Do do that voodoo that you do so well

I always thought auditions were horseshit. Let me clarify: I knew they were (a) necessary (evil), but I found it maddening the way people on both sides of the camera looked at them as a one-way proposition, with the power flowing from the producer end to the (ahem) "talent" end. Because frankly, that was horseshit. Too often, and I know this because I was guilty of it myself as a copywriter, auditions are used to figure out how a commercial works...or doesn't. What is or isn't funny about the script/premise/action. And sometimes, horror upon horrors, auditions are actually used as a means for old ad chums to get back in touch with me.*

And then there's the whole pathetic actor-y side of auditions, the Just tell me what you're looking for/I can play that, gambit, which is a bigger, steamier and infinitely more treacherous pile of horseshit. I am fairly certain there are street people wandering around Los Angeles right now who were driven over the edge trying to discern that elusive whatsis that the producer/director/whoever wanted. Which was usually just to be anywhere but in a room that smelled like feet, stuffed full of M&Ms and bad deli.

At some point in my checkered career as an actor, I began hearing people, teachers, casting directors, random passersby, pay lip service to the notion of using the audition to show what you could do rather than what they'd asked for. As someone who grew up being handsomely rewarded for coloring within the lines**, I immediately recognized this as yet another manifestation of horse pokey, and happily freed up precious gray cells for important things like remembering my own phone number and what I'd paid for a particular shirt back in 1977.

Fast forward to...this weekend. I was working on a design job for an actress putting up a one-person show. They'd delivered a full-on, finished photo for me to work with, which is usually nice, all I have to do is figure out the font thing and bing-bam-boom, we're off to the races.

But every time I sat down to apply type, I got this funny feeling that something wasn't right. That even though I'd been given a complete image, the show, with its suggestive title and goofy provenance (the actress is an Ivy-educated woman who's done time on MAD TV), needed something else. Which is, of course, craaaaaazy thinking. And yet...

I messed around. I shredded the image, blew it up so the client's (very pretty) head was out of frame, stripped it of color and instead saturated the card with garish printer's inks. And I sent it off, knowing full well it was nuts, I mean, the client's HEAD was cut out of the frame...and she's a BEAUTIFUL ACTRESS, but also that, nuts or not, it was what I had to offer the show.

There was a little, um, back & forth. Wanting to see the head. (Visionless ingrates!) Wanting her name to be legible. (Bourgeois killjoys!) I could have succumbed or I could have pitched a fit. Actually, I did both, quietly, in succession, at my desk, before making what changes I could. I sent off several of the very-next-best things that really weren't nearly as cool, but hell, if I want to be an artist, I should get out of the postcard game.

And then, a miracle. The actress wrote back saying that I was right, that my original vision was the way to go. And thanking me for all the work.

If I could, I'd comp the job. It was gratifying having someone respect my ideas, yes, but more than that, it was such a great, simple lesson of the essential rightness in doing what it is that you do, regardless of what conventional wisdom says. I might not have gotten "my" way with the card. I definitely am not always going to book an individual job, even if I knock it out of the park doing what it is that I do. Sometimes, you're just a cruller living in an onion bagel's world. But I keep my integrity, my compass and my identity (hey, next time maybe they'll want a small, sullen bitch...er...pastry).

So thank you, Kathryn Fiore, my newest teacher***. And long may you run...

xxx c

*Note to old ad chums: if you want to say "hi", contact me via my agent, invite me out for a drink at Shutters on your expense account or send me a goddamn e-mail. Do not drag my hide all the way across town on a call I'm clearly not right for so you can say, "Remember me!?! We used to work together at [former agency long since swallowed up by Publicis, Saatchi or other media megacorp]!!! Because I will be remembering your sorry ass all the way home in traffic on the 10 and then I will remember it for posterity on this blog. You have been warned...

**I worked in creative, yes, but mostly packaged goods, not the sexy stuff. You do not work your way up the ladder by writing breakthrough advertising for BirdsEye and Jell-O Gelatin.

***And I do mean newest, girlfriend was born the month before I started college. Oy, am I old...

Link to large size of the graphic here.

Link to more of my theatrical flyers here.

Searches, we get searchesâ„¢

Bring on da sass, bring on da snark... salon+los angeles+hipster (Yahoo)

Search away, but if you actually find, via the Internet, a salon that purports to be a collective of L.A. "hipsters," I can almost guarantee you it isn't. As for you starting your search here, I'll tell you straight: the hipster quotient at communicatrix is about as high as it is here or here.

killer bees stinking badges (Yahoo)

Please don't remind me of when SNL was funny. It hurts too much...

inspiring quotation on breakups (Google)

Finally, something that's right up my alley! If I were you, I'd go with one of two things. Either the tried-and-true, "That which does not kill me makes me stronger," or or a little Dotty P:

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song, A medley of extemporanea; And love is a thing that can never go wrong; And I am Marie of Roumania.

