Not a real blogger

Greg Walloch and I were talking after the PVC (Poetry Versus Comedy) show last week about performing at WYSIWYG show together {horrific realization of the product placement in that last phrase--ah well, to make art is to have to advertise}, how much fun it was, and the response that we had gotten. He told me that there was some woman who rated everyone on her blog. I guess that is what blogs are for, so everyone can be their own Roger Ebert/Simon Cowell/Ed McMahon's Star Search and rate everything in the world in order to identify themselves (and that is not said to disparage the girl or her blog, because more people probably read her than me, and she's probably very topical, as is the going definition of a blog--although, who gives a shit about topical: life is ancient, and everything topical has cycled around for eons and eons, so let me time travel and talk about what the fuck I want. Also, I apparently got all 5 stars for my quick-spat version of being a ho and talking about it. God Bless America, I am going on the road with this baby...) and basically Sing their Life. It just seems so unnatural to me that that is what we are doing now, as if we are done talking about ideas (or perhaps just momentarily tired of it, New Dark Age come on!) and we are just going to talk about each other. It is probably going to be a long time of us doing that before we snap the other way and try to expand more than just our technology. Although critique is important. It keeps all us artist types relevant. The point of communicating is to communicate, to touch, to join, to meet, to see. And if all your utopian elocutions are doing splattering off people's dress shirts, then people need to "boo"-up for themselves.

At any rate, Greg was also telling me about some blogger giving him the comment that he wasn't a "real blogger" and after years of I am sure, being told what he was and was not, should or should not be, I am sure this man gives a shit. However, I thought it was an interesting distinction. And probably apt in the end, as "real bloggers" seem to be people who cannot experience a breath in this life without having a public opinion on it, and there are those of us who seem to be opinion phonies--while eloquent, we just can't stop caring about ourselves enough to stay in constant contact with our potential audience. I guess I am going to be secretary or archivist of that club, as I am not a real blogger either. In essence, I love the form of being able to write privately and be spied upon knowingly. It's my kind of funny art fetish. But I am not like most of my friends who seem to want to share every event they went to, participated in, report on every email forward they have received or silly story about their aunt's puppy's rash. I know this is the stuff of life, but really, isn't all of this tedious enough in the flesh--should we really be bringing it into the spheres of the pyschic and intellectual? There is so much already in that sphere that we haven't taken care of yet. Alright, blatantly I am a snob. I just see no reason to talk to the people who are interested in the discussion of puppy rash. Or who want to waste time mocking it.

I am, however, interested in consistently contradicting myself, so let me know when I betray that diatribe by doing it, please.

So in other retrospective news (damn blogger for not letting me back date my blogs anymore):

