Born with a head for forensics, Wendy stood over the dead bird to protect the evidence from contamination. She looked around the scene for more clues.

Bingo! A human tooth, only 5 inches from the ex-bird. “What went down here?,” she wondered…murder? Where are the full-time cops when you need them?”

Wendy pulled a roll of yellow CAUTION tape out of her bag, and marked the tiny crime scene. She had yearned to do this ever since her part-time career began, when her prized eBay purchase arrived, just yesterday. Yellow, her favorite color; Caution, her favorite word and raison d’etre. This was her first case.

Wendy’s steel-trap mind worked automatically, and she called the city and state cops as well as the FBI and Coast Guard. But none of the law enforcement agencies responded. Not even the Society against Cruelty to Animals!

Not one to walk away from a challenge, Wendy patiently guarded the evidence by taking a Superman style stance, legs akimbo over the dead bird and human tooth. She examined the bird again for bite marks.

Finally, she saw a cruiser crawling down the street at a low rate of speed. Wendy calculated maybe 15 mph, factoring in wind conditions. She was forced to raise quite a ruckus to flag the officer down, since it was dark and she wore the East Coast uniform of black from head to toe. “HEY! Help! YOU!!–Officer!!! I have a situation over here! “This is my twenty,” she screamed, pointing to sidewalk below. “You get ass back here!!”

The cruiser stopped suddenly. The officer exited his vehicle with a flashlight pointing at her face, right there, as Wendy’s stood in her own 20. His other hand rested on his gun. “Did you just order me to come back here?”

“Yes. I…Yes. I ordered you to come back here. I’m sorry I said, ‘ass.’ That was wrong. It–It’s a situation, sir. I just mean to help, so I can move along and forget this ugly mess,” she said with eyes bugging out.

“What ugly mess? It better be really ugly, or you might be taking a ride with me down to the station.” Wendy responded with enthusiasm, “Can I sit in the front?”

“OK, OK. See for yourself,” Wendy said with her chin stuck out, and she pointed straight down to the sidewalk. “I came upon the scene while walking home from the trolley. No witnesses other than myself at this time.”

The officer shone his flashlight on the situation. There he found a black hair extension and a tooth-sized piece of white plastic on the sidewalk. Speechless, he moved the flashlight from the evidence, slowly up to her astonished face. “I…it looked like foul play, sir.”  Then  they both burst into laughter. When they collected themselves, and the laughter ended, you could hear a pin drop.

“Put your hands behind your back. You have the right to remain silent…” And Wendy muttered, “Now you tell me!”

Befuddled, the officer put a glove on, collected the hair extension, the piece of plastic and Wendy. He put them in the car and sped off.

Once the cruiser was out of sight, there was a sinister snickering coming from the bushes.

(stay tuned.)

(c) Chris Radant, 2010. All rights reserved.

Starting now, I am working on the voice in my head that handles constant and creative worrying. I learned this worrying from birth, from my father. Dad was always concerned about things like compound fractures for no reason, the possibility of another ice age, or other kinds of scourges most people could never dream of. When I moved from the Midwest to Boston in 1981, he replied to my excited announcement by saying, “Better be careful up there, Punkin’, somebody could hit you on the head and throw you into the harbor.” You get the picture.

So the worry voice in my head had well-worn grooves and a familiar ring, just like regular thoughts about reality. And it drove me into the ditch eventually.

I couldn’t unleash my disapproval onto my dad, who had good reasons to be hyper vigilant. He did his level best to over-protect me. So for the longest time, I considered it my own character flaw.

Just last week, I decided it was time to stop beating myself up about my apparent inability to stop the constant and outrageous worries. So I separated the voice from my list of responsibilities and gave it a name. The name had to be of a person I’d never met, and probably wouldn’t meet, uniquely safe to pummel with my wrath and disapproval. Murray is its name. Murray sucks. What a despicable and obnoxious intruder! And his little dog, too. When I hear that voice, I say aloud, no matte where I am,
“Just shut it, Murray.”

Whenever I am not consumed by another task such as writing or painting, and Murray bullies its way into my thoughts again, I say aloud, “Zip it, Murray!” I am the boss around here now!” I’ve become a righteous hater. I can wave my hands around and shout at the voice, openly despise it, even belittle it as a separate entity that is not invited to my party.

It seems to be working very well so far. And with 2010 staring us in the face, I urge you to curtail negative, time-wasting thoughts as well. Just draw the line–this town is not big enough for the both of you.
Happy New Year, and let the revolution begin! And put a sock in it, Murray. This is not your year.

(c) Chris Radant, 2009. All rights reserved. Painting by Chris Radant

I asked him what would happen next, and what it would look like. He explained that I’d do a book-signing tour. A limousine would pick me up at my hotel, take me to the best book stores, where I’d do a reading and sign books. Then the limo would pick me up and return me to my hotel. This was going to happen from city to city to shining sea.

My head was spinning all the way back home to Boston. What would I wear? Who would take care of my cat, Betty? What if the crowd was overwhelming? Would there be security?

Then came the actual invent. I was dispatched to a run-down shopping mall in a Boston suburb I had never heard of. I drove my own car, an unheated blue beater from the mid-‘80’s. There was a blizzard overnight that continued into the day of the book signing. I stared for a few minutes out my apartment window at all that snow. I got a little gussied up, put on my snow boots and parka, 2 scarves a hat, hood over the hat and gloves under my mittens. Off to work I went. Intrepid behind the wheel, shivering violently, as though I was being electrocuted, I slid sideways to the mall.

Christmas was just around the corner and the mall was decorated with cheesey ornaments they didn’t bother to dust. In the center of the mall, just across from the book store, was a flimsy-looking throne sitting on a platform, fake snow all around and a Latino Santa with his beard pulled down so he could argue with his girlfriend on his cell. The officials in the book store greeted me with insouciance and told me to sit at the card table at the edge of the store, next to the movie poster. I sat in the plastic lawn chair with dozens of copies of my book and faced Santa Claus.

Not many readers existed in this burb in the first place, though most of them were smart enough to stay home in a blizzard. So I sat there for at least an hour, listening to those maddening carols. About every 20 minutes, Santa would cover his cell phone, peek out from behind the throne platform, and muttered a sad, obligatory, “Ho Ho Ho.” More a statement, than a declaration. Then his arguing continued.

I must admit, a few times, my eyes watered up, thinking of the decades I’d spent working hard to become a good writer and to make people laugh. It all came to this. Then suddenly, I laughed out loud at the absurdity of it all. Turned out, I was more comfortable in this working class mall than I would’ve been in a limo. It’s all absurd! There was no class distinction whatsoever. It was that I’d been set up with expectation than what it became. My family and I are working class family, and a fine family it is.

We’re all just looking to bring home some bacon and these guys were doing a much better job than I had made between books. It was all an amazing, amusing experience. Finally, a few people walked by me with puzzled looks on their faces.

“HO HO HO,”Santa muttered, as a woman shaped like a planet walked towards me and squinted at the movie poster, then the stack of books and at me. I could see the cogs turning, before she blurted out, “Did you write that movie?” “No,” I said. “I wrote this book, and one story in it was the basis for the movie.” She grimaced, leaned forward for emphasis, and said, “I HATED that movie!”

I recited to myself the sticks & stones verse and replied with a smile and a shrug, “Free country! Merry Christmas, ma’am.” Santa punctuated my sentence with his scripted punch line. Janet-the-planet walked off in a huff.

Last week I went to my second public signing in New York.    It was a new anthology my work was published in: a much different experience. Big crowd and I felt far less wigged out. I was warmed by the presence of several friends on this  snow-less night in a SoHo book store.

Afterwords, we did some fine dining and laughed. The next day, I boarded the Bolt Bus back home to Boston.

•

To my former literary agent, I send a wink and a standard seasonal greeting.

Nice prank, David. You got me 14 years ago. Now I get it. Heh heh heh.

(c) Chris Radant, 2009. All rights reserved

Photo by Susan Wile

]]> http://hollywoodhumorist.com/blog/?feed=rss2&p=242 1 http://hollywoodhumorist.com/blog/?p=238 http://hollywoodhumorist.com/blog/?p=238#comments Wed, 16 Dec 2009 20:05:05 +0000 Chris Radant http://hollywoodhumorist.com/blog/?p=238 Installment #2: Preggahs (Pregg-ahz)

Nahmally, this is a wuhd a guy undah 17 doesn’t wanna heyeh from his guhlfren.

My Irish brothahs in Southie aah very good at this, though. A dozen shawties per family ovah heyeh, requirin’ lotsa spuds and beeya. Hawlidays at theyeh house is a real paahty.

So have an Irish Christmas.

(c) Chris Radant, 2009. All rights reserved

Bring a taste of the 50’s to your holiday gathering. It’s my mom’s recipe.

Hazel Radant’s Criminally Easy Cobbler

• Preheat oven to 350º

• Spray 7” square pan with Pam (pan could also be a parallelogram,
  like the one we Radants used to prop up the garage door.)

• Open a can of fruit pie filing, and dump it into the lubricated pan
  so it makes the sound, “poyt”

• Spread the filling flat with the back side of a large spoon, then
  lick it clean. Spread a second or third time if necessary
  Keep licking spoon

• Evenly sprinkle your choice of yellow, white, lemon or spice cake mix on top of pie filling. Clumps are good. It should look like the surface of the moon

• Place globs of butter on top of the cake mix

• Crumble pecans or walnuts, recommended for added calories

• Bake at 350º for…oh, I don’t know, about 20-ish minutes or until golden brown and convincingly cobblerish
  

  Thanks, mom. We all miss you.

• Serve piping hot with a big scoup of ice cream

• Serves 6 regular people or 3-4 Radants

Happy Holidays from Mom and Me!

(c) Chris Radant, 2009. All rights reserved

A gawjus ballet danced on ice by Bruins bearin’ sticks. Between dances, they pound the crap outa the othah guys down theyah. It’s pissah.

South Boston, Massachusetts

© Chris Radant, 2009. All rights reserved.

It didn’t. They just mocked me and asked what planet I came from.
The year I gave up, I attended dinner in Capri pants, a man’s shirt tied at the waist, sandals and a big-brimmed hat turned up in the front. I looked as if I was in a Calypso band. The family applauded my entrance and laughed.

“Pass the squirt cheese, please,” I said in a polite, mid-Atlantic accent, and the party was on.

(c) Chris Radant, 2009. All rights reserved. Painting by Chris Radant

There is also the matter of students celebrating life by leaping from car top to car top in a sea of parked cars, leaving a trail of caved-in roofs with vomit puddles.

Then there’s the B train, which services two major campuses, Boston College and Boston University. I call it the ride of tolerance. Stuffed to the gills, each car on the B train contains 175 loud students who are oblivious to others. Each one has at least two electronic devices to lengthen the distance between themselves and reality. Add to that, a dozen more who are still smashed from the night before and are pole dancing on the train.

An old and infirmed person who boards the train too stooped over to reach a strap, will not get a seat from a single student. So the flailing elderly, add to the misery. Dentures flying, youngin’s texting and grinding, the driver going way too fast and coming to abrupt stops. The numbing cacophony causes many over the age of 30 to flee and hail a taxi, weeping openly.

What little tolerance I can muster quickly turns into mouth breathing, engorged veins and hair loss.

OK, that’s my neighborhood. Now for the story:

The other night, I stayed up till 4:30 am to paint, and slept late the following day. When I finally awoke, noonish, the bed was too warm and cozy to entertain becoming vertical. I just couldn’t.  Instead, I rolled over and napped for another hour. Only sheer discipline got me in a sitting position.

With perfect timing, I opened my eyes and heard a loud and sustained, “Raaaaaaahhhhhhh! coming from the football field. I just laughed and gave two thumbs up in the direction of BC. “You’re welcome,” I said to my empty apartment.

(c) Chris Radant, 2009. All rights reserved.

Photographer too drunk to claim credit.

I saved my work and flew out the door to look for the source of the rousing music. Like a hound following his nose, I followed my ears to a nearby community center – a re-purposed convent, with beautiful landscaping, where people walks their dogs, do tai chi, play frisbee and enjoy watching their kids on the playground. That’s where the party was.

A large audience sat under shade trees in curved rows of folding chairs facing the brass band. By now, the music was less military and more joyful. They played the wistful Nat King Cole standard, “The very thought of you.” I leaned against a tree and listened.

