Shawdenfreude

It is all over, it has just begun!

2009-01-22T09:05:00.000-08:00

At approximately 12:55 pm on Tuesday, January 20th a man with a long shadow, a low IQ and little understanding for humanity boarded a helicopter and left the city of Washington DC.

Approximately 55 minutes before said event, Barack Obama was inaugurated President of the United States of America.

It was an honor to be standing in Washington DC in the midst of a Twenty-One Gun Salute and the greatest Sea Change this country has seen in a long time.

A bunch of friends and I went down with some Purple Level tickets which granted us access to The Capitol. I, like a fool, went down with the notion that we would gain civil and comfortable entry to the event. My understanding of the chaos about to ensue was mildly deluded. It was really only with tenacity, ingenuity, and the conjuring of my Dead Grandmother that me made it.

At 8:30 AM we were packed like sardines on First street and D. At first, I was patient. Because that's my new thing. Patience.

But, as time began to pass, I started to remember that this was not how I did business, and that once again, not taking action was for suckers.

We were standing in the wrong place for Success to materialize. I knew it. This feeling became more and more acute as I started to realize that no one who I have ever respected or admired would still be standing, like a Fool, in a milling and crushed crowd. My ancestors, particularly my Grandmother, would find the way in.

This last thought was interrupted by a commotion. There seemed to be strange and excited movement, a fervor in the crowd. Rumors began to spread back the two or three rows to us.

It was the Honorable Jesse Jackson. Jesse Jackson was only a few people ahead of us, stuck with a Purple Ticket on First and D. People were calling his name and snapping pictures of the back of his head.

Just after the revelation of Jesse Jackson a fireman called down, from a rickety scaffolding at the edge of the sidewalk, for everyone to clear out of the way and that there was a medical emergency. Ambulances began to drive down the street attempting, to part the crowd. At this moment there was a lot more crushing. The crowd bitterly laughed but tried to move to the side. A few people hopped on to the back of the ambulance looking for a way out of the madness.

It was also at this moment that we grabbed our chance. We allowed the ambulance to pass through, pushing us to the sides of the street and onto the side walk, but the second it passed and we were not in anyone's way, I grabbed my friends OUT of the line we had been standing in for what was then nearing two hours and told them that they had to trust me.

Grudgingly they followed me, first doubting, then acquiescing with small but kindled hope. I didn't blame them. I couldn't be sure I was right either, but we had to try something. We only had an hour to go.

Minutes later we were in the right place. A small crowd had found their way to the proper entrance off Louisiana and we were, by an act of grace, among them. The crowd in our new spot were singing good bye songs for George Bush and hello songs for President Obama. They were chanting in the new and letting out the old.

There were many, many ticket holders due to confusion and unbelievable disorganization that were left out in the cold. (It it so true that no one in Washington was properly prepared for this event or influx of people.) At one point, after passing through security five minutes before the Inauguration officially began , I looked back at the crowd we had left behind pushed up against the entry gate. As we hurried along to our spots in front of the Capitol I asked one of my friends what was going to happen to them.

He looked at me and said, "Those are the doomed, Melissa, we have no choice but to keep moving." He added, "I feel like that experience represents the last eight years. Now we are free."

I took one last look behind me to the thousands and thousands of people who were not getting through the gate. I felt so grateful.

And then the next thing I knew Barack Obama was the 44th President of the United States of America and was ten times more grateful.

Just before that Helicopter took off containing George Bush, just after Obama delivered his inauguration speech, a raucous and determined wind blew through the grounds near the Capitol. It seemed to come from out of nowhere. Up until that moment the air had been cold, but still.

I shivered and muttered something out loud about it. Suddenly a lady was standing next to me with her young daughter.

"It's the breath of fresh air. The new wind," she explained. "Something had to happen for the change. We got this wind today. There will be other things tomorrow"

And a change had done come.

RIOT ACT

2008-12-14T00:58:00.000-08:00

This, of course, should be interesting...

Come see this weird thing I do.

Love
MS

The Police-Teen Theater Project's Fall 2008 Performance

Young people from Brooklyn combine forces with officers from the NYPD
to create a night of hilarious, moving, and totally unpredictable theater.

Thursday, December 18 at 7:00 pm
Friday, December 19 at 7:00 pm

Dance Theatre Etcetera Studio
480 Van Brunt Street, 2nd Floor
(in the Fairway building, just past the entrance to the parking lot)
Red Hook, Brooklyn

Admission is free!

Someone Says You're in the Wrong Place My Friend, You Better Leave

2008-12-05T23:01:00.000-08:00

Someone Says You're in the Wrong Place My Friend, You Better Leave
Conceived and Developed by Hwy Rachel
Inspired by Things We'd Rather Not Say Aloud for Legal Purposes

Wednesday, December 10th
9pm
Free

Presented as part of the MISC Film and Performance Festival
(Performances run from 7-10pm throughout the gallery space)

New York Studio Gallery
154 Stanton St. (at the corner of Suffolk)
Lower East Side

F and V and JMZ friendly!

A blurb about the show:

Someone Says You're in the Wrong Place My Friend, You Better Leave was developed for the NYSG as a roving performance piece that loops three times through the gallery. It follows the stories of five characters we would be unlikely to meet in the same place at the same time (except perhaps in a Dylan song): a biblical Cain-turned-clown, a rainbow-obsessed Ophelia, Einstein in Robin Hood tights and in the throws of discovery, a doe-eyed Cinderella, and a Fortuneteller with a penchant for spitting and never quite closing up shop. As the characters' stories move them from place to place, the audience is free to follow (or not) in whichever order they choose, creating a self-directed piece of interactive theater.

Yes We Did - This is what Democracy can look like.

2008-11-05T07:56:00.000-08:00

"I finally feel like an American," Leela said at the party at my house last night.

Yes, this is what America can look like. Yes it can.

"I have not yet given up on my fellow Americans," said a man with a pick up truck and a McCain sign in the parking lot of Lions Hall in Hudson, New Hampshire yesterday afternoon. The Melissa that no longer picks political fights with strangers (bartending has taught me a lot) felt no need to say anything clever or snide, even though he was clearly making the announcement for my benefit, me a hippy-looking woman with Obama Pins, leaflets, and ratty clothes. There was no way I was campaigning for McCain. My appearance, even at a distance cries out "I support pseudo-terrorists that want to change the world." I know it does.

I wanted to tell him I hadn't given up on this country either, or on him, but I just thought it to myself and went about my business knocking on doors and telling people they were important.

Last night, however, I got to scream about change and start rounds of raucous applause for each state that came in, and for everything everyone said about hope and this crazy place I love called the United States of America.

It was an emotional evening all around. McCain's speech made people in my house cry. There was something in his loss. Something in the sincerity that came from his heart. His apology, his words that declared to put him behind Obama as a leader, and something, it seemed, he suddenly saw.

Even if it is all a farce and a big political ruse, my heart had been breaking for that old man the last few weeks. Last night shoved the stake straight in the rest of the way. If he could have only been on the side of good with all that energy and experience. Mea Culpa as he said.

My heart was also broken for the loss of Obama's grandmother. The idea that she missed seeing him elected President of the United States by one day felt like the heartbreak of all heartbreaks. But, as my friend Tim said, she probably didn't need to be alive to know that he was going to be president. I think she is sitting in the same front row my Grandmother is, looking down on all of us. The Hawaii of the sky.

And then there was Barack Obama himself whose victory speech brought us to deafening silence, detailing the changes seen in the life of an 106 -year- old American, the promise of puppies, and a promise for a better tomorrow.

I will say the greatest moment of last night came when we knew it was real. That is was really real.

We had flipped for a few minutes to the Daily Show and laughed over some things Jon Stewart and Colbert were saying when all of a sudden Jon Stewart paused and said, "It's 11 O'clock, and Barack Obama is the next president of the United States."

The house went dead and then exploded because we knew that it had just been called. Jon Stewart, in front of God and everyone, had just called the race.

And he was right.

It was one of those moments in history people will remember over and over again I am sure.

How did you find out? Where were you? But not in a September Eleventh way, because baby what we got up in here is the future.

Thank you to everyone for a beautiful and hope-filled night.

Ashleigh, thank you for holding on to me.

Tom, thanks for telling me my shirt smelled.

And Leela, I feel like an American, too.

And Man with the McCain sign, there is no reason to give up hope on anyone. We are all gonna pull through this better than we can imagine. I see aisles being crossed and a place for everyone.

Citizens of this unbelievable place. One nation. Let's make it indivisible- for real this time.

Hopefully, except for Sarah Palin.

Ok, maybe for her too.

Wild and Crazy- Sunday Feelings

2008-10-19T23:16:00.000-07:00

I am very happy and excited about Colin Powell, can't say that I am surprised or have a question in my mind about why he endorsed Barack Obama. I think this is probably the most apropos place that the word duh, could be used on this blog. Duh. Duh. Duh.

And after having watched the new SNL sketch with Sarah Palin I am feeling a slew of different things.

First, that I still dislike her so much, and for that I am glowingly glad. No soft spot in my heart for her at all. Not even like the kind you have for people dying of lethal injection. Not even the feeling of "God, I bet you really could have been a better person and I hate the fact that you are being put to death."

I feel desperately bad every time I think about their last meals, those people on Death Row, especially when they have something cute for them like Orange Juice or M and M's. There is just always this moment where I am struck by their humanity and want to save them and somehow feel a sorrow that has a tinge of, dare I say it in front of some of you hard asses, love.

Sarah Palin did not conjure this feeling in me at all. Did you hear that Governor? A person who may have killed another person can evoke more compassion from me, just by eating a Mars bar before dying than you, stumbling over the words Caribou Barbie, ever will.

Yay.

I say rape, you say kit. (The Lower 48 are not having it, sugar. Go Home.)

Second, that I CAN'T believe I am following SNL (albeit after Saturday night, and on the internet) a show I have not watched with any true joy or regularity since the late night re-runs on Nick at Night when I was 9.

Third, that parody "Todd" looked frighteningly like my latest ex-boyfriend. Especially when he danced.

And Fourth, that I still do not know how I feel about the fact that she was on it at all. At times I think it is almost like if they had had Pinochet on in the Seventies.

"Live from New York I am a crazy fascist."

Who am I kidding? I would actually love to see a Nick at Night re-run with Eddie Murphy and Augusto Pinochet. Pinochet as a cone head? Pinochet and the Two Wild and Crazy Guys?

Maybe Obama and Biden can do that when they win. Give us a taste of what the next four years will be like with them. Hell, If those two other chumps can be Mavericks then the A-team get to be two wild and crazy guys. Done. Someone call Martin and Akroyd and pull out the plaid.

Oy Fey!

2008-10-10T22:28:00.000-07:00

And one more thing.

When Obama wins this election, Tina Fey is going to be entitled to a Kilo of the credit.

More.

Tina Fey and Hillary in 2016!

What's Round on the Edges and High in the Middle?

2008-10-08T08:53:00.000-07:00

I just got back from Ohio, folks (my friends), and let me tell you that it is really happening there.

After watching the debates the other night I am more fired up then ever.

"That One" is very, very popular in many of these fine Continental 48 and I think it is important and should not be hidden by the media, that there are democratic miracles happening in that Little Ol' (read: Extremely, Extremely Important) Swing State That Wants To.

First you need to know that I was down there last weekend, in the Columbus area to be more exact, for a very historic event. Last weekend anyone in Ohio could register to vote and vote ON THE SAME DAY.

That's right you heard me. Ohio is voting now. Right now, as we speak, well, not as we speak because the polls are closed, but from September 30th until November 4rd the beautiful, talented, hardworking, well-voting population of the the Buck -Eye State are allowed to vote.

Registering to vote: $0 dollars

Pulling the lever without being messed with for three hours in the rain: Priceless.

This was designed, as far as we could make out, as a Never Again precaution so that salt of the earth Ohioans would never be left out in the cold on Election Day again.

And I say God bless their Football Loving Hearts.

Last weekend was the end of the registration period and now the game is simply a foot. A big, awesome, early- voting-shorten -the- lines- at -the- poll -so- less- people (people of color) get- fucked- with foot. To be exact.

So, let me tell you what I saw 'cause it was beautiful.

I saw dogs wearing Obama bling. I saw 75% of the voters walking out of the early polling places with stickers saying I Just Voted early for Barack Obama. Check. And that was Easily 75% of the voters.

I saw FREE voting taxis with numbers on their signs asking people to call for a lift to the polls.

FOR FREE, people, please do not forget.

The folks in Ohio, well, they are working together for change. Yes they Can.

I saw bigger Vans, with Obama-Biden signs, doing the same. Pick up and delivery, carting people over in 6-8 person loads so that they could do their civic duty and follow their moral imperative.

Russell Simmons. You know what that Old So and So did? He had a performance at an Obama rally in Downtown Columbus, wrapped up the music, and WALKED everyone in the audience over to vote at the Veteran's Memorial. Warms the heart.

He didn't say who to vote for...but I think you get the idea.

And I saw Cornel West speak, forgoing Bruce Springsteen who begged for his America back while on stage at Ohio State University down the road a stretch. Dr. West was electrifying in the University Baptist Church on St. Clair St on Sunday afternoon.

You know what he reminded us? He wanted to draw our attention to the importance of looking at how a country's "least" are doing. Those with the least. How are they getting on? What do our "have nots" have?

They have not.

I also want to say that Dr. West wanted everyone to leave the church and vote with their conscience, but to remember that Obama was not Jesus Christ. That he was not going to be our salvation. That we needed to be doing that.

Us, and that Other Guy out there.

No, not John McCain.

Cornel West said that people in the countries he had been to recently weren't asking how Brother McCain was doing in the polls.

Nope Dr. West, they weren't asking me how The Senator from Arizona was doing either.

And, We're Back

2008-09-30T13:25:00.000-07:00

Hi. I am back in America.

Couple things...

Just in case there was any confusion:

Being able to SEE Russia does not constitute "foreign travel" nor does Putin flying over your Home state mean that you have experience with diplomatic relations.

PLEASE. PLEASE. PLEASE.

Please vote for Obama.

Please go register to vote. Like, right now if it is before 5pm where you are.

Please do not buy a pair of eye glasses that look like Sarah Palin's because she wears them.

Please do not be enticed by the fact that she is a "MILF."

Please be afraid that she could be the President.

Please do not confuse her for a feminist.

Please go to places like Pennsylvania and Ohio and knock on doors and tell them.

Please.

The whole world is watching. No, seriously, it is, and shooting Moose while various animal species are dying off warms my fucking cockles. I don't know about your cockles.

(Yes, I understand that she has probably been to Canada.)

Bevar Christiania

2008-09-19T02:06:00.000-07:00

So, I am out of Scandinavia and have woken up this morning in Former East Berlin.

I love the smell of a fallen regime in the morning. Especially over Kaffe and a keyboard.

I was evacuated from a train in Sweden yesterday. (Yes, I know. "What?" Exactly.) This very strange turn of events found me leaping from Nordic transport and onto Swedish train tracks that had to be turned off so as not to electrocute the people, now fleeing from their seats, merely attempting safe passage to Denmark. This adventure made me three hours late and so I took an afternoon train to Berlin, arriving under the cover of darkness to Prenzlauer Berg, a Village-esque part of town from as far as I can tell so far.

Please look at this link about Christiania.

This is where I was mostly staying in Denmark.

Freetown Chrisiania is an attempt at a free society in the City of Copenhagen and it was quite an experience, let me tell you. I drank with a huge population of people from Greenland, watched people sell hash and weed in stalls on "Pusher Street," and talked to an old-timer named Tim
who is pretty sure there is going to be a huge UFO over Alabama on October 14th of this year.
And that it is all gonna be great.

I just hope if it is true it helps Obama. I mean wouldn´t it be awesome if the Aliens had Vote for Obama T-shirts on? They could stay with me at my place if that were the case.

Chrisitiania is very controversial and many of its inhabitants, as well as tourists, wear shirts and buttons that say "Bevar Christiania." Like Defend Brooklyn. Preserve Christiania.

There is a very conservative governement in Denmark now and they don´t like the Hippies so much and are trying to put an end to all the love and fun.

Well, that is all for now. Berlin awaits. I have a thriving art city to discover.

As always.

