Thanksgiving 2010 in more than 3000 words...

Money Makes The World Go Round

When you are a temp you've been called in for one of two reasons:

1. The Executive needs to maintain a certain appearance within the culture - "I cannot function without assistance.  I'm too busy for little things, I have a spa appointment at 2p."  On these assignments I usually answer the phone a few times and spend most of my day writing blogs as there is literally nothing for me to tangibly do.  I am set dressing.  I wonder how many novels have been written at certain Executive Admins' desks... or should be. 

OR

2. The Executive is a highly skilled, highly experienced, highly respected individual with savant dedication and talent.  Without help, he/she would drown - "I have an overseas conference call at 8am, a power-point presentation to dispense at 8:30a and somewhere in between I have to get a memo out to The Board about next year's predictions.  I don't have time to eat much-less figure out how to plug in my laptop."  As a temp, I love these experiences.  I feel valued and love the challenge of walking into the chaos with a cool hand.  On these assignments, I'm the bomb squad.

Last Monday, when I walked into the cubicle of where I was assigned I thought, "This looks like triage."  Excellent!  Executive Number 2!  No one had time to explain protocol.  My help, any help was welcome.  Every single person I came in contact with was vibrating with a mission.  It was obvious they not only had a lot to do, but they enjoyed doing it - the way you enjoy painting a room... before the in-laws show up, tomorrow.  

I am 37.  Three years ago I decided to leave the acting business.  I still don't know what to tell people at parties when they ask me what I do.  "Freelance... Human?"  Most of my NYC 'day jobs' have been in offices and since I quit seeking a real acting career, most of my resume shows me sitting behind a desk... many times.  A Career Placement Councilor once told me I was a "Job Hopper".  I explained I was an actor.  She didn't even blink, "Same thing." 

Earlier this year, I happily, ecstatically got married to the yin to my yang.  We plan to start a family in two years after he figures out what he wants to tell people he does for money.  He's an artist.  We are attempting to define our own realities including the future of our family.  We're trying not to feel latent.  We need more Vitamin B.

I think everyone wants to love their job.  But earning money is often... unhappy work.  I'm lucky to have experienced so many kinds of jobs while searching for a meaningful existence.  Whenever my 'day job' spilled into my 'life', my close friends, who observed my tendencies towards total collaborative emersion, would remind me that for artists, earning money is just a 'means to an end.'  

This notion has always intensely bothered me.  I can meditate.  I can find hobbies.  I can find reasons to sacrifice.  I can try to be awake and aware and enjoy my daily tasks regardless of what I'm doing.  I'm alive aren't I?  But honestly, if I have the choice, why would I spend 8 to 12 to 16 hours of every day doing something I don't enjoy?  Why do we take this Revolutionary Road?  Is our system for organizing life prioritized so deadly we've forgotten the mystery?  We don't know why we are here, why be here in dread?  Are we just collecting paychecks for the future?  What if we don't make it to the future?

Temping is a good way for me to make decent cash and not have to label myself.  I change my mind too much and I like costumes.  I'm lucky that one of my best friends works for a staffing company.

My step mother told me to tell people I'm an artist.  I told her I didn't feel like one yet.  She said to tell people I was a photographer.  I told her that was a big, fat, giant lie.  And besides I don't want anyone to pay me for my hobby.  Then I have to act like I know what I'm doing.  She said to say I'm a "1099er".  I'll use it.

Until I have the guts to say I'm a writer.

You say you want a revolution
Well, you know
We all want to change the world
You tell me that it's evolution
Well, you know
We all want to change the world
But when you talk about destruction
Don't you know that you can count me out
Don't you know it's gonna be all right
all right, all right 
-The Beatles

Freaky Friday

6:33PM


"Julian got a job!"


"That's great mom!  I was offered a job too!"


"Do you want it?"


"It's not everyday a great company just asks you to work for them.  I can't make up my mind.  I want to work part-time but we could use the money.  I just don't want to get stuck in the cycle again.  I want to have time to write."


"What are you going to do?"


"Wait."

Thursday Thoughts

4:58PM


"Hey."


"Hey. How are you?"


"Tired. Doing another errand."


"Did you have lunch?"


"No, it's crazy. I ate at my desk."


"Sweetheart, you have to take lunch."


"But I lose money anyway. I don't mind. They really like me. Someone asked to see my resume. I do like it here."


"I'm sure they did and I'm sure you do. Are you going to work late?"


"No, I told them I had to get home."


"You did? I'm impressed."


"Gotta walk the dog."


"He's been in there all day poor little guy."


"Poor Bootle. How'd it go today?"


