Why are men like horses?

Men are more scared of being "corralled" by a woman than of traffic accidents, terrorism or assaults in the street. Men, like horses, consider themselves "prey animals", especially when a woman is involved.

Like horses, men don't realize their own strength.

When a man likes a woman, he will do everything to avoid her knowing it. Like a horse, he will put up a mighty show of independence no matter what his true feelings are. His show of "independence" is a mask for his fear of being "corralled".

Examples:

I'll call you if I feel like it. (Refusal to make any commitment to call or see a woman after the first happy date or good conversation.)

 

I'm really busy this week. So if I don't call, don't take it personally. (A man's schedule has more escape hatches than the Space Shuttle.)

I got tired after work, so I didn't call. (The numerous times this excuse is used gives the impression that every man over twenty is ready for the rest home, or is working twenty-four hours a day.)

Like horses, men may or may not wear shoes.

Like horses, cleaning their living spaces is something they prefer other people to do.

Like horses, men like eating and sleeping best.

Like horses, men prefer other people to clean and style their hair and nails, and select their clothes.

Like horses, men's body language is often more truthful than their words.

Like horses, men can be kind, sensitive, lazy and defensive... all at once.

 

 

Model of the Year

This play has been performed and produced in Berkeley and San Francisco several times, most recently in 2007 at the Marsh Theatre.

TIME: The present

 CHARACTERS:

                                 Juniper Gaye
A fashion model. Late twenties. Truly beautiful. Dressed for dignity and not seduction.

                      
                         People in the Audience
Men and women in the entertainment and fashion industries. Flamboyantly dressed and often underdressed, ranging in behavior from indifference to drunken rudeness. They are of varying ages and degrees of intoxication from a wide variety of drugs and alcohol.

Dedication:
to the beloved memories of Gia Marie Carangi

and JonBenet Ramsey

and many others

 

 

 

 

 

(A MICROPHONE STANDS ON A BARE NIGHTCLUB STAGE, WHICH HAS AS A BACKDROP A SIGN IN GLITTERING LIGHTS, “MODEL OF THE YEAR AWARDS -- 20__”. JERRY COLE ENTERS TO BRIGHT LIGHTS, CAMERAS AND AN ORCHESTRA FANFARE WHICH SLIDES DOWNWARD ON THE LAST NOTE. THROUGHOUT THE AUDIENCE ARE SCATTERED MEN AND WOMEN WHO LAUGH, GOSSIP EVEN LOUDER AND SOMETIMES HARASS THE PEOPLE ON STAGE AND EACH OTHER.)

 

COLE:
Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Jerry Cole.

(SILENCE)

You all know me -- I mean, does the oldest sex symbol in America need an intro?

WOMAN IN AUDIENCE (standing up and screaming):

Only to me. I’m his wife.

(FANFARE. APPLAUSE.)

COLE:
I feel like a liberal in the Lincoln Bedroom (NO RESPONSE) -- an illiterate at the library--

DRUNK IN AUDIENCE:
You should! You have to memorize your own cue cards, you dumb son-of-a-

(GIGGLING FRIENDS PULL HIM TO HIS SEAT.)

COLE (to drunk):
That’s because you write them drunk, Harry.

(FANFARE. APPLAUSE.)

But, seriously, you cocaine snorting, ass-kissing bunch of cannibals, it gives me great pleasure (CHECKING HIS FLY) in a number of ways to present this year’s Model of the Year award to the only four-time winner in history, Juniper Gaye!

(FANFARE. ENTER JUNIPER. THE CROWD APPLAUDS. JERRY COLE SITS ONSTAGE AFTER HANDING HER THE AWARD, A PLAQUE AND A CHECK.)

JERRY COLE:
That’s as much as you make in a ... week, folks! But she’s not freebasing or shooting up, so you know she’s gonna keep it!

(THEY LAUGH. JUNIPER STEPS UP TO THE MICROPHONE; JERRY PRETENDS TO GRAB IT AWAY; SHE JUST STARES AT HIM. HE HANDS IT BACK TO HER.)

JUNIPER GAYE:
Thank you, Jerry, ladies and gentlemen. I don’t know what to say-- I never thought I’d be standing here at twenty nine.

DRUNK IN AUDIENCE:
Neither did I: you started popping wrinkles two years ago. I wonder where besides your face...

JUNIPER:
I started modeling when I was three. And while I haven’t remained three like some of you, I’m still a model. Model of the Year. Lots of covers, commercials, special appearances for USO-- management can’t mind those, but have you ever appeared in a bikini in front of ten thousand GI’s in a sandstorm in Iraq screaming, “Strip! Strip!”

