The Art of Men [I Prefer Mine al Dente]

by Kirstie Alley

  —ÉMILE ZOLA

  The Art of

  Monkeys

  MY GRANDFATHER admired and encouraged my wild ideas. He embraced them and validated their existence. He allowed me to be an artist. He also contributed to my art by joining in and helping me achieve my wacky dreams. He went along with my eccentric idea of owning many monkeys by volunteering to buy my first one when I turned eight.

  He helped me put salt on sparrows’ tails until I actually caught one. He never smashed my dreams.

  He applauded the little beautiful things I created. The bouquets of flowers I picked for him. The May baskets I cut from construction paper and filled with posies and candy. The way I combed his hair for hours sitting on his lap—all forward, swooped to the side, slicked back, swirled around his head, or waxed standing straight up into the air. He complimented each hairstyle.

  Out of 26 grandchildren, I was his favorite.

  He bought me the most beautiful dolls. My dad had to tell my grandfather, “Dad, she is not your only grandchild. I have two more of ’em at home. You can’t buy her all these things and not buy them for the other kids. It makes them jealous.”

  My grandfather responded by saying, “By God! It’s my money, and by God, I’ll buy her whatever the hell I want to.” Perhaps you see where I got my attitude. That was that, and, of course, the following Christmas I got a doll that was three feet tall and wore a bright red dress. The other grandchildren got tops.

  Although I only knew him for seven years, he gave me enough inspiration to last a lifetime.

  He taught me to turn darkness into light, and later in my life I turned drug money into flowers, to remind me of bad being changed to good and to remind me of him.

  I now spend the same money that I used to spend weekly on drugs, approximately $400, to buy flowers for my home or to send to people I love. To this day, every time I see a sparrow I think of my grandfather and me, out in his yard, armed with tiny Morton saltshakers, attempting to put salt on the tails of sparrows, just for the opportunity of holding one in our hands.

  When my grandfather left this world, I spoke to him every night. I felt his strong presence in my room for almost a year. When I could no longer perceive him, I tried writing him letters and burning them in the bathroom sink. Somehow I thought the smoke would carry my messages to him wherever he was.

  I will never forget my grandfather and the magical way he reinforced who I really am. He helped me realize that dreams are reality, not the other way around.

  He never had the opportunity to buy me a monkey, as he died when I was seven. I have a fleet of lemurs now, and not a day goes by that they don’t remind me of my grandfather, Clifford William Alley. I named my son after him, William True Parker.

  People always ask me how I maintain such a beautiful life, and I always answer, “Through my grandfather.”

  I shudder at the thought of men . . . I’m due to fall in love again.

  —DOROTHY PARKER

  The Art of

  Sticks

  I TOOK MY first lover when I was five. We had moved from a tiny house on Estelle Street in Wichita, Kansas, to a modest trilevel house on Bellaire Street. Although the “upstairs” of the cedar-and-brick house was only seven steps up, I would gaze for hours out the window as if I were positioned high above the magnolias at Tara. It was from this crow’s nest that I spotted lover number one: Henry, a handsome chap who shared the date of my birth. He wasn’t younger or older; he was of “neutral” age to me. Henry and I began our affair by leaping off the roof of Tara. We held tea towels above our heads, holding the four corners together to fashion parachutes. Although they did little to break our falls, they somehow ensured we broke nothing important.

  Henry had green eyes like mine, and had a green tent in his backyard. It was the tent that beckoned us to take shelter during a rainstorm and gave us the refuge we needed to “get busy.” Since we were both inexperienced lovers, we had to get creative with our sex tools . . . I chose a stick.

  It was riveting to poke his wiener with my stick, and although I was only five, I was bright enough to know that flesh touching flesh was taboo. But stick-to-flesh? That was acceptable. Repeated stick touching proved effective for his arousal as I noticed he grew from tiny to sorta tiny. In fact, the gesture worked like clockwork: tiny . . . stick touch . . . sorta tiny . . . tiny . . . stick touch . . . sorta tiny.

