“My parents are lame and boring. They have absolutely no sense of visual adventure, much less any sense of any adventure at
all. Good God, please don’t let me end up like them, with their Mary Higgins Clark book reading,
Will and Grace
chuckling, “Doctor Caruthers’ Smart Popcorn Infused with Ginkgo Biloba” evenings. I know I’m only four years old, God, but
if you save me from that life, I will fuck you forever when I get to Heaven, deal?”
We are always amused, from a distance, by the “eccentric” town characters that frequent our streets and provide us with a
smile (though once they demonstrate the slightest desire to touch you, no matter how innocently intentioned, they’re “disappeared”).
The “Walking Lady,” or the “Purple Man,” or the “Retarded Child,” or the “Post-It Note Guy.” They are the ones who we see,
and they delight us, while they also freak us out. Usually because we are not children. Because, as noted earlier, children
dig them. It has yet to be drilled into kids’ heads yet that this is
not
the way to behave/dress yourself/make a living. So, not knowing that making a hat out of Post-it notes or making lampshades
out of X-rays is ridiculous and wrong, kids naturally gravitate toward these things.
Here’s a good example of what I am talking about: There is a musical act that I saw at the Bumbershoot Festival last year
in Seattle (who have subsequently moved to New York City, where they are currently performing) called the Trachtenburg Family
Slideshow Players. They are brilliant (in both the English and American usage of the word
brilliant
). They are nothing if not love itself. They are the embodiment of everything I just wrote about. They are a father and a
mother in their thirties and a daughter, about eight. They tour the country in their minivan (which is hand painted in many
colors… why not?). They put on shows. They go to estate sales and buy the old slides of these various strangers and then write
songs using the slides, in random order, as a guide. One of their songs is called “Mountain Trip to Japan, 1959,” and that’s
exactly what the slides and lyrics represent. The father plays guitar or piano. The mom runs the slide projector. The daughter
plays drums. Father and daughter sing the funny lyrics. And they kick ass. Jesus, the closest I ever got to something like
that was when my sister and I turned off the lights, stuck candles under our chins, and read “The Tell-Tale Heart” to our
humoring mom.
When I first saw them I felt something that reminded me of the feeling you have when you’re like eleven or twelve and a not
unattractive girl tells another girl to tell you that she might think you’re cute. Blood rushes to your heart, and invisible
ghosts keep turning your mouth up. And if an eight-year-old playing drums and chastising her dad in front of an audience doesn’t
make you smile, then something has gone terribly wrong in your life and you need to do one of those “Foxfire by Twilight”
retreat-in-the-woods-type things with a bunch of aging, leathery hippies to find out what went wrong and help you get back
on track.
“This is great!” I thought, but I hadn’t yet figured out how to articulate what was great about it. It wasn’t that it was
“cute,” or “funny,” or “adorable,” or “precious.” It was what I’ve been talking about this entire time, you fucking moron.
I was envious of that family. Now
that’s
a way to raise a family and conduct your life that most of us either haven’t thought of or simply lack the imagination and
courage to carry out. They make every nutty home-schooling advocate look silly. And I’m not against the idea of home-schooling.
I went to several (nine) different public schools up and down the East Coast and South, and the only things I remember from
textbooks is that America is the greatest country the universe has ever seen and Abe Lincoln invented the tequila lollipop.
I just get a little wary of most home-schooling advocates because they are more likely to engage in it not because of their
lack of faith in public education but because, really, they’re racists or religious nuts who don’t want their precious little
lambs exposed to reality.
Anyway, I’m getting off track. This mom, dad, and kid were getting into a crazy-painted van, driving cross-country, and doing
shows about strangers’ vacations? That’s so much like the time my deadbeat dad pawned all of my shit so that he could afford
to drive me back to Georgia from Arizona (where I went to live with him) because he had run out of people to scam money from
and needed a new state’s worth of suckers… oh wait, no it’s not. I want her childhood. I want her mom and dad. I want to be
eight and play drums with my family at nightclubs for hipsters who love me.
