That's not our responsibility.

And with these words, a fire inside me rages.



The new landlord refused to fix the window. The crack on the inside is "my fault." I "should have taken care of it."

"We" only need to repair the "outside." The previous owner, offered because it was the right thing to do. I found out yesterday he didn't have to. Whether or not these assholes even know NY State Laws doesn't concern me. Litigation in housing court could take 6 months or more. At the end of 6 months, it will be winter again. I want my fucking air conditioner in the window, so MOTHERFUCK IT, I'll do it myself. Everything is my fault: OJ Simpson, El Nino, Chernobyl...etc.



Well, you know what? If I'm going to pay for things out of my own pocket anyway, I think I'll look into owning something outright. Take my rent, you CJFs. I'll just keep socking away the dollars, see if I qualify for a mortgage and actually buy something by the time I'm 36. I always said I wanted something of my own by the time I was 40. Sooner seems better than later.



And when I leave, a nice brick smashed through both front windows will drive my point home.



(After I've gotten back my deposit, of course.)



This is not a lofty goal.

My building's been bought...

And the new owners all have names that end in "Esq.", "berg" or "Jr." That means one thing.



IT'S GOING CO-OP. Even their website has "We Specialize in Condo/Co-Op Management" splashed on every page.



It's only a matter of time, but this fucks me royally since my window is still broken. This would explain why the landlord (or should I say ex-officio?) hasn't returned my calls or even answered the phone. Would the window completely smash if I put the a/c back in? I got through a whole summer and nothing bad happened. Or, I could put it in the other window, although the cord is pretty short and might not reach. Hmmm...it just makes me think and scheme.



I could take the rest of my savings if they offer me the "red herring" and plunk down a few thousand to buy. It's not like I don't know what it is to live paycheck to paycheck. Hell, I might even have some incentive to go out and get a second job. Or, I could see how/when/where I qualify for a mortgage. Like K. said to me this morning, "There is no such thing as 'bad equity'."



I truly and horribly feel for the older tenants, many of them elderly, who lived on fixed incomes. They don't make what a down payment and a closing would cost, who's looking out for them? My building is so small, we don't even have a tenant's association. The majority in the building are blue-collar, middle-class, making under $40,000. We talk about money when we pass in the halls because we don't have much. This is going to be a mass exodus when people start to panic. I really, really liked my landlord, too. We shared stories about old Bensonhurst and our pets (he's got 2 dogs, I have 3 pigeon-marauders.) This just sucks. Just when I think everything's going along smoothly



WHAPPP!



Another brick to my forehead.



What a high and a low yesterday evening was, too. I get on the R train home, and who do I run into? O. Turturro, sister of Aida and John. She still lives near 10th Street in the Village. The famous family curls are gone due to a sleek haircut, but I was truly glad to see her. We met in the hellhole acting school I was in. She also shares my mom's birthday, so I can't forget that. Even she agreed what a Nazi-like place it was. She smiled that famous smile when I said I left 3 years ago. "Good for you!". Yeah, I'll drink to that, too, O.



Then I come home, take out the garbage, and Mary, a dear neighbor with a golden retriever and two blond munchkins tells me my calls about the window are going unanswered because the building's been sold. Well, just when the hell were they going to tell us? I drop a note under the super's door, and I get a letter slipped under about an hour later. The new management's in Long Island with a closing office in NYC. These people are just going to keep this as a rental? In a pig's ass. And who the fuck is our super now? Hugh's been there since 1987. He's great. I liked this place because it was small, they allowed pets, it was rent-stabilized, and the rooms are spacious without being cavernous. What the hell's gonna happen now?



I have nightmarish memories of my previous residence. They didn't even know my name, just took the check and cashed it month after month. Is this my fate once again?



Good grief!

I'd like to thank the Academy...

Wink, wink to Mr. Booklets! That there is darn good news.



And more of my "kids" have come forward. Ah, the power of the internet. Mark's site was great, too, and I got a lovely response this morning! Another talent who's trying stand-up. Comedy definitely has a future if these guys are gonna hit the stage. We all cracked each other up, why not get paid for it?



