Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Newsflash-What did I have to do a mere two hours after learning of my dear friend's passing? A Gossip Girl audition.
I shit you not.
And what arrived in my mailbox a mere two hours after the Gossip Girl audition? C'mon. Guess. My quote of the week is the hint. Yes! My forgotten Netflix choice, Sophie's Choice.
I shit you not. Just what Depressed Girl needed.
I had asked Terry's brother if there was anything I could do. His response? "Keep Terry's joyful presence in your soul."
So, I step forward, Terry's arm linked in mine (he always made me do the guy link which always made me giggle) and we see how it goes.
I STILL have those pesky writing deadlines, so until I see you again, let's try
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
in the grand tradition of poppy tiz and inappropriate email notifications...you can stop here if you wish.
my beloved terry %^&*&*(%^%%))*&&$@late last week. i don't know when. i don't know how. i don't know why. i do know where...the hills of abruzzo. 'cause that's terry.
i am beyond bereft and doubt i will ever want to talk about it. a very bright light (we're talking a super trooper) is gone from my life. just wanted to let you know so that in a couple months you don't go "how IS that terry" and i have to say, "dead."
ok. love you. don't try this at home.
Above is the email I sent to my siblings Wednesday last. To say the least, I did not meet the writing deadlines I had set for myself. I couldn’t cross the line of death. And before you ask, yes, I webding redacted the particulars of his passing. T’ain’t none of your business. Read Il Tempo and translate if you're curious. As I correctly projected, I don’t wish to talk about it. And I’m not going to make it easy for you.
Because it hasn’t been easy for me. (I love to share the wealth. Really…no thanks necessary.)
I will not write of his wraith, but I will of Terry’s wrought life...as i knew it. Glorious Terry whom I met almost 28 years ago. Snapshots of Terry—in no particular order other than what my pan-fried brain proffers…(and if you click on the links, you'll know just how pan-fried it is)
My first dance party at Yale with the cast of Grease. I was Patty Simcox (aka, Patty Sucks Cocks) and Terry was Doodie. Terry, Penny, Scott, Tom, Tommy, Eddy, Rox, Charlie, et al and I had such fun moving generously through space to the Jackson 5 that it became a nightly post-rehearsal event. We could take over any party. And we did. Eventually Terry and I went rogue, a virtual Wang Chung Fred and Ginger. We did flips, we did splits, we climbed tables and walls. We were so outrageous, an entire dining hall full of Yalies broke into applause when Terry dropped me on my head. Terry hates that I tell that story. But I hate that Terry is dead, so we’re even.
Late night port and Chopin nocturne dates. This was quite a novelty for someone raised on Velveeta (and that someone was NOT Terry).
Napping. Terry was a great napper. As was I. (As AM I since I heard of his passing. I’ve slept 48 hours in four days. Epic.) Together, we were unstoppable. Similarly sized, we could spoon both ways. I have never met a comparable nap master and doubt I ever will.
His Deerstalker cloak and cap. Oh damn, he was eccentric and adorable. Yale’s own Sherlock Holmes.
Terry grinning, “Coming to my party?” as he pulled a flier from his cape. Everyone remembers this, yet I have no recollection. I never got a flier. He just assumed I’d be there. I love that assumption.
Terry writing, “Starring %&*)&%#)_&%$” on every Choruses of the World poster on the Yale campus.
Terry swapping underwear with me at Avery Fisher Hall for the Choruses of the World concert to help alleviate my juvey jitters. It was a little daunting to make my AFH debut at 19. He understood. Lucky we were similarly sized. (Okay...my butt was bigger even then. Shut up.)
Terry treating me to the Empire Diner post AFH so I could see the drag queens. And have a Windex cocktail. All to alleviate my post-show jitters.
Terry dressing me in his clothes so I wouldn’t have to walk the walk of shame the morning after his toga party. Does anyone have the flier I never received? I’ll pay a pretty penny.
Terry making his own holiday cards, loaded with shiny shit that would shoot out of them, along with three dimensional boingy shards and antennae. Design marvels.
Terry sending postcards of Michelangelo’s David to my parents’ house just to test Poppy’s love for him. I got in trouble. Terry got love. (This was especially funny as I had an ex named David who Poppy hated and called "David Who?")
Terry watching in disgust as I piled a piece of pound cake with whipped cream, chocolate sauce and a cherry on top.
Terry asking, “Why don’t you just manually apply it to your thighs? That’s where it’s going anyway.”
Terry manually applying said pound cake to my left thigh. Guess where the cherry went?
Terry and I laughing.
Terry explaining to me in depth that although most people attend Yale to learn and some go for life experience, I was there to give pleasure to others. (This could have confused Velveeta girl.)
Terry and I attending the Branford Ball in matching tails. We were androgy-hot.
Terry residing in a different college at Yale every year. This was virtually impossible to accomplish and only his vast charm could have cooed this coup.
Terry and I in the chorus of the Yale School of Music’s production of Die Fledermaus. Our onstage romance was so dear, famed Maestro John Mauceri asked us to tone it down as we were upstaging the principals. Our executive decision? We were doin' just fine and we should keep up our dear work, all the while waving to the Maestro.
