Tommyland
Page 3
NO, WE SHOW UP TO TEASE, THEN TO PLEASE, MY MAN.
AND PLEASE AGAIN.
The Doctor must bid you good night, but first, a toast: “May all your ups and downs be in bed” and remember, no matter how fun you think it is going to be, don’t ever, ever, EVER pull out your video camera and film yourself bumpin’ fuzz. Trust me, it’s all bad. You don’t even want to try to explain that one to the kids. And if you think you’re in the clear because you don’t have kids, imagine how you’ll feel explaining it to your parents. Just ask Paris.
3 STATE OF ORIGIN
a.k.a.
OPA!
Tommy, this is similar to the chapter on you and Pamela. Can you be more explicit here?
For the first time I agree with you, Sir Tippets. Yeah, this is similar to the chapter on Pamela and me—but hey, we’re talking about my parents. Like father, like son, my man. And there’s no way in hell I’m gonna get all explicit about my mom and dad, dude! Paging Dr. Freud?
My parents met in Greece, with the help of a translation dictionary. My mom, Vassilikki, was Miss Greece in 1957 and my dad, David, who was born in St. Paul, Minnesota, and therefore didn’t speak a word of Greek, met her while he was an army sergeant stationed in Athens. They met at my grandmother’s house when her sister was having a christening for one of her kids. A friend of my mom’s sister asked if she could bring an American guy along so that he could see how the Greeks celebrated their christenings. My dad was winking at my mom all night long and even told her right then and there that he wanted to marry her. She thought he was crazy and kept wondering when the American was going home. He never really did. The next day he showed up with a ring and that was it—my mom ditched her boyfriend, and decided to marry my dad and leave Greece. First though, my dad had to have a long chat with my mom’s brothers. He passed that test, and when her family talked it over to decide if the marriage was the best thing to do, they figured that my mom would have a better life in America than she could in Greece. My mom didn’t even speak English, so when they weren’t pointing at words on a page, my parents communicated by drawing pictures for each other. It’s hard enough to make a relationship work when you speak the language. What they had was love.
After my parents got married, they lived in Athens. Exactly one month after I was born, my dad was relocated to Thailand briefly before we left for America and moved to Covina, California. During his time in the army, my dad was in both World War II and the Korean War. My mom gave me all of his medals after he died. He was a Mason too. To all the Masons out there, don’t worry, he wouldn’t tell me a thing about it. He’d go to the meetings and I’d ask him all the time what being a Mason meant and what Masons did at those meetings, but he wouldn’t tell me a fucking thing. So the secret is safe.
My sister, Athena, was born in 1964, two years after I was, and when we were very young, my parents would take us to visit my mother’s family in Greece during the summer. Later, when we were a little bit older, when I was about ten and she was about eight, they would send us over there as if it were summer camp. It was much better than lakes and log cabins. Let me tell you, spending those summers in Greece was the most amazing experience a kid could hope for. The roofs in Greece are flat and in the summer everyone sleeps outside on them because it is so hot. Even though my relatives lived in Athens, which is a huge city by any standards, it was so dark there that you could see thousands of stars. Back then, in the early seventies, Athens had no streetlights to block the night sky and I couldn’t believe how beautiful it was. I’d lie there every night taking it in until I fell asleep because the night sky sure as hell didn’t look like that in Covina. I would look forward to going to bed—and what kid ever looks forward to that? Every night was like going on a camping trip. Each member of the family—my sister, cousins, my aunt and uncle—would be tucked away on their cots, under the sky.
I was just as happy when morning came. The sun would wake me up slowly as it lit up the sky and so would the aroma of fresh bread floating up from the bakery down the street. When everyone was out of bed, my grandma would give me some money and send me out to buy these delicious little loaves of bread for our breakfast. That was my job and, unlike most kids and their chores, I was all about it.
