1967 Redux: Cast from Heaven

As I revealed in my previous post, I remember very little about my birth. I was there, but I guess I wasn’t really “there”, if you catch my meaning. It's not like anyone asked me if I was content with the room I had...they just forced me into what they considered a more spacious upgrade.

I presume I came into the world from my mother's tummy (I say tummy because the words "my mother" and "vagina" should rarely, if ever, share the same sentence, unless you're speaking of someone else's mother, in which case it's totally hot and should be shared in explicit detail in comments about this post.)

I never looked back for evidence of where I'd just been. We may each know from whence we came, but a permanent mental picture of your mother's legs poised stiffly in a V-for-victory sign is tough for even those of the strongest stock to bear.

My parents have disputed the full accuracy of some minor points in my earlier narrative. In fairness, I’ll review our conversation here.

Remember that four-plus decades have passed, enough time for some of the sheen to have faded—even the finest sterling has been known to tarnish. So I’ll concede my parents may not have noticed, or may not remember, the many bluebirds (none of whom wrote memoirs--I checked). Chock it up to the passage of time, and the countless wonderful memories with which I’ve blessed my parents since then.

“But Dad, you must be mistaken. All babies are beautiful. Like puppies.”

“Most are.” His body spasms, and his whole body rides out the quake. “Not you.”

“But…”

“Sorry, Brian…but you were a butt-ugly baby.” He looks like someone force-fed eight lemons into his mouth. “And to think we tried to make you.”

He trembles again, as though a stork has just airmailed a-10-pound baby-shaped turd of memory onto his forehead from a substantial altitude.

As I’m filing away my alleged ugliness in my massive cabinet of collected insecurities, under Self Image: Baby, he mumbles, as if mourning a lost opportunity, “They wouldn’t let me drown you.”

My Mom rubs my father gently on the arm, sympathetic. I make a mental note to move the information to the Baby: Close Calls folder.

My mother adds, “When I first saw you, I thought, ‘Oh my God, all that bother over this?’”

Thanks.

“You must be exaggerating! You’re just not remembering. Maybe I wasn’t finished yet.”

My Mom shakes her head. She can’t (and won't) help me.

“But Mom, no baby can be that…”

My father drops a black-and-white snapshot in front of me. I throw my body back in my chair, hard.

“JESUS! What IS that?”

I think I’m seeing a Salvador Dali impression of a hairless, bloated Shar Pei puppy drowning in a vegetable crisper. I suspect the afterbirth was breathtaking by comparison. Were it not for the provenance of the picture, I would have presumed I was seeing clever Photoshop trickery.

“Do you get it now?”

I do. Oh, I do. I don’t want to, but I do.

“But how? I mean, it's... How could…”

They just shrug, as if to say, We play the hand we’re dealt.

“Well, if I wasn’t a beautiful baby…” The evidence is growling out of the photo before me. “Was I at least a happy baby? A nice baby?”

Please don’t laugh. Please don’t laugh.

My Mom laughs. A little too hard, really, considering I’ve had only seconds to accept I’d started out more oversized mealworm than human.

“You were horrible. The nurses didn’t want us to visit you in the nursery.”

The photo is still looking at me. Why would anyone visit? I would deny ownership, or switch bracelets when nobody was looking.

Nice try, Mrs. Croft—put back the Asian baby.

“If the nurses moved you, even an inch, you would scream and scream for hours. They pleaded with us to look at you from afar.”

Surely, Mom and Dad, you wouldn’t stand for that.

“We were all good with that. You looked better in the distance. The rougher edges almost smoothed out.”

My Self Image: Baby file is now overflowing, and as thick as War and Peace.

Although I imagine my birth as a quick, efficient affair, my parents seem confident the process was somewhat more taxing. From what I’m told, my mother was admitted at midnight and spent the next seven hours trying to expel me while I flailed nobly against the current. I guess I feared change.

When I came home, the story goes, my older brother, then almost three, was indifferent to my arrival. I wasn’t a girl, as he had requested, so he wanted little to do with me. That’s okay; I don’t recall wanting much to do with him, either. If he was such a great sibling to me in infancy, wouldn’t I remember?

So, friends, you have some sorting out to do. You can accept my account, which seems much more palatable and doesn’t play like a rehash of the It’s Alive series. Besides, my take is romantic in a 50s-sitcom kind of way. Or you could take my parents’ word for it. Without bluebirds of happiness, what fun would that be?

Heaven in '67?

I remember very little of my birth.

