BY REV. JEN MILLER | It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Wait. Scratch that. Someone already wrote that line and I don’t do covers. Let’s start again. It really was just the worst of times. An orange on a toothpick was about to become President, I was unemployed (again), and my boyfriend got cancer. When Prince wrote, and Sinéad sang, “It’s been seven hours and fifteen days,” I doubt either could have imagined what seven hours and 330 days feels like, waiting for your old man to walk through your door and give you a kiss.
All of my columns have a theme. This one is about how to get through this thing called life. Sh*t! Another cover! Anyway, that’s the theme, so I present to you: The Most Depressing Column Ever Written! By the way, I hardly ever view reader comments regarding my essays, but a dude (who is probably sitting around in stained tighty whities surrounded by empty Chinese takeout containers) wrote, “You call this journalism?” Actually, I don’t. I call it writing. Truman Capote called Kerouac’s writing “typing.” Guess which one doesn’t have a monument in his hometown?
So here’s some “typing.”
Once upon a time there was a magical land called the 1970s where people didn’t know smoking, drinking, suntanning and drugs were bad for them, and if they did, they didn’t care. Today we are a bit wiser. So until I can build a time machine, I will have to gaze longingly at tobacco products like a young girl staring at a Barbie Dream House in the Sears Catalog while accepting the fact that there will never be another Motörhead, Bowie or Prince album (while Cheney is likely on his fourth heart). I console myself by listening to “Ace of Spades,” “Heroes,” and “Purple Rain” thrice daily. “Purple Rain” is my favorite love song because it’s really about only wanting to see someone “laughing in the purple rain.” I don’t know much about purple rain — but I know what it’s like to want to see someone dance and laugh. That’s love.
I write this column at 1:40 in the morning, from a home on Cape Cod that might actually be the Kennedy Compound. A friend of a friend lent it to me so that I can write in peace (cue horror movie music). There are so many rooms, I’m pretty sure that if I try to hang a jacket in one of the closets, I will end up in Narnia, talking to a lion. I am lucky to have friends who have friends who’ve likely made wiser choices than me and therefore own houses and other things that indicate a modicum of sanity.
For those of us grasping for that modicum of sanity, who can’t afford to call up that shrink in Beverly Hills, here are my tips on “Getting Through This Thing Called Life” — even when de-elevator tries to bring you down.
GO CRAZY! | Going crazy is the only sane reaction to an insane world, hence it’s time we “got the gang back together.” Actual human contact means more than just giving each other mad likes on Facebook or remotely communicating via text. It means watching a crazy performance artist pour baking soda and vinegar into their Speedo, creating a volcanic explosion, or seeing someone do something unspeakable with vegetables.
After more than a year, the world’s weirdest open mike, Reverend Jen’s Anti-Slam (which I started in 1995), returns — this time, to my local watering hole. All forms of expression are welcome (just don’t take out your dingus or light the place on fire). Sun., June 5, 9pm at Lucky Jack’s: 129 Orchard St., btw. Delancey & Rivington Sts. Free!
LET REVEREND JEN PAINT OBAMA! | This suggestion is entirely selfish but could save me from eviction, ensuring the longevity of the Troll Museum, thus bringing joy to so many who have yet to see my majestic palace. One thing that makes me happy (sometimes) is painting. Many people think that because I am a genius writer, I must’ve studied writing. No, Sir. I studied painting and am damn good at it. Traditionally, during the end of a President’s tenure, his (and, possibly soon, her) portrait is painted. I would like to paint Obama in a traditional manner, a la Sargent’s portrait of Teddy Roosevelt. Yet, in an untraditional manner, I’d like to depict him with his wife and daughters to show that behind every great man, there is a great woman (or sometimes a man). It would be an artistic punch in the giant noggin of a certain misogynistic, overgrown Oompa Loompa who threatens to inhabit the Oval Office. One can find a petition supporting my presidential portrait campaign at change.org or via a link on my Facebook page, at Revjen Miller.
