Sweet Dreams are Made of Cheese

Most "New Yorkers" fall asleep if they are still for over 120 seconds. It is not uncommon to see someone miss his stop on the subway because he fell asleep. And he was standing. One time I kept doing the head-bobbing-almost-snore-drool-wake-up-every-stop thing when this woman standing over me leaned down, "What is your stop?" I told her. "I'll wake you up when we get there, Dear." And she did. So very thoughtful. Just what I needed.

Paying it forward, I once saw this woman get on the train in very tall, four-inch stilettos. She looked great. And she looked to be in a little bit of pain. We were at Columbus Circle. I know she had to be hurting as she probably walked a good long block or two from the plastic surgeon's. Typical, beautiful, Fifth Avenue Barbie. So interesting to watch and think on what it must be like to live a life of philanthropy, the Hamptons and the perfect dinner reservation every evening. I'd last about three days.

I've been intrigued by this life style since my first trip to the Hamptons with a friend from work who brought me to her rented Summer home as a guest. She instructed me on what to wear, how to do my make-up and claimed she wouldn't speak to me if I talked about where we met. I was a lowly admin. To her I was charity work. To me, I was getting a free ride to another planet. I remember that I learned a lot about myself that weekend. I remembered that I really liked being me. I didn't know who else to be... I couldn't pull a chameleon... I was not familiar with the culture, much less the species. I remember good cheese.

What I experienced was Less Than Zero meets The Great Gatsby meets American Psycho (lots of Easton-Ellis). No exaggeration. Money, drugs, grandeur. Many people pretending to be something they weren't... happy. The depression that drills through your soul from seeing this... even for a weekend. I think I'm still trying to fill it. That is permanent damage stuff. These folks are starving.

That Monday she came by my desk...it was the first time I'd seen her since the Friday night of my arrival... she flipped her perfect blonde hair and with a huge, sexy smile asked if I'd enjoyed myself. I said, "it was alright". Clearly not the response she was looking for. Her face fell and she carefully asked me why. I paused. I tried to look as grateful as possible for the strange abandonment on planet Hamptonland but instead I looked her right in the eye and told her I felt sorry for her and I was so glad I didn't have to do that every weekend like she does.

I wasn't sure if she would slap me or cry or act like she didn't hear me. I don't think she was used to honesty from her supposed sycophants. She kind of did all three and said something flippant about being popular.

A week later she asked me if I was interested in helping her edit her book. First of all, on paper she was a Real Estate Agent. Second, I don't mean this to sound cruel...but I had no idea she was capable of writing more than would fit on her blackberry screen. I thought maybe it would be about her little dog she sometimes carried in her purse. Third, I thought perhaps she was testing me but I said, "Sure!" anyway.

It was a real book. You go girl.

It was a strange mess of a thing...a stream-of-consciousness biography that went on and on for twenty-plus chapters. Basically a 'true' adventure story about a woman trapped in a modern-day opium den for a month. She was trying to reach out. The book was basically about how bad her skin looked once she was rescued from the lare. Skin-deep is only affected so far I suppose. It took me right back to that little pin-prick hole that had burrowed into my heart that Hamptonian weekend. I realized I was feeling that pain for her and all the others like her. All of us like her...

I look up at disgruntled-Barbie-who-couldn't-get-a-cab-pretending-she-was-anywhere-
other-than-the-Subway and ask her if she wants my seat. She needs help. Her feet are clearly killing her and any minute someone might say the wrong thing and she'll ooze out her insecurities all over them. I've done it before in the name of fashion. I was helping out a fellow slave. Her eyes pierced, her eyebrows made a wrinkle-less 'V' over her perfect nose and she spat, "WHY?! Do I look THAT old??!!!" I pointed at her shoes and tried to explain I was a fellow footwear sadist but I could not be heard over the percussion of sighs, eye rolling and shopping bags exchanging hands. She couldn't and wouldn't let herself be helped. Auto-defense.

I observe "New Yorkers" do this in many ways. Is it because we are here? Is it because only a certain type of person lives here? We love a challenge... finding quiet sanity... we can't stop for more than a moment or might actually have to be with ourselves... then who will we wear the shoes for?

I remember waking up last night to a woman's shrieking voice, "Kaaaathyyyy...blah blah...I didn't mean it!!!... blah blah... No!!! Come on!!! It waaaasss fuuunnnnyyyy!...blah blah...STREET!" I heard tires squeal. I jumped up, looked out the window at nothing and looked at the clock on the dresser: 4:04am. I pictured Kathy being dramatically held back by her friend. Perhaps a Barbie stiletto fell off in the street like Cinderella's on the palace steps. She could have died in the name of Prada. Hope Kaaaathyyy was ok. I needed sleep. Horizontal sleep.

Calling Out All Artists

I just want to say...again...I think ART = Power. Not money, not sex...or shoes...

ART

...and I feel the need to say (not as a whim...I feel compelled to say this as a reaction to certain ART)...

...if you are blessed with an audience for your ART please, everyone involved, give 100%...or at least make your audience think you did..."bless their hearts"...

There is too much out there that is merely a distraction. I myself have performed and presented substandardly. Why? Why would an artist trying to SAY something or an artist attempting to DO something or an artist pursuing to INSPIRE and MOTIVATE someone...why would he or she do that?

Let's not do that, k?

Four More Monkies Jumpin' on the Bed

Last Sunday morning, I awoke to breakfast in bed. I sat up to eat and Greg sat down at the computer to ask me questions for a 'test' that would match my priority issues with a specific presidential candidate. I had a hard time with many of the things people consider issues. Gay Marriage. Is this really an issue? Aren't people dying in Iraq right now? How about Ketchup vs. Mustard? I'm going to propose an amendment regarding Condiment Orientation.

That evening Greg was in the mood to view a viddy from the viddy store. (I'm in Clockwork Orange all of a sudden...) He picked Sicko and I picked The Lives of Others. Without knowing it we inadvertently selected flicks that argued the values for Socialist ideals and the values against. Fascinating...truly...after Sicko I was so frustrated...and often played the devil's advocate in my head. Michael Moore can be so manipulative...so anti-American...so obvious ...so one-sided...but he does make you think and brings up many good points. And he has every right to say what he wants. I produced my own private Idaho by carefully painting my nails for the last half of the film. Overload.

We took a break, Greg walked Stewart and we popped in the second viddy. The Lives of Others. Please see this movie. The dynamics between these people...even the smallest roles...reminds you that politics, religion...whatever guides us as a mass...comes from somewhere emotional...and that is the beauty of being human. We are pure chiaroscuro in one body. Left brain, right brain. Beauty.

Greg and I met last year while working on a play by Vaclav Havel. A man who was imprisoned for writing a play. Art...the essence of being human.... is power and we should never forget that. We can create change with that. Feelings make people move.

Last night Greg and I went to see Duran Duran on Broadway. 7th row, Baby. I was 13 again (only I could afford much better seats) and when it was over we stood outside the stage door for an hour. As each band member walked out to greet the group, I was absolutely compelled to SCREAM his name.

