Me: Sorry. Pulled pork.
Him: Mind if I take off?
Me: Be my guest.
Him: [trying door handle] It won’t open.
Me: Psych.
Him: Hilarious. Thanks for the weed. [exit priest]
Me: Thanks for the money . . . Dad. [I weep and stare at my reflection in the rain-jeweled windshield.]
I’m going to type this in boldface to try to make it as clear as possible: If you read the Bible and go to church, or subscribe to any other religion, that is fine with me. I like nice people, and if you are endeavoring to be one, I say, “Great!” I, too, am endeavoring to be a nice person. The thing that makes me mad is when a person suggests that I CANNOT be a nice person or live a life of goodness WITHOUT reading the Bible and attending church. To sum up—churchgoers: fine and dandy; those who try to force it on me and my fellow Americans: assholes. Areas in which “they” try to force it on us: premarital sex abstention, abortion laws, birth control, gay marriage. The fact that creationism can even be a conversation is a goddamn shame and blight upon our nation’s character.
Jesus was a great and wise man; we get it. His teachings are an excellent set of guidelines by which to conduct oneself; copy that. But you don’t get to bring your church book into the city, county, state, or national policy discussion! Put that shit away! Why? Because it’s simply not fair. It’s not how we play in the old US of A. Muslims are not slinging their shibboleths down on the congressmen or -women’s desks, nor are they the insane freaks committing violence upon abortion clinics shouting slogans from the Torah. The Koran is full of wisdom. The Tao Te Ching is an amazing resource of life lessons. Why do I have to be having this argument in this day and age? For fuck’s sake, you use your religious (or not) writing of choice at home, or in a place where people gather to imbibe your religion of choice. Hopefully, this practice teaches you decency, common sense, and goodwill toward your fellow men and women. THEN, you take that decency and put it to good use when drafting legal policy! Leave your church out of it! If I were to coin a phrase, I don’t know, I might suggest A SEPARATION OF CHURCH AND STATE, just like old Tommy Jefferson did. Time to re-up that shit. Forgive my eloquence.
3
Der Ubermann/Offermensch
When people ask me, “From where did you come up with Ron Swanson? What is he based on?” the main answer, after properly crediting Greg Daniels, Mike Schur, and our show’s writers, would have to be that a great deal of him comes from my dad, Frederic “Ric” Offerman. He has been such a hero to me and such an incredible teacher. A stoic, stern, hardworking yet caring man.
I didn’t always feel this way. Nothing will piss off a kid more than a dad who wants him to go out and split firewood when he’s otherwise employed. I did a lot of whining. “It’s Saturday morning. My cartoons are on. Are you insane? It’s Super Friends!”
He would not reply. I would not continue arguing. Having lodged my complaint, I would dutifully hustle out and try to get my chores done as quickly as possible so I wouldn’t miss Grape Ape.
* * *
I loved my dad when I was a kid, just as I do today. I idolized him and followed him around, emulating his every move. But he was also very much the disciplinarian in the house. He took matters very seriously because he was providing for a family of six on a junior high school teacher’s salary. There wasn’t a lot of room in his day for fucking around.
As far back as I can remember, my dad has been teaching me lessons about decency and manhood. One of the first things I can recall is him standing next to me to pee, me standing up on a stool (because I was four years old and tiny, not because my hog was so long that I needed a stool to pee over the rim), showing me how to hit the porcelain bowl above the water, so you don’t make a lot of noise to upset the ladies, but below the rim, so you don’t splatter outside of the targeted area. Aunt Dee had a hand-painted sign in the bathroom off her mudroom: IF YOU SPRINKLE WHEN YOU TINKLE, BE A SWEETIE AND WIPE THE SEATIE. As a child, I always felt bad for anyone who would be so crude as to need that advice. They clearly didn’t have as kick-ass of a dad as me.
