. . . and then there was pickle.

I am a professional actor. I have a gift.

For years I did what I have come to express as, “running from my own personal trailer park.” As I became more educated and exposed to the various strata of society I became immensely insecure about my own behavior and knowledge.

To compensate for this I studied the behavior of the elite. I spent four years driving a limo while my acting career was getting started studying the way they, and every level of ‘wanna be’, interacted with each other.

I befriended several people of 'trust fund descent' along the way to show that I wasn’t just a court jester, but had the potential to become a Homer; that I too had the potential to be allowed to step out of my meager upbringing into the privileged class.

The truth is that I would sooner cut my penis off with a broken bottle of Glenlivet than have to play that game on a daily basis.

When I learned how to speak without saying and order the next round on me - I discovered the horrible fact of the dehumanization of culture. I have been given a glorious gift by my parents: the barbaric yawp.

At some point I came to a prophetic acceptance of self, and a surreal understanding that I have something that none of them can buy – a sense of peace, or at leats that's what I tell myself while balancing my checking account.

A former board member of my company, who worked in the Carter administration, told me a very funny story, which hinged on the punch line of, “just look them in the eyes like you know that they don’t belong here either.”

Since that period I have had a great deal of fun toying with the models of those I come into contact with. Somehow I have repeatedly found myself in circles and environments that expose me to situations where ‘the game’ is in full effect.

I have traveled Europe, and most all the major playgrounds of the US. I enjoy breaking the mold. Not in the Rodney Dangerfield ‘Caddyshack’ extreme, but in the subtlety of stepping in and out of the rules.

I can discuss any subject intelligently: art, politics, business, music, literature, history, you name it . . . I know it. I can also drop cuttingly rude and offensive witticisms in ways that would make Oscar Wilde blush.

This week we went going to Hilton Head. There are some rich people there.

It is my first emersion in elitism since becoming a father, and I wonder what my instinctive reaction will be. Will I blend in, or toy with the system?

I know that my relationship with society will be a great factor in the development of The Pickle’s identity. I want her to be comfortable in whatever social situations she will eventually find herself in.

One of the things my father did to me as a child in preparation for socialization was to embarrass me in every possible social situation. Whether consciously or not he went out of his way to break people out of their routines. He would flirt with waitresses while sitting at the table with wife and kids. He would tell raunchy jokes at the most inappropriate moments.

I still can’t figure out if this tactic worked for me or not. I know I was miserable then. But I don’t think he thought about whether or not it would make me more comfortable or not, and as I have gotten older I now know your comfort in public is most determined by your comfort with self.

He’s the real question – Was it for my benefit at all, or was it my dad just being my dad? I have a funny feeling he wasn’t doing it for me at all, but for him and the waitresses.

The same shit I do – at a different level, but for the same effect. We both like to drop the turd in the punchbowl; in spite of the fact that we know better.

So who knows if The Pickle will be a consideration as I venture forth into taking her into the valley of the shadow of civility, but I do know it matters - which I think is more than my father did.

And if you’re in Hilton Head this week, I’m the one with the white socks in "Prata" slippers (thank you MD) wearing the Whitesnake T-shirt. (and I don’t even like Whitesnake)

Pickle’s Papa