May 16, 2012

I’m So Freaking Tired, But I Have Neglected To Write About My Play Reading (So, Here Goes)

I’m not sure why I write plays, but I have since I was a little girl.  Whenever my friends came over I subjected them to performing in my “skits, which were often direct rip-offs of the campfire “skits” the cool CIT’s performed at my YMCA sleep away.  Eventually, skits turned into original sketches with a punchline a 4th grader would think of like, “well, then why don’t YOU shove it?”  (I would then instruct the actor to pause for gales of laughter…). What I believed in my youthful innocence, was that a train wreck is, actually, very entertaining (especially to fourth graders. Often, I cast male classmates (also known as “boys) in my “work,” but only if he had the chops.  While I was always boy-crazy, The Work came first. I was an artist before a girl, then, as now.  (Hence, no husband or kids).

Fast forward thirty years:  For various complicated reasons (thwarted biology) I wrote a  play about dating, sex, and emotionally stunted men (don’t know any of those…) and emotionally stunted women (again, I completely relied upon imagination). Then, on the advice of a Playwright friend I organized three separate readings in my apartment.

Here’s what you need for a play reading.

1. Wine.
2. Actors.
3. More wine.
4. Play script.

Notice how script comes last?  That’s because when friends and neighbors show up for a Play Reading the focus is on the wine and the good-looking people (actors).

A year later I joined Playwrights Six, and on May 1st the organization produced a staged a reading with what I hoped were actors who actually fit the part.  Note: If you want to cast any part in Los Angeles that is not a pretty twenty-something female or a pretty twenty-something male, good luck.  However, through the miracle of show biz magic I managed to find a perfect cast.  Everyone fit the age, race, (and gender…that’s important), and brought great acting skill.

So, I showed up for this reading on May 1st, 2012 ready to work, only to realize that the work is done.  As a writer, all you do is sit, watch, and hope the reading is not torture.  (I’ve had enough experiences to know that it can go horribly, horribly wrong.) So, I set up the concession stand and waited.

The reading was fantastic.  But I felt weird.

I’ve never had a child, but I imagine it was like watching your child walk for the first time.     Like, I had never met these characters before. Who wrote this?

Just for today, I’m a lifelong playwright.

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May 9, 2012

There, I Said It…Can We Move On Now?

It used to be that all I had to do was talk to a Married Friend to rest assured that the esteemed state was not the gates of heaven.  Now all I have to do is look at a Facebook profile.  Family shot.  Frozen smile. Distant gaze. Oh, no.  I smell a joint custody battle.

As the child of divorce, I’m actually a little bitter that nobody has thanked me for not wrecking havoc on a child.

I do know happily married people. If you ask them what the secret it, they sigh and say something akin to, “We don’t treat each other like toilet paper.”  Got it.  You’re adults.  I see how that works.  Doesn’t mean I can do it.

“You have to say, ‘I want to be married.’ And then it will happen,” said my Madre (that’s mother in Spanish.).

“But Mom! Listen to me! I don’t know if I want…To Be Married.”

“But you have to say it.”

Disconnect. Did you not hear what I said?  (This type of conversation happens often.  She’s having a conversation with an Imaginary Daughter.  One who got an MFA, married an attorney, and didn’t spend a down payment on therapy.)

If I DID want to get married or any of it’s antecedents, it would be difficult to meet someone with my increasingly busy schedule of hanging out with 15-year-olds. Actually, technically, they’re in their twenties.  And thirties. And forties. Either way, they’re kids.  Also known as comics.

Let’s just avoid the subject.

Just for today, I’m afraid of commitment.

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May 3, 2012

This Very Weird Thing Happened…

I was at an open mike a few weeks ago.   A pretty abysmal event.  Open mikes are the homeless shelter of creative people, and easily derail into a group therapy dynamic. However, my friend hosts this particular venue and and since we are two women forging our way through an environment generally hostile to women, I had been going to support her and vice versa.

However, everyone present was in agreement that that this was a particularly sucky night.  Comics generally don’t give other comics the utmost attention, but this night everyone was talking or completely ignoring the comic on “stage”(it’s not really a stage).   Yes, I too, frequently, wonder about my attendance at these places.  However, there is a School of Thought that believes that developing resiliency to things like distraction, hecklers and even dead silence, is the best training for a performer to learn to stand there and deliver material like a pro.  However, I too am guilty of practicing Active Ignoring.  Especially, when it’s vitriol towards women.  One comic talked about how he didn’t like “old pussy,” (if that gives you any indication as to the level of “humor”).

