After two years of hoping I could find someone to help me realize my dream of recording/shooting a music video for my oh so punny yoga rap, I have finally done it!  TRIUMPH!

Here's the link:   Funny or Die: I Need a Yogi

And the text:

....................

I Need A Yogi by 2k

.. ..

(Om shanti shanti shanti

Om give it to me give it to me give it to me)

.. ..

Boy you first caught my eye when I was shoppin’ at Ralph’s

You were cute and you had a handful of alfalfa sprouts

Your smile was sexy, your eyes were hypnotic                      [damn!]

I could tell from your cart that you was macrobiotic.

Now I admire your diet, but tell me, how is your fitness?

That’s on the top of my list: ladies can I get a witness?         [Holla!]

.. ..

Refrain:....

I need a yogi to be my homey

‘Cause he’s the only/man who can do me right.

(Do me right now for good karma in your future)

.. ..

I need a yogi to be my homey

so come and show me/you can do this all night.

(Forget about Courvosier, we’re drinkin Kombucha!)

.. ..

You likin my curves you think I’m so sweet and supple

But you betta recognize that my humps’ made of muscle

You know my ass is fine ‘cause I can hold utkatasana

Now you lyin on the bed like you doin savasana       [corpse pose!]

I need a sex freak, you know, a perve-otanasana

A man who’ll do me more than only dos or tres mas-ana

.. ..

I’ll let you bring it to the bank when I’m holding a plank

I got some karma sutra shit gon’ make your mind go blank

You can put me in wheel and we’ll get on the right track

I’ll do dancer’s pose so you can hit it from the back

I’ll downward-face your dog when we’re down on the floor

Just make sure that when we’re grinding you engage from the core.

.. ..

Refrain:....

I need a yogi to be my homey

‘Cause he’s the only/man who can do me right.

(Listen to my lyrics hear the words to my song-a)

.. ..

I need a yogi to be my homey

so come and show me/you can do this all night.

(It feels so right it can’t be chata-wrong-a!)

.. ..

My hamstrings is tight but I’m feeln’ aiight

And if you stretch me proper we can do this all night

Let’s salute the sun, we gonna have some fun

you’re pitching mountain pose already: damn, son.

I posted this chez Facebook also.  But it belongs on a blog.  Though by that I mean I should probably get a respectable website for this glorious content of mine.  I'm just that good.  :-)  Backstory: I've been training for a triathlon that's next weekend.  Enjoy.

Why do I love writing parodies so much?  Because I like precise work.  I suppose.

As I was running this evening, a silly idea that's been in my head for sometime became a nagging compulsion, and I just had to go home and write out a full version of Jamie Foxx's "Blame It" to be centered around triathlon training.  I get a deeply nerdy satisfaction by the frequent maintenance of the original rhyme scheme.  Keep in mind that, much like Rhianna's "Umbrella", "Triathlon" is also given an additional fourth syllable, thanks to a previously nonexistent shwa.  (Umberella.  Triathelon.)
Also, Shot Bloks and Gu are those refuelly thingys endurance athletes eat.  Word.

On a related yet tangential note, who's seen the music video to this song?  How about a big WTF?  Jake G?  Forest Whitaker?  RON HOWARD?!?!  Has the whole world gone CRAZY!?  Sadly, no visual is provided of the vagina-gone-amuck "all over" T-Pain's ride.  We'll just have to let our mind's eye do that for us.

Watch: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UYc875zkDxg

(You're welcome.)

And enjoy.  Maybe one day I'll have a vocal distorter and I will record this and make a sweet athletic music video.  Along with my yoga rap.  So much parody.  So little savoir faire.

Blame it On Triathlon
By 2K

Blame it on the swim
That’s how we begin
Blame it on the bike
Got my body tight
Blame it on tria-a-a-a-athlon
Blame it on tria-a-a-a-athlon

Ay you know I usually run
So you know I don’t front
This shawty know what I want
‘Cause fitness ain’t a thing that comes easy
Ain’t gotta do an Ironman
But Olympic length, you know we can
If you start training in your life
Let’s tri now

Go’n, clip those shoes in
Weight you’ll be losin’
Supplements we’re usin’
Cruising, choosin’
what kind of bike will help you get fast forward
shave all your hair, help you swim fast shoreward
Swimming’s got my tri’s cut
Biking’s made a round butt
I don’t even care that you were unaware
How fine I was before I got so trim

Blame it on the swim
That’s how we begin
Blame it on the bike
Got my body tight
Blame it on tria-a-a-a-athlon
Blame it on tria-a-a-a-athlon

Blame it on the running
Got you gettin busy
Make sure you rehydrate
Before you’re feelin dizzy
Blame it on tria-a-a-a-athlon
Blame it on tria-a-a-a-athlon

