We all have them. Those things that are essentially us and make up the fabric of who we are. They are those self-indulgent exercises that everyone says they hate and then drops what they are doing to fill them out. Self-centered and self-indulgent as I am, I labor under no such falsehood. I love them.
The fact that I hate to fly would be among the first things people mention in those crass Facebook exercises so when I got an invitation from my wife to be part of The Michigan Delegation at the 2008 Democratic National Convention, I'd say that people who knew me were initially stunned to hear I would drive to Denver from Detroit. After some thought the stunned reaction turned to a bewildered "What the Fuck is wrong with you?"
They had never flown with me. My wife never doubted I would drive, never tried to talk me out of it, and certainly didn't offer to fly with me. She served her time on an airplane with me and would gladly never fly with me again. I cant blame her. I'm a mess on an airplane. I get loaded on red wine and Xanax which is just enough to get me on the plane but does nothing for the groans, the swearing, the sweating, the gasps, and the panicked inquisitions (WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT NOISE?)
Above that, I love to drive and the romantic in me relished the opportunity to drive 3/4 across the country. I downloaded several episodes of "This American Life" as an homage to my trip, loaded the car, and started out on a Saturday night to drop the dog at my in-laws.
This is where we see the first act of my buddy Nate's one man show intersect with my trip.
Our plan was to take some time and golf in the mountains. The fact I was driving would allow this easily, I just had to meet up with Nate on my way out of town to get his clubs. I knew Nate was golfing in an outing that day and quickly decided that since he would be drinking heavily from sun up in the sweltering heat, I would need a back up plan. I called Nate as I drove past our agreed upon meeting spot and never thought for a second he would answer. He didn't and I drove on, having already secured my father-in-laws spare clubs. I was prepared when a dejected Nate called with only a slight slur to his words
"Duude"(slightly elongated by the booze )
"No problem man. I figured we wouldn't meet up so I asked my father-in-law and you can use his spares"
"Yeaaah....shit. What are we going to do?"
"Nate? Listen. I can bring Jim's clubs and its no big deal."
"You sure? Fuck are you sure?"
"It's no problem Nate. Seriously"
"All right. If you're sure. Fuck."
It took a little doing but Nate was both lucid and in full comprehension when we hung up. Something happened over the course of 30 minutes to change both of those things and to this day, I still don't know what that was.
What's up Nate?
SHAAAAAANNNNNE! DUUUUUUUDE! FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!
THE GOLF CLUBS!!!!!!!!!!!!
FUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO!!!!!!!!
FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WE WERE GOING TO GOLF. WE MISSED EACH OTHER!
FUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCK!
This went on for two minutes without interruption with a basic sentence construction consisting of my name, "golf", "clubs" and "fuck" used in various parts of speech. I guess it made no difference that Nate wasn't letting me speak because I was speechless. We had talked about this twenty minutes before and Nate was calm, understood the plan, and seemed to have only a nice buzz going.
The person who called back was obliterated and in the throes of an alcohol-fueled multi-directional rage. Needless to say it took quite a bit longer to both calm him and yet again explain the solution as it was interrupted several times as Nate bellowed SHANE...DUDE....FUCK...GOLF...FUCK. Even when it was settled, I took nothing for granted. I waited several hours and called back. As I knew it would, the call went straight to voicemail
"OK Nate, you are getting this information for the third time in the last 6 hours but..."
I drove to Iowa City the first night. As I walked around the campus, I tried to ignore the heavy dull pain that was creeping into my chest.
I woke up the next morning and instantly knew I was sick and had a feeling this was something different. As I drove through the heartland, the weight increased in my lungs and within 24 hours I was battling a fever and a crackle emanating from somewhere deep in my chest.
The knock against Republicans is simple. They don't care. They take uncaring to unprecedented new levels on a monthly basis. While I believe in this fully, I must admit that surrounded by thousands of Democrats one of whom I married, I could not find one that gave a shit about me and my ever worsening upper respiratory infection
As I stood in a bar in Denver wheezing and delirious from fever because my wife insisted I stay so I could drive her drunken friends home from the bar.
"You came here for free. It's the least you could do. Its not like you can drink,You're sick."
She said this with equal parts derision and accusation. As if I had launched some elaborate ruse to come to Denver and get as sick as I had been in my life so I could go to some st rangers house and go to sleep so as to avoid having any fun. She added the "You'rrrrrre Sick" in such a tone as to suggest that despite it sounding like my lungs were made of bubble wrap and that I was shaking like I had malaria, I could in fact be faking.
Nate, having recovered from his Bonham-esque bender promptly arrived in Denver and began drinking. For his part he believed I was sick which was a small consolation. He did however take a Typhoid Mary approach to my illness and began to try and humiliate me into feeling better. It was at this time that Nate began a tactic he repeated several times throughout this hellish vacation.
"HEY MAN, WHAT THE FUCK YOU GET INTO?!"
I began to try and explain that I wasn't a dog that had gotten into the neighbors garbage and traipsed it through the living room but Nate wasn't buying.
YOU SOUND TERRIBLE. WHAT DID YOU GET INTO.!?
Dr. Nate did his quick diagnosis and surmised that I had in fact contracted "Guatemalan Dick-Worm." (There is some dispute to the origin of the dick-worm. I maintain said dick-worm hailed from Peru while Nate maintains it's native to Guatemala and since its a figment of his imagination, I'll defer to him.)
At any rate, it turns out the cure for Guatemalan Dick Worm is not standing in a smoky bar watching your wife and her friends get plastered while being berated by a drunken madman. Maybe that's the cure for Peruvian Dick Worm.
Needless to say my conditioned worsened but I dare say I didn't let it dampen my mood. I was into the electricity of Candidate Obama and was making the most of my time. I visited The Columbine Memorial. I drove to Boulder and walked around the beautiful CU campus. I became friends with a morbidly obese septuagenarian bus driver named Skip who didn't like anyone else in The Michigan Delegation but me and liked to loudly accuse people of "taking a dump" in the bathroom of his bus. His most notable victim being my friend Jordy-who would would sooner die than defecate on a bus. Jordy would leave the floor of
the office where he worked if he felt the need to move his bowels. It was a great time.
