Ihad an uncle whom I always liked very much and who used the phraseÊWhat the Hell?Êoften and in the best possible way. He was married to my MomÕs oldest sister, and what I liked about him was that when I was just a kid, he spoke to me like an adult, asked me for my opinion on things, and was always thoughtful about what I had said. He always asked what I was reading, or if I was working on my writing very much, and how was it going? I try to emulate his uncle-ing now with my two nieces and two nephews.
HereÕs an example of what I mean by he used the phrase Ôwhat the hellÕ in the best possible way: One time we were in a museum in Washington DC. My Aunt and Uncle took me and my cousin Gene to DC for a few days when were around 12 and 13 years old. I donÕt remember what museum it was, but we were slowly wandering through it when a tour group came by. My uncle and I both stopped and listened to the tour guide for a moment, and then, as the group moved off, he said to me ÒLetÕs join up with this tour. I mean, what the hell?Ó
I like this use of ÔWhat the hell?Õ The way you use it as an interjection to justify doing something when you canÕt really think of a good reason for doing it. It throws a tiny bit of caution to the wind, and gives you that bridge to action you might need. A little bump. Sometimes a shove. Want to have a costume party? What the hell? Why not? You usually donÕt need an answer when you use what the hell like this. Instead, you need to gas up the car for a road trip.
The other sense of What the hell? is as an interrogative question, a vehement way to ask what exactly is going on?Ñ?What the hell? or, expanded ÒWhat the hell is going on?Ó I donÕt think this form of the question is looking for an answer either. I think instead itÕs a way to express what not-understanding something is making you feel: frustrated, perhaps. Angry. Afraid. Famously, and tellingly, when the current President called for his controversial and, frankly, racist ban on Muslim immigration, he used this form of the question, saying the ban would be in effect ÒÉuntil we figure out just what in the hell is going on?Ó
IÕm not a fan of this President, just so you know, and if you are, thatÕs fine, we can still be friends. I sure donÕt want to take this show down a political rabbit hole. But I recognize in his phrasing?Ñ?just what in the hell is going on?Ñ?his sense of anger, or frustration, or fear: What in the hell is going on? ButÊWhat the hell, while a great justification for doing something spontaneous like joining a tour or having a party or taking a road trip, is a pretty paltry foundation, I think, when itÕs trying to justify a national policy on immigration.
The reaction, in many circles (or at least the ones I roll in), to this policy pronouncement (and others) has been the now ubiquitous WTF? Internet shorthand for What the Fuck? which I learned traces its origins to Usenet groups back in the mid-1980s. WTF more or less seems to mean ÒI cannot believe what is happening at this moment?Ó Or, some even stronger form of incredulity. It tends to be used almost exclusively in a negative context. Marc MaronÕs same-named podcast WTF is renowned for its fantastic interviews with interesting people, but Maron himself says he was having a good deal of personal issues when he first started (and named) the show, and that his first 100 episodes are Òmostly me talking to celebrities about my problems.Ó
WTF?
The thing that I want to say is that when Ôwhat the hellÕ is considered ample justification for complex policy, then weÕre definitely living in a WTF world. And there arenÕt any signs of it letting up. The time when irony seemed to capture how we felt about things seems quaint, now, and antiquated. We sped past outrage years ago, and now we find ourselves at WTF. And hereÕs the thing: weÕre still going. While I donÕt know what will replace our WTF moment, I do know that we donÕt yet seem to be anywhere near peak disbelief.
I think weÕre missing something in between What the hell and WTF. I really do. Something that expresses the sense of wonder and surprise that can underpin pleasant disbelief. For example, in my pantry at home, I have a button installed. When I notice the dog food getting low in the bin, I press the button and two days later, a 50-lb bag of dog food shows up on my doorstep.
WTF? I know, right? WTF doesnÕt fit this experience at all. And What the Hell is what I said when I was thinking through the environmental consequences of packing and shipping that 50lb bag right to my house. Ahh. What the hell. Get the button. ItÕs only five bucks. Sorry, Earth.
