Play Auntie

One of my favorite games as a kid was to play House. You'd get a group of children and we all decided who would play which role. There was always a mama, daddy, son, daughter and even a doggie. Your house was someones porch. The garden was a patch of grass. Everyone gathered food--twigs, berries, dandelions. A flattened cardboard box became the dance floor...the theatre. Where we performed for each other. Playing "house" was always my favorite game. It was a time of limitless imagination. A time where without really knowing it, we created family.

Ay man, that's my play brother. Don't talk like that to him.
My play sister hooked me up with the interview, and if I get the job I'm straight.
That's my play uncle. He usta come pick us up when my mama was too drunk.
You remember my play mama right? Girl yeah, she helped me get the down payment.
That's my play daddy-my god daddy....he fixed the engine leak.

It truly does take a village to raise a fucker--especially in a village ghettoland.  We had such a great life growing up. Our mothers didn't play Bridge, or have pie baking contests at the local hall. But they did create a loving environment for us all. A fierce group of lionesses that watched their cubs, and would pounce at the first sign of danger.

I never felt unloved, and certainly unwatched. I don't know if it's a cultural specific thing, but I can only speak to my unique Black midwestern (by the way of the Mason-Dixon) upbringing. We all had "play" relatives. My play cousin. My play mama. My play brother.  It's a term that basically means an adopted person with whom you identify as family.  The Jones-Matthew clan were my play relatives. We have all been neighbors since 1980. I've known them all since I was a toddler. Our mothers were close friends, the kids even closer, and now there are even a few grandkid crumbsnatchers.

Cecilia Jones Aaron. Mae Mae as we affectionately called her. Wife to Dave, mother to Danielle, twin sister to Cynthia. Mae did not suffer fools gladly--but she did gladly make fools suffer. She was acerbic with that gatdamn tongue,  and funny as hell.  Watching Mae Mae, Pill, Sylvia and my mom sit on the porch cracking them Stroh's keeping a watchful eye over us all as we played from dawn til dusk. My childhood bestie Boom and I, kept a watchful eye on the adults, as much they did on us. All little girls,  want to emulate the adult women: lipstick, coiffed hair and pretty perfume. But that ain't what we were after. We watched them like hawks because we knew the moment they finished one of those beers, who ever made it to the fridge to retrieve the new ice cold beer? Got to finish the suds from the old one.

Now I know some of you are thinking "oh my god, those little girls were drinking beer?" And to you I say: We sho in the fuck did.

Boom, and I would tear through my mothers house trying to knock each other down to get that new beer. No matter who "won" the race, we'd always share the suds with each other--licking at it like some goddamned cake batter. And by the time we made it to high school we didn't need to sneak liquor like some of our peers.  I can remember the first time someone offered me some Malibu Rum. I remember quipping "Naw hammer, I'm straight. Got me some Jack Daniels waiting on me at the crib. Later dickheads, oh and try not to get pregnant."

Mae Mae and Pill (her twin sister Cynthia) took us to Girl Scouts on the weekend, and the YMCA during the week. Back when you had to be back in the house by the time the "street lights" came on. Back when if you were outside being "fast" with a little boy, you caught hell from your "play auntie". Your play auntie watched you off to prom, brought over a casserole of food to celebrate your graduation, and slipped 20 bucks in your pocket as you set off on a journey to conquer Hollywood. 

We never stop playing House.

Life goes on, and roles change.  Your play sister has a kid, and then you become a play aunt. Your play father gets a slowed down by Diabetes and you make sure to race up the stairs an offer him your cheek to kiss, so that he has always something sweet.  Your play auntie gets plagued by cancer and you must now figure out your new role.  My spirit was seized by her pain. I didn't know what role to play.  While I sat back, terrified and deeply saddened. Cancer fucking sucks, no other way to put it. What kind of role does one play, when that awful disease disrupts life?  While I sat back, I watched my mother take her new role to her play sister in the game of House.  The play sister became Play Mother. 
 
She help feed her food when she had no appetite. Rubbed down her legs. Watched tv with her. And naturally, told her dirty jokes to keep her laughing.

I talk to my Mami at least 4 times a day.  And in recent months, almost every time I called, Mami was across the street.  "I'm with my daughter. We drinking coconut water. It's gross as hell, but it works them white people say it helps."

When Mae Mae would get fussy and try to give my mother a hard time my Mami should  "You don't tell me what to do. I'm the mama little girl. Now come on and eat one more bite..."

Last night, something in my spirit wouldn't let me sleep. I was restless, antsy and my thoughts were hazy and unfocused. I fretted over my back taxes, unemployment and need for health insurance. So I did what one does now a days when your thoughts race. I downloaded new apps, watched Braxton Family Values--I even tried sipping on some wine...but it tasted bad.  It was a fine bottle, but it just didn't sit right with me.   I got a few hours sleep, and before making my coffee I called my Mami.  She told me that Mae had passed during the night-- along with my cousin Napoleon.

James Napoleon Hardy was my cousin who knew all the family history.  I'd speak with him on the telephone ever so often, to ask him questions about where we came from.  He told me about my great great grandfather Garfield Hardy who came over from England and married into my family. We also had a indigenous influence in our family tree. "Your great grandmother was red like brick. Stern eyes like a Indian. And her mother? Was just plain injun. Tall, long hair, flat feet. All them Cherokee was down in that area--Miss' sippi.  Like it or not, we are apart of their history, and they ours."

Stories about my grandmother Josephine (my namesake), being a great athlete and had amazing arms earning her the nickname Hoss. She was always in the fields playing ball with the boys; she had no tolerance for girly things. That passed onto my mother, and naturally to me. I guess directing Mr. Rickey Calls A Meeting, a play about baseball has a totally new meaning to me now. And as for the love of alchohol, I'm just gone blame it on that white man. My great great limey grandpappy.

With each conversation with Napoleon, I learned more. He was my connection to my past. It always bothered me to not have ton information about my family tree. Sadly that's an adverse affect of slavery. Sometimes, I see those ancestry.com commercials and get to frothing at the mouth like a rabid schnauzer. I silently wish a plague of ear wigs munching at their brain matter, those fuckheads on those spots. I'd have better luck phoning up The Ghostbusters, and finding out about the past--before I called up ancestry.com.

I always reminded myself to call him more often. But then he died in his sleep. Just like that. I was shocked by his passing, and then angry with myself for not doing more.

Two relatives, gone. I sat quietly as my mother filled in the details.  She wasn't maudlin or sad about it. No melodrama or harsh words. She just said "Well, they both doin' real good now."

