No Parking

It used to be that I knew all the best places to park in New York City. Having a car was an advantage I had over other actors who did not. I could travel into Jersey and find work that would require four wheels to transport me to rehearsals. In fact, other actors would often ride with me, which would help cover the fuel costs, and save them the train fare.

Having a car also gave me a way of doing kind things for those other actors who did not. I could drive people home at night, not at all bothered by crossing boroughs. It was a nice thing, knowing I could do something with so little effort, something which was always appreciated by actors who viewed a ride home as a rare treat.

Parking in the city was a game of strategy. Getting into the right neighborhood just before the signs changed. I took pride in my parallel parking skills, which are first rate. I also took pride in never paying for parking, except perhaps at a meter when it was absolutely unavoidable. It was knowledge those of us with cars accumulated over years and guarded carefully. If too many people found out all the secret places to park for free, then they would be even more scarce than they already were. However, they were. They existed. Parking in New York City could in fact be done for free.

Well, no more. Not well. Just no more. I was performing at Le Bernadin over the weekend, on the day the snow was due to arrive. Tough part of town to find a space, but I knew where I could get a spot not too far away. Or more accurately, I knew where I used to get a spot not far away. Not anymore. In the handful of years since I move to Los Angeles, everything has changed. All the signs have been re-written. The meters have been re-set. Parking has become a scam. A major source of income for the city, as well as for the vultures and sharks who prey on the people who drive their cars into Manhattan, hoping for the once possible. A free place to park.

Where the signs used to say no parking Monday through Friday from 8am to 6pm, they now say no parking any day any time at all. Where meters used to be in use until 7pm except on Sundays, they are now in use until 10pm, including on Sundays. What's more, the meter system itself has changed. Instead of putting coins in a meter, you now pay at a meter station in the middle of the block, and leave the receipt in your car window.

Sounds efficient? Think again. It's crooked. As in devised by crooks. It used to be that you could pull up at a meter and find there was still time on it. Or, you could pull away and leave time on it for someone else. Not anymore. Now, no matter how much time you have left, the city charges the next person as if from scratch. So, in essence, they are charging twice for the same space at the same time! Crooks, criminals, thieves.

Knowing it would be tough to find a space near Le Bernadin, I got into the area a full hour early and began snaking my way between 11th and 8th avenue, from 52nd to 81st street, before finding a space! It took me an hour and fifteen minutes, and I was now forced to take the subway back down so I would not be late.

The last time I rode a subway, the fare was $1.50, which I already viewed as outrageous. Imagine my surprise when I found that a single ride now costs $2.25! How is this possible? It took a hundred years to go from a nickel to a buck fifty, how can anyone explain the huge increase in just six years? When you think about the millions of people who ride the subway, a raise of a single cent will produce an enormous boost in revenue. Why then do they jump to such obscene percentages? Where the heck does all this money go?

The same can be said for the tolls. When I lived in Jersey, the Holland Tunnel cost four dollars. That was six years ago. Now it costs double that! Double! Not a dollar more. Not two dollars more. Double! This is just plain outrageous. It is not at all fair to struggling actors who do mot make the same salary as high powered business executives who continue to commute at the higher cost without feeling a thing. Struggling actors who have cars with which they can find work in Jersey and help out others who do not cannot say the same. We feel it. The higher tolls, the inflated fares, the crooked parking fees come out of our already meager income. Percentages work against us. More of our pay goes into the greedy hands of the corrupt city officials who decide to raise whatever fees to whatever heights they choose.

Do you know it costs eleven dollars to cross the Verazzano Narrows bridge? It's a spectacular bridge, for sure, but eleven dollars? You can see a movie in a theatre for less!

After my gig, I walked the thirty blocks back to my car. The snow had begun falling, and I was grateful the city looked so pretty. It took my mind off the crooks who are running it.

Man on the Moon

Forty years ago, a man walked on the moon for the first time. (Unless you believe in conspiracy theories and Kirk Cameron, in which case you may as well stop reading here and pick up the more comfortable work of fiction by the Sarah who is not on a box of dessert, but could just as well be.)

Forty years after a manned flight to the moon, I sit in the top floor slanted ceilinged bedroom of my grandparent's Cape Cod. Rain is making music on that slant. High above that rain, an astronaut is at work at a space station, floating in orbit around the Earth. A camera films him. A live signal is beamed down by satellite to the silver laptop on my desk. I gaze at the images and marvel at how easily we accept this as commonplace.

In 1969, a young boy may have had this room as his bedroom. It isn’t difficult to imagine him in his pajamas with stars and planets on them. His collection of Robby Robot toys on the floor. A mobile of the solar system suspended from the slanted ceiling. I can picture him staring out the window, up at the night sky. Imagining those men walking on the moon.

How far will science have taken us forty years from now? Will my own grandson be sleeping in this room, sending text messages to his best friend on board a spacecraft from another planet? Will things we now consider far fetched be accepted as commonplace to him? Time travel, transporters, extra terrestrial beings? How far fetched does something have to be, before it can safely be considered beyond the range of possibility for longer than a person can imagine?

Almost everything in Jean Luc Picard’s world is either already in ours or soon to be. There are exceptions of course, but for how long? Looking back at how quickly science has emerged from science fiction, it seems silly to write anything off as beyond that range.

I can almost recognize how much effort it must take for our own higher consciousness to stay immersed in this world. On a higher plane, we must already realize what more there is to discover. Before coming into this world, perhaps we were well familiar with other worlds, and only agreed to forget all of that in order to be fully present in this one. How strong must be the temptation each night, while we dream, to step out of the accepted limits of this world at this time and go freely to explore those others? How much we must love this one to keep coming back, perhaps bringing with us a deeply stored recollection of some piece of the future. How else does it come into being?

Rain on the roof. Robby Robot on the floor. Astronaut on the laptop. Transporter in the closet?

True Dat?

“True dat,” said the anchorman, in response to a comment from a reporter. True dat. From an anchorman on the six o’clock news. A white anchorman. Dressed in a suit. Not the colorful sportscaster, nor the ditzy weather girl dressed for clubbing, but the man behind the desk. The one whose face the network hopes we will regard as trustworthy. Whose voice we will rely on to present the events of the day in an unbiased and responsible way. True dat.

At first, I was not sure I heard him correctly. Did he really say “True dat?”

Now, I am white. I have always been white. Even when I was a kid, I was white. I expect that I shall always be white. I feel no reason to apologize for being white. I know that caucasian is probably more accurate a term, because my skin tone is not actually white, but I take no offense when I am referred to as white. It is what I am, and it does not seem likely to change. It would be foolish of me to try to be anything other than white. I might play a character on stage who is not white, but in real life I know that I am, in fact, white.

That can probably be said about every white person I have ever met, or will ever meet. I’m sure there may be exceptions, but for the most part, anyone who started out as white will end up as white. That should be a given.

Why then, am I confronted daily with white people speaking in gangsta rap slang? White people from the suburbs. White people who are old enough to have grown children. Even white people on the news. Trying to sound, what, young? Cool? Black?

How is it cool to sound black? When did ebonics ever sound anything other than ignorant, whether being spoken by a white person or a black one? I cannot understand why any white person in their right mind would choose to speak gangsta rap. For that matter, I cannot understand why any black person in their right mind would choose to speak that way.

None of the black people I know speak in ebonics. They view the gold toothed gangsta rappers in the same way that white people view shirtless trailer park drunks running from the cops on those reality shows. As embarrassing stereotypes. Ignorance is not subject to interpretation according to cultural differences. Ignorance is ignorance, and it should not be something toward which we aspire.

