I don't have anything purple, but i have this.

I picked at the grass like if I tortured it enough it might give me an answer. I picked at it hoping and waiting for an earthquake or massive sinkhole to swallow me up. It was only a matter of moments before I'd have to cave and tell the handsome, middle-aged couple from Colorado Springs that their son was gay.

Their son wasn't there. He had hung himself from my bunk bed. But three days before, he was alive and cracking jokes. He was funny, he was smart and he was carrying a burden so heavy it would eventually suffocate him.

Michael was everything a parent would want. He was a great student, he was neat and he was handsome. In a world that's far, far away from ours, being a homosexual would not be a disclaimer to that list.

It was 1993 and gay was everywhere. Gay was new to me. In my little hometown no one was gay in kind of the same way Mahmoud Ahmadinejad says no one in Iran is gay. There was denial, but perhaps like someone who doesn't want to come out of the closet in a conservative Muslim country, small town America doesn't exactly roll out the purple welcome mat. But I shouldn't blame small towns or even my town. In 1993 gay was everywhere because of big city politics.

It's ironic. Gay was everywhere not because homosexuals wanted to be, but because a group of self-declared non-gay folks in Colorado Springs forced it there. They put an amendment on the fall '92 ballot that was struck down by the Supreme Court as infringing on the rights of gays and lesbians.

For me this was all new. I was so clueless that the first woman I ever hit on at college was the president of the Gay and Lesbian Bisexual and Transgendered Alliance. She would say "no", and I reeled from the rejection until she presented to the class her role with the GLBTA.

So I wasn't at all presuming anything when I walked into my dorm room, and sitting on a well-made bed with matching pinstripe comforter, sheets and pillows was my new roommate. He'd organized his desk. It was simple and clean with a designer lamp, calculator and notepad. He hopped up, and in a button-up shirt and tie introduced himself. He also apologized for moving to my desk all the dirty clothes and empty beverage containers I'd left on his.

It was going to be a tough adjustment for me, because prior to school I'd had my own room for the three weeks of football camp. I'd gotten accustomed to my mess.

Michael and I were the prototypical freshman dorm dwellers. We started out as friends and ended with a bitter falling out. There was something about his stereo. It was broken and he blamed me. I was mad about him borrowing my car. He became messier than I was. I was loud when I was drunk. Those things add up and in a space the size of a handicapped bathroom stall. The fumes build and all it takes is one little spark. I can't remember the final straw, but I left a week before school ended. I'd found an apartment and was in the process of moving when I got the call.

A friend of Michael's walked into his room and found him. She was not supposed to go into his room that morning. He'd called the night before and asked that I pick him up so he could take me out for breakfast and we could fix our problems. I was on my way to my car when I noticed the apartment complex payphone ringing. For the heck of it I picked it up. It was a mutual friend desperately trying to find me.

Someone had seen Michael the night before. She said he seemed very comfortable. He was stoned, maybe tripping on acid, she thought. He commented on the stars and how pretty they were. She was out walking her dog and was taken by how calm he was, in bare feet, standing on the lawn outside the dorms. It seemed he had made up his mind, written his letters and made peace with his decision. He was going to die.

Under the same stars where we all live. On this same bit of dust floating through the universe. It's seems that we are insignificant, but in this small space, we are not. To each other we are the world. We are the meat between the morning and the night. We are the lovers past dusk and the comfort before dawn. We are the scaffold on which we all try to climb and the helping hand that can help us get there. We are all we've got. For a moment, imagine a world without heaven or hell. Without Harry Potter or magic or a fifth dimension of gentle, glowing ease. We can only be certain of what we can do for each other.

You can add a god if you want. But time still passes. And on a day in late April of 1993, I walked across campus in a daze. Kids were looking at me, talking. I was the roommate of the kid who had killed himself. Some of the less tactful asked if it were true that I got an automatic 4.0. I didn't.

In the distance there was a tree on a hill. It stood still as college kids walked past it. They would keep on walking, through school, internships, their trip to Europe and into their adult lives. The tree would loom in the background--perspective for perpetual motion. I got a chill knowing that I would one day leave campus and move onto other things, but Michael would not.

