Er, how about a hug-

You know, you can diet and exercise to look more shapely, clean up nice, therapize out of a funk, read up and edumacize yourself...but can anyone really make themselves more lovable?

I don't think so, really. Indeed.

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

On a semi-unrelated note, I've looked over the scripted characters I've done over the years. Starting in first grade, here's a sampling:

The Selfish Giant - title role. (first grade. Mostly because I could read)

Some play in fourth grade where I was a time traveler accused by historical/literary figures of being a liar. I wasn't a liar, but time travel is cool, and it turned out I really had a head injury. Cool.

Ludlow Fair (Lanford Wilson) - Agnes. Zhlubby single city gal, tough on the outside, with a screwy romantic center that isn't revealed till the final monologue. (College One-acts festival. Of course, I couldn't even commit to rolling my hair during the final monologue, and got the director to let me shave my legs instead, adding comic relief. Note that shaving your legs twice in two days is a bitch.)

An incredibly filthy sketch where I played a racist Ukranian dominatrix. I love this character, I do. She just wants to be famous, is that so wrong?

Glengarry Glen Ross (David Mamet) - This was a reading, to be fair. I played Williamson. In a cast of characters where most people hated each other, everyone hated Williamson. I did a fine job, indeed. I fucking love this play. Typecasting?

no more grilled cheese before bed

I had a "discovery channel health" nightmare that i weighed 402 pounds on a digital scale...like the kid in "I'm 16 and morbidly obese." Scary! Not for nothing, but I was shopping for a digital scale on the Bed Bath and Beyond website before bed. I also bought sheets and a damn bath mat though, so what the fuck!

Come see this.

The Pulp Fiction quiz -

beatles or elvis?
partridge family or brady bunch?
peter strauss or nick nolte?
talk or listen?
betty or veronica?

Great finger on the personality pulse pop-culture quiz. Thanks, Quentin!

Comically simple!

With a nod to John Waters (as I first probably saw this in B-more anyway, and it was just quoted in "Dirty Shame," Waters' last film that's on LOGO now)...

a ridiculously catchy short film made at CalArts in 1974 now on Flash!

Do you like?

hee hee.

I would dedicate this to a friend (I'm sending this entry to), but I don't have a pseudonym yet. Will report back soon!

When lousy sleep happens to good people....

"Us sing, and dance, and holler, just wanting to be loved."
- Shug Avery (Margaret Avery), "The Color Purple" Yeah, I cry like an idiot.

"I've got a husband. I don't need another one."
- Janey Carver (Sigourney Weaver), "The Ice Storm" Now, who inhabits a character better than Sigourney? Tell me, people I don't know!

"You're chewing gum?"
- Miles (Paul Giamatti), "Sideways" I think I finally like this movie.

Broadway Flea Market 2006!

It's already Tuesday and I haven't gotten around to this yet. Every year I attend and rhapsodize about the folks, finds, etc. So here it is!

Sunday turned out not to suck too badly, weatherwise, but since major storms were predicted, the 'let's get there early' strategy didn't work out and the place was thronged at 10 AM, when I met my college-and-theater/market buddy Jessica at the starting point, 44th and 8th. I kind of love meeting at 'the usual place' since there's so few things in life I'm consistent about; I can't remember when we started hitting the Flea Market. Every year, things are a little different, but basically the same...but in that good way. Before I get any cheesier, let's move on.

I think because of the rain, there were way fewer books then last year. Usually we come out with buttloads of dollar books and plays (that's where I scored my highly useful copy of "Glengarry Glen Ross") - I meant to pick up that extra copy of Shurtleff's "Audition" (highly recommended by Billy Merritt, and I've lent mine out twice), but I absently laid it down and forgot. I did grab "Writing the Broadway Musical," as we discussed how all the new ones happen to suck mightily. It's true! Which memorabilia sweatshirts are going to be $2 next year? Hmmm!


We browsed show jackets and bathrobes - nothing as fabulous as the Tony Awards robe she scored a few years ago. I made a huge find at the "Broadway Bares" stripper/fund raiser booth (I've never used the wrapping paper I bought long ago, it's still in my headboard drawer) - gold lame heels, gold sequin wristbands and a blue feather boa, all for $15. Hello halloween! I was highly tempted by the gowns on the "Hairspray" rack, but they were, pricewise (but not size-wise) out of my league. We avoided playbills, pored over kitsch, snorted at inflated prices ($100 for a Sweeney Todd pie plate? Indeed not!) and picked up a few odds and ends. A light haul, overall.

We caught a glimpse of Bebe Neuwirth in the non-cloistered 'celebrity photo booth.'

The quality find this year was post-fair-examine-the-stash breakfast at the coffee shop at the Edison Hotel , which I'd heard about but never seen. Wind your way through the lobby and fabulous heavy-duty old country food awaits you! I'm a sucker for restaurants that still have whiteboard with black letters pressed in them. "I thought the blintzes would be light..." said my dining companion, staring down a Dixie cup full of sour cream. I gazed over my pancakes and dish of bacon and noticed that they never charged me for that coffee refill after all.

Good times, once again. Let's hope they bring the drag queens back to the raffle wheel someday!

Hero Machine 2.0!

You've gotta love this site!

I like that there are two ass-kicking female form options. And lots of hair, boots, sidekicks and accessories for all!

Seriously, deep down inside, this is what I really look like, Ace bandages and all.












Show me your Superheroes!

This post is about me.

I am supposed to be at H&R Block meeting the once and/or future ex to do the taxes. At noon. On 23rd Street.

It is 11:48. I am not dressed. I can't locate the W-2s.

This is not good.

My stomach hurts.

Edit: Meeting Postponed! Meeting Postponed!

This post is NOT about you.

Regarding "Cathouse: The Series"

1. Is Airforce Amy closer to 20, 30, 40 or 50? Yeesh!
2. If you're going to dye the hair that blonde, ladies, how 'bout springing for the eyebrows too? Not a good look, Sunset!
3. Is it just me, or are people shelling out good cash for some pretty tame stuff? I mean really, if you're going to push the limit of your precious University of Alabama Alumni VISA, why spend it just watching your wife get furiously fondled by another woman? Maybe America really is bo-ring!

Pet my pussy, but only if you stimulate me first. It's only logical.

Good lord, what is a pet date?

I'm fascinated by highly specialized dating sites. Even though I'm not looking for anyone lately. It's the same thing that draws me to the clothing racks in vintage stores and tiny dressmakers' shops in the East Village, gazing at 50s crinoline frocks and 60s sheath dresses. Just Not for Me, but the colors and textures are interesting.

For the merely snooty, or the creepily eugenic. these are sites for the intellectual-elitist (GoodGenes is more inclusive than the Right Stuff, oddly enough).

However, this is now my favorite one:

Trek Passions: OnLine Dating for SciFi Fans.

Live Long and Prosper, sex fiends. I'm going to polish off my Bajoran ear cuff and sharpen my bat'hleth*.

I wonder if anyone meets face to face.


*waiting to get spelling correction on that.

"Grrrrreetings Princess Cindy....and how are ya?"

In my opinion, the best "SuperSweet 16" (or as the girl's mom says, Super Swit Sixtin) episode is the Staten Island one. Where did they 'suddenly' get the $14,000 anyway? Did the 'brothers' beat the crap out of Prince Charming behind the catering hall? Will the tiny loud girl fall during the "Dirty Dancing" dance?

Oh, when bad TV happens to good people. I fondly recalled the time I hypnotized an otherwise well-educated culturally literate friend of mine (cable-free, proud Netflixer of documentaries, British public television and the "West Wing") with four or five straight episodes of "Next."

There's a new RW/RR Challenge starting Thursday. I can't wait!

"Peter Jennings Is Dead" - Live at the Monmouth County Fringe Festival!!!

The reviews are in!

"Who ARE these people??"
- Larry David

"Schmaltzy! I LOVED it!"
- Alan Alda

"You have to publish these things in threes, right?"
- Roger Ebert

"Peter Jennings is Dead" is the meta-satirical story of two rising young wordsmiths hurtling towards the center of the sun...one swig of cheap tequila and scathing remark at a time. And they KNOW. Just. How. Amusing. They. Are. Do YOU? Do THEY? DO THEY???

The Monmouth County Fringe Festival is fortunate to welcome these talented and breathtakingly attractive folks fresh from their well-received runs at LiveArts06 in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania and SpringArtSouth in Bel Air, Maryland.

Written by and starring Isabella Bonaventura-Shapiro (Bronx Public Television Seminar Series, SpeedBall HappyTime Theatre, ArtsArena) and Trent Regan Sharpe (Masters of Disaster, SpeedBall HappyTime Theatre, NewArtsFest 2.2). Directed by jean-pette josephson (Shakespeare by the Sea, SpeedBall HappyTime Theatre, Beckett on Beckett).

Showtimes 230 and 430 PM Friday, Saturday and Sundays (630 PM show added!). Tickets $5, $4 with FringePass.

Obsessive much? The beginnings...eh?

I used to really love hockey biographies when I was in elementary school. Any biographies, really, but I went on a mad streak I think, in fourth or fifth grade where I read every single non-fiction hockey book in the school and probably the public library. Books about the 'original' six-team NHL, and every hockey player bio there was. Bobby Hull, Gordie Howe, Rocket Richard. Knew about obscure Canadian towns, helmetless hockey, the absence of the forward pass.

New York Rangers
Montreal Canadiens
Toronto Maple Leafs
Boston Bruins
Chicago Black Hawks
Detroit Red Wings

That was it until the 1960s. And I did NOT google that, suckas!

I actually remember when helmets were optional. Remember hockey hair? Mike Bossy? I remember feeling guilty being a die-hard Islander fan because they were a lousy expansion team. Of course, those were impending DYNASTY years, suckas.

The one actual hockey player in my high school was a buddy of mine, and a die-hard Ranger fan who was five-three and openly ridiculed (actually, mostly for being a Ranger fan if I remember correctly). He got tall and gorgeous shortly after graduation.

