Pink Side of the Moon

Posted By:	The Boneman
Posted On:	Tue Oct 23rd, 2007

Come on now? If you're reading this article having not read my conversation with Uncle Bone, let me quickly preface this odd tale of horror and disgrace with a quick introduction. My name is Maddy Bonham, again I'm the Boneman's niece and if you were a follower of this column in years past then it's possible that you might remember me or at least some of the horrific events surrounding my strange relationship and subsequent engagement to the infamous "Jack the Mormon." These events and the sledgehammer-esque influence it's had upon my existence has forever caused me to divide my life into two very distinct periods: "AJ and BJ". Thus, in the year 3 BJ it came to pass that a proud woman thrice married and yet accompanied not by husbandry would remove her family from the wicked wastelands of Californeum and travel far to the prophesied land of Utah. I was not a Latter Day Saint (or any other kind of saint, for that matter.) I was a pretty typical California teenager – sex, drugs and rock n' roll. Okay, so I'd only gotten around to the rock n' roll part of the equation, but I was only fifteen - I was pacing myself. At the time, the extent of my knowledge about Mormons was that they were easy to make fun of - what with their bevy of braded brides sporting gingham dresses over denim pants and sneakers. (A look that, surprisingly, has yet to catch on in the fashion world). Patience ladies, your day will come.

I pretty much laid low and put in my high school years on cruise control. I "did" hang out with this one guy named Bryan whom I pretty much strung along for the purposes of transportation. He had a car and, at the time, I was "sans auto" so I let him believe we were hanging out. He was a likeable enough kid, a tad simple, to be sure, but a nice guy anyhow. He might even have passed for attractive were it not for the fact that his eyes were closer together than Hilldale and Colorado City. I was somewhat surprised to learn that Bryan was a Mormon, he certainly wasn't very good at it. Practically every Friday night he'd drink and drive me crazy with his lovesick hormonal flash floods. Occasionally he would try to kiss me, but when he'd get in close enough his eyes would superimpose into one giant, Cyclops peeper. Which would creep me out to the point that I'd grab a throw pillow and start smacking a spider I'd pretend to see. Place is crawling with 'em. Poor monkey boy – probably has arachnophobia to this day. I definitely learned to fend off the unwanted advances thanks to Bry-guy, and if he really pushed it, I knew his Achilles heel. I'd take quick visual recon to find out if his perma-chub was pointing due south, then hop to my feet, grab his hand and insist on going for a romantic moonlight stroll. Just an impulsive, free-spirited gal leading her fella into the warm summer night - get a little air. I'd wave to his parents and smile innocently, as I led him past struggling to walk erect, but scarcely managing a posture any further evolved than the third dude from the left on the monkey-to-man chart. I "did" like him though and often felt bad I guess, but I figured it could never work out anyway. As I mentioned, he was a Latter Day and I figured I'd sooner become a "Scientologist" than a Mormon. Foolish Muggle - little did I know that just around the corner lurked a tall, dark, mysterious figure and that I would soon come to the happy ending of my BJ days.

The circumstances responsible for Jack entering my life are far too complex for this volume. Let it suffice that if any of this piques your curiosity the entire Jack anthology can be found in the archives of zboneman.com, starting with an article entitled "Is This the Thanksgiving We All Die?" Following that fateful Holiday it wasn't long before my indoctrination into the Mormon way would commence and the course of my life would change dramatically. You may recall that Jack was the dangerously cute Native American hunk of Return Missionary man-god, who slid a golden promise around my finger and taught me the way of his people. Though our passion ran rampant we managed to keep a bridle on our reproductive systems and thus remained chaste - in order that we might stand worthy of an eternity together in paradise. Yet, for reasons that I may never fully comprehend, just when we'd reached the end of the Mormon trail, literally on the very threshold of celestial bliss, he asked for his ring back.

"Excuse me? Is this like . . . am I being Punk'd?" I said a lot of other words too - words that even the Independent is unwilling to print. As it turns out he was serious, it wasn't a joke or a part of the secret temple ritual. For several moments I was truly rendered mute. I guess I finally made some unintelligible grunting noises and then looked beseechingly upward past the gleaming white stone edifice toward the blue heavens from which I'd plummeted so precipitously. My arms spread with the last of my strength in search of what I could've possibly done wrong. Is this really happening? Has the pretty white building where we were to exchange our sacred vows turned into the Temple of Doom? I must have been in some sort of fugue state, because the rest of this is culled from the many eyewitness accounts. By all reports I very demurely removed the ring and placed it in his hand, spun on my heel and strode away with my head held high. My dignity and poise only slightly compromised by the fact that I turned on him like some sort of crazed, banshee crack fiend, took a few threatening steps and howled "f**king Indian Giver." Then sobbing hysterically I ran blindly across a flowerbed then stumbled, disappearing into a hedgerow of shrubs. (If you happen to be of native American heritage I mean no offense. That expression doesn't even make sense, right? I mean in light of history and so forth you'd think "whiteman giver" would be the more accurate figure of speech?) I'm hoping to toss in a nasty remark about Mexican people in the next paragraph, just so I will have insulted everyone in southern Utah.

