How embarrassing for me. Embarrassing indeed! I used to hide under the boughs of the old cedar trees out front whenever my grandparents visited. My mother would scream for me, "Come sing grandma Rose Garden!" It's true i did have a killer Lynn Anderson and i could swivel my hips even if she never did. I always felt she was too conservative and could have let loose a tad more. I think she might have been Canadian. She could have taken a few tips from Miss Helen Reddy. Now she was one wild gal! And it's true I was even known for re-working the lyrics to include topical familiarities and current events, but does that mean a self respecting eight year-old wants to be paraded and prodded like a god damned side show freak? I think not! And some audience it was. Some audience indeed! My grandfather with his cloud of cancer and fingers that looked like those disgusting orange marshmallow (marshmallow indeed!) circus peanuts I'm sure no one even in the Soviet Union, godless pigs would eat! He'd sit with his defiant scoliosis on the edge of the turquoise Naugahyde sofa with his pinched oh so very native American mixed with dead Hun eyes mumbling, "freakin' queer kid." And she! The grand matriarch, stinking of Christian Brothers Brandy and snuff. The same old bitch who dropped me late one night singing Roger Miller's, "Chugalug...chugalug." Chugalug indeed!
How embarrassing for me. My face bright pink from gorging on Hostess Snowballs. And not even a lovely understated rose like in House and Garden! One after another, pushed into my gaping hole, my throat clogged with another failed attempt at forgetting who I was, gagging, remembering.
"Oh come on now baby...grandma wants to hear ya sing Rose Garden!"
No, grandma wants to watch grandpa twist and turn as he tries desperately to think of anything other than his chubby grandson singing the hits of a.m. radio, no worse still, a.m. country radio. If i could read his mind I'm certain he'd be thinking of the time he passed a kidney stone or maybe The Korean War. He probably has to think of something else so as to stave off the undying desire to strangle me with his bare hands. How embarrassing!
So, can you wonder why I'd hide? I'd rather root my fat carcass under the rotten eves of this old tree and mingle with the dog turds and twisting worms than watch the identical and pathetically pursed lips of my mother and...her mother, sick old bitches sipping their blueberry liqueurs and fingering loose buttons, saying to themselves, "he's the one! he's the one who will redeem us all! He will make us all so proud one day!" i could shit blood every time they'd get that look. i wanted to dig a deep hole under the tree and just keep digging until i ran out of oxygen and finally just fucking suffocated and died, frozen in shock-mouthed, Joan Crawford-esque horror only inches away from the skeleton of the last poor, fat, ivory voiced faggot who would one day sing on the stage of the Grand Old Fucking Opry!
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