Here's the Story . . . of a Man Named Tony

Throughout television history there've been many examples of model fathers.  Some, like Andy Taylor and Ward Cleaver, were models of kindness and understanding while others would better serve as an example of how NOT to raise a family.  Homer Simpson and Al Bundy come immediately to mind.  Generally speaking, though, every TV dad was more or less a perfect match for his particular family.  Sure, Al Bundy was an idiot, but so were his wife and kids.  Ward Cleaver was a great father, and his family reflected that.

So whaddaya say we have a little fun here?  What if we took one of our favorite TV families and replaced their father with the dad from a different show entirely?  I mean, how would the Brady kids have turned out if their father was, say, Tony Soprano?

Remember the episode of the Brady Bunch where a bully named Buddy Hinton picked on Cindy for talking with a lisp?  "Baby talk, baby talk, it's a wonder you can walk," he'd say, sending poor Cindy home in tears.  One afternoon, on their way home from Clinton Avenue Elementary School, Peter decided to stand up for his little sister, telling Buddy to knock it off.  Buddy then said to Peter, "why don't you make me?" and ended up kicking Peter's ass.  Peter and Cindy went home with their tails between their legs, and told their father what had happened.  Being an unrealistically optimistic pacifist, Mike Brady tried to reason with Buddy's father, with no success.  But how would Tony Brady (formerly Soprano) have handled the situation?

We pick up the scene in the Brady family room, with Peter and Cindy talking to their father. 

TONY: Whoa, what the fuck happened to your face, Pete?

PETER: I got in a fight with Buddy Hinton.

TONY: A fight over what?

PETER: He was making fun of Cindy.

TONY: Is that right.

CINDY: Yeth, Daddy.  He wath making fun of my lithp.  He thaid I thound like a baby.

TONY: That's why I told your mother to take you to the fuckin' speech therapist.  Haven't ya been going?

CINDY: Mommy thaid not to tell you we've been going to the mall inthtead of the thpeech clatheth.  That would be tattling.

TONY: I'll deal wit' your mother later.  So Peter, dis Hinton character, I might wanna have a word wit' his fuckin' father.  You happen to know where he lives?

PETER: The Hintons live over on Sherwood Avenue, it's the blue house with the cobblestone driveway.  I can show you if you want.

CINDY: Can I go too, Daddy?  I want to thee you talk to Mithter Hinton.

TONY: No, Cindy, you better stay here wit' Alice.  Let's go, Pete, we gotta stop by and pick up Silvio and Christopher and then we'll have a little chat wit' dat douchebag's old man.

Tony and Peter make a quick stop at Brady Bing, the strip club Tony owns and manages.  Peter repeats the whole story to Tony's consiglieri Silvio Dante and lower-level associate Christopher Moltisanti.  They drive over to the Hintons' place and Tony rings the doorbell. 

MR. HINTON (opening the door): Who the hell are you greaseballs?

Silvio busts Mr. Hinton in the temple with the butt-end of his .44-caliber pistol, and then unleashes a knee to the stugots (that's mob talk for "nuts").  Hinton crumples to the ground, where Christopher and Sil proceed to kick him repeatedly in the ribs. 

TONY: Get the fuck up, ya fuckin' fanook.  Chris, Sil, help him out.

Christopher and Sil lift the semi-conscious Hinton to his feet and hold him upright. 

TONY: Where's your kid?

HINTON: Humph?

TONY: Your son Buddy.  Get him out here.  He should see this.

HINTON (groaning): Buddy!  Come down here for a minute!

Buddy hustles down the stairs. 

BUDDY: What is it Da - aaaaah!  What's going on?

TONY: Hi Buddy.  So I hear youse been makin' fun of my little girl Cindy.  Is that right?

BUDDY: NO!  I NEVER SAID ANYTHING TO HER!

Tony pulls out his own pistol and fires a bullet into Mr. Hinton's thigh.  Christopher punctuates this with an elbow to Hinton's mouth. 

TONY (to Mr. Hinton, who is moaning in pain): You might wanna explain to your kid dat he should probably tell da truth in dis situation.

HINTON (pulling out what's left of his broken front teeth): Buthy . . . jutht tell Mither Brady duh trooth . . .

PETER: Gee, Mr. Hinton, you sure talk funny!

