The Kids Are Alright

The 1970s were an awesome time to be a kid.

It was the Wild West.

Bike helmets hadn't been invented yet or car seatbelts

or even normal adult supervision.

Dads weren't around as much as they are now.

And my mom was busy running the house.

She had a lot on her plate and no time for tomfoolery...

whatever that is.

There were eight of us boys,

including my oldest brother, just home from college.

That's a lot of testosterone under one roof.

Mouse, you'll do.

When I was a kid, nothing bugged my mom more

than seeing us happy and relaxed.

You're not gonna spend the summer lounging around

like it's some filthy mud-pit at Woodstock.

- - Outside.

We were expected to get summer jobs,

and since I was the creative type,

I always sought work which allowed me to

express myself as an artist.

Tell me... did you go to school, stupid?

Yeah. And I came out the same way!

Unfortunately, a mysterious basement fire

compromised my co-star.

So, Knuckles, do you have a girlfriend?

Yeah.

- Unfortunately... -

- ...she's a dummy. -

Uh... uh...

The guy at the shoe repair said he can fix Knuckles' face,

but he wants 20 bucks.

You could help me on my newspaper route.

I need someone to protect me from dogs

and some of the bigger cats.

I'm holding off for something more suited

to my artistic temperament.

You know, when you say things like that, people don't like you.

Hey, guys, Dad's pulling in with...

- -

He has feelings, you know!

In our house, Dad handled the grocery shopping...

20 bags, eight half-gallons of milk,

two or three times a week.

And if we expected to eat any of it,

we had to help load it in.

Let's go, people! Move! Schnell!

These frozen pot pies... they are ticking time bombs!

I'm coming! I was in the bathroom!

Oh, at last, Eddie deigns to join us.

Meat first, then milk!

Look at all this processed food.

You know, at the seminary, we ate more fruits and vegetables.

We eat plenty of fruits and vegetables.

Grape jelly.

And every kind of potato... chips, flakes, and tots.

I mean fresh ... food that gets to us

before Dow Chemical has their way with it.

I mean, seriously, do we even know what's in this stuff?

Look, I don't know what's in the polio vaccine.

I'm still glad some of you kids got it.

Your father works real hard to pay for...

$32?! Holy moly!

Something might have to go back.

Imitation SPAM?

We don't even get real SPAM anymore?

Oh, big opinions from the guy who got to the car last.

Hey, don't bury that imitation SPAM.

It's on the menu for breakfast.

Dad, I was actually just asking Mom

about maybe adding some produce to our diet.

Ooh, then maybe you should produce some money

to pay for it.

Rabbit food ain't cheap.

Yeah, but this stuff isn't healthy.

I mean, seriously, is Pat even growing?

He's growing... enough.

We certainly don't want him growing any faster.

He'll catch up to William before William's done with his clothes.

- Give me that. - Fresh fruit is a crapshoot.

You need to eat it right away, when they tell you to.

With this stuff? Ho ho!

You are not my boss, broccoli.

Lawrence, we're just not fresh-vegetable people.

I mean, who we trying to impress?

I don't know. Our colons?

There we go... my newspaper.

Sorry.

The Parks Department is holding a kids' poetry contest.

First prize is 25 bucks!

I can get a new face for Knuckles!

Knuckles! Listen to this!

Can, uh, other people see Knuckles?

- All right. -

All right, buddy, we're gonna win the prize money

and score you a new face.

I'm so creative.

I'm a shoo-in.

So many ideas.

Too many.

They're popping in my head, like popcorn.

Maybe I'll make some popcorn.

Okay.

Nature.

The topic is nature.

I could go outside and look at a lamppost.

Or fire hydrant.

Have I ever seen nature?

- You're thinking too hard.

Don't make a federal case out of it, like you always do.

It's like the time Aunt Alice asked you for ideas

for what to name her baby, and you just kept saying "puppy"

and then had diarrhea.

The deadline is tomorrow.

You can do this.

I wrote plenty of poems in school.

Easy peasy, lemon-squeezy.

Did you just do that?!

Did I just watch that happen?!

You're not the only creative one around here.

A poem's much easier than some story that has to make sense.

If your poem confuses people,

they just think you're deep and they're dumb.

And that's the whole point of poetry...

making other people feel dumb.

Ah, here it is. My old rhyming dictionary.

Yeah. Maybe it'll help.

But honestly, rhyming doesn't even matter.

I'm telling you... poetry's a racket.

"Mountain," "fountain"...

"countin'"?

Okay, you're really cutting some corners there,

rhyming dictionary.

And there it was...

a poem my mom had written in high school.

"Ode to a Tree."

And I knew it was really good because it made me feel dumb.

I was a decent enough kid

to know that stealing her poem was wrong.

In retrospect, I choose to blame

the void in moral leadership

which defined the Nixon administration.

A week and a half later, and the verdict was in.

Frank, give it to me! It's my letter!

What does it say?!

It says, "To the parents of Timmy Cleary."

Thank you.

"Congratulations.

You won first prize."

I won! I won!

- I won 25 bucks! - Let me see that.

Says you'll be receiving your prize money

at a special ecology and nature fair...

Oh, brother... held at Oak Park.

- Nice! - "...at which you'll read your poem aloud

for assembled dignitaries, friends, and family."

- Family? - And dignitaries.

You wear the new velour shirt I got you for your birthday.

You got that for me.

You didn't win anything. It's his now.

I'm not buying it.

You're no poet, and I know it.

Joey.

I'm in trouble.

Maybe you can help me.

You do a lot of bad things.

I keep busy.

The poem is stolen.

It's something Mom wrote in high school,

and she'll recognize it the second she hears it.

I guess we don't let her hear it.

Crap. She already wrote it down.

But, unfortunately, she'll be a little late.

Cover her eyes.

That's really good!

I've been turning F's into A's since 1966.

I also do Mom's signature.

I've been on field trips with schools I don't even attend.

Oh, uh, didn't hear the horn, Pop.

It's fine. It's just the two bags.

Lawrence, get in here!

I got inspired, picked up something

for our eldest to shove in his mouth.

Oh, look, son, a surprise...

two bags of veggies and fruit.

Oh, great! Now I'm gonna have to spray for ants.

Right on, Dad. You really listened.

Grapes and lettuce harvested here in California.

You're welcome.

You've got to be kidding me.

The grape and lettuce pickers are on strike.

Haven't you heard about the boycott?

I might have heard Cronkite mention something

on his nightly coverage of whiners and crybabies.

The migrant workers are picking this stuff

for mere pennies an hour.

I guess that's why it's so cheap.

Let's hope the bacon workers strike next.

- - Very funny.

Well, I, for one, won't be eating any.