Tag Archives: sex

On The Piss…Then Off

1 May


I shall survive! This MONSTER bout of general grossness from seemingly all walks of my life, up to (and including) my Birthday, is almost over.

…And now that I am finally coming out of this two week cycle of woe…like passing a really shitty kidney stone from hell…I can report that the world is not ending after all…while showered and shaved, dyed painted and plucked…sitting in some sunshine. 

…Sure, I’ve gained weight back…which is to be expected when you spend three days and nights on-end eating everything you can get your hands on, and getting pissed on every kind of fermented substance known to man.  But it’s over and done…I survived the bitch, and it’s time to collect myself, and hit the waves of “better things” now.

It all began on Saturday night.  This was when I closed the latest show with a particularly terrible performance, possibly due to the collective 4 hours of sleep I’d had in the past 24 hours leading up to it.  Or possibly not.  Maybe I just blew it full-turkey-out-the-ass all on my own.  I dunno.  But I’m never one to just roll over and let those kind of things just run off my back, whether it’s my actual fault or not.  This only put more fuel behind the next 12 or so hours of supreme hormonal meltdown, leading into my 34th birthday on Monday.

…It basically ended in a Nora Ephron comedic sketch of me blubbering to myself in between hot flashes, whilst refusing anything to do with celebrations by anyone with good intentions, and instead closeting myself away in pajamas, to watch nonstop film alone, on loop, and consider the travesties of my youth, with a bottle (or several) of booze…and how I’ve accomplished nothing I set out to, or will, and I might as well eat this pizza and get even fatter, cuz who cares?

I like to call it “Bridget Jonesing.”

…Add to that the fact I’m pretty sure I was (and am) peri-menopausing on top of it.

…Like an idiot, I did research online. This is ruinous for people like me, with anxiety issues that won’t sleep for weeks at a time cuz a zit on my elbow might actually be a cancerous growth I don’t know about yet, but am too scared to really check out.

…So I fester.

…Only lately, it’s been: “fester and sweat.”

…Now, don’t get me wrong, I have always been a clammy sweater. Its in the Latino DNA. Only for the past…oh…year or so, I’ve had these random night-sweats-from-hell that I try to pretend aren’t really there. Except when they wake me at 3 am because I have to strip every fucking thing I’m wearing due to the fact they are doused and soaking wet with sweat. It’s been really special…lemme tell you…

…And as my BD got closer, and I brought it up to Ma, she was all, “Well, yeah…I mean, me and two generations back all had hysterectomies by your age…so who KNOWS when menopause hits this side of the family?”


…And she said, “Well…maybe peri…”


…And she said, “Reasons.”

…So, needless to say, after a really shitty performance, in my really not best show, with streaks of white waiting to be dyed out of my temples, a bitchingly horrid period, and (apparently) peri-menopausal sweats, I decided to be terribly terribly depressed on the day of my birth.

I’m usually anxiety bound…so this was a new thing. It sucks too. Especially the involuntary bursting into tears bit. You know…the, “I should take a shower, but what’s the point, I’m fat anyway…my back hurts like I’ve been punched in the kidneys…I think I’ve bled so much I may have turned anemic and SUNOFABITCH it’s HOT IN HERE!”

…That kind of thing.

…Wrapped up in: ” All my LIFE I wanted to be EQUITY and pro, doing only theatre by age 35, and now its only one year away and I’ll never make it…or if I do, I’d only work like once every five years…there aren’t enough houses here to support it anymore…and I’m a coward…totally unlike The BFF who just opened her first solo company in freakin’ New Orleans last week…you know…cuz she SAID so…and also, no matter WHAT I do, these last ten pounds just won’t go away. It’s like my body is STARVING for the fat…to keep it warm and sweaty (apparently)…also my mood swings could basically be categorized as step-one bipolar disorder…if that’s even a thing…and I’m in my mid-thirties…and STILL struggling to pay bills and live life and figure out my head…and sometimes am maybe a little lonely…but never enough to deal with the shit that people have to deal with when they come in twos…”

…And also: “CHOCOLATE!”

…And, “Maybe I need some sex IMMEDIATELY, or at least more often…or maybe not ever again. But definitely salt. Like NOW!”

…And, “How DARE my mother call me menopausal! Peri or otherwise!!!’

{gentle sob}

…It’s been an interesting few weeks, to say the least. And by “interesting” I mean: “viciously feminine and horrifying.” And though the actual REAL heat outside is not helping my body’s imaginary already over-indulgence, the sunlight does. So I’m trying my best to use it as a guide…to get out in it and sweat more (on purpose) and hydrate like a sonofabitch…and try, try, try to find the humor hiding in all my personal little woes. It’s there. They are the original basis of Rom-Coms (minus the love story bit)…which is totally fine with me…cuz I obviously have enough shit to deal with right now without adding secondary subplots into the mess.

…And whatever all THAT means/achieves in outting crap for some better self mental-help: so be it. Consider it writ. You can now commence to make fun of me. Meanwhile…I’m packing up and going for a walk. Like a person.

Hurrah for me.


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.


…And Then Tennessee Williams Ruined Me!

24 Nov


For a west-coaster born-and-bred chick, I have a total and complete sick weak-in-the-knee obsession for the Southern Gothic. 

…There is something about the heat and hysteria and inborn-overtly-entitled meanness of a Tennessee Williams play that absolutely slays me.  And it always has.

I have a distinct recollection of the first viewing of “Streetcar” in fact, that left me sexually confused and breathless for about a week.  I was a pre-teen, at my Aunt’s house, supposedly “babysitting” at the time.  In reality: the kids were asleep, I had raided the pantry for the absolute last ounce of junk food, and was drooling over TCM (my biggest weakness of all time.)

…That is, until Brando showed up in his sweat-stained t-shirt, and his gross-mean-horrid ways.

Brando was too much man-meat to handle in one sitting, come to find out. And  even then, I knew there was something intrinsically “not right” about wanting to be Blanch DuBoise when I grew up.  But god help me, that bastard playwright confused my lust of art so much, that I’m still not entirely sure WHY.

…All I knew from THAT MOMENT of “…young man…young, young man…”, is: I wanted to have a “young man” at some point, and say those words…and be Vivian Leigh, and bed a dude like Brando, who was a giant machismo dick. (and probably had one.)

That is a lot for a twelve-year-old to take in.

It’s a lot for a 33 year-old.

…What I figured out (in retrospect) is that, despite my latent Cougar-like tendencies, (apparently), I ALSO wanted a man to be ” A MAN,” and above all: I wanted to be a great “Actor.”

…An “Actress” (in title) seemed trite somehow.  And fairy tale-ish.  Or “cute.”  It’s sexist, but true. Everyone always seemed to take men more seriously so  that was the night I decided not ONLY did I want to say great lines by great writers, but to be “sir’d” while I did it. And from that night to this: it has never changed.

Film had frequently changed my life up to that point, for various reasons.  It had already made me want to act. It had already made me mad for character work and accents and periods not of this time.  What THAT night did, was introduce sex on screen in a TOTALLY different way to me.  And also the seriousness of the content being performed. 

…Before “Streetcar,” my first love had been musicals…(where sex is wrapped up in kissing and plots were formulaic)…and my personal idol: Audrey Hepburn (where sex was classically chaste and plots mostly uncomplicated.) “Streetcar” rocked my world with the possibility of messy, horrid, violent, excruciating “other” options to that mix. That people underwent this in “life,” I totally got. That people were aloud to SHOW it in PERFORMANCE, I had (until then) absolutely no idea.

And because “sex” and “acting out” is such a big fucking deal to young people, “Streetcar” became a BIG FUCKING DEAL to ME. And so did it’s writer. And it has STAYED that way. And always will.

…Which makes evenings of indulgence (like tonight), courting several of his wonderfully flawed characters (worked-up-to-their-sexual-catastrophe-best), an even better treat.

Listen: I’m single. I’m playing a Beaver in a children’s show. I was thirsty. I drank.

…And GOD was it tasty.

“Night of the Iguana,” is no “Streetcar.” But when you wade through the character fleet of “women-of-a-certain-age” set dressing, and get past Richard Burton’s sweaty, overt scene-chewing…you get to witness several sweet-spot moments of William brilliance…which reminds me WHY I love his writing and character work so much. Which takes me back to a twelve-year-old, plastered to the TV like my very life depended on it…frequently forgetting to breathe.

…Deborah Kerr’s smallest of acting choices making ten-times the weight of power than all of Burton’s brayings (for instance), are a thing of subtle, steadied beauty. Ava Gardner’s total disaster area don’t-care-how-shitty-I-look drunken lushness, is excess-of-delight. That scene of painter-to-defrocked-pastor, on the relateability about the true definition of a sexual moment, is brain candy. The poem of an old man: is hope. The bitter-sweet ending: a nod to life’s imperfections.

