Chapter 22: Burn Barbie Burn!

http://gal.darkervision.com

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.

Chapter 21: A Cause for Vexation

http://cdnassets.ordienetworks.com

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.

Chapter 20: Interlude

http://drugster.info

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.

Chapter 19: Moving on...

http://t0.gstatic.com

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.

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