I suppose that here I should address the use of the phraseÊWhat the What?Êand expose it for what I believe it to be: bad writing created to mollify a network censor or standards and practices department somewhere. If you find yourself using what the what, ever, just, please, just stop it.
My Uncle used to take long walks in the morning along the Chicago shoreline. And by morning, I mean 5 am and by long I mean 5-plus miles at a super-brisk pace.
Once, when I was 12 and staying with my Aunt and Uncle overnight, he invited me to go along the next morning and I said Ôsure.Õ. I struggled to keep pace with him, to be honest, and when we got back to their apartment, I sat down on the couch and promptly fell asleep in a seated position. My uncle took a picture of me sleeping like so with Kodak Disc camera and once it was developed, put it on his refrigerator. He thought it was hilarious.
I never developed the same walking habit he had. Walks through the suburb where I live, though pretty, have an awful lot of sameness to them. But I have on occasion taken long walks when a work problem wouldnÕt rest in my brain. IÕm sure I looked insane, traipsing down the sidewalk talking aloud to nobody, waving my hands about. But the walk helps quiet the part of my mind that was shouting so loud that I couldnÕt hear the part of my mind that can work on the problem. Walt Whitman was a fan of walks for this purpose, as was Wordsworth. So you know, thatÕs auspicious writing, what with the three of us there together in one sentence: Walt Whitman, William Wordsworth and me, Pete Brown. Three peas in a pod.
But my Uncle really seemed driven on his walks. He didnÕt have the gait of someone letting their mind wander through the morass. And IÕll note, he didnÕt wear workout clothes for his morning stroll. An old pair of dress shoes, slacks and sweater maybe, and that was it. Professionally, he was a commercial realtor, so it may be he used his walks to organize the daysÕ calls in his mind, but even this is just my supposition. I really donÕt know the first thing about what a workday was like in the 1980s for a commercial realtor in Chicago. IÕm guessing it involved a lot of phone calls, but, I mean, what the hell?
The other thing my uncle did was argue with me about the Chicago Bears and the Cleveland Browns, and which team was better at any given time. It was a fun argument, the kind I could have at 12 with a grownup at a holiday party and not get too stressed out about it. Over the years, he would send me clippings from the newspapers when the Bears were doing well, or more likely, when the Browns were not. HeÕd underline sentences which were always well-wrought turns of phrase.
Looking back, IÕm not sure he if was teaching me about sports or about writing. Because I remember telling him early on that I wanted to be a writer, and he nodded and said that he knew IÕd be a good one and that I should write at least an hour a day and see what happens. I mean, he said, what the hell?
I have to admit this hour-a-day thing is something IÕve never been too good at. In college and graduate school and on into my adult life, I was a streaky guy. I might write for 10 or 12 hours a week, but usually in one or two sittings. And then, long stretches where my attention was otherwise occupied. Switching gears was always tough for me, and an hour into writing something, I felt like I was just getting stuck back in, and no way was I ready to hop back out. I mentioned this to a writing prof I had as an undergrad, and her advice to me was to start each hour by retyping the last two pages I had written the previous day. It was something she did (on an actual typewriter, by the way, that she used sitting on the floor) to get back into the world of the piece more quickly.
ThatÕs sound advice too, I guess, but IÕve never done it. 22-year-old me sure as hell wasnÕt going to do it?Ñ?RE-type something I had already written? Are you insane?
But since starting this podcast, this hour-a day thing has become more or less real for me, itÕs the only way I can piece these episodes together. Most weeks, IÕm getting in at least three hours, typically where my lunch should be. Sometimes big projects at work take this time away from, and sometimes I find ways to get it back.
If you donÕt remember much about the 1985 Chicago bears, honestly, youÕre missing out. They were a fun group of oddballs who came this close to an undefeated season en route to routing the New England Patriots in the Super Bowl in January 1986. If names like William Ôthe RefrigeratorÕ Perry, Walter Payton, Samurai Mike Singletary donÕt ring a bell,Êjust head to YouTube and type in ÔSuper Bowl Shuffle.Õ YouÕll see what I mean.
