Dawn, of Mankind

Years ago my friend was making an independent film-- a deft comedy romp starring some up and coming comics and their friends. I asked if there was anything I could do for him, anything at all. My early career in indy film and cable TV production had made me well versed in sound recording and Costo runs and I knew he was doing this on a shoestring.
"Well, there is one thing," my friend, Harry, the director, said.
"You got it. Name it," I said, gamely.
"I need someone to play a stripper and no one will do it." he said.
Harry was a well known yuckster and pretty pervy in his own way and I thought for sure he was kidding.
"I'm not kidding," he said.
“Oh.”
I thought a moment then said, "Let me talk it over with my husband."

Who was I kidding; my husband was thrilled. I told Harry I would do it but only if I was made up beyond recognition; wigs, prosthetics, the whole nine yards. And I would only strip down to a bathing suit. (I had some dignity, however scant.)

I showed up on set somewhere in Queens or Brooklyn at an ungodly hour.
"Morning!" I chirped.
"Yeah," Harry grumbled. The set was already abuzz; coffee cups, cables and crew everywhere.
"So, what do you need?" I asked, helpfully, as if I were showing up to do lawn chores. What a girl scout. I was no doubt trying to assuage my guilt for playing an agent of desire in the carnal commercial industry. A strippa.
Harry said, "You'll be dancing to this," and he handed me a CD. It read, 2001 A Space Odyssey.
I looked at him quizzically, "You want me to strip to the theme from 2001 Space Odyssey?"
"Yes," he smirked.
I was confused, but then I perked up, "The disco version, right?"
"No, the Richard Strauss version," he smiled, "It's funnier."
"The one with horns and timpani drums?" I said with my eyebrows.
"That’s the one."
He was right. It was funnier. Harry pointed, "In that door is a gym where they'll get you into hair and make-up. There's also a boom-box and some room to choreograph your routine."
"Choreograph my routine?" my eyebrows continued.
"You're gonna have to do it like twenty times and it's gonna have to be the same every time for continuity right?" Right again.
"OK," I said, "Anything else?"
"Yeah," he said before walking away, "be funny."

Okey-dokey. Be a funny stripper. No dialogue, just dancing. Because if there's one thing that's hilariously knee-slappingly funny, it's a stripper.
I crossed the cruddy linoleum gymnasium floor to the corner of the room and plugged the boom box in behind a stack of metal folding chairs. Immediately, all my years of dancing in high school musicals came flooding back to me. I figured my character must be third rate, which means her junior high school musical, circa 1980, is probably the last time she "trained." So, grape vine, kick-ball-change, glissade and pas de bourree, they all went into my routine. I played the song over and over and each time added a few more steps. Flashdance came to mind so I included the running-in-place-in-a-circle bit while gliding my hands up and down my thighs. I also included the infamous shimmy from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, a cartwheel, and ended with the dying swan move from Swan Lake. It was the worst made up dance routine I could imagine and hopefully, funny. I worked on it for four and a half hours, committed it to memory, and then headed off to wardrobe.

Sitting in the make-up chair I couldn't help but think that Harry was pretty damn lucky that I had said yes. How many of his friends were dance minors in college and could fit into Amy Poehler's silver lamé bikini? Precious few. They put me in a Cleopatra wig; dark, wet lipstick; and heavy blue eye shadow. Amy, who had a legit role in the film, was sitting in the make-up chair next to me. I mentioned to her that I was wearing her silver lamé bikini from The Upright Citizens Brigade TV show and she nodded and smiled. She didn't say much-- kept her cards pretty close to her chest-- so I decided to do that, too.
They stuffed my bikini top to a full C cup and then put me in Amy's fishbowl helmet, white puffy zip-up suit and moon boots, because if you're a lushy perv in a dank, dark strip club, you're going to need a little visual aid to drive the point home. I was an astronaut, dammit, not some derivative or homage, but the real deal. I went back to my corner of the gym and muddled through the entire routine again in costume. The boots held me back a bit, I had to admit, but the rest seemed to really hum. I was clearly starting to take my role very seriously.

