God Save The Dogs

What beautiful skin she had. It was so clear and pale, like immaculate porcelain or the most refined ivory. Such flawless pigmenting, why you could see the colors of every vein in her body as if it were some newly printed roadmap.

Her veins were like a stained glass window in a church. It suited her vocation rather well. With her round face and high forehead she looked like The Virgin Mary, and so she was.

Abigail made a living as a model for artists playing The Virgin Mary. She’d arrive at their studio or classroom in her black goth clothes with a suitcase containing her sandals, Holy Mother gown and large plastic baby doll.

The baby doll came with a blanket with the satin seam pulled off for authenticity. Some artists fancied her exposing her boob to show her breastfeeding the future deity. It’s a living.

Like a paid sex worker she’d ask the artist, “How do you want it?”

“Eyes downturned, as usual. You’re doing something holy”, ordered the artist. Hence she complied and the artists industriously sketched away.

So there she was, clutching her cold baby doll to her plump, pale breast, making sure not to show too much and wrapping the sides of her robe to cover just enough from making things too tawdry.

While she posed she contemplated about what club she was going to go to that evening: would it be Tentacles or Eulogy? Tentacles was the S&M-styled club which played industrial-strength industrial music. She could already hear the pulsating bass line of a KMFDM classic in her head and there would be some severe Rammstein to go.

Eulogy was more of a doom & gloom boom ritual, a darkened room with smoke machines pushing out volumes of smoke while you danced to the Sisters of Mercy, Joy Division and Siouxsie Sioux singing about insane asylums.

Abigail Reeves had two profiles on Facebook: there was Abigail Reeves, blessed religious model. Her page was filled with inspirational messages and pictures of her looking blissful in a field of wheat with messages like, “Born To Be Blessed”, “Singing His Praises Every Day”, et al.

There was a separate page dedicated to her clubgirl persona, Paula Punish. Her sartorial choices were a lot different: leather, latex and simply electrical tape, all in black. Whenever it was a sci-fi theme night there was the occasional silver, but for the most part it was all black.

Two hours later: “Okay, that’s a wrap. Thanks for everything, Abigail. Same time next week?”

“Yeah, sure thing”, she’d mumble, packing Baby Jesus away in her suitcase.

Some art instructors would hand her a check, whereas others straight out handed her cash. She liked that the most.

If she got a roll of cash she’d get in her banged-up PT Cruiser and go straight to her connection’s house in Highland Park and buy a balloon. Her connection was gay so she’d cook the works, tie up and shoot her pay right there in his living room. Her last connection was straight and tried raping her while she passed out on the sofa, so she switched to a new guy.

“I love it when you bring cold, hard cash instead of promises”, Brian the connection croaked.
“Yeah, it makes everything easier”, Abigail mumbled as she watched the spoon glide above the BBQ lighter. “It’s just me and Baby Jesus”.

“Hey, listen Abigail. I’ve got company in two hours, so you can get high and hang out for awhile, but then you gotta leave, okay?”
“Yeah, cool. Gotta get ready for Tentacles tonight, anyway”.
“Tentacles, shit, I forgot about that. I told everyone I’m going to Eulogy tonight”.

“Eulogy plays the same shit every month. Fuck that place”, Abigail growled as she tightened a Stevie Nicks scarf around her arm.
“Can I ask you something? Don’t people see your arms when you model?”
“Hell, no. I wear a robe all the time. They don’t know the difference”, she took the needle from Brian and prepared to plunge it.
“Cool. Hey! Can you get me and my friend into Tentacles tonight?”
Abigail sank the needle into her arm.

Then there was the very next day as there always is a very next day in a story. Abigail Reeves got busy with her social networking. The part-time Virgin Mary went to Facebook and checked out her Messenger: the same old scene with random guys she friended posting pictures of their pricks, some impressive but most looking like expired items from a Bait and Tackle shop.

Most of these messages were accompanied with lovesick messages and meager amounts of money promised to her PayPal account.

