Lindsay's Latest Little Life Saga

A New Appreciation of Snow vs Rain

2008-12-27T20:11:00.006-06:00

Two weeks of snow and ice piled on the pavement seemed like a blessing - and a significant improvement over freezing cold endless rain. Today, the rain is falling, snow is melting, streets are clearing, and a sigh of relief hisses from the bridges as cyclists shake off their forced hibernation: we can put rubber to road once again! Stir crazy, anxiety-ridden and packing on the pounds, I pedaled a mere 5 miles today, the most in three days.

It looks like tomorrow will be a day for actual mileage.

I have a sudden renewed appreciation for roads, endless miles of them that I am permitted to pedal. And the other kind of road: the type where my gas-guzzling hybrid can cruise at a quick 75 to take me away from the familiar surroundings of the city. This is not to insinuate that my beloved cycle has not taken me to far away beautiful places; it has. Here in Portland, in Flagstaff, Tucson, even in New Jersey, I found serenity and beauty mere pedal strokes away. But there is something special about watching the topography change rapidly and winding up in a region whose biodiversity varies greatly from the city you woke in that morning.

Although, if that is "special", then "exhilarating" is the appropriate description for taking such a journey on a bike.

To ride 70 miles and find yourself a world away from the surroundings that greeted you in the morning. To ride for hours and summit a mountain and see forever, yet no city starting point is in view. To know that your own strength, your own drive, your own sweat propelled you to a pristine environment is awe-inspiring. Suddenly, the world can be conquered. My body, my strength, it can climb mountains. Freedom. Freedom of knowing that when the engine blows, gas prices rise, and traffic jams stall, I can still escape to an old growth forest. I can, of my own volition, without creating any sound pollution, air pollution, without contributing to wars on foreign lands, without playing the rules of mass popular culture, I can burrow deep into a water-filled canyon. With my own two legs, one 18 pound, silent bicycle and a stock pile of water and nourishment, I can sit by a secluded mountain lake, or even make it to the coast.

I can do all this on two human powered, heart pounding, sweating, slimming, strengthening wheels. That is, as long as the roads stay clear of ice and snow.

2008-02-13T16:21:00.003-06:00

Out the windows in front of me, it is rainy and grey. The windows behind my head reveal blue sky with traces of whispy clouds and a full rainbow. The rainbow is close enough that I can see it imposed over the bridge that is a mere three blocks away. Hail still sits on the window sill ledge.

I sit in a coffee shop occupying an old warehouse beneath a complex crisscrossing of highway ramps and bridges. This room serves as the divide between rain and sunshine, and has sat in this precarious position for a good 15 minutes, still holding.

I know nobody here. It's a feeling I should be used to, a sensation I have craved, at times. And yet in my current chapter of life, it feels foreign and vacant.

For a moment, sunshine pours in through every window.

Heroin in the Hamper

2008-02-06T15:58:00.000-06:00

I discovered a guy shooting up in the laundry room.

About half an hour ago, I was switching the wash to the drier, when I heard someone moving around behind the wall. "The wall" itself is a bit strange: it's a huge slab of concrete that separates the large laundry room from a separate section of the room that is three feet wide by ten feet or so long. This small sub-room has all the water/electric meters mounted on the wall and is often home to a handful of locked up bicycles.

I heard the kind of tinkering that one strives for when they are hoping the person in the next room won't hear. But I heard. No ones moves that slow and quiet unless they are trying to hide something. I assumed someone was stealing a bike or it's parts.

I walked around the corner.

"Hi."

"Uh, oh - hey! What's up?

"What are you working on over here?" There were no bicycles anywhere to be seen.

"Oh, nothing. Just working on something."

He was putting some objects into a Crown Royal bag. I recognized the purple velvet pouch immediately; I used one of those for a purse for awhile. It looked a chemical experiment, complete with glass vials of translucent white liquid. Then I noticed the long, thick rubber band, then the orange-capped insulin needles.

"You're shooting up. Is that Heroin?"

"Um, yeah." At least he didn't try to cover it up. The bent spoon and lighter quickly disappeared into the bag.

"How long have you been doing that shit? I mean you look like your "

"About a year and a half."

We continued to talk about his addiction and he informed me of his plans for recovery. "I just need four days off in a row to go through detox, then I have this new medication and program to help me kick it, but I just can't ever get those days off."

"But really, it's not as bas as you think" he added.

"No, that's the whole problem: you're not that bad yet. That means you've got a few more years of wasting your life away doing this crap before all hell breaks loose, somebody dies and your living on the street. And THEN it will be bad enough to really give it up. It just might be too late. Good luck. Get help."

By this point I had escorted him out the back door of the building. He left without another word. I came upstairs to write this.

I forgot to put the quarters in and start my laundry. Oops! Gotta run!

Blog On!

2007-12-10T13:58:00.000-06:00

When blogger was bought by Google, by automatic sign in page expired. I had forgotten my password and the e-mail I created this account with seven years ago no longer exists. After many trials and tribulations I have emerged victorious and once again have access to my beloved, though sadly neglected blog!

Just in time, too - as I believe my life is about to take a turn back into the realm of the interesting. Anthony & I arrive in Portland, Oregon just over a week ago and are testing the tepid waters of life in a new (and wonderfully wierd) city together!

Above are photos of our ridiculously over-packed ghetto car that should never have made it past Indiana, let alone through the icey mountain passes of post-storm Eastern Oregon! Two adults and a dog with everything they own shoved into a small car, with two car top carriers and four bicycles strapped on. Quite a sight! For some stretches of the trip, snow chains were strapped on as well....

Cycling Manifesto, Part One

2007-02-10T10:29:00.002-06:00

I'd like to talk about the benefits of cycling WITHOUT mentioning Global Warming, Exercise, or Oil Wars. The subjects too often consume the spotlight on the myriad of bicycling wonders.
Community, local economy, out-sourcing, world economy: strip malls and chain stores would be a thing of the past if the majority converted to cycle-commuting. We'd see a thriving resurgence of local economy. If folks were cycling, the town center or neighborhood square wouldn't be a ghost town do the difficulty and unpleasantness involved in accessing the far off big box store. Tearing down historic old buildings or large stands of trees for the sake of a strip mall or parking lot? Who would conceive of doing such a thing? And if we weren't CONSUMING (and subsidizing) so much gasoline, it wouldn't be so cheap. If prices were to skyrocket, it would no longer be economically feasible for big box stores to pay slave wages at off-shore sweat shops and ship products from other continents. If they still continued such practices, their inevitable price increases would prevent them from retaining their positions as competion killers, which would even out the playing field and nullify their current political power. In genereal, if bicycles were the primary mode of transportation, big business could not exist as is, shifting the balance of money and thus political power to local owners who are actually invested in their communities. It would put the wabash on the World Trade Organization, bring more manufacturing and labor jobs back into this country, and potentially assist in the re-birth of a place for true artisans.

I say all this like it's common sense. Perhaps I should explain in more detail. But the sun is shining, the dog is whining and it's time for a jog in the park. More, much more to say. Someday soon.....

By the way - those with a similar sentiment might want to check out "Car Busters" - a magazine started in Lyon, France in '98, now based in the Czech Republic. Its brand of activism tends to get a little more radical than I agree with, but to read of cycling promotion and anti-car activities all over the world is fascinating and inspiring! Though a little dis-heartening that most Americans are still so in the dark.....

Missing my piss-poor, cycling starving artist

2007-02-10T09:46:00.000-06:00

Met the man of my dreams. (Nine months ago; thus why I have not written.)
Then he became a mailman.
Going postal has certainly changed him. Sixty hours a week of walking up and down hills and staircases, sometimes trudging through thick banks of snow, all while carrying a heavy load of catalogs and junk mail, has broken him. He clenches his teeth as he delivers the embodiment of 2 acres of Canadian old-growth forest clearing per minute. He then returns home, tired and weary, to sit on the couch, watch tv, and let his woman cook, clean and massage him. And his one day off? Sitting INSIDE (who wants to be outside after working out there all day, six days a week?) and resting.
Resting!? Inside!?
This is an artist/ex-hippie who cycled approximately 150 miles a week, climbed mountains and/or camped on any consecutive two days off, who kept his house spotlessly clean and organized on his own and took great pride in that!
And I swore I'd never be a housewife.
Well, I'm not. We're not married, I do have a fulltime job, and we split the costs of most things. I used to be active - both in the outdoors in the arts and local music - in an almost compulsive and unhealthy manner. Now I work - for the first time - inside an office, under florescent lights, in a cubicle. I come home, walk th dog, buy groceries, cook, eat, cuddle, clean, then sleep. Two years ago, I lived in old converted Ice Cream Factory / Warehouse in the little nook of the ghetto taken over by artists, now I'm in a house in the 'burbs. (sort of) This lifestyle, so common to the majority of Americans, is so foreign and soooo offensive to me!! And now the couch and tv are my good friends. I didn't even own such things prior to moving in with him!
Yes, that's right: at 28 years old, I had never owned - nor had any desire to own - a television.
The man also came with a dog. A fabulous, amazing Chocolate Lab who is also feeling the pangs of our new-found laziness. He is going crazy! Barking and moaning were things I was sure he wasn't capable of doing, yet these past few snowy and home-bound weeks, his disgruntled noised are constant.
The only grasp I maintain on my previous form of non-comformist sanity is that my mode of transportation is still my bicycle. My salvation! My religion! My soul-salvaging, anxiety reducing, eco-transit!
Until the snow came. With no shoulders and no sidewalks, I'm a little hesitant to cycle down the middle of a one lane street in the dark. Most folks 'round here aren't hip to the law that bikes share the road.
Yesterday I finally said "Fuck-it - at least to go grocery shopping, I'm riding my bike."
The garage door ("Bicycle shop door") was frozen shut. No shit. Couldn't open it. No cycle for me.
Oh, cursed are student loans!!! Especially for relatively meaningless art school degrees!
Almost paid off. By the time spring is here, the debt should be gone, a small cushion in the bank, Anthony can quit the oppressive and soul-squasing, postal service, and I can have my over-eager, exploration/adventure-loving, broke-ass cycling artist back!!!
As long as I don't break before then.

An Arizona Story

2006-05-15T14:32:00.000-05:00

My one woman show about self discovery featuring my original music opens on Friday, June 2nd as part of the Cincinnati Fringe Festival!!!
Mr. Pitiful's at 1325 Main Street, downtown Cincinnati, at 7 PM. Subsequent performances are Saturday, June 3rd; Tuesday June 6th; Thursday June 8th and Saturday June 10th. Tickets can be purchased at 513-621-ARTS and for a full line up in the Fringe Fest, plus specific show info & to purchase tickets, check out www.cincyfringe.com
If I can figure it out (doubt it) you'll find my poster (which I designed; I'm so proud!) on this blog, or on my website: www.lindsaycaron.com, or on my myspace page: www.myspace.com/lindsaycaron.
I've gotta beable to post a pdf somewhere, right?
Best of luck to me!!
Seriously - this is undeniably the most important event of my life, so if you can make it out to support me.....
Eternal love and joy!
Rock n Ride!
:)

Bikes, Boys, Insanity and Job Offers....

2006-05-12T17:08:00.000-05:00

My Gary Fisher was stolen almost exactly one year ago – give or take a week.
Today it was returned to me.
Job offers/ interviews are rolling in daily. Some of them sound wonderful. Weird.
For the first time in ten years, I think I may be on the verge of being in a relationship. Not quite sure how he feels, but I think I’m kind of addicted to the guy. Weird.
In three weeks, the most important project of my life – the one woman show about my AZ experience featuring my original music as part of the Cincinnati Fringe Festival – takes to the stage. Insane.
The publicity, promotion, graphic design, media contact and other preparedness for the show – outside of the writing, producing, directing, performing – is an absolutely crazy and hectic learning experience.
My first ever 100 mile bike ride was almost one week ago!!! Yeah, go me. We rode to Rabbit Hash, KY, which is actually only a 75 mile round trip. I’ve done that much mileage twice before; Anthony had never gone so far. We were almost home when I turned to him “So…how you feelin?”
”Like we should rack up another 25 and hit 100 in one day.”
“Fuck yeah.”
Life is good. Hopefully, my show will be as well.

Brilliant Thugs

2006-05-12T17:06:00.001-05:00

If life wasn’t so damn exciting, I might get more work done. Each time I walk down my street: an adventure. Each bike ride through the ghetto produces another story of endearment or disgust. Every shift in the weather: another little miracle to rejoice in. Every conversation with a stranger: enlightening. (Well, not every. Slightly more than half, though!)
Today I’m outside my favorite ghetto hand: The Ice Cream Palace. I’m geeked out in cycling spandex, when three thugs walk up. I use the term thugs loosely, ‘cuz though they were clothed in ghetto gear, they certainly exuded a positive energy and seemed clean and kind. We start talking about the state of the ‘hood, Over-the-Rhine, the community and how city council is intentionally preventing progress in this area. The subject sways to the country, the world, the war….
The most articulate and outspoken of my three thug friends is incredibly impassioned, animatedly depicting the correlation between today’s world and the Babylon of biblical times and the Spanish Inquisition and quoting Homer, The Illiad & The Odyssey, and noting relevant Greek Mythology…. He was amazing. Brilliant. And all this talk of the scripture and quoting the New York Times and the three books he read last week – all infused with street slang. “So my boy Christopher Columbus – who was actually a Jew named Christopher Boyd – had to holla at Queen Isabella and say ‘Yo sis, check it: the gold in the New World, it’s some tight shit, and we’s gots to pay off the Spaniards to win…’” He was far more versed in history, mythology, religious texts and the state of life in OTR than I could ever be. I was silent, in awe of the street slang spewing articulate intellectual analysis of every major writing and belief system and their relevance to the world today.
“You are amazing, my new friend. What are you doing just chilling in the ‘hood?”
“I’m selling dope. It’s the only way I can make a living. Couldn’t graduate high school living in this shit hole….”
Never has my longing for a video camera been so intense as throughout this conversation.
“Hey Butter!” The call comes from across the street. A large, unhealthy looking white woman waddles over. “I just got out. Yeah, was in for fifteen days. They got me on selling weed, on prostitution, on disorderly conduct… all sorts of shit.”
The conversation deteriorates to talk of jail time.
“We is lucky” says one thug. “We ain’t been caught by the cops, or shot at, or nothing.”
I’m somewhat aghast. A: at the quick turn in the depth and context of conversation. B: that these people are actually telling ME – cookie-cutter clean (looking) white bicycle chick in padded spandex – about their drug dealings and such.
“You are brilliant” I say to Butter. “You could do so much with your passion and knowledge. Best of luck. I hope I see you again.”
I love magic encounters with beautiful strangers.

Touring with Tweety - Ghettoside

2006-03-20T22:21:00.000-06:00

"Hey! Can I ride wit 'choo?"
I hear it all the time. A few times each day. My typical response is "Ha ha" or "You couldn't keep up, baby!" or "Get a bike, honey! We’ll race!" But I always keep riding, and only a handful of times has one with a bike endeavored to race me - usually little kids who give up after two blocks, despite my efforts to go slow so that they are never far behind me.
On the hellacious five way corner that is McMicken and Vine, I heard "Aw, c'mon - just let me run inside and get my bike; I'll be right back."
And I waited. Maybe a full five minutes.
He hopped on his bike and we headed up hill, complimenting one another on our mutual strength and ability to ride well with one another.
"Well, what you doing riding around here?" he inquired.
"I ride through here a lot - I live on Main - but I'm actually looking for my stolen bicycle."
"Oh yeah? You're riding with the right guy. Follow me."
I thought I lived a block from the ghetto. I thought I'd ridden through the roughest parts of the ghetto alone quite enough. But there were streets I missed. And others that I just flew down too fast to truly experience.
"Tweety" took me under his wing - and on the craziest ride of my life.
"If anyone asks, we're looking for crack - NOT a stolen bicycle."
I looked in his earnest eyes and understood completely.
We rode slowly. We rode on sidewalks. We rode down old cobblestone alleys.
"Drugs, drugs, drugs" whispered persistently in my ear as those who once shot silent stares at me with fear and hate, suddenly saw me as "one of them" with my new companion in tow.
"Hey, Tweety! What's going on, man!"
Jovial faces were greeted with his stern expression. "I'm okay, buddy. But listen: something was stolen from me. You hear anything about a good bike coming around these parts? 'Cuz if you do, it's mine." Informants whispered and buzz filled the streets, but noone really spoke.
I saw upwards of a dozen drug deals within two hours. And I think one dozen is a gross underestimation.
Tweety devised plans – specific for each area of town – as to how we should “safely” execute the apprehension of my beloved bike. “Now, thirteenth ain’t really my turf, you know what I’m saying? I mean, they’re not really my peeps and don’t necessarily got my back. So, I’ll do my best to distract ‘em…. Can you carry one bike on your shoulder while riding the other?”
“Sure. I mean, never tried it, but I can.”
I assumed all the folks approaching us were Tweety’s buds. But one was headed toward me: “Hey, you find your bike yet?” “Nope!” “Well, I’m keeping my eye out for it sister. You’re my nigger; I got your back!”
I think I’m supposed to be flattered by that expression of respect.
The ghetto that I discovered that day is far worse than what I’d already known. And worse than any I’d seen in movies. I mean, if you remove the creepy underscore, camera angles and various tension enhancing effects out of most films in the ghetto – they are all infinitely kinder than this one. Nauseating piles of trash everywhere. Needles, broken glass, fast food containers, plastic jugs and endless crap piled thick on the ground. Open spaces sprouting rot instead of grass. Filth festering on broken stoops, cluttering doorways and filling the spaces between uneven cobblestone. And babies riding their Hotwheels on through while gangsters trade guns and drugs; mommas ignoring the cries of the bruised and fallen.
“This is so fucking weird man!” Tweety was nervous. “Everyone’s staring at you ‘cuz your white!”
“No shit. That shocks you? At least now they’re looking at me more with curiosity than hate.”
People were virtually silent in shock. Usually it’s hoots of “Hey! Hey! Watch it! Po Po!” or “Hey baby, slow down” or “Bitch, what choo doing in my hood.” Maybe it was the combination of being with Tweety and riding down streets that quite possibly no white person had been down in years. People just froze: jaws dropped, drugs in hands….
I had to go to work at 6:30. Promoting Cadillacs to the rich white folk who patronize the Aranoff Center. Quite the extreme shift in surroundings!
I was searching for my bike; Tweety for his daughter. Neither of us were successful. “Next time?”
“Yeah.” I gave him a hug, grateful for his kindness, his protection, his risk, and for this experience.
His smile was immense. “Damn! I got a hug! Thank you, baby! I’m gonna find you that bike, you hear?”
“I hear. Good luck to you. And thanks.”

An inordinate number of transvestites

2006-03-20T21:34:00.000-06:00

There's a remarkable number of transvestites in my life right now. The retarded maintenance man in the apartment beneath me is dating - perhaps living with? - a transvestite hooker.
Wait.
Something phenomenal just occured to me.
I've never seen her.
I mean, I've seen him pay a transvestite hooker before, and I've heard one or two calling his name from the front gate, though they didn't have this voice....
I hear her "voice" all the time. She sounds like Miss Piggy. It's high-pitched, iritating and seems to ring with the "coo" of one who is in love. I see HIM - maintenance man - all the time. I see him coming and going and standing outside. I see the crack dealers that visit and those that sneak in and I see them high and stumbling out. I see him and his only older white buddy (the other visitors are all 19 year-old thugs, while these two men are probably in their 60's). I see maintenance man twice a day. But I see HER - the tranny whose voice I hear almost daily - never.
How is that possible?
Maybe it's his alter ego! Maybe he has another personality - or the ultimate imaginary girlfriend - that loses his incoherent stutter and lisp and speaks in an awfully faked, high-pitched she/he tone!
But they both giggle a lot. And moan. Yes, I've heard them moan. And that would take a LOT of talent to make two different personalities giggle and moan virtually simultaneously.
So maybe she doesn't leave the house. Ever. Weird.
Tranny number two is Red's new Flop. When Red said "You like the new Flop?" I jumped to all sorts of conclusions as to what that meant.
"Eeww! You're sleeping with her!?"
"Noo!" he screeched in horror.
"Is Jason sleeping with her?"
"No. She's a Flop. Yet another person in need of an emergency crash pad who is thus Flopping on my couch."
"Oooh. I got it. So she's staying awhile, eh?"
Her name is Tara. Those who know her find it offensive to use a word as classy as transvestite in conjunction with her name. "She's a dirty, dirty man with waay too much facial hair wearing combat boots and a dress" as one friend put it.
She smells like a wet dog. I'm not quite sure how a human being can manage this feat, but it is trully the case.
We are all hoping Tara gets her twiggy ass out of the building quite soon. She's been "crashing" with Red for about a full week now.
The other FOP in the building is Red's friend, Jason. As if there weren't enough Jason's milling about my life. Jason is from Lexington. He's a sex addict. Two weeks ago he found out he was HIV positive, had to put his cancerous dog to sleep, broke up with his boyfriend, packed his bags and moved in with Red. Jason looks white trash (wife beater, cowboy hat and a moustache) but decorates goth and practices devout Wiccan. He has a creepy energy that I just can't approve of.
I used to keep my doors unlocked.
I used to love the safety, comfort, and positive energy of my building. (This was in the days when the Pimp lived two floors down.) Now I feel little violated.
The worst is that I just caused my friend Steph to move in. I mean, I told her to look at the place and before I could even tell her about the Maintenance Man and his make believe girlfriend, Steph moved in.
And then the FLOPS came and entered Red's life. And mine.
And about two months ago, the only guy that I happen to sleep with once in a great while, moved in next door with his depressedly sick and co-dependent girlfriend.
And now my bike was stolen.
I might need to move soon.

