“You’re trying. You’re giving it a go. That’s a big deal to me. You may not think things you do mean shit, but remember that they mean shit to me, okay?”
“I know.”
“Yeah, you know everything. That’s why you jerked off to your gay neighbors.”
“Dad, we’re right in front of their apartment.”
He laughed, then gave me another hug.
“You always got us. We’re family. We ain’t going anywhere. Unless you go on a fucking killing spree or something.”
“I would still love you, Justy. I would just want to know why you did it,” my mom said earnestly, having gotten back into the car and rolled down her window.
My dad got back into the driver’s seat and leaned over my mom to see out the passenger window.
“Remember. Family,” he said. “Also, how do I get back to I-5? I hate this fucking city.”
On Airlines’ Alcohol Selection
“They serve Jim Beam on airplanes. Tastes like piss. You wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, because you drink shit. I don’t.”
On Managing One’s Bank Account
“Don’t get mad at the overdraft charge. . . . No, no—see, there’s your problem. You think of it as a penalty for taking out money you don’t have, but instead, it might help you to think of it as a reminder that you’re a dumb shit.”
On Corporate Mascots
“Love this Mrs. Dash. The bitch can make spices. . . . Jesus, Joni, it’s a joke. I was making a joke! Mrs. Dash isn’t even real, damn it!”
On Understanding One’s Place in the Food Chain
“Your mother made a batch of meatballs last night. Some are for you, some are for me, but more are for me. Remember that. More. Me.”
On Birthdays
“Listen, I don’t give a fuck if you forget my birthday. I don’t need people reminding me I’m closer to death. But your mom, she still enjoys counting them down, so cancel your fucking plans and drive down here for her birthday party. . . . Fine, I’ll let you know if she changes her mind and ceases to care about meaningless milestones.”
On How to Tell When a Workout Is Complete
“I just did an hour on the gym machine. I’m sweaty, and I have to shit. Where’s my fanny pack? This workout is over.”
On Aging
“Mom and I saw a great movie last night. . . . No, I don’t remember the name. It was about a guy or, no, wait—fuck. Getting old sucks.
On the Proper Amount of Enthusiasm
“You hear that? Your brother’s engaged! . . . ‘Yeah’? Did you just say ‘yeah’? What the fuck is that? . . . No, that’s not gonna fucking cut it unless you say it while you’re doing a somersault or something.”
“Listen, the dog likes garlic salt, so I give him fucking garlic salt.”
After having lived in Los Angeles for about a year, I decided that it would be cool to get a dog. Notice that I said “cool,” not “a good idea” or “cool to think about.” I wanted a dog and wasn’t considering nondog options.
When I was a kid, my family had a dog named Brownie, who I enjoyed playing with, particularly when my older brothers were no longer living at home. I loved that dogs just seemed to do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted; it was a quality I admired. One time during a family dinner when I was around thirteen, I looked outside and Brownie was in the backyard, licking himself vigorously until he ejaculated on his own face. Then he lay down and went to sleep as if nothing had happened. Self-administering oral sex is not my cup of tea, but you have to hand it to him for his ruthless determination to enjoy himself.
A year out of college, I had a decent job waiting tables at an upscale Italian restaurant where I only needed to work about three days a week to make ends meet. I spent most of the rest of my time writing in my bedroom. I thought getting a dog might spice up my life a little bit.
“You can barely take care of yourself. Where are you gonna keep him?” my friend Dan asked.
“My apartment,” I said.
“You don’t have a yard. Where’s he gonna go to the bathroom, or run around? Dogs need to run around. They can’t just sit around an apartment.”
“I’ll get a small dog. If I was tiny, my apartment would seem huge, right?”
I knew my dad would probably have a similar response so I didn’t tell him, or any of our family members who might leak the news to him. My roommate had grown up with dogs in her house and did not object. So I made a trip up to the pound in Lancaster, California, which is about fifty miles northeast of L.A., and scoured the narrow, cage-lined halls, passing dozens of sad and snarling faces in search of the perfect puppy.
“I want something that’s gonna stay small,” I said to the pound employee who was guiding me.
