PRINCESS Pt. 2

(Continued From Princess)

Belle of BEAUTY AND THE BEAST had a very worried look on her face. She had taken the seat closest to mine, and kept her gloved hand in mine as I bitterly complained about the sad turns my life had taken. She regarded me with a look of sympathy, but I could tell her benevolent look of quiet understanding masked a terrible sense of foreboding. Belle listened patiently as I told the tale of my former life of Hollywood fabulousness that had degenerated into a married-with-children calamity. In weepy torrents, it spilled out of me.

I told Belle of my glorious days of hedonistic sexual promiscuity, how'd I've been to Nice and the isle of Greece while I sipped champagne on a yacht. I

lamented how I had moved like Harlow in Monte Carlo and showed them what I've got.

How'd I'd been undressed by kings and seen some things that a gay boy ain't

s'pose to see, how sadly I'd been to paradise but I've never been to me.

As tiny tears rolled down Belle's carefully powdered cheeks, she blew her Shiksa nose into a tiny gold satin handkerchief. She collected herself, rose and as dozens of cute, fuzzy woodland creatures suddenly surrounded us, Belle began to sing in the sweetest, clearest voice.

Hey lady, you lady

cursing at your life

you're a discontented father

with a hideous, shallow life

I `ve no doubt

you dream about the things you never do

but I wish someone had a talk to me like I wanna talk to you

Please lady please lady

don't just walk away

Cause I have this need to tell you

why I'm not alone today

I can see so much of me

still living in your eyes

won't you share a part

of a weary heart that has lived a million lives?

As Belle continued to sing, I casually glanced around Ariel's Grotto and could see that

Aurora and Cinderella were giving me the stink eye as Snow White furiously screeched

into a walkie-talkie.

Belle's verse had come to an end and as she and all the woodland creatures peered

at me expectantly, I decided to throw caution to the wind. I took Belle's hygienically

gloved hands, waltzed around the room, and while trampling beaming kiddies in

their cheap, Disney Princess knock-off costumes sang:

Sometimes I've been to crying for unborn children

that might have made me complete

but I, I took the sweet life

I never knew I'd be bitter from the sweet

I spent my life exploring

the subtle whoring

that costs too much to be free

hey lady I've been to paradise

but I've never been to me...

As we waltzed, Snow White put Ariel's Grotto into full lock-down and had bitchily

alerted the security guards, disturbingly attired like Prince Charming, to take me out.

Time was not on my side...

(To be Continued)

PRINCESS

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of visiting the happiest place on Earth, Disneyland, sans child. Decked-out in my Sovorsky Crystal encrusted Mickey Mouse ears (Yes, I underpaid my nanny to painstakingly apply every precious crystal by hand.) I giddily wandered through Fantasyland, Frontierland, Tomorrowland and Adventureland as if in a dream. As my son had not been invited to attend, there were none of the usual banal cries like 'I'm hungry,' or 'I'm tired,' nor my personal favorite, 'Daddy please stop doing the choreography to GET'CHA HEAD IN THE GAME from High School Musical, you're so not Zac Effron - you're just pathetic.' I was able to wander the park gaily. (God, I've so wanted to use that word!)

I flounced from Pirates of the Caribbean to The Haunted Mansion to Space Mountain preening in my sparkly ears, happily unfettered by the whiny demands of my son who last year had the audacity to announce that he did not care for Disneyland as the rides were 'scary' and 'loud.' Can you imagine such a grotesque pronouncement? Naturally, I berated him for being some kind of pinko-commie, un-American, unholy, agitator-terrorist and reminded him that Disneyland was a God-given privilege not an earthly right. Like Lucifer my son Ethan was now officially cast out of the kingdom of heaven and would remain so until he was imbued with the light and goodness of our God, Walt Disney, whose frozen, Nazi-sympathizing head is rumored to be held fittingly in suspended animation beneath Space Mountain.