I never got an actual Islander replica jersey. Too expensive. I opted for a real-ish Mets jersey, no number (too expensive, and I couldn't decide between 12 - Ron Darling - or 16 - Lee Mazzilli.) It was pinned on my dorm room wall, and I can't find the damn thing now. I never did the girl thing and got a 10K or 14K faceted gold Islanders/Stanley Cup charm at the Tri-County Flea Market. Never.

Hockey pretty much sucks now, though, doesn't it?

Ohhhh CANADA we stand on guard for theeeeeee!

Obsessive much? The beginnings...eh?

I used to really love hockey biographies when I was in elementary school. Any biographies, really, but I went on a mad streak I think, in fourth or fifth grade where I read every single non-fiction hockey book in the school and probably the public library. Books about the 'original' six-team NHL, and every hockey player bio there was. Bobby Hull, Gordie Howe, Rocket Richard. Knew about obscure Canadian towns, helmetless hockey, the absence of the forward pass.

New York Rangers
Montreal Canadiens
Toronto Maple Leafs
Boston Bruins
Chicago Black Hawks
Detroit Red Wings

That was it until the 1960s. And I did NOT google that, suckas!

I actually remember when helmets were optional. Remember hockey hair? Mike Bossy? I remember feeling guilty being a die-hard Islander fan because they were a lousy expansion team. Of course, those were impending DYNASTY years, suckas.

The one actual hockey player in my high school was a buddy of mine, and a die-hard Ranger fan who was five-three and openly ridiculed (actually, mostly for being a Ranger fan if I remember correctly). He got tall and gorgeous shortly after graduation.

I never got an actual Islander replica jersey. Too expensive. I opted for a real-ish Mets jersey, no number (too expensive, and I couldn't decide between 12 - Ron Darling - or 16 - Lee Mazzilli.) It was pinned on my dorm room wall, and I can't find the damn thing now. I never did the girl thing and got a 10K or 14K faceted gold Islanders/Stanley Cup charm at the Tri-County Flea Market. Never.

Hockey pretty much sucks now, though, doesn't it?

Ohhhh CANADA we stand on guard for theeeeeee!

Englightenment comes in the strangest places.

Corollary: Book covers are neat! Remember when you used to have to make them out of paper bags? Which I claimed were cooler anyway, cause you could write and doodle on them, and make hearts you had to cross out, and write the word "KISS" in fun Kiss fonts (of course I didn't know what a 'font' was in 1977) and draw the only doodle cartoons I knew how to (the Peanuts characters; Linus was the hardest cause of his funny shaped head under his spindly hair; Snoopy on his house was the easiest and was extra funny if he was smoking a cigarette). Those glossy book covers with college seals on them were dumb and didn't fit onto science books anyway and would slip off by October anyway and by then nobody cared and they'd end up jammed in the back of your desk to be fished out on the last day before Christmas along with some candy wrappers and some pencils and a torn paperback cover for a hockey biography you forgot to return to the library and that now you were responsible for. Big time. But now book covers come in stretchy fabric, one in a package for paperbacks and make the covers of your book kind of bendy but they're great for covering up the covers of books you don't want people to see on the PATH train. I don't know if that's why I bought them, and I felt ripped off because I thought there were two in the package but there was only one. And I must have bought them with that in mind, because I bought two books, but you can only read one at a time; at least, I can, I don't multitask well when it comes to reading, actually reading, not re-reading or bathroom reading like "Life in Hell" or something.

Forget it. I'm not going to tell you what I was reading on the PATH train. I will tell you, though, it was enlightening. And, at the moment, covered in stretchy blue fabric.


Note to #1 Cousin: You'll be glad I didn't! And don't forget to come for drinks, bring my "little cousin!" too!

(If you're reading this blog, you're probably invited for drinks!)

Anonymous messages about Nothing.

Dear Anonymous,

Thanks.

Love,
Anonymous.

Dear Meldrick,

Nice hat. And, thanks.

Love,
Bayliss.
(Kidding. Someday I'll have that quiz up...but I no longer have Kay Howard hair.)

Fascinating bastard (the title of my short-story collection to be).

"You are a fascinating bastard."
- Blair Brown (Emily), "Altered States"

"Altered States" is an incredible love story. If you're a stupendous nerd enamored of well-turned science-babble and tacky 1980-era (vector-graphics meet Nova meet stop-motion) special effects, that is. And, the debut of William Hurt, creating the first of a string of pale, strong-jawed performances before stoicism and restraint were discovered simply to be Limited Range.

But what a fine looking mad scientist he is. Y'all know I can't resist an irresistable, self-centered whacko, especially one so damn rangy. So pale his rangy naked body (and yes, he is often naked, poor exploited Bill Hurt) glows slightly blue in the darkness. (He spends most of the movie flanked by a couple of shaggy Jews. Guess who's the Jews, youse! Answer at the end of this work of literary art.)

And (spoilers, my Netflixy friends...) Blair Brown, no slouch herself in the brains and pallor department here, sticks with him. Brings him back from the ultimate void. No mere affair, no simple dalliance. The fucking depths of multidimensional space, the beginnings of time, creation, G-d and the universe itself...the terrible, terrible void...

Damn. I love a happy ending. A happy, naked, glowy, ending. And vintage-1980 lasers and mitotic cell slides. The rising-string soundtrack, however, can take a walk.

Who's the Jews? Bob "Great in Everything" Balaban and Charles "Maybe Not a Jew but Looks Like a Damn Hippie aka Renko in Hill Street and Merv Griffin's Cousin" Haid.

Trivia Bonus! Who else makes their movie debut? A very tiny Drew Barrymore!

Yes, I know what day it is

Today I've awoken, annoyed enough that I have to get on a PATH train at World Trade Center to Newark-

Oh, yeah. Damn.

Nothing much else to say, really. NPR is doing the 'creative' take from the Sears tower. Channel 5, the heartfelt take from Long Island. NY 1, straight up from downtown.

Sigh.

...but this amused me a LOT

Meth Mural!

Things that have amused me mildly today

1. An email from a super-high-tech company to me (in response to a job application) addressed: "Dear Sir or Madam"

2. "I was hyperventilating...seriously, it was like the worst day of my life."
- Carmen Electra's personal assistant, when some other celeb turned up with Carmen's dress at a red carpet event because the other celeb, without the PA's knowledge, BOUGHT THE DRESS IN A STORE.

3. My Thomas's lite bagel had no hole. Guess you get what you deserve when you buy lite bagels in a bag.

Yes, I want people to stop reading my blog, I do. I fear it has, up to this point, been far too stimulating.

As flaky as a home-made pie crust

But not one made by me, or that braless whore Sandra Lee, or that toothy twat Rachael Ray, or that bobbleheaded teeth-gritting self-loathing-because-she's-not-Martha Ina Gartner.

Anyway, for several reasons, at least one biochemical and one professional, my sleep cycle is flip-flopped and it is causing me severe distress, so I apologize for actual or perceived flakiness on my part. I shall return, shortly.

Busy, busy. I can't afford to feel this awful and function this poorly right now.

Giada DeLaurentiis is lovely, actually. Her food is nice and simple, her presentation earnest and unaffected. Although, as my friend "Keller"* says, she does appear as if she's "perpetually gazing into a Christmas ornament." And she has old man hands.

*not cause he's crazy but because he's got a crush on Christopher Meloni.

Recipe!! These are for the superlazy, culinarily inept, and to be published in my upcoming volume "Cooking for PUSSIES"

Cans of Chilaquiles - ridiculously easy, and calorically flexible.

Corn Tortillas (cheap ass ones are better, since they're thicker - Goya or Key Food brand)
Can chopped or stewed tomatoes, drained. The kind with chiles are nice.
Can refried beans. I use Old El Paso fat free.
Large (12-16 oz) jar of salsa.
8 oz bag of shredded cheese, some orange kind. I used Kraft Free, actually. Sure, you could go ahead and grate your own. Whatever.
Sour cream.

In a baking dish (I use a 2 quart, or a 13x9x2 may be slightly larger) sprayed with nonstick spray:
Layer the following:
Tortillas (tear some to fit)
Refried beans
Salsa mixed with canned tomatoes
Cheese
The final layer should have no beans and slighly less salsa/tomato mixture, just enough to moisten, and topped with cheese.
(it's roughly 3 layers of tortillas, by the way)
Bake at 375 until cheeze is browned and bubbly, about 20-30 minutes.

Let cool (this is nuclear hot.) Serve with sour cream. (Reduced fat sour cream does not suck. Fat free sour cream sucks greatly).

My my, aren't we cynical?

"I think you should only fuck when you're really in love...of course it could be for a very short time."

- Sam Kinison

From now on I am only going to fall in love in three hour increments, tops.

I had a brilliant IM conversation earlier this evening about love (I never thought I'd say that.) Unfortunately, it's gone deleted.

To paraphrase that old chestnut, "The most wretched way you can get burned, is to fall for wrecks and get wrecked in return."

Like I told another old friend tonight, I'm made of stone. I am, I swear. She didn't believe me. I also told her I am one-sixteenth empath and one-sixteenth retarded. It's true!

Huh?

Attention span: poor.
Nutrional analysis: pathetic.
Bags under eyes: huge.
Self-evaluation: D+ (my favorite grade of all time)

Look, I had this brilliant entry parsed out in my head, about the finer distinctions between "lonely" and "lonesome." Then I got sidetracked by the idea of nicknames, and how I finally decided that, not only should my friends appear in here (the non-bloggy ones especially) in creatively disguised names, that may or may not change, they also may be named after television characters with whose universe I am currently obsessed. Hence, the part of the conversation above (re lonesome, lonely and its sequelae, literary and personal) that inspired that discussion I had with drinks with my longtime buddy, the sharp and snappy "Meldrick Lewis."