However, by the time the convention had ended, my condition further downgraded. At one point in the at-capacity football stadium where Obama accepted the nomination, I seriously wondered if I would perish. Work had ended and we were slated to spend the last two days of the week in a rented cabin in Breckenridge. I had officially lost my battle and wanted nothing more than to sleep but considering the collective compassion of my friends had been left back in Michigan, they weren't having it. Nate continued to inquire as to what the fuck I had gotten into. Not to be outdone, my wife insisted we go for a walk . This wasn't a stroll through a park but through the mountains at high altitude while I had pneumonia so why the fuck wouldn't I go. I had no choice but to go and my wife made it clear. At one point we had descended to the bottom of a very large hill and stood at the foot of another one. I was bent over and laboring with every breath, my lungs literally crackling with each exhale but I clearly could pick up the tone in my wife's voice.
"Do you need me to get the car?"
"No," I croaked, "but I think we should cut this short."
"Fine." My wife had no problem exhaling at this point and did so to convey her irritation. Show off
The rest of that night went by in a blur. Nate loudly talked of the porn viewing habits at his home and was immediately placed into figurative and had there been one, literal dog house. Aside from that, the night was tame.
I awoke the next morning and felt somehow worse. Nate and I engaged in a stand off of sorts. Considering our respective hangover and pneumonia, it was abundantly clear that neither of us wanted to golf at 830 in the morning. We reached a stalemate of "do you want to go?" "I'll go. but it doesnt sound like you want to" and hauled our sorry asses to the golf course,
The one saving grace was the start of the Michigan football season and a brand new era under spread-offense guru Rich Rodriguez. We had no idea the extent that my illness was a harbinger for said era but suffice to say Nate hated it immediately.
"This sucks. Three yards and a cloud of dust asshole!"
"Nate, you have to give it more than a quarter."
"Bullshit. Bo is rolling over in his grave."
Rich Rod and his anemic offense did at least limit the "What did you get into?!" accusations to one per quarter. Then it happened. Maybe it was karmic. Maybe it was dumb luck. Maybe it was the fact that I had a culture in my lungs equivalent to a micro-biological Jonestown but Nate turned to bitch about the offense or ask me what the fuck I got into or to wax philosophically about the Guatamalan Dick-Worm and I sneezed violently, wetly, and directly into the side of his face and neck.
Nate's face froze in horror for a half a second. "BLEGGGGGCKKKKKFUUUUUUCK WHAT THE FUCK? JESUS CHRIST. ."
I tried to apologize sincerely but the fact I was gasping for breath from the combination of hilarity and lung-disease probably made the words ring hollow.
"Fuck Next time I'd rather you jizz on my back."
"Really?" I became suddenly serious at this question of what's worse horrific scenarios
Nate paused, still irritated but now considering his own question at lleast half serious while the spots of sputum dried on his cheek.
"All right no, but fuck man, come on.," he begrudgingly admitted what happened was better, albeit so slightly.
The game ended in a frustrating and very telling Michigan loss and we went back to the cottage. Despite my violent shaking Nate insisted I get into the hot tub as a chlorinated human frapuccino was the cure for what ailed me. I was in the tub for 3 minutes when Nate inquired again what the fuck I had gotten into and I decided I had been a good enough sport.
"Fuck this. I'm going to bed."
It was 5 o'clock at night and apparently this conveyed the gravity of how I felt. Nate relented. My wife came in to check on me several times and brought me cool wash cloths. This happened just in time for me to leave and start my 18 hour drive back to Michigan.
The next morning I woke and stared at the ceiling for an hour trying to figure out how I could tele-port back to my home. I packed my bags and stood at the car and said goodbye to my wife.
"How bad do you feel."
Dead serious I looked at her
.
"If I could take the car back to the airport and leave it, I would fly home."
She was shocked.
"Oh my God. You are dreading the drive that much?"
"No but I think I'd rather die in a plane crash then feel like this anymore."
I got in the car and drove slowly and painfully East
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Saturday, February 9, 2013
The Wedding Guest
On our first date, my wife said to me
"I have to warn you, my family can be pretty crazy."
My face lost all expression and in a flat voice I answered her challenge in less than a heartbeat:
"Do your worst."
I like to remind my wife of that story every now and again. Her eyes sort of glaze over and she silently shakes her head, realizing she has never before or since been quite so wrong.
The day that she officially joined said family was beautiful. The late Michigan fall produced, as it sometimes does, a gem. The sun shone brightly and occassionally hid behind huge white clouds which kept the temperature perfect. The energy of friends and family was palpable and the revelers were giddy. It was great.
I was a nervous fucking wreck.
The idea of the nervous groom is so common it's cliche' but it really was out of character for me. I get nervous about weird shit. Usually when it's a scenario that would make most jittery, I'm fairly calm. I've spent a lot of time in nerve-wracking situations and am well equipped for high-stress scenarios provided they didn't involve U of M football or Tigers' playoff games. That's what made this particular bout of nerves so crushing. I simply never saw it coming and it hit me hard.
Typical groomsmen activities had commenced and we were in the middle of our round of golf when I realized I was nervous. I tried my usual array of tactis and tricks. I tried to find the source of what was making me nervous and rationalize through it and I couldnt put my finger on it. This made it that much worse. In large part it was this feeling that I had to orchestrate everything so my wife would have the wedding day she dreamed of but really everything was taken care of. I should have been able to just relax and enjoy the time but I couldn't. I pulled my co-best man, Z , aside and told him I was ducking out of post-golf lunch and beers. As he always did, Z stepped up and covered so I could leave without questions or my relentless teasing.
From the moment I realized I would marry someone, which would have been approximately seven years of age, I had been sattled by another source of worry. The possibility that some wayward member of my family, of which there were many, could fuck this day up was a very real one. It was one that I could not escape or rationalize. It was a foregone conclusion. There were far too many candidates to adequately police and prevent. I was outmanned.
It was this thought that was rattlng in my head as I pulled into the parking lot and saw the unmistakable 1994 grey Chevy that belonged to my father and his live-in girlfriend, Mama Larue. As I drove to the hotel I thought if I could have an hour to lie quietly in a dark room, I'd be just fine. My father and his beastly paramour would see fit that this wouldn't happen
The two of them made quite a pair. My dad was a handsome man in his day but sixty years of hard and not often good living had taken it's toll. He was gaunt and grey and bent and slow moving and he looked like someone who walked into the hotel directly from a forced labor camp...or a morgue.
