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Saturday, October 04, 2008
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Current mood:  triumphant Category: Blogging
It's a few years ago and the thing of it is… here's the thing of it… I think I look pretty good.
I'm serious. I look like Jon Bon Jovi. I mean, from in here, from inside me, looking out, it feels like I do, it feels like I'm a dead ringer for the man.
And like, when I see Jon BJ in a photograph or video, it's… um, weird to me. Like an out-of-body experience or something.
Wow! I even have his same chest hair!
In fact, I think I look so much like Jon Bon Jovi I have (and again, I'm not kidding), on occasion, considered buying leather pants.
Calm down, I don't ever buy any. But I do consider it.
I can sort of pull this self-deception off because I have only one mirror in all of my house. And it's a small mirror. A 5" by 7" framed thing that's propped on a shelf over my bathroom sink for times when I absolutely must shave. But even then I don't really look at myself because I like, like, like thinking that I look like JBJ. So, when shaving I'll look at my beard, my neck, a patch of skin in front of my ear but I won't really look at me.
Because I want to continue to believe I'm all that, see. That I'm hot. And a cowboy, on a steeeeel horse I ride…
Sigh…
Before I looked like Jon Bon Jovi, I looked like John Schneider.
Yep. Bo Duke and I were twins, especially when I wore faded jeans. I usually climbed in and out of cars the regular way but for years, I looked very Duke-ish, was quite Bo-like.
And before I looked like John Schneider, I was the spitting image of David Cassidy.
I don't know what it was but one morning, I woke up with this feeling, I didn't' know how to deal with and so I just decided to myself, I'd hide it to myself… and never talk about it, and did not go and shout it,
I thought I loved me!!!
I truly do have this history of fooling myself, always made easier by a break-neck deadly avoidance of cameras and mirrors.
Okay, one day, after my brother takes pictures of me (unaware) at a family picnic I learn I don't look a damn thing like David Cassidy. And years later forced to pose for and then later look at some wedding pictures, I see I'm no Bo Duke either… and for a while, I face reality. I'm not so much. I'm okay. I'm every woman…
But now, I'm depressed and my life sucks like a Dyson Bagless Upright Vacuum Cleaner, with a Revolutionary Ball Motion System.
Then some years pass where some photo-snapping torturing sadists and hateful mirrors fail to insert themselves into my life and it starts occurring to me that I bear this striking resemblance to Jon Bon Jovi.
My self-esteem soars, it's through the roof and I'm looking at, not trying on mind you, but looking at leather pants.
They tempt me because, you know, my buttocks, like Jon's, are like two powerful, clinched fists trying to bust through some leather.
Anyway, I'm happy again, I'm hawt… I'm Wanted Dead Or Alive, I'm Livin' On A Prayer, I'm some Bad Medicine, and why not? It's My Life and I can invite the Hargrove boys, all five of them, to one at a time or all at a time, Lay Their Hands On Me, if I want to. And if I Give Love A Bad Name, so what? Life is no Bed Of Roses anyway. And Everyday, if I feel I was Born To Be a Hargrove's Baby, it's nobody's business but mine.
Things are both hunky and dory, peachy and keen, fine and dandy, Mary-Kate and Ashley for a long while until Dan, my son, moves in with me for a bit and thinks it's weird that I don't have any mirrors. For whatever crazy reason, the boy actually wants to look at himself in one sometimes. I don't get it, but it's true and while I'm at work one day the child goes out and buys a full-length mirror that he hangs on the back of my bathroom door, only I don't know it.
That night he's not home when I get in from a shift at Waiting To Die Manor that was enough to make Dean Koontz sleep with the lights on and I go upstairs, peel out of my uniform and climb into a nice, long hot shower. I finish washing everything that needs washing, step out of the tub and I'm feeling all…
when out the corner of my (gasp!) eye… I see…
Lord, I jump like Carl Lewis at a Ku Klux Klan Fourth of July celebration and make this surprised sound that I've never made before. It's like a honk, but sadder, and it has an "R" in it. So, it's like HORNK!
Good-Lordy-Jesus, the image of a white-hired wet fat man scares the sweet spit outta me and for a second I think a naked Dick Cheney has broken in to my bathroom in a mood to shower with and do, god knows what else, to me!
Standing on my toilet tank now, I clutch my heart and my mind plays an infomercial. Richard Simmons holds up a picture of the five Oreo cookies that I ate last night and he looks into a camera. Glycerine tears wet the fretting fucker's face. "Are you out of control?" he asks. "Is Mr. Brizzle's story your story?"
I'm dripping water and still just stunned as I climb down off the back of the toilet.
I bravely stand in front of the mirror.
Shit, piss, dammit, snot, fuck-fuck-fuck… I'm not Bon Jovi at all. I'm not even Dick Cheney… more like Lon Cheney.
And I'm the size of a cruise ship. Rosie O'Donnell, her family and 300 of her gay friends could have a good time on me and I'm older than Shirley McClain's diaphram. I'm also covered in red, angry-looking boils. Okay, I don't have any boils, but I may as well have and that… is why I'm typing this while simultaneously French kissing a box of doughnuts.
It's just awful to spend your whole life thinking you're Jessica Simpson only to learn in a startling swirling steamy moment you're way more Marge Simpson.
Trying not to break into sobs I dry off, step into some roomy plaid shorts and take the door mirror down. I then spend about 40 minutes situating the cursed thing in a room that I've converted into a closet in such a strategic way that I can get anything I need in that room without actually seeing my own reflection.
My big ass waddles downstairs and I settle in front of my TV.
Using a remote I flip through channels until I stop on a movie, "Die Another Day." Pierce Brosnan plays James Bond.
While I'm lighting a cigarette I notice a little familiar something in the way Pierce smiles. It's very like the way I smile… Goddamn! My sable-black hair lays exactly like Brosnan's… I sit up.
Suddenly feeling a little 007 I whisper, Brizzle, Bill Brizzle.
2:45 AM
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