That was a tough year to be arguing for the Cleveland Browns, even though at 8Ð8 we had somehow eeked out the AFC Central title and made the playoffs, only to lose in the first round to Miami. I can remember trying to stay safely away from sports as a conversation topic when my Aunt and Uncle visited that year. IÕm sure he got some good-natured teasing in, and I probably rolled with it. If you listened to season one of the show, you might have the impression that teasing is something I struggle with, and youÕre right. 14-year-old me had a hard time distinguishing good-natured teasing from the playground beat downs I endured in grade school. Sometimes 47-year-old me has this same problem, if IÕm being honest, which is, after all, the whole point of this show.
Now I always liked the Super Bowl as a kid. It was the day of the year when my Dad bought the good snacks. IÕm talking GenoÕs pizza rolls and Doritos and Chex Mix. Usually, I ate so many snacks that it ended up just counting for my dinner.
This is a tradition I try to maintain with my kidsÉrunning out to the grocery store Sunda morning and just loading up the cart with all manner of snackage. I go way overboard, truth be told, but I justify it by saying to myself ÒIÕm a grown-ass man!Ó
ÒIÕm a grown-ass man,Ó much like What the Hell, is a generic justifier, one meant to communicate that IÕm doing something thatÕs against my own self-interest, am fully aware of this fact, and basically saying itÕs OK because IÕm a grown up. Usually, I say it when I buy a bunch of sugar cereals, although when I was younger (and not much of a grown-ass man at all), it was used to justify things like the Screaming KickinÕ Chicken, which was a shot you could order at this one bar in my college town. It was 151 proof rum, Wild Turkey and Tabasco sauce. Trust me, grown-ass man or not, you donÕt want to do that to your insides.
The Bears played the New England Patriots in the 1985 Super Bowl. It was the first Super Bowl appearance for either team, although the Bears, who were only the second team to win 5 games in an NFL season, were 10 point favorites over the Pats, who snuck into the playoffs last Wild Card spot and had to win three playoff games on the road to get to the big game.
10 points is a pretty big line for a Super Bowl. It basically predicts the Bears would win by at least 2 scores. I was pulling for the Pats, mostly because I knew my uncle would call just as soon as the Bears won, but it was clear early on that the Oddsmakers in Vegas greatly underestimated Chicago. While the Bears were only up 23Ð3 at the half, New EnglandÕs offense had managed a grand total of -19 yards! Basically, they were going the wrong way.
I had seen enough. After halftime, passing up the prospects of more snacks, I headed down into our houseÕs unfinished basement, where I spent time taking apart my ten speed. I honestly donÕt recall why I was taking my bike apart that winter. There was nothing wrong with it. I think I just wanted to understand how it worked, but taking it apart only served nominally in that capacity. And as you might suspect, I never got it put back together.) When I got bored of this, I strapped some old rollerskates to my shoes and skated haltingly around the basement. If youÕre of a certain age, you know what kind of skates IÕm talking about here. If you have no clue what IÕm talking about, just Bing Òvintage roller skatesÓ and youÕll see what I mean. (Also, shout out to my old peeps at Microsoft with that Bing reference. Good times.)
By the way?Ñ?have you ever seen the documentaryÊThe Queen of Versaille? ItÕs about Jackie and David Siegel, who were building the largest and most expensive single-family residence in the US when the economic crisis hit in 2008. For some reason, I took my kids, 10 and 12 at the time, to see it in the theater. What they remember most about it, other than feeling like going to see a complex financial documentary in a theater was some sort of punishment, was that this house was supposed to have its own roller rink in it. Whoa!
Our basement was no roller rink, but it was a smooth concrete floor and you could kind of go in a circle around the stairs. And when the Super Bowl ended (the Bears won, 46Ð10, by the way) and I heard the house phone ringing, I shut off the lights and sat still and quiet in the cubby under the stairs as my sisters answered and began shouting my name, my uncle undoubtedly on the line waiting to shout an exuberant ÔHOW ÔBOUT THEM BEARS?Õ across the long-distance connection.
