'Have you ever watched somebody see their dream come true in real time?'

Playbill.com photo by Aubrey Reuben (from the July 17, 2008 Opening Night) Tonight, for the third time, I am going to see the musical [title of show]. I had seen it a couple years ago at the Vineyard Theatre, saw the first Broadway preview on July 5th, and am now seeing the final product after it's July 17th opening. The people who wrote this show, Hunter Bell and Jeff Bowen, with Susan Blackwell and Heidi Blickenstaff, have guts. They decided to write a musical about two guys writing a musical about two guys writing a musical. Five people (including musical director/sole keyboardist Larry Pressgrove), a sparse set onstage, and a show about the process of creating something honest and funny; revealing insecurities, doubts, hope, and fighting the ever-pervasive Resistance.

Like me, and, of course, countless others, these people wanted to work as artists and had to take on many not-so-arty jobs to help fund that dream. After a while, working at the day jobs can take over, dreams seem distant and maybe foolish, and there are people constantly reminding you that you may not have the talent, or body, or voice, or vision, or nose, or intestinal fortitude for the creative life. But something made them say "what the fuck" and they tried their hand at writing what they know, because, hell, what is the worst that could happen, that they continue to live artistically unfulfilled lives?

Seeing this show has done something to me. It makes me very teary and emotional and joyous and hopeful and determined to continue on the artistic path. Yes, I'm a sappy chick. But I have to say that is part of what makes me an artist, I hope...my sensitivity, my ability to feel these things so very deeply, my emotional response to honesty and fearlessness. Seeing these actors (wonderfully directed by the many-faceted and hot Michael Beresse) making their dreams come true by writing about struggling to make their dreams come true is an experience I cannot adequately put into words. I am one of their many adoring fans, and feel somewhat foolish when I write them on Facebook, or on their http://www.titleofshow.com/ website, or wait by the stage door (Susan Blackwell, thank you for holding my hand and keeping it real, yo. Word.) but I guess part of being inspired and excited by someone else is sometimes being foolish and letting them know how wonderful they really are.

Being cool is so over-rated. As they say in the show, I'd rather be nine people's favorite thing than a hundred people's ninth favorite thing.

Changes

The happy windows on 97th street have changed a bit...you can click on the pictures and see a larger version to get a good gander at the additions to the display. From a quick glance, I believe that the Baby Jesus (bottom picture) now sports a crown-o-flowers, and the rubber snake and rubber duckie (top picture) are also new additions. Also, the jazz-man figurines are gone, and the owl has switched to a new window. The music was not on today, but the frog machine was ribbit-ing away as people strolled past.

Other news: my ginormous luxury mattress arrives on Thursday, I just started a new Nutrisystem diet because I need something to kick-start my ass in a completely lazy, mindless way, and I am seeing Mamma Mia (the movie) with my gays on Friday (I will see Meryl Streep do anything. Anything. I idolize her because she is not afraid to be a human being as well as an artist. She is brave and vulnerable.) The writing, on the other hand, is a more complex story. I am ready to start typing. Any minute now. Fear is absolutely gripping my gut. It sounds ridiculous, I know. But you don't know my gut. My gut is my barometer for all things involving potential conflict and uneasiness...and wowza, there's a low-pressure system a-movin' in.

Do The Right Thing

I have some things I want to write about, but I am scared. This fear, this resistance, is very familiar, and I am trying to push past it. Resistance is the term I learned from The War of Art by Steven Pressfield, which I have sitting on my bedside table to be re-read, but I am resisting that as well. Pressfield writes:

Resistance is the most toxic force on the planet. It is the root of more unhappiness than poverty, disease, and erectile dysfunction. To yield to Resistance deforms our spirit. It stunts us and makes us less than we are and were born to be....The awakening artist must be ruthless, not only with herself, but with others....The most pernicious aspect of procrastination is that it can become a habit. We don't just put off our lives today; we put them of till our deathbed.

Never forget: This very moment, we can change our lives. There never was a moment, and never will be, when we are without the power to alter our destiny. This second, we can turn the tables on Resistance.

This second, we can sit down and do our work.

