I was thinking about my dad this morning. He passed away in early 2005. Went in for heart surgery at NYU and was dead five months later from the damage accumulated from post operative infections. He hated New York City. I always thought that maybe it was intuitive.
My father was a very social creature. He would get up at 4:30 in the morning so that he could join the gang down at the local gas station eating nook to commisserate before they went out to do logging or road work or whatever occupation required an early morning start time. The people in my town always enjoyed the oral history, especially laced with humor. There seemed to be a practical intelligence to them. And they didn't really care who you were as long as you could entertain or be entertained. Dad lived for this stuff.
Dad was also very quietly an active contributor to the well being of the town. Later I would hear what he did for the conservation of the town and the Delaware River that ran through it. He was always going to meetings for zoning or the park commission or what have you. It wasn't something we spoke about at home. I read about it later. Which is why the following does not suprise me.
His friends were not generally aware of the direness of his condition until the end. They were a little shocked that he actually died. There wasn't much to visit because he couldn't communicate. Mostly he drifted off as his body lost the battle as one infection after the other slowly defeated it. There was a helplessness permeating the situation that was infuriating. His friends were used to fighting for him if he was wronged and there was nothing they could do.
At the time that Dad passed away, there was a terrible flood in Callicoon. It rained so hard that the river and the creek did something that hadn't happened since I was a little girl. It breached the banks, eating and spitting out most of the things in its path. One of the few places we had together as a community....the only besides a small park where they set up the farmers market in the summer in recent years....was The Youth Center. It was where we had town picnics and the local swimming pool. There was also a playground, a basketball court, tennis courts and a large softball field. Nothing fancy. Built for practical upkeep and longevity. The waters annihilated it all, leaving the playground buried in dirt. The floors of the main building were wrecked. The soft ball field looked like a meteor hit it, pitted with ditches. The center, so important to the community, was a not for profit reliant on the kindness of donations. It would cost the community center which was maintained by a local board of directors, thousands of dollars to fix the damage.
One day soon after the flood, a convoy of trucks drove through town. They passed by the window of the local newspaper where one of the men who sat on the youth center's board of directors worked and continued on to the youth center then pulled into the baseball field. The man on the board of directors became immediately concerned because no money had been had been confirmed for repairs yet. He walked across the very resilient bridge that went over the creek to the remains of the softball fields and found a man leading a group of workers. They were in the process of filling in and repairing the destroyed playing field.
"Excuse me? Who are you?" He asked. The man gave him his name, returning with, "And who are you?" The man on the board of directors said, "I am not aware of a work order for this. Who sent you?" And the man with the work crew said, "Eddie Curtis." "But Ed is dead," said the newpaper man. "Now, ain't that just like him?" The contractor replied.
The newspaper man on the board of directors gave up trying to make sense of the situation and began to walk away. The man with the trucks called back to him, "Hey!" He yelled, "Where do I send the bill?" He pointed to heaven, "Up here?" And then he pointed to hell, "Or down there?"
The workers finished the field and drove out of Callicoon. The following year it was flooded again, this time taking out the out building. But the softball field remained fixed. I'd say it had guardian angel but Dad was an atheist and would just say that it was because his friends did good work. He would be happiest that I was told this story in the local grocery store by one of his cohorts. Because ain't that just like Callicoon?
Friday, December 31, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
The Buffy Horse
If it ain't booze and coke, it's Netflix instant play streaming. I'm what they call an addictive personality. Or tenacious. All depends on the person you are talking to in the inside of my head at the time. There isn't a lot I can afford to distract myself with these days. And, realistically, I do need distractions. Comic books are out for right now because there isn't extra cash, even to justify by reselling....my normal ruse to get around my guilt. Music is a constant. I don't even consider that an addiction as much as an is. Like comedy is an is. And looking for writing is in is. Books are commitments that need to be schlepped around. I have about 10 in my inner queue waiting for me once I am done with.....this. This thing that has usurped my existence until forced. Buffy.
I discovered Netflix instant play when I acquired a Mac laptop that would allow it. Money was so tight that I was getting set to ditch the service altogether but it opened a world of movies, mostly old or straight to video. But some new ones. And the rockumentaries that I am always ordering on regular Netflix. It encouraged me to seek out new things that I never would have looked at but it didn't require leaving the house or paying extra. I eventually delved into the television shows that had become popular in other countries but never aired in the USA. I became a huge fan of The It Crowd in the UK and Slings And Arrows from Canada. Shows that ran a couple of seasons and had either been canceled or had not released more recent seasons to Netflix instant streaming yet. I also caught up on The Tudors, Weeds, a couple of other shows I wanted to see but couldn't access. Shows in short spurts during some down time. And then I decided to watch Buffy The Vampire Slayer. A show that looked genuinely stupid to me when it aired initially. I had put Sarah Michelle Gellar in the Melissa Joan Hart tri name basket. Along with other blonds from her generation like Britany Spears. But it was there. And so I began.
It is like drinking. I walked away from drinking relatively easily but the actual doing of it was like uncorking a bad genie out of the bottle. There seriously was no such thing as one. There never is. Some of us just ain't born to do half-assed. Same with sex. It isn't easy getting me into bed but, man, when you do I am there body soul and every ounce of enthusiasm a person can muster. Somehow I stumbled on a show that I love that ran 7 years, 6 with over 20 episodes a season. Roughly 140 at 45 minutes a pop.
I blame Spike. There is no character on television that I have found more entertaining and ridiculously hot. I just want Buffy to hook up with him and end it already. It is admirable as hell that a story line based on something as goofy as a vampire slayer can last for this long and still remain interesting. The writers were smart enough to take unexpected turns (while there is some of the worst background directing I've ever seen...which adds to the charm). The little sister twist in Season 5 that looked like they totally underestimated the audience for two shows explained itself with a non-traditional turn. I didn't see it coming. I don't see a lot of things coming. I get the cult of Buffy now. I regret not going into LA during that time period just so I could have delved more into stunt work. Because Buffy alone seemed to provide an endless supply of work. I want to do more horror film just to romp around in special effect shots. Buffy is infectous on many levels. Buffy Buffy Buffy.
There is talk of a new series. Fools. You will never get a cast that will be able to live in the shadows of this group. Even the extras will be too sleek and perfect compared to the awkward characters wandering the background. No one can match James Marster or Alyson Hannigan in there perfect imperfections. Even Sarah Michelle Gellar who looks so bland from a distance has quirkiness that I doubt will be found easy to match let alone top.
Sigh. I am a third of a way through Season 6. That leaves about 28 more episodes. I will shove them down my mental pie hole as fast and hard as I can so I can move on with my life. Maybe start reading comic books again which only come out monthly. Or a book. With 3 or 4 hundred pages that will end within a month. Or a drink. Drinking would be easier. Free me, Buffy. Let me out of the cult. Give me your season 7 episode 20 something cup o' kool aid and stop me from writing 20 minutes worth of hot vampire jokes. I wonder if there is a meeting I can go to? How many seasons did Angel run?
I discovered Netflix instant play when I acquired a Mac laptop that would allow it. Money was so tight that I was getting set to ditch the service altogether but it opened a world of movies, mostly old or straight to video. But some new ones. And the rockumentaries that I am always ordering on regular Netflix. It encouraged me to seek out new things that I never would have looked at but it didn't require leaving the house or paying extra. I eventually delved into the television shows that had become popular in other countries but never aired in the USA. I became a huge fan of The It Crowd in the UK and Slings And Arrows from Canada. Shows that ran a couple of seasons and had either been canceled or had not released more recent seasons to Netflix instant streaming yet. I also caught up on The Tudors, Weeds, a couple of other shows I wanted to see but couldn't access. Shows in short spurts during some down time. And then I decided to watch Buffy The Vampire Slayer. A show that looked genuinely stupid to me when it aired initially. I had put Sarah Michelle Gellar in the Melissa Joan Hart tri name basket. Along with other blonds from her generation like Britany Spears. But it was there. And so I began.
It is like drinking. I walked away from drinking relatively easily but the actual doing of it was like uncorking a bad genie out of the bottle. There seriously was no such thing as one. There never is. Some of us just ain't born to do half-assed. Same with sex. It isn't easy getting me into bed but, man, when you do I am there body soul and every ounce of enthusiasm a person can muster. Somehow I stumbled on a show that I love that ran 7 years, 6 with over 20 episodes a season. Roughly 140 at 45 minutes a pop.
I blame Spike. There is no character on television that I have found more entertaining and ridiculously hot. I just want Buffy to hook up with him and end it already. It is admirable as hell that a story line based on something as goofy as a vampire slayer can last for this long and still remain interesting. The writers were smart enough to take unexpected turns (while there is some of the worst background directing I've ever seen...which adds to the charm). The little sister twist in Season 5 that looked like they totally underestimated the audience for two shows explained itself with a non-traditional turn. I didn't see it coming. I don't see a lot of things coming. I get the cult of Buffy now. I regret not going into LA during that time period just so I could have delved more into stunt work. Because Buffy alone seemed to provide an endless supply of work. I want to do more horror film just to romp around in special effect shots. Buffy is infectous on many levels. Buffy Buffy Buffy.
There is talk of a new series. Fools. You will never get a cast that will be able to live in the shadows of this group. Even the extras will be too sleek and perfect compared to the awkward characters wandering the background. No one can match James Marster or Alyson Hannigan in there perfect imperfections. Even Sarah Michelle Gellar who looks so bland from a distance has quirkiness that I doubt will be found easy to match let alone top.
