(*Bob Loblaw no habla español.)
Honestly, though, it wasn’t planned as such. You know it ain’t easy bein’ white or brown—let alone both—but with nine of us all under one roof, sometimes the boyfights, bulldozer games, and inflammatory chicken dances can get a little out of paw, especially when my brothers forget that chickens don’t clap! I try to be patient with them, but everything they do is so dramatic and flamboyant, it just makes me want to...set myself on fire!
Does that make me sound judgmental? Then I guess my name is Judge!
But the real breaking point was Movie Night, which nearly turned into a riot—these guys did not enjoy Soapdish. I think you have to know that world. Now, in this business of show, you have to have the heart of an angel and the hide of an éléphant, and normally I’d just pop a Teamocil to chill out. But I’m the oldest—the matriarch, if you will—and I’m tired of being the responsible one because the others won’t shape up or ship up. I always have to be the Felix, but just once I’d like to be the Oscar...dot.com!
On top of that, alone time is so rare here that it often feels more like there are dozens of us—dozens! Still, it’s the constant mayhem that gets to me; why does this have to become my problem? No. I’m out. Forget it. Find somebody else. I’m sick of doing everything for this family! Let them feel the sweet sting of sweat in their eyes for a change. I’m out of this family. Seriously. Say goodbye to your alpha, guys, and say goodbye to these!
So I dashed out a quick memo saying I’d be at a seminar on chafing with Dr. Schoenweiss, but was so wound up it came out half in English, half in scribbly. Oops. But no matter. Once Rob brought the stair car around—we buy all our cars at police auction—and I put the invisible locks on the door, Operation: Hot Brother was underway. A scenic drive to the city of Industry, a visit to the wildlife-populated island of Catalina, or even Shady Pines, where they used to film Sugarfoot...I just wanted to get away and didn’t care where. Really, I thought, anything south of San Diego will be just fine—even Portugal, down old South America way—and nothing can stop us now. Nothing in the world of man nor beast nor time!
...or almost nothing. After taking surface streets to LAX because the freeway was backed up all the way to Knott’s Berry Farm, Rob got all turned around and had us heading north, like we were going to the debate club semifinals in Sacramende or something. Well, that was a waste of $80,000 worth of cartography lessons. What a wee-brain he can be sometimes; this is exactly why he was featured on Fox’s World’s Worst Drivers. Good thing his phone has InfoMole. Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto!
And then it hit me—what about Balboa Island? I’m a huge, huge Arrested fan, and I hadn’t been to Orange County since we found part of a pterodactyl under Fashion Island. Pass up a chance to make a pilgrimage to the place where the Bluth family’s banana stand (fictionally) stood? Come on!
After parking on the peninsula, we took a quick stroll on the beach; Rob had some letters he wanted to dramatically hurl into the sea, so I swung by the pier for some clam chowder. I love soup. If the only thing I could do was lie in bed all day and eat soup, I’d be happy. Even if it’s just hot ham water—so watery, and yet there’s a smack of ham to it. I thought I’d see the camera guys for Girls With Low Self-Esteem on the way over, but maybe they’re at the Church & State Fair or the Inner Beauty Pageant while the studio crews shoot The Young Man & The Beach today. Watch out for Loose Seal, kids!
From there, we took the ferry to the island, because it turns out the blue on the map isn’t land. I rode up front since I served in Vietnam as a croc spotter on a Swift boat, but all I saw were a couple of rowdy party yachts abruptly cutting across our path—did the Army have half a day or something? You’d think they’d circumvrent...circumverate...cirsumvrent...do the old reach-around, but no. If I knew anything about maritime law, I’d’ve laid it down like Chareth Cutestory and threatened to sue—it’s free if it’s just a threat, you know. But with my luck, one of them would’ve turned out to be an SEC boat. Or worse, a pirate-themed boat party. Get along, little sheep!
Just the same, we made it to the Promise Land in one piece! Here we go.
From the dock, it’s several blocks to Main Street, which gave us a chance to check out the picturesque houses along the Boardwalk at our leisure—it’s like strolling into an issue of Balboa Bay Window. The lots may be tiny, but this is some of the most expensive real estate in the country; I’d love to look around some of them, but, uh, I’m invited into very few personal homes. It’s because I have pop-pop in the attic, isn’t it?
Case in point: Yes, hello! I am looking for the magic.