What I have been up to--

• Did a taping show at Mo Pitkins on Weds. March 1st. One of the better comedy shows I have ever done in terms of the general level of talent. All sort of people on the underground comedy scene... although we all occasionally pop up at a club doing some random shit--bringing all our friends out so that they don't have money to buy us drinks afterward--most of these people produce their own comedy shows in bars and other holes around town, blog their little asses off, and make sure their shit is always out there, even if it's every week to the same 10 people. There weren't any of those horrific lulls in the night where someone who has a lot of falsely supportive friends and family comes out and coughs up their stinky soul for everyone to get sick over. However, the drawback it seems is the lack of drink minimum and built anticipation of the audience. Comedy club audiences have that knack for being from NJ and less intellectually snobby, therefore ready to laugh at all the vagina jokes they can handle. Plus they have paid a bunch of cash, so someone is going to deliver the goods before they leave. Our audience was decidedly more studied, and was perhaps waiting for an informative lecture on the history of time while they studied the show from an amused distance. People were good, but everyone was hung up over Lent or something.
• Went to do some karaoke at Sing Sing after aforementioned show with my surprise entourage of Breen and Jesse (Breen's in town from New Orleans looking for law jobs for the summer), Alexis whose wit seems to make her ever-thinner, and who, in the parallel universe of fetish in my mind, occupies a Jodhpur-wearing Mistress Sonia role, And Greg (not Walloch, but a 'Burg denizen with a shaved head and goatee which just whispers pervert all over your pink parts. These are the people that I draw with my siren song of insanity. He's a sweetie though. And his wife's really hot). I did some classic bar karaoke which I can cross of my list of experiences I didn't know I wanted to have (probably repeatedly), and then we went to Lit and hung out in the downstairs lair of dancing and other deviant activity. There we had some bad drinks in plastic cups and danced to a random mix of mostly good and entirely too retro music. I flung sweat off my body onto other patrons with gyrations praised by hot girls presumed Euro. Everyone was saying German, but I was feeling Canadian. Tall Canadian girls and I have an unspoken thing for one another. The most random part of the evening was being accosted by the drunk Korean girl while waiting in line for the bathroom. She hurtled herself onto Alexis and myself with her light and peached intoxicated bones and perfect spongy skin. She had a sliding accent of drunk and horny, and therefore we never got a name, or what her story actually was. But apparently she wanted to fuck. She grabbed Alexis and myself on boobs and crotch at different times to intimate this to us over the unsting of the music. Apparently she was cheating on her boyfriend who was cheating on her, or who wasn't but didn't have as big a dick as the guy she was cheating with, or wanted to cheat with perhaps. It was unclear. When the bathroom door opened, and I departed from her to leave the details with Alexis while I peed, she followed me to explain, locking the door behind us and pulling down her pants. She peed and complained that her boyfriend was Korean and wasn't going to fuck her, but she wanted to fuu-uu-uu-uuk she explained, with an emphasizing crotch grab to me. She finished peeing, and then it was my turn to be entirely free with my body and share a drunken pee with her. I took my whiz while she talked about how she wanted to be fucked noo-oo-oo-oow with a big dick (like she had finally come to some ground-breaking conclusion on this subject) and reworked several scarves around her neck and waist. It's a good thing that I am too socially submissive to have any boundaries. I would have had a difficult time arguing with her that she'd have to tell me this and feel me up through the door while I peed. It is this defect that has made me such an accepting individual. However, I did peel off toward the back room as we both exited the lavatory, hoping that her fucking momentum would land her bird-like arms heavily on the shoulders of visitors longer amused than I. Funny that we walked out of the bathroom together. When the bathroom door initially opened to let me in, two girls walked out, and rather than think that they were in there doing what girls do: peeing and talking together (it's a sacred right of pack intimidation that women go through in bonding, hunting, etc.), all I thought was, where's the coke, ladies? I am sure two other people saw a big black lady and a small Korean prettybird fly out of the lavatory and thought quite the same thing.
  

It is because of nights like this, and all of the vodka gimlets that I apparently can't stop drinking, that I have had a cold for the past 7 days that I am not even thinking about getting rid of yet. All this in prep for another weekend of hellish hours and feelings of inadequacy. But more on that later as the saga of my unemployment continues.

NOWSWIG--No one will see what I got

Thank you people who have now looked at my blog. There is a proud community of like, 8 of you. Although I think I may have lost a couple of my regulars in my hiatus of ho-hum since November/December-ish. Look back at fun things and judge me. There will be funner things to come. But sometimes you are broke-down and stumble around, and you don't have your head held up, and it takes you a while to get your pride back. The good thing is that under the cover of humility truly great things are done, and you can float around princess-waving on your laurels for a while on that.

But keep looking. And commenting. It will give me obligation to someone/something in this world, and that makes for good things only! Let me tell you!

Last night's WYSIWYG show was phenomenal. It was actually my first time attending, though I have been hearing about them forever. That's the way I take part in culture, apparently. I wait for my engraved invitation to participate, I show up and gush and then latch myself on permanently through a series of follow-up email.

I am completely sweet on Jonno who is Mr. Fleshbot, and actually had the story that drove it deep and drove it home in the world of "worst.sex.ever." Leave it to me to find the cute gay man and want to snuggle and drool on him. He also promised me some sexy swag from the bot. I know I mentioned condoms and lube, but what I meant was TOYS. I need TOYS! How can I be the outspoken sexual organism that I am and not have some sex bling to show off. The Assimilated Negro was on the money for his whole story about sex on shrooms. It's so hard to describe the kind of synergistic dissociation that occurs on psychedelics, particularly when it comes to then engaging in the most present activity you should find yourself in (sex, duh), but he was right on point. The build up to the phone call from Kate--everyone must get comfortable with that call you know is coming. When you know it you know it, and you must answer and accept. And throwing up on genitalia always makes for a good cringer as well.

