WGA Strike vs. AFTRA Public Performance Right for Radio

A friend of mine recently posted about her take on the WGA strike.

Click here to read her posts.

This inspired me to comment on this and compare the WGA strike to the current AFTRA cause.

WGA STRIKE
Here is where I get all Randian. Selfishness has such negative connotations a society that teaches us that a moral status is in direct relationship to our level of self-sacrifice to others and that money is evil. Money is representative of a barter system. Fair trade is something we shouldn’t just ask of our corporate, coffee-bean buyer. Fair trade is about compensation for a service that is in direct relationship to that of the value of the service. Not need-based, but rather, value for value bartering that makes complete sense in a business context. Now, this could mean trade for something other than money: health benefits, recognition, prestige and the value of these things would differ from person to person. But, generally, the influence of good writing on advertising dollar return is high, thus so should be the compensation of this product and service. Unfortunately, there is cause for a strike because for years artists have bought in to the lie that they needed to sacrifice themselves in order to get ahead in doing what they love. When enough artists are willing to do this, it tips the entire scale of the profession, as it has. Kudos to those artists making their statement with the strike, even though it requires sacrifice at this stage. It’s not just about higher wages, it’s about fair trade. I think if more people viewed it this way, they would understand that there is nothing greedy about requesting equal tit for tat, especially I this day and age. This is also why I tell people in non-artistic professions who work ridiculous hours that a person should never love their job more than their job loves them. Capitalism works as long as it is truly laissez-faire and each individual has a responsibility to themselves to make sure they aren’t getting the short end of contract negotiations. The more people that choose this on an individual level the easier it will be for everyone.

AFTRA PUBLIC PERFORMANCE RIGHT FOR RADIO
Where it gets trickier is when AFTRA starts seeking compensation from radio stations for musicians in exchange for the airplay of musical recordings.

Click here to see the AFTRA press release.

This is more difficult for me because recording artists sell music and concert tickets based on that same airplay. So, I think, while the playing of their music does benefit station advertisers, musicians are also getting exposure that is money in their bank account. When we play out the ideal AFTRA scenario of musicians getting compensated for airplay, I see my favorite internet radio stations going under for not being able to compete with the Clear Channel stations who could afford this, jeopardizing our avenues of for-the-people media and non-mainstream music exposure. If musician royalties became a legal requirement, media channels would then only pay for music that they get a sure advertiser-dollar return on OR music they get a volume-discount royalty fee on from large recording labels. This is the nature of business. As a result, the only music played on radio station would be very mainstream vanilla stuff (even more so than now!) - which would suck for new musicians trying to make a break. So, we need to really be careful in assessing value for value on contracts and consider how these requests could backfire for the industry. There are some contractual issues that will hurt artists in business more than help them, and I think this current AFTRA stance is in one of those. If recording artists get royalties for airplay, it should be very small considering the advertising gain they already get. It is this kind of protesting that makes artists look like they are ‘greedy’ – requesting money at both ends (front and back) of the business, essentially biting the hand that feeds them. This would put recording artists charging media venues on par with the federal government’s double-taxation of citizens. The only exception would be if the station in question is a non-ad, subscription-service-paid radio station (not subscription for the satellite access, but listener-subscription for an ad-free music station). And, let’s be honest, the royalties would really be more money in the pockets of recording labels than the actual artists- which is where the real injustice lies to begin with. So, unless the entire media world switches over to subscription-based musical stations and does away with ad revenue entirely, which is not out of the question as radio stations are struggling for ad dollars now, I can’t say I support this AFTRA cause on the side of musicians.

Now, I DO support performance royalties for radio talk-show hosts and disc jockeys because this is similar to that of television. Once they perform a recording, they can’t sell it themselves because it is property of the station. So, they should get a cut of station profits for replay of their performances. Same goes for writers of television shows and films. This would be fair trade.

All I'm saying is, artists going to the table to negotitate fees need to take a fair-trade stance, as well, before making demands. This is the natural law of business and industry: as in show business, entertainment industry. Who needs the money more is irrelevant. *

* You'd be surprised at how many calls I get in my staffing job of people who will try to convince me to secure them a job based on their personal need for the income: i.e. death in the family, can't pay the mortgage, have five kids to feed instead of hiring them on qualifications. I can't help but wonder if this is a product of reality television where the most helpless people a show can find earn extreme body and home makeovers simply on account of how bad off they are. It's interesting to me that people have this mindset now when applying for highly-competitive professional jobs. This sense of entitlement out of neediness really turns me off.

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Holiday Gambling and The Pork Chops Story

It’s difficult for me not to blog about Grace, because she is such a blog-worthy character.

Last Christmas, in order to distract her from the depressing tone the holidays take on when a one finds themself widowed, I invited her to go to Horseshoe Casino with me in Indiana to “whoop it up” (as she likes to say). We went. I spent $11 bucks total and walked with $69, she lost around $25 with no winnings to show for it complained the rest of the time about how casinos steal everyone’s money and are a complete waste of time. Which is why I was a bit surprised when, as the holidays rounded the corner this year, she mentioned that it was getting closer to our casino time. She wanted to go again. So, we made a date to go the Sunday before Christmas.

In the days leading up to the trip, I reminded her that she should think in terms of winning instead of losing and I joked that I didn’t want to spend the bus ride back having to listen to her complain about the “damn slot machines that steal your money.” You need to view it as entertainment, I told her, and know up front how much you are willing to spend for entertainment. She assured me that she would retain a winning attitude. We talked about going this year to Grand Victoria in Elgin because she claims their buffet has fried chicken worth dying for. She even confided in me that in a previous trip there with her husband, she couldn’t resist walking out of the place a few wings and thighs heavier than when she came in and that the handbag she’d brought likely still smelled like chicken to this very day. But, the transportation there was a bit trickier than to Horseshoe (which has a free bus straight there from a parking lot on Diversey) and in the end, she admitted that she wasn’t quite ready to return to a place where there would be many memories of her and her Snoopy. So, it was Horseshoe again this year.

Grace hates the idea of Players Cards. There’s something about coming from a former communist country that makes a person suspicious of any type of tracking device no matter what form it comes in. As someone adamantly opposed to the U.S. Patriot Acts I and II, I do understand this. However, it is the Players Card and the Players Card alone that yields the free-bus rider a deep discount coupon good for the buffet and a la carte dining options at the casino. So, for this reason only, Grace keeps the Players Card in her purse.

Fresh off the bus and armed with our coupons, we headed to the coat check, the ladies room and buffet in this order. Though the fried chicken didn’t make the grade last time, she believed she could count on some decent ham again. But, we soon discovered to our dismay that the buffet cost nearly four times as much on Sunday than any other day of the week because they serve Brunch: breakfast and dinner items at the same time. Even with our $7 coupon discount, it was too steep for what we were willing to pay for eats. So, we were off to the a la carte diner, where the coupon was good for $5 off, making some items completely free. For at least 15 whole minutes we stood in front of a twenty item menu as she contemplated the value of every meal combination she might order to get the absolute most for her coupon. It was between rotisserie chicken, fried catfish, fried chicken wings, and fried pork chops, all of which were around $4.99. I promised her the decision was not a life-changing one, but simply a matter of what she was hungry for.

“What are you getting?” She asked me.

"Rotisserie chicken, mashed potatoes and a small coffee."

This did not sway her decision in any way. In fact, it sent her reeling again about not being able to decide.

“Get the pork chops,” I said abruptly, moving into the order line.

I wasn’t about to wait another ten minutes for her to think on it while my stomach was growling. She then moved ahead of people in the order line to get a good look at each item under the glass, close-up, so she could make a more informed decision. She asked other people in line which item they thought looked better to them. Right before I ordered, she asked me what I was going to order. I told her my answer hadn’t changed since the first time she asked me, but she insisted on hearing me say it again. I repeated it, then asked her if it really even mattered what I was ordering. “No,” she responded, getting in line behind me.

“Do you know what you want now?” I asked her.

“The pork chops,” she said.

“Sounds good.”

“But, I want the biggest ones they have.”

And this was her precise request of the guy behind the counter wielding the set of silver tongs. “Get me big ones!” She screamed to him in her Polish accent pointing to two of the hardest-to-reach pieces at the front of the case. “I want the biggest ones!” she called out to him.

I leaned into the counter and added, “Proving once again that size does matter to the ladies,” hoping to lighten things up.

“Yes,” Grace smiled at him, blushing. “What can I say? I like the big ones!” All the staff behind the counter laughed at us and the guy with tongs proceeded to fetch her big ones: a mere three millimeters bigger than any other pork chop on the plate. (They all looked the same size to me.) She added mashed potatoes for $1.95, ultimately the cost of her meal with the coupon. We sat and ate and at the end of our lunch, I asked her if the pork chops were satisfactory.

“Yes,” she replied, “they were good.”

“But not the mashed potatoes?” I asked her, noticing she hadn’t really touched them.

“They were good, too, but I just couldn’t eat them. It was the pork chops. They were too much to eat.”

I paused a moment, staring at her, hoping she would catch the irony. Nope. It was lost.

We were ready to play slots.

