My Chiropractor

Flirting is such a huge part of my personality. I can't help it.

Okay, that's a lie. Most times I can help it and I am totally aware that I am doing it. But today, the flirting just went out of control and it was like some horrible nightmare of me being lost in some ridiculous sitcom from hell.

My chiropractor is handing over her practice to someone new. I went in today to meet the new guy and, I don't really know what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn't Doogie. This guy is young. Really young. He wasn't really my type, but I could see how someone else might find him attractive in that soft, young sort of way. While my brain was observing these events it could do nothing to control the idiotic blather coming out of my mouth. I was giggling like a school girl and making wise cracks about my back injuries and car accidents as if they were kooky anectdotes from my book of giddy school girl antics.

What's worse is that he giggled back at me and flashed me his sweet little boy smile while he demonstrated his top of the line bedside manner. At last! Someone is going to take care of me! I was on auto-pilot and couldn't help rewarding him with my lighter than air quips and combination giggle hair flip. The latter is difficult to do when you have back pain and very short hair, but when necessary I can do it. It is Pavlovian. When an attractive man gives me attention for any reason I can't help but do the doe eyes, giggle and forearm touch- oh, you know what I'm talking about! It's instinct and I am wired for survival and procreation. Not that I would ever seriously pursue a guy like that (or any guy, because I'm married) but I do my best to keep as many options open as I can. Let's face it, men wear out quickly like Kmart shoes so I can't afford to discourage anyone's affections! Not my chiropractor's or my Dunkin Donuts guy or my closest friends.

I hope all of you men out there realize that my flirting is animal instinct and I can't really control it under certain circumstances. If you're going to give me support, a compliment, a beer, or just the warmth of your friendship my system will be forced to smile, blush, and provide gentle and ambiguous touching to your shoulders, forearms and/or faces.

Don't take it seriously. It's just instinct.

Speed Posting

I've got a lot on my mind but limited time to sit upright before my back protests in such a gut twisting way that I will have to abandon my post for the relative comfort of an ice pack.

I've noticed lately that no matter how much sage advice I have in me to give there is a relatively small consumer base for my wisdom.

I've also noticed that I am much prettier when I am wearing a devlish smirk. (a.k.a an impish grin)

The few people out there who would consume my sage advice don't really trust my impish grin.

A diet of beer and Milky Ways may sound fun, but in reality not so much.

The back won't let me sit up any longer. Hello ice pack.

Mmmmm, Jackie Chan...

Broad, meaty hands, incredible grace and agility AND a sense of humor? Ladies, consider the Chan.

Flat On My Back and Not Making a Dime

Sitting is impossible at the moment. Since I felt the unbelievable ripping sensation through the muscles in my back on Friday I have been doomed to convalesce flat on my back to the tune of Dinosaur Planet, Cinderella, The Triplets of Belleville and back to back episodes of Mythbusters. It is official, my brain has rotted, if not from the overdose of television then from eating gross amounts of Hot Tamales and Kit Kats. I've also learned that if you drink beer lying down you will have a tremendous earth shaking belch once you finally get to your feet.

I've been indulging my white trash alter ego during this episode to amuse myself. When Tom and I first starting dating we used to go bowling a lot. We had our own bowling personas. He was Hank and I was Loretta. Well, Loretta came back to entertain me but I don't think Hank-Bob Joonyer has been at all amused by Momma's requests for a pryin' bar so she kin git up and go to the liberry. Oh baybee, quit yer fussin an' go fetch me a switch. Don't skimp on it now er I'll only beat ya harder.

Have you ever sat up and tried to read Uncle Remus stories? You have to read them out loud or you will not understand them.

Anyway...

The house is as messy as my brain and I can't sleep due to the incredible discomfort and the mess in the house actually speaks to me. It taunts me. Just pick up a little, it won't hurt. You know you wanna. Come on, the file cabinet isn't that heavy, you could move it. It would look much better over there, don't you think? Consider the efficiency! Streamline your operation! Think about all the work you'll be able to get done if you just have the art cabinet reorganized and about three feet to the left! All your troubles will be over!

No! Shut up you stupid bastard furniture! Leave me alone! And fuck you History channel, I don't want to hear one more peep out of you. I don't want to know any more about the Titanic! Please stop taunting me with your interesting topics and bad production values! No Loch Ness Monster, please!

The only one who can save me from this hell... Owen Wilson.

Or maybe Jackie Chan.

Question

It may be the beer and the extreme back pain talking, but at the moment I desperately need to know...

How can I make Owen Wilson love me?

Professionally, that is.

Hooo Daddy.

OOOWWWWW!!!

For those of you keeping score, this will be my fourth back injury since October of 2004.

Back pain sucks and I wouldn't have it if I were just a little more patient and just a little more willing to ask for help. I've got a stupid macho streak a mile wide. So I can't make fun of anyone else who does stupid shit because they think they can handle it.

It was a lot more fun when I hurt myself falling offstage and cracked my coccyx. The residual pain from that incident prompted my chiropractor to refer to the malady as a "cumulative sitting injury". Yeah, my friends had a good time with that one. But this serious lumbar issue that I have (and the subsequent inability to lift and carry) isn't as funny. Even so, when catch my reflection in the kitchen window and see myself slumped over and limping to favor my right side I can't help but point and laugh at the idiot I see. I swear, someday you're going to read about me on one of those links on your homepage titled "Dumbass tries to move desk stuck to carpet, breaks ass".