"Well you know, I'm tired but it went well. Tomorrow is the big presentation and we HAVE to get to bed early tonight. I have to be up at five."


"I know sweetheart. We will. We'll get on schedule. It's hard when we go to bed late. It's tough with full time work. I'm sorry about the house."


"Yeah. We've gotta take care of that this weekend."


"I'll do it."


"I'll help."


"I better get back to things. I't nuts here. We'll talk tonight. I love you."


"I miss you. I love you."

Wednesday Wonderwoman

12:35 PM


"May I speak with Mrs. Skura please?"


"Hey!"


"Hey! They want to know if you're available next week."


"YEE-aws!"


"Well, I wasn't sure. It's not part time."


"I know. I like it here. They like me."


"'Cause you are good!"


"So Happy-Day-After-Your-Birthday, did you have a nice night?"


"Yes it was great. I told Gates I wasn't looking forward to this one and she said: You have to because you are older! I said: Exactly sweety. It's OK, she thinks I'm 26."


"Well you look it. Are you having fun with your mom being in town? How long is she here?"


"Monday. Yes it's great! You should come see her."


"Maybe this weekend? I'll call you. I should go. It's kind of nuts here. I don't think I'm having lunch. But they like me so that's good."


"We'll talk later. Have fun!"


"You too. Thank you!"

Tuesday Temptress

1:35PM

"Hey!"

"How's it going?"

"It's going well! I like it here. They have this big event next week and they are totally slammed. I've been sent out to buy stuff for the tables. Everyone is really nice."

"That's good."

"Yeah.  What are you up to?"

"Ahhh, you know, still researching schools. Making sales calls but I'm way behind. There's so much to do. A lot of these places have deadlines in November and December. Plus, there's the GRE..."

"You can do it!  I'll help you!"

"Sweetheart, this is a BIG deal.  I don't even know what I'd want to study yet."

"It doesn't matter!  Just pick something!  I'll help you gather the paperwork and letters and you study and take the GRE and we'll get everything together next week!"

"Sweetheart.  It doesn't work like that."

"We'll talk tonight.  I have to get back.  They're really..."

[Together.] "...slammed."

"Yeah. I like it though. It's tempting. Nice office. Nice people. It's make up!"

"You've been there a day. I thought you wanted to write."

"I do. I'm just thinking about money. I don't know. Corporate is so tempting. Benefits. Nice money. Maybe I should do it for a while if they ask? I think they may ask? I really like it here. But... I don't know. I haven't written anything yet this week."

"We'll talk tonight."

"I love you."

"You too."

Monday Morning Monetary Miracle

11:58 AM


"Yes!"


[Laughing.] "Good! How quickly can you be downtown?"


"An hour?  Hour fifteen."


"That's good."


"I didn't even finish listening to your message.  I just hung up and called you."


"As soon as Karen told me about the assignment I didn't even let her finish!  I said: JEN!"


"I'll call you back with details."


"Excellent!  Sweet!  Thanks!"

Man's Best Friend

The dog is going to kill me for posting this.

Three

That sharp small stab
A trigger, a wish, a reminder
I have to wait
I am not ready
We can't


I curl up to twist the bulge
I bring another pillow to my chest
The dog's breath is warm
And I think about when he will die


A gurgle and burp
I squeeze my legs
I bet it hurts just like this
And I think about when I will die


I look forward to looking back
Seeing my love and knowing we have made 
This...


I hold my breath.

Reality Sound Bites

I went to a friend's afternoon cocktail party the other day. My friend who I often call 'Carrie' as in 'Carrie Bradshaw'. She is a successful wedding planner who recently went through a divorce. The cocktail party was a backdrop for the pilot of her new reality TV show.


About fifteen years ago in Los Angeles, I used to do extra work for extra cash. The Screen Actor's Guild paid us very well to mime conversations and stand behind people who were paid even better to speak out loud. Many actors have a hard time doing this aimless background work, therefore, there are not a lot of actors doing it. Background Artists are a breed of their own. Odd skills are required. There is a lot of waiting around between takes and back when I was enduring it, there were no hand-held computers. You made friends or you read books. If you chose to make friends, you had to tolerate a lot of strange folks making small talk about strange things. Strange like being a stranger at a cocktail party for a reality television show.


At this cocktail party, I watched the camera follow 'Carrie' around the room and I noticed everyone become perfectly animated whenever the lights hit them. Especially 'Carrie'. She looked amazing. She'd been in a makeup chair earlier and of course her perfect dress hid the mic the perfect distance from her lips. When she hugged me I felt the battery pack on her back. 