Her brief attention was curtailed by Chili, her Chihuahua who was trembling horribly. He limped over to her chair as she was finishing her breakfast and proceeded to simultaneously vomit and eject a stream of wet diarrhea out his tiny behind.

“Jesus, Chili!”

Chili whimpered and lowered his bony little head to the floor as his rectal issue continued to stream on her hip parquet floor. Abigail sprung into action by picking up her cell phone and taking a picture of Chili looking sad.

This prompted the quickest Facebook post Abigail ever posted: under the shot of Chili with his head hung down. “HELP, GUYS, MY PUPPER IS SICK, I NEED FUNDS TO GET HIM MEDICAL HELP”.

Many of her lady friends posted crying faces to show they were sympathetic to her plight, while the loyal thousands of men all pledged to PayPal her more money. Penis portraits would most likely follow, as well.

The professional Virgin considered all the men who followed her and decided to open a Patreon account to sell her nudes, as well as a Kickstarter with many portraits of Chili looking happy. You know, there’s no happier looking dog than a Chihuahua.

The men grabbed the drama of a sick Chili to their collective breasts while a few girls trolled her: “Didn’t you ask for money for a new car last year? Well, where is this new car, you fake bitch?”

Abigail took to threatening many of her male followers with unfriending and even blocking if they didn’t send her the required amount to save her pupper’s life.

Well, the money came in small streams. Since Abigail was an addict it was hard to tell how much of a share the veterinarian was getting.

They say that work is the great panacea to a person’s problems, so Abigail packed up Baby Jesus in her suitcase and wondered if she was getting a fistful of cash at the end of the night.

May-December Continuum

One summer night I was driving home in my car, not paying much attention to the other cars driving by me. In the lane next to me was a car of about four teenage girls, listening to music and having fun. The car started driving side by side with me, not slowing down or speeding up from me.

When we stopped by the light one of the girls leaned out of her window.
"HEY!" she smiled. "What's up! D'you wanna hang out?"
I just smiled back. If she knew how old I was she wouldn't have started up, or would she?
"Hey! C'MON!" she laughed. She was probably drunk or something, but when they realized I wasn't interested, they pulled away and drove off.

This made me think of when I was younger and it wasn't unusual to see a 16-year old girl date a 22-year old guy. It was a generally accepted thing in my high school; it didn't seem like a big deal.

Around the time this carload of cooze happened I read Pamela Des Barres' memoir I'm With The Band, where she writes page after page of dating older rock stars even though she was hovering 16 to 18 years of age. Her friends in The GTOs shared similar relationships, and Frank Zappa even responded with songs like Motherly Love ("...you know it doesn't bother me at all that you're only 18 years old..").

While the male is always characterized as being a lech it's always been a fact that many younger girls are attracted to older guys, sometimes much older guys. At what point did this become viewed as some sort of dirty, sinister thing?

Altogether now...THE INTERNET. That's right, ever since social networking as dictated to one and all what's acceptable and what's not acceptable, we now have to listen to bluenoses proclaim any man dating a young lady as filthy and that immortal Internet word, CREEPY. The Internet loves that word, that and "disturbing".

Listen, if a teenage girl wants to date a rich, old crone I couldn't care less. She's getting what she wants and you know he's getting what he wants and who the fuck is anybody to judge either of them? By the way, if an older woman with stacks of cash wanted to cruise me I'd definitely let her dock in my harbor. Why not?

I fucking hate the Internet. I now have to read how Kim Fowley, a great artist, is a "rapist" (nobody said shit when he was alive...interesting), Woody Allen, another devil, etc. Every man, thanks to the Internet is now a pervert. It's boring and I don't care.

It doesn't matter that Charlie Chaplin, Steve Cochran, and countless other stars married or dating far below their age group and their women didn't give a damn, either. When do you think this whole shame circus started? You guessed it, social networking.

Look, I'm not going to hang around some high school tomorrow looking for ladies to hustle, but I'm not going to flip out over their lack of maturity. And see the average American nightclub keep an underage girl from getting in...please, everything's permitted and it's a consensual thing. Just stay off Twitter and Facebook or they'll stone you like an Islamic tribunal.