Needless to say, it's been an interesting past couple of hours.  2 in one day is rough--I pray there isn't a third.  I suppose this is how life Is. The sun sets and rises. Squirrels play in your tree and runs along the tight rope that supplies your home with electricity.  We use that power for our computers, where we type words to one another. We use update statuses to let the world know how we are feeling...but today, I think I'll back away from that. I'm going to the nursery to grab a seeds to plant something for Mae Mae and Napoleon.  



Although none of those girls drink anymore, I'm raising a beer to you right Mae Mae. And to you Napoleon, I'll pick up from where you left off. I will keep digging for my family history. Hopefully I'll discover that David Beckham is my cousin, and he'll give me some of that young fresh money.  I'll say "Hey dude--we're family. You kick balls, and I like balls...so lets reunite fucker."

Familia. Ohana. Fam. Peoples. Clan. Tribe. Soror. Frat. Friend...whatever you call them, I hope that you pay tribute to them today. Just take a little moment, and smile--knowing that you have them. Good, bad or ugly--they're yours. And you are mine. Yes, YOU.

ciao for now fuckers,
x

Cecilia "Mae Mae" Jones-Aaron

Our American History

Good old English Black American 'hood values.

If You Can't Fuck The Monkey? Then Make Friends With the Organ Grinder: 2012 & Other Victories For Us All

Ciao fuckers!!!!

Oh my word, how are mum's little possums? I miss you all like I miss my virginity! I miss you like I miss McDonaldland cookies. I miss you like the Magikist sign off of the Chicago expressways. I miss you like hookers miss turning tricks in Times Square.  Like an Englishman misses colonizing every dark nation. I know you have all been wondering "Where the fuck is that rancid slag? I need my dosage of Tom Dickery. I need to look at her ridiculous life so that I can feel better about mine." Well don't you worry baby. Just because it's a New Year doesn't mean I'm not the same dysfunctional, skirt chasing, dick joke making, bigoted, profligate--hell bent on making you laugh. So pour yourself a stiff one, and before you take the first sip---pour libation. Libations for the brothers that ain't here. Libation to honor your deity. Give over to this ceremony, and give thanks for life.

So it's a New Year! And many of you have avowed NOT to do that same old shit. You are ready to shed your old habits, so you make a list: You won't drive and text. Do more kegels.You won't check your Facebook account more than 5 times a day. You won't use so many contractions when you speak. You *will not* let him stick the tip in. You will no longer hoard food like a fat fucker in Anne Franks attic. You will not baptize people with racial epitaphs anymore...okay, just not as much while driving. You will not send cyanide to Newt, Mitt, Ron, and Mickey Bachmann anymore. Downloading porn has slowed down your laptop, so no more of that. You will speak your mind, and stop swallowing your feelings. You will run an extra mile. No more biscuits slathered with margarine and high fructose jelly from Popeyes. Add on 20 more sit ups. Enlist in Bikram Yoga.  Stop eating so many fried foods. No more gossip & meddling. Smile at your neighbor even though you hate the smell of curried foods and cannot understand his/her culture. You don't understand WHY some Black people speak SO loudly into their cellphones when they're riding public transportation, but you will not give them dirty looks. Hold the elevator for that co-worker who seems to have a stank attitude every morning; knowing that it is not personal.  You will smile at her, with hopes of infecting her with an inkling of happiness. All the markings of a New Year.

Just know, that you will FAIL at every single resolution that you make. Kidding. You're gonna be fine baby. I had plenty of moments in 2011, that I'm not too proud of. I wish that I could gather up all that awful shit, throw it on to my back seat...drive to the forest...and drop those problems like an unwanted pet--and drive off. 

But life doesn't work that way.

I don't believe in resolutions myself, but I do believe in change...in evolution, atonement and forgiveness. Okay, that's a lie. I still hate my ex from waaay back. Voldemort, the talentless bait of falsehood who slithered amongst the lowest of men. Voldemort who had me shortsighted and debilitated. An infested bag of dicks, that one.  I'd empty a hornets nest into his under roos if possible! I--**Remembers the words of Tony Robbins. Does a yoga pose, and lights a bowl.

Exhale...

So I'm not perfect that this game of life yet.  But I'll be damned, if I spend yet another cycle terrified of everything. Terrified of failure. Poverty. Being miserly about my imagination.  I'm bored with that bullshit.  I've done it. And done it quite well. It's time for a change.

Something is a bit different this year for me.  And I'm not referring to the mis-interpreted Eurocentric view of the Mayan calendar. THE WORLD IS NOT GOING TO END. Yes, I know we've damned the planet to hell with global warming, but we cannot subscribe to doom & gloom theories. I do believe it's a year where we will all experience a great change. A shift in the consciousness. A time of abundance, great fortune and power. It's the Year of the Dragon. In Chinese astrology/culture--it is my birth year.  Some of you who don't know me well may think that the only part of Chinese culture that I celebrate is the fact that my hair is imported from there. Well, aside from P.F. Changs and wavy hair #4, there is a lot to be said about this mythic creature who rules me. This divine beast, in Western culture has always been feared--hunted, and slayed. But for those of us who know better, the Dragon is a free spirit that must be uninhibited.  The creature is colorful and flamboyant and utterly irrepressible. A bundle of energy.

You don't have to be born in the Year of the Dragon to have Dragon like characteristics: innovation, passion, and enterprise to name a few.  We can't all be Dragons...but wouldn't it be nice, if we all marched towards innovation?  If we could all trust that we have the courage for unyielding greatness? Bruce Lee didn't wow the world, because he was a good looking Yellow man with high kicks. Sifu Bruce Lee was iconic, because he was an artist and philospher who shared his brilliance with the world. As a young Black girl growing up on the Southside he let me know that I could do whatever I set my mind to. Yeah, I know this all sounds like a bunch of Hong Kong phooey...but I learned a lot about myself in 2011, especially being in China.  I learned how to re-direct my enthusiasm and hold fast to my creativity.  It did not come effortlessly--I spent many a day doubled over in pain...and bless god, I always had someone to hold me up when I felt like I could not go on.

I am in a good place, right now.  The ending of 2011 into 2012 has been jaw dropping. I was fortunate to present a production Mr. Rickey Calls A Meeting that I am very proud of at my artistic home Lookingglass Theatre. I met some of my childhood baseball heroes, Minnie Minoso & Johnny "Lefty" Washington. I spent time with friends and family. I've taken baby steps to get my finances in order. I've been showered with love by splendid people. I still have much cleaning to do in my "house"...which is what one does in the Chinese new year. You clean house, forgive trespasses, and light firecrackers to scare away bad spirits.

