Soph's fam is in the hizou. The parentals flew in from Florida yesterday. Soph and I are sleeping on the pull-out. His brother is driving all the way from Ohio tomorrow, with goodies. Goodies, I say. And my sister is coming down from Vermont with her husband on Thursday morning. But not my brother. He and his wife decided to spend a romantic Thanksgiving at home, as newlyweds. In Jersey. And we all know that Thanksgiving is traditionally more of a private romantic holiday than a large family occasion... just don't tell the Greeks.
Today I'm thankful for my health, my hearth, my honey, and my friend John Z., who sends me the coolest frickin' links...
This is the site of an old flame of mine. My treatment of him through our months together has been one of my saddest regrets in life. For the past several years, I've had vivid recurring dreams of running into him in the subway or in a bar and telling him how deeply sorry I was for having been so careless with his heart. Often in the dreams he would forgive me. But sometimes he wouldn't. I'd wake up crying. And a million times I thought I saw him on the street, walking towards me. My heart would drop a little. But it was never him. My mind was creating ghost-him's, just like it did right after my father died-- as though I could conjure these people by pure will, just to squeeze the littlest bit more out of them, into me.
Several months ago I wrote him a long passionate email out of the blue. I got a reply almost immediately. He forgave me.
He's moved back to LA now. I wish you knew him.
I hate you right now, Blog. I hate the fact that I talk to you more than I talk to three of my closest friends (item 1, item 2, item 3). I hate the slight ache in my left shoulder that is caused by the knowledge that I have to update you regularly. I hate that you are yet another TASK on my ever lengthening scroll of TASKS.
I hate the loathsome arrogant self-serving cunt with whom I was embroiled in a political spat at a bar in the East Village last night, who runs a pernicious merchandising website. I hate myself for not having the good sense to pull me away from her or spit on her shoes or something. I hate that I say YES to every single project people toss at me in the hopes that someday something will pay off in a way that justifies my efforts. I hate that I am wasting energy hating so much stuff today, including stuff that I can't discuss here because it's personal but YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE, YOU JERKS.
I ALSO hate that when I was researching vaudeville acts for my Humana piece and came across this, my first thought was "That's ME! I'M the baboon!!"
But... some of the songs on PJ Harvey's new-ish album are pretty good (I listened to one song on repeat the other day for like a zillion times because I was in a mood-holding-pattern)... and there might be a recount in Ohio... and The Daily Show will be on in an hour. So.
Formula for de-lousing a hate-machine: angsty rock, voter redemption, and fake news. Stir well.
I won't say much about much right now, regarding current projects and the like. I will say that the little hairs on the back of my neck are rising, and perhaps if I were smart I'd note the direction they're pointing (for future reference). Also, there is pretty much NOTHING festive about driving from Cape May to Manhattan at 4am. FYI.
In the meantime... don't hate Michael just because he's a better dancer than you.
(don't let him stop... hit reload...)
I'm becoming one. I can feel it. I've been so depressed about the election that I can't act right. Close friends will call and I'll answer the phone with a heavy sigh. I've become a one-person factory of negative post-election liberal email propaganda. Last time I talked to my mom I basically screamed at her for not forcing my brother to drive out from Jersey to Brooklyn for Thanksgiving because WE NEED TO BE TOGETHER AS A FAMILY THIS YEAR... time to desist, eh?
Instead, I'll do a little feature called "Five Days in the Life of a Struggling Playwright."
MONDAY: Went to this function at PACE University as research for the one-person show I'm writing... basically this wealthy portrait artist from the upper east side (with truly ASTONISHING hair) flew out to the Edinburgh Fringe festival and hijacked two Fringe First winners to bring them to the states. One was a complete snore (I mean the actor was good but REALLY... Orson Welles? Come ON...) The second show was so good I almost threw up. After the shows... free food and drinks at a gala for rich white folks. And, a delightful little man playing lounge tunes on a Casio, which amazingly continued to play as the dude was scarfing shepard's pie at the buffet table. After several champagnes I attacked Russel Barr (performer of show #2) and kissed his Glasgowian ass. Then I realized my wallet was gone. Cancelled my credit cards and went home tipsy and miserable.
