Kidnapped by FACEBOOK
April 9, 2009
The reason I seldom visit my blog is that Facebook has become my website, my blog, my performances, my diary, my escape – like solitaire… easy, don’t have to dress, speak, walk, type, smile. I have quit FACEBOOk several times but alway sign up again within 24 hours. My so-called friends don’t visit my blog, they visit facebook, and the talent it takes to pull them to your Facebook page with a one-liner is fascinating. I have discovered that bad news or a personal confusion encourages friends to contact you immediately with a virtual back pat and Anne Landerly advice. I’m sorry, I am so tired tonight i can barely type. Last night, insomnia, today, locked out of apartment, dog walked into sewage/tar puddle up to his ears. Still 48 degrees at high noon, here in New England – a chilling, consistent wind slapping at us unsuspectingly, as we turn a corner away from the sun. Just awful. Bone aching spring. Feels like my bones are separating from my muscles. what kind of illness is that? I know you may be uncomfortable joining facebook and becoming my long lost never met friend from, say, Greece or Syracuse, but until I get my addiction under control that’s where I’ll be— thinking up one-liners as swiggling worms on a hook thrown to the middle of nowhere.
Sunset at Auchwitz
March 30, 2009
If you Are Crying, You are on the Wrong Track.
March 23, 2009
This photo was taken during a call from a jazz club, firing me for a reason they could not comprehend themselves. 100 thrilled audience members, 1 asshole. One asshole trumps a crowd, so I suggest you become an asshole if you hunger for power. It was time, long ago, for me to separate myself from businesses dependent on total acceptability from the masses. And yet, there is the promise of the steady 100 bucks, a weeks groceries. Is it worth it? I want you to consider this question as it relates to your own inner or outer sobbing manifestations. This photo was taken in 2002, in Sarasota, Florida, while I was living and caring for my mother in that swamp land of escapism. I just found the picture at a friend’s house, the friend who took the picture. He knew that someday I would appreciate the photo. It would teach me something. And it does. How ridiculous to weep over the loss of a negative. It takes many slaps in the face to wake us up. I am happy to have this photo as a reminder that a happy deep sleep in the bosom of the mediocre is not my destiny.
The State of Performance Art and Music in Providence
March 18, 2009
One Life to Live
March 13, 2009
Maybe it’s all a continual re-run of the soap-opera you never watched — your life at present. If that were so, the TV day time series would have been canceled long ago. Actually, I think it was. In order to prevent your life from being canceled, there is one precaution to take into consideration: You vs. your Zipcode. If your Zip code is overwhelming you with boredom, high rents, low rents, pot holes, bad air, clean air low I.Q’s, etc. you must not ignore the ramifications. After all, you are three, four or six full gas tanks away from a place where you will not be humiliated, bored, frozen, stifled, milked, invaded. There are places in the world that better suit you and there is only one way to discover them. A Road Trip and about 1,000 bucks.
Running away has always been my option of choice when I had to either shit or get off the pot. Hey, I get off the pot, thank you. I can shit somewhere else. Don’t threaten me. If a certain geographic location fails to provide me with sustainance, I move on, bringing my alcoholic and borderline personality issues with me. Of course, all my good qualities come with me as well, in a small fanny purse of good intentions and integrity.
Then again, you can stay right where you are and reap the benefits of an escape. Since we are with ourselves mostly when we are with others, email all your friends and tell them that you are moving to Mexico or Alaska tomorrow. No time for a going away party. Something has come up. They won’t often come to your apartment or house and check to see if your car is in the drive-way. If it is, and they call you, you can always say you left your car behind. If they see you in the window, you can always say that your sister or brother must be cleaning up after you. If they continue to pressure you, say with a banging on the door, a loud cursing at your window, rest assured that if you do not respond, they will leave you alone. They will be in a rage with rejection and punish you with avoidance which is exactly what you desire.
I know and you know that geography is a cop-out, but moving yourself from one location to another is a thrill. Meant for fight or flight, I feel that if I am not flighting I am fighting, don’t you? Before agricultural methods were employed by man, we were all on the run. It’s in our genes and our dreams. When you are lying in bed at night thinking, “I’ve got to get the hell out of here”, that’s not cowardess but insight sent to your from your ancestral bed of wisdom. Why do we ignore it? Gas is cheap now. Go.
