One Bad Raccoon Spoils the Whole Bunch

I found myself, a previously sane person, in a Catholic schoolgirl outfit, gripping an automatic weapon in a smoky room, in an unlikely standoff with a crazed raccoon. Trouble followed Dino everywhere like an incontinent little dog, and now that it had arrived yet again, he lay draped uselessly across the bar like some hastily flung overcoat, with an adorably loopy smile on his face. Damn those pink parasols, I thought affectionately, realizing too late that, combined with my lullaby and the Mai Tai, it had created a perfect storm of bad timing.

"Dino! A little HELP!" I shrieked, but Dino just sighed dreamily and mumbled something about shells. "Stewart! Charles!" The chimps who covered the door were nowhere to be found either. Good Lord, they'd hear it for letting this furry nutjob in. I was on my own. The party had been going so well, too, even though the clown, arriving early, had decided to pass a little time by sampling every bottle at the bar in alphabetical order. He didn't make it past Cointreau before a few things became uncomfortably clear. First, he was certainly not a happy drunk: and secondly, in very little time his balloon animals had begun to assume embarrassingly inappropriate poses. Dino cleverly enticed him out into the alley by singing a loungy version of the alphabet song and juggling bottles that began with "D", leaving the clown in a stinking stuporific slumber. The children had rolled around like marbles, cheering and shrieking with delight, thinking it was a great finale. Actually, it was.

Now the room erupted in a different kind of chaos. Screaming fat babies hurtled past my ankles and I swear that lecherous raccoon was checking me out, and just as I was about to open fire with cold hard Pez to teach the vermin some manners, Dino finally came to, stretched languidly, cued the band to play "Girl from Ipanema" and with Bogartish cool strolled right up and offered him a drink. Who needs arms and ammo when you've got charm? It was easily Dino's best weapon.

Dino's already filled you in on what happened next. But what I still couldn't grasp is what the F.B.I. could possibly be thinking, sending a mere raccoon in for something as sophisticated as mime recovery. We already had the best mime surveillance team available on hand. Well, underfoot actually. Those were no ordinary legless babies cavorting floor-bound, but a highly trained secret squad with a keen sense for boxless mime detection. I was suspicious of this alleged raccoon's real motives. And when he flashed that card, I knew for sure. We had trouble, and I don't mean maybe. I knew with a sinking sense of dread that there was a whole contingent of these "Aunt Rose" FBI renegades, graduates of the highly secretive Mohawk U, and they were treacherous. Not particularly smart...I mean, what self-respecting spy calls himself Aunt Rose?...but treacherous nonetheless. And they sure weren't looking for no mimes. But just as I was about to warn Dino of the impending threat, he raised an eyebrow, twirled my pigtail and murmured with an impressive Spanish accent, "Ola, Seester Mary of ze Holy Underpants. Now, we tango." The band began to play, right on cue.

How could I resist? After all, there's nothing more deadly than a man with charm.

Down at the Tiki Room

The party was going swimmingly. There had been a clown that bent balloons into animals for all the children and I had worked up a little magic act for a mid-party break. Just after a failed attempt at a game of hop-scotch, the legless toddlers rolled around until they rested in cozy nested clumps and dropped off with heavy Z's as my partner in crime, Bonnie, softly hummed a sweet and lilting lullaby.

I sidled up to the bamboo covered bar, neath a thatch roof overhang and ordered a tall frothy Mai-Tai complete with paper parasol. Bonnie, a tropical vision with her grass skirt and double D clam shells, reflected through the smoky mirror behind the bar. I threw back my drink, then picking up my pretty pink umbrella, I began to spin it inches from my nose. Just beyond the turning paper edge was my Polynesian pixie deep in some form of hula interpretive dance as she sang something about twinkling stars and then I fell into a trance. I was daydreaming about itty bitty legs and wondered who could have taken them all. I wondered if it had anything to do with that creepy little girl who drove that white van as she tried pushin' flakey treats on all the youngins, hmmm, or maybe I was just craving a slice of tootie-fruity cream ambrosia. Anyway it may have been moments later but seemed like an hour, when my daze was disturbed.

Either Bonnie had done a quick change or some serious time had elapsed. I broke from my dream to the sound of shouts and babies screaming and there stood Bonnie, dressed as a Catholic school girl, machine gun in hand in a Mexican stand off with a raccoon in dark glasses. The only thing that made this goon bigger then the kids was his legs which should have been a tip off to the muscle operating the velvet rope. The chump wasn't welcome! The only thing I could figure was maybe he scooted in on his rump.

