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At Jocko‘s suggestion, I re-worked yesterday’s fantasy scenario into a more viable Hollywood version. Here’s the pitch I’d make to Mr. Katzenberg:

…Well, okay, Jeffrey, so I can see how a big-screen Gimme a Break reunion might not be your cup of tea. I mean, personally, I think you’re missing out; Rosie O’Donnell and Joey Lawrence have already signed on, and as soon as Nell gets outta rehab, she swore she’s gonna give the script a thorough read-through. But hey, if it’s not your thing, it’s not your thing, right? …But now, this other idea I had–man, lemme tell ya’. It’s got “SMASH” written all over it! It’s kind of a kooky romantic dramedy about one couple’s struggle to rise above the everyday papal bull and reignite their once-passionate marriage. Can I have a drumroll, please? May I present to you:

BLASPHEMOUS IN BAR HARBOR
or AMERICAN BOOTYLICIOUS
(working titles)

Starring…

Mel Gibson as “Brian McDrinkalot,” the lusty, rotgut-swilling father!

Reba McIntyre as “Shu-Shao McDrinkalot,” a recent convert to Buddhism who’s taken a yearlong vow of silence!

Soleil Moon Frye as “Judith ‘The Jewess’ McDrinkalot,” the McDrinkalot’s daughter!

Freddie Prinze, Jr. as “Mohammud Kibby al-Hummus,” the McDrinkalot’s son and a very, very, very angry young man!

With…

Hallie Kate Eisenberg as “Vindaloo-Who,” the neighborhood’s only sari-wearing Girl Scout!

Tom Arnold as “Mr. Kibbitz,” everyone’s favorite door-to-door pork salesman!

Drew Barrymore as “Din-Din,” the family dog!

and Meg Ryan.

Wadda ya’ think so far, Jeff? Do you mind if I call you Jeff? Now, look, I see you frowning–I’d be kidding myself if I tried to deny it–but don’t you worry. Meg’s part is really, really, really small–basically a cameo. She plays a Unitarian. Honestly, she’s just there to bring in the chicks. Chicks love her…

Anyway, I’ve written a little dialogue. You wanna hear it? Yeah? You wanna? Okay! Here goes. Jeez, I feel like I’m back in high school competing in Dramatic Interp. Okay, ready? Here I go.

SOLEIL
Dad! Mohammud keeps declaring holy war on me!

MEL
Christ, you little sons of bitches, don’t make me come up there! I’m gonna start countin’, and by the time I get to three, you’d better kiss and make up or by St. Martin’s broom I’m gonna rape you both and leave you to rot out on the friggin’ moors.

(Before Reba can scribble “There are no moors in Maine, Grasshopper,” we hear the ding-dong of a doorbell. Mel answers it. Reverse-shot of Vindaloo-Who standing on the stoop.)

MEL
What is it, Vindaloo-Who?

HALLIE
It is the duty of those within my caste to sell Girl Scout cookies. Would you care to purchase several boxes?

MEL
Jesus, Mary, and goddamn Joseph, how can you be a Girl Scout, Vindaloo-Who? You’re no more than two!

HALLIE
Nevertheless, this is the path that has been chosen for me by the mother of my future husband… If you are averse to the traditional pecan sandies, may I suggest these delightful treats that I have made myself from pure vegetable oil and curry powder. They are shaped like the great Ganesh!

FREDDIE
Dad! Judith’s playing keep-away with my Gaza Strip.

SOLEIL
Am not! It’s mine!

MEL
That’s it! I’m lockin’ the freakin’ doors and settin’ the whole house on fire! C’mon, Shu-Shao, we’re outta here. Din-Din, you stay. Stay! Good dog. Rot in hell, mates!

(Mel exits, lighting a cigar as he goes. In slow motion, we follow the match over his shoulder, through the mail slot, onto the gasoline-soaked floor. The house explodes into flame. Children are heard screaming.)

Well, wadda ya’ think? Huh? Huh? That’s as far as we’ve gotten with the script right now, but don’t worry–we’ve got a happy ending planned. See, in the midst of the fire, Freddie and Soleil make up and help each other scramble to safety. Maybe they fall in love–doubly taboo, huh? A little edgy, just to get the art house crowd… But here’s the clincher: Din-Din dies in the fire, and at the dog’s funeral, everyone’s weeping and crying on each other’s shoulder and THAT’s the moment of reconciliation. And they all live happily ever after–or at least ’till the sequel. Maybe something like a family vacation in Turkmenistan, I dunno…

And oh, yeah, I almost forgot: I’ve got a poster all mocked up, too. Wanna take a look? See, it’s head shots of the eight leads superimposed on an undulating magic carpet. Note the tag line: “Family feud? Family fatwas!” Clever, huh? But not pretentious… And see how Tom Arnold is gripping the fringe of the carpet with his teeth, like he’s trying to stay onboard the darned thing? That’s called “wacky.” That’s exactly what the kids are going for these days! Wackiness. I’m telling you, this could be big! Will be big! So wadda ya think, Jeff? …Jeff?

