by Dave Barry
(For the record, Buzz does NOT have an artificial leg. At least he didn’t mention anything about it to me.)
I have another good friend, Gene, who’s going through major developments in his life. Our families recently spent a weekend together, during which Gene and I talked a lot and enjoyed each other’s company immensely. In that entire time, the most intimate personal statement he made to me is that he has reached level 24 of a video game called Arkanoid. He has even seen the Evil Presence, although he refused to tell me what it looks like. We’re very close, but there is a limit.
I know what some of you are saying. You’re saying my friends and I are Neanderthals, and a lot of guys are different. This is true. A lot of guys don’t use words at all. They communicate entirely by nonverbal methods, such as sharing bait.
But my point, guys, is that you must communicate on a deeper level with a woman, particularly if you are married to her. Open up. Don’t assume that she knows what you’re thinking. This will be difficult for guys at first, so it would help if you women would try to “read between the lines” in determining what the guy is trying to communicate:
GUY STATEMENT: “Do we have any peanut butter?” INNER GUY MEANING: “I hate my job.” GUY STATEMENT: “Is this all we have? Crunchy?” INNER GUY MEANING: “I’m not sure I want to stay married.”
If both genders work together, you can have a happier, healthier relationship, but the responsibility rests with you guys, who must sincerely ... Hey, guys, I’m TALKING to you here. Put down the sports section, OK? HEY! GUYS!
Nerds ‘R’ Us
COMMENCEMENT ADDRESS TO THE HIGH-SCHOOL GRADUATING CLASS OF 1992: As I look out over your shining faces, I am reminded of the Bartlett’s familiar quotation by the great Greek philosopher Socrates, who said, “Eventually your skin will clear up and your faces won’t shine so much.”
As is so often the case with great philosophers, he was lying. Your skin is a lifelong enemy, young people. It has millions of hardy zit cells that will continue to function perfectly, long after the rest of your organs have become aged and decrepit. Remember Ronald Reagan? No? Well, he used to be the president, off and on, and in 1985, after undergoing a medical procedure on his nose, he met with the press and made the following two statements, which I swear to you young people that I am not making up:
1. “It is true I had—well, I guess for want of a better word—a pimple on my nose.”
2. “I violated all the rules. I picked at it and I squoze it and so forth and messed myself up a little.”
And President Reagan was no spring chicken at the time. I believe that, at one point in his acting career, he actually was in a movie with Socrates. The point I am making, young people, is that your skin will never “clear up.” People have been known to break out with embarrassing blemishes at their own funerals.
But postmortem acne is not what you young people should be thinking about today as you prepare to go out into the world, leaving behind the hallowed halls of your school, but not before sticking wads of gum on virtually every hallowed surface. Perhaps you think you have gotten away with this. You may be interested to learn that, thanks to a Used Gum Tracing procedure developed by the FBI, school authorities can now analyze the DNA in the dried spit molecules and, by cross-referencing with your Permanent Record, determine exactly who was chewing every single wad. This means that someday in the future—perhaps at your wedding—burly officers of the Gum Police will come barging in and arrest you and take you off to harsh prisons where you will be forced to eat food prepared by the same people who ran your high-school cafeteria.
Yes, young people, modern technology promises an exciting future. But you must also learn from the wisdom of your elders, and if there is one piece of advice that I would offer you, it is this: Burn your yearbook right now. Because otherwise, years from now, feeling nostalgic, you’ll open it up to your photo, and this alien GEEK will be staring out at you, and your children will beg you to tell them that they’re adopted.
it is a known science fact that, no matter how good your yearbook photo looks now, after 15 years of being pressed up against somebody else’s face in the dark and mysterious yearbook environment, it will transmutate itself into a humiliating picture of a total goober. This is true of everybody. If, in
early 1991, the U.S. government had quietly contacted Saddam Hussein and threatened to publish his yearbook photo in the New York Times, he would have dropped Kuwait like a 250-pound maggot.
