Cock Blocked & Loaded

This is not my blog.

2007-08-18T12:55:00.001-05:00

This is not my blog.

Measure for Measure

2007-03-06T11:26:00.000-05:00

In a city like New York, you'd think there'd be an abundance of nascent theatre companies just chompin at the proverbial bit to get at the Bard. After all, from a production standpoint, Shakespeare's a breeze - all you need are an ensemble of strong, intrepid actors to create the texture of the world, and minimal set and costumes... just enough to give us pretty pictures or minimalist 3-D Rorschach blots to ponder while the words wash you. Perfect for companies rich in spirit and imagination but low on funds. Yeah, you'd think there'd be a ton o' shit like that to see... but there isn't. Real estate in NYC has made that kind of poetic risk-taking a rare and unlikely occurrence in post-Giuliani New York. That's why, when I saw that the Blessed Unrest were tackling not just Shakespeare, but Measure for Measure (one of my faves) up at the Women's Interart Theatre on 52nd St., I chomped on a bit of my own to go see it.

My review begins in the lobby, 20 minutes before showtime, on the coldest night of the year. You can tell the Blessed Unrest are a poor company (I mean that in a good way) because they wisely keep you out of the theatre until 10 seconds before curtain, and use the time to sell you beer, wine and Vodka cocktails (there may have been muffins too. or something). I suddenly felt a little guilty for conniving an industry comp, and sidled with my date up the "bar" and ordered a couple of VD's (vodka drinks). This was a very good sign, I thought... any company that wants to get you tanked before showing you their vision of one Shakespeare's strangest and funniest "problem plays" about moral posturing and hypocrisy has probably got something pretty interesting up its sleeve. Good Shakespeare is FUN - the really compelling interpretations are always the ones that go at it balls-to-the-wall and don't shy away from the sometimes-uncomfortably-extreme levels of ultra-violence and debauched sex. Unfortunately, Measure for Measure has neither - but rather strange dialogues about both. Thus the "problem". At least I had my vodka - I was ready for anything.

I always find it hard to write critically about shows that are, by their own descriptions, "experimental". By definition, experimental shows are tests of experience, visions instead of formulas, hard to pin down. Blessed Unrest's production was an amalgam of dance, physical theater and "found text". It's that last one that I'm on the fence about. I guess there's just enough purist in me to not want the rhythm of Shakespeare interrupted by incongruous interjections of "poetry" that someone...found...somewhere. The spontaneous outbursts of said "found text" (usually coming from a ranting Julietta) felt a little like they were trying to "force" me to draw some kind of meaning from the juxtaposition... and I just didn't. And I didn't want to. I wanted to listen to Measure for Measure and look at pretty pictures. The good news is that, for the most part, that's what ended up happening. The actors were, on the whole, solid and confident with the work. Craig Bridger played Angelo - the Deputy that offers to trade life of a nun's brother for a chance to get 'in-and-out-of-the-habit' with sis - with an understated evil that was just creepy. This really is Angelo and Isabella's play, after all. Even Claudio, the condemned brother, and his lover Julietta are only minor characters supporting the moral dialectic between the Church and the State.

The only set was a white porcelain bathtub on wheels, which was occupied mainly by Claudio and Julietta, often engaged in some type of physical dance-theater shenanigans which served as interludes between scenes. Again, perhaps it was the vodka drinks, but the I didn't necessarily "get" the bathtub symbolism (if it were intended)... but I will say this: If you're only going to have one set piece, a bathtub is a good one. They almost always look good on stage, and you always wonder what's going to happen in them. They are "empty vessels" waiting to be filled. Bathtubs also provide the audience with a dada-esque catalyst for imagination. Whereas the "found text" was limiting, a bathtub turns out to be freeing. Who knew?

Measure has been called a "problem play" not only because it defies the labels of comedy and tragedy, but because it's ending - and ultimate message - are completely unclear in Shakespeare's text. In a "wtf?" moment at the end, the goodly Duke who has been working behind the scenes on Isabella's behalf suddenly decides that that he would like to fuck the nun and decrees that she shall be his. On the surface, this can read like a typical Shakespeare "happy ending", and is (shockingly) often played as such. But scratch the surface - just a little, with your pinky - and this turn of events is much, much darker. Thankfully, Blessed Unrest knows this and ends their performance with a physical montage of Isabella being royally raped (physically and spiritually) in the bathtub by the patriarchy - a silent scream frozen on her face. The corporate state sodomizing the innocence right the fuck out of us. That I can understand.

At Least I'll Get My Monday Nights Back

2006-10-02T20:57:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking a lot over the past couple of weeks and have decided that it's time, after 3 1/2 years, to stop doing the Toxic Pop Newsletter. I started it when I was totally flat-ass broke and doing freelance PR for various underground performance artists, musicians, etc. to keep myself fed. The idea was to have a built-in promo vehicle for the artists I was repping, and it just kind of took off. Today I've got thousands of subscribers, more and more each week... but it's become a chore. It's just not fun anymore. I don't necessarily advocate dropping anything and everything when the fun goes out of it - everything goes through un-fun stages, slumps. But with this one I've been trying to make it work for months. I dunno. Maybe the newsletter and I need couples therapy, but I think that my life needs changes and I can feel those changes gathering around, waiting to be let in. I guess to make room for new stuff sometimes we have to let the old stuff go.

I've never let go of things easily. I've also been thinking recently about this: why I'm 41 and single. Before I was 40, I never even thought about the "why"... I just was. Now I think that maybe the reason that I've had a habit of persuing unavailable women is that I'm afraid of ultimately letting them go. I'm the worst at goodbyes... I get sad at saying goodbye to someone I met during a 90-minute layover in an airport because I like them and I know I'll never see them again. As some of you know, this can have (and has had) disasterous results. Anyway. Now I have to say goodbye to 3,000 people I've never met, but for whom I still feel a great affection because they're the ones that saw why this list was important, why it was needed beyond my selfish self-promotional motivations, why we still have to struggle for art to live in NYC.

There it is. There better be something *really* good to take its place. Just saying.

Acres of diamonds, baby.

.

2006-03-31T18:00:00.000-05:00

Incidentally, that picture below is of the Hotel Seville (29th & Mad) before it became the Carlton-Meridian. I lived in the Seville in 1985-86 when it was still a welfare hotel, and had several self-imposed near-death experiences within its walls. Sid Vicious tried to commit suicide there. My friend Christ lived there too. He and I also moved to LA at the same time... I made out of LA alive, he didn't. He was shot in the back of the head by his girlfriend's brother.

i'm in love with something that i can't see

2006-03-31T00:08:00.000-05:00

i just took the qualifying test for Jeopardy! it was harder than i thought it wood bee.

now i'm having conversations with dead people: physically dead, spiritually, or just "dead to me".

those are always fun

told christ wetzel that the hotel sevillle is now a Carlton/Meridian

where millionaires sleep with the ghosts of dead crack whores.

and you can't get a loosie for a dime anymore at the bodega on the corner

because it's gone, the family retired happily to queens

with the buyout money from Crunch.

told my dad i'm doing ok, still landing on my feet

and i still think about him on his birthday.

told my high school girlfriend that i had dinner with

a transboi on thursday.

told a passing lady that love allows for all things good

and never hides

and always looks you in the eye.

xoxoxoxo xoxoxoxo
oxoxoxo oxoxoxo
xoxoxo xoxoxo
oxoxo oxoxo
xoxo xoxo
oxo oxo
xo xo
o o
x

Spring Cleaning

2006-03-23T00:22:00.000-05:00

I didn't even realize that it officially turned spring on Monday. So much junk has built up, even in just the past half-a-year. Junk I didn't even know was junk... something found, that I thought I loved for a minute so I brought it home and put it in the corner...but it didn't belong in the corner. Or anywhere. It was junk, and belonged in the trash. But throwing away anything that you even thought you could love, hurts to a degree relative to the amount of time you loved, or thought you could love, that thing. love things trash junk. Or there's a sweater that you find on the floor of the closet. There was a day that you loved that sweater more than anything - the moment you decided to buy it, that sweater was everything. Now the cat's peed on it, and the pee has dried up. Your once favorite sweater is crusty with old cat pee. You hold it up to the light, and see the holes for the first time... new holes or ones that were there w/out you noticing.. it doesn't matter. Holes are holes (insert bisexual joke here). By the end of the day you have 3 contractor bags full of holy sweaters, expired vitamins, vhs tapes, a stray square of christmas wrapping paper, half-filled notebooks, and dirt. I need 2 trips to get them to the street. After the second, wiping my hands on my jeans out on the sidewalk, I look up and meet familiar eyes - a friend I used to love, passing on the sidewalk. Eyes quickly away and down, and I smile in a way that hurts. Back inside, everything feels bigger.

what the fuck happened?

2006-03-18T13:22:00.000-05:00

Holy shit, I'm home! How did I get here? I love when my day starts like that. Went with Rev to Sidewalk to see Milk Kan (actually, it was just Simon, aka "Scrappy Hood", solo). We were joined by Lopi, Dodge, Brer, Kat, Monica & Humphrey, Prichard, Mike Amato and Michele Carlo. We took up about 3 tables in the showroom, where we camped out through a few opening acts of varying levels of goodness and drank. And drank. And got shusshed a lot. And whiled our time chatting with Simon and sending text messages back and forth between tables. Simon went on at about 11ish (they are remarkably punctual at Sidewalk) and did a short set, maybe 30 minutes or so.... after which most of us staggered over to Dodge's. Somehow Rev, Simon and I got seperated from the others and decided we should stop in at a bodega for beer, since we didn't know if the others would be buying some (No, it never occured to any of us to use our cell phones to call the other group). We walked out with a keg of Heineken, which we lugged up to the Dodge-Mahal, where the others were waiting. After that.... uhh... I remember there was a fair amount of drinking beer out of jars, there may have been some dancing, I smoked a cigarette or 2. And then I was home, and it was Saturday! Like magic! and...oooff... food calls. As does the gym. laterz.

North Six

2006-03-11T16:12:00.000-05:00

I can barely move today due to late night cavorting amongst metal heads in bburg last night. Rev's next article for Nerve is about trying to be a groupie and to that end she asked me if I'd call my friend (and Matador Records prez) Chris to see if he could help her hook up with a band. I'd barely gotten her request past my lips, when Chris said "I've got the perfect band for her, but she'll have to act fast." The band, Early Man, is an extreme metal outfit from Columbus, Ohio who have one of the best bios of any band we'd ever seen. They'd be playing at North Six in Wmsbg that same night, and out in Hoboken the next (tonight). Since neither one of us wanted to go to Hoboken, and we both had planned to go to Prichard's birthday party on Sat, she had to make the move quickly.

