Phottoman
06-14-2007, 11:24 PM
If you can remember the movie A Christmas Story -- which plays in concert
with every holiday season -- starring a towheaded four-eyed boy named
Peter Billingsley, his character, "Ralphie," bears an uncanny resemblance
to my brother at that age. I love this movie, but that's not important
right now.
As a kid, hanging out with my brother, I often felt accomplice to a very
lowbrow style of Vaudevillian crime. My friends and I were eternally
caught in the crossfire of his evermore, spectacular stupidity. As if by
magic, he could transform a simple trip to grandma's house into a felony,
while simultaneously he could have you rolling on the ground with his
unique brand of electric hilarity. He once set fire to a tree at the side
of our elementary school and in an aborted attempt to extinguish the
rapidly spreading structure fire, fled to retrieve water IN THE BURNING
SCHOOL. Needless to say, he was apprehended almost immediately --
invariably punctuating each stunt by flashing me a look of heartbreaking
bewilderment. "Ryan, I'm such an idiot," he'd say in his imploring tone.
"Ryan, I'm so dead" or "Ryan, I'm-in-so-much-trouble." As though these
declarations would somehow turn back time or rescue him from whatever
punishment lay in waiting. With that pair of crooked coke-bottle glasses
perched on his nose, his face begat a sympathetic quality impossible to
ignore. He was almost adorable in his mismanaged existence.
Before becoming the successful, strong willed rock he is today, Gordie was
a socially awkward kid. He didn't have many friends back in the day, and
found himself relating more to my gang, two years his junior. His
character was divided between a wellspring of innocence and an Evil
Knievel-like fearlessness that seemingly had no limits. Around my friends,
the desire to impress brought these two opposing traits into a kind of
crude harmony, the results of which were often memorable for me, and
deeply embarrassing for my father -- who had the temperament and patience
of a landmine. Yet, no matter what consequences followed our
misadventures, my brother was forever willing to laugh at himself,
provided no one else laughed first -- as though he wanted stock options in
his own humiliation. On the surface he seemed a black cat outlaw. If he
crossed your path, there's a good chance you're fucked. But to me, he was
also a hero. A Clown God.
As was tradition each Halloween, we would accumulate an arsenal of
illegally purchased firecrackers and smoke bombs from the local Indian
reservation and wander the neighborhoods in search of trouble. A
particular Halloween that remains fond in memory was 1988. I was eleven
years old and Gordie was at his havoc-wreaking peak. Shortly after
depleting our stash of Cherry Bombs and Mighty-Mights in surrounding mail
boxes, homes and slow-running civil servants -- he came upon what appeared
to be the mother of all dog turds, left by what seemed to be some sort of
supernatural Great Dane. Or perhaps something even bigger did this... It
was huge. And not at all congealed. My friends and I sidestepped the
rancid pool of festering horror and kept walking. Why wouldn't we? It was
something to be avoided, something to childishly crack wise about and
forget. But not for Gordie. No. To him, it was the mother load -- a
munificent holy grail of prepubescent anarchy. As far as he was concerned,
we may have been staring at an alarmingly large pile of excrement. But
what he was staring at, was greatness.
Unfortunately, we were fresh out of firecrackers, save for one precious
Mighty-Might residing in my brother's right breast pocket. He removed it
with a care and delicacy reserved for such an auspicious discovery,
placing it with pride in the center of the specimen. My friends and I
giddily watched from a safe distance as Gordie pushed the glasses up the
bridge of his sweaty nose, carefully lit the fuse and awkwardly fled for
cover. But sadly, no explosion followed. No horrible shit-storm. Nothing.
Moments later, Gordie returned to the extinguished fuse, which despite
repeated attempts, wouldn't stay lit in the damp Vancouver air. Our time
was running out. Dinner was surely on the table by now -- and experience
had taught us not to be late. Surrendering to the reality we may not bear
witness to his final act of small-minded lawlessness, Gordie soldiered on.
Without even a flicker of reason, he continued, obsessively so, lighting
the moist fuse until it looked like a tiny pimple atop a giant volcano of
ass -- the obvious dangers of igniting a fuse so short, miraculously lost
on him. And it was that day, that precise moment, I remember for the first
time, grappling with dueling factions of my nature. The side of me that
wanted to be a decent brother and tell him to forget about it -- live to
fight another day, and this other darker, more devilish side that just
wanted to see something awful. And it was also that day, the dark side
won.
My brother had been dealt a lot of tough cards in life, yet it was as
though in this moment, he just kept telling the dealer, "hit me." As I
remember it, I just sorta sat there watching stupidity in perfect harmony
with conviction, while the following unfolded in slow motion...
Pressing the lighter to the fuse, his mouth left dangerously agape in its
usual slack jawed indignity, the scene scored perfectly with the
nauseating music of anticipation; he gave it one more try. An agonizing
second later, the firecracker, along with Gordie saw its destiny in one
swift, undeniable explosion delivered straight from hell itself. This
thing didn't simply explode. No. As if guided by the Rectum of God, every
last fleck of feces coated my brother from head to toe -- including the
back of his throat, left brilliantly exposed to the hurtling ocean of
diarrhea. He stood there motionless, still hunched over with the lighter
in his hand, looking like a duped-again Wile E. Coyote. He removed his
glasses and what remained were two perfect circles of white skin, broken
only by a single shocked tear, rolling down a freshly painted cheek. We
both knew there was no way to hide this -- No way to explain to our old
man why his son had become a shit-covered effigy to Planned Parenthood. We
both knew he was screwed. And with that face, that perennial target of
bittersweet happenstance, he just looked at me for a long while, keeping
his mouth open to avoid savoring any of the excrement that now wholly
encrusted his palette. And without even the slightest trace of irony, the
Clown God unconsciously said something I'll never forget... "Ryan, I'm
such a shit-head."
with every holiday season -- starring a towheaded four-eyed boy named
Peter Billingsley, his character, "Ralphie," bears an uncanny resemblance
to my brother at that age. I love this movie, but that's not important
right now.
