Yearbook

by Seth Rogen

  My dad never had or wanted a traditional career, and his attitude toward work is refreshing in that he unabashedly hates it. None of his self-worth comes from what he accomplishes from a career standpoint. He thinks being a good person and helping others (something he’s done throughout his life to a heroic degree) is a better way to get that, and I wish I’d inherited more of this to go along with the uncontrollable eyebrow furrows.

  I have two half brothers by lesbian mothers. They were family friends who used my father as a sperm donor. The fact that those women looked at my dad and thought, Great genetics there, is confounding but ultimately complimentary. And I’m very glad they did, because my half brothers are great. Better than I am in most ways, making me feel a bit like some sort of “Schwarzenegger/DeVito” situation went down with the sperm, but I’m not sure the science behind Twins is totally sound, unlike the science behind Junior, which adds up completely.

  My dad is super-specific about a lot of things but mostly about his socks and his food.

  He essentially wears the same socks every day, white Champions. Over the years he noticed that when the socks became mismatched from their original pairs, due to the fact that they all looked the same, you’d wind up with a real variation of socks as far as wear and tear goes. Some socks were thin and aged, some brand-new and fluffy, but all were white Champions. It started to bother him that sometimes he’d be wearing socks with greatly varying feel from one foot to the other. So he developed a system. Whenever he bought a new pair of socks, he’d number them: 1–1, 2–2. The same number on each foot of the pair of socks. That way, although they all looked the same, he’d be able to maintain consistency when it came to the integrity of his socks from foot to foot.

  It was a BIG topic of conversation in my house. It obviously made the process of sorting his laundry way more complicated, so he’d always have to do it himself, and it took him hours. My friends would come over and he’d be standing over the washing machine, pairing up the socks, every once in a while screaming to my mom, “Have you seen a seven or a nine?! I can’t find them!”

  It was so weird that when my mom’s friend saw an ad in the paper that read, “Wanted for documentary: people with bizarre household-chore management,” they instantly thought of my parents.

  My dad got it, but my mom was a bit insulted. She was on the phone with her friend.

  Mom: Why did you think I would be interesting?

  Friend: Because of Mark’s weird sock thing!

  Mom: Oh, that makes perfect sens—

  Friend: And, because of how messy your house is all the time!

  Yes. My house was messy. I wouldn’t say dirty but kind of…cluttered. There were always little piles of things everywhere. I’m not saying this is a Jewish tendency specifically, but almost every Jewish parent’s house I’ve been to is like this. Nothing is put away. Everything is laid out in organized little stacks that are everywhere. Jews like to see all their belongings. We like to know what we’ve got at all times, just in case we gotta pack up shop and get the fuck out of town.

  The crew came and filmed my parents talking about housework and got shots of my dad organizing his socks and of all our little stacks and piles. It seemed like a cheap little Canadian documentary, so none of us really thought about it much—until my parents started to get recognized on the street by students.

  Student 1: Holy shit! You’re the sock guy! (To Student 2:) It’s the sock guy! From the documentary!

  Dad: What do you mean?

  Student 2: We saw it in class!

  Mom: What class?

  Student 1: Sociology class! They show the Chore Wars documentary every year! It really unravels gender roles when it comes to housework! And that shit with the socks! That’s INSANE!

  It might be a narrow baseline of fans, but among Canadian sociology students, my parents were major celebrities.

  My parents are passionate about marching and protesting against injustices and are usually on the same page about the issues, but not always.

  In Vancouver, there was a guy named Bill Vander Zalm (pronounced “Zam”), which is a supervillain-ass name if I ever heard one. When I was about seven or eight, he owned a big farm/fair-type place with a train and some rides and shit that you’d drive by on the way to the airport. All my friends loved to go. They’d have birthday parties there, but my parents banned me and my sister from ever stepping foot on his property. Bill Vander Zalm was wildly conservative. He had tried to restrict abortion laws and campaigned to break up local labor unions, which really could not be more on brand for a man with the last name Vander Zalm. My dad fucking hated him.

  We heard Bill Vander Zalm was participating in one of those big chanukiah-lighting ceremonies that they do in cities sometimes, and my dad was pissed. As someone who believed Jews should be standing up against injustice and supporting unions and progressive agendas, he was being driven nuts by the whole idea of it. I remember my parents talking about going to the event.

  Dad: We have to go!

  Mom: I’m not going to go if you yell at him!

  Dad: Well, there’s no point in going if I DON’T yell at him!

  Mom: Just don’t go, then!

  Dad: We have to go!

  Mom: We’re not going if you make a big scene!

  Dad: I won’t make a big scene! I’ll just make my protest clear in a peaceful way. That’s it!

  Mom: Fine. But if you go crazy, I’m going to pretend I have no idea who you are!

  Dad: Fine!

  Mom: Fine!

  We hopped in our Chevy and drove a few minutes to a parking lot, where a huge chanukiah had been set up with a stage in front of it. There was a crowd of a couple hundred people standing around waiting for the ceremony to start. As men in suits took the stage and prepared to speak, my dad started getting riled up.