…Other than perhaps Albee, I know of few modern playwrights who can plot the vilification, deconstruction, enlightenment, and saving-grace of a character to hold a candle to Tennessee Williams. Which doesn’t necessarily mean it ends well…in fact it frequently doesn’t. But to have the opportunity to play…(even once in a career)…someone as flawed and real and naked and ugly and open as he makes his characters to be, is such a terrifying and liberating thought. I can’t help but be jealous of the bastards who get to, while I sit here and wait…biding my time…from TWELVE YEARS OLD, to whenever “middle age” begins to register on my face…and let me finally, finally get the chance…the chance I have waited for, already, for the bulk of my lifetime…to get good and real and dirty, in something as awesomely complicated and disturbing, as the Major Leagues can possibly dish out.

…To play with some text from Tennessee someday?

Delicious thought.

…And totally, totally worth the wait…


Sex Farce

29 Aug


You know how actors are always saying things like, “Oh filming sex scenes are one of the top ten most un-hot things to do ever,” and they are describing how much of a pain in the ass it was for them to lay around naked, in a bed, beside Brad Pitt for a week to shoot it…?

…And you know how you sit there, and watch them give these interviews and say these things, and you want to punch them in the mouth…?

…Because your job is in no way even remotely like that, nor do you make the kind of money that they do while doing it, and the fact that they are complaining about any of it, really makes you want to hate them…?

That is why I won’t be saying any of that.

Except that it is sufficient to say: I work in the theatre, so I decidedly do NOT make as much money as you, and also (in the current show’s circumstances anyway,) am sweating a lot more nightly, than you do in a week’s time.

…While being continually “made love to,” classic film style. 

As a variety of people, in a hundred different scenarios, featuring dozens of acts of groping, smooshing, spitting, scratching, dusting, patting, plopping, straddling and motor boating, in a seemingly unending voyage of butt slaps, boob squishes, lip sucks, face smooshes, crotch dives, feel-ups, arm wrenches, leg locks, and what-all, I am technically getting more action than if I were married right now.

…And though often hilariously funny, achieving any sexual significance from this, is utterly out of the question. 

Even for the slowly, specific things. 

…Because when you’re mid-them, on a stage, the repercussions of the act are the last thing on your mind.  What comes first is where the noses go this time, for the right shot to the audience, and how to balance your two weights acting against one another, and how long to hold the beat for the other thing to happen while this is going on, and how to time the end of it, when the other thing is finished, and how not to laugh when someone tip-toes by as if they fucked up and were in the wrong place, adjusting to it now…which is part of the actual humor of the show, and requires everyone on stage to keep a straight face of focus, while they do it.

This all makes the sexual innuendos, anything but sexy to the people involved.  Furthermore compounding the fact that the speed and attack of these moments turns them into controlled beat-snaps.  Which means lips have more the consistency of grade school children kisses, than adult sensuality.  Then it’s, “where do the hand cuffs go,” ” how do we do this turn while stuck together,” “what’s a new way to straddle you that I haven’t tried yet,” “what if I bit him here,” and beard prickles, followed by sweaty nylon leg skims, and breathing all night in one another’s faces so that by the end we could reconstruct the entire day’s worth of food intake, by burps and accidental-on-purpose vocal spittings alone.

…What I’m trying to say is: Sex and comedy go together like strawberries and champagne from the seating section POV.  Hell there’s a whole sub-genre invented for it. But for the bedroom farce-ing actors: I promise you, almost nothing, in the entire world, could turn you on less.

…Which is why (I think) they threw the “farce” bit in, to begin with.

For us.

Cuz if you aren’t getting “off” in bedroom matters…might as well have a good laugh at it.

Am I right?


A Rehearsal Post

28 Aug


Sitting in the house, while an oddly masculine woman plans her debutant daughter’s party, as her husband schemes homicide.

Now: Sydney Greenstreet and Peter Lorre interrogate our hero.

…There are only two people on the stage.

It’s a long one, (as far as they go in this show full of French scene madness.)

…Six and a half pages.

The finale of Act One.

Psychotic Nazis, world overthrow, frenetic gun brandishing, top secret-secrets, maniacal laughing, rampant crossdressing, murder, peepshows, and self-propelled seating.

Six pages.

…Oop! Back to beginners, I’m up!


Later: Just back from Scotland. Baking accidentally phallic bread loafs, tucking in murderers for a good night’s sleep, and watching a lover escape into the night, through the “rear window.”

…It’s been a full night already, and we’ve been at it less than an hour.

First, came an “underware parade,” for instance.

…This is how you know I’m in a show, cuz in real life, I haven’t worn so little as a one piece swimming suite in public in over a decade. Yet tonight began, trying on high heels and period underwear, while the costumer and everyone watched me parade around, flop about, and mock die, so they could talk function, light, and color notes.

…Like every other prop on stage.

…And now they’ve moved on.

…Via a slow motion chase scene.


Next: an assembly hall, featuring the oldest man in the world, and a fuck-all political speech that would make Aaron Sorkin sit up and take notice. Mostly cuz it’s so long and terrible.

…In all the good ways.


Nexter: Invisible car ride through the moores, followed by erotic ballet by handcuff.

…I’m telling you, this show has freakin’ everything!

And more.


Forty Or Fifty Sexual Positions…& Some Haddock

10 Aug


6 hour rehearsal reserved for today, to finish blocking.  All Leading Fella and me, all the time.

With this show only populated by four people playing all the roles, we are all (but the lead, who has his own giant bag of tricks to carry) pulling multiple characters out of our pockets and throwing them around…and it was odd to have that team cut down to just two today, though really nice in the kind of specificity it brought.

…The prime key of what MY women bring to the piece (versus those of the clowns) is the “sex” of the show.  At all times, in all positions, with any possible flavor of innuendo…we have gone full speed ahead.  Which (when working with someone you’ve never worked with before) can get reeeeeally uncomfortable reeeeally quickly. 

…Only it isn’t, and hasn’t ever been.  Not even a little.  For reasons I will prob’ly never understand.

Well…I might have sorta contributed to that at some point.  Like the time, early this week, when I came to rehearsal just after shoving an onion-filled burger into my face, and while stretching on the stage said something like, “Yeah, I ate the most awesome onion of all time on my burger just now…so I hope you like the taste of lukewarm Walla-Wallas.”

…To which He replied something like,”Welp, I’ve been burping up my lunch all day, so we’ll just swap flavors and be good to go!”

…And we were.

…He kept burping ‘tween love scenes, and I kept reeking of 12-year-old-boy-feet. 

We were just disgusting.  Together.  And it’s been a beautiful stage marriage, ever since.

This kind of thing helps considerably, when you have a rehearsal day set up like today’s: All sex. All the time.

…How many suggestive positions can we possibly sink into this sucker?  How many crotch-shots, boob-facials, accidental butt-slaps, hand-grazes, lip bites, ear nibbles, body-straddles, cock-teases, fingernail scrapings, bed-positions, whiskey-shots, handcuff bits, garter-belt-popping, and lap dances can you find a home for in a script that just screams for sex, like Noir film in heat?

A lot.  Come to find out.

A. Whole. Fucking. Lot.

…And this was only the “preliminary” pass at it.  THIS was only “blocking.”  What comes with the finesse, and character study, and bit-work later, God only knows.  “More,” certainly. A refined style of it, slipped in…with layers, some subtle, and some…very much NOT.

For some reason, “comedy” means you can get away with a lot more with the general viewership, than the straight stuff.  I promise you that if we were doing half of what we did just today, on a stage, in a straight show, there’d be seats thumping closed and feet rushing through the theatre doors to the lobby faster than a run on a toy store at Christmas. People’s comfort level and self-righteousness grows like leavened bread in those kind of circumstances.  I have no idea why.  But bedroom farce is just this whole other world of a thing.  And in all my time in theatre, this is the ONE discipline of sex that I have NOT been asked to do as yet, on a stage.

…I gotta say, it is really quite liberating.

And fun!

Especially when you aren’t working with a creepy, greasy, tongue-thrusting, boob-grabbing, sleazoid.

Frankly, I’ve just totally made out like a bandit! A funny dude, whose game for the outrageously embarrassing, in a tag-team environment!

Plus, just doing the show is gonna get me more “action” than I’ve had in the past mffrrrtmmfa-MONTHS.


Let the sexing-up begin!


German Spy Dom

6 Aug


One of the joys of working on this show, is the constant ping-pong of character work. Where last night we molested the Scottish moores…tonight, I was a German noir spy in an English music hall, for the bulk of the evening.

