Archive | March, 2014

Some Things

28 Mar



You can’t blog everything all of the time.  Sometimes FB lack of anonymity kills it for you.  Even though everywhere else on the interwebs, I could be the chick sitting next to you on the bus, for all you know. (I’m not, but what if I was???)

…Which is weird. 

…Cuz the line boundary of what you can and cannot share has nothing to do with politeness and decency, but usually everything to do with who you don’t wanna stir shit up with cuz you might be working/running into/hanging out with them, later.  This makes a strange gray area in the land of blogging.  It means, (cuz of my strange and random “ehh” to personal privacy),  I can tell you all about my periods and BMs, sexual escapades and mental deficiencies…but not about the dick move that whats-his-name did the other day, or how incompetent ya-de-ya-da is.  So long as whats-his-name and ya-de-ya-da are one of the 400 FB people in my stream or other people’s I know.

…This cuts out on considerable amounts of venting, I’ll have you know.  Which is one of the reasons this blog was created to begin with.  It means drafting up poser-posts that stay in draft form as I light up the keyboard with flames of fury and bitch-snap, then immediately delete upon completion, because…well…it has to be done.

…But the point I’m trying to make here is that, sometimes the best material is left lying there like an open-ended set-up to a joke.  You REALLY want to pick it up and finish it…you REALLY want the rim shot of tasteless joy one gets from completing a really good zing…but you can’t…because you’re in the internet equivalent of a church pew, and if you go there right now, you’ll be totally excommunicated. Dieing a social-death forever in a pit of hellfire and damnation of your own lighting.

…So instead, you try and think of something else to write about, to keep your mind else wise occupied.

…Which is how prob’ly 30% of these posts exist to begin with.

…Including this one.

The end.


A Toy For When You’re Bored At Work Cuz It’s Raining Again And Sales Are For-Shit.

…It’s just a working title, but pretty much nails the idea. So go to here. Cuz I did. And it’s mesmerizing. Good for background or just to watch and zone out on. The real-time musical journey of sharing information from around the world. Right there. Broken down by specific sound registers on Listen Wikipedia, by topic. Bells are additions, string plucks are subtractions, pitch change according to size of edit, color circles by editors, new users by string swells. Click on any that pops up and it’ll take you to it’s update, so you can read as the page plays on. It’s a strange little symphony, in 32 languages…of people teaching other people about the world. And it’s hypnotically awesome.


Apparently there’s an anti-Valentines day movement by dudes pissed about how for some reason it turns out to be all about their ladies, and they get nothing outta the deal. There’s a shit-ton of crotchless edible underwear and flavored lube sales that’ll tell yuh different, but whatthefuckever . Point is… They say there is (and should be) this whole other observance day of joy just for the dudes, and I just found out about it. I also immediately spouted, “Well fuck that! What about the single ladies with no significant other to get them shit on February 14th?!”

…Which is when I invented “Whiskalingus Day.”

…It should be celebrated closely adjacent to the dude-prescribed “Steak, Beer & Blowjob Day”…for general fairness purposes…but with a re-booking option freebee, in case Mrs. Johnson is in town.

…You may be happy to know, I’m already in talks with my development team, and we’ve decided to offer Jameson and Red Breast, first option as our sponsors (why fuck with lesser…we deserve the very best)…and International Chapter Chairwomen positions are open for nomination.

…I will, of course, be credited as originator and CEO. I will also be the deciding vote on who our Grand Marshall each year will be. This will depend largely on who I am currently obsessing over at the time, and thus, almost always some kind of acting celebrity. The Board of Directors will discuss advertising options, and inevitable underwear product lines (which will contain no lace or crotchless shit, yet still manage to be sexy and comfortable…with enough room on the butt for our slogan.)

…So stay tuned. Also, if interested to join our team: apply here.


It is Friday. What more do you want from me.



26 Mar


So this happened…

Got on the scale this morning after another not-great-sleep and had a double take at the face plate.  Understandable as my eyes were blurry from being shrieked awake by the news of how high the body count is now in the mudslide here…cuz  apparently I must have bumped the station setter on my clock radio and switched it to talk radio.

…I hate talk radio. It’s almost always angry, picking fights and depressing.  I hate it even more when it wakes me up out of the three hours sleep I finally managed to get.

…So anyway…where was I?

…Oh yeah, I was rubbing my eyes again to focus on the digital read-out on my scale, while behind me the shower water blasted on full, waiting to warm up.

Scale: Blinky, blinky, solid number.

Me: Wait. What?

(I get off and try again.)

Scale: Blinky, blinky, same solid number.

Me: Huh.

(I get off, jiggle the back plate, check the batteries…and try it a third time)

Scale: Yeah, I already told you…”BLINKY, BLINKY, SAME NUMBER.” What are you not understanding here?

Me: Because …how??

Scale: How the hell would I know? I have one job, lady…I’m doing it. That’s all I’ve got.

Me: But…wha…I don’t…understand

Scale: Listen, it is what it is. Deal with it.

Me: But…but…

Scale: –LOOK!! I’ve gotten a lot of fucking abuse from you lately, you know?! Every damn time you’ve used me in like the past month, you’ve told me to go to hell, go fuck myself, or kiss your ass! Every. Single. Morning! All I do is report your weight. It ain’t my fault what the outcome is! Did I shove the booze and shit-food down your throat till you puffed up like a Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon??? NO! I didn’t! I report the results! That’s all! It’s like getting pissed at the weather man when he says its gonna rain today, and it does!!





Me: So I’ve just passed the 10 pound mark???

Scale: I GUESS SO!

Me: Just like “that?” Just from out of NOWHERE?!

















