A lesson in humility, part 16,988.

Last night, around six p.m., I had about 25 people show up at my house, mostly costumed, all enthusiastic and ready to take on the world. They left a few hours later, and I sat awake between two and four this morning bawling my eyes out.

This requires some explanation, obviously.

Every once in a while I fancy myself a writer; it’s usually on days when I don’t feel as if walking across the Grand Canyon or wrestling a homeless person in the middle of the street are particularly better ideas. On such a day about a month ago, I read that Tig Notaro - a comedienne that I admire greatly and love furiously – was working with Showtime on a six-part series that would showcase her going to a different city each week and doing a show in people’s houses, yards, etc. Look her up if you’re unfamiliar; she’s a Sahara-dry laff riot.

I wrote several words about how my neighborhood, my street, my neighbors, my FRIENDS would have to be infinitely more delightful than most and a must-see stop on this mission.  I then promptly forgot about the entry and started doing more important things, like forgetting to take my youngest child to camp and whatnot.

About a week ago, I was contacted by the casting department for the aforementioned show, letting me know I was a semi-finalist (drink your Ovaltine!) for the process and requesting more, more, more info. I sent a photographic travelogue through our neck of the woods and more pithy bon mots.

Late this past Monday night, I received an email from the production team; we had moved up and they needed a short video with me introducing myself, my hood, my house, my friends. They needed it pronto.

By the time I was awake the following morning, I had a general idea and started making frequent mention of it on Facebook (remember that social media rant from last time? Mulligan.) along with some allusions to the need for help and costumes. By Wednesday evening, our darling friend Bob who has actual experience with all things film-y had agreed to help and we had secured more than two dozen commitments from friends to show up when needed. We decided to shoot yesterday, when the weather promised to hold fast.

Yesterday, because Murphy is a dick, I had a migraine. Hell, I don’t even blog about them, because they’ve been around literally longer than anyone I’m not related to and I don’t want to embarrass them. If you know what they really are – and they’re NOT bad headaches – then you’ll understand what I’m saying. I took enough of the appropriate medication to anesthetize a woolly mammoth and kept moving.

It was in this not-so-marginally addled state that I began to accept visitors into my house early yesterday evening. Every single person who walked into my door, with less than 48 hours notice and gravy-like weather and mosquitos beckoning for congress, was offering any assistance they could give. My friend the healer hit the door and laid her hands on me before I said a word and popped out the rest of the ouchy, and we were off to the races.

I have no idea what the finished product will look like. I’m not that concerned. I’d like us – all of us –  to have a shot on TV, but that really has nothing to do with my peaceful easy feeling, either.

I marvel that I’m so lucky to love people who love back strongly and steadfastly. And, when I woke up in the middle of the night and looked at this picture, I had to weep at the grace I’ve been afforded. I hope to find a more fanciful way to thank these people in the near future, but for now I’m just soaking in a giant puddle of gratitude.

If you see one of these people, feel free to squeeze them until they squeak.


When you get off, where exactly the fuck ARE you?

I diagnosed myself with what might be a new malady: Virtual Perception Dysmorphia. An acquaintance was explaining to someone who may or may not have an anger management problem that perhaps expressing himself online as himself might not be the best path and perhaps inventing a separate angry identity might be helpful. In retrospect, this

One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.

Looking foolish does the spirit good. The need not to look foolish is one of youth’s many burdens; as we get older we are exempted from more and more, and float upward in our heedlessness, singing Gratia Dei sum quod sum. - John Updike. So, let’s be foolish. And tuneful. Here’s the link to the music

Bring Him Home

So, the new trailer for what will likely be an absolutely glorious version of the musical was released Monday. I cried, but see, I ALWAYS cry when it comes to most anything that has to do with Les Miserables, and it’s for this reason: When I was eleven, there was a two-part miniseries based on

Clean plates, cleaner consciences.

I know a change is gonna come.

Wax this. Sometimes you can spend entirely too much time waiting for the other metaphorical shoe to drop. It’s time to shrug off sadness, banish worry, hold your fucking nose and jump into the pool already. The only thing this gal’s gonna worry about dropping is that shiny, shiny ball that’ll land at the bottom