Grace Suzanne Eisner
Born February 3, 2010
7 lbs. 11 oz.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost and now am found.
Was blind but now I see.
No, young lady I am not talking about myself and I am pretty sure I do not speak of your father after he returned from being on location covered in a biblical skin condition and a frame only an Olsen twin could pull off because he refused to eat the local food, the kind of fare that one can only identify by the sounds of “glop” and “crunch”, the kind of food whose caloric equivalent matches that of the entire buffet table on a Carnival cruise ship before it sickens the passengers and forces everyone on board to spontaneously poop on the captains’ table.
I dare say the wretch I refer to is the multitude of characters that your dear old daddy sneakily coerced me into watching on the big screen, the freaky scary, bloody, oozing, badass, dripping killer whack jobs he brought to life called The Crazies. And the really hot lead actors who make mere mortals look like dirty, gas station toilet seats.
Yes, Amazing Grace, the thought of you and your beautiful face and your father’s smashing career and stellar directorial skill and innate charm and overall wonderfulness plus all the free meals he and your mother, grandfather and grandmother so loving fed me, Dave and your boyfriend Otto these past few summers kept me from running full speed out of the theatre and into oncoming traffic at the intersection of Sunset and Hillhurst Ave. in boots and a leather jacket that made me look like the fifth and least cool or known Runaway, the sad one Joan Jett insisted be dumped due to limp hair and cultural irrelevancy.
By the way, that is not an intersection you or any one else should dare sprint into. It is filled with speeding, dented buses, transsexual hybrid she-males, drunk hipsters, limp, retired gang bangers and crusty homeless men who want to be cool eastsiders instead of complacent wanna-be Nick Nolte Beverly Hills bums who would rather eat expensive cat food out of tiny little cans than scarf up a half eaten taco truck burrito they find stuck to the front quarter panel of a parked 2008 Prius owned by the Los Feliz Ironic Guy that we all know and hate.
You need to know that your daddy makes movies, really great movies, movies that look pristine and sound amazing and feel alive, alive enough to make you think that the people on the screen may very well jump off said screen and grab you by your frilly and fabulous dress, gnaw on your collarbone and turn you into a Crazie just like them. You need to prepare yourself for a life of long editing nights where daddy eats a tub of Red Vines with a regret chaser, hectic and hilarious script revisions by your Uncle Blitz, exotic locals complete with Scotch-Brite bed linens and cement mattresses, catered truck food that bites back and a hoard of extras who want to be upgraded to zombie #3 to fill an black hole left by years of rejection, bad relationships with food and poor fashion choices.
So Little Grace, get your rest, drink you milk and pack your bags because you have been chosen to hop on a colossal roller coaster ride of movie magic and dreamlike adventures. He will scare you, he will thrill you, he will entertain you and he will delight you but most importantly he will love you with the strength of a thousand zombies and the intensity of a cornfield full of method actors doused in fake blood. He is your daddy and you should be terribly, crushingly proud!
But please, for the love of God, look under the bed every night before you fall asleep. Thanks to your dear old daddy, I know I will.