I am in the backseat of our van, sitting in a tiny, hollowed-out cavern of stuff.

We are traveling to Tennessee and Kentucky this weekend where I will be performing my one-man shipwreck at theaters where, if I’m lucky, I’ll get a standing ovation like a few nights ago. Although to be fair, the ovation was moving toward the exits. Also, they weren’t clapping.

So anyway, my wife is driving. My cousin Randa is in the passenger seat. And here I sit, trapped in the backseat. Boxed in by hordes of cardboard crates, musical instruments, hanging clothes, T-shirt containers, and one female mannequin torso whom I have nicknamed “Dolly.”

Dolly models our T-shirts at the merchandise table after shows. Dolly is extremely shapely and very talented. Currently, due to our overpacked vehicle, Dolly’s talent is shoved directly in my face.

Sometimes, Dolly is my only friend in the backseat. I have long conversations with her because she understands me. Although, sometimes I worry about her. I think that on some level, deep inside herself, Dolly feels hollow.

Meanwhile, Jamie and Randa are blissfully unaware that I am having conversations with foam-core representations of female thoraxes. They’re far too busy talking.

That’s mostly what female persons do on long road trips. They talk. I realize this statement is a broad generalization, but as is so often the case, I don’t care.

Currently, Jamie and Randa are eating their Chick-fil-A salads, and talking with the trademarked hushed whispers females use whenever gossiping.

Sometimes I chime in from the backseat to ask the ladies who they are gossiping about. This annoys them. They assure me they AREN’T gossiping, they’re just TALKING, so mind your own business, dammit.

Then they tune me out.

And I go back to hanging out with Dolly who,…

The bag of vegetables magically appeared on our front porch along with beer. I looked around for angels and wisemen.

Then I turned to my wife, saying, “Ray, is this heaven?”

She looked at me flatly. “Who’s Ray?”

You have to worry about this woman.

So, we brought the vegetables inside and commenced admiring the produce. Admiring beautiful things is every bit as euphoric as experiencing them.

We held the heirloom tomatoes in our hands, and just appreciated the mere weight of them.

Oh. Has there ever been anything more heavensent than a homegrown tomato? I lifted it to the light. It was so round, so firm, so fully packed.

“Look at this thing,” I said, gently caressing its supple curves.

My wife yanked the tomato from my hands. “Go take a cold shower.”

All other tomatoes were equally as glorious. Bright crimson skin, beautiful little stems, each fruit with little bits of gnarl on the surface.

Everyone knows the best tomatoes have gnarl on the outside. This

gnarl is rarely talked about, rarely appreciated, but it’s important. Good gnarl gives the tomato personality, and makes the tomato an individual.

Gnarl comes in different variations. There’s “catfacing,” which is the grayish brown puckering and scarring portion at the blossom end of a tomato. Usually the bottom. Catfaced tomatoes are misshapen and lovely, and often taste like cherubs singing Handel.

Then there’s “zippering.” This effect is a zipper-like scar on the tomato. My mother used to grow tomatoes; she said this happens when the flower’s stamen sticks to the side instead of shedding cleanly. A zippered tomato is worth driving across at least four state lines.

And of course, there are the beautifully decadent common growth cracks. There is nothing like a…

Dear kid,

I know this is a hard day for you. It’s hard because everyone in the known solar system is throwing a party for their dad, and you’re not.

It’s difficult, because everyone’s family is posting happy pictures of themselves online, but yours isn’t. Difficult, because at every little church, in every region, all over this country, small-town preachers, priests, pastors, and parishioners are honoring fathers publicly. At which point services conclude and everyone tries to beat the Methodists to the Mexican restaurant.

For this reason you’ve grown to dislike this holiday. You feel a dull pain on this calendar date, and you’d rather forget the occasion even exists.

But I want to remind you that today is actually a beautiful day. Believe me. Even though it doesn’t feel that way to you now, take my word for it. Today is magical because dadhood itself is magical.

Fatherhood, in all its various forms, be it successful or screwed-up, heroic or tragic, wonderful or painful, is magnificent. Because being a dad means you helped create new

life.

Life.

Think of that. Have YOU ever created anything that incredible? When I was your age, the coolest thing I’d ever actually created was a papier-mâché castle with a moat made of cellophane, and the role of King Arthur played by Stretch Armstrong.

But your dad helped create actual biological life. Years ago, during a moment of pure love, your dad and your mom brought life into this world. Your life. Your beautiful, rich, vibrant, amazing life. Your dad had a part in that.