Oh shi--
Race day snuck up on me
And I’m hopin’ I’m ready
I got my gear with me
It’s warm up time, I’m stretching out my thighs
I’ve been doin’ all my cardio
But now’s the time for me to show
That I can run and swim all ri-ight and I also bi-ike 

Go’n, clip those shoes in
Weight you’ll be losin’
Supplements we’re usin’
Cruising, choosin’
what kind of bike will help you get fast forward
shave all your hair, help you swim fast shoreward
Swimming’s got my tri’s cut
Biking’s made a round butt
I don’t even care that you were unaware
How fine I was before I got so trim

Blame it on the swim
That’s how we begin
Blame it on the bike
Got my body tight
Blame it on tria-a-a-a-athlon
Blame it on tria-a-a-a-athlon

Blame it on the running
Got you gettin busy
Make sure you rehydrate
Before you’re feelin dizzy
Blame it on tria-a-a-a-athlon
Blame it on tria-a-a-a-athlon

(BIKE CHAIN)

Well, the swimming went good
Transitioned pretty fast
Couple shot bloks, give energy a blast
My cleats clipped in
(Time for endurance)
I won’t be tripping
(Optimal performance)

I’ma take a shot of Gu now, I know what to do now,
Power through this ride to the end and switch my shoes out.
At mile twenty-three, leg got a cramp, full-on Charlie horse-y
But that pain I defy-y-y
Got a second wind all right
Working hard, got sweat on my bike
All over my bike
I’m feelin’ like I’m gonna die-ie
But the last leg’s coming
Time for me to do some running
Only got another 10K of this tri-i-i

Blame it on the swim
That’s how we begin
Blame it on the bike
Got my body tight
Blame it on tria-a-a-a-athlon
Blame it on tria-a-a-a-athlon

Blame it on the running
Got you gettin busy
Make sure you rehydrate
Before you’re feelin dizzy
Blame it on tria-a-a-a-athlon
Blame it on tria-a-a-a-athlon

This is the essay I read yesterday at Sit N Spin... after reflection, I'm changing the title from the above SNL homage to something more thematically useful, as seen below.  The reading was a big success... in performance, I cut out the very last question upon the producer's request ("Is it you?") lest the audience implode from discomfort.  It is, after all, a night of comedy.  But I was satisfied with the results: it was still effective in promoting thought and discussion, and that's what I seek to do, always.  Entertainment without reflection is like junk food.  We need nutrients!

Anyway, if you weren't there, you may enjoy it now.  Bon appetit.

....................

Cinderella Instinct

For all intents and purposes, any man could be a rapist.  They’ve all got the weapon, all they need is a shade of psychosis.  This logic is applied in the airport every day: why else would a fifty-year old Minnesotan’s nail clippers be confiscated? Because even people in wolf sweaters can be terrorists.  In the same vein, every man can be labeled as “Potential Rapist”, just as every mouth  possesses “Blowjob lips”.  My sister once was complimented as having blowjob lips, and I said, aren’t they all? Any lips could do that.  Potentially.

But I am an optimist.  So I try to be open to new, unknown men, though somewhere deep within me, when you’re shaking my hand, I’m probably thinking: “does this guy have a rape vibe?  Or is he just kinda European?”

I’ve always envied men because of their upper body strength, external sex organs and ability to backpack across Europe, sleeping in train stations without so much as a trace of anal violation.  At worst, someone sells them fake weed and they get money wired to them from their stock broker dad.  Roam solo as a woman and rape is basically inevitable.  Try to imagine Into the Wild with a female lead—she would get about a mile from her house before surfacing whored out in a crackden.

I try to live as free and interesting a life as I can without getting sexually assaulted.  Depending on your definition of sexual assault, I’ve met with moderate success.  I attribute my survival to my Cinderella Instinct.  This is my inner timer which basically sounds the alarm to abort mission.  I’ll be in a questionable situation, and about a hair of a second before things turn bad, the clock strikes twelve, my carriage becomes a pumpkin and regardless of what I’m doing, where I am, who I’m with, I get the fuck out of there.  And so I run.  Literally run, usually in a dress, most times barefoot, with my heels in my hands.  Cinderella-style.  Only I’m leaping from a moving Jaguar convertible, sprinting from a stranger’s room in Vegas at 5:30 AM, or, as a naïve freshman, am escaping my leg getting tickled by a sketchy dude by summoning the Biblical willpower of Samson to emerge from an intense pot coma caused by a bong named “Moonbug”.

