The Red Balloon

I'm still on my nostalgia kick. PLEASE tell me you guys watched The Red Balloon on a reel-to-reel film projector when you were little. I loved this film so much. Still then, even at 6 years old, I did recognize that there was something creepy about a balloon with a sense of autonomy.

And guess what? Found the WHOLE THING on YouTube. If you have a few minutes, swish some flouride, eat some paste, say the pledge, then kick back and take it in.

Classic

I strongly disagree with the label of my generation being "Generation Y."

I think Generation Nostalgia is tons more appropriate. We place value on vintage and classic--Cartoons and comics from our childhood. Judy Blume books. Rainbows on the fronts of our overalls before they were considered too gay to wear. My generation has missed the boat on the hipster irony conceit. My generation has trouble sleeping, so we go to YouTube for soothing images at 6 am. Soothing images and sounds like these.

Sesame Street - The Ladybugs' Picnic


Hearing and seeing these clips again really soothes a really jostled part of my brain. Do you guys get a similar feeling from this?

Classic Sesame Street - Grover and Chris with STOP sign


Okay, and by the way--Do you think a kid in today's world could be remotely entertained by this? Why did watching a kid climb a coconut tree captivate us so?

Classic Sesame Street - gathering coconuts


And finally, I leave you with a little angst. Courtesy of our pal Grover.

Grover NEAR and FAR - Classic Sesame Street

This thing IS on.

It's been quite a hiatus.

I thought I realized something the other day--I thought I realized that I don't need this blog anymore. This morning, though, I realized I do need it.

My average day now:

9:00 am Wake up. (7, if ich habe angst)

9:15 am Eat something. Begin the digestion process.

10:00 am Work out.

11:30 am Take laptop to Cocoa Bar. Drink dangerously potent coffee. Work on Full Length Play (The first scene is being read by my theatre company on the 10th. It's pretty hot, actually. If you can make it, lemme know.)

1:30 pm Leave for work.

5:30 pm Arrive home. Do whatever.

It's been almost two months since I left the law firm, and I'm not dead. Sometimes my paychecks suggest otherwise, but really, I'm doing okay. I'm facilitating after school clubs in the arts, and after a really thorough few weeks of training, I can honestly say not of a lot of it prepared me for my actual job. Nowadays, 50% of the time I feel like I suck as a human being, and the other half is divided somewhere between "Hey, I'm really starting to get the hang of this!" and "What in God's name do I think I'm doing here?"

I'm going to be really honest here: I'm a nervous wreck. I'm constantly trying to figure out how to win the trust of my students. These kids really have no reason to trust adults at the end of the day after the verbal abuse they receive from disgusting faculty members during the regular classes. I'm also worried about money. Constantly. I'm worried about how to make ends meet on the breaks. I'm worried that working 5 afternoons a week isn't enough. I'm worried that the people I work with will realize they made a mistake and fire me. The inconsistancy of it all is totally overwhelming, and I have never had to struggle quite like this in so many different ways.

Then I think of the blessings. I'm not at a desk anymore. Teaching is inherently creative, and has already made me a better writer, actor, and possibly director. I have time to write, and I've integrated it into my daily life. My job has gotten me cheap health insurance. The time that I've "freed up" in the last two months almost always gets filled up with something creative. (In a scheduling meeting last week, I actually said, "I don't think I can do another creative thing next week.")

It's a strange thing when people ask how you're doing after such a shift. I've noticed that I want to keep up a positive front. I want to prove to them that my life has improved tenfold since ditching my secure job, so I don't share with them any of my new challenges--the drawbacks to leaving the corporate breast. The truth of the matter is that no matter how challenging my life is right now, the most important part is that it's challenging. I'm awake, alert, and receptive to the energies that bounce around me.

So that's the update. That's how I'm doing. Mostly good. Pretty stressed. Definitely happier.

Expect more now that I'm on the other side of things.

last day in corporate america

This is my last day at the creepy law firm. There was a really embarrassing party for me yesterday, and I don't mean embarrassing in a good way. I mean, thrown-together-at-the-last-minute-woman-who-ordered-the-cake-was-getting-a-pedicure-throw-me-to-the-wayside-make-me-cut-my-own-really-gross-cake insulting.

Further confirmation, for sure.

I promise I will write something more substantial when I have something on my brain besides getting the fuck out of here. I have a feeling that only after I leave will the real inspiration strike.

Wish me luck...

Jenks

PS Go listen to this guy and this guy. They'll better your day. Also this guy, who's definitely socially-retarded, a recluse, but makes oddly-sexy music.

Biding My Time

Have you ever noticed that as soon as you get ready for a big, positive life change, your current situation becomes absolutely torturous?

I'm sitting at my desk right now starting at these stupid Japanese Shogun prints and really ugly armchairs that have haunted me for 4 years, trying to get my mind wrapped around the concept that in less than one month, my entire lifestyle will have changed. I'll say goodbye to corporate legal America and hello to teaching after school programs in the arts to underprivilaged high school kids, and acting classes on the weekends to overprivilaged children. I got my first taste of my new life last week, when I attended orientation for the after school program. I couldn't believe how incredible this company was. The 4 day training was intense and informative and affirmed to me that I was making the right decision to leave my job.

And so after an incredible week with people whose mission I actually believe in, I come back to work to finish out the last month. It's a job that I've grown completely complacent with, but somehow, it's even more mind-numbing, more boring, more pointless, and...oh fuck it. It's just painful to write about. Instead, I've decided to post some really mundane pictures, which in my opinion, are worth at least 31,532 words.

Wow. Look at that desk. What is that? Coffee? Oren's Daily Roast. Best coffee ever. I think that's the most exciting thing on my desk, actually. Ooh--that red pen is really nice, too. Uniball Vision Elite. To quote Ferris Bueller, "If you have the means, I highly recommend it. It is so choice."

And what's under the desk, you may ask, because, lets face it, UNDER the desk is a true reflection of a person. Gay, gay, gay, gay, GAY. My new Adidas backpack with a pride button affixed firmly. Jeans and flip flops to change into for my casual date later this evening. Two boxes of cereal purchased at Rite Aid at the beginning of the week, and shoeboxes filled with office supplies that I plan to take when I leave.

This is a hallway. On the right, though you can barely make her out, is one of the most annoying human beings on the planet. She is from Alabama. Not everyone from Alabama is annoying, but she is. Please note the flourescent lighting that makes an appearance in every picture. This has little to do with the quality of my camera phone and lots to do with the quality of my life. Note the printer in the middle of the walkway. It is the source of much passive agression.

This is a conference room. Sometimes I eat lunch in this room or one of the many, many rooms like it on one of our 6 floors. More often than not, you can find me between the hours of 1:30-2:30 scouring these rooms for free food, making a personal phone call, or doing pilates on the floor. Sometimes I'll even pull two chairs together and take a nap. I have rehearsed a total of six, yes, SIX plays in our conference room spaces. In addition to a few really amazing people, I will perhaps miss the conference rooms most of all.

