next year

So here we are. 

I have not yet read either of the Stephen Sondheim books that dissect his lyrics (Finishing the Hat and Look I Made a Hat), nor am I a savant when it comes to his work, but I don’t think I am creating any great controversy in declaring that his most poignant lyric is probably this one, from A Little Night Music: the last line of the song Send in the Clowns: 

Well, maybe next year.

bowl

So here we are.

This week, my dear Northwestern University is playing in the Meineke Car Care Bowl of Texas. I probably won’t be watching. It’s not because we won’t have access to the game -- cable allows us to see colleges we never knew existed play everything from water polo to tetherball. And it’s not because I’m ignorant about football -- I was a kid in Pittsburgh, PA during the Steel Curtain/Immaculate Reception days. 

It’s because I refuse to watch lamely named bowls. 

a little gift

So here we are. 

Seeing as tomorrow is Christmas Eve, it’s appropriate that I give you devoted dozens a little gift.

Last year, I gave you a Christmas warning, in the form of an original poem. For those of you who missed it, I’m happy to share it again:

giving

So here we are. 

Ah, it’s that time of year. The time of year when the world is filled with festive joy and the spirit of giving. 

It’s also the time of year when jackasses blog about crappy gifts you better not give to anyone, especially them. 

irregularity (not that kind)

So here we are.

I don’t read many other blogs regularly, but one that I do check out every now and then is By Ken Levine. He writes mostly about Hollywood (he lives in L.A.), TV (he’s worked on a giant crop of wildly popular sitcoms), film (he co-wrote several screenplays), baseball (he’s a major league announcer) and popular culture in general (the only other thing that writers in L.A. think about besides baseball). Basically, he writes the kind of stuff I do, only better and with a lot more baseball. As such, it’s a pretty durned entertaining way to procrastinate. 

lame but true

So here we are.

Did you ever have something happen to you that seemed like a lame plot line in a lame sitcom? Something that was only funny because it was pathetic, and even the word funny is too complimentary to describe it? Something where the timing of the events seemed just a little too perfectly pat to be real? 

Did you ever have something happen to you that, when compared to the plights and tragedies that plague the rest of the world, seems petty and shallow to even mention but nonetheless needs to be shared because of its sheer ridiculousness? Something that might make people feel sorry for you; not because of what happened, but because you felt the need to tell the silly story? Something that perhaps would feel at home in a Ziggy comic?

Guess what? I did.

at 40

So here we are.

Today, I am officially middle-aged. I hate it. Of course, I also hate that I hate it, because that just makes me seem like a great big cliché. Thank God I don’t drink much, because the thought of adding a giant glass of wine to the picture is just too damned stereotypical to bear.

comment reply ("underneath")

So here we are.

You didn’t expect to see me again so soon, did you? You thought I’d be on the floor in the fetal position, rocking back and forth, whispering, holoblomo... holoblomo...

But I just got a comment on one of my recent Horribly Local Blogging Month posts, and I wanted to share it with you, as well as my (edited and augmented) response to it, since I’m sure nobody out there subscribes to the comments. It was regarding “holoblomo day 26: underneath,” which, I am amazed to say, is now my most-read post in the history of web...blah...log.

Here’s the comment, verbatim, from George:

holoblomo day 30: holoblomo no mo'

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

I guess that’s it. Horribly Local Blogging Month - or HoLoBloMo - is finally at an end. With this post, I have met my challenge of writing a daily post throughout November and hitting 10,000 words, and since I hit 13,612 words yesterday, I did it with at least a 36% word bonus to boot.

Have we learned anything? 

holoblomo day 29: f-word

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

I know you don’t expect to hear this from an actor, but I don’t really want fame. Fame is a memorable film from 1980, a somewhat decent TV series, and a great Irene Cara song, but it is a hideous noun. 

Famous is an equally hideous adjective. There are many things I want to be: employed, well-regarded, respected, lauded, professional, in-demand, a size zero... but not famous. It is way too exhausting. Even with the goody bags and free stuff, it’s not worth it. (Being way too exhausting is also the reason I am not a size zero.)

holoblomo day 28: stupid grapevine

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

Recently, I was told by someone I’d just met that he’d heard from people I’ve never met that I hated someone.

