My dad named me Alice, after “Alice in Wonderland”, and when I told that story, my 10th grade home room teacher longingly said “oh, he must be a man full of whimsy and fantasy and romance” and I had to tell her No, he just drops way too much acid and has pedophilic tendencies. He took great delight, up until I was twelve, when my mother would ask him a question, he would answer “Go Ask Alice” and then add as an afterthought, “when she’s ten feet tall” and think himself quite the humorist, until one day I slapped the bong right out of his hand and shouted “Do You Even Know What That Stupid Song Means? It means ‘when Alice is tripping out of her skull’ which I am not, and will not, ever, thanks to your useless example of a life lived as a vegetable! I have no desire to explore alternative realities because I can see it just leads to a turd like you sitting on the couch accomplishing absolutely nothing except serving as a warning to others!” I left for two weeks, that time, before they tracked me down at my uncle’s house. He just lives the next block over, it wouldn’t have been too hard to find me sooner if they’d have only bothered to look.
I actually flew to Las Vegas a year ago to see Criss Angel’s show, which was a really bad mix of horrific fantasy, including white rabbits, and his standard illusions. I left before the show was over, and went backstage to scream in his face “What the fuck was that even supposed to be?” and he shouted back “It’s supposed to help you face your demons!” and I shouted back “Rabbits are not Demons, you asshole”. We made up that night, and I fed him rabbit braised in butter and herbs in bed, because my adult coping mechanism for exorcising any so-called demons is to eat the fucking things and I now can cook a rabbit like nobody’s business. We made love with Patti LaBelle howling “Beat My Heart Like A Drum” in the background, and seriously, who can fuck to that anymore, but even though Criss isn’t my most well-endowed lover, he earnestly Believes he can make me cum each and every time, and today, seriously, how many guys even try, so I plug my ears with the pillows and let the illusionist work his magic. He’s hooked on the music of his parent’s generation, just as they were hooked on their parent’s music before them. I find it interesting and informative that up until the 1960’s, each generation apparently cherished their own generation’s music rather than that of their parent’s, and their children didn’t have some sick need to reach backwards and somehow try to connect with them via their music because they don’t communicate well by any other means.
We’re both babies of Generation X, and seriously, what a waste of sperm the entire 1980’s were. Our inheritance is their prolonged and unresolved adolescence, leaving us with a country that is fast speeding backwards and may develop into its own third-world economy within our lifetimes, but that shouldn’t be a problem because the planet will not sustain us much longer anyway so we may as well let the NRA arm us all until we blow the whole thing up because there’s no point in continuing down our current path anyway. My Grandparents are late-stage baby boomers, the spoiled and entitled ones as opposed to the ones that made America great 20 years earlier, but at least they have a house and a riding lawnmower to show for it. They didn’t know they were raising an entire generation of ass-wipes, but somehow they did, and now we’re falling down a rabbit hole of magnificent proportions and no wonder my dad spends all his time on the other side of the looking-glass.