But really, when I've been in your shoes, I've found a couple of fingers of fine, small-batch bourbon infinitely more inspiring.

woo woo drink (Yahoo)

According to the Webtender, a quality resource if ever I saw one, the Woo Woo contains:

• 1 1/2 oz Peach schnapps
• 1 1/2 oz Vodka
• 3 1/2 oz Cranberry juice

Pour all ingredients into a highball glass over ice cubes, stir, and serve.

Your Waikiki Woo Woo, however, is a bit more complex in its construction, which I'm guessing would translate to a more nuanced and subtle depth of flavor:

• 1 oz Rum
• 1/2 oz 151-proof Rum
• 1/2 oz Vodka
• 1/2 oz Tequila
• 1/2 oz Triple Sec
• 1 oz Amaretto
• 2 oz Pineapple Juice
• 1 oz Orange Juice
• 1 oz Cranberry Juice
• Crushed Ice

Combine all ingredients with ice and pour into a hurricane glass. Top with a pineapple ring, slice of orange, and cherry speared on a paper umbrella.

On the other hand, if you want to keep it real, the woo-woo types I know favor Two-Buck Chuck.

kanji symbol meaning cupcake (Google)

I don't know, but these nice people will emblazon the t-shirt, cell phone strap or Kokeshi doll of your choice with any ding-dong kanji symbol you want.

And while you're waiting for your kanji merch, why not enjoy this geeky link to delicious cupcake?

overachievement versus work addiction (Google)

If I'm mildly irritated by you, you suffer from overachievement. If I'm mildly irritated by you and we've been going out for three or more years, you have a work addiction.

compendium of funny remarks made by screenwriters, wits (Google)

Just make sure you don't confuse the two.

math month circus flyers (MSN)

Because nothing screams "party" like a scary clown with a calculator.

crossroads, one path leads to life and the other to death, there are two people there, one always lies, the other always tells the truth. you can only ask one yes or no question to find out which path is which riddle (Google)

Wow. You must kill at the Friar's Club.

xxx c

Trajectory

I sat in on a class at my old acting studio last week to watch L.A. Jan do a scene (from Frances, and she tore the roof off the sucker, thanks). Having studied at Carter Thor for almost four years, I pretty much knew what to expect from an evening in Cameron's class: some good acting; some not-so-good acting; some insightful comments; some not-so-insightful comments.

Only as it turns out, I didn't.

The class was as I expected, the usual mix of acting styles and skills, with interstitial commentary on Life and Art by Cam. (He gives good sermon, does Cameron.) What was totally different was my reaction to it.

Back when I was enrolled at the studio I rode crazy waves of emotion, cycling through periods of enthusiasm, impatience, and rage from month to month and even class to class. In the moment, I was absolutely certain that this had everything to do with how sucky the scenes were or weren't and how compelling (and cogent) Cam's topic of the day was.

Watching the proceedings last week with a mix of interest and detachment, I finally realized that the x factor was me. No-brainer, you say? Easy for you to say, I say. How, when you're sitting in the prison of your own devising, wanting to be something extraordinary, wanting to be worshipped for being so, do you really just "be," really just take it all in? The answer is, you don't. If you're like most human beings, you need distance; you need perspective. Sometimes, in matters of the heart, for example, it takes time and a replacement to do the trick. But what is the replacement for an acting class, another acting class?

In this case, no. Despite the efforts of friends, prospective teachers and my nagging conscience, I've managed to steer clear of acting class since last July. At first, I chalked it up to physical and emotional exhaustion: in the space of six months, I'd buried my father, produced a show and been dragged into a lawsuit; really, I thought, I just wanted to whoop it up for awhile.

But nine months of gestation later, I realize I also needed space from class to figure out what I was doing in class, what I was trying to get from class. Ironically, that was the topic of Cameron's sermon last Wednesday night: learning to separate your artistic life from your professional life. I'm condensing (and paraphrasing) wildly, but basically, he maintained that as an artist, you need to figure your shit out before you bring it in the room. Because if you don't take care of your artistic life on your own, honing your skills, doing your daily maintenance, feeding your artistic soul, not only will you flail about most unattractively when you are up for a job: you run the risk of attaching all kinds of inappropriate, personal meaning to what is really a cut-and-dried business proposition.

My aha! moment came via the acting portal, but the Inappropriate Expectation Paradigm works in many other apps: work, love, a trip to Office Depot. (No, seriously, if you think shopping as sport isn't sublimated something-or-other, you're more delusional than I've been at my most dense.)

Alas, there's no magic formula for achieving consciousness and no standard measure for how long it takes to get past yourself. That "half as long as the relationship" saw is a sweet notion (or not, in the case of, say, a 60-year marriage that ends with the death of one's partner), but utterly untrue in my experience: I've recovered from some instantaneously; I'm wondering if I'll ever recover from my ignominious booting from The Groundlings Sunday Company. (You see? I still have to tell you I made it, however briefly, to that rarified level. Q.E.D., baby, Q.E.D....)