I hope when kids see them perform, that they have that same reaction as they do when they pass by the sculpture-strewn front
yard of a house that has been altered to resemble a huge whale. You know, where they turn to their mom and dad and say, “Mom,
Dad, look at that cool house!” and then when Mom and Dad, smiling, happily listening to Sting (“Something we can all agree
on!”) as their SUV drives past the house, turn to the kid and reply, “Wow, look at that.” The kid will say, “Can we do that
to our house?” And when Mom or Dad says, “No,” that the kid will say, “Why not?” But this time, when neither parent comes
up with a satisfactory explanation and ultimately resorts to the time tested “Because I said so, that’s why,” that the kid
will turn to them and say, “Pull over. I’m out of here. If I want any kind of halfway decent shot at not living the rest of
my life in mind-numbing boredom, I gotta take off now while the gettin’s good. See ya later, losers!” Then, when that kid’s
older, I’ll read his book.
I
DON’T KNOW IF YOU’VE HEARD
,
BUT THE
C
ATHOLIC PRIEST
-hood just got a whole lot sexier! On February 21, the Reverend (Reverend—from Latin “reverendus,” “to revere”) John Geoghan
was sentenced to nine to ten years in prison for fondling a ten-year-old boy. That might seem a bit harsh. Ten years for pulling
down a kid’s swim trunks and squeezing an underdeveloped penis? Hell, I’ve let worse happen to me for a candy bar. But I was
in my thirties; this kid was ten and scared. Still,
ten
years?
But wait, there’s more, as there most always is. Reading on you learn that this guy has over eighty civil lawsuits pending
against him. One more time, in bold,
eighty
! More than 130 people have claimed various forms of molestation or
RAPE
. This guy must have thought he was invincible or something, maybe even divinely inspired. Perhaps protected by some like-minded
force that would reward the good and punish the wicked. The wicked being nonbelievers or masturbators, of course. I don’t
know what else you thought I could’ve meant. Then you find that the charge of rape was thrown out because the statute of limitations
had expired.
There’s a statute of limitations on
rape
?! It’s rape! It’s not like you got ripped off by some online service and then you spent the next ten years thinking about
whether you wanted to deal with all the hassle of reporting it and bringing it to trial. I would think rape would have a different
set of rules. It is, perhaps aside from being tied up and forced to watch your children being eaten alive by your sworn enemy,
one of the most life-altering acts of violence that can be perpetuated on another human being.
But maybe I’m overreacting. I suppose we should expect that any child, if raped, especially by an authority figure of unreproach,
should act with the strength and moral outrage of an adult who, say, got overcharged for their dinner. They wouldn’t take
it, and neither should that kid. If at the age of seven he doesn’t have the balls to make a formal charge, and it takes him
fifteen years to get his “shit together,” then fuck him. The rapist walks.
And now we come to learn that the church has covered up (that’s right, actively engaged in a cover-up) and coddled and even
helped relocate known pedophiles from parish to parish, all across the country, in cases too numerous to mention here. It
truly is a “Brotherhood of Man,” huh. They’ve even tried to pay the victims off. Nice.
But don’t think that I’m trying to imply that it’s just the Catholics who are at fault. There’s a certain across-the-board
kind of egotism that accompanies so many of those who are anointed God’s very own spokesperson. This is for real; I know TWO
different dominatrices who say that the majority of their clients were or are Orthodox rabbis. Beautiful!
It’s certainly no secret that many priests are hypocrites and that one of their favorite ways of demonstrating this is by
molesting little boys. And really, what better way to unwind after an angry, vitriolic denunciation of the evils of homosexuality
then engaging in some man-on-boy frottage? And some people revile them as monsters, preying on the innocent and gullible (and
I will not be dragged into that age-old polemic about how anyone who is religious should automatically be considered gullible—put
a sock in it, Bertrand Russell!), using the powerful blackmail of entrance into Heaven as a way to cow the fearful. But I
see them as humans. Humans who are the product of a confounding, medieval, intolerant religion based on superstitious nonsense
and word-of-mouth that tolerates no dissent and is so proudly out of step with even the most basic tenets of modern, civilized
thought that it all seems to resemble a game of
Magic: The Gathering
gone horribly awry.
