The Funny Thing Is... (5 page)

So, he/she gave me his/her recommendation. (I don’t know what he/she was. The name was Earthspirit. What’s that? A boy’s name?) Earthspirit said, “You need some wheatgrass juice.”

“Wheatgrass juice! Do I need a sprout wrap too?” And Earthspirit said, “Your aura’s brown.” And I said, “
Your
aura’s brown! What a stupid thing to say to me!”

“Oh, we’re going to have to call the security guard.”

“The health food security guard? What’s his name, Whispering Pine? Why, is my meat breath offending you?”

Anyway, they kicked me out.

So I was driving again… back to the loving place… praying I’d be led to where I was supposed to be, and suddenly a wave of energy hit me.
You’re out of rum. If you’re quiet, it will come
.

So I went to the liquor store and there was no parking. I had to park across the street in some stupid parking lot (because again, you know, the wrong kind of people…). And so I went into the liquor store to get my rum and a pack of smokes and some rolling papers. (Right on! Peace!) I came out, and a parking attendant was standing right next to my car. He hadn’t been there when I’d gone into the liquor store but he said, “Oh, you can’t park here for that establishment. To park here you have to go into this establishment and purchase something and get validated.”

I said, “Oh, please, be compassionate, idiot.”

“No, you have to go in here.”

So anyway, it looked like a spiritual-type place that I was being led to. It was called the Pleasure Chest or something like that. Some type of toy store, it seemed. Unsafe toys, though, ‘cause I’ve been playing with some of them and I’ll tell you, this pogo stick is going to hurt somebody. It’s bad on your back and it’s not sturdy! So, in order to get my car out from the parking lot, I had to buy something. It was getting late and I didn’t want to deal with the traffic and I wanted to get into the carpool lane, so I bought a blow-up doll.

I don’t know if I didn’t blow it up properly or what, but after a little while it started to deflate. So I had to pull over to the side of the road to inflate it again. (Why they put the valve in the crotch area I don’t know. It’s silly is what it is. Just silly.)

So there I was on the side of the road, blowin’ up “Linda”— I named her—and that’s when there was a knock on the window. It was a cop, of course. I thought,
This does not look good at all, you know
? It did not help matters any that I was naked.

Okay, so I’ll tell you why I was naked. If you’re going to buy a blow-up doll, be forewarned. These dolls do not come with clothes. I don’t know what that’s about, but there are no clothes—at all! You can’t even dress them up. So I thought,
I’m not going to look like a crazy person driving around with a naked passenger. I’m not stupid
! So there I was, naked except for the harness. (I had also bought a harness and a captain’s hat and a paddle.) I was standing on the side of the road, getting handcuffed in my harness and captain’s hat and paddle, holding Linda, and the cop said, “You have the right to remain silent.”

And I said, “Finally, that’s what I’ve been looking for all along.”

Lhe day started like any other day. My alarm rang at 8 A.M. I hit the
SNOOZE
for roughly four hours until it was noon. Time to rise and shine! Bleary-eyed, I searched my night-stand for my list of things to do that day. Immediately I checked off “get up” and proceeded to read through the rest of my tasks:

• Pick up socks at dry cleaners.
  

• Measure dental floss to determine how much is left on the roll.
  

• Mail ketchup rebate form.
  

• Special-order James Lipton bobblehead.
  

• Buy more paper to write lists on.
  

As I finished reading my list I suddenly felt sad and empty.
Maybe it’s because you’re hungry
, I told myself, but there was no response. (I’m not what you’d call a “morning person,” so I don’t always “answer” my own questions.) So I made my way down to the kitchen and whipped up some French toast and pancakes with a side of waffles.
Nope
, I thought after I’d finished eating,
I still feel empty
. The truth was I just couldn’t stop thinking about my list and how all my daily errands only revolved around
me
.

I’d written nothing about saving the pygmy possum from extinction or setting up a feng shui institute for needy children in Suriname. It seemed I had completely forgotten to put “save the world” at the top of my list. And I didn’t know if I still had time to do it.

Life is short. If you doubt me, ask a butterfly. Their average life span is a mere five to fourteen days. I headed out to my backyard in search of a butterfly who would have special insight into making the most of a short existence. I spotted a bright yellow variety that had alighted on my bougainvillea bush and introduced myself. “Hi, I’m Ellen DeGeneres. I live in the house back there. Boy, you sure are pretty. Could I ask you a few questions?”

“Yes,” said the butterfly, nervously checking her watch, “but make it quick. There’s a
PBS
documentary on water conservation that I want to catch.” (It was a Swatch, by the way. A really teeny tiny Swatch. Those Swiss are design
geniuses.)

“I’ve been thinking,” I said hurriedly, “life goes by so fast. I feel like I haven’t really contributed. How can life be made worthwhile in such a short amount of time?”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” said the butterfly impatiently. “I’m only three and a half days old and I’ve already volunteered my time to help a village in Bhutan increase its crop productivity by 80 percent. But you look like you’ve got a lot of life left in you. How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m forty-five.”
(Note to reader: As you read this I might be younger or older than this, depending on whether you’ve recently traveled in a time machine.)

“That’s nothing,” she said, preening. “Look at me! I’m middle-aged and I’ve never felt better. My doctor says if I keep eating right and cut down on my smoking I’ll live for another four days! He’s a great guy, met him when I was a day trader for three minutes last Tuesday.”

“You were a day trader?” I asked in amazement.

“Oh, I’ve had many careers. Yesterday for about sixty seconds, I gave acting a try, but my agent barely sent me out on anything. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you about the rampant ageism in Hollywood—”

“Uh, yeah, tough business,” I interrupted, trying to get her back on track. “Please, tell me, what can I do to make my life count?”

She thought for a second—which for her must have been an eternity—and finally said, “Don’t put off till tomorrow what you can do today.” Then she took a peek at her wrist again (well, not actually her
wrist
, I guess, but I’m not up on my butterfly anatomy).

“Thanks for the great advice. I’ll start tomorrow. Can I stop by and tell you how it’s going?”

“I might not be here,” she said, fluttering away. “Tomorrow I teach English as a second language in the Valley from 1:00:25 to 1:00:28.”

“For only three seconds?!” I yelled up to the sky. But by that time she was gone.

Now, I don’t want you to think that this butterfly in fact spoke with me. That would just be plain silly. Butterflies can’t talk. (I’m not Dr. Ellen Doolittle, I’m Ellen DeGeneres.) The previous conversation was what I
thought
the butterfly might say
if
blessed with the power of speech. I say this because if I ever invite you to a dinner party, I wouldn’t want you to bring your cat along as a date, thinking Snuffles might be a witty conversationalist. Just so we’re all clear.

The next morning I got up early, grabbed my new list of five selfless tasks, and headed out to accomplish item number one: Walk an old lady across the street.

I live in L.A., where “old” means the wrong side of twenty-four, so I knew this one would be easy. I spotted an oldster listening to her iPod, waiting on a corner for the light to change. “Hello, ma’am, do you need help across the street?” I asked. For a moment the glare of her belly ring blinded me. I repeated the question and made an attempt to link her arm in mine. I must say, she seemed pretty agile for someone of advanced years—she ran very fast, skillfully dodging cars across all four lanes, and she kept on running when she reached the other side. Well, she
was
across the street, and whether directly or indirectly, I
had
helped. One down, four more to go.

Next on the agenda: Plant a tree. Frankly, I didn’t have time to get a tree and plant it in some remote spot. Instead, I bought a few apples, took out the seeds, and scattered them in a Target parking lot a la Johnny Appleseed. One day, I hoped, the entire area would become the only apple orchard in the world with ample parking. With a flourish I checked off number two.

It was almost time for breakfast. A perfect time to “Conserve energy,” which was number three on the list. It was about 100 degrees in incessantly sunny L.A. that day, “hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk,” as my mother used to mutter under her breath, almost accusatorily. Of all the things she could “get on my case” about, as we used to say, I still can’t believe she picked the weather, as opposed to, say, my huge bell-bottoms or my continual use of the phrase, “You’re not the boss of me.”