Screwed down to a microscopic focus so tight you've cracked the lens, there I was on the back lawn of a stranger's home. A friend of the family offered their Durango house for an informal celebration of life. Everyone was inside hugging and sharing the pleasant smiles and laughter that perforate the darkness of death. Michael's parents arrived from Colorado Springs and requested I join them in private. They wanted to know why.

They sat together. They were imposing and beautiful in the sun by the aspen trees. Middle aged but well kept, he had a full head of dignified silver, and she was gray, but put together like a Lego person. Sharp angles and sleek.

"Yes. Why?" she repeated. "We want to know anything you know about what Michael was thinking."

She looked at me, piercing. He joined her. They looked like they were posing for a political piece.

"We don't have our son, Jared," he filled. "All we have left are questions."

I looked down between my Indian-style lap and picked at the grass some more. I couldn't dig fast enough.

I like to be quick with answers but this was, apparently, an answer in lieu of their living son. I thought about the truth, or at least what I knew of it. I figured they should know it.

When "homosexual" rolled out of my mouth it didn't feel like word. It felt like a sea cucumber or mound of mud. I didn't know if I'd said it correctly. I repeated it louder and simpler: "He was gay."

I paused. His parents squinted like my vertical hold had gone.

I just kept going. I couldn't stop myself.

"I think he died because he was gay. He was gay and had no idea how to explain it to you or the world."

I could have set myself on fire and his parents would not have budged. They were paralyzed.

I went on to tell them about how I believed he'd come out, and then regretted it. Every few days we'd get a call from the GLBTA. A familiar female voice would ask for Michael and ask how he was doing. Often he’d be in the room but would refuse to get on the phone. One day, when he was gone, a professor called and asked for Michael. I knew the professor so asked if I could help. He'd been crying.

He told me that he'd just read Michael's paper. He said it was the most moving student piece he'd ever read. It was a story about the struggle of an oppressed woman.

Michael's parents cried. I cried. I don't remember much after that. The day smeared into a Monet of self doubt. I don't know how long I sat out there, but I fielded questions about a dead man's sexuality until my face was hot with sun burn. It was a small sacrifice compared to the shattered existence of a mother and father.

A few weeks later they would send me a letter. It said nothing of Michael's sexuality. Just that they missed him and they chose to remember him as they knew him. I guess that said a lot.

Not too long after that I ran into one of Michael's friends at a party. She said she could never forgive him for killing himself. I wasn't sure what to think. He's dead. All the kids he knew are going to grow up chase after their dreams. Michael won't get to do that. And I wondered if it was him who needed the forgiving, or a world that made him think he had no reason to live.

Mourning the loss of another sensible, financially sound lifestyle.

We have several friends who are about to have their first kid. I wanted to make a list of things they should do before it's out of its convenient carrying case.