Yours,
MS

Wonderful Copenhagen

2008-09-13T10:06:00.000-07:00

Wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen
Friendly old girl of a town
'Neath her tavern light
On this merry night
Let us clink and drink one down
To wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen
Salty old queen of the sea
Once I sailed away
But I'm home today
Singing Copenhagen, wonderful, wonderful
Copenhagen for me

I spent the night in Sweden the other night. It was by far the funniest thing I have done since being in Europe. Waking up in Sweden. I am staring at a Denmark sunset, as we speak, here in lovely Copenhagen. In Copenhagen good-bye is "Hej Hej" and there is an awesome part of town called Christiania where I am staying that was taken over by the hippies in the 70´s. Vegan food and hash sellers in little stalls ahoy.

I have not yet seen the Little Mermaid.

Copenhagen is a bikers city and I can't read much of anything.

Wish you were here.

Don't vote for Sarah Palin.

Hej Hej.

Don't Palin For It

2008-09-10T04:23:00.000-07:00

Hey all you "white women!"

For the love of G-d, we don't need a woman who kills moose in the White House. Nor do we need a woman who just got her passport at 44. It is isn't worth it.

I'm in the UK sweating Alaskan bullets on this one. Quick, someone start knocking on doors...i'll meet you in Ohio!

I leave for one month....

Meanwhile at 8am today the world may have begun to change for good. Big Bang in a very big Swiss box.

Our times.

My heart is in the Highlands

2008-08-29T15:59:00.001-07:00

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer-
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;
My heart's in the Highlands, whereever I go.

-R. Burns

Inverness, Scotland, in the height of the Highlands, is a party town. You didn't know it and neither did I. This is also where Loch Ness and its monster are. I did just have to explain that "Friends" was not a documentary about Jennifer Aniston to a few gents, but other than that everyone here is amazing.

I want to apologize for not having written sooner. Travelling has been exhausting and when I can I would like to get some pictures of Italy up online. Let's just say, after Florence, I am not going to need to hit a "fine arts" museum for a while.

I paddled a Gondola and found the only Orthodox Jews in Venice. I went to the beach with them. Me and two Rabbis names Schmuley and Yossi on the Lido. Let's see Fellini top that.

I am in the lobby of my first real "hostel." A hippi is playing the didjeridu, I just came back from the craziest bars, and had some of the best Indian food I have had in ages.

So far. I think I don't need to leave Scotland.

My heart's in the Highlands at the break of dawn
By the beautiful lake of the Black Swan
Big white clouds, like chariots that swing down low
Well my heart's in the Highlands
Only place left to go.

- Mr. Bobby D.

Oh

2008-06-20T22:02:00.000-07:00

my god.

Skidmore was crazy.

And I'm back.

Louie, Louie

2008-06-16T16:54:00.000-07:00

I am with a bunch of old ladies at a writer's conference in Saratoga Springs (me and my bright ideas) and all I can think about is Louie. I met Louie just before I pulled out of New York City on Sunday.

Louie, who leaned over to me at the Hess station on Metro and Bushwick, grabbed my hands, called me Mammi, and told me he was voting for McCain.

I was putting 10w-40 and gas in the car.

I said, "Oh, Louie, no!" Glancing at his New York plates, relaxing into the fact that it actually doesn't matter who Louie votes for, but none the less. Here was my nightmare AND mind you, the thing I said couldn't possibly happen- I refused to believe would happen. Who was going to swing from Hillary to McCain? Who would be so extreme? Obama to McCain I always understood, there was an appeal Obama was making to *those* guys; I got those people; I think I dated one once.

Why would we do this to ourselves? We are so close. Eyes on the god- damned road people!

But Louie held fast to my oil slicked hands and said "Mami, I don't like Muslims."

Had I not had to get on the road as soon as I closed my hood I probably would have passed out, right then and there.

I actually met and was holding hands with a man who believed the crazy republican propaganda in WILLIAMSBURG BROOKLYN. (watch out Melissa your naivete is showing.) My 'hood. 25 feet from my house.

"Louie, babe, it's propaganda," I tried "It's not true. What's with the church?"

Louie then let me know that he watched Obama sworn in NOT on a Bible. To Louie's credit he did not say a Koran.

But he believed that Hilary would have "kept us safe" but that Obama is what? Gonna get us?

The whole thing was as disturbing as the almost- $5- a- gallon sticker price for the gas I was buying.

40 dollars later, I drove away.

It was the best that I could do.

I had recently learned the three "L's"to employ whenever you are talking to any extremist or to anyone whose mind you cannot change.

First You Listen
then You Love
and then You Leave.

MS

Obama is Black. Not That There's Anything Wrong With That

2008-06-05T08:01:00.000-07:00

Looks like I owe Blayne Scofield $50 dollars. Unless, of course, Obama decides this whole thing was silly in the first place and changes his mind. Let's wait to see if he changes his mind....

Actually, to be honest, I am very excited and looking forward to this race. I think the man is going to make an excellent candidate and if John McCain is still alive in November- we're gonna take him down.

I have one last thing to get off my chest about the race, race, and gender before I join the screaming fans.

I would like to describe a T- Shirt I saw on a girl the other day. The tag:

Once you vote black you never go back.

Guys, this whole thing has been as much about race and gender as ANYTHING else and I think it is in our strength for us to admit that instead of denying it.

I caught some real flack from different people ( friends, lovers, liars) over the course of this whole thing- me all the while saying that One of the Reasons I was voting for Hillary was because a female running for president is a political act. I still think it is. So is the fact that our good man Obama is black. In this country both of these things were a big deal. Pure and simple. Just ask that Preacher. Just ask the people telling Hillary to do the ironing. Just ask the populations in the south that came out to vote that never had before.

We want to own the good part of having a black candidate (it's progressive, we are making headway, see race doesn't matter) and stuff in the closet or WORSE make invisible all the parts of it that make us (especially white intellectuals/artists/tax evaders) uncomfortable.

Barack Obama is black. He is black and that is political. Part of the reason that this is happening - that this is historic- is because he is black and it scares me MORE that we aren't owning that.
We have to own that he is a black man and be honest that it is part of the reason we are nervous that he isn't going get the votes in those states from those voters.

I am still hung up about the fact the left has done itself more harm than good, choking up our ability to use language and acknowledge differences. If you don't talk about the elephant in your living room we will never figure out how to get it out of the house and its going to shit everywhere and eat your sofa. Then you will have lots of shit everywhere and no sofa.

Obama knows he is black. He gave that awesome, awesome speech.

Bring on that change everyone has been taking off their clothes for. I'm in bed with the black man. I hear once you go black... well, you've heard it before.

Pathetically still secretly hoping for a dream ticket,

Melissa

COPS AND KIDS!

2008-06-04T11:13:00.001-07:00

Cops and Kids Tonight and Friday see below!!!

It is gonna be crazy!!!

Love
MS

riot act!

The Police-Teen Theater Project Spring 2008 Performance

Young people from Brooklyn combine forces with officers from three NYPD
precincts to create a night of hilarious, moving, and totally unpredictable theater.
Rehearsed scenes, monologues, and classic improv all come together in
RIOT ACT! – the first full-length performance of the Police-Teen Theater Project.

Wednesday, June 4 at 7:00 pm
PS/MS 27 – The Agnes Humphrey School for Leadership
27 Huntington Street (2 blocks west of Hamilton Ave)
Red Hook, Brooklyn

Friday, June 6 at 7:00 pm
BRIC Studio
647 Fulton Street (at Rockwell Place)
Downtown Brooklyn

Admission is free!

For reservations call 718-395-3218
or visit http://riotact.eventbrite.com

The Police-Teen Theater Project, sponsored by Falconworks Artists Group and
the Red Hook Community Justice Center, is an innovative program where young
people from Brooklyn and police officers who serve their neighborhoods take classes
together in improvisational theater.

riot act! artwork by Linden Elstran

Major financial support for the Police-Teen Theater Project has been provided
by the Independence Community Foundation.

This program is supported, in part, by public funds from the New York City
Department of Cultural Affairs.

Thank you for your interest in Falconworks Artists Group. If you no longer wish to receive emails from us, please reply to this email with "unsubscribe" in the subject line.

Falconworks Artists Group is a not-for-profit 501(c)(3) organization whose mission is to empower communities and individuals through theater that addresses personal and local issues. Founded in 1997 and incorporated in 2004, Falconworks achieves its mission through workshops in playwriting and performance that offer individuals the skills and resources to tell their own stories; through partnerships with community-based organizations to develop theater that educates audiences and participants about pressing local issues; and through mentoring by theater professionals and collaborations in theater that help participants develop valuable life and work skills.

Falconworks Artists Group
PO Box 310283
Brooklyn, NY 11231
718.395.3218

but full of significance

2008-05-24T09:22:00.001-07:00

Last night, I was at a full moon festival (one solid week late) and read aloud from Chapter 7 of the Wind in the Willows with a 9- year-old girl who was there with her mother. That was my favorite part of the evening. (Except for the women who came in dressed like drag queens at the end. Yes, they weren't drag queens. Yes, they were women... yes, they were something else altogether...)

Children with Witches. Witches with Trannies. And A wind came sweeping through the back yard of the magickal shop and everyone knew there were many visitors there that evening.

We did unspeakable things to carnations and apples. The little girl offered a Cherry to Diana and Pan and thanked the people who haven't come into her life yet. She was far, far shorter than I was.

In other news, earlier that day, in my quest for health and wisdom, my therapist instructed me to beat a chair with a pillow. We were working with anger. I had to keep my knees bent. Like in horse stance. Either right before that or right after that my therapist went into a Trance and then, either before or after that, I touched her Breasts.

After the Moonrite I snaked from the Village to Little Italy. I met St. Anthony there.

I asked him, "So, new? Play me a miracle." He asked me if I had bothered to look at the sky or feel my feet on the ground yet that evening.

And then as I was turning to go, as an after thought, he said, "Funny, you know Bob Dylan, asked me the same thing once."

Then again there was a wind.

I told him I'd see him again soon.

Reserved, shy, but full of significance, it hid whatever it might hold behind a veil, keeping it till the hour should come, and, with the hour, those who were called and chosen. - W. i. t. W.

The Counting of the Omer

2008-05-23T08:06:00.000-07:00

At a little after 10:15 Thursday Night I parked my car at a Fire Hydrant and ran.

In my long history of rash and automatic moves I have NEVER moved so fast. Whatever the hell it was that was happening, I sure as hell was not going to miss it, not in my neighborhood, not on my Earthen watch, and certainly not for the want of a legal parking space.

Some times a wrong turn is not just a wrong turn.

I had no idea what I was seeing. There was a parade-sized crowd of them standing in a circle- Black Hat to Black Hat to Black Hat- It seemed as if the entire population of Hasidism were there. From my vantage point, out of the window of my car, I couldn't make out what they were all looking at, there were Hundreds of them, with their black coats and broad shoulders and backs to me.

I had taken a wrong turn in South Williamsburg on my way to the BQE west and then next thing I knew I was running toward a crowd of Jews, toward a part of town I had never been to, and as I got closer and I could see more, toward a very large Fire.

What appeared to me to be A Bonfire.

My first thought was "it's a celebration." Then I saw the Fire Trucks and wondered if it was a holiday or, instead, a house fire and if I was simply- childishly- gawking at an Orthodox Misfortune.

Then the smartest part of me said that no apartment fire would put that many people on the street. She's my favorite part of me. I kept running toward the crowd.

I arrived to a revelry made up of men, women, children and firemen.
The Hasidic population of Williamsburg were throwing down and apparently, I had caught it all in the Nick of Time as the New York City Fire Department was hard at work with their Anti- Semitic Fire Hoses.

I slowed my jog and walked toward the crowd (no alarms and no surprises.) I got a little closer so as to see the source of the flames. In the pyre, wood pieces. Chunks and bits and morsels.

I was close to a gaggle of men Religiously Obligated not to touch me and I felt my body being very careful not to get too close. It was as if It wanted them to know It knew the rules.

My Body: Don't worry anybody. I got you. No handshaking. No footsies. Just don't ask me to leave.

I had pulled my hood up over my head somewhere between the Car and the Fire; I was peering out from under it. That was something, I heard myself saying as I laid it over my brow, now why did you do that?

To cover my hair? To blend? To be incognito? Respect? Spydom? I wasn't sure. I guess it was mainly because I didn't have a wig so I had to improvise.

I stood for a couple of seconds, smiling wanly at the men who turned around, who were surprised to see one of Me there; when suddenly, as if we both somehow had been pulled to the same spot, there was another Me there, a girl just walking home to the apartment she undoubtedly rents from one of the guys now standing in the Paganistic Circle at the corner of Flushing ave.

I joked to her, "This happen a lot 'round your parts?"

"I have no idea what's going on, I'm just walking home."

She turns to one of the men with the pe'ot, "What is this?"

And this guy, this Jew trying to enjoy his party, he hesitates and from out of nowhere I realized... I knew! I knew what was going on! Well, partly knew anyway. Enough for the next part to happen.

He mumbled and spelled the name of the Holiday, Lag B'Omer, and told her to Google it and then took a Noble Silence.

She pressed, "yeah, but-"

And then, as easily as not finding the BQE, I began to answer her question (to my surprise as much as to all of the Hasidic men around me.) I roughly described something about the end of Passover and the 49 days leading up to the next holiday, which I was sorry to admit I had forgotten the name of.

"Well there you go," broke in the Hasid, "she's answering it, better than I could." He looked at me a little inquisitively.

Smart ass that I am, I just shrugged my sweatshirted shoulders and said, "Member of the Tribe."

Somewhere in there,The girl, the other Me, the Me who did not cover her head- either disinterested or bemused by my cluttered and clangy explanation- walked away. As proud as I was that I knew SOMETHING, I still didn't know a thing about this fire.

"You should see it in Israel. It burns for days."

He was Israeli. I could tell.

"Did the Fire department know it was happening?"

"Of course," (They all say of course when something is Blatantly Obvious) "We do it every year!"

Of course.

I knew I had to go home and Google all this myself. I had the general, but none of the specifics.

The blare of a siren and an incoming Fire Engine cut into our conversation and my friendly South-sider was gone. As the crowd aggressively began to disperse, I was less careful with my body. I looked at the Children and the Mothers. I wanted to ask them questions, but could tell by the body language of the throng that they were moving inside, and in my experience the women keep a tight lip anyway or simply remind me that I am a descendant of Sarah's and to be a good Jew. Thanks, Ladies.

The Fire almost out, dull -glowing in the wind, was my cue and reminder that I had been granted ten minutes of luck. It was time for me to take what I saw and go back to my abandoned jalopy before the good municipal servants of the Outer Borough of Brooklyn , bored of the pyromanical tendencies of the Jews, towed my car.

But before I turned around to leave,
The Fire said,
Keep talking to that Rabbi, child.

OPERA NIGHT!

2008-05-20T08:54:00.000-07:00

This past Sunday at the Good Old Burp Castle we had Opera Night. We played Turnadot by Puccini from beginning to end and with the deft skills of Tom the Hart (I have decided that would be his Mobster name) we were even able to follow along in a Libretto, no less.

THIS WEEK:
Rigoletto by Verdi

We will laugh, we will cry, and we will drink Italian wine.

See you then at 7pm if I don't see you sooner!

MS

the old switch-a-roo

2008-05-16T13:39:00.000-07:00

Gay marriage in, Salmon fishing out.

California. Way to call 'em.

Anon.

On Reiki and the Rabbi's Pants

2008-05-14T05:34:00.000-07:00

I am wearing the Rebbe's pants. They are blue. They are sweatpants. I am wearing Kabbalistic sweatpants.

No such thing you say?! Come closer child and tell that to my Dockers brand, elastic waisted treasures.

The Rabbi gave me his pants. It all happened very quickly.

I was sitting in the Den. I had arrived late (again) and the Rabbi had been waiting.

Note: I do not in anyway shape or form condone this behavior. In fact, I would say, in a perfect world, never keep a 96- year- old Rabbi waiting. I'm sure there could be a clever refute to my claim, but I will leave it be for now.

Es Geht.

I had arrived in a pair of jeans, per usual, except in my haste to get out the door, I grabbed a pair of ripped ones and being me, didn't think too much about it.

While we are on the topic, it is probably notable to bring up that I have a strange relationship with pants. I know a few people who have strong opinions on the state of affairs with my pants.

(Sigh.)

I know. I know.

And now the Rabbi has an opinion too. And one less pair of pants.

Like I said, we were in his den, talking about Wanting What you Want, an Old Tailor That Had Never Existed in Some Village that Had Never Existed, and Things in Life That Do and Do Not Fit You; when he suddenly got up, said stay right here, and hobbled out of the room.

When he returned he said, "speaking of things that fit, put these on, right now. "

I laughed.

He was serious.

"I don't know if you know this or not, but the ones you are wearing are ripped. "

I smiled and told him I knew.

