I Can't Believe I Joined a Group or Tale of a Desperate Camper

In my ongoing quest to ensure I give to myself that which centers and balances me, I have joined a camping group here in the city. Although theatre is intrinsically a group endeavor and I do belong to the Richmond Area Speleological Society and the National Speleological Society , I've never been one to actively seek out a group for social activities; it makes me feel so very thirty-something, and I don't even turn thirty for 8 months! But the sad truth of the matter is that Ms. Laughing Wild (short for Laughing Wild Mountain Treasure) is really pretty much the only friend I have who loves camping and hiking as much as I do. Mr. Saucy Funnybuns (his buns aren't funny, he is) and My Little Vidipookikins have both expressed an interest in going at least once in the summer, but I know I can't really count on that. So my options were to hound Ms. Laughing Wild mercilessly about going camping, rent a car by myself on an already strained budget, or join a group; I wisely opted for the latter.

I'm kind of excited about meeting other nature-loving outdoorsy urban dwellers, but kind of nervous too. What if I hate them all (okay, being that there are like 50 members, hating them all might be a bit of a stretch) and don't find out until I'm stuck on a 3 day camping trip with the most annoying but active of the group? What if its like when I was a girl scout and we had to do woosy camping in these cabin shelter thingies instead of tents (this is what prompted me to drop out of girl scouts and hate the organization from then on)? What if they all hate me and leave me stranded in the woods and I fall into the hands of a serial killer like the guy who killed those two young hikers on the Appalachian Trail? What if I end up writing this whole post about stupid "what if" scenarios that I'm not really all that concerned about?

I think the real reason that I'm anti-group is that these type of things are often used as matchmaking tools for opportunistic and hungry/horny/lonely singles. Not that I'm denying my own state of hunger/horniness/lonliness; I just don't like the whole meeting/mixing/matching etc game. I don't like playing games unless I know that I'm good at them; good enough to win. Dating is not an arena in which I feel safe being a contender; not even in the preliminary rounds. Of course I could be wrong and it could be full of blissfully married people. Or eunichs. Eunichs like camping right?

No matter how the group turns out to be, or how freakin old it makes me feel, I'm excited at the prospect of summer camping trips and proud of myself for pursuing this part of my life that's been sorely neglected since I moved to this land of concrete.

Now I have to go pick up my veggies and put in some hours for the second job while still trying to maintain a stress free semblence of calm with a sprinkling of added sleep to boot. Suddenly the mountains seem very far away.

The Gift of an Appendix Epiphany

There are and always will be unexpected bends along the path that somehow end up fitting in perfectly with your journey even when they seem so wholly incongruous. I woke up Friday morning to a phone call from Mr. Artsy Hotpants, who had been experiencing stomach problems recently, and had gone to the hospital for a battery of tests including a cat scan he was having that morning. Much to his surprise he was told that he had appendicitis, and would need emergency surgery right away - do not pass go, do not collect $200 (more like pay out the wazoo). I called work and told them the honest truth, which sounded quite like a prefab excuse I'm sure, that one of my best friends was having emergency surgery and had no family here and I needed to go to the hospital to be with him. I threw on some clothes, hopped in a cab and began a crazy long lose-any-concept-of-time-and-reality day. Hospitals are so bizarre in that regard, and I realized that there is sort of a universality to them; we could have been anywhere at anytime, hoverring surrealistically in a frenzied regimented limbo land.

I confess that I was scared and worried about my kind loving and wholly giving friend; I chewed both my upper and lower lips into complete oblivion. I ran to get him the things he requested from his apartment an hour away, arranged things in his assigned room while he was in recovery, and managed to somehow arrive in recovery just around the time he was coming to after surgery, despite the hospitals best efforts to send me on a wild goose chase.

Mr. Artsy Hotpants is quite phenomenal and I often think I should try to be more like him. There he was, drugged up and following a common but still rather major surgery, and he's charming the entire hospital staff and remembering everyone's name, thanking them, and making their day. I couldn't even remember my own name, I was so frazzled, and I wasn't the one who had an internal organ removed.

I stayed with him until about 12:30am (I luckily had the foresight to call before he was even admitted and instruct him to tell them I was his sister so that I could have full access to him) and finally left when I heard a tiny snore wrestle free from his forlornly curled up body. I told the nurses that if he woke during the night to tell him that his sister left and would be back first thing in the morning, but if he needed me to phone immediately. My Little Vidipookikins then met me out for a badly needed glass of wine and an edible non-hospital-cafeteria-food meal.