Take a nap. Go out to eat and then see a movie. Nap during the movie. Then go back out for a late meal. Wake up and have a three and a half hour breakfast where the only person you're worried about running off is you after your second pot of bottomless coffee. Break something glass and leave it on the floor, and then stay up all night playing Nintendo. Cuss. Cuss like a fucking shit-faced cockwad sailor with a penchant for pussy, tits and ass. Cuss until you can't stand yourself. Cunt. Wear formal attire just for the hell of it. If you're the father, drink. This is your moment to relish one of the little known highlights of a pregnancy; a designated driver with big boobs. Mom, you need to be sober for many reasons, but being lucid is so important to savor every moment of every peaceful meal, every sip of something without floaties, every solo trip to the bathroom, and every conversation with an adult. Nothing will ever be yours again, and in about a year you'll hear yourself talk and wonder when the hell you became that annoying parent you swear you'd never be. Don't go to McDonalds. Don't do it. You'll get plenty. Go to a real restaurant and order your food cooked slow. Get several appetizers, several desserts and extra steak knives just to carelessly place around the table. Read. Read with porn playing loudly in the background. Listen to gangster rap and the Dropkick Murphys. Impulsively go to a concert you don't even care about. Call your friend with kids and ask if they want to go. Challenge yourself to see how last minute you can do things. As you leave the house breathe deep the air of spontaneity, maybe leave the porn playing. Appreciate logic. Watch sports, or whatever your favorite show is. First, switch to PBS to make sure cartoons are on, then flip away to your favorite show. Do this over and over while loudly wishing horrible, violent things on Elmo, Bob the Builder and that shit Caillou. Cuss while having sex. Make some noise you've never made before. Do an animal impersonation. Break the bed. Book a trip on a plane to wherever. Pack a bunch of liquids and knives so the delays in security are all your own. Relish controlling your own chaos. Board the craft and be sure to be indignant about the crying kids. It is a shame that some people should be so thoughtless. Get a convertible coupe rental car with barely enough room for yourselves. Go to a body of water and be careless about the shoreline. Go to Vegas and get a hooker. Pay her by the hour to discuss what her parents did wrong. Vocalize criticism of your spouse. Verbalize all the negative things about the people you know. Go. Go now and be free with your dark, inner, nonparental beast. Love the animals in your house. Talk to the plants. Go to all the parties you can and be the life by saying you'll never take your kids for fast food and you'll never sit them in front of the TV and you'll never buy them those stupid light-up shoes. Go mofos! It's time to spread your wings and fart like a drunk trucker. Get over yourself and laugh at burps and take notes on all the stupid shit you do all day just so you'll remember what you did with your time. Get on with it! Get to the beach, start a bar fight in Mexico, cook something that's not shaped like a zoo animal! Smell broccoli like it's a rare flower, put saffron and thyme and basil in things. Eat a pan of brownies, chug a wine cooler, smoke something and don't give a damn who sees you do it. Celebrate the shit out of your birthday and buy absolutely nothing for no one for Christmas. The clock is ticking. The person you know as you is about to die, so live it up. Fill that bucket list up with debauchery and opulence and vast swaths of sloth without once somebody rubbing a booger on you. Or wipe a boog on yourself while shouting something morbid about the tooth fairy.

Go. Godspeed. Explore what's beyond that childproof gate. And whatever you do, tell us about it. You are our Magellan and we are starved for your spicy adventures.!

OTTO THE GREAT, great pain in the ass

Today was a cluster. I'm always overreaching. Icarus, please help. I'm sunburned and I haven't even gotten off the ground.

Today was the fourth day of my four-day weekend. I told my boss I wanted to use up some of my comp time. He suggested I take Friday to extend the three-day Columbus Day weekend. I was thrilled. I had visions of sleeping, taking three-hour lunches, drinking and writing about the Great American Experience, or mine. The latter availed itself.

I totally deserve what I got. It was Karma for flaunting my vacation to Sarah who, after the Summer of Sick, has absolutely no days off left. Sarah was so happy to break her news to me: The boys would not have school on Monday. I was on the hook for daycare or, you know, being a parent for an entire day.

I can't wait to get back to work.

Now I think as far as fathers go, I spend an enormous amount of time with my boys. The neighbors comment how everyday they see us go to the park with Otto, Paco, Quin, Quin's bike, a ball, snacks and beverages. The problem is that even on those trips across the street, I try to do too much. I think I have my reasons, but first let me tell you what happened today.

My plan was to go to Boulder and see the boys' great grandmother, and then over to Niwot to see their great aunt. It would be a great day. Sarah told me not to do too much. I chuckled and told her not to worry as she headed off to the train to work.

The issue is this: In my head I imagine things as they should be, not as they will be. Now to get an accurate picture of "will be", you have to incorporate some delays like traffic, temper tantrums, potty breaks, snacks and tempests of toddler snot. I picture all of those obstacles in my head, but I don't incorporate them with the timeline borrowed from a fifties sitcom, where everything rolls along smoothly, there's happy music playing, and not once does my sixteen-month-old son dive into a fish pond at an assisted living facility.