Mama Larue was something else altogether. So named because she worked at a local breakfast place we frequented called "LaRue's," my asshole friends knew I didn't approve of this woman and as friends do,they exploited this to no end. Mama LaRue was huge. She stood a shade under six feet and had hands the size of Andre The Giant. She had a raspy voice that added a harder edge to the string of profanities and dropped g's that spewed from her mouth. I always thought she looked like the ugly sister of Katherine Tremmell, the Senator's daughter from The Silence of the Lambs. This thought prevailed right up until I saw a picture of my dad dressed as a woman for Halloween and realized he was a dead ringer for Mama Larue.
Upon seeing the two my cousin and co-best man Doug relayed to my mom, the best description of the two ripped right from 1970's pop culture and the groom's love of breakfast cereal:
"Oh look, Shane invited Count Chocula and Frankenberry,"
Climbing from my car, I gave myself one last shred of hope. If I could just get up to the room and turn off my cell phone, I could give myself that moment's peace. I had zero conscience about making the monster cereal duo meander around the parking lot while they waited for me. Iwas actually hopeful-for maybe four seconds.
My dad rounded the corner with a look of shear panic on his face.
"They aren't going to let Frank into the hotel!"
There really was some question as to whether my dad and Mama Larue would come. He had presented all sorts of alleged slights -Shane hasn't called me in months, he doesn't want me there- and excuses both legitimate -This car is a piece of shit. I'm real low on money.- and bullshit-Mama Larue has made it to the finals of Nashville Stars and it's important that I'm there. I knew he wouldn't miss my wedding. I solidified that by promising to pay for a nice hotel room and his tuxedo and his gas. He had no expense. The last hurdle was Frank.
My dad and I had a conversation about this very fact and I was blunt and borderline rude. Under no circumstances was Frank to make an appearance at these proceedings. Under normal circumstances, this should have been a given but as the evidence shows, these were not normal circumstances. Not normal people
As if his huge, gaunt, Vincent Price like affect wasn't bizzarre enough, my dad added a small lap dog to his motiff. Dirty dishwater brown and adorned in a sweater, Frank was the six pound half terrier, half rodent that was a constant compaion to my drug addled father. Stoned on Percocet and reading about General Custer or The Battle of Gettysburg, my father would sit with Frank on his lap all day, every day. I knew that the issue would have to be addressed early on in the planning because in a life altering, multi-faceted, high stress event like a wedding, of course I would need to clarify that the fucking dog wasn't on the guest list.
"Dad, I'm fucking serious, leave Frank at home"
"Oh I couldn't do that. Mama Larue's fucking mouthbreathing kids will let him out or something. I won't enjoy myself. I'll worry about him the whole time."
"Dad, they wont let him in the hotel. This isn't the fucking Red Roof Inn. Find a fucking place for him but he can't come"
Even writing it now, I can't believe I had to have that conversation and for all the good it did, I might as well imagined it as my father stood there with Frank and a look of sheer panic on his face. He looked at me, pleading with his eyes for a solution to what, in my father's mind, was THE issue facing all of us on this, the day I was to marry.
As any good and dutiful son might, I provided an answer.
"Well, I guess you're going to have to drive your dumb asses home then. I could give a god damn about fucking Frank. I fucking told you not to bring that god damn dog. What the fuck are you doing? Who in their right mind brings a fucking dog to their son's wedding?"
Answer: no one
My dad tried again, louder albeit unsuccessfully
"MAMA LARUE'S IDIOT KIDS WOULDN'T...."
"I COULD GIVE A FUCK ABOUT THAT FUCKING DOG OR MAMA LARUE'S KIDS DAD!"
We stood there, one terrified and one furious, when Mama Larue lumbered in and brought her usual grace and calm to the situation with a raspy shriek from a distance of approximately 75 yards across the 3/4 full parking lot
"BUUUUUUUUUTCH, YOU FUCKEN FAG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I FUCKEN TOLD YOU TO WAIT AND WE'D SNEAK THE GOD DAMN DOG IN-YOU FUCKEN RE-TARD!"
"Or," I said quietly to no one in particular, "you could have left the fucking dog back home."
Mama Larue continued to berate my father at a Spinal Tap 11 volume while hotel guests began to take notice. None of this mattered to my dad in the least. He was not bothered by my stress or frustration. He was not worried about a flawless wedding for his beloved son. He couldn't care less about the other guests being privy to his business as it was bellowed across the parking lot by Mama Larue and he didn't even register the slurs and profanities hurled at him by a pre-menopausal wookie. He only cared about Frank and where Frank was going to be housed during the forthcoming nuptuals.
It was more than I could take and my anger boiled over.
I double timed it to my room . They skulked behind me and at least had the good sense to make Frank the Dog wait in the tattered Chevy. The arguing and cursing continued through the halls and into the room. I could still hear them as I showered and could take no more. Sopping wet and clad in boxer shorts and rage, I stormed into the room
I felt like the hitman driven insane by Jeff Daniels and Jim Carey in Dumb and Dumber.
"HEY! GOD DAMN! WILL YOU TWO SHUT UP LONG ENOUGH FOR ME TO GET MY TUX AND GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE?!
"What am I going to do about Frank?"
"DA-AD! DAD,DAD" I raised my hand to him now, in a gesture of pleading mercy, begging that he might shed light on his thinking , if nothing else. I lowered my voice to an over-dramatic whisper
"Why the FUCK do you think I'd care about that? What in the name of Christ would make you think that Frank's hotel accomodations are anywhere near my list of concerns? Tell me that. Just tell me that one thing."
Oblivious he looked at Mama Larue.
"You think we can get him in that side door?"
"Oh for fucks sake..." I grabbed my tux and walked barefoot through the hotel to the sanctuary of my groomsmen.
The rest of the day went off without a hitch. Frank was not mentioned. My bride was beautiful. The wedding was perfect. All was forgotten for the time being. Years passed and my wife and I began our life, had a son, and experienced all those things that couples do. It was several years later when we were talking with friends and my wedding came up in conversation with our friends Drew and Jamie. As it often does, the conversation turned to my dad and his bizzarre countenance.
"He looked rough," was the only understatement I could muster.
