Mackey here once again with the holiday note, a (hopefully) forgivable comic contrivance. Think Falstaff or Giuliani minus the dripping brown dye, a foil to permit the sharing of far-fetched half-truths, their source deniable, disreputable yet entertaining. Not only does this dog write, I also read(1). Recently, I devoured a new book with origins in the very household where I sleep (a lot) – Humor, Seriously – by Jennifer Aaker and Naomi Bagdonas(2). In it, I discovered the manifold benefits of levity, conducted a humor audit (more fun than the tax kind, marginally less fun than the food audit I conduct on the hour) and took a humor quiz to identify my style (I’m a Sweetheart). Pre-order the book, and my mom may take you on a walk too.
Circumstances(3) attenuated boys’ college trajectories and precipitated their decision to take an unscheduled gap year, leaving them with a metaphorical blank whiteboard for the year. Our literal garage whiteboard speaks to Cooper’s gap focus: Welcome to The Pump Zone and #GAINZ. Unafraid to ruffle feathers with his jokes or unsolicited coaching advice, he’s a classic Stand-Up. A triple threat, Cooper is an athlete, coach, and his own best cheerleader, laughing early and often at his own wit. Around the kitchen he is heard barking: “Put that down!” to people attempting dessert or a salty snack. It is odd to recall a boy who spent 17 years on a strict Yummy® brand dinosaur chicken nugget diet as he now deftly swats single french fries out of others’ moving hands. Cooper has other strengths too: his reluctant ability to acquire new skills (working for his cousin’s healthcare IT company, researching M&A targets, swearing at Excel), (2) his musical taste (auto-tuned rappers and floor-shaking weight drops after massive sets), and (3) his hair (good flow).
It sounds judgy to call Devon’s humor dark (he’s a textbook Sniper), but it does inexplicably incorporate a recurring Ted Bundy theme. Not content to remain among the family’s unpublished, he is in the final-edit phase of Checking the Invisible Boxes: A Survival Guide to the College Application Process. After devoting 18 years to the effort, he decided to commit to paper valuable insights and shortcuts before the otherwise useless knowledge of standardized tests and personal statement writing somehow (hopefully) un-sears itself from memory. It’s a gift of sorts to Téa Sloane. Unfortunately, at 15, Téa is firmly anti-advice. This doesn’t bother Devon partly because nothing bothers Devon, and also because she’s just the beta customer. Devon really wrote it for me based on Devon-logic that if he can get a dog into college, Téa should be a shoo-in.
Téa is a classic “Magnet,” charismatic, upbeat and fast-moving. She brings an aggressive, impatient enthusiasm to her cooking, turning burners on high and throwing in ingredients with wild abandon. With shouts of “Yolo!” last heard in a SoulCycle circa 2019, she brings the burn she feels to the kitchen. Her room is like the state of California, unapologetically heterogeneous, consisting of five distinct regions: (1) a bed with 6 different pillows for 6 different classes, (2) a lonely unused desk, (3) a damp towel heap, (4) a cereal dish pile, and (5) clothes mound (consisting of 50 identical t-shirts, 25 identical sweatpants, 30 identical bathing suits. Approximately 40% of the mound is “not hers” but belongs to friends “but it’s ok because they have most of my clothes.”) She has many assets: (over) confidence in her cooking, athletic prowess, shiny hair, impressive eyelashes and encyclopedic knowledge of The Vampire Diaries. With a flair for science and critical inquiry, she has recently been pondering questions: “Is there a Mr. Hyde in all of us?” and “What skin products do vampires use for that moonlight glow?”
The family sabbatical this year involved a two-week trip to Hawaii, which many of you are thinking sounds like “not a sabbatical,” “definitely a vacation” and “a damn shame they left the dog behind.” And you’d be right, but getting there required so many tests and forms and holding pens and receiving false positives and fainting at the airport and emergency quarantines, that it eliminated the possibility that any reasonable person would consider it vacation-like. Once finally clear of the decompression/decontamination/welcome to Hawaii process, they relaxed by working most of the time, which, in Hawaii creates a mildly masochistic vibe. When not working they swam with mantas, an activity during which small fish mistake you for krill and attack you while others on the boat throw up next to you. You pay money to do this. Dad also brought a mini-SCUBA kit with bottles so small that most of the time was spent refilling them; it packs away neatly in a black box that looks a lot like it should contain a sniper rifle. He was popular at the beach.
Your narrator, meanwhile, was curled up on my grandparents couch, a cocktail in one paw and a beach read in the other. Still 92 pounds thin and a fan of eating paper towels and rocks, I have a girlfriend named Cat. She doesn’t know it yet. Sometimes it’s better to just carry the capacity for relaxation and love within your own heart.
With love (unrequited or requited), levity and big woofs, Mackey
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(1) I do not. I am mostly blind. Also a dog.
(2) Great girl, my god-mom and also the reason I am not in China anymore.
(3) Codeword for the current global pandemic. I’m going to see how far I can get before mentioning it.