So mummy's little possum--I do hope that you will forgive me for any slights toward you.  I hope that you will accept that dragon in you, and work consistently to achieve your goals. And who cares if you weren't born in the Year of the Dragon. Like I said, if you can't fuck the monkey--then make friends with the organ grinder. Find a way to be Dragon-like, and release the bad spirits. And if you can't get with all this Eastern philosophy--then maybe the words of Mr. Belvedere will help:

Streaks on the china,
never mattered before,
who cares.

When you dropped kicked your jacket
As you came through the door,
No one glared.

But sometimes things get turned around
And no one’s spared.

All hands look out below T
here’s a change in the status quo.
Gonna need all the help that we can get.

According to our new arrival
Life is more than mere survival
We just might live the good life yet.

No body loves you like I do.

ciao for now,
x

A Little Boy's Game

I can remember the first time I was hit in the stomach with an object traveling a good 30miles per hour.
I was 8 or 9 years old, and it was a family game of baseball at my uncle Che's house.  He had a two flat on the Chicago's westside--and after a day of BBQ, running around and shit talking from the card playing toking adults, we played a game of baseball at dusk in his back yard.

My aunt Tutu was the pitcher. She looked like a giant to me as a kid. And for good reason. The women in my family actually have some height to them, unlike my hobbit ass.  I may be short, but the common thread is that for the most part, we're all athletic in my family.

"Alright Nicky Pooh! Keep your eye on the ball baby girl! Put it on the board!"

I remember Tutu lovingly offering that piece of advice and encouragement.  I loved my auntie Tutu. She was tall and beautiful--and always treated me like a princess. I was very trusting of her.  She used to take me to the diner where she served tables and often filled in as the short order cook.  I have memories of her letting me insert the freshly peeled potato into the cutter. I'd drop the potato, and pull the lever.  The potato went from whole to French fries--come to think of it...that's how I got my Nickname: French Fry. Yep, even at the age of 4, I knew the power of potatoes.

I trusted anything Tutu said.  So when she instructed me to keep my eye on the ball, during the family game, I'm not quite sure what happened.  I must have gotten really excited...distracted. Tutu hiked her leg up, and angled that ball so quickly my brain didn't register the point of the game: knock the fucking ball out of the park.

She threw that ball like she was Satchel Paige. And though I wanted to pop that ball like Josh Gibson--I took that ball in the stomach. Like Curly on the Three Stooges.

Whhhhoooooooooooosssssh.
Splat!
Right into the kids stomach!

Oh I cried. I howled, and cried and cried and CRIED. Now you know family gatherings!  By the end of the day, everybody's spent. After dranking, cussin, dancing and fussin the Carol Brady routine is nil.  I was so hurt--no, I was humiliated that I got hit in the gut in front of everyone.  I cried and whimpered looking for affection. Nothing. Cried some more and whined that "I wanted to go home." I guess I'd seen one too many episodes of Dynasty.  No one babied me. I remember thinking "Hey I'm a girl! Fucking give me a lolipop you drunken asshole adults before I call DCFS."

I was done. I was hurt. I was embarrassed. I was DONE.
I was in a heap on the ground.
"Come on baby, stand up. You can't back down.  That's the game. And when you see that ball comin, and you can't hit it? You got to slide to the side. Slide, real smooth like. Let that pitcher know you ain't backing down."  I remember while she was explaining this to me, she wrapped her arms around me. Finally! Sympathy. Affection. I was being treated like a little girl. I was happy that she was comforting me.

So I thought.

"Come on baby. You gots to learn this. Slide. Move out the way. Then get back on the plate."
She wasn't hugging me. She was coaching me! She wrapped her arms around mine and dragged me to the side in a single motion.  Teaching me how to get out of the way.  In that moment Tutu was my sifu--my Shaolin master teaching me how to avoid getting my body chopped.

"Slide quick. Then step back to the plate. Lift that bat. And go again..."

It's 2am and I should be asleep. Actually I should be preparing a script and about 3 other time sensitive things due in the morning.  But I can't sleep.  Not because I have insomnia...but because I'm full.

I'm full. After going through a litost period, I feel as though I am waking from a coma.  I was taking balls to the stomach constantly (wait--that doesn't sound right. Get your mind out the gutter!).  I forgot that lesson on stepping to the side quickly and then reproach.

Oh--
(side bar counselor: Litost is a Czech word that doesn't really translate. But it means a state of torment upon by the realization of one's inadequacy or misery.)

I'm coming out of a dark period where I felt pretty fucking shitty every waking moment.  I wanted to take my bat and ball and go home. But now, I'm starting to see a light at the end of the rainbow. Or however the fucking saying goes. 

My brain is reformatting.  
My five senses have returned--and I suspect a sixth one is forming.

I am doing work this week at my theatre company for our annual retreat. The hours are long and the brain power exceeds my normal capacity.  Not to mention, I'm in pre-production for a play that I love desperately.  A play about baseball.

I've got my bat. But baby, those balls are hurling fast.

The stats? Okay:
The script is amazing. The cast is stellar. The design team is magnificent. The theatre goers & patrons are excited. The producing company has a fucking Tony Award. And The director is scared shit less.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm frightened.  Directing a production in the theatre isn't the easy thing to do. I know some are you are thinking "Fuck off, art doesn't save the world. 19 year kids in Iraq and Afghanistan are scared--not pretentious theatre ass hats."  Well, that's fine if you are thinking it.  But one thing I suspect I have in common with a solider is that I ain't backing down from a battle.  And despite my fears I won't surrender. And I will not retreat.

I want to spread the gospel of the great past time of baseball.  It's a game I respect, and love. Much like theatre.  Baseball is a little boy's game. But it belongs to me too. I'm so grateful to have have my aunt and mother play such a huge role in my love of the game. And my big brother of course. He took me to White Sox games growing up.  Man, it breaks my heart to think some kids grow up with out the thrill of visiting a ball park.  Nothing excited me more that getting off the train at 35th. Buying peanuts from the hustle man outside the park.  Handing over our tickets. Walking up that long ramp that led to glory.  After walking at a 10 % grade, you finally got to see the beautiful green. The players looking smart in their uniforms. Tossing around that little fucker, a baseball.

I can't sleep because I'm excited. My brain is flooded with memories and fantasies. I have no idea how this production will turn out--but I ain't running away from the plate.  And I ain't striking out.

