Relax...don't do it

It was suggested once that all one (well, maybe me) would be to be locked in a room with a masseur and some ecstacy so I could chill the fuck out.

Indeed. Given the fact that I hate massages (see below) and substances I have not yet tried and whose effect I cannot adequately predict (control freaks hate hallucinogens), I'll have to find a new way to chill the fuck out.

Chilling the fuck out is not the same as lumping out with anxiety.

I was cleaning my bookshelves today and found a still-shrink wrapped yoga DVD. Perhaps it's time to stretch the fuck out.

If nothing else, I'm flexible.

Dammit, I wish I could sleep.

Lucky accidents...

I just googled "Waste of Space" (cause that's how I'm feeling at the moment" and came up with a fantastically cool web site:

PhysOrg.com: Science, Physics, Nanotechnology, Space News

Finally, a time-waster I can feel intellectually guilt-free about!

I love space, I love Physics. I do. I'm a fucking nerd with a heart of gold and a body for extra-long black stretch jeans and combat boots.

Now that my mini-blinds (semi-clean, or semi-grubby, depending on your outlook) have been installed, feel free to come to my apartment and stride around in the altogether reading the Sunday Times and drinking coffee. Lots of natural light, and I only brew the good stuff from Porto Rico. (Not a typo if you're not from NYC, it's a store. A fine, fine store.)

Now there's a personal ad worth answering.

Or not.

Quite frankly, I kind of feel about men right now almost how I feel about shrinks; I loathe the idea of breaking in a whole new one from scratch.

"He loves, but his love has no meaning."

If you watch Angels in America and do not tear up at some point, you are obviously made of stone.

I'm too nervous to go.

It's like being too sick to go to the GP.

Arrgh!

Doomed, doomed, lovely and doomed

Why are my favorite romances the doomed ones?

As she listens to "West Side Story" yet again. With a chaser of "Little Shop of Horrors."

Perhaps I'll pop "Casablanca" into the DVD player later, or maybe "The Way we Were" will be on TCM again tonight. Or was it AMC? I don't remember. HBO can't seem to stop showing "Bull Durham." (What happens when he goes off to manage in Visalia, anyway? Huh?) Or "Before Sunset," which, I explained to someone, made me want even less to see "Before Sunrise" (and then descended into an acting-improv-geek conversation about the moment before, etc. Hi-larious.)

I gotta remember to check my Ebay bid on "Annie Hall." Yeah.

Or, maybe I'll just stretch out in the park with "Gone with the Wind" or "The Age of Innocence." Yeah.

There's a place for us...Somewhere, a place for us.....

Yeah, that's funny.

PS - the most realistic relationship on "Sex and the City" was Carrie and Berger - think about it

Note to self - Buy a cat. Noooooooo!

"I'm depraved on account I'm deprived!"
- "Officer Krupke," West Side Story

Let yourself be inspired.

Watch the Aspen interviews of the cast and directors of "Curb your Enthusiasm" at the end of the Season 3 DVD.

It is enlightening, inspiring and hilarious. And all too brief.

Don't let the bad editing and David Steinberg's dentition distract you.

I am a happy comedy geek right now. Oh, so very happy.

Contemplation and sober reflection.

Sure, it's a new year, but does that automatically mean I'll become a better housekeeper, much less a better person?

Lather, reflect, repeat.

i enjoy being a girl.....or do I?

Oh dear lord, Patrice O'neal is doing ridonkulously (theoretically) offensive material on pussy-eating and rape and women and vaginas that I can't stop laughing at.

Can't. Stop. Laughing.

It gets better and better.

'I only fuck so I have a memory to jerk off to later.'

This is horrible. And wonderful.

Women can't do this shit.
Or can they?
Huh?

HBO One Night Stand. Glad they brought it back. Remember when it was the only source of cable stand-up?

"Ladies...when you a whore, be a whore for YOU!"
- Patrice O'Neal

Methadonia on HBO

Jazz and junkie-speak are a perfect combination. I find it fascinating, now that I'm around it less, personally and professionally.

Were you ever surprised you weren't a drug addict?

Do I have AD-what?

Maybe I do have ADD.

I can't finish anything. Except lunch.

BOOM.

I forgot to make dinner, though.

And I watched ALL of the Surreal Life. Maybe, then I'm wrong. I CAN finish something.

Priorities, priorities.

I'm fucked, aren't I?

*********************************

For me, life is kind of like trying to make a waterbed, with a cat lying on it. It's like when you pull down one corner of the sheets, another one comes up...you flop down to try and stretch it, the water pushes up under the other side, messing it up, and there's a damn cat running around under the sheet, just to fuck things up even further...

*********************************

I like to hoard shit. Turns out at the moment it's not food, but pharmaceuticals. Not the good kind, but consumer products. I'd taken one trip to the Pfizer store too many, I've discovered. I've got a lifetime supply of Neosporin. Well, a lifetime for you, maybe. About six months' worth for me. I'm a klutz. A destructive klutz, baby.

Mix-ology

Here's an interesting personal experiment.

Try making a (non-topic-specific) mix tape/CD/compilation for someone you don't know especially well. Or someone you want to know better.

Let the person themselves be the 'suggestion,' so to speak.

It's fascinating. What about that person makes them so intriguing? and what about them sets you to music, so to speak? What translates them into song and verse? What makes them (and you, in relation to them) sing?

Would they like your compilation, do you think?
Would they agree?
Would they dance?
Would they smile?
Would they be baffled?

compelled to update

tired
liberated
behind on stuff
need a neck rub
need a house cleaning and laundry
tired
dinner?
perhaps
tired.

later.

xoxo

Wait. This looks too much like a fucking poem, and we all know my stance on poetry, unless it's freestyled an in the context of an improv show.

Let's recap. I got up way too early to finish part of a project. It still needs reworking and it caused me great frustration, but with some help, it's better than I thought and I feel ok about it. I still need to get some stuff done, work-wise and creative-wise, by lunch tomorrow, but I'm a bit overtired and I don't think it will happen tonight, although I'm going to attempt to make some progress on it while I"m still vertical. I need dinner, but I'm too beat to go out and get some ingredients, as stores in the house are running low. It's also a cluttery mess but I don't have the energy at the moment, it's tomorrow afternoon's project, as I think it'll be too rainy to hit Coney Island as I had wanted to. Maybe Sunday? Hopefully. We'll see. Tomorrow's a haircut too, I almost forgot. Believe it or not, I would also like a neck rub, but there's only one person I know of at the present time who I can stand doing that; otherwise, I tense up past all recognition and it makes it worse. I generally can't tolerate backrubs, massages, I find them painful and it becomes a vicious feedback-loop of tension and achiness - even 'friendly' ones. Forget about so-called professional massages, not for me.

Anyway. I should get rid of the nail polish too, it's annoying me.

More later. Off to engage myself in some other way.

xoxo

I also need to steer off IMDb.

Kirby: It's true love, my friend.
Kevin: Love, love, you know what love is? Love is an illusion created by lawyer types like yourself to perpetuate another illusion called marriage to create the reality of divorce and then the illusionary need for divorce lawyers.

- St. Elmo's Fire

Last thought, best thought. I'm done for the day.

I need to stop watching movies. Seriously. They're turning me romantical.

Celine: [Celine's song] Let me sing you a waltz / Out of nowhere, out of my thoughts / Let me sing you a waltz / About this one night stand / You were, for me, that night / Everything I always dreamt of in life / But now you're gone / You are far gone / All the way to your island of rain / It was for you just a one night thing / But you were much more to me, just so you know / I don't care what they say / I know what you meant for me that day / I just want another try, I just want another night / Even if it doesn't seem quite right / You meant for me much more than anyone I've met before / One single night with you, little Jesse, is worth a thousand with anybody / I have no bitterness, my sweet / I'll never forget this one night thing / Even tomorrow in other arms, my heart will stay yours until I die / Let me sing you a waltz / Out of nowhere, out of my blues / Let me sing you a waltz / About this lovely one night stand

- "Before Sunset"

Courtesy of IMDb

Ron Shelton, you've done it again.

Crash: "I got a lotta time to hear your theories and I wanta hear every damn one of 'em... but right now I'm tired and I don't wanta think about baseball and I don't wanta think about Quantum Physics... I don't wanta think about nothing...I just wanta be."

Annie: "I can do that, too."

- Bull Durham

Courtesy of IMSDb

Addenda.

