//Written By Stephanie Steiner

Skin Deep

“He’s a straight “A” student with a one way ticket to hell and a bus pass in his pocket. He has twenty minutes to wash, pack and make the next bus to nowhere. He might just make it.”

He’s a beautiful boy. He smiles like an angel and has blood on his hands and his mother lies dead in the hallway with a halo of crimson around her head. He’s a straight “A” student with a one way ticket to hell and a bus pass in his pocket. He has twenty minutes to wash, pack and make the next bus to nowhere. He might just make it.

She’s a beautiful girl. Her eyes are blue and have seen better days. She was raped before she was old enough to understand it and failed to make the cheerleading squad. She’s got a one way ticket to nowhere and a bus pass in her pocket. She has all the time in the world and is waiting for the first bus that looks interesting.

He sees her first. She’s on the bench following the three foot rule and he can either stand or invade her space. She barely reacts to his sudden presence. He’s a beautiful boy, but she’s a beautiful girl.

She keeps her nose buried in her book, but the words have begun to march off the page. They seem to have a mind of their own, resisting her efforts to herd them back into place. She watches as they wind lazily toward the boy, across his rust colored fingernails and around his curiously delicate hands.

He senses her looking, staring at his now clenched fists. Can she smell the blood, the flesh, the fear? Did he miss a spot when he was washing? He has a stuffed backpack and ten minutes to salvation and she won’t stop looking at him. He hopes her bus will come soon. He prays it’s a different one than his.

She’s given up trying not to stare, besides, the boy on the bench no longer has eyes. She’s a little worried because she knows they were there when he sat down and hopes whatever he has isn’t contagious. The words from the book are still meandering happily around him, forming odd sentences whenever they come together and then separating and moving on. She thinks she’d like to kiss him.

He’s a bit nervous. He can feel her probing eyes on every inch of his surface and wonders what she knows. Can she sense his guilt? He wants to run, desperately, but is rooted to the bench. He fumbles through his backpack in search of the comfort of wood and iron and wonders if anyone else is looking.

She sees him fumbling, wonders if she should offer to help. She decides not to, besides, he has started to lose his skin and she is mesmerized by the smooth machinery of his insides. She watches words sliding by in the red blood of his veins and other words moving gently across striated muscle. She’s amazed at the empty space they leave behind, like snail trails of nothingness.

He’s a beautiful boy. This morning he took a hammer and crushed in his mother’s skull in thanks for his existence. He had smiled the whole time. He thought he’d be okay with it. The screams have faded away and the bitter taste has left his mouth and his bus is pulling up.

She grabs his backpack as she boards the bus. She’s watched the boy disappear into the words and had coaxed them back onto the page. She tucks the book inside the pack next to a bloody hammer and a tattered baby blanket. She’s a beautiful girl on a bus to nowhere with a ticket in her hand and a beautiful boy in her soul.

The doors close, the bus moves on.

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Fairytales in Space

“How much can eight million dollars really be expected to help you when you’ve got issues no amount of money can cure.”

Two things happened the day Jessie won the lottery. The first was a persistent itch on her tummy that began the second the bubbly blonde on the TV announced twenty-six as the final number for the Saturday Super Lotto Buster. The second was that Herman quit talking to her and moved to Kentucky. The itch was a pain, but she really missed Herman. Eight million dollars helped a little.

-Eight million exactly? And what’s with this itch thing? Is it meaningful?
-Of course it’s meaningful, it’s in print. Don’t you know anything?
-He doesn’t know squat. Ok, it’s my turn now.

Eight million, four hundred twelve thousand and sixty four dollars to be exact. Enough to pay a pro basketball player’s salary for a year, if 1) she cared or 2) she really thought it was a worthwhile investment. Jessie was quite concerned with investments. She had been going to college full-time and working the other full-time for about six years and felt a nest egg was important. Only now she had a nest henhouse and she couldn’t stop scratching.

-Oh, that was good! Nest henhouse! I like that.