However, I did pay attention to the set of one young man.  I noticed him, as I’m sure many did, because of an apparent birth deformity that resulted in him having large, overgrown hands.   Other than his hands, he was exceptionally handsome, like a Jesus Christ Rocker, with curly hair.  He also seemed genuinely sweet and soulful, and had clean and non-woman-hating material.

After his set, the Young Comic sat down at the table next to me and asked me for a piece of a paper.  I ripped one out of my Moleskin and went about my business of ignoring the comic on stage who talked about blow jobs or abortions or God knows what (and then they ask the audience why women don’t want to sleep with them…Yes, AGAIN, I do ask myself, “WHY THE HELL AM I HERE AND NOT ON A DATE WITH A FINANCIALLY VIABLE PROSPECT?!” (That’s another blog).

So, I’m sitting at this God Forsaken Open Mike out of codependent guilt about leaving my friend alone.   It’s almost over, I thought. Just one more comic.  That’s when the Young Comic got up to leave, but not before placing a note on my table. He then walked out the door with Comic Who Doesn’t Like Old Pussy.   Through the glass window Young Comic pointed to the note and said Good-bye.

Oh, boy, I thought. Weirdness approaching.  Young male comics are lost puppies when it comes to women.  I’m nobodies mama.  But since I’m female and relatively codependent, I’m a potential mama.

I opened the note with dread, but actually read a very sweet, and poetic letter.  It started off by saying, “You’re much prettier than you give yourself credit for…” and ended with ruminations on love.  He also wrote his number.     I put the note in my Moleskin and reflected on the last time I’d received a hand written note from a guy (not counting mailed letters). I think it was 8th grade. I felt genuinely flattered.  But I think he just really appreciated my having listened to his set.

Ok, now comes the sad part. (I gave you fair warning).

That was a Tuesday night. Three days later, on Friday, I go to work, turn on my computer and immediately get on Facebook (yes, I have this problem).  The first status read, “RIP, Will Ard.”   Comedy is a small world and I immediately wondered if I knew the person so I searched for the name.

It was the Young Comic who had written me the note.   He had died two days later.

Needless to say, feelings of shock, guilt, and even fear overtook me.  I really didn’t know this young man. But I can only imagine that he lived with some degree of emotional (if not physical) pain being both a comic (who are generally speaking people who have experienced trauma and loss), and a person with a disability in a culture obsessed with physical perfection.

To say that I experienced a paradigm shift in regards to the fragility of life is an understatement.   Everyone I talk to about it has their own interpretation….I like to think that we made a connection, however, brief.   If I had called the number would it had made a difference?  Probably not.  If I could go back, would I call the number?  Absolutely.

I want to be more open to people now.  You never know where somebody is in their life.

I’m just really glad I listened to his set.

RIP, Will Ard.

Just for today, I feel humbled.

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April 24, 2012

I Wrote A Play

Here are the details, again! (cuz I’m redundant).

Play Reading
May 1st, 2012
8:00 PM (Wine reception at 7:30…sounds fancy, huh?)
7801 Melrose Ave.
West Hollywood, CA

I wrote this play in a fit (yeah, that’s right a “FIT”) of frustration about relationships and dating. And the Internet.  And advertising (because I was working in advertising). And douchebags (because I’ve met a lot of them living in LA for 17 years).  I gave birth to this play because I wasn’t having sex.  (Do you think Mark Zuckerberg was getting laid in college? Yes, I know, the evil twins were.)

Just for today, you’re all invited to the reading.

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April 6, 2012

I’d Like To Blame God, But I’m The One Who Hit The Panic Button

I didn’t tank my set at the Funniest Females Competition so much as I “phoned it in.” That is, if you could make calls from Outer Space.

I think it’s fair to say that God was a little against me.  It took me 2.5 hours to drive from Torrance to Burbank.   I fled Parking Lot 405 up Sunset Blvd. right about the time my GPS bailed on me.  That’s whenI hit Panic Button #1.   How am I supposed to know where Burbank is?!…(I have heard of this strange paper-y thing with lines and squiggles referred to as a “map”…but where to find one?)

