Tough Sh*t: Life Advice From a Fat, Lazy Slob Who Did Good (28 page)

In the time since I met Jennifer Schwalbach, I made some dippy flicks a few people liked. In the same time, however, Jennifer did so much more: She built a life with a family she’s personally responsible for bringing together. She built a home for the people she loves most dearly in this world, where they can feel safe, dream their dreams, and be productive. And most important, Jen built and maintains an entire
human being.

Like most kids her age, Harley’s a dreamer. What sets her apart, however, is that she takes her dreams to fruition. Some leaders display the kinds of take-charge qualities that are more easily identifiable, but the leaders like Harley—whose
passion is infectious enough to create something out of nothing—lead by inspiration. And behind all the passion beats the heart of a true humanist … as well as a humorist: She’s funny—and not in that cloying manner like some kids can be. Her humor’s warm, inclusive, and friendly. In that respect, Harley’s who I’d most like to be when I grow up.

And that was all Jen. I donated a teaspoon full of what was hopefully the best parts of me, but Jen knew that in order to make a whole person, more time needed to be donated than the five minutes it might’ve taken me to muster the building blocks of Harley. Jen knew it was going to take sacrifice, and since my head was way up my own ass about movies, she knew in order to will this family into existence,
she’d
have to be the one to give things up, and maybe even give herself
entirely
.

We’ve been together fourteen years now, and my passion has shifted from film to family. After years of making shit up, now I’m entranced by the cold hard reality of it all, the wonder of the mundane and average; the blurred line between life and diversion doesn’t require made-up people and situations anymore, and the investment in recording simple conversation is about time, not dimes. When we launched
Plus One
, I got to combine my love of podcasting and my love of talking to (and making fun of) Jen. Sometimes, we’re even joined by Harley, so I get to incorporate my entire family in my art—which is only fitting, as I’ve been my wife’s art project for over a decade now and my kid is gonna have to dwell on this earth for all time as Silent Bob’s daughter. Now I’m more interested in capturing their feelings, thoughts, ideas, and chatter. Motherfuck make-pretend characters in a ninety-minute stoner comedy; gimme
real, interesting people with a point of view. And as far as I’m concerned, I’m surrounded by
real
, interesting people. Now it’s
their
time to take center stage—whether they’re public people or not.

And I know all the podcasts in paradise will never make up for the life Jennifer gave up in order to join my traveling sideshow, even if she did promptly make it her own. It’s a debt that humbles me, and one I can never repay in full. We can accomplish very little by ourselves in this world, so we look to others to help us flesh out our whimsies. And every once in a while, a player so great comes along, they improve
your
game. I’ve achieved a lot of my goals, but usually because someone was there to feed me a pass I could one-time into twine.

One of my favorite aspects of the Gretzky mythos is his insane stats that dominate every other top athlete in their respective sports by massive margins. When he retired from the game, Gretzky had 894 regular-season goals—a jaw-dropper of a number. But the
real
story is told in his
assists
record: 1,963. Nearly two thousand times, the greatest hockey player who ever lived passed the puck to someone else to put in the net. That’s more than
double
the amount of times he took the shot
himself.
Instead of trying to grab the glory, he shared the wealth and elevated
others.
Gretzky was a team player with an astounding work ethic and an uncanny ability to see not only where the game was, but where the game was eventually
going
—and rather than keep that light under a bushel, he spread it around, using it to illuminate the talents of others. There is nothing more beautiful in hockey or in that excellent metaphor for hockey
called life than the assist: You give of yourself so that someone else can achieve
their
goal.

Jen has been my Gretzky for years now. She regularly feeds me passes and elevates my game. I score and win because I’ve got an unselfish, talented teammate who feels it’s better to give than receive and believes it’s better to assist than score. And on top of that, she’s got one up on Gretzky: She fucks me. And being fucked by Jennifer Schwalbach is my idea of heaven, because she can fuck like a demon.

If life had anything like the Hockey Hall of Fame, Jen Schwalbach would be inducted into the Builder category. And under her plaque, it’d say, “Jennifer Schwalbach always seemed to know where the puck was going but used that talent to help others reach
their
goals instead—particularly an anonymous, untalented fat boy from New Jersey who fell in love with her hard. Without a doubt, she truly is the Great One.”

H
ow’d I learn all this shit, anyway? I’d like to credit my years of experience, but I’m only forty-one
chronologically
, and I haven’t acted my age in decades. No, I learned how to deal with most of what I know
before
it even happened to me because I watched someone else lead by example and studied
their
work.