Christopher and Sil chuckle softly, and drop Mr. Hinton who curls up in a fetal position on the living room floor. 

BUDDY: Okay, okay, I've been teasing Cindy, but I was only playing around.  I didn't mean to hurt her feelings.  I'll never do it again, I promise.

TONY: Whaddaya tink, Peter?  Does Buddy sound like he's sorry?  Or do you tink he might need a little more, how should we say dis, um, encouragement?

PETER: He's been doing it for a while, Dad, and remember he did punch me in the face.

TONY: Right, I almost forgot about dat.  Christopher, go get da baseball bat from da trunk.

CHRISTOPHER: You got it, T.

Christopher exits, then returns a moment later wielding a 33-ounce Louisville Slugger, Jorge Posada model. 

CHRISTOPHER: T, you're not gonna ask me to beat up a kid, are ya? 

TONY: No, of course not.  Give da bat to Peter.

Peter takes the bat and without a word, rams it knob-first into Buddy's mouth.  Then, in one swift motion, he swings low, dislocating the younger Hinton's right knee.  Buddy falls to the ground next to his father, crying. 

BUDDY: I'm thorry!  I'm thorry!  I'm thorry!

PETER (to Buddy): Baby talk, baby talk, it'll be a while till you can walk.  C'mon Dad, let's get the fuck outta here.

TONY: Dat's my boy.

Tony, Peter, Silvio, and Christopher leave the house, leaving Buddy and his dad lying on the floor bleeding.

We're not even going to discuss what would happen to Mike Brady if he somehow had to take over the Soprano family.


d

Gene Simmons is Not a Satanist

"Paul Stanley is sick of KISS." - Paul Rudd, Role Models

I was in fifth grade when the the rock supergroup KISS exploded upon the American music scene in 1975, amid smashing guitars and blistering pyrotechnics. KISS actually formed in '73, but it wasn't until the release of the album Alive! that they became the pop culture/glam rock Gods that they remain to this very day.

Because of the timing, I went directly from being a fan of the Brady Bunch to a Love Gun-wielding soldier in the KISS Army. One would think that I could've transitioned through some sort of pop culture halfway house, say, the Partridge Family or the Bay City Rollers, but no. It was "Sunshine day, everybody's smilin'" one day, "It's cold gin time again" the next. It's probably a good thing the Bradys and KISS never overlapped in the public consciousness, because the Brady Bunch episode featuring Davy Jones would've had a whole different dynamic if the ex-Monkee had been replaced by circa 1975 Gene Simmons. I doubt Mrs. Brady would've been so enthusiastic about her daughter's "prom date".

After much begging and cajoling, my parents bought me the Alive! album for Christmas. I don't think my father had ever heard KISS's music at this point, he was more the Roger Miller "King of the Road" type, but KISS's Kabuki-makeup and blood-spitting, fire-breathing antics caused him to make some grossly unfair assumptions about the band's potential negative influence on his 10 year-old son. . .

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The first sign of trouble came when he walked into my room with "Nothin' to Lose" blaring through the speakers . . .

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Before I had a baby, didn't care anyway

Thought about the back door, didn't know what to say . . .

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He entered my room, hands covering his ears. "What's that crap you're listening to?"

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"Uh, the KISS album. Why?"

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"Thought about the back door?" he quoted. "What do you think that means?"

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"Um, he's trying to get her attention and she's not answering the front door?"

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Believe it or not, I was serious. I was a pretty naive kid, and it's not like I was analyzing the lyrical underpinnings of the Simmons-Stanley songbook anyway. That would come later, and boy, was I surprised when I found out what "Plaster Caster" was all about. But that one was still three albums away.

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"Yes, exactly right, he's ringing her front doorbell. Enjoy the music," Dad muttered as he walked out, shutting the door behind him.

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This was also about the time my dad heard the ridiculous rumor that the name KISS was actually an acronym for "Knights in Satan's Service", and that the band members were devil-worshipers. Come on, how could anyone believe such nonsense?

I patiently explained to Dad that, according to the February 1976 edition of the KISS Army Newsletter, Paul Stanley came up with the name "KISS" because it was a simple, one word moniker that everyone could identify with. Gene, Paul, Ace, and Peter were definitely not Satanists.

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But damn, Gene, you're really tough to defend sometimes.