I guess the lesson to be learned from the church is that while homosexuality is a sin against GOD, molestation and rape, well…
they’re just sins against a child.
B
Y NOW
,
YOU MAY HAVE SEEN THE EASILY ACCESSIBLE AFORE
-mentioned YouTube video of me jumping up on stage at a Jim Belushi and the Sacred Hearts “concert” (
idrinkforareason.com/Belushi
!) he had the fucking audacity to charge forty bucks a ticket for (that’s getting into Beck or Brooks and Dunn territory!).
This isn’t about underscoring a very rich man’s greed, unless of course he pays all the money to the band and doesn’t take
any for himself. Still… back in the summer of 2006, my then-girlfriend and I went to Martha’s Vineyard for a couple of days
to stay with some friends whose family had rented a house there for the summer. On the ferry heading over I was leafing through
the local paper, the
Martha’s Vineyard Tattler
, or whatever it was called, to see what weekend activities there might be. I saw the ad for the show and got as excited as
Bruce Vilanch at a convention for fat, hacky fags who wear “funny” T-shirts that your never-married great-aunt might find
edgy. I ran up to my girlfriend and showed her my discovery. I was thrilled and I breathlessly told her that we all have to
go and I should fuck with him. I think it was even her idea to videotape it. Eventually the night arrived and we all headed
over to the Outerland, where almost two decades ago I did a mediocre comedy show (meaning I was mediocre) back when it was
called Hot Tin Roof. If memory serves, nothing had changed much about this standard “road house” bar. Still, forty dollars
to see a less-than-mediocre blues cover band consisting of mostly middle-aged white men living out some clichéd unimaginative
fantasy as they plod their way through the millionth trotting out of “Sweet Home Chicago” should be considered a misdemeanor.
If not legally, then at least morally. My girlfriend (let’s call her Sarah) suggested that I wear a T-shirt reading simply
“Worse than your 2nd wife,” which is nothing short of brilliant. Anyway, you can see the results of that fun night of well-worn
blues covers, the likes of which were virtually indistinguishable from the offerings of a band you might see at the Burbank
Airport. Or playing in the lounge of the exact same shitty fourth-rate casino that Jim Belushi’s character managed in
Destiny Turns on the Radio.
Delicious irony!!
H
EY
,
EVERYBODY
,
CAN YOU SAY
“H
OLY SMOKES
!”
Guess what, kiddos? I just got back from the Fifth Annual Great Cigar Smokeout on the White House lawn with the Pope of Cigars
himself—Jim Belushi!!!! This yearly event is held to raise awareness, educate, and eventually legalize cigar smoking. Which
is why you can bet donuts to dollars (dollars you can light on fire and then use the fire to light your cigar with—like the
rich guy in Monopoly!!!) that if there’s a cigar to be smoked, the Belush-Mobile will be pullin’ up to the curb of Cigar Smoking
and Jim Belushi will get out and smoke up a fatty! Which is exactly what happened!!
I was at Houlihans in the Georgetown area having some “Vertical Onion Rings” for lunch when all of a sudden there was this
hullabaloo going on outside. I got the day manager from Staples, who was blocking my view, to move to the side, thus revealing
one of the most glorious sights a CS (cigar smoker) could ever hope to see. It was—ready for this?—Jim Belushi!! He was getting
his tip back from the valet when I spotted him in all of his Belush-filled splendor. I went outside to say, “Wasssssuuuupp!”
(One of Jim’s favorite “gags” is the Whasssuppp sketch from the Budweiser ads) and to see if Jim had any of the money he owed
me from the crazy Hooters night in New Orleans. Jim saw me, and before I could even get out a “Whaaaa . . .” he grabbed me,
put me in a big ole bear hug, lifted me up, and slammed me to the ground… ouch! He laughed, so then I started laughing, too.
Man, that guy!!!
The Bubbaloosh lit up a Davenport Squish, took a few hits, and decided that we should go to see this friend of his named “Cheyenne
Spread.” She worked in a “gentlemen’s dancing club.” He said he had a surprise for her. I knew something wasn’t kosher in
Denmark by the way he spit on the ground and my shoes after he said the word
surprise.
My CS sense was telling me they weren’t really friends after all.