This Song is Over... Part 1, Ad Memoriam Chris Larson

The sad news came down that Chris Larson lost the battle with cancer on Wednesday. Ny heart goes out to his family, especially his parents. No parent should have to bury their child.
I wish I knew what to say.
I mean, there are a gazillion things I could say, but none of them... I've been crying off and on. I start to talk about it to people I really love, and I just start to fall apart. That's really not like me. I had to break the news to Ferd. Ferd is quite possibly one of the most gentle-hearted human beings on the planet, and the shock in his voice... he posted a lovely statement of farewell on FB that night. I haven't been able to get it together... I could deal with Marco's loss last year because it was an accident, a stupid freak accident that shouldn't have happened, no one could have predicted it would happen, but it did, and it sucked, but... Chris died of cancer. Colon cancer. ADULTS die of colon cancer, not kids like us. That's a grown up death, not the way kids my age...
But I'm not a kid any more. We're not still in high school, insulting the hell out of each other, making fun of teachers, dealing with all the stupid shit that happens in high school. We're not those kids who went to the prom, got hammered at parties, passed notes... did all those little things that shape the adult you become.
I miss Chris. I miss Luca, Pepoli, John B., Goldy, Mike, Amy, Kim, Mo, Trisha, Danni, Pam, Dave... I miss the kids we were. I hope the adults we've become are as cool and awesome as the kids we were.
My last words to Ferd on the phone the past two days have been, "Love ya, brother." Because right now, I'm feeling how tenuous life really is--how temporary every is. Except the bonds of love that shared experience creates.
And because I am Boston Irish, and because there are going to be a lot of tears over the next couple of days down at Doherty's (remember, the Irish get buried out of Doherty's, the Italians from Dello Russo), I'm going to throw in a laugh. Chris didn't introduce me to George Carlin--WBCN & HBO did that--but he DID introduce me to Carlin's famous bit, the Seven Words You Can't Say on Television. He did that in the limo, on the way to the prom, when I was head-over-heels in crush with him and trying to prove to him that the hoyden was really a lady. I blushed furiously and laughed my ass off, even though the long-line body armor under my fairy princess dress made it difficult. So this is for you, Chris. The Bruins won last night--they beat the Habs in game seven at the Gahden, and I think Horton may have gotten a little help from Heaven's newest angel. The clip ain't safe for work, but watch it and have a laugh and get in touch with your old friends. Remember the kid you were and be true to the best of it.
Today's title comes from one of my favorite songs by The Who. It was Chris's favorite band back in high school, and my crush on him was the reason I got into them. I wish you knew that, man. We fought so much about music; both of us were so damned stubborn and butted heads like mountain goats. I gave bands that I never would have a chance because of you. I'm glad I knew the kid you were; it hurts that because of the silliness of life, I didn't get to know the man you became.
Remember, kids, pride is never worth it. I learned that lesson after I'd walked away from my old friends because of the path I chose. Being right isn't the same as doing rightly, and the need to be right, to win, is why so many of us miss out in life.
I know a lot of folks in my life are going through pain right now, and it's easier to draw in and protect than it is to be open, but... try. Keep your heart open. Remember that none of us know when it's going to be over--when Whoever Is Calling the Shots decides that your ticket is punched. As long as you're breathing, you're still in the game. Everything happens for a reason (good or bad), and love... love in all its forms is the only thing really worth having.
Now, I am going to go and cuddle my cat because she is warm, fluffy, purrs in a very comforting manner, and getting very old, call my mum and see how she's doing, write another blog post, and be about my errands.
And please... if you haven't had a physical within the last year, please schedule it. Check in with your body, get the screenings that are recommended for your age group. Chris is the latest in a line of friends lost to preventable cancers. (Not casting aspersions on him--PLEASE, not doing that!) Get checked--get the pap, the scope, the mammogram, whatever. And don't think that you're too young. I found out when I was 20 that no one is too young, and thankfully, it was caught in time. Another friend of mine didn't. Please take care of yourselves.
/end Den Mother Mode
I wish all of you love.
Your Empress

Batteries not Included (and I'm Good with It)

I grew up in the 1970's and came of age in the 80's, which means all the toys I had are being brought back as Retro and making me feel sod-all old. However, I still HAVE a lot of those toys, so if I ever have kids, they can whine about the museum pieces I won't allow them to touch.

(Hey, I'm an only child--I never had to share, dammit, why start now?)

I even have the sock monkey my mother made me and stuffed with old nylons. OK, maybe Mum isn't the only one with a slight hoarding problem, but mine is improving. I promise. Besides, my shit is actually collectible. (Why am I hearing George Carlin's "Place for My Stuff" routine in my head... "Ever notice that your stuff is stuff and everyone else's stuff is SHIT?" Started reading his sortabiography last night, Last Words. *sigh* I miss ya, Georgie. You were the cat's ass and the mutt's nuts.)

Anyhoo, back then most toys didn't have batteries. If it had batteries, it was special. This was especially true about dolls. Now, I had one of the very first Baby Alive dolls. This doll came out when I was about sevenish... we were living on Memorial Drive, so that would be about right... Yeah, the adult ADD is kicking in big time today. After being woken out of a sound sleep to pick Mum up from a fall at 2:30 a.m. and not getting back to sleep until 4... awake at half eight and having to wait for the bathroom for over 20 minutes while Idiot played with the water... argh. I needs a nap, Precioussss, I does.

ANYWAY... Baby Alive. Baby doll. Two D-cell batteries in a compartment in the back--a compartment, I might add, that had a catch to open it, NOT A FUCKING TINY SCREW! I mean, c'mon, people! What fucking moron of a jackass decided that EVERY FUCKING BATTERY DOOR ON THE PLANET should now be accessed only with a screwdriver? I want to find that $%^&*() and beat them over the head with a heavy child's toy, dammit, because a) WHY are you giving a child under the age of three something that requires batteries? Would you let the little fucker development some imagination, for the love of everything holy? and b) if the little anklebiter is TOO STUPID to know that they're NOT supposed to eat batteries AND YOU, as a PARENT are TOO STUPID to NOT teach them this, isn't it better that they're removed from the gene pool? This is called selective adaptation, and IT'S A GOOD THING.

