Introduction

The details are lost. Only the big chunks remain. It was a summer morning in 1956, and the seaweed that washed up was perfect. It arrived fully equipped with green-slimy tendrils and an endless array of possibilities for a beach-prowling five-year-old. As it swayed gracefully at water’s edge, I scooped it up then placed it on my head as a squishy wig. That accomplished, it then became a drowned alien tossed ashore from the crash of a spaceship. After that, a few flips of my wrist unleashed a hundred new tree designs, all yet untested by heaven.

What happened next foretold my future. For reasons unknown, male minds sometimes refuse to be corralled by common sense. In most males, the brain does eventually connect with the rest of the body, although it can be a long and arduous process. At a glance, it’s impossible to tell whose brains complete the trip and whose don’t. We may masquerade in suits and become CEOs, news anchors, or even heads of state. Whatever our title or attire, do not assume we are sane. We are males.

Not far up the beach from my seaweed shenanigans, Mama was snoozing. She lay face up on her mesh chair, glistening under a thick layer of tanning lotion. I have long imagined she lingered there in dreams about the good life as it had existed before the doctors handed her Lucifer’s hatchling and pronounced: “Here’s your Boy-Project!” I can’t recall what triggered my next move, but it started with a slow stalk toward the victim. Cradled in my hand was the new prize, dripping with a cool dose of Atlantic. Creeping closer, and lacking a better idea, I took aim and fired. With accuracy the Babe himself would have envied, the wet glob arced skyward then dove with a horrible “squish” onto my mother’s throat.

What followed could have been a scene from “Parent E. Coyote” versus the Roadrunner. Mama launched straight up, then spun halfway around, desperately trying to remove the assailant. Doing so placed her in conflict with Almighty Gravity, who quickly reclaimed the advantage. Thumping back down, she hit the edge of the chair, flipping everything, including herself, over onto the beach into one flailing heap of legs and aluminum.

The woman shot to her feet like she had landed in a pit of lizards. Already greased with lotion, she was now smothered in white sand from head to toe.

I stood speechless. The creature before me—formerly known as Mama—looked like a floured chicken, ready for the frying pan.

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