(I get off scale as it’s screen goes to black.)


(Momentary joy fills the land, just as I step into the shower…and scald myself raw.)



(end scene.)


You Dirty Cheat

24 Mar


The longer I give up a vice, the worse it gets.  Giving up all but one of ’em magnifies the whole thing beyond ridiculous.  In my final stretch of this nonsense (ending Sunday), I’ve been reduced to pretending I’m getting away with something bad, when I’m really not.

I’m not the noble type.  I’d rather feel like I’m breaking the rules any day, over martyring over it.  Unless I can spin it to make you laugh, in which case, I’m a whore for an audience so I’ll take whatever I can get away with.

…It is because of this that I entered the weirdest part of detox, sometime late last week: Pretending I’m cheating when I’m really not…just to psych myself into accepting the loss and shutting up about it.

“What the hell does that even mean?” you might ask yourself?

…It means dressing things up naughty, in order to fake out your brain that they are naughty, so you can reasonably consider yourself not really missing anything at all.

I am lying to myself on purpose and pretending I haven’t caught on yet.

How fucking lame is that?

…It started with fizzy water.

…I’ve been drowning in it.  It has long been my lack-of-soda fake-out, giving me bubbles that I miss, with zero nutritional cost on the diet end.  Other than the totally unsatisfying side affect of a water burp versus a Coke one, it seems to do the job most of the time. But it stopped filling the void in week two this time. So one night, for kicks, I filled up a champagne flute with it, and popped in few frozen berries set afloat.

…Turns out, the glass is 9/10th of my brain craving.

…I tested this heavily across all last week. Non-fat milk in a tumbler doubles as a White Russian if you sip not gulp.

…Apple and cranberry juice in a wine glass taste 75% naughtier than when not in one.

…Hot black tea with enough straight lemon juice to drown in, and a shot of cyan pepper makes a serviceable hot toddy on a rainy day…only for the love of god don’t try it an hour before bed.

There is, however, no pretence on EARTH that can fix the lack of whiskey.

…But, peppered and grilled garbanzo and kidney beans can give you the same general texture as chicken in a bowl of rice.

…Diced up colored bell peppers make even the most boring brown and pasty of foods look 300 times more appetizing.

…Steaming veggies in garlic to al dente makes shoving pound bags of em down your gullet a hell of a lot more interesting than raw salad number 456.

…After this, I frankly never want to see a piece of naked fruit again…but dried or in a roughly blended juice with some veg can get it down…if it is a sugar substitute must…and keep you from wanting to hit over a convenience store for a Milky Way bar.

There is no cure for pizza.

…But you can in lieu of a burger with a warm turkey sandwich…hot meat (pardon the expression) is hot meat…you can wig your brain to believe it’s almost anything.

…Especially when you’re desperate.

Desperation also can replace brown gluten-free protein powder in water as chocolate milk.

…Make you think the 12 supplement and vitamin pills you pop every morning, full of various weeds and homeopathic hoo-de-haws, will expand and fill your tummy for hours.

…That burping up broccoli means you’re totally in shape.

…That NOT cheating for real, at all, even a little bit, naturally means you will finally drop that sixth fucking pound because: SCIENCE!

…That all the clay masks and lotions and steam showers will de-age you by 10 years, instantly.

…That it’s totally normal for your stomach to growl sonatas during quiet scenes in rehearsal.

…That the pregnant gnome eating 300 times a day to the point that she smells like pizza sauce and baked goods permanently, means that (eventually) her tummy will out-protrude yours.

…These are the lies I have been forcing upon myself.

…They are getting more outrageous as time passes.

…If I were doing this for 30 days instead of 20, I’d be wandering around in my fat pants again, pretending that they fitted like a glove only two days ago, and hula hoop the waist band to everyone I see…just to show how much weight I’d lost in only 48 hours.

…I’d dye tofu red and pretend it’s sweet and sour pork on rice.

…I’d throw lemon juice in water and call it a dirty martini.

…In short: the ending could not come any sooner or last-second than it is.

And I am glad.

Because, even for an actor, I’m running out of lies to pretend for myself.

…And also, I’m not so sure I’m buying the ones I’ve already been telling, to begin with.


Dear Waterfront

21 Mar


A walk after work, to let go of the week.  Second day of Spring, sun is out, wind is nippy. And because I can’t just walk to walk…I take in the people and things sharing it with me…composing notes along four miles of ocean front.

Dear Kid Learning To Ride A Bike,
You’ve got this buddy.  Dad’s got your back, and Mom’s waiting for you with open arms.  I hope this is true for you, forever.


Dear Twenty-Something Beach Bod Shirtless Skateboarder Whose Lapped Me Three Times,
Without sounding letchy…thank you.


Dear Stroller Brigade,
Kudos, super Moms in matching tracksuits.


Dear C.I.Shenanigans,
So much garlic and butter smell, wafting.  You teasing asshole.


Dear Middle-Aged Couple Making Out On Grass Knoll,
Winning! Kinda gross…but, winning!


Dear Epic Wonder Runner,
I didn’t know there were that many different individual muscles in a calf.  You freak of fitness.


Dear Cocktail Hour Seniors Lolling Into Harbor Lights,
I’m so jealous of you bastards.  Have one for me.


Dear Construction Workers,
Heh, heh. (winky wink.)


Dear Fat Man With Tiny Dog,
Casting gold.


Dear Clam Diggers,
Dudes, don’t eat ’em.  It’s the goddamn waterfront.  You know what’s in that water?!?!?


Dear Tandem Runners,
It’s cute how you can talk, run, and breathe at the same time.  But you don’t have to rub it in.