She mentioned she wanted to do this party to thank her clients, vendors and friends who'd been there to support her business. I was honored to be invited and at the same time felt flashbacks about the extra work. I also thought I'd recognized the room she booked from the ONE episode I'd seen of The Real Housewives of NYC. 'Samantha' would have been proud of her lemons-to-lemonade multitasking. She was getting good PR, giving good revenge and turning her irony into opportunity. 


There was no director telling us what to do and I still wasn't clear on my role in her reality show. I'm a trained actor. I am NEVER NOT aware when a camera is on me and if I don't have lines, I'm either a miming, over-articulating idiot or an awkward mute. Back in school, reality acting was not a part of the curriculum. When 'Carrie' came over to me, lights and camera in tow, I flip-flopped between big-eyed, overacting and a lot of silent nodding. 


I was the only guest with a degree in Theatre Arts. 


The cameras never came back to me. 


At least there were free drinks. Back in L.A., there were no martinis for us out in the freezing Pacific at 6am shooting David Hasselhoff's Malibu Shores.

Turning Japanese

I am a star dork. I get struck extremely easily. If I have even seen someone's name in print I think they are more important than I and I yield the floor openly with rose pedals and back-stepping, geisha bows. It is never a mental choice, always a gut instinct.


Because I hate watching myself do this, I am usually completely terrified of being in the presence of a star. Especially alone.


I was recently left in a room with Terry Richardson. My colleagues had no idea who he was and couldn't understand why I suddenly turned into Horshack. Many of my friends consider him a kiddie porn peddler (ah, the mentors we breed...), I happen to like some of his work.


I did relatively well in front of the celeb this time. Unlike when I walked by Paul McCartney on 54th Street and stood in his way so I could say: 


(Gulp. Pause. Gulp. Pause. Pause.)


"Hi." 


I did this in such a deer-in-headlights-forced-and-tortured-eyes-like-saucers way he burst out laughing at me.


Terry is not even close to Paul stature but I still felt myself turning slowly inside out. I couldn't help but mention to Terry that I liked his work and when he asked my name and held out his hand I mumbled who I was while looking at the floor. Then I went and hid in the bathroom.  Then I came out and sat at the other end of the room and pretended there was something extremely important deep inside my purse all while eating my tongue. After he left I took a picture of his shoes.


After I put them next to mine. 


I know I am not normal.

Mockumentoring

Due to unforeseen circumstances Greg and I went to bed extremely late last night and since we are no longer teenagers, we are not capable of saying our own names without a decent night's sleep. We were up late this morning and I've been playing catch up all day. One of those breakfast for lunch days. I showered before dinner.


I wondered what would it look like if my day today had been filmed NatGeo style. Lots of texting and phone calls to reschedule my life... a chase scene from my living room to the kitchen set to indigenous drum beats.


Or vice versa...


How do Aborigines let their people know they're running late for their next meeting?

PARISocial Activity

I have had dreams that Britney Spears was my sister. More than once. I have never even bought one of her songs. 

The only rag mag I 'read' is Entertainment Weekly and the occasional Huffington Post celebrity blurb. Somehow I know what Cameron Diaz looks like without make up.

I am almost NEVER on Facebook or YouTube but my husband has kept me up with the Jones's to see dancing dogs and rapping nerds. I've actually applauded the monitor.

The X and Y'ers grew up before we all had instant media in our pockets. The new generation has so much information stimuli streaming at them, how do they know their 'real' friends from 'virtual' ones? Everyone is famous in our World Wide Web. John Mayer is allotted the same number of characters per Tweet as I. 

I recently spent a few days with a 16 year old boy. We were both a part of a group hired to act in short scenes for a company conference. Good money, good audience, corporate 'art'. Like all teenagers, this kid, Ronnie, had a lot of energy and was always hungry. He would bounce around between his phone, his headphones and basic bursts of little dancing jigs that he sang to. He'd even brought his props for practicing Poi, which he performed every couple of hours when the urge or audience hit him. He showed us pictures of his friends and bragged about how many different nationalities they all were. He claimed to be able to sing 20 songs that were each in a different language. 

One thing I found very interesting about this kid was that he never once mentioned a celebrity. He didn't claim allegiance to a band that changed his life or to a rich and beautiful heiress. When I asked him who his acting idol was, he said he liked Jackie Chan but then said he didn't know how to 'fight or anything' like him.  Of course we are all concerned about the narcissism of the new generation and what to expect for the future of these little people all trying to be uniquely the same, but after meeting Ronnie, I have more confidence that these kids might actually be absorbing the benefits of streaming information. People are still people.  

Hopefully, parents will still parent in this world and the virtual one. The old dogs may be the ones fooled by these new tricks.