Okay. Time to apply heat and beer.

Time to Make the Donuts

Nothing fires up the boy better than a trip to Dunkin Donuts. The sad part is, he doesn't know what he is missing.

New York does a fine bagel. Minnesota cannot hold a candle to it. But New York does not know donuts. Krispy Kreme can suck it, they don't know dick from donuts. Man, there ain't nothing like a maple nut long john and you just can't get them here- and may heaven help you if you did.

At any rate, at least Dunkin Donuts is close and has decent coffee. And Dunkin Donuts has Julio.

Yeah, lately I've been rehashing my "not so greatest hits" in blog posts. I'm practicing avoidance at the moment. I can't afford to get too involved in something as it will only cause friction in the household if I am entertained by something other than Clue Jr. and making paper mice. But this afternoon begins a foray into "Mommy Work Time" for one whole hour. What will I do with myself? I'll probably spend the hour trolling craigslist and posting ads for my coaching services. Perhaps I'll make postcards today. Maybe I'll do some grant research. Really, what can I really do with one hour?

I could have a cannoli eating contest with myself. Maybe I can beat my personal best...one whole cannoli.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Guess what!

Cinderella was a freakin' redhead!

Well, strawberry blonde, anyway.

I don't know exactly when it happened, but the jerkoffs at Disney decided to make her blonde. What? Is red too saucy for you? Have you fallen prey to the idea that all redheads are ornery so sweet, put upon Cinderella couldn't possibly have any touch of red in her hair? Hmmm? That's fine for sexy, adventurous and impetuous little mermaids, but a good, delicate flower like Cinderella can't keep her "copper plaits" as the opening song suggests? She has to go platinum?!

The truth is, all men are facinated by redheads, can't get enough of them. The blondes of this world don't have a clue what fun is. Perhaps that spiciness is too sexually intimidating for the creeps at Disney who decided Cindy needed a dye job? So, in the new DVD she has her original hair color but all the merchandise is blonde. All the colring book covers and Princess themed story books depict her as blonde. Well PPPPPPPPPPTTTTTTTTTHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

Redheads are hot. Not all of them are as ornery as me and even if they were it would be part of their charm. So suck it Disney. In my mind, Cinderella is a hot, burning cauldron of smoking redheaded lust who brilliantly scammed her way out of a life of servitude by luring a wealthy prince into her web of luxurious copper locks. (He simply HAD to know if the carpet matched the drapes and, believe me baby, it did!) And she did it all with sweetness and grace because that's the way of the temptress.

Oh yeah, let's hear it for RED!

Gitchy Gitchy Gloomy Gloomy

I'm going to avoid looking out the window today. It's all grey and depressing out there.

Meanwhile Sullivan is watching The Snowman which is a silent, animated short about a little boy who has a magical adventure with a snowman that he made only to have the fucker melt at the end. It's a beautiful, whispy little film but stop with the melting already! I know WHY they made the story that way and, in theory, I totally agree. But I don't want to have to explain why Mommy gets all weepy every time she watches it.

I have troubles with that. I cry reading Shel Silverstein. I cry when the freaking Whos down in Whoville get together for their Who Christmas Sing. I can't watch anything in the Boy and His Dog genre. I haven't dared to watch The Fox and the Hound because, apparently, the viewing experience as a child was so traumatic that my family almost considered never letting me see a movie ever again. Aw, c'mon, talk about a heartbreaking tragedy when you are bred to hunt down your best friend. I just can't handle that kind of stuff. My heart breaks easily.

BUT, I have become the person you want around in a crisis. I can handle that. Small child bleeding from a head wound? Stand back and do what I say and everything will be just fine. Death in the family? Come to Momma. Falling into an abyss of despair? Take my hand, I may not know the way out but I can help you find someone who does.

Just don't make me read Where the Red Fern Grows, or I'll completely fall apart.

What's Important?

Struggle is important.

I used to have this argument with an ex of mine who insisted that his depression was important to his creativity. I used to get so pissed off at him and want to slap him for being so self indulgent. I did not (and DO not) believe that art needs to be about or from suffering, pain, or sadness. I believe that can play a role in creation, but it does not mean that great art can only be created through pain. Art is just as much about joy as it is about anything else.

But the argument still nags me. So much so that I will sit up and night (like right now) wondering why it is that I am compelled to create work that is so entrenched in sadness, abandonment and betrayal. Was he right? Or is it merely that his influence, his sadness, planted a seed in my creative brain that has grown into emotional crabgrass that I will spend an entire creative career weeding out? Is it important?

When I step back for a moment I see what he was saying in a much larger context. It isn't depression that is the important element, it is the nature of struggle and the desire to endure that is important. The beauty is not in the end product, but in the journey. Everyone knows that Romeo and Juliet are going to die- what is interesting in the story is how they get from point A to point B. Hopefully the production will be fresh and exploratory or the tale simply isn't worth telling. It is the struggle that counts. It is the desire, the pursuit of joy/ release that is ultimately human and necessary. We will not tire of watching others truly seek it. We look for joy every day in our lives, through our relationships, our career pursuits, and our hobbies. We find it with varying degrees of success and some of us are better at finding it than others. Some of us are extremely misguided in our search, but I believe we are all looking. The problem is, most of us focus on the obstacles rather than the journey itself.

