Running Without Scissors - October 31, 2006

Since the new millenium, there have been a slew of movies about dysfunctional families . . . such as "The Royal Tennenbaums," "The Life Aquatic," "Little Miss Sunshine," "Running With Scissors," and many more. Why do many people like these movies? Commiseration! There is nothing better than sitting back and observing just how fucked up the lives of others really are. Is it limited to movies? Hell no. Pick up a David Sedaris book (I recommend "Me Talk Pretty One Day"), or read the two tomes by Dave Eggers (U of I grad), or enjoy "The Kid" by Dan Savage. Dysfunction is big business and I'll be damned if I don't want in on the action.

How do you begin to write a magnum opus of family decline and disruption? You could undergo hypnosis to dredge up horrific memories of verbal and mental abuse heaped upon you by your parents. I don't need to do that, as I only need to look at old photo albums to see the clothes my parents dressed me in (who puts corduroy pants on a kid in the middle of summer? sadists, I tell you). As I have looked back on pictures from my youth, I smile at some of the pictures that carry trauma and the overcoming of adversity all in one.

When I was nine, I had recently lost my status as only child. My mom had just given birth to my baby brother. My dad was unemployed (again). My mom had to work a second job to make ends meet, while dad made sure the tv set wasn't stolen. Halloween was fast approaching and I didn't have a costume. Far be it from my father to tear himself away from the latest wrestling match, I was left to my own devices to find a halloween costume. I had construction paper and a box, and out sprung a great idea. I needed some electrical tape, and thus began my costume design night. Skipping ahead, I made myself a Rubik's Cube costume. But, I was nine and lacked the forsight to plan appropriate armholes. Yep, you guessed it - I cut the armholes on the sides of the box, instead of the front (which would have made trick or treating much easier). It's a funny story, but would it sell in a dysfunctional family movie? (Probably wouldn't warrant more than a one to two minute flashback).

Ooh, a picture of me at my high school awards night. Yep, dear ole dad was absent from that. Soccer pictures? Not even sure if my dad knows I ever played soccer. And here is where the blog turns into a whiny rant. Poor Sean. *sniffle* Allow me to wipe my ass with these memories. And then a picture that warrants a story . . .

The picture is of a 1979 Buick crashed through the back of a detached garage. It's my garage. It's taken from the backyard of my best friend (at age 5), Mark Vlodman. As the tangent comes in to this story, I have no idea what happened to Mark after I moved away at age 10. What is important is how the car crashed through the garage - and the tangents that go with it. When I was five, my mom didn't know how to drive. She couldn't take driver's ed in high school because my grandma believed that only sluts drove cars. My dad was actually employed at the time and had just been given a company car, the 1979 Buick. It was about to rain. My dad was mowing the lawn in the backyard, conveniently enough, behind the detached garage. My mom, not wanting to leave the car out in the rain, thought she would pull the car into the garage. Well, the accelerator apparently stuck and the car lurched through the back wall of the garage. The car crashed through and knocked my dad and the mower into the air. Yes, the mower missed his head and he lived. Mark and I were in the driveway (contemplating ways to improve the performance of our big wheels) and shouted with glee, "Do it again!" Tell me that Wes Anderson could have written a scene like that?

There are many other moments of dysfunction - like me, as an 8 year old, getting yelled for misplacing the tools that my father never used. "Gee Dad, I'm eight-fucking-years-old. What the fuck would I do with a crescent wrench?" Each one on its own warrants a small chuckle. Taken together, I sometimes wonder why I didn't consume mass amounts of sedatives, become an alcoholic, knock up the neighbor girl, and move right into a shack outside of town. I guess I could pen some novel of epic proportions and earn my way into a meeting with David Sedaris to write a play that would win many awards.

Fuck that, though. Dysfunction is more fun when you get to tell your friends about the time your dad tossed you into the kitchen wall because he had a bad day at work (re-employment happened frequently for my dad). Why put it on the big screen? Excuse me while I go write the postscript to all the characters in my little saga . . .