And just look at this fabulous office kitchen. It's like The Price is Right! To the left you'll find the Coke Fountain--The source of that mysterious Nestea Sweetened Iced Tea substance that I love so much. And yes. Some of my more loyal readers might recognize the Starbucks Machine Almighty. If I could marry and have babies with a machine, this would be that mechanism. And who doesn't love Swiss Miss with marshmallows?

And here's me. I just worked out at the gym downstairs. I didn't even have to leave the building!
I'm happy. Happy, happy, happy to be here. Happy to be leaving. Happy to be breathing and alive.

Yeah, just so happy.

Thank you. This has been very, very therapudic.

How I am.

Let me first just say that when it comes to meeting new people, I have always just assumed myself to be the most socially inept person in the room. I don't know where this belief originated. It could stem from the fact that I have a horrible memory and will often meet the same person 3 times. More than once, a person has pointed that out. It could be that I abhor small talk. It has always felt both unnatural and ingenuine. I've figured out I can fake it for about 10-15 minutes. At minute 16, typically, there's not a lot left to say, and I excuse myself to refill my drink, promise to be right back, and go pet the host's cat for 5 minutes. (This has replaced my smoking habit, but if I'm trashed, like a cheap whore I'll pick it right up again. Take that however you feel most comfortable. That too.)

That's a party. What happens if say, you find yourself going on a first date with, say, a hotel concierge that you have met on, say, an online dating site, at, say,11:30 on a Friday night, when you know you're not even remotely a night person? They do it on Sex and the City all the time, and they make it look so easy and fabulous. You never, ever see them chugging coffee or redbull or attempting a two-hour power nap beforehand, and you certainly don't see them stopping to clutch their upset, nervous stomachs, giving themselves pep talks, and engaging in deep breathing just moments before they enter the upscale rendezvous bar in Chelsea.

I was fully-prepared to continue on my unwavering path toward being crowned Queen of Social Ineptitude. Little did I know as I goofily slinked past all of the gay boys and hipsters that crowded the aisle to our table, I would have someone to contend with.

When I reached her, she pretended to find me entertaining. "Very stealth," she said. I thanked her as we engaged in the Metropolitan Cheek Kiss Ritual. She was from Salt Lake and I'm from south Florida, neither of which are terribly metropolitan. At least not in a cheek kissy way.

She didn't look like her pictures, but she was very pretty. Tall, nice skin, good hands, nice outfit. She'd obviously put time and thought into her appearance, whereas my friend Suzanne just sort of told me what to wear and I obeyed. I've learned that I don't think about my own clothes too much until they're too big or too small.

"How are you?" she asked.

"Oh, good, good."

Had I known that this would be the very last question she would ask me for the rest of the evening, and by evening I mean between the hours of 11:30 pm and 2:00 am, I would have been more specific as to how I in fact was. What happened next was a 2 1/2 hour monologue, a one-woman show, essentially, with limited audience participation and no intermission. The admission fee was $14 per mojito.

First there was the explanation of how she moved to the city 5 years ago. I asked her questions, because I was interested. She didn't ask me anything. Then she launched into the story about how she came out when she was 21. I asked questions, because I was interested. She didn't ask me anything. (As a side note, she came out of her closet shortly after having walked into Henrietta Hudson's for the first time and having heard a voice in the back of her head that said in a very clear voice "You're home." Really? You're home? At Henrietta's? I should have known at that point, but who am I to judge another person's spiritual awakenings? Go ahead and check out the pictures on the website. I'll be here when you get back.)

Then came the story of how she met her ex that night. How she lived with her for 5 years. How she still works with her ex. How her boss is now boffing her ex, but she doesn't care, because she's a professional. Exxity ex, ex, ex, ex exitty exterstein, EX. I didn't ask any questions. I wasn't interested. There was nothing to ask me, as far as she was concerned, because, guess what, I didn't bring up any of my exes. I respect them far too much to use them as an antidote/ice breaker for a first date. And guess what else? Talking about an ex-girlfriend for 20 minutes on a first date is rude. (She would later try to stiff the waitress on the tip, because in her mind, tipping $2 per drink is what she would give at the bar. I will spare you the dissection of her logic.)

At about 1:00 am, a couple canoodling near the drink ledge next to our table tipped over their beer. It fell face down between my plush chair and my plush ass, and sent beer gushing onto my nether regions. I moved our drinks to an empty table, excused myself to the restroom, and tried my very best to dry off. I was hoping she would have obtained a towel from the waitress by the time I'd returned, but no. I flagged down our waitress who, after bringing me a towel, repeatedly apologized for this thing that wasn't even her fault. I instantly felt more of a connection with her than with the ill-mannered girl I'd just met. As soon as the waitress left, my date was back to talking about herself. I don't remember what she said after that. It was all a blur.

I think biggest problem I had with this chick was her unwillingness to be silent or to allow for silence. This was an awkward situation: We'd never met face to face. What would be possibly talk about? Rather than embrace the weirdness, she preferred to pretend like it didn't exist. If I didn't come in immediately with something to say whenever there was a pause after one of her speeches, off she'd go again for another 10-15 minutes. I didn't even really have to listen, and quite frankly, after beer was spilled into my asscrack, I just stopped listening. I just nodded after a while, suppressed my yawns and said "Uh-huh" a lot.

I actually enjoy the silences on a date. It's in those silences where you get to find out if you're compatible or not. What do you do with them? Do you look at a person's eyes? Do you try to touch them? Do you laugh? Do you make fun of yourselves and how improbable the whole situation is? To me, comfortability with small silences equates to "comfortability with imperfection" and most importantly "comfortability with oneself."

I guess the thing that baffles me the most about this night is the fact that not one single question was asked about me. Not one. I gave her so many opportunities, but she never bit. At 2 am I finally ended it. I couldn't think of anything other than the truth. "I'm sorry. I've got to go. I'm really tired, and I have rehearsal tomorrow."

Say you were on this date with me. "Rehearsal for what?" you might be tempted to ask.

"Oh, well, it's actually kind of cool," I would say. "I've written this play, and am putting it up with 2 really great friends of mine. I'm actually really excited about it!"

That, of course didn't happen. After we paid and resolved the tip issue (yes, I made up the difference) she was debating with herself on whether or not to take a cab home. It was then that a cab pulled up next to us. At 2 am. On a very deserted 19th street. Finally the universe had tossed me a bone. I practically forced her not to walk me to the subway with the words, "Don't you love it when things just pull up right next to you? You shouldn't take these things for granted." It was the one truly ill-mannered thing I did all evening, but I didn't care anymore. I was tipsy on two $14 mojitos, wanted my two and a half hours back, and I was going to take it back with a good walk, and a nice, long, purposeful smoke. I obtained a Marlboro from a very sweet gay boy, and reflected on my evening.

I was totally exhausted for having paid so much attention at such a late hour. My brain was puttering out, and I felt as if I'd just attended a lecture on geology, or a screening of Schindler's List.

Some good has to come out of this, I thought.

I recalled a memory from my childhood. I was 11 years old, and my mother and I were watching Married With Children in the living room. Even at 11, I knew it was a guilty pleasure.

"Do you like this show?" I asked her.

