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Oh, my God! SOOOOOOOO SLEEEEEEEEEEPYYYYYYYYY! Can barely keep eyes open...

Blogging to stay awake at work. Somewhere in there is some dose of irony, but I can't quite pinpoint it's most compelling usage.

Okay, my head just rocked back and my jaw dropped open a la old Hanna Barbera cartoon characters.

How's come I'm so sleepy, one may ask. And the answer would be a combination of things: boredom, post lunch food coma, boredom. But, really, it's because I'm crazy. About someone. Ha, you just thought I was crazy, I can tell, and it's true, but the two are not mutually exclusive. So anyway, I'm in the total addiction stage: can't wait to be around him, close to him, talk to him, look at him.

You thought I was going to say "her," didn't you? You sly devils. How did you know of my secret fantasies about Paula?!?

Blogging to stay awake can cause you to take some fantastical turns that perhaps you wouldn't in a normal, thought through, well-written blog. For instance, my calendar says, "pineapple." Actually, it doesn't, but that's the first thing that just popped into my head, so I blogged it, because my sleep-deprived and addled brain cells have given up on judgement.

Which is good. Judgement is so overrated, anyway. And as the good book says, "Judge not, lest ye be judged." What makes it a good book, anyway? Seems like an awful lot of judgement, gnashing of teeth and vengeance. With a hefty deal of genocide thrown in, for good measure. Maybe God is bipolar. And he doesn't take his meds. Which then, perhaps, means that Scientology is right after all.

When is objectification obliteration?

At what point does the iconozation of a thing render it no longer the thing that it was? Take celebrities, for instance. They are expected to act a certain way, dress a certain way, talk a certain way, socialize with the right people. Doesn't this, in essence, render them unable to actually be who/what they are/were? I mean, if they actually succumb to it (rare cases do not, but again, rare).

Or the body. When do body parts cease to be a product of their function, and more a projection of some sort of ideal? Do all the Chelsea boys REALLY need to be that cut? I mean, there's healthy and then there's pretty. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I object or feel strongly one way or the other. It's the question that bothers me. It's the why, not the what. It's the who, not the where.

But when?

Is that a peeve up your sleeve?

I have a new pet peeve to add to my list of things I just don't understand:

People who open a closed door, walk through and then just leave it hanging open.

Okay, idiot, there was probably a reason that door was closed in the first place, and chances are good that it didn't change because you walked in. So do me a favor, douchebag and finish what you started - shut the damn door behind you. I'd like to keep the air-conditioning that's barely working INSIDE the office. Not to mention the noise level down. Or perhaps I'm viewing porn and I just want some privacy. Maybe I just want to be left alone. Or perhaps now that the door is firmly closed you will feel trapped and get out. OH, GOD PLEASE GET OUT!!! Your poorly engineered brain cells are using more than their fair share of the oxygen in the room.

And I'm not even pissy today.

Also, people who don't care about proper capitalization, or worse, who are inconsistent.

If, on any given document I find the following, I want to rip my own eyeballs out of my head and use them for mini-dacshund chew toys:

Ship to:
1234 Belvedere Road
Phoenix, AZ

Bill to:
1234 Belvedere road
phoenix, AZ

If you were able to capitalize it correctly once, why are you either too a)unaware, b)lazy, c)just plain, unadulterated STUPID to do it again. Do you not have eyes in your head?!?! Well, now I no longer do. They're rolling around in the mouth of a mini-dacshund. And yes, her name is Mocha. She was a showgirl.

Note to Self

Self,

Eat the carbs BEFORE the drinking. And I'm not talking about the apple juice. Oh, I mean juice...as in Guinness...as in mother's milk.

Sincerely,

Your stomach

PS - Jalapenos substituted for hot sauce on your breakfast sandwich will probably not turn out to be your swiftest decision this morning.

All this pithy thinking...

There's been much ruminating going on in my head the past couple days. Whether this is a result of a serious post-quitting-smoking bout with PMS or, just a nico-withdrawal symptom, some pretty heady subjects have been popping into my head. Of course, without the requisite answers.

