Welcome Back, Brendar

For some reason I have the theme song to Welcome Back Kotter in my head right now.

Welcome back,
Your dreams were your ticket out.
Welcome back,
To that same old place that you laughed about.

Well, the names have all changed since you hung around,
But those dreams have remained and they've turned around.

Who'dve thought they'd lead ya? (Who'dve thought they'd lead ya?)
Back here where we need ya? (Back here where we need ya?)

Yeah, we tease him a lot,
Cuz we've got him on the spot.
Welcome back.

Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back.
Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back.

And I am glad to be back. But something has got to give, because I'm also "back" to my lovely habit of getting ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ACCOMPLISHED. There is no one more skilled than I at completely pissing away the day while seemingly getting something done. Nope, it's an illusion, I am not a mover nor a shaker. SOMEONE GIVE ME STRUCTURE!!!

Seriously, the only thing that I managed to do today was go to rehearsal.

And it went well. And I'm excited. But seriously, I get back to the apartment and on the computer and suddenly it's 8:15 PM and it's no longer daylight out and I haven't even cracked my script open again. Although I did look through all my Garbo books. I guess that's something.

I spend an irrational amount of time on my computer. I have 15 days worth of music in my iTunes. I've calculated how I'm going to lay out my new room in Photoshop. I have more freakin' widgets than the population of Lichtenstein. I think it's my boob tube. I've taken to reading random blogs. I've taken to following links from those blogs to other blogs. My eyes are glazed over and I find it hard to focus when looking any distance farther than two feet.

Do they make a medication for this? Sort of like Ritalin for the irrationally absorbed?

I'm back, so what: Ptown Tour - Day 5

Well, we picked a good day to leave. The weather just turned, and while not bad, it's quite damp/humid and just a little rainy. Therefore, every part of my body feels like it aches. :(

Yes, I just used an emoticon. I did mention aching, didn't I? Now, be good, and don't tease me about it.

Went to my new favorite food place this morning, the Beach Grill (which is not on the beach, so makes it's own).

This is where I have internet and phone signals. Yay. Although, people up here are weird when they see me using my computer...

Cook at Beach Grill: Are ya in one of those chat rooms?

Ranger at the Harbor: Well that there computer should show you where to go. (Noting that I had no internet access was wasted on the old-timer)

Drunk gay boys at night, after knocking on the car window: Are you looking for where to go? Just go to Provincetown.com.

Thanks, boys. Seriously, just checking my email. And working on my undercover CIA skills. Obviously more work needed in that area.

Everybody's very inquisitive, and for some reason, nobody seems to feel the need to say, "Excuse me," before beginning to talk to you. Weird.

So, anyway, I had some lovely poached eggs and toast, blogged to my heart's delight and generally hung out while John had lunch elsewhere with some people. He came back to get me, and off into the wild blue yonder we went. And then, nostalgia setting in, we decided we had to visit the Village Cafe in North Truro one last time.

Well, apparently John was still hungry. And I was happy to partake of more coffee (this time, I judiciously blended the Vanilla Creme and Hazelnut since there was no Raspberry Chocolate goodness to be had). So we once again sat out on the terrace, where John tried to convince a sparrow to take part of the bits of brownie he had tossed on the ground. Apparently, the sparrow could not grasp the concept of John pointing at the contributed food bits. Either that or he was on the South Beach Diet.

Having partaken of the kindness of the Trurorians, it was back to the road once more for the dynamic duo. And what surprises lie in store???

I found out that I like licorice.


Wearing flip-flops can be hazardous to your health.


Roadtrips can be boring if you're not the driver.

Yes, that is the ceiling of the car. Yes, that is my hand. Yes, I was bored.

We're now in New York State, almost home.

Thank God. The Chronicles of Narcissusnia have come to an end, for now.

Travelling down the West Side Highway.
John: What happens in Provincetown, stays in Provincetown.
Brenda: Except for the fact that I've plastered it all over the Internet.
John: Pretty sneaky, sis!!!!