He held the athletic wear out to me, "I'm not sure where these pants came from, something my ex-wife probably bought me, but see if they are your fit."

He tossed them at me and told me to go in the other room and put them on. See if they are a fit, he says, leaning on his cane.

I slipped into his kitchen, pulled down my drawers, and came to find that a few seconds later I was wearing a pair of ridiculous, penguin reminiscent sweat pants and that I had never felt so hip or happy.

He loved them.

I am going shopping today. If you see me this afternoon you will undoubtedly see new clothes or at least new pants that were not previously owned by a 96- year- old -man.

Can it be true that I hate shopping so much that it would take the chagrin of an old Tzadik to get me to H and M?

And in other unrelated- to- pants news, I am now a level one Reiki Practitioner. I am still not one hundred percent sure what that means for me, but it sounds powerful and significant doesn't it?

All kidding aside, it is a fascinating healing art and I have to practice, so if your chakras are anywhere near me in the near future hit me up for a tune up!

PS Do you have any idea how much I love having a cell phone entry that just says-"The Rabbi"?
Do you have any idea how much I love these pants?

Ducking Under Bumble Bees

2008-05-08T09:15:00.000-07:00

In the tradition of the Lone Gunmen from the X Files, those scientists that help Clarice Starling, and the Three Wise Men that appear under the stars with gifts for the Baby Jesus, come my own brilliant trio to help me understand strange moths and just who that Tennis player/mother was who came out of retirement.

Hint. It wasn't Joan of Arc. She was never anybody's mutter.

So, thank you guys for inspiring me back onto this old girl. This Old Girl called 'Shawdenfreude', which my pal, confidant, and medical experiment, Tom Hart told me seems outdated for who I am these days.

People have been crazy and times have been strange these days. Don't you know.

Like, I think it is worth mentioning, that in my free time I have been hanging out with a 96- year- old Kabbalistic Rabbi because, I am, apparently, searching for something that looks like a spiral and a big bright light. I opened for him last Sunday at a lecture. He told me I was a little Rabbi anyway, and that I would be just fine.

This Rabbi loves being alive. This Rabbi is going through a divorce. This Rabbi lost his first family in the Holocaust.

You know what this Rabbi does every morning?

He gets up and screams, "I -am -alive!"

Now, you skeptics, (me skeptics) might say sure, at 96, I'm sure that you're as relieved as hell that you are alive.

But this guy, this guy...well, he sees Bumble Bees, that I'm afraid of, ducking under on his back porch and tells me, chuckling, that see, even he wants to be an angel for me.

This guy, and others, is why New York is where they put me for now.

And also, if you never hang out at the bar where I work, I am sad to say you are sadly missing out.

So, here is to the Three Wise Men/Trivia Men/Lone Gunmen; Tom Hart, the genius cartoonist who came in yesterday wearing an electric doo rag because his doctors made him; and Dr. Joeseph Gelberman, My Rabbi, who is 96 years young and knows where to tell the sadness to stick it. Right in the Chokmah.

As for me...

You're right guys. I don't have to work that hard.

Thanks for finding my blog.

Gemini in Mars, Yesterday

2008-03-04T11:19:00.000-08:00

Wanna know why I study astrology?

Because I watched three people fall down yesterday and I knew there had to be a reason.

I was walking around New York City and people just kept falling. Old Man in Union Square, Woman Stuck in "the Gap" on the Subway, Little Girl with Nanny on the Upper East Side.

They all ate it.

I walked into my astrology class and I said, "Why are people falling down?"

And my teacher said "Mars in Gemini, watch it with the knives today."

This, by the way, is going to be a rough week for us all emotionally. The energy is rocky.

Hold on to the Dingy. Go to yoga, meditate, and listen to everyone before you react.

NObama!

2008-02-27T12:37:00.000-08:00

How come there isn't a facebook group called "Obama is a smug bitch?"

Because this crazed, blind, creepy, Obamafied fervor makes it politically incorrect to say anything about him.

It is actually unenlightened to speak out about this man of change, who is using all the dirty tactics of any politician mind you, but completely and totally fine to bash Hillary Clinton all you want.

Do it up, yo, she's the fat kid in class and he's the quarter back.
Screw her for not knowing enough to not have a vagina. What a Cunt.

The media has made me go from mildly liking him to really hoping he loses.

Hard.

Not uniting anyone here.

I would like to remind everyone that the 'Nysnc craze also didn't last that long or mean that much either.

I hope he gets his shit together for the sake of all the 19- year- olds who threw their panties in the voting booths.

Hope? Maybe. Class? Definitely not.

how to become your New Therapist's New Favorite Client by Melissa Shaw

2008-02-19T05:52:00.000-08:00

So, I have started therapy again.

"Why" you ask?

Sure.

So, New Therapist and I are are in that beginning get- to- know- you phase of our relationship.

That place where I am quickly recapping all the "boring stuff" and she is telling me that "nothing can shock her."

Since having heard those words, I have seen her pick up her pen, cock her head to the side, and practically call her girlfriends three times.

I have had to ask her to Google 4 different things as a point of reference. (One of which I hope has no pictures.)

But, for the record, in order to make sure you are the client she goes home to tell her friends and family about bring up: your fascination with the occult, affairs with married men, being "kidnapped" by your mother, kinky sex, and your grandmother's nighttime screaming phone calls about death all in one sentence.

Do not flinch when she suggests you should be coming in more than once a week. That is merely her fear of having bit off more than she can chew.

You.

And now she really wants to spend some time.

HRC

2008-02-09T09:18:00.000-08:00

You know why I voted for Hillary Rodham Clinton?

Because I have money on her.

I got $50 bucks out on the fact that HRC is going to be the next president of the United States.

This bet was made with a guy I don't talk to so much anymore.
I originally told him I would bet him $1,000. I am so sure: $1, 000!

"Melissa, you don't have $1,000 dollars."

"You're right. Thanks for dinner."

But, I was so sure, that I felt like "why do I need the money back it?" Aren't I clearly the presummed winner of said Martini induced bet?

I think if everyone did this it would make elections so much more interesting.

Like the Super Bowl.

Because you didn't ask...

2008-01-06T08:17:00.001-08:00

A pretty obscure and self indulgent "Best of List" for 2007 that probably only I will understand and/or care about (and the few of you who are referenced) unless you think my life is really interesting.

Best Year to be Over Since 2005 : 2007. Yay! Bring on the year of the Rat.

Best Person to go to a Bob Dylan/Elvis Costello Concert with (Mainly Because of Their Impeccable Commentary and Impersonations) : Ryan Evans

Best New Thing I Learned About : The Turducken

Best Freelance Job : Police Teen Theater Project- Yes, I taught comedic improvisation to the NYPD.

Best Job I Lost : Gridskipper

Best Place I Went to in a Plane : Israel

Best Place to Survive a Dust Storm -Naked- While Drinking Jack Daniels : Burning Man

Best Quotes : "Melissa, stop acting like you are from Norway." - AB
"How do you survive?" - FS

Best Way to Make You Feel Like You are Doing Something Important Even When You are Not: Join an Interfaith Seminary

Best Fad That Makes Me Want to Throw a Brick Through a Window: The Dyed- To- Be- Pretty Urban Outfitters Fashion Keffiyeh

New Favorite American City: San Francisco (with Austin, TX as close second)

Best Thing to Happen to Me All Year: Max Kelly

Send me your phone number

2007-12-16T20:57:00.000-08:00

I have been thinking and I think I have figured it out. What we all need- you , me, the world:

You need to send me your phone number.

If you send me your phone number, I, Melissa Dawn Shaw, bartender, would- be- minister, friend, and pseudo-intellectual will tell you something new everyday, in a text message.

That is correct! For the time it takes for you to email me your phone number ONCE you will learn something new about... something everyday!

All moments, phrases, jokes, ideas, facts, and inspirations will be personalized and sent to you, yes, you and you alone. Ask your friends why don't you! They will gladly tell you that you, dear devoted reader, were the only person to learn, today, that alternate side of the street parking is called datumparkering in Sweden.

Perhaps today you will learn about tea, or Macgyver, or astrology.

The future is ours.

This project is very simple and will cost you nothing (unless your phone server charges you and even then I'll bet it's less than the pennies our families never sent to Sally Struthers.)

Now, some of you might be thinking, well, Melissa has my phone number, great, I don't need to do anything, I will be flooded with a silly string of information for eternity.

Do not be fooled...

If you would like to receive a thought, an astrological fact, a witty statement, or a moment of inspiration everyday send your number (even if you are one of best friends) to:

Shawmel80@gmail.com

In the email you may also tell me one thing you have NO interest in learning about what so ever.

Sample email:

Dear Melissa,

My phone number is ###-###-####
I have no interest in you ever telling me anything about Victorian Literature.

Love,
Schmoo

Presto!

I will never say a word about Jane Austin and your number is safe with me.

International folks, I will send you all of your charms via email.

Take a couple seconds, think about it, and then email me.
Sign up by sending me your number.

You only have learning the the fat content of Yogurt to win and nothing to lose.

MS

My Jewish Vagina

2007-12-13T10:54:00.000-08:00

By what I can only imagine was sheer accident I was born out of a Jewish Vagina.
Apparently, as soon as the crown of my head hit the vulva something was decided for me -for life.

That's it kid. You're one of us. Sorry, there's not much you can do.

Oh, and now, you have a Jewish Vagina. Peace.

The guy I'm seeing also came out of a Jewish Vagina, which makes him slightly more desirable to the Vagina from which I came. Jewish Vaginas like people who also come out of Jewish Vaginas.

Why?
Because now everyone has something to talk about and the ice has been broken.

"Jewish Vagina? Yeah? me too! 'nother drink?"

This is missing from Eve Ensler's work on the Vagina Monologues.

My Vagina is Chosen...

But, anyway, I'm learning, as I get older, and live in New York longer, that this Jewish Vagina of mine entitles me to some crazy things as well as puts me at some disadvantages.

It doesn't know Hebrew which is bad, but it is supposed to have a greater chance of landing a doctor for a husband. It gets a country to call its own, you know, just 'cause, but it has a strange persecution complex after years of systematically being exterminated. No hard feelings though.

I just wanted to take a minute and tell all the Jewish Vaginas out there that I see you and I know what other people can't see.

Like clits. A lot of people don't see them.

To be continued...

Turducken

2007-12-04T07:07:00.000-08:00

My life has not been the same since I learned about this.

This process is also known as a farce.

Happy holidays everyone, let's shove some animals inside each other and think about the reason for the season.

Thanksgiving arts and crafts

2007-11-13T09:01:00.000-08:00

So, I didn't post about Halloween.

But wouldn't it be funny to make one of these out of a Penis?

Hello Again

2007-10-29T11:00:00.000-07:00

So, someone whose opinion I admire, informed me that I have been lazy and not updated my blog for some time.

I respect this person's opinion even if he thinks calling someone "Pumpkin" is violent.

So, I am holding myself responsible for a Halloween report.

See you on the flip side.

Defend Brooklyn!

2007-10-10T08:56:00.000-07:00

Hey everyone check this out!!!
This is important.

Develop-don't destroy. BROOKLYN

Media Contact: Nancy Kelly, (646) 796-8624, media.dddb.walkathon@gmail.com or Reva Cooper, (718) 965-0486; revacooper@earthlink.net

WHAT: Develop Don’t Destroy Brooklyn Walkathon Fundraiser-- A Better Brooklyn, One

Step at a Time

WHEN: Sunday, October 14, 2007, 12:00 p.m.-5:00 p.m. (rain or shine)

Registration: 12:00 p.m.-1:00 p.m.

Walk: 1:00 p.m.-2:30 p.m.

Post-Walkathon Celebration: 2:30 p.m.-5:00 p.m.

WHERE: Prospect Heights Brooklyn

Registration and Kick-off: Freddy’s Backroom, 485 Dean Street @ 6th Ave., Brooklyn, NY.

Post-Walkathon Celebration: Soda Bar, 629 Vanderbilt Ave. @ Prospect Ave., Brooklyn, NY.

Route: the walk will follow Flatbush Avenue to Grand Army Plaza, circle the Plaza and proceed down Vanderbilt Avenue. Total distance, approximately 1.5 miles.

Information and Registration: www.dddb.net or email walkathon@dddb.net.

BACKGROUND: Develop Don’t Destroy Brooklyn (DDDB) to hold Walkathon Fundraiser—a Better Brooklyn, One Step at a Time. Individuals, teams and families are invited to step out on October 14 to participate in a Walkathon to raise funds and awareness for the ongoing fight against the outsized and unpopular Forest City Ratner Atlantic Yards project.

Develop Don’t Destroy Brooklyn, a non-profit corporation with 501-C3 status, is an umbrella organization for a coalition of citizen, community and faith-based groups that oppose the current plan for the development of Atlantic Yards. Last year’s Walkathon fundraiser involved over 300 participants and raised over $100,000.

The Walkathon, open to all, will start at the edge of the project’s footprint, on the corner of Dean Street and 6th Avenue. Registration, children’s activities and a word from the event’s Grand Marshal, TBA, will take place between 12:00-1:00 p.m. From there, participants will walk the neighborhood of Park Slope/Prospect Heights on a route that will take them past some of the great monuments and civic buildings of Brooklyn. After approximately 1.5 miles, the walk will end at neighborhood hangout Soda Bar, a kid-friendly bar and restaurant, for an after-party hosted by Roger Paz, aka DJ Motormouth, and featuring a live performance from Brooklyn singer-songwriter John Pinamonti.

Individuals or teams can register to participate and raise money for the event at www.dddb.net. Donations take place online through a secure and fully-automated system, or can be made in person on the day of the event. All donations are fully tax-deductible.

Develop Don’t Destroy Brooklyn supports true progress for Brooklyn, and believes that the citizens of Brooklyn deserve development that will unite our community instead of dividing and destroying it.

MONOCLE

2007-10-02T10:18:00.001-07:00

Hey Everyone!

This month's Monocle is this Friday October 5th at New Voices Bookstore in the East Village...

Come see the Mono-tastic stylings of some of the most talented up and coming actors, comedians, improvisers and storytellers riff on this month's theme:

(Insert sound effects here)

Mmmhhhwwwwwwaaaaaahhhhhhhhhahhaah!!
Shriek!
Boo!

HALLOWEEN

There will be tricks!
There will be treats!
There will be candy!

Come watch us perform some stories and then stick around while we improvise monologues and performance pieces out of thin air, for you, right on the spot!

This event is free!

New Voices Bookstore is located at 424 9th street between 1st Ave
and Avenue A.

They did the Mash...

This is the world we live in now...

2007-09-30T10:07:00.000-07:00

Do you really need a 250 dollar ticket?

When you can have it virtually?

not bad, for your first nervous breakdown.

2007-09-28T08:36:00.000-07:00

He had a Turkey on his head and he was singing No, Woman, No Cry.
He had a Turkey on his head and through his clear plastic frames I could see that he was quite serious. He was rocking back and forth as if he were singing to himself. I would have thought so, if it were not for the open guitar case with pennies and dollars sitting in front of him. He was making some money.

He was drinking Vodka out of an Italian Wishbone salad dressing bottle.

He had a sticker that said Trust Snape, on his Guitar- undoubtedly a Harry Potter reference.

I pegged him for an NYU sophomore, who had just realized how ridiculous things are.

That, ladies and gentleman, is how you have a nervous breakdown.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The follow up is the hardest.

The Bird

2007-09-27T07:42:00.000-07:00

I am bringing back the finger.

Where on Earth did the finger go?

New Yorkers need the finger. In fact, I can only assume that the finger was created here. Who else would come up with such a meticulous method of communicating frustration and disgruntilation?

The eighties was big time finger time. As was the nineties.
I remember.
My mom gave everyone the finger, but, I think now, sadly, she might the only person using it.

Have we moved on to something greater.? Something with more truth?
No.
No, we haven't. In fact, I say we're lame.
We have not benefited from the decline of the finger.

I say, let us not let the finger die. Give someone the finger today.

It is times like this when we need to preserve what we hold most dear.

A

2007-09-20T22:12:00.001-07:00

AAAAA(screaming)AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH(screaming)HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
AAA(screaming)AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH(still screaming)HHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wanna hear what I just heard?

Walking to the subway:

"Well, my friend had an abortion last summer, and I really saw, that it's not all it's cracked up to be...

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A funny story about Kevin Klein

2007-09-19T07:51:00.000-07:00

My sister and I were walking up to the theater where I performing on Friday Night.

We were both carrying a heap of stuff: blankets, bags, a box, and a television.

All of a sudden, Kevin Kline was there too.

