You really know when you’ve taken a wrong turn when you win a personalized, whatever that means, three inch in diameter tattoo.
Me, of all people, who hate them. Apparently I entered a raffle, unbeknownst to me, when I bought skull socks at a store in Soho. I got them for a friend, to be funny, who was down in the dumps. My note read…see, things could be worse…you could have modeled for these.
I do not want a tattoo…I don’t even want socks, but it got me thinking. I’ve never won anything in my life except a canary at the Danbury State Fair when I was nine that died in the car before I got home. No, I did not make that up. Then I could legitimately leave my brain to science.
How could I forget such a thing I was so devastated by.
“They’re mass produced,” I remember my father saying burying the poor bird in the backyard next to Mugs the cat. “Can’t trust these carnivals…even the beer tasted funny.” And he should know having his first one every morning with an English Muffin.
I’m just not very lucky by nature.
I never even find pennies on the street, and if I do Lincoln is always face down. I was taught unless Abe was looking at you it was a curse to pick one up.
Being raised Italian can be rough.
When I was in high school they had a silent auction every year when some rich girl’s father always donated a new Chevrolet. My dad, who wasn’t so lucky either, would buy a hundred tickets but the only thing he ever won was a set of screens. No wonder he drank. Can’t drive one of those. I guess this is why one never hears the expression, the luck of the Polish…yes, I’m half Polish…Bianchi is a stage name.
Another time I entered a beauty pageant, Miss Italian Community Center, and didn’t even make the finals. It could have been the fuchsia one-piece my mother made me wear. She said color would make me stand out. I’ll say. Personally I think all it did was blind the judges who only saw a big, rosy giant up on stage. I was bigger than the other girls and quite a bit wider and if I told you my special talent was hula-hooping then you might understand why I lost.
In our house where there was a will (in case you had an accident) there was a way, even if you made a fool of yourself. Like my mother used to say, “So what…who’s gonna remember your skirt fell off?”
Just me, on that shrink’s couch for the next forty years.
I suppose the upside of that was my willingness throughout my life to make an ass out of myself to get a job.
I got a part in a movie once because I had to fall in the audition. All the other models refused…said it was undignified. So was debtor’s prison…I had no problem and booked the job. The film is called Quick Change with Geena Davis and Bill Murray. I was such a baby.
But back to my tattoo. I felt totally legit asking if I could just have the cash and wondered why Ike the Spike got mad at me. “So uncuul,” he said, “reelee lay-dee, so un-cuul.”
Fuck you Ike. If I won fair and square then that tattoo should be negotiable.
I should at least be able to give it to a friend.
but no such luck.