by Mike Edison
Do kids still make spaceships out of washing machine boxes? I used to love that. And when we got tired of playing spaceship, we flipped the box on its side and turned it into a submarine, or a time machine. A high premium was placed on imagination. For better or worse, I never outgrew it.
15
FREEDOM
“Listen,” Dr. Headshrinker suggested one afternoon, “it’s not my job to tell you not to come here, but you seem to be doing great. You’re doing everything right. You came through it—you may have once been a victim, but you no longer define yourself that way.”
“I’m good. I’m actually really happy. I love what I do. I count my blessings every day.”
When I lost my job, time, as ever, turned out to be the greatest gift of all. After a few months chasing my tail and trying to exorcise the Voice of Disappointment from my head, I scored a cherry gig ghost-writing something of a celebrity chef memoir, which eventually wound up on the New York Times Best Seller list, and that came with some nice perquisites attached—four weeks in Italy, vineyard-hopping, being the obvious bell-ringer.
That led to collaborating on another food book, which came with another spectacular passel of perks, including a week on the West Coast, hanging out and performing in San Francisco, Napa Valley, and Portland. Every time I turned around, someone wanted to give me a humanely raised, sustainably farmed steak or a bottle of biodynamic wine. When I got back to New York, I’d get called to do speaking gigs at hipster food events, and I’d bring my guitar and theremin and turn it into a hootenanny.
One night, we had a gig at one of those gorgeous country inns where George Washington allegedly slept, out in Pennsylvania near the Delaware Water Gap. We did a presentation about sustainable farming and heritage breeds for an organic sheepherders association, and they gave me a lamb—an entire, all-natural, hippie lamb. It came shipped, cut into parts, and I spent the next months making dinner for friends. I cooked up a rack of ribs on a cold, rainy night, and grilled chops on the BBQ when summer came. I made chili out of the shoulders and some beautiful ragù for pasta. But the best part is that I had the legs cured and turned into prosciutto—lamb prosciutto! It’s not for everyone, but if you love lamb, I swear it would make you roll over and purr like a kitten. I would probably have written that book just for the lamb, but the truth is, I got paid enough to keep the lights on for a while and I got to share all of this great food with my friends. What more could a fellow ask for?
But there were still plenty of times when I could still hear my father riding me—You are a complete disappointment! Forty years of nothing!—namely, every time I got a rejection, which is a big part of being a writer. And a human being, I reckon.
“This isn’t about forgiving and forgetting. You are still processing,” Dr. Headshrinker told me. “What he did to you when he died was pretty rough, but you became the person you wanted to be, not the person you were told to be. You are always going to remember your bad experience with him, and that’s a good thing. You need to share it. There are a lot of men who have had fathers who were bullies who need to hear this story. But you can also let go. You forgave the bully in junior high school, after all.”
“That wasn’t easy. Until I wrote it down, I couldn’t even talk about it. I clenched my jaw every time I thought about that kid. But I realized he didn’t have it too good at home, either. He was raised to be an animal. It probably doesn’t help when your playroom looks like a prison yard.”
“Your father had a chance to make peace. What would have happened if he called you over to his hospital bed and said, I want you to know I am proud of you? Would that have changed anything that had happened between you up until then?”
“Well, of course not. You can only move forward in time—that is one of the few things I am sure of. But anyway, that is not what happened… He couldn’t help himself, he doubled down and came after me one more time. He had to have the last word and be the winner.”
“Are you still in competition with him?”
“I never was! That’s the point. The only person I am in competition with is myself. I can always be a better version of me. Anyway, I’m working on it…”
“But if he had said something much different when he died, if he had said that he loved you and that he was proud of you, would you have forgiven him then?”
“I have to think about that. I suppose so… I eventually forgave my mother for being such a horror.”
“Yes, but you said she apologized.”
“Not to me, not exactly, not in so many words. But for a hot second there, she became a bit more self-aware and was more or less contrite for everything. It was the best she was going to be able to do. It couldn’t have been easy for her. She made it miserable growing up, but sure, I forgive her. She was in an awful place and didn’t handle it very well. She still blamed my father for her misery, and of course she says I didn’t make it easy on her, which may or may not be true. She had a victim mentality. But she was out of her depth back then.”
“So it’s easier to forgive someone who acknowledges their mistakes?”
“Of course. But more important, finally, she gave me the greatest gift of all—she let me make her happy. In her last moments she allowed me to bring her this great joy. It’s a shame it had to wait until she was dying, but that was a very open, pure act of love.”
We took a beat to consider that. It had been a real blessing.
“I wonder if your father was ever bullied,” she pondered.
“I guess there is no way to tell.”
“You could have asked the psychic.”
She’s a good ribber, Dr. Headshrinker.