I'm sure he'd be pleased with that appellation.

Before I use any longer words or eat another croissant cracker, or browse another stupid web page, or case another airline for cheap fares overseas, I'm going to curl up in a ball and collapse, thank you.

Meldrick. Perfect! Just wait for the "Which Fontana/Simon/Wolf Character Are You" quiz in Salon or some such suitable vehicle. (And of course, who was the most annoying "Homicide" character - Falsone? Mike Giardello? Megan Russert? Brodie? Deep in my heart of hearts, I may covet Tim Bayliss in leather, but I crush hard on Michelle Forbes.)

Ok. Go to bed. For real.

I have just realized I have tied my hair up with a drinking straw.

I am in Oz.

Let's put it this way. I realized this after I got a promotion to work in the Warden's office last night because of my mad skillz.

If life were Oz, right now, I would currently be in a room with Burr Redding, the white small-town sheriff who was in protective custody with "Mobay" and Clayton Hughes (and who also tripped CO Howell down the stairs for O'Reilly), and the rich preppie kid who Beecher tried unsuccesfully to 'save' from becoming an Aryan prag. (Sorry for the inaccuracies, but I want to limit my electronic trail and not go on ImDB.) Augustus Hill's already left for the day.

And I am an unmedicated Miguel Alvarez.

LockDOWN!!!

In case you've been asleep at the proverbial wheel...

At this time, this blog is apparently about the following:

1. An unseemly obsession with "Homicide" and any number of connections thereto (Tom Fontana, Baltimore, bisexuality)
2. Food (including but not limited to recipes, food quirks and hateful Food Network troll-bitch-hosts. Look out Ina Gartner, look out.)
3. An unhealthy, overwrought analysis of relationships past, present and future often through the use of slightly obscure ballads.

Just so you know.

Meanwhile, the Richmond County Fair is September 9th and 10th. Did you know that Richmond County (aka Staten Island) even HAD a friggin' fair? Does that mean deep-fried Italian sausage on a stick? Fuhgeddaboutit!

Recipe! II

I just made some smashing pork chops, with ingredients found around the house. (I'd defrosted then forgotten about them, and they needed to be prepared, just like in that Raymond Carver story "Auction" where the fridge breaks and she has to prepare all the meats in the dead appliance before she heads to an auction to buy a new-used one...but I digress.) Judicious use of prepared ingredients is fine; however, in no way should you compare me to that braless dipsomaniac whore, Sandra Lee, another hateful hussy in the Food Network's stable and the 'star' of Semi-Homemade cooking, adding booze to Cool Whip and calling it magic. Bitch. Anyway....

Pork Chops That Are Wicked Fancy And Smell Great!

4 Boneless Pork Chops (Fresh Direct)
Honey Dijon Salad Dressing (or some other vinaigrette - not creamy - dressing)
Fine Bread Crumbs mixed with a sprinkling of dried oregano (whomp stale French bread in your blender or food processor and save in a container in your fridge, or use the canned kind - plain - if you must. Panko is too gritty for this recipe, as much as I love being snooty and all).
2 zipper-type plastic bags, gallon size. (Oh, generic branding)
About 1 cup (yes) medium-grade balsamic vinegar
About 1 cup red wine
1 red onion, sliced into half and then into thin strips
Salt/pepper
Olive Oil

Pour about 1/2 bottle salad dressing into bag (If you're too snooty for purchased dressing, mix up about 1 cup of 3:1 olive oil/white wine vinegar plus 1 TB dijon mustard) and add chops. Marinate in fridge from 15 minutes to 1 hour.

In your big Calphalon or nonstick skillet, heat about 2 tsp olive oil on high heat till it swirls about.

Pour about 2 cups crumbs into another bag and add 1 TB oregano, salt and pepper. Toss wet chops in their to coat. Slip each chop into oil, using a fork. Brown on each side, about 2-3 minutes, swirling oil around in pan.

Now, pour the vinegar on. This is very aromatic. Reduce heat slightly and cook down the vinegar; watch this, it tends to caramelize in roughly 5 minutes or so. Turn the chops around and over to coat. Watch to see that the vinegar has almost evaporated and is thick in the bottom of the pan.

Add the wine (carefully, it will splatter), scraping up the vinegar and stirring it into the wine. Add the onions and mix into the wine sauce. (If you are feeling naughty it would be appropriate to swirl 2 TB of butter in at this point, but it is completely optional. I did not do this.)

Let the onions soften and the sauce reduce slightly, until it is as thick as you like it; this should take just a few minutes. Check the chops - they will be white inside but still juicy.

It's really easy - you can be pretty imprecise with the liquid measurements and still be happy. The key is to come up about halfway to the sides of the chops. And don't overcook them!

Subject Change! More on the batting cages!

Manly Thing To Do #1: Batting Cages and Why they are Cool (Or, Don't just be the chick who holds the guy's wallet! Get in there and hit the damn ball!)

1. You will sweat, seriously. Great for upper arms and twisting at the waist. And to be effective, you've got to get your legs involved. Otherwise you will have a pussy-ass swing, kind of like bowling by standing and shoving the ball down the lane or shooting baskets underhand. I myself have never, ever shot a basketball underhand. That is for total pussies. Word to the wise - even if you think you're macho, you probably kind of suck. Even if you are a master of the slow pitch, medium pitch is TWICE as fast, and the mat at the backstop makes it scary loud. So, know when to be a pussy. OK?? OK!

2. You will look dorky but cute in a batting helmet. Stride over to the drink machines and get the low-cal black cherry Powerade. Yummers!

3. Need I say that whacking a ball is a total rush and a great stress release? Or is that just me and my super-wound-up-ness?

4. It's pricey but not a bad activity-fee, if you know what I mean. Chelsea Piers is stingy on the balls ($2 for 10) but if you're not used to it, you'll work hard. You will also take more time than you think, especially if you chat, whine or marvel at your friends/s.o./object of desire between swings.

5. A Peroni and a justifiable (and finely prepared) plate of fried calamari on the deck at the Frying Pan afterwards is highly recommended after a quick touch-up in the ladies room. (It's also near the spot where you can do free kayaking and such. Hooray! But that's another topic for another time, as is my secret desire to be able to figure-skate again, and to swim around Manhattan.)

what it's about and why it makes me sad

Make it go away or make it better
Isn’t that what love is supposed to do?
Make it go away or make it better
Cause I would do either one for you

This is not the way you should see me
This is not the face I recognize
Could I lay my head down here for a moment?
Would you sing to me like I’m your child?

Cause I’m not angry I’m not crying
I’m just in over my head
You could be the angel that stayed on my shoulder
When all of the other angels left

Make it go away
Cause I am weakened
This is more than one should have to take
If you do this for me then I will promise
I’ll make it go away for you someday

There are reasons with silver linings
There are lessons but I don’t care
Cause I just need a hand that I can hold onto
When it’s darker than death out there

- Holly Cole, "Make it Go Away"

I cannot begin to say how many people I've tried to do this for. And I'm so sorry when I've tried and failed.

"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is to love and be loved in return."
- Moulin Rouge (and other places)

Terribly, terribly sad. There's quotes about loving and losing, and never loving at all. But can you love wrongly? Does love stop? Is real love ever misguided?

I wish I knew.

I'm never philosophical, and this worries me greatly. I'd rather just hold on to something concrete, like a song. The song is beautiful, really.

I heard it on "Homicide."

A small scrap (or square) of wisdom...and other miscellaney

Life's too short to buy cheap toilet paper. Seriously. Splurge on the good stuff.

I got about a quart of blood removed from my veins, one tube at time. I'm tired.

I need to throw a party, and soon. The question is not why, but when and where. A dinner party? Happy hour? The dreaded karaoke bash?

First Idiotic Thing Heard Today

"And it's a good, delicious dinner of breast...cause that's the healthiest part of the chicken right?"

- Rachel Ray, 30 Minute Meals (stuffing chicken breasts with some kinds of nuts and drizzling them with some space age compound called EVOO. Yes, I know what that is. I guess when you have 30 minutes, you can't say "oil" but you can say "screaming hot" in reference to pan temperature.)

Sigh.

A poll for the gentlemen and perhaps a portion of the ladies

Please to tell me, what is hot? (And then please to tell me why I am typing in a bad fakey-Slavo-American accent? Okay, that bit's over.)

a) Woman hitting a baseball
b) Woman playing a saxophone
c) Woman smoking a good cigar
d) Woman firing a gun (presumably not at you; let's presume a nonhuman target)

Curiousity abounds?! At one point, I'd post a poll on the jolly old improv boards, but I'm trying to diversify my internet options and sample population at the current time. I've also done three of the four things above as an adult.

Recipe!

In the spirit of two culinary gems of blogs, Put it In your Mouth (mysteriously un-updated lately, come back!) and Good American Wife, whose author I will be greenmarketing with this weekend, I am posting a simple yet tasty dinner recipe that cooks and kitchen amateurs alike will certainly enjoy!

Shredded "Barbecue" Chicken for the Apartment-Dweller

2 boneless skinless chicken breasts. (I'm sure thighs would work well too)
2 cups chicken broth (I used the Fancy Organic kind in a cardboard box. You can use whatever brand you'd like)
1 bottle (12 oz) barbecue sauce (I used a Fancy Organic maple-smoked Annie's brand. Again...use your favorite).

Whisk together the sauce and the broth in a saucepan or large deep skillet. This takes some doing, because they are texturally dissimilar; don't worry if they're not completely together! Heat to a boil, stirring (the sauce will melt a little, and they will mix).

When bubbly, slip in the chicken breasts. Cover the pan, turn down to simmer (gentle bubbles) and cook at least 1/2 hour; flip them over every 15 minutes or so. Check in 1/2 hour; chicken should be super-tender when pulled with a fork and not pink.