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By the time Alive II came out three years later, I was a full-fledged KISSmaniac. I dressed as Peter Criss for Halloween, owned the entire KISS-cography, and faithfully scooped up any issue of Circus, Rolling Stone, or People (yep, People) magazine that the boys appeared in. I dreamed of the day that my Dad would let me attend my first KISS concert. It was a tough sell. Love Gun tour, 1978? Not a chance. Dynasty tour, 1980? No way.

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Eventually, however, I wore him down and he gave me the go-ahead.

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In 1996. The Reunion Tour. I was 31.

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By today's standards, KISS music is pretty tame. Double entendres abound, and no one's going to call Paul Stanley subtle ("You make me rock hard, baby all night. My love's a glove and you fit just right" is but one example), but compared to say, Eminem, even the most raunchy of KISS lyrics come off as fairly tepid.

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And I'm still a fan, the entire KISS catalogue downloaded on my iPod (even Music from the Elder, which sold about eight copies when it came out in '81). When my son was about ten, I recruited him into the KISS Army as well. Took him to a concert and everything.

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The boys are still touring, too. Sure, Peter and Ace have been given the boot (again), but Gene, Paul, and a couple other guys are still rockin' and rollin' all night and partyin' every day.

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Dad's still convinced they're the minions of Satan.

Something Suddenly Came Up

The year is 1974. It's Friday night at 8:00 (7:00 Central). That means only one thing, as far as I'm concerned.

It's time for The Brady Bunch!Here's the story, of a lovely lady. Who was bringing up three very lovely, okay, I have a confession to make. I am a Bradyphile. I am 44 years old, and I can tell you virtually anything you want to know about Mike, Carol and the kids. Alice too. And I don't mean the obvious stuff like the dog's name (Tiger) or the name of the family next door (the Ditmeyers). I mean, not only can I tell you who broke Mom's favorite vase (Peter), how he did it (playing ball in the house), or how, after a botched sibling-assisted coverup, he was eventually punished (missed a camping trip), I can also tell you the name of the parent who came to pick him up for the trip (Doug Kramer).

Sure, everyone knows what happened to Marcia when she got hit with the football (broken nose), maybe even why the football stud broke their date (something suddenly came up). But do you know the name of that BMOC?

Doug Simpson.

That's right, biatch.

I don't know whether to be proud of this, or ashamed. It is what it is.

Oddly enough, I had no interest in the Partridge Family when I was a kid, and that came on right after the Bradys. Maybe it's because Marcia Brady was scorchingly hot and Laurie Partridge looked kinda creepy and anorexic (not that we knew what that was in the 70's). But if we're being completely truthful here, when I happen to catch the odd rerun? It's Florence Henderson who was the hottest Brady babe, make no mistake about it ("something suddenly came up" indeed). At any rate, during the 70's, the Bradys seemed like the perfect family. They treated each other with respect (usually), they were always reasonable, and when push came to shove, Mike could always be counted on for a few timely words of wisdom.

As an aside, I happened to meet Robert Reed back in my working-at-the-movie-theater days. He showered me with a few more words of wisdom, specifically, "Are you going to turn the fucking sound down in there or are we all going to go fucking deaf?"

Oh, Mr. Brady. You never would've talked to Greg that way.

So yeah, I watched a lot of Brady Bunch. No matter who you were as a kid, there was just the right Brady for you to relate to. If you were a good athlete and a chick magnet, you had Greg. If you were whiny and jealous, there was Jan. Personally, I always related to Peter. Kind of a joker, always quick with the witty retort. My favorite was the episode when Greg met Don Drysdale (episode title: "The Dropout"). Greg gets a bit too large for his trousers, and when he gets lit up by the opposing Little League team, Peter says, "He couldn't get anyone out. He gave up ten runs in the first inning and then the coach gave Greg the hook." The sarcasm was perfect. And of course, who can forget Pete's flawless Humphrey Bogart impression? "Pork chops, and applesauce. That's swell." (Episode title: "The Personality Kid").

They just don't write 'em like that anymore. I miss the good times and mayhem with Mike, Carol, Greg, Peter, Bobby, Marcia, Jan and Cindy. Screw cousin Oliver though, that owl-faced little douche. And never forget dear ol' Alice (last name: Nelson). Remember her boyfriend, the butcher? His name, as I'm sure you'll recall, was Sam.

Sam Franklin.

That's right, biatch.