To be honest, I’m a little surprised. I must have been paying attention—it’s hardly the sort of thing one sleeps through, or of which I could have been blissfully unaware. After nine months of nothing but lounging and kick-paddling around my personal heated pool (indoors, no less), at least something was breaking the unrelenting tedium.

So I should remember. It did involve a vagina, after all, even if it was (shudder) my mother’s.

When choosing the winning nominee from this very limited engagement, it’s really a toss-up. My mother, the doctor—or me.

Mom had worked this script once before, so she was basically typecast. And if she was playing a repeat role, the doctor most certainly was. Day after day, broken vagina after broken vagina, pretty much the exact same thing—like Jeff Goldblum's characters in every movie he's in.

In those days, nervous fathers weren’t invited to wade knee-deep in the carnage, so the only credit my Dad could claim was a brief supporting role the previous spring. Kudos, pops…that stuff must have been gunpowder.

So that leaves one stand-out performer: me. A stunning turn, and in my first time in the limelight. Thank you, I accept.

But what’s my excuse for drawing a blank about what was arguably the most important day of my life?

My Mom was never a drinker—in fact, my parents’ liquor cabinet sports 10-year-old whisky that recently celebrated its 20th birthday. So my failed memories didn’t marinate for 270-some-odd nights in a tepid bath of second-hand cognac. “Crack Babies” weren’t even available in those days.

And while the experience may not have been a cakewalk for my Mom—I’m sure through no fault of my own—I doubt my experience of being squeezed out, like an imprisoned chimpanzee easing toward the open end of a toothpaste tube, could have been, well, comfortable. At the very least, though, it should have been noteworthy.

And then there’s the circumcision (again, shudder). This I’m shocked I don’t remember. If you surprised me today by strapping me down and doing ambush penis reduction surgery with a scalpel, trust me—I’d remember. Should you hover over my deathbed and lean in to catch my last words, I’m pretty sure they’d be, “Give me back my cock.”

Still—nothing.

So, I must apologize. To unravel this mystery, I’m forced to marry a conservative sprinkling of creative license with the somewhat less glamorous (and therefore questionable) lore recounted by others present. I’m sure I’ll hit pretty close to the truth. Could you do better?

January 7, 1967. Along the sandy northern shore of Lake Ontario, three learned wise men lead exhausted camels laden with gold, frankincense and myrrh in pursuit of a brilliant star. Uncertain of either purpose or destination, they trudge on—stopping only to resuscitate a dying lamb in their path—knowing they will soon bear witness to the miracle of all miracles.

Oh, wait. Wrong birth. Damn you, Little Drummer Boy. And damn you, too, brain…why must you torment me with the stop-motion specials of my misspent youth? Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum. Pa-rum-pa-pum-pum. Out of my head, demons!

January 7, 1967. In a small town nestled against the sandy northern shore of Lake Ontario, a young mother awakens early, and greets the glorious dawn with a gentle yawn and a broad smile. She rolls over and plants a tender kiss on the stubbly cheek of her sleeping husband. He too smiles. The dream he’s relished for months, awash in the unbridled joy with which he’ll soon be blessed, allows him to linger one last moment in its warm embrace.

She whispers in his ear, softly, “Hey, sleepyhead. Rise and shine, my prince. I think it’s time.”

His smile broadens, and his eyes ease open. He doesn’t even look like he’s been sleeping.

“Oh, is it? Well then, fair lady, I suppose we’d best be going.”

As they step out the front door of their house and into an unseasonably warm and vibrant morning, bluebirds swoop happily to and fro, humming and whistling. The young couple tosses an overnight bag into the back seat of their car, starts the engine (on the first try) and begins the short trek to the hospital. The bluebirds dive into a synchronized pursuit, bathing the journey in a song as bright as the sunshine that seems to wash everything in its golden glow.

“Are you okay, honey?” my father asks, tossing her another of his dreamlike smiles.

“Feeling a bit of a pinch, but nothing I’d let spoil this special moment.” In spite of the twinge, she giggles.

“You’re a trooper,” my Dad chuckles, and shucks my mother on the chin.

In mere minutes, the joyous couple arrives at the front of the hospital, where an army of handsome doctors and nurses ease my mother into a lushly padded wheelchair. A bluebird lands on the arm, jiggles its wings jauntily, and tweets sweetly at my mother. She tweets back.

A valet opens the car door for my father and, when he gets out, hops into the seat and whisks the vehicle away to the best space in the parking lot (where, inexplicably, no snow has fallen, ever.) My Dad scowls at himself for forgetting to give a generous tip. My Mom play-scolds him.

“Bob, you can’t be everyone’s hero. Isn’t it enough to be hero to me?”

My Dad’s frown melts away, revealing an even bigger smile.

