Instant messaging is a blessing and a curse.

A blessing because I can "talk" to so many of my friends more often.

A curse because sometimes these conversations can be so goddamn annoying.

I've got friends who are faraway. I've got friends who are language cranks. I've got friends who like to interrupt. Frankly I'm one of them. Things get passed over that warrant notice. Things are subject to misinterpretation. Sarcasm and potential snidenes abounds. I don't like print, sometimes. Someone who is a friend and a client starts asking questions, then starts discussing sketches and drunken revelry. I need to copy out the whole IM and chop out the work product. I've got a faulty connection that flips in and out, and I spend minutes reconnecting, explaining, wondering when I left off and hoping no one was insulted (or thought I 'left in a huff.' Which I am perfectly capable of, thank you. But often, it's not me. It's my modem.). That being said, it's nice to be in touch. And sometimes it's nice to be invisible. But then people don't believe you when you really are away.

Sometimes it's great fun to play virtual hot spot with someone a million miles away. Sometimes it's a pain in the ass to park behind the computer and IM someone who's five miles away. Or five blocks.

That being said, it's one of the weirdest and most intriguing little communicado-blips on the 20th/21st century radar, I think. I think I had this pre-millenium. How will this affect us, culturally, socially?

That being said, I'm not a big smiley-fan. Same with LOL and heavy acronymizing. And my spelling is getting worse, and I am ever-vigilant about that.

That being said, I cannot begin to tell you how freaking weird iChat is. Especially when only one of you can chat and the other is typing.

Ok, enough. How much time can one woman waste?





: )


Happy Wha?

Coming up soon is my anniversary, of a couple of things.

May 9th will be my 7th wedding anniversary.

On May 7th of last year, I went into the hospital with pulmonary embolisms. I don't think I've ever really dealt with that. For example, I've never written a joke about it. Never turned it into a bit. I almost died. May 9th I was in the hospital. Gary made me a card and ate my tray of hospital chicken. I ate a toasted bagel and cheese and some Hershey bars my brother brought me. For not eating my hospital food Gary later called me a princess; even then his annoyance was apparent. The card was pretty, all watercolors, I still have it. A month later, he was asked to move out and he did. We were already on the outs, already in counseling. The night I came home from the hospital I stayed alone, numbly allowing him to go to the bar after he, or my mom, went and got me ginger ale and vanilla ice cream, Breyers I think; the next day I went and got my $1200 injections of LMW (low molecular weight) heparin because I didn't want to see him screaming over the price because I couldn't fight, and I knew I'd have to deal with the insurers later, and it never did get resolved, dear god I'm still paying for those, and he would watch me shoot 4 needles a day into my gut because my thighs were still muscular (not as much now) so that he could "feel pain" about my situation. My stomach was mass of bruises and I tried to eliminate the scars with pricey Mederma scar gel which I don't know if it quite worked because I didn't want any "new" guys to see what a mess I was in case I ever had sex again, because those were a lot of needles and the coumadin makes you bruise easily. Mark brought me a ginormous smiley face balloon that freaked me out, I didn't take it home, and a cool book, a psycho-sexual crime thriller I still haven't finished. I was supposed to do "school night" the night I was released, and had to cancel on advice of my physician, I frantically called Susannah and she was kind enough to take care of it for me, but it took a long time to get booked again and I was crushed to cancel the gig. I saw my friend Diana a couple days later in Chelsea, she gave me some DVDs, I was pallid and bruised and I asked her if I looked like a heroin addict and she said "yes." In Bloomie Nails they gave me a seat far far from the window, and didn't make me get up for my manicure. I must've looked junk-sick. That weekend I tried to go to dinner, Italian food, on 10th street, I live on 4th and exit my building on 5th, with some friends. It took me nearly 20 minutes to walk the 5 blocks, holding on to street signs because I couldn't breathe. I almost cried half the way, but it took too much energy to cry. I'm still scared, sometimes. I've developed panic attacks, confounding it with the lung thing, which is what i call it, I think. I can now go back to the gym. I've gained a few pounds, lost and gained, but haven't progressed with it, haven't regressed much either. I'm allowed to swim again but I'm a bit scared. I may want to sue the radiologist for misdiagnosis, I'm still within the statute, but haven't decided yet, I think I'm going to, because the rush job sonogram was inexcusable, but it's another thing to do, you know? I'm scared, still sometimes, I used to not be. I almost died. Maybe it helped me end my marriage. Maybe it helped me full-tilt my commitment to being a performer. But goddammit, I almost died. I think I made one joke about it, at Variety Underground the next time I played there, (wasn't so much a joke as a reference) because the first time I played there was the night before I almost died, I did ten minutes there, after hyperventilating....almost everyone thought it was stage fright, and I was embarrased. Some people oddly thought it was a bit. One person thought I was ill, and he was right. But damn it, I did the set that night, May 6th, and the next day I almost died. I remembered leaving VU and finding it so hard to cross Houston Street, why was it so hard to cross Houston Street? I couldn't breathe, even then. The next day I went to work, but cancelled dinner with a friend, because I was so tired. I ordered sushi. I walked to 42nd and 2nd, and couldn't walk anymore. Couldn't. Froze. I called an ambulance because I couldn't breathe. Maybe, just maybe, it was a panic attack. Just incase, let's go to the hospital. Just as I'm writing this, I'm feeling like I'm having an actual panic attack, Dear God, and I'm crying like a madman. Okay. The sushi place kept calling, like the baker in that Raymond Carver short story about the Baker who called the parents whose little boy was hit by a car who died, but the baker kept calling about his birthday cake, and the mother went to the bakery and yelled at him, and he made them sit and eat with him till the sun came up. "A Small, Good Thing" I think, was one of the versions of the story. Except I'm sure no one wanted my old Maki Avenue A (with soup) and tamago sushi. I stopped using my cell phone number at Takahachi for a while. I didn't call Gary until about 4 am or so, for some reason, I spent from 8 PM or so till then alone, he assumed I was out messing around with the comedy folk, as usual. I was wondering if he was gonna answer the phone. I figured I'd better call him. He did. He came. He said he felt "attached" to me when I asked the sonographer (radiologist? I don't remember) if I was gonna die. He brought my sweats and some stuff to read, 100 mystery stories, I think. I don't remember if we argued. I think I tried to send him home. He was going to go to the opera that day, get up early and try to get SRO tickets to some Wagner opera. I tried to tell him it was OK to go, I didn't want to ruin his day. He didn't end up going.