Terry, BLONDE, as the Emcee in Cabaret. Funny, heartbreaking and apocalyptic all rolled into one.Terry putting up with caffeinated me.
Terry saying "wach auf" to me in the antique featherbed in his parents flat in Geneva’s Alte Stadt. You haven’t lived ‘til you’ve been awakened by that joyous, open face so full of possibilities for the day.
Terry and I swing dancing at Lincoln Center Midsummer Night Swing. We had such fun behind the barricade, they let us in for free.
Terry and I diving into one another in our manic monkey ways.
Terry welling up when he discovered we’d been in London concurrently and he’d missed seeing me perform.
Terry and I speaking our strange mix of German, English and Italian—Germenglian.
Terry declaring, “I don’t remember Yale. I remember you.”
Terry’s handwriting—his script an art form in and of itself.
Terry visiting me my last trip to London.*
Terry’s origami lecture notebooks. Oh, I’d give my left arm…
Terry lecturing at NYU on homo-eroticism in Mussolini era architecture. He rocked. I titled it “Balls to the Walls.” Terry kissed me.
Terry kissing me goodbye—always in the rain.
This is what I have. When all is said and done, I guess it’s a lot. But it was supposed to be more. Terry lived life fully, whimsically and eloquently. And I believe he made everyone feel as I did…like the only person in his world.
This is what I have.
Mein Liebling Terry,
Mi sento la mancanza di te più di posso immaginare. I am sad and so sorry. Finché ti vedo, spero dass Sie die beste dance party ever mit Lynette haben.
I love you, my Papageno.
The measure of this loss is love.
He made an executive decision at the 11th hour not to--that he would be intruding.
Would that he had. At worst, it would have been another couple of hours. At best? Who knows.
To all of you out there--intrude. I love intrusively intrusive intruders. That's what we're all here for, right?
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
I have some writing and submissions I need to do in the next week. Please be aware that I have posts noodling around the old noggin just waiting to be spurt out in 0s and 1s at all of you...but it might take a while. It's not that I don't love you. It's that there are only so many hours in the day--more hours than there used to be thanks to the down-scaling of my horoscope obsession, but a limited number of hours nonetheless.
In the meantime, please keep checking in and toodling about the old farm. There are shouldloads of stories in here.
In the meantime, tell me what you're doing.
And in the meantime,
See you at the pot at the end thereof.
h/o/t someone, although I can't remember whom. Oops.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
Oh, that WORD!
Why should I? Why? Who made up this word “should” anyway. They shouldn’t have.
“Should” is used for giving advice or an opinion or a recommendation. I’m okay with its auxiliary function (or “fun”tion) to express probability, but the other un-fun auxiliary fucktions? No, thanks. Have the balls to say “must.” Have the gumption to “have to.” But “should?” Nuh uh.
And recently I got “should” on for an entire weekend. (I’m gonna drop the quotation marks from here on in. They’re tiresome.)
I hadn’t asked for advice. I hadn’t asked for opinion. Or a recommendation. I’m very careful of whom I ask such things…the scopes and a few folks-in-the-know. I had asked for nothing but company. But I should have known. (I believe that’s its auxiliary “fun”tion use, btw.) I got advice. I got opinion. I got recommendation. I was even the recipient of implied shoulds…the strange inference that we were inextricably tied and I really should have nothing of my own.
And it threw me for a loop. I lost all faith in my own advice or opinions or recommendations…for myself. I lost faith in me and actually took me to bed for a day.
Are you shoulding me? This is bullshould. Don’t should where you eat. I almost should myself. It was a true should hole and I took it up the should shoot. I got should-faced.
Before I took to bed, the should really hit the fan and I lost my should because I believe said should-er doesn’t know her should from shinola. Nobody’s should smells like roses, so stop telling me that I should do should.
Who are we to tell anyone else what they should do? We’ve reached an age…and I hope we’re all trying to get our should together.
This person? Definitely on my should list.
Should happens. But I never wanna shoot the should again.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
And it's not gonna be easy.
If you meander back into July on ye olde blahg, you'll find I wrote a post about all the horoscope and tarot websites I have to score before I can set boot out my door...a low estimate is a bjillion and a half.
And today I attended one. Just one. www.Astrocenter.com . I don't think I'll be able to give up my first baby.
Oh my Goddess, I've already lied. I attended www.FreewillAstrology.com as well just because...well because it's a weekly and it's so funny and off and prescient. But that's it. Okay...once a month I can't miss www.AstrologyZone.com . But a dear, brilliant guru friend suggested I could find another half an hour every day if I cut back on this ridiculous venture. And that's what I'm doing.
While we discussed my little OCD, I discovered this is just another manifestation of my need to hand over the reigns of my life. Give someone/something else the responsibility. I mean, if my fucking horoscope says I'm a loser then it is okay to be a loser. And if my fucking horoscope says I'm going to win the lottery and I don't, well then it's just a fucking liar and disappointment like so many...