These experiences all wind up sounding like the snappy anecdotes of a free-spirited Zoe Dechanel-type indie film girl, who’s gonna open up your world with her quirky spunk.  But in reality, they are pretty harrowing.  One not-so-awesome potential rape experience was in Nice, where every night is Ladies Night.  No matter what day it was, I could pay seven euros for an unlimited amount of cheap alcohol and play drinking games with the lady locals.  It was stumbling home time—3 AM—and my hostel was near the train station, a notoriously dangerous place to go after sundown.  The girls I drank with didn’t want me to walk alone, suggested I crash with them, but ever proud and not wanting to be beholden to no man, I said my hostel was “just up the street”.  Though really it was about 15-20 minutes up the street.  Which wasn’t a big deal… until I got lost.  The street kept going, and things did not start looking familiar, but I kept thinking, it will be the next block.  The next.  The next.

By this point it’s about 4:30, and I have no idea where the fuck I am, and it is really, really shady.  I’m nowhere near the beach, where people walk the streets and little shops abound.  The buildings start looking industrial.  There is no one out, except for the street cleaners who start hosing down the road, and I wonder to myself, “if I had to approach them, would they be able to help me?”

And then I notice the shirtless man.  You know that feeling you get when someone’s watching you?  And it’s 5 AM and you’re in a shady part of the south of France and you’re wearing a sexy halter dress and are twenty years old with a sign that says “Free Vagina Funtime!!” on your back?  Well, for whatever reason, I glanced over my shoulder and noticed, walking a block and a half back, a man without a shirt on.  And that tingly feeling shivers down my spine and I increase my gait, each step an inner “oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, where the hell is Avenue St. John Baptiste!!?” And my New York-pace walk becomes a stiff trot, the kind where you don’t want to seem like you’re running or scared because you’re a woman by yourself on the city streets so you keep your neck really high and kind of move from the knees at an accelerated pace, and by this point I’m pretty sure I will have outstripped the guy by at least two blocks.  But instead when I look over my shoulder, there he is: JOGGING.  He is jogging at the same rate of my trot, and this sends a shot of fear through me, this sickening, utter certainty that if he catches up with me, I will be raped, dead or mutilated.  A shirtless man in Nice does not chase you down at 5 in the morning to share with you a delightful surprise.

So I take off like a shot, and Shirtless Man starts running too, in his leering probably-on-drugs way, and shouts out something in French to me, to which I respond in a guttural bark, “LAISSEZ-MOI TRANQUILLE!” which means leaves me alone, but had the subtext of “My spirit will return to castrate you”.  I ran at breakneck speed—a considerable feat in Rainbow flip flops—until I could no longer, hoping one of the guys hosing the street would come to my aid if needed.  Say what you will about sanitation workers, or the French, I just couldn’t see one standing idly by if a young woman was tackled and dragged off screaming in front of him. 

Luckily, Shirtless Man was nowhere to be seen.  The dim light of dawn was seeping into the sky as a single car drove up the street.  Still horrified and shaking, I waved it down and knocked on the window.  It was a man.  A middle-aged man smoking a cigarette.  Half in tears, I asked in broken French where the train station was, only to find that I had run nearly seven miles past my street.  I then explained as best I could: “a man disquieted me.  He chased me.”  The man in the car offered me a ride.  I looked at the empty seat beside him, the car door locks, wondered who drives around at this ungodly hour, thought of Lifetime movies.  I realized: I am too tired to walk anymore.  If he’s gonna rape me, he’s just gonna rape me.  As the French say, c’est la vie.....

            He did not rape me.  (Yay.) He was up early because he worked in the post office.  I was so grateful, and kept thanking him and saying Oh my God over and over, so completely traumatized that I was still unable to speak coherent French.  I start work in an hour, he was saying.  Ah oui, ah, merci, merci, o mon Dieu, ooooooooo mon dieu, I said. We were finally near the train station and came to my hostel.  Would you like to get a cup of coffee? he asked me.  Hell no.  But I said, politely, Non, non, merci.  Au revoir.  And got the fuck out of there.

It seems unfair that my Cinderella instinct has saved me so many times when others have not been as fortunate.  I’ve never been raped… just had a few of those gray area experiences where it wasn’t no, but it wasn’t yes… the nonconsentual/nonrape thing, or as I like to call it, Los Angeles dating.  Yes, nonconsentual/nonrape love is a battlefield.  But actual violence of that sort I’ve escaped.  I’m not the most prudent girl.  I’ve wound up insensible in the company of many a man who’s not laid a finger on me.  So, why me? How have I escaped being the one in six women?  Why not me, but my best friend?  My sister? Is it because it’s more likely to be someone you know?  My sister went out for drinks to forget the problems she was having with her boyfriend. She felt safe being drunk because she was with one of her best guy friends.  He rufied her and she woke up naked with bruises appearing on her limbs. 

So who that I know is the real potential rapist?  Is it you?

So, I just posted this on Facebook (MySpace, you know you're less popular, don't even pretend) but then realized it's far more appropriate as a blog.  So, le voila.  Ideally, the two versions of the song would be side by side, but I'd like to think the very devoted blog reader would open a new window with the Go West MySpace page and simply listen along.  Because I know how much you care.