Patience & Fortitude

Sometimes you remember two little words that sound like good advice.

They are.

Death By Mac

I do not consider myself a savvy tech person AT ALL and I certainly do not have the latest toys, but I recently stepped out of my body and saw myself do something I frequently do:

Typing on my G4 laptop, headphones in my ears plugged into the iPod on my lap, I grabbed my iPhone to check my photos and emailed one to myself. 

If we are all getting cancer from these things I'm screwed. My name is Jennifer and I'm a Appleholic.

It's Weird To Be Right

I caught a glimpse of Larry King Live last night.  I told Greg I thought Larry King was looking a little, well, tired.  Greg mentioned Larry King was about to retire.


I wouldn't for one second consider I am the gal with her finger on the tipping pulse of this world.  As a matter of fact, I'm way behind in this... who am I kidding... ALL breaking news.  But I think it's odd when things fall out of my mouth that can only come from my armchair philosophical, observational experience.


Even though the show is titled "Larry King Live" I expect that producing executives wouldn't dare let this iconic program dwindle off. Milk it until it's dry and then until it's dust and then until somebody gets horrifically offended and sues... it rebirths but loses money in a court battle but gets enough publicity to get noticed for another season... then it finally dies only to be dug up 5 years later as a movie, a book, Broadway show or television series. Will they call it, Larry King Live Except That He's Not Here Anymore?


So I asked Greg:


"Who's replacing him, Ryan Seacrest?"


I was joking. 


Ryan Seacrest has been Dick Clark's protegee for the past few years. I always get teary when he waxes Dick's car every New Year's Eve, thanking him for the opportunity to fill a king's shoes.  I have too much respect for these men to full-on make fun of Ryan, Dick or Larry. But come on, it's kinda funny. Ryan, the hearse chasing host?  Ryan, Dick and Larry walk into a bar...

Greg answered me:

"Yeah, I think."

My mouth dropped and I found this on line: Larry King

I'm getting old.  Maybe Ryan will take over my blog.

Come and knock on our door...

Greg and I have been inviting folks over for dinner lately. Our circle of friends are just as broke as we are so it's nice to just plop down in our living room with pasta and a bottle of wine. It's much cheaper than a restaurant and at the end of the night we commute to the foyer to escort our guests to the door. Perfect for a lazy weekend. 


Since we are 'New Yorkers', many of our 'New Yorker' friends that are pairs either have incompatible schedules or they are no longer 'New Yorkers' and have moved off to greener pastures. 


We've been entertaining a lot of lone guests.  


It has been fun trying to make our one visitor feel like a singular sensation. We don't have a dining room table and we own one TV tray. Stewart, our little Italian Greyhound, often begs for food while we shout at him to get away from our plates. 


Sometimes it feels like we're practicing for when the grandkids come to visit. We should probably hand folks a $20 bill when they walk out the door.

The Omen

Many people experience that major 'coincidence' that stands out and knocks them over the head. It may come in the form of a deja vu, dream, vision, angel, sentence in a book or something a stranger says in passing. That 'thing' that we stop and go, "OK Universe, I hear you..." It's like the meeting we scheduled with God 10 years ago is finally here. We forgot we set the appointment, He shows up for our one minute one-on-one. We're on line at Starbucks, He just came from derailing a comet.  


I think this is a phenomenon that can come from an instant moment of perspective from a far away view of our own lives. Suddenly, we are looking at a map and see the pattern.  We understand the signal for the next exit. 


This is our life and we are in charge. If we stop giving our choices away to others we might understand these 'signs' come from our guts. Our internal compass, not necessarily a tug on the leash we handed to destiny.


I've had a few of these moments in life. Off the top of my head I believe I have actually seen an "angel", a ghost, a visit from the dead in a dream, an OVERWHELMING feeling of loss later to find out someone had died, examples of ESP and most recently, a clear vision with a soundtrack that arrived when I was meditating.  


ALL of these things can be explained by chemistry in the brain, but isn't it more fun to think we have interesting ways of receiving communications to guide us in life? It kind of takes the pressure off if 'something' else told us what to do.  Palm Reader, Ghost Whisperer, Jon Stewart...  


It seems like it would be easier to just listen to our guts and ignore any judgements or denials. Just do. But... I'm not always sure how to do that. It is almost too simple to go back from nurture and believe in full-on nature, especially with almost every aspect of our lives being man-made in complete collaboration. One would never be able to sustain oneself without the aid of another in today's day and age. If zombies took over the world, would you know how to keep your water and electricity running?