"Baseball is like church. Many attend, few understand."
Leo Durocher.

"A hot dog at the ball park is better than a steak at the Ritz."
Humphrey Bogart


"Baseball is the very symbol, the outward and visible expression of the drive and push and rush and struggle of the raging, tearing, booming nineteenth century."
-- Mark Twain, author

ciao for now fuckers,
x

Moses Fleetwood Walker. First Black man to play professional baseball. Yep, 60 years before Jackie Robinson.

A photo still from the greatest fucking movie ever Bingo Long Traveling All Stars & Motor Kings

My Spirit Animal Is Vodka (Explorations And Doing Whatever It Takes To Make 'Em Laugh)

Hi kids,

This is a tribute to a man whom I adore. Patrice O'Neal was a gifted comedian and actor. He was a big man, with an even bigger mouth.  He was a funny mothafucker, and though I did not know him personally--I was one of his biggest fans.  In October he suffered a stroke--he was only 41. I was totally freaked out when I heard that news---I sent him a letter wishing him a speedy recovery, and I prayed for his health.  Patrice died today, from complications of that stroke.  I am sad for his wife, family and friends--but I must say. I am grateful to have witnessed his courage.

His courage to make us laugh.

I recently took up studying the art of Clowning --that's right, you can actually study "clown." It's not easy making people laugh.  Whether you're a comedic actor, comedian, circus clown, writer--whatever...it ain't easy.  My master teacher Phillipe Gaulier is a crotchety old Frenchmen with funny red glasses.  My first go at studying with Monsieur Phillipe was fucking awful. I cried almost every night after class. It was hard. Clowning is hard.  You see, clown is not stand up.  Let it be known, I admire stand ups and I've always wanted to give it a go. And I certainly don't think one is better than the other. However there is a difference in the art forms. See with the clown, people laugh when he does not want or does not expect it.  

You couldn't talk to Monsieur Gaulier, without wearing your clown nose. Even when he was lambasting for being "a horrible idiot!" you had to wear that nose. You see Gaulier is notable for his work in the areas of Clown and Bouffon. "Teacher" (as we called him) is recognized as the world's leading teacher in Bouffon, an art form which he holds as a sort of inverted Clown, where a balance is struck between grotesqueness and charm.

One of the first times Teacher made me sit down was after a game in which he deemed me the loser.  And the loser of the game had to do what Teacher said. He handed me my sentence. I had to, of all things portray a washer machine.
The fuck?
I almost snatched my nose off. I'm like "Dude! Washer machine?"
I was ready to be like Harpo Marx in that motherfucker chasing a pretty girl throughout, and spraying people with water from a seltzer bottle. I wanted to be like Lucy, stuffing chocolates in my bra off the conveyor. But Nooooo. I had to portray a washing machine.
A washing machine.
Literally.
I had to stand in a circle and make the sounds of the machine. After years of rolling around floors of Drama School studios and discovering my spirit animal, I had to portray a household appliance. Now, I can be a pretty good mimic. I can replicate many sounds animals, celeb impressions, whatever--a novice talent.  But this was nerve wracking. I had to resist the urge to slide into my normal modus operandi  of "Get it right the first time Brooks you piece of shit, or go home! Just because you have a pussy doesn't mean you have to be one! Get it right! Razzle Dazzle them or you won't get to sleep with Bob Fosse in the next lifetime because he'll think you weren't good enough!" It was a new experience, and I had to try it.
Make 'em laugh. Make 'em laugh.
"Zzzzzzzzzphromphromprhomwooowwoooowzzzzpppfhrawu234ydwt%983*_++[}zzzwwoooommph".

So there I am in the middle of the circle, making all of the correct sounds of a goddamned Kenmore Maytag Sears special, and I even finished with a ding! Hey look at that! A feat.
The entire room stared at me. And I stared at them.
Then I stared at him.
Teacher.
Silence.
Staring. More. Stair. Ring.
Oh fuck...silence? Have I bombed? No. Okay relax. No, he's gonna start a slow clap. Yeah, like in all the 80s movies. This is my "Lucas" moment. All the football players are gonna applaud my efforts. I've lead the team to the championship. Yeah! I'm Rudy in this mothafucka. I'm Molly Mothafucking Ringwald, in Sixteen Candles. Monsieur Gaulier is my Jake. And he's about to hand me a cake and give me my first kiss.

But why is he just, staring at me?  The silence is killing me. No one is smiling. Oh no. Have I come on my period, and my clothes are destroyed?? Is that why no one will look at me? Okay Bloody Mary. Think. Think. You're a clown. Think. Ooh! I know, I'll tell that joke about Amish people and--

"Her sounds are good. Very good. But she--she is fucking awful. Why? WHY?"

*If somebody else speaks up, I'm gonna clown these mothafuckas. An I don't mean haha clown. I mean I'ma clown them like the hood rat I am. I will show my zip code. Every last ghetto digit of it, if someone--


She is awful, because there is NO pleasure in her clown. She takes no pleasure in what she does. Sit."

Imagine Walter Matthau, Otto Preminger, Leona Helmsley, and the father from Gimme A Break all rolled up into one. With a French accent. And that's my teacher. He handed me my ass daily.  It got to a point where I thought "Damn, is this what colonization felt like back in the day? Evil ass Frenchies kicking you in the labia? Poor Africans..."

You often hear tales from stand up comics about how awful and necessary it is to bomb.  It builds character and teaches you a lesson.  I learned many lessons during my time of study.  One of the things I learned from Teacher is that a clown is a fantastic idiot. He is a beautiful human idiot.  One should never be sorry as a clown. Even if you are bad, you are not sorry.

I believe Patrice O'Neal to be a beautiful human idiot.  His personae was the epitome of a clown. He was grotesque and charming. His style wasn't for everyone, but it worked for me. So now he joins a line up of other dearly departed idiots--George Carlin, Bernie Mac, Mike DeStafano, Gilda Ratner to name a few. Like my buddy Don said "Man, God always gets the best comedy shows." Yep, he's got one hell of a line up.

It's a great honor to make people chuckle. I have many lessons left to learn, and plenty more times to bomb. I just hope that one day, I can make 'em laugh like Patrice. George. Gilda. Bernie and all the rest. Rest In Power fuckers.

x




Watch O'grady-01-Sweats in Animation  |  View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com

Zzzzzwompwompwompphomphom Fucking Idiot.

SAD--> S.A.D.--> Seasonal Affective Disorder--> Seasonal Assholes Descend.-->Sorry Already Damn.