What is the sound of no hands clapping: Ptown Tour - Day 4

Day 4 bloomed bright, sunny and cranky. Coffee was a must have.

Went to my favorite coffee place, Java Dreams, where they sell a beautiful flavored coffee, Swiss Mocha Cinnamon Swirl.

They are out of SMCS!

Decide, okay, I can just do the Hazelnut.

Halfway through filling my cup, THE HAZELNUT RUNS OUT!!!

Did I mention "cranky" before? Yeah, not so good, Java Dreams, not so good.

And we get a Carrot Muffin to share...but they have NO plasticware. I mean, you've got to be kidding me - an establishment sells food and doesn't provide the means by which you can eat it? Aaaaargh. Never again, Java Dreams, you're on the list.

So we proceed to walk around Commerical Street, trying to find somewhere we can sit that is not going to aggravate my ever-reddening sunburn. And get crankier. Well, at least I do.

Then, to top it all off, innocently walking down the street, I step on an uneven piece of pavement and down I go. In the words of a passerby, in slow motion. Amazingly, I don't break anything, but I end up with a sizeable lump on my shin (it actually freaks John out with it's tumor-like size), and there goes any hope that the new color in my legs would make them look nice in shorts and skirts. What I find particularly galling is that I only fall down sober. Never when drinking. I can be weaving all over the place (although that is rare) and manage to stay upright, but give me coffee and comfortable shoes and I'm a goner. Some things I just don't get.


The rest of the afternoon devolves from there. John and I manage to aggravate each other to the point of having words. Not really worth detailing, and I'm not sure who was more wrong or right, and I'm not sure it matters. Or perhaps that's my innate inability to deal with conflict. Or maybe there's a dictatorship involved?

Anyway...

Meet up again for our performance. Get set up. Warm up. Sound check.

Call the show. One person showed up. Ugh. What is the world coming to when you NEED to be performing in drag in order to get an audience. Oh, well, take me back to Manhattan. I'll put up with an open mike night better than this.

John and I are invited to a house party by Steven (Hedda Lettuce). I am dubious, but John convinces me to come in at least for a little while.

Had an awesome time. It was just a small group of exceptionally hilarious people sitting around a table, on a deck overlooking the harbor, drinking. Carl with his bottle of gin, Rich with his PSB shirt, Tony with his camera, George with his pot (not the smoking kind), Steven dressed as the Unabomber...fun was had by all. Exactly the kind of relaxation we needed after being denied by our public.


I miss my home. I'll be there soon.

What is the sound of one hand clapping: Ptown Tour - Day 3

Day 3 dawned bright and sunny.

After a hearty breakfast at Caroline's Tip for Tops'n (I will take contributions as to what you think that means, but let me tell you, you won't get it right) John and I proceeded to find the nearest beach. Seemingly two hours or traipsing through the desert with Jesus minus his disciples...

and we finally found ourselves at the beach. The sun was hot, the water was freezing, the clothing was optional (though we kept all of ours on). The sunburn was obtained. We grudgingly made the return trip across the sands of time, following the stars of Bill Whites I's...

Took some swimsuit pictures for Gabe, posterity and amusement (in that order)...


After our little photoshoot, John and I realized we barely had time to doll up for the Tea Dance and promote the show.

We didn't manage to find Mr. Creased Jeans (much to my, John's and seemingly everyone's disappointment), but the Hat Sisters were there in all of their finery.

Note that John was sporting his fabulous Bea Arthur Collection caftan, while everyone else was attired in cargo shorts. Apparently, we both missed the Tea Dance Attire Memo. Caftan Day was Wednesday.

We ran into Bradford Noble, the photographer, who introduced us to Barney Frank, the congressman. Aside from meeting Hedda Lettuce, that was my brush with fame for the tour. Bradford managed to drag several friends to our performance that night, as did John's friend Laura, so we actually had an audience, which was fun and different. I did More Than This, Let Me and Recollections (I was going to open with Just A Day Like Any Other, but at the last moment it made me nervous, so I switched up to one that I felt was more solidly in my fingers). They seemed well-received, but afterward I was just told I was "beautiful", which, I guess is the important thing, right.