At about 9:30, Rev, Dodge and I piled into a cab and headed over the bridge. I made a call to get a 20 on Chris, but he clearly had already begun drinking and I couldn't really make out where he was, except that he was already in the burg somewheres. We pulled up to North Six to a gaggle of metal hipsters hanging on the sidewalk, asking if we had the hookup on extra tix. After being carded and bag-searched, we were fed into the outer lobby just in time to see the 6'6" bouncer "escorting" an unruly metal head out to the street, via some kind of choke-hold I'd never seen before. I called Chris again, and all he was able to get out this time was "Berry and North Six. Drink."

"What's the name of the bar?"

"I unno. Berry and North Six"

So the three of us headed to Berry and N. 6 and met up with Chris, his wife, and a fellow named (Andrew?) who was quiet and mysterious. They were just standing out on the sidewalk, and I think someone must have suggested a bar, because Chris staggered off in a direction and seemed to know where he was going. I think we were looking for Greenpoint Tavern, but never did find it. On the way, Chris ran into the Early Man drummer and the guitarist for the opening band, Priestess, and they all engaged in some kind of shop talk, while Rev, Dodge and I hung back. I told them that if they were gonna do this groupie thing, they'd better get in there and introduce themselves, so we stepped up but let Chris do the introductions. He didn't mention that Rev's goal was mind-bending sex with one of them by the end of the night, which is probably just as well. After not-finding our destination, we just went into some random bar and I got my beer on, while Chris ordered a bourbon straight-up. He'd mentioned on the phone earlier that he'd been keeping sober lately, and planned on just "dipping his toe off the wagon" but not until next weekend. As we waited at the bar, I said "I thought you weren't dipping off the wagon til next week", to which he replied "The minute I heard your voice on the phone, I knew I wouldn't be staying sober tonight." I was flattered that I could have such an effect on someone.

11:00 PM: We make it back to NorthSix in time to catch the end of Priestess's set which they rocked to a sea of headbangers, many of whom were waving the obligitory devil-horn fingers in the air. We'd hoped that Priestess would be an all-girl metal band so that I could get in on the groupie action too, but alas they were all dudes. I lost Dodge and Rev in the crowd, but when Priestess finished up, they found me and began waving their own devil-horns and screaming about how Priestess rules the world! They asked if I could get Chris to let them downstairs so they could start mauling the band members. I disappeared to find him, and when I did he said "This isn't really a Matador show, so I can't really start sneaking them around. Besides, Rev Jen is going to have to do some of this groupie work on her own. I told her earlier that the key to being a groupie was patience, and she'll just have to have some." I felt like I was being given a lecture on self-restraint by Keith Moon. I got another drink and headed back to break the bad news, but the pair were, once again, nowhere to be found.

As it turns out, NorthSix isn't too tough a place to sneak around in. Rev and Dodge had done just fine getting backstage without Chris's help and apparently they were able to meet and socialize with many of the band members all on their own. Chris would be proud, I thought. However, Rev made the cardinal error of telling the dudes she was a journalist ("I never should have done that!" she said this morning) which made them all take a big giant step away. Apparently, musicians don't like their "gee-eff's" knowing about their groupie activity, much less reading about it on urban hipster websites like Nerve. By the time the 2 of them came back up to get me, Early Man had already taken the stage and the heads were banging once again. We strolled right by the "security" guy and went back downstairs to an empty green room to do some more drinking. Dodge, by this point, had fallen in love with Vince, a member of Priestess and was lamenting that he had given them the brush. "Maybe that's his jacket," I said, pointing to the brown leather fur-collared bomber laying on the chair. I felt through the pockets to see if there were any identifying objects, and sure enough, there was a wallet in the inside pocket. It should be mentioned that Priestess are from Canada, and apparently are not too hip on the do's and don'ts of the big bad apple, the first of which is DON'T leave your wallet alone in a room by itself. Lucky for Vince I'm not a thief, but I did pull his driver's licence for Dodge, who swooned when she saw it. "Look! It's got his address!", she gasped, and immediately wrote it down. I also found his cell phone, and tried calling my own number from his phone in order to get Dodge some digits to go with the Montreal residence info, but we couldn't get a signal in the basement.

We remained downstairs until Early Man got offstage and Chris came down with the band for a little late night metal schmoozefest. I was already about 7 or 8 pints in at this point, so here is where the old memory starts to crackle out. I know that we were downstairs for a while (although I don't remember who I talked to, if anyone) and then left, Dodge went home, and Rev and I went with Chis and the band to some other bar where we drank big giant beers out of styrofoam. "Is this Greenpoint Tavern, Rev? Did we finally find it?" I remember asking. "No," she said "We're somewhere else that also has beer in styrofoam." I was confused. I was very drunk. It was very late. I went outside and got in a cab and went home. Rev never did get laid, but hopefully she got something to write about.

The green room

This dude is wringing the sweat out of his shirt.

Hangin' with Early Man

You Are So Right

2006-02-22T18:08:00.000-05:00

Ach ja... estas tan correcto, sweet seniorita. I do, indeed. So why is it that I haven't the energy to put pen to paper, never mind to dance, laugh, stay out all night, make art both good and bad, drink too much and actually live the life worth writing about, the way we all did just a few years ago. We all stay in now, we feel older, tired, more...serious. Now the work we do we do alone, at home, in our pajamas with a cup of tea at our elbow. Not a decade ago we did it together, in the bars, on dirty stages and half out of our minds. What I can't figure out is this: it can't be age that wears us, because I was older in 98 then than Rev is now, and Prichard was older than I am today. Were we just drunk on.... what? The 90's? Clinton? cushy internet jobs, IPO and Launch Parties for websites that would disappear a month later, open bars every night of the week... Was it that, or is it us? Maybe it was 9/11. Maybe it's the city. In 1998, the 1-2 Giuliani-Bloomberg punch was still in mid-swing, New York wasn't yet on the ropes with blood in her mouth, both eyes swollen shut. Surf Realities still had a fighting chance, the future wasn't yet inevitible. We all smoked in bars and it wasn't against the law, or half a day's pay for a pack. We raised our flag in the dirt, the LES, the only island of old New York we could find - an island sinking like Atlantis, deeper by the hour.

Tonight I let the marijuana wash the stress of the day off my shoulders... struggle with inertia just turning off the TV and touch my face while I write. I wonder if there an alternate reality somewhere, maybe it's just another city, that still has reverend hanks flushing their own heads down toilets, red-leather clad curry spices following friends home at 5 in the morning, friends who have to work at 7. A place where the kids like to have fun and they don't notice their common alcohol bloat and face is still all alpha. A place where empty spaces still exist, and people come to fill them with play... where the only reason you need to create is space/time to do it in. Where did those things go?

I'm rambling. Just blowing off steam. My apologies.

new empty spaces replace the old ones

pic by jen-x. i stole it from her myspace profile.

be careful what you wish for

2006-02-04T13:04:00.000-05:00

Thursday night, the 202 Restaurant in Chelsea Market - a ridiculously overpriced "restaurant" that also sells overpriced clothing and furniture for some reason - invited the tenants of the Market (O2, Food Network, etc.) to a 2 hour free margarita open bar, from 6-8pm. A mass email was sent to all O2 employees, so I fully expected the joint to be packed with my coworkers at 5:59. I twisted our production manager Rebecca's arm to get her to skip the gym and go with me, and we headed down at five-of, in order to be right on time like good alcoholics. Shockingly, only about 7 Oxygenites showed up... most of the drinkers were from the Food Network, all of whom seemed a little snobbish when they found out we were from O2. During the first hour, I noticed that either I was growing larger and larger, or the margaritas were getting smaller and smaller. By 6:45, they were being served up in shot size glasses, and by 7 I found out why: they had run out of stinkin' tequila!! Now look, I don't want to tell anyone how to throw a party, but if you're throwing a 2-hour *margarita open bar*, you should, umm... HAVE PLENTY OF TEQUILA ON HAND! They also ran out of Contreau, which meant that the drinks had to be made with some ghetto triple-sec bullshit. Rebecca and I bailed immediately, and went to get some food and margaritas at Mary Ann's, where I knew the tequlia would be plentiful. Later, I headed over to Rev Jen's for our weekly OC party (which has dwindled to just she and I of late) and drank beer while we watched our fave show, yelling at the TV and digging into her roommates beer when ours ran out. Somehow, she convinced me to go to the Bowery with her at midnight to see THE HOWL, and we spent the 2 hours after the OC doing drunken friend-invites on myspace and applying our makeup. The rest, as you can imagine, is kind of a blur... I do remember seeing the crazy-dancing Lopi and our good friend Kat at Bowery, and that I got home (somehow) after 2 AM. I menatlly adjusted my usual friday schedule of getting up at six for the gym, and fell into bed.

Needless to say, yesterday I was a mess, and in no shape to be doing anything but going home after work and watching my 24 DVDs. Nevertheless, I'm still enough of a pushover to be talked into going out, no matter how out-of-it I am. Rev called in the afternoon and asked if I didn't want to go see Pamela Des Barres reading at a bar in Greenpoint, instead of seeing her Saturday (today) at Coliseum Books as we'd originally planned. It was tempting and, as a Wilde boy once said: "I can resist everything but temptation". Since I came into work almost 2 hours late, and am doing an off-site training on Monday and Tues, I stayed at the office til 8PM finishing things up, and then hopped the L out to Bedford. Rev and I found each other on the corner, and fled the mob scene of milling hipsters as fast as we could flee - down Bedford towards Greenpoint. It's a good ten-minute walk at least, which we spent marvelling at just how many hipsters were in Williamsburg and fantasized about throwing a "Dork-Fest" in the neighborhood, in an attempt to drive them out. I said we could appoint a hipster pied-piper of sorts, who could carry a boom-box blasting Cold Play, and lead the parade of hipsters through the streets and into the east river. She suggested Monopoly tournaments and Tolkein readings. Just before we hit McCarren Park, we passed a ginormous patch of vacant land, at least the size of a city block, surrounded by chain-link and barbed-wire. "What's that?" Rev asked. "That," I answered, "is a hipster-free zone." For a moment we thought we'd gone in the wrong direction because we couldn't find the bar (Enid's), but every time we tried to ask a passing hipster for help, we were completely ignored. I finally realized they weren't ignoring us, per se, but that each and every one of them was listening to an iPod, and were blissfully oblivious to our plight.