But while the time frame may vary, the trajectory itself never does, a tyrannically Hegelian dialectic. And it repeats itself over and over, each trajectory only a subset of that meta-trajectory I like to call Life.

Of course, there is a little bubble of joy, even accomplishment, to be floated on post-synthesis that I don't recall Hegel getting into. That brief glory bask. That glowing feeling of "I kick ass and throw it across the room when I'm done" that no drug can match for highs. That self-assuredness that will blossom into blinding, deafening hubris as surely as I'm still reeling from the gift-that-keeps-on-giving of my miserable Groundlings experience.

And with that, we return you to your regularly scheduled trajectory...

xxx
c

Rest. Eat. Run. Repeat.

I've been feeling a bit blue lately, which I attributed to my recent wrassle with a big, honkin' pile of receipts and the sleeping fears it woke the hell up. It made sense to me, and still does, that small and pesky unattended woes become bigger with time and without examination and correction. Like, no duh.

What I'd completely forgotten, AGAIN, was the role that daily maintenance plays in good mental health. Physical activity. Diet. Rest. (And yes, "rest" is different than "sleep"; I know, because my body overrides my will to not sleep but I always win the battle of work over rest.)

And "play" falls somewhere in there, too. At least, I'm pretty sure it does; traditionally, I've been a little shaky when it comes to the work/play pas de deux.

So this weekend, after working my ass off, I ran it around a little. Twice. And ate halfway decently...well, a few times. And while I worked a little, I also played a little bit more. With my b.la crew. With The Boyfriend. And, oh, bliss, with a good chunk of sunny Saturday afternoon, my bed and a New Yorker.

And whaddya know, two days later I feel at least three times better (well, these things aren't precisely quantifiable, but you get the idea).

It's still work to make myself play and it's still a pain hauling my carcass around a mile or so of neighborhood. But I have a feeling without the run, the rest, the food, the play, the work starts to suffer at some point. Hell, everything starts to suffer. (Certainly the people in spitting range start to suffer.)

So tomorrow, I work. And run. And maybe, if there's a little time somewhere in the day, crack open another old New Yorker...

xxx
c

Searches, we get searchesâ„¢: Smartass Edition

Lordy, lord. I'm up to my eyeballs in 20-cent design jobs right now, kids. Fortunately, I can dispense with this week's queries lickety-split:

similarities between Jaws, Vertigo, and Citizen Kane (Yahoo)

They were all shot on film. Colleen Wainwright blog (Google)

Yes, she do!

spanglish turd (Google)

It certainly was.

colleen erotic (Google)

Thanks, but I'm spoken for.

reprehensible hyperdictionary (Google)

Like you're so all-fire moral yourself.

a fucking film called snow white and seven dwarfs (Yahoo)

Now, now. Editorializing during a search only hurts our own results.

bridge on the river kwai, whistling (MSN)

No kidding. my husband is into kiddie porn (MSN)

THEN CALL THE #$*(&!$ COPS, YOU MORON!!!

Cristina Aguilara clothes line (MSN)

Why?

xxx

c

Think globally, meme locally

I'm a little behind on my blog reading or I'd have already known that Google Maps (still in beta, but beddy, beddy cool) added Keyhole technology (which, apparently, they've bought, like everything else) with the what's-in-it-for-me result that you can now SATELLITE MAP your house! I know this because I did, in fact, satellite-map my current pad, but there are too many distinguishing landmarks to post it publicly and I'm not going to make the stalking any easier for you guys. Plus, when it comes to current affairs, anyway, I prefer to remain a Woman Of Mystery.

However, I see no problem with taking you all on a trip down memory lane. So trek on over to Flickr and check my memory map of Near North side of Chicago, bumps and all.

Thanks to the ever-wonderful Jason Kottke for pointing out both this righteous new technology and Matt Haughey's groundbreaking (hahaha) memory map.

xxx
c

TECHNORATI TAGS: Flickr, memorymaps, Chicago, maps

Hideously cool

I've been meaning to blog this since I drank the Kool-Aid, but duty in the form of taxes intervened for a bit. Now that I've got the beast fed and watered for another 12 months, I'm free to quit my procrastinating and hip y'all to a few good places to do some of your own. Josh Rubin's Cool Hunting is...well, the coolest. The coolest t-shirts, the coolest sneakers, the coolest design-y treats anywhere, and dude always seems to get there first. As one of the chronically unhip, I have no idea how the other half, okay, the other 0.00001% manages, but I grateful for the kindnessess they bestow on their dorky brethren. I spent half of Friday not doing my taxes to the kick-ass stream on Destined Collective as I debated how I would look with gold-flecked eyes and whether or not I needed the Freitag PowerBook sleeve in fume-stained white or yellow. Caveat surfer...

