And this is one of those times.
No, really. This is really schmaltzy. If you have cavities or diabetes, please avoid the following saccharine. Comas aren’t fun.
Okay.
On Saturday morning, I got into a bit of a squabble with my parents and my grandfather at the breakfast table. This is one of the many privileges of living at home. I get a free meal or two every now and then, a roof over my head, and a lecture with a side of bacon. With twenty- four years of the same judgments on the state of the world and the state of my life, you’d think I would have built up some kind of tolerance to it all. And I have, for the most part.
I can disregard my grandmother’s rampant racism as it’s almost cute and pretty much dependable and consistent. She’s set in her ways and there’s really no point in trying to bring her up to date. Because if I can’t even teach her how to record her favorite programs (QVC) on to a VHS tape, I’ll certainly never break her of that nasty habit of freely using words like “spics” and “wetbacks” even in mixed company. But she’s also a eucharistic minister. So I’ll leave the judging up to someone with more experience in that department than lil’ ol’ me.
And then there’s my grandfather. He comes from a strange time in history where people shopped at corner stores and wore ties all day on Sunday and ate pot roast and had a milk man. When he drives, it’s suddenly 1950 and everyone’s got whitewall tires and they wave at each other and stop for trolley cars. To him, no music will ever be Gene Autry. No ball player will ever be Ted Williams (well, that’s a given). And he thinks Las Vegas is a really, really good TV show. And that “Lizbeth Ha- Hass-El… beck? Back? The blond married to the football player” is the smartest woman on television.
Then there’s my other grandfather, the one married to my adorably racist grandmother. He opens Christmas presents with his pocket knife, then folds the paper and saves it for next year. To him, there is a right and wrong way to crush aluminum cans before tossing them in the recycling bin. And you know, God damnit, this place is a mess. And to think that he sacrificed so much for this land that the liberals insist on shitting upon. And you should know now that no America will ever be an America like the America he lived in when he fought for America. The real America.
So clearly my mother and father really didn’t stand a chance here to become anything other than what they turned out to be. It’s like a Cheap Trick song. Needless to say, their tastes are pretty predictable. And very much the opposite of mine.
I was reading an article in my local paper about Conan’s last Tonight Show and I made the mistake of expressing my disappointment over his termination. That’s 12,567,093 times for those of you keeping track. I know that my father, at least, has gone on record as saying he didn’t care for him. Or Leno. Or the other guys. And he’s got a job that doesn’t allow him to stay up late to watch a bunch of morons promote what they already get paid too much to do. Noted. Thanks.
“Guy’s a jerk. Like, like … he’s too silly,” my grandfather added while trying to mirror The String Dance. “It’s like he’s more for children or something. Very goofy.”
“Yeah,” my dad agreed, excited to preach. “And how much did he get paid? $45 million? Is that all? Shit. For $45 million, I’d stay home everyday.”
“Shit. So would I.” Thanks for your support, Mom.
I didn’t saying a word because to serve up any kind of retort would allow the three of them to volley for hours about just how fast our nation is swirling down the YouTubes. And how my generation will suffer. And how I’m already suffering because I don’t have a “real job”. All of that. Everything is everyone’s fault and no one is good or decent anymore and no one is truly talented like Johnny Carson and no man will ever be a John Wayne and blah blah blah blah twenty- four years of the same record on loop and I’m over it. I’m done. I’m done. It’s gone. I’m done.
Yes, Dad. It’s a shit- load of money. Yes, it’s enough to sustain him comfortably for the rest of his life. Yes, it would be nice to get a sliver of that so that I could get rid of my student loans and work on that whole “being your own person” and “disposable income” stuff that all other adults seem to have under control. You’re right. The whole thing sounds like something ripped from the pages of a fairytale and everyone will live happily ever after.
Except you’re wrong. You’re very, very wrong.
Look, my parents never told my sister and I that money didn’t matter in this world and that happiness was all that was important. And no, they didn’t beat us or deny us or deprive us or anything like that. They were very encouraging of our imaginations and our childhood hobbies. But they’re just practical. They want us to be taken care of, to be safe and secure. They don’t want us to live the way they did for the first few years of their marriage, taking jobs they’d hate — but then never leaving those jobs even twenty- five years later– just to make sure we were living comfortably. We never wanted for anything. We never went without. And that came, I think, at the expense of my parents’ happiness. My father hates his job. He’s been working there for half of his life and he hates it. But he tells us that’s not all he has. That he is a happy guy. Sometimes I believe him. But other times, I don’t.
