Our children

Our children rebel. Not because of the drugs they use, but because of the drugs we give them.

Our children hide. Not as part of a game, but from fear of being beaten.

Our children seek. Not out of curiosity, but as the remedy for a life without hope.

Our children go hungry. Not because they are poor, but because we are poor.

Our children remember. Not to share their story, but to keep your secret.

Our children are sick. Not just with Chickenpox, but with Ebola, HIV and Malaria.

Our children hate. Not because they care, but because we showed them to not care.

Our children are our future. Not because we trust them, but because we plan on blaming them for our past.

Our children don’t dream of becoming astronauts. Not because it’s a dangerous profession, but because we taught them to look down instead of up.

Our children won’t put a golden toad in their pocket. Not because they are scared of it, but because we’ve made the toad extinct.

Our children lay on cold, hard floors. Not to rest, but to cover their heads from bullets whizzing through their classrooms.

Our children disappear. Not to start families of their own, but to become pawns, playthings and prostitutes.

Our children cross borders. Not by their own will, but because we told them to broaden their horizons.

Our children are dirty. Not from playing in the park, but from living on the street.

Our children can’t hear. Not because they are ignoring us, but because they lost their hearing after an explosion.

Our children run across the beach. Not to play, but to get away from the bombs we drop from the sky.

Our children bleed. Not from a scrape, but from a gunshot wound.

Our children are silenced. Not because they are loud, but because we’ve deemed their voice as unimportant.

Our children. We have failed them.


Sunday morning

Brunch is my church. I visit the altar of meal combining almost every Sunday, like a devout glutton. It is the holiest of meals, as it is the time of day that I am most spiritually tranquil and physically ready to receive the communion of English muffin and mimosa.

As a faithful bruncher, I have prepared, out of my free will, a few commandments to ensure your experience is other-worldly.

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The Brunch Gospel.

Brunch with your partner

This is the way God intended brunch to be. You, your partner and 136 other people vying for a small table on the sidewalk that is dangerously close to a busy intersection without an umbrella to protect you from the unforgiving morning sun. How else will you know if your relationship can stand the test of time without experiencing a three hour wait for poached eggs?

Brunch with friends and their children

I say start them early and baptize them into the brunch lifestyle while they are still in diapers. But there are no two ways about it, brunching with friends that happen to be parents is complicated. However, with proper planning and basic knowledge of fractions, your morning-to-afternoon meal could turn out to be an okay time. The first step requires you to ascertain how many people are in your party. For example, four adults and a child is considered a party of four-and-a-half. However, if your friends happen to have two children, you must figure out their ages to come up with the proper fraction, which directly correlates to the type of chair and/or chair accessories you will need. Also, it is important to note that if your friends have twins or triplets this formula is useless. In this case, all you need are functional restraints.

Brunch with your parents

Honor your father and mother by feeding them food and drink that will give them acid reflux and spike their blood sugar levels for 48 hours. Are you feeling nostalgic for your teenage years, when you would beg your parent or guardian to drop you off two blocks from the movie theater so not to be embarrassed in front of your friends, but they didn’t listen to you and drove right up to the entrance and accidentally honked? Well, taking them to brunch is very much like that, only they will find new and creative ways to embarrass you and ruin any future visits to your favorite brunch spot.

Brunch with your younger friends

Don’t take the mimosa in vain. That is some serious champagne disguised in citrus and, no matter how “light” it feels going down, don’t let your younger friends convince you that shooting the revered breakfast drink is the best way to get your money’s worth on the unlimited drink package you just purchased. God punishes these acts harshly.

Brunch with your older friends

Do realize that brunching with your older friends will be easier than most other groups. They are less likely to flake out or over sleep and will only eat at places that take reservations because they are too grown to wait in line. That being said, you should be prepared for the inquisition that will shortly follow the waiter’s normally rhetorical, “Are there any questions about the menu?” Once the 25-minute question and answer session about items that they were never really going to order has culminated in requesting the world’s most customized Huevos Rancheros, they will spend the next 25 minutes explaining their digestive ailments as the reasoning behind their complicated order.

Brunch by yourself

The only person that notices your request for a table for one is the host/ess. To everyone else, you are completely invisible. Watch people all around you, as they fight with their spouse, entertain their children, order for their annoying parents, vomit on tables, and ask endless questions about the types of bread available. And then laugh and laugh. Just like God.


Hi, school

Last week a student was fatally stabbed by another at my Alma Mater, Coral Gables High School. The story is tragic for everyone involved and although I only attended ninth and tenth grade there, I feel very attached to the home of the Cavaliers.

Well, until the reporters began interviewing the students.


          The victim was on the floor and had a womb here (pointing to his body), another womb here (pointing to another part of  his body) and here (pointing to another part of, oh you get it)…

Maybe I’m just a jerk and the poor kid has a speech impediment. Fine. But the bigger ass’ole is the reporter for broadcasting the interview – unless…

Was this the most well spoken kid in that entire high school? My old high school? Well, I didn’t really go to that school. I mean, I didn’t graduate from that school. Well, at least I know the difference between wound and womb. Jesus had several wounds and Mary carried him in her womb. Thanks St. Brendan Catholic High School home of the Sabres!

In my next post I will expand on my theory about high school mascots and how they encourage violence. For instance, if Coral Gables High would have been the home of the Bookworms, these two boys would have resolved their dispute over a girl at the library by having a read-off. But, no, they just had to be Cavaliers.