The reasons behind Jack's change of heart cannot be satisfactorily condensed for my purposes here - I'm still not sure I fully get it. From my end I can easily relate it to that feeling we've all had when your heart is torn from your ribcage by a razor-clawed beast who then drags it behind a dirt bike at high speed through the cactus and lava rock. Right? Unlike most victims of the vagaries of Cupid's caprice, I did "not" turn to indiscriminate sex and drugs or even alcohol - not that I wouldn't have "loved" to - it's just that I couldn't muster up the will to crawl out of bed. Sleep is the opiate of dum-asses - who've placed all their eggs in love's basket only to have them smashed and scrambled on the fiery skillet of hell's kitchen. Alright enough already, that's further down that road than I intended to travel, much further. The long and short of it comes down to this: life "AJ" sucked far worse than life "BJ." (Should you be playing along with the "dirty euphemism" home game, you'll be pleased to learn that my (at that time) future husband Floyd somehow survived public schooling with the unfortunate French surname of LeTwaut. It's of little consolation that the final "t" is silent, trust me. Because then it just tumbles right over to "Menage LeTwaut." Even though the name is descendant of French aristocracy I accepted Floyd's proposal of marriage under the express written consent that he legally change the name to LeTaut. Sadly he didn't get around to it. The French word for prison is, get this - prison! Les Misrables. Thus, even though my byline reads my maiden Bonham, legally I'm a LeTwaut. Or as the ladies in the ward call me "Sister LeTwaut." I don't know how they keep a straight face. It would make a great name for a punk band, but as an everyday handle I'd rather be Pepe LePew than Maddy LeTwaut.

When I was 6 years old I had a friend who was quite the whiz on the piano and over the course of a couple of painstaking days she taught me to play most of Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata." Next thing you know I was amazing grown-ups left and right. "Oh my goodness, she's never had a single lesson, why that's incredible." My parents were sufficiently impressed to pop for lessons and in a matter of days I went from "Moonlight Sonata" to "Twinkle Twinkle Liittle Star." I think I lasted 2 weeks.

As confused as you must be right now, that little story goes a long way toward illustrating my life at the time. Since I'd shown a certain flair for composition, majoring in English seemed like a no-brainer. Yet again, as I had already written professionally, having to go back and learn all the junk about verbs and clauses and dangling participles just seemed like a run-on prison sentence to me. Similarly, when you've been on the steps of the temple with the man of your dreams, knock knock knocking on heaven's door, all the guys on campus just seemed like a vacuous collection of insipid LeTwerps. A bunch of little dangling participles with their droopy drawers - white boys pumpin' out the rap, acting all black (or as I call them "Homeyopaths").

I must have looked like some sort of confused soul myself, because I got talked into going to this stupid college kegger/toga party whatever one night and I wasn't there for 15 minutes before a girl on the volleyball team hit on me. She was tall, dark and handsome, reminded me a little of (mullet era) John Stamos except for more macho. I hate to think I looked like some sort of lezbo lookie-loo and I really didn't know what to say to her. She was big and scary and I didn't want to insult her and end up getting licked by the whole team. (transitive verb 2 - to strike repeatedly, beat up, syn., pound, thrash,). Anyway, I told her I'd sleep on it. To which she replied, "why don't you sleep ‘with' it?" Ooo ick - someone please help me. I really have no idea why fate has singled me out as such a stooge, but at this most awkward and pivotal AJ moment, who should step up to my rescue? Floyd LeTwaut. Are you beginning to see the pattern? The divine comedy taking shape, here. I really think I'm going to end up as one of fate's great patsies. You could probably get even odds in Vegas that I will eventually assassinate someone.

I suppose it's very possible that none of these disastrous events would have ever taken place if a certain volleyball player would have kept her eyes on her own work in the showers and done the stand-up thing and gone ahead and liked boys. I mean how hard could it have been? Guys are great - just look at the wondrous experiences I've had with the fellas. Goodness, where do I start? I suppose the easiest way to describe Floyd goes like this: If the Baldwins were to have a brother that even "they" were embarrassed by and didn't like to talk about – Floyd would be that brother. People used to always tell him that he looked like that Baldwin brother. Not the talented one who cusses out his daughter's answering machine, not the one in and out of jail and rehab, or the one on that new TV show Dirty, Sexy, Filthy – the one in that uh Kaiser Sozay flick - y'know suspects, Usual Suspects, there you go. You could be his twinner. It is true, he does look quite a bit like Stephen Baldwin and has that same goofy energy that occasionally passes for charm. Floyd is one of those guys who's full of all kind of big plans and schemes – mostly of the get-rich-quick variety, that he never wants to talk about. "You don't worry about that 600 dollars okay? You can worry about it when I show up driving a Jag." I'll admit I was attracted to his boundless enthusiasm – he was full of crazy stories (lies) and humorous flights of fancy (insanity) and for some unfortunate reason he was the perfect tonic for my depression. I noticed that when Floyd was around, I would forget all about Jack.

I realize that Dr. Phil would probably take a dim view of marrying someone on the sole basis that he makes you forget about an Indian, but what's a gal to do? In my heart of hearts I can't honestly say that I was ever in love with LeTwaut - it was more like being addicted to a pain killer. Love with Jack was like being on the Wild Mouse – up, down, back and forth, always getting jacked around. It was every bit as scary as it was thrilling. Floyd on the other hand was a much smoother ride - like a Demerol drip. All I could see was that Floyd was someone I could trust with my heart. Looking back it wasn't my heart that I needed to worry about. With Floyd - I really only needed to worry about everything else ... (To Be Cont.)