Tag: nephew (Page 1 of 3)

Wow, Nephew on the Dead. You went to Asbury Park?

“I haaaaaaaaaaate this.”

I thought you liked the beach?

“It’s too hooooooooooooottttttt.”

Yeah, we broke the sky. Sorry about that. Why don’t you go in the water?

“It’s too coooooooooooooooold.”

Uh-huh. It’s only June. The Atlantic doesn’t really warm up until August, and even then it’s barely luke. The first week in September, it can accurately be described as “almost uncold.” But it ain’t the Gulf of Mexico.

“I also stepped on something gushy. Plus, I’m in a diaper. Makes swimming very unpleasant.”

Still in that diaper, huh?

“Y’know how the country has lost interest in the coronavirus?”

Yeah.

“That’s the attitude the Guy and the Lady are taking towards my potty training. The project has been abandoned. So maybe the proper analogy would be the 2nd Avenue Subway.”

Maybe.

“Where am I, again?”

Asbury Park, New Jersey.

“Why?”

Fun.

“It’s roughly a billion degrees, Uncle. It feels like the sun is sitting on my face. Sometimes I sit on the Guy’s face, and this is what I imagine it feels like to him, but hotter.”

Why do you sit on your father’s face?

“Because he lets me. And because I truly have no idea what the hell I’m doing. Lotta reasons, man.”

Okay.

“There’s no plan whatsoever. I turn three next week. I’m ad libbing here!”

You have the Buddha nature.

“I want waffles and broccoli.”

You have ice cream.

“It displeases me. Take it from my sight.”

You’re getting cantankerous, young man.

“Ah, I’ve been screwed up lately. You know the place that’s not inside? The place with all the people and trucks?”

Outside.

“That. Dude, I LOVE outside! There’s so many things to look at, or try to put in my mouth. And, you know, I get born on a litter. The Guy and the Lady call it pushing the stroller, but they can’t fool me; I know what being born on a litter looks like.

It’s a fine way to travel.

“The best! But the past couple weeks, Uncle? Weird vibes out there. Like something was about to pop off. Y’know how the air kinda shifts before a biker hits a prostitute with a pool cue?”

No. And neither do you.

“It’s like that! There is a great tension, Uncle! And babies are like dogs: We can see other dimensions. Spirits and ghosts and whatnot. But they’re all beyond language, so we lose touch with them once we learn to speak. It’s the first great heartbreak.”

Don’t be weird.

“I can’t help it. It’s hooooooooooooooootttt.”

You’ll be home watching terrible, vaguely creepy, incredibly cheap-looking, computer-generated cartoons soon.

“Not soon enough. Hey, what is this place behind me? Nine or ten guys who look and dress exactly like the Guy have brought their kids here to take pictures since I sat down.

That’s Madam Marie’s fortune-telling shop. Bruce Springsteen put her in a song.

“Ah.”

You gonna be all right?

“I’m about ten minutes away from a conniption.”

Have fun.

Hey, Nephew on the Dead! Long time, no see. Whatcha doing?

“Having a blast. Just enjoying everything life throws at me. I literally scream with joy several times a day.”

Nice to be a baby.

“Nothing’s gone wrong so far. I fell a couple times when I was learning to walk, but that’s the depths. I mean, look how I’m allowed to dress.”

There’s a lot going on there, Nephew.

“And yet I’m complimented everywhere I go. Hey, question.”

That’s what uncles are for.

“And I want the truth on this one, cuz The Guy and The Lady have been, like, whispering and tense about stuff around me lately.”

I will always tell you the truth, unless I need to borrow money.

“Cool. Here goes: What the fuck is going on?”

Pandemic.

“Uh-huh. What’s that?”

It’s a long story.

“I got nothing to do. No one’s time is more unscheduled than mine right now.”

Okay. There’s a new disease.

“What’s a disease?”

Oh, I don’t wanna tell you about any of this. It’s all so depressing and you don’t need to know it.

“Dude, I’m old enough.”

Still pooping in your pants?

“There’s other options?”

Yeah, you’re an innocent little baby and I don’t wanna tell you what’s going on. Just know that you’ve gotta hang out in the house with The Guy and The Lady for a while.

“No problem. I love hanging out with The Guy and The Lady. They’re probably my best friends.”