The above-mentioned woman was not me.

1. I would never wear skinny-heeled strappy sandals.
2. I would never publicly shout "This is a real New York Moment." I may think it, recount it to friends, write in a ridiculous blog about it...but never publicly shout it.

Sigh. As if I needed to clarify that. As Ann Landers used to say, fifty lashes with a wet noodle, or something like that.

Which sounds kind of icky. I think by the thirty-seventh lash, the noodle would be gross and awful, and you'd have a starchy butt. And it's not much of a punishment, because WET NOODLES DON'T HURT.

Unless they're hot.

Ok, I'm done now. Rant over.

In other news, I've been invited to participate in a ranty-styled comedy show. Fun! Don't get me started....

This is a New York Blog Entry.

A woman was racing across East 39th street, carrying lots of shopping bags. She loses her black strappy sandal in a slight pothole. She turns around, only to helplessly watch in horror as her lonely sandal gets run over by a speeding taxi cab. She scurries back, hopping on one foot, and picks up her lonely lost shoe, which is apparently bruised but unbowed. Balancing on one leg, stashing her shopping bags between her legs, she slips the shoe back on, announcing to no one in particular,

"Now THIS is a New York Moment!"

You are here.

Made you look!

Analysis via DVD

Okay. So shopping leads to thinking (Broadway flea market day again) and thinking leads to the question, If I were the kind of person who owns DVDs (that are not sketch comedy collections), what DVDs would I own? (The only ones I own are random thing that are given to me or cost some tiny amount or were found by the ex, things like that).

So, I started thinking.

A short list was formed (including some I saw at the market, and did not buy, cause I couldn't or didn't justify the minimal cost): - In no particular order
Secretary
Moulin Rouge
sex lies and videotape
Casablanca
Love Actually
Bull Durham (I did own this but gifted it to my Mom for her birthday)
Glengarry Glen Ross (similar fate, I believe)
Animal House
Caddyshack
Breakfast Club
St Elmos Fire
All That Jazz
Little Shop of Horrors
High Fidelity
Murder by Death
Annie Hall
the Christopher Guest et al films (Spinal Tap, Guffman, Best in Show, Mighty Wind)
In the TV arena: Homicide, Oz, Your Show of Shows...I didn't pay this much mind. Possibly AbFab.

Okay. Now, this breaks out into a few distinct areas.

1. Quirky or screwball comedies.

2. Guy films. (Caddyshack fits categories 1 or 2). Actually Homicide and Oz are fairly male-dominated.

3. Doomed/quirky romances. (Bull Durham fits into Categories 2 and 3) The couples in these films are disturbed or 'off' in some way. The guy does not necessarily 'get' the girl or vice versa; someone dies (Moulin Rouge, Little Shop of Horrors), gets shackled (Secretary), or you're not quite sure where this is headed (Bull Durham, High Fidelity), or they're outright broken up (Annie Hall) or on a plane (Casablanca). Love Actually has a bunch of these, I think.

Theory: Kevin Costner should only be in baseball films (see Bull Durham, Field of Dreams), and possibly political films (JFK, that one that just came out a couple years ago. oh, maybe not political films).

Theory: The James Spader character in "Secretary" is the older version of the James Spader character in "sex lies and videotape."

4. And a couple of sentimental favorites (St Elmos Fire is a terrible movie, and fits into Category 3 and 4. Murder by Death is kinda odd, but I loved it when I was like ten.)

Whatever, I really do have better things to do.

And I bought 2 videotapes. Barney Miller episodes. A buck apiece. Sweet!

Fuck Proust.

When do you stop remembering? Or, more properly, associating?

The time-zone display thing could get annoying, I suppose.

Just watched the first half of the first episode of NY-LON on BBC America.

Notes to self:
1. Go back to London.
2. Do significantly more solo bar-hopping.
3. Abandon general distaste for overly-manicured sideburns. (Still, what's up with them??)

Yeah, that guy's hot. She's not 'all that.' It gives a girl hope.

She is a New Yorker, though. "Do you have any REAL coffee?"

Shallowly yours....

(I can't say if this series looks anything less than crap, though. Hard to say. Already got the bit.)

crap.

I feel like i've been beaten up. I get about one migraine a year, but this one was hard. And it took me about six hours to locate the tylenol and codeine, which is all i can take for them. I hope it's unrelated to the monster quantity of blood thinners I'm currently on.

I think I threw up in the middle of the night but I'm not entirely sure. I still feel nauseated and achy.

I said horrible things to my mother. Pain makes me angry. Not that they weren't true, but still.

I can't handle most people right now. Even though I want them to help me, I think. I don't know. I can't deal with human fraility. Anyone's.

But tonight, I will be hilarious. I promise.

Funeral Flyby

Did you ever wish you could watch yours?

I wish I came from a religious, or movie-watching tradition, that allowed for that possibility in my psyche. 'Cause I would sooner plan one that I'd be around for. I've got that paranoid-party-host fear that I'd throw a funeral, plan all the food, the hall, the music, and NO ONE would show. Or worse, be boooooooring.

How do people figure out who to invite? I've got numbers in my Palm desktop, my email accounts, and my cell phone. No one has my gmail password, clearly, that one's tough. Maybe I should leave it somewhere?? Hmmm, too many embarrassing....Oh, bother.

Do people get up and say stuff, or is that TV material? It's like really short weddings; TV material. That is, until I went to my first Protestant (Episcopalian, I think) one. Boom! Quick! Just like on the TV.

But pretty much - and this always made the man nuts, he who believed in post-mortem ghosties and the eternal soul and all that Catholic stuff - I've been into 'you're dead, you're dead.'

Rats.

(That's yukkier when you're contemplating your decomposing plain-pine-coffin corpse. And I know that's de rigeur amongst the Judaica set, but I hate the idea of taking up extra land and stuff. I partly relish the idea of donating myself to a hapless first-year medical school class....ahh, who knows.)

I'm sure people would show up for the food. The food would be great. Seriously, that much I can assure you. If there's one thing my family knows, and can agree on, it's a freaking buffet.

No problem there.

Show plug.

Please come to my show!

Tuesday September 20th
Laugh Lounge
151 Essex Street
212-614-2500 for reservations. Or, better, call or email me and I will reserve for you.
830 PM
$10 + 2 Drink Minimum
http://www.laughloungenyc.com/
Hilarious!

Nothing better to do.

Lots to do. Just not done. Except watch that show "Open Bar," about the opening of a gay bar in West Hollywood. Fun!

I don't know if he's gonna be able to open that bar or not. I am seriously worried. Seriously.

observations on the AFI 100 Movie quotes

1. Ray Romano has had Botox, and what the fuck is he doing here?
2. George Lucas has a low forehead.
3. Dennis Miller is not completely sucktarded.
4. 25% are from Casablanca
5. Pierce Brosnan is sucktarded.

Top quote? "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."

Coulda told you that. But it's still a pretty good Top 100 list, as these things go.

I have had two Xanax and sleep will not come. But the stress remains.

About #3

Besides providing me more material than I can bother to write down, and helping me with ideas for various projects, she let me in on this little gem.

When she was in junior high, she had to do a speech project (one of those public speaking things). Terrified of getting up in front of people, she wrote the piece itself on "Stage Fright."

I said, "That's meta." She said, "I don't know what the fuck that means."

Stage Fright. Awesome.
My mom knows how to "fuck your fear," instinctively.
Amazing. And not a single lesson.
Why the fuck isn't she on stage?

Random thoughts.

1. Thanks for the IM! But I was asleep at the proverbial wheel.
2. I won't be calling anyone. You want me, you find me.
3. My mom is the source of all hilarity in the universe, at times I believe this to be true.
4. Butterscotch Krimpets have gotten smaller.
5. Jon Voight has really big lips. That in part explains Angelina Jolie.

I'll be fine, I'm sure. I apologize for the shock-value-ness of the prior post. Goddamn camera phones.

Another Friday night in the city.

Question.

If you placed highly (but did not win), in a Sex Toy Reviewing contest, for a potentially embarrasing product that would give people a slightly-too-large window into your private life, would you advertise that fact?

Nah, me neither.

Just curious.

Question.

Ever had your soul ripped out your left nostril with a crochet hook?

Uh, no, me neither.

Just wondering.

How I made my aunt weep. Sponsored by Starbucks.