I spent the next hour on the phone with my friend Jared who used his iPhone app to let me know that I was screwed no matter which way I turned…and that the traffic situation sucked, too. (Oh, come on….).  He mostly calmed me down.  Now that I’m 40, I can see how incredible miraculous it is that I’ve managed to function for twenty-two years without an iPhone or a Jared by my side 24/7.  So, maybe God does sometimes come through.  (And thanks Jared.)

Two hours later I arrived at the somewhat desolate area surrounded by moutains and dry air known as Burbank/North Hollywood.   That’s when I bolted out of my car  WITHOUT my “Comedy Boots” (regular boots that I actually wear every day, but have imbued with special powers).  COMEDY RULE #1: Always remember to check that you’re wearing the right shoes!

The audience consisted of a mixture of random white people and some very Boisterous Lesbians.   Now for a time, I have considered putting some effort into becoming a lesbian. The community seems supportive, pro-women, and currently endowed with a great networking system in Hollywood.  And, let’s face it, 80% of the men I meet would happily live in the Stone Ages.  (I originally wrote 90%, but changed it….progress!).  Some women are born gay, others are made by their dating choices.  Perhaps, I fall into the later category? I missed the experimental years (18-30) and no conversion has happened on it’s own….but maybe I just haven’t tried hard enough?  I wonder, though, how much I would have in common with a woman who never drooled over Tiger Beat?

As I sat watching the many awesome lesbian comics kill I imagined that the Boisterous Lesbians were going to be bored by my conventional heterosexual jokes.  I’m used to performing in front of a lot of horny guys at open mikes and if they aren’t listening to me, at least they might appreciate my skinny jeans.   When I thought about the Boisterous Lesbians, I felt about as exciting as a cracker.  And that’s when I hit Panic Button #2. “Bored” quickly morphed into “hate” in my thinking, as I began to fear that the Boisterous Lesbians were going to resent me and my material.

Then came time for my set.  I have this habit of sometimes rushing up to the stage when someone else’s name has been called.  Very professional. I have  now added to this skill the timing to leave the room right before my name is being called.   (I forgot to count the number comics  that had gone…again, very professional).  So, after creating a moment of awkwardness as the host repeatedly called my name, I finally rushed the stage in a burst of frazzled cray cray.   All I could think about at that point what kind of beer I would chug after my set.  (Corona…they didn’t have Pacifico).

I don’t remember much about those eight minutes, but I suspect that I delivered my material in my Project Manager voice (monotone, official sounding).  People laughed in the right places, as if they were getting paid.  I knew I was phoning it in, but powerless to hang up.

“I felt very disconnected,” I told my friend Solomon after the show.

“Yes, you were disconnected,” he replied.  He’s very honest.

I tried not to beat myself up too much. Only a few lashings throughout the next day.  I’m still building the Grace Under Pressure Muscle.  I might venture out again.

Giant sigh.

Just for today, I did my best.

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April 4, 2012

I’m Going To Succumb To Nerves For The Next Ten Minutes

Instead of fighting nervousness, or trying to conquer it, I find it best to succumb.  Terror.  Fear. Jitters.  And then I say a prayer to a big black woman in the sky named “Rochelle” who’s attitude towards life is, “Get over it, Girl.”  She’s kind of busy.  But she’s got perspective.

Stand up comedy falls in the category of activities one can NOT perform Half-Assed.  I had a conversation with my friend Robb Fulcher about Half-Assed vs. Non-Half-Assed activities.  Having Children also falls into the Non-Half-Assed category. We’re all agreed, I’m sure that you can’t say, “I’m just not in the mood to feed my kid.”   Other Non-Half-Assed activties include  fire-walking, marriage, and open heart surgery.  Whereas, something like, say…yoga, was made for flakes.  Other activities that lend themselves to non-commital attitudes include surfing the Internet, skipping stones, bowling, cooking (nobody’s hurt if you bail on your ambitious stew and settle for chicken broth),  and, ironically, spirituality.  (I have never met bigger flakes than “spiritual people.”)

But if you try to Half-Ass stand up comedy, you will experience such degrading humiliation that you’ll flee from the thought of returning to the stage.   If you want to try out material but don’t want that kind of stress, I recommend throwing in some jokes at a Poetry Slam, or even a share at a 12-step meeting.

Stand up demands fear and respect.  Or a high tolerance for pain.

Just for the next ten minutes, I’m nervous.

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March 29, 2012

Hormones, Passports And Other Ways I Lose My Shit

I need a vacation.  I was thinking about going to some exotic Asian-y country with a fancy backpack and some high-end Cannon.  And then I thought, “Hey, I’m 40!”  That means I have the right to spend a week sitting by the pool in a third-world country sipping alcohol out of a hollowed out piece of tropical fruit (pineapple, coconut…may not work with a mango) and go into a coma (a good one, not like a “Facebook” one).   I was about to book my flight, when I suddenly remembered this whole Passport Issue…shit.

Where’s my freaking passport?  Something about me and passports. Maybe I was an undercover CIA agent in a past life (maybe? Me and Jason Bourne…). Now all that remains is the compulsive need to lose them, as if trying to shed my own identity.

I also recently lost my driver’s license. At this moment I, actually, have no documentation of my existence on this planet.   My web presence may have to suffice if I suddenly decide to disappear.

“Who is this Solange?” the Important People would ask.  ”There’s no record of her life…except for her Yearbook, photos, and hundreds of journals.  Oh, and her active Facebook, Twitter, and Linked In accounts, not to mention her long-running blog….but how do we know if she REALLY exists if she doesn’t have a social security card?”

Just for today, I need a vacation.

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March 16, 2012

36 Beats A Minute

Worst doctor’s visit of all time. Oh, but wait…first my car didn’t start.  Thirty minutes of brooding in my car while waiting for AAA followed by an hour of waiting at the doctor’s office did not put me in the mood to bond with the nurse over the benefits of shopping vs. therapy.

From the get-go, the doctor and I had an interesting vibe.  (In case you haven’t kept up with irony, “interesting,” is actually not a compliment).  I pegged him as White Man Who Doesn’t Believe In Acupuncture. Sure ’nuff, he gave me this whole, “Acupuncturists and western doctors speak different languages.”  Yes, like Chinese and English. It went downhill from there.

Then came the exam…

I came in for a doctor’s visit because I’ve had this thing on my face for about two years.  It’s not a Big Thing, you can’t even see it unless you spend hours studying my pores with a microscope like I do. But it’s weird.  However, I didn’t think it was “skin cancer” weird.   Just kind of “WTF?!” weird.  According to Western Doctor Guy, it could be malignant.  Thanks for the postivity Western Doctor Guy!

Then, after suggesting that I might have skin cancer, he tries to diagnose me as depressed.  I’ve been on antidepressants before and so I know that an Irish Coffee works just as well and doesn’t numb my sex drive or leave me singing showtunes at inappropriate times.  Yes, I’ve spent a good used-Audi on therapy with a very Well Groomed Therapist with debatable results..but have you not see my lovely french manicure?…(Yeah, try to tell me my therapy went nowhere…wait till I show you my boot collection).

Under pressure from the medical team, I concede to a flu shot.  After he leaves a nurse comes in and rams a needle into the muscle of my arm.

Now I have skin cancer and the flu.

I get dressed and try to make my big escape before I get any more bad news or pain, but the nurse chases me down and says that I need to get an EKG .  Apparently, my heart beats 36 times a minute.    I have always had a low pulse rate and fainted easily, but salsa and cross-country have made my heart rate even slower.

“Your heart will last forever. You might want to consider donating it,” he says.

Now I have the theme song to “The Titanic” going on in my head while considering who will house my heart when I kick the bucket.  I guess this is a positive since it means that I’m actually very strong.   However, I never thought about who I’d give heart to.  And not in the co-dependent way…I wonder if maybe this is my punishment for not having kids.  I haven’t loved enough so now my heart’s getting recycled.  It’s actually kind of nice to think that all my salsa dancing and exercise will help another person.  But who will end up with it?  What if it goes to a Rush Limbaugh supporter?

So, if having cancer, the flu, and images of my heart in the body of an overweight, sweaty Rebublican weren’t bad enough, I now need to get “blood work” done.  I tell him I’ll do it another time…(never).

Just for today, I survive my doctor’s visit.

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March 14, 2012

I Didn’t Make It This Far To Not Have Cool Friends

 One thing to net out from my 40th birthday is that I have a plethora (yeah, that’s right I said “plethora”) of cool friends.  I think it pays to have high standards when it comes to people.  It doesn’t pay to have high standards with other things, like clothes or wine.  If  you think I’m wrong then you’ve never found yourself with a “plethora” of  well-dressed, quality-wine-drinking assholes.

Just for today, I have cool friends.

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March 8, 2012

Where My 30′s Went…

 

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