When done, turn off heat and let cool a little. Shred chicken in the sauce with 2 forks, pulling the meat apart. Toss in the sauce to coat. Pile up on some soft rolls, like hamburger or hotdog rolls (my personal choice). A side of coleslaw is nice.

HINT: Coleslaw made with Dole bagged coleslaw mix and fatfree blue cheese dressing is great with this. Make it while the chicken is cooking, and it gets slightly squishy, slightly crunchy. If you are alone or in really close company, put some on top of the sandwich.

HINT: If they still have this, get the Calphalon 'starter' pan at the otherwise annoying Bed Bath & Beyond. Get the 10 or 12 inch. It comes with a lid and will cook nearly everything in the world you need to cook. Just don't scratch the bottom with your forks. It is incredible, and for Calphalon is pretty cheap (probably 39.99. It is completely worth it. It cleans up with a napkin. It is completely worth it. Don't buy any other Calphalon, if you love it go to the outlet, for cripes sake. No one needs a nonstick spaghetti pot, by the way.)

HINT: If you think it may look done earlier, check it. If it's slightly overdone, don't sweat it, that's what sauce is for. But underdone chicken breasts or thighs are just nasty, seriously.

Sure, one may say that Season 7 of Homicide may suck

But for my money you can't get a piece of dead-on amazing legal drama than the last five minutes of "The Twenty-Percent Solution."

Holy crap, that's well-written, dramatic, smart and just really neat.

Danvers smoking is also adorable. Hee hee.

Forgive me Lord...or ohmygawd

Help me.

First off, I actually used the words "cute outfit" tonight in a sentence.

Second of all, I actually crave a pair of shoes. Well, boots, actually, and they're still pretty bad-ass.

I blame the hormones. I do. But damn, those are some sweet boots.

(I could also be going through my 'it's fall, and I think I like tall boots, but I don't" phase. Perhaps, like men, I just haven't found the right pair. Did that sound wrong? Hmmm.)

More Balto-crime fiction trivia

Are the stock footage-shots of the housing projects being blown up in the first episode of the Wire Season 3* (being commented on by Bodie and Malik) the same ones being lamented by Det. Meldrick Lewis in Homicide**?

*HBO On Demand.
**Netflix.
***I continue to be ridiculous.

insomnia time theater

In this world there's a kind of painful progress, longing for what's left behind and dreaming ahead.

- Angels in America

Headache Dreams

1. In a dreamy battered new-old apartment. It had levels (Levels, jerry!), white plaster walls and wonderful architectural details, beat up wood floors, a dreamy-dusty quality to it as light streamed in the painted-white-wood frame windows. The rooms had high ceilings. The kitchen had tin cabinets, some with glass panels, and was spacious, with a great big wooden table like Mark's in Brooklyn or ours in Baltimore, with an abundance of groceries. There was a side door leading outside into a nebulous neighborhood that was so lovely. One of my roommates was ethereal, and resembled vaguely someone I know named Becky or someone I went to college with named Patty, I don't recall exactly. My room was in disarray but I had a feather bed and an iron bedframe.

2. I was at a job in a courthouse, the lighting was dim and the elevators terrible; I was heading to or from a large auditorium, running into colleagues, and I was so confused. Did I have theater tickets or not? Was I due at a lecture? The elevators were small and shaky and the stairwells barely lit, with heavy doors behind them.

3. I was with friends, new and strange girls younger than me. I had a broken large handbag with a too-short strap that kept slipping off my shoulder; we were in a McDonald's and were running to a house party in a strange city; I was juggling my bag, work clothes because I had partially changed, and a soda. I spilled the soda, and they laughed; I got another one as they headed to the car. The counter girl, their friend, gave me another. I dropped that one too, and was embarrassed to ask for another; I was a mess, covered in spilled drink, but I needed to get another; I was frozen. I couldn't put my stuff down because there was soda everywhere.

Whackily Compelling Reasons to Move to LA

One giant post instead of three stupid little ones

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Fontana, Simon, and the Venn Diagram of crime shows

NOT SAFE FOR COP-SHOW HATERS

If I haven't mentioned it before, I'm obsessively plowing through all seven seasons of Homicide: Life on the Streets. And lucky for me, On Demand has re-upped The Wire and Oz. There are a ridiculous number of connections between these three shows, as well as Fontana-generated (cameos as far back as St. Elsewhere and a short-lived show called "The Beat" which, having just discovered it, I must locate.. Mark Ruffalo and Lea DeLaria? Jeez), Dick Wolf (L&O and its incarnations) and David Simon (The Corner) connections. You see the cast of one, you've got a third of the cast of the other. Even a pre-Carmela Edie Falco appears on two Fontana shows (Oz and Homicide). Dean Winters is pervasive, Lee Tergesen has a self-effacing cameo flair to him, and the Belz is everywhere.

The record-holders are, of course the Belz - appearing in the SAME character in seven or eight shows (You can look it up in Wikipedia!) - two different L&O (regular & SVU), Homicide, the aforementioned The Beat, X-Files and Arrested Development. I can't locate the others, but damn.

Who appears to beat all in different incarnations is the omnipresent and odd-looking Reg E. Cathey. He's been on Oz (Don't Fuck with Querns), Homicide (drug dealer Bernard Weeks), L&O (hell, who hasn't?) and the Corner (fuck, no one watched that except me).

I need to get back to work. Or hop down to Bawlmer for a weekend. Or stalk Tom Fontana just so I can check out his Oz tattoo.

Kidding.

Who amongst you doesn't think that Gov. James Devlin isn't an embittered ASA Ed Danvers (Homicide)? (Ahh, Zeljko Ivanek!)

And who doesn't believe that the creepiest crossover wasn't Christopher Meloni - while he was Christopher Keller (Oz) he was Det. Elliot Stabler on SVU. Couldn't watch SVU without thinking of Keller's murderous, rapin' but hot arse.

What's on now? From "The Wire: Season 2":

ASA Rhonda Perlman: I'm not your girlfriend, I'm not your wife, I'm not your soulmate....what the fuck am I?
Det. Jimmy McNulty: We're good together.
RP: Answer the question.
JM: No.

I'm a fucking lunatic. Any way to profit from this?

What a character! Or, guess who bought a new scanner.

I'm adorable! (age 3?) and I do look like my dad. Awwww!

I caught this! (Age 7) Unafraid of the slimy (I'd already dissected my first fetal pig, thank you) and displaying my characteristing and amazing joint flexibility (Look at that wrist! weird!)

I hit this! (Age 21) Check out the killer form on that swing. Nobody flings a bat better on the "jenkins jets" Biophysics department softball team! (catcher, warm-up pitcher, occasional third baseman if I recall). I miss my glove.

What am I doing RIGHT NOW?

1. Listening to Prince: The Hits 1.
2. Drowning out my colleagues banter about rent stabilization.
3. Working.
4. Having anxiety.
5. Turning up Prince louder.
6. Drinking my second cup of coffee.
7. Watching a colleague toss my bag of pretzels across the room. The bag is open.
8. Inhaling "Chipotle" fumes at 11:49 AM.
9. Preparing to go to pharmacy to fill anxiety meds prescription.
10. Turning up Prince.

Shameless plug.

Miss me?

Check out www.superegocomedy.com - Shameless Plug of Epic Beauty!

More later. I'm beyond literate.

Still want that eggplant parm hero

I'm working overtime, my legs are killing me, got shows and classes, gotta clean the house....and so much more exhausting bullshit I don't need.

The delivery guy is often the pizza chef. Tall, grizzled blondish guy, fortysomething.

Maybe I need a HERO.

Nah. Just a hero.

add message, then mix

1207 AM:

Me: "I got the (divorce) papers in the mail today."
He: "Can I come over and meet the new kitty?"
Me: "Now?"
He: "Yeah...I'm in the subway."
Me: "You'd have to sleep over, that's crazy (etc)"
He: "I'll sleep in the bathtub. I want to meet the kitty. (muttering, repeating, etc.)"

Although the offer of a eggplant parm hero was tempting, I remain solo this evening, albeit a bit hungry.

"Wow..it's got seats!"

I love love love Pimp my Ride! Out of my demographic again, and even more so since I Don't DRIVE. (I also love "Car Talk" - go figure.)

First off, it's the anti-"Sweet Sixteen" - These are people who, dammit, clearly need a damn ride, or a break. I can't imagine being in California, carless. No rich bitches here!

Second, Xzibit is mad adorable. He's got this way of telling you what the sh*t is - how much of a piece of shit your car is, even how over-the-top the millions of video screens or crazy paint jobs are - with an amazing, subtle, near-wink. He's hilarious. I've never heard his music, but he's a hell of a host.

Third, the new garage - GAS - and the garage in general, is a happy fucking place. Like a tricked out Santa's Workshop where ANYTHING can happen. These dudes are hot, quirky, mechanical - and they can do weird shit like sew, paint, install a pottery wheel, for fuck's sake.

Fourth, people are genuinely happy at the end. The mechanical hotties take huge pride in their work; the pimp-ees get a load of free crap in addition to their astounding over the top vehicle. Did you ses the ice-cream truck one? It had a DVR and a robot arm for handing out ice cream. 'Nuff said.

I'm in love. And wonder when the NY edition happens so I can get my brother's disgusting limping Toyota pickup pimped out. I'm thinking lots of monitors, a sweet tape/CD deck (he's scared of the iPod), and a nice cow pattern painted on.

Get Pimp'd!

Rock on.

Meet Goldie.

3 years old, abandoned, adopted from those kitty-rescue people at Petco.

She is currently doing laps around my apartment. I think she hates expensive pet food (thrust into my bewildered hands by Jodie, Kitty godmother). I almost escaped the adoption area, but this girl kitty (no name known) looked so sad and longing in the last cage on the way out. Seriously.

I think she likes me. I've got to go locate her now.

Fear is the mind-killer

WARNING: Upsetting rant ahead.