I keep typing sentences about the subject I want to write about, and after staring at them, I delete them. Maybe it is because I am not yet sure of what I want to say; but I think it is also that I am afraid that I might hurt somebody or that someone will think I am revealing too much or that I should let sleeping dogs lie. The Resistance voice in my head is specific, and angry, and I hear it constantly, loudly disapproving and disgusted with me. It's why I have this urge to flee to the beach, or the woods, or anywhere but here, because I am hoping to find some peace and quiet and perhaps be able to find the perfect zen place to sit and write, like all the famous writers and artists and their Montauk cottages and Vermont cabins and linen clothes and freezing cold martinis with olives. But it is all a distraction, the beach and martinis....my voices will still scream at me that I shouldn't write about this painful thing and I shouldn't uncover that ugly scar, and why on god's earth would I want to relive that awful place and christ it wasn't so bad as all that and hell a lot people had it worse and that's not the way it really was and why do I have to be so GODDAMN DRAMATIC about everything???

I know it is not "honoring" the "gift" of creativity, but I say that having the urge to create art and simultaneously being unable to express one's creativity is barely controlled insanity. A virus. A sickness. I eat too much. I drink too much. I spend too much money on distractions. I am on the verge of tears at all times. I am disconnected, disoriented, dismal. So what is worse, pissing off some people who don't really know that much about me, or living a false life filled with longing and obsequious chickenshit pandering?

The Calm Before the Storm

A couple of days ago I purchased a fancy, luxurious, pillow-topped, ginormously thick queen mattress on Overstock.com.
I cannot really afford it, considering the fact that I am living quite literally paycheck to paycheck. But I have struggled so much with sleeping, especially this past year, and YES, part of the problem is the cats. They have decided that they must sleep with me, and take up at least half the bed, and they are fat and Mae's nose is wheezy and Monkey has cat-dreams and twitches, and I am lucky if I sleep more than three hours straight. If I kick them out, then I have to move their cat box to the living room, or lock them in the bathroom. Neither situation will work. Yes, when I move into something larger than 250 square feet I will shut them out, all you potential cat-hating lovers of mine. The thing is, it's not the bed the cats want, it's me. I had my friend from Arizona visiting last week (and, um, the cats were initially HER idea when we were roommates back in our palatial 500 square foot Hell's Kitchen abode, but, AHEM, she moved and married a dude with dogs. The cats stayed with me. I adore them and they drive me batshit. End of side-story) and the cats crammed onto the couch with me, and left my friend all comfy and cozy and ALONE on the bed. I would wake up on the couch in a Z, with Mae spooning and Monkey in my leg-crook. This is also how I awake every morn from my now-too-teeny full-sized bed. Thus, the new and expensive queen bed. Yes, it was on sale, and yes, I cannot stand mattress salespeople, they exhaust me into utter anger or submission, depending on my insomnia level. I love Overstock. Sale prices (I comparison shop things to death) and free delivery if you join their O club (worth it) and no claustrophobic New York stores with pushy staff and bad lighting.

The mattress should arrive within the next four weeks. Maybe I'll be able to sleep in a normal position. Maybe the bigger bed will be good karma for me. Maybe I won't hear the Flintstones who live above me completing their mission to clomp over every single inch of their goddamn apartment nonstop for 50 hours a week.

Seth Rudetsky deconstructs HAIR/IN THE HEIGHTS

My friend Eliseo Roman is The Piragua Guy in In The Heights here on Broadway...Seth Rudetsky plays some of his song in this clip and deconstructs him (as well as Betty Buckley, and Sherie Rene Scott)....I am so happy for Eliseo. Go see this show or buy the soundtrack...it is fantastic.

97th Street Window - Now with music!!

I walked by my favorite neighborhood window this morning, and heard this music (plus the banging sound of a scaffold being constructed and, of course, car honking). A soundtrack for the morning walk. I wonder if the person plays this every morning, and I miss it because I go to work after 10 am? I must do further investigation....

Badass Mutha

I look at this picture of myself at seven, eight years old, and think: Damn, look at my badass self. I am fearless and free.

I'm going to bring her back. She was a blast to hang out with.