Sigh. I am a third of a way through Season 6. That leaves about 28 more episodes. I will shove them down my mental pie hole as fast and hard as I can so I can move on with my life. Maybe start reading comic books again which only come out monthly. Or a book. With 3 or 4 hundred pages that will end within a month. Or a drink. Drinking would be easier. Free me, Buffy. Let me out of the cult. Give me your season 7 episode 20 something cup o' kool aid and stop me from writing 20 minutes worth of hot vampire jokes. I wonder if there is a meeting I can go to? How many seasons did Angel run?
Sunday, November 28, 2010
A Grateful Thing
My annual joke in bad taste about this time of year is that if for Thanksgiving, I am grateful that Dorothy Bradford fell overboard in Plimouth Harbor or I would have never been born. Which is true and horrible. William Bradford's first wife was either so devastated that she had to leave her son John in Amsterdam or drunk from too much cabin meade or maybe just depressed to see where she was about to have to survive that she took a big nose dive off the side of the Mayflower. She survived months on a tiny ship that was not built for the amount of people crammed into its living quarters....originally there was supposed to be two ships...with people dying around her from disease, no privacy, her family left far behind her. And she died before she had a chance to touch the land.
Not too long afterward a widow named Alice Carpenter made the same journey and married Dorothy's husband, producing three more children. Another Welshman Sir Richard Groutte fled the country with his son was also on a ship about that time. An Englishman named Henry Curtis was on another about a decade later, soon settling in Sudbury MA. Another man named Stebbins went on to Deerfield where his grandson's family would come under attack by a group of Native Americans working with the French and be marched to Quebec. Jean DeNoyon, Jacques Bertault, Gilette Banne, Jeanne Franchard and Marin Chauvin would arrive Quebec in the 1600's. The Hobarts, The Jaycoxes, The Sages, The Armstrongs, The Cooks, The Ripleys, The Clarks, The Jewetts, The Robleses (Yay Spain-ish!),The Kemptons, The Haskells, The Marbles, The Cudworths, The Gaineses (Another Canadian ),The Soules, The Lees, The Stoniers (Go Scottland!), The Malones and The Hills (Wahoo Ireland!), The Alexanders, The Hazzards, The Havens, The Wiltsies, The Valleaus (Go Swiss French Heugonotses!), , The Clarks (Give it up for The Quakers!), The Binkleys, The Malones and The Kerwins (Even More Irish), The Garrisons, and on and on. Every person, good intentions or not, slogged across the ocean in an environment limited to rations and minimal sanitation, knowingly risking their lives to make it possible for me to exist.
Considering the amount of Puritans and Pilgrims in the lot, I probably would not be the picture of ideal female descendant. My purity is questionable and I like listening to songs that have dirty words in them. Now I am writing from a heated space not hungry heading for a night's sleep without the worry about dying from a disease or being attacked by men with muskets and/or hand held war weapons. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, if I die before I wake, I ask you Lord my soul to take. They actually went to bed praying this because it was a necessity. Because they may not live through the night. I owe them. I am thankful for what they gave me. Whether I agree with them or not, I am here. They sacrificed comfort, met the other parts of my genetic code and created yours truly.
Every generation that I have been in this country, every generation that we continue our existence on this planet, is due to the survival to a set of parents, then 4 grandparents, and the eight parents that sired them and so on. Multiplying people each generation. Mine have been in North America for about 13. What are the odds? What are the odds?
So thanks all of you that came for me. And thank you, Dorothy, for not. Because if you hadn't died, Alice Carpenter would never have reproduced with Governor Bradford Pilgrim Man. And I wouldn't have a discount at Plimouth Plantation. It is a crazy world, idn't it?
Not too long afterward a widow named Alice Carpenter made the same journey and married Dorothy's husband, producing three more children. Another Welshman Sir Richard Groutte fled the country with his son was also on a ship about that time. An Englishman named Henry Curtis was on another about a decade later, soon settling in Sudbury MA. Another man named Stebbins went on to Deerfield where his grandson's family would come under attack by a group of Native Americans working with the French and be marched to Quebec. Jean DeNoyon, Jacques Bertault, Gilette Banne, Jeanne Franchard and Marin Chauvin would arrive Quebec in the 1600's. The Hobarts, The Jaycoxes, The Sages, The Armstrongs, The Cooks, The Ripleys, The Clarks, The Jewetts, The Robleses (Yay Spain-ish!),The Kemptons, The Haskells, The Marbles, The Cudworths, The Gaineses (Another Canadian ),The Soules, The Lees, The Stoniers (Go Scottland!), The Malones and The Hills (Wahoo Ireland!), The Alexanders, The Hazzards, The Havens, The Wiltsies, The Valleaus (Go Swiss French Heugonotses!), , The Clarks (Give it up for The Quakers!), The Binkleys, The Malones and The Kerwins (Even More Irish), The Garrisons, and on and on. Every person, good intentions or not, slogged across the ocean in an environment limited to rations and minimal sanitation, knowingly risking their lives to make it possible for me to exist.
Considering the amount of Puritans and Pilgrims in the lot, I probably would not be the picture of ideal female descendant. My purity is questionable and I like listening to songs that have dirty words in them. Now I am writing from a heated space not hungry heading for a night's sleep without the worry about dying from a disease or being attacked by men with muskets and/or hand held war weapons. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, if I die before I wake, I ask you Lord my soul to take. They actually went to bed praying this because it was a necessity. Because they may not live through the night. I owe them. I am thankful for what they gave me. Whether I agree with them or not, I am here. They sacrificed comfort, met the other parts of my genetic code and created yours truly.
Every generation that I have been in this country, every generation that we continue our existence on this planet, is due to the survival to a set of parents, then 4 grandparents, and the eight parents that sired them and so on. Multiplying people each generation. Mine have been in North America for about 13. What are the odds? What are the odds?
So thanks all of you that came for me. And thank you, Dorothy, for not. Because if you hadn't died, Alice Carpenter would never have reproduced with Governor Bradford Pilgrim Man. And I wouldn't have a discount at Plimouth Plantation. It is a crazy world, idn't it?
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Kaboom There Goes My Act
It's easier to talk about today. That's one good thing about being in this racket for a long time. It all passes. But you have to take inventory of the situation before you let it go.
Sometimes I get really cocky and don't work as hard on my act before a show. And sometimes I get so stressed out by things going on at home that I can't shake it before a show. And sometimes I put a new joke up front when I haven't tested it in the middle of my act and then kick myself for doing it AGAIN. And sometimes my brain is not firing on all cylinders so that when I switch a set list around, I can't remember a fucking thing when panic sets in and I don't fight with the armor in my arsenal when the audience totally sucks. Last night, apply all of the above to my show.
Yes, there are bad audiences. The evening's audience participants last night were an 7 on a bad audience meter. 8 being heckling assholes, 9 being throwing shit, 10 being walking the room and/or a homicide. The emcee was having a rough time out of the gate. They were the type of group that needed lots of audience coddling. And for some reason, none of us went for it. I think we were afraid of them. Human beings are creepy that way. They can put a biofeedback fire wall up. This was a roomful of about 70 firewalls. Probably some annoyed non-firewalls being cock blocked too.
I had, in theory, a short amount of time to do. The reality is if I was rolling, I could have stayed up longer than the time they gave me. It is a lose set up.
There wasn't a lot of fear walking into it. Big mistake. Years of experience says confidence is necessary but healthy fear keeps you on your toes. Makes you access the war zone before going into battle. I had I feel thin today confidence even though I was wicked nauseous from marriage tension. I wanted to puke but in a natural way. This didn't help. It went from dropping the first joke...a new one laced in hostility that they didn't bite. They may have normally. I thought it was funny. But truth is, if they ain't laughing before I get onstage, let's not be the tempest in the tea kettle?
A fine comic told me a while back that if the audience sucks, keep to your set list and plow through. Another one told me to drop the fucking set list and listen to your instincts. Either one of those probably would have helped. But I just. Couldn't. Remember a fucking thing. As soon as it went off tracks. It was like I shut down completely. Gone. I got off a few laughs and then this wall came crashing down around my brain. Closest thing I've had to a simple seizure on stage since I actually had simple seizures on stage. That's my time! Let's bring back your host...
I hate that audience. Not on an individual basis. As a group for making my lazy ass work. That's the truth. Things go too well for awhile and then you quit applying the pressure to the wound that is your career. This shit is work. That audience was just a group of people wanting me to do my job. Which includes thinking for them sometimes. I failed. And then I hate myself because I know better than this. I couldn't have set this up more to fail if the situation wasn't perfect than if I sat in the audience and stared at me myself.
So today I wake up still feeling like I am going to hurl. It's a diet. Even negative things have an upside. And I look at Thursday's show. A show that will have an attentive loving audience because that is whom this producer tends to draw pretty religiously. Then line up is spectacular and I will be circled in the arms of a warmed up audience that don't need to be breast fed their humor. And I will walk in warily, not getting too comfortable. Setting myself up to conquer, not fold. To match these geniuses on the line up as much as I possibly can.
You can't take back yesterday. But you can take the lesson from yesterday with you. Fuck yourself audience. It isn't your fault, its mine. But fuck yourself just the same. I'll find a new one who thinks I am smart AND beautiful for myself.
And people wonder why comics aren't social creatures.
Sometimes I get really cocky and don't work as hard on my act before a show. And sometimes I get so stressed out by things going on at home that I can't shake it before a show. And sometimes I put a new joke up front when I haven't tested it in the middle of my act and then kick myself for doing it AGAIN. And sometimes my brain is not firing on all cylinders so that when I switch a set list around, I can't remember a fucking thing when panic sets in and I don't fight with the armor in my arsenal when the audience totally sucks. Last night, apply all of the above to my show.
