Does having a middle-aged mom feel me up mean I have the ass of her 14 y/o daughter?

A brief story.

Last night I was at a local department store shopping for shoes (none of which I bought). As I was bent over, defeatedly scanning the boxes for a pair in my size, a foreign hand layed its claim on the small of my back and snaked up my shirt.

I shot up, and defensively reached to my lower-back; of all the things to think, I thought someone was going to give me a wedgie (deep adolescent fears rearing their ugly head, I guess). Prepared to punch the lights out of the perp, I whipped around, and made eye-contact with a 40-ish woman.

"Oh my God!" she yelped. "You're not my daughter!"

She apologized profusely, her hand clenched to her mouth in mortification. Her 14 y/o daughter rounded the corner at the sound of her mother's pleas for forgiveness.

"It's ok," I told her (repeatedly). "Don't worry. Stuff happens."

In all, no harm, no foul. It had me chuckling to myself for a good 15 minutes afterwards. But because I was mistaken for 14 y/o, does this mean I still have yet to leap that bound from looking like a child to looking like an adult? I thought those days were behind me when the clerks at the stores stopped carding me for smokes. Curse this supple skin! Damn this nubile body! I am condemned to a lifetime of looking like I am ten years younger than my actual age.

Haha, who am I kidding? At only 5 foot 4 inches tall with the posture of a pile of laundry, it's no wonder I get mistaken for a child. I'm lucky people don't mistake me for a hobbit.

Is this retarded?

This is the business card I designed for the premiere of my new play (the invite will be featured on this blog soon). Ignore the smudging; pertinent personal info had to be redacted, just in case weirdos came across it and decided to, you know, do weird things to me.

I kind of felt like a fraud when I got them printed - do I really have the right to call myself a playwright ~ freelance writer? Hell, I don't even want to make a career out of playwrighting, but since the production of my play is the biggest thing I have on the career horizon, it seemed appropriate. "Hopeful Television Writer" didn't seem right for a business card.

I wanted it to look poor, as odd as that may sound. I wanted it to come across that I am a struggling young artist, because in my ignorant and confused little head, "Young and Poor" rings as "brimming with vast amounts of talent." That little doodle is from my own hands as well - does it have some kind of avant-garde, provincial cache?

Does it stand out from the other cookie-cutter business cards you see on a regular basis?

Even if it doesn't and popular opinion concludes that it is the least-effective business card to ever be created, oh well - too late now! This is what I have, and this is what I will use should anyone (karma-willing) ask for my information in order to contact me.

College - why I wouldn't go back

So my mom veni vidi vici'd NYC this past weekend, and overall her presence was quite enjoyable. She'd never been to NYC, save for the weekend she helped me move into my apartment, and even then we stuck close to Brooklyn - nary a glance of the skyline was seen.


But this time we Bob Fosse'd all over Manhattan. She took photos, but I was lazy/forgetful, and I have none to share - maybe later, when my mom sends me the thousands of bridge, bank and bum pictures she took, I will share our winsome adventure with the eager public.



We did the usual tourist stuff which included the enjoyment of the Broadway show Avenue Q. I'd never seen it before, but I was familiar with the soundtrack, and it was nice to finally put the story to the songs. One song in particular, I Wish I Could Go Back to College, struck me.



The first time I had ever heard this song, I was in college, and I can remember thinking, "awww, I'm gonna really miss this place." The lyrics lament all those happy, carefree times you enjoyed during your undergrad years - sitting in the quad and dreaming about all the great things you'll do with your life, having an academic advisor to point you in the right direction, never wondering where your next meal is coming from because you have a meal plan - the things you take for granted until you're out of college and realize how good you had it.


When I saw the show this past weekend, after they sang College, reflexively I thought, "ohh college, how I miss thee." But then I pondered that sentiment, truly ruminated on my college days, and I came to the realization that in fact, you couldn't pay me to go back to college, that in fact I don't really miss it at all.

