This is Ann. I say 'is' on purpose.
http://apodolske.blogspot.com/2010/06/love-to-you-all-june-1-2010.html
Note how she apologized to those she couldn't get to because she was busy dying. That, "Sorry!" at the end just nails me every time because it could have been written with a number of inflections. Sincerely. Kindly. Or ironically. Probably all of them at once.
See that? Right there could seem a wee disrepectful to the recently deceased, right?Accusing a dying woman of being ironic? But she would have laughed. Comedy that is worth its salt is also worth a risk sometimes too. She got that. Most lady comics do.
Ann lived in the Northampton area, pretty far from Boston but close to some other lady comic friends, Boney and Jennifer. Jennifer and Ann often traveled together. I met her doing Jennifer's Girls! Girls! Girls! show at The Pace Center in Easthampton. Jennifer's fiance Scott was always there too. I loved being around them. No one made me laugh harder. Jennifer called us 'lady comics' because it was exactly right.
Ann died in 2010, shortly after the passing of her life partner of a decade and a half, Linda. As you can see from her writing, she didn't want to go. It was too early yet.
We still share our love and admiration for her. When I see Jennifer and Scott, I see Ann too. It's the beauty of being a Lady Comic. Just because you are gone, doesn't mean that you aren't here with us too.
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Circus Geek In The Classical Sense
I cannot tell you how many times that I have almost stepped on a contortionist.
Usually they are on a mat somewhere on a floor space when not on the
stage stretching. Constantly. Sometimes they stop to eat or go to the
bathroom. Same goes for the aerial acts but not as extreme. You can also find them standing on their hands. The hand balancing acts are particularly partial to being upside down. All of them stretching and prepping. They are athletes who are performers. Their bodies are machines. You won't find Doritos backstage.
The hoop acts and the jugglers are perfectionists. They work on their acts at home mostly probably because someone might get hit. Timing and physical pliability and strength is pertinent to their work. Group acts remind me of the dozers in Fraggle Rock only more creative with better outfits. Work work work don't screw up fix it if you do work work work.
The band is huge, a well oiled beast designed to entertain when they need to entertain and blend when they need to blend. It takes a while to get past the borg and meet the individuals. Everyone of the members are trained and extremely skilled in their own right. They also take longer to get set up than anyone in the show because their act requires so many people fine tuning so many parts. Often they are playing when we are eating or backstage prepping.
The dancers traveled in a swarm of costumes and female energy. Two different teams...the burlesque performers and the more traditional dancers.....moved in a protective bubble of familiarity and objective. Many of them knew the circus acts and there was moments of connecting but mostly it is about the collective.
I've never been in a place where perfect is so essential to the show. Organic improvisation...the cornerstone for creating my characters..... is for the creative process, getting to the stage and to redeem a moment when perfection was marred. After that it can bunk up the works.
There are a few times in life when you walk into a new place that is important to you and you feel absolutely like an outsider. A new school. A new job. Summer camp. Everyone is canoodling and hugging and reminiscing and there you are with nothing to offer in the familiar social structure.And, in this case, the majority of people are perfect looking human specimens with bodies that are fine tuned for strength and balance. Even if someone is built bulkier than the lithe creatures that make up most of them, they are solid muscle. Nothing on earth could possibly make a soul with image issues feel more ungainly and old than a room full of circus performers. Even a fashion model can't stick a toe in their ear.
When I walked into the theatre, my actor writer ego went out the window and I became the proverbial chicken head biting carnival geek freak. I am not suspended from the ceiling by my toes. My ability to playing,well, anything, in the band is limited to a decent enough singer, who can play piano by ear a little because sheet music is too complicated. Juggling sounds fun if I ever actually tried which I haven't. And if I could, there is a big difference between tossing a ball up in a pattern verses standing on another persons shoulders and flipping pins in perfect alignment while one or two or three catches and returns it back at to me to music.
However within the dynamics of a traditional carnival, a geek is still considered a skilled laborer. Have you ever had to hold a live chicken ? Without the motivation of holding it still to fit your mouth around its head enough to bite it off without getting pecked? Not easy. Hell, the idea of a giant mouth trying to sink its teeth around my neck would send me into a conniption too and I have an i.q.. I could see why this would draw the curious and impress an audience with the performer's determination, how this performer would eventually be accepted into the family of acts after proving his worth.
So I accepted the carnival geek challenge, in this instance being one of the two people in the circus to string the words together to make sense of the show and give the circus acts a reason to be there. And to pretend I am a homicidal yet funny mob boss.
Our shows had run about monthly and rotated acts so we would do a full out tech/dress rehearsal the day of show. We would have one hour to eat dinner and then run two back to back performances. By the time we got done, all of us had been running for around 10 hours, many of us pushing our bodies to extremes.
Sometimes there was a second wind but this last night, several of us wound up in one of the dressing room quietly talking, delaying exuding the energy needed to pack up the room. Other times some would go out and dance while the band kept playing but it was February and so many of us had been ill with colds or one of the plethora of viral/bacterial nuisances that took its toll on a body. A juggler was reading a book. A aerialist was talking to my co-writer/actor. A lady was sitting in the lap of another juggler. One of the other juggler deftly unhooked the bra of the ingenue act when giving her a hug. It was depressurization. It was nice. Cold was outside. The shows had sold out. The audience was delighted. Their youth and perfection still intimidated me but I did my job too. They were just people now until later when they put their circus back on and I go back to being a geek.