As a rule, we only play 5 – 25 cent slot machines. That’s it. We’re pretty dull as far as players go (when we’re not in line for the biggest pork chops we can get for a coupon). Grace stated aloud that she was only going to spend twenty dollars. She did. In the first twenty minutes. She lost every penny. During which, the following could be heard spoken to the given machine of the moment: “Damn shit!...I hate you, fuckin’ machine!… Screw you!”

I suggested to her, before she lost it all, that perhaps she’d have better luck if she was nicer to the machine. She claimed this had no impact on the outcome, rolled her eyes and proclaimed her love for the machine with over-the-top sarcasm.

“It knows when you’re faking.” I said, winning $1.50 next door.

She softened, “I can’t live without you, machine,” she said as heartfelt as she could muster, and she promptly won $2 (which she proceeded to lose again in a foot-stomping tirade).

All in all, she dropped $22 with no gain. After two hours, I dropped $20 and walked with $20 (at my best, I was up $17.50). I was satisfied to have broken even; she was pissed. In attempt to cheer her up, I bought her a piece of chocolate cake she saw that she said looked really good to her. Before the purchase, she interrogated the woman who sold it to me, asking when, exactly, it was made. “This morning.” The woman assured her. “We make them fresh everyday.”

After I bought the piece of cake and sat down with Grace, she refused to eat it, saying she didn’t like chocolate, never did.

“But, you said it looked good and that’s why I bought it!”

“I meant,” she clarified, “that it looked good as in 'pretty'. Now, eat up, young lady!” She demanded.

She has been trying to fatten me up since I started my diet and began losing so much weight. “Damn shit! Screw you!” I thought, eating bites of the overly-sugared, made-fresh-everyday, chocolate cake. To her face, though, I only called her a shyster. And then it was back on the free bus, where I pretended to sleep, so as not to be an ear for her complaining about what a waste of time and money casinos are.

People always tell me that it so nice of me to spend time with Grace, but I honestly don’t spend time with her because it’s a nice thing to do. I like her. Even when she’s stubborn as all hell, the woman is entertaining. Besides, at this time in my life, she’s also a surrogate grandparent to me, since mine are no longer with the living.

The score:
Gambling for Grace? -$22
Gambling for Jen? $0
The pork chops story? ....Priceless.

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What I Learned in 2007

Looking back, I can say that 2007 was the year I learned some life-changing lessons.

1) Self-integrity is an important to of the design of life in the same way that good art is art that is true to itself.
2) Imagination is paramount to progress and should be indulged in every day, and the minds-eye audience plays an enormous role in how we function in life and as creators.
3) Charity involving true self-sacrifice, contrary to popular belief, is not morally superior to charity you participate in because you get something of equal value in return (material or immaterial), in fact the opposite is true.
4) Our western diet of incredible amounts of refined sugar combined with our over-use of antibiotics and anti-bacterial everything is literally killing us and cultivating the diseases and pains we take pills for.
5) The U.S. dollar is tanking in value and will continue to do so, but the real currency of value is energy both for the globe and the individual. Each of us carries a life-energy currency with us and those with life-energy deficits will seek us out and find a way to steal from us. Guard your life-energy in the same way you might guard your pocketbook, at the very least. Beware of thieves. As far as monetary currency goes, economists all over are projecting a return to basic materials. Ladies, save your silver, it is expected to double in value as the dollar gets weaker and weaker as U.S. becomes the new ‘Mexico’ to the rest of the world.

I believe 2008 will begin an amazing journey that will be a spiritual awakening for all of mankind. Chances are, you have already started to see the shift as people who were formerly very religious are now tossing aside their beloved faith doctrines for life as a mere spiritualist (like myself). This is because we have been going through a time of disillusionment. Curse the Bush Administration as much as you want, but they fit into the long-term picture for one good reason which is this: they have been an awakening to all Americans to question all positions and doctrines held under a “blind faith” principal. We can see now, more clearly than ever, that if a religion or a government (and for much of the world this is one and the same) can get you to subscribe to a doctrine on faith alone, they have you by the balls. You might blow up the World Trade Center for your faith or you might blow up and abortion clinic for your faith. These are extremes, of course, but the point is, today is it far more obvious that both religion and politics are used to manipulate large groups of people with much success for the benefit of a select powerful few.

To me, religion breeds hypocrisy, because it imposes unnatural laws over natural ones. From the moment I graduated college, I started moving away from religion. It was a gradual process. I even took continuing education alongside Moody students as a last ditch effort to try and make a square peg fit into a round hole – justify Christianity as the one true religion. I still couldn’t. At the heart of my doubt was this philosophical dilemma (being a person of logic, it was only natural to wonder): Why would an all powerful, all-knowing, sovereign, deity create mankind with sin nature if the wages of sin are death and man was created for God’s pleasure? Now, the romantic Christian answer is that God wanted us to have choice to worship him because it is far more pleasurable for a being to worship out of choice than out of duty- which is also why we are not robots. Really? Because if the wage of sin is death, that’s not really a viable choice now, is it? See, as an artist, I cannot fathom creating something beautiful for my pleasure that has a built-in mechanism that can cause it to self-destruct before my very eyes. That seems sick and wrong to me. No, as an artist, I would create something with specific natural function in mind. In fact, a person wanting to know the way to property utilize the creation, one might study its very form and nature to conceive the concept behind its purpose. So, for this reason, I looked at my Bible, the new testament of which I had studied in its native Koine Greek language, and asked myself how a book made up of documents scribed by people hundreds of years removed from the very characters it speaks of and the contents of which were decided by a Nicene Council in a time where religion and politics were nearly one and the same, was going to tell me more about the Creator than the very creation itself. And that’s when I decided that religion of any kind, being man’s interpretation of the relationship between man and God, will be inherently flawed. For me, for Christianity to be true, would be like saying, God created the world, allowed man the choice to fall and then and after he did, He (the Patriarchal Trinity Himself) whispered to a bunch of people on the same side of the earth to create the most confusing and conflicting manual detailing the way man can find his way out of his chosen mess to save his soul. Oh, and he made sure other, completely different manuals were available to make the challenge even more exciting. Add Lucifer running around to trip people up every now and again and there you pure entertainment. I imagine the Christian Godhead, relaxing in his comfy robe reclining on an overstuffed cloud (perhaps munching on a big bag o' buttered manna), watching the largest reality-show ever produced play out to see which team wins and which players souls survive given all the crazy obstacles put in place. The people with the most faith in the right manual win immunity from eternal damnation. Uh…no thanks.

So, I’ll stick with studying the creation, complex masterpiece that it is, because there’s a lot of good stuff there and it’s logical. It can’t be ignored that enough patterns exist to suggest intelligent design of some sort. Also, I have no doubt we are spiritual beings; this is evident in so many ways and science is just now catching up to support this. My current beliefs can be summed up in this statement: All truth is God’s truth no matter what form God takes and the truth must be evident in the natural design.

And since, last I checked, the term saved is synonymous with rescued, when asked by wide-eyed, bible-toting boys on the street if I am saved, my answer is still a resounding, "Yes!" Perhaps now more than ever.

May you find blessings in abundance in 2008!

- jen

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Give it up for Tori!

December 12th. San Diego concert. Code Red.

She stops the concert and tells obnoxious audience members in the front row to get the fuck out of her show. Reports say they were taking photos of each other with their cell phone and getting up and down multiple times to buy beer in the middle of the song.

"These are my seats. I give them to people who like music. So, get the fuck out."

Reason #76 that I like this woman.

Front row seats are reserved for fans Tori picks out of the audience who were previously in a back row seat as a surprise upgrade. Kudos to her sticking up for herself and the fans who would have relished a front-seat opportunity.

If this happened to rude audience members at most concerts or stage productions or movie theaters, the world would be a better place. I can't tell you how many times I have wanted to kick an audience member out of a performance/film venue who has no clue how to behave respectfully during a performance.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9vijGGRN3P8&feature=related
begin around minute 2:28

Rock on, T.

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The Upside of Obsessions and My Resolution

I’ve been having a tough time lately deciding where to put my writing energy. I have ideas all over the place for reworking my novel, for a few different non-fiction books, for some creative non-fiction short stories, and every now and then an idea for a screenplay. But the problem is that an idea is not enough. In order to sustain a writing project, I need to be obsessed with the story or topic or characters enough to actually finish. The writings I’ve brought to completion have had some element of obsession associated with the creative process, so much so that I had the feeling that the story or idea chose me versus me choosing it.

Examples:

My poem In the Nursery of Now was written because I was walking across my college campus on the way to class when the phrase Mother Goose’s illegitimate son entered my mind. From that point, I became obsessed with playing with nursery rhymes, exploring the darker side of the characters found in these, hence the development of that piece. It was as if I had to put together a puzzle until it was exactly complete.

For my poem The Letters I was staying at a friend’s apartment and awoke in the middle of the night having visions of these letters being distributed by air and water and discovered and read by complete strangers. The images were so strong, they haunted me, and every time I tried to close my eyes to sleep, I would see the vision. Soon, the vision was accompanied by haunting words. They came so fast, like a flood; I had to get up out of bed and pen them to paper to ‘release them.’ It was very intense and ultimately cathartic.

