My apologies.

This blog has taken a turn for the worse. It's been annoying blathering about nothing. And there's no excuse for it. But it will redeem itself shortly. In the meantime, enjoy my current favorite comedian:

OH MUH GAH OH MUH GAH

I was going to write a new post but I must leave for the Skirball Box Office POST HASTE. A one Mr. Zacharius Knight Galifianakis is coming.

Back, but not in Black.

Why hello there! (please read in the voice of the father from Gullah Gullah Island)

I haven’t been too consistent with this blog updating-thing, but I have a plethora of excuses and will be able to provide a very detailed and impressive list for anyone who may question me. This summer has been quite a ride, a lotta ups and downs, strikes and gutters; a lotta what-have-you’s. I’m finishing out the season with three funerals, lots of rain, a couple concerts, and some hearty life experience. I stole a TV, did some more time, but now I’m back in school! And though the faces may have changed, the hassles are just the same.

Before I delve into a lovely anecdote that ends as a life lesson, I would just like to bring something to your attention first. Yesterday my best friend and roommate Michelle and I were walking up Third Avenue to Coral, another one of NYU’s dorms. We were going to visit our friends Mallory and Katy, for they had birthday presents and a delicious home-made chocolate cake waiting for my arrival. Michelle and I crossed the Bowery and entered a maze of scaffolding covered in posters. Usually the posters are for the same things over and over again, a Sonic Youth concert or a movie that’s already out, or some cryptic advertisement that only makes sense months later. So I usually ignore them. However, we made a left turn in the paper-covered steel maze, and I gasped.

“Ahhhhhhh!”

(I asked Michelle how she would describe my reaction, and she all said was: “You did your noise.”)

Remember my post about that “Songs of the Soul” tribute concert to Sri Chinmoy? You know, the guy who named Albany as the First Peace Capital? The concert that I still shudder when I think about, the one that made me bleed internally from uncomfortable muffled laughter?

It’s back. Again. Already.

When I saw the same flyer of Sri Chinmoy that I had been handed last spring, the one where he’s holding his holy instrument with his eyes rolled in the back of his head with yellow glowing all around him, I couldn’t contain myself. The only thing I could get out after “my noise” was,

OH MY GOD. OH MY GOD. IS THIS SERIOUS? OH MY GOD.

Usually I’m more articulate than that, but do you judge or criticize a Vietnam Vet for the things he cries out during his flashbacks? Regardless, I muttered out loud in disbelief while the other walkers became gawkers. The woman who had been traveling behind us stopped, looked at me, looked at the poster, and looked very confused. She had obviously no idea what chaos was being advertised right in front of her nosy nose and continued on her way to what I assume was Ben & Jerry’s – or The Continental.

Now, the line-up for the concert hasn’t changed, only this time Phillip Glass was not on the bill. He must have had the same reaction I thought he did, and had the smarts to get out of that sleepy-eyed CreepFest. Roberta “Batshit Crazy Drunk” Flack was still the headliner and I’m going to go ahead and believe that she still hasn’t taken off that blue sequined tragedy and that they rolled her into a bus, took it to the depot only to wake her up the evening of the next concert. Then they would immediately hand her a flask of whiskey, give her a nudge and say “Get out there, girl!” The concert is not on NYU soil anymore, but at a smaller venue, a Presbyterian church. How this all makes sense I just don’t know. I thought tribute concerts were only once a year. Did they go on tour? Was the tour so short that they’re already back where they started? In my mind, I see Roberta Flack leading the group into small cities in her pumps, holding up her middle school baton in the air, with the rest of the show sauntering in formation behind her with their Stepford Wives smiles and matching robes, each holding one of the 15 million bird drawings. I can also imagine a legion of Midwest housewives with brooms shooing them out of their towns and towards the hills, state after state.

Poor Sri Chinmoy. No man deserves to have this as his legacy, no matter how absurd it is to spend an entire lifetime scribbling birds and writing songs such as:

ICANLIFTTWOHUNDREDANDFORTYPOUNDS.