This struck me as odd. Not only do I not hate the person in question, but apparently total strangers are out there somewhere talking about my relationship with this person. Only, I don’t really have a close relationship with this person. I know this person and he knows me, but we’ve never had a conversation that’s lasted longer than a few minutes and we’ve had exactly one email exchange. I have a good deal of respect for this person, and if anything, I’m not sure how fond he is of me. But none of that actually matters.

Because I don’t hate people. Hate is a strong, dangerous word. 

holoblomo day 27: face it

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are. 

When I was in high school, I came across an old movie on TV one day: Heaven Can Wait. Not Warren Beatty’s Heaven Can Wait with Warren Beatty from 1978, but Ernst Lubitsch’s Heaven Can Wait with Don Ameche from 1943. Despite matching titles, the films are totally unrelated. 

holoblomo day 26: underneath

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

Something has been bothering me this week as I see all of the hoopla about the new Muppet movie. It has nothing to do with the actual film. It has to do with credits. 

You may not notice anything missing from the film’s poster, or the reviews, or the music credits, but I do: the names of the Muppet Performers are not to be seen. 

holoblomo day 25: yesterday

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

Yesterday’s Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade was just about as good as it gets. The day was crisp and clear, with not a single percent chance of precipitation, and when the bright, dazzling sun finally rose over Central Park West, you could actually smell optimism and joy amid the autumn chill. That and coffee. 

holoblomo day 24: thankful

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

Oh come on. You know this one’s going to be a list of things I am thankful for. I mean, that’s what people do on Thanksgiving, right? It’s the one thing we can all expect to have served at dinner. Even the vegans. Sharing things we are thankful for is the cranberry sauce of Thanksgiving: expected, demanded, but few people really want it.

But I am not serving cranberry sauce this year. So...

Here are some things that I am not thankful for:

holoblomo day 23: dum de dum dum dum

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

Tomorrow morning, I will be on the Sesame Street float in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade for the 13th time. I am currently slated to be performing (via lip-synch, of course) Cookie Monster for the third year in a row, unless something changes between now and then. 

And if things do not change (though again, they might), this makes me the luckiest girl. When it comes to the parade, Cookie is the one you want to puppeteer. 

holoblomo day 22: pie

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are. 

And I am thinking about pie. It’s that time. Time for pie.

Time to pick up the pie, or make the crust and buy the apples, but who am I kidding... it’s time to pick up the pie. 

My favorite pie at Thanksgiving is my favorite pie in New York City: the sour cream apple walnut pie from the Little Pie Company. It is a staggeringly excellent pie. It is also thirty dollars. 

holoblomo day 21: tourist tip

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

Maybe you know this, or maybe you do not, but I make Manhattan my home. I did not grow up here, however; that designation belongs to the suburbs of Pittsburgh, PA... a mere 370-ish physical miles from here but a more than a million mental ones. 

Everything I’d heard about New York City -- from TV, films, and friends -- suggested that the rapid pace of the city would overwhelm me and swallow me whole. But when I came here, I found myself easily transitioning to a slightly faster walking speed, even with my unfortunately short legs. It was such a not-a-big-deal that it was somewhat disappointing.

holoblomo day 20: 100

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

Thanks to HoLoBloMo, I’ve reached a milestone much sooner than I anticipated. For this is my 100th web...blah...log post! Wow! How about that?

*crickets*

holoblomo day 19: fascinating

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

There’s a fascinating place in New York City.

I know. That’s an unfair sentence, right? Because there are a lot of fascinating places here. There are also secret places, underrated places, odd places, and places that deserve every adjective in the book. 

Maybe I’m the only one who finds it fascinating. But since I have home-blog advantage, I get to choose the descriptor. 

holoblomo day 18: shipoopi

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

I remember the first time I saw a video recording of a musical I did in high school. Someone’s mom had a high-end VHS camera (wow!) and shot the show for her kid. At the cast party, someone decided we should all watch it.

It was amazing and horrifying all at the same time. Even in the post-performance glow, even in my youthful naivete, I saw my flaws. 

But I was comforted by the fact that relatively few people would see it. If it got copied, the quality would diminish with each generation. And in time, no one would remember or care.