800: Outfit: Oversized black jacket, red tank, short black pleated skirt, off-black Berkshire panty hose, low heeled pump-type shoes, black. Purse and briefcase. Pleasantly cool out.
830: Appear at criminal court to meet client. Check cell phone, wait outside part.
915: Sign in second on list at part. Calm client. Enter notice, get brushoff from ADA.
935: Bark at client. Bully my way past massive wall of defense attorneys, grab ADA, bark deal at him. Get case done.
1000: Enjoy delicious cup of cart coffee in Police Plaza and have girl/comic talk with client. Make post-case video on her phone.
1100: Downtown shopping (J&R WorldWorld, Staples) and long stroll. Realize fully how much I love lower Manhattan.
1215: Lunch on lower Broadway (delicious ginormous latte, impenetrable fruit salad) at Starbucks with friend, refreshingly free of comedy in-chat. Still look relatively good. Temperature creeping up; jacket open.
130: Conference call/meeting in Midtown about publishing contract.
300: Walk to meeting at relatively pleasant placement agency with placement staff who is alumna/former actor. Down 2 glasses of water because afternoon temperature is near 90 degrees.
400: Walk to mother's office to pick up mail order clothes. Call aunt on cell phone.

"I'm walking to-OH SHIT"
"What honey? Are you ok?"
"My panty hose just collapsed."
"muffled laughter Can you fix them?"
"I am on Fifth Avenue and I am holding a very short skirt"
"barely muffled laughter Can you stop somewhere"
"No, I could go to the library but by the time I got up the stairs they'd be gone"
"choking Can you pull them up?"
"I AM TRYING BUT I AM FLASHING FIFTH AVENUE"
"screaming, sobbing with laughter, I'm SORRY but you'd better keep this in your act because I am HYSTERICAL"
"I'm almost there (clutching skirt halfway up thigh with collapsed Berkshires, off black, in hand, grumbling)

410: Restroom. Grab.
545: Another delicious latte and low fat coffee cake at Starbucks on 15th and 9th.
620: Collapse on loading dock behind Chelsea Market. Pantyhose now welded to skirt and ass due to heat of loading dock.
645: Meeting with director. "Why don't we go to Starbucks?" Chai tea latte.
730: Rehearsal. Panty hose disposed of.
1015: Phone call.
1030: Phone call.
1145: Phone call.
1230: Fell asleep near bowl of cold couscous.

Sadly, you learn something new...

I'd listened to the names all morning, numbly.

I'd heard the name of the wife of a childhood friend, lost heartbreakingly three months after their wedding. My mom listened too...."I waited for the F's..." Yeah. "But I couldn't wait for Ivan's (my cousin's) friend." "WHO?"

I didn't know that the brother of one of my high school classmates was lost too. I had no idea. Was it him? I checked the lists...checked the testimonials. Yes. The youngest of six, there was a NY times article about him, with lots of quotes from my high school classmate (we were junior-high friends more than anything; he was cute as hell.) Read the testimonials, brothers and sisters of the families of my younger days.

Yeah, that's him.

Familiar, Italian-American and Irish-American names. Good kids. Lost too soon.

Rest in peace, Christina Donovan Flannery and Pete Siracuse.

*************************************************************

My brother in law George died in August 2001. He never saw all this.

And the Yankees haven't won a Series since. If you knew what a serious fan George was, you'd know I wasn't being glib.

Rest in peace, George Esposito Jr.

Indeed.

Now that I'm linked to my web site, I guess this is kind of Google-a-ble.

Hi.

In other news of the mundane, I am trying valiantly to revive my iPod. Jeez, planned obsolescense is one thing, my poor track record with losing/destroying small electronics is another thing..but come on, Apple! It's not been THAT long!

In other other news, my favorite improv team, Monkeydick will soon be no more. This makes me saddy sad sad (which I believe is a line I stole from them). They had the best mix of personalities and teamwork you're ever likely to see, and were just smart and goddamn funny. I'm not good at recalling specific scenes and stuff, but they did do my favorite Harold group game ever ("This meeting of the House Unamerican Activities Committee will now come to order...").

They're also adorable. Click above for the schedule for their last few shows, and go catch them if you can.

In other news, while waiting for cell phone recovery (another story), I saw the end of a movie that I never have to see all of, because the last five minutes were so amazing - "Before Sunset" with Ethan Hawke (one of those boyish looking dudes I generally want to smack, but who I can't resist) and Julie Delpy - I never saw the original, never saw this one, had no desire to....but the last five minutes, and the last lines SPOILER ALERT are amazing:

Celine: Baby, you are gonna miss that plane.
Jesse: I know

Damn.

In other random movie news, anyone seen this iFC thing called Ten Tiny Love Stories? I saw bits of it on Friday, and the Debi Mazar one was stunning. Looks like I'd like to read them, perhaps.

I also need to get some sitcoms. Sitcoms!

In other news, I drink too much; is that news?

Indeed.

I need to sleep. Need to, indeed.

Things I like about Mike

1. "I'm great at making snap indecisions."
2. The worlds' greatest single song mix tape (ten or eleven versions of "All the Things you Are." alas, on a regular old tape.)
3. Passing me in Physical Chemistry by teaching me at least a semesters' worth of partial differential equations in two nights, in exchange for cookies.
4. Nineteen years' worth of injokes, terrible mixed drinks, poor wardrobe choices, near misses, quotes, oddly shaped vegetables, music, yaks, cartoons and generalized hilarity and goodness.
5. Just making me feel like a consistently fabulous person.

If I could remember the thing about the flute, the sax, the fingers, and the lips, I'd put that in too.

Thanks.

Things that make you slightly down; cause or effect?

Tom Waits, The Early Years
"Metropolis"
A fullish laundry basket
Popcorn and salad dressing for dinner
Thinking

Things that are making me giggle...RIGHT NOW

Channel 102

Go to "cancelled" and watch the "Fun Squad," if for no other reason than to watch grown men in brightly colored tshirts nut-punch each other.

Headphones suggested if you're at work. Any episode will do; I just watched the first one.

(Please note that I am a huge fan of many Channel 102 series including but not limited to Gemberling, My Wife the Ghost, Purgatory, Shutterbugs, Cat News and many others, so no bias is indicated - they're all outstanding. And I secretly wish I had the skill and talent and stuff required to put one of these together.)

That being said.....Sometimes one needs a five-minute dose of something excrutiatingly silly.

Things that are annoying me RIGHT NOW ... or not.

Why do I always scrunch down in photos, especially? I enjoy my height and know that good posture improves the look greatly, especially when I am conscious of it. I also know that when I am exercising, that my posture improves (my brother pointed it out), so back to the pool it is. This still doesn't answer the photo question, but looking at the photo below, given the shoes I am wearing, I should be nearly as tall as the gentleman in the back row. Nearly.

My grandmother (still, at age 88, about 5-6 1/2) and aunt (about 5-11) on the paternal side were always on me about standing up straight. My grandmother had the technique; my aunt would regale me with tales of slouching her way through high school and being picked on and how I should NOT LET THAT HAPPEN TO ME. Whatever. Her daughters are 5-9 and 6-0 and constantly wear heels; their brother is 6-5.

I am not outstandingly tall for a woman - 5-9 or so, barefoot - but have always wanted to be taller, because I was not the tallest woman in my family. I'm large, sure, but I like to think I'm fairly well-proportioned. And only recently, say, in the past few years, have I discovered the wonder of heels.

Guys who are not intimidated by tall women don't necessarily mind the extra height.

No guy under about 6 feet tall or so appears tall to me. I have to admit to being slightly shallow about height; although, I have no reason to be shallow about appearance, now do I? Does anybody? But then again, aren't we all, a bit?

Questions, questions.

This started out as "things that annoy me" but ended up as a rambling about height.

I am slightly annoyed I didn't update my iPod, slightly annoyed with myself for being less than productive this weekend, slightly annoyed with my current employment situation (more than slightly, actually) and a few other things.

Carry on. I do like this skirt and jacket I am wearing, though. It's actually OK.

But the run in my Canadian stockings, well....that's annoying me.

Although some men find that sexy too. Men are strange.

What kind of mix? And what's a semi-sadist?

I offered to make a friend a mix CD after a long liquid evening, where we acted like fourteen year olds - planning my hilarious dream wedding, trading sips of ridiculous drinks with too many sugary ingredients, dishing dirt about certain acquaintances as if we were in high school. Ooh, wouldn't you like to know. Tough titties, folks.

Anyway, I asked what she liked/didn't like. The only thing that was settled on was 'upbeat.'

Fuck. Upbeat? My music collection? That's a challenge.

I'm working on it now, and even stuff I think sounds upbeat is kinda gruesome - "Miss Ottis Regrets" (Bette Midler) is about, I believe, spousal murder, and "The Rest of the NIght" (Warren Zevon) is, well, the self-written eulogy of a dying man. Lots of ABBA songs - bouncy bouncy - have dark undercurrents. Like they said in an interview, "We are Swedes...it is okay, you know, to be sad."

I even tried to challenge myself to try to find 'upbeat' songs by wacky messed up favorties of mine like Hole. It's hard. Trying to vary up genres and artists and such. This is a very chicky-mix so far, alas.

Some ones that are on the list for real:
Your Body is Music - Afroditee
Beautiful - Carole King
Shopping Cart of Love - Christine Lavin
I got you babe - Sonny & Cher (An old karaoke favorite, actually)
Big O - Kristina Olson
Home at Last - Steely Dan
N.Y.C. - Steve Earle
Scottish Pop - Spearmint
Fell in Love with a Boy - Joss Stone
When I am King - Great Big Sea
It Takes Two to Tango - Raul Malo/Shelby Lynn

This is hard! Already taken off a bunch of songs because I have weird taste. And it's not like I don't have tons to do today. Laundryless, foodless, workless, and tired.

Bah.

I downloaded 1/3 of "Little Shop of Horrors." I did manage to get "Somewhere that's Green" Coolest rhyme - "I know Seymour's the greatest...but I'm dating a semi-sadist." Nice one!

These are my people. This is no joke. This is HARSH.

This is HARSH. We will be doing a hurricane benefit on Wednesday. (If you got here from my web page, you know this. If not, you know now.)

HARSH: Longform Improvised Tragedy
Directed by Ari Voukydis
Wednesday, September 7 @ 1030 PM
Juvie Hall
24 Bond Street between Lafayette and Bowery, New York, New York
$10 includes many free shots/drinks
Please make checks for admission/donations to Mercy Corps.

Look at these faces. HARSH is in the business of making you laugh and wish you hadn't'; cry and surprise yourself that you did; gasp in shock and surprise.

At least, that's the look we're going for.

Read more about us here: Yesand.com Article about Dramatic Improv by Jill Bernard - this was done as a preview to the Toronto International Improv Festival, where we kicked some serious ass.

It'll be a good show, for a good cause.
And if we know us, the tragedy will come shining through the clouds.

Wish I had a camera NYC Moment #1 (but I keep forgetting I had a Camera Phone)

West 47th Street, 1015 AM or so I think:

Spotted amongst the usual array of Orthodox men in yarmulke and shirtsleeves and Hasidim in baggy black suits (it is 80 degrees out) and beards and women in long dresses and wigs running out to get tea and run back behind the counters of the endless diamond stores along the street - the women work the counters, the men all seem to be out on the sidewalk, running and haggling.

A twentysomething guy in white polo shirt, curly dirty-blond hair and baggy cargo shorts, toting a half-crushed bottle of Poland Spring and peering nervously in the window of a jewelry store towards the end of the block. I could spy the outline of a woman inside, bewigged and pointing, as he nervously peered within. A few feet away from the doorway. Almost there.

Awwww. Something's coming, something's good.

The strangest things occur to one.

I felt compelled to contact my first ex-fiancee (oh, what a heartbreaker I am) - who I broke up with, so sweetly, the weekend before Valentine's Day, 1989, in Union Square. Anyhoo....haven't spoken to him since January 1990 (another story for another day, believe me) - I may have had a letter or two after that - and thru the magic of the Internet, I've managed to track him around over the years. Never contacted him (G always found that super-weird of me). Never felt the need, or the desire to make this guy feel bad, or to dredge up a long-gone past.

But, I don't know....I knew he lived in Alabama, although not coastal, I thought, maybe his wife's family, or his own, had relatives down there (his family as far as I knew were still in SC)....I knew he used to live in NO...I'm sure his students (he's a professor) were affected, I don't know. I felt like I had to check in, somehow.

Talk about awkward. I don't know how or why I did it, but again...I just felt...I don't know. And I'm sure he was baffled, to say the least. I don't know what to expect. I'm sure my college buddies would be stunned.

Sometimes you get the urge to do stuff like this. Maybe it's a mortality thing?

It just occurred to me, he's probably located this by now. I'd originally intended to print the correspondence; out of respect, I don't think I will. Wary, curious, pleasant, not necessarily in that order, would be how I would describe it. He's married with children now.

We were almost married, once. Almost half a lifetime ago. Engaged when I was nineteen, a tiny diamond I proudly showed off at the MSE Library at JHU (I had to go to work, you see, after our little excursion to the mall led to our picking it out, and he getting driven to the mall with his friends to pick it up, then he had to go to work)

He did the bended-knee thing on C-level, the Science Periodicals section where I worked.

The mall excursion was fun, White Marsh, I believe, where the "Metro" ran to...one of the jewelry stores was having a party and we slugged some champagne with the drunk-ass staff. We bought the ring elsewhere, at Littman. Had to get it sized, for my big piano-playing hands.

We didn't have a particular plan. But my god, things are coming back to me clear as day.

I read Bride's magazine from time to time and picked out a shocking red Mexican wedding dress.

My friends making fun of Brides magazine with me.

Thought about getting married on campus.

I did give the ring back. The story of that weekend, and the subsequent days, in my apartment, is a long one. The previous days, too.

I seriously, seriously haven't thought about this in years, much less gotten choked up, emotional about it.

Yes, I'm human. Terribly human, after all.

The strangest things occur to one.

Hooligans then and now

American (Hunter S. Thompson, 1972 as photographed by Annie Leibovitz)



English (Not Hunter S. Thompson, 2004, as photographed by the author)

Back on the horse, so to speak

Ahhh...Wednesdays at the Lantern Late Show. Nothin' like it. My improv show HARSH (Wednesdays at 1030 at Juvie Hall for those who don't read my web page or plugs) was down last night, so I went to my old home away from home.

Man. I miss those fuckers. I miss the craziness.

I miss the leaky bathroom and the dark back sofa where I candle-write my 'set list' (and I use the term loosely, being semi-retired from stand up - another term I use loosely, in that I haven't taken the stage solo in two, three weeks? That long? Shit.) I miss the crowd, who actually (wow) misses me. Crowd, another loose term, meaning the late night comics - Edward, Bob, Rob, Angry Bob, Mr. John Morrison (I love calling him that), Dan, Vito, Katie, Rachael. host Dave Baldwin, looking oddly groomed. How domesticated! Shake out that ponytail and ramp up that smokers cough! Haven't seen Baldwin in ages - I remember the first time I batted my eyes at him from stage. Ages and ages ago, it seems.

Erszi and I have pre-show dinner at the Olive Something (not Garden - a fabulous Mediterranean super-cheap and super-tasty place above the Comedy Cellar....to dream the impossible dream. Avocado salad, yogurt dressing, hot sauce, black bread, honey lemon tea - something like six bucks.) The waiter is hot and chatty.

I pass Emily and Raquel on the way out - I haven't even done the early show in ages, and chatted with them for a bit - they are fabulous funny ladies.

They've cut the show down, timewise - it used to run up till 230 - they've been dicky about the 2 drink minimum - they've slapped on a $20 card minimum - but hell, it's still the Lantern, and we're all still there, talking shit and hanging out in the bathroom, in the booths, on the stairwells.

We have civilians, drunk and up front, heckling like shit. I got up about halfway, not bad, considering it's been months, and got a suitably lovely-nostalgic introduction. For some reason, one of the brawny-rummy hecklers has fallen in love with me. He lurches bulkily to the back after my ranty bits on life and lobotomies and porn (not totally freeform, but energetic). He loudly throws himself my way, belching my praises and disrupting Liam McEneany's set; I am mortified. Within seconds the totally sweet Victor Varnado body-checks him; I assure him that I am fine, as Drunky McHeckler is slurring to me how totally gay he is so that the drink he (and his straight girlfriend?) is buying me is strings free. Victor stands by as the guy FINALLY leaves, to receive deservedly foul treatment from Liam, who I hope does not hold it against me. My comedy class pal Sparky tries to get me to order a Sam Adams for him but the waitron brings me another JD/Diet Coke (I am pussying out tonight, my stressed out tummy incapable of dealing with straight hooch and needing an acid/carbon dioxide dilution. Go figure.)