ICANLIFTTWOHUNDREDANDFORTYPOUNDS

ICANLIFTTWOHUNDREDANDFORTYPOUNDS

ICANLIFTTWOHUNDREDANDFORTYPOUNDS

ICANLIFTTWOHUNDREDANDFORTYPOUNDS

Neil Zirconia

I peed a little.

Dogged Up By The Rain

This whole summer has been nothing but a big puddle. A big puddle that's been beckoned me into a big muddle. It's been a soggy few months for everyone and we've all learned to make sure we've got our umbrellas on hand at all times. There's something ominous and eery about all of this precipitation and I can't tell if it's a cleansing or a punishment, or both. It depends on who you are, I guess. For me, it depends on the day, the hour, and sometimes even the minute. Sometimes I feel comforted by the fact that the only thing that's been consistent lately is the one thing no one would ever think they could depend on.



This week at my job was both the best and worst of the summer. It was terrible in the fact that it's the second to last week and it's getting ridiculously tedious. But it was also fantastic because our mutual disgruntleness caused me to bond with one of my coworkers. On Friday we decided to do enough work that lets us just exceed our expected quota, and then dick around the rest of the time (which only turned out to be about 45 minutes or so). As long as we're getting enough done, it really doesn't matter. And the more work we do, the more patients hate us.



I work in a department called Pre-Registration where we call patients before every appointment to make sure we have all of their "information" correct. We try to call them only once a month if they are repeat visitors, but sometimes errors are made and people get called multiple times a month. People are also scared of the title "Pre-Registration" and often complain that when thy hear it on their answering machine they get scared and think they're on some list to get surgery or something.



Long story short, we get a lot of angry patients answering the phone and calling us back. I hate talking to people on the phone in a professional setting anyway, so talking to angry people on the phone is what I think my hell is going to be like. This week an old man called our office back just to yell, and I was the lucky one who got to take the call. He was an angry coot. I think if I was as old as him I'd be perpetually pissed off. Imagine not being able to talk or pass gas without dust flying everywhere.



Our conversation went a little like this:

"Sir, our department is trying to help the patients by calling them and getting their information before the appointment so that when they get there they can go right in to see the doctor."

"That's not true. No, your department is a WELLFARE program designed to CREATE JOBS for people who can't get one!"

"Sir, I'm sorry you feel that way, we really are just trying to help."

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Thank you young lady...JERK."

And then he hung up.



I hope his balls fall off. If he didn't like getting the call, why did he call back? He went out of his way to ruin someone else's day.



I used to volunteer at a nursing home and there was this one man who would spring out of his room, ranting and raving and shaking his fuzzy slipper in the air. Coming from his aged and cracking vocal chords we'd hear a thick screech: "YOU'RE WALKIN' TOO LOUD! GET OUTTA HERE." We were there to make their days a little less shitty by listening to their same awful stories over and over and over again about the pastor's boy rollerskating in the church.



If you're going to be cranky and make everyone else miserable, just die already. Once I become a burden to people around me, that's the end of me. Maybe that book The Giver didn't have it so wrong. Except for the whole lack of color, though, that's gotta suck. In high school I wrote a paper called "Should They Stay Or Should They Go?" about the euthenization of the elderly. It was for an assignment called "Arguing With Yourself" so I had to agree both for and against the idea. In my research I found out that the numbers of car accidents caused by old people are staggering... and I'm going to leave it at that.

*Note: I'm not saying all old people are mean, just a large portion of them. I'm sure you have an "adorable grampy" or something and I'm more than happy for you.

Karma Karma Karma Kameleon

August is like a month of Sundays.

I've always hated Sundays, except for the morning (if I find myself awake in time to enjoy it). I feel lazy, in limbo, and unsure of whether I should be in the process of wrapping things up or just starting to try. It may be too late, but in the words of Ben Lee, I only want it to begin. And that's what I'm doing by re-opening the forgotten and dusty tomb that has become my blog. I've been writing down ideas but haven't actually fleshed out anything substantial in quite a while.

My "Adventure in Solitude" was anything but. I definitely didn't spend the same amount of time at the computer as before, but I definitely didn't seclude myself like I had hoped. Things come up that need to be taken care of, and I have to use a computer ALL day at work. Thus, staying away from the Evil that the Internet had become was almost impossible. And what can I say? I've been a little lax in my convictions lately, but that's the least of it all.

You may ask, "But why did you thrust yourself into an 'Adventure in Solitude' in the first place? You seem like a rather well-adjusted young lass." Well, this answer is not a simple one. It has a little to do with a series of unfortunate events that made me want to remove myself from civilization and a lot to do with my parents' purchase of a Complete Care Warranty with my former laptop. I had a Dell Inspiron E1505, which a pretty significant portion of my peers also seem to have... and never have had a problem. I think mine was a dud. During my ownership I had had the hinges and screen and dvd drive replaced once and the keyboard replaced twice in two years. However even after these repairs, my DVD drive continued to grrr and purr like a very angry and hungry pregnant lioness... and everyone knows about my delinquently fussy "E" key.

Throughout my troubles I found out that I had this Complete Care Warranty. My brother-in-law told me that it would cover everything but theft.

"On the phone I even asked them: If she throws a party and someone vomits on her computer, is that convered?"

So me mind started turning. Yes, me mind. I had been threatening in conversation for a while, but this summer I finally decided to go through with it. I would destroy my laptop, send it back, and force Dell to show me something good. Late one Thursday night, my accomplice Jackie was making fun of the wobbly laptop screen by flicking it over and over after an exhausting session of Guitar Hero. I told her about the Complete Care Warranty and shared with her my dream. She was enthusiastically receptive. In high school, Jackie was in my circle of friends of Do-Gooders who didn't lie or cheat or steal or drink or have the crazy kind of "fun" that all the "cool" kids were having. Instead, we made inaccurate historical videos about Constantinople and listened to Neil Diamond. (We still listen to Neil Diamond and now me make accurate videos about Constantinople thanks to my lovely freshman-year Byzantine History odyssey with a one Mr. Konstantinos Smyrlis). I chatted online with a Dell Rep and told him that "While I was away, I was told that a large piece of furniture fell on my laptop and someone may have stepped on it." This was all while my lemon of a laptop sat beside me, fully intact despite its numerous flaws.

The foreign man responded, "Do not worry, you have Complete Care Warranty."

So when Jackie supported my idea, that was confirmation enough for me to get on with it... after pestering my brother-in-law about the possible consequences, both material and moral.

I decided to do the deed.

A few days later, after saving and securing all of my very important files (mostly music) onto an external hard drive, it was time. My brother-in-law retrieved one of his 25lb hand weights and set up a chair in front of the house. Jackie joined me outside and my niece scurried past us to her father's lap in the lawnchair. On the way out the door I opend ITunes and tried to find an appropriate track that would provide a soundtrack to this act of rebellion.

The only song I had that seemed appropriate was "I Got Your Money" by Ol' Dirty Bastard. As the song played I placed the laptop down on a piece of the slate pathway. After a few seconds of conversation and nervous hesitation, I held the weight over a corner of the computer

and

dropped

it.

The screen absorbed most of the shock. And the music was still playing. I opened up the laptop and the screen was completely cracked and distorted. It looked like some abstract painting one might encounter at the MoMA. But I could still make out the "play" button, and pressed it. The music resumed. So, I flipped the machine over and dropped the weight around the same area as the first time. The music did not come on again, there was a splendid dent near my hard drive, and the air vent was irreplaceably smushed. Mission Accomplished, much quicker than expected.

So when I sent back the computer is when I tried the whole "Adventure in Solitude" thing. Instead of being in solitude, I umm used everyone else's computers. Including Albany Medical Center's.

The replacement computer they sent me is a refurbished XPS M1530, apparently it's "the" laptop for today. I wouldn't know... because when I got mine, the screen had dancing green pixels that distorted picture and video. AND the audio was crackly and unclear. Was I sent another dud as my punishment? Is this karma? Was Dell getting payback by making me sit on the phone for a total of over 5 hours attempting to fix a machine that was promised to be fully efficient and functional? That was the one warning my brother-in-law had given me, the possible karma that greedily destroying one of my most important possessions in hopes of getting a better one. What I had was great, but not perfect. It just didn't seem like enough for me. But I kept thinking off all the bad things that might happen with it and couldn't stop creating worst-case scenarios in the talking picture machine that's become my mind. I believe this happens in more than just laptops, my dear readers. I needed to try my hand at something better at the expense of others' feelings and time - in this case, the laptop's(?) and the Dell workers. The negative energy was a-flowing out and negative energy was all I got in return. But hey, at least the workers are getting paid, right?

I must say that this whole happening has made me believe in something, maybe not karma exactly, but then again maybe so. Today I was supposed to meet yet another Dell rep at my house at 5:30. Around 4, the city started to dump buckets and buckets of stinging water onto the ground. A gross tan river covered the street I have to cross between work buildings, and the water was up to mid-calf. The sky was unforgiving as I tried to get back to the other building to meet my sister and go home. We left at 4:55. A ride that normally takes 5 minutes ended up taking 50, and on the way I saw a hatchback car on a street that was flooded up to the windows.

Shit was cuh-razy. But I kept a good spirit, joking with my sister about the guy who was drumming on his steering wheel with real drumsticks, the man who rode by on a tiny scooter, and the annoying people who cross the street during red lights - it's an epidemic in Downtown Albany!

I'm starting to learn how to step back from situations and repress my Kebbie instinct to go into Panic Overdrive Mode right away before anything bad happens, and even after it happens. Pre-panicking is always a deadly move and post-panicking doesn't do anything but drain the soul. I honestly believe that if I had started fretting and worrying, the Dell rep might have gotten the vibes and left before I got there. But she didn't. In fact, she was really cool. She enjoyed listening to the household conversations with Mom, my niece, Givne, and I. She was probably an RPI student, but I don't really know. All I do know is that she had to stop working to laugh heartily at an observation I had about Jon & Kate Plus 8, and that was good enough to erase the fact that I had probably stepped in raw sewage mixed with acid rain a mere hour earlier.

"Of course they have to buy organic food. Imagine having to cart around eight fat-ass kids?"

A-Change is Gonna Come

And that change is more blog posts.

Stay tuned. I'm back. And better than - well, I'm going to try to be at least just as good.

Adventures in Solitude

This will be my last post for a while. Recent event and thoughts have led me to the conclusion that I'm in need of some kind of cleansing, and I'm going to try at one. And that's why I no longer possess a laptop (for a few weeks, anyway). If you're interested in hearing the tale of a great battle with technology, an awestrucking display of consumerism, and wanton disregard of an inner compass, ask me about my Sunday.

I'm actually pretty excited to be disconnected from the Interwebs. Last spring I uninstalled AIM for quite a while, and it felt damn good. People contacted me who actually needed and wanted to, and there were no pity conversations stemming from boredom and obligation:

"what's up?"

"nothing... you"

"nothing"

"cool"

"yeah"

"definitely"

"yep"

So I plan on only using the computer while I'm at work and maybe sometimes while I'm at my sister's house. I'm sick of sitting passively for hours in front of the glowing screen without actually DOING anything, just checking the same websites over and over again, waiting for people to respond to me or hoping something new will pop up. I love the computer, but I've become a mindless addict who has forgotten its meaningful use. In order to get back my appreciation, I must deprive myself of it. I am not telling you all of this to be praised for going inside my little box, although you can admire me from the outside - I don't mind. (Jonathan Lethem reference, anyone? If not, please read The Disappointment Artist.) But it's just to let you all know that although I am not everpresent on your screens, I am still alive. Maybe more alive than ever. Which is both a healthy thing and a scary thing at the same time. Good and bad, bad and bad; I'm still reeling from it all.

