
I was six years old. My father and I were in our apartment
living room in San Jose, California, watching Green Acres. More interested in space travel than I was in the clash
between Eddie Albert's bucolic quest and Eva Gabor’s lavish creature comfort habits, I asked my father
how far planet Earth was from the Sun. Without missing a beat, my father
continued staring at the television and answered 93,000,000 miles. I was
stunned by what appeared to be his omniscience. I asked him how could a human
being know the distance between the Earth and the Sun?
He answered, “Because I’m your father. And fathers know
everything.”
I was in awe of my father’s power and felt compelled to ask
him a question every time I felt perplexed by some puzzling situation. That
puzzling situation occurred the next day when my father took me to the grand
opening of a Taco Bell, which was considered exotic for featuring “Mexican”
food.
The perplexing situation I faced was the teenagers behind
the Taco Bell counter. They all had splotches on their oily faces, this being
the era before antibiotics were prescribed by dermatologists and Oxy10 was
readily available at drug stores.
I asked my father what those unsightly bumps were on the
employees’ faces. He told me they were called pimples. I then asked my father
why these young people behind the counter had to suffer this repelling
condition. Without missing a beat, my father said, “Aristotle tells us that God
gives teenagers pimples to teach them humility.”
This one sentence amazed me. Number one, my father was
showing that he was well versed in Aristotle who I vaguely understood to be a
famous philosopher that only smart people would know about. Number two, the
idea that God had to teach teenagers humility suggested that the adolescent
years were wrought with egregious personality defects that required some kind
of divine corrective.
Overcome with anxiety, I looked up at my father and said,
“Dad, someday will God give me pimples?”
He furrowed his brow pensively and said, “I don’t know,
son. It all depends.”
I know what he meant by his portentous demeanor. If I
became arrogant during adolescence, God would send a plague of pimples upon me.
But if I was polite and humble, I might be spared.
In the mid 1970s during my sophomore year in high school, I
broke out with a bad case of acne requiring antibiotics. At the time I was an
oversized bodybuilder who had developed a case of chest-thumping braggadocio to
conceal my insecurities. God was righteously sending a plague down on me to put
me back in line.
Since that time, I’ve combed through the works of Aristotle
and have never found reference to pimples and their connection to teenage
arrogance. But I’m sure that Aristotle had to have said it because, after all,
my father quoted him, and as my father said during an episode of Green Acres, fathers know everything.
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