Two hours later, it was show time. I was led onto the “bar” set where the usual motley crew of hardened film industry carnies and disillusioned extras stood waiting for me to get into position. Harry asked if I was ready and then cued the dry ice. All I had to do was to walk out onto the tiny stage, strip out of an astronaut suit in front of a room full of strangers and dance my lousy routine badly without messing up or laughing, over and over and over again.
A weary male voice with a Long Island accent introduced me, “And now, Dawn of Mankind.” I shuffled out slowly, a tarted-up, zombie-like cosmonaut, from behind a smoky haze. As the horn music swelled with that first painstaking note, I removed my large, round, glass helmet; flicked off my heavy, Kevlar gloves; and started to dance. The arms of the space suit were attached at the shoulders with Velcro so that when I swung them into a Y, then stopped them abruptly, the sleeves flew off and up into the ether. Then I unzipped the suit and twirled it over my head a few times like Annie Oakley before tossing it into the crowd. I was in the zone. The rest of my dance fell seamlessly into place as Richard Strauss' hit crescendoed to an electrifying conclusion with me, in bikini, wig, and moon boots, fluttering on the floor as the dying swan-- timpani drums beating wildly. Bravo!

I did it again and again until I became sweaty and finally they told me I was done. Cameras, cables and coffee cups shifted as I gathered my stuff-- I had no handlers-- and headed for the door. Harry called me over to say thanks and good job. Then he told me it was funny.
"Really?" I said, looking longingly for a pat.
"Yeah," he said, already thinking about the next scene. But he was genuine and I glanced over at the DP, his assistant, and the camera loader and they all nodded, grunted and half-smiled. The cameraman even said, out loud right to my face, "You were very funny,” and I just about fell over. When the cameraman says you're funny, you've really accomplished something. I beamed.
I washed my face and returned everything to wardrobe, even the moon boots. Amy Poehler told me that I was funny then tootled off. I poked my head in to say goodbye to Harry and he sneaked out to give me a proper farewell. I thanked him for the good time and he thanked me for saving his ass. “Damn right I did,” I said. Then he told me that if I wanted to get paid, I should talk to that guy over there. Paid? Heck, yeah, I'll get paid! So he kissed me on the cheek, I wished him good luck and took off, musing over what I might buy with my unexpected windfall. A few weeks later I got a check in the mail for forty bucks.

The film enjoyed a nice run at a smattering of art theaters and college campuses but never got the wide screen release Harry was hoping for. All that hard work, however, was not in vain. Currently, the movie is enjoying a pleasant second wind as early morning programming on a comedy cable television channel. I sleep in soundly, knowing that I did my part for the cinematic arts and funny strippers everywhere and my friends, as they slurp their morning coffee, can glimpse my pale, half-nekkid body flailing around in the background during a scene of dialogue between the two main characters, who, by the way, are not paying an ounce of attention to the ridiculous astronaut dancing really poorly on the tiny stage behind them.

Drive-Thru

I keep writing new pieces then spend weeks revising them then send them off to publishing concerns which prohibits me from posting them here. And so you think I've died.

Well, close. But not quite. I wish I'd died, most days, but not the permanent kind, more of the Walt-Disney-cryogenic semi-permanent kind. I envision me and my son going to sleep and waking up a year from now in our wonderful, cozy home with pancake batter already mixed and fresh flowers on the breakfast nook table, all of our problems seamlessly worked out, a new rhythm to our life together, hope lingering in the air all around us like pixie dust. All I need to do is wipe the kiwi-sized sleepies out of my eyes, heat the griddle and put on some lovely, soothing, morning music. Sounds divine. Unrealistic to be sure, but heavenly.

Speaking of heaven and death. Did you know that there are drive-thru funeral parlors in the good 'ole USA? You follow the arrows, slowly driving around the building, like at a bank or Burger King, and stop at the podium next to your car door, on which lays the guest book and a pen. Just behind the podium there is a low, long rectangular window cut out of the funeral home's basement floor. There, behind the glass, lying in eternal grace, is your dear friend you were too lazy-assed to get out of the car for.

You glance at your friend, or maybe your mother, and decide what to write. Maybe you even turn down the radio or shush your kids in order to better organize your thoughts. You could just sign your name, but they'll know that this is the outdoor guest book on account of the dried rain drops and bird doo on its sun bleached pages, so perhaps a little note is in order. Something sentimental will do nicely.

"Dear Gertie,
Sorry about the piano. I was sure the smoking would kill ya.
Aren't you glad you didn't stop? Ha, ha! I'll miss you at canasta.
Love, Vickie"

or

"Dear Mom,
I'd get out of the car, but I've got the kids with me and whose going to watch them now that you're gone and besides, I knew you wouldn't want them to get caramel corn on your precious casket that could have paid for ballet/jazz and tap lessons, but OK, fine.
Sorry to see you go. I told you not to smoke.
Love ya, miss ya, Vick"

I could go on, but I won't.

Sometime I'll tell you about the place out west where you can have your loved one's ashes shot into space where they'll orbit Earth for 64 million years. Now that's death. Eternal life ain't got nuthin' on that.

