My Mom Died and I Found the First Humor Piece I Ever Wrote
See if you can pinpoint the exact moment it goes off the rails.
I’m on a cleaning spree to end all cleaning sprees.
Not just my mom’s house — my house, the office, litter along the side of the road. You name it.
EVERYTHING MUST GO.
The bad thing about living with a hoarder is that they hang on to everything (eight identical pairs of house slippers, tags still on, purchased at the first, and probably last, Super K-Mart in America. Hundreds of used plastic take-out food containers. Enough Ziploc baggies and plastic wrap to last me the rest of my natural life. Five refrigerators — count ’em, five — working and non).
The good thing about living with a hoarder is that they hang on to everything (ooh, that’s where my diplomas got to. I mean, they’re not all in one place — why would they all be in one place? — but at least I found them. They seem… important?).
That’s how I came across both the infamous letter implying I’m adopted (sorry, busy avoiding that whole issue) and also the first humor piece I ever wrote, which was published in 1986 in The Miami Student (I guess that’s the best they could do title-wise), “the Oldest College Newspaper West of the Alleghenies.”
I’m going to take their word on that because I have no idea where the Alleghenies are. Look, I didn’t get a diploma in geography, okay?
I literally just found this five minutes ago and I’m going to read it again for the first time in almost 40 years as I type, so we can go on this cringy journey together.
LIFESTYLES OF THE POOR AND OBSCURE (Oh, man, it’s already bad — and what’s with the giant space in the headline?)
Scene: A yard.
Host: “Hi! I’m Biff Snookums, on location for ‘Lifestyles of the Poor and Obscure.’ Today, we’ll be visiting the depressingly downtrodden suburban retreat of Harvey Feldstein and his wife of questionable virtue, Irma.”
“The Feldsteins have three little monst — um, children: Harvey, Jr., Herb, and Herbette, all of whom are presently enjoying a nice long stay at Camp Shudupayouface. There they will discover the joys of torturing small animals they find in their sleeping bags and of beating each other about the head and shoulders with oars. An education with all the attractiveness of primal scream therapy, I’m sure.”
“There’s also the family dog, Hymie, the chihuahua.” [Ed. Note: Oh my god.]
(Camera 2 pans to Host’s leg where dog is urinating profusely. Camera quickly closes in once more on Host’s fixedly smiling face. Camera fails to track Host’s foot kicking said dog a good ten feet from location.)
Scene: The Feldsteins’ living room. Subject in filthy T-shirt and unzipped pants. [Ed. Note: It just gets better and better, doesn’t it.]
Host: “So, Harvey — can I call you ‘Harvey’?”
Sub: “After twelve takes you can call me ‘mother’ for all I care.”
H.: (artfully faked laugh) “So, Harvey, how do you feel about your state of abject poverty?”
S.: (emotion not in script) “Hey, buddy, watch your mouth. I’m part of the newly formed middle class, an up-and-comer with more buying power than ever before. Who says I can’t have it all?”
H.: “So, Harvey, how do you feel about being bourgeois?”
S.: “Hell, I’m a Democrat.”
H.: (sun glinting off Host’s smile blinds cameraman, screen goes dark, audio only) “Back to you, Skip!”
Now, let’s keep in mind that I was 18 years old when I wrote this. Not only was this before political correctness was invented. This was before I had developed anything like common sense in my tiny tadpole brain.
And it was at the very top of the front page of a newspaper that went to every student on campus.
My telephone — a thing on the wall with a number that was listed in the campus directory — started to ring almost immediately.
People did not see the humor in my humor. In fact, they had questions.
I was mystified. Even at the age of 18, I was already an aficionado of Steve Martin, Dave Barry, Erma Bombeck. I’d read Lenny Bruce’s biography three times.
I had not, however, met a Jewish person.
People wanted to know, why did I name the main characters “Feldstein”? (I have no idea.) Why is the dog named Hymie? (I thought it was funny. A chihuahua named Hymie. Right? No?)
Was I trying to make some kind of point? (Probably not. I was probably just doing exactly what I do now, which is sit down and type whatever pops into my head without any real thought or foresight into possible consequences. Some things never change. But at least today I have some semblance of awareness of my audience.)
I didn’t write another humor piece for probably 30 years. I was a poet, you see. A real writer. Not to mention that nothing in the reaction to the above led me to believe I had a future in comedy.
Twitter (I refuse to call it X) changed my mind about that. Apparently, there’s always room for one more dumbass on the internet.
OMG Bev I also sit down and write whatever comes into my head with no foresight! More importantly, I'm glad the caring/nursing nightmare is over and hope you are managing well. I have to imagine you are feeling tired, now that you have a brief respite, although it sounds like the selling phase will take a lot of energy. I wonder if highly paid, famous, fully-employed writers of humor or whatever don't just write down whatever they are thinking? On that note, I hope your sale goes well . Love, Hymie.
Huge condolences on the loss of your mother, Bev. As the fates would have it, I'm writing this from my own mother's house after the loss of my grandmother. We have spent the past week working slowly through the "detritus of life" one accumulates over the years. Not an easy process, but one that hits us all at some point (albeit in different quantities).
I wish you strength, perseverance, and continued visits from your humor muses. And I hope to see more early musing from 18-year-old Bev ;)