I’ve always looked at John Hughes—the legendary writer/director who gave us
Sixteen Candles
and
The Breakfast Club
—as the filmmaker I most related to, even though I never met him. Hughes made movies about my generation when nobody else seemed to give a shit. While similar movies reduced young people to cum-crazy fuck machines, Hughes portrayed teens as human beings with slightly less experience than their elders, but no less self-awareness. The people in his flicks resembled the people you knew in real
life, the dialogue was always did-you-secretly-record-me-and-my-friends-or-something perfect, reflecting the thoughts, fears, chuckles, and dreams of teenagers in the ’80s.

The mark of any classic piece of filmmaking is longevity, and the Hughes oeuvre holds up thirty years later. John Hughes may have died, but while you can’t still see the man, you can hear him, feel him, and maybe even know him a little bit thanks to his life’s work in cinema. He remains beloved because Hughes was the first one of
us
—the movie geeks, the loners, the glasses-wearers, the Farmer Teds—to make it
inside
the dream factory, where he told
his
stories (which also happened to be
our
stories as well).

But a writer rarely works on one level only. If wordsmiths are magicians who fill your head with incantations and magical spells, John Hughes was a sorcerer supreme: the storyteller not content to give you what you wanted to see and hear, but also eager to tell you what you needed to know about life, and warn you of the tough shit to come.

Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
is John Hughes’s classic piece of proto-slacker cinema. We’ve all thought about ditching for the day at one point or another in our scholastic careers (and likely from our jobs as adults, too), and we’ve all watched as Matthew Broderick bent the rules in pursuit of a little me-time. But while Hughes chiefly wanted to entertain us, I’ve always felt he used
Ferris
to do
more
than tell his
or
our tale; I think he used his flick to send a message to all the geeks who’d follow:
“I’ve cracked the code.”

In
Ferris
, Hughes was trying to communicate simple tenets that, when followed, would offer the happiest, most carefree existence people like
us
could ever require. And by
us
I mean the Breakfast Clubbers. The Weird Scientists. The Pretties in Pink. Generation Hughes, if you will.

I always appreciated the fact that John Hughes somehow made my life a little easier with his words. Hopefully, that’s what
Tough Sh*t
has done for you, dearly beloved, gentle reader. However, if in this tome I’ve thus far failed to provide you with a single useful sentiment or a decent enough road map to help get you through this thing called life, let me point you to
my
sensei. I’ve always been but a Padawan Youngling; the late, great Master Hughes was the
true
Jedi. And like an old Jedi in the sand dunes, he bestowed upon the Luke Skywalker of our collective consciousness the gift of not only a faith we could believe in, but also one fucker of a lightsaber: Buellerism.

Get along with everyone. Strive to be welcomed by all: sportos, motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, wastoids, dweebies, dickheads. Be a righteous dude.


Look out that window. How can you possibly be expected to handle school/work/insert-worry-here on a day like this?


Your parents are clueless, but they love you. And the key to faking them out is the clammy hands.


Lay off your brother; he loves you.


Your sister loves you, but she also knows you’re full of shit.


It is no problem whatsoever to always provide all pertinent information on any given subject.


Stay cool. Remember: When the meek get pinched, the bold survive.


Never condone fascism, or any -ism for that matter. Quote John Lennon often, as he knew what he was talking about: He was the Walrus who never had to bum rides off people.


Never say no to a limo—particularly a nice stretch job with a TV and a bar.


Distrust authority or anyone who has a problem with a little bending of the rules. Only rules you gotta follow are the ones that keep you out of the police station. Otherwise you’ll end up like Charlie Sheen. Sorry—Charlie Sheen’s character.


Gordie Howe was number 9 on the Detroit Red Wings.


Hide in plain sight. Lip-synch in the face of danger.


Always park your own car.


Always lock the garage. And running a car in reverse doesn’t turn the mileage back.


Take some time for yourself every once in a while. At least nine times a year.


If people don’t like your policies, they can smooch your big ol’ white (or other shade) butt. Pucker up, Buttercup.


Play only by the rules if you enjoy gym.


In any game where the score is zero-zero, there’s always a winner: the Bears.


A fifth-grade threat still packs an amazing amount of influence.


Between grief and nothing, take grief.


The Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act raised tariffs in an effort to collect more revenue for the federal government. This was akin to something–d-o-o economics. “Voodoo” economics.


You can’t respect somebody who kisses your ass. It just doesn’t work.


Stay in bed when you’re ill; in your weakened condition, you could take a nasty spill down the stairs and subject yourself to further school absences.


The word
asshole
is French.


Don’t go to college all wound up so tight, or your roommate will kill you.


Don’t let the snooty or the snotty stand in the way of a good time. Let ’em know who you are: Abe Froman—the Sausage King of Chicago.


Youth will always leave the cheese of the old out in the wind.


You can never go too far. But if you’re gonna get busted, don’t let it be by a guy like that.


Don’t live your life like you’re in some kind of museum that’s very beautiful and very cold, where you’re not allowed to touch anything.


Swing, batta.


Les jeux sont faits!


Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.