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.

In Absentia

Hi. This is the artist formerly known as TiZ. I haven't been around much recently, have I?

Mi dispiace.

I've been spending my time doing so many things that scare me out of my wits, that I haven't had time to place my fingers on the wee keys and send you little missives comprised of 0s and 1s through the interweb.

Mi dispiace.

Two of the things that have scared me out my wits?

I have hung my reiki shingle. Please contact me for more info.

I did a reading of my play last night for a room full of equally beautiful and terrifyingly smart people.

It went well.

I lost two pounds.

And they were kind and brilliant and insightful/inciteful and helped me in ways I could never have imagined. I'm embarrassed by the riches.

See you soon.

P.S. My claim was denied. That theater can go fuck itself. TTFN

A Tale of Two Theatres, Redux

It was the best of times...

At the San Jose Rep. So many good things to say about this theater, including the little gifty they sprang on me two weeks ago.

Because I did two extra days of work for them at the beginning and end of the run, they sprang for...wait for it...another week of health insurance, bringing me to 20 weeks, which gives me a full year of health insurance. Because they did the right thing, they just saved me anywhere between $1900 and $3800 depending on when/if/how I Cobra'ed.

Who knew Cobra was a verb?

An actor does.

It was the worst of times...

When my blog went off-road, y'all had to know a situation was bad. And basically just kept getting worse. So many bad things to say about this theater (that goes unnamed...somewhat akin to Beetle Juice), including the little gifty they sprang on me two weeks ago.

A denied Worker's Comp Claim. The insurance company didn't deny it on their own, the theater did first. While I was working for them. While I still had three weeks under their employ. Did they cop to it whilst I was in their presence? Of course not.

Because that would have been the right thing.

I spent the morning in a teleconference with their state's Industrial Commission. We actually had some laughs at that hour. Do I think it's going my way? Probably not. But it was a real nice clambake.

I'm leaving behind the foolishness, incredulity, darkness, despair, nothingness and Hell.

Forward, March.

When Worlds Collide

O-ho-ho-ho-kay.

Who needs fiction when you can take a gander at my goosey non.

Because I’m not sure anyone is creative enough to make this shit up.

First of all - Theater, meet Ob/Gyn. Ob/Gyn, meet Theater.

Secondly - I have heard of doctor/patient confidentiality. But is there a similar code for patient/doctor confidentiality?

And C - Will Swenson,* I’m so sorry for what is about to commence.

I had an appointment today at the coochie doc—just an annual** to check on the state of the tumbleweed in my sahoohoo. (Do I share too much?)

All was fine in the saddle and we were trotting along nicely when all of a sudden (just around the boob spot check) we broke into full gallop.

He saw "Priscilla."

Seems he’s a fan of Bette’s, attended the extravaganza and LOVED it. (MWJM, 70s.) He was even seated next to a politica, who posed the question, “Are all the men in the show gay?”

TiZ - “Well, I don’t know about the other guys, but Will Swenson is definitely not.”

And that was the end of any semblance of professionalism, barrier or sanity. Just me and my Docteur de HooHoo reveling over the glory that is Will Swenson.

I was pretty much naked.

As we segued to “Hair,” (Will, he had no idea you were the same guy. Kudos to you. And he was thrilled to hear you are lovely.), he realized he’d left another patient hanging and excused himself.

I dressed, sat myself in his office, and the festival of love soon continued. After he politely asked me to close the door, we sang both “Masturbation” and “Black Boys are Delicious.”*** He momentarily segued to “Threepenny Opera” (My doctor is quite gifted.) and then…back to “Hair” with help from the cast album on his iPhone.

There was a slight detour on the hospital network computer to Google Will. Much was learned thanks to Wikipedia.

Thanks, Wikipedia.

If you’re looking for a feast for the eye, Google Image “Nick Adams.”

TiZ – “To answer the politica’s question, I think HE’S gay.”

Doc – “Ya think so?”

Thanks, Google Image

Then the obligatory phonecall to his wife where “All Things Will” are discussed.

Finally, close to an hour later, we’re back on the subject of little ol’ me. I know, I KNOW, my friends, you’ve spent the entirety of this blahg post worrying about the state of my sahoohoo.

It’s quite healthy, thank you.

But the rest of my life? Just a little bit off.

TiZzy…Queen of the Desert.

* Yes. I know TiZ and AsS was declared a “name-free” zone, but Will’s name is imperative for humor and understanding. This will never be Page 6. Instead let’s call it, “TiZandAsS Post, Page Sex.”

** Way close to anal, right?

*** We actually sing most every visit. It’s our thing. Don’t judge.

A Tale of Two Theaters

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way..." --Charles Dickens

Blog post to come.

Pajama Party

I know that in the past you have heard tales of my "alone days." No, not sad, pop ballad "All By Myself" salad days.

Glorious alone days.

Where I do nothing. See no one. Utter not a word.

It's my time to decompress.

As "alone days" are going to be hard to come by for quite a while, I've developed a bit of a new regimen.

The Pajama Party.

It is now 1:30 in the afternoon and I am still in my pajamas. I've been out, I've seen and I've uttered, but I've done it all from the comfort of my pajamas.

Don't be dirty.

And in my own time. I am master of my domain.

Don't be dirty.

A working vacation in a manner.

Don't be...

Until the next glorious alone day, this will have to do.

And it do me good.

...dirty.

Gone to the Mattresses

My doorbell buzzed at 4:25 this morning. Since I was deep in the arms of Morpheus after one of the best massages of my life, it took me a while to realize it was buzzing...amazing because it's only six feet from my head.

And buzzing.

And buzzing.

For fear it was someone I loved, I answered it. The response?

Unintelligible. Drunky McDrunkersons pushing only my button.

After the best massage of my life.

I said goodbye, informing them, "If you don't leave immediately, I will call the police."

I also said goodbye to sleep. I went into lockdown. I locked and relocked both entrances. Checked all the windows. Closed the few curtains I have. Checked under the bed. Checked in the bathroom and closets.

No one there.

Ridiculous, I know. However, I have been the ____________ (I hate the V word so find another, please) of burglary, robbery, assault and sexual assault here in the city.

And a good old-fashioned mugging in New Haven.

Lah de dah.

Sometimes I wonder why those things happened...especially at moments like this when I've gone to the mattresses and streamed 30 ROCK on Netflix 'til the sun came up and I felt safe.

And the only answer I can come up with is I live a lot of life...not haphazardly or dangerously (unless you count the TaB)...just TONS OF LIFE. (Funny. I typoed "life" with the word "love.")

And there's bound to be some shit where there's that much life.

And where there's that much shit, there must be a pony, right?

I'm counting on the pony.*

*And if the pony's with the mattress? Call me Catherine the Great.

HAPPY !!,000

You e-lightful Bleaders. You did it!

You and ALL the Arabic readers where TiZ translates to something along the lines of "hoo hoo."

I know there are some blogs that reach 11,000+ hits in a day, but since I remain Ann Anonymous, do not promote (other than the occasional shout out on the Book of Face), and am just "the nicest random blog I've ever come across,"* I count myself mighty blessed. And do not feel like I'm toiling away in oblivion.

And for those of you who DO feel like you're toiling away in oblivion and not getting the credit you are due, my universal shout-out today is, "Excellent job. I appreciate you so."

See you in the land of 0s and 1s...it's Heaven.com.

*Thank you, random reader from India...where TIZ does not mean "hoo hoo."