I’m broke, okay? I’m really, really broke. But all things considered, I honestly cannot imagine any amount of money being enough to cushion the blow of me having to give up my dream job to some jag I knew I was not as talented as me. So when I watched Conan get choked up during his speech, I believed it. I understood wanting to do something so much that you’d do it for free.
When I was ten- years- old, I saw my first episode of Saturday Night Live. I was in fifth grade. Christopher Walken was the host. It was during the blizzard of ‘96. I had a TV in my bedroom because I absolutely refused to ask for anything else for my birthday. No bike. No party. No nothing. I wanted a TV. And I got really good at keeping the volume loud enough for me to hear with one ear on the pillow, but quiet enough so that my parents couldn’t hear a thing. I had a friend sleep over that Saturday but she had conked out by 10:00, tired from building those forts all day. The tape we were watching– probably Now and Then– had ended so I turned off my VCR and kept the TV on while I went to get a drink. When I came back, the local news had ended and there was something on about the blizzard. I was very grateful for said blizzard since it meant that school was closed for forever, so I kept watching. I recognized Rudy Giuliani but not the other guy. They were apologizing for the awful show that was to follow. The cast had not been rehearsing because they were helping shovel out the city.
I didn’t quite know what I was watching, but I couldn’t really change the channel either. Apparently, Joan Osbourne was singing on the show that night. And this was about the time that I played “One of Us” on repeat and really, really wanted a nose ring and belly shirt. So I was sold.
But this show was so wacky. There was a mean little lady begging her neighbor to shovel her sidewalk. Then the neighbor guy played another guy who had a weird mustache and lived in a fancy apartment. Fake news. That guy from Tommy Boy was making fun of the cast while standing outside in a snow drift. And then a character who would later dictate three consecutive Halloweens in my life, was smelling her hands after sticking them in her armpits.
These were all the same people doing a bunch of different things in one episode. And people were laughing. And it was live. And I was hooked. From that point on, I gorged myself on the show. I’d reenact my favorite sketches with my sister and film them with my grandfather’s gigantic camcorder. Those tapes do still exist somewhere but will never see the light of the internet. I really didn’t think there could be a better job in life than doing something to make people laugh. I saw it on SNL. I saw it later on Late Night. And I still feel that way. I know what I want out of my life and I’ve known since I was ten.
It’s pipe- dreamy. Sure. But it’s the only thing I can think of that I’ve really held on to for most of my life. But at least it’s a dream. I feel for people who don’t have any kind of dream at all, for people who are too concerned with practicality. And more than that, I feel for people who actually get to reach their dream just to have it taken away. That sucks. That really, really fucking sucks. That’s mostly the reason why what happened to Conan had me so bummed. I feel like everything I want for my life can match up pretty closely with what he wanted. He’s plucked from obscurity. Asked to take over for David Letterman. Then continues having fun night after night at a job he so clearly loves. Then because of some ridiculous programming error, NBC chooses Jay Leno over him? Championing mediocrity? Come on. That just… sucks. To watch one of my idol’s have his dreams snapped while my own still feel light years away just really, really sucks. And now I went to a small Jesuit University “set in the majestic hills of Northeastern Pennsylvania” and If the Harvard guy, the guy I watched every night who I think maybe molded more of my comedic sensibilities than I had originally realized, if he’s told he can’t do it, then what hope is there for the rest of us silly schmucks who write soggy, sentimental garbage blog entries for six people to read each day?
That brings me to his final episode. And this:
Please do not be cynical. I hate cynicism. For the record, it’s my least favorite quality. It doesn’t lead anywhere. Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get. But if you work really hard, and you’re kind – amazing things will happen. I’m telling you. Amazing things will happen.
That might be one of the best things I’ve ever heard anyone say on TV. Ever. It was perfect. Because I believe it. I kind of have to always keep that in my mind. That has to be a conscious choice. Everyday. A lot of people miss that, I think. But hey, this guy gave the world The Walker Texas Ranger Lever and a bear with the same problem as my tenth grade gym teacher. How can I not take his words for straight gospel?
My parents may have gladly taken the money and parked in in the sand until the day they died. But I know I wouldn’t be so casual with it. Not when I’d be walking away from something I wanted my entire life.
Alright…
Anyway, if you’re still reading, thank you. That was just something I needed to get of my chest. My big, bountiful, beautiful chest.
Tits.