Bedtime Stories for Insomniacs

By Kevin Dawson

With over fifty contemporary takes on myths, legends, fairy tales, and Bible stories, "Bedtime Stories for Insomniacs" focuses primarily on human nature, socially accepted cruelty, the victim culture, pop psychology, puerile "uplift" books (if you're looking for uplift, buy a Wonderbra), the destructive downside to traditionalism, taking refuge in clichés and catchphrases as a means of avoiding reality, and the catastrophic consequences of a dumbed-down society. And the sentences are shorter than that last one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tenth Street Press
• Release date: Sep 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9780992303419

Kevin Dawson

Kevin Dawson was born in San Diego the day after Marilyn Monroe sang "Happy Birthday" to President Kennedy. Thirty-odd years later (some of those years were very odd), he began compiling "Bedtime Stories for Insomniacs." Not much happened during the time in between.

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FOREWORD

- or, Oh my God, not another mess of fairy tale parodies.

Well, yeah, you might say that. The thing is, as the steady stream of unscripted television programs indicates, all the stories worth telling seem already to have been told. Which may explain why amateur video footage of college-aged youngsters snorting condoms on YouTube will attract a viewership that would startle the Nielsen tabulators.

Anyone who has ever taken a writing class probably has heard, along with the self-defeating advice Write What You Know, that there are only five plots extant; and that every story ever written or told is a variant of one of the big five (some people say there are seven basic plots, but this is a very small book), the most famous examples of which--for the benefit of people who took more lucrative majors in college--are:

1. Cinderella (Humble drudge is exalted by supernatural means)

2. A Christmas Carol (Sinner is redeemed via unsettling images of his life path)

3. Romeo and Juliet (Teenage lovers make nasty to the consternation of their feuding families)

4. The New Testament (Young rebel is martyred for challenging the status quo)

I forget what number 5 is; it’s been too long since college. Something by the Brontës or Dumas, maybe. Or Stephen King.

Nothing like the classics to convince you that all the good stuff has been said by now, is there? Human relationships, for a long time the stuff of poetry and country western songs, today are a simple matter of deleting the offending party from one’s social networking app; larger issues, of course, may call for a preemptive strike or advanced interrogation techniques.

But it cannot be denied how far we’ve come from the days when life’s little puzzles—red or blue, paper or plastic, briefs or boxers, trick or treat; all of which tended to work themselves out in one manner or another anyway--were handled with the tedium of thought. Literature has gone the way of other outmoded nuisances like carbon paper, girdles, and the Iron Curtain. And while chronicling one’s life experiences is almost as old as life itself, there used to be a space of time between the actual experiences and one’s written impression of them. Now you lose points if you can’t provide the universe with an instant on-the-scene Tweet. That’s progress.

As for human creativity, in today’s leaner, meaner times, it goes where it is most needed: toward the design of new Google Doodles.

Something else you used to hear in writing class--along with Do you have a pen I can borrow?--is Avoid Run-on Sentences. Check out the whoppers in the previous paragraphs, a couple of which are single sentences. It just goes to show you that it’s hard to know whom to trust these days, and that’s where these stories come from.

Buttock Covering

It should go without saying but I’ll say it anyway that these fairy tales are works of fiction. Any similarity between the dramatis personae populating the following pages and actual human beings is, like human existence itself, genetic accident. Honest. Cartoonists get this a lot, just ask one: they create a character, and suddenly eight people want to know "Is that supposed to be me?"

INSIDE HANS CHRISTIAN BRANDO

Hans Christian Brando, whose stories these are, is no relation or kin to the late actor Marlon Brando (Sayonara, The Chase) or his late son who bore a strikingly similar but purely coincidental name. You’d be surprised how many ordinary mortals happen to have celebrated or otherwise familiar surnames like Sinatra or Obama or Toshiba or Dawson. About the only thing Hans Christian has in common with the more famous elder Brando is that in middle school he was known by his classmates as Mumbles. When asked about his name, Hans Christian Brando once replied, Yeah, right. Let’s see Lady Gaga’s birth certificate!

Hans Christian Brando is nine years old, having been born on February 29.

Dedication:

To the 1984-85 Los Angeles cast, crew, and pianist of the stage musical La Cage aux Folles; for removing a thorn from the author’s paw once.

THE THREE LITTLE PIGS

A true fairy story by Hans Christian Brando

Once upon a time, back when you bought an electronic machine and were not expected to buy an updated version of it every six months or so thereafter, lived three little pigs in a brick residence belonging to the oldest pig. The other two claimed that a wolf had blown their houses down; but the oldest pig guessed that the younger of his brothers, who smoked because he thought it made him look cool, had accidentally burnt his straw house down; and that his other brother, who had a small stick cottage by the beach, simply couldn’t keep up the payments (and Fannie Mae was no help; Refi Fo Fum bought him some time, but cost him in the long run). So the oldest pig invited his brothers to stay with him, because that was what Mom and Dad would have wanted.