Honesty. What is it really? How can there be complete honesty in a world of compromise, self-esteem, care/concern for the well-being of others. And I don't mean black lies, white lies...I mean just slight omissions - telling your friend their show was good...the haircolor works...no, you're fine just the way you are. Well, of course you're not. We all are capable of improvement, of being better, fitter, smarter, more capable, happier, more reliable, more trustworthy, more...honest? Is honesty as a concept really possible in a society? And even if it is, is it really acceptable?

Now, I'm not here to advocate lying, not by any stretch. I just question the value of absolute definitions and values. When they can't be achieved, what's the point in placing so much weight on them? Of course, I'm going to fuck it up. Of course, I'm going to say the wrong thing...try to protect you...make you feel better...try to protect me...make me feel better. But who gets to draw the line? Who gets to ever feel like they know the whole truth?

Who gets to feel like they can trust?

Who gets to feel like they can trust you?

Babies...the other white meat

Why, oh why, do we love babies? Why are they so cute? Why do they make us use some sort of transmogrified voice we didn't even know we possessed?

I'll tell you why. Babies are stupid. They are dumb, innocent, ignorant beings. They can entertain themselves for hours by flapping an arm up and down, hand slapping leg, while we spend $10 to go see a movie we can barely stay conscious through. Not only do they not have to make any dining decisions, they get their food fed to them, can make any mess they want and not be responsible for the clean-up. They don't have to say the right thing, because they don't know how to talk. Just think of how many relationship gaffes one could have avoided with that skill! They don't even have to worry about leaving the seat up or down...they can just piss/shit whenever and wherever they like AND SOMEONE ELSE WILL WIPE THEIR ASSES FOR THEM!

I am having some infantile issues with infants. Don't get me wrong, I love babies. They are yummy. But I also envy the babies. You hear that, you little arrogant, expectant, needy little fools??? I'm onto your game. You can't fool me...no...no...really...no don't drool like that...aw, is that a smile? Was that a little smile just for Auntie Brenda. Oh, aren't you the most perfect...

Aaaaaaagh! They're insidious!!!

Even in spendour, this curious fate
Is more than I care to surrender, now it's too late...

I perform this week. I'm sick to ask anyone to come. Performing my own stuff is like stripping all of my clothes off and strutting in front of a crowd of strangers and then sitting on a stool spread eagle and saying "fuck me". Except worse.

But the worse part is expecting anyone to care/get it/give a shit.

It's not as if I have anything to say anyway.

Nothing that hasn't already been said.

It's a good thing I don't own firearms.

FUCK ALL OF YOU!!!!

(whoever you is)

FUCK!

I'm never going to have anything nice.

I know this, however:

There is nothing worse, when one knows this, than sitting in a cab, betwixt two people for whom this is not true, who immediately start speaking of the brownstones, etc. they could buy.

And they're not trying to impress you.

They're close friends. They're just in another world than you are.

One that you'll never be in.

Ever.

I want to vanish. This is my last request. I've given you the awful truth, now give me my rest.

Sometimes at Night

Great lyrics (and music, although you can't get that here) by my friend Jake Perrine...

Sometimes at night
Sometimes we stray
And travel down a path we never would by day
Caution and fear
They fall away
Our secret selves come out to play

Sometimes at night
Our fears take hold
And our untold desires conspire to make us bold
Dark deals are made
And souls are sold
Demons we take into our fold

One moment - it feels like love
And then the moment's gone and love is not enough
Sometimes we love and then betray
The very thing we came to save
Sometimes at night
Sometimes at night
Sometimes at night

Sometimes at night
Sometimes we dare
Sometimes we fool ourselves that it's not really there
All of the loss
And the despair
The weight dissolves into thin air

When is fear worse than wrong...

I back down from so much...so many things I'd like to say, so many risks I'd like to take, but I'll play it safe. How long? when do I realize that there might only be one chance?

What a Difference Okay Makes, or How I Learned to Love the Calm

There are some things I just don't understand. A woman I shared a taxi with today decried a passing bicylists helmet being attached to his bag, and not on his head. I was more concerned with the fact that he was riding by...with freaking headphones in his ears. I just don't understand that - your hearing is one of the most valuable tools when the only thing between your skin and the pavement is the questionable driving skills of the surrounding commuters. Yeesh.

