Young Lawrence “witnessed a lot of absurd stuff growing up in the Coney Island section of Brooklyn” in the 1960s. It informed his sense of humor.
His lower-middle-class family lived in one of those enormous, asphalt-drenched apartment complexes where grass was seemingly forbidden. “It was more like a prison yard where hundreds of kids played. The toughest, most sadistic ones took pleasure in hurting weaker ones.”
Lawrence was one of the weaker ones.
Home wasn’t much easier.
His father was a failed actor.
His mother was a failed singer.
The magnetism of performing—of being on the silver screen—ran through the family. So, when a writing professor told Lawrence, then a freshman at Rutgers University, that if he wanted to be a writer, he should just do it.
Lawrence listened.
He dropped out and moved to Los Angeles.
His parents told him he’d fail, just like they had.
Twelve months later, that prediction seemed accurate. Lawrence was barely surviving, earning what little money he could by selling handwritten jokes to comedians for $10 apiece.
Then he met another funny guy named Lawrence.
Also from New York.
Larry Charles, meet Larry David.
“Any interest in writing for a little new show called Seinfeld?”
“When Seinfeld was successful, my mother would say, ‘Be nice to Jerry.’ When I accepted my Emmy, my father said, ‘Wow, you look fat.’ I think they were proud, but their unrealized dreams kept them from expressing it.”
To put it mildly, family dynamics are complex.
Or more candidly: Families can be hard to be part of.
Especially during the holidays.
Maybe you can relate.
My family of six—I’m the third of four kids—is comprised of five competitive people (not my mom; she’s a saint) who have all embraced the motto strong views, strongly held.
My father played college football, as did my older brother. I was a failed Division I athlete. My older sister was a collegiate cheerleader, and my younger sister played college volleyball.
As I head into another holiday stretch with family, I can offer no advice on how to ensure things go smoothly or lovingly.
What I can offer are ten principles that, if followed faithfully, will guarantee unhappiness, resentment, and disappointment—approaching the kind of familial discord Larry Charles knows well.
Hartmann’s Top 10 Rules for Holiday Misery
- Drink heavily.
Alcohol is a truth serum, and that’s what your family really wants: your unvarnished perspective, stripped of thoughtfulness and tact.
- Stay up late.
Pair binge drinking deep into the night with sleeping in an unfamiliar bed, and you’ll greet tomorrow with zero patience—perfect for quality family time.
- Unleash your inner Jordan.
We grew up in Chicagoland during the Bulls’ six-championship run. Whether it’s poker, ping pong, Scrabble, or Empire, win at all costs. Someone has to teach your four-year-old nephew about the sting of defeat.
- Assume negative intent.
Happiness is the delta between expectations and lived experience. And you’ve lived a lot of experience with these people. Assume the worst.
- Wear thin skin.
Any comment from any sibling could be the opening cannon shot in a Fort Sumter–level barrage of passive aggression. Stay vigilant.
- Return every insult.
Be quick to volley. Target vulnerabilities. Career disappointments and parenting failures are always crowd-pleasers.
- Roast at dinner.
You are witty and clever. Pair these with some timely sarcasm and make your Christmas feast feel like a Comedy Central roast.
- Never argue the other side.
Acknowledging nuance is weakness. Hammer your talking points and ignore whatever idiocy tumbles out of their mouths. Someone will storm off eventually. Victory will be yours.
- Encourage Dad to share political opinions.
Silence is for funerals. Poke the bear. Goad him into a conversation that ensures maximum engagement from everyone.
- Don’t exercise.
Stay inside. Nurse the hangover. Add a little hair of the dog at breakfast. Fresh air and sunshine are risky because you know they’ll talk about you if you head out for a walk.
Tolstoy wrote, “All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
No less a writer, Larry Charles contributed a line via George Costanza just as applicable to family life: “The jerk store called—and they’re running out of you!”
That’s my goal this holiday season: Don’t be a jerk.
Families don’t need us to be clever, strong, or loud. They just need us to show up with the same kindness we afford strangers—let alone friends.
In families, winning is rarely about saying the right thing.
It’s about not saying the wrong one.
It’s about swerving around the familiar potholes on the long family road trip—the comments, the jokes, the arguments we already know will blow a tire.
Kindness doesn’t need to be grand or expressive.
It can be restraint, letting something go unsaid.
That’s the win I’m aiming for this year.
Happy Holidays.
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