Dropping all pretense that her family could ever hang with mine, my wife made a face and added;
"ROUGH?! He looked like The Cryptkeeper-bleeeck!"
Looking creeped out and unsettled, Drew added "I'll never forget him sitting in the back corner of the reception mindlessly petting that dog."
"Yeah...wait....what?"
"Your dad sitting in the corner petting that fucking dog of his while there's a huge party going on around him."
Its not often that I'm surprised. Its a fraction of that time that I am genuinely shocked.
My mouth hung agape. This was one of those times.
"Wait a fucking second. He brought the fucking dog into the reception.?"
Drew's tone took on one of confusion and then amusement as he realized he was breaking this news.
"Yeah dude....he had that little fucking dog of his in his lap and sat there, you know..."
Drew mimed the action that I could see all too clearly. My dad, in his rented tuxedo, stoned on some phaaraceutical and stroking the dirty fur of his beloved companion while Mama Larue hunkered down next to him, probably calling someone a cocksucker loud enough for the tables around her to hear.
I looked at my equally shocked wife.
"Did you know he did this?"
"NO-OO!"
To her credit she joined in the rest of us and laughed hysterically at her father-in-law. She laughed at the notion that her family could ever in a million years produce anything close to the train wreck that mine could. She laughed to keep from crying.
The thing is, while he often does and says the wrong, most offensive thing possible, I am strangely lucky to have the father that I do. Tragic and flawed, he is still my father and his love for me is unwavering and I have known that my whole life. I know a few people who simply can't say the same or buried their fathers at too young an age. I look at the moments of humor and frustration and heartbreak that he provides as face value events from which I learn how to and how not to be a husband and father and man. The endless supply of material he provides is a wonderful ancillary benefit
Knowing all this, it was no suprise when halfway through the reception, my dad cornered me. Considering that I didn't think he was going to come, I took the fact he stayed through half the reception as his best effort and smiled as he approached. He motioned me away from the crowd. I wasn't sure what to expect. He had the capacity within him to convey his most tender emotions where I was involved and I thought a father/son moment might be forthcoming.
He shifted somewhat awkwardly then and I thought perhaps he was reflecting on lifetime of being a model of how to and how not to be a man and trying to form those perfect words with which to send his beloved son into the world. My dad placed his hand on my shoulder and looked at me:
"Buddy, Do you have twenty bucks I could borrow?"
Completely unsurprised, I shot back
"Uh, no dad, I didn't figure I'd need cash at my wedding..."
"I have to warn you, my family can be pretty crazy."
My face lost all expression and in a flat voice I answered her challenge in less than a heartbeat:
"Do your worst."
I like to remind my wife of that story every now and again. Her eyes sort of glaze over and she silently shakes her head, realizing she has never before or since been quite so wrong.
The day that she officially joined said family was beautiful. The late Michigan fall produced, as it sometimes does, a gem. The sun shone brightly and occassionally hid behind huge white clouds which kept the temperature perfect. The energy of friends and family was palpable and the revelers were giddy. It was great.
I was a nervous fucking wreck.
The idea of the nervous groom is so common it's cliche' but it really was out of character for me. I get nervous about weird shit. Usually when it's a scenario that would make most jittery, I'm fairly calm. I've spent a lot of time in nerve-wracking situations and am well equipped for high-stress scenarios provided they didn't involve U of M football or Tigers' playoff games. That's what made this particular bout of nerves so crushing. I simply never saw it coming and it hit me hard.
Typical groomsmen activities had commenced and we were in the middle of our round of golf when I realized I was nervous. I tried my usual array of tactis and tricks. I tried to find the source of what was making me nervous and rationalize through it and I couldnt put my finger on it. This made it that much worse. In large part it was this feeling that I had to orchestrate everything so my wife would have the wedding day she dreamed of but really everything was taken care of. I should have been able to just relax and enjoy the time but I couldn't. I pulled my co-best man, Z , aside and told him I was ducking out of post-golf lunch and beers. As he always did, Z stepped up and covered so I could leave without questions or my relentless teasing.
From the moment I realized I would marry someone, which would have been approximately seven years of age, I had been sattled by another source of worry. The possibility that some wayward member of my family, of which there were many, could fuck this day up was a very real one. It was one that I could not escape or rationalize. It was a foregone conclusion. There were far too many candidates to adequately police and prevent. I was outmanned.
It was this thought that was rattlng in my head as I pulled into the parking lot and saw the unmistakable 1994 grey Chevy that belonged to my father and his live-in girlfriend, Mama Larue. As I drove to the hotel I thought if I could have an hour to lie quietly in a dark room, I'd be just fine. My father and his beastly paramour would see fit that this wouldn't happen
The two of them made quite a pair. My dad was a handsome man in his day but sixty years of hard and not often good living had taken it's toll. He was gaunt and grey and bent and slow moving and he looked like someone who walked into the hotel directly from a forced labor camp...or a morgue.
Mama Larue was something else altogether. So named because she worked at a local breakfast place we frequented called "LaRue's," my asshole friends knew I didn't approve of this woman and as friends do,they exploited this to no end. Mama LaRue was huge. She stood a shade under six feet and had hands the size of Andre The Giant. She had a raspy voice that added a harder edge to the string of profanities and dropped g's that spewed from her mouth. I always thought she looked like the ugly sister of Katherine Tremmell, the Senator's daughter from The Silence of the Lambs. This thought prevailed right up until I saw a picture of my dad dressed as a woman for Halloween and realized he was a dead ringer for Mama Larue.
Upon seeing the two my cousin and co-best man Doug relayed to my mom, the best description of the two ripped right from 1970's pop culture and the groom's love of breakfast cereal:
"Oh look, Shane invited Count Chocula and Frankenberry,"
Climbing from my car, I gave myself one last shred of hope. If I could just get up to the room and turn off my cell phone, I could give myself that moment's peace. I had zero conscience about making the monster cereal duo meander around the parking lot while they waited for me. Iwas actually hopeful-for maybe four seconds.
My dad rounded the corner with a look of shear panic on his face.
"They aren't going to let Frank into the hotel!"
There really was some question as to whether my dad and Mama Larue would come. He had presented all sorts of alleged slights -Shane hasn't called me in months, he doesn't want me there- and excuses both legitimate -This car is a piece of shit. I'm real low on money.- and bullshit-Mama Larue has made it to the finals of Nashville Stars and it's important that I'm there. I knew he wouldn't miss my wedding. I solidified that by promising to pay for a nice hotel room and his tuxedo and his gas. He had no expense. The last hurdle was Frank.
