Is There Any Dolphins Still Alive?

Listen, Panini's my best friend and OG is my favorite and Boni is the Queen Goddess, but Broosevelt is my guy. I don't necessarily espouse the philosophy of bros before hoes, but only Broosevelt and I sit for hours in front of an NBA playoff game, give each other hi-five's when we fart, and cross the streams when we pee. We have a special relationship, he's a special guy, and I desperately want you to understand who he is. 

Broosevelt is a 9-year-old boy with fair skin and a blond head of hair. He weighed in at exactly 4 pounds when he was born and he is still short and weak. He just started being able to do push-ups in the last few months and his core strength is zero. He's got heart though. Every time I beat him in 1-on-1, he's like, "Another one!" Eventually he cries, but he always says it was worth it.

Broosevelt plays piano, enjoys math, loves geography, and is obsessed with statistics, names, numbers, addresses, and capitals.

Broosevelt is clearly like his father in many ways, but he is also very much unlike me: He is sensitive, anxious, and kind. He is nice to the boys and the girls, he hugs his teammates when they strike out, and he sometimes thinks about death before falling asleep.

A year or so ago, Broosevelt started asking questions. A lot of them. I don't remember when and I sure as hell don't remember why, but on some random occasion, Broosevelt looked up from his cream cheese and jelly sandwich and, with total sincerity, asked, "Is there any dolphins still alive?"

That question, in addition to countless other gems, led the Boss and me to start keeping a list of some of the insane shit he has asked. We are not the list-keeping type, but I believe that these questions will help reveal to you, my wonderful readers, exactly who Broosevelt is.

Saul freely acknowledges that he has, at times, misled, embellished, obfuscated, and perhaps even outright lied. Though some of the questions and conversations detailed in this post may seem truly unbelievable, they are all 100% accurate and real. Enjoy.

Broosevelt is curious. He has asked, "How do traffic lights work," "If you had a finger between your thumb and your pointer finger, what would you call it?," and "Can people eat squirrels? Are they yummy?"

Sometimes though, he's more clueless than curious. After two gout-inducing buffet breakfasts, Broosevelt asked, "Is bacon a vegetable?"

Rather than laugh in his face, I gave him three choices:

A. Bacon, like sausage, comes from pigs

B. Bacon, like lettuce, comes from plants

C. Bacon, likes corn, comes from the earth

He guessed C.

We make fun of Broosevelt for his cluelessness. Sometimes he gets upset. Sometimes he laughs it off. Sometimes he doesn't even realize he's being made fun of. On a random Monday night during a totally normal week of school, Broosevelt asked, "Is there school tomorrow?"

I said, "Yeah buddy, there's school tomorrow," and then his sisters and I proceeded to tease him for asking if there was school tomorrow because of course there was school tomorrow. The laughter died down and a few seconds later, Broosevelt asked, "So, is there school tomorrow?"

Sometimes Broosevelt is funny by accident. One night I was putting him to bed and he kept peppering me with questions. Finally I said, "Broosevelt, it's official. I can't talk to you anymore. Goodnight." And he said, "Oh, it's official, like the Bill of Rights?"

Sometimes Broosevelt is funny on purpose. A few weeks ago, I came home from work and asked him how his day was. He said, "Well, I tried to make a Minecraft cowboy but I made his nuts too big so it didn’t work out."

Broosevelt, understandably, thinks I know everything. He has asked, "Who is the best player on Paris Saint-Germain?" and "Who is the best WWE wrestler of all time?"

And recently he asked, "When was James Madison born?"

I responded, "I'm not sure. Some time around 1740?"

"No, I mean his birthday."

Broosevelt can be philosophical. He has asked, "Why is it not possible to travel through time?" and "I feel like when you’re living inside earth, it’s hard to believe that earth is round. Don’t you think?"

But he's also pragmatic (read: crafty Jew who understands the value of a dollar). Two days after Christmas last year, he said, "At what age will I need to buy people Christmas presents? Can it be after my Bar Mitzvah? Because I'll have more money then."

Broosevelt is honest and direct. As he was getting his ass kicked in a game of UNO, he groaned, "Ughhhh, I don't like people!" 

But sometimes he is confused and unclear. Broosevelt and I were watching March Madness, and Princeton was up by 15 on #7 seed Missouri after already having knocked out #2 seed Arizona in the first round.

Broosevelt exclaimed, "Man, Princeton is literally on fire!"

I said, "Nope, they're not."