Yes, young people, old yearbook photos can be a powerful force for good. Yet the horrifying truth is that sometimes newspapers publish the yearbook photos of totally innocent people. Yes! In America! I know what I’m talking about, young people, because it happened to me. The March 1992 issue of Panther Tracks, the newspaper of my alma mater, Pleasantville (New York) High School, has an article about me, and although I definitely remember looking normal in high school, there’s a photograph of this solemn little junior Certified Public Accountant wearing glasses sold by Mister Bob’s House of Soviet Eyewear.
People I hadn’t heard from in years mailed me this picture, along with heartwarming and thoughtful notes.
“Dave!” they’d say. “I forgot what a Dweeb you were!”
Or: “Who styled your hair? Bigfoot?”
This is unfair, Class of ‘92. Let me assure you that I was very “hip” in high school. I distinctly remember an incident in 1964, when Lanny Watts and I got a stern lecture from the assistant principal, Mr. Sabella, because we showed up at a school dance with our sport-jacket collars turned under, so the jackets looked like they didn’t HAVE collars, because this was the style worn by the Dave Clark Five. Remember the Dave Clark Five, young people? No? Sure you do! You must! They had that big hit with the drum part that went: NAIHOMPA NAIHOMPA OMPA. Wasn’t that a great song, young people? Hey, are you laughing at me? STOP LAUGHING AT ME, YOU LITTLE ZITFACES!
Thank you.
Uneasy Rider
It’s 6 P.m., and we’re waiting for our 12-year-old son, Rob, to return from a quick bike ride. We’re going to go out to dinner to celebrate the fact that, for the 1,000th consecutive night, we have figured out an excuse to not cook at home.
We’re locking up the house when a young man comes to the door and asks if we have a son. “There’s been an accident,” he says.
“Is it bad?” Beth asks.
“There’s blood everywhere,” he says.
Sometimes I wonder if parenthood is such a good idea. Sometimes I envy fish and frogs and lobsters and other animals that just emit their young in egg form, then swim or hop or lobster-scoot away from the scene, free of responsibility, immune from anguish. I can remember when there was nobody in my world as important to me as me. Oh, I loved other people—my wife, my
family, my friends—and I would have been distraught if something bad happened to them. But I knew I’d still be here. And that was the really important thing.
Rob changed that. Right at birth. When he came out, looking like a cranky old prune, he didn’t cry. Beth, instantly a mom, kept saying, through her haze of labor pain, “Why isn’t he crying? Why isn’t he crying?” The nurse said sometimes they don’t cry, but I could see that the doctor thought something was wrong, because he was trying to do something with Rob’s mouth, and he was having trouble. He whispered something to the nurse and took Rob away, and the nurse kept saying this was routine, but we knew it wasn’t. I stood there, wearing my goofy hospital outfit, holding Beth’s hand, trying to cope with two staggering thoughts: First, I had a child—I had a child—and second, maybe my child was in trouble.
That was the most sickeningly vulnerable feeling I’d ever felt. And I didn’t even know Rob yet.
It turned out he was OK—just a little blockage. The doctor gave him back to us, and we quickly became traditional first-time parents, wrapped in a woozy cocoon of joy and exhaustion, taking a genuine intellectual interest in poop, marveling at the thrill we felt, the connection, when our son’s tiny hand squeezed o
ur fingers.
But the feeling of vulnerability didn’t go away. It only got worse, always lurking inside, forcing me to accept that I wasn’t in control anymore, not when I knew my universe could be trashed at any moment because of unpredictable, uncontrollable developments on this newborn comet, zooming through. When he was happy, I was happier than I’d ever been; but when he was in trouble ... I can remember every detail of the time when, at 10 months, he got a bad fever, 106 degrees, his tiny body burning, and I carried him into the hospital, thinking I can’t take this, please, let me be able to stop this, please, give me this fever, take it out of this little boy and put it in me, please....
