Archive for the 'comedy' Category

I Love You J.D. Salinger

I can’t stop thinking about J.D. Salinger. It may be trite to say, but I love J.D. Salinger. Trite, because really everybody loves the books of J.D. Salinger. Except maybe my redheaded stepmother who I think never read a book in her life. Actually, now that I think about it, I’m sure my other stepmother never read him either because her reading choices never ventured beyond Sidney Sheldon.

I discovered J.D. Salinger when I stole “Catcher In The Rye” from my big sister and read it. I tried to hand in a book report on it in seventh grade and it was rejected because it was on a list of unsuitable books or something. It was Westchester after all. They told my mother I was reading unsuitable books, but really she could care less.

So one Sunday when I was making the usual stop after church with father no. 2 to pick up the Sunday paper at Lippy’s, the candy/toy/comic book/book store, I checked under S and found more books by this Salinger guy. I saved my allowance and eventually got to buy all three.

I took them with me when I had to go to Massachusetts to visit the first father and his second wife, the redheaded stepmother. It was horrible there. The only saving grace was that they had a dog who I spent all my time with. Laddy. Laddy, the bright light of the long summer with the evil stepmother.

The stepmother who hated me.

And the first father, who tried to make up for everything by buying me things which we had to hide in the trunk of his car until I left because evil stepmother would be furious if she knew. The first father, who was tragically handsome but could never get the family thing right. He really wanted a wife and kids and a dog he really did, he just didn’t know how to do it. His mother was a divorced chorus girl who went back on the road and left her boys with various uncaring unkind relatives. So he didn’t know how the family thing was supposed to work or something I guess.

I will never forget the long boring summer in the town of one-story houses. The baking heat with not a tree in sight. Flat. Hot.

The stepmother who couldn’t clean or cook. She specialized in flirting with other people’s husbands. And watching T.V. The minute the father put the key in the ignition to head off for work, the kids were thrown in the backyard and the shades went down and the television was switched on. The house smelled weird, which really depressed me.

So it was into this landscape that I brought J.D. Salinger. I remember sitting outside reading one of his books and feeling the deepest resonating joy. He picked out the stuff of life that was funny and sad-making at the same time. I had escaped the land of the stepmother in my mind. I could think different, be different and rise above the finks. I was learning, like Lydgate in “Middlemarch” by George Eliot, “… that books were stuff, and that life was stupid.”

My whole persona at the time was influenced by Salinger. When a beau told me that when I talked I sounded like “New Yorker” magazine I was thrilled.

I hope there is a closet full of manuscripts in his house and they all get published. Because I MEAN REALLY it has been AGES since I stopped hunting for more of his books under S at Lippy’s. I kept checking for a long time until somebody tipped me off that no more of them were ever gonna come. Ever. Which was sad-making and all. So I salute you my literary Big Daddy. And hope everything gets published because the phony reviewers can’t bother you now.

Cranky Has Gone To The Dogs

Am I still an actress? Will I ever get another job? Is anybody gonna call me again? Will I ever get another audition?

These are the questions I’ve been asking myself. Then I got an audition.
And I missed it. Why? Because my entire life is about peepee and poopie. Cranky has gone to the dogs.

A new dog takes over your entire life. Mentally and physically. Shampoo the carpet five times a day? No problem. Walk around for an hour in the rain so the dog can go home and directly pee on the carpet? An everyday occurrence. Follow the dog’s every move to see what she wants to shred now? I’m there. Clean up mounds of shredded dirty tissues, cardboard toilet paper rolls, paper towels? OK. Tug on the tug toy obsessively for hours? I have time for that. Watch as she tears my bedspread to shreds? Yes – she looks so cute doing it.

But remember and appointment? I would have to stop paying attention to the dog for five minutes to figure that one out.

Recently she has started chasing her tail which made me really nervous because I’m afraid that might be a sign of doggie mental illness and that runs in my family and believe me it is not pretty. That must be curtailed immediately.

So on the audition day I was so busy with the dog I didn’t check my calendar until five in the afternoon. The audition was at 11am. Whoops. I called the casting director to explain that my entire life was about peepee and poopie and that I was really sorry. Guess I didn’t make a good impression.

When I answer the phone now I say, “HELLO SHREDOMATIC INCORPORATED.” If I could figure out how to turn this into a money making enterprise that would be great. Stuffing for throw pillows? Because times are tough. When we brought the dog home I looked her in the eye and said, “ Listen dog. We have nothing. But we are willing to share our nothing with you.” To which she turned around and ran gaily through the apartment, her ears flapping in the breeze, looking for the nearest dirty tissue to shred.

