“Come on, Brendan, say it. You know Mommy loves you. Say it, ‘Mama.’”
Propped in his chair Brendan just stared straight ahead, unaffected by the encouraging words dancing around him. Flinging the remains of his breakfast, he laughed, banged his tray, and said, “Wigglewort!”
Brendan had been saying this word for several days. Although technically his first spoken word, it was discounted by those around him, perhaps for its nonsensical nature, but more likely because they hoped for another, more personal utterance.
“No Brendan, not ‘wigglewort,’ ‘Mama.’ I know you can do it. Be a big boy, say ‘Mama.’”
Brendan’s father entered from the backyard where, evident by the fresh green stains on his shoes and the beaded sweat on his forehead, he had just finished mowing the lawn. “No luck, huh? I wish I knew where he picked up that word. Wherever it was, he sure enjoys saying it, doesn’t he? Maybe I’ll give him a try. You want to come sit outside with Daddy, Brendan?”
He wiped Brendan’s hands and face and released him from the high chair with a swift tug. With a series of squeals and giggles Brendan offered approval for his newly found freedom and for the elevated view provided by his father. The world always appeared less intimidating when seen from the vantage point of an adult.
Outside they sat on the patio to admire the fresh-cut grass, away from any distractions. He perched Brendan on his knee and gently bounced him up and down. But despite Brendan’s enjoyment, his father paused, turning him around. “Okay, Brendan, it’s time. All you have to do is say, ‘Daddy.’ Come, on boy. It’s your old dad. Say it, ‘Daddy.’”
Instead of the anticipated response, Brendan let loose with a hearty belly laugh and said, “Wigglewort!”
“No, not ‘wigglewort,’ ‘Daddy.’ Be a sport. ‘Daddy.’”
“Wigglewort, wigglewort,” Brendan said.
From inside, a familiar voice flowed, “Where’s Grandma’s little baby?”
His father said, “Look Brendan, Grandma and Grandpa are here.”
“Has he said anything yet?” Grandma asked.
“Only that word ‘wigglewort’ or whatever he’s saying. I can’t make much out of it.”
“Let’s see if Grandma can get her baby to talk. Hi, Brendan. My, look how cute you are. Yes, you are. Come on, how about a smile for Grandma?”
Grandma liked to take Brendan into the living room and coax him from the couch. Everyone had his or her favorite place to play with Brendan. Each claimed it was Brendan’s favorite also, but then again, he wasn’t given a say in the matter.
“My, you’re getting so big and how you like to squirm. Sit still, Grandma can hardly hold onto you. Can you say Grandma? Who’s got you? Grandma does, right? Gamma, Gamma.”
Brendan took a deep breath and gave his usual reply, “Wigglewort! Wigglewort!”
With those two little words, he deflated Grandma’s ambition, which had been building since the last time she attempted to coach him.
Grandpa swooped in. “I think it’s time Brendan and Grandpa sit on the porch and have a nice talk.”
Grandpa enjoyed sitting with Brendan on the porch in the rocking chair he had bought the family for Christmas. From there, he was able to showcase his grandson to the entire neighborhood. “Don’t let the others bother you,” he said. “You’ll talk when you’re ready to. Just sit here with Grandpa and enjoy the weather. We’ll watch the cars go by. Grandpa won’t put any pressure on you. No, not Grandpa. Grandpa just likes to rock with his little man. Grandpa and Brendan. Brendan and Grandpa.”
These subtle suggestions weren’t going to work on Brendan either. When the next car passed and Grandpa displayed a wide grin and offered a friendly nod, Brendan giggled and said, “Wigglewort!”
Grandpa sighed. “Well, it was worth a try. Maybe lunch is ready.”
“Any luck?” Grandma asked.
“No, we were just watching cars go by anyway. You’re putting put too much pressure on the boy. He’ll speak when he’s ready. How’s lunch coming along?”
Brendan’s mom said, “Food is on the table. Put Brendan in his playpen while we eat.”
Grandpa did as told, and then the four adults sat down for lunch while Brendan’s dog Hawthorne took his usual position next to him. If Brendan was ever in the playpen, Hawthorne was close by, watching over him. There had been some concern as to how the dog would respond to Brendan being the center of attention. But from Brendan’s first days at home, Hawthorne had not shown a single green hair on his hide. Instead, he was perhaps the most protective.