Sarcasm drips, oozes, no gushes...

Existential rant for a moment: Okay, okay, I'll admit, OF COURSE I want to be thought of as pretty, beautiful, hot, good-looking, whatever. OF COURSE. But after doing the emotional equivalent of spreading my legs, devoid of clothing, in front of complete strangers, it's sort of not the response I'm looking for. Rant over.

Some drinks in the scary Ptown Inn later, we found ourselves exhausted and in bed. Yay.

When bad things happen to good people: Ptown Tour - Day 2

John and I begin the morning bright and early searching for our favorite café in Truro. Yes, please join me in trying to say that out loud. Truro. There's a squirrel in Truro. Boy, imagine Homestar Runner trying to say it:

Gwacie, thewe's a squiwwel in Twuwo.
Pause.
I have a pwoblem with my awe's.

Anyway, once again we set out without a map, trying to go by our "Braille" memory from last year. Once again, not such a good idea. An hour and a half later, we finally find it: The Village Cafe.


Here John & I work on the script for the show, enjoy flavored coffees (the Chocolate Raspberry just HITTING the spot for me) and devour flavorful egg sandwiches with linguica, a delicious portuguese sausage treat. The patio is just as awesome as we remember it, although I do recall that last year I attributed a lot of its awesome factor to the fact that I could smoke on it. Nevertheless, still a must-see destination this far out on the Cape.

By the time we get back to the room (after stopping to print out the new script) it's time to gather the materials and head over for our Load-In/Dress Rehearsal. But as we're checking through our stuff, disaster strikes. It seems that, though John has managed to load a book full of Madonna, Pet Shop Boys and Cher CDs, he has neglected to include the CDs that we use for the show. This wouldn't be so much of a problem if John didn't use tracks for FIVE of his songs (I play the other four). So, after much searching I finally convince John that the CDs are not in this corner of the Earth and that maybe the hotel has some blank ones. Why blank, you say? Because this is why I get paid the big bucks.

When John originally brought over the tracks CD, I did what any natural Mac geek would do: import it into iTunes. And when I was packing my stuff for the trip, I did what any natural tech geek would do: I took my damn laptop with me. And when I was packing my cables, I did what any natural cable hoarding geek would do: took extra ones and my converters for mini to 1/4 plugs and vice versa. But the unanswered question remained: would the iBook plug into my Roland amp? Hence the blank CDs back-up route. ALWAYS have a plan B - even if it's your last minute emergency plan.

Suffice it to say, because I am such a geek, we were able to do the show. Except we didn't do the show.

Because two people showed up.

And I had bothered to draw on my face with liquid liner.


I mean, what's the use?


So, you think that's the end of this post, do ya??? Well, you're dead wrong. There's a whole lot of adventure waiting in the night to follow.

In case you were keeping track, I've only mentioned John & I eating once so far. That's because we had only eaten once Day 2. We didn't have time before rehearsal, and we neglected to between rehearsal and our would-have-been performance (Friday's performance was scheduled for 7 PM). So, once we called it, we realized we were famished.

Now for those who have never been to Provincetown, I invite you to speculate on the odds of finding a nice place to eat (because we were depressed about our poor audience showing) on a Friday night at the end of August. Picture a street full of Balthazar's, Pastis' and an obnoxious club like APT thrown in for good measure. We couldn't get served anywhere. Anywhere that didn't deep-fry everything, that is (did I mention that we had macaroni balls on Thursday? What are they, you say? Breaded, deep-fried clumps of macaroni and cheese. Yup, you had to ask, didn't you.). In hindsight, we attributed this to several factors:

1) The maitre'd outside of Virelli's (and I mean, c'mon, a name like that in Ptown?) informed us that we had a "bumpy night ahead" as we careered past his "begging people to come in his restaurant" ass.

