What sucked about this story? The one about the, uh, child molester? The one, uh, about being given away to a total stranger which made no sense as a sentence, if you were actually listening? My mother Dr. J wrapped up a mother Angelica Leibowitz and her family in a sex scandal, that’s what that was. Okay, what sucked about it, was, as some unreal tragedy, sort of, not really, hard to place, people got…affected, not totally self-aware, (I wasn’t), but then, when “shit got real,” if you would, these people were nowhere to be found. When it was a lie, people wondered, is it? When I asked that question, people said, “no no, it can’t be…” it was a nightmare.
This guru I met from Hollywood, truly speaking, made all sorts of judgments about me based on nothing, based on an elementary if not sophomoric understanding of things. I am clear on my perspective. It might seem strange, but I just reread this article I quoted from the NYTimes, about a man who got an A.I. avatar created of himself, to leave behind for his family. I did not come from this set up. I might not have the same FEELINGS about it as YOU, meaning him, might have himself as we did not come from the same background and he was not a psychologist. Sure, any showcasing of vulnerability around it, just forget it, can’t do it, because perplexingly with all this superior talking of feeling my feelings, since he concluded I was repressed? He had none. No vulnerability, no concept of it. This was “my pain,” something he enjoyed telling me, at his stupid computer the second time we hung out.
All because I opened my mouth and told him what I was writing about.
I did not have feelings of affection for my parents. Is that surprising? I felt for them, I suppose, but they mostly made my life a living hell, if you would. You know? Secret dementia mixed with possible child molestation — who knows — with a insane mother wrapping me up in a sex scandal when I was four, bringing in some other problem in some woman — a Brazilian mother — into my life to question my goodness, question whether or not I would turn into my mother, a horror show, so no, I might not FEEL you see, like that. A disgrace this man. I was better off being given a bat, a real bat to fend off these lunatics. You see the difference? My father acted like a guilty retarded person. I mean retarded too, and it’s not directly towards who are handicapped, it’s directed towards these assholes — my parents. Retarded.
That sex scandal was ridiculous, outrageous, a waste of time and space and even resources since my mother was the queen of taxes…skipping through meadows, ripping blades of grass like that’s money to her… wee…and throwing it around this hot Brazilian mother in a tennis skirt… over an abused four year old, apparently. These were fun and games to Dr. Joyce Rebhun. Let it be known—her name. Disgrace. Dr. Joyce Rebhun. And she comes with a little business/life manager, probably with something to hide, I don’t know, as he could never speak of what he did, didn’t want to go into his government affliations, (looking at Obama in my mind), claiming he works for “the government” in Paris, France which has its own goddamn government. The French one??? Which one??? This guru, he even told me, “don’t mention the escort,” just leave it. A coward. Obviously, that’s where you’d put pressure, idiot, because he clearly had something to hide. He did nothing for my mother, I suppose she was able to get back to taxes, sure. I’m an adult now, so if my partner or family member was insane, I’m sorry, I would kick this escort out of my house — first. My father acted comically, like, acting like he doesn’t KNOW what’s going on, he’s just a nice guy…
I gotta get to this part in the book, as I’m going to wake up through the experience of writing about it, which is what I did. Honestly, when I was dropped off at home like an object, I was seven l, not seventeen, and this jerk of a manager — who appeared out of nowhere — dared to introduce himself to me, imagine? Imagine if your home now has been taken over by some stranger with his mail on your step. I got up from the master bedroom, a chilling silence, as I did not have my own room in this house, you see. I was as clear and calm and I walked over to her office and cut every single phone chord, I took white out and painted over every key, you see. Doesn’t that make sense? It was a rage spell, but I was floating over clouds. And then, I was playing handball, and this business manager comes roaring down the steps with this slappable woman, Dr. J, looking at me like she’s angry at me? With the Confederacy of Dunces — my father — looking sheepish and strange if not disappointed in me? And when I got to this part of the story, waking up inside a nightmare, I had no idea what I was looking at — am I not LIVING IN ANOTHER HOUSE MORONS because YOU said HE was a child molester??? Now with some man from Iran erupting at me because of it? Insane. I thought, staring at these jerks, my parents, was this true? Why are you acting like this? Like nothing is going on? This woman wrapped ME and Angelica Leibowitz in a sex scandal! I was seven, eight standing there, not seventeen.
Angelica Leibowitz, you see, can you imagine? Couldn’t even DROP me off because crazy shit happened, now with this third party in tow—Ghomi. The, uh, money ran out, my mothers, as she paid this woman 11k a month in value between 1989 and 1994, about, to protect me from my father. Angelica didn’t know what to do, as I had to put this all together myself, as the sordid nature of this story made them all act real quiet, real quiet. This was my family…now with this guy, who apparently was bringing down Osama Bin Laden, according to Dr. J, who communicated to me that he worked for the government in a paranoid fashion. I’m reading this NYTimes article about how sad these people were because their father was dying, and they couldn’t stand the thought of not being able to ask him questions… and I’m going, not my story. I wasn’t given away… that’s what I used to say… I was wrapped up in a sex scandal by THESE lunatics. This stupid manager, he supposedly saw “potential in her business” up in flames because it might serve him in some capacity. That one took me too long to grasp, though I can’t speak factually on that one. This was my family.
And my father cried to me over the years, ohhhh, so upset, Nick, so upset, thinking we’d be best friends, when best friends don’t WRAP each other up in goddamn sex scandals. This man pitied himself, complained about me to Angelica, a man with secret dementia, on top of it, as he got diagnosed with Parkinsons though it became Alzheimer’s in the end, when I found out about the first diagnosis. This woman, Angelia, fell for another pity party again, this woman just kept falling for a fucking sob routine. Ridiculous. She should have kicked my father out of her house. “Duh idiot, your wife accused you of being a child molester…and you stood at MY wide open door, idiot, and watched a spectacle… that I organized, meaning, I told your daughter, idiot, to dance like a maniac even to that song from flashdance, practically, with my daughter, for years, and I slammed the door in your face, so do you think she’s going to LIKE you? Do you think she’s going to want to spend any time with you??? Think idiot.”
This man called her house, acting like the Confederacy of Dunces, the title, not the content. The UNITED STATES of idiot. “Oooo, dee dee, no worries, my child is living with you now, but I’m a nice guy, I assure you, for no reason, and I was wondering, um, if my daughter could accompany me on vacation…” no wonder this Brazilian mother lost her mind. But “poor Nick,” what she did to him, not what she did to me, since we were on the opposite ends of the same situation. So if it was a cake walk for me, why wasn’t it for him? Gender favoritism. And, her star athlete girls, the blond in particular, as blonds are lethal, she said it, “you favor Jose!” She did. She favored males. These people. Am I suppose to whine, wallow, and give these lunatics an inch of woundedness talk? Woundedness talk. No. Judge Judy. I want Judge Judy on the bench telling my parents off.
So, imagine? I’m trying to find “the poetry” in all this, you see? Writing a book… about how I launched an undercover investigation into this situation I was in between the ages of 8-12 if not 9-13 at the Beverly Hills Tennis Club, as Angelica’s family was a member, and she became a lifeguard once her husband passed away. And as an adult, I woke up to the entire thing. Was it a lie? Angelica decided it was a lie, I gasped, I did, based on lunatics. She let in lunatics via a very cute four year old.
In her words, so stirring, “imagine? Imagine!”
I alerted her, she happened to come over to pick up one of Dr. J’s lovers tax returns, and she offered a playdate, “one day,” and she got cash thrown in her face and talk of child rapists.
Looking at Obama, in my mind, remembering the speech he gave about the young woman who was raped. Remember? It’s the time to get angry, not say, well you know, she wanted it to happen because it did, guru. On some “meta reality.” That’s what this guru would say — behind closed doors. It’s the time to call it a disgrace. No one in the history of my life — got that. It’s not the time for sentiment and going on some disturbing esoteric jaunt on an UBU ROI chair, man. This guru was ridiculous. I had sentiment on me like GAK, remember Nickolodeon?
Just remembering how this guru turned to me in Beverly Hills and called Dr. J — J stands for JOY, even, as that was her personality—smart. He called this woman smart. He said that her escort, okay? Not sexual, I just call him that, as she was never seen again without him, he was her business manager. He said he “gave her a chance.” I disagree. That took thirty years to get to. “I disagree.”
My classmates at St. Jerome’s — they know. There was a bat in the back of my trunk. I was in the mafia, according to them. Truth. They know — watch out, Casper, also Irish, has a bat in the back of a ‘81 Cutlass Supreme. I was so angry; these people who called themselves therapists and wisemen practically this past decade that I almost didn’t make it out of. Absurd. There are lines of appropriateness. All mothers are not “crazy” like that. Or “gifted.” This so-called shaman called my mother “gifted,” really? Was she gifted? Did she not know how to “navigate her experience?” Thinking about this ex boyfriend of mine. Thinking about this slytherin I got involved with at the Carlyle, truly, “make less sense,” he said. Slow clap. This slytherin farted on the phone at me when I got out of the hospital over all this. Disgrace. Even this female faciliator, what? She didn’t get the message? That I unsubscribed to her emails? She signed me up again? Maybe I didn’t hit the button correctly. I took care of it. Stay away from me. I know one woman in Hollywood who knows exactly who I am talking about. So back off. All of you.
A bat.
Jason Soares AKA Taye Diggs is tossing me the bat.
That’s where I am with all that. Just a giant no.
Thank you, to those of you who have read this, for making a space for my anger. I hear female rage is all the rage these days, I have to laugh, in my case, because I had a right to be upset. I’ll go on the journey, thank you. So that’s it. Enough.
I’ll go have a really really fun time now. Just a great time. I’ll find my bounty, you see, my thriving self — with a bat. One things for certain — if crazy shit happens to you or your family (I’m laughing as I write this by the way) you know who you can call. Me. I’ll be there for sure. With my bat. I found redemption in this character idea: “I am the Head of the goddamn PTA.” I’m inflitrating your school as an action star— running through a classroom and just jumping out a window — boom. It’s time to stop somebody. I’m training these kids to eliminate the shooter, you see. I’m teaching them anatomy. “Right here, this is the target kids.” I’m telling you this isn’t coleslaw… I’m telling you… with the PTA… getting extremely upset… that this is NOT coleslaw. “Get the pitchforks.”
I only met one person, one psychologist who was also a zen master, actually, Jewish originally, who made a real case for rage. “This is your problem.” I learned that the hard way. I didn’t want to know, you see, I didn’t want to project that story out into the world, and I regretted being so imbalanced in my thinking. So I took a moment to just evacuate this past decade because it was ridiculous and harmful, and no one, not one single person in my life — supported me, truly! They forgot the story, and the way I told it, did not help.