Mona

A few years ago I joined a social network site called Blurt and for a while it was great. It was real people reviewing restaurants and stores all over town, and unlike most reviews it was irreverent as hell...."The halibut steak was so nasty even the cockroaches turned their antennae up at it and crawled away in disgust"....No restaurant was too low for reviews..."If you're going to make a Jumbo Jack this bad hold the pubic hairs, bro..." Not exactly Westways magazine material.

The reviews made me laugh more than made me hungry and I was hooked. The site got crazier and crazier, too. Not content to just review hot dog stands and gourmet sushi houses, the reviews extended to car washes, pet groomers, and even ventured into the Oscars, procrastination, and Heaven itself. Blurters even blurted Heaven.

There was a Blurter from Chicago named Crazy Alice who occasionally reviewed LA places and she was very funny and had a trashy attitude. Not the usual nauseating LA princess on Blurt, just a dame with a vicious sense of humor. I friended Crazy Alice immediately.

Unfortunately Crazy Alice was a little too much trashy and she was placed in Blurt Jail, meaning suspension from posting privileges on Blurt for ten days. Big fucking deal. A breath of fresh air and the philistines would rather suck the carbon monoxide of predictability.

As soon as Crazy Alice got out of Blurt Jail she got real loud about stupid Blurt.com and it reached a fever pitch to where she got kicked off Blurt for good. More people, the more acidic critics, were getting suspended or outright kicked off from Blurt for not kissing major ass to the shitty restaurants and night clubs that abused customers but still managed to drop a few dollars to Blurt for online "protection".

One night I got a strange PM on Blurt from someone in Chicago named "Lars". All it said was, "Hi, remember me?" The next day I got a friend request from a Blurter named "Lars". Why would I be friends with someone named Lars. Intrigued, I went to his profile and read a few of his reviews.

"This was a decent enough bar, but after all is said and done I would rather dine at home with a nice steaming plate of lutefisk".

"The theater was comfortable but not as comfortable as my shack with five different varieties of herring".

Every review ended with Lars regaling us of his love for cold Nordic fish delicacies. Somebody was pulling my chain, and I let her know. I PM'ed "Lars" and wrote, "Welcome back, Crazy Alice!"
She wrote back, "You caught it faster than anyone else".

Back to her old tricks, Crazy Alice, I mean Lars continued tearing up the poor city of Chicago with her brutal but funny reviews. And with pickled Norwegian fish, even. It was a fun ride for awhile but Chicago wasn’t a big enough city for her to hide in. Someone caught wind of her return because after two months she was taken down. Lars was no more, pickled fish and all.

I continued writing my reviews of restaurants, shoe repairs and record stores, with the capper being that the Los Angeles Times called me for a comment on the closing of the Virgin Megastore, based on my Blurt review. That was pretty cool.

Everything was going okay, what with my attending a few parties thrown by Blurt for Elite Members Only – I earned mine from talking to the LA Times representing Blurt. A nice sideline while I worked in the Executive Office of the LA County Board of Supervisors. But those were different times.

One day I got a PM from someone on Blurt called “Mona”. I didn’t know anyone called Mona. I clicked on the PM and there was a picture of a classic Beverly Hills fake blonde woman who looked like she stepped out of a real estate advertisement. All the message said was, “Guess Who????”

“Lars, I mean Crazy Alice, is that you?” I asked. She sent me back a PM saying that she was now using her real name (yeah, sure) and she moved her account to Los Angeles instead of Chicago. “I made too many enemies in Chicago”. No shit.

I definitely saw a Modus Operandi in her social networking skills: In the beginning Mona reviewed places sporadically, still being funny but kind of keeping a cool front. But social networking being what it is the yokels, I mean Blurters took her perky blonde photo seriously and assumed that’s what she really looked like. Consequently a lot of the guys added her to their friend list, not realizing what she really was.