Merry Christmas to all, especially to my nonChristian friends: you know I love you best.   ~nik
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some history: when I was little, my sister and I used to sing along to Go West's awesomely 80s song "King of Wishful Thinking", mishearing "Wishful Thinking" as "Ishcombinky", the mythical land of the unicorns of which this lovelorn singer was king. So the song has always had some cute significance in the family history. It popped back into my head during a righteous karaoke session in LA, and inspired me to make my mom a mix CD of all the tunes we rocked to on the way to ballet class and so forth. Of course, "King of Wishful Thinking" got the honors of Track 1.

So as we left the candlelight service of the Old Dutch Church this Christmas Eve, Go West is the first thing to start playing. Mom turns it off (of course, it's no Christmas carol), but not before my smartass self got inspired to make up a theme-appropriate parody of the song for the season, with which I tortured my family on the way home. It flowed so naturally I came home and wrote it all down. Now my sister can't hear the song without thinking of stigmata ("they put two holes in my hands!")

End conclusion: what the fuck is wrong with me?

Here's what I wrote, followed by the OG, so you can marvel at my precise use of rhyme scheme. It gets repetitive, but I was thorough for accuracy. Comp Lit nerdom will never die.
Merry Christmas, yall!!

The Pharisees refuse to believe
that in heaven I'll sit on the throne
but they will see I am risen indeed
when they roll away the stone
Since my gospel is the talk of the town
Judas will want to kill himself.

I will save the Jews… I know I will
ow, my crown of thorns is bleeding
and I've said myself "I'll die for you"
'cause I'm the king of your salvation
I am the king of your salvation

I refuse to give in to my blues
in the garden of Gethsemane.
Peter denied belief in me thrice
because of the prophesy (woah)
And now they've pierced two holes in my hands
and I have got to tell myself

I will save the Jews… I know I will
Even when my God forsakes me
And I've said myself, "I'll die for you"
I am the king of your salvation

I will save the Jews… I know I will
A descent to Hell won't beat me
I've said myself, I'll die for you
I am the king of your salvation

I will always shed my blood for you
I will save the Jews

Since my gospel is the talk of my town
Judas will want to kill himself

I will save the Jews… I know I will
Yo, this crown of thorns is bleeding
and I've said myself "I'll die for you"
'cause I'm the king of your salvation
I am the king of your salvation
I will save the Jews… I know I will
They put two holes in my hands
And I'll shed my blood for you
I'll be the king of your salvation
I will save the Jews
I will have a Second Coming
'cause I've got a new birth for you
I'm the king of your salvation..
I will save the Jews .. I know I will
They pierced a hole in my side
I have said myself, "I'll die for you"
'cause I'm the king of your salvation.

~~
King of Wishful Thinking

I don't need to fall at your feet
Just 'cause you cut me to the bone
And I won't miss the way that you kiss me
We were never carved in stone
If I don't listen to the talk of the town
Then maybe I can fool myself..

I'll get over you.. I know I will
I'll pretend my ship's not sinking
And I'll tell myself I'm over you
'cause I'm the king of wishful thinking
I am the king of wishful thinking

I refuse to give in to my blues
That's not how it's going to be
And I deny the tears in my eyes
I don't want to let you see.. no
That you have made a hole in my heart
And now I've got to fool myself..

I'll get over you.. I know I will
I'll pretend my ship's not sinking
And I'll tell myself I'm over you
'cause I'm the king of wishful thinking..
I'll get over you.. I know I will
I'll pretend my ship's not sinking
And I'll tell myself I'm over you
'cause I'm the king of wishful thinking

I will never, never shed a tear for you
I'll get over you

If I don't listen to the talk of the town
Then maybe I can fool myself..

I'll get over you.. I know I will
I'll pretend my ship's not sinking
And I'll tell myself I'm over you
'cause I'm the king of wishful thinking
I'm the king of wishful thinking
I'll get over you.. I know I will
You made a hole in my heart
But I won't shed a tear for you
I'll be the king of wishful thinking
I'll get over you..
I'll pretend my heart's still beating
'cause I've got no more tears for you
I'm the king of wishful thinking..
I'll get over you.. I know I will
You made a hole in my heart
And I'll tell myself I'm over you
'cause I'm the king of wishful thinking

My first sketch to have a viral video incarnation!

I don't like actors.

Yes, contradiction in terms, perhaps, me having invested the bloom of my youth in the pursuit of a "career" (quotes absolutely warranted) in acting.  But I've discovered that, with the exception of my kind of actor, I really can't stand the people.

