BONUS CHAPTER
HOW TO CHEAT AT SECRET SANTA
So, that was something! Right? A book! I still can’t believe it.
And the thing is, I actually wrote the stupid thing! I didn’t barf my
life story into a tape recorder and let some Actual Writer magically
transform my ramblings into a memoir; I came up with all the words
and put them in the order you just read them in! I even added in the
periods and the commas! I also used a handful of those punctua-
tion thingies that look like an exclamation point that needs to visit
the chiropractor. I should gure out what they’re called, because I
literally just used one in this chapter! And did I actually imply that
someone would dictate their life story into a “tape recorder” in this
day and age? What is this, The Conversation?
This new chapter is a postscript for everyone who was kind
enough to purchase the paperback of It Never Ends. The publisher
asked me to consider adding some new content to this edition
because bonus stu makes this “a complete package” that will theo-
retically lure my faithful readers to journey back to their B. Dalton’s
for a “Scharpling Double Dip.” Some people are gonna say that I’m
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278 Tom Scharpling
doing something fun, but I am aware that others might see this as
some weird cash grab. And they’re not entirely wrong. While this is
hardly a cash grab—forget writing a book, you’re better o heading
to the dog track if you want to get your mitts on some fast money—
a part of me feels slightly bad that I am making this version enticing
enough for you to potentially purchase a second copy. I’m putting
this chapter on the book’s website, www.TomWroteABook.com. (I
still can’t believe that URL was available for purchase in 2021! Every
single one of the book-writing Toms out there could’ve snapped it
up at any point! You snooze you lose, Tom Brady! Better luck next
time, Tom’s of Maine!).
I gured this chapter could ultimately serve as a means to wrap
up this experience. If the book properly documents my long journey
to putting my life story on the page, this postscript will cover what
it was like to have that book—and all the secrets revealed in it—
become available for public consumption after a lifetime of keeping
all that stu buried deep inside my brain.
I also straight-up promised to reveal how I managed to cheat at
my family’s Secret Santa for years. I teased it, but I never delivered
on my promise. That’s right, I dropped the ball. So now I would like
to right this wrong. I will tell you all how your guy pulled his own
holiday gift Big Short, because if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s
delivering on a promise. (I’m also good at catching things I dropped
before they hit the oor, a highly underrated skill. I’m getting very
good at eating candy and watching TV.)
Why would I feel the need to pull a fast one on my family and
cheat at Secret Santa? It all comes down to me never being able to
enjoy the very basic elements of gift-giving. I struggle with it every
holiday season. Let me modify that: I’ve never enjoyed the very basic
elements of gift-getting. I’m pretty good at buying gifts for others.
Now, you might be asking yourself what my secret to that is. It’s sim-
ple: I PAY ATTENTION TO THE PEOPLE IN MY LIFE WHEN
THEY TALK. Shocking but true! Oh, if I had a dollar for every time
one of my friends or family unwrapped a present and exclaimed,
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It Never Ends 279
“How on Earth did you remember that I wanted to get my hands on
these old McDonald’s glasses you just gave me?” I would be using
the Pikachu oat from the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade as my
personal hot-air balloon instead of being stuck driving a dumb car
like the rest of you clock-punchers. So pay attention when people
talk during non-gift-giving season. All of the answers you desire are
waiting for you in the course of normal conversation.
If only that gift-giving condence carried over to my gift-
receiving. My fears all come alive when someone hands me a
wrapped present, an expectant smile steadily consuming their face.
I can’t handle having to react to something that might not be a good
t for me. Part of the problem comes from my ever-changing inter-
ests and my stupid insistence on buying whatever books or records
I want, one of the perks of not having a child to clothe and feed.
If I want it, I go and get it. Don’t mistake this for any sort of brag: I
don’t have expensive tastes; most of the food I eat is served in Styro-
foam containers, and my drinks of choice can be found at any gas
station. But this dilemma has been a part of my life as far back as I
can remember.
One time, my uncle gave me a Christmas present. I must’ve been
around ten years old, so the holidays were still a big deal. I tore the
paper away to reveal... a science kit. I’m not sure why he would
think I was interested in science. Perhaps he confused my passion
for science ction (wisecracking robots and spaceships) with my
all-consuming disinterest in actual science (test tubes and other
likeminded crap)? Whatever it was that made him land on the sci-
ence kit, I now had a job to do. I needed to convince him that I loved
it! I immediately slapped an unconvincing grin across my face and
thanked him as if I had just been handed the cure for chlamydia
itself. (And look, I didn’t need a chlamydia cure when I was ten and
I most denitely don’t need one now. It’s just a clever turn of phrase
that you should admire, not criticize.) I felt phony and low and
didn’t want to keep experiencing this sense of pathetic fraudulence
every time I unwrapped a present. I know it makes me sound like
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280 Tom Scharpling
a world-class ingrate on some level, but I’m sorry, I simply cannot
handle the pressure generated by moments like this. I’d love to be
gracious in these moments, but I feel the weight of it all: the wasted
money, the false gratitude, all of it.
It took a modication in the gift-giving procedure in my family
for me to nally see a path toward an Escape from Alcatraz–style
breakout. Our family kept growing through marriages and children,
so buying a present for everybody wasn’t nancially feasible. My
aunts came up with a plan: Instead of buying small presents for
everybody, we would each buy one larger present for one relative.
If you’re not familiar with how Secret Santa works, it’s simple: On
Thanksgiving, everyone would write their names on a slip of paper
and drop it into a bowl. Then the bowl would get passed around,
with everybody withdrawing a slip of paper that revealed who you
would buy a larger Christmas present for that year.
This new approach made sense from a nancial perspective, but
from a “I am bad at receiving presents” angle it was terrible news!
In the chaos of everyone tearing open multiple presents, if my fake
reaction was less than convincing, it might go completely unnoticed.
If a gift sucked, everyone would still be consumed with making
their way to the bottom of their small pile of presents. But if you’re
only receiving one gift? You’re on the hot seat, Jack! The gift-giver
spent fty bucks instead of the twenty the previous administration
called for, so they’re gonna stare right at your face as your thumbs
slide beneath the wrapping paper, just waiting for the moment you
realize you’ve been given an autographed photo of the MyPillow
guy. What, you don’t like it? But I thought you loved pillows! I know
you like sleeping!
This dynamic would not stand for Young Tom. No, no, no. Some-
thing had to change. I stomped into my bedroom and tried to gure
out a solution. I looked upward for answers, and by that I mean
I cocked my head toward the Depeche Mode poster hanging on
the wall. “What should I do, Andy Fletcher? I’m tired of all this
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It Never Ends 281
gift- giving malarkey!” Andy Fletcher never answered me, instead
choosing to maintain his detached stare. But a plan started gurgling
inside my little brain. It wasn’t long before I gured out how to game
the system!
Speaking of gaming the system, the world of publishing is unlike
anything I have ever taken part in.
When one writes for television, it becomes readily apparent that
it is a collaborative medium. You sit in a room with other writers and
break stories and make each other laugh and eat snacks and generally
have a good time. But writing a book? You’re on your own, bub. It’s
not unlike the dierence between high school and college. You can’t
just walk to the bathroom without a hall pass in high school. You’re
under the microscope—every single move gets monitored by the
school authorities. But if you want to skip a class in college, go for
it! You’ve got the power! Nobody is gonna ask where you are. This is
the rst inkling of what it’s like to be an adult. The only tradeo is
that if you fail to do your work, you’re going to unk out and there
is nobody to blame but yourself. That is what it felt like working on
a book: I could do whatever I wanted with my days, but I had to be
absolutely ruthless in my discipline to drive the project home. If I
didn’t care, who else would?
Writing a memoir was without a doubt the most dicult creative
thing I’ve ever done. Everything else is a distant second. The process
always carried some measure of terror and stress with it; I had been
waiting my entire life for the moment that I would Write a Book,
and that day had come. The experience was also very rewarding,
but most of the positive feelings arrived after the rst draft was
completed. There’s an old saying that “Everybody wants to have
written a book, but nobody wants to actually write a book,” and
that is as true as anything I have ever heard. Simply put, writing a
memoir— especially one as chock-full of stories and confessions as
mine is—will suck you dry until you’re not sure why you signed up
to do it in the rst place.