See? Not a word out of these guys, not to mention the icy “No touching!” stances. Douche chill. You’d think I was blackballed for revealing a magician’s secret or macing a crane or taking part in Use Your Allusion or something. Oh, wait a minute—is this to do with the light treason? Because I swear I didn’t see the FOR BRITISH EYES ONLY label on those files. Oh well. I don’t want no part of your tightass country club anyway!
So, on to Main Street, which seems a bit sleepy today. I suppose that’ll make it easier to pick up the few things on our shopping list: $68 hair conditioner, diamond dust cream, maybe one of those gold necklaces with the “T” on it. And a hardcover of The Man Inside Me, if Livres Aux Folles is still open.
Man, once we’re done here, we might as well just take an ad out in I’m Poor magazine and get a membership at Quantity Plus. There’s never a fire sale when you need one, is there? Oh, the burning!
But hey, that’s what window shopping is for, right? Especially with clothes—I’ve been thinking of getting a motorcycle, so I’m gonna need a leather jacket when I’m on my hog and need to go into a controlled slide. Can I find something that says “Dad likes leather” on Balboa? Or do I need to call in Gene Parmesan? Then again, I am aware they don’t remove it from the cow surgically, so I suppose I’m just buy-curious at this point.
That’s a perfect shirt for a never-nude there on the right—look, it even comes with do-it-yourself cutoffs!—because it’s casual enough for conducting an analrapy session, yet retro enough for jamming with Dr. Funkë’s 100% Natural Good-Time Family Band Solution. The dress is cute too; wonder if it’s a Shémale? Rob was thinking it might be a Nazhgalia Bahn-Ahden original, but...I dunno. Her? Talk about an Annie McNoface!
I still can’t get over the fact that Sue Sylvester and Principal Figgins were in the same episode.
At any rate, looks like I’ve found my outfit for this year’s Motherboy* dance—that sailor suit should effectively hide my thunder! Okay, now when I yell, “Mice!,” I want you to open this box and I’m gonna start stuffing some shirts down your pants. Illegal? First of all, it’s only shoplifting and I’m (part) white—I think I’m gonna be okay. And second-of-ly, I’m just kidding. I mean, the state of California isn’t, but, you know, that’s what makes it funny.
(*Motherboy was also a heavy metal band that used to rock pretty hard in the ’70s. We are legally obligated to make the distinction.)
And it was about this time that I started feeling peckish again—too bad cornballs seem to be in short supply here. ¡Soy loco por los cornballs!
But if there’s one reason to come to Balboa besides paying tribute to a niche-audience TV show, it’s to meet you down at the big yellow joint. Local lore has it that the frozen banana was invented here on the island—possibly by a Korean immigrant who lost out to people who marketed the idea better, but that’s probably apocryphal—and so we come to Dad’s, of the “original frozen banana”...
...but whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Wait. A mere three doors down, there’s Sugar & Spice, which also claims to be the originator. I mean, who can blame them—there’s always money in the banana stand—but I don’t know how they coexist so closely. It’s like those biblical brothers, Gallant and, um, Goofuth. How’s a rabbit to choose between them? Flip a coin? Or just try both? My gut is telling me no...but my gut is also very hungry.
Well, it’s just one more banana—what could it cost, ten dollars? If push comes to shove, I can always have Rob turn illusions for money.
So here we have a Sugar & Spice banana with Heath Bar crumbles on the left and a Dad’s with butter brickle on the right. Which is better? Honestly, the only real difference I could tell was that the Dad’s banana was frozen more, making it closer to a popsicle, while the Sugar & Spice was softer and more like ice cream. And why choose between ice cream and a popsicle if you’ve got room for both? I call it a draw! This is a tricky gray area anyway.
And now that I’m filled with self-loathing for having both, I might as well soothe myself in a most unsavory way and eat a whole thing of candy beans too—Balboa Candy’s so well-stocked that I declare myself not limited to one basket. Say, you don’t have any Sweet Freedom or Tropical Ease or any of the Hawaiian blends, do you? Actually, a little Afternoon Deelite would make my brother Damage settle down for a change—the question is, which way do I try to get it in him? Maybe I’ll put it in his brownie. Taste the happy, Dam—taste it! Okay, maybe not.
Quite a lot of sins for a Sunday afternoon, I know, but Rob made sure we got extra for my brothers as well. Or so he thinks—no sugar for them, they just get more awful. Of course, not sharing the goods because it’ll make them hyper will make it look like I’m taunting them for no reason: “You are now punished. I punish thee. How do you like them eggrolls, Mr. Goldstone?” Or: “Here’s a candy bar...no. I’m withholding it. Look at me—getting off!”
Maybe I do need to lighten up a little—I’m a monster! I really have tried to address my situation with them and even went so far as to try joining what I thought was a support group...but it turned out to be a team of bald men painted blue and I came away disappointed. So much for easy solutions.
Wow, we’re just blowing through naptime, aren’t we? So it’s back to the mainland, and I resume my post on the ferry. Croc! No, sorry, wait, log. Just a log. No, wait, sorry—croc!
Well, where next? Everything in Wee Britain’s closed already since they’re on Greenwich Mean Time, so maybe a movie? I have some money left, so we could go see a Star War. Or else the Tantamount Pictures filmfest has a whole range of things, from romances like Love, Indubitably and The Ocean Walker to the period flick A Thoroughly Polite Dustup. They even have Gangy for horror and the Les Cousins Dangereux remake; I’m not sure if it maintains any of the complex eroticism of the French original, but I hear it’s the best 52 minutes you’ll spend all day! And speaking of risqué, there’s always the Gothic Castle or the bumpaddle courts or...hey, the Fun Zone! It’s like a carnival, without the half-person on the skateboard that grabbed your knee to steady himself. Arcade time!
I love my video games, but on this occasion there was clearly only one option: the claw machine. Rob says he’s never let me try before because rabbit paws aren’t known for fine dexterity. If that’s a veiled criticism about me, I won’t hear it and I won’t respond to it. If anything, I need to show him I am not s-ing around; I need something I can pass off as an award, like maybe the seal for marksmanship or the gorilla for sand racing. Here goes!
Okay, that was...utterly macabre. After having Rob cash out those gold Krugerrands he has stuffed in energy bar wrappers, all I could manage was one prize plus a tiny teddy somebody forgot in the prize chute. Well, that was a freebie. But so much for my vaunted catlike agility; this might actually be an even worse return than the time I asked Rob for $5,000 I could invest in a Franklin CD. I felt like the laughingstock of the boardwalk, mocked by every selfish country music-loving lady in Newport Beach. Well, excuse me, Judge Reinhold, but I’m feeling a little pressure here!
So it seemed like a good time to take a break with the Actor Pull section—I didn’t take six weeks of improv classes at the Groundlings for nothing—and research dinner options. I was made to understand there were grilled cheese sandwiches here, but let’s see what else we have. Hmm, lots of family-friendly options like Swallows, Klimpy’s, or Fat Ammy’s, or else we could have margaritas made in our mouths at Señor Tadpole’s or split a Skip’s Scramble at Skip Church’s Bis...no, scratch that, it includes something called a mayon-egg. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds disgusting! And if I have to smell another meal of fish, rice, and mango, I’m gonna kill somebody, so forget Shrimpfest at Red Prawn. Actually, is there a BBQ joint or steakhouse around here? I could order Lindsay chops, take some home, throw it in a pot, add some broth, a potato—baby, I’d get a stew goin’!
In the end, though, I caved and just went into the first place we saw. All I wanted was comfort food anyway, like fried cheese (with club sauce) or chicken fingers (with spicy club sauce) or macaroni—let me finish—salad. I would’ve even been happy with Burger King; did you know that you can get a refill on any drink you want there and it’s free? It’s a wonderful restaurant!
So penne peperonata it is—con pollo instead of con salsiccia because I’d rather have chicken in chicken sauce than a banger in the mouth. The bonus was that I ate in true Bluth style: at the bar. Wow, this Coke and Cloudmir’s making me think fuzzy—I have almost no judgment at all! But you know vodka; it goes bad once it’s opened. Now, what’s for dessert?
Oh, who am I kidding—this of all things is a no-brainer. Just call me Mr. Banana-Grabber. Three in one day, though...this seems so wrong. Not hot-wrong—you know, regular-wrong. Like, el amor prohibido. Especially when I want my belt to buckle, not my chair. That did happen to me once, although that was 90% gravity.