If you're not up for an extended trip down the rabbit hole (and beware, it be long, twisty and deep, yar), stick to the hot, fugly action over at Go Fug Yourself! It's fun and funny but like Peeps, you can really only take so much at one sitting. Unless we're talking vintage Peeps that you've slit the cellophane on and forgotten as they've ripened to perfect, crunchy hardness.

Mmmm...peeps...

xxx c

Auuuuuuuugh!!!

"I hate taxes, Charlie Brown!"But they're done, and I've learned oh-so much from the experience.

1. There is a diminishing rate of returns on the cafe Americano and it starts at #3.
2. "Nip & Tuck" cannot decide whether it wants to celebrate the shallow or comment on it.
3. "Law & Order" knows exactly what it is: the most excellent of all background noise.
4. No matter how good your records, the mileage fairies will always desert you in your time of need.
5. When they do, a Ketel One on the rocks (with a twist!) works wonders.
6. I will never, ever have enough medical receipts to qualify for a deduction.
7. When you're halfway through your check register, cleaning the toilet seems like a fun alternative.
8. When you're halfway through your Visa statements, gum surgery seems like a fun alternative.
9. No matter how many receipts you save, you will wind up with half the amount you need to actually break even.
10. Next year, I am Quicken's bitch.

Excelsior!

xxx c

Searches, we get searchesâ„¢

Miss me last Friday? These guys didn't: skills that wil make theater art effective (Yahoo)

Persistence, intestinal fortitude and abundant independent wealth.

hillbilly terms of endearment (Google)

I'm not sure, but I think "ma," "sis," and "cuz" all work. Bonus-extra heat points when used in addressing the same person.

clockwork orange t-shirt xs boys (Google)

For the baby droog in your life.

using CHASEN froth (Google)

Green tea. Enh.

CLINTON WRONGS (Yahoo)

Okay, lemme get this straight: war started under false pretenses; a ballooning deficit; blithely imposed restrictions on personal freedom; all of this only halfway through this nightmare administration; and you're looking for what Clinton did wrong? No wonder I want to bang my head against a wall most days. "everything in moderation, including moderation" "Ben Franklin" (Google)

Yes, this means you have permission to tie one on this weekend. Don't drink and drive!

xxx c

That shitty, shaky feeling

I know all about "what goes up" and "to every season" and all of the other old saws. I also know that a body in motion prefers to stay that way and a body at rest would just as soon you leave it the fuck alone, thank you very much.

While there are many wonderful things in my life right now (relationship, friendship, health, etc.) when I am forced to address the things that are less wonderful (taxes, cash flow, roaches for the first time in my L.A. life) it is all too easy to go to the dark place, forget what I do have going for me and embrace my loser-dom.

You started rewrites on your show how long ago and you're still not done? Loser. You made how much last year and have what to show for it? Loser. You want to help other people change their lives and yours looks like this? Loser, loser, loser.

Right now, I finally think I get what Evelyn is talking about with her dwelve into the unknown. Like knights of yore on a quest for a big urn and The Zenmistress of Business herself, apparently, I'm standing at the edge of a big, tangled forest full of scary stuff and I'm really not thrilled about the prospect of heading in with nothing but a keyfob Maglite and a light jacket in case it gets cold. I mean, I know it's gonna get cold. And I know this weekend's tasks, taxes, billing, roach control, merely comprise leg one of a loooong journey. One I've successfully avoided embarking on for almost 44 years. It's hard to shake that shaky feeling that I (loser) am going to be doing a lot of stumbling and bumbling about (loser! loser!) as I trip over unknowns in the forest (ignorant loser!).

On the other hand, I know that this, too, shall pass, both my big journey and this mini, weekend one. By Monday, my taxes will be done, I'll have adjusted to the new balance in my savings account and my kitchen cabinets will be ringed with a Maginot Line of boric acid and Raid. (Well, two outta three ain't bad.) And at some later and probably less-defined point, I'll uncover that piece of paper on which I wrote my current Three Things and think, "Hunh...wish I had that problem instead of this one."

But hopefully, not before I realize I'm not a loser any more than I'm not ever a winner. I'm just a person, muddling through, who knows some stuff and doesn't know a whole lot of other stuff and who, like most people, is happier living in the former than doing much about the latter.

Which reminds me: time to get cracking...

xxx
c

TV is my friend

I don't have a copy of Harriet the Spy handy, but to wildly paraphrase Ole Golly, TV is the perfect thing to do while you're doing something else. Since the "else" right now is tax prep and other boring-ish stuff, a little crappy TV really hits the spot.