  In and out his wiener would go, and it was then it dawned on me: I was in full control of Henry’s wiener! An enormous sense of well-being surged through my veins like some strange fever. The power of sexual domination flooded over me. Henry was under my stick’s control. I had to refrain from throwing back my tiny head and laughing maniacally. Then he attempted to put a stick in my bottom, but I made it clear from the get-go that I would maintain a stickless bottom . . . I didn’t like it then, and don’t like it now. Sort of a standing policy of mine all these years: no objects allowed in my ass.

  When my mother rang the dinner bell, it ended that day’s work. It’s amazing how even children know getting jiggy in a sexual fashion will be frowned upon by adults, but no one ever told me not to stick sticks on dudes’ penises. As I grabbed my shorts and headed out of the tent, I told Henry that I would return the next day. I felt confident knowing I could holler at Henry any day at any time and he would come panting like a lovesick puppy.

  Ahhh, this was the moment I realized I could manipulate men . . . with sticks.

  Live a good life. If there are gods and they are just, then they will not care how devout you have been but will welcome you based on the virtues you have lived by. If there are gods, but unjust, then you should not want to worship them. If there are no gods, then you will be gone but will have lived a noble life that will live on in the memories of your loved ones.

  —MARCUS AURELIUS

  The Art of

  Wielding a Hammer

  THERE ARE these men in Kansas. They are quiet, unsung, heroic men. They had a profound influence on me when I was a child and I’ve carried their influence with me into adulthood. These men are called Mennonites.

  I have no idea or profess to know any details of what Mennonites believe in, and I could frankly care less. They dress similar to the Amish people, and travel sometimes in horse-and-buggies. The men seem to have beards and the women wear ankle-length dresses and they sort of stay to themselves. What I can say about them is that they are the most uniquely helpful and generous people I have observed.

  Growing up in Kansas meant witnessing the aftermath of devastating damage and loss of life caused by tornadoes. When I was around eight, there was a catastrophic tornado in Udall, Kansas. My parents took us kids to see the damage the day after. The town was basically leveled, and people were staggering around in a daze like haunted zombies. The confusion is massive after a tornado hits, as people have lost everything. I saw the body of a dead woman wrapped around a claw-foot bathtub in the rubble. There was an eerie silence that prevailed, except for the sound of hammers hitting wood. A little in the distance were the Mennonites, about eight men total. They had begun rebuilding a barn. Not for themselves, but for a family who had lost theirs in the tornado. The family hadn’t called them or hired them or invited them. They just showed up, which is their MO.

  The Mennonite men were quietly, professionally raising a barn, right before our eyes. Their Mennonite wives were serving food to people, homemade, delicious food consisting of shepherd’s pie and cherry pie. They were quiet people. They just went about their job of resurrecting a town one barn by one house by one meal. I asked my dad, “Who are those people?”

  He said, “They are Mennonites. When bad things happen they just appear and help people out.”

  It was my “come to Jesus” moment, without Jesus. I started crying, I couldn’t believe there were people like that who appear out of nowhere and just help. They didn’t look haunted or frazzled, confused or dazed, like the rest of the people milling around the aftermath. They looked confident. They smiled
sweetly and respectfully as they served people meals. They took care of the ones who had lost their homes, their family members, and their livestock.

  I made a mental, age-eight note: Mennonites are good people. I like them. I hope if anything ever happens in Wichita, they come to help.

  Throughout my adult life doing my own charity work with my own church group, the Scientology Volunteer Ministers, I have encountered the Mennonites. Two days after the devastating Greensburg, Kansas, tornado, which obliterated an entire town, I flew in with my group to offer help. As we provided ice, food, clothing, and basic amenities, I could see the Mennonites with their now heavy equipment off in the distance, clearing mangled trees and the shredded remains of houses and farm buildings. It gave me strength to comfort the people who had lost everything as they formed a line in front of me to tell me their own personal tragedies.