But you can’t do that. You can’t make it happen to you. You have to watch it happen to your child, and it never gets any easier, does it?
Now Beth and I are in the car, and I’m driving too fast, but I have to; I have to see what I don’t want to see. Up ahead some people are gathered on the side of the road, and a woman is kneeling—she has blood on her dress, a lot of blood—and lying in front of her, on his back, his face covered with blood is ...
“Oh God,” says Beth. “Oh God.”
This is where it ends, for some parents. Right here, on the roadside. My heart breaks for these parents. I don’t know that I could survive it.
Now I’m opening the door, stumbling out of the car toward Rob. He’s moving his right hand. He’s waving at me. He’s giving me a weak, bloody smile, trying to reassure me.
“It’s my fault,” he’s saying. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”
“It’s OK!” I’m saying. “It’s OK!”
Please let It be OK.
“I’m sorry,” the bloody-dress woman is saying. “I’m so sorry.” She was driving the car that collided with Rob. He went through the windshield, then was thrown back out onto the road, 40 feet, according to the ambulance guys.
“This is my worst nightmare,” the woman is saying.
“I’m sorry,” Rob is saying.
“It’s OK!” I’m saying. “You’re going to be OK!”
Please.
He was OK. A broken leg, some skin scraped off, a lot of stitches, but nothing that won’t heal. He’ll be getting out of his cast in a couple of months, getting on with his ever-busier life, his friends, his school, his stuff, he’ll be growing bigger, moving faster, this bright comet-boy who streaked into my universe 12 years ago and is already starting to arc his way back out, farther from me, from my control, from my sight.
But that little hand will never let go of my finger.
I’m sorry. This was supposed to be a hilarious column about how Beth and I were getting ready to go out for a nice dinner at 6 P.m. and wound up eating lukewarm cheeseburgers at 11 P.m. on a table in the Miami Children’s Hospital emergency room; and how Rob, after politely thanking a very nice nurse for helping him sit up, threw up on her; and other comical events. But this is how the column turned out. Next week I promise to return to Booger journalism.
In closing, here’s a Public Service Message for you young readers from Rob Barry, who won’t be walking for a while but can still operate a keyboard:
I know that bike helmets look really nerdy, and that was my argument. But I don’t think I’ll ever say that again. Make SURE you wear your helmets. And WATCH OUT FOR CARS.
Dave’s Real World
The reason I agreed to be in an episode of a TV situation comedy was that the role was perfect for me. You want to choose your roles carefully, as an actor. You want to look for roles in which you can display the range, the depth, the infinitely subtle nuances of your acting talent.
“It’s just one word,” the director said. “You say ‘Howdy.’”
“I’ll do it,” I said. A role like that comes along once in a lifetime.
The TV show—which might even still be on the air as you read this—is called “Dave’s World.” It’s loosely based on a book and some columns I wrote. I use the term “loosely” very loosely. There’s no way they could just take my columns and turn them directly into a TV series; every episode would last four minutes, and end with all the major characters being killed by an exploding toilet. So they have professional writers supplying dramatic elements that are missing from my writing, such as plots, characters, and jokes that do not involve the term “toad mucus.”
(Lest you think I have “sold out” as an artist, let me stress that I have retained total creative control over the show, in the sense that, when they send me a check, I can legally spend it however I want.)
I worked hard on “Howdy,” memorizing it in just days. Depending on the scene, I could deliver the line with various emotional subtexts, including happiness (“Howdy!”), sorrow (“Howdy!”), anger (“Howdy!”), and dental problems (“Hmpgh!”).
Then, just before I flew to Los Angeles for the filming, the director called to tell me that they had changed my role. In my new role, I played a man in an appliance store who tries to buy the last air conditioner but gets into a bidding war for it with characters who are based, loosely, on me and my wife, played by Harry Anderson and DeLane Matthews. (Harry Anderson plays me. Only taller.)