Girlfriends

I love, "The Girls Next Door," and I think I've finally figured out why and I'll tell you in a minute. First off, for those of you not in The Know, "The Girls Next Door," is a reality-type documentary show about Hugh Hefner's three girlfriends and their mundane, day-to-day adventures living together at The Mansion. One man, three women, scantily clad, all getting along and enjoying life's simple pleasures. Sort of like "Big Love" meets "Show Girls" meets "Little House on the Prairie." Pure programming bliss. I cannot for the life of me continue the business of channel surfing when I chance upon this rich nugget of cable viewing heaven, I must stop and gawk. I may be deeply opposed to rubber necking on the freeway, but for this I have to slow down and stare and I think I know why. It's because they're so friggin' nice to each other. And their boobies are so gosh darn big.

Seriously, think about it. Three totally unsophisticated, looks-obsessed, uneducated girlfriends with no future earnings potential sharing one rich, vaguely attentive workaholic boyfriend. They should be at each other's throats, right? Pick me, pick me! Kicking, scratching and swearing up a storm. Well, they're not. Or if they are, the network will never let on. It's all peach pie and picnics for us. Any eyeball scratching cat fights have been left on the cutting room floor. (A phrase, by the way, that is now so antiquated that I'm dating myself. Again.)

And the boobies? So big. I look at them and marvel the way I look at certain secretary's incredibly long and winding 2-inch-plus fingernails and think,

1. How do you diaper your children?
2. How do you re thread the broken shoulder straps on their back-packs?
3. Pick gunk out of their eyes?

And with boobies I think,

1. How do you see the bottom row of keys on your computer?
2. How do you get your back tan?
3. Scratch your elbow?

I mean, their bellybuttons must be caked with years of hardened lint sediment in tiny little layers because they can't get in there. Or can they? I know! They can clean each other's belly buttons! And that, my friends is the genius of their living arrangement. Holly (The Mom), Bridget (The Girlscout) and Kendra (The Sullen, Slightly-Spoiled, Permanently-Hungover, Tomboy Troublemaker) live together like super-sweet co-eds in their own private sorority. Hef does little more than shuffle around, take naps and order soup.

In fact, Hef's whole mystique can be summed up by the fact that Holly's endearing nick name for him is "Puffin." Not "Tiger" or "Wild Man" or "Hercules." Just a silly little unobtrusive bird. Eagle, hawk and raven wouldn't have worked either, but Puffin fits him like a glove. Sure, occasionally we see them in his 1970s goth bedroom all sitting together on those cheesy, slippery crimson sheets, on that ridiculous custom made emperor-sized bed, but they're usually watching TV or eating ice cream. It's less like the west coast epi-center of adult hedonism and more like sleep-away camp.

In fact, I'm guessing there's far more debauchery going on at sleep-away camps all over the greater US than there is in Hef's bedroom. And not for lack of trying. Those girls have been bit by the sexy bug and you just know that on the myriad vacations they take without him there is some serious dirty dancing going on between the three of them. But we don't usually get to see that. We see golf cart hi-jinx, doggie grooming excursions and endless theme party planning. Plus their incredibly thoughtful and caring friendship, wanton giggling and mutual respect. Its bizarre.

And thank goodness they have each other. Those parties look dreadful. We don't get to see various young stud A-List movie stars mauling nineteen year old playmates from Arkansas. No, no, we see our three girls, their assortment of playpals, a sibling or two, sometimes a mom, Hef and his eighty year old brother and their ninety year old friends standing around under flourescent lights. It just looks so dismal I can't tell you. The only guest with any chutzpah, besides the effervescent Kendra, is Mary, Hef's executive assistant of 140 years. She a real piece of work, drinkin' and swearin' like a sailor, totally unimpressed by the whole circus sideshow. She just keeps plugging along, filing things away in shoe boxes and old metal filing cabinets, tucking missives into her brassier I imagine. As long as she gets a scotch and an occasional hand of poker she's happy. Of the whole lot, she's the one I would want to be stuck in an elevator with. Oh, the boring, redundant stories she could tell.

So, I recommend, "The Girls Next Door." No back-biting, no-infighting, not a single cross word between them. Just a trio of best friends havin' some good, clean fun. And lots of ginormous boobies. Truly a marvel to see.

Perspective

Under the title, "Things Could Be Worse," in my life's card catalogue, I came across a piece in The Times about how albinos in Tanzania are being hunted for their bones, skin and hair. Apparently witch doctors in the Congo are suggesting that the use of certain albino body parts in potions and weaving their hair into fishing nets will bring great wealth. As if the inevitability of dying the slow death of skin cancer and being tormented as local pariahs weren't bad enough.