My dad and I had a conversation about this very fact and I was blunt and borderline rude. Under no circumstances was Frank to make an appearance at these proceedings. Under normal circumstances, this should have been a given but as the evidence shows, these were not normal circumstances. Not normal people
As if his huge, gaunt, Vincent Price like affect wasn't bizzarre enough, my dad added a small lap dog to his motiff. Dirty dishwater brown and adorned in a sweater, Frank was the six pound half terrier, half rodent that was a constant compaion to my drug addled father. Stoned on Percocet and reading about General Custer or The Battle of Gettysburg, my father would sit with Frank on his lap all day, every day. I knew that the issue would have to be addressed early on in the planning because in a life altering, multi-faceted, high stress event like a wedding, of course I would need to clarify that the fucking dog wasn't on the guest list.
"Dad, I'm fucking serious, leave Frank at home"
"Oh I couldn't do that. Mama Larue's fucking mouthbreathing kids will let him out or something. I won't enjoy myself. I'll worry about him the whole time."
"Dad, they wont let him in the hotel. This isn't the fucking Red Roof Inn. Find a fucking place for him but he can't come"
Even writing it now, I can't believe I had to have that conversation and for all the good it did, I might as well imagined it as my father stood there with Frank and a look of sheer panic on his face. He looked at me, pleading with his eyes for a solution to what, in my father's mind, was THE issue facing all of us on this, the day I was to marry.
As any good and dutiful son might, I provided an answer.
"Well, I guess you're going to have to drive your dumb asses home then. I could give a god damn about fucking Frank. I fucking told you not to bring that god damn dog. What the fuck are you doing? Who in their right mind brings a fucking dog to their son's wedding?"
Answer: no one
My dad tried again, louder albeit unsuccessfully
"MAMA LARUE'S IDIOT KIDS WOULDN'T...."
"I COULD GIVE A FUCK ABOUT THAT FUCKING DOG OR MAMA LARUE'S KIDS DAD!"
We stood there, one terrified and one furious, when Mama Larue lumbered in and brought her usual grace and calm to the situation with a raspy shriek from a distance of approximately 75 yards across the 3/4 full parking lot
"BUUUUUUUUUTCH, YOU FUCKEN FAG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I FUCKEN TOLD YOU TO WAIT AND WE'D SNEAK THE GOD DAMN DOG IN-YOU FUCKEN RE-TARD!"
"Or," I said quietly to no one in particular, "you could have left the fucking dog back home."
Mama Larue continued to berate my father at a Spinal Tap 11 volume while hotel guests began to take notice. None of this mattered to my dad in the least. He was not bothered by my stress or frustration. He was not worried about a flawless wedding for his beloved son. He couldn't care less about the other guests being privy to his business as it was bellowed across the parking lot by Mama Larue and he didn't even register the slurs and profanities hurled at him by a pre-menopausal wookie. He only cared about Frank and where Frank was going to be housed during the forthcoming nuptuals.
It was more than I could take and my anger boiled over.
I double timed it to my room . They skulked behind me and at least had the good sense to make Frank the Dog wait in the tattered Chevy. The arguing and cursing continued through the halls and into the room. I could still hear them as I showered and could take no more. Sopping wet and clad in boxer shorts and rage, I stormed into the room
I felt like the hitman driven insane by Jeff Daniels and Jim Carey in Dumb and Dumber.
"HEY! GOD DAMN! WILL YOU TWO SHUT UP LONG ENOUGH FOR ME TO GET MY TUX AND GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE?!
"What am I going to do about Frank?"
"DA-AD! DAD,DAD" I raised my hand to him now, in a gesture of pleading mercy, begging that he might shed light on his thinking , if nothing else. I lowered my voice to an over-dramatic whisper
"Why the FUCK do you think I'd care about that? What in the name of Christ would make you think that Frank's hotel accomodations are anywhere near my list of concerns? Tell me that. Just tell me that one thing."
Oblivious he looked at Mama Larue.
"You think we can get him in that side door?"
"Oh for fucks sake..." I grabbed my tux and walked barefoot through the hotel to the sanctuary of my groomsmen.
The rest of the day went off without a hitch. Frank was not mentioned. My bride was beautiful. The wedding was perfect. All was forgotten for the time being. Years passed and my wife and I began our life, had a son, and experienced all those things that couples do. It was several years later when we were talking with friends and my wedding came up in conversation with our friends Drew and Jamie. As it often does, the conversation turned to my dad and his bizzarre countenance.
"He looked rough," was the only understatement I could muster.
Dropping all pretense that her family could ever hang with mine, my wife made a face and added;
"ROUGH?! He looked like The Cryptkeeper-bleeeck!"
Looking creeped out and unsettled, Drew added "I'll never forget him sitting in the back corner of the reception mindlessly petting that dog."
"Yeah...wait....what?"
"Your dad sitting in the corner petting that fucking dog of his while there's a huge party going on around him."
Its not often that I'm surprised. Its a fraction of that time that I am genuinely shocked.
My mouth hung agape. This was one of those times.
"Wait a fucking second. He brought the fucking dog into the reception.?"
Drew's tone took on one of confusion and then amusement as he realized he was breaking this news.
"Yeah dude....he had that little fucking dog of his in his lap and sat there, you know..."
Drew mimed the action that I could see all too clearly. My dad, in his rented tuxedo, stoned on some phaaraceutical and stroking the dirty fur of his beloved companion while Mama Larue hunkered down next to him, probably calling someone a cocksucker loud enough for the tables around her to hear.
I looked at my equally shocked wife.
"Did you know he did this?"
"NO-OO!"
To her credit she joined in the rest of us and laughed hysterically at her father-in-law. She laughed at the notion that her family could ever in a million years produce anything close to the train wreck that mine could. She laughed to keep from crying.