"It's not that I like it. It just makes me feel a lot better about my own family," she said with a smile.

We laughed for a full minute. We were dysfunctional, to be sure, but not the Bundys.

"We're not that bad, huh, Mom?"

"No, we're not."

jerry springer: bad television/good theatre

I just came back from a lunchtime workout. For the first 30 minutes of my workout, I tried my best to take out my frustrations on the oh-so- immovable elliptical machine, rock out to The Killers, and basically block everything out. Then, while wiping my face with my towel in a moment of pure exaustion, I made the mistake of looking up at the televison. Jerry Springer was on. The theme was "Bizarre Love Triangles." Here is the description:

A woman confronts her friend about having an affair with her lover; a woman tells her husband what she has been doing to make ends meet; a man reveals his infidelity to his boyfriend.

The second story was pretty uneventful from what I could tell. (I was reading the closed captioning.) She was a ho. She told her husband. Everybody cried. It was far too functional for the Jerry Springer arena in my opinion. I didn't catch the last one. But the first story...That was something. The "friend" entered, and the "woman" immediately started charging at her. (Both of them seemed to be laughing.) Of course the "man" stayed remarkably clear of any physical conflict and stood in the audience to watch these two duke it out over him with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. The audience underscored the typical woman on woman slanderfest with the requisite chant: "JERRY! JERRY! JERRY!" Then something extraordinary happened. "Friend" got into a screaming match with an audience member. On her rant the cameraman on the floor got a good shot of her from below. I got a good look at her teeth and audibly gasped. Remember Sloth? Both the woman and her friend had really amazingly-cut bodies, great skin, professionally and tastefully-highlighted hair and really unfortunate luck with dentistry. Something was not right, and before I got the chance to ponder it, I read this exchange on the closed caption:

AUDIENCE MEMBER: You need to go get your teeth fixed!
WOMAN: I have a calcium deficiency, *BLEEP*!"
AUDIENCE MEMBER: You need to be drinkin' some milk, then!

ENTIRE AUDIENCE: DRINK, MILK! DRINK MILK! DRINK MILK!

WOMAN: (overlapping, with rage) I DON'T LIKE MILK! MILK SUUUUUUCKS!

Jerry Springer, if you recall, used to be quite the serious talk show. His was one of the first talk shows to host open dialogues between KKK Grand Masters and members of the Chicago black and Jewish communities. He deevolved pretty quickly into what can only be described as what Oprah would be like if she had a pro-wrestling gig on the side.

This was one of those moments that was too perfect to be real, but so perfectly-improvised that it was almost brilliant. I have zero doubt in my mind that this woman was an actress. Her gnarled, snaggly, fucked up teeth were prosthetic, as were her friend's. It was also a moment I instictively recognized as significant. I'm not sure how yet, but it was. It's with me. Jerry is sticking with me.

There was absolutely no point to this posting. None whatsoever.

creativity begets creativity

I have a lot to be thankful for these days.

Examples:
My health is in-tact.
One of my plays has been produced 4 times in New York.
I'm no longer addicted to nicotine.
I have a great cat.
My friends are very loving.
And lovable.
I live in Brooklyn.

Perhaps the thing I am most thankful for today is that I have something really wonderful to look forward to in October. In about a month and a half, I will quit my law firm job and start teaching after school programs. My roommate, Meghan has been working with this program for a year and thank goodness she had the foresight to recognize that this job was an ideal fit for me.

I never really saw teaching in my future--Even when I was a music education major for two years of my life. In everyone's mind but my own, it was something practical that I could do with a performance degree. Teaching in my mind had the connotation of being fallback career. A "those that can't" situation. Since I was pushed into pursuing it, the thought of later teaching was never appealing to me.

What they don't tell you when you're about to enter college for something creatively-oriented is that fallback jobs are actually quite abundant if you are adamant in your resistance to throwing in the towel on your real job of creating art. I've had plenty of fallback jobs, but never a fallback career. To me, that's an impossibility.

Artists excel at many things. We soak in information and direction at extremely fast rates. We process this information originally, and in a way that sheds new light on something that can often be dull, routine, and uninteresting. This is why corporate America invites us so often to the 45th floor--They need our bravery, our vision, and our enthusiasm to make their businesses greater and more successful, yet they often resent us when our inner light shines beyond our cubicles.

I've been a Director of First Impressions at a law firm (that defends big tobacco and the Bush family) for 4 long years because I hated it, thinking that that hatred would motivate and propel me to pursue art more vigorously. Maybe my break would come, I would become instantly successful. (I'm smiling right now, and rolling my eyes...) Let's just throw aside the seemingly obvious fact that having a full-time office job doesn't really allow for the vigorous pursual of one's passions. The most important concept I've become aquainted with is even simpler than that. Intellectually, you the reader have encountered it, but maybe it hasn't sunk in for you yet: You cannot plan for good timing or good luck. It's a tempting and romantic notion to think that you can prepare yourself for your own preordained greatness. We are constantly primping for and anticipating our moment that fate intervenes and gives us our big break. We're so consumed in thinking about that any-moment-now moment that we fail to find stimulation and satisfaction in the current one. And if our minds are not engaged in the current moment, we fail to recognize the fateful moments when they actually do present themselves to us.

You cannot plan for good timing or good luck.

Wow. I've just realized that this statement applies to so many aspects of my life.

In these 4 years, I have justified staying in a place I hate. Insane, if you think about it. Hate and animosity does not beget creative success. Monetary success, sure. A rise in status, okay. But remaining in a place in which it (literally) hurts to remain will never, ever make me a better artist.

I'm slowly starting to learn that a fallback job, or something you have to do for money, can actually be a job that you enjoy. I could say that I think teaching kids will make me better, but I am willing to go out on a limb to say this: I know for certain that teaching will make me a better, more well-rounded, and more complete artist and will give me a well of experience to draw from for the rest of my life.

I've known for a while that this change has been coming. I've been preparing myself for it in stages for months, though I had no clue how it would manifest itself. I'm glad that my roommate suggested it to me. I was ready for it and I'm so incredibly thankful that I was absolutely present to hear it.

Flutter By.

I have a crush. It's so horrible. And it's wonderful.

There is nothing like a crush to make you feel horrible and wonderful all at once. As I get older, I find that they happen less frequently, but that doesn't mean they are any less intense than they were when you were, say, fifteen. The crush I had on Ashley G. from grades 9-12 was supremely intense. We both had 1984 Volvos; hers, blue and mine, mustard. Twin cars, and in my mind, twin souls. She was super-stressed out about her grades and would often break into heaving sobs after getting a B+ on an Honors English exam. I would always be waiting outside the door to our classroom to comfort her and tell her it was all going to be okay. She would cry in my arms and spend the rest of the day ignoring me. Years later, I would develop an unfortunate crush on an attorney that behaved in much the same manner.

