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Rev. Jen’s guide to breakable hearts and hopeful art

Art star and beloved companion Reverend Jen Junior (2002-2016). Photo by Jason Thompson.
Art star and beloved companion Reverend Jen Junior (2002-2016). Photo by Jason Thompson.

BY REV. JEN MILLER | On December 14, 2016, Reverend Jen Junior, my beloved Chihuahua of nearly 15 years, died in my arms. She was a celebrated Art Star, the most photographed dog in NYC, a Page 6 girl, and the star of 22 episodes of “The Adventures of Electra Elf” along with countless films. Also, she was my best friend. We went everywhere together, toured the country a couple times, and snuggled every night. She watched countless hours of bad shtick at open mics and saw things in the Troll Museum apartment (which we were evicted from in June 2016) that most humans avert their eyes from.

Like most Chihuahuas, “JJ” had bad teeth. Before she passed, she had two previous dental surgeries, leaving her with two teeth, one which unceremoniously fell out on the pillow next to my head. Because of her heart murmur, vets were unwilling to do another dental. She still wagged her tail, ate voraciously, cuddled and made the noises dogs only make when dreaming, so I thought she would hold on. But when she suddenly grew listless, I took her to the vet who did simple blood work, at which point her heart stopped. They gave her CPR and oxygen and brought her back momentarily. But the prognosis was aggressive cancer, and no amount of chemo or prayer could save her. So, they shot her up with enough Valium to take out the entire East Village and she went peacefully, off to the Island of Eternal Bliss. I wrapped her in a towel, laid her down on a tiny bed, and said goodbye to the greatest friend I have ever known.

I remember, when my father died, a man at the memorial asked one of my little nephews, “Do you know what a legacy is?” My nephew replied, “It’s what you leave behind.” JJ left a legacy of memories, cherished by all who knew her, and when, in Dog Heaven, she makes those little dream noises, I will be dreaming right beside her. JJ’s Memorial was held Dec. 22 at Cake Shop, formerly at 152 Ludlow St. — an excellent venue that closed on New Year’s Eve. FU, 2016!

CHRISTMAS | What’s worse than Christmas? Nothing! By Christmas Eve, everyone was out of town — but I found a place for Tenney (JJ’s surviving cat brother) and me to stay. This year’s holiday was a bit of a blur. I bought a half-pint of rum and split it with a fellow homeless person on a bench in front of the First Ave. Starbucks, then proceeded to have several beers in an attempt to forget the worst celebrity death of 2016: JJ. At some point, my phone died and I got locked out. With no other options, I fled to Beth Israel’s psych ward (which I spoke highly of in a past column) but they were overloaded with other Christmas casualties. So after a six-hour wait, I was rejected. Stealing warmth from ATM vestibules, I thought of happy families unwrapping presents and children believing in Santa. As Courtney Love once sang, “I don’t really miss God, but I sure miss Santa Claus.” Eventually, the sun came up. I grabbed my pussy, and we found another place to stay.

PSYCH WARD, PART II | Two days after Christmas, convinced that I was going to rapidly drink myself to death, my friends staged an intervention (even though I was already on my way to another psych ward). At Mount Sinai West, they dosed me with massive quantities of Librium, which is great if your are the mother in “The Exorcist” — but not so great if you like to move your limbs. They addressed none of my psychological problems, but sure did like giving me drugs. It, in no way, had the cheerful atmosphere of Beth Israel. On New Year’s Eve, I sat in my oversized scrubs, by the payphone, wishing for a call from my boyfriend (who was still in Boston receiving cancer treatment) but the phone didn’t ring. Drifting asleep, I awoke to total chaos. On “Visitor Day,” a “visitor” somehow snuck in heroin, and gave it to a patient. Her roommate noticed their joint shower was running too long, opened the door, and the girl fell out. Brain dead, they put her on life support and we watched as they carried her off on a stretcher. I used to think 2017 should have been Time’s “Person of the Year” for replacing 2016. Now I’m not so sure. Moments later, the nurses threw my things on the bed and told me I had to leave, because Healthfirst didn’t cover me for more than five days.

2017, YOU SUCK ALREADY | By the fourth day of January, I was feeling slightly less insane. Then I made the mistake of checking Facebook. A message popped up from my boyfriend of three years, who I’ve stood by through thick and thin, supported and loved. It read, “I don’t want to be your boyfriend anymore.” Just like that, he ended our relationship OVER THE INTERNET. I know he has cancer and I hope he gets better. I wish I could cure cancer. I wish JJ had never gotten cancer and that I could be God and save every living being. I can’t. I am just a writer and painter who has a heart, a brain and courage. Boy, were they fools to ask for such things. As the man behind the curtain once pointed out, “Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable.”

Rev. Jen, at the Women’s March on NYC, had a quid pro quo for Trump. Photo by John Foster.
Rev. Jen, at the Women’s March on NYC, had a quid pro quo for Trump. Photo by John Foster.

HOPE | No home. No dog. No boyfriend. At least I still have Tenney. He misses JJ as much as I do, but we both know the show must go on. So what to do? I have decided to teach, ensuring the world that our youngest generation will not grow to be gigantic assholes. Starting Sat., Feb. 18 (from 12–1:30 p.m.), Reverend Jen’s Art Academy for Youngsters will begin at Carrie Able Gallery (409 Keap St., Brooklyn.) All classes are free and materials will be provided (ages 8-12 recommended). Let’s make some art, kids! Sometimes art and a warm kitty is all you got.

THE ANTI-SLAM! | One more thing to look forward to in these bleak times is the return of the Anti-Slam, my long-running open mic, which will now be held weekly on Sundays from 6–9 p.m. (also at Carrie Able Gallery). Every Art Star gets six minutes and a perfect score of 10. There may be some guest hosts, since I’ll likely be back in the nuthouse, but please do attend and join the fun. All performers are welcome. Musicians, poets, dancers, mimes, freaks and geeks. Let’s keep bohemia alive!

THE WOMEN’S MARCH ON NYC | On a final note, my friend and column cohort, John Foster, joined me at the Women’s March on NYC. Why did I march? Because I believe women should be treated with respect, not grabbed by the pussy or called pigs. Dudes, next time you are tempted to devalue a woman by assigning her a number, remember: That woman could be your daughter, sister, or mother. John and I made signs that got big yuks from the crowd. Mine said, on one side, “Keep your tiny hands off my Gyna” — and on the other, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours… (tax returns).” John blew up a picture of Tenney that said, “Grab me and find out!” It was a sweet, loving day — and just like at the Anti-Slam, everyone was a 10!

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This column was written from a Trump Internment Camp for women with small boobs.