My Bike Stolen...Again

2006-03-20T15:16:00.000-06:00

My bike was stolen today. Again. Three witnesses saw an older, heavy-set black man take bolt cutters to the chain around my bicycle - in the middle of the day, on Main Street, mere feet from the glass windows of the coffee shop I just started working at yesterday. I went to the coffee shop quasi defeated, uncertain I could subsist off the meager wages of my various part-time and freelance jobs, thinking I might need more money. And so today I lost my $800 bicycle. I know: I'm a jackass for even riding such a thing through my neighborhood, instead of leaving ten minutes earlier and simply walking. I got into the habit of riding everywhere - I had a sweet but crappy old school bike that was my close-to-home transport until last week, when a friend said "wow that bike rocks! If I had one like that, I'd never drive."
"You'll ride it all the time?" I looked her in the eye, she said yes, and I gave her my bike. That was last week. Karma is as false a notion as religion. This week I give in and got an "extra" job, and my mountain bike is stolen. The best part, is three people witnessed it. Stood by and watched and not a single one of them said "Hey, buddy, what are you doing?" They all just stood by and watched.
How can someone do that?! He had bolt cutters!!! It was evident to all parties that such a man did not own such a bike.
I know without question, that if I were fortunate enough to NEVER have had anything stolen, to have NEVER been hurt or struggling, I would still ALWAYS be the type of person I am today: the type of person who stands up and screams when they see injsutice; the type of person who fights for good and beauty in this world; the type of person who says "Back away from the bicycle, Mother Fucker."
The glory of the ghetto is wearing on me.
Though at one moment, as I was stolling down the street telling everyone I know to look out for it, I was approached by a familiar face. One of the myriad of street people who I wave to regularly, though I don't believe we've ever spoken.
"Hey honey! I hear you got your bike stolen" There is sincere pity in his eyes. "Well that Niger messed with the wrong white chick. He don't know it, but that dumb ass got the whole Main Street posse on his ass. We gonna rip him apart. You is good people and don't deserve none of this. Don't worry pretty lady; we'll find your bike."
And he is only one example. There is a community here.
It doesn't mean anything positive will come of said community, but it's good to know its there.
I need to go break things now.

Dynamics of Friends in Love and Art

2006-02-25T12:56:00.000-06:00

There is “the thing”. And “the thing” is created by beautiful people.
The world, of course, gets a wee bit rocky. Smiles masquerade on the surface. An air of “Heal, soothe, love...and keep secrets” permeates - simultaneously upholding beauty while mitigating truth. Interesting dichotomy. No need to share the extraneous info that may cause a friend pain. Stay strong. Protect the friendships, the people.
And a pattern of not being honest about emotions and actions and a lack of communication (save for the sake of creation) is established.
But a line is crossed. More negativity seeps in.
Protect friends – and certainly “the thing!” This will all soon be smoothed over and when all is said and done the negativity will seem trivial the love will prevail and we will still all have “the thing.”
And another line is crossed.
Denial. Denial for the sake of needing concrete proof prior to a firm accusation? Or denial simply for the sake of protecting the friendship?
Some people might not deserve protecting…but oh “the thing!” And there was once love here…. Fuck love. A line was crossed. Stop protecting. But, oh, “the thing!”
Where does that line end and people begin being real?
And what speech there is: vague, obtuse circles. Our strengths? Communicating through art about culture and politics - not through speech about emotions in our personal realities.
And I – probably the least invested – still bottle it up.

frolicking toward the future

2006-02-19T17:06:00.000-06:00

Two weeks is a very short period of time.
Twee weeks ago, this month had not yet begun, and now it's half over. February sucks like that, but the other months ain't too much better.
And so I wonder how just shy of three weeks without a day job has left my apartment a shambles, my bills neglected, my music still unfinished, my to-do list a mere two bullet points shorter, and my belly and thighs a whole butt-load bigger.
Excitedly I sat to work in front of the computer, prepared submit to music and Fringe Festivals, only to find that the latter were already past submission, save for those that cost an excess of $400 dollars to submit to.
Hello. I'm an artist. Do I have $400 or $500 to pay someone else to let me perform at their festival? Paricularly after traveling there and securing accomodations? And particularly EIGHT months in advance!? These festivals thrive on new works, and thus are usually accepting shows that are not yet finished. Do I have enough faith in my work that I believe I can recoup $500 + in ticket sales for a show that I haven't even finished yet, let alone witnessed reactions to!?
The answer is no.
And so, I set out simply submitting to music festivals.
I'll probably spend $700 on cds. Copies of crappy quality cds that I self produced and recorded at home. I'll spend several humdreds of dollars (probably $400) submitting to festivals and purchasing memberships to various online services that assist in the touring needs of solo musicians.
And then I'll hope that I book enough shows that driving rather randomly across the country several times is atleast worth my while as far as exposure. ('Cuz I certainly won't make shit.) I say very randomly, 'cuz it's virtually impossible to book any sort of coherent path connecting logical cities' festivals. As in: can I make it from Vancouver to Austin in four days, then to Atlanta three days later, then go back out to Denver the following week? Or should I just skip Atlanta in that mix? It's a freaking headache. And a heart attack.
And I don't want to do this alone.
Not sure that I'm even capable of doing this.
But if I do it - just once, I can cross it off the list and move the fuck on and stop incessantly dreaming.
I just have to be willing to let my dreams be shattered.

2006-01-04T12:02:00.000-06:00

A great party to kick off 2006: hanging with friends NOT in a bar, triviia pursuit, wrestling and good conversation.
And lots of cars. And lots of crap - processed meat packages and KFC and boxes of twinkies and ho hos.
My friends - the ultra progressive, liberal movers and shakers of the Cincy art scene - ccontribute thoughtlessly to the very concepts that enrage us. Disturbing that if not even these amazing people spend their non-woriking hours being more conscientious consumers, how can we ever expect the more apathetic individuals of the planet to live more responsibly?
Lengthy rant penned (alright, typed) last night follows:

There’s been a lot of talk. And thank God for the talkers loudly speaking out, while so many others sit, perplexed, in silence, and others still can’t even see that there is something wrong. But very few are talking about consumerism. We all shout with certainty that “oil controls the world” when in fact, it’s money that controls the world. We as a society, are simply spending our money on oil.
“Kyoto talks continue without US participation.” (BBC News 12-5-05)
“834 American deaths this year in Iraq, down by three from last year. Casualties up.” (New York Times, 1-1-06)
“Blood flows for oil in Nigeria” (New York Times, 1-1-06)
“Global warming ____”
And the world rightfully points fingers at the US government. And many of us more conscientious liberal citizens do the same: point fingers at our own government. We cry “no blood for oil” at protests, then hop back in our cars and drive home. We bemoan the deplorable air quality and it’s potential impact on the abundance of natural disasters in 2005, then we drive to the store to buy meat from cows that grazed the vegetation off half of Nebraska’s open spaces, owned by major corporations that sprayed poisons over their fields near school children and who hold stock in Wal*Mart and Shell.

Yeah, I’m angry. And as one of my favorite slogans / bumper stickers/ protest chants states: “If you’re not angry, you’re not paying attention.” And if you’re not analyzing your own purchase power and decisions – you should probably turn some of that anger inward.
I am quite confident that the dollars I spend annually count far more heavily than my ’04 absentee ballot.
Too often folks write off certain lifestyles – such as commuting by bicycle or eating organics – as physically self-serving. “Why spend a few extra bucks at the grocery store? I don’t care what I put in my own body!” That’s great. But consider the environmental and socio-economic and political implications of the food you eat. Consider the FDAs involvement in supporting pharmaceutical companies and pesticides as opposed to natural remedies and how the big names sold in big box stores have big bucks that they are investing in big corporations that you ideologically oppose. You think Amy’s Organic Kitchen or any of its employees hold stock in >>>?
Put a photo on your steering wheel: of an Iraqi war zone; the small village being pillaged for its oil in Nigeria; of the ice caps this summer next to the far larger ice caps of a mere two decades ago; the rubble of New Orleans; the fumes emitting from oil tankers. And next time you get in the car consider if driving is REALLY necessary. Could you walk, bike, take the bus, carpool?
The government will not substitute renewable energies for oil because it makes sense. Car companies will not make hybrids more reasonable in price and design & parts more accessible simply because it’s ecological. The city of Cincinnati will not create bike lanes, maps or racks because intelligent, progressive cities do such things. Governments and organizations only respond to consumer demand. Already, Cincinnati has taken a huge step in replacing Metro’s diesel consumption with a 30% bio-diesel blend, turning heads across the nation more so than the inhabitants of this city. And even with the fountain fiasco and its impact on parking availability, ridership is only up a mere ___%. So until we as a culture stop being so lazy, put our dollar where are words are and start creating the change we long to see…we’re all just talking.
We refuse to sacrifice certain comforts like our cars and the ease of stopping by the major chain grocery store and purchasing the slightly cheaper mass market product instead of hunting out its ten cents pricier, healthier organic equivalent sold at a locally owned market….
Think of what you ask of your government, of your community. Are you working towards those ideals yourself, or are you fiscally supportive of the very ideals you verbally protest?
So you wanna see the state of the world change in 2006, eh?
The government may or may not listen to our cries and bend to what is increasingly being proven in polls as majority opinion. They will, however, listen to consumerist trends. This a government, if not a world, run by the dollar. Spend yours with great caution.

hobo

2005-11-25T11:22:00.000-06:00

White caps thrash against the concrete block I stand upon. Squinting as shards of ice hurl themselves at my face - the lone surface of exposed skin - I struggle to stay erect against gusts of wind. Something about this place always feels like "full circle." As I continue on my erratic orbit, this is "return to beginning, re-group, re-calculate, and re-enter the storm".
"This" is not Parsippany (my hometown) or my high school or my parents house...it's Hoboken. Specifically, it's walking through this riverside park watching New York's skyline as I seemingly stand across from mid-town then downtown in just over a mile stroll on the Jersey side.
The full circle phenomenon is even more pronounced now than before, as in the past year, NY increasingly seems like my final destination. For years, the goal has been Vancouver – that idyllic, where I believe I’ll plant my roots city. But recently, the occasional subdued ache to be near family has grown into frequent and intense pangs.
I love New York. Streets lined with crowded cafes and boutiques and bookstores and unique liberal locally owned hoozits thriving in every neighborhood and bikes… bicycles everywhere! And the kind of dark, swanky, multi-ethnic, all while lacking pretensions kind of bar that I love that doesn’t seem to exist anywhere else I travel. I abhor crowds of people – unless they’re in NY. Anywhere else I want to kick people off the sidewalk and whack them out of the streets, but in NY – I want to just pinch all their cheeks. Which happens occasionally.
Jersey, however, is a Hell Hole. An ugly pit of a wasteland. Shockingly so, now matter how many years I drudged through these towns and passed the endless refineries and smog and death that is the 30 mile stretch from the ‘rents house to Newark Airport. I realize I’ve seen far less then 50% of it, but it is nonetheless fascinating how despicable the most populated portions of this perceived “Garden State” truly is.
And that hell resides in such frightful proximity to a city of dreams. Makes any little detour on this path of life seem infinitely more crucial, potentially hell-bound. To reach any dream does one teeter on a frail wire that threatens to force your balance onto the Jersey side with one strong gust of wind?
Bite fear.
This place ain’t so bad.

older n wiser - sibling rivalry

2005-11-24T19:12:00.000-06:00

My brother farted on me.
He has some high clearance security government job that I probably shouldn’t talk about, where he happens to be boss and co-owner.
He is 25 years old.
His income is at least 6 figures more than mine will ever be.
He then proceeded to put me in a head lock and force my face into the wake of the fumes.
Minutes later I was chased through out my parents’ new town home with the threat of impalement by Swiffer.
He is now standing before me intermittently flexing and throwing paper leaves lamely in my direction. He ends the display with a pirouette.
In September my family coerced me to return to Jersey for Thanksgiving. “All the cousins will be there, even Eileen and Zack. There will probably be 30 people – you need to come home!”
“Mom – no. Unless it’s just the five of us, I’m not going back there.”
Mother was shockingly horrified to find that all the kids are against the annual overly-extended family pretend we like each other and catch up moment.

My sister just poked her head in to where I sit now and type: “Are you okay?”
I nod, too tired for any more energetic of a response.
“You’ve been so quiet ever since I told you that you don’t branch out enough.”
Anyone who actually knows me must get a good chuckle over any human being insinuating that I don’t “branch out enough” or that I’m “not open-minded” and don’t delve into other walks of life.
This was a significant portion of Thanksgiving dinner conversation. A far cry from last year’s incredibly humorous quintet experience which prompted this years request for immediate family only.
A dangerous debate of them vs. me ensued that centered around somewhat opposing theories of “terrorists are taking over the world” vs. “the US is taking over the world.”
Suddenly my sister, the tax lawyer, chimes with “you just are incredibly biased against anyone in corporate America.”
My bro ads: “Yeah. All your friends are artists and flaming gay men”
“And they are all poor” ads my dad.
“And?”
“So you need to branch out, expand your horizons and discover different kinds of people.”
Me!?! I’m incredulous. I know 40 times more people than your average Joe. I associate with every human being in my path, blind to any sort of social status or race or level on the executive ladder. The small percentage of folks I choose to foster friendships with hail from all walks of life, yet have ended up – by following their own individual passions and interests – in a similar circle/situation as me. My critics are folks who stayed close to home following the typically prescribed path from four year school to four year school to six figure income to high-priced home owner.
My experiences and social rings and random adventures follow no known lineage and enrich beyond any four-walled, fluorescent-lit, work-to-impress-the-partners environment. This by no means suggests that I have anything against anyone else’s chosen line of work. I think my siblings absolutely rock, and are incredibly interesting and politically liberal and fun and….
But branch out?! I don’t have time for the few friends I currently have!
“You think I have time?” My sister and I are on similar time-crunch schedules, though mine is significantly more self imposed. “Well I found time to join a street hockey team and meet and discover a whole new world of interesting people.”
“And I’ve started bicycle racing and riding with a group.”
“Yeah but that’s not a team sport!”
“So?”
“So you need to meet new people.”
“Why?”
“Because you need to expand your horizons.”
She reads Vogue and Cosmo. She should really borrow some of my literature. She works with a bunch of stiff ass, boring old lawyers. She used to rag on me for exposing my bra strap under a tank top and “not sitting like a lady”.
The new people on her street hockey team that have so enlightened her to different walks of life – are all musicians and artists and radio folk.
I don’t give a shit what someone’s profession is. (well, sort of) I’m not opposed to folks who work in corporate America (well, sort of) But if we don’t have similar interests….who has time to know everyone on the planet? ‘Cuz I’m closer to attaining that unachievable un-goal than any of my critics will ever conceive. But unless we meet at an art opening or discussing local live music scene or debating the merits of a theatrical performance or engaging in a truly intriguing political debate or riding bicycles together, why would I ever put time into nurturing a friendship with you? Because it may be the only potential job sector where less than three of my friends sought employment and my siblings seem to think more corporate-employed friends would benefit my psyche and expand my social consciousness!?
I suggested they befriend some pimps, hookers, and Cubans off the boat working in the back of restaurant.
They called me a narrow-minded hippie.
I suggested they go meet and befriend someone who is actually a real hippie.
I liked last Thanksgiving better.

Realization

2005-11-02T22:59:00.000-06:00

I used to be interesting.
I mean, I still think my daily life is rather thrilling and exhilarating, but it sure as shit ain't anything to write a book about! Which is why my blog up-dates are fewer and further between...
But the past twelve years! Now THAT was some crazy shit!
I kind of like the quiet stability and repition inherit in the constant interaction with my psychotic nieghbors and peaceful Over-the-Rhine / Cincy-arts-scene-saturated existance. And the sick, sick obsession with bicycles and their ability to save the world and absorb all of my free time.
The apartment beneath me, sadly, is no longer vacant. The new occupant of my building...is an Urban Sites maintenance man. And he is retarded. And he likes hookers.
The only one I've actually seen him with - and witnessed him pay - is a transvestite. A very young one.
The mac-daddy pimp who claims to be head of the Cincinnati Gang Prevention Task Force - and makes lots of $$$ doing it - lives beneath him.
I wonder if that works well for them?
Now, take a moment to guffaw and do your best retard impression. (C'mon - even the most PC of y'all has one!)
Now take that persona and moan erotically, with all the umph of a 50 year old man with down syndrome.
That is the noise that comes up through the vents in my apartment.
Well, when it's not drowned out by the pimp yelling at his women.
I lock my door more frequently now.
I really do have the best roof top in the city.

