My so-called blah

All I'm allowed to say...

2010-06-13T00:26:00.001-04:00

I don't have a lot of places to express myself. And clearly I've ignored this one way too long. I think I might change that, since it doesn't get a lot of attention, it's a little perfect as an outlet.

From the incandescent Daniel Merriweather, I highly recommend picking up his album:

i wasn't gonna drink tonight, then i went to a bar
i wasn't gonna start that fight but they pushed me way too far,
and oooh,ooh,ooh,oooooh, you would never know,
oooh,ooh,ooh,oooooh, you would never know

i wasn't gonna watch the game, now i'm shouting at the ball
i checked my phone and saw your name, so i must of missed your call
i wasn't gonna place that bet, but they said he'd take the fall
now my clothes smell like cigarettes, but i don't smoke at all,
oooooh, you would never know,
oooh,ooh,ooh,oooooh, you would never know

oooh, when i was out having fun, i was out of line
when i thought i was staying young i was staying out of my mind
life is like an old cassette, that you can't rewind
now my clothes smell like cigarettes and it happens all the time
oooh,ooh,ooh,oooooh, you would never know,
oooh,ooh,ooh,oooooh, you would never know

love and sex and tv sets, we never left my room
i used to speak of no regrets, maybe i spoke too soon
i thought that i did my best, now i know that isn't true
'cause my clothes smell like cigarettes, and they used to smell like you

uh, heyy etc etc
(used to smell like you)
heyy, used to smell like you heyy-yeah
(used to smell like you)
hey yyeah

what happened, what happened oh-ho-oh

i thought i did my best, now i know that isn't true
now my clothes smell like cigarettes, when they used to smell like you

Fire, Fire Everywhere, but Not Enough to Drink

2009-09-11T00:48:00.002-04:00

I found out that last night some new york citizen stole one of the bells from our local firehouse that are meant to warn people on the street that the fire truck is just about to tear out of there. It apparently made too much noise for him. I'm awestruck at the arrogance of someone being inconvenienced by the noise created when a truck goes out full of people who are not only willing, but dedicated, to putting their lives on the line for others.

September 11 was rife with those people. When a fireman goes to a call, they don't use the elevators that people, in their evacuation, find so inconveniently not in service. They go up the five, the ten, the thirty seven flights of stairs - in full gear, with the heavy tools that they may need. They don't blink. They get out of breath, their calves burn, their hearts are pounding but they still press on.

The ones in the World Trade Center had a billion stairs to get up, in our civilian estimation. Some of them HAD to know it was futile, but most fireman live for one thing alone: if I get one person, JUST one person out, my life was worth it. That is what each fireman that I know thinks. I'm not capable of that. But they are. And, of course, they get paid for it. And they also PAY for it.

Firemen cry. And when they cry, it makes everything else seem insignificant. Because they're not only crying for their brothers and friends that have died not only for other people, but because of bureaucratic snafus, incompetent landlords, and people just generally fucking up. It's the pointless deaths that really hurt. The ones that should have been avoidable.

But what it really comes down to is that the basic job of a fireman is to risk their life to save someone. Yet, every time I turn around, those same nameless people are criticizing and undercutting the fire department. I only hope, like I hope the people who walk out of stores in front of you and stop dead in their tracks don't drive, that these same people are very, very conscious of their fire safety.

Wait, who'm I kidding. I hope they burn. In hell. Especially bell stealing guy. It's fucking city property. ILLEGAL. Jackass.

Time takes time, you know

2009-03-31T02:17:00.006-04:00

I've apparently decided to be maudlin tonight about my aging. And the fact that I can't stop it. Time, that is. Can't stop it. No stopping it. Keeps rolling like a river... to the sea.

I was looking up an older actress I'm going to be working with soon. Doing the old internet image search. Found a picture of her with three smart looking young things. Now, mind you, she looked great, but she was stuck next to three haven't found a single wrinkle young 'uns. It's just so unfair. Because I'm pretty sure that the same age as them her would kick each of them so swiftly to the curb.

Which brings up the crux of this petty subject: why the hell is so much of my self esteem, ego, personality, indeed my very self, wrapped up in how good I look? This is not a post to elicit the "oh, doll, you look fantastic don't worry" replies. I know I look good. Now. But how long is that going to last? When am I going to no longer be among the most desirable girls in the room? It's probably happened already and I don't even know it. This all sounds completely egotistical, but when so much of who you are is wrapped up in and validated by how attractive other people perceive you to be, then I don't know.

I'm curious as to when the shift to this hotness based ego happened. I mean, in high school I was definitely not considered attractive and I knew that. So at what point did my id make the transition to valuing this above all else. I get horrified at growing older, at sagging, wrinkling, chunking out. It's really patently unfair. And somewhat pathetic. I should have more going on than that.

I think perhaps it's time to develop some other personality traits.

WHAT!!!!????

2008-09-16T04:51:00.003-04:00

(photo unfortunately borrowed from perezhilton.com)

Seriously. Total. Photoshop. Boobs. I mean, they're identical. Seriously, I had a string bikini, albeit several years ago. And. That. Is. Not. How. Your. Boobs. Look. In . A. String. Bikini. . . Period. Even when they're young and perky. Or even fake, I mean seriously, her boob isn't even anywhere near the "hemline". NO ONE is that perky. GQ needs to hire a better photoshop team. I mean seriously, it's their COVER!!!!

Ain't it awful, the heat, ain't it awful?

2008-06-09T17:04:00.002-04:00

(a lovely line from the Kurt Weil opera, Street Scene, and a very appropriate one for today)

If there's one topic that people can talk about freely, across generations, sexual orientations, gender gaps and political bents it's the weather. You can complain, commiserate, marvel or curse it. You can reminisce about past weather, fantasize about future weather (oh, Wednesday, will you ever get here) or just bask in a shared opinion about the current weather. Discussing the weather never led to a bar fight that I know of, and has likely been the opening line in quite a few nascent relationships. Weather - it's what's for dinner!

The best part is, for most of us, the subject is completely unpredictable. Sure, sure, there are meteorologists and the local weather pinup guys and gals (I swear, complete dental coverage MUST come with that job). But, really, how often are any of them correct. Or even close to correct. Which makes it a great topic! I mean, there is no right answer. Think about the arguments that surround any broaching of topics in politics, religion, sports. That's because everyone has an opinion, and by God, their's is the right one and if only you would get your head out of your ass to see it.

No one argues about the weather. So in spite of the relentless agonizing heat that has trapped me in my air-conditioned room like some prisoner (it's small enough, as rooms go, to really give you that ole jailbird magic), I like the weather. And the good news is that it won't stay this way forever.

Oh, wait. Right. Global warming.

Le sigh.

Why, Oh, Why!?!?

2008-04-26T01:10:00.002-04:00

Why do we not have a license to have a child?

We have a license to drive.
We have a license to get married.
But, as of yet, just ole anyone can have a kid.

I can't tell you how many news stories I've been subjected to of children who've been beaten, tortured, maimed, abused, and then, mercifully (if you believe in God) killed.

What

The

Fuck

Of all the things that should have a test, a modicum of consideration. Even when you apply for a marriage license (at least in NYC) you have to wait 24 hours. I'm all for reproductive rights. A woman should have the final say in how her body is used. But if she's not making a proactive choice (different from a procreative choice), I mean, god damn it, I'd make a better mother than most people, but I wouldn't make the mother that I WANT to be, and so that's why I don't (aside from not having health insurance since 2000). Doesn't anyone get that having babies means bringing totally innocent, unscathed people into this hell that we deal with every day? I cringe at the thought of the world that children now inhabit.

There should be a license. It's not fair. To society.

To them.

Catching up with...

2008-04-15T05:53:00.002-04:00

I haven't posted in ages. Good news, I'm working my ass off. Bad news, I'm working my ass off.

It recently occurred to me that I don't believe in God. The non-belief has been on for years, but the ramifications of it only occurred to me about a month or two ago.

This means that when I die, that's it. I cease to exist. Period. No consciousness aware of it, no heaven, no hell, no nothing. Complete erasure.

I find this absofuckinglutely intolerable. Why the fuck are we trying to fix races or the economy or the price of grain in Uzbekistan? Why aren't we, as a human race, trying to find a way to fix life?

More to come on this topic, as I freak out about it more and more. And don't try to sell me religion - been there, done that, and believe me... I WISH I could believe.

Feb-brew-ary

2008-02-06T03:26:00.000-05:00

Is it me, or - having read the latest news reports- isn't it unusual to have tornadoes in February?

I think the guys in marketing may be onto something... or maybe just on something

2007-12-06T23:07:00.000-05:00

Look at this ad I recently saw on Facebook:

WTF??? Just who is their target audience? Pedophiles? Over Achieving Toddlers? Mommies?

Disturbed, I am. Dis. Turbed.

Capsaicin: Or How I Learned To Fear The Bomb

2007-11-22T04:08:00.000-05:00

So I've made the mistake of not posting here for far too long. Unfortunately, that is not the only mistake I've made. Recently.

I've made the mistake, only discovered now, of making chili. That may not seem a mistake to you, nor is it, in and of itself, a mistake to me. However, precautions should have been taken.

And they weren't.

And now I live in fear of scratching my eyes. Because, fair reader, I have scratched the oh so tender membranes around my nose. And they live in fear.

Fear, my friend, of capsaicin.

And I washed myself in mayonnaise (my hands I mean and several times). And yet, hours later, I scratch my lips and there's still a burn. My God.

Seriously, I decided to test the peppers before putting them in the brew. Just get a taste so I would be able to judge how much to put in?

I ended up icing my lips. Icing. My lips. Cubes of ice. What the F is up with that? And after twice "cleaning" with mayonnaise. I seriously thought I might be in for some blister action (thankfully not). But seriously.

I don't think I can safely go to sleep without a shower. I've washed my hands again and again, but nothing cleans your hands like washing your hair (something girls around would agree about heartily).

I wish I had something more serious to write about, but I have no doubt that will happen very, very soon. Have no fear.

Think of the Children

2007-10-20T00:40:00.000-04:00

This in from cnn.com regarding the recent arrest of an alleged Canadian pedophile that has been all over the news:

Earlier in the week, there had been searches across the country, with Thai police scouring bars and hostels Neil is known to have visited in the past. In the seedy Thai coastal resort town of Pattaya, police questioned owners of bars where underage boys, they said, could be procured for sex. At least one bar owner told them he recognized Neil's face. He had been a regular, the owner said, according to police.

Okay, I'm ALL behind getting the predator. But, seriously, the police knew where to look, aka they know that underage boys (or girls) are being sold (molested) and they know where.

Shouldn't the larger question be why these places aren't being prosecuted/put of of business/burned to the ground? I know there will always be a black market for such things, and the desirers and procurers of such activities should be a target, but what of the facilitators? These children are not hosting their own parties, so to speak; there are perpetrators using them. Why are these crimninals not the ones that are sought after, to face punishment? What the fuck?

Don't just treat the symptom, treat the damn cause!

The Cutest Thing You Will Ever See

2007-04-02T11:41:00.000-04:00

Please, do yourself a favor and find your box of kleenex BEFORE pressing play.

It is the awesome. I'll go back to being unerringly cynical next post.

Oh, those wacky waxers!

2007-03-09T12:53:00.000-05:00

Just look at this recent headline from Yahoo! and then think about it. Think about it...

The article goes on to mention that most of the protesters were female. Mwah-hah-hah. It's just a gift that keeps on giving. Will someone think of the children???

And there is always something there to remind me...

2007-01-31T04:14:00.000-05:00

There are so many little things you realize as you get older, so many seemingly insignificant sacrifices that were made just for you.

I remember our annual family trips from McKeesport to Cedarville (a small Baptist town outside of Springfield, itself a small town outside of Cincinnati). The participants of this trip would be myself, my little brother, my mom, and my Grandpap and Grandma. I remember sitting in the back seat, Grandma in the middle, my brother and I on either side. I remember commenting that Grandma's arms were like pillows (by that age, and by that weight, her skin was so soft and pliable - I'm not sure she took it as a compliment, but as a small child, it was definitely meant as such). And I was thinking tonight that she sat in the middle.

Wait. No one wants to sit in the middle. I don't want to sit in the middle. It's too uncomfortable.