The hoop acts and the jugglers are perfectionists. They work on their acts at home mostly probably because someone might get hit. Timing and physical pliability and strength is pertinent to their work. Group acts remind me of the dozers in Fraggle Rock only more creative with better outfits. Work work work don't screw up fix it if you do work work work.
The band is huge, a well oiled beast designed to entertain when they need to entertain and blend when they need to blend. It takes a while to get past the borg and meet the individuals. Everyone of the members are trained and extremely skilled in their own right. They also take longer to get set up than anyone in the show because their act requires so many people fine tuning so many parts. Often they are playing when we are eating or backstage prepping.
The dancers traveled in a swarm of costumes and female energy. Two different teams...the burlesque performers and the more traditional dancers.....moved in a protective bubble of familiarity and objective. Many of them knew the circus acts and there was moments of connecting but mostly it is about the collective.
I've never been in a place where perfect is so essential to the show. Organic improvisation...the cornerstone for creating my characters..... is for the creative process, getting to the stage and to redeem a moment when perfection was marred. After that it can bunk up the works.
There are a few times in life when you walk into a new place that is important to you and you feel absolutely like an outsider. A new school. A new job. Summer camp. Everyone is canoodling and hugging and reminiscing and there you are with nothing to offer in the familiar social structure.And, in this case, the majority of people are perfect looking human specimens with bodies that are fine tuned for strength and balance. Even if someone is built bulkier than the lithe creatures that make up most of them, they are solid muscle. Nothing on earth could possibly make a soul with image issues feel more ungainly and old than a room full of circus performers. Even a fashion model can't stick a toe in their ear.
When I walked into the theatre, my actor writer ego went out the window and I became the proverbial chicken head biting carnival geek freak. I am not suspended from the ceiling by my toes. My ability to playing,well, anything, in the band is limited to a decent enough singer, who can play piano by ear a little because sheet music is too complicated. Juggling sounds fun if I ever actually tried which I haven't. And if I could, there is a big difference between tossing a ball up in a pattern verses standing on another persons shoulders and flipping pins in perfect alignment while one or two or three catches and returns it back at to me to music.
However within the dynamics of a traditional carnival, a geek is still considered a skilled laborer. Have you ever had to hold a live chicken ? Without the motivation of holding it still to fit your mouth around its head enough to bite it off without getting pecked? Not easy. Hell, the idea of a giant mouth trying to sink its teeth around my neck would send me into a conniption too and I have an i.q.. I could see why this would draw the curious and impress an audience with the performer's determination, how this performer would eventually be accepted into the family of acts after proving his worth.
So I accepted the carnival geek challenge, in this instance being one of the two people in the circus to string the words together to make sense of the show and give the circus acts a reason to be there. And to pretend I am a homicidal yet funny mob boss.
Our shows had run about monthly and rotated acts so we would do a full out tech/dress rehearsal the day of show. We would have one hour to eat dinner and then run two back to back performances. By the time we got done, all of us had been running for around 10 hours, many of us pushing our bodies to extremes.
Sometimes there was a second wind but this last night, several of us wound up in one of the dressing room quietly talking, delaying exuding the energy needed to pack up the room. Other times some would go out and dance while the band kept playing but it was February and so many of us had been ill with colds or one of the plethora of viral/bacterial nuisances that took its toll on a body. A juggler was reading a book. A aerialist was talking to my co-writer/actor. A lady was sitting in the lap of another juggler. One of the other juggler deftly unhooked the bra of the ingenue act when giving her a hug. It was depressurization. It was nice. Cold was outside. The shows had sold out. The audience was delighted. Their youth and perfection still intimidated me but I did my job too. They were just people now until later when they put their circus back on and I go back to being a geek.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
On The Brink Of Over The Side Of The Hill
I fully expect to be walking down the street and have an arm drop off. Or feel a little thump as my kidney implodes. Something abrupt and permanent. Because so far the aging thing is being very sneaky and slow. Something's got to give.
I've got to give my younger friends a lot of credit. When I was their age, I would have brushed off a parental age friend no matter how deeply immature they are from brain damage. I was never as open minded as they are. Their generation is more tolerant in general.
I was raised in an era when acceptance was being grown. When I was born, black people were just beginning to make leeway in the fight for their rights. Gay people were whispered about if they weren't in the closet completely. Woman had lit the match but not burned a bra yet. If you got preggers out of marriage, it was a tragedy. Divorce was not unusual but not usual either. You were brash and sassy if you said the word "orgasm" aloud. We never heard of "recycling trash" although in my childhood I was terrified of acid raining on my head and nuclear bombs destroying Callicoon, NY specifically. I see myself as a person who has lived several times in worlds that don't exist any more, all crammed into one person.