Imagine an Asian person dyeing their hair shocking red, having their face tattooed with freckles, walking around with a cane and speaking like the Lucky Charms leprechaun. “Top O the mornin’ to ya!” Going on and on about “potaters” and their saintly mum, and drinking “a wee bit O whiskey at the pub.” It would be no more ridiculous than the hordes of white suburbanites pretending to be black gangstas from the hood.

The only people who should be speaking like gangstas from the hood are gangstas from the hood. If someone grows up in the projects, where surviving past the age of nineteen is considered an accomplishment, then it is perfectly understandable why education might not be a top priority to them. That of course is a shame, since education is a sure way out of that scenario.

A young kid whose parents grew up in the same rough environment, and is surrounded by other kids who know nothing different, cannot possibly be expected to do anything other than emulate his older brother, who must seem awfully cool in his gold chains and signifying colors. Once up and out of that world, that same young kid will most likely change the way he views the importance of being cool.

I was never cool. I was the kid named Melvin who carried a stack of books around, was always humming something classical from orchestra practice, and who wanted desperately to be accepted by the leather jacket crowd. They were known as dirtbags. They were the tough kids who cut class to hang out behind the cafeteria to smoke cigarettes. Being something that I was not was appealing at that age, but once I left high school, I left that misguided desire behind. Those kids no longer seemed cool. They seemed limited.

I grew up speaking with a thick New York accent, but Shakespeare, Noel Coward, Moliere, and Agatha Christie removed any trace of that. I can still speak New York when I want to, mostly when angry or when punctuating a comic line. When I turn on the tv and see some mafia lughead saying “bada bing” and “yous guys,” I file him under the same category as PP Puffy Doggie. Just another uneducated bozo perpetuating an unfortunate stereotype.

What is far more mystifying to me are the young white people who combine ebonics with text speak! I have to laugh when I read something online that is peppered with “gurl” “wuz” “wit” “aight” and other configurations, all appearing like the sound effects a cartoonist might use in his comic strip. What is puzzling is how some of these abbreviated slang words actually require more time and effort to type than their English equivalents!

Take “wuz,” for example. Now “cuz” might at least make some sense, as it saves the typist from the apparently unreasonable labor of spelling out the entire word “because,” but “wuz?” W-a-s takes a fraction of a second to type, as the three letters are touching on the keypad. So, to use “wuz” requires effort and intent. Baffling.

I cannot even begin to explain the girl whose online comments I struggled to decipher the other day. She was using the collection of letters “khan” and “khant.” Your guess is as good as mine, but I think she was attempting “can” and “can’t,” and can only assume she is from a country which does not encourage its citizens to learn English.

Like ours. True dat, indeed.

Does the Curse Count if it's Texted?

A friend of mine sent me some information about a play reading being done at an istore in some other city. Was it San Francisco? Maybe Seattle. Not sure, but it was definitely not New York. It’s one of those gimmicky play readings. Shakespeare, but with a twist. A catch. A way of making the language accessible to a modern audience. A modern audience, presumably, which is so dense and limited in both intelligence and attention span that they cannot possibly be expected to understand material which has been almost constantly in production for four hundred years.

As anyone who knows anything about theatre is sure to tell you, material which has been almost constantly in production for four hundred years must not be accessible as is, and cannot possibly be performed without a gimmick. In other words, as written. The way the author intended. The way audiences for hundreds of years have been seeing and hearing it performed. Almost constantly.

The big gimmick for this production at an istore is really an igimmick: an iphone. Several iphones, to be more exact. One for each of the iactors, and possibly one for each iaudience member, although those would have to be provided by the iaudience themselves (perhaps purchased at the aforementioned istore?) The iactors will be reading the text of Shakespeare off their iphones. No need to learn the lines in advance, or even to have read the lines in advance. Why be bothered with such archaic methods? Modern marvels save us from having to do any work of any sort, after all. Isn’t that the point of having them?

What’s more, the audience is being encouraged to read along (assuming the presumably dense and limited in both intelligence and attention span modern audience is capable of reading) with the text of Shakespeare. As anyone who knows anything about theatre is sure to tell you, giving an audience the script is always a good idea! That way, they can detect every tiny deviation in the dialogue. Although, it must be difficult to find an actor who would not object to having the audience gazing down at the script (or the tiny screen of an iphone) rather than up at the actor on the stage. Even an actor who is doing nothing more than reading off the tiny screen of an iphone.

The name of the play chosen to be given this gimmicky treatment? The very bloody Macbeth. With an emphasis on the mac. As in imac. What better script is there, to read on an iphone in an istore? Makes perfect sense, and it’s one way to be sure the actors don’t pronounce it Mick-beth (a common mistake.)

I wonder, though, if the iactors are reading from their iphones, will the language be in the ubiquitous text speak? Is the iaudience to be subjected to the nightmare of “2mro n 2mro n 2mro”? Four hundred years later, and we are still at the mercy of illiterate individuals taking it upon themselves to spell words however they see fit in the moment.

To be fair to the producers of this gimmicky promotional stunt, the play reading is meant to advertise an application which will make Shakespeare accessible for downloads onto mobile phones. Hard to argue with that. How nice to consider that a geeky, high-tech computer nerd has devised a way for geeky, low-tech theatre nerds to have the complete Folio at their fingertips, wherever they are throughout the day.

That is indeed a very good thing, but does it follow that it would make good theatre? Not unless an iphone can bleed.

Creepy Stalker Troll

It was obvious at the audition, when the monitor walked into the lobby of the theatre and saw me. Although there were other actors who had arrived before I did, he came straight over to me with his clipboard and sides and forms to fill out. He liked me. Perhaps I fit the character they were casting, or perhaps it was something else. The audition did not go particularly well, yet I was not surprised when I got the callback later that day, not when I learned this monitor was one of the producers of the show, and would be playing the part of my much older boyfriend.

It was the next day, the callback. I was late getting there, as I was dog sitting and it takes longer to get out the door when you have to crate two Pitt bulls before leaving. Not that I blame them, it was my fault for not allowing enough time. When I got there, the monitor/producer came over to me and, standing a bit too close, warned me they were angry that I was late. Speaking in conspiratorial tones, he began to give me feedback on my audition, and suggested what adjustments I should make in order to land the role.

When my displeasure at one of his suggestions showed on my face, he immediately asked what I was thinking, and began to apologize profusely for making a suggestion which I did not like. (He had suggested I read the role like Jack from Will & Grace, a character I had no desire to imitate.) His insider tips were a bit annoying, as was his need to apologize to me, which I found odd. It was clear this guy wanted very much for me to get the part. I was not so sure I wanted the part, and had half a mind to leave right then. This was non paying theatre, and it would force me to lose paying work, even if that paying work was only background. It was the only source of income I had, and could I really afford to give that up to do some play I already had questions about, and to work with this much older guy whose attention I was already finding unpleasant?

The callback went better than the initial audition, and I was told by the director that he would be calling to offer me the role. He did. Him, I liked. Also, it turned out I had a friend who was already in the cast. When I called him to ask about the play, he had nothing but good things to say, and so I accepted the role.

At the read through, there were refreshments offered. The much older monitor/producer noticed I was not eating anything, and assured me it was all vegetarian. Had I mentioned I was a vegetarian? I didn’t remember saying that, but I suppose I might have. Later on, while one of the actresses was talking about her Yoga class, the much older monitor/producer bragged that I was an expert at Yoga. Now, I knew I had never made such a claim, since it is not true. Yes, I’ve done some Yoga, but would never say I was an expert. Why would he? Strange.

At rehearsals, he would continue to say things like that. I slowly realized he had spent hours online reading everything he could find about me. Some things he must have picked up from my facebook page. Others from myspace. Still more from my youtube channel. He made one comment which bothered me more than a little. It was something that he could only have known had he read a very long questionnaire my efriend from Canada had composed and sent me. The questions were deep, about politics and religion, and some of my replies were a bit too personal, so I had taken them down. This comment made by the much older monitor/producer was based on one of the answers I had already removed! He must have wasted no time once I was cast, reading all my blog posts, looking through all my photos, gathering all available information on me. Okay, now that’s creepy.

More creepy. Early on in the rehearsal period, he pulled me aside and suggested we meet privately, to discuss our relationship in the play. Now, as an actor, this is something I never do. I dislike those sorts of conversations, and being a director myself, I do not think it is a good idea to meet without the director present. What is the point of deciding things about the play yourself, when the director may have very specific ideas? Aside from that, meeting alone with a potentially creepy much older guy who is also the producer and who has already expressed unwelcome interest in me is just not a good idea.

Besides, I am not being paid to rehearse, and there are union rules about call times. It was wrong to ask me to arrive an hour and a half before rehearsal to do something I neither needed nor wanted to do. Still, he is the producer, and I did not wish to be impolite, so I agreed to meet him at a public place. The café right outside the theatre. I made up my mind to be cordial and professional, but not to give him any sign of encouragement about anything, including a discussion of our roles in the play. I would listen politely, but contribute very little.

To my relief, one of the actresses was absurdly early and walked into the café. Before I could say more than hello, the potentially creepy much older monitor/producer turned to her and said that she could not join us, as we had to discuss our relationship. He seemed to be a bit peeved that things were not going the way he had imagined. I was not participating with any degree of enthusiasm, and now this girl showed up and interrupted his plans. We made it through an awkward hour and a half without accomplishing anything of any value whatsoever.

Next came his insistence that we develop a more affectionate way of relating to one another onstage. Something I disagreed with, as did the director. We were playing a couple who had been together for years, and the action was taking place at a party. No need to be clingy or affectionate. After trying a few times (without discussing it with me first) to establish physical contact, he gave up when I did not respond. He became pouty and even petulant, demanding in front of the director that our characters show more affection with each other. The director, mercifully, felt otherwise.

There were red flags waving high overhead. Flags that screamed “Stalker!” He would fawn all over me. Praise me excessively in front of the other actors. There was a cloying quality to the way he spoke to me, and looked at me. A neediness in the way he constantly referred to me. An invasiveness. He was creepy.

Then came the first of several soap opera scenes. He accosted me in the dressing room one night after the show opened. Wanting us to talk. His subtext was obvious; “Why don’t you like me?” More needy. More clingy. I was not interested in discussing anything of a personal nature with this creepy much older producer/stalker with red flags waving all about him. I did not appreciate being cornered in the dressing room after the others had gone. I resented the implied intimacy. The only relationship we had was professional. Nothing more. I said as much.

We are not in high school, I am not the leader of the cool click, and this manner of speaking was inappropriate and bordered on harassment. I made it clear that I wished to be left alone. He withdrew, but I could tell that it was only temporary. He would regroup and try again another time. Which he did, bursting into the dressing room forty-five minutes to curtain and closing the door behind him, saying we needed to talk. Same subtext. Same needy. Same clingy. Now more desperate. More cloying. More creepy. This man was fixated on me, and was behaving exactly like an obsessed stalker.

Most of the cast was on facebook, and I had accepted him as a friend along with the others. Now this was becoming a problem. Anytime I wrote anything at all, there was a reply from him. It was as if he was online constantly, and pounced at the chance to be included in my eworld. The thing was, his comments were irritating. Annoying. It was unclear whether or not they were jokes. If they were, there was something off in the manner. As if he was assuming a familiarity which was not there. If these comments were not jokes, what were they? Other than disturbing.

At first, I just erased his comments before anyone could read them. Then I decided to remove him from my friends list, sending him a brief note saying I was not comfortable revealing too much about myself to an industry contact. He replied with a long, pleading, desperate letter (“you have always treated me like a non-human”) which I deleted immediately, and promptly blocked him from all further contact.

By the way, the two Pitt bulls are non-humans and could easily attest to the fact that I am a good deal better with the four legged animals than I am with the two legged ones. If I had really been treating the creepy stalker as a non-human, he should have no cause for complaint!

At this point I was ready to quit the show. It was not worth having to deal with this nonsense. Had he caused another scene, or approached me in an unprofessional or inappropriate way, I would have walked. Perhaps sensing this, he backed off. He acted as if nothing had happened. As if he were the producer of a play that I was in, and that was the extent of our association. Which it was.

That lasted about a week. Next came the apologies, tinged with thinly veiled swipes and snide remarks. Desperate for attention, but at the same time having reached the point where a creepy stalker starts to lash out at the object of his fixation. Bitter that his attentions are being rebuffed. Please forgive me. It’s not my fault that you are so cruel and cold. To all of these apologies, I responded with civility and a professional disposition. Don’t mention it. Really. Don’t.

Then came an unbelievable scene. It was the final weekend of the run. I should have anticipated him being desperate at the thought that he would never see me again, but I have to say honestly that I did not. I truly thought the worst was over.

It was the last Friday show. Although I noticed him hovering outside the dressing room door, I did not think anything of that. It was not an uncommon action from him. However, once the performance began, and we only had about ten minutes until our entrance, he attacked. It was an ambush, something he had planned out over and over in his mind. He began by accusing me of having a form of autism, one that prevented the person from establishing eye contact. He had actually convinced himself that my puzzling rejection of him must mean I was autistic!

When I ignored this, he pulled out a laundry list of moments from rehearsals which he felt were slights against him, and which he wanted me to defend. He was talking crazy, as if he had imagined this conversation so many times that he was incapable of telling which of my responses were real and which had only taken place inside his mind. He was attributing things to me that I had never said. Personalizing things I did weeks ago. Working himself into a state. It was madness, and I chose not to react. I stayed calm and continued getting ready for the show, which had already begun!

When his laundry list failed to provoke the desired response from me, whatever that was, he moved on to my blocking him from facebook. He was now speaking as if it had already been agreed upon that I was unreasonable and unkind. There was bitterness and scorn tangled up with the cloying, clinging, creepy, neediness. It was disturbing, and outrageously unprofessional.

I whispered that this was an inappropriate conversation, taking place at an inappropriate time. He got angry, apologized in a nasty tone and stormed out. Then stormed right back in with a dramatic pronouncement that he only wished me well, and made an exit worthy of a Barrymore. Crossed by the dressing room door a few times, then entered once more to apologize yet again. I smiled politely and said please forget it. Really. Please. Forget it.

That night I left the theatre as quickly as I could, following the performance. The next night he kept his distance, and the final night he was drunk. Before the show. Drunk. Which means he performed that way. The producer of the play. Performing drunk. I am not kidding.

Just when I thought the whole ordeal was over and done with, I got an email from the director. He had heard the creepy stalker’s version of events and wished to hear mine. I had no desire to discuss this with anyone. I was proud that I kept it from becoming a backstage drama, was sure that no one in the cast was able to tell there was anything wrong, and most importantly, did not let this affect my performance onstage. I wanted this director to view me as professional, and did not know him well enough to confide in him.

Still, he was a straight shooter. He asked me bluntly. The show was over, I had nothing to lose, so I sent a carefully worded explanation of what, basically, had occurred. Within an hour, I got an email from the creepy stalker, which I deleted without opening. The apologies themselves were clingy and desperate. What I wanted was no further contact from him whatsoever. None. At all.

The director wrote again. He felt his producer friend had been misunderstood, was innocent, and was the victim of a simple case of crossed signals.

After thinking about this a bit, I decided to defend myself. I wrote a very long letter, providing details. Not so long as this, nor so detailed, but enough to let him see that no matter what the much older producer was trying to accomplish, I had made it clear that I viewed his attentions as unwelcome. That should have been reason enough for him to leave me alone. The fact that he did not proves that it was indeed harassment, and places him securely in the category of creepy stalker.

The director wrote back, acknowledging my perception of the situation, and the next day removed me from his friends list.

My character’s name was Billy. The whole time I was going through this nonsense, I kept thinking of the Billy Goats Gruff. Creepy troll under the bridge. Clever Billy has an older brother with some pretty fierce horns. Not sure which number goat I am, maybe all three?

All the while, I held my tongue, only revealing what had been going on after the fact. Director cut me off as a result? That’s fine with me. It was his producer who behaved badly. I did nothing wrong, and in fact, did quite a lot right. I protected the show.

There is nothing wrong with speaking the truth, only in waiting so long to do so. Goodbye, creepy stalker troll, and good riddance! The Billy Goats Gruff have safe passage at last.

Who's Jane, Anyway?

My pal Chase invited me to a party at some girl's house. Jane. It's Chase's birthday, and it's been awhile since I've seen him. This girl Jane lives near the theatre where I am performing in a play, so I figured I would try to make an appearance.

It's not often I get invited to things. It's even less often that I go. I'm not a party type, don't drink or smoke, dislike loud music, and above all, cannot stand crowded places. Still, it would be nice to see Chase, and if I get there late, maybe I don't have to stay very long.

Hollywood on a Saturday night. Good luck finding a parking space. I turn the car around and head back toward the theatre, where I know I can park, and walk the few blocks to Hollywood Boulevard. Yuk, I really don't like this place. The noise, the smell of urine, the shady people and discordant energy. Why would anyone named Jane live in such a neighborhood?

Wait, I've met his girlfriend. Her name isn't Jane. Maybe this Jane's House is a restaurant? That makes much more sense. I find the address, which is sort of a complex of little restaurants. I walk in one, a pizza place, and ask if there is a Jane's House somewhere nearby. The pretty goth girl looks amused and tells me it's around the corner.

Down a dark creepy alley, I see what appears to be a night club. The kind of place with thuggish bouncers behind a velvet rope. A group of people dressed in black hover around the entrance, like a crowd of fans waiting at the backstage door, hoping to get a glimpse of one of the cast.

Beyond the rope, among the thuggish bouncers, there are two girls and one guy. He looks ceramic. Impossibly handsome, and coated in gloss. His clothes, his hair, even his skin is shiny. One of the girls is a very young, very attractive Asian girl. The other is a rather dumpy short girl with mousy hair greased back, and really bad skin. They both carry clipboards, on which I guess must be a list of names of people who pass muster?

There is no place I would rather be less than inside that club. Turning to leave, I think to myself, why not go in just for a moment? Chase is sure to be busy talking to so many people. Most likely, all I will get is a few moments with him before somebody pulls him away. So, I won't have to stay in that horrible place for very long.

I approached the rather dumpy short girl with mousy hair greased back, and really bad skin. She cut me off as I began to speak, looking at me as if I were a cockroach. Looking at me is not right. She sort of looked in my direction without seeing me. She snapped something about my having to wait, then walked a few steps away. She stood looking at the crowd of people wearing black, without seeing any of them.

This girl could have been working the counter at McDonald's, really. Did she honestly think she was somebody important because she had a job in some horrible night club? Another thuggish bouncer poked his head out and called to the rather dumpy short girl with mousy hair greased back, and really bad skin. She turned and went inside.

The gloss coated ceramic guy walked within earshot, and I asked if this was where my friend Chase was having a party. At the mention of the name, he asked for my ID, which I suppose I should have found flattering. Realizing he was about to let me in, I held up my hand and explained that I hadn't known that Jane's House was a night club, and I was dressed for the beach. (I was, that was not a lie. It was ridiculously hot today, and I was in shorts and a tee shirt.) Pointing down, I showed him my flip flops, which I was certain were not part of the dress code.

He looked relieved to have a reason not to admit someone like me, and politely apologized. No problem. He did not have an attitude at all. He was just doing his job. It was the rather dumpy short girl with mousy hair greased back, and really bad skin that I found rude.

Oh, wait. Maybe she was Jane?

99 Cents of Grace

Saw a guy on line at the 99 Cents store last night. He was next in line after a friend of mine. Watching me. Maybe wondering if I was trying to cut in front of him as I temporarily stood next to, and was talking to, my friend. Except there was no hostility in his eyes. Which were blue. Extremely.

He was the kind of guy who always makes me think how much easier it would be if I looked like him. It. Life. The struggle to find work. Would I be standing in a 99 Cents store, debating whether or not I should walk down the chocolate aisle (can I really afford to splurge...) if I was tall and blonde and strikingly handsome? This guy, if he's an actor, could walk into any casting office and find work in no time at all. This guy is exactly the type everyone wants. This guy does not even need to be talented. At all. He just needs to look like that.

After a few moments, not wanting to give the impression that I was staying in my temporary spot next to my friend who was legitimately waiting in line, I wandered half committedly into the chocolate aisle. Let's see, I've got a bottle of detergent, so I don't have to keep borrowing a capful from a roommate. Six cans of low sodium V-8, to replace six meals I won't have to conjure up with ingredients I don't have. One or two other items chosen with equal frugality. There will be enough room in my environmentally friendly save a tree and don't put plastic in the earth canvas bag, but can I really afford that extra dollar for chocolate when there are unpaid bills which cannot be, and will have to stay that way?

A master of imperviousness when confronted with marketing geared toward impulse buying, I walk away chocolate less and get in line behind the strikingly handsome guy who is not looking at me with hostility in his eyes. My own drift down to his sneakers. Something is wrong. They look not right. Nor do his jogging pants. The tee poking out from under the sweat. He does not look clean, this handsome actor who could easily find work.

I have the strange idea that he may be homeless, and watch for him as I leave the store. There he is a bit farther down the sidewalk, going through his purchases with his own pal, who is quite obviously homeless. Perhaps the handsome one was more presentable, and so went into the store while his friend waited outside.

My god. This handsome could easily be a working actor man. Him, there on the sidewalk outside the 99 Cents store lighting a cigarette. I suppress the sardonic urge to comment on how only in LA could a homeless man look like that. I suppress the disconnected recollection that I am looking for a new roommate. I suppress the slightly reprimanding thought that with his looks he should be struggling less than I am, not more.

I get into my ten year old car, with a prayer the weak battery will allow the engine to start. Then another for him. A third that the needle isn't really on "e" as I drive home, grateful that I have one.

Ayahuasca in the Amazon

As a teenager, I took Ayahuasca with a Shaman from the Amazon jungle in Peru, which was not something I would have imagined myself doing. At the time, I had not heard anything about Ayahuasca, or Peyote, nor did I have any interest in learning about those things. Unlike the other people on the journey, which was with the Four Winds foundation, I had not yet read the books by Carlos Casteneda, and was a puritan through and through.

Raised as a Catholic, I swerved neatly into Tibetan Buddhism by the age of nineteen. It fit with my belief that the purest path was the express to enlightenment. I've been a vegetarian all of my adult life, do not drink nor smoke nor do drugs of any kind, and without making it a conscious decision, had adopted vows of chastity and poverty.

In short, I was not a normal teenager. I had a very strong conviction that spiritual awareness was everything, and anything which tied a person to the physical plane was nothing more that a distraction which could block one's progress.

When I stumbled onto the path of Shamanism, it seemed primal and messy, a far cry from the upper astral music and the peaceful communion with nature that I loved. It took years to let go of some of my deeply held beliefs about purity. I am still a vegetarian, and still do not take drugs, but have come to view other things in a very different light. In many ways, I feel I have lived my life out of order. I've done extraordinary things while remarkably young, and yet have skipped important steps along the way. So now I find myself remarkably old to be exploring those steps.

When I learned we would be taking Peyote with a Shaman from the Andes, followed later by Ayahuasca with another Shaman from the jungle, I was not happy about either. I had determined there was no way I would participate. I did not like the Shaman from the Andes, and was astonished at my own behavior when I leaned my head back and took the San Pedro stew. The resulting experience was violently unpleasant, and it was unsettling to know that the Shaman had a hand in making me do something against my will.

I would have preferred to be part of the ceremony, without taking the drug. It was my feeling that a person can achieve a transcendental state on their own, through meditation or ritual, and that higher levels of consciousness should only be accessed when the person is ready. Messing around with mind altering substances seemed a very dangerous thing.

Without going into all the details, I will say that for a day and a half afterwards, I could not focus my vision, which scared me. Six weeks later, I had a flashback and found myself at the supermarket where I was a cashier, unable to see the price tags on the groceries I was ringing up.

There was one incident during the ceremony which was incredibly prophetic. We were at the Nazca plains in the middle of the night, and were doing a ritual on one of the figures, called the eye of the needle. We had prepared a stick with carvings or ribbons or whatever. It was to represent personal history, and we were to walk along the spiral to the center and then stab the stick into the ground with a great shout. The point was to release history. Although I have no recollection of what I did, I was told about it the next day. Apparently, I refused to stab my stick into the earth, instead choosing to plant it gently. When I emerged from the spiral, I was carrying an imaginary baby.

Well, when I returned home after the journey, there was a birth announcement from a close friend, who had a son while I was in Peru. When I went to visit nine weeks later, her old apartment in the brownstone next door was vacant, and she needed someone to babysit her newborn son. I moved into what would be my home for over a decade and, for the next year and a half, helped raise my nephew. I put him to sleep at night, taught him to hold a spoon, and helped him take his first steps.

None of this would be clear to me while I was still in Peru, of course. After the difficult experience in the Andes, I was absolutely not going to take the Ayahuasca when we reached the jungle.

We stayed in straw huts on the banks of the river, in a place called Yarina Cocha. It was a magical place. Oppressive heat, thick cool mud, enormous insects, and the most beautiful absence of time. The jungle Shaman was named Agostine Rivas, and I liked him instantly. A gentle spirit. Diminutive in stature, with kind eyes, a soft voice, and the aged hands of a sculptor.

Although he said I could not participate in the ceremony without taking the Ayahuasca, I knew it would be dark, and I could easily avoid my turn. I stayed alert and fully conscious for the entire ritual, which lasted all night. We were on a wooden platform which extended out over the water. Agostine did not let anyone lie down, he insisted we stay seated upright to let the medicine work properly. He kept a tight but easy control over the tone of the group, pulling from a wide assortment of musical instruments and Shaman's tools. I remember especially an eerie sounding instrument which looked like an archer's bow. He blew into one end, while gently plucking the string. The music it produced made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It was otherworldly.

There was a funny moment when he went around the circle giving beaded necklaces to the female participants, but was one short when he reached the last person. He had mistakenly given one to me. As a teenager, I was often mistaken for a girl. I was slender, had long curly hair, and was arguably pretty. Even so, it was too dark for him to notice any of that. He was looking at our auras!

The ceremony was enough for me, I was glad not to have taken the potion, after the rough experience I had already had with Peyote. When we got back to NY, I joined a group led by the woman who guided us through Peru. Her name was Lorna, and she would become an instrumental figure in my spiritual journey. She led a fire ceremony on the full moon, a medicine circle on the new moon, and conducted seminars and retreats where we participated in sweat lodges and other rituals from the native american traditions, including Ayahuasca. Agostine came to NYC with a diluted version of the jungle vine. This time, I decided to participate.

Lorna had a beautiful town house on a private street in Greenwich Village, called Patchin Place. Agostine explained that the energy of a big city could intensify the experience. If we did not want to get sick and go through the physical purging, we should stay attentive and focus on our breathing. The Ayahuasca would work more subtly, but we should be prepared for chaos erupting in our lives over the next few days.

Unrealistically, I thought I would be able to go to work that morning. In an office. Seriously. I walked up to the glass doors and understood pretty quickly that there was no way I would be able to go through them and function all day as if I belonged there. My whole spirit was in another place, still processing the effects of the potent tea.

There was a rather dramatic episode with a roommate which followed. Too long a story to add here, but it did not end well. I evicted the guy and wound up defending myself successfully in small claims court. It was an awful ordeal, and I was grateful to be rid of him. There were issues involved which I can see now were even larger than I understood then.

The period of my life when I was studying Shamanism, and traveling to distant places, is one that I miss very much. It feels like such a long time ago. Lorna has moved on to the next world, and I to Los Angeles.

First Snow

It's white outside. There is softness falling, and I want to write words to catch it before it soundlessly finds the ground. No print of foot or paw. No mailman trudging his way to the front steps. No milkman, even if there were still such a thing. Not yet. The snowflakes hover in the beam of light from the street lamp. Delaying their task. Dancing or basking or just losing their way. No hurry. There is beauty enough to linger a few more moments in the air.

I want to write poetry. I want to let the words bounce off each other. To watch them accidentally place themselves with purpose onto the white page. The white screen. Like the small bits of snow blowing about in the night outside my window.

I want to be that kid again, holding the thought of a no school happy morning. Pressed to the glass with the house asleep. Keeping that hopeful secret to myself for just a few more hours, until the world wakes and decides to call the day off for play. Drift off to sleep, completely free.

That's not me, though. Not anymore. Now I am not a poet. Now I am more like the snow.

Commie Bastards!

The afternoon of the Presidential debate at Hofstra University, there was a rally for Obama scheduled at nearby Eisenhower Park. Since this election has had history written all over it, and since I happened to be in NY, ten minutes from the park, and Hofstra, and the cradle of aviation, I decided to go and see how history looked live and up close.

As the debate was about to begin, there was an altercation between protesters and mounted police officers right by the entrance to the campus. I'd never seen police in full riot armor. Plexiglass shields. I had the disconnected impression that I could just walk calmly through the fray, explaining politely that I had no part in the mayhem, and was merely heading into the grounds to get as close to the Hardball tent as possible. (I hoped to meet Chris Matthews and watch the live broadcast.)

A good looking young guy named James stopped me before I got too close. He had been to the tent, had met Chris, had narrowly escaped the clash between protesters and police. He proved extremely helpful. Following his instructions, I was able to accomplish what I had hoped, and watched the debate on a plasma screen under the Hardball tent. It was a great vantage point, and I was fascinated to see how demonstrative Chris was while off camera. Not only were his opinions of the candidates crystal clear, but several of his guests that night shared his views, and were equally free in expressing them.

There was much shaking of heads over the notion of palin, and much grimacing at every comment from mcCain. Combined with the almost unanimous support of Obama from the college students, the impression that history and Obama were destined for one another was practically palatable.

History from both sides. One candidate carrying around history. Trapped by it. Held captive by the past. The other candidate with pen in steady hand, ready to write history himself.

The most startling and memorable moment of the night came before it began. As I was waiting for the traffic light to grant me entrance to Eisenhower Park, two young ladies walked by holding Obama signs. They smiled sweetly and waved at the people in the stopped cars.

An angry old man rolled down his window and yelled "Commie Bastards!!!" Shaking his fist in the air. No, really. He did. The young ladies were taken aback, but kept smiling and walked on unbothered. The old guy repeated his shout "Commie Bastards!"

At first, I laughed, but then rolled down my window and politely pointed out that he was addressing two ladies. He said he did not care, and then screamed that I was also a "Commie Bastard!"

It was strange. His rage seemed unfocused. His choice of insults, antique. It reminded me of a scene in a Hepburn/Tracy film. The cantankerous old fellow gets into a fender bender with some hippy kids in a parking lot, and his anger at being out of touch with the world is in itself touching.

Here is this old white man. Representing much of the nation, raging against the fact that history is about to place a black man in a white house. They feel helpless. Infuriated. Desperate. How can this be happening? McCain, one of them, gives voice to this ugly and petulant emotion. As his campaign nears its end, he is holding nothing back. He and his running mate are playing into that rage and anger for all it's worth.

What gives me hope for our nation, is that the rage and fury does not seem to be worth very much. A feeble shout from a car window "Commie Bastards!"

McCain wanders around the stage looking lost. He has no clue. No language to address the reality in which he finds himself. Internets. Emails. Global warming. He dredges up the only cliches he knows. Archaic references to cold wars and red scares. He mocks environmentalists who are concerned about the dangers involved in resurrecting the wisely abandoned nuclear power industry. He represents not just another decade, but another century.

He chooses as his running mate a relic from the golden age of television. A feisty, attractive "modern" version of Florence Henderson. She does not emasculate, like say, Hilary Clinton, who was criticized for being cold and steely. Hated, even, for demonstrating what a smart and powerful woman can do.

No, this safer, non-threatening, modern woman from Alaska seems to know her place. She'll talk about raising kids with special needs. She'll be folksy and charming and make a man feel like a man. She's a mid century stereotype, dressed up in trappings which suggest cutting edge, but only dully. Safely. Progression, but the kind firmly rooted in the good book.

The combined ticket screams the past. It's almost farcical. Look at how mavericky we are. We'll bring about change, but nothing too scary.

On the other side, and for the first time in a long time, the contrast could not be more stark.

Obama represents the future. The changing times. The world moving on. The difference is that he is not frightening at all. He has demonstrated himself not to be the lesser of two evils. Not the same old thing in new packaging. Not just another unwanted option for which we will all have to settle. He truly does seem to be a figure worthy of history. Perhaps it has been so long since FDR, or even Kennedy, that we as a people have forgotten what it is like to witness history being written. Not in Nadirs, but in Zeniths.

Streisand Sighting

Barbra was performing at a fundraiser at the ballroom of the Beverly Wilshire tonight. Although I could not even consider the ticket price, I figured it would be crazy not to hang around and try to catch a glimpse of her, since the place is not far away, and I knew in advance she would be there. I'm glad I did. I met a reporter from Fox News, named Jamie something. Nice guy. Since I look like a techie, I stayed with him and his camera man until the event was over. (Barbra was already inside when I got there.) He told me he had been thrown out three times. No press was allowed.

Some security guys came over to talk with him. They were amazed at how much money was being raised. Nine million. They said Barbra sounded great, and although they were clearly not fans of hers (they found her comments about social programs hypocritical, considering how wealthy she is,) they could detect no sign of age in her voice.

Ron Howard walked by. Then Michael York. After Jamie finished his news piece, I walked over to the stage door. The security fellow there was very helpful. He pointed out which vehicle belonged to Barbra's team. He said she would not be going anywhere without them. Sometime after 11PM, the secret service guys came out and let it be known that Barbra had already left. The group of fans who had been hanging around decided to leave. I stayed.

I heard one security guy tell the other that he was going to get her now. A black limo pulled up and backed into a spot next to the stage door. About ten minutes later, the door opened and there she was. I was the only person standing on the sidewalk, about fifteen feet away. She looked beautiful, her hair is extremely shiny. She looked at me, then looked away and the security people led her to the limo. There was a little girl with blonde hair with her, and her husband, who was walking with a cane.

Then something a little bizarre happened. A young mom with her two boys came and stood next to me. They had no idea what was going on, but live nearby and wanted to see someone famous. The woman was wearing a babushka and pajamas under her coat, and her sons were in yarmulkas. Standing together, we must have looked like a poor young Jewish family gathered by the stage door to wave at the famous blonde lady in the big stretch limo.

We did wave, as the limo pulled out in front of us. We could not see if Barbra was waving back, since all the windows were tinted. My wife and kids for the moment stayed to see if Barack Obama would emerge as well, but I was happy to have seen Barbra, and the night was already complete.

September 11, 2001

In 2001, I was living three blocks from the Holland tunnel, on the Jersey side. We did not get the poisonous cloud which marred the sky for over a week, it was blown the other way, towards Brooklyn. The view from the end of my street was one which I avoided for at least as long. I chose not to take it in, trying to carry on with my day to day life, as if sitting in six hours of traffic to cross the river was normal. (The Holland was closed during the search and eventual clean-up, and getting in and out of the city was a good deal more difficult than usual.)

My life was changed immediately, and there were more far reaching changes which are still being felt. Each year I try not to dwell on the events, but this year I did watch a disturbing documentary on the construction and operation of the towers. It was filmed in January of 2001, and included testimony from two experts who died eight months later. One of them talked about the buildings being designed to withstand the impact of a 747 jet plane. Eerie.

My cousin was among the firefighters who went in and never came out. He was in the first ladder company inside, and his last transmission came from the fourth floor. They were on their way out, carrying a handicapped person. He sounded calm and completely unaware of what was happening on the higher floors. Then, a minute later, life was over. They did not find him for six months, but then he was given the most spectacular goodbye imaginable.

Since he was among the last found, his funeral was a big deal. They pulled out all the stops. Officers stood at either side of his coffin during the entire wake. Changing shifts, like the guard. Streets were closed for blocks, and were flooded with uniforms. Both Mayors spoke. The Olympic team that year drew bracelets with the names of fallen fire fighters. The skier who wore my cousin's name won a gold medal. It really was a hero's send-off.

Two of my friends lost their businesses. One owned a party company in Tribeca. The other owned a theatre in the West Village.

My own life changed drastically. I moved out of my apartment, and travelled the globe a bit, before making a move out to LA. The event provided a way to make personal changes in who I am, and changed my beliefs in how my country works. There was a heightened interest in politics, which I still have. More now than ever. I may not be able to change anything just by knowing what is going on, but I do not want to feel as if I have been mugged anymore. Or assaulted violently.

There was a long piece in Time magazine a year after the towers fell. It outlined the time line from the day bush took office to the day of the attacks. Along the way, there was a moment here where he could have prevented another moment there. There was a turn this way which could have prevented a turn the other. Each action he took, or did not take, led to the result we all know now. It was shocking then, and still is. How, out of incompetence, or willful intent, he was culpable in one of the worst disasters in our nation's history, and how he used it to his advantage. The fact that it is still being used for political advantage is sickening.

I have felt ever since the horrible election in 2000, that bush has unleashed a very dark and ugly side of our nation's collective subconscious. It was as if, finally, it was okay to voice the racism and hatred and small mindedness which has dwelt well below the surface. As if people could finally let down their guard, and give voice to their true feelings which they have had to keep hidden during the reign of political correctness. Suddenly, the religious fundamentalists had one of their own in power, and could start to exert their muscle, forcing their decidedly un-Christ like beliefs onto others.

At the same time, the very smart and very powerful forces behind bush inc. have been able to take over the country, creating a free for all for huge corporate giants and the mutli-billion dollar out-dated oil industry. The attacks on our country were a physical representation of the disease spreading on the inside.

Some people may object to what I am saying, but this is how I view the combined effect of bush and the attacks on September 11th, 2001. The damage to our nation when the towers fell was only temporary. (The stock market crash of 1929 had a much more far reaching impact.) However, the damage to our nation inflicted by bush inc. may never be repaired. On every level, he has hurt our country. The attacks on the towers should always be linked to bush, as a footnote, in parenthesis, in italics. The equation of one disaster to the other (either direct or indirect) should be made clear in the history books.

Can You Hear Me Now?

Okay, I have to admit, I was a complete Luddite, up until a few years ago. I did not have email, or internet access, or a cell phone, or any of the necessities of modern life. I had a VCR and an answering machine. That was it. Not even a CD player. Really, I'm not kidding.

After the towers fell (I was living three blocks from the Holland Tunnel,) I made a few sweeping changes in my life. Not because the towers fell, it was rather like taking advantage of a major shift in public consciousness to make a major shift in my personal consciousness. I changed pretty much everything, redefining who I am. Well, I kept some things which are core beliefs, like being a vegetarian. That sort of thing.

Cell phones were a particularly big challenge for me, as I had always found them annoying, especially the kind that beep at timed intervals when there is a message waiting for the owner. I hated when people called me from their cell phones and all I could hear was jumbled static. I did not like the notion of being at everyone's beck and call, like wearing one of those ridiculous beepers that people used to hang from their belts as if they were fashion accessories. Worse still, I did not like at all the annoyed insistence of those pushy callers who kept telling me I had to get a cell phone since I was impossible to reach. My reply was always that if I did not answer my phone, they were welcome to leave me a message and I would call them back. Of course, I usually chose not to return pesky calls from needy people demanding to hear from me at once.

It was finally the finances which convinced me to get a cell phone. (That, and all the research I did on which models were the safest, and had the lowest risk of causing brain cancer.) The money talks, when you are always broke. It became cheaper to get rid of the land line and simply pay a monthly plan for a mobile phone. Especially since each phone company, at the time, wanted desperately to lure people away from land lines and other phone companies, and it was not difficult to haggle to get the best possible deal. I learned to call every few weeks and renegotiate, until I managed to find the deal I still have.

Then something amazing happened. I realized how ridiculous it was to do what I do for a living without having a phone in the car!!! Truly, the cell phone proved to be absolutely invaluable to me. I work as a performer, mostly on weekends, mostly at parties, and my job calls for me to drive all over the map, sometimes with little or no time to spare between gigs. Listening to the radio every ten minutes, adjusting my route to avoid traffic and make up lost time, it became clear that having the phone in the car was essential. How the hell did I ever do it without one? Calling the client while running late, calling the agent to report in, calling the other performers to go over the plan, all done from the car. While driving. On the way to the gig.

As much as it used to make me crazy seeing people chatting away while driving, here I am doing the same thing. I know we are not supposed to, I know how risky it is, but I also know I absolutely do rely on that phone in the car while working. Far worse, I have been known to change costume and even put on clown make up while speeding along to perform for little Timmy's birthday party.

Having said that, I still get those demanding needy calls from people who wonder why I never answer my cell phone. Don't you carry it with you at all times? Well, no. I don't. I actually turn it off, or leave it at home if I am going to the movies, or the theatre, or some place where I do not think people should be bringing their phones. I do not walk down the street talking on the phone, and never carry on private conversations in public places. It drives me insane while I am waiting on line at the bank, or am in the Library(!!!!) or am sitting on a train, and there is a person nearby broadcasting all the intimate details of their date last night at full volume, completely unaware that they are audible to every other person in the room.

So, I am not one of those incessantly plugged in people who cannot put the thing down. I do, however, still use my phone while driving, even though I can see the reasons why it should not be allowed.

By the way, on my last trip to NY, there was a story in the news one morning about a guy who was driving while working on his laptop, and drove straight into oncoming traffic, killing himself and another driver in the process. That is just plain mind boggling.

Heath

Heath Ledger was found dead in his apartment. That happened today. He was naked, and there were sleeping pills nearby. Marilyn Monroe. His image was on my TV screen just the other night. A cowboy so incapable of expressing what was inside him, he spoke through a clenched jaw. His performance was powerful. Heart breaking. I'd never really seen anything he'd done before, and couldn't help wondering what else this guy was capable of doing.

I booked a commercial today. Just a day's pay, but I am so grateful. Happy to know that it can be done. That I can pass an audition, make it through callbacks and land a job. It's a modest achievement, certainly, but it's also a glimmer of hope. Don't give up. No matter how many years you have struggled without any measure of success, with nothing under your feet, or how many moments of hope and promise have led to disappointment and despair, still don't give up. Still keep going.

We do not yet know how Heath Ledger died, but we do know he is not the first actor to die young, and to leave behind unexplored potential. He could have picked up the phone and called his favorite writer or director and asked to be included in their next project. He could have played Hamlet on Broadway. He could have created a green light for an unfunded independent film just by attaching his name to it. He was famous and talented and handsome and had all of life laying out in front of him for the taking.

It's sad. Why should his life be over so soon? He had every opportunity I do not. We all have obstacles to face, I know, and not everything is as it seems, but I so desperately hope that drug use did not play a part in Heath Ledger's death. It would be terrible to think that someone who had so much could have been missing the small glimmer that says don't give up. Still keep going.

Starting Off With a Bang

Standing at the baggage claim carousel at the start of the New Year, waiting for my luggage, long after everyone else found their own and trudged off into the heat and traffic of Los Angeles, I wondered if they could possibly have sent my bags to Seattle twice in a row. On my last trip here, I spent two days at a friend's, not able to retrieve my car, as my keys were in Seattle, along with my phone charger, shaving kit, and a few other items that make life difficult by their absence.

There was a moment when I panicked. Maybe this year was not to be a step forward at all. Maybe the promise of 2008, the release of our country from the sinister clutches of the most corrupt administration in history, the awakening of an entire nation from a corporate owned media induced somnambulistic trance, the end of a difficult and bumpy period for me personally, was so much sea foam and mist. Beautiful to behold, but impossible to grasp.

Then I saw it. My trunk. Way off to the side, in the wrong place, waiting almost an hour for me to abandon my infuriatingly polite, superhuman display of patience and wander around to see if I might have better luck finding my luggage myself.

Relax. My belongings are safely arrived with me. Life is good. The year does indeed hold promise. Things will work out smoothly and effortlessly. Money will flow toward me. My career will take off. This year will bring an end to the stress and struggles of the past. After all, nothing wound up in the wrong city this time. People did their jobs correctly. No one made any mistakes. My faith in the human race was momentarily restored.

Then, as I am listening to a message on my phone from a friend telling me that my parked car had been hit in the middle of the night by a driver who was most likely drunk and most probably uninsured, and who left the scene without leaving a note, the bus pulling from the curb grabbed hold of my luggage and began to drag it away.

No kidding. The moron driving the bus with the jagged rear bumper pulled away in such a way that the back of the vehicle came up over the curb, snared my suitcase and dragged it about ten feet before tearing free. My shouts to the driver to stop went unheard. Or unheeded. He took off into the traffic, leaving my damaged suitcase as a mild diversion from the more damaged Saturn awaiting my return.

The next bus pulled in a few minutes later. When we arrived at the station, I saw the one with the jagged bumper. I approached its moron driver and politely told him what had occurred. He began yelling at me to call the company and complain that I was standing too close to the curb! No apology. No acknowledgment that he had done anything wrong. That he was lucky he didn't drag a dog or a kid or that his jagged bumper hadn't caught onto my leg. This jerk was actually trying to blame me! He was so hostile and rude. If he had simply said he was sorry, I would have been fine. Torn and broken luggage isn't that big a deal when compared to a smashed up car.

Since he chose to be unreasonable and nasty, I called the number on the side of the bus. The one under the question "How's my driving?" After filing a complaint, I went to the office of the bus depot and filled out a form for the damage to my luggage.

Then it was on to see the damage to my car. It was hard to imagine how the accident took place. The other fellow must have been going very fast and then swerved suddenly and violently to the right just as he was passing my car. It looked like a giant shark had taken a bite out of the side. The impact was over the rear wheel. Rear door destroyed. Car knocked on an angle from the force. Passenger side rear wheel pressed so hard against the curb that the wheel was bent.

My beautiful Saturn. Waiting there as patiently as I do. Innocently standing by the curb. Optimistically searching the baggage carousel. Then BAM! Mindlessness. Madness. The harm that people do through incompetence or inconsideration or just plain carelessness. Pull away without stopping. Drive away to leave the scene of a crime. Maybe he didn't feel responsible, either. Maybe he didn't see anything wrong with what he did. Maybe he thought it was my fault, too?

I've heard that just before a period of growth or progress, the universe can throw chaos in a person's path. Torn luggage. Broken Saturn. Meaningless mishaps, or signs of the good things to come?

Milk and Cookies

So I'm playing Santa at a corporate Christmas party in a gleaming office tower in Tribeca, where even a flying sleigh would have trouble finding a parking space. When I first walk in, they are always worried, since I am slender and not even close to the right jolly old age. All the more impressive when I appear a few minutes later in my costume, which is first rate, and which I wear over a padded parka. (Pillows look pregnant.)

I never used to enjoy being Santa. Elves are more fun. Mischief suits me better. Somewhere along the way, however, I found a way to play Saint Nick that works for me. A voice, a way of walking, a few set jokes that never fail. Now I love it.

At this particular party in the high-powered corporate world condensed into a few blocks in the city at the center of the planet, a little kid gave me a present which was startling in it's specificity. A gift that could only have made sense to me, and would have been discarded without a second thought by the thousands of other otherwise out of work actors sweating beneath layers of padding and character choices.

His present came with a note, saying he was giving it to me so I can be happy. No need to unwrap it to tell it was a matchbox car. Nothing special there. Until I did unwrap it to discover a miniature limo with the Presidential seal printed on the hood.

The kid had a Presidential limo! What are the chances, really? How many kids have that? What are the odds that he would give this to me, without knowing who I am, or what I am working on? The only Kermit this kid knows is the frog. (I took it as a clear sign that I should get moving on my idea for a series on youtube, and posted the first episode on New Year's Eve.)

As I was leaving the party, skinny and young again, one of the employees of the global corporate finance company slipped me a hastily assembled envelope, with a thank you note to Santa scribbled in red on the front. Not expecting a tip, and understanding immediately that it was thrown together quickly by the ladies who were at the nearby desks all morning watching me perform, I put it in my pocket without looking, but with a polite Thank You.

Back at the obscenely over-priced parking garage I was forced to use after driving around for forty-five frustrating minutes that morning, I opened the envelope, hoping the tip would be enough to cover the outrageous parking fee. There were four crisp portraits of President Grant tucked inside. Yes, Kermit, there is a Santa Claus.

Okay, this tale may not be as universally moving as the Christmas Shoes, but that's the whole point. It was moving to me.

Happy Holidays from Hess

This is going to sound like one of those urban legends people love to forward as junk email. You know, the kind that come with the assurance "This really happened!" Well, this did really happen, although it is hard to believe it's true even as I write.

On my way to a gig in Jersey on Friday, I noticed my fuel light blinking. I was running on empty. Nothing new there, I am one of those people who always seem to be leaving the house with just enough time to arrive wherever they are going too late to stop for fuel.

I whispered encouragement to my little car all the way across the Cross Bronx, hoping to make it to Jersey, where the gasoline is somewhat less obscenely expensive. Avoiding the ubiquitous Exxon (I cannot in good conscience support them in any way,) I managed to find a Hess station in Lodi, not far from where I was heading. I put in twenty dollars, which gave me 6.9 gallons. When I pulled away, I saw that my fuel gauge was still on empty.

This had been happening lately, so I have taken to setting the mini odometer to zero each time I put gas in the car. It's a trick I picked up from driving my last car, whose fuel gauge was unreliable. After running out of gas a few times, I learned to reset the odometer and keep track of the math myself. I figured the fuel gauge was malfunctioning. After all, I just put in twenty dollars.

The light kept blinking the rest of the way to the show, but I ignored it. On my way home, I could stop off at a gas station and fill the tank. Which is what I did.

Here's where it gets interesting. My car only holds eleven gallons. 6.9 went in at the Hess in Lodi. It's only about 20 miles to Totowa, where I had my show. At the second gas station, the car took $35. The needle was now at full. Eleven gallons!

This made no sense. How could my gas tank be completely empty after I put in twenty dollars? Unless....

I drove back to the Hess. I explained to the man what had happened. I showed him receipts. I expected him to tell me there was no way they could have charged me for gasoline without putting it into my car. I thought he would tell me I was nuts for even thinking such a thing.

Know what he said? "It happens."

It happens? How does it happen? He said it was human error. Apparently, there is indeed a way to rig the pump to show that gasoline is being dispensed without actually dispensing gasoline! The fellow then added that it was 50% my fault for not catching it right away!

My father had a rule whenever we played board games. It was okay to cheat, as long as you did not get caught. If you got caught after the next person took their turn, it was too late. You got away with it, because it was the fault of the other players for not paying close enough attention.

This man from Hess had the same shady morals. Now I was wondering if all the times I thought my gas gauge was not working, I was wrong. Maybe the mind is more willing to accept a mechanical error than it is to accept that people are just plain corrupt. Not only are they ripping us off by charging inflated prices (while their CEO's are raking in record profits,) but now they are stealing from us outright!

In New Jersey, it is illegal to pump your own gas, which I guess makes it easier to get away with something like this. I called my credit card company to dispute the charge, but can't help wondering how many times I have paid too much for gasoline that I did not get, and how many other people have done the same, without knowing it.

Merry Christmas to you too, greedy oil company.