The Fountain, a more recent poem (not yet published), was written after images accessed during a meditation exercise in a yoga class and they wouldn’t leave me, so I knew I needed to write something. The entire poem developed on the return from the class and I put it to paper as soon as I got home.

My full-length play, Le Chalet d’Orchadia began with the desire to write a play and explore two characters and a setting that I wanted to explore in writing. Many years prior, I had had a small obsession with orchids born out of catching a Nova special about orchid thieves on PBS; I longed to write about orchids and orchid obsessions. However, very soon after, the film Adaptation was released and I thought I couldn’t write about orchids so soon after for fear it would seem unoriginal. When I decided to write Le Chalet, I decided enough time had elapsed to include orchids in a story, but I didn’t know exactly what the story was or how it would end. I only knew it involved orchids, the caretaker of these orchids, a ballerina with FMS, and would be set exclusively in a greenhouse. Once I started writing, however, the characters took over. They talked to each other in my head all day long- sometimes at inappropriate times when I really needed to concentrate on other things. I was scribbling notes on everything from envelopes, to post-its, to magazines, to napkins just to get down bits of their dialogue. While I could relate to each of the characters in different ways, and also to their relationship somewhat, I was still very much along for the ride. I didn’t release them until the end was written.

So, my issue now is that I know I need to get my ass in gear on another project, but which direction? I feel I need to cultivate a sustainable obsession, but my ideas are all over the map right now, I feel pulled in all sorts of directions. Do I have obsessions lately? Sure - just not anything driving me to cohesive writing productivity. So, my goal is this, and I feel I need to announce it publicly:

Beginning January 8th I will write something and not stop until I finish.
If it’s poetry, it will be to the end of my next poetry publication. And if it’s reworking my novel, it will be reworking it to the end to have a complete new draft. And if another play or screenplay rears its lovely head? So be it. Beginning January 8th, I will simply begin until I end it, working on a regular basis and not stopping to work on anything else (of course, I still have to tend to my dayjob, my dog, pilates, etc - but I mean I will buckle down on the writing productivity and focus it). It is my only resolution for the new year. Author Isabel Allende will be starting her newest novel on the same day; it's her yearly ritual. She has made January 8th her sacred day of starting a new book and I’ve decided to join her. She’s a master at channeling and weaving great stories- the kind you can never guess the ending to- and she never writes with an outline, it just flows. So, in an effort to share in that spirit- the spirit of creative flow- I will begin on the 8th and take comfort in knowing that I am in fabulous company, embarking a new creative journey.

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Political eHarmony

Found this link to be interesting.
http://abcnews.go.com/Politics/Vote2008/page?id=3623346

Answer a series of mutiple choice questions and get matched with your ideal candidates.

Here were my top three candidates based on my Q & A choices:

1) Mike Gravel (Democrat)
2) Dennis Kucinich (Democrat)
3) Ron Paul (Republican, but really, more Libertarian these days)

I didn't really know much about Mike Gravel, but I am interested to learn more about him now.

I figured Ron Paul might make the tally, though. I have do libertarian tendancies in my viewpoints. It kills me that he's running as a Republican (now that Republican means something entirely different than what the party's original intent was). I know that's a more politically strategic choice than anything else. I can't help but respect a guy who voted against the Iraq War, against the Patroit Act, and against internet regulations.

And, Kucinich? He makes me laugh. I don't think he has a shot in hell, but I do think he's got some great ideas and a fun sense of humor. I would prefer him to Hillary, for sure.

I like the idea of having a candidate matched to people's own opinions current issues. Otherwise, your vote is based on a commercial sell, likely within the party your are already married to. I am not registered as Republican or Democrat, because I belive both parties have innate flaws. Of the more popular candidates, I like Obama. Politically, he still has some adjustments to make. I don't buy the argument against him that he doesn't have enough experience, though. Experience in what? Having his hands in corporate pockets? I know many experienced people in life that I wouldn't trust my freedom to because they are experienced in being manipulative.

To me, the Republican party and Democratic party are two heads of the same monster. The real reason we will never have a President worthy of the job is that the ones smart enough to pull it off are also smart enough not to want the job in the first place.

So, take the quiz and let me know who your proposed ideal 3 are. I'm curious to see if anyone is surprised by the results.

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This Week's Favorite Quotes

“Ribbon poses choking hazard.”
Fine print on the gold-foil-wrapped, chocolate reindeer I found on my desk this morning.

“Excuse me; I’ve got gifts to buy.”
Holiday manipulated version of Jimi Hendrix’s Purple Haze lyrics, played on WXRT.

“Margarine is one molecule away from being plastic.”
From one of those chain-email warnings being circulated.

Girl 1 (with enthusiasm): “Wow! Can you believe it’s snowing outside?”
Girl 2 (deadpan): “Yes. It’s December; I kind of expected it.”
Overheard in the elevator at the office.

“This is gay.”
Written on a frosted window of the Holiday Bus on my commute. Note: The Holiday Bus is an interior decorated bus complete with flashing holiday lights, hanging ornaments, candy-striped railings and loud, obnoxious holiday music.

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Hello, World; I’m 31

I’ve had a few people at work ask me about my age, out of curiosity, but at the same time somewhat apologetically. I tell anyone who asks, because I really don’t care who knows my age and think it’s kind of ridiculous that some people (in their 30s!) sweat their digits. Seriously. I mean, unless you’re competing to be America’s Next Top Model why should a person care? Numbers are about wisdom and experience and okay…baggage…but it’s a location on a timeline. I’ve been accused of being an old soul, anyway, so what’s another hundred years? To me, wisdom is the new black. I was a child of the 80s: Michael Jackson, Punky Brewster, Jellies, and The Wonder Years. Ronald Regan, Phil Collins, Peter Gabriel, and FAME - the television series. The Cosby Show, Tretorns, Cheers, and Roller Rink parties. Jon Bon Jovi, mix tapes, leg warmers, The Great Space Coaster, and Leather Bomber Jackets. What’s the harm in revealing my association to these things?

I received a huge bouquet of flowers at the office, from the team, and they are gorgeous. However, since it arrived, my eyes have been burning like crazy. I’m worried that I might be allergic, and I don’t often get allergic reactions that are non-food related…well, at least not in Chicago. About four years ago I discovered that I am allergic to New York City. Yep; the whole city. It only took six hours post plane arrival for my eyes to swell up to the point of almost not being able to see. Contacts were not an option. I had to visit an optometrist on Day 2 for antibiotic drops – actually I ended up at some New York College of Optometry being treated by like five interns all asking me a dozen of the same questions. I was the girl in glasses with squinty eyes for the remainder of the trip. Had there been a t-shirt that read: “I’d (HEART)New York if I could only SEE it,” I’d have bought one. I am told it could have been a reaction to all the lingering asbestos debris from 9/11 still contaminating the air. Anyhow…I hope I’m not allergic the enormous blooming wonder on my desk. I’d like for the rest of my birthday weekend to not be a blur for any other reason than the amount of wine that will likely be consumed at a certain celebration.

Speaking of New York, anyone game for a weekend trip in Jan or Feb? I am dying to see August: Osage County and could not get tickets to save my life while it was here in Chicago. I heard it is INCREDIBLE. If no one can make it, I might have to fly solo and plan to rent myself a seeing-eye dog to get around.

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Where are you sitting?

One of my friends, who actively blogs about her experiences pursuing an acting career, often posts about her insecurities about herself and her talent and feeling inadequate as an actor. Reading her posts, I have a desire to answer her back in the most affirming way I know how. I want to be helpful, encouraging, and lend perspective. I am no longer pursuing acting largely because I discovered along the way- on the other side of many self-revelations- that I don’t have the personality of an actor.

What I really want to do is direct.

Just kidding. (Though I’ve done that, too and really enjoyed it.)

Acting, to me, involves sacrificing yourself to an agent, a casting director, a director, a script, a character and an audience. And when I say this, I’m referring to the business of acting, not the craft of acting. I love the craft of acting and have really enjoyed it. But, to have a career as an actor, you cannot divorce the business of acting from the craft and this is precisely my beef with it. It doesn’t suit my independent nature. It ruffles my creative feathers far more often than it strokes them.

Anyhow…

When a person dreams of being an actor, they typically dream of being cast in roles that were practically written for them to explore all of the creative nuances of their talent range and all the world is able to watch and be amazed and formally recognize this. It’s a very romantic notion- one that I once aspired to. But, of actors, even successful Hollywood actors, how many have actually seen this precise dream come to fruition? Not many. And of those that have, even fewer found it independently of becoming a producer and making it happen for themselves. There’s a lot of sweat and poverty and putting your creative ego and relationships on the line for this and even then, the end payoff still may not justify the means. So, the acting dream is not mine. However, I do desire to be supportive of those who choose to go for it, to realize their dream of becoming an actor, because there’s just enough of a romantic in me to want every person I know (and don’t know) to realize their personal dream in their lifetime.

With this in mind, I will bring up something I’ve been thinking about recently regarding the way our perceived audience affects us as creators. When my friend Marcia, who teaches fiction writing at Columbia College, consults with her writing students, she likes to ask them where they are in the audience of their writing pieces. Are they in the front row? Are they in the middle or back row? She wants to know the physical location of where they are in the audience if their story was a performance. This, I think, is a very interesting way to gauge a person’s intimacy and connection with the story they are writing and to explore what filters exist. She goes on to ask about other members of the audience. Is your mom in the audience? Where is she sitting? The front row? Do you think the front row is a good place for a mother to sit for the story about your fist sexual experience? No? Well then let's kick her out and see where this goes. And so on…And this is how the line of questioning goes.