Yes, I’m aware that you probably don’t feel like your life is rich and vibrant and beautiful right now. I get that. But that’s the grand illusion of life itself. But someday you’ll unsee the illusion. Someday, you’ll see life…

I’m thrilled to announce that we are going to get fat. Namely, because my wife has been making bread.

Not just bread. Bread-bread. The real kind. The illicit kind of bread. The kind of bread that tempts you in vivid daydreams and lurid fantasies. The kind of bread you want to sign a prenuptial agreement with.

Jamie’s bread obsession all began in Spain. The bread in Spain was unusually good. We couldn’t get enough of it. We were always eating bread purchased from bakeries, and it was almost always exceptional. I was not used to bread like this. I grew up eating the supermarket bread that turns into white Play-Doh if you squeeze it real hard.

FACT: Once I made an entire school art project sculpted entirely out of dough made from smashed Wonder Bread, which was then painted to resemble a pirate ship.

But anyway, one day in Spain, in a far-off village on the edge of the earth, some locals told us about an out-of-the-way bakery in town. They said the bread was

“auténtico,” and we should not miss it. Then, they’d demonstrate how good the bread was by making shuddering facial expressions as though they were having involuntary pleasure spasms.

Jamie and I eventually found this bakery, after weaving through byways and zigzagging side streets. The bakery was hidden in an alley. The store was about the size of a walk-in closet, and there was no signage. It was basically an old woman’s apartment. The old woman sold 12 varieties of bread. Each type of bread was made that same morning. She let us sample them all.

Our minds were blown.

“Omigod!” exclaimed my wife, verging on inappropriate ecstasy.

“Sí,” said the woman.

“Omigod!” my wife shouted again, causing a slight disturbance in the peace.

The young Walmart cashier looked at me from across her counter. She had just finished ringing up my underpants when she recited my total from the register screen.

I reached into my pocket to pay.

No sooner had my hand slid into my rear pocket than I discovered the pocket was empty. A small wave of confusion swept over me. I patted myself. No wallet.

My confusion turned into embarrassment. The same kind of humiliation I once felt when I peed my pants onstage in front of the entire school assembly and all my friends’ parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, and next of kin.

I remember the accident well. I remember clutching my bladder while wearing my little Christmas costume. I stopped singing “Sweet Little Jesus Boy,” and whispered, “Please, God, no.” I remember the sensations I felt. The feeling of plumbing system failure. The strange momentary euphoria that comes with complete urethral spasm surrender. And suddenly, I had a river of life flowing out of me.

This was that same kind of feeling.

A line of customers began gathering behind me. I glanced at all my bagged items and felt another wave of embarrassment. Still in the cashier’s hand was the new package of cotton underpants.

She said the total again.

“Gimme a second,” I said with a nervous laugh.

I started patting my pockets once more. This time I swatted harder, just in case the added effort might help a wallet spontaneously materialize. Then I graduated to fumbling around in my pockets. Then I started doing the sacred ritual dance of the middle-aged idiot who left his wallet at home.

“Omigosh,” I said. “I think I left my wallet at home.”

The cashier blinked. She was still holding the men’s Fruit of the Looms.

Today is National Eat Your Vegetables Day. Frankly I didn’t know there was such a day. And I don’t know why it exists. Or who invented it.

What exactly are we supposed to do on this holiday? Do we sing songs about carrots? Do we decorate an artichoke and exchange gifts? And if we DO exchange gifts, are we allowed to exchange tomatoes even though, technically, the tomato has always been classified as a fruit before it was legally reclassified as a ‘vegetable’ by U.S. Congress in 1893?

Speaking of which, is Congress really ALLOWED to do that? Reclassify stuff contrary to biological taxonomy? Like, for example, would our legislature be able to parade a horse before the U.S. House and say, “Gentlemen, I move that we reclassify this creature as a possum!”

And would the opposing side shout in response, “Objection! He spelled ‘possum’ wrong!”

“Everyone knows possum is spelled with an O!”

“Objection! You can’t say ‘possum’ anymore, you have to say ‘American marsupial!’”

“Bigot!”

“Off with

his head!”

Either way, somewhere along the way we were given National Eat Your Vegetables Day. And it’s today. And I, for one, am excited about it.

Namely, because roughly 3 million deaths are caused each year simply by not eating enough fruits and vegetables. Which makes lack of dietary vegetables and fruits a leading cause of death. And when it comes to countries with the most annual deaths related to poppy diet—big surprise—America is a pioneer.

This was recently brought to my attention the first time I got home from visiting Europe. My wife and I had spent weeks in various countries, riding trains and spending time in public places. In every train station, airport, and café restaurant they had large baskets of apples, oranges, bananas, cherries, tomatoes, and…

One day, as God was sitting in all of heaven’s sovereignty and sanctity and etherealness and stuff, little Randy came to visit.

