You're Making Me Hate You (16 page)

Anyway, so my friends and I all coveted the Metallica Pushead board, or the “Zorlac” deck, as they are sometimes called. The problem is that they were expensive, at least as far as we were concerned. We all came from middle-income families or worse, so the amount of money these boards cost were like, “We might as well buy a car!” This, however, did nothing to stop us from wishing we had one: riding around like a king in a crown, holding onto bumpers like Marty McFly, and swooping by the kids gathered in front of Bunger Intermediate. Before you start on the “Bunger” jokes, let me get to the gist of this exploratory little tale. Finally one of our compatriots achieved glory for the ages: for his birthday he was given our holiest of grails: a brand-new Zorlac board, complete with fresh trucks and Slime Ball wheels. It was a thing to appreciate—killer Pushead design underneath and plenty of grip tape for the bottom of his duct-taped Converse shoes.

We were all on hand for the unveiling and subsequent first skate. My friend, who I’ll call Jon, grinned from ear to ear. “It’s so bad ass, right?” he exclaimed, holding it above his head. We were all too absorbed in its shininess to pay attention to him—seventh graders aren’t really known for their discipline. But we all dutifully stood back for the inaugural ride. Jon put it on the ground and placed one foot on it, scanning around to drink in our obvious envy and smiling like someone was going to take his picture. “Check it out!” he said, and pushed off, swinging it around at the end of his street and flooring it back toward us with pure relish. With a nice kick flip, he brought it back to his hand and held it up again. “Dude, this thing is so rad!” With that, Jon jumped in the air for an acid drop.

When he landed, the board snapped in half.

We would find out later that this was a problem that turned out to be quite prevalent with the early renditions of the
Metallica board. It wasn’t the band’s fault, but it was true. They almost all split in half. They were made of what looked like particleboard or plywood. Sure, they looked “The Shit,” but they were good for maybe one trick and then broke like waves on the shore. It’s difficult to correctly explain the heaviness that hung in the air as Jon stood there stunned, looking at his “bitchin’ board” that was now broken and unusable. The silence sat like a fart in a sauna, dank and foul. Then a crushing scream came from Jon that I have rarely heard elsewhere in my life. “WHAT THE Fuck, DUDE?” he spat as the reality sank back to our hemisphere. “YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FuckING KIDDING! MY PARENTS ARE GONNA FuckING MURDER ME!” We all came closer to see the remnants of what was, at one time, the object of all our desires. If I’m remembering this right, Jon picked the two halves of the board up gingerly and sulked back to his home, dejected and ruined, knowing the hell he was in for when he reached his destination. I also think that in that moment I realized that expense doesn’t always guarantee quality. You can spend a lot of money on something, but that might not get you anything worth a shit in the end. I may have had some slips over the years, but overall that is a lesson I am determined not to forget.

We all have a habit of developing spending frenzy. Look at all the people who went out and spent hundreds on those special shoes that were supposed to tone your butt: you know, the ones that made every woman wearing them look like they all had clubbed feet. After millions of dollars spent around the world, it turned out those same shoes created more back and knee problems than they really let on. Oh, and Tamagotchis—you remember those? They were digital pets on key chains that everyone and their mom
had
to have! A bunch of pointless capital hurled
in their direction later, they now reside in either the basements of the world or the eternal baskets reserved for annual spring sales. Isn’t it silly what we choose to splurge on in the heat of the golden moment? Isn’t it sad how we never learn from those lessons as the cycle repeats itself over … and over … and over?

I can go back even further: old ladies dying in pursuit of those Cabbage Patch Kids, the Rubik’s Cube, the Wacky Wall Crawler, the Sega Dreamcast, that copy of Madonna’s first book, those JNCO pants with all the fucking zippers, the Thighmaster, the Ab Belt, the Shake Weight, the SodaStream, the … you know what, this is getting ridiculous. If I kept going, there’d be no more room left in this book for the rest of my curses, blue humor, and quirky observations. Let me just sum it up by saying this: none of you can be trusted with the freedom of free trade. I know right now you’re thinking to yourself, “This coming from the man who spent $10,000 at a fucking Best Buy?” Yes indeed, this guy right here, with the Vault full of movies to show for it, is saying to you the time has come for the human race to run their monetary ideas by me for the rest of their lives. Yeah, I don’t like it any more than you may, but shit has happened on my side of the yard. Lap it up, fuzz balls.