EVOLVE, DAMN YOU!

OK, BABY ALIVE... 2 D-cell batteries, giving the damn doll some heft, blonde hair in that same stupid style every baby doll had at that point in history, the eyes opened and closed (which didn't require batteries), the mouth moved when you shoved the bottle or spoon in it, and you had to mix up the little special food packets with water, and ONLY put water in the bottle.

Mum was very clear about this. NOT juice--the baby didn't want juice, she could only drink water. DEFINITELY NOT Kool-Aid or Zarex, JUST WATER, LISA.

And then the magic happened! Because unlike other baby dolls that just tinkled, Baby Alive also crapped! Yes! And little mothers-in-training got to have the magical experience of changing a diaper at the age of seven, and cleaning up the little thing's bottom without Mum having to worry about the new REAL baby being dropped on its head.

In theory, this doll was a training tool--a gender-specific, gender-stereotype doll, meant to train little girls to grow up to be mommies, and darn good, conscientious mommies, too, who could mix up baby cereal and wipe a baby's ass the right way! What they didn't realize was that the doll was REALLY a catalyst for curiosity--how the hell did the poop get from the mouth to the bum? Baby Alive caused many an impromptu surgery, and I'm sure set many young girls on the path to proctology.

Baby Alive was as far as I went down the path of battery-operated dolls. I was lucky; I had the pre-talking one. I don't like dolls that talk; I mean, they're boring--limited phrases, no real expression on their faces... they're fucking creepy. Vacuous. CREEPY. Like, I just got a shiver up my neck thinking about it...

Now, my mother is just the opposite. She LOVES, LOVES, LOVES things that talk and dance--she thinks they're the bees knees, especially if the stupid thing is motion-activated. She has bought those goddamned things by the dozen. I won't allow 'em in the house. NO FUCKING WAY will I have some stupid triad of snowmen scaring the piss out of me (my bladder is over 40--it's possible) at 2:00 a.m. on my way to the bathroom, jumping up and down, singing horrid songs in tinny voices that pierce my eardrums. I made her take 'em into work--torture her co-workers, not me. She said to me, "What are you going to do when you have kids and I buy this stuff for my grandchildren?"

I gave her The Look. "One, you will NOT purchase that crap for any child that THIS body produces. My children will curse me and develop GOBS of imagination by playing with toys that require them to THINK and PLAY and possibly get dirty and even bloody. Two, if you DO ignore this edict, the SHIT STAYS AT YOUR HOUSE." She thinks I will be an evil parent.

I'm good with that.

Now, there is a legitimate reason I dislike these toys. See, I worked in a shop when the first dancing flowers came out in the late 80's--y'know, those stupid plastic daisies with the sunglasses on in the plastic pot that when you passed them, the music went off and they started bobbing insanely? And then came the gorillas...

Let me tell you, spend five days a week behind a counter in a gift and notions shop in a busy mall with lots of over-producing suburbanites dragging their maggoty houseapes in and leaving them to roam and destroy, and of course, with sub-par intelligence because hey, mum and dad bought a house built on subdivision built over a Superfund site... Yeah. And of course, the stupid things were RIDICULOUSLY overpriced because they were the Latest Thing, so after having to listen to TWENTY FIVE OF THE FUCKING THINGS GOING OFF OUT OF UNISON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! came the chorus of begging, whining, and screaming for one... Christ, even the memory gives me a headache.

To this day, if I walk into a store that has that kind of crap near the register, I freak out. Seriously.

Because the things are like, totally, possessed. There's no expression in the eyes, they just start reacting to motion and noise and movement... muttering inanities, or worse, Xmas songs...

Now, I'm cool (to a point) with the Halloween stuff. Scaring the piss out of someone for a laugh as a part of the holiday makes total sense to me. TOTAL sense. That's what Halloween is about. Any other holiday... Nah. Nope. No freakin' way. And the stuff out today... it's not like it was twenty, thirty years ago when it took big-ass batteries to run 'em. Now, they have tiny little button cells and solar panels and USB cords and microchips, and I have read enough science fiction to know that this is just a Very Bad Idea.

Now, I am a Science Retard. I get the basics--DNA, evolution, the importance of not fucking really close relations (not that I would, believe me), don't let the beams cross, and stay away from the big yellow triangle.

Ever think about that? The yellow radiation triangle? I wonder if the Jewish atomic scientists who escaped the Nazis did that on purpose--"Hey, Hitler, you think the Jews are badass, HAVE A DOSE OF THIS SHIT!"

I'm probably wrong about that, but it's a nice thought. It's like the fact that the Library of Congress classification system for scripture begins with the letters "BS." (THIS IS TRUE!)

Just makes me happy.

Mechanics I understand--insert Tab A into Slot B--it's just a slightly more complicated version of construction. Chemistry I'm good with, at least if it involves food--I understand those kind of chemical reactions. But hard science... Nah. Goes right over my head. Blonder than a Barbie doll when the conversation goes quantum, y'know?

And I am OK with this, believe or not. I know enough to get by and survive, and am confident enough that if the zombie apocalypse comes (or the vampire one, I can go either way), I can survive OK. I have Army manuals on improvised field munitions, know how to scrounge parts, and gimme a Chilton manual, and I can get damn near any vehicle built before 1985 going with a basic tool kit with a little trial and error. There is a reason I don't want to own a car built before 1985, and that's it--I can pop the hood on a 1983 Caprice and find the air filter and all the places to fill up the fluids; no computers, no automated locks or windows. Plus, the exposure to living history folks has shown me that a) I know how to build a fire and keep the fucker going (a very, very important and much underrated skill unless you're in the situation) and b) just as importantly, I can cook a damn good meal over one without burning myself OR the food. I get the basics of how a generator works and can find books in a library without a computer catalog. I can even write longhand, fairly legibly. And while I could never shoot my cat, I could be induced to barbecue a dog if nothing else was available--more meat on them, unless you're talking about the yappy rats too many people use as fashion accessories.

So I'm good. Where I get antsy is the whole robotics industry.

