’er
Every body
We must torture!
Despite repeated interventions by family and friends, including the vice principal at his school, Dick couldn’t seem to shake his ghetto obsession. He confessed to me that it started in the ’80s with someone called Run-DMC and had continued through the ’90s with the groundbreaking work of a band called Niggaz with Attitude. Now, the walls of the music room at Hardale were covered with posters of somebody named Dr. Dre and a quilt with the words “Thug Life” in the middle, which Dick had stitched to get over the death of someone named Tupac Shakur. A hit with students, Dick was beginning to lose his popularity with parents.
“Imagine that coming out of a ghetto blaster in Compton. Let me know what you think when you get a minute, Sky. Call me.”
Dick’s enthusiasm was admirable, but once again he’d ignored my warnings that the food stamp demographic was only 2 percent of our total business. I opened the liquor cabinet and fixed myself a drink. My confidence in the campaign, like the double martini now in my hands, was shaken.
6
Family Matters
or So They Say
The next day, I decided to call my son, Ethan, twenty-two, one of the founders of a Silicon Valley start-up called Macrocock.com . Macrocock had something to do with computers, wakeboards and “living large,” but I couldn’t quite track it all. So far, it had nothing to do with turning a profit or, frankly, seeing
any
revenue. Ethan did, however, assure me of two things: (1) the business plan was “rad,” and (2) the stock options would be worth “gazillions” when the IPO, which would be any week now, came. In the meantime, my job as a supportive parent was to keep sending my love and, until the second-round financing came through, a monthly check. I also held a small equity interest in the company.
“Hello.”
“Ethan?”
“Yeah, this is Ethan. Who’s this?”
Macrocock management evidently encouraged the playing of unlistenable music at ungodly decibel levels.
“Ethan, it’s your father.”
“Who?”
“Your dad. IT’S YOUR DAD!” I shouted.
“No need to raise your voice, Pop. I hear you. Let me turn down the tuneage.”
Ethan returned to the telephone.
“There. That’s better.”
“What was that racket, Ethan?”
This was the closest I could come at the moment to showing an interest in my boy’s musical taste.
“Oh, the music? It’s this soca speed-metal band called Abundant Fuck. They rage, don’t they?”
“Full on. No question about it,” I replied, my sarcasm barely concealed.
“Dad, there’s more to music than Kansas, Boston and Chicago. Trust me. Any band named after a place sucks.”
He had a point with Manhattan Transfer and maybe the Bay City Rollers, but Chicago? Despite the hurtful criticism, I continued undeterred.
“Listen, I wanted to talk to you about . . .”
“Dad, can you hold a minute? I need to take a slash.”
Without giving my response, I was put on hold by a child whose bladder was the size of an acorn. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had a telephone call without a bathroom break. A few minutes passed before he returned.
“Sorry ’bout that. All this Red Bull is sinking me. How are you doing?”
“Well, I’m fine, but I haven’t heard from you. How’s the Internet world?”
“Dad, it’s incredible! We’re so close to getting second-round financing, we need to develop our site. Then we’re going to open the kimono.”
“Open the kimono?”
“Reveal our idea.”
“That’s great. I was starting to wonder what was inside that kimono myself.”
“I’m sure. It’s insane out here. It’s like we’re shredding, but at the same time we’re strappin’.”
“Strappin’ ” was Ethanspeak for “I need more money.”
“How much do you need?”
“Fifteen hundy would be huge.”
“You guys aren’t committing any felonies, right?”
“Dad, c’mon, this is me you’re talking about. Everything’s cool on
Every body
We must torture!
Despite repeated interventions by family and friends, including the vice principal at his school, Dick couldn’t seem to shake his ghetto obsession. He confessed to me that it started in the ’80s with someone called Run-DMC and had continued through the ’90s with the groundbreaking work of a band called Niggaz with Attitude. Now, the walls of the music room at Hardale were covered with posters of somebody named Dr. Dre and a quilt with the words “Thug Life” in the middle, which Dick had stitched to get over the death of someone named Tupac Shakur. A hit with students, Dick was beginning to lose his popularity with parents.
“Imagine that coming out of a ghetto blaster in Compton. Let me know what you think when you get a minute, Sky. Call me.”
Dick’s enthusiasm was admirable, but once again he’d ignored my warnings that the food stamp demographic was only 2 percent of our total business. I opened the liquor cabinet and fixed myself a drink. My confidence in the campaign, like the double martini now in my hands, was shaken.
6
Family Matters
or So They Say
The next day, I decided to call my son, Ethan, twenty-two, one of the founders of a Silicon Valley start-up called Macrocock.com . Macrocock had something to do with computers, wakeboards and “living large,” but I couldn’t quite track it all. So far, it had nothing to do with turning a profit or, frankly, seeing
any
revenue. Ethan did, however, assure me of two things: (1) the business plan was “rad,” and (2) the stock options would be worth “gazillions” when the IPO, which would be any week now, came. In the meantime, my job as a supportive parent was to keep sending my love and, until the second-round financing came through, a monthly check. I also held a small equity interest in the company.
“Hello.”
“Ethan?”
“Yeah, this is Ethan. Who’s this?”
Macrocock management evidently encouraged the playing of unlistenable music at ungodly decibel levels.
“Ethan, it’s your father.”
“Who?”
“Your dad. IT’S YOUR DAD!” I shouted.
“No need to raise your voice, Pop. I hear you. Let me turn down the tuneage.”
Ethan returned to the telephone.
“There. That’s better.”
“What was that racket, Ethan?”
This was the closest I could come at the moment to showing an interest in my boy’s musical taste.
“Oh, the music? It’s this soca speed-metal band called Abundant Fuck. They rage, don’t they?”
“Full on. No question about it,” I replied, my sarcasm barely concealed.
“Dad, there’s more to music than Kansas, Boston and Chicago. Trust me. Any band named after a place sucks.”
He had a point with Manhattan Transfer and maybe the Bay City Rollers, but Chicago? Despite the hurtful criticism, I continued undeterred.
“Listen, I wanted to talk to you about . . .”
“Dad, can you hold a minute? I need to take a slash.”
Without giving my response, I was put on hold by a child whose bladder was the size of an acorn. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had a telephone call without a bathroom break. A few minutes passed before he returned.
“Sorry ’bout that. All this Red Bull is sinking me. How are you doing?”
“Well, I’m fine, but I haven’t heard from you. How’s the Internet world?”
“Dad, it’s incredible! We’re so close to getting second-round financing, we need to develop our site. Then we’re going to open the kimono.”
“Open the kimono?”
“Reveal our idea.”
“That’s great. I was starting to wonder what was inside that kimono myself.”
“I’m sure. It’s insane out here. It’s like we’re shredding, but at the same time we’re strappin’.”
“Strappin’ ” was Ethanspeak for “I need more money.”
“How much do you need?”
“Fifteen hundy would be huge.”
“You guys aren’t committing any felonies, right?”
“Dad, c’mon, this is me you’re talking about. Everything’s cool on
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