I was recently reminded of how applicable this is to our life story when I was reading Milan Kundera’s The Unbearable Lightness of Being. In Chapter 23, Kundera divides people into four categories under the premise that “we all need someone to look at us.”

1. People who long for "the look of an infinite number of anonymous eyes…the public.”
2. People who "have a vital need to be looked at by many known eyes.”
3. People who "need to be constantly before the eyes of the person they love.”
4. The dreamers, “rarest of all... who live in the imaginary eyes of those who are not present.”

Myself and several others I am close to seem to fall into this latter category. I find this concept intriguing. This idea, coupled with Marcia’s line of questioning to writers, has made me more acutely aware of my own perspective on my imaginary mind’s-eye audience (filters) moving through space day-to-day. Obviously this changes slightly from situation to situation, but when I think of who is in the audience when I am making a decision, the audience is very small, if it exists at all. It wasn’t always this way, though.

Around middle school, my imaginary audience filled a giant arena with nearly everyone I’d come into contact with and I was somewhere in a far mid-section, perhaps fifth row balcony. Needless to say, I was terribly insecure and probably awkward to be around. My guess is that this is to be expected for this age range. In high school, the audience got smaller yet still filled a large auditorium and I was seated on the aisle so that I could walk to the front or back depending on the situation and my comfort level. Somewhere during my freshman year of college, the audience shrunk significantly. Not only did it shrink, but I started turning people away at the door, deciding whose ticket was even valid. This is one of the most important things to occur in my life. Spiritually, emotionally…however you want to view it. A maturity and sense of ownership was taking place. I started taking my seat in the front row every now and then, though still on the aisle. Immediately upon college graduation I moved the production into a small black-box theatre and made it a VIP invitation. VIPs being people whose opinions matter most to me, people I have great admiration for. I admit, there were a few front-row folks who, in hindsight, should not have even made it into the parking lot and I’ve since revoked their parking privileges.

Today, as I mentioned, the imaginary audience is very small. They could fit in a small living room, sitting on a couch and arm chairs and sipping wine and coffee. It’s an intimate setting. I’m going to refrain from naming names, but I will tell you it’s a mix of people who I’ve known in person and people I’ve only read about, people I’ve known a long time and people I’ve known a short while, people living now and people long dead, folks geographically near and some far. And in this living-room stage I am the one sitting closest to the action of the story. And in the hallway, just outside the door, relaxing on a very comfortable bench are my parents. They can occasionally hear what’s going on in the living room and are genuinely happy when it sounds like everyone is having a good time. While aware of the occasional ear-to-the-wall, I choose not to invite them in. It has to be this way for me to have a greater sense of freedom.

When it comes to acting training, the infamous “Private Moment” scene is the exercise that requires the actor to become the only person in the audience of their craft allowing them a sense of complete freedom of expression. (My friend has recently performed this in acting class and it’s something I’ve done in my days of training, as well.) The goal is a worthy one, though easier said than done. But, the idea of this is effective far beyond acting class; it matters that we, as creative artists and human beings, are taking a front seat to the action of our own life’s story and that there is an audience of a very select few, if any (i.e. few filters). In fact, I attribute any success I’ve had as an actor to the careful selection of a small mind’s eye audience before I stepped onto the stage or in front of the camera. In life, this same practice works wonders for inner confidence. So, lately I’ve been trying to keep myself in check this way – thinking in terms of the real audience in my mind’s eye and making adjustments if I feel unnecessary filters exist.

To my friend, the actor, who is insecure about herself as a performer, I would pose the question: Who is in your imaginary audience in life day-to-day and where are you sitting? Are you in the front row? Is your mother or father in the front row? Is there a critic there that wasn’t invited? Your life audience (filters) will translate to your acting craft by way of influencing your sense of freedom and comfort and the really beautiful thing about it is that we get to select our patrons. So, regarding this imaginary gallery, I would suggest you instruct the parking-lot attendant that the casting directors, the agents, the instructors, the potential directors, the actor-peers, and all the critics get turned away at the lot’s entrance in both your life and the acting scenes/auditions. Let them go see some other show. After all, this one is your story and your career dream, and they won’t occupy a seat for the final curtain anyway. And, please, by all means, enjoy the show!

So….Who is in your audience? Where are you sitting?

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celebrity hotlist & corp vs. org

So, Dawn can't post a response comment on my blog because she doesn't remember her friendster password. So, she emailed me this:

"Christian Bale is only the best and hottest actor of his generation. That is all."
And to that, I would like to say, Dawn, that I would happily trade you my C.B. sighting for your day on the set with Zach Braff.

My celebrity hotlist may be a bit off the beaten path, but I would have to say that the following is my current list in no particular order:

Zach Braff, Eric Bana, Jeffrey Dean Morgan, Clive Owen, Aaron Eckhart, Ben Stiller, and Matt Lauer.

----------------------------------------------------
Okay. Today I did something fabulous. I did something long overdue.

I resigned from the board of the writers association.

It was tough. It was complicated. It was a moment of brutal honesty. But I stuck to my guns and feel totally relieved about it. I have a lot of personal projects I'm ready to re-allocate my free time to that involve writing and reading and research and art. I decided some time ago, in the midst of the development of a non-profit organization, that I am not cut out for non-profit.

Don't get me wrong. I have done a lot of volunteer work in my lifetime, more than most people I know even, and I do enjoy volunteering for a worthy cause. But, the thing is, at least with a for-profit corporation there is no illusion of existing for the sole purpose of a good cause. A for-profit corporation doesn't claim to love you back. A for-profit corporation is pretty up-front about the fact that it will use you and, perhaps, abuse you in order to meet the bottom line, to appease shareholders. This is a standard practice. The nature of business. You are just a means to an end. Non-profits, however, will use you and abuse you just the same, but they will do it in the name of a good cause and aren't afraid to guilt you into doing more than you originally bargained for. There are plenty of lazy people employed by each, but eventually, in a corporation, (unless the lazy person is the owner or a relative of the owner) even they will be sacrificed for the sake of the goal: production and profit. Non-profits, however, not so much. I am convinced that displaced lazy people from corporations seek out jobs at non-profits and then camp out there. And, all the while, the few gems, the hard-working, creative problem-solving, highly-organized, put-in-the-extra time people who thought the org would make good use of their talents find that they carry the burden of the responsibility of making up for the people who are lazy or difficult and they are managing train wrecks. They get burnt out. They start to resent their job and then they feel guilty about resenting it in this really ugly cycle. This is why my day-job is for a blood-sucking corporation. At least, in this case, the vampire isn't pretending to be an angel and I don't feel guilty when I have to say, "Sorry, but you're gonna have to find another vein to tap." This is essentially what I had to say today in the kindest of ways and I feel good about it. My official resignation is effective November 30th. I have one more event to do in the meantime. And then, on to a better cause...me. Charity begins at home, after all.

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a week in review

In this past week:

- Strangely, I have been contacted, out of the blue, by three people I haven’t heard from in over a year.

- I have been all craft-sy with Halloween décor for an event our office is putting on tomorrow for kids with chronic health conditions. Tomorrow night I will be sporting a costume for the event. I’ll try and have a photo taken so I can post it. I really rarely ever have my photo taken these days. Ever since I had acting headshots done and I had like 200 pictures of myself just lying around my apartment… I think that’s when I decided enough is enough already…Plus, I like my headshots and I dislike most of my photos. Those have been hard to top.

- I have been thinking of my friends I just visited in California in the midst of all these wildfires. Some are on standby for evacuation. Also, I know several folks in our Newport Beach office who have not been home in days and the employees in that office sound chain-smokers now because of the poor air quality. It’s horrible.

- Inventory: Los Angeles- earthquakes and wildfires. Chicago – some flooding, the occasional tornado, and long, long cold winters. Hmmmm. Still thinking.

- I nearly brushed shoulders with Christian Bale on my walk to the el after work. They were filming the latest Batman movie very close to the office again. Garden-variety handsome guy who was a bit over-sunned for October in Chi-town. Friendly smile. Glad it was just a walk-by and not a conversation because I’d be so embarrassed to admit I only know him from American Psycho and I was so thoroughly disgusted by his character I couldn’t stomach watching the film all the way through. Got about half way. (A testament to his good acting? Perhaps. But still…Wasn’t it super gory? I’m too empathetic a person to watch slasher-type films and not physically feel pain of some sort.) I read that Christian played Jesus in Mary, Mother of Jesus – (what a contrast!) but I never saw the film. There is only one Jesus to me, besides, well… Jesus…. and his name is Scott Miller.

