Ralph redux

(originally posted 6/10/08)

I found out my step-grandfather died tonight. No sympathy required — it’s sort of a funny story. Dark humor, you know.

I’ve written about Ralph before, but there’s still much to tell.

He was a fixture through my youth, though once my grandmother passed away our family cut Ralph loose. Withhold your judgments — he was a miserable human being, and we endured plenty.

My grandmother should’ve known better, but wisdom wasn’t her thing. Ralph was arrested soon after they married, for bigamy, at which time my grandmother discovered he had kids, though, for reasons unknown, they were told Ralph was dead. Despite those bright red hurricane warning flags, my grandmother stuck with him.

My mom always felt pity for her mother, so no matter what Ralph did, we were trained to pretend everything was fine.

When Ralph said he had lunch with Colin Powell, we indulged him, as we did when he claimed the cable company forced him to subscribe to the Playboy Channel. “I told them I want that filth off my TV, but they said it comes with the basic package.” “Oh really, Ralph. That’s a shame.”

Ralph later went bankrupt selling those pre-Direct TV giant satellite dishes, though he kept one for himself. We were to believe he was exposed to information unavailable to those of us with mere cable television.

Soon after Rock Hudson died of AIDS, Ralph told us veteran character actor Roddy McDowall announced he, too, had the disease. “I saw it on the satellite,” he said. “The satellite” also reported that Michael Jackson had third degree burns from head to toe after that infamous Pepsi commercial gone wrong.

“They don’t think he’s going to live,” Ralph told us. He saw it on the satellite.

Ralph (last name: Martinis) once said there were seven other Ralph Martinis’ (name spelled the same) staying at his hotel. “Really, Ralph. Wow, that’s something else.”

He also used to race speedboats on the Chesapeake Bay; “I was the prince of Bal-tee-more,” said Ralph, who had little tolerance for non-Yankees; once, when unable to find a Mobil gas station, he blamed their absence on “stupid Southerners.”

I decided to enlist a colleague in the research department to uncover the enigma wrapped in the very large riddle (he was pushing 300 lbs.) that is/was Ralph. Unfortunately, most questions remain unanswered, though she uncovered his obituary, a little less than two months old.

Not much revealed within, except that Ralph was a veteran of the Korean Conflict. That could explain a lot — post-traumatic stress or whatever.

One problem: Ralph would’ve been 13 when the war commenced, 16 at its conclusion. Something tells me we would’ve heard about that.

At least he was consistent, fabricating until his bitter end.

My sister’s rehearsal dinner

When my sister married the rich guy, families from opposite ends of the good fortune chain uncomfortably merged. His was born into inheritance; hers (mine) born in holes, equipped with shovels.

The rehearsal dinner was at a navy blue-blooded private club in a Buckhead high-rise. I was seated next to my late Aunt Babs, a truly gifted color analyst and functioning alcoholic. Had Zelma not been with him, I would’ve probably ended up beside my grandfather, born, bred and buried in Middle Georgia. He liked telling stories about his miseries, failures and misdeeds; his effortless folksiness, and usage of discarded colloquialisms — “What do you mean, pussel gutted?” “You know, pussel gutted.” Quizzical look. “Pussel gutted (while rubbing extended tummy.” “Oh, you mean fat.” “Yeah, pussel gutted” — made the woebegone tales amusing.

Zelma, quite pussel gutted herself, was proudly humorless, well-practiced at killing the party. Every year they’d come for Thanksgiving dinner, and every year Zelma would announce, right before turkey carving, that she was full from their big lunch at Davis Bros. in Madison. My dad barely hid his contempt for his father’s second wife, also known as the woman my grandfather ”courted” while my grandmother lay dying of cancer.

The rest of the family, not so memorable. I’ve seen my uncles a combined dozen times in my life, if that. The older one used to be in a loosely organized motorcycle gang before he settled down as an arcade manager, the guy who would change out your quarters for one of the thousand tokens jangling in his pocket vest. This would mark my only encounter with Paula the hairdresser, wife number four. To hear Babs on her fifth glass of champagne tell it, Paula preferred the ladies — “them bull dyke types,” said the veteran forklift driver. My mom’s sister also had short hair and was really pussel gutted, though her five marriages were enough to discourage the typical assumption.

The much younger uncle said little, though he did enjoy brief chats about the Phils and “Iggles.” I’m told he once tried to bite off his tongue on an acid trip. I guess his wife, a high school math teacher, still had her tongue, though she seemed to regard conversation as a barrier to daydreaming about math.

My mother wanted to have her mother, the aged party girl, seated next to the paternal grandfather (see above) at the head table. Of course, that would upset my fragile grandmother, who thought her third husband deserved the front-row seat.

Ralph looked just like the “time to make the donuts” guy on the old Dunkin’ Donuts commercial, though he was seldom jolly. He could always be counted on for a whopper, insisting, on several occasions, he had lunched with Colin Powell and Dan Quayle. You can imagine ol’  J. Danforth driving all the way to the Shoneys in Ft. Wayne to break bread with his 64-year-old TV repairman pal. Maybe he shared Ralph’s appreciation for the Scott Baio flick, “Zapped.”