…Almost zero facial expression, with a whole lot of stiffly negotiated sexual positions…pulling lugars from my garters, and spitting all over the leading man, with thick accent articulation.

We are only in day three of rehearsals, and every one of them has brought an entirely new world of “what if” and “holy god, I can’t wait to get off book and fuck with this” feeling.

…Only three, in.

Imagine what two weeks from now will be like? Insanity. Theatrical anarchy.

…This is the kinda show that grows “bits” and “bits on bits” at almost out-of-control levels. If we were a virus, we’d have already infected a two county radius by now. Sure, they can try to contain us, but Mr. Director is gonna have his hands full on this one.

…If for no other reason than, that at SOME point, he’s gonna have to pick what stays in and what goes out…else the show will run four hours long.

…And four hours in a theatre seat, is anything but funny.

Unfortunately, I am in a position to know this by experiance.


Pavlov’s Dog & Other Schemes

24 Jul


So, I was talking to a friend the other night about dating disasters. 

…The kind of stories that completely kill your self confidence and self respect directly after they occur, but later laugh at…once time has set aside enough distance and perspective to truly appreciate the morbid crappiness of it all.

I have less stories than most, due to adamantly being against the whole function of dating to begin with. I used to blame the fact that I’m terrible at it, as an excuse…until I realized that everyone is terrible at dating, and that’s just how people accumulate good party stories.

…So now, to fight off the regret of not having the great humiliation coos, I indulge in other peoples. Like a sport. And collect them as if they were trading cards, to whip out and use as my own fake arsenal when we have had one too many and someone in the group begins with the age-old:

“…So this one time? I was on a date and it was so bad that…”

…Anyway, the conversation brought up so many good horror stories from the past, (as I dug out my fake ammo and compared it with her real stuff), that I thought I’d reflect on them a bit.  The true distance a person will go to to achieve certain ends, the failed sexual exploits, the maxed out credit cards in lingerie, the  date prep, the wimpy sex, the psycho stalkers, and more!

True life stories I have (along the way) collected, include:

Woman One: Debating if boyfriend of six months is uber religious or just gay (because he refuses to get intimate with her) she lays out an entire scheme associating herself with a trench coat.  Every time she wears it, she surprises him with a special event, or sneak-meet, or lunch date or what-have-you. A training ground, set up like Pavlov’s dog, to be unconsciously receptive to said trench coat and whatever neat delights become associated with it. This all culminates on Valentine’s Day night, when wearing only lingerie underneath, she invites him over to watch movies and secretly seduce him.  She sets the tone with honest-to-god Barry White music, pre-cued up, and does her little dance and unveiling, only to realize by the totally horrified look on his face that the Pavlov experiment does not (in fact) guarantee a goddamn thing.  And also: Yeah…he’s prob’ly gay.

Dude One: Breaks up with Dude Two. At around three o’clock in the morning. Dude Two is thrown out of the apartment…toasted beyond repair, and in the kind of weep-screaming meltdown usually reserved for teenage girls having something to do with Justin Bieber sightings. He does not leave or in any way attempt to save his dignity. Instead he goes on a tangent of, “I love, you…you fucking whore!” intermixed with “No one EVER will treat you as good as me!” and “Why are you such an asshole?! Baby, open the door!” This goes on for some time. Hours. Ending (eventually) the following morning…with people on their way out to work, stepping over his crumpled form, asleep in the doorway…his body reduced to a sour chemical compound of sick, last night’s dinner, and heartbreak.

Woman Two: It  had been a while. Things were getting rather rusty from lack of use and our lady fair needed a good old fashioned lay.  So, she set her eyes on a sure thing, a beautiful recommendation of a past casual sexing friend. At a party, she goes for it. Problem is, he’s about five gallons of the hard stuff, ahead of her. So far ahead, in fact that at the casual hint of possible seduction, she finds herself mid-party, thrown over his shoulder a-la Tarzan, and carried off into the night. The miracle of arriving safely to her apartment, and in such a blatantly virile capacity, all but undoes Woman Two. She is ready for this! This is EXACTLY what is needed! Casual! And immediate! Animalistic! No strings attached! With endless possibility, as there is no fucking way he will ever remember a beat of it, so wasted to the world he clearly is. But first: to pee. Empty out his bladder of half a ton of tequila and cheap rum…naked, wandering out into the apartment: roommates be damned…he finally reaches his intended destination. He thinks. And then: it happens. By the gallon. A non-stop stream. As Woman Two, hugs onto whatever bedclothes she can manage to save…while he empties his tank (despite her screaming protestations) all over her entire bed…before passing out. Directly into it.

Dude Two: A stalker magnet. Has the habit of dating what would be referred to as the, “bad girl type.” Which is exciting and eventful and incredibly hot…in true pattern…until he breaks up with them. And then: it’s not. Or rather: it still is, but in the not-so-good way. In his short span of (still young) dating life…he’s had tires slashed, windows broken, cell phones annihilated, walls fisted, table tops cleavered, his face sharpee’d in his sleep…closet set on fire, and sofa…literally…pooped on. Apparently it is either worth the end-game, or he’s an unteachable idiot…because as of current time of print: he shows little sign of habit change, despite.

Woman Three: A little bit of a badass in the bedroom, she finally hooks up with a new fella she’s been psudo-dating for nearly a month. Schedules finally align, the stars in their orbit, the ex has the kids, and by god, some serious sexing is gonna be going down. And it does. Apparently blowing his mind. Which rather rises her self-confidence higher (as it would), influencing her to really go for the finish line. Only, oops! Wouldn’t you know it? Perhaps he’s been benched too long…or maybe he’s playing a different position from what he’s used to. Either way, mid-tackle, said fella locks up in a seizure of pain, the pass is incomplete, and two days later…as she listens in total silence to his voice on the other side of the phone, she receives news direct from his doctor’s office…where he’s on his third testing round. Apparently, the tackle was too much for the rookie. She had broken him. His sentence of a good long benching, confirms it. Needless to say a confirmed “obituary lister”…thus ends the season. And they never met on the field again. So much for the playoffs.

Dude Three: Crushes old school, and crushes hard. He’s picky, and doesn’t feel the need to wander once his ideal is found. Even despite the total and complete lack of forward momentum. Being inventive, he creates a host of marvels and continues to throw them at her. She responds in bud-ship. Which sucks to every outside observer. In fact, it becomes the butt of jokes and for reasons far surpassing anything intelligent continues to this day. And most likely into ridiculousness of decades. Cuz its just the way he is. Stupid woman…

Women Four & Five: Getting to know one another (as people do), Woman Four and Woman Five, seated side-by-side in the dressing room, share the kinds of bits n’ pieces intimacies that people do, while performing in a show. Where they grew up…their first pets…their weird relatives…crazy dates…and eventually (as it almost always does, with show-people) the weird and funny sex stories. Like this one guy: Really good in bed. Who liked to do this one thing. Very specific. Like a calling card, so to speak. But wait. Suddenly, as Woman Five talks on, Woman Four’s face begins to harden. “When was this?” she finally asks to her astonished new “friend.” “Um. Him? Well…I mean we’ve only hooked up the one time really…but who knows, right?” “–When.” Insists Woman Four, without a flinch. “Um. Geeze…I dunno. Like…a month ago, maybe?” Woman Four slowly puts her eyebrow pencil down. She focuses her gaze on Woman Five’s reflection before her. “What’s his name,” she questions, evenly. “Oh, come on…it’s theatre…ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies. You know how it goes,” quips Woman Five. “WHAT. IS. HIS. NAME.,” insists Woman Four with an unmistakable intensity. So: Woman Five tells her. And needless to say…the engagement ended soon after.

Dude Four & Woman Six: She’s gone on him. Maybe at first because he isn’t interested in her that way. Maybe because of the challenge. At the beginning: anyway. She’s kinda famous for tackling the particularly hard stuff and kicking it’s ass into submission before it even knows it. Why shouldn’t a dude be the same? So: she chases him. She chases him HARD. Subtlety isn’t a talent she possesses…(though she ‘s packed with eleven-hundred other kinds.) It becomes like a rather frustrating sexual game show in the play-by-plays to the people who know of the intent, and have been following from the beginning. An exhaustive campaign. She really goes all out. And for reasons, passing understanding, he manages to hold his ground, despite this hurricane of humanity whipping all around him. Until…that is…one day. When for reasons we may never know for sure (except we really do): he doesn’t. Which will prob’ly go down in the annals of history, sexual antagonism, theatre, life, sex and happy-endings…for all of time.

…Just a choice few of the prob’ly zillions of such stories, I have currently clogging my head, waiting for the day I get that gossip columnist gig, or tell-all book deal.

