I am torn between trying to write solemn essays that are occasionally dappled with whimsy and essays that are just clever and funny.
I lean toward trying to be comedic. There’s something extra tingly about creating something of a joke.
I am most challenged by imagining tough-cookie readers, arms crossed, bulldog-joweled, donning bi-focals, grumbling, “This damned well better be funny.”
I picture a guy who think he’s seen it all and ain’t about to laugh at much. In fact, he’s got a chip on his shoulder.
(By the way, where does that phrase come from, “a chip on your shoulder”? It doesn’t seem like a phrase to describe pent-up anger or a bad attitude. It fits more in other contexts, spoken in a kindly manner, like: “Hey, dude, you got a chip on your shoulder” as if you’re telling a buddy he’s got a speck of parsley in his teeth.)
A chip on his shoulder.
As a teen I worked in a department store. Once, a customer bulldozed his way to the exchange counter with a neck red as a blister. He plopped a worn shoebox onto the counter.
“The heel on this left loafer is loose. I want my money back!”
Without a word, the clerk began filling out a form.
The belligerent customer raged on. “And I don’t care if the receipt is over 90 days old!”
“Okay, sir,” mewed the clerk. “Just sign this --”
But this customer has rehearsed. “Got a problem? Let me see the manager.”
“--For your refund,” the clerk finished.
This customer hadn’t been in a fight since a brawl broke out on the football field his senior year. He itched for a fight. What did he think, that the clerk sized him up and said to herself, “Yup, that’s the hill I’m gonna die on today.” As if she‘s going to say, “I’m sorry sir, but trying to work around our expired receipt policy flies baldly into the face of all that we stand for here at Savings Mart.”
So the guy got his refund but still had all this pent-up aggression. What does he do next? Get bellicose at the DQ because they won’t order him a steak?
Anyway, it’s the chip on the shoulder-- demanding humor -- that I imagine when I write these pieces. As if I have legions of fans. I’ve probably got more spider eggs in my desk lamp than people who have ever read PAH! I should adhere to the old saying, “We would not worry so much about what people think of us if we realized how little they do.”
I am the child of an Italian-American father and an English mother, a mixture of olive oil and marmalade. That perfectly describes the clash of cultures, the Mediterranean side is a gushing, outpouring of emotion and praise. The British side is more reserved, more conscientious of staying in its place and practicing a solid sense of humility. It is knowing when and where to be properly embarrassed. The British side of me goes absolutely bonkers-ballistic-haywire when I see an episode of Jerry Springer.
Anyway, I’d get a compliment and the British upbringing would say, “oh, don’t tell him that, he’ll get a big head.”
I’d say, “Hey I brought my spelling grade up from a D to a C-plus.“
“Don’t get a big head.”
Years later I’m in a counseling session, trying to sort out my unraveling strategies in my relentless but flagging war against clutter as well as my issues with swallowing hook, line and sinker the veracity of Virgin Birth.
The counselor says, “I think we’re making great progress.”
I hear a voice in my head, “don’t tell him that...he’ll get a big head.”
I’m even sitting in the dentist’s chair, numb as a well-read voter reacting to George W. Bush‘s high approval rating. The dentist asks me to open up my mouth a little more. I open my mouth.
“Good,” he says.
Out of nowhere, the hygienist pipes in. “Don’t tell him that...he’ll get a big head.”
So I sought out support and wisdom elsewhere. I grew up in a small town. I’d go to neighborhood bars, where there was no shortage of old-timers eager to offer unsolicited wisdom. Grizzled old World War I veterans whose doctors told them to switch to a milder cigarette, like Pall Malls. After a few shots of bottom-shelf whiskey, brands like “Ancient Granddad” and “Lucifer Juice” and “Linseed Oil,“ these old sages would say open up. Imagining myself a reporter like bar slug Mike Royko, who I started reading in the Youngstown Vindicator when I was about 12, I’d jot down their wise adages.
“Hey, kid...remember...keep your pockets filled and your gas tank empty.”
I’d scribble it on a bar napkin.
“Never kick a football that was snapped by a Polack.”
Scribble, scribble.
“Remember, Sonny, ya can’t piss up a rope unless you’re an astronaut!” Or, “Ya share soap with a gypsy, and you’ll never go back to bein’ a Presbyterian.”
Scribble.
“Don’t look to a skinny-legged woman to bear ya twins!”
So true, so true.
After awhile, the old-timers just blubbered: “See this missing tooth? That’s where bodyguards punched me after I goosed Mary Pickford at a USO show!”
That I wouldn’t write down. You have to respect a man when he’s confessing his darkest secrets. That’s when the reporter should clap shut his notebook. We all have secrets. I have unusual confessions of my own. I cry when I hear that old Mike Douglas song, “The Man in My Little Girl’s Life.” As the father of two daughters, it’s to the point now where I get misty at Home Depot commercials where the man of the house is painting the rec room.
I cry at college bowl game halftime shows (a tribute to Neil Diamond! A Flashdance medley!). It’s ridiculous...I cry every time Michael Douglas has another baby. I gulp every time I see the commercial for high-speed internet access showing young families sending video clips to web-savvy grandparents even though the only seniors I know with web access use it to check their stocks and forward bawdy senior jokes with punch lines like, “That’s why they call it Sag Harbor, Dolly.”
I am sentimental about my family life with my lovely wife and two daughters until it is time to clean the bathroom. The clutter is overwhelming. There are so many products. We have a skin lotion dedicated solely to keeping the thumb healthy. Shampoo made just for bangs. A loofah sponge designed to be used only on the Sabbath and hand soap made by Wiccans that can only be used in an election year so that the bubbles send out a vibe to discourage the neighbors from blasting Lyndyrd Skynyrd.
So the clutter -- while not purposeless -- is too much. But what is even worse, what is absolutely repulsive, is the long hair everywhere. Once, the tub wouldn’t drain. We called the plumber. He clears the drain. He says, “Take a look at this.” I thought he was holding up a dead Chihuahua. He asked to me to take a picture of him hoisting it aloft like a prize fish.
There. I’m just trying to be funny.
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