The night was just full of people who were good writers, interesting people, and really at the forefront of their shit (to be academic about it). It was just a privilege to be considered among the company. Audacia Ray lives up to her name in the best ways, and she's my second editrix (I am assuming I can call her that cause it's my blog), the first being Editrix Abby, who makes me happy just thinking about her. I got nothing to say about Todd Levin cause he's funny and amazing and original and he knows it. Was so glad to meet Hanne Blank and Emily Deprang, one of them talking as a sex worker (phone) and one as someone who tried to whore herself (amateur) because of her need for takeout. In that order. And Greg Walloch just makes me happy, especially knowing that his sexual encounters are being scheduled into someone's palm pilot.

I also had the privilege of bringing Jen Dziura as my plus one to the night, who freaked when she saw my email, and told me that I was reading with her ex-girlfriend. She wouldn't tell me who, but I figured it out when Jen volunteered to read as the Big-Bad HJ nightmare in Todd Levin's story of his troubled sexual past (or has he would put it, times when he "made vaginas frown"), and Emily grabbed my arm and went, "that's my ex girlfriend!" And then I went, "oh, tee-hee. I brought her." Good times. Anytime you meet a payment... Anytime you need a friend.

I chose not to have my segment taped, which I will regret and appreciate alternately. Probably mostly regret, on the pure level of feeling like a pejorative pussy. Like at my birthday party when I bailed out of singing my 6th-grade talentshowtryouttrauma song Mariah Carey's "Can't Let Go." Actually no one remembers or cares but me, but you always regret the doors you didn't open, the walls you didn't face, and at least try to climb over. Cool is the opiate for shame.

But I figured that once it's on video, then it's on site and promo stuff, and then I don't know if some stranger is going to email my parents a video of me talking about my whole sex life. That might have actually been the best way to break the news to them (I am still afraid that I am going to have to come out as a ho to my parents who keep their heads in some warm California sand about my life/personality/etc., so I know that means I will eventually have to). And the thing is, when you're famous, everybody finds that shit charming. And you are surprised at how willing your parents are to accept you when you are paying your own damn bills with your filth and theirs too. My mom might even call it "cute" which is her highest monicker of praise (My first role playing the "Stage Manager" in "Our Town" in high school--the only play she's ever seen me in--was "cute." The message of unmitigated love, appreciation and respect I left for her on her answering machine after she sent my ass food and supplies--cause I am unemployed and rejectable these day--was "cute.").

Plus I figured that I am not quite done with what that piece is yet, and that was definitely an abridged version of something I think is like, a whole show (yet) for the world. Although, honestly, that's exactly the kind of thing that needs to be on video. It should be my gift to the world. Joining in the voices of women who will not recant their sex lives. Whatever, I am not nearly the first or last, but I just have a fun point of view on the topic. And I got some good love from the audience there as well. I mean, what a fucking friendly packed crowd. I really should have taped that shit. If only to acquire a copy and use the laughter on future recordings of my comedy and my last will and testament (when I am bequeathing all that shit I don't have to people--insert uproarious laughter). But I know there will be another opportunity, and will hopefully mean that I will have control over it, so it is sure to go nowhere.

Also I wore my hair Whitney-Houston-"I Wanna Dance with Somebody" natural, cause I thought I was going to go to some audition today where I was going to be a somewhat afrocentric DIVA for some musical play (aside from the fact that my hair is that way in the headshot, and casting people, particularly for bigger shows, can be stupid). But I bailed on the audition today, because my throat is sore, and there was no clear information whether the character I would be trying out for would sing or not, but I knew they would be wanting gospel that I couldn't bring. I didn't really have a song prepared, nor did I sleep much last night, nor do I have heat or hot water right now because the plumber George that is looking after the building while the landlord George (it's how you know it's Astoria and everyone is Greek. No lie: my landlord's name is George Georgedakis) is in Florida for the winter (like the graceful waddling landlord bird he is) is not fixing the problem that causes us to lose hot water temporarily every 8 days and is now causing our radiators to spew water and soak our ridonkulous 70s shag carpeting. And someone ate my homework, and it was probably me when I was stoned. So I didn't go. And it's a good thing cause I still have 85,000 things to do that don't pay me a damn dime, but are somehow an investment in my life. I guess artists have to be open-minded socialists and dharma bums, because when you are never getting paid to do anything that you do well, you have to start believing in other things having greater meaning.

