But my folks, without fail, make it about themselves. Always have, always will. For example, in 2011, shortly after my first book came out, I was adapting some of the material from the book into a live stand-up show at the El Portal Theater in North Hollywood (interestingly enough, a former movie theater I had been to several times as a kid) and needed some visuals. I called my mom to see if she had some old family photos that I could use to illustrate some stories. She replied with, “There might be a shoebox in the closet.” A few days later, on the day of the show, I called to see if I could swing by and grab them.
Now, I’ve learned over the years not to ask my mom for anything. Or my dad, for that matter. Their M.O. is to be wildly ineffective and difficult, so everyone learns not to bother them. It’s like announcing you have a bad back. No one asks you to help them move when you pull that trick.
I didn’t think this was a big ask. My mom lived in nine hundred square feet, and finding that shoebox full of old pictures shouldn’t have been too much trouble.
When I called that day, I was hoping she had found the energy to help me out. “Can I swing by and grab that box and go through it?” She replied, “Me and your stepfather are making health drinks right now, I don’t really have the time. Could you come by in a few hours, like around two?” This was about eleven in the morning on a Saturday. The show was that night and I was behind. I said, “I have to go to North Hollywood to take a bunch of pictures, then up to La Crescenta to take a picture of that old house, too. The show is tonight. I’m really up against it and swamped. I could be there in the next half hour. Just get it from the closet, I’ll come in and grab it and be out of your way.” She, after a long sigh, said, “I don’t know…” So I threw in a sarcastic, “Forget it. Enjoy your health drink.” With no awareness at all, she then asked for four free tickets to the show that she put zero effort into helping me prepare. Think about the symbolism of that. Message received, Mom, you’re taking care of you. I said a very sarcastic, “Thanks a lot. I appreciate all the help. I’ll get your four tickets,” and hung up.
And that’s the lesson for all you parents reading this. If you’re reading this book while your kid is on the field playing football, put it down and watch them play. Being a parent is about putting your shit on hold. You’d like to buy a recliner; instead, you’re buying car seats. You’d like to drive a two-door convertible; instead you’re driving a minivan. You’d like to take a Hawaiian vacation; instead, you’re saving it for private school. There’s a monetary sacrifice, but there’s also a personal one. You’d like to just plop down in front of the television when you get home exhausted, but your kids want to see you, so you better get down on the floor and build that Lego castle. The more you’re into you, the worse the parent you are. We always think about the parents who are physically violent or alcoholic. You show me someone who is narcissistic and self-absorbed, and I’ll show you a miserable kid. That’s why no one should have kids at seventeen. You don’t give a shit about anybody but yourself at that age. And for the next eighteen years of that kid’s life, you’re going to have to do a lot of shit you don’t want to do. That’s what being a parent is. You’ll want to see No Country for Old Men but instead you’re going to A Dolphin Tale 2. And guess who ends up paying.
But, you know what, it’s worth it. You might be miserable spending time and money on shit you don’t want to do but in the end it buys you something more valuable, a relationship with your kids. When you don’t show an interest in their interests, can’t feel or at least feign joy when you’re around them, when you make life with them seem like a chore, you pretty much guarantee that they’ll resent you. And, if you’re really unlucky, you run the risk of them writing their fourth book containing tales of your half- and, occasionally, quarter-assed parenting. I guess Sonny and Natalia should be grateful their paternal grandparents were such turds. Without them, I’d have a lot less vitriol to power my podcast and thus fill the family coffers. And I wouldn’t have such a clear roadmap of what not to do as a parent. And I pass that roadmap on to you, dear readers. Let my pain be your gain.
CHAPTER 8
HERE’S SOME ADVICE for my kids that I think all of you parents can give your own children on the other big purchase of their lives: their first house. If you don’t think that buying a house is the greatest symbol of achieving the American dream, then put down this book and move to Russia.
Dear Sonny and Natalia,
One thing that I have attempted to beat into you, and I hope I was successful, is that you should be owners, not renters. Owning a home is a good investment, there are tax benefits, it will fill you with pride, it will force you to become handy and make you get your financial shit together. And you won’t have to deal with douchebag landlords.
But here’s a fair warning. Owning a house will turn you into an asshole. Your mother says that’s when I became one. Pretty much since the day we met, we have had a constant running dialogue about me being an asshole, but when you were eight we finally nailed down the point of no return, the moment when I made the final conversion to full assholedom. She said it was when I was thirty-four, and I bought my first house.
Nine out of ten asshole-ish behaviors are connected to your home. You have to yell at the gardener for leaving the pool gate open for the thousandth time, you have to yell at your kids for scratching up the hardwood floor and you have to scream at your wife, “I’m asking you to call the carpet guy, not clean the carpet yourself!” I think when you sign the deed to your house, the realtor should present you with the keys, and a brown blazer with a toilet paper roll embroidered on the lapel and say “Congratulations, you’re now officially an asshole.”
When you’re renting, you don’t give a shit about your domicile. It’s temporary. If your friend drops a bowl of salsa on the carpet you’re pissed, but not irate. You know that eventually you’ll just move out and move on to another rental. When it’s your home, that means you own said carpet and can do math on how much you paid for it and how many more hours you’re going to need to work to replace it. So, Sonny and Natalia, get ready to become assholes just like your old man.
But I’d rather you be assholes than losers. The renters reading this are now pissed, but please, take it as motivation and coming from one who knows of the loserdom whence he speaks. My history with home-owning and shitty apartments is well detailed in my second book, so check it out if you haven’t, and you’ll see that I speak purely out of experience and concern. I was pathetic back when I rented. Here’s a great way to tell if you’re a loser who needs to step it up in the life department and get yourself into a home of your own: When you are asked to house-sit for a friend who does have their shit together are you excited? Can you not wait to get out of your squalid shitbox? Do you want to squat in that home and change the locks so that your friend can’t ever get in again? Then you’re a loser, and need to figure it out.
I used to be that guy. I house-sat for a friend once and was far too excited. It was a two-bedroom with no pool in a dumpy part of Los Angeles, Van Nuys to be exact, but it was far superior to the crappy apartment I was renting with a couple of other losers. When that house-sitting run was done, I was deflated to go back to my apartment.