Cut to 1998. 

holoblomo day 17: warmth first

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

I’ve already mentioned my heartbreaking decision not to run for President (see “press release” from this past spring), but I must add that I am also glad that my husband has refrained from throwing his hat in the ring as well. I am simply not cut out to be a First Lady, and not just because my arms are too chubby for the job.

It’s the whole Inauguration Day thing.

holoblomo day 16: oh, man

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

I am not pleased with The Man today. The Man cleared out Zuccotti Park. The Man tore down the tents. The Man is throwing his weight around in Oakland, too. And to that, I say, okay, The Man. You do that. You go and be The Man. You just continue to be someone to rail against and try to stick it to.

But when The Man messes with Community, and bumps it off the air mid-season, I say, oh, no. Oh, no, The Man. Don’t you raise my hackles, The Man. You do not want to raise the hackles of someone who is weeks from becoming middle-aged and as such is already well-versed at fist-waving.

holoblomo day 15: halfway

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are. 

I’m at the halfway point of this challenge, and so far I am on track to hit, and probably exceed, 10,000 words. Of course, part of me looks at the past 14 entries and thinks, You fool! That’s more than two months worth of regular almost-weekly posts you’ve squandered! You could have had a backlog, allowing you to rest easy in a hammock if you had one!

The other part of me is surprised I’ve had that much to say.

holoblomo day 14: quiet

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

It was a quiet weekend. Literally. I spent most of it on complete vocal rest.

See, this cold I’ve been dealing with for the last two weeks has been a little wicked. It’s the sort of chest cold I haven’t had in many years. The kind of cold I had the first time I lost my voice onstage. It is evil and green.

holoblomo day 13: good vibes

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

A week ago, tens of thousands of runners ran the New York City Marathon... as I sat on my arse and wrote. 

Today, my sister will run the Norfolk Freedom Half Marathon/5K. Maybe I’ll do some laundry.

It’s impressive to me when anyone runs. It’s more impressive to me when someone runs despite major health issues that often prevent them from running. It’s still even more impressive when someone runs despite those major health issues in order to raise money for worthy causes.

Well, that’s my sister.

holoblomo day 12: bearing witness

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

I’ve always been fascinated by people who have lived in eras that have borne witness to incredible change. Whenever I would read the obituary of someone who lived from 1898 to 1998, I’d marvel at what these people must have seen and experienced. Imagine being a child at a time when women couldn’t vote, movies were new and silent, cars were still novel, and there was no radio, television, or airplanes... and then seeing the culture explode with promise, progress, and invention throughout your lifetime.

holoblomo day 11: alt verse

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

It’s sad to think that we’ll never know what our parallel universes might have had in store for us. 

Maybe, in a parallel universe, the song would have gone like this:

holoblomo day 10: nostalgia

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

This past spring, I wrote a passage about nostalgia in “time warp:”

If nostalgia had existed in the 1300s, there probably would have been some monk who preferred to transcribe with a chisel and stone tablets because of its old-school quaintness.

I don’t know how far back nostalgia actually goes, but let’s give it a shot:

holoblomo day 9: smell-o-vision

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

I used to love scented candles. When I was in my 20s, working for a few months on a kids’ show in Los Angeles, I discovered the gloriously fragrant wax creations peddled by the Bath and Body Works in the Glendale Galleria. They made the stale air in my corporate housing so much more palatable, and it was a peaceful way to slip into the evenings after a long day of puppetry... being hypnotized by the soft, flickering flame gently releasing raspberry or vanilla-lavender swirls of delight. Aromatherapy was still a new word in my vocabulary, but I believed. And seeing as I actually had some disposable income for the first time in the history of my existence, I was thrilled to be able to finally afford a little luxury. 

As time passed I came to use them less and less, after hearing about carbon wicks and such, but since they are quintessential gifts to both give and receive, I had no reason to remove them completely from my life.

Cut to a few evenings ago. 

holoblomo day 8: no way

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

And I’m not gonna make it. I’m not talking about my HoLoBloMo challenge. I’m talking about not being able to make it through the next twelve months. It’s exactly 364 days (including Leap Day) until the 2012 presidential election, and I tell you now, I’m not gonna make it. 

holoblomo day 7: 30 to 40

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

The countdown has begun. In 30 days I will be 40.

