Friday, September 30, 2005

I'm actually quite content today

From time to time I think maybe I should see a pychiatrist because sometimes I consider throwing myself in front of a city bus. The only reason I have yet to roll infront of one is because I think I might survive and be worse off. I'd wind up a quadriplegic with no chance to kill myself. Quadraplegic and can't move their arms to even smother themyselves with a pillow.

I know wouldn't be one of those cheery quadriplegics that "60 Minutes" features on a Sunday evening. You know those quads who beat all odds after their accident and open up a tea house or win the gold medal in looshing (i can't spell the sport people you know sledding)-- inspiring the walking and talking to start that garden they always dreamed of. Yeah, that's not me. And my feature story would piss people off. "Over-priveliged bitch! What are you complaining about? I live in a trailer." The better option would be to swallow some sort of pill and many of them. Unfortunately, I can't swallow pills which makes me think maybe my heart just isn't into death. That's the thing though when I'm depressed I really have no desire to do anything. I'm totally a type B depressive. Meanwhile, Elliot Smith was type A. He got shit done. He took a knife and stabbed himself in the heart. That sounds painful. I think instead maybe I should jump off a bridge or something. But then I think jumping off a bridge requires getting out of bed, putting my sneakers on, tying my sneakers, leaving the house and walking to the bridge. Ugh! I'll just sleep and pretend there's a god.

That's when I start to think maybe I should get therapy. But everyone in New York goes to therapy and none of them are better. I know a girl who has been going for 9 years and she's still friggin' crazy. I know people who are on meds and barely function. I might as well take that money I'd spend on a therapist and go to a bar.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

my body my joke

John Roberts has been confirmed as the new Chief Justice. If I'm going to have an abortion I'd better hurry up and get pregnant.

A Nut a Paranoid and a Stick

Friday night: I had taken in an evening of theatre. Theatre going can tax the body and mind to their limits and Friday night proved the first part of this sentence true. Frequently, I don't take care of myself which is why a good friend of mine joked that I looked like an AIDS patient. Since he didn't specify on what continent or what decade I'm not taking it as an insult--I figured he just meant I'm thin and not having sex. Though, every now and again I listen to my body's needs, Friday was such an occassion. After the play I said to myself, "You know what? I've just seen a Bertolt Brecht play from his 'early years'. I am wiped out. I think I'll go to bed and get some rest." So I came home and went to bed.

The End.

Or is it?

Yes, I went to bed and fell asleep. Then at 4:10 am my bedroom door, situated across the room from my bed crept open. (Across the room in this Brooklyn bedroom is 7 feet.) The opening door woke me up for some reason. Typically, I am the type who could sleep through a Black Flag concert. But Saturday in the wee hours I awoke to my door creeking open. A hand I've never seen before snuck it's way into my room and flicked my light on. OH MY GOD!!!! We're being robbed. HOLY SHIT!!! this is it someone is going to rape and kill me. AHHHH!!! A hundred variations of my mutilation sped through my head. 3 seconds later I screamed aloud, "Get the fuck out of my room!!!" The hand shut the light off withdrew and shut the door. I quickly turned on my lamp next to my bed, and grabbed my 5.5 foot stick I keep next to my bed. Yes, I keep a large stick next to my bed, because I knew this night would come. If the nightly evening news has taught me anything it's that one day I'll be murdered in my sleep. I sat with my stick poised to take on that arm and the body or bodies attached to it. I practiced a few moves to warm up for my big battle. The big stick is a little too big for my furnished 8x11 bedroom... and... ahh... well, the dresser and the desk kind of get in the way of side strikes. I figured the only logistical move I could execute was to hurl myself and the stick straight at the intruders when they returned through my bedroom door. I didn't want them to return, I just wanted them to take the TV and be on their way. As much as I've fantasized about being a hero when the hero moments actually arrive I just want to hide and weep.