2) We passed the eVilinist (the seizure-inducing violinist from yesterday) who was mercilessly see-sawing like a drunken skateboarder across the pitiable strings of her instrument.

3) Just plain RUDENESS. At Bistro, John and I saw THREE empty tables. As John was inquiring about them, the following scene began:

A cool, breezy night in Provincetown. The wind gently caresses our heroes, as they saunter down the street in search of nourishment. They see empty tables at a nice restaurant. Surely, it beckons to them.

John: Hi, we'd like a table for two...we see these ones out here but if you have some in your garden, that'd be great, too.

Maitre'd: Oh, unfortunately there is a list for...

Rude motherfucking queen who thinks the sun rises, sets, nay, lives on him: Hi, I have a reservation...

John: I'm sorry, I thought he was helping ME...

Blatant lack of eye contact from anyone.

Maitre'd (to the RMQ): What is your name?

John (on exit): You have THE worst service I have ever seen...

Needless to say, we were steamed for a good 45 minutes after that. Finally, after practically traversing the length of Commercial Street, we found Enzo. Enzo's lovely hostess (who really looked more like the Earth Mother) told us it may be about 15 minutes. As I could see steam building up in John's ears, I realized that the man needed to be ushered away from the Maitre'd and into the bar, where he could buy me a drink before I killed him. 15 minutes, I can do. So, with a Manhattan in hand (can you tell I was feeling homesick), we finally began to relax.

I was two sips in when our table was ready. A really lovely two-top, on a balcony overlooking the patio, overlooking the street. Our waiter was affable, attentive and cute (although we couldn't figure out which one of us he was trying to flirt with...which is probably the best policy when confronted with a mixed couple in Ptown). We had antipasto. I had swordfish (with a purple basil pesto and pureed celery root and I'm only so specific because it was so fucking good). John had the seafood stew (because if you're on the Cape, you're not going to fucking order the duck (although, it did look good)). Ellie, the 73-years-young songstress with a cart serenaded us from the street. I had tawny port. John had espresso. We finally exhaled.

Thank God for Enzo.

When in Rome...

7:30 AM. John & I are on the road, beginning what is now our annual Provincetown tour.


We mistakenly begin this trip without a preemptive caffeinated beverage strike. This will derail the first 20 minutes of the trip as we traverse the same stretch of the Harlem River Drive 3 times due to my jumping the gun at 179th Street instead of intelligently waiting for 181st Street to turn onto the Washington Bridge (not the GW Bridge, mind you, just in case you were getting confused) to get to the Cross Bronx.

As of this moment, this portion of the trip will never be spoken of again.

8:50 AM. We FINALLY get freaking coffee. We've been waiting for one of the rest stop signs to contain anything other than a McDonalds (ideally Dunkin' Donuts), but to no avail. There is a separate coffee stand from which to obtain said caffeine, but also (ugh) partake of their breakfast burrito, seeing as we had no other choice but the ooey-gooey carbolicious treats offered by the adjunct coffee stand. I determine that there is no actual cheese in said burrito, but the same cheese sauce concoction used in boxed macaroni & cheese. Interesting.

9:10 AM. THE NEXT EXIT HAS A DUNKIN' DONUTS!!!!

9:55 AM. Caffeine firmly in blood stream. Time to continue the commemorative photolog:


11:30 AM. Gas stop, tire check and snack break. Get our gas at Ray's Mobil Service Station. Ray is scary. In that Fatty-Big-Eye kind of way (upper body WAY out of proportion with lower). Get snackies at Wendy's (because John needs coffee).

11:50 AM. THE NEXT EXIT HAS A DUN-FREAKIN DONUTS!!!!!

1:00 PM. Attempt to stop for lunch after much deliberation and crankiness from both parties involved (never put two queens in a car together - last year it worked, because I was so sick I lost my voice). Walk into said place, realize that we're not going to pay $17 for a meal we have to order at a counter (even if they "bring it all out to you"). Screw that. Get back into car and make beeline for Ptown.