Oh wow...gonna stop now. Just know I'm taking control and seeing how it goes. This is a funhouse ride I haven't been on in a while. The entrance fee isn't high...JUST MY LIFE.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Back in 1999, I was on a national tour and illegally sublet my preferential rent-stabilized mostly sex-free apartment for a year. Shhhhhh. I never met the sublettor but he was a friend of a friend and I trusted him with my utilities. (That is not a metaphor.) Little did I know he was not only a friend of a friend but a minister AND a telemarketer. Little did I know he didn't know how to connect to his watts line. Little did I know...
he left me with a $5,000 phone bill
until he was loooooooooooooooooooooooong gone with the security deposit which would only have taken care of a fifth of the phone bill but...that would have been at least a fifth of the phone bill.
(It also took me more than 12 hours to clean my kitchen but that's a completely different, throw-up in your mouth and swallow it again kinda story to be addressed another time...and possibly blahg.)
One could say I had one of those smidgens of a psychotic break when the phone bill showed up in the box I prefer to use for mail candy.* I had a couple more of these head-spinning vomit-spewing escapades every time I called AT&T because time and time and time again they would claim they could not help me. And time and time and time again I envisioned my credit rating circling the drain...along with my career.
I called and l Iaughed. Real honest-to-goodness giggling, guffawing and snorting. Ann (I soooo remember her name) sweetly asked, "Ooooh, you sound happy. What's so funny?" And I squawked, "Look at my bill. I didn't make those calls. My sublettor did. No one has been able to help me. It's awful. A ha ha ha ha ha HAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
She asked his name, went into the system, found him and the telemarketing company and transferred the bill to his name...all within five minutes and ALLLLL because I was fun.
Methinks fun trumps squeaky, screechy, squealing wheel any day.
Hail to the fun.
*Mail candy will be addressed in a near future blogue.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Poor Marvin. He got the brunt of it. But what happens when you scream? Marvin jumps. After he informed me I would have to wait more than a week for a technician to climb my little mountain aerie, I might have had a smidgen of a psychotic break. Now, not only do I have six free HBO channels for the next month but he set his supervisors and the in-house technicians on my case immediately.
And two hours later they obviously jazzed up my little system and I can send my missives via zeros and ones out to you.
But I had to scream. I had to make an AsS of TiZ. Was it worth it? Yes. Do I believe I should get the same service without shredding my vocal cords? Yes. Do I know why our society values and listens to the squeaky, screechy, squealing wheels? No.
I often write of my family that they loved me so that I burst into song. And that they tortured me until I was loud enough to be heard.
Thrilled it's all coming in so handy dandy.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
I have registered the (US$850.000.00) Eight Hundred And Fifty Thousand United States Dollars with DHL COMPANY, Meanwhile contact them with below information and send them the remaining balance of (US$105.00) for delivery charge as the delivery will be taking place tomorrow. Here is the person you can contact: Attn: Mr. Michael Mattew. DHL Company Director Benin. Tel: +229 9794 8648 E-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org Thank you while waiting for your respond as soon as you confirm the fund from DHL.
Mrs. Deborah Akango.
Really...how lucky can one girl be? Two different emails in two days offering me two completely lovely services. And for this one, all I have to do is send them $105 and i get $850,000? What a great return on my investment.
Thank you, Mrs. Deborah Akango, wherever you are.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
My name is Sean Smith, I represent the adult dating sites SexDatePersonals.com and milf-date.com.
We took a look at your site (http://www.^&*(*&^.com) recently, and we are interesting in a link exchange with your(s) site(s).
Our offer is actually quite interesting, a 3 way link as opposed to a reciprocal link. You link to milf-date.com and we link to you on SexDatePersonals.com. We offer the best type of link exchange. Also, SexDatePersonals.com has a very nice directory that we have been building so you are sure to find a category there for your site. If not, please just make your suggestion to us.
Here our link info:
Or our html as well
Have a great week and I hope that we can do business with you in the very near future.
Well, thank you, Sean Smith, it was very kind of you to think of me this morning, but WHAT THE FUCK? Does my website really warrant this kind of attention? A three-way? And i mean, my theatrical website?
I just thank Goddess there was no "cougar" mention. I despise that connotation with a passion usually reserved for people walking three abreast on a NYC street and keeping very important me from getting to my very important appointment in a very important, timely manner.
Oh, and Sean Smith, please learn to write a coherent sentence.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Friday, October 2, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
NEITHER SNOW, NOR RAIN, NOR HEAT, NOR GLOOM OF NIGHT STAYS THESE COURIERS FROM THE SWIFT COMPLETION OF THEIR APPOINTED ROUNDS.
And you showed up. I haven't had this committed a relationship with anyone or anything in a coon's age. I thank all you poopsters from the bottom of my teeny tiny pixie-faced pinhead heart for making it so worthwhile and making me feel so special.
I'm a shite photog, but this is my present to you (I love to give shite).
NYC Chelsea street corner. I hope you love it as much as I do. And I hope I see you again soon, poopsters.