#13 Call me the Chicken Man

The Sherman Oaks Galleria in 1995 had it all. Three floors of commerce, a Sbarro pizzeria, and the Time Out arcade where machines took coins, not credit cards. 

Back then, unless you were a total n00b at Street Fighter II or Mortal Kombat, you could survive on .25 cents against your twelve-year-old friends. Then came that weird guy who spent hours practicing at home, and Scorpion kicked my Liu Kang ass back to the food court.

The mall was where we went. The Valley got mad hot in summer, and that mall had escalators and air conditioning and a Sam Goody. Orange Julius served something resembling a smoothie, but not quite. And I distinctly remember Hot Dog on a Stick, a “restaurant” where hot girls served hot dogs in circus tank tops. It was like a PG-13 Hooters, and I tried not to stare.

We’d get dropped off and called our parents from payphones to get picked up. Make sure you had extra change. It was perfectly reasonable to leave your kid somewhere, without a pager. (Only drug dealers had those.)

Off we went to the Galleria, to try and buy Marilyn Manson records and dodge young Israelis fresh out of the army running racket from mall carts. Guys named Uri and Yuval were hard at work, pushing Dead Sea lotions to unsuspecting housewives.

“Hello you look beautiful! Can I see your hand and rub cream all over it? This is ok? This straight from Iz-Ra-El. You know this country? We have the best mud in the Dead Sea. Nothing grows there, this is why it is DED. Hey honey, what is your phone number?”

Next to the Sam Goody and Hot Topic was a pet store with all types of creatures: bunnies, birds, kittens, and guinea pigs galore. We’d go there with my mom or dad to browse the mini menagerie before stopping at Natural Wonders.

We had an animal in our house, back then: a brown and white cockatiel. (Still trying not to laugh at that, still can’t.)

My aunt from Israel bought him for us, so we gave him a Hebrew name: Yehoshua. Yehoshua and I did not see eye to eye, or mouth to beak. He lived to be like 300 years old and would make an ear-piercing chirp alarm whenever I came home late on the weekends. I wasn’t afraid of getting caught by my parents - it was that fucking bird who’d rat me out.

Whenever I came home I stole around the house like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible – no sound, no contact, no sweat. I don’t know if birds can smell, but this bird detected me from the garage.

But our parents wanted to teach us responsibility. And a pet store in a mall spoke to the height of parent convenience, so we tried it out.

The saga began with fish. Easy, right?

I brought home a goldfish on one Saturday afternoon. My instructions were clear: sprinkle some fish flakes every day and clean the bowl out. When I got home, I dumped the fish from the plastic baggie into the glass and watched him swim happily. My attention span, which was somehow shorter than the fish’s, forgot to do the feeding that night.

When I woke up Sunday morning, I saw my fish floating. 

FATALITY.

After reflecting on the meaning of life and fish death for a few minutes, I smiled. The pet store had a 24-hour life insurance policy on the critters.

As crushed as I was, back we went for another underwater go. Considering how unlucky I was so far, I decided to name the fish only if they lasted a week. My parents thought this was a fine strategy.

This time I was ready with the flakes. In they went, with a bit extra. Okay, maybe a bit more. This fish looks hungry, I must give them a warm welcome.

I went from one extreme to the other. The next day, this nameless fish wasn’t swimming either.

FLAWLESS VICTORY.

“No more fishes, Aaron.”

“Okay, but what about frogs?”

Frogs are slimy and cool and sort of like the Ninja Turtles, and they come in a styrofoam cup with a lid. Their home can travel with me! Frogs were a no-brainer for an 8-year-old, and each cost less than a dollar.

We started with three frogs – but this number dwindled immediately after returning from the Galleria. Frogs disappeared and hopped everywhere in our house, the kitchen, our bed. It was like getting hit by the plagues of Egypt, only in Encino.

After the frog fatality, we tried mice (they sort of ate each other) and a pet rat (why?!) and that was the end of our pet saga. My dad is pretty much afraid of dogs, I’m highly allergic to cats, so those wouldn’t work.

I feel like I missed out on this whole ‘having a pet’ thing.

But now I’m an adult! An adult who can make dumb adult choices!

So I’m thinking: chickens.

Our house came with an enclosed chicken coop and a roofless chicken coop. I’ve spent time this week researching the project and considering pulling the trigger. I know - they poop, they kick up dust, coyotes and raccoons want to snack on them. It’s a time-consuming project, we have two kids, do we really need four chickens?

But they’re egg-laying machines, and we like eggs. Ask any parent– we can go through a dozen in three days easily. Eggs are superfoods, and I need egg-laying supersoldiers thirty feet from my kitchen.

There’s also the responsibility aspect. Our kids love projects, they absolutely love gardening and weeding and feeding our compost. Raising chickens would be the pinnacle project of their toddler lives. The thought of sending a five-year-old to fetch eggs at 7 a.m. like some pioneering homesteader sounds awesome. Like something you only hear on podcasts or in Netflix shows about kids raised in Mongolia.

As a parent you get this chance to do things over again - to fix your past. To make different choices and mend the holes in your broken heart. Sounds beautiful and cathartic, but it’s terrible. This turns your kids into unpaid interns working your own spiritual healing. That’s a lot of pressure to put on a toddler.

There’s a better approach. 

A parenting style driven to create happy memories and adventures. One designed to shape a childhood where they’re tested and pushed to grow. To take controlled risks. Environments where they’re exposed to weird foods and ideas. Weekends where they’re free to roam without getting phone-tracked by their overprotective parents. 

With great power comes great responsibility. Fine, I agree.

And with six chickens comes great resilience and self-confidence.

And a shit ton of eggs.

xo,

Aaron

3 things right now

Listen or Read: Bad Therapy: Why the Kids Aren't Growing Up, by Abigail Shrier

Eat: Villas Tacos in HLP. HOLY GOD THESE ARE GOOD. GET THE TRIO.

Move: Strengthside for flexibility workouts