There was the life time when a disease killed so many young people around me until it was staved off by a handful of pills while friends stood on the edge of their death sentence, rescued at the last minute. That's the time in my life when my parents were still young enough to be parents like in the movies. I lived in the East Village and always felt wonderfully dreadfully alive. That is when I saw now famous rich people naked living in then poor people shitty apartments. High on life or down in the New York City gutter with no in between. It was going to last forever. But it didn't.
And there was another life time when I was sick and my life quit completely. Those are the years when we became permanently dependent on computers and cellphones and I became dependent on, well, everyone. At the end of that time, so many people in my family disappeared, taken by old age and illness that the majority of the people I associated as adults in my childhood were essentially erased. We moved to New England at the end of that one.
And this last one? I stand at the top of the hill ready to fall into the hole that my parent's generation left so empty, vacating it with the end of their existence this time in this world. Not feeling old. Just up to my eyeballs in debt from the other lives. Still looking for new stimulus, new people, new stories to tell. But with joints that are damaged from injuries that never would have bothered me before and a head full of screws. The body has shifted a little too but that's okay because I am not alone and my goals are still keeping me focused. I am less afraid, more accepting, grateful for the people left in my life.
We all just want to live without worry and sometimes there is a price. Practicality. Playing it safe. There is nothing wrong with it. It just isn't me and I doubt it ever will be. Every time I write a damned script or come up with another five minutes of an act I am opening myself up to a process that could end badly. And there is no room to let my body deteriorate. I need all of me in tact mentally and physically. There is pain that doesn't heal easily now if I don't.
So now when I take those steps out of my comfort zone, I am used to it because I have lived it those other times. And I know well that I could die any second because I've missed my demise so many times before. Physical exertion hurts more and, paradoxically, is necessary to insure that I can physically exert myself. Humiliation is not welcome but when the gambles I take creatively go out an ugly death, I know there is an end to the sensation eventually. People are going to cease to exist around me and never before have I felt so certain that there but for the grace of God go I. And the ticking clock tells me to work harder. Because as young or old as I feel, it is finite. A cat only has so many lives.
I've got to give my younger friends a lot of credit. When I was their age, I would have brushed off a parental age friend no matter how deeply immature they are from brain damage. I was never as open minded as they are. Their generation is more tolerant in general.
I was raised in an era when acceptance was being grown. When I was born, black people were just beginning to make leeway in the fight for their rights. Gay people were whispered about if they weren't in the closet completely. Woman had lit the match but not burned a bra yet. If you got preggers out of marriage, it was a tragedy. Divorce was not unusual but not usual either. You were brash and sassy if you said the word "orgasm" aloud. We never heard of "recycling trash" although in my childhood I was terrified of acid raining on my head and nuclear bombs destroying Callicoon, NY specifically. I see myself as a person who has lived several times in worlds that don't exist any more, all crammed into one person.
There was the life time when a disease killed so many young people around me until it was staved off by a handful of pills while friends stood on the edge of their death sentence, rescued at the last minute. That's the time in my life when my parents were still young enough to be parents like in the movies. I lived in the East Village and always felt wonderfully dreadfully alive. That is when I saw now famous rich people naked living in then poor people shitty apartments. High on life or down in the New York City gutter with no in between. It was going to last forever. But it didn't.
And there was another life time when I was sick and my life quit completely. Those are the years when we became permanently dependent on computers and cellphones and I became dependent on, well, everyone. At the end of that time, so many people in my family disappeared, taken by old age and illness that the majority of the people I associated as adults in my childhood were essentially erased. We moved to New England at the end of that one.
And this last one? I stand at the top of the hill ready to fall into the hole that my parent's generation left so empty, vacating it with the end of their existence this time in this world. Not feeling old. Just up to my eyeballs in debt from the other lives. Still looking for new stimulus, new people, new stories to tell. But with joints that are damaged from injuries that never would have bothered me before and a head full of screws. The body has shifted a little too but that's okay because I am not alone and my goals are still keeping me focused. I am less afraid, more accepting, grateful for the people left in my life.
We all just want to live without worry and sometimes there is a price. Practicality. Playing it safe. There is nothing wrong with it. It just isn't me and I doubt it ever will be. Every time I write a damned script or come up with another five minutes of an act I am opening myself up to a process that could end badly. And there is no room to let my body deteriorate. I need all of me in tact mentally and physically. There is pain that doesn't heal easily now if I don't.
So now when I take those steps out of my comfort zone, I am used to it because I have lived it those other times. And I know well that I could die any second because I've missed my demise so many times before. Physical exertion hurts more and, paradoxically, is necessary to insure that I can physically exert myself. Humiliation is not welcome but when the gambles I take creatively go out an ugly death, I know there is an end to the sensation eventually. People are going to cease to exist around me and never before have I felt so certain that there but for the grace of God go I. And the ticking clock tells me to work harder. Because as young or old as I feel, it is finite. A cat only has so many lives.
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Define Friend
Two years ago, at a time I would define as the worst period of my life, I was standing on a street corner on the perimeter of Harvard Square distributing sample packets of a popular vitamin supplement. It was in February. I remember this because it is my least favorite month and if the company who hired me wasn't so damned nice, eating glass would have been more appealing. It wasn't a bad product. There wasn't a feeling of selling. It was just cold. And I hate cold with a passion. I was looking forward to wrapping up and defrosting under warm covers.