“Oh, Bev, I just love you so.”

“And I you, my dearest Superman. And I you.”

The nurse now: “Are you ready to go?”

My mother holds up her index finger and whisper-pleads, “Just a second.” She draws in one more deep breath of fresh air, and then beams even more broadly.

“Oh, look. It’s a rainbow. Look, Bob. It must be from the sunlight on my tears.”

My Dad gazes adoringly at my mother, and then glances at his watch. It’s 7:15. He lands a peck on my Mom-to-be’s nose, and wipes a happy tear from his own. He mouths “Showtime!” and stares yearningly as my Mom is wheeled away. She looks back.

My Dad’s grin is ten times more alive than the rainbow.

At 7:30, with one final little pinch, their greatest dreams become reality. My mother cradles me in her arms, hoping to shield me from the ten thousand or so completely stupid things I’m certain to do before I reach adulthood (we’ll get to that.) For a few moments, she forgets completely about my father. She especially forgets the other child, David. He now seems a mere practice round before the main event. I will learn to pity him in time; you should as well.

Soon, my father arrives with three dozen roses and a box of cigars he’s flown in special from Cuba. My mother’s initial pang of irritation at the intrusion (and his incessant joyful whistling) is washed away by a sudden realization. What she has created is too special—too divine, dare I say—to keep to herself. She posits, aloud, “Surely such magic isn’t meant to be hoarded away from others? Like a Van Gogh or a Rembrandt, isn’t he meant to be shared by all?”

My Dad can’t be angry, or feel slighted—his euphoria wouldn’t put up with it. He swoons, and catches himself against the door frame.

“Whoa! That kid is a looker.”

“Yes, oh yes. Isn’t he just precious?” She tickles me under the chin. I coo. I think about saying, “Mama”, but realize one miracle a day is enough.

“Worth more than all the emeralds in the world, pet. And more brilliant and beautiful by far.”

“Oh, I know.” And then great, hitching sobs of joy erupt from her. “I know.”

My Dad falls to his knees, his great sobs quickly drowning out my mother’s. “Oh Lord, why have you chosen to be so utterly generous? Are we even worthy of such a great bounty?” He then hides his mouth with his hand and, out of the Lord’s earshot, whispers to my mother, “Are we?”

From Heaven, God shoves his hands into his robe pockets, nods and grins, sheepishly. The temperature outside the hospital jumps ten degrees. I presume He wants to say something but, from what I’ve heard, His English isn’t great. My parents don’t even notice the cherubim—a nice touch, I thought—floating above.

“Oh, Bob. It’s been so… No, he’s so…” Even through her tears, she’s a thousand candles burning out of control. “He’s so perfect.”

“Yes, my sweet. It has truly been a magical day.” He claps his hands together. “And this is truly a glorious thing we have done.”

Next time: My parents clarify a few of the finer details.

Holy Bloodsucking Babies!

Oh fine, I'll admit it: I am a filthy, shameless, oh-yes-slide-it-in-my-DVD-player Rotten Tomatoes-loving nickel-whore.

As I lustfully devour the listings of this, the film lover's Shangri-la, I rejoice in the discovery of a great new film with an intensity most achieve online only with underwear at mid-calf and an economy-sized tube of something slippery yet water-soluble close at crotch.

At least eight times a day, and often more, I search ravenously for that next great flick, one that will shove me out of my funk, grab my head with authority and fairly scream, "Bury yourself in me, you dirty celluloid slut!"

In short, I like a good movie.

For the most part, I'm a complete and insufferable film snob. As a consequence, I am, bar none, the most hated person in our home (a distinction I reinforce each time I comment on one of the kids' Facebook pictures, or if I dare say no to anything). More than once, I've heard, "Brian, I can't hear the movie over tssk-huh-what-tssk," or, sometimes, "Mom, will I be grounded if I shoot Dad in the face?"

I rarely rent a movie unless Rotten Tomatoes gives it a rating of 80 percent or better. And that's just the first litmus test. In addition to a high score, reviewers must heap upon the film the most glowing of praise--something along the lines of, "During the opening credits, I jizzed," or, "It was like discovering my clitoris all over again."

The kids often suggest movies. That's so cute. Nope.

So, yes, I'm a selfish dick, and I'm okay with that. Along the way, I've seen some great films. Some of my favorites include The Vanishing (it MUST be the foreign original), Fargo, Pan's Labyrinth, Pulp Fiction, Finding Neverland, Billy Elliot and Requiem for a Dream. The best movie of all time is, without question, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, which makes me jizz figuratively at its mere mention. Just give me a second to grab a figurative towel.