A few minutes later when Princeton was up 20, he said, "Ok, now they're literally on fire!"

"Nope, they're still not."

"Yes, they are!"

"Broosevelt, if they were literally on fire, they'd actually be on fire."

And then Broosevelt was silent.

Sometimes Broosevelt just wants answers. One day he asked me, "Are aliens real?"

I said, "What do you think?"

"I think they're not."

"Ok."

"So are they?"

But sometimes Broosevelt is very far away, thinking his thoughts, unaware of the world around him. This past April, we were in California for spring break. In the middle of a long, spectacular drive along the cliffs of the Pacific Coast Highway, Broosevelt said to the Boss and me, "Do you use Yelp?"

Sometimes it's hard to tell if Broosevelt doesn't know how to articulate his question or if he's just downright stupid. In February, he asked, "How are some countries better than ours?"

And then in May, while watching an NBA playoff game, he turned to me and asked, "Do most NBA players play with shoes on?

Sometimes Broosevelt is perfectly articulate and perfectly stupid. For his wax museum project at school, Broosevelt learned everything he could about Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Though Broosevelt is fully aware that Abdul-Jabbar is currently over 70 years old, this past February, he asked, "Will Kareem start playing again since LeBron broke his record?"

Broosevelt is young and innocent. In a tv commercial, a man and and a woman started passionately kissing and then they got into bed with almost no clothes on and then the commercial showed a condom and Broosevelt said, "I don't think anyone's gonna buy that!"

But Broosevelt also understands the way the world works. He asked, "How is safti (Israeli grandmother) such a good cook? Does it come naturally?" 

And he likes to use a line he stole from his friend: "Martin Luther King wouldn’t have done all that if he were white."

Sometimes Broosevelt is smart when he's dumb. He asked, "Are all flags a rectangle?" and I judged him for his dumbness until I googled it and learned that Nepal has the world's only non-rectangular flag.

Sometimes Broosevelt is dumb when he's smart. A few months ago, he asked, "How long has the war in Ukraine been going on?"

I said, "About a year, I think."

"So like, since last January?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"Do they use swords?"

From the moment the following question was asked through the time of writing, we still do not understand Broosevelt's intent. All we know is that we were an hour into Footloose, set in the early 80s in small town America, and as Kevin Bacon and the preacher were engaged in a tense conversation, Broosevelt asked, "Is this World War II?

Crisis at the Urinals (Part II)

The following is Part 2 of a 2-part series on the previously discussed urinal crisis.

Having covered the ridiculous way in which some boys pee, I would like to describe a moment to you in which I was relaxedly urinating and then, within a split second, felt panic and fear.

Draining the main vein is a pleasant experience and I was enjoying it thoroughly when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the young man next to me finish his pee, step back from the urinal, and motherfucking karate kick the urinal handle. The kid was around my height and the handle is well over 4 feet high, so flushing with his foot was a somewhat impressive athletic feat.

I was shocked. Dismayed. Utterly aghast. I tried to delete the experience from my mind, bury it deep down in my emotional wasteland with other forgotten memories including, but not limited to, scalding new-born Panini with boiling hot water, nearly breaking OG’s finger by furiously spinning her on a ride at the playground, and desperately trying to pause Game of Thrones during a gratuitous lesbian sex scene as my sweet innocent beautiful blond baby boy Broosevelt walked in the room last night.

But I couldn't bury having witnessed the foot-flushing because I saw it happen again. And again. And again.

Clearly this was a trend, not an anomaly, so I decided to process it with a group of people whom I trust dearly: my students. I shared every detail of my bathroom experience and once they had gotten over the horrible awkwardness of hearing a story about their teaching urinating, I said, "Look, this is a safe space and I promise I won't judge anyone in this room. I just need to know how many of you flush with your feet."

More than half of the hands in the room went in the air. 

I couldn't believe what I was seeing, so we talked about it. Girls were definitely more likely to foot-flush, but boys did it too. I asked them why, and they mentioned things like germs, general grossness of going to the bathroom at school, and, well, that's just how they do it.

I judged the shit out of them and went home to talk to my wife and kids about it.

Sure enough, the Boss foot-flushes too. "But only in public places," she said.

"So let me get this straight," I said. "If all you do is open a stall, sit on a toilet, wipe your pee, and close the stall, you still wash your hands, right?"

"I guess so."

"And the sink is only a few steps away, right?"

"Yeah."