We found the bar, and were quite early, as we'd planned. Still, there were no tables available so we ordered our beers and stood awkwardly in the back by the restrooms. There was a big birthday party (evidenced by the half eaten birthday cake in the center of the array of pushed-together tables) in the center of the room, a few of whom had apparently abandoned their cake and drinks and split. Rev and I wondered if we should just sit at the birthday table, and I voted yes. After all, they're probably not here for the reading, and surely no one else would have the balls to just move in on someone else's party. So that's what we did, and no-one said a word. I almost cut myself a piece of cake, but didn't want to jeopardize our amazing seats. Eventually an even better table right next to ours was freed up and we jumped on that immediately. Rev's friend Angie from work showed up with a couple of her buds, and we ganked some chairs for them so that they could sit at our best-table-in-the-house.

Pamela came on at about 10:30, and the reading was amazing. She is 57 years old, and looks like she is in her early 40's. Surely there's some botox and surgery involved in that equation, but she really did look stunning. She started out by reading a short piece from her bestselling memoir, I'm With The Band, about hanging out and doing PCP (actually, a drug called Trimar) with Jim Morrison in the early days of The Doors. She then gave up the stage to Rhett Miller, a musician from The Old 97's, who read an even longer piece from the book, about Pamela's torrid affair with Jimmy Page. She then returned to the mic for a wildly entertaining Q&A with the audience. I'm still going tonight at Coliseum, where she will be reading with Sandra Bernhardt.

HOWdeeeeeeee!

2006-01-22T12:59:00.000-05:00

<- Bex n' I at Scenic saturday night. There to see DEVA, the female-led DEVO tribute band. I'd thought they were *all* female, but it turns out I was confusing them with the opening band: VIOLATOR, the all-girl Depeche Mode tribute band. Bex and I dressed as cowboys - old-school, Come Back Jonny style - and stood right up front blocking everyone's view with our giant ten-gallon chapeaux. DEVA rocked with their matching quasi-Clockwork-Orangesque getups and synchronized 80's dancing, even though their set-list consisted of few hits. Still they managed to crank out an hour or so of DEVO's more interesting and dancable tunes: Mongoloid, Freedom of Choice, and Secret Agent Man among them. But alas no Satisfaction, Gates of Steel or Whip-It. Still.. so f'in FUN.

thoughts on recent media while grooving on a cookie

2006-01-16T17:12:00.000-05:00

24: This show is like crack cocaine. Watching the 2-hour season premiere at her place last night, rev and I were comparing notes on how Jack Bauer never has to recharge his cell phone or pee. Neither did 007. Jack Bauer is the new James Bond. Racist? Sure. oh, and Bond wasn't? I still think all Russians are evil.

Brokeback Mountain: YipeeayooK-Y Muthafuckas. I liked it. Best Picture? No way (of course my saying that means it will sweep... what do I know - I didn't like that MDB that won last year either. ) There wasn't enough of a story. If it had been a man/woman love story it would have bored the shit out of me in 20 minutes, and a woman/woman tale would have busted my chick-flick-ometer and sent me fleeing in horror.

King Kong: WWWWay too fuckin long. We don't need an hour of giant bugs and chases and yeah, we-get-it-youre-really-good-at-special-effects. Or bland ingenues for that matter. Beautiful photography but, duh, it's Peter Jackson.

The Corporation:

The O.C:

[to be continued.... i took a break to watch 24]

From Friday's Times

2006-01-02T22:18:00.000-05:00

Why is this bugging me so much? I even had nightmares about it last night.

From Friday's NY Times Op-Ed: While You Were Sleeping, by William Falk

FORBIDDEN IDEAS With more than 100 million users, the Internet is booming in China. The American Web giants Microsoft, Yahoo and Google have all grabbed a piece of the lucrative Chinese market - but only after agreeing to help the government censor speech on the Web. In providing portals or search engines, all three companies are abiding by the government's censorship of certain ideas and keywords, like "Tiananmen massacre," "Taiwanese independence," "corruption" and "democracy." Most foreign news sites are blocked. This year, Yahoo even supplied information that helped the government track and convict a political dissident who sent an e-mail message with forbidden thoughts from a Yahoo account; he was sentenced to 10 years in jail. "Business is business," said Jack Ma, Yahoo's chief in China. "It's not politics."

Hated

2005-11-27T15:23:00.000-05:00

I've been wanning to write down about the GG Allin doco, Hated, since I (finally) saw it on Friday. I'd been meaning to see it since someone (I don't remember who. I apologize if it was you) gave me the poster* - featuing artwork by John Wayne Gacy - several years ago, and my ex-grindhouse tech Mike Yetter was one of the cinemetographers on the film. The poster is a JWG painting of Allin with a swastika on his forehead. The director, Todd Phillips, apparently had Gacy agree to do the artwork before he even started shooting, and financed the film with advance sales of the poster, a move I find to be fairly genius for an indie artmaker. I had it up for several years, more for strange synchron with my life (I was a teenage Allin fan and have an ex whose brother was killed by Gacy) than anything else. Eventually, it got too creepy for even me and it's been in my closet ever since.

The film itself is complete insanity. He was complete insanity. GG Allin was the most extreme example of human regression to a point of total infantilism, pure reaction. He is like a feral child, and you can't take your eyes off him even as he is turning your stomach and terrifying you at the same time. There is nothing noble about his art, but that it exists at all is astounding and important. He was completely ego-less, but only because he hadn't even gotten to ego yet, not that he had transcended it. The value of the performance that was his life is, to me, not in the content of the work itself, but in our own reactions to it: watching his punk yesmen following him around in the bonus footage of his last show at the gas station is a study in deviant obsequity - it should be its own film. Allin and/or director Todd Philips state several times during the 50 minute film (it was his thesis film for NYU, I think) that his art is a "commentary" on a sick society, or something to that effect. Such horseshit. You would think that, by this point, we'd see through the trick of slapping the word "commentary" on something that self-consciously thinks it needs to justify itself. It doesn't. What's wrong with someone rolling naked in their own shit? It's distinctly not-punk to have to explain it to anyone. ohhh....coommmentarrryy..... gotcha. wink wink. Implying that there's some uber-allin that is creating this character, the meta-artist. Uhh.. nope. This is it. He's a dude who likes to roll around in shit and beat people up. He's an artist who barely knows he is one.... the old Wesley Willis scenario.

For those of you who still have no idea, after reading that, what I think about him or the film - join the club... all I can do is blab about it and hope it helps the lingering visuals fade away.

Anyone following my ongoing liver-drama: I'm getting re-tested tomorrow and an ultrasound on Tuesday. I'm getting tired of all this medical shit.

*can't for the life of me find a pic of the poster online. back up.

.

hoi polloi

2005-11-14T21:26:00.000-05:00

I spent the day avoiding my civic duty as a juror. I'd been summonsed about 6 months ago, but it was really near my birthday so I'd called and gotten a postponement. I'd forgotten all about it until they reminded me a few weeks ago, and this morning had to get up extra early and immerse myself in the unwashed masses of rush hour subway to get downtown in time to stand in line for an hour to get through security, a line longer than this sentence. My boss told me that a good way to not-get-picked was to avoid eye contact with everyone. That was good advice as a foundation, but I had to bump it up a little with the not showering (or combing hair) or wearing clean anything. Once I got there, I added a little nose-picking and rocking back and forth in place, which I got a fucking awesome chance to perform, as you'll see.

When you finally get into the building, you half to sit in these really big room, called "Central Jury Pool Room" or something. There's a video playing on TVs throughout, telling you all about how great it is to be a juror, and how lucky you are to be an american. Then this young black dude in 70's-cazh, Love American Style designer jeans comes up and gives a speech he's given several thousand times, and knows just where to inflect to be "personable" and "funny" but this guy could really give a fuck. He told us a couple of things that made me nervous: a) that we'd be there a minimum of 2 days, maybe 3, and b) that most of us would get picked to sit on a jury. I knew I couldn't let b happen. We handed in our cards n' shit, and they told us to feel free to sit in the "juror's lounge" while we waited for our names to be called, and 70's black dude gestured to a room off to the right. I don't know what I expected of the "lounge", but it turned out to be just another big room, with chairs instead of benches, and a vending machine that sold fig newtons, vanilla fingers, stick pretzels, and several varieties of utz chips. There were a couple of TVs, too, but they were muted, and up way too high to comfortably watch. anyway they were muted. i found a seat and sat down to practice picking my nose. lots of names were called, but mine wasn't. i opened my final cut pro book and memorized things for a while. I sat from 9.30 to noon, interacting with noone, getting up only to pee - twice.

The case I got questioned for was a medical malpractice suit. An old woman had been suing her doctor for neglect, died in the process, and now her family is continuing her suit in her name or whatever. the 2 attorneys gave us a synopsis of the story, as i just did you, adding that the case would take at least 2 weeks. yikes. time to bump up the juices of undesire. They escorted my little group of about 12 (they only needed 4) up to a courtroom on the 7th floor for questioning. I'd just sat down when they called my name. "THOMAS TYLER please come sit in the juror's box." awesome. I got to be first. Not only that, but instead of questioning me right away, they let me sit up there for a good 5-7 minutes while they explained the process to everyone. This gave me ample stage time which I used to rock, pick and itch to my heart's desire, chewing what little scenery a civil courtroom in brooklyn has to offer. I didn't look at anyone, not at the other potential jurors not at the lawyers just around, at the floor, at my hands. Lawyer 1 asks me if I feel I can be impartial in a trial like this. Suddenly, out of god knows where, I was channeling Nick Zedd: "Yeah, well, considering what incredible mistrust I have for the medical profession - I think you'd be surprised at how impartial I can be." A stare from the whole room for an uncomfortable beat, until lawyer 2, sitting at the lawyer's table, starts cracking up. They must have known I was just shirking, they've probably seen this well before me, and often I'm guessing. "That was a mouthful" says lawyer 1, and the rephrases the question - seeing if I will answer the same way or play nice. "The law's the law" I said in answer to however it was phrased the second time, and repeated it for effect, wiping my snot on the barrier, "The law's the law."

lawyer 1 "okay. lawyer 2, he's all yours"
lawyer 2: "uhhh.... Dismissed!"

they sent me back downstairs, so i didn't get to see how the other kids in my class did in the box, and I still could get called for another case. Back to the "Lounge".

They give you an hour for lunch, of which you only get about 20 minutes when you factor in the wait time to get back through security afterwards. I walked around the block a couple times for exercise, and as I was headed back towards court square, i saw a middle aged lady lying face down on the sidewalk. Others were stepping over and around her - perhaps thinking she was a performance artist. I went and helped her up... she had fallen, "tripped over nothing" while walking. She told me she had high blodd pressure, and then refused my offer to help her up. "no, i just need to sit here a minute, but please stay near me" which of course I did. Soon others were gathered around, asking the lady if she needed anything, a hospital? a doctor?. No, she said, she didn't. Me and another dude finally helped her up and a heavy set black lady offered her cell phone which she did accept. Actually, she gave heavy set black lady a number to dial, a person to ask for, and then took the phone from there. From her conversation I learned that she, too, was serving jury duty and was calling work to keep them up to date as to when she'd be back. I looked around, wondering if I was the only one wondering what the fuck any of this had to do with her falling down and several people attending to her. Whyyyyy.... the fuck, couldn't this call have been made later, from your own fucking phone, on your own fucking time! I was starting to get steamed, and h.s.b.l. just rolled her eyes as she waited for her phone back. the red digital clock on the bank across the street said it was 1.54 and I had six minutes to get back from lunch. also that it was 68 degrees. This lady was fine, but had asked all of us to stay and help her and now she was yakkin on the mother fucking phone. "I think she's ok" I said, walked away, and immediately I felt like a horrible person. I almost went back, but i didn't. I had potentially several more performances today and had to be on time - which I wasn't.

Turned out I didn't get called again. They called my name once more that day, an hour-and-a-half later, as one of the lucky few that got to go home and... "you don't have to come back".

.

too much

2005-10-31T01:34:00.000-05:00

16 days smoke-free. All I can say is... "this is completely different". I realized today that, no matter how long my past attempts at quitting had lasted, I never actually gave up nicotene, and all those attempts were therefore false. I had kept the N monster alive with gum, patches - even chewing tobacco during an unfortunate couple of months back in '02. Now he, the monster, is dying. And nothing prepared me for this. My body kept me on my toes for the first week and a half or so what with the no-sleeping, indigestion, etc. Now I'm settling into the big, macro changes... I'm losing my mind a little bit.

Hey it's all gonna work out. Here's sports.

I went to the doctor last week, also for the first time in years, and got my first colonoscopy ever. I had no idea they just gave those things out of the blue like that - I thought there'd be some forewarning, or foreplay at the very least, but all I got was: "Now's the part where you drop your shorts, bend over and put your elbows on the table". I was just expecting the lubed finger, the same lubed finger I'd gotten on pretty much all my previous doctor's visits. So when I heard him opening a box behind me as I bent over the table, I turned around and sure enough he was preparing a... thing. It was long and white and tubular and looked like pretty much nothing I'd had up my ass so far. The doctor came up behind me and said (no kidding) "Welcome to being 40!" as he plunged the tube all the way up me with a force that was just this side of appropriate and just that of being a little bit hot. Kidding. Not hot. It fucking hurt like a mofo and I resisted as much as I could and retreated forward until i was on my tiptoes over the exam table. He started shouting: "just relax! lean back on it like you're having a bowel movement!" He was literally almost shouting at this point and I was writhing like a stuck pig. Ha. Well, I was just bein' a pussy.. I mean I mean... aaagggh. Afterwards, he told me "that was about the most difficult rectal exam I've ever had to do". Somehow, I felt honored.

I never got to become a drummer. I would like to learn how to play the drums before I die.

I'm not bein' nothin' for Halloween this year. It just didn't end up being a priority for me this time around. I think, though, that I shall wear my seersucker suit. That's it... I'll be a seersucker.

schwoop. I have no idea what I'm talking about. out.

shady's back

2005-10-24T22:37:00.000-05:00

hmm... ahem. check check. one two. this thing on? [loud microphone feedback]

ahh... hello.   so here i am once again. I haven't been here for quite a while. I've been doing things and thinking things elsewhere. I wrote some things in my real notebook, and had some conversations with real people.

I've been teaching myself Final Cut Pro, and I grew a beard.

I quit smoking. Today is day 9. I have felt, by turns, homicidal, suicidal, broken and strong, but mostly like I did the best and most important thing that I've ever done for myself. I am very grateful to myself.   I did slip up, though, and had one cigarette on Friday night, but I forgave myself and didn't beat myself up. I don't think I want to slip again, though.

They say that when you quit smoking, "you get your sense of smell back" and it's really true! I had been smoking so long (26 years) that I didn't even remember my sense of smell - but all last week, I started noticing a cornucopia of odor I never had before. Smell is a really handy sense to have when you're hungry and need to find a place to get a slice. I'm finding that i can sniff out a pizza joint from blocks away. However, it's not such a picnic when you're stuffed on the subway at the end of the day, or walking behind someone who smells like dog shit. I always picture the smells like those visible wafts of odor that are always coming off a pie or something in cartoons, and that would turn into a hand and tap you on the shoulder to try and tempt you. That happened to Fred Flintstone a lot. Anyway.

For the first few days of not smoking, I went a little crazy on the snacks and totally overdosed on wasabi peas and gummy clown fish at work because I couldn't go out for cigarette breaks. so then i had an upset stomach for almost a week. Oh, and I can't sleep for more than 2 or 3 hours at a time. Fucking annoying.   A friend gave me some Melatonin the other night and that helped a bit, but makes you groggy for the whole day afterwards. I have a doctor's appt. weds, maybe I can get him to prescribe me sometlhing good.   Thing is, I have like a shopping list of drugs that I want to request, so maybe I should prioritize my drug list. Or is ok to ask for lots of stuff? I haven't been to a doctor in almost 5 years. I don't know the rules.

hurricanes are all the rage this year.

Noel said this will be "the most productive month of my life". I hope he's right. Something good better come of not-smoking!

Margaret and I went to see Demetri Martin's one-man-show, These Are Jokes, in the village on Saturday night. As someone who's name I'd heard off-and-on through the years, and who seems to be starting to get a little famous now, I really wanted to see this show. Rev told me that the Trachtenberg's said he'd sold out every night of his shows in Edinburgh - and it looks as though he's continuing that streak stateside. The 300+ seat Village Theatre was sold to cap (despite a monsoon of biblical proportions) and I heard the show's been extended. I love it when artstars do well. And he deserves it - the show was beautfully written and performed.   Martin's a standup - and what he did was almost entirely stand-up material, which he made uniquely theatrical by simply superimposing these ... jokes.... over a guitar and harmonica, over the sound of a glockenspeil, over some silly drawings on a "very large pad". But at the end of the day.... these are jokes -as he warns us in his title- and they're really fucking funny.

And I don't know if Martin gets this comparison often, but he reminded me a lot of the late Mitch Hedberg. Same 'likeable hippy dork' type of persona, and one-liners that would be a good match for Mitch's in a comedy knife-fight. But Hedberg never would've done a one-man show... he was happy just doing comedy.

As a comedian, they always want to you do other things besides comedy. "Oh, you're a comedian, can you write? Write us a script. Act! Act in this sitcom." They want me to do shit that's related to comedy, but it's not comedy, man. It's not fair. It's as though I was a cook, and worked my ass off to be a really good cook and they said "Alright, you're a cook. Can you farm?" (MH on Strategic Grill Locations)

please go to bed

2005-09-09T01:52:00.000-05:00

It's one-fifty-two in the AM. I am having to stay up all night in order to get a line number at the boat dock at 5 AM, so that we can get off the island on Saturday. I've been trying to find a moment of solitude to sit and chill and write, but it's been impossible. I thought this was my chance. I thought everyone had gone to bed. They all said they were going to bed. Now Bruce has emerged from his room and has decided to sit 3 feet away from me and read a magazine. Go to bed, Bruce. Please please PLEASE go to bed. GO TO FUCKING BED BRUCE!!

Sara has come back downstairs. She's making tea. They are like zombies, I thought they were gone forever but they keep rising and sitting nearby and rustling paper and breathing and asking me for my last cigarette. WILL EVERYBODY PLEASE GO TO FUCKING BED????

An Island Never Cries

2005-09-05T10:02:00.000-05:00

There are some quiet moments here on the island, a lot of them actually, but few when I find myself alone. Figured this might be a good time to get a few words in. Alannah, Abba, and her French poodle puppy Anouk are in the yard out front (nope, here they come into the house) and Bruce, Jennifer and Sara are all still asleep. We started our drive up on Friday, and the first leg of the trip took us to Dedham, MA, in suburban Boston, where we stopped for the night at Amy Pacheco's parents place. We were giving Amy a lift to York Beach where her family is vacationing, and in exchange she allowed us a pit stop at her vacated home. The car I rented is a total piece of shit, an 87 Ford Taurus with a jumpy transmission and a big gaping hole of wires where an ashtray, lighter, and cd player once were. I was especially annoyed by the lack of a lighter, as it meant that I couldn't plug in my ipod, and we were at the mercy of the homogonous offerings of the airways all the way up. Bruce Ronn, Jennifer Blowdryer, and Sara delphine came in a different car, and didn't arrive in Dedham until 3 in the morning. We were back on the road by 8, at Rockland by 1, and on the island by 4. Of course, we did make the traditional pit stop at the New Hampshire State Liquor Store where we purchased copious amounts of wine, Tequila, Capt. Morgan's, Irish Whiskey, Vodka, and I continued the tradition of buying at least one bottle of the heinous pre-made cocktails that they sell. This year I opted for Chi-Chi's pre-mixed Long Island Iced Tea, and am waiting for the right moment to break the seal of the plastic bottle. No doubt, the "right moment" will be the moment all the other stuff runs out. So far, there's been a fair amount of drinking, laying in the sun, and going back and forth to town to replenish supplies. Jennifer is hilarious in her obsessive need to find out what's been going on in New Orleans. Yesterday afternoon we swam in the quarry, which I try to do every day each summer I'm here, if I can. It's the best feeling in the world, and lying out on the granite and eavesdropping on the inane conversations of late-staying summer peeps and islanders isn't too bad either. We got to hear all kinds of movie reviews and commentary from one group of ladies, and a gaggle of island youth talking about their boats the way other kids talk about their cars. "Susie, won't your dad let you take the lobstah boat tonight?", "Nah, he doesn't trust me". When we returned from the swim, our driveway was blocked by a military-looking jeep in front of the tiny house at the end of the driveway, which was being worked on by three military-looking dudes (I'm a judging by the haircuts, here). There was a second jeep in front of the house. This was doubly odd to me, as the little house had been abandoned -or at least only sporadically lived in- for years. I've heard rumors that there's a CIA Safe House somewhere on the island, and now I speculated that perhaps the tiny little house just down the dirt driveway WAS the CIA Safehouse and I'd just never realized that spies were being debriefed just a stone's throw away. The military dudes seemed kind of jumpy when I drove up... I don't think they thought our property was currently being occupied... and they started scrambling around when we appeared. They said the jeep "wouldn't start" and made me drive around them, causing me to bottom out the piece of shit car on a rock. I think today I will get in my camoflage gear and do some spying of my own! I'm determined to know what's going on in that little house.

Geeky as I wanna be...

2005-08-19T01:08:00.000-05:00

I'm back. Thanks to all those who wrote asking if I were dead, - I appreciate that you care, but here I am. It's been a weird month, Augusts often are for me since it's the month before I go to Maine and that's pretty much.. all... i think about. And it's hot. And mercury was in retrograde for 3 weeks. For me, astrology is strictly for entertainment purposes (like most things) but it was uncanny how pretty much everyTHING in my life stopped working for me at the end of last week, with the tech betrayal continuing on through this one. I mean.. everything. tv, computer, cable, dvr, vcr, camera... anything with moving parts. The other night as I was bitching about all on the phone, my power went out. 20 minutes later my flashlight died. Alannah goes, "oh yeah, that always happens to me when Mercury's coming out of retrograde." I shoulda known. Damn Mercury.

The other distraction has been my new toy, a digital bridge I snagged off ebay, which has me almost autistically engrossed in digitally archiving all my old media (vhs, Hi8 and audiocasettes mainly). My 1992 "Shop Til You Drop" appearance will now live forever. phew. I had this idea tonight that Danielle and I should get together and record a contestant's commentary as a special feature on the 25th anniversary DVD. Next will be all the awful audition videotapes I used to get when I booked the improv. I really want to screen some of them, but feel sort of weird about turning someone's sad misguided comedy ambitions into actual entertainment. Some are just so genius, though, it's almost not right to NOT share them. hmm..

Stayed home from work today... I'd been feeling "on the verge" of sickness, when you feel like you're just gonna cave to stress, all week. But was really feeling out of it this morning. I suppose being out at BPC til all hours didn't help.

Journaling feels weird after not doing it for a month. Guess I have to ease back.

I've been watching the "Kung Fu" series on DVD. I'm still in awe of just how incredible and ahead of its time that show was. And there's hardly any kung-fu in it, which I love. It's not really an action series at all, but that's how they had to sell it to get it on TV. Really - there's like one 15-second fight per hour episode, and the rest of the time it's eastern philosophy juxtaposed with the old west. Awesome. It was also the first show to use slow-motion action sequences AND the first series to use the convention of the flashback. Tonight I watched the "Alethea" episode with (12 yo) Jodie Foster. It's all about truth and lies and which is which...one of my favorite topics lately.

TV Head

2005-07-10T23:29:00.000-05:00

Either a tropical monsoon or hot-as-balls this entire weekend, which made it a good one for movies/netflix/tv obsessing. I had a couple of hours to kill before Shauna's birthday party on Friday night, so I used one of my movie passes to finally see Land of the Dead, which was not nearly as good as I'd been led to believe. A nothing plot and I-don't-care-about-you characters, turned it into 90-minutes of special-effects and zombie makeup watching, which still ain't bad way to kill some time. I did love, though, that Romero's way to immobilize the zombies in this one was to mesmerize them with fireworks. Nice subversive touch. Pretty crappy film, though. I much prefer Danny Boyle's 28 Days Later which I just rewatched on HBO-on-Demand, and could be one of the scariest zombie movies ever.

Saturday night I started my viewing festivities with Maria Full of Grace, which left me slightly disappointed, despite the awesome acting and sometimes-beautiful photography. There were scenes that were so perfectly acted and shot that I was literally squirming in my loveseat. But ultimately, I just never really cared about how things were going to turn out for the characters. There wasn't enough at stake for anyone, especially Maria, and I was left with a feeling of: "well, that was good. but so what?" I also felt like it was trying to be "gritty" like City of God, but could never quite overcome the fact that it was 'trying', and still not able to just give us a good story which is, at the end of the day, all we really want.

Right after MFOG, I tuned to IFC for the premiere of Don Lett's new punk documentary: Punk:Attitude, an even bigger disappointment. One redeeming aspect of this film, however, is that it focused on punk in the context of the EVOLUTION of Rock - instead of presenting punk as an anomalous movement that sprang up all on its own, as other filmmakers have done. I'm so sick of the boring "who started punk?" argument, which will never ever be resolved, because it CAN'T BE. In The Filth & The Fury (Julian Temple's Pistols doco), it's almost laughable how many people try to take credit for "starting" punk rock, all the way down to Vivienne Westwood (sic)! It was evolution, a spiral not a line, but no-one really seems to get that, or want to get it. The best line about all that was from Johnny Rotten in TFATF: "Punk was something that should have happened, and did". Thank you. So Punk:Attitude was unique in that it began its timeline with Chuck Berry and Elvis, and continued through post-punk genres like No-Wave (James White, Lydia Lunch, et. al.), throwing the spotlight on often-ignored bands like Sonic Youth and Agnostic Front, and ending with the rise and fall of Nirvana. In all other ways, the film was unremarkable - concert footage interspersed with talking-head interviews with former band-members, none of which gave the audience much insight into the meaning all this ultimately had for them. Henry Rollins was featured quite heavily in the movie, which terrified me at first. For the most part, I think Rollins is a meathead who wrote some good lyrics in his time, but I don't find him nearly as fascinating as the programming staff at IFC obviously does. He seems to rear his tattooed head on EVERY show on IFC, and has never struck me as an interesting TV personality. However, he did end up having the most interesting things to say about punk in this movie, in particular calling out a fact that most other books and movies have managed to ignore, ie that punk started out with experimentaiton and idealism, but very quickly became yet another bandwagon for assholes to jump on. And after the assholes, came stagnation and inevitible death.

I spent the day today with my other Netflix DVD: The O.C. Season One, Disc two. What can I say? Episode 7: The Escape (aka the "TJ" episode) is perhaps the finest hour of television ever aired. Marisa's OD sequence alone was gut-wrenching. After watching, I immediately found the script online and downloaded it, for a possible staged reading on some future rainy downtown day. I've also been keeping my eyes open for the evolution of the famed "bench-sitting" convention used so heavily in season 2, but in the first 8 episodes the closest you get is a little curb-sitting. Not the same thing at all.

What happens when you forget to bring your ipod

2005-07-05T22:42:00.000-05:00

I rewrote the perennial philosophy tonight on the way home from the F Train,
Takiing a few liberties along in my pocket for the ride.
In mine, experience is all we are. I have more=we are more.
Junkie, mayor, preacher, son.
Playing in their dreams, doing flying backflips and other acrobatics
in mid-aether, laughing to each other
About how strange this all is.
And you are there, too. Dancing.
Turn to Thoughts / awaken back in a heavy body,
stolen from somewhere, not yours.
But the experience of being inside this machine. This feeling.
That's all you.

Looking for a hex key

2005-07-03T14:46:00.000-05:00

I didn't "do" anything yesterday. Not really. I recently got a new phone after switching to cingular and spent most of my saturday figuring out how to use the bluetooth connection between the phone and the laptop, making little videos (I want to make a feature shot entirely on my cell phone) and creating ringtones. I'm determined to create the perfect assigned rings for all my friends after Magz reprimanded me the other night: "dude, you need a new ringtone". Ugh. Now I'm truly in the 9th ring of cell. Could I be more of a dork? I went out once to pick up my laundry, and watched "Cry Baby" on Oxygen. I'm determined to do something today!!

Oh, the other thing I did was fix the broken leg on my new loveseat. I busted out my drill from under the bed, but couldn't find the hex key to change the bit. I thought I had remembered seeing one somewhere around my desk within, oh, the last six months... so I went diving into the drawers to find it. Like most desks, mine is a black-hole of useless crap that, for whatever reason, I couldn't bear to part with (or thought I might need) at the time. Since a hex key is so small and hard to find amongst clutter, I emptied out my drawers item by item: several photo ids from old jobs, 2 clown noses from the circus, business cards collected from people i barely remember now. A broken watch - a christmas gift from a lover - relic of a broken relationship. Scraps of paper with numbers of girls I never called. I briefly considered calling one, any one, just to see what would happen. "Hey, Jessica, this is Tom... we met at Barramundi back in '97 and you gave me your number, so I just wanted to call and say hi and see if you maybe wanted to get a drink or somethlng". Nah. I was sure the numbers didn't work anymore anyway.

There was an impressive collection of my own business cards - some from actual jobs, some I'd had made - an interesting chronicle of my own personal ambitions over the past several years. One just said "Tom Tyler, Producer", another was from "The New York Comedy Network", the first project I'd undertaken after my return to New York 8 years ago, another: "Grindhouse-A-Go-Go! Hardcore Comedy". I saved one of each and tossed the others in the trash along with the other personal jetsam of my past. Way in the back of the drawer was a crumpled up piece of paper which I smoothed open to find a poem written by my niece Rachel back in 2000:

Friendship Is...
a smile
a garden made of love
the joy of being happy
and knowing there is hope
climbing trees together
sun and moon and stars
friendship is a secret home,
inside a heart forever.

-- Rachel Tenney Aptekar (age 9)

I read this and wondered if she was just a naive 9-year-old, or if I had grown too cyncial for my own good. Probably the latter, I concluded. It's sad when friendships are outgrown, when the garden is razed or turned slowly into compost to feed future flora. But it's sadder, I suppose, when stale friendships remain. I finallly found the hex key and fixed the damn couch.

Later, Rev called to ask me if Michelle Shocked had been in the Go-Go's. No, I told her, she hadn't.

Meanwhile, back in Brooklyn

2005-06-25T14:49:00.000-05:00

mermaid parade day. i'm not going. it's too hot and i haven't been properly motivated.

i am at tom's. gus the owner just came over to say hello. my absolute fave place to be on a 90-degree saturday. it's always 1936 in this place from the dark floral (brown and forest green) booth cushions covered in vinyl to the man-size faux flora in dusty wicker baskets: faded generic fern tower , plastic apples hanging on the branches like christmas tree ornaments. depression era cookie jars pretending to be fat yellow chefs or baskekts of peaches perch on shelves, watch me eat. stained glass transom allowing only the best light in, jadite coffee cup no saucer, fruit flies hovering over my toast.

every time i come in here alone, gus always swings by my booth, gives me a fatherly slap on the shoulder and says "plenty more fish in the sea" without stopping to chat.

My Trip to the Dentist, by Tom T

2005-06-24T18:50:00.000-05:00

Fridays are half-days at O2 during the summer, everyone gets to split at 1 PM. The rest of the week, I roll in at noon - 2 hours after everyone else - and roll on out at six. Giving me a six-hour day was my boss's way of compensating me for the fact that I make less money than I should - and WAY less than I used to earn at the same company. Summer Fridays are different though. I can't really come in for an hour and expect people not to get more steamed than they already are at me for having abbreviated week. So I come in at ten. Not like there's anything really earth-shaking that happens at O2 on a Friday during the summer that I need to be there for: everyone's kinda just hanging out drinking coffee and talking, tying up loose ends, etc. It's a little like the last day of school, except it happens once a week. Today, I used my afternoon off productively and went to the dentist - for the first time in over four years.

I really should have gone long ago, even though I've had no job, insurance, or money since 2001. My whole mouth is a dental emergency. Over a year ago, my crown came out with a Jujubee on the #2 train at one in the AM and I had to carry the golden molar back home in the palm of my hand, a crater gaping in my jaw. I performed oral surgery on myself in the middle of that night, sterilizing everything with hydorgen peroxide which I fortunately had in stock on the bathroom shelf. The metal post that sticks down into the jawbone had come out with the crown, and although I squirm whenever I retell this tale, I calmly did what needed to be done at the time: found the hole in my bone with the end of the post, and repostioned everything back down into my head. I'm just glad I was fairly sober at the time, because what I saw in that crater under the crown was truly horrifying. It looked like a range of black mountains, or one of those scare-pictures of tooth decay they show you in grade school to get you to brush your teeth. So the first thing I did upon re-entering the world of medical & dental was make an appointment to get that fucker looked at. I was SURE that by now it would just be a sloppy soft decayed mess under there, and figured I probably would need a bridge or an implant.

My appointment was for 2 PM with (we'll call him) Dr. Smile. Dr. Smile came highly recommended by a couple of the tech guys at O2, his office is in the Clocktower Building by the Atlantic Avenue station in Downtown Brooklyn. I learned today that that entire building is filled with dentists. 30 floors of dentists, and Dr. Smile was on the 29th. Practically the penthouse. I got there at about 1:50, and found the office locked which was particularly annoying, as the door to the office is the door to the elevator. So I rode up to 29, the door opened, and I was confronted with a locked door upon which hung one of those blue and white "Be back at" signs with a 'clock' set to indicate 2 PM. I knocked on the door but noone answered, so I went back to the lobby and read my book for ten minutes.

I finally got in and met the doc, who seemed very nice. Mid 30's I'd guess, and mild-mannered in a way that I'd hate if i knew him socially, but I really like in a dentist. I like dentists. I've always thought of them as sort of the firemen of the medical profession - it's easy to hate cops and doctors but more difficult to hate firemen and dentists. As I sat and filled out my forms, I thought about a friend who recently told me that she doesn't go to doctors because of her mistrust of the medical profession, and I wondered if she went to the dentist. Dr. Smile ushered me into the exam room shortly after my paperwork was complete and made mild-mannered small-talk about my job as i situated myself in the leather dentists chair. It had a video screen attached to the arm of the interrogation-light so that nervous patients could watch DVDs while having their mouths excavated. He slipped on his rubber gloves, pryed the crown out of my mouth, and immediately started poking around the crater with that sharp pointy thing. "It doesn't look too bad" he said. "uunnnhhh" I said. "Oh I know it looks bad, but that's just discoloration. There's not much decay here at all. Let's take an x-ray". He called in a hygenist and instructed her to set up the xray machine for "1st molar, lower left". The young lady got everything set up nicely with the film in my mouth attached to some other arm which was attached with a cable to the doctor's laptop on the countertop behind me. Next came the lead apron to protect all the little future Tom Tenneys swimming happily in my nutsack. The hygenist circled back around me to snap the picture and just as she disappeared from my peripheral vision, I heard a loud crash, a scream, and the cable attached to the arm attached to the film inside my mouth snapped my head back against the headrest and stretched my mouth back and to the left - but didn't come out. I was snagged like a fish on a hook... and had no idea what had happened. The second of mayhem was followed by a dead silence which told me that Dr. Smile was still in the room and the hygenist was in big trouble. I craned my ridiculously fishhooked head back to see what happened. She'd tripped on the cable running between my mouth and the computer, causing the laptop to go crashing to the floor. Dr. Smile was just standing there, and he wasn't smiling. "This is bad" he said, impassively. I knew he wanted to rip the girl a new asshole, but couldn't in front of a patient. Suddenly, I felt horrible for the poor girl and wanted to get up and defend her, but figured I should probably sit tight. "I tripped", she said, looking at her shoes. The doc began trying to put his computer back together again, but it wouldn't reboot. The girl left the room and was immediately replaced by another hygenist (I guess they have closets full of them), a male this time. He told the new hygenist to prepare a certain kind of cement, and told me he was just going to recement the old crown back on.

"umm.. what about that x-ray?" I asked. I was already worried about being in his care while he was furious at his hygenist, and wanted to make sure he was still following the game plan.

"Oh, we'll take that next time", he said. "I really just wanted to do that to dispel my own paranoia that there might be some infection lurking under there."

Great. Now I have paranoia. I, too, want to know if there is infection lurking, I thought to myself. But you always have those other voices... the ones that say "he's a trained dentist. he knows all about this shit. It'll be fine."

The recementing went off without a hitch. He told me he was using an extra-strong cement so I shouldn't have too much trouble with the tooth going forward. Smile left the office while the cement was drying, and when he came back in about ten minutes later he looked at the tooth and a troubled look crossed his face. "hmm.." he said and started his poking-poking-with-the-sharp-thing back up again. "looks like some cement dripped down between your tooth and gum. I'll have to get that out" The poking immediately resumed full steam ahead and this time it hurt like a mofo. He was jabbing, scraping and stabbing with reckless abandon and panicked about my poor gums were getting the brunt of Smiley's anger towards his clumsy assistant. "uuunnnnhhhh!" I shouted as he stabbed me in a particularly sensitive spot. My hands were white-knuckle clenched on the arms of the chair, my toes curling inside my sneakers. "Sorry" he kept saying, "we have to get this out". The procedure seemed to last for hours. After my second "unhh hunnhh aahh unh" he asked if I wanted an anesthetic - just another excuse to stab me some more, but of course I nodded my assent. Three shots to the gums, you know the ones he'd just been torturing, the needle jabbing right into my open wounds. Smiley continued his stabbing and scraping right after the shots, not even giving the novacaine time to do its thing. I wasn't numb until I was back out on Flatbush.

But the cement came off. My mouth is sore, but my tooth is fixed and I can once again eat Jujubees on the subway at 1 AM.

i stole an umbrella

2005-06-18T12:23:00.000-05:00

i drunkenly shoplifted an umbrella from a deli last night. i have no idea why i did that. it wasn't even raining.

A Day at the Races

2005-06-12T23:59:00.000-05:00

it's been one of those days where i just can't get comfortable. The heat and humidity outside is sticky and gross, and the AC pumping in my apt. just feels fake and annoying. Plus, it reminds me how much money I'm spending trying to make myself comfortable, and it makes me more annoyed to know that it's not working. An evil, vicious spiral of annoyance... sweet jesus, when will it end?

On top of that, I got cable last week and so I have the TV on a lot more than I usually do... frequently just CNN playing in the background. I think I'm doing this to make myself feel justified in my cable expenditure. Like it's not a waste of money because I'm "using it" a lot. Stupid. I do much better with music. k, TV's going off now.

I spent the day at Belmont yesterday, for the 137th running of the Belmont Stakes. Even though there was no triple-crown at stake this year (Giacomo won the Kentucky Derby, and Afleet Alex won Preakness), it was still a huge event, as Belmont Park was celebrating it's 100th Anniversary. After reading the preceding sentence, it might appear that I know a little something about horse racing. I don't. I just learned that crap yesterday at the track, and it pretty well encompasses what I know about the sport. I used to go to the track every now-and-again when I lived in Boston, and I'd buy the racing forms and look at them, but only so I'd know the names of the horses. I'd look at their names, get "good feelings" and just bet on a horse to win. I'd say I won about 1/3 of the time using that method and usually ended up just below even: maybe 20 or 30 bucks spent throughout the day.

The night before (Friday), my friend and downstairs-neighbor Chris reminded me that he'd be going to the race (he'd sent a mass email early in the week) and asked again if I wanted to come. I told him I didn't think so. I was under the impression that a lot of his friends were going and, as I'm more omega male than alpha, I tend to get lost and bewildered in crowds of stangers. So I politely declined, and told him why. Chris explained that it'd just be him, his girlfriend Jenny and me.. everyone else had bailed. AND, as luck would have it, someone at his restaurant (he's a waiter at Lever House) had given him three tickets which entitled us to the clubhouse and reserved seats on the 2nd tier. "That's where the Governor sits!" he said, handing me the laminated tix for approval. The face value on the tickets was $65 which was impressive. I told him to call and wake me up at 9 AM. "Oh, and look at the dress code on the ticket", he shouted after me as I was leaving, "you have to dress up". I came back into his apartment to re-examine the ticket. Apparently, I had missed some small print. The dress code was confusing... it said stuff like "elegant attire is a tradition at Belmont Park. Ladies and Gentlemen who honor this tradition are always appreciated". What? I read further, and found that "abbreviated attire", whatever that is, is never acceptable. At first I thought maybe that meant shorts, but then discovered that shorts had their own rules, distinct from "abbreviated attire". I gave up. "Well, what are you wearing?" I asked him. I wanted the folks at Belmont to appreciate us...I was feeling needy. He told me he'd be wearing a recently acquired seersucker suit. "Dude, I have a seersucker suit, too!" I told him. I'd been waiting for a chance to wear that effin' suit since I adopted it from my dear old deceased dad three years ago, and this was my big chance. My ex-girlfriend Holly tried to convince me to throw it out a couple of years ago, but I was sure that I'd wear it someday. I went back upstairs and took the suit out of the closet. Upon close examination, I found that the suit was covered by mysterious and subtle yellow stains, including one right on the crease of the butt. I put it on and when I checked it out in the full-length mirror, found that the jacket covered the ass quite nicely, and the other stains were so subtle that you'd really have to be looking for them to notice. I took it off and hung it on the 'to-wear-tomorrow' rack above my door.

We left at 10 am on Saturday, and took the subway to Atlantic Ave to meet Jenny. I had chosen a white shirt and red plaid tie to go with my blue and white striped seersucker and felt like Joe the pimp from the Nick Cave song, in his "ridiculous seersucker suit". Chris was impressed when he saw me, "Dude, you even got the pants!" he marveled. He only had the jacket, but complemented it nicely with a pair of white chinos. Everyone on the 2 train stared at us, 2 ridiculous pimps from a Nick Cave song. I would've too. We looked great. We met Jenny outside the Atlantic Ave LIRR station. She was all dolled up in a custom-made funky-fashionable sun hat - de rigeur for the ladies at a stakes race, I would later find out. Hers was straw with a big pink flower thingy on it, and could be worn either cowboy-hat style (folded up on the sides) or as a sunhat (sides down). Neither Chris nor I had thought to wear hats, but it was too late to do anything about it.

The train ride was painless, and we arrived in time for the 3rd race of the day. We bought programs and entered the clubhouse on the 2nd tier, our big shiny tickets around our necks. We located our seats, which WERE very good - one pole past the finish line - and I looked around for the governor but didn't see him. Nobody, NO-BO-DY, was dressed up like we were. Most of the men were hanging out in shorts and t-shirts. The women did a little bit better, what with their dresses and fancy hats and all. I opened my program and tried to make sense of it. I looked at the names of the horses: I liked "Anew" and "Duango". Chris explained exactas and trifectas to me, and how to "box them" which was pretty simple to grasp, but I still didn't know who to bet on. I decided to go with my gut and threw a horse named "Ice Wynnd Fire" in with the other 2 for a trifecta. When I got to the betting window, the lady yelled at me for not placing my bet right (there's an order in which you have to give the info) and I retreated from the window, embarassed. I went and got my program, found the "how to place a bet" page and studied it, trying to memorize the order: "Race, amount, type, horse number". I practiced a couple of times and then headed back - to a different window this time. I didn't want to make that lady's day any more stressful than I already had. This time I got the order right, but found out that the 6 horse, Anew, had been "scratched" from the race. I retreated again and went back to studying my program. I chose "Biloxi Palace" to replace Anew and finally made my $2 trifecta wager. On the way back to my seat, I grabbed a $7 MGD from the "bar" (a table in the lobby) and the "bartender", a young latina, told me I looked great in my suit, making my previous embarassment melt away...at least I looked alright. The third race (the first for us) was about to begin, and we passed around my little mini-binoculors, although I wasn't sure what I was supposed to be looking at. I tried to see if the governor was in one of the other sections far-away from us, but still couldn't spot him. The race was surprisingly short - less than a minute - and only 2 of my horses came in, and those not in the right order. All three of Chris's came in, all in the right order. He won the trifecta on his first bet of the day, an $85 profit on a $2 bet, and ran to the window to collect. The rest of my day didn't get any better as I threw away bet after bet, wondering why my gut wasn't working as well as it used to. Must be getting old. Chris didn't win any more either, but he had already won 85 dollars and got no sympathy from either Jenny or me.

Both Chris and Jen kept on running into people they knew from work, from high school, etc.. and after that first race we went upstairs to the 3rd tier (ie GHETTO) to check out one of Chris' s friends' cheat-sheet that he'd obtained from a handicapper in Lexington. The friend had already won 50 bucks by using these tips, so I wrote down all the horses' numbers and their corresponding races. I tried betting a straight trifecta on those horses in the next race and lost again. I went downstairs to smoke in the yard out back where they parade the horses around before the races. I sat down on a bench and a middle-aged hispanic man came and sat next to me. "I like your suit" he said, but the suit compliments weren't cutting it any more. I wanted to win. The man told me that he'd had a vision (or maybe it was a dream) that "a very old friend - a friend I haven't seen in many years - came to me and said only '11 in the 10th'. I haven't seen this friend in a very long time, but he is never wrong".

"Wow", I said, "that sounds like a good tip". I wrote it down - 11 in the 10th - thanked him, finished my cig and headed back upstairs. Certainly this man's 'system' of getting his betting advice from visions of old friends couldn't be any worse than my system of pulling names and numbers out of my ass.

His friend was wrong. The 11 horse, Meteor Storm, came in 7th in the 10th race and I lost once again. The only other "tip" I took for the rest of the day was just before the 11th race - the big Belmont Stakes that everyone had come to see. Giacomo and Afleet Alex were the obvious favorites as they had won the Kentucky Derby and Preakness respectfully but many at the track were hoping for an upset. Before the big race, I went back down to the yard to smoke another cigarette. I'd already placed my bets and tried to "box" lots of different combos which allowed for both favorites AND longshots. I sat down to smoke in a different spot, this time next to a trio of Puerto Rican teens, a guy and his girlfriend, and the guy's friend. I began reading the letter from the Governor in the program. The girl kept nagging her boyfriend by repeating over and over: "You taking me to Puerto Rico in February? You taking me to Puerto Rico in February? You taking me to..." The boyfriend ignored her and chatted with his buddy about the upcoming race. "It's gonna be Pinpoint, yo." the friend assured the boyfriend. "It's gonna be Pinpoint all the way and the three of us is gonna have a little party tonight", at which point the two boys bumped their closed fists together. I finished the letter from the Governor (in which he lauded the racing industry for its "immense" contribution to New York's economy, and inexplicably thanked the troops overseas), snubbed out my cigarette and headed back up. On the escalator, I looked up Pinpoint in my program. It was the #2 horse, with 20-1 odds. I stepped up to an open window and delivered: "11th race, $2 to win on number 2" quite smoothly. I'd had a lot of practice.

I've already told you that this story doesn't have a happy ending, so I suppose there's no need to tell you that none of my combinations came in, and as far as I know the Puerto Ricans' little party was cancelled. The park emptied out after the stakes, but Chris, Jenny and I were all drunk on MGD and not quite ready to battle crowds for the trains. We hung out for 2 of the "nightcap" races, but I didn't bet. The sun was going down, and as the horses came out for the after-race, I felt sad for both the animals and jockeys... the stands were almost empty. No one cared enough about them to stick around and watch them do what they came here to do. I suppose they didn't care much, but it was still upsetting to me in my drunken and destitute state. I hoped that the horses were treated well, at least, and that the jockeys had some equivalent of a seersucker suit to put on and make them feel good about themselves after the sun was down and their race was over.

Weekend #2090

2005-06-05T23:00:00.000-05:00

So yes, I went to the big Annie Sprinkle book release party at the Museum of Sex last night. I was worried about being late to meet blowdryer, but she got the address wrong and I ended up waiting outside for her for ten minutes. There was lots of to-do at the door, getting wristbanded and name-tagged and such. Irving and Gecko from Collective were working the door, and I think Irving thought I was trying to crash as he immediately started trying to sneak me in once he saw that my name wasn't on the list. I pointed out that I was blowdryer's 'date' and I was ushered on to the stickering table. Once inside, I noticed that there were a bunch of other artstars there "working" the event, including Carmen Mofongo serving drinks and V. Sprout running around being hot in her totally sheer orange body-stocking. Sprinkle spent the entire evening at a table autographing copies of her book, copies of which were available but, disappointingly, not free. I think if you're having a book release party, the least one should do is give copies of your book to your guests. At his recent party, Jonathan Ames gave out not just copies of his new book, but copies of his older books as well. Very smart. Anyway. Rev and Nick showed up not long after, and the four of us wandered through the exhibits before it got too packed, and watched the several artists stationed throughout the museum creating erotic art. Downstairs there was a sketch artist drawing nude models, and a photographer taking poloroids of guest coming out of a giant vagina (painted on muslin, with a hole where the... hole should be). Upstairs, some girls were doing 'tit prints' and a slight, blond, sharply dressed young man was sitting in a dark corner inexplicably painting watercolors of cats. All of the art was free for the taking, and I ended up with one of the sketches which I liked because of the Hirschfeld-like detail in the hair.

Later in the night, Camen Mofongo told me that she'd been making a killing on the side by offering guests spankings with her leather crop for a mere $5. I found this to be quite enterprising of her, and wondered if any of the other "working" people had set up similar arrangements. Certainly Gecko could have made some money with her biting skills, and I bet most people there would've paid Simone a hefty sum to do.. just about anything to them. Talk to them. Look at them.

Because the door folks asked me for my "affiliation" for my name-tag, I had lots of peeps coming up to me and asking me about Toxic Pop. It was of those times when I really wished I had business or postcards for the newsletter. One of those who asked was a short, middle-aged business-suited man with an Aussie accent named Hamish. He was the agent representing Sprinkle's book in Japan, and asked me what "cool underground events" he could attend before he went back to Tokyo on Monday. I told him to check out anything at Bowery Poetry Club, and mentioned that we were all heading down there after the party to see Moonshine's HETERO-HELL show. He asked if he could tag along, and of course we were all happy to have him come with. "Before I go", he said, "I've got to get one more" and headed for the bar. I assumed it was a drink he was after, so was somewhat nonplussed when I saw him hand a $5 bill to Carmen and bend over, offering his bottom to her crop.

As Hamish was being beaten, I started to notice that there were a fair number of peeps walking around with stunning glitter designs painted on their faces and bodies. I soon found the source of this art: a quiet man named Rainbow who was wearing a silk tailcoat and a big gay hat with a big gay feather. I got in line to be his canvas and didn't have long to wait. He started by gluing a plastic ruby on my forehead, and then proceeded to give me glitter "flames" above my eyes. I looked like a hot rod. Here's a pic of the results (taken much later, when I got home):

It looked so beautiful (and perfectly matched my shirt) that Rev Jen had him do a design between her tits, beautifully framed by the low-cut neck of her dress. As we all waited for Rev to get painted, I watched another man get spanked. A middle aged woman with short spikey gray hair whispered something to him as he was bent over, and then she came over and said to me "I asked him if he wanted me to hold his dick while he got spanked". She had her back to me, and was leaning into my body in a slightly inappropriate way.

"And he said NO?" I marvelled.

"Yeah, can you believe it? Do you want me to hold your dick while he gets spanked?" Apparently this woman was really hot to get someone's - anyone's - dick in her hand, stat.

She turned to face me and I read her name-tag: Betty Dodson

"Oh my. You're Betty Dodson"

"I know"

By this time, Rev's chest-painting was done, and she saw me standing there chatting with one of her literary heroes, so quickly came over and allowed me to introduce them. As Rev was telling Ms. Dodson how she was one of her fave writers of all time, I slipped away and chatted with Nick for a bit, while Blowdryer continued to try to hunt down a particular publishing exec she wanted to meet. Finally, the five of us (Rev, Nick, Blowdryer, Hamish and I) got it together enough to walk to Nick's car and head down to Bowery. Nick was sober enough to drive, I guess - but Rev, Hamish and I were already pretty done in. I remember that when we got there, Soce the Elemental Wizard was onstage rapping about blowjobs while his parents - his whole family, I think - were sitting in the audience. Rev and I are usually on the perennial guest list at BPC, but this time George-at-the-door was being super strict, for some reason. He whispered to me that if I said I was gay, I'd get in for half price. "Are you kidding?" I asked, "look at my face!" So I forked over a fin and we allowed Hamish to pay for the rest of the krew. The remainder of the night is a blur of O'Debra Twins and Moonshine and talking to a girl named Jane from Maine and more beer and drunken phone calls with Alannah whom I miss and want to see again as soon as humanly possible.

I woke up with a hangover for the books, and spent the day trying not to puke, getting cable installed, and buying my beloved pink loveseat. I was going to make a film of me getting my ass waxed for tomorrow's O'Debbie Awards, but Bruce never called me back. :( :( :(

Love Seat Po-tah-to

2005-06-04T18:26:00.000-05:00

I promised myself I'd cut down on the weed smokin', and I have - somewhat. The main problem with it isn't that it impairs my ability to think correctly, or get things done - in fact, it enhances those things. But when I smoke pot, it irritates the pinched nerve in my spine/hip and makes it hurt a lot more. Then I drink to make that pain go away, and all hell breaks loose. Maybe now that I'm gainfully employed, I can get some kind of prescription that will make it all work out.

I just did about 3 hits which is just right for now.

The ipod oracle and I spent the afternoon trudging up and down Flatbush in the heat (it's 80-sumpin' here today), checking out the "discount" furniture places for an inexpensive Loveseat/futon/couch for Vaclav Hovel. Nothin' doin, everything was way out of my price range so I ended up getting socks and underwear at Triangle Sports and taking the subway home.

I did a reading of David Jenness' screenplay, USSA, in midtown with a bunch of other artstars on Thursday night. Luckily, I wasn't cast as one of the characters who has to speak in a Russian or southern accent. Apparently, I lack the chromosome necessary to do accents well (it must be the same one needed for impressions, too). Anyway, it was fun to do something laid back and mellow like a reading with such awesome people. Feedback was that the audience really seemed to like the script, which is great for David. He's got some fantastic irons, hard earned and well deserved, in the fire right now.

Ok, Blowdryer just called me and invited me to go on her plus-one with her to some event at the Sex Museum tonight. That girl is the hardest person to understand on the phone - maybe she has a crappy phone. I still don't know what exactly it is I'm going to, but I was able to glean that Rev is also going, it starts at 830, and it's at the Museum of Sex.

Update: Rev just called and told me it's Annie Sprinkle's book launch party, which should be fun. She also told me the following hilarious anecdote about JB:

Apparently, Rev was talking to someone and mentioned the name Jennifer Blowdryer. The woman said:

"Oh my God. She was my kid's first babysitter."

"Oh yeah? How was she? Is she a good nanny?"

"I came home, and my daughter was licking jam out of a bowl"

ok, need to metro-cize myself and try to get out w/in the hour.

Here's a pic of me Bruce Ronn took at the anti slam a couple of weeks ago:

Happy June

2005-06-01T01:49:00.000-05:00

I've gotten out of the habit of journaling lately, mainly due to the fact that my time has been monopolized by other things. I just had to do a quick and dirty website for Jennifer Blowdryer... it looks like poo, but she needed something up by this thursday so I whipped up something fast. I'll spend some time over the coming weeks making it look better. Yesterday, my Memorial Day to-do list took me well into the AM hours to complete, and I still didn't finish it all. Things are changing, and I just need to settle into the new groove. I started "officially" at O2 today - I'm so happy to be back. Every morning I get to take an elevator with a picture of Fabio and Jennifer Love Hewitt on the door. A company that makes you chuckle on the way in the office is a good place to work. When I last worked for them back at the turn of the millenium, the idea of the company was not just TV, but a 'converged network' in which the online component was just as important to the "whole" as on-air. It was also about 3 times as large, staff-wise, and everyone was frantic and running around being all "converged" and "new paradigm" and making a lot of money and not really doing much at all. It took a few years and many layoffs (mine included) for them to chill out and figure out: it's TV, and TV should be so simple. Now it seems like it's going to be a reallly great place to work, and small enough that I can actually get to know some peeps this time. Oh, and I have the same boss as before, Betsy, who's just an amazing, smart, funny person. These days she has a beautiful little 4-year-old daughter who she brings in from time-to-time and sets loose on the office.

I'm trying not to carry any resentment towards SuperNova for the debacle back in February... that's a hard one to let go of, though. But maybe Roy, the guy who fired me, was actually right when he said "this is your chance to go out and get something better". I'm sure he didn't intend to be my savior, and I certainly don't think he's a "nice person"... maybe he was my Darth Vader. An inner obstacle manifesting as super-villian, one I had to/have to defeat in order to move forward. Rilke said (something like) "maybe all our dragons are princesses waiting to see us act with beauty and courage".

This has been one of the most beautful New York springs ever.

I've been thinking a lot about "truth" and "lies" lately. I'm doing the "Talking Stick" show this month, and their directive to performers is only: "tell the truth". A month or so ago, a friend of mine declared definitively: "lying is the only thing I don't tolerate in my friends". So I've been thinking about truth and lies and what constitues each. There are such degrees of both. Is a lie that doesn't obscure a great truth, in fact makes things turn out better for everybody - is that still a lie? Is the decision to tell a small lie in order to spare another person unnecessary hurt a bad decision? Doesn't the greater truth of compassion and/or peace trump the smaller truth of 'fact'? And what about art? If I embellish a story in order to more tightly draw the lines around a greater truth - the truth of the story - is that "not telling the truth"? What if, by reporting events factually, I didn't manage to tell the greater truth? Would that be lying?

i have more to say about this, but it's bedtime. finish later.

From the Archives

2005-05-23T02:01:00.000-05:00

I was looking through all my old notebooks tonight... I was writing a lot more back in my early to mid 20's. Most of it crap, but there are a few things that were alright. This is one of my faves. Jen X used it in her "Open Me" anthology back in the day (when's that second one coming out, jen x?). I wrote it when I was 26 and battling some little baby demons-in-training. cute demons. Also, you should know that I was obsessed with the myth of Tantalus at the time, but always insisted on the "Greek spelling" - Tantalos. Oh, to be 26 again and arrogantly insisting on Greek spellings. sigh.

Tantalos' Dream (1991)

Weep me a nation
Lower East Side Sunday morning
Silt whirling through the multitudes of loss
Caught in his slumber of youth, the flying boy
Will cry like a hungry babe when he awakens
Will the dawn ever come?
Weep no more for me
Jailed beneath the darkest dungeon of myself
Shitting scared on the granite floor
My house, my body, arena of destruction
These eleven years or more.

Weep no more for me
Homeboy shiny boots of black
Pancake thin at heel from eleven years or more
Of angry stomping on the golden dance floor...
DANCE, MOTHERFUCKER, DANCE!
Lose yourself among the pretty willows
Of your own weeping riverbed
Do you believe I have never trod
A broken mile or two with my own three feet
Stuffed in those boots of black engineer leather
Six sizes too small for me today, Daddy-O
Yet on and on I trudge, a flaccid mule
Tho the mud has long since crystalized
Hard up to my waist and six sizes too small
Blister pus on my aching heels to match
The scabs on my cock-scarlet mosaic
Product of ten thousand lonely nights

Weep no more for me
Acid tears wept dry reveal the youth:
Thin as a hungry dog, ponytail hair,
T-shirt billboard exclaims: "NEVER GIVE IN!"
Never give in! my comrades in arms,
Do you know what your words will wear
When you too, yes, you, are older than me
And the prison guard has gone home with the key
Give in and weep no more
Give in to give out
And give out to get the fuck out

I see you still every night
Tears looming in your bleary eyes
WE, who wouldn't give up the poetry,
Weep no more! Dry the tears of gin
Look and listen
Poetry waits silent still
The world is sad still
And sleeps inside you.

Cheesy Birthday Poims

2005-05-22T22:52:00.000-05:00

So, three of my friends actually sat down to write me "cheesy birthday poems" as requested in the invite. I wanna post them, but won't say who they're from, just in case any of them have a problem with me posting the poems on my blog. I didn't ask them, b/c they might've said no. It's always easier to get forgiveness than permission.

They're so great. Here they are:

1.

You're a pretty tough nut to crack
Not really, I've got you pretty well figured out.
But that doesn't mean you're not complicated.

Wow, I meant for this poem to be way crappier
And I fucked up already.
There's still time to recover.

You're old, man.
Not really, you're timeless, or whatever, and it's all relative.
Shit, I totally meant for this poem to be more about the poem
And less about you
Not that it shouldn't be about you, Tom T-----
Because it's your birthday and a milestone or whatever one at that,
But posing like this poem is more about itself than you
Is a poetic tactic of subtlety, not hitting you over the head with what a poem
is about
Which would be appropriate for a crappy poem to do, thinking it is what a
regular poem would do.

Back to you.

You're from New England and like to have makeup put on you. You can be
flamboyant for a mostly straight guy.

A crappy poem, apparently, makes flat quasi-factual statements about the
person it is about, in a random order as they present themselves.

You were in the circus.

I could tell you a lot more about yourself, to remind you who you are on this
birthday, and as a crappy poem I probably should, but you don't really need
to hear it anyway because you know it.

So remember who you are, Tom T-----. I am going to end this poim before
I give in to the urge to go way profound.

2.

Over the hill
With looks that kill
Approaching that age
When you turn a new page.
But who's counting the years passed
When you've got experience vast
And a lust for life
Creating union, not strife
They say it isn't in how it all ends
But how loved you are by your friends
And in the case this is true,
There's no one luckier than you

3.

Tom, Tom, oh Birthday Tom
Would you like some cardemom?
If you do, I can get you some
If you tell me where to get it,
Cuz I don't live around here.

Happy day for snappy Tom
I hope you didn't have a crappy Mom
One that made you wear socks with pom-POMs
Because that would suck, cuz kids would
Make fun of you, not only at lunch.
Not like that would be any different from now.
People make fun of you, I mean.

No! I'm kidding! don't cry, Tom
You're neater than I can say on a CD-ROM
Please don't be mad, I think you're the bomb.
No, really, Tom, no one makes fun of you.
Don't be dohm.

Happy Birthday!

post-apocolypse

2005-05-20T02:00:00.000-05:00

body and brain still crawling back up the side of the well...

i'm forty.

and i have the greatest friends in the world.

friday o2 offered to take me back full time, and my sister offered me the powerbook of my choice for my birthday.

apocalypse on saturday was as off-the-hook as i'd intended. Old artstars meeting new artstars, old friends making new ones. i got cards and cookies and kisses. beautiful women wrote me poems. tom nevin bought me a cigar. Alannah came up from arkansas just for the occasion. it was nice to see and hang out with Bex again, who kept freaking me out by looking like an ex-girlfriend out of the corner of my eye.

here are the few pics i managed to take. some were taken by jim melleon, too. i only posted a few since most of the pics from the party were taken in such an inebriated state, that the sober mind probably wouldn't make much of them. Rev Jen showed me some she took and they, too, are incomprehensible.

sunday was triple-date day: dodge, shapiro, tanya, noel, alannah and i went to the Basquiat show after hanging at Vaclav Hovel (my apartment) and "preparing" ourselves. later we ate mexican food in the slope while having fun with a young child who obviously preferred us to his boring parents who were paying no attention to him.

some great sets at the antislam weds: lopi, Valmonte Sprout, Vinny Fallon, and Jen X spring to mind, but everyone was really great. the theme seemed to be substance abuse, specifically alcoholism. i drank little bottles of sutter home cabernet instead of budweiser and had a good set - half reading, half remembering. didn't go to bowery afterwards - way too beat.

tonight Rev gave me a spongebob plush doorbell. i wonder where i should put it.