Just as I normally do when I see a famous person on the street in New York City, I simply said, "hi!"

It looked like Kevin Klein was about to become one in a long line of "said hi's to", aline which includes F. Murrary Abraham, Susan Sarandon, and Al Gore.

But, instead, unsatisfied by my cursory "hi," he looks at my sister and I and all our stuff and says:

"Well, don't you two look homeless."

It was here that I started explaining to him that I was about to do my Solo Show in a theater upstairs and that he should come.

He explained that he had to go home and memorize lines for Cyrano de Bergerac.

I told him I understood.

But I tried to tempt him...you know, Austin Pendleton directed a show that is in this festival.

He made a little bit of a face...still not sure if the face had anything to do with the festival or Austin Pendleton. Suppose the world will never know.

Then he says, "well, wait, what is the name of your show?"

To which I reply, "On how to dress your children the day you are going to pretend that they have polio."

The he says:

"Oh...you've done that before..."

To which I blink, "Yes!! I have!!"

"Well," he says, "break a leg..."

KK, just incase you read SHAWDENFREUDE from time to time, you know, just in case, I want you to know I had a wonderful show and I'm going to come see Cyrano. Hey, haven't you done that one before?

talkin' 'bout my generation

2007-09-14T07:23:00.000-07:00

Oh How to Dress Your Children the Day You are Going to Pretend That They Have Polio is tonight.

There is going to be a great deal of winging it.

Don't think for a second I know what I am doing. That is for professionals.

Those of you who I will see tonight, see you soon!
Those who have sent their love from afar, I love you too.

I love all you guys.

(Redundant) Love,
The soon-to-be Preacher

Burning Man, part one

2007-09-11T08:34:00.000-07:00

Where can you go to have your breasts painted, see/become/participate in art, sleep on a trampoline, drink free booze for five days straight, and meet a Superman from Switzerland who can break into your car?

Well, Burning Man, of course.

Ladies and Gentlemen, if you have not been, we are going together next year.

Burning Man, as I have been explaining since I have returned, is a combination between a carnival, an amusement park, a gallery, a magic spell, Christmas, Hanukkah, the Rocky Horror Picture Show, camping, and an American attempt at Utopia.

Things go up in flames at Burning Man.
Things are magic petals at Burning Man.
Things are hot and dusty at Burning Man.

I fell in love on the Playa - with the Playa.
The fact that I was taken away on Sunday in a Ford Explorer bound for Los Angeles was cramped and sad compared to the love fest that Burning Man was, that the desert was.

I am very tan. I am covered in burns and cuts.
Burning Man is an intense adventure where one could be playing pool one minute and being bathed by an almost-stranger the next.

I took a magic love potion, ran away from a 17 year old who tried to kiss me, had a guy guess where I live by my zip code, saw a double rainbow, drank absinthe, survived two major dust storms, and Journeyed with a Shaman who was also giving out Sno-Cones.

Pictures soon.

I slept 17 hours yesterday.

God Bless,
Melissa

What to do if you are kidnapped by Terrorists

2007-07-31T05:47:00.000-07:00

This was actually on MSN this morning, cortesy of Slate.

Are these how-to articles, in this, our modern age, in this, our twenty-first century, going to begin substituting articles in places like Cosmo? Will this be on page 128 instead of that euphamistic article about how to give a better blow job, or how to be Anorexic without even really trying?

The way it was placed this morning, in the same spot I have clicked on articles like Beat Your Temper Before it Beats You and Blueberries: a Superfood, made me feel like it was a joke. If I am not mistaken this could be a headline in the Onion.

I think it comes just short of telling you not to lose your head.

Well, at least I know what the fuck to do now, don't I? Whew.

RIP Violetta

2007-07-03T07:06:00.000-07:00

I was walking along the Hudson at just about Midnight. It was one of these cool evenings we've been having. I was lucky and brought a sweat shirt. I go there, sometimes, when I am on the West Side, to work things out. Sometimes, I yell into the water and blow kisses at the moon.

I was near Christopher Street and all the couples that hang out there. There is a huge gay community that hangs out near the water. It's gay guys and the occasional runner, at that hour, on the Hudson.

I was going nowhere in particular, when I passed a woman who looked not unlike an aging Sissy Spacek with two pig tales and freckles. This, however, was not Sissy Spacek and she was busy balancing a box on top of a shopping cart. A Medium-sized Manhattan Mini-Storage box, to be exact.

She was tying twine around the box. Once, Twice, Three times, the twine went around.I was approaching from the north and, for a moment, didn't think too much about it- then I realized how weird it was. As I got closer, I noticed that the box was covered in hand written words. I strained my eyes to read the black sharpie scrawled over the printed blue advertisement for Manhattan Mini-Storage.

RIP beloved Violetta.

A little speaker when off in my head:
Attention. Attention. Please proceed to the nearest bench to watch the rest of this unfold.

I knew what was coming.

The Sissy Spacek woman finished tying the box shut, centered it, heavy with dead animal, which I could only assume, by its size, to be a cat, on her shopping cart and began moving to a spot with a clearer shot of the water.

I watched, amazed, with one eye, fifty feet away, so as not to disrespect her or scare her away.

She checked over her shoulder a couple of times making sure she was in relative privacy.

And then, picking up the box, gauging a fair distance between she and the railing, she swung the cardboard sarcophagi:

One.

Two.

Three.

Burial at Sea.

There was a splash and she peered over the railing. She settled in, elbows resting on the piping, back curved, closed off from the sky.

I watched her for a few moments, from my distant seat, without moving. Suddenly, I felt very alone myself and full of loss. I'm not sure who sunk into me more, Violetta, dead and adrift in the cold and lonely waters of the Hudson, or the woman, aging and likely now, without companion.

I felt very blessed in that moment to be neither.

It began to feel wrong having witnessed the funeral and not having given her my best. Before I knew it, I was walking over to her.

I stood next to her. My knees resting on the railing; I peered over. Violetta was bobbing on the water. She was sinking, but remained steadfast with 60% visibility.

I turned to the lady who looked as if she was amazed by what she had just done, in shock that the cat was dead, and confused by my presence.

I looked at her and smiled lightly.

"Cat?"

"Uh-huh."

She immediately started crying.

I told her I was very sorry for her loss she told me she had had her for fifteen years. I told her losing cats is the worst feeling in the world; she continued to cry.

I hugged her and told her I would leave her be in peace.

"Thank you for stopping," she said.

I said, of course, and be well, as I walked away from her and the bobbing Medium- sized Mini Storage box, now only 40% visible in the Hudson River

R U C-ing This?

2007-06-21T02:27:00.000-07:00

This is 2007.

I mean it. Like, for real.

A Two Gallon Gas Can

2007-06-19T08:35:00.000-07:00

I was carrying a two gallon gas can up First Avenue at about one AM on Sunday. Technically Monday. A woman walked by me and said "that's weird" to the man by her side.

That came exactly three seconds after I decided to pretend I was going to go burn something down. I feel like it made what I was doing a little less embarrassing and a little more colorful.

Jilted lover wasn't powerful enough. Too sappy for that late hour in the Village. Besides, the weather was too nice.

I think that's a good one if you live in Arkansas. Jilted Lovers should do other things in New York City. Like pose naked with their Ex's Mother and post them on the Internet.

That's what the clever folks of New York are capable of pulling off. (It's why I haven't left yet.)Biting irony in their revenge.
A burnt up house is so mundane.

But that didn't change the fact that I was carrying a gas can on the Lower East Side on an extremely early Monday morning.

But, before I could decide what it was, exactly, I was going to burn down and why -a woman was onto me.

I abandoned my plot.

When I reached my car, unscrewed the gas cap, and began to glug-glug the gas into my poor abused automobile, a man pulled up on a pair of roller blades and crashed himself down on the stoop next to me.

I smiled at him.

He pulled out a screw driver, took off a skate, and started doing something by the way of tinkering.

"These skates I just bought for ten dollars are acting like I just bought them for ten dollars."

"Because you did."

"Yeah, but they're like $200 skates I just bought off a street kid."

"Right."

"It's worth it though, I don't have wheels of any kind."

"Well, be careful that they don't fall apart while you are moving."

"Well, I'm careful enough to hope I don't die."

I bid him good bye when my car started up and good luck.

Mercury Retrograde

2007-06-15T08:40:00.000-07:00

Thanks, everyone.
The Cinquain project is on it's way.

Mercury went retrograde today so everyone watch out!

(Yes, I do believe in that stuff.)
Check your watches, make sure the emails were sent, and if you don't hear back from someone try not to take it personally.

It'll be over July 5th.

Back. And Needing You.

2007-06-04T20:56:00.001-07:00

HEY EVERYONE!!!

Sorry I have been gone so long.
Long Story. There were two plays and a birthday, you see.
But listen, I need your help again.
I'm back just in time to need all of you!

I need to compile a list of your favorite Historical Figures, Concepts/Theories or just Really Good Subjects. One word nouns are OPTIMAL.

I'll explain the next part when we get there.

Please, just leave them in the comment section.

I feel like Superman after his melt down when I say it, but I promise not to go away for too long again.

MS

To the Centipede I Inadvertently Killed with Drano

2007-05-21T13:37:00.000-07:00

I am so sorry.

Fire in the Hole

2007-05-17T08:29:00.000-07:00

So, I have to share this.

During the Great Rachel Hyman Scandal of 2007, I had a gentleman visit my blog, undoubtedly from her page, who informed me that he didn't get the "Shawdenfreude" thing and gave a web address that featured the correct spelling and definition.

So, I just visited it and discovered upon it this proverb:

"Pimenta no cu dos outros é refresco.": "Pepper in somebody else's anus is freshness." (ironically used.)

It's Brazilian.

Why have I never been to Brazil?

All's Well That Falwell

2007-05-15T11:03:00.000-07:00

Look what just happened.

Please, oh, please tell me he was in there with a male prostitute. Give me another reason to believe in fairies.

MS

Bye Bye Boobie party

2007-05-14T05:29:00.000-07:00

Thursday night I attended a Bye Bye Boobie Party.

I am sure you wondering what that is.
I am so glad you asked.
My friend Kerry is having a choice Mastectomy. She has written a small pamphlet about why, the crux being that Kerry is not happy having boobs of any kind. She is going to feel more like herself without them.

I, inevitably, thought about my own breasts and how I have had a strange relationship with mine for years. I felt torn. I could both never see myself doing it and completely being able to rid myself of two objects that sit on my body, doing me very little good, that get in my way.

I have never been to a party that has celebrated such an enormous life change. I commend Kerry and her well thought out life decision.

MS

The Rubin Museum and this guy and his tulips

2007-05-12T09:11:00.000-07:00

"Things are not what they seem, nor are they otherwise."

That's a quote written on the Rubin Museum. It is not attributed.

Yesterday, as I was about to enter the Subway, a man stopped me and said excuse me, can I ask you a question. I was in a little bit of a rush, but the man seemed earnest, holding a five-dollar potted plant, in front of my favorite bodega. He asked me the best way that he might ship the plant he was holding to his mother in California. I told him that there is a whole network of people waiting on the other end to bring his mother flowers if he so chose to order and send them to her. He said, oh, that's how it typically works? And I told him yes, I believed so.

I did not, however, wish to crush his dream if he was hellbent on those wilting tulips making their way to his mother, so I told him another route would be to pack that puppy in a box, as tightly as he could, with padding or pillows or the new biodegradable packing foam, and pray for the best. He asked me if that is something I would do, use the biodegradable foam, and I said maybe not on a plant, but sure, it's much better for the environment.

I re-descended the stairs and completed my journey to Manhattan. I got to the Rubin Museum at 8:30, just in time to accidentally catch their Talkingstick program. Talkingstick, apparently takes place every second Friday of the month. Last night one of my favorite comedians, Master Lee, was there and a fabulous woman named Janice Erlbaum, and a man who simply called himself "Mr. Patrick." The major thing I learned about Mr. Patrick is that he took a vow of silence for twenty years and will not live anywhere he can not park in front of. So now he's talking and lives in Harlem. I missed the intro to the talk, but I am assuming the theme had something to do with the Dalai Lama, or meditation, or mindfulness.

I learned this story about the Dalai Lama:

The Dalai Lama was meeting with Chairman Mao and Chairman Mao asked him if Tibet had a flag and the Dalai Lama told him that they did. So Chairman Mao looked at him and said, "Good, I think that it is good that Tibet has a flag, and I think that you should keep it."

So, the Dalai Lama says, if there is ever a problem, if anyone says anything about the Tibetan flag, just tell them I saw Mao, and Mao said it was ok.

Rachel Hyman Is Famous

2007-05-09T23:12:00.000-07:00

I am serious she is.

Guys, check it out.

This business is on fark, digg, and slash.com

When I am not sitting in a Dunkin' Donuts using the Internet at 2 am (damn you, Time Warner, damn you), shivering over an iced coffee and under florescent lighting, I would love to put some questions to you about why people act like abusive creeps on the Internet and feel completely justified.

The Internet: Playground for people who never stood up for themselves in Grammar school?

Check out the DMCA debacle and some of the the most bizarre reactions I have ever seen.

Oh, and in case anyone was wondering, Rachel is extremely fuckable.

Boston Over-Easy

2007-05-02T23:03:00.000-07:00

Here is what I have to do today:

Before I get on the road to New England today, I have to crack open two large grade A eggs and put them in my car's radiator.

I have been given the specific instruction to cook these eggs in my car.

It is going to help me get where I am going, I have been told by my helpful mechanic, Butch. It is a farmer's cure for a leaky radiator. Why not? If yogurt helps a yeast infection why shouldn't two raw eggs help my car. It's a homeopathic cure.

My car is now officially an ovo-lacto vegetarian.

Isn't this the diet Charles Atlas recommended?

I think my car would rather have a martini.

This is your car.
This is your car on Brunch.

The Underground

2007-05-02T09:10:00.000-07:00

Monday night I was called in to "emergency bartend" at The Underground on the Upper West Side. I felt, for a minute, like a medical doctor.

Paging someone to get people drunk, paging someone to get people drunk.

I was quickly shown the place by the extremely disgruntled bar manager, got a mumbled thank you, and started mixing drinks. Carlos the bouncer is an awesome guy. I drank a shit load of grenadine.

Go there for some cheap drinks and some nice regulars if you're ever on the Upper West Side.

After the Long Island Iced Tea I made I might not ever be back there, but you should go!

And they have a late night menu!

How do you know you have lived in New York too long?

2007-05-02T08:32:00.000-07:00

You know you have lived in New York too long when you step over a one-legged woman on heroin who has fallen out of her wheelchair at the corner of 14th Street and Second Avenue. You have lived in New York too long if you don't even think about helping because you don't have time to care and that you really can't care anyway, because what are you going to do? You have certainly been here too long if you think, she's fine.

I think in most other places, still, a person collapsed on the street = get help.

Maybe not LA. Maybe not San Francisco.

You have also lived in New York too long if you own a vehicle with a sign in the window that tells all who may be even remotely interested that there is "No Radio - Anymore."

Death and Company, Hope and Anchor

2007-04-28T07:53:00.000-07:00

Friday night, after the performance of Off the Hook, all the directors of the shows and actors who had just played abused teens, drug dealing fathers, and gang members went out for a little drink.

Hope and Anchor is a fabulous little diner on the corner of Van Brunt and Wolcott in Red Hook. It's a brunch joint, it has a full bar, burgers, and I learned is a karaoke hot spot run by drag queens on Friday nights. One of the drag queens, incidentally, when not wearing a tight black skirt and heels, is one of my lead actors.

Karaoke is an entire phenomenon built around the need to sing along.
Try not singing along to My Girl in a crowded room full of people. Some things cannot be explained.

I think the highlight of the evening was our five-foot-one white waitress getting up and singing Baby's Got Back, really, really seriously, but with no rhythm.

After I had heard as many New York centric songs as I think were available, and members of my group finished their rounds of such crooning love songs as Mack the Knife, I headed out to Manhattan to meet up with some Fashionables.

At Death and Company, I imbibed in a Brava Fresca and a plate of chocolate and strawberries with the lovely and talented Jenny Yuen. If you haven't made it there yet I highly recommend it. It's a pretty sexy place, if not obviously overpriced, but worth it as a treat.

The bar's whole gimmick is to bring back the golden age of the cocktail.
Cute and fun.

Death and Company is a also a poem by Sylvia Plath, just as a side note. I think the two are unrelated.