It was our last day of the three that we had been hired to work and Cambridge was at least a familiar area. The comedy club that I frequented was on one end of the neighborhood. Harvard Law school where I did occasional work as an actor in negotiating classes was near the spot I had been placed. Lots of college kids and tourists from different parts of the world bundled up so thoroughly that even in this exotic mix so rarely found in this part of New England, everyone took on the same dull sameness. Well, most everybody.
I don't know how it started. Probably just me handing him a sample and he saying, "What is it?" But somehow it metamorphosed into a full conversation about food and music and comedy and philosophies of life. He was a musician. I was a comic. It was an excellent conversation between two people who were in the right place and the right time with equally gregarious personalities in a mood to talk.
25 years earlier I lived in the East Village in Manhattan. It was a fairly decent sized neighborhood but I stuck mostly to the 20 blocks or so south, west and east of East 11th Street and 1st Avenue. Neighborhood diners and cafes were very important to the culture of young artists of different ilks in our community. We would venture a little west on weekends and hang out in Washington Square Park in warm weather by the fountain. Go out to the same music venues were many of us also performed occasionally. I would see the same person everywhere. He was a fashionable looking man with a striking resemblance to one of the guys in Milli Vanilli. One day I passed him on St. Marks Street and stopped him. "Hi," I said. "I see you all of the time." He told me his name was Ellis. And from then on we knew each other.
In our society, especially in the acting business, there is a certain amount of bullshit spread around, promises that a soul makes in a moment to check out each other's shows, keep in touch, follow up, whatever sounds polite at the time. But you go home and forget because you are tired. Or you may feel like it is a little creepy for whatever reason.Or you just don't want another human in your life at that moment. Michael told me that he had been a music student at Berklee and performed with a band called NoizTank. I found them on facebook, as promised. And I liked them a lot.
Facebook is a profound new way of vetting friendships. It has altered our way of determining who is going to remain a stranger in your life. The truth is, I don't think I would have been real friends with Ellis if we did exchange that particular information. There is always the silent prayer that a new artist in your life doesn't suck because you don't know how to communicate with someone you are always going to have to lie to about their work. But I discovered during that first conversation that I had with Michael that I admired his work ethic. He was also funny and came from a school that isn't for the half-assed. We share a semblance of ethics.. We like each other's posts. I think his new band is great and hope to see them live.
So does this qualify as a friendship? A person that you met on a street corner that you communicate with via the internet. Someone that you have had a real conversation with exactly once. The information about things like family and friends are contained in a carefully selected filter. It is almost like a work friend. Except the origin to begin with this one was a little different. Our communication was based on some form of mutual respect that caused us to stop and continue the first conversation. Something triggered this thing inside our mutual brains that said, "I want to know more. This person makes me curious and I feel safe enough to reveal who I am."
Its a new world. It is possible that we won't physically meet a lot of people we interact with some day. But I like seeing faces and I love live performance. Human energy is lost with a wall between us. If I met him on the internet, statistically we are so different we probably wouldn't have paid attention to each other as human beings. Maybe listened to a song or read a piece of writing produced by one another. But the spirit would be a little flatter and the music that this band plays comes from a real human being who worked so hard to create it because I met the soul it came out of.
So I guess it doesn't matter if he is a friend or not. He is his own category. It is a good one and I consider myself lucky to be involved in the transaction and I guess that is what counts. The universe has offered me the blessing of this good human in my life no matter how briefly in whatever form to make it better. Giving it a name ain't going to change that.
It was our last day of the three that we had been hired to work and Cambridge was at least a familiar area. The comedy club that I frequented was on one end of the neighborhood. Harvard Law school where I did occasional work as an actor in negotiating classes was near the spot I had been placed. Lots of college kids and tourists from different parts of the world bundled up so thoroughly that even in this exotic mix so rarely found in this part of New England, everyone took on the same dull sameness. Well, most everybody.
I don't know how it started. Probably just me handing him a sample and he saying, "What is it?" But somehow it metamorphosed into a full conversation about food and music and comedy and philosophies of life. He was a musician. I was a comic. It was an excellent conversation between two people who were in the right place and the right time with equally gregarious personalities in a mood to talk.
25 years earlier I lived in the East Village in Manhattan. It was a fairly decent sized neighborhood but I stuck mostly to the 20 blocks or so south, west and east of East 11th Street and 1st Avenue. Neighborhood diners and cafes were very important to the culture of young artists of different ilks in our community. We would venture a little west on weekends and hang out in Washington Square Park in warm weather by the fountain. Go out to the same music venues were many of us also performed occasionally. I would see the same person everywhere. He was a fashionable looking man with a striking resemblance to one of the guys in Milli Vanilli. One day I passed him on St. Marks Street and stopped him. "Hi," I said. "I see you all of the time." He told me his name was Ellis. And from then on we knew each other.