If you're reading this, and you're an actor, you are probably not the kind of actor I'm talking about.  What I am talking about is the kind that makes me throw up a little inside every time I log into nowcasting.com.  Those dramatic lineups of headshots, the grizzled old man, the dignified black dude, the hot young Latina, the young mom... so many people, so many walks of life, so equally idiotic.  How stupid to spend $750 on these pictures of yourself with hopes that you're going to make a living in a total crapshoot career?  And everyone takes themselves so goddamn seriously, like at ReelPros, doing the most commercial shit ever, but convincing themselves that "we are the musicmakers and we are the dreamers of dreams" and we're the shamans of our culture, when in reality the things we're auditioning for are so fucking pointless and only have colossal meaning for us, the society of idiot actors who share in this deluded version of reality.  Where we ransom up the chance at a normal, functional life for some pipe dream which never happens.  It isn't real.

The worst, however, is waiting in an equity open call for (oh yes) musical theatre.  These are the people I cannot stand more than ANYTHING.  Those who thought spending summers at Stagedoor through adolescence wasn't enough and that they wanted to carry on living out the movie Camp.  Try having a conversation with these people and hands down you'll wind up bored to death talking about Sondheim... and not even cool Sondheim like Sweeney Todd, but boringass. predictable Into the Woods type shit.  They all have this half-insane, overly smiley, deranged look... but you'd have to be insane to come with your curled hair and character shoes in a packed room of 100+ women for a chorus call for Wicked and think, "This is going to be my big break!"

I know.  One must always believe "this is going to be my big break" or you would die of despair.  But you're not going to make it.  Douchebags.

Why am I such a bitch?  Aren't I in the room with these hopeful morons?  Admittedly, being Baron von Negativity isn't going to help me much either.  ("Haven't you read the secret"? you're asking.)  But the way I go about being in that room is fundamentally different from the other actors.  I'm trying to pave a path, brick by brick.  I don't know who I'll need to know, or what's going to lead to my unforeseen future, so I'm trying to do it all to the best of my ability.  But I'm not about to put all my eggs in a basket that is probably a hallucination.  (Weird mixed metaphor.)  These people are hoofing it with their demented dreams, thinking the next audition is going to be the one to propel them into stardom, when in reality, even if you beat out the thousands of other brunettes for that two-line costar on CSI:Miami, no one cares but you.  People care about famous people.  You are not famous, nor are you going to be.  And while maybe this "never give up, go to every audition" thing is the way 30% of working actors found their way to modest success, the vast majority of success stories in performing arts careers are so variable that it doesn't even make sense to do what someone else did.  But that's the method used out here: "if I keep going, if I stick around, it will eventually work out."  And hence the rotten stench of desperation in those EPAs, the casting director workshops and showcases.  Some people find success here.  But Brad Pitt fucking wore a chicken suit.  Does that mean you're gonna try that too?  And even if a CD does book you on an episodic, it probably won't lead to anything beyond that, and rules you out for the rest of the show.  It's just gig-gig-gig-gig-die.  Or if you're most of these people - - - - die.  Because if you keep auditioning, and nothing ever happens, and you're not finding fulfillment elsewhere, that's the life you're setting yourself up for.  And what is a successful life?  A reel of you playing judges, art critics and professors (I'm picking a short haired, distinguished 50-year old woman as my example) in various sitcoms and dramadies?  Kudos.  You're right up there with Mother Theresa.

So my point is, I'm not those actors.  I can't wait.  I can't put my happiness in the hands of someone who cares more about ordering her cob salad than my performance.  And I don't want to lead a stupid life.  So I'm taking the reigns back.  I'll keep auditioning, but I'm making my own shit.  I'm writing, I'm performing, and I'm sure if anything bigger comes out of all this nonsense, it's not going to be from a $45 dollar bullshit casting director workshop, but from someone seeing me improvise, or seeing a video I wrote, or hearing me read.  And that's the way I want it.  On my terms.  And that brings me comfort and assurance that no matter what I do, I'm going the right way.

So stupid actors everywhere, please remove me from the mailing list.  Though my headshot and resume may imply otherwise, I am not one of you.

Hello, blog.

There are a few things that have shifted in my life here.  First of all, it's clear that my job is different, as I NEVER write anymore.  Because I can't: no more the receptionist, I now wile away my days administratively assisting in a non-profit no-man's land-- I don't actually have a desk, I just vagabond it with my laptop near power sources.  This means no more eagle eye controller through the accounting window, making me feel like a worthless human being, and a somewhat more flexible schedule (I was allowed to leave for auditions before, but really SHOULD have been there for the full 9-5).  However it also now means no more reading Moby Dick on the job, nor cooking up humorous and vastly work-inappropriate essays on the blog.  So now I need to figure out how to still find time for my writing and whatnot... which really means I need to find a new job altogether, methinks.  But I do believe I'm moving in the right direction, perhaps.