(THE AUDIENCE LAUGHS UNCOMFORTABLY.)

But when I ask to visit kids at Cedars-Sinai-- that has lower publicity value -- my manager checks his schedule. His, not mine. (SPITTING IT OUT ALL OVER JERRY) And his bank balance.

(SHORT PAUSE)

But tonight I feel almost free -- I have less makeup on than Jon Benet.

JERRY (laughing at his own sick joke):
Dead or alive, sweetheart?

(A FREEZING STARE FROM JUNIPER; JERRY CHOKES ON HIS OWN LAUGHTER.)

JUNIPER:
I was born with a face the camera could eat and spit out looking cute. Instead of an umbilical cord, I was bound to my mother by a face. My mother. When I was six and got turned down at a cattle call for a Bullock’s ad, and I was crying: “Why do I have to do this?” (MIMICKING HER MOTHER’S VOICE) “Without your own money, you’re a slave. So you might as well be a high-priced one. That’s why we’re here. Now shut up; I gotta phone your father to make dinner.” He’d popped in the roast and split for Cozumel.

(SHORT PAUSE)

Slavery. Grandma told Ma, “She’ll make you a million by the time she’s twelve.” I was pushed down every runway in California, tutors teaching me between takes and ogling when the cameras flashed. Did they want to be me? I get letters from people who would kill for that.

JERRY (wanting her to shut up):
Come on, kid; we’re almost at commercial--

JUNIPER:
I thought I was the commercial. (SHORT PAUSE)To kill somebody means you get to take their place. I thought wrinkles were the worst assassins... in a couple more years I’ll be the richest unemployed person on the planet and the newest joke for Jerry. Hey, you know my letters used to ask advice? About sex, romance? I once wished I could be a social worker for my fans. Now every time I do a cover I get death threats, terrorist threats, real terrorist threats by -- get this -- the FF. The Fucked Feminists. Some maniac even sends me a cassette along with her underground press columns denouncing me because I’m “degrading other women”.

(JUNIPER HOLDS UP THE CASSETTE TAPE RECORDER.)

Any of you know this voice? Any of you want to get famous this bad?

(SHE PRESSES THE PLAY BUTTON. A WOMAN WITH A POWERFUL BUT CRACKING VOICE SINGS)

“I can’t make love to you/So I watch you every night/Through my rifle sight...”

(SHORT PAUSE)

She says she’s fat, with two useless degrees. I never went to school; I never ate a full meal; a period to me was like a broken arm and in a couple more years it won’t even matter. Twenty five is old to you editors, casting directors -- you’re a bunch of pedophiles! Like the Nazis separating the ready-to-be gassed from the let’s-work-’em-to-death-first. I’m more scared of being old than being dead!

JERRY COLE:
Me, too, kid.

DRUNK IN AUDIENCE:
Shut her up!

JERRY COLE:
I’ll shut you up! (TO JUNIPER) Juniper, they don’t... they don’t deserve you, and this may be dangerous--

DRUNK IN AUDIENCE (to TV cameraman):
Get that camera off me. I said get it off me!

JUNIPER:
Are you kidding? That fiend wouldn’t have the guts or money to get in here--

JERRY (pointing to the audience):
But she may have friends! Please, Juniper... (TO THE AUDIENCE) Sorry, folks--

JUNIPER:
Don’t be. Don’t be sorry! Not even for me! Because they didn’t kill my mind and make me a permanently pretty shell. (TAKING HER AWARD PLAQUE AND BREAKING IT IN TWO) I’m still alive! Do you hear me, all of you? You jealous sick bitches? You’re so feminist, you couldn’t help me? Understand me? No, I have to be killed! Well, I’m still alive, and maybe even (SPITTING IT OUT) pretty.

(PAUSE. EVERYONE’S AFRAID NOW, BACKING UP AGAINST THE WALL OR TRYING TO HIDE UNDER THEIR TINY TABLES AS THE CAMERAMAN GLEEFULLY RECORDS THE WHOLE THING.)

But I’ll take the check. Like POW’s whose service pay has accrued while they’re in prison camp... I deserve it. For showing up as a pro, no matter what’s happening. No matter who OD’d the night before. No matter how many AIDS funerals I’ll have to attend after the shoot.

(SHE BEGINS TO EXIT, THEN PAUSES, GOING BACK TO THE MICROPHONE.)

I’d like to thank my mother and grandmother, who are dead; my first manager, who thought up my name -- it used to be June Gayelevich; my agent for going back to Betty Ford again, and my accountant and my -- are you still here? -- my two remaining friends?

(SHE EXITS.)


THE END