Now, yeah, I'm a Futurama fan, and honestly, knowing how the world functions, I think we're far more likely to develop robots a la Bender Bending Rodriguez, I still have a healthy fear born from seeing I, Robot, a gajillion clips of 2001, and reading a short story called "The Machine Stops" by E.M. Forster. Yes, I have read Heinlein's Future Histories and love Dora, Pallas Athene, Mycroft Holmes, and the lot; ditto for SolAce from Spider Robinson's Callahan's Chronicles. HOWEVER... robotic development is being sponsored by big corporations. The same big corporations who are poisoning the food supply, manipulating government and doing all kinds of bad things with our consumer acquiescence. (Yeah, I'm guilty, too. It's kinda why I'm cool about an apocalypse happening.) So... I don't trust automated thingies that talk and move on their own because one day, they're gonna make 'em too smart, and we won't be able to escape because they'll have hidden the weapons, locked down the cars, and it'll be the Matrix all over again.

I know this because I'm a Science Retard. And I'm good with that.

The Wikipedia article on "The Machine Stops" http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Machine_Stops

The creepiest commercial for Baby Alive--I remember this one:

http://childhoodmemorykeeper.blogspot.com/2010/07/baby-alive-doll.html

WHY hasn't Alcoholcaust arrived YET?!?!

OK, yesterday I was royally cranky (I reread the post--wow, did I go on rant! Wow! Haven't lambasted Courtney Love like that in a loooong while!); today I'm an all-out blogging madwoman--wrote two posts this a.m.

And the first... the first is about Mr. Celebricrush, his new DVD, and yet more exposition on the Empress's Theory of Theatre and Comedy. (Today's pic was snatched from Facebook--I DID NOT take it, but I did add the bubble. I'll be forgiven, considered how hard Jim has been pushing people to buy the disc. Gotta give the man credit--international comedy headliner, and he still hustles like an up-and-comer. YEAH!)

Jim Jefferies is posting the early reviews of Alcoholocaust. I am getting antsy for my copy.
The positive reviews are NOT coming as a surprise to me (or anyone who is a fan of the man). I made the comment in my review of his show at Caroline’s about what an amazing storyteller he is (and yes, I am peppering for my copy to arrive, and yes, I am kicking myself for not paying for expedited shipping, BUT I’m a fucking librarian trying to pay off massive student loans and who has lost an expensive fucking contact lens for her royally fucked-up astigmatic eyes, so give me a break!).

Those links:
http://www.chortle.co.uk/dvds/2010/11/08/12106/jim_jefferies:_alcoholocaust
http://www.gigglebeats.co.uk/2010/10/dvd-review-jim-jefferies-alcoholocaust/#comments

I made the comment in the post “The Bottle and the Damage Done” about how annoyed I got at the audience response in New York to Jim being sober. One of the reviewers commented how the DVD is his last on the booze and wondered how he’ll play without it.

For any fans of Jim reading this and wondering: he’s better off of it.

I said in the review of him live that he has ginormous balls on stage—that testicular fortitude does NOT come from alcohol (and yeah, I realize it may have taken him a little time to get that, but I’m not his shrink and I know what I have to go through to get my fat arse on stage; I am not giving anyone else any shit about their rituals and crutches; performers are a superstitious and high-strung lot—DON’T FUCK WITH US!!!! :-D I mean, I’m the one who fervently mumbled Henry V’s “God of Battles” prayer in the wings while waiting to go one in every fucking show I ever acted in; ditto, directed). So any fans wondering if they should go and see him sober (considering how legendary he is for performing fucked up AND considering how some of his better-known routines involve both alcohol and drugs), BUY YOUR FUCKING TICKETS NOW! GO, GET OVER TO HIS WEBSITE, BUY YOUR FUCKING TICKETS, AND COME BACK AND READ THE REST OF THIS!

I’ll wait. Jim’s worth it. (And there are damn few men on the planet I’d say that about and the list gets shorter every day.)

What’s got me excited—aside from the thought of getting to see different material than is on Contraband and I Swear to God—is that I’m finally going to get to hear the brothel story (the joy and pain of the interwebs is that a) I find out about cool stuff I wouldn’t otherwise know about, and b) I find out about cool stuff I wouldn’t otherwise know about and can’t get my hands on IMMEDIATELY. I have the patience of a cat). This story—about taking a childhood friend with muscular dystrophy to a brothel to lose his virginity—has been buzzed about for months. He didn’t perform it in New York (“Nah, not in a one-hour show like this,” he said when I mentioned it), but it is on the DVD, AND the DVD is 75 minutes long.

Note to self: check and see if there are any extras on the disc. The biggest disappointment about I Swear to God was that there were no extras (not unusual with HBO comedy releases), but it’s also what makes Contraband a piece of gold—you get both nights plus a bit of fuckery with an interview Jim did on the street after the second show, including a bit of silliness with passersby. (Y’still should’ve taken y’shirt off, Jim! ;-) Mind you, would have love to have heard the exchange with Eddie Izzard in the hallway after Jim came off stage—I’m wondering if this was the tour Eddie was doing whilst filming Believe. Oh, to be a fly on the wall, eh? :-)

That’s another recommendation for watching, BTW—check out Believe. DAMN good documentary about The Process and the fact that succeeding is all about your arse: working it off and putting it on the line, just fucking going for it.

Second note to self: put Dressed to Kill on the buy list for this month’s wages. Screw Xmas.

Another thought on substances… well, I had another thought, but it’s gone now. Wait, it’s back. There’s been a lot of ink wasted on Jim’s vocabulary (and if you check out the clip on You Tube that Brett Vincent posted with all the cusses edited into one roughly two minute string—hysterical, honestly, Jim should turn it into a rap song, fer fuckssake)—one of the reasons I dig Jim’s stuff is his use of language. Again, it’s why Carlin succeeded and Eddie Murphy failed—Carlin used the vulgarity as punctuation; Murphy used it just to use it. Jim walks the line and walks it well. [There's another post coming about language usage, but I'm still working on that one.]

Language is a form of music—think about why you pay attention to when some people speak and tune out others. It’s about rhythm, cadence, tone and word choice—the same as a song. You listen to what flips the switches in your brain. Whenever I direct a show, THAT is what I listen for, and any actor I’ve directed can tell you of that moment when I’ve either stopped a scene fussing at my ear because the words have hit my ears like a sour note, an off-key phrase—I can hear it. That’s how I, as an audience member (and honestly, as a director because I watch damn near everything with a director’s eye, it’s a disease, I swear), experience a show. It’s why I get so vehement when something is bad and so ecstatic when something is good—it’s like great music, when words and performance come together just right, a harmony that is as much for the soul as the brain. This is a part of great comedy—it’s the harmony of word and thought and delivery, REAL storytelling, the kind that hits you not just in the funny bone, but also in the heart and soul.

Going back to Eddie Murphy, another reason why he’s acting and not doing standup right now is about truth. I saw Raw once; I laughed, but I never had a need to see it again. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve watched I Swear to God and Contraband. Ditto for Carlin’s later standup DVDs, and Robin William’s 1986 & 2002 HBO specials. I can quote my way through them, like a sing-along (actually, they’re my background “music” when I’m cleaning or crafting). And I still laugh. STILL laugh, even though I’ve heard some of these bits a hundred times because there’s always something new to find—something in the cadence, the facial expression, the delivery… a word I may have missed or a gesture. Raw… nah. I remember the “You ain’t got no ice cream” bit, and that’s about it. No truth, or at least no truth that meant anything to me.

Great comedy is no different from great literature or a great film--it comes from a place of truth—the heart, mind and soul working together to create a story that, while the details might not be completely factual (sometimes, you have to change a few details to protect the innocent and the guilty alike, and to keep yourself from either being sued or incarcerated), is about simple human truth. Now, truth is subjective, and my truth is not your truth—what reaches my soul and plucks its strings will be a different matter for someone else. I don't know if every bit of "I Am the Egg Man" is true, and honestly, I don't want to know--it's a brilliant fucking story, the right combination of filth and pathos and complete utter bravery--you CAN'T get up and tell a story like that in front of a room full of heavily drinking humans unless you've got great big clanking brass balls because you KNOW some oik in the audience is going to take it literally and give you shit. Ditto for the story in the South African comedy club story, and all the "small dick" cracks (although one of the guy friends made the comment that only a man hung like a small pony would have the balls to get up and say that publically; y'know, I'm not sure if got the phrase HLSP from him or he got it from me... so many people have been picking up my catch phrases of late... weird). Reminds me... gotta post a piccie of the finished Jim Sox.

There’s a review of Jim on the web by Scottish guy who’s living in the States (I want to say Chicago; when I get on-line, I’ll look it up; I know he saw him at Lakeside) who heard him do the brothel story; the reviewer works with the disabled, and his combined reaction was one of weeping and laughing because he KNEW what Jim was talking about, understood it at a gut level, and the story provided a catharsis. (That's what got me so hooked on his comedy--there is a pain there that I recognize, someone who's been cut deep enough to get to the point of not giving a fuck and decided not to let the bastards win. That's where yesterday's rant came from--if I've stayed alive all these years with all the stupidity in my life, where the fuck did THOSE idiots get off dying so stupidly?)

[OK, found the info: Graham Rae in 3:AM Magazine. Here's the link: http://www.3ammagazine.com/3am/you%e2%80%99ve-got-to-be-obscene-to-be-heard/

And THAT’S the word I’m looking for—catharsis. It goes all the way back to the Greeks (and fuck knows, I find the ancient Greeks bloody boring) and the original concept of theatre—to provide a catharsis for the audience, a moment of emotion cleansing (the word literally means "purge" or "cleanse"). That’s the whole point of live theatre, live performance—to feel something you can’t experience in the workaday process of life. In short, we make it safe for the audience to feel--to experience deep feeling, intense feeling--that many cannot acknowledge in ordinary life.

A long while ago, I had to write a paper for a comparative lit class and I discussed King Lear, Twelfth Night and Black Elk Speaks, and elaborated my concept of the Holy Fool (there was also an African novel in there; don’t ask me the title or the author because, honestly, it bored the piss out of me; I only used it because I had to have two sources from the official reading list; Black Elk met the criteria and so did the other one, and of course, I had to bring in Shakespeare). Black Elk has a chapter on the Heyoka ceremony—a shamanic comedy experience, basically, in which those who have the vision of the thunder beings are destined to be sacred clowns--holy fools--or Heyoka--and act out absurdities to make the rest of the tribe laugh. When the Heyoka happens in Black Elk, it is during a time of great stress and brings a necessary lightening to the tribe.

Sound familiar?

Shakespeare’s fools are a slightly different story. Today, we have an image of the jester—the fool—as a mere clown, a tumbler and faller of prats, someone for the nobles to hurl abuse and food at while he entertains. This is a corrupted image and it negatively impacts a LOT of Shakespearean productions. If you forget the label of “fool” and LISTEN to the dialogue of Lear’s Fool and Feste in Twelfth Night, you will hear the nascence of today’s standup comedian—“bitter fool,” Lear calls his follower, and indeed, more acerbic commentary on the state of the state can’t be found on The Daily Show. Olivia chastises Feste, “You see how your fooling grows old and people dislike it!” when his words hit far too close to the mark for her liking.

Again, sound familiar?

It’s why I have so little time for a lot of shit that’s called “comedy.” At my first open mic, I was talking to an actor I’d directed who’d gotten up and delivered (before I performed—I was too high afterwards on adrenaline). I wasn’t impressed with a lot of the material I’d heard, and he told me to be kind; it was open mic. He was both right and wrong—right, because people were trying out material; wrong, because, well… a lot of it was going to go nowhere, and ditto for the people delivering it. Kudos for having the cojones to get up there—if you’ve never done it, you don’t know what’s on the line, believe me. At the same time… Nah. A couple of sparks, yeah, but no bright lights.

Harsh? Yup. Have to be, though. Performing—whether comedy, acting, music, whatever—is BRUTAL because to be the best, you have to give EVERYTHING. EVERYTHING. Your heart and soul are on the fucking line with every word, and I don’t think I’ve met any kind of artist in my life who didn’t deal with some kind of anxiety issue, and finding the balance of life and career… there’s a reason why celebrity gossip is salacious: when you give it all, it’s all there, and people want it. And when you’re “on,” you’re fucking irresistible.

I never went pro as an actor because I knew fifteen years ago that I didn’t have what it takes to live out of a suitcase without any guarantees; my mother’s health was failing, my health was failing, and quite frankly, I had lost my “muchness” (Tim Burton’s Alice was utterly fucking brill and I’m kicking myself for not seeing it in the cinema). I’d lost my audacity, that crazy spirit I’d had at UMass. Emerson, Edward, Darth Thespia and my life had killed it. That, and it scared the FUCK out of me the way people were drawn to me when I was “on.” (Think I’m kidding? Ask Vicki about the guy in Frenchy’s when I was shopping and was “on”—cool, but really disconcerting.) And, at that point in my life, there was no way I could have dealt with it, so instead of going for success, I let myself come pretty damn close to dying.

Now… now, facing losing my family’s home and not having to worry too much longer about my mother’s care and having my own health coming back, now… I can feel that spirit returning. Who the fuck knows what the next year or two will bring? I’m single, I’m talented, and I am audacious—I’ve proved to myself that I haven’t lost that essential spark, my unique “Riz-ness,” that has drawn some of the finest people on the planet into my circle of friends. I’ve written a damn good novel. This blog… this blog is definitely fueling the rewrite of the one-woman show (and yeah, I’ve started looking at available venues and rentals for next year). And I’m noticing that in the coterie (isn’t that a beautiful word? Say that word out loud—THERE’S music in language if ever there was!) of friends I’ve surrounded myself with, all of them are immensely talented in their own art.

Exciting time to be alive, wouldn’t you say? I would, and considering how I’ve been feeling the past few days, it’s good to be able to say that. Ah, the joys of body chemistry--so nice to have it back in balance.

So watch this space for my review of Alcoholocaust—you know that the bastard will be in the DVD drive of this lappie within half an hour of being received (hey, I’ll need to get myself a fresh coffee and get comfy first).

And Jim, if you happen to glance at this (or anyone close to him does), I hope you’re keeping sober and keeping well. You don’t need the booze or the drugs to be brilliant, babe, and you’ve got the talent AND the charisma to do whatever the fuck you want (hey, if Robin Williams can win an Oscar for Good Will Hunting…). Can’t wait to see you next time you play Boston (although there are better venues than the Wilbur; when are the new US dates being announced, dammit?!?! I really don’t want to drive to Jersey in the dead of winter; and IS THERE ANY WORD ON THE US RELEASE?!?!* I’ll subscribe to the fucking cable channel if I have to; oh, wait, I’ll already own the DVD. How can I convert more to your fandom if I have to show your best material on my laptop and half my friends aren’t in Boston?! Yes, I’ll stop being a pain in the arse), and the offer to buy you dinner stands because I love to prove a man wrong (even if it is all just jokes up there).

Fuck, I’ll even COOK you dinner if someone will lend me a decent kitchen. And speaking of which… time to get some breakfast and a shower and get my arse to work. The paying kind, as opposed to the kind I’m hoping will pay. *sigh*

*BTW, for the US fans, STOP WHINING about the fact that Alcoholocaust hasn’t been released over here because 1) there’s a damn good reason (there is a clue above); and 2) I Swear to God isn’t available in the format the rest of the world uses. You want it NOW, order it from the UK and WATCH IT ON YOUR FUCKING COMPUTER like I do. OR drop $50 on ebay or amazon for a multi-region DVD player.

The Bottle and the Damage Done

The siren song that is your madness
Holds a truth I can't erase...
You let me down, I said it...
- "The God of Wine," Third Eye Blind*

alcoholic: One who has accepted they have a drinking problem and is dealing/has dealt with it
drunk: Fucking loser who has a drinking problem, blames everyone else and keeps drinking, destroying their own life and the lives of everyone they possibly can.

Alcoholism, addiction and their attending madness have been a part of my life since conception. My father is a drunk; has been for all of his adult life. All three of my mother's brothers have/had drinking problems (two of them are dead; sadly, the youngest is still alive and making life fucking miserable). My ex-husband and three long-term ex-boyfriends were all drunks. I had a brief flirtation with the bottle about 9 years ago--partied a little too hard for about eight months and then got really bored with it.

Drugs... with the exception of a little weed every now and then, I've never bothered with them. They scare the fuck out of me--most of my idols and Celebricrushes have battled the bottle and/or drugs, so I learned my fear from them: I learned from the stories of Peter O'Toole and David Bowie back in high school to keep my nose clean and behave myself (granted, Peter O'Toole is one of the greatest actors on the planet; and Bowie made incredible fucking music when he was a mess, but his best album came after he cleaned up [Scary Monsters & Super Creeps, if you must know, although the Berlin Trilogy has some spectacular songs]). John Belushi's OD had a major affect on me through Robin Williams--his comment made on a talk show (Donahue, I think it was), to the effect of, "He was a bull. What was that going to do to a little guy like me?" [paraphrased from memory; it's been 30ish years]

All of the people I've really admired have had addiction issues--all of the comedians especially. Carlin... Carlin was famous for his drug use, and so much better for quitting (although he was another one who kept a little weed around). I think I was the only person in the audience who cheered when Jim Jefferies said he'd been sober for a month in New York. The two guys I was sitting next to had said he was awesome fucked up; I've seen enough clips of him fucked up--he was better sober. Sharper, more on point (and he looked fabulous). And honestly? Enlarged liver and shitting blood... no. Not something I would wish on anyone but my mother's younger brother. That comment snapped people, but not really. I mean... WTF? Haven't we lost enough great comedians to substances? Stay sober, Jim--stay alive, keep making people laugh, and get your ass cast in a movie that will actually showcase your acting talent. That's an Imperial Edict, dammit. ;-) Stay sober, and the next time you're in Boston, I will buy you dinner (yes, a beautiful chick DOES know how to pick up a check), and unlike most of the men I've dated, I won't expect sex afterwards.