Yesterday I yelled at a guy for slapping me on the shoulder. Granted, he didn't mean it as an act of aggression, but it was the second time, he was a jerkwad, and my blood is thinner, as my friend DJ Southern Belltower notes, than 'onion juice.' Besides you shouldn't touch anyone, at anytime, really.

The fact is, I am terrified. Terrified.

I went to the hospital last week, because I had a blood clot in my leg. I knew as soon as I felt the pain in my calf, that I was doomed; anxiety set in, fear and anger. Lots and lots of anger.

I was in the hospital five or six days, depending on how you count them, getting my blood thinned, as well as removed from my body in great bruising quantity.

This sucker is still in my body, it is potentially mobile and can yet kill me. At least that is my reasonable belief.

When my lungs got clotted, at least I knew they were already there, safely and surely keeping me from breathing.

Now, I don't know if the shortness of breath and tiredness and achiness are clot-related, hospital-inactivity related, or depression and anxiety-related.

I feel like a fucking ticking time bomb. And I am afraid. And I am furious.

I cannot manifest vulnerability without becoming defensive and angry. And I am very much both right now. I don't know what to eat, drink, whether to stand up or sit down. I don't want companionship but I am terrified to be alone. I don't know who to unload all this to; people get bits and pieces, if they don't get torn to bits and pieces.

Ticking. Time. Bomb.

But I will not stop going to my Delaney class. Because if I dropped dead in the middle of a fantastic, truthful scene, played to the top of my intelligence, I'd consider it a life well spent.

Somebody please read the notes at the funeral.

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

Did you ever have 'die happy' moments? Moments that you realized, if I died now, got hit by lightening, whatever, I would be content and complete just because of where I am, what I'm doing, who I'm with, or some combination thereof?

I had one with my husband once, listening to a chamber music concert at Temple Emanu-El a few years ago. The music, the setting, the feeling of warmth and happiness, perhaps the notion of being in a spiritual (Reform, sure, but whatever) place made me think that particular thought.

I've had a few more since then; I don't care to share them all.

But I equate being supremely happy with being ready to die. What's wrong with me?

******************
My doctor had me call him today for test results. He hasn't called me back. Fucking compliance.

I am scared to inform my temp agency that working in Newark would be a physical hardship right now. Because, quite frankly, it would be. Usually, I'd play through. I play through pain.

Am I taking care of myself? Or am I just an incredible pussy?

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

More than anything else, I want to lift weights. I want power.

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

Apologies once again for you three people who read this thing. It was not a plea for sympathy. Maybe just a little understanding. I don't know. My family doesn't really get it; I don't know what friends to tell. Do you call everyone, say hey I'm not quite dead yet? Email? Is there a card for this? Still haven't figured this out.

Certain People are on my case for not being quick enough to acknowledge sympathy; for crying; for expressing fear; for venting anger. I don't know what to do with them. A fair amount of them are related to me.

But honestly, I don't think anyone can understand, aside from a couple of people who I am eternally grateful for.

I will not cry in public, I am going to drink my coffee and use all the expensive Internet access I just got.

In conclusion, Starbucks can blow me.

stolen from someone who stole it from myspace who probably doesn't even read my blog anymore.

Get more meta (or techno-dull) then that, then call me.

SILLY MYSPACE/BLOGPOLLS FOR THE TRULY BORED OF MIND

#1
1. My ex is... working right now, one would think.

2. I am listening to... the annoying strains of "Family Guy" from another room.

3. Maybe I should .. go to bed.

4. I love ... my nephew.

5. My bestfriends ...are few and precious.

6. I don't understand ... why I do the things I do.

7. I lost ...several Palm Pilots this year.

8. People say ... Do I care what they say? Oh probably.

10. Love is ... scarey

11. Somewhere, someone is ... jerking off.

12. I will always ... be a little hopelessly in love with a few people.

13. Forever seems ...unlikely

14. I never want ... to say never.

15. My cell phone ... is serviceable and overused.

16. When I wake up in the morning ...I am a grumpy bitch

17. I get annoyed... too much.

18. Parties ... aren't my strong suit unless I am throwing it.

19. My pet is... recently deceased.

20. Kisses are the best when ... I am getting them

21. Today I ...shopped and hosted a fairly succesful show.

22. Tomorrow I will ... catch up on things, if possible, and deal with my blood.

23. I really want ... to go on a long trip.



#2

Subject: 4 things for FUN!!

A) Four jobs I have had in my life:

Lawyer
Social Worker
Lab technician
Card/gift shop assistant

B) Four movies I would watch over and over:
All that Jazz
A Mighty Wind
The Blues Brothers
Bull Durham

C) Four places you have lived:
Bethpage, LI, NY
Baltimore, MD
New York, New York
Bronx, NY

D) Four TV shows you love to watch:
The Wire
Pee-Wee's Playhouse
Project Runway
Real World/Road Rules Challenges (shut up)

E) Four Places I have traveled to:
1. London
2. Toronto
3. Chicago
4. Miami

F) Websites you visit daily: (or semi-weekly):
The IRC
Fox Sports Net
Literotica
Gawker


G) Four of my favorite foods:

Mac & Cheese
Sashimi
Bibimbop
an amazing steak

H) Four places I would rather be right now:
In bed with a reasonably but not ridiculously cuddly person
Jersey Shore
Las Vegas
Ireland

The secret word is FUN!

Hooray! Pee Wee's Playhouse is back!

Cool flash site: www.peewee.com

Sometimes it's just the little things that are Awesome!

Not quite finalized

But I'm very tired and bruised. Anticoagulants and needles, not a bad date.

"I am fucked. Fucked is me."
- Det. Jimmy McNulty (Dominic West), "The Wire"

Last and final rest

homeboy
Feb 1991 (approx) - June 29, 2006
go in peace

The 4:24 on the Ronkonkoma Line

...kicks ass if you live in Bethpage, or need to get there in a hurry. No Jamaica, not even Hicksville, let alone Mineola, Carle Place or any of that other bullshit. First stop Bethpage. Pre-electrification, trains were slow and chuggy and houses were cheap; changing at Jamaica was mandatory to get to my hometown. Now, you can whiz right in practically directly. We've even got a 7-11 in the parking lot where the gas station used to be, another place for loser youth to congregate (used to have to truck into Farmingdale for a damn Slurpee); it hasn't driven the Dairy Barn (drive up beer and smokes and chips and Twinkies and a carton of milk convenience store) out of business.

The Dairy Barn was the second-most mystifying concept to people about Long Island when I described it to people at college; the first was my actual accent. Fuck 'em if they can't take my cawfee tawk.

The funnyish thing was, yesterday I was coming from a VH1 audition where I had to be a "long island housewife" type, basically, although the accent was never specifically requested. I bigged up my hair and wore sweats plus East Hampton tee, did up my eyebrows nicely. My friend and colleague Becky appeared with a terrific matchy running suit and a wicked top ponytail; found out she was from East Meadow, just up Hempstead Turnpike, prime senior-year cruising road in my friend Lisa's '71 Beamer. (Lisa's family was divorced but slightly mysterious; how did they afford that? No matter, it was awesome, and capable of seating six and blasting Huey Lewis and the News at top volume).

My accent gets thickish as soon as I board the train, standing-room only, behind a large (in number and density) family just come from Police Academy graduation. I try to discern relationships - who's the parent, stepparent, parent of the smallish children, parent of the graduate, girlfriend? sister? brother or babyfather? Family friend or new partner? I smiled at the matriarch, with drawn-on eyebrows, three-inch wedge espadrilles, capris and a pack of Marlboro Lights 100s tucked smartly into her bra. We chatted about the lack of air and movement. Seriously. I wanted to congratulate, tell them my dad was retired on the job, but found it far more interesting to observe than to intrude. I counted the tattoos of the newly minted officer as he tentatively flashed his shield (free train ride) and inspected the baseline of his incredibly fresh haircut.

It takes almost exactly 7 minutes and 36 seconds to get express from Westbury to Bethpage, because that's when I snapped on Billy Joel's "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant." I used to be able to play it on the piano; probably still could. I certainly know all the words; my brother and I have been to the restaurant (he pulled the name and location off a bootleg live concert tape. Yeah, it's like that. It's a pretty good red-sauce place if you know what I mean. (As opposed to the Olive Garden where I was going with my family once I arrived. Sigh. Family friendly chains...it's the pasta Red Lobster. Stick to breadsticks. But I digress.)

The Hicksville-Bethpage passage is something I know quite well. I was slightly dismayed to see the weird old coffee shop by the Hicksville station replaced by a Dunkin Donuts. I was slightly bemused to see that light industry marches on, and there's a Kozy Shack pudding factory in Bethpage (Do they have a thrift shop like the bread and Hostess bakeries, I wonder? Ick.) Much remained the same, on the train ride and the drive to the restaurant - the odd stand alone tavern/grill, the weird churches (the kind with Vacation bible schools), the regular churches (the kind with Catholic schools and Bingo), the satellite malls that orbit the big ones, the little bridal shops and lumber yards.

I just made the 10:44 back to town.

For shits and giggles, here's a photo of a photo of me in front of my childhood Bethpage home, circa 1985 (dieted way down by Dexatrim, stress, and Andy Capp's Hot Fries. As well as a fair amount of Lycra.) Yum! Happy prom girl! My gay best friend was likely in the bathroom, hiding from my dad who'd just flashed his .38. Good times! I am flanked by my aunt and mom who dashed over for photo opps.

Love the hat and sleeves! (Invisible are the 3" red pumps and purse with Lord knows what in it. Fortunately my prom date was roughly 6-2.)

Kitty update

That healthy-looking little fucker below (therein, about 14 pounds or so) now weighs barely 8 pounds, is severely dehydrated, anemic, infected and is in the throes of kidney failure. According to the very nice vetereinarians, his kidneys are 'lumpy and bumpy.' None of this is good in an approximately fifteen-year old cat.

