You're Making Me Hate You (27 page)

Fifteen minutes and two Marlboro Golds later …

I still got nothin’. But now I’m light-headed and my knuckles smell like Dean Martin’s nut sack. Yay team. Go me …

It’s got to be the coffee. I was never this bad on cocaine. Besides the aforementioned cigarettes, coffee is my last real vice. I’ve cut out junk/fast food, I don’t eat like a sixteen-year-old anymore, and I work out enough to keep the energy up and the love handles at bay. But the coffee makes me into a sweaty maniac standing around, assessing any situation with my hands on my hips, breathing like I just did a marathon at a sprint and not really sure how I ended up standing there in the first place. Caffeine is one thing; coffee is still another. I don’t act like this when I have the rare soda or aberrant box of cookies. That just
leaves the java as the culprit. Coffee is the rabid satanic blood that pushes my brain into the pillow and gets me to squeal. Knock it off, you suggest? Go fuck yourself, I reply. I’d rather be manic than mediocre. So why am I complaining? I’m not really sure. Sometimes I just wish I could concentrate while I’m hyper-crushing.

That’s the name of the game: concentration. I have it on good authority that I have very little to no concentration whatsoever. The sad thing is that I know I passed this curse onto my son, Griffin. For you people who can do it, how the
fuck
do you people do it? I’ve missed entire scenes in movies before because a bug flew in my face. I get cruising down a rabbit hole, and by the time I reach the surface again, I’m in China. I know you can’t dig a hole to China, but metaphorically speaking, that’s what I mean. Don’t argue with me in the middle of my book. It’s
my book
! If I want to use an allegory that has been completely disproven in the modern day and age, I can! It’s artistic license, and I didn’t have to go to the local DMV to get it! I was born with it! Maybe
she
was born with it. Maybe it’s Maybelline. The flash flood warnings are going off like crazy because I just rode the wave of confusion straight to the river again, and I’m screaming like a banshee on steroids. You want to try your hand at something fucking insane and agitated? Take a shot at living in
my
head for an hour or two. If you can make it fifteen minutes, I’ll buy you a fucking Slurpee.

There are a few things I’m proud of, intelligently speaking. I’ve never used the term “YOLO” seriously. Whenever I hear someone say that and mean it, my skin crawls and I get very stabby. Also, I have
never
seen the movie
Titanic
.
Ever
. This drives my family and friends crazy because it’s not that I’m against the saccharine take on an epic catastrophe (which doesn’t make
sense because
Titanic
is studied as a classic, but
Pearl Harbor
is vilified for basically the same reason). It’s not because I have anything against anyone in the movie—I happen to think Leo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet are both fine, fine actors. It’s not even about that fucking song by that fucking woman Celine Dion. No, I have a very credible (read by my family: asinine) reason for never seeing one of the biggest motion pictures of all time. It all came down to a radio interview back in 1997.

Back in ’97 I was running the counter at the smut hut known as the Adult Emporium, slinging porn like Buffalo Bill Cody in a smock. Working by myself from midnight to 8 a.m., I tended to listen to a lot of radio at night, whistling along to oldies while I dusted racks and organized videos. I remember one night, as I was spraying Windex on some glass shelves to wipe away grime that might be distracting from the liquid latex and oil-based lubes, the DJ started talking about a recent interview in which James Cameron said, “By 1998, everyone in the world will have seen
Titanic
!”

Well, color me a stubborn asshole, but that sounded like a challenge.

I can remember thinking, “Where in the fuck do you get the gall to assume that? Why would you make a sweeping statement and decide that
this
movie—a tepid love story with a sinking toward the end—would be the movie that everyone would eventually see? How
dare
you assume that you know the tastes and fashions of an entire
planet
full of different people, all so you can make a mint on it!” I made up my mind that night that I would
never
see that movie, and I have held steadfast ever since. If it comes on TV, I change the channel. If my family wants to watch it, I leave the room. I know enough about the film’s story through word of mouth and parodies that I’m not missing a
fucking thing. Jack freezes and Rose blows a whistle, gets old, and dies in her sleep. The End: Yeah Bertha. I’ve read deeper brochures. The fact that this movie represents a high watermark for Billy Zane makes me angry at people for not putting him in more movies—he’s
better
than that shit! Fuck!

My family kind of hates me for never seeing
Titanic
.

I’ve learned to live with it.

Let’s wrap this pity party up real quick. Over the years I’ve done some dumb shit. I’ve disappeared into the heart of Amsterdam only to wake up in my hotel room, unsure of how I got there. To my count, I’ve asked seventeen different women how far along in their pregnancy they were … only to find out they were just fat. I’ve snorted pepper. I’ve smoked PCP. I waited in line for four hours to see
The Phantom
Menace
. I’ve let myself get locked out of my own house completely naked (Thank God it was 2 a.m. and dark out). I’ve jumped through a glass coffee table wearing a helmet and a tutu in front of a living room full of people. However, I think the worst thing I’ve ever done is distrust my instincts. Now that I’m older, I tend to trust them more, but when I was younger, that wasn’t the case. Here’s an example.

I had a friend we’ll call Bruce who was a bit of a freak. He was funnier than hell, and I really enjoyed hanging out with him. Other people had issues with him, but I would defend him and say, “He’s just weird man—he’s not a dick!” Nobody bought it, so it was usually just us, doing our thing and not giving a shit. One night long ago I was hanging at his house for the night when he jumped on the phone with some chick he wanted to hook up with. Before I knew it, he was telling me, “Grab your shoes—her parents aren’t home, and she wants us to come over!” It was while I was wondering just how old this girl was that it occurred
to me that this might not be such a great idea. But being a loyal friend, we left his pad and walked the couple of miles to her house. She let us in, and I felt very third-wheel-ish as they sat in her room smooching and chatting. So I went down to her living room to find something on TV.

