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.