Childhood Memories

Lest anyone think I became such a cynical prick only because of my professional life, the seeds of my insanity were planted long, long ago. I came home at around 8:30 tonight and turned on a hockey game. During the game, I saw a commercial about the whole digital TV in 2009 thing. There was a picture of an old-school television shown, which made me think of one of my earliest and (still) funniest tech support situations. Even as a child, I was the "tech guy," helping friends, relatives, friends of relatives and relatives of friends. Even in my young, innocent years, I had a great appreciation for the stupidity of those around me and the absurdity of the situations they dragged me into.

The Backstory:

One of my best friends through childhood and into my teenage years was a kid that lived a block away from me. We met on the first day of kindergarten and were inseparable from that point on...until I got to college and realized that this putz was bringing me down. This kid was "special" (in the short bus sense). So much so that, when we were about 10, I stopped using his name and just referred to him as "ShitHead." I haven't spoken to ShitHead in almost 8 years, so it's a little tough to describe him. The best I can do is a hybrid of Beavis, Butthead and Napoleon Dynamite. I've got volumes of stories from the ShitHead years, but I'm saving most of them for whenever I can muster up the chutzpah (balls, for those of you who require translation) to sign up for open mic night at a comedy club. If I can weave these stories into the more recent tales of my comically pathetic life, I think it would kill. Anyway, there's at least one technical trauma from the ShitHead years; one that I hadn't thought about in quite some time, that was triggered by that picture of that old TV on that commercial during that hockey game...

When we were 13, ShitHead's father wanted a "big screen" TV. Mr. "Head" asked me to come with them to the mall to help them pick a good one, and they went home with a brand new 32" Sony Trinitron (this was the early 90's - 32" was friggin huge for that time). The biggest TV in my house at the time was a whopping 20 inches, so I was naturally jealous of ShitHead, Mr. and Mrs. Head and their new tele. This shopping trip took place on a Saturday morning. I had a baseball game that afternoon so I couldn't go back to their house to help them set it up. I was able to channel my jealousy into a 3 for 4 afternoon with two doubles and a victory for my team (we finished 3 and 11 that year, so every victory was sweet). I was home that night watching a baseball game with my father when, around 8:30, the phone rang...it was ShitHead.

He asked me to turn on HBO for a second...the game was going to commercial for a pitching change, so I flipped. Saw a few people standing in an apartment lobby talking and wondered what was so great about this. ShitHead proceeded to ask me if the people on my TV were speaking Spanish - they weren't. He said they were on his TV, and that he spent 20 minutes on the phone with the cable company, who couldn't help him. He wondered if I could come over and try to fix it. I asked my parents if I could go and they said it was fine, so my mother walked me over to SH's house a block away (I grew up in a semi-crappy neighborhood, raised by two sickeningly over-protective people). I get to ShitHead's house, walk into the living room to see SH sitting on the floor, about 18 inches from the screen. Mrs. Head is sitting on the couch, eating popcorn and Mr. Head is in his recliner, eating an english muffin pizza (I said they were some strange people). I hadn't actually looked at the TV just yet, as I hadn't heard this mysterious Spanish dialog. I'm trying to get ShitHead to explain to me what happened when I hear a couple of words in Spanish before a cut...

To a naked Sharon Stone, masturbating in the bathtub, with strange Spanish words dubbed over her moaning. Apparently this movie that ShitHead was watching with the folks was that cinematic masterpiece Sliver.

I'm 13 years old...female nudity of any kind is supposed to be a highlight. At that point in my life, the only thing I was aware of that could ruin the mystique of televised breasts was the presence of a parent. I then realized there was something more uncomfortable, much more uncomfortable than televised nudity in the presence of a parent...being called to a friend's house to fix his TV, standing in his living room, with his parents and my mother, while a washed up actress diddles herself on a giant screen.

ShitHead couldn't divert his attention from the wonders of what was on the TV, so I grabbed the remote off the floor, pressed the SAP button and Sharon started moaning in English, like she was supposed to.

I left to go back to my baseball game, scarred for life, without so much as a thank you. Looking back on it, ShitHead didn't really say much of anything while I was there fixing his TV...the only sounds I remember were "huh huh...huh huh huh...boobs...huh huh...thingies...huh huh huh" on what seemed like an endless loop. Yes, he really was that stupid.

Of course, I was friends with this numbnut for about 15 years...which one of us was really the ShitHead?