John was first. I reached over these little old ladies (the ONLY things standing in my way) and grabbed his arm. "Please. John. Take a picture. I just want a picture." He literally looked frightened. Then sort of smiled for Greg who yelled from behind me in the crowd, "Here John!" I love Greg. As John passed I yelled out, "THE NEW ALBUM IS FANTASTIC!" I think I actually heard a record scratch across its grooves and in slow motion saw John turn to me "Of... COURSE... it... is... crazy... woman... and... your... mascara's... running..." The world then froze, I slapped my forehead and mouthed "The new album is fantastic???" like a Cosby kid. My studio audience laughed. The world started spinning again and...

...then Nick came out with his head down focusing on each item set before him to sign. I think about five minutes went by. He was very thorough. Then Simon...

...it wasn't until Simon that I had the mind to shove my program in his face like all the other trick-or-treaters around me. Hello McFly.

Each band member had come out prepaired with an open Sharpie and made his way through the crowd. Every fan had a something in his/her hand attached to his/her stretched out arm around me but I literally could not think straight until Simon.

I turn to Greg. "Program. Please." I shove it at Simon. He looks at me and does nothing. I say, "Please?! Please?!" He signs. Then teases the old ladies below me. I'd forgotten they were there. I hope their bruises heal...

...then Roger. Poor Roger. I walked away after Simon feeling sorry for the women behind me who didn't get to grope John like I did. I let them have Roger...

...then Andy. Wait....no more Andy. Last time I saw him play with the band he looked like they had dug him up, stuck a guitar in his hand and a smoke under his wig. I thought maybe Keith Richards was moonlighting as a hobby. Only four Duran's left these days.

I am a grown woman. Sometimes I even act like and look like one. And during that concert I couldn't NOT scream out every lyric I knew. I couldn't NOT scream out when I saw the stage door crack open. I was shaking for 20 minutes after Greg and I walked away.

I do not love Duran Duran anymore for their music. I love how they make me feel. I like the new album a lot but I don't think it is revolutionary. They never have been. Well, when it comes to white shoes and eyeliner, yes, but I, personally, do not think one of them will get shot conspiratorially. However...

...last night, I FELT something intangible. And I was inspired, moved...literally, uncontrollably. I can still feel. And I can only hope that one day, in a small way, I make someone feel enough to make some sort of movement...even if it is away from me and my desperate, groping hand gripping his arm while barely coherently screaming at him to pose for a picture.

A real live Haunting.

To this day, my parents tease me about what they say was an obsession with my dentist. What I still argue is that it wasn't an obsession, it was a sort of coincidental, cooperative, subconscious, chaos-theory, co-stalking. I didn't go around fantasizing about my dentist. I didn't even think of him until I would run into him. Since I was nine and couldn't drive, I don't think I was the one causing the serendipity and being that he was a full grown man and always had his clothes on I don't think he was pulling a Lolita. I truly think it was just some weird coincidence and for some reason I was the one who caught a glimpse of him driving by when we went out for pizza or picked up the dry cleaning. I even recall seeing him and his family at a grocery store and I made my parents stop and say hello. I had proof.

It didn't help my case much that I constantly carried around an updated list of all of the dates, times and colors of Volkswagon Bugs I'd seen...in my entire life. My parents had to have an intervention to get me to stop keeping track of them.

This Rainman twitch of mine started around the time my folks got divorced. If I could keep track of ...well...everything....then I could keep a tight ship on my own emotions??? I was nine. Not sure why I was doing what I was doing. The tight-ship theory sounds good now.

Today...I have a new subconscious stalkee/stalker and it is starting to really freak me out.

About ten years ago, I was living in Los Angeles and working at a little theater in Pasadena. I met this woman at a cast party and introduced myself to her...for the second time...asshole.... (I still don't remember her name...) All I remember, is this woman HATES me. Really. She rolled her eyes at every bit of small-talk I tried to force down her throat. And the 'charming' me just wasn't doing it. She could see right through me and seemed to despise what she saw. I would see her around the theater and we would politely avoid each other. Every once in a while at a party I would try to engage her in talk about the weather and...nothing...

I forgot about her...again...(I still don't know her name...), moved to New York City and lo and behold...one day, before 9/11, I'd been here all of six months, I see her on the street!

Holy Cow.

"Hello! I'm so sorry...I've forgotten your name again, I'm Jennifer, I....well...this is crazy...do you live here? I live here! Crazy! You worked in Pasadena right? The Knightsbridge? Do you remember? You live here?! Crazy!"

I honestly don't recall her saying anything in return.

We walked away after about 40 seconds.

I have NEVER seen her look any different than she does when I see her. She always has the same hair cut, hair color and same look on her face. I don't recall having ever seen her smile.

Inevitably after I run into her for the first time in NYC, I see her about six months later...different part of town...I wave as she walks towards me. She walks right on by.

Then I see her again in Soho.

Again in NEW JERSEY.

Again at Columbus Circle.

A year later, I sit down across from her on the train. And that seems to happen at least every couple of months or so until I just take it for granted. Even though I've stopped acknowledging her, I am usually shaken for at least a day after I see her. What does it mean?

It is Just. Too. Weird.

It doesn't stop there....one day a few years back in Harlem, I open the front door of my apartment. My 'neighbor' across the hall opens hers. Guess who it is? NO JOKE.

"NO WAY! Come On! You have to see this! This is too weird!! Come ON!"

She rolls her eyes and shuts her door.

I have actually thought at times maybe she doesn't exist. Maybe she is a figment of my imagination. My alter ego. She represents the side of me who hates what I stand for...or don't...who hates where I am in my life...or am not...the little voice in my head who almost always talks at me, not to me...and is almost always shaking her head and rolling her eyes. Maybe I have some sort of external schizophrenia and I am projecting her on strangers' faces.

Over a year and a half ago, I got my dog Stewart. I was living in Inwood and taking him outside for the very first time. My friend Lisa was with me. It was around nine o'clock at night, it was dark and we were in a very quiet, secluded area on a side street with a little patch of grass left. It was January.

"Do your business...do your business Puppy. Puppy-head, little puppy...do your business....OH MY GOD..."

This woman goes walking by. I point her out to Lisa and tell the story. At this point I can still list the 20 or so times I've run into her. Lisa gets it and freaks as much as I do. This woman HAS to live up in this neighborhood now. No one just goes walking around up here and she looked like she was coming home from work. Sure enough, I start seeing her on the train again.

Since that night I've seen her about eight or nine more times and I am usually with my brother or Greg. I point her out and make phone calls to friends who know the story. I have even seen her walking around Chelsea with a couple who looked like her parents.

But wait...there's more!

About a two weeks ago, I sadly dropped out of a play in order to focus on other things. I'm still close with the gals producing the show and plan to go support it. I offered to help with costumes or pitch in, in other ways. This morning I got an email from the Playwright and included is a cast photo.

Guess who is on the far left? It isn't my dentist.

Blog for the Environment

I signed up for Blog Action Day. http://blogactionday.org/ You sign up, post a blog about the environment and I believe the goal is to inspire people into thinking about change.

Today is the day.

I thought this was a great idea, but right now as I'm writing this, sitting behind my desk, drinking my coffee out of a paper cup... I feel like this Blog thing, while creative and thoughtful...what is the 'action'?

What can one little 'ol voice do unless it activates masses to do something?

So, I'm going to ask anyone who reads this to do something for the environment. We don't have to do it together. We don't have to hold anyone except ourselves accountable. No one but you will know you chose a little responsibility.