Just in time, as 130 approacheth, Vito Fucking Lantz (the worlds most wonderful late night Chicagoan comic drinking musical singing comic dart playing human...the list goes on) and I flash the signs from the dugout meaning "Macdougal. Ale house. Pitchers. They will come. We go now."

Thus the evening begins.

PBR. Jen the hoooooot bartender (#3 on my gay list) is there, we remember how much we totally miss each other (I shit you not, I am in love). Actually she is outside....when we get there, we see why, as there is a douchebag of fratties (how's that for a collective noun?) occupying way too much space and ruining the jukebox.

We find the back room, acquire darts. The rest of the lingerers from the show arrive, we play the darts game whose name I forget (the 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, bullseye one.) I am surprisingly not bad, for a drunk with no depth perception. One is dull and unbalanced, like at least one or two comics on the standby list. (BOOYAH!) Anyways...Pitchers empty. Shots get shooted. Vito and I finally commander the jukebox and Steve Earle, Merle Haggard, Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash come pouring out.

"Put on Janis Joplin, the bartender will TOTALLY sing!" Yes, indeed. "Put on Georgia on my Mind, Baldwin will cry!" Yep.

We wander about, never finish the game; we were winning. Baldwin discusses the merits of the Willie v. Ray versions of "Georgia." Vito brings up the James Brown version and is glared upon.

After 4, Jen can't sell to us, but she can give it away. What the fuck, one more. I dig out all my cash to tip out, and commandeer Baldwin to escort me to the bank machine afterwards. I'd been meaning to leave the bar for hours (I don't usualy enter so cash-poor), but it would have broken the flow, you know?

Vito and I talk about Minneapolis, about Chicago, about improv, about performing for yourself. About getting some road work in the Midwest if I make it out there in the spring. Cool cool stuff.

Finally chased out, we hit the bank machine. Stumble across the road to the Ma to try and cadge some more drinks. Why? Why the fuck not. Foiled, alas.

The evening (evening?) winds up in familiar fashion.

I've got a bit of a headache today (understatement), a bellyfull of Diet Coke and a slight cough (after being wearily handed my own Camel Light to chew on. Bad, bad.)

Damn, I miss that.

And damn, if I didn't forget to tape my set.

Which was, all in all, a pretty sweet set. Not perfect, a little blue, a little raw, but pretty sweet.

All of it, was pretty sweet. Sometimes you gotta go...

what happens when you wake up at odd hours

"Nothing's accomplished here."
- Glengarry Glen Ross

Just can't seem to get it together. Or understand, anyone.

Wish I'd been a teenager, so I could've worked this shit out.

All I know is that the music videos on the gay channel are amazing. So was "Heavenly Creatures." I had no idea that was a true story!

Would've gone to the movies tonight, had "Heavenly Creatures" and "Psycho Beach Party" not double-billed.

And IMDB..how did we ever live without it?

amusing lyrics du jour

"(She was a) Hotel Detective" - They Might be Giants

She's got her ear to the walls and she's tappin' the calls
If you've got a secret boy, forget about it, 'cause she's a

Hotel Detective
my little
Hotel Detective
yeah she's a
Hotel Detective
Why don't you check her out

Well the bellhop is funky
The dumbwaiter's a monkey
If there's a knock at the door, boy, forget about it, 'cause she's a

Hotel Detective
my little
Hotel Detective
yeah
Hotel Detective
Cone on and check her out

She says she likes my face
She says she owns the place
Forget about it, 'cause she's a

Hotel Detective
my little
Hotel Detective
come on her
Hotel Detective
Why don't you check her out

Hotel Detective
Come on and swing with me
Hotel Detective
From the top of a tree
Hotel Detective
And make me feel like a bee
Hotel Detective
That's where I want to know you

sappy lyrics du jour

"First Day Of My Life" - Bright Eyes

This is the first day of my life
I swear I was born right in the doorway
I went out in the rain suddenly everything changed
They're spreading blankets on the beach

Yours is the first face that I saw
I think I was blind before I met you
Now I don’t know where I am
I don’t know where I’ve been
But I know where I want to go

And so I thought I’d let you know
That these things take forever
I especially am slow
But I realize that I need you
And I wondered if I could come home

Remember the time you drove all night
Just to meet me in the morning
And I thought it was strange you said everything changed
You felt as if you had just woke up
And you said “this is the first day of my life
I’m glad I didn’t die before I met you
But now I don’t care I could go anywhere with you
And I’d probably be happy”

So if you want to be with me
With these things there’s no telling
We just have to wait and see
But I’d rather be working for a paycheck
Than waiting to win the lottery
Besides maybe this time is different
I mean I really think you like me

Cabbie Wisdom, 440 PM

"I tell you..swallow three pieces of garlic every morning before you brush your teeth....yes, it will burn, it will make you dizzy, before breakfast, before ANYTHING..it will cure everything, heart disease, diabetes, everything....what do those doctors know...(more anguished)...trust me I smoke two packs a day since I was seven and now I am thirty two (he looks about forty-five)...they die before you..they know SHIT...(more anguished still)...all they do is have sex with their nurses, eighteen, nineteen years old...GROUP SEX, you know what I am saying?!?!?!"

As I am hastily gathering up my eighty bags (including a bundle of flowers and an alarming quantity of beets) from the Greenmarket which were threatening to give me numb-arm (NARM NARM NARM) on the walk home, he is still going on.

"Take your time...I am a smoker, a lover, a stockbroker, a cabbie....I am EVERYTHING."

He didn't pull away for a solid minute.

I heart NY.

We're the Hooligans...with apologies to the biggest British badass I know

"I'd hate to be a dustbin in Shaftesbury tonight."

I'm listening to Bill Hicks' "Arizona Bay" right now. Excerpts abounds.







"Speak English! It's Crip...Blood. I picture a bunch of pale guys in penny loafers and no socks."

"If you corner me I might become a scallywag!...It doesn't sound scary at all, doesn't it?"

"This wouldn't be a long gang battle..I'm bettin' on the Bloods."

I did have a devastatingly handsome photo of my favorite English Hooligan here, all leather-jacketed-bad-ass-chain-smoking, but I didn't want to find myself arse-backwards inside a dustbin next time I popped over for a visit, so I kept it to myself.

Although I have little reason to pick on you folks (even if some of you ARE in marketing and advertising), since it was your prescient and intelligent nation that appreciated Hicks far more than ours in his time.

What makes me intensely sad is that "Arizona Bay" is essentially the work of a dying man, and that ain't no joke.

In other semi-related news, I'm fairly certain that I'm abandoning my 'comedy journal' on another website and moving all my bullshit over here. More bullshit, huzzah! Now 44% more efficient!

Whatev.....zzz

You're right (although I doubt you read this.) I should be thinking about a career.

I'm thinking of about five right now.

I'm also thinking of the pains in my gut, the short-story collection in my bag I'm dying to finish, the Diet Dr Pepper I've yet to consume, the meeting I need to schedule tomorrow night, the fantastic skirt I'm wearing right now, the phone conference call that hasn't happened yet, and how any of these things may be somehow related.

I am thinking about who may read this.

I am not thinking about the crap work on my desk. It makes me sleepy and angry.

There should be three posts here.

I like pudding (chocolate) and angel food cake.

Sullen teenager or adult realist?

Would disappearing from the face of the earth actually make a difference?

Odd but true

Sometimes I think my future-ex understands me better than most people in the world do. At least that's how I felt when he met my train last night smiling his crooked smile, and held me very tightly and kissed the top of my beautiful curly dark-red (for now) hair, deep in the guts of dank late-night Penn Station.

I didn't have to explain, and it was lovely.

There had to be a reason, really, we were so together for so long; at least it wasn't all for naught.

From the pillow of Wonky New Age Toronto Hotel, or whatever happened to mints?

Citrine: Energizing, invigorating and positive. Citrine can increase motivation and relieve felings of inertia, improve digestion, clear congestion and may work to purify the blood as well. Raises self-esteem, heightens perception, enhances creativity, promotes harmony. Encourages kindness, brings wisdom.

Pretty nice fucking rock. Good thing I didn't attempt to eat it.

Shoot me.