In our society, especially in the acting business, there is a certain amount of bullshit spread around, promises that a soul makes in a moment to check out each other's shows, keep in touch, follow up, whatever sounds polite at the time. But you go home and forget because you are tired. Or you may feel like it is a little creepy for whatever reason.Or you just don't want another human in your life at that moment. Michael told me that he had been a music student at Berklee and performed with a band called NoizTank. I found them on facebook, as promised. And I liked them a lot.
Facebook is a profound new way of vetting friendships. It has altered our way of determining who is going to remain a stranger in your life. The truth is, I don't think I would have been real friends with Ellis if we did exchange that particular information. There is always the silent prayer that a new artist in your life doesn't suck because you don't know how to communicate with someone you are always going to have to lie to about their work. But I discovered during that first conversation that I had with Michael that I admired his work ethic. He was also funny and came from a school that isn't for the half-assed. We share a semblance of ethics.. We like each other's posts. I think his new band is great and hope to see them live.
So does this qualify as a friendship? A person that you met on a street corner that you communicate with via the internet. Someone that you have had a real conversation with exactly once. The information about things like family and friends are contained in a carefully selected filter. It is almost like a work friend. Except the origin to begin with this one was a little different. Our communication was based on some form of mutual respect that caused us to stop and continue the first conversation. Something triggered this thing inside our mutual brains that said, "I want to know more. This person makes me curious and I feel safe enough to reveal who I am."
Its a new world. It is possible that we won't physically meet a lot of people we interact with some day. But I like seeing faces and I love live performance. Human energy is lost with a wall between us. If I met him on the internet, statistically we are so different we probably wouldn't have paid attention to each other as human beings. Maybe listened to a song or read a piece of writing produced by one another. But the spirit would be a little flatter and the music that this band plays comes from a real human being who worked so hard to create it because I met the soul it came out of.
So I guess it doesn't matter if he is a friend or not. He is his own category. It is a good one and I consider myself lucky to be involved in the transaction and I guess that is what counts. The universe has offered me the blessing of this good human in my life no matter how briefly in whatever form to make it better. Giving it a name ain't going to change that.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Charlie McCarthy I Hardly Knew Ya
Sears Catalog was the go-to for all possible things in my life. It had roller disco skates. And outfits like Kristy McNichol wore as Buddy in "Family." Cassette tape recorders that we could record songs playing on WNBC (the only radio station that played pop music AND made it up the river valley into my house). And, for the kid who was looking for a back door into show biz without having to admit it out loud, ventriloquist dummies. A whole page of instant Borscht Belt acts without the mess of a skill. I was a kid. Me and the dummy would ride adorable all the way to Wonderama stardom! I worked on my parents for a year until, for my 10th birthday, Charlie McCarthy arrived.
I picked out Charlie from the dummy herd on the page of the catalog and am, in retrospect, grateful for my choice. Because, as much as Charlie would wind up scaring the shit out of me, the other choices would have easily turned me to drugs by the time I was 15. Particularly Simon Says with his Kingston Trio V neck and molded side part hair emanating the air of a 1963 hipster with a child porn collection in his desk drawer or The Clown whom I believe went on to flash-in-the-pan stardom screwing with young Robbie Freeling's head in the movie "Poltergeist." Charlie was already an established personality. He was respectable, dressed like a pint sized Fred Astaire complete with a tuxedo jacket, a top hat and a damned fine monocle. Oh how I loved that monocle, often wearing it myself to create that Angela Lansbury feeling.
Then, just a couple of months after Charlie and I really started cooking up good ideas for the act, the television ads started running for the movie, "Magic" staring Anthony Hopkins and the most demented psycho to ever be whittled from a tree.
The doll in the movie wasn't exactly like Charlie. He wasn't as classy. Or was he? Every time I saw that commercial, I lost a little more faith in the Mike Nichols to my Elaine May. I was an imaginative kid to begin with, for years waiting for Frankenstein and skeletons to get me in the dark. And Charlie was right there, in my bed or on my shelf, always looking like he was waiting for something to happen. He had arms and legs that began to look more and more likely to move when my sister and I were conveniently asleep in our room. Magic Psycho Dummy looked like he was trusted too and Anthony Hopkins certainly regretted his choice.
I tied Charlie's arms and legs up in knots after I removed his monocle so he couldn't see where he was going. It didn't sit right with me, though. I imagined it would just piss him off more if he got out of it. So I moved him into the hamper in the laundry room at the other end of the house. At night I would listen for feet with tiny plastic shoes skittering across the linoleum. Eventually, my mother removed Charlie from the house. I kept the monocle.
Years later, I ran into Charlie at a comedy club. He was working as comic Chris Coxen's War Doll with his character Danny Morsel. I didn't recognize him at first. He had become less formal, sporting a moustache and had a large well toned man strapped to his back. I felt silly. Chris didn't look frightened at all.
On the other hand, I was listening to an interview with the Way brothers from My Chemical Romance on Kevin Smith's Smodcast. Mikey Way spoke about a film he made in college that involved a Charlie McCarthy doll chasing someone (I am paraphrasing and possibly getting it wrong entirely). I was glad that Charlie had that effect on other people too. Not only did it justify my irrational reaction to him a little, it emphasized his diversity as a performer.