Yes, there are bad audiences. The evening's audience participants last night were an 7 on a bad audience meter. 8 being heckling assholes, 9 being throwing shit, 10 being walking the room and/or a homicide. The emcee was having a rough time out of the gate. They were the type of group that needed lots of audience coddling. And for some reason, none of us went for it. I think we were afraid of them. Human beings are creepy that way. They can put a biofeedback fire wall up. This was a roomful of about 70 firewalls. Probably some annoyed non-firewalls being cock blocked too.
I had, in theory, a short amount of time to do. The reality is if I was rolling, I could have stayed up longer than the time they gave me. It is a lose set up.
There wasn't a lot of fear walking into it. Big mistake. Years of experience says confidence is necessary but healthy fear keeps you on your toes. Makes you access the war zone before going into battle. I had I feel thin today confidence even though I was wicked nauseous from marriage tension. I wanted to puke but in a natural way. This didn't help. It went from dropping the first joke...a new one laced in hostility that they didn't bite. They may have normally. I thought it was funny. But truth is, if they ain't laughing before I get onstage, let's not be the tempest in the tea kettle?
A fine comic told me a while back that if the audience sucks, keep to your set list and plow through. Another one told me to drop the fucking set list and listen to your instincts. Either one of those probably would have helped. But I just. Couldn't. Remember a fucking thing. As soon as it went off tracks. It was like I shut down completely. Gone. I got off a few laughs and then this wall came crashing down around my brain. Closest thing I've had to a simple seizure on stage since I actually had simple seizures on stage. That's my time! Let's bring back your host...
I hate that audience. Not on an individual basis. As a group for making my lazy ass work. That's the truth. Things go too well for awhile and then you quit applying the pressure to the wound that is your career. This shit is work. That audience was just a group of people wanting me to do my job. Which includes thinking for them sometimes. I failed. And then I hate myself because I know better than this. I couldn't have set this up more to fail if the situation wasn't perfect than if I sat in the audience and stared at me myself.
So today I wake up still feeling like I am going to hurl. It's a diet. Even negative things have an upside. And I look at Thursday's show. A show that will have an attentive loving audience because that is whom this producer tends to draw pretty religiously. Then line up is spectacular and I will be circled in the arms of a warmed up audience that don't need to be breast fed their humor. And I will walk in warily, not getting too comfortable. Setting myself up to conquer, not fold. To match these geniuses on the line up as much as I possibly can.
You can't take back yesterday. But you can take the lesson from yesterday with you. Fuck yourself audience. It isn't your fault, its mine. But fuck yourself just the same. I'll find a new one who thinks I am smart AND beautiful for myself.
And people wonder why comics aren't social creatures.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Grandmere Gets A Farm
I've got a bunch of really well documented dead direct relatives. Like a genetic Forest Gump. On the multiple great grandfather parade I've got William Bradford aka the Pilgrim dude: Joseph (Jose Paolo) Robles confederate reenactment doer target, Spanish stowaway and the guy they named the worst housing project in Tampa after; James Clark Curtis early Republican NY State Senate and Assemblyman man; Francis Marion Robles first hispanic lawyer and judge in Tampa, Henry Curtis one of the founding guys of Sudbury MA, Whatshisface Jewitt the guy they named Jewitt City, CT after, General Paul B Malone in charge of the US military on the Phillipine Islands and pals with Pershing; Aaron DeNio the guy who's cooking vessel is in the Deerfield MA museum because he winged it at someone, plus a bunch of other guys. "Guys" being a key word there. They turn up in books. You can research them in historical societies. The chicks until now, however, got a rawer deal. One grandmother married to a fella name Sir Richard Groutte is going down in history as Lady Questionmark. Not that they were always less deserving. They just had vaginas which interfered with documentation until recent history.
There is one though that managed to jump that gauntlet. Her name was Marguerite Gabrielle DeNoyon. She was born Abigail Stebbins. This is my version of her story. It is interpretive and may not be entirely accurate. Feel free to google her if you have questions. She was interesting enough to keep on the books for three hundred years.
Marguerite was born as Abigail in Deerfield MA in 1684 the daughter of John Stebbins. She met a coureur du bois (fur trader dealing in booze and goods) name Jacques De Noyon and they married shortly before the French Canadians with the help of members from three different tribes of Native Americans attacked Deerfield, capturing members of Abigail's family and marching them to Canada. Jacques was a natural citizen of Canada, born in Quebec and the members of Abigail's family were released. Abigail as well as a number of her siblings chose to stay in Canada. She changed her name to Marguerite.
Jacques had married Abigail under the pretense that he was from a well respected comfortable family in Quebec. The reality was that Jacques left a trail of debt throughout Canada and was content to stay in MA where his debtors could not find him. He did not expect to be dragged back as part of a raid on the Puritans. They returned and Abigail found out that Jacques was full of shit. They settled in Boucherville just north of Montreal and Jacques rejoined the military, returning to his bad money habits and going off for long periods of time leaving Marguerite with, eventually, 12 kids to support. It seems that Jacques must have had something going on for him because she continued reproducing despite his money issues. Eventually, Marguerite could not feed her children.
She did return to Deerfield once to collect a small inheritance and retrieve her son Renee. Renee had been sent to the US to visit his grandfather and when it was time to return, they could not find him. He resurfaced as Aaron DeNio (aka the cooking vessel flinger). It is not known whether his grandfather hid him or he chose to stay. Either way, Marguerite showed up to get the money and the kid and only left with the money. Which was still not enough.
This was in the early 1700's. Women were property, more or less. Anything a woman inherited within her marriage went to the husband. And anything that went to the De Noyon family Jacques spent. So Marguerite went to the governor and the governor did the unheard of. He granted Marguerite property and a loan to begin her own farm share exclusively. Apparently Jacques was such a pinhead, that he was forbidden to touch the farm and its money. Marguerite made the farm work well enough to pay the government back. And even though she was still married to Jacques it was all hers to support her family.
I love that she took care of business. She must have been a very strong woman to get people to respond to her needs against social mores. And Jacques must have been an incredible dick.
PS To give the devil his due, Grandpere Pinhead was the first known European to explore parts of Lake Superior. And he made it back. So he did have a good sense of direction. And they gave him a plaque. Grandmere just got property.
There is one though that managed to jump that gauntlet. Her name was Marguerite Gabrielle DeNoyon. She was born Abigail Stebbins. This is my version of her story. It is interpretive and may not be entirely accurate. Feel free to google her if you have questions. She was interesting enough to keep on the books for three hundred years.
Marguerite was born as Abigail in Deerfield MA in 1684 the daughter of John Stebbins. She met a coureur du bois (fur trader dealing in booze and goods) name Jacques De Noyon and they married shortly before the French Canadians with the help of members from three different tribes of Native Americans attacked Deerfield, capturing members of Abigail's family and marching them to Canada. Jacques was a natural citizen of Canada, born in Quebec and the members of Abigail's family were released. Abigail as well as a number of her siblings chose to stay in Canada. She changed her name to Marguerite.
Jacques had married Abigail under the pretense that he was from a well respected comfortable family in Quebec. The reality was that Jacques left a trail of debt throughout Canada and was content to stay in MA where his debtors could not find him. He did not expect to be dragged back as part of a raid on the Puritans. They returned and Abigail found out that Jacques was full of shit. They settled in Boucherville just north of Montreal and Jacques rejoined the military, returning to his bad money habits and going off for long periods of time leaving Marguerite with, eventually, 12 kids to support. It seems that Jacques must have had something going on for him because she continued reproducing despite his money issues. Eventually, Marguerite could not feed her children.
She did return to Deerfield once to collect a small inheritance and retrieve her son Renee. Renee had been sent to the US to visit his grandfather and when it was time to return, they could not find him. He resurfaced as Aaron DeNio (aka the cooking vessel flinger). It is not known whether his grandfather hid him or he chose to stay. Either way, Marguerite showed up to get the money and the kid and only left with the money. Which was still not enough.
This was in the early 1700's. Women were property, more or less. Anything a woman inherited within her marriage went to the husband. And anything that went to the De Noyon family Jacques spent. So Marguerite went to the governor and the governor did the unheard of. He granted Marguerite property and a loan to begin her own farm share exclusively. Apparently Jacques was such a pinhead, that he was forbidden to touch the farm and its money. Marguerite made the farm work well enough to pay the government back. And even though she was still married to Jacques it was all hers to support her family.
I love that she took care of business. She must have been a very strong woman to get people to respond to her needs against social mores. And Jacques must have been an incredible dick.
PS To give the devil his due, Grandpere Pinhead was the first known European to explore parts of Lake Superior. And he made it back. So he did have a good sense of direction. And they gave him a plaque. Grandmere just got property.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
A Good Night For The Brain Curdled Muse Finder
There is a social demographic that exists on the movie set. Crew generally sticks with crew, sometimes departmental specific, sometimes cross pollinating with the regular principal cast and stand-ins. The people who come to work consistently. Background and under fives are usually sporadic, generally visitors and treated this way. But on a television series, there are core regulars who occupy the ambiance in the scenes that are repeatedly visited each episode. That wall of anonymity gets broken down slowly every time they return.
That is how I met Alex. We were brain damage buddies, both victims of brain trauma from accidents in our early twenties. And he was standing on both sides of the production fence. Working regularly with us with a sister and roommate on the production side. It was a matter of time before we had a conversation and multiple shoot days on the same set warranted it.
Last night I was initially in a really weird head space . I wanted to talk to my friend about stuff that we had started before he split for LA for good. I know he is going and I probably won't get to talk like we do again for a long time. Computers just ain't the same. Eye contact. Beats in between words. Human interaction gets a little jiggled and mashed. Not that I'm not grateful for the way technology keeps friendships in the now. Hopefully it will continue. I am a creature of my generation.
