Ever get annoyed? Ever feel like someone needs to be told where the dog died? Or handed a crowbar and a tub of Elbow Grease to help them pry their head out of their arse? Congratulations--you've come to the right place.

And when I'm not commenting on the latest thing to piss me off, I'm trying to figure out my own twisted life. Because, hey, I'm like that.

On a gentler note: for anyone dealing with depression, anxiety, and other assorted bullshit: You are NOT alone.

And if you're looking for a laugh, search on the key word "fuckery." It's just my little thing (as the bishop said to the actress).

Saturday, October 2, 2010

The Empress Abroad: An Evening With Jim Jefferies, Part II: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Club

OK, so I lied. Celebricrush will be Part III because navel-gazing and analysis is required and my brain is shutting down after three hours of sleep, too much caffeine, not enough food, and the stress of bus travel in 48 hours.

So, let's talk about yesterday. Most of this was written on the bus last night, so I hope it makes sense:

Gods, I fucking hate New York City.
There. I've said it. HATE IT. With the exception of the Theatre District and Times Square, New York City is a shithole. (And my apologies to any native New Yorkers reading this, but by the time I got my return bus ticket, I was like, get me out of this fucking hellhole and back to civilization.)
Especially Port Authority Bus Terminal. It is the asshole of the universe, filled with fucking morons. I actually had some crazy old drunk try to start a barney with me last night, calling me everything but a child of God and threatening me (you heard that right, the fucker was threatening to hit me and came at me more than once), and yeah, I dropped the bags, dropped into stance, and in the Linklater-trained voice that filled the friggin’ ticket counter area, “BRING IT, MOTHER FUCKER.” And then called for police assistance. I had already bought my ticket—ten minutes later—when the Port Authority Porkers showed up. Yes, I have no respect for authority. Fuck off—I almost had to beat the shit out of someone old enough to be my grandfather (and he was one of those muscular old fuckers who you KNOW would have a roundhouse like a brick wall). I did NOT need PTSD to kick in after such a great night.
OK, I've had my spew. Now... now, my treasured blurkers, I'm gonna have my gush...
And you know who it's about, because nothing short of utter love and devotion would oust me from Boston to New York for a period of less than twelve hours just to see a comedian.
Anyone who has had to deal with me over the past two months has heard me go on about Jim Jefferies. Well, kids, I'm sorry to say that seeing him DID NOT cure me of my celebricrush. *sigh* SO annoying! Not only was his live performance a 1000x better than the DVD's (and those of you who have been subjected to those KNOW how funny he is), he is also a genuinely decent, generous and lovely man--he came out after both shows, took photos with his fans (and you don't know how many people made a point to come up to him, shake his hand, thank him, get a pic, buy the DVD, get it signed...) He's just utterly lovely, genuine and cute as fuckin' hell.
Yes, I made a pass. No, I was not successful, and if I had been, I wouldn't be writing about it; the man earned major respect with me tonight--just a decent bloke, end of story. In the "oh, fuck how do I get out of this" moment, he was gracious, sweet and I let him off the hook. BTW, Jim, if you read this and ever change your mind, you know how to reach me. I looked like utter shit tonight because a) getting over a sinus infection and anaphylaxis; b) I think I've dropped another size and the fucking jeans don't fit proper any longer (which is a good thing); AND C) between humidity and the fever, I wasn't feeling my best. Still, can't blame a girl for trying... and you are incredibly hot. Fabulous eyes, sweet smile, funny as hell, and intelligent. By the time you make it back to Boston, if you don't have a regular girlfriend, I should have lost another 50 lbs (and so far, not a bit on the tits. I do love my DD's) . Mind you, I'm cool with myself as I am (and so are the two guys on the hook--Captain StrapOn and Potential Paramour, plus there's New Crush at Sbux...), but I would like to be more svelt. Six months in the gym and dedicated Nautilus... OK, I'll stop. Being silly. No, being short of sleep.