Ciao fuckers!

If you are reading this blog, then congratulations! You have survived the week! And in the Western world, in North America anyway--you have survived Thanksgiving.  The holiday reserved for giving thanks for your family, friends and of course, life. Ya'll know I'm about as subtle as a porcupine, so lets keep it real. For many people, the holiday season is pretty fucked up.  They have estranged relationships with loved ones, suffer from SAD (a seasonal disorder where your brain becomes infested with canker sores because it's cold, dark and people are fucking nuts.). Financial strains afflict you--because it's cold and you have stupid relationships with people, and want to buy shit to fix that fucked up relationship(s). Personally I get SAD when I have to wear a sweater. They're just so goddamned gross, itchy and expensive.

Or perhaps you're mourning the loss of a loved one. I'm sorry for this my love. Or a broken relationship. A broken transmission or a broken condom--sssesh. Good luck with that buddy. It doesn't matter--this isn't an easy time of the year for many people. But never mind all that. You can check your problems at the door.  Consider this a cyber boudoir. I am your madame and I want to dazzle you with shits and giggles. You've fled the war and migrated to a land of Tom Dickery, seeking asylum! So go on, lock the door and let your hair down. Take off that breast plate you warrior.  Fellas, let your balls hang. Or dress your balls in your lady's underwear. I don't care, whatever makes you happy. Holster that rifle cowboy. Girls, stop snooping on your man's Facebook account for five minutes whilst you read. You can resume snooping, but if I may suggest--give that boy a proper blow job, and when he's sleeping buy some shit on Ebay! Snoop into his finances, not his social media sexting. Go on, step away from the ledge. As my Chinese brothers and sisters say "Me-sho". Translation: No worries. Oh nononono...stop all that cussing and fussing mum's little possum. Don't worry, you're not in parochial school anymore. Sister Holy Ghost can't hurt you anymore. Now close your eyes, and grab your cankles, for I am ready to fuck the boredom out of you!
I bow before your majesty for I am your courtly jester!

Buuuutttt I cannot do my job properly if there isn't a inkling of truth. So, the laughs in this post may not be HAHA--but hopefully they will be AHA. Or you may not like anything I have to say. But it's a blog, not a bible.

I really must lower my expectations.

Well, it's come and gone. That day of dysfunction and binging on carbs. That day where you pressure yourself to have a perfect and well planned day of--of....I don't know what. Its suppose to commerate the spirit of sharing (*giving Indians small pox from blankets) and a day to relax. Or be of service to others.  Many of you, got up early--fed the homeless, saved a few whales and solved every side of the Rubix cube.  Good for you.

But for some of us toys from misfit island?  Thanksgiving can be like one of those fucked up ASPCA commercials. You know the ones where they show a starving three legged dog with locusts eating at his ears, and he's hobbling over landmines in some developing nation? Sara MacGlaughlin croons in the background, and you feel like a proper piece of shit because you're comatose from tryptophan and refined sugar. You want to turn away from the TV and not fucking deal with it at all. In fact, you'd rather look at wack ass soft porn on Cinemax. You'd rather watch fake pussy eating on Skinemax, over a dog hobbling around on a commercial quilting you into support. Dammit. That pooch with diseases only described in the book of  Revelations, whimpering like Dino. You'd rather listen to Rodney Dangerfield reading the works of Shakespeare. You'd rather eat a box of Russel Stover milk chocolates that have that white film on the skin from the clearance section of Woolworth--and that fucking store ain't even in business anymore. Anything to avoid that damned dog. Anything to avoid the madness of the Holiday season.

The fucking time of the year where people forget about Occupy protests, geo politics, and pop culture bullshit for 24-48 hours. Instead we focus Black Friday deals! That day where retailers hope to be in the black. People wake up early in the morning, chomping at the bit to get deals on electronics, appliances, toys and clothes. Retailers lure shoppers with $50 X-Box's and flat screen TVs. People wait for opening and burst down the isles of WalMart like goddamned fools, as if they've just been chosen as a contestant on the Price Is Right.  The outcome? Well, for the most part people are chill and get major hook ups. They might throw a few elbows, but they abide the law.  We've all gone to a day after Thanksgiving sale. But this year?  The shit is bananas. Increasing reports of bizarre--no horrible behavior.  A shooting North Carolina parking lot (a robbery attempt) and the story I just cannot get over: some vicious mole of nature pepper sprayed 20 people in WalMart, here in Southern California.  This ugly and venomous woman assaulted 20 fellow shoppers, ALL because she wanted to get to the X-Box games before they could.

Word?

Did this bitch think she was gone pepper spray people, grab the boxes and then get in line? Whistling like nobody saw that shit? And how in fucks name did she manage to flee the store? Didn't NOBODY clothesline this bitch? She was only 5'2"! Her victims could have included children and elderly people.  I cannot wait until they catch this moron and put her in lock up.  Have you seen Beyond Scared Straight? Yeah bitch, you getting fisted.  Her sin wasn't accidental, it was by trade.
Is that holiday spirit? Pepper spray? *sips vodka.*
You know, it's real hard to love all of Jesus' children.

And let me go ahead and get this off my chest: if your child has a Wii and/or an X-Box but NO library card? Then what the fuck are you---*sips vodka*.

What is a holiday? Well for starters, it's a noun. A day of festivity or recreation where no one work is done. Well, that seems simple right? Holiday may also be defined by festival-leave-recess-retreat-day off or vacation. A day off from what exactly?

A day off from worry? Unemployment? Underemployment? Hateful co-workers?
A day off from reality to watch the Macy's parade? Football? Godfather marathon?
A day on to feed the homeless? Take your neighbor a plate? Invite orphans over for potluck?
A day to try that Iron Chef recipe? Catch up with old friends on the phone?

Whatever it is, Thanksgiving is magically fucked up. It's a stewed prune that's warm and sweet--but eventually it gives you the shits.

We all love our families.  That's why we spend every last dime to fete one another with cultural yummies. Turkey, ham, mashed starches, greens, cakes, pies, cookies, cheap Eastern European dark liquors, chitterlings, macaroni, Jell-O surprise, surprise from your mother telling you she's divorcing your father after 402 years of marriage. Oh and she's converting to that religion where they believe in spaceships, and suddenly your trust fund is gone because she's giving all of the gold coins to this new found belief.  Okay, scrap that scenario. Perhaps you're questioning everything in life, and it's putting you in a bit of a mood. But you have to put aside those feelings of inadequacy, jealousy, or whatever is making your dick limp for a few hours because that's what holidaze are all about.