I thought of cutting out the picture of the weary, destitute albino man and putting it up on my fridge, but didn't want to add insult to injury. It seemed disrespectful to use someone else's personal calamity as a barometer for my own whining. How would I feel if there was a yacht somewhere on the Cote D'Azur where some socialite in a wide brimmed hat put my picture on the door of her walk in shoe closet, just to remind her that things could be worse. She should count her lucky stars because after all, she could be living in a three bedroom house in a small, suburban community surrounded by neighbors who actually cook their own food and drive their own cars. The horror.

I would get wind of this and, understandably steamed, would ride up to her yacht on a small rented dinghy and demand to come aboard in my bucket hat and Crocs. She would wave a Harry Winstoned hand at her manservant, Ernesto, in an attempt to have me shoo'd away, but I would persist. "Take my photo off your door, lady. I don't want to be some symbol of a less-than life for you, I like my life, in fact, I love my life."
She would cooly counter, "Then why do you need that photo of the albino man on your refrigerator door?"
"How did you-"
She continues, "If you are truly contented, why do you need comparison to remind you of your happiness?"

I'm stumped. I slouch onto the white suede sectional couch and look out over the glittering bay towards the salmon pink horizon. I can taste the salt in the air and feel my hair starting to curl. Ernesto hands me a glass of champagne. I thank him and think to myself, "What would Ghandhi say?"

I just saw Ghandhi on Netflix. He always had just the right comeback, very clever banter, that Gandhi fellow. He could have moonlighted as a TV talk show writer, although I'm sure his textile venture was very prosperous, being Gandhi and all. I can just hear the radio ad crackling on the ashram porch, "Now you, too, can wear the shirt right off of Gandhi's back! Be the most enlightened of all your friends in a shirt personally spun by the leader of the revolution and savior of our nation! An assortment of colors in all sizes. Visit our showroom in Calcutta today. Call ahead as we may be closed due to bloodshed." Seriously, WWGD?

Ernesto returned with a tray of sushi and I returned to the matter at hand.
"So what you're saying is, I shouldn't need anything to remind me of my gurtitude." I was getting a little tipsy.
"Precisely," she replied, blotting a monogrammed silk linen napkin to her moist lips.
I asked, "Then why do you have my photo tacked to your walk-in-shoe-closet-to-the-stars sliding pocket door?"
"To remind me of your happiness."
I was a little confused. I reached for a spider roll and asked, "You think I'm happy?"
"I know you're happy. Even when you don't."
I chewed. I swallowed. I thought of Gandhi.
I asked her, "Does that mean the Albino man is happy?"
She responded, "He may or may not be. You have no way of knowing. The only thing you can be sure of is how you feel."
"But those poor people!"
"Who, the ones in Tanzania or suburban New Jersey?"
I eyed her suspiciously then something hit me. I leaned forward excitedly and sloshed a little bit of champagne on her turquoise and lime green rug, "Do you know my shrink? Were you sent here by my therapist?"
She said, "You came to me."

And with that, she finished her Perrier, got up, said goodnight and sauntered out of the room. Boy she was one tough customer. And such a nice manicure. How does she get her hair so shiny? Now I was drunk.

I never took philosophy in school and I wasn't on the debate team. But I knew enough to know that she had the upper hand and that there was a lesson in there somewhere. Although the waters had been calm I felt nauseous and desperately wanted an aspirin. Before I had even finished the thought, Ernesto was there, by my side, with 500 milligrams in his perfectly opened palm. His skin was so beautiful. I wanted to hug him. Or maybe I wanted him to hug me. I definitely needed to go home.

I chose not to put the albino man on my fridge. I think of him every night, though, and I say a little prayer, as if it would do any good, for him and the women and children who are being hunted. I imagine him thinking always, always, within each moment, each second of his waking life, "What's going to happen next? What's to become of me?" But, then I'm reminded that I don't know what he or any of the other albinos are thinking. I couldn't begin to imagine and it's wrong to even try.

Sometimes I drift off to sleep thinking about the fancy lady, Gandhi, Ernesto and the albinos of Tanzania all having a relaxing picnic together under a big, shady oak tree. And sometimes I just wonder, over and over, "What's going to happen next? What's to become of me? I'm happy, aren't I?"

Church of Choice

My son, Jimmy, and I have been getting Daddy accustomed to the idea that we're going to church now. My husband is, most decidedly, not, which is ironic as he was a religion major in college. OK, maybe it's not so ironic, but he plays along by asking our son how it went every Sunday after services.