In my new role, I had to say 17 words, not ONE of which was “Howdy!” I was still memorizing my part when I got to the studio. It was swarming with people—camera people, light people, sound people, bagel people, cream-cheese people, people whose sole function—this is a coveted union job, passed down from father to son—is to go “SSHHH!” You, the actor, have to say your lines with all these people constantly staring at you, plus the director and the writers keep changing the script. The actors will do a scene, and the director will say, “OK, that was perfect, but this time, Bob, instead of saying ‘What’s for dinner?’ you say, ‘Wait a minute! Benzene is actually a hydrocarbon!’ And say it with a Norwegian accent. Also, we think maybe your character should have no arms.”
My lines didn’t change much, but as we got ready to film my scene, I was increasingly nervous. I was supposed to walk up to the appliance salesman and say: “I need an air conditioner.” I had gone over this many times, but as the director said “Action!” my brain—the brain is easily the least intelligent organ in the body—lost my lines, and began frantically rummaging around for them in my memory banks. You could actually see my skull bulging with effort as I walked onto the set, in front of four TV cameras, a vast technical crew, and a live Studio Audience, with no real idea what I was going to say to the appliance salesman (“I need a howdy”).
But somehow I remembered my lines. The director seemed satisfied with my performance, except for the last part, where Harry Anderson, outbidding me for the air conditioner, hands the salesman some takeout sushi and says, “We’ll throw in some squid,” and I become disgusted and say, “Yuppies.” (If you recognize this dialogue, it’s because it’s very similar to the appliance-buying scene in Hamlet.)
“That was perfect, Dave,” said the director. (This is what directors say when they think it sucked.) “But when you say ‘yuppies,’ make it smaller.”
So we redid the scene, and as we approached my last line, I was totally focused on doing a smaller “yuppies.” Then I noticed that (a) the other actors weren’t saying anything, and (b) everybody in the studio was staring at me, waiting. I had clearly messed up, but I had no idea how. This was a time to think fast, to improvise, to come up with a clever line that would save the scene. So here’s what I did: I fell down. (It’s a nervous habit I have. Ask my wife.)
When I got up, I explained that I’d been waiting for Harry to say the squid line.
“They took that out,” somebody said.
“They took out the squid?” I said. “The squid is gone?”
It turned out that everybody else knew this, including probably the Live Studio Audience. So we had to do that part again, with my brain feverishly repeating “No squid! Smaller yuppies!” (This would be a good slogan for a restaurant.)
That time we got through it, and my television career came to an end, and I went back to bei
ng, loosely, a newspaper columnist. I have not, however, ruled out the possibility of starring in a spinoff. I am thinking of a dramatic action series about a hero who, each week, tries to buy an air conditioner. I have a great line for ending this column, but I can’t remember what it is.
A Failure To Communicate
Now that my son has turned 13, I’m thinking about writing a self-help book for parents of teenagers. It would be a sensitive, insightful book that would explain the complex, emotionally charged relationship between the parent and the adolescent child. The title would be: I’m a jerk; You’re a jerk.
The underlying philosophy of this book would be that, contrary to what you hear from the “experts,” it’s a bad idea for parents and teenagers to attempt to communicate with each other, because there’s always the risk that one of you will actually find out what the other one is thinking.
For example, my son thinks it’s a fine idea to stay up until 3 A.m. on school nights reading what are called “suspense novels,” defined as “novels wherein the most positive thing that can happen to a character is that the Evil Ones will kill him before they eat his brain.” My son sees no connection between the fact that he stays up reading these books and the fact that he doesn’t feel like going to school the next day.
“Rob,” I tell him, as he is eating his breakfast in extreme slow motion with his eyes completely closed, so that he sometimes accidentally puts food into his ear, “I want you to go to sleep earlier.”
“DAD,” he says, using the tone of voice you might use when attempting to explain an abstract intellectual concept to an oyster, “you DON’T UNDERSTAND. I am NOT tired. I am ... PLOOS!” (sound of my son passing out facedown in his Cracklin’ Oat Bran).
