Me Big. You Little.

Fwd: Time For GOD, or Onward Christian Forward.

2007-04-26T22:57:00.000-04:00

Below is the text of the email I sent, because some people were upset they couldn't see the pictures. In this format, unfortunately, I couldn't do justice to the largeness of the red font. We are talking 48 pt. font here people. Easy. Anyway...

Hey Guys,

Thanks for even looking at this forward. I did want to foward this despite my hatred of chain letters and the guilt and fear they inspire, and of course, the grotesque link to the guilt and fear that people use to inspire in the name of God. Both are present in the forward that I got. The large font/screaming were familiar as well.

It's this assertion of spirituality as some burden--socially seen as such... I just can't help but feel that outside of the "parade of faith" there is a real responsibility bring your spirituality to the fore in your existence, if it is there, to engage in the human dialogue To not do so means patronizing and ultimately limiting this existence to talking about the weather. However, I do think that means exemplification of what you believe, and not just going outside with a sign and scary pictures and screaming it. The former, I'd like to try to do more.

So basically, below you will find a forward I got, that rather than fowarding on, I had to respond to, in order for it to be something I could agree with and forward on to people I cared about. This is sent not to exclude anyone who may desire to feel excluded by what I am saying, but rather to tell you more about who I am based on what I agree with in this. And also to try to delete the annoying cat in a cup picture that someone tacked onto the bottom of this. People are always tacking stuff on. That's the problem with forwards... and a lot of organized religion too.

I hope it interests you.

*desiree

P.S. I like this one my brother mentioned to me:
James 1:2 My Brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials

All joy, y'all, all joy.

-----
Read only if you have time for God.
Let me tell you, make sure you read all the way to the bottom. I almost deleted this email but I was blessed when I got to the end

Stop it with the chain letter talk, please. Can a message not just speak for itself? Alright, calm down.

These Legos are awesome.

God, when I received this e-mail, I thought...

I don't have time for this... And, this is really inappropriate during work.

This picture is at first kinda frightening. And then cute. And the frightening again. I'm not bad for thinking that. Or thinking…

Then, I realized that this kind of thinking is... Exactly, what has caused lot of the problems in our world today.

We try to keep God in church on Sunday morning...

Maybe, Sunday night...
And, the unlikely event of a midweek service.
We do like to have Him around during sickness...

And, of course, at funerals.

And weddings and at football games and at the Oscars too… let's be fair. Not to be glib but honestly...

However, we don't have time, or room, for Him during work or play...

I think this picture is a little inappropriate, simply because I do believe in Jesus AND the separation of church and state in this country. Any one of these people can say a prayer at this baseball game if they want to, but I don't think Bob Uecker should be leading it over the loudspeaker for everyone to follow. That's a situation where everyone must deal with their faith individually. Also, they totally stole this picture of people saying the pledge. Wow.

Because.. That's the part of our lives we think... We can, and should, handle on our own.

Because.. That's the part of our lives we think... We can, and should, handle on our own.

May God forgive me for ever thinking...
That... there is a time or place where..

HE is not to be FIRST in my life.

True. True.

This looks like something from "Top Gun." Not the most pastoral and peaceful sunset I could imagine. It's a little car-commercial-ly. But an interesting shot.

We should always have time to remember all HE has done for us.

I am sorry, but a picture of a weird baby does not sum up "all He has done for us." And I have always been annoying with that yuppie American assertion that babies are some how the end-all be-all of existence. Although I do like the use of a weird-lookin' baby. I like weird babies. I trust them more. Cute babies lie. Oh, that's not nice…

If, You aren't ashamed to do this...

Please follow the directions.

Jesus said, "If you are ashamed of me, I will be ashamed of you before my Father."

True.

Not ashamed?

Come on, what's with the threats? This was so nice before...

Pass this on ONLY IF YOU MEAN IT!!

Yes, I do Love God.

Jesus is not the mafia.

HE is my source of existence and Savior.

He keeps me functioning each and every day. Without Him, I will be nothing. But, with Christ, HE strengthens me. (Phil 4:13)

This is the simplest test.
Why do we have this image of God "testing" us like life is some Spelling Bee and he is constantly trying to eliminate people from the ones he loves. The whole reason you have people preaching Christianity is because Jesus said to go unto all the world and preach the gospel to every creature. And I think a lot of Christians have used such a "mandate" to go out and preach the fact that they have Jesus and that other people don't. Which contradicts the wishes in making that statement and makes those Christians hypocrites for wanting to be proud and exclusionary.

If You Love God... And, are not ashamed of all the marvelous things HE has done for you...

Send this to ten people and the person who sent it to you!

Fine, I am sending it. Because I am pretty pleased with the great things that God has done in my life, and has caused me to do in the lives of others. But I don't understand how you get to decide that it's my time to prove myself to God. Pretty sure God's not sitting in his mom's basement right now creating forwards for people to show their love to him. In fact, sitting in front of a computer screen passing on a simple forward doesn't really show anyone anything. Or at least doesn't do much with the physical world he gave us to show it with.

Now do you have the time to pass it on?

Make sure that you scroll through to the end.
See, telemarketing. Now everyone wants to tack on their own shout outs and everything else. I have a problem whenever I see unsubtleties of commercialism intertwined with spirituality. Jesus doesn't have to be sold to people, and I think if they stopped trying to do that, it would interfere with people's relationship with Him a lot less, and that would make me very happy. Jesus was the architect of great parables. Please try to respect His artistry, or at least grace in passing on His word.

Easy vs. Hard

Why is it so hard to tell the truth but Yet so easy to tell a lie?

Cause the right thing is always the hard thing. Duh.

Why are we so sleepy in church but Right when the sermon is over we suddenly wake up?

See Lego Church.

Why is it so easy to delete a Godly e-mail, but yet we forward all of the nasty ones?
Man, that's true. I think I am making up for any dumb forwards I sent along with people or cats falling down or guys getting kicked in the privates right now.

Of all the free gifts we may receive, Prayer is the very best one....

This is absolutely true. If you don't believe in prayer, I hope you can meditate or do something that connects you to that which is the whole.

There are no costs, but wonderful rewards... GOD BLESS!
Here comes the hard sell. Again with the addendums. That's why I don't order anything off the TV anymore.

Notes: Isn't it funny how simple it is for people to trash God and then wonder why the world's going to hell.

Isn't it funny how someone can say "I believe in God" but still follow Satan (who, by the way, also "believes" in God).

That's true. Because God created everything. Even Satan. I don't know if people give that fact a lot of thought.

Isn't it funny how you can send a thousand jokes through e-mail and they spread like wildfire, but when you start sending messages regarding the Lord, people think twice about sharing?

Have you looked at this huge, horrible red font? And all the damnation in between? Jesus didn't die on a cross so he could hang around your neck, dude!

And you can't woo anyone with a ransom note. Not that you are always meant to woo, but do Jesus a favor and use the honey sometimes. Even He would have broken out the wine by now.

Isn't it funny how when you go to forward this message, you will not send it to many on your address list because you're not sure what they believe, or what they will think of you for sending it to them.
Isn't it funny how I can be more worried about what other people think of me than what God thinks of me.

Yeah, cause God isn't a jerk like other people. Plus, he's seen you naked. Even more than your mom. So I think the same unconditional love rules apply. If people conducted themselves more like the God of their choosing, perhaps you'd feel more open while talking to them. I know I would. I'd like that world a lot more too. But I am not going to waste time wondering whether God likes me—cause that is besides the point of Him being God.

I pray, for everyone who sends this to their entire address book, they will be blessed by God in a way special for them.
And send it back to the person who sent it, to let them know that indeed it was sent out to many more.

Well, I am not sending it to my whole address book, because I don't even know all of those people, but I am sending it to you, because I wanted you to have a look at me, and what this all means to me, and talk to me about it if you want to. And I think I am going to go ahead and be blessed anyway, too. I invite that into my life with actions. Even if I'm not the guy who passed this on to all 18 people that he knows. He is not loved any more by God than I am.

And here's the stupid cat. Just so you can all see how bad it was. Just when grown folks wanna have a conversation, someone puts a kitten in a cup. Now we gotta start loving the cat too. And then 10,000 people get a forward about prayer…and a cat. Hmmm… no.

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Imus in the Morning, Imus in the Afternoon, Imus at Night

2007-04-12T19:36:00.000-04:00

A week ago, I had the pleasure of not knowing this little man's name. Oh what a wonderful world that was.

Much more than racist, to me, the statement of these basketball players being "nappy headed-hoes" was sexist (underneath all that racist garnish). That is really at the heart of this matter. I think there is truth to those that have responded, Coach Stringer included, that we must stop denegrating women in this country. Snoop Dogg didn't account for that shit on MTV. Rap music is big about putting women in their place--whatever place the dick-grabbing alpha deems appropriate in the situation. But the power of the black male ego has always been dependent on a reversal of his powerlesssness in some other area. His power is always dependent on taking that power (back or away) from someone else.

It may be argued that when speaking of power in broad terms, this is a conceptual truth about power. It must be held over someone else in order to exist as power. But there is a power that exists on one's own. Though no power is necessary in a vacuum, there is an integral power, one that exists defined only by oneself. That is the power of your integrity--knowing and being what you are. Maybe it's strength, rather than power. But it is definitely related, and it is this important bit that is missing (or somehow undercut, damaged, deficient) in most rap stars... and black men... and black people on a larger scale in this country. Yes, it is class and all of those other things so aptly pointed out by social scientists too. But it is, underneath all of that, the long-running self-loathing passed down from generation to generation by and through black me. A self-loathing that is always offered up for replenishment whenever a sense of history, of ancenstry, receeds.

This is what was taken away. And all that was left to fill it were images of depravity, propigated by white people and their fear, both of which wanted black people in their place. So of course it follows that like any man, a black man needs to feel proud of himself, like a "man," and will take on his loathed position much like Richard III, and build an empire on his self-loathing. He will take on, as a race, the joy and misrery that comes from having no home in the world. Black men who don't feel threatened don't need to call their women hoes. But white men can only be the "Man" if his brown counterpart is somehow the "Woman" getting fucked by it all. And it has always been the black woman who has played the role of the "Mule" in these situations, bearing the baggage in subjugation. All the hate that society has for black people, all the hate black men have for themselves, she gets when clearing the table.

As a sidenote, it is amazing that the women's movement in this country historically aligned itself with abolitionism and civil rights in this country, as it was understood that any laws that would help men of different creeds and colors would logically extend themselves to women. However these movements have not allied themselves, or at least supported rights for women, preferring to believe that the advancement of a race of people would be heavily dependent on the deferrment of rights to its women. In order to be considered man enough to be at the man's table talking about man things, these man of different races would have to be dominant over some other group.

Black women are some of the first to use the word "niggah" about someone as soon as we feel the doors are closed. We as black people feel we have the right to it. We have an unalienable human right to hate ourselves. But a Jewish person would note hate themselves so much to use a slur like that interchangeably for a noun. As famously self-depricating a culture as they may be, they wouldn't think of preaching that kind of loathing to and amongst themselves. They know they are more than that. They have a vast history that they are connected to which tells them so, despite any potential historical short-sightedness to the contrary. Conversely, our history is not something that we teach to ourselves or others. History would have us believe that Africans haven't achieved much since the last pyramid was built. So there is as much connection to that than there is to the Ming Dynasty. We feel that our people have done nothing, and since much of it is popularized and co-opted, there is often little evidence to the contrary. So in order to finally assimilate and be a part of this society, we have learned to hate ourselves too, much like we fear everyone else does. We blame ourselves for being forced onto this society, and take great pains to separate ourselves... to distance ourselves from some of our more negatively percieved social traits.

I think this discussion is linked to, but ultimately a digression from the main issue in this Imus situation, which is sexism. These women were targetted in the comment because they are women. There is no way Don Imus would have siad that about some black male basketball players (especially since he would then have to be talking about ALL the male basketball players) because they have already won respect in the sporting world. If this were a team of white female players, I am sure he would have had to have worked a bit harder to come up with just the perfect humiliating twist of words, but it would have been done in a way that probably could have passed for cute, men being men kind of sportsmanship. But it was because Imus could go for the lowest sqipe with these women that made the call to use the phrase so succulent to him, while simultaneously outing the comment as being truly dispicable. So blatantly offensive and denegrating: wanting to knock the wind out of the sails fo these women, and being able to do it because the extra handle of race gavie him a firm, planted grip.

That is where Imus and Snoop Dogg are brothers. Keeping women in their place of shadowed accomplishment. The strongholds of sexism lie in cultures outside of the popular white american one--but white american men still, as they always have, want a piece. Black people have always been at the forefront of history, and our performance ethic is impeccable, so there are always going to be white kids looking up to black performers. Constantly begging for one more dance from us and clapping along to do their part. And then there is that laughter and shame bestowed upon the ones who perform that dance honestly so that we don't mind when they take it from us. In fact, we are made to feel acceptable because of it. What is what white/dominant culture has always done with the cultural accomplishments that they have imbibed. It's why people think that country music is a white institution, even though it came from Negro slave songs, the blackest stuff this country is made of.

And to be fair, not all of this is the result of Machievellian machination. There is a lot to be said for the cult of cool and the way it has worked throughout history. Specifically American history. As the suburban baby darling of the modern world, we have always been susceptable to the newest trend. And cool has always been based upon subculture and subversion. Social contrarianism is always fetishized. Those who live outside of social and moral rule are looked up to by most at some point, as we all at some point in our growth fall short of the ideals we set up for ourselves. Self-loathing and self-destruction as a philosophy of social protest have always garnered societies romantic, bedroom eyes. And black culture in this country has typically spawned itselfas the definition of counterculture. Naturally if we find ourselves in a loathed position in society, our creations will naturally extend themselves as what is outside and undesiarable. And naturally, everyone will desire it... even for a taste. Gangster rappers are goth kids without the pallor. Wearing our chips on our shoulders like military epaulettes.

The majority of popular rap music today propagates sexism. That is something that black people don't have claim to just by virtue of their outsider stance in society. We yuse those isms as a defense--shrouding ourselves in a demonstrative despair that protects us from reproach. Black people can be racist toward everyone, and sexist toward every woman because we have always felt the fullest measure of the blow has been laid on us; and that kind of full-fledged hatred is our only dignity and power. That does not have to be so. And in fact, as long as it is so, it will prevent us from really being a part of this present society that we ache for in its nearness. Once again, black people are going to have to make the first move and let white America watch, follow, and feel like they are taking the lead. And we can probably talk to the women on how best to do that.

The moon is a mirror reflecting my face.

2006-12-03T21:24:00.000-05:00

Had such a magical blast doing my fun and horrific new show 52 Man Pickup last night. Sitting on stage and being like. This is it. This is what I do. I get on stage and do weird things in front of people. Sometimes I am lucky enough to get other people to join me in doing it. And then I want celebration, before the eventual wind down. Me in bed, thinking, "Wait, what did I say? Wow. I did that. In front of people." And then I cringe, jolt, and as hilarious comedian and friend Katina Corrao would say, "want to kill myself a little." And the aftershocks are like orgasms that prevent me both from sleeping and from getting off in any way (so, like, bizzarro orgasms) to relieve anything whatsoever. And yet there is the distinct memory of praise and adulation from all those that came. Both during and after performance. And yet I think. I have led them astray. That is not the real me at all. And in a way they know the real me better than I, if only because no one will ever know the me that I think I know, and her existence (and sometimes actions) are always questionable.

Nostalgia is a sepia toned bitch, and sometimes she lingers on your tongue like a honeyed liquor. Long after the bite there is the sweetening of the gash. I sat, after a cliche NY dinner stop at VNYL, at McCoy's Pub on 9th Ave. Somehow after gigs in that neighborhood I always wind up there. It's low maintenance in price and atmosphere and is always comfortable somehow. I was telling Kyle, Sarah S. and Crystal C. about a taste I was having that wouldn't go away. Wanting adventure. Being pumped from my show and wanting the night to continue, for the buzz to be deeper even though my stomach was locking over the booze without food situation. Wanting something quintessential NYC and wonderful to happen. Surprise or something. I don't know. I guess I just wanted to get drunk and party like I used to and feel under the spell of something. The moon has been waxing to burst so I suppose it was just my hairs raising.

And then, a jukebox I have passed before played a song that has eluded me for almost 10 years.

It's Joe Jackson's "Steppin' Out," and I know that now, because the bartender suggested I walk over to the jukebox and look at the number to find out. I guess I was still in shock from the fact that I was as close to knowing the name of this song as I have ever been, and that its name had evaded me like that of a gold spinning gnome for nearly a decade while someone, in this bar, knew what that name was. Plus, staff generally know the same 100 songs that get played off the same 70 discs in their jukebox rotation.

Every time I walk into a drugstore, or flip past a radio station. Like once a year, or every other year, this song will be playing. I will catch the last minute of it, or worse, have to suffer through all of it; enjoying it's intoxicating upbeat melody and mewling over the words, picking out a few here and there, but never enough in all of my internet searches to figure out the name of the goddamned thing, and then wait. Wait for a DJ to say, "That's 'Myah Myah, Steppin' Out' by Boogleboggle" or whatever. Wait for the semi competent person behind the counter at Burritoville to tell me what 80s compilation it's on. Trying to find my next guide to the answer. But they always fail me.

Well unnamed Irish bartender at Irish Pub has succeeded. I owe a debt of gratitude and a nostalgic kneel to the great nation of Ireland and the serving of alcoholic beverages forever now. I can cross that off my list of things to do in life now. And download it onto my mp3 player now, so I can get sick of it like all the rest of my music.

Anyone Else Patting their asshole dry?

2006-11-25T21:11:00.000-05:00

My poos have been rising like the phoenix lately, in stately loaves of family-sized poo. Thanksgiving and her descendents have decked the halls of my bowels for the holidays. The hearth is warm and cooking. My ass is not prepared for the onslaught. I pooped for the entire 24 hours after Thanksgiving. So many parsnips and potatoes, the stuffing perfectly done. I really don't want to keep baby wipes around the house for myself, but honestly, when your little pucker is all raw and owie, you feel so sad. I mean, what did it ever do but deal with all of your shit? And when is Charmin going to make their toilet tissue "spastic colon" soft?

Happy Holidays!

At least 5 times this week, I heard advertising and buzz about some fucking temporary promotional Charmin toilets in Times Square. You know the world you live in is sad when a clean toilet in New York City is news. It's just one big long ad; I don't want to hear about it on NPR.

'Cause then all the tourists will know about it. And fuck them, they came here, they should get the real experience.

It wasn't wrong until you saw the German writing, right?
(What's going on behind that quilted sanitary sheet?
What's that butterfly lookin' at?)
I don't know what it says, and I don't wanna know either!

tiny bubbles

2006-10-12T22:34:00.000-04:00

that last post i thought was posted already. blogger is a blip, and for something so simple is just a bit too wiry for my tastes.

today was one of those days where i had the giggles in all the places between my office and the train, but nowhere else. i hate answering phones because i hate talking to people when they want me for something, and i always have jobs answering phones and being fake. but then again, i am an actress.

as i was leaving my office today because i was sick of it, i pulled one of my favorite stunts.

i am leaving an hour later than usual. surely no one leaves work at 5 minutes after six. only people. so as the elevator departs from the 22nd floor and is zooming down, and feel and enjoy its emptiness and rip a nice ripe fart in the corner. i love farting in empty elevators, and then leaving, thinking, bye bye fart. you go run off and make friends.

of course 2 seconds and dancing and pants loosening enjoyment come to a screeching halt and the elevator car begins screeching to a halt on the 10th floor. so now i go to the other corner of the elevator and pray.

this little leprechaun walks in. actually it's an irish guy, about 5'8. he's irish because he's white and freckled and that works for me. he's also got a darling accent that's british but cuter, and one of those chins that irish people have, where you can perch and go fishing off of it. and of course, following that unspoken elevator ettiquite, he just walks straight to the corner opposite me: the fart corner.