I don’t know why I care. I’ve never cared about my age before. I’ve never lied about how old I am. I’ve never uttered, well, when I was born back in nineteen-seventy-mmmmmmwhmmm... And I have no intention of referring to myself as 39 plus one, ha ha. Sure, I’ve been covering my grays and buying a crapload of serums, creams and retinols for a while now, but come on. That’s not being afraid of a number. That’s just vanity.

holoblomo day 6: unoriginal

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

I should know better than to think I could ever have an original idea. 

Yesterday, I received a comment on “nanowrimo nononono” from Noisy Quiet that I will paraphrase here:

holoblomo day 5: ballad

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

It’s incredible how seemingly random things in life intertwine. A couple of weeks ago, I was watching the Harry Belafonte HBO documentary, blown away by my underestimation of his activism over the decades, and suddenly I had a revelation: music plays heavily in the world of the oppressed, but not so much with the oppressors. There is no opposite of “We Shall Overcome.” No one does a revue of Gestapo folk songs; at least, not just for the reasons you’d think.

holoblomo day 4: fog

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

I am in the midst of a classic lightheaded, dizzying antihistamine haze. It doesn’t make everything funny or deep, but at least the fact that I can still breathe through my nose makes me not care about my brain-addled fog. I’d enjoy this little buzz a lot more if I didn’t feel primarily made of mucous. That and if it didn’t make me groggy during the day and unable to sleep at night.

holoblomo day 3: dear society

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

So here we are.

If there is proof that there is something wrong with society, it’s the following headline on web sites and local news stations:

Fun Things To Do With Leftover Halloween Candy.

It is now that I wish to address Society:

holoblomo day 2: here whatever comes

note: “holoblomo” stands for Horribly Local Blogging Month, my response to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) that happens every November. The NaNoWriMo challenge asks writers to compose 50,000 words in a month; I chose 10,000 as my goal. Enjoy.

At the suggestion of my pal Julie, this challenge is now called HoLoBloMo.

So here we are. 

As I mentioned yesterday, I am coming down with something, and this is the scary time when it’s just starting to manifest. Is the congestion going to go nasal or bronchial? Is it going to go away in the standard two-week time frame or is it going to linger until Christmas? How to attack? With what to attack? When to start attacking? When to give up on attacking and let whatever it will become just run its course?

Yes. I am a sickness nerd. 

nanowrimo nononono

So here we are.

Today begins NaNoWriMo -- National Novel Writing Month -- where writers all over the globe are challenged to write a novel of at least 50,000 words in the thirty days that hath November. I know a few perfectly sane people who are diving in to this pool of crazy. I doff my cap towards them.

But it ain’t for me. I’ve never been adept at long-form writing. (Some of you snarky types may be chortling, “You’ve never been adept at short-form writing, either.” Ha ha. You win the Game of Internet.)

bad bad girl

So here we are. 

I have always been a very good girl. Painfully square, if you will. My two shoes are many things, but mostly goody. 

This occasionally irks me as I age into a period of uncertainty, as I realize that life has no guarantees. The ax of crap may fall on any of us, whether or not we kept curfew, studied hard, or didn’t inhale. And I wonder if I could have been having a lot more fun all this time. People get away with murder. Literally, figuratively... bad guys often win. Folks are camping out in Zuccotti Park right now because the bad guys won. So why not flirt with danger? 

Well, Joe Law squelched that thought, sister. 

canceled

So here we are. 

It’s that time of year again, when the ax starts to fall on the latest television offerings. It’s also that time of year when people shake their heads at the callousness of it all, of the rush to judgement, and the result of this are endless online comments about how everything on TV sucks, sux, socks, or suchs. [Sic.]

I prefer to treat this time of year like an early Thanksgiving. I sit with a warm beverage in my hand and muse upon about how grateful I am that the powers-that-be in television land only have control over their own industry. Think of how horrible life would be if network executives ran the rest of our lives:

open letter

So here we are.

It’s a nutty, kooky world out there, kids. It’s fast, it’s ever-changing, and it’s full of snakes and bear traps. It’s a wonderland of smashed hopes and hardened hearts. Mockery runs rampant on a field of judgement. 

But there is a delicious treat hidden in the back of the cupboard, and its name is Community. Find it, and you will taste joy.

