A Letter To My Heterosexual Life Partner

Sometimes, life has a twisted sense of humor. Recently, I found out that my best friend has stage 3 Breast Cancer. While I am devastated, I've decided to use humor as my coping mechanism. I'm counting on the old cliche, "laughter is the best medicine," to get us through this shit storm. Below is a guest blog I did for her. I'm also attaching a link to her blog in the sidebar, which chronicles her struggle with the 'Big C.'

Dear God, You’re Fired 

Gracelyn and I are warriors. Collectively, we’ve survived through less than ideal childhoods, a loser parade of emotionally unavailable men, fluctuating waistlines, betrayal, a string of short-lived careers, absent fathers, the unfortunate change in the recipe for McDonald’s Chicken McNuggets, the cancellation of our most beloved TV shows, a Sears-sized catalog of bad fashion choices, crazy family shenanigans, two nights in county jail under the protection of a prostitute named ‘Simone,’ crushing disappointments (I almost met Tom Selleck; Gracelyn could’ve made-out with Queen Latifah, but wouldn’t take one for the team), unprovoked funny business from strangers, bigotry, phases of delicious hedonism and wretched self-destruction, sexism, emotional outbursts and tears (I only cry now during the Folgers commercial when Tommy surprises his family on Christmas morning), poverty and exotic living conditions (I once lived in a hallway, while Gracelyn lived in a car), the dark political objectives of our country’s foreign and domestic policies, and of course…the perm.

Because of previous muggings (once by a man who looked like Mr. Rogers), Catholic school, botched tattoos, and an embarrassing incident of cameltoe—I thought we’d finally built up an almost impervious armor. Such experiences should, at the very least, guarantee us a generous sabbatical from sickness and death. Sure, there were a few ridiculously painful incidents of kidney stones, and Chlamydia from that one-night stand with a fisherman (thankfully cured with pills), but real sickness and disease usually happened to someone else. Not to us.

At the end of 2009, I was feeling restless. It is a nasty habit, causing me to have been nomadic for most of my adult life. And my subsequent move from Los Angeles to New York City marks the second time I have moved away, only to find a best friend has fallen ill with a major disease. Gracelyn and I joke that my exit brings with it sickness and despair. Perhaps I will put that on a t-shirt.

But when Gracelyn asked how her cancer has effected me, I am at a loss for words. She is the black mama to my white mama—the token black friend in an otherwise white movie ensemble that gets needlessly sacrificed in the opening scene, but delivers the best dialog. So I don’t think I’ve really processed this news. I just went into crisis mode, clutched my autographed 8x10 glossy of Jet Li, and began to formulate a plan. And when I finally understood that she had begun the downward mental spiral, I convinced her to talk, called in the troops, and jumped on a plane (without snakes).

I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know why people think Tom Cruise is straight. But I do think the only higher power I can get behind (to borrow from my dear friend Jody) is Richard Pryor. Apart from that terrible movie he made in 1982 called The Toy, where he played a black man purchased as a toy for a rich white kid, I think if given the chance, Richard would do a better job than the current man in the sky…if He exists. So He should clean out his desk, because we’re going to have to let Him go…it’s clearly not working out. We need to bring in some new management that will correct this most obscene injustice being done to my dearest friend.

Gracelyn, we’re going to beat this damn cancer thing, and get some of those Shamwows, because they really are incredibly absorbent. True story.

Love you, chica

-J

Chapter 17: The Good, The Bad, and The Bed Bugs

Lately, you can't throw a rock in NYC without hitting a bedbug; the rats, and even the cockroaches, are jealous of the attention. The city has even formed a taskforce. Tonight, while I'm routinely checking for these nasty little creatures in my bedroom, I start wondering about this "taskforce." I'd like to think they travel in finely-tailored packs—the dapper members pausing only for a moment, while in pursuit, to light their Parliments in perfect synchronicity. After a nod from their ridiculously handsome team leader, they suavely climb into an idling unmarked van, ready to investigate damp, dark rooms around the city which are rumored to house dangerous infestations. With never a hair out of place, this crack team arrives on the scene to assess the situation and break some hearts.

The battle is fierce. Shirts become wrinkled, and brows remain furrowed. The team still manages to enjoy numerous cigarette breaks, and after a short while, someone produces a bottle of Johnny Walker. 45 minutes later, the team join forces to sexually harass a neighbor. There is reason to be proud, and many grunts and back-slaps can be heard. However, there's always a weak member of the team. Despite the leader's ruthless (and by this time, drunken) taunts to one team member named Percy (the leader calls him Nancy, and asks if he needs a diaper change), Percy's anxiety and revulsion get the better of him, and he runs screaming from the location while furiously clawing at random parts of his body and yelling, "For God's sake, get them off me!"

