© 2018 Mirror Image Presentations, Alan John Mayer
Members and guests, the board has invited today’s speaker, author of the Young Adult Trilogy ‘A BOY ALONE’, Founder of SNIPPPED, Survivors of Nervous Interrupting Pagan Parents Pursuing Ecclesiastic Diversion, to share a word with us on the topic of Forgiveness. He and his canine friend Pokey Le Mutt, have torn themselves away from Fluffy LeChat long enough to share with us the importance of accepting life for what it is – an illusion we must all teach ourselves to rise above.
Ladies and gentlemen, Inclusiastic pantheist, author of a New State of Consciousness, the Young Adult Trilogy ‘A Boy Alone’, all the way from Casablanca, Morocco, please help me welcome Alan John Mayer, in his first speech, The Icebreaker.
(The following presentation was made with twenty visual 18×24 inch color photos, illustrations, and maps.)
Thank you Mistress Toastmaster, welcome, members and guests to the Aurora Chapter of SNIPPPED. My name is Alan. I am a survivor. “Hello Alan.” Fine crowd. The first time I joined you here and heard Donna complain-uh-share, I felt I had come home. My story begins in Berlin, 1945. I have heard a bar is not a good place to pick up a partner. I am not sure I agree. Dad picked Mummy up at a bar, off the floor. The furniture had all been burned to keep from freezing.
My father was a genius, a United States World War One Veteran, but not an involved father. At 22, he translated at the signing of the Treaty of Versailles. Later, he wrote a speech for President Wilson. Fireman on a horse drawn carriage, Professor, dedicated Toastmaster founder of eleven clubs in eight countries on four continents, divorced twice at 52, my father is sent to Berlin in the spring of 1946, to retrain the Nazi mind. Was he successful?
At 18, I traced my mother’s genealogy to 1385. Here she is on this reduced copy from 1627, Christina Hedwig Henriette, named after 3 queens, and she reigned. “MEI-ER is a common name.” She never heard of Metro Goldwyn Mayer. I had, but it did not register. At fourteen, I added my mother’s maiden name to Mayer, thinking it would bring me her love, as she had wanted to name me Goetschkes at birth. Two years before my father’s passing, at 42, I recognized my mistake and learned to feel proud with the name Mayer. I paid dearly for that mistake by judging far too much, a habit I learned from Dad’s war bride.
My mother never knew a mother’s love. Her mother died when she was three months old, leaving her to be raised by her industrialist father and governesses in a granite castle on a lake. To make matters worse, her half sister, twenty years older, wife of Admiral of the German Nazi fleet, was her biggest influence.
Ze zane vuns could na-zi vhat vas coming.
Please don’t let my pink complexion fool you. I am African Germerican. I was born in Casablanca Morocco, strangled by the umbilical cord and with an erection, to an American diplomat and his bombed out enemy war bride. Of six buses filled with tourists, my mother, thirty-through, seven and a half months pregnant with me, was first to the top of the Acropolis. She was afraid we were being trailed by the S.S. I felt it in our bones. Dr. Hoffman prescribed pills, but Mummy was afraid to take them. They helped me cope.
My fatima, a fatima is a Moroccan woman who changes’ Madam’s diapers” my fatima spoke Arabic with me, and French with my parents, who spoke German in the Home, English on base, and Esperanto in our front yard, the Mediterranean Sea. I was out of diapers at nine months, and seeking therapy. In Tunis I rode a camel. In Tripoli I was propped up on an ancient cannon. At five, I was strapped into skis in Garmisch Partenkirchen.
In Nuremberg Mummy pecked me up from Kindergarten — her lush blonde, every three weeks, hair blowing in the breeze, looking down at me with her hand out “Papers. Let me see your papers.” In Heilbronn I looked up to her “Mummy E will ein playmate”. “Im-pos-si-ble” in that, Madam was unanimous, So I tugged “Daddy, I vant ein Brooder”. He slapped his lap “He he, come here, Squirt” he raised me to his knee “Let me explain to you my va-sec-to-my”. Sixty-eight, and he-he-he too, had been snipped.
In Stuttgart, Mummy and I shared a room with her sewing machine. She stepped in and the windows iced over. My Lego villagers on the rug dodged needles and pins. My dolls in the closet were afraid to crack the door. If not for ‘A Course in Miracles’, they would never have come out. But Mummy did teach me good posture, walking on pins and needles. I never could grasp integers. So this itinerary should keep my train of thought on track.
In 1960 American were thrown out of Lybia so we traveled the world together as a family. In 1961 we traveled Europe together. In 1962 we traveled Germany, still together. 1963 Mummy dropped me off at a farm, and took her family with her to tour Italy. In June of ’64, at six in the morning, we sailed into New York harbor and witnessed the sunrise over Lady Liberty. We flew to visit friends and Dad’s family in Seattle, Anchorage, Denver, D.C., back to Frankfurt over Miss Liberty. The summer of ’65 I had earned a gold star, so I was taken along on the second Tour of Italy.