We live in a world where people can’t stay in their houses, let alone pay their bills. Kids are
starving
—not hungry, STARVING—and big business has a stranglehold on the planet like never before. Yet most of the world strolls past like it’s nothing. They cross their streets and hope to die while the others stick needles in their own eyes so as not to see the disparate levels of suffering that they have no control over. The rich are
really
rich and the poor are
holy shit
poor, and the bit in the middle where we all would feel comfortable is getting smaller and smaller to the point at which we can’t slip paper in between them. When the world
can’t take care of its own, when the chips are stacked against the spread, something has got to fucking give. So here’s my solution, because I always seem to have one: every time you buy something pathetically insipid, you have to donate the equivalent amount of money to a charity that fights for the poor.

That’s the long and lean of it. I will cease firing off on the masses for wiping their asses with money that could be used elsewhere if they keep the status quo in line by helping other people who desperately need it. Outrageous, you say? I beg to differ. You see, most of the people who fall under the poverty level are just folks who
want
to work, but many American businesses still farm out good jobs overseas, and this is a problem all over the world. These people are descendants of the salty fuckers who helped build and defend this world, no matter where you happen to live. When that spirit is being crushed because the bottom line is self-serving, then something drastic has to be done. Maybe,
just
maybe, if I’m the motherfucker who has to sign off on the checks and balances, people will stop throwing away good money on bad decisions. If they continue to spend but give the equal amount to the people who need it, we all win. Maybe people will spend less but on more essential things, while they also give back to the people who need help. The grip of Big Business will slacken when we start to put our best feet forward. We will no longer be hostages of The Man, the poor will get a chance to get back on their feet, and The Man will have no power over us anymore. Good night and good luck, Big Brother: it’s time to stick up for each other now.

In the end we’re all just exceptional monkeys with credit limits—Simian Grundy, born on a Monday, flush on Tuesday, and broke on Hump Day. On a good day we commit ourselves to the myth of the fiscal loaves and thrifty fishes, wiling away our bank accounts on any whim without a thought of the long term or
the consequences. It is damn near pornographic; the gross distinction between the Haves and the Have-Nothings is so out of whack, you couldn’t slide a bike tire in the space that separates them. This wouldn’t bother me if the world at large weren’t so bent on impressing itself with shallow baubles and temporary distractions. Am I the only asshole who feels like our analog souls are in digital jeopardy? Buzz-kill alert: I guess I am the last one to get asked for the dance. But I stand by my record, even if it’s a 78 playing at 33⅓.

Any kids who don’t understand that parable, I give you permission to ask your parents to explain. Just don’t show them the chapter about “The Head Song,” which you haven’t read because I haven’t written it yet, so forget I suggested it—ABORT! ABORT MISSION!

Let me tell you a silly little story about how I almost blew myself up.

In 2000 I was in the whirlwind called the Slipknot Touring Machine. We had been on the road nonstop since Ozzfest ’99, jumping from tour to tour and exacting vengeance on the music scene that had refused to go where we wanted it to go. Thus, when I’d first started touring, I moved some of my stuff into my Gram’s house to keep my bills low (also because they turned our old apartment into a bed and breakfast, but that’s neither here nor there). But I’d sold my car as well, so when I
was
at home, I had nothing to drive. As a result, when I had a rare week off to myself, I decided I was going to buy a new car—better yet, a truck, with big, old-school wheel wells and the smell of a decade I wasn’t born in! I wasn’t exactly rolling in dough, so I went down to a used car lot to take a gander at what my options could be in that area. Luckily there was one not too far from my grandmother’s house. I sauntered over to check out the selection.

I was in luck—there was indeed a truck that met my criteria right there in the lot! It was rusty and ragged out, but I loved it. I could hardly wait to give it a test drive. I took it out for a spin around the corner and liked what I was feeling, so I pulled back in, put cash down (maybe a little more than I felt it was worth, but I really liked that truck), and drove away, humming along to the only AM station I could tune in on the radio. The handling was shit, the exhaust leaked into the cab, the whole truck reeked of gasoline, and the tires felt washy, but I didn’t let that get me down. In retrospect, maybe I should have let it get me a
little
down.