Now some of you may be thinking, "Why aren't you in Berlin yet?"  Or may be wondering if I'm taking strides in that direction.  Well.  I've been putting a lot of thought into this here life thing, and life in Los Angeles in particular, and here are a few of my conclusions.

Above all else, I want to do important, meaningful things.  And it's been so difficult to be out here because there is such an emphasis on stupid ass shit... it's all image, package, commercial marketability.  There's no soul, just profit margins.  Many people have said, "Why not go back to New York and do theatre there?"  But theatre in New York-- or anywhere in the United States for that matter-- is the same.  It's about selling tickets, wearing a show into the ground with eight shows a week until it's completely lifeless.  And that was the impulse to go elsewhere.
BUT.  While theatre might be fading here, there is something America has over everyone else: film.  And while there is plenty of crap being made, there is actually a lot of good stuff too, and plenty of room for good stuff to be invented.  I've been super into The Wire for the past month or so, and I think it's the perfect example of television's potential for great art.  (We all know film can do it's thang.  But TV gets an especially bad wrap that needs be cleared.)

What makes The Wire so excellent is that it respects its audience's intelligence (a concept I've been deeply invested in in longform improv) and has a raison d'etre: not only is it entertaining and engaging as a drama, it shines a light on real social issues existent in Baltimore and has actually encouraged reform and spread awareness in real life as a result.  This is absolutely everything I could hope for in my life's work: I always wanted to do plays that made people think, that forced its audience to confront difficult truths, that encouraged dialogue and debate.  But in a country where no one goes to the theatre, the best medium for this kind of art is certainly television.  And if made truly well, as The Wire was, it has the capacity to reach a whole range of people, much wider than just those who can afford a $45 theatre ticket, or the twelve bohemians who happen to know of the presence of some obscure black box theatre.  (It can be argued that HBO limits the audience to people who can afford premium cable, but in this age of SurftheChannel.com and Netflix, there are other avenues open to us.  Lord knows I don't have even basic cable.)

The characters on The Wire are complex and nuanced; there is no clearly defined concept of good and evil.  There are heroic cops as well as heroic dealers, and villainous cops and dealers too.  The most evil characters show tinges of humanity, and our most sympathetic character will do some straight-up shitty things and show poor judgment.  Because that's life.  It's not clear.  And just because this is television, and the acting style is intensely realistic, it doesn't make it any less valid as an art form.  This might seem super obvious, but back in my day, I was a vicious anti-realism theatre activist.  That's because realism has no place on stage: it can't reach the back of a house.  Being "realistic" when you're trying to be heard by five hundred people makes no sense at all.  But television, when used correctly, can be even more thought-provoking than good theatre.  When this realism is used for a purpose, and not just escapist entertainment, when it refused to be compartmentalized into "these are the bad guys, these are the good ones" and forces us to really hash it out for ourselves, when it refuses to explain itself and the story just shows up in all is complex glory, that is something worth watching.  Worth making.  Worth being a part of.  And if it is possible to make that in Los Angeles... then Los Angeles is a place I'm okay with staying in.

This intense desire to be a part of something meaningful makes me think perhaps I need to focus more on a writerly role in things, because those are the creators.  And clearly I'm a writer.  You're reading this.  Being part of producing material is the only real way to guarantee involvement, really.  And I don't know what that means, if I should look for a new job in production or what.  I do know that I need to keep getting to know people, I need to latch on to those of a like mind, and eventually, if I keep following this urge, something will work out.  And might I say, this is incredible exciting to me: that the bliss is not elsewhere, that maybe I am in the correct city after all.  We don't all have to be models... some of us can think.

And that brings me to the second part of this monster entry: improv!  Yes, it has been the be-all and end-all of my Los Angeles creative survival, and I finally have a team (Hammerspace) I can play with regularly and with whom I can push the envelope of creative activity.  We all came up through the levels at iO West together, so there's a good sense of trust and camaraderie already, and we have a great sense of adventure.  Plus the leader of our troupe, Patrick, is deeply committed to taking the form to new heights.  Long form is young: it's been around for only thirty years, and it's as American as jazz.  How rich to delve into this lively craft, to play around, see where it takes us.  It is the closest thing to the kind of live theatre I dreamt of in Russia.  Here we have all the storytelling, the connection to the audience, the sense, truly, of anything can happen.  How amazing to linger in possibility!  To live in potential for an hour.  To know, even when it's going badly, that it can turn around any second.  Long form is not going to make me any money, but oh if it doesn't ever fulfill that creative urge.