We decided that we would go into the city to hang out with the other people from the crew and a couple of cast people. I fall into a strange middle area of where do I fit in here and out of context. I work with these people and as I get to know them, I loved who they were. Howevah, crowds freaked me out a little. I like people but hate crowds. I am the reason that coffee bars were created.
And, as much as crowds freaked me out? Parking freaked me the fuck out. Post operative diagnosis from regular psychiatrist and neuropsychologist both diagnosed me with minor damage. Post traumatic stress disorder, ADD (or I guess ADHD now?) and I can't tell direction like a normal person. When I have to be somewhere, I usually mapquest it and GPS it so I have two forms of information in my head. So the combination of too much ambient noise in a crowd (I can't drink over it like the olden days) and trying to drive in downtown Providence made me nervous as a cat. I'm pretty sure we would have made it intact but there would have been tears. Alex was being a very patient human being and drove my car.
Truth is, I am not entirely sure why it was important to me to finish this interlude in our history. To conclude our previous conversations. Possibly because I tend to attach muse tags to people that I connect with and, besides being friends, I needed to take the creative energy I got from our conversations and spin it. Like now. It ain't easy living in a hyperactive creative mind. It's amazing who you'll find hanging out on a television set.
I knew if I never see him again, I'm walking away with something that I will value forever. Meeting a kindred spirit. And I need to finish delving into some writing places that, truly, he is the only person in my life who will know the difficulty of going down into the cranial abused pit. It's not like the brain damaged get a club house for weekly bicoastal meetings. Especially one who is this open with me.
We got to the big and brown wooded fancy bar. In Providence so after you got past the haute antiquity, you noticed the chalk board with the specials out in front of the space. And then you notice the demographic that was extremely mixed. Sports bar meets Fortune 500 business meeting. I doubt if the local color even noticed the television star sitting at the bar.
Nick, one of the cast leads said hi to Alex. Phil, another regular background who plays a medical examiner guy in scrubs, comes in. He has long pigtail dreadlocks and an enormous amount of infectious energy. I begin to relax.
The little dead girl from this show this afternoon comes over from the cast principal patch of the bar and Alex and I moved to a table, doing a yenta side step to let them be alone (which winds up insulting the little dead girl but oh well...it is forgotten later). Then comes Margo, Jeri's stand in. She is one of those women who is so beautiful that she can stop the movement in the room when she comes in. I had known her for a long time but, like Alex, got to know her differently on the set. Kate, the lead's stand in also arrives. She is a funny lady who also has a couple of kids and is really happy to be out. Alex's sister, a character as strong as her brother in a ridiculously pretty shell. One of the costume department guys normally quiet and isolated in his patch of wardrobe trailer. The Director's Guild's intern who is in charge of coordinating background actors. Finally Chris the 2nd 2nd assistant director and Andrew who does something I'm not quite sure of but is a nice guy. Some I see all of the time. Some I rarely get the pleasure to interact with on the set.
There are all of these people out of context from our natural environment. It could go a couple of ways. I could clam up and start falling asleep like I do a in a lot of crowds. Sort of like a narcoleptic turtle. I can't engage because I can't figure out what they are saying due to lack of focus or too many different noises. It takes too much energy to understand. Or another alternative is that I could cling on to Alex like an emotional barnacle....actually my secret fear.....being a pain in the ass self inflicted responsibility kill joy that would destroy a perfectly nice friendship with neurosis death rays. Or I can enjoy it because somewhere along the line I have become more than a body visiting a workplace.
We became people to each other. With personality traits and character dynamics. There is flirting and drinking and teasing and joking and serious moments and pictures taken and fake cigarettes dropped (don't ask) and pens used for nefarious tasks (again don't ask). And I recognize that I am a tremendously lucky person to have fallen into this world, even if it could only be for a little while. These are great people and I get to go see them on Tuesday again, spending the day creating something really cool.
Alex and his sister stand next to each other and sing together to the song playing over the loudspeaker. They look so much a like and they both exude happiness. They don't seem to give a shit what anyone else is thinking, just living in the moment. I hug him one last time. And it could really be one last time.
I've done this so many times before with old friends and mentally take note on the circumstance, appreciating it for what it is. A gift to know them all. A gift to have the friendship of this soul. Grateful that he bridged the gap for me and brokered me into this world that I was not comfortable stepping into initially for whatever reason. It may never be like that again. He won't be there to say hello to in the morning. But that's okay if he's happy moving on to the next step. It never is forever on a set. We are just lucky to get times like this.
That is how I met Alex. We were brain damage buddies, both victims of brain trauma from accidents in our early twenties. And he was standing on both sides of the production fence. Working regularly with us with a sister and roommate on the production side. It was a matter of time before we had a conversation and multiple shoot days on the same set warranted it.
Last night I was initially in a really weird head space . I wanted to talk to my friend about stuff that we had started before he split for LA for good. I know he is going and I probably won't get to talk like we do again for a long time. Computers just ain't the same. Eye contact. Beats in between words. Human interaction gets a little jiggled and mashed. Not that I'm not grateful for the way technology keeps friendships in the now. Hopefully it will continue. I am a creature of my generation.
We decided that we would go into the city to hang out with the other people from the crew and a couple of cast people. I fall into a strange middle area of where do I fit in here and out of context. I work with these people and as I get to know them, I loved who they were. Howevah, crowds freaked me out a little. I like people but hate crowds. I am the reason that coffee bars were created.
And, as much as crowds freaked me out? Parking freaked me the fuck out. Post operative diagnosis from regular psychiatrist and neuropsychologist both diagnosed me with minor damage. Post traumatic stress disorder, ADD (or I guess ADHD now?) and I can't tell direction like a normal person. When I have to be somewhere, I usually mapquest it and GPS it so I have two forms of information in my head. So the combination of too much ambient noise in a crowd (I can't drink over it like the olden days) and trying to drive in downtown Providence made me nervous as a cat. I'm pretty sure we would have made it intact but there would have been tears. Alex was being a very patient human being and drove my car.
Truth is, I am not entirely sure why it was important to me to finish this interlude in our history. To conclude our previous conversations. Possibly because I tend to attach muse tags to people that I connect with and, besides being friends, I needed to take the creative energy I got from our conversations and spin it. Like now. It ain't easy living in a hyperactive creative mind. It's amazing who you'll find hanging out on a television set.
I knew if I never see him again, I'm walking away with something that I will value forever. Meeting a kindred spirit. And I need to finish delving into some writing places that, truly, he is the only person in my life who will know the difficulty of going down into the cranial abused pit. It's not like the brain damaged get a club house for weekly bicoastal meetings. Especially one who is this open with me.
We got to the big and brown wooded fancy bar. In Providence so after you got past the haute antiquity, you noticed the chalk board with the specials out in front of the space. And then you notice the demographic that was extremely mixed. Sports bar meets Fortune 500 business meeting. I doubt if the local color even noticed the television star sitting at the bar.
Nick, one of the cast leads said hi to Alex. Phil, another regular background who plays a medical examiner guy in scrubs, comes in. He has long pigtail dreadlocks and an enormous amount of infectious energy. I begin to relax.
The little dead girl from this show this afternoon comes over from the cast principal patch of the bar and Alex and I moved to a table, doing a yenta side step to let them be alone (which winds up insulting the little dead girl but oh well...it is forgotten later). Then comes Margo, Jeri's stand in. She is one of those women who is so beautiful that she can stop the movement in the room when she comes in. I had known her for a long time but, like Alex, got to know her differently on the set. Kate, the lead's stand in also arrives. She is a funny lady who also has a couple of kids and is really happy to be out. Alex's sister, a character as strong as her brother in a ridiculously pretty shell. One of the costume department guys normally quiet and isolated in his patch of wardrobe trailer. The Director's Guild's intern who is in charge of coordinating background actors. Finally Chris the 2nd 2nd assistant director and Andrew who does something I'm not quite sure of but is a nice guy. Some I see all of the time. Some I rarely get the pleasure to interact with on the set.
There are all of these people out of context from our natural environment. It could go a couple of ways. I could clam up and start falling asleep like I do a in a lot of crowds. Sort of like a narcoleptic turtle. I can't engage because I can't figure out what they are saying due to lack of focus or too many different noises. It takes too much energy to understand. Or another alternative is that I could cling on to Alex like an emotional barnacle....actually my secret fear.....being a pain in the ass self inflicted responsibility kill joy that would destroy a perfectly nice friendship with neurosis death rays. Or I can enjoy it because somewhere along the line I have become more than a body visiting a workplace.
We became people to each other. With personality traits and character dynamics. There is flirting and drinking and teasing and joking and serious moments and pictures taken and fake cigarettes dropped (don't ask) and pens used for nefarious tasks (again don't ask). And I recognize that I am a tremendously lucky person to have fallen into this world, even if it could only be for a little while. These are great people and I get to go see them on Tuesday again, spending the day creating something really cool.
Alex and his sister stand next to each other and sing together to the song playing over the loudspeaker. They look so much a like and they both exude happiness. They don't seem to give a shit what anyone else is thinking, just living in the moment. I hug him one last time. And it could really be one last time.
I've done this so many times before with old friends and mentally take note on the circumstance, appreciating it for what it is. A gift to know them all. A gift to have the friendship of this soul. Grateful that he bridged the gap for me and brokered me into this world that I was not comfortable stepping into initially for whatever reason. It may never be like that again. He won't be there to say hello to in the morning. But that's okay if he's happy moving on to the next step. It never is forever on a set. We are just lucky to get times like this.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
My Friend H. Dan Harkins Wrote This For Me
Because of my undying love of hot sauce....