If you donÕt know what long distance was, my millennial friends, itÕs kind of hard to explain. See, you used to have to pay more money for phone calls the farther away the two parties were. So if you ever got on a long distance call, like on the holidays with distant relatives, you basically got in two words before your Dad hissed Ôhurry up, itÕs long distance!Õ
Once, when I was about 10, my cousins in Chicago had called us long distance in Cleveland, and the big news we had to share was that we had gotten our first dog, Blondie. So I shared this news and then said Ôhang on, IÕll put her on,Ó and set the phone down and chased after the new dog, picked her up, put the phone by her ear and entreated her to bark. And when my Dad put 2 and 2 together as to what I was doing putting a Lhasa Apso on the phone for a long distance phone call, his head just about exploded.
So I successfully dodged my Uncle the night the Bears won the Super Bowl and looking back, I honestly feel bad about it. I wish 14-year old me would have manned up, taken the receiver and let him have his moment, instead of cowering in the dark in the little space below the stairs in our basement, squeaky ass skates strapped helplessly to my shoes.
But you do what you can do, you know? So I didnÕt take the call. After I was sure the call was ended, I snuck back upstairs and ate the rest of the GenoÕs Pizza Rolls, which werenÕt warm anymore, but thatÕs ok, 15-year-old me liked them this way. So does 47-year-old me.
There are only two things I need to tell you about the 1986 Chicago Bears, the season following their big Super Bowl win. The first is that their quarterback, Jim McMahon, showed up to training camp 25 pounds overweight, because of what Wikipedia says is Òthe partying he did after the Super Bowl.Ó
I mean, can I just say, 25 pounds? What the heck kind of party was he at? How long did it go on? And most importantly, did they have pizza rolls there? (I bet they did) I bet Mcmahon ate nothing but pizza rolls for, like, 18 weeks. Damn. 25 lbs.
The other item of note is that in September of 1986, the Bears opened their post-Super Bowl NFL regular season by hosting the Cleveland Browns.
Yeah.
And while the Browns of that year were arguably on-the-rise, and would go on to finish the year at 12Ð4, win their division and come within one game of the making it to the Super Bowl (fricking Elway). So yeah, those Browns were pretty good.
But they stumbled through their opener against the Bears, who rode a 100-yard, two touchdown performance from Walter Payton to a 41Ð31 victory. I was watching the game with my buddies, which was kind of a new thing for me, instead of watching it with my Dad, which had been my practice. It was fun to watch with my friends, and at halftime, weÕd go outside and throw a football around. Only, the thing is, no pizza rolls.
In any case, by the time I got home that evening, there were no phone calls from my Uncle. So I went to bed thinking, itÕs all good.
Now, before I go further, I want to ask you some things about your high school for a minute.
Like did they have morning announcements? I mean, of course, they probably did, right? I mean, unless you were homeschooled, but then again, maybe homeschoolers have morning announcements? But did kids at your school read them, or were they done by, like, an over-eager vice principal? At our school, the kids did it. We called ourself WHSB, and one guy played intro and outro music from a cassette tape while the VO talent rolled through the announcements. It was a pretty slick production for the time. I remember when some of the death metal kids in my study hall learned that I was one of the music-playing guys for the announcements, and so they started giving me tapes and asking me to play their stuff. I felt kind of cool, like a tastemaker of sorts, but after I played aÊTestamentÊsong one day, someone left a note taped to the tape player that said ÒNo more death metal.Ó
If someone didnÕt show up on time in the morning, I got to read the announcements too. IÕm kind of ashamed of this next part, but when I came across a name I couldnÕt pronounce, I would make up something ridiculous sounding, which I thought was a hilarious strategy, but again, looking back, I can see what a huge dick move that was. Jesus. Just sound it out, teenage Pete. Do your fucking best and honor the slightly-different last name. So, Fauzia and Naveed Ishanulla, if youÕre listening, IÕm so very sorry for how I mangled your names. You didnÕt deserve that. I was a total dick.