The obstacles create problems in art. Particularly for actors who thrill in dramatic choices and will jump at the chance to show the world how pretty they are when they cry. But playing the obstacle creates stagnant work that revels too much in conflict and bellyaching and shows us little of our true nature. Say what you will about Americans, but we are tougher and more noble than you'd think by the way we portray ourselves on film and television. I don't know those assholes I see on TV. Those aren't the Americans that I know. But that is our representation of ourselves and we continue to buy it. We believe that is who we are, but if you would look around you, you would find people struggling with more grace than we would normally give credit.

Life is not supposed to be easy. No one ever promised that. The only thing we are entitled to is the pursuit of happiness, no one ever said we'd get it. It is the act of doing that is real and of importance- not the obstacles that stand in our way. True success cannot be measured by the straight and smooth path ahead of you but must be seen as the ragged and difficult road that stretches out behind you while you stop to take a drink and reflect.

No, it is not the pain that is important. It is the desire to survive it that matters.

Cheap Thrill

There's nothing like getting a public nod. Even if no one else knows that they are talking about you it still tickles the ego to have someone mention you or something you said or did publicly. It's kind of like that time when Bill Clinton made a speech and told some hard luck story and he felt your pain and even though you had never met it was like he KNEW... yeah, baby.

So, for fun I am giving out cheap thrills and mentioning just about everyone I know (off the top of my head) on my blog. See if you made the list!

Pamela, Kristen, Bryan, Dawnelle, Ron, Eileen, Sydnee, Nick, Simon, Sophia, Sophia (different Sophia), Tom, Sullivan, Margaret, Jonathan, Keelan, Tobin, Prov, Sara, Marshall, Jake, Kris, X, Britt, Ben, Cary, Scott, Josh, Joe, Adrienne, Sara (different Sara), Steve, Mark, David, Erik, Tamara, Elisabeth, Torvid, Viktor, Ronili, Asi, Joseph, Davy, Caitlin, Caitlin (different Caitlin), Dena, Jennifer, Maria, Steve, Anita, Chris, Kevin, Tim, Melissa, Alan, Deborah, Ed, Terry, Jackie, George, Julio, Lidia, Megumi, Amythest, Vasilia, Lily, Brian, Jen, Colin, Tunji, Michelle, Sam...

Sorry if you didn't make the list. I'm sure there are many more, but right now I've got brain fry. So in closing I'd like to thank my manager, my agent, the Hollywood Foreign Press, and of course, the Academy...

Giddy Giddy Giddy

Happy President's Day!

How American. We will celebrate our democratic institutions/ founding fathers by saving on bath sheets and getting low, low financing on new (or new to you!) cars. Hoorah for capitalism, where everything sacred is also on sale for 50% off!

The boy has the week off and I've got to entertain him for the entire week and I must say... I'm a wee bit out of practice and am a tad apprehensive. I've come to hate being Julie the Cruise Director and would much rather sit down and pick his brain about important topics of the day. I want to know which super villian is the most appealing and why. I want to know why Cinderella is the "it" girl while Ginny Weasley has suddenly fallen out of favor. But, he's four and four year olds are not known for their long, in-depth converstations. Those only happen by accident- or by avoiding bedtime. I could totally sit and watch him talk and play with his friends, because that is seriously entertaining. Especially when they are not punching each other. Of course, this week will be all about the two of us trying to get along without resorting to endless episodes of Cyberchase. It's hard to resist when you're beating Hacker at his game.

I could approach this week with terror, thinking about the number of ways I could throw him out the window when he starts nagging. (A little known fact- 4 year olds are rude and ungrateful little fuckers!) OR I could keep him busy with all kinds of field trips and shiny things. Wahoo! Shiny! I'm opting for the field trips. Indian restaurants, museums, Chinatown, maybe a show...thank God I live in the shiniest town in the world. There's quite a bit to look at and put me in the poor house.

That's okay. I've always wanted to see a poor house. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad with new window treatments.

Took Ya Long Enough!

Eureka!

I've finally figured it out!

I know the rest of you will all scratch your head and give smart ass remarks like, "She's the LAST one to know!" or "That's the LEAST of your problems, sister." but I won't let you rain on my parade.

My problem is that I am bored.

Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored!

What a relief! I'm not depressed or crazy, I'm just bored.

Not that I put any particular value on astrology, but I am a typical Archer in so many ways. I assume that has more to do with the persona I have fashioned for myself rather than anything determined by the alignment of the planets. Perhaps it's a little from column A and a little from column B? At any rate, it is simply a quick and easily understandable way to describe my basic wants and needs. Just about any asshole understands that a Sagittarian personality craves a certain type of stimulation whether that Sagittarian personality was born in May or December.

So that is the cause of my malaise. I'm bored. I'm no happy homemaker and if I ever was you couldn't expect me to remain so for long. It just isn't me. So this bored and antsy thing that has been happening with me can be remedied. It isn't something "wrong" with me, it is just a matter of proper Sagittarian maintenance.

I'm glad we've gotten that straightened out. Now where's the pie?

Write What Ya Know...

Right now I know that anxious feeling in the afternoon when you know you should leave the house and see a touch of the world, but you don't know where to go or what to do once you're out there.