Ralph — really, really pussel gutted — arrived in a foul mood, claiming the suspension on his car was broken from “having to haul Mister Boone and Zelma’s fat asses around.” Ralph, nicknamed Guido by the bridesmaids, shopped at Big and Tall stores.

At one point, my brother-in-law’s father, a well-traveled patrician, tried to engage Ralph in some collegial banter, asking him how he could’ve ended up with such a beautiful (step) granddaughter. “You ain’t no prince yourself!” Ralph snorted.

By that time he had already complained about the small portions, an outrage, he said, for such a ritzy joint. Paula, after slurring her way through a racy toast to the new couple she had just met, collected the food off her and my uncle’s plate, advanced to the head table and transferred it to Ralph’s dish. He grunted and resumed eating.

Dont remember much else, save for my newly married sister planting a wet one on Ralph, who, best-case scenario, was once in the Mob. He has biological kids, but for some reason he agreed to let their mother tell them he’s dead. I hate to ponder what would make one consent to such an arrangement, though, when I have dared wonder, ”Mafia hitman” is always the most preferable rationale.

Ralph’s parting words, “Let’s pack up and get the hell out of here.” Agreed.

The 20 best movies of the 80s (and another Ralph story)

Longtime Malcontenters may recall my late step-grandfather Ralph, the pathological liar with poor table manners. One Thanksgiving when I was around 16 we visited my grandmother in her Indiana trailer (as depressing as it sounds). “Young man, I have a movie you’re gonna love,” said Ralph, who we alway placated so as not to upset my overly sensitive grandmother.

So, with my mother’s blessing, I spent part of my Thanksgiving alone in my step-grandfather’s “study” watching the 80s classic “Zapped,” about a nerdy teen (Scott Baio) who gains telekinetic powers he uses to disrobe hot chicks like Heather Thomas. Co-starring Willie Aames and Scatman Crothers.

“Zapped” did not make my list:

• Blue Velvet
• The Elephant Man
• Crimes and Misdemeanors
• Raging Bull
• My Life as a Dog
• Hannah and Her Sisters
• The King of Comedy
• Raising Arizona
• After Hours
• The Verdict
• The Vanishing (the Dutch version)
• The Shining
• Full Metal Jacket
• Heathers
• Zelig
• Blade Runner
• Drugstore Cowboy
• Do the Right Thing
• Broadcast News
• Hoosiers

And yes, I’m aware there are no Oliver Stone movies on my list. Only “Wall Street” merited consideration. “Just One of the Guys” barely missed out.

(Check out my compilation of the top 20 movies since 1990.)

ralph

I found out my step-grandfather died tonight. No sympathy required — it’s sort of a funny story. Dark humor, you know.

I’ve written about Ralph before, but there’s still much to tell.

He was a fixture through my youth, though once my grandmother passed away our family cut Ralph loose. Withhold your judgments — he was a miserable human being, and we endured plenty.

My grandmother should’ve known better, but wisdom wasn’t her thing. Ralph was arrested soon after they married, for bigamy, at which time my grandmother discovered he had kids, though, for reasons unknown, they were told Ralph was dead. Despite those bright red hurricane warning flags, my grandmother stuck with him.

My mom always felt pity for her mother, so no matter what Ralph did, we were trained to pretend everything was fine.

When Ralph said he had lunch with Colin Powell, we indulged him, as we did when he claimed the cable company forced him to subscribe to the Playboy Channel. “I told them I want that filth off my TV, but they said it comes with the basic package.” “Oh really, Ralph. That’s a shame.”

Ralph later went bankrupt selling those pre-Direct TV giant satellite dishes, though he kept one for himself. We were to believe he was exposed to information unavailable to those of us with mere cable television.

Soon after Rock Hudson died of AIDS, Ralph told us veteran character actor Roddy McDowall announced he, too, had the disease. “I saw it on the satellite,” he said. “The satellite” also reported that Michael Jackson had third degree burns from head to toe after that infamous Pepsi commercial gone wrong.

“They don’t think he’s going to live,” Ralph told us. He saw it on the satellite.

Ralph (last name: Martinis) once said there were seven other Ralph Martinis’ (name spelled the same) staying at his hotel. “Really, Ralph. Wow, that’s something else.”

He also used to race speedboats on the Chesapeake Bay; “I was the prince of Bal-tee-more,” said Ralph, who had little tolerance for non-Yankees; once, when unable to find a Mobil gas station, he blamed their absence on “stupid Southerners.”

I decided to enlist a colleague in the research department to uncover the enigma wrapped in the very large riddle (he was pushing 300 lbs.) that is/was Ralph. Unfortunately, most questions remain unanswered, though she uncovered his obituary, a little less than two months old.

Not much revealed within, except that Ralph was a veteran of the Korean Conflict. That could explain a lot — post-traumatic stress or whatever.

One problem: Ralph would’ve been 13 when the war commenced, 16 at its conclusion. Something tells me we would’ve heard about that.

At least he was consistent, fabricating until his bitter end.