In the afternoon, about 5 minutes before the final bell, we had Òafternoon announcements.Ó YouÕd be finishing up your last period and youÕd hear ÒBing-bongÉthenÉplease excuse the interruption, but there are a few announcements at this time.Ó
The afternoon announcements were mostly things like bus changes, after-school activity changes, and sometimes, something important that didnÕt make it on in the morning.
There was no music in the afternoon announcements, but it was usually two seniors who got out of study hall that got to read them. (In fact, I got this job when I was a senior. I think it was a deal where they couldnÕt find literally anyone else. Sometimes my friend Jacque (whose real name is Jay, but we had French class together where he was called Jacque, which is mostly how I remember him today), sometimes he did them with me. One day we tried to sing the announcements to the tune of theÊGilliganÕs Island theme song. The next day, when we got to the little announcements room, then someone had taped a note to the mic that said ÒNo more singing.Ó
ItÕs tough being an innovator.
But that was senior year me, who already had plenty of credits to graduate and had filled my schedule with art and shop classes. And this story is mostly about 15-year-old me, tenth grade, who was sitting in a sixth-period study hall (sixth period of a nine-period day). I remember that study hall in particular because instead of doing my homework, I spent days working on an epic poem/song about a garbageman named Dan, and then spent most of my time in there illustrating it in blue pen.
Of this seminal work, I can only now recall the chorus, which went:
HeÕs a man. A man named Dan! His best friend! Is a garbage can!
My high school at the time was 10th, 11th and 12th grade, so as a sophomore, I was low man on the totem pole. And just a few weeks into the year, IÕm sitting in this study hall, working away happily on my graphic poem/song/novel when the loudspeaker does itÕs bing-bong-bing. And we all looked up, because, you know, it was only sixth period. Not even close to afternoon announcements time.
Then our vice principal came on. I remember he cleared his throat right into the mic, which you know, the music guy usually told you not to do. Then he said this:
ÒTeachers, please send Peter Brown down to the office. Peter Brown down to the office, please. Teachers. Thank you.Ó
Honestly, it didnÕt register that he was talking aboutÊme. For a full second, I thought, I wonder whatÊthat guyÊdid. Then I noticed the whole study hall looking at me. And I looked back at them. Then our study hall teacher, Herr Franz, who was the German teacher, pointed her long arm at the door and said ÒRaus.Ó
She didnÕt actually say this in German. My modern day memory wants to add that here, but most likely, she just said ÒPeter: pack up your things and go.Ó
So I stood up and started gathering up my books, and someone on the other end of the room went ÒOoooooooooohÓ and this quickly spread across the rows of students, until Ms. Franz snapped ÒHšr auf.Ó
Actually, she said Òstop it,Ó and as I opened the door to the hallway, was adding an ÒI mean it!Ó to her entreaty.
The door closed, and I was in the hallway all alone. It had that odd quiet of a school hallway during classes. Ms. Franz had not given me a pass, but I guess the school-wide announcement probably had me covered. And I walked through the slanting afternoon light down the hall to the main stairs, then down the stairs, past the senior bench, and into the main office. I always thought the office had a heavy door, but it seemed unusually so on this day.
I stepped into the office and the vice principal was waiting for me with his arms crossed.
I need to make a quick aside here: the Vice Principal was a man named Dale Diddle. I knew him mostly by sight. IÕd see him almost every morning, after doing announcements. He wore thick glasses with slightly shaded lenses, and he liked to press the button to ring the bell between classes. I think this was in general automated, but he liked to do it manually. One day he came to our sixth-period study hall and yelled at us for talking and being out of control. And he would yell the first part of a sentence, and then drop into a normal voice for the second part. Like ÒWE WILL NOT TOLERATE TALKING anymore.Ó It was kind of disconcerting. Also, it did very little to dissuade that study hall from being pretty chatty.