We got back from the neighborhood park at approximately 11am. With a groan I set down Otto, and with a grunt I pulled Quin's trike up to the front steps. To make my overreaching more possible, I was pulling him and his bike with a dog leash. I had a second dog leash in the same hand, that one for the sixty-pound narrow-minded muscle that nearly killed us when he tried to pursue a cat across the street.
This is bad. I should know this is bad. I put the lives of several species at risk with one trip to the park, which is fifty yards away. Involving a grandmother, an aunt, a long drive and two children should not be allowed.

We got to Grandma's home at noon, but we decided to wait for my sister to show up before we headed into the labyrinthine depths of her living quarters. I'm convinced half of those people don't have Alzheimer's, they're just lost in there. Laura (sister) was nearly an hour late, and by then the boys enthusiasm for the lobby aquarium was giving way to hunger. Otto was protesting the meager sating offered by the animal crackers and Quin, a boy who I think lives on the microbes in the air, actually asked that we eat lunch.

This is all very scary because these children come from two adults who can't handle hunger. I get delusional, I ramble and I'm easily irritated. That's a bad combo because it means I believe there's going to be a restaurant right around the next corner, and when there's not, I go on a tirade about the lack of city planning and viable food options and if we as a nation don't do something about our diet we'll destroy the planet and everybody should know this including entrepreneurs who should have started a restaurant--wait, I should start a restaurant. Honey?

And she's crying and laughing at the series of life decisions that have lead to this moment. When Sarah is hungry she has the emotional strength of an Extreme Home Makeover family, but unfortunately she has the angry resolve of an America's Most Wanted. She's ticked and she wants to do something about her dumbass husband driving aimlessly and yelling at buildings that aren't restaurants, but all she can do is cry.

With the boys getting fussy, I was about to bail on the whole deal. That's when Laura showed up and everybody was distracted by happiness. We all went to the courtyard of the complex and looked at the fish in the pond. Otto wouldn't stop making advances at the water. He was obstinate about getting in. I grabbed and gave him the stern "no" which, once he has his mind set on something, is like scolding a rock. Finally, he got his wish. He dove into the pond.

I grabbed him in the "oh shit my god fuck" fashion that makes you move at the speed of "balls just got cattle prodded," and I grabbed him from the rather shallow depths of the water feature's feeding stream. Laura took over the other two boys and I stormed into a quiet room where a family was having an end-of-life discussion about a loved one. Before them I wrestled a poopy, swamp-smelling baby to the floor. Of course I didn't know he was poopy until I removed what I thought was just a wet diaper, and Otto, with crap smeared on his back, scurried screaming past the bereaved and into the lobby.

I finally wrangled the beloved boy, and assembled the family remnants for the great grandmother visit. We marched through the halls with a quiet determination, eventually finding grandma at lunch. It was a crowded room and the attention was a little overwhelming for the boys. Grandma looks great. I explained to her that she had a kid, who had kid, who had a kid. As I said it I couldn't believe it was true, and that she was responsible for all this mess.

We weren't there long because we had to eat. We found some food and gathered at a nearby park. The first thing Otto did was catch a bumblebee. Yes, he caught it with his little hand, and the terrified bug stung his thumb. He (Otto) lost his mind. I imagine the bee is going to have some issues as well.

His poor little thumb. It looks like when Fred Flinstone hits his hand with a hammer and it gets all fat and red and throbbing. I was so sad for him, and he was a wreck. We did what we could to make something of the day, but it was time to go home. The boys were unconscious about five minutes into the drive.

I checked them in the mirror and sighed at their greatness. I also noticed I had sunburned the heck out of my head.

But I'll do it again. Otto scares the hell out of me. He's that kid who has come back to haunt me. He is this new version of me attempting all the dangerous stuff I did as a kid: jumping from bridges, lighting myself on fire, wrecking bikes, running into fences and whatever else I never thought was a big deal until it waddled up and called me daddy. My life, infant incarnate. Because of this, I hope that I can give he and his brother as much attention as possible. That way they may not try and get it in some really stupid fashion.

Or maybe maybe if they spend a lot of time with me they'll opt to stay home and be safe.

pretty much all you need to know about males

Today Quin told me I had a big penis. That was very nice of him. I know I'm supposed to discourage that kind of talk, but that deserved a high five.