Patrick got us the coolest gig in the history of gigs, which was doing two Harolds for a private high school in Santa Monica.  There were only four of us, so to do that form required everyone to be super on their toes, not to mention that these kids were looking at us as "the masters", there to demonstrate how to do the "signature piece of the iO" correctly.  Anyone who's done long form know it can go abysmally wrong even after years of improvising, and I had this sick fear in my heart that they would sniff us out (teens have such noses for bullshit) as total frauds and we would be shamed utterly.  Shows what I know: our two Harolds went over smashingly.  They were decent enough, but really the kids were incredible audience members.  They laughed at everything, gave us their full attention for the whole 25 minutes and were completely respectful.  I could have completely melted when, during the Q+A, we got the "did you write any of that ahead of time?" or "did you pick which characters you were gonna play before?" or "did you guys rehearse talking at the same time?  It was so good!"  (Patrick and I played these indie rockers who would make up their band name afresh every scene, and it was always inordinately long and absurd.  Frankly we didn't speak in unison very well, but just goes to show how your personal opinions differ from those of the public sometimes.)  The teacher was also pleased, and said we showed all the elements they discussed in class, like initiations, game and character establishment through physical choices, etc.  I suppose I spend so much time watching people play who've been doing it for over 10 years that I think I suck no matter what.  It's cool to get some outside perspective.  Though going from student to teacher/performer is always a shaky transformation that requires a significant amount of reassurance of self-worth and ego-boosting.  But I think I'm ready for that moment: I can keep learning, no doubt, I always will... but this is something I can own.  And I think it can be a part of my bigger picture, too.

Patrick also got me into "Laughter for a Change", which uses improv in community outreach.  (Look it up online... they did improv in Rwanda!!!)  This is super early in the stages of development, but I think it could be something huge for me.  What with my grand ideas of reaching people and wanted to do something meaningful with my art... not to mention my occasional impulse to say "fuck everything" and join the Peace Corps.  We shall see.  I will keep you [blog] posted.

I did not get into this to sell Tide.  I did not get into this to feel miserable in a town of people naturally thinner than me.  So if I remember why I got into this, and try to fulfill my dreams, that pursuit will keep me happy.  On this eve of the election, I have to believe that all is possible.  Yes we can.  And so can I!

I went looking for a present for my improv teacher, who likes Bukowski, and found this very tiny pamphlet in a rare book store, which had the following poem in it.  It's so good it gave me a chill.

the significance was obscure

we've been married 30 years, he told me.

to what do you attribute your marital success? I asked.

we both roll the toothpaste tube from the bottom, he said.

the next morning before brushing I rolled the toothpaste tube from the bottom.

of course, since I live alone, the significance was obscure

as it usually is.

I finally read in Sit N Spin again last night, with rousing success.  Some have called my reading "brave".   I don't know if I would go that far-- it's hardly battling cancer-- but it's at least brutally and hilariously honest.  Regard:

Gay?  Fine by Me.

 

I was in sixth grade when I became convinced that I was a lesbian.  I had just switched to a new school, where I knew no one and had no friends.  It also didn't help that, with both my parents destitute after a vicious six-year custody battle, my basic wardrobe was an ongoing rotation of two pairs of corduroy overalls with worn-out knees and long-sleeve running shirts my Mom had won at 5K Valentine's Day races.  So I was a bedraggled, bespectacled, painfully shy, floppy-haired new kid in what is historically known as the most awkward time of pubescence.  To make matters worse, my mother befriended Mrs. Starr, Mom of the most popular Rebecca, so I became her default friend.  When our Moms were downstairs drinking tea and discussing artisan handwoven Hudson Valley throwrugs, she and I got along well: I was my old confident self, lunch table leader, the girl who'd make you snarf your milk.  But at school, I was awkward among her Hello Kitty pencilbox friends.  I was the only one who hadn't been through BRS (Bedford Road Elementary), and no, I did not remember that time Bill Weeks pantsed Rich Zanfinni during Pioneer Day.  I never had the opportunity to wow them with my 12-year-old wit.  So instead I accelerated my descent into a rich feast of self-loathing with the following soul-crushing game: at lunch, I would sit quietly among "the popular girls" and tell myself:  I am just going to sit here and not say a word and see if anyone talks to me.  Let's see how completely silent I can be.  I won't even say "yeah" or anything!  And I'd sit there, and they'd talk about paint pens, field hockey or someone's older brother and, still engaged in conversation, they'd clear their trays and walk outside without so much as a backward glance at me, still there, slumped on the cafeteria bench, where I'd fold my arms and cry.  Yup.  I sure won that game.  And then I'd call my Mom on the payphone.  Every lunch, for all of sixth grade.