In reality, I fear this taskforce is actually made up of complacent (and poorly dressed) bureaucrats; they are happily confined within ancient cubicles inside a windowless, beige room amid their charts and spreadsheets—surrounded by inspirational posters like 'don't let bed bugs bug you' or 'let's take the bed out of bed bug.' The only sound to be heard is the gentle friction emanating from Mark's ill-fitting khaki slacks as his chubby legs make their way through his usual loop beginning at the copier room, and ending at the vending machine.  The most exciting thing to happen to this bland group is when Doug announces, "Hey guys, it's Taco Tuesday, and Mary brought donut holes!"

Chapter 16: We’re looking at you, Ronald

If Glenn Beck and I were ever to collaborate, the result would be this letter.

McDonald’s Headquarters
2111 McDonald's Dr.
Oak Brook, IL 60523
Attn: Complaints Department

Dear Sir or Madam:

I am writing to you on behalf of M.A.C.H.O. (Men Against Clowns Hamburglar O.K.) to discuss an important matter of conscience. For years, we have stood by and watched your clown, Ronald McDonald, drain the joy from our dining experience. One momentary glance of his sinister form instills a fear that cannot be measured; even the soft squeaking of his over-sized shoes extinguishes the zeal we once had for your incredibly tasty fries. We see this as a great injustice—a wrong that must be made right. It is our opinion that the only solution to this most serious issue is to reinstate the true mascot of your restaurant, The Hamburglar.

Despite Mr. McDonald’s seemingly innocent façade, his appearance belies the heart of a true monster. It is our belief that Mr. McDonald, and clowns like him, prove the existence of pure evil. My cousin Herb, our Treasurer, has been known to involuntarily call upon our Lord when confronted by Mr. McDonald’s exaggerated grin. Even more distressing, we have documented not one story, but the stories of thirteen children, who have been afflicted with the loss of their bladders in Mr. McDonald’s presence. Be assured, the irony of his picture on the outside of the "Happy Meal" is not lost on us. This assault on our youth is un-American. If you won’t listen to us, won’t you listen to the children?

In contrast, The Hamburglar exhibits all the qualities Americans have come to hold dear. In his quest for satisfaction, he demonstrates ingenuity and perseverance. He doesn’t let anyone stand in the way of a delicious burger. Some may discount him as a common thief, but we see him as an American hero. After all, taking what doesn’t belong to us and reclaiming it as our own, founded this country. If it was good enough for our forefathers, why isn’t it good enough for your fine company?

We beseech you to consider the ramifications of your actions. The country is crying out for a role model. Our value system as we know it is under attack. While we appreciate that your company bestows low-paying jobs onto our less endowed population, it isn’t enough. Your company must re-pledge its loyalty to our way of life. Remove Mr. Ronald McDonald, the leviathan, and replace him with the true bastion of hope, The Hamburglar.


Sincerely yours,

Doug Stevenson
M.A.C.H.O.
Vice President, Anti-Clown Affairs

Chapter 15: You got a card for that?

It occurs to me that I am not properly represented in the greeting card world. I'm sure I can't be the only one out there who either cringes when they read a poorly written sappy card or struggles to suppress the bile rising in the back of their throat when they read a crude or rather unfunny card. Just who are they marketing to?

Not so long ago, I was trying to pick out a card for my mother. First of all, why are most of the "Mom" cards penned in cursive? Is there a word count requirement, because every card has at least three paragraphs written inside it. The outside of the card looks like the jacket of a Jackie Collins book, while the inside looks to be taken from the pages of a fundamendalist pamplet or that horrible "Footprints in the Sand" poem. It's inappropriate.

 But I'm not knocking the religious cards at all. One year, my dear friend Jody, whose initials just happen to be J.E.W., gave me the all-time greatest card in the world. I don't remember the contents, but the outside of the card said, "To my favorite Nun..."

It got me thinking, which prompted me to seek out and eat a chocolate crossiant. Ok, maybe I ate two. But after that, I wondered what it might be like to go to the drugstore and purchase more relevant and modern greeting cards. You know, the kind of cards that would address today's human condition. The kind that wouldn't leave out most of us, the disenfranchised. And let's not forget the people who just have it coming to them. I imagine a more politically incorrect world. A world where you can call someone out, but then passive-agressively blame it on a foldable piece of cardstock we call...a greeting card.

Coming soon to an Urban Outfitters near you.

Chapter 14: Services Rendered

Like many other people, I learned about the concept of "beauty" from television, magazines, movies, and books. The fashion magazines frightened me because the statuesque models looked so tortured and hungry. I remember having a couple of nightmares where they sprang out from the pages of Vogue (beautifully dressed with their hair blowing from an isolated soft wind) and gave me a corpsey make-over. Seeing their work was in vain, they decided to eat me instead. To this day, I will cross the street rather than share the sidewalk with a model that is walking toward me.

Being pretty is a tricky business nowadays. Is it my imagination, or are there more good looking people than ever before? I know I sound naive, but even with advances in plastic surgery and eating disorders, I thought the average-looking population would still outnumber the genetic freaks. Back in high school, I think there were only about two really hot girls. The rest of us were...well, average. We were a society churning out mostly average-looking people. Or as I'd like to think, a society more forgiving toward aesthetic defects.