Not only have I been required to pontificate on the minutiae of the attorney-client privilege all day and giving myself the world's worst headache, and being sorely underpaid for it, and listening to idiot girls turn up the volume on the IM and wheel each other around on document carts while playing patty-cake (these girls are in their twenties), I just saw the valedictorian of my law school class leave the same place I am working and get into a black car, suited up and gorgeous.

I gracefully slid behind a pillar.

Please.

If you haven't seen this show

you are missing out.

Go check out Ampersand at the Magnet Theater on Sunday nights.

Sheer fucking joy. Two person improv. Furf is a lovely piece of...improvisor.

Seriously, he's done a fine job of putting together a unique and briliant show. Don't miss this!

I loved it, wet and freezing, And Rosie is a goddess for brewing up coffee. A goddess!

Love, love love.

Sunday afternoon

Shit.

I had a dream that I was standing in the middle of Eight Avenue, somewhere in Chelsea. There were cars barreling down on me and there was no way that I was not going to die. In the brief period of time-dilation I was experiencing, I realized fully that I had gotten myself into the situation, somehow, that it was almost nearly doomed for utter failure, and that maybe, just maybe, if I balanced myself on the thin white stripe of paint in the middle of the-

Then I woke up.

I have just spent the better part of the afternoon in Teresa's, a terrific coffee shop on First Avenue; the time can be broken down into several phases:

1. Brunch with Mark. Why I don't tape some of this stuff and just write the damn bits myself is beyond me. They're too good. Today's conversations went especially blue, veering off into porn temp agencies, animal bukkake and how to get panties onto a chicken. The omelettes were lovely.
2. Waiting out torrential rainstorm/waiting for my mother meeting me with Sephora purchases
3. Returning to Teresa's so my mother could indulge her blintz fix, requiring me to order more tea. My mother is often intentionallly hilarious, sometimes unintentionally. We broke out the Jewish Sisterhood bit for her, which she thought would be a definite hit.

Long afternoon. Although spent with two of the funniest comedians you haven't heard of.

Got lots of work ahead of me, but a head full of snot and a closed throat. Hooray!

Update

Throat: scratchy
Voice: Husky, diminishing
Thirst: great
Liver: actve
Blood: very thin
Concern about bodily injury: great
Feeling about being alone at the moment: mixed
Number of drunk dials performed: 1
Number likely to result in/affect potential booty calls: 0
Exhaustion: intense
Enjoyment of evening: high

Movie Quotes

"I am not your consolation prize."
- When Harry Met Sally

"I though of that old joke, y'know, the, this, this guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, "Doc, uh, my brother's crazy. He thinks he's a chicken." And, uh, the doctor says, "Well, why don't you turn him in?" And the guy says, "I would, but I need the eggs." Well, I guess that's pretty much how I feel about relationships. Y'know, they're totally irrational and crazy and absurd and, but, uh, I guess we keep going through it because, uh, most of us need the eggs. "
- Annie Hall

Summertime, or what I remember most.

We used to go to the beach, a lot. Every summer.

We'd take the train to Point Pleasant, Ocean Grove, Asbury Park, Spring Lake; the subway to Coney Island, or Brighton Beach. Coney Island was Nathans and Brighton was knishes, and once we went to the surly Georgian grocery store, and going in one at a time so someone could watch the stuff. LIRR to Oakdale and my dads, even the summer we swam too far and had to be rescued, or East Hampton and my aunts, like when I laughed at him for his fear of fishing as I merrily baited hooks and trolled with my uncle out towards Montauk Point. We went to Newport after the Bar exam and sat in the cloudy cold sand anyway and rode a real schooner and ogled the tan deckhands together. We went to glorious Miami Beach and stepped out our hotel and onto the sand, the glamourous life. Ocean Grove NJ was a dry town with tent-cottages and a huge cavernous church hall and we walked to Bradley Beach and had spaghetti and snuck wine back to our inn and sat on the windy porch and drank it with glasses we bought, leftover new years glasses I think, and talked and looked at the clouds and listened to the wonderful angry storm-surf. Point Pleasant was the best, day tripping, or that Raymond Carver like hotel where we laughed at the tiny railroad and went to the batting cages and he found me the perfect twenty-five cent arcade with ms pac man and we made love in the shower after the beach and flopped on the bed and ate fudge after a perfect dinner at the restuarant that teetered on pillars moored into the surf.

Those were good things, good summers.

RIP Peter Jennings

So, I almost finished the dreaded paperwork.

What did it take? Lots of crossouts, some bad Chinese food and fifty minutes of douche-baggery on the phone.

Just need two more terribly obvious documents and some fuzzy math.

And a few hours sleep. Fucktard, that's me.

Baggy eyed fucktard.

It better not be hot tomorrow, I gotta dress to depress.

Night all. I've got 'Landslide' going thru my head now. I'm overtired, my face's broken out, and I'm obsessed with this little bump on my forehead.

And, yeah, RIP Peter Jennings. I'll always remember shoving you out of the way at that tiny news shop on 72nd street when you were walking your dog and buying Marlboros. And then looking up outside the news shop and seeing who I'd just shoved.

"Hey there...nice dog."
"Thanks." Lighting up, and sauntering away, tall and gorgeous.

Damn.

Yeah, it's like that.

So this got me good today, from a folk-station I found on iTunes (WUMB, from Umass-Boston - iTunes has improved their radio station selection drastically). So I had to find the lyrics, download the song, etc.

When I get sucked in, I get sucked in, yes I do. So what? Go on, leave me to my maudlin shit. Go!

Along those lines, anyone catch Six Feet Under. My mom called it the saddest show she's ever seen on TV, ever. It was pretty harsh. Harsh!

Anyway, here's my song du jour, properly cited and all.

Still staving off the progress of my divorce nicely, thanks for asking. Just to complete the maudlin trifecta.

I haven't eaten since noon today. Why? Dunno. Oh, I had some cabbage. Why? Dunno.

Here's the damn song.

from www.cowboylyrics.com:

(as performed by Emmylou Harris and Don Williams)

Artist/Band: Van Zandt Townes
Lyrics for Song: If I Needed You
Lyrics for Album: Legend

If I needed you would you come to me,
Would you come to me, and ease my pain?
If you needed me
I would come to you
I'd swim the seas for to ease your pain

In the night forlorn the morning's born
And the morning shines with the lights of love
You will miss sunrise if you close your eyes
That would break my heart in two

The lady's with me now since I showed her how
To lay her lily hand in mine
Loop and Lil agree she's a sight to see
And a treasure for the poor to find

Six Feet Under

What the eff?

Although I dumped an ex from a sickbed, effectively. That part made me all nuts.

In all 'art' even the stupidest - People see what they want to see.

Even fucking television.

And I repeat - what the eff?

Although I don't really believe it. And if I do, then...suck-o.

Kind of a spoiler, no?

Well, watch the rerun anyway, it ain't my fault if you haven't.

Dreams

Morning dreams are the weirdest

The first dream was that I was about to make love to a gorgeous, dark-haired vaguely-familiar-looking (but I don't know who she was) woman (For some reason, I knew how to do this). Literally, right about to do it. But we were in my grandmother's apartment, downstairs. And then the dream ended, or shifted, or I woke up; I don't recall. Anyway, it never happened.

The second was a bright sunny day in the city; it may have been the meatpacking district around Gansevoort. I saw a good friend, who I'd been expecting for ages, off in the distance, at a bus stop. I couldn't reach him; I was walking quickly up the street, but my path was blocked, by well-meaning but chatty improvisors. I tried waving; I think he saw me but I couldn't be sure, and I needed to get to him. I remember lots of sunlight and shade and sunglasses, we both wore sunglasses. Then, I woke up.

Back...kinda

Well, I've got my messed-up website up.

And I've still got my messed-up life.

Huzzah!

Like the tapirs?

More meaningless crap.

Today I got Digital Cable. If my eyes don't deceive me, I have a channel that plays Nothing but Football (what the rest of the world calls Football, not what we Americans call Football.)

Whooooo!

I've also got eight zillion music video channels. Damn. The remote is bigger than a vibrator.

Ewwwww!

I am going to buy (well, pick out and have her dad reimburse) my little cousin a new flute for her elementary-school graduation present. I get to try new instruments out and get the kid a nice one! I am very excited!

Awwwww!

We'll write a comic about it.

Last night at an ungodly hour I was watching "American Splendor" which always, for some reason, makes me choke up a bit.

Do you ever find weird, eccentric things romantic?

And another thing....