I was right in the middle of
The Godfather
when her fucking parents came home.

I scrambled back up the stairs and yelled about their arrival, upon which the girl shoved us both into her closet to hide. I’ll be honest: I was not stoked about the turn the evening had taken. Eventually her mother came in to say good night. There was a long pause. Finally her mother said, “Have you been smoking?”

The girl stammered, “N-No! Of course not!”

“Well, it smells like smoke in here!”

“Oh! I had my window open earlier—it probably came in then!”

I’ll give her this—she was good. Her mother left.

We stood in that closet for another fifteen minutes before I said, “Fuck this. We’re leaving.” We left the closet, he said a quick good-bye to Jail Bait or whatever her name was, and we crept toward the stairs. The only way out was the front door, and her father was sitting exactly where I had been not twenty minutes ago, watching
The Godfather
. I looked at Bruce and said, “Follow my lead.”

We went down the stairs.

I started gesturing at the ceiling and walls, speaking loudly. “Well, there doesn’t seem to be any damage to the walls here, maybe we’ll have to check outside—you see the
grading
is the problem …” Bruce picked it up and started spewing bullshit as well: “Yeah, that groundwater is definitely an issue, especially with how wet this summer has been …” We were nearly to the
door—her father was sitting up, staring at us, mouth hanging open just enough to let us know he was stunned. I shouted back up the stairs, “HAROLD! Grab that socket wrench and meet us outside!” I grabbed the door handle, threw it open, hit the screen door, and shoved it wide, and just as her father was up and off the couch, we were out, sprinting down the street like madmen, laughing our balls off and praying to God that he wasn’t dialing 911 at that very instant. Thank fuck this was over twenty years ago: he would have had his cell phone in hand calling for the authorities before we would have reached the bottom of the staircase. It was a funny end to an extremely stressful night.

But as the years wore on, Bruce became more and more erratic, and I began to see what everyone was on about. Then one day we just stopped hanging out. The last time I heard anything about him he had been in some trouble with some bad people. As much as I wanted to help him, I knew it wouldn’t do any good. You see, by then I’d gotten a better read on my instincts. I’d learned the hard way that sometimes that feeling in your stomach is there for a reason. If you get that feeling and you ignore it, guess what? It’s your fault when you get fucked over. If you come to learn from it, you can do wonders with it.

You see before you the ramblings of a man who knows just how ludicrous his musings are. It took a lot of trial and error to realize I am not the most brilliant bulb on the shelf. Yeah sure—I know it’s been a long ride. But you don’t make it to forty-one years old without (a) learning a few things that’ll get you there and (b) figuring out you didn’t know as much as you thought you did along the way. This is the beauty of being a part of your own life. Some people are quite happy just going with the flow and never ruffling any of the feathers on the bird of paradise. That’s the right way to miss out on what life has to offer.
You’ve got to make some mistakes. You’ve got to admit early on that there’s a good chance you know fuck all. It’s okay to be a jackass; the problem comes when you never rise above that particular station.

I’m proud of my idiocy. It may have held me back from doing a few things. It may still be keeping me from winning any awards for exceptional intelligence. But I’ll be okay. I may be stubborn, but at least I’m honest. Mensa isn’t blowing my phone up; however, I can cook milk without burning it, and I don’t leave bleach marks on my clothes when I do laundry. My wife still allows me to drive unattended and stay home with the kids, trusting that when she gets back they will not be singed, hungry, or dead. That’s life as a man. That’s life as a dad. That’s life as the owner of an unusual mind. That works for me.

So I may have spent this entire book angry with you lot. I may have come right up to the cusp of my vocabulary and nearly gone over the edge because I get so infuriated with you that my eyes bulge like a puffer fish. I may descend into depressions in lieu of the fact that most of you shouldn’t be alive, going the way of all the Darwin Award winners before you. That being said, just remember one thing as I rant in your direction: I’m no better than you. I may be more handsome and saucy, and I may be more verbally dexterous from time to time. But I didn’t learn to lift the seat and put it back when doing “my number-one business” until a few years ago. I’m just as much of a scrub as everybody else. But I can be taught. I can be trained. I may even kind of like it in a weird, dirty way. So whereas my software only needs some subtle backing up once in a while, the rest of you may be fucked for all time. It’s cool, though. If you’re like me, feel good about the fact that it tends to be a temporary issue. Anyone can shit, snort, and blaspheme. Anyone can react
without thinking, either on your own or in a crowd. It’s the ones who adapt and overcome who will eventually lead us out of the chaos. Don’t look at me—I don’t want the job. But if you all turn around and run, you’ll find me leading you after all because I’ll be bringing up the rear.

SO … WHAT HAVE
we learned today? More to the point: What have you learned, besides the fact that I’m a misanthropic cunt lip? I suppose I should apologize to you for learning something, if in fact that’s the case. Then again, if you’re going to write a book calling everyone morons, your ultimate goal should be to burn off the murky fogs of our reason. I’m not sure I did that, but I cursed a lot, told some stories, made some points, and did my best to hold up a mirror that in fact goes both ways. However, even though I really hope you have enjoyed this book, I am going to pretend that you have learned
nothing
.

As I’m fond of saying: you can call me Mike Hammer because I fucking
nailed
it.

Sadly it’s true. We used to strive for greater things, to reach for the sky and stars. Now we barely clear arm’s length. The only time we reach for the sky is when we’re being arrested or held
up—usually by someone we
know
. We scrape by on half way and take what we can get. Apparently these days aspirations are for pussies. That’s no way to revolutionize a generation. It’s shit like this that makes me want to mount the old War Cow and ride into battle with my wiffle ball bat that’s riddled with spikes and nails, swinging like Skeletor on a feener.