Because you've got to deal with your imperfect family.  Family...hmmm lets look up that definition.  Again--a noun. A group consisting of parents and children living together in a household. Kin-household-stock-clan-race-tribe...and we all know, family can be blood related, or chosen.

Recently I've been taking a good hard look at family and holidays. I have plenty to be grateful for.  7 years ago my first Thanksgiving here in SoCal was awful.  My dinner consisted of pot, a cheeseburger from Lucy's on Pico (and the MF's forgot the cheese) and a King of The Hill marathon.  At the time it was painful, but I wasn't alone. I had my friend and at the time room mate Don with me.  We were both in a lot of pain, but we shared the day with one another.  And I'm grateful for that experience.

Things have changed--evolved I guess.  In spite of missing my immediate family desperately, I had a beautiful, intimate and fun Thanksgiving with my loved one. But the past 24-48 hasn't excluded me from the pain, imperfection and ass chaffing of the holiday season.  So I'm discovering that the season isn't only about food and "day's off"...it's also about adventure and risk taking. We have to deal with unfinished business if we want to move ahead.  My mother always warned me of taking old bullshit into the new year. So, the next few weeks may not be easy. They may even be painful.  But it's my pain--it's an honest pain.  And I'm happy to deal with it--because I'm ready to live on the other side of the rainbow.

So my darlings, I am happy to admit that much like the Thanksgiving holiday, I am not perfect.  And I don't strive for perfection--but I do strive to be the best De Anna Nicole Josephine Brooks that I can be.  And if my very best isn't good enough for you? If my efforts undermine your expectations of me?  *sips vodka. Well then I guess I'll just have to love you from where I am, even if you reject my love. During this solar eclipse I will my best to rebuild alliances.  But I'm going to create the magic on my own terms. So I'm going to take "holiday" and enjoy what I have, and stop taking days off to worry about what I don't have. Life in absentia has been too easy a choice.

I'm going to choose innovation over stability.
I'm going stand up for myself. Finally.
It won't be easy, but then--what the hell is?

I hope you do too baby. It's never too late.
I love you. I admire you. And I give thanks for you.
Yes, you.

ciao for now,


x


"Do not worry if you have built your castles in the air. They are where they should be. Now put foundations under them." Henry David Thoreau.

Life Is Such A Prick Tease (And I'm Determined To Rub It Out!)

Ciao fuckers!

So I was just sitting in the tub, taking a soak reflecting on the State of Me. Without fail every time I take a bath I find that it's sort of like a sweat lodge--minus the hallucinations. I rely on mushrooms for that. But seriously, I often find the hot water is not only soothing, but it's often revelatory.

Some people like Reiki, some meditate, tarot cards, practice yoga, participate in drum circles--it's all good. Me? I like to waste gallons of water, burn energy to heat the water, take a bottle of toxic Palmolive dish soap and squeeze it like a frat boy pissing in an alley after a kegger into the water, to make bubbles. I sip on a little Jesus juice, and listen to strange music. Gypsy Kings. And a lot of Christopher Cross. Chuck Mangione and Sinead O'Connor's attempt at reggae. I like to choose music playlists, that reflects variety (no matter how good or bad the selections), because my thoughts are often all over the place.  And if you have a sad thought, trust me, you do NOT want to be listening to Adagio For Strings.

After the first two minutes of the soak, I reach for my glass of Jesus juice, and I think "Man this is the life! I mean it couldn't get better than this." Then my scurvy companion (better known as my brain) decides to get in the tub with me.  "Hey Nic. Awesome that we're relaxing. Just gonna slide in here. Yeah, we are absolutely releasing endorphins. All these bubbles! You're taking an active role in your mental health.  Speaking of active, remember the other day while working out your foot was bothering you? What if that's a tumor and not a bunion? On your foot. You should really consider getting a pedicure. You've got run away slave feet right now. We should eat that bag of candy corn from Halloween. Lets get on Twitter. No! Lets spread rumors about yourself on Facebook. Man this water is getting cold. Hey you've got the belly, why not become a belly dancer? Why not dance at a hookah bar?  Is it hooker or hoo-kah? John Lee Hooker. TJ Hooker.  You know, if you add vodka to Kefir, it's totally healthy. You know we missed the deadline for the Sundance Playwright Lab right? Yep, due tomorrow.  So glad you let me, let you miss that. But don't worry kid. You've got a lot of irons in the fire. You've started many projects and partnerships and I'm here to make sure you don't see them through.  Uh oh. You're kicking the water. Here love, drink more.  Wouldn't it be nice to go to Wally World and ride roller coasters? Beverly D'Angelo. Now there's a classy broad. You could be the black screen version of her y'know? More Jesus juice please. So back to what I was saying, you'll be just fine. You'll wait until the 11th hour to start the work, and then won't be able to deliver. And you can always blame it on poverty.  Or you can say you were at a Occupy protest. Yeah--that's fucking noble. No one will fuck with you for not getting a draft done, if you tell them that's where you were. OR you could say you were serving on some high profile jury duty.  You told plenty of people you served on the Rod Blagojevich trial, and it got you out of a lot speeding tickets, paying tithes at church, attending baby showers. OOoooh my god! Babies. You should have one. YOUR vagina will be damned, but it will be worth it! Baby. Baby. Everyone has one. You don't have to raise it. Just, have it. Baby jam. Jammm. Ohhh jammmm. OOoph someone is texting us. I'm gonna go see who it is. Text messages are fantastic distractions. I'll be back..."

Wanna know why my brain goes off like that? It just occurred to me, that I feel like I've lost my ambition.  I've lost that drive to succeed. I feel like I'm caught in survival. I know I've harped on this before, but it's my fucking blog and I can go 'round the round about if I want to! I have a beautiful life.  I thank God for it all the time.  But I can't give praise, without reflection. And that's where it gets messy. When I look back to my younger self, I laugh but I also get a little sad.  I called and visited with family. I use to eat salads. Returned phone calls. I was punctual. I read books. I read the goddamned New York Times every day! I worked 2 and 3 jobs! I sent out postcards, and headshots all the time. And now, the thought of sending a casting director a headshot and resume literally makes me want to dry heave.  It's like, that dirty little word NO didn't exist in my head.  And now? I'm caught in this paradigm and I'm scraping at the mold to get to the goods.  I feel like I'm dating a girl that constantly gives me a soft hard on.