Dear Awkward Rollerbladers,
Most people learn how to do this in a less public and embarrassing atmosphere…without thru-traffic and extending dog leashes everywhere.  But apparently,you’re not “most people.” So good luck with that.


Dear Dog Daters,
I dunno how your dog sniffing her dog’s butt opens up meet-cute conversation flirtation…but whatever works for yuh, I guess.


Dear Random Tweaker Dancing Fosse Moves To Silence,


Dear Emo Gay Boys,
Listen: you’re friends, one or both of you wants to be more, so stop walking with hands in pockets, three feet apart, like accidental physical contact would set you on fire. One of you assholes, just take the other one’s hand, and get over it.


Dear Old Man Onna Bench,
If I was playing waterfront bingo, I would have just won, for which I hypothetically thank you.


Dear Handsy New Daters,
You’re not ready to be in public yet. There’s a society line at 4pm in public where children are hanging out. That line doesn’t include cupping, squeezing or dry humping.


Dear Chick Putting Off Script Study To Write A Blog Entry,
Cuppa tea number 300, turn off the computer, and get to work…slacker.



20 Mar


We have crossed the halfway point of my detox.

It’s for-shit.

…After cutting salt, sugar, booze, fast food, and preservatives, plus adding a vitamin regime, and tons of raw fruit and veg, I am only 5 pounds down from the day I fucking started.


…None of this has been worth five pounds.  Ten would even be stretching it, but acceptable.  Five is what you gain after a day of pizza, ice cream and beer…with maybe a burger on top.  If you take that same shit away, reason states you should lose the same amount.

…It’s only fucking fair.

…If you take that stuff away across 11 days of time…you should be dumping weight faster than (enter analogy here…I’m too hungry and tired to think of one.)

…And that’s another thing: isn’t eating well supposed to make you feel awesome?!  Aren’t you supposed to sleep better and go around like the happy chicks in Tampon commercials with all their running, biking, hiking, swimming, excess energy joy?

Cuz I don’t.

…If anything, I’m moodier and have to force myself just to take a flipping walk at saunter pace in the sunshine.

…It’s like a horrible perimenopause over here. 

…Reason is telling me to just bunk it and go back to life as I know it.  None of this is making me look, feel, or act like a better person.  Back in the happy days of whiskey and hamburger patties…I was at least fun to be around.  I’m even pissing myself off lately. 

…But I will stick with it to the full run-out date, anyway.  Because I’m not the giving up type. I will win this fucker by completing it, and then screw the lack of results as I will in theory have won anyway just by seeing it to the end.

…And then…

…I will have the most butter-filled, meat-coma-inducing, cream-sauce-covered meal you have ever seen, to celebrate.  And I will drink whatever the hell I want to.

…And I will prob’ly have the best sleep and happiest following day in the past month, because of it.

Detox can suck it.


She Withdrawls A Little….

16 Mar


It’s like a social warzone out there today. 

…After going back and forth with cloudy/sunny days across two weeks, it decided to rain today, and apparently piss everyone off in the meantime.

I’m not in a great mood either, but that’s beside the point.

Mine is based purely on being mid-day-seven without sugar, salt, fried food and liquor.  I feel this is a LEGITIMATE excuse to be cantankerous…definitely more than just “it’s raining.” Especially in this state.

…Everywhere I’ve gone today, people have been dicks.  Cutting you off in traffic…not once, but four or five times.  Kids throwing fits at the pet store and screaming at the top of their lungs while you’re stuck in a line that stretches past the adopted pets and amphibians all the way to the freaking bird food section, as the parents continue to ignore it completely like they’re deaf. A lady who wants to debate every single charge amount on her receipt at Bed, Bath & Beyond…they didn’t have any purses I wanted even a little bit at Marshalls or Ross…and then the topper: waiting in TWO Starbucks lines, with cutters.

…I fucking hate cutters. It just outrages me!

…I hate it even MORE when they are standing between me and the LAST CRUTCH ON EARTH allowed to me: a cup of black coffee.

The first time, the drive thru line was coming from so many directions, I let it slide and moved onto the next drive thru, further down the freeway…but by the SECOND time, I was ready to jump out of my car, rip open their door, and shove a bottle of Beta water conditioner up where the sun don’t shine.  Fucking Audi assholes and their goddamn cookie Frappuccinos!

…Now FINALLY I am home. Where I apparently should have just stayed to begin with.

I knew the pjs were using an old seduction line, but what works, works…and I should have just listened to the damn know-it-alls, and not even gone out today.

…Instead, I’m ticked off, with a half a thing of coffee left (as the Barista didn’t put the lid on right, yeah…you can guess how that turned out)…and now I’m off to make something green, that I don’t wanna eat, but don’t have a choice about, as it is all that exists in my house now, which is not yogurt…!!

…And “fruit on the bottom” can just kiss my ass!

(Rips shirt with giant coffee stain off, throws it on the floor, slams a chug of what’s left in the cup, and marches to the kitchen, indignantly.)

FUCKING DIETS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Great Actingness

13 Mar


I dunno if this happens with every profession, but “acting” I think gets a shittier rap than it should.

…Almost all you see about it are the glories and pitfalls…not the grunt work. Celebrity is great and all…awards are fantastic…excess, alcoholism, bitch-fights, and drug abuse are our biggest downfall…but the media has pushed these things so heavy to the forefront, as to soil the reputation of what we actually do out there in the world with our work, by and large.

This is an honored profession. It is an esteemed collective. It is a group of individuals, striving to show and share the human experience, broaden the brotherhood, celebrate our uniqueness, crossing age, race, sex, politics, religion…it provides another point of view, educates, enlightens, and broadens our horizons. It is a window looking into the best and worst of us, to study in hopes of understanding and relating to one another better tomorrow than we did yesterday, and last year, and 500 before that.