OK, so my adventure for the day... When last I left you, my darlings, the insanity of Thursday was coming to a close in the office, the Read Out had gone successfully, I was talking ragtime on the blog, and I ended the day on the beach, standing in the surf with near-hurricane force winds blowing through me, laughing like a child. The ocean is the most beautiful place on earth; I can't swim worth a damn, but by all that's good and holy on this planet... the ocean is it.

Good end.

Slept like utter shit between the hacking and the inability to breathe properly. And the expectorating. Ug. WHY, WHY, WHY must the functions of the human body be so utterly fucking VILE and GROSS??!? Blood pumping out of one hole, snot and yellow gunk hawking out of another... Christ, I'm glad I'm single. I would never want another human being to see me in that state. Even the cat left the bed, she was so annoyed.

So, yeah, I slept in a bit. Finally got up and moving around 11, showered,.. came down to find Mum back from dialysis and a text message from Captain Strap On. Evidently, he has been in jail on an outstanding warrant for putting a guy in the hosptial for hitting a woman. I think he's full of shit, honestly, but I still have his equipment and would really like to realize the fantasy. Yeah, I know... I have a one-track mind. well, two-track... writing and sex. It's really all I care about. Aside from my friends, soppy old thing that I am. I invited him to come along; he didn't. I'm glad. I had a good time on my own. Besides, couldn't have made a pass at Jim with a ball and chain. ;-)

We texted back and forth while I got ready. New bra fit great--lovely push up number that made the girls look yummy. The new blouse fit great; too bad about the fucking humidity. The new boots... fuck, SO comfortable and SO FUCKING SEXY!!!! Score! The jeans... well, they fit when they went on. And then they got baggy. And I need to put more holes in my belt. A good thing, yeah, but not a good thing to discover when you're in fucking NYC, a few hundred miles away from your tools. Argh. Whatever. Wasn't really in shape to fuck tonight anyway (and with the post-anaphylaxis breathing issues still not fully resolved, probably would have given a shit blow job. Yes, I think about these things--I have pride, children, and so should all of you. If you're going to attempt a hook-up with someone you truly admire, you should look and do your best. The Empress was not at her best tonight, and is relieved she failed. Disappointed, yes, but relieved. My luck, if he had taken me up0 on it, I'd have ended up in his act. *shudder* )

Day got even better--after picking up the prescriptions, I hit SB's for coffee and New Crush was there. And he remembered me and has been scoping my activity on Four Square. I introduced him to the blog, so I have outed myself there. Devious bitch, I am, but New Crush has the most beautiful blue eyes... Yes, I know, blue eyes are bad luck for me, but at least he's not English! Sorry, Jim... you're my celebricrush and no other comedian will come before you (because George Carlin is dead and I never wanted to fuck him), but this woman has needs... ;-) Ran into the office, grabbed the bus schedule & the ticket confirmation, booked arse down to South Station, and told the clerk at Greyhound no effin' way was I paying $70 for a r/t ticket to NYC when it was only $50 online. So I got a $15 tickie on the Lucky Star Bus and off I went. Finished dressing on the bus (makeup, jewelry, etc.) after a little nap, discovered I'd forgotten my sewing kit so customizing the new jacket was NOT gonna happen, enjoyed the trip into the City (the New York skyline is fabulous), and found my ass in China Town around 7:45.

Managed to get a cab fairly quickly.

Now, it gets funny.

One of the reasons I adore Jim is his take-no-fucking prisoners attitude towards religion. This ex-Catholic pagan howls at his take on religion (and I will be discussing my spiritual philosophy in a future post,although fuck knows I go into enough of it in the Godsdamned novel). So, I get into this cab, tell the cabbie where I'm headed, away we go, and I discover two things:
1) New York cabs have TVs embedded in the back of the fucking front seat. ANNOYING.
2) My cabbie is listening to a fundamentalist Christian radio program.

There is nothing, nothing, nothing I hate more than fundies--of all stripes, Xtian, Muslim, Jew, Pagan (and there are, and you fucking know it, my airy-fairies!). Hate 'em! Wanna take their bibles and stuff 'em down their fucking throats until they choke. Because I'm like that. And here I am, in NYC, the land of the Evil Empire (with my Boston Red Sox umbrella in my bag), in a cab, headed for a comedy club to see a very irreligious comedian, and I am getting a full-fledged dose of that Ol' Time Religion (said in a thick Southern accent).

