When the Balls Drop - Softcover

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Lifelong stand-up comic and writer Brad Garrett began performing comedy in the 1980s and appearing on film and television. He landed the part of Robert Barone on the iconic TV show Everybody Loves Raymond (CBS) in 1996, eventually winning three Emmy Awards for Best Supporting Actor in a Comedy Series throughout the show’s nine-season run. After the show ended in 2005, Brad went on to appear on Broadway in Neil Simon’s The Odd Couple, and has opened his own successful comedy club at the MGM Grand in Las Vegas, where he performs several times monthly. Brad is also an accomplished voice actor, with parts in major feature films such as Finding Nemo and Ratatouille.

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When the Balls Drop

1

I Was a Ten-Pound Preemie

As stated earlier, I am a pessimistic optimist, or what I like to call a “pissed-omist.” This is a person who has lived long enough to know not to expect much from most people or life in general, but still allows him- or herself the hope that somewhere under all the horseshit there may possibly be a pony. As you’ll see, there were many factors that influenced the theories, neuroses, and occasional lunacy that inspired this book, and I feel you deserve the inside track. Therefore, please bear with me as I give you a bit of insight into my life to improve your understanding of how I arrived at this particular mentality.

I was born Brad H. Gerstenfeld on April 14, 1960, to Alvin from the Bronx, New York, and Barbara from Bellingham, Washington. I tipped the scales at nine pounds, eleven ounces. My dad never knew what the H in my name stood for, and my mother didn’t tell me until I was twenty that it stood for Harry, after her favorite uncle. The birth certificate just says “H.” If she was that embarrassed about the name, why the hell would she give it to me? Spell it out or pick another.

“I was such a large sperm, my mother went into labor during conception.” I wrote that joke when I was fifteen, which made sense considering my mother used to tell total strangers, “He was so huge at birth that the doctors wanted to break my pelvis or Brad’s shoulders in order to get him out of me, but I insisted they just use the tongs.” (She had trouble remembering the word “forceps.”) To this day I don’t know if that tool was actually used or not, but there are two tiny indentations on my skull that fill up with water when I sweat.

Every man’s life (and a portion of my stand-up) revolves around the mystery that is his penis. In reality, without one, none of us would exist, so it deserves exploring. Let me start by saying that mine has never been right. Unfortunately, I think it all began with the rabbi, who must have had some resentment toward my family that he indirectly took out on me. My paranoia knows no bounds . . . Maybe the mohel just stank at his job, like most people. Or maybe he had ADD and found himself distracted by the mound of chopped liver formed into the shape of the Wailing Wall or the hubcap-size cheese Danish sweating on the buffet table.

I always found it so odd that people could eat immediately after seeing an infant’s penis being mangled by a stranger in a black robe and sketchy beard. How can an act so visceral and cringe-worthy lead directly to food? Perhaps it’s merely diversion, or nervous eating, or years of conditioning. It’s probably the same mental disconnect by which Italians can dismember a body, dump it in the river, and then go for ribs. I suppose this is where the term “comfort food” originated.

The bottom line is my circumcision was fucked up. I have more of a two-skin. The Yid must have stopped the trimming somewhere in the middle. He bailed on my rehemming like a Vegas dealer suddenly asked to go on break. He clapped his hands, wished everybody luck, and left the cards where they were. It’s no secret that when a circumcised penis is at rest, it appears as if the little fella is wearing a cozy turtleneck sweater, right? Not mine. It’s as if my dick is wearing a hoodie. He looks like the smallest criminal on record. Like a little poker player with his head on his chips. Either way, I got ripped off. Literally. And it’s made me second-guess my manhood my entire life.

My urologist, Dr. Spiegelman, who by the way is the only person not to pass out from laughter after I remove my pants, believes the size has nothing to do with the botched circumcision. He also tried to convince me that in my case, “the appearance of having a small penis is only an optical illusion because it is on a body of massive girth.” Optical illusion? He actually brought up magic in a medical context to make me feel better. In other words, like in real estate: location, location, location. I suppose if my penis were on a Chinese fellow, it would look enormous. I will have to test that theory the next time I’m dining at Twin Dragon.

*   *   *

In addition to bad taste in mohels, my mom had a flair for drama. It went along beautifully with her Kabuki makeup and sequined outfits. She was like a Liza Minnelli impersonator without the gay husbands.

I’ll never forget when I was six years old and I saw two dogs getting it on for the very first time. Bewildered and concerned, I blurted out, “Mommy, what’s wrong with those two dogs?”

“Well, darling,” she said after a considerable pause, “the dog in the front is very sick, and his friend is pushing him to the hospital.” This obviously messed me up for years to come, because every time I injured myself, I would seek out the neighborhood dog in hopes of being led to the ER.

Regardless of what anyone believes, almost every guy marries someone either very close to his own mother or the complete opposite. This is why I’ve spent the majority of my adult life with women who are borderline comatose, for fear of being with someone who inadvertently breaks into “Don’t Rain on My Parade” during a canoe ride.

When I was seven, my parents divorced. It was very difficult for me, but I felt worse for my older brothers, Jeff and Paul, whose biological father literally disappeared after divorcing my mother, never to show his loser face again. To this day, I cannot comprehend a parent who could walk out on his or her children. Some people are truly heartless and narcissistic enough to do such a thing, I suppose. I always felt bad that I had such an involved father and my brothers would never know theirs; even though my father adopted my brothers early on, their relationships were strained at best. You really couldn’t blame my brothers, because how could they trust a father figure again, let alone one so quickly?

My dad was a six-foot-five handsome chap with tough good looks and piercing blue eyes. He also, unfortunately, happened to be bipolar. Back in that era, no one knew what bipolar was, so he was written off as moody, difficult, compulsive, and extravagant, with grandiose ideas of a better life that kept him in constant debt. But he was my hometown hero, and I desperately needed one. He always had my back regardless of the situation, and I loved him for that, although it didn’t make for a realistic later life.

He used to say, “It’s you and me against the world, kid,” and as wonderful and comforting as that may have been at the time (especially considering I always felt very alone), it often made me wonder why the world was against us in the first place. I guess having several ex-wives can make you feel like you’re on the run or that life is based on a “you versus them” mentality. But he was super-cool and different from most dads, with his Indian jewelry and antique cars. He was literally the greatest salesman who ever lived, and through his constant, sometimes manic drive, he was able to convince me that I could be anyone and do anything.

*   *   *

After the divorce was final, my mother moved us to an apartment in the San Fernando Valley. Soon after, she would start dating a gentleman whom she met over the phone. He was cold-calling parents of boys who were of bar mitzvah age off a list he got from the local temple, offering his services to provide music and entertainment for the upcoming event. His...