The thing is, while he often does and says the wrong, most offensive thing possible, I am strangely lucky to have the father that I do. Tragic and flawed, he is still my father and his love for me is unwavering and I have known that my whole life. I know a few people who simply can't say the same or buried their fathers at too young an age. I look at the moments of humor and frustration and heartbreak that he provides as face value events from which I learn how to and how not to be a husband and father and man. The endless supply of material he provides is a wonderful ancillary benefit
Knowing all this, it was no suprise when halfway through the reception, my dad cornered me. Considering that I didn't think he was going to come, I took the fact he stayed through half the reception as his best effort and smiled as he approached. He motioned me away from the crowd. I wasn't sure what to expect. He had the capacity within him to convey his most tender emotions where I was involved and I thought a father/son moment might be forthcoming.
He shifted somewhat awkwardly then and I thought perhaps he was reflecting on lifetime of being a model of how to and how not to be a man and trying to form those perfect words with which to send his beloved son into the world. My dad placed his hand on my shoulder and looked at me:
"Buddy, Do you have twenty bucks I could borrow?"
Completely unsurprised, I shot back
"Uh, no dad, I didn't figure I'd need cash at my wedding..."
Sunday, January 20, 2013
An Education
Like any good liberal woman my wife wanted one thing more than anything else: a stable of gay men she could call her friends.
She would speak about other friends who had close gay friends almost wistfully
"See those guys? They love Carrie and Cheryl. They'd be perfect!. "
She would scheme and plan in an attempt to invite gay couples over for dinner and would pout dejectedly when the offer wasn't met with what she felt should be the appropriate amount of enthusiasm. Oddly, I felt like I was asking my own wife about her dating prospects with other men. I even recognized subconsciously that I was treading carefully, ridiculous as it was, so as not to pour salt on a wound.
"How'd it go," I might ask tentatively
"They said they'd call me"
"Oh! So that's good!"
She'd flash me a look letting me know that patronizing her wasn't appreciated.
"They aren't going to call me."
I then continued the ridiculous charade of reminding her all she had going for her.
She was stylish.
She was sweet and funny.
She was a woman working in Democratic politics for Christ sake. She was going to meet, as I told her with just a slight bit of intended pun, "more gay men than she could shake a stick at."
As usual when it came to reassuring my self-conscious better half, I was right. Karen finally met several un-eligible bachelors and developed quick bonds with them.
She couldn't have been happier.
These were good guys. Funny and smart with like minded attitudes and morals, I quickly grew to calling these men my friends and my wife was always quick to set boundaries.
"I really like Jordy," I'd tell her. "He's fucking hilarious."
A cool but deadly countenance would come over her.
"He's my friend"
"OK, well he's my friend too."
"No," she flatly rejected
Sadly I knew it wasn't her husband she was jealous of but her new gay friend.
I thought Karen had possibly gone 'round the bend with Larry.
Larry was an older man who took her under his wing after a lifetime in Michigan politics. As most who meet her do, he quickly grew to love my wife. Its difficult not to. Karen has a sweetness made up of equal parts genuine goodness, a great sense of humor, a fantastic work ethic, and a willingness to help.
The affection was mutual for my wife.
"Honey, I want Larry to adopt me."
Having no desire to see my father-in-law thanked for 28 years of good service and ushered out the door without so much as a gold watch, , I reminded Karen she had a dad and he was still very much alive.
"I just love him."
Clearly, she meant Larry.
Karen also maintains a small amount of that 1950's Catholic instilled by her mother that is in conflict with the educated liberal woman that she is. While very curious about the dating and bedroom lives of her new friends, she was not the type to ask them about it. She was shy. She might hint or dance around the subject but getting her to come out with questions regarding this subject was equivalent to pulling teeth. Ironically, she got a fair amount of her information from me.
Not unlike minor carpentry and small auto maintenance, I'd learned basic facts about the homosexual man through other sources and not unlike changing a tire and the importance of crowning your lumber while framing a wall, it was something that stuck inside my cavernous head.
I explained to her about certain subsets in the gay community. I taught her about "bears"and informed her that by a relative definition, she preferred "bears" her self. I advised her about "tops" and "bottoms" and other things I'd learned along the way and she was always a captive audience.
"How do you know this," she asked.
"Friends."
"You don't have any gay friends!"
She was always pissed at the insinuation that I had gay friends and she didn't
"Well yes, I do. and Doug had a lot of gay friends."
Adding my cousin, often a source of antagonism with my wife, was even worse.
"Oh what the hell does Doug know"
The obvious answer being more than she did; I wasn't interested in fighting that fight.
As her relationship with Larry grew, she began to wade into the deeper waters ever so slowly.
One day she came home with two books that Larry had given her. Years later he explained the additions to our library in a manner that would come to no surprise whatsoever to anyone who knows my wife
"I got so god-damn tired of her questions. Not the fact that she was asking them but she's so god-damn bashful that it would take her a fucking hour to ask them."
In all my life, I never thought mine would be a coffee table that housed "The Guide to Strap-on Sex" and "The Joy of Gay Sex" but there they were there for all to see. Karen would peruse them at night muttering an intrigued "ohhhhhh" and when her suspicions confirmed, the occasional "mmmmm-hmmm" and every now and then a startled "Oh My!"
I steered clear.
I pride myself on being an open minded socially liberal man. I think that a person's right to happiness is his or her own and I am fiercely protective of that right provided it doesn't infringe on anyone else.
As much as I am not proud, I confess a bit of an uneasiness when it comes to physical affections between two men. It isn't that they are infringing on my rights. It isn't a moral objection and it has nothing to do with my half-hearted Catholicism. In fact , that thinking and the fact that homosexuals are persecuted with an often tacit if not blatant approval is a hot point of anger for me. No, my issues were much more simple and primal:
Dudes are gross.
I am one. I have lived with several. . Hairy and disgusting, even the most sculpted amongst us are horrific,piggish mammals who should by all right be made to live in large pens with the rest of the hogs.
I loved Brokeback Mountain. I thought it a terrific movie and a heartbreaking story. Heath Ledger gave a haunting and wonderful performance. I mean that. However, the scenes were the two actors would express themselves physically brought me back to being seven years old and seeing "The Exorcist" for the first time. I'd wince and while I stopped short of covering my eyes, I'd avert them and was glad when the scene had passed.
(Conversely, I love watching two women have sex and have rationalized it thusly as balance.)
Ultimately Karen's questions began to, shall we say, probe more deeply.
"I wonder if Larry's a top or a bottom?"
"He's a bottom."
"Why do you say that?"