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282 Tom Scharpling
A typical writing day went something like this:
1) I sit down at my computer.
2) I take out a hammer and smash open the top of
myhead.
3) I reach into my cranium and scoop out my brains (along
with whatever random goo is living in my noggin),
dumping them onto the table in front of me.
4) I sift through my brains, analyzing the shameful secrets
and embarrassing memories in an eort to alchemize
the pain into a story.
5) I write.
6) I scoop my brains up and pour them back into my head,
another day of writing behind me.
7) I press an ice pack or cold compress to my head and
shut my eyes.
Fear was a constant and unwelcome presence with all the hos-
pitalization and ECT stories. It was frightening to merely replay
those stories in my head, let alone put them into prose. The biggest
concern was that I would sell myself out for a few quick laughs, that
I would take the worst parts of my life story and turn them into
cheap entertainment. My pain is your comedy! I would spend nights
aimlessly driving around, my thoughts always returning to the same
place: Was this whole thing a mistake? Was I about to ruin my life
by sharing these stories?
It wasn’t and I wasn’t. I’d be lying if I said there still weren’t stray
moments in which I regret undertaking any of this, that I would’ve
been better o writing a television pilot about a detective that solves
crimes they uncover on Etsy. But I have ultimately grown to accept
that the secrets I had buried now belonged to anyone who read the
book. These were my memories, but they weren’t only mine. And
that’s okay.
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It Never Ends 283
There is a universal aspect to the sharing of trauma that revealed
itself the moment advance copies of the book trickled out into the
world. I had given the book to friends, so I wasn’t completely in
the dark when it came to reader reactions. But these were people
I knew, people I could trust with my stories. I had gotten used to
their brand of feedback. But my mind was truly rattled the rst
time I saw someone I didn’t know on a book forum commenting on
a review copy of It Never Ends.
I can’t go back, I realized. It’s too late. Everybody knows now.
In the end, it was all okay. People now knew about my past. The
secrets that I had prepared to take with me to the grave were now
diminished into trivia, no dierent than the factoids that play at
the movies:
DID YOU KNOW that radio personality Tom Scharpling
had his brain electrocuted when he was eighteen years old?
A few friends said they felt closer to me after reading the book.
“I always sensed there were some missing pieces to your story,”
one told me. “Now I feel like I have all the pieces to the puzzle.” It
helped immensely to receive that kind of feedback, because that
was one of the secret goals of writing the book. I wanted to tell
the people in my life who I had actually been for most of my life.
No more masquerading behind my nom de Tom: The walls were
getting torn down. They received a much clearer portrait of who I
am through me explaining who I was.
The response from people I didn’t know was powerful, and while
I thought I was ready for it, I had no idea what it would actually feel
like. Apparently there are a fair amount of people out in the world
wearing their damage deep beneath the surface of their day-to-day
lives, and It Never Ends granted them permission to acknowledge
their particular brand of pain. A neighbor read my book—actually
multiple neighbors read it, which truly and completely oored
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284 Tom Scharpling
me—and said, “A close relative of mine went through a very similar
version of what you dealt with. Unfortunately he didn’t get the help
you got and he didn’t make it.” I burst into a t of sobbing after
hearing this, my gratitude for the people I have in my life front and
center. (I also tried to picture me reading a book that a neighbor had
written, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not imagine actually
doing it. There are limits!) While I had to be the one to carry the
burden of my mental illness—we all lug our own water, nobody can
truly bear the load for you—I have had plenty of people supporting
me and helping me over the years. I didn’t navigate those waters
alone, and I didn’t get through it all by accident; people had my back
in all sorts of ways.
That said, doing press for the book was a real challenge. It’s one
thing to get an email from a stranger saying the book’s mental health
revelations meant a lot to them. That’s a nice message to receive. It’s
a little more dicult to handle the host of a radio show asking, “So
you underwent a pretty severe course of electroconvulsive therapy,
what was that like?” within the rst ninety seconds of an interview.