…Not that I’d name names. That isn’t playing by the rules.

…I’d NEVER renege on confidences.

(…She says…holding the tarnished halo at a tilt, just above her head.)



9 Jul


Fan blowing, hot today.

…Stuffed bell pepper for dinner, dyed the hairs, read some of the vibrator play.

It makes me miss The BFF…reminding me of the time we stayed up into the wee’s, swilling wine and guffawing over Mamet’s brilliant “Boston Marriage.”  Them was good times. 

…Though “In the Next Room” isn’t quite as magnificent in verbal texture, it is a fun read and I can clearly see it’s possibilities.  It’s the next piece that our dear Cecily will be going for, at UPS, for her Junior year.  An admirable choice, as nowhere else would it  ever be done in the area (due to content implications, alone.)

…Which is silly, when you think about it.

…Because Macbeth, Titus, Reservoir Dogs, Two Rooms, and Laramie Project have all been done this year…so: sex, violence and prejudice is fine…but God forbid the female orgasm!!

(I feel like that is so not the only time in history, that that sentence has been said.)

…Either way: it’s being done, and I will go see it when it is, whilst knee-deep in Jane Austen (one hopes), by then.

…Which is not meant to contain any sexual innuendo at all…only, I feel one must note this, given the topic.

Just to be safe.


Dear SWAL (A Special Edition)

8 Mar


An unheard of sneak peek into the Marty realm of workness.  Today we are listening LIVE to her and her Boss’s webinar meeting with 12 subscriber women (of their product.)

…As a ghost, I have full access to her written responses as “Support Diva” (fielding comments and calls) as well as hear both of their responses as the questions come in. This is open playing field, everything on the table, no topic forbidden, no comments filtered.

…Her Boss just signed on, eager to “get ‘er done,” as he has a hot date with the gym directly after.  Marty is currently tempering him for the remaining minute before broadcast.

The ticker is counting down the seconds…

…He is reading Star Trek “didja knows” to pass the time.  Apparently some Vulcan dude couldn’t do the finger “v” thing and had to have his fingers glued to get it done.  Useless information for the day #78.



“Lets do this!  Lets rock and roll!,” says Marty Boss.

…He explains the low-down, point of call, rules and regulations and so it goes.

“I’m 24 and never had a relationship last longer than one date…there’s this guy…there’s a 13-year age difference…I’m really interested…am I too young for him?  I’ve asked him out, he is always busy, or whatever, but brings up another time to get together that might work…”

Answer: I’m gonna say if you’ve never had a relationship longer than one date, that a 13-year age difference isn’t going to help you. There is a lot more of experience on his end, obviously. My question is WHY haven’t you had one last longer than one date?

…He asks her to define her stance, she provides that her lifestyle is super busy and work-heavy.  He suggests not going at it like a long-term deal, think of it in terms of just one date.  Then the next date.  Less worried about long-term.



“If you’re dating a couple of guys, how do you let one down the kindest way, to pick the other one?”

Answer: Don’t lie. Just tell him the truth. It hurts, but trying to be nice can often be the meanest thing you can do. False hopes, not knowing where you stand. Don’t say too much, he might look for an angle to get back in…don’t be super specific, just truthful and straightforward and end it.



“I just got out of a bad 4 year relationship, my first big one, and don’t know if I’m miserable because I was used to it, or if I really hurt and miss him. Then I kissed this guy at work and…”

Answer: I’m gonna say you’re not ready yet, you probably shouldn’t quite be out looking for a boyfriend at the moment. First of all, dating someone at work is almost always a bad idea, I’d take 6 months and give yourself a “no dating” policy…not that you can’t date or sleep with someone, but don’t FOCUS on it. 4 years is a long time…spend some time with yourself, do what you need to for you, recognize what you really want, give yourself time to heal from the last relationship…yes, it feels like death right now…but it isn’t…it will get better…you will be fine. Let yourself go through the pain…the pain is okay…I’m against “depression”…but pain is going to happen…just give it time. You don’t have to jump at the first “next” thing. You will find someone else…it WILL happen…you don’t need to rush it…it will happen when you are ready.



“Do you have any suggestions for female police officers? It’s sometimes hard to get a date, it’s a turn off for a lot of guys when you tell them what you do, but seems withholding if you DON’T tell them.”

Answer: I don’t know that I’d put that just up front…maybe keep it to something like, “I’m in law enforcement” but not get big into the details. This is a tough one. I can see how it might spook them if you make that your dating profile and whole personal identity about being a cop…focus more on what you are passionate about…other activities, things you are into…so they get to know other sides of you as well. I’d save the whole “cop” thing for maybe the third date…far enough down the road to where they know other sides of you as well and therefore have a better balanced view of who you really are.



“What does it mean when the sex is really good and lasts long…like over an hour…but he doesn’t come?”

Answer: It could mean any number of things. Could be drugs, could be masterbating too much. I doubt highly it has anything to do with you. If the sex is good and passionate and personal…then there’s nothing wrong. He’s lasting an hour…he OBVIOUSLY is attractive to you, if he is attentive and you feel good…then I wouldn’t worry about it. Some guys just take longer. You hear a lot about “premature” ejaculation…but almost no one talks about long-term as a “problem.” Which it isn’t. Sometimes you may just need to finish in “other ways.”



“Is it okay to give kinky sex on the first date?”

Answer: Yeah, you can. Just know that in doing that, you are setting the precedence for the relationship to be a sexual one, not necessarily personal. It’s fine, just know that. There is nothing wrong with just looking for sex…I’ve had that before, lots of people have…”this is just this thing…just a play thing…it is what it is, and that’s all.” But just know what that means. I don’t suggest people looking for a “relationship” to have sex on the first date, at all. But if you realize what you are getting into, and are okay with it: go for it. Have fun.



“Where do mature over 40 ladies go to find arty guys who are straight?”

Answer: (Marty here)….As a performer myself, I gotta tell yuh, there are a LOT more straight guys in the theatre than you think. (Marty Boss)…I agree…I used to do theatre, and I gotta tell you, as a straight guy in theatre, I dated A-LOT. You should just embrace the lifestyle. DO theatre, get INTO the arts…if you are there and in it, meeting people, you’ll find the men with that common interest.



“If a guy says he’s straight, but has experimented with another guy, is he gay?”

Answer: No. I think you’d be hard to find almost anyone who HASN’T experimented with the same sex at some level at some time. That doesn’t mean that is necessarily how they identify themselves. These are also only labels. Some people are gay, straight, bi…what does that mean? Sometimes that is a personal identifyer, sometimes it isn’t. That’s like when women ask me if a guy wanting to do anal makes him “gay.” Of course not. It’s just something he enjoys…for whatever reason…it doesn’t mean an entire lifestyle change, it’s just a sensation/motion, or whatever that he enjoys or wants to try.


…After one hour, they begin to wrap-up with the final low down. But not before a highly interesting and intriguing experiance on my part. Actually learned lots, and nodded much from my little “amen corner.”

…Meanwhile, a last little insider for the lady-curious. (Adults ONLY.) Try www.danejones.com. Just won the “Feminist Award,” for best porn…highly suggested by Marty’s Boss, as, “a realistic porn site, where ladies actually look like they are having a good time for a change.”

…We apparently can thank the UK.

…And that’s this month’s Dear SWAL.

Learn and enjoy.



The Joe, In The Dressing Room

27 Jan


So there are only two dressing rooms at this current theatre: an upstairs loft where all the young ladies reside, and the lower dressing room where all the adults are stationed. 

…Out of the entire show we have one Man and a “Grocery Boy” (who doubles as our ASM.)  Our “Grocery Boy” changes elsewhere due to cue-duties…which leaves our “Joe” as the sole representative of his sex, backstage. 

I think anyone would agree, it takes some serious balls to be willing to be that one guy. (No pun intended.)

It cannot possibly be fun for him…and is prob’ly more often than not, a hugely terrifying position to be in.  Because, God knows, we don’t make it easy. A gaggle of women, routinely stripping and re-dressing, is NOT as hot as some people might like to think it is. 

…First of all: this is a “period” show. That means nylons and “foundation garments.” And as Marty put it yesterday, “If men ever saw what it REALLY looks like to put all this shit on, they would never look at women’s lingerie the same way again.”

…And she’s right. 

There is absolutely nothing at all seductive about the way a REAL person pulls and wiggles on a pair of nylons, carefully yanking at all the bits at the ankles, and bowing the legs in a barrel-squat to keep the crotch from sagging half way down your fucking knees. 

…Add to that the reinforcement of foundation garments with cinches built in a variety of locations, none of which seem to do much of anything other than squeeze all your excess fat into rolls halfway up your back, and all but cut off the circulation in your lower thighs.