2:00 PM. Ensconced at Patio in Ptown. John makes me order a cocktail. Apparently he needs me to drink. So he can deal with me. Seriously, it's like we're an old married couple. Yeesh. Wait forever to order our food. Then...

A violinist begins to play next to the Patio. A tonally-challenged violinist. Think bagpipes without a steady airstream. Think donkeys honking. Think fingernails on the blackboard. I seriously thought of several ways in which I could dismember the violin, using various dismembered body parts from the violinist.

However, the piece de la resistance occurred as in horror we watched a woman have a seizure and collapse near said violinist. After several people rushed to her aid, and an ambulance arrived, I commented to John, "Not to be insensitive, but at least that damned violinist stopped playing."

Indeed she had. The collapsing woman perhaps made better entertainment? Maybe the guilt of knowing her tonally challenged intervals had caused the woman's seizure made her unable to go on? We'll never know. All I can say is: Nice going, Stradivarius.


4:15 PM. After retiring for a bit of a disco nap to our lovely motel we began preparations for the ritualistic descent upon that Ptown daily tradition: The Tea Dance.

For those not in the know (and I'd be surprised if a number of readers of this blog were in the know) the Tea Dance is a daily event that condones, nay even encourages, boozing, cruising and even hooking up, beginning at 4 PM. It only goes to 7 PM, so you only have two hours to cruise, shmooze and flooze yourself into plans for the rest of the night (with that night's special someone - may I remind you that there's a reason the Tea Dance is a daily ritual).


5:20 PM. We enter the Tea Dance after being carded by the bouncer. Those gay men always know how to make a clearly legally aged woman feel good (I mean, it's daylight for Christ's sake). After sauntering back and forth a few times, checking to see what our best vantage point might be, we settle for somewhere around the middle and order cocktails (no pun). Not even halfway through our drinks, my eyes are drawn to a seemingly impossible sight.

There is a man, in pressed jeans (as in creases down the front and back, as though they were slacks), with the most ENORMOUS package I've ever seen, let alone imagined possible. I mean, he looked like he had ripped the lower arm off a 14-year-old boy, curled the hand into a fist, and stuffed it sideways in his pants. I kid you not.

I pointed him out to John and soon I noticed that the whole group of people behind and around us had noticed and were commenting on Mr. McCreased Jeans. If you've never been with a large group of gay males, you don't know what a feat this is. It's one thing to know that in any given group of gays, the majority are going to be talking about someone else in plain view. It's another thing when they're ALL talking about the same someone. It was like watching a brush fire in California. I seriously wanted to take a picture to post, but I wasn't sure if I could get away with it. If we see him again, I will definitely muster up the nerve. INSANE.

9:30 PM. I've settled in with a bottle of wine and the TV (Iron Chef Rules!!!), because I am worn the fuck out. John goes out and lives la vida Ptown and comes home at 2:30 AM. All is right in the world.

The Reflex

Well, I had my first case of blog-spam today. In case you didn't catch it before I took it down, someone out there thought it useful to use the comment space under the last post as a marketing tool for his pyramid scheme. So apologies to you Max, whose comment was also on that post - in an effort to thwart this loser's tactics, I had to hide all the comments on that particular post.

Now that that is out of the way, what the fuck?!?! I mean, this could signal the end of blogging as we know it. It's bad enough that 60% of the time when you hit the "Next Blog" button it sends you to a blog that is nothing more than spam in it's pure unsent form. But now that courtesy-abiding space can be exploited by these yahoos? It's TOO much.

So, needless to say, methinks the days of comments may be fast approaching it's end. And what's the point of having a blog if no one is commenting on it. Much like the proverbial tree falling in the forest, will it make a sound?

Always a bridesmaid...

So, not more than one month after I decided to quit the music theater world forever (observe the title, no more explanation needed), the phone call comes. Would I reprise my role as Young Garbo for the 100th anniversary of Greta Garbo's birthday? Well, duh, of course I would. Would you like fries with that, too?

Such a wanton slut for attention and praise am I. I mean, really.

So the bad news is that I made a decision and didn't even come close to sticking to it. The good news is that I get to perform in a theater piece again. The bad news is that one castmate has verbal colitis. Seriously. The good news is that I get paid.

That's right, folks. Off-off-broadway AND I'm getting paid for it. Once in a blue moon, people, once in a blue.

Here's a picture from the production we did (ready, I'm about to take the plunge and date myself) 7 (that's right S-E-V-E-N) years ago (my castmate in the picture is Denise Girona-Hernandez as Mercedes de Acosta, who, due to the pared down nature of this newer version, will not be taking part):



And here's part of a song (also recorded, ugh, seven years ago) from Chez Garbo, with Gregory Purnhagen as Joe (star of cabaret and Philip Glass recordings, who will also be doing this reprise) and Jason Fleck as Mauritz Stiller:

In The Quiet Hours

I will say it is a little strange to rememorize something you memorized that long ago...what parts stay with you and which ones don't. Obviously, the music is the easiest.

And, finally, all this may mean that I am finally going blonde for real. Again. Stay tuned.

Choose your own Joke Of The Day

Sort of like a choose your own adventure: I'll supply the beginning, you supply the punchline.

I know this is going to fall flatter than an open can of Diet Dr. Pepper in the fridge, but, what the heck...

I would be remiss without thanking Chan Booth for the initial premise of this possible joke. C'mon...live a little...

So, a guy walks into a bar and sees a monkey drinking a beer. He plops himself down next to the monkey, orders a whiskey and says, "Hey, you got a cigarette?"
"Man, monkeys don't smoke. What planet are you from?"
"But...but...you're drinking a beer," the man stammers.
The monkey replies:

Shuffling Off This Mortal Joystick

SEOUL, South Korea (Reuters) -- A South Korean man who played computer games for 50 hours almost non-stop died of heart failure minutes after finishing his mammoth session in an Internet cafe, authorities said on Tuesday.
-full article on CNN

Well, that was bound to happen sooner or later, wasn't it? I mean, gaming obsession as homewrecker is well documented. I myself had TWO nemeses conspire to destroy my marriage - the hussies XBox and PS2. Worse than any two-cent whore or Carmen Electra. So the fact that online gaming has claimed its first corporeal death is no surprise. What is surprising to me is the seeming nonchalance of this cybercafe to the fact that the man had a makeshift bed. What?

Houston, we have a problem.

With religion like this...

who can resist?




Courtesy of our friends at Church Sign Generator

Just a little fun to brighten your day. And mine. Yay for me.

Blogging - Underground Style

Yep, that's right, I've joined the Underground. And by Underground I mean the NYC Subway System, by which I mean the free system of taxpayer supported saunas, specifically the Grand Street Station. Waiting for a B or D to begin my journey to Upstate NY, I mean, Washington Heights.

So, first observation (besides feeling the trickle of sweat wend it's way down my back) has to do with my soon-to-be fellow passengers, but currently, my fellow waiting-for-trainers. A couple came down the stairs, the man complaining about how he was going to be angry if they "were going the wrong fucking way", Grand Street being a station which allows you to choose Uptown/Downtown after going through the turnstiles. Overhearing them, I looked up expectantly, perfectly prepared to help ensure that they were on the side they intended to be on. However, they proceeded to walk right past me, ignoring my smiling helpful face, and mumble their way on down to the end of the bench upon which I sit. Then they asked an Asian woman (Grand Street stop being in Chinatown) if the train on this side went to Penn Station. Now, I am not saying that they had no reason to choose whomever they would like to help them answer their question, however, a reasonable person would assume that the white girl with the laptop more than likely spoke English, while the same could not be quite as presumed of the Asian woman. However, after bringing up "34th Street" both parties were able to concur that the couple was indeed on the correct side. Weird.