Herman, on the other hand, was doing quite well for himself in Kansas. (Yes, he did move to Kentucky in the first paragraph, but while Jessie was pondering her investment options in the second paragraph Herman met Lilly, who proceeded to win the lottery, causing Herman to quit speaking to her and move to Kansas). Yes, that Herman had a knack for woodcarving and was, pardon the pun, carving a niche for himself in a small town too small to have a name.

-What about Lilly?
-I’ve got it. It’s my turn again anyway.

Lilly’s win didn’t affect her quite as much as Jessie’s did, she hadn’t yet bonded with Herman and was already taking a steady dose of antihistamines for a childhood allergy. She thought about calling Jessie for investment advice, but met Mark in a local cantina and decided that a dive bar would be the way to go. Lilly and Mark probably lived happily ever after, but most likely Mark ran off with all the money leaving Lilly destitute in the months before she killed herself by sticking her head in a gas oven.

-Tch tch tch… some people should not read Plath.
-Just because she dies in a gas oven does not mean she’s emulating Plath!
-All right, big guy. You do it for a while, we’ll ask questions.
-Fine. I’ve always been better at this than you two oldies.
-Old!
-Old! Look, you whippersnapper! I’ll show you old!
-Relax, oldtimer. I’ve got to get back to the story.

Which brings us back to Jessie and the eight million plus. Jessie was a few months shy from graduating from Pickapoo State with a degree in Terminal Pathos. She considered prolonging her education, perhaps getting a Masters in Apathy, but she was a little tired of the school thing and hey, she had eight million dollars. After a consultation with her professors, and a healthy donation to the School of Chaos, it was decided that she would graduate early with honors. And so Jessie left Pickapoo State and her job at the Side of the Road Café, where the regulars all knew each other by name and also knew never to eat the meatloaf.

-Ooh, pathos. Aren’t you the smart little man. I’ll have you know, I invented pathos! Give
me back the pen!

Armed with a degree, and the ever present eight million plus, Jessie headed out on the road. She would find Herman, cure her itch, and live happily ever after at the seaside. She had a sporty convertible, bought at a bargain price from a salesman who made a point to watch the lotto telecast. We’ll be nosy now, and peek into Jessie’s journal for deep insight into her voyage:

Thursday I’m on the road. I have a half-pack of cigarettes, a full tank of gas, sunglasses
and a steady itch. Herman, wherever you are, I’m coming for you.

-That’s deep?
-You two are really starting to stress me. Take a break, go make a shag rug or something.
I’ll take over for a while.

Ok, perhaps not deep insight, but close enough. Yes, Jessie smoked. A lot. That half-pack of cigarettes didn’t last but half of Thursday. In the wee hours of the afternoon, she pulled into the Hidey-Ho deli for a carton of Scamels. Filtered, but not lights. The guy behind the counter had a name, it was embroidered on his shirt, but all he did was sell Jessie some cigarettes and give her incredibly accurate directions.

Jessie chose to ignore the directions, she knew that if she truly wanted to find Herman she needed to stop looking for him. Otherwise he’d turn up in the last place she looked and she had an idea she would be looking for a while. This shortcut helped, a few miles out on the freeway she came across a sign that read:

“Carving For Christ – and You!”

She was truly excited. For one, the sign was carved out of an exquisite piece of redwood that appeared to be hundreds of years old. For two, she really had to use the restroom and hoped that the Christ carvers, whoever they were, would certainly have a restroom for public use. The car bumped and banged across the rocky road, which led to an enchanting little villa. Actually, it really led to a rickety shack, but Jessie had spent an afternoon reading Cosmopolitan in preparation for her Herman quest, and in Cosmopolitan everything was enchanting.

-We’re back. How’s it going?
-Pretty good so far. I think I’m doing a good job with the fatalism slant.
-Not bad. Do you mind?
-Not at all. I need a cigarette break.

As fate might have it, Herman had spent the last few paragraphs being saved by traveling missionaries. His talents as a woodcarver charmed them and they brought Herman and his chainsaws to the redwood forests to make a name for himself and for God the almighty. Each tree that fell in the forest would now make a mighty sound, regardless of whom was there to listen.

-He’s going to be pissed when he gets back!
-What do you mean?
-Could you be any more obvious? Puh-lease. My turn!

Jessie, being completely unaware of the preceding events, was nonetheless unsurprised at seeing Herman emerge from the enchanting shack. She had not known of Herman’s woodcarving talents, but, having a great deal of familiarity with his hands, er, handiwork, she truly believed he had found a place for himself. She was, however, unprepared for his reaction upon seeing her.

“Herman!” she exclaimed, she was not surprised to see him but still a wee bit enthusiastic.

“Jessie”. The absence of the exclamation point dampened the mood, but Jessie was undaunted.

“I’ve come for you, my Herman! Let me take you away from all this, we’ll drive into the sunset in my sporty convertible and you can cure my lingering itch”.

-Did you forget something?
-What?
-She had to pee. She has no time for conversation here.
-Fine! You fix it.

“Jessie”. Herman remained in shock.

“But first, I must pee! Wherefore art thou restroom?”

-Uh, Shakespeare’s dead. This is some Steiner chick out in California. I know she
has theatre background, but this is a bit much.

“Huh?”

“Where’s the john?”

Herman pointed in the right direction and Jesse skipped merrily down the path, stopping to scratch every few steps. She had a moment of hesitation at the door of the outhouse, but a full bladder facilitated her entrance. A steady stream poured from Jesse and a relaxing sigh could be heard as far away as Detroit. Jesse settled comfortably against the hardwood walls and began to touch herself

-Wrong story.
-What?
-That was the last one. This isn’t porn.
-Sorry. Got carried away.

In all the itchy spots. She touched herself in all the itchy spots because she didn’t want to scratch.

-Better.

“Ok, I’m back, my Herman! Let’s get on with my itch!”

Herman, now converted, was a bit unhappy about the itch part. He spent the next part of an hour explaining his miraculous conversion and his newfound love of logging. Carving after carving was brought out of storage for Jessie’s perusal, Herman straining and huffing all the way. Jessie was undaunted in her enthusiasm. Her future was with Herman, and if Herman’s was with woodcarving then so be it. Eight million dollars would buy a lot of chainsaws.

And so it came that the Christians inherited Jessie’s fortune, Herman inherited Jessie, and Jessie lost her itch. And they lived happily, for a while. A group of angry environmentalists came upon them one afternoon in the forest and made a circle around a grove of redwoods. The results were catastrophous. But that’s another story.

-I go for one cigarette and this is what you come up with?
-I was doing really well until the old man took over.
-Gentlemen, please. You can’t leave it hanging like this. And you, I would think
you would know better than to leave a dangling ending.
-The kid was bothering me. I wanted to go home.
-So go home! I’ll try to salvage this.
-Fine. Same time tomorrow?
-Ok by me. How about you, kid?
-No problem here. Do you want me to stick around for this one?
-No, go ahead.
-I’ll see you tomorrow, then. I’m going to go work on a sci-fi over in Cleveland.
-Have fun. Don’t forget to have at least three anachronisms. Very important.
-Will do.

Yes, indeed, that’s another story. Yep. Sure is. Another story.

-Damn. Sorry, Steiner, but I’ve about had it. Another time?

Sure. Another time.

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Anatomy of a Breakup

“The most interesting thing about breaking up with someone is finding out how many of your friends actually hated the man you spent two years of your life with.”

The most interesting thing about breaking up with someone is finding out how many of your friends actually hated the man you spent two years of your life with. That, or they’re just trying to nurse my wounded self in the only way they know how. Who knows? All I know is that the man I thought I would spend my life with is no longer with me, and I’m a mess. A complete and utter mess. My friends say I’ll get over it, just give it time, and I’m sure they are right. This isn’t the first relationship I’ve ever had, others have ended and I’ve moved on. I’m waiting eagerly for the morning that I don’t wake up looking for him beside me, for the night I don’t wait by the phone hoping he’ll call just to say good-night. I just hope it comes soon.

In the meantime, I’m sitting around a lot, feeling sorry for myself and trying not to cry. I’ve reached a point in patheticness I’d never thought I’d hit. The good news is I’ve lost ten pounds from not eating, and the black circles under my eyes are in fashion this season. Got to look at the bright side of things, no? It’s amazing how a sick sense of humor can get you through the darkest of days. So he’s gone. So he said he needed time, needed space, and a week later he’s with someone new. Big deal. I’m listening to a lot of good music and reading up on Sylvia Plath. My life has never been better.

Ok, I’m lying again. I’m skipping school because otherwise I’d see him in class. (See previous paragraph: pathetic). I sleep a lot, smoke cigarettes by the carton, and neglect everything else. This breakup thing is the pits. I’m really annoyed with myself and at the same time I try to give myself time to grieve. Because, technically, that’s what I’m doing: grieving. A loss of a relationship is almost as hard as losing a person. Someone you cared immensely for and spent your days and nights with is suddenly absent, with no hope of them returning. So you grieve, and grieve some more. Suddenly everything is a memory, a song, a flower, an ugly stuffed pink god-knows-whatsit that sits on your bookshelf picking up dust. Every song on the radio speaks directly to you- for some reason, radio stations seem to be in tune with breakups and it’s like in that movie “Better Off Dead” where every channel sings of lost loves. Talk shows on TV start focusing on “I Dumped My Girlfriend and Now I’m Ten Times Happier”. The local movie theater decides to show a double feature of

“Romeo and Juliet” and “Love Story.” Even your friends get into the act, suddenly they are lovier and dovier than ever. That guy you once looked at sideways asks to talk to you, he wants to date your worst enemy. He wants your advice. It’s not fair.

See, the ideal break up scenario is more like this:

him: I’m leaving you. I need space.

me: ok, see you. By the way, I just won the lotto, I’ve been given permission to graduate
early without finishing up this semester, and George Clooney has been suicidal over
the fact that I was devoted to you. I guess things will be ok.

him:waaah!!!

But no, that’s just not the case. I’m miserable. I’ve taken up a new hobby: painting. It helps kill time. I’ve done a few nice canvasses, I seem to have a theme going. See if you can guess, I called one “The Deep Inner Despair of My Soul” and the other is “My Wounded, Wounded Heart”. A friend slipped me some new music by Ani DeFranco, I use it for background inspiration. It has meaningful lyrics like “Fuck you, for existing in the first place”. It makes me happy. There’s also the Murmurs, with “You Suck”, and happy little Alannis Morrissette’s stirring “You Oughta Know”. I have them on repeat mode on the CD. When I get tired of feeling invigorated, I play my aptly named “Tape of Deep Soul Scarring Despair and Heart Annihilation”. By the time “Linger” comes on, I’m dredged in a sorrow that sweeps me through “#1 Crush (I Would Die for You)” and “I Alone”. Hah! I’m not that pathetic, I end with a rousing chorus of “All Over You” and a mad dance around my living room. It always helps. A little.

I’m trying to remember my last major breakup and how I got over it. I recall six weeks of pub-crawling, pot smoking, and a cute little eighteen-year-old named John. How apropos. Why is it that your mind convinces you a night with a fawning adolescent will help ease your wounded ego? And why the hell can’t I find his phone number? Nah. Not going that way, I’m trying to be big about this whole thing. It’s not really fair to fuck with someone else just because you feel like shit. I’m going to be mature and get through this like a rational adult. No cheap, easy one night stands with really pretty boys with big blue eyes… God, I’m starting to sound like a man. But wait, that’s a whole new topic.