Responsibility: Just because we pay for things, like land, does that mean we can do whatever we want with it? Didn't we invent money? What does money mean to the trees, bees and squirrels? Does a rose bush planted on Fifth avenue know it is more valuable than one planted in Queens? We decide what is 'valuable' or not. We also decide what we are responsible for or not. And many many many of us decide it is not convenient to be responsible with our environment...that it is someone else's job. What if we decide it is our job? Even in a small way?

Below is a list of small, simple things you can do to help the environment. Pick one thing or do your own. Commit to it like when you give up french fries for Lent or when you decide to start flossing again...

1. Don't use a paper coffee cup. Even when purchasing Starbucks or Dunkin' or neighborhood deli. We ALL have mugs and if you don't, buy one.

2. Don't use plastic grocery bags.

3. Turn off your computer at night.

4. Take a 5 minute shower or a long bath.

5. Turn off lights when you aren't in a room.

6. Use rechargeable batteries.

7. Recycle greeting cards or send ecards. For reals. Get creative.

http://gogreeninitiative.org/

http://www.changingthepresent.org/environment/?gclid=CKqUq-6SkY8CFSasGgodzneefg

http://www.panda.org/how_you_can_help/at_home/

I dare ya.

On the A (Part 3)

B: Yo' that be nasty.

A: Yeah. I was right there.

B: Me too!

A: Yeah. Right there. Right by him.

B: Me too!

A: Nah, you was way in the back. I didn't see you after.

B: We ran!

A: So you wasn't there! I's there. Right there man.

B: I's there when it went off. And, we ran.

A: I was right there. (A stands and poses. T is watching intently, clearly bothered.) I was standing here and Zig was right here...(A gestures to a position in front of him and to the right.) ... right here. Here. And I was right here. We were about to go off and I see Zig reach and then BAM! Right there.

B: Yo' and Angela be screamin'.

G1: Shit. Awful.

B: She be screamin' and cryin'. Yeah. We ran.

A: I was right there. Terrible. I've taken but right there.

B: (Laughing.) You wet yo' pants?

A: (Laughing.) Shit! No! Wet my pants. I been there befo'. But man, right there!

G2: (Laughing.) He said did he wet his pants!

G1: (Laughing.) He wouldn't wet no pants! He be out there. He's there! T was there!

T: (Not laughing.) Yeah, I was there.

B: T was peein'!

A: Ah! He said peein

B: T peein'!

G1: T's not peein'!

A: T peein! Yeah! (See's T's face.) Nah. Nah. Nah. T's there. He was. That shit was rough. T's there.

G1: T was there! T's got it. He had since he was little!

T: I was there.

G1: T has it! Always had it. T has it!

A: (Laughing.) You did! You's a little champ! (A slaps T's arm. Trys to get him to laugh. T never does.) You always! Little T. Runnin' around. Little T. You's a little champ! A champ. Nah. Nah. I'm kiddin'. You was though! You was!

G1: Little Champ! That's T! He is! Always is!

A: T is!

B: T's a champ.

A: T is!

B: He is. Nah nah. Always is.

G1: T. You a champ.

(Slight pause.)

A: Yo'. Zig man. That be messed up. I was cryin' an' shit. I cried. (To B.) You cry?

(B shakes his head no. Stares straight ahead.)

A: I be cryin'. Right there man. Right there. (To T.) You cry T?

(T doesn't answer. Stares down at his hands. A shoves him.)

A: You cry?

(Slight pause.)

T: (Does not look at A.) Yeah. Yeah. I cried.

A: Me too. Man. Sick.

(The train slows down to the 34th Street stop. A, B and T get up. They all ad-lib with each other quietly. B goes over to A. She smiles and looks up at him. He looks down at her with pure love. He's a puppy. He goes down to kiss her. A, talking with T, notices.)

A: Yeah. Lovey Lovey. Say goodbye Lovey Lovey.

B: (Quietly to G1.) I'll see you later a'ight?

G1: Later. Bye. (Looks at A.) Bye! (Looks at T.) Bye T! You be the man T! You always be! You be the man!

G2: Bye! Bye T! Bye!

G1: Bye!

A: Later.

B: Yeah.

T: Bye.

(The guys and T exit. The train doors close. The girls look at each other and smile.)

G1: Damn, he be sayin' he gettin' off at 59 but they stay.

G2: They stay! Awww. He say!

G1: Yeah!

(They giggle and quiet down. They stare straight ahead in silence until the train stops at 14th Street. They both get up to leave.)

G1: Do you call Monica?

G2: Nah.

G1: She don't know? You be tellin'.....

(They ad-lib until they exit the train. There is no other conversation on the subway car. All of the passengers are aware of the newly uncomfortable silence.)

(Lights out.)

This was last Sunday night on my way back from visiting my friend in the hospital. I was the 'Woman Eating'.

On the A (Part 2)

A: There you go ladies and gentlemen. That's magic ain't it? Ain't he? Now put your hands together for me. (B steps aside and A does a front flip landing on his back and instantly begins to spin. He break dances while the group claps in the same rhythm.)

G2: He's spinnin' T! He's spinnin'! You do that?

T: Yeah.

G2: You do that T? You do that?

T: Yeah. Yeah. Before I was two. (Laughs.)

G1: Ahhhh... he said before he was two! (To G2.) You gettin' off wit' me? You commin' with me?

G2: Yeah girl. I'm gettin' Monica's bracelette she left at yo' crib. You knew that. Thinkin' 'bout nothing but yo'self. Girl.

T: (Stands.) I'm up.

G1: (Yelling.) Go T! Go T!

T: Me.

B: Yo'. It's T's. He up.

T: Yo', it's me up dude.

(A has already stopped and is walking up and down the aisle asking for money. T and B do a little dance together, then B steps out. The group clapping becomes faster and louder. They cheer for T. He is extremely good, but in the end stumbles a bit. He pops up and as A walks by with two dollar bills T grabs them out of A's hand. The group stops clapping.)

A: Hey, that's...what...give it...

T: Nah, nah, nah. You owe me. You owe me! It's mine. You owe me!

A: He done snatched that two dollars out. He done took it. (Laughing.) I'm hungry. Man. (To B, laughing.) He done snatched it! Snatched it!

T: (To A and B.) It's mine! You owe! It's mine! (To G1.) Don't he? That's mine! He owes!

G1: I don't know. Shit.

G2: Shit. Little T. Shit.

(Silence. T pockets the dollars and takes a seat. A and B sit near him. There is no dialogue but A and B are whispering and giggling - not about T.)

A: (To G1. Smile.) Where y'all goin'?

G1: (Smiles back.) Shit. I told you, we's goin' to 14th. Y'all getting off at (In sinc with A.) ...34th.

A: (In sinc with G1, still smiling at her.) ...34th.

B: We goin' to three fo'? Yeah. Dat's right. Dat's right. We doin' three fo'.

(Slight pause.)

A: (To B.) Yo'! You be there when Ziggy got popped?

T: I be there.

A: (To B.) You be there?

T: I was.

G1: T was there.

G2: T you be there?

T: Yeah.

To be continued...

On the A (Part 1)

(Lights up.)