What we do (if we are intent to do it with serious ethic and art, not just for the bucks and golden statues), is an honor of trust. We are the mirror of the world and all it’s dark, bright, horrible, beautiful, terrifying, delightful places. And that, I think, is why we are so hungry to watch and seek and find new mentors from other people’s work. It is why we hold viciously intense emotional relationships with people we’ve known for two months time and might not even see again for fifteen years.

…It is why you can have an enormous amount of pride in another person’s drop-dead-gorgeous performance, whether you’ve met them or not…like it is a personal achievement of your own.

…Because it sort of is.

Great acting makes the world of “other” fall away. When you get sucked into a performance, it becomes a personal experience between you and the actors involved. They are peeling back and showing something naked and vulnerable to you…no half way…no safety net…without knowing how you will react to it, if you will honor it, spit on it, roll your eyes at it, get angry about it, hate them, or want to ravish them for it. It’s a hell of a trust exercise, I gotta tell yuh…and the success rate, even on an Award-winning-everything performance, will never be 100%.

…Because art is in the eye of the beholder, and what speaks to some might not to others.

…But when a performer sees another performer being brave…being honest, and naked and real. When it makes you feel embarrassed for watching, as if you’ve crossed a line that courtesy tells you is too far…when you are shown something that heaves your guts in empathy, or pity, or disgust…when it isn’t pretty, but somehow beautiful with the perfection of reflection on our imperfections, as “people”…it becomes almost a personal triumph of your own as WELL as whoever the hell just did that scene in front of you.

Because you KNOW what that kind of thing takes.

You’ve had to go there too.

…It isn’t about comparing your talents, it’s about embracing the fact that this is “family”…that person is your acting-brother-or-sister. This is OUR TEAM. And holy shit, did you just see what they did??!?!?!

I think this “pride”…or whatever you wanna call it…is in some part based on that familial sense of “we” and “us” that the acting community shares. It’s ties go deeper and get stronger if it is in regards to someone you have literally sweat and toiled with before, or have mentored personally, or have considered a mentor to yourself. But, these people do not need to even be aware of their personal link with you…they may have never met you…it doesn’t matter. If you have become invested in their art personally, then you take their hits and misses like a silent partner in crime…and you are one, because as everyone knows, the audience is the final cast member to everything we do. Whether they become invested and come along on the journey or not, has a huge baring in what our work will achieve.

When I see a performance that really, really arrests me…it becomes more than just an “entertainment.” If it has totally side-swiped my emotions, it becomes a literal part of me. A study piece. I will hold onto it. I will own it. I will make use of it, in some way, at some point, in my own work…it will live with me…in my tool kit of experience I’m constantly adding to.

…Someday, I will be faced with a moment, a line, a scene and in my brain I will think, “This is too much, I don’t know how to achieve all this. How can anybody go this far into the black hole of this character, and still retain a sense of self at the end of the day?”

…And I will open my toolkit, and take out a performance I have seen and say, “That’s how. Right there. You just become brave as fuck…like them…and do it.”

Last night I was up till 2:30 am watching a performance just like that.

Twice in fact.

…And it’s mine now. I own it: the lessons that come with it, and the pride in a sister-performer-teacher, who was balls-out beautifully brave enough to create it.

…Makes me feel “our team” just won a hell of a prize-fight.

…Makes me just itch to put it to use in my own right.

…Makes me proud to be a part of the family.

All good things 🙂


D & D Diets

12 Mar


You know…there should really be a bonus program for when you are dieting. 

…I mean, if you have the luxury of personal trainers and hermitting away from all your temptations, bully for you!  But for those of us who live in the real world, I think there should be some kind of alternate weight loss bonus for every time your face is slammed up against the window full of your choicest weaknesses and you still manage to resist.

…Things like the fact that today is only the third of my self-imposed detox, and in the last 48 hours I’ve turned away three boxes of donuts, a pizza, ham and cheese croissants, several Lattes, and free booze.  I have lost two pounds.  I feel my suffering is worth more than that, due to the circumstances of having to live and coexist with the goods across many hours while people have conversations with me, mid-consuming them.

Diets should be like a game of Dungeon and Dragons. I mean, it’s a bitch of a quest against all odds with shit coming at you from all directions. So why the hell not?

…And in keeping with this theme, we should all get character bonuses and special weight-loss powers to go with it.

For instance, as a Boozing Blubber, I should get an automatic +3 for acknowledgment and effort against any oncoming temptation monster. +1 if whatever I am turning away is offered free of charge, and +10 for stamina if I have to look or smell said temptation over an extended amount of time and still manage to resist it.

…I should come with a resilience weapon that defies mean people who wave their tacos in my face, and does a +20 damage of automatic weight transfer from me to them, and a special covert bonus with a chance to roll to run away and hide in my office with the door closed for an entire turn, when the pizza delivery guy arrives.

…As for alcohol…that might require additional powers from the DM, bequeathed in pity and/or support given the specific circumstances of the monster in play. If at home alone…even if watching a show wherein drinking figures heavily…the Boozing Blubber comes with +5 defiance. But if you take her and put her in a pub over friend-meets and it’s their turn to buy, there should be an added +2 for now being the designated driver, AND a one-time-per-day bonus of “ferret away”…which means you accumulate whatever drinks were offered and are able to use them later, after the Diet Campaign has been completed.

…Which means that by today, I’d already be less like 85 pounds, with two free drinks coming my way…which is more weight than I need to lose, and gives me an excuse to call and meet up with more friends…while killing the Diet Monster, and completing my campaign in full!

