I played myself on stage and I was borderline brilliant. It was my script and I studied it for hours, looking for the key to grasping the essence of myself. Seeing myself as one character interacting with others was a novel experience. Usually I interact with myself in front of a mirror. In socks and underwear.
I have no training as an actor. Stubbornly refusing to ask for advice, my pride at stake, I worked in solitude on my breathing, projection and timing. I sat up straight in my seat and made eye contact. I did not trample other people's lines. Did not get confused or lose my composure. Did not get an erection.
It was a receptive audience, full of friends, ready to laugh. And they did. Right from the first line. The skit built up with funny conflict until it reached its apex--one character pretending to break down in tears. There was no profanity, except for a 'bastard' reference. None of us removed any articles of clothing; a complete success.
Afterward, at a restaurant, I received congratulations from even those who'd ignored me up until then. Several women came up and conveyed their awe at all the complexity of that Joe onstage. I humbly admitted I wasn't all that complex, but I could see they weren't convinced. Frankly, my charisma quotient skyrocketed after that performance. It wouldn't surprise me if members of my theater group began referring to me as Mr. Excitement.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Fumbling An Opportunity
Seated across from me in the airport waiting room was film director David Cronenberg, creator of some of the edgiest movies of our time. For a man who wrote Twilight People-Switchblade Stories, edgy flash fiction, this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. I had a copy with me as luck would have it, and, as intimidated as I was, I had to introduce myself. Getting this man to turn my stories into films was my dream.
So I did.
"Excuse me, Mr. Cronenberg, I don't wish to disturb you, but I'm a big fan, a huge admirer of your work."
He looked down and saw my book.
He frowned. "I must ask you to step away from me immediately, sir. I have had the unfortunate experience of reading the book you are now holding. I found it to be the sickest, most despicable collection of demented slasher porn fiction I have ever read. I do not wish to interact with anyone perverted enough to consume such garbage. I shudder to imagine what kind of diseased mind created this cesspool of words."
With that, he grabbed his briefcase and stormed away.
It took me minutes to recover. Then I looked at the up side. Perhaps Ron Howard is looking for a change of direction. My stories await, Mr. Howard.
So I did.
"Excuse me, Mr. Cronenberg, I don't wish to disturb you, but I'm a big fan, a huge admirer of your work."
He looked down and saw my book.
He frowned. "I must ask you to step away from me immediately, sir. I have had the unfortunate experience of reading the book you are now holding. I found it to be the sickest, most despicable collection of demented slasher porn fiction I have ever read. I do not wish to interact with anyone perverted enough to consume such garbage. I shudder to imagine what kind of diseased mind created this cesspool of words."
With that, he grabbed his briefcase and stormed away.
It took me minutes to recover. Then I looked at the up side. Perhaps Ron Howard is looking for a change of direction. My stories await, Mr. Howard.
Hypothetically Speaking
Hypothetically speaking, suppose someone was a loyal library patron. He always returned books on time, never ripped out coupons from newspapers, remained polite while waiting endlessly for a librarian to look up from whatever he or she was doing to answer a simple question. Suppose he belonged to their book discussion group and attended all their events, even the boring poetry readings with maybe four others. Suppose when he used the facilities he always flushed and washed his hands. Suppose he let really old people use the softer chairs. And if he should fall asleep there, he never snored.
Now suppose said library held their annual book sale. For $3 you get a plastic bag to fill with as many books as you can fit. And you do just that. Nineteen books in all, paperbacks, some by famous authors. You can barely carry it to your car.
Now here is where it gets sticky. Suppose that same ideal library patron returned the next day with the now empty plastic bag crumpled up in his pocket. After glancing around to make certain no one was looking, suppose said patron slipped the bag out and used that same receptacle to fill up again, this time 17 books. Without paying another $3.
Can you forgive that person for this one instance of cheating a public institution? Or will he go to hell? Hypothetically speaking.
Now suppose said library held their annual book sale. For $3 you get a plastic bag to fill with as many books as you can fit. And you do just that. Nineteen books in all, paperbacks, some by famous authors. You can barely carry it to your car.