While it has been neat for me to tell someone else to stop touching themselves, the whole penis obsession has been hard to watch.

I have so many people to apologize to.

Quin is pretty smart, and when he loses to temptation, says, "I know, bedroom or bathroom," and heads off to whichever is closest. We had an interesting altercation at a friend's house. He was in their playroom being way too quiet for comfort. I went to check on him and found him with his pants down. I reacted with authentic shock and snapped, "Quin, don't do that!"

He ripped back at me, "Don't look at me!" That's his pre-pre-teen response to anything he doesn't like. He then closed the door, which would have been fine if it weren't glass.

His take on his genitalia is still very innocent. He proclaims that it tickles, and that it can grow. Why wouldn't you be enthralled? What other body part does that? The penis is pretty awesome. Quin celebrated these revelations, or at least that's what I think he was doing, when I saw him in the bathroom, pants down, doing something like air guitar, shouting "penis, penis, penis!" at the top of his lungs. I can't see a girl the same age shouting vagina over and over again. Maybe they're more civilized; maybe it's because it doesn't grow.

Both Quin and Otto need to spend less time distracted and more time focusing on not falling. Otto has an excuse. He's still toddling, and toddling comes with a price. I remember when Quin was first walking I actually Googled, "How many times toddler hit head retarded." I didn't come up with much other than copious antidotes of parents talking about their children wrecking themselves.

Three out of the last four days, Otto has had an accident report at school. Last week someone bit him. His teacher didn't specify who, I guess worried I'd be bent on retribution against a 16 month old. The next day he had a report for falling and hitting his head. He's got a bruise on his cheek and a small, purple horn on on the left side of his forehead. When you're a guy carrying a baby covered in bruises, our fear-soaked society of Nancy Grace gawkers becomes rather suspicious. I put his hood up when I went into the store with him.

And then today he had another report. He hit his head again. He has a horn to match on his right side. Now I'm getting suspicious. Who's beating my child? Sadly, it's probably himself, but vengeance against Nathan, Francis or Onofre is starting to sound justified. I'll tell them Thomas the Tank Engine died in a horrible bridge accident.

Yesterday I went into school and the director stopped me before I could get to Quin's classroom. She was urgent about her calm explanation as to why I'd be shocked when I saw my son's nose. Apparently Quin was doing a puppet show. During his performance he leaned too far into the stage, and it went down. He went with it, his face protruding from the stage's opening. A swollen, blue line across his nose depicts where he headbutted a box of puppets.

What's new and weird is being able to have full conversations with Quin. I don't remember when this first happened. In the early days I was never sure what he was saying. His inflection would be filled with purpose and I'd wonder what to say. He sounded like he needed an answer, but I didn't want to confirm something that was wrong or deny something that was right. He'd inqire if I were a fascist and I'd get all excited and exclaim "yes!" thinking he asked if I was the fastest.

Yesterday he started talking about his friend Ryan at school. I don't know how we got into this conversation, and I rarely do. Quin declares the strangest things. The other day we were getting into the car and he said he didn't like salad. He was very serious about it. If you want to know anything about marketing and how to brand yourself, just talk with a three year old. They're always letting you know things about themselves that you can't forget. Try that next time at an important meeting. Right in the middle of talk about budget cuts announce that when you touch your penis it grows. You'll never be forgotten.

Anyway, Q is telling me that he's not friends with Ryan anymore because Ryan punches him. I slowed down the car like I was going to do turn around and actually do something about it. I guess the ladies were right not to reveal the biter. I told Q he needed to tell the teacher if Ryan ever hit him again. And it took a lot of strength--and even some more slowing down so I could concentrate--to not tell him to pop Ryan in the nose. As if he'd read my mind, or maybe saw my hands on the steering wheel, Quin conjured a pacifist mantra: "I don't hit people."

His counter punch had me laying on the accolades. That's so good Q, I told him. And it is really good. Now if we can just keep the bad influences from screwing you up, you know, like your dad.

pretty much all you need to know about males

Today Quin told me I had a big penis. That was very nice of him. I know I'm supposed to discourage that kind of talk, but that deserved a high five.

