Last month my dad turned seventy-eight years old. A few days before his birthday, I drove down to San Diego to see him.
“What do you want for your birthday,” I asked, as we sat in his living room.
“I want to talk to you about something. Let’s take the dog for a walk,” he said, as he grabbed a leash that sat next to his recliner. “You take the shit bag,” he added, handing me a bundled up plastic baggy.
We headed up his quiet suburban street as his large brown Rottweiler mix walked ahead.
“The human body wasn’t meant to live this long,” he said.
“Seventy-eight is not that old,” I replied.
“Do we have to sit here and dignify a clearly horseshit statement such as that, or can you cease to pander to me and just have a conversation?”
“Okay. Seventy-eight is old.”
He hiked up his sweatpants and quickened the pace of our walk.
“I’m not complaining. I’m just saying people peddle this ridiculous idea that you can be an old person and go water skiing and fuck whenever you want and it’s bullshit. It’s fucking hubris that’s specific to humans and no other species,” he said, as he yanked the dog’s leash, pulling it away from the neighbor’s lawn right before it trampled their flowers.
“Well, the other option is to just accept that death is coming for you,” I replied.
“It is coming for you. You can’t beat death. It’s un-fucking-defeated. And if you fight it, it will humiliate you. It’ll chain you to a bed and make someone have to wipe your shitty ass. It’ll make you forget who your own fucking kids are. It takes your dignity and it whips its’ dick out and pisses on it. When you’re younger and it comes for you, it’s worth it to fight it and suffer through the humiliation. When you’re older, what the fuck does it get you to go through that?,” he said, then took a deep breath and stopped on the sidewalk.
I looked at him collecting his thoughts and every muscle in my stomach contracted in fear. I could barely get out my next words.
“Are you dying?” I asked.
“What? Fuck no. If I was dying I’d just call you up and say ‘Hey, I’m dying.’
“I would prefer you didn’t do it like that,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief.
“Like I’m going to give a shit what you prefer when I’m dying,” he laughed, as he began walking again.
“So then why are you bringing this up?”
“Take a look at the dog,” he said, pointing at his best friend. “The dog gives a shit about three things, in this order; Living, fucking, eating. Now, if he’s eating, and the opportunity to fuck presents itself, he’d stop eating so that he could fuck. And if he’s fucking, and something threatens his livelihood, he’d stop fucking so that he could protect himself. What does that tell you?” he asked.
“I don’t know, isn’t that, like, Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs or something?”
“I’m okay with you just saying ‘I don’t know.’ I’d actually prefer that to a dumb answer.”
“I don’t know, dad,” I said, getting a little annoyed.
“The dog, just like every other animal including us, thinks first and foremost about staying alive and passing on their genetics. It’s in our DNA to do so. You spend all your time when you’re young making sure you do all the best eating, fucking, and living you can. But then you get old like me and you can’t even tell if you farted and nothing in your body works like it used to. And you start to think, or at least I do, about how you can spend all your most effective years on this planet, which is filled with billions of people, not giving a shit about anybody but the ten or so motherfuckers that share your blood. And I think human beings are capable of more than just that. And we should want to be. Because when you die, all that’s left of you is the people you gave a shit about. Everybody loves to say how much we’ve evolved, but the real measure of whether or not a species has evolved is if they can look their DNA in the eyes and say, ‘Fuck you, I can do better than you think I can.’
We turned down his street and he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
“That said, I want a nice bottle of bourbon for my birthday because I’m your fucking father.”
arnold schwarzenegger
“What do you want for your birthday,” I asked, as we sat in his living room.
“I want to talk to you about something. Let’s take the dog for a walk,” he said, as he grabbed a leash that sat next to his recliner. “You take the shit bag,” he added, handing me a bundled up plastic baggy.
We headed up his quiet suburban street as his large brown Rottweiler mix walked ahead.
“The human body wasn’t meant to live this long,” he said.
“Seventy-eight is not that old,” I replied.
“Do we have to sit here and dignify a clearly horseshit statement such as that, or can you cease to pander to me and just have a conversation?”
“Okay. Seventy-eight is old.”
He hiked up his sweatpants and quickened the pace of our walk.
“I’m not complaining. I’m just saying people peddle this ridiculous idea that you can be an old person and go water skiing and fuck whenever you want and it’s bullshit. It’s fucking hubris that’s specific to humans and no other species,” he said, as he yanked the dog’s leash, pulling it away from the neighbor’s lawn right before it trampled their flowers.
“Well, the other option is to just accept that death is coming for you,” I replied.
“It is coming for you. You can’t beat death. It’s un-fucking-defeated. And if you fight it, it will humiliate you. It’ll chain you to a bed and make someone have to wipe your shitty ass. It’ll make you forget who your own fucking kids are. It takes your dignity and it whips its’ dick out and pisses on it. When you’re younger and it comes for you, it’s worth it to fight it and suffer through the humiliation. When you’re older, what the fuck does it get you to go through that?,” he said, then took a deep breath and stopped on the sidewalk.
I looked at him collecting his thoughts and every muscle in my stomach contracted in fear. I could barely get out my next words.
“Are you dying?” I asked.
“What? Fuck no. If I was dying I’d just call you up and say ‘Hey, I’m dying.’
“I would prefer you didn’t do it like that,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief.
“Like I’m going to give a shit what you prefer when I’m dying,” he laughed, as he began walking again.
“So then why are you bringing this up?”
“Take a look at the dog,” he said, pointing at his best friend. “The dog gives a shit about three things, in this order; Living, fucking, eating. Now, if he’s eating, and the opportunity to fuck presents itself, he’d stop eating so that he could fuck. And if he’s fucking, and something threatens his livelihood, he’d stop fucking so that he could protect himself. What does that tell you?” he asked.
“I don’t know, isn’t that, like, Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs or something?”
“I’m okay with you just saying ‘I don’t know.’ I’d actually prefer that to a dumb answer.”
“I don’t know, dad,” I said, getting a little annoyed.
“The dog, just like every other animal including us, thinks first and foremost about staying alive and passing on their genetics. It’s in our DNA to do so. You spend all your time when you’re young making sure you do all the best eating, fucking, and living you can. But then you get old like me and you can’t even tell if you farted and nothing in your body works like it used to. And you start to think, or at least I do, about how you can spend all your most effective years on this planet, which is filled with billions of people, not giving a shit about anybody but the ten or so motherfuckers that share your blood. And I think human beings are capable of more than just that. And we should want to be. Because when you die, all that’s left of you is the people you gave a shit about. Everybody loves to say how much we’ve evolved, but the real measure of whether or not a species has evolved is if they can look their DNA in the eyes and say, ‘Fuck you, I can do better than you think I can.’
We turned down his street and he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
“That said, I want a nice bottle of bourbon for my birthday because I’m your fucking father.”
arnold schwarzenegger
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