(Semi-crowded NYC subway car. A group of attractive, fashionably dressed, black teenagers enter the train at the 125th Street stop. 2 guys, 2 girls and one very confident and grounded, young boy: "T". They enter laughing loudly, pushing and shoving each other. The boy is carrying a small can of Sour Cream & Onion Pringles Chips. They fight each other to find a seat. They configure a cluster of themselves in seats nearest the doors after passengers move to accommodate them. They speak to one another as if they are the only people on the train. They do not acknowledge anyone outside of their circle unless they are directly speaking to that person. When they do, they are overly polite. They do not represent any kind of hostility. All of them appear extremely happy and content. All dialogue and action is very loud, very fast and often one person is speaking over another. A directorial choice might be for each line to be said twice. Loud, fast and quick.)

Guy A: Yo' T. Gimme one a those. Gimme another. Gimme.

Guy B: You see that?

Girl 1: (Carrying a Louis Vuitton purse in the crook of her arm.) Why we bein' on this one? This one? Why we bein' on this one?

Girl 2: Hey T. Chip.

T: Step off. (A grabs a chip out of the can.) Yo' I said step off. (He gives G2 a chip.)

B: (Taking T's arm and a chip out of the can.) You see dat? He be trippin'! All hangin' out and shit' . Trippin'!

A: I know, I know, I know. I seen him yo'. He be all like... (A gesture.) ...and I was all like...(A gesture.) ...and you know?...what the fuck? You know what I mean? You know man? What the fuck?? Hilarious! He be trippin'!

B: You doin' this?

A: Hilarious! Trippin'!

G1: (To G2.) Why we bein' here? I gotta go. (Gestures to A.) He's gonna ride down but we gotta go.

B: (To A.) Yo'. (Takes another chip. T moves to a seat across the way.)

Girl 2: T. Chip. (She crosses, grabs a chip and sits again.)

A: (Spotting a Woman Eating.) Can I have a piece? Just kidding. (A gives Woman Eating a long, charming smile. She is affected.)

B: Yo. (Slight pause.) You got this?

A: Yeah. Yo'. Hilarious! Trippin'. Trippin. (To the passengers on train. Spoken rapidly and loudly, almost in another voice altogether.) Hello Ladies and Gentlemen, if your man can't do this then you should... (To B.) You up? Go. You? (To passengers.) If your man can't do this you should leave him. (B goes to center of the train and suspends his entire body on one arm. His shirt goes over his head revealing extremely muscular abdominals. Both A and B are freakishly strong.) If your man can't. Leave him. See him? See that? If your man can't. Leave 'im. (The entire group starts clapping in unison. Whole beat; whole beat; whole beat; quick half, half. Repeated until the end of the 'performance'.) My man here keeps all his ladies happy. I hope your man does too. (B flips and twists. Does a choreographed act bouncing off the ceiling of the subway. Arms and limbs nearly slapping against seated onlookers. A woman moves to the other end of the train. A is silent during the rest of B's performance.)

To be continued.....

My Very Favorite Quote

There is a vitality, a life force, energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channels open. When you look at your work and see only its ineptitude, inorganic flaws and crudities, remember, no artist is ever pleased. For an artist, there is not satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others. - Martha Graham, 1943

"Oooohhh. As long as we got each other..."

I've been waiting to write another post. Every morning the urge hits me, I pull up my account and sign in. Then I sit there and check email. I'm not sure what to say.

I have several topics in my head. I'm exploring many issues these days. I think they all boil down to one thing that I'm not proud of admitting: fear...(or is it pride?) What if anyone reading this feels like rolling his/her eyes, or, heaven forbid, gets pissed at me...or even worse...sees a side of me I thought I was hiding from the world. A shameful side.

White People Problems. I think Chris Rock said it? When I hear the evil voice in my head ask silly questions about my actuality I can't ignore her. I call her Jan. (I'm kidding.)

I call her Susan.

(Joke!)

Ethel.

(Alright!)

.....Rather than seek answers - 'cause I couldn't possibly ignore her - I punish myself for feeling anxious about illusory issues like 'defining myself'. I can't help but want to vomit a little in my mouth.

At least I have legs.

See? Shame. I'm not talking about sex toys or something you'd hide from your Grandpa... or the FCC... taboos are taboo these days... what celebrity has not been dissected in the name of journalism? Judged and reprimanded for personal choices? Fame does not make someone righteous or responsible or smart, just popular. And back in the beginnings of your mini-society [Jr. High] do you recall any of the popular folks being particularly gracious or generous or good at physics? John Hughes built an entire empire on the beginnings of this odd little expectation we have about our beloved. The Beautiful People, The Beautiful People. I think the entire basis of Marketing and Advertising starts here. Oxy was our first tube of confidence. [Still mine.]

Do you think popularity is the microwave for the meaning of life? Under cooked in certain places, burned in others... severe molecular damage?

People I admire appear to not care what others think about them. Censorship is paralysis. Again, probably why I admire those afflicted with Down Syndrome. I use the term 'afflicted' lightly. And probably why I've dated some real gems. A life-loathing soul can wear a lion's suit like anyone else. Costumes are an expression but ain't it great when it fits the character just right?

So many good things in my life. Growing pains are lovely. Truly. I'm so glad I'm not ten anymore. Although I got more sleep. My worst nightmares were about getting up in front of class without pants. Last night I dreamt I was pregnant and the war in Iraq moved to NYC... oh and for the second time I had to perform surgery on my friend in the hospital... this was of course after I had to drive through the desert to find Greg and hide him from the militia... they'd already taken my brother...

Here I go...

Since I started this blog, I've been inspired to try and think a certain way and not be afraid to share my thoughts and not censor myself. I'm not sure I'm really doing that. I do not at all think I am someone or something particularly special, most certainly not more than anyone or anything else but there is this part of me that is enjoying showing-sharing a part of myself to the 'world' this way. I had thought initially it was because I like to call myself an artist. I like entertaining folks. And I think part of it is because I truly like to make people happy - any way I can - but here is the thing: I just went back and re-read my bloggy blogs and felt a little strange. They have this carefully structured rhythm and each is very similar to the next. And it has just dawned on me why, so I thought I'd share-show THIS to the world and let it lie:

I think a large part of why I enjoy expressing myself artistically is because it enables me to have a feeling of control about how people view me. I can define myself through a medium.

What if I stopped defining myself? Does that even make sense? Does that cause an existential downward spiral? Or is that a secret-to-happiness sort of thing? This is a new discovery here so I'm rambly but I feel like I've hit something. Having an 'Ahh' moment, you know?

K. I'm just gonna stop here. Leave it as this before I go off telling everyone dirty secrets about my shaving habits or something. Not that I have strange shaving habits. Just sayin'. But I do grab Greg's shaver every once in a while and attack the little hairs on my upper lip. I've heard I shouldn't do that but I'm too lazy to pluck. Oh Moises Alou...

Counting Blessings

I went to see 3:10 to Yuma last night. Finally. I've wanted to see this movie since I first heard about it. And I' m not even sure why. I'm a huge Deadwood fan? I'm from Texas? I wondered why everyone loved Russell Crow's over-acting in Gladiator?

When I was ten, on Sundays my Daddy used to make me watch boring 'ol black and white Westerns while he slept on the couch. And kitchy Sci-fi movies. And the silly vampire-werewolf-humaneatingblobthing horror stuff too but that is another story and I still love Vampira.

I think I miss cowboys. Or my Dad. Or both.

Between Greg's busy life and mine, his slim budget and mine we managed to pick a time and place for this long awaited modern western. A whole evening. He called me yesterday morning at work, "Pick a movie...I'm taking you out tonight..."

