I’m Philip, and as the middle child, I am supposed to be a peacekeeper and an attention-getter. This probably explains why I like to parachute into boxing matches. I’m divorced and live in San Francisco, so a lot of my friends and family members just assume that I’m gay. If that were true, my social life would be much more active. Like my siblings, I have the two best children in the world, thanks in no small part to all the advice in that tiger mom book. As a southerner, I have an ingrained appreciation for fried foods and beer, but as a San Franciscan, my homeopathic yoga acupuncturist would prefer that I drink more wheat grass.
From Douglas: Well that’s just great. We didn’t want to tell anyone that Philip lived in Gomorrah but I guess that cat’s out of the bag now. As long as our family shame is on display, I might as well tell you about the matching Michael Jackson tattoos we all got on our backs during spring break. And you may as well know that we were all born with 8-inch vestigial tails and had to wear customized garters to ride bicycles. But we made a pact to NEVER disclose what really happened to our tabby on July 4th-6th, 1977 so don’t bother asking.
From Denise: Philip achieved middle-child status only by wrestling Douglas in-utero to be first on the scene. Don’t be fooled: nearly-newborns can throw a mean jab. This behavior often results in reduced mobility (or “aggressive-twin elbow”) within three to four decades, but you just couldn’t tell him anything at that age. Philip’s more redeeming qualities are being father to his two awesome kids, his far-reaching creative abilities, and his booty-kicking sudoku skills. He holds in high regard rechargeable batteries and double-ply bathroom tissue.