Red n Halloween

2005-11-02T22:39:00.000-06:00

I cringed in horror, shrieking at the site before me
Red stood before me, poised daintily in a nude leotard with breasts. His obscenely hairy arms raised like a ballerina; the make-up so thickly caked upon his skin was on the verge of cracking as his smile widened with my reaction.
“What!? Didn’t you grow up with brothers and sisters, for Christ’s sake?”
“Yes, but I never actually saw them naked, let alone in drag.” Bad drag. Partial drag. The initial layers of undergarments meant to stuff and suck and perk in the right places is not a pleasant way to view anyone, let alone a hairy, lumpy man who makes for a hideous woman.
I’m trying to divert my eyes, but like a bad car accident, the intrigue is insatiable.
“Don’t go anywhere. I need you to zip me up.”
It’s really too bad that I’m incapable of writing the lilt in his voice. I mean, I think I can write dialects well enough to sufficiently paint a picture, but the flaming homosexual voice proves drastically more difficult to emulate in print, especially if said individual is not one who utilizes the exclamation “Girl!”
It’s quite a hoot, his constantly on-stage persona. Kind of…annoying. I was stunned to see the other side of him the week he was pissed off at me, moping and seemingly…real.
He was pissed that I couldn’t instantly drop everything to drive him to the grocery store when he was injured. (See "Red's Red" in previous posts) He was quiet, simmering. I expected explosive anger from him.
His voice dropped an octave. He avoided eye contact. His lilt vanished and a quick monotone utterance beget the mystery of his week-long anger: “I’m sorry. I suppose I over-estimated the quality of our friendship.”
“No. You just under-estimated how insanely stressed out and busy I was the day that you asked me.” After a pause and some thought: “And you under-estimated what a bitch I am. You are a very dear friend, but I’m selfish and my needs come first. It doesn’t mean I love you any less.”
That was a surreal moment. Is this a soap opera? Did I say that?
He struggled to restrain a quizzical glance in my direction. I’m not typically brutal.
I often wonder: when the day comes that I’m actually in a relationship, will I manage to be so honest? Or perhaps I’ll be less of a bitch if I ever love someone? Nah.
We didn’t speak for a few days.
But then Red needed to steal some tuna and beer and couldn’t bear to see my plants dying or the hole in my wall go un-patched and our love was rekindled. And now it’s Halloween.
Red was Glinda, the Good Witch. A large glowing orb of bright, white chiffon, topped off with a cascade of fire red spiral curls and an over-sized silvery crown.
I wore black pleather pants, a purple corset, a black and purple officer’s hat, and tended to light my balls on fire and twirl them as we glided down Main Street.
Most folks were lame and in street clothes.
We would’ve been a sight anyways.

romanticizing

2005-10-23T13:21:00.000-05:00

I love this city.
It’s beauty evokes a similarly throbbing heart-ache as the intense beauty of a Sonoran Desert sunset and Sedona’s sandstone spires.
I thought only Mother Nature could do that to me.
Or an amazing work of art. Like the feeling I can occasionally derive from the brilliance of a theatrical piece that is heart-wrenching and intelligently written, while being performed by sincerely gorgeous individuals.
This is my first fall in Cincinnati. My first full-on fall in many years, if not ever.
The robust colours burst into my weary vision early this grey, grey morning. The air was filled not with rolling, sexy, thick dark clouds and white swirls clinging to mountain sides, but simply cloaked in a droll, incessant grey. Dreary. Awful. And still, vibrant reds and yellows and glistened as though sun-kissed as I headed down to Lexington around 7AM this morning.
Cyclocross sings of new adventures and a potential to profit off of passions not yet before last week dreamed of as more than a pastime. (Although, at this point, I'm just hoping to break even off my initial expenses on this venture!)
A new city and fresh air. Sitting in a coffee shop where nobody knows my name. Exhilaration.
And upon return to the ‘Nati, I’m greeted by a skyline that burns my soul.
Tommorow is a new day.

long time

2005-10-17T13:25:00.000-05:00

It's been a long time.
A long time since I've written.
A long time since I've slept.
A long time since I've experienced a fall.
A long time since I've been in love.
A long time since I've had sex.
A really, really long time since I've been in a relationship.
I'm realizing that this season, with its' crisp, cool air, vibrant colors, fragrant scents and fast fading daylight - is surging with romance.
And it all makes me ridiculously horny.
I've gone through lots of batteries the past few weeks.

communal thirst for poetry

2005-09-17T02:05:00.000-05:00

The rain came in horizontally through my windows tonight. Almost half of my apartment was doused in puddles. Fortunately, most electronics, bills, files and other random un-soakables were far removed from the drenched sites.
Save for a pile of newspapers.
Catastrophes breed beautiful bouts of journalism.
I’ve salvaged a large collection of articles, primarily from the New York Times, pertaining to the disaster, the tragedy, and the beauty that coalesced in the aftermath of Katrina. They currently lie scattered on my apartment floor, hoping to survive their recent shower.
I trudged down Main Street to the coffeehouse where I now sit. Having temporarily forgotten of its recent re-opening, I wondered where I could possibly find some whiskey late on a Friday night and not have to deal with anything loud, crowded, bright, or high energy. Tired and seeking something like solitude and a nightcap on a weekend typically results in a less-than-satisfying end to an evening.
Kaldi’s is in rare form tonight.
It’s reminiscent of my favorite New Orleans bars: the hole in the walls hidden just off Decatur Street. Their dark, lax ambience and comfort...the decadent chandeliers and ornate fixtures dripping down blood red walls which serve as the canvas for cracked wooden bar tops steeped in voodoo allure…..
Tonight the lights are dimmer at Kaldi’s than usual. A red light beneath the bar casts eerie shadows through thick swirls of smoke as the lanky androgynous bartender stealthily mixes concoctions. A hushed intensity permeates the crowd - primarily clad in black with tattoos and chains to spare. They focus on the man behind the microphone, as poetry fills the air.
The power of spoken word above a soundscape of murmurs and ice clinking lightly in glasses invokes memories of slow nights at Manhattan’s Nuyorican Poetry Café.
Old friends here share a reignited passion for a place that so many of us once called “our second home” – most of us not really ever having a first one.
I want this place to always be here. I want it to always feel like a hybrid of Decatur Street and the Nuyorican and my living room all at the same time.
I want there to always be poetry.
Poetry does something strange to a crowd. Too often we hide behind the music, the whiskey, the surface conversation, the heightened energy of a room…but now walls come down. The vulnerability expressed by the man behind the mic can’t compare to the silent expectancy of a diverse crowd concentrating simultaneously on just one individual’s stream of consciousness. For a moment, we are all in sync. (Or as close to in sync as a large group of acquaintances could be on just another average night.) For a moment, this bar is a community.
And for a moment, I find myself thinking of the folks in New Orleans, struggling through this tragedy together. I imagine the camaraderie between the group of strangers who stayed on in the French Quarter and became family, sharing discovered supplies and makeshift necessities. I imagine them dolling out rations, sitting together on a scored stash of dry linens, passing the time sharing their poetry.

Gass prices are heading back down. My BBC homepage no longer has a front page link with a fancy Hurricane Katrina logo. That chick who was kidnapped in Aruba three months ago is back on the Fox News kingdom. Bush has declared once again that he’s an asshole, and the government will make this all okay, though no succinct plan exists.
New Orleans businesses are reopening. FEMA checks are being distributed.
Life goes on.
Just not for a few thousand whose lives are still in limbo.

Hiltons

2005-08-30T00:06:00.000-05:00

Um...so...apparently the man I sat on the couching talking to for over an hour the other night - about music and traveling - was Mr. Hilton. THEE Mr. Hilton, as in Paris, her sister (whatever her name is) and their little bro Tyler. I mean, I knew it was Tyler Hilton and his band that I was hanging out with, and his father that I was chatting with. I assumed he/they/someone must have some connections, considering they were playing at US Bank Arena and opening for Hillary Duff. But it never crossed my mind that Tyler Hilton and his father might possibly be THEE Hilton's. Even after hanging out with them back in their hotel room - at The Hilton - knowing well that the other opening band was staying at a much lesser hotel.
It was only tonight - a week later - when the other girl (the bartender at Viper Room) mentioned the presence of Paris and how cool it was that the revelation came.
That's fucking funny.
At one point I said to Mr. Hilton "Hmm. You rock. So are you someone I should give my demo cd to?" He very casually replied, "Yeah, I'm probably someone who could help you out."

vacation

2005-08-26T00:41:00.000-05:00

Currently, I’m sitting at Alchemize Bar, in Cincinnati, a block off the street I live on.
It feels like I’ve only been here once before (it's been a minimum of 6 times).
I barely know anyone here.
I love this feeling.
Last weekend I went on vacation. Only first finishing my PBR paperwork at 5PM on Sunday, I got a late start. Headed up to Caesar Creek.
First stop: a convenience store. Obviously mom & pop owned, with a grill, park maps, some little tables and some strange trinkets…. Suddenly I feel at home. It feels like traveling to unknown places where noone knows your name yet kindness reeks through the humble hearts of strangers. And unique local little shops are filled with simplicity, family, and a sense of contentedness. It feels like cuddling with your best friend on quilt blankets on a stone hearth in front of a crackling fire.
I need to leave town more often.
Arriving at the trail head, I am greeted by the tail end of the Ohio Mountain Bike Association race. Fantastic surprise: their race trail markings ensure that I won’t get lost out here alone, so close to dusk.
I bought my new bike yesterday. I would love to love it, but I just can’t get over my recently lost love; still mourning.
After breaking her in, I find somewhere to camp. It smells like piss. I find somewhere else – it’s coated in broken glass. I find - three attempts later – a haven. Stars so scarce in the ‘Nati, sparkle above me. I bask in moonlight. My sleeping bag proves the perfect weight for the refreshingly brisk air. And as I doze to sleep – peacefully, for what feels like the first time in almost a year – the rain comes pouring down.
It’s 3:30 AM. I have to work at 10AM. Setting up a tent in the rain, then sitting in traffic does not seem worth it. I return to my apartment.
Eight hours.
Eight hours away from here, with no work, and no stress, and this “vacation” rivaled my month in Hawaii, in terms of healing power.
I needed it that bad.
That was a week and a half ago.
Since then, my phone died and my e-mail malfunctioned, causing me to get ridiculously behind on deadlines and paperwork and miss out on several intriguing offers. The starter in my car has gone caput, thus I've learned and over utilized the art of popping a clutch. And an old Flagstaff friend died on Sunday. He shot himself in the head. He was my fiancee in the last show I performed in at Theatrikos. We climbed "the toilet bowl" volcano together, and poked at a green oozing dead cow we discovered at the bottom of a chocolate milk waterfall on the Navajo Reservation.
The fact that my idyllic little mountain town has yielded more suicides than any of my hellish existences rocks my theories of reality and potential solutions down to mere myths of pointlessness.
I’m holding on by a thread. I need an escape.
I’m sitting, alone, in a bar where I know nobody. Leisurely participating in two of my favorite activities: singing (it’s karaoke) and writing. I’ve deprived myself of both for months, it feels.
This is almost a vacation.

Red's Red

2005-08-23T23:04:00.000-05:00

Woh. Red just knocked on my door. “You got any bandages?”
“Yeah.” I wish I also had rubber gloves.
He fell while on a ladder attempting to open his skylight, grabbing onto glass before he tumbled onto some plants.
I tend to be more than mildly repulsed by the sight of others’ bloody wounds – odd considering the ease and frequency with which I confront my own –
but this, of course, was different. Petrifying. He does, afterall, have HIV.
I knew the day would come. Red is a ridiculously talented artist; his living room mimics “Where the Wild Things Are” and his bedroom Van Gogh's “Starry Night” with brilliantly represented planets. But his forte is the creation of gorgeous pieces comprised of window frames dressed in broken glass and mirror.
I peeled open band aid packages, and passed the bandages to his non-bloody fingers, still never coming in contact with his skin. I opened the triple antibiotic, squirting some on those same two non-contaminating fingers. I yelped a bit when a drop of blood oozed from the chunk of skin dangling from his heel. My breath was slow and heavy.
”This is scary” I uttered, looking him in the eye with a faint smile. I never came in contact with his skin, let alone blood. I washed my extremities with anti-bacterial soap afterwards.
I honored every movement with awe, showered myself in peace and respect.
Moments later I opened the doorway to find Red spraying & wiping down the hallway. “The virus lives a very short while outside the body, but this is bleach water anyway…. Time to go see what damage I did upstairs. Landed on some plants….” He hobbled off.
I wanted to help him upstairs, too. But couldn’t. Instead I bent down and sprayed the bleach water on my hands and feet, stuck between feeling like I actually just risked something and I’m being silly and unnecessarily scared and didn’t do enough.
“By the way” he stuck his head around the corner. “You were a great nurse.”
“Yeah, right! I opened packages.”
“No really. You stayed very calm, and that’s all you could do.”
There are a few times in my life when death has breathed heavy on my neck.
This was not one of them.
At the forefront of my memory is when I fell - head-first – down a mine shaft. I was alone in a side canyon off of Havasupai (a part of Grand Canyon), had no flashlight, and new there was just enough light see all the walls of this shaft straight through to the final back wall. I just didn’t count on not seeing the floor. How I ended up falling head first still seems a mystery against physics. But how I managed to stop myself, cling to the pitch black vertical rock walls surrounding me, and climb out while still up-side is an even greater mystery. I laid on the dirt floor of the shaft panting for a few brief moments, then allowed my feet to take my dazed mind back to my friends and our campgournd, where I proceeded to wash my wounds in the river and cry and thank God for my life.
Obviously, far more extreme than today’s scenario. But some similar senses wash over me now: completely drained, with a new illumination gleaning over this strange journey of life.

Insanity in too many forms

2005-08-07T23:23:00.000-05:00

Freakin gobble bastard schmengy boppin boogy farts! Today, my e-mail account (the one I pay for, with my domain name) decided it wasn't going to send any out-going mail. This after finally rectifying the fact that it refused to delete anything! And I got three phone calls today saying something to the effect of "HI. I found your bike, someone in my building has it and, well, you AIN'T GETTIN IT BACK, BITCH!"
Very touching.
And I'm quite sick.
And my new car is making much unahppy noises.
Oh yeah, brief up-date: My car was impounded apparently the day before I flew out to San Antonio for a PBR conference. This was a few weeks after the windows were smashed in and everything stolen from the inside (spare tire, jack, ratchet set and such) and shortly after discovering I need to spend $300 to pass e-check). So I took the cheaper alternative and bought a new car. While at the DMV signing over my new title, my beloved mountain bike - the one that has traveled the country and ridden over 3,000 miles with me - was stolen.
But I love life, and the sweet scent of smog that thickly clings on each mild breeze across the hella hot ghetto of my flailing little hood.
And how are you?
Wow. That felt good to vent. Anywho...on a more positive note:
Exile on Main Street absolutely rocked!! And anyone in town who missed it, missed some phenomenal music and awesome energy flowing through these typically down-trodden streets. Every first Friday folks.
Life rages on.
This morning, in my under wear on the roof eating cereal, when my neighbor - Red - pokes his head up out of his leaf-shrouded roof trap. "Hi. Um...I trying to run...do you mind moving?"
Puzzled, I respond, "Honey, you run in circles inside your apartment, on a track of interlacing platforms that weave throughout your humongous tropical plants. I am on the roof. How does that affect you?"
"You're loud."
"No I'm not. A - I virtually tip-toe up here, and B - I'm currently sitting still enjoying the view."
"I know, but it's an energy thing. You're blocking it."
"Of course."
It's a good thing that he gives me good reason to love him. Last week, in the midst of a nervous break down, he dragged me out of my bedroom and forced me to go upstairs. The first smile crept upon my face as I entered the hallway, the half in front of my door, which he painted and decorated last week a la Lindsay - and nailed it perfectly. Half the hallway looks him and the other half..... It's amazing that an individual can breech their own artistic style and so closely create something that embodies the styles of another! Then I went to the large and cluttered storage space upstairs, to find a beautiful, clean and welcoming practice space and office.
He organized my greatest clutter. Saved me hours of stress and energy and...
There is no greater gift.
I cried.
I love that fucking lunatic.
His kitty litter stench just might kill me, though.

pain in the ass

2005-07-10T13:28:00.000-05:00

My ass is on fire.
It began to rain as I rode my bike past the salon where I’d bought a ten pack of tanning sessions when I first moved to town, over a year and a half ago. Especially considering the horrific state of my face, I thought this to be a good time to see if those tans were still valid.
“Actually, you have one left, and this is the last month you can use it.”
I tan about five times a year. Usually in the dead of winter when I’m depressed, need sun and the oil sucked out of my skin. Being naturally dark, I always do a full 20 minutes and rarely have color to show for it.
You see where this is going.
It seemed like a damn long 20 minutes. The few areas of my bod that rarely see sunlight are flaming.
Thus, sitting and writing this is quite the literal pain in my ass.

G8 Woes

2005-07-08T00:04:00.000-05:00

Dissension stirs across the ocean, and the rest of us bustle along our little daily lives, mundane and meaningless. Terrorist attacks in London, a summit to determine world changing agendas, yet every newspaper from here to Australia has an article on the fact that “our” president fell off his bike and scraped his hands. Boo fucking hoo. It makes me sick that such a man rides a bicycle. “Our” president. Ha! This afternoon at Sidewinder Café in Northside, a documentary exploiting the full extent of the corruption surrounding the 2000 election had me crying and ripping the hair out of my head. Fucking bastard! How can such obvious deceit and betrayal of democracy and all that is decent happen in this fucking country!? No one is safe and we’re just all fucked.
I’m sooo pissed.
Protestors in Scotland are all carrying anti-Bush signs. The G8 Alternatives motto is “Stop Bush’s Reign of Terror”. Sometimes – regardless of the on-going battle for middle east oil control – I forget how very much the US controls the entire fucking planet and all of it’s inhabitants. Daily I bemoan how unlucky the US is to be screwed out of an honest election and have this asshole controlling our country. But it’s so much worse. The documentary today revealed so much more blatant corruption in that election than I’d ever feared, and the protests remind us of how very much this illegitimate faux President controls the fucking world and is the planet's number one most feared and hated asshole.
And I know US news shows shit, but not even my trusted BBC News is throwing any sort of negative spin on G8. BBC is buttering Bush. And no one seems to be showing the reality of the mostly peaceful protestors and what their agenda is. And whew! Won’t conspiracy theorists have a field day with the perfect timing of these terrorists attack and their confirmed result in having all the world leaders strengthened in their resolve to continue the “war on terror”.
And I’m here. At Kinko’s in Cincinnati. When all I want do is scream and debate and converse with like-minded individuals and climbe trees with a fucking bullhorn to rally allies and inform the ignorant and get complacent folks as pissed off as they should be.
And in a few hours, I have to wait tables at a sports bar to corporate whores with a smile on my face.
I feel hopeless, and my being futile. Just an ant in the machine, ignorant and detached from what is real. Just paying the bills. “Let someone else do the dirty work” is not my motto. It’s not just another fucking day and the majority of this city has no fucking clue.
Ew.
Not my fucking president.

bitch

2005-07-03T14:29:00.000-05:00

Yeah, well... I'm a bitch.
It took a long time to get here.
Trampled upon, and bent over backwards to lick assholes for many a year, I finally learned to stand up straight and brush off the dust, and yesterday, I became a bitch. (You may think I already was one, especially after reading the previous entry, but oh no, my friends - the bitch hath only just now arrived.) I was just ATTiTudE to everyone at work - customers, managers, fellow employees. It felt kind of like I was playing the role of like total captain of the cheerleaders who just had a horrifically bad hair day on the most important night of sorority rush ever.
Or the overly angst-ridden goth girl who was forced to dress preppy and thus substituted evil energy for excessive black eye-liner and combat boots.
Eventually, I snappeed, slapped myself on the cheek, looked around shocked, suddenly seeing my surroundings and becoming aware of my own skin.
The dream/nightmare ended.
"Woh. Holy fucking wow!" I walked up to the upper level of the restaurant, poised behind the banister and announced "Excuse me! I recently discovered that I'm a bitch. I am sooo sorry to anyone I offended, pissed off and generally threw negative energy and glances towards. On that note, fuck off and have a nice day."
There were not very many patrons present at the time.
Happy Fourth of July

Aaah...the romance!

2005-06-16T17:13:00.000-05:00

Last night, it was apparently time for my annual date. See: no one can say I don't ever try to rectify my eternally solo predicament!
It was not, of course, a successful one. Though the sex wasn't bad; I could maybe revisit THAT part again....
The first red flag came with the initial phone call.
Him: "Hey, what'cha doin?"
Me: "I'm working a box office for the Fringe Festival at the CAC."
Him: "What's that?"
Me: "What? The Fringe Festival or the CAC?"
Him: "Both."
He's lived in this city seven years, and FRinge has been on the cover of every paper for two weeks.
Whatever. He's hot, has a motorcycle and has rappelled off all five of the KY/OH bridges. Yum.
At a bar on Tuesday, stood up by a girlfriend, I call him at 10:30 at night.
I finally get a taste of Covington's Main-Strasse night life as I meet him out. I ride my bike, since he no longer has a motorcycle.
He finally sold it...after his fourth DUI.
We arrive at the hoochie mama bar packed tight with 19 year-old sorority chicks. Three people approach him to chat about the fight he got into Saturday night. He is puzzled.
Me: "Did you black out Saturday or something?"
Him: "Yeah. I do every Saturday. Me and a buddy go out and get sloshed and spend Sunday trying to piece together what happened the night before. It's great."
He laughs and smiles warmly at the fond memory.
However, the boy can kiss.
Good thing I've already ruled out seeing him again and can simply make the most of my wasted hours.
In the morning, I'm awakened by his muttering "Oh shit."
"What?"
"My alarm didn't go off."
He punches some numbers into his phone. "Hey Grandma. Listen, can I get a ride to work? My buddy Joe usually takes me and he quit without letting me know.... Yeah, I just called him and asked if he was ready, but, uh, he's not coming! And the bus will take me over an hour.... Thanks Grams. You're the best."
Me: "Um...did you just LIE to your GRANDMA!?"
Upon seeing his apartment in the light, I'm impressed by the fact that such a tremendous television could fit through any doorway. There is also a poker table. And that's it. No art, no books, no cds. There are movies. Shitty ones. All romantic comedies and horror flicks.... And only two photos. Of his son.
"Yeah, the bitch won't let me see him. I'm taking her to court."
"But you ARE paying child support, right?"
"Yeah. Good thing mom pays my rent."
Woh.
The potency of my loser magnet is unequivocable.
Hooray for consitency.