A knock on my bedroom door. I prayed it was the raven, but nevermore. I stayed silent and left the door closed. Why? Because I'm not stupid. I've seen those scary picture shows and I've caught a television program in my day. I also used to read Bobsie Twin Novels. I'd sooner go out my bedroom window than open that door. My fingers tightened around the staff. A little voice came from the other side of the door. It was a woman's voice. It was...was...It was my roommate's girlfriend. The one who gave me a drunken psychic reading in July last time she was in town. She asked from behind the door, "Rachael, are you OK?"
I still don't know what's going on out there. I still don't open the door. "What happened? what's going on?" I asked from my bed.
"Did they come into your room?"
"Who? Are you OK?"
It's over I thought. I opened the door. She saw me with the broom handle in my hands. "They're just kids. Just some kids who were at Ripple." Ripple is a bar in my neighborhood. She had brought a few people over to our apartment after the bar closed. Aparently NYC's alcohol laws are too strict with the mandate that bars stop serving liquor at 4am. She says, "They came into your room." "They did?" I ask. I freak out. "Oh my god! What did they do to me while I was sleeping? Oh shit!" Turns out she was asking me if they had been in my room. "No, just a hand and forearm."

She drunkenly hugs me, and says, "I'm so protective of you." I'm thinking if you are so protective of me why are you bringing drunken strangers into my apartment at 4 or in the morning? Not to mention my roommate's girlfriend is one of the few adults who weighs less than me which makes sense because she's about two inches shorter than me.

So this waif decided to have a little party in my apartment with stangers, excuse me her new best friends for the evening while my roommate, her boyfriend was sleeping in his room.

After I settled down, I realized the world is full of warmth and amazement. My roommate's girlfriend is insane. Completely nutty and scatter- brained. Really out of her skull. And my roommate loves her anyway. I think that's awesome. What I think is more awesome is that she is not my girlfriend. And even better than that she lives in Colorado.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Get Cultured for Free!!!!

Host: Wild Child Presents
Location: Theatre for the New City
155 1st Ave. (Btw 9th & 10th St.), New York, NY
Sunday, October 2, 7:00pm
(212) 979-6570
Come celebrate juicy, new One-Acts with us... FREE admission!!!

Freshly Squeezed will include the work of Susan Barsky, John Cannatella, Jason Green, Rachael Parenta, Chris Van Strander & Hawley Wolfe.

Readers are Debora Balardini, David Blatt, Dana Chehansky, Tiffany Clementi, James Harley, David Levine, Chance Parker, Jeff Stevens, Sasha Taublieb & Kristyl Tift.

Hope to see you on Sunday... :)

I Kind of Fumble the Metaphor

My boyfriend, Jack, is not a nurturer. I'm here on a Tuesday heartbroken. Utterly heartbroken. Sunday night it hit me. All the old memories and disappointments came rushing back. My heart has been trampled time and time again I could count 47 men, maybe I get involved to easily. I looked for comfort from Jack, but he just didn't seem to understand, and of all the people in my life I thought he'd empathize the most. Instead he's all, "Those guys are bums. I don't know what you ever saw in them."
"I don't know, they're exciting and dramatic. We're from the same area and stuff."
"That's a pretty superficial reason to spend time with someone."
"I guess." But then I realized, "That's exactly why you like who you like." He said, "No. I actually worked with people I've found myself involved with."
"It's not like you haven't had your share of bums."
"You don't see me here lamenting any losses."
"But, you have lost. Your record isn't any better than mine, sweetie."
"Sure, but yours was a little more humilating, and lets face it for the last three years you haven't had any luck."
"Well, you were out of the country and I was living in Portland."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Uhh? Nothing. I got confused."
"Baby, your expectations have always been too high. Perfection is very very rare."

Too high? I think he's the one that's high. Is it too much to ask to score more often!
"They've scored plenty."
"I can't say that I was satisified with how much they scored."
"Sometimes guys just can't get it done. It happens."
He's so smug when his team is doing better. But in the end he's still a Steelers fan and he has to live with that until the day he dies unless of course he sees the light. Not that I can reccommend him getting involved with New York Football Giants.

I don't know how much more my heart can take from these guys. Ever since they got routed in the Superbowl four years ago we haven't been the same. I felt like maybe we needed to take a break. I moved to Portland, OR out of the Giants market. But in my three years I never forgot about them. Hell, I would get my ass up at 10 in the morning to ride my bike to the smoke filled sportsbar to get a glimpse of them on the TV. I'd sit at the bar drinking one hot chocolate after another until I went into diabetic shock. I'd squint across the room at the small TV in the corner and watch Kerry Collins sober ass throw interception after interception. But what did I expect I left them. Though it really hurt when they would never win a nationally televised game. In three years they didn't win a single Monday Night Football game or a late night ESPN game. Not one game I could see on a big screen or enjoy from the comfort of my home. I thought wow, they've really given up on us.