            My latent lesbianism emerged as the bête noire of my repressed memories.  I would have been spared significant months of angst were it not for that detestable show, My So-Called Life.  A properly-raised evangelical Lutheran, I had a strong sense of propriety where sexuality was concerned: basically, if you weren't married and you did anything, that was a sin.  And when it came to same-sex deviance, well then you were just a huge pervert.  So when Claire Danes in her laissez-faire monotone chatted about some lesbian experience, I was immediately repelled.  But then: cracking forth from behind fortified walls of Lutheran guilt, the truth of my homosexual past revealed itself anew.  To my horror, I had carefully stowed away the sexual experimentation I had engaged in at age seven with my lifelong best friend, Joanna (or Jay).

            Jay has been my best friend for as long as I can remember: we grew up just one house away from each other and were basically inseparable.  Jay was Catholic, but they're not half as uptight as Fundamentalists.  Plus, her family had cable, whereas mine only watched PBS at specific hours.  Jay knew a LOT more about sex than I did, and had even seen the "Justify my Love" Madonna video.  This fascinated me.  I plied her for information.  What did it look like?  What did they do?  Well, Jay reported, the man and the woman get naked and then one lies on top of the other and they rub on each other.  And eventually that's where babies come from.  So far my inklings of sexual pleasure came from doing the potty dance when I had to pee really bad, so this new concept of naked rubbing was intriguing.  So we decided to play husband-wife, got naked and rubbed away, and yeah, it felt pretty cool.  And if you were wondering, I'm fairly certain I always played the man.  Here's the thing: I was definitely way more interested in playing than Jay.  It was sort of like the fact that whenever we were at her house, I always just wanted to watch cartoons, because we weren't allowed to at my house.  So she'd always be saying, "Come on, let's play outside" and I'd always say, "Oh naw, let's watch Nickelodeon" or "Let's get naked and lie on top of one another."  Once we even decided to include her four-year old sister, who had a penchant for running around the house stark naked.  Usually this was annoying, but we decided, since she's nekkid anyway, we'll pretend we're the husband and wife who have sex and then she'll be the newborn baby result.  This turned into a disaster, because when we tried to kick her out of our playtime, she threatened to run and tell my dad what we'd been doing.  It was my first sexual blackmail.

            This taboo phase of exploration lasted a couple of months, at the end of which I'm pretty sure we promised not to talk about it, and then my parent's marriage dissolved and I moved away, and only got to see my best friend every other weekend.  So it was easy to forget that strange time had ever happened.  Until My So-Called Life, when my true perverted self was revealed, and I stumbled off to bed, stunned, spiraling into a clinical depression centered around this deep, dark shame that I could never reveal.  As sad as I had been, I was now infinitely worse: I was anathema.  I retreated into the dark recesses of my mind, spent tear-filled nights chastising myself for my perversity, became all the more alienated from the Alanis/Tickle-Me-Elmo-conversations at the lunch table.  At one sleepover (which I have no doubt I was invited to because some girl's mother demanded it), Melanie Minichino said, "I think two girls in this room are going to become lesbians."  I knew she meant me, and the other pity invite, Jenny Gutner, an utterly unmemorable girl with limp blonde hair, high prescription lenses and no vocal inflection.  She was probably right.

            I reached the height of my lesbian perversity one especially self-loathing night in front of my mirror with my Russian dwarf hamster.  I stared at myself and thought: you are a deviant.  You are so perverted you would put a hamster in your underwear.  And I did.  Granted, it was just at the top: my ideas of perversion were fairly tame and never even really involved specific touching or penetration.  But for me this just proved how horrendously aberrant my behavior had become.  So my depression was redoubled to the point where I could stand it no longer.  In tears, hardly able to speak, I confessed all to my mother.  My poor mother, who had no idea that I'd been torturing myself with mental flagellations and hamster mea culpas, who never wanted church to fuck up her kid so greatly.  Instead of the reaction I feared ("I disown you, perverse child!") she gave me just the reassurance that I needed, that I was not some freak, that this behavior was, in fact quite natural for people to go through.  And even she had had similar experiences of curiosity and shame, specifically getting caught by Nana while playing with the tail of her favorite stuffed animal, Tigger.

            And with that, I was free!  I didn't hate myself anymore!  I had no shameful secret to haunt me!  It also occurred to me in a stroke of genius that I had never actually found another woman sexually attractive, so I probably wasn't actually gay.  And thus ended my middle school depression, and began my renaissance: I made new friends, I lorded over our lunch table with my superior jokes, and never sat passive and morose again.  And when my good friend Sara revealed via instant messenger our freshman year of high school that she was, in fact, bi, after a stunned minute of processing, I responded, "Okay".  And by junior year, I founded with her and our tremendously gay friend Tommy Pleasantville High School's first Gay-Straight Alliance.  Though no one in my church knew about that.

            I still have never kissed a woman except on stage, and Jay developed an appetite for black cock so hearty that I can hardly imagine her without one safely within arm's reach.  We are probably the least gay former lesbians ever.  But as a founding member of a GSA, I can proudly say: even if I were gay, that would be just fine by me.