  We stayed in Greensburg for a few days, doing whatever was needed. Sometimes I hear people degrade religions or the people in those religions. Okay, who am I fooling, it’s rampant. But let me tell you this: if you’ve spent much time in disaster zones, you know all too well it is the religious groups who swoop in to help. In Greensburg, for example, it was the Baptists preparing and serving most of the food. It was Catholic Services trucking in clothes. You had us, the Scientologists, importing literally tons of ice to keep the National Guard and other relief workers from roasting to death. And of course the Mennonites working tirelessly to clear the land to make room for new growth. In Greensburg, as in all disaster zones, the goal is to restore hope and life to those areas. No one cared that the cup of ice I handed them or the new baby clothes we gave them came from Scientologists. They were just grateful to have them. And I never gave a thought to what religious group was feeding us or holding the hand of a mother who had just lost a child, other than thank god that person showed up to hold her hand.

  The Mennonites lit the fuse for me. They taught me charity, humanity, and contribution. They proved to me that any help is better than none and that religion actually has nothing and everything to do with how you help your fellow man.

  The Mennonite men in particular taught me that the quiet rebuilding of a human life can begin with something as simple as a hammer and a nail.

  Creativity takes courage.

  —HENRI MATISSE

  The Art of

  Heroes

  MY BROTHER, Craig, is four years younger than I am, or is it three? I’ll opt for three because it makes me feel more youthful. Craig was a little guy growing up. He was smallish in stature and was easily intimidated by people, including our mother.

  When we grew up in Wichita, we weren’t allowed to go to kindergarten until we were five. Some weird equation was in place, like if you were turning five within that year, you could attend, so Craig started kindergarten at age four. My birthday is in January, so I was almost six when I started. I never quite understood the equation, and I still don’t. There’s a BIG difference between a four-year-old and a six-year-old, especially with boys. I’ve always felt Craig started school too young, and I think it had a profound effect on his development. You may already be able to see that I feel an overwhelming compulsion to always keep my little brother out of harm’s way. Craig wasn’t a wallflower or anything, he was just so innocent and naive, so easily frightened, and on occasion he did some strange things to keep people from finding that out.

  One Friday night, when I was around 12, I got a phone call while staying overnight at my best friend Becky’s house. It was Collette, my sister.

  “Kirstie, did you leave the iron on before you left tonight?” she asked.

  I panicked. I knew I turned the iron off right before I left for Becky’s house . . . didn’t I? But . . .

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because the house almost burned down . . . we had a big blaze and the fire detectives are here!!” she blurted out.

  Fire detectives???? What the hell are fire detectives?? My heart was pounding . . . DID I leave the iron on? HAD I been the cause of almost burning down the house?! HAD my sister told the fire detectives that I’d borrowed her pink Lady Van Heusen blouse without asking, ironed it, then intentionally left the iron on intending to burn down the house so that she would stop screaming at me for borrowing her stuff without asking??

  “NO, COLLETTE!! I didn’t LEAVE THE IRON ON!!!!!!” When in doubt of your guilt, YELL REALLY LOUD so that everyone will believe in your innocence!

  Lucky for me, it turned out that Craig had been terrified to be left alone in the house but didn’t want anyone to know, so he contrived a swell plan.

  He took Mingo, my mom’s Maltese, up to the attic and started a small fire. His reasoning was that he would quickly call a neighbor and tell them he smelled smoke. The neighbor would then rush over to find the source. After they found the “small” smolder in the attic, they would put it out and then say, “Craig, this fire must have been started by some electrical malfunction. You aren’t safe here! You’d better come next door and stay with us until your folks get home . . . and Craig, great job spotting the fire, the whole house could have burned down. Your mom and dad will be so proud of you. You’re a HERO!”

  That’s the way Craig saw the scene unfolding. That was his bright idea. He lit the match, but there was no smoldering. The flames began immediately. He freaked out, grabbed Mingo, and climbed down the ladder of the attic. He bolted next door to the neighbors claiming, “THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE!!!” Of course he pretended he had no idea how it started.