Probably?

“Might be Zebra.”

Is Zebra your stuffed zebra?

“Yeah. Me and Zebra are tight.”

Cool. Does that gun shoot bubbles?

“Like you wouldn’t believe. Uncle?”

Mm-hmm?

“Have I been born into an age of miracles?”

Kinda yes, and also kinda no. It’s complicated.

“Good to hear. I’m gonna shoot some bubbles, and then chase after the bubbles swatting clumsily at them, and then stare at a piece of wood for five minutes. And I’m gonna giggle angelically throughout the sequence.”

God bless you, Nephew on the Dead.

“Back atcha. You sure you don’t wanna tell what this pandemic thing is?”

I am quite positive.

“All right then.”

Hey, Nephew.

“Dog.”

Yeah. Little guy. You and him getting along?

“He’s all right. I’ve been trying to talk the Guy and the Lady into getting me a dog. I promised to clean up after it.”

You don’t even clean up after yourself.

“That’s the joke.”

Ah.

“Where did these things even come from?”

Dogs?

“Yeah.”

We made ’em.

“Is there a factory?”

Not like that. We took wolfs and pussified them.

“I don’t get it.”

About 20,000 years ago, a cold, hungry, probably pregnant she-wolf decided to tolerate human beings for a spot by their fire and a share of their food. Maybe her pack had died or chased her off. She had babies and they were raised by human hands. The friendliest and second-friendliest of the litter were mated. Or could be a stone age tribe and a family of wolfs had a symbiotic hunting relationship. We’ll never know exactly how it happened, but it must have been according to the wolf’s agenda at first.

“Why?”

Try keeping a full-grown wolf where it doesn’t want to be. You’d have to pen it, and these people don’t have the ability to forge metal yet, so they’d need to make the cage from wood, and that would be an enormous expenditure of time and calories and resources for no return. If you put a chicken in a coop, it makes you eggs, and if you keep a cow in a barn, you get milk, but a captive wolf provides no benefit to the tribe and will almost certainly escape and eat several or more people.

“So, dogs chose to evolve?”

Not, like, consciously. In a trans-temporal trans-species kinda way. You could write the evolutionary imperative into the story if you felt like it.

“I so rarely understand what you’re talking about.”

You’re a baby.

“I don’t think that’s it.”

Probably not.

“So how did the big bad wolf become this little dingus?”

We bred for friendliness, and it turns out what that does is lock the animal into a permanent childhood. Dogs resemble wolf pups way more than they do adults, in appearance and behavior. And other stuff started happening, seemingly unrelated stuff. Tails began to vary, and ears got floppy, and coat color went from gray to everything-you-can-think-of.

“Why?”

Genes are like the Saudi royal family: everything’s related, but beyond that is somewhat unknowable.

“Great, so we made dogs. Why?”

Well, they used to have jobs. That little dingus is a terrier, and they were bred to kill rats and similar varmints.

“This little dingus?”

Oh, yeah. Mean little cusses, terriers.

“What do they do nowadays?”

Netflix and chill.

“And that’s all they do?”

What do you do?

“Touché. Uncle?”

Yeah, buddy?

“It’s ‘wolves.’ The proper pluralization of ‘wolf’ is ‘wolves.'”

I don’t say that. I say “wolfs.”

Goddamn, you are a well-dressed baby, Nephew on the Dead.

“I have a natural eye. This season, I’m all about mixing vintage with ironic.”

Awesome.

“I also have dogs on my knees.”

That is both true and adorable.

“Uncle?”

Yeah, buddy?

“All my clothes are bright-colored and have dinosaurs and bulldozers and giraffes all over them. But, like, no adults dress like that.”

They don’t.

“Why not?”

No idea. Absolutely no idea. We should. It would make every facet of existence better. There should be spaceships and dragons on every stitch of clothing, including military uniforms. The navy could have duckies, and the Army could have horsies, and everyone would just walk around all day being amused by one another’s pants. It’s a paradise I’m describing here, Nephew.

“Uh-huh. Question.”

Shoot.

“And don’t be offended.”

You could never, buddy.

“Are you the weird one in the family?”

Oh, yeah. By a large margin. There’s not even a runner-up, really. All other adults in the clan have lingering and active doubts about my influence on you.

“Awesome.”