I suppose the schism is caused by the class dynamic in college. If you are a rich kid, you have no reason to ever want to graduate. Everything monetary is taken care of - you don't need to work a real job (like bartending, like I did) to pay your tuition, because mom and dad had the means and the know-how to set you up a college fund when you were young. If you're a rich kid, you undoubtedly have a nice car for which mom and dad pay the insurance and car payment, and you have in your possession a credit card that you use to fill up its tank, which mom and dad also make the payments for; hence, you never worry about how you're gonna run errands, make it to work on time, or deal with the degradation of begging your pals to borrow their vehicles. Need a $200 book for a math course? No probs, mom and dad will pick up the tab. And just when those beads of sweat start to form on your head because you don't know where you're gonna get the money for the coming weekend's drinking extravanganza, a tidy sum of moola appears in your bank account, courtesy of mom and dad.

If you're a poor kid, like myself, college life is much different. Much of your free time is devoted to working, and not just the rinky-dink work-study gigs that require you to sit in an office and do your homework. I'm talking bartending and waitressing, standing behind a bar counter slinging beers for locals with an allergy to tipping (some kids also strip, and I've known others who work fast-food). Your cell phone often gets shut off because you can't come up with the $40 to pay it on time. The beer you drink is the finest you can afford at $10 a case. And you are always, always aware just how much YOU are paying for college. You never really bother to call home for extra bucks because, really, home doesn't have much to give.

My college years were filled with variations on that last paragraph. As well, I was always busy - though I only partook in two extra-curriculars (acting in plays and heading an activist group), they monopolized the free time I didn't spend working, studying or excercising. Yeah, I partied, but in comparison to some of my college friends, I was a saint, mainly because I didn't always have the time and/or cash-flow to participate in said partying.

I was always exhausted. My acne got out of control because of all the stress caused by my academic deadlines, extra-curricular responsibilities, and despondent financial situation. A good-night's sleep was a rare treat. Looking back, it's amazing how I hardly let it get to me - I just took it all one day at a time and hoped for the best.

And though I miss my college friends a lot, that is the only part I miss. The life I'm living right now - answering to myself, living life by my deadlines and my standards - is better than any I have ever known. Sure, I'm not rich. Of course it sucks to pay bills, and sometimes you wonder why you even bother at all. But paying bills and being poor is nothing new, and in fact, these days my creative endeavors pay out bigger, like paving the path to a fruitful career, instead of earning an A in some retarded college course.


So, fuck you college - I'm glad I went (well, I had to), but there is no way in hell that I would ever go back to my undergrad days. Fuck the stress, fuck the homework, fuck the fucking which, looking back, I wonder what about it I found so appealing. If you are one of those people who are often nostalgic for your college days, well lucky you, you musta had wealthy parents who made the road cushy, but goddamn that sucks that you plateaued at 20, and the only thing you have going for you now is the remembrance of your glory days.


I shudder to think how pathetic I would be if all I had going on in my life were annual visits to my alma mater, where'd I'd get together with old chums and reminisce about the times we each got drunk and fucked that loser who sat behind us in FS 102.

Mama AndSheWas comes to town

In case you are pining for another delightful and insightful blog post from moi, sorry suckers, you'll have to wait (please wait?) Mi madre is coming into town, and for the next four days I will be living life as a tourist - look for me in the background at Good Morning America Friday morning. I'll be the girl with the dark circles under her eyes, commiserating and smoking with the bums.

I'm actually excited for my mother's visit - it gives me the excuse to do all the fun New York things I haven't done in a long time. I'd regale you with the details, but I'm pretty sure you can guess what, as tourists, we'll be doing.

I'll report to you later (complete with pictorials) on how the whole visit went down. Remain on the edge of your seat until further notice.

Who'd have thought - I had a really good time at a club brimming with hipsters

Last night I went to Southpaw, a club in Park Slope, Brooklyn, that made me want to purchase a teener just so I'd fit in with the cokey, hipster crowd. Or maybe so I'd be able to tolerate the cokey, hipster crowd.