Hmmmm... that also reminds me... need to think about finding an agent for Keith J.'s script. Anyone know anyone looking for a film script for the best buddy comedy ever written? I could kill him to this day for that--boring me to tears with all the proposals for action adventure CRAP, and all the time he had a near-perfect comedy script on his shelf. I love the guy like a brother, but there are days... *smack* And that's why we're still friends.

But I digress...

Back to substances... The only thing I've ever really had going for me was my brain. I mean, my body has never worked properly, and even my brain is pretty fucked up with the chemistry issues, but I've always known I had intelligence, creativity and talent, and all of those relied on me keeping my brain up and running properly. The one thing drugs fuck up completely is your head, and this goes for the legal as well as the illegal.

Now, I take anti-anxiety meds daily. They are necessary, unfortunately--if I don't take them, my panic attacks get pretty ugly. During the PMDD, they get even uglier and require the additional support of Xanax. I take a low dose of that--just half a tab of whatever I was given because if I take the whole thing, I fall asleep instantly. I drink rarely these days and have to be careful about what I drink because certain things will send me off the deep end--I don't touch Jack Daniels any more (and I used to be legendary for dancin' with Mr. Damage), can't touch most grape wines unless they're fizzy (don't ask me, I don't get it), beer is baaaaaad (although the coffee porter was OK--must be the crap-ass American piss), and me and absinthe never liked each other. The gastric bypass made drinking even dicier because if there's no food in my stomach, I go bright red and burn up--seriously, I have to ice my face. I've been told it's like a diabetic reaction to alcohol, and considering the fact that my sugar & fat filter is no longer connected, I get it.

At one point in my life, I was misdiagnosed as bipolar II. THAT was entertaining. NOT. Before the diagnosis, to deal with the weight that was packing on for no apparent reason, my GP put me on Prozac. I slept for two weeks and felt AWESOME afterwards. Then we tried Zoloft: no reaction until PMS kicked in and I went homicidal. Entertaining... I chased a guy all the way across Somerville with the intent of pulling him out of his car and dribbling his head off the pavement like a basketball for cutting me off. A little voice inside my head kept trying to get my attention and tell me that it was a bad idea. It took three miles for me to register that voice, and I was traveling down Somerville Ave--consider the number of traffic lights, pedestrians, and other cars I had to deal with in that three miles. Yeah. Zoloft... NOT a good idea. Then came the lower does of Prozac--sleeping without the happiness afterwards. Then shipped off to a psychopharmocologist who evaluated me as bipolar II. Paxil was my friend, and then Depakote got added, and then the doses went up... and don't forget the emergency Xanax, and then the anti-psychotics when the Xanax stopped working for the panic attacks... that was about the time I started keeping at least a bud around because three tokes did what all the meds in the world couldn't--calmed me down and kept me from slashing my wrists.

Of course, I ended up in a blanket of cotton wool about three feet thick, lost my sex drive, and didn't function as an artist. Due to circumstances, I ended up having to stop all meds, cleaned out my system, and then... started over again. Once the hypothyroidism was diagnosed and under control, the anxiety disorder became apparent and that was treated, and the bipolar was off the table.

Whew. But I still need the meds.

I hate them. I hate what I'm like without them even more. I have gotten so attuned to my body that I can feel the chemical changes--I know when my thyroid is off, I know when my hormones surge--there's a little bump mid-month, then a BIG bump about five days before the bleeding starts--and I know what real depression is.

I also know when it's safe for me to drink, and when it's NOT safe because it will start a chemical downward spiral that will end with me trying to slash open my veins and die. I am long past the days when I want my friends babysitting me to make sure I don't shuffle off the mortal coil under my own steam; it's humiliating and exhausting, and eventually, it loses you friends. So, legal or not, I guess I'm a drug addict like damn near most of America these days (at least, those of us who have health insurance with prescription drug coverage).

But I'm not a drunk, and the drugs I take are to keep me sane and functioning. It's a very different thing from the animal I'm dealing with at home. Now, Moron has been sober since the end of January when I had his ass clapped into rehab. At the court hearing, the court shrink--who it was obvious he thought he had flim-flammed, FUCK! HE IS SO GODSDAMNED STUPID!--who evaluated him stated that he had stated that he had "tried cocaine a couple of weeks before."

Right.

The reality--as we found out from his friends--is that he had a full-blown coke habit. It explained quite a bit, like why the flooze he had been trying to bed was calling in a panic, the impotence issues (there are some things NO ONE should know about older members of their family), and of course, the paranoia.

Now, understand that I really DON'T like cocaine. I've never tried it, but I really DON'T LIKE what it does to people who use it constantly--the paranoia, the itchiness, the suspicion, the coldness, the one-step-removed from the world. I don't like it. I have run away almost every time I've had it near me; I have never forgotten a coke-fueled ride home from a friend--beautiful girl to look at, smart, funny but coked out of her head and telling me how much she envied my ability to say no and stay away from it, that she and the hottest guy in the office [whom I had been crushing on up until that minute] were fucking each other and getting high all the time and were both broke and losing everything because of it; I was 18. I didn't need any other warning or example.

Alcohol is a familiar demon--I understand alcohol-fueled violence and stupidity--been surrounded by it all my life--I know the signs, the stench, the clues, and I know how to deal with it. I can kick a drunk's ass easily--let them think they're leading the dance, fake 'em out, step aside, let the punch fly by, and then step in under the guard, and WHAM! Easy-peasy, down he goes. Coke adds something to the mix that makes a drunk think he's invincible--it adds a persistence, an unstoppability that means the one punch won't take them down. It sharpens the shit the alcohol usually dims.

Once I found out that coke was in the mix, I knew why he was overheating and freaking out. And why he swung on me (and yes, as empowering as it is to know I have the PTSD under control, I still wish I had crushed his windpipe. Life would be very complicated, yet so much simpler). See, Moron learned back in '02 what happens when you swing on me--I humiliate your ass. He backed his car into mine so it looked like I had those special shocks to make the car bounce. Several times. And then, when I ran over to his car to get him to stop, he started throwing punches out the window. I caught the punches in my hands and forced his arms back, bending back his fingers.