- My play, Le Chalet d’Orchadia received honorable mention (number 28 on the top 100 list http://www.writersdigest.com/contests/writing_play07.asp ) in the 76th Writers Digest Stage Play Competition out of 19,000 plus entries. Could be worse, I guess. I received the certificate in the mail Monday and my first reaction was that I could’ve created a better certificate on my home computer. But then again, it IS just Honorable Mention. It’s the kind of certificate that says “So, ya didn’t win first prize. That’s okay. Not everyone can be a winner. Please accept this decorative note as a reminder of that” every time you look at it. It’s the paper-equivalent of the purple ribbon at the 4-H fair. I got one of those for no-bake cookies one year. They were entered, against my will, by a cooking workshop teacher one summer when I was like ten. Notice she opted not to enter something that I actually baked. My ego hasn’t totally recovered from this.

- Oh, I almost forgot...Remember that horrible poem I wrote, Kiss My Lips, for the poetry.com? Well, not only has it garnered an Editor's Choice Award and earned me an exclusive invitation into the Society of International Poets, BUT it has been also been awarded the Poet Fellowship Award ..and that's not all...the editor has suggested that this poem be included in the three-disc cd set entitled The Sound of Poetry where, with my permission, it will be one of 33 exclusive tracks recorded by professional actors for your listening pleasure. On one hand, I am very tempted to give permission, just to hear some poor actor's dramatic rendition of this poetic load of malarkey. But, then I think, in order to actually hear it, I will have to pay the $49 for the entire three-disc set. So, I think I shall have to be amused by the mere idea of it.

Ciao for now, peeps, I have more decorations to work on….

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Tickle the Fat Kid

I just logged onto Friendster and there was this crazy interactive, animated advertisement on the border of the page that invites me to move a large feather with my mouse to “Tickle the Fat Kid ‘Til He Barfs” in order to possibly win two free iPod nanos. Not one, but TWO nanos. While I did refrain from indulging such curiosities, I admit I am now walking about the house uttering the words ‘tickle the fat kid ‘til he barfs” just because I like the sound of it. Can’t wait to see what online advertisers come up with to top this (poke the geek’s zit until it pops, perhaps? wax the hairy man until he dies?) Pregnant, my friends, with possibility. (…Ah, squeeze the pregnant lady until she births?)

Returned from L.A.Had a great time! Special thanks to Steve & Mardy and Jim & Nanci Carol for hosting me in homes and Dawn for showing me nightlife in Santa Monica ! You are among my most treasured friends and favorite people in the world. Man, what a campaign you guys have going on to get me to relocate- all of you! This is not out of the question. I am thinking it over. Mul-ling it. Tossing it around. As I told a friend recently, I am still charmed by Chicago, but come late January and February, when my infamous silk thermals are nearly threadbare from over-usage, I will be in a very vulnerable frame of mind for such decisions…

Okay. Kiss My Lips? That really bad poem I wrote to be a really bad poem? Just received the Poetry.com Editor’s Choice Award for Outstanding Achievement in Poetry…My reaction to this is right up there with “tickle the fat kid ‘til he barfs”. In fact, I think this may just inspire next year’s Wergle Flomp Entry.

...'til he barfs.

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Aspiring to The Best of The Worst

I rarely submit my poetry to any contests publications. I usually prefer to publish my own collections. BUT, I cannot resist the annual Wergle Flomp contest put on by winningwriters.com
In attempt to unmask the blatant commercialism behind all those cheesy vanity contests for poets, they have devised a contest to expose these for what they are in a really fun way. To enter, you must write the WORST poem you can possibly pen and submit it first to one of the infamous vanity contests and then submit to the Wergle Flomp contest indicating which scam you submitted to. I submitted in August to both poetry.com and then to Wergle Flomp. This is my second year entering. Today I received an email from the Chairman of the International Society of Poets stating that " after reading and discussing your poetry, the Editorial Advisory Board of the International Library of Poetry has nominated you for membership in the most exciting poetry organization in the world -- the International Society of Poets!"

So, I thought I should share with my blog readers the poem the Editorial Committee at poetry.com has been "reading and discussing" before deciding to nominate me for membership in the exclusive society "dedicated to recognizing poetic talent such as (mine)."
Enjoy.

Kiss My Lips

Kiss my lips, soft and fluffy
Red and wet, creased and chubby
Kiss my lips for love, for fun
Here, there, everywhere
Anywhere a mouse can run
Kiss my lips. Don’t make me chase.
Just like gravy on my face
Kiss my lips, soft and sweet
On the bus, or in the street
Kiss my lips in a bookstore
In a car. Kiss them like a movie star
Kiss my lips all alone or in a crowd
Kiss them long and kiss them loud
Kiss me standing. Sitting down.
Kiss me sideways, upside down.
Kiss my lips while north or south
as long as we are mouth to mouth
Kiss my lips, not once, not twice
Kiss them ‘til they’re cold as ice
XXX XXX
XXX …XX

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I know. Clearly, I should quit my day-job tomorrow and write songs for boy bands. Mmmmmm Bop. Simply brilliant.
Let's hope it will do better in Wergle Flomp than last year's entry, entitled
A Prayer for Beabod, my black goldfish in the early 80s: God rest his soul

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Three Infamous Dream/Vision Stories

It is known to some, and not so much to others, that I have had what some might call prophetic or psychic dreams or vision on occasion.

One such vivid dream had to do with a house I’d never seen or been in. It was so vivid that I sensed there was a real life significance to the message of the dream, so I drew a picture of the house and the placement on the street and quizzed my mother down to see if she knew of this house and if I had ever in my lifetime been inside it. She had never seen it. Fast forward four months later on a trip to the home of our new pastor and his wife. No it wasn’t his house, but on the drive there, we turned a corner in his neighborhood and my mother turns at me white as a sheet and says quietly, “Oh my gosh that’s the house. That’s the house exactly as you drew it.”And it was. We turned right in front of it and down a few blocks to the pastor’s house. "We have to ask if they know about this house and who lives there,” she said. About a half hour into polite chit-chat with the pastor and wife, she did exactly that. She described the house a few blocks down and that I’d had a dream about it.

“I know the one you are talking about” he said looking at his wife. He turned to me, “What was the dream about?”

“I was going to knock n the door of the house because I was with my dad driving at night and we had car trouble. But every time I went to the door I was knocked down the steps by a very strong force and a female voice told me to get away from the house, that there was something evil in the house.”

The pastor looked at his wife and his wife looked at him wide-eyed. They just stared at each other for a moment. Then he said, “All we know about that house is that they’ve sold it twice in the last few months and no one stays more than two weeks. It’s rumored to be haunted.”

That was the last time this particular pastor and his wife ever spoke to me. It was clear I spooked them. Eventually, we left the church.

Fast forward seven years later…I get a call from a high school friend. We are catching up on each other’s lives: “Bowen and I just got the financing to do a down payment our new house you won’t believe the deal we are getting on this house in Crystal Lake.” (Bowen being her husband.)

“In Crystal Lake? Hmmmmm…Is it an A frame house at the T of an intersection with a small cemetery on the property?”“Yes, as a matter of fact…how did you know?”I said, “Let me get my mom on this one. I have something to tell you that you may or may not believe, but whatever you do, don’t buy the house.” My mother confirmed the story. My friend and her husband decided not to buy the house.

-----

About eight years ago I jolted myself awake from a nightmare of being thrown from something. I couldn’t say what, but my jolt was so violent I injured my neck pretty bad and woke up sweating profusely, in a panic, like something traumatic had happened though I had no memory of the actual dream. It was a Tuesday and I was scheduled to wait tables for a lunch shift. I got up and dressed for work in so much pain I couldn’t move very well. I went to work and had a terrible time carrying heavy dished to tables. My entire left arm went numb. It made work so difficult and I felt so guilty having to ask other servers to assist me in carrying things that day. But, beyond the numbness was a feeling that something terrible had happened. I still had the residual feelings of having experienced a trauma, though I knew it was just a dream. I started to worry, however, that it was one of my psychic dreams. I got so worried that I called home that night, which was unusual because I never called home on weekdays. My mother was surprised to hear from me. At first I just told her I felt like checking in – but I was really feeling around to see if she would mention something happened to someone. She didn’t. But, I still had a nagging feeling something happened. I finally broke down and explained that I had had a dream that scared me and made me think something happened to someone. I asked her if everyone was okay. I even asked her if my grandmother who had been recovering from a stroke was okay and she reassured me that everything was just fine with everyone. But, she was concerned about my numb arm and suggested I call someone about it. At the time, I didn’t have health insurance, but was part of a medi-share program that was only good for serious emergencies. They had a hotline you could call to consult with someone on medical issues, so I called them about my arm and it was suggested that I do various exercises and massage my neck, etc. daily to try and find relief.

Fast forward to Thursday afternoon. My arm is still numb intermittantly, but getting better. I come home from another lunch shift to a strange message on my voicemail. It was the mother of my best friend (Katy) from college saying that she and Katy were missing me and hoped I would check in with them soon. The actual message itself was not all that strange, but I definitely thought it was strange that her mother had made the call and not Katy. I called her back and she told me the real reason for the message. “I didn’t want to leave the message on your machine, because I wanted to tell you in person, but Katy was in a terrible car accident Tuesday morning. We just brought her back from the hospital today. She was thrown from the car and broke several ribs and punctured a lung but she’s going to be okay.”

KATY! All this time, it was Katy!!! Why didn’t I think to check on Katy?!