I am, in turns, rational and weepy. I was never what you'd call an 'animal person.' So I'm kind of confused, and weirded out right now. I did raise him. I totally loved him. I gave him up to the ex mostly out of guilt, but I knew he loved him a lot and would be lonely.

Just when you think things suck, they suck worse. Sorry for those who read this cause it's usually mildly amusing.

Please think happy thoughts for my cat

If your're the sort of person who does that sort of thing.

Thanks.

So much for that plan.

I had daytime nightmares that I couldn't breathe. I literally thought I was going to have to call 911 in my sleep.

I am letting people, places and things get to me far out of proportion to their importance. I think. I'm not sure.

I need to see the dentist.

And I can't get close to a beach this weekend. It's going to rain buckets. Buckets.

PS - Cheap toilet paper really, really isn't worth it. But it makes OK Kleenex.

Ha ha, indeed. an effort to de-downer things.

You never know who will, surprisingly, put you in a good mood.

(doesn't mean I'm not still mad. well, a little. kinda.)

(pouts, stamps feet, smiles anyway. fuck!)

But thanks. Seriously.

In other news, as un-PC as this sounds, I need a tan. Fucking SPF 15 can blow me. Whatever happened to Hawaiian tropic oil? yum! sizzle sizzle.

variations on a theme by eliot

We are the damaged men
We are the wounded men
Drawn to you like moths to a flame
Broken and bruised, heartsick and aching,
Knocked about by life's lack of parity and conscience

We come to you, our iceberg-tip of fury
lancing you through the heart
yet covered in soft puppy-fur
smoothing your cheek

Our eyes blaze blue like the sky
blinding you with sunlight
burning you as sunstorms dance across your soul

We wrap you in our spidery arms
burrow into your skin
injecting our venom
paralytic and soothing
until you thrash from withdrawal
or tolerate to its effects

This is the way our pairing ends
This is the way our courtship ends
This is the way our love ends
With a bang
With a cry
And a whimper.

Get a job

For my bad movie-money, you can't beat Twin Peaks-Fire Walk With Me. Great soundtrack and effects combined with a ridiculous prequel-plot and phenomenally bad acting, most notably a living Sheryl Lee who displays terrible, terrible emotions by contorting her giant mouth into a series of deep, dark lipsticky black holes.

Top that off with a replacement Lara Flynn Boyle (a disturbingly bland Moira Kelly) - gold!

Disarray

I just realized that the ultimate act of self-loathing is to sleep on top of your clothes.

I mean, this is the stuff I put on my back everyday to look good, and I make nests out of it.

Ever since I was a kid, I've thrown it in piles, on chairs, desks, on the bottom of the closet. What gives?

I've got to fix that. Before I wake up hugging another skirt.

SPAMMARKETING - DO NOT CLICK ON 'RINGO"

SERIOUSLY!

If anyone sends you a link from the photo service RINGO - DO NOT CLICK ON IT! DO NOT SIGN IN USING YOUR GMAIL ACCOUNT!

It spammed my whole Gmail address book.

I am angry.

I am usually smarter than this.

It's in my head!

Sometimes I can't resist this crap:

The Movie Of Your Life Is A Black Comedy

In your life, things are so twisted that you just have to laugh. You may end up insane, but you'll have fun on the way to the asylum. Your best movie matches: Being John Malkovich, The Royal Tenenbaums, American Psycho

If Your Life Was a Movie, What Genre Would It Be?

Long Island Verite

Tommy: No, Jerry is allright. Saved my life once.
Debbie: What, he was gonna kill you but he changed his mind?

- Steve Buscemi/Chloe Sevigny, "Trees Lounge"

imdb

Besides I can be just as self destructive and loathing on my own.

DISCLAIMER

I apologize for everything I have ever done to hurt, offend, or cause disrespect to anyone when such action, intentional or unintentional, was unjustified by such other person's conduct, attitude or behavior.

Sorry.

That is all. OK?

Leaving Las Vegas? Leave it alone!

First I thought it was hilarious. Then, maybe, good soundtrack, salvageable but merely miscast (Robert Downey Jr and Jennifer Jason Leigh, perhaps?)

But the whole dinner scene/rescue fantasy at its peak has officially pissed me off. For real.

And now that he's brought another hooker to the hooker's house? Full circle back to hilarious!

I needa a drinky.

The Unintentional Joys of Targeted Advertising: Air on a Gmail Thread

Broken Heart? Heartache? - www.howtowinanexback.com - Strategies to get your lover back, even if he/she is unwilling.

I Used to Miss Him But My Aim is Improving: Not Your Ordinary Breakup Survival Guide
www.improveyouraim.com

Jealousy and Suspicion
Jealousy will ruin a relationship. Learn how to deal with jealousy.
www.truthaboutdeception.com

How To Eliminate Jealousy
Increase Love and Connection, Overcome Jealousy, Release Fears.
www.NoMoreJealousy.com

Song Running Through my Head

featured in Homicide episode "Sniper: Part 1"...but for the life of me, I don't know why it's haunting me. ??

"If God Was One Of Us"

If God had a name, what would it be
And would you call it to his face
If you were faced with him in all his glory
What would you ask if you had just one question

And yeah yeah God is great
yeah yeah God is good
yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah

What if God was one of us
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make his way home

If God had a face what would it look like
And would you want to see
If seeing meant that you would have to believe
In things like heaven and in jesus and the saints and all the prophets

And yeah yeah god is great
yeah yeah god is good
yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah

What if God was one of us
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make his way home
He's trying to make his way home
Back up to heaven all alone
Nobody calling on the phone
Except for the pope maybe in rome

And yeah yeah God is great
yeah yeah God is good
yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah

What if god was one of us
Just a slob like one of us
Just a stranger on the bus
Trying to make his way home
Just trying to make his way home
Like a holy rolling stone
Back up to heaven all alone
Just trying to make his way home
Nobody calling on the phone
Except for the pope maybe in rome

This is only a test.

I'm OK now. But they just tested the Emergency Broadcast System and I'm still a little shaky.

It's not as bad as when I was a kid when I would actually run into the other room, with my hands over my ears when that high-pitched squeal came on. But I still get hyper-alert, just in case. And I still get edgy, until it's over. Just so I know that it's only a test.

Balloons, too. Balloons freak me out. Because when they pop, I inevitably hit the ceiling; so, seeing loose balloons around makes me skittish. At a party the other day, full of noise and laughter, some balloons popped and it wasn't so bad. Maybe I'm getting over it.

One thing I'm not afraid of, oddly, is water. I may forget to pay a bill or two, but I faithfully remember my swimming lessons at the Bethpage Community Pool - home of the annual lice outbreak (somehow mercifully missed by me), Arts and Crafts at the skating rink (lanyards and ashtrays), and the best frozen Milkshake bars ever. I remember learning the strokes, the breathing (although I'm only good at it on the left side, for some reason). I can execute the front crawl, back crawl, breast stroke, side stroke, and weird froglike elementary backstroke. It's the one athletic thing that I am better than my brother at (forgive my bad grammar). I can tread water for a very long time, seriously, long enough to meet the lifeguard-test criteria. (I did it fully clothed at my brief summer-day camp stint, but forgot what kept me from the rest of the Advanced Swimmer test. It may have something to do with the diving board.)

Oh yeah. Diving freaks me out. Not the board so much - I can jump off - but the actual act of diving. Don't ask me to explain, cause I can't.

I was a weird kid. I guess I still am.

Is this true?

(click on it for a better view)

Truly, Madly....Waspy?

I don't know when it hit me.

Was it gazing on Kyle Secor's slightly upturned nose while obsessively watching "Homicide," making me forget that Belzer exists? Was it taking a work break, flipping on the TV where the final scene of "She's Having a Baby" turned up and a small slow tear dripped down Kevin Bacon's finely chiseled yet pale cheek? Perhaps it was a late night viewing of "sex lies and videotape" where a tousled, crazy and so cleanly yet dirtily white James Spader steals the show from a suspendered-yet-dauntingly attractive Peter Gallagher and his terribly ethnic eyebrows. Which came on after "Reservoir Dogs." Did you know that Tim Roth is NOT a Jew? As English (Smith) as they come. Perhaps it was when I paced around my living room the other night, tensely flipping a cell phone around in my hand, knocking off my shelf a copy of "Secretary," another kinky-Spader vehicle, while angrily scrolling through my recent calls; I was on the brink of facing down a litany of well-spoken yet powerful New England-white-boy frustration and rage, going head to head with my equally eloquent, well-honed New-York-ethnic-scorned-woman fury. Was it the curtly dismissive email I sent this morning, to someone who has frequently charmed the socks off me, yet literally couldn't pick a synagogue out of a line-up of buildings on a city block?

When? When did this simple mixed-ethnic generic-slavic-hebraic girl become such an Aryan acolyte? When did my Mayflower flower bloom? Isn't Anglophilia a recessive trait?

Whither the gloriously ethnic heroes, crushes, loves of my youth? My Lee Mazzillis and Ron Darlings? My fun ethnic comics? Why did the buffet of extras on my Aristocrats DVD lead me away from Jon Stewart and towards Jake Johanson? Stop looking at me, Bill Paxton, bigamy is wrong! I'm a Sopranos girl, not a Big Love-r! Save me, Steve Buscemi! Be my Reservoir Dog and chase these fair-haired boys out of my yard!

WHAT THE GOSH DARN HECK HAPPENED TO ME?

Maybe I need a scholarship to J-Date. STAT.

And a call from the Belz couldn't hurt.

POSTSCRIPT: The correct acronym for Daughters of the American Revolution is, in fact, DAR. And I'm nowhere near close, natch. Can I be adopted?

oy.

How I'd like to Be Proposed To Someday, Seriously

"Would you like to go waste some of your life with me?"

- Det. Tim Bayliss (Kyle Secor), "Homicide"

Cheese!

Seriously, who doesn't like cheese! Even the lactose-intolerant can handle a bit of its pre-digested glory. Come on, chew a Lactaid, dive in!