But it is not my intention to use this forum to plug it, review it, or to attempt to convert the reluctant to its charms. It is only my intention to thank it. 

me and i

So here we are.

Of all the things I was grateful did not die last week, it was the iPod Classic. It had been heavily forecasted that it most certainly would not outlive Steve Jobs. Snarky tech bloggers, commenters, and taste-making wanna-bes stared down their noses as they all typed the same sentence:

Who still buys iPod Classics?

neighborhood

So here we are.

I am a lucky girl. I got to spend the other day hanging out with Sesame Street’s Bob McGrath at a special screening that my husband presented at the Museum of the Moving Image in Queens. The screening was a compilation of classic musical numbers from the show, and it was fun to watch Bob (as well as composer Chris Cerf, another guest that day) react to clips he hadn’t seen in years. Granted, I’ve worked with both Bob and Chris for a long time, but not that often as of late (for various reasons), and so it’s always good to see them. 

The best part was during People in Your Neighborhood, when I heard this very tiny voice a few rows behind me singing along. I turned around and saw a wee small three year-old, beaming as she sang the only words she could get out: “who... pee-pa... neigh-hood...”

pause

So here we are.

It’s been almost a week since R.E.M. announced their breakup. While I am not necessarily sad about this (I am a fan, but I am also resigned to the fact that all things must end), it does give me pause. Not just because I was lucky enough to work with them back in 1998, in the “Furry Happy Monsters” insert for Sesame Street, but mostly because it reminds me how much time has passed. It can’t be 31 years since “Radio Free Europe,” and yet it absolutely is. Things change after 31 years. The guys who practically invented college alt-rock are now being played on adult contemporary channels, along with other former bad-asses like Sting and Bowie. How can this not give one pause? 

The bigger disappointment, however, comes courtesy of that bastard otherwise known as the Internet. Smart-assery has rained down on the band since the announcement, but then, there is never a dry spell online. (Careful not to step in that puddle of sarcastic hashtags.)

pledge

So here we are. 

Well, kids, it’s official. I am not a genius. The MacArthur grants have been announced, and once again, I find myself empty-handed. It’s a little disappointing.

Now, I’m no fool. I know I’m not a genius, by sheer definition or even just by conventional standards. And I also know that sometimes I can fall deep into a freelancer’s rut where days go by without my having contributed anything worthwhile to society, laundry, or my bathroom tiles. And I am painfully aware that no one gets thousands of dollars in grant money because they know what’s inside that Godiva chocolate without looking at the little guide. 

So maybe this is a reminder that I should try a little harder to be a better part of the world. And it is today that I make the following pledges:

shallow

So here we are. 

I don’t know who to blame. I don’t know whether it was the stupid issue of the glossy ladies’ mag that I only got because my airline miles were going to expire... or whether it was re-watching too many episodes of Mad Men... or whether it was the fact that I was feeling decrepit and fat and needed a distraction from this as I prepped and dolled for a Monday night concert performance.

All I know is, I couldn’t have possibly chosen to paint my fingernails under my own influence. I like to think that I’m too practical to allow myself to do something that would prevent me from doing anything else... because my life has revolved around my damned nails since Sunday night.

season two

So here we are.

The second season of any series is fraught with peril. That’s why they call it the “sophomore slump.” (This has nothing to do with the “freshman 15,” but then again, many people who work in TV do tend to gain weight during first season production because of all the catering and craft service...) And since we’re in our second season here, the royal “we” (meaning me) are worried about such a slump.

Of course, I’m aware that this blog is not a television show; however, it is a place of storytelling and humor for the purposes of entertainment, and it originally launched in the fall. That’s enough for me to make the analogy.

blog-iversary

So here we are.

It was exactly one year ago today that I started this blog. In that time, I’ve written exactly 70 “things.” I call them “things” because I don’t know what else to call them. Some are essays, some are thoughts, a couple are just lists, one is a musical. Sure, they’re “posts,” because they are posted. But what, exactly, have I posted? The answer: “things.” 

a look back with cheese

So here we are, with the final post in this series celebrating my 20-year anniversary of my summer at Burger King.