And boy, did she play it like crazy. Back to her old tricks, Mona hit the Blurt message board with a raunchy ferocity that split her following straight down the middle. I stayed out of the way because I knew what was to come, yep, you guessed it: Blurt Jail. Apparently she made a few less-than Princess remarks about female bodily functions and an angry Blurt Diva blew the whistle on her.

The days later Mona got out of Blurt Jail and everyone, mostly her Blurt slaves rejoiced like Solzhenitsyn released from a Siberian gulag. “MONA’S BACK!!!!” “WELCOME BACK, MONA BABY!!!”

Don’t think her head didn’t expand like a weather balloon from all this adulation, either. She fancied herself the Queen of Blurt without ever attending an LA Blurt social event. She couldn’t. She was still sitting around the snow in Chicago, Illinois.

As we all know when heads get swollen the old friends either are forgotten or eventually turned against. Mona, no longer needing my worthless LA friendship, began trashing my reviews. “What a great time waster, Andy S.” “Andy S. you’re so tacky. What are you talking about?”

I began wondering what Mona actually did for a living - when she wasn’t posting her magic all over Blurt she sent me chat prompts on Gmail. “Can you believe these idiots? I actually have them believing I’m a real girl living in Beverly Hills. And how weird is this? Rhonda Z. who says she’s straight wants to make out with me, isn’t that funny?”

I hated her Lonesome Rhodes bragging routine because I knew and liked some of these people she was laughing at. Of course she added, “You know I’m only telling you this because I can count on you. You wouldn’t give me away”.
“No, I wouldn’t”, meaning I wouldn’t crawl as low as you ever would.

Meanwhile, the Blurt slaves were all fawning over her – “Oh, Mona, are you coming to the Blurt Party? I’ll take you even though you aren’t an Elite Member”. Ha ha. For once she got real quiet.

I started avoiding her reviews and her profile page with her new avatar being a picture of Faye Dunaway from Bonnie and Clyde. The tagline read, “I’m running this cell block at Blurt Jail”. Yeah, fuck you too, Mona.

And then the strangest thing happened: Mona’s reviews came out less and less. When they did they read more like childhood reminiscences. “ When I was a little girl I went to the Santa Monica Pier”…”The La Brea Tar Pits scared me as a little girl”…the girl from Chicago pining for old Hollywood. Then they just simply stopped.

I wrote a review complaining about a specific Fire Station that harassed all the women in my neighborhood, including my wife. This review created a shit storm of a furor on Blurt, so bad Blurters threatened to have me kicked off the site for good. It got pretty ugly, and I knew my days at Blurt were numbered.

One day at work I got another chat prompt on Gmail….from Mona. She said, “What a bunch of fucking hypocrites. Did you know I was raped by a fireman twenty years ago? They aren’t heroes. What a bunch of bullshit”.
ME: Thanks, Mona. I wasn’t going to war against the entire Department, just that station.
MONA: I know that. Those Blurters are just a bunch of clueless assholes, blowing the whistle on you just like they did to me in Chicago and now in LA.
ME: Are you in trouble again?
MONA: Yeah, some girls on Blurt have it out for me. Well, fuck it. You probably noticed I haven’t posted in awhile, huh?

ME: Yeah. Are you in Blurt Jail again?
MONA: No. Mona’s days of drinking and drugs have finally caught up with her. I’ve been diagnosed with cervical cancer.
ME: Oh, fuck, that’s awful.
MONA: Yeah, I have bigger problems now than Blurt Jail. Aw, fuck them anyway. If they had any idea what I really looked like with my gray hair and glasses they wouldn’t give a fuck about me. Well, fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke. Mona’s in a lot of trouble.

(Personally her rap about sympathizing with me and her terminal sickness had an Andy Kaufman vibe about it so I tried to tread lightly and not take the whole business too hard. Fool one person and you’ll fool them all, and I didn’t want to be just another one of her stooges.)

Once she let the cat out of the bag about being elderly, aka closer to my age, we talked about bands from the Seventies we used to go see, her favorite story being about Edgar Winter’s White Trash at the Hollywood Palladium. We were friends again.