Man I was lost, couldn't get my bearings so I asked the bartender what was what. He said Bonnie'd been running about crazy, like a drooling baby with a large crayon in her hand, writing obscene verse on the walls when the children became restless. She decided to take the stage and do a sexy version of, "Yes Sir That's My Baby". He went on saying, the piano was hot and the kiddies were cooing. The intro had played through and she was just about to open her mouth when that furry varmit had busted in, flashing a badge and waving a gun. Then, he said, in a single ninja move, our chanteuse sprung to the rafters overhead and came down packing a automatic weapon ready to rid the joint of vermin. The wailing began and I guess that's when I came to.

Immediately the fierce furry fiend screamed "F.B.I." Most of the infants, unable to crawl, had rolled under the tables for cover, fearing a gangland style shootout, then the room froze, me included.

He said, "Relax! No one here is in trouble, I just have a couple a questions."

We all breathed a collective sigh of relief then the song started back up as Bonnie went on with her song. Her plaid skirt was swinging back and fourth and her pigtails bounced to the beat. The kiddies went about playing patty-cake to the music cause footsies was out of the question.

I intercepted our musky intruder at the center of the dance floor and gently guided him over to the end of the bar. I asked if I could get him anything to wet his whistle. He declined saying he was on the clock but I thought I smelled Whiskey on his breath. I didn't quite trust the beast and wasn't keen on the way he eyed my girl.

I said, "Okay, all right, lets get to it then. What's on your mind, Sparky?"

"I'm lookin' for a mime, he seems to be outta his box."

"So you thought you check down here at a kiddie party.", I said, "All right, fair enough."

I didn't really take a shining to the guy. I thought he was a bit of a wiseacre. I told him the only clown at this shindig was of the red haired, big-shoed variety and if he wanted to question him, he could most likely find him passed out, face down, in the garbage in the back alley.

He thanked me, handed off a card and said, "If you think of anything and I mean anything, Give Me A Call!" He punctuated that last part by tapping hard on my chest.

Winking at Bonnie, he turned and walked out with a spasm, as if the club's strobe was having an ill effect on him. I looked down at the card, and it said; Aunt Rose, Agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Crazy Train

Unlike my counterpart, at once terrified by her infantile predilections, I embrace mine whole heartedly and recommend it to all those in need of a better life.

I, as well, know the appropriate fork, am properly socialized and am capable of choosing suitable outerwear for imminent weather conditions. But as far as the foot in the mouth issue goes, I tend to lean more to the side of having an entire Podiatrist's patient roster list crammed cheek to cheek and all at once, which often times lead to my greetings and salutations to come off as garbled and undecipherable. But as I find "goodbyes" and "hellos" overrated and only the middles of stories interesting, I say "pish" on beginnings and ends, so it all works in my favor.

Now back to my personal party and celebration of inane behavior;

"Woo Woo, All aboard the crazy train!"

As the reader may have begun to sense, I am far more comfortable in my gelatinous skin that shakes like jelly as I roll around in wacky laughter while wiping away tears of joy. I refuse to cower in a corner, ashamed and isolated by my insanity. Not only do I encourage an audience to witness such elated transformations but I demand it.

So please feel free to join my followers, already in progress, down at Frankie's Tiki Room on alternate Tuesdays and Sundays (time to be determined). There will be streamers, finger painting and diaper genies strewn about. Luckily my fans will be going nowhere as their tiny infant legs have been removed by some limb greedy patron of City Center. Not to worry though, we promise to attach mechanical prosthetics the moment the show concludes.

Till then, "HATS and HORNS!"

Inane and insane are only one letter apart

I am the first to admit it. It is true: I appear outwardly to be a responsible member of society, properly socialized and with a suitably cheery disposition. I know which fork to use, dress appropriately for the weather, can go out socially without fear of embarrassing myself or others, and it has been years since my foot has been in my mouth. But I am harboring a disquieting secret which lately will not be contained. While still undiagnosed, I believe I suffer from some form of Adult Onset Infantile Behavior. I don't know its common name, but am hoping to reach out to other sufferers.

The symptoms include a general apathy to the unamused glances of others, new immunity to public humiliation, and resistance to most societal deterrents. As the disease progresses, it is common to find oneself giggling like an idiot for no apparent reason, becoming increasingly unintelligible, and ultimately incapacitated.

In retrospect I believe I've had an underlying case all of my adult life, with episodic flare ups now and then.

I have raised three children who will now, after years of eye-rolling and not-so-silent suffering, patiently indulge my random and often insensible humor. And I have been fortunate enough to find one fellow sufferer to share my plight. But in the larger circles of refined society, I have found that the strong disapproval of such unchecked silliness has been daunting enough to effectively damper these tendencies, at least whilst in public. Paradoxically, while some may find such behavior entertaining, maybe even endearing (in the way people find fat drooling babies endearing), they will draw a line at participating in such inanities.

Also, they will find you incomprehensible, and rather an embarrassment. Like a fat drooling baby.