Reduction Sauced To Boredom and Insanity in Providence
March 9, 2009
What is going on around here? A full page ad for Karaoke as the entertainment offering at the hippest new downtown restaurant, open-mike nights at places too cheap to pay entertainers. To Do Listings for meatball nights, wine tasting, Tapes bars, singles nights, Donny Osmond or another truck tour of “Grease” at Providence Center for the Performing Arts, and oh dear, not another Salsa night!
Clubs with half a dozen TV sets blaring third tier sporting events, throbbing, faux leather ultra-lounges; pricey, overly designed theme restaurants suggesting Paris in the ‘20’s or Rome during Nero’s reign. We’re all dressed up with nowhere to go, unless we want to eat. And eat. And eat.
Who doesn’t like a good meal, but how much can a person consume without exploding? We’re being reduction sauced to death, meatballed to madness. Swimming through olive oil en route to the gym, we are still starved. Starved for stimulation.
Why is Providence such a bore? Its sum continues to remain smaller than its parts. Lodged between Boston and New York, with easy access to moneyed Newport and the ocean, an Ivy League school and a top School of Design, it seems improbable that the mainstream restaurants, theaters and nightclubs continue to thrive, while those attempting the unique soon close up shop.
The artists are here, I’ve seen them. The intelligent are here, I’ve spoken with them. The misfits, rebels, and bohemians who might be in Paris, or New York, if they had more money- they’re here, too. Gay men keep the nights alive despite the cold and recession, forgotten musicians keep music alive despite exploitation and lack of venues. The mayor, a lover of arts and beauty, stands firm against corruption and ignorance. The journalists and columnists wrestle with silent censors; the students and youth rehearse their garage bands and provide us poetry slams and they are adorable, but it is not enough.
The Renaissance that Mayor Cianci inspired several years ago has left us a beautiful waterfront, loads of calories, struggling artists and little else. In 1998, Buddy said in an interview, “Cities have to breathe. They have to smell like a city, feel like a city, sing a song of a city with symphonic proportions.” It breaks my heart, but Providence is singing the blues. How can we shake it up again, bring back the gritty edge, the unpredictable eclecticism that makes art worthwhile?
It’s common knowledge that the general population, called general for a reason, doesn’t like surprises. These dull minds, with a taste for status they can never achieve, crave the nouveau as packaged by Madison Avenue. Scurrying around like desperate squirrels in search of a fat nut, the masses demand suggestions from glossy magazines and the local rags. They need to know what and who they should worship and in what order. The fewer choices, the happier they are. Their limited imaginations avoid challenge.
The monstrous Providence Mall, front and dead center, is the cities beacon. The pastel mausoleum still hums with activity, even during this recession, in the middle of an ice-storm, with glassy eyed hoards spending 10 dollars on a movie ticket and 4 dollars for bottled water before they head to the food court for pizza, Chinese food and ice-cream. Down the street, next to a busy hair and nail salon is a bawdy sports bar, a proper coffee shop, a near empty Jazz club offering, again, Vinny at the keyboard or Bob on guitar.
Why is Providence the East Coast’s answer to Toledo? Is there a secret organization of inbred plebeians undermining our efforts? A good old boy network invested in hiring cousin Vinny or Uncle Bob so that Aunt Brenda can keep her Jaguar?
Who or what continues to suppress the avant-garde within these city limits? Pawtucket offers us more sophisticated alternatives.
I need to know. I love this city very much, and keep returning to it again and again, as many artists do. We need to save it from the timid minds who suffocate the spirit of this great place. The recession may be a good time to do it. With nothing to lose, proprietors may be willing to take more risks. It is written that this should occur. It is, after all, Divine Providence.
RECESSION FALL – OUT
March 5, 2009
Are you feeling sad lately? Confused? Broke? Paranoid? Victimized? Do you have a nagging sore throat or sinus infection that will not respond to an anti-biotic? Is your cell phone off the hook? Is your computer slow? Are your library books and video’s overdue? Are you chewing your fingernails? Is there a hole in your sock or underwear that keeps expanding? Is your waist expanding at the same rate?