God bless his heart, he didn't flinch. He didn't do the "who farted over there, yikes?" he just stood there. letting me be a lady and wishing me a good weekend when i wished him his. jesus christ superstar, i had to try to skip to the subway station trying not to look like a psycho giggling to myself.

maybe he likes farts.

maybe he thought he had done it.

maybe he giggled in the other direction.

fuck skechers. so pissed at them. i love their shoes and rave about them, but this "outlet" on steinway street is a bit of a "letdown" to be honest. the selection leaves a bit to be desired, but more importantly, the sale they CONSTANTLY have (buy one get next pair half off) was OFF when i went to buy shoes last week. i went in thursday, and they had finished the sale tuesday. "but that sale was going on forever."

"yeah, no one believed it when we said it was ending. i told all my friends," one of the four, interchangeable crinkle-haired shoe girls told me. "don't worry, it will come back."

it's okay lady. i'm not going to put up posters or anything.

and what the fuck do you know when i am walking home, BIG FUCKING SALE AT FUCKING SKECHERS: BUY ONE, GET ONE HALF OFF!!!

so the sale was off for what, a week? less? enough time for this poor ass bitch to buy a pair of shoes without a hole in them and not get another, much needed pair, for 20 bucks.

Fuck the fuck out of everyone. Cause thanks to Alanis Morrissette, I know this shit isn't even ironic.

at least my brain is working.

it seems like i can't be angry enough in this city. i can never be angry enough to keep up with how much i am being slighted in every imaginable way.

I want to break a sensible yet stylish pair of shoes off in this bitches ass!
pure fun.

why i have trouble sleeping/when i have trouble sleeping.

2006-09-28T22:09:00.000-04:00

All around me I feel, men thirst to return to a state of nature. There is no more patience for socialism, or probably even society. in new york city, they are turning schools into corporations. a starkly right wing model for kids to thrive in. principals are CEOs in empowerment schools, that must try to do better than other schools to survive. everyone is raised up by some healthy competition. but everything is dependant on a black hole of failure. bottom feeders and ground dwellers. there is no more patience for working together. and i can see armageddon coming, in the shrieking sounds of crawling I hear in silence.

It would be foolish for me to worry about saying this. Why would anyone ever have to keep tabs and taps on me when I am perfectly willing to post my awkward secrets? of course i am being watched because i want people to watch me. my dossier is a silly little piece of virtual space on the internet. clothesline with dirty laundry, designer closet, all present with martha stewart like flair.

I am sometimes too lazy for uppercase. deal.

Offensive Sandwich

2006-09-04T01:28:00.000-04:00

I picked up a quarter for this fu manchu looking young lad last night before he offended me. Today I realize, what we had was an offensive sandwich.

There was a big slice of misunderstanding and the matter of some time between him being offended and me being offended and everything being everyone's fault was featured as the 'special sauce'.

For anyone still offended by fu manchu, don't blame that silly facial hair pattern on me.

I was mid-conversation when half of the man's fare for the thrill-ride that is the BUCKSHOT arcade game rolled away from him, off the edge of a wobbly cabaret table and onto the floor. Being that the laws of physics are among the last laws that occur to you when you are drinking, this cat kept searching the floor near his feet and nowhere near mine. As the quarter rolled in my direction, this was dumb.

I was trying to find a breath in this particular conversation to indicate to the man that he might want to look near my friend and me, but he wrote the change off quickly to the female companion who helped him search for it.

Too quickly for my personal tastes, I must confess. I hate the disdain money inspires in people. A quarter is no unimportant thing. A quarter can be the difference between breaking or not breaking a $20. And a $20 unbroken can get you through a broken day on hope, gleaming clean and green from you wallet.

Thirty or forty minutes later, when my friends and I were leaving, I grabbed my things and noticed his quarter on the floor. I picked it up and presented it to the man. "Here's your quarter... You lost before..."

He looked at me with such wondrous peculiarity, before informing me, "I have a job."

At least I am pretty sure that is what he said. In bars, you never can be too sure. I held the quarter out to him steadfast. He did finally consent to taking it from me.

I was upset by his reaction. Feeling he was unduly rude to me. Startled at the very least. Just put off and offended. Everyone laughs at nice people. Like he's so amazing he wouldn't need to pick up the change he drops, and who was I to suggest otherwise?

Sometime before writing all of this down, I realized that he might have been offended by me; thinking that rather than his quarter, it was mine I was handing him. Offering him some kind of charity for having lost his tribute to the bar gods. Here's another quarter monkeyman. Try again. He though I was possibly pitying and hitting on him in one swell foop.

Damn. That's not good.

But none of that actually happened. Just potentially in his head it happened. And none of it, the little nicks of hurt, none of it had to happen if he didn't get offended. He didn't have to see the worst in something so small. Do that scattered impromptu of the defense offense. Sending out a little cold bullet of two or three words. Something so small. Lodged in my brain.

(Though posted first chronologically, the preceding is a continuation on the theme of 'sandwich'. The above sandwich is not that offensive. It just came up in the image search for 'offensive sandwich'. Maybe that smear on the bread is poo. That's definitely offensive.)

Intervention

2006-06-02T23:46:00.000-04:00

Do you ever find yourself staring at your skin. Trying to crawl inside the crevice of a pore. Maybe hoping you will see all the cells that are destroying you. That you might be able to see all the ones that are cancer. The ones that make you feast on your own flesh. The little cellular manifestations of neurosis that have been multiplying in side of you.

And you wonder where it all went to shit. Watching how long you were able to stave off the beast bumping walls inside your flesh, before the dam finally broke. It's amazing how most of life can make you feel ill if you just stand there feeling it. It only feels right whipping off of you, like so much dog slobber out of the window.

I have found myself in the middle of a bunch of shit I have forgotten to care about. I have shows that I am doing, and I feel like no one is coming. And it's probably good because I am done finding things to say. And yet, the show must go on, which is a sociopath's metaphor for life, but it's those sociopaths that make the world go round. And meanwhile all I do is look at this computer and feel sick. Which is what computers do eventually. They make you sick. Like minds. They do that too. They don't think they can go on, and they shut everything down.

Maybe that's not what they do. Maybe I don't know what they do. Or I don't want to know.

Blah blah blah priorities mixed up. Blah Blah tired of the rat race I am not even a part of. Blah blah, just another discontented youth ruining this world.

I have loved every day of being smart. Every tear of self-righteous awarness I have savored--drunk fully after having watched them glisten in the light of strangers' eyes. Watching me. Seeing that I am good. No. That I am better.

And I see that my knowledge is abuse. It seeks to dominate and make little of the objects it shines light through, as in some kind of pretty little prism shadow-puppet show. The more I know, the more I grasp, the more I have control over, the less is in my hand. It's very zen all spelled out in letters. It's a psychotic egg-scramble of flesh, blood and soft, jelly-like organ.

We strive for the mastery of plastic. Mastery makes children's toys of life's artifacts. The easier to kick around. Made unbreakable and meaningless. Once I can shake all the emotion out of my experience I can put it on a shelf and talk about it. I have lived a life this way. And none of my friends or family has ever once stepped in and grabbed me by the arm, and said stop. I want you to stop trivializing everything you do. Please stop. You are hating your life and it's painful to watch. The smoking, the drinking, the eating, the watching the wanting the fucking is so empty in your idle little hands. Just stop. And I don't know if it's because we are all sick and I am not special. I'd like to think It's because no one really knows or loves me. I'd like to think the malaise more important than it is. Because this feeling of being full of sticky ice cream and not quite being sick enough of it not to pick the spoon back up has got to stop.

P.S. I am sick of shows. I have to keep showing though. Apparently. The more you do it, the less you think about it. And not showing up to the show is not an option. I am sure in 2 days I will feel remarkably better, and I will wonder what I did with all the time I wasted feeling bad and avoiding my reflection. And then I'll want to get fucked up and engorged again. Because time wasted is the regret that got me to be this little emo-bean counting humanoid freak in the first place.

The Apocalypse Will Be Televised

2006-06-01T17:01:00.000-04:00

IT'S APOCALYPSE NIGHT AT GALAPAGOS
Believe Muthafucka

This Event is Going to Rock
I really really must say, I have some of my favorite performers on this fine fine evening.

This is the first benefit for The Sit-Down Show.
So Come Out and Give Some Love
In the Form of Money.

Life is a Fun and Desperate Thing.

The Apocalypse Will Be Televised.
Admit it.
You saw this coming.
6.6.06
8PM
Galapagos Art Space (DUH!)
You Know Where It Is

Kiss & Tell (this isn't a sex blog)

2006-05-15T23:03:00.001-04:00

This isn't a sex blog.

Cause there are plenty of those, and I don't necessarily have a poesy for the erotic yet. Unless you find the funny and crude lyrical. But I seem to be talking a lot about sex lately. And more people are reading the fucking blog. So call it what you like.

Haven't been writing a lot lately, or ever, actually. Because my art comes out in fits and starts. I always feel like I am trying to puke little vignettes onto a tacky mounting sheet of plastic-protected paper. And between these glorious moments of creation there is the funk.

There is the big pink and orange funk that I hang out in with other artists. Jimmy Hendrix, Bob Marley, lots of weed. Stacks of creased books and eye goop. Reruns of Law and Order. Many reruns.

We occasionally stumble to the door to puke out a new creation, sign it, and ask for any admirers to come and tickle our pussy for a while until we don't feel so famous, and get back to work.

I'm not really in this funk right now. I mean, I am funktioning. I am doing important stuff, and figuring out who I am. I am being patient with my damn self. There are so many things in the works, I can't see straight. And what I am really good at is cleaning. Keeping my head down. Cleaning. I am getting just beyond the age of meaning. Where you are just starting to realize you are stuck here. And the revolution won't be happening. Or televised for that matter. And you gotta figure out how to tape your person together long enough for someone to say you've crossed the finish line and have won your own pine box.

Yes, it is beautiful.

And I say it is not a sex blog to somehow distance myself from the engorgements I discuss on it. Namely the sexual ones, because saying that I ate a pint of ice cream in a short sitting is not so very interesting. Even if I whine about the resulting explosive diarrhea a little bit.

But there is more sex.

Namely, the Worst. Sex. Ever.

Okay, overstatement. I watch enough Law & Order SVU to know what that actually is. We'll talk about that another time.

This sex was great. I mean, technically, it was average, but you know how sex is like tofu and can take on any flavor with the right tint?

Recently I have been having a lot of reflective sex. Not tantric and meditative, like Sting; not 80's style with a lot of coke mirrors about and a heart-shaped bed. Just reflective. That sex you have with people that provides so much time and space to think. There's always so much time to think around these people. You keep pushing in, and into their mouths and into their eyes, and into their flesh, burrowing, and then you get there, and it is a vast desert of white. Generally it's after you've come that you arrive. There. But not always. Sometimes it's right in the middle, while someone's still digging for treasure.

Sometimes both of you are there, in the blinding sunlight, reminding yourselves to continue rubbing one another. For the truth is very still and you will be there if you slow down.

There are all different kinds of spaces you can go to with sex--which is why sex is like music. Plus the best stuff happens while you're playing. I had a playful night recently. Date impromptu. I didn't even know to be nervous until I was doing retarded shit.

Admittedly, the whole evening was an arrangement concocted in the dark corners of the inter-web. Such things happen you know. Perfectly normal people hanging out, after having gotten out of the way the fact that they both want to fuck. In general. Then it is a matter of simply discovering whether there are, in fact, any reasons not to. Not the most romantic thing I have ever written, I know, but there are much more devistating ways to have the romance cupped, ripped out of you and smeared on a bedpost. Like that one, for instance.

So I had one of those anything goes types of hits with this one guy. Went into the heart of Brooklyn to meet him on a full moon. Didn't get to his house until 3am. Yeah, it's illicit like that... The oddity of this situation was not logistical circumstance, but just the random crashing of two fuzzy souls. I had a fantastic night, finding myself being easily wooed to a more grown-up bed than mine as the sun came up to the most aggressively peaceful blackbirds in brooklyn. And yet, everything was wrong.

Like, I kept awkwardly giggling and saying stupid things. Granted, we did get all blazed once I came over. But being a seasoned stoner, I have developed a little bit of grace with the situation through humor and coyness. So such luck in this situation. The whimsical sentence fragments I uttered, though insightfully intended, devolved into non sequitur smoke. I at least managed to answer an important boy-question properly. "Which is faster? The Millenium Falcon or the Starship Enterprise." Blatantly the Starship Enterprise, though many of his ex-Marine compadres would beg to differ. Regardless of the awkwardnesses felt, it was clear we were able to connect on a friendly, emotional comfort level. It was all the physical stuff...

Generally in these situations, if you know you are going to fuck, you just do it. That way, you don't have the chance to screw it up by talking, which in most cases (unless you are with the right person, which of course, is the actual condition under which you should be having sex) is what talking does, and sometimes is for (like sex antidote in case of emergency)

Well, we finally worked our way onto the same couch after 2 hours of getting to know you, getting to know all about you, getting to like you, and watching some Guy Ritchie. And then he was doing the petting stuff, and I was trying to maintain the whole talking pretense, so as not to go into straight wolverine devour mode on him (I mean, you want to tell a guy you're feeling it, without going into full animal mode and inciting him to fend for his life). And I am being jokey and coy, and say something, to which his response is tickling. Alright Father Knows Best, we'll play the tickle game. Of course, instead of acting like a sane woman in this situation, and squirming my way into a kiss, the tickling sends me directly to the floor, rolling about and squealing like a stoned potbellied pig, and knocking over the girly beer he had been so kind to procure for me at the local bodega before I'd arrived. Then I had to help him clean it up while still trying to look clever. Which is embarrassingly impossible.

And the kissing was all wrong We both had the right lips for it, and the appropriate amount of hunger, but it was our two perfect sets of teeth that wanted to meld together, and there was a terrible amount of thrashing and bashing in that department. We avoided a great percentage of the problem with a few interesting rounds of tongue jousting.

And then the sun was coming up, and the birds were singing and he was drawing me into his bedroom, and I was so excited because I actually liked him. Which sounds really pathetic, but not once you have adjusted yourself to the relativity of my sex life. It seems that I have always been stuck in this parallel universe, where it is never possible for me to have sex with people I actually like. At least not for long. I am constantly scoring in the friendzone, doing my touchdown dance, showing off my valuables to unsting hands that go home without me at the end of the night. The people who actually want me, want to get me off a chi-chi dessert menu on special occasions and rave to their friends. Sad sad cycle.

But this guy is part of moderate fraction of people I have been with that I actually want to be with in clothing as well. And we're getting naked and bashing teeth. He's rubbing between my legs, driving toward orgasm, but keeps taking the wrong turn on the get-offramp. Every time I am about to feel heavenly, he switches it up, and I just feel mildly chaffed. Enjoyably chaffed, but nevertheless. I am trying to give him one of my aforementioned signature beauties, but the angles of his erection and my face are not congruent. I feel like I am being all toothy and awkward. And he is very shy and silent, so I can't gauge how it's going at all. He is going down on me, and where I can normally be a pleasant squirter, I find myself just kinda peening on his bed, and probably his face a little. More rubbing and tooth bashing. I am trying to tell him in dirty coy ways what to do, but maybe he can't hear me, or he doesn't take requests. He is more interested in getting me off, which is a Godsend. And I am trying so hard to come for him. We are fumbling toward both ecstacy and daylight, and regardless, we have both satisfied each other when we go to bed at dawn. My arm is falling asleep under his as we cradle each other. He begins to snore and I like it. I feel kept and lovely, as I fall asleep and have a psychotic dream about angrily-yet-acccidentally punching his mother, and proceeding to engage in a cop drama after finding someone brutally raped on a marble floor (yeah, definitely watching too much SVU) I wake up in the middle of it coughing. Ain't life grand?

And the thing is, I am not being a smartass about my enjoyment of this. I feel great on this particular evening. I wake up in the afternoon and watch The War of the Roses with him. Anyone who can appreciate the magic of Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas together has a hallowed place in my heart. He bought me breakfast and paid for the cab I took to meet him. He gave me a hockey shirt to wear over a slinky-sexed body as we puttered around in the glow of a Saturday, and he walked me to the train in the unforgettable spring afternoon. And I think about him, all day. Wondering if he is thinking about me. And he emails me the next day... drunk, which is about as cute as it gets... And he wants to hang out again, and I say of course, while telling myself never for the sake of not hurting. It's not true. It's a pleasantry. But he actually calls the number I gave him a week later. As I was hoping somewhere that he would. And it's like being 17 with big fat grown-up feelings and holes to fill and defenses of not wanting to invest and wordlessly agreeing to be casual, but there's all this blueblack tenderness like a fathomless lake that ripples the full moon that watched over... And it's hard not to get romantic when lust is so silly and fun. Shit. I guess I feel like a virgin like that dumb song. And I guess that's the answer to that argument in Reservoir Dogs, that only the biggest of whores can utter that phrase and actually mean it.

So this blog maybe sounds like a cry for help... this beauty/needy combination is a little sad for some of you maybe. Please don't be so simple. For my sake. Do it for mama.

Obviously behavior, life, the sun and the moon--it's all cyclical. Hopefuylly now the 12 people who read my blog (see, sex sells people... where's my check?) have come to understand how I work in some kind of radical deformed ellipsoidal cycle, and because I am starting to see the need to even out the lumps, I am making myself accountable for it. To you, my sad audience. Thanks for feeling that, and not crying. It helps me laugh more.

How to Give Head *

2006-04-11T13:02:00.000-04:00

So along with cigarettes, I gave up sex for Lent, ‘cause I figured I wasn’t having it anyway, perhaps Jesus could again make me hard-to-get, since that worked so well in high school and college and I was a virgin until 22.

I do miss sex. A lot. And I appreciate it so much now. And I am starting to realize that I’m never going to have it again. So here’s to the good times.

I think that one of my sexual specialties is the blow job.
I am a very orally fixated person, so going down on someone is just a treat for both of us. When I say that I am good at giving head, people think that I am exaggerating, or just tooting my own horn. That is not the horn that I am tooting. I have laid out a personal instruction manual for those of you who are interested. Feel free to send me other ideas, tips, improvements, suggestions, etc. More than I ever want to have sex again, I long to perfect my craft.