I plan on spending my nights attempting to knock off a few books from my shelf of Unreads, watching intellectual programming (such as Law and Order: Criminal Intent, the John Adams miniseries, Rocko's Modern Life and Jon & Kate Plus 8), and walking over to Albany's Riverfront Park in contemplation. What shall I contemplate? Perhaps why certain parts of the park smell

like ass more than others. It's a tough conundrum, but someone's got to tackle it. I'll still be receiving phone calls and e-mails (NO texting, please!), but I know a lot of you young whippersnappers out there prefer more "distant yet instant" forms of communication. Fortunately, I don't know that many of you.

Hopefully this will not mean a hiatus of writing. I hope it's far from it. I bought a nifty notebook today that I am going to break down into sections to keep track of all the little notes and ideas I've written on various smaller notebooks, napkins, and foreheads. And boy! do I have many notes for possible blog posts. You all have something to look forward to since I know your lives rise and fall with my internet insights and memoirs.

In the meantime, I hope you'll allow me to assign you some homework for when I return. Please listen to the entire album "Challengers" by The New Pornographers, and pay special attention to the songs "My Rights Versus Yours," "Myriad Harbour," and "Entering White Cecilia." There will be an extended discussion and response paper due sometime in the month of August. I can't explain how much this band and that particular album has helped me lately. I really like a lot of music, but it only happens once in a while that I feel "moved." And I feel as moved as one of them peddlers I had to learn so much about in my American Jewish History class.

You Were The Man, Mike.

I received some pretty terrible news today. My comedy godfather, mentor, and role-model, Mike Irwin, passed away today around noon. Mike had been battling Stage IV bone cancer for a few months, eventually contracting a staph infection among a myriad of other complications. If there ever was a guy who deserved to be ridiculously famous and live for billions of years, it would be him. I could try to be eloquent and try to come up with some grand metaphor about the circle of life and blah blah blah, but that just doesn't fit. The only thing I can say that feels right is:

This completely sucks.

There's no way around it. Fuck the universe, as my very insightful friend Brian Peek would say. And he always seems to be right.

If it weren't for Mike Irwin, I wouldn't have ever had the opportunity to pursue comedy. The summer after my freshman year of high school was a restless time. Even though I was barely fourteen, I felt a restlessness inside that wouldn't stop. My family had been in a sort of disrepair for reasons all two of you readers already know and I had just experienced the first year where I could actually notice a bit of social separation between my peers and I. I had been following comedy and various comedians since the time I had fully grasped language, and one night at a Fresno's restaurant while dining with my sister and brother-in-law something clicked.

"I think I could do stand-up comedy. Why not? So many ridiculous things have happened to me that it seems like something I have to do."

My brother-in-law was especially encouraging, but at the time I didn't think either of them were really taking me seriously. I went home and left them a voicemail at their apartment:
"I'm really serious about this. I'm going to do it. I'm going to. I have to. I'm serious."
The rest of the summer was spent e-mailing comedians and researching classes and clubs. The whole process was actually quite a success, and I caught a few comedians when they were stll answering their own e-mails. My favorites, of course, were from a one Mr. Galifianakis and I had an oddly lenghty correspondence with Jay Mohr who told me to "sin bravely."

Towards the end of the summer, I found the website for our local comedy club, The Comedy Works, which was then located at a Quality Inn in Glenmont. Mike Irwin was offering stand-up comedy classes there and I immediately e-mailed him my situation, about how I was a youngin' but I knew that this was something I was very passionate about. He was quick to respond and said he would check about things, making no promises but said: "If you really want to do comedy, you'll find a way."