There’s a certain symmetry happening this week, whether by fate or by happenstance. I am currently hunkering down in anticipation of Hurricane Irene, but I rode out my very first hurricane (1991’s Bob) at Burger King. I can still remember driving to work and seeing those ominous gray-green skies, thinking how insane it was for me to be heading to a place where, if the power lines went down, I would be surrounded largely by uncooked meat. 

employee of the month

So here we are, and we’re winding down this summer arc about my stint at Burger King 20 years ago.

It was no secret to my managers that I was going back to college in the fall. But as my days at BK dwindled, my manager George made a comment that I carry with me to this very day: 

It’s a shame you’re going back to college, Step... you could have gone all the way.

George called me “Step.” Not “Steph.” “Step.” It’s okay. Time has ripped my memory in such a way that I’m not sure whether George’s name was actually George or whether I’m remembering the wrong name but just now deciding it’s easier to refer to him as George and leave it at that. So “Step” is no big deal.

party with cheese

So here we are with, you guessed it, the aftermath of my previous post, “clown with cheese.”

On Saturday afternoon, August 24, 1991, a mere three days after my three hours of somewhat useless clown training, I was slated to host my first Burger King birthday party. I was a bit terrified, not because I didn’t know what to expect, but rather because I knew exactly what to expect.

Most of my pre-college employment was spent working with kids, either as a babysitter or a day camp counselor... and for a brief spell in middle school, I also worked for Kiddie Catering, the brainchild of my friend’s Martha-before-there-was-Martha mom, whom we’ll call “Ms. M.” This was a very small one-van operation, wherein Ms. M shopped out birthday party entertainment in the form of an eager college student and her willing young assistant (me) that would come to your home and provide supervised games, a sundae bar, and a mini-show from a costumed character who danced and “talked” to a pre-recorded track. Guess who was inside the costumed character?

clown with cheese

So here we are, to talk of a red-letter day that occurred two decades ago during my adventures at Burger King.

But before I get to that, I need to address yet another example of the New York Times following in my footsteps. It happened this past spring, after I tried to be all funny and satirical about proms in “omp!” and created (or so I thought) the concept of the Adult Prom... and then lo and behold, exactly 15 days later the Times ran a feature story on actual Adult Proms being held in the Midwest. And it happened yet again on July 31, not even a month after I admitted to still using paper calendars in “old tymes not forgotten,” when I came across a feature about some people refusing to ride the wave of digital planners and calendar software. 

Well, let’s see the Grey Lady do a story about fast-food clown training. 

ka-ching with cheese

So here we are, back after a longer-than-planned hiatus, to get back to that magical Burger King summer of 1991. 

The day I was bumped up to the cash register was monumental, but at the time, I didn’t think it was such a big deal. After all, I had an concurrent evening job at Kerr Drugs and had already run registers for several weeks. Of course, those were ancient registers with no bar code scanner or credit card pad... every price and product code had to be entered by hand, and every credit card transaction required the use of the old-fashioned “chunk-chunk” slider device that imprinted the card number onto carbon receipts. But I’d mastered them, and surely the Burger King registers would be a breeze by comparison. Hell, we didn’t even accept credit cards at the BK. That alone had to make for smooth sailing.

But consider, if you will, the frustrated tinkerings of a bright young engineer charged with designing a fast-food cash register. He’s got to make tiny little buttons for each menu item. He’s got to include buttons that say small, medium, and large. Buttons that are pink and blue. He has a master’s degree. He is not happy.

intermission

So here we are, and I am taking a small breather from telling the tales of my Burger King adventures 20 years ago.

I probably have four more BK posts left in me. For those who are fatigued by these stories, I apologize. But sometimes I feel that one of the unspoken missions of my blog is to spread the wisdom I have accrued through unlikely means, and that was certainly a summer filled with lessons, not all of which were about grilled meat. Wait until I tell you about clown school. Doesn’t that sound promising?

selective memory with cheese

So here we are, in the continuing saga of my Burger King Summer of ’91, one score ago.

There are things that I remember vividly about those ten weeks. One such thing was the day that I swear I made Burger King history by making a single order of six ham and cheese sandwiches. I don’t think anyone had done it before, and I’m sure it's not been done since.

change with cheese

So here we are, in another chapter of the 20th anniversary of my Great Burger King Adventure of 1991.