Fringe Squared Comes Around

2005-06-01T13:32:00.000-05:00

Tonight is the first night of Fringe. Alternative housing arrangements were found for the two artistts who were supposed to stay with me. (whew!) The press for this is sooo huge this year and I feel so honored to be a small part of the staff that makes this huge thing happen.
Yippee!
The day after Fringe I apparently start my new job, as the Cincinnati rep for Pabst Blue Ribbon, which essentially means it's my job to network and hob-nob with everyone in the local arts and music scenes (which I already do for my own benefit), sponsor bands, throw parties and give people free beer. The contract is through February at $300 a week. If I can make any freelance work fly even a little, this could be my OUT of the restaurant industry. (my rent is only $375, mind you.) Finished my music demo last week (link to my website to check it out) and am more than halfway through my first book proposal. Sitting behind the Fringe Box Office desk for the next twelve days will hopefully prove a fabulous way to sit still and send out mass mailings of voice over/music demos and work on the book thing. Plus three different article submissions were sent out yesterday....
Here's hoping someone will bite!!!
It's an interesting place to be: on the crux of giving up the day job for freelancing. I've turned down so much freelance work in the past two months in order to wait tables...I can only hope I didn't miss my window.
The wind is blowing.
Change is inevitable.
I hope to find I'm riding with the wind and not against it.

Cloudy Brain Babble

2005-05-13T14:32:00.000-05:00

In each new city I start over with nothing, and all my experience becomes words on a page, and thus I continuously begin on the bottom rung. Not the most productive way to progress any higher. Here there is an odd feeling of being on an entirely different ladder, one which oft seems somehow beneath the other. This ladder is of my own creation, molded by my own hands, and thus, I love and cherish it far more than the previously manufactured hunk of metal that I struggled to come to terms with.
But oh, man did I fuck it up: broken rungs my foundation.
Never have I so struggled to fit in. Too weak and insecure to blatantly state my worth, so I lurk inferior in the shadow of my peers. And bemoan the mistakes I've made that put me in this hole.
I'm confident that my next new city, the next ladder I create will be far superior. I am fortunate to be one who learns from my mistakes. The urge to start over, and do it right, elevated beyond this current subterranean stance is tugging at my soul harshly right now.
Someone broke into my car, smashing my window, my license is gone, my cell phone is broken, and the new job I'm currently negotiating contracts with necessitates the aforementioned items. And needs proof of their existence NOW.
Job offers in other cities beckon me to mountain towns and a fresh start.
I've been told in the past that my relocating is "running". In the past, I'd disagree: expired contracts, blown engines, fate. If I left here now, it WOULD be running.
But I have so much to offer, to give. I can positively impact communities and successfully further my artistic career. Life has enough obstacles with the ghetto and very distant interpersonal bullshit.
This is so close to being home.

1435 Continues

2005-04-01T12:44:00.000-06:00

As I enter an apparently sex-less and seriousness-laden phase of life, my neighbors Red and DJ Green Thumb prove to be my ties to raves of old and 3AM cartoon network. And I made out with another guy “in the building”. Oops
And so life rages on.
February too depressed to write, March – too busy.
Happy April Fools Day.
Another City Beat article due in four days, a script to memorize by Sunday at five. Opening day hits this strange city on Monday, where the Reds fans will flock to Fifth and Vine to ultimately overwhelm the fabulous four waitstaff. I’ll be there 9AM to 8PM, flaunting a shirt with the #8 and the name Kearns. Is baseball a few steps up from Nascar? Then rehearsal from 8:30PM to 11. Hopefully, my puppetry article will have reached my editors desk by Sunday.
I sit buried under a mess of papers, clothing and knickknacks, already askew from haphazard, whirlwind visits to the apartment between gigs but made exponentially more chaotic by the wind swirling past my burgundy curtains.
Stumbling upon a broken artifact - a relic of one of my past lives - I give an amused “humpf”. Moments later through the door I hear “what cha doin?”
I pull the door open to find Red sitting in a camping chair placed directly in front of my studio. He’s wearing his torn, tattered and worn too thin terry cloth robe, long red hair piled up into a messy bun, peering over his wire frames at the book in his hand, sipping a cup of hot tea. He raises his eyebrows - inquisition directed at me with a quick glance, then smugly returns to his book.

Please take a moment to envision such a greeting outside your front door.

An impromptu roof top barbecue with the neighbors at sunset prohibited me from being sufficiently productive on my one day off. The sunset and ethereal moonrise proved more than worth it. But most notable, was the love.
Nuzzling between blankets, bearing the chill simply to enjoy each other as the city we all love changed its old jeans rapidly to evening wear before our eyes. Laughter ensued as we danced off the week prior, yielding to a more tender moment, as life hit some hard and we lament the vacant atrocities of the neighborhood and conjure schemes of what it could and should be.
And we sat in silence.
Comfortable content. All agreeing – this is exactly what we each needed.

“Hi. I’m your new nudist neighbor.”

2005-02-20T12:26:00.000-06:00

“Hi. I’m your new nudist neighbor.”
He stood in my doorway in a tattered, worn-thin terry cloth robe, red hair ablaze in the light that filtered through the rainbow and shattered glass adorned corridor between our two doors. His grin betrayed an innocence that most humans forego at an all too tender age. He flipped his long red mane like a practiced drag queen, and produced a hand to shake, then waltzed decadently into my new apartment, squinting at trinkets and fixtures, oohing and aahing at the plum faux-paint job and Asian lamp fixtures.
I’m motionless, still holding the door open, my head cocked inquisitively to one side.
“Yay.” I surmise.
I like this new neighbor.
Moments later – he’s fixed his robe a bit more securely now – he assists me in holding up some wall hooks as I arm myself with a hammer and aim at his plump and hairy hands. “Be careful with that. You don’t want my blood on your walls. Or anywhere near you, in fact.”
I’ve never – to my knowledge – actually known anyone who is HIV positive.
In contemplating writing of my new friend and choosing a pseudonym, I momentarily toyed with the idea of calling him Positive.
Sick.
Sick the way we choose to identify people with labels “Dready Boy or Plug Chick or Black Conservative in a Suit Guy”. And of all the many fascinating characteristics inherit in this fabulous man, a nanosecond of a moment flashed through my story-weaving brain waves that instinctively called him Positive.
I’ve settled on Red. Far more fitting. If not for his amazing mane and the constant dramatic usage of it, then simply for the undeniable similarities between him and the other “Reds” in my life. There’s been two. One was a cartoonist who accurately depicted himself in his toons; the other a puppeteer who relied on a similar tactic. All three: characters. The sort of person you expect to find in a movie like Priscilla the Queen of the Desert or The Royal Tennanbaums, but to have as a constant in your own reality makes you continuously pinch yourself…and smile.
The rarity of a dull day is completely diminished by the eternal flow of fascinating characters passing through my space.
So there’s a new Red in my life. One for each city in which I’ve taken up a lengthy residence. Amazing how everyone has a twin, or at least a close cut-out, somewhere in the world. So many of my relationships, friends and characters repeat themselves in each new life I create. Perhaps that is why I’m eternally single: I never want to recreate the hell that was my first! ;)
So many carbon copies – so many unique individuals. The juxtaposition of that truth resonates through my veins. We all came from the same blood. Black or Jew, Mohammed, too, all initiated from the same creator, or from a fucking fish, if that’s your view. When did we deviate? A Positive took precedence over O Negative’s weak disposition. HIV, Gee when did that infection first offend? And O y oh y did hatred ever infect the bloodstream of a select few who ruin the progress of this much blessed city?
These thoughts flow through my veins as news spreads of my neighbor, mugged last night. Stopped to give a brother a cigarette, walked away and a brick smashed down upon the back of his skull. He was less than a hundred feet from the gate of safety that is our front door. He stood underneath Red’s window. The mugger – mother fucker – is lucky he didn’t bash in Red.

Lava Flows & Title Waves

2004-12-27T19:26:00.000-06:00

It's been raining all day, as I've sat in this tiny, dark, Honolulu apartment, reading about the tsunamis. It somehow feels far more devastating than 9-11, although the latter was certainly closer to home in so many ways. (My sister in NY commuted through the towers, she was MIA for hours, and many folks I went to high school with worked among those five buildings.) I suppose mass destruction of civilization and tens of thousands of lives at the hand of God - rather than by one of many sects of fundamentalist psychos – looms far drearier prospects for the future of this planet.
I think God is pissed. Rightfully so. I’m just shocked He/She/It took it out on the poor Asian Pacific and not on North America. Anyone I’ve ever met who has been to Thailand, said it was their favorite place – including my parents. And the guy (Caucasian) I sat next to on the airport shuttle last night (Sunday) who was born in Bangkok. He had a tendency to delve into lengthy diatribes on quantum physics. And there was the young couple expecting to move from Maui to Thailand in the coming month. I met them just before midnight on Friday – Christmas Eve - while standing by the lava flow in Volcano National Park.
It was hot. Quite difficult to get close to the crawling ooze of Pele's liquid wrath, which intermittently burst into flame and cooled, crackling, transforming into rock. Also present were two military sistaz who had never hiked before, a world traveling Aussie (favorite place: Thailand) and a woman from Toronto who spent ten years as the shrink for Cirque de Soleil. The seven of us met here on Christmas Eve, bedazzled by the volcanoes continuous eruption and the subsequent changing of the topography right before our eyes.
Just about the same time, perhaps, the landscape was preparing to shift on the far West end of the ocean I now sat in the middle of.
Shortly after it officially became Christmas Day, we were prepared to leave the molten lava. We skipped over its solidified counterpart, crunching like glass beneath our feet, singing Christmas carols to the uninhabitable landscape. The young couple spoke of their exciting plans to fulfill a long awaited dream and move to the paradise that is Thailand. And how appropriate it is they came to see this amazingly singular site of living liquid fire, a poignant example of Mother Nature’s magnificent power, her propensity for constant transition…and a simmering reminder of her impending destructive capabilities.

The next day I awoke early to catch the steam vents spewing their sulfur fumes into the tinted guava glow of sunrise, with a backdrop of three rainbows. Hours later I found myself lying on the only green sand beach in the world, floating on impossibly teal blue turbulent waves, encircled by a slate grey wall of windswept, multi-tiered sandstone. Four young, sexy, local boys, hollering holiday cheer to hikers in Pidgeon (native language), stopped to pick me up, for a rough ‘n wild four wheeling experience in the back of an old pickup. From there I found my way to a secluded beach cove, to reunite with friends, Kristi & Wade, after 24 hours of separation. I love them. There is nothing like finding old loved ones off the beaten track somewhere in paradise.
This would be our last night together, as the next evening I fly back to Oahu.
Sitting in the airport and having the luxury of cell phone reception for the first time in a week, I call my mother.
“Next I’m going to Oahu, the North Shore. They’re expecting 30 foot waves this week! I’m psyched!”
“Linds, aren’t you scared to see that?”
“No! Why?” I’m laughing at her absurdity.
“Didn’t you hear about the tsunami, yet?”
The knowledge of the sheer power behind those waves gave them a whole new visceral meaning. Meandering thoughts swept up in a swell, awe-induced paralysis as we hover on the crest that too quickly crashes in a spray of destruction, devastating until a new mind set rolls in with the next wave.

I hear Cincinnati is covered in snow. I love the hot sun of the tropics. I can’t wait to go “home”.

Politics Aside

2004-12-09T21:01:00.000-06:00

Canada and New Zealand's supreme courts ruled on and approved legal standing of gay marriages today. It's the first positive thing I've seen in the news in the months. Well, except last month, when a school of dolphins saved some folks from a shark attack, but I don't think that counts. Perhaps with the Netherlands, half of Europe and now Canada and NZ making logical decisions, the US will wake up and follow suit. Oh wait - that didn't work with war opposition, did it?
At least three incredibly shitty bills got passed in the past few weeks (and that's only the ones I know of, and i don't know shit), fallujah's fallen grows each day, while ice caps shrink. My favorite liberal mag just dissed the power of protests and some idiots next to me on the street as I walked by a construction site in Times Square said "oh look honey, it must be Ground Zero." And Columbus concert gooers are losing their shit.
The world's a mess.
What else is new.
But I'm rather fabulous. It's a constant source of amazement that I cannot walk out of my house (wherever it is at any given moment) without having an adventure. Yesterday I was bombarded with beauty, art and odd encounters. Fortunately, that's somewhat of a common occurence. I am one lucky chica. Or at least, I'm lucky enough to have the ability to notice and appreciate the beauty that is so often present.
I think I am a dizzying dichotomy of positive and negative perspectives.
I also think I'm incredibly fucking tired and should be sleeping, instead of rambling.

Epstein High

2004-11-25T18:08:00.000-06:00

The highlight of the evening was the Epstein re-enactment of a sport stadium audience stoned. This, of course, would solve the continuing controversy on how to squelch the violent tempers of fans. Somewhere along the way, bi-sexual bathrooms were suggested, by my father, nonetheless. We all thought this was a humorous proposition, envisioning stalls that encourage sexual relations with either sex, thinking this a great distraction from violence, until it became apparent that my fathers intention was not such humor. He meant unisex. Our laughter became shocked abhorrence as it dawned on us that he was seriously unaware of the true meaning of bi-sexual. Particularly a point of interest, since Joey is usually so fond of pointing out the bi-sexual tendencies and lesbian potential of his eternally single sisters. Our respect for Melvy’s perceived intelligence took a nose dive as he misused the term heterosexual and the extent of his asexuality was unveiled. Then, the greatest shocker of them all: a conversation of my past employs caused my sister to say “Linds, you should do another Renaissance Faire.” To which I replied, “No. Among other things – there’s just no money.” And then the moment the earth shook. Dad said, “So? Money’s not the important thing.” The room was filled with riotous laughter most of the evening, but suddenly silence dropped like a brick. Finally, Joey cut the air. “Dad, you okay?” Finally laughter was restored as my father defended his seemingly new-found belief in the over-riding importance of happiness. “That was byfar the most un-Melvin statement ever.” “Have you been to going to therapy?” “Were you abducted by aliens?” Really, the question that still lingers for me is – has he finally given in and accepted me, or even better – did I actually influence and alter his stubborn beliefs? Either way, this Thanksgiving I have more reasons to be full of thanks than ever.

Bubba Bailed

2004-11-01T03:16:00.000-06:00

I'm sitting in the business room of a hotel somewhere. I believe that perhaps I'm in Alabama. Atleast, I was three hours ago.
My Bubba left me. Sad but true. Her replacement is sitting in our hotel room watchin the ESPN for the 23rd hour this week.
I'm still managing to have a fantastic experience out on the road, even as my touring buddies tend towards being unhappy and secluding themselves in hotel rooms. Once again, my eternally optimistic predictions for this experience are proven far from reality. I do love this lifestyle, though! Quite tough to master the art of living out of a suitcase - and I'll probably never enjoy that aspect of it - but this method of traveling and the immersion into such a unique industry and its people, is trully worth any of the sacrifices.
Two more weeks left.
I'd say "then I'm going home" but where, exactly, is that?

Billie Goats on Beale Street

2004-10-21T00:18:00.002-05:00

Last night I hung out with some goats at a bar on Beale Street. Yes, goats. Eventually, they got too trashed and climbed up the rickety wooden tower - guarded by some polar bear statues - and passed out atop bails of hay. I sat mesmerized by a flaming fountain until a slew of beautiful men caused me to make an ass of myself, flirting desperately and getting shot down relentlessly. Tragic.
I diverge my attention from my lack of action over to the table hosting Uncle Kracker, his band, and the security guy in the salmon shirt. Shortly, the U.S. Olympic Gymnastics Team joins us.
The musicians, the medalists and the Levi's Ladies bar hop 'til just passed 5am. (The average age of the gymnasts is probably 18, but their body guards bullied the bouncers and the kids got to hang.)
To recap: Olymic Gymnasts, Uncle Kracker, Salmon Security, Billy Goats on Beale Street - and me.
I like Memphis.
Additionally, it is home to the best picture I ever missed. A "Pork the other white meat" sign caused a wave of humurous nausea (whatever that is), and then I looked across the street and almost slammed my bicycle into a brick wall. There was a large neon pig floating over an outdoor patio. Beneath it flashed the words "pork with attitude." Beneath that, sat seven very pale, very fat, scantily clad white women.
I found the irony quite beautiful. (And by scantily clad, I mean large cotton Target shorts and t-shirts which still exposed more rolls than I'd care to see.) Ya, I know - I'm a bitch. It was fucking funny.
As far as stereo-typical over generalizations go (a-tyical for me to make, by the way): no other "class" of individuals have as harmonious, soothing and beautiful an energy as old black folk getting lost in the Blues.

In other news: I'm nurturing a newfound fondness for photo shoots of headless mannequins running amock in mid-west cornfields.

Cryin' over Cali

2004-09-18T21:01:00.000-05:00

Cali flew by too fast.
In excess of four weeks fun thwarted by illness, fighting, lost wallet and head trips. However, beauty abound, as did magnificent men & a too small number of amazing bike rides. Oh yeah - and money spent was absurd.
A few blisteringly hot events in Vegas, followed by two cool and heartbreakingly beautiful evenings in Utah then Vail. Four days working in Denver have me too tired to trek downtown and check out the area tonight. 'Tis tragic. Sleep must find me soon...or serious amounts of caffeine!

The HoneyMoon is Over

2004-09-08T23:59:00.000-05:00

The honeymoon is over. Bubba is in Laguna Beach with her boyfriend and I am alone in Santa Monica.
I love it here.
The realization that the enjoyment of my road adventure must be a solo one loomed dreadfully in the distance and came down with a crash the past week or so. Words were said, tears shed, and now I'm alone in this hotel bed... partying like a rockstar, watching the sunset, exploring the mountains and the sea, conversing with street loonies, but fucking dammit I'm tired of being lonely! I thought this experience, this adventure, was one I'd finally share with someone. We wade together through the shit, sharing negativity, and feel the need for space during any periods of potential happiness.
It certainly doesn't help that my wallet is gone; lost to the sand - or somebody's hand - in the midst of a Venice Beach sunset celebration. She's bailed me out too often, now. We're both angry and I'm indebted. Shit.
I love Santa Monica.

Swim with Dolphins and Ride Desert Ridges

2004-08-20T16:35:00.000-05:00

I awoke on the beach in Malibu, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes to have my first ever glimpse at the turbulent Pacific.
“There’s some coffee over on the picnic table if you want it,” the stranger in the campsite next to mine offered, as I’m still sitting in my sleeping bag. “You got up just in time! Harvey is swimming by right now! He’s the beach seal. And the dolphins will be coming by any minute now.”
Where am I? And where are my friends who opted to stay in the RV while I tossed a bag under the stars by the crashing waves? And how did I awaken to a kind coffee-giving tour guide? I love my life.
After coffee and conversation, I notice one person in the water. “It’s so rough! You can swim here?”
“Yeah. I’ve done it. And if you get in now, you might be in as the dolphins swim by.”
Ten minutes later I’m fighting the current and the cold, hoping to fight my way through the rough waters to get far enough off shore for some dolphin interaction. I missed the group. As I turned disappointedly in the other direction, a solo straggler was headed toward me. How appropriate. We swam side by side for quite awhile – a good ten minutes or so.
I consider myself a fairly good swimmer. Floating through the glassy calm past where waves begin, it’s easy to stay and swim the placid waters all day. But getting back to the rocky shore was down right frightening. I have a sick theory that it’s healthy or enlightening to feel the hot air of death breathing down your neck once every few years. One wave in particular fulfilled that quasi-annual experience for hopefully the next few years. Crazy scary for a few minutes there. Ah but the endorphin rush!
After drying off and recuperating, I hop on my bicycle and head through the Santa Monica Mountains. Overlook Trail’s steep ascent along exposed cliff-side single track in the heat of mid-day took this sweaty, panting chica to an amazing ridge-line vista 1300 feet above sea level. I looked out in awe upon a seemingly endless expanse of desert mountains: where’s the ocean? I was swimming with dolphins this morning in the Pacific, and now, not two hours later, I’m mountain biking on top of the Santa Monica Mountains ridge line – all without ever hopping in a vehicle. Does life get more perfect?
It does. After my descent I found another biker chick, and she introduced me to her favorite single track in the area.
“I told my husband I was leaving work early to mountain bike; he got jealous and left work early to surf. What a rough life we have!!!” (Kathy)
The sunset mesmerized me, and the waves lulled my worn out body to sleep under a perfectly starry sky.
Perfection.