As the adults ate, they became engrossed in their own conversation, forgetting the frustrating events of the morning. “Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah,” was all Brendan could understand, which wasn’t too far from the actual content.
Bored with the adults, Brendan rolled over and there was Hawthorne, right where he always was, staring back at Brendan, ready for anything.
As most actions Brendan performed, there was no warning sign for what took place next – the words just bubbled out, “Hawthawn! Hawthawn!”
Brendan’s mother said, “Did you hear that?”
Brendan’s father looked at the other three for confirmation. “Did he just say what I thought he said?”
Grandma dropped her fork. “If that don’t beat all. He said ‘Hawthorne.’ He said the dog’s name.”
Grandpa said, “I told you that you were putting too much pressure on him.”
Brendan repeated himself, “Hawthawn! Hawthawn!”
Throughout it all, Hawthorne never moved. He just sat there staring at Brendan, watching over him.
“Hey Tooth, over here!” he shouted waving his arm from the third row. It had been a hundred years since the last MFA meeting, but she recognized the crimson jacket with white trim immediately.
“Good to see you,” she said, squeezing down the row past other familiar faces. “Hard to believe another meeting is here already. E.B., you still recovering from the holiday a few weeks ago?”
“Yeah, it gets harder every year. I don’t know how you do it all year long, Tooth.”
“I get a lot of help. It’s all in how you delegate, my friend.”
A hearty laugh shot out from the man in the red jacket as he stroked his beard. “You can say that again. If I didn’t delegate, I would’ve been washed up years ago. The Mrs. helps out quite a bit, too. She’s really the backbone behind the whole operation. I’m just the front man.”
“So what’s the scoop?” Tooth asked. “Any good gossip? I hope the leprechauns and elves don’t get into it again this year.”
E.B. pushed his ears back. “You know they will. Happens every time. Always trying to ‘one up’ each other. Can’t you do something about your elves, Santa?”
“I have no control over them, probably less than ever. Since the last meeting, they’ve unionized. Oh, I don’t even want to go into the trouble I’ve had this century.”
It wasn’t just Santa that had been having trouble the past hundred years. Anxiety pervaded this meeting of the Mythical Figure Association. Not only had the 20th century seen more change than any other, but also the next millennium was about to begin, and there was concern that myth may disappear completely.
“Santa, you aren’t the only one who’s had headaches,” E.B. said. “Look at the Boogie Man over there. Hollywood has killed his career. Remember when the mere mention of him would terrify kids. Now, he’s lucky to even startle someone.”
Tooth shook her head. “The same can be said for the Sand Man. People used to lie back and wait for him to visit. Now they don’t bother. They pop a few pills, have a few drinks, or simply watch TV to fall asleep.”
E.B. pointed to the front. “We’re about to start. Jack is walking on stage.”
A man with a chilly demeanor stepped up to the podium. “Please take your seats everyone. It’s time to get started. Please, everyone.”
“Leave it to Frost to ruin a good time,” one of the elves yelled from the back.
Not to be outdone, a leprechaun said, “We should have our next meeting in Bermuda. Let’s see how spunky you are there, Jack.”
“Come on, now,” Jack said, seemingly unfazed. “Isn’t it a little early for you guys to start in? Usually, you wait until at least lunch.”
Whispers of laughter tempered the palpable anticipation.
Jack said, “On behalf of the MFA, I would like to welcome everyone to the 21st centennial meeting, Myth and the Millennium. First, I would like to thank our host, who graciously makes his home our home. Santa, please stand.”
The crowd applauded as Santa waved to the crowd.
“Before I introduce our keynote speaker, I would like to say how excited and honored I am to kickoff this very important and crucial conference. I still haven’t decided if it was a decision based on merit, or just an attempt to influence me to go easy with the weather. Regardless, it is indeed a great honor.
“I hope everyone has received their packets of information and has spent some time going over the contents. I think the Steering Committee has done an outstanding job including something for everyone. At this time I also would like to thank the Grim Reaper and Johnny Appleseed for volunteering their time to work the registration booth.
“As I look out into the crowd, I’m reminded of the resources each of us has in our peers. It’s a rare opportunity for each of us to spend a week with one another, and it’s through our support and friendship that we can embrace these turbulent times.