Unfortunately, the pigs still had some unresolved sibling issues, and they bickered constantly.

Look, I don’t ask for much around here, the oldest pig said one morning, but I should think that you two could try to keep this house kind of clean while I’m at work.

I’m not the maid, bro, the youngest pig said. I’m a musician. He uploaded an mp3 file onto his cell to prove it.

Yeah, the middle pig said, plucking some notes on a digital keyboard. We’re getting together a band, man.

Oh, come on, the oldest pig said, You’ve been saying that for years. Why don’t you two just get jobs?

Hey, who do you think took care of Mom and Dad while Mr. Big Pig went off to college?

At least I had the grades to get into college.

That’s right, throw it up in our faces. We’re stupid, right?

I didn’t say that.

And we never do anything right. So why should we do anything?

The oldest pig looked at his watch and got up from the breakfast table. Look, we’re gonna have to pick this up tonight. I’m late for work.

Later, wage slave, the youngest pig said. The oldest pig choked down a caustic reply and slammed out the door.

That night, the oldest pig returned home from work and couldn’t find his key. He knew his brothers were home because, as usual, VH1 was blaring away. Pounding on the door, he shouted, Open the door, you guys. It’s me! From inside, the older of his brothers called back, Not by the hair of my goaty-goatee. Yeah, the younger one said. We’ve had enough of your bad vibes. Come back when you lighten up."

In a fury the oldest pig stomped off. His brothers, peeking through the blinds, watched this and then gave each other fist bumps. The oldest pig stopped at a nearby phone booth and called a big bad wolf. Look, there are two fat little pigs in the brick house near the forest. If you can figure out a way to get in, you can have them, he said, wondering if his brothers knew the lock on the back door didn’t always work.

ALTERNATE ENDING (for the DVD)

In a fury the oldest pig stomped off. His brothers, peeking through the blinds, watched this and then gave each other fist bumps. The clouds parted, giving way to a bright full moon. The oldest pig shed his skin, revealing a hairy, sinewy body. His snout lengthened and his teeth became fangs. He gave a mighty howl and stalked silently back toward the house on four padded, clawed feet, wondering if his brothers knew the lock on the back door didn’t always work.

GOLDILOCKS AND THE THREE BEARS

Once upon a time, back when couples could still sit together on an airplane without paying extra, a little girl named Goldilocks, whose mother sent her outside to go find some non-Facebook friends to interface with, went for a walk and entered, uninvited, a house belonging to three bears.

After helping herself to three helpings of oat bran porridge—in varying degrees of suitability, the third being just right--she wandered into the den, which is what bears call their media room. Selecting one just right chair from three, Goldilocks turned on the bears’ video player and watched three movies in an archaic non-digital format called videotape on a television monitor that was gently rounded in front, only slightly rectangular dimensionally, and had a big wide behind, but it still worked. Many years later, as a trivia student in college, Goldilocks learned that the generous rear shelf was due to a once-common condition among televisions known as Picture Tube. The bears seemed to find a fully functional though not the latest version appliance worth keeping; bears tended to be like that.

Papa Bear’s movie was too full of violence and sex for such a little girl; part of it was accidentally taped over with an NSI rerun anyway. Mama Bear’s movie was the KleenFlix--whose motto was Nothing Censored, Nothing Gained--version of Papa Bear's movie; it amused Goldilocks to watch an actor clearly mouthing the words You goddamn motherfucking piece of shit! and hear You dirty jerk! in a slightly different voice than the actor’s, digitally stretched to fit the mouth movement. Baby Bear’s movie was the sequel to last year’s sequel to the previous year’s sleeper hit, featuring a beguilingly untalented handsome young male star and lots of special effects. That was just right.

Tiring of the movies, Goldilocks turned her attention to the bears’ sound system and selected three CDs to listen to. Among the recordings she found several large, brightly colored envelopes containing large, brittle black discs. From a Facebook acquaintance known as VinylRox, who it turned out had nothing more in common with Goldilocks than the fact that their names rhymed (and LTRs had started on less than that), Goldilocks knew that these were called EllPees: music was produced by placing them on a rotating turntable and scraping a tiny pointy thing against them. At the moment Goldilocks couldn’t figure out how the primitive-looking things worked: there was no eject drawer large enough to insert the EllPees into. Deciding to defriend VinylRox when she had a minute, Goldilocks considered the three CD: one for each Bear, she guessed.

Papa Bear’s CD was a prime example of how bears, like white people, were not meant to rap. Mama Bear’s was a reissue of the original cast recording of a 1958 musical play written by Walter and Jean Kerr. Goldilocks liked the title but not the score very much, so she put on Baby Bear’s CD, which B.B. had personally burned off the internet: the most recent release from [fill in boy band du jour; update as needed]. To Goldilocks, whose mother in her own youth had worn razor blade earrings and listened to things called Yeast Infection and Corpse Goo--on cassette, yet--and knew very little about contemporary music, that was just right. She marked two or three tracks to download to her iPod when she got home. (Goldilocks had learned to work fast in acquiring music digitally when her last-year’s birthday present Napster gift card became void after Napster became Rhapsody.)