I don’t know why my ten summer weeks at Burger King happened to fall during a period of great change, but they did. Being smack in the middle of it provided me with yet another valuable life lesson:

You do not want to be on the front lines of change. People may say they want change, but they mostly don’t.

It was an odd chapter in Burger King history, when the Whopper Jr. was temporarily renamed Hamburger (or Cheeseburger) Deluxe, and the old-school Whaler fish sandwich was now the more-PC Ocean Catch. This proved to be impossible for long-time customers to comprehend, let alone accept. It’s not like there was an ad campaign that explained the change, or even massive signage to clarify the situation... it just happened. And I’d see customers come to the register and crane their necks up at the menu board, brows furrowed, eyes darting and searching... and then, in small fearful voices, they would ask:

first day with cheese

So here we are.

Twenty years ago, I was lucky when that call came through. It was just one summer earlier, during the recession of 1990, when I’d had no luck at all even getting an application at the fast-food joints of Jacksonville, NC. But in the summer of 1991, The King called, beckoning me to his flame-kissed burger palace.

And now I had not one, but two part-time jobs that would help add desperately needed kopeks to my college coffer. I’d work the registers at the mall drugstore in the evening, and during the day, I’d do everything there was to do at Burger King. It would prove to be a pivotal, horrible, wearying, lonely, amazing summer where I learned less about burgers and more about human nature than I could have dreamed.

old tymes not forgotten

So here we are

I’m not a Luddite. I just want to make that clear. I love my way-too-many gadgets that start with “i.”

But I still keep an old-school weekly/monthly planner. Complete with a no-longer-manufactured Pilot V-Ball pen jammed in the spiral binding for handy storage. 

Yes, I know what year it is. Yes, I have iCal on my laptop and phone. Before that, I had a Palm Pilot. Before that, it was Outlook. But all attempts to use them day-to-day were absolute disasters. Maybe it’s because I’m a freelancer, maybe it’s because I don’t have a big office network, or maybe it’s because I tend to remember things better when I physically write them down. In any case, I’ve been using paper planners since college; and before that, those little checkbook-sized, grandma-friendly, 2-year wallet calendars (which were surprisingly handy and effective, and I always knew what birthstone was in play at any given time). 

christmas in july

So here we are.

Let’s see... what to write about today... Golly. I got nothing. Feeling lazy and disjointed. It’s quiet outside. Quiet and hot. 

The mass Independence Day Weekend exodus from the city has begun, and the residential, non-touristy neighborhoods of New York City are that special kind of dead that I so enjoy. You don’t have to wait for the “walk” sign because there’s hardly any traffic barreling at you. That brunch place with the long Sunday lines? This weekend, you can walk right in. It’s a sweet little reward for staying in the sweltering city while everyone else is having a holiday among water and sand, trees and grass. 

Sometimes I wonder why so many New Yorkers leave the city for the country in the summertime, especially when equal or greater numbers of tourists flock here and leave their quiet front porches behind in favor of the concrete hustle. Sure, it’s hot here, but it’s hot everywhere. 

change of plan

So here we are.

I was all set to write a post about a dear friend of mine. The plan has shifted a bit to include another.

Regular readers will recognize the handle Ironmom (a.k.a. Julie), as she has been my most frequent commenter here. She’s also been a dear friend since college, and she still likes me even though I’m not on Facebook. She’s been in training for the better part of a year for her first Ironman triathlon, and yesterday was her big day. Armed with her bib number, I’d planned to dial up the race site and track her progress, hoping that the fact that she was going to spend more than 15 hours - you read me, 15 hours - pushing her body to the limit would inspire me to do my simple little tasks, including, but not limited to, prepping for some auditions and cleaning the bathroom and other chores I’d been putting off. If she could run a damn marathon on top of swimming 2.4 miles and biking 112 miles, I could banish some damned mildew. And I’d write all about how proud I was of her and how this humble woman both inspires me and puts me to shame.

Then I came home from running errands to the news that Alice Playten had died suddenly - to me, anyway - at the age of 63.

pomp

So here we are.

This past Saturday, my alma mater, Northwestern University, held its commencement. I know this because their graduation speaker was esteemed alumnus Stephen Colbert, and his fabulous speech was all over the web within hours. 