It seemed highly impractical to adopt a dog at this time. But a little silly in your life is always a good thing. Take a leap of faith they say and the universe will follow.

Every time I walk her people ask; “What kind of dog is that?” Over and over. “What kind of dog is that?” “What kind of dog is that?” Ah…a black dog? She’s a rescue, so nobody knows. But everyone has an opinion. The vet: “Oh, she’s a dachapoo.” The man on the sixth floor; “Definitely a spaniel and a dachshund.” My husband, “Look at her. She a Petite Bassett Vendoodle.” Huh?

I can’t take it anymore, so I actually ordered a doggie DNA kit. Which is ironic because Cranky has never been 100% sure about which guy her father is. (So typical that an actor would come from some questionable parental situation, huh?  Are fucked up families like actor factories?) I’ve always been too spooked to do the DNA thing for myself but I will soon know the exact lineage of my dog.

Actually I’m very excited about it. I can’t wait to give her the cheek swab test and send it in. If it works well maybe it will inspire me to finally resolve my family questions myself. It all started when my brother told a story about going to a restaurant with my mother and stepfather when he was three. Three? He was six when I was born. My mother was still married to my supposed father. Hmmmmm. I asked how this could be and everyone got real quiet. Like weird quiet. I never realized until this moment how very Jerry Springer my life is. You would never know it to meet me. I think. I hope.

So maybe the dog will inspire me to do the test. Because it is a scary thing. My stepfather raised me and I loved him more than life. So if he is my real Dad I will be thrilled. Plus, then I will be only half related to the crazy relatives and wouldn’t that be wonderful? But if step dad isn’t my real dad I will cry for two days and do I really need that? But then I will have more material to draw on for future emotional substitutions.

So one step at a time. I’ll start with the doggie DNA and if that turns out good, like if she’s not a Yorkie and a Cocker which means Yappy and Snappy got together and had a puppy, or a Pit Bull and Lhasa Apso or some fucked up thing, maybe I’ll be brave and try it for myself.

Cast Pictures Anyone?

Had a performance last night with the FACHADICK COMPANY. They asked the actors to be ready and dressed in costume by 5:30 so they could take cast pictures. So I would have to get there at 4:30 to put on makeup and squeeze into my skintight gown and then sit around until 7pm with the spaghetti straps boring into my shoulders. And then do the show. Do the show. After hanging around in costume for two and a half hours.

All they had to say was, “These pictures are for you people! We’re doing this for you.” Oh really? Really? They’re for me? Just what I always wanted! Pictures of myself with the FACHADICK COMPANY that I can look at for the rest of my life and reminisce about my mini nervous breakdown at the Westway Diner. So my answer was, “Too busy, can’t make it.”

So I walked into the theater at 6pm yesterday and everyone was sitting around the stage and in the audience. I ask the director, “Oh, are you done with the pictures already?” “Ah, no,” he says, “the photographer never showed up.” Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha. I got that wonderful feeling inside, when you trusted your gut and you were right. My husband’s grandmother would have said I was QVELLING. Yes, yes, I was QVELLING inside.

Then he said, “But he might show up, so if you want to hurry and get your dress on you can get in the pictures.” Cranky had no intention of hurrying. Cranky just gave him a blank stare. When he didn’t show up for tech he lost his director status in my mind. So I go to the powder room. And when I come back the stage manager says to the director, “Did you tell Cranky the photographer isn’t coming so she doesn’t have to hurry?” My response was a genuine guffaw. I didn’t mean to laugh in his face. I really didn’t. It just came out.

We had a very kind audience. They were laughing, laughing, laughing. You gotta love that.

During the performance a couple of us were hanging out on the fire escape stairs waiting for our entrances and two people from the show in the theater two floors above came walking down the stairs. They went right to the entrance to the stage and mouthed, “Is this the bathroom?”

Was Cranky tempted to say yes? Was there a kernel of truth in that because there was crap involved? Would it have hurt the play if two strangers wandered onstage? Well we will never know because Cranky did the right thing and directed them to fly hallway, where now half the lights are burned out, so you can’t see the flies coming.

The Fucked Festival

It all started when I tried to make a phone call on my husband’s IPod. “What are you doing?, he said. “Huh?” I said, “trying to make a call.” “That’s my IPod!” he said, as I tapped the screen with my forefinger. “Oh. Really?” I said. Oh oh.

I thought I was keeping it together really well. I was like, “Wow I am under duress and I am handling it very well.” Then these kind of things started happening and I realized I wasn’t handling it well at all.

A few days later I picked up my cell phone and listened for a dial tone before I dialed. Oh oh.

This is the kind of stuff that happens to me when I’m stressed.

