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...