Years ago when I moved to the city I was surprised to find that I had basically been living like the character in that awful Jodie Foster movie, Nell. I imagined the nightly local news would report, "This just in...A feral Sasquatch has descended upon Manhattan, sending its terrified citizens fleeing in all directions. It must be stopped!! If you see this creature, do not attempt to approach it without large quantities of wax and Japanese snacks (love them). Now over to Chuck for the weather."

Believe it or not, I was a hair reduction virgin. Up to that point in my life, I had never waxed or plucked anything. Seeing the risk I posed to national security, my good friend Rachel dragged me into the nearest salon. The place was crowded and filled with loud, fast-talking, and pushy Vietnamese ladies. It was fascinating to watch them literally bouncing from station to station, yelling at each other while descending on various women with carts of shiny instruments; sitting in what I can only describe as medieval torture devices.

When one of these worker bees noticed us, her first proclamation to us was not, "Hello, how can I help you?" She looked at Rachel while pointing at me and barked, "Your friend hairy like man." She then proceeded to push me toward a chair and do things to me that still give me the shivers. After I stopped crying, I handed her my credit card.

Cut to years later. I was wandering around Chinatown looking for a salon to get a cheap manicure. Sometimes in these moments, I remember just how fast the city moves. In the spirit of true multi-tasking as only Manhattan can do, I noticed the number of services available at the salon I had stopped in front of. Displayed with the usual grammatical errors, the sign read, "Manicures, pedicures, passport photos, mailbox, photo printing, tattoos, and hair transplant."

The last item in the available services has to be an inside joke. Otherwise, that's just gross. Just in case, I think I'll keep walking.

Chapter 13: Noir'nt You Glad Movies Are In Color

The other night I was watching one of my favorite Noir films, Double Indemnity. I love this genre's landscape. Everyone is continually chain-smoking. The actors are obfuscated or highlighted by exaggerated cinematography techniques and placed within lavish set designs. These films always contain at least one male character tough-talking while downing highballs of bourbon (again, smoking), going to a nightclub or seedy bar (smoking), firing a shiny pistol, or over-acting a death scene-all while smoking. The women slink around in elaborately tailored clothing complete with two story shoulder pads, fur accessories, gravity-defying hairdos, and mile-high heels, while displaying a surprising amount of moxie and straight-up devious deception (did I mention they're smoking?) But most importantly, the dialogue is pure genius.

Walter Neff, played by Fred MacMurray, says this about Barbara Stanwyck's character Phyllis..."So I let her have it, straight between the eyes. She didn't fool me for a minute, not this time. I knew I had ahold of a red hot poker, and the time to drop it was before it burned my hand off. I was all twisted up inside and I was still holding on to that red-hot poker. And right then it came over me that I hadn't walked out on anything at all, that the hope was too strong, that this wasn't the end between her and me. It was only the beginning." He also says, "Shut up and kiss me." Who doesn't want to use that line?

Apart from the smoking ban, Manhattan seems an ideal Noir environment. The city has plenty of perfect backdrops: Seedy bars, suits, crime, shifty dames, and cheesy dialogue. I decided to test my theory while shopping at the corner bodega. I picked up a loaf of bread and some milk. When I got to the cashier, he tried to charge me fifty cents more than advertised for the bread, so I said, "Why'd you have to do it to me like that Charlie?" The clerk looked at me in confusion so I quoted from the movie This Gun For Hire, "What's the matter? You look like you've been on a hayride with Dracula." 

But without missing a beat, the clerk ignored me and said, "So you want this stuff or not?" 


"Um...yeah. Do you take Visa?'

Chapter 12: Oh Yeaaahh!!

This week begins much like so many other weeks: I'm getting a cold. I used to be a fairly healthy person, until I had a child. Now I'm in a constant state of what I like to call "slightly sick". My body seems really confused. I never seem to completely recover. These little children- they are always contracting some drug-resistant, goopy virus that shacks up and won't leave for weeks. I just ate my fourth lozenge and now my tongue is numb. Stupid menthol.

Normally, this would put me in a foul mood. And it is true that in the past I have made the occasional semi-innocent person (who doesn't deserve getting a misguided rant aimed at them once in a while?) cry while being in this state. Whatever. They were ten years old at the time and I'm sure they've outgrown the traumatic effects by now. It's called Therapy, or in my case, "Mama's Get Out of Jail Free Card".

Seeing a smile on my face this morning, my weird fifty-two year old man-child neighbor who lives with his hoarder mother asked me, "Hey neighbor, why so jolly?" In my mind I thought, "Well, I just found a Valium when I was cleaning out the junk drawer and I can't wait to get home tonight so I can pop that sucker. Mmm, an evening with royalty...Prince Valium. In my confusion between reality and the self-created daydream of the moment, I answered, "I just love trash day." Sadly, I don't think I'll be invited over to his place to watch Terms of Endearment along with his eighty-five year old mom while squeezed in between towering piles of rubbish. Oh, and did I mention they have a washing machine that gets the only bedroom all to itself? Really. It's the strangest thing...