Who is almost exactly my age, to within a few days, seems (among other things) to be claiming that his “behavior” is a direct product of beatings he received at the hands of his father.

Really.

When I was between 9 and 17, I was the subject of beatings the likes of which would get someone arrested today, and probably get him doing hard time, too. Dad believed in the belt. Mom did too. Mom and dad also believed in the shoe, the switch, the yardstick, the piece of radiator hose, the razor strop, the occasional extension cord, the broom handle, the plunger handle; in other words, what was to hand.

I was NOT an abused child. There were NEVER any times when I didn’t deserve every lick I got, and frankly, I deserved a LOT more. Hell, in retrospect, why the old man never drowned me in a barrel of rainwater, I’ll NEVER know.

Anyway, as I listen to Mr Jackson whine (and, I think he’s a fine musician, I’m not casting aspersions on his talent, just his “behavior”) I think back to the slap of the razor strop buckle on the back of my thigh, the whistle a coathanger makes, the crack of the hickory plunger handle as it makes contact with your hip pocket, I think to myself, Maybe the old man should have whacked you an extra time or two, Michael. Might have toughened you up enough so you wouldn’t have to prey on little kids with cancer.

Thankfully I have a child who never requires any more discipline than the occasional harsh word, she’s a good kid. Me, I set the house on fire. Threw axes at my sister for fun. Catapulted frogs. Disassembled the car. Disassembled the TV. Filld the kitchen sink with concrete. Filled the pumphouse with roadkill cat corpses. In other words, I was a bastard. A right, complete SOB. Only prompt and frequent application of intense corporal punishment prevented me from becoming a career criminal.

When I was a little younger, I took a Tae Kwan Do class, lasted , I think three months. I never got any good at it, never been overly coordinated.
What DID happen was that the instructor used me to demonstrate every new move he ever taught the class. he quickly learned that I could take a beating, in fact, much more than he might have liked- from time to time he’d “spar” with me which usually involved kicking the pee-whopping shit out of me, but while I ended up black and blue, I never let it be known that I was in pain- once, I remember he kicked and punched and hit all the while screaming “fall down, you idiot! Fall down and I’ll stop!” but I never did. When he did stop I was a huge hematoma- but I was still well-rested. I sat on him, he was too exhausted to stop me- and I nearly suffocated him before he begged to be let up.

Sometimes being fast, or skilled, or even talented, doesn’t help much. Sometimes it’s the ability to take a beating and come back fighting.

Winning counts. Nothing else does.