He's now trying to blame the surgeries he's had for his hands on me--because of that, I caused all of his problems with arthritis in his hands. It's not he was a telephone lineman in the worst weather for 25 years; it's not that I was defending myself and not allowing him to pummel me--he had a right to do that.

*slams head on the desk*

Can I just state for the record that I am done? Beyond done. I had a conversation with Elder Services today because I can't take the madness any longer. Mum doesn't make it any better--she just accepts life with an addict. And I wonder why it took me so many years to get healthy, why it took me so long to wake up and realize that no one has to endure being abused. I lost it last night; she spent fuck knows how much in the grocery store to buy a shitload of stuff that we have no room for. He strong-armed her into buying a small refridgerator with an ice maker--vital for a drunk who sucks back cocktails, not necessary for two women who like to cook and need storage space. I cannot take the hoarding, I cannot take the addiction, I cannot fucking take it any longer.

So I called Elder Services. I'm getting her a lawyer to deal with the foreclosure issue; Elder Services is going to get referrals for help with the house. I've contacted her kidney doctor for a shrink. The bills will go on a schedule; there will be a calendar posted on the fridge for her fucking doctor appointments so I don't get surprises sprung on me.

As for the Moron... argh. I have one possible ace up my sleeve for that, and Gods help him if I call that one in because his ass will be nailed to a wall. There is one person who, if he finds out what that idiot has been doing, will set his ass so straight, it will be practically set in cement.

Cement might work, too, come to think of it... Nah. Considering how toxic his body is at this point, I really wouldn't want to poison the river any further.

Any advice anyone has to offer, I'll take at this point.

ADDENDUM: Just wanted to add that I DO NOT condemn drinking and recreational drugs in general. If you've got a handle on it (and I know a lot of people who can do a little and be fine), no worries. Hey, I like my shot of silver tequila (with five slices of lime because it's going to take me 10 sips to get it down and sea salt on the side) and the occasional toke still. It's just the idiots whose bodies can't handle it and who are destroying lives... *sigh*

* Today's epigram is from the first album by Third Eye Blind--amazing friggin' album from start to finish, only two songs that I didn't bother to put on my Zune. Lyrically astounding, musically fabulous... if only their other albums had been as good. This song is incredible, especially if you've ever had a drunk in your life. You will know it and weep to it.

But seriously... This is NOT a relationship

So, I've mentioned Potential Paramour. This gent is the latest "catch" from Plenty of Fish.

I'm not going into his details--inappropriate--but I am going to talk about the whole "internet dating" thing.

Because I fucking hate it.

Now, let's be clear here: I am not a bar hopper. Never have been, never will be. I learned a long time ago that, due to my anxiety issues (and solid common sense), I prefer to hang in a place where I know the crowd, know the staff, and am close enough to home that I can either walk it or grab a cab if there's no designated driver. Well, I preferred that back in my drinking days. Now... post gastric bypass and post-everything else, I really don't have to worry about it.

I was also never a clubber, again, for some pretty obvious reasons. One, I am painfully shy. Two, I HATE being touched by strangers. I've almost slugged people for bumping me (back in my less-self-aware days; now, I do breathing exercises to keep myself calm in situations). Three, fat chicks... fat chicks don't do well in club situations. I never wanted to be the "pity fuck," the one who was last choice, y'know? I dealt with that enough on the playground as a kid because I was so hopeless at sports. Four... I hate listening to music that I don't know and don't like with people I wouldn't associate with anyway.

Understand, that I am one of those people who has all the presets programmed on the car radio; I keep it set to WFNX--hit the "5" button on the dash before I shut the car off--no, it's not #1, because I have a touch of OCD and LIKE THINGS IN ORDER! This is why I am a good cataloguer--I have a natural obsession with keeping things in order, either numerical or alphabetical. 92.9 is the #1 button--2 clicks to the left is The River, then two "seeks" to get to 93.7, 2 clicks to get to 94.1... #2 takes me to 'AAF, #3 is Mum's station (I skip this one), #4 is 'ZLX--2 clicks left, 2 clicks right gets me the NH stations, #5 is 'FNX, #6 is MIX [used to be 'BCN. *sigh*], and then, depending where I am in metro Boston, the "seek" will get me anywhere from two to five stations. If I'm awake enough and need contemplative music, I'll hit the #2 button and seek to the classical station. If all of this button pushing hasn't found me a good song or a Red Sox game, a quick flick of the finger sends the adaptor into the cassette slot and the Zune goes live. I will NOT listen to crap music. Life is too important to listen to shit.

This habit drives people crazy. This is why I do not usually play the radio when I have people in the car--a) I can't focus on conversation if I am singing along to the radio; b) I like the music LOUD and can't focus on conversation because I can't hear both; and c) it's rude. The only person who's ever been able to deal with it is Captain Strap-on because he does the same thing (or tried to, on my radio, and almost got his hand taken off. DRIVER'S CHOICE! Touch my radio without my permission, I'll kill you. Or throw you out of the car if the first warning is ignored).

But I digress.

About the only place I "hang" these days because of time commitments, etc., is Starbucks where I have met New Crush and Old Crush, and because I like both of them, of course, I haven't had the cojones to ask either out. Yeah, yeah, I know. Chickenshit. I own it. Goes back to Fat Girl Syndrome. I'm trying to overcome it. Besides,I hate awkwardness. I don't usually feel it--I mean, hey, you're not feeling the attraction that I am, no problem. I don't take it personally--I know how it goes. NO WHOOPER! (This is why the whole thing with Jim Jefferies didn't faze me--I can't imagine how many women proposition him, although he lists himself as "gay" on MySpace. That was a little weird, but hey, gotta check and see if people are paying attention.) But guys get weird in those situations, and I'd hate for anyone to avoid getting coffee because of fearing to run into me. The problem with Sbux is that the crowd in there is a little young--a lot of scenery, but I'm not into cradle robbing. Otherwise... WOW. I mean, it's not like I have a rating system like the movies--"No one under XX may date this woman"--but I also have a grasp of developmental issues. You don't stop growing and changing because you hit the age of 18, and we all develop and change and grow differently. However, I am 42--I've seen a lot of shit, and while I have a lot of compassion and understanding, I also have a limited amount of time and patience.