As a kid, hanging out with my brother, I often felt accomplice to a very
lowbrow style of Vaudevillian crime. My friends and I were eternally
caught in the crossfire of his evermore, spectacular stupidity. As if by
magic, he could transform a simple trip to grandma's house into a felony,
while simultaneously he could have you rolling on the ground with his
unique brand of electric hilarity. He once set fire to a tree at the side
of our elementary school and in an aborted attempt to extinguish the
rapidly spreading structure fire, fled to retrieve water IN THE BURNING
SCHOOL. Needless to say, he was apprehended almost immediately --
invariably punctuating each stunt by flashing me a look of heartbreaking
bewilderment. "Ryan, I'm such an idiot," he'd say in his imploring tone.
"Ryan, I'm so dead" or "Ryan, I'm-in-so-much-trouble." As though these
declarations would somehow turn back time or rescue him from whatever
punishment lay in waiting. With that pair of crooked coke-bottle glasses
perched on his nose, his face begat a sympathetic quality impossible to
ignore. He was almost adorable in his mismanaged existence.
Before becoming the successful, strong willed rock he is today, Gordie was
a socially awkward kid. He didn't have many friends back in the day, and
found himself relating more to my gang, two years his junior. His
character was divided between a wellspring of innocence and an Evil
Knievel-like fearlessness that seemingly had no limits. Around my friends,
the desire to impress brought these two opposing traits into a kind of
crude harmony, the results of which were often memorable for me, and
deeply embarrassing for my father -- who had the temperament and patience
of a landmine. Yet, no matter what consequences followed our
misadventures, my brother was forever willing to laugh at himself,
provided no one else laughed first -- as though he wanted stock options in
his own humiliation. On the surface he seemed a black cat outlaw. If he
crossed your path, there's a good chance you're fucked. But to me, he was
also a hero. A Clown God.
As was tradition each Halloween, we would accumulate an arsenal of
illegally purchased firecrackers and smoke bombs from the local Indian
reservation and wander the neighborhoods in search of trouble. A
particular Halloween that remains fond in memory was 1988. I was eleven
years old and Gordie was at his havoc-wreaking peak. Shortly after
depleting our stash of Cherry Bombs and Mighty-Mights in surrounding mail
boxes, homes and slow-running civil servants -- he came upon what appeared
to be the mother of all dog turds, left by what seemed to be some sort of
supernatural Great Dane. Or perhaps something even bigger did this... It
was huge. And not at all congealed. My friends and I sidestepped the
rancid pool of festering horror and kept walking. Why wouldn't we? It was
something to be avoided, something to childishly crack wise about and
forget. But not for Gordie. No. To him, it was the mother load -- a
munificent holy grail of prepubescent anarchy. As far as he was concerned,
we may have been staring at an alarmingly large pile of excrement. But
what he was staring at, was greatness.
Unfortunately, we were fresh out of firecrackers, save for one precious
Mighty-Might residing in my brother's right breast pocket. He removed it
with a care and delicacy reserved for such an auspicious discovery,
placing it with pride in the center of the specimen. My friends and I
giddily watched from a safe distance as Gordie pushed the glasses up the
bridge of his sweaty nose, carefully lit the fuse and awkwardly fled for
cover. But sadly, no explosion followed. No horrible shit-storm. Nothing.
Moments later, Gordie returned to the extinguished fuse, which despite
repeated attempts, wouldn't stay lit in the damp Vancouver air. Our time
was running out. Dinner was surely on the table by now -- and experience
had taught us not to be late. Surrendering to the reality we may not bear
witness to his final act of small-minded lawlessness, Gordie soldiered on.
Without even a flicker of reason, he continued, obsessively so, lighting
the moist fuse until it looked like a tiny pimple atop a giant volcano of
ass -- the obvious dangers of igniting a fuse so short, miraculously lost
on him. And it was that day, that precise moment, I remember for the first
time, grappling with dueling factions of my nature. The side of me that
wanted to be a decent brother and tell him to forget about it -- live to
fight another day, and this other darker, more devilish side that just
wanted to see something awful. And it was also that day, the dark side
won.
My brother had been dealt a lot of tough cards in life, yet it was as
though in this moment, he just kept telling the dealer, "hit me." As I
remember it, I just sorta sat there watching stupidity in perfect harmony
with conviction, while the following unfolded in slow motion...
Pressing the lighter to the fuse, his mouth left dangerously agape in its
usual slack jawed indignity, the scene scored perfectly with the
nauseating music of anticipation; he gave it one more try. An agonizing
second later, the firecracker, along with Gordie saw its destiny in one
swift, undeniable explosion delivered straight from hell itself. This
thing didn't simply explode. No. As if guided by the Rectum of God, every
last fleck of feces coated my brother from head to toe -- including the
back of his throat, left brilliantly exposed to the hurtling ocean of
diarrhea. He stood there motionless, still hunched over with the lighter
in his hand, looking like a duped-again Wile E. Coyote. He removed his
glasses and what remained were two perfect circles of white skin, broken
only by a single shocked tear, rolling down a freshly painted cheek. We
both knew there was no way to hide this -- No way to explain to our old
man why his son had become a shit-covered effigy to Planned Parenthood. We
both knew he was screwed. And with that face, that perennial target of
bittersweet happenstance, he just looked at me for a long while, keeping
his mouth open to avoid savoring any of the excrement that now wholly
encrusted his palette. And without even the slightest trace of irony, the
Clown God unconsciously said something I'll never forget... "Ryan, I'm
such a shit-head."