T minus last week plus one day and 1 minute

Accept friend request and realize need Facebook hiatus.

T minus last week plus one day

Receive a friend request from Joe Kennedy's 1929 shoeshine boy.

T minus last week

Run into an old friend whom I haven't seen for a variety of reasons that are none of your business. The comments regarding FaceBook and my activities thereon dismaze* me.

*Dismaze- (verb) to disturb and amaze in equalling proportions.

T minus ?

Contemplate taking a Book of Face hiatus.

T minus late summer

Spend too much time noodling around on FaceBook, mostly because I'm out of town, but continuing when I return.

Kayak Yaketty Yak

El Guapo and I embarqued on The Annual Hammonasset Kayak Extravaganza today.

It was splendid.

El Guapo was ceremoniously dumped from his kayak.

EG "Goddammit."

T&A "Hey, whatcha doin' in there?"

I grabbed his paddle. He righted his kayak. He float downstream beside it for 15 yards. For the next 15, he piggybacked my kayak as I paddled him safely to shore.*

He dumped the water, climbed back in, had a smoke and paddled along.

And we larfed.

The Best Annual Hammonasset Kayak Extravaganza EVER!

Just in case you think I'm a heartless fuck - I know the date. I don't wish to be near media. I know what this means to me. I don't need the media to give me visual reminders or tell me how I should feel about it. Plus, if there are commercials involved and someone is making money, fuck you.

*Always wear your life jacket. Thank you.

opposition

Without opposition there is no growth. It is hard to argue with that logic. A state in which we are free from problems or constraints is not happiness. Happiness is transcending all opposition and obstacles and continuing to grow.

Daisaku Ikeda, Buddhist Scholar (Thank you, ND)

What I Wish For You

I wish you had been in Central Park with me at 7:30 this evening.

You didn't even have to be with me. Just there. On the north side of the Great Lawn looking south.

One of those exquisite, gasping reminders of why I've lived in New York for 25 years...

Gawdy, joyous skyscrapers doing what they do best--scraping the sky.

Low lying clouds with sunset illumination in co-dependent palates.

Hullabaloo* lights dancing in those co-dependent clouds.

Heaven in the park.

Wish you'd been there.

*They are, in fact, called ballyhoo. But hullabaloo is better, n'est pas?

I Suck

For a number of reasons.

But I will not count the ways. I will let you do that.

What I have to say in my defense is that I've been a little ill at ease since being published in far more reputable zines, and by being published outing myself. A certain anonymity is gone. And a certain anonymity is freeing.

I'm sure I'll come up with something for you all. If you all still exist. But I doubt it will be this weekend. This weekend I'm naked for 40 hours straight and easy breezy lemon squeezy.

Free.

See you on the flipside.

I Wonder Why

I am knocked out. Honestly, on my ass. Spent the last couple of days feeling stoned and let me tell you...I ain't stoned.

And then I looked at my work schedule of the last couple of weeks...

Week 1 (which included being thrown on in a show I'd never seen with 5 hours of rehearsal) = 55 hours.

Week 2 = 60 hours.

Week 3 = 55 hours.

Week 4 (wherein there was no day off and we saw Ye Olde Pass Out and Break Face on Bureau Trick. And lest we forget, my period.) = 60 hours.

Don't blame my union. When I arrived in Pittsfield I accepted a freelance job thinking I had oodles of time. Then I double contracted up here. Couldn't pull out of the freelance gig at that point. And Equity has no rules about double contract meal breaks, hours of rest, etc. The powers that be did the best they could with what little me they had.

And I worked out five days out of eight.

I laugh because this was supposed to be my work vacation. Small role, big mountains, huge spirit.

But today I lie in bed, corset-free, listen to the rain, read "Atonement" and drink Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper.

What? No TaB?

I seem to have imbibed all the TaB in the Berkshires. There is no more.

Why does Jesus hate me? Can't he pull a little surreptitious transmogrification for Ye Olde Tizmeister? Just this once?

Slurp.

Faintsville

I passed out at 6 am this morning. This is not a common occurrence for me. Basically, once a decade. So I should be good-to-go until 2020 or so.

Hoo-weeeee!

What caused it? Probably the G.I. distress that ripped 4 pounds off me in less than a minute…quite exciting. What caused the G.I. distress? Could have been the corset I’m sporting for the skit. Could have been a wee pesky ovarian cyst bursting. Or a delightful cocktail of the two.

My 1990s fainting spell coincided with Poppy being given his first stress test. That one and only stress test ended with him in the operating room getting a triple by-pass. When I say coincided I mean I was in Germany while he was in Connecticut. Exact same time. Not that six pm RAPTURE time crap, but proper six-hour-difference-time-zone-time. I think we may have been connected.

Perhaps this morning Poppy was slapping me upside the head wicked hard. I wonder what I’ve done to offend?

And what is the Heaven-Pittsfield time zone difference?

As I lay on the floor for an hour after my face slammed into the bureau in an unceremonious fashion, I bemoaned my fate, “If I was married, there would be someone to pick me up of the floor. If I was married, maybe the poor sod would have even helped me off the can so I never would have passed out at all!”

I went through a similar self-pitying monologue about a decade ago when I choked on a piece of chicken. That was the fainting spell of the aughts...after self-heimliching on the third-floor banister of my building. (I got cheers from the ER attendants, “How wise of you not to die!”)

Ten years ago, I was in desperate need of Henry Heimlich Husband at 4:30 in the afternoon. No husband of mine would have been home at that hour anyway. And this morning? Well, right now I’m cohabitating with six other people. SIX! Not a one heard the mighty oak topple. If I was married, Freddy Faint Fiance wouldn’t have heard it either.

So, I sit in bed. A little creaky. A fat lip. A gash in my nose. Icing all with frosty cans of TaB.

I'm pretty sure it wasn't supposed to be this way, but it is and I’m not going to involve myself in THAT monologue. I’d rather drink the beloved TaB, meditate and watch a wee bit of Izzard.

Truth

Not everyone can see the truth, but everyone can BE the truth. - Franz Kafka

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...