Now here is where it gets sticky. Suppose that same ideal library patron returned the next day with the now empty plastic bag crumpled up in his pocket. After glancing around to make certain no one was looking, suppose said patron slipped the bag out and used that same receptacle to fill up again, this time 17 books. Without paying another $3.
Can you forgive that person for this one instance of cheating a public institution? Or will he go to hell? Hypothetically speaking.
In Silence
I write in silence on Tuesday nights. I joined a Meet Up and we sit for one full hour and write. No one speaks. We can get up and use the john, but that's about it. Some bring laptops; I use my notebook and pen. The physical act of scribbling frees endorphins. Especially if I'm writing and the others are just sitting there blocked. This isn't supposed to be competitive, but who's kidding who?
I'm ripping through pages and you're sitting there sighing in frustration. What's not to like? Except this Tuesday there is a metaphysical group meeting right next to us. They are learning how to read tea leaves. I know this because I spoke to a couple of them before our writing hour began. Just between us, they seemed more interesting than the writers.
After our silent hour we put away our tools and talk to each other. Or not. Some leave, others continue writing. I spoke to a talented illustrator and perused her portfolio. Quite professional. She wants to add writing to her skills and produce children's books. She also rides horses. I can't illustrate or ride horses. Plus she's taller than me. I feel like an imposter. I reread what I wrote, seven pages worth of nonsense. Despair nudges me. I wish I had some Fig Newtons. Brownies can only take you so far.
I'm ripping through pages and you're sitting there sighing in frustration. What's not to like? Except this Tuesday there is a metaphysical group meeting right next to us. They are learning how to read tea leaves. I know this because I spoke to a couple of them before our writing hour began. Just between us, they seemed more interesting than the writers.
After our silent hour we put away our tools and talk to each other. Or not. Some leave, others continue writing. I spoke to a talented illustrator and perused her portfolio. Quite professional. She wants to add writing to her skills and produce children's books. She also rides horses. I can't illustrate or ride horses. Plus she's taller than me. I feel like an imposter. I reread what I wrote, seven pages worth of nonsense. Despair nudges me. I wish I had some Fig Newtons. Brownies can only take you so far.
The Fig Newton Trap
The Super Bowl is tomorrow and I'm going to watch it alone like I always do. I could meet people from my running club at a bar and surround myself with noise and comrades. But I haven't been going to runs lately and don't really know those people that well. It's no big deal, but it can be if you let it.
It's like being alone on Valentine's Day. That's another blog. Here's the thing--in high stress situations where depression is likely, it is very tempting to turn to Fig Newtons. I keep a pack in the back of my cabinet because I know how dangerous they can be. I swore to myself I'd never resort to them unless it was an extreme situation where I was in danger of feeling like I was worthless. Like Super Bowl Sunday. Even guys whose women hate football at least have someone to bring them snacks and beer. I have to organize my own refreshments. I can hear parties all around me. People with lives full of good friends and possibilities. See, thinking like that will drive you right to the FN bars. I use the plural because you're going to need more than one to lift your spirits. It can easily escalate into a dependence. Believe me, I know. I come from the streets and am quite familiar with illicit substances. I had to be weened off Caramel Corn rice cakes and it wasn't pretty.
Luckily I have the 800-Fig Newton number right by my recliner. They are professionals and know how to talk me down. Go Giants!
It's like being alone on Valentine's Day. That's another blog. Here's the thing--in high stress situations where depression is likely, it is very tempting to turn to Fig Newtons. I keep a pack in the back of my cabinet because I know how dangerous they can be. I swore to myself I'd never resort to them unless it was an extreme situation where I was in danger of feeling like I was worthless. Like Super Bowl Sunday. Even guys whose women hate football at least have someone to bring them snacks and beer. I have to organize my own refreshments. I can hear parties all around me. People with lives full of good friends and possibilities. See, thinking like that will drive you right to the FN bars. I use the plural because you're going to need more than one to lift your spirits. It can easily escalate into a dependence. Believe me, I know. I come from the streets and am quite familiar with illicit substances. I had to be weened off Caramel Corn rice cakes and it wasn't pretty.
Luckily I have the 800-Fig Newton number right by my recliner. They are professionals and know how to talk me down. Go Giants!