…Then the bras…in any number of fashions, but all having to do with the fact of what it does to the boob-cupping and cleavage specifically…which you are then required to reach in and adjust accordingly.

Next, there’s the slips and dresses and sweaters and coats…for days and days and days…all of which are constantly being hiked up or pulled down in order to try and retrieve the SUPER-WEDGE of underwear caught under your 5 layers of clothing, or cram your muffin-top fat rolls back into the foundation garment, or take it all off and start all over again…because you forgot to fucking go pee first.

Every day in the dressing room is a major production number. And you should know right now that none of it is “pretty.”

…And this is, by no means, ALL that our “Joe” must face on a day-to-day basis.

No, that would be too easy.

…There is also a large selection of women’s topics that get aired as freely as our Vodka-sprayed costume pieces. And being of “theatre,” we have zero compunction about how totally inappropriate or uncomfortable the topics might get for the man over in the corner.

It has always been a well documented fact that women’s dressing room conversations could make the burliest man of all men blush with our total and complete lack of subtlety and taste…which is certainly not ABOUT to change just because a single penis has entered the room.

The case-in-point being, for instance, a small sampling of our current production’s conversational topics:

1. To douche or not to douche…that is the question:

Lady 1: …And then I said, “No, you aren’t supposed to douche. Not ever. They told all of us that specifically. They don’t even sell it in drugstores anymore.”

Lady 2: Not even a vinegar?

Lady 3: Nope. Cuz it kills all the “good” stuff with all the bad.

Lady 4: But that is a very “generational” thing. It’s new. Back when I was younger, we douched all the time.

Lady 5: …Yeah, I remember my Mom had this weird kinda one in the shower. With this hose-thing?

Lady 4: –Sorta like an enema. But different?

Lady 5: Yeah…

2. The Pee Discussion:

Lady 1: …So I said to my husband, “Now that you’ve delivered both the boys, is it okay if I pee in front of you when you’re using the bathroom. I mean, you’ve seen all there is to see by now, right?”

Lady 2: I’d like to think, if they’ve seen you up and shit across the room while birthing a human, a little pee while they’re shaving wouldn’t be that big of a deal.

Lady 1: Oh. I didn’t shit during my labors.

Lady 3: …I did…

3. The truth about shaving:

Lady 1: (While scratching at the panty line region) Sonofabitch. I shaved today and now with the nylons and all…it just itches like hell. Shoulda just left well enough alone!

Lady 2: I never shave in winter.

Lady 3: I have to. Or I’d have sideburns down to my knees by mid-December.

Lady 4: I just got it lasered, so never have to deal with it.

Lady 3: God. That’d be nice. Never accidentally knick yourself again. That’s only just the worst. And then, when you pee…you just wanna scream and punch somebody.

4. When bad sex happens to good people:

Lady 1: Two. Two pumps. Two.

Lady 2: He only got two thrusts in?

Lady 1: Two. And it sucked because we like broke a table while making out before hand, so I thought it would be awesome!

Lady 3: How totally anticlimatic. In a number of ways…

Lady 1: …But the worst part is it took longer for me and my gay BFF to shave my legs in prep.

Lady 2: Your gay BFF actually helped shave your legs for sex?

Lady 1: Yep. He took a leg. I took a leg. And then after the crap-sex, I came out and he was all, ” Wait. What? You can’t be done already?!” And when I nodded and said, “Two thrusts,” he said, “Oh, honey…” and got up to make me a drink…

5. PMS warning signs:

Lady 1: I’ve never been surprised by a period in my entire life. I have about a week-and-a-half of phantom warnings that go off regularly, as reminders.

Lady 2: Yep. Me too. (While poking boobs.) Like, “Oh, my boobs are all tender. Must be m’period next week.”

Lady 3: –Or they get like double the size and become porn-boobs–

Lady 5: …I love porn-boob time…

Lady 4: Hot flashes.

Lady 3: –The worst!

Lady 2: (While still poking boobs.) …Wait. My boobs ARE all tender. Is it my period next week? Wait your period was first of our cycles, when are you due?

Lady 5: Next week.

Lady 2: Are you relocating my schedule?

Lady 5: I dunno. I did, hers.

Lady 4: Yep.

Lady 3: Are we ALL gonna be on our periods for closing?

(A cough comes from the corner. It is our “Joe.” We burst out laughing. He turns red, looking really busy, while pulling on his sock.)

…This only scratches the surface, really…but I feel it gives a good representation of what that poor bastard has been having to live with for the past month. And yet, he can still (somehow) manage to have enough respect for us, that he can look us in the eye onstage…every performance…and do and say the things of love and support that he needs to. No matter what kind of sicko-perverted-vaginal-diseased topic of conversation we’ve decided to abuse him with in the dressing room that night.

…And THAT, ladies and gentleman, takes a MAN.

Cheers, Joe. We love yuh.

…In our own little freak-creep ways.


Dear SWAL…

25 Oct


“M” happens to have a fantastic job as a sort of expert relationship rejuvenation texting therapist, for a specific brand of products.  It’s a legit gig, for which she gets paid, and is the source of many wonders in conversations we have, day-to-day.

…The fact that this is a “thing” in today’s day and age, is mind-blowing to me. The fact she gets to sit at home in PJ’s and talk about sex, while eating a whole tube of Pringles in one sitting, and get paid for it, seems not quite fair.  And I told her this.  Often. When we first started hanging out.

…Which is when she started posting me actual questions that she fields day-to-day, via text, FB and private IM. 

And that’s when I stopped being covetous of her. 

…Because her “people” are actually much worse than my “people”…and the fact that she has to get them with others of their kind to procreate…as like “her job,” and things…made me feel less envious and hateful toward her.

…If nothing else, it always offers a laugh to my day…and makes me feel less of a personal disaster area than I thought previously.  And because she is a good egg and all, she thought it might be an amusing anecdote to carry around with you from time to time, as well.  Which is how this: the FIRST of a series we will be calling “Dear SWAL,” came to be.

…The questions will be plucked directly from her inbox, and the answers: from my brain.  The final product should be a terrifying look at why you should never ask me relationship advice.  And also (hopefully) spin some of her headache days into a new field of appreciation in idiocy.  No changes will be made to spelling or content.  This is particularly important, as you will soon see.

This one’s for the “Marty” to my “Roz.”

Dearest “Marty”: Here is why I could never do your job…


Question: “I fil lyk m tryin so hard in mi afair thou i no dat he ain’t a talker.”

Answer: ” Lt mi giv 2 u str8: eye donut tink are progrm will hlp u much. we bass r produck on txt skilz and the anglish lingo. if u aint of the haven it, we aint able 2 hlp. sorry 4 realz.”


Question: “I sent my first ‘crossing the bridge’ text to my ex girlfriend and her response was ‘Fuck off’. What does that mean?”

Answer: “She just blew up the bridge. Put the phone down. Attached is your refund code.”


Question: “A man who’s very capable of clipping his own fingernails and toenails but still asks you to do it for him. Is that any indication that he’s into me?”

Answer: “This is only indicative of him having a certain grooming/mothering fetish, or just being a lazy bastard. My advice in both instances: run.”


Question: “Can you tell me why a man would be so wrapped up in hobbies and cats and have 400 cat pics and be too stubborn to take pics of me or want to have any pics of me on his computer or Facebook?”

Answer: “The Greeks called it ‘Zoophilia,’ a sheep calls it ‘the back 40,’ I call it: ‘prob’ly not what you’re looking for.’ Trust me. Move on.”


Question: “I am 16 years old and she is 17 we had a relationship for almost 3 years and she claimed she fell out of love with me or just was not feeling it. She said i was just immature. I want her to fall in love with me again because we had promise rings and everything to spend the rest of our lives together and i loved the thought of that. i\’ve tried other girls but she is the only girl for me. I am meant for her, wha do i do?”

Answer: “Dear ’16’: I remember you. So I’m not gonna tell you all the things everyone else is going to…about how ‘you’re young,’ and ‘things will change,’ and ‘time will pass,’ and ‘you’ll move on,’ and ‘there will be others,’ and ‘you can’t make people love you.’ Instead I’m just gonna state: ‘Yeah. What they said.'”


Question: “why is my account auaoened?”

Answer: “Because gerfuoded.”


Question: “what are the first 3 methods to getting her back into my life”

Answer: “Have you tried asking her yet.”