I'm getting a little weary of the actual "American Idol" contestants (yaaaawn) but the freakish antics of Randy, Paula, Simon and teeny-tiny Ryan Seacrest are proving most entertaining. Even more (and definitely more intentionally) hilarious is the blow-by-blow recap on television without pity. As I told The Boyfriend, I don't know whether to kiss or curse you for sending me the link; just see if you can stop reading last week's 20pp treatise. G'wan...first taste is free.

xxx c

P.S. The fiery trainwreck a.k.a. "Chasing Farrah" on tonight (Nick/10PT). I cannot WAIT to do my taxes...

Getting my house in order

For someone who likes organizing, I'm not a particularly organized person. Oh, sure, I like the fou-fou labeling and 43 Folders and fetish trips to Office Depot aspects of it, but all of that is window dressing belying my real status as Queen of Mt. Perilous, that towering stack of unknown "to-be-handled" paper that I never, ever seem to be able to reverse-traverse my way to the bottom of.

I paid Asshole Tax last month, though, in triplicate (dinged thrice for automatic transfer of funds to cover payments out of checking) which so disgusted me, I made an appointment with my tax preparer for this coming Monday, which for me is the economic equivalent of throwing a party to make oneself clean the house. I have a high tolerance for nagging guilt (half-Jewish + raised Catholic = guilt bonanza) but an extremely low tolerance for wasting money. In fact, the only time I can take it is when I'm really sick, really tired, or on vacation. And, if the pricing on Tylenol in Las Vegas hotel gift shops is any indication, I am not alone in this.

But something has got to give. Despite my well-nurtured (but probably innate) bent for overachievement, I cannot, it is clear, do it all. And I'm of the belief that one can really only commit to three projects really well at any given time. Why three, I don't know. But I've tried four, and I think it goes without saying that I've tried five to fifty-six, and really, three is the limit. Whether or not you have any kind of a life worth living outside of your to-do list, which, God willin' and the creek don't rise, I'll continue to enjoy.

So I'm starting right now. Instead of going to 43 Things and doing it, I'm going to out myself here. My three things. Bam, bam, bam: laserlike focus, until they're done (or done enough) or i've decided they're done (as opposed to defaulting into discarding them). Previously, my Three Things have included such super-fun tasks as...

1. Write screenplay.
2. Find attorney.
3. Get rid of horrible rash on face.

or...

1. Get well.
2. Put on weight.
3. Get off of medication.

But I have never, to my knowledge, made "Get house in order" one of the three things. So here we (gulp) go:

1. Finish pilot presentation for "#1 & #2".
2. Achieve reasonable proficiency on piano and guitar.
3. Get house in order.

I realize that #3, the thing that's kicking "Blog every day" off of the list, is kind of a gigantic, squishy catch-all, especially when compared to (hey!) #1 & #2. I suppose it's just such an intensely personal batch of items that I'm a little uncomfortable sharing it with all 47 of you. But Mt. Perilous is first, to be immediately (and I mean IMMEDIATELY) followed by tax prep. After that, I'll see what I feel is appropriate for public consumption. Who knows? Maybe I'll end up making my whole process public, like Evelyn is so bravely doing.

But what I am definitely doing is giving myself permission to be less than perfect here. As communicatrix, the Blog, serves communicatrix, the Vastly Flawed Human Being, I'll employ it, in service of this task, or as occasional diversion. Just maybe not as often. And maybe not as deeply.

Or who knows? Maybe it'll be deeper and richer and better than ever.

Let's see where the journey takes us.

xxx c

Pho(ne)bia

Recently, I started returning my phone calls. Not that I'd ever subscribed to the local shitiquette of blowing people off by not returning their phone calls; I'm far too Midwestern for that.

But for several months, oh, hell...a couple of years, really, I got into the highly antisocial habit of turning my calls around via email. All of them. (Or damned close to it, my now-deceased father did not have email.)

Initially, my eminently forgivable excuse was a life-threatening lack of energy. I was spending the few calories I could afford making high-fat tubs of yogurt and low-carb hunks of protein in an almost Sisyphean attempt to stay out of the hospital. I neither talked to nor saw much of anyone for a good four months, except when they were trotting by to drop off supplies or help with chores.

But even as my health improved, my aversion to phone contact continued. And I realized that for whatever reason, the phone meant too much contact for me, or too little control, or both. And, since I had bigger fish to fry, I let it go at that (a miracle of sorts right there, not worrying something to death) and figured the answer would come to me or it wouldn't and either way, I'd learn to live with it.

Which I did. L.A. Jan and I even made jokes about it, the bizarre incongruity of someone who kept an Excel spreadsheet to track her online dating activity yet was often loathe to answer calls from her best friend.

Somewhere in those two years, though, things shifted. I think the shift had something to do with my readiness to connect in general, because it was right around the time I got into my first real relationship since DumpFest 2002 that I found myself occasionally brightening when a particular clutch of numbers popped up on the Caller ID screen. And today, about a year later, I'm not only pouncing on the phone when The Boyfriend's name pops up, but marveling upon hanging up with him, with L.A. Jan, with my sister, that 20...30...45 minutes have ticked by while we've been yakking away. Again. Sometimes after I've just seen them. I'm even occasionally (gasp) picking up the phone when clients call. Okay, not every time. But it's a start.

The thing of it is, letting my borders shrink for a bit and letting myself not sweat it was probably instrumental in those same borders expanding again, to maybe beyond their original circumference, later on. And as I continue to wrassle with my mighty, mighty infernal motherfucking lesson of P - A - T - I - E - N - C - E, it might behoove me to remember that sometimes, the quickest way towards two steps forward is one step back, from the phone, or whatever consarned annoyance is bedeviling one at the moment. Like a name one can't remember. Or a riddle that's driving one crazy.

Or a blog one hasn't posted to in four days.

What can I say? It comes. It doesn't come. It comes back.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a few calls to turn around...

xxx c

In case Vanity Fair never gets around to asking me about this, either

The Proust Questionnaire.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?

Being plugged into the source.

Which living person do you most admire?

Jimmy Carter.

What is your greatest fear?

Catastrophic injury stopping just short of the release of death.

What is your favorite journey?

A long car ride with little traffic, excellent conversation and great music.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?

Chastity.

On what occasion do you lie?

When it really, really, really doesn't make a difference and would hurt someone if I did. Or when I'm too weak to tell the truth.

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?

"Super-(descriptor here)"; all swears (but especially "fuck").

What is your greatest extravagance?

Digital cable TV, the second box.

What do you dislike about your appearance?

My bandy legs.

What is your greatest regret?

Having stayed in a situation past its usefulness to me.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?

So far, writing.

When and where were you happiest?

Anytime I'm plugged into the source.

Which talent would you most like to have?

To write brilliant songs.

What is your current state of mind?

Restless contentedness.

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?

That they had been more courageous.

If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you suppose it would be?

I think I'm due for a masculine lifetime. Or maybe I'm coming off of one. That'd explain a lot.

What is your most treasured possession?

My paternal grandmother's watch.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

To feel or be unloved.

What is the quality you most like in a man?

Sensitivity.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?

Strength.

What do you most value in your friends?

Their courageous pursuit of Truth.

Who are your favorite writers?

Charles Bukowski, Jane Austen, Louise Fitzhugh, Richard Yates, Evelyn Waugh.

Who are your heroes in real life?

Oprah Winfrey, Eleanor Roosevelt and anyone who overcomes adversity to achieve his or her dreams.

What are your favorite names?

Lucy, Betty, Franklin, Homer, Arno.

How would you like to die?

Surrounded by loved ones, having led a good and useful life.

What is your motto?

"Tell the truth!"

xxx c

Me being me being me

While Immense Personal Change rarely happens overnight, and while my own Immense Personal Change was afoot well in advance of my dramatic, blood-and-sweat-soaked Crohn's onset, it is convenient (not to mention pithy) to divvy things up in terms of pre- and post-Crohn's.Before Crohn's, when I was not only dancing as fast as I could but had become really, really proficient at it, I lived to please. Because if I knew one thing, it was that I was Not Enough. So naturally, I compensated by being (or at least aiming to be) the smartest, the fastest, the funniest. Or, in those areas where I was less naturally gifted (e.g. math, science, anything involving hand-eye coordination) the worst. There is, after all, a pride to be taken in staking out that territory as well. One strange side effect of my psychic orientation B.C. was an unsettling anxiety that would overtake me at the prospect of worlds colliding. When you are very busy making yourself be (or seem) all things to all people, the thought of those disparate parties coming together is very nervous-making. How to be the advertising wunderkind and the Lower East Side hipster and the aw-shucks, down-home Midwestern gal all at once? I'm deft, but not that deft.

So I kept my worlds apart. And if I lucked into a partner who had a wonderful network of loved ones already in place I just used his, and kept my own on maintenance contact only. Breakups were hellish, but really, when are they not?

But after the last big breakup, when, as usual (and let's face it, appropriate) he got the friends and family, I took stock of the situation and decided I'd had enough of it. Of all of it: losing the friends, yes, but really, of contorting myself to fit someone else's idea of ideal. The ROI on self-contortion had been pretty lousy, anyway, and I was older and more tired than I used to be.

Once I got sick, contorting myself was out of the question. I had no energy to spare, especially for such tomfoolery. And then, of course, my worlds started colliding with alarming frequency in my very own living room; unable to lift the laundry basket, much less carry it down two flights of stairs to the basement, I found myself happy to have them there, especially if they came bearing groceries or DVDs.

But the biggest shock came when I realized that the me that everyone was seeing, hapless, helpless, housebound and really, really unattractive, not only was enough, but was someone they treasured enough to go out of their way to do things for...without hope of anything in return save my return to health. And if all these good people thought I was enough, maybe I didn't have to be anything else. Maybe I could just be me.

An acting teacher once suggested that the things we think are super-fab about ourselves are the things our loved ones tolerate and that the quirks and missteps and imperfections we try to hide are what make us lovable. In large part, I now believe that to be true; "perfection" (or our simulacrum of it) is about as appealing as trying too hard.

I may never be the shining orb of perfection that I once longed to be. But I am pretty confident that from now until the end of my time on the planet, I will be me, all me, all of the time.

Only, hopefully, with age and experience, more so.

xxx c

Book review: Main Street

It's hard for me to believe that Main Street was ever a groundbreaking work of fiction, but then, it's hard for me to believe that I ever thought 256MB was a lot of RAM.

Was there ever a time when we (America, not the royal "we") weren't aware of our dissatisfaction with the status quo? Of the stultifying, enervating, soul-killing small-mindedness of small-town American life? And really, even way back when, were 500+ pages what it took to get the point across? I mean, if the definitive book on English grammar and structure can clock in at just over a hundred, how much space need be devoted to descriptions of uninspired home decor, gorgeous Minnesota in the raw and the dialectic journey of a main character who is more stock mouthpiece than compelling, flesh-and-foible heroine?

On the other hand, given the current state of domestic affairs, I can easily imagine some fellow American "a-yup"ing his or her way through Main Street, thumping the denizens of Gopher Prairie for being tasteless, visionless rubes before heading out in the Suburban to grouse about the ridiculousness of gay marriage and the righteousness of those who condemn it over an MGD and a blooming onion at The Outback. So there's probably still a need for Main Street, or something like it.

I'm casting my vote for the latter. It takes a level of determination (or insomnia) for me to slog through Sinclair Lewis that, say, Theodore Dreiser doesn't require. (I'm just 50 or so pages into Babbitt now, and granted, it's more engaging than the obvious polemic that is Main Street, but it's still...well, windy.) Jane Austen wrote scathing social commentaries that still stand up as ripping good yarns. Even Dickens crafted a more compelling read than Lewis and he took at least twice the ink to do it in.

What's most irksome to me is that I used up credit at my favorite used book store to buy a crumbling, yellowed copy when I could have purchased an EZ-on-the-old-eyes Dover Thrift Edition for just $3.50. Or better yet, read it online or even downloaded as an eBook, for free. It's not bad idea to revisit the classics once or twice in a lifetime and I'm glad someone's preserving copies so I can do so, but good authorial intentions, and Nobel Peace Prize, notwithstanding, I just don't see Main Street as a wise allocation of precious bookshelf real estate.

xxx
c

UPDATE (12/3/08): In a shameless and transparent act of caving, I've been replacing book and DVD links with Amazon affiliate links throughout the site. I MAKE MONEY WHEN YOU CLICK ON THESE. Like, a full 1/4 cent or something. Whatever. I'm happy if you borrow it from a friend or the library, or buy it used (I like half.com and alibris online) or, praise Jeebus!, from your local independent dead tree retailer. Seriously. The main thing is, read. Absorb. Enjoy. Pass it on.

Searches, we get searchesâ„¢

Wherein the communicatrix cheerfully delivers the elusive goods for the boolean-challenged. ben folds crohns (Google)

It's hard to discern your purpose, wandering puppy. If you're looking for the self-proclaimed "Only Ben Folds Fan With Crohn's Disease," you'll find him here (although since the release of Has Been, he can no longer claim that title). Ben Folds also played at the same pier where "Sippin' By The Pier," a wine-and-beer tasting benefitting the Philly chapter of Puppet Organization to the Pharmaceutical Leviathan, the CCFA, was held. Perhaps you're confusing Ben Folds with Pearl Jam guitarist Mike McCready, who finally came out about his Crohn's in 2003 and unfortunately (and, I'm sure, unwittingly) became a spokesperson for the Dark Side. But as far as I can tell, Ben Folds does not have Crohn's. Maybe it was just something he ate.

love my frye boots (Google)

Wow. That's hard core. I mean, I loved my (knockoff) Frye boots back in high school, but I've never felt compelled to beer google them to see what they're up to these days.

why does blood come out from the butt (Yahoo)

Becaaaaaaause...it can't go in? Seriously, dude, there are certain cases where self-diagnosis is a really bad idea. This example being chief among them.

Write to change your life (Yahoo)

My undying competitive streak forces me to interject that the communicatrix came up FIRST in this interesting Yahoo! search.

So, hail, fellow (or girly), and well met. A quick poke around the web turned up a few interesting free sites that will take you through a writing workout. I'd also recommend browsing your local bookstore's writing section to see if you find something inspiring, Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones is nice, and of course, The Artist's Way will take you on a big motherhumpin' writer's journey.

use of efudex on lips (MSN)

Efudex? Man...are you sure you wouldn't rather use a nice tube of Cherries in the Snow?

naked pictures of kirstie alley (MSN)

Back. Away. From. The. Computer.