  But the fire detectives did. It took them about five minutes after the fire was extinguished to find the exact point of the flash. They knew the fire began with a match, and they knew it was started intentionally. My sister, of course, didn’t find it necessary to call me and tell me that I hadn’t started the fire, so I spent the night in terror of going to jail for arson. When I found out the arsonist was my little brother, I had mixed emotions ranging from sympathy to fear that he might end up a serial killer. I knew from this point on that I had to do more to protect him . . . especially from himself.

  One time my mother was going to spank him, so I came swooping in with a flourish. “NO!!!! Don’t spank him! I did it, I DID it!!! Spank ME!! Spank me instead of Craig!”

  This made my mother furious, so she spanked us both.

  Another time my sister wrapped Craig and his friend Stewart in strips of white sheets, like mummies, and then pushed them down so they couldn’t move. I had to intervene and throw a rubber knife at her back and hit her with an empty milk jug until she gave in and untied them.

  I not only protected my little brother; I gave him all sorts of opportunities. In fact, I gave him his first business opportunity when he was around six. I charged girls in the neighborhood 15 cents to see his dick. I positioned him in my upstairs bedroom, brought the johns up to my room, closed the door, and commanded him to drop his pants. He did as I asked, and the girls glanced ever so quickly at his wiener. No touching, just witnessing it, and only for about 15 seconds. They paid the 15 cents, one dime and one nickel. I kept the dime and gave Craig the nickel because it was bigger than the dime, and he thought it was worth more . . . because I had told him it was.

  Word spread, and we made more in that one day than we would have pulling weeds for a week. We would have continued the enterprise, but I figured it was only a matter of time before our operation got busted, and god knows what the punishment for pimping would have resulted in.

  Our mother was a tough cookie. She was verbally crushing and prone to spanking with rulers, yardsticks, flyswatters, and belts. Tragically, my dad owned a lumber company, so we had plenty of Alley Lumber Company yardsticks in the house. She was the queen of the backhand. Her hands were skinny and bony. She was only five foot two but packed a mighty slap in the mouth. My brother was her favorite, which isn’t saying much. It paid off later in his life, but she was as demeaning and relentless to him as she had been to my sister and me. My mother was witty, intelligent, and funny, but with no w
arning or provocation she could flip out and scream so viciously it rendered her prey paralyzed. I could see clearly what she was doing to my brother. She was introverting him, belittling him, making him into a victim. My sister, Collette, was defiant with the “I HATE YOUs!!” she would scream right in my mother’s face. My mother would backhand her again, and Collette would get this deranged look in her eyes and yell, “I REALLY HATE YOU!!” WHACK!! Wow!! She would never back down!

  I was the second child, usually the peacemaker. My way of keeping the peace was to duck. My lifelong friend Eric and I have a routine we’ve done since childhood. He plays my mother, and the second his backhanding hand rises above his waist, I duck! Ahhh, we never tire of this ridiculous impersonation of my mother.

  Our lives went on like this with our mom. My brother was so cute when he was little that anyone with a heart would have eagerly volunteered to protect him. My dad never knew these things were going on, as my mom didn’t let him see that side of her, and we were too afraid to rat her out because of what she might have done when he went to work the next day and we were left alone with her.

  Protecting Craig became my self-appointed job. I always had an eye on my brother and would intervene between him and my mom when necessary.

  As Craig got older, he began to gain confidence. One night after school when I was 16, my mother and I were having an argument in the kitchen. She was accusing me of being a whore, something she seemed obsessed with. I was indeed not slutty or a whore, and in fact I was a virgin. We were really going at it.

  “I KNOW WHAT YOU WERE DOING LAST NIGHT!!!!!” she screamed. “You know what we call girls who do what you did?? We call them WHORES!!”

  “Mother! I didn’t do anything! I didn’t have sex! I didn’t do ANYTHING!!”