If diets were like THIS it would balance out the fucking playing field. It’s only fair. You should at LEAST get the courtesy of success equal to the chances of a roll of some dice.

…Which just proves that if theatrically inclined nerds ruled the world, instead of Science and Politics…water would turn to Mountain Dew, Cheetos would be a major food staple, showers would be optional, and everything would be fucking great!

(Well, two outta three ain’t bad.)


Giggle Bubbles

9 Mar


Acting is a weird profession.

…What other one on the planet requires you to be other people, embrace and empathize with serial killers and monsters, partake in voyeuristic fake sexual activities, and fuck with your mind and emotions on a continual basis as “part of the job?” 

Maybe an undercover cop. 

That’s about it.

…But what’s even more screwed up, is the fact that this seems perfectly normal to us and aside from a few character-inflicted hangovers, can come and go in any combination or variety, multiply even as needed, simultaneously, and then go cold turkey dormant at the drop of the hat…sure leaving a few mood swings in their wake, but other than that, fairly harmlessly.

…I mean, we do shit on a stage that puts people behind bars for life, sends them into lockdown therapy, demands suicide watch, and lands them on the cover your more unsavory pulp-newspapers and magazines. Pretty much on a continual basis. Then, two hours (or sixteen) later, we go home, pop a beer cap, and eat some pizza, like nothing has happened.

I don’t care who you are, that’s just fucked up.

And we’re, you know, just sorta used to that.

…But every once in a while, it does kinda throw you.  You’ll do a role a little too close to home, or something will get into your head a little too deeply, and it becomes more difficult to divorce yourself at the end of the day. 

…Sometimes you have that Christopher Reeves-Somewhere-In-Time penny moment, when you become suddenly distracted by the most innocent of things and it rips you out of your happy little acting bubble, realizing that it’s all fake and you are you, and the delicacy of the moment is completely shattered…scrambling helplessly to hold onto the last tail end of this projected truth so you can do the job that people in the seats, right now, staring up at you, are waiting for you to do.

…And sometimes you’re just artistically sideswiped and get the giggles.

Epic giggles.

Inappropriate-can’t-hold-your-shit-together-for-the-life-of-you giggles.

There is no cure.

This is the kind of thing where you so suddenly realize the total absurdity of the situation you are in and that this is your life, and this moment needs to happen because people and their jobs and careers are depending on you…which should put enormous amounts of significance on it all, you would think…but doesn’t…because it’s all riding on the right timing of a burp, or how fast you can drop trow, or how much tongue to use in this kiss, or even just delivering a line which has some double meaning to you and your scene partner, and so now neither one can look the other in the eye at all, when it comes time to say it.

Giggle bubbles.

…I’ve just hit one.

I am currently sipping coffee, on break from reading a script. It is not a comedy. In fact it is the most far flung from it. I keep expecting with the next page turn that it will invent a new apocalypse, strain of disease, or drug O.D.

…It is a one-woman show, containing several characters undertaken by the single actor. I will not be responsible for the acting portion of said piece, I will be the stage direction usher, for a dear friend, who will be.

…This all comes as part of a gig for one of the Universities, in their writing department. A script writing and development class has come full circle and they have brought in a few professional actors to stage read the shows for the playwrights, so they can take notes on further changes and workshopping needed before launching them out into the world and publisher’s doorsteps.

…There are several scripts and all of the actors split time in role sizes and stage directions, as “cast” by the facilitator of the gig. None of the actors have read the scripts, or know the roles until the final edit has trickled in and been forwarded. Of the four pieces I’m in, this is the only one I’ve received thus far. And it is a masterpiece of definition in being a new work by a new playwright.

What does this mean?

…People are told to write what they know, write what will catch your attention and draw an audience, know the audience you are writing FOR, and/or make a statement or impression that will stay with you.

…Because of this, there are many, many, many plays in this world riding the soap opera wave of personal tragedy with shock-theatre gimmick, attempting to assail you with either a deluge of tears, pissing anger, sexual enticement and/or whatever performance art involving a dude taking a dump on a five-dollar-bill while dressed as a mime, falls under.

Classic new playwrighting syndrome.

…And this particular script has it all.

I seriously can’t keep a straight face while reading.

This poor woman central character is emotionally pushed through so many events in 30 pages, and had so many orgasms while doing it, that it’s like a theatrical version of Rasputin. She’s been hypothetically, stabbed, shot, gutted, run over by a car, a bus, a train, thrown off a plane in flight, survived a couple of world wars and her dog just died.

…I’m only on page 13.

…I had to take a break.

…From laughing.

My fucking stomach hurts.

…Now, I’m not intending to be “mean,” this is just one of those instances I was talking about before…when I realize the total absurdity of what we do and how we do it, and what we are asking the audience to do, by trusting and coming on this journey with us…which (literally in this case) is about every sexually erotic and explicit deed and curse word, with every broken down junky personal tragedy you can throw in there, in an explosion of screaming in your face offensive, yet autobiographical who-de-haw, that I’ve read in a long-ass time.

And this Wednesday, I will be it’s narrator.

…At some point I will need to actually face an audience, with my dear friend, and support her, as she undergoes fucking herself, the audience, and the English language all to hell.

…And I need to do it with a straight face.

My job is just cocking weird…is what I’m saying.


Your Friday Randomness

7 Mar


Listen, I have these two bananas left on my desk…so do you want one? 

…I’ve been pushing them on everyone since I came in today.  Apparently bananas have a shelf life of about a day-and-a-half in my house, cuz I swear they were mostly green when I got them Wednesday, and now they’re on the ass-end of being brown-freckled to death.

