Comedy Turned Tragedy on Family Movie Night

When Family Bonding Goes Awry

By Kyle Weber

 

"What are you doing? This is the men's bathroom..."
Mom to my right on the couch in the family room,
Dad on the recliner full attention on the TV screen,
How would I know to prepare for such a scene?
Should I make a break for a popcorn refill?
Maybe sweat it out and stay completely still?
I look down, twiddle my thumbs, the room absent of a word,
Not even a black out could cure something so awkward,
They call it a comedy but I seem to have misplaced my joy,
"I love you, stay golden Ponyboy."

 

 

Tweens and teens alike experience some of the most uncomfortable moments of their lives while in the presence of their family members.  Author, Kyle Weber, addresses said tragedy in his poem "When Family Bonding Goes Awry," from the compilation of poems Life and Times of the Social Caterpillar.  Weber, a family man himself, alludes to his favorite comedy of all time, Step Brothers, to begin and conclude his poem.  The absence of most of the scene's dialogue allows for the first person speaker's interjections of his/her decision making process when posed with a threat of extreme awkwardness.  The author utilizes rhetorical questions in order to exhibit the unease of the child.  As many US teenagers can attest, awkward moments with family increase tenfold per adult family member involved, which requires careful escape routes to avoid such uncomfortable situations.  The speaker brainstorms several potential outs prior to settling for torture.  The speaker's first option: "popcorn refill" (a favorite among experienced young adults) exemplifies the willingness of a child to do things otherwise uncommon to them in order to avoid situations they find unappealing (5).  By posing it in question form however, the author implies the lack of experience the speaker has in the area of avoiding awkward family matters.  The speaker settles for "[sweating] it out" which indirectly characterizes the speaker as lazy which ultimately provides a synecdoche for adolescent children everywhere regarding the magnetic attraction between the seat of their pants and a couch (6).  Although this paints the speaker in a negative light to would-be parental audience members it also displays a willingness to tough out the trials and tribulations of going through the teen years at home.  The speaker seems relatively new to the process of uncomfortable retreat which explains his/her surrender.  "How would I know?" provides minimal ethos for the speaker in said department which ultimately supplies a mistake for audience members to learn from (4).  Moral of the story: Middle school children must learn inconspicuous ways to avoid awkward family encounters, especially during films as the speaker experiences.  Additionally, parents and family can take away from Weber's poem what to do and what not to do as a source of family bonding.  Inappropriate films do not fall under the what to do category.  The poem provides an example of failure, however, families must learn from the speaker's mistake and grow closer without watching movies containing uncomfortable content.

Run It!

Dear Kyle,

Take a break from riding your Razor scooter around the driveway imagining the X Games will add it to their set of events.  They won't.  Instead, turn on some music (not your dad's Sting Fields of Gold album either), turn on some real, bumpin' music.  In your future I foresee an awkward kid with disproportionately large feet that wears Teva shoes everyday.  This skinny tween will awkwardly attend dances and social events throughout middle school and awkwardly stand on the outskirts as friends bunny-hop through the masses of pre-puberty middle schoolers.  Not on my watch.  Call me your Guardian Angel, Dance Mom, Randy Jackson, whatever.  I am here to help.  As your dance-training, confidence-boosting, awkwardness-relinquishing Made coach I know a little about your foot skills (or lack there of).  Ahead of you lie days of posting videos on YouTube of your dancing feet filmed at sleepovers.  Until then you suck at dancing.  Your hips, unlike Shakira's, most definitely lie.  You reluctantly shake your money maker, humps, or laffy taffy.  And never have you snapped yo fingers, shoulder leaned, or leaned wit it and rocked wit it with any intentions of those actions looking like dance moves.  Well guess what.  That won't cut it at the fast approaching sixth grade dance.  And guess what.  Your mom won't splurge to pay for dance lessons with Dick Blake.  Now that I have your attention you will need a mirror, a smooth surface (wood floor, linoleum, tile, or flattened cardboard), and Chris Brown's recently released debut album playing on your purple Walkman.  Feel the beat!  Can you feel it?  Like most white males your rhythm is tragically undeveloped, but you have to understand the beat and the bass of the song.  Nod your head, tap your feet, bring sexyback, anything to help you feel the beat.  Practice makes perfect so feel free to walk to a certain rhythm, stir cake batter with a song in mind, or clap at random in a coordinated pattern.  Once your rhythm has developed the journey to dancing phenom proves much more smooth sailing.  Study film, like MTV (I think they still played music videos back in '06), watch Chris Brown, Justin Timberlake, The Pussycat Dolls and perfect their moves.  In no time your peers will encircle you to your awesome moves to Grillz.  Until then, I plead you to dance, dance (word to Fall Out Boy for that one) until you can't dance anymore.  Believe me, avoiding dancing until eighth grade because of its speculated uncoolness provided me with some uncomfortable encounters throughout my middle school years.  Make adolescence a little less awkward and learn to dance.