I know about dreaming of living next to the grocery store in my hometown and going out everyday to fill my mini-fridge.

I know aimlessness, restlessness and chronic dissatisfaction.

Although, it must be said that I am not unhappy- just a little lost in my days. I'm feeling that existential angst, again and that's hardly productive.

So, unfortunately, for the time being these are the posts you will be seeing. I'm waiting for the next wave of purpose to roll in, but for now the tide's out.

Writing is Hard, Rewriting is Harder

I wrote this play in 5 days. It wasn't perfect and there was absolutely no censorship along the way so I guess that was why it went so quickly. I let it sit for a while because I've had a lot of much bigger, naggier fish to fry. So, as it stands now, I've totally reworked the first act and it has only taken me three weeks, 47 naps, and maybe 20 cappucinos.

The second act has got to be scrapped completely and rewritten with a whole new plot concept. Just thinking about it makes me want to take a nap. The other scripts I've worked on have not had this affect on me. The other scripts were energizing and had my brain clipping along at 100 mph. I guess this one is a little close to home because it involves a deep questioning of the institution of marriage (no, mine's not going anywhere yet, but that doesn't mean I won't question it) and the value and nature of love and it has a dementing illness as a central circumstance to the plot. Note that this play is not ABOUT dementing illnesses, it is merely a circumstance that drives the questioning throughout the piece. My point is, maybe because these questions and issues are not merely philosophical at this point in my life but of immediate importance is why rewriting has been painful and tiring. It's not as fun to piece this puzzle together as it was to play with adolescent angst, mismatched sexual fantasies, or tango dancing hooligans. So, for now I am going to let the first act stay the way it is and put the second act off for a week or so. Especially since there is no school next week and I doubt I will get anything beyond a shower done all week.

The rest of my day will be spent cheering myself up.

February

I've always hated February.

28 days and it is the longest month of the year.

Just about every horrible benchmark in my life has come to a head in the month of February. Always swirling around that blood red number 14 in the middle of the calendar commemorating St. Valentine's smiling, decapitated head. Luckily, the last few Februaries have not touched me, personally. But February must have some blood so it has been nibbling on the jugulars of my loved ones while I get to sit as an honored guest at the Colliseum. Fun.

Actually, that's not true. Last February was depressing, but not AS depressing as the year before. Right after I turned 29 I completely fell apart and spent that darkest month bursting into heavy, draining sobs while my son kissed me and begged me to "Feel better Mommy!". There was a day I actually felt myself break. I was walking down Clinton blubbering into the phone that I just couldn't go on and that I was so miserable while I dragged my confused and strangely silent toddler behind me. I was thankful for the silence but when I turned at looked at his terrified face I felt so ashamed that I literally lay down on the freezing sidewalk and howled. My son prodded me helplessly and told me not to cry. It was like one of those horrible moments with Marlon Perkins on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. The mother elephant is dying and the helpless baby is trying to get her back on her feet- as much out of self preservation as out of love. I got up and took my zombie act to the park where the other mothers were none the wiser. I wondered how many of them had ever collapsed on the sidewalk in front of their children? How many of them were broken inside, pouring gallons of coffee on a cold heart split in two?

Being left alone in February is a hard thing to forgive.

So far, this February is going fine for me. I've got a direction and I'll go there directly. But February doesn't let me go without first taking a little nibble out of my ass. February knows where to get me. It will hit my friends and leave me to watch, force me to defend my own shaky definitions of personal boundaries and challenge me to overextend myself. You see, February knows that if I do overextend myself I'll be back kissing that frozen sidewalk.

It's half over. Just a little further and I'll be able to kick it in the teeth and say hello to beautiful, beautiful March.

Hello, March!

Momentum

It's so nice out that I just want to sit in the mud and talk.

Of course, everyone I know is a grown up and has responsibilities and can't go to sit in the mud with me. Sullivan would most definitely sit in the mud, but then he'd start flinging it at me. I don't know if I want to go that far.

I've got a PTA meeting to go to and I'd just rather hang out. Maybe read. Maybe stare at the sunshine. I had a very productive morning and I think I'll have to draw the line somewhere. I want to flap my beak, but I really don't want to discuss anything of substance.

You see, everyone (in the hyperbolic sense) around here is in crisis. Depressions, illnesses, marital issues, school problems... I don't want to talk about it right now. I just want to float on the pleasure of the day and enjoy breathing for a bit. Regardless of the current challenges, it is so good to be alive today. I'm exhausted by the drama and by my own need to go out and "fix" things that I cannot fix. Enforcing boundaries is hard. I don't want to have a hard day today.

Today is the day for things to fall into my lap. My sitter will call and we will book some dates. Some new clients will answer my ads and all I will need to do is sit back and receive. Because February need not be so terrible.

Today is the day for gifts from above... and a nap.

Loving the Self-Loathing

It seems that I go through this thing every few years where I try to dissassociate myself from who I am and what my passions are. The truth is, I am pretty ashamed of being an actor. I hate actors. I hate their self centeredness. I hate their whispy, self-important, vapid approach to life. I hate that they are empty vessels searching to be filled with audience approval. I hate their work ethics. I hate that they are always fucking late. I hate the way they talk and I hate the way they value celebrity over substance. I hate their fascination with all things shiny and pretty. I hate their vanity and their willingness to become a commodity. I also hate that when something challenging or horrible happens to you they say things like "...yeah, but you can really USE that!". I hate the fact that when they say that you can detect a note of jealousy in their voice. Idiots.

