Dancing.
(Apologies for the lousy copies, best I could find)
11/17/08
What I need
A bungalow with a deck on a breezy desert island, convenient to seafood and Internet access. And big thick towels.
or
A cabin in the woods with a crazy well-stocked kitchen, a wood burning fire that I know how to operate, and Internet access. And flannel.
or
A cabin in the woods with a crazy well-stocked kitchen, a wood burning fire that I know how to operate, and Internet access. And flannel.
Vibes, whatever.
I'm not much for crystals, vibes, auras, nonspecific positivity and whatnot. But when gleefully shredding old bills and papers (I love my paper shredder, it's like a big noisy confetti maker), I came across a small, smooth stone in a tiny grey suede bag. It was from the hotel in Toronto we stayed at during the Toronto Improv Festival, when I performed with Harsh. And, immediately, I remembered, that outside from checking out Toronto itself and seeing some shows (that I could've caught in the US, for the most part), I had a generally miserable and shitty time, from the endless train ride to the personality clashes and general lack of acceptance and enjoyment. Except for my $1.00 combat boots, some decent food and drink, and checking out the film set that is Toronto, what a fucking miserable trip that was.
I threw out the freaking tranquility stone without a second thought. I feel better already. Positivity, man.
I threw out the freaking tranquility stone without a second thought. I feel better already. Positivity, man.
11/15/08
Delightful! Splendiferous!
If you haven't watched the 200th episode of "Inside the Actor's Studio," hosted by Dave Chappelle and guest James Lipton, I must emphatically say, Watch it. Watch it now.
Here's a taste:
http://www.hulu.com/watch/43525/inside-the-actors-studio-james-lipton-on-the-actors-studio
Here's a taste:
http://www.hulu.com/watch/43525/inside-the-actors-studio-james-lipton-on-the-actors-studio
11/12/08
It's not you, it's me.
If you want a really cool but nonprescribing shrink, I can recommend one, highly. She's very cool and yet takes no shit.
I just quit therapy today. This is a good thing, I'm convinced of that.
So much for "keeping it to myself for awhile." (That was the original plan. Until someone notices. I guess. If I tell my mom I'm finally "cured" she'll ask "Are you sure?" Then again, I'm really sick of her asking me if I'm cured. But I digress.)
In some form or another, I've been in therapy for 18 years off and on. Not Woody-Allenesque analysis, just the talky kind. Again, there were often breaks in between. There was the short-termers - the dear, sweet old lady I was convinced was the soul of evil living in the coolest apartment in the city; the burnt-out NYU doc who went medieval on a terribly fragile me for cancelling an appointment (he was reported to administration; do not fuck with even a fragile me). There was my first real doctor at Mt. Sinai, a hulking babyfaced Westerner who I'm surprised survived me; last I saw he was an ER shrink in the Bronx. There was the curmudgeouly but handsome psychiatrist on the Upper West Side; the hippie-ish psychotherapist who, for a few years, I followed to Westchester - eventually the train ride was the most thereapeutic part of the day. And there was the woman, before this one, who I reduced to tears, and then she "forgot" our next (last) appointment. I hope she's in retail now.
I didn't necessarily plan it, although I'd been planning it awhile. She was terribly nice about it, more fair than I'd ever believed a therapist would be. "Perhaps you need to leave here, to put some of this stuff into practice." I think closure is overrated; I chose "goodbye for now" and was nice to know the keys to the sofa were always available. Which is a good feeling. I think if I was a twittering basket case, she'd perhaps have advocated against me returning to the light of day solo.
Anyway. I meant to say more, display all kinds of brilliant insight as to my mental evolution. Reflect, you know.
But right now I just can't sleep. For real.
I just quit therapy today. This is a good thing, I'm convinced of that.
So much for "keeping it to myself for awhile." (That was the original plan. Until someone notices. I guess. If I tell my mom I'm finally "cured" she'll ask "Are you sure?" Then again, I'm really sick of her asking me if I'm cured. But I digress.)
In some form or another, I've been in therapy for 18 years off and on. Not Woody-Allenesque analysis, just the talky kind. Again, there were often breaks in between. There was the short-termers - the dear, sweet old lady I was convinced was the soul of evil living in the coolest apartment in the city; the burnt-out NYU doc who went medieval on a terribly fragile me for cancelling an appointment (he was reported to administration; do not fuck with even a fragile me). There was my first real doctor at Mt. Sinai, a hulking babyfaced Westerner who I'm surprised survived me; last I saw he was an ER shrink in the Bronx. There was the curmudgeouly but handsome psychiatrist on the Upper West Side; the hippie-ish psychotherapist who, for a few years, I followed to Westchester - eventually the train ride was the most thereapeutic part of the day. And there was the woman, before this one, who I reduced to tears, and then she "forgot" our next (last) appointment. I hope she's in retail now.
I didn't necessarily plan it, although I'd been planning it awhile. She was terribly nice about it, more fair than I'd ever believed a therapist would be. "Perhaps you need to leave here, to put some of this stuff into practice." I think closure is overrated; I chose "goodbye for now" and was nice to know the keys to the sofa were always available. Which is a good feeling. I think if I was a twittering basket case, she'd perhaps have advocated against me returning to the light of day solo.
Anyway. I meant to say more, display all kinds of brilliant insight as to my mental evolution. Reflect, you know.
But right now I just can't sleep. For real.
11/10/08
Trust me on a few things.
I am a big moron. Or maybe, I can just be a big moron.
I should not eat so much buttered popcorn.
Sports bras, even swell comfy red ones, can give you a uniboob.
The No Yarn till 2009 resolution seems to be working.
Facebook can be fun and can be incredibly lame.
I would like to coat some candied peel in chocolate, but it has to wait until the peels dry.
Honestly, I don't like candied peel, but it makes a swell gift.
Rats.
I should not eat so much buttered popcorn.
Sports bras, even swell comfy red ones, can give you a uniboob.
The No Yarn till 2009 resolution seems to be working.
Facebook can be fun and can be incredibly lame.
I would like to coat some candied peel in chocolate, but it has to wait until the peels dry.
Honestly, I don't like candied peel, but it makes a swell gift.
Rats.
11/7/08
Coolest case name of the day.
I'm a bit researched out at the moment, but here, I defy you to turn this into an improv group name:
KATHREINER'S MALZKAFFEE FABRIKEN MIT BESCHRAENKTER HAFTUNG et al. v. PASTOR KNEIPP MEDICINE CO., 82 F. 321 (1897).
KATHREINER'S MALZKAFFEE FABRIKEN MIT BESCHRAENKTER HAFTUNG et al. v. PASTOR KNEIPP MEDICINE CO., 82 F. 321 (1897).
A delightful array of slightly overpriced korean deli snacks
Ka-Me plain rice crackers, Slim-Fast, Babybel cheese, Leibniz whole wheat butter biscuits.
An odd array of New York office-grazing comfort foods.
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