In 1966, Dad retired und we dwove fon New York nach Au-wo-wa, Colo-wado. I was ten and a half, and had attended seven schools on three continents and for decades I never understood why. Dad picked up teaching junior high and entertaining Mother’s womens’ club. Mummy chose a caweer, and handed me my Prospectus, the German post war mantra “Jeder fuer sich und Gott gegen Alle, — Each for himself and God against all”.
But she did reach out “Would you like we should color together?” From then on, she set aside forty-five minutes every three weeks, and together we would color — her hair. Sometimes we painted together, her nails. Mummy’s mantra was ‘SAVE SAVE SAVE”. She did tip me though. I took her advice. I started a lawn care business, and got a job casting the news. Once I learned to hit the porch, my tips tripled. Then, from Taunte Rita’s loose lips “Your mosther vanted to abort you”.
So I went to “Daddy, — Why was I born?” ”Take care of my third wife” he implored “Should anything happen to daughter Number four”. I snipped. I grabbed the gavel and struck myself three times in the head “P.T.S.D., like a hammer strike to the head, can damage the soul.
By ninth grade, I had saved 18 hundred dollars, but FeMaLE TrOuBlE tossed me into a series of abusive foster homes, this third in the armpit of Europe, Germany’s post-war Ruhr Valley. At fifteen, I went AWOL, hopped a train to my Aunt Eva, to her beautiful house in the country, across the street from a farm. Eva sent me to friends of hers, Die Ausgewanderten Acht, classmates who had emigrated to eight European capitols where I traveled on both sides of the Iron Curtain — A BOY ALONE – looking for love.
At 17, I returned Home to find my clothes on the lawn. Sis had another fight with her alcoholic husband. So I flew to South America to study for a semester. There I was given the nickname “Mono” light one. I know Mummy loves me, but if only she had room for me at her palace. I lived in a cottage in Laguna for eight years, two blocks from the beach. I should never have given that up. I graduated from the University of California in 1986 – cum laude, three months short of my goal “Make it by thirty”.
After working dozens of positions, I eventually became a prosti—eh, Teacher — of the Year. I did it for money. I was an Instructor at Glendale College through the 1990’s. In ’91, I restored a historic triplex in the Silverlake Hills with two partners and a team of contractors. That took five years. I lived there in my unit, with two people I thought were my friends. Until I lost my third interest in the house. Greed haunts the planet.
One day I heard God speak from the Sky. I looked up “Ellen, vat on Eart are you doing for Heaven’s Sake?” I took more classes, got an agent, and landed a co-star roll in the Warner Brothers series ‘Under Cover’. They treated me like royalty. A private trailer, my name on a gold star on the door, sushi instead of beef, a month’s pay for four days play. You didn’t see me on T.V.?
You must have blinked when I held up my dozen leads. THEATER: “Life is a tale told by a fool, on Kindle – Alan John Mayer ’s Young Adult Trilogy — ‘A BOY ALONE’ — read it. Looking for investors to translate to film.
In ’98, at one-hundred and three, Dad picked up the harp, taking with him my career. I took care of wife Number 3. From 1999 to 2003 I lost ten loved ones, and gained twenty pounds. Seeking comfort, I drove from L.A. to Mummy and boyfriend. The first time I arrived they split. Four years later I arrived to have one of Mother’s henchwomen call the police. Once again, greed intervened to create ‘Colorado Justice’.
I returned home to an eviction. My unit was illegal. I was homeless. Five years I wrote in shelters, hostels, and hotels in L.A., Mexico, South Beach Florida, Amsterdam, Berlin, and Prague. That annoyed my former partner even more. In 2006, I wrote another book in my Volvo wagon entitled “Looking Out From Within My Shell”. I have yet to transfer it from mini cassette tapes to the Internet. In 2007, I got an apartment in Hollywood, and in 2011, I started this blog AmericanValuesRestored.
Fast Forward eighteen years. Sis has second husband, and a second face. Feeling abandoned and betrayed, my 100 year-old Mother asks me “Vhy don’t you come and live viss me?” Translated “I need a chauffeur and footman. Come take care of me.” So I took care of wife Number Three. She is almost deaf. I used telepathy to tell her jokes. I took her phone in jest. She sent me to jail, gave me a police record.
Her family lawyer, her granddaughter through whom she lives vicariously, put a restraining order in place. I can no longer send my centenarian Mother a Mother’s Day or birthday card, unless I wish to go to jail. All I can say is “Bless them” I induce repeat “Bless them”. I am still in therapy. I am not sure I like my new therapist. I think I have a crush on her — boyfriend. I bent down the other day to pull up my socks. I wasn’t wearing any. While I was down there I looked around for anything I might have lost. Like my dignity. I couldn’t find it.
No matter how crazy or dysfunctional life can be, ladies, and gentlemen, I am convinced Forgiveness is the only way to Happiness, but before you overwhelm me with your love, a quick telepathic joke. (He holds his hands to his forehead and extends them.)
Thank you for reading. If you found any amusement in this post, please click Like and Share.