Right?

“Will you buy me beer?”

Now?

“No. Wait, would you?”

No. I would order you a shandy, maybe. But that’s a summer drink. Maybe a spritzer, but no that’s also too summery–

“Forget I asked.”

Done.

“Where does the garbage go?”

Oh, is that what you’re doing?

“Me and The Guy are gonna take out the garbage. There’s a door in the wall and the bag goes in there and then…well, there’s my perimeter of my knowledge. Makes a spectacular noise. I was thinking that when I get a little bigger, I should chuck a bunch of stuff in there.”

Do not do that, Nephew.

“I’m absolutely going to. The garbage hatch is mysterious and wonderful, and the handle is shiny. Shiny is nice. The noises, once again, are top-grade. Could listen to those noises for hours. Put the bag in. Where does it go? I do not know, and therefore I love the garbage hatch.”

The trash just falls into a dumpster, buddy. There’s no mystery to it.

“A dumpster? And then where?”

A garbage truck.

“New York’s Sanitation Department is the least respected and most necessary branch of the civil service.”

You’ll get no argument here.

“Where does the garbage go after the truck?”

A processing plant.

“What happens there?”

The garbage is processed.

“And then?”

Having undergone processes, the garbage is placed on a sub-type of barge known as a scow.

“And then?”

Scow goes to a landfill.

“What’s a landfill?”

We dig a hole and throw trash in it.

“Dig a hole? That’s our solution to unwanted refuse? Bury it and walk away?”

Oh, no. You can’t walk away. If you leave a landfill alone, it becomes a giant trash-bomb.

“The corpus of humanity’s daily life must be tended to and appeased, lest it erupt with murderous fury? Has anyone else noticed the metaphor?”

Several have. None were listened to.

“The human condition.”

Oui.

“Dude, you see this blackberry?”

The one on the floor?

“Yeah.”

Yeah.

“I’m gonna eat the shit out of that.”

Go to it, Nephew.

Oh, no!

“What!? What’s happening!?”

They’re cutting your beautiful hair, Nephew on the Dead!

“Is that what’s going on?”

Yeah.

“Huh. Well, at least we’re getting it out of the way.”

Nope. Gonna be doing this the rest of your life.

“You’re pulling my pud.”

Language.

“The rest of my life? How long is that?”

You’ll make it to 90 without trying. Unless civilization collapses.

“What are the odds on that?”

6-to-5 and pick ’em.

“If you say so. What is this called again?”

Haircut.

“And I do this…forever?”

Yes.

“Do I get to sit on The Lady’s lap?”

Not much longer. It starts to look creepy once you hit your teens.

“Oy. Any other recurring activities that no one warned me about?”

So many. Hygiene, buddy. Gotta shower and brush your teeth every single day. Cut your nails. Wait until you start shaving. You’re gonna hate it.

“What I’m hearing is that life is nothing but a never-ending slog of personal upkeep.”

Precisely.

“This blows.”

It does. Laundering oneself is a tedious and Sisyphean chore.

“Not optimal. Gotta tell ya, Uncle. This is not optimal.”

It’s not. Our bodies are made of filth. It’s a never-ending battle against stink and ass-cheese. Humans generate their own gravy.

“First of all: eww. Second: what if I want to wear my hair long?”

Like Axl?

“Just like Axl, yeah.”

Well, you’re gonna need to learn how to talk so you can tell your parents that.

“I’m almost there! I can say ‘dog.'”

Yeah?

“Yeah. But it comes out ‘duck.’ And half the time I say it about cats. Or mailboxes.”

Close enough.

“Do I get to keep the cape?”

You do not get to keep the cape.

“This deal is getting worse all the time.”

Sorry, Nephew. Welcome to the world.

Nice! I like that shirt, Nephew on the Dead.

“Yeah? You into Queen?”

Hugely so.

“Uh-huh. What’s the second verse to The Fairy-Feller’s Master Stroke?”

What now?

“Who opened for them on the Day At The Races Tour?”

Why are you asking me these things? It was Thin Lizzy, by the way, but what’s going on?

“A lot of people say they’re Queen fans, and what they mean is that they have the Greatest Hits album. Filthy casuals.”

Nephew!

“I’m messing with you. I have no idea who Queen is. You know I don’t choose my own clothing, right?”

