Stairway To Heaven

When I was young, I attempted to ski. This is me in Val D'Isère, France, circa 1856. And way before I discovered hair dye.
I was afraid of ski lifts. You're strapped into an open cage hanging over mountains without a parachute? I gamely took some ski lessons and felt I was ready for the Winter Olympics. Because I'm not right in the head.

I look like I'm shooting a commercial and now that I think about it, Suzy Chapstick STOLE MY LIFE. This above shot is my favorite one. I would like to point out that in every picture I'm doing nothing but posing. I'm pretty sure that was the best part of the whole trip. Because it certainly wasn't those ski clothes from the Shin Dynasty.

A few years later my sister and I went to Switzerland to ski. My sister was a great skier. She did all the pistes noir while I was on the pistes pink, where 9 month old babies whizzed by me because they're notoriously competitive and really, really mean. Bored, I attempted a harder piste. Because I had taken three lessons.

I was eventually taken off that mountain by the ski patrol, on a stretcher, in fucking Switzerland, the neutral country that was trying to KILL ME.

Later my sister said, "You know, I saw this blond girl up there and she had one leg up the mountain and one leg down the mountain and I thought, Man, what a retard; get off the slopes before you hurt someone.

I tore a ligament and had a full leg cast on for like a hundred years.

When the cast came off, I was afraid to put weight on the bad leg. So of course I did what you're not supposed to do and put all my weight on the good leg, because you know, I'm a genius. I did that for so long that eventually all my friends were making fun of me. I would walk down stairs one step at a time, like a two year old. Shut up.

Then I got a big job. When I showed up for rehearsal, the director gave me a tour of the cabaret and showed me the stage, where I was supposed to glide down a staircase with a two and a half foot tall headdress in a skin tight gold sequined dress.

"Is there any other way to get down those stairs? I asked. Yeah, Francis Ford Coppola can airlift you in a chopper, like in Apocalypse Now, and deposit your ostrich-feathered ass at the bottom of the stairs. The director did not say that. Sadly.

I went home and told my mother that I wouldn't be able to take the job. She said I had to immediately go to La Chappelle de St. Rita, the patroness of impossible cases. Now, I'm not a religious person and abhor all organized religion, believing it is the opiate of the masses. I am, however, a spiritual person and yes, there is a huge difference between the two. Spirituality does not require a building nor a particular deity to worship. I was brought up Catholic but thought it was bullshit from the age of 13. But I was desperate. I went to the bullshit Church.

I prayed that if St. Rita fixed my leg, I would give her 200 francs a month (forty dollars) for the duration of the show, which was seven months. I came home and tried to figure out how I was going to tell my bosses the truth. I had already signed the contracts. The French government was in the process of issuing me a permis de travail, a work permit.

That night I watched my sister get ready for a date. I sat on the edge of her bed and started swinging my right leg, the good one. And then I started involuntarily swinging the left one, the bad one, and it didn't lock up. I stood up and walked to the front door. I went from our second floor apartment down to the first floor. The doctors who had told me that I had bone fragments floating in my knee were apparently upstaged by St. Rita.

This is me at the finale of the show which I did seven days a week, three shows on the weekend, two during the week.

That's me with the giant headdress sitting on that guy's knee. I kept my word and gave 200 francs a month for the duration of the show. One month before my contract expired I was in the chapel and noticed that the 'candle guy' was there. All churches have votives and metal boxes where you can put the money for an offering. I saw the man open the box, take out the money and then lock it up. All that time I had been giving money to the CANDLE PEOPLE, not St. Rita's. I was really upset until I realized the candle people must have needed it more.

End of chat.