  Dad: There he is. That hypocrite. I hate him….

  Mom: Alright, that’s it. We’re going over here now.

  She grabbed me and my sister by the hands and started dragging us to the other side of the crowd.

  Then Bill Vander Zalm took the mic.

  Bill Vander Zalm: Hello, and welcome to the Jewish ceremony celebrating—

  Dad: You hypocrite!!!!!

  Everyone in the crowd turned to see my dad screaming.

  Dad: How dare you use the Jewish community to bolster your agenda! You don’t stand for anything progressive! You don’t care about oppression! You’re a fraud!!

  Security came and started to kind of wrestle my dad away from the stage and out of the parking lot. A few local news crews were there to cover the event, and they ran over to my dad as he was being carted out.

  My mom turned to me and my sister: “Don’t move. Just stand here. Act like you don’t know him!” We did. We stared forward and watched the candle lighting as we heard my dad ranting in the background.

  Dad: (barely audible…) Hypocrite! (barely audible…) How dare he?! (barely audible…) on the Festival of Lights no less?!

  That night, we gathered around the TV to see if the event would be covered. I remember being very skeptical. But as soon as the local news started, the first headline plastered on the screen read: “Local man goes wild at holiday ceremony!” Lead story. They showed footage of Vander Zalm taking the stage, and then my dad screaming from the crowd.

  Anchor: What started as a celebration of our Jewish community ended as an attack on a local businessman. Moments after the ceremony began, Vancouver resident Mark Rogen had some words to share.

  They cut to an interview with my dad, where he went off on Vander Zalm. I looked over at him watching. He couldn’t have been happier. I looked back to the TV.

  Anchor: While many in attendance were obviously disturbed by the disruption…

  It cut to shots of te
rrified members of the crowd watching my dad rant like a madman. It then cut to a shot of me, my sister, and my mother, completely ignoring my father. The only ones in the entire crowd not looking in his direction.

  Anchor: …this family somehow managed to be totally unfazed by the outburst.

  A lot of my childhood revolved around food. Because of the Tourette’s, I basically had ADHD, which is common. What wasn’t common was my parents’ approach to treating it. Instead of putting me on medication, they brought me to a behavioral dietician, who had this crazy thought that what you eat affects how you feel and behave. Basically, I didn’t eat ANY dairy, wheat, or sugar of any type from ages five to eleven or so. The only fruit I could eat were pears, the lamest of fruit, because they have less sugar than all other fruit, because they’re so lame. Even their shape is outwardly mocked, and there’s for sure foods with funnier shapes (squash is the goofiest-looking shit ever!), which just shows how much people hate these fuckers. They’re straight up getting picked on. I ate the most boring food on earth. The other kids loved to make fun of me, always being like, “Don’t eat a banana around Seth or he’ll go fucking crazy!” Which really stung ’cause it was kind of true. I mean, you could eat a banana around me, but if I had so much as a bite of one, I would go completely insane.

  My dad essentially grew up in his family’s kosher butcher shop in New Jersey and is now a vegetarian, so it would take maybe five minutes of therapy to uncover why he is so specific about food. We always had separate plates for meat and vegetarian fare, but he had no problem preparing meat or being around it.

  My mom, who became a social worker and taught parenting skills, has a different quirk, where she has a phobia of starving to death. She treats every outing like she’s climbing Everest—planning around calorie intake, how many snacks per hour, tons of little baggies in backpacks with granola bars, jerky, crackers, gorp (a funny word for trail mix). My mother must go through around 2.7 million Ziploc bags in any given calendar year.

  We would go out to eat a lot because nobody in my family had similar tastes, so it was impossible to cook “family dinners.” We didn’t have a lot of money, but we lived in a big city, so we could find affordable restaurants with something for everyone. Or I should say affordable restaurant, in the singular, because we pretty much only went to one at a time. We’d go there about four days a week until something made us move on to another restaurant.

  The first place I remember frequenting was called Bonanza, and the reason we stopped frequenting it is cemented in my head forever. We fucking loved Bonanza. It was a buffet-style place that was a 5 percent nicer version of Sizzler, which still makes it about 85 percent less nice than all other restaurants. They knew us there. They knew all my dad’s super-strange quirks: diet soda, no ice; lemon on the side; extra napkins so he can wipe up the table himself throughout the meal. You know, OCD shit. It felt like a little haven for us. Like Cheers, if it gave you terrible diarrhea every time you got home. Actually, maybe Cheers gave people diarrhea, who knows. They sure didn’t emphasize it in the show, but it could have been going on in the background.

  Vancouver didn’t have a ton of terrible snowstorms, but in 1990 the city was walloped. We carpooled to and from school with a few other kids from Richmond, which is a smaller city just outside Vancouver. My dad had dropped us off in the morning, and throughout the day, snow dumped down. By the time he came to get me, my sister, and the Josephsons, there were a few feet of snow on the ground.