Yes, that's it. The state of me is a soft hard on.
I haven't given up, but I am experiencing a moment of weakness.
The past few months have been wonderful with my travels and preparing for upcoming projects.
But honestly guys, sometimes I just feel a little queasy.

I love that I'm not perfect. I like to think of myself as a misleader of youth! An ambassador for all things burlesque. A weird black chick who enjoys graphic comics, Dr. Who and demands proper stemware. Honestly, don't pour my whiskey in a pilsner glass you uncouth degenerate.

There are days I'm absoultely sure of who I am--then there are other days where I keep wanting to press the restart button.  I know I'm not Kafka, but I do want to make an indelible mark with my words--and actions. So I'm doing my best to work through the angst, by typing my thoughts--

*Knock knock.
"Hey Nic! Sorry I left for so long. I think you took some St. Johns Wort and it made me a little dormant. Nice try. Where were we?"

Well my brain is back. And now I have to feed her, or else she's going to take over.  But it won't be with booze. I'm going to do some reading, and then actually get some sleep. And when I awake, I can thank the gods for yesterday. Because there will never be another day like it.


Thanks for listening darling.  I do hope you win the battle of the soft hard on in this game we call Life.


ciao for now,


x


DO NO LISTEN TO THIS SONG IF YOU ARE SAD OR LIKE WILLEM DAFOE





BUT TOTALLY LISTEN TO THIS SONG JUST CUZZ. JUST FOR SCUZZ

Vaginal Mesh Damage and Other Victories

Ciao fuckers!

How are mummies little duckies? It's a beautiful day here in Southern California. The sun is shining, the mercury reads a balmy 81 degrees, the vodka is poured and I am sunbathing in my back yard in a carefully designed topless bathing suit.

Oh who am I kidding? Life isn't that great. Actually it is. I just wanted to take a jab at my New York mates who are always giving me shit for living in LA. Take your rats, your metro cards, 6-10 inches of snow and shove it! *Pats weave, pops gum and switches away.

Wanna know the great thing about being an adult? You really can do whatever the fuck you please. If you're at a party, and people are treating you like a misshapen-ed scrotum? Take your dick and leave. If the pastor delivers a homophobic sermon at church? Take your money out of the tithe box and leave the church. Don't like the way that dancer is climbing that pole? Take your Pabst Blue Ribbon and pour it all over her. Wait, that's hot. Sure, we can't control our destiny--but we can damn sure do our very best to help alter fate and do what it takes to make us happy.  Take for instance this rag tag bootleg blog--I'm not a trained writer. But writing notes on this blog to the 32 people out there that bothers to read, brings me joy! I'm not even good at it, when you compare to other blogs filled with ad space, fancy fonts and crisp photography. I didn't study creative writing in school, my grammar is fucking terrible, I spel like a 7 year old, and my run on sentences

*Hell. I'm not going to bother with punctuation.

This blog is an inner representation of me.  It's not my entire being, of course because frankly no one is   that articulate or well adjusted.  It's rare that you run across people that will freely admit their joys & fears.  I'm working on becoming one of them.  I spent a great deal of time earlier this year focusing on my imperfections, my fuck ups and it led me down some some un-primrose paths. I certainly wasn't suicidal but I did have moments where I hoped an Acme anvil would plop on my head like in the Bugs Bunny cartoons.

Yes! Nic is about to stumble out of the bar in 5-4-3...

I'm 30 Something and still haven't paid back my student loans? This here some bullshit.

But through a lot of prayer, purging, calisthenics, generosity of friends and a wonderful therapist I like to call "White Oprah" I started to see the brighter side of things.  Things aren't perfect of course. I still have my 30 Something freak out moments. Why just yesterday I was sitting on the porch sipping hooch form a mason jar, and saw a cute little toddler fucking about on the walking path, across the street from my house. I mean this little kid was cute! He'd run, trip fall on his face. Giggle. Pick up a cricket and eat it. All that Tom Foolery kid shit. And before I knew it, my womb starting doing flips and my brain said "Go grab him! And raise him! Stick your boob in his mouth. Its time for a baby!"

Oh no...Nonononononononono. Don't bug out Nic--don't

"Also, you really need an oil change, a tune up and your tags will expire in 4 weeks. You're gonna get pulled over and the cops will know you're an Occupy sympathizer and they're gonna taze you on the spot. Did you pay your AEA & SAG dues? Oh and you totally lost your iPod. I know you don't think you did, but you did. Some asshole is sleeping soundly to your Blue Eyed Soul playlist. On your iPod. Hahahahahahaa you're a failure Nic! You've got alopecia. Thin hair! Thin hair! By the way, the IRS won't forget about you...and AND hey! You're a relic in the acting community. Yeah you keep on wiping the dust off that resume. David Cromer barely returns your messages on Facebook because he thinks you're a loser! Yeah you keep writing that next play. You'll never be produced out side of Chicago. Hey wanna go to Sizzler? Lets go to Sizzler! Yaaaah Surf & Turf!!!! Nic. Nick. NiiiiiiiiicccccccccCCCCC. Lets go to Bed Bath & Beyond. You have 14 20% off coupons. Lets got buy shit! Hey! HAAAY! Look in the mirror! See if you can make a single tear drop fall. You can use it for your bit part in the next movie where you play a nurse. You're so ugly when you cry. You'll have 5 lines and under to wow cinemaphiles. And hey that woman at the Target totally knew it was you who farted. Shame on you blaming it on the little boy with the Polio crutches..."

Yeah, those thoughts attacked me in like 25 seconds. So I promptly put down my rocks glass, and started punching myself square in the cervix. "NO KIDS! YOU CAN'T EVEN AFFORD TO ADOPT A STARVING KID ON THE TV SO SHUDDUP YOU ROTTED CUNT" Then I turned to my brain and in my best George Clooney voice, I said "Now you listen to me, you vodka soaked piece of gray shit! You only have a few cells left, so I am in charge here, not you.  You just came back from traveling abroad, you have a new place to live and that piece of shit car still works. Plenty of blessings, so shut your snatch hole. Now, I am taking you for a 4 mile run--okay a walk, followed by a hot bath and back to back of episodes of Dobie Gillis, and you'd better bust a nut from happiness.  Now go find that emergency Twix bar that you keep in your eye glasses case and get fucking balanced. Hear me brain? Find balance. It's time me, you and dopamine had a little threesome. It's time for us to fuck. To FUCK!"

It was then that I noticed that my poor neighbor working in his garden had witnessed my meltdown.

"Sorry Gary! Just..uh rehearsing a monologue! You know us actresses. The parsnips look great. Yep."

