Christian - My life with geeks and freaks

My Life

with Geeks

and Freaks

Claudia Christian

Copyright Page

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology should send their inquiries to Yard Dog Press, 710 W. Redbud Lane, Alma, AR 72921-7247.

Yard Dog Press

710 W. Redbud Lane

Alma, AR 72921-7247

http://www.yarddogpress.com

Edited by Selina Rosen

Copy Editor Leonard R. Bishop

Technical Editor Lynn Stranathan

Cover photography by Robert Zuckerman

Graphic artist Gilles Nuytens

Cover design by Holly Evans

ISBN: 1-893687-85-6

ISBN-13: 918-1-893687-85-1

Copyright 2007 by Claudia Christian

First Edition June 1, 2007

Printed in the United States of America

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Dedication

This book is dedica ted to my trusted web mistress-accountant-shlepper-sherpa guide-booker-tax woman-cheerleader and friend; Miss Holly (20/20) Evans.

I f it wasn't for you kid, I never could have become a Holiday Inn Gold member!

I n all seriousness, here's to our higher aspirations coming true very soon.... Double C

A BRIEF HERSTORY

I have always loved people stories. The one about the little boy forced to eat out of a dog bowl that goes on to make a fortune writing about having to eat out of dog bowl. The one about the poor Irish boy who dreams about eating an egg who goes on to make millions writing about dreaming about eating an egg. I have never eaten out of a dog bowl, and I rarely dream about eating an egg.

That doesnt mean I dont have any stories to tell.

It was 10:30 PM, March 23 rd , 2007, and I was standing in the cold, wet cluster fuck that is JFK, waiting for someone to pick me up. The driver was either stuck in traffic or just waiting to see if I would actually implode; Im not sure which. He finally got there and took me to a Holiday Inn where I quickly dumped my stuff and then got back in the car where I sat for 40 minutes while listening to bad music and geek chatter. I then had to be funny, amusing, and utterly charming at midnight, on live radio.

I had been traveling since 8:00 AM that morning , and I was not being paid to do this. So why was I doing it? Because, apparently, I am not sane. The plane had been delayed nearly 2 hours on the ground at Burbank airport. We had then slowly pulled into JFK over the course of an hour after a turbulent six hours in the air, and then I was standing in the freezing rain for an hour, waiting for that moron to come get me. I could have been in Paris by then, sipping a caf au lait on the Rue St Germaine.

And did I mention I wasnt getting paid for this?

I spent an hour or more on the radio show with s ome lovely people including one jolly fellow named Adam, who had written a song for me titled muse of the geeks. I think thats a title I will use for the rest of my life.

I then went back to my hotel room where I unpacked my few clothes and cosmetics in a room that reeked of cigarettes. I was staying in th e non-smoking room I had requested. Unfortunately it happened to be right next to a room holding a dozen nicotine junkies who obviously took great pleasure in blowing their smoke though the vents so that it traveled directly into my room. It smelled like the bottom of an ashtray, but I washed my face and lit a few candles I always bring some with me for pungent rooms then I lay down to read a book.

In the old days I would have raided the mini bar or have gone downstairs and have a few glasses of wine before trying to sleep. Now that I dont drink, I was stone cold sober as I lay on the bed trying to read and wondering just what the hell I was doing in a Holiday Inn in Stony Brook, NY on a Friday night.

I got to ask myself basically that same question over and over again as I spent most of the next 48 hours sitting in a gymnasium at the University of Stony Brook, signing a few photos and doing talk after talk to hung-over, exhausted, brain-dead audiences who barely laughed at my jokes.

I once again endured people asking me why they had not seen me on TV lately. I forced a smile and answered. I live in London. You can see me on TV there.

As always there were the people who have no idea who I am but took great pleasure in standing in front of my table and handling every single one of my photos with their greasy hands before asking for one and then being appalled that we are charging for them.

I worked nearly 16 hours on Saturday doing everything from signing things to question and answer panels, improv shows, judging costume contests, posing for photos, and then doing more panels which had topics but usually turned into Q and As. As usual I didnt take a meal break but just inhaled some peanut M and Ms and a diet coke at my table instead. After paying commission, cost of photos, shipping etc, I made less than minimum wage for the weekend.

I feared for my sanity; I considered going to India to find myself. I sat on the plane home trying to justify the whole trip. I thought At least the fans had a good time, they like me they really, really like me! Then the other part of my brain yells out, Shut up Sally!

I lay back in my jet blue seat and started to look at my life through a mental microscope for the next six and a half hours. It wasnt the first time , nor I am sure will it be the last, that I will consider the whole of my existence with my ass forced into an uncomfortable airline seat.

After all , this is my life.

Chapter one: Glendale, California , August 10 th 1965

I happen to have been delivered into the world during one of the worst race riots in history. If I was cognitive, Im sure I could tell you interesting anecdotes; however, I was just a pigeon-toed though much anticipated after three boys infant girl.

My mother had been sure I was going to be deformed or an alien because apparently I felt different when she was carrying me. A fairly large leap of her imagination I think, to go from gee this pregnancy feels a little different to get it out of me; its clearly a freak! which is apparently what she yelled at my father before my birth. It should come as no surprise then that I went into drama as a profession.

Now remember, I was born right in the middle of a huge race riot , but my black nanny took one look at my turned-in feet and decided that she was going to heal me instead of quitting her job and storming out to march. God bless her, she kept me from having to wear metal braces for my formative years. She massaged my little feet every night and made me sleep with a towel between them, forcing them out, and lo and behold, I am not pigeon toed. I do, however, have ugly feet.

I know that we lived in Glendale for a while and that my Dad worked for Shell Oil Company. Shell likes to transfer their people a lot, no doubt because they are evil and enjoy ruining kids lives by yanking them out of school just as they start to make friends.

We wound up in Westport Connecticut , and things were great. My three older brothers, Patrick, Jimmy and Vincent, and I would build snow forts. They made me a dollhouse for my fourth Christmas, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. I also had my own outdoor playhouse which came in handy to get away from my brothers when they werent being so nice.

I had a bizarre ringing in my ears at that age, so I did what any sensible four year old would do. Id go to my playhouse and pretended it was a phone ringing. Id answer it, and it would be from the animal kingdom, just one of my animal friends on the other end wanting to shoot the shit with me for awhile. I would walk around with my fingers made into a phone pressed up to my ear and chat until the ringing went away.