“I was thinking about it,” I said. “He used to champion an old British television mini series, Tom Brown’s Schooldays, which was about this perfect, defenseless little babyface kid, away from home for the first time, being hazed and bullied terribly at some posh boarding school. He made me watch it every time it was on. The thing was, it was incredibly sadistic—the most memorable scene was of the bully and his gang of rich assholes literally roasting Tom in front of a fire until he passes out. It was the single cruelest thing I had ever seen as a child—I mean it was just humorless and awful—and we watched it over and over again. Tom would get brutally whipped by the schoolmaster for things he didn’t do. He was caned, mercilessly. They had a special tower for it. He was always set up by the bully, who seemed to get away with everything. It was this gleefully drawn-out sadism that my father loved. I guess the bully finally gets his comeuppance in the end, but by that point, who really cares? All that sticks in my mind is Tom getting beaten up and burned. I guess it’s worth mentioning that the bully was very charismatic. His name was Flashman, and I remember he wore this terrific top hat. Anyway, here’s the thing—after all of this thinking and writing and reflection, I still don’t know if my dad related to Flashman or to Tom. That’s kind of fucked up.”
I HAD BEEN READING ABOUT the concept of Jewish forgiveness, and let me tell you, we are some tough customers. We’re not in the business of giving away anything for free. There is always a big NO to easy forgiveness. On the other hand, if there is some overwhelming need for forgiveness—and we could be talking about a crippling debt, for instance—then you have to give it. And if you offer it, it is only mensch-like to accept it. But the forgiven need to show some repentance, too. That’s part of the social contract.
There is more: If you have been abused, there is absolutely no moral obligation to forgive the abuser, but you also have the option for some sort of in-between deal where you may offer some half-assed pardon and forgive the debt, but not the crime. The greatest act of forgiveness is to achieve a pure type of empathy, to embrace the person who has hurt you and take them into your heart. You have achieved understanding, without equivocating, that people are frail, that humans are flawed, that we all deserve love and sympathy—which I agree with 100 percent. Except, of course, some people are just dicks and don’t make it all that easy.
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sp; Christians, on the other hand, are pushovers. They give away forgiveness like wax teeth on Halloween. Jesus was obviously very big on it, but I think He understood, too, that turning the other cheek was counterintuitive—it just isn’t the first reaction most people have after being slugged, and it kind of makes you an easy mark for the next time. But hey—judge not lest ye be judged, forgive and ye shall be forgiven, and all that. It’s not the worst thing anyone has ever said.
Jews want to break everything down and negotiate like a bunch of fucking lawyers. Also, while we excel at asking questions, we can be pretty squirrelly when it comes to providing answers. Christians cut right through any Socratic shilly-shallying with pure faith—you have to believe and you have to forgive, because that’s what God wants. Jesus says it’s the only way to roll. I guess they don’t remember that whole vengeful-God thing: The Old Testament is just teeming with floods and fires and smiting, always lots of smiting.
Neither approach was really my style. I was never going to completely parse the molecularly complex Talmudic teachings and anecdotes that make up Jewish tradition—the most eggheaded rabbis in the business are still trying to make horse sense of that mess—nor was I suddenly to become so Christ-like that I stopped punching back. Anyway, if it doesn’t really come from inside of you, then what is it really worth?
And then I read this Buddhist parable: There are two monks who find each other on the road, years after they had been in prison together, where they had been brutally tortured. I have no idea who would have tortured a couple of Buddhists, or why it seems like monks are always running into each other on some road—apparently that’s just what they do. Anyway, one monk says to the other, “Have you forgiven them?” Meaning the people who had tortured them. And the other says, “Never! I will never forgive them!” And the first monk says, “Well, then I guess you’re still in prison. Call me when you get out.”
Instead of holding a grudge, I finally came around and just said, “What’s the fucking point?” After everything, it was that simple.
Well, let’s be honest, it took a while to get there. Hours on Dr. Headshrinker’s couch. I had to write an entire freaking book. But I had fun doing it. That’s not exactly how the Jews or Christians teach forgiveness, but as I keep saying, sometimes you just have to take it where you find it—rescued cats, Buddhists, Jackass, Beethoven, whatever.
I want to be happy, and so I am. It takes some work, but there you have it. My parents were miserable because that’s the choice they made. They didn’t make happiness a priority. My brothers, and my dad’s wife, especially, would argue that I am wrong—look how happy and successful your father was! But if you find yourself on your deathbed using your very last breath to rip into your kid because of his taste for professional wrestling, I think it is fair to say you have some seriously unresolved issues.
