Tuesday, February 26, 2013

She's on "Smash"


The other day I was at my bank, which is correctly titled “Actor’s Federal Credit Union” because I am indeed, as far as I can tell, still an actor. Why? No clue. I spend most of the time ruing the fact that I have a Bachelor of Music, and even more so that it’s focus is in Musical Theatre, and even further that New York City still has yet to embrace my antithetical genius but somehow likens Lena Dunham to Woody Allen.
But ruminations aside, the other day I was further reminded why I should change my bank.
It’s not that I hate the grease paint crowd; it’s just that I don’t necessarily fit in. The fact of the matter is: if I don’t want to hangout with them, why should I want to bank with them? It’s not like any of us have that much money, and if we do, we definitely aren’t banking at AFCU.
But the worst part is: I have to stand in line with them.
Now, admittedly, I have had some theatrical success. But I don’t pull my thumb out of my butt every time somebody asks me if I have sh*t today so they can smell my fruitions.
Which is why I also don’t want to hear you talk to my couldn’t-give-two-sh*ts bank tellers about how you are on Smash. My eyes are eventually going to get stuck looking at the back of my head before I can even deposit my measly paycheck.
Unfortunately, I was behind one of those people in line at the bank that day.
“Do you watch Smash?” asked the bumble-along older lady as she scrambled to the next available teller whilst waving a white paycheck in her hand, fumbling and bumbling like wind was blowing in her face and the oppressive weight of first world glamour had taken its toll on her just to get here. “You know, on NBC. Smash. The TV show? Smash. It’s about musical theatre and BROADWAY.”
The bank teller looked her over hesitantly; unsure if this lady was just obnoxious or drunk. “I think I’ve seen a commercial for that for something…”
“Oh well, darling, you must watch it tonight! I’m on it! Blink and you’ll miss me haha, but I play so-and-so’s wife…you will love tonight’s episode!”
“Okay,” the bank teller said, “can I have your check to deposit, please?”
“Yes! This is my check from Smash! You will definitely love the songs tonight, the songs are so good. NBC is such a good network to get in with!” she said, handing her flailing white check over the counter and to the absolutely already over it bank teller.
“But I tell you, BLINK and you’ll miss me! But it was such a great experience.”
“Ma’am?” the blank teller sighed, ready for lunch break at only 10 AM.
“Yes?”
“Where’s your deposit slip?”
“For my check?”
Yes, your Smash check I thought.
“Yes,” the teller replied, less sarcastically.
“OH GOODNESS. I must have forgot. Can I fill one out?”
“Yes. Please step out of line.”
“I’ll be right back!” she said, bumbling out of line like some doped out cross of Liza Minnelli and Raggedy Ann.
“Next!” the bank teller called, and it was for me.
I slowly walked up in my casual, pigeon-toed fashion. “This check isn’t from Smash. I’m not on TV. Or in anything, really.”
The bank teller smirked.
“I just want to get out of here as quickly as possible.”
The bank teller looked up. “Me too.”


Monday, February 11, 2013

Pigeon poem

Tell me that the crow doesn't look down
At all the pigeons with disgust
For as they peck and preen and pry
For food in other's dust
Feed the carnivore of life
The very heart unclean
For blacker wings take the blood
While pigeons poop on things

Saturday, February 9, 2013

Manhattan

Call me contagious but this city breathes mechanical inside me like some scheming metallic lung looking to cognate and lubricate every lunatic and renegade soul into its scheming adultery we call "metropolis." Let me ask you, have you ever eked out a living? Have you ever stared into the cosmic void and asked not, Why? But, Why not? I am a mere eccentricity of the universe and all it's winding samsara expressing itself in some current zeitgeist that will remain forever hush hush secret to future soul bodies, and will look back at us in history books on iPads and say, That right there was Manhattan.

Manhattan

Call me contagious but this city breathes mechanical inside me like some scheming mechanical lung looking to cognate and lubricate every lunatic and renegade soul into its scheming adultery we call "metropolis." Let me ask you, have you ever eked out a living? Have you ever stared into the cosmic void and asked not, Why? But, Why not? I am a mere eccentricity of the universe and all it's winding samsara expressing itself in some current zeitgeist that will remain forever hush hush secret to future soul bodies, and will look back at us in history books on iPads and say, That right there was Manhattan.

Train ride ramblings

Occasionally in a category storm, a category of craziness arises. With the onset of everything seeming to accumulate this past week--new jobs, new travel, new life experiences, new new new--the onset in a ripple in the foundational pillar you categorize as your current self, much more "we", is both heart wrenching and soul vexing.
What sort of plans does god have for me?
A year and a half ago I would have adamantly stated "to be on Broadway", but I've run that gamut, and while it is still potential, it isn't the end game.
Now that I've landed a job as a writer, I've realized that everything I'm feeling, or not feeling, can be expressed in words and phrases sometimes even more potent than song.
I've also realized that censorship can be as aggressive as cancer, and the tumor that arises from it perhaps even more fatal.
What I mean to say in the most benign way is, What are we? Why are we? Who are we? And if that comet currently straddling our sphere did score a strike, Where are we?
If anybody follows or can answer accordingly, I'd be happy to bend an ear, a neck, a back, an elbow, my soul.
Until then, I think I'll just hit the treadmill and at least burn off some of the vodka from last night and maybe get an edge in on the vodka tonight.

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

The X Word

It was a Xanax at first daylight sort of day, with shafts of gray space matter coming in through ripple waves of curtain to remind that I wasn't only locked in my head today, but locked and aware on this here earth.
It had been a tumultuous month. I had scored a modeling gig, but my wallet still bled and my pseudo-employment of part time needs for uppity Manhattanites was starting to dig deeper into my skin and soul with every receipt purchase I saw left haphazardly on their granite countertops: $75 here, $150 there... And all I could think was to bite my lip and know that they would be the first to perish in the zombie apocalypse. Upper East Siders don't own guns.
Beyond that, I was panicked. There is no simple rhyme or reason for the mental travesty of a nowadays vagrant who happens to live comfortably and mortgaged in a gentrifying neighborhood other than the lack of color and lack of sustained happiness.
But what is happiness?
I knew personally it wasn't having an Amex card, although that would be cool. I also knew that my considerations on what would make a remarkable life was vastly different than a majority of my friends and relatives. I think the grease paint had left my blood, because on top of the modeling gig, I had spent two days as a pharmaceutical salesman in Brooklyn before realizing I could not be a professional leech, and had also lied about my job title and actually overall employment to get into a focus group with another hundred twentysomethings who were quick to take their preloaded debit cards to the bars whereas I schlepped through ice and snow to the grocery store to fill a burning belly and drown myself in Oreos.
So that was the anxiety, whereas others had some semblance of a path, I was grasping at straws and hoping one led to a nurturing nipple - and not just monetarily nurturing, although that would be nice, but something between soul and earth and a kinship with god, El Adonai, some recognition that I wasn't completely screwing up.
I looked at the little white pill in my hand and contemplated eternity and the infinite and finite and everything that ran between that might be called fate or luck or capitalism.
I also thought about how it would make me feel because sometimes taking pharmaceuticals to help me fight mounting anxiety takes my little Appalachian bump and hikes it up to a Kilimanjaro heyo.
But today it was needed and today it was justified. And I made my eggs and broke through Shawshank and sighed and laughed and tried to get motivated and made some contacts and realized that three o'clock was always too early and always too late and that's why you got your ass up at dawn, even if it meant a morning drug dose.