On the way to the restaurant I began thinking about the whole experience - the surreal high octane day ending with watching worriedly over a sleeping form that I realized meant so very much to me in this world. I began thinking about priorities and how we forget, until we are violently jarred into remembering, what's truly important. The confused tangled mass of thoughts and emotions regarding Mr. Emotionally Unavailable rightly receeded into the background, and Mr. Artsy Hotpants and his health was the glaring flashing neon of the moment. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else should have.

More than that, I was given a beautiful gift from Mr. Artsy Hotpants, at the expense of his appendix and physical comfort. My glorious epiphany was that love is letting someone see you in your most vulnerable messiest moments; saying "I need you" and letting the other person be there for you because truthfully they need it as much as you do. Love is asking and accepting as much as it is giving; something I've been historically challenged with. I was honored to be loved and trusted enough to be at his bedside; I was touched that the perpetual giver accepted my love and care in return. This is what any relationship, friendship or otherwise should be. This is the balancing act.

I do not have this type of relationship with Mr. Emotionally Unavailable, who runs faster than I from vulnerability or any sign thereof.

Mr. Artsy Hotpants is doing well; his mother flew in from her vacation in Florida and took over his care Saturday evening. I went on a lovely hike in the Pallisades with Ms. Laughing Wild yesterday, at his request that I keep my plans intact, and checked in telephonically last night. He has expressed his thanks abundantly, but I am the one who is incredibly thankful and indebted for the gift he has given me.

Taking Each Moment As It Comes...And Bopping It On the Head

First of all, thanks are definitely in order; your comments are wonderful and you do make it extremely difficult to suffer from a lack of self worth, try as I may. That being said, I am letting things simmer for a little while in my head. I am not rationalizing, feeling sorry for myself, or being anyone's doormat; I am merely taking whatever time I need to process things and figure out where the hell I am and what the hell I am feeling and wanting. And Lady Charon said that was okay to do, so there. Actually, once the pressure to make any sort of a decision right this very second was lifted, I became much more centered. Its been an interesting week to say the least.

First of all, I am very proud of myself that on Tuesday night, when faced with the choice of going out and getting shitfaced sloppy and going home, I chose the latter. This is quite uncharacteristic of me, and might I add, bordering on healthy even. I went home, worked the second job, and did not feel sorry for myself (okay, well not for more than an hour). I am somehow giving myself permission to be whatever jumbled confused mass of contradictions I may stumble upon within the psyche du moment, and it seems to be serving me well. Last night I worked the sdj until pretty late, due to a 2 hour tour with Lady Charon, and then went and met with Mr. Event-In-And-Of-Himself, the event planner that I am doing part time work for to pay the kind of steep ferry toll of Lady Charon. Tonight I helped with a new play reading (I had the unglamorous job of reading stage directions, but was excited to be a part of it and met a lot of really great new people, some of whom I already admired from afar for their excellent work) and then flew to Williamsburg to work the last hour and a half of a Ladies of Liberty Fundraiser then shuffled my by now sorely aching feet to the East Village to pick up my veggies and am finally home.

But oddly enough I'm feeling pretty good. Tired, but not exhausted. Almost a good kind of tired. I feel like I did something today. Actually, I did a lot today. I crisscrossed town about 284 times. I should feel tired for that alone.

This weekend I am going with my friend Ms. Laughing Wild to the mountains to camp and hike in the forecasted miserable rain. While it may not necessarily appear to be, this is part of my newfound clumsy attempts at doing nice things for myself and treating myself well. Last year when I returned from hiking in the Southwest I pledged to explore the outdoor opportunities in my own backyard and get the hell outta dodge more often. Needless to say this pledge suffered the sad fate of so many othe good intentioned ideas of the past; this year I am making it happen. Just watch my proactive ass soar. Contact with the outdoors is a vital component of my own personal lifeforce that has been sorely neglected for the past two years, and I have suffered accordingly. Well that's changing, starting Sunday, damnit. Sunday I will be cold, miserable and wet, but it will be cold, miserable and wet on soft earth rather than unforgiving concrete and that's makes all the difference in the world to me.

Its all about giving yourself little things to look forward to. The next Sunday is My little Vidipookikins' Exhibit and then a TONY party at Mr. Artsy Hotpants' or he's taking me to the Spamalot party. The weekend after that I am going to visit Sarachkah and Raul. This is enough for now. I will take each moment as it comes, search for my own particular murky brand of clarity, and remember that I don't have to do anything but heal and bask in the good moments.

Oh, yeah...sleep, while not a prerequisite is also a pretty good idea too. I think I'll go explore that one right now.

This Is Not The Post I Was Supposed to Be Writing

This is not the post I was supposed to be writing. You probably surmised that from the title though. Subtlety will never be quite within my grasp; hopefully its charming.

I was supposed to be writing about my awesome vacation to Canyonlands and Arches national parks. I should be writing about the 12 mile hike I did last Thursday when I hurt my knee, which felt far more painful when walking downhill, and some guy on the trail commented "Yeah, that's what happens when you get older...everything hurts more going downhill." I should be writing about the highly uncharacteristic instances of emotional bonding between my emotionally stunted father and myself, and what an incredible surprise gift that was.

But I am not writing of these things. No, I am, of course, writing about stupid boys. One very stupid boy in particular. I'm sure its virtually impossible to guess who....

Last night Mr. Emotionally Unavailable braved an evening with my overprotective and slightly aggressive drunken girlfriends, one of whom has always been my "big sister", and is highly likely to castrate any man she honestly thought maliciously hurtful. I gave him due warning so that he could run before it was too late, but instead upon introduction he commented "Hi, I'm Mr. Emotionally Unavailable and I'm planning on hurting Synge deeply." I was the only one who found this comment very funny, but I get his sense of humor; its one of the things I really like about him.

He was slightly ganged up upon (warning: severe understatement) but weathered the storm quite well in true smart ass form. Some choice quotes include:
- After being told that his reputation preceeded him and that only bad things had been said about him, he replied, "Well your reputation preceeds you as well - I heard you were very sweet and kind. But I don't judge based on reputation; I can only go on the behavior I am witnessing in this moment. And I must say that you're not behaving very politely."
-When my big sister told him that she was really the one he needed to impress he said, "No, actually Synge is really the person I need to impress. She's the only one I'm concerned about impressing. She's the most important person here."
-When asked what he thought of me, he replied, "I adore Synge. What do you think of Synge?"

I was actually secretly thrilled that he came out to meet my friends, and kind of thought it was a bit of a big deal. He had admitted on Saturday that he had missed me, and here he was meeting my "big sister" - something I would have thought he would find to be way too boyfriend-y for his taste. I felt important to him.

I spoke to him on the phone just before beginning this blog entry. Basking in the glow of my perceived importance I became bold. I asked when I could see him this week, and he replied that his family was coming into town for a week starting tomorrow and that he didn't know their schedule. I pushed onward to discover that he had plans this evening. In our particular means of communicating, unverbalized general plans is usually how we tell eachother that we have a date with someone else (though I am usually far more honest and overly descriptive about my dating adventures to him). My brakes failed; I went full speed ahead. Downhill. I asked if his plans were extending all night. This is when he told me about "Brooklyn Girl" (ironically named in true Synge form by him).

I am not a jealous person. I have been relatively okay with the lack of commitment to date, being the commitment-phobe that I am. In all honesty, this is in part because I've never felt threatened by the other womyn (or one might cattily refer to them as girl things if one were to indulge in meaningless cattiness while pretentiously referring to themselves in the third person). This is the first one that it sounds like he really likes, and suddenly the tables have turned. Suddenly Brooklyn Girl has become a gigantic looming monster in my overactive imagination.

With a very flat tummy.

I, naturally, proceeded to lose what little speech ability I had heretofore lay dubious claim to. I nodded, which is always oh-so-useful when communicating telephonically. I finally managed to say "well, just let me know when you want to..."...."See you?", he completed what we both knew was probably not my thought. "How about this weekend? I'm sure I can find some time, and I would like to see you." I replied "actually, dump me was more the thought there, but sure, this weekend sounds great."

I was very honest and open and told him it was hard to hear and that I was still ingesting it...the part about him actually liking Brooklyn Girl, that is. I told him to have fun on his date tonight. He told me not to be mean. I replied that the comment was sincere, and what was I supposed to say? Have a horrible time I hope she turns out to be a freak? I said, okay, here's the equally honest compromise. I hope you don't like her more than you like me.

He said "I like you a lot." I said "I know you do", and I truly believe he does.

I also wonder when "like" will finally not be enough. I wonder when I will stop transposing certain letters in the word "like" thus creating a different meaning. I wonder when I will stop hoping that the snail's pace growth in the little world of "us" will eventually magically turn into something with a bit more stability than the "maybe we'll see eachother this week" that it is right now.

Don't get me wrong, despite the rash of weddings and babies I'm currently bombarded with, I'm not saying I'm about to break into a woeful off key rendition of Somewhere That's Green or anything. I'm just saying what if he's the dentist?

I also found my first gray hair today. It's been taunting me mercilessly all day.

The Brooklyn Girl Monster with the flat stomach definitely does not posess a single strand of gray hair.

But I bet she can't hike 12 miles scrambling up and down slickrock canyons!

(that's so not really a comfort)

Returning To My Home Canyons

I just flew in from my vacation; I arrived home from my travels through wonderous canyons in every hue imaginable to the concrete and steel canyons surrounded by every sound and smell imaginable. It was a wonderful trip, and although I am 2 hours behind, I also woke up at 6am for one last hike so I am exhausted and going to bed. Orphannie arrives tomorrow to make my transition back to the real world far less painful, so I'm not sure I'll be able to write all about it until after Tuesday; rest assured that I have not fallen into oblivion, or off the edge of a cliff in a remote but unimaginably beautiful area of Utah. I did, however, hike my way into exhaustion every day, but a far more centering and peaceful and healthy exhaustion than that which occurs on a daily basis in the hecticness of the city.

Now the challenge is to find a way to marry the two.

Brave Sir Robyn Ran Away...Bravely Ran Away Away

I just discovered I have wifi once again at home, and even stronger than the signal that had disappeared for several weeks forcing me to migrate to the East Village, free wifi mecca of the city. But the ability to mooch off of someone else's connection has blessedly returned to my happy home and I am once again connected. Thank you oh gods and goddesses of internet connectivity. I will blog more in your honor.

I discovered this because I am trying to stay awake and pull a fierce all-nighter in order to make a 7am flight out of JFK. Yes, I am thankfully running away for a week, to the breathtaking landscapes and incredible national parks of Utah. I am so ready for some centering nature time, and I'm one of the only people I know who actually greatly enjoys travelling with their parents. We generally have the same tastes in things and gravitate towards the same activities, and well, frankly, they're pretty damn cool and incredibly fun people to hang out with. Plus they're spoiling me and paying for it...otherwise there'd be no vacation for Synge.

I feel lighter already.

We're going to Arches National Park and Canyonlands National Park, both of which I have not been to in my previous travels through the Southwest. I love that area of the country though; its inherently magical, though I can't at all say why.

The car service will be here in 5 minutes; I'd better pack up.

Yay! Travel! Hiking! More Hiking! And just when you think your ankles can take no more...even more hiking!

After that, I may go for a hike.

The Part of Myself That Loves Myself Is Backpacking Across One of My Inner Continents and Has No Cell Phone Reception or My First Day of Therapy

My appointment with Lady Charon went really well...I think. I mean how do you know if these things go well or not? What's the scale here? There were tears and snot involved and I gave her a pretty scattered but good general map of my "inner world", kind of skipping from "continent" to "continent" and back again; her metaphor, not mine. I guess we must've had access to my inner Concorde at the speed we were touring.

It was really interesting, towards the end of the appointment my tiny bladder took over (as usual) and I excused myself to use the facilities; when I returned she immediately asked me what I was thinking about in the bathroom. I kind of stopped short like a inexperienced thief caught in the act and turned a few different shades of red I'm sure. I confessed that I was thinking how I'd done this all wrong and how scattered and frenzied and all over the place I was. She asked if this was truly the way I felt about the session, and when I replied yes, she then directed me to say something else I felt about the session, something on the oposite end of the spectrum. This was oddly some kind of herculean task for me, and finally I hesitantly said "well, I'm really proud of myself for opening up and telling you all of my major fucked up 'stuff'..." She said "great! Go on...say more..." I looked at her as if she were a stage manager and I wanted to call line, but couldn't. I said "Well, umm...I'm proud of myself for even coming because I was so scared and.." At this point the damn in my tear ducts burst yet again, and I was surprised to find my face flooded with the salty wet evidence blatantly pointing me to a conclusion I did not necessarily want to face. So I blubbered "And why does that make me cry when I say something nice about myself?" Yeah, nice side stepping of that realization huh? Smooth as lava...when its cooled.

Lady Charon told me that the part of myself that loves myself wasn't murdered or damaged or ruined by the litany of fucked up after school specials that I was never allowed to see on TV but was able to see and live up close and personal. She said it wasn't missing or hiding and it had not run away. It was there the whole while, waiting for me to come and claim it. I just didn't recognize it because its been a long time wince we've seen eachother. I just nodded and blubbered and looked at her with gargantuan child eyes, unable to utter a single word. I want to believe that, but what if I never recognize it? I have an awful memory for faces and names. I bet I saw it at a party and was rude and didn't introduce it to my friends because I couldn't remember its name.

So my homework is that every time I have a self reproaching, self blaming, self hating thought I am then to say to myself, "Okay. Now what's something on the other side of the spectrum?"

Okay, ummmm....well, I bet I probably made out with the part of myself that loves me...maybe even went home with it, even though I couldn't remember its name. Ummm...and I bet I was really good.

Big Sis Super-O to the Rescue!

Friday night was messy. Two margaritas (one of which was bigger than my head), years worth of pent up and held back tears, and a cell phone. These factors, when combined with even a slight trigger equal a huge messy snotty embarassment; imagine the case when feeling pretty damn depressed. My eyes were so swollen on Saturday that my cheekbone connected directly with my bottom lashes. All I can say is that my friends are saints.

Tip-top of the cannonization list belongs to Orphannie, who not only listened to god knows how many hours worth of gut wrenching sobs and seemed to actually be able to make some semblance of coherence out of my garbled words, but she also called back Saturday night to tell me she had just booked a plane ticket to New York for next weekend to come be with me. I was touched and shocked and overcome beyond belief, immediately followed by a harsh descent of disappointment. Unfortunately next weekend I leave for a week of hiking through Canyonlands and Arches with my family. When I informed her of this, her immediate response was "how about the next Saturday?". I told her that my flight doesn't return until around midnight, so she offered Sunday through Tuesday and it was settled; my best friend through high school and college is coming to my rescue! ....for the umpteenth time.

When I was 19 and living in Chicago for the summer (I had moved out of stubbornness, to prove that I wasn't moving there to be near the ex boyfriend that had just dumped me but with whom I was still sleeping), I was brutally attacked one night while getting in my car after work and beaten fairly badly. My brother hitchhiked up to Chicago to come get me and bring me home because he was worried about the medical treatment I was getting (when I told the doctor I had blood in my urine he asked if I was sure I wasn't on my period and suggested we wait a few days to make sure...like I don't get which hole is which?) and worried about me being alone up there. When he died, I thought now there's no one who will come rescue me when I've been attacked in Chicago; no one who has to, and no one I can be certain always will.

Orphannie buying that plane ticket just because I need her right now is the same thing; its her hitchhiking to Chicago to rescue me.

Orphannie and I have been friends for years, weathering many phases of closeness and drifting apart, and many silly battles to boot. We have always been like sisters- we can quibble over anything, people sometimes think we're fighting when we're just being ourselves, we get jealous of eachother, we have had our share of cruel bitter fights,- and yet when we need eachother, no matter the distance between us, the length of time we've gone without talking etc, we have always known without a doubt that the other would be there. She was living in England when my brother died and she flew home and came to live with me for a while. When her mother died we travelled cross country for 2 months. There was just never a question of not doing those things, for either of us.

It surprises me sometimes, though it shouldn't, that even though we have grown apart some and we have completely different lives in completely different cities, when the shit really hits the fan Orphannie is still who I call first. And she's coming; practically on her way! You cannot have any idea how much that means to me.

Styx Ferries 'R Us

First if all I would like to say that while feeling like a huge lump of stinking shit I can still acknowledge and appreciate the fact that I have the most amazing people in my life that anyone could ask for. The comments, e-mails, phone calls and glasses of wine are priceless; among the tougher experiences I've faced in life, I am lucky that being truly alone in the darkest sense of the word is not something I have ever had to or will ever have to face. If I feel alone these days, it is only due to self isolation and a misperceived inability to pick up a phone. I am truly loved by my friends, who are of such depth and quality and heart and strength to the degree that many people never find. Plus they're spunky, witty, sassy, original, sarcastic, brilliant, and fun...which is like the carmelized sugar on top of creme brulee - the extra little thing that pushes an already great desert into heavenly realms.

So I will be okay. I have been through worse and this is in no way like the panic attack ridden suicidal depression I had the fall after my brother's death. It is, however, quite a powerful vacuum sucking away at energy, vitality, humor, enjoyment of anything at all, and hope. I feel like I'm not here...I'm not sure where I went to, but I'm not here. I can be accounted for in vague generalities, but I'm not really present. I'm like the hollow chocolate bunnies they sell around Easter...and yes, if you bite me, I will crack.

I have a date on Wednesday afternoon, with Lady Charon, to take a ferry across the river and explore the scary haunted terrain I've avoided with great skill thus far. I've only spoken to the tour guide briefly on the phone, but I think I might like her; she seems kind and wise and very adept at perceptive navigation. She came highly reccomended from a good friend whose opinion I trust implicitly. However I'm scared shitless of Cerberus.

Depression Just Isn't Very Entertaining

The problem with blogs is that try as you may to lie to yourself about how this is your journal for you and you alone, you inevitably end up playing to your audience. The fact is that a journal is a private place for you to go to in your nakedest messiest self; you can't really maintain that in a blog, especially once you've sent the link to your so-called "anonymous" blog to all your silently lurking (that means non-commenting) friends who you forget even read it, but they're there creeping around the edges of your non-anonymous life. The term "online journal", therefore, is quite the oxymoron when you think about it.

Take, oh lets say depression, for example. Depression is probably something you should work through in a journal- something you should write about, especially in those moments where everything seems to sit so heavily on your shoulders and you find yourself searching for something, anything to grasp onto in your dizziness as the world spins by you like you're trapped on a freaky nightmare carousel. The problem is that depression just frankly is not very entertaining or funny. Think about it. How often do you say to yourself "hmmm, I'd like to hang out with so-and-so tonight...they're depressed! Yes! I can't wait!" You don't, because depression is really freaking boring! All depressed people can talk about is how depressed they are, and nobody really wants to hear it. They may feel sympathy, obligation, or guilt, but this does not change the fact that they don't want to hear it; it is not an activity they would intentionally seek out when bored on a Thursday night. Depressed people bore themselves so much with their depression that they get even more depressed - they don't want to hear it either. There's just no way to make "I feel empty" or "I feel lost" or "Today I cried on my computer and pretended I was laughing except I got snot all over my keyboard" something someone wants to read about, no matter how you spin it.

Laughter through tears is interesting; tears alone are narcisistic.

Unfortunately that's a whole lotta what I got these days, and that's the not-so-entertaining but messy naked raw truth of the matter.

"Yeah, Work That Ass Fatty!"

Although I am an enlightened feminist who is well aware of the negative body images perpetuated through the media and will rage against the dangerous anoerexia and bulimia encouraging world we live in, I (who knows better) can stillsuccumb to these very standards I abhor. Its especially difficult being an actor and living in New York; both of these factors not at all condusive to a healthy body image.

Generally I know that I am in good shape; I am not overweight or unhealthy. I am also not a size 2 with legs that go all the way to Canada; my ass may reach Canada soon, but I must accept that my legs never will. I am curvy in a world where angular is a la mode, and you cannot count my ribs through my back like you can with the models I see in magazines (or on the street for that matter). Why this fact makes me feel like a giant cow instead of a sane healthy being I cannot explain; clearly sane should be taken out of the equation.

However, that is no excuse for the bitchy comment I received last night.

I was walking like a coked up maniac with a firecracker shoved up my ass to go meet Mr. Artsy Hotpants at the theatre, as being late to the theatre is just not an option! (Being late anywhere else, however, is habbit) I am not being immodest when I say that when I get going speedwalking, I can really fly; we all have our useless surprise talents, mine happens to be super sonic walking speeds. As I was making my overly determined way around two men, I hear one of them say "Yeah, work that ass fatty!". Much to my surprise, this was clearly directed at me, as there was no one else that close to them.

"Yeah, work that ass fatty!"

Excuse me? Had I not been in such a hurry, I would have stopped and said something; instead I barrelled my way through the Times Square camera laden crowd, their heads perpetually bent upwards, with "yeah, work that ass fatty" reverberating shamefully in my ears. Upon arrival, I shared the exchange with Mr. Artsy Hotpants and his friend, who both assured me that I am not a fatty and that my ass does not need to be worked (though I definitely think it could use some toning). I still must confess to feeling a bit insecure; something had to have inspired that comment and my guess is that it just might be the body part referenced.

MAH e-mailed me today saying he wanted a T-Shirt that says "Yeah, Work That Ass Fatty"; he said he would wear it every chance he had. Four words: printable iron transfer paper. Hmmm.

Then I ate popcorn and a bannana for lunch.

Really freakin healthy there, fatty!

Case Dismissed

I had my very last court appearance today...as a defendant that is. I am happy to announce that my days of being regarded as a dangerous vehicular traffic blocker are officially over; my b.s. case has been dismissed and sealed due to a 30 day speedy trial rule. Yes, I know its been well over 30 days, but the clock stops every time someone sneezes, so it really doesn't ensure anything but an easy out for the prosecution if they do not want to pursue a case. And while I would have loved to have the giant fuck you! of a not guilty verdict, this has dragged on long enough and the dismissal will let me move onto my civil suit and the federal class action suit. The other good thing about this dismissal is that it allows me to include the charge of malicious prosecution in my civil suit, which is where my giant fuck you! will come into play.

I knew this morning that the DA's Office would concede 30/30 (that's my ultra hip lawyer lingo there), especially after the recent slew of negative press relating to the ongoing RNC cases, especially relating to video evidence being used to counter the prosecutions claims. We had video evidence from 3 different sources. Hmmm.

I have more links relating to all of this unnecessary nonsense, but will be late for the theatre if I don't run now. The big news is my criminal case is over and done with....and it's about freakin' time!!

Invisible Not-So-Super-Hero

One of the things that I love about New York is that you can disappear whenever you want to; all you have to do is click your heels together three times, slouch down, and make eye contact with no one....and voila! You're invisible! Caution is advised, however, as the line between invisible and creepy psycho is very thin...a touch of drool or a mumble can send you over the edge.

I decided today that I wanted to be invisible. I didn't want to have to interact with anyone, and I just wanted to hover in my own bizarre little world...and it worked. I hid behind some poorly crafted excuse of allergies and was blissfully left alone by co-workers who are in love with the sound of their own voices, and out on the street its quite easy to be non-existant. I have pretty much been able to spend the day floating above whatever humdrum semblance of a daily routine I'm able to scavenge up from time to time, and just kind of watch it all from afar; its like NyQuil, but without the taste o' death flavoring. Detachment brings about a surreal sense of calm; a badly needed mute button for the world.

There is a beautiful monologue in Tennessee Williams' play, Talk To Me Like The Rain and Let Me Listen, where the character Woman (the two people are only named man and woman) talks about how she wants to go away, to a beach somewhere, and walk the esplanade every day gradually becoming less and less physically present each day until the wind finally blows what is left of her away. I first read the play when I was 16, and that monologue has haunted me ever since; it terrifies me how much I've always been able to relate to it and how resonant that imagery is for me. Luckily, the imagery really doesn't work for the grimy city streets.

I am on the verge of exploring uncharted and dangerous waters within my own emotional terrain. I am also on the verge of using so many trite cliches in one blog entry that I may self explode from the sheer pretentiousness of it...let me rephrase that one. I'm about to take a giant wrecking ball to some pretty huge freakin' walls I've built up and hoping that I'm not smothered by the outpouring of old and moldy crap that's hidden behind them. For whatever reason, perhaps its wrecking ball availability, perhaps the need for a bigger space to live and move about in...now seems to be the time to do it.

However, not this particular moment. At this particular moment I actually have to stop writing and go meet My Little Vidipookikins to exchange veggies and work my 2nd job at some bar with free wifi. Unfortunately alcohol does tend to nullify any invisibility. Oh well.

My Total Cop Out Post

I have been a little under the weather.

That's a southern euphemism for "I've been feeling like shit."

I am admittedly cocooning and passing it off as busy working two jobs (which I am as well). I called in sick to the sdj #1 today because I just couldn't face the notion of having to deal with people, which happens to the best of us from time to time. I actually did a smidgen of laundry today, which makes the day infintely more salvagable than had I gone in to work at sdj #1. I also got about a half day in at the 2nd job, so at least the day was not completely masturbatory.

I have recently been called out on my neglect of this blog by numberous people. I am a neglectful blogger who has nothing to say in my own defense. This is purportedly where I am supposed to be turning to work out the things that are making me feel "a little under the weather"; hence my avoidance.

It is far too late an hour to begin in earnest now, and I am far too tired to attempt to string words together in any sort of a coherent fashion. While this may be construed as a cop-out, fatigue also encourages a "who gives a shit" attitude, so I'm going to bed without writing anything of any real substance.

Who gives a shit? I'm under the waether here people!