And yet, there she was, in her sixties, 200 and something odd pounds of her, sitting in the middle, the *pah-dump pah-dump* of the seams in the concrete surely traveling a very short distance to her tailbone. Sure there was a price to pay for not putting two young siblings next to one another for six hours, but I have to tell you, right now, I would tie the children up and sit on the side.

This is what I'm thinking about. The sacrifices. She didn't sit in the middle to control us, or to be the martyr. She sat in the middle to take care of us.

I miss my Grandma. I miss her pillow arms. I miss her smile.

Another time, when I was little, Grandma was making her traditional morning breakfast of 4 saltine crackers, with a slice of American cheese split between them, and a cup of tea, with honey and milk. As she sat down at the kitchen table, she asked me why I was smiling. I, being a kid, actually didn't know why I was smiling, and told her so. Which made her smile. And we kept sort of smiling back and forth. Me making her smile, her smiling making me smile more. I think we actually started laughing at some point. I don't know why, but now it makes me bawl my eyes out, thinking of it.

I remember, the days before she died, Grandpap took us all (me, my brother, and my two cousins) to the train show at the Expo at the Mall. It was all these booths with miniature train set ups and miniature everything. And Grandpap took us all out there (I could barely watch one kid these days without being a paranoid freak, I don't know how he did it). And when we got back home, Grandma was on the phone with Aunt Barb (my cousins' mom) and I overheard enough to realize that she'd had a heart attack while we were gone and that Aunt Barb was trying to talk her into going to the hospital (Grandpap had dropped us off so he could do a few errands without one relatively behaved girl and three boys will be boys to deal with, I guess). Having long ago established my role as the spoil sport (did I mention one girl, three boys?), I went into the living room and told my brother and cousins to cool it because I thought Grandma had had a heart attack. They did. She had.

She wouldn't go to the hospital. She was afraid they would cut her open (they probably would have) and she was in denial of how bad it was (the calm before the storm - the period where a dying person starts feeling just a bit better). I convinced my mom and Grandpap to move her bed downstairs to the dining room (I was all about moving the furniture in those days - I had done it myself on occasion, much to the consternation of all the adults involved - including a piano, mind you), where she stayed until the next morning, until they convinced themselves that they had to take her to the hospital, despite her denials. It would be the last time I would see her alive.

There was a chance for us (my brother and I) to see her in the hospital later that evening, but I declined it. I guess it was partially denial, but I felt that it was more important for my mom, grandpap and/or uncle to be there (they only let 2 people in at a time in the ICU). And by the next morning she was dead. She had had congestive heart failure. 80% of her heart had been destroyed in the heart attack. She couldn't have survived it, no matter what anyone did. Yet, as much as I know now, I still regret the decision to not see her before she died. Would it have made a difference? No. Not in the outcome. But, somehow, I still wish I had.

But I stray off the topic of sacrifices. It's late, and I guess I'm morose.

Grandma and Grandpap brought up three children, my mom, her twin sister - my aunt, and my uncle. By the time those children were old enough to flee the nest and care for themselves, Grandma and Grandpap were taking care of their parents. By the time their parents had died, they were taking care of me and my brother (my dad left us, and my mom had to move us "in shame" back home with her parents - this was the 70's, mind you, *good people* did not get divorced). So really, my grandparents never got a chance to relax, to not be taking care of somebody.

When we got up in the morning for school, Grandpap would ask us what we wanted to eat. And he would make anything - scrambled eggs, cream of wheat, turkey ham sandwich, cereal, whatever it would be to get us to eat something. He would drive us to school. He would pick us up. After school, after band practice, after volleyball practice. And there would be cooked food waiting at home. And THAT wasn't even dinner. When we were sick, he would constantly put blankets over us, encouraging our bodies to *sweat it out*. He would take the baby aspirins and smash them between two spoons, pour Hi-C in and slip it into our mouths. When it was summertime, he would hit pop-flies to us to catch in our baseball mitts. He would peel apples and pears and quarter them for us to eat. He would go to garage sales and buy us cheap toys that nobody wanted anymore: the baby doll with hair you could make short or long by pulling a tag in the back, the set of putters and golf balls to hit around our cracked sidewalk.

He would cut our corn off the cob when we were losing teeth, and Grandma would roast meat so long it would melt in our mouths. I attribute my good attitude towards greens to Grandma's creamed spinach - I think I was the only kid in town who looked forward to spinach in a meal. And Grandpap's cooking - he would worry a meal for hours, slow cooking, basting every 20 minutes, taking pans out of the oven with his bare hands that had lost the ability to be burned by his long years working in a brewery. The memory of his meatloaf still drives me to fantasy, and even his spaghetti, cooked in gargantuan amounts due to his service as a WWII army cook, was even better the next day, after a brief respite in the fridge, slapped on some Cellone's rolls with butter (yes, you can make a spaghetti sandwich).

I miss my Grandpap. I miss his stories. I miss his full head of white hair that he had even unto the end.

I wonder sometimes if they can see me. I wonder and fear that they can. I wonder what they think, if they can. I wonder if they would be disappointed. I wonder if they would be amazed. I wish that they would be proud.

I wish that they were still here. I wish that I could talk to them, now that I'm finally an adult. I wish that they could tell me their stories, and that I could tell them mine.

They say youth is wasted on the young. I can't help but think, in this way, that it's true.

3 Seconds of Fame: Or How I Learned To Love The Balm

2007-01-17T17:40:00.000-05:00

My Sissy is on the TV!!!!

For those of you who don't know her, clicking is probably not going to be so entertaining or worthwhile for you. But for those who do, whoo-hoo!!!! And for everyone, yes, you are correct, I only *really* have a brother, but let it be proclaimed far and wide that Jules is my sister by another mister...erm...erg...what I mean is...awww, forget it.

And a personal shout-out to Frank, Kyle and Torre from Sissy/Auntie Brenda!!! Word to your mother!!! By which I mean, say hi to Jules.

What have you done for me, lately?

2007-01-13T10:38:00.000-05:00

This clever bit of creativity was sent to me via my friend, Daniel Klein with the admonishment of:

why haven't YOU been writing music lately? or if you have, where is it?

More pertinent questions have yet to be asked. But, don't worry, once I get over my 10th cold in 6 months, I'll get right on it. Sigh.

This is CNN

2007-01-04T13:50:00.000-05:00

I found myself amused to be spoken to directly by CNN not so long ago.

My favorite part is the final "Congratulations." It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Is it just me, or does anyone else think that CNN is quickly becoming the joke that USA Today has cornered the market on?

Happy New Year

2007-01-03T00:54:00.000-05:00

Yes, I will be back with posting soon. I promise. Really I will. But just know that all is well, and that I am some semblance of happy. For once.

Tackling yet another screen legend...

2006-11-30T01:38:00.000-05:00

And I don't mean in the style of Jerome Bettis.

photo courtesy of the lovely and talented Anthony Ruiz.

The Marilyn Project opens tonight (yikes!) and runs for next three weekends. Details here. I'll be posting more pics, perhaps some video, and maybe my conflicting views/feelings on what this turn of events means to me and what I think it'll do to my angrygirl/singersongwriter street cred. Not that I probably had any. Good news is that I'll have time to do some more recording now that the show is out of the rehearsal stage and into performance mode. Yay. Yay for me.

Why does nobody listen? And by nobody I mean everybody

2006-10-22T05:35:00.000-04:00

Quote from Pat Tillman's brother (killed by friendly fire) speaks for itself:

"Somehow, the same incompetent, narcissistic, virtueless, vacuous, malicious criminals are still in charge of this country. Somehow, this is tolerated. Somehow, nobody is accountable for this."

Seriously - where is the accountability in our government? To the citizens? Because if it's merely in the voting polls, it's not enough. Don't other countries have referendums and such? A coup is too much to ask for, and too ridiculous, but seriously, something's got to give...

Rip Van Brendar

2006-10-21T12:01:00.000-04:00

Just awoke from sleeping over 15 hours. That's right F-I-F-T-E-E-N. I think (hope) that perhaps I've finally made up for all the lack of sleep that I suffered over this past month's filming. Because, though I like to sleep, I don't think I've slept for that length of time since I was a teenager...which was...uh...not all that...long ago.

Sigh.

Fresh good news, though - I've been asked by my old director, Michelangelo Alasá, to participate in another musical at Duo, this time focusing on Marilyn Monroe. It's also along the lines of Chez Garbo. I pick up a script, etc. Monday or Tuesday, so I'll have more information later. Though I no longer harbor any desire to do musical theater, I do LOVE working with Michael, and he's assembled a cast of the old regulars, whom I also LOVE working with, so maybe it'll keep me out of film long enough to have time to do some more work on my own recording. I just hope it doesn't ruin my "street cred." Of which, as you know, I have SO much.

Why won't we take all our clothes off?

2006-10-15T23:12:00.000-04:00

Been REPEATEDLY listening to Paula Valstein's La La Song and you should, too. Right now. Stop listening to my music, as I know you obsessively are and hop on over there. Or check out her MySpace Page. And if you're wondering why I don't have her as a friend on my MySpace Page it's because I'm terrified by the idea that she might actually listen to my tracks. And then I'd have to hang my canned music head in shame. But she is my "friend" on my personal MySpace Page. Cause she rocks. By which I mean she's amazing. By which I mean I'm jealous.

In the dead of night

2006-10-14T03:28:00.000-04:00

Why is it that the things that we want, don't seem to want us? Is it because they're wrong for us? Or is it because they're just harder to get?

And why does this sound like freakin' Sarah Jessica Parker on that abomination Sex In The City?

Seriously, though. A) I can't believe this is my first blog topic in 4 months; B) What is the deal with our desires/longings/egos?. Is it that we will always want what we can't have? Or is it that the things that we can have lose their allure because they make it easy? Is the grass always greener, even if you know it's not?

Heady questions, uneasily answered, perhaps even rhetorical. Nevertheless a continuous concern. By which I mean annoying. By which I mean, why?

On another note (no pun intended) I also realized that I hadn't put any notice on here about my new, very, very lo-fi recordings. So there it is. Your moment of Zen. Or something.

5:12 AM

2006-08-05T05:16:00.000-04:00

What does it say about you when you drunkenly read your own blog and find yourself laughing out loud? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Except maybe you're funny. To drunks.

Gone to Excess

2006-07-30T03:23:00.000-04:00

As I was disembarking from the train in Grand Central this evening, I witnessed, among the passengers looking to get onto the train, a very large, dare I say, morbidly obese woman making her way down to the platform. She wore a large, tent-like, floral dress and she looked nice and put together, but as she [hobbled isn't the right word, and tottered neither] along what I most noticed about her were her eyes. She looked scared. But not the scared that one finds when in a new situation, or when in a bad neighborhood, or even when confronted by sudden events. There was something about her eyes...she was looking for the next taunt, the next obstacle, the next disappointment. I walked past her and almost started to cry. Because she looked trapped.

Trapped in her own body. As some of you know, my mother is also extremely overweight. It horrifies me that there are so many people, many of our loved ones included, that, for whatever reason, have to live their lives through this sleeve - this other body, if you will - of fat. My mother said to me, the last time I was home, that many people call fat people lazy, but what they don't realize is that everything they do, they do for almost two people.

So many overweight people complain that no one sees "the real me." And it's true. It's the real them that is buried under the pounds and the dimples. Some fat women try to "embrace" their fatness - this is all me, etc. But I think most overweight people feel burdened by it. And misconceived by those around them. And overwhelmed. And inconsolable.

And I guess what I'd like to say is, "I see you."

But how do we address this? Fat people are ignored, dismissed, cast aside, as though it's a sign of slovenliness or disregard. Most truly fat people are that way because they're either addicted to food or there is something biologically wrong with them (and when I say truly fat, I mean obesity that causes other health problems like diabetes, congestive heart failure, etc. - not just chunky). I wish I could get my mother out of her sleeve. I wish I could wish it so. But the problem with obesity is that it makes you a huge risk for just about any change out there, be it diet, exercise, surgery, stomach staple, you name it. So there's this crazy impasse, that every obese person faces, about trying to actually lose the weight, shed the sheath. Especially those that are so overweight that it seems insurmountable.

I'm not so sure what I'm trying to get at any longer in this post, only that we need to help those fat people around us not feel so scared and judged. They are just like us.

Okay, I just typed that last paragraph and realized it reads like a self-indulgent high schooler (or young starlet) who thinks she's the most hip thing on the planet but is trying to do good...to get into college (or the New York Times). Let me try again...

I would like to make it better, but I obviously don't have the power to. I have infinite sympathy for overweight people because of my mother's plight. What I want is for you (and yes, I mean you, not the world, because the world also includes those who prostitute themselves on Jerry Springer, and for them there is no hope) to change your attitudes about overweight people - not because it's okay, but because the first step in their being able to do something about it will come from true friendship, love, and most of all respect. See them for who they are. Not what.

No One Here But Us Chickens

2006-07-23T10:03:00.000-04:00

I've been doing some thinking lately, and in doing that thinking, I've realized this blog has taken on a theme, as it were, that I'm not entirely sure I'm comfortable with it having anymore. Too personal, too revealing and most of all, not the repository of wit and commentary that I had initially created it for. So I want to get back to the basics: seeing things in the world and in my life and commenting on their ridiculousness/irony/hilarity/lameness with perhaps some insight into why I find topics to be those things. Less information driven. Let's see how this plays out...

So, while I'm sure this has been covered in a multiple of venues, I have something to say about it:

Some commentary I have read has suggested the "move" was sexual harassment, others just plain camaraderie. I think neither. While not necessarily demeaning, the impromptu invasion of the Chancellor's personal space is at best belittling. It's a "there, there dear, don't worry your pretty little head over it," kind of interaction, that, while perhaps appropriate among friends, is never appropriate between freaking heads of state. I would still find it inappropriate if it were Bush & Blair instead of Bush and the Chancellor. Every interaction between heads of state is painstakingly mapped out by people whose jobs depend on getting it right, and it just goes to show the level of ineptitude our president wallows in that this event happened at all. And it's clearly not a situation of it "being caught on tape." The Chancellor's reaction shows that this kind of interaction is not par for the course in their relationship.

My recommendation: The president should sign up for some political savviness classes at his local community college. And perhaps a sensitivity course along the way. If he can pass the entrance exam.

Stick a fork in me...

2006-07-10T10:22:00.000-04:00

I'm done. I'm done. I'm done I'm done I'm done.

The mfing film is finally wrapped. All in all good, but tortuous work. And by tortuous I mean sweaty. And by sweaty I mean redonkulous.

More to come soon, but now I must sleep. Ah, precious sleep.

Really...

2006-07-07T06:03:00.000-04:00

I will be done with my latest film soon. I promise. But in the meantime, I leave you with this question:

Who'll stop the rain?

Seriously, because I think this movie must be some sort of cursed. Literally anytime we wrap, go to lunch, load in, etc., it pours down rain from the heavens. And I don't mean sprinkles, I mean gnashing of teeth, cats and dogs living together kind of rain. But the cool thing is I get to do a turn-of-the-century period piece doc for two days after the movie wraps. And then I'm free.

Oh, and did I mention I'll make on the doc what I make in an entire week on the movie?

God damned indie films...

Seriously, I suck

2006-06-09T01:54:00.000-04:00

The chagrin I feel at having not posted in SOOOOOOoooooOOOOOOooooo long is acute. The guilt I feel when checking my site stats and finding that I had 62 visits (62!!!!) this week alone. The horror at the realization that people are coming back again and again, hoping against hope that there'll be something new, and being disappointed, time after time.

Well, enough of that. Because this will now be...

The

Longest

Blog

Post

EVER

And, no, I'm not going to type every word down the page like that, to make it literally long (or is that figuratively - is this a view point thing?). But there will be photos! There will be video!!! There will be naked dancing girls!!!!!

Ha ha, just kidding, or as I learned from my new PM today, j/k. When will the transfer of chat acronyms to spoken language stop? Please, somebody, take back the bastard, red-headed stepchild known as English. I and William Safire beg you.

So I got back from Pittsburgh in one piece, as you may have gathered. Played a pool match the night I returned, and lost. To an expectant mother. It's like insult to injury, the woman had to play for two and she still beat me. Grrrr.

And Gabe and I reunited once a) he woke up to how awesome he is and b) I woke up to what's really important in this world. And that would be true love. And, no, I didn't just get sappy on you. I mean it. So there. Suck on that.

Then I did some make-up for a TV show true crime reenactment. Did I mention it was set in the late 70's?

And then there was Purim's birthday dinner...

Then we went upstate to Mike and Beck's where there were many activities such as...

Chair Making

Jenga Playing

Cornholio!

Baby Activities!

Flower Planting (with Masonry Action! - that's right, I do my own masonry)

And last but not least...the Infamous Watering Hole!

Then, as if all those festivities weren't enough, Gabe & I went to his friend's birthday party in Brooklyn...

where the finer qualities of a proper Absinthe pour were recorded for posterity (and possible legal ramifications)...

Finally, to wrap my latest, longest blog up, here is your moment of Zen...Gabe's pained face as I trounce him, yet again, at Scrabble.

Do you feel caught up? I do.

Four Cousins and A Wedding

2006-05-18T01:39:00.000-04:00

Yes, there was a point to all this Pittsburgh madness: my cousin Ryan's wedding! Now Ryan was born when I was 10 years old, so one can imagine what a milestone this was for me (by which I mean I feel old, by which I mean decrepit).

Once I awoke (Jared and Jaime had of course already been up for hours), I showered and then debated dress or slacks, dress or slacks. The dress won out when Jaime showed me hers (plus I knew my mom would probably be mad). To the ironing board! Literally.

Before I go on to the evening, I have to mention this weird doll my brother has hanging in the back window of his car.

Everytime I sat in the front seat I kept thinking someone was trying to get into the back of the car because I kept seeing the thing over my shoulder. Apparently it's from "The Planet of the Apes" although I don't know which one, Heston or Wahlburg. Anyway, it's weird.

So we drove, drove, drove out to the wedding for Ryan and Meghan. Now Ryan I had seen a few years ago when he came out in the Pittsburgh direction from school in Ohio, but Laura, Kendra and Alyssa I hadn't seen since 1998, aside from random pictures and MySpace profiles. Needless to say, I was excited.

The wedding was beautiful, of course: Meghan was gorgeous, Ryan was dashing, the preacher didn't stumble over TOO many of his words. I managed to not cry, although at several points I almost asked Jamie if she had brought any Kleenex (she hadn't) because it hadn't even occurred to me (it should have). The hardest was not to cry when Laura sang, because she looked so beautiful and did it so beautifully. (An aside: this was the first wedding in YEARS for which I was not asked to sing (gratefully) but I stupidly didn't figure out why until Laura grabbed the microphone - duh!)

The McClures:

The Bush's:

The Hatfield's:

I just would like to note here that the reception was, in fact, in OHIO! So in less than two weeks I've gone through New Jersey, Maryland, Virginia, Pennsylvania and Ohio. Not bad for a homebody.

The reception was dry. And I don't mean that it was a witty send up at The Friar's Roast. I mean, no social lubrication. At a reception that probably could have used some (my side, not Meghan's, although my side probably wouldn't have been smart enough to use it - at least take the edge off, people!). While I love my folks, I utterly abhor tension, and there is definitely going to be tension with that many "grown-ups" around. Quizzing you on what you're doing now. Where you're living. Why did you cut your hair. Nevertheless, I obfuscated by taking myriads of pictures.

Aunt Adrienne (in black) talking with Aunt Susan Lynn and Aunt Pam on the right; Aunt Pam and Uncle Scott on the left:

The Susan Family (my Uncle Scott, Aunt Adrienne and my MOM!):

Cutting the Cake:

Cutting a Rug:

Jared & Jaime:

And last but not least, your moment of Zen: The Four Brendas

Me, Alyssa, Laura and Kendra.

The day that never was...

2006-05-17T23:45:00.000-04:00

So Friday as a day virtually did not exist for me...because I slept for most of it! I woke up when Jaime and Jared left for work, was up for about two hours, and then slept like a cat until about 3:30 or so. Ridiculous! But so comfy! Once awake and showered, I pilfered some Diet Coke and took my laptop and cigs out to the back porch. That was when I had internet (it wasn't to last). Around 5:30 Jared & Jaime got home, and it was out to the bars!!!

First stop: Cupka's (pronounced chup-kuhz) where I had a McCupka. That's right: all beef patty, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions, on a sesame seed bun. Hysterical! I also partook of a lovely Hoegaarden, being that there was no Harp (also, the excuse for last night's Yuengling).

Next stop: Smoking Joe's, which carries over 200 beers. THEY had Harp. I had Harp. It was delicious, but the spot was boring and we had nowhere to sit (and you all know what a diva I am).

Third stop: Dee's.

It's as rundown as it sounds - and perfect. Pretty crappy pool tables, but for $6/hour, it's a steal. Plus have I mentioned how ridiculously cheap Pittsburgh prices are? I got an Iron City (that's right, reckanize), a shot of Jameson's and a Captain & Coke for $8. Eight dollars!!!

My cousin Mark and his girlfriend Shelly showed up, and much pool playing ensued. Unfortunately, I was pretty off my game that night, so the egos of my male family members survived unscathed...for now.

Fourth stop: I can't remember the name. I was still itching to drink and play pool, and my brother and his girlfriend were itching to crawl into bed (being that they were up at 7 AM, not 3:30 PM), so I split off and checked it out, being that there was a pool table right in the front window. A deserved honor. This bar had Harp in the bottle, at least, so I ordered that and, mais bien sur, a Jameson's. When the bartender asked if I wanted one or two fingers I knew I was in the right place.

I got to play several games with the lovely owner and his girlfriend, who were both quite good, being that they also play APA (albeit in the 'Burgh, which means they're probably severely under ranked).

Good times were had, bar was closed down, I went walking home.

Where a really sweet thing happened - I was walking probably about 3/4 of a block behind a huge group of people when a guy from a smaller group I was passing came over and said, "Are you trying to catch up to them?" When I assured him no, he replied, "Okay, just wanted to make sure you were okay." Only in the 'Burgh, my friends.

Get Onto The BUS

2006-05-16T09:01:00.000-04:00

Get Onto The BUS

That's right! Next stop, da 'Burgh! As in Pittsburgh. As in home of your National Championship Steelers!!! Word!

The train ride was relatively uneventful, if long. I left our nation's capital (a Capital City, may I remind you) at 2:55 PM and arrived in my homeland at 11:33 PM. Along the way, the following exciting events occurred. Remember my penchant for excruciating detail? I also have one for making up a story where none exists:

The apple I swiped from Jules' and Frank's kitchen counter.

Me eating the apple.

Just when you think, "Good Lord, I'm reading this?" the following was spotted at one of the stops (perhaps Martinsburg, I don't quite recall):

I can just imagine it now...

Crackhead's Last Stand

Halal Heaven

Maude Mauls Martinsburg

Fatty Finds a Home

Anyway, I thought it was Gi-larious!

By the way, I would recommend against the Amtrak Tuna Salad Sandwich. It's not so much that it was bad, it was just weird - I mean it incorporated pickles (and not much else) into the mix. Now I'm all for pickles, but not as a substitute for proper celery and onions. And the bread was mushy. Ew.

Upon arriving in Pittsburgh, my awesome brother picked me up and took me to his swank abode on the South Side. After dragging my bags upstairs, I turned around, took the key and hit the South City Tavern. Where everyone was younger than me by about 10 years. And very impressed that I sat there drinking a Yuengling and a Jameson's neat.

Dude: Is that a boilermaker?
Me: I think it's only a boilermaker when you drop the shot in and chug it. Hence the boiling and the making.
Dude: Oh.
Me: (sigh)

Yay alcohol, boo being old broad. And... scene.

Oh, wait, as John Stewart always says, "Here is your moment of Zen."

I can't help myself

2006-05-11T00:15:00.000-04:00

I just love this. I know it's been seen a million times, but I can't help it. I want to record a soundtrack to it.

"What you got? What you got, huh? What you big-ass shabby tabby? Watch my hands, see my skillz, note my....whuhmp!"

What?

2006-05-10T18:51:00.000-04:00

What does this mean? I'm scared.

What's the deal?

2006-05-10T16:07:00.000-04:00

Seriously, people, I think that I may have to consider looking into anti-depressants. I just watched less than two minutes, TWO MINUTES of Little House on the Prairie and found myself practically bawling. Why they got to make Auntie Brenda cry? I've turned it off now - God only knows I couldn't take a second episode without some serious sinus damage. No one should have access to daytime TV.

Have you kissed your inner Thespian today?

2006-05-09T23:47:00.000-04:00

Woke with an INCREDIBLE hangover, but my attendance to Kilee's dress rehearsal for "Much Ado About Nothing" was NOT to be denied! After showering and dressing up a bit, I grabbed the coffee that Frank, in his infinite wisdom, had brought home for me after dropping Torre off at school, and walked up to Kilee's school.

I found the auditorium/lunchroom and took a seat in the back and Kilee came over when he saw me. After reminding me that when at school, his name is Kyle, not Kilee, his teacher (whom I also believe was the director of the play) asked him if he had someone he wanted to introduce to the class.

Kilee: "This is my Aunt Brenda."
Class: "Hi, Aunt Brenda!"

Okay, after having a weird out-of-body experience where I was suddenly in some preteen self-help program, I shook my head free of the remaining hangover cobwebs. Kilee came back over and said, "They all think you're pretty." Which you'd think is just about the smooshiest thing ever! But it gets better - so he gives me a big hug and kiss and goes back to the stage where they're all getting ready. A bunch of other classes file in (noisily, I might add, but then that could also be the hangover talking) and take their seats on the floor. A young girl passes me a program (A program! Yay! Because it's not like I'm a packrat or anything). And the performance commences.

Kilee starred as Claudio, one of the lovestruck suitors in the play. And he rocked! He projected, he had stage presence, he knew all his lines, he danced! I took lots of pictures and giggled at their ability to boil down "Ado" to it's very (very) barest essence. An awesome time was had.

And, before I knew it, the play was over. I waited for all the other kids to file out, and then it was time for me to go. I went over to Kilee and he gave me a big hug and kiss again and said, "I love you, Aunt Brenda." Right in front of his classmates, his peers. I sort of teared up, because there was such an innocent generosity (as always) with Kilee's emotions, but also his complete unselfconsciousness about it. It overwhelmed me. And it really made something very clear to me that I think I lost track of.

Love. True love, unadulterated pure love is the MOST important thing in the world. In my world. More than attraction or money or success or health or work or anything. More than sex. More than food. That precise moment of knowledge when I said to myself, "THIS is what I want from my life. Love."

And I have it. It's been right in front of me. I just had to get my head out of my ass.

Kilee, take a bow. You deserve it.

The Watermelon Incident of '06

2006-05-09T22:14:00.000-04:00

Almost forgot. I think they're self-explanatory:

And one of Torre, for good measure. Ironically, he had been eating watermelon with a spoon.

Rainy Days and Mondays...

2006-05-09T19:03:00.000-04:00

Being a brilliant person, I went to sleep Sunday night with earplugs in, knowing the kids would be getting up much nearer to the crack of dawn than I preferred. However, the catch-22 in that scenario is that once everyone was gone, it was so quiet I slept until about noon! I motivated to get up and get coffee (my sissy should own stock in their neighborhood Starbucks that is so close that "around the corner" does not quite describe it well enough), hung out with Kilee when he got home from school and then went down to Dupont Circle to meet Rebecca for dinner.

Wait! Isn't she an NYC friend? That's right, but she's here for work, so yay for me!

Then, looking over Beck's shoulder I saw this girl that looks EXACTLY like Tara from Accounting on Padre Nuestro:

I'm pretty sure it wasn't her, because a) what the hell would she be doing here; b) dressed like that?!? Anyway, if anyone knows...

After dinner, I found a place to play pool (of course I did - it's surprising that I wasn't in felt withdrawal by that point). And out of the 4 Yuengling's and 3 Jameson's I had, I paid for how many?

2.

And that's including not having to pay for table time. That's ridiculous. Apparently the former New Yorker bartender was so enamored with the fact that I say "Word!" all the time that I became his pet for the evening. Which is all good. Even made sure I got into a cab and didn't get mugged.

Cab, you say? But Dupont Circle is only one stop away from Woodley Square!

You are correct my friend, but did you know that the Metro SHUTS DOWN AT NIGHT!!!! AT MIDNIGHT!!!! WAY BEFORE EVEN THE BARS CLOSE!!!!

It's unamerican.

The Day After...Tomorrow

2006-05-08T22:47:00.000-04:00

Sunday was a lazy, lazy day, with lots of sitting around in jammies, reading the paper:

Yes, I was reconstituted as a frog. Yes, I sit that way all the time. Yes, I'm weird.

There was a big nap involved in my afternoon, but in the evening we watched Rent. Now, since I had never seen the musical to begin with (I know, I know, it's almost sacrilege, but true), I was pretty much in for a treat. What I didn't know is that it would inspire a new song! Yay!

Where does your love go
When love dies
Is it in a place
I just can't find
Who can fill the vacancy
That's left behind
Where does your love go
When your love dies

Who will take the blame
Now that you have gone
Find another way
To carry on
How many sleepless nights will pass
Another dawn
Where does your love go
When your love's gone

Another beer, another cigarette
I'm trying to forget
What once was real; a disappearing act
Our fiction was a fact
That I believed
I was deceived
How was I to know you wouldn't stay with me
Forever

How do you let go of what's
In the past
Can you live each moment
as if the last
Who will keep the memories
From fading fast
Where does your love go
When your love's past

Where does your love go
When it's reached the end
Is it in some place
We can't comprehend
Why can't we go back in time and
Just pretend
That when your love's gone
It's not the end

Another beer, another cigarette
I'm trying to forget
What once was real; a disappearing act
The fiction was our fact
And I believed
I have been so deceived
How was I to know you weren't meant to stay
Forever

*and probably some sort of reprise/ending/thingy - don't have piano here, so working this all out in my head.

The inspiration came from [SPOILER ALERT: if you haven't seen RENT or La Boheme or Moulin Rouge or any other number of permutations of this story line, stop reading this post NOW!] the sequence where Angel dies and Collins is left behind, alone. I just thought it was a really powerful idea: what happens to your feelings/emotions when the object of them is gone. It doesn't necessarily have to apply to death, but that's at least where this particular POV came from.

This is only the first pass at these lyrics, by the way. I'm sure I'll post this and then look at it in two days and scream my bloody head off.

Lordy, Lordy look who's...

2006-05-06T23:04:00.000-04:00

Today was Julie's birthday, and many birthday activities were in order. Being that the girls were ruling the roost (between Jules, Aunt Trisha and myself), we took matters into hand. Priority 1: Caffeine and sustenance, brought to us by the ever-thoughtful Frankie. Priority 2: Shower and make-up, for cleanliness is next to godliness and godliness is next to Clinique. Priority 3: Leave household to the ever merciful Frankie (if you had seen Torre's disposition that day, you'd understand what a mercy this was) and head down the street to Julie's favorite consignment shop.

After shopping and purchasing to our heart's content, Jules, Trish and I stopped of for the prerequisite birthday lunchtime bottle of wine, chased by some salad and bread, at a lovely little Italian place near the consignment shop.

Finally we tromped home to a frazzled Frankie. On our way we were communicated to by the gods of power transformers:

After a slight "disco nap" Frankie pulled out the stops and brought out the cake.

Note that Torre is trying to grab Mommy's knife arm - somebody gonna get a-hurt real bad! However he managed to make up for it by being insanely adorable in his and Frankie's matching ballcaps.

While Kilee played the disaffected teenager attached to the internet.

Finally we adults left the apartment in the capable hands of Karen, the babysitter (the gorgeous woman in the picture above behind Kilee) and went down the street to have dinner...at another Italian place!

Now, for those of you who don't know, I live in Little Italy in NYC, but never eat there, so the irony of having to go to another city to manage to eat at an Italian restaurant strikes me as funny. And, nothing against D.C., but I think maybe I should stick closer to home for my Italian. Seriously.

But dinner we went to. More wine did we imbibe in. Yoda am I!

Later, after cruising back home, we relaxed in front of the fire. By which I mean the A/C. Because Washington, D.C. is nothing if not humid, even in May.

And on a side note, my nephew is the most beautiful boy ever! Seriously, all you twelve-year-old girls out there: STOP READING THIS BLOG, THIS CONTENT IS NOT SUITABLE FOR YOU!

Je suis arrivez!

2006-05-06T00:32:00.000-04:00

I have arrived safely in our finest of Capitals, our Nation's capital, Washington, D.C. Upon arriving at Union Station I was greeted by the sign: Welcome to Washington, A Capital City.

A Capital City? Amongst how many? Isn't it THE Capital city? Is there another one? Have I been duped into believing that this is the seat of our Federal Government? Should I be in Mount Vernon? Philadelphia, perhaps? This would lend credence to all conspiracy addicts that there is indeed a puppet government, and that the real people in charge are secreted away somewhere. But I digress.

Got onto the Metro (known to the rest of the civilized world as the subway, but smelling much less of urine) and headed out to Woodley Square. There I was met by the Arrival Committee.

Also known as my nephew, Kilee. Now, Kilee is not technically my nephew, but his mother and I have been friends for so long that we consider ourselves family. When Kilee was really little, and he only spoke Turkish, he used to call me Brenda Teyze. Which, if it's not obvious, means Aunt Brenda.

So Kilee escorted Aunt Brenda and her umpteen billion bags of luggage up to the apartment where I finally got to relax and have some delicious coffee and make Jules late for work.

After finally catching some sleep between 1 and 5:30, I woke to pizza and chocolate vodka. And there was much yummyliciousness and conversation to be had. And lots of Pixar movies with my other nephew, the film critic, Torre. (Yes, as in Joe Torre.)

Not quite the full cast of characters yet, but there is more to come. Right now, however, I am about to succumb to that beautiful sweetness of sleep, and perhaps, if I'm lucky, I will finally convert to a day schedule after being done with my last film for almost a month now.

Space, the Final Frontier

2006-05-05T09:16:00.000-04:00

These are the voyages of the Starship Brendarprise...

So today (or tonight, I guess, depending on whose sleep schedule you're referring to), I began my "tour" of the Middle East. By which I mean the middle east of the United States of AMERICA! (Go team!)

Now, I know it seems that I may be trying to steal a bit of thunder from Gabe's Travelogue, but do not be so deceived. I have long chronicled my travels (Exhibit A: The Provincetown Chronicles) in pithy and sometimes excruciating detail. Plus there will be no audio component to this Journey, my friends. I am not yet that advanced. Plus it's hard enough for me to post consistently as is, let alone hemming and hawing over vocal tracks. I'll leave that for song recording.

Anyway... the Journey began with a quick cab ride up to Penn Station after lugging my umpteen billion pounds of luggage down the six flights of stairs that comprise my building. (A stairway to heaven it is not, although I would be flattered if you told me so, even if you really didn't mean it.) Upon arriving at Penn Station I quickly attacked the first QuikTrak ticket dispensing machine I saw, having already purchased my ridiculously cheap tickets via the Amtrak web site. However, success was not to be had by your intrepid traveler.

That's right, denied I was! The machine started to process my tickets and then jammed and told me to try another machine or see a desk clerk. I moved to the next machine. It asked me for my reservation number. I punched it in. Unable to process! See desk clerk!

Now, I don't know if you've ever been in Penn Station at 2:00 in the morning, but suffice it to say, if it wasn't the time of day that the man on the zamboni-like sweeper machine was doing his thing, there'd be tumbleweeds. Every ticket window read "Closed." After some sighing, I finally espied the Customer Service counter that, indeed, had a clerk behind it. Sensing victory, I dragged my shit over and after some inquiring, Anthony the Clerk went to said machine and fished out the first of my mangled tickets.

Unfortunately, I have a three-leg haul in front of me, and as far as the computer system was concerned I had all the legs I needed. But although Anthony himself could not reprint the tickets, he made a note on my reservation and advised me to have the people in DC do it.

That's correct, folks! Going to DC! Our nation's capital! Where Bush's rule! Oh, yeah, I forgot, I am NOT excited about that. And not related, thank whatever your personal higher power is for some small favors. Mine is a walrus. He doesn't get thanked a whole lot.

