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Onewheel Electric Skateboards Recalled for Safety Concerns

David Sedaris’ short story “Jesus Shaves” is a humorous story with an important message. While it makes the subject seem light, the overall message shows how communication and cultural barriers can prevent us from growing together as a society. It also shows how we do not necessarily try to understand each others cultures and often give up in the process. 
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Three by Sedaris ( Adult 18+ )

Jesus Shaves

Giant Dreams Midget Abilities by David Sedaris read by Teacher Alyse
Read and follow along. Send me a message for your free pdf copy of this story. 

"WHEN YOU'RE PLAYING YOUR GUITAR, MAKE BELIEVE YOU'RE PLAYING AN ACTUAL WOMAN," MISTER MANCINI TOLD ME. "GRAB HER BY THE NECK AND MAKE HER HOLLER."

My father loves jazz and has an extensive collection of records and reel-to-reel tapes he used to enjoy after returning home from work. He might have entered the house in a foul mood, but once he had his Dexter Gordon and a vodka martini, the stress melted away and everything was "Beautiful, baby, just beautiful." The instant the needle hit that record, he'd loosen his tie and become something other than the conservative engineer with a pocketful of IBM pencils embossed with the command think.

"Man, oh man, will you get a load of the chops on this guy? I saw him once at the Blue Note, and I mean to tell you that he blew me right out of my chair! A talent like that comes along only once in a lifetime. The guy was an absolute comet, and there I was in the front row. Can you imagine that?"

"Gee," I'd say. "I bet that was really interesting."

Empathy was the wrong tack, as it seemed only to irritate him.

"You don't know the half of it," my father would say. " 'Really interesting' my butt. You haven't got a clue. You could have taken a hatchet and cut the man's lips right off his face, chopped them off at the quick, and he still would have played better than anyone else out there. That's how good he was."

Because it was the music we'd grown up with, I liked to think that my sisters and I had a genuine appreciation for jazz. We preferred it over the music our friends were listening to, yet nothing we did or said could convince him of our devotion. Aside from replaying the tune on your own instrument, how could you prove you were really listening? It was as if he expected us to change color at the end of each selection.

Giant Dreams Midget Abilities

Read and follow along:. 

The Youth in Asia
"THAT'S IT," MY MOTHER SAID AFTER HAVING SADIE PUT TO SLEEP. "MY CAT DAYS ARE OVER."

In the early sixties, during what my mother referred to as the "tail end of the Lassie years," my parents were given two collies they named Rastus and Duchess. We were living in upstate New York, out in the country, and the dogs were free to race through the forest. They napped in meadows and stood knee-deep in frigid streams, costars in their own private dog-food commercial. According to our father, anyone could tell that the two of them were in love.

Late one evening, while lying on a blanket in the garage, Duchess gave birth to a litter of slick, potato-sized puppies. When it looked as though one of them had died, our mother placed the creature in a casserole dish and popped it into the oven, like the witch in "Hänsel and Gretel."

"Oh, keep your shirts on," she said. "It's only set on 200. I'm not baking anyone; this is just to keep him warm."

The heat revived the sick puppy and left us believing our mother was capable of resurrecting the dead.

Faced with the responsibilities of fatherhood, Rastus took off. The puppies were given away, and we moved south, where the heat and humidity worked against a collie's best interests. Duchess's once beautiful coat now hung in ragged patches. Age set in and she limped about the house, clearing rooms with her suffocating farts. When finally, full of worms, she collapsed in the ravine beside our house, we reevaluated our mother's healing powers. The entire animal kingdom was beyond her scope; apparently, she could resurrect only the cute dead.

The oven trick was performed on half a dozen peakish hamsters but failed to work on my first guinea pig, who died after eating a couple of cigarettes and an entire pack of matches.