Some well-reviewed films turn out to be, for me, total duds. Perhaps the most noteworthy of late was Gran Torino. I liked nothing about the film, except maybe the car and some of the sunlight. I catch a lot of shit for this opinion--a LOT. Whatever. I think the only person who didn't threaten to harm me was the person to whom I gave the very gently used Blu-ray on the day I unwrapped it. You're quite welcome.

So I'm pretty selective (and more than a tad asshole-ish) about what I'll watch. But I do have one considerable chink in my movie-choosing armor:

Amateur mature foot fetish porn.

I'm kidding. Like that would be a weakness.

No, I really love a good horror/suspense movie. I also like more than my share of bad ones...and that's okay. I'm a huge fan of Eden Lake, The Ring, Descent, The Devil's Backbone, Joy Ride and Paranormal Activity. I've found I can suspend disbelief beyond what most would call reason if the film makes its mission to cause me to poop myself just a little.

So, this past weekend, I was quite excited to screen the movie Grace which, the last I checked, received a 71% rating which, in the realm of horror-film reviews, is basically the same as an Academy Award. After watching the whole movie--which was difficult over Patty's constant commentary, "Are you kidding? Brian, really...are you fucking kidding?"--I had to admit the movie didn't top any of my lists. It just didn't have that certain umph to broaden the chinks in my armor, and left me utterly unsoiled.

A quick synopsis (and spoiler alert, if you want to call it that):

(a) mom loses husband and unborn baby in car accident; (b) mom carries dead baby to term; (c) mom surprises midwife and former gay lover by nursing dead baby back to life; (d) mom buys fly strips to keep clouds of flies off baby; (e) mom discovers baby needs blood, not milk, to thrive; (f) mother-in-law, missing dead son, forces husband to suckle her fatty breasts (eww); (g) mom kills mother-in-law's family doctor after he pumps milk with a strange apparatus and diagnoses baby as sick from baby monitor; (h) mother-in-law kills mother as mother in turn kills mother-in-law; (i) former lover-midwife leaves in RV with baby on Midwest killing-slash-feeding spree.

Don't get me wrong. I like a good ambiguously-gay-vegan-overprotective-to-the-point-of-murder-mom-and-bloodsucking-baby-film as much as the next guy. Just not this one.

Back to Rotten Tomatoes. Hmmm...Messiah of Evil sounds kinda promising.

The funniest thing ever written

Often, when I send a new story to my agent, and then spend the next hours repeatedly checking my Blackberry for an encouraging reaction--something along the lines of, “Yup…that’s the funniest thing I've ever read,” or, “I peed,” her somewhat less enthusiastic reply includes one or more of the following:

• “Punching babies? Brian, Brian, Brian…”
• “I took out seventeen of the ‘fucks’.”
• “Toenails? Soup? TOENAILS?!?”
• “No. Did you get that? N. O.”
• “Ugh.”

Patty, my greatest defender, gently pats my hand and adds soothingly, “Don't take it too hard, honey; it WAS absolutely disgusting.”

My agent’s reasoning is sound. A huge proportion of acquiring editors at publishing firms are women, and more than one is at least moderately anti-baby-punch. I am not a woman, nor have I figured out enough about this species to claim more than a passing understanding and a deep-seated please-don't-bring-that-knife-to-bed fear. I DO know that some of you like shoes, and that most of you don’t like me.

For some reason, a loud reference to vaginal farts that causes snot to fly from each man’s nostrils (and then causes those same men to laugh harder at the sight of sputum) rarely draws even a grudging chuckle from your average gal. And, if said woman is your wife, she usually just sits there with her mouth hanging open before finally snapping, in a shout-whisper, “BRIAN! It’s not funny. For god’s sake…this is a funeral.”

Still, there are a few women out there who don’t pull punches, except perhaps around babies. One of my favorites is Candice, whose blog Life According to Candice has, more than once, drawn a "WTF?" from me. Recent entries have delved into gynecological exams, KY jelly, the well-hung, spanking and corncob dildos. Check it out.

Another is Allie of Hyperbole and a Half who, while usually a little more restrained than Candice, still never shies away from referring to someone as a “queef-faced man-child.” She's yet to refer to me as such; until then, I recommend giving her a read.

So, is the tide shifting? Are women starting to warm up to the idea that all the nasty shit that happens, especially as we age, is the stuff of pure comic bliss? Can't we all see a giant English cucumber in a light-hearted way? Will Patty come around, and say, "Ohmigod, your joke about shit and sundaes made me piddle?"

I doubt it. More likely, I'll stay as Chief Snot-Giggler in the Land of Ugh.