Question: “Plz help I won\’t something to say to my ex to win her back plzzz with u help me”

Answer: “I need you to put the bottle down, calmly turn around, and walk away from the car. I have her on the other line, she’s locked herself in, and you’re really freaking her out right now…”


Question: “Am a virgin, and we both agreed that i keep the virginity. But recently, he started cheating on me. I confronted him and he denied it. And since then, he has been acting so mean to me. Am so confused do not know what to do, because i still love him”

Answer: “Yes. You keep your virginity. He’s obviously already got several others’ and there’s no reason to let him be a pig about it. Meanwhile, the local chapters of Catholic and Jewish Mothers With Of-Age Sons, would like to field your interest in dating registrations…”


Question: “i hate my ex i think i should kill him….i hate this feeling”

Answer: “I’m afraid I don’t know what you are asking. Please clarify in a ‘question’ format. Or for all ‘general statements,’ please press ‘4’ to re-send text to appropriate mailbox.”


Question: “you mention ’emotional intimacy’. What is that exactly?”

Answer: “Funny, that’s what my date said last night…”


Question: “When a man says to you ‘lets get together soon…’ what does he mean by ‘soon’? days ? weeks ? months ?”

Answer: “On the twelfth. Of never.”


Question: “How forward is too forward for a woman to be?”

Answer: “Are you the only one naked, and is he calling the Police…?”


Question: “When a guy is ignorant I get attracted to him , as soon as he gets attracted to me n show he is interested I lose interest !? why is it so? am I normal?”

Answer: “Sadly, normal. But we have ten or twelve products that can fix that!”


Question: “What can you reply when someone tell you this: ‘I’ll never be happy unless I cheat from time to time’.”

Answer: “Goodbye.”


…That’s all for now, Cuties. Happy texting!


Three Truths

10 Sep


Know that game where you ask a question requiring three answers, all in immediate first-gut-reaction?  You know…you play it when you’re drunk, or on a first date, or sitting in a car in hour seven of thirteen…on a road trip.

…Here are a few answers from a recent version, I will share with you.  Mostly because I promised not to write about the really good super secret conversation I had today…and also because even if it isn’t the one you WANT to be overhearing, at least there is some entertainment value attached to it.

…And also, that other conversation is all I can think about right now, so my brain is too full to ruminate on “other stuff,” then be expected to care about it and actually write it down.

So here are some “leftovers,” instead.

…But not the “egg burrito kind” that gets all rubbery and wrong. The “spaghetti kind” that still tastes good, even when you have to re-nuke it.


1) Top 3 Movies Of All Time:
I like old ones best…but am really eclectic up to present day Indie and blow-up films…so I’d have to do it by genre.  Plus, I’m a giant BBC nerd…so there’s just no simple answer to that question.  It needs an evening and a bottle. If you saw my collection, you’d understand.  Movies and books are my crack cocaine.

2) Top 3 Places to Live In The World:
England – For every reason under the sun (even when it rains.)
Ireland – For vacationing and reflection.
Italy – For eats, sex and general splendor.

3) Top 3 Bucket List Roles:
Martha in “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf,” – Because it’s eviscerating and sick in all the best ways possibly.
Blanche in “Streetcar Named Desire,” – Because everyone wants to play Blanche Dubois…yes, even you.
Regina in “The Little Foxes” – Evil Edwardian mother with infinite power at her disposal?  Um, yes please.
Jane Eyre in “Jane Eyre”- Because I get it, and she gets me.
Mrs. Danvers  in “Rebecca” – Because she’s one of the only villains in all of drama, who isn’t actually a villain, but is a villain.
(And no, I didn’t forget how to count, I broke the rules on purpose, and I get to…cuz it’s my fucking game.) 

4) Items You’d Have In A Zombie Apocalypse:
A boat – To get away.
A copy of Jane Eyre – To keep me company.
Stage Makeup – so I could pretend to be one of them as needed.

5) Actor’s Careers You’d Most Like To Have:
Kate Winslet –  And if I can’t have her career, can we at least bitch over a beer together at some point?
Emma Thompson – She’s funny as hell, Cambridge smart, writes deliciously well and is “real.”
Meryl Streep –  It goes: Abraham Lincoln, Winston Churchill, Albert Einstein, and Meryl Streep in the cast of human freak-people who can accomplish anything.

6) Top 3 Non-Artistic Careers You Would Have:
Archaeologist (specifically Egyptology) – I hate dirt, but would get over it if I could please discover the next biggest thing since Tut’s tomb.
Spy (specifically Undercover Op) – But only if I have the moves, figure and tech toys of Jennifer Garner or James Bond, to go with it.
Diplomat – Mostly for the immunity and Cuban cigars I could buy.

7) 3 Meals/Foods You Would Eat Every Day:
Potatoes – The best food of all time.
Pasta with sauce – In all it’s infinite varieties.
Spinach salad – With every kind of veg but peas.

8) Songs That Mean A Lot To You, And Why:
Claire de Lune (Debussy) – Cuz it reminds me of Gram.
She (Elvis Costello) – To be that chick to someone…all the reasons are in the lyrics.
The Man That Got Away (Judy Garland) – Cuz it hurts so good.

9) Places In America To See Before You Die:
D.C. – Soak up all the museums and History.
N.Y. – Amazingly enough, still haven’t been there…and you can’t die before that happens, it’s just a rule, so I’m strategizing it out in order to prolong my life “in general.”
Boston – The Architecture and accent.

10) Favorite Sports:
Baseball – To watch.
Soccer – To play.
Hockey – To start a fight at.

***Bonus Question***

11) Most Important Achievements To Have Reached Fifty Years From Now:
Create at least one beautiful thing that will last beyond my lifetime.
Reach a point of making my living 100% via artistic means.
Have a wake so full of people I love, that they spill outta the pub into the street.


Harbor Lights, Drunken Old Men, & Some Salsa

8 Sep


The BFF, texted me at 10 A.M., demanding we kick off my week of vacation on Friday, by consuming extra strong cocktails in the company of drunken old men, directly after work.

…To catch you up: there’s this place on the waterfront called Harbor Lights, which has the reputation of levelling anyone within a two-drink maximum consumption…I don’t give a shit WHO you are.

…You could be the hairiest, Harley-riding, spike-pierce-tatted, four-hundred-pound-beer-gutter ever invented, and I promise that you will still crawl your ass out of those doors like you’ve never had a drink before, if you even TRY to go one over the limit.

…I mean, we are talking “professionals” here, people. With it’s chasing globe-light sign and retro interior, it is the notorious favorite haunt of the older crowd pensioners — who have all been drinking socially for three times your life span and can still hold their liquor better than the badest-ass badass.

Routinely, we pass this place while taking the Ruston walk for fresh air, and see the willow-like frames of it’s inhabitants passing in and out it’s doors, smelling like the Jack Daniel’s distillery, yet amazingly still totally functioning and upright. To date: neither one of us has ever actually ventured into it’s doors. We are pretty awesome drinkers, but we know it would break us in nothing flat and we secretly fear for our egos*. (* “I fear NOTHING!”, The BFF counters immediately as I read her this sentence, in review.)

…But tonight! That all changes, my friends!

…The goal here is to get comfortably plowed at minimum cost, without a ralphing hangover lasting halfway into tomorrow. If we can manage it, I will declare us the, “Righteous Dames of Perfected Excess.” If not, you might be looking at another in-depth study on my stomach contents as they float in a toilet.

We can only try.

As curious as I am to launch into said experiment at all, this comes with a double bonus in the types of character study, that even my brain couldn’t possibly make up. What glory of ultimate delight awaits us? It’s frankly too good to waste by not leaving an open-ended two-parter episode option, I think.

…For this reason, I leave you now, in order to complete the kind of investigative reporting that you fully deserve. If I had a book deal or research grant, I could totally write it all off as an expense, based on topical study. But since I don’t, I can’t. Instead, this entire enterprise will be privately funded by The BFF’s Fella, so its kind of a giant deal.

…So don’t bitch that we never made sacrifices or gave you anything. Me: by willingly exposing my stomach lining and The BFF: by dating a gentleman, The Fella: for bankrolling our exploits.

…At some point, we’ll need to establish a PayPal Kick-Starter account, just to continue to enthrall you with our various shenanigan-wonderments.


…Dear God, that was a freakin brilliant idea. I am so glad I just wrote that down…

**End Act One**
**Act Two**

It is Happy Hour.

…Almost everything they make is five bucks, and at first sip we instantly realize the rumours have been true. I cough. The BFF grins. I make it through one and a half Mai Tais before my words start slurring as we take in the crowd.

We choose the bar instead of the restaurant…all of which is themed like something between a Captain’s ship and the cavern set for “The Goonies.” Everything is dated and falsely-preserved…including the bartender, upholstery, and dead, stuffed fish on the walls. It takes zero time at all to realize that all the septuagenarians in the room know each other…on account they call out one another’s name as new ones are added. This is what “Cheers” would have been like if it was still filming today.