"So then you acknowledge that flushing with your feet is completely fear-based and irrational, right?"

"You're the best husband ever. I love you."

Seriously though, this makes no sense. When you go to the bathroom, you're already theoretically covered in germs and therefore immediately wash your hands, so what difference does it make if you touch the handle before doing so?

Not only is this act irrational, it's also incredibly self-centered. People who foot-flush know perfectly well that not everyone else foot-flushes, yet they willfully place their piss- and shit-stained shoe soles where other people place their hands.

Let me rephrase everything I am saying: If you flush with your feet, you are an awful person. Though I suppose you can't control your anxiety, you can most certainly control your nonsensical, narcissistic behavior and I hate you very much. While some of us continue to maintain our sanity by pushing the toilet handle with our hands, we are currently in the midst of a fear-based, foot-flushing pandemic.

As established in Part 1 of this series, anxiety is at the root of diagonal and downward pissing. Clearly, it is also at the root of foot-flushing. So let's zoom out and connect the fear and anxiety behind our toilet-flushing crisis to the real issue here: death.

Recently, the Boss has been sharing the following data with everyone she can: While the rates of anxiety, depression, and suicide have increased, the rates of binge-drinking, teen pregnancy, and drunk-driving have decreased. In other words, kids aren't at parties getting shit-faced and making bad decisions; they're in their rooms by themselves on their phones feeling scared and sad.

So here's a terribly morbid question (consider yourself warned): Would you rather your 16-year-old son struggle with anxiety, not be able to pee in public, spend all his time alone in his room on his phone, experience deep depression, and kill himself, or would you prefer that boy live a happy, carefree lifestyle, party his balls off with his friends, deface property by pissing publicly on a building, and die in a drunk-driving accident after an absolute rager on a Saturday night? Neither is good, but if I had to choose, I'd take the latter.

Daniel-san using the crane technique to beat Johnny was heroic. You using it to flush the toilet is shameful.

Yet there is hope. Fear and anxiety need not rule our lives. We can still choose to flush the right way. We can be better. 

As Mr. Miyagi said, "Is okay to lose to opponent. Must not lose to fear."

Crisis at the Urinals (Part I)

The following is Part 1 of a 2-part series on the current urinal crisis ravaging our great nation.

Trigger warning: This post frequently uses words such as "penis" and "urinate,” in addition to other, more colloquial forms of these words. If you are sensitive to such diction (diction, get it?), I advise you to stop reading now.

One of my earliest childhood memories circa 1982 is walking into the men's bathroom at the Philadelphia Eagles game. The line at each urinal was long and I stood awkwardly waiting for my turn. It wasn't weird that I was an unaccompanied 6-year-old in a room full of drunk men with their faces painted green. What was weird is that every guy at the urinal was looking at up the ceiling. At first I thought, "Why is everyone looking up? Is there something cool up there? I can't see it!" But then at some point (maybe then, maybe years later), I realized what was happening: By looking up at the ceiling, Man A was giving Man B a non-verbal cue to indicate that Man A was not, in fact, looking at Man B's penis. It was Man A's way of saying, "I am not a pervert. This is a safe space. You may urinate freely."

Something about this cultural practice rubs me the wrong way, but I'd prefer it to the current situation amongst teenage boys, the cohort with which I am most familiar. Yes, I know it sounds weird that I am intimately familiar with the urinal practices of teenage boys, but I work with young people, drink a lot of water, and pee a lot, so this is, like, totally normal.

There are two very strange things these young men do. The first can be described as "diagonal pissing."

Let me paint a picture: Jacob and Nate have to pee and there are only two urinals. Jacob takes the urinal on the left but stands on the right side of that urinal at a 45 degree angle so his back is facing Nate. He then pees diagonally rather than using the traditional straight-ahead method.

In the meantime, Nate is standing on the left side of the right urinal doing the same thing. While the boys now have their backs turned to one another, their asses, ironically, are practically touching.

What's happening in this scene? Well, both young men are making absolute sure that no one can see their junk. They've turned away from any possible peeper and attempted to create complete privacy in an otherwise public space. 

Right now you're probably thinking, "But what if there are three urinals? The boy using the middle urinal can't turn his back in both directions." Excellent question. Thank you for asking.

You know what these boys do when there are three urinals? They wait. They wait for the urinal on the left or the right to become available rather than taking the open urinal in the middle. I've witnessed such absurdity many times. I initially assumed something was wrong with the middle urinal, but then I realized what was happening, jumped the line, walked right up to the middle urinal, and peed straight ahead.

Hypotenuse pissing is not the strangest part of this crisis, however. 

Back in 1982 at the Eagles game, boys, men, and Boyz II Men (Philly joke, get it?) stood a few inches from the urinal, removed their penis from their pantalones, pointed it forward, and peed. Nowadays, boys walk all the way up to the urinal so they are basically straddling it rather than standing in front of it. They then pee downward.

What's happening in this scene? Well, once again, rather than potentially allowing someone to peep their private parts, these boys have left no space between themselves and the urinal, making it impossible for anyone to see anything. And, yes, there are boys who combine the diagonal pissing with the downward pissing.

So what's really happening in these scenes? I'll tell you exactly what's happening. These boys are so afraid, so private, so insecure that they don't know how to piss in public. Back in the day, we played grab-ass in the locker room, we showered together at camp, and we ran naked through the woods. We weren't afraid of our own bodies, we weren't afraid of each other's bodies, and, to be blunt, we knew what each other's dicks looked like.

Nowadays, there's no grab-ass, no locker room, no shower, and no woods. These boys are in their rooms and on their phones, and when practice is done, they throw on their sweats and they're out the door. No one is ever naked around anyone and that's why they're so damn scared to take a leak. 

Years ago, I was coaching 9th grade boys' basketball and we often practiced in the mornings before school started. I told the kids to bring a towel and soap to shower after practice and one of the kids said to his teammates, "You'll probably want to bring a bathing suit as well." 

I thought, "What in the fuck would you need a bathing suit for? You're not jumping in the pool after practice."

I said, "Thank you for being so thoughtful and for validating the various feelings your teammates may be experiencing at this moment."

Back in the day, by looking up at the ceiling, men conveyed to one another, "I'm not looking." Nowadays, by hiding in the urinals, boys convey to one another, "Stop looking!" Back in the day, there was a fear that one could be perceived as a pervert. Nowadays, there is a fear that everyone around you is a pervert. This is not progress; this is a crisis, and I am certain this generation is in deep trouble, drowning in their own piss-stained anxiety.

Stay tuned for Part II early next week.

The Reverse Layup

The reverse layup is a trick shot. You can watch an entire NBA game and not see a single one. Shit, you can watch 20 high school games and not see one. It looks pretty, but it's basically useless.

So when Panini (my nearly 15-year-old daughter) lost in H-O-R-S-E to some punk kid named Adrian cuz Adrian could shoot a reverse layup and Panini couldn't, I nearly lost my mind.

Adrian is a 13-year-old Canadian Jew whose grandfather, Albert, fled from Libya in the 70s after Gaddafi came to power. Albert made his way to Italy and eventually to Israel. In the 80s, after Egypt and Israel were at peace, he started a cruise line between the two nations. In the 90s, he and his Canadian-Israeli wife immigrated to Toronto where he made his money helping the United Nations transport people and equipment to war zones.

Adrian's father, Evan, is currently one of the richest Jews in Canada. I'm talking Crazy Rich. He invested in weed before it was legal (Albert was not initially supportive of this endeavor) and then, when it became legal, founded a medical marijuana company which recently sold for $3.2 billion. That's right: billion.

So if your name is Evan and you're a billionaire, what do you do with your money? 

Well, first off, you check on your pre-nup and divorce your wife who, according to an anonymous source, is a "money-hungry bitch." You then get a girlfriend about half your age who has most definitely had a nose-job but is not yet in need of a boob job praised be the Lord our God.

Then, you buy an estate on an island in the Caribbean and build a giant house with a pool, pool table, bar, giant flat-screen TV, work-out room, and quick-drying tennis court with basketball hoops on either end. You then hire a personal chef whom you will fly down to the Caribbean in your private jet.

In the meantime, you pay Drake, yes Drake, to perform at Adrian's Bar Mitzvah, pay a private basketball coach tens of thousands of dollars to make Adrian decent at hoops, and pay a videographer seven barrels of Jew gold to make a highlight reel of Adrian playing hoops and of Drake pretending he and Adrian are friends. (I always enjoy when one rich white guy pays another rich white guy for the services of a black man. Happy belated Juneteenth!)

So Albert, Evan, Adrian, the chef, and the rest of the family arrive in the Caribbean for their holiday vacation. Unbeknownst to them, Evan's sister, Deborah, is good friends with the Boss' brother, and it just so happens that the Boss is also on vacation in the Caribbean with her entire family, including yours truly. (Full transparency: We are Rich Jews, but not Crazy Rich Jews.)