In other news, my ballerina's shoes are on eBay. I knew one day I'd click and see them there. I will bet any amount of money that these were the same pair that were in the window of The Ballet Shoppe near Lincoln Center. The price is right, too, at $599. That's about what the opening bid is worth. The last time I went over there and the store was still intact was 9/11. I was trapped in the city, so I figured, hey, might as well walk uptown. I walked in and they asked how I was and how I was getting home. I said that I had no idea, but proceeded to look at some Nureyev videos.



The next time I stopped by was August of 2002. The Shoppe was gone. A nice big FOR RENT sign was in the window. My jaw dropped, and there was a catch in my throat. I really couldn't speak. That store survived the fiscal nightmare that was the 1970's, the ballet slump that occurred in the early 1990's, and it changed management once or twice. 9/11 killed so many businesses, and there I witnessed another casualty. I should email the seller and ask if that is where these shoes came from.



I already know the answer. The Shoppe is now a T-Mobile. Yet another reason for me loathe Cahterine Zeta-Jones-Douglas.



Bleahhhh....

Lovely weather we're having

It's a nice day like this that I decided to have the air conditioner taken out of the window to be cleaned. That, and my super can replace the broken glass. My tax refund took forever and a day, so today was the day. It's all good though, since Dexter now has full frontal views of a lovely sparrow's nest. He's there now, in the spot where the A/C was, making tribal cat sounds. Tres amusant!



Let's see if anything goes down next weekend for K's birthday. I've been with K now for six years, and his birthday always falls during the week. It would be nice to raise a toast to surviving another year in Sky Rink, which can try anyone's patience.



It's going to be May, and am I ready? Sort of. Just the A/C I'm worried about. I'll most likely get hit with an 80 degree day and sweat to death. RD is once again doing the Apocalypso, which he defines as "the dance you do before your life ends." Today's boogie-down resulted from wiring up his fan in the Hooptie. Since he's down to one car (may the 'Vette rest in peace), this is a major addition.



And the tapes are out--Miss Arkansas can jump up and down at me finishing the championship footage. F1 worked. And now, I don't have to watch this stuff ever again. Never say never, I'm sure she'll complain about something.



Fired Trump-ette Omarosa, the latest reality contestant in need of Massive Midol, stormed off Jimmy Kimmel's show due to lie detector machine being on the stage. She demanded that it be taken off the stage during her interview despite that it was for an actual skit. Twenty-two minutes in, then she bolted. And now she's parlayed her 12 minutes of fame into a shampoo commercial. What scent could this be? The special Medusa formula? I don't believe I used Clairol Herbal Essence, and now I definitely won't. The more I look, the more I realize PB looks like Omarosa. The unhealthy attitude and sense of entitlement is there, too.



Reality tv is a poor excuse for the fact that no good television writing exists anymore. And as for the "Friends" finale, I say good riddance. I watched half of the first season and said 'big deal.' They're comparing this send-off to the end of

M*A*S*H and Cheers? PUuuuuhhhlease! The fucking end of Taxi had a better audience than what this is going to have.



I remember a guy named Brian who absolutely loved Jen Aniston. I don't get it. He also adored Sofia Coppola. Guess he had a thing for big noses. Either way, I won't be watching. If Omarosa should set foot on another talk show, I'd like to see what she does. Bratty snotrags that pull the race card deserve to be humiliated on late-night tv, as far as I'm concerned.

Twists and Turns

So, I decided that perhaps yesterday was not the greatest to turn and go straight home, since it was a glorious 80 degrees. Normally, I prefer the cold, but even I need a break. My Skechers died a noble death after much walking, so I traipsed merrily along through Times Square. I stopped near the Howard Johnson's to look at a dark blonde, green-eyed guy handing out comedy club "flyers" in the shape of ticket stubs. What was so weird is that I remembered those eyes: they were almost yellow.



I knew this guy. MIKE DUNCAN.



He recognized me, jumped off the fire station where he had perched himself, and we began a lovely rehash of our short time together in hell--er, AADA. He was not invited back after June 1998. I told him how lucky he was. He heard about various firings and hirings. I nodded, silently. The only firing--although she who must be obeyed would call it a "demotion"--I enjoy talking about incessantly is Janis Powell. The Evil Incarnate. Unprofessional Narcissist. Talk Now, Do Later, Blame Someone Else. He agreed. I enjoyed telling Mike--now by the name of Duncan Jay--how so many of us who quit or were fired are actually doing better since we've suffered egregiously at the hands of that hole. The only place to go is up.