“Our speaker today is no stranger to any of us. He’s been with us since the—well, the beginning of time. His patience, wisdom, and vision have earned him the respect of all. Over the years, people have taken him for granted, attempted to steal here and there, and occasionally tried to beat him at his own game. But he has always withstood the tests posed to him, never judging, merely offering compassion. He is ever inching on, steadily, confidently. Today, he will be giving a speech titled The Time Is Now. Please put your cold hands together for Father Time.”
The crowd rose and cheered wildly, continuing for several minutes.
Father Time warmly smiled while he waited for the applause to subside. “Standing before you today, I can’t help but think about the last time I spoke. The changes that have occurred the past hundred years amaze me probably more than any other century. But it’s more than the changes that pose such a contrast. It’s the mood. At the beginning of the last century there was a mood of celebration, of anticipation, of hope for the years to come. While I feel some of the excitement is still there, the intention and underlying feelings of people are quite different.
“In the 19th century, the world was on the move, economies were growing, and the future held promise. While economies now appear stronger than ever, the future is much more uncertain. And some people, rather than focus on going somewhere, are propelled more by a desire to escape, to flee from the current circumstances. Their faith in tradition and ritual has been replaced by a myopic vision of self-service. This, in turn, has greatly affected each of us. The role of myth is now equated with that of fiction, of make-believe. Our roles as educators and vehicles to adulthood have been transformed to one of entertainment. ‘What’s in it for me?’ is the question on each human’s mind.
“Due to an improved economic climate, many of the issues and problems I speak of today are ignored on a daily basis. But they are not invisible. Children are told that to dream is to be unrealistic, and to be real, one must be practical, yet practicality seems to be rooted in the safe, in the mundane. The once quiet desperation has now become quite deafening, recognizable in the faces and actions of youth. Accordingly, it has greatly affected other dimensions of the population from parents, grandparents, teachers, politicians, even us.
“Judging from the conversations I have already had with some of you, it goes without saying that never has there been a more critical meeting than this one. What I hope to accomplish in my speech today and in my time here this week is to make each of you realize that the past is behind us, that The Time is Now. Our concern for the future is real, but the time to address it is now. Times have changed, but they have changed for a reason. If the ‘good old days’ were so good, why did they change? Gone are the simplicity and the innocence of yesteryear, but in their place are more enlightened, educated individuals, more conscious of the world in which they live than any other time. So I ask you, as you sit down with your colleagues and are tempted to reminisce about the past, be cautious of how many of your stories begin with ‘Back in the day.’ Remind yourself, the time is now. Thank You.”
The meaning and impact of Father Time’s words hung in the air long after the applause subsided. His words assuaged the tension previously saturating the air, as if Father Time’s speech had held up a large mirror and said, ‘Look at yourself.’”
Jack Frost stepped behind the microphone and stared longingly into the crowd, perhaps trying to find the right words, perhaps waiting for the right time.
“It has never been easy. All of us know that. We feel as if we are on an island with no one in the world to help us. Again, I want to reiterate my point from my opening comments: reach out to those around you. You are not in this alone. Think about the next meeting a hundred years from now. What do you want to be talking about? Let’s create the vision and go build it. I thank you for the opportunity to speak and hereby declare the 21st conference of the Mythical Figure Association open. I hope you not only benefit from the conference but enjoy yourselves as well.”
As the various figures filed out of the hall, Santa spoke first. “Well, it seems we have our work cut out for us. Which seminars are you planning to attend?”
E.B. said, “I don’t know. There are so many good ones. I hope they repeat throughout the week so I have a chance to see them all. Listen to some of these, Marketing for the Millennium, Technology: Friend or Foe, and Blastoff – Empowering Your Employees.”
Tooth said, “I especially like Belief: It Starts With You! and People Not Profits.”
As the three old friends approached the door, someone frantically entered the hall.
E.B. said, “Hey Cupid, running late today? You look a little haggard.”
“Oh, hey. Did I miss the opening ceremony? I had a heck of a time getting here. I’ve been so busy lately. You know, it’s that time of year. Love is in the air. I’m so looking forward to this week.”
