Karate Chops As Loud As Gunshots

His therapist said owning a television was a good idea, that it'd make my weekends at his place less boring, especially since there weren't many kids in the neighborhood to play with. My mother was right for leaving that one-horse town, and him, for that matter. His therapist was right, too, but may have crossed a line by suggesting appliance ownership. The good ones make you come out with what you need to hear, they don't leave the answer in your lap like a gift from someone better off and wiser. He bought a cheap set a few months after the divorce. His favorite slogan prevailed in its purchase: "Quality goods at discounted prices." By that I mean the remote control stopped working one day. We didn't have cable and the connection was frustratingly fuzzy, but there was something to look at if I sought distraction.

One such relief came in the form of a now-laughable modern cowboy cop show. A certain Texas Ranger, who shall go needlessly nameless, roundhoused his way to the triumphant end of every predictable episode. His black partner, the suggested token minority, was the downplayed brains of the operation, though he was always a step or two behind the great white martial artist's Old West instincts. Even back in the mid-Nineties when the program was first aired the hero was in his fifties. He seems an unlikely protagonist, at least for a show based on shootouts and terribly choreographed fight scenes, but the hand he had in producing and directing squashed any possible doubts or dissent. It must be nice to have money, even if it helps you shame yourself on national television.

The washed-up action hero also managed to convince his way into writing and singing the show's theme song in the form of a monotone, half-spoken cowboy's chorus. My father, long-time struggling do-gooder that he was, appreciated the lyrics as much as the song made most others cringe with secondhand embarrassment. "The eyes of the Ranger are upon you. Any wrong you do he's gonna see. When you're in Texas look behind you 'cause that's where the Ranger's gonna be." It was terribly trite, but undeniably effective; so much so, in fact, that my tight-wad dad bought me a reproduction Texas Ranger's badge, silver star inside a circle, at a junk store disguised as an antique shop across the River. It was his way of saying he supported my respect for justice, or what I thought justice was at that young, naive age. No therapist had to talk him into that purchase, though ten dollars isn't quite a bank-breaker. Those words contribute to the irony of our estrangement now. He's ignored my existence for years. His eyes haven't been on me or the wrong I've done, partially in my futile attempt to avoid making the same mistakes he did as a younger man. And I wish that last part of that simple song was correct, but clearly the Ranger's not behind me if I'm still trying to make sense of his refusal to be in my life anymore. I would've gone to the wedding. I'd like to know my new brother. I'm not the result of a test-run version of his life. I'm his son and always will be, whether we like that or not.

Does anyone ever get over the pain their family caused them? I'd like to believe so, but it doesn't seem to be in the cards just yet, at least not for a few more hands. Perhaps that's God's way of motivating us to be better people than those broken souls who raised us. In the meantime I'll try not to lose too much sleep over it. My nightmares are far more feminine these days. You know where my scars are. Don't use them against me. Now pull that red and yellow lever, Conan.