Sh*t My Dad Says

wondering why in the hell we were at Black Angus, given that this was not a holiday and there was no apparent cause for celebration. Generally, steak is eaten by my family only on special occasions.

My dad exchanged a few pleasantries, asked us how we were doing, how our week was, and then, as the waitress set down our steaks in front of us, he said, “I want to tell you a story about the time I get mono from a stewardess.”

He dove into a long, convoluted story about meeting some stewardess, how they “spent some time together,” and what followed.

“I told everyone I got mono from this stewardess. You know why? Because I couldn’t believe a woman that attractive would be with a guy like me, so much that I was bragging about getting goddamned mono. Then I went into the hospital with fucking Guillain-Barre syndrome, and it was a whole mess, and I almost died. Anyway, my point is: It took me a long, long time to realize that I was worth a damn to women. You don’t have to brag about getting mono.”

The three of us sat quietly for a moment before my dad called the waitress over to our table and said, “Let’s see a dessert menu, I’m feeling frisky.”

Evan and I glanced at each other, unsure if we were supposed to comment on our dad’s anecdote.

“Gee, Dad, that’s a great story,” I said sarcastically, trying to stifle my laughter.

Evan started giggling, which sent me into a fit of laughter. My dad shook his head.

“Well, you both can go fuck yourselves,” he said. “I’m trying to impart some fucking wisdom about women.”

This only made the two of us laugh harder, to the point that Evan was almost unable to breathe and nearby patrons looked sympathetically at my dad, pitying the man who had to suffer two such inconsiderate sons. But he just started chuckling as well.

“As long as you two jerk-offs are happy, I guess that’s all that matters,” he said, as the waitress returned with the dessert menu.

On Taking My First Girlfriend to Las Vegas

“Vegas? I don’t get it, neither of you are old enough to gamble. You’re not old enough to drink. The only thing you’re old enough to do is rent a hotel and—ah, I gotcha. That’s smart.”

On Realizing He Was Starting to Shrink Due to Old Age

“I’m five foot eleven! I used to be six feet, goddamn it. Boy, going bald and shitting infrequently ain’t enough for God, huh? Gotta rub it in, I guess.”

On the Death of Our First Dog

“He was a good dog. Your brother is pretty broken up about it, so go easy on him. He had a nice last moment with Brownie before the vet tossed him in the garbage.”

On Getting Dumped by My First Girlfriend

“Listen, I understand you’re upset. But you’re both nineteen, you can’t think you were only gonna screw each other forever. That’s just silly talk.”

On My Attempt to Hide a Hangover

“Coming down with something? Please. You reek of booze and bullshit. Don’t lie to a Kentuckian about drinking or horses, son.”

On Shopping for Presents for His Birthday

“If it’s not bourbon or sweatpants, it’s going in the garbage. . . . No, don’t get creative. Now is not a creative time. Now is a bourbon and sweatpants time.”

Focus on Living, Dying Is the Easy Part

“When I die, I die. I could give a shit, ’cause it ain’t my problem. I’d just rather not shit my pants on the way there.”

Although my mother came from a Catholic family, and my father, though not religious himself, developed a great understanding of Judaism and its customs, they decided to raise me and my brothers in a totally secular home. My dad is not a fan of organized religion. He’s a scientist, and he believes in science, and that’s that. “People can believe whatever the fuck they want. A turtle is God, whatever, I don’t give a shit. I got my own beliefs,” he told me when I first asked him about God over breakfast at age eleven.

In fact, the only time I ever experienced any sort of religious education was when my mother insisted I get in touch with my “Jewish roots” and sent me to a day camp in north San Diego County for kids who had one Jewish parent and one Catholic parent and wanted to learn more about Judaism. I lasted about three sessions before the rabbi complained to my parents that I just kept asking him to prove how he knew there was a God.

“Well, what’d you tell him?” my dad said to the rabbi.

“I discussed the idea of faith with him, and how God—”

“Listen, I think he just hates giving up his Sundays learning about it. No offense,” my dad said, cutting the rabbi off.

I never went back.

But my brush with religion had done nothing to abate my fear of death. Like a lot of people, I have always been afraid of death and plagued by the question, What am I doing here anyway? And having been raised with zero religion or spirituality, I never received any answers—or anything to comfort me when my anxiety got the best of me. Every once in a while I’d hear that someone famous or a friend of the family had died, and I’d start thinking about death and how I had no idea what was going to happen to me, where I would go, if I’d even be cognizant of what was going on. As my thoughts spiraled, my heart rate would quicken, I’d lose color in my face, and then I would have to lie down.

During a baseball practice in college, I heard that a kid I had gone to high school with had died in a car crash. As was par for the course, I got so light-headed I had to lie down. When my teammates and coaches asked why I was lying down on the field, I went with the obligatory no-one-will-question-this- excuse excuse: “I think I have diarrhea.”

I realized then that while my paralyzing fear of death probably wasn’t going to kill me, it was something I should learn to deal with in an adult way sooner rather than later. I decided to talk to my dad about it since he was the most unflappable person on the subject of death I’d ever met.

“When I die, I die. I could give a shit, ’cause it ain’t my problem. I’d just rather not shit my pants on the way there,” is a line I’d heard out of his mouth more than a handful of times. I wanted that same attitude. Or, at least, I wanted to understand how he was able to be so cavalier about it.

So one morning during college, when he was eating Grape-Nuts at the kitchen table and reading the newspaper, I sat down next to him and poured myself a bowl. After listening to us both crunch our way through two suggested daily portions of natural whole-grain wheat and barley, I spoke up.

“Hey, Dad. I have a question.”

He peered over the newspaper to look at me.