Then I got up this morning and told my husband I wouldn’t be home for dinner tonight because I had a rehearsal.

Then I emailed a director to ask if I could bring a guest to tomorrow night’s screening of a film I was in.

Then I got a call from a friend and she consoled me when I told her how I had spaced and had missed an audition last Thursday afternoon.

Then I emailed my scene partner to tell him we could work tonight if we went up early because my rehearsal was at 8pm.

AND THEN I got an email from the director saying, “Huh? The screening is NEXT WEEK.”

So then I ran to my Filofax and realized I had had it flipped open to the wrong page and had made all these plans based on NEXT WEEK’S schedule. So I had to call my husband, email the director, email my scene partner and change everything and find the sides for the audition I didn’t miss.

This is not good.

I have an ex-boyfriend from high school who is basically a shut in. He stays up all night watching TV, gets up at 2pm, takes his psychotropic medication and starts watching TV again. Once when we were talking he said, “You know Crank, I know all about what is going on. I know all the news and everything. But they never tell you what day it is.”

I immediately sent him a couple of World Wildlife calendars with a note saying:

Dear Bob.

Not knowing what day it is is NOT ATTRACTIVE.

Cranky

Oh Oh.

Now Bob and I are in the same boat. And I had to fix it. So I looked at my life and identified the stressors. A sick relative that I take the loser bus on a horrible trip to depressed upstate to visit. Can’t change that. Rehearsing a show. Don’t wanna change that. The specter of co-producing a piece that I wrote with a summer festival in NYC. Ah-hah! Must change that.

I realized that my mind has been going in circles ever since I got accepted into this apparently fucked festival. I was notified in April that I had been accepted and would get the performance dates by May 6th. I needed the dates to figure out what the hell to do. The festival runs for a month and if my dates were far enough from the dates of the play that I’m IN, then I was gonna perform the piece myself. But if the dates were close to the play I’m IN, then I would have cast another actress. It’s a 20-minute one-woman piece. Also, just in general it would be kinda nice to know what the hell I can DO for the rest of the summer.

So May 6th comes and goes and no dates. So does May 7th. 8th, 9th, 10th, 11, 12th. 13th, 14th, 15th, 16th. 17th. 18th, 19th, and 20th. I send the festival four equally spaced emails explaining that I cannot proceed until I know the performance dates. Do I get an answer? OH NO. Oh oh.

All this time my mind is stuck going in circles. “Should I start working on it? Should I talk to the actresses I know and love? Should I start working on it? Should I have an audition? I wonder if that blond actress I like is doing anything now? Is someone gonna wanna learn a 20-minute piece for three or four performances?”

I feel like this festival is now torturing me. On purpose. How long does it take to make up a schedule? Does the festival care about the playwrights? Or does it just wanna collect the door? Is this usury? Do I hate them now? AH, YEAH.

So I run to my computer and write this email:

Hi All -

I’m sorry to report that I have accepted a role in a production that runs until mid-July.

I have been waiting to hear the performance dates for my piece since May 6th – the original date given to me that we would be receiving our dates.

I’m terribly sorry but I have to withdraw from the festival, as I can no longer keep my life on hold waiting to figure out what I can and cannot do.

I know you must have your reasons but it seem inconsiderate to me and a sign of bad organization.

It does not give me a good feeling about the festival to be continually put off about what I will be doing with my life for the summer.

I do need to be able to make plans and say yea or nay to job offers.

Cranky

And the minute I send it I can think again.

Actors Get In Line

I woke up on Thursday morning to find this email in my inbox. It was sent at midnight  on Wednesday:

Hi Cranky,

I’m an undergraduate student shooting a short for my Columbia film
class with Laura Wolfstein. She recommended you to me personally. My
project is about a reclusive former film star and her relationship
with her guilt-ridden son. I’d love for you to be in it. Would you
be interested and available this Friday? It’s such late notice but if
so, I’d be happy to send you the script right away.

Thanks for considering this on short notice. Hope to be in touch soon.

Michelle Kan

So it is Thursday morning at nine am and I am reading this thing. My first instinct is to say no. I mean I am Cranky and it is nine am.

And I’m like wondering why anyone would wait this late to cast something they are shooting TOMORROW. But maybe the actress dropped out. That happens. So I decide to try to be a good egg and all and answer immediately:

So at 9:00 am on Thursday morning I write:

Hi Michelle-

Do you mean tomorrow? How long is the script?

I think I can do it. Send me the script, OK?

Cranky

So I wait for a reply. Nothing at 10. Nothing at 11. Nothing at 12. Nothing at 1.