This is not real. In case you really think I have this kind of power. Really.
This is not real. In case you really think I have this kind of power. Really.
New York Actress Inherits Tabasco Corporation, Southern Economy Ruined
AVERY ISLAND, LA— Look around this tiny island rising above the Louisiana Gulf Coast and you would be surprised to learn it had once been a thriving business concern and even called “a natural paradise.” The factories are closed, the pepper fields laid waste, and the human population has dwindled to less than 50. It has been 4 months since the business community was stunned by the shocking revelation that Ward McIlhenny, principle stockholder of the Tabasco Hot Sauce fortune had bequeathed controlling interest in Tabasco, Inc. to New York City Actress/Comedienne Jessica Curtis. McIlhenny died in July at the age of 93. Soon afterward, a public statement from his attorney, Roger Whitcomb of Whitcomb, Whitcomb, and Ford, revealed that McIlhenny had no intention of leaving any of his many relatives any part of his substantial estate. Curtis and McIlhenny never met, but Whitcomb explained that McIlhenny had seen Curtis perform stand-up comedy during a brief and unpleasant business trip to New York. “Ward hated to travel, hated the company, and hated New York,” explained Whitcomb. “He said that seeing Jessica at the comedy club was the best part of an awful experience and that she was at least as qualified [to run the company] as the ‘wastrels, sycophants, and bums’ he was related to. He said something about ‘one hell of a nice rack on that girl’ as well.”
Shortly after assuming the chair of Tabasco, Inc., Curtis, 26, stunned the family with her planned renovations to the firm founded in 1868. “We don’t have time to age this stuff in white oak barrels for three years,” began Curtis. “From now on we just let it steep for a couple of weeks in plastic garbage cans. And another thing, from now on, the product will be known as Jessbasco Sauce and the extra hot version, Jessbasco Hotcha Ha Sauce.”
Schuyler McIlhenny III, nephew of Ward McIlhenny, began to protest, “Miss Curtis, Tabasco is an honored, respected name! You can’t just arbitrarily change the name like that.” He was quickly cut off by Ms. Curtis shouting back, “I have big boobs! Girls with big boobs can do whatever they want!”
Continual infighting between Curtis, who owns 51% of Tabasco, Inc., and the rest of the family led to her decision to move the hot sauce making facilities from Avery Island, Louisiana to Callicoon, New York. Since that time, the economy of the Southern United States has fallen into deep recession. An early sign of the impending crisis included William Chesterman’s complaints soon after Ms. Curtis assumed control of the company. “For more’n 75 years my family has made White Oak Barrels. That’s all we do! Ninety percent of our business has always been with the McIlhenny family. Now that damn Yankee’s puttin’ the stuff in garbage cans! God! Garbage cans! What am I supposed to do now?”
With Tabasco as the cornerstone of the state’s economy, the rest of Louisiana quickly fell into dangerous financial peril. Before long, Louisiana neighbors, Mississippi and Arkansas, both of which have economies closely tied to that of the Pelican State’s, began suffering difficulties. It is speculated that soon the entire Southern United States will experience serious depression.
“This is the worst thing to happen to the South since we lost the Civil War!” remarked Louisiana Governor Wilton Marks.
When asked to comment on the unfortunate consequences brought on by her decisions regarding Tabasco, Inc., the Actress/Comedienne/Tycoon said, “It serves them right for being from the South.”
Monday, October 4, 2010
Brain Wires
So I've been in a writing slump since I finished the book's first draft. You get addicted to the "what next" escapist aspect of writing. That's why I started poking around journals. Looking for ideas I already had. How lazy can you get, eh?
This is sort of a cool one that I found from when I was in the hospital getting a 24 hour EEG to test me for seizures after they pulled me from my medication. Three of the main triggers for a seizure are dehydration, stress and exhaustion. And since they didn't want a bitchy high strung potential epileptic wired to the wall, they went the exhaustion route. Had to feel a little bad for them because I knew I was going to be a hard one to trip up. My mind was having too good of a time describing how red was not at all the color I had been seeing before the medication (and probably the seizures) stopped. That and describing what three dimensions looked like to whoever would be tolerant it enough to listen to me (God Bless You Debbie Perlman). Also, I had years of night shoots on movie sets under my belt. 24 hours? Phupt!
My roommate was wired to the other wall. She was new to the whole epilepsy thing thanks to the gift of a high fever that fried her brain. However, she had a very similar kind. I got to see what my own seizures looked like. I'm glad that I'm not the only one on this planet who hooted. So. This is what I wrote while I was wired to the wall:
"My eyes stopped blinking for a little bit there but the nurse came in and offered me some of her peanuts. Nice lady. Some bonehead at Comedy Central turned the television to infomercial programming at 4am. Trying to kill me slowly with rowing machines, you snot rags. Cheap bastards. 3 hours till breakfast. I've been alone eating up time for 5 hours because my room mate had a seizure and got to go to sleep. I pee a lot. It keeps me getting up. My socks keep my feet from touching the floor where the portable bed's wheels have been transported through you-name-it-someone-oozed it and never cleaned. At least that was what I was told. My I.V. heplock has been getting sore to move around much. There are 24 pieces of wire attached from my head into a bundle stuffed into a pack which is, in turn, plugged into the wall. I schlepp the whole hoopla with me into the bathroom tethered on a 25 foot wire. I brush my teeth. Go to wash my face. 3 or 4 times. My head hurts. I am not allowed to sleep. They are trying to cause seizures. Fat chance. I'll take the (sore) hand." It was worth shaving my head again (actually, I miss having a shaved head....it's easier than hair). To have the wires stick without causing the extra drama of having to get glue out of my hair. It was the most pleasant hospital experience I've ever had because they would bring me drinks, let me play puzzles all night and I didn't feel sick. In fact, I felt great. It was the first time in 3 years I could see properly and didn't feel exhausted from seizures and then later, medication.
And I have never had to take antiseizure medication again from that point forward. It was my night of hazing and I made it. My reward was a healthy person's life with all the rights that came with it that I had missed so much. Most of us wind up like my room mate. I got freed.
"My eyes stopped blinking for a little bit there but the nurse came in and offered me some of her peanuts. Nice lady. Some bonehead at Comedy Central turned the television to infomercial programming at 4am. Trying to kill me slowly with rowing machines, you snot rags. Cheap bastards. 3 hours till breakfast. I've been alone eating up time for 5 hours because my room mate had a seizure and got to go to sleep. I pee a lot. It keeps me getting up. My socks keep my feet from touching the floor where the portable bed's wheels have been transported through you-name-it-someone-oozed it and never cleaned. At least that was what I was told. My I.V. heplock has been getting sore to move around much. There are 24 pieces of wire attached from my head into a bundle stuffed into a pack which is, in turn, plugged into the wall. I schlepp the whole hoopla with me into the bathroom tethered on a 25 foot wire. I brush my teeth. Go to wash my face. 3 or 4 times. My head hurts. I am not allowed to sleep. They are trying to cause seizures. Fat chance. I'll take the (sore) hand." It was worth shaving my head again (actually, I miss having a shaved head....it's easier than hair). To have the wires stick without causing the extra drama of having to get glue out of my hair. It was the most pleasant hospital experience I've ever had because they would bring me drinks, let me play puzzles all night and I didn't feel sick. In fact, I felt great. It was the first time in 3 years I could see properly and didn't feel exhausted from seizures and then later, medication.
And I have never had to take antiseizure medication again from that point forward. It was my night of hazing and I made it. My reward was a healthy person's life with all the rights that came with it that I had missed so much. Most of us wind up like my room mate. I got freed.
Read more: http://www.myspace.com/hoohajess/blog?page=3#ixzz11S4PyWLk
The bitching ceases here.
That's right. The bitching ceases here. I will make a far more positive blog with attempts at depth shortly.
Someone turn off the dirge
Okay. Stick a fork in me I am done. This past week has been really disheartening and demand a reprieve. Not that the death and negative aspects of it are going to evaporate. Like things never happened. It's just that I need a day to feel sort of normal. Not that my normal is particularly normal. I need to go run around a gym and dance around the apartment to very large music and bug bookers for work and plot my take over of the world via playrighting, essays, podcasts, music and decent joke writing. And clean the bathroom. Because that will make me feel better. I would like to go see "The Social Network" but I will settle for singing at the top of my lungs bouncing off the wall in shorts and a sports bra. See. Not normal normal. But it works for me.
For a little while I was freaking about work. There is a darned good chance that the 2nd A.D. (not to be confused with 2nd 2nd A.D.....yes one was not enough) has decided to reconstruct the regular medical examiner's office background on the television show that I am a prop on sometimes. I may be quietly dropped from the favorite prop people list. No one has asked avails this week. It is all fair. That's how I got my spot to begin with. They rearranged the regulars to make it more alternative looking in the lab and I'm bleached so in I came, out someone else went. I'm prepared for it. Doesn't mean I'll never work on the show, just not as much. But if I am not put on the list in the next two weeks, I'm requesting a spot as a corpse and will probably get it since I already asked the 2nd 2nd and he said sure but I'd lose my regular place on the show. Confounding fake world, ain't it? But a decent paycheck and a nice group of people to work with for that many hours. I was getting used to it. But I will find something else. I always do. And my friend Alex is leaving the set so it'll be a little strange not to have him around anyway. He was an instant and lovely one and maybe I'll see him again some day. So whatever you got, God, have at it.
