GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #1034: LIKE FATHER . . .

 I was trying to figure out what to do with a bunch of family stuff I managed to hold on to when I found the pile of yearbooks. Some were mine, some were Mom's, some were Dad's. I'd found a few notes to Mom from her friends when she was a kid, so I was looking for them in her yearbooks to put a face to the names. I didn't find any of them, but I looked through Dad's for . . .

You know how I say that the universe sends you messages all the time? I got a pretty big message once. Waaaaaaaaay back when, when I was drinking heavily and dating a woman I'd been with on and off for about 20 years at that point. She was always trying to get sober, always trying to drag me to AA. I was perfectly happy drinking like I was, but I agreed to go with her to meetings provided I could drink from my flask as soon as we were done.

So I went to AA with her this one time, and she said when they ask if it's anyone's first time, I should raise my hand so I could go through the welcome process. I would also get the Book for free, and I was to read from it whenever I got the chance. And I did read it. The stories are the best part. Everything else? Including the steps? Not so much.

I raised my hand, and these two guys took me upstairs to introduce me to the AA life. I had no intention of following through (and I never did; I'm a non-AA recovering alcoholic, 3 years and 194 days), but I heard them out as I'd promised, and I kept an open mind.

We started making small talk, and it came up that I lived in Elmhurst. One of the guys said he grew up there. I told him I'd graduated from York, and he said he had, as well. "Class of 1996," I said.

He made some self-deprecating comment meant as a joke about being much older, and then he gave me the message from the universe: "Class of '76."

The year Dad graduated from York. Holy shit, this guy went to school with Dad!

"Did you, by any chance, know Frank Bruni?" I said.

He got this grin on his face and nodded. "I knew him well."

I told him that was my dad, and he went crazy with laughter and exclamations before asking the inevitable: "How's he doing?"

I told him he'd just passed away. We talked about Dad for a while, and he said, "I once saw your dad out by the smoking area, and he had this tab of acid. We had to go take a test, so he just popped it in his mouth, and we went to class."

Which sounded like a very Dad thing to do. I asked him about Mom, but he didn't know her. "The name sounds familiar," he said. He also asked if Dad was an alcoholic. I think he expected me to say yes. Dad loved his booze, but he wasn't an alcoholic. There are some alcoholic problems on that side of my family, but I explained that it was my mom who was the alcoholic.

But what are the odds that my first real AA meeting would put me right next to someone who was friends with my dad in high school?

I wanted to look that guy up. I suspected he didn't know my mom because he didn't go to school with her. She'd graduated the year before Dad. Sure enough, I didn't find him in those yearbooks.

What I *did* find amused me to no end, and it brought back a memory from my own time at York.

Sophomore year. All my yearbooks are signed back and front except for that year. The reason is, it got printed late that year, and school was already out. I felt kind of bad about that because I'd wanted all my yearbooks to be signed. I'd told Dad about this, and I said, "I might sign it myself. Just so I have something in there."

He got this smile on his face. He had a great smile. I remember thinking back then, I wish I'd gotten that smile instead of the one I had. I'd find out decades later that I inherited my maternal grandma's teeth. I'd only known her when she had dentures. But that was my thought in that moment.

He told me I should do it. And now I know why:

I'm just noticing now, but it's also a little weird that I got someone else signing "DAD" in there, too.

If ever you wondered where I got my sense of humor, I LEARNED IT FROM YOU, DAD!

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #818: LIVING ON PAST DEATH

 I spent almost all of my life being a shitty cook. I could barely put a bowl of cereal together. It's weird because my dad was a great cook. So was his father before him, so it's not like it skips a generation. I can't tell you how many kitchens I've set on fire because I was a lousy cook. Scratch that, I can tell you the exact number: four.

For the longest time I thought I just didn't have it in me. Like building things or writing what my mom called "nice stories." "Do you have to write about death all the time? Why can't you write something nice?" But as I grew older I thought maybe there was a psychological block in my head somewhere. I loved my dad, but we had a few issues over the years, and I didn't want to follow in his footsteps. So maybe that was it.