“I think we all need to take some time for ourselves,” Santa said. “The registration booth is out in the lobby. There should still be someone there for late arrivers.”
“Thanks, I’ll catch up with you later. Save a seat for me at lunch.”
The Easter Bunny, Santa, and the Tooth Fairy walked into the lobby in silence.
Tooth motioned toward the registration booth. “Look at that. As much as I worry about what the future holds, I know the answers are right here with us. Where else can you see the Grim Reaper, Johnny Appleseed, and Cupid conversing with one another except at an MFA meeting? I think it’s going to be a good century.”
As a fan of Jung and mathematics, give me a 4×4 matrix that distills Jung’s theory of psychological types into an understandable and useful form like the Myers Briggs personality inventory (MBTI), a Vietnamese delivery menu, and a bag of gingersnaps, and I don’t leave my domain for at least 48 hours. But in our capitalistic society, sixteen personality types may be overestimating our vapid culture.
When analyzing people I have always applied a much simpler1x2 matrix: hooker (HO) or hippy (HI). (The word should conjure a strong enough image that I don’t need to describe the types.).
Try this lens on. Examine people around you with respect to their commercial inclinations—are they hookers or hippies? The clues are always there. Pay attention to shoes, bracelets, clothing brands, reading material, perfumes/colognes, word choices, etc.
Although I still believe are one or another, a field test in South Beach prompted me to change the instrument of evaluation from a matrix to a continuum.
The impetus for revision came from a discussion in which a participant kept using the term stripper interchangeably with hooker. When I challenged the person that strippers and hookers are not the same, the flaw in my theory stuck out like a one-inch hair from a woman’s chin.
The sixteen personality buckets of the MBTI still seem too static, but perhaps distinct personality type milestones exist along the continuum, providing a contextual understanding as to precisely where an individual belongs.
Literal variances are the guide to understanding the figurative deviation in the types. If one starts at the far left at Hooker and moves to the right, undoubtedly the first distinction is Stripper. While strippers and hookers are aesthetically tantamount—face glitter, body spray, wardrobe from the Frederick’s of Hollywood Working Girl Collection—the types are not cognate.
Even though interaction with both may result in physical release, an incorrect judgment may have a noxious impact. To avoid the consequential masochism and self-reproach from a poor decision, internalize these five guidelines:
1. Strippers work in multiples of $20; hookers, in multiples of $100. A three-song private dance may cost you $60, but it’s significantly cheaper than the thirty seconds you give your lady of the evening at $500 a squirt.
2. Strippers say, “May I give you a private dance?” Hookers say, “I’ll take care of you if you take care of me.” The song may never be “Stairway to Heaven,” but at least she’s up front and honest. The scarlet woman sets her trap with ambiguity. By the time she has her dose of sodium pentothal money is no object for you.
3. Strippers have bouncers in the foreground; hookers have pimps in the background. A line of defense is paramount for both working girls. Recognize the protection, and you will know the temptress.
4. Strippers market their services in the club; hookers work the phones and beat the streets. Don’t promote your ego to CDM (Chief Decision Maker). If she asks for your number, you’re being solicited. They’re known as Call Girls because they’ll call you.
5. Strippers aren’t concerned whether you have a condom; a hooker requires one. Your visit to the Velvet Room may cause you to make a stop at the Amoco on the way home to throw your boxers away, so your wife is unaware of your Sunday afternoon satisfaction, but have you ever heard of anyone getting pregnant or contracting a disease through a layer of cotton and denim? If you need a condom, don’t reach for the one in your wallet. Extra cash is the only thing you’ll need from there. Harlots always come prepared. She’s protecting herself from you, not you from her.
In our transactional society, whether it’s money, cigarettes, or information, people are always giving and receiving. To survive one must understand the nature of the person on the other side of the relationship. The better one comprehends where the person fits on the Hooker-Hippy continuum, the better the interaction will be.
“Blake said the road to excess ieads to the palace of wisdom — but he never spent time in Put-in-Bay, where the pleasure-hungry hero of Doug Cooper’s Midwest saga Outside In goes to forget himself and re-find his wild side. For this debut novel, Cooper has fashioned a modern parable of Shangri Law morphing into The Inferno. The author owns a poet’s eye and an ear for the funny/tragic dialogue of the American lost and searching worthy of comparison to Mamet, Sherwood Anderson, and Joy Williams. A deep, entertaining read about all the truths that find us when we’re looking the other way.”
