Karl Johnson was a respected neuroscientist who spent his career unwrapping the mysteries of Drosophila melanogaster much like you or I would unwrap a burrito (Want to learn more? See the chapter entitled "Karl's lost glasses"). And then he died, too young, from aggressive metastatic neuroendocrine cancer. He was only 52 years old. But there was more to Karl than fruit flies. He had a conscience embodied by a hand puppet named Poppy. He wrote silly songs and sayings. And he marked the boundaries of his territory with lost house keys and broken eyewear. As his older brother, I was with him during his formative years, but even if I wasn't, our adventures became legendary (if not apocryphal) family stories. We helped each other become sons, men, and fathers. He kept me laughing until the very end, when he made me cry. Writing this collection of stories has been a journey to heal my own heart after he was gone. Come along with me as I unveil the mysteries of our shared life--each of us on our own side of the car... Proceeds from the sale of this book will go to fund a cure for neuroendocrine cancer.