Westward with Ho

2004-08-19T16:33:00.000-05:00

This morning we awoke beside a canyon, surrounded by towering sunflower stalks, small spurts of rosemary, sage and numerous other specimens I forget or never knew the names of. The desert speaks to me like nowhere else ever could. I long for the sweet scent of creosote and desert rain. The vast expanse of uninhibited desert views spread before me, even under this unusual cloudy sky. A bird soars above the canyon - but beneath me - it’s caw echoing through the walls below.
We’re in Texas, and the locals fear the end times are near. I mean, 80 some degrees in Texas in the middle of August? What’s wrong with the world? Whatever happened to global warming?
Indiannapolis ended on a fabulous note. The new boss who witnessed only one hour of our event site performance up in Chicago last month – the absolute most horrendous everything-went-wrong-that-could kind of hour – came for the entire weekend. Sparky and I rocked even more than usual (hard to do). He was impressed. The world is a better place.
The Arkansas event was cancelled, so we opted for another 24 hour whirlwind in Cincy. Very productive: necessary closure and actual work accomplished. And then, Bubba Sparks and I picked our spirits up off the floor where they’d been stomped on for the past few weeks and gave a “Wooo! Hell yeah, girlfriend! We is heading out West, yo!”
No one else has ever come closer to being my soul mate. And no – to the chagrin of most men – our relationship is nothing but plutonic. But I’ve never spent this much time with any one person in my life. And I don’t believer I’ve ever shared such similar opinions on such a broad spectrum of subjects – or shared a similarly fucked up past/path – with anyone. Although admitedly, it’s unfortunately rare that such extensive, in-depth, and honest conversations happen with most people you come across.
Point is, kids – life is fucking beautiful. I’m going back to AZ!!!!! I’ve go a few days off to enjoy AZ and perhaps San Diego. However, after that, we’re slammed. We were supposed to have time off during San Fran Fringe, but such is no longer the case. Sadness. But I sure as shit can’t complain!!
I think three different guys fell for me in Indiannapolis. Strange. Sparks and I had a conversation about breaking hearts across the country:
“It’s bad Karma” she says.
I think the opposite. I mean, it would be nice if we just kissed and had fun and went our separate ways. (And BTW – that’s really all I do, is kiss. Safety.) But if most people are anything like me, it takes a whole hell of a lot to ignite a spark. And on the rare occasion that someone is able to make me feel, care, fear falling and contemplate the dreaded “L” word – I’m thankful. As much pain as I may end up enduring at the brevity and inevitably unreciprocated emotion, at least I know I’m still capable of feeling. And that perhaps I’ll feel that way again in the future. And hey – someone looked at me with kindness in his eyes – if only for a moment.
The road is a lonely, beautiful place.

Headless Mannequin Fury

2004-08-04T01:34:00.000-05:00

I was socked in the jaw by one of the headless mannequins the other day. Probably pay back for tearing his arm out of its socket. They have it so easy. Perfect bodies. No skin to worry about the complexion of and now face to ponder the feautures of. And when they're not just standing there in the sun modeling some Levi's, they're having a big orgy in the back of the RV (although two of 'em prefer the privacy of the shower.) So really, the nerve of Lucien Levi to lay one on me for the simple mistake of moving him by a flimsy body part was completely uncalled for.
I really have to stop writing when I'm drunk, tired and up at strange hours. Particularly when the writing manifests in negative rant e-mails and I stupidly press send. Anyone who was a recipient of said e-mails, I do apologize.
I'm off to ice my chin now. :)

Chicago Celebacy leads to Booze in Indy Airport

2004-07-30T22:48:00.000-05:00

Nodding off in the Indianapolis airport with an empty frosted bottle of cherry vodka propped on the table I sit at. Bubba is sleeping in the squished booth next to me. My back hurts and my eyes refuse to be more than mere slits. A cutie named Ivan in a suit, drivers hat and pants ‘round his ass picked us up at a campground many miles outside of town in a cushy limosine, where we preceded to imbibe in our liquor around 2am. Another 20 minutes ‘til the ticket counters open. I managed to resist making out with any of the many amazing men I met in Chicago. I refused two massages (one in a hot tub and technically in Joliet, not Chicago). I played a grand piano on an empty cruise ship after midnight at Navy Pier, while the hottie captain made me a drink and layed on the leather couch near by. And I resisted. Our cute host, Dave, even on the last night when we sat up late, stoned, watching the Chappelle show with Sparky sleeping next to us: I resisted.
Just in town to return to Jersey to help my parents move out of the house of my childhood days.
Amazing how this road trip adventure of new beginnings, new places and and potential career rebirth simultaneously affords me continual opportunities for closure of so many aspects of my past....

Coffee Connections Prevail

2004-07-15T00:24:00.000-05:00

In a Chicago coffee shop, music familiar to my ears was playing. Music I absolutely love and hadn't heard in about two and half years. I walked in the door and started screaming like a girl...or a pig. Whichever is infinitely more annoying. I'm shocked my piercing wail didn't shatter glass and chase all the customers away. There sittin on a stool strumming his beautiful music was an old roommate - Matt - who Sparky and I had lived with in Flagstaff, AZ. Sparky sat smirking at her table. She had called me: "Hey wife! Ya know that coffee shop you sent me to? You wanna get over here now." We don't ask questions. We know each other well enough to trust that the other only gives orders within the realm of best interest. If it was something worth calling me back from the bike ride I just began to embark upon it had to be good!
At least we knew Matt was somewhere in Chicago. He new absolutetly nothing of our whereabouts and has not checked his e-mail since we first learned of this adventure.

The Chicago Contemporary Art Museum shockingly pales in comparison to Cincy's CAC. The building is awful, one exhibit was great and the others blew. But the guy behind the counter was absolutely beautiful. Too bad I've been doing boxer shorts a tank top and no make up for the past month or so. Over an hour later, I'm riding through down town and stop to ask some motorcyle folk where we can go eat looking scrubby. I take my helmet off to chat and my sunglasses go flying. A guy goes running off the sidewalk into the middle of traffic to pick up and return my sunglasses. It's the gorgeous guy from behind the CAM counter. I thank him and ride away, think to turn around, but he's getting in a cab. An hour later I'm riding on the beach path by the lake, and someone says "Did you get your sunglasses?" It's the two motorcycle folk. Didn't I bemuse my random encounters in my last Adventures of...blurb? Yup.

Currnetly I'm nodding off in the Indianapolis airport with an empty frosted bottle of cherry vodka propped on the table I sit at. Bubba is sleeping in the squished booth next to me. My back hurts and my eyes refuse to be more than mere slits. A cutie named Ivan in a suit, drivers hat and pants ‘round his ass picked us up at a campground many miles outside of town in a cushy limosine, where we preceded to imbibe in our liquor around 2am. Another 20 minutes ‘til the ticket counters open.
I'm off to Jersey to help my parents move out of the house they've inhabited for the past 20 years. As much as I hate going back there, and just want to sit, relax, ride and write after the incredibly stressful weekend at the Chicagoland Speedway, I'm sooo glad I'm able to help my parents with something for once. They beyond deserve it.
We got a new boss. I told him the promotion sucks and is stupid. He wondered how I could perform with that mentality. "I'm an actress; when I'm on, I'm on. When the mic is on, I love Levi's and the Fit Pit. When it's off, and just us as TEAM members talking - I'm going to blunt in an effort to make improvements. Should I lie, say it's great and not attempt to make this the best promotion it could be?"
He doesn't like the fact I consider management on the same par as every other aspect of THE TEAM, including the two of us on the road. Welcome aboard, buddy.
As of today, I still have my job.

Birthing Bubba, Beaucoup Beach Babes & Armadillos. And Naked Slip 'N Slide

2004-07-06T22:45:00.000-05:00

Bubba was so stoked about Daytona.
I kinda shrugged. “I’ve got my bike; I’m happy virtually anywhere.” Flat white sandy beaches in touristy spring break towns aren’t really my thing.
Background info: Sparky became Bubba back in Tennessee. Late night giddiness had us rollin’ in the aisles of some gas station convenience store at all the red neck propaganda sold in the shop.
So we bought some.
I’m considering a subscription to the magazine “Redneck World”. Seriously. It’s hysterical.
Sparky’s key chain reads “Bubba”. Mine says “Bubba’s Wife: Don’t Touch”. Rosie (our RV) now claims title as “O’Fish’L Bubbamobile” and adorning the door handle is a “Team Bubba” key chain that we’ll be sending off to Captain (the boss).
These petty expenditures kept us laughing through tears ‘til our next necessary pit stop. In our first Florida gas station I was thoroughly nauseated by the excess of post cards that portrayed scantily clad sex symbols as Florida’s greatest attraction. One actually enjoyable one featured an old lady surrounded by hotties saying “They can’t keep away from me.”
Shocking. I had a similar experience.
I’m swearing off any sort of romance/make out sessions for the rest of my road trip.
Bubba might get jealous.
Speaking of, her boyfriend flew out from Phoenix and I finally got to meet my Hubby’s feller.
And spend ample time alone.
As usual, I didn’t get nearly enough work done with my alone time as initially intended. Some progress, but for the most part, I rode my bike and swam. Shame on me for not writing; props to me for riding over 200 miles in one week! Oh yeah – I think I’m a bad ass. And mountain biking through palm trees is the coolest fucking thing on the whole planet!!! I apologize for the profanity, but it’s really necessary to exemplify how absolutely amazing a sensation it is to be speeding through a densely packed tropical oasis. And I saw armadillos! Holy shit they actually exist outside of Texas and childrens stories!
And ya know what? The beach ain’t so bad either. Going 30 miles feels like a jaunt around the block – and watching the waves crash can mesmerize me for endless hours. (BTW – I’d like to point out that although the mileage may sound impressive, 2 miles in a mountainous forest feels like more of a workout than 30 some miles on a flat FL road or beach.)
Most of you don’t care to know this, but too bad: Yippee for my first sex on the beach experience! And no – the sand was not an issue. (blanket involved)
And this tubby girl rode around in a bikini all week – and instead of spurring a sea of nausea, it turned heads in a positive way! I mean, it’s a whole different story when beautiful beach boys think you’re hot as opposed to the typical hoots and hollers from drunk old men and the homeboys in the hood. Speaking of, I would no longer stand out in my Cincy ghettohood. I’ve got damned dark skin. (I actually just look dirty, aside from my tits which shine like head lights, but no one’s seeing ‘em anyway.)
Mountain biking through palm trees rocks! (Just had to reiterate.) I was pretty spoiled beginning my cycling days in Arizona; I thought nothing could hold a candle to red spire filled rock canyons, but the dense tropical forests….
And I swam in the pool almost every night. Swimming laps is one of the better physical sensations my body has ever experienced. Shame how rare I’m able to access a body of water to swim in.
Storms.
Thunderous dark puffs tumbling in over an agitated sea with bolts of lightning searing through the empty space between - such a sexy sight! Particularly while the wind is whipping sand and water against your skin and your toes dig deeper to keep balance and the sound of water incessantly thrashing - occasionally in sync with a boom from above - rattles your soul.
Yum.
Of course, it’s a slight less positive experience when you’re driving a huge RV down a narrow winding road over bridges connecting the archipelago along Florida’s northeastern coast.
We were by far the only tall thing in sight. Lightning is everywhere and keeping Rosie’s enormous body steady in a slight wind is already a challenge. We turn on the radio for the weather and hear the infamous “Beeeep! This is a message from the National Weather Broadcast System” or whatever it is. “This is an emergency. Hurricane warnings for Northeastern Florida. If you are out doors, please seek shelter inside. Trailers and Mobile Homes do not constitute shelter.”
Bubba Sparks and I exchange worried glances, burst out in laughter, and keep on truckin’.
There was a storm virtually all of the 11 days we were in Daytona.
The last day of our even at the Nascar track, we were shut down early thanks to the weather. Thousands of people huddled under the tents of the promotional Expo Village. After the worst of the lightning past, the Home Depot folks rolled out long strips of black plastic in the grass. Six guys were providing entertainment for the sheltered fanatics. Two girls joined them. Wanna guess who?
With me was one of our local staff girls, oddly enough, named Lindsey. Hmmm. I guess we’re just more fun. (Kidding, folks! J )
The crowd was shockingly excited as we approached the head of the make shift slide. “Woooh! Go Levi’s girls!” As we got into to running position a blur swept past me and slid down the plastic – completely butt naked. The masses went wild. Of course, much encouragement for the girls to get naked ensued. Upon the realization that it wasn’t going to happen, the naked guy asked if he could slide down inbetween us. Moments later the three us slid side by side down the plastic: us in Levi’s “univorm”, him naked.
Caught on video tape.
The very video tape that contained our event footage.
The same video tape that was FedEx ed to the boss two days later.
I think I still have my job.
I’m typing this outside in a park; bird shit landed next to me as I typed that last sentence. Hmm.

Trailer Trash and Tornados

2004-06-09T00:28:00.000-05:00

Swearing, screaming, slamming abound outside my window, as I sit reading "Bitch Magazine - Feminist Response to Modern Pop Culture". After 20 minutes or so, I stop ignoring the predicament and clamber into the darkened bathrooms' tub to view the neighbors' house.
"C'mon white boy! Whoop my ass! Becky done told you to come whoop my ass! My three babies is in that house!"
"Michael, stop it!"
Terrible, but Sparks and I fight to contain our laughter as we strive to maintain our covert position as peeping toms. "Someone forgot to put in her teeth" Sparky notes of the old lady's apparently toothless speech impediments.
"C'mon Leonard! You can beat on Becky, take it out on someone who can fight back! Come whoop my ass!"
Welcome to Redneck world. We are in Pontiac, Michigan, near Detroit, at the home of Sparky's father and step mom.
It's amazing how people can be raised in diametrically opposed worlds and turn out to be so frightfully similar. Perhaps we both fought so hard to divert off the paths we were raised to run down that we both found the same happy medium alternative. In a way it kind of validates my theory that my life style and beliefs ARE as right on as I think. Ya know? Sometimes you wonder if everyone else appears so blatantly wrong, maybe I am, too. My self validation is often derived from the multitude of talented, intelligent, beautiful people I meet and so respect, and it seems more obviously right when "my peeps" originate from such varied walks of life.
Her fathers garage is plastered with "Keep Out" signs and one that reads "Beware of Asshole".
I mention my coffee shop search and the place in Pontiac I'm about to check out. "Aw, you don't wanna git down there; that's a Niger place."
My jaw dropped to the ground and I stared in obvious bewilderment. "Dad, we're gonna leave now before you further embarass me and offend my friend." Sparky irately slams the door.
"What's she offended for? She ain't a Niger."
"No, but she's Jewish."
"I didn't say anything about the Jews. And so I don't like Nigers; everyone is entitled to their own opinion."
"Wow. I can't believe you just said that. Okay, um...let's leave now Shan!" I mean, what could I say? This was my host. The father of the best friend I'm on the road with. Not some stranger I could tell off, and certainly not someone with a swayable mindset I could conceivably have a logical debate with. I would return to their house later that night, thank them for the accomodations and sleep. Is that wrong?
The next night Sparky and I were in an artsy neighborhood checking out coffee shops, and I finally connected with JB. Beller and I almost got ran over. Unable to wait 'til he'd finished crossing, I ran into the middle of the street and through my arms around him. He planted a wet one on my lips. (Thanks, baby!) Last I saw of my beautiufl friend I was crashing in his bare apartment in Flagstaff, the night before I'd fly off to start my new life in Cincy, and two days before he intended to start over in Detroit. For six months we'd been alone in a new strange place, less than six hours apart, and really should have found each other sooner. It was soooo fantastic to see you and your new world - Beller Baby! We spoke of Lenhart's expected arrival in Chicago and mused over the Theatrikos shift to the midwest.
The next day, Sparky and I head up to Northern Michigan, and spend the evening with her family singing country karaoke in a VFW hall. I can't believe I've sang country karoake twice in my life, let alone in the same month. The next day we go kayaking down and up a relatively lazy river. It was such most necessary relaxation!
I wanted to see a Great Lake. "Heron's at least 35 miles away. We don't really want to drive out there." So I rode my bike.
Interesting: the night before the ride I go to a local gas station for directions. A customer starts talking to me of my intentions and offering suggestions. "Good luck, if you actually do it!" he calls as he heads out the door. The following day I stop in some little town after 15 miles to grab more water and directions at a convenience store. The same exact guy from the previous night in another town walks in and says "Holy shit girl! You're actually doing it!"
I don't believe anyone in the world runs into random people in random places again and again everywhere they go quite like I do. At least a dozen people must think I'm stalking them. (Cicny set a new record for number of people saying "Where'd you come from? I suddenly see you everywhere I go!)
Strange. Anyway.....
The 74 mile trip was my longest so far, though it felt like nothing, considering how flat Michigan is. In fact, the long, straight, boring roads had me actually bemoaning boredom (and raw crotch rubbing!) on the mundane ride to the lake. I chilled there for less than an hour, and as I turned to head West, I saw the clouds.
I headed into a store to buy long sleeves, a jacket, something as the sheets of rain began to pound my bare skin. "You know there's tornados coming; I hope you ain't got long to ride!"
About 20 miles later, I'm pedaling half my normal speed - going 11 MPH and working hard instead of effortlessly maintaining 19 MPH - against these winds, hail is pelting me, and thunder is rattling my frame. I pull over to a convenience store for shelter. Theyr'e closing: "my boss just called and told me to shut down and get out. The weather station cited five tornados in the area!"
Cell phone reception wasn't, so I couldn't call Sparky and her fam and say I'm fine, just waiting out the storm. Plus, it was about 6pm, and as dark as it was due to storm clouds, it'd only get worse. I was shocked noone in pick up truck offered me a ride. I pedaled on.
Upon my safe return, Sparkys dad gave me a hug and said "You're fucking nuts! Are you sure we're not related?" He handed me a joint. I could use one about now.
I found her father wasn't nearly as bas as his talk. We were at his VFW hall having a good bye drink just before Sparky and I left town, and he was apologizing for such comments. His captain, and friend, is black. He sometimes watches the children of a mixed couple and when a black man walked in the bar he was the first to introduce himself and welcome him to have a seat. Guilt or whatever, it was still a comfort - sort of - to see.
There is usually a good high involved with leaving an area. Certainly, every city we work in on this trip the best part of it is leaving. That statement was never so true as with Detroit, North Michigan or the reality - Sparky's childhood stomping grounds.
Hallelujah honey! We're out of here!

