Crippling Self Doubt And Other Evil Villains: The Dark Side To Performing Without A Net

Ironically, this is from the show mentioned below. 
Dale Stones is the one throttling me.  
Photo by Justin Moore.

It sits in a dark corner,waiting for you to relax and let your guard down. It knows that life is going well for you and it wants to fuck it up.

Or it cuddles in the front row, dead center with its ugly girlfriend, Panic, goading you as you fall deeper and deeper into the pit of sweaty self abuse with every consequential mistake you make, making it worse and worse.

Or it pokes you with its stick made out of everything that you ever hated about yourself  as soon as you do the slightest thing not perfectly.

You will be fired. You aren't worth loving. You are nothing but a fuck up so how could you possibly get this right. Remember the last time you failed? Remember how badly it scorched you? It's going to happen again and again and again because you are nothing but  failure. You are going to die in an even worse version of the body that you have only ever loved when you are emaciated. You are fat. You are old. You have failed at life.

It makes you jealous of everyone, constantly lonely because there is not enough reassurance in the world that you are as good as every one else. Lugging the wounds of your emotional past with him wherever he follows you.

We finished a show that was technically difficult for the hosts because there was a lot of material to regurgitate relatively unrehearsed. And even when we could rehearse it, it wasn't going to match what would happen during a live show because the audience was an essential dynamic. Instantaneous change is the nature of the beast and it is terrifying. So the crippling self doubt has a wealth of food with which to strengthen itself.

The show went well. I felt good about it for a bit. But that only lasts so long. My partner excelled so of course I felt worse about every stinking mistake I made because now I failed him as well. Error is public and effects every one you touch. An introduction is weak. A wrong lyric trips another performer. He is young and likeable and perfect.  I was proud of him because he took a step beyond his comfort zone, putting himself in a place where his dark brooding evil villain has plenty to suck from him too. But that post show warmth only lasts so long. As soon you are all alone in your head with Crippling Self Doubt goading you from the corner, reliving the things you should have done.

Now we do it again. And I will fight my inner villain with the only tools I know to put him at bay. Rehearsal. Review. Fix the mistakes. And be perfect. So he will be quiet for now. Today. Until the next time.

The Boys

My friend Dale Stones of  Sirlesque, the only all male burlesque troupe in the Boston area,  is running a series of classes in male burlesque on Wednesdays in March, ending with a show at the end of the series at Club Cafe in Boston. It is a very affordable opportunity for men who are interested in taking the plunge to do so in a safe supportive environment. Dale is one of the most in demand dancers in the community because, besides being talented, he is also exceedingly nice. 

It will be interesting to see who walks onto that stage on March 28th. Who the brave ones are going to be this time and if they will stay. It's a unique welcoming world of self expression with so many opportunities,particularly for the men  because there are so few, but it takes a special personality to stick with it. And what is that personality is exactly? Well, your guess is as good as mine.

After giving it a good long think, I still find if  hard to explain a single reason that draws of people into the Boston burlesque community. And that goes double for our men folk.

Yes there are almost naked women and men. That is sort of the central theme that goes on through the concept. At the end of the acts, more often than not, people wind up without their clothes on. I suppose that will attract a few but it takes a committed pervert to go through the trouble of designing and costuming an act just to see some titties. Or butts. Or whatever is a fella's flavor. 

Boston burlesque draws an extraordinarily creative group of people. They are constantly developing original concepts that are put into original shows that also have to be developed. When I think of the people that I have encountered since I went from the Lucky 13 amateur contest that Rogue Burlesque held in 2012 to when I became the troupe's character emcee in 2013, I think of the words "brave" "physical comedy" "artist" "beautiful." "Almost naked" is much farther down the list of adjectives, possibly because it is such a given that it has become an "oh that."

The community tends to gravitate toward a bohemian vein. We certainly have our share of tattoos. But when you look at the handful of men in our midst, this seems to be less true.  The adjectives that I just mentioned absolutely apply to them but, possibly due to being so few of them, they tend.....although not exclusively...to be professionals with day jobs.  They, like the super heroes that they sometimes emulate on stage, have a day persona and a night persona. You would never guess that the statement, "I will be glittering and gluing my costume for the NYC show all weekend" would ever be passing their lips if you met them in line at the grocery store. 

So why? Why walk into a clearly female dominant arena and take the risk of, er, exposure? These men are in good shape because they take their bodies seriously. They have be able to dance and emote. Every act is a story told without the convenience of words. They work hard to make a routine that is original with a message.They are driven to entertain but they are also driven to bring something unique to the table with every performance. Any fool can take his clothes off. Not everyone can do burlesque. 

Somewhere along the line, they walked into a room and said, "I want to be part of this thing." And,like their sisters in the community, they took the chance. And believe me, it is as terrifying as it looks.

It occurred to me some time ago that no one in this community is judged by their sex or their sexual choice or their race or their religion ore their marital status or anything else that you can think to judge each other against. The element of trust is strong as is respect. As long as you work hard and contribute work that is good, people are open to whoever you are.

Maybe it was on a dare. Or to prove something  to themselves.Or to someone else. Maybe they had body issues.Or confidence issues. Or maybe,even,they saw someone in a show and wanted to get closer to their world. But that step into the ring took huge balls because somewhere in the preparation for it, shit got real. And then next day they went back to their lives and said, "I want to do it again."

*Interested in Dale's classes? Feeling brave? Contact him at mr.dale.stones@gmail.com.

Because I Promised: Needles And Why I Hate Them

A bad stick

There are good sticks and there are bad sticks.

A good stick is usually someone like a phlebotomist or a pediatric nurse. They insert needles into people's bodies on a very regular basis, often in areas that are normally a little tricky. The needles go in so fast and smoothly that you barely feel them. You don't feel the needle moving around under your skin, poking into places where it shouldn't go. They don't mumble to themselves about your bad veins making life difficult for them. It just gets done.

A bad stick is usually someone who doesn't insert needles unless they have to or are new to the process. Like doctors*or new EMTs. They've practiced on a lot of oranges and oranges are not the same as my human flesh. I would like to blame these people for all of the shrieking I am wont to do when the suggestion of an I.V. arises. They are the reason that I can recite my patient's bill of rights to hospital staff by rote. The reason that when crossed with the prospect of dying or being hospitalized, there is always a moment where I consider death as a more palatable option.

The thought of a foreign object puncturing my skin is distasteful but it isn't that part that really bothers me. After all, I have tattoos. Those weren't comfortable but they are more like cuts with ink poured into the marks. It is the deep invasion of metal into my body. The foreign pointed object that so often hits the wrong nerve endings. The thing that I can see immersed in, well, me that does not belong. It makes me want to scream even typing about it.

For several years I was a human pin cushion. Due to a chronic illness, someone was always jabbing me for blood tests, I.V.s and the occasional heplock when hospitalized.You would think I would have gotten used to it but nope. I didn't even resign myself to it being fact of life, like so many others in the situation. There wasn't a single time when I didn't secretly plot an escape. It hurt. I clenched. I cried.

I was recently presented with the possibility of another illness. The illness should scare me but it doesn't really because I have  the needles to think about. I've had a long time to distance myself from the needles grateful that I don't have to deal with them. And now the potential for blood tests and injections and heplocks and I.V.'s if my prognosis is bad scares me far more than disease.

It is irrational. I know. But they are needles, you know?

* This does not include my niece the doctor whom I am sure is excellent at stabbing people.