But I can't stop.

I audited a class today figuring that it is time I get back into the swing of things and start to seriously rebuild my artistic community. Not to mention the fact that I want to have as many resources as possible once I start coaching again. I want my clients to know that I can recommend so and so or such and such studio because I know their work. It's just good business.

I forget just how much I love class. There is absolutely nothing in the world that makes me happier than to be in the presence of work. I love the way my brain feels. I love the way my body sweats and feels present and ready to do whatever is asked. I feel lit up from the inside. I can't wipe the smile off my face. I can't wait to get up and work. I also love the fact that I can sit in a class and have truly come to a point where I can see what the instructor sees. My actor brain is pretty sharp and I can honestly say that I have gymnastic mental ability when it comes to the observation of the work. Once I get rolling, my students will learn a lot from me.

I've always been a jack of all trades. I am able to gain a certain amount of proficiency in most things I apply myself to. But this is the one thing I can honestly say that I am really good at. (Dangling participles, not so much!) I'm not good at the machine and I'm not good at being a slave to it. I thought for a long time that I would have to bow out of the business because certain obstacles seemed insurmountable. I don't audition. I resist being pigeonholed. I refuse to sell my soul to something I do not believe in. But I think I may have found a way around that.

It sort of blows me away that I knew what I was when I was 15- and I wasn't wrong. Now I just have to stop hating that part of myself and encourage a new way to be an actor and surround myself with like minded actors. I just have to commit to it- to myself. I've known that for at least 10 years. The question is, how much longer am I going to wait?

Homer Said It Best

I am so smart. S-M-R-T!

Some days I am just on a roll where everything I think is just pure genius. Now all I need is a paltry $2000.00 to get everything on track- give or take a couple of bucks. $2000.00 to change the way actors work! To inject actual discourse into the realm of "political" theatre! To fight against the stage versions of popular films! $2000.00 to show the world that I deserve to be paid for my brilliance! $2000.00 to make everyone that has ever met me say, "Holy shit, I thought she fell off the face of the earth!"

In my mind I am strolling down Nicollet Mall with my cheap ass 70's beret...oh...watch it...look out...the beret's going up...I'm gonna make it after all!

Meow.

Happy Hunting

Okay, okay...Cheney shooting a 78 year old man in the face is pretty funny. Yup, he didn't pay for that $7.00 stamp to shoot at game birds in Texas. Fine. The guy's going to live so the jokes are pretty funny. But let's not get all reactionary, here.

I saw a headline reading "Is Hunting Safe?"

Oh shut up already! Of course hunting isn't "safe". It has never been safe. There are ways to minimize your risk, definitely, but there is still risk. And that is as it should be. Can't we just have a few things in life that are slightly dangerous without some fretful fool coming around to wring her hands about it?

So, are you worried that the odd, innocent, smart person will accidentally get in the way of a hapless idiot? Here's a hint for you, if you look around and see that you are surrounded by idiots, what are the odds that you're the one smart person there? Pretty fuckin' slim.

Allowing stupid people to do dangerous things is a smart way to weed out our ranks.

Not sure if I really believe that, but I'm trying it on for size. Does my butt look big in this attitude?

Short Fuse

I literally pounded the paint off my bathroom door today. If I didn't have any sense of self control (or shame) I would have ripped the door off its hinges.

Nothing can make me angrier than being made to feel invisible. I'll show you fucking invisible you stupid ass bathroom door. And let that be a lesson to ya.

Stir Crazy

I'm not handling being stuck in a Brooklyn apartment with my family very well. Must remember not to murder family during blizzard... Remember that they are cute when you are able to walk away from them...It can't snow forever...

But I can amuse my dark side by thinking about Dick Cheney shooting his friends. Yeah. Then I'll sit down and read Moby Dick and hope I don't go mad before I can ship the boy off to school in the morning and get a break from cleaning the house- 3 times over today. Could Momma catch a freakin' break?

All work and no play...

Shelley Duvall, really?

Oh look...cutlery...

I Haven't Listened to Janice in a Really Long Time

I really haven't.

I used to listen to tons of Janice.

Now I'm back into a Ray Charles state of mind.

After a brief stint with Etta James and an occasional visit with Louis Jordan, cuz' What's the Use of Gettin' Sober When You're Gonna Get Drunk Again?

Of course, Tom Waits and Bob Dylan never really leave my mind, even when I'm listening to someone else.

But, I kind of miss Janice.

She makes me want to do a lot of screaming. Well, screaming and drinking mostly. Usually alone. Otherwise you just can't fully appreciate the rambling on Ball and Chain. And Bobby McGee always sounds better at about 3:00 am once your voice is completely shredded from hard liquor and senseless cursing at strangers outside your bedroom window. Stupid fuckers. Don't you GET it man? Let's say you have a cat, man...

But at least with Ray, life can suck hard but you've got a killer bounce and some hot chicks in sequins to back you up. Hey, maybe life isn't so bad after all?

Dude, I think I need me some Pips. Yeah, so I can leave on that Midnight Train to Georgia (Woo woo!) with some strapping lads in tight polyester. Oh baby. It may not be sequins, but the voices are a hell of a lot lower.

Aw, they just don't make 'em like they used to.