Randy was the youngest angel trainee in the squad’s junior division. He had just graduated Angel Second Grade. He had freckles and missing front teeth. He hadn’t yet earned his halo. His wings hadn’t fully dropped yet.

So there God was, sitting on a big chair, looking listless and bored because God always liked to keep hands busy, but today was a rest day.

Randy entered God’s presence. The cherub and seraph, God’s two assistants, were standing at the door, giving Randy scolding looks when they saw how disheveled he was.

To be fair, they weren’t wrong. Randy’s little blue jeans were covered in mud and holes, and his knees were all skinned up. Randy liked to play outside a lot, and it showed.

“You left the house looking like that?” said the cherub, under her breath.

“If you were my kid,” said the seraph, “I’d give you a flea dip.”

Then the two angels fist-bumped and laughed quietly.

God beckoned Randy forward.

“What can

I do for you, Randy?” said the Almighty.

Randy was taken aback. “You know my name?” Randy replied.

God smiled. “Duh,” saith the Lord.

“Well,” Randy began. “I’m kinda nervous. This is the first time I’ve actually seen you in person.”

“Come closer, Randy,” said God.

Randy shuffled forward.

“You don’t look anything like I thought you would,” Randy said.

“Do I surprise you?”

“It’s just—Well, down on earth they have all sorts of pictures and paintings of you, and well… They’ve got you all wrong.”

“It’s okay,” God said with a laugh. “I’ve had a…

Fulton, New York. The year was 1940. The gray-haired man was behind his woodworking bench, clad in an apron. He was feeling around for his spokeshave. He was blind and deaf. His name was Tommy Stringer.

The 18-year-old girl beside him was his assistant for the day. She was lovely and helpful. Her name was Mari. She was deaf.

She noticed Tommy grasping for a tool, so she tried to help him. Tommy could feel her hands furiously searching his bench.

He gripped her wrist.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he signed into her palm.

She replied, “Looking for your spokeshave.”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” he spelled rapidly. His fingers moved so fast she could hardly follow.

“If you truly want to teach blind-deaf students someday,” he spelled, “you must resist the urge to step in and do a task for them.”

The 54-year-old master craftsman was no amateur. He was adept with his tools. To watch him work quickly and comfortably in his shop was like watching a sculptor work

with clay.

Mari was not blind, but born mostly deaf. She was learning manual sign language to become an interpreter and teacher for the deaf-blind someday. The Perkins School for the Blind sent her here to Tommy’s shop to learn from him. Tommy was one of Perkins’ most notable alumni.

He was a gifted artist. An expert with numbers, capable of conceiving and calculating complicated engineering equations in his head.

Tommy’s hands finally found the spokeshave. He placed the shave into one of Mari’s hands and spelled into her other:

“Do you want to try?”

“Yes.”

Tommy stood behind her. He guided her young hands with his own. Mari had never done a thing with wood before.…

It’s weird. Being back in America again.

For one thing, they don’t call it “America” over in Europe. It’s bad form. They call it “the U.S.”

When in Europe, to call your mother country “America” is considered egotistical and disrespectful to other North Americans, Central Americans, South Americans, as well as Puerto Ricans, people from the Virgin Islands, and people from Guam, who all sort of consider themselves “Americans,” too.

Although I’ve never heard any South American friend refer to himself or herself in this way. They always say, “I’m Colombiano,” or “Argentino,” or “I’m a Peruano.” If you were to call a Central American an “American,” they’d laugh and then spike your food with ceremonial death chiles.

Still, modern decorum dictates that you’re not supposed to say “America.” It’s considered rude, and sort of low rent.

Sorry, those are the rules.

After all, Mexicans are also from North America, along with Canadians. But again, I’ve never once heard a self-respecting Canadian refer to themselves as “North American.” Neither do Mexicanos refer to themselves as North Americans. In fact,

“Norteamericano” is a Mexican term reserved for persons from the United States.

So anyway, this modern vocab issue was a problem for me the very first time I visited Europe. I kept responding to people’s questions of my origin by replying, “I’m from America.”

And they’d look at me like I had just mowed down the Sistine Chapel with a Sherman tank. By modern political correctness standards, I was an uneducated little puke.

“It’s called the U.S.,” I was quickly informed by Europeans.

Except, wait. No. I’m mistaken. They’re NOT called “Europeans.”

Erroneously, I assumed that people from Europe must follow the same dialectal rules we Americanos are expected to follow. So I began referring to European Union…