He's doing ok, too. He's taken to stand-up comedy. We traded jokes and barbs about various things. A pseudo-Yoko Ono walked by and I howled. We launched into "Full Metal Jacket" jokes and cracked up for a good 5 minutes. A business card was exchanged, and I've now linked him here, too. Great guy, funny as hell.



I saw another one of my "kids" as I call 'em in a Starbucks today near Lincoln Center--I believe his name was Juan or Jorge. His black curls are gone, and he's being shipped up to the Starbucks on 81st and Broadway very soon. He recognized me before I saw him. Mercury must be in retrograde or something with all these people from my past showing up.



My yummy half-day went down into the muck with a particularly bitchy incident I dare not waste space on here (do call for details, RD), and a snippy email from a coworker who could actually speak to me, but chose to "zing" me instead. Yes, everyone's true colors are coming out. And to think for just a moment I felt bad about leaving early due to a schedule glitch with H&R block? Puhhlease. I waltzed out of there without an ounce of guilt with one thought in my head, "See ya."



I went to Lincoln Center and walked up to the Advance Sales window and got myself a ticket to La Bayadere. I always go when ABT is in town, so that's my gift to myself. A homeless woman with three cats (one Kashi-colored) looked pretty sad, so I gave her the donut I didn't eat.



So, my new Skechers are blue and violet. Sparkly, too, like my favorite skater's costume. I didn't think of it until I saw a photo last night.



Mahler's 5th Symphony is on, Dexter's on my coat, I'm sipping cool water, and it's gray outside. I salvaged my day somewhat. Now, if I can only finish those damn video transfers and make some tea, all will be better.

Half Day Tomorrow!

That means I will be "freeing" my tax returns from the clutches of H&R Block's offices. I filed, but could not pay the whopping price they asked, so tomorrow is the time. I thought I could pick them up last Saturday, but that did not happen. Someone told me the office was open until 5, I called and found out it was 1. Thank Goddess I called!



So, I'm out of the office at 12. Any phone calls will wait. The cell will be on, but I'll be damned if I answer it. I still feel burpy and crappy from Tuesday night's gyro "mishap." I am also tired from running around, and we are short-staffed again today. UGH!!!



For some reason, when I take a day off, the entire world must attack me by phone. Since RD's rants are really the only ones I enjoy, the rest of you will wait until I get on email, and you will be called back.



As for the videotape debacle, I managed to squeak out 15 minutes of footage from VCR 1 to VCR 2. Then I went to bed. Camel spins with sits attached really kicked my ass this morning. The choreography to Yma Sumac was just toooo funny!



One exception to yesterday's Gemini rant: I will make an exception for Stevie Nicks. I met her three times back in the 80's and she's a total wonder. V. and I still go nuts doing the harmony on "The Highway Man" from 1981's Belladonna. Three voices and a plain guitar. She wrote it for Waylon Jennings, I believe. Fabulous anyway you slice it.

Taurean Thoughts for this Cycle

Geminis often get credited with being the most versatile sign of the zodiac, but you Pisceans are strong competitors for the title. These days, in fact, your patron saint is the recently deceased George Plimpton. That chameleon-like bon vivant, who had four planets in Pisces, was not only a writer. He also performed as a circus trapeze artist and stand-up comedian, played percussion in a symphony, drove racecars, acted in movies and TV, and competed in exhibition games with professional boxers and football players. Are you ready to claim more of your astrological potential with a Plimpton-like exuberance? Courtesy of Free Will Astrology, week of April 20th.



I passionately LOATHE Geminis. Always have, always will.



I got stuck with a bunch of them back in 1982 and wondered why my summer camp existence was complete and total psycho hell. There were five of them, two of them being counselors. Gemini represents the twins. That means I was really dealing with ten people, since their duality splits them into two people simultaneously at any given time. I am also stuck in an office with tons of them now. I deliberately make a point of casually asking people's birthdays just to see that I don't get stuck in the curse of mid-May and June demons.



