Monday, November 28, 2011

Chapter 27: Christmas Music Is Evil

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It's not even December 1st yet, but my ears are already being tortured by holiday music. Christmas music, to me, is akin to religious music--neither genre has produced more than a couple of songs that are actually worth listening to--or are at least tolerable. Think about it...how many religious songs can you name that aren't entirely stupid? For me, it's not just the phraseology of the content within the song; I'm hard-pressed to find any song in possession of a pleasantly constructed verse and melody that makes me want to sing along without giving myself an instant migraine.


I remember this gem of an example from Christian camp: "I am a C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N, dot the i!! And I have C-H-R-I-S-T in my H-E-A-R-T, so I will live E-T-E-R-N-A-L-L...Y..." Yep; the last part doesn't even fit within the timing of the measure. But before you say, "Come on, what about Stryper!" I suggest that you first slap yourself across the face, and then go stand in the corner.  Seriously, I'll wait.


But to be fair, holiday songs are generally more unforgivably offensive (unless they also contain religious lyrics). It's not just the traditional ones that cause insane fury (Frosty the Snowman, Santa Baby, I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus, et cetera), but when popular music adopts this theme, it produces a hideous group of offspring. 


Let's make a list of some of the offenders who are ruining humanity...and my peace of mind:


Crime against mankind #1: "We Are The World"  is created by Quincy Jones.
Result: Sung by a bunch of poorly-dressed, misguided pop artists, and the song is destined to torment the customers of airport lounges and grocery stores. 


Crime against mankind #2: "Baby It's Cold Outside" as sung by Nick Lachey and Jessica Simpson.
Result: Makes children with Down Syndrome feel suicidal.


Crime against mankind #3: Blasting "I'll Be Home For Christmas" as sung by Michael McDonald.
Result: Like giving Kryptonite covered in Syphilis to Superman. 


Crime against mankind #4: "Jingle Bells" as sung by Barbara Streisand.
Result: Makes people WANT to watch Yentil, which probably makes Ms. Streisand an evil genius.


Crime against mankind #5: "Simply Have A Wonderful Christmastime" as sung by Paul McCartney.
Result: Responsible for AIDS.


Crime against mankind #6: "All I Want For Christmas Is You" as sung by Mariah Carey.
Result: The reason why some whales are nearing extinction.


Crime against mankind #7: "Yellowman Rock" as sung by Yellowman.
Result: Being an albino reggae singer isn't scary enough, apparently, so he went big, and made up a dumb reggae holiday song that even frightens hippies.


Crime against mankind #8: "Please, Daddy (Don’t Get Drunk This Christmas)" as sung by John Denver.
Result: Confuses millions of southern people when children ask that J.D. be given to their booze-guzzling fathers.


I could go on and on, but you get the idea. 


And just to scare the crap out of you, here's a little song called "There's No One Quite Like Grandma by St Winifred’s School Choir. Can anyone say, "Village of the Damned?"







And finally, if you think I'm overstating the silliness of religious music, I dare you to listen to "Millennium Prayer" by Cliff Richard













Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Chapter 26: Holiday Family Massacre

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Another year has passed, which means the holidays are quickly approaching. For some people, the holiday season is a joyful time with family and friends; for me, it ushers in a two-month period of heavy drinking, awkward and sometimes explosive family conversations, badly chosen (and received) gifts, along with emotional eating--leading to a pronounced tightening of my little pants--which can make a person more than a little irritable. 

Strangely, I always think, "This year will be different." And then I remember all of the holidays past. However, I've decided that stories of my family's dysfunctional behavior can be a gift to the world--a new way of spreading seasonal cheer (just like Herpes). And why not write a children's book, while I'm at it? You're welcome. 

My family is comprised mainly from a blend of Italian and Spaniard ethnicities, although our blood is diluted by a touch of English, French, Dutch, and of course, polygamy. Sadly, no Irish Spring. This does, however, make for the worst kind of mix; really, it's like gathering a bunch of recessive genes--not far from that episode of X-Files (about the hillbillies). Members of my family usually have the following qualities: highly intelligent, yet certifiably insane, a tendency to have explosive fits of rage over small details, alcoholism (which always leads to extreme conservatism or libertarianism), prone to tearful emotional outbursts, bizarre obsessions with weapons or fascists, and did I mention polygamy?

One of my earliest memories from a family holiday involves my grandfather Oz. He was a singular man, possessing an even more singular talent. Oz believed that he had special powers. Namely, he could look inside a person, and see their "genie." I was about 9 at the time, so I can't be sure if he meant that everyone is actually possessed by a magical, mythical Arabian creature, or if he just had cataracts. Regardless, he was convinced that his gift was the basis for Sidney Sheldon's TV show, I Dream of Jeannie. And although Sidney Sheldon profited largely from the series, he chose to cheat my grandfather out of his share. Really.

Other holidays seemed normal enough, until the mashed potatoes showed up on Nazi china, or until my father found a stash of pills/wine/beer/paint thinner. Naturally, the gathering would descend into mayhem when my father decided it was his civic duty to deport the next-door neighbors we'd invited, because they "look like illegals." Before my sister and I could refill our vodka sodas, squeeze our eyes shut and chant, "Please tell us we're adopted," my mother would begin screaming about how poor people don't need to eat the white meat (they should be happy with the dark), which launches my father into a diatribe about the criminality of black people (giving the side-eye to my black boyfriend at the time). And because my Aunt Mary has not received enough attention, she begins to cry while she commandeers the rest of the cranberry sauce.

But the real fun happens when gays make an appearance at my family's gatherings. My father, always the diplomat, sets the tone of the evening by declaring, "I'm not into guys, so if I get an erection, it's because I'm thinking about my girlfriend." And if there is a gay person present that has a spray tan,  he will assume that our gay guest has AIDS. Ironically, this seems to soften my father, and he will begin to inquire after the estate of the "stricken" man--possibly because he may or may not convalesce dying relatives to swindle them out of their savings (it's never been proven).

But once these dinners are over, my family always relaxes for a moment, enjoying the over-stuffed satisfaction that only comes as a result of inhaling a high-calorie meal; there is always one perfect moment of silence; within this moment, I am seized by a rare moment of clarity; and as I glance around the room to behold the vast imperfection of my family, it dawns on me...they actually are an eclectic mix of beautifully damaged specimens, and they are just doing their best to exist within a world that clearly amuses, yet disappoints them; perhaps it's not so terrible to be related to these people. 

But then my father staggers back into the house, after huffing some gasoline from the tank of his decrepit motor home, and while brandishing one of his many pistols, he declares, "The Jews ruined prostitution and Chinese food."















Thursday, November 17, 2011

Chapter 25: "Deep" Thoughts Ruin Lives

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If I were a scientist, I'd find a cure for over-active brains--mine, to be specific. In my case, it's a curse to have so much going on inside the brain. That sentence might sound arrogant, but trust me when I say that such a declaration is hardly meant to be boastful; the truth is, there isn't much difference between me and the lady on the corner who accused me of giving her husband gonorrhea. PS, If she had been wearing pants, it might have caused me to pause.


To be fair, there are plenty of people in the world whose kinetic minds produce meaningful contributions to the world (thankfully), but I am not one of those people. In my case, a perceived acumen (whether true or false) leads to episodes of painfully awkward exchanges. I simply can't focus long enough to catch every unfiltered thought. And the consequences can range from slight to catastrophic. 


Not long ago, I met a man and a woman at a party. They were standing quite near one another, so it seemed only natural to assume they were, in fact, coupled up. The woman had announced that she was pregnant. As I listened to the story, my mind was also calculating the  possible number of jelly beans I could fit into my mouth at once, so I missed the obvious non-verbal cues of the pair in front of me, signifying that their relationship was not amorous. When I snapped out of my reverie, I blurted out, "This is good news, right? Or does someone need a ride to the clinic? I can only fit three in my car."


On another occasion, I was at yet another party, when I started to notice just how many exes were also there. I admit that a situation like this would vex even the most grounded individuals, but I'm fairly certain that they would be a tad more tactful than I. While being introduced to an exes's new spouse, I noticed her rather sizable ring. As I admired the dazzling gem, I asked, "Is this a blood diamond?"


It is not my intention to be so insulting. I just have a tendency to lose track of conversations, and so when I finally emerge, it is often with a mind that is still somewhat detached. Even as I type, I'm thinking about how many ways Dabney Coleman can vary his mustache. 


In an attempt to catalog the minor transgressions from over the years, I'm inspired to write a short, cautionary "How to Avoid Being Perceived as an Asshole" guide (perhaps it will help others):


1. When you see an old acquaintance, it is polite to inquire about their spouse. It is not polite, however, to express your extreme dislike of this spouse, especially if the acquaintance tells you that he/she is dead.


2. If someone you know is thinking about adopting a child from China, do not remind them that many children from that country have worked in sweat shops, and therefore will have very nimble fingers that will open more than just drawers.


3. After finishing a sexual act, do not whisper to your partner, "That'll do, pig."


4. When speaking to a do-gooder about the merits of their hybrid car, do not quote statistics that undermine their resolve. They don't need to know that their car batteries are poisoning the ground water of some third world village.


5. When on a date, under no circumstance, do you tell your prospect that they'd be more attractive if they spoke less.






How cathartic; I can feel the personal growth about to happen...any moment now.



















Monday, November 14, 2011

Chapter 24: Theraflu Should Be Classified As A Narcotic

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It never fails that if I have something amazing planned over a free weekend (like this weekend past), I'll get some variety of flu or cold virus that knocks me on my barely-there ass. While my mind is up for anything, I sometimes wonder if my body isn't quietly judging these plans, secretly plotting to willfully thwart my attempts to partake in these activities; culminating into a bold rebellion at the last minute. Stupid family values body.

To exact my revenge, I make sure to treat my body in the most awful manner while I'm sick. I drink Mrs. Butterworth's straight from the bottle, eat large amounts of ice cream sandwiches, and take three times the amount of medication (in this case, Theraflu)...with a vodka chaser. I tell my body, "This is going to hurt you more than it will me." However, that is clearly not the case; I now remember why Theraflu is evil. Taken in quantity, it besets its consumer with vivid and troubling hallucinations. 

Now, I'm no stranger to hallucinogenics; like many people, I may have imbibed them often in high school--and now I know that my language arts teacher really did have a glass eye, but truthfully, I've never suffered any ill effects. But apparently, I'm just not able to handle the power of the Theraflu. For me, this artificially-colored, gritty powder (that is supposed to dissolve in clear liquid, but never does--especially in vodka), brings out the most frightening mental images. 

Usually when I am sick, I make a viewing list of some of the movies that I think will pass the time easier. And since I'm generally feeling sorry for my sick self, I'll pick movies with unhappy endings, or ones that cause me to throw my tissues at the screen (because they are so ridiculously bad). This weekend was no different; I gathered all of my necessities (tissues, blanket, phones, a snapshot of Vincent Price, and a variety of cold medicines). I settled in,  took my first dose of Theraflu, and started watching Monsier Hire. After 30 minutes, I didn't feel any different; however, I love French films, and this film is especially good; (Spolier Alert!) a peeping tom starts becoming obsessed with his neighbor, professes his love for her, and she promises him they could have a life together (sucker!). Meanwhile, her boyfriend may have killed someone, so she uses the peeping tom as the patsy...totally pinning the crime on him in the end. Oops...lingering Therfaflu in my system makes me digress.

Anyhow, I take my second dose, and finally I start to feel a lovely tingly sensation in my hands, but my body is still achy, so I quickly gag down another dose. This is when things begin to get weird. About a third of the way through the film, I started to realize that I can't tell the difference between being asleep and awake; that my dreams seem to be playing out in front of me while I am watching the film. In a flash, William Burroughs appeared next to me and I (naturally) began to comb his rather luscious head of hair, while he drank the rest of my Mrs. Butterworth's--which in hindsight, is just rude. And then to my astonishment, he said, "Shake out the blanket...I don't like wrinkles." And then he just disappeared.

I tried to get a hold of myself. I dragged myself into bathroom, but it wasn't my bathroom. The room had been transformed into the outdoor area of a Lutheran church that was the sight of my community service as a youth. I had been caught in an epic shoplifting bust at 14, and was ordered to work off my guilt to the sum of 25 hours (a stiff penalty back then). Along with scrubbing church pews, I was instructed to work the 'Carnival Day'  at the corral. The corral was actually a giant circle of mud, its diameter pierced by a large flagpole. Attached to the pole by weathered ropes were a trio of belligerent and grossly malnourished ponies.  Pushy, loud children lined up in a long, unrelenting line. It was my job to get these righteous little bastards onto the ponies and lead them around the circle. This might have been a reasonably boring task, except that with each rotation, one of the angry ponies would bite, kick, slobber, or defecate on my person. This went on for many hours. I can't say the experience prevented me from ever shoplifting again, but it did put me off ponies...probably forever.

When I found myself back on the couch again, the clock showed the passage of many hours. My rational mind deduced that I had been dreaming, but what about that empty bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's? I don't remember drinking it, and I think it's a little suspicious that Cities of the Red Night just happened to be sitting open on my coffee table.

Next time I get sick, I think I'll stick with Nyquil. 






Thursday, November 10, 2011

Chapter 23: Living Single...

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People often ask me, "Why are you single?" or "I can't believe that you don't have a boyfriend....are you sure you're not gay--I know some lesbians who will love you!" I usually tell people that I'm frigid, or that I have been ruined by Syphilis--just to end the conversation. But the truth is, most relationships and me are like fast food for Americans; it may taste delicious, but it's ultimately pretty unhealthy.


Now, I'm not the girl that makes a hair doll out of a date's chest hair while he sleeps, or scratches the words 'Property of...' onto his car window with my fingernails, or leaves ten thousand voicemails about our future life plans on his machine. I'm just a little tired of the loser parade that ends up revolving in and out of my life. But I like the company of suitors, so it leaves me in a bit of a pickle.


So just what is a girl to do in my predicament? Be a serial dater, of course! Because in the end, it's all about beginnings. Who doesn't love the idea of potentiality? Forget about how quickly it wears off--just concentrate on the moment. And since nothing I do is without some sort of incident, I thought I'd chronicle some of my experiences here (no names, of course). And even though I'm new to this city, I've managed to have a string of unfortunate dates. Thank you, Los Angeles.


Date #1: My office park is a singles mixer


My most recent foray into corporate america has been rather singular. The campus I work at shares its square footage with several companies. Consequently, there's a nice blend of people. And interestingly enough, there's a lot of action happening in the smoking area. Usually, this area is filled with social outcasts and middle-aged women with bad perms--but not this one. It's sometimes filled with hotness. This is where I met suitor # 1. Although he was much younger than I, we went out. Now, I'm not a big stickler for tradition, but if you sup at a fine dining restaurant, you might want to decide against a t-shirt and shorts.You might also decide to refrain from telling a person about the ex who gave you more than one STD. But by all means, tell your date that she is "so brave," followed by a shoulder squeeze, whenever you get the chance.


Date #2: Old Man River's Grecian Formula just wore off


I have this fantasy that someday I'll meet a silver fox. You know, the gentleman in his thirties/forties whose hair has turned into liquid silver...with the right combination of features, it's sheer hotness. I thought coffee-shop guy might be one. Turns out that he's just an old guy; he actually talked about his arthritis, during which he pulled out a tube of stinky cream and began to apply it to his pained areas. 


Date #3: I thought I was bitter


I live near a haven for douchebags. They all gather in a little cluster of bars and restaurants, making them douchebag cantinas. I didn't feel like travelling very far, so I met my next date at one of these places. He seemed like he might be cool; we had a lot of the same interests, and he was fairly charming. Apparently, that charm wears off quickly. In the middle of his diatribe about the city, its people, and ex girlfriends, a woman approached our table, began to call him by many names (none of which were his Christian name), and tossed her drink in his face.The best part of the date: He calmly wiped off his face, and asked me about the weather.


Date #4: You might be gay if...


If someone shows you a picture of someone that they think you should go out with, just say no. The person NEVER looks like their picture--especially if the picture makes them appear manly and dangerous. What they actually are...is very prone to using feminine gestures--and talk about how he and his four roommates often wake up in the same bed together. Now, my genetics would probably allow me to grow a beard, but I don't want to be anybody's beard.


Date #5: Jungle Fever 


Anyone who knows me, knows I like a little dark chocolate. Too bad I don't really remember what happened on this date, but I'm pretty sure it was PG-13...I think.


Date #6: Guest Story


OK; this one isn't mine, but I just had to share. A friend of mine in NYC went to a speed dating function. She cycled through many guys, until finally, a fairly handsome man sat at her table. He talked about how he was an actor. She kindly asked if she would've seen anything he's done, so he pulled out a DVD from his backpack and gave it to her. On the cover was the title...Forest and His Stump. Yep, he gifted her his own porn movie. He's a keeper!


Date #7: The Drive-By


Have you ever agreed to a blind date? Of course you have. Have you ever seen that date in the window, and just decided to get back in your car and flee? Well, if they bring their mother/child/sibling/friend/pet along with them on the date, it's totally appropriate to do so. Just sayin.' 


To be continued...

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Chapter 22: Burn Barbie Burn!