Start by grabbing the shaft with the dominant hand, and looking down at it as through it's some kind of treat you just couldn't resist getting your hands on.
With naughty mouth slightly agape, draw your face toward it while looking up at guy in the eyes. He will definitely be looking at you.
at last moment of approach, dart your tongue out and give the little Darth Vader helmet some ice-cream-cone tongue licks but flicker the tongue so they are a bit more sexy. Make sure to get around the helmet rim. This will also help you build up spit.
You can tighten your mouth around the helmet of his cock, because the rim is very sensitive. Even just isolating movement to his cockhead going in and out of your mouth is going to be highly titillating, and is going to make him stiffen up.
Make a couple of circles and dive down on his cock suddenly. There is generally a moan of surprise/pleasure/relief.
Dive about halfway down his cock to begin. Best to tuck your teeth behind your lips. If you are down there for any length of time, you are going to want to start chewing. It's not the motion that is bad, just the sharpness of teeth that is, so tucking them behind your lips will allow you to *slightly* vary the aperture of the sphincter you are creating with your mouth during intensified moments of pleasure. Start out with a loose mouth; tighten it when you are getting more into the meat of the action.
Bob your head up and down in classic "chickenhead" motion. Support your choice with your hand in front of your mouth, as though you are playing a bugle. Use your hand to create the rest of the "canal" that his penis is in. Fingers should be tighter toward your mouth, and slightly looser as they move toward the base of his cock. This is the G.I. Joe Kung-fu grip that is going to be your saving grace while giving head. You are going to have to back off and breathe at some points, but you can always be giving him a hand job while you are planning your next move. Use it to spread the spit around.
In your bobbing motion, you should be creating more lubricating spit. don't suck so hard that you suck the spit up. Spit is good. The bobs should be moving closer to the base of the cock. But don't move too predictably. dart some of your sucks down toward the base, and balance that out by pulling the head way back off the cock so there is a chance for breathing for you, breathing on the cock (in the re-approach) and eye contact as you go in for the kill again.
As frequently as possible, make eye contact. it's easy to get into the "zone" and just start going to town with the work you are doing (they don't call this shit a blow "job" for nothing), but making sporadic eye contact is going to surprise him even more. It gives the guy the simultaneous feeling that you have some kind of devious control over his member and it is (for once) out of his hands, as well as the stereotypical pornographic shot of you (which guys are so familiar with these days) servicing him which gives him this feeling of dominance and you this look of submissive preoccupation or something. It is a knowing look that is in control of the situation, but is making him feel in control at the same time, which is sexy in its ambiguity.
It's good to use your free hand in these cases for ball-play. Rubbing the taint is always a good move, particularly once you get into the meat of the action, since it's a way to one-up the stakes physically. He's gotten used to you sucking the cock—but bring his balls into the picture all of a sudden, and the potential for pleasure doubles exponentially. Really go for massaging pressure on the taint. You can rub all the way up between the balls, separating them and all. on the balls themselves, be delicate but friendly. Pretend like you are babysitting them. You can't play too rough, but at the same time, they need to be educated about what is going on with the rest of the genital region, so make them feel at home. Molest them basically. (yeah, remind yourself not to have me baby-sit your kids)
Take time away from sucking to go back to tongue flickers on the rim. God is in the details. This is where you can rack up style points. Let extra spit slide down the shaft when you draw your mouth away, and then try to catch it with that "oh no, my ice cream cone is dripping" action, licking down the shaft. take this opportunity to go down and lick the balls some. Cupping balls delicately in your mouth is a big selling point with most guys. This is when they start telling you they love you and shit. Suck on them like they are little hot potatoes--lots of huffing and breathing and moving them around in your mouth very delicately. Lick between them so they flop out on either side of your mouth. Who's afraid of balls? Not you. Work your tongue back up the shaft and take no time getting your mouth back around it. You are master of your domain.
you should pretend giving head is the sit & reach presidential physical fitness test where you are trying to get farther on each try. i tend to feel like the goal (if i like the guy) of the head is getting the deep-throat action going on. Nothing says lovin’ like swallowing a little cock. Hmm-HMMM! Of course, you have to let this come on as a surprise. It's all about setting up the pattern of diving and hand ringing action, and then taking the training hand away and just going in for the kill. My gag reflex isn't as strong as other people's so it is something that may vary, but i find, the more my inclination to swallow (since i have an "i eat too much" oral fixation) the cock, the more my throat relaxes and the easier everything gets. Lots of saliva helps too.
If you are going to go in for the low-dive: let your tongue lead the way. it's like the sit & reach. Once it slides down it can use all those little prehensile like filaments on it to hold its place on the cock and help you slide the rest of your mouth down to meet it. All of this stuff is rather imperceptible and miniscule, but important on an organ with a lot of nerve (endings). Plus, going gradually like a little snail (okay, faster than a snail, but you get the point) will help you not to gag if you think you might have problems. But usually i find that you can get as far as you can go, and then go slightly farther with this little mechanism. Once you get down to the base, hold for a moment before going back. Hopefully through this technique you can increase the time that his little warrior is allowed to spend in paradise without hurting yourself. Although, don't underestimate the hotness factor of a gagging sound to his ears. Makes him think he is SO BIG. Use it to your advantage.
The next time you go down, don't go down as far. You can even bring the hand back into play, as though your extreme deep-throat was a fluke. But then, eventually, get back to that place. Go farther if you can. That's only if you like doing it, which is something that i really do enjoy. One has to do a lot less work when you are deep-throating. Just attempt to swallow the cock. This drives most men insane. And it gives your tongue and neck a little time to rest. If the back of your throat is working, the rest of you has time to rest for a while. And the slight gagging usually makes for more spit, which, if you couldn't tell already from this, is a good thing.
Don't be alarmed when the hands come to the back of your head. That's how you know things are going well. If you are deep-throating quite a bit, the guys is going to try to fuck your face. Women do this to while getting head. If a man starts tonguing you hard and deep, generally you start grinding against his face, essentially trying to fuck it. So don't let it make you feel degraded. I mean, you are already on your knees, sucking a cock. Though it feels kind of dehumanizing having your face turned into a fuck-hole, it's important to remember that in pretty much 99% of sex, there is that moment when both individuals go for their own orgasm. Someone feels it coming, and just starts going for their own pleasure. Sometimes you are fortunate enough to have this moment integrated with the other persons and you can come together, and everyone thinks it's wonderful, but it is just a symbiotic sexual capitalism, where everyone is going for their own gain in a way. One only starts to feel this more acutely when giving head because the brain is in your face, so you have more time to think about having transformed from person into sexual object (and one long finger making this point repeatedly in your face). Just don't be alarmed when the he starts trying to bang your face. If it's uncomfortable, you can start making the gagging sounds to let him know that you're not doing fine down there, or fucking, just tap out. Sex is a contact sport. And it is important for you to enjoy what you are doing, or the head is going to start to suck. Or you can start to do your own grabbing. You've got hands and clear access to his most prized possessions. Use your "canal" hand to give you some forced distance from the base of his cock, or use the ball-titillating hands to give him a "warning." All of these unspoken negotiations can usually be done without anyone being too hurt physically or emotionally. But don’t be afraid to speak up or stop if you are feeling bad. I would recommend reserving the deep-throating for someone you are with in a committed relationship and care about, or at least someone that you know cares about you, so that you know that there are feelings there for him, besides just the sensation of him fucking your throat, and you won’t feel permanently objectified in his mind as some kind of fuck hole. You will just temporarily feel that way, which is kind of hot. Just remember, though you may be in a submissive position, the submissive is always in control of how far things go. ALWAYS.
Generally, if you go to the deep-throat, the guy will be coming very soon. You can kind of just suck on it like a popsicle until he's ready to blow. if it takes awhile, repeat old techniques, and back off of the deep-throating for a bit, because he might be getting kinda numb to all of your lovin’, and you have to re-awaken his senses. Ball and taint play is always a good way to do this, while deep-throating or not. or back off altogether and return to giving a hand job with tongue action around the tip.
OH SHIT, HE'S GONNA COME! So either you are going to swallow or not, right? If you're loving him and want to swallow, I always feel the easiest way to do that is to dive down his cock so that the tip of it is as far back as possible and the ejaculate hits as little of your tongue as possible. Just ‘cause you like him doesn't mean that shit's gonna taste good. If he's already in your mouth, and you aren't liking him as much, or you know, want to save something for later (if you haven't already deep-throated him, most likely), make some spit and close off the back of your mouth, so when he comes out, you can just spit him right back down his shaft and rub him into himself. I think this is the most natural way to spit him out without making him feel rejected. However, my favorite move in this case, is just to throw my head back in regal superiority, with mouth agape as he says he's going to come, masturbate him to completion, and then have him ejaculate on my breasts. It's sexier than spitting. It's generally hot for the guy to see his spunk all over you, and it acts as a nice little moisturizer. just make sure to point his cock as directly at your chest as possible. Otherwise you wind up with a nose full of come and you have to wash your hair again, which you probably did before you knew you were going to fuck him that night anyway.

This is all assuming that giving the blow job was the point of your activity. If the point is to give him head before you guys have intercourse, then you are going to have to stop pre-, or in worst case, mid-deep-throat. Otherwise he will probably already be going for his orgasm, and yours will be a passing memory. Although, any man who is worth his salt, should go down on you like a champion after this. However, I find it's often better to get him to do this first, so you can gauge how far you should go with his oral stimulation. It always sucks to whore yourself out first just to find that he's going to act like a coquettish prude (if you can imagine) and only give you a cursory show at some downtown lovin'. Men can be such little bitches sometimes.

"Yeah, and another thing..."--The Assistant Bitch

2006-04-08T02:43:00.000-04:00

Stop choking me you stupid bitch! I don't understand how the cute girl with the cock in her mouth can get through a single scene without whipping this guy's pecker out of her mouth and smacking the petulant dyke-invert next to her in her titty.

I mean, honestly, can't you see the star is trying to choke on a cock here? She doesn't need any football coach irritation from you, smaking her upside the head and grabbing her throat. SHE'S ALREADY SUCKING A COCK! Your encouragement is only ruining my 10 second clip.

In the porn movie, there are often two girls, just so they can play good cop/bad cop and amuse a throbbing cock that has to stay up and work all day. I get that two girls are sexy because two objects are better than one. It's just insulting to the sex itself to have some dumb bitch over there going, yeah, that's right, you suck it. I get that it makes the guy the master, because he gets to have everyone worry about servicing him. But make that bitch shake a pom pom while she is at it, so that she has a full understanding of how superfluous she is. Honestly, she could be doing everyone else a lot more good if she were double-fisting the collard-boy's ass three pages down.

I blatantly watch too much porn.

Rebecca Romijn is...

2006-04-03T00:48:00.000-04:00

Really Desperate.

God, I wish I could find the picture from the subway ads where she looks like she's doing her local news coverage of Hurricane Katrina coverage. ("Whee... I'll blow on and off the WB in a matter of weeks, whee...! See if you can catch what's up my dress!")

Too Soon?

I mean, she seems like a lovely use of oxygen and all, but can someone tell her to take of her top and put blue paint back on her torso. That is worth watching. The last thing the world needs right now is another fake news caster.

AND speaking of subway ads. I have to admit I kind of want to see (for free or on bootleg)

Akeelah and the Bee

I saw the subway ad for it on the way to the R train last week. It only has Laurence Fishburne and Angela Bassett's names across the top, and the first thing I could think of for a the catch phrase would be "This time he doesn't beat the shit out of her!"

However, the geniuses at Lion's Gate films have decided to market it to NY commuters as "The Ultimate Family Movie of the Year," which, as friend and resident genius Brian M. points out, is a phrase that doesn't really make sense--the word "ultimate" most commonly meaning, the last of a series. Kind of a dumb thing for a movie about spelling. But if you go all Webster's on it, the word does have connotations of fundamental, elemental, utmost, extreme, greatest possible. I see where they are going, but basically the phrase is saying, "This is the family movie that negates all family movies." This year. And thus we are back to it being a retarded phrase.

The negation factor though, leads me to my initial lay-analysis from seeing tag phrase on the way to the train last week. It's basically saying: "Our family movie can beat the shit out of your family movie!" (Which of course would, in fact, make this film epitomize the the American family.) And thus we come, full circle.

See irony.
(Or perhaps Morrissette, Alanis).

and speaking of beating the shit, it's time for me to "get some sleep."

California Dreamin' becomes Montana Dreamin'. And I'm Still in New York

2006-03-20T00:18:00.000-05:00

Oh, if I only put forth a little effort in life, I would be able to make good on all of my wasted computer time, and be one of those "bloggers" that everyone cares about, instead of one writing semi-prolifically in secret. I could get advertisers to shove crisp newfangled bills into my pink parts and fill me up with money and importance. And no, it wouldn't make me happy, but it would let me let go of the worry a little bit more, cause dollars buy soft beds and soft friends to surround you with. Ah well.

Although, I do seem to get a lot of sleep done anyway. Here is an amazing Melatonin-induced dream I had lately. I hope that shit isn't bad for you, because erratic sleep patterns have me taking it a lot. I have several friends who say they get bad dreams from it. I guess if I worried about it more, I would say that I get bad dreams from it too. But since I don't like to think about things I don't like to think about, I have always just considered them vivid dreams. This one had me wake up in a bit of a worry, but there was nothing too too bad about it. Insane, but not bad. I did wake up a couple of times during the night, so my dreams were restarted quite a bit. Perhaps there was some bleed.

>> As I often am in my dreams, I was in my childhood home in CA. My brothers were about, particularly my younger, Landon. I was hanging out with a comedian friend, Becky Poole (this has to be because she performed at the RIP ME OPEN benefit, and because I furtively find her entirely devourable) at my parents home (which is no stranger to subconscious lesbian sex for me, although there was no sex in this dream, just teenage awkwardness... but I tend to believe that there is sex in every dream, cause there is sex in everything) and we were just hanging out and giggling. She was leaving that day to go to camp for two months--probably one of those performing arts camps; she was going to be a counselor. We went to the hall closet where she had left her coat to find that someone else had taken it (with all those people who never came over to my house growing up). She wanted to borrow one of Lando's coats, and he was away from home at the time. I figured, as it was March, and California, he probably wouldn't need it anytime soon, and it was cool. She also found a book, I think of his, on "resistance." At least, that was in the title. Resistance Film. Makes sense. I thought she might enjoy reading it on her bus trip to camp. My older brother Reggie, who in this dream, was also my roommate, Scoop, and also some sort of Native-American guy, helped her find a coat to wear and came to tell me so. He told me she was already gone by that point, and I looked out the window to see if I could catch her, only to find that a hailstorm was in progress.

I laid my body down in a bed/seat near the window, only to wake up and discover that I was moving. Not in motion, moving, but unpacking boxes, moving. I am in the new apartment. There is a tall black guy moving stuff in already, and I am thinking that it is just the two of us in this new apartment. There are huge clear windows and I have taken the corner bedroom that faces the city buildings (which are very close, it looks like I am living in the heart of Downtown Wherever) and most of the day's sunlight.

Later, when trying to figure out what city I am in, I notice there is a huge gold, glowing, radiating meteor ite lodged between the buildings. There is a TV on in the apartment. There are several TVs in the apartment, 3 that I notice. Two belong to the guy, and one belongs to the people who lived there before. And I have yet to unpack my TV. At any rate, one of them is on, and "Quantum Leap" is playing in the background. In the scene, Sam and Al and whoever else are in the middle of some desert, and the same, gold, glowing, radiating meteorite is there. Apparently a town has started to raise itself up around the meteorite. I still don't know where exactly this Meteorville (that's not the name, I just wanted to call it that in my comic book reasoning) is, but i am *hoping*... somewhere near New York?

Meanwhile I still don't know the name of my roommate (or for that matter, why I moved, aside from the fact that I spend many days in New York daydreaming about getting out, only, apparently, to night dream about it too) but I am trying to check my email to find it out, and also to find out how and when I found this apartment situation and negotiated a move, how much the rent is, etc. I see an email with a picture of him that says "Jack" underneath, but as I look closer, it is a video link, and when I click it, the video is of a much more "street" black dude missing a tooth in front. Definitely not the HowardCollege-looking neatly unpacking his personal effects and high-tech electronics around me.

"Jack" is in the living room with a Mexican guy I haven't met, who apparently is helping him to install the living room entertainment center. I tell them both to wait--that I have TiVo that I would like them to install. I tell them that the instructions must be packed when he asks for them, and begin searching the apartment for the TiVo box and instruction manual. I find both these items, but oddly, no other boxes of things that I have packed, and start to look around the rest of the apartment for them.

I am realizing I chose the right room for my bedroom, since the next room I turn into off to the right is much smaller. I go into the next room down the hall and it has a lot of old wood items in it, like a heavy, early 80s, wood-paneled design. It has old dusty wine glasses stacked in it, and some plants I think. Wood shutters on the windows. It is the den. There is also an old wood-paneled TV and some old pictures that the previous tenants left on the wall. They were black too. There are old plaques, awards perhaps, about them being wine collectors, awarded for something. The name I remember from the plaques is Wendi Wiley (this immediately tips me off into something supernatural... Wiley makes me think of Wiley Wiggins, the dreamer in "Waking Life" and Wendy was one of the names that my mother wanted to give to me--check out the page on the derivation, it's funny that my mom's name is actually Gwendolyn. Fortunately a nurse "Desiree" was announced over the loudspeaker and gave my mom a sudden flash of needed inspiration). I gathered from the plaques on the wall a somewhat bohemian nature to the couple that I liked. They had left personal pictures there too, a couple on the wall, but several more stacked on the floor, as though they had been forgotten. The ones on the floor were pictures of my family. One in particular, taken when I was very young, of my older brother Reggie, older sister Gigi, and myself. There was a school picture of Reggie and one of me as well, separately.

From this I can only assume they are relatives of ours that I didn't know about (which would not be difficult since both my parents isolated themselves from their families a lot, and occasionally someone's name comes up and it's like, who's that. Oh, that's your father's uncle/half-brother/whatever. Oh. Ok), and that that is connected to the fact that I am now living in this place--more arrangement than coincidence, though there does seem to be some of the latter involved as well. "Jack" must be a cousin of mine.

I talk to Jack about the Wileys. He knows all of this stuff already, and shows me big, poster-sized, black and white pictures he found of them. One is of a woman that I assume is an aunt or a cousin. Perhaps it is Wendi. She is wearing a Cabaret-type outfit--top hat and coattails against her medium brown skin. She is topless and her small, pert breasts are exposed. Jack suggests, and I believe that there is some relation to me from this picture because of the performance connection and the somewhat provocative nature of the picture. He too makes the suggestion that we are related somehow.

I return to the previous room to discover there are two desks there, side by side I didn't notice, for the couple, who must have moved out in a hurry. Then I notice a white guy, with a pock-marked face, walking around. Unpacking items. He must be living here too. This place is turning out to be less spacious than I thought. Realizing I have absolutely no hold on what I have gotten myself into, I ask the strange white guy where we are (seems safer than asking "Jack" who I already have this supposed interaction with that I can't remember). He says that he thinks that we had just crossed the border of Montana when we found this place. MONTANA? It sounds wonderful, but I start to freak about it, because I know I have so many shows and rehearsals in New York. There is NO WAY I am going to be able to commute and do this. Even if I commute half the day. Jack is in the living room talking to Quantum Leap's Sam Beckett (who remains in the TV screen) about how long he has lived in Montana. He defends his circumscribed Montana existence to Sam (which of course one has to wonder about, being a black guy in Montana), but admits that the only women he is with are the ones he fucks in the bathroom of the gym because he lives too far away for anyone to come back to his place.