Okay, actually on the D now. Can take this all the way to Columbus Circle and then transfer. Sweet, writing time.

Noticing that the personalities of my new neighborhood are quite different than I've experienced before. Especially the store/restaurant workers. There is this quality...the only way I can think to describe it is that they are "close-talkers" though they are 8 feet away. There's just the quick, brusque in-your-face quality without being in-your-face because that would take too much time and would you just answer the question already? Vanilla or chocolate, it's not a fucking scientific research project. That's sort of the feel. But they're dichotomously really nice about it at the same time. Weird.

Wow, 34th Street. Hope that couple managed to get off the train.

Blogging on the train is fun. It does require you to be choosy about your seat, though. No one likes to write with the possibility of someone peering at the text on the screen as they type. That would be not so fun. Nope, not at all.

All my roommates disappeared this weekend - it was like someone launched a Brentron bomb (similar to H-bomb), and only I and all of our belongings survived. Seriously, I just left home at 8:45PM on a Sunday, and there was still no one there.

Uh-oh, there is now a person sitting next to me, and he's just decided to look curiously over. Ugh. Good thing I transfer at the next stop.

Ahhh...transfer is complete. Now for the long haul (although, fortunately I have left early enough that the train is still going express - Yay for me).

Why such a domestic and un-pithy post, you might ask? I spent the day trying to organize my new room. Again. Which frankly consists of just moving piles and containers of stuff from one side of the room to the other, or so it seems. And I think, in all of the "redding up" - as we Pittsburghers would call it - I must have been doing some mental cleaning, too. Or maybe I just didn't imbibe in enough outside influence to have anything to comment on.

Here's a question: Do you ever imagine how you are perceived by other people...through their eyes and life specifically, not as if you were you being able to look at yourself from the outside? And then compare and contrast to the latter? I've been doing that since about 4th grade (well, that's when I first recall doing it). I used to imagine I was Danny Lumpkin, who sat the next row over and 3 desks back from me. I'd imagine looking at the back of my head, and what my reaction (as Danny) might be. Then I tried to picture it if it was me. I was always fascinated by that notion - maybe it's an out-of-body-experience craving? Je ne sais pas.

Well, I think this was enough post for one long trip under the surface of New York City. And look, here's 125th Street! God, I LOVE the Express.

Just in case you thought rudeness was a modern marvel

This poem, written by the brilliant and sardonic Dorothy Parker, is meant, not quite as a response, but perhaps as a corollary to Gabe's post on this subject. Thank you to Raoul for copying it down for me (and for being at the Crow, reading fucking Dorothy Parker - I do know humans!!!).

The Lady in Back

I don't know what her name is, for you see we've never met;
I don't know if she's dark, or if she's fair;
I don't know if she's young or old, or rich or poor--and yet
Whatever place I chance to go, she's there,
I don't know where she came from, and I don't know where she'll go;
Why fate has linked our lives I cannot see,
The world's so full of people--oh, I'd really like to know
Why must she always sit in back of me?

She's always right on duty when I go to see a play-
Unfailingly, she's seen that play before,
And so she tells what's coming, in her entertaining way-
For me, the drama holds surprise no more.
'Now watch, the husband enters, as I told you that he would,
At first you'll think he'll shoot her, but he'll not.
And later she goes back to him, and says that she'll be good'-
Obligingly she thus unfolds the plot.

When I am at the opera, of course she's sure to come.
She there adopts another policy-
The more familiar arias she feels obliged to hum,
And always just a trifle off the key.
But when the singers reach those heights to which she can not climb-
Oh, then I plumb the very depths of gloom!
For, lest I be too happy, she will occupy that time
By long accounts of who's in love with whom.

I never can avoid her at the humble picture show,
Of course, the film is always one she's seen
Reliable as Mary's lamb, she's right behind, I know,
Revealing all the secrets of the screen.
When heroes tumble over cliffs, as movie heroes will,
And villains blow up bridges, just for fun,
I know that she takes pleasure in extinguishing my thrill
By telling just exactly how it's done.