Then there are the following people: the woman who walks out of the store and stops dead in her tracks in front of you; the man who stops dead in front of you to take a cell call; people who weave back and forth, with no discernible pattern while you're trying to get past them; people who walk more than three abreast down the sidewalk; and finally, people who push the baby carriage off the curb, into the street, while they stand on the curb waiting for the light to change. I really hope these people don't drive cars. And if they do, I hope I'm never riding a bicycle around them. And I most CERTAINLY will not have headphones on.

Morons.

I guess I'm push drunk

One of my pet peeves (and even that...PET peeves...do I have to walk them...feed them...empty their collective litter box...get them spayed/neutered/cauterized?) is a pull handle on a push door. Why, oh why, dear God answer me why? I pull and pull, thinking it's just stuck (or locked, I also consistently choose the wrong side of a set of double doors) until it finally dawns on me...duh! This must be a push door. Now, I ask, why am I the one to be made to feel stupid about this. The stupid one is the jerk who put a pull handle on a push door. Jackass.

The reason this peeve occurs to me is that I did a fair bit of pushing this evening. Only, I think I was at a pull door. I just can't seem to get it right.

When the illusions have taken a vacation
And you are left standing naked in the rain
Don't stop to ask some God for an explanation
It's plain to see that you've been duped
It's right before your eyes
By now you realize it's far from over

Another day, one more pointless destination
And you repeat all you'd done the day before
You try to cope with some rationalization
There's more, you see that you've been duped
It's right beneath your nose
No reason to suppose it's far from

Over, under, up again
The road repeats without a bend
The tunnel dark and has no end
You walk alone without a friend
The tyranny of day to day
The wage to earn, the bills to pay
The violence that simmers past your eyelids you must push it down again
Your fair weather friend

Awake to see that you've been duped
It's right up in your face
What time cannot erase: it's far from over

Good & Plenty

So I have now gone from a total paucity of work to being booked through the rest of this week and the next. Yay for me. Although it's not the most exciting thing...just PA work. But it means mama can pay the bills. Yay for me.

I am quite hungover from Pool League last night. We were at Antarctica...that's right, home of the pint-glass mixed drinks. Three 7&7s and I was buh-litzed. I do think they also add crack to the drinks. I mean, seriously, that bar is not for the faint of heart (or more precisely, liver). But still no smoking. Yay for me. Boo for my hangover. Boo Boo Boo. Actually, I'm better than I was this morning. At that time I felt as though I was drifting listlessly through a bank of ooze. Ooze, I say. Which, coincidentally is the end of booze. Or, maybe not so coincidentally. Any etymologists out there?

I know SOMEONE is waiting for me to post already and has probably been checking since early this afternoon...so, here you are, dear. :)

The Butterfly Effect

If we just band together, this sunflower will be ours...
Now flap!!! Flap, I say!!!


Photo by Jim Reed

Mothers teach daughters to use the sponge

Click post title...

And all is right with the world again.

Honor among Thieves...or What Kind of Fool am I?

So my first smoke-free day has been somewhat aggravating. Well, first of all, there's the nagging urge to sit down and have a smoky treat every five minutes. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Then there's the irritation caused by the fact that I know I don't want to smoke, but want to. And finally, I'm just ornery to begin with, so basically none of this is helping (and I can't tell if the patch is or not, but man does it ITCH for the first hour - aaaargh).

I question why I go above and beyond to help people with their projects, only to find myself left behind. Is it because I'm a talentless (but apparently useful) buffoon? Am I not good enough, smart enough, creative enough, slutty enough, enough enough? I find all of the compliments and reassurances ring hollow when faced with being creatively dumped time and time again.

The most recent disappointment concerns a musical written by a college friend I've known for about 12 years now. I've done numerous recordings, rehearsals, musings and discussions with this friend, only to find out there's a new reading of it going up...without me. It's sort of like finding out your ex has taken his new trick to your favorite restaurant...not terrible, but sort of shitty. I mean, I've been such a supporter of this project for years now, and I don't even at the least get an invite to see it being read. I just don't know when I became so pathetic in the world's eyes. I don't know when I became so easy to forget.

