Why We Suck (9 page)

    My brother was way bigger than me and I drove him to the brink as often as I could. Here's one example: he would alphabetize his record collection along the floor against the wall on his side of the room and then-here's where he would fuck up-tell me that he had just alphabetized it and for me not to even look-never mind touch-any of the records. I would then wait until he left and immediately pull all the records out of their sleeves and put them haphazardly into other sleeves-a little process I like to call Anti-Alphabetizing. He would come home later, go to pull out

    Crosby, Stills, Nash And A Whiny Canadian and instead end up listening to Iron Butterfly's In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida. Then the Iron Butterfly sleeve would produce Grand Funk Railroad. Abbey Road? Leon Russell. Leon Russell? Three Dog Night. Watching him struggle through the process-and this happened many many times-never failed to make me smile. And then he would threaten and chase and pummel me-which I never really minded. I would laugh and cackle and it would make him insane. He could kick my ass. So what. We both knew he didn't know Kung Fu or the Vulcan Death Grip. He would go back onto his side of the tiny room and painstakingly realphabetize the records and I would secretly plan how long I would wait before anti-alphabetizing them again.

    What did I learn? Patience, pulling, pushing, and the great pleasure of anticipation-waiting for him to come home, knowing the records were all messed up. I learned all four of those things by aggravating my brother. Oh-and Vaseline. Let me explain.

    Sometimes my brother would come home late-when I was supposedly asleep-so he would have to put on headphones to listen to the stereo. The big, giant, puffy seventies headphones you see in old movies? Uh huh. You got it.

    Once or twice I coated the inside of those babies with Vaseline or this stuff my dad kept with his tools near the water heater-it was called Lava hand soap. And believe me when I tell you-it was aptly named. Lava came in a giant screw-top vat and was invented to wash away engine oil and valve grease. I think it was actually just volcanic spew that some guys at Mount St. Helens let cool down after an eruption and then shoveled into jars and slapped a label on. It made your hands feel as if they were melting. So you can imagine what it would do to your ears. It had a warning on the front: Do Not Put On Face! The way I figured it-technically speaking-the ears are part of the head.

    I don't even think my brother ever figured it out. He'd usually be two sheets to the wind and fall asleep with the headphones on and some shitty music rejiggering his brain cells and wake up with greasy hair.

    And the other odd time, ears that felt like they were on fire. I imagined him making a mental note to turn the bass down before he got under the sheets.

    Oh the pure joy that brought me. What did I learn? Revenge, folks. And, of course, how to fall asleep with a smile on my face.

    Here's a funny story that sums up my kidhood relationship with my brother. I was playing football in the school yard with some older kids I barely knew. I was covering this kid who went up for a pass and as I blocked it I also accidentally hit him in the face and as we both tumbled to the ground the guy starts punching me. A lot.

    As I was trying to defend myself and/or grab a hold of his hands WHOMP! he was hit with blunt force and suddenly disappeared from view.

    I sat up to see my brother sitting on top of the guy and holding his head against the ground by the neck and saying: Nobody touches my little brother except me, okay asshole? Hah? Ya got it? Hands off. Then he stood up and walked away. The guy lay there, desperately sucking air. I didn't know what to do. So-confused-I said That's right, asshole. Only he can beat the shit outta me! Then I turned to all the other guys-who also looked confused-and said Everybody hear that? Okay, then. Puzzled, they all nodded yes. Then we played more football. There were many many You okays? and Lemme help you ups from then on.

    One more bully story: my good friend and writing partner Peter Tolan (Rescue Me, The Job, Analyze This, America's Sweethearts, Too Many Other Credits To Mention Not To Mention Some Insane Amount Of Emmy Nominations And Three Actual Emmys) was born in raised in Scituate, Massachusetts, in much the same circumstances as me including Irish (American) parents, nuns, priests the whole nine yards. We're both about the same age.

