My Future Memoirs

I've had some friends after me for some time to eventually write a memoir..........and it would be considerably more 'David Sedaris' (if you haven't read his 'Dress Your Family in Courdoy and Denim' you really have missed something thing) then 'David Pelzer'. I picture it as either a 'feel-bad comedy' or 'proof that every Irish joke is true' sort of book....

Potential titles:

"REDEMED! or: How I was Adopted With Green Stamps"

"I Was Born a Poor Black Child...a story in crude cartoons" (the first bit is stolen directly from 'The Jerk')

"Flying Christmas Trees and Get the Fuck off my Porch: An Irish Chidhood"

"Don't Mention Mom's Moustache....Really"

"Because Santa Hates You"

"The Spam and White Bread Diet! How to Become Unhealthy in 18 Years!"

Potential Chapter Headings:

"The Korean War: Why We Couldn't Watch M*A*S*H in My House (...flashbacks, hint, hint)"

"Somehow, I Really Don't Think My Dog Suddenly Went to Live on a Farm"

"Six-Years Old: I Am Already An Expert at Bleaching My Mother's Upper Lip"

" 'No more, Sir, no more!', Wednesday is Always Cabbage Night"

" 'Um, we'd like to bury him in Arlington.' How I Almost Snatched My Dad's Body"

Potential Opening:

I still remember being four years old and sitting in the tiny church in my neighborhood for yet another seemingly endless droning Methodist sermon. We were'nt Methodist, we were actually Catholic. My mother thought it just saved gas to stay in your own neighborhood. As she said "It's basically the same shit anyway.". On that particular day the Pastor, a lanky elderly fellow with Elvis-like side burns, was speaking at great length about how. if you asked sincerely enough, Jesus would grant you anything. Anything?

Wow...that was the wrong thing to say in front of me. My mind flew into a 'Chuck Jones' cartoon extravaganza (I remind you, I was four. 'Bugs Bunny' was equivalent to 'CNN' at that time to me). My parent's would be standing out in the yard, smack fighting, when I dressed in rags and dirty faced, got on my little knees to pray. In an angelic voice, I would ask Jesus to put an end to this black charade...and no one would have to know it wasn't an accident, would they Lord? Just between you and me?. Then, suddenly, a baby grand piano with a giant weight marked '16 TONS' strapped to it would begin to descend upon them. My father would hardly have time to hold up a tiny sign saying "Help!" before the mass of piano/weight drove them into the ground. I would them be magically transformed from dirty ragamuffin to a 'Shirley Temple' clone in a short pinafore and tap-dance on top of the damn thing to 'The Candy Man'. My three year old brother (in miniature top-hat and tails, naturally) would then join me for a Astair and Rogers-like 30's inspired number before we rode pink ponies into the sunset.

It was glorious..The pastor saw my look of childhood glee and gave me a wave telling the congregation, "See how happy the Lord's word can make you?"

Unfortunately, when nothing happened by mid-afternoon, the seeds of my present day confirmed athiesm were planted. I could have kept a secret, Jesus...and the ponies could have been plain old brown colored, not pink. I was willing to work with you.