Only problem is now that I want it back to straight for this play that I am doing in TML this weekend and I don't have the energy to wash it again, comb through it for a half hour so it can uncurltangle, put a bunch of product in so I get through it, blow dry it straight and then flat iron press it so it looks like standard, utilitarian, assimilated black girl hair. Oh the trauma that is my style. Where is my hair and make-up gay when you need him?

Still waiting for the advance on his supplies, labor and wardrobe I suppose, since he knows he can't rely on my credit (badumching).

Valentine's Day is WYSIWYG

I am going to be telling some of my gritty kitty love-life to the lonely.

WYSIWYG @ PS 122
Worst. Sex. Ever.
The WYSIWYG Talent Show Celebrates
TWO YEARS OF REALLY BAD SEX
with an Anti-Valentine's Day Celebration
Featuring:
Todd Levin (tremble.com)
John "Jonno" D'Addario ( jonno.com and fleshbot.com)
Hanne Blank ( misia.livejournal.com and hanneblank.com)
Greg Walloch ( gregwallochblog.blogspot.com)
Desiree Burch ( mebigyoulittle.blogspot.com)
The Assimilated Negro ( theassimilatednegro.blogspot.com)
Audacia Ray ( wakingvixen.com)
Emily Deprang ( pigeoninthesun.blogspot.com)
With music from dj:ayden (thebutchcaucus.blogspot.com)
Tuesday, Febraury 14, at 7:30 p.m. at P.S. 122
150 1st Ave. at East 9th St.
Tickets are $7 — click here to purchase advance tickets

and here are some love lines i freestyled back in 1997

L is for the way you Look like shit
O -oh my God, I can't believe I slept with it
V is Very, Very *boom*-*boom* extra-fat-and-hairy, and ..
E is even more than you weighed when you checked before...

I am super excited to be doing this show, but part of me is pissed at how well known I must be for being perennially alone, and no one thought I might be busy that night. Well, you're right. Eh, feck off.

forgive me father. mother. sister. puppy. all.

yeah, i have been down and out in beverly hills for a while y'all. not really. unless beverly hills is astoria. and it's not. believe it or not there isn't this much dogshit in beverly hills.

i didn't do much blogging in december, because i was "dying with dignity" at my job. i basically had the "how can i get out of this horrendous nightmare and get unemployment" conversation with one of the executives, because the working environment at my old, underdog, civil liberties nonprofit became a dynasty flaming pile of shit in a matter of months. of course, time bomb had been ticking for a while. i am glad it ended with a staff changeover, rather than one crazy, jealous wife in particular coming in with a shotgun and cleansing the place.

i went home, which was wonderful. felt like a removed a layer of my saran-bondage-blanket-of-self and connected with my mom more. i love my mom. who doesn't love their mom? lots of people. right.

i thought i had beef with her because you know, i am fucked up and they are the ones who do that (because the fathers do it by not being there, right?), and like, she's the one who comes and interrupts all the good sex in my dreams, where somehow, i am always in her house, trying to have it really quietly. hmm. calling dr. freud; dr. freud, you have a patient at the front desk.

my brother is amazing. my family is so weird, and suburban and dumb like all families. growing up they seemed like some bastard alien experiment i was part of. now of course, my own slice of weird that is totally separate from what and who i am here. it was nice to connect with desiree there. who really, like desiree here, just sleeps a lot, with encouragement from her mom's air-conditioned home. i was reminded of that oasis there, and that i do want to be around my family, her especially, again soon.

we all know, of course, that will last a month, and i will be flipping my shit, still trying to smoke weed out of an apple on the side of her house.

i came back here, and hosted davey b. for a week or so. it was wonderful. we are angelic and he is my set of wings. he is the only man whom i have yet to sleep in bed with for a week. it was nice having my sexy gay house husband here with me. giggling, getting drunk, getting sick, getting weird, reminiscing, watching him walk away back to the warm coast. it was good. the whole thing served to show me how much i need to complete myself. boggled and ogled and googled by what new york life has to offer, it was good to feel what i was missing. i knew it was something.

always looking for the void, alice, aren't we?

and basically i am just calling to say that i love you. and that i do mean to keep the blog up for anyone who will spend time reading it. and hopefully it will help some feel connected to me in a time of at least personal disconnection for me (i may be acting like quite an asshole in the next few months. and the plan is, jesus is going to forgive me, and so will i. whether you are on the bandwagon depends on how fast you move). aside from the fact that life is coming to an end as we know it. anyone enjoying a 60-degree february notice that?