    Peter's bully was a kid named Billy Noonan who would stand out in front of his house and refuse to let anyone pass unless they gave him money. He made threats and swore and spit and acted like a tough guy and pretty soon everyone was forking over their loose change and lunch money just so Noonan wouldn't kick their asses. His reputation grew. He killed a guy. He skinned a cat. He invented a new kind of Kung Fu (hey, I told you-Kung Fu was EVERYWHERE back then).

    In order to get to school, Peter and every other kid had to walk past Noonan's corner-there was just no other way without walking an extra couple of very very long blocks so most kids just decided to give in and pay the vig and accept their fate. Then-one winter morning-there was a huge snow and ice storm. Walking the streets was like skating on a huge outdoor rink. Noonan put on a big, brand-new gangster-type overcoat and stood outside his house-as always waiting to taunt and spit and collect. As Peter made his regular turn onto the corner-along with a bunch of other kids-Noonan yelled "Hey Tolan-where's my money?" Peter sighed and very carefully-making sure not to slip and fall-turned and looked over at Noonan's outstretched hand. "C'mon, faggot. Fork it over."

    Peter tossed a look at the other kids, shook his head in disgust and sauntered gingerly across the ice toward the bully. Then-something snapped. Peter had finally had enough. In his mind things had come this far and would now go no further. He was going to stand up to Noonan once and for all. Tell him where to go and how fast to get there. But there was only one problem-speaking of speed. Peter's feet were moving so fast in an attempt not to slip that he realized he was in fact gaining a great amount of gusto-too much gusto-he was heading straight at Noonan with no way to stop and so his brain stem sent the signal This Is It! Fuck Noonan! Kill Him Before He Kills You! He Has A Secret Kung Fu Move!

    Much to everyone's surprise, instead of stopping and placing his lunch money into Noonan's grasp, Peter instead leapt forward onto Noonan's chest and as the bully fell backward Peter inadvertently-only because of gravity and other scientific relationships between two moving masses-raked his arms down the overcoat and ended up ripping the two pockets off as he landed on top of him.

    The lunch money of many flew out-coins bouncing off the cold cold ice, dollar bills billowing out on the wind.

    Thinking quickly, Peter got to his feet and tossed the two pockets down onto Noonan's very scared and shock-filled face. Where's your Kung Fu now, asshole? Hah? he said, standing over him. Then he made a very dainty, delicate retreat-the ice underfoot not allowing him the swaggering John Wayne exit he would have preferred.

    "Look what you did to my cool new coat!" Noonan whimpered.

    "Yeah yeah yeah," Peter replied, struggling to keep his balance.

    All the kids watched in awe as Peter minced up the icy street with his head held high. Had the bully pushed Peter over the edge? Was this cold snowy morning's demand just the final straw in a long and seemingly endless battle? Was justice finally getting its due?

    Nope.

    Kung Fu and Spock's Vulcan Death Grip had just scared the crap out of an entire generation of kids-to the point where some kind of revolution was inevitable. Bullies everywhere had taken the power of gossip and TV and turned it against the masses, much to their own chagrin.

    Noonan was never again to collect lunch money or even stand in front of his house spitting and taunting. Bobby Burns was reduced to just another idiot who forgot to wear a shirt. Noonan became known as No Pockets. Eventually shortened to just Pockets.

    Those were the days. You fought your own battles and sometimes you won and sometimes you lost and sometimes Mother Nature actually stepped in to lend you a secret hand. Just getting from one place to another was fraught with peril and potential karate chops.

    We were lucky to be alive and our parents reminded us of that almost every other day. Starving kids in China and Africa and Ireland itself. I can't count how many times teachers and parents would say think of the poor kids over in Vietnam-and they weren't just referring to the Vietnamese. Ray Kelly who lived in the building next door got drafted. Another kid two streets over joined up. In the working class it was always an option-you wanted out of the neighborhood-a fresh start-you probably couldn't afford college so you signed up with the army. And sometimes they just came and took you. Your number came up. Literally. It used to crack me up later in life when I'd meet people my age who grew up with money and they talked about Teen Tours-trips they took in the summer during high school where they visited Rome or Paris or the Swiss Alps. Yeah-we had Teen Tours too. To goddam Saigon. Or the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

    We walked our skinny asses to school or down to the bus stop and it might as well have been the wild wild west: bullies on one corner, drunk drivers on the other and once you got to school you dealt with women dressed up like penguins who wielded wooden yardsticks as if they were light sabers and pedophile priests who lurked up and down every single hallway.

    Nowadays parents show you videos or photos or tell you stories about how their kids are climbing and standing and saying such and such.

    Hey-you wanna impress us?

    Show us pictures of the kid falling down and getting stitches and stuttering to speak and swallowing nails or munching on a pigeon or just staring into the camera with scabs all over his head. Then we might be impressed. Show us a photo of the world's ugliest kid and say "hey, look-my baby looks just like an orangutan!" This would really lead to a round of applause.

    First of all-they are SUPPOSED to start climbing and standing and grabbing and kicking-if they aren't, then take them back to the hospital and ask for a refund. And as far as him or her saying such and such-bullshit.

    People other than the actual parents can't understand a single sound a kid is making. It all comes out as gibberish. Save us all some precious seconds and call us when the kid can say "I gotta go poop." No one-with the possible exception of the grandparents-really cares.

    I'm tired of hearing the convoluted explanations of how special or talented or blessed with ability every single asshole's kids are today. I don't wanna hear how he tests in the something something percentile of his class or how she was judged to be blah blah blah by a panel of mathematics experts.

    It's gotten so bizarre that some people are actually trying to circumvent the system and get their idiotic children DECLARED special-needs.

    Parent pair after parent pair digging through books and trawling the Internet in search of symptoms that match up with their underachieving imbeciles.

    A lot of them turn to the gold standard excuse-Attention Deficit Disorder. ADD. Holy shit. I was never diagnosed as being ADD but I'll bet if they tested back in the sixties I would've come up ADD-HD-High Definition. I can barely keep my focus long enough to stay on this subject. I mean-have you been reading this chapter or not?

    Lemme give you an example.

    I am truly, honestly going to stop typing for a moment and see whether I can think of something to say about attention deficit disorder and I will type the first two things that come into my head.

    Here we go.

    Gimme like-five seconds.

    Okay-start counting.

    Why do old people drive so goddam slow? You have had the experience-stuck in a forty-mile-per-hour speed zone on a one-lane road behind some brittle, ancient creature who's barely going thirty as he daydreams about LBJ. Meanwhile, YER in a rush but the old asshole's driving as if he's got all the time in the world. Hey-I got news for ya, shithead. Yer eighty-seven years old. Death is not only right around the corner-he might be riding shotgun. If I were eighty-seven years old-full well knowing I might have a heart attack or an aneurysm or if I cut a hard fart the wrong way it might actually blow an internal gasket and make my entire insides explode all over my leather 1994 Cadillac Seville seats-I would drive so fucking fast you would barely be able to identify my car if I ran you over. And what if I did run you over-what're they gonna do, give me life in jail? I'm eighty-goddam-seven! I think old people should be forced to actually drive the same speed as their age. Eighty-seven is your age AND your speed limit. You better hope I don't hit my late eighties or early nineties because I will guarantee everyone right now-you better get the fuck out of my way. I'll kill young people just for spite. And when I say young I mean anyone under seventy-five.

    

    See? Wait-watch this:

    Everyone talks about how crazy Tom Cruise is because he believes in Scientology-a religion based on the idea that aliens came to Earth many many years ago and created the human race blah blah blah. Yeah. That sounds pretty crazy to me. But not as crazy as the religion I was brought up to believe in-the Catholic Church-where we were taught that a chick got pregnant without having sex and gave birth to a guy who could walk on water and feed thousands of people with one loaf of bread and a fish. Hmmm. Who's crazy now?

    

    See? Wait wait-one more:

    They just announced on my desktop satellite radio feed that lame-duck President George W. Bush is going to sign into law a bill that will keep the mentally ill from being able to purchase guns. Great. At least Britney Spears won't be able to shoot herself in the head. Then again-neither will Kevin Federline.