Now I kinda need to know what I am doing tomorrow. And the window of opportunity for actually studying the script is closing, as I will be busy from three o’clock on. So now I start obsessing about something I didn’t want to do in the first place.

So I go to the computer at 1:45pm and write:

Hi Again -

Could you call me when you get this so I know if we are on for tomorrow?

Thanks so much,

Cranky

So at 2pm I get a called from a wimpy girl saying, “Ah um, oh hi, ah, actually I found someone. But now I need to find a guy to play the son. So I might not be able to film tomorrow. If I don’t find someone to play the son today to shoot tomorrow are you available the day after tomorrow if I have to do that?”

Ok, so now this whole thing is giving me a fucking HEADACHE.

Besides the apparent complete retardation of this director there is the question of WHEN she found someone. She emailed me at midnight saying how she would LOVE for me to do it. I answered her at 9am. So what does this mean? Are there actresses poised at their computers between midnight and 9am ready to reply to casting inquiries? The answer would be YES.

And how many actresses got the “I’d love for you to be in it” email? Why would you love us? Because we are breathing?

These situations where the race goes to the swiftest are the suckiest most demoralizing situations for someone in the arts. Because it’s not about art. It’s about who got there first.

The worst example of this was when I went to an EPA for a theater out in the Hamptons. The bus from the train station was full of actors going to the same place. When we disembarked from the bus everyone realized that we were all going to sign in and audition in that order. So they started to run. It was a fucking ACTOR STAMPEDE down the main street of Sag Harbor. I’m not kidding. What did that look like? People dressed up in city clothes. Guys in jackets and women in heels and character shoes full out stampeding down Main Street, and this was before reality TV. It was sooooo embarrassing. My friend and I refused to run. She has since dropped out of acting. Do you blame her? So we had to wait like two and a half hours to go in because we didn’t join in the panic jog.

Actors feel like they are always waiting on lines and sometimes get so used to being ill treated that if you like offer them a glass of water and a place to sit it’s like huge.

I used to get my headshots done at a place on 14th Street, which has since gone out of business. Well deserved if you ask me. It was uncomfortable and not nice. And there was always a huge line that was right there as soon as you got off the elevator.

The guy who worked the counter had a drinking problem and somehow kept his job. Maybe they figured he was good enough to wait on actors. I don’t know. Anyway, he was an evil drunken southern queen.

So one day I am waiting on a line to pick up headshots and the evil queen sees me. He yells out the most offensive thing he could possibly say to me and laughs. I just turned on my heels and left. I was done. He came out from behind the counter and chased after me and said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! Come back. I didn’t mean that.”

So I went back in with him. I did need to get the headshots. What else was I gonna do? I turned to him and said, “LOOK, I GET MY BALLS BUSTED ALL OVER TOWN I DON’T MY BALLS BUSTED WHEN I’M PAYING FOR PICTURES!”

And another actor turned to me and said, “Wow! You actually have any balls left?”

Behind Every Great Actress Is A Great Dermatologist

I went to the dermatologist today. I am going to be meeting with a commercial agent soon and I want to stay in the fiber category and not be pushed into the arthritis category.

The guy I go to is a total fucking magician. Walk in feeling decrepit and walk out feeling like a sex bomb. Invisible on the subway on the way there and leered at by the Puerto Ricans on the way home.

It was so weird how I found him. It was serendipity really. I was in Bigelow Pharmacy in the Village one day and I noticed this guy who REALLY seemed to know his products. And he looked soooooo fabulous. He had a powder blue shearling coat with a big shaggy white collar and cuffs and great hair.

So I casually shadowed him to see if I could pick up some free beauty tips. We started a conversation about the pros and cons of various brands of lip plumpers. And I casually threw into the conversation a question about what a girl should do if she wanted to like refresh her look. “Oh sweetie, go to Dr. Colbert,” he said.

His name was Zac. I found out later that he is like an upper crust hair guy with only private clients who made his name doing The Spice Girls. Cranky can pick ‘em.

So I went directly to Dr. Colbert. It was all so serene and nice. And Amy Sedaris is a fan of the docs and if you’ve ever seen her when she is not playing “Strangers With Candy” she is a total cutie. And saw Naomi Campbell there and she looked so happy so he really must be a magician.

And everyone looks like natural.  No Platypus lips go walking out of his office.  Nobody looks like “The Real Housewives of Orange County.”

It’s all about peeling it off and plumping it up, really. It’s so life changing for an actress who knows she is going to be stuck doing a close up at 4:00 am. “Don’t get too close with that camera!” I used to think.