…Only three people who don’t belong in the mix (besides us) are present: a youngish woman sitting by herself. A forty-ish man stirring a drink with his finger and staring morosely out the plastic tinted window toward the sea. And, the creepy dude at the bar who totally makes a point to turn, take in The BFF from head to toe and back to her boobs, before making his drink order.

“That just happened,” I say, as The BFF roles her eyes.

…It is shortly after this that The BFF’s Fella is added to the group. To make him feel properly welcomed, we yell his name upon sight, like everyone else in the bar sees fit to do. They smile and toast us in our efforts. He orders a “Peachy Drop.” It takes a “man” to just throw that kinda name out there, and still drink it with confidence.

The Fella is all over it.

…We finish our drinks and haul off home. It’s decided that “eating” should probably take place…and should probably have done so before these monster drinks. Free food takes precedence to sitting here all night, soaking up overheard conversations (and looks from Creepy Bar Guy.) And, since we are privately funded and can apply our non existent grants at our whim, we exit with about twelve kinds of alcohol swishing our insides, like three walking, toxic waterbeds.


…A lot of food-making action thence takes place…and sweating, cuz the kitchen is one step hotter than hell…and eating, cuz we could medal in that. It is somewhere shortly after dinner, that The Fella suggests our next feat of wonder: going Salsa dancing.

Our guts: full of baked chicken, mashed potatoes and stuffing, all trying their best to beat down the alcohol into a functioning position, aren’t sure that they agreed with the plan. But DAMMIT, this is my VACATION, and I am the boss of the me! Plus, the idea has already come up about a dozen times before this, every time we collectively passed that studio on 6th Ave. Along with lessons, it has free open door social dancing on Fridays, and we keep meaning to go, but get too lazy to actually do it. Tonight, since we were already breaking precedence, we decide to break that one too.

**Act Three** (a bonus)

We divide to doll up, and digest our evening’s imbibings privately.

Then: Behold, only fifty minutes later, I’m being flung all over the studio by a variety of partners I have never met before. Though arriving with no partner, I never sit out a dance…even when I try to, (so I can bogart one of the fans and search for water.) Only about ten seconds into my plan, a dude materializes, holds out a hand, grins, and nods. This is the universal sign of “wanna dance?” when the music is set louder than the five industrial fans blowing sweat all over a studio ballroom. And because its fun as hell, of course I take them up on it. Every time. Which gets me everywhere from partnering with a barely pubescent boy, to a tiny, tiny Asian man who flings me around in super speeds…which I somehow manage to follow…thus looking like I not only actually know what I’m doing, but might even do it at competition levels.

“Oh my god! Did you see that?!” I demand of The BFF as I wobble back toward the fan she and The Fella are currently frequenting. “I had no idea where in the hell to spot or anything, and that turney-turney-turney-loop thing? What the hell was that?! It was masterful!”

“That dude has serious game! You actually looked like you knew what you were doing!”

“I know, right?!”

…And the screaming conversation ends, as another hand shoots out in front of me, and I’m off to the races again with what turns out to be the co-owner of the studio.

…We had quickly become favorites of the other one, earlier, on account of me jabbering about theatre. This was in hopes it would sidetrack her from noting my total lack of technique when it became my turn to be her partner, in the earlier mini class lesson (which we arrived at the ass-end of.) She got so excited about legit fellow performers in the room that she demanded I point out The BFF and The Fella too. (Which, come to think of it, is prob’ly the real reason I got so much instant man-dancing-meat out of the deal…but I totally don’t even care…cuz it was amazing-fun.)

“Who needs sex? I can just Salsa the rest of my life!”

This is my new slogan and theme I invent, as we wobble back to the car. Upon exiting, we promise to come back, and receive monster hugs despite all that sweat, for doing so.

“Do we know that woman who just hugged us?” The Fella asks, outside of the door.

“She owns the place. She thinks we’re rad cuz we actually dressed up. And do theatre, and she used to, and misses it. Also: she was a mad-skills ballroom dancing competitor, but had to quit cuz she got injured and sick.”

The Fella’s eyebrows raise in question.

“…Back when we first wanted to come here, I did a shit-ton of research on the studio and the owners.”

“Of course you did,” The BFF resounds. “Hey, lemme have the keys, I’m driving.”

“You okay to drive?” The Fella counters, just to make sure.

“Babe, I’ve been sober since about five minutes after we showed up there. All the alcohol got sweated out like an hour and a half ago.”

…And I realize this is actually true.

I also realize that maybe I wanna do this EVERY Friday night.

Possibly, for the rest of my life!

…But maybe, minus the stuffing.


She’s Branding

28 Aug


I feel like I just bought a cow and poked a searing hot branding iron at her ass.

She Writes A Little, now has it’s own dedicated Email and Facebook page with a line-up of materials coming your way should you choose to partake in them.  Mostly, I haven’t done this yet because I’ve been terrified since the last “outing,” that someone would sniff me out again.  But I think I’ve got the matter handled, secured and ready to launch out into the webosphere.

…The other “hold-back,” was what in the hell I’d do with a dedicated Email and FB page once I got them. 

This is the part where I drop heavy hints to people who might want to hire me to write things.  Don’t feel shy.  You should really give me a buzz and we can talk.  I can write serious, academic, literary, script and research article stuff too, you know.  I’d prove it by showing you my resume, but that would kinda blow my cover a little bit.  So you’ll just have to take my word for it.

…Meanwhile, as I anxiously await the many job opportunities blowing up my email inbox even now, I’d like to shift focus to the FB page a moment, if you will.

I’ve spent hours (2), tonight on my couch, deriving a cunning plan wherein scheduled materials will crop up on it, each and every day. Each day of the week will have a special post all it’s own, having nothing at all to do with the blog…(only sometimes)…and may or may not help me think of further writing ideas to expand upon, so as members you may or may not get a super special insider peek. It will be themed like this:

SWAL’s Facebook Datebook

Mon – Dames We Dig
(Dames we love and why. Inspiration in spades, these chicks got it to spare.)

Tues – Books To Read
(Book list favs from Hollywood, and bios and theatre and history. If I love it, you’ll love it…I mean, my God, we’re practically twins.)

Wed – Mmmmen We Love
(Famous fellas who get it done right, and why. With special emphasis on boys who have voices you could lick like a spoon. )

Thurs – Strange story of the day
(Weird but true news items or personal anecdotes in tiny blips. Like your own little Freak Show ticket, every week.)

Fri – Fetish Feast
(People, theatre, food, film, and lit within the fetish world. I am dedicated to searching it out…no matter what gross pop-ups thusly occur.)

Sat – Sins We Partake
(Bad-for-you or naughty favorite booze, places, delectable dishes, naughty reads, and “didja knows.”)

Sun – Saving Graces
(Quiet retreats, mental clean up, relaxing movies, books, happy place listings of “the greatest hits.”)

…At some point I’m prob’ly gonna need to come up with a better pen name, as well. Because “SWAL” prob’ly won’t sell a whole hell of a lotta books. It sorta sounds like the acronym to a disaster relief fund or hybrid disease or something. Maybe I’ll hold a contest to name me…like MGM did for Joan Crawford. And then I’ll thank the winner personally in my hypothetical book when it’s published. And maybe ship them some of this:

…Because I’m a hell of a lot nicer than Joan Crawford ever was. All she ever gave out was sex and wire hanger welts.*


* Note to self: Cross reference Crawford under Thursday through Saturday. And maybe Monday. I mean, lets be real.

Senior Envy

22 Aug


Sometimes I feel jealous of Senior Citizens.  I tell myself that someday I’ll reach those special years of amazement as well…but then I’ll think of the powers they yield and start to get impatient.

I’m jealous how they can wear pajamas to the grocery store, and not even think twice about it. 

…My Gram used to do it all the time.  There was this tiny market down town?  It smelled of raw beef and cardboard boxes, and when you went inside you’d know every person in every aisle, cuz everyone was a regular.  And for some reason, Gram (who was usually spiffed out in fully coordinated blouse and slack outfits), could walk through that store on a Tuesday morning, wearing a mumu in her house slippers with a scarf around her head, not bothered in the least by it.  These are the same people, mind you, whom she would fret about seeing a spill-stain on her new jacket on Friday, because the coffee cup had a leak.  The rationalization totally escapes me.  But I still wanna be able to do it.

I’m jealous how they can fall asleep anywhere, at any time.

…It takes me forever to fall asleep.  I can lay there for hours with my head just ticking away…thoughts, thoughts, thoughts…on a nonstop repeat.  Generally I only get about five hours in a night…sometimes six. But Seniors can fall asleep within fifteen seconds, whether they’re in a doctor’s office, the DMV, a football stadium, or even standing in line waiting for check-out. ( I’ve seen it.) Such power, and talent. I wanna be able to do that.

I’m jealous how nothing in life embarrasses them.

They can just fart in public.  Just fart.  Just like that.  What the hell do they care what you think about it?  Also they spend whole lunches together talking about things like their personal diseases and anatomy parts that don’t work…raising the stakes on one another like they’re betting their incapacities, medical procedures and ills, in a game of poker. “I SEE your psoriasis, and raise you an enema!” Or they’ll glory in how good their bowel movements are…grading them on a scale of awesomeness against seventy years.  “This one time, in ’47, I had just the greatest BM ever!” ” I had one in ’63 that completely changed my whole life, practically…!”

I’m jealous of their temper tantrums.

…Like small children, they seem to get a special “pass” for this.  Crotchety old men are like an American institution.  And everyone who has ever worked in any service industry, has been railed at at least once, by a sixty-five pound, blue-haired, ninety-year-old woman with a smokers rasp.  They are totally allowed to be giant dicks to anyone at any time, and we just sorta go along with it.  Why?  Because.  It’s in the constitution or something.

I’m jealous of their money management strategies.

People think Seniors aren’t up with the times, don’t understand the concepts of things like “inflation” and “alternate percentages.”  Please.  These people have lived through five wars, four economic depressions, countless droughts, fires, Tsunamis, hurricanes, Medicare, and the end of the world at least ten times.  They know what’s going on.  And they know how to make every fucking buck they’ve got, count. Can you blame them?! They are in a position of knowing from experience that it’s only a matter of time before shit hits the fan again.  So while we dance around with grins slobbered on our faces, buying rounds for everyone and using dollar bills for toilet paper in the high-times, they’re counting out fifty-cent tips for the asshole who forgot to refill their coffee cup at Dennys. Why? They understand the economy better than you think.  They’ve had to reinvent it the the last sixty times.

I’m jealous of their knowledge.

…These people know everything about everything. They’re better than the internet.  Go ahead. Test them:
Question: “Who was that one person in that movie, with whatserface, with all that rain?”

Answer: “Gene Kelly.”

Question: “How many terms was FDR in office?”

Answer: “Elected four times, died in last term, April 12,1945.  Was sixty-three.  Just a damn kid.”

Question: “How do you get out stains?”

Answer: “Dish detergent for oil, club soda for red wine, white vinegar for tomato-bases, add some salt for perspiration. Ink stain: with rubbing alcohol, isopropyl for grass and paint.”

Question: “What’s the difference between a B17 Bomber and a B29?”

Answer: “About twelve tons in payload, 70 MPH, 25 feet in length, and 1,250 miles in range. I know cuz I flew both of ’em.”

Question: “Why Velveeta cheese and SPAM?”

Answer: “No expiration date. Ever.  I think I still have some cans from 1956 if you wanna snack?”

Question: “Greatest invention of all time?”

Answer: “Sex.”

…And I am jealous how they can sit and appreciate things.

Old men will forever populate benches facing out into oceans of abyss. Little old ladies will never cease congregating in tea socials to gossip and munch in good company, like a park full of pigeons.  Grandparents will eat their grandbabies with their eyes and see the resemblance of every ancestor you have ever had in them.

…A spot of wine with a view.

…A summer sunset…

…Perching on a porch swing, just watching the people passing by. 

Taking a Sunday drive at leisure as the commuters honk and ride their bumpers the whole time. 

…They’ve perfected establishing a single snapshot of a moment…like they’re filling the rest of their photo albums up to take with them to whatever comes after all of this “living on earth” stuff.

I think we forget to do that. 

…I think it’d be good to learn it earlier in life.

I think someday I’ll get there.

…And I’ll watch the world just passing by and think:

“Sometimes I’m jealous of young people…”

…Which is about when, one of ’em will do something really stupid

And I’ll shake my head and smile to myself.

“Scratch that.”


Holy Orders & More

6 Aug


Callbacks this weekend. The theatre was booked, so we moved to the alternative space. 

Let not the irony escape you, that for at least two of the theatre’s in the area, the “alternative space” is a Church. 

…Historically speaking, whores and actors have been categorized together as equal opportunity offenders to these conservative numbers…(only possibly outdone by actors playing whores), since the beginning of time. Together, (or apart) they may say they accept you as one or both such members of humanity walking through their doors…but you better believe they’re gonna do their damndest to make sure when you walk out again, all that “nonsense” has been wiped clean, and you will be a fully functioning contributor to society once again.

…Unless you’re Lutheran or Unitarian I guess.  Cuz they sorta specialize in the, “whatever works for you,” category. Which is super rare. I know.  I’ve grown up in a whole lotta churches.  This one time?  I even wanted to make it a semi-calling.

…I was like five, and my Dad asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.

“A Nun and Actress!”

This tiny alteration to my otherwise lifelong goal, was a bi-product of having just discovered “The Sound of Music,” (of course.) It, never-the-less,  freaked him the fuck out.  As a student of Catholic Parochial Schools, I think he actually preferred the route I went. Which is only barely the lesser of two evils. At least this way, my “sins against humanity” would only involve making an ass of myself, with a possible last-minute repeal for my soul when the time has come. After all, I wouldn’t REALLY spend my life killing people, stealing their husbands and generally whoreing around…only “pretending” to.  This was better than a career of morbid servitude, beating children with rulers due to strict patriarchal demands and personal sexual frustrations.

…It’s “something,” and one should take what one can get.  Meanwhile, Mom found it hilarious and still likes to tell it as an anecdote at parties.

It was a short lived dream.

Despite the teachings of Julie Andrews (and Rogers and Hammerstein), a person cannot be both these things, sadly. (I’m sorry, it had to be said.)  At some point, this dawned on me. About the time I realized that raising seven step-children would prob’ly suck,  and I’d never actually “fly”, like Sally Field. This all directly coincided, by the way, with my first viewing of Audrey Hepburn’s “The Nun’s Story,”  wherein I was shown quite frankly that a life of almost total obedient silence, and floor scrubbing, in head-to-toe black polyester in the Congo, prob’ly wasn’t gonna allow for much stage time.  Clearly one of ’em would have to go…which is why I am not in Orders today. 

Also: I’m not Catholic.  And, they frown on cussing.

…Sadly, the “celibacy” bit, isn’t the issue…

…Anyway…where I was going with this was: Actors in a church are like one of the most outstanding “wrongs” you can imagine.  Especially when they are plying their trade.  Even if the offenders are “of faith” themselves…(obviously belonging to one of the less restrictive sects), and use their “powers” for good, not evil.  Since I belong to no sect, have my own “deal” with the powers that be, and play a revolving, reoccurring set of baddies, bimbos, bitches and ne’er-do-wells every time I pick up a script…it sorta freaks me out a bit to exercise it all in a place I was taught as far back as I can remember, is “Holy.” 

Also, it’s confusing.  Because I think of theatre almost exactly the same way…which some might call “heresy,” but I just call, “human truth.”

Either way you cook it…the entire experience can just get weird.

…Try doing Mamet in a Church foyer, for instance (been there.) Or play a lesbian putting the moves on someone’s wife, in the Sunday School room (done that.) Or murder a man in cold blood (yep), or ride a dude’s leg while he grapples your boob within three feet of the main sanctuary (achieved.)  Surround yourself with people screaming “Heil Hitler!” (on tour even.) Damn people to hell (check), ruin their marriages (several times), sell your body to the highest bidder (even for beer)…and swill booze in a pub while singing the raunchiest lyrics you can wink at (done, done, and yep.) These are things that might (to some) seem just a little disturbing…and not only to the people who aren’t participating in the events, believe me.  Which just means: when you walk into the building and know you have to do the things you’re gonna have to do in it…you sorta have to divorce yourself almost immediately from the restrictions of reality or you will never win, rehearse or conquer a role, pretty much ever again.

…I don’t know what that means in the mainframe of things…after all…it is only a “building” when you get right down to it. We don’t actually MEAN to “defile” it with our baser-humanity instincts and involvements (sometimes put to song.)  All I know is, this weekend I realized (for the first time) the double irony of it all.

…Think about it: Once upon a time (for about a week and a half), I wanted to be an Actor and a Nun.

And I am.

…Total, dedicated, penniless, servitude…as my calling requires…reaching out to humanity as a whole, without discrimination, in complete observance of all rulings sent down from my betters, as practiced within the walls of the Holy Church.

…Even the celibacy bit: still works.

…Which is all to say: “Look Ma! I made it!”

I’m sure she’s just proud as hell right now.


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