I really couldn't tell you if she's widow, maid, or wife;
I've never heard about her family;
I don't know who appointed her to take the joy from life,
I can't imagine what she sees in me.
I often sit and think of it, and wonder why it's so,
Why, every place that I am, she is too,
The whole wide world to choose from- oh, I'd really like to know
Why can't she sometimes sit in back of you?

Alcohol + Overactive Imagination + Feelings of Abandonment = Nothing Good

Why do I always have to win?
Why can't I just let things go?
Why do I sweat not only the small stuff, but also the sweat itself?

And then, conversely (perversely, perhaps):
Why can't I be right for once?

You know, I think that I was meant to be a twin. It's just that my egg didn't split. This would explain much: the artistic vs. tech, the effective vs. irresponsible, the dual-personality disorder. You see, my mom is an identical twin. This is where one egg drops, is fertilized, but then for reasons unknown to science, halves itself. The other, more common form of twinning, fraternal, is when two eggs drop at the same time and are both fertilized. Hence why fraternal twins generally look different, or can be different genders. But, I digress... So, as the old housewives would have it, twins supposedly skip a generation - meaning that if I ever get around to procreating, my chances of having twins are higher than that of the general populace. However, my dichotomous nature causes me to doubt this theory and, instead, propose my own.

I should've been a twin. That way, there'd be twice as much of me to love.

Or hate.

Or give the silent treatment to.

NOBODY PUTS BABY IN THE CORNER!

It's not enough for me

What does one do when they find themselves going down a road that is eerily familiar? A road they seem to have trod many times, with less than spectacular results. Does one simply stop, turn the car around and head for the hills? Is there anyone to ask for directions, should one be looking for road signs or maps? Or does one blithely continue on down the road, perhaps trying to work out where the wrong turn occurred last time?

How many people will be hurt along the way? How many times? And why must I by necessity be one of them?

There are very few things quite as self-indulgent as blogging. You make all these pronouncements with earnest bravura, it all sounds so thoughtful and intellectual...when really, it is just an exercise in the truly selfish art of narcissism. Like anyone cares.

But you always think "someone" must be reading this. And, certainly, they are. But they're not thinking what you'd like to imagine they're thinking. More than likely, what they're thinking is:

"I wonder where the Next Blog button will take me this time."

Jane, get me off of this crazy thing.

Sometimes the Advertising Industry gets it just right...

Of course, it's not in this country. I have my new roommate to thank for this little slice of brilliance:

Big Ad

Johnny Come Lately...

Why do I end most post titles with an ellipsis? The world may never know.

So it's been a few days since my last posting, and not for lack of desire...but for lack of access. It seems that Time Warner is futzing with the cable system since Sunday evening, so currently, I'm sitting in the furthest corner of my roommate's room, hijacking a signal from the ether. Which begs the question, if we aren't getting a cable signal, how is someone else? Granted, they could be on RCN or some other network, but likely? I think I smell a rat.

Had an interview today for a part-time gig event coordinating and event programming sales for NYC Opera. Interview went well, although I'm not so sure I'm interested in working underneath the NY State Theater. I did my stint working in a basement at Falk (for over a year, and sometimes without A/C (and yes, those times would have been in August)) and the lack of contact with the upper regions of earthbound mortals can become a bit disheartening. Plus, and I wasn't aware of this facet of my current state, I think I've become a job commitmentaphobe. I think I've gotten too used to the freelancing world...which, mind you, is not secure in the least and there is much stress about where the next job is coming from. However, if you find that you don't like working for someone, it's much easier to hang in there and bear it, knowing that the project has a finite end, and after it is over you can choose not to work with them again. Unless you're really broke. And broken. It's all so confusing - I mean, on the one hand it would be steady and only 2.5 days a week, and flexible at that. But what if I really hate what I'm doing, or where I'm working or who I'm working with/for? So much whining for one small girl...

Think it's time to go sit in front of the keyboard...there's a new song in the works, folks.