Those summers taught me early on that the world is a big place. I loved being somewhere so completely different from home. I loved walking to the bakery and tripping out on all the old men sitting at sidewalk cafés, sipping their muddy Greek coffees while they played dominoes and cards. Even then I recognized that life there was way more laid back than at home. Those summers on my own also forced me to grow up quickly. Our mother taught us the language back home, but without her there to help me, I had to figure it out on my own because no one spoke any English.
But it wasn’t all idyllic. The second summer we were there my sister and I made serious friends with this cute little rabbit they had at my uncle’s house. We had a spider monkey named Nitnoy for a pet at home that my dad brought home for us one day. He was rad, he’d jump all over the chandeliers and wear diapers. But a rabbit—this was a whole different story. We loved that little fuzzy white guy and spent every day with him for nearly a month. Then one day my uncle reached into the cage, grabbed the rabbit by its back legs, and karate-chopped it in the neck. I fucking freaked. I had no idea why he did it, so I asked my sister if it was because he didn’t want it anymore. We just started crying and ran away to hide in a closet. We didn’t come out until dinnertime, which was a big mistake because there was the rabbit, all stretched out and cooked, lying on a platter on the table. My sister and I watched as the adults dug into it like nothing was wrong while we tried not to start crying again.
I wasn’t scared of my uncle after that and I didn’t hate him or anything, I just thought, “Wow, he killed the rabbit, just like that.” He didn’t even think twice about it being a pet to us. It was really simple: It was time to eat, so wham! And that was that.
My uncle spoke maybe a word or two of English and had this big furniture factory in Athens. He’d take me to work with him and let me varnish furniture or send me out to buy Cokes for everyone. I cleaned up the shop, and he’d let me fuck around with the wood and tools if I wanted to. The only job I’ve ever had aside from playing music is painting houses, and I got my first taste of it in that factory. By the way, I can still paint a room like a pro—and fucking quick too. I painted a friend’s house as a housewarming gift this year and rocked it—trim, molding, everything. No drips, no mess. I’ve still got skills, please believe.
4 STATE OF FAMILY VALUES
a.k.a.
OH, SHIT, PARENTHOOD—HERE WE GO!
My parents were totally supportive of everything my sister and I did. If they saw that we had an interest in something, whether it was tap dancing or playing accordion, piano, drums, or guitar, they found a way to nurture it. We were a middle-class family and my dad worked very hard. My mom sometimes worked too. She’d clean houses part-time for a few families and she’s very embarrassed to admit it (sorry, Mom).
My dad was the shop superintendent for the L.A. County Road Department. He ran the division that maintained all those big crazy tractors and dump trucks that repair the roads. My dad was amazing; he could fix anything. In the army he had been a staff sergeant in the motor pool and was trained as a diesel mechanic. My dad was so mechanical that we never needed a repairman in our house. When the washing machine broke, my dad took it apart, spread the pieces across the floor of the garage, fixed the broken part, and put it back together. You’d turn the switch and there you go—it worked again.
My parents knew early on that only a few things mattered to me and the first in line was music. They supported my interest but they were strict about it too: They wouldn’t let me get out of practicing whatever instrument I wanted to learn. Piano was the worst. I was like, “Fuck, man” because I had to practice all these scales and be tested each week at my lesson. It got pretty boring, pretty quick, let me tell you. I wanted to fucking r
ock. I’d be plunking along, thinking, “This blows.” I wanted to play songs, and although I did soon enough, I found out that piano wasn’t going to get that much more rocking. Sure, I learned “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” but I wanted to play “Stairway to Heaven.” Now, of course, I’ve learned to appreciate the piano for the beautiful instrument that it is, but back then it seemed to me that unless you were Jerry Lee Lewis, a piano wasn’t going to rock shit as hard as a guitar or a drum set.
Growing up, my sister and I did everything together, even tap dancing and ballet lessons, which was fucking bizarre. I hung with dance as long as I could because I liked dancing with the girls, but ballet ended all that. Aside from dancing with the chicks, everything else about it was wack and it freaked me out way too much to really go for it. Tap dancing was cool because it was rhythmic, something I took with me when I started drumming and that I’ll always have. Nothing changed much in high school—I just wasn’t one of those guys who was all about football or hanging out with the guys. I played baseball a little bit; I did the Little League thing for a minute. I was really more about coed volleyball and
SEE? HERE’S ANOTHER EXAMPLE OF MY STELLAR LEADERSHIP.
spiking was my forte.