Wherever you are out there, Charlie, I am glad that time has not lessened your power to entertain. I was never meant to be your sidekick anyway, being more of the solo artist sort. And you look better without a monocle anyway.
 |
| Charlie being cheeky to my sister, Chrissy. |
Then, just a couple of months after Charlie and I really started cooking up good ideas for the act, the television ads started running for the movie, "Magic" staring Anthony Hopkins and the most demented psycho to ever be whittled from a tree.
The doll in the movie wasn't exactly like Charlie. He wasn't as classy. Or was he? Every time I saw that commercial, I lost a little more faith in the Mike Nichols to my Elaine May. I was an imaginative kid to begin with, for years waiting for Frankenstein and skeletons to get me in the dark. And Charlie was right there, in my bed or on my shelf, always looking like he was waiting for something to happen. He had arms and legs that began to look more and more likely to move when my sister and I were conveniently asleep in our room. Magic Psycho Dummy looked like he was trusted too and Anthony Hopkins certainly regretted his choice.
I tied Charlie's arms and legs up in knots after I removed his monocle so he couldn't see where he was going. It didn't sit right with me, though. I imagined it would just piss him off more if he got out of it. So I moved him into the hamper in the laundry room at the other end of the house. At night I would listen for feet with tiny plastic shoes skittering across the linoleum. Eventually, my mother removed Charlie from the house. I kept the monocle.
Years later, I ran into Charlie at a comedy club. He was working as comic Chris Coxen's War Doll with his character Danny Morsel. I didn't recognize him at first. He had become less formal, sporting a moustache and had a large well toned man strapped to his back. I felt silly. Chris didn't look frightened at all.
 |
| Photo of War Doll at Mottley's Comedy Club thanks to Chris Coxen |
On the other hand, I was listening to an interview with the Way brothers from My Chemical Romance on Kevin Smith's Smodcast. Mikey Way spoke about a film he made in college that involved a Charlie McCarthy doll chasing someone (I am paraphrasing and possibly getting it wrong entirely). I was glad that Charlie had that effect on other people too. Not only did it justify my irrational reaction to him a little, it emphasized his diversity as a performer.
Wherever you are out there, Charlie, I am glad that time has not lessened your power to entertain. I was never meant to be your sidekick anyway, being more of the solo artist sort. And you look better without a monocle anyway.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Jessica Baade is (not really) deceased: A comic actor gets age neutered.
I'm marking the age range "deceased."
Recently those of us in the potential over 40 category got a series of texts from a Boston casting director ordering us to update our age ranges within 5 years of our real age. I get it. Some actors get a little zealous about trimming off the years and, as a result, there probably has been some backlash from the film production teams that keep receiving submissions wrong for the roles to fill. And what is so wrong with being your age? Not a damned thing. Unless it blocks you from getting called in for the work you would actually book.
I don't normally try to cover up my age. The chronological order of my life is the foundation of my act. I do not look the assigned number. But every role that I have ever booked has been on a submission sent in for a role way more than a decade younger, usually based on a casting director's assumption of my age, not a computer's assigned category. Sure, in order to book me, the producers went older than they intended too by a smidge or at least on the high end of the age range. But, due to the weeding out process created by computerized systems that a few modern casting directors use, I would have never been called in for those jobs based on my number of years age. And, if I change my age category, when they punch in the age groups that they traditionally go for into the computer to search for available female comedy actors, I will not surface as an option.
I am a quirky bleached blonde character actor in the tradition of Victoria Jackson and Georgia Engels. Both of whom in their hay day would have been called in for characters in their 30's. I also use a voice that sounds much younger than my number age which is also a bitch since our voice over stuff goes into the same data place. They do not look for my comedy type in the over 40 set. For some reason, goofy physical female comics just can't be the numbers that be not named although even Flo from Progressive is playing for our team. And the irony is, it took me being over 40 to not care enough what other people thought to get good at it. When did people start thinking about Martha Plimpton ("Raising Hope") as primarily a comedy actor? Think about it.
I give up. I am going to get another tattoo but this time its going to be on my arm, not on my torso hidden like the others. Its going to be of the middle finger flipping high into the air, symbolizing the demise of my present ability to get acting work. I am also going to pierce my nose with a gold loop. And dip the ends of my bleached blond hair in deep red and black. If they want the real me, they will get the real me. The East Village one, not the motherhood joke one. And under my age I will write, "Jessica Baade is dead." Because it will be the same as me writing "45 to 50."
Sigh. Okay. I lied. I folded and changed my age range. And I didn't write "Jessica Baade is dead." Even though its pretty much the same thing with this one casting group. And I didn't get the nose ring because I hate potential face infections. And I will get another tattoo but probably will hide that too. Because the truth is, as much as I hate being thrown into that category, I don't want to scare the casting directors who bring me in because they actually know me and what I can do, not relied on a computer to remind them of my existence. Its a small town. And, I may not look it, but I'm too old to be that stupid.