So. That's my story. For now.

I feel a little better, I think, in a weird way.

Still can't write jokes about it. Still, not funny.

Now, the anniversary....Nah. Next time, maybe.


Love, love, love.

Ever have a shot called a "Mind Eraser?"
It's Kahlua, vodka and seltzer, layered. You suck it with a straw.
It works. You forget why you hated everyone and everything in your life. It's a thing of beauty, I tell you.
I want one of these every night.


A Brief and Hopefully Reassuring Electronic-Mail Conversation with a Friend

**names changed to protect the loopy.

From: Friend
To: me
Date: Apr 15, 2005 2:10 PM
Subject: hey

Missed your call due to being out at Siegfried. That's a good one, if one may be so flip about something as, well, substantial as The Ring.

In other news, "B-boy" is provoking me with what he thinks are philosophically-based observations of my representation to the world, and what I think is insulting nagging about how I need to clean up my desk, get into work earlier, and lose more weight.

What I have learned from opera and life this week includes the fact that men (or gods, or dwarves or whatever) can be both stupid and evil. Actually I knew that already.



From: Me
To: Friend
Date: Apr 15, 2005 3:00 PM
Subject: Re: hey

d'oh! I'm sorry I forgot about the Ring thing. Although it's entirely possible I have a block against Wagner at this point, vacillating with me sobbing over Tristan un Isolde on my iPod.

You, kind lady, are correct about the stupid and evil thing.

Although there is beauty and goodness in the world. I took Nietschze to heart the other night, in your honour. While waiting for the upstairs ladies room at the Village Lantern (my friend "E-girl" delightedly had shown me the leapord-printed-carpeted "secret back stairs" passage to the upstairs bathroom, which made the half empty bar look glorious, somehow, with the street lights shining in), a crazy guy (a lame comic, it turns out) standing near the requisite 80s cover band that plays upstairs from the comedy room caught my eye and saw me rocking to the music, He grabbed me and started swinging me around in the most wonderful way. Best. Dance. Ever. So wonderful in the moment. (Much better dancer than a comic.) And when a bunch of us ended up in the pub around the corner later, which was fairly well into Thursday morning, me, "D-boy" (the longhair), "D-guy" (who can solve a Rubik's Cube during a five-minute set), and "V-man" (who I'd be in love with if he weren't married), and "J-babe" the hot bartender all sang "Mercedez Benz" (Janis Joplin but you knew that) at the top of our lungs. While dancing, kinda. Well, drunkenly swaying. It counts. I told them that quote about dancing. These guys all can comment on Nietschze. I like them.

