The Fine Line Between Malice & Stupidity

By Brian Webber

Chapter One:
Birth

Henlen's Razor: Never attribute to malice, what can easily be explained by stupidity.

That is an addage that I try to live by. It makes it easier for me to not hate people, certainly. Not the least of which is my family. Let me tell you a little story about how I got here. I'll start with something my dad says a lot.

"Never marry the first woman you fuck." My dad says that all the time. He's said it since I was a little boy. That may not seem appropriate, saying that to an 11 or 12 year old boy, but he was right. He was speaking from experience. His experience with my mother. In that case, he married the first woman he fucked, who as I learned recently, was married to another man at the time! Well isn't that special. The only good thing to come of that union? Me. That doesn't say much does it?

I was born in southern California in February of 1982, around the same time as the death of legendary screen actress Ingrid Bergman. My mom claims that, since the TV in the room was showing Star Trek, that one of the earliest things I did was make the Live Long and Prosper hand signal. No one can confirm this. I'm sure I could call Alan L. Russo, the doctor responsible for bringing me out of my mom and into the world, but, let's be honest, what're the odds he'd remember me? Or for that matter, if he's even still alive.

2246 hours is when I took my first breath. Why hospitals use military time is a mystery to me, but is it really that important? Anyway, what I'm saying is, that on February 1st, 1982, at 10:46 PM the man whose writings you've read and loathed, uh, I mean loved, basically looked like he was smeared with Jell-O and Cream Cheese. Uck.

On February 4th, I saw true daylight for the first time. At least that's when I was signed out.

From there, well, to say my life was a roller coaster would be an understatement. Because after all, we all know what the road to Hell is paved with right?

I was a cute baby. Too bad that didn't last, but I figure I was doomed early on. My father is a heavy smoker and has been since he was about 14. Both my parents are seriously overweight, and come from families with histories of alchololism and despression. Talk about a stacked deck. I consider myself lucky that I got a card at all. My undying ability to be a complete smart ass.

And to make things worse (as if they could be), my Mom wasn't the most observant parent. I think Hitler was more careful with children. Early on in my life, my mother thought it would be an excellent idea to sit me on the dryer at her parent's home, where I would live for two weeks, and spend a good 3 or 4 years across the street from later on, while she went and did something else.

Many people have asked me through my life if I was dropped on my head. Close enough. I was allowed to roll right off the dryer and land on my head. Not dropped, but close enough. That could explain my contradictory personality quirk; hating those who mispell words I know how to spell, while occasionally mispelling those same words rather frequently. Thank goodness for the invention of Spell Check.

My grandmother, no saint herself contrary to popular belief, never forgave my mom for that. And it pains her that I have, because, although she's not Italian, my grandmother can hold a grudge. (Note to any Italians in the audience, forgive me for that apparent racial slant, but it comes from an old Joy Behar joke. "I have Italian Alzheimer's which means I forget everything but a grudge." and I thought it fit here).

But I'm getting ahead of myself a bit. One of my earliest childhood memories, a fuzzy memory yes, but aided with visual proof, is the family cat, Figaro, sleeping curled up next to my tiny body in the crib. That cat died last year at the age of 16. I suppose that's where I get my love of cats. Too bad I can't explain my dislike of dogs, but that's for a therapist to figure out, assuming I can find one that doesn't die on me (another tale for later).

Sadly, it's probably the best memory I have of my life between 1982 and 1989. I'm sure there are others, but my family won't let me remember them. They only remember the stupid shit, like the time when I was two and I reached into a full diaper, and, well, I won't finish the description fo the event, suffice to say 17 years my family still uses it to embarras me. And they wonder why I never bring friends over. If I ever get married, I'll make sure they get their invitations, the day AFTER.

Another sad incident I have no trouble recalling comes from my first home; an apartment in Rialto. I can just imagine the looks on the faces of the SoCal natives reading this. Yes, that place. A place that made the Nightly news, well, nightly for some gang murder, or mysterious attack, or some other horrid crime that would make the cops on Law & Order stop to take a breath. But, remarkably, I was never a victim of any of this. Call it luck, call it God, call it the fact that my family hardly had anything worth stealing, or my mom would never wnat to "play with the black kids," it doesn't matter. What matters is that I had something I've never had since, but have always wanted. An upstairs bedroom, next to a bathroom with a HUGE counter. I used to love sitting on that thing and washing my muddy feet in the sink. I was either 5 or 6, I'm not sure which, the last time I was able to do that, anywhere. But most important to this part of the tale, the air conditioner was in my room! And it was big. So big if I wanted to I could squeeze my little arms into the slots. Which I did several times. Unfortunately, one day I shoved my arm in too far. You guessed it, I was stuck. It actually didn't hurt now that I think about it, but when you feel trapped, pain (or the lack thereof) is actually the last thing on your mind. Being only 4 or 5, I didn't do the thing I would do under similar circumstances today, which would be to try and find a way to ease out, and then call for help. I screamed as loudly as my little lungs would let me, knowing my father was downstairs, probably watching porn again, which he does a lot. He didn't come when I screamed the first five or six or maybe even seven times. Or maybe he did. I don't know what he was doing. What I do know is it was a long time before he finally heard me and came upstairs, not wondering what was wrong mind you, just curious as to what the hell I was up to.

My memories of the downstairs bathroom aren't much better. The litter box was down there for one, and I beleive that more than once I stepped in some of Figaro's 'offerings.' But that's not the biggie. Now, I'm not a big censorship guy. Never have been. But a line has to be drawn somewhere, and I certainly think having a picture of five women wearing thong bikinis bent over with their posteriors facing you as your trying to empty your bowel and bladder is something no small child should see, everyday. This led to an actual fear of the downstair bathroom. Not because it made me feel uncomfortable mind you, but because my parents KNEW it made me feel uncomfortable, and yet they did nothing! This continued when I moved to the new house with all the Samantha Fox pictures, nudes all, on the bathroom walls of one of the bathrooms there.

Oh, one more memory of the apartment, which will close out this chapter. For a brief period, just before one Memorial Day back in the 80s, my mom moved out and took me with her. We stayed with her parents for a few weeks. She later moved back in. I'm not sure, what, if anything went wrong. My mom was always the screamer and the slapper. My dad was the silent, passive lazy guy who decided that sleep was more important than what his wife was doing to his son. Had I not told him about the times she threatened my life, well, I'd rather not think about that.

Of course things happened away from the apartment in that time. We would occasionally visit my grandmother on my dad's side's house, back when she was married to her third husband Robert. It was through Judy that I was introduced to the idea of cartoons for grown ups, and Dungeons & Dragons, two things that would later become obseesions in my life. It was also at her house that I almost drowned when my Hot Wheels trike flipped over and dumped me in the deep end. For the record, I can't swim. Never have been able to. My most pleasent memory of that house? Well only one comes to mind. On Christmas, 1988 I believe, I got my first bike.

Now as I promised, a close to chapter one.

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