Everybody's Workin' for the Weekend

Not me. I'm working ON the weekend. Such is the life of an entertainer- always entertaining and never being entertained.

Nothing too exciting, just working at the spa and dropping the bomb on a producer that I need to pass on his project. I don't want to sound too egotistical, but he won't get his project done anytime soon without my help. I feel bad about passing, actually. But I just can't see myself doing it. But I have the sneaking suspicion that this script will be leaving some pretty large bicuspids in my ass in a few years. Oh well, what's a great up and commer story without those dark, yucky projects from the early years?

Anyway, my play is coming along fabulously and will be ready for workshop soon. I have a bunch of content for my website that will be ready in a few weeks and am working on my little journal to promote my money project. Look for a link coming soon.

All right. I suppose I had better wear something nicer than Tom's bathrobe to work at the spa. Besides, it's about time for me to visit my Dunkin Donuts guy. Oh Julio!

Strikes Me Funny

When I was in high school I dated this guy who was sort of a Hessian Boob. After I broke it off with him, we maintained a fairly close friendship. Close enough for him to include me in his evening of telephone braggadoccio after he had lost his virginity. I remember this conversation distinctly because he said something to me that was so strinkingly silly that it is still on my top ten list of strange things ever said to me.

"You should have sex, Bree. You'd really like it."

Although the sentiment strikes me as a tad amusing what is even funnier to me is my response. My response was the same as to any other recommendation I've gotten in my life.

"Bree, you have got to get email. You'd really like it."

"You need a pager/cell phone/ DVD player/ iPod!'

"You should do yoga/pilates/rolfing/Scientology!'

"You really should start a blog..."

On and on and on it goes. Sometimes I take the reccommendation because I know so and so really knows what I would like. Sometimes I act enthused and then just chuck the idea altogether. But regardless of the end result my initial response is always the same...

I know! I know! Of course I see how Item X would enhance my life, but then I'd have to make an effort to make that happen. Can't I just sit back and do what I've always done? And what if I DO really like it? Then I might never want to stop and then my life will be a total mess. It's probably better than I don't ever start.

You know, I'm usually right.

Regret

Caught between breath and sadness

I knew you when
I thought I knew myself

Would it surprise you to know that I still
Think about
Things we never did?

My lips never breathed on yours
My hand never rested inside your thigh

Does it surprise you to know
That I very much wanted to?

Regret that I never consummated my first
True heartbreak
And I can never make that same mistake
Those choices are dead to me
Like sterilized hallways
Mixed with your cigarette smoke
And unwashed hair

For me
Poetry lives in memory
Of that mistake

To have taken your body to mine
Would have destroyed me completely
And yet I still regret
Not taking the chance to give to you the only me
I ever had

The Who and the What Now?

Ummmm...

He was kidding right?

Last night I heard Alan Dershowitz say on The Colbert Report that perhaps we should license comedians and cartoonists because they are some of the most dangerous people in the world right now. He slipped it in and Colbert let it go so I really couldn't tell if he was being facetious or not.

I agree that comedians and cartoonists can be dangerous- but its the kind of dangerousness we need. Wouldn't you rather there was a world full of comedians rather than a world full of megalomaniacal leaders?

Then I was watching Alberto Gonzales on Charlie Rose.

Do those arguments REALLY fly with ANYONE? What the ?

Speechless.

God knows that doesn't happen very often.

Props

I know a freakin' truckload of smart and talented people. I've always had them around me and I hope I always will. It's great to be around you, but I do have a favor to ask...

When you get famous and go on talk shows to plug your latest project, will you give a little shout out to me? Maybe tell Jon Stewart that you would have married me if I hadn't already been taken? Tell Charlie Rose that I am your inspiration, your muse, and your kick in the ass? Tell David Letterman that if it weren't for me and my giant bag of survival snacks that you would have starved to death? If you could also throw in little tidbits about how unusual I am and you could even do that impression of me that you've been doing for years behind my back. It's okay. I think it's funny. Except for that unflattering underwear snapping thing. That just doesn't make me look so cool. But the part when you go ballistic on James Cameron's ass and tell him what a fucking sucky film "Titanic" is- yeah, that's spot on, baby. If you could do that for me that'd be great because I am sick of working for my own fifteen minutes. It would be much nicer if it were handed to me on a silver platter.

I appreciate it.

Through the Spammer's Lens

If you judged me by my Inbox you would think me a thouroughly deranged individual.

According to the spammers I am a ne'er do well stock trader with a tiny penis and erectile dysfunction. Poor fella. Apparently, since I have so much trouble below the belt I take out my frustrations by consuming copious amounts of pornography involving farm animals, drunk teenage girls and the occasional "fatty". That sounds a tad masochistic considering my difficulties in that region. But, the spammers also know that I like the finer things in life and have opened their virtual trench coats to offer me Rolex watches at an amazing discount. Just before you start to think my Inbox paints me as a total loser you'll run across mail from modeling and talent agencies who think I'm gorgeous and, for a nominal fee, will get me started in a lucrative career in the entertainment industry. Of course, in order to really get a jump on that career opportunity I will have to lose a few pounds. Luckily, there is are spammers to help me with that, too! Which is great because then I can feel slim and confident when I attend these VIP events in Miami, Las Vegas and New York that are so exclusive that only 4 million people have received these coveted invitations. While I am busy club hopping and jet setting with other stock trading perverts with sadly flaccid members I can also get cheap presciption medication from Canada to keep my abused body functioning. At the end of the 72 hour day, when I am trashed and yet too wired to sleep, the spammers have an answer to my sleep dysfunction as well. There's a pill for everything and when there's no pill, there's a "system" to combat all my most embarassing ailments. I'm just waiting for the day when I get spammed with actual Spam.