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Lindh said he would like to hug his son and kick his butt
for not getting permission to go to Afghanistan.

SON: Hey, Dad, you finished with that beer?

DAD: Yup.

SON: Want another?

DAD: Well…

SON: C’mon, Dad, loosen up. Mom’s three states away living in a gated community with some Lutheran named Sven. That makes you a free man–a guy on the town, a bachelor with a pad, a swingle! You can drink all you want now.

DAD: Well, okay. Pass me another.

SON: (Under his breath) Infidel!

DAD: What’s that, Son?

SON: I said I’d like to have one, too, if it’s okay with you.

DAD: Fine by me, Son–we’re in California! We’re enlightened. We live the life of the Old World. We take walking tours through wine country, we host romantic al fresco dinners on the decks of our beach houses, we smoke marijuana at the dinner table–but never cigarettes, son. (Standing and towering over Son.) Never cigarettes! Do you hear me? Cigarettes are awful, vile, instruments of corporate America! They pollute the environment, make thousands of people sick every year, cause untold economic damage to the world’s developing countries–

SON: I understand, Dad.

DAD: –keep thousands upon thousands of uneducated workers in poverty-level jobs–

SON: Dad, I got it.

DAD: (Sitting down again.) …Oh. Ok. Good. So long as you understand.

SON: Yes, I understand.

DAD: Fine. I’m glad. …You know, we’ve never really had that talk before.

SON: Yeah. I’m glad we had it.

DAD: Good. Me too. Now where was I…. Oh, yes: our refined, higher standard of living…. Like I said, we’re laid-back here in California. We live not unlike centuries of Tuscans have done, celebrating holidays among loved ones without a hint of familial strife, traveling to the weekly market by horse-drawn buggy, consuming vast amounts of bread. So why should I mind if my Son–a young man, very nearly 21 years old–shares a beer with me?

SON: Gee, thanks Dad.

(They sit for some time on the patio of their Twin Peaks townhouse, watching the eucalyptus trees sway in the misty breeze. When Dad isn’t looking, Son pours his beer into a nearby bougainvillea. This continues for several hours until Dad is noticeably tipsy.)

SON: Hey dad?

DAD: Huh? …Whazzat, Son?

SON: I think I wanna travel some.

DAD: (Belches.) Then fer godsakes, travel. I wish I’d had the chance to do some oat-sowing myself, but that she-beast of an albatross–otherwise known as your goddamn mother–wrapped herself around my neck when I was just 18. I never had a chance. (Begins to sob.)

SON: …So, I was toying with the idea of kicking around the Middle East for a while. You know, since I’m a devout Muslim and all, I thought it might be a good thing to do.

DAD: Yeah, yeah. Sure, sure…. (Belches.) Hey, you know what I really love? Chinese food! Eggrolls! Yum! (Dad rolls out of his lawnchair and onto the terra cotta tile. He stretches out on his back, muttering to himself, “Eggrolls! Yum! Eggrolls! Yum!” while fondling his nether region. Son looks contemptuously at Dad for a moment, then continues.)

SON: That’s kinda why I’ve been growing out my beard, so’s I can fit in and all.

DAD: Huh? Who? Oh…. Brzsksyzrwp! Ack. (Dad sits up, suddenly lucid.) Hey, Son, pull my finger! Hahahaha! (Collapsing to the ground once more.) …Eggrolls!

SON: I figure I’ll go over to someplace like Afghanistan, blend in with a group of Islamic fundamentalists, share with them as many secrets as I can about the American military, then join the jihad. That okay by you?

DAD: Eggrolls! Eggrolls! Aroooooo! (Dad begins howling like a dog. This continues for some time. Son pulls out a hookah, smokes silently for a few minutes. Eventually it becomes clear that he’s had enough of this encounter.)

SON: (Tapping Dad brusquely on shoulder) Dad?

DAD: Huh? What! Whozzere? I can see you. You can’t hide from me!

SON: Dad, I’M GOING TO AFGHANISTAN TO BECOME A TERRORIST. Stay out of my room while I’m gone. And don’t forget to feed Sparky; if I hear that something’s happened to him, I’ll come back and stone you my goddamn self. Seriously. (Exits.)

DAD: Urp. Wheredego? Whereami? Wassamanspozedtado? ….Arooooooo!

(Blackout.)

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I know, I know. It’s weird, isn’t it, this silence? You can ask Jonno: around the house, I never shut up. I come home from work or from rehearsal, I give him a hug and a kiss, I start talking about my day or asking about his, and before you know it, I’ve gone from cutesy, stressed-out hubby coming home from a long day at the office to nebbishy psycho love-muffin with a big, fat, wagging tongue.