I kept quiet. I was a stranger in a strange land, and didn't want to get fucked over by a trip around the world.Thankfully, the program ended, and the cab in front of us started playing silly buggers at the lights. The cabbie muttered, I agreed, and the conversation got started.
Aside from his religious mania, the guy was actually OK. AND he knew his comedians! He didn't know Jim, but he knows about him now. Hey, I'm a shill at heart. I know it, you know it, and if you ever do a show with me, you'll be glad for it, because this bitch PROMOTES. The cabbie asked me what time I had to be there; I said 8:30. And then... then he asked if I was performing.
OK, MAJOR EGO BOOST. I said, "Jeez, I wish. Maybe in a few years, man..."

And then we got talking about comedy. He knew his greats--Carlin, Pryor, Whoopi back in the day, and we started running down the list, talking about who we'd seen (him far more live than me, obviously). Just an awesome experience. My opinion of NYC was definitely changing--actually feeling pretty warm about the old bitch by now. Well, he got me to Caroline's right on time and in I went. Gracious doorman, down the stairs... Table 4 inside the club (food sucks, but the VIP seating if you have dinner reservations is DEFINITELY worth it). Chatted a bit with my fellow diners, had a great waitress, and then... the earlier show got out and before I knew it, Jim Jefferies was standing ten feet away from me.

Fan Grrrrl did not squee. I am The Empress, after all, and I have my dignity to maintain. I also had Tory messaging me on FB, so he kept me focused (GO FOR IT! *shakes head* Why, my darlings, do you encourage my madness?)

Now, I wanted to meet him so badly. Everybody knows this. I wanted nothing more than to meet him and say thanks, because he was the final link in the chain for the break-throughs with my depression over this past summer. I know a lot of you have dealt with the Demon at Noonday, so to say that I am grateful to him... Not to diminish the contributions that my friends have made. Dear sweet Gods, I'd be dead if you all hadn't been there for me, especially this past awful fucking year. But... to see someone perform the kind of honest, forthright, in-your-face fuck-off-cunt-if-you-don't-like-it material that I've been writing for so long... after being told for so long that I couldn't feel that way, couldn't say those things, couldn't be who I am... To see someone doing it... Thanks, Jim. You don't know how you saved my artistic soul, and if there's any fucking way I can ever, ever do a good turn for you, I will. Because I'm stupidly noble that way. (And you're hot. I mean, I'm noble, but I'm human.) I'm back to myself for the first time not just since Russ broke my heart, but really since Darth Thespia and EdWad crushed a bit of my soul that I didn't even realized I'd lost. Who knew listening to comedy could be a form of soul retrieval?

But I digress. As always.

So there's Jim Jefferies, standing a few feet from my table. Nice bum, I noticed, (of course), and tall... and a bundle of energy. Well, I brought Contraband with me because I like it better than I Swear to God. I do. Well, I surprised him with it. "Do you know how many of these exist?"
"Yeah!" And he went on to tell me the story behind it. (More on that later--the battery's getting low on the lappie and this is not a powered bus). [Full story told in earlier post.]

So the show was the balls. Had the best time--see the earlier post for the review. Had a nice chat with the two gents who'd been dining near me, Jason and Justin, who had seen Jim many times and told me I was in for the time of my life (and who were properly envious of my real copy of "Contraband"). After the show, I got my program autographed to me (and it made me smile), Jim wished me well with my performing, and then I found my balls and made a pass, which he sweetly demurred (I don't give a shit how brash he is on stage, one-on-one, he is a gentleman). I left before I lost my dignity entirely, and headed out into Manhattan.

OK, kids, you may have once (or twice) heard me compare Boston and New York thusly: Boston is like a drowsy lion; New York is like a live, rabid werewolf. Now, this statement was made many years ago. I realized I hadn't been in New York City to anything but pass through on my way to someplace else in 14 years.