I got it back to my place and hung out with some friends for a while. I was hungry by the time they left, so I grabbed my keys to go procure the finest of fast foods. I jumped in the truck, stuck the key in, gave it a turn … and it wouldn’t start. I’d just bought the thing and it wouldn’t start. I gave it a jumpstart with my Gram’s car, went to Hardee’s, slammed a burger, and went home. After I’d shut off the engine, I had a funny feeling it wasn’t going to start again. So I tried the ignition; once again it didn’t start. As I was just about to use my Gram’s car to bring the bastard back to life again, I noticed the long trail of liquid that seemed to stretch from my driveway and all the way down the street. Upon inspection I realized with dread that the fucking truck had been leaking gas since I’d bought the son of a bitch. It also occurred to me that as I was examining the spilt gas, I had a lit cigarette sticking out of my mouth. Good one, Taylor. Maybe next time you could set yourself on fire before you surround yourself with flammable fluids.

The fucked-up thing is that when I took the truck back to trade it in, the guy I bought it from tried to blame me for the fact that the truck was a grade-A piece o’ shit. I’d had the thing for
a total of three hours, but he was convinced that in that space of time I’d blown the engine and spiked the gas tank. Before I told him he was an idiot—and prior to a certain urge to punch the dick munch in his dumb ass face—I reminded him with an incredible amount of restraint that I had buyer’s insurance and that legally he had to give me another car for the same value if anything came up in the first twenty-four hours of ownership. Begrudgingly he offered me the only other car on the lot that seemed like it was worth a shit: a white Berlinetta with a black “bra” on the hood and a fairly orange interior. With a resigned sigh and a grip on the keys, I took it for a test drive, pulled into a parking lot, shut it off, started it over again, and, after deciding it would do, I traded that truck for that car, clean across and no harm done.

Now, you may be saying to yourself, “Self, how does that work? Why on God’s green cricket pitch would he go back to the
same
dealership and get another car, after the first one was a trash heap, instead of just getting his money back and going somewhere else?” That is indeed a wonderful question: Why would I bother with another selection from a used car dealer that clearly didn’t give a rat’s scratch about the state of the automobiles they sold? The answer is simple: I was so stressed out about the experience that I didn’t want to deal with it anymore, so I just accepted my lot with a modicum of ignorant grace and got the fuck out of there. I just wanted a car that would run and be done with it. So I was left with a car I didn’t really want at a price I was positive was about three times too much for it. But here’s the kicker: a week later I put a car stereo in it that was worth more than the car. Four months later, as that car sat in my Gram’s driveway, it was broken into and the thieving pricks stole the stereo. They also took all of my CDs, but that was more
my fault than anybody else’s—I shouldn’t have left them in the car in the first place. Long story short, I was a knob of the highest caliber. I’d wasted all that money on a car that wasn’t even cool when it first came out, and then I lost a stereo that was better than the car itself. If they’d taken the car and left the stereo, I would’ve high-fived them and appreciated their efforts. But alas, this was not to be. When I eventually sold the Berlinetta, I lost about two grand on the deal, but good riddance. I just wanted it out of my life. It was just a constant reminder of how fucking stupid I could be with my money.

Let me close this chapter out by saying I accept that what you buggers do with your money is honestly none of my business. I know that all too well. Sometimes when I’m with acquaintances and they’re on the verge of a horrible fiscal decision, I keep my trap shut. You know why? How else are they going to learn? If they want to dig up and construct that giant ball pit in their backyard when their children are on the verge of being too old to enjoy it, who am I to say anything? If some of them want to get their old Honda Accord detailed and painted so it looks like a gilded turd on the highway, what am I going to say to stop them that wouldn’t leave me looking like a hypocritical jackass? I mean, fuck, I very nearly blew my own face off with a lit cigarette because I bought a truck that should have been taken out into a field and shot long ago. I am no authority on what represents a good purchase and a bad buy.