He's a bottom. I guarentee it.
"Why do you think that?"
"I just do."
Karen's suspicions could not be quelled and she came home to announce her findings.
"I told Larry you wanted to know if he was a top or a bottom," she stated matter of factly.
"WHAAAA.WHAT THE FUCK? WHY? I DIDNT WANT TO KNOW THAT. WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU SAY THAT?"
She ignored my protests and continued on.
"He's a bottom"
She then began to laugh
"He said, 'You tell Sean that I'm a bottom. I just like to sit back and relax."
I simultaneously hissed and winced.
"Ahhh Jesus Karen...Well you tell Larry that I can't think of anything less relaxing."
Weeks passed with a smattering of less graphic updates that in retrospect, was a calm before the storm.
I was on my lunch hour when the phone rang
"Hi Honey,"
"Hi. Uh, I have gotten us into some trouble." My wife's tone was a slight and not-too serious panic
"What's up?"
"Well you know how I've been asking Larry about things?
My mined flashed with images from "Joy of Gay Sex" that I wish I could un-see
"Yup. I sure do."
Well, I don't know what to do because I don't want to hurt his feelings but he wants to come over and talk to both of us about it."
"Hurt his feelings Karen."
"I can't" she half wailed.
"Karen, I'm serious. I don't want any part of that."
"Well what am I supposed to do?"
"Fuck if I know, but get us out of it."
"No. I'm afraid he's lonely and I think he's touched that we have taken an interest."
"God Damnit Karen! We havent. You have!"
I silently stewed as my wife timidly went forward
"There's more"
"What. The. Fuck? What else could there possibly be?"
"He wants to bring videos."
"NO FUCKING WAY KAREN! NO. NO FUCKING WAY WHATSOEVER. NO!"
"Just calm down"
"FUCK THAT. NO. I'M TELLING YOU RIGHT NOW I WILL NOT BE THERE FOR THAT. NO WAY."
"Don't be like that."
Be like what?! I want no fucking part of this and did not get us into this. You deal with it but you get us out of it. I mean it Karen!"
She dug in her heels and prepared for the fight to come.
"No, I'm not. We have to. I'm not hurting his feelings. I'm sorry and I know its my fault but we have to do it."
"KAREN, IM NOT SITTING AROUND WITH YOU AND LARRY AND WATCHING INSTRUCTIONAL VIDEOS ON BUTT-FUCKING!"
The raw fury only added to the confusion as I heard a raucous laughter on the other end of the line. Several people had burst out in hysterics and it was clear that multiple people in my wife's office had been listening to our conversation by way of speaker phone.
With a sweetness betrayed only by a deep and complete satisfaction my wife let me off the hook.
"April Fools"
She had me. The date had never occurred to me. It was the practical joke equivalent of a no-hitter and only could be delivered ; when one person knows their victim so well.
"Wow," I said, "You ..really.. fucking.. got me."
"I know. Love You." (Click)
Her smug tone seeped through the line. And like that, she was gone.
I have no idea how long this had been planned. I don't know if her feigning my interest was part of an elaborate scheme or her own shyness legitimately led to my being a scapegoat. Both are possible. I have no idea if others were involved or if she , on a whim, decided that April 1st morning to simply throw a line and try and get a bite. She knew that I would want to support her in any way I could in new friendships and she knew further that I wouldn't want to hurt Larry's feelings and more than anything else, she knew if it was something important to her that I would acquiesce, albeit extremely begrudgingly. To her credit,she took full advantage. I am proud of her for that and I tell the story often
This I do know. At no time in my life have I been so efficiently and thoroughly duped. It was a remarkable virtuoso performance. It began innocently enough with my wife's education and culminated with my being completely schooled.
She would speak about other friends who had close gay friends almost wistfully
"See those guys? They love Carrie and Cheryl. They'd be perfect!. "
She would scheme and plan in an attempt to invite gay couples over for dinner and would pout dejectedly when the offer wasn't met with what she felt should be the appropriate amount of enthusiasm. Oddly, I felt like I was asking my own wife about her dating prospects with other men. I even recognized subconsciously that I was treading carefully, ridiculous as it was, so as not to pour salt on a wound.
"How'd it go," I might ask tentatively
"They said they'd call me"
"Oh! So that's good!"
She'd flash me a look letting me know that patronizing her wasn't appreciated.
"They aren't going to call me."
I then continued the ridiculous charade of reminding her all she had going for her.
She was stylish.
She was sweet and funny.
She was a woman working in Democratic politics for Christ sake. She was going to meet, as I told her with just a slight bit of intended pun, "more gay men than she could shake a stick at."
As usual when it came to reassuring my self-conscious better half, I was right. Karen finally met several un-eligible bachelors and developed quick bonds with them.
She couldn't have been happier.
These were good guys. Funny and smart with like minded attitudes and morals, I quickly grew to calling these men my friends and my wife was always quick to set boundaries.
"I really like Jordy," I'd tell her. "He's fucking hilarious."
A cool but deadly countenance would come over her.
"He's my friend"
"OK, well he's my friend too."
"No," she flatly rejected
Sadly I knew it wasn't her husband she was jealous of but her new gay friend.
I thought Karen had possibly gone 'round the bend with Larry.
Larry was an older man who took her under his wing after a lifetime in Michigan politics. As most who meet her do, he quickly grew to love my wife. Its difficult not to. Karen has a sweetness made up of equal parts genuine goodness, a great sense of humor, a fantastic work ethic, and a willingness to help.
The affection was mutual for my wife.
"Honey, I want Larry to adopt me."
Having no desire to see my father-in-law thanked for 28 years of good service and ushered out the door without so much as a gold watch, , I reminded Karen she had a dad and he was still very much alive.
"I just love him."
Clearly, she meant Larry.
Karen also maintains a small amount of that 1950's Catholic instilled by her mother that is in conflict with the educated liberal woman that she is. While very curious about the dating and bedroom lives of her new friends, she was not the type to ask them about it. She was shy. She might hint or dance around the subject but getting her to come out with questions regarding this subject was equivalent to pulling teeth. Ironically, she got a fair amount of her information from me.
Not unlike minor carpentry and small auto maintenance, I'd learned basic facts about the homosexual man through other sources and not unlike changing a tire and the importance of crowning your lumber while framing a wall, it was something that stuck inside my cavernous head.