A friend of mine agreed, and he offered to teach me how to make my favorite food ever: cheeseburgers. And now I make some damn fine burgers. With the cheese on top of the patty, goddammit. On top, like it's supposed to be, Randers.

I figured if I could make a cheeseburger breakthrough, maybe if I put my mind to it I can teach myself how to cook. Now that I think about it, I'm sure I've talked about this before. That's the thing about doing 800+ columns. It's hard to remember every single thing you've written about.

But I'm going into something specific here. While I was on sick leave, during a day where I felt pretty decent, I decided to make a full breakfast. Eggs, toast, bacon, hash browns. Except I have no fucking clue how to make hash browns.

But the second to last time I went out to Vegas to visit Dad, he showed me an alternate way to make them: mash up a bunch of tater tots. So that's what I did. Granted, I was using memories that were a few years old and experienced originally through an alcohol haze, but by the time I was done and eating I couldn't help but think, goddam, these hash browns are really fucking good.

I realized in that moment that Dad was living through me. He was alive again for however long it took me to make those hash browns and eat them. It was a good feeling. I may even have lamely said hi to him, but I can't be certain, especially not in such a public forum. My eyes might have been a little wet, too. It was probably caused by dust.

I rode high on that good feeling until later that night when I realized, no, Dad lived through me because I'm his flesh and blood continued. He lives through my brother, Frank, and my sister Rachael. But more to the point, I'm an uncle now. (If you can imagine that horror. And yes, I've decided that if called upon to perform uncle-type duties, I will model myself after Gary Busey in Silver Bullet, as God intended.) Dad lives on through li'l baby Jameson.

Sometimes I think that's the point of life, to keep the ball rolling. I kinda blew that one, as I have no children. I sometimes joke that I don't think I have kids, but I'm 99% certain I don't. I'm very careful when it comes to that kind of thing. But to keep the chain of humanity going ever onward, ever evolving, for as long as we can? That seems to be something we're good at.

Then again, sometimes I think the point of life is having a really good breakfast, and that day I dined like a king.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #680: NOT MEANT FOR MY EYES

Dad and Mom, prom night 1975

 So I've been looking through a lot of stuff, and if you follow me on social media you know that I've been finding a lot of my old toys. You'll also note that I found a bunch of pictures, and here are some more of them. I was born in 1978, so this was before I was even a twinkle in their eyes. I don't know who that shadow belongs to, but it looks kind of like Gramps.

But there were a few pictures that I'm certain were not meant for my eyes. You will not see most of those pictures. However, I thought this one was pretty funny.

By the time I entered the story Dad had put on quite a few pounds, but here he is shortly after his 17th birthday lifting weights in his room. It's kind of surprising because he never struck me as the sort of man who would lift weights. And then I turned the picture over and saw . . .

Ah jeez, Mom.

Hey, wait a minute. What were you doing in his room . . . ?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #525: DAD IN MY FACE

 So yesterday I shared a pictures of my mom and dad, and it reminded me of something that happened a while back, back when I'd just gotten out of the hospital for my second toe amputation. If you saw those pictures, you know that I look more like my mom. A lot more. The last time I saw my dad, I'd been with him in Vegas. His neighbor was also there, and he'd asked my dad, pointing at me, "Does he look more like you or his mom?"

"Oh, he definitely looks like his mom," Dad said. And it's true. Very true.

So imagine my surprise when I was shaving for the first time out of the hospital, and I saw my dad's face in my reflection. It's very odd (although it could have been the oxy I was on at the time). I'm big like Dad was (although I beat him on height). I'm hairy like Dad was (although my back hair never got to the bigfoot-like thickness of his). And I have a giant head, just like Dad's was. It's one of the reasons I don't wear hats. None of them look good on me, and they always look tiny. If I was a dickhead, I'd get one of those giant Stetsons Texans favor. I'm sure that would fit me, but I'd look like a prick. Well, more than I already do.

But seeing Dad look back at me from the mirror was very weird. It threw me off that day, and I couldn't shake the sensation. This has also been on my mind a lot lately because Dad died of not just one heart attack but several all at once. If memory serves, his dad died of the same thing. On Saturday I saw Clerks 3, which has a heart attack at the, uh, heart of the story. And I've always suspected I would die of a heart attack, too.