Now I've come back to my home market. I'm back for the second season in a row. That's right I was here last year. And I understood maybe last year they didn't trust that I would stay this time. But I have and I will. The least they could do is beat the Chargers. Or keep it close. You know like keep them from scoring on a few possessions. When will they forgive me for leaving? Don't they remember the good times like 1986 or 1990. Or how I stuck with them during those Ray Handley years. I even went to the stadium to watch them play during those years when no one else did. I can't believe they are willing to throw away a relationship that has lasted more than twenty years. If things don't improve by next week I'm thinking I'm going to end it with them. I'm looking for a little bit of reciprocity. I stayed home on a Sunday evening to sit infront of the television for three hours to support and cheer them on. I just don't know what to do anymore. I think I should move on. I mean the Yankees are still in it. And I hear arena football might be looking for someone.

Saturday, September 24, 2005


I blame my father for my inability to trust men. Yeah. See, when I was 5 years old my Dad told me that a glass of creme soda was rootbeer so that I'd drink it. I didn't believe him as the creme soda wasn't dark brown. But he swore to me SWORE TO ME that it was in fact rootbeer. So I trusted my father and took a sip. Blyick! Not rootbeer like I suspected. Nope. It was disgusting creme soda. I went to the fridge to confirm my suspicions and there in bubble letters read Shoprite Creme Soda. My father couldn't even buy premium creme soda. If my own father can't be trusted to tell me what I'm drinking, how am I to trust a stranger at a bar that says he just wants a one night stand. Suuure he does. Next thing you know this bar fly will be calling me day and night, infringing on my time, trying to move-in to my place. No non-committal sex for me. Thanks a million, pop.

Further why would a parent lie in order to get their kid to consume more soda? Soda is bad for people. It has no nutrional value. Most parents spend their energy trying to keep their young growing children from sugar-- you know to keep their teeth from rotting and bones from decaying. I used to think I was short because of genetics, but now I realize that it was that friggin sip of creme soda my father manipulated me to drink 23 years ago. I could have been a supermodel. Ahh who am I kidding my father would have probably told me that powdered sugar was the cocaine and I would have been too fat to model.

Friday, September 23, 2005

Gvetch and more Gvetching

Natural History magazine sent me a renewal notice. With the notice came a letter trying to guilt me into renewing my subscrission and Natural History Museum memembership. "Today, as losses to habitats and plant and animal species accelerate, our responsiblity to stay informed is of more profound importance than ever before." Then I thought how many trees do you kill, Natural History Magazine with your glossy paper publication? And how many habitats did you destroy and animals did you displace when you built your huge Natural History Museum on 6th Avenue? I hate to break it to you guys but Manhattan was not originally an island of building and concrete. In fact there were once trees other places than central park and other animals besides rats and pigeon. In fact there were no rats and pigeons.

Then I thought I'm an asshole. Everytime someone has an opinion or takes a stance I try to find where their hypocrisy instead of applauding their efforts. I got all mad at a Natural History, a magazine I've subscribed to for ten years, just because they're trying to keep me as a customer. So they're being a slightly hypocritical. Since when do I care about habitats and animal extinction? It's not like I live in a teepee. They wouldn't have resorted to these tactics of self-ritgeousness and politics if I had just renewed my subscrption with the first renewal notice. In fact, they would have wasted less paper, hence killing less trees, if I stopped procrastinating and just renewed my subscription when they first asked. Let's face it I never ordered the magazine I'd be doing the planet a big service that's 12 less magazines a year printed and 1/50th a tree saved.
How Katrina has screwed it up for everyone else.
This week WGBO, a public radio station out of Newark, NJ that plays Jazz, has been fund raising for...THEMSELVES!!! I thought how could any organization dare ask the public for money when the gulf coast and it's people have been destroyed. And who can afford to give to the jazz station and a Katrina fund? It's like "Oh hey, you have $40 to become a member of WGBO? Why didn't you give that $40 bucks to a Katrina fund, asshole! How dare you support the arts, you facist!" I also recieved notice of a Lupus research benefit for next week. I was like why isn't this a Katrina benefit? Lupus has had it's day in the sun. Lupus has been around hundreds of years and if you people haven't cured it yet, who says you ever will! People just throwing their money at a pipe dream. Besides that what people haven't already given all their discrentionary income to Katrina?

But soon the Katrina folks are going to get a taste of their own medicine. Rita is supposed to hit Texas sometime tomorrow and destroy cities and towns. Katrina's well is going to run dry after that devastation.

Then I thought why the hell do we pay taxes? Why does WGBO have to beg a like a toothless homeless person to keep it's station afloat? And why is Lupus dependent on some comedy show with comedians none of us have ever heard of? OK I've heard of them but that's because we go through the same temp agency. Don't get me wrong I hate taxes and actually don't believe in them and yet despite my disbelief they seem to exist. Despite me telling the taxes they'll never amount to anything, they continue to grow. And so, if I'm going to be forced to pay them they might as well go to good use like Jazz and disease research.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Going Through the Change

I don't remember being a dishonest child. But somewhere around 11 years old I can remember the mendacity train rolling into town. By the time high school rolled around I had dengenerated into a big liar. See that's a lie. I never was big. But I used to tell people in my freshman year gym class that at one point in my life I was 100 pounds over weight. In reality I wouldn't breach the hundred pound mark until college, never mind ever posessing 100 pounds of extra fat. Nonetheless I got a couple of people to buy it. Then one day in Spanish III my junior year someone asked what I did over the weekend. I responded nonchantly, "Nothing much. Just went down to a party in the City (that's New York in Jersey lingo) Friday night. The party didn't end until Sunday afternoon. Met a couple of dudes, I think I'm hanging with one this weekend. I can't remember much else, I drank a sooo much zima and sprit." I'd like to just to make clear this was a lie and never in my entire life have I EVER imbibed Zima.

Immediately after uttering this ridiculous story I realized I was lying to impress people for whom I had no respect. I decided I would stop lying from there on in. The lies didn't stop cold turkey, though. Lieing for seven years everytime I felt socially insecure was a hard habit to break. But with vigilance I reprogrammed myself for truth telling, and in College I was like a reincarnation of George Washington, without the wooden teeth or wig of course. I admitted to my peers, "No, I have never read a Dr. Who novel. I actually I don't masturbate. " (this latter one no one believed, but it was true at the time.) So now I was a truth teller as long as I was sober. When I was drunk forget about it. Example, the weekend of my college graduation I attended a party where I found myself inebriated. I was talking with this girl who I knew through mutual friends, she thought herself cool and bohemian and if she thought that than so did I because I can be a chump. She asked me where I was staying that night. I responded, "I don't know, man. You can't plan things like that. Where ever I guess. Maybe I'll squat in this building I know in Central Square." The reality: I was staying in a hotel room with my parents. They were in Boston to witness the graduation ceremony.

In the seven years since then I don't lie drunk or sober, except to cops and authority figures--but that doesn't count they can put you in and jail. But now I feel the pendulum has swung too far in the honest direction. I completely lack phoniness.. If I'm depressed everyone knows. If I think your scum I don't really hide the fact. I don't care if I am sleeping with you. People ask me sexual questions and I just answer them. Yeah my fantasy is pretty tame, just sex up against a wall or in a closet at a party. A normal person would tell you it's none of your business. Who knew that was a response?! Worse than that I point out social awkwardness as it is happening. "Maybe I would have said something more sauve but you intimidate me."

This way of living has not served me well at all and his really quite freakish. Other people aren't honest because honest is stupid. Not to mention a detriment to creativity. Lieing by its very nature forces us to invent, honesty does not. Honesty is for the mentally challenged who struggle just to recall what actually happened or find a word to describe a feeling. An intelligent person can do this in their sleep.

Well, that's all changing.

I'm going back to lieing. Yippee! I think I'm fabulous and you are all fabulous. Everyone one of you exceptionally talented I really enjoyed that thing you did the other day. Totally loved it. Which part? The whole thing, darling.
Oh Cheryl and I are such good friends. Her middle name? I actually don't know, I just met her yesterday. But tight we are tight.

You hate the rich. Yeah, I hear you sister, my parents are poor. My dad's a dishwasher and my mom does embroidering. She gets paid by the piece.
Oh you judge poverty, sir. Well, did I tell you about my trust fund? The poor let them eat cake that's what I say, in fact I coined that phrase. First person to suggest that. Though I'd like some cake too. We shouldn't give all the cake to the poor.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005


So my 90 year old grandmother is now taking a mood elevator, Welbutran--I think that's the one they've got her on. People, she's 90 I think she's proven she's not suicidal. If I am wrong and she is then well, she is the worst depressive ever.

Here's the thing. I don't deny that the woman might actually be depressed right now, but I'm thinking it's not a chemical in balance in her system. So maybe meds aren't necessary. How could I possibly know that? Well, I did graduate with a B+ average from a public high school in NJ and then went on to graduate Magna Cum Laude from Acting school. Yeah, that's right I know a thing or two like how to impersonate fire and breathe through my eyelids. Also I know my 90 year old grandmother did not just get her period. Therefore, she is not going through puberty, hence her hormones are not doing the all night party of insanity making her nuts. She's not some 12 year old girl in the suburbs sitting on her bed trying to figure out how she can use the safety- scissors in her hand to end it all. Further, Grandma not going through "the change" Granny is so old that she was going through the change at the beginning of the Vietnam Conflict. Nor has some young Don Juan type of 72 waved gold-plated canasta cards in her face in attempts to seduce her, knock her up and run away with her social security check; leaving her to search for a car and lake to drive it into--you know those pregnant gals, bonkers!. And despite her recent move back to NJ from Lauderdale Lakes, FL I don't think she's snorting coke after Thursday night bingo, but hey man maybe some of those retirees' incomes aren't so fixed.

It's not a chemical imbalance. What could it be? Not getting laid, moved from sunny Florida, starting life all over again, no illicit drugs. Yeah, I don't know. I guess it's best to just drug her up so she'll stop bitching.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

Vienna waits for you--completed

European story time. Yay! In this story we learn how those two characters in the picture to your left ended up in the picture to your left.

Vienna otherwise known as Wien. I still don't understand why we can't all call cities and countries what the people who reside there call them, but I guess that is a blogpost for another time.

I had no real interest going to Vienna. I spent the last couple of weeks prior to my departure trying to convince my travelling companion, Ross (see music links to the right for more info), that we should skip Vienna and just spend more time in Prague and Budapest. Somehow I failed. Though upon reflection I realize that despite the life I lead I actually am an autonomous adult and could have done what I wanted and not been held down by the constraints of "The Man," man. Or at least the constraints of one man. And perhaps they weren't constraints at all but just compromises. Like I'm sure he had little interest in the Jewish Quarter of Prague or the Mid-Evil Synagogue in Budapest but along he came anyway. Crazy thing about the Prague's Jewish quarter--no Jews there anymore. But at least none of Prague's archeticture was destroyed during WWII, that would have been a real travesty. Like in the US it isn't such a shame that barely a tribe person exists, it's not like we have any unpolluted land for them to live on anyway. Wow travelling is really a ray of marvelous warm sunshine, isn't it. Let's get back to the story which holds promises of under age sex.

Turns out Vienna, the least impressive city of the three I visited, wound up being the most fun.
Our first night we went walking around the Ring Strasse where we devoured gelato. I believe it was here I thought of Europe's greatest Catch-22. If the early Europeans had the-where- with-all to make frozen deserts such as gelato they probably wouldn't have been constantly warring and torturing each other. But you don't get freezers without settling lands and you don't settle lands without warfare. Basically, the answer to the question "War what is it good for?" is not "Absolutely nothing" like the hippies orginally thought, but is actually gelato. As much as I am a fan of gelato I don't know if the ends justify the means. They might, but I'm not sure.

Again we've been sidetracked by thousands of years of history.

After filling our bodies with saturated fat and calories galore we continued our exploration of downtown Vienna. Then the Lord began to piss on the city as if he was on a bender with Zeus and the boys. Luckily the Lord's waste contains mostly water with only a touch of acid. Ross and I ducked into a quaint little coffee shop. OK it was a Starbucks and not quaint. In our defense, though, we needed to stay dry and we never ordered a thing. Not only that but my nose was running and I used my sleeve as to avoid using one of their napkins. OK my nose wasn't running but if it had been I promise you I would not have used their napkins. You know what? Why don't you just shut up, I don't have to explain myself to you. The Hungarians wouldn't have had glorious thermal baths if the Turks hadn't invaded Hungary (which I enjoyed calling Hungaria just to piss Ross off.) and you know what I partook in those baths, and so would have you. And couldn't one say that the Turks were trying to homogenize the world in 13th century? It looks like you're no better than me. So, yeah I went to Europe and I went into a starbucks. Fucking shoot me.

Thanks for not shooting me. I got a little carried away in the above paragraph. I blame the jet lag. And you're right, Starbucks is hardly a thermal bath, but nonetheless we were in one drying off, looking through our Time Out guide to Vienna, and trying to find a something to do with the rest of our evening. We decided that we would try to find this club Flex because Kruder and Dorfemeister frequently spin there, Sweet! Then Ross eyes two females at a table near us. "I'll go ask those girls if they know about this club and where it is." I respond with "Go get'em, Sparky." I think to myself at least these are somewhat attractive. Prior to Austria I had to listen to Ross tell me how hot the girls of Prague were. The problem with this is that they weren't necessarily hot. Frequently, girls he pointed out to me as hot were merely cute and the cute one's were not even attractive. Now, usually a man's bad taste in women wouldn't bother me except that many moons ago I dated this fucker. So with every average to below average looking chick he describes as "HOTTTT!" my ego takes a chipping to. Look, I never deluded myself into thinking I was a head turner but I had developed some delusions that I may actually be somewhat cute. Well, by day four of our trip I my feet traversed the harsh world of reality once again.

So Ross goes over to these two thin, well groomed, symemtrically featured ladies and inquires about Flex. I think he won't get anywhere with them because they've already seen us conversing and would assume we are together. We have this problem throughout our trip. At one hostel we try telling the other guests we are cousins. I don't know that anyone bought the story as he is a tall Aryan looking fellow and am short and Jewy looking. And maybe some hostelers bought the story but probably thought we were together anyway--which is worse. Who knows what story he has told the Austrian girls in the Starbucks as I stayed out of the way trying not to cockblock. Ross looks over to me at some point and tells me the girls say we don't want to go to Flex. I ask them why?
"Ah der is a lot of drugs." OK.
"And der is a lot of yunger people deir. Da musik is loud. Drink many Euro. Ahh, you too old." I began to laugh. 32 year old Ross' face contorts. "We're not that old" his crushed ego whines. Turns out the girls are 17. Ross, still has a shot. According to the Time Out guide book the age of consent is 14 years old in Austria. Who knew Thailand had such influence in Europe.

These girls had no interest in my old man companion but were sweet nonetheless. They took us to a bar with live music with an "older crowd." They even convinced the dude at the door to let us in for free. After Ross and I decided we were happy to stay and listen to Bulgarian Folk music they girls bolted. I imagine they had Pre-Calc homework to finish before morning. I'm just thankful these two 110 pound teenaged girls didn't mug us and leave us for dead.

Sunday, September 18, 2005

"Jesus Loves You"

I know all 17 of you reading have felt an emptiness these last 12 days or so. Well feel empty no more ladies and gents I'm back from my Central European travels and ready to resume blogging. Tomorrow a brand new post! However, while I get my NY life back in order how about another sketch from my Portland Underground Showbiz Society Y'll days.


A woman stands on the corner. She hands out pamphlets. She is a Jesus freak.

Jesus died for our sins! Atone! Atone.
(Francesca and Mavis walk by. Jesus Freak speaks to them)

Jesus loves you.

Oh, oh no he doesn’t. That’s an unfounded rumor.

Of course he does.

No, I swear it’s just gossip.

His love is not gossip. It’s no rumor. We feel it everyday once we accept him into your heart.

You’re right. I am emotionally unavailable. None of my relationships ever work out. I have this big wall and I push people away…ah but ah trust me Jesus and I just not happening.

Jesus loves everyone.

What? Where did you hear that?

It is his word. All are worthy of his love, if they ----

That two timing…Who? Who who else is he seeing?

He sees us all.

You mean you too? I can’t believe. If he’d see you what does that say about me? That’s why he wanted to keep it quiet. It had nothing to do with his Dad’s temper and I my mom not being Jewish. He such a bastard. And you’re ok with this?

I love and accept Jesus into my heart.

So you’re not jealous?

Jealous of Jesus?

That he’s with every-body-else.

That’s one of the things I love about him.

(in runs Mavis with a notebook)

Fran. Fran you left your notebook.

Oh thanks.

(Reading the scribblings on the cover of Fran's notebook)
No problem Mrs. Jesus. Or is it Mrs. Francesca Jesus. Mrs. Christ.