Sparky in the 'Natti (Cicadas & Ice Cream)

2004-06-04T10:05:00.000-05:00

The Adventures of Sparky & P-Nut II
As I left Cincinnati for the second time in a month, I took a deep breath and turned to Sparks:
"Hey Shanna, I'm sorry if I've been a bitch lately; the past month has been an overload of stress and insanity."
"I know; I've been in the same boat. I'm sorry, too."
Re-visiting when I did was an interesting experience. I kind of felt like I wasn't gone long enough for anyone to actually miss me, but in reality, if I'd been gone any longer before stopping through, the many people in my life I'd known for such a brief time would probably had forgotten me. Which brought home an interesting reality: I may be starting completely over when I return there. However, having accepted the fact that I may not necessarily have friends to hang with or projects to work on, even alone I feel shockingly at "home" in the 'Natti - for awhile. But most important, I initially departed in a whirlwind with numerous doors left flapping wide open in the breeze behind me, and here I had the opportunity to turn around and shut 'em.
(Big fan of the whole "closure" thing.)
It was fantastic to return just in time for the "wrap-up" party for Fringe Festival. Sparks and I finally got Rosie out of the RV shop and on the road late Tuesday afternoon, drove that Beast through many a winding mountain road, over the gorgeous Appalachians, aglow in the light of the virtually full moon. We pulled over around 3am and slept in the mountains of Virginia - to my quasi-shock and bemusement - near Roanoke.
We reached Lexington, KY and I said "Damn girl! We're gonna fucking make it to Cincy in time for this party/show thing! Unbelievable."
Shortly thereafter we stopped at a gas station. I filled Rosie while Sparks was napping, until I rudely intruded on her doze. "Sparks! Get out here! You've got to check out this creature! This crazy looking huge insect thing...."
"Cool. But I don't feel like moving."
"You know what? I have a feeling we'll see plenty more of 'em in the next few days."
Somewhere mid-sentence I heard "THE sound" and felt pretty confident the creature was in fact, a Cicada. The whole phenomenon turned out to be nothing like the plague and not really a big deal. Cicadas over mosquitos anyday.
Post-Fringe banter and lax attitudes was a comfort and joy to witness. Seeing the Cincy skyline and city after time in some drastically different cities was poignantly appropro. Saying good-bye to many folks I missed the first time around was a bonus. Finding a huge trampoline - complete with bouncing bodies (one bald one in particular) - added to the playground that is my yard in the Ice Cream Factory was sweet! Upon arrival at my pad, I somewhat worried that Shanna wouldn't feel safe or comfortable, and I wanted to leave her and take off for a lengthy bike ride. "Maybe you can hang in a coffee shop or downtown for an hour or two..."
"No way, Linds, I'm hanging here! This is the coolest place ever! I can't believe you live here! I'm exploring. Look at all the treasures...."
I took her further exploring the bad-assedness (good word!) that is Brighton (my ghettohood). A neighbors' cavernous basement, one-third of which houses an indoor BMX track, the gorgeous graffiti left over from Beautiful Losers and other random artists, tour de Mockbee, the quaint local hardware store, my all time favorite roof top, and the unfathomably huge, gorgeous trippy lofts of four local artists - including one of my faves with his numerous wood carvings and tremendous, larger than life animated wooden sculptures used as characters in an opera he wrote....
My ghetto rocks. As does my life. I'm constantly moved by the abundance of talented people, diverse commnities, and stimulating intellects that comprise my daily experiences.
And to share this world with one of my best friends from a previous world, to bring Shanna across the spectrum from Flagstaff's hippie mountain town to Cincy's ghetto arts district was a powerful experience for both of us.
And now we're off to Michigan to glimpse one of Shanna's old worlds - where she grew up and the family she left behind.
Amazed to find this huge weight lifted off not only myslef, but oddly enough, Sparky as well, a tremendous sigh of relief emitted from my lips as I-75 entered the hills, leaving the 'Natti behind.
"Hey Sparks, there's something I really wanted to do when we first began, but it just didn't feel right 'til now...."
"What's that?"
I threw my hands on the dash. "Wooo-hooo!"
Mutual hooting and hollerin hoopla commenced.
"Yee-haw!"
"Watch out baby!"
"Here we come, road!"
"And now, finally, our adventure begins." - Nut
"That's right, Sista." - Sparks
:)

Godliness in the Ghetto (or AZ vs. OH)

2004-05-28T19:02:00.000-05:00

The greatest healing, soul-search eneabling aspects of Arizona were the many moments when natural beauty induced tears:
Rounding the side of a mountain and grasping a large rock outcrop for support as I gawked over the endless miles of rough desert terrain sprawled before me;
Stepping out of my car in the middle of nowhere and falling to my knees and praising Allah or Jaheed or God or whoever for the infinite number of stars visible;
The amazing heights to which my body and soul were able to soar by climbing to the tip top of a towering red rock spire.
Right. Eventually, such inundation of beauty stopped causing me to cry for joy (though I always got a little perklepmt!)
In recent months, it's the art in Cincinnati that's produced such rivers of tears.
Shocking, but true.
Who woulda thunk it?
I believe it began with the grandeur of the Cincinnati Entertainment Awards on my thrid day in town, followed weeks later by the largest party I've been to outside of NY raves - an art opening across the street from my new home at the awe inspiring Mockbee, came thundering through my bones with the expansive thrill of Beautiful Losers in March, and crested to a paralizing pompodium of pleasure with the creation of and apparent success of the first ever Cincy Fringe Festival.
Though my full enjoyment of said Fringe was thwarted by the last minute jaunt of some potentially amazing opportunity tearing me away from current beautiful affairs.
When Beautiful Losers came to a close, I recall the void felt, and was so relieved that my Kaldi's co-worker and good friend, Andrew, completely empathasized and had experienced that same level of beauty. And Hell, it all felt kinda silly; we weren't even really involved. I mean, I helped with an installation or two, worked The Mockbee and went to a meeting or three, befriended many of the artists and curators and took home my second favorite visual artist on the planet - but it's not like I created it. You woulda thought so by my love for it's purpose.
You can essentially repeat that statement in its entirety about Fringe. Except I was more involved in that venture, and was impacted far more deeply by its artistic offerings and its potential to sustain itself and provide impetus for a much needed shift in the stagnate pop-performance world.
And to hear so many out of town artists, involved in each of those moving festivals, speak about how Cincy offered cool opportunities and venues that you'd be hard pressed to find anywhere else....
The 'Natti has so many amazing aspects I'd love to expand on, but once again the road is calling and lures me away.
Pull gently; I'm torn.

Beautiful Loser Impact

2004-03-15T23:14:00.000-06:00

So...I started work on this article for the paper last weekend, on living in the ice cream factory and the general artsy hood. I worked under the assumption that plugging in the name of a different art show at the gallery across the street would suffice, as far as covering in a similar vein whatever happened here this weekend.
I was wrong.
So two different articles sprung up with the same intro (which kind of sucks and won't be a keeper, but these are rough) I assume the more recent and relevent one (Beautiful Losers) will be used, though both say amazing things about my experiences here! What a whirlwind this week was! Many of the visiting artists fell in love with Kaldi's (the coffee shop I work at) and hung there each afternoon. I received
free passes to a "members only" opening, great conversations and numerous hugs from these people. They brought amazing energy to this city and I seriously feel a void now that they're gone. It's
incredibly odd. I re-visited one of the galleries today, and without the party atmosphere was overwhelmed with the relevance and beauty of their art and lives, puttting faces with the artist names on the walls. Wish I could chat with them again now that I've been exposed to their work. Amazing people. Especially since the three of the four that I felt close to (there were 60+ visiting artists), ended up being the biggest names with my favorite works.
And absolutely my favorite work, in all three of the mediums that he worked in, was done by the man I brought home Saturday night. Oh, my life! I had such a short amount of time to spend with all of these people who really impacted me - and they did so BEFORE I had a chance to really see their work, while it was being installed. Taking Thomas back to his hotel, I regretted not being able to spend more time with this amazing man, and THEN, I re-visited the gallery and had far more time to look at the work. Amazing. Beautiful. Powerful. And he's gone. I can't talk to him about his work. It's all so odd.
And beautiful.

2004-03-15T22:49:00.000-06:00

Riding through the ghetto on my bicycle, I rush through the stares and swerve past the garbage and broken glass towards Brighton. That’s right, folks; Brighton is a neighborhood in this fine city. Heard of it? From McMicken I descend down the ramp that is the Brighton Aprroach, which lovingly hugs the large metal Pat Renning sphere which denotes the entrance to our beloved ghetto—hood. Just past the fear-inducing area dive, lovingly know as Queen Ann, lies the inconspicuous front entrance to Sterling’s Ice Cream Factory: home.
Yeah, there’s a lot of loving here. I certainly always get some from the boys hanging outside my front door: “Hey shorty! Can I ride wit choo?”
I smile in response and scurry through the entrance. I wheel my bike around a corner and through the mildew-laden machine room of dripping pipes, up the flimsy wooden staircase, duck under the i-beams to approach the little red door that stands guard to my apartment. Like a scene from Alice in Wonderland, I duck through the tiny doorway, leaving the dark and cluttered warehouse surroundings and entering my large, bright loft.
A crash is heard from Thin Air Studio next door - workspace of sculptors Kirk Mayhew, Richard Fruth and Chris Daniels. I climb over a drum set, a few amps and chords to mount a table and look through the corrugated plastic that makes up a good portion of my apartments west wall. “You guys okay?”
Kirk’s distorted, blurry face pops up after climbing a ladder up to my wall.
“Just trying to find the heater” his muffled voice explains through the plastic. “We’re about to search the basement.”
Yippee for exploring the bowels of the old warehouse! Kirk, Chris and I explore, stumbling across random art projects, pieces of a plane and an ice cream making vat, which the three of us crawl inside of and chill in for awhile, before embarking upon a trip through some sordid old tunnels beneath Central Ave. I grab my head lamp and the three of us crawl our way through cobwebs and decades old rubble ecstatic over the rare find.
Emerging from the dust and returning to ground level, Chris (one of two curators at the Mockbee) says “That was an adventure. So, what are you doing tomorrow night?”
The following evening is an opening at Mockbee.
I bartend. The event rocks.
Afterwards I cross the street, pass Semantics Gallery, walk a few hundred feet and arrive home – greeted by neighbors safely tucked behind our razor wire fence enjoying a raging bon fire. I’m offered a beer and settle into a chair in front of the fire. The pit burns fragrant pine and asbestos and boasts aqua blue flames from the various chemicals and trash in the mix. Entranced by the burning embers we sit in silence, save for the crackle of the fire, Jack-Ass blaring out rock from the warehouse basement, and the “unts-unts” throbbing bass of a car parked down the street for a suspiciously lengthy period of time.
“You coming downstairs for yoga in the morning?” inquires Joe, amazing instructor and warehouse resident.
Wearily I roll out of bed, crawl six feet to clamber out the door onto the roof of the old Ice Cream Factory. The early morning mist makes my ghetto-hood feel eerily peaceful. From this vantage point, pearched a top a chimney, I see Martin Luther King High School and a park to the South. Slightly North West I see the words C.M. Mockbee & Co on the side of my favorite gallery.
Turn my head to the right and I see a billboard visible from Central Ave. Currently it looms over our ghetto, gloating: Jesus Has All The Answers.
Inside, my roommate - recording artist and graphic designer Matt Parmenter - is brewing us some coffee and setting up for band practice. I absolutely love the fact that one of my favorite bands ever, Medic, gives me a private live show in my apartment a couple times a week! It’s also Sunday, which means one of Scotty Wood’s rocking incarnations will be blaring in the basement in a few hours.
But first, I drag my butt downstairs for my meditative morning ghetto yoga class.
An odd conundrum, our little ice cream factory in the hood.

2004-03-01T17:26:00.000-06:00

Conundrum: first Cincinnati acting job or first wedding ever, which happens to be of my "first love" (the one from elementary school) and see family and friends, most notably a "sister" who now lives in Hawaii.
So I took the job.
I feel great about it. It's about gays in the military and isn't really a script; it's strictly verbatim interviews with a few people. That'll be an interesting challenge. I'm the only white person in the cast, which will be an awesome experience. (or make no difference whatsoever; but it IS Cincinnati) The woman (large, black woman) who is my lover in the show is currently in a one woman production at the same theatre company.
I approached her and said "Hi. I'm going to be your lover." She was slightly terrified, politely said nice to meet you and walked away. She still has no idea what I was talking about or that we're doing a show together!!! ;)
My first article for the Big paper in town is due next week, and I'm quite excited. It recieves about six times the distribution of anything I've written for in the past. The article is a typical weekend where I live. (The neighborhood is the up and coming arts district, and I happen to live in the "infamous" Ice Cream Factory)
Ghetto-hood warehouse living Lindsay style!
The director guy also happens to live a block down the street from me. He's also from Jersey and was at Radford University at the same time that I was there visiting Britain.... And now we're working together on numerous one on one scenes.... It always intrigues me when I encounter people who have followed a similar physical path (as in where we've lived) - though perhaps I make more of it when that individual is damn sexy!
I found the most extraordinary dog hanging out in the middle of Central Parkway playing with crack pipes. I really wanted to keep her, but roomie objected. The dog has a happy home with a mountain biker (I tend to trust those folks) who wanted a playmate for his dog, Thelma. He almost named her Loise, 'til I pointed out we were calling her
Schmootzie Superfly GhettoPup, and that name change was too drasticly clean and traumatizing.
So she's Weezie.
The End.
:)

2004-01-15T00:46:00.000-06:00

Yay for a possum in the ghetto!!! No, not a posse, a possum. I think. I've never seen one before, so after arriving home, I look 'em up on-line and only see photos of scrawny, mice-looking things. However, I found one drawing that looks just like my possum. Similar in size to a large racoon. Fat, white body with black tail, pointy ears and a long, white narrow face that came to a point of black at the tip of its nose. It was huge, strange and beautiful. And in the fucking Cincy ghetto. Who woulda thunk it? It makes Kentucky feel that much closer. Granted, I've ridden my bike into that southern state almost daily, but the possum really brought it all home, direct to my back yard....

2004-01-13T03:09:00.000-06:00

That tripped me out!
It's 4 AM and the sound of a chain saw continued to resonate for quite sometime outside my warehouse. I figured some lunatic in my ghetto'hood was attempting to saw through the razor wire fence and break in. I was kind of scared.
So naturally, I go downstairs and outside to check it out. Past the 9 foot tall fiber class Giraffe and the 11 foot tall rusting iron catapult, through the yard towards the popularly pissed on street on the other side of the fence, to find someone taking a leaf blower to the sidewalk.
At 4 AM. In the ghetto.
Cleanin the sidewalk. What?!
So...I left for the Renaissance Faire the day after my previous entry. There I had no internet access. The Faire was a trip that will be recounted at a later date.
I am now currently residing in Cincinnati, OH. I landed here two months ago, and life is finally slowing down enough to look at my surroundings and question "how the hell did I get here!?"
By the way: Happy New Year.
I hope You started it with a good bang.
Mine began with a rather bad one.
Another story, another time.
Adieu.

2003-07-10T04:21:00.000-05:00

I finally met The Mud Lady.
Almost every town hoas its infamous homeless contingent: Tucson had Tree - the 6'9" old hippie man in the outrageous american flag patch work on the tinsel covered bicycle who spent all day every day on one of two street corners with a big smile flashing the peace sign, plus a plethora of gutter punk losers whose piercings and cigarettes could afford them the food they begged others money for. There were also a large quantity of nutjobs who wandered around screaming at the invisible people taunting them. Flagstaff's homeless either came in the form of relatively undetectable folks who chose such a lifestyle to save money in the beautiful weather, and those that fed into the worst of drunk Native stereotypes. New York....could go on for awhile. Morristown - has the Mud Lady.
I'm outside with two friends when this lady approaches and asks for a cigarette. She continues to engage us in a relatively normal "so how you girls doing? where are you from?" kind of conversation. Her facial features were absolutely beautiful; aged probably just over 40 years. She seemed lucid, kind and intelligent in speech, yet shockingly oblivious to the fact that her entire body was coated in black...mud? soot? make-up? Her eyes and mouth had thick, scraggly black liner encircling them - very off target - and her skin (face, arms, hands, feet) were covered in...mud? I was standing four inches from her: she smelled pleasant, not unshowered, dirty or homeless.
As it turns out, she's not homeless. She actually has a lot of money. She was a very successful model once upon a time. She was very much in love with her husband, who eventually left her....for a black woman.
The lady snapped. She decided black was beautiful and now she wakes up each morning and coats herself in black stuff.
Sad story.
My insomnia has resurfaced with a vengeance the past few weeks, and I had a raging case of strep throat for four days this week: yet another sad story.
Oddly enough a month of no sleep has led to a month of no blog updates. And oh my - what a month its been!!! Almost 300 miles on my mountain bike, my first stand-up comedy amateur night, time in a bomber recording studio plus an awesome musical potential partnership, and in two days I leave for the Rennaissance Festival.
It's 5am. Ideally, I can find sleep now.

2003-06-07T01:41:00.000-05:00

After the three bears passed us by, I turned to Antonio and said: "Well that just topped it off! This is officially the best hike ever!"
"I agree."
The Spanish hippie boy with the most beautiful blue eyes ever, first came across my path at the top of the mountain, several hundred feet off the trail, while I was laying naked on a rock in the sun. Upon spotting me, he turned sheepishly away to walk in a different direction. I laughed softly to myself at the fact that it finally happened: all my naked hiking experiences and someone finally saw me out there in the buff. In fact, I found it so humorous, that I decided to throw my clothes back on and meander through the woods and introduce myself to the courteous dude. Besides, I figured a guy with ass long hair only goes so far off the trail to smoke some weed, and I could certainly use some about now.
I approached him. I wonder if he was a bit frightened? ("This girl was just sitting around naked and now she hunted me down in the middle of the woods!")
"Hi. So...that was a first for me. I'm Lindsay. Do you by chance have any smoky treats?"
He opened his fist and offered me the enclosed pipe. "I'm Anotonio."
Wow. His eyes.
It took a lot to pull this guy out of his shell, but I got him talking. Wild turkeys ran past us through the woods. Yes, wild turkeys. Very few creatures seem as comic to me. Eventually we start heading back down the mountain, on a different trail than either of us had come up.
The way up was really quite beautiful.
The way down was the Garden of Eden.
We were both stunned to find a large, forcefull stream with gorgeous, cascading waterfalls. We sat by an awesome waterfall / swimming hole, in awe of the surrounding beauty for quite awhile. Finally I turn to him: "I kind of want to go in."
"It's fucking freezing."
"I know."
We stared at each other for awhile. Eventually a smirk creeps onto my face and my head begins to nod.
He takes a deep breath. "Okay, let's do it."
"Yeeeaah!" I start jumping up and down, clapping.
I gesture for him to go in first.
"What!? It was your idea! If you don't go in...."
"Of course I'm going in."
Hell's Gate near Payson was absolutely freezing last time I was there, prohibiting us from adequately exploring. I capsized in a canoe in the Coloroda River one frigid February, but NEVER had I experienced water this cold.
It was so invigorating. I was so psyched this random cute boy was there and willing to go in; I wouldn't have done it by myself.
We stayed in long enough to say: "Wow. We're in. Let's get out."
As we sat shivering in the sun, one big bear and two little cubs walked by on the other side of the stream.
My second wild bear sighting, his first.
Sexual tension filled our moments together. But alas, my fantasy of finally fornicating or simply fooling around with someone out in the middle of natural beauty still remains unfufilled. (Amazing, non? This outdoorsy chick still has never really kissed someone while out in nature!) It was just such a beautifully fabulous, fun, close to perfection kind of day, that I felt more inclined to leave it alone than foul it up in attempts to make it better.
I need to learn to do that with art, too.
So - shocking that close to my best hike ever happened in New Jersey, and just two days after my second best mountain biking experience ever.
Wednesday was pouring rain.
I think it had been raining for two weeks straight.
I decided I had to go for a bike ride. While on the soggy trail, it occured to me that the local mountain bike group ride was leaving soon from a location just a few miles away. I've nervous about riding with a group of hard-core guys. I just got my new bike about one week ago, and the clipless pedals two days ago. On my way to find them at the trail head, I'm riding through swamp. What used to be a path through the woods along a stream is now pond/swamp.
Two ducks swim across the trail in front of me. Literally. I had to stop for them.
Guys are pulling into the parking lot as I arrive.
"Hey. You're Lindsay, aren't you? We went to school together."
It never ceases to amaze me that people who don't even strike a chord as familiar to me, remember my face, name, and half my history.
The six burly guys seemed stoked that a female was finally joining them on a ride.
The forest was a lake. The water on the trail literally submerged 85% of my tires underwater for several lengthy stretches. I had no idea it was possible to ride through water that was up to my mid-thigh while mounted on a bike!
One new guy had to walk his bike up some steep muddy sections. I didn't.
The guys were impressed: I could hang.
Yeah, I rock. That was the most well deserved shower I think I've ever earned/needed.
There is no greater high than a kick ass mountain biking experience. I think I've done enough drugs to safely say that's an informed and accurate statement.
I've now had my bike for 10 days, most of which were raining and one of which was spent hiking. The odomoter reads 76.2 miles.
Who woulda thunk Jersey could be so kind to my active urges?
: )

2003-05-29T03:01:00.000-05:00

So I'm running the laundry for the fourth time - the same load. I fell into some river on Monday. Morris River? Who knows. Within the past year a bridge was built crossing it, but the huge old tree that spanned the river's width was far more tempting. It was raining. And some fungus had me feeling a little funny. So by the time we found our way down around and over to the big tree and skirted onto it's massive side, my friend Matt said "Wow. It's really fucking slippery." After spending a little time on the branch myself I said: "um...we can turn back if you want" Him: "its too late to turn back now."
Well, for once in my life I decide to do the smart thing: back down from the call of the tempting challenge and stick to the safer route. As I work my way off the narrow island on which the fallen tree's trunk resides, the seemingly solid ground beneath me proves itself a simple facade of mud and leaves floating against the apparently steep embankement. Grabbing onto a large branch overhead as the foliage beneath me gave way, I managed to only go waist deep into the water.
Rancid water.
The sogginess didn't bother me. Nor did the dirt.
It was only several hundred yards later, as we were walking upstream and coming upon a toxic sewage dump place that I started to feel nasty.
By the time we were directly next to the facility and I could smell the crap I just swam in as it poured out of pipes into the water, I probably should've stripped and run naked to the nearest shower.
But now, I think my favorite pair of sneakers (why'd I wear the new ones on a rainy day!?) and my favorite pair of sweats (the grey ones that I picked up at a Theatrikos "garage/lobby sale" that turned out to be Wade's) are going through their fourth spin through the washer in a lame attempt at salvation.
Seriously - isn't that fucked up that they still REALLY, REALLY smell horrible?
It has me kind of frightened for my health, and my skin and stuff. And the Planet.
Oy Vey.