Like the Shroud of Turin or the Veil of Veronica, Walt's frozen head is a holy relic, whose viewing is strictly reserved for the most exalted of Disney pilgrims. Despite my Jewish roots and propensity for flamboyance (wink, wink) I'm praying that with the purchase of enough overpriced season passes in addition to buying all those Chinese manufactured Disney 'collectables' I too will be permitted to view Walt's head and like Salome kiss his dead, frozen lips. Please God Walt, let me be worthy!

I was particularly humbled on this particular day I was granted entrance to Ariel's Grotto, which like the Roman House of Vestal Virgins, is home to the purest, wisest, and most enlightened women in the Kingdom of Heaven, The Disney Princesses. Like the Vestals, the Disney Princesses are pure of heart, chaste, and beyond reproach. The answers to life's most damning questions can be found here. Sibyl-like, the Disney Princesses are omnipotent, their powers absolute.

I do not speak and keep my head respectfully bowed as I descend the sweeping staircase that leads to Ariel's Grotto. I take my place at a greasy table and nervously glance at the menu. I take a moment to foolishly debate with my fellow pilgrims whether to order the ghastly short ribs or anemic salmon when I suddenly feel a soft, gloved hand on my shoulder. I glance at my fellow pilgrims in alarm as their mouths have gone slack, their eyes wide, for as I slowly turn and follow their gaze, I peer into the flawless, shining face of Belle from Beauty and the Best.

"Well hello!" Belle says dreamily as she takes my hand in hers, "What brings such handsome men to the kingdom this fine day?"

Shocked, I stammer, "Oh Belle, I have so many questions, so many 'issues,' where do I begin?"

Belle gazes at me beatifically, thinks carefully and with unquestionable sincerity responds, "Perhaps, like any good story, you could start with ONCE UPON A TIME..."

(To Be Continued)

LIFE AND DEATH (PT. 4)

When I was a little boy growing up in our ghastly tract house in Cherry Hill New Jersey, my mother would sometimes get angry at me for failing to live up to her stratospheric expectations. In those bewildering moments she would snarl at me, “You know Tod, some day, you’re going to have a child, and when you do I hope he grows up to be just like you!” At the time, I dismissed her ‘good wishes’ as one too many white wine spritzers, and thought she was paying me some kind of weird, left-handed compliment. Believe me, she wasn’t. But if you really think about it, despite her 70’s era obsession with pageboy hair ‘do’s’, tri-color shag carpeting, Lucite and chrome ANYTHING and unrelenting parental criticism she was incredibly prescient in what was to become of my life.

When not up to her ass in Ajax, my mother was the most glamorous woman at our predictably nouveau- riche, restricted-to-Jews-only country club. I came to call my mother ‘Liz’ as she managed to simultaneously lose her natural nose and Brooklyn accent, while laboring to cultivate the look, manner and affectations of her idol Elizabeth Taylor. Hollywood and Broadway obsessed, my mother raised me on a steady diet of celebrity gabfests like Mike Douglas and Dinah Shore.

Each Wednesday night, like clockwork, my mother would faithfully tune in to her favorite show, The Hollywood Squares. Her hair teased a mile high, buzzed on Pink Ladies, she would shout the correct answers at the screen before queeny center square habitué Paul Lynde could ‘flamboyantly’ respond to the obviously scripted question put to him by Peter Marshall, whose criminal sense of fashion consisted of a plaid polyester leisure suit! Oy Vey! Drunk, manic and lost in her Hollywood reverie my mother was the most glamorous woman I had ever known.

Is it any wonder that my mother’s only son, me (AKA the daughter she never had) would someday move to Holly weird and despite blatant and overt FABULOUSNESS, claw his way to the top of the Hollywood shit pile? I was the American dream incarnate – I owned a thriving business, possessed gorgeous PUBLISHED homes in Los Angeles, New York and Palm Springs, and even found a man to marry me despite my unmitigated narcissism. In the grandest of Hollywood traditions, I maintained a homicidal desire to not only keep up with Joneses, but to grind them into the dirt and destroy them. Despite all of the 'riches' in my life, I felt something was missing. Instead of taking up a hobby like gardening, stamp collecting, or golf, I decided that I should have a baby, as a newborn would give my life ‘meaning’ and would be the perfect accoutrement to my Brioni suits and Gucci loafers.