One of the sickest and finest cheese-related dishes I've had the privilege of tasting is the PortWine Cheddar Cheeseburger from Big Nick's, the cramped, encyclopedically-menu'd uber-diner on 75th and Broadway. It's awesome, in so many ways that other coffee shops are not, in that it transcends the rule that only certain food 'groups' - ie, burgers, salads - are actually good on a huge-menu'd coffee shop/diner menu. The burgers are good, the pizza is good, the hummus is good, the weird sandwiches, big salads, the potatos...I could go on. The place itself is a sticky deathtrap of sorts (look out for the open-flame burners jammed near the doors, where the delivery guys and the registers are), with aging B-list headshots on the walls. But it somehow never feels crowded, and they don't rush you out. I think it's always open.

Anyway, the port wine cheeseburger is a burger (decently sized, get it charcoally), with a thick layer of orange-winey cheese slathered on top. It kind of melts from the heat, in a sharp semisolid mass. It's impressive. My dining companion got it, and all I could handle was two bites before retreating back into my portobello-veggie-mozzarella-focaccia (a bread I usually hate, but here it's really baked pizza dough, and amazing) sandwich and egg cream. Why my dining companion (a quirky dude of the highest order) was sullying this glorious burger with ketchup, I'll never know.

Outstanding. I guess this is more a Big Nick's lovefest than an ode to dairy, but there you have it.

depress.....zzzz

If you make yourself a perfectly healthy shrimp pasta dish, and put it in the fridge and ordered bean burritos...you might be depressed.

If you got dressed to go to the gym (thus saving the need to work out and shower) and are sitting around in a wrinkled tshirt slugging diet coke and writing in a blog instead...you might be depressed.

If you sleep through your meds that are supposed to relieve depression...you might be depressed.

If crying, throwing up and removing contact lenses are activities that all seem viable yet require hours worth of thought...you might be depressed.

If you had nightmare about your involvement in an Extreme Sport that involved ski-jumping down a rickety, home-made nearly vertical ramp, and feel compelled to blog about it...you might just be a loser.

I am not a crazy romantic....SHUT UP.

She don't like her eggs all runny
She thinks crossin' her legs is funny
She looks down her nose at money
She gets it on like the Easter Bunny
She's my baby I'm her honey
I'm never gonna let her go

He ain't got laid in a month of Sundays
I caught him once and he was sniffin' my undies
He ain't too sharp but he gets things done
Drinks his beer like it's oxygen
He's my baby
And I'm his honey
Never gonna let him go

In spite of ourselves
We'll end up a'sittin' on a rainbow
Against all odds
Honey, we're the big door prize
We're gonna spite our noses
Right off of our faces
There won't be nothin' but big old hearts
Dancin' in our eyes.

She thinks all my jokes are corny
Convict movies make her horny
She likes ketchup on her scrambled eggs
Swears like a sailor when shaves her legs
She takes a lickin'
And keeps on tickin'
I'm never gonna let her go.

He's got more balls than a big brass monkey
He's a wacked out werido and a lovebug junkie
Sly as a fox and crazy as a loon
Payday comes and he's howlin' at the moon
He's my baby I don't mean maybe
Never gonna let him go

In spite of ourselves
We'll end up a'sittin' on a rainbow
Against all odds
Honey, we're the big door prize
We're gonna spite our noses
Right off of our faces
There won't be nothin' but big old hearts
Dancin' in our eyes.
There won't be nothin' but big old hearts
Dancin' in our eyes.

in spite of ourselves

- "In Spite of Ourselves," John Prine/Iris Dement

I'm eating oatmeal at Tiffany's

You know what's wrong with you, Miss Whoever-you-are? You're chicken, you've got no guts. You're afraid to stick out your chin and say, "Okay, life's a fact, people do fall in love, people do belong to each other, because that's the only chance anybody's got for real happiness." You call yourself a free spirit, a "wild thing," and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it's not bounded in the west by Tulip, Texas, or in the east by Somali-land. It's wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.

- Paul Varjak (George Peppard) to Holly Golightly (Audrey Hepburn), Breakfast at Tiffany's

an aside...what was life like before IMDb?

Fun Fact! Human Sexuality Edition: "Jiggling boobs is the porno hello"

I heart Katie Morgan (Don't click here if you are at work.) Katie Morgan is a porn star, although her web site is almost restrained, pop-up free with a tasteful nude picture, an email link, a link to her favorite poker site and sex shop. That's all. All the more reason to heart Katie Morgan.

I just got finished watching "Katie Morgan: A Porn Star Revealed" interview on HBO (after being crushed by the new lack of On-Demand immediacy. Missed the f-ing Sopranos, and idly doing some copyright research.), in which she's interviewed, nude on a stool, while clips of her films are woven in and out (so to speak).

She's got a high-girly voice, but not quite squeaky, which saves her, at least in my book. She's so natural and matter-of-fact, hard to convey here with my out of context quoting, and lack of false titting (hers are large and widely set, just like her eyes.) Katie's prettier without her movie makeup, and gives a great interview.

Here's some quotes and fun facts (FUN FACTS!) that now reside on the back of a case file (Sorry, HARSH!)

- According to those online IQ tests, her IQ is around 165. "I'm a porn star with a genius IQ, what are you gonna do?" (Perhaps, correct some of the typos on your web site. Just a couple Katie!)

- On her own orgasms, business versus pleasure: "(That's usually when) someone yells Cut....I don't always get my yayas."

- On anal action: "Just for someone special." As far as film goes, it's an exit only.

- On why people never have sex on a bed in porno films: "Everybody has sex on beds, why should we?"

- On character: "It's all the same character, just different outfits."

- On dialogue: "You get sick of ooh and aaahh eventually." She goes on to explain how to improvise; by describing what you are doing, what you want to do next, etc. And always, with enthusiam! Commit, Katie, commit to that bit!

- Do the scripts make sense, usually? "No." She pulls off some hilarious dialogue, even taken out of context; I think she does a decent job of what she's given. ("Everyone fast-forwards through the dialogue; I fast-forward through the sex")

- Her favorite scenes? Two guys, because she likes to be the center of attention, and there's no shortage of things to do to keep busy.

- Remember, "A smile on your face means a happy happy porn star!"

Her poker handle is "snackmixgirl" on Hollywoodpoker.com. I'm up for some Texas Hold 'Em! Or maybe I'll drop her a line "Just to Say hi!"

Thanks Katie Morgan! You make porno fun!

From the outside looking in.

I've spent the day writing, working and ducking my inner monologue via baseball, blogs and NPR. And then I come across this (through the multipurpose time sucker, MySpace)

Damn.

It's true of this person, a funny talented friend, something of a mentor to me. It's true of the friend I sent it to, almost startlingly so. It's true, to a large extent, of me (subbing in men, not without the occasional girl crush...you get the point).

Does it speak to its universality, or the types of people to whom I am drawn?

That's a hypothetical question.

Fully attributed above, herefore and to wit, I reprint it below to test said hypothesis, to enlighten...whatever. It's just pretty good.:

Junkyard Dog

I think I fall in love with every woman I care about. And I mean that literally. But before you break out the restraining orders relax. It's like that but it's not.

I'm probably the last person in the world you'd think of as a romantic. And surrendering to real intimacy has always been a foible. Or maybe trust is the word I'm looking for. It's always a gamble to trust somebody with you.

But I'm not talking about sex here. Sex is far to easy to find and therefore is equally as easily rendered meaningless. I'm talking about romance. That melting feeling. And let's be honest. It's not hard to cultivate. Take two even margainally compatible, funny, intelligent people who aren't physical ogres and put them in a room together and eventually some chemistry is bound to develope. It's not rocket science. If it were match.com would be a subdivision of NASA.

Nobody's got to act on this sexual tension by the way. More often than not it manifests itself in harmless flirtation or a friendship where the emotional boundries are a little murky. Maybe you have that "if she wasn't seeing someone" thought but that's about it. Course it gets inappropriate if that thought gets on a loop. Funny how that DJ in you head likes to fu-- with you huh? Might as well just go with the flow because he knows your play list better than you do. He knows who you imagine you're dancing with when you hear "Time After Time" or making love to when you listen to "Beside You" or remembering who's life you blew up any time he plays the Ramones. And the son of bitch can be merciless with that Top10 when he chooses to be.

But I do look at women who grab my attention very closely. (Maybe too closely?) I want to know the why and how of who they are. Probably because I want somebody to look that closely at me for the why and how of who I am. That's got to be it.

But the collateral damage of getting that close is a driveby celestial arrow right in the bloody heart.

What can I say? I guess I just prefer the thrill of intelligent, funny, sensuous women. Even if it is from the outside looking in.

Fun Fact! Sports edition

MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL OFFICIAL RULES 2.00:

A BALK is an illegal act by the pitcher with a runner or runners on base, entitling all runners to advance one base.

The actual rule (8.00) makes reading law look like flipping through a book of Marmaduke cartoons!

There are funny articles, serious articles, books and even videos about the balk!

This makes the infield fly rule look like a snap!

I loves me the balk rule. So subtle, so arcane, so fun to wave around. What ump doesn't feel smug calling a balk, what pitcher confused? I bet you piss off an ump one time too many...ooooh, BALK

Balk. Just one generator of obscure baseball arcana, statistics, and FUN FACTS!

Fun Fact!

The MS Word SpellCheck correction for "hottie" is "hogtie."

FUN FACT!

Dream Sequences

In the first part of the dream, I was spending some time with a guy I really liked. And it was really, really nice. We watched TV, looked at photos, funny photos that made us laugh, of us 'together', talked about work, were playful and fun together. That part of the dream, man, it should've gone on forever.

In the second part of the dream, however briefly, I reconnected with an old friend. She seemed happy, and was applying (Strangely, already having an advanced degree she was already quite invested in) to law school. I wished her the unqualified best. I was happy that I didn't let go, but I knew things were settled, finally, and OK.