And Greg Giraldo. Oy how that man has rattled so many lives up this week. People are having the damnedest reactions to his demise. I miss him and haven't spoken to him in 7 or 8 years. Lots of us bursting into tears randomly. Shocked I guess. Saddened like hell. Something just stinks so badly about this that it seems like a lot of us are having trouble processing it. That's why I am so anxious for Nick to put up the interview that I did with him so many years ago. It's almost like someone killed the old Greg in our heads with the new Greg that grew so far away from him. It's like this nice guy we know was murdered or something. Completely foreign feeling from any form of mourning I've experienced. We need to see him again. I can do that for people with that video. We need this now. The people from our olden days.
Mostly, I need to perform. To vocalize and expand on ideas. I need to blow the energy out at people. I need to be louder than in my house. I need to be a comic around comics. Isn't it weird how our needs can be so specific. I think that is what keeps most of us in this very different rat race. Because we have to be here. We can't not. Oh, I've got things coming up. A bunch really. But now. I need comedy and music and dancing and then it will feel better again.
Goodbye my old friend. And see you later some day my new friend. www.bostoncomedy.blogspot.com
Onward and upward.
For a little while I was freaking about work. There is a darned good chance that the 2nd A.D. (not to be confused with 2nd 2nd A.D.....yes one was not enough) has decided to reconstruct the regular medical examiner's office background on the television show that I am a prop on sometimes. I may be quietly dropped from the favorite prop people list. No one has asked avails this week. It is all fair. That's how I got my spot to begin with. They rearranged the regulars to make it more alternative looking in the lab and I'm bleached so in I came, out someone else went. I'm prepared for it. Doesn't mean I'll never work on the show, just not as much. But if I am not put on the list in the next two weeks, I'm requesting a spot as a corpse and will probably get it since I already asked the 2nd 2nd and he said sure but I'd lose my regular place on the show. Confounding fake world, ain't it? But a decent paycheck and a nice group of people to work with for that many hours. I was getting used to it. But I will find something else. I always do. And my friend Alex is leaving the set so it'll be a little strange not to have him around anyway. He was an instant and lovely one and maybe I'll see him again some day. So whatever you got, God, have at it.
And Greg Giraldo. Oy how that man has rattled so many lives up this week. People are having the damnedest reactions to his demise. I miss him and haven't spoken to him in 7 or 8 years. Lots of us bursting into tears randomly. Shocked I guess. Saddened like hell. Something just stinks so badly about this that it seems like a lot of us are having trouble processing it. That's why I am so anxious for Nick to put up the interview that I did with him so many years ago. It's almost like someone killed the old Greg in our heads with the new Greg that grew so far away from him. It's like this nice guy we know was murdered or something. Completely foreign feeling from any form of mourning I've experienced. We need to see him again. I can do that for people with that video. We need this now. The people from our olden days.
Mostly, I need to perform. To vocalize and expand on ideas. I need to blow the energy out at people. I need to be louder than in my house. I need to be a comic around comics. Isn't it weird how our needs can be so specific. I think that is what keeps most of us in this very different rat race. Because we have to be here. We can't not. Oh, I've got things coming up. A bunch really. But now. I need comedy and music and dancing and then it will feel better again.
Goodbye my old friend. And see you later some day my new friend. www.bostoncomedy.blogspot.com
Onward and upward.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
I don't want to be serious.
I just don't. Comedy isn't supposed to be serious. Tonight was a fucking battlefield in comedy. I didn't suck or anything but that audience sure did everything in its collective power to strive for that. What the hell is wrong with people who go into a club....PAY to get into a club....and go in totaled. I think it was Jerry Seinfeld who used to say that there was no such thing as a bad audience. Bullshit. Not when about of third of them are missing pupils because they are tripping on something. Nothing on this planet shy of throwing a strobe into my act that can save that.
This is a club where we don't do audience work. It is frowned upon because it is a small space. Addressing the emotionally needy is a recipe for complete loss of control in a seven minute set and then spreading it into the next comics seven minute set. I have a feeling if we worked the audience, this probably would have picked up the show a little but it would contain very few jokes. Sorry folks, we get the attention this time, not you.
This line did not have one weak comic on the line up. Not ONE. And, because of that, no one completely bit the dust. We all have the skills to at least get some laughs out the rocks. But no one had the set that they could have. And so fuck you, audience. Thank you for at least laughing some times but I needed the tape. Next time at least take ectasy.
This is a club where we don't do audience work. It is frowned upon because it is a small space. Addressing the emotionally needy is a recipe for complete loss of control in a seven minute set and then spreading it into the next comics seven minute set. I have a feeling if we worked the audience, this probably would have picked up the show a little but it would contain very few jokes. Sorry folks, we get the attention this time, not you.
This line did not have one weak comic on the line up. Not ONE. And, because of that, no one completely bit the dust. We all have the skills to at least get some laughs out the rocks. But no one had the set that they could have. And so fuck you, audience. Thank you for at least laughing some times but I needed the tape. Next time at least take ectasy.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Giraldo's tape
I owe him. His death forced me back to that tape that I've had buried for years. Every once in a while I would hand it to a new comic for them to see what they were like back then. Or take an older comic down memory lane. I handed to Rick at The Comedy Studio to look at...one of the few humans in Boston who knows what the fuck I referring to from this time period...and he transferred it to disc from VHS for me. I got the tape back...I always get the tape back because I am scared that it will end up on the internet...but didn't get the disc. Until now. I knew as soon as I heard Greg was dead that I wanted to see it again so drove down to the Studio and got it. To see if we were real.
I never thought that he would be the one who twisted into this kind of drug addicted tortured soul. He wasn't the one I would have called to end like this. There were plenty of others early on whom I questioned their longevity on this planet. But Greg was the guy who the day job who trudged away at comedy like a miner in a big funny tunnel. He was a very nice hard working man. A wildly smart very nice hard working man.
From what I had heard, he had been abusing himself pretty badly the last couple of years. But he also had a couple of kids that my friend Anna had just seen on the subway with him. He introduced them to her. This was a guy who may have been fucked up but ran on a code of ethics. Abuse himself? Fair game. Abuse his kids by leaving them without a father? I don't know about that. Folks are already buzzing about suicide. Either way, he is still gone. Which may not surprising for recent Greg but was really a shot out of left field for old Greg.
So I thought to myself, did I imagine this? How much in my past is mixed up with emotional attachment. Was it really like it was in my very damaged memory? I have had a life that is littered with wikipedia name entries. Especially with comedy. Sometimes it doesn't seem real. It is like a dream that I had after watching too many Youtube comedy uploads. I am not a famous person. I shouldn't know the comic who died this tragically young. The next Bill Hicks. My memory was lacking but I had that tape. One hour and four minutes of confirmed past.
The tape started because I wanted to do a documentary on the comedy scene in New York. I was well liked enough to get people to interview. I had good questions because I knew my subject. And I had a really shitty camera with no experience shooting it. To be fair to my boyfriend at the time who lent it to me, it was a pretty good one at the time for regular stuff in daylight 1992. At night. I hauled it around to clubs with me. There is a Christmas tree on one stage. Winter coats. Right before January. The light has a yellow tinge to it. Some reds. Probably because the lighting was always lower in the bar areas. There seems to be more people in a small spaces than it does now in the places that still exist. Like all of the comics were piling on each other. Lots of loud noises. Lots of laughter. These places seem so quiet and sterile to me now when I go back. Back then there was so much affection. I guess it is there now. I just don't know the people anymore. I don't hear the noise.
I take it to The Comic Strip on the Upper East Side. It had booths back then. We would pop back and forth between them. Talk to the audience and other comics filing out of the show room enroute to the front door. It starts almost in the dark with a string of dick jokes. Debbie Perlman's voice. Jim Mendrinos's voice. I interview Jim, Theresa Molillo, Walli Collins. Why do you do comedy? What happens to you when you are scared? Is comedy dying? Give me your best hell gig. Chris Kies does his Clinton impersonation. Warren Hutchenson walks through. I yell at Joey Vega. The comics onstage are Danny Devito (later Vermont) and Jim. At the end there is a short passing of the mic between Anna Miller, hosting, and Debbie. My two best girl comic friends at that time.
Then we are all at The Olive Tree over The Comedy Cellar. We are at the series of tables together. I am shooting Dennis Regan who wants me to get him drinking water on tape while Theresa, Anna, Laura Brossard and Todd Barry watch. Raphy, the son of the owner of the Village Gate pops his head into the frame.
Then we go to Mineola on Long Island. We are at Chuckles, Anna Debbie and I . We didn't go out there that much but when we did, good things happened. It was such a great room. It had audience that didn't have to be coerced. Jim Gaffigan was already out there. Greg probably drives us home to New York later. I know we had done that in that time period with him and it would make sense in the winter. He was like that. He would have made sure that we got home all right in the cold.
John Truesome is managing the club. I interview him. I have footage of Gaffigan and Truesome and Mike Grief onstage. Jim waiting at the side to go on, still so young with longer hair than I remember, thinner than I remember. Mike and Truesome sing a funny song. The room is huge compared to a lot of clubs now. I shoot the kitchen. I don't know why. And I shoot Greg. Out there on stage with body language that should not be that relaxed two years into his career. He worked the audience with his ridiculously fast mind pumping out jokes. His stuff was tighter, shorter bits than it was later. Topics were a little safer. But he slips in an IRA reference. I realize now that I won't ever post any of those stand up sets that I taped out of respect to the comics. Jim never gave me permission and neither did Greg although they were probably aware I was doing it. The camera was the size of a small room. But that material is something that they may want to control the output to the public. It isn't my place to put out their early pieces. I would be pissed if someone did it to me.