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Lately, I've been furiously working on my book, which chronicles some of my childhood. So, I thought I'd post an excerpt from a chapter draft. Enjoy! PS, this is based on a true story...which basically means it might be made up.

...Since I was the youngest, I was lucky enough to inherit not only my sister’s Barbie toys, but my relatives’ also. I had over 30 dolls, 4 houses, two cars, horses, pets, and various other play sets combined; these toys resembled a little town. Every weekend, I settled in for another afternoon of fantasy playtime, but for some reason, I was feeling bored with the same old story line—Barbie and Ken practice Satanism, Barbie and her friends have an orgy party, Ken gets dementia and wanders off …blah blah. I wanted something exciting and new. I glanced around the yard for inspiration. My sister and her friends had wandered inside. My father and brother were in the side yard shooting their pellet guns, while my mother had drifted into a booze-induced nap.  I spied the barbecue. There, on the side of the grill, was a large box of matches. And then it hit me. I grabbed the matches and rushed back to assemble my townsfolk.

The Barbie townhouse was the least attractive of all the dwellings. My mother thought it looked like a ‘shanty’ because it was worn and about to topple over at any moment. For months, she’d tried to throw it away, but I’d sneak into the trashcan and retrieve it each time. Carefully, I placed five of the saddest looking Barbie dolls into the townhouse (two on the first floor, two on the second, and one on the third floor). Next, I put two of my Ken dolls on horses (they would be the sheriffs), and set them in front of the townhouse. Now I needed an angry mob. I took the rest of my dolls and spread them out around the townhouse. I raised their arms so they might appear riotous, and placed a white shirt in the hands of one of the townhouse dolls (a sign of surrender). Last week, my mother told my sister that she looked like a hooker (after she came downstairs wearing too much makeup), so I decided I would rename the townhouse ‘The Best Little Barbie Brothel.’ That would definitely incite a crowd.

It was so easy to create the story. I could hear the townsfolk yelling, “We don’t want their kind in our village! Sheriff, are you going to do something about these harlots?” The sheriffs would attempt to placate the crowd by saying, “Calm down everyone. No one is breaking any laws, so just settle down and let the law take care of this matter.” Worried cries could be heard coming from the townhouse. “Help us! We’re innocent!” But the crowd would not recede. It only grew angrier and angrier. “Burn it to the ground! Burn it, I say!” And the lawmen were soon overcome. The crowd rushed at the building with burning pitchforks and torches. Before I knew it, I’d struck several matches and thrown them inside the townhouse. Because it was made of rotting cardboard, it immediately caught fire, and soon resembled a towering inferno. Sensing I was in some serious trouble, I yelped and fled the scene—hoping to take refuge under the kitchen table.

The first thing I heard was the voices of my father and brother. “Sir, I smell smoke,” my brother said. “Me too,” my father agreed. From under the table, I saw their legs run by the sliding glass door. “Oh shit! The Goddamn toys are on fire. Tod, get the hose!” By this time, most of the dolls and other houses were on fire. I watched in horror as the fire consumed my little village. After several minutes, however, the fire was extinguished. I heard my father begin to approach the sliding glass door. I began to shiver and whimper. My father’s stern voice said, “Jenifer! Where are you? You better get your behind out here right now!” “Ah crap,” I thought. “I’m so dead.”

My brother forced me outside and into a plastic chair. He smiled as he said, “Can we tie her up and interrogate her?” He got really close to me and said, “Better yet…how about I kill you and bury you in the backyard, and tell mom and dad you ran away?”

My father interjected with, “Alright Tod, quit it. We already know she’s guilty.” He turned to me and said, “Listen missy, I found the matches—the jig is up. Do you know what happens now?” I looked up at him slowly and whispered, “Is it time for me to give my dolls a funeral?”

“No! Take a look around kid. You’ll never be given another Barbie…ever! Now, help us clean this up before your mother wakes up.” And thankfully, my mother slept through the whole event. She woke up around dusk, none-the-wiser…still clutching her highball glass.



Monday, November 7, 2011

Chapter 21: A Cause for Vexation

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I've been in Los Angeles for exactly 3 months. Normally, moving is a relatively easy transition for me--regardless of where I move to, but I notice there are some kinks this time, and it's a bit unsettling. 


People are always interesting to me, but the niceness of West Coast people makes me uncomfortable. Most likely, it's tied to having lived in NYC; every morning begins with a ritual: You have to suit up into your mental armor, so that the outside world cannot get under your skin--and I'm not talking about the smell of the city, but rather the constant invasion of one's personal space, outbursts of emotion by strangers, or witnessing any number of violent, perverse, or bizarre acts by the 8 million + people that inhabit the city. On a daily basis, these inhabitants demonstrate the best and worst of human nature; opportunism rules, along with a healthy level of disdain for fellow residents...although punctuated, at times, by rare moments of empathy. 


I used to think that the ability to shut down from the outside world was a valuable thing. It makes a person develop fortitude--making them almost impervious, but also resilient. It was a comfort to me, having decided long ago that repression and compartmentalizing where something to put in the "Pro" column. But my inclinations don't seem to serve me well in Southern California. 


Los Angeles is a very large city--spread out in many directions--but the majority of the people I meet are convinced they are living in a small town. That can be the only explanation as to why they insist on greeting me on the street as if we are old friends. My instinct is to be suspicious, and to recall many sound bytes from public service announcements detailing 'Stranger Danger.' Are they trying to sell me something? Convert me? Ask for money? Ask for sex? Sell me a ferret? Show me their junk, so I can point them to the nearest building corner (so they can pee on it)? Ask me directions to the Empire State Building? Ask me if I've seen any dismembered fingers on this block? Mug me? Hit me with a brick? I don't know...they could want absolutely anything. I don't like it. 


And the nights are so disturbingly quiet; if my neighborhood was a scene in a horror film, that scene would perfectly foreshadow the brutal murder of a single woman. The street I happen to live on offers ineffectual street lamps that allow for plenty of dark pockets--perfect for raping. It's a good thing that my shower doors are currently very difficult to open, so for now, I won't be surprised by a knife-wielding psychopath while I'm in the shower. And I definitely need to keep my eye on the leathery, 90,000 year old male skin-suit that jogs up my street imparting incomprehensible affirmations on a daily basis--that guy is much stronger than he looks. 


These observations make me sound paranoid, I know, but I used to love to fall asleep to the sounds of sirens and traffic...and it isn't hard to guess the motives of Manhattanites...so it is an adjustment period, but it isn't all bad. Some days I wake up entirely pleased that I can't smell urine, and I haven't gotten even a little tired of the open space and the warm days. 


I think I'll stay here for awhile.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Chapter 20: Interlude

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Sometimes I like to take a little time out to assassinate my own character...for posterity. I found this writing snippet from awhile ago. FYI...the viewpoint is clearly hyperbolic; I can totally reach the counter unassisted.


During my brief life, I have been given several nicknames; Half-Pint, Webster (as in the TV character), Chalupa, Squirt, Midget, Shorty, Zelda Rubenstein, Small Fry, Munchkin, Mini-Me, One and a Half Stars, Shrimp, Short Stack, Low Rider—all of these terms have been used to describe my obvious and modest elevation of just five feet. These monikers are not inaccurate; I’m not very far from Dwarfism. It can’t be normal for people to greet me by tapping my head in lieu of the customary handshake. However, the only thing more frustrating than my rather unimpressive height is the uselessness of my sausage-like fingers—they barely fit around a soda can, and are incapable of complex movements, making knitting or lock picking out of the question. I’ve tried to reassure myself that I’ve been given other attributes, which balance out the shortcomings of my stature, but I confess, I am not entirely convinced.
If a person were to attempt to illustrate the opposite of dexterity, my picture would be conjured. I have had more injuries than some professional sports players; the lower half of my body randomly seeks emancipation from my upper body, causing bizarre accidents—most notably with plates of food (seemingly always at breast height), followed by random and inappropriate collisions between myself and a stranger’s left  buttock (unfortunately at neck height). And as it happens, it is also difficult for a shorter person with a large bosom to judge depth perception. It is the very reason why most of the crumbs from any meal end up wedged between my bust, and it is also why I always get stuck in between objects—I underestimate the clearance my ample chest requires.
Glimpsing the entire visage of my body in a full-length mirror never fails to produce an audible hiss from my mouth, and I simultaneously deduce that I must never be near any horses. Regretfully, I observe a fairly large head, a shorter-than-average torso, not a lot of junk in my trunk, chicken legs, and feet that are most alluring when covered up. As I age, my skin has become so transparent and pasty that I could be volunteered as a cadaver for an anatomy class. I should’ve capitalized on playing a Law & Order corpse; no FX makeup needed.
As for my face, I am only able to produce a few expressions—namely, one of perplexity and one of anger. I am constantly asked why I am angry, which always bewilders me. My face just won’t emote. I shy away from the camera for this very reason, as I inevitably have the same blank look on my face for every pose. Thankfully, there is one redeeming feature: My beady eyes; the Satanic twinkle,  quiet judgment, and constant survey of the world; they seek amusement, produce death if looked into for too long, and are able to reduce annoying little children and puppies to tears. For this reason, I am secretly jealous of the women who wear religious garments e.g., a Burqa.
How I wish that my bosom could deflect a bullet…that my small fingers could disentangle a small, complicated explosive; my pasty skin suddenly provides light in an otherwise darkened room, while my giant head finally guarantees me at place at MENSA’s table. Who knows? For now, I’ll have to ask the janitor for a boost up to the counter in the break room because these ramen noodles aren’t going to cook themselves.

Tuesday, November 1, 2011

Chapter 19: Moving on...

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There are many constants in life; one of which is my tendency to move every couple of years. I suppose it started as a child of parents who seemed restless, often changing jobs and addresses with equal frequency. So as an adult, perhaps I feel inclined to carry on the family tradition--I don't know.  Of course, by that logic, I would also be entangling myself with unsavory men, having children out of wedlock, and living outside of my means. Oh crap...damn heritage!


It occurs to me that I've made more cross-country moves, for no apparent reason, than most people. Perhaps it's always been somewhat of a romantic notion; it begins with the notion of an endless, open road, peppered by towns filled with suspicious and singular people; rolling sleep-deprived into a tiny, greasy diner at 2 a.m., bathed in the jaundiced glow of ultraviolet lights and stale cigarette smoke, while easing into a weathered booth among a sea of plaid and polyester shapes slumped over their coffee and homemade pie; the surprising, yet altogether pleasant and witty conversations with locals and fellow travelers, leading to sudden and short-lived arcane glimpses into the universe. In those moments, the world seems full of possibilities again; I feel a renewed sense of optimism and hope for a different life. But upon reflection, I can't think of anything more likely to ultimately cause despondency. 

The older I get, the more I appreciate that these tiny moments are disconnected from the realities of life. Daily life isn't filled with sugary, fix-it-all remedies (now matter what Oprah says); it's filled with lingering pain and disappointment; regret and memory revision deceive our over-active brains, but the ineffectual nature of memory retention (at its best) allows us to keep functioning under the pretense that things will be better--that something unusual and wonderful is just around the corner, or (at its worst) traps the brain into cycling over the same loop of despair and frustration on hyper-repeat. These behaviors and emotions make a person do some crazy shit--sometimes the resultant behavior is so subtle, it isn't a conscious choice. And I realize that sounds more than a bit morose, and I confess that I'm not a hundred percent cynical, but I think I'm finally embracing the notion of Predeterminism. And because of this, I know that my gypsy days are over.

Predeterminism is defined as, " The idea that every event is caused, not simply by the immediately prior events, but by a causal chain of events that goes back well before recent events." Now just to be clear, I'm not referring to the creepy theological notion of Predestination. Instead, I relate Predeterminism to one of my favorite science historians, James Burke, when he said, "Why should we look to the past in order to prepare for the future? Because there is nowhere else to look." And before I continue, I already know that this line of reasoning isn't revolutionary, but it is an idea that I had never embraced before. 

Is it possible that my body of hapless recessive genes is actually capable of creating a map of actions and deeds that continually conspire against me to create an inescapable path? Has the information from previous generations and environmental/psychological influence manifested itself into a tiny (and impeccably dressed) army capable of influencing my brain? That in the end, all of the deviation from convention, rampant hedonism, compulsive change, and repression effect very little change after all? Instead, am I on a collision course for perdition; trapped between the self I hope to realize, and the self I am predetermined to realize?  This conjures feelings akin to what the Russian workers felt during Perestroika: Absolute complacency.

And it is with this cheerful disposition that I begin my new life in Los Angeles. And it's probably fitting, given that this city is, in my opinion, the very definition of artifice.  So now that I don't have to be the captain of my own dysfunctional ship, which is strangely comforting in a way, I'm free to go out there and enjoy my new home, because let's be honest; the only real biological imperative that perpetually compels me is the need to be amused. 

So please pardon this stream of consciousness. In other news, popovers are the world's most perfect food.