TUESDAY: In Queens all day teaching... My pal Willis left me a voice mail from Seattle telling me he loved my new play and wanted to do a small reading of it out there. Then I got an email from Soph saying Actor's Theatre of Louisville had called. I knew they were making decisions this week about Humana and that my play was in serious consideration (they had a private reading of it in September). The message said to call them first thing in the morning. And THEN I got a call from some dude saying he had found my wallet. That night I took a melatonin because I was too excited to sleep.
WEDNESDAY: Called ATL three times in the morning, kept getting switched to voice mail. Finally, they called back. While they all really REALLY liked the play and think I'm a good writer, they blah blah blah blah. So no. BUT, they want me to fly down to write some short thingie for their apprentice company. It seems to have just occured to them to include me in the project, as it's due in two weeks. I can't help wondering how much time the other playwrights were given. But as they say, beggars can't be etc. And after I cried for a good twenty minutes in the bathroom, I figured a free trip south could be fun.
That evening I had a meeting with the producer of a popular off-Broadway show. The meeting turned into a party with producer AND cast. Most of the evening consisted of the playwright holding court, while I tried to vaguely add to the conversation by shouting about how I had met him years ago in Scotland and we had exchanged emails (he of course didn't remember), then me promising I would try to help his book sell better at TCG (which of course I can't do), then me trying to converse about my work with the producer (who was 'locked', as the Brits say). Then me getting VERY drunk and accosting the Artistic Director of a very well-regarded Philly theatre who is producing another of the playwright's pieces in town. I demanded that he and his theatre work with me ASAP. Passed out in a cab on the ride home and paid for the fare in quarters, since I had cancelled my ATM card and had no cash.
THURSDAY: Wrote an apology email to Artistic Director of well-regarded Philly Theatre. Have not heard from him yet. Lamented about the email I sent to my agent last year that effectively ended my relationship with her. Wondered quietly if my talent for self-sabotage is actually affecting my career negatively. Taught two English 101 classes, feeling more useless than I thought possible.
FRIDAY (today): Woke up at 11am. Made coffee, broccoli, eggs, and couscous. Tried unsuccessfully to take a picture of me and the cat to post to a website (batteries were dead, cat was uncooperative). Listened to old Howard Stern mp3's. Wrote this. Listened to rain. Refused to put socks on my cold feet. Wondered (for the millionth time) if I should switch to novel-writing.
THE END.
This weekend I'm going on a retreat to Jersey with my one-person-show collaborators. Let's hope I come back a genius.
Michael Moore and co. were in Ohio last Tuesday filming folks getting shut out of their polling places and being intimidated by two shady young Republicans... it's ugly. It will make you sick. It will make you angry at Kerry for conceding, and angrier at the world for continually being unfair.
I'm very very angry. Someone tell me what to do with it all, because so far taking it out on myself and my family isn't working.
Thanks to Yatta Mc Cheese for the link... and if you go to his site you'll see the cat I live with.
About 36,000 sinewy folks with extaordinary leg muscles passed by my apartment today (along with one Spongebob, one Elvis, one Storm Trooper, and a juggler)... I couldn't watch for long because my jealousy got the best of me. This time last year, I was one of those emaciated running people being cheered on by the anonymous multitudes. And this year I'm Fatty Fattenheimer, buried under piles of student midterms and feeling like a big bulbous fuck.
So to ease my fat-fuckedness, I'll just pretend I was on the zippy side of the police barrier this year rather than the inert one.
"Go Sheila, beat P-Diddy!"
(Jay's friend's daughter)
All the inbox-clogging bullshit I've been receiving (and sending), while well-intentioned, makes me fucking sicker and sicker with each delete. But I got one today from my friend John Z. that doesn't hurt so much... malfeasance, anyone?
So the talk now is that sure, we lost, but it's okay because the defeat will make our libs and dems all angry and unified and stuff, so that in four years we'll REALLY have our shit together... but I wonder if it's even marginally fathomable the damage those four years will do. (Roe v. Wade, gay rights, oh yeah Iraq...) Money turns the world and the rich will be rich enough in four years to buy another election. All we'll be is scrappier and angrier.
Sad sad day.
Please let America come to its senses. Please let voter fraud account for only a teeny-tiny percentage of the overall tally. Please let angry people mobilize if it's more than teeny-tiny. Please show me how to read this and not cry.