I recently received a message. I'm sure it came from a synapse that fired while I simultaneously digested the last bit of last night's dinner and heard a horn honk outside. I'm going to listen and I'm going to pass it on in all it's simpleness and irony. Maybe you can use it too:


"I'm sorry Jennifer, but you cannot apologize anymore."

Squeaky Wheel

I know everyone hates loco Yoko Ono.  I dig her. I think she's the only one in her love parade. I admire that. She's like the small doses friend you love oh so much, but after a couple of hours feel the need to suddenly stand up and take off sprinting like a gun went off.  


Everyone needs stimulus overload. It makes you think about what you'd stand up and be equally annoying about.


Currently, MoMa has displayed a Yoko piece that consists of a microphone in a stand next to a sign encouraging people to step up and scream.  


It's really annoying.  In that beautiful kind of way.

Seistatation

My husband gave me a gift recently and I will be spending the rest of my life figuring out how to thank him. 


Everyone has heard about meditation by now.  Everyone knows it's good for you... and I'm certain many folks know there are different kinds. Some meditation practices have religions attached, some have aerobics attached and some have cults, caves, diets, and Hollywood movies hooked in.


If you dig around the internet enough you can be terrified or satisfied about all of them. I admit I've tried on a few. I was a Mary Kay lady. A good one.


Greg gave me the gift of classes for a practice he discovered three months ago.  I've seen the differences in him. It's been three days for me and now I have x-ray vision.  But seriously peeps, I hope I am never in a situation where I feel I won't be able to give myself 20 minutes of this twice a day. It is already making my life, well, more happy.


This is nap time for smart people. For reals. Clint Eastwood, David Lynch, Paul McCartney... just to name a very few of the famous.  


Maybe I'll be able to spell in a few years.


GO HERE, JUST GO HERE: Transcendental Meditation

Drama Rama

My brother and I have always been the kind of kids that felt we needed to be bleeding, vomiting or on the way to the hospital in order to get our mother's mothering attention.  Every headache was a tumor and a trip to the ER.  Our mother was, and always has been, good at listening to our needs and tried her best to fix them.  


Neither of us are sure what causes our flair-for-the-dramatic,  but anyone who knows us, including our mother, would laugh at this understatement. Maybe we became addicted to her. Maybe we liked the attention. Maybe we loved having our blood pressure taken.


I know we aren't the only ones like this.  Fox news and public restrooms don't exactly help folks Keep Calm & Carry On:

Desperately Seeking Madonna

Eve gave Adam an apple.  The witch gave Snow White one too.  Roberta gives Dez the Port Authority locker key that was in the jacket that used to belong to Susan. The locker key leads to all of Susan's worldly possessions.  Susan is a homeless prostitute but everybody loves her because she's so confident and sexy and crazy stylish.  

What happened to the grungy 80's films? The art direction is about color, mimes, NYC and LA dirt. And lots of shoulder pads. Even in the 80's we made fun of the 80's. Now we miss the 80's. 

There was something innocent about the desperation in the aesthetic of 80's art. Today it's revered because technology has caught up with the dream. Only 30 years ago we had to dream it first and then try.  There was a lot of guts behind those explosions of LOOK. AT. ME.  Everything may look and sound more polished now but the guts are missing. 

Biography Killed the Radio Star

I used to work for a Cemetery/Funeral Home in Los Angeles.  I was hired at the cusp of the place going FUTURE.  They were installing a small theatre in the main building and would be placing kiosks throughout the park to display biographies of the interred. 


One of my duties as a 'Biographer' was to go through stacks of paperwork on the plots, find local relatives and interview them about their buried family member.  Typically, I would meet clients in their homes to record them describing the life and times of the deceased.  Then we'd sort through old photographs of their dead wife/dad/niece/grandmother and I would digitally shoot about a dozen images of the pictures.  My favorite part was the intimacy.  I was a complete stranger to these people and often within minutes they were sharing details with me through tears of joy, regret, love, pain... I was a soul collector, without the apocalypse.


I got paid $25 an interview.  I'd come back to the cemetery with the information and the cemetery editors would then create a mini biography. Sometimes it was free, sometimes a sales person had called and sold them a package priced per minute.  


"It's just like on A&E!"


This was before Facebook and YouTube. I had a crappy PC at home and I didn't even have an email address.  Dial up was something I hadn't invested in yet.


I remember thinking what a cool idea these biographies were and at the same time something about them struck me funny. Like spoiled milk funny. Progressive archiving meets narcissism. Something everyone needs. Good for sales, just like death. Documenting not just our heroes who made it through the ranks but equalizing everyone with creative editing and background music... just like death. 