Instead of snorting a bunch of rat poison up my nose, I drank Bud Lite and Red Bull (I don't think Red Bull tastes good, nor do I think that Red Bull is "cool" and has any form of cache, but these days, it's hard for me to stay up past 1 am without some sort of energizing drug). As I drank, I started to get loose and have a good time, and then the bands started playing, and I actually began to feel like a 24 y/o, instead of a 50 y/o post-menopausal woman trapped in a 24 y/o's body.

I have never blogged about a band I have seen at a club because A) I am not a music critic, and B) Who the fuck really cares what bands I have seen and think are awesome? No. One. Or maybe someone does; I dunno, I've never asked.

But I'm breaking that tradition by reporting to you on two musicians I saw at Southpaw, one fantastic, and the other so mind-blowingly tubular and geigh-tastic that to not write about them would be a travesty.

First, the former. Yo Majesty is a dykealicious rapper who's snatch I wanted to mow down on as soon as she came onstage. Seriously. The vitality and passion emanating from her was hard not to fall in love with. All the lesbians pushed their way to the front when she stepped onto the stage, and all the chicks went crazy when she rapped about "That kryptonite pussy." I'm not a big hip-hop fan, but I became a believer in the female presence in hip-hop after seeing Yo Majesty jump around onstage and spit lyrics that made me forget myself. It was a gleeful, powerful atmosphere she created.

I backed out of the crowd when a lesbian in front of me kept shooting me dirty looks. Seems my raucous dancing caused me to keep bumping into her girl - my bad.

And then there was Supahero Gogo Starz. How to describe them...? Well, when they first came on the stage, no one knew what the fuck was going on. Or maybe it was just me - I often mistake avant-garde innovative things for being really retarded and a waste of my time. Their entire schtick seemed like a huge joke: Two black guys, channeling the likes of RuPaul and David Bowie, and not really singing, but more like talking in pitch, lyrics discussing I don't even know what. They crawled and creeped around the stage, one of them wearing a pink fro wig, the other decked out in glam-rock sunglasses and a bandana.

But their fabulosity grew on me. Their futuristic sound, coupled with the flamboyant garb, was a breath of fresh oxygen, as well as somewhat nostalgic. I don't know how I can be nostalgic for a time I never even lived in, but their set made me think of a 1970's circa New York, when glam and disco, gayness and Paris is Burning, sex and excess ruled the scene. I can't say I'm gung-ho for hedonism, but that is a time we may never get back, and part of me wishes I hadn't missed out.

After the set, my bf and I saw Supahero Gogo Starz outside smoking. He snapped a pic of me with them, but alas, I do not possess the necessary tools to extract it from my phone. Maybe I'll post it later, when I have the money and time to buy phone accessories destined for the landfill.

A question for the ladies - but dudes, feel free to chime in too

I hate to gross out any of my male readers (wait a second - I love doing that), but I need to ask a question: Does anyone ever get random shooting pains in their vagina?

Some could argue that this is an urgent medical question that needs to be addressed immediaetly, so that's why I'm asking you guys (with no health insurance, you beyotches literally are my best form of medical advice).

Just now I was wasting away in my computer chair, watching a little Sex: The Revolution, when the triton of Satan forked its way into my birth canal. I shot straight up in my chair, let out an audible, "yow," and waited three-to-four seconds for the crippling pain to pass.

Since I know you're all worried - I'm fine. Don't be such worry-warts! (Worts?) But this isn't the first time this has ever happened to me. From time to time, I'd say every few weeks, said twat-twinges befall me. I haven't ridden a bike recently, nor douched with Drano, nor had sex with John Holmes's stand-in. So what is the cause of these unwarranted pussy-pangs? Am I the only one afflicted? I really need the ladies to speak up on this.

And do dudes get random, shooting, debilitating pains in their nether-regions as well?

No answers based in fact are required - any hogwash, old wives explanation you've got is welcomed!