So, in order to get that pesky number three out of the way, I decided the best way to conserve was to harness the energy of the sun. If a bunch of drug-addled hippies could do it, why couldn’t I? I cracked two eggs on the sidewalk and covered them in a light but tangy hollandaise sauce, then I waited. Hmm. Maybe it
wasn’t
hot enough to use concrete as a stove top, as my mother had always led me to believe, but it
was
hot enough to jump in my car, turn on the air conditioner, and head over to Denny’s.

Sitting in a cozy booth, I dug into my eggs Benedict and revised my goals. After deep contemplation, I came to the conclusion that using alternative energy in place of fossil-fuel energy was still, technically, using energy, not conserving it. So, to stay true to old “number three,” I decided I would sit motionless in Denny’s until they stopped refilling my root beer. After four hours (and thirty-seven trips to the bathroom), I realized that no energy conservation was taking place. I paid the bill (Two dollars and fourteen cents! How do those people stay open?!) and felt justified checking off number three. At least I hadn’t mentioned anything about water conservation.

“Volunteer as a Big Sister” was item number four. Unfortunately, the day was almost over, so calling the Big Brothers Big Sisters of America was out of the question. Thinking quickly, I called up my ten-year-old neighbor, Abigail Van Splinter. Within minutes she knocked on the door, and I invited her in.

“Hi Abigail, I’m your big sister.” No you re not.

“Yes, I
am
. Hey Abigail, do you want a ‘Hertz Donut’?”

“Okay.”

I gave her a playfully hard punch on the arm. “Hurts, don’t it?”

“You re mean.”

“I know you are, but what am I?”

“You’re picking on me just like my real big sister. I don’t need this. I’m going home!”

Man, that one was easy! Four down, only one to go.

Number five was a real doozy. To be honest, since I wasn’t even quite sure where the Amazon rain forest was, singlehandedly revitalizing it was going to be a challenge. My knowledge of geography is limited primarily to where I’ve gone on tour. I couldn’t recall performing stand-up in a rain forest, Amazonian or otherwise. Thinking quickly and quite geniusly, I turned number five into a big fat one. Then I put it on the top of my list for the next day.

I stopped to think about the things that I had accomplished and how much they would mean to the world. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but I knew that my medium-size contributions would really have an impact in the not-so-distant future. My ripple could already be felt as close as next door, with little Abigail waking up tomorrow morning with a sore arm and stronger resilience, and soon, as far away as however far away that rain forest on my list is.

That night I went to bed early, my list for the next day poised on my nightstand. But first, I made an important addition. Number two: Buy an atlas.

Everyone likes to talk about how advancements in technology will change the way we live forever. Frankly, I think modern technology is hurting us. I really do.

If you want to know the truth, I blame the microwave for most of our problems. Anything that gets food that hot without fire is from the devil. If you don’t believe me, put a Hot Pocket in your microwave for three or four minutes, then pop that thing in your mouth. If that’s not Hell, my friend, I don’t know what is.

Modern life requires hardly any physical activity. We just push a button and stand there. Take the car window. Someone decided that having to crank the window down yourself was too hard. “I don’t want to churn butter, I just want fresh air!” So we got a button to do it.

We’re just so lazy. We used to have breath mints. Now we have breath strips that just dissolve on our tongue. Can we not
suck
anymore?

Yes, we’re lazy. Yet we also can’t seem to sit still. So we’ve started making things like
GO-GURT
. That’s yogurt for people on the go. Let me ask you, was there a big mobility problem with yogurt before? How time-consuming was it, really?

“Hello?… Oh, hi, Tom… Oh, I’ve been
dying
to see that movie… Umm, no… I just opened up some yogurt… Yeah, I’m in for the night… No, not even later—it’s the kind with fruit on the bottom. Well, have fun. Thanks anyway.”

And people are eating power bars all the time. Power bars were made for mountain-climbing expeditions and hiking, not really made to be eaten in the car on the way to the mall. Is it really that much faster and more convenient? It takes longer to chew one bite of those things than it takes to make an entire sandwich. I don’t know what they’re made from, but you could insulate a house with that stuff.