— Jerry Stahl, author of Permanent Midnight, Bad Sex On Speed, and Happy Mutant Baby Pills
“Outside In takes readers on a wild ride with the final destination being a rediscovered sense of self.”
–Colleen Hoover, author of the New York Times bestseller SLAMMED
Rarely does an author capture the frenzied descent into drug and alcohol
abuse as Doug Cooper in his tumultuous novel Outside In. A story of
disillusion drowned in excess, tempered by the decisions we make to
survive another day. A searing debut.
–Stephen Jay Schwartz, Los Angeles Times bestselling author of Boulevard and Beat
There’s nothing like a good bender to right what’s wrong, to eradicate the trivial annoyances that mangle your response to the world. Come on, we all feel it. Those comments and actions that normally wouldn’t bother us, but in the moment make us want to snip the speaker’s Achilles tendon with pruning shears and watch satisfactorily as he flail at our feet. Alas, unfortunately in our litigious society we must focus our change efforts within. As such I propose the bender—that three-day vacation from reality that the truly self-indulgent permit themselves and the chemically-dependent cannot avoid.
But what is so beneficial about a self-destructive binge from which you wake up with nothing but a pocketful of receipts and an anxiety hangover that causes you to pace uncontrollably in your living room as you make the critical decision of whether to brush your teeth or make coffee first? Benders are an assured attitude reset button.
Day 1: No limits exist. Why should there be? You have two days to recover. Whether you start at lunch or happy hour, the eventual buzz is a complete release, a high-energy intoxication where you’re likely to talk to every person in the bar whether they like it or not. Don’t worry about with whom you interact or what you say—the record button is broken; you are in play only mode. Besides, you won’t remember in three days anyway.
Day 2: You wake at 8 AM with a headache the size of your mounting credit card debt, take two Tylenol, and return to bed hoping in three hours you’ll rouse sans pounding. Restlessness settles in by eleven and although you feel better, you’re not in much shape to do anything but drink. You officially begin the day at your local spot with a Bloody Mary, a White Russian, or a Greyhound (Mimosas and Bellinis are for Day 3). After a deep-fried lunch, your mission becomes recruiting people for afternoon beers and then evening martinis to get you to the Red Bull and Vodkas that will propel you until four in the morning.
Day 3: First action is a mobile phone check to ensure you didn’t make any drunken calls but also for a clue as to what time you got home. The early stages of self-loathing begin. Spending the day at home is not an option. Hopefully you still have cash in your pocket. If not, DUH-na-na-NUH-na-NA, CHARGE! With some luck or proper planning, an afternoon sporting event will be broadcasted to provide camouflage and distract you from yourself. The best option is to return to your local tavern to capitalize (in free drinks) on the badinage you regaled the bartender with yesterday afternoon. This is also when the ethereal champagne-based cocktails that you usually deride others for drinking may be just the effervescent lift you need.
As day turns to night, despite your openness to all spirits, intoxication is elusive. Periods of mellowness are separated by flashes of surliness. Before you begin starting sentences with MF-er, call in reinforcements. Invite a friend to meet you at home to drink some wine or watch a movie. You’ll most likely pass out within an hour but do whatever it takes to get yourself out of the bar. Whether you leave at eight in the evening or four in the morning, you’ve already accomplished your mission. If you stay out, you only spend more money and run the risk of getting yourself banned from your local hang by dropping your pants in the bar.
The Day After: Despite your exhaustion, you wake at four in the morning compiling reasons that answer the question, “Why am I such a jackass?”. Although calling off work is tempting, you know you couldn’t stand to be by yourself all day. Remember, a sense of accomplishment for powering through the workday without jeopardizing your career is the first crucial building block in reconstructing your debased self esteem.
That evening you have no desire to drink or be in a bar, but you’re not ready to be alone either. You seek comfort in public venues such as grocery stores and diners (places you wanted to vaporize three days ago). While nursing yourself, you notice a tolerance toward others. Small talk soothes you; you return phone calls you’ve been avoiding for days. The malicious thoughts have been expelled; the mask of hostility, removed. You are ready to deal with the world again.