Shut up.
(she rips the notebook from Mavis’ hand. Fran runs away with her notebook.)

(to Mavis)
Jesus loves you.

Nah, I’m not into do-gooders.
(exit Mavis)

Saturday, September 17, 2005

Making fun of Improv

Improv from Hell
A theatre or stage. Both Improvisers are on stage. One of them will become the audience member later.

Welcome to Improvalicious.

The Improv show that’s alacious.

Our show is similar to the show “Who’s line is it anyway.”

Like them we play cheesy gimmicky games that don’t require much ability to be witty.

But we don’t have Drew Carey or that pasty, British guy from the original show. But it’ll be good anyway.


The Game we’re going to play today is three things. The way this game is played is one of us will step out of the room.

Oh I wonder who that’ll be.

And then I will get three household or outdoor activities from you all. Then we’ll mix it up a bit—you’ll see how that works shortly. Then we’ll call the outside player in and he’ll try to guess what the activities are. Only catch is we can only speak in gibberish and use mime. Quick game of rock paper scissors to see who goes out.


123 shoot

(Improviser I throws out scissors. Improviser II throws out the middle finger.)

(Cheery) Scissors always beats fuck you.

See I was improvising. Professional performer.

Good for you. OK (intimating leave)

Ya ya. Like we didn’t know I was going out once again into the freezing bleakness.

Chin up buddy. Take my coat.

Improviser II leaves. Really he sits in the audience and becomes an audience member.
Improviser I gets out a dry erase board or lined paper something to write on

You’ll have to forgive him he’s going through the “change.” OK can I get some outdoor activities: like water skiing or cycling.

(in several different voices perhaps)
Running from the cops, cutting off the jerk doing 40 in the left lane. Burning books.
Great great thanks. Burning books was the first thing I heard clearly. OK how about a household chore, like doing dishes?

Cursing my computer, kicking strange men out of bed, running the car with the garage door closed.

Kicking strange men out of bed first thing I heard. We need one more suggestion. Oh writing love letters. Great suggestion.

No one said that.

That’s what I heard clearly.

(kind of mumbling) From the voices in your head.

OK now to make this more challenging we’re going to replace the things with which you’d normally do these activities with things you’d never do them with. Let’s start with burning books. Now usually you’d burn Huckleberry Finn but we’re going to replace that with what inflammable thing you’d never find at a book burning?

Self Doubt, Ignorance, betrayal, Self Loathing, mystery, mixed emotions, agony.

OK Huckleberry Finn is replaced by Self Doubt. Now usually you have a fire to burn the Tropic of Cancer, but instead of fire we’ll have?

Mixed emotions.

That’s pretty close to self doubt?


You’d pretty much find that a book burning.


Penguins. Great.

I said penance you ass.

I heard penguins. OK and usually at a book burning you’re going to have bible thumping townies, so we’re going to replace them with what thing that isn’t people?


Hinduism great.
(looks at watch)
Shit. We have a briss (said under his breath). All right let’s bring back Malcolm for our game of one thing.

I paid good money to see three things.

Shh. Let’s call Malcolm back in on the count of three. 1 2 3. Hey Malcolm!
(Audience member walks up on stage)
Could you at least try to pretend you were outside?

It’s cold out there. OK? The last show we did I caught pneumonia. You’re the one who cut the game short.

We have to be at the Bunnersteins for their son’s folk Briss in 20 minutes.

Folk Briss?

Yeah, it’s Peter Paul and Mary influenced…Theirs is a mixed marriage.

Will there be food?
Of course.

And that’s the game of one thing. Thanks for coming.

(black out)

Thursday, September 08, 2005


I have to say that my day and half in prague have been somewhat disappointing. I have yet to get a really good picture of myself. I need something for my internet dating profile. Meanwhile Prague Castle and the Charles Bridge are going to be getting tons of play once I email them the pix I took of them. So hottttt!!!

OK. I'll be back with witticisms and hilarity after the 17th.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Lips of Vanity

If I'm travelling to a Central European Country, a place the Slavs settled should I bother bleaching my mustache and/or other body hair? Would they be more likely to think that I'm Czech or Hungarian if the can see dark strands of hair on my upper lip and lower abs? Of course I'd also have to pretend I'm a deaf mute, as I don't speak Czech or Hungarian or German, and I'm sure that would give me away pretty quickly. They also really like beer over there and as they watch my hairy upper lip cringe as I try to down a pint that too would be a clear sign that I may not be from there. But at least for a second they would be confused, and maybe that second is all I'd need to escape some heinous kidnappers looking to hold Americans for ransom. My whole life I've hated my genetic make-up and now I can be grateful for it. That is if I ever go over to Prague or Budhapest or something.