But then, I’ve always been that way. Way back in 5th grade we had to draw self-portaits, and I remember my teacher commenting that mine was pretty good–except I’d drawn my mouth shut. I got the hint.

All in all, I have a lot to talk about–most importantly, recently meeting mom and sis–but I can’t pull together the energy and focus I need to get my thoughts down on paper (so to speak). I guess it’s just a phase. Maybe I need a vacation. Or a drink. Yeah, a drink sounds nice. Several of them, in fact.

Side note: those of you in and around the Crescent City will soon have the questionable pleasure of watching yours truly perform in drag. We’re short a performer for opening night, so guess who gets to fill in… The last time Jonno saw me fully shaved was almost a year ago to the day. I guess it’ll become an annual event. Trimming the tree in reverse.

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YAWN…mmm…mhmm….Huh? Omigod! Omigod, what time is it? What day is it? How long have I been asleep? A week?! An Earth week or, like, a Mercury week? Crap! A full week of my life–an important one, I might add–and I’ve slept through it all!

Why are you looking at me like that? Seriously, there must have been something in that bread pudding I had for lunch last Friday, ’cause the last thing I remember is leaving work and getting home and laying down on the bed for a little rest before dinner and…. Don’t arch your eyebrow in my direction. What? You don’t believe me? Well, honestly…. I thought you had more faith in me than that. I mean, really.

Okay, I admit it: I’m fibbin’. Not that you couldn’t tell. Those of you who know me know good and damn well I have a hard time sleeping past sunrise, so how the hell could I make it through seven of ’em?

Fact of the matter is, I’ve been very busy this week. What with meeting mom and sis and cranking out a half-assed one-act musical in four days flat–a musical that opens in two weeks, mind you!–and unpacking and working and…well, I believe Jim Backus said it best when he said, “I need a vacation.”

But more about all that later. That’s pages and pages and pages of writing, and right now, I just wanna sit here with a warm glow and reflect upon it all.

I would, however, like to make an announcement: given that it’s the day after Thanksgiving and therefore the unofficial start of the holiday shopping season, it’s time to unleash the Secret Santa again! For those who missed it last year, here’s how it works:

1. You set up an Amazon.com wish list with all the goodies you want for Chris-kwaanz-ukah. Keep at least a few items in the $10-$15 range. Belts are tightened this year, dearie; be considerate of others’ last-season Vuitton pocketbooks.

2. Then, send me your Amazon screen name, your Amazon email address, and the url of your wish list by December 7 (that’s two weeks, folks).

3. After harmonizing my auras and drinking three 8-ounce cups of Lapsang Souchong tea, I’ll work some elfin magic and pair you up with a name I’ve pulled from a moth-ravaged wiglet.

4. I’ll send you an email with the name of your Secret Sturtle–er, Secret Santa–along with the link to her/his wish list.

5. Spread the holiday love, Mary-san!

And yes, just like last year, I’ll post all the participants and their respective wish lists. You non-dotcommmers who are still making bank might wanna spread a little extra joy, you know what I’m sayin’.

Let the holiday magic…begin!

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So, what’s been going on?

Let’s see…I spent a day in Baton Rouge debating artistic merit across the street from our state’s…uh…distinctive old capitol. But the boyfriend already told you that.

I had a lot of meetings and stuff. Some of ’em got cancelled, which was good. But that’s boring.

We’re 100% moved into the new house and have tenants firmly ensconced in the old place.

We’re putting together a holiday revue. It’ll run at the Shim Sham in December. More on that later. (I’m still writing it.)

What else? …Oh yeah, I’m meeting mom and sis tonight.

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Last night, as I lay sleeping in our cute but as yet curtainless new home, I had two Very Distrubing Dreams:

#1: 11:00pm – 2:30am
For reasons that weren’t made apparent to me, I had killed and dismembered some child and was subsequently trying to hide the kids parts from a policeman who stopped me for running a red light. (No, it was not Jon Benet; yes, the policeman was cute; no, I didn’t do him.) This one was particularly unsatisfactory because nothing seemed to happen, it was all in medias res, with the cop hanging over me and me bumbling my way through numerous excuses. Before long, however, I moved on to…

#2: 3:20am – 6:00am
I’m planning this theatre festival–what kind? I dunno–and Skinny Puppy (yes, that Skinny Puppy) wants to make a donation of $1,000 to the cause. I get their call in the middle of math class. A math class taught entirely in French. There’s a lot of other stuff, too–Korean girls laying down in the street in front of steam rollers to protest violence in the Middle East, men mastubating in stairways that are clearly marked “no masturbating”, and so on, but it’s too confusing too remember now.

I guess they could be the result of childhood trauma. Or trepidation about the global political situation. Or general 30-something angst. But more than anything, it probably comes from eating a bunch of crap before bedtime.

Boyfriend, I love you dearly, but next time I bat my eyes and ask you to rustle up a late-night batch of Ro-Tel dip and potato chips, do me a favor: look me squarely in the eyes and say “hell freakin’ no.” I’ll thank you later.

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Let me clarify something: I hate moving. Whether our déménagement went well or poorly doesn’t really matter: it was doomed from the start to be physically and emotionally traumatic.

There were, however, a couple of pleasant moments during the course of the day. Watching my boyfriend–who says he hates painting–do a last-minute, lovingly detailed touch-up of the wainscoting in the study. Sitting on the floor while Gaston and Kika romped up and down the house with their new friend, Dexter. Waking up before dawn and padding off to a kitchen with a real table and real coffee, listening to the radio as the sun came up.

Also nice was re-discovering some nearly forgotten mementos beneath the piles of Happy Meal rubble dotting my part of our former abode: a card on inchworms from my bizarre friend Frank, a Cheerios-brand winter hat that I pilfered from Michael‘s apartment, various gifts from various folk (you know who you are). But the biggest surprise of all was finding the Get-It-Girl Glasses.

They’re not much to look at–just a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses any hooker might wear. But for for one shining, alcohol-laden evening 11 years ago, they were pretty magical. In fact, they were so special, I dedicated an entry to them in the half-assed memoirs I was pulling together for all my college friends–memoirs that may or mayn’t ever see the light of day. Not much happens in the story, so don’t get your hopes up; like most happy memories, it’s the image that sticks with me, not the evening’s events. Anyway, for what it’s worth…

The Get-It-Girl Glasses

It’s the summer of 1990, shortly before I’m to leave the Bold, New City–Jackson, Mississippi–for good and start my life in the Big Easy, Sweet Lady Gumbo, Old Swampy. (My friend Lesley always swore she was going to pen a little diddy for me called “Jackson in My Rear-View Mirror,” but I guess she never got around to it.) As usual, I’ve spent the day by the pool, and as the daylight has faded, people have joined me: Mark, David, Ann, Lesley, perhaps a few more.

After nightfall, we doll up to go out. There’s no occasion: we’re bored, disaffected youth, we don’t need an occasion to paint the town rouge. Our group ranges in age from 18 to 22, which somewhat limits our choice of bars. After a brief powpow, we decide on Bill’s Disco, since it’s one of the few places that doesn’t card.

Let me back up a minute: like most Southern states, Mississippi still carries vestiges of segregation. There are black parts of town and white parts. Black churches, white churches, black malls, white malls, and, of course, black gay bars and white ones. Jackson’s white gay bar, Jack and Jill’s, brings new meaning to the word “tired.” There’s rarely more than Madonna in the DJ’s bag of tricks, and the proprietors check IDs so ruthlessly they might as well call the place Stalag Fudgepacker.

Just across the parking lot sits Bill’s Disco, the city’s black gay bar. Jack and Jill’s closes at 1am; Bill’s cranks ’till dawn. Jack and Jill’s is fairly well lit and forthright; Bill’s is shady, with a dimly lit speakeasy/backroom where toothless drag queens serve beer illegally ’till the bass beats fade out. We spend a lot of time at Bill’s

Back to the present: we consume vast quantities of Milwaukee’s Best Light at my apartment, then drive on down to the cha cha palace. (Don’t be shocked; I’m sure you’ve done worse.) On the brief but mildly treacherous walk from the bar’s parking lot to the front door, my friend David and I do our Charlie’s Angels routine: standing there, backlit by a single high-powered streetlamp, our elongated shadows hearken to those of Farrah Fawcett and Jacqueline Smith (we could use a good Kate Jackson) in the 1970-something show’s opening credits. After our bout of posing–which always goes on a beat too long–someone notices a pair of large, Sophia Lauren-esque, coral-red sunglasses lying on the ground. They probably fell out of someone’s drag bag on their way to Bill’s. Or maybe they belonged to one of the, um, pros working on nearby Farish Street. They quickly become a communal prop for our entourage.

Dancing at Bill’s, a member of the group–David, of course–whips out a bottle of poppers. That’s usually a sign that the situation’s about to deteriorate; tonight’s no exception….

The next thing we know, we’re dancing in a circle like high school kids, passing around those grimy glasses for everyone to model. Each time someone puts them on, everyone else begins snapping, screaming loudly “Get it, Girl,” in the general direction of said individual. This goes on for a really, really, really long time, but cheap beer and inhalants help keep the ritual fresh and new. An hour passes, and we’re still amused, strangely unfazed by the predictability of it all. We continue for goddess knows how long and awake next morning with severe headaches.

I am still in possession of the Get-It-Girl Glasses. They may be viewed by appointment only.