2003-05-19T00:55:00.000-05:00

There's a town in NJ called Double Trouble.
Yep, that's the real, official town name.

2003-05-13T23:06:00.000-05:00

I just got pulled over.
I was probably going too fast and did not sufficiently stop at the stop sign.
"Well officer, I did stop! I would've just paused briefly at the stop sign and rolled through, but seeing you at the intersection, I did actually stop." And yes, I did say that full sentence to the cop.
I was in the midst of experiencing one of my incredibly giggly/uncountrollable bouts of laughter moments. I was blasting some loud hard music, and kind of still bopping to it in my seat throughout the first half of the interrogation. I was also working on a Ben & Jerry's ice cream bar in my left hand.
I had atleast three different bags in the passenger seat, any one of which potentially contained my license. The vehicle belongs to my parents, so the location of the unexpired insurance and registration was kind of a mystery.
As I begin searching, the cop says "You really need to watch your speed, and stop eating Ben & Jerry's."
I was on the verge of agreeing that my body weight and fucked metabollic rate were not suitable for allowing even the very rare treat, when he said "they're against the police."
My bewildered looked provoked more comentary: "if you support cops, you shouldn't buy it."
Now, I certainly don't consider myself anti cop, but I began this experience while stifling laughter and it just came bursting out.
I manage to ask why and he goes off on B&J's support of a cop killer's "framed" defense.
Meanwhile, my one handed information rummaging is getting rather messy: I'm flinging things from the bags into the backseat, explaining why I still have an Arizona license. "Two months after moving here I was cast in a touring company, supposed to leave for a couple months, intended to move into Manhattan upon its completion, but it was cancelled, except now I'm leaving once again in two months to go live in Pennsylvania for a few months, after which time I expect to move into the city....blah blah blah...."
At this point I've already handed over three expired insurance cards, can't seem to find my license anywhere (no shock there!), I've dripped ice cream all over my sweatshirt and effectively strewn every item in my bags all over the car. Now the officer and I are both laughing, and I just forfeit. I put my head on the steering wheel, hysterical, look up pathetically and say "I'm sorry. I just can't do it. I give up. I don't have my license with me."
He says "Don't worry; I'm not giving you a ticket. Drive safely. Oh and - boycott Ben & Jerry's." And he returned to his car laughing.
It was great. I've made many cops smile, and even a few give a little chuckle, but this was the first time one walked away shaking his head after an extended period of laughter.
Oh wait! There was the time I the told the officer he was so cute I just wanted to pinch his cheeks, pinched them, then returned minutes later to take a picture.
Just plain silliness.
I'm glad I can get such a kick out of my daily blah life.
In slightly more humorous news:
Glor & Mel (two of my best friends from high school) celebrated their birthdays at Bar 13 in the city. Someone got Mel a blow up doll. He was about 5 feet tall with a hairy chest and clad in a speedo.
Blow Up dolls make fabulous bar companions.
I expected that I'd adopt him as my date for the evening. I'm the only seemingly eternally single one in the group, and I've often been known to dance with a pole, chair, or other inanimate object during the cheezy slow songs...unless of course a beautiful gay boy was available! But...well it was an interesting evening.
I've mentioned before how literally I get swept off my feet when a guy physically picks me up, spinning, tossing and dipping while dancing. So there were two guys doing just that. I was dancing with both, often at the same time, and very shortly after kissing one, I was making out with the other. These guys being Glor's co-workers, I went to ask her if that was a terribly bad thing. She said "No. My boss is pretty cool."
Moi: "That's your boss!? Wich one?"
Later, one said, "we're leaving soon. I hope you're coming with us." It was my first invite for a male dominated manage a trois. And both guys are straight. And cute. And I declined the offer. Can you imagine? I mean, how often does such an opportunity come along!? I'm becoming such a goody goody in my old age. Either that, or I just am not that rude, and much prefered to party on that rare evening with old friends.
You'd think I'd learned my lesson to stay away from anyone with that title after my radio station saga, but ya know - Dylan was just psycho.
My current boss rocks. She is my age, hot, and when she kissed me while we were out a few weeks ago, it didn't really seem to phase anybody.
Speaking of kissing girls, Summer's lips were nice to experience again. It's been at least 7 years.
Funny that as I'm typing this another Coors "Rock On" commercial plays in the background. I hate that they've stolen my phrase. But this commercial was a salute to the "wing guy." The guy that's sucking it up, hanging with the looser just so his budy can score with some hot chick. That's pretty much how I felt by the end of our party night Friday/Saturday AM. While Sum was getting it on with one guy and I was "entertaining" his buddy...but entertainment obligations are decidedly a crock of shit; that boy could take care of his own needs (besides, "wing guy" had his hotel porn), Sum and her boy could get it on, and I could hang out with the friends I adore and haven't seen in so long. (Did I say "getting it on"? Twice? It really has been too long since I had sex.)
I told my parents and sibling about this blog. And gave them the address. Why?
Oh well....
Many guys from high school I haven't seen in years made an appearance at the party. With many of them, it brought great joy to see again, and those I didn't care to see certainly didn't bother me. There was a time when running into old acquaintances was nerve-wracking; fortunately that time has passed.
Being in a bar where no smoking is allowed makes you feel infinitely more sober than you actually are. Perhaps because things aren't as hazy.
I'm incredibly tired. By the way, when this blog thing says the time the entry was posted, that's West Coast time. Add three hours, and you'll know my computer time is typically a late night venting experience.

2003-05-07T19:12:00.000-05:00

Here I am, icing my ankle yet again.
You'd think that by now I'd have mastered the perfect comfortable position that enables me to get those hard to reach places, or have created a contraption that allows me to walk around being productive while simultaneously sufficiently icing, but alas, here I sit typing at some odd angle while precariously balancing two bags of frozen peas on the right side of my leg.
I'm quite sure I've mentioned this before, but road bikes suck. Infact, mountain bikes are so infinitely superior, that the former should soon be obsolete. Riding over a crack in the sidewalk on a roadie feels like going over a curb on an mtb, a pebble feels like a log, and zipping down a fast hill you'd roll over a manhole, but go flying over the handlebars on a roadie - and slide across asphalt instead of dirt. And be sprawled across the middle of a busy road. It was painful. It was scary.
The post shock revelations leave me distressed over aesthetics.
A small portion of Sussex Turnpike is paved with layers of the skin off my right shoulder. My shoulders are my favorite body part, certainly the only physical aspect of me I consider consistently sexy. One of the few remaining parts left unscarred, with no birth marks or other unmentionable oddities.(?) The only part of me that, even when I gain weight remains firm, muscular, taught & somehow always tan. If I break out, never a blemish near that sacred area! And now, although I doubt there will be any permanent scarage, my previously virgin skin has been tainted.
Just as I typed that heartbreaking truth, a commercial played in the background boasting my favorite slogan: Rock On. Beer - Coors Light to top it off - has claimed what I previously thought was a coined, copyrighted phrase. Now my favorite saying is tainted too. Doesn't it ever end? Now I can no longer cleverly holler Rock On before ascending a climbing wall and must remove the words from the banner on my cell phone.
Moving on back to my body....
The greatest downfall to the chaffing of my sole source of sex appeal is this: I have 1 rather big audition next week, potentially three hot dates (should I not be too self-conscience to be my boisterous self - oh yeah! and should the other party not blow me off), I have four more on camera acting classes, and scheduled head shots (head and shoulder shots) for two weeks from now.
I trully believe that if I were allowed to just continue moving foward, I'd really get somewhere. I mean, I work my ass off, then every few months some angry diety rains its wrath down into my life and I've gotta stop to pick up the pieces and realize whatever I was working on walked away and left me with a new beginning, three wasted months and a lot of weight to lose. (Yes, that sentence does actually make sense to me!)
Anyway, in lieu of pain killers to pass through this down swing, I need to go blast some music and clean house before kicking off my next 56 hour work week (that's my typical Thursday through Sunday). Some day soon I'll have a day off without an injury, a funeral, a parental unit obligation, community service to perform, a doctor to sit in the waiting room for...a straight up Me Day is in order!

2003-05-01T01:49:00.000-05:00

Hell is quite beautiful this time of year.
Amazing to me that growing up in this sprawl of concrete, strip malls and haze, I was unaware of the beauty in surrounding towns. Take the bike, avoid the highways, and trickling streams meander through voluptious woods, robust with vegetation foreign to me: huge green leafy plants interspersed by long tufts of this strange grass stuff that appears dead at the root but blooming above. Several dozen different species of trees, unlike the four different varieties in AZ. The cactii I love are replaced by the equally prickly, yet ugly, sprawling, annoying, unavoidable, pain-in-my-asshole pricker bushes. Grandiose views are obscured by the ever present brown on the horizon, but hey - I was beginnng to paint a picture of beauty, so how 'bout I ditch the negativity for a minute, K?
What to me was always one of the world's greatest ironies is actually a statement based in truth: NJ is the Garden State. How very odd.
Here's another odd little factoid: there's a plethora of paved trails through the woods. Kinda used to just seeing dirt there! And if I still had my mountain bike, the paved parts might piss me off, but seeing as how that baby is gone and I'm left with the ol road bike, yet I can still ride for endless miles through pristine mountain beauty (ok-that might be a bit of a stretch) - I'm enjoying the paved options at the moment.
And the solace I've managed to attain while in the bustling city is amazing! The place I went in to find drugs in the middle of the night in high school, Washington Square Park, has taken my lead and cleaned up over the years ;) and now, strolling through late night brings encounters with folks just playing their guitar or otherwise peacefully chilling. I ended my evening the other night singing 4 part accapella Amazing Grace with some singing strangers I invited myself to join. Several hours before that I'd been sitting on a rock on the upper west side, watching the river ripple and lap peacefully up against the shore, then spent a little time bouldering through central park. I went to an open mic in the village, which probably boasted more comics and poets than musicians, yet still managed to receive four free cds, two of which really rock. (My film class was cancelled that day, so it was another glorious fart around the city experience.)
Though I tend to walk everywhere when time and weather allow, I did find myself in a rush and on the subway one warm, gorgeous day. I was wearing a skirt, tank top, sandals, and never before had felt so slimy. When I'm bundled up and walk by a piss puddle and see a rat scurry across the tracks, it doesn't really faze me, but somehow my skin exposed the stagnant, grime filled subway filth made me feel kinda nasty, creeped out.... Violated? Yep, some how, that word seems fitting.
So...life is good. I love NY. I even really like parts of NJ. I miss AZ. I'm glad I'm here.
Warm and fuzzy all over. Yum. : )

2003-04-18T09:26:00.000-05:00

Sinagua Cycles went out of business. Quite sad. Even sadder: I
only know this 'cuz I called it to find out the serial number of my
beautiful bike that I bought there, which was stolen last week.
I've been riding my bike to work (12 miles, each direction) which
makes me incredibly happy. Of course, the ground has only been
without snow cover long enough for me to ride about 10 times so far.
The fourth time, my bike lock changed its own combination and I'm
forced to hack it off, and the next day, without lock, it's stolen.
I intended to by a new lock during my break in between shifts, and I
intended to leave my bike in the restaurant basement during the
shift. But, in the twenty minutes I went inside to say hi, piss and
change, my bike was snagged from out of the fenced in,
"deliveries only" area.
Fucked up.
Now I'm riding the old ten speed that's been in the garage since I
was eight. It sucks.
About three days later, my glasses fall out of my back pack that was
in the storage closet. I loved my glasses. I just got this pair in
November, to replace the two pairs I lost simultaneously in June.
Aside from the fact that I need them, I look damned good in them.
These were my favorite glasses ever; they don't make the frames
anymore. What happened to them? The band came to play that night,
moved the PA and various equipment out of the closet, running over
and completely demolishing my frames in the process.
Somewhere in between my stolen bike ($400) and my gnarled specs
($120), I went to the doctor to confirm my suspicions that I have
Carpal Tunnel. Me - the piano playing, rock climbing, waitress, who
has a typing obsession, is recently in severe pain whenever using my
hands.
My wrists burn and fingers feel funkily stiff as I write.
And yesterday I lost my cell phone ($100).
So this past week, my losses add up to a round trip ticket to AZ and
another acting class. Or a set of headshots. Or a full day, or two
songs at a professional recording studio.
Punches keep coming.
I hate stepping backwards.
And today, it dropped 40 degrees again.

2003-02-16T09:30:00.000-06:00

Being one of half a million people in a single event in a single city, sounds really small.
It felt huge.
I've always been an adrenaline junkie, and a protest proved a whole new source of that thrill.
It kind of just sounded like a good thing to do, until the morning of the protests as I procrastinated by watching the news.
Suddenly it became incredibly important.
Protests all around the world showed that Bush and the U.S. are believed to be the largest threat to world, with North Korea #2 and Iraq & Saddam #3.
People carried various "down with Bush" kind of signs, and American flags covered with Nazi symbols. Essentially the world is united against us, and it's no longer the threat of war with Iraq
that is frightening, but the great possibility of WWIII, with the US seen as the perpetrator.
Happy Thoughts.
The protest rocked my world. And I was literally on the front line of sooo much.
Considering it was 11 degrees, not calculating the ferocious wind chill, the code orange warning which I seriously think was fraudulently declared & revoked by the government with impeccable timing in relation to the planned protests, and the completely illegal denial of a permit to march for the protestors in NY, it was a damn good turn out. Though I was shocked that supposedly twice as many people showed up for the march in London. I think perhaps that
it was a miscalculation due to the fact that so many groups were barricaded, arrested, or otherwise forced out of the main protest area and thus dispersed in large groups throughout the city.
The first large group I happened upon was by 50th and Lexington.
Traffic was blocked for atleast two blocks by this random convergence. The diversity, music, chanting and unity were beautiful.
I thoroughly dislike protesters who insinuate that all police are the enemy and shout "fascist pig" at the men with the big guns. I completely believe that many, if not most, become a cop for
authentic, want to do good and protect my community sort of reasons.
That being said, what amazing assholes many of our best and brightest proved to be.
TWICE, the person I was standing DIRECTLY (like no one in between us kind of directly) next to, was hit by one cop, tackled by many and arrested. Three other times it happened to someone in the very near vicinity. Two of those people were sisters. Placid, classy, not hippie, didn't do a thing wrong women, other than being one of the thousands who didn't move fast enough.
I heard stories of horses stomping into a placid crowd a few blocks away.
We were screaming "Drop Bush, Not Bombs" when the guy near me with the megaphone announced "And here comes the cavalry!"
Twenty cops on horses lined up and faced us. The group turned to face the cops and all held hands. I jumped in between the two opposing forces to snap some shots. Then the riot
gear guys arrived - at least a hundred - complete with helmets, batons and the occasional semi-automatic. Everyone sat in the street.
(BTW - I believe this was the only group in the city to have a sit down protest.)
Moments after putting my ass on the pavement, and studying the faces of the mounted men in front of me - some snarling, some laughing, some looking quite frightened and regretful
- people behind us were jumping up, screaming and running to the sides.
My initial reaction: bummer. I thought we'd last a lot longer than that! We're giving in already?
Then I turned and saw a slew of horses had entered the crowd from the other side of the block. The animals were going kind of ballistic, twirling on their hind legs and kicking wildly.
It worked. We were on the side walks and traffic could once again pass.
I believe I got some brilliant pictures. And vivid memories.

My night was almost as interesting as my day. I'll spare you the details of it, aside from an amazing bit of irony:
After fighting cops most of the day, I later pinched the cheeks of one police officer, and inadvertently ended up kissing the lips of another.
There's a big march in DC in front of the white house on the first.
I will make every effort to attend.
Sweet dreams and peaceful aspirations.

2003-02-12T09:37:00.000-06:00

"Les Miserables" is leaving Broadway. Glad I saw it 4
times.
Some Backstreet Boy is playing the lead in "Chicago". Papa
John - thanks again for the show - especially the impecable timing
that we got to see Billy Zane in that role.
These are sad times. (Not to mention scary code red times)
But they are all made a bit brighter by random moments like gay boys
singing Broadway tunes in harmony with other men they've never met in
some tiny old wooden bar with a piano played by one absolutely
enormous - in both width and height - bearded, macho, flaming man.
(Yes, I do realize those adjectives contradict each other, but
reality does that sometimes.)
I think perhaps some of the most heart warming moments are often
those shared with strangers. You know - when something really trippy
is taking place and you make eye contact with a stranger a few feet
away and you both smile, nod and silently share a laugh?
I think that's beautiful.
I don't recall ever seeing that on camera (remind of that the day I
make my first film, OK?) Fortunately I see it in life often.
Tuesday began with a fresh blanket of snow. Sounds nice in theory,
but in reality it was a dirty, mucky mess in general outside, but the
bus stop into the city was especially pretty. I exchanged a glance &
one of those laughs with the other soul standing there, and together
we marveled at the nastiness before us. A few minutes later we were
belting out Broadway tunes and commisserating each other over the
misfortune of being brought up in such a sorry town.

We exchanged audition source info, phone numbers & of course favorite
coffee shops. If I ever need to learn professional ball room
dancing, he's the man. (Can you believe a person actually makes a
living, competing in ball room dancing?!) But he mentioned his
favorite hang was a piano bar named "Marie's Crisis", and
we'd try to meet there later. Good name. Sums up a large chunk of
high school. And Tucson. But, alas, he could not remeber quite
where it was located.
A boy bounced over to me in Port Authority and oggled over my dead,
frayed locks and convinced me to buy his promotion and let sexy Sven
massage my shoulders while Carlos cut my curls and I sipped some
wine. Then we sat in a corner and I listened to his stories of
coming out, moving to the city, struggles of sex, acting and general
life story. Shocking but true - I listened and did not speak for
well over an hour.
And now my hair is very short and very red.
Then I went in search of coffee shop recommended to me last week by
the folks I met at the Hunter S. Thompson read.
Along the way, I found "Marie's Crisis".
Finally I find the sought after shop. The Aussie from the previous
week was there; probably quite afraid of his perceived stalker. ;)
We sit, chat, type, and compare coffee shop lists. (Yes - we both
actually carried such a list!) I believed he categorized himself as
a...not a coffee shop SLUT, different word, but close.
Someone somewhere was talking about a fish.
So the little silver fish on the rickety little wooden table by the
already inviting window seat lured me in.
As I sat and toyed with the shiny object, the man at another table
pulled out his camera to photograph it. Moments & chatter later, I
join him at his table and Aussie and I check out his portfolio of
digitally enhanced photo art comprised mostly of naked women, trippy
colors & fabulous back grounds. It was beautiful stuff.
The guy was kind of a trip to listen to, and Aussie & I exchanged
glances and silent laughs.
Later at "Marie's Crisis":
Picture Jack of "Will & Grace" at a piano bar, flipping his
head "Excuse me, he's playing my song" and sashaying
towards center bar to belt it out. Then envision four strangers
individually popping out of various corners, from behind the bar,
from out the bathroom, to join in harmony on alternating lines.
This was not staged.
Better entertainment could not be paid for.
I was alone, with my hand over my mouth so as not to be too obviously
cracking up at everyone in there.
Two songs later some BEAUTIFUL guy comes in and sits down alone at
the table next to me.
Thank God, someone to share this laugh with. We looked at each other
sharing that fabulous smile and laugh between strangers. (Though
this one wasn't so silent)
Now, from my limited experience, I've concluded that Germans can't
kiss. This guy was German. He wanted me to stay, and I was tempted
to re-evaluate my weak hypothesis. But the 7 foot tall guy with the
gutt of a sumo wrestler who resided behind the piano, refered to the
music of Jekyll & Hyde as "that shit", so my singing
options were slim. Plus, I had to make the last bus out of the city.
There were 6 of us on that bus.
I was the first one on. One guy sat across from me, and the other
directly behind. About to doze off, when the guy behind us turns on
every light around him, and starts crinkling newspaper in a
desperate, "I'm not really literate but want people to think I'm
reading so I'll just keep turning pages at an irritatinly loud and
fast rate for the entire bus ride" sort of way.
The guy across from me & I just looked at each other, shook our heads
and shared a silent laugh.

