Wanted: Abused Children

4.9.08 

11:36am

This morning, eyes half closed, listening to Air, I found myself staring directly at an "abused child".

The eyes were hollow, the set of the jaw smacked of Dickensian mistreatment and the mouth was in that perpetual sob state, a dam ready top burst at the slightest urging...by a fist.

I focused on the rest of the sign and saw it was a call for child protection detectives.

The "abused children" were in the areas above the seats and the "child protection detectives" were on the top, lining the car.

Along with the "detectives", who were all world-weary and determined...with a hint of sadness..., was the slogan: Are you bold enough?

For a moment, I was confused.

I thought that was the slogan of Doritos.

And then I thought, "How abused can they be if they're getting Doritos?  Doritos are delicious!  Except those new fusion ones. They're pretty gross, so I suppose that could be considered-"

Then I stopped.

I started to consider the looks of the "abused children" and the "detectives".

During my time in "the business" (the SHOW business for all the laypeople), I've come to realize that people who say they are people (Hi, I'm a dentist...really...) or people who say they are not people (This woman who lost three hundred pounds in a week is NOT AN ACTRESS! TOTALLY!) are usually lying.

I then decided that these "abused children" looked too abused and that these "detectives" looked too detectivey.

Then I thought, wow, what an advertising nightmare!

You can't just photograph abused kids because that's fucked up and off putting.

I mean, who would want to join up if you had a picture of a battered (as in beaten, not as in covered in delicious batter) of teeth and bruises as your poster child (pun possibly intended)?

But then again, you can't hire actors because that's fucked up in a different, more hypocritical, sort of glossing over the problem and making it fake way.

But then again, you can't pitch becoming a child protection detective without SOME visual stimuli.

It would be like a car commercial without a car.

So I guess my solution (because if you don't have one of these you are part of the problem, even if the problem is child abuse) is to find the more attractive of the abused children and take their pictures.

It's a win-win situation.

You get the real deal on your posters and, therefore the ring of truth and you also get attractive, young, UNDISCOVERED models who might get seen by the right ad guy and BAM, the next fill-in-the-blank.

I'm just trying to help.

Actually, I was just trying to get to work, but Fate forced me into trying to help.

Luckily, I enjoy a challenge.

And a tall, cool glass of pear juice.

The Looza brand is the best.

Real Brazilian type stuff.

I remember once in college, I had a friend who had a friend whose father ran a Brazilian restaurant.

I was over at their apartment (might have been Gia, Taylor and Ruth's place) and she had a bag with some drinks in it.

There was mango juice, guava juice and cashew nut juice.

Most people snatched up the mango and guava, leaving the cashew nut juice.

Of course I opted to try the cashew nut juice.

It was a bit off putting that the juice really did smell like cashews, but you know me and nut juice...

I took a sip and was head over heels for this stuff in an instant.

A few days later I returned to 8F after a rehearsals and saw my roommates gathered nervously around a cardboard box.

They looked at me and said that a while ago, someone knocked on the door and when it was opened, nothing was there but this box.

For some reason, my roommates expected me to have something to do with the creepy, unmarked cardboard box that had been delivered.

And they were right.

I opened the box and was tickled to find forty bottles of cashew nut juice.

I was so stoked about this windfall of nut juice that I went around to my friend's apartments with the box and started handing out bottles.

To spread the nut juice love.

I had a lot of takers but I'm not sure how many people actually drank it in the end.

Whatever the case, it was an excellent gift; frightening and nutritious.

Tonight is Saul Williams.
******************************Just got back from Saul Williams.
You know, I'm done trying to turn people on to new stuff that is amazing.
Fuck you, find out for yourself.

Avoid elevators

When I returned to my apartment, the doorman had his hands full with a group of Irish women in their late 20's/early 30's.

They were a group of friends that all happened to babysit children in my building and none of them had their ID.

They'd all worked there long enough to know that you need ID to get in if you aren't a resident, but they'd also worked there long enough to develop a proprietary sense that the doormen should all know them by sight and "just let them up".

I squeezed by, smiling at the doorman who gave me the look of a drowning man.

I sympathized, but only on the surface; I was too tired to care about his little problem that would inevitably be sorted out in a few short moments.

I turned the corner and stood waiting for one of the two elevators to arrive.

They are notoriously slow and while waiting, a man from the building who I knew had some debilitating disease that had yet to debilitate him approached.

I knew about his disease but I did not know his name.

There appeared to be some depth of feeling between us, but I didn't know where it had come from.

He looked like an old Shakespearean actor.

After a time, the elevator arrived.

I got on as did a young boy.

The old man got on, then got off, either forgetting something or remembering something.

I pressed my floor, eight, and, although the boy must have pressed his, I hadn't noticed.

I then saw the emblem sewn onto the left breast of his blazer.

It was that of my alma mater, St. Bernard's.

I asked him something about his school and he replied.

Apparently, he'd done badly on a test that day and was disappointed in himself.

I told him that, no matter what he thought at the time, that St. Bernard's is an excellent school and he should be enjoying every minute of it.

He didn't disagree but hearing it helped.

He was relieved to know there was something beyond the fourth grade.

I then noticed that he was the spitting image of my old next door neighbor's son.

"Is your last name Goldman?"

He answered yes.

Around that time, the elevator arrived at my floor, the eighth.

The doors opened and I saw that the landing was about two feet over my head.

For some reason I didn't consider this abnormal and I was about to grab the landing and climb out when I turned back to the boy.

"Whatever the case, have fun at six Bernard's...seven Bernard's..."

He was giggling and I was smiling, but, for some strange reason, my tongue was tangled and I was unable to say "Saint Bernard's".

I had just arranged the sounds required to express myself when the elevator began to fall.

No small lurch to indicate something was wrong, simply the feeling that the massive hands of gravity had disappeared.

I had time to see the terror on the boy's face and was considering saying something or taking him in my arms when the lights flickered and everything went dark.