I can't help navigate you through your breakdowns, but I can do my best to make you laugh. So I just wanted to say thank you for reading this blog, and for sharing it with friends. I'm no pastor, spiritual leader, hell I'm not even a good person. But I can tell you this much:

Don't give up. It's not your style.
Remember who you are.

And with that, I salute every tiny victory that you will have today.
Ciao for now fucker.

x

Down and Out in Beverly Hills...well Beverly Hills Adjacent

Ciao lovers!

Well it's Friday night and clear skies on planet LA. After a day of doing my best Chicken Little impression, and encouragement from a dear friend I know see, rather believe that the sky is not falling. I'm sitting on my patio smoking a fine cigar, lissinen to Sade and sippin on a mean smokey glass of young scotch. Sade is blaring and there ain't a helicopter destroying my view of the Big Dipper.

Dip was the first constellation I ever learned about and naturally I'm loyal to this formation. Not to be grossly cliche, I grew up on the south side of Chicago. Like any big city, it has good and bad parts. And despite my Mami being a poor righteous teacher, neglected to teacher me about the great joy of the Dip. It was my next door neighbor and best friend Boom.

One night outside Boom looked up and exclaimed "oh the sky look like it's fina fall. The stars' so low. Look at the dippers! Hope they scoop us up..." boom was two years my senior. I never questioned her authority but I had to know: what the hell was a dipper?

Like the big sister she was, she authoritatively pointed out gods illustrations as best as we could see in the city. Big/little dipper and Orions belt (though not visible). She prattled on about others and about falling stars, but for me the Dip(s) was it. No matter how dark &cloudy, bright lights/big city you could see it. Ready to scoop you up up and away from this silly serious world.

We were kids then. And now? Well life isn't double dutch, playing red light green light and sitting on your big brothers car singing Force MDs "Tender Love". Now it's rent, raggadey cars, child support, umemployment, no insurance, presidential bullshit and robbing Peter to pay Paul.

But for tonight, I will sit on my stoop, sip quietly while the stars conspire for my happiness.

Ciao for now kiddies.

Sh*t. Damn. Mothaf*cka...

Ciao lovers,

Well one week left. ONE WEEK. My precious child Fedra is nearing the end of her Chicago run. I'm fighting like a mad woman to keep it together. I'm sitting here in my living room, fighting mild depression, and seriously considering ordering a turkey fryer from HSN.

Note: Never watch HSN when you're sad. You justify every purchase. In my case, this turkey cooker has FREE shipping and handling. I will be the envy of the block whilst I binge on fried turkey. Take that Tonto!

Another bummer is that I was on hold for a film with a respected director and killer cast, and I just got notice that it ain't happening. Well, correction it is happening, just not for me. Some other whore bitch skank will have my part.

Now why she got to be all that, you might ask? Iont know. I'm sure she's a lovely girl (read: I hate her guts) and wish her well. Rejection is Gods protection and it all happens for a reason....

BLALALALBLBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAH.

Well, at least Big Bird turned 40 years old this week.
The sun is hugging the great city of Chicago.
My college buds are coming to see Fedra tonight and I will fete them with cake and champagne.
And I have my health, family, and loved ones.

Oh shit, they've just listed Ingrid Hoffman's Caldero w/lid. And the cookbook???!!!! Oh HSN. Between you and Insomnia, I suppose I'll be just fine.

Ciao for now kiddies!

My Bra Is Too Tight and My Weave Is On Expire (But It Could Be Worse)

Are you laughing at me yet? You should be. This of course is my week of b*tching and wining. I am that six year old screaming and kicking in the middle of the toy store yelling "...that's not fair! I want it! Give it to me!!!!!!!....Now of course being raised by a black mother, she didn't allow such tom foolery. So instead of kicking and screaming I've chosen a waspy route. Say nothing and drink everything.

This friends, is not the way to go. Trust me.

This is typical Taurus behavior. Angry because the chocolate truffle is 71% cacao and not 41%.
Pissed because the Trader Joes Cab Sav that we sip on is not the same as Clos Du Bois. Bored with the ginger scone from the local bakery, and bored to death of macrobiotic cafes.

Don't get it twisted, I certainly do not have a dilettante's life. I work hard to pick my cotton. The problem is, I'm shining somebody else's nickel. And the sh*t has got to stop.

Bless the lord for providing me with a relatively easy job. I like the folks I work with and enjoy what I do. But here's the problem:

This AIN'T what I really do.

I'm an artist (I know, wipe the vomit from your shirt. Just saying something so cliche makes me wanna puke too). But when I look at my hero's I wonder: Did they waste away their precious hours as a shopkeeper? Living in some shitty tenement trying to find the "artistic beauty" in roaches, rats, and Jarritos bottles strewn across the lawn? The sound of birds, no wait HELICOPTERS swirling above your house at 3am? It's like just stunn gun this fcker so I can get some sleep.

I look at Peter Beard and I think "How'd he do that?"

I look at Jean Michel Basquiat and think "Why the fcuk didn't you hang on baby? But thank God we had you..."

JK Rowling laughed her limey ass all the way to the bank writing about muggles and wizards.

Shaun White gets paid obscene amounts of money to play in the snow.

Viola Davis opens up her soul to a camera, and makes us marvel at her bravery.

Lynn Nottage, Tanya Barfield, Kate Whoriskey, JoAnne Akalitis, Lydia Diamond all leave us wanting more theatre.

Them b*tches from The Hills never have restaurant reservation problems.

Now do I want to be one of those vapid, I'll show up to any opening for a photo op, I haven't eaten in 4 years actor celebrities? Eating at Mr. Chow, Katsuya or the stupid Ivy? Fcuk no. But would I like to buy a gown for the opening of a new play? Would I like to do an interview for Fresh Air on NPR? Would I like to chat with any of the journalists for Radio Pacifica? Appear on the cover of Mad Magazine? Travel to Ville Franche for hiatus? Buy my mother WHAT EVER SHE WANTS, buy my brother a box at Comiskey Park or the Stadium (I refuse to say US Celluar Field or the United Center)? Go to all the award shows (because I've been nominated) collect all that swag and give it to every little black and brown girl in the hood to let them know "this isn't what real beauty is, but in the mean time enjoy this over priced necklace????"

FCUK YES. OUI! SI!

Exhale. Wow, that felt good. Sorry dear reader, I promise next time I will be more focused and positive. In the mean time, I"m still making art. Still laughing. Still loving. What else is there to do???

x