Rack it up!

2006-05-03T03:50:00.000-04:00

So, although I played a phenomenal 3-0 match tonight at pool league, I still must complain about my current state of affairs. Which is, I am racked with anxiety and physical exhaustion. I have never slept so much in my life, perhaps aside from the teenage years. I feel lethargic and out of sorts. Have I mentioned I sleep all the time? Is this some sort of adult puberty? Am I going to find enlightenment down the road? All signs point to no.

I am worried. Not because that is my current state, but because, according to the above chart, I haven't even HIT rock bottom. And I really already feel pretty awful. So what, am I destined by May 6th to be crawling down the middle of the street, begging for a car to hit me? Seriously.

Seriously. I want someone to tell me how to feel better. Or at least what vitamins to take to give me some modicum of human capacity.

Seriously.

Same as it ever was...

2006-04-23T02:58:00.000-04:00

I sit here, in my friend's house upstate, drunk, and listening to music on my headphones, staring at the ceiling. And I recall, times in my youth, not necessarily drunk, but listening to music, staring at the ceiling. First Depeche Mode and A-Ha. Then Barber's Adagio for Strings and The Righteous Brother's song that was used in Ghost. Then Orff's Carmina Burana. Then Barber's Prayers for Kierkegaard. Then Paula Cole's Ordinary. Then Elvis Costello's It's Time. Then a lot of angry girls. Then Curve. Then it was Earth, Wind and Fire's After the Love Has Gone. Then it was Ludo. But now it's Ludo's new tune, Save Our City (it's not a direct link, but get over it). You should all listen to it. It sums up about everything that I like about real rock. Anthem, melody, chromatic knowledge and beats from God. I seriously might just move out to St. Louis and TRY to open for these guys. Because they know where it's at. They have true musical knowhow and they have fun while they are superior to all (without thinking they're superior at all). Any band that would make you thrash privately in ways that would embarrass you publicly is a worthy band in my book. I feel like I'm 16 again. And just as depressed.

And, by the way, anyone who's waiting for me to comment on recent events... I'm still waiting to get a handle on them. Needless to say, I'm a bit lost, of my own doing, but I made the best decision I could, I think, for both of us. I hope the world is a better place than he thinks it is. He definitely is better than he will ever believe he is. I wish I could change that, but that is not my gift to give. Good night, and good luck.

I think

2006-04-07T08:47:00.000-04:00

I'm a different girl now. Woman. Whatever. Too hard to explain, or perhaps inexplicable. However, I feel I some sort of change has come over me. Maybe I've been listening to too much Garbage. But I can't help but feel that I'm not myself, but somehow a different self. I need time to work it out. Or maybe time itself will work it out. But I'm not who I was anymore. I need time away. Time to write, to record. Time to myself. Time to my self.

Change sucks. It leaves damage and victims. What's the price of growing old? What's the price of growing, knowing how many people get left behind in the wake? When you're faced with a choice, is it a foregone conclusion that your decision is the right one? Because I have definitely made a lot of bad ones and I don't want to have to take that risk anymore. Yet, obviously, that's a very naive point of view.

Maybe it's easier to fuck it all up. If that's what you're familiar with, it's not a blind spot. And one has to be good at something.

Movie Magic - or how I learned to hate The Industry

2006-03-29T04:16:00.000-05:00

I think working four features in a row has been detrimental to my own enjoyment of movies, even recorded programs in general (not reality TV, though - never enjoyed that - okay, except Project Runway or America's Next Top Model, but I think of them more as game shows than "reality" TV, because there IS no reality on those shows, every situation is prefabricated and constructed to elicit good TV - or at least TV that people will tune into like a redneck eyeing fresh roadkill on the side of the highway - by which I mean, Dad, is that you?).

Okay, Rant of Ages cleft for me...

Back to the subject at hand - I have difficulty watching the television now without thinking:

"Boy, I wonder how many takes that was?"

"Hell, how many set-ups did they have on that shot?"

"He clearly was turning left in the wide shot, but now he's turning right in the medium."

"I wonder if their lunch was always lukewarm?"

"Ewwww, lot of exteriors in the rain on that one. Yikes."

Basically, unless you are such a Sci-Fi extravaganza that I don't have time to think of the crew torture factor, you have now been rendered unenjoyable by my punishing existence as a crew member.

Oh, it is Movie Magic, isn't it?

1492

2006-03-28T09:40:00.000-05:00

I have discovered the power of the blogging widget! Perhaps this means I will post more often. Or could it be the construction that is going on across the street that is shaking my turn of the century building so consistently that it now bears a close resemblance to a giant vibrating dildo. We may never know.

The Flame Wars of 3/3/06

2006-03-03T15:49:00.000-05:00

Well, well, well. I've inadvertently started an email flame war among my friends by inviting them to celebrate my birthday. How, you ask? By including all of their emails in the [To:] line instead of the [BCC:] line. Why would you foolishly do that, you ask?

In the hopes that my glorious friends, upon seeing that I had missed a friend, would kindly inform the missed friend of the festivities.

For instance, Jay lives with Matt and knows Paul. I don't have Matt or Paul's emails anymore, but since I stated in the invite, "Please forward this to anyone I might have missed," I am counting on Jay to notice that Matt and Paul are not on the list and to let them know. Similarly Patrick is roommates with Jesse, who's email I've also misplaced, and I don't have time to dig through call sheets to find his number, CAUSE IT'S MY FUCKING BIRTHDAY.

So all I have to say about the whiny motherfuckers who can't be bothered with a few extra emails from my other friends, or are too "busy" to be interested in the etymology of "fie" and the status of my god-daughter, or finally, have lost their ability to blithely use their delete button: if you think this is bad, just wait until I submit your address to a spambot.

Just kidding. But, seriously, I'm starting to regret even trying to have a party. Why do some people just HAVE to bring it down?

Don't hate the player...hate the birthday girl.

It's Birthday EVE!!!

2006-03-02T17:39:00.000-05:00

And I've got nothing to say. However, some of you (Amanda for one) may find this funny.

And since we've no place to go...

2006-02-18T11:26:00.000-05:00

So, I haven't been posting because I've been working on yet another feature. I know, I know, it's no excuse, however since I am working I'm not paralyzed with depression, and therefore my hair has not been cut so far this winter. Score!

But back to this particular post: Last week when we wrapped before our day off, the blizzard was just beginning. This seemed a prime time, as a crew, to tromp down to Lucy's and get our collective groove on. My groove entailed 3 martinis, several beers and at least two Jameson's. Neat, of course. It also entailed coercing Gabe into coming out on this stormy night. I told him he should've taken a cab. He naysayed. What I didn't realize is that he probably couldn't find one. Just as we couldn't when my liver decided I'd had enough (and my pool game was sucking wind).

But we got a cute picture.

Yay! And no one lost any toes!

Are you kidding me????

2006-01-18T03:05:00.000-05:00

This is what I don't get. Why in fuck are you going after the .05 percent that actually give a shit. That are actually interested in making things better. Maybe not exactly how you want it, but at least they give a shit. So why are you killing/maiming/torturing them. Cause they're not your problem. They actually care.

GWB, very obviously to me, does not. Duh.

It doesn't help that the picture actually looks like my Aunt Adeedent (Adrienne, for all you un-putchy-educated types) when I was a bit of a girl. No, it doesn't help at all, it actually pisses me off insanely.

That and the fact that I grabbed this shot over a week ago, before my hard drive died, before I reformatted it, AND SHE'S STILL A HOSTAGE.

Isn't there something self-defeating in their action? Or is it just me?

Fo' Shizzle

2006-01-17T16:54:00.000-05:00

Click this link. Enter website of choice. Hilarity shall ensue.

I will post again. Really I will.

Washington Heights Dunkin' Donuts Part III

2005-12-17T12:17:00.000-05:00

And, yet again, I found myself stymied by the phenomenon known as the WHDD vortex: where information provided to servers goes into a black hole, never to be seen again. Since I don't have any plans on breaking up with my boyfriend, I fear that the sequels will be many and mediocre, somewhat akin to the Friday the 13th or Nightmare on Elm Street series'.

Dunkin' Despair in the Heights

Today was an experiment in consistency. I tried to avoid the same developmentally disabled employee, but no amount of averting my gaze could erase the fact that I was next, and she was the server available.

"A large hazelnut latte, please."
[I'd like to note here that it seemed as though she read my lips, and considering that I'm pretty sure she doesn't know English, I found it a slight cause for concern.]
She goes to grab a cup, turns around questioningly. I repeat myself.
"Large hazelnut latte."
Finally the coworker who has a brain cell [and whom I suspect has thrown me knowingly, once again, to this imbecile, because she was able to take my order just a second before but wouldn't make eye contact] says something in what I believe is Spanish to my DDE. And no, I am not refering to Dwight D. Eisenhower. I wish. Latte making commences.
Coworker: "Would you like whipped cream?"
WHA??? I can have WHIPPED CREAM??? Why was I never presented with this option before? Oh, fie, FIE upon thee, Washington Heights Dunkin' Donuts!

So experiment performed with inconclusive results. Except for one. I am 3 for 3 in dissatisfaction.

According to CNN

2005-12-16T12:37:00.000-05:00

In other news: Dr. Evil wants his job back.

Washington Heights Dunkin' Donuts Redux

2005-12-15T13:41:00.000-05:00

So, once again I found myself testing my patience by ordering a Hazelnut Latte in the 'hood.

"Can I have a large hazelnut latte?"
"Uh..."
"Hazelnut. Latte. Large."
"You want caramel?"
"Hazelnut."
"How many sugars?"
"None."

A little better than last time, but man, I ALWAYS get the woman who clearly has no familiarity with fancy coffee drinks. Or English.

I'm famous!

2005-12-12T09:09:00.000-05:00

In a fit of procrastination, I Googled myself last night and found out I was just mentioned in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.

Pittsburgh on Broadway: A reunion at Times Square

Just so you don't have to waste your time reading the whole article, here is the pertinent bit:

Composer/director David Lenchus recited a roll call of Pittsburgh actors he's worked with, including Champlin, Christopher Hoch, Patricia Phillips and Brenda Bush, in his musical, "Poe"; Bush and Manu Narayan in "Chrysalis"; and Jason Carvell, Lori Faiella, Matthew Fletcher, Michael McEachran, Benjamin Moore and Cory Waletzko in Scott Sickles' "The Philosopher's Joke."

Sort of mad that I didn't know about the photo op, though. Probably could have been a good networking experience.

Who am I kidding? I'm such a wallflower.

Maudlin Morning Mind Meandering

2005-12-08T19:30:00.000-05:00

I should know better than to have "deep thoughts" before finishing my morning coffee, but it's just one of those things - once it's already happening, it's too late to prevent it.

On my way to set this morning I noticed that someone had strewn rice on the sidewalk. Perhaps as a "traction" measure for possible iciness (much like kitty litter). I don't know how effective it would be, but hey there it was.

Then I thought maybe it had been left out for the birds. Now, I had always been told you can't feed rice to birds because it will swell in their stomachs when it comes into contact with bodily fluids and cause the birds to explode. But I've also heard that is just a bunch of poppycock.

But then I thought, well, what about the birds in Asia, where the rice is grown. Do they not eat the rice? I thought that to be unlikely, but thinking of that led me to this.

As I walked to set, drinking my fancy Dunkin' Donuts Hazelnut Latte - and don't even get me started on how difficult it was to obtain that in the Washington Heights location

"How many sugars?"
"Uh, one?"
"One?"
"Yeah."
"Milk or cream?"
"What? It's a LATTE."
"Oh." (insert unintelligible muttering here between employees)

- I couldn't help but think about the people who must have farmed this rice, backs permanently bent, getting their few hours of listless sleep right now. People who could be just like me, only they were born to rice farmers in China. People with dreams and desires...people. For this rice, so easily bought in the store and tossed nonchalantly across the sidewalk so us poor New Yorkers wont slip, or worse, to fatten the pigeons.

It's strange how I can depress myself by thinking about how good I have it.

So let's look at a kitty, instead:

Captive Caption Contest

2005-12-06T17:00:00.000-05:00

I found the photo too irresistible. Of course I'll take all of the good ones...

