A Letter to Mary C.
I got a letter a few years back from Mary
C. In this letter she told me, pretty much in this order...
- 1) I've got a liver disease and the doctors
give me five-to-ten years to live.
2) I tried to live a lesbian lifestyle.
3) I couldn't do it, and now I'm getting married.
4) I'm involved with child protective services.
5) Oh... by the way... I'm getting married to a man named Cobb.
6) It turns out that I'm fine and I'm going to live.
7) So how are you?
The only other thing you need to know
is that everyone involved is in the program of Alcoholics Anonymous...
so much for the anonymous part.
My response:
Aug. 24, 1994
Dear Mary,
Look. If you don't want to fuck me all
you've got to do is say so. You don't need to go through this
oh I'd like to but I've only got five to ten years to live
and I started a spiritual program and I think I'd rather try
a woman right now anyway and besides I've already got a musician
of my own thank you so very much routine.
Seriously, I was horrified to read your
letter. People are actually sending their kids to you? Reminds
me of the old days, back when I drove the van and you'd lure
them in with the Halloween candy.
Great way to start a letter though. Believe me, when you're writing
someone who lives 2,000 miles away the first thing you need to
do is snap the little peckerhead to attention.
Sure, you could have written, "Things
have been going great lately, but I had a little scare a few
months ago." But that's not Mary C.'s style, hell no. Mary
C. gets straight to the point. How did you start your letter
again? Oh yeah, "The doctors say I have five to ten years
to live and IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT, GOD DAMN IT!!!" Now there's
a lead.
Just for the record: The quote about Dee,
to the best of my memory was, "If she weren't in the program,
we'd have been married and divorced by now."
So. You met the guy you want to spend
the rest of your life with. Woopdeedo. What are you in for...
five, maybe ten years tops? Gee, I bet this guy feels sooooo
special. Yo, honey, commitment time... saddle up.
I, too, will settle down one day once
my doctor offers me proof of a terminal illness. I've always
believed the key to a great relationship is for one of the partners
to have the decency to die first. Come on. You're not settling
down, you're just arranging a New Year's Eve date from now to
the next millennium.
So you gave up meat, coffee, cigarettes,
pussy (you did say you gave up pussy, didn't you?), newspapers
and television. Hey, I don't blame you. As much as I like him,
I always felt that Jerry Seinfeld wanted me dead and gone. (Hint:
Avoid Russian novelists. Sure, Tolstoy looks good sitting on
the kitchen table, buy once consumed he leaves a bitter psychic
after taste.)
All right, all right, all right. Thanks,
Mary, thanks a lot for scaring the FUCK out of me. My first thought
was, great, I take off and fucking everybody decides to die.
Terrific. (You have to understand... it takes about 5 to ten
years to get back to California by Greyhound.)
I just love doctors, don't you? They say
shit like, "You've got five to ten years to live,"
like they've really fucking narrowed it down. "I'm sorry
Mr. Jasper, you either have a viral infection or throat cancer.
We'll get back to you."
I'm glad you're busy curing yourself (or,
if you prefer, that you're letting God cure you by allowing his
Holy Spirit work through you in the name of the almighty son,
his mother Mary, his sidekick Wally and his faithful dog Honk.
What can I say, I'm something less than spiritual and I'm certainly
not a Christian.)
I'm not surprised to hear that you and
Dee are taking a course in miracles. What's the name of it? "Create
A Miracle, While Others Rot in the Texan Sun?" Is that what
it's called? Meanwhile, my great spiritual quest lies in conquering
the Mixolydian mode in first position.
See, to me you guys, spiritually, are
like Mark Spitz and Donna deVarona, you know? You're like great
Olympians, swimming through the spiritual pool of life. You're
doing swan dives and backstrokes -- you're like little dolphins
frolicking in the spirituality pool.
Whereas, there's me. Sure, once in a while
I drop by the old spiritual pool. You've seen me. I'm the guy
with the flippers and the fucking inflatable raft. I wander over
to the shallow end, slap on some suntan oil, splash around awhile,
and do an occasional cannonball off the high board just to let
everyone know I was actually at the fucking pool.
Well... it takes what it takes. Glad you're
both kicking ass -- you and Dee that is -- but especially you,
cause I've got to tell you. If my back were to the wall like
that, I'd probably continue smoking, continue reading newspapers,
continue eating rare prime rib, continue masturbating in public.
You know? Cause I do what I do. In fact, I would insist that
you guys do nothing but pray for my sad spiritual state, were
it not for the fact that I'm fucking more young babes than a
black basketball star. (Although I've been meaning to fuck a
black basketball star.)
Okay, there is some seriousness to this
letter. But damn it, you're going to have to dig for it. I'm
Irish. We joke about death. After my dad was cremated, I carried
around his ashes for a week. I'd run into people and they'd say,
"Sorry to hear about your dad." And I'd say, "Well,
thanks... say did you ever meet my dad?" They'd say no,
and I'd bring the box of ashes out from the truck (you remember
the truck, don't you? The fucking camper with the boat on top?
The truck that says, if it comes to war, I'm ready?) "Here's
my dad," I'd say. And I wouldn't break character, either.
I'd stay dead serious.
Of course, people who knew me well didn't
buy it, but others weren't so sure. Some thought I went over
the edge. Like that waitress from the Pine Cone. ("Coffee
for me, please. And could I get some water for my dad? He seems
a bit parched.")
Anyway, I'm proud of you. I'm mainly proud
that you didn't let the fucking doctors dictate your future.
Cause they're only slapping at air... well, that's what I believe.
Enough about death. On to other matters.
Tell me about this Don Cobb guy. Is he from the Iowa Cobbs? Husky
guy, stalky? Wasn't his dad a kernel? Got some Indian in his
background? I've got to tell ya... if it's the same Cobb I'm
thinking of -- he's yellow. (Man he must have put up with wiseguy
assholes like me all his life. I'm really, really sorry. Not
to the point where I'd edit my writing, you know, but really
sorry.)
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STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 1998 by Mike Jasper.
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