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).