Really, I hope the Bush Administration's illegal wiretapping is getting better intelligence on me. I'd hate for them to be misled.

Applied Lessons of Love

It occurs to me that we pay a lot of lip service to the power of love and it has lost its meaning. I even feel oogy just writing the phrase. It's corny, overdone, cliche and sickeningly sweet. I suppose that is why my inner cynic rolls her eyes and makes the "yap yap yap" hand signal in my head whenever I hear anyone talk about it. Although, usually it isn't the message, its the messanger who has zero credibility with me. After all, the power they are usually talking about is the power that comes from withholding love. There are so many conditions to the American Christian's capacity for love. (Not ALL, I am aware that most of you are more open than we give you credit, but your representatives do not serve you well in this area.) I love you, but you cannot have the same rights and priviledges as I do if... I love you, but I believe you are going to burn for all eternity and all these natural disasters and acts of terrorism are your fault, etc. etc.

I'm really quite heartbroken about it.

What these giant yapping maws seem to forget is that love is an unconditional directive from the Universe. This does not mean we have to be namby pamby little pussies who float around talking to the flowers and do not demand accountability for bad behavior. Being loved does not excuse you from personal responsibility for what you put out in the world. Love also has a firm, dark side that calls us to uphold certain standards of interpersonal behavior. But love also understands that people who have their needs met and who are happy do not cause harm to others. Happy people do not fly planes into buildings, shoot up post offices or schools. People who feel secure do not steal, lie or cheat the elderly out of their tiny pensions. People who are confident and have adequate emotional support will not find it necessary to play "I bet my balls are bigger than yours". And it isn't education that will save the day either. Smart, well educated people do just as much to fuck up the world and your average idiot. In fact, I'd say the educated do more than their fair share. Yes, we need to have consequences for people's misdeeds, but that does not solve the problem.

I know, I know, I'm insanely niave to suggest that providing a stable, loving and supportive environment for each human being will solve all of our problems. I'm even stupid to suggest that it is possible. But, our major issues are economic only because we have placed such value on it. Money has no truth in it except for the truth we place IN it. We cannot solve the world's problems with money. It would take several generations to solve the world's problems MY way and it would take a massive effort to convince people to even try. But what we've got isn't really working, is it?

Now here's the twist, the secret is NOT a selfless loving and giving society. I am coming to the conclusion that it is a selfishly loving society that would have the leg up on Utopia. Why selfish? Because love should be seen as self preservation, something necessary for survival (and it is) and should be as much about loving yourself as it is about loving others. We should each have very clear boundaries and feel right in having them. We should be allowed and encouraged to protect ourselves as much as we are encouraged to go out and give of ourselves. It is not as simple as going out and giving our all and hoping that there will be some scraps left over for us. No, we need to value ourselves equally. This martyr crap wears pretty thin and it does not work.

Sullivan has been watching this Rankin-Bass cartoon version of "A Christmas Carol" with Walter Mathau as Scrooge and Tom Bosley as the Humbug. It's a musical, which is funny because you can practically feel the jowls flapping through the musical numbers. Anyway, the last song is a solo by Scrooge that I can only assume is called "Mankind Should Be My Business" and it may be trite but I think it is true. You don't have to give away all your riches, but you can share that which is uniquely you with your fellow man. We are not meant to sit inside and peer suspiciously out our windows. We are supposed to take those gifts that are specific to us and share them with the world without shame or malice. Money is only an obstacle if you make it one.

Remind me that I said that, because I am going to need to hear it from time to time.

Onward and upward, my friends, onward and upward.

The Me I Am From Time to Time

You know how everyone has several different personalities that seem to sneak out in certain social situations? For a long time, all of my personalities co-existed and could come out at pretty much any time during the course of a day. Chances are, during that period of my life, you could run into soft, nurturing Bree in the morning and get a warm hug and a little morning snack from her ever present bag full of survival tricks. Then find rowdy, opinionated Bree after lunch and listen to her chatter on and on about the suckiness of this or the injustice of that. You could leave her for a couple of hours and come back to find giddy, out of control Bree who likes to set random things on fire and then run away giggling.

What a shock it is to discover that there are people in my life who have not yet met all the Brees I am. There are some people in my life who think of me as brash, bossy, and a bit of a pain in the ass. There are others who would laugh if you tried to describe me that way thinking that I am way too polite and wishy washy.

I only mention it because I think it is time for all the Brees to unite under one big tent- to borrow a Republican analogy. If you haven't met one of me yet, please feel free to come up and introduce yourself. There's only one of me that bites.