So the fates brought me to him. He is even a theater lover and a friend of Terrance McNally’s. What are the chances of that? And he thinks little theaters are doing good stuff. “The smaller the better” he said to me when I was telling him about my latest minuscule project. He was a gypsy before becoming an MD so he GETS IT. And when he is with you he acts like he has all the time in the world and focuses just on you. That’s nice. And having someone who values what you’re like doing in life when you are a non-famous actress is so refreshing.

There is a well-known psychotherapist who sends her clients to Dr. Colbert. She believes that a visit with him will increase their dopamine levels. According to Wikipedia “dopamine is released by naturally rewarding experiences such as FOOD, SEX, DRUGS” and now apparently by DERMATOLOGY. I might be on a dermatological high as I write this. I don’t know.

So basically dermatology is better than anti-depressants.

He is coming out with a book now. “The High School Reunion Diet” (Your Youth Recovered in 30 Days). Cranky is way too neurotic to ever attend a reunion of any kind. I cannot sustain looking happy and smiling incessantly for an event like that.

But the “Youth Recovered in 30 Days” part will have me following the program. There was an advance copy in the office and I wanted to steal it, but decided I will wait a month like every one else until it comes out. He told me it will have a website in a month or something when I wouldn’t let go of the book.

So any poor suffering artist actress will tell you it is worth eating ramen and hot dogs for a couple of months for a visit to David Colbert.

In case you want to see the lovely office here is the link: http://www.nydermatologygroup.com

PS – Got one of the parts I auditioned for, so the”positive reinforcement with restaurants therapy” really actually worked.

To Show Or Not To Show That Is The Question

Cranky had to ask herself a hard question yesterday. I got a call for an audition and had to ask myself,” Do I really want to be in another show”?

Film you’re in and you’re out. Theater is a bigger time commitment. And I’ve shied away from theater because I was traumatized by the last psycho director I worked with at LaMaMa.

So the group asking me to audition sends me the script. I don’t like it. The character I was auditioning for has another character put his hand on her breast – TWICE. Yuck. And the ending was completely stupid I thought. This is where the English Major and the actress in my mind go to battle. Because you can be a SNOB or you can WORK. But you can’t be BOTH. Unless you are famous. And we all know I’m not famous, so I’m fucked.

So I forced myself to work on it. They were very professional. Love that. They sent me the whole play to read and the exact sides I would be reading. And an appointment time. THANK YOU.

And by working on it I realized the dialogue was really good. Maybe the play wasn’t so bad and my phobia was tricking me into not liking it because I’ve become gun shy about doing theater. My neuroses was making me hyper critical.

So when I got off the subway and I was walking through Hell’s Kitchen to the theater, I made a deal with myself. “See that restaurant over there?” I asked myself. “Well if you do a good job and get the part you can go out after the show there,” I told myself. Good, bad or mediocre, every show has the upside of going out after with friends. Cranky loves that.

Also, I told myself, “Just think of the bumper crop of new stories sure to pop up during the many days and days and hours and hours of a theater rehearsal process.”

So I was in a positive head when I went into the waiting area. I sat down to work some more on the script. I had given myself an extra fifteen minutes so I could sit quietly and get into character.

And as per usual another actress who was also auditioning came in and started talking really loud to some guy involved with the theater. “Oh wow! Hi! Great to see you!! I know this is gonna be a great project, but I’m not sure if I will have time because I’m really involved with SoHo Rep. They are such nice people there. But, I mean I want to stay out there. I really need to be out there acting. It would be cool to be involved here too, you know?” she said.

I refused to be an audience for these antics and I got up and went and sat on the other side of the room. Especially since the actress had her ass in my face. Was she sending me a message? When the guy left, she turned around and gave me the phony “I hate you” smile. “I hate you too,” my blank stare back said.

A child actor went in to read before me. His Dad tiptoed over and put his ear on the door so he could listen. This is some sad shit. If Dad keeps this up his kid has NO CHANCE. Oh, and the mother called on the cell phone to wish the kid LUCK before he went in. Nooooooo. Gag me. Leave the kid the hell alone. Grown up actors have to sometimes spend years working their way back to that openness, that sense of play. Except for the feral ones like Russell Crowe. And these parents are squashing it out of a ten-year-old.

Cranky opened her mouth and told the Dad, “You gotta let him go. Let him go…..” Dad chuckled and said, “ I get so nervous for him.” HOPELESS.

So I went in and read my two scenes and did a good job and everything. I overcame my theaterophobia inflicted by the insane Italian director. I allowed myself to be inspired. I utilized Cranky therapy. The promise of fun nights in restaurants AFTER the show did the trick.

Port Of No Authority

Every time my husband and I go somewhere in the car we have a ritual. As we pull out of the garage and plug in the itunes I turn to him and say, “I love driving!” and he says, “Yeah? What part of driving do you like?” Because Cranky Queen of the Subways does not drive. Cranky is strictly a passenger.

And yesterday I realized I have to do something about this. Yesterday, when I had to take the loser bus to visit an ailing relative in a hospital in an area where no trains go. A loser bus from Port Authority. The loser station.

I have some traumatic memories of buses and yesterday brought them all back to me.

Cranky, like every other actor, is the product of a broken home. “Mommy” lived in Westchester and “Daddy” lived in Boston. And one year someone had the brilliant idea to put me on a loser bus instead of having “Daddy” drive back and forth from Boston. I was maybe eleven. Who are these people? What kind of parents were they? Did they even care if I lived or died? Stick an eleven-year old on a bus to another state? This is why I always say you should love your parents, but don’t take them too seriously.

I remember it so clearly. I was totally creeped out. On top of everything it was night. It was winter. I was going to see “Daddy” for Christmas vacation. The first near disaster came when the bus driver pulled into a diner parking lot and told everyone they had a fifteen-minute break.

I went in and sat at the counter.  I felt weird because I had never been in a restaurant alone before either.  I ordered tea. I never drank tea. But for some reason I felt that ordering a cup of tea went along with this whole new grown up life my parents had obviously instantly pushed me into. So the tea comes and it is hot. Very hot. So I sit there like blowing on the tea hoping it will cool off enough for me to take a sip. Blowing and blowing and blowing. And then this waitress walks over to me and says. “Honey, aren’t you on that bus to Boston?” I say, “Ah, yea.” “Well you better get out there, ‘cause it’s leaving.” I swiveled off my stool and ran as fast as I could and caught the bus as it was leaving the parking lot. I had to bang on the doors to get the driver to let me on.

I mean really Mommy and Daddy, what would have happened if I didn’t catch it? Being the highly impractical kid I was, I might have attempted to walk all the way home on the Boston Post Road and then never been seen again. Hello? I was eleven.

So back on the loser bus after we left the diner some man got up and came and sat next to me. I didn’t want anyone sitting next to me. It would cut into my daydreaming staring out the window time. But I couldn’t say anything. He was a grown up. He had been drinking, and even though I was young, I could tell he was trying to impress me by being witty and charming. He stunk like sickening cigarette smoke. He was acting all like above it all and intellectual. And I thought to myself. “Yeah, right. You have to be a poor schmuck at the bottom of the barrel otherwise you wouldn’t be on the loser bus.” Luckily he fell asleep from the booze and left me alone the rest of the trip.

No wonder I ended up dating eighteen year olds when I was twelve. It was my parent’s fault. They wanted an adult. They got one. I could get into bars at thirteen. It must have been my worldly experience with the loser bus that made me pass. Or my parent’s insouciance for my safety. Who knows?

That was the only time I took the bus to Boston. As was my M.O., I told my parents the hilarious story of almost missing the bus and the drunk man. “Isn’t that funny?” I laughed. “What a riot! Ha ha!” Thus proving the fact that comedy is born of pain.

Then there was the time I was going to visit a friend in lovely Farmingdale, CT. But to get to lovely Farmingdale I had to pass through the horror that was Port Authority at the time. Or “THE PIMP HOUSE”, which is what it should have been called. It was early in the morning and when one of the pimp population said something weird to me I said, “What did you say?” And I started crying. It was too early. I hadn’t put on my hard New York exterior yet.

So yesterday’s bus ride brought all this back to me.

During the ride, I kept thinking my cell phone was ringing and grabbing it out of my purse and looking at it for like the first hour of the loser bus trip. “What’s that noise?” I thought to myself. It kept happening. Then I realized that the snore of the man sitting behind me sounded exactly like my new cell phone ring, which is jungle birds. See, this is what you get on the loser bus. People who snore like jungle birds in the middle of the day.

On the ride back there was someone yelling into their cell phone in Spanish. And a crying baby. And a yelling mother, “STOP! STOP! STOP! DON’T TOUCH!” And the man across the aisle had on frayed khaki pants and a red hoody with the hood pulled up over his preternaturally tanned skin. He looked seriously insane.

So who is on the loser bus? Losers who don’t drive. I am on the bus. I don’t drive. Hence……..

Facebook or Wastebook; An Addendum to the Addendum

Here are a few articles that Cranky thinks some one seriously needs to write about Facebook:

Scientific Study Finds Facebook Aggravates Symptoms of OCD
“My wife used to be very particular. Nothing out of order in our house. She was kind of a clean nut”, says Ed Edmondson of Chicago, IL. “Now that she is on facebook she can’t stop checking it, he says. “I found out she once posted 10 photos in one day. And now that an old boyfriend showed up on facebook, I’ve found her getting out of bed and logging on in the middle of the night to see if there are any messages from him. She won’t stop….

Enterprising Group Starting the No. 1 Facebook Detective Agency
The growing popularity of facebook has been behind the formation of the No. 1 Facebook Detective Agency.  The founders of the agency found that there we a lot of people who wanted to know a few things before they pressed confirm or ignore when accepting new friends on facebook.  “A guy I knew in high school showed up,” says Betty Anderson of Westchester, NY, “But all his posts were between 2 a.m. and 4 a.m.  What does that mean? And his profile says he is in a relationship, but it also says he is interested in women and looking for dating.  How does that work?  So I hired the No. 1 Facebook Detective Agency and sure enough he is a crazy man living in a shack in the woods.”……..

The Facebook Quiz – No Bad Answers?
“Everyone across the board gets an ego lift from taking one of the facebook quizzes”, says quiz creator Mike Geekman. All the results are good. We didn’t even include the Mesozoic in the “WHICH ERA DO YOU BELONG IN” quiz, though I’m sure in reality we have members that truly do belong there……

12 Steppers Step Right Up On Facebook
“It’s a new thing. People are sending global bulletins on facebook to everyone they’ve known past and present telling them to call them for an apology.” Says facebook administrator Glenn Particularis. The validity of doing the 12 steps on facebook has also been called into question by veteran members of AA. “We feel doing it on facebook doesn’t count,” says long time member John Daniels. “ How serious can you be posting an amends right there with videos of kittens playing in paper bags?” …..

New Survey Finds People FBing from Asylums Have More Friends Than Ever
The isolation of the insane is now ending thanks to facebook. Henry Nutter, a long time resident of Kirby Forensic Psychiatric Center says, “I can’t believe how many friends I have now thanks to facebook. And my profile is all true. I just left a couple of things out. I’ve found all the people I went to high school with and I was really surprised, some of them are really messed up.”….


In Suburban Recovery

Cranky grew up in the suburbs. It was a place full of scary women running around in golf outfits doing their marketing. Giant bottles of gin at every social gathering. A division between men and women. The men took the Stamford local into “the city” every day. The women shopped and hid the clothes in the back of the closet. Irony was king. Women did whatever it took to be constantly persistently perky. Every medicine cabinet had a plethora of diet pills. We nick named one friend’s mother Abba Dabba because she was so hyper every sentence out of her mouth was preceded by, “Abba dabba abba dabba abba dabba Midge….” There was a women’s club. I was fortunate enough to go one night to hear a talk on marriage. Here is a transcription of the notes I secretly took during the meeting:

“Hello. I’d like to introduce myself, I’m Lucienne Brown, and I’ve been a member here at the Manor Club for eighteen years. I’m here today to give advice to our junior members. My talk is called “Tips for Newlywed Gals.” Oh, and I’d like to thank Becky Porterfield) for her invitation, it was she who said to me, “If you know so much about marriage, why don’t you give a seminar on it.” Becky, thank you, thank you. What a great idea.

Well dears, lets face it, the first year is the absolute worst – when you’re faced for the first time with the horrible reality of it all with absolutely no tools to deal with it.

I’ve always thought, that instead of marriage vows, they should read Miranda Rights, so that a married woman would at least have the same rights as an arrested criminal. YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT. If he brings up the budget at one a.m. and you don’t want to talk about it, you’re not avoiding the topic; you’re just too damned tired.

And remember, ANYTHING YOU SAY MIGHT BE HELD AGAINST YOU.  The statement, “I ran into Michele in Saks the other day”, can turn into a conversation, not about Michele, but about what the hell you were doing in Saks in the first place when we just decided to turn over a new leaf and stop spending money.

So, sift through topics through your mind for their explosive possibilities before speaking.

Ok, first, TRAINING. A good husband must be cultivated, like a vegetable, they are not found like precious truffles. You have to grow you own husband.

All men feel they are the center of the universe and entitled to anything, so we have to learn when and how to draw the line. A recent cover of “Time Magazine” asked the question, “How Apes Became Human?” That’s easy – someone married them, and spent ten years training them not to dribble food down their chest, and to pick up after themselves.