Despite this interesting argument, I am still worried about the highly potential radioactivity of the nearby meteorite (which glows gold and bright right in my bedroom window). Even the knowledge that it fuels nearby hot springs that the townspeople love does not comfort me. I can only think, "no one has been in the town long enough to know the long-term effects of this meteorite." I leave the place and somehow find myself at a subway station (Like the one at the 8th Avenue "L" train in NYC, only, of course, much cleaner and less packed). I am waiting for a train so that I can explore this town and leave it at the same time. <<

And that's the damn dream. I wake up and scrawl all this down as I run late to a really early morning appointment (to be a guest on some Oxygen talk-show pilot, if anyone cares). Yikes. This dream is rife with imagery. So much about my issues marrying my family and youth to the life I live as a performer, dealing with my interracial attractions and trying to paint myself into a romantic picture I have not been able to focus in on yet, my issues with New York, and my ambisexual mental roamings. But this innocent dream is full of sex, no? That, and the fact that I clearly watch a sickening amount of TV. What the fuck would I do if I didn't have this highly addictive personality? I guess I need to start figuring it out.

Deaf Poetry

2006-03-07T18:22:00.000-05:00

So last night I did a runway audition for a charity fashion show. If selected, this will be my first time on the runway since I was 13 and at the Barbizon school where my gold hoop earring got caught on the shoulder-padded polyester blazer that I was rocking over my adolescent 201 lbs. of awkward, and I looked like I was caught in some Whitney Houston 80s dance move freeze-frame. I remember the teacher afterward saying, "don't be so tense..." and I was like, bitch my fucking hoop was caught on this shitty nylon blend Nordstrom's Rack crap my mom makes me wear so I can look like a 40-year-old CPA. Why? Cause it makes more sense to be a 200 lb. 40 year old than it does to be a 200lb 14 year old. I still had the Big Bad BeetleBorg glasses then too (they didn't look exactly like that--theirs are more a-la-Geordi LaForge--but that's what my brother and I called them). It was depressing.

Anyway, this audition was a call for models of "all shapes, sizes and colors" and that kind of decent crap. Don't worry. Fat is not the "new black" on the runways of Milan. At least not yet. The theme of it is celebrating diversity and that kind of thing. It's a charity fashion show to raise money for JADE Films, and this woman JADE (Jamaican-American Destinee-Empress) was the first, and I believe, only director to graduate from Tisch Film School who is an African-American Deaf woman. Obviously this woman has got a lot of shit telling her to stay in the corner and shut the hell up, and yet she has created several award-winning independent films and begun her own company. Quite remarkable. I got a chance to shake her hand yesterday after my audition, which I had been looking forward to doing. I wanted to explain to her how much I respected her work, and the fact that she was putting this show on, but I didn't speak her language. She spoke mine--she went deaf due to mysterious causes in Jamaica when she was four... kind of like Ray Charles, only with ears, not eyes... Ray was such a fucking amazing movie... anyway--but I was auditioning for a whole room full of deaf people with different backgrounds in the hearing world, and as little as regular, hearing auditors want to hear what an auditioner has to say, deaf ones probably want to hear it less (or maybe more, at first, and then just less entirely--like your mom calling to you while you are floating in the pool with your ears under the water and nothing can touch you, accept the creepy-crawly vacuum wigging you out).

And the irony doesn't just stop with that last deaf/auditor wordplay. The best part of the night, which is usually the worst part of any other auditions, was waiting around before hand. There were about 12 people waiting to audition in the hallway, and about 4 of them besides me were actual hearers. The others were all deaf (although the one really cute model girl might have actually just been able to speak in sign language, as she spoke vocally in English very well, but I did detect a slight discrepancy in the way she spoke, which may just mean she was able to "pass" extremely well--she was this tall skinny black girl with a big afro puff in back, and definitely the most attractive woman I had seen all night, portfolio and stilettos in hand). All of them engaged in the most vibrant conversations I have ever seen. I am always jealous of people speaking in ASL, just like I used to be jealous of the cliques of Korean kids at my high school, sitting around in their big circles and laughing in a language I didn't understand, about things I probably didn't understand. This situation was different. I felt much more of a sense of connection to things that they were talking and laughing about, even though I didn't understand a damn thing they were talking about. Oddly enough, this is probably because they were signing in English. The thought that I would understand someone signing in English (or in this case, American... Sign) before I would understand someone speaking in Portuguese is an interesting idea. But I did feel a connection to their conversations, probably because I understood the emotion and animation behind them. And it's so visual, it's great: generally one is used to seeing people having an animated conversation where their hands move uselessly to gesture at intensity, but in this case, the opposite occurs, where every hand movement is emphatically specific, and it is the voice which gestures widely unspecific with grunts and unarticulated laughter.

Oh, the laughter. That was the best part. Because the laugh has that unspecific sound of being unheard and uncensored, so that it's really just expelling every sound that the throat can articulate. Every guffaw sounds like a grunt of sexual desire. Every time the monitor laughed amidst her conversation it sounded like she was coming by being fucked with a large blunt object. It's dumb and beautiful, like laughter is supposed to be when you are unaware of an audience of people (or yourself) judging your joy. It was raucous, and made me turn around the first few times so I could figure out who was being bludgeoned in the skull. But I got used to the sound. My ears god more sensitive. I was reminded of the beautiful subtleties of hearing as the guy working in the design studio next door jingled his keys to go back into his office after having gone to the bathroom and I was the only one who instantly turned around responding to the keys chiming.

When I went in, the girl closest to me in the panel was talking to me and gesturing at the same time, and as I was trying to figure out what was going on, she said, "Oh, you're not deaf?" Which is a great question that I will remember having been asked. I almost thought to be offended for someone by that. Like deaf was a bad thing to call someone (since it's used among the hearing as such, to denote someone's ignorance). I need to wash that P.C. right out of my hair. There was a camera there, with a black guy with dreads operating it, three women behind the table, and one sort of asexual t-shirted female techie hand running away from the camera to sneeze every so often, and a stylish gay at the end of the row--all in all, situation entirely normal for an audition. There was a makeshift runway taped on the floor, and a pseudo costume rack with laundry bags and scarves from which I had to fashion a wardrobe in under a minute. It was quite hilarious, and I can tell that for the non-hearing, it is quite a bit of Chaplin-esque comedy to see "models" run about trying to fashion a costume and look sassy on a fake runway. I forgot that they couldn't hear when they told me to go and I stopped, waiting for someone to turn on the music (and they were like, oh, that's right, she needs music). The whole situation was great--comedic in all the ways that auditions are for auditioners, with a sense that everyone (or at least the auditors and myself--and who else really matters in this case) was in on the joke. And that the joke is actually not funny, but just is. And that's cool too. I got to shake the director's hand, and thanked them all profusely. I should have thanked them as they were thanking me, verbally, but also with the padded tips of one hand pouring forth from just beneath the mouth. I thought to do so, but didn't want to be a poser. But that's exactly what a model is. And I so want to speak sign language with them. Damn. I missed my shot.

Fuck Me Addendum

2006-03-03T16:28:00.000-05:00

Apparently I need to look at my own blog, and maybe be the 10th person to read my blog. I think that the 5/5 I got comes from Jase, who was nice enough to check out my blog and compliment. And considering he is a guy, I owe him a big fat ball-lick for that. Maybe it was a girl like Greg said, and maybe Jase had given me this ironic compliement in the vast universal mechanism of me needing to learn a lesson about dissing on kind people who are better at blogging than me. Thank God for the millions of eyes in the world. With all of their staring. They keep you in line. Dancing about with one foot in your mouth. (Especially since I haven't even looked at this alleged ranking and don't know who said what or why... It's amazing that the internet, the information superhighway, allows you to act so easily out of such ignorance. Although it is no news that an overabundance of information can encourage unawareness.)

Not a real blogger

2006-02-28T17:56:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-15T13:07:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-06T01:03:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-02-06T00:41:00.000-05:00

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?

And then of course, there is reincarnation

2005-10-28T17:50:00.000-04:00

Hosana and Jubilation! Eddie's not dead-ee. This is TOTALLY like when I lost my favorite umbrella.

Uh. All I can say it, he seemed super dead yesterday morning, but I left the light on in his tank anyway, cause I didn't have time to take him out in the morning, and I was hoping to keep him dry (smell and the like) and to roast some of those fucker crickets. When I got the fuck home last night, he was all sprung in his lizard hammock, checking out the bugfood.

Sorry for the false alarm guys. But thanks for still not sending me any love. you fuckers.

Maybe it's like when Catwoman died in Batman Returns, and then the cats licked her wounds and she woke up all cat like. Maybe Eddie's got zombie cricket qualities now. Or maybe he's just really good at playing lizard possum.

No one emails you...

2005-10-27T17:26:00.000-04:00

on a day like today... when you are hoping for email, for a little escape. No email.

usually you get 15 emails a day, people asking you to do shit, wanting information, learning a new word a day or trying to give you the low-down on cialis. usually there is at least one thing that makes you happy, or someone going, "How are you." On days that are shitty, you never get any good email. You never get the diversion you look for. Everyone, you imagine, is feeling as shitty as you are, and no one cares.

Although I did get a lovely email from Carolyn this morning, but she wanted me to do a benefit I can't do, and then I was sad. And I got a sweet pea email from Becky. It was funny. I meant to email her back, but I was too busy blogging all damn day.

Birth 2 Death Addendum

2005-10-27T16:43:00.000-04:00

The title of the post comes from a Tulip Sweet (and her Trail of Tears) song of the same name. It came on my iRiver this morning when I was searching through comfy old Elton John songs to listen to... Today is the kind of day where I want to listen to Radiohead and the Divine Comedy and the occasional Antony, as well as Elton, since he is what I bounced on my bed to when I was 6, and sometimes you just need to go back there. But the song, if you get a chance to hear it, is perfect for that kind of feeling.

And of course, this morning, I couldn't help wondering, I couldn't help feeling like, if I had not bailed on the Comedy Social Show I was supposed to do last night, I wouldn't have had time to stop by the pet store before going home, and I wouldn't have gotten that blue death ray. I would have gone to my local pet store, and the this weekend (and just used the day lights until then) and they would have known what the fuck was going on. And I think about how sick and tired I was last night. How sick I felt on the train this morning, still... and how I would rather feel twice as bad now and still have my pet. I should have just gone and done the show, no matter how much better my body feels that I didn't.

And If I weren't so lazy, I would have refused the sub-standard light and gone to find the right one. Or I would have paid attention to shit like that, and have known I couldn't use that one, because I am sure one of the PetLand geeks told me that already. Or I wouldn't spend all my money on food and smokes and weed and wine and entertainment and I would still be able to afford cable and my internet, and I could have looked something up.

Woulda. Coulda. Shoulda. I should go back in time and change all that. Later.

Birth 2 Death

2005-10-27T10:01:00.000-04:00

Well, I am at the god-awful hell-hole snake pit again, which is why I have internet access. I have none at home right now. It makes me sad, but my life seems functional. I need to go to work. So I can communicate. I think it is causing odd synapse-formation in my brain. But that is how we people become what we are. Asked to control it.

My eyes are red with smoke. From every cigarette, every bowl that I have smoked. They are dry like my throat, the bloody throat. I imagine the ribbed walls of my trachea curled over like his little fingers.

My lizard is dead today. I killed him. I thought I might, but didn't think I would. I got him the wrong light. I had this little pimplefaced girl tell me it was okay. That it was enough heat. That it was probably enough. That I could just check the cheap thermometer I have that doesn't work. She didn't even listen when I told her what kind of lizard he was. I thought better of it. I thought it might not work. I checked the thermometer in the tank a million times, and it didn't change. Thought that was a good thing, but I should have known that meant nothing but trouble. Well, actually, it did look like it changed a bit. Which allowed me to convince myself. I was just so tired. And the light was blue and pretty. And Eddie was up bounding around, eating the crickets had just gotten for him. And even after all that, I still checked the heat from the light, 3 times. Whatever. I am sure everyone goes through this when someone, something dies... what they could have done. I am sure it's classic. Even for a lizard. I just feel awful.

Even last night, before I went to bed and froze him with the winter light, I was thinking about him. How long we had been together. What a fantastic pet he was. How when I first got him, I showed him to everyone. So proud. I feel like I killed my baby. I mean, of course a baby would cry if it were too cold, and I shouldn't use a dead desert creature as an indication of potential parenting skills. Even though he was my first pet. Like, truly mine. And of course part of me is surprised he even lived this long. And that I remembered to turn his lights off and on (just last night I was freaking about getting something battery-operated, in case there were a blackout like in 8/03, or--more likely--if I got my electricity turned off or something). I had often left him unattended for a long weekend, or had not fed him for a week or something. I boasted that he was easier to take care of than a plant. He was. It's proof how we take life for granted that I thought last night, "perhaps I should leave the day light on just in case... (he dies)" But then I thought, "He won't die. He never dies (duh)." And he's dead.

And he is still in his tank, with the daylights on, wedged behind his big rock, where he died. His little crunchy claws curled up in a way that I knew was unnatural when I saw them this morning. His little rosey mouth pursed the way it always was... God, last night he was so animate/this morning I knocked hard on the glass next to his head, just to see... just to start him the way that I knew I could, even when he was hungry, and I was broke, and I thought he was close to death (though I knew he was the animate form of a cactus, and could always lay close to death and be fine, kind of like me. They way he was very still, and hovered in liminal consciousness, until it was time to eat, or start himself from his routine... or to watch TV, which like me, he loved). No movement. The thickest of knocking and still I wanted to see a squint in his eyes, to know that he could come back. His rapid heartbeat clutched in the palm of my hand, and his powerless struggle in my grasp. The way he laid next to me like a heat rock, feeling my heartbeat and relishing my 98.6. The way he wore his hat. The way he sung off-key... Yeah, you get the picture.

Oh yeah, and Karl Rove is about to get indicted or something, but no one will notice or care today because Harriet Miers says she's looking out for the best interests of the country by withdrawing her unqualified nomination today, after several weeks of scrutiny. I bet no one on capitol hill wakes up with a dead lizard, and then has to burst into unwanted tears over that, and subsequently everything else that is wrong with their lives (isn't it amazing how that happens? It's like your brain sees it's opportunity to void itself of pain when something sharp and acute strikes you. It's what I like to call the "burnt pop-tarts syndrome" where something momentarily atrocious occurs, and all of the deep-seated pain that turns to blue sludge that causes mold in the corners of your mind comes flooding to the surface for it's chance to be set free. the problem is, that stuff doesn't really go away... it is just reminded of its existence... painfully... as I am most days. AAAAAHHH the MEANINGLESS OBLIVION!!! okay... i'm over it). I bet they all just keep going according to the plan, believing in the plan, living life by the plan. It's an evil plan. And I have no further intentions of talking about any of them, or their evil plans today. My friend is dead.

And don't give me greif about the self-aggrandizing sorrow. This isn't like the time I wrote the poem about the umbrella I lost in Port Authority, only to return to the shitty pizza shop where I had left it and find that someone had turned it in for me (of course then, only to finally have it break a year later, and still it was the best umbrella--a favorite accessory, by the way--that I have had). This hurts me. And I finally caved and told Molly, the girl at my work... the only one with potentially more problems than me (misery does love company) , and the self-proclaimed emotional communist who has to know everything that is going on. It wasn't like I was keeping it from her. It's just best to keep the bastard sheilds up for everyone at work because most of them are bastards, and it hurts less not to let anyone/thing in or be a person just to have someone be fake in return (though she's rarely like that). And mostly I don't feel like sharing things when I am going through them, just so someone else can jump down into the mudpit and wallow with me. But I felt very (or at least, "slightly more," which is "very" to me) grown-up by talking about it. Like I was being mature about it or something, despite wanting to keep it to myself.

I really want to talk with Tracy about it. Partially because we are pet-owner friends (she's petsat for me, and vice versa) and oddly because, since she lost her father in May, it's been weird how little we have talked about him. And I am one of her best friends. I am surprised at how well-adjusted she has been, how functional. Because she's had to be, of course. And in her case, it doesn't feel like she's holding back this brooding reservoir of pain. But still, something feels amiss in the way that we haven't had a good long talk/cry together in person. Perhaps I am just being selfish in thinking that she should do that with me. Part of me is feeling guilty that I haven't been a good-enough friend to her through this. I don't want to burden her with death while she's studying tort reform. But hell, I know that she will be able to understand. And perhaps we could watch some Eddie Izzard together, and I could feel some sense of closure in the circle (Even though we wouldn't have to watch that particular Eddie Izzard concert).

I went back to the Union Square Petco at lunch and returned the murderous blue night light I bought. The cute skinny girl with pimples that's nice (the one who nicely sold me the fucking light that she had no idea would work or not) was not around. But I am going to need that 9 dollars that it was worth. Oh, it's ugly. Eddie's still in his tank. I didn't have the time, energy, desire to remove him just yet. The new crickets I bought for him last night are probably eating his remains. Oh how the times have changed Eddie Lizzard. Someday they little calf babies will eat the grass that grows from my disintegrated remains as well. And the daylights will keep shining. I'm so sorry.

11:11 Phenomenon

2005-10-26T17:34:00.000-04:00

Coincidence in it's highest form. Make sure that when you catch it on the clock, you spare the moment for awareness.

Last week (or was it the week before... fuck, what's going on these days?) I took my friend Kyle(bear) to see Antony and the Johnsons at Carnegie Hall. For those of you who know Antony, it sounded much better than it was. That's unfair. It was a gorgeous show, even though, as with all old theaters, my overgrown 21st centuryAmerican body was uncomfortable in those 20th century old theater seats... However, I was admittedly disappointed that Antony has (at least for the present) shirked his ethereal and effeminate diva chanteuse atmosphere for one that is more technical. Instead of being behind the mic, Antony was behind the piano, taking breaks to have a aged jazz performer, Jimmy (something.... gotta look up his name. I am sure he is important. I mean, he sang "Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child" and Elton John's "Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word" for chrissakes) come out and sing and be handed roses, and giving over his encore performance to Lou Reed (it seems like the two are hopelessly in love for this lifetime with each other) which is all fine, but taken in altogether, I feel like we didn't get to see that much of Antony in the concert, which is the reason that hundreds of people were there. Although Antony did do a fantastic riff on Whitney Houston's "I wanna dance with somebody" involving a fantasy with the lovely Shania Twain. It was truly a highlight, although he didn't sing Rapture or River of Sorrow, two songs from his first album that make me crumble. Most of the songs were from later albums that I am less familiar with.

But moving right along to the jist of things... Kyle and I had an amazing night together, which is usually what I give him for his birthday, and then we headed to the Ameritan hotel for snazzy, overpriced drinks. This is where Meghan the bartender comes in. After Kyle and I did some catching up over dirty martinis, the bartender sort of became part of our conversation. Of course, she is a performer to, and could tell that we were from the timbre of our voices (which is always a compliment... god, I sound like such an actor douchebag right now) and she talked about the fact that she did voice-over work, which is something I want to get into. We also noticed her spiritual detox book on the bar, and assumed that she was into the holistic mysticism that these days gets lumped into being "new age." After talking about all the things we all do, we traded email addresses, and I noted aloud that it was interesting that hers ended in 11. I told her it was one of my favorite numbers. And she asked why immediately.