I've recently been reacquainted with my friend Katherine. She and I were best buddies from first through third grade, and then I moved to Ohio for a couple of years, and when I came back to Wisconsin in sixth grade, she had moved away and I lost track of her. Over the years, and especially the last ten or so, I've looked for her on the internet. I found her a couple years ago on Google images (she is in real estate and they have headshots on their sites), recognized her instantly with a cry of joy, and emailed her. I found out she had been living in NYC almost exactly as long as I have. When we saw one another for the first time in thirty-odd years, we cried. Talking and laughing with her is as easy as it was when we were kids. She was always beautiful and goofy and daring and smart and nothing much seemed to shock her. She is the same today. I'm so happy she is back in my life, especially since I've been a bit unmoored and unsure of myself of late.

We both are a couple of badass muthas, behind those good-girl facades.

97th Street Window

Every morning, as I walk to work on 97th Street, I see these windows. I began to notice that the person decorating them will change certain elements, sometimes daily...new figurines, new flowers, things that make croaking sounds or bird sounds...I like to see what's new. It gives me something to look forward to on my trudge to the office....

Seinfeld's Eulogy in the New York Times

carlin, originally uploaded by travelinguy41.

Dying Is Hard. Comedy Is Harder.
By JERRY SEINFELD

THE honest truth is, for a comedian, even death is just a premise to make jokes about. I know this because I was on the phone with George Carlin nine days ago and we were making some death jokes. We were talking about Tim Russert and Bo Diddley and George said: “I feel safe for a while. There will probably be a break before they come after the next one. I always like to fly on an airline right after they’ve had a crash. It improves your odds.”
I called him to compliment him on his most recent special on HBO. Seventy years old and he cranks out another hour of great new stuff. He was in a hotel room in Las Vegas getting ready for his show. He was a monster.
You could certainly say that George downright invented modern American stand-up comedy in many ways. Every comedian does a little George. I couldn’t even count the number of times I’ve been standing around with some comedians and someone talks about some idea for a joke and another comedian would say, “Carlin does it.” I’ve heard it my whole career: “Carlin does it,” “Carlin already did it,” “Carlin did it eight years ago.”
And he didn’t just “do” it. He worked over an idea like a diamond cutter with facets and angles and refractions of light. He made you sorry you ever thought you wanted to be a comedian. He was like a train hobo with a chicken bone. When he was done there was nothing left for anybody.
But his brilliance fathered dozens of great comedians. I personally never cared about “Seven Words You Can Never Say on Television,” or “FM & AM.” To me, everything he did just had this gleaming wonderful precision and originality.
I became obsessed with him in the ’60s. As a kid it seemed like the whole world was funny because of George Carlin. His performing voice, even laced with profanity, always sounded as if he were trying to amuse a child. It was like the naughtiest, most fun grown-up you ever met was reading you a bedtime story.
I know George didn’t believe in heaven or hell. Like death, they were just more comedy premises. And it just makes me even sadder to think that when I reach my own end, whatever tumbling cataclysmic vortex of existence I’m spinning through, in that moment I will still have to think, “Carlin already did it.”

George Carlin Quote

...when pushed to explain the pessimism and overt spleen that had crept into his act, he quickly reaffirmed the zeal that inspired his lists of complaints and grievances. “I don’t have pet peeves,” he said, correcting the interviewer. And with a mischievous glint in his eyes, he added, “I have major, psychotic hatreds.”

-from NY Times obit

The George Carlin Photo behind my title is by David Gans (on Flickr)

http://www.flickr.com/people/dgans/

George Carlin

George Carlin died Saturday night. His records were played regularly in my house when I was growing up in Wisconsin...he was one of my biggest comedic influences. Thanks, George, for the good stuff.

"I think it is the duty of the comedian to find out where the line is drawn and cross it deliberately." - George Carlin

FriEnd

- Drawing by Drew

A couple of years ago, one of my closest friends cut me out of his life. I have known him for more than twenty years, was a part of his family, and now that is all gone. Twenty-plus years of sharing big events and small joys, tragedies and family politics, history and affection - over. A series of difficult events led to the break; but my candor about some painful issues one fatal night on the phone was the final, irreparable blow. I had betrayed my friend's trust, and he was in such a vulnerable place, feeling so isolated and troubled, that my wine-fueled blurt must have infuriated and hurt him beyond repair. I had no idea at the time that I had done this - I assumed that everything would blow over and I could explain myself, but I found I could not apologize, plead, cajole, or reason myself back into the friendship.

At this time in my life where I feel isolated and troubled myself, the rift has had great effect on me, with all the unresolved issues and stupid moves running through my brain on insomnia-filled nights. It's impossible for me to accept that I have done something so heinous that I have a friend who no longer wants contact with me. I cannot let this go, though it would be healthier for me to resolve that I cannot change this situation, and thus put it behind me. People who are able to compartmentalize and move on quickly after experiencing hurt are a wonder to me. I hang on and churn away and grind my teeth and agonize. I don't know what else to do without making things worse.

So I have to say goodbye to this dead friendship, let it rest in peace. I have been in the anger/denial/bargaining stages for a very long time...it is time to move to acceptance. There is solace in the fact that I still have dear, wonderful friends in my life, near and far, far away.

Fuck. Who am I kidding? How can he still be mad? How does a couple decades of friendship suddenly end? Why can't I make this better?

It is now nearly 4 a.m. and I WIDE awake. I am a fool.

Wild Women and Wise Guys

I cannot remember the last time I felt like a wild woman, or the last time I was with a wise guy.

The Onion - High School Tony Awards

Ah, high school drama nerds...
High School Tony Awards Honor Nation's Biggest Drama Club Nerds

Tony Awards Memories

"Writing is better than acting. You get to use your words and you don't need to be there eight days a week. ... This moment beats the hell out of auditioning for 'JAG'."

-Tracy Letts, playwright, August, Osage County

The Leader of the Band - Dan Fogelberg

JibJab card I made for my dad

Don't send a lame Father's Day eCard.
Try JibJab Sendables!

Bread = Crack

I'm experimenting with a breadless existence for two weeks. I'm not eliminating all carbs, I'm not that insane...but I'm trying to not eat bread. Yes, I want to lose weight, and NO don't tell me to exercise more - I went college for 7 years studying show biz, I UNDERSTAND how one loses weight. I just hate the gym with all my heart and soul. And though run/walking in the park is somewhat more appealing, it still takes a lot of motivation, which, duh, I don't have. I'm on day five of this little yeast-free test of my will, and I am realizing how much of the leavened goodness I crave. And when I deny myself something, my brain/body goes into its usual "OH MY GOD I NEED THIS SO BADLY HOW CAN YOU DENY ME THIS PLEASURE" mode - and this doesn't apply only to food items; semi-casual trysts with unavailable men, internet gossip sites, Elaine's, and offers of low-paying-acting-jobs-that-require-quitting-my-day-job are all temptations that become hugely important and vital to my mental and physical well-being when I deny myself their siren calls. I do have trouble with delayed gratification, I think because I spent much of my childhood being pretty poor and living amongst the better off, and I could never afford the trendy clothes, the car, the prestigious college, the private lessons, the ski vacations, the acting career supplemented by Mummy and Popsie. I want to experience pleasure NOW before it's too late. And that means that losing weight, paying off debt, going to Supercuts, and cooking ham loaf at home in my 250 square foot hovel all go on the "some day" back burner when I need my Happy fix. Food makes me so very happy, so very quickly. yes, my thighs are curvy. Yes, hot New York men want hot athletic girls. Yes, I am sabotaging myself. But ohhhhh, how wonderful is a BLT on rye toast? How lovely is a yeasty hot roll with a melting swipe of salted butter? Pizza slice fresh from the oven? A mish-mosh bagel from H&H with cream cheese?

I can do this. Day five, and counting. I get through this, I can take on the bigger issues, I swear.

Helene Gresser

Here's a clip of my last set at Gotham Comedy Club. My videographer Michael Codispoti is a genius editor and sound man, I must say. The quality is grainy only because of the limitations of Youtube. The original DVD is crystal clear...

Been gone too long...

( Seems like ages since I've written...it's been days and days ago that my laptop went kaput and my working hours suddenly got filled with - get this- work, I haven't been doing my daily dose of whining or opining. But never fear, there will be more to come.)

I miss my true friends. The kind of friends who really know me, who like me despite really knowing me, and with whom I can share my neuroses and dreams without fear of boring them to death or getting heaps of unwanted, un-useful, annoying suggestions on how to improve my lot. Sometimes, I just need my friends to be there while I blather on, and I will return the favor in kind. But my closest friends, with a very few exceptions, have moved away, or gotten married, or are busy with their babies or jobs or boyfriends or girlfriends, and I feel like I am unable to express myself honestly at any length to anyone. This constant state of quietude and the abbreviated explanations for my lack of creative career or boyfriend or decorated apartment makes me feel all bottled up and anxious.

Talking on the phone is okay, depending on the person to whom I'm talking, but it will never be as good as sitting down with someone, cold drink in hand, and having a real heart to heart. Some people are a pain to talk to on the phone - they multitask and get distracted, or they have a truly crappy cell phone with that muffled Charlie Brown sound I HATE and no land line, or they just want the Cliff's Notes version of everything. Talking to my family is a bit like this, so I am never very enthusiastic about ringing them up. Besides, I don't think the dear things, well intentioned though they are, have the vaguest idea of what I do with my days and with whom I do it, and vice-versa. A vicious cycle, for which I am to blame in good part. But they have never been terribly interested in the details of my day-to-day living, especially because many of the details involve my struggles with my frustrating creative endeavors, my ongoing poverty, and my deliciously absent love life, and my family does not do sadness very well. To be fair, they do try, and my mother has made more of an effort to really listen and stop doing the dishes or driving in the rain if I need to unload, but, it's usually too much, and she lives way far away across the country. My little brothers I rarely talk to - they are busy being twenty-somethings, as was I at their age. My older brother is better about calling, but we've never been the kind to share deep thoughts...we usually try to make each other laugh. My family is not good on phone - myself very much included. Not one of us likes the things much.

This is why I have friends. And now that my most intimate moments cannot be shared with my friends in the greater Tri-State area, I feel adrift...rather invisible and somewhat ridiculous. I need my pack, my gang, my people. I don't want to explain why I am so "dramatic" or why I don't just get a teaching job, or why I haven't had a boyfriend and no that does not mean I am a secret lesbian, or explain why I don't just move to the Midwest and give up my dreams and be practical and secure. I just want to be me. Weird me. Quirky me. Funny me. Sad me. Unsure me. Lonely me. Okay me.

Gogol Bordello - start wearing purple

>
My friend Fil has gotten me hooked on this group. It is my new happy song...

Simon's Cat 'Cat Man Do'

Either Mae or Monkey will do this to me every morning. I mean every. damn. morning.

Pfc. Ross A. McGinnis of the Army - NY Times Article

I've written about this before...but I cannot imagine what kind of strength it takes to overcome the instinct to flee, and, instead, throw oneself onto a grenade. War is hell. I don't think any civilian will ever understand just what kind of hell it is. Pfc. McGinnis was 19 years old when he chose to save others lives by sacrificing his.

Medal of Honor Is Awarded to Soldier Who Saved Others

By AUSTIN BOGUES
Published: June 3, 2008

WASHINGTON — President Bush awarded the military’s highest honor posthumously on Monday to a 19-year-old soldier who was killed in Iraq after falling on a grenade to save his fellow soldiers.

At a White House ceremony, the president presented the award to Romayne and Thomas McGinnis, the parents of the soldier, Pfc. Ross A. McGinnis of the Army.

Private McGinnis, of Knox, Pa., was killed in a Baghdad neighborhood on Dec. 4, 2006, when a grenade was thrown into the gunner’s hatch of the Humvee in which he was riding. Mr. Bush noted that Private McGinnis had enough time to jump out and save himself but instead dropped into the hatch and covered the grenade with his own body, absorbing the fragments. He was killed instantly. All four of his fellow soldiers were saved.

“When Ross McGinnis was in kindergarten,” Mr. Bush said, “the teacher asked him to draw a picture of what he wanted to be when he grew up. He drew a soldier. Four men are alive because this soldier embodied our Army values and gave his life.”

Also in attendance at the ceremony were Vice President Dick Cheney and other military officials. Private McGinnis was posthumously promoted to specialist. He also received the Bronze Star and Silver Star. On Tuesday, Private McGinnis will be inducted into the Pentagon Hall of Heroes. A newly engraved headstone will be unveiled in a ceremony on Wednesday at Arlington National Cemetery.

Mr. Bush said that Private McGinnis was known for being a regular guy who enjoyed basketball and working on cars, and especially for his sense of humor. “In high school and in the Army, Ross became known for his ability to do impersonations,” Mr. Bush said. “A buddy from boot camp said that Ross was the only man there who could make the drill sergeant laugh.”

In April, Mr. Bush awarded the Medal of Honor to Petty Officer Second Class Michael A. Monsoor, 25, a Navy Seal who was killed similarly in 2006 by a grenade. Petty Officer Monsoor threw himself on top of a grenade to save others who were with him.

According to the Army’s Web site, the Medal of Honor was first authorized in 1861 for sailors and marines and the next year for soldiers as well. Nearly 3,500 have been awarded.

I Sing the Body Electric

When I was 4 or 5 years old, a lightning bolt struck within a few yards of my brother and I as we were giggling and washing our hair in the waterspout running off of our farmhouse in Ohio. I remember my mother and father laughing about my lips turning blue with shock and terror, though I think (I think!) they were also freaked out by how close the bolt struck. I was unharmed, though my fear of being shocked and the weird static electricity that Saltine wrappers have has persisted. I was zapped by electricity a few times as child, and one huge jolt literally threw me off the ground as I tried to fix an electric fence at my dad and step-mom's farm - I had grabbed the grounding wire, mistakenly thinking it was a loose wire that had caused an outage in the fence and thus the steer were free to roam and randomly destroy things. I've always gotten shocks from the corners of walls (those hidden metal corners that join drywall) and somehow I blow out light bulb after light bulb, even though I don't have a rug in my apartment to cause static build-up. And over the last month or my barely-used Ipod freaked out and died, my cell phone stopped working, and just this past weekend, my laptop (well, the laptop I am borrowing from work) decided to endlessly reboot and be completely unresponsive to my frenzied attempts at reconfiguring pathways and opening in "safe" mode. I also cannot wear watches for long - they always seem to die on me.

Hmmmmmm. Mayhaps a tin-foil chapeau will do the trick. How much more repellent could I be, anyhow?

Insomnia

Yeah. I haven't been sleeping well for the past few nights. I get insomnia in the summer, always. I've had insomnia my whole life...trouble falling asleep, and now, lately, I'm waking up every freaking hour and a half. The cats don't help. And please, I've tried every remedy: homeopathic, prescriptions, meditation, therapy, change of lifestyle, blah blah blah....this is how I am. I've taken Ambien for a couple of nights, and while that usually works, it's been tricky lately. I'm one of those people who do funny things on Ambien...like call people at late hours to leave spacey voicemail messages, and just the other restless night on the drug I joined a dating website for a SIX MONTH subscription, at quite a chunk of change. I then proceeded to write quite an amusing "profile" of myself, and the banner or title of my profile was something along the lines of "I love seersucker! Boy do I love it. Do you wear seersucker?" I am shitting you not, this is what I wrote to attract men to me. It wasn't until I was on the subway the next morning that I remembered this, and I was mortified - not because I had decide to venture into online dating (ahem, AGAIN), but because I spent money I do not have, and because I know that this type of dating always makes me feel awful about myself. I feel as if I have to give my measurements and full body pictures in a bikini so the potential paramours are not "mislead" by my profile into thinking that I was skinny or voluptuous or whatever the hell they are mislead by. As I have mentioned previously on this blog, I am terrible, terrible on dates with strangers. Thankfully, in the middle of my mortification and regret haze I realized I could cancel this membership within three days and still get a full refund, according to NY State law. Unlike joining that insanely expensive gym I couldn't afford, and never went to, and to which I should have also terminated the membership, but did not...this time, I pulled the trigger quickly. Especially after receiving my first glimpses of potential dates (old! really fat! really old and fat!) and their badly-written/un-spellchecked/all-capitalized/completely-wrong-for-me profiles.

Listen, they are not all like that, I know. And I do have friends who have met their mates on dating sites - more than one, in fact. But after my last few horrid dating experiences, I have lost any desire to venture into the patience-testing territory of dudes with fuzzy teeth and bad manners. And I don't think I could bear to have another experience where I become very attracted to a guy through our emails and pictures, have a great lunch/coffee/dinner, and then never hear from him again. My rice-paper ego can't take it.

I know what my problem is. More specifically, I know who my problem is. I just can't shake that ghost. Maybe I don't want to. Maybe I am wearing this hair shirt of solitude to punish myself for sins of the past. The cat-o-nine-tails is pain and pleasure to a masochist. Or the devout.

God I need a beer.

When I am 91, I will wear red socks.

The Irack

MadTV is awesome. Must watch this. Must.

Saturdays