"Don't you make me turn this car around!"

"Why it says right here in Chapter 3, Subsection H of the Dictator's Guide to Genocide..."

"If the book doesn't fit..."

"Don't cry for me Argentina"

"This Book of Shadows is WORTHLESS without the Charmed Ones!

"What Would Harry Potter Do?"

"YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!!!"

The Gripes of Wrath

2005-12-06T09:33:00.000-05:00

Two for the morning so far. Okay, maybe three.

Episode I - The Post Office

That's right, gentle readers, I made the mistake of ordering something and having it delivered via USPS. Now since I don't have a buzzer or intercom system on my building (an inconvenience that I believe is finally being rectified, because it just may be illegal), it is virtually impossible for me to receive anything when it is actually delivered unless they call me on the phone. Which the USPS is not going to do. And I would not want them to have my number. Ever.

Because I believe the USPS has a special method of finding it's employees. And by special method, I mean special. As in Ed. As in Special Ed. Because these people are not normal. And they clearly are not intelligent. Today's example:

"I don't even work over here."

Really? And how exactly is that more my problem than yours? Am I employed by the USPS? Am I responsible for your late coworkers? Perhaps, in fact, they're late because they're being delayed at some other lameass government agency where the employees have no incentive to provide good, if any, customer service whatsoever. I mean, where and to whom should we complain? Don't we pay their salaries through our taxes? In other words, aren't they accountable to the American people.

Which, as we well know, means they're accountable to no one.

And which leads me to the following statement, which I would never say about anything else: that mother fucking shit should be privatized.

I am not one of those people who thinks big business can do it better or that free markets are always the answer (health care, hello!), but in this instance I am moved to concede that only with competition will the postal service ever be able to mend its ways. When profit becomes the bottom line, lazy, inconsiderate and ill-skilled workers will be passed over for more competent counterparts. Not that they'll be perfect (take any fast food restaurant in the city for example). But they just HAVE to be an improvement. I mean, at this juncture, cardboard cutouts hitting the Staples "That Was Easy" button would be an improvement.

And the worse thing is that they have you by the balls AND THEY KNOW IT. So you can't start complaining, or saying things like, 'Lady, the post office has supposedly been open since 6:30am. It is now 8:30am. You mean to tell me that this is the first time you're noticing that 'No one's here yet'? And that I'm supposed to feel bad for you because you 'Just walked in'?" Because they have something that you need - that you can't get from anywhere else. YOUR PACKAGE. The item you already paid for. The parcel from Grandma. The letter from your LTR. So no matter how frustrating they are, or how incompetent, or rude, you just have to stand there and fume, add some cortisol to the layer of stress-induced belly fat, and probably take it out on some innocent bystander on the subway.

And don't even get me started on the way the mailman manages to mangle the mail while stuffing it into our mailbox. It's bestial.

Episode II - The Subway

Next stop, the A Train. Nothing wrong with the train. Don't get a seat at first, but that's fine, it's going express, it's moving, we're all good. Except for that bag in my hand. Which contains my lifeblood. A bag of hot mothers' milk.

Coffee.

I get a seat by 14th Street. Arrange my package at my feet, purse on lap, backpack still firmly planted on back. The bag is still in my hands, taunting me with wafting coffee aroma.

I look around. No one else has a beverage. I wait.

59th Street. Train clears out considerably - it's time for the longass express haul up to 125th Street. I remove the coffee from the bag. I look around, surreptitiously. Still I wait. I am a coward, but I convince myself that the coffee is probably still to hot to slurp comfortably.

125th Street. I decide that I'm going to risk it. I flip the top open and Oh! coffeeliciousness. I glance around guiltily, savoring the comforting blend of coffee, sugar and half and half. I wait for someone to try to deny my pleasure. In vain.

I exit the subway at 145 street, unticketed.

Unticketed?

Yes, dear readers, apparently the MTA has finally decided to enforce the long-standing rule of "No Open Containers" on city subway trains or buses.

I emailed them last night to clarify this rule. I mean, what really constitutes as an open container. If I flip the lid tab up on my coffee does that count as it now being open? What if I have a travel mug? Is it only open when I'm sipping from it? What if it's one of those "no spill" mugs, what then?

What about water bottles? Only open if I'm drinking it or if the seal is broken? What about fountain sodas? Closed without straw, open with?

I think it's patently unfair that in these times when every entrance into the subway is taking a risk of not coming back out again that the MTA would choose to focus on something that is not only so petty, but also such a waste of resources. Yes, transit cops should be on the lookout for businessmen trying to perk themselves awake with some joe, instead of terrorists or rapists or muggers or thugs. Not.

Episode III - Location

Well, I was going to gripe about the fact that the heat still isn't fixed. But then production managed to score about space heaters. So it's cool. 1 for 3 though.

Baby, it's cold outside

2005-12-05T11:11:00.000-05:00

For those of you who do not currently reside in New York, we're having a bit of a cold snap. As I left the apartment to walk to set today, I realized there was snow on the ground. Snow. Now since I didn't leave home all day yesterday (my only day off), it hit me as a surprise, because the forecast led me to believe we wouldn't see precip until Tuesday. But that's not what I wanted to talk about.

I get to set and after setting up, I begin to wonder why it's seems a tad bit chilly. I ask someone if the heat is on. I am then informed that it is once again not working and hasn't been since last night. And the super isn't coming until 3pm.

So it's 34 degrees outside right now. It's about 50 degrees inside. I am sitting indoors with a wool coat and hat on. I think I need to pull out my hair dryer.

I hate being cold.

"Get busy livin', or get busy dyin'."

2005-12-02T18:45:00.000-05:00

Okay, I acknowledge that last night's post was a little self-pitying ("A little?!?" you scream). However, I do believe that there was a salient point to it, which is this.

I'm not getting any younger.

Which leads to the above title, a quote from Shawshank Redemption. Inside all my boo-hooing and self-loathing lies the central kernel of the actual problem: I'm not making anything happen. I'm not recording, I'm not writing, I'm not networking, I'm not jamming. I'm the one who's going around calling myself a "singer/songwriter" with nothing to back it up. No demo. No gigs. Just scribbled lyrics and music.

I mean, it's just plain embarrassing. I claim this is what I REALLY do, who I REALLY am. Make-up is just a day job, coordinating just a day job, a way to pay mama's rent.

But all I REALLY do consistently is complain and regret how much time is passing. And question when/if I'm ever going to get around to living the life I feel I was meant to. Or is life just going to be a series of day jobs, of treading water, of just getting by until one day I awaken, sit up in bed and wonder how I've become a total stranger to myself. If I even still remember who my self is at that point.

So, I know I better get busy livin'. I'm aware that this should happen.

Wanna take any bets on whether it will?

Music makes the people come together...not

2005-12-02T01:47:00.001-05:00

So. I'm awake, upset and I need to be on set in 5 hours. Why awake? Because I'm upset. Why upset?

Because I'm never going to do anything that I dream of doing.

Wait, you say. Whoa, you spurt. What do you mean?

I mean that I am just a wannabe...actually, no, I'm worse than a wannabe...I'm a wannabe that's better than. In other words, I know that if I could just get my shit together (or perhaps, if I had gotten my shit together when I was hot enough to matter) I could be a real something and kick a lot of other people's asses.

Well, why upset then?

This.

This is who I work with. She talks about being a "singer/songwriter" all the time. And even though I feel I could dance musical circles around her the point is that I haven't. And she's hotter than me. That, too. It's like, why do I even try.

And then I realize.

That's the problem.

I don't

even

try.

So what the fuck am I living for.

Dumb-Ass Bitch

2005-11-29T11:15:00.000-05:00

So, today, the girlfriend of a (to remain unspecified) crew member took my talent, post make up, over to one of the set lights and remarked:

"Wow, you can't even see it."
[The Talent]"My beard growth?"
[The DAB]"No, the make up!"

Well, what did you think you fucking moron? That I don't know how to do my job? Or are you truly amazed?

Should I be pissed or should I be flattered?

Either way, your social skills are subpar, DAB. No wonder he talks to you like a child.

And I'm not even feeling exceptionally mean today. Or maybe I am, and I just have very little concept of what a bitch I truly am. I mean, I don't think I'm agressive, but people laugh at me (out loud, and with gusto) when I make that assertion. See, the cup half full person would have taken the DAB's comment as a compliment. The cup half empty person would take it as an insult.

Why do I take it as a threat? What does that say about me?

I believe it says that I think I'm a fraud. That's why.

Oh...you're one of THOSE

2005-11-28T08:34:00.000-05:00

So, my morning has gotten off to an oh-so-fun start. After specifically asking my talent not to run his hands through his hair, he walks two feet from me, checks his visage in the window of the pass van, and proceeds to do just that.

"I think it would be a bit more messed up."

Really? You think? Never mind that both you and the director said he should have a "slick" look. Never mind that the script specifically mentions that your character is now "all cleaned up." Never mind that the director said your hair is too poofy. Go ahead, run your hands through it. Certainly a male model turned actor knows more than a department head. Who has done more movies than you, by the way. Bay-atch.

It's going to be one of those shoots. I can feel it. Trying to keep continuity is going to make me crazy. Why do actors think they get to have an opinion on everything? My character this, my character that. My character's going to put a foot up your ass...what's your opinion on that?

Tomorrow...I mean Today...I mean this Morning...

2005-11-28T00:27:00.000-05:00

I have to be on set in 5.5 hours. That means I'll probably be getting 3.5 hours of sleep. Oh, it's going to be a F.U.N. day!!! Where F.U.N. stands for Fucking Unagreeably Nasty. And by that I refer to myself, dear readers. I'm going to be oh so F.U.N. tomorrow...I mean today...I mean in 3.5 hours when my alarm goes off.

But fear not, just because I have a new feature does not mean that you will be summarily abandoned as you were last time. No, I have learned my lesson and am commiting to blog every day of shooting. The insights gained will be boundless. Or maybe they will be tied up with ribbons. With little curliques at the ends. That are made with scissors. Yay.

Plus, this feature is much more low-key than the other. The bulk of it takes place in one location and I have three main characters who are all male. My main concern will be continuity, since the entire film takes place over one day. Gotta keep the hair from growing.

I just had a strange image of the Dunkin Donuts guy in my head (as in, "Time to make the Donuts"). Time to trim the sideburns.

Aaargh.

I'll add a pic from the end of the last shoot, just to make your day (and stroke my ego...nice ego...nice nice ego).

When a T-Bird is not a car...

2005-11-23T18:43:00.000-05:00

Did you all know that there are wild turkey's in Manhattan? And, no I did not capitalize "wild turkey" therefore I am not making a pun on bars that supply Wild Turkey. I mean actual birds of the turkey-type. One day, while shooting Superheroes near the Staten Island Ferry, the 2nd Unit DP, Ben Wolf, showed me a picture he had taken, of a wild turkey, in Batter Park. We were both stunned and amazed, and I was inspired to do my version of a wild turkey in Manhattan. Thankfully, I'm pretty sure Ben didn't take any pictures of that. I hope.

But Ben did find out about the turkeys:

Q. As I walked through the newly restored Battery Park recently, I saw a wild turkey calmly pecking at the ground. Could it have flown in from New Jersey? Or does the park keep a pet turkey on the grounds?

A. You must have met Zelda. That's the Parks Department's name for the wild turkey occasionally seen at Battery Park.

There is a different turkey (or turkeys) seen in Riverside Park and on occasion even near Lincoln Center. In recent years turkeys have moved south into Manhattan from woodlands in the north. Asked about the Battery Park turkey, a department spokesman said: "It is making friends with its new neighbors. Zelda is perfectly harmless, healthy and able to fly quite well whenever she desires. It is unusual that she is alone; normally turkeys are found in large to very large flocks.

As for their more likely local roosts, wild turkey populations live in Van Cortlandt Park and Pelham Bay Park in the Bronx, Inwood Hill Park in Manhattan and the Greenbelt in Staten Island, according to the Parks Department. There is, by the way, no hunting them in the city.

Once plentiful, the wild turkey was almost extinct in southern New York State by the mid-19th century. But in the late 1940's, a few wandered into western New York from Pennsylvania, and beginning in 1959, conservationists trapped their descendants and released them around the state. By the 1980's, flocks were appearing in woodlands north of the city. They often roost in trees, and are known to be agile and cunning.

Happy Thanksgiving. Eat bird.

After those messages...

2005-11-21T14:28:00.000-05:00

That's right, folks, I'm finally back. After a long hiatus (which, as far as I can tell, is different from a high anus, the latter also causing the t'aint to appear to have a more vast spread, at least on the male of the species), I have returned to spread joy, cheer, enlightenment, ennui and confusion to you, my merry foils. Today's spark of light hails from CNN.com:

Smoker tried to open airliner door

Now, I don't know about you, but that headline was IRRESISTIBLE to me. We learn further in the article:

[Defense lawyer] Shilton said Sellies has no memory of what happened on the flight and that she has a history of sleepwalking.

History of sleepwalking, eh? How does that apply here? One would think a history of sleepSMOKING may excuse the poor sedative and alcohol ridden woman. Perhaps sleepSKYDIVING could also be applied as a rationale. Sleepwalking? For amateurs, I tell you.

That's all for now, folks. I've missed you. Well, I've missed you missing me. Ah, heck, let me just go find a pool to stare at my own reflection in...

Yeah, so it's been awhile

2005-10-19T12:27:00.000-04:00

Which should make you all say, "Yay!" since that means I'm working like a mule and have no free time to post a blog. But, the bad news is that I miss rambling to you as much as you miss being rambled to. Well, probably more. But now, as I sit in a pass van at 47th and Mad, I have been hit by a wall of sleep. I'll be back.

There's a reason why "scungilli" makes you think of your bathtub

2005-09-21T01:28:00.000-04:00

My neighborhood has been host to the Feast of San Gennaro, being that my neighborhood is Little Italy, the hub of all things Italian in Manhattan. Seeing as it is a feast in that bastion of good old traditional Italian cooking, I became aware of a craving for fried calamari. It didn't help that all blocks leading to and from my apartment were lined with varied and sundry fried goodies, including, but not limited to: sausage and peppers, cheese steak, funnel cakes, and yes, even Snickers bars.

So one day earlier this week, when hunger had stricken and the pantry was bare, I knew it was the time. I had fared well Sunday night after the show (about which I will blog as soon as I have pix) with a choice of sausage & peppers from the corner of Mulberry & Houston that was ginormous (and also so yummy that I declined to share any with Gabe...that's right folks, I was like a mother bear with a cub...that I was eating...hmmm). Anyway, I felt that my chances were good at having a satisfactory rendezvous with that most culinarily capricious frutti di mare, the squid.

I. was. wrong.

What I purchased from the vendors at the San Gennaro was possibly the worst...no, it WAS the worst calamari I have ever had in my life. And I'm from Pittsburgh!!!

What I paid $8 for ($7 + $1 tip for the girl to scoop it into a paper bowl) was redolent of aged rubber bands, battered in the skin from the underside of Grandmama Giannini's arms and not so much fried as somehow dessicated, perhaps through some judicious use of silica gel (you know, the stuff they use to keep the insides of purses dry). I was so appalled, that were it not for my innate inability to deal with confrontation, I would've walked right back up to the stand, looked the girl straight in the eye and proclaimed,

"You should be ASHAMED to sell this."

As it was, I threw most of it away. And then I purchased a Chinese steamed chicken bun for 75 cents.

And, boy was it fucking good.

There's A Signpost Up Ahead

2005-09-11T22:25:00.000-04:00

That was one of the lines from the cabaret show that John wrote, Detour.

That was one of the signs from the same show. It had been my idea to add it in on the Provincetown tour. I would hold it up during a few sections that had no observable transitions and hopefully get a laugh.

No one laughed. But granted, it's hard to get 7 people to laugh. For an audience to feel comfortable enough to emit an audible response requires a certain number of participants, what I like to call the Quorum Quotient.

The Quorum Quotient can be described by the following equation:

Q = ((N ÷ S) x ((A + 1) x T)) ÷ L

Where Q is Quorum Quotient, N is Number of Audience Members, T is Length of Show (or Time), A is Alcohol Consumed, L is Light (as in how well the Audience Members can see each other and is reflected in a number between 0 and 1, 0 being pitch black and 1 blinding sunlight) and S is Number of Empty Seats.

Okay, for instance, let's analyze our Ptown Saturday night audience. N = 7, S = 50, A = 2, T = 1, and L = .6. So:

Q = ((7 ÷ 50) x ((2 + 1) x 1) ÷ .6 = .7

Any number below 1 is NOT GOOD. For instance, let's say that it had been darker in the performance space and set L = .2:

Q = ((7 ÷ 50) x ((2 + 1) x 1) ÷ .2 = 2.1

Already you see the effect that darkening the room has. Now let's double our audience number, setting N = 14:

Q = ((14 ÷ 50) x ((2 + 1) x 1) ÷ .2 = 4.2

And we've doubled our Quorum Quotient!!! But, let's say that we've got a completely sober audience:

Q = ((14 ÷ 50) x ((0 + 1) x 1) ÷ .2 = 1.4

Look how the Quorum Quotient drops without alcohol!!! Nobody's laughing in that room!!!

Now let's examine an ideal scenario: Full house, relatively dark room and a two-drink minimum.

Q = ((50 ÷ 50) x ((2 + 1) x 1) ÷ .3 = 10

A WHOPPING 10!!! A 10, I say!!!!!

So the scale works something like this...when the Quorum Quotient is between 5 and 10, chances are that, unless your show totally sucks, your audience feels comfortable enough to laugh, cry, and/or applaud - in other words they can be audible while feeling anonymous. A QQ between 3 and 5 requires that your show is really tight and well-constructed, as the audience won't necessarily feel their response is of unknown origin. And pretty much any QQ between 0 and 3 means you'll feel like your doing the show at an echo point on the edge of the Grand Canyon.

Interestingly enough, this post is not about the Quorum Quotient. It's about finding a piece of one's memories lying in the gutter on a street in New York. It's not so much sad or angering as just somehow unfortunate. We're all just passing through this world and we know that our existence here is transient, yet to have it stuck right in front of your face just seems like fate giving you the big bitchslap.

September 9, YDAU

2005-09-09T12:30:00.000-04:00

Item from Cynthia Turner's CYNopsis, a guide to happenings in TV, Commercial and Movie Production that I subscribe to:

Here is product placement taken to a whole new level. London-based ad agency Saatchi & Saatchi has launched a new division called GUM, created to target the elusive teen and young 20s demo. The idea is simple, according to The Wall Street Journal: Saatchi & Saatchi is offering advertisers a sort of human billboard - that is, owning and naming their own all-female hip-hop band, having their products seen/used/worn on stage and in music videos, and if they want, paying a little extra, have their product names used within the lyrics of the band's songs. The band made its first appearance last evening at Saatchi & Saatchi offices, and unless you knew any better, you'd never know it was a marketing device. The agency calls this Branded Entertainment, and finds masking advertising within entertainment is a better way to reach this tough young demo. Also coming from GUM, commissioned entertainment for other media including TV, film, cellphones and video games.

As if it weren't bad enough to try to compete as an artist who strives to NOT sound pop, now there's this? For any of you who've read Infinite Jest, I see the Year of the Depend Adult Undergarment coming real fucking soon.

Why do you do what you do when you did what you did to me?

2005-09-01T19:47:00.000-04:00

Ah, yes, a little Jermaine Jackson to get us going today. You see, today I have a topic. Yes, indeedy.

Anonymity in a Transparent Society

I got to thinking about this subject while perusing Gabe's blog and checking out the comments. There was one person who left a seemingly snarky comment while declining to take credit for it. To me, there is something just plain cowardly about that. I mean, if you're going to bother to make a statement, why not own it? Unless you don't really believe it? Or perhaps you're just trying to hurt someone intentionally, but obviously owning up to it would make you the bad guy, and more obviously that cannot be allowed to be true? But secretly you know that your target will suspect it was you, and this garners the ATTENTION you so crave? Without the BLAME? Like that little last barb, that little last word in the argument, the anonymous snark lives to feel superior to their prey. Just like your old shriveled up spinster aunt, they just can't wait to try to take the wind out of your sails. Why? Because they are self-absorbed, insecure and feel entitled to some recompense by life.

Yet, in this society we blog in, where everyone uses site-trackers and monitors their comments and who's "watching" them, is it really possible that an anonymous snark can remain anonymous for very long? I mean, to truly remain anonymous, the snark would have to go to further lengths than merely not signing into blogger to achieve this goal. Hence the transparency of the system usually renders anonymity impotent, for it would be shocking if old snark-i-poo is so dedicated to remaining unknown that he/she/it stops by the NYPL or perhaps a local Internet Cafe to perform his/her/its snarking activities.

So why not own up to it? Why not own it? Because, my friends, obsession is a powerful motivator, causing us to do and say things that we know can't stand up to the light of day. Obsession causes us to stalk each other's blogs, Google variations of each other's names, check when's the last time we were on Friendster. Look up at the light in the window and remember what it was like looking down from it. Obsession is a funny thing. It makes us think we'll never forget things that are best forgotten. And, until present times, obsession was private.

But now, with all of our moves tracked by bots and cameras and satellites, can we ever claim true anonymity? Someone, somewhere out there, is watching. Remember that, when you're deciding whom to call, when to forward and whether to post.

And, by the way, though I used the word "impotent" in the above post, this post is by no means about my, or anyone else's, sex life. Just to clarify.

Welcome Back, Brendar

2005-08-31T20:07:00.001-04:00

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

2005-08-29T21:20:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-29T12:27:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-29T10:43:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-28T10:55:00.000-04:00

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...

2005-08-27T18:11:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-18T10:24:00.000-04:00

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...

2005-08-11T12:45:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-11T12:40:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-10T11:12:00.000-04:00

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...

2005-08-08T17:13:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-07T22:00:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-05T11:06:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-04T17:52:00.000-04:00

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

2005-08-04T11:50:00.000-04:00

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...

2005-08-04T10:31:00.000-04:00

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...

2005-08-02T14:03:00.000-04:00

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.

It's late, but I'm home

2005-07-30T04:10:00.000-04:00

Finally, the move is done. I've been trying to get some stuff unpacked, but I think that at 4AM, by the laws of diminishing returns, it's time to sit back on the bed, post-shower (which was sorely needed), and drink a lovely glass of merlot. Well, pretend like you're going to finish it, even though we all know it'll be a miracle if you stay awake long enough to finish this post. And by you, I mean me. And by me, I mean worn out.

But I'm happy. And, boy, is that nice.

Goodnight, fair ones.

And the Next Blog button does me right...

2005-07-29T12:31:00.000-04:00

and leads me to this blog: The Swill Files. Today's post concerns the lyrics of a soon to be smash hit "Shit Cookie." With a link to said song. YOU MUST GO THERE NOW!!!

The Brendar has spoken.

PS - Nothing much ever came of the cage match. My opponent seemed slightly listless and bored, and must have moved onto another borough. Or Boston.

I'm only happy when it...

2005-07-27T18:07:00.000-04:00

The weather just got all WRATH OF GOD-like out here in Brooklyn. If I didn't know better, my Western PA Spidey Sense would tell me to get the heck out of Dodge, thar be a turnado on the way.

But, nah, it's just Brooklyn with yellow-gray skies and heavy winds.

Sigh, where's the excitement in that? If you're going to go acting all WRATH OF GOD-like, then you should be able to back it up. You hear me, wuss-ass storm clouds out there? I even turned off my A/C so I could hear the violent loveliness of your whirling dervish-like gusts of air. The trees beckon me with the backs of their leaves, yet still I think I will be singularly unimpressed.

Whoa! What was that? The first little inkling of a rumble? Bring it on, storm! I can take it!

Stay tuned for updates from the Brenda vs. WRATH OF GOD-like Mother Nature Cage Match.

I'm a fool to do your dirty work...oh, yeah...

2005-07-26T15:13:00.000-04:00

I don't want to do your dirty work, oh, no...