Sigh. This really, really sucks. My friend Jen just called, wanting to hit a bar and scam on strange men. She’s been single a while, spends a lot of time doing the party scene. I tried it for a while, it just didn’t do it for me. Not that I’m superior in any way, shape or form to anyone who frequents bars, I just want to spend a little time hanging out with me. And maybe a Valium or two. Kidding. It’s just that for some strange reason the “recently dumped” neon that illuminates my forehead translates as “easy lay” to a lot of folks. And when you’re getting over something that was meaningful, it’s too easy to slip into something unfulfilling to fill up the vacuum. So I’m at home, with “The Greatest Love Songs from the Musicals” fighting for space with Nine Inch Nails on the CD player. Yeah, I’m feeling a little lonely, a little sorry for myself, a little scared of a new relationship. So be it. We live, we grow. We walk away from people, people walk away from us. It happens. Mine isn’t the first breakup in this world, and won’t be the last. I’ll take my time to mourn, to make peace with my memories. It may be a month, it may be two or three. That’s ok. In the immortal words of Dorothy Parker:

Oh, seek, my love, your newer way;

I’ll not be left in sorrow.

So long as I have yesterday,

go take your damned tomorrow!

Funny thing here, I’m feeling better already.

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Malice in Wonderland

“All right, I gotta admit, I like the rides. ‘It’s a Small World’ is my favorite. I like the clicking little dolls that remind me of “Barbarella”.”

Ok, so I’m going out on a limb here, and odds are the dwarves aren’t going to be too happy about it. But hey, I’m past sixteen, I don’t have blonde hair, my daddy isn’t a king and I can’t sing to save my life. I’ve given up on prince charming and I now set out mice traps. So be it. I bought into the Disney mystique and it let me down. I should’ve known. Cinderella wasn’t overweight, Sleeping Beauty didn’t wear glasses, and damned if Belle ever had p.m.s. What’s a normal girl to do? Certainly not star in a Disney flick…

Am I bitter? Nah. Sure, I hum “Someday My Prince Will Come” at the local dive bar but I know better. The real world isn’t all shiny happy white people with dysfunctional families and sadistic tendencies. No one in his or her right mind picks up a bottle labeled “Drink Me” and actually drinks it unless they are at a weird LA rave. And the only flying elephant I’ve ever seen was after a wild night on shrooms. So why is Disney so damn popular? Why does every kid under the age of nine scream at their parents for the latest Disney toy? Why are half the trick-or-treaters dressed as the latest Disney damsel? And why do I still deep in my heart believe maybe, just maybe, prince charming might just ride up on a white horse and carry me away from all this? Damn you, Walt Disney!

Tell you what. Let’s explore Disney together. Raise your hands if you’ve been to any of the quintillion Disney theme parks. My favorite is Disneyland. I have a wild sexual fantasy about the Sasquatch on the Matterhorn – but that’s another story. Isn’t Disneyland fun? Look at all the shiny happy people working hard to make your stay more enjoyable. See how they smile as they collect the five bucks for a soda pop in a Disney collectable mug. Watch out for the mother of four with the stroller who’s about to mow you down in her haste to get one person in line ahead of you for the teacup ride.

All right, I gotta admit, I like the rides. “It’s a Small World” is my favorite. I like the clicking little dolls that remind me of “Barbarella”. Notice how they all look exactly the same, only the skin tones are different. Bright shiny little monsters, aren’t they? Ooh, and that song. Over and over again. Ride operators are trained to stop the boats exactly one minute from the end of the ride so that the passengers can listen to the chorus another eight times. Kind of makes you feel warm and smooshy inside. Or maybe that’s the heavy breather they forced you to sit next to. Who cares? It’s Disney, and everything is good in Disneyland.

Wahoo! Parade time. A bunch of teenagers in wigs with face makeup and paint depicting… Indians? Really? Pocahontas didn’t tuck all of the blonde under her wig but damn she can dance so who cares? And here comes that strapping blonde hunk John Smith. What would poor Pokey have done if his ship had not come in? She’d have been stuck in her native land with her people and would never have had a chance to be assimilated into cultured society. Thank god for the white guy.