NO DUDE, IT WAS MINE.
It’s pretty simple: I always felt more comfortable around girls. I was friends with girls who were juniors and seniors when I was a freshman. They’d pick me up in their cars in the morning and drive me to school. It ruled. I was a fucking freshman, dude, riding in the backseat, cranking the Rolling Stones on the way to school.
From the start, I really wasn’t interested in academics. History, in particular, bored the fuck out of me. I was like, “Wait a minute, who cares? I wasn’t here when this happened anyway.” I didn’t care who the first president of the United States was. I mean, I know the answer—it was George Washington—but what does that matter to me? Nothing is going to change about history, and that’s the truth. If I can’t do anything about it, I don’t see much point in being interested in it.
History was like a root canal without novocaine, but math was cool. I liked figuring out problems, so math interested me until it became too complicated. When I started doing algebra and trigonometry, I was like, “Whoa, hey, whoa. Wait a minute. Take it easss.”
I felt pretty lost in high school until later on when I got into the arts. Art class was great because I could make silk screens and soon enough the only thing I wanted to do was stay late to print rock-and-roll T-shirts. I made fucking Van Halen and Zeppelin shirts, and I spent a lot of my extra time drawing. It wasn’t long before I skipped or lied my way out of every class except art and music. My music teacher, Mr. Dvorak, was the only guy I looked forward to seeing every day. My favorite thing to do was to go play drums and he’d let me. I don’t remember having Mr. Dvorak actually teach me how to wail, but he did recognize how much I loved it and he let me go off. During the writing of this book, I went back to my old high school to see if Mr. Dvorak was there and I’m happy to say that he was.
As I drove up to the school that day, I wondered why everyone seemed so much smaller than what I remember them being when I was in high school, but then I realized that my old high school was now a junior high. I walked on the grounds and looked at the field where I used to run laps during PE and practice with the drum corps of the marching band. I looked at the parking lot where I used to roll up in my fucked-up blue Chevy van. The windshield wiper squirters on that thing were loose, so I turned them to the sides so that I could squirt people as I drove by. I’d come through, hit the button, bzzzup, and people would be like, “Dude!” After a while I drained all the water out and filled the reservoir with Jack Daniel’s. When I pulled into the parking lot, my buddies who knew would be like, “Hit the switch, dude.” They’d put their mouth over the sprayer and drink Jack windshield.
I walked around my old school, remembering where shop and music and gym were. There were kids running around everywhere, and I felt like I was doing something wrong and that at any minute I would get in trouble. I wasn’t sure if I actually was doing something wrong by visiting my school or if I just remembered how many things I’d done wrong when I actually went there and felt bad about them. Whatever. I kept watching all the little guys run around, wanting to be them instead of the guy who is completely tattooed and who looks like he’s gonna hurt some children.
The only thing that mattered to me when I was in that place was music; I didn’t care about anything else or anything that anybody ever told me. When I got a piece of music to learn, I did that and no other homework really mattered. When I saw a girl with a flute, I said hello and asked where the office was—that’s when I found out Mr. Dvorak was still working there. Mr. Dvorak used to throw erasers at me. He’d get mad because I’d always be doing rolls on the drums. He’d take the eraser off the chalkboard, toss it, and say, “Stop on the drums!” He wasn’t really mad though. He knew how much I loved playing and let me hang out in the music room, practicing as much as I wanted to.
Mr. Dvorak was preparing his last spring concert in the gym. After teaching for forty years, he was going to retire. I’m so glad I didn’t put off going back to my school—if I had I would have missed him. When I found him, Mr. Dvorak came over and gave me a huge hug. My eyes filled up and so did his—he was more than just a teacher to me. We talked for a while and here’s how our conversation went.
* * *
Mr. Dvorak was the only one who thought I’d do something with music. And he had an idea even then that it would be something big. Thanks, Mr. Dvorak. I was a skinny kid in school, and I got fucked with by a lot of the bigger dudes. This one time at band camp, I mean in music class, the drum captain of the marching band achieved a new low. I was in the drum corps of the marching band, and each week, as part of our practice, all of us drummers tested and competed to determine our rank. There were skills you had to have: stick twirling (that came in handy later), the rudiments that strengthened your hands, the marching formations, and your overall showmanship. Each week, a drum corps member could rise or fall in the rank and it meant a lot to all of us. That captain guy was also a senior who was jealous and pretty fuckin’ unhappy watching me, this freshman, rise through the ranks week after week. It was pretty clear to both of us that his job was on the line. So one day, after practice, he came up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder, and as I turned around, he sucker-punched me and relocated my nose to the other side of my face. What up, Mr. Drum Captain? How’s your drumming going, bro? Played any arenas lately?
Other dudes took a different approach. I got snapped in the shower with towels during gym class and some fuckers picked on me whenever they saw me in the halls. It was the typical bullshit: I’d be standing there in line at PE, freezing cold (it does actually get cold in California, people), and some fucking bully motherfucker would roll by and flick me in the ear. There was nothing I could do about it, because the guy would be there, looking at me, waiting for me to do something and give him a reason to shit down my neck. At those moments, I’d do the only thing I could do. I’d sit there, acting like I didn’t care and thinking to myself, “You Ffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff
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fffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffuck, you know what? One day motherfucker, one day you’re going to be fuckin’ coming to see me fuckin’ play. And you’re gonna want tickets and you’re gonna wanna be backstage acting like you know me and shit, and know what? Sit your ass down in a lawn chair in the parking lot, bitch. You’ll get nothin’ and like it. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. And if you’ve got any friends, fuck them too.” You don’t have to believe me, but back then I knew that one day I was going to do something really big. I didn’t know what it would be, but I knew what was coming would be something else. If I had to compare my attitude to anyone back then it would be to Spanky in Our Gang in that
awesome episode about the go-cart race.* There he is, blazing down a hill in his little wooden car and one of the other kids asks him, “Spanky, where are you going?” He doesn’t take his eye off the road for a minute and says, “I don’t know where I’m goin’, but I know I’m gonna get there.” I had the same blind faith, and it was the only thing that kept me from going Richter every day at school when people picked on me. Fucking jerk-offs.
* * *
By the time I was a sophomore I was in a band. We didn’t even have a name because we didn’t play anywhere, but we fucking ripped. Here’s the lineup: Tom Galardo, this Mexican guy, who was the shreddingest guitar player anywhere local, this guy John Kemp on bass, and me on drums. We were all business—an instrumental power trio who didn’t care about lyrics, singing, or anything but jamming. I am not at all lying, exaggerating, or coloring the past when I say that we fucking crushed. At least I thought so, and it seemed like other people did too at the backyard kegger parties we played. We also rehearsed regularly in my parents’ garage, where anyone could catch us daily for no cover charge. When I turned that corner and headed full-on toward a rock-and-roll life, my dad definitely tripped out. He had been in the army, and it was obvious to everyone that it wasn’t easy for him to look at his son’s long hair. To his credit, he never really said shit about the hair—it was my earrings that freaked him out. By the time I was sixteen, I had pierced both ears and usually wore a long feather in one of them. One night, our family was at the dinner table chowing down and my dad stopped everything dead. He was like, “Is that an earring, Tom?” I usually tried to cover the feather with my hair when he was around but that time he saw that shit sticking out. He wasn’t a yeller; my dad said what he needed to say with his looks. He sat there, pretty calm, his expression transmitting his message: “What the fuck is that?” I was like, “Dad, check it out, it’s rad. Do you see this little feather hanging down?” Since he had been a diesel mechanic and a full-on army guy, he was probably thinking, “Great, my son’s a fag.” But he let me do my thang. Thanks, Dad.