I will teach myself how to build a website from scratch with a blog via Wordpress and a calendar if it fucking kills me.

Which it might.

which is why I only start this projects at five bloody AM.

Fuck a duck, I'm insane!

And another thing....An Open Letter to "D"

You know what? I don't need to keep this up here. I've said my piece and I've taken it away. Lost in the sands of time.

But thank you for causing me to re-examine the purpose and wisdom of keeping this journal, and the nature of the material that goes into it. For better or worse, things are going to change. I am a bit sorry and somewhat sad by all of this. But wiser, as well.

Best regards,
Michelle

The Comment that Makes me not want to Post Anymore

"To those I admire In this great big statistically-(no offense) unlikely divine hell, what are the odds, I mean, they must be astronomical, to say the least, of logging into her blog? And yet, (a figure of time) there it was, on the very big www,… she as brave and blunt as my Adrienne and I felt like that Alice, oversized and plodding, trying to squeeze through a small door never meant for my huge, greedy appetite. Like a bulimic in a bakery, wolfing down a bottomless cake, (hearing that voice of J. Alfred running endless, cynical, drunken commentary on everything I do.) And right there, in plain text, she was outing herself. And me in my grey box, confessing metaphors to her like I had broken some techno-modern commandment…(booming voice) thou shalt not read the intimate details of thy ex’s ex’s blog.)Like stepping foot in Xanadu, or eating a peach, or like having sex with your mother Ginsburg would say… not meant for my eyes (forgive me). But why not my eyes? Whose then?How could I resist the all too intimate references to his oh-so bigger-than-life need for obliqueness in a dismal world of DNA repetition? A cat named HomeboyA preference for Wagner (very Freudian)A predilection for betraying highly intellectual, somewhat rubenesque, mildy-sardonic, bluntly comedic, overly-sensitive, somewhat histrionic, (he never forgave me either), well, you get the point. Indulging my pain at her expense or my expense and her pain…E=mc2. (My tendency to disassociate not to be mistaken for indifference). And I wondered if she would be insulted (or could forgive me) for the implication of there being an “us” now - being in that sacred club of self-appointed martyrs whom he had the pleasure of spiritually bankrupting. (Did I ever forgive him?). Some ill-defined chosen-people club of gullible romanticists with concentrated fantasies of being in love. (verb or noun, it’s just like those evasive little electron-buggers). (Eliot knows, I don’t always carry around this much baggage.)And it wasn’t the subconscious attraction to narcissistic father-figures, or the autonomic addiction to over stimulating under-achieving synaptical-firings, or the avoidance of intimacy through a vengeful cloaking-device of food, although God knows I tried,But rather, those obscure, seemingly-insignificant, idiosyncractic synchronicities that bonded me to her in a way I had never before felt so close to anyone else; These things cannot be measured: (so said Jung)(Plagiarism as a form of honor) Poetry, food, Joplin, Oz, Homicide, the repetition of sex, words, quantum laws, cheese. I love cheese for Christ’s sake. Who would have thought that cheese could be such a binding factor? (the metaphors are getting silly now). (And there’s something about sex that is always funny). And maybe in time, (time as a metaphor) she could come to a place, where the need to feel loved again exceeded the need to be damaged. (my therapist said blaming myself is power). To be hurt and cheated on and betrayed and lied to in the exact same way is what Adrienne would call repetition as a form of death. (My father’s gift as well). like the hot house figs or the urn that holds the ashes or the sign on the bus…just minor props… just an understudy…(she throws off her apron and quits). And I forgave myself almost immediately for being jealous that your poetry was better than mine. But I could have predicted that with a little quantum theory and a bottle of Red Clarinet."

Not, lazy just insightful. And busy.

Writing into more personal, creative outlets, I'd like to think. And tired, and still kind of ill. And busy as hell.

Having creative breakouts and breakthroughs. And terribly busy. Did I say that?

I dedicate this song to the-

Well I hope that I don't fall in love with you
'Cause falling in love just makes me blue,
Well the music plays and you display your heart for me to see,
I had a beer and now I hear you calling out for me
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.
Well the room is crowded, there's people everywhere
And I wonder, should I offer you a chair?
Well if you sit down with this old clown, take that frown and break it,
Before the evening's gone away, I think that we could make it,
And I hope that I don't fall in love with you.
I can see that you are lonesome just like me, and it being late,
You'd like some some company,
Well I've had two, I look at you, and you look back at me,
The guy you're with has up and split, the chair next to you's free,
And I hope that you don't fall in love with me.
And I hope that you don't fall in love with me.
Now it's closing time, the music's fading out
Last call for drinks, I'll have another stout.
Turn around to look at you, you're nowhere to be found,
I search the place for your lost face, guess I'll have another round
And I think that I just fell in love with you.

- Tom Waits, I Hope that I Don't Fall in Love with You

lazy, perhaps (aka "shut up you, i'm in a bit of a holding pattern here..."

Bye Bye Love - Simon & Garfunkel (by way of the Everly Brothers)

Bye bye love
Bye bye happiness
Hello loneliness
I think I'm-a gonna cry-y
Bye bye love, bye bye sweet caress
Hello emptiness
I feel like I could di-ie
Bye bye my love goodby-eye

There goes my baby with-a someone new
She sure looks happy, I sure am blue
She was my baby till he stepped in
Goodbye to romance that might have been

Bye bye love
Bye bye happiness
Hello loneliness
I think I'm-a gonna cry-y
Bye bye love, bye bye sweet caress
Hello emptiness
I feel like I could di-ie
Bye bye my love goodby-eye

I'm-a through with romance
I'm a-through with love
I'm through with a-countin' the stars above
And here's the reason that I'm so free
My lovin' baby is through with me

Bye bye love
Bye bye happiness
Hello loneliness
I think I'm-a gonna cry-y
Bye bye love, bye bye sweet caress
Hello emptiness
I feel like I could di-ie
Bye bye my love goodby-eye

Bye bye my love goodby-eye
Bye bye my love goodby-eye

****

Ok I wasn't gonna write...holding pattern and all. But this makes me think of (fucking improvisor in me) "All that Jazz," the autobiopic of Bob Fosse (damn, what an insecure egomaniac, and certainly my one-true-love-who-died-too-soon, if the movie is that true.)

This is the song at the end that culminates the production number of his life.

And he's watching the dancing get bigger and bigger. And Ben Vereen sing louder and dance harder.

And he's more and more ecstatic at the production, and slowly, yes almost imperceptibly, more disconnected, horrified and sad. Just look at his face.

Pathetic, and alone.

God, I loved that movie.

I wish I'd known the man.

What a self-destructive fiendish genius, Joe Gideon. Wonderful. Terrible. And what genius acting Roy Scheider did in that movie. With nary a word.

It's showtime.

*****

PS - Don't listen to "Bridge over Troubled Waters" at 245 AM alone.

Behind the musical curve, yes...but this struck me the other day so to speak

"Take me out tonight" - The Smiths

Take me out tonight
Where there's music and there's people
And they're young and alive
Driving in your car
I never never want to go home
Because I haven't got one
Anymore
Take me out tonight
Because I want to see people and I
Want to see life
Driving in your car
Oh, please don't drop me home
Because it's not my home, it's their
Home, and I'm welcome no more

And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die
And if a ten-ton truck
Kills the both of us
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure - the privilege is mine

Take me out tonight
Take me anywhere, I don't care
I don't care, I don't care
And in the darkened underpass
I thought Oh God, my chance has come at last
(But then a strange fear gripped me and I
Just couldn't ask)

Take me out tonight
Oh, take me anywhere, I don't care
I don't care, I don't care
Driving in your car
I never never want to go home
Because I haven't got one, da ...
Oh, I haven't got one

And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die
And if a ten-ton truck
Kills the both of us
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure - the privilege is mine

Oh, There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out
There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out
There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out
There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out
There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out
There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out
There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out
There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out
There Is A Light And It Never Goes Out


http://shoplifters.morrissey-solo.com/lyrics.html

The nexus

How small is this fucking world?

Pretty fucking small.

Hi.

Don't tell, okay?

Thanks.

Alcohol, tool, devil.

Yep. hungover like a college student. Not like a grownup who knows that girly drinks are bad for her and knows never to mix. Literally twitching all day, sipping warm bottled water. I lost ten pounds this week, and I'm sure it's because I'm wrung out like a sponge.

I managed to push down soup (3 points) and a bagel (8 points) and a banana is forthcoming (2 points).