Well alright Fonzy! I was so excited I almost didn't know which movie to pick out. 3:10! Hello Jennifer! You've been dying to see it! Focus!

6:45p.

Work is a tad nuts. I like it that way but I am running late and have just enough time to run to the bank, walk the dog and meet Greg outside of Clearview Chelsea Cinemas. I've got my head in the zone. I'm picking out the subway car I should be in so I can be closest to the exit nearest the bank. I'm prepping my ankles for the dash in heels. I recall that the pens-attached-to-tables in the poly-ATM bubble never work. I've got my purse-pen in hand. I slip in the door and don't even have to do the annoying hotel-room, door-lock thing with my ATM card. I'm whippin' out checks to sign the back of, I've scouted out deposit envelopes, I turn to go to a machine when some grumpy guy muttering into a cell phone, comes over to me and tosses down a debit card on the table top. It lands next to me.

Um, I'm trying to do math, here. I keep adding. Stare at the card. Back at the dude on the cell phone now in a little ATM stall. I stare at the card. Carry the two. Stare at the card. Total the checks. Did I sign the back? Yes I signed the back. Watch grumpy guy leaving. The card. The math. The card. The card. The card. I look around and nobody seems to care about it.

Am I on Candid Camera? HOW HONEST ARE YOU?

I'm thinkin' the dude on the cell phone obviously walked up to a machine where someone didn't take their card out and thought he was being helpful by slapping it down on the counter out in the open in the middle of the ATM world. Is he nuts? Homeless people live in here! There are all kinds of crazy New York folks running in and out and around. Anyone could grab that sucker and start charging away. This isn't a jacket that someone left in a cab!

I still have to walk the dog.

I still have to friggin' carry the two. Start over. Wait. I know. I'll put the card in with my deposit. I'll put it in an envelope and write on the envelope it was found. That way the homeless guy can't buy shoes willy nilly!

[1. I recognize that new shoes from Chelsea are probably the last thing on Homeless Guy's mind and 2. since when do people accept credit cards from transients? 3. People live in New York City without food or shelter and that is a very sad state of the world. I should calm down.]

I do the deposity deed. Not only do I feel like I've helped a fellow citizen-in-a-rush but I still have time to walk the Tasmanian Devil.

...whom I get home to and has pissed the floor and managed to open the cabinet under the sink and pull out the garbage, that until now, we've been brilliantly hiding from him and he and his little walnut brain have been doing God-knows-what with coffee grounds, dirty paper towels, banana peels and old mail ALL OVER OUR TINY STUDIO FLOOR! Our entire home mind you. Entire home.

I throw him in the bathroom. Poor thing probably thinks I'm playing a new game. Clean the floor. Open the bathroom door. His head is hung low and he's trembling. Why is furry Satan so adorable? I could never have been Eve. Women today would be burdened with children coming out of their nostrils four at a time if the apple thing had been left up to me.

I walk him...correction: drag him...call Greg...I'm late...I'll be there when the movie starts...he decides to walk down to meet me. I run back up stairs. Throw Mephistopheles on the couch. Pee and powder. At the same time. Spray. Pose. Run out the door. Into Greg.

We bolt for the theater. We are next in line behind a man with nowhere to be even though he is BUYING A MOVIE TICKET. "You want anything honey?" I run inside to get Greg a medium Coke. The kids behind the counter have to finish their conversation and their soda-cup-football game before they can begin to find where they keep the Twizlers. Just give me the Coke. No Twizlers. (I actually have to charge the Coke 'cause the $4 cash I have scrounged together is not enough. It's a Coke people.) We race up the escalator. Greg pees. Probably doesn't powder. We go into the movie and it has started. What happened to forty thousand minutes of commercials and previews and singing popcorn? Whatever. Adjust eyes and sit. After about three minutes I notice the woman down the row from me is compelled to moan through handfuls of popcorn in agreement to every third line of the movie. Come on. I've also decided I can't completely situate around to the two silhouettes of giant heads in the middle of my movie. I look at Greg and scrunch my nose. We move.

Ah. Perfect seats. The movie is getting good. I've never been so excited to see an over-produced gun powder explosion actually blowing up a man and his horse. Did they have Smart Bombs in the Old West? Whatever. I dig it.

Then. The. Movie. Just. Stops. No cool melty projectory thing like back in the day. It just stops. The lights come on and the muzak too.

Nuh. Uh.

After ten minutes of conversation and five of quietly trying to get through the rest of the movie with a giant black streak down the middle of it:

Jen: (whispered) Let's go.

Greg: (whispered) Yeah?

Jen: Yeah.

Greg: But you've been dying to see this. For weeks, Baby.

Jen: Yeah, but not like this.

The man I love who has to have the bathroom door cracked open to a pre-measured distance enabling a perfect amount of ambient light-spill for all of our home entertainment viewing completely understands. He escorts me out.

We get refunds and go outside. Another movie? Nah. Drinks? Nah. Dinner? Not really. Let's walk.

Do you know how nice it is to walk around this city and be present and alive and not have to do anything that has been scheduled? Greg and I are all mushy and feel like we're on a first date.

A couple walks by with their arms around each other. "I love her so much. We're getting married tomorrow!" Greg congratulates them and throws his arm around me. Cute.

We end up going to book stores and having dinner and wine and come home to the little Devil and vow to train him better. Great night. Awake and alert.

Thing is, through the stress and challenges and journeys of the evening, I had a good sense of humor. Even after a certain phone call on the way home. I appreciated it all even more.

A very dear friend of mine might have cancer. Again.

Keep smiling.

TGIBWCF

Is it sad that I truly dig Beer-Wine-Cake Fridays at my office?

It's the little things.

"I've seen fire and I've seen rain..."

Excuse me...I think I have some weird power here...not that I really think I am more special than the next guy...but as of yesterday O.J. Simpson IS in jail!!!

I awoke at some ungodly hour this morning because fire trucks were racing down our street, one after another and so loud. And yesterday I was taking a lazy Sunday afternoon nap and I awoke to squealing tires and the sound of crunching metal. After both incidents, I closed my eyes again, rolled over and thought the same thing we all do here: "ah, life in New York".

However, both times, when I closed my eyes again I dreamt that the President had been assassinated. Homeland Security might come get me for saying this, but with my new-found, super-hero blog powers I thought I would plead my innocence before it happens.

I watched part of a little political show last night called Now...from what Greg (my news authority) tells me, it is a Liberal slanted show...and they were doing a little documentary about the war in Iraq. It was sad and confusing. I'm not going off on a political rant here...but I just don't understand the sense of using violence to gain peace. Puhlease, I realize nothing necessarily makes sense about this war...2+2=5 in ALL aspects...and we swallow it...but war to spread a democratic agenda?....isn't that like punching someone in the face to get them to be nice? I don't get it.

Oh and by-the-by, last night on the Emmy's, the Fox network (whom Greg continually expresses his disgust regarding their Republican slant) apparently censored Sally Field when she subtly spoke out against the war. She was saying something about mothers running the country which directly reflects her character on the show she WON AN EMMY FOR...and they censored her. I was in the tub when I was listening to her speech. The sound went out. I thought Greg changed the channel. "Nope," he said, "flippin' Fox Network!" Creepy.

[There are about 10 big tangents sitting in my brain. Probably why I napped so much this weekend.]