Peace, love, laughter & lesbians!

2003-01-22T09:42:00.000-06:00

Yesterday I woke up by myself in a hotel in some NJ town I'd never
been to before and can't remember the name of, near the Meadowlands.
My parents' vehicle was still parked at least 50 miles away in
Hoboken, and I was really pissed off remembering the pervert in the
bathroom ther that started to kiss the back of my neck while I was
puking. Sick fuck. I was also pretty pissed at the realization that
this was probably the most expensive night of my life, having spent
$100 on a hotel that I passed out in for about four hours. I would
have preferred a cheap, seedy place in a crack town - for the sake of
my wallet - but the guy I was hanging out with feared for my safety
and had to take me somewhere he knew'd I'd be safe.
Considering the bathroom incident and how threatened I felt when I
drove through the cheapest area I could park and catch the PATH into
the city, he was quite smart and I'm quite the idiot.
He was also an amazing kisser. (though maybe my lips have just been
lonely)
He also lives with his girlfriend, thus the alone in an expensive
hotel aspect.
How'd I get here?!
Particularly appropriate evening in respect to the one that preceded
it. Wednesday I went in to see Hunter S. Thompson speak. Instead, I
heard him occassionnally mumble and curse and heard others give
pathetic attempts at reading excerpts from his latest book.
The place was packed beyond capacity with a couple hundred people &
the fire department came to kick people out the Barnes & Noble. One
guy left in an ambulance after passing out cold drunk.
I was quite shocked the ambulance guy was not the same guy I happened
to get on the escalator with.
Escalator guy turned to me, chatted briefly and offered me his drink.
Can you guess what the drink was? Guess? Jagermeister!!!
Dude had flown in for just the one DAY from Iowa, just to meet his
idol and had been waiting at the store since 11am. Thompson spoke
after 8pm.
I sat there waiting in the crowd and didn't even notice the hottie
sprawled out on the floor in front of me until he started talking to
me in his Australian accent. He was meeting someone there he'd never
met before. Once she joined us, he left for a smoke and she & I hit
off. I think perhaps she was hitting on me. She kept touching my
thigh. Due to capacity restrictions they stopped letting people in
the building and the Aussie was stuck outside. 100 or so others were
in a similar predicament but they did not have the fortune to meet
me. I pull strings well and they let cutie back.
The three of us & three other kick ass people ended up hanging out
until 3am, (1 novelists, a photographer, an acress, a nurse & a
journalist for a Japanese newspaper) We all had a blast and lots of
philisophical conversation. If I were living in the city I'd feel
confident that I'd actually found my niche and have friends again and
am no longer so alone. But the reality is I'm still in Jersey.
Pathetic
Think that needs to end pronto.
I also concluded that evening, that my #1 greatest turn on is:
when someone grabs my hand and randomly starts swing dancing with me
in the middle of the street.
It's happened before, and it always gets me. The cute Aussie boy
certainly reaffirmed that tactic as a sure fire way to melt me.
Productive things this week: met with a music director who was the
accompaniest at one audition who said she loved my voice and got tips
on musical auditions and selected for me a repertoire. I'm meeting
with her again next week. It was difficult to decide what my next
"business expense" should be, and I'm quite happy with my
choice.
I also joined a gym. I got a two year membership at a gym in the
city. It's definitive: no longer will I entertain thoughts of
moving elsewhere. New York is definitely the best place for my
career.
Waking up in Parsippany, NJ again tommorrow.
Yippee.
Sweet dreams,
And appreciate the beauty of your friendships

Maxina through the Snow and Midget Rabbiis

2003-01-14T09:51:00.000-06:00

I love firsts.
I've had the same pair of ski pants and ski jacket probably since I
was 12, and have spent many moneyless winter months fantasizing of
new apparel. Last winter I finally bought some quasi-styly pants and
seemingly functional jacket...and it never snowed. This past week I
finally got to test my year-old purchases, and I must say they are,
in fact, quite bomber.
I embarked upon my first winter camping expedition.
Snow shoeing in at least 3 feet of snow for 4 miles with 1200 foot
elevation gain with a 30 pound pack on my back proved to be, by far,
the most the muscles in my legs have ever screamed & burned. It was
great.
Two of us sleeping in a one-man, four-season tent with three sleeping
bags was actually quite comfortable.
Building a fire with wood encrusted with a two inch circumference of
ice was a huge test - but we did actually get a little one going for
awhile!
But the actual camp site process - once snow-shoe action had ceased
and before climbing into sleeping bag - that inbetween part was
fucking cold as hell!!!
I visited Max, my old roommate from Tucson, who was spending winter
breaking with his parents in up-state New York. We went skiing the
first day, but he's not very good and patience is not a virtue I
posess. I like zipping down my mogul slopes, not sauntering down
beginner trails. In other words: I can be incredibly selfish.
Thanks to all of you who have tried your patience while waiting for
me. Um...that's probably all of you. Thank you!!! Anyway...so we
decided one day of skiing was enough and went backpacking in the
snow.
I love Max dearly, but he is a bit over-bearing. A little history:
three weeks after Max & I moved in together, I thought I was being
pushed over the edge to insanity, until his friend Marie came to stay
with us. She intended to visit for 2 weeks, and after 6 weeks we
made her an official roommate, and my sanity was salvaged. I also
spent time with her this past week. She's one of those people: we
don't keep in touch, but every year or so we see each other and it
feels like yesterday we were living together. Considering how
transient I tend to be, it always thrills me to experience that kind
of enduring love with so little contact over so much time.
Anyway....
Someone threw out my script yesterday at work. Good thing I made
copies of everything; one of the addendums in the contract I signed
stated that anyone not off book on the first day of rehearsal will be
immediately recast. I'm glad line memorization is not one of my weak
spots. I leave two weeks from today and have a shitload to
accomplish in that time. Sadly, all area auditions for summer stock
and regional theatre take place while I'm on the road. Scoring
summer work while still involved in this, of course would have been
the ideal.
So...my access to e-mail will be slim to none in the coming months; I
hope the void in your life that comes with the absence of my weekly
novels will not be too dark. ;)
I leave you with this image...
My brother's graduation last month at the University of Maryland: a
couple thousand people in a huge gym. A floor full of kids in caps
and gowns and professors in regal robes. The usual pre-ceremonial
benediction is given by a rabbi, with a huge red beard, big hat, and
the curly things on the side. You know, the real religious Hassidic
Jew type. The rabbi also happens to be...a midget. With a lisp.
True shit.
I can't believe the entire gymnasium wasn't cracking up like I was.
Granted, I laugh at the stupidest shit...like the tune I'm crunching
my carrots to...but it really was fucking funny. Out of an Austin
Powers movie or something.

2003-01-13T09:46:00.000-06:00

Retaining optimism...unabridged.

Things are just kind of going to shit.
Things exploding, people dying, a fucking lunatic asinine
president.... I've heard of at least 6 deaths amongst people I know
in the past month. Sunday at work, a sprinkle head popped off inside
the cathedral ceiling of the bar area of the restaurant. It dripped
steadily until the frozen pipe burst and we watched a hellacious
rainstorm come thrashing down on the bar, and quickly begin to flood
the restaurant floor, then moments later were evacuated by the
onslaught of fire trucks and policemen. One of my best Jersey
friends (Glor) had a frozen pipe burst in her house and flood the basement later that
afternoon. The next day two different sets of customers inquired
about the damage, and revealed their pipes had burst within the past
week. And Monday, the Brooklyn Bridge was closed due to a Manhole
exploding. No - it's not the apocalypse; it's just fucking cold.
The average temp has been hovering about 10 degrees for the
past two weeks.
But so what. Here's the real "world ending" saga:
(*sarcasm)
My tour was cancelled.
I kind of thought I'd just cut myself off from any social contact for
about three months and just wallow in self pity. Of course, I think
I filled my nervous breakdown quota for atleast the next five years
in my last months in Flagstaff (between Chinook and simply leaving my home and sanctuary and loved ones for that hell that is Parsippany,NJ) and my hell with radio
station psycho boss leading to dream job loss. So...breakdown is just not necessary.
Plus...by the time I could fit one into my schedule three days had
gone by!
I was at an audition for "Lion King" when I got the phone
call. The audition was at the National Black Theatre in Harlem.
Getting there was interesting. I saw literally two other white
people on the streets, and I stood on the corner of Malcolm X Blvd &
Martin Luther King, Jr. Ave two days before His national holiday,
just soaking in the experience of being a minority for awhile. It
was 9:15am and I was #322 signing in at auditions. I was chilling
with some sistas; we'd been chatting for about 3 hours and I told
them about my good fortune of landing this tour about 10 minutes
before my phone rang and the stranger on the other end told me it was
cancelled. After some commiseration, one holding room companion said, "you best go cry & tear some shit up in a corner, get it out of your system, and go
give these folks the best damn audition of your life."
I liked that advice.
After hyperventilation in some corner (it was a great theatre/gorgeous building/ fabulous facility, btw!), I asked someone if #322 would be seen by 5pm, when I had to get work.
At this point it is around noon. The answer was no. I left. Totally
bummed. This would have been the first audition since December, when
I learned of my tour score. And, as much as I believe most of my
auditions are for untouchable roles solely for the experience, I
really believe this one was realistic. Casting for multiple tours &
broadway, of a show where looks don't matter for hundreds of singing
& swaying "blade of grass" type roles.
From the audition I went to lunch with a friend and bitched about
wanting to sue; how can they psyche us up, have us sign contracts &
memorize lines only to cancel ONE WEEK before tour!? I'm sure some
people quit their jobs & sublet their apartments and shit.
I'm lucky in that respect. At the restaurant my boss & co-workers
celebrated the fact that I was sticking around. It was incredibly sweet!!!
And then the pipes burst.
Why cancelled, you ask?
Because our asshole President is sending us to into an unwanted war
based on personal vengeance, while ignoring imminent threats like
Korea and the deficit & is cutting funding for things like The Arts and
Education, which - of course - help provide funding for Children's
Educational Theatre Tours.
Blah. I could go on about the Bushmesiter for quite awhile. But
this is already too long and my personal stories are far more
important than politics so your spared.
Sense the sarcasm.
More about me:
The closest said tour would have come to AZ was Texas, Wyoming &
Montana. Our expected itinerary had us over there towards the end of
Feb, beginning of March. With weekends off, I kind of expected to be
able to take a train in & show up at Theatrikos & catch a
"Shakespeare" show.
And my funded cross country tour to research my planned, best-seller:
Guide To Great Coffee Shops is out! ;)
I wonder if any of the things that occupy my day dreams will ever
come to pass.
My positive justification for "why?!"....
The past few months I've worked my ass off, ignored auditions (which
were sparse & lame in the dead of winter, comparatively), paid off
most of my debt (pat on the back in order, I believe!) & been soaring
with glee (often reaching states of hyper mania I think y'all have
probably witnessed on occasion) all due to having this dream to look
forward to. I wouldn't have accomplished as much without receiving
that role. Now, all the really good auditions are coming up next
month - summer stock, regional theatre, Shakespeare fests - all of
which are infinitely more prestigious than Childrens' Ed & all
auditions take place while I should've been away. And MANY films are
being shot in the area starting in a few weeks and going all spring.
I land any of these other opportunities and I'm better off than I was
with the tour.
Back to the drawing board...the audition holding room...whatever!
Big dreams, better realities and less explosions...Cheers! (Ta!)

2002-12-14T09:52:00.000-06:00

Random:
Directly across the street from the entrance to the United Nations is a huge staircase winding its way up past a large granite wall. The wall is inscribed with a quote from the bible. A paraphrase: "From this day forth no man shall raise sword against neighbor nor enemy. Never again shall a nation raise sword against nation. This world will see no more of the evils of war." Amazing that ambassadors and officials can walk by this every day, and bring themselves to condone war through their votes. Funny - or disturbing.

Less than three blocks away, another ironic intrigue.... You know how they occassionally name portions of streets after prominent people? This one intersection of 3rd Ave has two oposing corners,one claimed by Yitzach Rabin, the other belongs to Nelson Mandela. Somehow, I can't picture the two sharing a street.

You know the sensors that control automatic opening doors as you walk by? It randomly occured to me the other day that, if vampires have no reflection, they must not get "seen" by the sensors. Right? Of course, only super markets seem to be universally equipped with the devices. Good thing for vampires they only consume blood.

I've concluded that my severe depression in high school can't really be blamed on chemical imbalance. It came from being raised in hell. Parsippany, NJ, is not someplace anyone should ever raise a family. No teenage, developing mind & persona should ever be subjected to the suburban experience. Land of community cloning, brain washing, and(this literally is what Parsippany is known for) Coporate Headquarters. After being back here for three weeks, I completely understand how I teetered on the brink of insanity in the past. One of the most pathetic things is the appearance of a new billboard about a mile from my house: "Parsippany - For Work, For Family, For Fun. Celebrate Your Community."

Yes - we have entered the Twilight Zone.

2002-12-02T10:06:00.000-06:00

So...I am actually about to be a working actress. Paid to act &travel. Complete bliss? Okay, not quite. 16 hours on a bus a day, 19 states in just over two months, a different city every week day, and not exactly doing a show that entails great acting ability ormoving plot (it's children's educational theatre). But hell - Icouldn't possibly be luckier. I went to FIVE auditions. That's it. In New York. The numbers in competition against me for each role are unfathomable, and more than anything I wanted a touring show, and -rock-star-to-be that I am - I got it!
Yeah, I'm a little high right now.
The timing couldn't be better. I've been going insane here, really struggling with moving back in with the psycho-drone parental units, floundering back and forth between the belief that I can suck it up long enough to save some money and spend time looking for some work in the city I might enjoy, and freaking out over the fact that I will go completely ballistic and get committed if I stay here indefinitely with no hope for future redemption.
I considered becoming a cop. Scary statement, non? There's always commercials for NYPD recruiting opportunities. Good pay, great benefits, unique experience, not 9 to 5 in an office, and would get me long sought for approval from the 'rents and out of their house. And now - it seems unnecessary to resort to such possible betrayal of ethics. (Though I do think it would be an amazingly interesting experience.)
The tour is through the National Theatre of Performing Arts & Dandelion Productions. The show is (please laugh with me)"Great Scientists Through the Ages".
Oh yes. Genious performances to be given, probably to elementary school kids.
A start, it is.
I am so psyched. I will be making more money than I did at the radio station (which of course, isn't saying shit, but nonetheless...) AND paying no rent at the same time. AND no taxes are taken out. Plus, the beautiful(hopefully) experience of spending 2 1/2 months embarking upon an incredibly bonding adventure, in very close quarters, with 9 strangers.
Crazy thought, non?
We spend two weeks rehearsing in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Cool factoid: several other touring shows all rehearse at the same time and are put up in the same hotel together, so for two weeks the hotel will be over run with at least a couple dozen actors. I anticipate great fun, great connections, and to learn much hearing of others experience of the biz. Then two months of 5 shows a week. My tour is east coast down to South Caronlina, west to Texas, up to Montana,Ohio, and most of those other places inbetween. Hey - I've always sucked at the geography of those seemingly irrelevant mid-west states (no offense to all those I just offended!) and now I'll finally get it down! No Arizona :(

2002-11-20T10:05:00.000-06:00

People do some incredibly entertaining, interesting and strange
things. The oddest behaviours being found in the psychos on the
street corner, people prepping for auditions, and above all,
improvising on stage during auditions.
The girl was told to portray a develish sextress tempting a potential
lover back to spend the night with her. (Relatively good improv to
watch a number of sexy chicks play out) The frightening paraphrase
of one woman (in a Russian accent, BTW): "Come with me. I want
to take you up to my room. Make you scream, just like daddy, when I
was little, and I went up to his room..." It got graphic.
Those of us watching the spectacle inadvertently let out gasps,
nervous giggles and murmured "what the fuck?" Finally the
director (a woman) cut her off with an "oookay. Thanks.
Next!"
My audition sucked. Concluding that my monologue was just too old,
and not appropriate for this type of show, I picked out a new one on
the bus that morning, and gave myself about three hours to memorize
it. (Which is fine. At this point I fully acknowledge auditioning
for me is a learning experience, not an opportunity to get cast.) I
sat in that freezing theatre watching others audition and building up
nervous tension for FOUR hours before they got to me - #44. I didn't
think it would take that long to get seen at "Pure
Thoughts...Dirty Loving" (yes, that was the name of the play)
because earlier that afternoon I had been #253 at the audition for
the national tour of "Cinderella".
Could two auditions on the same day be at further ends of the
spectrum?
Those were Monday. Today started with the national tour for
"Rent." (As futile as I realize auditions are for me right
now, this is also pretty much the last week for casting of spring
national tours, so I might as well, right?) Today, I arrived a half
hour early. I was #173. Both at "Rent" and
"Cinderella", they called us in, 30 or so at a time, just
looked at everyone, and picked 4 or 5 to stay.
The casting director apologized profusely for being the one to do
something so cruel and aestehticly based as typing. I personally
don't mind it. It all comes down to if you look the part in the end;
better to get it out of the way at the beginning rather than audition
for six hours only to be told you don't look the part.
Next: 23 blocks away. Auditions for the National Theatre of
Performing Arts spring tour of childrens shows. Finally got the
chance to read sides, my forte. And since these were by appointment
only, very little wait time.
Last: auditions for entertaining at some huge Hip-Hop, R&B club.
Those auditions began at 11am, ended at 6pm. I got there at 5:50,
was probably the last person. Watched one girl danced, then I got up
sang and danced a little and boogied on over to the Actor's Equity
Building on Broadway.
In between auditions & interviews I run to schools and coffee shops
looking for message boards posting rooms for rent. At one shop I
asked some random guy where to find such a board. He replied with
"are you an actress?"
That got me glowing! "Yes."
"You equity?"
"No."
"Well check their building anyway, they usually have good
posts."
I happen to have this uncanny ability to gain access to places I
should be forbidden entry. The equity building was probably one of
five places I went today with guards checking building affiliation
ids at the door. At each place, I saw someone else lacking id turned
away. At each place, I said a sentence or two and was waved in.
It's a talent I've always posessed but didn't have much opportunity
to use in excess while in AZ. (Though, I did get lots of great
freebies and occassionally got to pawn them off on friends.) Did I
ever tell y'all about the three times I managed to stand on a
Broadway stage and score back stage tours?
No job, no money, not the looks, nor the luck (especially not with
vehicles!) just got some hypnotic charm that encourages my dangerous
draw towards Do Not Enter signs. And I've always had this thing for
dark entry ways and alleys, back twisted stair cases, basements, and
roof tops...which I tend to see a lot of. Which is really dumb. And
the day I find someone to explore such places with me, I'll be quite
happy & much safer.
And the last interesting thing I ALMOST saw before I left the city:
there is a Museum of Times Square. It houses the Batlickiniffe
(that's really cose to the actual spelling!) Family Circus. It also
has an exhibit called The Horrors of Substance Abuse. It was one
dollar to see the exhibit. I watched others disappear behind the
curtain, heard their wails, and saw them reappear looking nauseous.
I didn't see it. It's a permanent exhibit.