Twitching. It's pretty harsh. HARSH. Longform improvised tragedy. Oh yeah.

I am wrung out, strung out. Har.

There are people that I miss. Or do I?

I haven't done a respectable lick of work, and I surely need to. Seriously.

I did, however, make a shrink appointment. That's gotta count for something. And I've got to confirm the dentist. Fix me up from the head down. Ha!

I'm running database searches, and IMing a lovely friend about lingerie I've lost. Har!

Har. Har, indeed. And writing in here.

Multi-distracting.

As soon as this "cold" clears up, I'm back to the gym. I want my swimmer's legs back, damnnit!

more about the other side of the bed

Six pillows
One small stuffed puppy
An extra comforter that needs a new cover
Yes, some laundry

Night.

what the living fuck? and should i get tickets?

So in my i-cant-sleep-even-on-fucking-codeine lyrics search, I googled "Some Girls are Bigger than Others" by the Smiths. And found to my consternation/amusement is that it's a frickin musical in London. Sure, this phenomenon isn't new (Jacques Brel was pretty damn good, at least the songs were) but fucking Mamma Mia Moving Out...motherfucking hell.

I haven't investigated this yet. It's going up in July.

Anyhoo, way to buzz kill.
And I still can't sleep.
Just when I'd spent a nice evening listening to the fucking Smiths.

"Some Girls are Bigger than Others"

From the ice-age to the dole-age
There is but one concern
I have just discovered :

Some girls are bigger than others
Some girls are bigger than others
Some girl’s mothers are bigger than
Other girl’s mothers

Some girls are bigger than others
Some girls are bigger than others
Some girl’s mothers are bigger than
Other girl’s mothers

As anthony said to cleopatra
As he opened a crate of ale :

Oh, I say :
Some girls are bigger than others
Some girls are bigger than others
Some girl’s mothers are bigger than
Other girl’s mothers

Some girls are bigger than others
Some girls are bigger than others
Some girl’s mothers are bigger than
Other girl’s mothers

Send me the pillow ...
The one that you dream on ...
Send me the pillow ...
The one that you dream on ...
And I’ll send you mine

I really really can't deal

I have fucked up numerous things today. Seriously, on a professional level, that I need to fix.

I will fix them. I am sickish and tired, which is fast becoming my normal state, if I am not alcohol-numbed or bedded-down somehow, despite my best attempts to nutrify and hydrate.

I have to stop, something, somehow.

Why I am blogging all this is a freaking mystery, to me anyway.

And there are people on my mind. Not ones you'd expect, mind you. Not ones I'd expect. I'm surprised at the ones that are, and the ones that aren't, if that makes sense (because realizing they aren't sort of puts them into one's mind, doesn't it?)

Perhaps it's time to go home. Yes, maybe it is.

It's cold in here. I'm achy sore. My bed needs to be made, at any rate.

Part of me wants the pile of clothes replaced by a human. Part of me does not. Part of that part of me feels like I should come with a warning-label tattoed (albeit temporarily) across my forehead. Black-box, for sure. Adverse events likely. Do not combine with alcohol or other drugs.

I wonder who's stumbled across this blog.

Boy am I the chatterbox today.

Do all single/newish single people substitute a pile of clothes on the bed for where the other person used to sleep?

I really can't deal

I want to stay home. I've attempted waking up about six times. Bah.

I hope no one reads this blog because it is not amusing.

I did have a fun and amusing conversation with Gary about boys. Age-gaps being what they are, I could be flirting with people young enough to be his kid. Or, considering his previous vocations, who are his kid. Shudder, shudder, shudder.

gutwrenching guitar

If you listen to "Arms of Mary" by Leo Kottke (Leo Live) and don't cry, or at least choke up, you have no heart.

(With thanks to Tony C for the musical matchmaking of this previous unknown-to-me artist. I leave it to you to download, buy, borrow or steal. Or just ask me.)

what a long week

karaoke was great
my concussion was not
the shows were great
my odd rash was not
my friends are great
self-promotion, not
lawyering, great and not
still one more day to go because i count the weekends

up and about at 919 on a sunday. i can't deal this early during the week.

i think i'll make pasta for breakfast. Hell, why not? I'm a grown up.

Make pasta, set priorities. Call my dad, spray Benadryl on my leg. Properly hydrate. Look up plane fares.

Should I stroll slowly across 4th street? Ha!

Booyah.

I am way sadder than I thought

as I just IM'd a friend of mine who's quite sane at moments like this.

And I've been calling the ex about stupid things all day.

About furniture and coats and ironing boards.

And oddly, music. I offered to make him CDs.

Twelve years, and I had no concept of his tastes in pop music.

Oasis? Green Day? Is this new?

I actually had Jet. Huh. Well.

We never had a song. I think that's ultimately damning. Seriously. You need at least one.

Not that we didn't enjoy going to concerts together. We had some "classical" overlap. Even there, we diverged.

Never had a song.

I'm making him mixes, out of sheer kindness on my part. Not really mixes. Just dumping his music out of my iTunes. I don't really like Led Zeppelin. The Pink Floyd, that's his, as is the Strauss and Wagner. The Bach, we both dip into from time to time. Sibelius is kinda heavy for me, mostly. I put on the songs I free-downladed for him, the odd pop choices, along with the weird ones he got before (Avril Levine? Devo? what the fuck.)

I also snuck on some Steve Earle. Fuck 'im. I told him it was protest music. He'll probably consider it under my ambit of "music to eat your gun by." Ha!

Today it felt like London.

Something in the air - sunny/cloudy damp/bracing - felt like the banks of the Thames in October even though I was clearly on Avenue A in May.

I am exhausted. Or, as they say over there, shattered.

I may go back in July. Or not, depending which way the wind blows.

too much, too much, too much.....

Overrated/underrated, a highly personal/prejudicial account.

Steamed dumplings, overrated. Steamed wontons, underrated.

Backrubs, overrated. Holding hands, underrated.

Bottled water, overrated. Seltzer, underrated.

Tofu, overrated, Tempeh, underrated.

Yoga tapes, overrated. Bellydancing tapes, underrated.

Window seats, overrated. Aisle seats, underrated.

Smoking after sex, overrated. Smoking during sex, underrated.

Ring tones, overrated. Vibrate, underrated.

Pricey vitamin water, overrated. Pricey bottled green tea beverages, underrated.

Bare legs, overrated. Stockings, underrated.

Powerbars, overrated. Balance bars, underrated.

Dannon Light, overrated. Total Greek-style, underrated.

Elmo, overrated. Grover, underrated.

Sweep, overrated. Cross-fade, underrated.

Goatees, overrated. Stubble, underrated.

Monster rolls, overrated. Yellowtail, underrated.

Eyeliner, overrated. Lip liner, underrated.

Blogs......

Cheever Out of Context

"She cried. He was jealous of her intelligence - she saw that. But was she meant to pose as a cretin in order to be attractive? Why should he rage because she had said a few words in French? To assume that intellingence, knowledge, the very benefits of education were male attributes was an attitude that had been obsolete for a century. Then she felt as if the strain put on hre heart by this cruelty was too much. She seemed to feel one of its fastenings give, as if this organ was a cask and so heavily laden with sorrow that, like some ruptured treasure chest of childhod, its sides had burst. 'Intelligence' was the word she returned to - intelligence was at stake. And yet the word should ring free and clear of the pain she was suffering. Intelligence was the subject for discussion, but it had the sentience, at that hour, of flesh and blood. What she faced was the bare bones of pain, cleansed in the stewpot and polished by the hound's tooth; this intelligence had the taste of death. She cried herself to sleep."

- "An Educated American Woman"

Deer. Headlights.

I find it hard to write here as a hard period of my life comes up.

May 7, blood clots.
May 9, anniversary.

Fuck.

I just want to get laid.

Just chugging along.

G-d forbid I should reflect.

That's what mirrors are for. And I fucking hate mirrors.

Been a while.....

Xanax.

Thirsty.

Wha?

xxx

Boo.

Boo!

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?

Plenty.

LOL.

BRB.

CYA.

: )

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.

xxx

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


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...
Crap.
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.
Aaaawwwkkkkkwwwwwaaaarrrrdddddd.

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

Question

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!

Someone....

...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

dizzy...

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

exhausted,,,

New meds.
Old husbands.
Peace on earth sought.
Sickish.
Tired.
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.