The reason I am telling you about Mr. Diddle is that after he was our Vice Principal, he moved on to a life of crime. And itÕs such a weird story that if I left it out of this episode, anyone who remembers him and heard of his post-Westlake High School felony convictions for things like credit card fraud and identity theft would surely email me straight away like ÒYou heard what happened with Mr. Diddle, right?Ó So I should at least mention it, even though it hasnÕt any bearing (as far as I can tell) onÊthisÊparticular story.
Anyway, Mr. DiddleÕs story is a crazy-weird story, and Cleveland Scene magazine devotedÊa huge amount of space to it in a 2003 issue. IÕll put the link to it in the show notes if youÕre interested.
On this day, though, in 1986, Mr. Diddle, for all I know, was just a vice-principal, a near-sighted educator who liked ringing the bell between classes. And he stood there in the office with his arms crossed, and when I came in, he asked: ÒAre you Peter?Ó
ÒYes,Ó I said.
Then he nodded to the space over by the teacher mailboxes, where an older white guy with gray hair stood. He was wearing what looked like a MemberÕs Only jacket and a blue oxford.
ÒPeter Brown?Ó he asked.
ÒYup,Ó I said.
ÒWestern Union,Ó he said.
ÒOK?Ó I said.
ÒThis is for you,Ó he said, handing me an envelope. I think he made me sign my name on a sheet of paper on a clipboard before he left.
The envelope looked like any other business letter envelope. There was a Western Union logo for the return address. A clear window, through which I saw the address, which consisted of my name, Westlake High School, Westlake, Ohio.
ÒAre you going to open it?Ó Mr. Diddle asked.
I nodded and tore off the end of the envelope. I pulled out a thin piece of paper, almost like the kind of paper you used to buy to send international letters on because it was thinner and lighter than regular paper. It had Western Union letterhead at the top and a few lines of all-caps type that looked like they had been printed by a dot-matrix printer.
ÒEverything OK?Ó Mr. Diddle asked me as I looked it over.
ÒUh-huh,Ó I said, and then noticed him looking at me expectantly.
So I cleared my throat, held the paper up and read it out loud.
ÒDEAR PETER. STOP. HOW BOUT THEM BEARS? STOP. JRB.Ó
JRB were my UncleÕs initials. He had, in point of fact, just sent me a telegram. At school. A Western Union telegram. And I had to admit, that was a pretty slick move. He later told me you didnÕt need to add ÒstopÓ to indicate a line breaks by this point n telegram history, but he had done so just for added effect.
Mr. Diddle furrowed his brow after I read the telegram out loud.
ÒWhat the hell?Ó he said.
ÒI know, right?Ó I said. ÒItÕs from my uncle. HeÕs a Bears fan. they just beat the Browns.Ó
ÒOh,Ó said Mr. Diddle, shaking his head. I donÕt think I had adequately explained things to him, but it seemed like he was ready to sign this off to Òweird sports fansÓ and likely deciding that me receiving telegrams at school was probably a one-off, he said ÒGet back to class,Ó and turned and walked down the hallway.
I have to admit that this is one of those stories that just gets better over time. I mean, was it odd to get a telegram at school, even though telegrams were technically a thing in the world by that point? Yeah, sure. But in the massive communications revolution that was soon to follow, telegrams were an early casualty. Western Union delivered its last one in 2006, but I have to believe the business wasnÕt too brisk once we had fax machines and email.
And I think of all of my friends from high school. And our older and younger siblings. And our kids. And their friends. And I think: I am willing to betÊnot a single one of themÊhas ever received a telegram. Period, whether at school or not at school. TheyÕve never had to sign their names on a clipboard in order to read a few dot-matrix printed words on an extra thin sheet of paper.
So while my Uncle was delivering the 1986-equivalent of a sick burn, post-win trash talk-a-gram, he also gave me an experience that no one else I know has ever had, nor likely ever will have. And yeah, itÕs just a telegram, right, no big deal. But also, itÕs a freaking telegram, am I right? Delivered to me at school, during sixth-period study hall.
I mean, what the hell?
Right?
What the hell?
What the hell.