Where I grew up, it was common to hear the phrase, "Live your life like it's on TV."  The notion that God-watches-your-every-move wasn't powerful enough. It hit home if we pretended everyone else was too. A youth minister told me to picture my every move being displayed on a Jumbotron at a Texas Stadium. Scared Straight? You bet. But wasn't Pamela Anderson 'discovered' this way? How would this frighten the Z-Generation?  More like Scared Fabulous.


We should be careful who we are living our life for.  Good footage or good times?  If 'film is forever', where will we fit everyone after they die? We're going to need a bigger boat.  


And by boat, I mean server.

In Dependents

My husband is out of town and I have absolutely no idea what to do with myself.  Work is easy, that is robot mode.  But after robot mode, if I haven't made plans I'll just lay around pining for him to come home.  The dog is doing it too.  


I'm from the wrong century.

Spinning Agnostic Plates

Anyone who has ever looked at a pie chart can appreciate the simple truth that the simple truth can be manipulated to meet any agenda. The omnipotent encyclopedia has been replaced by the online us.  In the middle of an article in the Science section of The New York Times was this: 


"The Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument has been a hotbed for dinosaur species discoveries in the past decade, with more than a dozen new species discovered. While it is a rocky, arid place now, millions of years ago it was similar to a swamp." - The Associated Press: September 22, 2010 


Do anti environmentalists believe in dinosaurs? How could they? And since the new dinos were found in Utah - Do Mormons believe in evolution? So I looked:

"The second part of Mormon creation theology is the cyclic nature of creation. Whatever was used and discarded would become part of another creation for the use of man and God to His Glory. Nothing goes to waste or simply disappears. The Scriptures explain:

37 And the Lord God spake unto Moses, saying: The heavens, they are many, and they cannot be numbered unto man; but they are numbered unto me, for they are mine. 

38 And as one earth shall pass away, and the heavens thereof even so shall another come; and there is no end to my works, neither to my words.  Moses 1:37-38"- Straight and Narrow Blog; March 11, 2008

 Anything is possible, right?  We live in a Wiki World.  

Quality Entertainment

I have heard that the new Broadway spectacular, spectacular: Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark, cost $60 million dollars to produce.  I'm interested in seeing it. I've heard Boardwalk Empire, the new HBO anchor series, cost the same. I want to watch it again, I've thought about it so often since last night. I've now consistently plopped down in front of AMC's heavily commercially-interrupted gauntlet and have been known to dim the lights for an indie on our struggling-to-pay-rent-but-won't-cancel cable.  Greg and I have even turned off the AC to hear a good commercial on the computer.


I am glad to see quality shows fighting back the low-budget, 'reality' monster.  I choose home-grown and slow cooked over fast food. If I'm going to begin the couch-potato part of my American life, I'd like to feel I'm expanding more than my thighs.


I just can't wrap my head around the price tag.  


I appreciate why these artistic endeavors cost so much.  I understand the cost of intense research, quality resources, fine ingredients, magical wisdom, rare and raw talent.  Inflation.  Consumerism.  Competition. Politics.  Value.


I just can't help but wonder... if we can raise so much money to be distracted from the harshness of reality, why don't we invest more in reality?  We may have been on to something with reality TV. Rather than the whore route, why not the charitable one?  Why didn't Oprah ever branch her show to another hour? One that took place in her school? Has Bono invested in a documentary about the beginnings of Spidey, The Musical and used the funds to build an Inner City Illustration Institute? When will George Clooney run with a gun in order to catch real poachers?


I'm not insane.  I don't expect famous artists to become actual heroes. And quite honestly I'm writing without having ANY facts here. I know Oprah built a school, George created a telethon and Bono is now a word synonymous with 'ambassador'.  I'm not at all ungrateful or critical of their work. I think they are fantastically on to something.  I think the studios and corporations and agencies should do more. I think for every two commercialized dollars earned one should go to making reality better.  They could even put it on TV.


Again.  I know I'm talking general and generic nonsense.  I know everything is based on priorities and those little 'ol things are different for each and every person. And of course there is an awful lot to say for inspiration.  Art usually = inspiration and inspiration usually = action. But I'm just sayin'... if I had a choice between shelling out $60M to watch a live-action cartoon fly over my head or give New Orleans a fighting chance... I'm going down South.  


When our great grandkids read, no SEE replicants reenact these stories via hologram in their minds, I think they will be confused as to why the Bonos for world peace chose to invest in duct tape to repair a cracked foundation.  


Put your money where your eyes are, click here: Choose-A-Charity.

"What's the sense of talking?"