Sick Day

My Fella is sick today and home from school for the first time ever. (Perfect Attendance KING!) I wonder if it is totally wrong that I am happy to have a snuggly movie day with a puking child. I was working all weekend and barely saw him. Not to mention that I don't get much kid snuggling action anymore because he's too busy being a boy. So I'm going to do this sick day up right, homemade chicken noodle soup (Oh yeah, I said homemade- like three hour stewing in the pot homemade!), popsicles, pedialyte and saltine crackers. We're going to steam him, rub his back, and have some serious vapo-rub. I'm pulling out all the mothering stops because this kid is healthy as an ox. The way things have been in the last four years I can't expect too many opportunities like this to smother him up right and make any other woman who enters his life pale in comparison to St. Mom. Yeah, totally selfish, but he's my boy. I'm so crazy about this kid.

You know why?

Because he loves Jacob Marley and will run around the house with a platic chain draped over his shoulders chanting "Repent! Repent!". Because he is totally Warner Brothers and not so much Disney. Because he knows who Chico is and wants a Chico hat. Because he always plays the bad guy, but in real life is the sweetest kid you'll ever meet. Because he put his arm around his friend Chloe and told her, "You know, Chloe, when I get older you'll still be in my life." Because he's four and has been married three times. Because I can see all of my family and all of Tom's family in his handsome little face. Because we named him after a bare knuckle boxer and his grandpa. Because he has no trouble wearing a sequin gown when he has playdates with his girlfriends. Because he loves his teacher and is a bit of a suck up. Because he is so dramatic. And because he is begging me to sit down and watch Foghorn Leghorn with him.

Yeah, that's my boy.

Looking for Comedy in a Film Called Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World

If there is one thing I hate more that a good idea poorly exectued, it is a good idea poorly executed by a guy who should have known better.

Albert Brooks is not always the guy I think of when I think of knock down drag out funny, but every time I see "Defending Your Life" or "Mother" I do not curse the heavens for allowing me to waste my time. On the contrary, those are both nice films with a nice spot of wit to them. A twinge tame, but not a waste of time by any stretch of my imaginatation. So when I heard that he was putting out a film called "Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World" I thought- wow! That's brave! What a great idea. Plus the circumstance of his Jewishness and his kvetchy, insecure approach to comedy made me think that this was going to be a fun, fun movie.

I was wrong.

This film sets out to say one thing, that Muslims must laugh too, right? The conclusion he comes to is that no, they don't. They are incapable of understanding any kind of humor whatsoever. Well, that is bullshit and simply not true.

First, Brooks is invited to Washington to meet with a committee that is appointing him to do a study of laughter in the Muslim world. He spends the whole scene hemming and hawing over the number of pages expected in the report and this exercise goes absolutely nowhere. The scene is too long and suffers from the performance of a man trying to do too much. "While I am acting this scene, I also have to direct it and figure out if the writing works and worry about the budget and distribution, am I doing the right thing? Hmmm, what was I saying? Oh yeah, I'm in a scene..."

From there, Brooks- who is playing himself, which I think is a disasterous short cut for this concept as it makes the choices far too self conscious- goes to India with a couple of government employees. One of these fellows is a yes man and a fan, the other is a preening peacock who is always on his cell phone. Once they get to India, Brooks interviews some women for the position as his assistant. He hires a smart and beautiful Hindi woman (Where are the Muslims?) who does not understand sarcasm nor does she get any of his jokes, but she finds him fascinating. They proceed to stop people in the street and ask them what makes them laugh and not one of them has anything approaching humor.

This is pretty much the last time there is any real attempt at dealing with a Muslim population. After that he sets up a free comedy show in New Delhi and does his old act and he bombs. It is painful. It goes on far too long and the humiliation never ends.

Eventually he ends up making an illegal crossing into Pakistan to have a secret meeting with some aspiring Pakistani comedians, but instead of interviewing them he is forced to perform his act for them and this time they laugh. But we never get to hear from the Pakistani comedians, we just get to see Brooks' act- again.

Then comes the obligatory intrigue and mixed up intelligence that leads to an international incident, but to all of this Brooks is largely unaware and remains so until the end of the film. Basically, this movie was "Ishtar" but not nearly as funny.

I can come up with all kinds of excuses for why this film seemed so terrible and rushed. But this film is so bad that I have to wag my finger because a man of Albert Brooks' intelligence should have known better. I heard he didn't have any support because the subject matter was risky. Well, that is all the more reason to do it right. I know he knows how to do it right and so I can't give him any pats on the back just for trying. Any interesting turn or possible point of discovery was completely avoided and that makes for a stale film with a false and, dare I say, racist conclusion.

I know a few Muslims who are in possession of great humor. I hope they won't waste their money on this film.

All Hail Bryan!

Every Groundhogs Day I get to think about one of the most interesting men I know.

That's my brother Bryan.

Bryan can tell you how to survive on an ice flow and make a silencer out of a plastic soda bottle. He talks like a hard nosed conservative, pull yourself up by your own boostraps kind of guy. But he walks like a big hearted, sentimental softie. He's one of the funniest fuckers you'll ever meet and if you find yourself at an insurance seminar in hell you know you'll be in for a good time if you're sitting next to Bryan. He's got an answer for everything and you may disagree but you won't have a chance to say so. You'll be too busy rolling on the floor, clutching that stitch in your side from laughing so hard.

Bryan has no idea how much he has shaped my world. There is absolutely no one in the world like Bryan, he's one in a gazillion.

I love you.

Happy Birthday, Bryan.

I'm a-foldin'... and I'm a-crinklin'...
(Get on the stick, Old Man- everyone wants the hear the Gospel according to Sexy Bearded Man!)