Thursday, February 2, 2012
My Urologist
My urologist has big hairy hands. I have prostate issues. Not a good combination. My yearly check up is coming closer.I also have a small pimple on my butt. Not a good combination.
They make you pee into a special bowl that measures force and volume. I squeeze as hard as I can to get the most urine out as fast as possible. This is a man thing.They are also looking for protein in the urine. That means something isn't working right.
My urologist asks questions. How strong is your flow? Does it sting? How often do you have to go? Unless it's red, color doesn't seem to be an issue, although ideally clear urine is best. No one on this planet has clear urine, not even Dr. Oz.
Eventually he will suggest you bend over and drop your pants. The digital exam has been fairly quick in the past. I pray I won't spurt pee or fart during those awkward seconds. Each year, as I age, that possibility increases. I suppose I could cover the pimple with Clearasil. It's not like my urologist has never seen butt pimples before.
Too much information? Evidently not because you kept reading to the end. And, yes, sometimes peeing stings.
They make you pee into a special bowl that measures force and volume. I squeeze as hard as I can to get the most urine out as fast as possible. This is a man thing.They are also looking for protein in the urine. That means something isn't working right.
My urologist asks questions. How strong is your flow? Does it sting? How often do you have to go? Unless it's red, color doesn't seem to be an issue, although ideally clear urine is best. No one on this planet has clear urine, not even Dr. Oz.
Eventually he will suggest you bend over and drop your pants. The digital exam has been fairly quick in the past. I pray I won't spurt pee or fart during those awkward seconds. Each year, as I age, that possibility increases. I suppose I could cover the pimple with Clearasil. It's not like my urologist has never seen butt pimples before.
Too much information? Evidently not because you kept reading to the end. And, yes, sometimes peeing stings.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Slow walkers
Slow walkers are inherently creepy if they are young, puzzling if middle aged, sad if elderly. The most threatening slow walkers are those guys in the gym who move in deliberate short steps in between apparatus. You can smell them inching toward you, flexing, just begging for an excuse to flatten you. Their glare is not something you challenge. As they saunter past, you breath a sign of relief and return to bench pressing your 60 pounds.
The obvious offenders are tourists spreading across the sidewalk, texting or taking pictures. At least there is a rationale there. But perfectly healthy adults who simply are moving at an unacceptably, relaxed pace have no excuse. It's not like they're pushing a shopping cart or stroller. There they are, moseying along, head turning side to side, enjoying the scenery and weather. There should be a law limiting that sort of thing to between 6 and 7AM.
I love grandparents as a whole, but you simply cannot take them anywhere, especially if there's snow on the ground. It takes them so damn long to get in and out of the car. You go half a block and already they're far behind. And then you get that weak, whiny voice--wait for me! You have to double back and then the whole thing starts again.
I know children will walk faster as they mature, but do they have to stop and examine every little thing? Know what I've noticed? Priests walk faster than rabbis. Bellboys are faster than gas pumpers. Aunts are slower than cousins. Letterman is faster than Leno. No body's as slow as Abe Vigoda. Not even Betty White, who takes eons to reach the stage for her latest award. Can we declare a moratorium on Betty White awards?
The obvious offenders are tourists spreading across the sidewalk, texting or taking pictures. At least there is a rationale there. But perfectly healthy adults who simply are moving at an unacceptably, relaxed pace have no excuse. It's not like they're pushing a shopping cart or stroller. There they are, moseying along, head turning side to side, enjoying the scenery and weather. There should be a law limiting that sort of thing to between 6 and 7AM.
I love grandparents as a whole, but you simply cannot take them anywhere, especially if there's snow on the ground. It takes them so damn long to get in and out of the car. You go half a block and already they're far behind. And then you get that weak, whiny voice--wait for me! You have to double back and then the whole thing starts again.
I know children will walk faster as they mature, but do they have to stop and examine every little thing? Know what I've noticed? Priests walk faster than rabbis. Bellboys are faster than gas pumpers. Aunts are slower than cousins. Letterman is faster than Leno. No body's as slow as Abe Vigoda. Not even Betty White, who takes eons to reach the stage for her latest award. Can we declare a moratorium on Betty White awards?
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