I talked to a new friend who had driven to D.C. on Saturday to march in a rally. He said when the world looks back on this era and the mess it is causing...he wanted to be able to tell his grandchildren that he tried to do something, anything. I guess even a yelling parade.

About eight years ago in L.A. when I was working at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, part of my duties were to visit the homes of the families of the interred. I remember driving to Northridge, in the Valley, and realizing I was about 45 minutes early (that in itself should have been the clue...I was clearly possessed). I pulled into a drive-thru and got some lunch. I drove by the home where I was to visit and parked a few blocks away so they wouldn't see me pounding a Quarter-Pounder before I talked to them about what they wanted to do with their dead grandfather.

I take a bite out of my burger and look to the right at the house directly next to me. And it BURSTS INTO FLAMES. No kidding. I happened to look at the house at the exact moment before and at the exact moment it was instantly engulfed. My mouth dropped, I held my burger and froze.

When I came to about two seconds later, I was on the phone dialing 911...which really is a joke...at least at that time...I was on hold for over 20 minutes while this house was burning down right in front of my eyes...I jump out of the car, cell phone in hand...I run to the house to ring the door bell over and over just in case someone in the house wasn't aware they were surrounded by flames......I run to each neighbors' house yelling for them to evacuate...I run to the neighbor across the street so they can call 911 in vain as well.

Looking back, I don't know where I got the gumption to do this but I turned around and saw that the four-lane, decently busy street had come to a complete stop with onlookers...there was traffic in all lanes in both directions as far as I could see...I ran to the intersection waving at cars and yelling "come on...get going...move out...let's go!!" All I could think was 'how are the fire trucks going to get through?!!'. I literally start directing traffic, I get through to 911 (they had already gotten the call) and eventually the fire trucks come.

The fire chief replaced my traffic directing with a trained professional, neighbors stopped coming to me for instructions and I found myself answering the new man-in-charge...a man in a uniform... "I don't know any of these people. I just pulled over to eat a hamburger." We look at each other oddly. How did I get to this point? What now? It seemed useless for me to stay. Everyone was ok...I was just eating some fast food...so...I said goodbye and I went to my car I had previously moved around the corner and left. After that I just went to my appointment. I wasn't even late. So strange.

My boyfriend at the time told me it was proof I was the devil.

Maybe I should go to a rally with Drew Barrymore.

O.J. Simpson is not in jail

"I don't know, but I have a hunch that what you're gonna find can't be categorized or easily referenced."

- F. Mulder (C. Carter)

I was standing in the middle of 23rd street last night. I stopped to take a note. Then I thought, "wait a minute, I think my cell phone records memos...I'll use technology!" I start scrolling through the menus. 'Voice mail.' Nope. 'Messaging.' Nope. Scrolly scrolly. I decide I should keep a notepad. It was 10:30p. Someone scary zig-zags by me forcefully kicking a squashed soda can. I look up. What am I doing? I put the phone away and continue looking for a place...wine bar-y...quiet pub-y...after dinner desert-y place to meet Greg for a wind down whatever. He's been in tech rehearsals all day and I just came from a friend's show that really wound me up.

I keep wandering, up Broadway closer to Greg's rehearsal?...no...too dark...back down 5th...across 20th...back up 6th...where am I going? I find that each time I cross 5th, Broadway, 6th, 7th...I look South. Huge, beautiful white beams light up the sky. I try to take a picture. My phone alerts me this option is full. I decide I should get a real camera. I keep wandering and feel myself hit an endurance wall. I've been walking an awful lot today. I just got over the flu. I'm exhausted. I leave Greg another message, "I'm sorry honey, I just couldn't find a place and now I'm tired. I'll meet you at home. I love you." I head West. I think.

Everytime I pass an avenue I overhear someone mention the lights. I stand opposite a group of well-fed couples on the other side of the street. They are waiting to cross. I look down the way and no cars are coming so I walk towards them. I hear a Southern drawl, "well, I don't know what we're waitin' for...she's goin'...". They all laugh. Cute. I notice all of the women have perfect hair. I smile at them and as we pass I hear one gasp at the lights downtown.

I keep going.

I come upon The 10th Precinct and some young cops are standing outside. My belly jumps. I walked this way on purpose thinking it was smart. I suddenly feel like I'm about to step in a church. Reverance. Respect. Relief. As I pass, I glance sideways and catch the oldest one's eyes. He loudly clasps his hands, looks at me and says, "Yes. It is a beautiful night". I giggle, embarrassed that he read my mind.

You see...I wanted to thank him and I think he knew that.

My brother told me the other day he felt like being back home was like being in a sitcom. He is having trouble tolerating his friends and his clients...as if their concerns can't be real...they have swimming pools and malls and cars and buy in bulk. "Dallas just isn't New York."

I don't think anything is.

When I compare myself to say...anyone else in the world...I feel this advantage...for getting to grow up in the USA. For winning the birth-location lottery. Yes, there are struggles...yes, good health is a privilege, not a right...yes, if you don't have money or fame or big boobs it is hard to feel worthy...but I love this place. Like I love my Dad and Superman.

I have goals in my life and they don't revolve around survival. There are such things as 'come backs' and second, third, fourth chances. If you don't see those chances the second, third or fourth time...SOME one will STILL believe in you.

First impressions last as long as a commercial. This is America, bitch.

I still want to be really skinny if I ever run into my ex.

Guts

A very good friend of mine mentioned to me today that he noticed how funny it was that I was so happy and he was so happy these days and yet we both are flat broke. Of course, he mentioned this over our lunch. I had an $8 bowl of soup. I hope I looked good eating it.

My brother is moving back to Dallas this weekend. We plan on hanging out all day this Friday (My company has the day off...one more time...how much do I love my job?...). The plan is to start the day with a little color and cut. Apparently I'm going brunette. My head is often my brother's canvas. And then...well...not sure what else we can do but sit around and talk and then get ready to go out so he can say goodbye to all his fans at the boy bars. It will take us at least a couple of hours to get in full drag. I mean me.

When someone arrives somewhere you usually show them around. What do you do when they leave? I've been his foundation here but that is about it. I wasn't his tour-guide, I didn't go bar-hopping with him (much) while he was here, I didn't hang out at his friends' apartments or at his salons. He had his life here just as I have mine.

I'm so proud of him for that. I think it is hard to be alone in NYC when you are used to never being alone. But NYC is probably the best place to be alone. No one expects you to entertain them. Unless you are all painted in silver and standing really really still on a silver cardboard box.

I used to think about love in a logical way. Someone does something nice for you, you do something nice for them. Until one day you want to hug them, hang out with them, buy them stuff, maybe even sleep with them and share pets. Now, I can't explain my love for certain people. I met Greg, we talked about a movie and even though he hadn't done anything nice for me (yet) I was already falling in love. I wasn't even sure he liked girls. He wasn't even sure I was from this planet.

I've asked people before why they love me. I've been asked that before as well. And in the movies people say, "your dimples, the way you laugh, how cute you are when you get grumpy...your eyes, hair, soul...desires, passions..." Tangible stuff. The people in my life that I say I love you to...well...now-a-days...I can't really explain 'why', I just do. Because you are you. I haven't a clue why I have an urge to hold you or hug you, touch you or take care of you...look in your eyes and make you want to feel good. But that is what I want to do and it is because something about you makes me love you.