Recently those of us in the potential over 40 category got a series of texts from a Boston casting director ordering us to update our age ranges within 5 years of our real age. I get it. Some actors get a little zealous about trimming off the years and, as a result, there probably has been some backlash from the film production teams that keep receiving submissions wrong for the roles to fill. And what is so wrong with being your age? Not a damned thing. Unless it blocks you from getting called in for the work you would actually book.
I don't normally try to cover up my age. The chronological order of my life is the foundation of my act. I do not look the assigned number. But every role that I have ever booked has been on a submission sent in for a role way more than a decade younger, usually based on a casting director's assumption of my age, not a computer's assigned category. Sure, in order to book me, the producers went older than they intended too by a smidge or at least on the high end of the age range. But, due to the weeding out process created by computerized systems that a few modern casting directors use, I would have never been called in for those jobs based on my number of years age. And, if I change my age category, when they punch in the age groups that they traditionally go for into the computer to search for available female comedy actors, I will not surface as an option.
 |
| Dignity in my twilight years. |
I am a quirky bleached blonde character actor in the tradition of Victoria Jackson and Georgia Engels. Both of whom in their hay day would have been called in for characters in their 30's. I also use a voice that sounds much younger than my number age which is also a bitch since our voice over stuff goes into the same data place. They do not look for my comedy type in the over 40 set. For some reason, goofy physical female comics just can't be the numbers that be not named although even Flo from Progressive is playing for our team. And the irony is, it took me being over 40 to not care enough what other people thought to get good at it. When did people start thinking about Martha Plimpton ("Raising Hope") as primarily a comedy actor? Think about it.
I give up. I am going to get another tattoo but this time its going to be on my arm, not on my torso hidden like the others. Its going to be of the middle finger flipping high into the air, symbolizing the demise of my present ability to get acting work. I am also going to pierce my nose with a gold loop. And dip the ends of my bleached blond hair in deep red and black. If they want the real me, they will get the real me. The East Village one, not the motherhood joke one. And under my age I will write, "Jessica Baade is dead." Because it will be the same as me writing "45 to 50."
Sigh. Okay. I lied. I folded and changed my age range. And I didn't write "Jessica Baade is dead." Even though its pretty much the same thing with this one casting group. And I didn't get the nose ring because I hate potential face infections. And I will get another tattoo but probably will hide that too. Because the truth is, as much as I hate being thrown into that category, I don't want to scare the casting directors who bring me in because they actually know me and what I can do, not relied on a computer to remind them of my existence. Its a small town. And, I may not look it, but I'm too old to be that stupid.
Friday, October 19, 2012
The Matriarch Compact: First Draft
This is a "Magna Carta For Maternal Figureheads" in progress. I intend to get this up to ten points in the treatise. Suggestions are encouraged from objective outsiders.
Family,
I am sorry if I am a little moody as of late. It is has been a year of social, economic and emotional adjustment for all of us. In order to keep the "bitch monster" in its cage, I have divised this contract outlining a list of needs to be met and, in return, obligations to the tribal unit that I may reciprocate. Please feel free to revise this document within reason to suit yourselves and, if you feel necessary, to seek out legal consultation.
1) Everyone must say "I love you" to each member of the family (pets optional) at least once a day. I know. Ew. Icky. Emotional. But I know you do. We are family. It is a necessary emotional reinforcement to the beauty of that feeling that is integral to our blessed unit and you won't choke on your tongue if you do. It gets easier as you do it more. I promise. As the eldest member of the family you will probably out live me. If the next time someone says "I love you" in earnest it is over my grave, I will spend the rest of your life haunting you as a bitch slapping specter.
Perhaps threatening is not the way to go. Okay. Retract the last two sentences.
2) Time management will include others into consideration. This is not to say that you can't do what you want. But if you are doing it while there is, say, a four inch pile of dust under your bed or your papers from four days ago sitting on the coffee table or your wife/mother has been picking head lice (or other job specific description) all day, a little room cleaning time or a spontaneous kiss on the neck (husband specific) will make said female not sigh loudly and look clenched for the next two hours when computer oriented entertainment is mentioned. I take time out of my "me" time to do things with you and don't look like I have a bad hemorrhoid. Reciprocation would be appreciated.
3) Debris will be removed from communal areas. All of us. Even me. But at least I am aware that I forgot to remove my snack plate until I see it sitting there in the morning. You people just keep agreeing and not doing it. See? I am crabby just saying it. So just do it. Please. It benefits us all.
This one may considered an addendum to the last one. I'll have to check with my "lawyer" aka the lady sitting next to me in Starbucks who looks smart.
4) Romance. I want some. I know. Weird coming from a pragmatic liberal who used to hate surprises. But its says I thought of you and wanted to do something nice. Children may replace the word "Romance" with "Updating parents on weekly school progress."
5) Apply "nice people" voices even when others are being assholes. Especially if others are being assholes. Snarky and trite begets snarky and trite. And no one likes a know it all. Or a "no" it all.
I am using this pun as a snarky and trite trap. If they fall for it, I allow myself an extra 300 calories. If not, I get peace. This is called self-applied amusement manipulation. And they wonder why I smile when they get angry.