I e-mailed the owner of the club to see what he had to say, and I later found out that he had suspected I might be a police officer posing as a little girl to conduct some kind of sting operation. So, like all kids do, I had my mom call. And then Mike Irwin got back to me with good news: the only thing I had to do was send in a permission slip, which I did right away. I was warned that there would be "adult content" and was instructed to prepare 2-3 minutes for the first night of class.

At the time, I was the goalie for my school's JV soccer team and went directly from practices and games right to class. Sweat, adrenaline, and all. I was so nervous before my first class, but as soon as I met everyone my large intestine sensed there was nothing to fear.

Mike did not treat me any different than the rest of the class, although the next youngest person after me was around 20. No one watched their language, watered their material down, or made me feel awkward about being there. It was from Mike I learned about stage presence, the basic joke forms, how to memorize sets, and how squeeze the most out of every single minute on stage. He taught us his "5 Rules of Comedy," which have always rung true. Comedy is almost impossible to pigeon-hole into various equations and explanations and organizations, but somehow Mike did it. Every week we were given assignments and writing exercises, many of which I still use today. One of my favorite assignments was when we had to make a list of things that were orange. By far, the best answer came from my pal Don: "Bougars mixed with blood!" I remember choking on my water from chortling. It's the best kind of pain there is.

The most valuable things I gained from the class were my "older comedian friends" and my relationship with Mike. Every teenage girl should have them, and they're the only reason I wish I could go back to high school, so I could spend time with them on a regular basis again.

Every week we each had to perform on stage for 2-3 minutes and even if we sucked, Mike would make sure to find something positive about what we did. But he wasn't afraid to tell us what didn't go so well. Sure, many comedians may end up bitter and jaded, but Mike knew that it didn't have to be that way - and that we weren't going to succeed if it happened to us. Later that year I took an improv class with him and some of my friends, and he opened up that world for me as well. He could have just said, "Go away, kid, get outta here. Come back when you're not a fetus." But he didn't. Honestly, I probably would have given up my quest. Without his belief in me and my potential, I think I'd have hung back more in my life. I don't think I would have pushed myself or accomplished anything near what I have. His instruction and faith gave me the confidence and tools to make the best of my situation that I desperately needed at that particular point in my life.

I don't think I have ever seen Mike get angry or badmouth another comedian. When I think of all the god-awful comedians (famous and not), managers, and Biz people he's had to deal with, that fact truly amazes me. It seems that no one ever got the best of him, and he was always ready to do favors.

When I started performing more, opening shows and going to open mics, he was always there when I had questions. He seemed to be watching proudly as I kept at it, and whenever I perform I perform as if he were there, because I know that's when I do my best.

Last summer I had the pleasure of doing a guest spot when he was headlining at The Comedy Works, which is now located on the corner of State & Eagle Streets in Albany. I got to hang out with him, his wife, and his son - and my friend - Carter. It was one of the best nights of that summer. Of course I had seen Mike perform, but not for a while. I've always admired how he never stopped writing and always had new bits. What sticks out in my mind about his performances, however, was the pure, unadulterated glee that you could tell filled him whenever he was behind a microphone. His smile and manly giggle were enough to make me smile and -yes, perhaps a bit masculinely - giggle.

Like many comics, he took his life's struggles as fodder for entertainment. But there was something twisted and sharp and endearing about his cadence and writing that never got boring. He was the kind of guy who wanted to win the lottery just for the interview. He wondered why the winners always want to buy a car when there's so much that can be done. Mike knew just what he would do: create a jell-o shortage. The man was a genius.

Of course, I saved my favorite joke of his for last. He used to talk about how one of his relatives had been on the wrong side of World War II, and the only picture they had was of him in his uniform. So whenever people would come over to his family's house, everyone would see all the normal, lovely pictures of the family. . .

"and then some fuckin' Nazi."

"Oh, who's that?"
"Umm...that's just Gramps. He was really into the theater."

Mike, all us comics miss you.

This Song Just Saved My Life

I Fell Off The Face of The Earth and Might Continue to Do So From Time To Time

but something's coming soon...