I wanted to climb out the closest window and crawl beneath the
closest rock. How are you supposed to answer that? I can’t think of
what to say, other than “It wasn’t fun.”
Some interviewers verged into Barbara Walters territory, play-
ing a few rounds of Let Me See If I Can Make Tom Cry. For what
it’s worth, I never broke down during an interview. I came close,
very close, but most of the time I just ended up more angered than
anything. The subject matter put me in such a vulnerable spot. Any
interviewer could bring up any fragile moment from It Never Ends
and wave it in front of my face for a reaction. But I didn’t give them
what they wanted; instead I maintained a professional tone through-
out, knowing that one second after wrapping up I’d bury my face
into my pillow and scream until there was nothing left in my emo-
tional reservoir.
Still, I enjoyed the process, even though I never quite got used to
discussing intimate personal details with the casual conversational
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It Never Ends 285
tone that I would talk about my dislike of the music of The Band.
(And boy do I dislike The Band! In my not-so-humble opinion they
ruined rock music forever, taking a fun musical form and insisting
upon reverence and a dedication to “authenticity,” apparently not
realizing they were dressed like turn-of-the-century funeral home
employees. But this is a subject for another book!) Everybody was
pretty sweet and respectful, and I found myself having a lot of fun
doing all the interviews. It was validating to hear people respond
to dierent portions of the book. Some were drawn to my prank
phone-calling skills, while others wanted to discuss my hatred of
hospitals. I was pleasantly surprised by how many interviewers
wanted to discuss my relationship to the music of Billy Joel. I got
a few “So what exactly is it about Billy Joel that you dislike?” to
which I would answer, “It generally starts with the music he writes
and sings.” It was a good time overall... except for one experience.
Midway through the press cycle I was asked to host a segment
on a website that specializes in interactive book promotion. It was
a pretty simple aair: The author conducts an informal Zoom-type
chat directly with their audience, answering questions about the
book in the hopes that viewers will click through and order a copy.
This one didn’t feel right in my bones, but I was in full promotion
mode, so I agreed to give it a shot. I was giving everything a shot
at that point; I declared early on that I would do an interview with
literally anyone who asked, big or small, didn’t matter one bit. I even
stated I would talk to a nursing home newsletter if they asked. And
one did! A guy who published a weekly bulletin at a senior center
reached out for an interview. It was a great conversation, and it made
me realize that I will make an amazing retired person. The day I
can move into an old folks’ home is the day I ascend, fully realized,
transforming from a broken lump of a person into a human-shaped
Werther’s Original, the hardest substance known to humanity.
So in the spirit of making sure I was grossly overexposed, I
agreed to appear on the video book website thingy. And those bones
of mine were right about the situation. This was a classic “bad t” as
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286 Tom Scharpling
we say in the biz. It isn’t the fault of the website. They do a bang-up
job with personalities like Valerie Bertinelli or the Duck Dynasty
shitbags. But I don’t really need help connecting with my audience
in that fashion; they have been able to talk to me every Tuesday
night since the Carter administration. The interaction between me
and my listeners is as good as anybody has ever had. But I had to try.
The hour I spent on this platform was my own personal King of
Comedy—cringey moment stacked atop cringey moment. I could see
myself on my own screen while talking to the audience—I had to
look to read the viewers’ questions—and I looked tired and defeated,
like a used car salesman desperate to make his quota. The meager
audience that turned out for this was truly amazing, a bunch of lis-
teners valiantly drumming up questions for the Q&A in the service
of keeping me from laying down in trac. I attempted to hold on
to a brave face throughout, but I knew in my heart of hearts that I
was eating it hard. It’s actually a not-unpleasant experience to truly
bomb (once you get past the thrown fruit) because I remember how
many variables need to align for things to go well. One false move
and I’m driving in the fast lane toward Flop City, population Tom!