So, sometimes the world is OK. Even men.

Snacktime thoughts.

1. Vanilla Snackwells taste like compressed sand.
2. American Cadbury bars aren't nearly as nice as British Cadbury bars.
3. Pizza Goldfish are edgy.


Necessary roughness.

I'm starting to find stuff I know he'd like. The film clip of Carson interviewing Zappa, he'd love that. Love it. Some poetry readings. Stuff like that, I want to send to him.

But I can't. I just can't. For real. Not right now. Even he figured out first that we're in an adversarial proceeding. And me, silly me, the actual lawyer...

We can't even be friends now. Weren't we friends, once? Should we be again? Can we?

That is making me incredibly and unexpectedly sad.

There's a hole in my life where good things once were.

"Incest is best...." Not.

Not real live icky-backwoods incest. Electronic-community incest. So, inspired in part by a friend/STER, and having little more productive things to do during lunch than sip on ginger tea and nibble on partially-defrosted organic pizza rolls (yummy goodness!) I used a popular online community search engine to create a series of "matches" for me based on a grossly oversimplified set of criteria.

And I got a list of 73 names. Success!

Humming along, I started to scroll down, browsing the facial trading cards. No wait- I was on an improv team with him. No wait- he was my improv coach. No wait- we sat together at Harold night a few weeks ago. No, no, no. At worst - no. At best - awwkward...

So I find myself smiling at a picture and profile towards the end. Picture - a movie still from a favorite movie. Profile - gave me the giggles. Age - nearly appropriate.

I drift my eye back over the picture.

You are connected by....Click here for all. Click.
And the list unravels like a banner in the wind. Connection, connection, connection...
Even worse than knowing I know him, is not knowing if I do...and having him check around with the "people in common." All of them, that I do know. Or kinda know.

I think I'm 2 degrees removed from some dude named "Styrofoam Peanuts." Hot.



Do people "make you cry" or do you do that all by yourself?

It seems unfair, in a way, to blame the actions of others. Whether they be beautiful (by writing a piece of poetry, let's say, that rips your guts out), or ugly (by tactlessly bringing up sex-with-others and not sex-with-you, let's say, that also does some gut-related damage).

Is it too (name your philosophy here, I was pre-med) to assert that you own your own reactions? That, your response and your feelings are within your control? Or, if your feelings aren't, your reactions are?

I dunno.

Fuck it all.

Why are pirates so cool?
Because they aarrrrrgh!



...drove me up a wall
...may be back in my life again
...smiled at me and made me a little giddy
...borrowed a few bucks
...was casually ignored by me
...is driving me up a wall
...borrowed a few bucks
...made me laugh hysterically
...made me cry hysterically
...made me want to hug them
...made me want to slap them
...will drive me up a wall
...is nice to watch movies with
...makes you forget about the movie
...ought to be in movies
...loves me
...likes me
...hates me
...uses me
...abuses me
...hugs me
...kisses me
...fights me
...fucks me
...fucks with me
...holds me
...scolds me
...drinks with me
...drinks to me
...drinks of me
...thinks of me



Old medications
Old friends
Mixed messages
Mixed media
Confusion reigns
No time to go home
What the fuck to do??



New meds.
Old husbands.
Peace on earth sought.
Going home.


Technicalities and oddities

No, we didn't "do it."
And it only seems to make us fight harder.
But still...it can be nice, in a way.

I still cry at museums. We always got along, big museums, little weird museums, wherever we went. In Chicago, I lost my shit at the modern-art museum. In London, I was OK, for the most part, except for every now and again and a few minutes alone at the British Museum. Yesterday, the Diane Arbus exhibit at the Met was big enough to lose myself from my friend, for a little while. The fact that it was NY in the 60s somehow made it harder. Lots of Coney Island. And a baby that could've been me, well theoretically.

I'm not on my home computer, yet. Hopefully back soon.