Stupid fruit.

…See, this is why I do vegetables, instead.  This always happens to me. The apples get soft brown spots, the berries grow fuzz and the oranges sound like slushies when you shake them…all within about 48 hours from date of purchase.  I need to just stop trying anymore and buy my fruit as nature intended I consume it: In Oikos yogurt.


I did this really stupid thing yesterday at “lunch.” I watched the finale of “Burn Notice.”

…I was naturally devastated and useless for about three hours after, and super pissed, but in the good way…cuz it HAD to end the way that it did…with the people and the things and the stuff, and it was a moment of total bad-assness on it’s own terms…but still. It wasn’t okay. And you need to know that.

…Lucky for me I still have “Cagney & Lacey” to consume as I lick my wounds. Which…I dunno if you’ve seen it in a while or not…but it ain’t like those cheesy 80’s shows with bad writing, and dated everything else. That show, is tops. I mean laughing out loud and getting pissed and emotional EVERY EPISODE kind of good.

…Plus it continues to feed my current “Celebricrush” fulfillment on Sharon Gless.

…Know what else feeds that? (Other than my Amazon wish list?) Google and the YouTubes.

…In fact, Google and the YouTubes are tops when it comes to “Celebristalking.” So many happy hits of joy to seek and mine. Of course I choose to refer to this action as “study time” more than “stalking”…in as much as I am gaining valuable information useful to my daily life and career, and not just general gossip about which brand she smokes (none, she’s quit), or how many per day (three packs, at her highest.)

…Lessons like, “Every Fucking Way To Use A Cigarette As A Prop.” This is an important update to the unwritten book Bette Davis first wrote back in the 30’s. And with the theme of characters on my resume, this can ONLY be considered invaluable information. So too, “How To Make Your Interviewer Blush.” “Wig & Hair Ornamentation Tips.” “How To Be The Darling Of The Gays.” “Out Dirty-Laughing The Dirty Laughers.” “How To Embrace & Love The ‘Fat Farm.'” “How To Be A GILF.” “Marriage Ain’t For Everyone.” And, “How To Tell A Critic To Fuck Off.”

…I think perhaps the last one is my particular favorite. Mostly for its context:

“The woman in San Jose slammed everything I did from the minute the curtain came up! She hated every moment of it and criticized my orgasm! …I wanted to write her and say, ‘Look lady, I don’t know what yours are like or if you’ve ever had one, but I did mine standing up and got applause every night.'”

…That was Gless at age sixty-something, P.S.

Just: “Winning.” The end.

In Other News: I am now eating my second banana of the day. Can you OD on them? I dunno. I only bought them for the vitamins and you CAN OD on those…though I still don’t understand how.

…As part of my “trying to embrace and love the ‘Fat Farm,'” lesson, I decided a natural food detox with vitamin bump would be a good idea. So looked up a bunch of all natural stuffs, together with recommendations of friends, and now am choking down weeds and powders in pill form, every morning, in lieu of breakfast.

…I tried to fix that too…which is where the bananas come in.

…Only turns out that raiding my pantry for pills from the last health kick I was on, showed toxic levels of too muchness in the daily intake. Like 2000 IUs of vitamin D instead of the Pac NW recommended 1000…the difference meaning I could accidentally die of like liver failure and twelve other things…OR if not consuming enough: keel over from weak bones, contract MS, have breast issues, or fade into a ghost jellyfish from general lack of sunlight.

…For a hypochondraic, this kind of research and study is enough to send you absolutely over the edge with anxiety…but I’ve managed rather well under the circumstances. I’ve set myself a nice and balanced little chart to follow, and am trying my best to wean myself off the crap-consumption so my body can actually take advantage of it. Soda and junk food is out. There isn’t a lick of salt in my house. A few cheats here and there from the evil Starbuck drive-thru and late night nibbles after rehearsal are still a battle, but that’s been set with a kill date of tomorrow.

…Other than that, the booze are really the last of the hump. Its a big one…I don’t wanna climb that hill…it sucks. Wine and whiskey are delicious! But its time, its good. I’ve done my Wakes and taken my break and puffed out like a float in the Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Time to reel it in now.

…Detox. Whatta bitch.


Dear Cuz…

4 Mar


Okay, lets try this, “have a better week than it started out to be” thing again.

Today, is for my cousin…who just went into boot camp, for the Navy.  They said the first three weeks are the hardest…so I thought I’d write him something so stupid, it would make him super thankful to be around intelligent humans…even if they are all crammed together like sardines in a tin can.

…There is a  reason I don’t write letters to people, come to find out.  Because it just ends up like this:



I’m told you’re in want of something to look at other than the guy’s head in front of you during drills.  So here is a note.  I guess you could say, “letter,” but that sounds like it should contain some actual main-idea theme or something…of which I have none.  I’m pretty plotless.  Also, I don’t really write letters.  I write blogs.  These are also mostly about nothing. And food.

…Which is prob’ly not too great to hear about, from boot camp.

…Although, maybe that’s just the Army kind.

…Grandpa was a cook in the Navy, and his grub was aces.  Sure, Grandma actually did all the cooking back when WE ate it, but the recipes were still his…made in giant pots…to feed all of us, plus the 500 other ghost people also invited to dinner.  I guess he never figured out how to cut the servings down to the normal “family size” portions.

…Which is weird.  As Grandpa was ALWAYS puttering with math equations at the kitchen table.  Remember that? You’d think at some point he’d have put it to use with fractioning out the food stuffs…but I guess he was too busy doing all the really important math things…like calculating what day of the week your birthday would be on, in 2085.