I told her it was because it had a special symbolism for me since I was a teenager. To be honest, it came from 11:11, which I knew for a while, was significant to others outside of the sphere of my best friend from home and myself, but didn't realize was such a huge gap in space and time. My best friend growing up, Lauren, and I used to catch 11:11 all the time on the LCD clock in my cloudmobile (the white Jeep Grand Cherokee that I drove around that was my parent's and was also my freedom for several years) when we would get stoned and hang out in the parking lot by the Metro Rail station in Fullerton, CA. 11:11 extended beyond the car for the two of us, but it was always kind of our 4:20; something we would catch and give knowing looks and congratulations to one another for spotting.

When Meghan asked me why I liked 11, I essentially told her that my best friend and I used to catch 11:11 all the time, and it meant something to us.

She was obviously enthused by the connection and urged me to "google 11:11." "There's some stuff going on with 11:11," she said. "You'll see," she told me.

Well, that shit is true as hell. There is some shit going down with 11:11. Essentially, as it beconed a certain recognition from Lauren and myself, that is essentially the role of 11:11. It is a reminder of consciousness. It is a reminder of awareness. It is a reminder of the synchronicity in this world, of the plane where sprituality and geometry connect.

Yes And...

2005-10-26T17:01:00.000-04:00

So I hosted Chicks and Giggles at the new Mo' Pitkins last night. It was a fantabulous show. The lineup was stellar: Pat Candaras (the amazing), Margot Leitman (whom I adore), Fiona Walsh (who I met the first time I did Gotham, and I just love her to death), and this woman, Negin Farsad, who is intellectual, insightful, and Iranian (to go with a bit of alliteration before I say she's hilarious), who I am so happy to have met, as well as Adira Amram, whose name I mispronounced while intro and outro-ing her, I think, but who is one of the most amazing performers I have seen in a long time (who is, incidentally, not to incite any riots in the comedy community, a much more interesting musical comedian than Jessica Delfino, who was also supposed to do the show that night, but again, snubbed a show that I was hosting... anyone who knows about this knows about how this happened before when she was headlining a Smut that I was hosting, and how I felt like she "Bronson Pinchot"ed me, and now I have this pseudo arch-nemesis rage, even though I think she's hilarious and a fantastic performer). And Becky Yamamoto came and did a set, cause Jessica bailed and I asked her to come. So really, it was like a dream show. And my new herpes bit went over well, and all was full of love. It felt good to have a good show, especially since I have felt kind of dry at the last couple of Smuts.

I hadn't seen Becky in forever, and I sure hadn't seen her do standup. She has gotten to be AMAZING, I think. Handling herself so well when she is not killing (which is the sign of a great comedian) and killing the rest of the time, just by being relaxed and herself. It's so good to see in your contemporaries... because you are proud of them, and because it is inspiring for you. Then we stuck around to have a glass of wine and talk about sex and how cute the (always) Irish bartender was.

Rachael Parenta showed up, and it was the first time I have ever had a chance to talk with her extensively. She is a really wonderful person. And hilarious. It's so good to know positive, wonderful people who are comedians. Cause comedians get that bum rap because they usually hate everyone, you know? But Becky and I were just talking about how wonderful Carolyn Castiglia is. Just as a person, as a comedian, as a producer. How amazing, how driven, how kind and authentic she is. And then Rachael showed up. And we had a great time with her as well. And Becky bought me 2 happy drunken glasses of wine. And for that, she is the truest of friends.

Rachael was telling us how the one time she hooked up with someone who was uncircumcized, she was giving him a handjob, and in the middle he yelled, "you're doing it wrong!" Which, I suppose means that she wasn't giving him any sensation through his little turtleneck or whatever. I kind of always feel like if you got a good tight grip on it, and not too much friction, you are doing right just by holding the damn thing. But I was like, "NO FUCKING WAY!" There is no "you're doing it wrong!" in sex. You don't yell that. Once two people are naked, there is to be no flinging of insults. There is no "No, BAD!," only "Yes. And..." Like in any good improv game. You have to establish something, and then of course, respect what has been established, and commit to what you are doing and the world that you have created. That is "Yes, and...." If something needs to be changed, it must be adapted based upon what has come before. And if what has come before is a bad hand-job, then you have to say, "Yes, And...." making it the most creatively good handjob ever. People are pricks, and should be so thankful that anyone wants to fuck their homely ass... Seriously.

Incidentally, a beautiful woman named Signey who was at the show, came up to me afterward, and based on my herpes set, recommended a great French gynecologist. A lovely man with a Parisian accent who will stick two fingers into your vagina, have a cultured look and say, "Ah. Perfect!" when he's all done. Sounds like my kinda guy. If he ever complained about a handjob, I am sure it would be the most charming thing ever.

In Other News...

2005-10-20T17:42:00.000-04:00

So you know I freakin' sent that post as an email to Marc Maron (email from his website) and don't you know that I got a reply back. And he DOES in fact, live in Astoria, like 4 blocks away from me. So THERE, all you nay-sayers who ask me why. Why Astoria? Two words--they rhyme with Farc Faron.

Also, in other news. I hate everyone in my office today. They keep smiling at me. Can't they see my head is in a bowl of snot. I have zero tolerance for pleasantries. Just tell me what the fuck you want from me. I'll do it. Why do people have to take personally the fact that I hate everyone somedays. I don't hate you. I hate everybody. There is such a difference.

Speaking of which, the fucking laundromat lost my favorite brown sweater that Syren gave to me from the Old Navy. It was from a couple of years ago. I wonder if they have more of those long grampa sweaters (the turtle necks that have the double-zipper and go down to mid-thigh). If any of you are O.N. freaks (I just went there for the first time like a tool bag two days ago, and bought my first pair of velour pants... for a tiny film part I got, but they are comfy as fuck, and I was looking for work-out pants for fat chicks, and saw that O.N. had a plus-size section, which won my heart a little--though they could add a little plus to the size of the actual section... all they had was fucking velour... so like 3 fat black chicks can be like.... "oooh, track suits in 4 different colors. yes!" --cause that's what they'd say), and know if they have one of these, I MUST have another. It was the comfiest sweater ever. I feel like a friend has died. Just cause I gave my laundry to the new chick at the laundromat. And I wouldn't have dropped of my laundry anyway if I had time to wipe my ass anymore without someone being pissed at me that I am not doing something I am supposed to be doing with them.

Oh. Tom DeLay got arrested. And God said, "Vengeance is Mine."

It seems like everyone wants me to do things these days. Plays. Films. Writing. When it rains, it pours. But it never pours money.

Marc Maron is stalking me.

2005-10-13T15:30:00.000-04:00

I am sure our lives are meant to collide. I know it.

The first time I saw you was at the 23rd street uptown platform waiting for a train. You were all in a suit and stuff, like you were going to a show or a job interview or some thing random... and I walked by you, and was like... hmmm.... wait, who is that? Is that? Huh? that's not Marc Maron... is it? whoa, yeah, that's Marc Maron. What the hell is he doing on my train? That was like, at least 6 months, if not a year ago... when you had the short hair.

Then I saw you like, 2 months ago (longer hair now), walking down Steinway Street toward 30th avenue... at least, that's where I was coming from. I live in Astoria. On 30th and 41st. And there was some like, massive street fair, like there always is on Steinway, and you were wearing a blue Air America tshirt and shorts and working your way, as I was, through big butts pushing strollers. I saw you and smiled really big and you smiled back. and I was like, "what the hell is Marc Maron doing in Astoria?" I assumed it was some kind of "man on the street" type action, and you were getting some outer-borough flavor. I mentioned this to one of my friends, and they were like... "I think marc maron lives in Astoria." And i was like... wait, first of all, how would you know that? BACK OFF! Secondly, why the fuck would Marc Maron live in Astoria? That just makes me like Astoria even more than I already do. I mean, I dog on Astoria all the time, because there is just so much retarded fodder there... Stores called "Temptation... for KIDS!" and stickers on the door of the liquor store that read "Kids, No hope in DOPE!" I think for a writer or comedian, it's so perfect. You always have something to hate on.

Then I saw you like two weeks ago... at least the back of you... as you were walking down 5th Avenue. I work at 5th Ave. and 21st Street. My co-worker and I were outside smoking and caught you with your backpack and shorts on trucking down to an office of some sort (we assumed) on 5th. My friend was like... "holy crap, that's Marc Maron. I remember him from that show on VH1..." and then we gushed a bit over your virtues and walked down the block a bit, to see if we could see where you went to... just in case you had gone into the Bath and Body Works to stock up on your tea tree oil or something... we were going to find out. Yeah, we made it to like, the Body Shop and then gave up.

And freakin' then, I saw you Monday, as I was walking to the NYSC on 30th and 38th, and you were walking past Duane Reade. and it took me only a second this time, and i was like, "that's Marc Maron isn't it. I know it. What the fuck? Marc Maron is stalking me!" and then I was going to turn right there and say something to you, but I am girl, so I second-guessed myself a moment too long (my first thought was "I'm in my gym clothes... I can't just go talking to some famous comedian. He's probably on his way somewhere, like Duane Reade and doesn't want to be bothered while he purchases Vapo Rub," but then i decided to look to see where you went, and then, again, you completely evaporated.

You are good at that evaporating thing. Like you're some kind of social critiquing soluble fluid or something. Or a gnome. A gnome who is following me for some reason. Perhaps it is because you know that you look like this guy that I hooked up with and totally fell for over the summer, and you are just trying to rub it in that I still think about him a lot, even though I was supposed to be mature and detatched. Perhaps it is because you are trying to remind me of my comedic and performance values, and are highlighting my need for a mentor, and many, many guideposts. Perhaps you are trying to tell me, "Hey, I live in Astoria, and I sure would love it if you would cat-sit for me, and actually live in my probably swank apartment while my wife and I are being bicoastal in Los Angeles, and that way you would be able to live alone, in the neighborhood you like, for really cheap, and you wouldn't have to worry about your annoying, nosy Greek landlord getting pissed everytime you make a creak in the floorboards." I hope it is the latter, Marc Maron. Cause that would really rock. And if that's the case, you don't have to be so shy about it. Next time you see me, as you are following me on the N train, or on the tredmill next to me at the gym, or looking through my window or something, just be like... "Hey, what up Des? Want to get some cheesecake at Galaxy Cafe and sublet my apartment?" And I'll be sure to get the restraining order removed.

Fit to be Tied?

2005-10-06T12:11:00.000-04:00

Fit to be Tied? Fit to be Tied? What the fuck is this shit? Derek Jeter on the fucking front page? Who gives a fuck? It’s fucking baseball. How the fuck is that news? How the fuck does this stupid, Mongoloid bullshit make the fucking front page of a New York City newspaper?! What the fuck, did he find Osama Bin Laden? No? Then get his jailbait-loving, Visa-shilling ass back to the fucking sports section. Who gives a shit about baseball? Did you notice there was a fucking war going on? Fuck baseball, and fuck you for crunching into another complacent hot dog and gobbling up this phony escapist nightmare. National fucking pastime my asshole. Last time I checked, the national fucking pastime was blowing the fuck out of nations of brown people and then building a fucking McDonalds there, so we can make the survivors serve burgers that cost more than their lives are worth for a quarter an hour because it’s more than the quarter a week they get to stitch the fucking shoes these pig-fuckers get paid millions of dollars to endorse every year. Hanging out in a park, smacking around their bats and balls, trying not to get testicular cancer. Meanwhile I can’t watch fucking “HOUSE” on Fox for a month because these shit-kickers need all of October to buy and sell beer to each other.

Just because some lazy dickhead with a camera spends half a day at a ball game, I’m supposed to act like it’s news? Some fucking petulant tabloid hack telling me I am supposed to give a shit if these rat bastards are on drugs or not. OF COURSE they’re on drugs! If it was my job to have some redneck fuck scream at me in the sun while I tried to hit a speeding ball with a stick all day for 5 or 10 years until my arms ripped off at the elbow, I’d do a lot of fucking drugs too. Performance-enhancing drugs? Great! You think any rational human being can work up this much aggression over a fucking ball?

It’s going, going, gone and it’s another beautiful jerk-fest today in the ballpark. Everyone grab your shriveled nuts and sing the Anthem!

You know what would be news? Let one of these knuckle-scraping assholes hop off an aircraft carrier and start knocking the plastic explosives out of the hands of terrorists—that’s news! An athlete doing something useful—that’s front page! I’ll buy that for a quarter Rupert Murdoch. This is why most women don’t give a shit about sports, ‘cause there is too much real shit going on to bother with this trifling crap. You can bet if more women played sports, there would be a lot less ass-slapping and a lot more murder. And that’s what we really want to see anyway. Oh, you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. Would you? Maybe I can get on the front page too.

Falling

2005-10-01T15:06:00.000-04:00

For whatever reason, I keep trippin'.
I don't know why.
Why I be trippin?

For whatever reason I am in an astrological or spiritual cycle these past couple of weeks. I keep tripping on stuff. Like a pothole in the middle of the street, or not quite lifting my foot up high enough to make the next stair. After my show at Gotham on Thursday, I was walking back inside from talking to my friends to get my purse, and I fully ate it on the spill mat at the door. Took a spill on the mat if you will.

There is about an inch where the marble of the floor is raised from that of the entry, so I tripped on the inch, and began my high-powered careen into the bridge & tunnel youth that I had just entertained. I was doing that thing where you're running to try to get your balance back on the up and up, but it's not running, so you are just increasing the velocity with which you are eventually going to hit something. Rather than hit the soft, plushy bodies of the kids from Jersey, I decided to take a fall, and crashed into the ground before injuring anyone. Two 20somethings had to help me to my feet, and this is after I encouraged them to use a lower center of gravity because the upper body yanks were not nearly enough to get me to my feet. And then as I brushed myself off, they went... "you were really funny."

All part of the show folks.

And then I met the headliner, who I had not seen (aside from stage time, I spent the rest of the show downstairs in the comedian coral), Andrew Kennedy-who was standing there with this other comedian I had met (named Steve, who incidentally, was very kind to me and talked to me after my show, as a 14 year comedy veteran, about how good my stuff was and how I could improve... I asked him to come and do Smut sometime when I am hosting... but I think I might not be hearing from him, after the fall... oh well, he was kind of cute, and we all know that thing is never good in a fellow comedian--don't date comedians, we are all FUCKED). Apparently he is going to be getting a show on Comedy Central or something. If he ever needs a big black lady to come crashing through the set like the Kool Aid man, I hope he will think of me.

Well, 'tis the season for a little humility. I keep thinking of that Antony & the Johnsons song "Rapture" recently:

"Oh my mama
She's been falling
Falling down for quite some time
And oh my papa
He's been falling
Falling down for quite some time
Oh my friends
I've watched them falling
Falling softly to the ground
Like the leaves
The Leaves are falling
Down in silence to the ground
Is this the rapture?
Is this the rapture?"

A night of chicks giggling

2005-09-08T23:16:00.000-04:00

I did Carolyn Castiglia's Chicks & Giggles show at Raga on Tuesday. Damn, I love that girl, and I love that show. It's rare in comedy to say that there have truly been nothing but good times had there... especially since you know because you have said that that you'll have a bad show or something... but fuck it. I'll say that shit. I LOVE THIS SHOW. It's got such a great energy and such amazing female comedians...

The lovely and gracious Jen Dziura was there, in her peeps shirt, which is adorable on her... and of course, because of where we are and her striking looks, adoreable becomes ironic.

Incidentally I love and hate NY for this reason... clothing that you get anywhere else in the world that you think is retarded just becomes instantly ironic as soon as you are coming over the GW Bridge... I learned this by getting the floppy hat with "Blossom" flower on it from Vida in Boston, and feeling like a tool kit until I came back into NYC. Wait, that wasn't the GW Bridge at all...

Also, there were some other amazing comedians there... Abby Rosin was downright dirty and real. Kelli Dunham attempted to deny all the lesbian fisting she does while in port-o-potties touring around the country (incidentally, she was shoved into said port-o-potty by RuPaul's engorged ego...still love that bitch tho') once she shook the Mayor of Provincetown's hand with lube all over it. And this lovely comedian Raquel (whence she came I know not where, but she's fantastic) did her own adoreable haircut and shed some light on how/why Amazon.com and the Red Cross might be working together (she like me noted that there was a "Checkout" button when trying to give on their site... "Those who liked giving to the Red Cross, also liked giving to Diabetes..."

Anyway, I digress... After the show I met young cad Jonathan Powley. He quite possibly has the most social energy of anyone I know, and is just a natural comedian. Always working his jokes on unsuspecting underaged girls from the bridge and tunnel and beyond. When we left Raga with Carolyn and her husband, Jonathan accosted the first group of teenage girls we met at the corner on 2nd avenue, and went off about their shoes.

Yeah, he's not gay apparently... the surfer-braying voice, the clean cut look and obsession with footwear notwithstanding.

He of course, always the documentarian, proceeded to get pictures with these girls holding a leg up on each and grinning into the lens. And the girls are tickled pink... like he's snoop dogg and they were just on an episode of "Girls Gone Styled" (yeah, I made that up myself... proud, aren't ya?)

We of course, had the "I'm not gay, why does everyone think I am gay"/"Maybe it's the fashion talk." on the way to the N/R/W at 8th Street. Where we met Will, who was politely reading his book when we chose to derail his night by sitting down next to him. Soon Jonathan was pointing at Will's shoes, and then at his own, and talking about the merits of each kind, what they could be used for... His great shoe experience at David Z(ed)--he used the British version, just 'cause... This continued onto the train, where he expanded it to the girl with the Prada flip flops and the lady with the shiny belt, and the blonde guy with the double dragon arm tattoos who looked even gayer than Jonathan, but of course, was not (where are these guys when I am getting grinded on by every gay in a 10 block radius whenever a Daft Punk or Basement Jaxx song is played... dammit!)... Meanwhile, I at least managed to pick up an email address from Will, who was cute, and a math teacher... which means I can fantasize about the rest of our lives together... particularly since he has NO interest in me whatsoever.

It was a fantastic show (I actually had a, I didn't maniacally plan... or actually, really plan at all kind of set that just sort of rolled from material I have been doing lately), and a fantastic night to make up for the fact that I am fucking sick of the masses of fearful beings who govern this country, this planet, and their systems of destruction, denial... (ooooh, massively thought provoking ending to an otherwise banal entry.... how shallowly insightful... how socially damning).

Gay Daddy

2005-08-31T12:09:00.000-04:00

Well, not being able to blog anything nice has not kept me from blogging anything at all. Ever. And yet, my Michele (with fun accents if he were Italian, which I know he thinks of at night) would love for me to talk about him until the ends of time. And I have many things to say. Good things. I think they are good things. Because they come from love, even though sometimes they are tethered to love with a ninja star or something... But at any rate, I just felt the need to put this piece up on my blog. It was inspired by him, as well as an amalgam of gay playmates, boyfriends, stylists, metaphysical foils, best friends, siblings, parents and progeny. And also this play, "Rip Me Open" that we are writing with Kyle J. and Brian M. I am excited.

I have been working with M-C-squared a lot... We just finished doing Grandmotherfucker & the Seducers, with Pat and Jack, an amazing show, which was hilarious, insightful, unpretentiously interconnected stand up by the four of us. I can say undoubtedly that this show has helped my stand-up comedy skills immensely. At Monday Night's Smut, I had this amazing set that surprised the hell out of me, as I was hung over on three hours of sleep from the Neo-Futurist benefit the night before and hadn't done my traditional afternoon and day-full-of-cigarette-breaks round of cramming for the show. I just did some jokes I had done before, and threw some new things in there, and just sort of talked. I didn't even stand, I just sort of lounged on the edge of my stool at my podium, with my notebook there for good luck (at one point, I was going to panic and glance down, but just continued into the next bit that came into my head, and started to make new sense out of old bullshit... it's weird forming my sets at Smut, cause it really harnesses my power for insight through filth, but really makes for a Non-Commercial persona... which is kind of what I want, I just fear that my life will somehow be dependent upon courting Catskills crowds).