Today, my putatively last day on this job, is the day that my boss would like me to threaten everyone...either for unpaid invoices, or for shoddy work on his condo. Now, the problem with this is that, if you know me, you would know that I am stranger-phoning-aphobic, by which I mean I don't even like to call to order pizza and will foist the responsibility onto someone else at the nearest opportunity. This being said, apparently my boss has gotten it into his head that I'M GOOD AT DOING IT. AAAAAAAAARGHHHHHH!!!

Must...pick up...phone...
Must...dial...number...
somebody......help........me.............

Not The Greatest, but The Longest Story Ever Told

2005-07-24T13:17:00.001-04:00

And it doesn't star Charlton Heston. Seriously, if you've only got one beer left in the fridge, do yourself a favor, run out to the bodega now and get a fresh six pack. You'll be glad you did.

Way back in the year 2000, our cavalier adventurer was lured into the borough of Manhattan by her relationship with a boy...let's call him Billy. Brenda spent A LOT of time with Billy, who could never come to her lovely one-bedroom apartment in Astoria because he had a dog that would need to be walked. Never mind that he had a car and the apartment was dog-friendly...this is beside the point (still bitter, apparently). Since young Brenda seemed to be spending most of her nights at his place, she decided it would be best if she moved closer to his place (taking the train to Astoria to pick up clothes was getting to be a drag, never mind that her cat was well nigh on calling the ASPCA to report her for neglect). So our intrepid explorer took a 6 x 8 room in an apartment in Gramercy. For $1000/month. Actually, I think it was $1027, but you get the drift. And the full, true, one-bedroom that had been hers and hers alone in Astoria? $800/month. But I digress...

At the same time as our fearless wanderer was moving, her car, a 1984 Buick Riviera named Mabel, died. We pause and take a moment of silence to remember Mabel.

Since Mabel was indeed old, and not worth rescuing given the impossibility of parking her in the new Manhattan abode, Brenda called the junkyard fairies to take her away to heaven. Papers were signed, plates were removed, insurance was canceled, and Brenda was once more a vehicle-less denizen of New York.

Flash forward to 2001. Brenda's driver's license is due to expire in March, but she knows she has a grace period of one year after it's expiry to renew it. Since she isn't driving, she puts it off. Plus, she's just really talented at putting things off.

Flash forward to 2002. Brenda's friends Giff and Lisl are getting married in Hawaii. Yay! The want her to sing in the wedding. Yay! She needs a valid ID to board a plane. Boo! So Brenda finally goes to the DMV to renew her license.

*if there was dramatic something bad is going to happen music, it's cue would be NOW*

Apparently, little Miss Thang failed to realize that in New York State, one must return their license plates when no longer in possession of the car to which they were registered. In other words, according to the DMV, our heroine was still driving around a 1984 Buick Riviera without insurance. Which is a no-no in our fine society. Never mind that they only need look through their records to see the precipitous drop-off in parking tickets as of November 2000. In their eyes I was a law-breaking miscreant. Needless to say, you are not allowed to renew your license while under the cloud of suspicion of illegal car usage.

Panic ensues. Must go to Hawaii. Must sing at wedding. Giff & Lisl will KILL me for being such an idiot.

Realize that I must have left the plates in the old apartment in ASTORIA. Try to get in touch with the landlord there - he doesn't return my calls (just like he never returned my deposit by the way, but again, I digress (are you getting that sinking feeling that I have an innate disability to deal with reality...you should be)).

Now, if you're not from NY you may not know this, but NY State licenses have their expiry printed in red. I had a red marker pen. 2001, can easily convert to 2004 with a lovely red marker pen.

You're saying, "No, you didn't!"

Yes. Yes, I did. Desperate times call for desperate measures and Hawaii was calling and I wasn't backing down. But, oh, what a tense flight that was for me - there was a layover in San Francisco, so I knew I was going to have to show that ID three times. Once upon arriving at JFK. Once at the gate at JFK. And once at the gate at SFO. Hell, I didn't even go outside to smoke at SFO, because I knew that would add an additional chance of scrutiny of the ID. And as you all know, I was a pretty good smoker back then, and that meant that for about 10 hours I didn't have one at all. Yes, the shock on your face says it all.

Needless to say, with much trepidation and stress, I made it to Hawaii and the wedding...which was one of the best experiences I've ever had. But I won't digress here about that. "Were you worried about getting back?" you ask. Hells, no. What better excuse to be stuck in Hawaii!!! But, unfortunately (or fortunately, we'll never know for sure) I made it back with the same doctored ID.

Now, you may think this is the end of the story. Ha! You are SO wrong.

Flash forward again to 2003. Since the last time we visited our girl with the dubious judgment, she has fallen in love and become engaged. However, to get married, she has to have a valid ID to apply for a marriage license.

*remember that dark, bad things happen music from before? well the composer has made a variation on it, and it has begun playing NOW*

You ask, "Why not report the plates lost or stolen?" Brenda has an unjustifiable, pathological fear of all things cop. Actually, she is just terrified of any unfamiliar situation, place or thing. So she thinks, and who's to convince her otherwise, that since she doesn't really know all the laws that go into auto-owning-dom, there's a sincere chance that she could be arrested and thrown into jail. Or more likely, they'll just all look at her like she's a really, really stupid girl. And that is more than she can bear, thin-skinned as she is.

So, instead of doing what any normal person (you know, the ones who balance their checkbooks, pay their bills mostly on time, and see the dentist once a year) would do, Brenda decides (since all of her foreign friends have bugged her about it for years) to get a Passport.

Passport? Our card-carrying adventurer didn't ever have a passport?!?!? Yes, dear shocked reader, it is true. Little Miss B is not a world traveler. She has not left the country (except to go to the 51st and 52nd states, Puerto Rico and Canada). She has never seen Paris. Or the Taj Mahal. Or Amsterdam. Or even freakin' London, for that matter. But I digress...

So, using a connection she had at Turkish Airlines, Brenda obtains a "false" itinerary that makes it possible for her to obtain a last minute passport. Why, you ask? Oh, don't ask why. Let's leave it at rushing headlong into a marriage that hindsight now informs me wasn't meant to last. I'm sure I'll write of that topic another day.

Which leads me to today. I, the most brilliant and fairest in the land, have done perhaps the most stupid thing ever.

I laundered my passport.

Weekend in... New England?

2005-07-23T21:26:00.000-04:00

Well not exactly New England...more like the Catskills. Still a great song by our friend Barry - it always makes me cry. And it was used in The Muppets Take Manhattan, as the love song between Kermie & Miss Piggy. Which also makes me cry.

Up here there was much fun to be had. Today, there were treats such as deep-fried pickles and Hurley Mountain Lager. And baby...

But earlier there was adventure to be had at the watering hole. Yes, I said watering hole.

But at the end of the day, none of it would be nearly as much fun without...
BABY!!!

Ommmmm...or how prenatal yoga saved my life

2005-07-22T22:16:00.001-04:00

Well, my life may be an exaggeration...but suffice it to say the yoga class I attended this afternoon (my first yoga class ever, to be precise) was completely awesome. And just incase you're thrown by the prenatal part - it's my friend's class (who just had a baby (it's actually pre and post natal specific)) and additionally I am prenatal...as in I'm not pregnant yet. Which puts me clearly in the pre category. End of sidetrack.

Oh...my...God! It was SO what I needed. This in addition to the fact that I decided to throw caution to the wind and come upstate with Giff & Lisl despite the fact that I'm moving next Friday and desperately need to start packing. So Plus #1: weekend in country with great friends and their smooshy little baby (and awesome dog). Plus #2: Yoga class that didn't threaten to justify my almost always unjustifiable anxiety and fear of things new and foreign that I may just very well not be good at right away. Plus #3: brought up my favorite fucked-up Gore Vidal book, Kalki, to reread. Minus #1: No boy. But we can't have everything, can we? Well, at least not this weekend. Oh, I forgot Plus #4: great leisurely cooking and wine. I will more than likely add to my impending girth this weekend. Which, hopefully, six story walk-up will make a dent in.

Additionally, I've come to the conclusion that since this yoga class proved not to be scary that perhaps I should find one in the city and actually exercise for the first time in 10 years. Maybe that will help with the weird post-quitting smoking fluctuations that my body seems to be going through.

Sorry for lack of pithy in this missive. I guess I'm just too relaxed and in too good of a mood to be sardonic. Yay for me.

Well, now I've done it...

2005-07-18T09:30:00.000-04:00

This morning, I broke (what I perceive) to be Blogging's First Law:

Thou shalt not take down thy post once thou hast posteth it.

I wrote a somewhat scathing post last night, which, through checking sitemeter, no one had seen. Reflecting upon it this morning, I realized that it may imply things that I did not necessarily mean to imply - i.e., it may seem to go farther than what I had intended.

Which is a pity, because it WAS scathing.

(imagine that last bit in Baby Stooey's voice, and you've got it)

On a brighter note, two new songs. No happy ones yet, though. Wonder why that could be?

Well, it was only a matter of time...

2005-07-14T21:10:00.000-04:00

...before we found out that George Lucas was right all along.

'Tatooine' Planet Discovered

Next, watch out for Bespin!

Chalk up yet another for the side of Stupid

2005-07-14T14:47:00.000-04:00

TOT FOUND HANGING OUT WINDOW; MOM ARRESTED

Authorities arrested a woman after finding her one-year-old girl hanging out a second floor apartment window while the woman was asleep on the couch.

Ontario County Sheriff's deputies were called to the apartment shortly before 4:30pm by report of an unattended child in the window. Deputies say the girl was hanging out an open window when they arrived.

Twenty-year-old Jennifer King of Phelps was charged with endangering the welfare of a child. Her daughter was unharmed and put into the care of her father.

Because he did such a good job in bringing up the mother...

I hate when I forget the pithy title...

2005-07-14T09:13:00.000-04:00

Okay, get ready, because this is going to be a long post. If you smoke, light one up. If it's morning, pour yourself some coffee first (or perhaps some instant Chai - I've heard it's lovely). If it's evening, you definitely have time to shake up a martini. Or stir. Whatever works best for you.

For little over a week I have been dog-sitting for my wonderful friends Giff & Lisl, who live on the UWS. Now, having not spent a consistent amount of time in that harbinger of khakis, baby carriages and frat boys, I was amazed by what I found.

The Upper West Side stinks. It reeks to high heaven. The stench as I walk the dog every morning is actually unbelieveable. As in I still can't believe that such a family-oriented, upper-to-middle-income neighborhood could possibly smell that bad. You ever notice how grease congeals in the pan after you've fried, let's say, hamburgers? It gets that cloudy sort of sheen to it? That is what the gutters and curbside roadways are like. If someone out there has an industrial-neighborhood sized bottle of 409, it needs to be dumped on every street and sidewalk in the UWS. I mean, really, it makes the meat-packing district seem clean. Well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but not much.

On a separate note, after I finished walking Ellie I proceeded to walk to the subway, wearing what I call my "Santa Camo" (my camoflauge jeans that are red, green, black and white). I received two unsolicited compliments on them, one from a man pulling a shopping cart and clearly drinking some form of alcohol from a paper bag. My question is this: when your fashion sense appeals to habitual drunks, is it time to rethink your style? Or is it simply that my choices are so universal as to appeal to whinos and hipsters alike? Note I didn't say whiners and hipsters. Because that would be the same thing. Disturbing morning.

And finally - I can hardly believe that spam faxing still exists. Yet, as I walked into the office this morning, there it was in black & white, a barely resistible offer to reduce my mortgage rates! Because, when shopping for a mortgage for the property I don't have, my first thought is - hey, I should look on the fax machine! That's a reliable source of offers for financial services! What makes it even better is that the fax assures me that it is information that I requested for my employees. Boy, I must've been having one of those multiple-personality days last week, cause, gosh darn, I just don't remember asking for this!

It also claims:

Bruised Credit? No Problem!

What if I have beheaded credit? What if I have credit that makes investing in an internet start-up with a boll weevil look more attractive? Cause, guess what...Mama Brenda ain't never gonna be no property-owner, no-sir-ee Bob!

Sigh.

I hope you are now finished with your ciggie/coffee/Chai/martini, and with any luck, are ready for another. Because I'm all about caring. And sharing is caring. But Sharon is just a city in Pennsylvania. Where, mind you, they have some of the best wings - at Quaker Steak & Lube, my friend, that's where.

ramble ramble ramble ramble ramble.............