BEFORE PAGE ONE

(I used to have a column in the NOHO LA news. Here's one of them, unedited, because why not, right?)  

Waco, Texas was my prologue. No one ever wants to read those, as we’d so much rather jump to the first chapter, but sometimes they’re significant to the story. Mine was full of roller-skating parties, “Do Jews have horns?” and the best BBQ chicken in the South. It was lovely and slow and judgmental. The Texas air was thick and loyal and eerily still, as if someone just said to it, “Don’t move, you have a bee in your hair.” And believe me, it never moved.

As a kid, I was obnoxious and precocious and while my family was starting to show signs of its weak seams, we just bided our time until Chapter One. I clearly remember the haunted playroom where I'd play with my Barbies; (note: I always insisted they live in the New York style town-house over the ranch "dream-house," as I thought the latter was gaudy and dripping with "new money.") I will never forget the look on my Mother's face when she overheard me role-playing Barbie telling Ken, "I do not accept your marriage proposal, if you do not accept my dreams of writing novels in London." She exemplified her worry by buying me lipstick and sticker collections and early morning wake-up calls to watch Princess Diana throw her life away.

Despite her disapproval, ironically one sticker in particular was her attempt to teach me self-acceptance. It was a glittered rainbow with the phrase, "To Know Me is to Love Me." It never sat well with me and now, as an adult, I realize it doesn't quite hold true. I always seem to make great first impressions, but after say a few lunches or cocktails, I turn inside out and the grotesque neuroses that is supposed to stay hidden under layers of thick skin bounces to the surface like a floatie. I’m like a clock that someone had taken apart and forgotten to put back together, so that the wires and tiny nuts and bolts are always exposed. I can hide them for a little while, but not for long. To know me is to tolerate me would be more apropos.

Back to that prologue. When you’re reading a book, I find it often helps to page back to the intro, as every now and then, the author may shed some light on a character or two. I go home whenever I can to touch down from this California high and to see if I can piece together some of the holes in my story. Unfortunately, it tends to raise more questions than answers like, “Yeah, why aren't I married?” and “Where is my Serotonin?” and “Wait, acid wash jeans are ugly, right?” Instead of confirming who I was it, challenges who I’ve become.

In Los Angeles, we're shoved off into a quantum void of virtual photons, popping in and out of existence like non-union actors. It gets exhausting to live in a town where everyone's seemingly in an improv troupe with a ridiculous name like "Tom Cruise Control" or "Jack Black Swan." I go on dates and listen to men tell me random things about themselves without reciprocity: “I'm reading The Artist's Way,” “I’m an INFP personality type,” “I’m allergic to pecans,” "Charlie Sheen sponsors me in AA." I listen for awhile and then tune out, my mind wandering to strange places like how I might be able to crack my neck without him noticing. Lather, rinse, repeat. Groundhog Day is every day when it's always 72 degrees and you're dating narcissists.

And so twice a year, I go to Texas to get some answers. I’ve had quite a lot of alone time on this last trip home and may have come up with a few. Here goes: I’m not married because I get bored way too easily and I would rather have a fucking fabulous rendezvous with someone who can use his hands to touch me or play a heartbreaking piano tune than ever settle for mediocrity. My Serotonin didn’t have much of a fighting chance, what with inheriting my Mom and Dad’s dramatic and sad genes, respectively. And yes, acid wash jeans are very, very ugly.

Maybe the key is to move past the prologue and start looking at that epilogue. I love those National Geographic articles about say, mummies, where scientists come up with some crazy-ass back-stories for their discoveries. It seems pretty far-fetched that they can tell just by observing a Neanderthal’s bones, that he "wore fuschia” or “hated his brother.” I hope that in ten thousand years, when they unravel my perfectly preserved body, they’ll make me sound fabulous. “See, you can tell by the shape of the feet that THIS Homosapien was an excellent dancer. In fact, it looked like she died doing a Fosse-styled 'kick-ball-change.' See how her ankle is disjointed here?”  

But as for the present chapter, my surreal California life and its literal shaky ground and transient people still intrigues me. Folks here have survived the “big one” and the heat-waves and the bad drivers and their scars show it with leathery skin and month-to-month leases. But my life here has been all about sound: microphones and radio transmissions and car alarms. The speed of sound has become too slow for me and sometimes I feel ready for light again. But for now, I'll keep writing in the dark. And when I need to refer to my lead character, that page is only 1400 miles away.