Anyway, needless to say, things have been going swimmingly performance-wise. That's generally the only part of my life where things can go swimmingly. Ask some of the attendees of Smut on Monday to find out about how great things are in my personal life.

But I digress from the initial point, which is that I wanted to share this piece with the 5 of you (whoo-hoo, already 5 readers... I cannot believe it, where is my Random House book deal?). I first read it at Smut this past Monday, and even impressed my friend's "alpha-male" (her description, not mine) boyfriend. Apparently it's a situation everyone can understand.

Gay Daddy

You are my gay daddy, that's what you are.
You are the top to my jar all bottled up
Letting off steam I didn't know I could build.
Slaps from your thick flesh on thin skin have goaded me through ugly things.
You smelled the sweetness of my humiliation.
You smell my fear I think. Like a pit bull licking busted chops.
In all of my discoveries, I have discovered you.
Waiting in the room.
At the fireplace.
With matches. And a troubled face. Like your conclusion was my curfew.
And you reached it way before I had a chance to go out and play.
For the street lights to come on.
All the judgments I have learned not to hear in my head you make
Like the slightest blinking alarm piercing through the darkness.
I relearn
I relearn
I relearn all my womanhood with you nipping and tucking at me.
Just like mom used to do
Making me feel dirty
Just like dad used to do.
And I know my place
Because you create it and say, "Challenge!"
And I am left staring at my emptiness presented to me. I am ashamed and
I spring to action.
And the game continues although I am panting. I am sweating
I think I am having a heart attack. I am swearing at you. I hate you
And I want you to feel it. But you are not listening to me. You poke me for sulking and check your cell phone.

I am older than you or we are the same age
Growing in different directions
I am growing up and you are growing out and I keep finding new places
In the space we contain. New holes we knock in the wall. You push
And all of me that pushes back is the only part that makes a difference.
You are my gay daddy, and I am so much your bitch that I'll keep doing exactly what you say and never get laid for it. Never get the winnings I've earned.
Never fully succumb. Just keep caving slowly, crumbling into finer and finer powder laid out in razored rows for a nonplussed nose.

But see how fine I have become.

I like to feel ravished.
You know what I mean.
We both squirm in the face of each other.
High-pitched whimpers that want to be taken
Growls that want gravel and substance
A tickle that shakes our heads. No.

At the heart of our matter there is the betrayal, at the end of the day, with the purple and scarlet sky, kneeling at the feet of mushroom clouds, ducking the locusts in a pastoral scene of apocalypse. At the end of all things, when worse comes to worse.
I would
And you would not.
Could not.

In our natures we are twisting.
You are trying to make it up to me with seduction.
Wrapping me around your finger like ribbon
So I can feel beautiful and pink. Useable. Used.
You know how I like it.

How light and petty our heads swing back as we approach
As if to kiss
As if to butt heads in a field
You are running so fast I can't tell if I am moving or not.
But I am
Because you are smiling
And I want to make your nose bleed.
I would love to see you cry.
I would hold you, you know.
And find out if I could trust you. See the places where my mark cradled you.
And burn them in.
It's just the closeness of you
That makes me melt in from the center of my thighs.

Do you love me? Do you want to be me? Do you want to be in me?
Oh. You don't.
Well.

Do you love me?

Do you want to be me?

Do you want to be in me?

No?

My Secret Crush on David Rees

2005-08-18T12:04:00.000-04:00

I saw him walking in front of my office yesterday as I was finishing up some errands. I wondered if that's where he had come from. Probably not. I see famous people in and around my building all the time (many more than, I am sure, anyone has actually seen, in real life, in LA). I mean, it is on the 5th Ave. Strip... and I also work on the same floor as a major PR smiley dude... So occasionally Leo DiCaprio walks by, and I wish I were 16 again, and that I had given a shit when I was 16 so that being 16 again would have some empirical value.

I first met David Rees when he came to read at SMUT (which I host at Galapagos, and if you haven't been, you haven't lived I tell ya!) in a suit, and did this amazing bit of quirk on how Lincoln would have been different (and probably gayer, though I don't think he said such, the historical context of that moment implied that everything about Lincoln made him gayer) if given a different hat at an historically crucial moment. It was, in my opinion, what the evening needed. I mean, there is no such thing as Smut without balance. Without something just to get the mind giddy. It was like ginger before the smutty sushi. It was good.

And then he came to do an intern lunch (I had so much to tell you guys about the interns at my office this summer. They were all so weird. So young. and some... so hot. At least for the first two weeks. And then they were around all the time, going... what's wrong with the copy machine? How do I use the postage meter? What are you having for lunch today... blah blah blah. But for a good two weeks there I felt like former First Man Bubba himself... about to get me some of that intern poontang. Only from the boys. The girl interns were cute, but as a rule, I really couldn't be interested in the women in my office. Most of them are short, and consequently, on power trips. Okay, that's not true. It's mostly my boss. But there is this one girl who has been working with us for a while--she started as an intern--and she has the most bangin' ass EVER. And those who know me know my ass envy-turned-lust so you know I mean what i say. Ass of Perfection) like a month or so ago, and he was so hilarious.

He kind of looks like Ben Affleck's skinny cousin, and constantly has this look of being appalled on his face. Kind of a combination of looking at the sun wherever he goes, but mostly just a constant shock and disgust at all of humanity. I know that's not how he feels in his heart... from what I understand of his history, he comes from a family of hmmm... is it Methodist... Quaker.... ministers? I don't know, but he comes from a somewhat progressive religious background. Which is hot right there. So I know that he really does have a candle of idealism flickering in there... But he's got such a no-bullshit attitude. Like a writer for South Park withought being all nutty libertarian. He seemed to be very open with discussing the bullshit of politics while still being a believer in "working with the system" which is always helpful... it's nice when people can instill some realistic hope in "the system." One place where escapism really doesn't work is politics.

Anyway, He just always has that look on his face, like, "what the fuck" only, he's thinking something smarter, I know. Even though, according to him, if he were really doing what he wanted to do, he'd be "eating microwave burritos and watching movies." And even though he is really happily married, and has his eyes on higher, more intellectual prizes than the funny brown girl who digs his style... i dig his style. I dig his awkwardness. I dig him worrying that his stuff wasn't smutty enough for smut. I dig guys who are dirty and don't even know it. They're just them. Being onself is a smutty job.

Check out the cartoons on his site. Well, the cartoons are clip art, but the writing is all his burrito-eating brain. Tell me I'm wrong.

Blagh

2005-08-18T11:24:00.000-04:00

So that last post is a little incomplete because it was in my draft folder forever, and so much of my life sits in the draft folder that I have made a point of making a fool of myself and publishing my drafts, in print, onstage, before I have thought about the words spilling out of my mouth. Because honestly, my drafts are more connected than a some people's final thoughts. And of course, most of those people are stupid. But they are people. So I can feel better about myself because I am better. And that's pretty good.

But honestly. I am a private person. Stop laughing people who know me. Think about how much you know about me. And then laugh again motherfucker. I am a private person. Very outgoing, but also dubious in nature. I consider myself a truthful person, but dubious. Which is funny, only in the ha-ha strange kind of way, which is really the best way.

So I have had different things to say periodically, since having done the solo show and all of that. But a. doing a solo show sucks up everything you have ever had to say about anything. And you get sick of talking at people... which is exactly what this is--and talking at yourself, which is exactly what this is. And b. i have taken to enjoying my life rather than talking about it. The best format is to only enjoy things you are talking about after you've actually enjoyed the things. It's hard to enjoy something while you are talking about it. Cause you're killing it.

Although, I think I would enjoy talking about killing people while I was killing them. Oh great. that's the line that's going to be on Forensic Files after my *alleged* murder spree (talk with my lawyers, guys). But yeah, once someone has meritted a good killing, talking about it while doing it only sweetens the sauce.

See, Michael, this is why you don't *force* me to blog. Cause then I get all retalatory (is that even a word? It is now. I'm the word-murderer here!

Because apparently the 3 people who check my blog out regularly are sick of hearing about my show that's over. Fine. But may I suggest this. Stop checking my fucking blog regularly. What the fuck are you doing with your lives that you are looking at my fucking online post to see if I am saying something about you. Get a job Michael. I mean, first off, you're a film star, yes? and you know everyone? Check out their blogs. I am sure they are promoting themselves in perpetuity throughout the universe, and they have clever little witticisms about every fucking stupid thing that happened in their day. We live in New York. We all have impressive and interesting lives by definition. And of course, we are all checking out each others blogs to find out what we are saying about each other, if something is slightly different, better, somewhere else.

Honestly, get some bu-shit you have to do on a daily basis... at a desk, with fucking losers who are better at your losery job than you. And then you can start your own boring-as-shit blog. Or, even better. Start one about your movie stardom. People love hearing about that kind of stuff on blogs. Gives all the people in the world they don't know a false sense of importance. Allows them a glint of hope in every strange sallow face.

* * * * *

Dear Lord God, let me not be a blogger. Let me swallow the shame thickly when I become one. When I cross over and have drones of people searching to find out what is going on in my life daily. God, let the shame at least come with fame and a bit of cash to make it all bearable. Let not too many lives hinge on my bullshit opinions of life's candy wrappers.

So yeah, I have decided that a much better use for this blog... perhaps it's original intent, is for me not to build up the writing that I must do, as I would do with any writing that i was doing... but to let it be my sort of daily mental meandering.... perhaps I will work it up to stream of consiousness one of these days. and then no one will read my blog. at least not my friends. I won't have said anything clever. They'd be so bored.

Love you. Bye.

Holy Caramel-Crapping Ice-Cream Cone, Batman!

2005-07-19T15:41:00.000-04:00

Yeah, you'd think after being silent for about a month or so that I would have something to blog about. But I don't. I just need to touch base with Brian--the only person who reads my blog. And Vida, who needs something to do while her dogs grunt on the floor. I thank God for the two of you. It makes me feel like someone wants to listen to a damn thing I have to say.

So let's see, what the hell have I been up to lately. First off, there is the show, "Sit-Down" the new solo Frankenstein that I have written, that actually did a lot better than I could have expected for less than a month of working on something. For one, the show is closing tomorrow, and I have definitely created something kickass. It is a work that I feel actually does say something... combines my efforts as a stand-up, a writer, a thinker, poet, performer, believer, etc. It is a real challenge do to... do get any kind of precision in something so free-form... to stare down an inquisitive and judging audience night after night.... insane...

Sit-Down

2005-07-06T15:58:00.000-04:00

I don't know why I have tried to post this eleventybillion times and it won't stay on my blog. The man is trying to keep the word down about my new show. Though, if I am so worried about succumbing to the man, why do I have a blog?

Questions, Questions. Find the answers very soon.

The Dixon Place HOT! Festival presents:

"Sit-Down"

embrace the end

written and performed by

Desiree Burch

directed by Lila Rose Kaplan and Michael Perlman

Thur. July 14 @ 7:30 p.m.

Dixon Place--258 Bowery (btw. Houston & Prince)

$10-15

212.219.0736

Fri. & Sat, July 15 & 16 @ 8 p.m.

The Tank at Chashama--208 West 37th Street (btw 7th & 8th)

212.563.6269

Wed. July 20th @ 7 p.m.

Galapagos Artspace--70 North 6 (btw Kent & Wythe Sts., Williamsburg)

$10

Closing Night Party Featuring kickass band "Ism"

Sit Down

2005-07-04T23:41:00.000-04:00

Hey Kids,

In case you didn't, I thought I would let you know
I am a slave to the business, the business we call show:

come check it out. ( i know it's a lot of confusing dates and times, but pick one, and do that.)

The Dixon Place HOT! Festival Presents:

"Sit-Down"

embrace the end

+Thursday, July 14 @ 7:30 p.m. at Dixon Place
(258 Bowery, 2nd Floor). $10-15 212-219-0736

+Friday & Saturday, July 15 & 16 @ 8 p.m. at The Tank at Chashama
(208 W. 37th St. between 7th and 8th Avenues). $8 212-563-6269

+Closing Night Party
Wednesday, July 20 @ 7 p.m. at Galapagos ArtSpace
(70 North 6th Between Kent & Wythe) $10

"Pretty damn funny and pretty damn good."

--Emma Snyder, Yale Herald

"Desiree Burch stands out…. taking on a variety of subjects and fancies."

--Cindy Pierre, Drama Review

"Surprisingly meaty"

--Doug Strassler, Off-Off-Online

" Courtney Love, eat your heart out."

--Rachel Shukert, Culturebot.com

Sit-Down

2005-07-04T23:28:00.001-04:00

Hey Kids,

In case you didn't, I thought I would let you know
I am a slave to the business, the business we call show:

come check it out.

The Dixon Place HOT! Festival Presents

Desiree Burch in:

"Sit-Down"

Comedy, Song, Dance, Monologue, Video, Parody and downright Insubordination!

Thursday, July 14 @ 7 p.m. at Dixon Place

(258 Bowery, 2 ^nd Floor). $10-15 212.219.0736

Sit-Down

2005-07-04T23:28:00.000-04:00

The Dixon Place HOT! Festival Presents

Desiree Burch in:

"Sit-Down"

Comedy, Song, Dance, Monologue, Video, Parody and downright Insubordination!

Thursday, July 14 @ 7:30 p.m. at Dixon Place

(258 Bowery, 2 ^nd Floor). $10-15 212.219.0736

Friday & Saturday, July 15 & 16 @ 8 p.m. at The Tank at Chashama

(208 W. 37 ^th St. between 7^th and 8^th Avenues). $8 212.563. 6269

and CLOSING NIGHT PERFORMANCE & PARTY!!!

Wednesday, July 20 @ 7 p.m. at Galapagos ArtSpace

(70 North 6 ^th Between Kent & Wythe) $10 718.782.5188

"Let's have a nice little sit-down, where I tell you a story about what the hell is wrong with you,

and you shut the hell up and listen, right?"

"Pretty damn funny and pretty damn good."

--Emma Snyder, Yale Herald

"Desiree Burch stands out…. taking on a variety of subjects and fancies."

--Cindy Pierre, Drama Review

"S urprisingly meaty"

--Doug Strassler, Off-Off-Online

" Courtney Love, eat your heart out."

--Rachel Shukert, Culturebot.com

Anglo File

2005-06-17T14:36:00.000-04:00

Dude, what is with our American obsession with being abused by Brits? I have just been paying attention to this, sort of connecting the dots from Gordon Ramsay in "Hell's Kitchen" back to the now legendary Simon Cowell, to that Sally Jesse looking chick who hosted The Weakest Link. Even that comedian who hosts "Distraction" on Comedy Central is British, and gets his jollies making people answer questions while taking a (the) piss.

Why? Is it some sort of sado-masochistic twist on our deep-seated anglophilia, morphing our inbred Puritanical guilt with feeling bad for being the prodigal sons of the Revolutionary War and wasting all of their tea? I just find it interesting. It's probably the same thing that makes me wet anytime someone with a British accent starts talking, particularly if they say anything dirty... I used to be a confirmed anglophile, considering them the only proponents of true culture when I was 15... I still kind of feel that way, somewhere. Like we are 17, and they are us at 35.... the irony and gentility that awaits us post-Imperialism. It is quite attractive somehow, even though they are right silly and immature tagging along in this insipid war with us, but no further comments on the kettle from the pot.

At any rate, this gave me a great idea for, of course, another bloodsucking reality T.V. show. I think this submission to the Brits is easily parlayed (at least, initially) into the same for the Aussies, cause honestly, American's can't tell the difference for the most part. Also, there is this Aussie celebrity explosion, and we are fully ready for them to run around our country, beating the shit out of us, and flinging millions at them to make films. SO....

The show is called "Aussie Bob Kicks Your Yankee Ass" and basically, it features some big, hairy-armed mongoloid with a clever, rustic accent, going around to places in the states, you know, McDonald's, JC Penny, IHOP, Six Flags, and just getting into arguments with people about their horrible service, attitudes, etc., and just beating the crap out of people, breaking chairs and bottles, getting roughed up and thrown in jail, etc. Actually we would probably need a team of "Aussie Bobs" so that we could get through the first couple of seasons, alternating who is out on bail. Considering that this is a continent that was originated by British convicts and criminals that were shipped away (to a tropical paradise) to destroy each other and disappear, this idea seems to fit into some magical corner of an ancient international romantic triangle.

This would also provide ample opportunity for the fresh crops of money-grubbing lawyers graduating (who all happen to be my friends and former theatrical costars) to work both their legal and performance chops by being flamboyant litigious divas all over TV about their clients. Our fat asses will be glued to anything that can hold them when that show makes it to prime time.