My Mother-in-law says this a lot.  It's one of those Italian phrases she got from her mother who probably got it from hers. Greg and I like to look at each other and say this for things like when we accidentally call our next door neighbor our roommate because the walls are so thin we forget she doesn't actually live with us. There is a lot to be said for being reminded that things don't matter as much as we think they do.  We all end up here:

Dance Ten, Looks Three

I've started taking a class at my gym across the street titled: 'DANCE! with Jonathon'.  


"How hard can it be?  It's Bally's."  


I forgot that this is the Bally's two blocks away from Times Square and the Theatre District.  I also forgot about the economy.  I think I know where Gregory Hines is moonlighting.


Today was my second class.  I showed up early this time to get closer to the instructor.  Osmosis?  Contagion?  Can I please rub your belly?


The early bird ends up in the middle and apologizing to many people.  I might owe someone a Coke for the pinching and poking, but I did NOTHING with ANY of them at the same time.  Maybe to onlookers - and there were many - I looked like the star of the show??  


Sure.  Like dropping a skunk in the center of a crowd.

One Quarter

Greg walked in the door with flowers this evening and reminded me that we have been married exactly 4 months today.  I LOVE that I married the details guy.


Month one was blissful recovery.  


Month two was fearful confusion.  


Month three was DYNAMIC ORGANIZATION!!!!!!!!!!!!!


And month four has been one grateful foot in front of the other.  All four of them.


Greg used to tell me our lives were a book.  That we each had a series of short stories before we met but now we are starting a novel.  According to him, we started Chapter One 120 days ago.  


I want to make sure we didn't miss the Dedication Page:


To Each and Every One of Our Family and Friends and Colleagues - We couldn't have started this book without you and we refuse to finish it alone.  


The bibliography is going to be huge.     

Haters

Interview, Mag. June 2010. 

"What is so incredibly great about New York?  It's a dying city..." -Annie Hall. Dir. Woody Allen. United Artists, 1977.


"Alvy, you are totally incapable of enjoying life.  You're like New York. You're an island." -Annie Hall. Dir. Woody Allen. United Artists, 1977.


If there ever was an aviary overstocked with jays it is that Yaptown-on-the-Hudson, call New York. Cosmopolitan they call it, you bet. So's a piece of fly-paper. You listen close when they're buzzing and trying to pull their feet out of the sticky stuff. "Little old New York's good enough for us"--that's what they sing. -A Tempered Wind, in "The Gentle Grafter". O. Henry (pseudonym of William Sydney Porter), 1908.

DEis. 


PLaCe.

MAYKes. 


mEe.


NURvuss.

WHYE dAt BUs eS taLKinG? 


-Stewart Skura, Italian Greyhound. NYC, September, 2010.

Generation Canyon

If lawyers have changed medicine, advertising is going to change education. In between the massive amounts of information out there are targeted bits of emotional triggers designed to make you want.  And those buttons are specifically designed for YOU.  Our giant worlds are actually getting smaller, more efficiently meeting our desires and more effectively narrowing our minds.  


If we don't look outside our 'target audience', we will continue to separate our demographics and perpetuate the intolerance between generations.  


I'm not even 40 and I'm already AMAZED at some of my annoyances with, '...(giant sigh)...kids today' and I'll never forget when Greg was on a job interview and asked to explain how he expects to relate to the Y-Generation. Technically, the cusp of the Y-Generation is 3 years behind him.


Of course, being in 'THE NOW' is oh so important.  We can't let the all-consuming anxiety of our inevitable deaths constantly affect our every decision.  But we cannot grow culturally if we do not learn from those who came before us or those who are coming up behind us. 


     

Hindsight

I've always wanted to be a bartender.  It's a secret fantasy of mine.  My best friend's secret passion is to be a master tango dancer.  That sounds a lot more exciting and a lot more fantastical.  For me it is probably more of an alternate ego.  There is something powerful about the position.  Like being a stripper but at the same time being able to look your father in the eye when you tell him what you do for money.  


I've taken on the Al Swearengen a few times.  I even lied my way through three interviews to get a cocktail waitressing job at The Knitting Factory. An hour before my first shift I called and left a message:


"I'm sorry.  I won't be coming in.  I lied.  I've never waited tables before in my life.  Thank you for the opportunity."


I also once quit a barista job after two days of training:


"I'm sorry.  I won't be coming in.  My boyfriend is afraid he has herpes and he's freaking out."


And there was the time I quit Bennigan's after a week of training and trailing.  I had mental blocks when trying to memorize the menu and I was in complete shock the first time I watched the waiter I followed prepare someone's food.  I couldn't make my lower jaw meet my head after I saw the tomato from the floor become the tomato on the hamburger:


"I'm sorry.  I won't be coming in.  I'm going to be a camp counselor with a focus on arts-n-crafts management."