Are you aging rapidly? Do you have sudden outbursts of anger, hysterics, psychosis? Do you check Orbitz for cheap one-way flights to Morocco? Have you stopped plucking your eyebrows? After you fork some dog food in your pet’s dish, do you use the same fork without washing it off? Are you learning to juggle?
Do you make a daily trip to the liquor store? Are you padding your resume, jockey shorts or bra? Are you eating too many beans? Is there dog turd lodged in your sneaker grooves? Is your Christmas tree still up? Are you leaving the caps off your condiments so that they dribble and leave a sticky, oozing film on the floor of your refrigerator? Did you get your fingers pinched in a slot machine?
Is there a dust ball under your bed that looks like a toupee? Are you faking multiple orgasms? Have you recently changed your name legally? Instead of Sierra Club, do you have a Dunkin Donut’s wall calendar and is there a huge dripping donut staring at you for the month of March? When you use public rest rooms, do you leave stall door ajar?
Did you forget to change the oil in your car this decade? Are you trying to start smoking? Are you building a bomb in your basement? Do you need entry into a Witness Protection Program? Did you kill somebody by mistake?
Don’t worry about it. The gift of this recession is that everyone is nuts and we finally have a good reason. Enjoy!
The Joy of Doodling Around
March 5, 2009
I tried an experiment this past week. I decided to not do anything that I didn’t want to do. I found that I wanted to floss my teeth and vacuum out my car, do laundry, go to the library, read Charles Dickens, have my dog tested for Lyme Disease, go for long walks, write a piece for my blog, talk to renters about the house in Vermont, deposit rent checks, attend weight lifting and yoga classes, have a friend over for dinner, move furniture, and doodle around with my oil paints. I did not listen to music, rehearse, learn new songs, call club owners for gigs. I did not return 80 percent of my phone calls. I did not listen to the frenetic clicking in my head, I did not worry. I did not watch the news or listen to the radio. I mostly doodled around. I loved the doodling most of all. Have you doodled lately? Doodling can be painting, writing, sewing, climbing a mountain. It is doodling because it is done only for the sake of itself, to kill time, really. Nothing comes of doodling, except more doodling and a calming of your mind. Your mind, released from the practical, pragmatic schedule of your life. Nothing to do and nowhere to go. The places to go, the things to do, can wait, at least a week. Even if you work at a job you detest, you can doodle at work. The boss doesn’t have to know it. If you are working on a project of no importance which includes filing, typing, copying and conference calls, just doodle your way through it. Typing, just watch your fingers move and press against the keys as though you are massaging the tips of your fingers. Filing, the file cabinet is a Top Secret Department of Wonders, between A and Z – there’s a message and while you’re filing, try to figure it out. If your copying you can always cut and fold some reports so that they look like clouds with words in them. Conference calls, — doodle through them — speak in different accents, or try remaining silence when the other party or parties assume you will speak. Lower the bar. Raise the bar. There IS no bar, so you can doodle with it. Better yet, quit your job and join a tent city. Responsibilities? If you die tomorrow, everybody you are responsible for will make out just fine. Let them start making out just fine now, while you’re still alive. My doodling makes me remember that everything I do is basically insignifigant, so why not doodle instead? What’s the difference between doodling and singing in a gay bar for 100 dollars? Doodling is more productive in that it is effortless, relaxing, immediate, Doodling allows your inner true self to emerge — to swim up through the muck of who you think you are, want to be, were, or never were and never will be, but who cares? Nobody. Nobody cares. That is their gift to you. Take it.Featured Article:
Dumb- Ster
The cop looked in the dumpster and noticed a picture of his wife. He had just received a complaint from the Olympic Sports store that someone had dumped bags of garbage in their dumpster. That someone was me. I’d cleaned out a few drawers of hometown memories that morning, – high school notebooks, graduation pictures, diplomas, clippings and headed into what I thought was a free-for-all dumpster tucked behind a strip mall. After I threw the bags into the dumpster I took a walk with the dog and when I returned to my car I was met by the policeman and the assistant manager of the Olympic Sports store. Read more »