My sweat game was strong that afternoon, a cold and constant
river of perspiration running down the center of my back. The entire
thing took no more than an hour, but it felt endless. And like most
things, it eventually ended, and I slammed my computer shut. “Well,
I guess that could’ve gone worse,” I rationalized to myself. Funny
thing—it turns out that it did go worse than I thought! I found out
afterward that I sold a grand total of one book that day. One! The
only thing worse than one is none, which is only one more away
from me actually paying someone to take a copy of the book. And to
the person who bought that single copy of It Never Ends, I ask only
this: WHY? Were you a straggler just swinging by for a looky-loo?
Or perhaps you’re the book-promoting equivalent of a ghoul that
slows down to gawk at the wreckage of a car crash? Whatever the
reason, I appreciate the sale! Every bit counts; that’s why I’m writing
this bonus chapter! Tommy needs to buy dog bones for his pooches!
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It Never Ends 287
One misconception that grew from the book is that I had lived
a hard life. And look, I can see how someone might arrive at that
conclusion after reading my story. But the truth is much more subtle.
Maybe it’s splitting hairs, but I would say I had a life. Not an easy
one, not a hard one, just a life, with plenty of good times abutting
the rough times. I’m not gonna deny that some bizarrely dicult
circumstances were dropped on me at dierent points, but those
experiences alone do not dene me. Ultimately the responsibility
ison me for not including more of the fun I had as a kid, but there’s
only so much room in a book like this! Was I supposed to skip over
all the hospital stu so I could talk about how I saw TRON every
weeknight at my local movie theater when I was thirteen? I guess
this is as good a place as any to tell this story—I seriously doubt my
next book will be called Tom and TRON: My Life with the Master
Control Program.
So yes, I did see TRON over and over at the movie theater a mile
from my house, exhibiting the kind of repetitive and obsessive
behavior that would t perfectly into the psychological prole of
a serial killer. But my back was the only thing getting murdered,
thanks to the ancient theater seats that were seemingly made from
the same material they use to build battleships. (Which would be
steel, Tom. They make battleships out of steel.) But before you con-
demn me, I must provide some context to this admittedly pathetic
story. At that point in my life, I was obsessed with anything resem-
bling Star Wars. If it had a robot in it, I was there. So when TRON
came out in 1982, I was over the moon.
I rst saw TRON in a crowded theater that summer and was
immediately hooked. I saw it again and still wasn’t satised. Imag-
ine how my little brain exploded when TRON nally arrived at the
second-run movie theater a short bike ride away from my bedroom!
I went to the 7 .. showing of TRON that Monday and loved it
so much that I went back the following night. Except this time I
came ready to combat the uncomfortable seats. I rode my bike to
the theater WITH A PILLOW. I can’t imagine what the kid at the
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288 Tom Scharpling
ticket window thought when he saw a thirteen-year-old kid hold-
ing a pillow, meekly croaking out those four magic words, “One for
TRON, please.”
The pillow actually worked like a charm, cushioning my fragile
frame from the industrial seating. It worked so well that I went back
the following night. And the night after that. I saw TRON at least
six nights in a row, lugging along my trusty pillow each and every
time. And I sat there thrilled each and every time. The big question
here is, “What was so goddamn thrilling about TRON that I had to
see it night after night?”
I’m not entirely sure. Having seen TRON as an adult, I can objec-
tively say that it sucks shit. As you watch it, you can literally feel
the studio heads at Disney screaming that they need a Star Wars
of their own and promptly pinning all their hopes on the thrill-
ing tale of an arcade owner that gets sucked inside a game. Holy
smokes, is that actually what TRON is about? I guess I had blocked
that part out. Well, at least it will be shot in a deadening black-and-
white with an equally bland color treatment that makes everyone
look like a robotic Rudolph Valentino. I have no idea why I got so
obsessed with this movie. I was probably drawn in by the truly
awesome arcade game based on the less-than-awesome lm. Either
way, at this point in my life you would have to pay me at least eight
hundred dollars—cash only!—to watch TRON again, and I’m gonna
make you throw in the snacks as well. And no Junior Mints!
This is the same movie theater where one of the more infamous
moments from my youth took place. Grease was playing at this the-
ater, and back when the movie was released, Grease was, as they
say, the word. The lm was beloved by all ages, and it served as a
perfect vehicle to introduce American youth to concepts like teen
pregnancy and beach sex. My mother was game to take me and my
sister, Jill, and asked her to call the theater to ask how much tickets
cost. Jill was probably eight at the time, which lets her o the hook
for this story (my mother not so much). She called the theater and
asked how much it cost to get in. The person on the other end of the
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It Never Ends 289
line said, “The movie is free today!” My sister relayed this exciting
information to my mom, who promptly invited all the neighbor-
hood kids aong for a free screening of Grease.
We all got to the theater—me and my sister and mother plus as
many kids as could t in our family car—and promptly received the
news that no, Grease was not free, not today or any day. My sister
had clearly misdialed, as a child is wont to do, and the jerko who
picked up the phone gave her the faulty information. I remember my
mother scrounging in her purse in an attempt to unearth as much
loose change from the bottom in an attempt to pay for all the tickets
in this pre-credit-card moviegoing era. Now one might ask whether
my mother should’ve called the theater back for verication about
a movie being free for everybody, an event that has never happened
since the beginning of time, but that would be picking nits. She was
doing the best she could. Recounting this story makes me love my
hardworking mom a little bit more.
You might be screaming at this book, “I thought Tom just said
he was gonna tell some stories that showed how much fun he
had as a child. This Grease story doesn’t sound particularly fun!”
Well, it was fun for me. Or at least it was funny. I know my fam-
ily has laughed about it over the years, so that is enough for me.
The moments when you realize you live in a Mike Leigh movie
are the moments that remind you that you are not alone in this
life. We all trip and fall sometimes, but it comes down to whether
we can laugh about it while we pick ourselves up. Or at least that’s
what I tell myself between sobs.
So in conclusion, writing the book was a challenge, but it was
fun and I’m incredibly proud of it. I wrote a book! Seriously! After
a lifetime of obsessing over what my book would be and worrying
that I would put together a book that wouldn’t live up to the invisi-
ble standard in my head of what a book should be, I am happy to say
that I met my criteria. It’s a good book. Thanks for reading it. And if
this is your second copy of the book, I thank you twice. I’m gonna
try to write another one of these, so keep your eyes peeled over at
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290 Tom Scharpling
www.TomWroteABook.com for updates. It’s gonna take awhile, but
I am nothing if not a collection of long-term goals. Thanks!
I in mind for this chapter, but I don’t have the guts to
play it out. I was going to see if I could get away with not revealing
how I cheated at Secret Santa. It would’ve been funny after all the
hoopla of actually titling the chapter
, right? But you know that’s not my style. I like a good joke as
much as the next gooall, but I also like fullling my promises. So
here is how I did it.
When the little slips of paper and the bowl got passed around the
room, I would write my name on the paper then set it in the bowl.
Except I WOULDN’T SET IT IN THE BOWL! I would mime the
motion of setting it in the bowl, but I would actually slide the folded
slip beneath my thumb. That way the slip never got put in the bowl!
And when it came time to pick a Secret Santa name, I would simply
reach my hand into the bowl WITH THE FOLDED SLIP STILL
BENEATH MY THUMB, thus allowing me to “pick” my own name!
I would then become my own Secret Santa.
I would buy a gift for myself! And buy I did. Every year I would
go to a record store or bookstore and pick something out for myself.
When Christmas came around, I would sneakily duck out of the
room for a moment when everybody was preoccupied with unwrap-
ping their Secret Santa presents. Nobody would notice whether I
had unwrapped a present or not.
TRUST ME, THIS WORKED. I got away with it until I nally
told my mother what I was doing. The look of confused disappoint-
ment on her face was undeniable. I felt stupid, but not stupid enough
to not be proud of my amazing technique. Unfortunately, the reality
of life made it so uncles and aunts started passing away all too fre-
quently, so Secret Santa quietly fell by the wayside. The trick served
me well and now, like everything else in this book, it belongs as
much to you as it does to me. Use it in good health, my friends.
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