Itchy Brother
Do you remember your cartoons from childhood? There were so many, but some were so good that they were memorable. Then again, it might have been that we watched them over and over again since the networks had figured out that kids actually liked the repetition and familiarity if bred, as opposed to the adults who scorned re-runs as below-grade entertainment. And in those days, TV advertising was geared to the mothers of America, but those mothers were getting an earful from their cartoon-watching kids. Screen time was not really yet a concern, so watching cartoons over and over seemed like a perfectly good use of a Saturday morning…in fact, it was the preferred activity for kids like me.
The likes of Mickey Mouse, Popeye and Mighty Mouse had already had their day and the new gold standards were Bugs Bunny, The Flintstones, Porky Pig, Road Runner, and, of course, Rocky and Bullwinkle. But there were a whole raft of second-stringers that were pretty damn good as well. They included The Jetsons, Mr. Magoo, Quick Draw McGraw, Yogi Bear (and BooBoo), Top Cat, Huckleberry Hound and Underdog. Every one of these cartoon series had their own ensemble of added characters and a disproportionate number of them (including a few with star billing) were household pets like cats and dogs for obvious reasons, its what kids tended to relate to. And naturally, every series needed its protagonists and antagonists or good guys and bad guys.
As John Candy showed us in Planes, Trains and Automobiles, everyone who grew up in that era knows the music that accompanies these cartoons (“Flintstones, meet the Flintstones…”). The Bugs Bunny Show review potter patter is lodged squarely in our psyches. The Jetsons with its staccato introductions is right there with it. Rocky and Bullwinkle music, while very recognizable is way too hard to sing or whistle. And then there’s Underdog, which for some reason has also stayed with me along with all his pals. You had to like Underdog since we all like underdogs. It’s the only thing to do for us Americans. It must stem from a sense of inferiority we had beat into us by the British way back when.
One of the loyal subjects in the world that Underdog oversaw was Bongo Congo, which clearly represented the entireAfrican continent to the the kids of America. The fearless leader of Bongo Congo was King Leonardo, who must have been named after Mr. DaVinci since Mr. DiCaprio had not even been born. King Leonardo is a good king. As they like to say in Africa, he is a river to his people. But he had his enemies, namely Biggy Rat, who’s name left no room for mistaking his intentions. And then there was Biggy Rat’s best pal, the very brother of King Leonardo, the very evil brother, who went by the name of Itchy Brother.
Itchy Brother is a great name. It invokes so very much, all by itself. A brother, especially a younger brother, is by his very birthright (or technically, the lack thereof) a person who is disadvantaged by the order of his birth and often left with a boatload of resentment and jealousy towards his older, more privileged brother, not to mention indirect resentment to their parents for perpetrating this injustice on them. Amazing that one word can embody so much, but it does. And then modify that word with a great word like itchy and you can almost feel the characterization that the name intends. To be itchy is to be uncomfortable. To be itchy is to be on edge and socially awkward. To be an itchy brother is to be the most unsavory of sorts, scruffy and ill at ease, with larceny in the soul and ill-intent coming out of his pores. Presumably, that is why he was itchy in the first place.
I am not lucky enough to have a brother, older or younger, but the thought of being either William or Harry has often crossed my mind as to how I would feel in either of those positions. I am not entirely sure which position is itchier. I have often said that I would prefer to live below someone than above them. I find myself more troubled by thinking I am hurting or bothering another than by being hurt or troubled by another. That may sound strange to some, but it makes perfect sense to me. I would rather risk being bothered than to be bothered by thinking about being a bother. I don’t know how many people would choose the path I prefer, but I suspect I am not entirely alone on this stand. I guess that means that I would rather be in Harry’s shoes than in William’s. And yet that feels strange to me at the same time. As a natural alpha male it is hard for me not to want to prevail. But there is also something much softer in me that is hard for me to explain. The best I can do is reckon that I learned as a chubby kid without a father, and with a hard-charging mother, that being loved is a challenge. And let’s face it, one is either a person that wants and needs to be loved or a person that doesn’t give a shit in either case. For whatever reason I fall into the first category and that means that as tough as I may have trained myself to be at times, I ultimately always default to wanting and needing to be loved. The question is, does that make me weaker or stronger.
You were probably thinking that I’m going to make a case for saying that I am stronger for wanting to be loved, but that’s not the case. I think it’s more subtle than that. I think wanting and needing to be loved is like humility. Can humility be a sign of strength, or is humility ultimately a weakness? As I ponder this age old question, I am left with the certainty that this is the same place the ancient Greeks found themselves in their Golden Age. There comes a time in every society where things get so good that you worry less about survival and more about your soul. I think that’s where I find myself these days. I may not be wearing a toga, and I may not be contemplating drinking hemlock, but I do find myself sitting around thinking deep thoughts while others in the world are busy, trying to find a wildebeest to go out and slay. These days, I am more likely to run and hide from a wildebeest that I am to go out and confront it and try and slay it. I think that’s just what happens with aging, or at least the aging of what used to be a chubby kid that wants to be loved.
So, like Harry, I have moved to California, I have found my hilltop, and I have become a kinder gentler person… at least until somebody tries to fuck with me. As I write that I find that a pretty funny statement, even though it comes very much off the top of my head and in the moment. I wonder if that’s inconsistent? I’m going to say that it’s not. I think there is a difference between being an active aggressor and being defensive when threatened. In fact, it’s the way I would choose to be and the way I would wish others to be. I guess that makes me a less than itchy brother, or perhaps more brother than itchy.
As I reread this story, I find myself wondering what’s going on with me that I feel the need to share such thoughts. And then I realize, there is a reason why I always start my stories with a title. Yes, no matter how much I rationalize, I must, at my core, be an itchy brother.