Holy crap - something I wrote is going to be produced

Sorry I've been lax on the posts - I found out last week that a one-act I wrote is going to be directed and produced.

I'm flabbergasted and flattered - it's a play I wrote on a whim and only sent out to a few places. One company, TheaterVision/Playtime, has decided to incoporate it in their Domestic Disturbances Festival, June 6 - 13.

This will be very weird, yet totally motherfucking awesome, to see something I penned interpreted and staged. I'm meeting with the director tomorrow so he can pick my brain, as they say. Here's a synopsis of my one-act, When Turtles Fly.

During a wait at his doctor's office, Robert casually picks up a magazine and starts reading a piece of fiction. When he finishes the story, he's stunned - the piece of fiction so closely resembles a part of his childhood, he's convinced it is about him.

Seeking answers, Robert tracks down the author, James Penwau, and poses as a reporter for the very same magazine he read the story in. During the "interview," it comes to light that Robert is not who he pretends to be, and he demands to know how James knew such intimate parts of his life. After a violent struggle and threats of murder, the two men discover that they once dated the same girl; she dated Robert, then later on, told James the tale of Robert's past.

But Robert wants more - he needs money from James to pay the medical bills he's incurred in his effort to fight testicular cancer. But James is poor, a guy who's last shot as a writer is the book of short stories he has just written.

In the end they come to find solace in each other's tough life - neither of them has had it easy, and it was glib to think that they were the only people who's ever had to suffer. In this shared trait, they see each other's humanity.

I was also going to say that both Robert and James find redemption, but I think that's for the audience member to decide.

If you will be in the NYC area June 11th and 12th, please join me at TheaterVision Playtime (1133 Broadway, New York, NY 10010) at 8 pm to see my show (and other one-acts as well).

God, this is crazy.

I Like it - I like it a lot

In an effort to make this blog as self-centered as possible, I have compiled a list of some of my favorite things. Ever.

The Doors Cover of Van Morrison's Gloria

If you ever want to delight in a rock song that is overly sexual and just plain disgusting, check out this version of Gloria. Originally written and recorded by Van Morrison's band, Them, in 1964, The Doors later covered it in concert and shattered any sexual subtlety that Van Morrison imbued in the song.

In the concert recording, Mr. Mojo Risin (Jim Morrison's alter-ego for all you squares who might not know) begins the song in its written fashion and stays true to the lyrics. But as the song continues and the band improvises, Morrison takes the song to overtly sexual, then perverse, then "oh my god is he really singing that?" levels.

Lyrics like, "I'm gonna eat you honey," and "I'm gonna rip you in two," combined with the band members yelling "Suck it!" in the background, further combined with odd noises that can only be described as the sound a deaf-mute retard would make while getting a blow job, make this song something to be relished. I recommend popping this in your car CD player on a warm day with the windows rolled down, and then driving through neighborhoods where old people live. Ahh, to be sixteen again!



Driving in the Middle Lane

There was a point in time when driving was second nature to me. But then I moved from Ohio to Brooklyn, the land of public transport. Now, something that was once so simple can be a daunting task due to the fear that can consume you when you're on the road with a bunch of impatient, thoughtless motorists.

But never fear - the middle lane is your best friend. The left lane is full of assholes who get pissed if you drive a hair under 80 mph, and the right lane could turn into an EXIT ONLY turn-off at any moment. The middle is a calm comfort - it gives you access to both lanes should you need to navigate unknown roads or dodge a burning SUV, and it has less urgency. All the right-laners are anxious for their exit; all the left-laners will run you off the road and spit on your mangled corpse so long as they can drive obscene speed limits. Embrace the middle, I tell ye.


Taking a Poo with the Fan On

I enjoy this particularly when anything explosive is happening below the belt. I don't know why I'm deluded enough to think that the soft whir of the bathroom fan masks any sounds coming from my asshole whilst taking a dump, but it is a small comfort. It's like I can relax, let it all hang out when the fan is on, and no one is the wiser that I am annihilating the toilet bowl. When I'm older, therefore super wealthy and able to afford anything in my wildest dreams (right, American dream?), I am going to install a bathroom fan that plays loud heavy metal.