I guess you have to die of something, and if I've got to go, I'd rather it be something quick like that. As opposed to, say, cancer. A long drawn out illness where your life gets worse and worse and worse until you don't have it anymore at all does not suit me, thank you.

Either that, or maybe I won't die. Maybe I'll be the first person in history to not die. That would be kind of nice, at least until the earth dies in the expansion of the sun. But maybe by then I'll be out in the galaxy. I've always wanted to go to space, but I'm a tall guy. Space is for short people. But maybe by then they will have figured out how space can be for tall people, too. I guess I'll have to get in shape for that.

I have a fantasy, but I won't mention it here. Back when I thought the rest of my life could be measured in months instead of years, I wrote a final Goodnight, Fuckers. One day someone will post that here, and you'll know about my fantasy. And when that day comes, I hope I'm right. I have my doubts, but who knows? The universe is a weird place.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #361: THE ANARCHIST COOKBOOK

 

When I was a kid in college, I picked up a copy of this book. Not because I planned to use it for nefarious purposes, but because I like to know things. A lot of shit in here teaches survival tactics, and you can't depend on society to continue existing as it does. It always pays to be prepared. It's the same reason I bought a set of lock picks. It could come in handy someday. I'll grant you, I suck at picking locks, but at least I have the tools and instructions to help me find my own ass in the dark.

Fast forward to a little while ago. One of my brothers came to town and was staying with his mom, my stepmom, so I made the trek out to them and hung out for a while. My stepmom offered me some of Dad's books, and I was kind of surprised to see the following book among them.

My father was always a subversive guy, but I never thought he'd have this one. So naturally I took it for my own. There are important lessons in this book. For example, there are lessons on panhandling and hitchhiking. If you think you're too good to know this shit, then you have too much faith in good luck. Or maybe you've never had it bad in your life, and you don't know that becoming homeless is a very real possibility for you.

Remember: "The future's uncertain and the end is always near." It might never happen, but just in case, you might want to get familiar with cannibalism . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #344: A LESSON FROM DAD

 I remember I was in junior high when this happened. I'd been visiting my dad in Vegas, and there was something playing on TV. I think it was a Gay Pride Parade. Or maybe it was a protest. I don't remember exactly, but one way or the other it was about gay people trying to be accepted and treated fairly.

My dad looked at me, pointing to the screen. "You believe this? All these gays want rights. Kind of stupid, isn't it?"

At the time I was no longer being physically abused by my stepfather, but it was still fresh in my mind. If I disagreed with him, that earned me a beating. It was seared into me to the point where I did everything possible to avoid that beating. I did that with every adult because I thought that would keep me the safest. So that's what I did with my dad that day. Though I firmly believed in their cause, I lied to my dad and agreed with him.

"You don't really believe that, do you?" he asked.

I hesitated, and I felt suddenly like I'd been caught in a trap. I should have taken into consideration that my own father had only ever struck me twice, and both times I deserved it. And they weren't like the beatings I got on a regular basis at home. Each time it was one swat to the butt, more shameful than anything that really hurt. But I should have thought about that. Sometimes it was OK to trust adults. And because of my self-preserving deep distrust I got caught in the trap.

I told him no, I didn't believe that. Much to his relief. I think he was testing me. He wanted to see what kind of a person his flesh and blood was becoming. He didn't really know me all that well, after all. When he still lived near Chicago he had custody on a regular basis, and what I remembered most were the times we hung out and watched Three Stooges and monster movies and read MAD Magazine and Tales From the Crypt and, one of the more formative things in my life, watching movies that had the occasional nudity in them. Everyone else always made me turn my head or close my eyes, but Dad never did. I was always grateful to him for that.

Then he moved out west, and our connection faded a bit. Now puberty was hitting pretty bad, and that's the point where people start to decide who they're going to be for the rest of their lives. Dad probably wanted to get a read on me.