Katy was resting when I first called, so I tried again the following day when she was awake. I asked her how she was feeling. She said she was sore. I asked about the accident. She was turning and someone hit her, but it was so fast she didn’t remember what happened. She said she was on her way to an early morning tanning session and since she was only going to tan, she put on a comfortable wrap dress with no underwear. She insisted that this was the reason she had an accident- that if she put underwear on, she wouldn’t have been thrown from the car, unconscious, spread-out on the road for someone to find her and see that she wasn’t wearing panties. At least she had a sense of humor about it. Then she said, “I still can’t feel one of my arms, and my ribcage is sore, but other than that…”

“Katy, your left arm? Is that the one you can’t feel?”

“Yeah, my left arm…how did you know?”I explained. And then I told her to never leave the house without panties on again, as long as I don’t have health insurance.

--

In March of 2000 I was keeping a grueling schedule that involved getting up at 5 a.m. to get ready for work and drive to a remote train station, catch the Metra into the city, take a bus, work a nine hour day, catch the bus to the train to the car, and drive to a musical rehearsal in Cicero (Morton College Theatre) to rehearse until midnight and then drive home, getting to bed about 1 a.m. After keeping this schedule for four straight days I was becoming one exhausted actress. My normal sleeping issues aside, this schedule was not something I would chose to do in hindsight. I became a virtual zombie and one night I had a wake-up call that I would never forget.

The fourth night driving home around 12:30 a.m. on I-355 North, I became conscious that I was a good candidate for nodding off at the wheel, but I was ten minutes away from my apartment and there was almost no one else on the road. I just kept thinking that in ten minutes I’ll be able to take a hot bath and crash for the night. In ten minutes, I’ll be home. I cranked up the radio and was singing along to keep myself awake. Then, the strangest thing happened. I had a vision that my car flipped upside down and onto the center median. It was so vivid that it jolted me. I shook it off. Man, I need some sleep. Stay Awake. Stay awake. Then, it happened again. The same vision. It lasted only seconds, but was terrifying. I debated pulling over to the side of the road. Should I take a quick nap? These visions were freaking me out. I decided that sleeping on the side of the road at this time of night was not all that safe of an option either. I continued to drive. The vision happened a third time. Quick. Now, I was practically slapping myself. It was freezing cold out, light snowflakes falling, but I opened my window, and my sun roof in order to keep myself from getting comfortable enough for sleeping and I cranked the radio even louder. Almost there. And then, it happened.

From the I-355 Southbound, going the opposite direction, a red car launches into mid air, lands upside down wrapping itself over the center median sailing at tremendous speed down the length of the median, passing me, huge sparks flying from the friction of metal and concrete until it hits a light post and ricochets back into southbound traffic. OH MY GOD!!! OH MY GOD!! Did I imagine that? Did I just see that? Am I so tired I’m hallucinating? I started shaking uncontrollably and crying, distressed over what I think I may have just witnessed. Within a minute I was at my exit. I felt that if what I witnessed was real, there were so few cars on the road, that I should report it. But without a cell phone (this was before everyone and their dog had a cell phone), my only option was to find a pay phone. There was a Dominick’s grocery store right off the ramp. I pulled into the lot, spotted a pay phone, went to the phone and made a call to 9-1-1. I explained what I saw and the location in relation to the exit ramp, that I had no earthly idea how the car ended up flipping like that only that this is what I saw, and that it rebounded back into the Southbound lane. Even as I was calling, I wasn’t completely sure I was lucid, until the operator confirmed it. Halfway through my giving details, she paused, had a brief exchange with another operator and then came back to the receiver to tell me that two Southbound truckers were reporting the very same incident, with the very same details, the red car flipping onto the median. Then she asked me a question I will never forget.

“Do you think there were any survivors?” My vision came back, myself on the inside of the flipping car (the drivers perspective).Thinking the answer to this question might be the difference between sending an ambulance and police or police only, I responded “I don’t know. Maybe. I’m not sure,” while knowing in my gut that whoever was in the car died on impact.

Still shaking, I drove home very carefully and crawled straight into bed. For the next three days, I avoided news broadcasts and newspapers because I knew I couldn’t handle knowing who was in that car.

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Random Thoughts

> I've decided that frustration breeds creative productivity for me. Especially career and romantic relationship frustrations. I have been super- frustrated with both lately. I have been writing and jotting down notes like crazy. Getting all sorts of ideas. Good ones? Hell, I dunno. They seem brilliant at the time. But then I discount some and toss them aside or forget to write them down. Or, I blog, of course.

> More frequent trips to the grocery have caused me to notice that there is a company that exists in close proximity called PLANNED LIGHTING. I like to imagine it's a clinic for people who have gone crazy with lighting fixtures before perhaps they should have, morally and/or practically. Perhaps they are out of control with lighting. Maybe they have resorted to lighting a home they do not own outright, such as a rented apartment, and therefore, they have need of the services and resources of someone who can assist them in planning their home lighting in a more responsible fashion. (ala Planned Parenthood).

This made me think of other businesses with funny names. One of my favs is a Chinese take-out chain in Indiana called YOU A CARRY OUTA. I love it. I mean, I've never eaten their take-out, so I can't speak for the food quality, but you can't beat the name.

> I've decided that it's a good thing that my highly restrictive diet prohibits alcohol. This is a very lucky thing for me. Though I've yet to ever actually fall prey to the act of drunk-dialing someone, this might have been my week. Yes, fortunately, keeping my sobriety and insecurities in tact has allowed me to refrain from doing something completely regrettable week.

> I never thought I would say that I'm getting sick of avocados. But, I'm afraid this is moment is fast approaching.

>Chocolate Rain. I finally saw the video on YouTube and the song keeps haunting me at random times, then I went to an engagement party and it was part of the discussion. What a bizarre virtual world we live in that this guy's has gotten such exposure. I fully expect to hear fabulous, creative sampling of this in a dance club mix the next time I go dancing. Dee-jays don't let me down!

>Speaking of club dancing....DAVIS, get the silver club dress outta the closet! (I ditched my retro 60s one long ago, but have another that should suffice. Where is the black disco catsuit when a girl needs it?) We'll have to go dancing when I'm in L.A. in a few weeks visiting my city-of-angels posse. L.A. folks- I'll be the chick in the corner drinking San Pellegrino with a lime when she's not kicking ass on the dancefloor.

> Ode to Lasagna: Lasagna you are the object of my innermost desire. Absence has made the heart grow all the fonder. I cannot bring myself to pass by Piazza Bella (where I'm convinced they add cinnamon to the luscious, tomato-meat sauce). I cannot wait until I am able to fondle your cheese-hearty noodles again between hungry lips and teeth and tongue. Such long-suffering sacrifice I endure. Though I can now slip into the Calvin Kleins once dismissed as "too ambitious"; I am dreaming of you.

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Grace Almost Dies

Around 6:30 p.m. on Labor Day she knocks on my back door. When I open it her face is black and red with a huge gash in it, stiched up, and there is blood all over her clothes and she is shaking.

"WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU?!"

"Jennifer, I just came from hospital."

"Are you okay?! What happened?!"

"I was at Harlem and Bel-mont. I was running to catch de bus. I saw de bus was coming and I didn't want to miss it. I ran across the street, but I fell over something, I don't know what. And my face. I hit the street, my sunglasses shattered all over and into my face. I was carrying glasses of juice. I had been shopping and the glass broke in the bag by my face on de street and glass all over me. There was so much blood. You wouldn't beleive how much blood. But I stood up and tried to get on the bus. I didn't really feel nothing. I didn't know really what happened. But the bus driver told me she couldn't let me on the bus like that. And this woman. This very nice woman with the paper towels. I wish I had gotten her name..with the paper towels. She had just bought them at the store and she was helping me with the blood and there were people all around. Someone I don't know, some guy ran to the Denny's, you know, and called an ambulance. But I didn't know he did. when the ambulance got there I didn't know it was for me. People kept saying it was for me and I was like 'why?' I didn't want to go. But, one man said I would probbaly need stitches and I went with them. 14 stitches."

"Geez! You're lucky you didn't cut your eye."

"I know, my God! Can you believe? They numbed my face, you know? And then took out de little ti-ny pieces of glass all in my face and then they did the stiches. 14 stitches. I am still shaking."

"You were shopping?"

"Shopping. I got up early this morning to visit with Snoopy today on the way south side, you know."

"At the cemetary?"

"Yes, the cemetary, but he is not in the ground, you know, he is in the building. The Maso...Maso"

"Mausoleum?"

"Yes. But the gate was locked. It was closed for the holiday."

"Oh, yeah. I guess it's just Memorial Day and not Labor Day that they stay open."

"Yes, but I didn't know and it took almost two hours to get there. I was so damn mad. I get excited, you know, on the bus right before like I am going to see him, even though I know not really see him, but to know he's there. I was so excited I could feel it in my stomach that I was going to see him and then it was closed and I was so damn mad I thought how can I climb this fence? I was thinking, how I could climb the fence?"

"Ah, so it was going to be either the police station or the hospital today, one or the other."
"I would've never thought I would end up in hospital today when I woke up this morning. You really just don't know. Anything could happen."

"So then you went shopping."

"Yes, on my way back, I went shopping, but I wasn't really in the mood for shopping, I was so damn mad."

"That's why you fell."

"No I fell because I tripped over something. Where the road is higher like this." She shows me with her hand a few inches from the ground.

"You were so mad about the cemetary being closed that you were having an off day, you know, spiritually. Off-kilter. Your chi wasn't flowing. Where it's one bad thing after another."

"Then I was mad when I was at the hospital because everyone there is with someone and I was all alone and didn't have any phone numbers with me."

"Get a cell phone! I'll program numbers into it for you and show you how to use the speed dial."

"I maybe should, but I had one once and it was so damn expensive."

"Get a prepaid phone or something just for emergencies. What if you never came back?- We'd go crazy worrying about what happened to you!"

"I felt so bad at the hospital to be by myself like that when everyone else had somebody. I thought that damn Snoopy! He leave me all alone like this."

"Nooooo. He was with you in spirit."

"You think so? I forget to think that he could be with me all the time."

"He was."

"Then why did he have to let me trip and go to the hospital today to get 14 stitches?"

"You were running too fast for him. He didn't think you'd actually try to run for the bus. But, he dove just in time to save your eye, didn't he?"

"Yes. The doctor said it was a miracle it went all around, but no went glass in my eye."

"See, don't give him such a hard time. He saved your eye. You're the one who had to make a run it. He may have something to say about that."

"I guess so. I look terrible, don't I? People are going to wonder what happened."

"Tell 'em you were in a bar fight."

"Yes. That's it. I should tell them it was a bar fight." She smiled.

I added, "Tell 'em if they think you look bad, they should see the other guy!"

She paused, raised an eyebrow and with a smirk, "Twenty-five stitches."

"YES!!! Twenty five!"

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Freedoms Watch T.V. Commercials

I recently emailed the following response to the Freedoms Watch organization via their website (freedomswatch.org) in response to their new television commercials urging Americans to support prolonging the war in Iraq:

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Your commercials make me nauseas. Because I don't support this war I am anti-freedom (or an anti-patriot)!?

Imposing our political agendas on other countries infringes on freedom. This war was based on a lie. We are not fighting Osama. We are not ridding the world of weapons of mass destruction. We are feeding terror groups more excuses to hate Americans and develop ways to terrorize us. This war has severely damaged our foreign relations. Sure, we can keep saying we're winning this as long as we can keep changing the reason for why we're even at war to begin with. Maybe no one will notice. Maybe if we keep running a fear campaign and guilting people by saying they aren't supporting our troops, people will find a way to justify a gazillion tax dollars and thousands of lives lost. Let's support our troops staying in a war that didn't provide them with enough resources for battle to begin with. That's patriotism at its best. Let's keep our troops tied up for the war-on-terror, or good-Samaritan-democratization war (whichever sounds best for the moment), so that when a disaster like Katrina hits the U.S. we don't have enough troops on hand to help save the lives of our own citizens.

Are you sending your children off to war for the noble cause? Or is it just other people's children? Curious to know. Will they come back alive, proud of what they're a part of, or will they come back and commit a quiet suicide from their guilt of having been a part of it- a death that will never make it to press because it could breed anti-war sentiments?

"They will attack again."

Fear propaganda has been used throughout world history to back a whole host of immoral actions on the part of governments. Your choice to exploit fear without fact in these messages confirms to me that the real war agenda lacks any legitimate justification.

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Vodka & Cheese Blintzes

So, I got off work early on Friday for the holiday. Weather was gorgeous; I had to be outside. Took the dog on a log walk through Roscoe Village. He was able to meet and sniff two labradors (three blonde, two black), a border collie mix, and a giant, un-neutered schnauzer (with whom the greet when surprisingly well) so he was satisfied. Upon our return, he runs upstairs to meet with Grace, our Polish landlady, who has made every effort to be deemed his Second Mother and feeds him bread, cheese and retriever rolls (rawhides). Needless to say he’s in love with her now. Which started the trend of always going up the back staircase to her apartment to pay her a visit EVERY afternoon. If she’s not there, he will sit outside her door and whimper until I pull him down with the authority of Mommy Numero Uno. He sometimes gets pissy with me about this by: taking a ‘tone’ with me. So, I’m not all that thrilled about the routine she started except when I remind myself that she truly enjoys his company. He is the often the highlight of her day as a widow in her 60s (?) with no children or even family in the States at all.

So, he runs upstairs and I follow him, but today Grace sees us and starts to shut the door. She’s talking to one of my neighbors from upstairs. With a very serious look on her face she says, “Jennifer, I will have to talk to you later. I have something to ask you. Not now but later” and closes the door behind her. I could tell something was going on. Something not good. I start to think of what it could be. I’ve often worried about her financial stability. I know she gets offers to buy the house all the time. So many developers are salivating over the land, trying to build condos on this block. With the empty lot next door it’s all the more appealing. I started to worry that she finally got an offer she couldn’t refuse and that she was going to tell us we would need to move out.

About ten minutes later, she knocks on the back door. “Can you come upstairs with me? Mars can come, too.” I say sure. Mars and I head up. Walking into her apartment, she says, “I have some bad news and I think I’m going to die.”

Before you interpret this as an actual reflection on the status of her health, I should tell you that she often says she’s going to die. When we had flooding in the back staircase, when we had mice, when the pipes were frozen for almost a month last winter, when squirrels were climbing into her bathroom air duct and squawking at her in the morning…all of these times she was going to die. And if she’s not going to die, she’s “going to pass out” or is already “unconscious” (about the broken gas meter, the dryer not getting hot enough, my air conditioner going out earlier this summer). In fact, the phrase “I’m unconscious,” is especially overused, and is my favorite, of course, considering.

“Whatever it is I’m sure you’re not going to die from it,” I assure her, as I have many times before. “How bad is it?”

“Come in, sit down. You are not going to believe it. I don’t even want to tell you or I’m going to cry.”

Oh, no; she sold the house. I sit on the couch. She sits down beside me. Mars gets situated near her on the floor awaiting food offerings.

“I don’t even want to say it, but they are breaking up and moving out.” She gestures to the ceiling “Chris and Christina*!”

* Names changed here to protect their identities, but actual names equally rank with cute alliteration.

Thank God she’s not selling the house.

“I’m going to be sick,” she says. She remembers she has a bone for Mars and gets it for him. He happily chomps it in the middle of the floor.

“Wow. So…what did he do?” I asked. Sorry guys. It just came out. As soon as I said it I knew I shouldn’t assume that it was something the guy did. I quickly followed up with, "I'm kidding. What happened?"

“I don’t know what happened. The wedding is off and she is moving out and he is moving into another apartment. They will be out by November and I will have to fix up their place and find new people to rent it.”

The couple got engaged last Christmas on a romantic trip to Mexico. Right before their trip, I met Chris in the stairwell in the wee hours of the morning because he woke up my dog on his way to take out his trash. He was so excited, he spilled to me that he had a ring and was going to propose on their trip and that he couldn’t wait. He had this look in his eyes, so intense. So honestly bursting with excitement of the idea of their being engaged that I will never forget it. I just remember thinking that if I were ever to get a proposal from a guy I would actually consider marrying I hope that he has the very same look in his eyes when he’s plotting to pop the Q.

It seemed fitting for them to be engaged. They had been dating since high school in Iowa and had lived together in their upstairs apartment with cats, a large tank of tropical fish, and a dog. They did almost everything together when they weren’t working. Chris did all of the disgusting things that women sit around and dream a guy would do for them on top of being actually very attractive. Things I will pass on writing the detail of because I might throw up on my keyboard in the documentation of these. Suffice to say, he is undeniably a romantic, proclaiming his utmost affection for his Christina in actions and words to anyone and everyone. (Actually wore a t-shirt that read: “I Love My Girlfriend” and not just around the house) Whipped. Christina seemed content enough with Chris, and life, though she was quieter, not as social. Really the only time you’d hear anything from her was when she was promoting a show she was in (an actor). But Chris was always very friendly and would enjoy small talk and sitting with other neighbors in his yard talking about his band or…Christina. Grace was especially fond of him. EVERY time he would leave from talking to us, she would take it upon herself to remind me that I should find myself a man like Chris. I would always respond something to the effect of “they don’t make ‘em anymore” and she would nod in agreement with me or sometimes mention that Snoopy was like that sometimes. (Snoopy being her late-husband’s nickname; she still only refers to him as Snoopy.)

Now Chris and Christina are calling it quits breaking off the engagement, breaking up the family. He gets the dog and the fish. She gets the cat. And Grace is going to die.

“I am so upset.” Grace said, starting to cry. “I thought they would get married and be here forever. I can’t get over it. I am going to make myself a bunch of cheese blintzes and drink myself to death with vodka. I don’t know what to do with myself. How could this happen?”
“Maybe she met someone else.” I said, posing a likely theory. “She just got that new job at that bar and she met someone that made her wish she’d explored more guys since high school.”
“Could be. Could be.” She said. “He mentioned they have been avoiding each other for the last four months or so, pretending everything was okay. He said the split was her idea. He was almost crying. You know he has been drinking an awful lot in the last few months.”

“Maybe it’s for the best.” I tried to console her. “Maybe he needs to meet someone who appreciates him for who he is. Maybe now he can find a better match.”