I'm picturing my brain as rows upon rows of giant holes (abysses, really)lined up perfectly next to one another. Each hole has a cartoonish looking wooden sign next to it: There's the Job Hole, the Family Hole, the Depression Hole, the Creative Satisfaction Hole, the Relationship Hole, and of course, the Crush Hole. A series of shelves are hovering over the holes and on top of the shelves are jars willed with slimy, sticky green time. Each jar is one year and each year weighs about 100 pounds. The more years that go by without significant jobs/family/depressions/creative satisfaction/relationiships/crushes, the greater the burden on the shelf. After a few hundred pounds, the shelf cracks and the jars go tumbling into the abyss. The more jars, the louder and stickier the mess at the end of things.

I need to do more things in moderation.

My crush shelf has broken. I'm walking around with my heart fluttering and impending doom on my face.

I would love to know your crush stories. Did your armpits tingle? Did your heart palpitate? Did you blush or vomit? Please, make me feel better. Share.

Super Sexy Fantasy Farewell

I've been having some seriously intense and lucid fantasies lately. In them, I am at work on a Monday wearing a pear of ripped jeans and a white, loose fitting button down shirt. I sit at my desk without shoes, gingerly sipping a cocktail, my eyes fixed on the computer screen before me. With a wicked smile across my face, I slowly and deliberately lift my fingers and begin to type my farewell email to the NYALL distribution list. In some of my daydreams, this goodbye note is gushing with creatively-placed and profane compound words.

Bumblefucking.

Jackassing.

Corportate sphinctertoads.

I am also amused at the thought of leaving an almost nonsensical goodbye note. One that follows the patterns of past graceful exits, but seems somehow...off.

Probably about 30 people have quit in the past 6 months and, in an effort to bring this hot, steamy quitting fantasy of mine to fruition, to make it seem more tactile, more attainable, and more in-my-face, I have purposefully saved every one of the goodbye letters to NYALL from the past 6 months. I have printed them and have laid them atop my desk in front of me. From these 30 or so emails, and purely in the interest of objective research, I've selected 5 to to create my control group. They include letters from: (A) a legal assistant, (B) a mailroom guy, (C) a lawyer, (D) another lawyer, and (E) a paralegal. They will be compared to (F) my fantasy farewell email.

As you examine them, you may notice simple, obvious patterns in their opening remarks:

A) Dear Friends,
Today is my last day with the Greenblatt family, after almost 5 years.

B) Hello,
Today is my last day with Greenblatt and I would like to say goodbye to everyone that I was not able to contact directly.

C) Hi Everyone,
As many of you know, today is my last day at Greenblatt.

D) All,
As many of you know, Tuesday, July 18 will be my last day at Greenblatt.

E) Hi everyone,
As most of you are aware today is my last day at Greenblatt.

F) How's thangs, chicken wangs?
I'm busting out of this joint in about three minutes, and I've already collected my final paycheck. Hows about dem apples?

The worker bee first acknowledges their intended audience. Some regard their coworkers as family or friends, while others default to the generic "all" or "everyone." Please note that for no reason at all, my fantasy farewell email likens my coworkers to fast food.

The authors also concede that if you didn't happen to be "in the know" you may want to listen up, because this will be the last email that they will be known for at Greenblatt. Ever. There is always the grave mention of the "last day." So final. So sad. In my super sexy fantasy farewell email I refuse to go gentle, but opt to rage, rage by "busting out in about 3 minutes." There is no air of finality, only one of action and optimism.

Next come the honorable mentions, some containing some severe Oscar Speech asslickery:

A) I truly appreciate the guidance and friendship that I received from those very special people in the Miami office, and some here also in the L.A. office. (SPECIALLY* PAULY JONES, CELIA MENDEZ, BLANCHE RIVERA, CARMEN SMITH, PAMELA CROSSMAN, JENNIFER ACKERMAN, and my entire bankruptcy group in Miami.)

B) I will miss all of my friends and colleagues from this great firm. I will not list names because they are too many and I'll probably leave someone out.

C) It has been a great learning experience, and I have enjoyed working with all of you.

D) It has been an honor and a pleasure to work with all of you here. I thank each of you for making this a most memorable and enjoyable experience.

E) It has been a great experience being part of the Greenblatt team, and I'm very grateful to have worked with all of you. A special thanks to everyone in Office Services and Records.

F) I just wanted to take this quick opportunity to write the word "fuck" in an email to everyone here in the office, since it seems to me that I am facing very few repercussions. So there it was. Fuck, that felt good. Oh! I did it again! Fuck! Oh no! There it was again! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck...

Fabulous future plans are always mentioned:

A) I am pursuing a different career as an Immigration Paralegal for a small practice in Beverly Hills.

B) I will be managing the Office Services Team at Stedford-Miles, another New York firm.

C) I was offered a new opportunity with the Bank of China.

D) I have accepted a paralegal position at Krakow Bank in midtown.

E) I am reenlisting.

F) I have decided that sitting among the Greenblatt family for 8,320 cumulative hours at a workstation that has compounded my lower back problems has not been worth the health insurance trade-off over the past 4 years, so I have chosen to accept a slightly more lucrative offer from Jamba Juice instead.

Then, after listing far too many methods by which to contact them in the future, our brave adventurers leave us with some choice and beautiful words d'finale:

A) Thank you!

B) Take care and I will miss you all,

C) Take care,

D) All the best.

E) Thx-

F) "I'd like to send a shout out to the whole world, keep on doin' the Humpty Dance, and to the ladies, peace and humptiness forever."
--The Digital Underground

When it comes to my last day, my final few moments at Greenblatt, I wonder what path I'll really choose. Four years is a long time to spend in a place, and in a lot of ways, the stability of this place was really instrumental in my feeling settled in New York. I suppose dignity will most likely be involved, but I also wonder if any truth will slip out unintentionally.

I'm curious, dear reader, if you've ever left a job making your real thoughts known to your employers. Did it matter enough to you, or were you just angry at yourself for having stayed so long in the first place? Have you ever truly raged? If so, I want to know about it. Feel free to comment with a name or anonymously.

Thanks for reading.

*UIC (Usage incorrect.)

The Hymen Story

I published this in an old blog and decided it needed to be re-published on my current one. Enjoy.

The Hymen Story

Never wrote this one down. Felt that it was time.

I'm a worker bee who has the unfortunate "official" job title of Director of First Impressions. Yes, that's a completely serious job title they have given us. We used to be receptionists, but one day in late 2004, some dweedlydoodlefuck in HR who doesn't actually work here anymore, decided that a bloated-title promotion without a raise was the best way to make us feel needed and important. I kid you not, ONE WEEK after receiving that title, someone sent me this Dilbert strip in the interoffice mail. See the follow-ups here, here, and here.

Anyway, my title changed but my job and my salary remarkably stayed the same. My morale as a theatre artist, however, had started to deteriorate at a fast rate. I had reached my dayjob half-life, and, like a CD at age 25, I was starting to get a little warped. I was having a particularly dumpy day shortly after my promotion, when the universe decided to toss me a bone.

I always answer the phone the same way: "Greenblatt-Turner, this is Jen." When I first started it was "Good afternoon (morning)! Greenblatt-Turner, this is Jen! How can I help you?! Can I lick your bottom for you?! Can I make you feel bigger than you are?! " It was out of control. Now the exclamations are abolished, and without apology. All day long it's a very-flat "Greenblatt-Turner, this is Jen. Greenblatt-Turner, this is Jen." Occassionally, it's just "Greenblatt-Turner." I transfer the calls, I make the conference room reservations, I order the cars and the food so already-fat bastards can get even fatter.

This was the best phone call of my DOFI career:



The phone rings.

JEN: Greenblatt-Turner this is Jen.

LADY: (in a uniquely-urban accent) Um, yeeah. I need to confirm da spellin'a your firm's name.

JEN: Okay, go ahead.

LADY: A'ight. G-R-E-E-N-B-L-A-T-T-Hymen-T-U-R-N-E-R.

JEN: (giggling) Um, I-I'm sorry, ma'am. What did-Can-Can you-Can you say that again?
LADY sucks her teeth in annoyance.

LADY: (louder, growing more perturbed) G-R-E-E-N-B-L-A-T-T-HYMEN-T-U-R-N-E-R!

JEN starts laughing uncontrollably and holds the phone away
from her mouth.

LADY: Well, whatchu laughin' at? Is there a hymen or isn't there?

JEN: (laughing) Yes. Yes ma'am. You are absolutely right. There is a hymen.

LADY: Thank you.

JEN immediately hangs up the phone and calls everyone
she loves.


No, I didn't correct her. By my logic, it wasn't right to deprive another law firm D.O.F.I. of future joy. There is a karmic problem with this story. Everytime I have to use the word "hyphen" I really have to think about it. It's the same with "incest" and "incense." I can't really think of a situation in which mixing up those two words would be embarrassing, though.

********UPDATE*********

In the time that has passed since this phone call took place, our firm has become a larger, more experienced, and more dominant firm. We have also gained many, many more partners. Subsequently, we have lost our hymen.

Cruise of Champions: ALASKA '09

I've been daydreaming a lot about vacations lately, because for the first time in my life, I've really started to need them. When it comes to going on one though, it's the really planning of them that I cherish. I really love the act of packing my maroon Chinatown Prada weekender bag and toting it around the city like I'm really somebody. It looks damn real, and when I have it with me it's the only time hardcore straight girly-girls eye me up and down with envy. Tonight, after work, I'm leaving for Lake George, NY. I'm excited about a little stress-free weekend vacation with my cousin and friend. We'll go swimming in the lake and probably go on our own little cruise, floating down a really lazy part of the Hudson River in an innertube, Corona-with-lime in-hand.

I was perfectly buzzing from the anticipation of this mini-break by the time I got to work today. I sat down with my joe, logged in to my computer, and intended to give my personal email account a quick check, and there it was sitting in my inbox--The email that every young, financially-challenged lesbian both detests and savors: The Olivia Cruise Newsletter.

I wish I could afford an Oliva Cruise. Not too long ago, I made the big mistake of registering to win a trip for two on an Olivia Cruise with every email address I have--You know, to increase my chances of winning. Not only did I NOT win a fabulous lesbian cruise for two with performances by the Indigo Girls and Melissa Etheridge and with all meals catered by hot, hot, HOT Celesbian Chef Cat Cora, but I'm reminded of the fact that I can't afford an Olivia Cruise with each of the monthly newsletters that now arrive to, you guessed it, every email address I have. Also, every month, a brochure is sent to my home address containing full color, glossy pictures of power lesbians embracing poolside, tossing a beach ball, drinking a mojito, eating filet mignon, and smiling with their perfectly white, straight…teeth. Ohhh, it hoits! It hoits! The humanity!

I looooove lesbians, and I'm pretty certain I would love a cruise if I could ever manage to get myself onto one. But when an inside cabin on a Celebrity Cruise to Alaska runs for $799 and the same cabin on an Olivia Cruise can shake $2000 from your pockets, it really makes me wonder…Why should I be tempted to pay $1200 more to be surrounded by hundreds of rich, partnered women just to listen to the Indigo Girls play for 3 nights in a row? Props to the Girls, but lesbo, please…Everyone we know plays acoustic guitar. I just don't see why we can't all get uber-organized and say, "Okay, troops, here's the plan. We're gonna take over the Carnival Spirit to Alaska in October 2009! Everyone bring your guitars and your binoculars--That's right! We're going whale watching!" If we can take over Walt Disney World, certainly we can master a cruise ship, right?

I'm not clueless. I know there's a reason why this cruise exists, and I understand it. I'm even appreciative of it. Gay couples and families are not fully accepted by our friends in the Heartland, and we need a place where we can be as gay as we wanna be. Rosie's Big Gay Boat documentary really illustrated that well for us---Hundreds of gay families got the chance to go on a family cruise to the Carribbean, thanks to Rosie O'Donnell. The one sentiment the moms, dads, and precocious pre-teens kept expressing over and over again was that they were thankful to finally be on a vacation where they just dealt with normal vacation stuff: No one was judging them or shaming them.

It's cool. I get it. It just sucks that we have to pay that much more for it.

I guess my true point, my uncensored agenda, my deepest desire and aspiration is this: I would really, really like to be on a boat in the middle of the ocean with 500 good looking, single women.

Alaska '09, BABY.

HR: The Paradox

There are roughly three kinds of artists in New York City.

1) Wildly successful artists.
2) Artists who work at restaurants.
3) Artists who work in offices.

I am an artist who works in an office. I am too much of a weenie to work in a restaurant. I have insanely strong arms, yet the thought of lifting a tray makes me want to go on strike.

I first started working in this law firm (the office from which I'm writing at this very moment) in November, 2002. It is now July, 2006, and it's been what we office artists commonly refer to as "a long fucking time." At first it was charming: I would get up early and get dressed up for work everyday and pretend to be somebody I wasn't-- Perhaps acting the role of a lifetime. It's a role I'm still playing, in fact, but on a much more angry, desperate level. Some might say "method."

My friends who were restaurant artists warned me I'd get too comfortable. They were right. I've gotten comfortable and brain dead as my office has become larger, colder, and more corporate. During the fake "you may speak freely" portion of my annual review this past June, I tried desperately to describe my strange, complex feelings about the office atmospheric change to our Regional HR Manager, a corporate robot woman I'll refer to as Motorola. My friend M came up with that because she's convinced she plugs herself into a wall at night to recharge. It's Motorola's job to peel the human face off every single one of the firm's offices on the east coast, and to assemble protocol for every possible question or problem ever to arise . And when a new problem pops up, she stores its resolution away in her little Motorola brain for safe-keeping, until she writes it down and it becomes the Word. Motorola is part of the firm's initiative to make this place a little more uniform-A little more homogenized. During my meeting, when I used the words "cold" and "corporate" in the same sentence, she tapped her pen on her chin and smiled a little--the first time during our 35 minutes together. She took the word "corporate" as a compliment, she said, and referred to it as a "new firm-wide initiative." She seemed to be filled with pride that that I'd even mentioned the word. Even a little touched.

To me, the term "Human Resources" is a joke. When you call HR in this office, it's a process not unlike being on hold with Dell Tech Support then being transferred to some guy in Bombay who trouble shoots your problem by reading from a "choose your own ending" script.

Every time I call with an issue, one of two things happens: The initial response is "Can you email your question to me?" Email you? I've got you on the phone right now. Why the fuck would I want to do that?

Then I may get a loud, punishing, indiscreet sigh followed by the shuffling of papers, the clicking of a keyboard, and the lightly-condescending recitation of a long piece of policy that's been hidden on some obscure page of the firm-wide intranet. There's a manual and an easy answer for everything in this place, and supposedly (if you can find it) it's all on the intranet---the go to for everything from vacation time to office discounts at the local tanning salon. I suspect that one day, companies will eliminate HR entirely and will replace it with the goddamn intranet. The way it's set up, I don't think they want to be bothered until you're ready to quit.

I am so ready for a face-to-face meeting.

Ack! You punk! Sure!

I have some pretty severe lower back pain for somebody in their 20's. I've tried chiropractors, but it doesn't seem to do anything. Working out helps for a couple of hours but it always stiffens up at night again. Waking up in the morning is when my back is the worst. I think of it as my own personal spin on morning wood, with no hope of release.

Yesterday, out of sheer desperation for something a little more invasive, I decided to try acupuncture. A friend of mine is in her 2nd semester at a school of eastern medicine here in the city. She can get me a discount on treatments, and a few of our friends have had some great results, eliminating everything from stress to the runs.

I arrived at the school early to fill out the required paperwork, which was the most detailed questionairre I'd ever been handed. Silly email quizzes have nothing on this guy, and I'm not actually sure I even knew all of these facts about myself.

I sat in the waiting room for a while. It was a decent waiting room. There were a few plants in the corners and the latest issue of New York Magazine was in the racks. There were patients of all ages there. One of them was an older woman of about 70 who stood-I'm not kidding-at a nintety degree angle. I realized that if I didn't take care of this problem now, that would undoubtedly be me in 40 years. She was taken back to the treatment rooms, and I resumed my people watching. A really tense woman sat across from me, obsessively text messaging. Another woman sat reading Highlights Magazine. I thought it was strange that Highlights Magazine was stil being published and was in this particular waiting room, but was glad for the familiarity of the cover.

Also in the waiting room was a great big window looking into what I'm going to call the herb room. In the herb room were shelves stacked to the ceiling with every kind of herb you could imagine. (All except one, I imagine.)Inside the herb room was a reserved, shy-looking girl working quietly and methodically. Her sole job, it seemed, was taking the herbs out of one huge glass jar, weighing them, and putting them into another glass jar. Jar. Scale. Jar. Jar. Scale. Jar. Jar. Scale. Jar. I drifted off to sleep watching this woman's repetitive work and was jolted awake by a harsh Russian voice saying my name. "Janey-fur?"

"Yes?"I said along with 2 other women named Janey-fur. Turns out, she needed crazy text lady.

They left and I returned my attention to the herb room, so that I could fall asleep again. I really was nervous about receiving acupuncture for the first time, but for some reason, when I'm afraid, my body shuts down completely. Most of the people I know become edgy and jumpy. I get sleepy and fetal.

This time, it was impossible to drift off, because a really beautiful yoga-bodied blond-whispied woman glided into the herb room. She posessed three very key items: a labcoat, a clipboard, and a really great haircut. Just one of those things is sexy, but if you're donning all three and happen to be attractive, then we have a problem. The problem is that you're still wearing the labcoat and on the other side of the room and we're still in a public place and neither of us are naked.

She was chatting on the other side of the window with one of her coworkers and laughing in what seemed to be slow motion underscored by Barry White.

Please don't let her be my intern. Pleeeease! I begged the universe.

"Jennifer?" I looked up. "Hi, Jennifer. I'm Ethel. It's nice to meet you." I shook hands with Ethel, a non-blond. She was around my age and had a very comforting smile. My nerves began to melt away.I was safe. Blonde Lady was still yukking it up in the herb room. She was indeed not my intern which meant that if I saw her on the street someday, she was fair game. I wouldn't do anything about it, but the contest was now fair and open to to me if I should one day like to participate: No Purchase Necessary.

"I hope you haven't been waiting long."

"No, I said. Not too long." Ethel began to walk to the treatment rooms and I took one last look into the herb room. She was gone. Oh, well, I thought, We have our whole lives to look at each other.


Ethel opened the door to the treatment room for me, and I was kicked in the figurative stomach. There was Blonde Lady getting the room ready for my appointment. Apparently, they were going to work on me together. Apparently we weren't getting married someday. And apparently, I would never see this woman without her labcoat.

Ethel hit me with a barrage of about 100 questions, regarding every bodily function you can imagine.

E: Do you sweat anywhere abnormal, Jennifer?

Me: I sweat under my eyes alot, I guess. What's abnormal?

E: Have you noticed a yellowish coloring in the armpit area of any of your white shirts?

Me: I thought that was deodorant.

E: It might be.

Blonde Lady: But it could be something else.

I froze. This was the first time she'd opened her mouth since the intoduction. My insticts were to keep this beautiful person talking--to engage her in intellectual conversation, but common sense told me that after we were done here, she wouldn't even want to look at me in the real world.

E: What about bowel movents?

Me: Ha, ha, ha! What about bowel movements? They happen. Ha, ha, ha!

I smiled at Blonde Lady. She returned the smile politely. Damn her boots were sexy.

E: How many times per day and when?

Me: Uhh, well. I- I go in the morning, I guess, and um-

Blonde Lady: (sotto butter voce) Jennifer, I know it's strange to talk about this, but really, it's all we talk about all day long. It's almost fascinating.

That was all I needed: Permission to fascinate. I'm going to spare you the details. It suffices to say that I have regular bowel movements, and B.L. now knows precisely how many times per day they happen and their color, texture, and consistency. (She inquired about the color, actually. My only conclusion is that she wants me. Bad.)

B.L. also knows the color of my tongue, noted concern about its slight yellowish coating, and marvelled at how wide it was. She knows when and what I eat, what time I go to bed, and when I use the steam room at the gym. She knows the regularity and duration of my menstrual cycle, and precisely, on a scale from one to ten, how much rage I exhibit while PMSing. Simply put: She knows more about me than anyone I've ever dated.

So why aren't we married? Oh, right. Labcoat.

After the interview was done, B.L. pressed on my abs a couple of times and determined I had some sort of deficiency in my spleen. Then I flipped over, and after a brief visit and consulation with their supervisor, B.L. and Ethel started sticking me with needles. There was a crazy electricity that took place each time a needle was flicked into my skin. It would sting for a second then the pain would slowly dull.

Here's the rundown:

The Treatment:
1 pin in each hip (slightly uncomfortable)
2 pins in each hand (really alarming)
2 pins in my lower back (a little pinchy)
1 pin in each foot (sweet jesus that smarts)

Outcome:
10 needles
20 minutes of silent, face-down-on-a-table meditation
8 fantasies about B.L.

None of these fantasies went all the way, however, because as far as fantasies go, I'm pretty unimaginative. They all took place in the treatment room. I realized as soon as we started making out that I still had needles in me and that was in no way sexy and in every way a logistical nightmare. I eventually gave up and started thinking about what I was going to make for dinner that night.

I couldn't even feel the needles as they pulled them out of me. The members of Team Intern were extremely quiet, careful, and gentle.

I'd made it! I'd officially survived my very first acupuncture treatment. I was so proud of myself for getting through it-For simply having tried something new.

Just as I was about to get up and dressed I felt two hands on my ass.

BL: Your glutes are really tense.

Me: Oh, really? Wow.

BL: Yeah. God, I'm really having to dig in here.

Me: Yeah, I can feel that.

Ethel: We're lucky enough to have a certified massage therapist in the room.

Me: Oh, neat.

BL: You're going to have to come back next week for some cupping.

This ass massage went on for about 20 minutes.

Now, I know what you're thinking, but I'm not really a dirty kid. I've had a number of massages before by a number of different people. I wasn't turned on while this was happening. More than anything, I found it difficult to relax around BL. Throw on the added layers of disrobing, talk of bowel movements, and ass rubbing, and it's an almost unbearable situation.

After the two interns left the room, I got up and took inventory of my usal pain. The tension in my hips was significantly lessened. My lower back wasn't seizing. My ass felt great!

I'll go back.

Stop it. Whatever you're thinking, that's not the reason.

I don't even think I have to editorialize this all that much, but I'll set it up for you.

Two years ago, the firm ordered a new Starbucks instant coffee maker. It is similar to the Flavia machines, in that it makes your coffee in less than a minute, but the blessed key difference is that it freshly-grinds the amount of beans needed for each individual cup of coffee. You simply pick the kind of beverage you would like (caf/decaf/half-caf/hot chocolate) and the size (tall/grande/coffee pot). It also introduced to us the grande wax paper cup---a luxury which we have grown very attached to. Recently, we, the worker bees, have noticed the disappearance of the grande cups and a number of complaints were sent to the guy in charge of ordering supplies. This was sent to the receptionists and butlers. (Yes. We have butlers.) He didn't even have the guts to send it to the NYALL distribution list.

To: NYButlers; NYRecep
Subject: Large Coffee Cups & Large Starbuck Option

Below is my "official" response for now in the event you want to forward on to anyone who inquires in my absence. Thanks.

In recent months we were asked to cut some costs in our coffee pantries. We worked closely with our coffee vendor to make some adjustments while being very careful not to change or take away too much that we've been come accustomed to. In addition to some behind the scenes savings on our rental equipment and brand changes on some pantry items, we've disengaged the large option on the Starbuck machine which eliminated the need for the over priced large 12 oz. coffee cup. Surprisingly enough these two adjustments alone save the Firm* a significant amount of money annually while we address the safety and service issues that go along with the change. I'm personally going to miss the large coffee option myself and would suggest going to a smaller cup or personal mug size while we monitor reaction this month. If it's just the large cup you're looking for, I would suggest, as I have for others, bringing in or purchasing a large plastic cup you're comfortable carrying from the pantry to your desk. As a reminder our Butler staff run the dishwashers in every pantry every night in the event you would like it washed when you leave for the day. If you have any questions please feel free to let me know. Thanks.

Joe X


I'm going to write an office musical called "Common Sense" and there's going to be a dream ballet between a grande paper cup and the character based on this guy. It will be raining pennies. If anyone would like to executive produce you can contact me via email, snail mail, phone, or by dry erase board. You may also verbally communicate with me face to face by opening your mouth and making sounds that form words. Or by American Sign Language. I will then respond to you in the same manner.
Keep breathing in and out.

Jenks, the person who wrote this blog entry.

*Note: "Firm" is capitalized like "God."

Rally, rally f#cked up.

I love New York. I do. I love the rush and the bustle and riding the subway, and I even love the smell of urine every once in a while on a hot day in Chinatown to remind me that we're all human beings and that some human beings drop trough on the sidewalk. I love the you're-okay-I'm-okay-just-as-long-as-you-don't-fuck-with-me attitude. People are real and honest and very, very blunt. Even if they're from a conservative Jewish or Italian Catholic family, you'd be hard-pressed to find someone who will evangelize to you about why living their way is the best way.

That's why I find it absolutely fucking ludicrous that last week, the New York State Court of Appeals ruled against gay marriage. The majority offered ridiculous arguments:

First, the Legislature could rationally decide that for the welfare of children, it is more important to promote stability, and to avoid instability, in opposite-sex than in same-sex relationships. Heterosexual intercourse has a natural tendency to lead to the birth of children; homosexual intercourse does not. Despite the advances of science, it remains true that the vast majority of children are born as a result of a sexual relationship between a man and a woman, and the Legislature could find that this will continue to be true. The Legislature could also find that such relationships are often too casual or temporary. It could find that an important function of marriage is to create more stability and permanence in the relationships that cause children to be born. It thus could choose to offer an inducement - in the form of marriage and its attendant benefits - to opposite-sex couples who make a solemn, long-term commitment to each other.
I just don't understand how this is an argument. Someone please break this down for me. Judge Robert Smith is saying 1) That boys and girls make babies, which we know, or if we don't know that, one of our mommies will soon tell us; and 2) That because boys and girls can make babies, they're more likely to stay together.

Here's a big surprise. Are you ready for this? He cites absolutely no scientific proof to validate this conclusion and furthermore fails to give props to the fact that when gay couples want children, they actually have to go great lengths to plan for them.

I know I don't have to bring up any divorce statistics for all of you, no matter what you believe, to see that the argument is weak. And to those of you reading my blog at are gay, can you please PLEASE let me know if you guys are great, big abusive, shiftless whores? PLEEEEASE. If you are, I'm afraid I just didn't get the memo.
The Legislature could rationally believe that it is better, other things being equal, for children to grow up with both a mother and a father. Intuition and experience suggest that a child benefits from having before his or her eyes, every day, living models of what both a man and a woman are like. It is obvious that there are exceptions to this general rule - some children who never know their fathers, or their mothers, do far better than some who grow up with parents of both sexes - but the Legislature could find that the general rule will usually hold.

Second verse, same as the first. Everyone knows that gender roles are a crock of shit anyway. Men play sports and bring home the bacon and do not under any circumstances cry. Women serve their men martinis, teach the girls how to do their hair, and are spendthrifts at the local mall. Again, he cites no scientific evidence.

The court's minority opinion differed in language and sentiment:

Simply put, fundamental rights are fundamental rights. They are not defined in terms of who is entitled to exercise them. The claim that marriage has always had a single and unalterable meaning is a plain distortion of history. In truth, the common understanding of "marriage" has changed dramatically over the centuries.

The state plainly has a legitimate interest in the welfare of children, but excluding same-sex couples from marriage in no way furthers this interest. In fact, it undermines it. Civil marriage provides tangible legal protections and economic benefits to married couples and their children, and tens of thousands of children are currently being raised by same-sex couples in New York. Depriving these children of the benefits and protections available to the children of opposite-sex couples is antithetical to their welfare.

Defendants primarily assert an interest in encouraging procreation within marriage. But while encouraging opposite-sex couples to marry before they have children is certainly a legitimate interest of the state, the exclusion of gay men and lesbians from marriage in no way furthers this interest. There are enough marriage licenses to go around for everyone.

Thank you, Judge Judith Kaye. By the way, does anyone else find it superbly-fitting that someone by the name of Judy Kaye is fighting for for gays? Sorry. Couldn't resist. Judy Kaye, the actress lives in Jersey, anyway.

There was a rally last night in several places all over New York State. I attended the NYC one at Sheridan Square, outside the Stonewall Inn. This is a historic site for gays everywhere, because it's where the gay rights movement was born.

A lot of great speakers were present offering reassurance, and the rally was both comforting an invigorating.


You can read an article about it here or here. Or see a slideshow here.

The overall urgent message of the evening was simple: WE (meaning ALL citizens) HAVE TO TAKE ACTION IN ORDER TO SECURE OUR RIGHTS.

In the past couple of years, the gay community has been beaten back a bit. I've noticed it in New York as a volunteer for Marriage Equality New York who organizes an annual march across the Brooklyn Bridge. Three years ago its attendance boasted 4,000 and this year it was down to a few hundred.

We've taken a backseat to our own fight and allowed organizations such as Lambda Legal, Empire State Pride Agenda, and the Human Rights Campaign to fight the fight for us. Thankfully, they've been up for it.

Now the fight is with the lawmakers---with your New York State representatives. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE write everyone who represents you. You can write one email as I did and copy and paste them using the user-friendly ESPA site. Simply type in your zip code, and the site lists everyone you could possibly have voted for. Demand that they support full marriage rights for every single New York Citizen.

If you don't live in New York, please visit www.hrc.org to find out how you can help in your state.

15 minutes, tops.

Thanks,
Jenks

Four Eyes

Hey-

This started out as a letter to my friend Suzanne, but I thought everyone should know about it.

So, about 3 years or so ago, after just having moved to the city, I auditioned for this really experimental and collaborative film called Four Eyed Monsters in a really shady raw space in Williamsburg. The guy and the girl that were writing and directing seemed like really laid back artists, but didn't seem much like film people. They were making a movie about how their relationship began and how in the beginning they agreed to only communicate via art projects. They were scruffy, inarticulate, and far too relaxed.

It just occurred to me that, in retrospect, they might have been hipsters.

After my audition, which they now have exclusive rights to, they asked if I would lend them my voice for the opening sequence--It was a layering of voices of single people in New York City, all of whom were searching for something significant and important. I would just have to repeat a line over and over again adjusting my voice to their direction.

Of course, like a dumbass I signed a release form and said yes, because I wanted to still be considered for the film.

Well, since they finished editing the movie, I've gotten a litany of junk mail re: screenings and podcasts. I've ignored it all, and even tried to unsubscribe to their mailing list, but Susan, the aforementioned girl, implored me to stay on it.

Of course like a dumbass I did. I remembered them being really, really nice in the auditions, so I figured, siiiiiigh, why the hell not?

This week, the week before fourth of July weekend, things have been dead at work, and this week also happens to be the week that Four Eyed Monsters is screening at Cinema Village. I've gotten more junk email from them in the last couple of days than I have in a year, so I decided to go ahead and watch their podcast do-dads. For about an hour, I watched what was essentially, bonus footage and "making of" features. I immediately became hooked on the filmmakers' (Arin's and Susan's) journey. The episodic podcasts, in and of themselves, could be combined to make a documentary of two truly green filmmakers. Every "character" in the podcast (the wide-eyed artists making art through risk, the well-meaning and supportive parents/executive producers, the leachy actors, the *literally* psychotic acting teacher) is compelling.

As shown in the podcasts, after the film starts getting some attention, and Arin and Susan are invited to Slamdance (the other Park City festival) a few of the actors in the film start grappling for writing and directing credits---essentially stealing the autobiographical nature of this collaborative film conceived by its starring couple: Arin and Susan.

Please, please, please if you are a filmmaker, or are interested in the filmmaking process, I beg you to watch these podcasts. They are really well-done, really compelling and addictive, and by watching it, you feel as if you are a part of the process. Better yet, you want to tell everyone about the film.

But that's independent art, isn't it? Art that is made successful by the consumer directly, with not a lot to obstruct artist and audience?

I've yet to see the actual film, which is showing again tonight at 7:30. Because of the success of last night's screening, Cinema Village is going to show the film every Thursday in September. I'm pretty sure I'll catch it then.

It looks like a great experiment. I'm happy I wasn't cast in it, and I can't wait to see it.

Let me know what you think.

Jen

Food Tastes Better in Italian

This is an excerpt from a book I'm reading by the fantastic Jeanette Winterson: The Powerbook. It's a quick read and it's been consuming my attention on the commute to work recently. I've been taking it in in spurts, because I love the language and simply don't want it to be over-with. Ms. Winterson is known for studying love and its roots like a great mystery. She does this through comparisons to other worlds: logic, mathematics, history, horticulture, cooking... In short, she uses everything. She uses everything tangible to define the intangible, and she almost succeeds every time. You journey with her on her quest to define love, and everytime she experiences a breakthrough, you experience it with her.
Her prose is really poetry in paragraph form, and it's complex. I can read a paragraph and completely lose sight of its literal meaning, but I get the push of feeling behind it. It's almost as if her chapters are impressionistic paintings. You get the shape first, then take note of the brush strokes.

If you haven't read Written on the Body yet, I highly-recommend it. A great way to start. Be careful, though. Her writing has a way of conjuring old feelings for old loves. My friend Katy once said that Written on the Body takes her back to a time of love in her life where everything was symbolic. Everything meant something other than what it appeared to be and everything was such exquisite torture.

I dare you.

Anyway--enjoy this excerpt:

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I went into the kitchen. I love food. The clarity of it, the direct pleasure. I love it simple, absolutely fresh and freshly cooked. At my worst, like now, when nothing makes sense to myself, I'll cook something as a way of forcing order back into chaos. As a way of re-establishing myself, at least in this one thing. It steadies my hands.

Salsa Di Pomodori

Take a dozen plum tomatoes and slice them lengthways as though they were your enemy. Fasten them into a lidded pot and heat for ten minutes.

Chop an onion without tears.

Dice a carrot without regret.

Shard a celery stick as though its flutes and grooves were the indentations of your past.
Add to the tomatoes and cook unlidded for as long as it takes for them to yeild.Throw in salt, pepper, and a twist of sugar.

Pound the lot through a sieve or a mouli, or a blender. Remember--they are the vegetables, you are the cook.

Return to a soft flame and lubricate with olive oil. Add a spoonful at a time, stirring like an old witch, until you achieve the right balance of slippery firmness.
Serve on top of fresh spaghetti. Cover with rough new parmesan and cut basil. Raw emotion can be added now.

Serve. Eat. Reflect.

I put the steaming plate in front of her. She took a mouthful, then another.
'This is fantastic.'

'Food tastes better in Italian.'

Thickly, through a mouthful of spaghetti, she said, 'My husband is in Oxford.'