And I learned this lesson pretty well, I think. Throughout the rest of my childhood I was still wary of some adults, but I was a bit more trusting when I thought I could be. And I never lied about a social belief again. I'm pretty sure that if I was faced with an ass-kicking now for daring to say gays should have rights, I'd probably not back down. Then again, I'm a lot bigger and stronger now than I was when I was a kid.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #277: 33 YEARS

My dad read a lot, but he was not a creative. Not like we think of. He was a cook. His mom was a teacher. His dad was a cook. On his side of the family, you were either cooks or teachers. So it didn't come from his side. No, it came from Mom. She was an amazing artist. She could play piano like nobody's business. I knew it came from her. After knowing Gramps for all my life, I know where she got it. Gramps didn't read or write or do anything creative, but he had a way of describing things that convinced me that if he were born in other circumstances, he could have been a creative.


I remember when I was a kid. I wrote my first story, and I was infatuated with myself for doing so. I showed it to my mom, and she was so proud. But she said, "You have to date it."


"What do you mean?" I asked.


"You should write the date on your story. That way, you know when you wrote it."


"That's stupid," I said.


"No, it's not. You'll thank me later."


"No,  won't." I was a stubborn asshole of a kid.


"So rub it in my face," she said. "When you're writing stories for a living, you'll know exactly when you wrote your first story."


"Nuh-uh!" I was only interested in writing the next story.


That was 33 years ago to the day. I know because despite my misgivings, I listened to Mom. I wrote the date on my first story.


My mom has been gone for many years. My dad has been gone for, what, a couple? I want to thank the both of them. You hear all of these horrible stories about parents who tried to lure their kids away from the arts because, unless you're extraordinarily lucky, that's not a good way to make money. My dad got it, and he blessed my course in life. I'm glad I was able to gain his pride before he passed. My mom got to see the beginning of my writing career, and she could not have been more supportive.


I remember when I discovered Mom's journal from when I'd been born. It was interesting to read. I'm so glad I had something that bore her soul. Not a fake bullshit thing that she wanted to censor. It was an honest accounting.


I like to think I'm an honest accounter. That's not a word, obviously, but you see where I'm coming from. That's what I do on these GF essays. Honest accounting. Mom is where that comes from. She would have been 61 by now. She had me at a young age. Dad was 60. I suspect I was an accident. But what the hell. I'm here. I write. I get published.


I am my mom and dad's legacy.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #272: YOU'LL UNDERSTAND SOME DAY

It's easy, when you're a child, to say, "I hate you, Mom!" Or, "You're not listening to me, Dad!" Or, "You don't understand!" And you can't ever swallow the pill you're given. "You'll understand some day." Nope. That's impossible. I'm a child, and I know better. You're just a stupid adult.


Sometimes they're right. Sometimes they're wrong.


I remember when I was nine or ten. I was playing ball with my cousin across the street on the Prairie Path. It was time for us to go home, so I got ready to cross the street. I glanced back and forth and crossed when I saw no cars. I came home to my mom screaming at me for not looking both ways. But I did. I didn't turn my head, but I looked both ways. I screamed and cried at her, but she never bought it.


I see her point of view today. She was deranged because of her own perceptions. It's understandable when you look back at it from the ripe old age of 40.


Another time, with my dad, we were at his girlfriend-at-the-time's family reunion (she eventually became his second wife). We were driving around, and I was in the back with my cousin and my soon-to-be stepmom's brother. I was stuck in the middle. I hate being in the middle. It's uncomfortable for me to hold my legs together. I was in physical pain. So when the time came to get back in the car, I begged Dad not to let me be in the middle. He thought it was because I didn't want to be next to his soon-to-be brother-in-law because I thought he smelled. That wasn't even a factor. I was tired of holding my legs together. I tried to explain, but he didn't buy it. I got stuck in the middle again.


I see his point later. Maybe I could have been a bit more subtle. I liked the guy who would eventually be my step-uncle. He played the Simpsons boardgame with me. But perception changed everything. The kids are rude and explicit, and only adults can dictate reality.


It's the whole cops-think-the-teens-are-lying syndrome from 'Eighties slasher films.