…You know, so you could plan ahead for vacations and things.

(My answer: Tuesday.  So, that sucks.)

…Anyway…this is all to say, that you come from a long line of traditions…in family, math, Navy and it’s food.  I guess that means you’re where you are supposed to be.

…Plus, becoming a Doctor and things.

…Which is super useful, not only in the real-world situation of you know…”helping people”…but also as it’s the first actual profession anyone has had at all in our family for like…well…ever, really.  People have had “careers,” sure…but it’s not the same.  For instance, I have PLAYED a Doctor, but I didn’t understand any of the lines I was saying, or how to use the instruments in my hands.

…This bothered me, cuz I am an Actor and my job is to study and learn these things.  So I tried to.  By watching ER and a bunch of 911 horror movies. 

…Only, I don’t deal with blood very well, so I wasn’t so much “learning,” as trying not to puke during the surgery scenes.  Till finally, I figured it would be better just not to look at all.  It’s surprising how much you DON’T learn about being a Doctor when you aren’t actually watching and things.

…In the end, I chose to just stand very authoritatively over my “patient,” with feet planted shoulder width apart, never taking my eye off the fake wound, demanding the instruments with extended hand, and speaking all the medical jargon very quickly, while waving my scalpel around a clump of cold spaghetti.

I saved no lives.  Not even fake ones.  I recommend NOT studying the same way I did.

…But then, you’re already halfway there on the whole medic-smarts thing.  Being an excellent tester is good too, and convenient.  I mean who gets cert’ed on first try out the gate?! Almost  NO ONE.  That’s like acing The Bar, bro.  Which you did!  Keep this up and you’ll have 12 letters after your name before age 30.  Which will make you sound not only SUPER official and smart, but also like a member of the British Aristocracy!


…That’s like a serious title, my friend.  And while you MAY have to print it at like 5 pitch to get it on a business card, and hand it out with a magnifying glass, that’s still an impressive amount of game to have been brought.  And you’d be board certified Internationally, everywhere! And prob’ly get full diplomatic immunities!

…Which means you could legally get away with just about anything.  Definitely parking tickets, anyway.  And those bastards are a pain in the ass, let me tell you, so it’s TOTALLY worth all this study NOW to set up a good future in that capacity, later.

Trust me.

Meanwhile, you begin at the beginning…like everyone has to…with 4 am wake-up calls, and endless turkey trot runs, and packs, crawling through mud, marching until your feet bleed, and drill sergeants screaming in your face…and your ears…and you everywhere else.  But , while this is all happening, remember: it’s for a good cause, a good future, and the ability to one day park almost anywhere. 

…TOTALLY worth it, Cuz!

Love yuh,


Angry & A Wake

3 Mar


I sound like a damn schizophrenic in in these blog entries.  A shitty and depressing entry, followed by frivolity, followed by stupid, followed by numb, then angry, and depressing again.

…Look, I’m TRYING.

…It just feels like the second I get a foothold here, I slip and plummet to the bottom of the goddamn pit again.  I’m exhausted from the effort of basically getting nowhere.

…And tonight is no different.

Currently, I am sitting on the couch with two fingers of 12-year-old Jameson in a glass, neat.  This is my part of a “wake” in Grandpa’s memory, having missed the gathering and mourning with everyone else.

…I am alone, and frankly would rather be at this point.

I’ve done Month-End, eight hours of work, was emotionally side-swiped and launched into a total pissed off rage with nowhere to put it before three and a half hours of rehearsal, and now I’m finally home and having to deal with it all.

Mostly, I am very angry.

…And let me tell you why.

After having spent two sleepless and anxious nights trying my best to figure out how to give condolences to a man I don’t know and haven’t for quite some time now…because it was my blood duty to…because according to birth records, I call him, “Dad”…after beating myself up with guilts I promised years ago not to feel responsible for, because it is the parent’s job to be the parent and not the child’s.  Because after 14 years, it suddenly seemed important to understand what is REALLY important and what is not-so-much in times like these…because tonight I feel betrayed by him.  Again.  And because for reasons I will never know…I was surprised by it.

I am angry.

Because he has hurt someone I love.

…Me, I can take. Him, I can’t.

My father’s practices of hypocritical proselytism under the tent of a faith born of acceptance and love, turned long ago sick with man’s influence of judgement and hate, has always been a major contention with me. Most of all when I got out from under it, having been raised with the blinders it encouraged, and saw the preachings and prejudices for what they were.

…It took me a long time…most of my young adulthood, in fact, to realize the difference between actual love and acceptance, and “the other thing.”

It seems really simple to those not born drinking the Kool-Aide. But for the rest of us imagine it like this: You are born being told that “this” is “blue.” You were taught this from your roots, before you even had words. And you grew up with this knowledge for most of your life. Then one day you meet a person who swears “blue” isn’t “blue” at all. It’s actually “red.” And this concerns you because first of all, how DON’T they know “blue” when they see it, and why do they keep insisting it’s another color entirely with so much fervor?

…And then you meet another person who sees it like that. And another.

…And suddenly you begin to wonder, to actually doubt for a moment, the solidarity of your education in these matters. I mean, they seem to feel so very deeply about this matter. And they have reasons, they have issues, they have people they know who it has actually affected…lives that have been changed because of it.

…And all you have as your excuse is, ” Well…but I was taught this.”

Sometimes there comes a moment when this is just not a good enough excuse. It usually happens when you PERSONALLY find yourself in a situation being affected by it. And there you really have to stand there a second…over the course of however long the ultimate struggle is…and reeducated yourself to the fact that not EVERYTHING you were taught was correct…that sure, there are ground-core beliefs you will always hold true, but that this one…this one has to change.