My father has always been so conscientious, and is such an all-around good guy, that I, of course, bridled against most of his lessons and didn’t allow myself to acknowledge them for years. All through my childhood he was teaching me to use tools and how to fix things. My brother and I are two of the only people I know in our circle of friends who can fix any problem at all with a toilet, down to replacing it. Dad’s lessons were very clear. “Respect the machinery. When someone is driving a machine they can’t always see you and they can’t hear you. Know what the machine is and what job it’s doing. Whatever it is, it can crush you, or at least hurt your feelings.”
I remember once, down in Dad’s basement shop, trying to hammer a nail into a board that was resting on my leg. He showed me that when you put the board on a solid surface you’re taking away the “give” in your joints and your flesh. If you anchor your work, especially with a clamp, or at least rest it on a solid surface, then all your force is working on the nail and none is being wasted just holding the board still. Such a great lesson. When you’re aiming to apply force to a job with a tool, you have to isolate the focal point of your work as much as possible. Driving a nail. Opening a beer. Breaking loose a lug nut when changing a tire.
Everywhere we went there were lessons. The hardware store, the grocery store, church, school. In hindsight, the care he took with all of his kids, the four at home and the dozens and dozens that he taught every year at Channahon Junior High, was amazingly generous. He used all of the considerable powers at his disposal to turn us into the best possible citizens and hardworking contributors.
* * *
Being the athlete that he was, combined with the dad he was, he would come to all of my sports games, where he had a great technique for communicating his advice. So many parents come and sit in the bleachers at the basketball game and just scream, “Are you crazy? Are you blind, ref? Kimmy, watch the post-up down low! Aghh! What are you doing?! Watch the baseline!!” (A note to parents at sporting events: DERIDING your child is not going to help anyone but will make you look like a real fuck-nut.) My dad would sit closer down to the floor and he would wait until I ran in close proximity to him, and he would say, “Watch that number fourteen down by the baseline. Bend your knees, will you please?” His voice would come in underneath the cacophony. At the time I thought, “Dad, shut up, I know, I can see him!” and I would bristle, but I had to admit his advice had a great success rate, goddamn it.
One night we were driving home after a game in Joliet, where we had played against Washington Junior High School (and lost), and it was snowing. We were in my dad’s old blue Chevy on our road, a graveled country lane called Bell Road. We stopped in the empty road a few miles from home, right by the Larkins’ farm before Jughandle Road. Dad was trying to explain something to me about playing defense and was moved to demonstrate what he meant, right then and there. We got out of the car in the thick snowfall, and by the light of the headlights he showed me what he was trying to explain. It was about keeping my knees bent and keeping my focus on the center of the player that I was defending by watching his solar plexus. “He can fool you with his head and his eyes and his arms and his legs, and even his fanny, but if you stay with his center he can’t fool you.”
At the time I thought, “Dad, it’s nine forty-five P.M. I have homework. I’m tired. It’s snowing.”
But that scene stuck with me so deeply. I’ll be surprised if I don’t end up filming that moment at some point because it’s just beautiful.
A lot of Dad’s coaching had to do with the “fanny,” or one’s caboose. When you throw a baseball or swing a bat, certainly when you block out for a rebound or set up a jump shot, it’s all about how you are disposing the weight of your fanny. Ric Offerman was the kind of ballplayer about whom Malcolm Gladwell could write a detailed study. In his book Ou
tliers Gladwell posits that one cannot achieve mastery at an exceptional level over any skill until one has logged ten thousand hours of fundamental practice in that skill set. If that’s the case, my dad was probably a master of dribbling and free throws by the time he was twelve. When we would play H-O-R-S-E with him, the rest of us kids would fall over cracking up at the ridiculous shots he would sink, making the net snap as the ball rifled through its exact center. He was so good, it was funny. I can still shoot free throws myself, thanks to him.
We were shooting a Parks and Rec episode in which Ron and Andy are coaching boys’ basketball, and during a break, I toed up to the line, and although I guess I was forty that year, it was just like Ric was standing right there with me. Give it a dribble. Weigh the ball. Bounce it with backspin. Dribble. Weigh it. Shoot. For cryin’ out loud, follow through.
It took me a few tries to find my distance, but then I couldn’t miss. I made a long string of them in a row, maybe twenty, and I just thought, “Amazing. Look what my dad did.” If he had been there, he would have simply said, “Well, everybody gets lucky once in a while.”
As a teenager I would frequently revolt against my dad, as sons will do. I really had bad feelings toward him. Resentment. It was all because of his hectoring, which seems totally unfair now, since his hectoring usually consisted of statements like, “Please be decent today. Please mind your manners at school. If you’re gonna do a job, do it right.”
He kept telling me to be decent, but I was full of mischief at school. I caused a lot of minor trouble but always found a way to get away with it and come out smelling like a rose. My parents are the best people I’ve ever met. And I’m not biased—they must have some small failings somewhere, but I can’t seem to catalog them. They’re just very humble, hardworking, and honorable people. Their families as well. And funny. Maybe we drink and eat a little more than we should. They make mistakes like anybody does, but they are the most decent goddamn people, and somehow my nature was to see what I could get away with on their watch.
I thought, “I understand what you’re saying about following the rules and having good manners and telling the truth . . . but let me see what I can get out of this system.” At school, I stole Matchbox cars from other kids and would then get caught and have to fess up. When I was little enough to sit in the shopping cart at the store I stole some gum from near the cash register. By the time we got to the car I had exposed it somehow. My mom said, “What the heck?” (a two-dollar cuss word for her), and I had to go back inside and apologize. But somehow, I kept doing it. I was a pilferer.
I would lie at school, for show, mainly. I remember—I think this is the beginning of whatever the need was for attention, or the need to be told I was special—in grade school raising my hand and telling stories. They’d be somehow relevant to the day’s proceedings. The teacher might say, “Today we’re going to watch a documentary about how soda is made and bottled,” and I’d raise my hand and say, “My uncle once found a mouse in a Coke bottle.” I remember getting caught in lies. The school would call home and my parents would sit me down that night and talk to me. My parents would be very civil about it, shaking their heads and saying, “I don’t understand what we’re doing wrong. All you have to do is tell the truth. If you tell the truth, then no one can ever hold anything over you.”
Whatever it was in me, I was certainly not cognizant of it. Sure, I’m embarrassed by it, but I can recognize that it was simply in my nature, own it, and move on. OR IS THAT A LIE?
I continued to try to put one over on people, but I got much better at it. In high school I would still famously lie about things but now mostly to the administration. My cousin and I would commit small acts of graffiti and then I would pin it on other people. The funny thing was, I was actually in charge of the committee to clean up the graffiti and I would get out of class to do it. I was definitely very Machiavellian about it.
My mom and dad had instilled enough character in me that I was still an A student, and I was still very productive in my endeavors, but there was maybe 10 percent of my personality that still wanted to somehow trick the world into giving me some sort of get-rich-quick lottery ticket. I suppose I had to learn on my own that there are no shortcuts to anything, be it success or just winning people’s attention for the right reasons. Because I’d eventually learn that nothing beats hard work.
Once I got to college and realized, “Wow, I’m on my own. Criminy. I have a checkbook and I have to pay bills,” I immediately got over the 10 percent bullshit fraction I had fostered as a teen, thank goodness. Life is hard enough when you’re operating 6-2 and even, which is one of my dad’s favorite phrases (it means a racing horse’s odds are 6-1 to win, 2-1 to place, and even money to show—which I always interpreted to simply mean “decent”).
Fortunately, as a young Illini, I was quickly rescued by my passion for theater. I had always been an A student, as I said, but I would do only just enough work to get ninety-threes and ninety-fours. I didn’t care about getting 100 percent. I ended up graduating in the top 10 percent of my class. I was in the elite group, but I didn’t give a shit beyond maintaining my place with the smarty-pantses. Once I got into theater school, that changed overnight. I wanted to be at the top of my class. I wanted to excel. When I got to this new world of, well, sincerity, I thought, “Holy shit—I have a lot of work to do, and I can’t wait to do it. I have a system—by god, I have the tools; I can do this! Hecate’s girdle, I WILL PERSEVERE!” It was drama school; go easy on me.
And it started working for me right away. About a month into college I was walking across campus, and I had to stop and call my dad from a pay phone, and I said, “Dad, I just want to say that everything you’ve taught me has just landed. I get it all. I’m really sorry I was a bit of a dick to you for the last five or six years. But I just want to say thank you. I’m going to make a good go of this. Everything you and Mom have been quietly instilling into me, despite my resistance—it worked.”
How to Be a Man
Step One: Eat a steak, preferably raw. If you can find a juicy steer and just maw a healthy bite off of its rump, that’s the method that will deliver the most immediate nutrition, protein, and flavor. Make sure you chew at least three times.
Step Two: Wash it down with your whisky of choice, preferably a single-malt scotch. My two favorites are Lagavulin and the Balvenie, but I won’t turn my nose up at Talisker, Oban, Laphroaig, Ardbeg, and many more. The Glens. Caol Ila. Dalwhinnie. Cragganmore. Delicious. Just speaking their names aloud will put hair on thy chest, laddie. Or Irish whisky—I mean, goddamn, Jameson, Bushmills, Tullamore Dew, Redbreast, Midleton—or come on, what about the ridiculous amount of good bourbon available right here in the good old US of A? Your Woodford, your Bulleit and Blanton’s, Pappy Van Winkle’s and Four Roses, and there’s frankly not a damn thing wrong with Maker’s Mark. Not a goddamn thing. Then there’s rye. Then there’s corn. What a wonderful world in which to call oneself a man.
Step Three: Find a socialist and punch him/her in the face.
Step Four: Craft a small wooden watercraft from cedar (for the hull) and domestic hardwoods, like ash or walnut or white oak (for the gunnels and other trim). Carve a paddle from cherry and Alaskan yellow cedar.
Step Five: Make sweet but powerful love to another human, most preferably one who is welcoming of your advances. If you have adhered to steps 1 through 4, how could they resist? Upon climax, unholster your enormous pistol and empty the cylinder as you fire rounds laced with double entendre into the night sky dripping with stars.
Or not. Sorry, everybody, totally just kidding (except, of course, about the whisky and boatbuilding). I feel like these are some ideas that are somewhat mis-associated with my public persona, as well as with my TV character Ron Swanson. While I firmly adhere to much of this list, these are not, in fact, what I truly consider to be the steps one must tread if one seeks to attain a quality in life leaning toward what w
e’re here calling manliness. Most of this list pertains more to what I would refer to as the slaking of one’s animal thirsts, or just achieving some of the more delicious base pleasures in life.
Okay, so here we are. As I mentioned, I seem to have been associated with certain traits of machismo in the zeitgeist, at least for this brief, golden moment. I find that fact to be somewhat embarrassing, given my firsthand knowledge of my personal failings and propensity for jackass behavior, but I get it, based on superficially perceived signals of manhood, like a full, thick moustache and the ability to use tools. When people ask me questions relating to my “manliness,” I like to remind them that I am primarily an artist as an actor, writer, and woodworker.
It’s worth mentioning that the two best woodworkers in the Offerman Woodshop are women. Beefy, mannish women? No, nothing of the sort. Lovely, talented, strong, young, and smart ladies, who continue to learn and profit by the time-honored crafts of handmade wooden furniture and boats. Lee and Michele are full-time woodworkers. Me, on the other hand, I’m pretty sensitive. I am an entertainer, and I believe that “entertainer” and “artist” are not the usual vocations that spring to mind when we picture our idea of the classic “man.” I am studying at the same school as Lee and Michele, but they make it to class a hell of a lot more than I do.
Even in my family, I’m not the one you’d call manly. I’m the one who went away to theater school. I took two semesters of ballet, for Christ’s sake. Sure, my incentive was that it was the elective in which one could look at girls the best, but still. Come on, I wore tights and busted out an entrechat quatre. In layman’s terms, that’s when you spring straight up in the air and twiddle your pointed toes like scissors four times before you land. The talented dancers could achieve an entrechat six, so even in ballet, I was out-manned.
Paddle Your Own Canoe: One Man's Fundamentals for Delicious Living Page 4