There's that number again... '96 was a fuckin' shitty-arsed year, wunnit? That was the year I escaped Emerson. I dumped Edwad. Comedy of Eros was staged at Lesley and the minions of Darth Thespia tried to force me into the Cult. It was also the year I was diagnosed as bipolar II. More on that in Celebricrush.

The last time I was in New York City was for my one and only professional audition; the one set up for Emerson seniors. It went horribly; nothing came of it. To be expected: at that point, they hadn't thought to check my thyroid and my health was headed into the toilet. Times Square has been transformed in those 14 years. I couldn't believe it. It was light at night. I mean, daylight light, so many electric lights were blazing in the square, and all the screens... It was dazzling. And of course, there was the 23-hour-Starbucks. I had to bite back a "Hallelujah!" I'd had two cups of coffee during the show (because technically, since the gastric bypass, I'm not supposed to drink any more. Doesn't stop me from enjoying the occasional tequila, but I really can't drink two of them over the course of an hour. I would have been so fucking drunk, they would have had to wheel me out on a gurney and rush me to the hospital to have my stomach pumped), but shit, I needed a Venti.

There were four Welsh tourists in front of me, trying to order tea.

Now, allow me to explain that tea in America and tea anywhere else is a different experience. The reason why so many Americans drink coffee over tea is because most of our regular tea is utter shit. I didn't know this until I made a friend from Ireland. He introduced me to good regular tea. I was hooked. Now, understand, that I can drink coffee all day and all night and it won't affect my sleeping habits. Seriously. I can fall asleep instantly (i'm falling asleep now, as a matter of fact, and I'm sucking back a Trenta). Tea, however... whenever I needed to pull an all-nighter to do a paper or finish costumes for a show, I'd brew a Proper Pot of Tea--Lyons (red) tea, lemon and sugar, and I wouldn't sleep. Guaranteed.

The poor kid in front of me was saying, "Don't you have regular tea. Like..." she struggled for an American tea name, "Like... TETLEY, or something..."

At which point, I interrupted because the kid behind the counter was looking at her like she was Deliberately Speaking Foreign at him, and was about to respond less-than-politely, "What you want, luv, is Awake. It's a plain, black tea. Good and strong."

The mother of the group looked relieved and explained that they were from Wales. That made me smile. I know some lovely Welshmen. So we all joked a bit, them relieved to find an American who understood, me pleased to meet people from a place I haven't had a chance to fully explore.

So far, my New York Story was a really happy one (no happy ending, but I was really OK with it). I got my coffee (weird having to explain to a barista how to prep it--so used to going into my little Sbux and asking for a "uze" and having a proper Riz prepped), consulted my map as to how the fuck to get to Port Authority from where I was, and was going to walk it, then remembered how sketchy it could get, and hailed a cab. Good plan!

That was when the trip went nightmare, culminating in the confrontation described above.

And then I got on the bus and started to write. And life is good. I can't believe it's 10:30 a.m. I haven't been home yet. I've been writing here in Sbux for four hours. Chatted with a Certain Gentleman (who agrees that Captain Strapon is full of shit)... Gods, I need to get laid. Well, it ain't like I don't have prospects. :-)

(And just got to chat with Old Crush. *sigh* He's got beautiful eyes, too, smart as hell, and just too sexy for words. Sweetheart to boot. Wish I had the cojones to ask HIM out.)

OK, kids, Your Empress has to get some shut eye before shuttling She Who Can't Be Ignored about, cleaning out the Blue Bomber in preparation for the Northward Trek, and a shiteload of laundry.

Part 3, Celebricrush will be posted either tonight or tomorrow.

Much love--if you're in NYC tonight or tomorrow, SEE JIM! or go to his website
http://jimjefferies.ning.com/index.php and find out where he's gigging. Jim, if you read this, COME BACK TO BOSTON! Right now, I think I can almost fill a club on my own with converts. And you'll be shown a damn good time--we know how to party here, drunk or sober. (Ditto for Halifax, Nova Scotia!)

Yep, gettin' punchy... goin' home to bed whilst I can still safely operate a motor vehicle.

Ciao, my angels...
Your Empress

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