…Because you suddenly realize that it is the right thing to do.

…So you begin to embrace “red.”

…And it changes you for the better. Because it was a choice YOU made, for the reasons YOU had, and if it makes being a human and living with them a better experience: so much the better.

…Now since my 6-day-a-week childhood church-going habit, I have changed a great deal. Rather “heathen” now. Obviously. But I do still have faith in the things that are my core of importance. And I pay them heed. There IS a level of “sacred” even in those fallen from grace.

…But that was a “red” I chose long ago, as well. And I’m still perfecting it. Which is, I think, the point. Keeping growing as a human in a liquid state, not cast in dead stone, unwilling to budge an inch, even for comfort of a friend.

This is where my anger came through tonight. An outrageously inappropriate cornering of a person I love, on a day of his loss, by a man who so bitter with the years of stone religion in his heart, that he could find nothing better to do than preach at and judge, damn to hell, and speak ill of a person, his lifestyle, his choices, his very core and sense of self…who has never done him an ounce of ill, nor wished to. A man who decided that speaking shame in the stead of love, and grotesqueness instead of acceptance was a more godly thing to do, than a hug of support in the sharing of their loss together.

…This is the man who might have raised me.

…And I thank God, tonight, that he did not.

…It took me long enough to pull out of those years of hatred-and judgemental foundation as it was. Imagine had it been allowed to seed further? Imagine if I were standing beside him today seeing “blue” because it was the only color ever taught me, with no encouragement, no support, no friends and other family to help me grow and learn and question these prejudices?

…Imagine if I were the one yelling at my brother, whom I love, with all my heart and guts and pieces…as if I had any right in the least to tell another who to love or not, what to feel or not, how to live or not?

…Imagine if I never learned the color “red?”

All I can say is, “Thank God that I did.”

…And shame on the man too closed-minded, who hasn’t.

…And slainte in a toast of remembrance to Grandpa. To my family in their remembrances of him, and to my Puff, whom I love and support in all his joyful perfections.

Just the way he his.


Thinky Day

3 Mar


This is one of those weird disassociation days.

…The kind that you get when the brains are pulled in totally different directions not even remotely in the same ballpark as one another, but at the same time. 

Crap sleep again.  Strange hormonal sweats coming in waves.

…Headache behind left eyeball through three cups of black coffee and all of Month-End. 

Successfully hit my numbers, ate a banana, took some head pills.

…Which lead to more paperwork, and bookings, phone calls, and catch-ups with WHS Pimp, who is currently at a Managers Meeting in Florida.

…He hates it, and thinks they’re all racist schmoos.

(They are. What kinda dicks wearing 3000 pounds of aftershave, cram into a cab and proceed to yell things like “Onward Habeebs! Lets move it Moostafa!” to the cab driver, on the ride from the airport to the hotel?)

…Now that they’ve completed all the keynote speeches for the day, though…everyone’s been left to their own devices.  Which means they will be wasted while getting lap dances on the company dime, by 1 pm, our time.  Easy. 

… I told WHS Pimp to go sit in the sun by the pool, and look at all the bikini bodies walking by, instead. He has decided, in lieu of this, to go back to the room and sleep. He never listens to me.

…And he should. Not just cuz I’m always right, but also on account of the fact he’s not allowed to come home without first securing a sugar mama of indiscriminate age, who will elevate him into the sort of lifestyle of which he should become accustomed…so I can quit work here and be his PA. And by PA, I mean “Personal Alcoholic.”

This was already decided before he left.

…I, of course, form no personal function towards him. As his PA, my job will be to drink Bourbon and Mojitos and park myself in ritzy resort cabanas with mountains of pillows and a foot-rubbing boy named Jesus-Federico, (who I will call “Fred” for short.) He will be supremely jealous of Conquistador Manuel Rodriguez (my lover) and Habitas Consuelo (my other lover), who both wear white linen over their tan skin, when not in their James Bond boy-short swimming trunks, coming in and out of the pool in slow motion to Julie London and Billie Holiday songs.

I have a plan, people.

WHS Pimp WILL deliver.


In real life: I’m sitting here winking at the screen, trying to get my headache to go away…trying not to fixate on the fact I’ve my first actual rehearsal for the show tonight and still have no idea what the hell to do with my character.

…Still not off book like I wanted to be.

…Still exhausted, and trying to wrap my head around getting through the work day, never mind the four hours that follow.

…And knowing, as well, that through all of this relative nonsense, worry, and stress, they are putting my Grandfather to rest today.

A more deserving place to focus my thoughts, obviously. But they just don’t seem to focus on anything at the moment, merely “flit.”

…Is it any wonder it breaks away on it’s own little quest, beyond headaches and Month-End numbers and serious loss, to stupid mental escapes like a hummingbird?

…Oh look! Something shiny! I’ll look at that for a bit.

…Instead of what it should.

Stupid head.


Why Am I Even Awake Right Now?

2 Mar

You guys! Youguysyouguys!

..It’s 3am and there is like no good reason for me to be awake only I am, and so saw this kid pic that Puff found of us and sent me, and I posted it, and then WHS Pimp saw it and sent me this:

Tiny WHS Pimp in a Burt and Ernie striped shirt with chaps, riding a mini pony.


…This was too amazing to let me breathe for a while. Then I saw it with this:

Me, as Kermit the Frog. (Naturally.)


…And raised him “Manual Child Labor”


…And “Dirty baby, dirty dishes multitasking winningness”


…Hes going album diving and I should expect matching bets.

…This so beats the Taco Bell hot sauce war we’ve been having…

Wow. I need to sleep.


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