Speaking of wrestling, there is an old tradition that when a wrestler retires, he goes “out on his back.” That means putting the next guy over. It’s the honorable thing to do. When you leave, you use your legacy to make someone else look good. You shine a little light. Maybe it’s just good business, to keep the show on the road, but it seems like pretty good karma to me, too. I think you should always leave things a little bit better than when you found them. Somehow even my mom managed to pull that rabbit out of her hat.
It still breaks my heart—my dad dying with so much anger in him. I think about it every day. There is a lot I haven’t even told you—just awful conversations, rotten, despicable hoodoo, a lifetime’s worth of put-downs. There was no playfulness and no shared joy. No naches. Did being mean to me make him feel better about himself? I can’t imagine that it did. What did any of it prove? It was all so needless.
I remember when I got the call that he had died, the day after I left him in the hospital. I wept, just as any father’s son would, and then I cried some more because I was thinking about the last thing that he said to me, screaming at me through an oxygen mask that I was such a disappointment. No matter how funny it may seem from a safe distance—the setup, the delivery, the flawless timing—at that moment you can be very sure I wasn’t laughing. I just wish he knew how much I loved him.
I can’t help but feel so terribly sorry for him. He grew up made to feel as if he had to be perfect, terrified of what other people thought. No matter how successful he became otherwise, he never really escaped, and a real meanness snuck in. He did his best to keep me tethered to his fears, but somehow I went wrong—I was able to cut loose and set myself free.
Two feet to the right of where I’m sitting is an old piano—eventually I got around to learning how to play. The piano’s been beaten up pretty bad, certainly worse than I ever was. It’s a rescue, just like Jeepster the Cat, and who knows just what kind of blues will come out when I put my hands on it? Who knows how many wonderful songs remain unwritten?
Meanwhile, just as soon as I finish writing this, I’m going to drink a beer in the shower and sing along with the cassette of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony (Kleiber conducting the Vienna Philharmonic, natch), which lives in the old boom box I keep in the bathroom. I made the words up myself—they are very dirty and change all the time.
And then, since it’s Monday night, I’ll be watching wrestling on TV. The new girlfriend can’t stand it (“Why do you watch that crap?”), so she’ll go to dinner with a friend, and I’ll send out for the tandoori platter from Curry in a Hurry and open a ridiculously delicious bottle of Barbaresco—one of two I was given as sort of an honorarium for playing my guitar at a wine tasting a few weeks ago. It’s the kind of wine where the cherries and tar leap out of the glass and smack you right on the nose, like a cartoon monkey. It’s much better juice than I can usually afford, and if I’m smart, I’ll save some to share with the girl, because she practically lives for cartoon monkeys, and if she comes home and there’s no wine left, she’ll just insist that we open the other bottle. And you know how that goes.
One good thing just leads to another.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my incredibly patient editor Melanie Madden, and the entire team at Sterling Publishing. As ever, thanks and undying appreciation to the unflappable Jim McCarthy, Jane Dystel, Miriam Goderich, and everyone at Dystel & Goderich Literary Management. Thanks to Deb Shapiro Publicity, the Heritage Radio Network, and Heritage Foods USA.
For their continued kindness, encouragement, and support, love and huzzahs to Leslie Fabian, Jon Spencer and Cristina Martinez, Judy McGuire, and Lisa Carver.
Extra warm thanks to Eric Winnicki for his numerous contributions, glad you are back.
Thanks to Cynthia Santiglia, Carly Sommerstein, and Todd Hanson for their sage editorial advice.
Thanks to Mickey Finn, “Beatnik No. 1” Bob Bert, and all current and future members of the Space Liberation Army, the Insterstellar Rendezvous Band, and the Edison Rocket Train.
Very special thanks and all my love to Jeepster the Cat, and Christine “Daisy” Martin, who sleeps at night better than anyone I know.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mike Edison is the former editor and publisher of High Times magazine. His books include the celebrated memoir I Have Fun Everywhere I Go, the sprawling social history of sex on the newsstand, Dirty! Dirty! Dirty! and the deliciously filthy political satire Bye, Bye, Miss American Pie. More recently he collaborated with Joe Bastianich on his New York Times bestselling memoir, Restaurant Man, of which writer Bret Easton Ellis has said, “The directness and energy have a cinematic rush … not a single boring sentence.” Edison has worked as a foreign correspondent for Hustler and was a high-paid gun-for-hire of the legendary Penthouse letters. He has contributed to numerous magazines and websites, including Huffington Post, the Daily Beast, the New York Observer, Spin, Interview, and New York Press, for which he covered classical music and professional wrestling. Edison is also an internationally known musician and ferociously dedicated storyteller, and he can be heard every Sunday on his show Arts & Seizures on the Heritage Radio
Network. He lives and works in Brooklyn.
www.mikeedison.com
You Are a Complete Disappointment
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