100 bloggers jon strande (Yahoo)

Okay, folks. This is the book that Evelyn got me invited to submit to. Some, er, time ago. And I've been nothing but bad bad bad about selecting my essay for inclusion. So here's me asking you: which of the communicatrix's many rants (and/or raves) would best serve the book's stated goal of getting the uninitiated clued in to the wonderful world of blogging.

Columbo Lesson Plans (Yahoo)

1. Buy raincoat...

xxx c

Cut to the chase: Nadia or Bo?

They're both smokin' hot. They both have great hair. She's got Jesus in her corner; he looks like Jesus. Nadia and Bo are clearly the horserace, here. They're the only two real artists on Idol, singers who know who they are and sing it like it is, not like a pale imitation of someone else's is. Having these other well-meaning jokers on for another, six? eight weeks? Chinese water torture, American-style.

L.A. Jan thinks Bo should win on sheer vocal ability, but is getting behind Nadia because she feels Bo will get a contract regardless. I say Nadia wins because she rocks that shit from down deep and has style to spare. Hell, all the major labels are probably drawing up prospective contracts right now.

But I'm afraid I'm tuning out for the duration. I can't handle any more drip drip drips...

xxx c

In case Vanity Fair never gets around to asking me...

Whaddya want? I've been combing through my five-month backlog of magazines. Inspiration comes where it comes. My stuff | communicatrix

GROOMING PRODUCTS

Shampoo: Whatever is on sale that I also have a coupon for. Moisturizer: Neutrogena Anti-Wrinkle Cream Hair product: Bumble & Bumble Curl Conscious Cologne: Whatever I've walked through, sat in or rubbed up against (i.e., none). Toothpaste: Tom's of Maine (whichever one is on sale)

ELECTRONICS

Cell phone: Nokia (I had to check to see) Computer: Mac G5 and PowerBook G4 Television: a used RCA (again, had to check) I bought for a hundred bucks five years ago off my friend, Mikon Stereo: None, I use my Mac. And shitty speakers. Which I bought with a gift card accrued via an incentive program.

HOME

Sheets: Dunno. They're white, they're cotton, they're 300 thread count, they're ancient. But they were definitely on sale (with a coupon!) Coffeemaker: machinetta from Cost Plus Car: Toyota Corolla (my third)

BEVERAGES

Water: I have a tap filter I bought from my pal, Shelly. But for a treat I buy Dasani, Sparkletts or occasionally, Fiji (that bottle rules). For the record, Dannon tastes like ass and Evian tastes like plastic. Fave sparking water? Pellegrino, hands down. Coffee: at home, Trader Joe's Bay Blend (leaded); Coffee Bean Espresso Roast (unleaded); out, Americano from Caffe Latte Alcohol: Knob Creek or Macallan

CLOTHES

Jeans: Gap, usually. Watches: Have several; never wear 'em. T-shirt: Gap Favorite in heather gray, XS Underwear: whatever's on sale; Hanro, if someone else is buying Briefcase or tote: Series of huge, cheap purses, a backpack and an ancient canvas tote with the logo of the company I worked my last day job at. Sneakers: Converse All-Stars for hanging; Saucony for running Signature look: "Just rolled out of bed"

FAVORITE PLACE

San Simeon, CA

NECESSARY EXTRAVAGANCE

Good headshots.

xxx c

TAGS: Vanity Fair, My Stuff

The governor cold

Wonderful blogger/artist Michael Nobbs posted a nice entry yesterday about swapping in his old, "manual" teapot for his busted electric one. Apparently, when it comes to boiling water (many of us on the other side of the pond are less familiar with the finer points of tea-prep), electric is better, or at least, it's faster (which most of us on this side of the pond are raised from birth to believe is better).

The additional heating time required by putting actual fire to metal is serving the unintended purpose of getting Michael himself to slow down. He talks about using the protracted boiling time to draw and think, thereby setting a leisurely pace for the day.

While the story mainly makes me want to go online and research the purchase of one of these super-speedy kettles, the beauty of the outside force stepping in to gently (or not so gently) remind us of summut or another is not lost on me. I've got my own governor right now, a smallish but nevertheless very real bug I woke up with a couple of days ago.

Ordinarily, my response to the governors in my life is to figure out a workaround: more coffee, usually, and a whole lot of pretending it isn't there. But the thing about a governor is that it's there for a reason: in the case of rental trucks, to keep a sedan-driving yahoo from trashing the goods; in the case of the human body...well, it's pretty much the same thing.

So instead of cursing my governor, I'm going to submit to it: move a little more slowly, go to bed a little bit earlier, drink a little less coffee and a lot more water.

Maybe I'll even crack open the sketchbook. I've heard it has magical healing powers.

Or maybe I'll just pull a pre-made JPEG to augment this entry. Shortcuts have magical healing powers, too.

xxx
c