While it has been neat for me to tell someone else to stop touching themselves, the whole penis obsession has been hard to watch.

I have so many people to apologize to.

Quin is pretty smart, and when he loses to temptation, says, "I know, bedroom or bathroom," and heads off to whichever is closest. We had an interesting altercation at a friend's house. He was in their playroom being way too quiet for comfort. I went to check on him and found him with his pants down. I reacted with authentic shock and snapped, "Quin, don't do that!"

He ripped back at me, "Don't look at me!" That's his pre-pre-teen response to anything he doesn't like. He then closed the door, which would have been fine if it weren't glass.

His take on his genitalia is still very innocent. He proclaims that it tickles, and that it can grow. Why wouldn't you be enthralled? What other body part does that? The penis is pretty awesome. Quin celebrated these revelations, or at least that's what I think he was doing, when I saw him in the bathroom, pants down, doing something like air guitar, shouting "penis, penis, penis!" at the top of his lungs. I can't see a girl the same age shouting vagina over and over again. Maybe they're more civilized; maybe it's because it doesn't grow.

Both Quin and Otto need to spend less time distracted and more time focusing on not falling. Otto has an excuse. He's still toddling, and toddling comes with a price. I remember when Quin was first walking I actually Googled, "How many times toddler hit head retarded." I didn't come up with much other than copious antidotes of parents talking about their children wrecking themselves.

Three out of the last four days, Otto has had an accident report at school. Last week someone bit him. His teacher didn't specify who, I guess worried I'd be bent on retribution against a 16 month old. The next day he had a report for falling and hitting his head. He's got a bruise on his cheek and a small, purple horn on on the left side of his forehead. When you're a guy carrying a baby covered in bruises, our fear-soaked society of Nancy Grace gawkers becomes rather suspicious. I put his hood up when I went into the store with him.

And then today he had another report. He hit his head again. He has a horn to match on his right side. Now I'm getting suspicious. Who's beating my child? Sadly, it's probably himself, but vengeance against Nathan, Francis or Onofre is starting to sound justified. I'll tell them Thomas the Tank Engine died in a horrible bridge accident.

Yesterday I went into school and the director stopped me before I could get to Quin's classroom. She was urgent about her calm explanation as to why I'd be shocked when I saw my son's nose. Apparently Quin was doing a puppet show. During his performance he leaned too far into the stage, and it went down. He went with it, his face protruding from the stage's opening. A swollen, blue line across his nose depicts where he headbutted a box of puppets.

What's new and weird is being able to have full conversations with Quin. I don't remember when this first happened. In the early days I was never sure what he was saying. His inflection would be filled with purpose and I'd wonder what to say. He sounded like he needed an answer, but I didn't want to confirm something that was wrong or deny something that was right. He'd inqire if I were a fascist and I'd get all excited and exclaim "yes!" thinking he asked if I was the fastest.

Yesterday he started talking about his friend Ryan at school. I don't know how we got into this conversation, and I rarely do. Quin declares the strangest things. The other day we were getting into the car and he said he didn't like salad. He was very serious about it. If you want to know anything about marketing and how to brand yourself, just talk with a three year old. They're always letting you know things about themselves that you can't forget. Try that next time at an important meeting. Right in the middle of talk about budget cuts announce that when you touch your penis it grows. You'll never be forgotten.

Anyway, Q is telling me that he's not friends with Ryan anymore because Ryan punches him. I slowed down the car like I was going to do turn around and actually do something about it. I guess the ladies were right not to reveal the biter. I told Q he needed to tell the teacher if Ryan ever hit him again. And it took a lot of strength--and even some more slowing down so I could concentrate--to not tell him to pop Ryan in the nose. As if he'd read my mind, or maybe saw my hands on the steering wheel, Quin conjured a pacifist mantra: "I don't hit people."

His counter punch had me laying on the accolades. That's so good Q, I told him. And it is really good. Now if we can just keep the bad influences from screwing you up, you know, like your dad.