Eureka is not just a vacuum cleaner!

Breakthrough!!! I have taken two malformed songs and combined them into one kick-ass song! Well, there are still some bridge lyric issues to be dealt with, but BLAMMO!!! This is not my first time cannibalizing from my own partly finished works, however it is the first time I have taken two completely finished songs, chucked the parts that I didn't like and combined them. Eu-frickin-reka, man!!!

I am stoked. Although, i still feel like hell roasted over an even hotter fire then flattened into a thin sheen of ghee over the pate of a bald man after yesterday. I'm not sure of the last time, if even ever, I was up for 36 hours. Maybe a freshman year all-nighter in college, but I'm not even sure of that. Seriously, there must have been a steamroller involved (oh, wait...there WAS a steamroller on set...hmmmmm...did I black out or something?).

In other news, I had recently been part of a discussion of what a sad state Billy Dee Williams' (Empire Strikes Back's Lando Calrissian, for those not in the know) career must be in. Apparently not so!!! An item in EW reports:

Billy Dee Williams, 68 has pulled out of the Broadway-bound musical The Mambo Kings due to an aggravated hip injury.

Okay. Three things. Billy. 68. Mambo. Should we set him up with Rita Moreno?

(think West Side Story...)

"A boy like that, could kill Han Solo,
And now he wants to try the Mambo.
Think hip replacement,
Career in basement!

"A hip that kills cannot dance.
A hip that kills costs you the part,
And now you're done, you silly geriatric fart!
Not so smart, dear Billy, not so smart!

"You should know better.
You were Lando, you ruled Bespin.
You should know better..."

(Billy's reply...)

"I had the clouds, and that's all that I had,
Right or wrong, what else could I do?
I froze him, that's right.
My friend who stayed the night, that is true.

"I had the clouds, but much more did I need,
Right or wrong, that Leia's too cute.
I sold him, for shame
A bad guy I became
My career hit the skids

Then Mambo, Mambo came calling
At 68, should I know that
Now it's too late!"

Okay, that was crazy.

Twenty Twenty Twenty Four Hours to Go-oh-oh...

How in the world did I end up working today? It's only 10 AM and I think I'm going to collapse. Now, before you think, "What a loser wimp," realize that I've actually been awake since noon yesterday. That's right, we have now just entered hour 22 of wakefulness. While this in itself is not extraordinary, I must also point out that there is little likelihood of my arriving home before 9 PM this evening. At that point I will be in hour 33. Ah, you say, therein lies the rub.

So back to the question of how I ended up working today (and by inference, why I didn't get any sleep). So, after putzing around on my computer like the geek I am, I retire to bed after 3 AM. At 3:19 I receive a phone call from my friend and industry colleague, Laurie. I answered the phone, because there is no earthly reason she would call me at such a ridiculous time unless there was a very good cause - an emergency. Turns out little Miss Laurie had become quite sick with bouts of retching and other activities not for the faint of heart. Needless to say, she needed someone to cover for her. I needed the money more than the sleep, and frankly I figured that if she was in such dire straits as to call me in the middle of the night, me sleepless was probably going to be better than her upchucking it up in the production winnebago. So off to the shower I went.

Now I am sitting here, in the mo-ho, so so so tired. And the day's not even a third of the way over. There's not so much for me to do right now, and I wish I could just take a nap. Just a little one. Or...maybe I already am?

Criminy! That sounds like the theme to "Halloween"!!!

You know it's time to turn the keyboard off when the new song that you've just started to allow to percolate up from the deep, deep well of your soul makes you think of Jamie Lee Curtis. There's something there, I know it...but, not like that. Yeesh.

Okay, I just heard a flock of geese honking by my window. It's 1 in the morning. And, no, I haven't been drinking. What the hell are geese doing out at this hour? Do their parents know where they are? And why did they sound unnervingly similar to the song I was just writing? I'm scared.

Some people are waiting for their lives to begin.
Some people are waiting for their dreams to suddenly come true.
Some people are waiting for Prince Charming or Cinderella.
I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop.