pithy thought of the day

"What do you do all day?"

Talent works, genius creates. -- Robert Schumann 

Once upon a time, a friend set me up on something of a blind date with a guy that she thought would be perfect for me -- whatever that means. We met up one random evening and after some initial awkwardness, we began to relax and talk easily. When I told him that I was an artist and explained what kind of performance I was into at the moment, he asked me what I did all day.  I didn't mind the question -- when I'm around certain kinds of people, I get it a lot. I usually enjoy giving a pithy response because what I have to say is so unexpected. No one seems to have any earthly idea as to what this creative life is really like.

It was the way this guy asked me that question that made my spidey sense tingle. Asking me what I do all day is fine by me. Talking down to me is unacceptable.

The funny thing is that it came out as a bit of a snarl, probably because of some leftover resentment for that LA actress ex-girlfriend I wasn't supposed to know anything about. Lord knows I have a good idea as to what she was doing all day. So all things considered, maybe that vitriol was meant for her but he had no business aiming it at me, regardless. This was our first date. This was the one moment when we both put our absolute best foot forward, right?  Try though I might, something in me couldn't ignore what lay underneath it all. So I answered his question.

This is what I told him -- more or less.

There are two kinds of artists -- those who replicate and those who originate.  I am an originator.

Replicators are not in the habit of forging ahead with their own ideas, going through the hell and high water of growing them to end goal completion by any means necessary. The are usually ready, willing and able to facilitate someone else's project. Don't get me wrong -- the enormity of work, dedication and talent that it takes to pull that off cannot be overstated. You take class to stay honed and focused, to keep everything on the level, to keep what you've got, to learn more. After a certain point, you get a show and you're working 8 shows a week on Broadway or in Germany or Japan or God knows where. All of a sudden, 8 years goes by and you don't know what happened.  All you know is, you have to get another show.

While I have certainly proven myself capable of replicating ad nauseam, that's just not who I am creatively. I'm not the kind of artist that auditions a lot and then sits at home, praying for the phone to ring so I can have a job.  Yes, I audition -- and trust me, the constant state of readiness that it takes to audition well is a full time job in and of itself -- but that process is the side dish in my creative life, not the main course.  If I want a job, I create it. So what I do every day is a little different than what other artists do.

At this point, I had my date's full and undivided attention. Unfortunately, he had completely lost mine.  He asked me about things I'd written but I was evasive.  Still and all, I kept going at a brisk pace, mostly because I wanted to wrap the whole evening up when dinner was over.

My day typically resembles that three headed dog from Hades. First and foremost? Maintenance and upkeep. I'm transitioning to on camera work and in that world what you look like is everything apparently, so I wear myself out with boxing on a daily basis and slowly I am growing into the habit of eating clean. There's the hard work of being a girl, too -- I have an eyebrowist -- and then when the physical stuff is out of the way, there's a slew of classes to take, just so I can stay good at what I do.  (Like on camera acting class -- so crucial during pilot season.) Voice lessons. Guitar lessons. Piano lessons. Practice, practice, practice. The art of the hustle is always on -- auditions, callbacks, go-sees, gigs.  Basically, I have to be ready all the time.

Secondly and just as important? Growing and developing new ideas. I am forever swimming through rewrites and workshops and readings, oh my! All of that gets scheduled into my everyday life, with auditions and callbacks sandwiched in where ever they will fit.

Last but not least, of course, is the gig itself.  I do a lot of different things so a gig for me could be bouncing around on tour in Europe, co-staring in a musical, playing a swanky private corporate party or tiptoeing to the mailbox barefooted in my kimono to get a residual check for an episodic.

Of course, he wanted to know what I did that day. As I politely refused dessert, I happily obliged. I had no intentions of ever speaking to him again so why not put a bow on this puppy? Here's the rundown:

I had a late night gig, so I slept in. I jumped on and off the phone, zipped through my email, looked over rewrites and messed around with a song idea on my guitar. Then I had a boxing conditioning class that was so brutal, I sat in the steam room afterwards for 30 minutes, trying to twist my torso without wincing. I paid my eyebrowist a visit afterwards -- beauty is pain, according to RuPaul, and he was right -- and then I dragged myself to the Performing Arts Library, where I did some research for a new idea. I had a callback for a voiceover that was pretty quick and then I met up with a good friend for tea and advice. I went home with a fresh perspective on my rewrites and buried myself in them until it was time for dinner.

My date went home with a fresh perspective that night. Maybe I did, too. I resolved to work smarter, not harder. Oh, and no more blind dates -- with non-artists, anyway.

An Important Reminder

Ten Things Every Black Woman Should Have If She Lives in New York City

I've seen way too many of these "ten things" lists floating around -- and so have you. Most of them say things that are generally true for anyone, not just women.  None of them speak to me, especially when they say insist that's not the case.  Unless you're rich, independently wealthy or bankrolled in some other way (your parents bought your apartment! yay!), living in New York City is a very difficult proposition. The fabulousness of paying four figures a month to live in Williamsburg or Bushwick or Harlem just isn't enough after awhile. Something else has to soften the blow. 

If I didn't have all of these things, the quality of my life in New York City would take a decidedly downward turn. FYI: This list is not in order and it's totally in flux. Next week, it could morph into something else.

1. A strong sense of personal style -- By now, you should know the difference between fashion (what trends/a clothing designer/your favorite pop star tells you to wear) and style (self expression).  You and your closet shouldn't be at the mercy of what's in or what's out.  I'm aware of what's fashionable and a lot of it looks like (expensive) fun but if I can't look like myself when I put my clothes on, what's the point. As a performer, I'm in the business of expressing myself.  Being me when I get dressed is the natural order of things so maybe there's an unfair advantage in there somewhere.  New York City is the place where your individuality is an asset because it sets you apart from the common herd.  Then again, if you really don't love yourself enough to be yourself in the first place, the wheels are going to come off that bus pretty fast.
2. Excellent physical health -- You don't have to be in peak physical condition to live here but trust me, it helps. When I moved to Harlem, I lost weight and stayed lean in part because I suddenly found myself walking and riding my bike everywhere.  It was a drastic change from a place like Atlanta, for example, where everyone drives everywhere for anything.  Even going up and down the stairs to get on and off the subways will wear you out, if you do it on a regular basis. Then again, you can jump in and out of cabs to get around -- if you can catch one.  Aside from all that, being sick can be pretty expensive -- and what with all the money you're already throwing up in the air to live here, you really don't want to spend more on something that possibly could have been prevented.
3. A friend in the Garment District  -- When what is fashionable and trendy loses its luster, it gets sold -- sometimes for as much as 90% below what you would have paid when it was on the rack.  You can sign up for alerts for sample sales to your favorite designers -- but if you know someone who works there (and what with six degrees of separation, you probably do), they can let you into the sale before it happens.
4. A spiritual life
5. A strong connection to your family (how ever you define it) and your community (the world your family lives in).
6. A sister who will (lovingly and tactfully) tell you the truth and a brother who will always have your back.
7. Your Own Private Hair Guru -- I don't care what you've got -- a tight weave, a closet full of wigs, a blow dryer that's your hair's best friend or a T.W.A. When it's time to get your hair done properly, you've got to have your go-to person on speed dial.  They're affordable, they're convenient and they usually know your hair better than you do. You didn't open a phone book to figure this out. You asked a sister and she told you what's up. Black folks live and die by word of mouth. Period.
8. A well worn passport -- The importance of traveling internationally need hardly be stressed. Get out there. See the world. It will change your life. (Start here.)
   
9. A museum membership -- This is quite literally the gift that keeps on giving. There are hundreds of museums, cultural sites, historical establishments and the like in New York City.  Most of them are internationally recognized and much lauded, and quite a few are trendy little hotspots.  Some of them offer memberships. If you join at a certain level -- and yes, you can write most of your fee off on your taxes -- that's where the fun begins.  There are events, parties, galas, previews for openings and lots of other exclusive diversions, not to mention added discounts and free passes to other museums all over the country.
10. A diverse group of friends that includes at least one WASPy looking white guy -- Because when your fun night is over, someone has to put you in a cab. When there's some flak in any given social situation, someone has to smooth things over. And if there's a "problem", someone has to talk to the police -- and you and I both know that probably shouldn't be the black man in the room.

a happy epiphany

now that eating clean and not eating at night has become the rule in my foodie life and not the exception, it feels odd to not eat that way all the time.  the upshot is, i'm sliding into clothes that didn't fit me last spring, so the weight loss was gradual enough to stick.  maybe it's the change of seasons, but i find myself using clothes to measure the changes in my body instead of the scale. it's much more rewarding, much more satisfying and way more quantifiable than a golden number to hit that somehow "completes" me.

boxing everyday took inches off my frame but i hardly lost any weight. you're gaining muscle, my sparring partner/coach would say, waving me off. you're getting stronger. i was sad because i couldn't fit into my favorite little black dress. now i'm thinking, as long as i can wear all the clothes in my closet -- including that dress, eventually, if i keep this up -- who cares what i weigh.  and of course, all of this is making me very happy that i didn't toss out the vintage clothes that i love, simply because they didn't fit anymore. slowly but surely, i'm getting back into them.

so that's my happy epiphany for the moment. what's yours?

12 Little Big Things

When I was an undergrad at the University of Texas at Austin, I went through a leadership program sponsored by the YWCA that gave me specific tools that I have used ever since to manage my life. The core of it seemed simple enough but the entire six week process ultimately served to unravel my way of thinking and showed me how to my live on purpose.  Certain things had to be undone and broken down and cleared away before the good stuff could sink in and take root. The people closest to me could sense a profound change in me and marveled at the person that I was becoming. I couldn't see it then but in retrospect, it was like someone turned on all the lights.

Whenever I see lists like this, I recognize what that innocuous little class taught me and I feel a profound sense of gratitude.  I have pretty much incorporated everything on this list into the most mundane moments of my world. A big thumbs up to #6 -- if anything has kept me outside of my comfort zone, it's growing and thriving as a working artist in New York City.

Interestingly, the first habit is the most important one. I constantly refine my goals and priorities -- two lists that live and breathe, on paper and in my mind's eye, in technicolor, all the time. S.M.A.R.T. goals are Specific Measurable Attainable Realistic and Timely.  If you don't get this one right, the wheels are coming off the bus with a quickness.

What's especially vital is having your very own private working definition of success -- one that you refine and nurture when you see fit -- and a teflon coated attitude that won't let anything or anyone encroach upon it.

*sigh* If I knew then what I know now...

...these are a few of my favorite things...

Oprah's got her list, I've got mine.  So there.



1. Talenti Gelato --  Straight outta Dallas, Texas -- where else? -- this Italian delicacy (by way of Argentina's helado) is the best-selling gelato in the country.  The only reason why its #3 on the premium ice cream list is because you haven't tried it yet. I haven't touched my ice cream maker since I fell into a pint of this stuff. Woe is me.



2. BonChon -- Hands down far and away without a doubt the best fried chicken wings I've ever had in a restaurant.  Dizzyingly, astonishingly good.



3. Curlbox --  This is an inexpensive, exclusive, monthly subscription service created, owned and operated by a sister that's filled with natural hair products galore. (And yes, her company was the first to cater to natural hair.) I get to try out all kinds of wonderful stuff from the comfort of my own couch -- videos. Twist outs and curl creams and leave ins, oh my! No wonder my hair is growing like crazy.



4. Bra Smyth -- Oprah was right: most women (85%?!?!?) are wearing the wrong bra size. Kind of makes you wonder who told you which bra to get in the first place.  I don't know how I ended up with what I did, but I was way off -- by, like, two cup sizes. (Egad.) Until I whittle my way back down into a size that I can pluck off the rack at H&M, the upper west side's Bra Smyth is my spizzot. I especially like the little parlor-like fitting rooms and how attentive the ladies are, to get the measurements just right.




5. SEW Bespoke Clothing -- MPB is too big and tall to buy most clothing off the rack. When its time to get his next suit, this is where I'm taking him.

Flash Fiction: "Last Call"

Whenever I say that I should write a book, MPB says I already have -- within this blog. He's probably right. Until I get organized and publish something substantial, here's a short, swift, flash-y idea that I've been working on, in spurts.  Enjoy.

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Last Call

          Every night, the same scenario.  Last call happened along unexpectedly.  No music.  Bright ugly lights. Big ugly bouncers, moving through the bar like human cattle prods, whistling and shouting obscenities. When only a select few remained, someone would pull the grate down and lock the door, signaling the moment when the evening shifted gears into a higher octane world. Candles were everywhere.  Soft music drifted through the air like chiffon. There were plenty of drugs and whatever else anyone wanted.  It was beautiful and morose.  And then it was over.  Eventually the grate went up again so everyone could stumble back into the full-fledged sunlight and the traffic and their day jobs and the rest of their lives. 

          This was the pit-stop I made on my way home, sometimes several times during the week. It was my way of unwinding so I'd be able to relax when I got to my apartment, which was no Shan-gri-la.  I just got a roommate, a skinny French girl named Claudette who apparently had never heard of deodorant.  Instead, she would douse her armpits with expensive perfume and wonder aloud as to why Americans bathed so much.  The funk that followed her out of the bathroom whenever she bothered to take a hot shower was enough to make my face twitch involuntarily whenever I thought about it. 

          Of course, Claudette didn't smell a thing.  Lucky girl.

          It wasn't just the smelly foreign white girl.  It was everything.  My life had glazed over into a series of hapless misadventures that left me feeling restless and unsatisfied.  I didn't know how to undo any of it so I numbed myself out with cocktails and dead-end relationships and waited for some kind of an upheaval.  A cool guy.  A new job.  A decent haircut.  The Lotto.  Something that would change things so drastically, my present scenario would be a distant memory, like things that happened to me when I was very young.  Something to think back on and remember with such clarity, it's almost as though it happened to someone else.

          The bar was clearing out as I arrived.  I bumped into one of the regulars on my way to the backroom.  She was bobbing back and forth gently, buoyed by a steady stream of drunken freaks who were making their way towards the exit.  She had a pink dress on and she was so high she just stood there in her strappy sandals, her eyes rolled back in her head, her yellowy hair all over the place.  If she had been lying down, I would have assumed that she was dead.  Nice shoes, I thought and I began to wonder if they were my size.

          I slid into a booth and put my feet up, exhausted. 

          The DJ cranked into that song "American Woman".  In my head, I turned up the Butthole Surfers' version and began to sip my first drink.

        Bouncers laughed and exchanged war stories.  Some guy across from me was smoking something that was making him cough violently.  Two girls in the corner were making out and giggling.  That blonde junkie was standing right where I left her.  Some guy had come along and put his arms around her, at first it seemed to steady her, but then as it turned out, to steady himself.  They both began to sway slowly to the rhythm of an invisible metronome, lost in the clicks that seemed to emanate from their bodies.  When the clicking noises fell out of sync with their movements, I realized that the sound was real.  Somebody was doing it in the bathroom.

          Somewhere in between the coughing and the clicking, someone let Jake inside.  He was pale and dark, a writhing tangled mass of bucolic imaginings, of venom and sickly sweetness and vomit and flowers. Jake liked me but he didn't know what to do about it.  Neither did I.  We'd been having a kind of Mexican stand-off of a relationship for awhile now.  No commitment.  No emotional responsibility. The fact that we were deeply in love was a big secret to everyone, especially to us. It seemed to augment our friendship and make us abnormally happy.

          Jake was drunk and he was high and in high spirits. He made his way toward me, spewing one rollicking non sequitor after another, filling the place with spontaneous combustions of laughter.  He paused in the flow of action that swirled around him to slide into the booth and kiss me intently on the mouth. Wide-eyed and startled, I pulled away. Although he smelled like a bar of soap,  his clothes had a slight odor to them that I recognized instantly.  It was my roommate. Clearly, she had been all over him. From the smell of it, she still was.  I could barely stand to share an apartment with her and now she was in my bed, putting her smelly body all over my precious Jake.  And there I was, squished in between them, fully dressed and unable to escape.

          As he held me in his arms, I felt the weight of time and familiarity between us.  It frightened me.  He was a dead end. And yet I clung to him, struggling to hold on to something that wasn't really even there.  He was my situation personified: the day job I wouldn't leave, the roommate I wouldn't get rid of, the myriad of issues I wouldn't face. I saw the world I created in his heavy-lidded eyes, beautiful and arcane, making love to my worry.  Did I know him at all?  How could I.

I knew that he'd have the smell of that girl on him, no matter how clean he was.  That was the last straw. It was over.  Somewhere in me, the night had finally ended. Instinctively he held me closer but I was already gone--out the door and into the sun that was waiting to shine on me.

My kingdom for a comfy sofa...

This classic moment in comedy -- hasn't everyone seen this? -- is brought to you by Monty Python.

The thing is, I'm looking for a comfy chair -- a comfy sofa, to be exact. I don't know why I'm having such a hard time. Probably because I'm not looking by myself. At this point, I've given up on the idea of a sleeper sofa or something brand spanking new that's affordable.  Jennifer Sofas, IKEA, La-Z-Boy. They're all out. I'm either going to find it refurbished at a flea market or a secondhand shop, or I'll pay way too much for it from some high end place like everybody else does.

I really like this one. It's so ugly, it's beautiful.

Or maybe I should just throw in the towel and go for baroque. (Heh.)

After a certain point, all of it looks good. Just not in my apartment.

Except this one. This one does not look good. I'm not even sure it's a couch.

I mean wow, right?

There's no rush but it would be nice to get this whole sofa question answered before my birthday gets here in June...

Happy Cinco de Mayo, y'all...

While everyone gets trashed on margaritas and inhales copious amounts of Mexican food to celebrate -- what, Mexican Independence Day, right America? (wrong!) -- I thought it would be nice to have a two minute history lesson that explains it for those amongst us that might be curious as to What Actually Happened.



As much as I love the History channel's little blurb on this topic, this needs to be told from a black perspective -- like most of American history.  Because apparently, you won't know what really went down unless we tell it.

Here's the bottom line, plain and simple: If those French troops had provided much needed reinforcements to their Southern allies at that moment in the campaign, the Union might have lost The Civil War. And this country would be a very different place.

To dip into my archives for the golden oldie entry that goes into detail -- In Observance of Cinco de Mayo: A Lingering Afterthought -- please click here.

Oh -- and if you really want to crack up, watch this.

May the fourth...!

Happy Star Wars Day!  Today's that special day that everyone shares their favorite moments from the franchise (when are they not sharing those moments?) so here's mine. MPB's work takes him to comic cons regularly and sometimes, I tag along -- it's like a big nerd prom! --  hence, my photo op with those storm troopers and then some. 

The way to (re)watch any Star Wars movie is to see it through the eyes of a real super geek as both of you stare transfixed at that Robot Chicken tv screen.  Here's where it all started: "Go for papa Palpateen!"



I'm telling you, nothing's better than watching this stuff with someone who can explain all the minutae. 

Before Robot Chicken came along, I seriously couldn't stand Jar Jar Binks.  He's so many racist characters and stereotypes rolled into one. On the one hand, he's the Stepin Fetchit of the galaxy -- bumbling, clumsy, stupid, inarticulate.  On the other hand, I can tell that from his propensity to scream at the very idea of trouble, he's also got quite a bit of Butterfly McQueen in him, too. And what's up with the effeminate sway of the hips, the Jamaican patois, the dreadlock hair/ear/whatever? I mean, seriously. What in the world was George Lucas thinking?  Couldn't he have found a well-educated, intelligent, thinking black person to set him straight? God knows he's been dating one for years.

Well. Thanks to Robot Chicken, I can laugh at Jar Jar Binks now with (relative) abandon -- even if watching too much of him makes me feel like I just got slimed.

Here's a Geico commercial!



And here he is with Darth Vader...



...and here's a fan that really stuck their foot in that sparkly moment.

"Is there any more mac and cheese?"

I still feel that French cooking is the most important in the world, one of the few that has rules. If you follow the rules, you can do pretty well. -- Julia Child

Never one to leave an interesting tidbit alone, I dug further into that delicious bowl of macaroni and cheese and found all kinds of yummy factual goodness about its origins. As one story goes, Thomas Jefferson brought back a pasta machine from a lengthy sojourn in Rome. This is why his daughter Martha Randolph -- the hostess of the house after his wife died -- is credited with creating the dish by combining macaroni and parmesan cheese.

That doesn't make any sense to me. Why would Martha Randolph -- or any other white woman with money and status -- even think to toil over a hot stove to "create" anything?  You and I both know that if that was the scenario, she threw that pasta maker at some anonymous slave, they came up with mac and cheese and she put her name on it because it was served at her dinner parties.  The End.

And why do historians continue to openly ignore Sally Hemings and the (at least) six children she had with Thomas Jefferson after his spouse -- her half sister Martha -- passed away? The DNA evidence is irrefutable. What's especially rich is that none of Jefferson's white heirs have ever had to prove that they are related to him. Saying so is enough.

Interestingly, I tripped up over this book -- Thomas Jefferson’s Crème Brûlée: How a Founding Father and His Slave James Hemings Introduced French Cuisine to America, by Thomas J. Craughwell -- that was a real foodie curiousity.  Apparently, it was Jefferson that brought French cuisine to America, not Julia Child. Who knew? James Hemings -- his deceased wife Martha's 19 year old half-brother -- was promised his freedom if he stayed in France long enough to learn how to cook and bake Jefferson's favorite things. He was then required to teach another chef how to make them. It took Jefferson 11 years to make good on that promise. (Hm. I don't suppose I'd be so giddy to let my freshly trained chef waltz out of my life, either.)

Jefferson was in Paris for several years as US Ambassador to France.  He was also learning important things like how to grow grapes to make his favorite wines. From what I've read, he really loved his bordeaux.  Here's a colorful aside: a 14 year old Sally Hemings was there, too -- as a handmaid to Jefferson's youngest daughter Mary. (Yes, that would make his kid Sally's niece, for those of you keeping score at home.)  While she was in France, Sally wound up pregnant with Jefferson's baby. (Insert *gasp* here.) And now you know the rest of the story. Or do you?

The good news is that once the smoke cleared, Mr. Hemings started his own catering business. The bad news? Five years after he was freed, he committed suicide at the age of 36, in Baltimore Maryland.

All that, so Jefferson could drink delicious wine and eat in high style -- and thanks to a well-cultivated vineyard and all those chefs James Hemings trained, he most certainly did, even after he was completely bereft of funds.

Something to think about, the next time you tuck into a bowl of mac & cheese.

Comfort Food: Mac & Cheese

Nobody makes mac and cheese better than my momma. Not even me. Especially me -- and I can cook my butt off.

I don't really know very many black folk who wouldn't co-sign that statement, probably because of the emotional connectedness we feel towards the foods we love. One bite of something delicious brings us back to a beautiful childhood memory and into the arms of the person who turned a slice of cake or a piece of chicken into a celebration of life and all the goodness that the world could hold. For some of us, eating those things brings us right back to those moments. No wonder we've got weight/body issues.

So of course, it is with all of that in mind that I post the absolute best mac and cheese recipe I could possibly find, anywhere, ever. Do I eat mac and cheese?  Rarely.  It's not a dietary staple for me. It's a treat -- and I believe that if you're going to have a treat, you should really do it up.

How many people does this serve? I dunno. Technically, 8 to 10 but hey -- once I put it on the table, it's gone and only 4 or 5 people got some, so...

Ingredients:

3 cups of large elbow macaroni noodles

3 cups of shredded mild Cheddar cheese

2 cups of shredded Moneterrey Jack cheese

1 8 oz. block of Colby Cheese

1 8 oz. block of Monterrey Jack cheese

2 cups of milk

1 jumbo egg beaten

2 tsps of ground white pepper

1 dash of black pepper

Instructions:

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees. Boil the noodles for 15 minutes or until tender, then drain. Then put noodles in a bowl and add the milk, 2 cups of the mild Cheddar cheese, the shredded Moneterrey Jack, the white pepper and the jumbo egg. Mix thoroughly. Dice the block cheeses into 1 inch cubes and add them. Mix again, put in a 4 quart baking pan and place into the oven for 20 minutes. Remove from the oven and top with  the remaining cup of Cheddar cheese on the top and the black pepper. Place the dish back in the oven at 450 degrees for 20 minutes or until top layer of cheese is starting to brown. Remove from the oven, cool for 5 minutes and serve.

May Cake

Nothing is going on and everything is going on.  It's all up in the air and it's all down on the ground and it's everything or nothing and nothing is going on. The sun shines so brightly these days -- with a blue sky brilliance that makes me feels so alive. And then I run outside and it's effing freezing and I'm walking home shivering like a small poodle and I'm thinking, what is the what.

The engine is revving forward and all systems are go and something in me is on pause. 

Spring cleaning abounds.  This seasonal winter weight gain is melting off me like I'm a snowman on the beach. I'm editing my closets very carefully. And thanks to that wacky tv show Hoarders,  I can't stop decluttering and throwing things away.  Needless to say, rewrites abound.  And of course, having a sinus infection and temporary laryngitis is pretty much the icing on my many-layered May cake.

The NaBloPoMo theme for May is Comfort -- whatever that means.  At the moment, I'm finding a lot of comfort in my ukulele.  I really don't know how to play it but its so simple, I can play it, if you know what I mean -- and every time I get a new chord right, it feels like I won the Lotto.

Okay, back to my closets and my rewrites. Just in case you're interested, here's what I'm working on with that uke: Ten Arpeggio Excercises!

the bottomless closet

 our minds want clothes as much as our bodies. -- samuel butler

although the hard work of eating clean has me slowly melting back down to a size 4/6, i've thrown open my closet doors way too often these days and wondered why i don't have anything to wear.  most of it is probably because i've emotionally outgrown a lot of what i put on every day. it also doesn't help that there's too much in the back that i haven't worn in so long, i don't even recognize certain things. that's not good.

this is the reason why this spring finds me furtively editing my closets more so than usual and finding that the usual tax write off donation pitstops -- the salvation army or housingworks, for example -- aren't doing it for me anymore. i don't know why.  it still annoys me that i missed a huge swap-meet downtown a month or so ago. (there's nothing like an even trade for an instant upgrade.)  and for some strange reason, i don't have the patience or the fortitude for everyone's favorite gigantic online worldwide swap meet, ebay.

i had a vague recollection of a news item i saw years ago about an organization dedicated to helping women who were on public assistance transition into viable careers by giving them the confidence that they needed to present themselves well in an interview setting and providing professional work attire. that made so much sense to me. how in the world could anyone ever land that ideal job if they don't look the part, even if they have all the skills they need?

a quick google search (how did we ever get along without it?) led me to the bottomless closet. initiated by volunteers in 1999, they've helped thousands of women in new york city much more than clothes. a great outfit for a job interview is just the beginning. they have professional development workshops,seminars and programming that keeps women coming back and creates a supportive community. now that's where i'd love to donate those low-heeled office pumps i hardly ever wore.



everyone has to learn how to get dressed, no matter what we want to do. somewhere down the line, someone taught you how to tie a tie or that this blouse was appropriate or they gave you a suit or whatever.  clothes are powerful weaponry and although i suppose it takes a certain skill set to wield them well, the important thing to remember is that the gun is loaded, regardless. what you wear and how you wear it is working its elfin magic and communicating volumes to the world, whether your choices are painstakingly deliberate or completely haphazard.

hm. now that i'll be emptying my closet of who i was, its time to rethink who i am. one thing is certain: none of my vintage clothes are going anywhere.

Salt, Sugar, Fat

i'm veering away from processed foods anyway -- it's been a slow, painful, well thought out process -- but the book salt, sugar, fat: how the food giants hooked us by michael moss just might send me careening over the edge, right now. the reviews alone have been enough to scare the living daylights out of me.  unbelievable but true: the companies that create fast food, drinks and condiments are so consumed by greed that they have created the just right balance of salt, sugar and fat to keep the general populace mindlessly addicted to food -- and to keep their profits soaring into the stratosphere.

it's a chemical reaction, really. through fat, sugar and salt, companies like kraft and frito lay have scientists that have found what they refer to as the bliss point: this is what happens when processed food hits same the pleasure center in your brain that clicks into overdrive when you're high.

the concept vanishing caloric density is especially frightening when applied to baked chee-tos, a favorite of fast food scientists. the chee-tos melted away before the brain could register it as having been consumed, so the hapless victim keeps eating it.  no wonder i inhale those things when i eat them.

are things changing for the better? yes, they are -- but not fast enough. farmer's markets and the push towards organic whole foods is hardly enough. ultimately, it comes down to the individual breaking the cycle and choosing to not consume processed foods.  that's not easy to do when you don't even know you're an addict in the first place.
                    

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At The Met: African Art, New York and the Avant-Garde

I'm almost done with the brilliant, epic, well-researched work Babylon Girls: Black Women Performers and the Shaping of the Modern by Jayna Brown. It has sent me careening into the turn of the century -- the sights, the sounds, all of the ephemera that surrounds it -- and has me rethinking my world as a black female performer and my place in the entertainment industry.  Our collective history as black performers has been underrreported and grossly underrepresented so consistently and for so long, it was somewhat cathartic to finally learn the truth: we were a powerful influence all over the world -- as performers, as dancers, as vocalists, as bandleaders, as musicians.  We were a revolutionary force to be reckoned with. We still are.

Now that so much of the book has dovetailed so thoroughly with what I already know about the zeitgeist of those times and the performers who were relentless in pursuit of greatness, I'm picking up more pieces to the puzzle as I go along. Not surprisingly, I found quite a few of them at The Met in an exhibit called African Art, New York and the Avant-Garde. 

It's a small exhibit, tucked away somewhere in the depths of the Pre-Columbian section on The Met's first floor, and it's filled with paintings, photographs, programs and such, collected by wealthy patrons of the arts in the 1920s. It's well worth seeing.  There are quite a lot of beautiful African sculptures. How they got those artifacts from Africa remains a mystery.  It gives one reason to pause and wonder what other priceless items they took.  What's especially important to note is that this art was essential in defining and informing what we now know of as a modern aesthetic.

Here's one of my favorites -- probably because the face is so specific.  It was among the first African works exhibited in an art gallery.  (Who is it -- someone's wife or aunt, perhaps?) I love the well-groomed hair and bun, too. The style looks so. Well. Modern. Exactly like something I'd see on the street in Bed-Stuy or Harlem now.

The Met's website states: By 1914, it had been exhibited at Robert Coady’s Washington Square Gallery in New York. The head therefore became the first African artifact displayed in New York alongside art by modern masters such as Juan Gris and Henri Rousseau.

Displayed alongside modern masters, huh.  To the artists, writers and thinkers of the Harlem Renaissance, this was a very important acknowledgement that was happening at a moment in our history when we were beginning to understand our history and our connection to Africa. Clearly, this meant that African art was just as good as European art -- and by extension, so were we.

(Freestanding wood sculpture head from the Fang peoples in Gabon.)

They did much more than simply display the African sculptures they "found". They used them as a kind of creative springboard to explore new abstract ideas and shape them into a modern framework. For example, Picasso's African Period and the subsequent creation of Les Demoiselles d'Avignon -- the first Cubist painting and an important step toward modern art -- was inspired by sculptures from the Fang people.

In one especially disturbing photograph, we see a patron's living room. It is filled to the hilt with priceless works of art. There were so many pieces that I recognized, I couldn't stop gasping.  Where did they get that art?

Working Can Wait -- This Is Paradise!

i'm too busy prepping for auditions and hustling for gigs this weekend to blog anything worthwhile today.  the weather is crummy. i have no endurance in boxing conditioning class and i'm hoping running will fix that.  i'm still decluttering and editing my closets and scouring everything and eating clean.  i'm diligently practicing the ukulele, mostly because it's fun. it's time for a guitar lesson from kelvyn bell.  it's time to get recalibrated. yes, my plate is full.

whenever i'm especially busy, i always think of this porky pig cartoon porky's bear facts with it's sing-a-long song working can wait.  when i first came to the city and no one would give me a job, i gave myself a job and hustled until i had gigs singing in bars and restaurants almost every night of the week. my brother ramon (who was touring back and forth with ronald shannon jackson at the time) and i used to sit around the harlem apartment we shared and sing this  --  sarcastically, of course. I was half-killing myself, I was working so hard.

Covering the Basics, Part 3: Weight of the Nation

I watched the HBO documentary Weight of the Nation, Part 1: Consequences the other night with lurid interest.  It was so compelling, I've posted the entire series here.  I hope it's as much of a learning moment for you as it was for me.

My remarkably healthy Low Country childhood coupled with lots of quality time as an undergrad in the happy health-obsessed hippie enclave of Austin Texas made me more aware of good nutrition and healthy heart choices than most people I knew.  And I was always too body conscious to let myself go completely. But so what. What difference does any of that make if I am forever at the mercy of a bag of baked Cheetos.

I struggled through The Clean Program three times before things began to click.  This last go round has really solidified quite a few things. Thankfully, I've decided to drop some bad habits permanently. At this point, I'm beginning to get my body back -- but I have to fight for it, every day.  And that's really where the rubber hits the road.  It takes hard work and discipline to get healthy and stay that way, and most people aren't willing to make that sacrifice.  On the other hand, I shouldn't have to fight this hard to eat clean food.

It was easier when the food you ate wasn't genetically modified to compel you to keep eating it. It was easier when a snack meant an apple and not a bag of Doritos.  It was easier when everything wasn't loaded with salt and fat and sugar.  It was easier when so much of what you consumed wasn't an allergen.  It was easier when we weren't so sedentary, when work meant that you physically exhausted yourself everyday (like a cowboy or a logger or a steel mill worker or a fieldhand).

Here's my rule, plain and simple: real food doesn't need a nutrition label. From now on, I want to eat real food.

Part 1: Consequences



Part 2: Choices



Part 3: Children in Crisis



Part 4: Challenges

Spring is here but not really...

"No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn."  -- Hal Borland

while spring drags its feet to get here, i'm doing a lot of deep cleaning to my body, this apartment and the rest of my life.  it was instinctual, like a weird reflex. disappearing into the clutter and disarray that constantly threatens to engulf me means losing myself in a whirlwind of memories more often than i care to admit.  sometimes they're not so pleasant.  forgiveness is essential.  so are boundaries.

the other day, i had an epiphany that full-on stopped me and left me floating in midair for what seemed like an eternity: i love myself, i have someone to love and i am doing something -- a lot of things, actually -- that i love. here's the kicker: i'm doing all of this in new york city. my life is nothing short of miraculous. i'm grateful to God for every moment i get to live it.

i don't know how i got here. there were certainly moments when i didn't think i'd ever get this far. and God only knows where any of this will take me. yes, i'm still perfectly capable of getting in my own way but the mistakes i make have a strange way of paying off in the long run. thank God.

so here's to spring, how ever it comes -- spring cleaning, spring makeovers, springing forward instead of falling backward, spring fever. there's something cathartic about these unexpected snowstorms that that have been happening so frequently this year. i step onto the midst of it as it's happening and everything is so fresh and new and deathly still. there's a purity to all that whiteness everywhere. it's like the world is trying to make it all gleam one last time. the garbage magically disappears and everything feels new. all at once, i have a strange, solitary feeling and yet, i feel so much a part of every single snowflake there is. 

and then there are yellow patches in the snow and the garbage begins to reek because no one is collecting it and cars start getting unstuck violently and the snow gets super dirty. and i wonder why i wanted it to snow in the first place.  ah, the neverending love and the unquenchable hate of new york city.

well. something is coming down the pike. i wonder what it is.  or as my great-grandmother's favorite gospel song goes, 'i believe i'll run on and see what the end is gonna be..."

pithy thought of the day

right now

right now/currently/as of this moment, i'm probably

1. wandering through MoMA (aimlessly), making lists (sporadically) and shaking even more ideas loose (spontaneously)
2. finishing my next album
3. trying to figure out a way to pay for graduate school at nyu's tisch school of the arts mfa program
4. eating clean semi-permanently -- because my stomach really can't take anything else
5. submitting my musical the billie holiday project to theater companies
6. applying for writing/performance workshops
7. furtively looking for a commercial kitchen (preferrably in harlem)
8. alternately practicing the banjo, the ukulele and my unplugged electric guitar
9. auditioning for on-camera work and voiceovers
10. working up a set of songs from the 1920s

The Floating Kabarette, Bastard Keith and Me

"Facebook is for for friends who are now strangers.  Twitter is for strangers who should be your friends." - Unknown

i seriously love twitter.  i have chatted up, argued creatively, exchanged ideas, learned from, virtually hung out with and (yes!) met more strangers than i care to admit.  from the #kccm natural hair challenges to get fit incentives like #sexyshred, it is quite literally the gift that keeps on giving.

facebook, on the other hand, is something to avoid.

i picked up on a remark that burlesque emcee bastard keith made to someone in my timeline about strong, domineering women, realized that we knew a lot of the same performers on the neo-vaudeville scene and all of a sudden, we were off to the races. i was curious: was bastard keith any good at what he did? what did he do exactly, anyway? i had to see him in action.  we made a date to meet properly over a drink -- but not before i suggested a duet we could do. we could perform togther... yikes! wait a minute. can he even sing? hmmm...

as luck would have it, this bastard was doing his thing every saturday at galapagos art space in a show called the floating kabarette. i pushed and shoved some things around in my schedule and made my way to DUMBO -- fashionably late but somehow right on time.  the weather was lousy, the place was packed and sitting in rapturous silence. someone was swinging from the ceiling by what looked like long silk white handkerchiefs, dangling this way and that.  i thought, oh boy -- the circus!  more and more, downtown cabaret in new york city is turning into a one ring sideshow of epic proportions. just as every circus has a ringleader, every cabaret act has an emcee.  the unfortunate truth is, everyone that calls themselves an emcee isn't necessarily a ringleader in the truest sense of what that word means. it takes a lot to pull it off: performance skills; the non-abrasive good humor of an old school catskills stand-up comedian; and of course, showmanship. narcissism -- not stage presence --  seems to be the factor that compels anyone to get onstage and do something, whether they can actually do anything or not.

this is the part where i tell you that bastard keith was, in a word, wonderful. as an emcee he was pitch-perfect -- a straight man with a straight face and a filthy mouth, wrapped up in an elegant, understated demeanor.  he was understated and he was over the top.  he was self-deprecating, he was cloying, he was hilarious.  remarkably, he made what he did look effortless which is only a testament to its difficulty.

here's a bit of bastard keith in action as a host.



relaxed, self-assured and smooth, he glided onto the stage inbetween each act, soothed any feathers that may have been ruffled, upped the ante and kept the ball rolling.  and as if all of that weren't enough, he really can sing.

here he is singing a little ellington along with some live music and a burlesque act.



the highlights?

juggler michael karas stripped all the way down to his adult sized superman undies while keeping all kinds of things up in the air and dancing. pretty hot stuff. here's a video of him winning over the audience and then some at the apollo theater in harlem.




i had heard of beautiful boylesque boy-toy go-go harder but i had never seen him in action. it was a one-off one time thing for st. patrick's day weekend -- he was a prancing, preening, glittering leprechaun. pretty hilarious stuff.  here's him doing some colorful and interesting things to the van halen song hot for teacher.



oh, and yeah -- the audience.

the real element of surprise rested with the very nearly sold out house, who needed very little encouragement to bring the filth to the fore. (usually it's a sold out situation.) occasionally bastard keith would read missives that the audience had sent to him via twitter. (ah, twitter -- too, too perfect for audience participation in performance.)  after going on here and there about strap ons and especially violent sex and such, he asked for a few nasty twits from his listeners. my personal favorite was from a lesbian, of course.

 @SassiBoB @BastardKeith Fuck your wife. I am going to blast you in your gaping hole until you shit out of your dick.

good times. 

somewhere in there, we met at the bar in the back over that drink. (for the record, he's way better looking in person -- and taller, too.)  we talked about performance in new york city and mutual acquaintances like war veterans.  when i heard him sing, something clicked and i started to put together ideas.  who knows where this will end up.  it's definitely the start of something explosively cool. and at the end of the day, isn't that really where you want to begin?

thanks, twitter!

where's the fun?

i really want to go out tonight and have some fun with mpb but i can't because this is new york city and there really isn't much fun out there. at least, not on the weekends.  the streets are filled with a lot of blipsters, sex and the city girls, the usual bridge and tunnel crowd, college students that seem way too much like high school students, european tourists, and hipsters, hipsters, hipsters. where can i go to get away from hipsters? williamsburg? the lower east side? even harlem is infested with them. (more on that later.)

sometimes if i'm not working, i go see a show on a friday or saturday night -- but if i do, i have to know its going to be fantastic.  that means that if you see me out and about on the weekends, i'm having a really good time. the thing is, i really have to dig to find my fun in these parts -- or make my fun, which is what i usually end up doing, mostly because as a performer, i am the fun. 

fun shouldn't be this much work. it definitely shouldn't be this expensive.

tomorrow, i'm going to go to galapagos art space to see the floating kabarette, because i still love the circus. i'll let you know how much fun i found.

Pithy Thought Of The Day

Flash Fiction: "Goodbye, Cruel Richard"

Continuing with NaBloPoMo's theme of RISK this month, here's another flash fiction story about someone who took a big risk -- and got a big payoff in return.

GOODBYE, CRUEL RICHARD

Faye looked up from where she stood on the steps of the front porch. The wetness of an early afternoon found her in the calm before a violent storm. From a great distance, she saw a blue-black mass that churned its way towards her.  Faye thought it looked more like a bruise than a hurricane.  The wind whipped her hair against her expressionless face and began to jostle her. Soon it will be here, was all that she could think.  It would be sudden and frightening and beautiful. And then it would all be over. She returned to her perch, a rusted iron swing by the front door, and kneaded her filthy hands.

Bill had slapped her in the face a few days ago.  Hard. He said that she made him do it, that if she had done things right, there would have been no need to ever hit her at all.  That was the heart of the problem between them as far as he was concerned:  she kept saying and doing things that upset him.  If she'd stop, they could be happy. After he left, as Faye lay on the couch with her head back to stop the bleeding, she realized that after ten years of marriage, she couldn't hear his apologies anymore.  She had shut out so much of what he said and did that in a way, he wasn't ever really there until he took a swing at her.  Which was probably why he hit her so often.

She wished she had the guts to kill him.

They had been happy but somewhere in there, they began to argue a lot. One day, Bill hit Faye and she didn't do anything about it.  The next thing she knew, ten years had gone by.   

When she awoke in near darkness the way she always did, when she felt him reach for her and pin her to the bed and pry her legs open and climb on top of her, Faye thought about having him killed.  But then with her luck, she would get caught and have to go to jail for the rest of her life, or fry in the chair.  So she began to consider other options.

She was watching the weather report one afternoon when she remembered a story she'd heard, about a neighbor's best friend's cousin's ex-girlfriend's neighbor.   She got caught in a hurricane and was found several states away.  Battered and bruised, broken legs, completely disoriented--but alive.  That's when Faye realized that, although she was terrified of planes, she'd always wanted to fly.  She decided that if the hurricane came close enough, there would be a flying lesson.  She could hardly wait.

Faye had taken every precaution.  Everything was unplugged, cleared away, set aside.  Windows and doors were flung open as the wind whipped its way through the house,  searching for something.  Faye scrambled into a pair of steel toed boots, a large woolen sweater and finally a leather jacket.  As an afterthought, she grabbed Bill's motorcycle helmet before heading outside. Maybe it will take me to a Chinatown somewhere, she thought to herself as she put on the helmet and stepped out onto the road in front of her house.  Or someplace up North.  Jersey or something.  Anywhere but here. 

The sky turned sullen.  As the wind shoved her, she stood there, legs apart, arms akimbo, mesmerized by the fury that surrounded her.  When she was small, they gave hurricanes female names but this one was named Richard.

           " Don't that beat all?" Bill laughed one evening as they ate supper and watched Richard's progress on the news. "A homo hurricane."

Faye looked at the back of his head and thought, Who are you and why did I marry you?

The question fell between them like a brick.  She wished she could hit him with it.

Faye leaned into the wind and staggered towards a clearing nearby. This is fun, she thought, and she laughed.  That's when she heard Bill's voice, calling to her from somewhere near the front yard. He was waving to her, then walking towards her gradually, spewing obscenities.  Something about you crazy dumb bitch, are you nuts, I'm gonna beat your ass. Something like that. He came home early from work and how he's going to ruin everything, Faye thought.  So she began to run towards Richard.  As she did, she involuntarily cried out for help and fell into a ditch, with a resounding thud. Startled and frightened, she pressed her face into the soft wet ground and sobbed uncontrollably.  It was the very first time that Faye had ever done such a thing, in all the years that her husband had known her.  Bill stopped for a moment, stunned.

By the time he realized what was really going on, it was all over.

All kinds of things seemed to be going up, up and away, into the darkness above them.  Rooftops.  Cars.  Dirt.  Animals. Bill was carried away, kicking and screaming, lost in the ever-widening swirl of debris that lifted itself higher and higher as it moved farther away until it was finally gone.

Faye closed her eyes and waited her turn but fortunately Bill was the last one scheduled for take-off.  After a few hours, she worked her way out of the ditch and limped towards what was left of the house--her house now.  It would be awhile before anyone found her.  May as well  wait out the rescue effort from the front porch.

covering the basics, part 2: how did we get here?

i think the way we eat -- then and now -- varies from region to region and depends a lot on ethnicity, tradition and culture. when i was a kid in south carolina's low country, my great-grandmother always kept a large vegetable garden in her expansive backyard, which was speckled with fruit trees and wild grapes. my great-grandfather, grandfather and uncles hunted and fished seasonally, so there was plenty of fresh seafood and game. my grandmother kept a garden, too. i remember green tomatoes ripening on the kitchen windowsill, her house surrounded with carefully tended plants, gorgeous roses and flowers that bloomed year-round. and rice. rice with almost every meal.

we weren't big on what usually passes as soul food. red rice and roasted oysters and venison were fixtures on our dinner table, not fried chicken with all the fixins. and junk food was hardly an issue.

 it's not that we didn't hit the grocery store for what we needed but when you grow and hunt for most of what you consume, you really don't have to make it to the piggly wiggly every week.  not surprisingly, growing your own food and hunting it down is physically hard work. you try killing a 5 point buck and carrying it around until you get home.

my great-grandmother wasn't the big momma type. she was lean and strong, and so was my grandmother. their husbands weren't overweight, either.  that's not surprising because everybody had work that required hard manual labor. when that was done, they had two or three side jobs that wore them out. my grandfather and my great-grandfather worked in a steel mill for decades. my daddy had a day job and seven -- SEVEN -- union cards.  (joe the plumber, in comparison, doesn't have one.)  daddy never stopped working. when he left this world a few years ago at the age of 92, he was outside working on the house.  there were fun times and happy moments but there was never any room for foolishness. the men and the boys in the family were way too busy being great outdoorsmen, or they were off doing man things like fixing cars.  the women and the girls were keeping house: cooking, baking, cleaning, sewing, knitting. they had their children to discipline and instruct, their work that kept them running, their side jobs and whatever.

 i don't know where some people get this black people are lazy stuff.  the movies? stupid comedians? pop culture? step n. fetchit? people who don't know any black people?

so as it turns out, eating clean means that i'm simply shifting gears and going back to my low country roots. i had to do it a few times to break some bad habits and make it stick. thankfully, it is sticking. the thing is, there are moments in my life when a herculean amount of discipline is required to stay away from a bag of baked cheetos. my great-grandparents didn't have that problem.

this handy little infographic is an interesting snapshot of america's nutritional arc over time. the picture gets much more interesting when you get specific.

Source: visual.ly via Dennis on Pinterest

Don't say I never gave you anything...

i'm eating clean so of course i'm craving all kinds of things i can't have. a slice of this cornbread is definitely one of them. it'll probably be awhile before i eat corn or wheat gluten or dairy again.  my body really likes to eat clean so some of these changes will have to be permanent.  i'll be making this a lot for my friends, so i thought i'd share this fairly simple, delicious recipe with you -- if you aren't on the clean program, that is.

this recipe is foolproof, it's a crowd-pleaser and it's really delicious.  once you get into the habit of making it, you'll be coming up with all kinds of excuses to make it. ideally, it'll be one of those things to throw in the oven when you're having a few guests over for dinner or if you happen to be the dinner guest and pot luck is on the menu. enjoy!

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

three layer cornbread!

ingredients:

1 cup cornmeal (coarse)
1/2 cup whole wheat flour
1/2 cup unbleached flour
1/4 cup wheat bran or germ
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
2 eggs
1/4 to 1/2 cup of honey
1/4 cup of oil or melted butter
3 cups milk or buttermilk

directions:

combine dry ingredients in one bowl.
combine wet ingredients in another bowl.
mix them together thoroughly.
pour into a well oiled 9x9 inch pan.

bake at 350F (or 176C) for 50 minutes.

prayer of the day

Vintage Kudzu: "The Sights and The Sounds"

here's a snapshot -- taken from my old kudzu entries -- of what my moment-to-moment harlem life was like 10 years ago. enjoy!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Sights and The Sounds

Wake up to the sounds of Johnny Cash singing The Beast In Me on your Zumbidor.  Get up and drink a quart of water because you know you don’t drink enough of it.  Check The Weather Channel.  Jump into your gas station attendant clothing, grab your headphones and go to the gym.  You don’t want to go but you know that if you don’t do it now, you won’t do it at all.  As you leave your apartment, greet the children across the hall with their mother, the super who’s mopping the halls and stairwells and the grandma in the window of the ground floor apartment --- in Spanish, of course. Make a right and head for Riverside Drive.  Pass a crackhead or two and be sure to say “Buenas.” You know they will. They’re always so polite to you. 

It’s about a 10 minute walk to the gym inside Riverbank State Park.  It’s sunny and it feels like San Francisco outside.  You don’t like that chilly breeze.  Something has to get you going.  You crank The Circle Jerks, Fugazi, The Sex Pistols/God Save The Queen, The Buzzcocks/What Do I Get? And then you remember that Rancid is coming to CBGB’s soon, that Reverend Horton Heat is coming even sooner than that.  You love those bands.  You must get tickets. 

You get to the gym.  You’re listening to Manu Chao.  It’s relatively empty.  Lots of older Latino men, a few black girls here and there.  The Dominican guy at the front who monitors the room touches his heart and points at you and then he sticks out  his tongue at you and makes a face.  You do the exact same thing to him.  He loves it. You love it too and you don’t know why.

You make it through your weightlifting routine with Manu Negra and then you pull out Fatboy Slim to get you through an intense 30 minutes on that treadmill.  When you’re done, you’re dripping with sweat.  On your way out, shove your Dominican monitor buddy off of his chair as he’s talking to someone else.  He almost falls off and shakes his fist at you, pretending to be mad.

The Replacements/A Little Mascara gets you out the building and up the street because you like it so much, you play it three times.   Chris Whitley/Automatic Love is what gets you into your apartment. With any luck, it’s only around 9am.

You don’t eat anything until after 12 noon. You pop early Everything But The Girl into your jambox, and jump in the shower.  You exfoliate with your favorite scrub cream, that sudsy stuff from Aveda. Of course the phone rings several times while you’re in there.  Good thing you put the cordless on the toilet.

Once you’re out and smelling “fresher than thou”, you jump on the internet and do business---returning e-mails, synching your Palm, making phone calls, confirming audition appointments and “go-sees” and checking in with your manager.   You call your parents.  They’re not home.  Your manager has sides for you: two movies, a musical and an industrial.  All of that Everything But The Girl reminds you of when you scooped ice cream for a living in Austin back in the day, so you play XTC/Skylarking for old time’s sake.  You make yourself a protein shake to go and head up Riverside Drive by bus to your manager’s place.  You forgot to charge your cellphone.  You plug it in as you head out the door.  As you leave, you are listening to Derek and the Dominoes/Layla, the deluxe reissue.  You have three auditions this afternoon.  Mentally you are packing your rolling zipfront suitcase while you are on the bus.  While you’re out, you run errands.  You listen to the soundtrack of I am Sam and wonder why Paul Westerberg can’t get it together.  You’re genuinely surprised at how much you love Rufus Wainwright’s voice.  Enough Beatles.  You start start thinking about Rancid again, so you switch to The Cramps/You Got Good Taste.  Some hip-looking black guy stops you at the bank and asks you what you’re listening to, because “it looks like you’re really enjoying it.”  You think about making something up, but you don’t.  When you tell him, he makes a weird face.  You don’t give him a chance to ask why, so he leaves you alone.  A word floats above his head as he walks away: YUTZ. 

When you get back, you warm up your voice, sip green tea, run lines and make more phone calls, pack your bag, pack your purse, put on a slight amount of make-up, dress up and get out.  While you’re running around, you’re listening to Soundgarden, Rage Against The Machine, AC/DC to keep yourself going.  You don’t get back until around 7pm.  When you do, you’re absolutely ravenous.  Your cool neighbors Paul & Chad made lasagna and bring some over for you.  You toss yourself a salad, throw the lasagna in the oven and listen to Charlie Christian’s box set while you read the paper and answer/make phone calls.  

 Here are your options:  Do you a. go to some open bar industry party, filled with bony models, chatty stylists/promoters and people who call themselves actors; b. go to see a cool band all the way in the lower east side, virtually a million miles from where you are now; c. eat dinner in your underwear and bunny slippers with your feet up and then take a nice long hot bath?