One day during brunch, after a bit of direct questioning on my son's part as to what Daddy's own particular brand of church is, my husband answers, "The Mets is my church."

I'm thinking, "Oh, great."
Jimmy waits a beat and counters with, "Writing is Mommy's church."

Hallelujia, praise the Lord, little Jimmy's catching on.

Signing

The other night I was at the book reading of a friend of a friend's. She's a sharp cookie and hilarious lesbian (yes, you heard me right) as her writing and especially her storytelling deftly communicates. I was in awe. But at the same time thought, "Hey, I can do that." I can get my books published and go to bookstores and read my work and chat with the hoi polloi and sign their books and make nice. I have attractive handwriting and no germ phobias or fear of public speaking. I'm your gal.

I was feeling good about my new life as a published book-signin' author when I wandered into the conversation being held by the two warm-up authors who had read first in the evening's line-up and a third guy who was also a published author, though not a lesbian, as well as something alarmingly called a Live Fiction Critic, yikes. They were discussing how they sign their books when at their own book readings. They said things like, "If they've bought this book, I sign it this way, and if they've bought my other book I usually sign it another way." And how they always ask if the person wants an inscription or just an autograph in case they plan to resell it on e-bay. They weren't preening, they were just harmlessly swapping tricks of the trade.

I felt as if I were surrounded by earnest mid-western beauty queens trading tips on how they polish and maintain the high luster of their rhinestone tiaras.

They were generous to include me in their conversation, and perfectly friendly, I might add, especially since I had absolutely nothing to add. I suppose I could have tried to interject a dry little ditty about signing Christmas cards, but I didn't bother. Too much of a reach, and these lesbians weren't nearly as funny. So I just listened, trying to soak up the other team's play book, that of Published Authors.

I wonder if they knew I felt like an anxious puppy with my wet slobbery nose pressed up against the cage, panting and drooling with wild desire. I wonder if they know that I'm next.

Buttons

There are laces we tie up and zippers we zip
There are snaps we snap snugly with nary a quip
There are hooks that get hooked at the neck's lovely nape
As we dress up for dinner's much needed escape.

But the buttons we push just by being one's self
When they leak hideousness from the very top shelf
And that black gooey stuff with those sharp little shards
That can hardly be cleaned, though we try oh-so-hard
Keeps on drippin', then runnin' a strong steady stream
Until every thing's sopped; patience, hope, love and dreams
Once we're stepping in muck and we're covered in goo
Seems the self that I thought was the right self won't do.

So it's back to the salt mines, yup, back to my core
Back to the original factory store
To tear down the walls, asbestos and black mold,
(I pray I can do this, that I'm not too old)
Like the bionic woman I'll stop at no end
To re-code and re-build me as Mom, wife and friend.

It's gonna get ugly and messy and ick
There's no other way, there is simply no trick
To avoid the inevitable unbearable truth
(It's been chasing me since I got off in Duluth)

So here I go on this most treach'rous of trips
I feel bad for the stains left from those nasty drips
Please move a small rug, shift the couch, inch the chair,
And for heaven's sake do wash the pain from your hair,
And I'll do the same and then before we know it
Time will have passed and then more time will show it
Was best for us all, was the best we could do
So anon the next phase, the next chapter or two

I'm gonna need tissues, some wine and a cookie,
I'll slump to the floor, yes, and moan like a Wookie,
But I'll get by like the vast hoards gone before me
And tepidly, gingerly glide gently toward thee
My blessings are many, my good fortunes, great
I'll cover my grey hairs and gain back the weight

Then one bright fine day I won't sob any longer
I'll stride from the ashes a bit happier, a lot stronger
I'll dust off my funny bone and my thinking cap
And I'll write it all down and then take a long nap
Then wake up and pick up my sweet son from school,
He's my bright shining star and he's no body's fool

He'll bounce back as I will, he's young and he's malleable
Our family we'll cherish as precious and valuable
Together we'll forge, yes, our problems we'll suck up
I'll do what I can so that he's not a fuck up

Like his parents, grandparents and those gone before
Such damage to undo'll take patience galore
And willpower, fortitude, gumption and grace
I'll put feet in my mouth and get egg on my face

But I'll try and I'll try and I'll try with great might
Until one fine clear evening when saying goodnight
I'll look up at the full moon and down at my son
And know without a doubt that a battle I've won
OK, maybe not won but triumphed just a bit
So the buttons I push don't turn evr'ything to shit.

The End.

(Smile and curtsy. Blow a kiss. Wave. Exit stage left.)