Sincerely,
Your Future, Talented Self

The Other Guys

On the sidewalk lie two mirror images.  Alike in their size and age and detail, but wrinkled due to the test of the elements and scuffling of feet.  These figures in the pavement chuckle at the soles of feet that walk over them.  “Big toes?  Ha.  Try opposable thumbs.”  The hands that so naturally etched these prints in the cement have quite the egos, but what one does not realize one always seems to live in the shadow of the other.  The Dominant Hand does exactly as its name implies: dominates.  The other one, the Second Hand, receives a weak characterization in comparison.  Dominant gets all of the attention and all of the glamour.  Authors write with Dominant, quarterbacks throw with Dominant, golfers swing with Dominant, and businessmen shake with Dominant.  Second may get lucky and flip the bird on occasion, dig for some gold, or pick up the dog’s doo-doo with its trusty plastic baggie.  See the roots of jealousy?  As Dominant waves at the crowd during parades, Second wipes the behinds of the carnies at the fair.  How can two things so similar receive such extremely different treatments?  Look down readers and notice the sibling rivalry between the two appendages at the end of your arms.  Pardon the Disney reference but Second might as well receive comparison to Cinderella (pre-glass-slippers of course) and Dominant to her evil stepsisters.  In a world wrapped up in equal opportunity and fairness, each and every person (with the exception of the few oddballs with ambidexterity) has one of the greatest examples of discrimination in the palms of their hands.  Second understands the immorality of suicide so more appropriately wishes for amputation.  “Maybe one day I can shine like Dominant,” but the reality of Second and Dominant’s entire lifetime together dampens the prospect of divorce.  In actuality, Second can hope for only two things: either a severe fracture to one of Dominant’s five metacarpals or the crippling effects of arthritis as a result of overuse.  Until then, put your hands together folks because two hands are always better than one.

Heinen's Extreme Foods

The day starts off putting on the Heinen's grocery uniform.  A blue button-down, khakis, and a pair of slip-resistant, laceless shoes.  The extreme kicks in when I have to button my shirt--the extremely large buttons barely fit in the extremely small holes of my dress shirt.  The final touch to the complete Heinen's uniform: the (extreme) name tag.  Such a simple idea, this name tag, that allows customers to interact with me on a first-name basis, yet so extreme.  The extremely long needle nearly pierces my extremely sensitive pectoral flesh.  It gets extreme-er.  The dash from the parking lot to the store entrance provides an extreme challenge as I dodge moms in mini-vans driving extremely over the speed limit, paying extremely little attention to stop signs, and struggling to the extreme with the difficult concept of pedestrians' right of way.  More extreme awaits.  I punch in at the time clock with extremely few seconds remaining before tardiness.  "Cutting it close Weber," declares my manager.  "Extremely," I reply.  No more fooling around, extreme grocery bagging calls for extreme focus.  "Good afternoon Linda, extreme day we're having."  I put on my game face as my partner in crime, cashier Linda, returns the extremely warm hello.  The items begin flying down the conveyor belt at an extreme rate.  Bagging 101 calls for approximately six items per bag, I chuckle at this extremely inefficient standard as I toss upwards of a dozen items in one bag.  An extreme no-no, more like an extreme slice of innovation.  "What kind of bags mam?" I ask extremely politely.  "How about both?"  I raise my eyebrows, my kind of woman.  "Living on the edge, absolutely," I say extremely approvingly.  The workday continues without any sign of becoming less extreme.  Linda and I nearly vaporize our checkout lane with our extreme scanning and bagging pace.  Fortunately for the cash register and conveyor belt, Manager Tim sends me back to grocery to stock shelves with my extremely high eye-hand-can-of-food coordination.  The aisles wince at the thought of my extreme stocking skills.  Target acquired: Aisle 3A--Mexican, Asian, Kosher--prepare for extreme stocking.  Shelves rumble as I pile can after can, tortilla after tortilla, to extreme heights.  After what seems like an extremely long time of jamming shelves, I hear an extremely loud message over the PA system, "Kyle to the courtesy booth please, Kyle to the courtesy booth."  Like Batman to his spotlight, I race extremely fast to answer the call to help.  "You rang?" I ask extremely.  "Go ahead and clock out.  Go home early."  What an extreme ending to an extreme day.