TV Dinner - Simon's Cat

Rolling Stones - You Can't Always Get What You Want (Live 68

This is my theme song. The theme song of my freakin' life.

'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.