But conversely, there are the things where the adults were right. When I was five, my grandparents were having the roof redone, and the roofers just flicked their smokes down below. I found one and pretended to smoke it. Sure enough, Mom cleaned my mouth out with soap. Then there was the time I went camping with Dad. He only ever struck me twice, and this was the first time. Looking back, I totally understand why. I went off on my own. He couldn't find me and panicked. In his panic, he slapped me several times on my bottom. The number one fear of a parent is losing their child. He went crazy, and I completely understand it now. I hated him at the time, but now? I get it.


I went to visit my grandfather's grave recently. I sat down and had a chat with him. Look, I know that he didn't hear me. I don't believe in the afterlife. It just made me feel better. I told him if he ran into Mom and Dad, to tell them I'm sorry for all the times I scared them. It's not about reality. It's about therapy. Aaaaaaaaand maybe just hedging my bets.


But it was 100% about love.

A SPECIAL THANK YOU TO YOU ALL

I wanted to take the time to thank you all for your kindness and your support and friendship and love. March was a pretty rough month for me. I've been sick almost the entire time with an illness that sent me to the doctor many times and the ER three times. It started off as the flu and turned into pneumonia and settled in as a stomach virus that mimicked pancreatitis so closely that I didn't believe it when the tests came back and said my organs were all fine. There were entire days I spent puking my guts out and then dry-heaving when I didn't have anything else to offer the toilet. I had a deep pain in my guts, and the constant nausea prevented me from sleeping. It was an absolute nightmare, and I'm 99% certain I can trace it all back to that snot-nosed kid who coughed and sneezed over everything at the Urgent Care facility I went to for that lump in my armpit.


But that's not what I wanted to talk about today. When I was at my lowest, just as I was getting ready to go to the ER a second time, I got a call from my stepmother telling me that my father had just had a heart attack. From what I understand, he didn't know it was a heart attack, and he was feeling odd for a couple of days. They brought him to the ER, found out what happened and instantly went to work on him. I was confident he would pull through. He always does. He was in the air on 9/11, and he's a two-time cancer survivor. This heart attack would probably just be a bump in the road. My brother kept me appraised of the situation, and it seemed like he would get better for a while, and something else would happen, but then he'd get better again.


When my mom passed away, we all knew it was coming. She'd been sick for a long time, and her organs were failing her. She was in hospice, and she was in a coma. We had plenty of time to prepare. Even when the inevitable happened, we all lost it. No matter how prepared you are, you're never prepared enough.


Losing Dad surprised the shit out of all of us. It came out of nowhere. He was a few years shy of his sixties. He was in fairly good shape after several bad medical run-ins. Full head of hair. Strong as an ox. And bam. One minute my brother is telling me they're getting ready to take him out of ICU, and the next he's calling me to tell me that Dad is gone.


It happens just like that.


I cried a long time. Dad wouldn't have wanted that, but I couldn't help it. From what I've experienced with my mom's passing, I know it will go like this: it will hurt less and less everyday, but every once in a while, maybe in intervals of six months or a year, it will come back and hit me hard out of the blue.


There will be no funeral for Dad. He didn't want anything like that. He was a circle-of-life kind of guy. So am I. I always wondered where I got that from. When I go, I want a green burial. Put me back into nature. Recycle me. Dad donated his body to science so people could pop his hood and check out what happened to him, so they'll know what to do for the next person this happens to. That's the kind of guy he was.


There will be a celebration of Dad's life, though. One last get-together, where everyone can raise a pint to his memory. I wish I could be there and see my family, but Dad wouldn't have wanted me to go to all the trouble. He didn't want to make life difficult for anyone. He was a man of convenience, which is probably why he made such a good salesman. This is my way of sending him off.


Which finally brings me to that "thank you" I promised in the title of this thing. I don't know how it happened, but I've somehow surrounded myself with the most caring, loving, wonderful people anyone could hope to have in their lives. So many of you rushed to offer help, assistance, someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on--you name it, you all offered. Thank you. I'm grateful to have you all in my life, and I can't thank you enough. I love you all.