Earth-like planet

2007-04-27T09:08:00.001-07:00

Scientists Find Most Earth-like Planet Yet.
This broke news the other day and I'll tell you it makes me nervous.
I think it has a lot less to do with being excited about the potential of finding new life and has everything to do with "where can we build a spaceship and go to after we have finished destroying this place."

So, when we find a planet like that, I'm thinking all the rich people are gonna keep on keeping on, and think in the back of their minds we'll always have planet 7x5600. I'll tell you it's the same kind of thinking that people who have dual citizenship have. If it ever gets really bad I can always move to Brazil.

Well, listen here you people thinking we can colonize other planets-

Stop it. If it ever gets that bad we are supposed to die off.

And if we are trying to find known life on other planets for the purposes of more outsourcing or even borrowing a cup of sugar, that isn't ok with me either. No one wants to have a BBQ with us, I'm sure. We're the lousy neighbors who have the cops called on them and trash the lawn. We have cat poop in the back yard and take the Neighborhood Watch way too seriously. Like with-a-shotgun seriously.

The Earth is gonna turn out to be the trailer park of the Universe.

Manifest Destiny does not apply outside the Milky Way.
Stop trying to sell EVERYONE an Ipod.

Flying Spaghetti and Other Internastical Musings

2007-04-24T13:22:00.000-07:00

I am apparently three to four years, depending upon the subject and the web site, behind the times. I swear I am. It doesn't matter how much crappy Avant-Garde art I see, or artists I know; I am behind. I am ESPECIALLY behind when it has to do with Internet phenoms.

I bring this up for a variety of reasons. To begin with, I just learned about The Flying Spaghetti Monster. Apparently, everyone from 21 to 37 knows about this. Everyone, that is, except two or three of my friends who are equally behind.

Tragically unhip. It's a tragedy, really.

I wonder why this is. Why do some people know exactly where to look on the Internet
and others have only just joined gmail? Is it about age, culture, or education? Is it something completely intangible? Is it just that there are Internet it people?

Now, with my Luddite tendencies being exposed, and all that being said, I would like to bring this to everyone's attention.

This is Mike Daisy and what happened to him last week. Mike Daisy, in my opinion is a genius. As a solo performer, I am picky and snobby about who I like and who makes me laugh. Mike Daisy is a Spalding Gray for the 21st Century. We love Mike Daisy.

Now, if we watch the video we see something come over Mike's face just before an enraged audience member spills water all over his set list. From on stage Mike watched 87 people from a church related group walk out of his show at the ART in Cambridge. The "fucking Paris Hilton" bit put them over the edge, it seems.

Is Mike Daisy an F.T. Marinetti type, or are religious people really out of their minds? Well, either way, I thank those people for bringing more attention to Mike. He deserves it.

And in other news, a professor from Catholic Emmanuel College was fired for talking about the Massacre at Virginia Tech this week. He, at some point afterward, said something about freedom of speech, but I don't think any one was listening.
He's on You Tube, too.

All of this is coming in the wake of The Pope eliminating Limbo.
That's right folks, your dead unbaptised babies are now safe home in Jesus' bosom. More interesting than the dead babies, I think, are all the "good people" who died before the birth of Christ. I think the Pope should check in with the Jews and see how this effects the Jewish settlements in Limbo. Does there have to be a complete pull out, I wonder? Well, I guess this beats a symbolic right of return.
But, still, I wonder who will take care of King David's olive trees?

This Weekend

2007-04-23T21:44:00.000-07:00

Hello New York area people.
If you are free this weekend it would be great to have you in the audience.
Brooklyn Borough president, Marty Markowitz is gonna be there on Friday. And I hear rumor that De La Vega might be there too. Apparently, it's the place to be this weekend.

Off the Hook: Original Plays by Red Hook Kids

Six young playwrights, with the support of professional writers, actors, and directors, take center stage
in their own plays for an evening of funny, moving, raw, wonderfully original theater.

Friday, April 27 at 7:00 pm
Saturday, April 28 at 3:00 pm and 7:00 pm
PS 15 - The Patrick Daly School
71 Sullivan Street (between Van Brunt and Richards)
Red Hook, Brooklyn

Admission is free
Reservations: 718-395-3218 or visit http://offthehook.eventbrite.com

The Playwrights: Atiya Avery, Naturel Cordova, Dominique Daniels, Eddy Fortune, Unique Pearson & Glenn Smith

The Company: Pete Ascolese, Arthur Aulisi, Erica Cardwell, Barnett Cohen, Megan Cramer,
Joey Davis, Jill BC DuBoff, Clayton Dowty, Reg Flowers, Anikke Fox, St. John Frizell, Genevieve
de Gaillande, Andrew Grosso, Chris Hammett, Eve Hartmann, Josh Higgason, Ashleigh Beth Hile,
Andrew Irons, Jessica Krakow, Eliza Langley-Wilbur, DJ McDonald, Jacob Morales,
Joy Newhouse, Abby Royle, Eric Saiet, Tricia Seifert, Melissa Shaw, Edie Stone, & more

Sponsored by DYCD in partnership with Good Shepherd Services' Red Hook Community Center at PS 15.

This event is made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts.
In Kings County the Decentralization Program is administered by the Brooklyn Arts Council, Inc. (BAC).

Additional financial support provided by Independence Community Foundation and by American Stevedoring, Inc.

Did you just hear a bird call?

2007-04-21T06:02:00.000-07:00

Things I Saw Yesterday:

One The Deepak Chopra meditation room
Two a startling ayurvedic doctor in a blue sari who told me my necklace was beautiful.
Three one cross eyed guy, with a lisp, who leaned into me in the 49th street subway station and whispered "Thank God it's Friday."
Four one man carrying three stalks of sugar cane. On the W.
Five Kinkos.
Six man, dressed as a bird, making misleading bird tweets and caws on the N train; his feathers were purple and green, the last round he played right to me.
Seven the inside of the 41st street Starbucks at the corner of Broadway.
Eight an old woman who harassed a kid for the way he was sitting and then tried to take my other chair, in order to build her fort.
Eight and a Half another woman, slightly less bonkers, who was angry that I would not let her sit in on my meeting.
Nine a meeting with a playwright from Columbia.
Ten the temperature dropping from the 70s.
Eleven"Little Michael Jackson." The best Michael Jackson impersonator is two feet tall. And draws a CROWD at Times Square
Twelve In Darfur at the Public Theater. Go see it. It is the greatest thing I have seen in a very long time. It is a work in progress and the finished product is going to be breathtaking. I learned a lot.

Gypsy Robe

2007-04-19T18:11:00.000-07:00

These are not the future of New York fashion, although, I think my grandmother once bought me something like the one on the bottom for Christmas one year; these are Gypsy Robes.

I had chalk in my pocket and I was distracted. I was breezing through the Performing Arts Library thinking about getting my hands on this particular book that synchronicity keeps pushing in my face. I won't say it now. I'll let you know if it changes my life.

I was listening to the music they were piping into the gallery exhibition in the library. Songs from A Chorus Line. Ethel Merman. I was being transported back to Junior High Drama Club. I was thinking I needed to get out SOON. As I ambled along, I came upon something encased in glass and padlocked to the ground. It was made out of everything but the kitchen sink, had the tail of a sea creature, the blue hood of a fairyland princess, and a boat. Yes, a boat.

I circled the glass case until I found the tag explaining just what in Abraham's name (Remember Abraham?)I was looking at.

The Gypsy Robe is one more example of how the theater is unlike any profession in the world. The Gypsy Robe was put into existence by Bill Bailey fifty years ago. A friend of his was in the chorus of Call Me Madam and nervous about his opening night so, Bill Bailey, as a good luck charm, gave him a pink robe the he had been given on his opening night of Gentleman Prefer Blondes. A Broadway tradition was born.

Now, it is given on opening night to the chorus member with the most stage credits. That performer is then obligated to attach a memento from their show, to the robe, before passing it along to the next "Gypsy" or Chorus member.

When the Gypsy Robe is full it is retired and is housed in Lincoln Center or in the Smithsonian. The one I was seeing was the 7th generation Gypsy Robe, started in 1979.

I sat with that robe for the better part of the time I was in the library. I got outside and it was still too wet to use my chalk. Too bad, too. After seeing the Gypsy Robe I felt like everything could use some color and luck.

Is That From Moby Dick, Do You Think?

2007-04-18T22:48:00.000-07:00

I am embarrassed. I am embarrassed and disgusted that a man like Chris Matthews is a journalist. No, I am embarrassed that people allow him to think.
Tonight, he asked Steve Capus, the President of NBC, if Ishmael, the name that Virgina Tech gunman Cho Seung-Hui adopted, was a reference to Moby Dick.

OK.
Maybe.
Sure. You could argue that, I suppose.
The kid was an English Major and Moby Dick is indisputably an important work of American fiction. Yeah, all the shit that happened on Monday could have to do with a whale and a boat.

...

OR IT COULD BE OUT OF THE FUCKING BIBLE!!!

Dip wad.
ISHMAEL, which means "God will hear" is only the FIRST SON of Abraham. That's all. You heard of Abraham? Abraham, you know that little guy who almost sacrificed his son, Isaac, the father of the Israelites. You know, Abraham, that little guy that three MAJOR WORLD RELIGIONS hinge their beliefs on. Or whatever.

And Ishmael, his son, cast out by Sarah. You know, maybe one of the most famous outcasts. Ishmael, the one who many deem to be the blood line of Islam.
You heard of Islam, Matthews?
No? Well, it's just this religion that we've been a little prejudiced toward for the past few years. Just the second LARGEST religion in the world.
But, you know, whatever.

"Is that from Moby Dick, do you think?"

Oh shit, yes, of course, Melville. I'm glad you cracked it. Man, I would have gone on thinking it had something to do with the Bible.

Google it, for Christ's sake.

Note: If I turn out to be incorrect and we find out that this had to do with Melville's narrator, and had nothing to do with alienation of biblical proportions, I will PERSONALLY call Hardball and issue a formal apology.
And buy Matthews a copy of Moby Dick.
In hard cover.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti, why I first fell in love with unreality

2007-04-17T13:53:00.000-07:00

Constantly risking absurdity
and death
whenever he performs
above the heads
of his audience
the poet like an acrobat
climbs on rime
to a high wire of his own making
and balancing on eyebeams
above a sea of faces
paces his way
to the other side of the day
performing entrachats
and sleight-of-foot tricks
and other high theatrics
and all without mistaking
any thing
for what it may not be
For he's the super realist
who must perforce perceive
taut truth
before the taking of each stance or step
in his supposed advance
toward that still higher perch
where Beauty stands and waits
with gravity
to start her death-defying leap
And he
a little charleychaplin man
who may or may not catch
her fair eternal form
spreadeagled in the empty air
of existence

- L. Ferlinghetti

"I'm sorry for the interruption, but this is a revolution."

Lawrence Ferlinghetti informed the theater that Ferdinand Marcos had said that, but it sounded beautiful coming out of that old bard's mouth.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti knocked his clunky brown oxfords against the podium as he spoke at the 92 street Y on Monday night. He read from A Coney Island of the Mind and some of his unpublished and newer works.

"I love reading these old chestnuts," he declared, turning the page, after finishing one of the poems from A Coney Island of the Mind.

Another time, he was humbly self critical.

"Rather pathetic imagery there about breasts," he said after reading poem #20 in which a woman's breasts were "breathless in the little room."

He ended with a poem about a dog in the White House.

After the poetry reading, I waited to have him sign Unfair Arguments With Existence, a book of his plays. I never do it, but I wasn't sure when I would ever see Lawrence Ferlinghetti again.

He looked at the title page and looked at me.

"Well, this is an old one," he said. "This has been out of print for years!"

I was honestly not expecting conversation and, taken aback, I think I said something about an oldie but a goody.

"I designed this image," he said.

"It's beautiful," I said, looking at the title page with him.

He told me that he had taken the image from a poster he found in Cuba. He said the flower in the gentleman's hand had been a gun and he replaced it with a flower.

I asked him if the poster had had anything to do with Fidel. He said he was almost a hundred percent sure that it had been Cuba.

I told him he was one of my biggest influences.
He smiled and nodded at me.

After I left, I realized I should have asked him what he thought about what was happening to Coney Island, and how he felt about his plays, and how he would rival Rilke with advice. Now, I have to see him again.

Walking out of the auditorium, the rain had paused, so my companion and I decided to walk a little further on to the subway. Avoiding puddles, with sleight-of- foot tricks, we reflected on the homage they had payed to Kurt Vonnegut at the top of the program.

They played a piece of an old interview. His voice, deep and clear and full of mirth, announced with no reservation his opinion on the role of art:

"The goal of art, is to make us like life better than we do right now."

I thank both of them.

"O Oysters, come and walk with us!" The Walrus did beseech.

2007-04-15T21:46:00.000-07:00

Now on view at the Mount Vernon Hotel Museum and Garden is an exhibit focusing on how oysters were served in the 1800s. Yes, it is an Oyster Dinner Installation.

I was there, originally, to hear a woman give a lecture on food inspired by operas from around the world. From this lecture I learned some very interesting things of note. One being, for example, that this is called a fiasco.

I also learned the sordid details about the Champagne Aria.
But, what I mostly did was get acquainted with the old house, of which, I have decided to become a member. Located on 61st street and York, Queensboro Bridge looming, this place houses the only Oyster Dinner exhibit worth seeing in town. I mean, it's how the table would have looked and everything, folks.

The Mount Vernon Hotel Museum and Garden was a day hotel and very few people actually ever stayed over. It used to be called the Abigail Smith Adams House, but they changed it, much to the chagrin of Rosalee, a woman who conducts the children's tours.

"I mean it doesn't matter whether it was the wife or the sister, at least the name was recognizable."

Well. There you go.

After hanging out with the Gray Hairs of the Upper East Side, I made my way down to the place that loves me best, and hit up a music venue called The Stone. The Stone is operated by the composer John Zorn, and since Tonic closed this week I decided to check out the future of Avant-Garde music.

Now, I hope the entire future of Avant-Garde music isn't a woman screeching songs in Yiddish. I mean, if it's part of the future, that's ok. I guess anything is better than a synth.

After Ghetto Tango stopped singing about Mashiach , I was on to Flux Factory, a must not miss in Queens, for the closing of Grizzly Proof. Although I have been there before, many times in fact, I have never gone dressed as a bear. Please visit their website to see why there was so much encouragement to arrive as a grizzly. My costume, sad, as only a furry brown coat, paled in the face of the bear-creating-genius of the kids of Flux. As always, the art was as good as the company.

Everything In Moderation, Including Moderation -Mark Twain

2007-04-13T23:42:00.000-07:00

The best reply to unseemly behavior is patience and moderation.
Moliere

So...

Couple things ;)

First and foremost, I just want to let everyone know that I temporarily put all the comment business into moderation, you know, for safe keeping. I have, however, taken it off, it is not the way I wish to roll. I appreciate that people have fun here. I want to keep it that way.

I am sure things will be just fine.

I also have to say that my intention was never to have any kind of immature hijinks in this joint. Check your weapons at the door, gentlemen, or stand outside. House Rules.

I would also like to say that unless you are out of your mind, I will always post your comments. And even if you are out of your mind, and you're acting like a mensch, I will post your comments.

Let's not give this anymore attention. And forgive.

Ok. So, New?
Genug.

What I really want to tell you about is Francine, Rosalee, the Oyster Exhibit at the Mount Vernon Hotel and Museum, and why a Champagne Aria is called as such. I would like to talk about why I love Rachel Hyman and Fels, Flux Factory and its Grizzly party, being dressed like a bear, and how much I wished Nick Normal was there.

And I will right, after rehearsal and work tomorrow, I swear.
Keep those suggestions coming!
Thank you for all your love and support.

Gainfully devoted to you,
Melissa

Kurt Vonnegut

2007-04-12T12:25:00.000-07:00

And, although we could never say anything that could rival your legacy, please allow me to just say Rest in Peace, Mr. Vonnegut.

Thank you for waking us up all these years.

Staten Island-Stange Things-Quan's Third Eye

2007-04-12T11:27:00.000-07:00

I got on the third car of the L Train and made my way toward Staten Island. The L train is kind of like that dangerous friend from Junior High School. The one who’s friendly before first period, but doesn’t show up at lunch. I can love her while I have her. That’s it.

I arrived to swap trains at Union Square and dropped down the stairs to the NRWQ connection. The sounds of a Busker wafted through the air; someone near me banging on a bucket. For some reason I decided to walk toward the sound, even though I usually avoid the subway musicians; I feel guilty if I don’t have loose money to put in the hat.

A sign propped up in front of him told me that I was listening to the musical stylings of Quan and his Third Eye.