Everything on the stage is too white. Everything up till then off stage had been too dark. But Greg was just right. 44 minutes into the tape and he is the only thing that is well lit on the whole damn reel. We are sitting at a table across from the very loud bar with a Jet's game playing that he keeps trying to catch out of the corner of his eye. He is a little heavier than he has been in recent years. His hair is still dark, not speckled with gray yet. His eyes are deep brown and there is a twinkle in them every time he answers a question and something teasing comes out. Which is just about every time I ask him something. He laughs. He makes fun of Gaffigan. He defends himself off from discomfort by making jokes before he answers questions straight. God bless him, he tolerates this project of mine with kind humor despite the fact that I am using shitty equipment with little professionalism. He is there the way I remember him. Smart. Handsome. Sweet. Funny. Flippant. He was really that great. Our lives were really that great. And I can show people that Greg Giraldo arrived in this package, only getting more skilled until he became the sad brilliant comic that people loved.
Chuckles is gone. The Comic Strip booths that we would crawl all over each other on are gone. Greg, unbelievably, is gone now now too. But we know what it was like, our tribe of comics and we remember each other for who were going to be as much as what we became.
I never thought that he would be the one who twisted into this kind of drug addicted tortured soul. He wasn't the one I would have called to end like this. There were plenty of others early on whom I questioned their longevity on this planet. But Greg was the guy who the day job who trudged away at comedy like a miner in a big funny tunnel. He was a very nice hard working man. A wildly smart very nice hard working man.
From what I had heard, he had been abusing himself pretty badly the last couple of years. But he also had a couple of kids that my friend Anna had just seen on the subway with him. He introduced them to her. This was a guy who may have been fucked up but ran on a code of ethics. Abuse himself? Fair game. Abuse his kids by leaving them without a father? I don't know about that. Folks are already buzzing about suicide. Either way, he is still gone. Which may not surprising for recent Greg but was really a shot out of left field for old Greg.
So I thought to myself, did I imagine this? How much in my past is mixed up with emotional attachment. Was it really like it was in my very damaged memory? I have had a life that is littered with wikipedia name entries. Especially with comedy. Sometimes it doesn't seem real. It is like a dream that I had after watching too many Youtube comedy uploads. I am not a famous person. I shouldn't know the comic who died this tragically young. The next Bill Hicks. My memory was lacking but I had that tape. One hour and four minutes of confirmed past.
The tape started because I wanted to do a documentary on the comedy scene in New York. I was well liked enough to get people to interview. I had good questions because I knew my subject. And I had a really shitty camera with no experience shooting it. To be fair to my boyfriend at the time who lent it to me, it was a pretty good one at the time for regular stuff in daylight 1992. At night. I hauled it around to clubs with me. There is a Christmas tree on one stage. Winter coats. Right before January. The light has a yellow tinge to it. Some reds. Probably because the lighting was always lower in the bar areas. There seems to be more people in a small spaces than it does now in the places that still exist. Like all of the comics were piling on each other. Lots of loud noises. Lots of laughter. These places seem so quiet and sterile to me now when I go back. Back then there was so much affection. I guess it is there now. I just don't know the people anymore. I don't hear the noise.
I take it to The Comic Strip on the Upper East Side. It had booths back then. We would pop back and forth between them. Talk to the audience and other comics filing out of the show room enroute to the front door. It starts almost in the dark with a string of dick jokes. Debbie Perlman's voice. Jim Mendrinos's voice. I interview Jim, Theresa Molillo, Walli Collins. Why do you do comedy? What happens to you when you are scared? Is comedy dying? Give me your best hell gig. Chris Kies does his Clinton impersonation. Warren Hutchenson walks through. I yell at Joey Vega. The comics onstage are Danny Devito (later Vermont) and Jim. At the end there is a short passing of the mic between Anna Miller, hosting, and Debbie. My two best girl comic friends at that time.
Then we are all at The Olive Tree over The Comedy Cellar. We are at the series of tables together. I am shooting Dennis Regan who wants me to get him drinking water on tape while Theresa, Anna, Laura Brossard and Todd Barry watch. Raphy, the son of the owner of the Village Gate pops his head into the frame.
Then we go to Mineola on Long Island. We are at Chuckles, Anna Debbie and I . We didn't go out there that much but when we did, good things happened. It was such a great room. It had audience that didn't have to be coerced. Jim Gaffigan was already out there. Greg probably drives us home to New York later. I know we had done that in that time period with him and it would make sense in the winter. He was like that. He would have made sure that we got home all right in the cold.
John Truesome is managing the club. I interview him. I have footage of Gaffigan and Truesome and Mike Grief onstage. Jim waiting at the side to go on, still so young with longer hair than I remember, thinner than I remember. Mike and Truesome sing a funny song. The room is huge compared to a lot of clubs now. I shoot the kitchen. I don't know why. And I shoot Greg. Out there on stage with body language that should not be that relaxed two years into his career. He worked the audience with his ridiculously fast mind pumping out jokes. His stuff was tighter, shorter bits than it was later. Topics were a little safer. But he slips in an IRA reference. I realize now that I won't ever post any of those stand up sets that I taped out of respect to the comics. Jim never gave me permission and neither did Greg although they were probably aware I was doing it. The camera was the size of a small room. But that material is something that they may want to control the output to the public. It isn't my place to put out their early pieces. I would be pissed if someone did it to me.
Everything on the stage is too white. Everything up till then off stage had been too dark. But Greg was just right. 44 minutes into the tape and he is the only thing that is well lit on the whole damn reel. We are sitting at a table across from the very loud bar with a Jet's game playing that he keeps trying to catch out of the corner of his eye. He is a little heavier than he has been in recent years. His hair is still dark, not speckled with gray yet. His eyes are deep brown and there is a twinkle in them every time he answers a question and something teasing comes out. Which is just about every time I ask him something. He laughs. He makes fun of Gaffigan. He defends himself off from discomfort by making jokes before he answers questions straight. God bless him, he tolerates this project of mine with kind humor despite the fact that I am using shitty equipment with little professionalism. He is there the way I remember him. Smart. Handsome. Sweet. Funny. Flippant. He was really that great. Our lives were really that great. And I can show people that Greg Giraldo arrived in this package, only getting more skilled until he became the sad brilliant comic that people loved.
Chuckles is gone. The Comic Strip booths that we would crawl all over each other on are gone. Greg, unbelievably, is gone now now too. But we know what it was like, our tribe of comics and we remember each other for who were going to be as much as what we became.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Television set wisdom
I've been logging a lot of time on a television set lately. A sound stage, not a boxy thing with shows emitting from it. And we get to talking, the other folks I work with and I. Or miming at each other. For long period of time. Sometimes I learn something. About music. Relationships. Industry gossip. Books. How pot works. Lots of things.
Today I garnered this piece of wisdom (amongst other things I will reiterate some time down the line). If a woman is heavily tattooed, she is very like to flash chest parts if you seem interested enough in her body art. And ladies, don't let them fool you when they are ooh and ah-ing over the body art on your torso. No matter how good the work is, they are still thinking, "Look. Boobies."
I sleep better knowing that I am well informed.
Today I garnered this piece of wisdom (amongst other things I will reiterate some time down the line). If a woman is heavily tattooed, she is very like to flash chest parts if you seem interested enough in her body art. And ladies, don't let them fool you when they are ooh and ah-ing over the body art on your torso. No matter how good the work is, they are still thinking, "Look. Boobies."
I sleep better knowing that I am well informed.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
There's Canceled And Then There's Canceled.
Fucking Red Sox. An entire city run by a baseball team. I could have told them that this gig was going to bite the dust without even leaving the house if I bothered to look at the playing schedule.
But I don't mind it being canceled. I mind it being canceled for baseball sucking away all of the people. I would have liked to perform. I keep blowing out my voice running through this bits with characters attached to them and I need the people to play them off of effectively. They are at the stage when I need to see how to play it out. But oh well. I am not up to par anyway. Can't figure out if I'm sick or just worn out. Adrenaline is a real interesting thing. It probably would have knocked me back up to par but the drop back down would more than likely made me a total zombie afterwards.
I did get to speak to Jon about opening at Funny Bones in Hartford and doing the show with Carole again. Two big things that I would have gotten my ass down to the club for whether I was working or not.
And now I am in my bed. Not driving. Tired as hell. So it worked out. Got my work duties done. Now I can pass out on my face.
But I don't mind it being canceled. I mind it being canceled for baseball sucking away all of the people. I would have liked to perform. I keep blowing out my voice running through this bits with characters attached to them and I need the people to play them off of effectively. They are at the stage when I need to see how to play it out. But oh well. I am not up to par anyway. Can't figure out if I'm sick or just worn out. Adrenaline is a real interesting thing. It probably would have knocked me back up to par but the drop back down would more than likely made me a total zombie afterwards.
I did get to speak to Jon about opening at Funny Bones in Hartford and doing the show with Carole again. Two big things that I would have gotten my ass down to the club for whether I was working or not.
And now I am in my bed. Not driving. Tired as hell. So it worked out. Got my work duties done. Now I can pass out on my face.
The Curse Of The Good Audition
So now I am its bitch. Waiting until the window of opportunity rots away into nothing. Or not. Till the phone actually rings and the casting director with the kind voice gets to tell me that she has good news, waiting for me to thank her effusively. Which I usually deliver with gusto since I'm the same person who screams, "I LOVE YOU!" when they give me extra work with a 1pm call time.
Sigh.
It's a great feeling, having industry kiss your ass a little. Keeps you going after using your head for a battering ram a substantial part of your career. We are the abused wives of show business.