I love my little dog and he doesn't necessarily do nice things for me...he can't even keep from poking himself in the eye when he scratches his ear with his hind leg.

DaDa

Just had lunch. Had the pink thing. I knew it would be good but come on...I'm going to turn into a pink blob since discovering the sacred Mochi.


Today is a little boring. Not in a bad way. I guess I shouldn't use the word 'boring'. I meant to say, 'quiet' or 'creatively challenging'. I'm thinking about new hair color. I just had my hair done last Thursday.


I've been sketching again and I am having such a great time doing it. I've discovered that I enjoy it not because of the outcome but because of the process. Whoa. That is a new one for me. Aries and all. I'm easily distracted by shiny things. I mean glittery things. Diamonds. Tiaras. Stars. Shooting Stars. Jupiter. The milky-way. Chocolate. Puppies. Ribs. Feet. Prada. Vanilla. Beans. David Lynch. Ebay...


Thank the Lord for Google.


In the late 90's (can't believe I just typed that) I was a Mary Kay lady (that too). I thought this company was the greatest thing since, well, concealor. I still think about that job everyday. I learned a lot about myself.


It is a big deal to go for something and accomplish it...and at the same time, all you have to do is make up your mind to go for something and do it. Chosing a career, chosing toothpaste. Both choices...technically typing...


When someone makes a choice, and things don't go as planned...outside forces and all...then what?


I think most of my life I've changed the plans before someone could change them for me. I think I never wanted to know what it felt like to commit to something (someone?) and have IT not go as I planned.


That must be what I mean by 'boring'. I'm letting go AND making choices.

Scary. Berry. Fairy. Wings. Bells. Christmas. Jesus. Mary. Salvador Dali. Washington D.C....

Green Tea Mochi

So. I'm having lunch with myself in a little Asian deli around the corner from my new job. Third day. I love the place. I will rue the first day I don't. I mean come on, I'm typing my bloggy thing out right, here at my desk 'cause 1. I can and 2. it is encouraged. Dig it.

Anyhoo...lunch...in Soho, Asian deli...I choose sushi (yes, I'm starving now) and next to odd shaped cookies and sweet things I see this cute little green blob that says something about cream filling and green tea on the label. Why not?

I buy my food, sit down by the window and break out my book (thank you Mom) . I eat my Dragon Sushi remembering that I always have the following issue with sushi and never remember it until I'm eating it:

"Do you put the whole thing in your mouth or bite it in half?"

I recall having many little pretty sushii disassemble and fall to their deaths down my chin and on my plate...after I've struggled trying to use my front teeth to cut through the outer seaweed layer thing.

I put the whole piece in. I feel like the fat guy in the Monty Python sketch. I should look this up. What is the flippin' sushi etiquette for silly Americans using disposable chop sticks?

Again, I digress...after I decide to mangle each piece before I place them in my mouth, I finish the sushi and I unwrap the green blob.

Mochi, I think.

I wipe the avocado off the sticks and poke the blob. It doesn't rupture. So I pick it up and take a bite. Weird, like semi-sweet dough and then, yum, cream, like, fresh-from-a-cow, no, angel, no, Madonna's breast, ok, ew, angelic-cow-cream-filling. I didn't notice a Green Tea theme though. But then again, I wouldn't have noticed Clive Owen dancing on my head. I was a little distracted by the cream. New to my palette and yum.

I decide to walk around as I have another 15 minutes and I round the block.

There. Is. The 'Ohio Theater'.

I'm suddenly blasted back to last year. The last show I worked on, Largo Desolato. In the Vaclav Havel Festival. Where I met Greg. Performed with many of my favorite folks. Really nice memories. Aren't those great?

Then I realize, the very back of the building I'm calling my 'job-home' now...the back of the building I have keys to...IS the VERY little spot we, the Largo cast, used to hang out at before the show and run lines. Every night. Such tantalizing times. Flirting with Greg while we thought no one was looking. Laughing and joking and loving my colleagues. Within minutes we were all about to take some big risks together...in a couple of hours...you gotta trust, respect and love those folks and we did! Such good memories. Such good folks. Good times, good times...

And to think...almost exactly a year ago...I was standing on those little stairs...not knowing my happy future...not knowing I would be inside that very building typing these words and having these good memories. Crazy!

New flavors and old. That is so New York man.

I'm going to try the pink blob tomorrow.

Picneral

Everyone should grill raw meat over a charcoal pit outdoors at least once a year with their family.

If every family did this, I think we could end wars. And I think you should have to invite people you don't necessarily want to see, maybe even people who aren't in your family anymore. This way, everything is out in the open...literally. You are faced to be with your kin and make a choice, "do I forgive, forget...do I even care..." And you are faced to look at yourself, "do I forgive, forget...care?" It almost makes things that everyone makes such a big stink about become as dark as a cartoon in a free newspaper.

What really matters is that moment, outside, in nature...staring at the lineage and seeing where your small small world came from and where it might go. The kids can watch, listen and learn. Grandma might give strange advice about caterpillar bites, they might watch their grumbly Dad actually hug his estranged brother, Uncle Calvin may have certain secrets to life only someone like he could share...having just gotten out of prison for the fourth time.

Then, of course, there are the babies. All of the adults huddle and smile, giggle and wave for Baby Ashley's attention. When she picks you out of the paparazzi circle, hands you her little pink sunglasses and waddles away clapping her hands, your heart turns to mashed potatoes and you are Queen for a moment. Then you go stuff more brownies in your mouth. Life is good.

I used to work in the funeral industry at a cemetery in Los Angeles. People used to ask me how I could stand working in such a depressing environment. Well.... 1. Thanks to my awesomely strange parents, I love cemeteries. We used to visit them as often as we could. I have great memories of walking around and reading the tombstones and wondering about how Mrs. Marion Laughly made it to 89 during the depression and if she had a good sense of humor...and isn't that what cemeteries are about?...2. Good memories. Rarely do you attend a funeral and sit around and bitch about the dead guy. He's dead. That is as bad as it can get, so everyone agrees to talk about his good points. Even if he was a Crip. 3. Friends and Families come together to forgive and forget...sure to gossip too...but they are all face-to-face with the fact that there is only so much time on this earth so they better get their stuff together...including getting over the fact Janie wasn't a bridesmaid in Erin's wedding...she's divorced now anyway. Funerals are such an everyday thing in life - we die, we do - and funerals are a big going-out party. How honorable is that? Plus the food and the occasional kooky happening...the delayed viewing 'cause the wig was missing, the voodoo doctor that insisted on sacrificing 'something' (it was Los Angeles), the mocking bird that wouldn't stop circling and chirping over "Birdy's" casket. Cool stuff, man.

Family picnics are like funerals with out the dead guy. We should do them more often.

Do you HAVE to know?

Someone aasked me today, "well, what are you passionate about?"

As if I could answer that. It changes daily.

"I welcome the world ahead of me and wrap my arms around every opportunity and give it a tight squeeze and tell it I love it with sweet, gentle whispers in it's ears. Then I stroke it's hair until it falls gently asleep in my lap. Then wake it up with some good coffee and hand-picked blueberries and scones and ride it's slick, smooth back while hanging on to it's fins through every fantastic wave. Iamgratefulforeverymomentamen."