...Not to mention the hostessing position I was fired from at the empty Asian Fusion place that closed six months after it opened.  One, I sucked, and two, I demanded $15 an hour when the other girl got $10.  I'm 5'6" and I was by far the tallest and blondest person employed by the establishment at any given moment.  I think I just intimidated them into hiring me to begin with. I am much better at being on the eating end of the food service industry.


However...


...there was one magical night I lived the fantasy.  It was my second night on the job.  One week after my first.  A friend of mine was a patron at her local Irish dive deep in the untouched, unpretentious, unartificial part of Brooklyn.  She convinced the owner to give me a chance behind the bar.  It was like slipping on your boyfriend's boxers. Comfy, familiar, sexy and slightly awkward.  I had definitely been Lloyd in a past life, and not that close to this one. Trying to figure out what a 'Johnny-Walker-Blonde-Neat' was and learning that 'top-shell' was not sea food.  I earnestly knew absolutely nothing and they earnestly could not have cared less.  Each patron carefully explained what he wanted and patiently waited his turn.  I even started bringing drinks around the bar to the tables.  Different folks came and went but by the end of the night there were about 10 men, the three o'clock men, singing songs and wrapping their arms around my waist as I passed so I would sit in a lap or two for just a moment.  


It was better than a party in The Shire.


Closing time was 4am and I had an admin job that started at 8:30am.  I remember helping the drunk owner close windows and him slinging me over his shoulder while I laughed and screamed to be put down.  He was way too drunk for acrobatics and I was oh-so-grateful my friend stayed in the bar till closing time.  With a booming mom voice, she told him to put me down.  She was a professional Stage Manager.  I was never more the wide-eyed cheerleader from the Dallas burbs than in that moment.    


I spent most of my tips watching the sun rise from a gypsy cab that took me North to my Brooklyn hipster hood.  I showered, got coffee and got to work early in midtown Manhattan.  No sleep 'til Brooklyn.


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I arrived at a quiet office and sat at my quiet desk. I was usually late. Like a different world with no one there. Peaceful. Nice. My bosses wife called and blurted the news without saying hello.  I laughed and thought she was kidding.  I got up and told my boss.  He stuttered when he asked me what I said and quickly picked up the phone.  


I headed back to my desk but decided to see if anyone else was in.  A hole started burning in my stomach.


The Office Manager turned on the TV in the conference room.  The three of us stood and stared.  


Others trickled in unawares.  They paused at the looks on our faces.  They caught up when facing the screen.  


Phones started ringing.  


Ran to my desk and answered the phone.  Told my other best friend to get away from down there and to call her husband.  Hung up. And phones stopped ringing. I didn't know until that night if she'd made it out or not.  She did.  


On my way out passing Mr. American Psycho's office that stank of booze... suit, tie and hair disheveled... hitting redial on his speaker phone over and over.  When I asked if he was OK he slowly looked up and through me.  "He's up there....he's there..."  


Walking up Sixth Avenue. In the middle of the street.  For hours.  Looking up at the most perfect blue sky. Glancing to my left and marching in silence next to Kathleen Turner for over an hour.  


Being turned away when I tried to donate blood on the Upper West Side.  They didn't need it.  


Finally getting to Harlem.  Sitting with my roommate and close friends.  Watching the TV.  Having absolutely no understanding of how to swallow any of what we were seeing.  It was on TV.  It was TV?  


Saying good night.  A half hour train ride taking three hours to get home.  


Detoured to another stop.  Another neighborhood.  Walking by a mosque barricaded by police.  There was a celebration party going on.  Singing and shouting.  I remember party lights.  


Getting up the next day with NY1 still on the tube.  


Two more hours back into the city.  


A fight breaks out on the crowded platform.  Another in the packed car.  We all are shoved and swaying together.  I look up at at the strangers around me.  Most are crying.  


Looking out the window at the smoke.  Smelling the sweet, pungent air.  


Fifth Avenue, empty.  I can still smell it. TWO men across the street.  Twighlight Zone.  


The LCD ticker running.  "...orld Trade Center attacked yester..."


After a few hours being sent home.  


Detoured train to detoured bus to train evacuations to giving up and walking through unfamiliar neighborhoods.  Getting quietly lost with the others.  Half numb. The hour long walk to find my way back to my apartment.  


Realizing I had gotten to work early the day before.  Realizing had I been an hour late I might have been on THE wrong train.  

Remembering the night before.


All of the three o'clock men I served were fire fighters.  They were all from the same ladder.  A few days later my Stage Manager friend told me only one of them survived. The one she was dating.


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I win the ultimate fantasy contest.  No lottery can top that.