And for all of you who are all offended by me calling Czech woman hairy, shut up! Your offense stems from a US centric view of beauty. You've decided that extra hair is bad and so to bring up that someone or a people may have more hair than let's say a WASP that it is an insult. Well, I find your offense and insult mister. So how do you like them apples? Of course I might be completely wrong about Slavic women having more hair than their North Western European brothers and sisters. In which case I'm an ignorant fool who should stop typing and bleach her mustache and... hell, the rest of her.
I would also like to take this time to talk to Carly Simon.
Ms. Simon, or Carly. Can I call you Carly?
I have trouble understanding your song, "You're so Vain." You seem mad at the subject of the song (rumor has it it's Warren Beaty) because he is so vain that he thinks your song is about him, but the song is about him. So I'm thinking maybe he's not vain at all. Maybe he just knows you because you dated and all, and is self aware about what he's done in the past. Carly, I don't know the man so you would know better than I if he is vain or not. Really he could be the vainest bastard on the planet--though have you dated everyone on the planet? But I'd go with you on top 10% in the world in vainness. However, whether or not he is vain has very little bearing on him thinking the song is about him because like expressed earlier it is indeed about him. The whole song you're bitching about all the shitty things he's done. And good for you. Don't hold that toxic stuff inside and let it fester. Express yourself, and make some money off your pain while you're at it. The rest of us have to pay money for intoxicants or a therapist.

My solution is rerecord the song to "Your so vain/ I had to bitch and sing in a song about you/ your so vain/I had to bitch and sing in a song about you...."

Thank you for your time Carly Carls.

On the stalk wagon

Sometimes at 28 years of age I feel like an old woman. I hear the young girls talking about stalking boys and all it involves is google searches and extensive blog reading. In my day stalking wasn't something you could do from home. If you wanted to stalk someone you had to save up, buy a plane ticket, and go to Chicago.

That's why I gave up stalking the jet lag was killing me.

Monday, September 05, 2005

Gulf Coast Housing Relocation

So everything I've tried writing about Katrina and my memories of New Orleans just seems trite and saccrine and bullshit. So I'll donate my money and I'll post a relocating related email my friend from Baton Rouge sent me and like the rest of us who are fortunate enough not to have had to endure this I'll continue to discuss Katrina with my friends and family because that's what we do. But I'm not writing jokes about it, and not going to post self-indulgent memories of one of my favorite cities, not tonight anyway. But I will be posting something non-related, because I'm lucky enough to have the luxury to sit in my apartment and write something silly.

Katrina Housing Help
Message: Please forward this list to anyone in the
Southeast (or anywhere else in the country---I'm
sure some people will be relocating farther out
than just the South) who you think may be willing
and able to provide shelter, for any length of
time, to those displaced by the hurricane on the
Gulf Coast. If you are able to provide housing AT
ALL, for ANY length of time, please create a
listing on these sites. I know it seems like a big
commitment to make, and it is, but really, most of
these people are absolutely devastated---no house,
no job, nothing to go back to at all, even if they
ever do get to go back---and they need all the
help they can get. or 888-827-2525

Check the wiki for updates
to this list, as well as
in general and this thread in particular:

Friday, September 02, 2005

The Devil and Pork

Even a comedic genius such as myself has bad sets. Like tonight. Ugh! But if I learned anything from my three and half years of inconsistently funny stand-up comedy it's that I can always sell my soul to the devil in exchange for the funny. All he has to do is offer. Why won't he offer?
Did I ever tell you guys the time my friend Anna sent a fellow folk singer she had been seeing a ham after he broke up with her? "Anna, why did you send him a ham?"
"Because I wanted him to know he could take back his break up."
Nothing says I'll let it slide like dead pig. It worked. He then knew he could take it all back. Turns out he didn't want to.
"But why a ham, Anna?"
"He likes pork chops."
"But you didn't send him pork chops."
'Well, the florist didn't have pork chops. It was the next best thing."
"Why wouldn't you call a butcher?"
"Butchers don't have cards to send with their meat."