**The link is to a random Guardian article from a year and a half ago about 'kissing cousins' UK and US. My favorite quote therein, regarding the influence of history on Britain's current seeming supplication to America: 'It did leave something rather chinless behind for a long time..."

sexcapades

2005-06-07T18:40:00.000-04:00

**WARNING** SPOILERS... AS IN, THIS MIGHT SPOIL YOUR DINNER**

sometimes you just need it. so you can go back to writing in lower case. so your body knows to have hormonal changes because you spend too much of your life getting blazed on the glass dick and not enough time tending to your life screaming at you; your body which is just tired and unloved; your heart, which has broken through the charbroiled muscle shell around it and is using the tender chipped meat to clog your arteries... and the only way you know how to get out is transcend. with your body. not your soul. your soul is already trapped, and worried about the arteries. and herpes. and your cholestorol.

enough pontification. that's the point of fucking. doing shit and shutting the fuck up.

so...

we all know that writing leads to deviance, right? you have to find different angles on what you are and have a discussion. you have to find your angle, you slant. you have to stare at the computer screen, stare at your fingers. stare at the letters you have to choose from, and think. and computer + fingers + thinking = internet porn and extensive self-diddling. but having been deeply entrenched in trying to write for the past two weeks, i have diddled my little orgasm button to exhaustion. the canyon still called for a visitor.

so...

nothing really exciting happened. i just went trolling for ass on the internet. you can take the long route, which entails going to some chat room and talking to a bunch of 13-year-old douches who should be poster children for the no-child-left-behind act, as they keep calling each other "faggits" and "dikes,' or a bunch of guys who want you to watch them whack off in front of their little computer digicam. or you can just go where the fish are biting, make yourself the loser first and put up an ad on a dating site... obviously putting it in the "anything goes" category, or whatever the equivalent is (you have to be sure you are clear in your message).

generally out of the 80 people who respond in the first 10 minutes, you can throw out the uglies, the oldies, the shorties and any other categories you feel your right to sexually discriminate against (based on, not their sex of course, but rather, whether you want to have sex with them, which is the only discrimination that should be encouraged... okay, that's hypocritical... you should have sex with everyone. love has no color... these colors don't run... color me badd). you can look at some of them and tell they have a small dick. others will send you pictures and show you that they have one. in general all emails with dick picks get chucked. why would a guy send you, a woman, a picture of his dick. what the fuck is wrong with his face, that that is his most impressive feature. glistening amidst his little barbwire jungle downstairs. and then there's the people who just send a picture of themselves and don't say anything. like that is enough. like you will see them and part open like the red sea. these are people who are typically and generally (i say to warn you that i am stereotyping... but the problem with stereotypes is that they are true... just not for everyone) cocky and selfish lovers (see "small dicks" above).

then you have like two-four people. and you send an email back to each of them with your picture, talking more about you, what you're into, what you're looking for, blabbedy blah. teasing, yet standoffish. the point of this is to get them to be like, "fuck this ugly bitch, i don't really care that much. i already jerked it to the picture she sent me of her at six flags anyway." at least one is going to do this. you have to be comfortable with the fact that in this day and age of digital proliferation, your image has been all over the place, several hundred thousand times, and in at least one room in this world, your face is mounted to a wall with man-ranch. The other guy just didn't think you were hot, or fell asleep, or got caught by his wife or mom or something, but we never hear from him again and we don't send a search party.

alright, so that leaves 2 people. The one that you thought was hot has probably already weeded himself out of this bunch by saying something stupid, not liking you, or sending you another really weird picture. So you quickly rank up the last two, who are both spilling lovely bits of poison onto the page to lubricate your mind, and you talk with guy number one. don't worry, guy number two will still be there if you need him. this won't take long. if guy number one seems like the "normal guy who is just doing this crazy thing for the first time just like you are," you are on the right track... and then you get his digits. you call him in your sultry voice, and he is always like hey! as though you called him to go surfing or something. you act shy, get him to show his true colors. if they are hot, you get him to hop his ass over on the next subway to your house. but desiree, what about the psychos. i haven't met one. sure, i've met some weird people, but most metrosexuals are fairly domesticated, and most men in this town (at least the ones you are mostly attracted to) are metrosexuals. of course, now that i say that, i am going to start attracting people who want to dissect my brain and make a necklace of my vagina. i mean, not really. you can tell who's got fetishes and who doesn't when you talk at that wee hour of the morning. and, of course, you ask the guy 30 times if he's a psycho (as though men had that rule about entrapment that cops have).

and then he comes over. and he's a former high-school cheerleader from the Midwest. and he's 6'5" and blonde, and you know the sex is going to be good, because he satiates your need to have someone hot. why is fucking someone hot so much sexier that just fucking someone. what is that? what is my search for validation in people i that i think are better than me (ie. pretty white people). whatever. it's all social. i don't question it when i want to get laid. all of those hangups are all part of the tease, the wet, the coming together. it's those images, fears, desires, insecurities that determine what twitters your twatter. powerful men want to be dominated, geeky guys want their huge erect dicks looked at and laughed at by popular girls. Grad students with glasses want to pee their diapers and call you mommy in your lingerie. Hair little Jewish theater producers want big amazon women to twist their nipples until they look like pacifiers. Fear is titilating. The other is titilating. It's simply biological. How else would we mix together, find new things, evolve?

so anyway, adonis comes over, blonde, 6'5" (which makes him much closer to Jesus than any other men I have been with to date... God, I love tall men. And short men love me. Again, see above... somewhere between mommy and amazon), athletic (thin but meaty), and soaking wet from the rain. and i offer him a beer. and we sit side by side on the couch, and we talk. and i do my girly thing, which is the only way i know how to flirt (so sad, i wish i could command my look and just say "come here and fuck me now" cause guys love that shit), and i am witty and gay and let my head laugh with lightness, show myself intelligent by making jokes about his jokes. and he is pleasantly surprised by me. they always are. i sometimes give off a rather intelligent air of being dumber than i am. surprising is always good. unless you know, it's necklace of vaginas surprising.

what's surprising in this case is that the guy is an asprining banker, which makes me so happy. not a fucking singer/songwriter, not an actor, not some douchy graphic designer who thinks he's too cute to work IT, but too socially climbing to ever do anything real. just a good looking banker with no desire to be on television. fanfuckingtastic.

and then there is that moment when the "so..." part of the conversation occurs. and you want to say something clever, to melt the ice, or rather the flesh. and you want to just kiss him. but you want him to do it. his hand is on your thigh. he knows you shaved. you both laugh about that. you know he showered too. it's all very nice. and you are about to try to tell him, but he kisses you, and instead of shutting up, you wimper like his new puppy. he's got you. and your willing his fingers up to your panties by melting into him. uh God, and he kisses so well too. fuck! pretty people have it so good. you'd think that God would give them all mouth herpes and make them bad kissers. but he doesn't. and their lips are perfect, and their touch is soft, and you feel like a 10 million dollar bill.

so the best part about this adonis is how communicative he is in bed. it's so easy just to be and do anything. and he asks what you like, and he tells you what he likes, and it's so much better getting intimate when people don't just assume. i mean, yeah, sometimes it's hot to do something impulsive. but other times, it just makes you think about that one thing the whole rest of the night, and the fun switch is off. it's so refreshing to just talk to someone who really communicates, and not in a "sexy way" ("you like when i spank your pussy, huh? you like that?") but just "mmm... i like it when you play with my nipples. i am going to eat you out. would you suck my cock? will you swallow please?" it's nice to be treated like an interesting, ingelligent human being. and not a girl.

and he kisses like a dream, and he throws you down on the bed, forces your arms up, because he listens, and can tell you would like that (plus it's an oldschool move, most girls like that), attacks you with kisses, and it's great. and he goes down on you with such skill. some men just love vaginas, and those are the only ones i ever want to be with. he relishes his time with you, and every noise you make to let him know when you are happy. and you are me, and your bedroom faces the street, and your windows are wide open and you make some damn noise, so everyone on your block knows that someone is hitting it. hard. and you get your bed sopping wet.

his dick curves to the left. in your body. in your throat. and he kisses you a lot while you are making love. which is what people are supposed to do. which is what people forget to do when they are just casually hooking up. but whatever, there are a million ways to say it's fantastic, but the best way is to guzzle his semen down your throat and think about him the next day when it's the only thing bubbling in your stomach.

OR

if you need to have a mind-blowing, earth shattering orgasm, then you answer someone else's ad, very mechanically, as though you are looking for a summer internship. a man says: i have a sybian machine, and i am willing to let you use it if you let me watch. and you wonder about how much of a whore your are, or how much this would make you, until you remember that you've given up the kit and caboodle for 3 gin and tonics before, so there really is no benchmark and there is no dignity, there is just the fantasy of coming hard. over and over.

for those of you not familiar with the sybian... i just don't know how to tell you what you are missing. www.sybian.com it's basically the greatest dildo in the world. it's probably what all those psychiatrists used to masturbate away women's hysteria in the 1800s. it's definitely worth it's weight in therapy, i can tell you that.

so yeah, i answered the ad, cause i couldn't deny the curiosity, the potential. and holy jeez does this fucker work.

basically the idea is the same as any vibrator. it vibrates. the high tech ones vibrate, rotate, and stimulate the g-spot... which this one does. only you can sit on it and straddle it, so it has some mass to it, and you can sit on top of it, so your g-spot is wide open to it, and you can go to town bucking away on it as well.

so there i was yesterday evening, in a lovely doorman apartment on the upper east side, fucking growling like Satan atop the magic carpet ride. i mean, granted, the guy was there to jerk it too, but being a former domme, i am used to men jerking off because i am in the room (it makes attending board meetings odd, but i digress), so no bother. and he wanted to hold me as i came. which was actually fantastic, because i needed the balance, the support, and something to wrench into as i came 6 times. and i wish i had the language to articulate an orgasm. the first one by surprise, the second one, worked into and almost painful. the third with the vibration up so high i thought he was going to whip up a smoothie inside of me or something. but that was the one that counted. the one where i start laughing uncontrollably. that's the one that tore right through me like the flush of an acid trip, where i looked into his eyes to show him where i was, and he saw me there, and i clutched his head as i laughed against his face, as he could feel the tension and sadness whipping out of me in an all-knowing laugh. and there were tears. there were tears all over my face and my entire life was being offered up to the pyre at that moment, and the earth growled out of me. not only growled, but sang. orgasms 5 and 6 were just me singing... the howl just turned into a pure note, with the elderly neighbors thinking that i was practicing for a recital of an aria called "oh god, oh jesus, oh yes."

sometime during that hour, there was thunder and lightning, and people screaming in a rainstorn. now while i can't verify the fact that my gutteral explosion of energy caused pressure fronts to collide, i mean, come on, who are you going to believe, me or the weatherman. that moment of arrival was too poetic not to be tied to this earth, and my hips rotated loosely in my skirt as i took my pretty rain-soaked body to a perfectly civil meeting of creative minds. part of me is still coming. there are new places for me to arrive. amazing.

Sleeping on the fold-out bed. A trip to the Met.

2005-05-29T19:47:00.000-04:00

Sleeping on a fold out bed always makes you feel foreign. For me its associations are circa 1984, 5, 6 sleeping over at grandpapa’s house in a part of L.A. I will never be able to find again. Magical in its rough, abrasive, dry, heat miasma, liquor-store flowing into the streets beneath the tires of bicycles, strollers, treading flips flops broken glass, old, raw magic.

He had a salmon apartment. His windows had bars, and Afro-Tiffany lampshades colored life visors dealing bids, cards, cash. My brother and I would sleep on the fold out mattress in the living room, kicking windmills around the gigantic metal bed. He in his Forrest Gump leg braces, wild legs kicking. Myself having once again turned into a slowly dying fish in my sleep.

When I was 17, my father, brother and I took our first “family” trip to Hawaii. It was gorgeous and tragic. My body bled sweat to sounds of “Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems” and Blondie’s “The Tide is High,” the only two songs played on the island of Oahu, perhaps ever. We stayed in a cheap hotel right near the flashy area of town, or at least the Planet Hollywood. It was a nice thing for my dad to try to plan, right before I went away to college, so I wouldn’t forget about the fact that I had never had the privilege of spending that much time with him in my life. It was cool meeting the woman he was trying to sleep with. Perhaps he had. You could never quite tell with any of them. He would bring lesbians back from Spokane, WA. You wouldn’t know if they were having sex in swings or if he was trying to learn how to play hockey. But they sure liked to smoke together.

There was a single queen-sized bed behind slatted accordion pantry doors, which he stayed on. In the living room, there was a fold out couch. There is a picture of him in one of my photo albums as he sits on the corner of this bed while his ass falls through the frame. My brother and I both connect in another evil dimension when the same thought rejoices “first let’s take the picture. And then let’s leave him there. Let him waddle around until his back goes out. Let him reach for a cigarette and his Pepsi.” But we don’t know how to get off an island. He is yelling at us for help. We let him grunt a little first, while we laugh, so he thinks he is being included.

We slept on that bed all week. Well, I think I did. My brother, having the soul of a beat poet, started sleeping on the floor with the cushions.

I started yesterday on a fold out bed. I had claimed it pre-maturely for the night, and midway though, had it eventually invaded by the one who had fallen asleep drunk halfway on the couch in front of the television. The comfortable cigarette butts and beer stained pillows that once welcomed them in the wee hours, suffocating them with putrefaction by twilight.

It was a hangover day. We are all 26, and find out that our bodies are somehow getting drunker faster than we are, and taking up more of the weekend feeling guilty. I wanted to go to the Met to see the Diane Arbus exhibit. Everyone else sort of had tentative plans to do nothing all afternoon. We all showered, and put on parts of the same outfits we were wearing the night before (In my case, my pink and black party dress, which I had been wearing for three days). We got to the museum by 4ish.

It was me and my blonde posse, TOA and BMS. We take a lovely dew-drenched ride over the Queensboro Bridge up to the museum, while BMS, after having invited everyone on her Missed Calls list to the museum, decided to meet her new boyfriend who was “down the street” from the museum for a few hours. TOA managed to borrow a membership pass from an old family friend and we checked out Arbus and Ernst.

On the way up the steps I was stopped for a photo op. One of those greyed Upper-West Side guys who you can’t figure out how they can afford their apartment, but then notice that all they wear is the same urban safari outfit hoping someone will mistake them for the BBC. I felt like I was taking a moment on the red carpet there as the Nikon ninja instructed me to show him my flower—the one on the side of my hat, that with the rainbow and glitter striped socks probably made him so disappointed when he saw my face and learned that I was not a transvestite.

After an annoyingly loud conversation on her cell phone, TOA and I found the Arbus exhibit, which, for all who saw it, was fantastic. I always feel like such a foreigner tourist learning about artists in museums. That is what they are for, in fact. And playing by the rules and doing anything like I am supposed to always gives me an innocent, haunting, tickling sensation all through my middle. Something that makes me feel like a sexy six-year old. I loved the way they decided to slice open her world. The little secluded rooms for her letters, notes, things collected from under her desk. I wonder at how that kind of elucidation of a person violates and deifies them. Printing a postcard scrawled in their text. The noted equations they did not figure out in their head. An email or a doodle. All of this made the art so tangible. And the photos themselves, like a wedding album full of poses. The “ceremonies” she talked about. The camera’s natural haunting ability to capture moments when we let ourselves be looked at, in hopes that others at present and ourselves in the future will be arrested in the presence of us, who are ourselves arrested in this present moment.

Or you know, some junk like that.

Some of the ones that jump out in my memory are, Widow in her bedroom, Bishop near the ocean (or something like that), Dominatrix holding her client (for my obvious personal sensual sentimentality), the one with the family in the grass all in white… or at least mostly in white. The way it hung in the room, it almost shone… The two ladies at the Automat… Sharon…. The naked Jewish girl with the curls on her head. Yeah, I know she has a last name, and call me racist for forgetting it, but whatever. The black couple dancing (who were probably Negro in the title), and of course, the blind couple in their bedroom, which moved me to tears. Because they’re freakin’ blind. God. Grow some feelings people. But really, for the sparseness of their exterior lives. It was mildly transcendental.

Though I have already blown my wad on Arbus, I saw the Ernst exhibit too, which was like a Mecca Jr. for me, after having trekked out to Philadelphia (the city of brotherly joggers) for the first time to see the Dali exhibit. Both of these men could put me in a surrealist sandwich and I would be a happy blob of sand and hair undulating through a forest of eyes and midnight eclipses on stilts for the resurrection of a phallus on a cross. It would be fantastic. They both have that tall, thin, I’m a genius thing going on that I live for. I thought of Ernst, weathered and grey, and his flopping hairy balls validating my self-absorbed bohemian life under a shower of dove feathers. Surrealists always make me horny. Although, at this point, BMS showed up with her man-flower and I was not in the mood sniff and enjoy him, as she had spent the better part of 24 hours of conversation talking about him, and the hair all over their bodies and the struggles with shaving it off, and I was done with her abstract becoming my reality because it wasn’t placed and juxtaposed thoughtfully enough. And museums always make me air and water… Submerged, misty, frozen. Things like Ernst’s spirit in the fire are all I am drawn too. The red hills, and the comfort and symbolism of space like his World of the Naïve. Tranquility like in his Immortality, or inside the call of the SeaGull… I hum like an O, like suns and moons over his forests, yellow, red and green like funky dawns. I appreciate the wryness of character that shines through the one viewing all of this, whether it is the artist themselves, or the audience, who will find the echoes of voice in all that they do.

For future reference, there is an appropriate place for everything. Text messaging was made for meeting people in museums, I have discovered. If you require homing devices to kept tabs on people in your life, it is best when they can convey the most information with the least wasted energy dealing with bullshit. Talking on one’s cell phone in a museum can only consist of bullshit. There is no way for at least one, if not both members of the conversation to be present. It is also not the place to introduce someone to someone else after talking their ear off about them. To me, it is a place of lone roaming ghosts, and all “Boos” must be silenced so that the wind can be heard. It is also not the appropriate place to eat. Sandwiches are 8 dollars here, and no one who works inside really knows how to make one. We got the hell out of there, and cut over in the pouring rain to an overpriced diner of delicious delights. We retired home, to regain any sort of sensual sobriety. We indulged ourselves in wine and medical dramas. We cleaned ourselves out from the eventfulness of the day. We fell asleep too early. Hours soaked up. And of course, clocks melted.

Spiders

2005-05-29T17:51:00.001-04:00

Apparently, spiders in dreams are good luck. In real life, they aren't too bad either. They kill other bugs, which makes them superhero badasses. They are like fishers of the sky and the corner of my bedroom. And they also tweek out just as much as other humans.

http://www.trinity.edu/jdunn/spiderdrugs.htm

There was a red and black one in my dream last night. I had already woken up once or twice, so this was the vivid, fucked up part of the dream. The spider was chasing me. It was jumping and hopping fast, like at ATV over my shag carpeting. I was stumbling around my room, trying to get dressed for work, which was like trying to get dressed for school, which was like being onstage and not knowing my lines, because I was already an hour late for life, it was still dark out, and I was unprepared. And this spider was tumbling toward me. I found someone's old sneakers in my room. I took the right one and softly bludgeoned the spider hiding out in my shag. Dude, good luck was chasing me, and I killed it. Of course. At least I tried. It was still kicking a little when I woke up. Mortally-wounded luck. Wait for me.

Spiders

2005-05-29T17:51:00.000-04:00

I Like Freud

2005-05-09T20:39:00.000-04:00

This sexy, fucked-up, bearded, cigar-smoking man is often misrepresented, maligned, or just straight-out dissed by yes-man intellectuals like myself in contemporary social/psychological discourse. His theories are apparently grossly generalizing and archaic in our fragmented world.

But I like the guy. I like the allegory of his theories. I think, that despite the holes that can be punched all over them, that they work. Yes, they are grossly generalizing. People are grossly general. And generic. And the reason that stereotypes/generalizations are so hurtful is that they are generally true on some level, and no man likes to be reduced to the lowest common denominator of his flesh... that thing that is fear, laziness, and the sad bits of humanity all bundled together in his guts. But some things work. People act out in different ways because of their problems with their father, mother... and people are intrinsically sexual from the moment they arrive on the planet. Sex is talking, breathing, being on this earth with others. Intrinsically it plays into every interaction we have, I think. It is up to us to expand our definitions of "sexuality" and what that word means, besides the taboo elements that have titilated us for thousands of years.

This is of course coming from someone who has read like one of Frued's books, and basically little to nothing else in the field of psychology.

But even Camille Paglia (gotta love her too) would stand up for our freaky Austrian friend. She says that Freud is interesting and vital less for his ideas specifically than for the way he formulates them. I could be wrong (but let's just say here that I am not afraid to be), but it seems that for non sequitur nature of his stuff, his is a very practical, rudimentary psychology. I found reading Civilization and Its Discontents that his theories were rather applicable. They made sense to me. Perhaps because I find that I think in a similar way. Often working from both ends of the equation to make sense of something that I know to be true.

It's like prayer to me. I personally have a mysticism that is an amalgam of Christianity, Buddhism, Physics, Zen and some other crap all juiced to form a turbo-blast concentrate. I of course, am often harangued when I mention that I was raised as a Christian, and would still call myself one to anyone to whom I had no time to explain the intricacies of the above. Yeah, I freaken love Jesus. God! And I don't think that gays and lesbians are going to hell, and I have never repented for the women I have slept with or any episodes of fornication, drug abuse or swearing, cause I think that both the G-man and son (I just pictured them as Sanford and Son. Wouldn't that be great? If you got to heaven, and Redd Foxx was there, waddling around...?) could give two shits about that stuff. But all of that is a digression to say that what will always keep me near these roots is prayer. I can't not believe in all of these things. I can't let go of that Biblical foundation. Because prayer works. It works for me, and continues to do so. And so, I have to fill in the parts of the equation on this side of the equals sign, because I know that the end result of prayer is that it works.