Next, RESEARCH. A few good books are a big help in running a household. My favorite is “The Household Encyclopedia”. I think it is very telling that directly following hydrangeas is hysteria. There are times when your home will turn into just that: hydrangeas on the outside, hysteria on the inside. Just remember, you’re not alone. Many a viciously fighting couple will open the door for their guests and act like they are absolutely agog over each other. Don’t be fooled. Looking perpetually happy is a social requirement, not an absolute truth

On to TELEPHONE STRATEGY. Get your own phone line. The only time to talk on the phone when he’s around is when he’s also on the phone. Otherwise your conversations will be interrupted with constant questions, dirty looks and moans and groans. Or, your husband will try to turn you into Charlie McCarthy and say: “Tell them I said this” and “Tell them I said that” –“ What did they say?” Irritating to you and a good way to lose friends. So, when he’s home, the minute the phone rings for him – make those calls girls.

And of course, THE KITCHEN, the source of many an argument. Everybody has their own way of doing things and they all think everybody else’s way stinks. If you don’t want someone turning your flames up and down and telling you how they always did it, cook alone.

Sadly, there are many activities that when done together lead to fights. So a good marriage strategy to adopt is: DO AS LITTLE AS POSSIBLE TOGETHER, THUS AVOIDING BLOW UPS.

Now, DECORATING. If there’s something you really want to do for the home, just do it and stand your ground. If he hates it, insist it’s the latest thing and absolutely fabulous and he will doubt his taste and succumb. Decorating by committee takes entirely too long and most men want everything black and gray and lots of metal – if he buys anything that looks like that, tell him how nice it will look in his office!

And then there are VACATIONS, they are no panacea either, believe me. You have a choice of one, the country, a non-convenience area full of bugs. Or two: there is Europe, where you’ll be pounding the pavement all day looking at churches. Or three: the Caribbean, where you’ll roast all day and drop a bundle on terrible food, which you’ll eat a ton of because you’re so bored that you’ll end up by the end of the week looking like a balloon in a bikini. The whole thing is awful.

If you’re catching a plane, good luck. My husband will be “checking things” in the house while the car is outside honking. And, once at the airport, he refuses to walk fast even if the plane is leaving in ten minutes. The slow walk, fast walk argument is a tricky one. The more frenzied you look, the more he starts dragging his feet and looking casual. Don’t ask me why. If you walk on ahead of him, then you look like the rude one. Just abdicate responsibility in your mind.

SO, WHEN YOU GO ON ANY VACATION YOU SHOULD EXPECT TO SUFFER THE WHOLE TIME. That way, if any moments turn out to be pleasant, it’s a nice surprise.

Then we have the issue a WEEKENDS, a 48-hour marathon of togetherness. Don’t ask why Saturday’s are so dead boring. Just get used to it. They consist of one long meal in front of the television set, the beautiful day outside reflected on the screen. To my husband, daylight is an annoyance that gets in the way of his TV, computer screen and blackberry viewing pleasure. The only way to get him outside is the possibility of buying yet another mysterious electronic device.

Sometimes, on a Saturday, I’ll finally get him out of the house at maybe 1:30 and I’ll see a couple who is all dressed up and look like they’ve been out for hours. They’ve been to farmers markets, stores, they’re wearing blazers and khaki’s. Oh please, the only way they could be that way is if I they are trying to change they’re lives and “do things on the weekends”, and by next week they’ll be back living like the rest of us.

And yes, we have to talk about it, SEX. I read somewhere that Deborah Kerr used to belly dance for her husband. I thought, what is wrong with me? On a good night my husband comes home to a wife in sweats and fuzzy slippers standing over a pot of boiling pasta which is slated for dinner. Belly dance for him? Of course, Deborah Kerr probably didn’t have to pay bills, clean toilets, run out of Tide after she had put the laundry in the machine, or have the dog throw up and have diarrhea the minute we moved into a place with wall to wall carpeting after begging the landlord to let our perfect dog live there.

I guess she could go gleefully belly dancing around the house because she could pay people to clean up the dog diarrhea. But, dancing Debbie did have a point there. Sex is on the top of the list of your husband’s priorities. Too many women get bogged down with tidying up and let their sex lives go. Does your husband care how neat everything is? If you don’t keep up your end in this area, he’ll lash out about all sorts of ridiculous things that are unrelated. “You paid three dollars for a soy milk!” really means, “ “I’m frustrated and I’m going to find things wrong with you!”

So, prioritize gals; sex first, clean later. Virtual pets have a checklist of their needs, so does your husband. Feed him, talk to him, pet him, fuck him – check them off if you have to!

Well, good night ladies, don’t give up the ship. Stay in the driver’s seat! Bon soir!”

Some scary shit right?  I’m still in recovery from my childhood in “the burbs”. It’s been a long road. I’ve discovered the amazing fact that men are people too. Not just ATM’s in suits. If given the chance they will talk even. Especially about computers and inanimate stuff like that. How nice.

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