Douchetard

"Don't be a douchetard." --TiZ

That's all I'm saying here. Refrain from douchetardiness. It's easy enough.

Just say no.

P.S. I'm changing text colors for the duration of my stay in the Berky-shires. Does this one work?

Backbone

Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where you backbone ought to be.

--Clementine Paddleford

You're So Vain

You're so vain, you probably think this blogpost is about you.
You're so vain, I'll bet you think this blogpost is about you.
Don't you? don't you?

It doesn't really scan, does it?

But it makes me laugh nonetheless.

Children Are Waiting

But not for me.

I’m in my late 40s, single, an actress and live in a 5^th floor walk-up. I settle for productions of ANNIE where 75 little girls play the game “What animal are you?” As I prepare to respond, “Mangy dog,” they chime in “Tiz, you’re a dove. You’re definitely a dove.”

Children are waiting.

65 orphans are waiting in Kyrgyzstan.

Read more at Elephant Journal

"Like." Comment. Tweet. Share. Please send to like-minded individuals.

Carlos II of Spain

I saw a show a couple of weeks ago. Shan't mention which one because I do wish to continue working in this industry. But when I call my agents and ask them to be extra special nice to any client in that production, you know there's a problem.

The creative pedigree looks great on paper, but the result is akin to royal inbreeding...you end up with Carlos II of Spain.

And like him, it ain't pretty.

What a music theater piece needs to thrive...

1. A tone. (And no...a patchwork quilt of tones will not suffice. Weave them through...seamlessly, please.)

2. To know what it's about.

3. Who the protagonist is.

4. Give the protagonist the "I want" song that reflects what the show is about. And make it one of the best songs in the show.

5. A reason for the show to start. (see #6)

6. Do not "passover" what makes this night different from all other nights.

7. Give the 11 o'clock number to the protagonist. Make it one of the best songs in the show (please) and try not to follow with an inconsequential duet between secondary characters at 11:15. Bring it on home.

8. Employ a director who understands this very particular art form.

9. Listen to the soundscape...make sure you have the "la la" and the "blah blah" in the correct magical balance to project your piece forward.

10. Write spectacular gezintas for the songs.

11. Compose songs within a range where you can understand the words/ideas/emotions being expressed.

12. Make sure all your characters are there for a reason. Aimless bodies wandering through the landscape rarely focus a piece.

There are other "rules." Please feel free to write in about them, dear bleaders.

I bring these 12 up because they were all missing. Each and every one of them. There are always exceptions to the rule. Rules change. You can miss one or two (Not 1-3, 5 or 6.) , but ALL? By doing this you make my colleagues' jobs very difficult. VERY difficult. And my colleagues aim to please. They're good kids. They want to be loved. But they are often quite smart. Most of them way smarter than I am. And they know when these elements are awry. And they lose heart. And get frustrated.

And they know you're blaming them for lack of audience response.

And that pisses me off.

First, do no harm. If you're not going to follow any of these rules, blog. In the blogosphere you can be the crazy-ass inbred ruler of your own domain.

LIKE ME!

Why

don't guys I've dated tell me they're/they've getting/gotten married? Especially when I speak with them within a month of said blessed event? And we've always been friendly?

It's happened a number of times and the most recent discovery of this was this morning. On Facebook. AWESOME.

I would really like to know the answer to this question. I know at least one of you has personal experience and can please feel free to freakin' write me about it. Privately if need be. Please don't make me hunt you down. I'm just...baffled.

People are funny.

Does that holy sacrament, or at least VERY legal arrangement, just SLIP the mind?

Bought jam, smushed a frog with the car, got married, went on a trolley ride, did the dishes...

Crap

it is not.

The 43,325,123rd draft of my play is not crap. It's clear. It's tight. It's funny. It's slightly sloppy. It hurts.

It's kinda like me.

I'm so confused.

It kinda works.

Kinda like me.

Kinda.

Like.

Me.

What do I do now?

Moment of Truth

Draft # 43,325,123 of my play T.O.M.B. is printed out, sitting on my counter, calling for perusal.

My hands are over my ears and I am singing, "I'm not listening, la la la. Hoo dee hoo dee hoo, I can't hear you."