Eventually, the August heat melted me and I was tempted to sit in one of the empty seats in the front row. After all, this is a public space and there was a concert for our enjoyment. But something felt funny about doing that, so I observed a little longer. All I felt were a little lumbar relief and a weird vibe.

Turns out, the three seats in the front, were temporarily left empty by Mike’s family. Seated all around these empty seats was an audience with heavy hearts beneath a veil of polite smiles. I identified the vibe. Mike, the protagonist in the stories told by family and friends, had died. This was Mike’s wake.

Back now to my tree, I couldn’t see the front of the picture framed near lit candles on the table. I’ll never know what Mike looked like, but I “met” the family, who took turns telling stories about him.

His son-in-law bravely, with humor and a trembling voice, told of the day he first met his future father in law. “Mike threatened to kill me that day. I immediately steered our first conversation to the most obvious form of male bonding: sports.” Then the son-in-law  accidentally offended Mike by calling him a fan of the wrong football team. Mike froze, peered over his newspaper, leaned forward and said, “If you ever call me a Huskies fan again, I will kill you.” And thus began a happy union between Mike’s daughter and her sweet husband-to-be.

There were several such stories told, revealing Mike’s tenderness, sense of humor and willingness to intimidate when necessary. From behind the tree, I wiped wiped tears away with my hand. I scanned the audience and saw we were all crying. Laughing then crying and laughing again.

The band kept playing…a waltz, then even more upbeat tunes. This was a pick-up band, made of several musicians Mike had played with over the years. I scanned their faces. Most everyone was holding it together, but the conductor was sobbing with his back towards the audience. Then they played a rousing polka. This was a celebration of Mike’s life. The love for Mike was palpable and very, very contagious. I caught it.

Rushing back home to write about this beautiful accident, I felt I’d come to know Mike better in 20 minutes than I’ve known dozens of people who walked in and out of my life for  years.

From my office, as I write this, I hear them playing Taps. It’s over.

And now the rest of us return to life.

(c) Chris Radant, 2009, All rights reserved.                                                                                                          Photo by Chris Radant

Here in Boston, winter brings out the absolute worst in people, who become both physically and temperamentally nasty. Winter is profoundly unsexy. The senses become dulled by too little light, itchy wool, food tainted by snoots full of Vicks VapoRub and lips encased in medicated goo. After 26 years in Boston, I still cannot tell a male from a female with greater than 50% accuracy from November till March. We all lumber around among the other genderless shapes, with bitter scowls, and wearing parkas the size of cumulus clouds. Women must completely abandon attempts to reveal their womanly figures, and must accept looking like a lump of Gortex-covered down with waterproof stumps.

Beneath our down coats, which can also be used as flotation devices or featherbeds, it only gets worse. There is a tacit agreement to forgive each other the seasonal corpulence, the irritability and lack of primping. This is not a time to focus on playing well with others or dressing for success. This is survival.

Dressing up for an occasion is problematic. No matter how lovely one’s holiday dress, taffeta does not “go” with big-ass snow boots.

All this takes a toll on one’s self-esteem and general good cheer. That’s why I’m usually inside my apartment. I spend several days in a row, wearing my flannel nightgown, a quilted camper’s vest and Smart Wool socks. I leave my hair in a post-explosion state and tolerate the dry heat and static cling. I do not cleanse, tone nor moisturize. No one has to know.

I rarely go outdoors, except for groceries, or maybe a holiday party. Out there, I’m unrecognizable, so I could do anything I want, like walking around town singing “I’ve got spurs that jingle-jangle-jingle” Or maybe skip down the sidewalks.  When my fingers get numb, that’s the signal to go back to my apartment and stay there for three weeks.

One thing that befuddles me: “Sporty snow people” from other climates join the regional people who ski. Skiing down and then riding back up until  somebody gets a compound fracture sounds like torture to me. I find the whole thing to be plain weird– I prefer scrabble.

I’ll also be sure to enjoy one perfect day, when I take the first trolley down to the public garden. The snow will have no footprints and the silence will be incredibly loud.

(c) Chris Radant, 2009. All rights reserved. Photo by Chris Radant