One week later, I got another Chat prompt from Mona:
MONA: Can you talk?
ME: Yeah.
MONA: It doesn’t look good. I’ve been sitting here all day on the laptop bored off my skull. I have this nurse who’s sticking all these needles in me. It sucks. Yesterday he had to bathe me because I was too weak. I’m not used to guys seeing me naked and there’s no sex. Ugh.
ME: That’s bad. I’m getting off Blurt next week. I’ve had enough of their shit.

MONA: You’re better off. I get friend requests every week from stupid guys, it’s ridiculous. Well, it’s bath time, kid. Talk to you later.
ME: Okay, Mona. Hope you get better.
MONA: It’s not in the cards, but thanks.

I knew the joke was over when she chatted with me a few days later.
MONA: It doesn’t look too good. I can’t hold my shit in, literally, or my food or anything. I just chat with people all day but I can barely do that anymore. I’m too fucking sick.
ME: That’s fucking awful, Mona.
MONA: I hate doing this, but look. If I don’t send you any more chats or anything, then you know the shit’s hit the fan. Here’s my brother’s phone number: 312-555-6666. We were never very close but since my illness he’s been coming around and helping me. If you don’t get any more messages call my brother and he’ll tell you what’s going on, okay?

ME: Alright, Mona. I’ll pray for you.
MONA: Good, throw in a few fucks and shits in for good measure. Bye now.

The chats stopped as predicted. Sick of the online harassment and mob mentality, I pulled out of Blurt for good. It was just as well; the more subversive reviewers all got reported and harassed to the point of either quitting or just being outright kicked off the site. It just turned into a champion ass kissers website.

Of course I checked the message board before leaving and there was a topic called “Where Are You, Mona???” From what I figured I was one of the few that got this bit of news, with everyone else left out in the lurch. Actually, from what Mona told me the only ones who knew of her illness were me and someone else from LA and a couple of Blurters from Chicago, otherwise it was pretty confidential.

Three weeks went by and not another word from Mona. It didn’t hang me up but I couldn’t help being curious. Finally curiosity got the better of me and I found her brother’s phone number and dialed it with my Virgin Megastore phone.

“Hello?” a man answered.
“Hi, I’m a friend of Mona’s and I’ve been trying to reach her. Do you know where I can find her?”
There was a pause at the other end of the line.
“No, I’m sorry. My sister died last week”.
“Oh, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. Well, thank you anyway”. I hung up.

Blurt.com…..it took Blurters about a year to realize that their hero Mona checked out for good. How they eventually find out I don’t know. Maybe somebody finally broke the news after being sworn to keep it hush-hush. I don’t know and I don’t really care.

God damn Mona. I think about her from time to time because I can’t forget her. There’s something so simultaneously sad and disturbing about people like her. People who go on the internet for a little love and acceptance, committing social larceny by hiding behind a different name, a different picture, and even a different gender just to find some kind of acceptance.

The internet is an endless mine field of internet frauds, tens of thousands of lost souls lying about who they are just so they can be somebody’s hero, pretending to be and do things they will never achieve because they’re more frightened than the people they show off to.

And the ritual goes on every day, friend requests and people dumping friends and making friends with people they’ll never meet and flirting online with their fake pictures and their heavily guarded personal information.

Yeah, I think about Mona all the time because there’s an endless line of unhappy people who can’t see any sunlight in the darkness of their monitor screens, so they have to become someone else. Mona with her gray hair and glasses, the burnt out party animal who ended her last days conning young hipsters on the internet and feeling she had the last laugh. It makes me sad to think that there are people who think there’s some payback because the disguise only amplifies the loneliness.

The information superhighway is littered with roadkill, people who need to con every day just to score points and seek acceptance, resulting in a virtual Tower of Babel where thousands all speak to each other in different languages, never listening to the other person with the outcome being complete chaos of hellish proportions. Have fun with your social networks, everybody, but just remember that it’s all just a bad dream. Just like Mona.

P.S. Blurt.com is still up and running, with their patented tagline: REAL REVIEWS, REAL PEOPLE.