He had on a Bindi at the bridge of his nose and a University of North Carolina hat.

He was banging on a Benjamin Moore paint can.

I asked him what the answer was in three words, he said love and truth and some people might say peace.

I got on an R train headed south.

I arrived downtown, Lower Manhattan, the financial district. That place reminds me of 9/11 and a boy I used to know.Up an escalator and into a place that felt more like a Hospital waiting room than public transportation.

There was a triumvirate of pigeons flapping through the Staten Island Ferry station. Two little boys were chasing them, corralling them, pinning them in the nooks and crannies of the terminal, releasing and starting again.

As we were about to board the boat, we assembled in waiting- for- doors- to-open formation. Grouped tight at the loading dock, there were apparently people who had to get to their regular seat.

I walked on with a crowd of tourists from Minnesota. They all went to the starboard side of the boat to see the Statue of Liberty. I figured I really had nothing better to do. Twenty five minutes of sight seeing might do a body good.

Staring out across the water at Ellis Island, I thought about the fact that people came here some years ago with hope, and had their names changed. America was a place people heard a rumor about and got on a boat for. This guy behind me had a totally different thought.

“Ok, so, let’s get our troops out now, ok? Let’s face it we didn’t go there to give the Iraqi people Liberty, we went there to take their oil. So, let’s get out now, ok?”

A protester.

He clapped a little. A couple of people agreed. A Latino mother of two, near me, tried to start a chant of agreement.
Then, one of the people from Minnesota spoke up.

“If you like them so much why don’t you move there?” said a man wearing a hat with ALASKA written on it.

“I didn’t like Saddam Hussein if that’s what you mean,” said the protester, who I noticed was wearing a button that read, War Is Terrorism.

“Well, go sell it some place else. We’ll get the troupes out when we’re done doing the job.”

“And what’s the job?”

“Getting their oil.” If I am not mistaken, ALASKA Hat’s eyes glittered at his own wit.

“Well, at least you’re honest.”

The mother of two reminded us that we were all Americans and to relax.

Slowly, the protester came to a halt with his pleas and disappeared. The man in the ALASKA hat went back to staring at the Statue of Liberty, perhaps thinking that he had won something.

We disembarked the Ferry and I decided to remain in Staten Island for a while. I got an idea that I needed a pocket dictionary and I went into the stationary store/pharmacy of the main drag in St. George. The merchant had dictionaries of the Spanish/English variety, but not what I was looking for. Nothing, all in English, which I could put in my pocket.

I asked the man behind the counter if he had any water I could purchase. He said he didn’t, as he spoke my eyes darted behind his counter to the very, very, very many pictures of Marilyn Manson that were cut out and pasted behind him.

“Who’s into Marilyn Manson?” I asked, putting my unused wallet away.

“He’s my God.”

“Really,” I asked/commented to the Italian Metal Head who couldn't sell me water or a dictionary, “What is it about him?”

“He doesn’t give a shit about what anybody thinks about him. He does his thing and if you don’t like it you don’t have to be around him.”

I walked out feeling like I had learned something about that man and his Stationary Store.

After consuming a sandwich of Mozzarella and Eggplant in a restaurant that was trying very hard to feel like Sicily, I stumbled upon The Staten Island Museum.

And, by the way, if you are looking for embalmed flying southern squirrels, stuffed ducks, florescent minerals, Security guards who really, really like their job, gems of any variety, morels, lesbian teenagers making out in awkward places, Agate from Brazil, Aquatic history, butterflies, dinosaurs, or beetles I know just the place.

I would like to focus in on one particular highlight of the museum that held me past the 3:30 ferry home.

The Strange Things Exhibition

From left to right in a curio-cabinet on the wall, here is what it offered the viewer:

1) Weathered wood

2) Tree Burl

3) Section of pear tree bored by larvae of Leopard Moth

4) Concretion shaped like a potato

5) Cow horn (from young cow actually killed by turkey buzzards when she was calving. I shot over 20 of them.) -Charles Roome Parmele. Author’s note: I’m assuming this man is the donor.

6) Growths on the white cedar

7) Ironstone concretion in the shape of a horn

8) Pine knot

9) Tusk from wild boar (which I shot in Louisiana swamps but not until he had killed my dog.) - Charles Roome Parmele Author’s note: Me again, Apparently, Mr. Parmele. has cornered the market on strange things in Staten Island.

10) Rabbit droppings (in a matchbook)

11) Section of rind from a four pound lemon

12) Shellac facts (This is too hard to explain.)

13) Four-legged chicken

14) Hair ball from the stomach of a Texas Steer

It is my belief that this is all on permanent collection at the museum so please make a trip anytime. Note: I learned that the 2 dollar entrance fee for the museum is waved on Tuesdays, for a lunch time special, from 12-2. All of this (including the ferry ride) can be yours for free.

On the way home I made the 3:50 Ferry by the skin of my teeth. There were these beetles at the end that wouldn't let me go.

The third beetle from the left was a Stag beetle from Ecuador.

Thank you to Franny and Sarah. Franny, it was a "3" day.

I would love more suggestions from you, the reading audience. Please feel free to keep them coming.

MS

An Experiment

2007-04-10T09:19:00.000-07:00

"Chaos is the score upon which reality is written."
This Henry Miller quote just popped up on my gmail banner.
Sounds like he knows the way I make my art and my relationships.

I had a conversation with a very dear friend of mine about this last night, and we discussed the difference between chaos and adventure.
The difference?
Go ask someone's therapist, I certainly don't know.

BUT HERE IS WHAT I DO KNOW!!

Lovers, Haters, and Friendly Tolerators of Shawdenfreude,

I NEED YOUR HELP.

Here is the interactive part of our Shawdenfreude show. I have decided to conduct an experiment and I need my dear readers to become active participants.

For the next week, I am going to ask for parts of an assignment from you funny and intelligent people and all you have to do it post your suggestions in the comments section.

The deal:

I am going to go places in New York I have never been before. galleries, bars, cafes, etc. and I am going to create written pieces based out of my experiences there.
I will then post them the next day on Shawdenfreude.

Here's what I need from you:

From you fine folks, I need suggestions of where to go, creative limitations, things to focus on, or things to include in that day's post.

For example, you might suggest that I:

Can't speak to anyone.
Ride the Subway.
Include 5 quotes I hear that day in the text.
Wear a flower in my hair.
Use a portion of the book I am reading in whatever I write.
Go to a church.
Mention Sweden 4 times.

Think of yourselves as putting a thumbprint in the clay. Somewhat like a Choose Your Own Adventure Story, I would like your outside input in helping me create the next day's written piece. The piece will then take the form of a short play, a poem, a fiction piece, or a rant depending what the set up is.

But in order for it to work, I need everyone to be involved and post ideas everyday for the following day. So please post as many as you like. (And Have fun. Just try to pick things that won't get me arrested, unless they are brilliant!)

Please feel free to forward this on to your friends who might be interested in being involved in the experiment.

Love,
Melissa

April

2007-04-08T11:53:00.000-07:00

In case you haven't noticed, it has snowed, in some part, for four days straight.
Someone I know said it serves us right.

Absolutely

2007-04-05T06:39:00.000-07:00

Keith Richards totally snorted his father.
Keith Richards absolutely positively one hundred percent took his father's ashes and put them in his nose.

On the sign in front of the Burp Castle, from now on, I'm going to write, "beers strong enough to make you want to snort your Dad."

We make you want to snort your parents.

Speaking of the Burp Castle(again), what would you do if a non-English speaking patron from Colombia tried to explain to you what it was like to work in the liposuction business in New Jersey?

Listen with rapt attention.

That guy did an amazing impression of a vacuum cleaner.

He said he was from Yemen

2007-04-02T12:20:00.000-07:00

Another reason to love New York.

There was a man in a fedora who was watching me write in the Subway station.

Between the time it took to get from Union Square to Bedford Avenue I heard a story from a man who was born in Yemen and almost eaten by a lion, while taking a piss, before he moved to Israel, where he served in the army and was almost killed by an Egyptian Soldier when he was thrown off his Motorcycle. He tipped his hat and showed me the scar on his head. He then relayed the tale of being shoved out of a car by the German Mafia for whom he was working as a driver. He asked me to write his autobiography. He got off at Bedford before I could hear about his time in America. He and what he called his 12 lives.

Happy Passover.

The Burp

2007-04-02T08:09:00.000-07:00

Sarah had some mango in a plastic dish that was the color of dead shoulder blades. We were talking to a gentleman from the Czech Republic. We realized that I am pretty ok at helping people figure out what they really want to say in English. The guy from the Czech Republic had some issues with W's and V's. I tried to explain. Good luck getting him to say Newark.

Before he came in, there was a moment I shared with a Deaf Man who wasn't sure what to do with his boat, now that his father had died, he had to think about moving back to Manhattan. He decided, at the end, that he might just buy another boat. Keep one near Long Island. Maybe. He didn't know that he had been yelling the whole time.
My grandfather was the same way.

This is sometimes the Burp Castle. It is also sometimes people from Houston wrestling and it is sometimes people crying. It is sometimes dead and it is sometimes full of french fries and cheese.

Will you, won't you? Will you, won't you? Won't you join our dance?

Edward Scissorhands

2007-03-31T08:05:00.000-07:00

Last night, I saw Edward Scissorhands, the silent dance-theater piece by Matthew Bourne. Oh Yes, they made the fabulous movie into a fabulous play.It was beautiful, clunky in some moments and occasionally indulgent, but over all, I felt that the idea was not wasted. If you saw this movie as a kid you would love it.The dance of the avant-garde lawn sculptures is worth it alone. Lots and lots of geometrically shaped, jete-ing pachysandra. More of it in the world, I say.

I was glad not to feel, walking out of BAM, that it was better left undone. Although, I'm sure some critics have, honestly, I haven't looked. Everything will get someone speaking out against it.

But, it is true, that so often things are made from plays or books into films and shouldn't be. It is especially offensive when perfectly good stories are turned into Ice Capades. Not everything is better on skates, Disney

The next thing I'm planning to see is Point Break LIVE! In, fact, I can't believe I haven't made it there yet. It's only running in New York and it's an adaptation of your and my favorite Keanu Reeves/Patrick Swayze surfing/bank robbing flick. And they pull someone different from the audience to play Keanu EVERY NIGHT! I hope they pick me.

If you can make it tonight to the closing of Edward Scissorhands I recommend it.

My only wish was for Johnny Depp to be there, but that doesn't really diverge from the norm.

This Old Man

2007-03-29T21:02:00.000-07:00

Gordon comes into the Burp Castle and we talk about NPR.
We talk about NPR and he says witty Octogenarian type things. I don't bet on him having a lot of teeth. His bottom lip meets his nose.

Gordon wears a tackle vest looking thing. Very Henry Blake from MASH 4077.
Gordon used to be a social worker, now he lives alone near Webster Hall.

I have recently discovered that my beloved old coot is a tricky one.

After he asked me why I wasn't off getting my PHD yet, he ordered a Stella and put a ten dollar bill on the counter. If you have ever seen me around regulars at the Burp Castle, you might have noticed that I am not quick to pick up money. I figure, nobody's going anywhere. Especially if they're planning on coming back. Especially if they look over 82.

Well, Gordon and I left that ten spot unattended to, the bill that would have covered his one drink, if I indeed decided to charge him. (Gordon, in my opinion, has earned his free beer at this point.)

Gordon left to use the bathroom in the middle of a conversation he and I were having about Barack Obama. He thinks Obama is too young and is pulling for Edwards. He silently nodded through my opinions about Hillary.

When Gordon returned and we picked-up our conversation, I noticed his ten dollar bill had whittled its way down to a five.

There was now a five on the bar under Gordon's Stella.
Abe Lincoln peering skyward through a passable pilsner.
Since I wasn't planning on charging my last, only, and oldest customer of the night, I didn't much care. I, instead watched, with bewildered amusement, as a few more minutes passed and a few more dishes were done, a few more tables were cleaned, and the five was gone- replaced by two singles and an empty pint glass.

A kind tip for a beer on the house, only I wasn't deciding to give Gordon a free drink. Gordon was.

Gordon has moments when he reminds me of my grandmother. My smart and charming grandmother who would talk you out of your last dime if you gave her ten minutes- and your last dime.

I cannot wait until I can plead Alzheimer's.

2007-03-23T09:40:00.000-07:00

I don't have all that much to say about it, but this is me, in the Negev, on a camel.

Between Two WORDS

2007-03-23T06:27:00.000-07:00

As fate would have it, last night, I saw a chassidic love story, called Between Two Worlds. It was based on a play entitled The Dybbuk written in 1914. A woman I know played the lead and she and her lover gave wonderful performances. At one point she played a Dybbuk in a wedding dress. More female roles like that, I say.

And Israel is haunting me. I have met more Israelis, in New York, in the past week, than I think I did while I was in Israel. I have met a bunch of strangers who did the free Birthright trip; The woman who does my eyebrows almost moved there; The girl I picked up my new eyeglasses from told me she got a better tan when she was there.
Not to mention the plays I'm invited to see. Apparently half of New York has been to Israel.

Israel- The Jewish Bahamas?

When I was in Jerusalem, I saw a play completely in Hebrew. It was a translation of Life is a Dream by Calderon de la Barca. I read this play about 10 years ago, and needless to say, had very little idea what was going on. But it happened. In two hours, I watched people captured, released,love, cry, consumed with envy, and forgive- all without understanding a word.

I do have to say, although I felt helpless from beginning to end, I understood something very new (or very old) about our relationship with language. During the play, I saw all those things(fear, love, hate) but I came one small huge step away from feeling them. In the dark of a language that was not my own, I saw how deeply we are triggered by the word. In our own languages the codes we have get inside us. Body language does only half the work. The word sears us. I forgot that, I think. I was reminded during a the King's, stationary, 12 minute Hebrew monologue. Where everyone one was laughing except the three fake Jews in the front row.

The chassidic love story on the other hand, I got every word. When a frum Jew says "you've come to steal my heart," in English, to a secular female, you just get that.

Oh, the places Jew will go.

Let's pretend I never said that.

Now, was that bird an Arab?

2007-03-20T20:52:00.000-07:00

So, I've been a slacker and I'm sorry if you've been checking in.
Coming back to New York has taken a little more out of me than I thought.
The clock and time and who the hell was George Bush to redesign Day Light Savings, anyway?. That didn't help. I see 2 am a lot. I see 6 am. I feel like it shouldn't take this long, but a few people have told me it is one day for every hour difference. I'll buy that, it sure feels that way.

They loved me in Newark airport, the Jews. I was asked a litany of questions before I even left New York (New Jersey, for you sticklers). They weren't crazy about my last name. They weren't too keen on me not having any Hebrew.

"What is your Hebrew name?"

See. I knew I had one. That I knew, but since I had never been Bat Mitzvahed and all, I didn't pay too much attention to it. I knew my sister's for some reason -vaguely, but I decided not to lie.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember."

The security agent took my passport and said she would be right back. It was clear that I was not Jew enough for El Al. My grandmother always teased me for looking too much like a shiksa.

When she returned:

"I have reason to believe that someone may have given you a bomb or another item and placed it in your bag."

I had to report at Noon.

After a bag check, a shoe swab, and escort to the plane I was permitted to enter the State of Israel. Some of my compatriots did not fare as well as I did. There were strip searches, lost cameras, and one guy was so upset after he got to Israel, he turned around and went home.

The group of us that were asked to step aside, were wondering just what it was that flagged us. Did we look different? Were our answers insufficient? What made us look like a terrorist would give us a bomb?

I realized after a little bit that every one of the Israelis who just put me through the ringer, had probably been in the IDF. El Al knows how to keep the skies safe for the Chosen People.

You know what is beautiful, like mountain, Mediterranean beautiful? Not being able to read advertisements or sales pitches because they are in Hebrew. That, my friends, is worth a ten hour transatlantic flight. There are no English cognates in Hebrew, nope, that's right, I couldn't even get close.

"Hey, Rachel? What do you think that says?"

"Box, box, squiggle, ccchhhaaa."

"You think that means they have falafel?"

I am wearing a red string around my ankle. It is supposed to ward off evil. I put it on just before I stepped down to the the Kotel, just before I washed my hands and approached the wall, near the ramp that might start another war. I was supposed to make a wish and tie it. I forgot. So the red string represents a red string, until it falls off. Then, it will simply be gone.