I nailed the little fucker to the wall. The reading. Not the casting director. That would be unethical and kind of gross. There is one thing that I do exceptionally well that a lot of other people in the local business have a hard time matching up to me (that and exhibit extreme modesty)(that's a joke, imaginary person reading this). I can hit broad comedy on a small screen hard. There's this tiny piece of moment that I can orchestrate into funny that takes a built in instinct to grab and twist into something different. In a broad sense, it would fall under comedic timing. But in reality it is knowing when its okay to let your sense of absurdity out of the gate. Which I attribute to relying on character choices completely. And trusting that even though you may offend or make an ass out of yourself, there is no wrong as long it is natural for them to do whatever works. It makes me high. I get an endorphin rush. The casting director and her assistant are entertained. I hear the words, "I love you. I wish I had bigger roles for you to read." Over 20 years all affirmed in one shot. It's like crystal meth that you only get a couple of times a year if you are lucky.
And you wait for the phone to ring. Or not. Because they may not want your physical type. They may want someone who contrasts with the lead more. They may want something else that you cannot be. And then you wait for another time to get the high of playing with a part that is so rare. So funny. So easy to hear how to play when you are allowed into the room.
Cocaine was an easier drug.
Sigh.
It's a great feeling, having industry kiss your ass a little. Keeps you going after using your head for a battering ram a substantial part of your career. We are the abused wives of show business.
I nailed the little fucker to the wall. The reading. Not the casting director. That would be unethical and kind of gross. There is one thing that I do exceptionally well that a lot of other people in the local business have a hard time matching up to me (that and exhibit extreme modesty)(that's a joke, imaginary person reading this). I can hit broad comedy on a small screen hard. There's this tiny piece of moment that I can orchestrate into funny that takes a built in instinct to grab and twist into something different. In a broad sense, it would fall under comedic timing. But in reality it is knowing when its okay to let your sense of absurdity out of the gate. Which I attribute to relying on character choices completely. And trusting that even though you may offend or make an ass out of yourself, there is no wrong as long it is natural for them to do whatever works. It makes me high. I get an endorphin rush. The casting director and her assistant are entertained. I hear the words, "I love you. I wish I had bigger roles for you to read." Over 20 years all affirmed in one shot. It's like crystal meth that you only get a couple of times a year if you are lucky.
And you wait for the phone to ring. Or not. Because they may not want your physical type. They may want someone who contrasts with the lead more. They may want something else that you cannot be. And then you wait for another time to get the high of playing with a part that is so rare. So funny. So easy to hear how to play when you are allowed into the room.
Cocaine was an easier drug.
I hate shoes
See, its this kind of logic that keeps me from thinking of things that I should be genuinely frightened of in my life. Like potential drinking water contamination at home in the Catskill via natural gas fracking and not going to the dentist for 9 years. I almost see worrying about shoes as a form of freedom that I am blessed to experience. Along with worrying about audits, body hair and who isn't booking me. After all, I used to have my entire life run by neurologists and my neurosurgeon. And taking pills, some times a pile of them at once. Things can certainly be worth worrying about more seriously.
I still hate you, shoes. Cold weather is coming and I will stretch out my time left with flipflops for as long as my pain threshold can take it. Or at work where they make me because fake medical examiner lab technicians would be busted by OSHA if they weren't wearing any and dead people leave gross puddles. Or possibly on stage. On second thought, fuck it. Why do I care if I have shoes on on stage? The audience can handle it.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Hello from under here
You go to an audition and they call you afterward, asking you to come in and read again. The casting director hadn't called you in in two years with the exception of extra work. And even that took some loud squeaky wheeling to get. You pound the crap out of not one but two different roles. The casting director calls up and offers you the part. She tells you how much the director loved you. She tells you how much she loves you, how she will call you again for sure. Mission accomplished. Shooting day roles around. It's like going off to college. Real people don't make movies. You show up at the production office and they call you an actor. It gives you a little tingle. It is used so infrequently when applied to you on a movie set. The hair and make up people fuss over you. The wardrobe people fuss over you. There is really expensive equipment surrounding you. The director blocks your dialogue. You discuss approach and solidify the marks with the director, the other actors...one being well known enough to make you want to touch his face to see if he is real...the camera man, the A.D. Your head is in business and tweaking and hitting exactly how you want to play this while keeping it within the confines of what the camera is encapsulating. It isn't real. It's work and you know that you are good at it, you know what you are doing. It's comfortable. It's the best work in the whole world. The crew sets up and lines up the shot, turning it around on each actor, making sure all of the angles that are needed to glue a scene are there without losing continuity. When you aren't in the shot, you are watching the monitor and you marvel out how cool it looks. High def is terrifying because it is so honest but beautiful to see. Clear and soft at the same time. In between set ups, the actors talk about business. Trade stories. You hang out with the lead who is just visiting the set for the day, trade more stories. You both did the same fringe festival. You both studied improv but different approaches. Actors talking about dialect. Actors talking about unions and release limitations. Actors talking about technique and memories. The best place in the world wraps up. You wipe off your make up. Touch your weird hard hair. Take off the clothes of the person who was borrowing your body. They clap you off because that is tradition when you wrap out a principal on their last day on the set, shake hands with everyone, discuss the release, tell the famous actor it was an honor to work with him, get in your shit heap car.
And then you get upset that no one is asking you to be in their shows. While you are being an actor, stand up comedy is passing by. And its time to start over yet again. Sigh. Don't bitch. Because for a day, thousands of people were out there struggling, wishing that they could be you just once.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Night time
This is the time when I give up worrying about things. Jessie Baade has been a world class worrier since she was a new Jessie Curtis, pit stopping at Jessie Robles. Somewhere along the line, it became too much work before going to sleep. I learned to say what the is going to happen between the going to sleep and awakening part that worrying is going to fix. It is freeing. Baby steps.
The bathroom drawers are slamming open and shut and my nerves have had enough noise for one week. I'm really hoping that the wardrobe fitting tomorrow goes off without them tossing me out as a ineptly attired prop. This money is crucial. And it isn't winter so a wedding scene doesn't equal freezing to death as it has in the past. Doing this kind of work has given me a level of patience that I didn't know I could acquire in my youth. It's a job. Don't piss people off and if there is an asshole on the set, it ain't your problem in a couple of days so ignore it until the asshole is no longer in your life. Being cold sucks but sooner or later you will be warm again. It gives you something to look forward to. So it ain't principal work. It isn't waiting tables either and at least this you are good at doing. Principal work is another job. Be gratetful that you get that too. They have nothing to do with each other except location. Breathe. Walk. Pray the food is good. Try not let lack of sleep fuck you up too badly. It's only five days....It's only five days....
I am so tired now from last week. At least I hope its from last week. I can't seem to wake up. The human body needs consistency. I don't get that. I don't know too many who do. I guess I'll try. And tomorrow, if I do catch up, I will tell you a little more about my adventures in all things show business. It is amusing, I think. If I can remember it....
The bathroom drawers are slamming open and shut and my nerves have had enough noise for one week. I'm really hoping that the wardrobe fitting tomorrow goes off without them tossing me out as a ineptly attired prop. This money is crucial. And it isn't winter so a wedding scene doesn't equal freezing to death as it has in the past. Doing this kind of work has given me a level of patience that I didn't know I could acquire in my youth. It's a job. Don't piss people off and if there is an asshole on the set, it ain't your problem in a couple of days so ignore it until the asshole is no longer in your life. Being cold sucks but sooner or later you will be warm again. It gives you something to look forward to. So it ain't principal work. It isn't waiting tables either and at least this you are good at doing. Principal work is another job. Be gratetful that you get that too. They have nothing to do with each other except location. Breathe. Walk. Pray the food is good. Try not let lack of sleep fuck you up too badly. It's only five days....It's only five days....
I am so tired now from last week. At least I hope its from last week. I can't seem to wake up. The human body needs consistency. I don't get that. I don't know too many who do. I guess I'll try. And tomorrow, if I do catch up, I will tell you a little more about my adventures in all things show business. It is amusing, I think. If I can remember it....
Ann's Blog
Yesterday, I went to my friend Ann Podolske's funeral. We weren't particularly close but liked each other a lot. Friends whom talked occasionally, happy to hang out and play catch up on the phone. I was always delighted to get to perform with her whenever I was given the opportunity. She was an extremely talented stand up. It made me so sad that the rest of the world never will never see how fucking good she was and even sadder that the world never gave her enough of a chance while she was alive. Thank God she wrote a wonderful blog documenting the end of her life. She left a voice for those who find it, mapping out a graceful death that she marched into bravely (after caring for her partner who also died from cancer months before Ann was diagnosed). And she lived every second that she could as hard as she could while God gave her a breath and then faded out to the next place, saying good bye to her friends, preparing us for life without her and leaving a firm confirmation that it was all right. She was ready for her next place.
She showed me the power of a blog. Inspired me. Her blog (www.apodolske.blogspot.com) enabled her to communicate her feelings, her experiences of her fight and her preparation for death to all of the people that could not physically be there with her. It gave us the opportunity to communicate back with her via her comments that her friends at home read to her, giving her the knowledge that we were out there with her too. Earlier on, before she knew that she was losing the fight, it gave many other cancer patients a road map of what to expect. She had a mercurial marvelous sense of humor that permeated her writing, like it did in person. Most comics have that ingrained into us as a defense mechanism but, in Ann's case, it kind of flowed out of her pores. It wasn't held up as a shield. It was just part of who she was. It makes this blog of hers extraordinary. The life of a person losing the fight against multiple myloma done palatable because she was so damned funny and positive and wise in her core.
So here's to you, Podolske. It's awfully hard to bitch about life when you are following a dying from cancer blog.
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