans, Daniel

To: Piece Of Shit Healthcare

Subject: Re: Your Referral

Dear [Illegible Signature]:

I think it’s “medically necessary” for you to pull your head
out of your ass. It’s been quite some time since I was last tested for reading
comprehension but it seems to me the feasible way for a human being to meet
your criteria to have a sleep study approved is to have died. Or nearly died.

1. How could I have born “witness” to my own “apnea during
sleep” unless a) I’d been observed during a sleep test, or b) been
simultaneously awake enough to operate a stopwatch and asleep enough to stop
breathing?

2. Napping during driving? Really? If I may reiterate, the
result of such a physiological shitting of the bed would be death. Fiery,
bloody, tangled metal death. If I were dead, I wouldn’t need a sleep study. I
would like to have one so I don’t die. Is this a new concept for you?

3. “Frequent socially disruptive snoring or choking or gasping
episodes”? How does one measure this? “[Yawn and stretch] Morning, everyone.
Oh, did I disturb you last night while I was DYING IN MY SLEEP?!”

4. If you want to see “unexplained hypertension”, reject this
appeal.

Let’s boil this down to simple, legible language, shall we?
I wake up tired and stay tired all day. My wife kicks me all night because I
snore like a sleeping grizzly bear with a Z-Pak-resistant sinus infection and a
shedding muskrat stuck in his nose. I’ve lost my appetite. My writing has
suffered. And goddammit, YES, I’M IRRATABLE AND TENSE. WHO THE FUCK WANTS TO
KNOW?!

Mr. Signature, with all due respect, which in this case is
VERY little, I urge you to reconsider my request.

Sincerely,

Daniel Evans

Tired Guy

***

From: Piece Of Shit Healthcare

To: Evans, Daniel

Subject: Re: Re: Your Referral

Dear Mr. Evans:

Your tone is quite disrespectful. In the future I recommend
you speak more maturely and professionally when you plan to ask someone for help.
You get more with sugar than you do with vinegar.

With regard to your appeal, you have not provided any
additional information that would persuade me to reconsider your request. All
you’ve done is complain. For that reason, I’m afraid I will not be able to
grant your appeal.

[Illegible Signature]

Medical Director

Piece Of Shit Healthcare

* * *

From: Evans, Daniel

To: Piece Of Shit Healthcare

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Your Referral

Dear [Illegible Signature]:

Here’s some new information: you’re a dick and I hate you.

Danny

* * *

From: Piece Of Shit Healthcare

To: Evans, Daniel

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Referral

Dear Mr. Evans:

Very nice. But the answer is still no.

[Illegible Signature]

* * *

From: Evans, Daniel

To: Piece Of Shit Healthcare

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Referral

Dear [Illegible Signature]:

Yesterday some dillhole cut me off in traffic so I followed
him to the community college where he studies something useless and called him
every name in the book. I keep a small pair of nail clippers in my car and I
seriously considered trimming his fingernails way too short, just to demonstrate
to him him he picked the wrong guy to mess with. But I didn’t. But I could
have. But then I went home and wrote about him on my blog. You’re probably
pretty scared right now, but the reason I tell you this is because I want to
make it clear that I don’t take any guff.

So can I have the sleep study or not?

Sincerely,

Danny “The Clipper” Evans

P.S. — What’s Guff?

* * *

From: Piece Of Shit Healthcare

To: Evans, Daniel

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Referral

Dear Mr. Evans:

I’m not scared of you, but I’ll approve your sleep study if
you’ll just shut up and stop emailing me.

[Illegible Signature]

* * *

From: Evans, Daniel

To: Piece Of Shit Healthcare

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Your Referral

Dear [Illegible Signature]:

That’ll be just fine.

Danny

Some community college kid cut me off in traffic, twice,
nearly causing an accident the first time, both times wearing a big smile on
his face like he was proud of his recklessness and malfeasance, so I followed
him to his destination and confronted him.

“Proud of yourself, you stupid, emo, Flock of Seagulls asshat?” I yelled, although I was certain the reference would be lost on
him. “You trying to kill someone or what?”

“Fuck you,” he said unimaginatively. Clearly not an English
major.

“Fuck me? Fuck me?
Am I the one who blew through a right turn only lane and cut me off by six
inches? Am I the one endangering people who had kids in the car two minutes
before you pulled that shit? No, Depeche Moron. That was you.”

You should have seen this kid. His long hair was colored no
fewer than six different shades, he had big white plugs in his earlobes, and
everything visible was pierced. He was wearing eye makeup. His fingernails were
painted black. I don’t know what the kids are calling this particular style
nowadays, but let’s call it Daddy Never Loved Me And Mommy Turned Tricks For
Fruit Loops And Won’t Somebody PLEASE Give Me Some Attention.

“Did you really just follow me?” he asked incredulously,
like I was some idiot for doing so, which may in fact be true. “Jesus, get a
life, old man.”

“I have a life, you ten-dollars-a-unit Shithole Studies major. And I’m trying to keep it in spite of careless bastards like
yourself. Now run along to class before your mascara runs into your box of clove cigarettes, Jesus and Mary
Chain.”

(This is the part where I really would like to tell you that
I peeled out of the parking lot like a pimp but what really happened is that I
put my Honda in “drive”, checked my blind spots, and slowly, cautiously crawled
away with my hands at exactly ten o’clock and two o’clock on the steering
wheel.)

Anyway, I never got out of my car because I realized nothing
good would have come of that. I didn’t want to fight the guy, and I clearly
wouldn’t have pulled this stupid stunt if anyone else were in my car. But I
just needed the kid to know he doesn’t get to endanger my life and just drive
off.

It was, as stipulated above, a stupid move on my part. I
feel lame for having done it because you never know who has a gun in the car in
Southern California and I could very well be writing this blog entry from the
morgue.