Just like huge chunks of Freud do in explaining the world to me. When you meet someone who is anal retentive, or has an oral fixation, you can't help but know that that is exactly what it is. Sure, you could get more intricate, but really, all you need to know is, "Anal retentive."

And I got on that topic of discussion only because I was just in the bathroom, and had that thing again, where, since I was baking the post-lunch loaf, while at work, I wanted to do the courtesy flush. But I was commanded to wrench my head down between my legs to have a look at my poo before letting it go free. Why is that? I mean, how often do you flush your poo/pee away without looking at it? Not very. If I were to lose my sight, I would be OBSESSED with this. I have to check out my logs before I let them float down the river. Perhaps this is not Freud, but more of a physiological thing that helps to keep people alive. You can tell a lot about your health by looking at your shit, and when you see that it's looking weird (it's green, grey, mis-formed, bloody) you know shit is not right inside of you. Of course, sometimes it just comes out in the shape of a heart, or 14 inches long, or spells out the word "CAT" in your toilet bowl, like a big bowl of Alaphabets cereal. And then it's just funny.

But in my head, I thought. Thank God for Freud. Otherwise I would have thought my need to check out my scat was weird.

And now, to the outdoors, to satisfy my oral fixation
(and for anyone that has a problem with me smoking, send me some dick and maybe I'll quit)

Pulling a "Full House"

2005-05-06T20:05:00.000-04:00

I am actually not quite sure if this really happened on an episode of Full House, but I have confirmation that it happened on Home Improvement, and first-hand knowledge that it happened on a number of sit-coms from my youth, which I all conflate with Full House, as these episodes in particular were always on that same level of banal, trivial non-content.

So I had to do some emergency pet sitting this week. I mentioned before, a death in my friend's family... Two cats. One fish. A fish which I had bought her just a week ago, to fill an empty tank with happiness.

Now let me just say beforehand, I am a very good sitter. I like sitting. I am very fat because of it. I can sit for animals, for children, for the elderly. Whatever. I am good about not sitting on them either.

But of course, in this particular time of need, I accidentally failed.

Don't worry. The kitties are okay. No animals were harmed in the making of this blog entry. Except for one betta fish.

Fighting Bert, who fights no more, died sometime in the afternoon on Monday, May 2. He died of boiling. He's resting somewhere, in that big jacuzzi in the sky, for his next big battle. Although, he didn't fare so well against the heater in the fish tank.

Basically what happened is that I went over to her place Monday morning to feed the cats and the fish. I fed the fish, and tried to turn the light on for his tank... which I thought was this round knob (like one of those adjusting lights you always had in your den growing up). In fact, this knob was the heater. It took me a couple of 360 spins to realize this thing was not going to light up. And unfortunately, it is one of those dials with no markings on it, so I had cranked it so many times, and I had tried to crank it down the same amount of times, but it just kept spinning loosely. So I turned it down (actually just spinning the knob and nothing else) twice as much as I had turned it up, and just hoped for the best. Bettas are resilient fish. They are also happiest at room temperature. I know. I own one. He lives in a fish bowl. No heat. No filter. Just room-temperature happiness. Why I didn't think to just unplug the whole damn operation, I don't know. I guess I was just going to go to work and hope for the best. Death is always that annoying reminder that hoping for the best doesn't always work.

Needless to say, I boiled the damn fish. I came back in the evening to her place to say "Hi." and he was floating at an uncomfortable angle against the rocks. His little fishy fins still.

He was a gorgeous betta fish. All rosy beige in the body, which fanned out to a lovely sapphire blue in his fins. It made him so much harder to try to replace.

But I pulled a Full House. Or at least tried to pull. I spoke to my friend on the phone the next day at work, bursting into tears with her when she recounted having to go through the viewing and looking at her dad, who looked just like he always did, full of life (as though he would jump up and laugh... he loved a practical joke or two), and touching his hand and feeling the absence of life there. Not just cold, but absent.

And then of course, she asks "How are the kitties?"

"The kitties are good. They miss their mommy though..."

"And how is the fishie?"

"...Good. Everybody's good."

D'oh!

I just couldn't tell her that her fish had just died too.

Now let me get my ass back over to Petco and see what they got. You know I gotta get a new damn fish for her that looks just like her old one. Thus pulling a "full house" or whatever horrible show you want to call it. And of course, it's never going to look exactly the same, and of course she's going to know it's a different fish anyway, even though she had it for 4 minutes, and I am going to feel like an asshole for lying.

Every time I watched one of those shows, I would think, just tell her you accidentally put the hamster in the washing machine with the rest of the laundry or whatever freak accident caused this half-hour travesty to occur.

And in any normal circumstance, that's what I would have done. That's what she would want me to do. Unlike most people who say they do, she actually does appreciate the truth. But I mean, I just couldn't be the harbinger of death this time. So I did the polite thing, and lied. Quickly followed by running to the pet store.

An hour of looking at beautiful fish, and not a single one as unique as the one I had already chosen for her because it was so unique. DAMN!

So I just got too tired and lazy and decided to tell her the truth. That is of course, after buying a sequel fish. He is officially called "Fighting Bert Part Deux: The Wrath of Bert," and he is black, blue, and irridescent green, with a flash of red. He's the anti-Bert. And I already think he rocks. Let's just hope he's not dead already. I am going to her house now to check. wish me luck.

Feeling like burnt Pop Tarts

2005-05-06T19:20:00.000-04:00

It has been a rough-ass week by anyone's standards. I hope you agree, because I can't stand it when people disagree with me. It makes me feel less powerful. Like I want to kill.

So to start off, my superwoman image is dwindling to shit. I cannot get by on idea(l)s. I need to learn to take care of myself. It is paramount! No one else is going to do it, and as well all convalesce into older (and older (and older)) people, we must remember that we need caretakers.

And I need more than 4 hours of sleep a night to be a human being--much less presentable.

My best friend's father died this week. Suddenly. Tragically. One of those healthy sporty middle aged men who couldn't wake up and walk around unless they were biting life by the balls at all times. It is an antiquated and distinguished version of virility that I miss here in Metrosexopolis. But I digress... I just don't know what to do with this information. Being only an addendum to this truly wonderful family (that has always treated me like I was one of them--moreso than my own family at times) it seems so difficult for my mourning to be legitimate. I'm just a friend who finds it terribly sad, in the end. I can take no part in the family's mourning. All I can do is feel nauseated for a few days and picture his face every five (or so) minutes. Like a PowerPoint montage of memories I have of his life, who he was... to these people, to me, to the world--and then try to imagine that some how that no longer exists. And try to figure out what that means.

I haven't experienced a lot of death in my life. At least not at a lacerating proximity. A grandfather when I was eight. A college friend who was close enough to leave memories on everything I know she touched, but not enough to truly eviscerate. A couple of dogs throughout the years. That one weird new girl that I was kind of friends with for two weeks for the six months she spent in our 4th grade class. That is about it. I'm really lucky. Or actually, knowing the tendencies of my life, just a late bloomer. I know I am coming to that age where life is really happening to me and people I know. People are starting to get married, having children and diseases, dying and getting promotions, fame and debt. I know that I am getting to the place where I have bad knees, bunions, eczema on my right foot, sporadic liver inflammation, raised blood pressure, and seemingly ever more errant hairs growing out of my chest, my right shoulder, the middle of my neck. Not to mention repeated acute tonsillitis. Does anyone know a doctor? I could use a deal. And a date.

So I don't really know what to do when it occurs. My heart never connects with my head in those instances. I don't know if anyone's does. The most excruciating parts of these events leave me feeling utterly removed from my body; the world. And the smallest details tear a heart string. It's like 8th grade, and loosing my bloody mind one morning after burning the last two strawberry Pop Tarts (those little buggers are good. Don't get between me and a Pop Tart). Those are the moments of true emotion in my life.

So I don't know how to respond to all of this, how to mourn or deal with this. As my friend Dave B. says, "There is no protocol." It's a good thing to remember for life in general, for those like me, who grew up with the weight of believing that there was a certain way that everything was supposed to be done, and life supposed to be lived. For those of you who know your old maxims, we can equate supposing with assuming. Try to do that all your life and it will make an ass out of you. Or a "sup." Since I hadn't seen this man in months, he is still just as good as alive to me. In fact, he's one of the most "alive" people I know, by classic standards. But he's not. I know this. I have learned this. I have not seen or experienced this though. So all I can do is to begin to stamp all of my memories of him with "deceased." With some kind of tinted frame, or the yellow of old newspaper, and as time goes on, await his absence.

But let me not get too sentimental with all this. I was thinking that one of the worst parts about having someone in your family die, or at least, one of the many bad parts, is then having to console all of the people who come to console you. Having to get hugs and convoluted condolences from people you have not seen in years, on purpose, who are snotting on your shoulders, telling you that they want to be there for you, when really you just don't want anyone to touch you, much less someone you spend no time talking to anyway. I mean, yes, we all mean well, but sometimes to do well, just shut the fuck up and back the fuck off. There are few things worse than a barrage of unwanted hugs, particularly from women who probably spend the rest of their time listing your faults.

And though I love my friend, and she loves me, I am going to focus my helpful energy on being around when she needs me to be, and making myself scares when she needs to be alone. It is rarely difficult or demeaning to make yourself a thing for someone else when you love them. You know there is no loss of respect for yourself. It's not a power issue. You are not being taken for granted. In sex, and other forms of aggressive interpersonal interaction, there is generally an awareness of the power status, a Who Owes Who table being kept. But love is a big joint bank account that's always best when you're just breaking even. Oh God, embroider that on a pillow why don't you?

Dude, who invented this blogging thing where I can write on and on to no one... just rambling until the Lord comes. It's so dangerous. All these little shards of truth coming out mingling with my embarrassments.

Cause song lyrics are better than words: Sweet little lies... (tell me lies... tell me, tell me lies)

2005-04-28T04:51:00.000-04:00

So one of the first things you should know about me (as though all of you don't, already... not like my following in Austria) is that I am a fucking liar. Period. I make no bones about it. I don't know how to make a bone. Part of my job as an artist is illuminating the truth; and part of that is revealing the glow that reflects off that that truth, making ugly shadows of shit and hopelessness on perfectly comfortable furniture. I like my self so much that I defer to my own law of reason. I dictate me. I terrorize me (come on, you knew I was going for it). I definitely aristocreate me. And sometimes, I even oligarch myself.

Nice.

Anyway, all that was said to say that I fucking enjoy my own version of the truth, which allows me to be very comfortable.. And in that version of the truth, when I say I am going to do something tomorrow, I actually can lie enough to believe that shit. And then when the next day comes, I have forgotten it was me we were talking about. And then I just go. Well, I just won't do that shit. And we'll see what happens.

What happens is the one person who might read your blog, Brian, makes you feel all guilty in a happy way, like your mom would if she was actually someone else's mom who was just really good at telling you exactly what to do.

So when I say I will do a certain thing at a certain time, I will never do it any earlier that in double that time, and will very likely do something else entirely.

So I had a day full of work, and I was flowing with it. Cog in wheel shimmery beauty. Some parts of me are leader, but the fun parts just like to be in motion, doing something I know I can do and just enjoying the grease of doing it. And I got to run errands, which is lovely and mindless and helps you show off around town. I was ugs mcgee today though, efficiency mode. A leather jacket and a pair of sunglasses with a good elastic around the hait. It works.

We had this rally today down in front of the Courthouse with MoveOnPAC to stop the "nuclear option" (just talking about all this stuff makes me feel like a douche thoguh, honestly). It was smaller than expected and totally underpublicized but a truly beautiful thing. Fucking crazy tweeked-out balding, lesion-sporting, mismatched, still smoking, bad-teeth, young and also pony-tail not really working liberals in front of some statue that, at least blocked by people, looked like a giant middle finger in front of the U.S. Courthouse.

I remember vaguely learning about the filibuster in my A.P. History class (you can tell I aced that test... Got a Mr. Sismondo 4, which on him would really be a 3... and a half? He lost half his ring finger in a chain link fence. He was bald too. I wonder if he was a liberal.) . It seemed like some ridonculous piece of windbagery written into law for politicians to diddle in their windbagery. But it totally makes sense. I mean, they vote on shit all the time. They don't have time to waste days and days arguing about something that everyone else has already shut the hell up about unless they really care. Sometimes they are douches and care about dumb shit. But if it is important enough for them to act a public ass for a while about, and enough people elected that public ass, then we gotta listen.

And that was your bean-bag chair PSA.

But anyway, it just seems so random to me, because we are living in distinctly random times. I don't remember the world being this vivid in a Terry Gilliam kind of way when I was younger. That's probably a function of being really young. Like the 80s seem fairly fuzzy to me. They were fuzzy to a lot of people. Although, it seems like for a good population of the country, they were very harshly lit indeed. The 90s though even seemed like... crisper to a point of understanding, but still somewhat protected from anything real.

And now, rather than feeling real, feels like a mostly severed dangling fingertip on the body of reality. It entirely lacks decorum, these days. They are beautiful like tears in a titty bar. Things have no respect for each other. Are not in respect to each other. They exist in intersecting dimensions. It's fukkin crazy dog.

But today was really graet in that, sometimes life is a little kind, kind of way. I mean, but only a little. She is not going to lose her credibility over your loud-mouth ass.

It got cloudy just in time for me to get down to this rally, bring my boss her business cards (while people were taking their turn at the milk crate, she was giving an interview with Regional News Network, glad those press calls I made to the Times panned out), and get pulled into signing people up on our mailing list. And people were standing about, clumped and talking, agreeing in spasms of irritated comradarie, sharing candy, taking pictures. And everyone is sharing bits of news and wondering where a "speaker" might be, or what was actually going to "happen" at this rally. And a bleached blonde, would be Ken doll gay activist type takes over the milk crate (thank god) and starts screaming the chants. Who are these people who start chants and marches and rallies. They are the people who start the waves. And know when to engage the "slow clap." I am always impressed by these people. Their irritating persistence, and their shamelessly beautiful embrace with power and simultaneous generosity. The phrases were definitely a bit too fuckin' long and involved to really get going... rhyming Santorum with decorum (notice how it became my word-of-the-day-like insertion above) and really spiraling away from anything with a groove. But still, energy wes there. And then the two milk crates became a sounding board for screamers. My boss, of course, unable to be heard (she's a little bosslady, she should be able to scream) but getting a couple of good chants in for her inspired leader nomination clip. My favorite was the passion that I could hear creeping up from people's collars. The confusion in intention, the seizures of sincerity. The awkward pauses, and trying to accurately decide which phrases to cheer or hiss at ("boo- I mean... wooo-ooo!") as people sputtered out the cleverest renditions of their inarticulable feelings. My personal favorite was the movie-version old man (who I later found out was Frank McCourt... and no posts about him, I haven't read any of his books and I don't care about anyone's opinions on them) with his I was born in Brooklyn, raised in Ireland sap story, that was so textbook and Jimmy-Stewart-genuine at the same time, who said something like, "John Ashcroft was so afraid of Justice that he covered up it's tit. But Janet Jackson showed it to us again." Now that's a fucking rally. Good times. And a little gummy canding from a boyish-looking aging liberal. In the 60s, there blatantly would have been acid in that candy. And would had had a great time, blowing off the rest of my evening... and then freaking out 3 hours into the trip with all my guilt, and then debating on going to my meeting while frying my face off. And then coming up with outrageous lies about why I was not there later (once I realized there was no way I could ever feign normality again in that state). So it's a good thing it's not the 60s.

It's 2005. And time feels so raw. Fat plops of rain started to drop at 3 minutes of 6, when the rally was scheduled to be over. We packed up posters and petitions rapidly, and people with legs and sinage began to scatter for the subways.

What I wanted to say about the chanting, is that awkwardness about it is so interesting. The time where we go from people standing together, to all of us trying to say something at once. All of us deciding to harmonize. The boundary you break with your keen sense of the stupid. Felling stupid for something, and having that be important because other people are stupid about it too. And more importantly, doing that for attention. For the two cameras and all of the windbag judges and clerks who aren't in that courthouse listening to you and shivering in shame or fear. Doing it for our own attention. So we know that other people are willing to look stupid over stuff. That we are all stupid over stuff we think is important. Stupid little stuff. And the harmony of stupid little stuff.

The official word fo the day today was detritus. A recent repeat I might add, and don't think I didn't notice you word-of-the-day fuckers. Stupid little things. The shit that crumbles off rocks... which are always crumbling.

And then I got a photo op while clearing away signs. I guess there were 4 black people at the rally (one bald liberal was asking me, where are all the people of color? I didn't accurately know. But I can take a message for them.) and I was the one with the most posters of my hand. So I got some internet photographer jacking off behind his camera so I would take a picture. (Don't photographers always sound like they are jerkin it, or trying to get you to give them head when they are taking pictures. "All right. Hold it there. Now raise that up. Higher. Higher. Great. Greaaaaat. That's good. One more. Let me see that. Good. Gooooooood. That's great. That's great. Ooooooh. Beautiful! Yes. Okay. Thanks." And then they are off to take pictures of someone else, while you're still trying to get their web address, or at least a phone number). I'll let you know if any of them turn up. Of course they all want to take pictures of me on my Ugs McGee day, with poofpoof humidity hair. Never on a day when I am wearing a cute hat. As again, I am painfully aware that I am being looked at while representing something. I didn't make that damn sign. I was literally clearing it away. I had a look at it. It's a good one for posterity. I am glad he got some "candids" for yearbook. So that later when I am a revolutionary, they religious right can talk about my days of working with the extremist leftist liberals" and my totally non-revolutionary but effective band-aid organization. It felt good to be looked at being good. Caught being good. Like those elementary school programs with stickers and swizzles... or what were they? Razzles. Razzles. I remember now. We were all little razzle-piggies. But yeah. It was weird. The photographs were so fake, and yet, the image represented will make a statement. And thus that photographer was just a writer creator like me. And I was just a word. And soon I will be part of a story. Many stories. All of them will be as true as the people telling them. All of them starting with my lie. Hee Hee.

evilgeniusaccidentally.

Breaking II (Yes, yes... Electric Boogaloo...)

2005-04-25T11:25:00.000-04:00

An Addendum: I also have to thank Brian M. for encouraging me in the scourge of the blog. Of course, after all this thanks, I do actually have to write something.

Unfortunately, I am putting in my actual 15 minutes of work at the old J.O.B. right now. So I will update you all (read: no one, since no one looks at my so-called web log of life) on adventures in fekken Boston and my burgeoning career as a student-film diva later tonight.

Breaking the Ice with the Weight on my Skates

2005-04-23T04:21:00.000-04:00

Holy Shit you guys. This caught me way off guard. 5 a.m.
The incomparable Vida E. just turned me on and challenged me to the world of blog.

And here I am, before anyone knows anything about any...

I just set the damn blog up, and already it is asking for profundity, and permanance.
Well, it is the internet, so actually, it is not asking for either. Actually.

Did you hear anything?

No one said anything...
Right?

It has only just begun.
Again.
Yes?

Fantastic. Let's go...
(ThankyouBeanTown!)