Tiffany’s Restaurant Massacre

The seeds we plant in our children are sometimes twisted ones, ones that take time to germinate, root, grow and burst from their tiny minds in a tangle of shock and confusion. I know. I stumbled across cultural landmines from my childhood repeatedly in college. Things that my family (my father in particular) had said or done that I thought were just our family weirdness but in fact were a Dennis Miller-esque cultural sub reference. Yes, of course I have an example…

I was a Junior in college minding my own business sitting in my room in the frat house I lived in when my roommate/little brother comes in with our resident hippie brother (every house had one – the pot has to be grown somewhere – I never inhaled). They proceed to the stereo and put on the “song”. I use the quotes because there was a lot more talking than singing and it was a smidge longer that the 3:05 that Billy Joel’s hits are cut down to.

This was not shocking or intimidating to me. My roommate was the same guy who made party tapes with fraternity songs on them at twenty minute intervals to clear the room and bring in a fresh crowd when the “good” music started. His musical eclecticism was well known. I grew up exposed to the singer/songwriter set and my father’s penchant for Harry Chapin meant that I could stomach a seven or eight minute song without too much trouble.

All that said, the song starts up and it’s this guy talking about the song, or the name of the song or the restaurant it’s named after. It was amusing but nothing to really get my attention. When the chorus starts up, I realize this is Alice’s Restaurant. Like the Rocky Horror Picture Show or Meatloaf’s Bat Out of Hell, there are some things everyone encounters in college or did back then. I checked the box on my mental list of things to do before graduation and tuned back out.

About twelve minutes later, I heard something that yanked my attention back to the song. "Kid, I want you to go and sit down on that bench that says Group W .... NOW kid!!" I stopped the tape (yes, this was that long ago) and rewound it. My roommate was confused and asked what the big deal was. I explained that when I was a kid and my brothers and/or I misbehaved that there was a bench in my father’s room that we would have to go sit on. Sometimes he’d even make us hold hands; that was the worst. He called it the “Group W” bench. Here is the original bench as it has been preserved for posterity. It’s far more uncomfortable than it looks. I know. Trust me.

Here’s a list of who sits on the Group W bench according to Arlo Guthrie: “there was all kinds of mean nasty ugly looking people on the bench there. Mother rapers. Father stabbers. Father rapers! Father rapers sitting right there on the bench next to me! And they was mean and nasty and ugly and horrible crime-type guys sitting on the bench next to me.”

Here’s a picture of posterity sitting on the original bench in December 2007. When my father sent this to me he noted that, “the occupants are miniature-sized reproductions.” You will note Liam has his hands up as though he’s been caught in the act, complete with a sheepish look. Graeme, on the other hand, is planning his escape or next shenanigan.

So, it’s time to plant some seeds of our own and see how old our children are before they encounter Arlo Guthrie. Behold the second generation Group W bench in all its teak glory. It’s backless for increased discomfort.


As you can see below, they seem to have forgotten already that sitting on the Group W bench is a punishment.