Taking a Poo

Universally one of the more enjoyed activities, no? There's nothing quite like that moment when you're headed home and the urge to poo hits. You squeeze your butt cheeks together, walk kind of funny and/or avoid bumps on the road, and then as soon as you hit the door to your house, you run up the stairs to the bathroom (or back to the outhouse, for my Amish readers). Varied grunts and white-knuckled gripping of the toilet seat follow. I like to read the Listerine bottle during my poos - yourself?


Lars and the Real Girl

Cute, sweet, fun movie - check it out!


How long would you wait before peeing in the elevator corner?

Gawker posted on this last week, but it was so funny that I have decided this is one of my favorite video clips. Ever.

In short: Nicholas White, a BusinessWeek employee, got trapped in an elevator for 41 hours. 41 hours!!!! But it doesn't end all giggles: he was caught up in a media storm that inflated - and later destroyed - his sense of self, and was eventually fired from BusinessWeek due to his diminishing work ethic. White sued the magazine, but the settlement he received was hardly large.

Here is the Gawker link to the time-lapsed video of White's ordeal. Watch it at your own risk, claustrophobes.

Now time for the giggles - the sped up video of White in the elevator resulted in many spoofs. Here's one that I watched on Gawker last week, and I about shit myself I was laughing so hard. For me, the litmus test for a hilarious video is if, while I'm watching it at work, I have to stop it five or six times to recover from my mounting laughter, and that's exactly what happened. And I'm warning you - if you watch this clip, do it when the corporate overlords are away at lunch.





Max Silvestri gets trapped in an elevator

Frig, maybe I should make time to see Apocalypto

Throughout time, earth-dwellers have been convinced that the end of the world is near. I could list some examples of Chicken Littles, but frankly, there are too many. So here's a link - click it and see just how often humans have been convinced that the world's demise was on the horizon.

That mentality kind of makes sense - the thought that the world could all of a sudden blow up, or be hit by a comet, or succumb to plague is freakin' terrifying, therefore gripping. But all this apocalyptic fear is further proof that humans are by nature raging narcissists. Really? You think that your society is so special as to require God's wrath? Your society is that much more perverse, gluttonous and immoral than any other society that ever existed to deserve obliteration? Gah, get over yourselves already!

That said - did you guys know that the world is going to end in 2012? For real this time! The History Channel says so!

The Maya were a nation of people that lived in what is now Mexico, Guatemala and Belize between 300 and 1000 AD. They had very advanced concepts of time and astronomy (far more than the Romans or Egyptians), and had designed their own calendar that not only documented their existence, but extended all the way into the 21st century.

But their calendar curiously ends in the year 2012. This may be because the calendar designer got tired - hey, it happens - but there is an astronomical event taking place in the year 2012 that is backing up the belief that the world will end.

On December 21, 2012, the planets will align, an occurrence that has yet to happen during the time of man.

No one knows what will happen, but even scientists are convinced that something will happen. Perhaps on catastrophic levels, perhaps not.

Many believe that this proven astronomical occurrence compounded with the end date of the Mayan Calendar is evidence that our time on earth is near an end, and how typical - the world is going to end right before Christmas and my birthday. Boo-urns. Yikes, this narcissism is hard to keep in check.

So what shall we do? I'm sure that as 2012 approaches, you all will be hearing more about this "prophecy" as well as this planetary phenomenon, and you will start to get antsy, much like the Y2K scare. Stock up on water and food? Guns? Gold? What WILL be the desired commodity when humankind is uniformly under fire?

Yeah, I'm pretty sure that on December 21, 2012, the desired commodity will be the latest Tickle Me Elmo. Or the PS5! I'm standing in line for mine right now. Stupid apocalypse better not ruin my Christmas!

USA Today article, "Does Maya Calendar Predict 2012 Apocalypse?"

History Channel, "Decoding the Past"