In the third, brief part of the dream, I was surrounded by one side of the family, all wearing maroon jackets and/or cardigans, all buttoned up. I asked them to relax, unbutton themselves. Awkwardly, they did, a little. I don't know why they were there. It was evening, I think.

In the final part of the dream, it was pouring rain, I was in a wonderful antique store, old, dusty. I came across a stash of old, old checks, and a gentleman walked up behind me, closely. He was a large man, like Penn of Penn and Teller, nearly embracing me. I asked him where his girlfriend was, and he said, "She wasn't my girlfriend, just some crazy woman." We browsed together, bodies wrapped together, his arms around my shoulders, talking like we'd known each other forever. My aunt and grandmother came in, and they had to speak to me, but one spoke to him as the other spoke to me, and they wanted to go to a nearby park to see a ballgame; then they left. I walked them out; he went out to make a phone call. I ran back inside from the rain; he was in a large, comfortable old bed in the middle of the shop. I tried to crawl next to him; there was another, movie-star-looking couple in the middle of the bed, who I had to awkwardly slide past. I was next to him briefly, magically, but somehow I ended up in a cab, driving away, but then I panicked, and asked the driver to drive back. The driver ended up turning the wrong way, and I cursed and yelled at him. He pulled into a gas station and stopped. I threatened to steal the car. He said "You're not going anywhere, Michelle." (I don't know how he knew my name). I spluttered. He said, "If he wanted to know, he'd have asked for your phone number." I spluttered, thought...and woke up.

beat-en poetry copyright 1955

I.
Have.
HAD.
IT.
Seriously.
man.
you.
people.
what.
the-

Mix Tapes

That last entry depressed the fuck out of me. Let's talk about Mix tapes. they've been coming up in conversation lately.

First of all, remember when they were really mix TAPES and not CDs, even though people still often call them that?

In 1985, a now-theater critic for a local rag sheet and public-television station made me a Broadway show tunes mix tape, which I still have; this fact greatly amused a friend of mine. That year, my then-fiancee made me a mix tape, mostly Simon & Garfunkel's Central Park concert but on the end were all these 'meaningful' songs, which got all romantical and shit. Some Genesis (old not new), some Clapton, maybe a Beatles tune. Real sweet, to fill out those 45 minute sides.

Some subsequent collegiate year, my friend Mike made me an obsessive-quest tape (We were brilliant at obsessive-quest activities - this being one of many. Obsessive film festivals, obsessive drink mixing, the list goes on). This one held "the most versions of a single song that he owned." The song is an old pop-jazz standard, "All the Things you Are." The count, I believe, was seven, including his high-school jazz band (which had to be transferred tape-to-tape rather than vinyl-to-tape). There was vocal, non-vocal, and a Mingus version called "all the things you could be if sigmund freud's mother was your mother." It also had, among other things, some They Might be Giants tracks on it (oh you hipsters...i saw them first!)

I still have those draggy yet precious tapes. And stereos today are so tape-disregarding, the last boxy-shelf stereo I bought failed to have an auto-rewind (I didn't even check, and now I pay the price of flipping. FLIPPING! What a fucking hassle.)

A few days ago, I went to iTunes and downloaded about fifteen versions of "All the Things...." including a weird-ass Mingus cover ("All the Things you C#"). So easy. Too easy. Not quite the same. And it won't have the Fairport Jazz Ensemble on it.

I'm making mixes for people. I've got an overdue one for a friend, who wanted something 'upbeat.' I've got some 'chick mixes' I've made for friends, and playlists named for people. I've got a 'highly specific mix' that isn't, and 'songs I like right now.' I need to do another comedy mix for someone, in exchange for my deficient hip-hop collection. I gave my mom a mix CD for mother's day last year. My music collection's not that extensive, but it's fun and pretty eclectic. And it's a hell of a lot easier than knitting a damn sweater.

Maybe I'll create an 'obsessive mix,' just for amusement. To package up with "All the Things you Are."

No, really, gifts optional.

Today's my wedding anniversary.

I'm not officially divorced yet. It's all over but the paperwork.

Aaaawwwwkkkkkward. Right?

Last year I went out for some karaoke. This year....

Got any brilliant ideas, people? PEOPLE?

Keep those cards and letters coming. I like the ones from the dusty old stationery stores, with the scratchy-fuzzy glitter surface and ill-fitting envelopes. Beware the poison glue.

"I now pronounce you Blog and dipshit. You may now post and hide."

In other news...

I think I need an Attitude Adjustment.

Any inner chiropractors out there?

Creative Shit: Finishing Things

I reactiviated my old spec script. It's time to put those editing skills to work, for real.

I am going to pull together my show stories, no matter how daunting the pile is.

I am going to do these things before I deal with that short-film script I generated, and those songs I started.

I have a little sketch I'd like to put together. It's Dirty!

I think, I think, I really do have an ending for that old children's book I'd long since thought I'd finished. It's a Real ending. It changes the book, a lot.

And it's time to stop being joke-lazy.

TV Hotties: From the Shallow/Obscure Files: Non-Reality Division (updated)

Kyle Secor
Kyle MacLachlan (from "Twin Peaks" not "Sex in the City")
Dean Winters
That Michael Steadman guy from "thirtysomething" until he opened his mouth
Goran Visnjic
Michael Imperioli
Christopher Meloni
Tom Fontana's upper arm
Paul Lynde

and of course, the Belz.

And we're back

Thanks for all who were concerned over the last burst of sadness. That's what happens when you Cry like a Girl.

I actually had a smashing weekend. Of course, I'm back to my baseline level of anxiety again. But I had a great time.

Just a summary. Got to figure out the next move. Usually, that implies 'getting something that I think will help me do shit' rather than 'doing shit.'

Maybe it's time to change my approach. Or play with the new palm pilot.

Today I burned two fingers on coffee-steam. But I'm OK.

There are people in this world that I love.
There are people in this world that love me.
All in all, that's pretty damn good.

Now, back to work.

Back to life.

I don't want to

I don't want to listen to the Daily Show, I want to listen to the live version of "Like a Rolling Stone" from Live at Budokan.

I don't want to go to sleep, I want to feel the exhaustion in my bones and weariness in my eyes.

I don't want to hold back the tears.

I don't want to finish these Baby Goldfish crackers, they are absurdly small.

I don't want to take another pill, I want to feel better.

I don't want to describe the unusual harmonies, I want you to hear them.

How does it feel? To be without a home. No direction known. A complete unknown. Like a rolling stone.

I don't want to proofread that.

I don't want to unclasp the pearls that are half-choking my trachea.

Most of all, I don't want to hear Robin Williams right now.

When you ain't got nothing you got nothing to lose. You're invisible you got no secrets to conceal.

I want to apologize.

I want to cry it out.

I want to ride the train.

I want to sleep for eight hours under a fluffy down comforter with lots of pillows.

I want to finish crying, but I can't. I just can't. I just stop. I'm not done yet.

We aim to educate.

Symptoms of Hypothyroidism

Fatigue
Weakness
Weight gain or increased difficulty losing weight
Coarse, dry hair
Dry, rough pale skin
Hair loss
Cold intolerance (can't tolerate the cold like those around you)
Muscle cramps and frequent muscle aches
Constipation
Depression
Irritability
Memory loss
Abnormal menstrual cycles
Decreased libido
Forgetting to pick up your prescriptions for a week at a time
Feeling oh so attractive
Posting retarded blog entries.

What's under the towel?

bzzzy!

Lessons potentially learned today:

1. Don't dye hair before making a business call that should have been 'brief' but has lasted several minutes longer than the box time...while getting a cell phone call in the middle that you just had to take to be polite.
2. While on a business call, do not have ringer of cell phone on Loud.
3. If rule #2 is violated, do not have ringer set to "Don't Stop Believin'"

I am going to rinse. I am afraid.

Now, play nice!

Person 1: Hey, Person 2, you were funny/did a great job!
Person 2: Ha/derisive snort/self-deprecating gesture/dismissive wave
Person 1: Visible expression of dismay.

Fine, Person 2 is me. Person 1 is another improvisor (well, 3 or 4, by some fluke last night.) There, I'm the Big E on the chart again. How long did it take you to figure out, campers?

I don't often take compliments well, although I'm getting better. (There's a few more of you like me out there, I know there are.) I had an honest and reasonable believe (fine, I'm still paying for the degree) that I did a balls-out shitty job during ten minutes of competitive improvisation. It's over, I've moved on, excuses are my own.

But you know, I didn't realize (or only dimly), that the self-deprecation stuff really slams down someone's elses nice gesture. It's like hitting someone in the face with their own pie. And it's not very nice, really.

To be an improv geek - It's the ultimate 'no-but' and the antithesis of 'yes-and' (Maybe this belongs in the comedy journal. Maybe I'll do a rare reprint.)

Along these lines....Yesterday I also picked at someone for apologizing to me. You know, he was probably just being nice. Instead I just took it as an attempt to make me feel insecure.

What have we learned here, folks? FOLKS?

- The simplest explanation is usually the best. If someone says you're funny, maybe you are. If someone says they're sorry, maybe they are.
- Yes, and generally works.
- Don't be a dick. (Unless absolutely necessary.)



Addenda: Who were the other 2 votes?

Familiarity II: Addenda

So I got up from my terminal at the Kinko's on East 52nd Street, so I could pick up my (very pricey) thirty-page printout....was that a grey-suited Dave McKeel sitting behind me? That would certainly brighten my day! I turned fully. Inconclusive. I strolled to the printer and retrieved my Operating Certificate, laser-printed on oddly shiny paper. I looked expectantly at the bespectacled man at the terminal, hoping for McKeel's sweetly reassuring smile. He, in turn, looked expectantly at me, hoping for Kinko's potentially reassuring technical support.

Neither of us, alas, were satisfied.