OK, back to Potential Paramour. Now, he initiated contact via POF (Plenty of Fish). We exchanged a few emails via the site, I gave the wahoo email address, and he sent his picture (normal pic, not a dick shot, thank the Gods). We started chatting via wahoo. It was fine--normal convo exchange, flirting, bit of sex talk. It was fine--normal for these things. He has been very complimentary, very sweet--he thinks I'm cute. OK. And beautiful.

Beautiful I'm OK with--to me, that word has deeper connotations than "cute"--it implies not just physical beauty (and I am pretty; I KNOW that), but something within the soul that shines through. It's why I notice eyes--New Crush hit me like a lightening bolt because of his eyes. (Yes, he's cute--noticed that AFTER--but his eyes... WOW! This has always been the way it works for me when I feel something for someone I meet face-to-face. That was what happened with the Mighty Lucifer--I noticed his eyes before anything else, immortalized in a short story as being like "burning suns"... Jim Jefferies has those kind of brown eyes. Mmmmmm... )

But cute? I am so NOT cute. I mean, I am acerbic, sarcastic, funny... but adorable? Nah. So NOT me. I mean... CUTE? "Cute" comes with a button nose, perky little tits, and a cheerleader attitude. Me... SO NOT cute. And I find that word such a diminutive when a man says it to me when I'm grouchy. I AM NOT CUTE when I am grouchy. I am a PAIN IN THE FUCKING ASS when I'm grouchy.

There is NOTHING CUTE about stating I want to thin the herd of Cambridge bicyclists. Ditto for wanting to execute stupid people. Nothing cute about that--I'd be disturbed if someone I barely knew made statements like that, especially via IM. There is NOTHING cute about me when I'm ranting. I'm funny--hell, yes, I am funny if your sense of humor skews that way--but I am funny only if you are present for the rant and can hear the tone of voice and see the outrageous facial expressions.

I never found George Carlin "cute" when he was ranting; ditto, Celebricrush Jim. (THAT'S a good nickname! I like it better than invoking his full name--I really worry about coming off as a stalker/obsessive fan. I'm not. Following on Facebook is one thing; I have no plans to go to California or the UK over the next few months, nor will I be writing any "fan fic," because, although I do write amazing fucking porn, I prefer for it to be from direct experience.)

I find both of them scary during certain rants; that's what great comedy should be--you're pissing yourself laughing and shitting your pants in fear. VISCERAL. As unsafe as unprotected sex with an African hooker. (Yep, goin' to hell for that one. Join me at my private table by the fire, will you?) It's why certain comics never appealed to me... there were no risks in their material, nothing personal about it. I'd like to find the idiot who made a comment after Carlin died on his material that his earlier stuff was so much better--*SLAM* Louisville Slugger to the head for being an idiot. Or to the balls to make sure he doesn't reproduce. I mean, who would take the Hippy Dippy Weatherman over the Two Commandments? Really? Moron.

This is all a part of my "Sacred Fool" theory of theatre and comedy. I wrote a paper on it years ago; I need to dig it out and expand on it. No, I am not "selling out" and applying to Harvard or Yale or wherever for a Ph.D. (although I'm still toying with the Masters in Counseling/Psych--Dr. Panetta will howl with laughter over that one, if I ever ask for the recommendation. You know you've got something when your therapist wants you to be a therapist. Hey, I'm a director--you've GOT to be an armchair shrink to direct Shakespeare and get your actors throught it without them losing their shit or you losing yours).

Wow, I'm REALLY digressing and avoiding discussing relationships.

OK, back to Potential Paramour: the IMs have been intense. Sexually, we're on some of the same pages (he's a bit traditional; definitely wants to be the one "on top" as it were, which is OK to a point). What's bothering me is that we haven't met face-to-face yet; we've never even heard each other's voice, and he's pushed for a commitment.

*SCREECHING OF BRAKES*

Yeah. And I had to put my foot down.

Look, while I'll own to being a royal slut extraordinaire in the bedroom, I am NOT a whore. I don't play the field--even when I've had the option to, I haven't. I mean, I've been given permission to cheat and couldn't do it. Not my style. I mean, a threesome is one thing (and it's been years and years and years and I doubt it's something I'd ever do again. One man is enough, y'know? If I really want to go for the DP experience, there are toys for that, and another woman is out of the question. Been there, done that, booooooooooring), but cheating? Multiple discreet partners? *shudder* Gods forbid something slips and I end up pregnant. I don't think I could deal with the shame of not knowing who the father was. (And yes, I would be ashamed and embarrassed.) Hey, I think about these things.

Now, I've been in enough long distance/internet-based relationships to know that the person you deal with via IM is NOT the person you deal with in person. I am who I am--totally WYSIWYG. The crazy shit I say in this blog is the crazy shit I say in conversation. I am this person. I'm good with it. However, what you do not get via the blog is my voice--it's a big voice, loud when I laugh or get pissed off. You don't hear the revolving accents--from Standard American to Brit Posh to Thick Boston to Atlantic Canadian to Irish Brogue to Aussie to California Surf to wherever. You don't get the bouncing moods, from utterly manic to serenely calm to utterly outraged and furious to Writer Mode to grouchy to happy... this is normal me. I'm An Experience.

Not everyone can deal with the Empress Experience. I mean, I'm actually a fairly easy human being to be around, as long as I'm allowed a certain degree of control over myself and immediate surroundings. I let people be who they are and accept them. I only get contentious when someone tries to impose unnecessary demands and during the 36 hours of PMDD. (And then I take half a tab of Xanax, have a good cry, and sleep.) But I know that not everyone can deal with it, especially men.

So... I have not made a commitment, and I didn't allow myself to be manipulated into making one (which is raising a red flag already). We'll see how the face-to-face goes, but I honestly don't have a lot of hope. I'm going to give him a chance, but...

Ah, well.