Did I tell you I watched a bird be murdered? Yeah. By a fisherman near the Andromeda Rocks in the old port city of Yafo, which is part of Tel Aviv. He cast his line behind him and asked our unmanagable group of Americans to please move back. I still say it only happened because he was focusing on us. Distracted, he cast, and somewhere, above the ocean, his hook met with a the breast of a passing bird and struck him dead. The bird took a nosedive and sunk into the ocean. A single feather fluttered, spiraled, and followed its body down to the sea.

The entire group I was with fell completely silent for the first, and only time in our ten days together.

I screamed, "he killed a bird!" Just in case no one had noticed the bird, now a death brick, fall into the western most waters of the Mediterranean Sea.

If that bird's religious affiliation had been known, THAT may have been a political act on the part of the fisherman. We didn't ask, and he kept fishing. The bird's carcass looked like it was helping the angler's endeavor. Our tour guide moved us along.

Israel: It's complicated

2007-03-15T09:15:00.000-07:00

You'll never believe what Israel has as a national problem.
No. Not the Palestinians.
Nope. Not Iran.
If you say Global Warming, you're ice, ice cold.

Cats.
Stray, stray cats.
They are considered the squirrel of Israel.
The Zionists are overrun by feral cats.
In Tel Aviv.
In Jerusalem.
In the Negev Desert.
They tried to kill the cats one year and got a rat problem. They swiftly went back to the cats.

I'm back in America and I am getting used to not seeing things in Hebrew. English is the third national language in Israel. Arabic is second,it sweeps across road signs and shawarma stands and looks like dancing.

In Israel, in the Arab neighborhoods, it is not uncommon to see houses built with only a completed first floor. The second and sometimes, third floors are left for a later date. The houses are designed deliberately as such so that when it is time for the family's son to wed, there is a place to build a home. Arab men are not permitted to wed without their own dwelling first being secured. Sometimes, in the desert, these bottom heavy domiciles look like ghosts.

In Israel, there is pain in the hills. Like one of the dead Zionists said, the future of Israel, is in its desert.

Hebrew is a mostly made-up language.
From the Torah, they did the best they could. They, of course, had to figure out how to say things like ice cream and computer as time went on. Video game. The Internet was never mentioned in the Song of Songs.
New Jew, new Hebrew, is the sentiment.

Sometimes Israel, the way it is built, the secrets that it has, feels like a Disneyland for Semites. Some Semites more than others.

In the Dead sea. You do not swim. You cannot swim. You float, only.
Any attempt to swim and the water will try to kill you. If you go under the surface the water will keep you, and sting you. It is too heavy to come up through. The water of the dead sea is toxic and healing all at the same time. If the water gets in your eyes you cannot open them from the pain. The Dead Sea tastes like putting your tongue on a battery and it takes several minutes for the pain to subside.

You can not stand or you will cut your feet on the salt deposits and spines of unidentified rocks. Lie on your back and the Dead Sea keeps you up all on its own. I have never felt anything like it. Its surface feels like mineral oil and its waters cradle you. If you pull your breasts out, they will float like Buoys.

They have signs cautioning for camels like we do for deer and you can feel the people feel God in the land. At the Kotel, and at the Dome of the Rock you can feel the two religions, both so strong in their beliefs, turning their backs on each other. It is cold in its separation and more stifling than frightening to see the amount of guns on peoples' backs. In both religions, the women cover their hair.

On Sunday, I stood where the The First and Second Temples used to be and where Muhammad, made wings, and went up to heaven.

I saw where Jesus Christ was crucified at Golgotha.
On the slab, where Christ's body was laid out, people took off rings and laid them down so as to have them blessed. People blessed oils, and candles, and incense. People kissed everything in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre that they could.
It's funny, but of all of the religions trisecting Jerusalem, Christianity feels out of place. At the fourth Station of the cross, where Jesus met with Mary, there is a sock and brassiere shop. The Jews and the Muslims seem to have the strongest lock on the Old City. The Christians aren't putting up much of a fight.

You feel the air change in East Jerusalem where the Muslim population is not "Israeli-Arab," where they are not citizens of the State of Israel, but instead Palestinian.

In case you were wondering, yes, there is a Palestine.

You can see it on the hill from the The Temple Mount. Because Palestine is both it and and beyond it.

In case you were wondering, Israel is complicated. After two weeks, I see the murk of the region only more. I see it like Dead Sea mud.

I see an Israel that should exist, because it is as much in the history of the Jews as anyone's. Who the hell hasn't taken that land? The Arabs got it from someone else, too. That land has been lost and reclaimed like a Title.

They offered the Jews Uganda when this all started. Before '48.
Some people thought they should go there.
Brooklyn has the second highest Jewish population in the world.

Third Temple in Williamsburg?

I have more to say after I sleep.
Thank you for welcoming me back.

Zion

2007-03-10T03:22:00.000-08:00

So, the Dead Sea stings and cuts your feet. The future is in the desert, they say here in Israel.
Greetings from Zion.
I am staying on longer and will have time to write when not in the group.
Alive and Tan and in Jerusalem,
Melissa

Bukowski Tonight. Israel Tomorrow.

2007-02-27T18:32:00.000-08:00

Israel Tomorrow.
My hope is to write as frequently as I can.

I was walking around New York today finishing things up. Grabbed the repaired trench coat. Stowed the car. Went to the bookstore.

I took a lot of looks at New York tonight. Remembered why I love it.
I love her dirty and sad and full of too much stuff.
I love that she's loud and pushy and smart.
I love her because...apparently she reminds me of me, wait a minute!!

I was at East Village Books tonight, I was in the last minute throws of is-there- something-I-need, and I made my way up to the counter with a couple of last minute finds.

For the very first time, I noticed the 5 tiered bookcase behind the store keeper.
It was covered in Bukowski. From top to bottom.
I asked him what for there was so much Bukowski.
He laughed and said it's like that at Barnes and Noble too.

"The junkies steal it to sell on the street."

"Just Bukowski?"

"Well, Keroac, too."

I looked and saw some of him in the corner on the bottom.

So, junkies have very specific tastes, and the verdict is in. Bukowski is the junky street vendor's author of choice.

See you in Israel.

Sure, But How About My Robot?

2007-02-26T11:30:00.000-08:00

I'm about to fly internationally and I have just learned that I may not bring a sno- globe of any kind on the plane with me. I may, however, carry on Toy Transformer Robots. Those have the all clear.

I feel really, really safe.

And glad that no one is being unreasonable about robots anymore.

behind the times

2007-02-22T12:18:00.000-08:00

You know, one more thing. I was just reading an interview with Christina Ricci in Time Out New York. She lost a crazy amount of weight for this movie she's in with Samuel L. Jackson. Another movie with Snake in the title. You think he just liked the name of this one,too?

Anyway, hardly my point.

She said something that really stuck with me.

"I've never really enjoyed how my ass looked from behind, in panties. I don't think many women do, so to me it was like waking up after drinking for three months."

Christina Ricci. Don't say that. Let's not reinforce negative body images in each other. You don't like it, you need to step up on the Self Love. You need to stop reading magazines, remember you're Christina Ricci and that every 20-something-plus man and plenty of women would love to sleep with you.

And. I'm NOT Christina Ricci and I love how my ass looks from behind. Especially, in panties. So there.
Come on, guys. Its 2007, Year of the Pig. Stop throwing up. You have a great ass.
There are just a lot of bad panties out there.

Also, not your fault.

Gung Hei Fat Choi!

2007-02-22T10:21:00.000-08:00

Hello, Year of the Pig, hello!

Year of the Pig, I am expecting kind, well-intended things from you. I'm really hoping that your swiney presence is going to bump the Whitebread 2007 up some notches. It's been a funny one, alright.

So many holidays happened all at once this past week, as well. We had a New Moon, Valentine's Day, Chinese New Year, Sun into Pieces, Presidents day, Fat Tuesday, and Ash Wednesday. You know what that means? Lots and lots of suspended alternate side of the street parking.

I was with an old flame of mine, the other night, and we kidded that Bloomberg will probably suspend it until election day to make up for what he did after the snowfall.

Jackass.

Oh yeah, I have an idea, let me piss off New York, the only people in the entire country who might entertain the notion of voting for me, and then make a bid for President. Yeah, I forgot about all those other Rich Jewish mayors from New York who easily became President of the Untied States.

I have one word. Schmuck. That's ok. I know some schmucks.

I'm not telling my grandmother that I'm going to Israel and my mother just informed me that if I die she and my sister are running away, in separate directions, I'm sure. A two state solution if I ever heard of one. I see my mom starting over in Utah. She will become the wife of some Mormon man she can hate. Susu will undoubtedly go to Mexico, get into a medical school there.

My stepfather and my grandmother will never know what happened. They will be left to their own devices.

Why is there still so much dirty snow? Oh, right. Thanks. Metaphor.

I was born in 1980. I'm a Metal Monkey. It is supposed to be a fortunate sign to be born under. But, this isn't necessarily supposed to be my year. Lots of travel in the Year of the Pig, but a real mixed bag. Next year is supposed to be great, though. 2008. Year of the Rat.
I'm good with that. I know some Rats, too.

Well, here is to prosperity. Here is to the end of the dirty snow. Here is to travel, peace, love, and friendships.

Gung Hei Fat Choi!!!

My Mother, Mr. Rainbow

2007-02-17T06:18:00.000-08:00

A few days after Valentines Day, I told my my mother I was going to Israel in less than two weeks. She said, let me get a pill and sit down.

You ever have one of those weeks?
One. Of. Those. Weeks.
It went better than expected, though. She didn't scream at me, or cry.

She did tell me I was out of my mind, and at one moment she asked me why I was insisting on going to Hell. Why?

Needless to say my mother doesn't think my free trip to Israel is a good thing.

"I have avoided Jews for 99% of my life," she said at somepoint,"why are you doing this?"

Later that evening, when I knew she and my sister were together having coffee, I wrote a text message to my sister, who has known about my plan all along.

"Tell Mom it's gonna be ok."

Less than one minute later I received:

"Mom says, 'F U'."

Like I say, it could have been worse.

I was texting them in the car, which no one should do by the way, on my way to a potluck for which I cooked far too much Cous Cous. But, before I shared my rushed cooking with an army of Jewish theater makers, I had to make a quick stop at the Manhattan Church of Christ. I had to see a man about some songs.

Mr. Rainbow lives above the bar where I work. Mr. Rainbow is a balladeer who wears a derby and the very beginnings of Alzheimer's. He is a fashionable old man who still "has it." He remembers me when he comes to find me at work, but other than that, it's a crap shoot.

I got to his church and said hello to him before he went on. It took a while for him to remember who I was, but once he did, he got up and made an announcement that I was in the house, that I promised, and that I made it.

The first song he sang was My Funny Valentine by Rodgers and Hart.
Thanks, Mr. Rainbow, I needed that.

If you can ever catch Mr. Rainbow, I would, he plays out quite a bit.
And, if you can convince my mom I'm not gonna die in Israel, I would really appreciate it.

Dharma Bums All

2007-02-09T09:17:00.000-08:00

Anna Nicole Smith is dead and I feel sad because I feel like I grew up with her. I remember the old guy. I remember the jugs. I remember when, like my friend Donahue, she was one of the most beautiful women on earth.

No, I do not think that Anna Nicole Smith was the Marilyn Monroe of our generation. I do think she was a beautiful woman always trying to make life work for herself but, I feel like reality television and John F. Kennedy have kept she and Marilyn worlds apart. I believe there will be a cloud of confusion around her death for a while;I do not think a senator will ever be suspected. This will not be the same heartbreaking crisis. It will be a three ring circus, for sure, but this was not an American Sweetheart, not in the way that this can be tragic. There is already one very rich family out there patting their pockets and breathing a little more easily.

People are already saying it figures, how else would it end?

A sad, sad woman needs some rest.
Give it.

Meanwhile, a few hours later, last night, I saw No Great Society. A fabulous piece, created by Elevator Repair Service, in which Jack Kerouac is further obfuscated and explained. Someone in the play said, that what we got going on now, in all of our counter cultures, is in part Kerouac's fault.

Yeah, you crazy son of a bitch, you're why I love my car, seek out instability, have taken to drink, and don't feel the pressure to do laundry too often, aren't you?

What do you think Kerouac would say about the Internet and Reality Programing?

Meanwhile, in not a Hard Rock hotel, in not a New York City black box, on the other side of the planet, some people are scrapping on a Temple Mount about praying.
About prayer.

Walking out to my car, after the play, I noticed someone had left a pinata- in the shape of a Rhinoceros- on the car parked behind me. He was purple and happy faced. I almost took him, but then I remembered myself and thought; this is someone else's pinata.

2007-02-07T07:51:00.000-08:00

DO YOU HAVE ANY OF THESE SYMPTOMS:
Weight loss?
Coughing up blood?
No appetite?
Night sweats?
Fever?
Difficulty breathing?
Fatigue?

PLEASE SEE THE NURSE NOW !!!

The strangest dream I have had recently, I had last night; it was about this guy I knew a million years ago named Enzo. I knew him in High School. Enzo had somehow died in an EZ Cheeze related incident, the details of which remain lost in a haze of startled- morning- wake-up unclear. In order to understand his death, the entire graduating class of 1998 began emptying cans of EZ Cheeze onto the football fields of a high school that could have been Pacifica High School, but was not, in fact, Pacifica High School.

Through the remnants of the cheese-glop, we were searching for Enzo's killer. The best part was that Enzo was overseeing. My friend Sarah (who did not, as far as I remember, attend high school with me) spotted it first.

Embedded in the Cheeze, which came from one of the cans she was wielding, was a snail, with a broken shell, and a pair of spectacles lodged inside of it. Perfectly intact spectacles inside a scared, damaged snail's back.

-Paging Dr. Freud.
-Paging Dr. Freud.

This is what had taken Enzo in the end. We all knew he would go strangely. Enzo was relieved that we had found the culprit.

I had a better time at the Gynecologist yesterday than I did at Kinko's. It was actually more emotionally draining scanning one picture at Kinko's than it was having my cervix inspected. I was put more at ease by the woman yelling my HIV test results down the hall, with a thumbs up and a smile, at the free clinic, than at the corporate institution where things should be as simple as making a god damned facsimile.

Kinko's once a year. The OB/GYN for life, I say.

The clinic I went to was nicknamed "Gougy."
This adorable, somewhat overly appropriate, little moniker was on all the awards and certificates that hung all over its walls. Little "Gougy" made me feel loved and cared for. Like the first time someone told me my Cervix was a Pink Cute Success.

Love Life Hint: Want a lady to be yours for life? Just tell her that.

At Gougy, I was fortunate to meet the super hero Georgia Pollard. Georgia Pollard had a sign over her desk informing all incoming, that "Nobody notices what I do, until I don't do it."

She had a bible on her desk, six Troll Dolls, and a Spanish text book entitled Usted Y Yo.

Her poster for the NAACP proclaimed it, "the most feared and revered, most cussed, most discussed, civil rights organization in America."

Georgia Pollard runs a program that gets women their yearly annuals for free. She does it all on a volunteer basis, because there is no longer any funding for it. She told me she was at work until nine o'clock the night before and was having trouble reading her computer screen. It took fifteen minutes, give or take 20, to get me signed up for the program.

She put a pink sticker on my hospital card and told me to go get a refund on my co-pay.
Right now. Downstairs. Go.
My vulva and I said, thank you, so kindly, Mrs. Pollard.
Women who are saints work for low income families with very little attention. Everyone knows that, right?

United States Passport

2007-02-05T14:00:00.000-08:00

Depending on how long you have known me, and under what context, you may or may not know that Melissa Shaw is not my real name.
It is Made Up.
Not by me, but by my family, a very long time ago.
To make a long story short, and full of Unnecessarily Incomplete Intrigue, it involves kidnappings, traveling across country, and being on the run.

But today, the United States Government, the same folks who gave me an illegal Driver's Licence, Social Security card, and who keeps you safe from terrorism by arresting twenty somethings for advertising stunts, has granted me, Not- So- Justifiably- Melissa Shaw, a Passport.

I never thought I would actually be given one, or if I was, that it would be after many weeks of additional paper work, oh, and lying.

I have found myself in that huge percentile of America that doesn't have a passport, for this long, because my family is completely Off Their Rockers, fear the world, and really anything beyond the boundaries of the United States.

I was the kid with the million and one chances to go Europe but couldn't because of the fear of what it would do to my family. Or rather, what my family would do to me.

However, I, N-S-J Melissa Shaw, now have every reason and excuse to continue to ignore a responsible career path, bum around the world, and kill my grandmother off via a heart attack when she eventually finds out I am soon to be boarding a plane to Israel.

Today, a big thank you to the United States of America. Clap. Clap. Clap. You big lovable dupes. I heart you guys, too.