  We piled into my dad’s car, and as soon as we saw his face, we were spooked. He looked like he had just driven through some sort of Mad Max–style wasteland to pick us up. He was shook.

  Dad: Alright! Buckle tight! It’s crazy out there, and these idiot drivers don’t know how to drive in the snow in this stupid city because you don’t have any actual seasons here! But we’ll make it! Hold on!

  If you haven’t driven in a snowstorm, it’s terrifying. You can’t see shit, and the car doesn’t do what you want it to do. We inched along Oak Street toward the bridge leading to Richmond from Vancouver in total silence, which is how my dad always drives. No radio, nothing. “Who can operate a vehicle with music blasting?! Who can focus with all that noise?!” is something my dad likes to yell while he’s driving.

  Dad: Okay! Most of the idiots have gotten off the road, which is good! We’re doing good! We’re—

  Suddenly, in the middle of the bridge, the car hit an ice patch and spun in a full 360, slamming into the snow that had built up around the divider.

  Dad: Holy moly! Drat! Alright! Everyone okay?!

  We were.

  Dad: Alright! Let’s try to get off the bridge!!

  He inched down the back half of the bridge, and as soon as we crossed into Richmond, the roads were impassable. It started snowing harder and harder. He pulled over, sat for a second, staring off into space, then looked back at us.

  Dad: Alright, we can’t drive anymore. That’s it. We gotta abandon the car. We’re miles from any of our houses; it would take us hours to get there. But…I think…about half a mile down that road…it’ll be hard…but…I think we can make it to Bonanza!

  Everyone’s eyes lit up! Salvation! With an all-you-can-eat buffet and soft-serve bar (which is also what they should have called the bathroom. Hiyooo!).

  Dad: Alright, zip up your coats! We can do this! Let’s move!!

  We followed my dad out of the car. The snow came up to our knees. Every step was an undertaking for our tiny bodies.

  Dad: Come on! We can do it! This way!

  My sister was wavering.

  Danya: Dad! No! We’re not gonna make it! There’s too much snow!

  Dad: We’ll make it! Bonanza’s just around the corner! Don’t give up! We’re so close! You can order off the menu when we get there! Not just the buffet like usual! The actual menu!

  Danya: Whoa—the actual menu? Alright—let’s do this!

  We marched on, breathing hard, our feet cold and our socks soaked.

  Dad: We’re almost there! Come on!

  We gathered our energy and rushed to the corner, my dad raising his arms in celebration as we climbed over a wall of snow into the parking lot.

  Dad: Yeah!! It’s right here!! We made it!! We—

  He stopped in his tracks. His arms lowered to his sides.

  Dad: No…

  We turned and looked. There was Bonanza, shades drawn, lights out, a giant Out of Business sign plastered across its front doors. My dad dropped to his knees and bellowed to the heavens: “NOOOOOO!!!! BONANZAAAAAAAAA!!!!”

  It was gone forever.

  But thank god a Red Robin had opened nearby. And thank god even more that Red Robin had the brilliant idea to have unlimited French fries on their menu. From the ashes of disaster grew the roses of a new life.

  * * *

  My mom and I were always close, which for a Jewish boy is probably the least surprising thing I could possibly write, other than saying that dairy messes with my tummy. She’s the only child of my insane grandparents and somehow turned out to be considerate, progressive, levelheaded, emotionally honest, and wildly weird at the same time. We became a lot closer in 1997 when we went to Israel together to visit Danya, who was living on a kibbutz for a year. We arrived and got in our rental car. Driving in Israel was totally crazy, and we had to make it all the way across the country, stopping in a hotel thing for a night along the way.

  My mom loves music, and we blasted Sublime and A Tribe Called Quest the entire way. (Again, it was 1997. Just be happy we weren’t doing Da Dip.) We arrived at the hotel and it was not what we were expecting. Basically, it was a house. Thinking we were going to a hotel but arriving at a house in the middle of nowhere was shocking, especially in a pre-Airbnb era. We approached the front door and knocked.

  A friendly Israeli man in h
is fifties answered the door: “Shalom! Baruch Falafel Latke!”

  (This is not what he said, but they are Hebrew words I know, so they’ll do.)

  Mom: Uh…we don’t speak Hebrew.

  Israeli Man: Shalom!

  He gestured for us to follow him and led us through his house to a back room with two twin beds.

  Mom: So, we stay here? In your house?

  Israeli Man: Knish! Yes!

  Mom: Uh…okay. Perfect. Thanks.

  The guy eyed us for a second.

  Israeli Man: No! Not perfect! I make perfect! Rosh Hashana!

  He then started awkwardly trying to push the two heavy metal bed frames closer together.

  Israeli Man: I fix! I make nice!

  We protested.

  Me: No! It’s not necessary!

  Mom: Please! No! They’re fine where they are!

  Israeli Man: Is fine. Is fine! I make one big bed! For nice couple!

  It was then it occurred to both me and my mother that this man thought we were in a sexual relationship with one another.

  Me: Is NOT fine!!

  Mom: No! Not fine!

  Israeli Man: Exactly, like this, is not fine.