But, I’m not so sure I believe that because Chris will never be the same. He will be jaded now like other men who have been hung out to dry somewhere in the name of young innocent love. He won’t ever want to give so much of his heart for fear of losing it again. She has probably ruined him for every girl after. His drinking may get worse. Maybe may just up the ante with cocaine, heroine, what have you, in the effort to self-medicate and lose all true senses of respect for himself and women. Another one bites the dust.

Grace tried an optimistic outlook, “Maybe they will go separate ways and see other people and then realize they were meant to be and it will be better than before.”

“Maybe or maybe not. Either way I’m sure it will be okay. They are both still young.”

“I am serious. I feel like someone died. I am going to eat cheese blintzes like you wouldn’t believe and get out my vodka,” she exclaimed.

“And I’ll have to march upstairs and say to them: Look at what you’ve done to Grace! She’s passed out unconscious from vodka and cheese blintzes; YOU'VE GOT TO MAKE THIS WORK, DAMN IT!” I motioned as if this would be said by grabbing them both by their collars, pulling them in and screaming in their faces.

She laughed and then tried to convince me I needed to eat cheese blintzes with her.

“Noooooo. My diet. It’s a no, no. I didn’t get skinny this summer for nothin’ and besides, it’s not really a matter of losing weight as much as it is for health.” I managed to escape them.

I have been fantasizing about cheese blintzes since last night. I hope she can get over the break-up soon; I can’t hold out forever- smelling them in the stairwell.

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detox is a bitch

Sleeping deeper is a plus but getting out of bed is tough. I could sleep for hours to make up for lost slumbers. The diet is a detox regimine and sometimes I seem to have boundless energy and other times I feel exhausted and weak.

I'm still listening to Don Wade and Roma WLS a.m. just to get my blood boiling to the point I have to get up in the morning. Also assists in early morning vocalization exercises: four letter words. I listen to them for that reason alone. Gets me up and ready to kick some ass. Ready for the good ol' CTA commute.

The CTA has been brutal lately. Especially in the heat. But with storm damage and all even worse. I rode the redline last week on the way somewhere after work and the we were packed in like sweaty sardines. Even the blue line these days is crazy. Recently, a rather large woman with an enormous purse tried to push her way in to out crowded car on the 5pm commute and there was absolutely no room for her. She kept pushing and pushing then she started bitching for people to make room for her. People insisted it could not be done. We could barely breathe. The woman persisted and held up the train. People kept saying as politely as possible "Ma'am there is NO SPACE to move." Then a lone woman's voice from the middle of the car screams to her, "IF YOU CAN'T CLEAR YOUR BUTT AND YOUR BAG THEN YOU DON'T NEED TO GET ON!" And the people said...

Amen. (Actually we all just stared at her for a response.)

The pushy woman stopped, looked at us- indignant, of course, and then and took a silent step backward. The doors finally closed. There were many sighs of relief and even a 'thank you' to the voice that spoke up what everyone else was thinking. Two stops later a woman nearly passed out on top of me. As it is I'm a true claustrophobic. I have to listen to music and mentally go to a happy place. I hate my train commutes when it's overcrowded.

I have not been able to write poetry lately. When I try, it sucks. Maybe I'm too happy to write poetry. Except in the mornings. Except on the train. Maybe I'm too distracted.

I am trying to watch a lot of films lately because I would like to try writing a screenplay and I'm looking for inspiration and a screenplay-mindset. If you have any good ones to recommend, please do. I know I should work on that novel of mine. I should. I think about it quite a bit. Too many options of ways to change it right now. I'm hoping something will strike me soon. Right now health is the priority.

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i overslept

by 2 hours today. Do you have any idea what this means?

It means I WAS SLEEPING!!!!!

It's a miracle!

Got a new doc and a new protocol that includes a temporary, torturous diet of no dairy, next to no carbs, and as little sugar as possible. I thought I would die after day one, but I'm hanging in there. And today...progress.

I woke up this morning and checked the clock this morning. HOLY SHIT. 8:30.

My alarm was set for like 9 am from the weekend, so I still woke up before an alarm sounded. But I've never had to actually rely an alarm because I wake up maybe every 15-30 minutes or so all night anyways. Funny thing- for most of my life I thought this was how everyone slept (half-awake, half-dreaming). Thought maybe I was just a lighter sleeper than people who need alarms. It wasn't until, a few years back, I got up one morning to the guy sleeping next to me exclaiming "OH MY GOD WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? You never slept all night? You were tossing and turning constantly! I kept feeling like you were in pain and I couldn't do anything for you. How can you live like this?!" Grumpy from no sleep, of course. And I felt absolutely horrible for being such miserable sleep-company. But it was his reaction that made me first realize: I don't know what deep sleep means and this is not normal. I know what complete exhaustion feels many days, at the end of the day, but not relief from it. At the same time, I feel like I'm not a true insomniac. True insomniacs I think are far more productive. When they can't sleep they read or surf the net or write or catch up on movies or they clean. I have always aspired to be the productive kind of sleep-deprived person. But...things are looking up- me over-sleeping this morning. I was bouncing around the apartment as I got ready this morning thinking- I slept! I slept! And then I called my boss and left her a message, got dressed, put on face in like 15 minutes and grabbed a cab to make up for lost time.

Then about ten minutes later I almost died, literally. The cab driver pulled out in front of another oncoming cab while getting off the expressway at Jackson. I was screaming "Whoa, whoa whoa what are you doing!!!" to the driver as the other cab abruptly steered away to narrowly avert our demise. I thought O-kay, I almost died just then and then I remembered...I slept last night. :)

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Jen: UNPLUGGED

So, five weeks ago my computer died. Trying to save my precious files between flashes of a blue screen and automatic shutdowns....it was terrible. It became painfully clear that time was short for my Toshiba harddrive. I knew I had to do what no computer user ever wants to have to do: decide what would be saved before the last flash of digital life. I had to choose between Writing Files, Graphic Files, and Music Files and which were going to make it onto my 1 G memory stick as the time between shutdowns grew shorter and shorter: it was the Sophie's choice of 'ones and zeros' files. In the end, what was lost was some of my newer music files. They simply could not be saved in time and the summer mix I started for my faithful subscribers will have to wait a bit longer while I collect these works...again.

But, alas, my plays and poems and novel draft remain in tact, my graphic portfolio is in good form, and from this, a lesson for us all: back your shit up as soon as you possibly can. I am not kidding.

I am told the computer may be ready as soon as tomorrow. (The one I am using now is my old rusty desktop that I finally dug out of storage to get my virtual fix.) Why has it taken this long to repair my laptop? Microcenter took a week to even look at it, then they had to ship it to a Toshiba authorized repair center for the warranty work which involved having a new hard drive shipped in. Then, I am told, it still didn't work. They discovered another part was needed and the part also had to be ordered, perhaps directly from Japan on a slow boat. Now they have the second mysterious 'part' and maybe they will get around to it tomorrow. Maybe. But, hey, it's all covered under the 1 year warranty,right? So, why rush it.

Aside from this, I have had ridiculously low battery life in both my cell and home (cordlesss) phones. And just when I think it couldn't get much worse...My television tube burns out. Twenty-year old machine finally kicks it. And today, at work, the copy machine started getting paper jams in ways and places I never thought possible that could not be cleared without having someone take the machine apart. Funny, worked like a dream for the guy in front of my in line to use it. Then I stepped in to make one copy of one page and that's all she copied folks...So, I'm technologically jinxed right now. I probably shouldn't touch anything. In fact, I probably shouldn't even be t

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Bringing you up to speed

Since I last posted, I have had:

4 events I had to coordinate within 7 days time (3 work-related/1 writers association)
3 fraudulent charges to my debit card from an online war games site
3 trips to the naprapath (I swear by naprapaths- they are a godsend)
2 friends give birth (both had girls)
1 meeting with a media company about making my play into a movie (I declined.)
1 injury to my back triggering the recent series of all too familiar inflammatory “episodes” (okay…I tripped over my dog while reading something and the pain at one point was nearly unbearable—where’s my Aspercreme? No, tiger balm…no, Traumeel! Still recovering…)
1 hour spent in a tattoo parlor (just looking, no ink to show for it)
1 dream that I was cast as Peter Pan in a musical production of Peter Pan against my will. I kept insisting that they could likely wrap my chest to get me into the costume, but there was no way they’d be able to hide my ass to pass me off as a little elfish white-boy. I insisted they call in Sandy Duncan. They refused.

Other stuff:
Been reading Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead and I’m really enjoying it. Great characters, some fantastic passages. There are many critics of Ayn’s philosophy of Objectivism, most make it sound like she champions the antithesis to the Golden Rule, but I think she has some good ideas that are misunderstood. She’s very attuned to the nature people and I love that she’s unapologetic about calling things as they are. She also believes there should be “a complete separation of state and economics, in the same way and for the same reasons as the separation of state and church.” It’s likely my negative experiences with churches and charities and disgust with political corruption that are driving me right into the open pages of Ayn Rand. Also, I have an interest in exploring the life of a female philosopher in my writings and she is one of a few that are of interest to me. I'm already looking forward to Atlas Shrugged.

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