I explained to her about certain subsets in the gay community. I taught her about "bears"and informed her that by a relative definition, she preferred "bears" her self. I advised her about "tops" and "bottoms" and other things I'd learned along the way and she was always a captive audience.
"How do you know this," she asked.
"Friends."
"You don't have any gay friends!"
She was always pissed at the insinuation that I had gay friends and she didn't
"Well yes, I do. and Doug had a lot of gay friends."
Adding my cousin, often a source of antagonism with my wife, was even worse.
"Oh what the hell does Doug know"
The obvious answer being more than she did; I wasn't interested in fighting that fight.
As her relationship with Larry grew, she began to wade into the deeper waters ever so slowly.
One day she came home with two books that Larry had given her. Years later he explained the additions to our library in a manner that would come to no surprise whatsoever to anyone who knows my wife
"I got so god-damn tired of her questions. Not the fact that she was asking them but she's so god-damn bashful that it would take her a fucking hour to ask them."
In all my life, I never thought mine would be a coffee table that housed "The Guide to Strap-on Sex" and "The Joy of Gay Sex" but there they were there for all to see. Karen would peruse them at night muttering an intrigued "ohhhhhh" and when her suspicions confirmed, the occasional "mmmmm-hmmm" and every now and then a startled "Oh My!"
I steered clear.
I pride myself on being an open minded socially liberal man. I think that a person's right to happiness is his or her own and I am fiercely protective of that right provided it doesn't infringe on anyone else.
As much as I am not proud, I confess a bit of an uneasiness when it comes to physical affections between two men. It isn't that they are infringing on my rights. It isn't a moral objection and it has nothing to do with my half-hearted Catholicism. In fact , that thinking and the fact that homosexuals are persecuted with an often tacit if not blatant approval is a hot point of anger for me. No, my issues were much more simple and primal:
Dudes are gross.
I am one. I have lived with several. . Hairy and disgusting, even the most sculpted amongst us are horrific,piggish mammals who should by all right be made to live in large pens with the rest of the hogs.
I loved Brokeback Mountain. I thought it a terrific movie and a heartbreaking story. Heath Ledger gave a haunting and wonderful performance. I mean that. However, the scenes were the two actors would express themselves physically brought me back to being seven years old and seeing "The Exorcist" for the first time. I'd wince and while I stopped short of covering my eyes, I'd avert them and was glad when the scene had passed.
(Conversely, I love watching two women have sex and have rationalized it thusly as balance.)
Ultimately Karen's questions began to, shall we say, probe more deeply.
"I wonder if Larry's a top or a bottom?"
"He's a bottom."
"Why do you say that?"
He's a bottom. I guarentee it.
"Why do you think that?"
"I just do."
Karen's suspicions could not be quelled and she came home to announce her findings.
"I told Larry you wanted to know if he was a top or a bottom," she stated matter of factly.
"WHAAAA.WHAT THE FUCK? WHY? I DIDNT WANT TO KNOW THAT. WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU SAY THAT?"
She ignored my protests and continued on.
"He's a bottom"
She then began to laugh
"He said, 'You tell Sean that I'm a bottom. I just like to sit back and relax."
I simultaneously hissed and winced.
"Ahhh Jesus Karen...Well you tell Larry that I can't think of anything less relaxing."
Weeks passed with a smattering of less graphic updates that in retrospect, was a calm before the storm.
I was on my lunch hour when the phone rang
"Hi Honey,"
"Hi. Uh, I have gotten us into some trouble." My wife's tone was a slight and not-too serious panic
"What's up?"
"Well you know how I've been asking Larry about things?
My mined flashed with images from "Joy of Gay Sex" that I wish I could un-see
"Yup. I sure do."
Well, I don't know what to do because I don't want to hurt his feelings but he wants to come over and talk to both of us about it."
"Hurt his feelings Karen."
"I can't" she half wailed.
"Karen, I'm serious. I don't want any part of that."
"Well what am I supposed to do?"
"Fuck if I know, but get us out of it."
"No. I'm afraid he's lonely and I think he's touched that we have taken an interest."
"God Damnit Karen! We havent. You have!"
I silently stewed as my wife timidly went forward
"There's more"
"What. The. Fuck? What else could there possibly be?"
"He wants to bring videos."
"NO FUCKING WAY KAREN! NO. NO FUCKING WAY WHATSOEVER. NO!"
"Just calm down"
"FUCK THAT. NO. I'M TELLING YOU RIGHT NOW I WILL NOT BE THERE FOR THAT. NO WAY."
"Don't be like that."
Be like what?! I want no fucking part of this and did not get us into this. You deal with it but you get us out of it. I mean it Karen!"
She dug in her heels and prepared for the fight to come.
"No, I'm not. We have to. I'm not hurting his feelings. I'm sorry and I know its my fault but we have to do it."
"KAREN, IM NOT SITTING AROUND WITH YOU AND LARRY AND WATCHING INSTRUCTIONAL VIDEOS ON BUTT-FUCKING!"
The raw fury only added to the confusion as I heard a raucous laughter on the other end of the line. Several people had burst out in hysterics and it was clear that multiple people in my wife's office had been listening to our conversation by way of speaker phone.
With a sweetness betrayed only by a deep and complete satisfaction my wife let me off the hook.
"April Fools"
She had me. The date had never occurred to me. It was the practical joke equivalent of a no-hitter and only could be delivered ; when one person knows their victim so well.
"Wow," I said, "You ..really.. fucking.. got me."
"I know. Love You." (Click)
Her smug tone seeped through the line. And like that, she was gone.
I have no idea how long this had been planned. I don't know if her feigning my interest was part of an elaborate scheme or her own shyness legitimately led to my being a scapegoat. Both are possible. I have no idea if others were involved or if she , on a whim, decided that April 1st morning to simply throw a line and try and get a bite. She knew that I would want to support her in any way I could in new friendships and she knew further that I wouldn't want to hurt Larry's feelings and more than anything else, she knew if it was something important to her that I would acquiesce, albeit extremely begrudgingly. To her credit,she took full advantage. I am proud of her for that and I tell the story often
This I do know. At no time in my life have I been so efficiently and thoroughly duped. It was a remarkable virtuoso performance. It began innocently enough with my wife's education and culminated with my being completely schooled.
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