Next up on the parade route is last year’s summer blockbuster, the hunchback. Poor guy. Don’t be different, unless you plan on saving the girl. And what a girl she is, all tits and big hair, and she won’t give a shit that you went all out to save her. She wants the hunk, and who can blame her? He’s a blonde!

Now sure, Disney has its share of brunettes and dark-haired guys. Can’t really have an Arabian knight with a blonde shag, right? Or a bad guy… Walt, are you stereotyping here? You wouldn’t be implying… nah, you wouldn’t. Would you? Come to think of it, the ugly stepsisters are brunettes too. But wait, Snow White. Whew. I was getting a little worried here.

Wait. I’m worried again. Snow White runs away to the forest, moves in with seven little men and takes over. She’s enough of a tough cookie to knock even old Grumpy in line but not smart enough to avoid the apple. Thank god for the prince with a passion for necrophilia. If it wasn’t for him she’d still be lying under that sheet of glass. What a message to send to the kiddies.

Here’s another one: a parent habitually abuses girl. Girl talks to animals and is convinced they talk back. Girl dreams up a wild night where the animals come to her rescue and she meets a prince. The girl is rescued by her dainty little feet and a glass slipper. Prince makes everything ok. Thank god she was blonde.

Now Belle was a brunette, and she sure had a hard time. For Christ’s sake, she liked to read! Look what it gets her, locked up in a dreary old castle with a beast. Now if she hadn’t defied her father she would have been ok, but that’s beside the point. The beast grows gentle and they develop a nice relationship. Things are looking up until… she breaks her promise and leaves him. Beastie is attacked by the villagers and almost dies but her magical love revives him and he becomes a true prince. Her reward? Marriage, of course. Get in your parents face, kids, and lie too, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll get a prince.

Next up on the whacked out morals list is my girl Jasmine. She’s a runaway too, with a bumbling, fat old fool for a father. (He is not to be confused with Belle’s bumbling, fat old fool of a father, or the many other coincidentally bumbling, fat old fools in Disney films). Jasmine’s first venture in the outside world starts off with her trying to steal from a vendor’s cart. Boom, in comes Aladdin to save her with the “forgive her, she’s a loony” ploy. What does Aladdin get for his good deed? Jail-time. Gotta love this. Fortunately, he hooks up with a genie who provides him substantial material wealth. Jasmine is eventually won over by him, and after a nifty bondage scene in a glass bottle (what’s with the glass theme anyway?) they end up happily ever after.

Speaking of bondage, what’s with Tinkerbelle? Kitten with a whip is more like it. She carries this pointy little stick that flings out fairy dust and causes people to fly. She can manipulate people fifty times her size and has a fixation on a little boy. What’s up here? And Wendy! Sneaks off in the middle of the night with a stranger and drags her little brothers with her. And parents can’t understand why little Bryan is standing in an open windowsill at three am screaming for his shadow…

Now maybe it’s only my dirty little mind picking up all the sexual innuendoes. Maybe the Aryan stereotyping is only in this non-white person’s head. Perhaps it’s my feminist mentality pointing out the apparent helplessness of the women, or should I say, girls, in Disney. Maybe it’s my own failed attempts at love that causes me to see past Prince Charming. I don’t know. I mean, I can understand the excitement of the fairy tale and the happy ending, but I also have a small grasp on reality. Reality isn’t Disney. Reality is many colors, many shapes, many sizes. Reality includes many races and isn’t always PC. Reality is women with strength beyond the strength of their assigned rescuer. Reality is the world we live in, not some Technicolor dreamscape.

Is it wrong to hate Disney? I can’t blame the state of the world on a few select movies and themes but I can question the mass force feeding of unreal ideals on the children who buy into the Disney world. I can wonder if African-American or Hispanic children feel left out. I can wonder if the little girls who happen to be outside the glamorized norm of the Disney heroine grow up to be the same little girls struggling to be Cindy Crawford. I can wonder what Disney is teaching our children.

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