Unfortunately, this mainland banana featured lower-grade chocolate than the ones on the island; it was sort of like going from prime rib to...I don’t know, weird brother of prime rib. Or comparing apples and some fruit nobody’s ever heard of. It tasted like a foot. Which I didn’t really mind...but I’m pretty sure I said no nuts. I give it a C-minus—C-M-I-N-E-S! Stick a wrench in me, I’m done; I think I’ve got a touch of the dizzies now. Time for a word with Mr. Manager.
So I took a stroll along the waterway to clear my head, watching more of those raucous party boats cruising around, and that’s when it hit me—I’ve made a huge mistake. It’s as Ann as the nose on Plain’s face to me now: Oftentimes the heart acts without consulting the head, and thusly, I’ve been behaving like an Uday lookalike. Because sometimes working at something, it’s a way to not deal with some other thing, and look what happens when people are allowed free rein, without someone sensible in charge. This family can be pretty screwed up sometimes, but it’s better than the alternative. We’re brothers—we shouldn’t be fighting. We cannot afford to lose each other. And I must say, I feel a bit like a Mary without a Peter and a Paul. It’s time for me to return from whence I came...for as it is written, I shall be with whom I have formed a more perfect union with under God. And when all is said and done, I guess I can’t help being the Felix in the family after all. Just call me Mr. F.
If this were a Lifetime Moment Of Truth movie, this would be our act break. But it wasn’t. I did, however, finally call the Hot Cops and report those annoying boats on the way out of town.
So back we went. Much as I would’ve liked to have brought home some frozen bananas or Balboa bars, they never would’ve survived the trip, but after Rob asked, “Are you at all concerned about an uprising?,” we made sure to stop by the supermarket for a peace offering. Looks like there’s no hard feelings, though. (And that’s why...you always...leave...a note.) I can’t even nitpick the banner of appreciation; it looks like it was hastily done, plus some of these guys barely got a Crocodile in spelling anyway. What can I say, they fluctuate in their learning. And just between you and me, I do blame Rob for sending them to those gradeless, structureless, New Age feel-gooderies instead of a more discipline-oriented place like the Milford Academy, but anyway. Here goes nothing...
Hey, brothers. You know, there’s been a lot of lying in this family. And a lot of love—but more lies. Plus, as you know, I’ve been off doing the time of my life. Nonetheless: we may pick on each other, get into little scrapes, call each other names, and occasionally steal from each other, but that’s because we’re a family. We’re brothers...and we kind of like each other. That counts for everything. This is what’s real. This is what lasts. Everything else is just petty. And you know it’s true: everything I do, I do it for you. So cheers to Havoc and Bedlam, to Damage and Chaos, to Panic and Vengeance, to Menace and Rancor, to love and happiness—I love you all, Marta!
Good talk.
And then once they stopped chanting “Speech! Speech Speech!” belatedly, I turned over the loot, hoping they wouldn’t bolt everything like usual—I tell them not to, but I can’t promise their instincts won’t kick in. And sure enough, there goes Damage into the candy, head first. Like Pete Rose. Great, Dam; I can’t tell you how many health codes you’re violating right now. Anyhow, it feels like we’re solid as a rock again; Bedlam even told me that in my absence Havoc was calling radio stations, alternately requesting “I Will Survive” and “She’s Out Of My Life.” Aww. Just goes to show, somewhere over the rainbow...there’s another rainbow. So if there’s a moral to this story, it’s a simple one: family first. That, and all you need is smiles. I tried to express something to you in a couple of these numbers, and maybe, just maybe, heal this country a little bit. Oh, and I see Rob brought in the groceries—we have unlimited juice? This party is gonna be off the hook!
I am having a love affair with this ice cream sandwich. Te amo, sándwich de helado, te amo. Marry me!
And now that we’ve reached this understanding, it’s all smooth sailing going forward, right? No more making fun of Andy Griffith—I can’t emphasize that enough. No more Movie Night riots, no more luchas de muchachos, no more fundraisers for fake diseases or sending people baskets of poison muffins or trying to get past Quincy Jones’ security system, right? Right. My brothers will be on their best behavior from here on out—this is gonna be our best summer ever, buddy!
Mission accomplished. This has been pleasant and professional; good luck in the coming business year. And that’s how you narrate a story!
On the next Arrested Development-themed entry: Trouble crashes the Living Classics Pageant.
(Final tally: 244 Arrested Development references. Yes! \o/ STEVE HOLT! Well, make it 245. And to see how you did, go here for the complete breakdown of references.)
