Broken Mirrors and Burning Bushes
Jeremy Rubinstein, author
“Just call it the memoir love story of a drug addict white rapper with unresolved mommy and daddy issues.” Ha. Yeah, that’s a laugher. (Cause everything’s changing – just not myself lately / What have I become, Mom, this is not how you raised me / I pray to God save me – ‘fore the Devil he claims me / And I unleash the curse I was given when I was a baby) The love story part of course being my wife Alice. Except she forgets that my rap career in Southern California essentially ended – (. . . like I was cursed from the start / As the fault lines start to shift again, the Kingdom falls apart / Another rapper’s got beef – it goes from the studio to the streets / And before we know what happens – Gunshots replace the beats) With the shootout in the parking lot of Barnes and Noble, sending us pinballing across the country like a couple of wanna-be Bonnie and Clydes. Only Bonnie and Clyde weren’t high on drugs, and they stuck to banks - (Call it a Spiritual Malady – Attracted to what’s bad for me / As we give a new meaning to Comedy and Tragedy / Masks on, Guns drawn – as we run up in the Applebee’s / And turn our moral values into a pile of blasphemies) Alice was a waitress when we met, so restaurants just made sense. And I’m pretty sure Bonnie and Clyde never had children. Our son Caleb was born in a crack motel while the cops were out in full force looking for us. But all that comes later – like way later – after Alice first goes into labor with our daughter Hannah on Halloween night – the night Corey and I got robbed at gunpoint by the Three Stooges. Of course, that wouldn’t have happened had I not let Alice convince me that selling crystal meth would make me more money than just pot and ecstasy. But then Corey always said events like that tend to serve a Higher Purpose. Kinda like that dream I had where I was trapped in the circus and the White Rabbit who’s foot had been chopped off lead me back to my childhood apartment where my long lost father was teaching my daughter Hannah how to skip stones over our linoleum kitchen floor while Fred turned my Mom into a Ventriloquist’s Puppet and then those teenagers dressed up as the characters from the Wizard of Oz set fire to my neighbor’s bush. What can I say – Halloween has always had a weird significance to me. There’s something symbolic about running around at night with a mask on trying to be Master of your own Universe surrounded by ghosts and ghouls and goblins with your toy weapon in one hand and goodie bag in the other trying to score as much candy as you can before the real darkness takes over – (Where did that child go? That kid with the He-Man mask? / Sometimes our biggest fears are the answers to questions that we ask) Any other questions? Just read the damn book.