GOODBYE, DAD

Frank Bruni, 1958-2016

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #73: IT NEVER HAPPENED

In my entire life, I never noticed a moment of true love between my mother and father.


I'd never really thought about it before. I don't have the same family values as the rest of America supposedly does. I obviously love my family, but I don't have the same connection, and I have to wonder if that's because I've never seen my mother and father so much as kiss each other.


I'm not the worst boyfriend in the world, but I'm pretty bad. Holy shit, it took me a long time to realize this. No one wants to believe they're the problem in any given relationship, but I know how I am. That's the primary reason I've done my best to stay out of any romance in the past few years. I've had several chances lately, and I'm glad I never took them because it would have only led to disappointment.


I don't want to be bad at this, but until I figure out my own shit, I'm not going to put a woman through the nearly impossible position of being romantically involved with me.


I don't hold it against either Mom or Dad. I know that things were fucked up between the both of them. While they might have been high school sweethearts, they were clearly not meant for each other. I know too many people who blame their parents for their intimacy issues. I'm not that guy. I recognize that what happened between them might have had an impact on the way I handle myself, but when it comes right down to it, I'm in charge of me. Not my parents. ME.


Those of you who have known me for quite some time know I'm not a traditionalist. I couldn't care less about traditional values, because that phrase means nothing. Politicians talk about it but only because they know it's a meaningless phrase that turns on people's thought centers so they can vote for that particular slimeball. If we're really talking traditional values, then we must be talking about guys who have a bunch of wives with a ton of concubines. Clearly, none of these cocksucking politicians mean this. At least not in America.


But there is a part of me that wishes I'd been raised by two people who loved each other. It doesn't matter if those two people took the traditional roles of mother and father. I would have been fine with two fathers or two mothers or whatever. Just so long as there were two people who unconditionally loved each other, who both wanted to raise me to adulthood as an intact individual.


I am a bastard. Traditionally speaking. My mother and father were never married. I lived with my mother, and I got to see my father on weekends. I grew up thinking that was the regular way of handling such a situation.


Do you want to know something horrifying? Maybe--JUST MAYBE--there's nothing wrong with that. If the two people involved no longer love each other, why should they stick together? Just so long as they share the responsibility, it should be OK, right?


I get that. The rational side of me understands that. I just wish that once--ONLY ONCE--I could have remembered my mother and father kissing each other. Like lovers. Like two people who had created a life together.


It's not a deal-breaker. I'll be OK without this. I just want to have this memory in my head.


My mother's dead. My father has his own family. I can never have what I truly want, and that's fine. I just wish things could have been different. I have love notes from my father to my mother, and that's cool. But I have no memories, and that's what's hurting me the most.


I had my problems with my father's current wife, my second step-mom. We're OK now. We've worked it out. In fact, I like her a lot more than I would have thought when I was a kid. She has a certain irreverence which I highly respect. I just didn't get it when I was younger.


I never got along with my mother's husband, the father of three of my brothers. This guy physically abused me for many years. I have scars on my body because of him. When I was a kid, I hated him. I plotted ways that I wanted to kill him. Now, as an adult, I know that he was sick in the head. He had mental problems. It's not excusable, but I understand him now.


But he's dead now. So fuck him.


I'm not traditional in any way possible, but through most of my existence, I wanted that traditional life. It took me until my college years to realize the error of my ways. When you're young, it's easy to hate. You think you're being rational, but it isn't until you're an adult that you realize the truth. You know that things are waaaaaaaaaaaaay more complicated than you thought they were a mere two years ago.


I'm sorry. I had to stop for a moment because I broke down in tears. I couldn't help it. My mother died four years ago. When it first happened, I felt an overwhelming grief. It took me a few weeks, but I got back on track. However, every once in a while, it comes back to me. Out of nowhere, it will hit me, and it will cripple me, at least for a night. This is one of those nights.


Never mind that. What I'm trying to say, even though I've taken the long way around, is that on an intellectual level, I couldn't give less of a fuck about the traditional way of doing things. On an emotional level, though, I wish I had at least one memory of Mom and Dad loving each other.


Just one.