GATHER TOGETHER | Sorry to make so many Prince references, but he left us with profound wisdom. Maybe, next to Mr. Rogers, the greatest philosopher of our time. He suggested, “If you don’t like the world you’re living in, take a look around. At least you got friends.” There is nothing I value more than my friends and family (cat and dog included). So, I was stoked when my musician friends, Dusty Santamaria and Travis Champ, visited this week from the West Coast. Dusty is the individual responsible for a state of inebriation that got me tossed from “Good Morning, Oregon!” years ago (they’re owned by Fox News, so no regrets).
Clearly, this visit called for a Troll Museum party wherein he and others played (music) in my bathtub, which is conveniently located in the kitchen. Via their tunes and friends gathering together, broken down spirits were lifted. If you’ve never heard Dusty or Travis, Google them. You won’t be disappointed.
TAKE JOY IN WATCHING CORRUPT POLITICIANS AND LANDLORDS GO TO HELL! | Until someone produces a show called “When Animals Attack Politicians,” I will take comfort in reading local papers, which have detailed the crimes of both landlord Steven Croman and politician Sheldon Silver. As Spider-Man’s Uncle Ben pointed out, “With great power comes great responsibility.” True dat. Don’t go running around taking bribes. Little known fact (but verifiable): Silver gave $77,000 to the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, where I worked for 12 years, taking on every holiday shift, never getting a vacation day or a sick day and eventually being fired along with several others.
Dear Sheldon Silver: I know you’ll be busy making license plates, but perhaps you can cut me a check from the Cross Bar Hilton. (Bernie Madoff also donated to the Tenement Museum.) Oh, the irony! Both were pretending to work while I was actually working. Either way, I’m gonna sit back and watch the whole house of cards collapse. Maybe the Troll Museum will be the only thing left standing.
ASK FOR HELP | When trying to get through life, it’s important to reach out, but only to those who aren’t assholes. As I’ve been suffering from major depression — not eating, sleeping or bathing for days — my friend, John (who took the pictures for this article) finally got fed up with my stench and called Lifenet, a 24/7 multicultural support services network. They connected me to a mobile crisis unit of psychiatrists who visited me at the Troll Museum and pretended not to notice my 400 trolls. Just talking to them was helpful. If you are having trouble, you can reach them at lifenet.nyc or call 1-800-543-3638.
Another approach: Go around your neighborhood and ask people how to get through life. Responses ranged from the basics like drink, laugh, masturbate, dance, keep breathing and avoid human contact, to the profound: “Life is like a movie. Keep going no matter what horrors are thrown at you. It’s a short movie, so you might as well see the whole thing.” But, mostly, people ignored me.
VISIT YOUR LOCAL FIREHOUSE! | When I got ill a couple months ago (as detailed in my “Straight Outta Bellevue” column of Oct. 15, 2015) EMT came to “take me away” in their ambulance. Little did they know that the Troll Museum is a vortex, which eats objects, and one of my rescuers lost his keys! Not knowing where EMT dwells, I went straight to the local firehouse on Broome Street, Engine Co. 55, who lost several men on 9/11. For years, I’ve been leaving secret gifts like flowers outside of their door because I hate that the “never forget” rhetoric seems to only come up on the anniversary of 9/11. I try to remember their bravery every day. Also, they’re hot. I was going to wear something sexy but am just too tired to gussy up lately. Instead, I’ve been dressing like the Unabomber, in a hoodie, glasses and jeans. Even so, they opened the gate. I brought along Reverend Jen Junior, hoping she could get a job as a firehouse dog and earn her keep. They said at five pounds, she couldn’t cut it. However, they did introduce her to her new boyfriend: their firehouse dog, “Nickels,” a Golden Retriever/Rhodesian Ridgeback mix.
As I watched them play in what I consider hallowed ground, I felt an incredible surge of appreciation for the things that have helped me get through life: dogs, music, firemen, friends and people just getting together and having fun.