To my astonishment, the blond haired, blue-eyed ‘accessory’ who came barreling into my glittering egocentric life required not only the standard Hollywood parenting ‘necessities’ such as imported, lactose-free baby formula, cashmere receiving blankets, and round-the-clock Central American nannies, he also demand something of me that was virtually unknown to any of the cultured, effete men, I knew. Some kind of weird, new parenting fad developed by some Swedish doctor in the early 90’s called NURTURING…or neutering, or neutralizing I can’t exactly remember as I was pretty drunk at the time I heard about it.

I left the dragon ladies of Iowa in the church basement, an astonished look on their faces and headed upstairs to retrieve my husband. The funeral had mercifully come to an end and George was slowly walking by himself in the solemn procession that followed the casket. The grief of losing his grandmother had finally hit him and the tears that had welled up in his eyes rolled slowly down his cheeks. His eyes searched for me and when our gaze finally met, I decided to throw all this ridiculous caution to the wind and joined him in the procession. As we walked to the cemetery hand-in-hand, our baby gurgling, the townspeople regarded us with a guarded curiosity, but no malice. We took our place on the receiving line and as each of the dragon ladies politely shook my hand they congratulated George and I on the birth of OUR son. George's aunt, the beetle lady, shook my hand and whispered into my ear, "You're here! You're Queer! We better get used to it!" My son took that opportunity to projectile vomit all over my jacket. As I cleaned Ethan's vomit off my coat, I couldn't help laughing to myself as my mother's words rang in my ears, "You know Tod, someday you're going to have a child and I hope he grows up to be just like you." In that moment, I understood her words PERFECTLY.

LIFE AND DEATH (PT. 3)

(Continued from LIFE AND DEATH PT. 2)

Last week, my seven-year-old son Ethan nonchalantly told me that upon my death, he intended to use his sizable inheritance to buy mountains of candy. He further asserted that as my funeral service and burial would be a mere formality on his way to a life of sugary goodness, he had no plan to attend either.

"But wouldn't you miss me?" I asked naively?

"Maybe a little, but it's OK if you decide you want to die." he answered.

Ethan maintained a rather pragmatic view of death. To him, my death would be an unfortunate, but necessary step on his way to a dreamy, polysaccharides future. The moment my small, wiry, Juvaderm and Restalyne infused body was placed in the sun-kissed yet stunningly fire-prone, Forest Lawn grounds (I was not able to purchase a plot near Micheal Jackson, as those fascists at Forest Lawn insisted I was neither a celebrity nor a 'person of note.' To my dismay, I had witnessed the funereal equivalent of the velvet rope!) my son Ethan's life would morph into the real world equivalent of CANDYLAND. His dreams of a never ending buffet of M&M's, Snickers, Three Musketeers, Kit Kat Bars, and Butterfingers would FINALLY come true and would culminate in a fantastical marriage to the dowager of CANDLYLAND, Princess Frostine, who would no doubt be administering the Insulin injections he will ultimately require. Like a high-fructose corn syrup SID & NANCY, Ethan and Princess Frostine will wind up in some seedy motel, the floor of their room littered with empty candy wrappers, cookie bags, and cake tins. Unable to break their shared addiction, Princess Frostine will have to support them both by turning tricks in the molasses swamp with Lord Licorice, Jolly Dino, King Candy and those fucking annoying, tree-stump-living Keebler elves, while Ethan lies unconscious in the filthy motel bed due to an Entenmann's-induced sugar coma.

I've decided to keep living, just to spite him. Besides, whatever sizable inheritance he thinks is coming his way will be spent on 'necessities' such as costly facial fillers, plastic surgery, and various go-go boys who will moonlight as my 'assistant' or 'companion.'

Of course, none of this occurred to me years ago, stranded in that ghastly Iowa town. I stood alone in a church basement, surrounded by narrow-minded biddies, protectively clasping my crying baby son to my bosom. Having not the slightest inkling that the tiny, helpless infant I held would someday blossom into the stunningly beautiful, yet frighteningly conniving cave troll who would eventually wish me dead, I decided to take a political stand. (I pray to God that I'm NEVER placed on life support and left in my son's 'care' as I'm certain that given the choice of keeping me alive and finally realizing his dream of never-ending, golf ball-sized chocolate bon bons, he will make speedy, legally-binding use of the non-resuscitate clause in my will. I can almost see him feigning sadness at my Shiva while sneering to assembled loved ones that he preferred to end my life with 'dignity,' while a big, chocolate mustache stained his greedy mouth.)

As the narrow-minded, Pat Buchanan-loving, Fox News-watching town matriarchs slithered up to me, I resembled a Prada and Gucci-clad version of The Madonna with Child. I sat imperiously in a chair and allowed each old lady an opportunity to view the infant. They all finally gathered around me in their TJ Maxx sweater sets, munching on mayonnaise sandwiches (I kid you not) and clucked about George and his mystery wife being so lucky in producing such an adorable baby. As I stared incredulously at these clueless old broads I began to wonder if these women were so sheltered and delusional that the appearance of two immaculately attired and coiffed 'confirmed bachelor' men (wink, cough) bearing an infant could be ANYTHING but two LA fruit flies and their larva. I suddenly channelled my inner Margot Channing and instantly came to my feet. I twirled around furiously and snarled, "Ladies, fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy night. George has no wife and I'm neither his business partner, army buddy, or 'colleague.' I'm his lover and this is OUR baby."

They stood silently gaping at me, their cheap, Cover Girl hued mouths forming a perfect 'O.'

(To Be Continued)

LIFE AND DEATH (PT. 2)

(Continued from LIFE AND DEATH)

My good friend Kate, whose affluent and sheltered life in Austin, Texas degenerated into a Gothic novel of sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll debauchery, is surprisingly proud of her DAR roots. At first, when she alluded to the DAR, I thought it was some kind of acronym for drug rehab or sexual addiction as at the time we were stumbling down Hollywood Boulevard, having been evicted from a dive bar for our 'innocent' accosting of some fat tourists whose ghastly December-in-Los Angeles wardrobe choice of fanny packs, 'Daisy Duke' short shorts, and day glo knitted tube tops offended our 'we're-in-the-entertainment-industry-therefore-better-than-you sensibilities.'

Kate, staggeringly drunk on organic cranberry & cucumber, anti-oxidant martinis, (only in LA) slurred in my ear that the DAR stood for DAUGHTERS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION and drunkenly elaborated that her racially 'pure' bloodline of Anglo-Saxon, land-grabbing, Native American-murdering, alcoholic, oil industry executive ancestors could be traced back to their arrival aboard the good ship WILLIAM AND MARY during the formative days of this country's bloody break with England. Having proudly shared her family's lily-white, blue-blood origins, Kate suddenly lurched forward, turned a pale shade of green, and projectile vomited all over Ronald Raegan's star on the Hollywood Walk Of Fame. Like any good girlfriend, I held Kate's hair as she purged herself on our 40th President, her DAR ancestors no doubt spinning in their graves due to her blatant disrespect for Raegan, who certainly shares a condo with them in that special place in Hell reserved for thieves, rapists, axe murderers, and actor-turned-politicians. As we continued to trudge down Hollywood Boulevard, Kate leaning into me, her head perched semi-consciously on my shoulder, I begin to reflect on my own family tree - or in my case, family shrub.

According to my mother, my ancient ancestors were the lowest-of-the-low thirteen tribes, shit-kicker Jews who dug ditches, disposed of animal carcases and probably cleaned Egyptian latrines with their tooth brushes. As the centuries slowly passed, my ancestor's fortunes did not improve. Housed in dense urban ghettos or far-flung Russian 'Shtetls' (towns) my relatives piously prayed to God to improve their fortunes - only to see themselves the victims of discrimination, pogroms and eventual annihilation. Disillusioned by the God that had seemingly forsaken them, my relatives, including my great grandfather, emigrated to the United States in the latter part of the 19th century seriously pissed-off. Eager to shed his Judeo-Russian roots, and acclimate his immigrant family as quickly as possible in this strange, new land my great grandfather, a tailor, joined the garment union and imprudently became a founding member of THE COMMUNIST PARTY. That's right sports fans - unlike Kate's revolutionary ancestors who shit stars and stripes, my ancestors were not only lowlife Jews, but were 'commies' to boot!

As we drove through the verdant corn fields of Iowa, my son Ethan uncharacteristically asleep in his car seat, surrounded by George's suspiciously polite Midwest relatives, my thoughts drifted to Kate's revolutionary ancestors and my BETTER DEAD THAN RED great grandfather. What would they have made of a gay, Jewish man arriving in the nation's heartland, his grieving male lover, rent-a-womb baby, and ostentatious Louis Vuitton luggage in tow? All of these revolutionaries - Kate's DAR ancestors and even my idealistic, misguided great grandfather fought and died for their beliefs despite impossible odds and inconceivable struggle. What, if any beliefs did I have, and what sacrifices was I willing to make for those beliefs?

Having deposited our luggage at the horrifying MOTEL 8 that to my astonishment lacked the most basic of hotel 'necessities' such as a pool, 600 thread count sheets, or a decent mini bar, George, Ethan and I were whisked over to the funeral home for the formal 'viewing' of George's dead grandmother. As my husband George, our son Ethan and I entered the funeral home, I could see the assembled friends and relatives glance our way and secretively whisper to one another. The room suddenly fell silent as George and I approached the casket. George glanced down at his dead grandmother and tenderly kissed the top of her head as a single tear slid slowly down his ruddy face. As I stood there holding OUR son, George's aunt, a small, round beetle of a woman approached me and hissed into my ear how nice it was that George could attend his grandmother's funeral despite his wife's absence, and how considerate of me as his 'business partner' to bring their baby.

As I watched her scurry away, I remained silent out of respect for George's grandmother. Outside on the steps of the funeral home, feeding Ethan his bottle, I began to seethe. In my fury, my revolutionary mission and plan of action suddenly became crystal clear. I thought of the great American patriot Samuel Adams who once wrote, "It does not take a majority to prevail... but rather an irate, tireless minority, keen on setting brushfires of freedom in the minds of men."

I held Ethan tightly to my chest as I glanced out over the graceful, undulating fields of Iowa corn, a matchbook from THE MOTEL 8 crushed in my palm.

(To Be Continued)

LIFE AND DEATH

When introduced to a new acquaintance either at a movie premiere, school board meeting, Shiva call, or patiently waiting for the cashier to ring up my bottles of Veuve Clicquot Champagne at the spotless, overpriced Gelson's supermarket near our home (At our place, Veuve Champagne is NOT a luxury - my family can live without so-called 'staples' like milk, bread or eggs, but NOBODY better try and take away this baby's bottle. Were I to be down-and-out and living on government subsidized food stamps, my husband and son would probably suffer from rickets, scurvy or worse for our weekly allowance would be gladly sent to Reims, France so that the good people at the Veuve vineyard could continue to churn out the addictive, bubbly nectar I demand and deserve!) the conversation will invariably turn to how my husband George and I were able to make our son Ethan 'happen.' I am slightly perplexed by this question, as it makes our son sound like some kind of weird science experiment. As I patiently explain that Ethan is not adopted, but rather is 'ours' and conceived and birthed through surrogacy, even the most liberal and enlightened person wrestles with the complicated semantics of the process.

To me, it has always been a fairly simple recipe. Take one whiny, neurotic fag (me) combine with one controlling, autocratic fag (George) throw in a mountain of money, et voila, you end up with a tyrannical, insomniac baby who wreaks utter havoc on your life. This simple, easy-to-follow recipe for our offspring is a regular laugh riot at our swanky cocktail parties populated by drunk, entertainment industry wannabes. However, when controlling, autocratic fag's salt-of-the-earth grandmother had the bad taste to die during whiny, neurotic fag's trip to the second happiest place on Earth, Provincetown, and required whiny, neurotic fag and child to travel to Iowa (Oy Vey), I would come to learn that not everyone in America shares our enthusiasm for 'California-nouvelle-family-cuisine.'

Despite my angry assertion that interrupting our family vacation and dragging a one-year-old to a funeral halfway across the country was unwise and possibly emotionally scarring to our young son (Of course I didn't believe that 'emotional scarring' shit - I had been working diligently on my tan and had the good fortune of locating a local babysitter who not only worshipped my son but worked for peanuts!) my husband George insisted that we attend the funeral for his ancient grandmother, for despite my unbridled tanorexia and my unethical and possibly illegal nanny employment practices, family was family.

Deeply embittered at having to leave my charmingly bohemian, yet wildly expensive oceanfront holiday cottage to attend the funeral of a woman I barely knew, I refused to speak to George on the flight despite my inebriating liquid lunch. As we touched down in Iowa, George casually informed me that unfortunately there were no Ritz Carltons or Four Seasons in the obscure country town his grandparents resided.

Horrified, I hissed "What do you mean no Ritz Carltons or Four Seasons?! Where are we going, eastern Europe? We're still in America aren't we?"

I was soon to learn that while heaven is a place on earth, so is hell - it's called a SUPER 8 MOTEL.

(To Be Continued)

THE FIRING SQUAD PT. 4

AT DEATH'S DOOR?
Infant unhurt in alleged coyote attack despite

careless, DIPSHIT dad.

By Sean Hannity

Hannity & Colmes

LOS ANGELES, California (FOX News)--Tongues were wagging in left-wing, culturally elitist Hollywood today as word spread of a possible coyote attack upon little-known, bewilderingly unprepared marketing executive Tod Abrams, whose irresponsible and negligent idea of 'fun' is to take his new born baby hiking through treacherous, bone-dry back country with neither baby supplies, map, compass or cell phone. Abrams, who had reportedly gained 15-20 pounds of 'baby weight' due to his addiction to fruity Apple-Martinis and Starbuck's Grande Caramel Frappuccinos, thought an early morning sojourn through steeply wooded, wild-animal-infested terrain would be just the ticket for his fatty-fat self and helpless infant son. Abrams, whose 'flamboyant' and 'colorful' hiking ensemble can best be described as woefully inadequate, appeared to suffer only minor scratches despite the alleged coyote 'attack.'

"He look really scared," says avid Korean hiker Mae Kim Won, "He run down the hill screaming like little girl."

According to neighbors, Abrams, who is homosexual and 'married' (Isn't that illegal?!) to longtime-companion (Gag!) George Bamber has a long history of hyperbole and self-delusion in addition to an unhealthy affinity for squeezing his blubbery, middle-aged self into 'outfits' kindly described as 'too youthful.'
While there seemed to be no physical evidence of the coyotes who allegedly attacked Abrams, both father and son were transported out of the area by paramedics. In an extremely telling development, Abrams' unharmed infant son, bound in some curious, third-world jungle sack seems to have remained peacefully, and unbelievably asleep during the entire 'ordeal.'

In a statement released by Commissioner Barry A. Sanders of the City of Los Angeles Department of Recreation and Parks, Abrams' 'drama queen' claims of a coyote attack were quickly dismissed as a 'publicity stunt' and the citizens of LA encouraged to continue using Griffith Park's magnificent hiking paths and playing fields.

After being treated for their 'injuries' and released by Cedars Sinai, Fox News pressed Abrams regarding his specious claims of a coyote attack. With his infant son screaming at the top of his tiny lungs, and holding a can of RED BULL, Abrams stepped theatrically into his gleaming Towncar, waved, but declined to comment citing 'nervous exhaustion.'