But really...I do wake up these days with an extra spring in my step. Can't say why...passion? Sure...

I fall in love so often. Ideas. Pictures. People. Sleep. Of course, I tend to get heartbroken easily but why is that such a bad thing? I know where to find good chocolate. And by chocolate, I mean vodka.

Almond Joy and Mounds

Sometimes you wake up and everything is dandy, sometimes you don't.

A choice.
Ketchup or mustard. Maybe they are out of mustard but hey, even though you don't like ketchup, you could add a little pepper and Tabasco to it to make it much better. Right?

Or lemons out of lemonade.
I'm gonna go start a fight with someone at the laundry. If I can't fix my feelings I can work them out on a total stranger until I feel bad about making them feel bad and have to swallow what I was really feeling in the first place.

I think a lot of people operate this way.
Today, I choose pepper and Tabasco.

Shindigs and Birthday Parties

Doing a little showy show thing tonight at Dixon place. Fun, loaded stuff. Nice to play.

I haven't washed my hair since Friday night but turns out it is perfect for the show.

Friday was a blurry birthday party night for a couple of good friends.

Sunday Night Blahs

When I was a kid I used to get incredibly, ridiculously anxious on Sunday nights. God's Day 'O Rest...homework left to the last minute...Emily King laughing at my Boy George t-shirt in front of the entire cheer-leading squad...not sure why. But I would do things like rearrange my room, make the bed, get completely dressed for school and THEN go to sleep...oh so carefully as to not mess up the throw pillows or my hair. Like laying down onto a $4 raft in a kiddie pool with a wave machine. But that way, all I had to do was wake up and brush my teeth! Very efficient I thought. Until once at three in the morning my mother came in for some reason...I think the vacuum woke her...and the expression on her face illustrated the abnormalcy I was portraying.

I look back on little habits I had as a child, talking to 'God' who I believed was in the air conditioner, conversing with myself in the mirror for hours on end in the evening at bath time, my 'scientific experiments' that I hid under the bathroom sink which usually involved a body fluid (just fluid) and cleaning products...and I think 1. maybe I was kind of weird and lonely, 2. I was really creative and interested in EVERYTHING and had to find ways to hide it, or 3. I was kind of weird and lonely. I did have a lot of friends though.

I don't stay up all night on Sundays practicing how to fold a love note to Mike Norwood...anymore...which would be really strange since I haven't seen him since the third grade...but I do feel that left-over anxiety. "This is the end of something and the beginning of another."

Opportunity?

Sometimes I think we think too much.

I just realized the irony of typing that.

I truly suspect people with Downs Syndrome have the secret. I DO NOT mean this as a joke or in any offensive, disrespectful manner. What little I know of what we have decided as a society is an affliction - this syndrome, I find really beautiful and simple.

I should start a soft ball team.

Saturday

Greg makes Quinoa with David Lynch. "...so straaannngggeee what luuve doesss..."

Late

Depending on the moon or some such...I've noticed I seem to go through phases...dramatic phases....food taste, sleep habits, fashion, little things like...oh...partners...apartments...cities. And I used to go through phases that made me feel like I had to catch up with the rest of the world after having raced past everyone for long stretches. Racing towards what, I'm still not clear. The Hare pulling desperately at the ropes I tied around the necks of those behind me. Then I would stop, or collapse, and suddenly age 125 years and grow a thick, poly-sided shell to hide under all while still trying to keep up the old pace.

This morning something happened to the trains. They weren't redecorated unfortunately, they just stopped running. I get my news from overhearing conversations or whatever Greg tells me so I'm not sure why the trains weren't running. The storm last night...trash on the tracks...alien invasion. I get out of the stop before mine so I can call my temp agency...try to remember the number of the HR gal who signs my timesheets and I realize the streets are packed and everyone is doing the same thing I am. Some decide to treat themselves to Starbucks...good for them I say!

"Wait a second...this isn't me running late...this isn't the start of one of my turtle phases...I don't have to prep myself for how I'm going to catch up to everyone else..."

I show up at the gig. I don't know what I expect. A group of suits lined up with their arms crossed, big cartoon heads with scrunchy eyebrows and steam coming out of their ears. Someone in the elevator...perky Asian girl, sassy hair cut, tennis shoes tied to her bag...Starbucks, "what a mess it is out there!" The elevator opens to a silent floor. I race past reception. In case she cares, make a small joke about tardiness. She barely lifts her eyes. Run to the desk - stop for coffee of course - pass my friend's office and pause blankly, "It is 9:30a." He laughs.

I sit down and race to do the morning thing...turn on Mr. Man's office lights (so his colleagues think he's in...seriously...). Call my HR person again. Quiet. I look around. I'm the only gal Friday here. My phone rings. HR woman thanks me for coming in. She might not make it. The phones start ringing, another Mr. Man needs me to set up a meeting. I'm doing stuff. And I'm the only 'secretary' here.

This city is such a delicate balance. One thing goes wrong and the ripple effect is massive. The day the lights went out, hell, the day the planes hit, everyone was still trying to get to work. Everyone thought it was a little glitch in the system. (Mr. Man, who's lights I turn on, just came in...bags under his eyes as usual...he sneezed...I blessed him...nothing...) Sometimes we are so busy trying to GET somewhere we don't see what is happening in front of our faces right now.

The other Mr. Man's assistant calls, "OH MY GOD...things are a mess...did his meeting arrive? I'll be there soon but I have to clean the mud off my legs...can you get Ms. Woman a car? Never mind, I'll do that when I come in..."

Folks trickle in now complaining about the commute. Different! Fun! I've settled in to my morning of witty bloggy banter.

Balance. Presense. Now-ness. (?)

I'm going to buy a bike. With a basket. And put cute things in it.

While I'm in a typity mood...

I thought I would share with the world that Greg recently took me to Amsterdam where I met amazingly talented, gracious and generous people... and where I rediscovered hope in the world. And I'm not talking about drugs...I'm talking about bicycles...with baskets attached with little dogs and babies and flowers inside...for reals. See my face in the happy pic.

Blogging

I never ever thought I would do this. I also never thought I would be one of those women who treat their little dogs like a baby. But alas, I am writing to the virtual world of all to see and I am going to stop letting my dog sleep in the bed with me. Damn it. Is it ok if the blog thingy is rambly and ranty? What about spelling? I can't spell. Will there be a button to click on to do that for me?

I'm here at 'work'. I'm temping. I've been hired to sit in front of some offices to answer the phone IF it rings and IF they decide they want to schedule something and don't feel like doing either of those things themselves. Which they usually do, 'cause they are bored too. I wonder what they do.

These are strange times. All of the "secretaries" sit in front of the "professionals'" offices and I can't help but think (like many things we do societally) this is some sort of left over tradition from the days of Roman kings (ooo...wait...I was just asked to copy something......I might have to take a nap after this...I'll be back...I say this like we are in real-time here...)...anyhoo....I was needed. Carrie Fishers tied to temples...some of us shouldn't wear the outfit though...

Is it weird that I kind of like this? I'm being paid to sit here and discover blogging. And they don't seem to have any other expectations for me. Like sneaking candy in church. It is very quiet. Strange times. I've been here for two days now, and nobody has asked me my name.

I think I'm going to commence a group hug at three. I'll send an email.

Test

I'm a testing this yes I am. I'm singing this song as I type across the land. Hand. Spam. Testing....