My husband (also NU) and I watched this speech online with a great deal of jealousy. It was such a pretty ceremony, with regal purple robes set beautifully in front of bright blue Chicagoland skies. It had rained on our respective graduations, and my final college memory is sitting in a dull, black robe in the bleachers of a dimly lit sports arena, listening to a speaker who was very much not Stephen Colbert in all the worst possible ways. In a word: bleak.

Maybe it’s the YouTube effect, but it seems as though all the major universities are really stepping up their games when it comes to commencement speakers these days. Mine was best known for having a sitcom character loosely based on her, but that hardly meant she was as entertaining as a sitcom character. When asked, my husband couldn’t remember who his speaker was. This is a big deal, seeing as whenever we’re watching old TV shows, he can rattle off the résumés of the second and/or third guest stars with ease, or at least say something like:

future's so bright

So here we are.

Today we’re going to go to 1932. Things are bad there. Kind of like now, but without the iPods and cell phones. Let’s climb in our rented Wayback Machine and give people some hope for the future, shall we?

US: Hey there, pal, buck up, huh? It’s not going to be like this forever. It’s going to get better.

THEM: Sure doesn’t seem like it right now.

US: Trust us. It will. It’ll get way better. Then it will get worse, then better again, then really worse, but you’ll probably be dead by then, so you won’t have to worry about that.

THEM: How the heck you think things are going to get better?

US: Well, you’ve heard of Mickey Mouse, right?

notes session

So here we are.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the creative process, it’s that every show or film or artistic venture needs a hard-ass; meaning, someone who will look at the project with an outside eye and give a special kind of good, hard constructive criticism that can make the difference between producing something that is genius and something that is sheer ego run amok.

Today, in the harsh post-Tony light of day, I am forced to be my own hard-ass. And it’s time for my notes session on web...blah...log: the musical! I know, you all thought it was perfect... but Spielberg thought A.I. was perfect, too, and we all know how that turned out. So here goes:

web...blah...log: the musical!

So here we are.

In honor of the upcoming Tony Awards, I was planning on making this post into a Broadway musical, but since there aren’t more than 500 of you out there*, this will have to be more of an Off-Off Broadway musical. It’s a brief show, but there’s no intermission, and our tiny theatre only has a couple of bathroom stalls, so plan accordingly. Also, please silence all electronic devices at this time.

If there was a curtain in the theatre, it would rise (most Off-Off spaces don’t have one). A chorus enters and begins to sing:

ludicrousness

So here we are.

Someday I should write a book. It’ll be about my time as a Muppet Performer, and specifically about all of the famous people who have worked with the characters and how all of us puppeteers have to sit on the floor or work in a pit beneath them. It will be called I Have Laid at the Feet of Legends and will be the first crotch-centric book about children’s television that has no overt sex in it whatsoever. Since other Muppet Performers have worked many more years with far more stars than I, the book will no doubt be followed by copycats: When My Head Bumped His Ass, and Lord of the Flies: A View From Below. All will be tastefully illustrated. 

Or maybe I’ll never get around to it. Probably that. Or...

from the vault: "civilization"

So here we are. 

Here’s a little tale that I wrote a few years ago, long before the threat of the Rapture that didn’t happen. Enjoy.

The civilization was crumbling. Riots and burning and statues toppling. It was of great concern to the Ruler. He sent out a dictum to his subordinates to quickly compile a recorded history of the civilization so that it would not be lost to the ages.

woman of letters

So here we are.

My last post attracted a comment -- or rather, an unrelated question -- that I should probably address. It was from a loyal reader, Anonymous:

http://broadwayworld.com/article/Tesori-DAbruzzi-to-Serve-on-Tony-Awards-Film-Series-Panel-523-20110519 ... d'Abruzzi?

This question could mean many things. It could mean:

Who the hell is d’Abruzzi? Is that supposed to be you?

That answer is yes. Or it could mean:

Did you change your last name? Are you in the worst Witness Protection ever?

That answer is no. Or, it could also mean:

Are you going to beat the crap out of the BroadwayWorld.com intern who blatantly mis-typed your name when two other theatre sites who received the exact same press release managed to get it right?

Now, now... calm down, everyone. This is exactly why I’m not running for president. Every little thing gets blown out of proportion. (Oh, and that answer is definitely no.)

Here’s something you should know about life: