The Kinks - A Well Respected Man

Truth and Dare

I am struggling with my writing.

There is this enormous road block of fear, and denial, and the need to please that impedes my progress. You see, the safe choice would be to wait at the road block until the road work was done, and continue on. But the only way this work will get done is if I get out and do it myself. And the scary part is that the work involves telling stories about my life, about my family, about my history, and I am afraid that these stories might hurt people other than myself. But these are my stories. Some of them are funny, some of them are sad, some a combination of the two. It is my perspective, my gut, my humor, my pain. But does that make it right to send it out into the world for all to see? Why do I want to do that?

I don't think it is a question of desire. Is it a compulsion? Exhibitionism? A cry for attention? A punishment?

I think -- I think I know that telling my stories is my way of reaching out, of communicating the universal ugliness and ridiculousness of life - and by sharing this, maybe not being quite so alone in feeling like odd girl out.

But I hear this voice, like a troll behind that damn road block, saying: " Why do you want to embarrass yourself like that? Why don't you just deal with it in therapy? Don't upset your family. Don't raise your voice. Be nice, little girl."

Where has being nice gotten me thus far?

Subway Inn

Took this picture last night on my way home. This week, I've had my Ipod Nano completely die (it's less than two years old), my crappy Razor cell phone had certain buttons stop working ( two and a half years old) and my brand new Panasonic Lumix camera's shutter has decided to stick. Either I am jinxed, or it's just my bad luck.

Thank goodness my reliable Canon Powershot A620 (two and a half years old) still does a gorgeous job.

Amstetten, Austria

This blows my mind. The following link is to the BBC news: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/europe/7370285.stm . An Austrian woman has been held in a secret basement chamber for 24 YEARS by her father. She has not only suffered abuse from him from the time she was imprisoned in 1984, she bore his seven children, one of whom died as an infant. Three of the children were raised by the father and his wife, the captive woman's mother, the remaining three have never seen the light of the sun nor have had any education.

Mind-boggling.

Quote

Anxiety is the handmaiden of creativity.

-- Chuck Jones.

Dead man walking...

Hallllllp. Why does my brain short-circuit in the hours before my stand-up set? This is the time that racing thoughts prevent me from forming a cohesive routine....I second-guess ALL my choices and try to reconfigure my whole routine. It's as if I need to re-format and erase all the good with the bad, if you need a geeky metaphor. At this point, I don't even know what the hell a metaphor is...I am doubting I know anything about anything. Seven years of higher education and I feel like a blithering idiot. To add to the delicious feeling of self-loathing, my dear friend from Elaine's will be there to witness the public unravelling, and possibly bring other cronies from the joint. To prove I'm not a fraud, I, of course, want them to witness me being an actual comedian. But they may see me freakin' and fumblin' and fucking up and all messy and that is absolutely terrifying. Why do I think I know what the hell I'm doing? Why am I writing here instead of preparing my set?

Off I go, darlings. Pray for Mama....

Freak Out!

Soooooooooooooo....been too long since I've posted...and I blame my perfectionism for my procrastination like the good little neurotic that I am. I have a guest spot performing stand-up at Gotham Comedy Club on Saturday (at 5:30 in the afternoon, the best time to see comedy) and my brain is twirling round and round in circles like it always does before a show. Basically the inner monologue sounds something like "work? should I talk about work stuff? but that's trite and overdone so I shouldn't but it is universal so maybe I should I should trust myself more oh god why do I think I'm a comedian what a fraud I am....oh hey, how about that dog taking a crap over there? looks like he's constipated, is that something? could I talk about dog constipation? Is that poop humor? Am I playing low? Is that underestimating my audience? Am I someone who only does gross-out humor? Should I dress in a ball gown and wear lots of make-up and jewelry and make that my shtick? Is that something I wear all the time even though it's not very comfortable like jeans and a tee-shirt but every comedian wears jeans and a tee-shirt and I want to be different but I don't want to be full of shit. oh god, I am full of shit...should I talk about how full of shit I am?........."

Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Welcome to my world. Come on up and see me some time.

A Gig. Yes, I've scheduled a gig.

Okay, I've just sent a reply email to the hilarious and wonderfully supportive Jessica Kirson, the comedian who books the new talent and open mic shows at Gotham Comedy Club (on 23rd street twixt 7th and 8th). I told her I'd like to do a show on either May 13th or 20th at 8 pm. I have to make sure ten people show up to see me, and this is the hard part, though I've been asked dozens of time in the past few months "when the hell am I going to see you perform??" Now I have to ask anybody and everybody to come see me, and I have to do a damn good show in return. Listen, I can do this...I just feel as if I have to finally prove to all the people who have never seen me onstage that I can actually make people laugh. I've done it before; hell, I feel more comfortable on stage with a microphone in my hand than just about anywhere or anyplace else. Just...lately, I've had a wee bit of stage fright. Just the shaky hand part. My hand holding the mic starts to tremble and betrays me. Everyone then sees that the cool calm facade is just that. An audience does not want the shaky hand. The shaky hand does not put them at ease, dammit. The only way to get rid of the shaky hand is to practice, practice, practice....and I do not like trying out new material at the ubiquitous open mics. I have difficulty with the Process. I do not do well with the whole methodically-breaking-down-into-small-pieces part of doing comedy, or in any part of my creative life, for that matter. But this is the first step; admit that I have a problem, and that I need help.

I need an audience and I need to ask these people to participate in my process. And, when I really think about it, the fact that I've had people asking repeatedly to come see me perform means I have people willing to be my audience.

For Chrissakes, Gresser, get your head screwed on straight.

Popeaballoo

Sweet Jesu, I woke up from a nightmare this morning - flashbacks from seven years ago as the roaring of helicopters above me grew louder and louder....I literally woke up with my heart pounding, saying "what the FUCK??!" before I realized it was just another day of visitin' from the Pope. He said mass down at Saint Pat's this morning, but apparently helicopters have to hover over upper Fifth Avenue, scaring the hell (ha, get it) outta every still-sleeping being at 8:30 am on a lovely Saturday. Even the birds in the neighborhood were freaking out. Thanks, Pope!! Good morning to you, too, dude. As my friend Glenn would say, "he's just a MAN." Augh, now they're starting up again, the copters.....nice day for the park...NOT. Feel like I'm six clicks out from Da Nang....

David Cross

I love David Cross. I just got my &*#@! #$%*! Ipod to FINALLY work after having it not "sync" my music library for the past three days, and I have loaded two Cd's worth of Cross humor to keep me smiling as the subway crowds become sweatier and more crowd-y. He is supposedly dating some young actress chick named Amber Tamblyn, and I suppose, were I able to, I'd date a 23-year-old hottie when I'm 43. Despite this, I just want to drink beers with him and have his bitter observational humor wash o'er me like a dark shower. I need much more humor and inspiration in my life if I am going to escape this day-job monotony that is slowly eating my soul and creating a pod person who only lives to work, eat, drink and sleep. My job is fine, my bosses treat me well, the pay is just enough to keep me barely alive in Manhattan...but I am a shell of my former wacky self. I feel old, fat, and completely unfunny. I cringe when I am introduced as a "comic" because I feel as if people are saying to themselves "Huh. she's not the least bit funny as we sit here. How in God's green Earth does she call herself a comedian??" I feel like a fraud. David, help me.

Elaine's 45 Anniversary

[picture cut and pasted from the NYTimes site - Woody Allen helped Elaine Kaufman celebrate the 45th anniversary of her restaurant on Sunday night. (Photo: Diane Becker/Elaine’s)]

There's a nice blurb by Sewell Chan about Elaine's 45th Anniversary in the New York Times' City Room Blog: http://cityroom.blogs.nytimes.com/2008/04/14/45-years-later-everyone-still-comes-to-elaines/

This is my joint, my hang, my family dinner place. Elaine treats me with gruff affection and never lets me go away hungry. She sets me up with dates both good and blech, yells at me when I've been away too long or claim poverty, and tells me I need better shoes when I've come in sneakers. In fact, when I started my job at the law firm and had little to wear to work, she had me come to her penthouse and she gave me beautiful shoes she could no longer wear...practical but beautifully made low-heeled shoes that only Upper East Side ladies can afford. I love her, and am honored to be able to make the hang with her, as well as Leslie, Pete, Joey, Jessica - the whole gang there I think of as my family.

Oh, and by the way, Woody hasn't had a meal there in years.

mmmmmmm donuts......

Mmmmmmmmm...got my free doughnut (or donut) from Dunkin' Donuts today. It's a tax-day special...buy any size coffee and get a free donut. I started my day on a fabulous sugar high, and the caffeine has kept it going. Now if I could just find all my receipts so I could finish my taxes, I'll be set. Augh. Haaaaaate taxes. Hate. Hate. But love doughnuts....

Buk

gamblers all

sometimes you climb out of bed in the morning and you think,

I'm not going to make it, but you laugh inside

remembering all the times you've felt that way, and

you walk to the bathroom, do your toilet, see that face

in the mirror, oh my oh my oh my, but you comb your hair anyway,

get into your street clothes, feed the cats, fetch the

newspaper of horror, place it on the coffee table, kiss your

wife goodbye, and then you are backing the car out into life itself,

like millions of others you enter the arena once more.

you are on the freeway threading through traffic now,

moving both towards something and towards nothing at all as you punch

the radio on and get Mozart, which is something, and you will somehow

get through the slow days and the busy days and the dull

days and the hateful days and the rare days, all both so delightful

and so disappointing because

we are all so alike and so different.

you find the turn-off, drive through the most dangerous

part of town, feel momentarily wonderful as Mozart works

his way into your brain and slides down along your bones and

out through your shoes.

it's been a tough fight worth fighting

as we all drive along

betting on another day.

Charles Bukowski

TAXES. Ugh.

Okay, I'm a procrastinator, and I have to do my taxes. Specifically, I have to do my taxes from 2004, 2006, and 2007. I know the government OWES me money, so I'm not runnin' from the IRS. If I get audited, I get audited...but I want my money, and if I don't get my 2004 forms in before April 15, I'm outta that dough. And yes, I do my taxes myself. And yes, I should just get someone to help me. This is my big problem, my inability to ask for help. I should pay for H&R Block to do it, right? But what if I'm only getting a couple hundred back and I have to pay that to get my taxes done? Augh. Gloom, despair, and agony on me. I'll be better after Tuesday. Until then, if anyone out there wants to help, I'll be sorting my receipts at my office, because my cluttered, dark apartment will drive me insane, a la "The Yellow Walllpaper"....

So....tonight I'm going to a comedy show called Offensive Women and I'm going to try to make nice with the host Julie Goldman. I'd sure like to get going with gigs again, and yet I dread the selling of me. Listen, I'm comfortable on a stage, microphone in hand, making fun of my love life, my mother's love life, manginas and lady-bits...but I am having trouble with that point of no return that happens when one must sacrifice the day job for the craft. There are still credit card balances to pay down, and Manhattan rent, and health insurance and all that crap.

I know, I know. Fear and Resistance. I've read The War of Art. I know it is my job to go out there and create for the good of my soul and fulfilling my destiny and hopefully prevent a complete breakdown of my sense of self. I know was not meant to work in an office filing papers and making coffee for superiors the rest of my life. A lot of people feel that way. It's not about being FAMOUS or getting ATTENTION. Ugh, I hate when people think that performers/writers/artists are all attention-seeking needy-folks. I call it a Virus. There is no cure for the need to express one's creativity. Either one is born with it, or catches it, and the symptoms can be masked and suppressed and treated, but eventually the Virus is going to rear it's head and you have to face it and make a life around it.... Or keep taking drugs, day-job money, and/or seeing a therapist to keep it under control. Something's gotta give.

Michael A. Monsoor

Michael A. Monsoor was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor yesterday. He was 25 years old September 29th, 2006, when he threw himself on a grenade in Ramadi, Iraq, to save others. I cannot fathom being that brave. I know this is what Navy SEALs are trained to do...but the type of split-second bravery he possessed never ceases to fill me with wonder. U.S. military deaths have reached 4,025 since the invasion in 2003. The latest tolls from the widely cited human-rights group Iraq Body Count (IBC) show that up to some 90,250 civilians have been killed since 2003 through the Web site's own monitoring of media and official reports.
If 94,000 deaths is difficult to grasp, imagine the entire population of Boulder, Colorado being erased. Or Macon, Georgia. Or Burbank, California.

“On 29 September (2006), Monsoor was part of a sniper overwatch security position in eastern Ramadi, Iraq, with three other SEALs and eight Iraqi soldiers. They were providing overwatch security while joint and combined forces were conducting missions in the area. Ramadi had been a violent and intense area for a very strong and aggressive insurgency for some time. All morning long the overwatch position received harassment fire that had become a typical part of the day for the security team. Around midday, the exterior of the building was struck by a single rocket propelled grenade (RPG), but no injuries to any of the overwatch personnel were sustained. The overwatch couldn’t tell where the RPG came from and didn’t return fire.”

“A couple of hours later, an insurgency fighter closed on the overwatch position and threw a fragment grenade into the overwatch position which hit Monsoor in the chest before falling in front of him. Monsoor yelled, “Grenade!” and dropped on top of the grenade prior to it exploding. Monsoor’s body shielded the others from the brunt of the fragmentation blast and two other SEALs were only wounded by the remaining blast.”

“One of the key aspects of this incident was the way the overwatch position was structured. There was only one access point for entry or exit and Monsoor was the only one who could have saved himself from harm. Instead, knowing what the outcome would be, he fell on the grenade to save the others from harm. Monsoor and the two injured were evacuated to the combat outpost battalion aid station where Monsoor died approximately 30 minutes after the incident from injuries sustained by the grenade blast.”

Also due to Monsoor’s selfless actions, the fourth man of the SEAL squad who was 10-15 feet from the blast, was unhurt. A 28-year-old Lieutenant, who sustained shrapnel wounds to both legs that day, said the following in crediting Monsoor with saving his life: “He never took his eye off the grenade – his only movement was down toward it. He undoubtedly saved mine and the other SEALs’ lives, and we owe him.”

As Kristen Scharnberg of the ChicagoTribune summarized in tribute, “The men who were there that day say they could see the options flicker across Michael Mansoor’s face: save himself or save the men he had long considered brothers. He chose them.”

Dating

All right...I'm heading out of the office to go see a show with the dude I had one date with like, a MONTH ago. So I have to get outta my comfortable fuzzy boots (still cold out) and slip on the heels, and hope he doesn't try to touch my legs because I didn't have time to shave this morning. And we cannot sleep together because a) I've got a new rule about not sleeping with a guy unless we are becoming koo-koo cah-rayzee about one another and b) because I am wearing worn "foundation garments" that are clean and all, just mismatched and not sexy in the least. Augh, this dating crap SUCKS.

Martin Luther King, Jr.

The excerpted speech below is not the "Mountain Top" speech. It was delivered on this day 41 years ago. Apply it to today...

[The following is an excerpt from Martin Luther King Jr.'s speech Beyond Vietnam -- A Time to Break Silence delivered 4 April 1967, at a meeting of Clergy and Laity Concerned at Riverside Church in New York]:

...We can no longer afford to worship the god of hate or bow before the altar of retaliation. The oceans of history are made turbulent by the ever-rising tides of hate. And history is cluttered with the wreckage of nations and individuals that pursued this self-defeating path of hate. As Arnold Toynbee says: "Love is the ultimate force that makes for the saving choice of life and good against the damning choice of death and evil. Therefore the first hope in our inventory must be the hope that love is going to have the last word" (unquote).

We are now faced with the fact, my friends, that tomorrow is today. We are confronted with the fierce urgency of now. In this unfolding conundrum of life and history, there is such a thing as being too late. Procrastination is still the thief of time. Life often leaves us standing bare, naked, and dejected with a lost opportunity. The tide in the affairs of men does not remain at flood -- it ebbs. We may cry out desperately for time to pause in her passage, but time is adamant to every plea and rushes on. Over the bleached bones and jumbled residues of numerous civilizations are written the pathetic words, "Too late." There is an invisible book of life that faithfully records our vigilance or our neglect. Omar Khayyam is right: "The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on."

We still have a choice today: nonviolent coexistence or violent coannihilation. We must move past indecision to action. We must find new ways to speak for peace in Vietnam and justice throughout the developing world, a world that borders on our doors. If we do not act, we shall surely be dragged down the long, dark, and shameful corridors of time reserved for those who possess power without compassion, might without morality, and strength without sight.

Now let us begin. Now let us rededicate ourselves to the long and bitter, but beautiful, struggle for a new world. This is the calling of the sons of God, and our brothers wait eagerly for our response. Shall we say the odds are too great? Shall we tell them the struggle is too hard? Will our message be that the forces of American life militate against their arrival as full men, and we send our deepest regrets? Or will there be another message -- of longing, of hope, of solidarity with their yearnings, of commitment to their cause, whatever the cost? The choice is ours, and though we might prefer it otherwise, we must choose in this crucial moment of human history.

As that noble bard of yesterday, James Russell Lowell, eloquently stated:

Once to every man and nation comes a moment to decide,
In the strife of Truth and Falsehood, for the good or evil side;
Some great cause, God's new Messiah offering each the bloom or blight,
And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light.
Though the cause of evil prosper, yet 'tis truth alone is strong
Though her portions be the scaffold, and upon the throne be wrong
Yet that scaffold sways the future, and behind the dim unknown
Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own.

And if we will only make the right choice, we will be able to transform this pending cosmic elegy into a creative psalm of peace.

If we will make the right choice, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our world into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood.

Damn Wide-leggin' Jarks

Gothamist has a blurb on this today: Facebook has a group called Close Your Damn Legs On The Subway So I Can Sit Down Already!!! : http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=18074294688&ref=share

And I copied the subway gorilla-man picture from the blog http://www.secondavenuesagas.com/ ,

which got the picture here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/strohchop/436545886/.

Now I want more pictures of the asses who insist on spreading their man legs wider than their junk necessitates. Arrrrgh.

Work, man.

"I was called to the bathroom at the cemetery to take care of something. I walked in the bathroom and in the middle toilet right there . . . somebody didn't shit in the toilet, somebody shat on the toilet. They shat on the wall, they shat on the floor. I had to clean it up, man, but before that, for about 10 to 15 seconds man, I just stared at somebody's shit, man. To be totally honest with you, man, it was a really, really profound moment. Cause I was thinkin', 'I'm 30 years old and in about 10 seconds I gotta start cleaning up somebody's shit, man.'" —American Movie, 1999

There's a site that gives a top ten quotes list against work: http://www.alternativereel.com/includes/top-ten/display_review.php?id=00080

Hear hear. Oh, and by the way, the dudes in American Movie (directed by Chris Smith. With Mark Borchardt and Mike Schank...the guys in the picture) are from Wisconsin, eh. And I highly recommend gettin' the movie from Netflix, okay? Damn straight. That's some funny stuff dere, hey.