I think I'll go to a movie.

It won't last for long but for right now I just can't look. Nope. I've worked hard, I've slept it, I've lassoed so many beautiful friends into helping. Okay, I hog-tied them. And they were good and kind and helpful.

But I'm not excited to look at it. I fucking dread it.

Mom, I used the "fuck" word.

'Cause it could be crap.

But maybe it's not...

Call Me Naive

Same Sex Marriage Bill...no brainer, right?

Seemingly not. But I can't figure out who Who WHO feels they have the right to deny this rite.

Why deny love? Is there so much of it floating about that we have to tamp it down when it ignites in a way that might seem unfamiliar?

I don't think there's a surplus of love. Do you?

I'm not sure what I'm writing. I'm wicked tired. Yes. I wrote wicked.

I guess they're wicked tired up in Albany too, because they've called it quits for the night.

Sleep well, people, and make it a right.

My Union

A union is only as strong as its members, right?

Actual conversation at the mid-town telephone and toilet...

Monitor: Sir, there is no food allowed.

Actor: This isn't food. It's a lollipop.

Monitor: Sir, please stop licking that and rewrap it.

Actor: What if I tear off the stick. It's a lozenge. It will only be in my mouth.

Monitor: Sir, there is no food allowed.

Actor: What...I can't have a lozenge?

You can't write this shit.

And yet I have.

Happy Father's Day

It’s a bittersweet time of year for me. The minute the Dad merchandise hits the greeting store racks I remember, “Pop died now.”

Not on Father’s Day, but soon thereafter. Father’s Day was spent in the hospital (as were the previous two weeks) in a great deal of pain. We celebrated there but it was tough to make the ol’ intubated cracker comfortable, let alone happy.

So, not only do I not have a daddy to celebrate, it’s hard to even celebrate his memory…bone and sinew, this is a time of mourning.

He was my greatest ally and my fiercest foe. A gentle, warped, generous soul.

So today all I can muster is a little water and some “bunny be gone” on his flowers, and brushing off his tombstone.

Wouldn’t it be great if I could celebrate other people’s dads? Wouldn’t it be? Not up to it yet. Not mature enough. I don’t know.

Other times of the year? Yes.

Now? No.

Will it always be thus? Doubtful. But for now, it just is.

Happy St. Rusty's Day

was published in a beautiful little ezine. Who knew? I certainly didn't.

Maybe Rusty knew. I hope so.

But you can read it here if you wish...

Helloooooooooooo

My adoring adorers*...

Oh, it has been a while hasn't it?

I've been oh-so-busy living life. Since I wrote you last I've enjoyed a desk job, theatrical joy, recording bliss, the honor of a grant and...

going on dates.

Some of the above shall be illuminated. Some of the above shall remain quietly honored.

Let it be known I have felt valued and cared for and been the recipient of great kindnesses. And I appreciated it all. He was the right person at the right time. And then the time ended. It's all good.

But there have been some freak-show dates that I fondly refer to as "Drinks and a Show." Those I'll share. Not to be mean. But because...

they are not to be believed.

*Oh no...my ego ain't half big enough to come up with that. That's OPJK's ideology.

Happy 12,000

You bleaders!

Actually, Happy 12,137. I'm a little late to the game. This happens. Things have been busy. Happy busy. Confusing busy. Money and opportunity busy.

And on the apartment front, I can finally walk the length of my mountain aerie rabbit warren barefoot without becoming filthy, sticky or nail-ridden.

Definitely a step in the right direction.

I may even have some guests over.

Whaaaaaaaaaat?

Happy MotherF*&^%R Day

I guess I'm not a holiday person. I'll do it. But unless it's TiZ DaY...will someone get to work on that?

I love my mother, aka NaNa. And as she put it, she just got Happy Mother's Two Weeks, so she wasn't so offended when I got my arse on a train back to NY early the official day of.

The train trip? Felt like two weeks.

'Cause some arse had given their toddler a penny whistle.

Let me repeat that.

Someone gave their toddler a penny whistle.

One more time.

Penny.

Whistle.

Some arse missed Parenting 101. And it's a Pass/Fail Course. You have to REALLY be off to screw it up.

Metro North seems to bring out the bad behavior in everyone. Or is it just holidays? Or is it the magical mix of holidays and Metro North? But some other arse let their child scream for an hour. When I went to the WC on the train (not suggested) I found that they child was in his stroller...across the aisle from his parents...facing away from them. I played with him for ten minutes. He stopped crying. For ten minutes. I left. He cried 'til he got off the train. It didn't make me feel any better that the crying stopped on the train because I figured he was probably crying wherever he was in the Universe.

Strangely, the crying was a more pleasant sound than the penny whistle.

Unnatural parenting on both parts.

So needless to say, the idea of attending a baby shower the next day was daunting.

It's a name-free zone here at T&A but my friends, starting this venture late in life, who are debunking the myth of pregnancy one Facebook status update at a time, call swaddling a "baby burrito," and tell friends, "Don't worry. Someone will love it." They made it all better. They're real. They care. I don't think they're doing it for any other reason than they love one another, had sex and LOOK! There's an alien growing.

They laugh a lot.

This will be a happy baby.

And I believe I will be happy to ride Metro North with this family of three any day of the year.

So Many Things

I'm supposed to be doing since this renovation began that I'm just not.

What I have been doing is eating. And I've gained 6 pounds in 3 weeks.

What I'm finding fascinating is that my clothes still fit. I know it's not for long and the minute I wash them, I'm toast, but until then...mangez moi.

What I have been doing is going to the gym. It's near my filthy home, yet not my filthy home, so I feel pretty safe there. Especially in the sauna. I love a good sauna. And you can get this once cranked up to 180 degrees. It is a place of respite.

Except when...

The woman with...oh crap...what's it called when you make involuntary noises and curse a lot? Well, she not only doesn't like it when someone else comes in the sauna, she barks. It's fascinating but...not restful.

And then the plastic bag lady. I've complained to management about her before but to no avail. I missed the tell-tale plastics when I entered last time. But her routine tends to be

1. Leave plastic bag in sauna to heat up goodies while showering.

2. Come in and rattle plastic bag, eventually find lotion and juicily slather body.

3. Rattle plastic bag, replace lotion, find razor. Shave. Rattle.

4. Leave and Rinse.

5. Repeat plastic bag rattle, find lotion, apply to hair.

6. Repeat rattle, find comb, brush very long hair that comes out in clumps that are left on floor.

7. Leave and rinse.

I'm never quite sure what happens after that because I throw up in my mouth and have to leave. Although this last time SHE TOOK HER BAG WITH HER! So there I am chanting a la Rainman, "Maybe she's gone forever. Maybe she's gone forever. Maybe she's gone forever." only to find her listening at the door.

Awesome.

At the Russian Spa down on the Lower East Side, the eucalyptus steam room has a sign inside that reads, "No Shaving, Spitting or Picking of Teeth. Thank you, The Management."

I may have to steal it.

And may it be a lesson in courtesy to all. A "one size fits all" maxim.

I Confess

that I read my horoscope. Daily. And not just one. A couple a two three.

Rising Sign scope - Today, Apr. 20, 2011

Old traumas and phobias from the past may be bubbling up from your unconscious, and may have you wondering why you're thinking about such ancient history, and why it's upsetting you. This is actually a healthy process, as it releases outdated, negative emotions to make way for new and positive ones. The Moon is doing the important job of clearing the way for a new awareness.

I had to laugh after what I wrote yesterday.

Let the clearing begin.

Because Gilbert is still here and he's not going.

And I Am Telling You

Now that it's become crystal clear that Gilbert is never leaving...

He actually sang, "And I Am Telling You" to me yesterday.

No he didn't.

But since all that was accomplished yesterday was finishing the closet trim and painting the ceiling in the living room, well, I think he's just having a splendid time and/or the church is trying to gaslight me out of my place.

Okay, why am I writing this? There must be a reason I'm writing this.

Oh yeah. Got it. Finally. Phew. I finally figured out why this whole renovation thingy is making me so sad and cranky and frightened. The last time I was having my home worked on was when I was living in the bachelorette pad near the Cuban Mission. And was playing in the Miss Managed Mischke Show. Things were not going well at work and I wanted to crawl out of my skin. Things were not going well at home and critters wanted to crawl out of the walls....literally.

There were large animals in my walls and large holes in my walls.

Nightmare. AnthropomorTiZm.

One would think 15 years later there was nothing left to dredge up regarding that time.

Think again.

Or don't. Maybe this will finally exercise and exorcise those demons. Make the demons dance 'til they drop.

Lah de dah.

Or they could strike up a rousing rendition of "And I Am Telling You." If they do, I hope they do the skinny, giant-haired Jennifer Holliday version where she does a full-on backbend on the final note. 'Cause then I'll laugh.

The People in the Pic

Two-fold - People in the Picture is the last Broadway (or Great LORTway) show I was ueber-shortlisted for.* Can't complain. Every ounce of the audition experience was extraordinarily wonderful...including both a director and a nine-year-old who spoke fluent TiZ.

Here's the second fold - Because of the renovations (Oh yes, they continue. Gilbert is painting the closet room as we speak and then moving onto the living room, which should take, perhaps, a year.), I'm de-cluttering again...this time with the help of Marylee Fairbanks and The 24 Things. (Check it out.)

Okay...enough with the parenthetical phrases cluttering this post.

I'm throwing away pictures...and the frames they come in. Pictures that make me feel bad. The people in them don't tend to...it's either who gave them to me or the reason they were given that are the issue. There's enough to feel bad about it, I don't need to be reminded...

1. That I missed my brother's wedding. I was poor, I had a job, and it conflicted. Did I hurt my family? Yes. Did I hurt myself? Yes. Was I back on Broadway within three months? Yes. Did that job lead to other amazing jobs? Yes. Was it the right choice? Don't know but I'm really tired of thinking about it.

B. That I once starred in a Broadway show and was not particularly appreciated...by management. I was very much appreciated by a Japanese doctor who took photos of my final curtain call, framed it and sent it to my home address...that had been supplied by the mischke management. Then he started to send me his late mother's clothing...C.O.D...FROM JAPAN. When I returned the second batch he supposedly sent a rather disgusting letter...that a friend read and destroyed believing I didn't need that kind of vitriol in my life.

3. This friend's picture remains.

I wonder if I can throw out pictures that live in my noggin too?

*Oh preposition. Should read "shortlisted for, Bitch."

Home Sweet Home

I didn't realize how much I love my mountain aerie rabbit warren until it was not mine for the resting. I haven't had the joy of sleeping in my own bed since last Thursday night. Due to water damage and the building settling over thirteen years, my walls are reminiscent of Miss Haversham's establishment, and they are plastering, painting and changing out fifty year old kitchen cabinets.

They are making a nuisance of themselves.

It isn't that I haven't been staying in lovely places. Nana's for two nights. A Castle in the Clouds on Park West with a Pretty Princess for three. Beautiful friend's beautiful floor for one (with a delicious and nutritious breakfast made for me this morning). And tonight, a beautiful Bronxville Tudor with a family I have loved for years.

But tomorrow I am reclaiming my territory. I am not looking gift horses in the mouth. I am appreciative to the bone. But I've been carrying my life in a backpack and a shoulder bag while auditioning and conducting business. I need my home.

My super was surprised. He's only known me to be rather joyous and complying.

"Hi. I've been out of my house for a week. It's less than half done. I'm moving back in tomorrow night. You can work on the front of it, entering and exiting from the living room door and I'll close off and live in the back."

"I'll call you later. We had an emergency at the church so we haven't even made it into your apartment today. It should move faster once we're back in."

"No. You won't call me back later. I'm sorry there was an emergency at the church AND something that needed to be finished in another apartment while I was kind enough to vacate mine. The work you've done is beautiful and I'm moving back in now.

"Well, your walls were terrible."

"Yes, well, that is not my fault. Thank you for the beautiful work you're doing and I'm moving back in."

With age comes a pleasant bitchiness.

Tomorrow I will be home. Home. HOME. And it will be sweet.