We invite ourselves over to the family estate, and Adrian's younger sister (Sarah, age 10) is at the bar making overly alcoholic drinks for the adults. Appetizers are served and Panini thinks the appetizers are dinner so she eats them as if they are dinner. Adrian and Sarah's twin brother, Michael, spend most of dinner playing Madden on the giant TV in the middle of the living room. The rest of the time, they're on their excessively large iPhones. 

When Evan and I meet, he is wearing khaki shorts, a belt, a tucked-in polo, and loafers without socks. I'm wearing thrift shop athletic shorts down to my knees, a ripped t-shirt with a cartoon figure taking a shit, and flip-flops. He shakes my hand, reluctantly.

Adrian is drenched in Nike Dri-FIT and wearing $350 LeBron's. Spoiled rotten Michael is wearing Air Jordan 4's which you know, if you've been on eBay any time in the last 30 years, cost around $800. Panini is wearing a tank-top, shorts that are too short, and flip-flops.

Deborah is getting drunk, Evan's nose-job trophy girlfriend is comparing nose-jobs with some of her nose-job trophy friends who have arrived, and the Boss, in her middle-aged grace, is prettier than all of them.

Now I'd seen Adrian's videos and I knew the kid could play, but I also know that my daughter Panini can shoot the shit out of the ball and I'll be damned if any sl*pe's gonna put their greasy yellow hands on his boy's birthright, I mean I'll be damned if I'm gonna let Adrian think he’s all that and not talk some shit, so I bet sloppy Deborah $20 that Panini will whoop Adrian's ass in H-O-R-S-E, and it's on.

We head out to the basketball court, Panini and Adrian warm up a bit, and I can see that Adrian is overconfident. How could he, the most privileged Jew in the great province of Ontario, lose to some gangly American girl???

Before they begin, Panini says, "Are we playing one game or is it best out of three?" and I shit you not, Adrian responds, "Well, let's see what happens," which is code for, "Shiiiiiit, I assume I'm gonna beat your ass in one game, but just in case I don't, let me hedge." 

The game starts and it takes both of them a few minutes to find their rhythm. Adrian is shooting hero shots because, as previously mentioned, he's a bitch-ass Crazy Rich Jew. Panini is nervous and struggling to find her range. 

But then Panini starts hitting: soft elbow jumpers, silky 16-footers from the wing, buttery 12-footers from the baseline. Banks. Floaters. Lefty layups. You name it. Bratty Michael starts complaining that Panini keeps shooting the same shot, when in fact Panini is moving all over the court. Are most shots between 12 and 17 feet? Yes. Do they look similar? Yes. Are they the same shot? No. Should ignorant little Michael shut his ignorant little mouth? Yes.

Adrian starts missing cuz he's got no heart and cuz he's a choke and cuz he and Drake aren't actually boys. Panini wins.

And sure enough, by the time Adrian's last brick hits the ground, he's like, "Best out of three."

And that's when it happens: Adrian discovers that Panini can't shoot a reverse layup. Her father has most certainly diversified her skill set, but we never bothered with the reverse layup because, like I said before, it's a motherfucking trick shot. 

So let's be clear about one thing: Does Adrian have every right to use the reverse layup to win? Absolutely. Is it a bitch-ass move to do so? Most definitely. Yes, you can "win" H-O-R-S-E by identifying and exploiting that one shot your opponent can't shoot, but you haven't "won" a god damn thing by doing so, and I guarantee Adrian fell asleep that night feeling deep shame and wondering why Drake never texts him back.

As this debacle unfolds, drunk Deborah screams obscenities at any child within 20 feet, Evan stands smugly with his hands in his pockets and a smirk on his face, and I feign magnanimity, taking careful mental notes which I will one day use against Adrian, his father, and the entire Canadian medical marijuana industry.

Panini loses the next two games and eight of her ten letters come from the reverse layup. And does piss-ant Michael say anything about Adrian using the same shot over and over? Hell no. He just prances around gleefully, cluelessly scuffing up his Jordan 4's and cheering stupidly for his stupid, immoral brother.

I think Panini cried after the defeat. I took her into my arms, looked straight in her eyes, and said, "Don't worry. We may only be Rich Jews without a private jet and a highlight reel, but at least we're not Crazy Rich Jews who actually lose when they win.”