Briefly surveying the house for three improbably left behind cell phones, which Goldilocks correctly guessed would have three separate ring tones, she trudged upstairs to check out the bedrooms. Having found Baby Bear’s bed just right, owing to the [fill in cartoon character du jour; update as needed, though SpongeBob seems to be hanging in there] sheets adorning it, Goldilocks lay down and took a nap.

Not long afterward, the three bears returned from an unproductive afternoon spent in line. Having gone out for Cronuts to get the taste of that damn oat bran porridge out of their mouths, somehow they found themselves instead en route to an Apple store where a queue of eager consumers impatiently waited for their chance to purchase a device they already owned. By the time the bears had realized their mistake and gotten into the correct line, the Cronut place had closed; the people still in line, including two minor celebrities, were waiting for the next day.

Their bad tempers exacerbated by the damage they found downstairs (Baby Bear actually didn’t give a shit, but he was still pissed about not getting a Cronut), the bears ran upstairs and found a little girl in bed. Goldilocks immediately woke up and screamed.

Her parents filed molestation charges against the Bear family, who because of what was later termed Goldilocks’ Law, were subsequently forced to register as bears. Fortunately for them, however, the lengthy, costly trial resulted in a hung jury. They bought a pit bull terrier for the front yard and lived happily ever.

CINDERELLA

Once upon a time, in a land outside the range of your cell so don’t even bother, a young girl named Cinderella found herself attending a royal ball she had not been invited to, wearing an outfit she did not own. Protocol having become less of a consideration in an increasingly proletarian society, this did not cause the stir it might have in previous years. Dress code was virtually nonexistent.

Many of the young males in attendance, having been brought up at a time long past when inadvertent glimpses of undergarments inspired boasts of having seen London and France, wore loose-fitting blue jeans slung very low; fashion statement Kiss [or Kick, depending on the demeanor of the wearer] my ass. Others affected the Thom Browne look: ill-fitting gray jackets and matching too-tight shorts, with knee socks; fashion statement Please beat me up. Several naïve young men seemed unaware that the fashion statement of polo shirts tucked into belted khakis had evolved from Preppy to Best Buy Clerk. The prevailing female fashion statement was I’ll wear anything Mom tells me not to. A handful of guests were done up sedately in dark suits and long gowns; fashion statement I’m a grownup.

Cinderella’s attire was unexceptional except for the glittering shoes which seemed to be made of Waterford crystal and were accordingly painful. Her claim that a fairy had helped her dress for the evening brought on some laughter and one or two snarky references to Project Runway among young maidens dressed essentially like female drag queens and young lads who, like game show hosts, confused the 1930s movie gangster look with sophistication. But she had not escaped the attention of the handsome young Prince in whose honor the ball had been thrown in the first place. Neither wanting to dance, they sat out a set (both agreed that the band sucked) and talked: Cinderella telling the Prince about how rotten her stepfamily was to her, the Prince regaling Cinderella with all the problems you have when you’re young and good-looking and charming and privileged.

Cinderella, still young enough to fear the wrath of her stepfamily if she were to stay out too late, made a point of being out of there by midnight, when some of the more fashionable guests were only just arriving. Making her excuses, again she mentioned the fairy and something about a pumpkin; the music was too loud to hear much anyway. The Prince, finding the ball on the lame side, withdrew shortly afterward. A day or so later, in the manner of Hollywood meet-cutes, Cinderella again encountered the Prince, who vaguely remembered the peasant chick in the funky glass shoes at the ball. They became engaged and were married that spring, and they lived happily ever after for quite a while.

In time, however, Cinderella began to feel there was more to life than being Mrs. Handsome Prince and swishing around the castle in Paris Hilton’s hand-me-downs. The Prince became alarmed by the potential bad publicity in having a wife with a personality disorder; not only was this a less enlightened time, when emotional distress had not yet attained the status it acquired later, but it was an election year. On the advice of Cinderella’s life coach, who it turned out was the fairy Cinderella mentioned once or twice at the ball, the Prince formed a production company to sponsor Cinderella’s career so that she might have her own identity.

Cinderella, whose real father was rumored to be country legend Jake Idaho, who, like all the pop/country greats, died prematurely in a plane crash, put on a blonde wig and became a popular chanteuse named Cinderella Pocatella. What she lacked in genuine vocal skill she more than made up for in simple peasant naiveté, blinding onstage laser effects, and a near-naked backup chorus. At last! cried the village papers. A star for the People! Cinderella Pocatella did guest appearances on female-oriented interview shows, infomercials, a guest spot on Glee (as an exchange student who had, you’ll never guess,