The saga of my 1998 Dodge Stratus continues or, someone needs to follow me around with a camera.

2007-02-02T07:56:00.000-08:00

4 O'Clock yesterday afternoon, I walk out to my car to move it for alternate side of the street parking.

I find that my car has been broken into and that the passenger side window exists now only in a glass puddle on my two front seats. The contents of my glove compartment box are around, too. Swimming in the cracked beauty of the thick smashed glass.

Just as I made the discovery, keys hanging from my hand, a guy walks by.

"Oh..." he says.

"Yeah. Crazy right." All I can say.

"You gotta call the police."

"Yeah," I say. "Okay."

I didn't really want to. I don't really like the police. Besides, all I needed, on top of what had just happened, was for them to look up in the computer how many unresolved parking tickets I have. Goose=cooked. But, sigh,In my daze,I called. And I thought about it again. Man, maybe they would just take the car.

The cops showed up. Took a report. Said nothing about the tickets. Called what happened "criminal mischief."

They had asked me if anything was stolen. If you know my car, than you know there was nothing to steal. There was an atlas, a bad book about acting, a mess of papers and a coupla dumb hats my grandma gave me. My radio was still there.

No. Nothing that I can tell, officer. Thanks.

The thing I was the happiest about was that Luniper and Fuck Me were still there.
If you have never ridden in my car than you don't know the kids.

Luniper and Fuck Me, are a white cat and a purple hippo. They are my constant companions in the car. They were given to my roommate and I in New Orleans by a Vampire, a Lupine, and a Beanie Baby pusher named, Lenny.

They were ok. I was ok.

I had a meeting planned for that afternoon and I decided to keep it.

I called my pal and told him what had happened, but that I wanted to get together anyway. He's a film maker. He asked if he could shoot me. I told him I think maybe somebody should.

He showed up as I was taping a plastic Glad Bag to the now windowless window of my car. He helped in that cute, useless, man way, and took me out to dinner.

Suddenly, he's back into Magic Tricks. In the car, on the way to the restaurant, he told me about this documentary he's making about magicians with his friend, Jason. He kept doing card tricks on me and figured out a way for me to keep pulling the Queen of Hearts. I giggled like a four year old every time.

This morning I got up to deal with my car. My mechanic neighbor across the street got me a deal with his glass guy. Andrew is a life saver. He plows me out when it snows. Global Warming has been killing him though. He lost 10k this year.

I was standing in his garage, waiting for him, and looking at all the cutout pictures of supermodels and movie stars he has up on the wall, and I remembered my friend telling me that nine times out of ten when a woman is asked to think of a Royal Card, she picks the Queen of Hearts.

No-Contact

2007-01-31T09:39:00.000-08:00

Oh, Yeah.
And this

(Thanks to Peter for this one.)

These are way bigger than my elbow.
If I hugged a Hasid in this I would go to jail, huh?

Almost Nostalgia?

2007-01-30T22:06:00.000-08:00

I'm in the car with Rachel.
We are driving to a show downtown.
We reminisced about the ear infection she had not too long ago.
She said that the doctor had blamed it on Q-tips.
She said she was so sick of the medical profession coming down so hard on Q-Tips all the time.

I agreed. I wish they would give it a rest. I have never had anything but success. Q-Tips rock. I will confess a more than minor Q-Tip addiction.

She said that they told her that you shouldn't put anything in your ear that is smaller than an elbow. She, much like me, had no idea when any such thing would ever be necessary. An elbow that is. I mean, really, who's doing that?

We were driving to a Chiptune show. A friend of ours, Bit Shifter was performing. He makes music using three Gameboys.

I have no idea how it happened, or why, but I really like the music. I have been to one other show and totally fell in love with the idea and the way it makes you want to move your head. Post Punk meets Tetris. Pretty cool.

Before the concert we grabbed dinner at a diner. The place made me feel like I was somewhere else. Maybe it was the pictures of Greece on the wall, but I think it was Something Else. Something less about ethnicity and more about time. We had some food and the owner/waiter/counter guy wanted us to guess the salad dressings he had and was pretty pissed that I didn't already know my cheese options. I liked him just the same.

At the show, which was all ages, which made me feel, at times that I was 74, Rachel bought us both earplugs. We were introduced to some of the other performers. I didn't drink and felt a little like the kids who were there with their moms. And I was thinking, how many of these kids ever had a Gameboy? I mean if they're 16 would they? Wasn't there already something cooler when they were "of the age?"

When I was an undergrad, 80's night was all the rage and we would go and dance at different clubs in Boston. The 80's thing seemed to be nostalgia for a time we were mostly too young to have fully enjoyed and understood.

Is my childhood already someone's Almost Nostalgia? I looked around the room. I spotted Rachel. She was dancing.

And then I realized something.

Earplugs are smaller than my elbow.

All I Can Say Is That I'm Sorry

2007-01-30T13:07:00.000-08:00

Ok guys. I gotta confess. I rode the subway today. And not just today, I've been doing it. (Cringe.) I have been. I know, I know, I just went through this huge blaze of glory break up with it and everything, but you know how people can be with things like that. You don't always know if it's right. If it's you. If you just weren't communicating well enough. My friend Sam Fels said it was my fault. He's right a lot.

Well, on it today and sitting next to me was a woman reading The New Yorker.
The cartoon I was leering at over her shoulder had two therapists and a patient.
One of the shrinks was saying, via a bubble, "face your demons," the other one was saying "take your pills." I think the caption was Good Shrink/Bad Shrink.

Well, I thought it was apropos to my thoughts. My thoughts being, of course, that my demons wished they had some pills. Preferably pain killers.

I think about this still. I know it's borderline passe to think about "meds" these days and that Prozac was so 1990's, but as someone who has/had bouts with depression and have many friends who do/did, I think about it.

I think about what it means to work through your layers.
I think a lot about how we convince ourselves through the help of others and self help books and such that we can quietly get ourselves together. Self improve. Be a mellower us. Learn how to quiet our anger and not let it rule us and that there is a better us out there.

I have mixed feelings on all of this. As a woman on a spiritual quest. As a woman with a great deal of emotional activity.(That sounds nice doesn't it?)As a woman who, someone once said, must do a great dish smashing act. Heh. Well, I did throw a bagel once. He ducked.

Do you ever get better?

Even after you look at, face, name, color code, correlate, collapse, and combust your demons(Oh, I know mine. We've met before. Hello Sam. Hello George.). Then what?

What is the best that happens to us when we look at these demons?

I like telling my demons they look like they're putting on weight and that their old records were better than their new stuff.

So, I see you guys. You look lousy in track suits but you keep up with me very well. Where do we go from here?I mean I got these guys, what do I do, kill 'em?
Break up with them? We see how well that went with the Subway.

And anyway, if it weren't for my demons where would I come up with all the things I have to be sorry I say out loud?

No, but it's true. You gotta look 'em square in the eye. Then you can Tango. My demons look beautiful with roses between their teeth.

Sigh.

I look at my grandmother, a woman of what one might call a "Self Help-less" generation, and my grandmother would say there's nothing wrong with anybody. If you want to be happy you make yourself happy for as long as you are here on the planet. I have a strong feeling my grandmother read very little by the German Philosophers. And she takes a lot of vicodin. She is also not dealing well with the idea of her own death. Let's just say she didn't do a lot of "acknowledging impermanence" through out her the course of her youth. She doesn't think she has any demons.

What am I saying? Jesus, What the HELL am I saying?

I think what I'm saying is: that we're a bunch of beautiful children born to die who have to deal with that everyday. Us, with our pain and fear and ecstasy. And that the point of being here, as far as I can tell, today anyway, is to ease all the ugly with some love for ourselves, the people around us, and even those demons in their track suits. You and your demons are awesome.

Ok-ay. I will now take a break from reading books about Buddhism.

See, a riot, a total riot.

And One More Thing

2007-01-29T12:28:00.000-08:00

I got one...

A:Knock. Knock.

B:Who's there?

A:Winter.

B:Oh, really, now stop it. Ha. Ha. Who is it really?

A:No, no really. It's me WINTER, open up, let me in they're after me!

B:No. Now, don't be silly, do go away. We don't have that here anymore. We wouldn't know what to do with you, anyway. Find someplace else. We're all filled up here.

A:But, wait! Remember snow?

B:Snow who?

A: Um...

B: Snow who?

A: Uh..

B: How are you going to end this joke if you don't know the answer?

A: Well..

B: Make me laugh and I'll let you in.

A: Ok...

B: So?

A: Um,orange... you glad I... didn't say Banana?

B: That's not funny.

A: Does that mean you won't sleep with me?

B: No. I won't sleep with you because you aren't good looking enough.

A: Whew!

See, I'm a riot.

Now, who's more desirable, me or Paris Hilton?

now that's funny.

2007-01-29T12:20:00.000-08:00

Like for example, Hillary Rodham Clinton is Hilarious

This makes her more to attractive me.

(Yes. It's from the Post.)

Community Chest

2007-01-28T10:35:00.000-08:00

Saturday.

I was walking along side a companion of mine in the East Village. It was chilly. I was starving and about to start work. It was just four.

On Second Avenue, at the corner of 4th street, we were just about to walk up on a Bum. He was Spare Changing. People used to call this money making ploy "Spangin'" in Boston, especially when it was punk kids who should have had jobs who were doing it. I really never liked the expression, it made it all sound too cute. Diminutive.

But anyway, there was this Bum and he had a Red Coffee Cup. It was a little tattered. The kind with the words in different languages written all over it. All the names for coffee? Words for hello? I forget.

Just as the Bum was being denied by someone, again, another guy walks up to him. This guy, maybe in his forties, maybe having hit the sauce a little early on a gray Saturday afternoon, had a wine glass in his hand. He responds to the Bum's plea for change by pointing the long stemmed glass back at him. Bum with some pennies in a cup, funny guy with a schmaltzy wine glass. How droll. It all happened very smoothly. What I would call Calculated Spontaneity on Doing Well In His Forties' part.

So clever, his little moment, so Trading Places, so ironic.

Thank you, Man Doing Well In His Forties for taking the opportunity to put this bum, with his cup that says hello who probably just wanted a drink as well, in his place. I rested easy that evening knowing that we are all capable of understanding each other so well. Worst part, Guy In His Forties was with a woman who he was undoubtedly trying to impress. And since, I have recently learned, that it is unimportant for a woman to be clever in order to attract a man, I am glad he was so invested in what society would deem his necessary mating call.

I forgot, until it was recently reintroduced to me, that we still live in a time where all a woman ultimately needs is looks to be desirable, and that men, however, are expected to have the sense of humor and success.(This is what 2007 looks like.) I don't remember if the woman was pretty or not. She must have been though. That's clearly what made her worth it.

My friend said the whole thing looked like a New Yorker Cartoon.

I said, yeah, from the 19fucking20's. Or that it was something the Monopoly guy, Mr. Pennybags would do.

My friend said that Mr. Pennybags wouldn't do that. He knew what it was like to be down on his luck.

Hey, oh yeah, Where's Mr. Pennybag's woman? Who's he fucking? How come he can't hang on to someone? Not funny enough, I guess.

State of

2007-01-24T06:02:00.000-08:00

Was it just me, or was President Bush turning the State of Union into an infomercial for how great America is when he started introducing all those people last night?

Here's a big tall African guy. He plays Basketball. Who has him? We do!
Here's a rich woman with weird baby products. She's blond. What is she? An American!
Here's the guy who saved the kid on the subway. We got one of him here, too.
Red Rover, Red Rover.
Buy! Buy!

I really wish the democrats had had the balls to start chanting something like, "Who's- our- lame- duck?" like the fans used to do to Pedro in Yankee Stadium.

Just a side note: What kind of people become meter maids? I really hope they get paid well for the kind of horrifying work they do. How much do you pay someone to not have a heart? And to ruin someones morning? My plan, next time I get a ticket, is to just hand them the keys to my car and tell them it's their problem now.

Bush mentioned Darfur once. Never mentioned the death of Saddam as far as I heard.The state the union is in, Mr. President, is thinking about the election of 2008. The State of the Union, I would also like to add, followed American Idol. How many people do you think stayed on?

Do you think any part of the President is looking forward to handing off the keys?

Your problem now.

Darfur

2007-01-23T12:33:00.000-08:00

Fuck Iraq.
Fuck Israel/Palestine.

We need to be talking and thinking about
this

Much, much more.

Buddha, go back to bed, it's just a rash.

2007-01-22T07:42:00.000-08:00

I have decided Fuck Sex in the City, I am gonna tell it like it really is here in New York. I have decided I am going to write a script that gives the real low down on living and dating in New York City. This New York. Our New York. The twenty-something-thirty-something,24,000-35,000,scrape-it-together,I live in Brooklyn NOT Manhattan existence.

I want a show that has recovering Drug Addicts, Depressives, Hypochondriacs,Artists,People who work in Bagel Stores,Bartenders,Bad Bands, Drifters,Grifters and the people insane enough to hang out with them.

My show will not have one pretty dress or lunch with the ladies.
There will, however, be Hangovers, People Crying Uncontrollably, Internet Hijinks(Sarah, I will employee you as a research coach),People Stalked at the Guggenheim, Frantic Paranoid Phone Calls at 3 am about Venereal Diseases,and Married Men Going Home Drunk with Hickeys.

There will be arguments about Buddhism and frequent discussions about the nature of existence. Everyone will be over educated and unable to pay back their student loans. Everyone will fear marriage and procreation. No one will wear make-up, Some asshole will occasionally quote Howl.

And, no one on the show will write for Vogue, because they are lucky enough to be of the generation that hates fashion, sweats too much, and doesn't need an article to help them to please their lovers.

Since I'm writing it, think Woody Allen meets Twin Peaks, has sex with My So Called Life learns to play an Ani Difranco song on the guitar, and marries Bob Dylan. Think lots of akward pauses, cut throat humor, and a push for a happy ending.

I'm thinking HBO.

I just need a title.

Hasidism and You

2007-01-19T13:00:00.000-08:00

I reached for my notebook and I accidentally hit a Hasid standing in front of me in line. I am not going to lie, I took some mischievous pleasure in it. I looked at him, but he didn't turn around. I have a bit of a fascination with Hasidism.

One of the things I love to hate is that the laws they follow forbid them to touch women they are not married to. Like, for example, your Landlord won't shake your hand.

So, I had this idea a while back and I was very excited to implement it as a performance art piece until it dawned on me the high likelihood of being sued for a hate crime: I wanted to walk the streets of New York City hugging Hasidic Men.

My plan was to dive bomb them from the side. Take a running leap and GET 'EM!

Hug and Runs.

I wanted to get it all on tape. I was all set. Inspired. I could feel Yoko Ono smiling down on me from high atop the Dakota. But then, I had all this conversation with people about what may and may not be covered under "harassment" and "freedom of religion" and blah blah blah. So, I never did it.

But, I still have fantasies. I thought it would be an interesting debate carried out through art. Feminism versus Freedom of Religion. Of course, there are people who would say that Hasidic beliefs have nothing to to with Misogyny, women being unclean, or anything like that. Just that women are such intense temptations that men aren't able to control themselves. Man, I feel terrible about that. Sorry guys.

Well, I accidentally touched one. So there.

There was a gaggle of them in front of me in the passport line. I watched them for a while as I tried to tune out the woman screaming at one of the postal workers in Spanish and the Italian guy banging his fist in front of the man who wouldn't give him his mail. The TV that normally plays Oprah whenever I am there was nothing but snow. To make up for what we don't have outdoors, no doubt.

Then it hit me. All the Hasids were getting passports to go to Israel. And then it hit me even harder. I'm going to Israel, that's why I was there. We are all going to Israel. Me and the Hasids suffering it out in the Williamsburg Post Office for the sake of visiting our Homeland.

You know why the State of Israel is giving my young friends and me free trips to Israel, don't you?

So we will stay and make babies.

They want I should claim Israel as my home, get married, and pop out more Jews.

Well, to them I say thank you for the free trip, but me and my ovaries have other plans. A Hasidic man came up to me and asked if he could cut ahead of me in line just so he could ask a question. I have never wanted to hug anyone more in my life.

My Kind of Town

2007-01-18T08:02:00.000-08:00

Ah, New York.

Land of loud trucks, chance, food I can be certain is vegetarian, and all of the people that I love.

I was coming back from the airport on Monday night and the Empire State Building wasn't lit up. I didn't recognize her without a hat.

I am happy to be back in a place where everybody bumps up against each other. And means it.

I liked the Texans.
I like you assholes a lot more.