I forgot. You sound so mature sometimes.

“The Guy put this on me. He was giggling the whole time.”

He and your mom have worked out a rather strict arrangement of how much goofy Rock and Roll bullshit he’s allowed to dress you in. If it weren’t for her, you’d look like a tiny merch table and have a mural of KISS fighting the Planet of the Apes in your room.

“That sounds terrifying.”

In the dark, to a baby? Wow, yeah. I’ll tell him not to do that. How’s the walking coming?

“Dude, I walk so good. I can walk to anything I want to walk to. Just gotta be level ground. And clear. Gotta be clear. The other day, I wanted to be by the window. You know the window?”

I do.

“Love the window. I’m by the front door closet looking at the doorknob. Then I wanted to be by the window. When I try to walk across the room, my giraffe is on the floor. You know my giraffe?”

I do.

“Love my giraffe. And I couldn’t decide whether I should stop and pick him up or step over him, so I kinda did both. I went ass over teakettle.”

You’ll get better at everything. Don’t rush it.

“Gotcha. Who is this Queen person on my shirt?”

It’s a band. They played loud and were from England.

“Ah. Pass.”

You haven’t even heard them.

“I might have. It all sounds the same to me. Y’know what I dig?”

What?

“Baby music! I get up and dance, man. Acoustic guitar, some silly lyrics: that’s my jam. Maybe some harmonizing. I love that stuff.”

But why?

“Why do I like Baby music? Because I’m a baby, dummy. The corpus of material and method of presentation has been pared through evolution over years. Baby music was perfected, and essentially weaponized, sometime in the 1990’s by the CIA through their asset, Codename: Raffi.”

…

What?

“Messing with you. I like Baby music because I’m a baby! Bouncy and happy and repetitious with silly lyrics.”

You should listen to Phish.

“I’ll make a note of it once I learn to write.”

Love you, buddy.

Hey, Nephew on the Dead.

“Uncle?”

Yeah?

“Dude?”

Uh-huh?

“What the fuck?”

Aw, c’mon, buddy. Language.

“What is going on? Why does the world hurt?”

That’s called winter. It’s getting cold.

“Today? Is winter like Halloween? Is it just a one-day thing? This is just today, right?”

No. Won’t be warm again for six months. I mean, it shouldn’t be. But there’s probably gonna be a lot of 70 degree days because we broke the sky right before you were born.

“Please make sense, Uncle.”

Sorry, buddy. In the general sense, the next half-year is gonna be way chillier than the half-year we’re emerging from.

“Was this expected?”

Yes.

“Why does it happen?”

The truth or the baby version?

“Baby version.”

Allfather Odin has entered his sacred sleep and the Frost Giants have rule of the land.

“That is very metal.”

The world’s as metal as you make it, Nephew.

“Back to the weather. Is this as cold as it gets?”

God, no.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. It’s like the air is made from scalpels and hatred. It gets worse than this?”

Yes. Right now, the temperature where you are is in the 40’s.

“I have no referent for that number.”

Remember when it was nice and warm?

“Uh-huh.”

That was 80.

“Okay. And it’s 40 now. Okay. How much colder than this does it get?”

40 colder.

“DUDE!”

Not always. Just for a couple weeks, usually.

“This is not okay. Who do I speak to about this? The Guy or the Lady?”

Neither?

“Grandma?”

It’s the weather, buddy. Can’t do anything about it but complain.

“What about voting? People keep telling me how important that is.”

The weather does not respond to plebiscite.

“Wait. Is this everywhere?”

Winter?

“Yeah.”

No.

“You’re pulling my binky.”

No. There’s plenty of places in the world where they never, ever, ever have winter.

“Civilized places?”

Florida, Australia, San Diego. So: no civilized places.

“Why the hell are we living here in this frozen wasteland then?”

You have to live in Brooklyn. Your parents are foodies.

“The Guy ate a slobbered-on chicken nugget I dropped on the floor.”

Your parents still consider themselves foodies. Kid, you’re stuck there in the cold.

“Nuts. Uncle?”

Yeah, buddy?

“What’s going on with my headgear situation?”

I honestly have no idea. It seems like a chicken to me.

“They just jam stuff on my head, man.”

You make it work.

“It’s in the attitude.”

There ya go.