6) Lying is intolerable. There is nothing worse to me than being lied to. It hurts me and I want to go sit in the dark. Trust issues that ensue from being found out are not worth the refuge of temporary deceit. So what if I don't like what you have to say? Don't be afraid of me. I am your family. There is very little that you can say that is worse to me than being betrayed by deception. And if I do catch you lying, I will disable every computer account that you possess including but not exclusively Minecraft, World of Warcraft, youporn(ask your father),Facebook and your homework information site.
A little much? I think not.
7) When mentioning all other women with the exception of your mother, grandmothers and certain sister like figures, I am to be reminded that I am the best one. This includes teachers, other parents, ex-girlfriends and hot waitresses at Hooters. Some parents are more fun than the ones that you have to live with because they don't have a cat that is your responsibility to feed or have to live with the multitude of stray socks I find strewn across the living room. You don't think I haven't noticed that your top ten face book friends are either relatives or......never mind. Insecurity is bred, not born. You aid in the creation of my neediness, jealous huffs and extra loud dish washing. A compliment will get you miles of smiles.
This may be unreasonable.
8) Door slammers will have their knobs removed. Jan Brady is not a role model. Neither is Stanley Kowalski.
This, on the other hand, is perfectly reasonable.
Sigh.
I will finish this later. Oprah used to be on now and I need to take a moment of silence to fill the void.
I Love You,
Mother Of The House
Family,
I am sorry if I am a little moody as of late. It is has been a year of social, economic and emotional adjustment for all of us. In order to keep the "bitch monster" in its cage, I have divised this contract outlining a list of needs to be met and, in return, obligations to the tribal unit that I may reciprocate. Please feel free to revise this document within reason to suit yourselves and, if you feel necessary, to seek out legal consultation.
1) Everyone must say "I love you" to each member of the family (pets optional) at least once a day. I know. Ew. Icky. Emotional. But I know you do. We are family. It is a necessary emotional reinforcement to the beauty of that feeling that is integral to our blessed unit and you won't choke on your tongue if you do. It gets easier as you do it more. I promise. As the eldest member of the family you will probably out live me. If the next time someone says "I love you" in earnest it is over my grave, I will spend the rest of your life haunting you as a bitch slapping specter.
Perhaps threatening is not the way to go. Okay. Retract the last two sentences.
2) Time management will include others into consideration. This is not to say that you can't do what you want. But if you are doing it while there is, say, a four inch pile of dust under your bed or your papers from four days ago sitting on the coffee table or your wife/mother has been picking head lice (or other job specific description) all day, a little room cleaning time or a spontaneous kiss on the neck (husband specific) will make said female not sigh loudly and look clenched for the next two hours when computer oriented entertainment is mentioned. I take time out of my "me" time to do things with you and don't look like I have a bad hemorrhoid. Reciprocation would be appreciated.
3) Debris will be removed from communal areas. All of us. Even me. But at least I am aware that I forgot to remove my snack plate until I see it sitting there in the morning. You people just keep agreeing and not doing it. See? I am crabby just saying it. So just do it. Please. It benefits us all.
This one may considered an addendum to the last one. I'll have to check with my "lawyer" aka the lady sitting next to me in Starbucks who looks smart.
4) Romance. I want some. I know. Weird coming from a pragmatic liberal who used to hate surprises. But its says I thought of you and wanted to do something nice. Children may replace the word "Romance" with "Updating parents on weekly school progress."
5) Apply "nice people" voices even when others are being assholes. Especially if others are being assholes. Snarky and trite begets snarky and trite. And no one likes a know it all. Or a "no" it all.
I am using this pun as a snarky and trite trap. If they fall for it, I allow myself an extra 300 calories. If not, I get peace. This is called self-applied amusement manipulation. And they wonder why I smile when they get angry.
6) Lying is intolerable. There is nothing worse to me than being lied to. It hurts me and I want to go sit in the dark. Trust issues that ensue from being found out are not worth the refuge of temporary deceit. So what if I don't like what you have to say? Don't be afraid of me. I am your family. There is very little that you can say that is worse to me than being betrayed by deception. And if I do catch you lying, I will disable every computer account that you possess including but not exclusively Minecraft, World of Warcraft, youporn(ask your father),Facebook and your homework information site.
A little much? I think not.
7) When mentioning all other women with the exception of your mother, grandmothers and certain sister like figures, I am to be reminded that I am the best one. This includes teachers, other parents, ex-girlfriends and hot waitresses at Hooters. Some parents are more fun than the ones that you have to live with because they don't have a cat that is your responsibility to feed or have to live with the multitude of stray socks I find strewn across the living room. You don't think I haven't noticed that your top ten face book friends are either relatives or......never mind. Insecurity is bred, not born. You aid in the creation of my neediness, jealous huffs and extra loud dish washing. A compliment will get you miles of smiles.
This may be unreasonable.
8) Door slammers will have their knobs removed. Jan Brady is not a role model. Neither is Stanley Kowalski.
This, on the other hand, is perfectly reasonable.
Sigh.
I will finish this later. Oprah used to be on now and I need to take a moment of silence to fill the void.
I Love You,
Mother Of The House
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