Just the mention of Gemini rankles me. Three people who screwed me over deeply were all born between May 28 and June 20. One was a teacher, one was a co-worker, and the other one was my first love. (I recently found out he's on his second divorce, so at least I'm not the only one with a problem.) One of my former administrators had a Gemini rising, and he was absolutely IMPOSSIBLE to deal with, such was his swerving, connoitering personality. He like to create train wrecks emotionally and leave the rest of us to sort it out. We were blamed, of course. Geminis don't realize they're wrong until the other half of their personality catches up and says "Oopsie." By that point, the shrapnel has imbedded itself deep into their victims.



Me, being the cryptic water sign that I am, have only my element to understand and a few personal preferences I nurture. Cancers and Scorpios have Carte Blanche in my book. Taureans and Capricorns are next (their loyalty is consistent and comforting), and then the quirk of my rising signs and moons--the fire signs. Having a Saggitarius rising and two Leo moons, I am essentially an Aries personality-wise. So, I attract other fire signs quite strongly: the dearth of Aries buddies exemplifies this, and a sprinkling of AP Leos. I work with two who are just the greatest pussycats in the world. These people just shine and conquer. Saggitarians by themselves possess the fatal flaw of living only on the surface, so my spiritual sensibility tends to go over their heads (the only exception being Dexter, but he's a cat. My fuzzy familiar.)



So, I'll take Brezny's mention of this accursed sign this week with a grain of salt: water is still the most volatile element out there, ask any homeowner. It's water that does the damage. Ice, mist, or liquid, we are the shapeshifters. It's rather fun, kiddies. I was never impressed by George Plimpton, I'd take Nijinsky as a more interesting choice.



But that's just me.

Good Luck Amy!

Well, after wishing Amy R. (also known as "Thrillin'") a happy birthday yesterday (also shared by JMal, I'll say), I got a wondrous email from her telling me she's packing it up and moving it out to CA. Wow. Another NYer I've lost. But, Thrillin's an actress, and unless you've already made it in movies, don't even think about having a career here on the stage. It's simply not the land of dreams and creativity, it's whether or not you've got big backers and can get Nathan Lane doing a cameo in Act I. No one takes chances anymore due to the horrible costs of mounting union demands and the cost of real estate in this town. I'm surprised yuppies haven't petitioned the city to put bids on theaters to turn them into condos! That's probably the next dirty trick up Bloomberg's sleeve. And he's really a Red Sox fan underneath it all, no matter what he says. I truly despise this bastard.



So, whether it's a career choice for Thrillin' or whatnot, I've lost another New Yorker. And that makes me really sad.



When my time possibly comes (and let's hope it doesn't) where the hell am I gonna go? I think Philadelphia or Chicago. Those are really the only two cities I can hack from traveling to both places. I will have to take my own life if I end up in the hackneyed cesspool of filth that is New Jersey. Springsteen, Bon Jovi, and Elaine Zayak aside, I honestly cannot think of one redeemable quality about that state. It's just too damn much.



Eh, fuck it. Who wants pie?

John Curry 1949-1994

And so, it's been 10 years.



Thank you, TJ Kyentu for reuniting me with footage of John lovingly recreating compulsory figures to Albinioni's "After All", choreographed by Twyla Tharp in 1979.



He died ten years ago today of an AIDS-related heart attack. His condition made him virtually unrecognizable at the end of his life. He travelled back to England to die in his mother's arms. We may never see another artist like him: a perfectly blended dancer and skater. Like Katherine Healy, one of his child proteges, he went back and forth between his love of dance and his love of ice. Katherine did both, but returned to skating. John was cut short in the prime of his life. Still, his "L'Apres Midi D'un Faune" is perhaps the most incredible rendering of Nijinsky's masterpiece transposed to a sheet of ice.



The three C's of the 70's (as Toller likes to say) are: Cranston, Cousins, and Curry. Toller is passion, Robin is interpretive excellence, and John is cool, smooth, polished crystal--finely cut, molded by fire, and splendidly shaped by design.



I was passing through Borough Park on a bus trip from an interview I conducted with a local theatre troupe when I got the news via radio. The old man next to me had a transistor set to an all-talk station and it came on. I sat, stunned and silent.

He was that good. Some people exist without peer, imitation, or duplication--ever in their lives. This was doubly true of John.



And to think he used to come to the old SkyRink, soon to be my new office space, whenever he needed rehearsal time in New York. You just don't pay attention to these things when you're a child.



I think I'll go home and play "Don Quixote".



History sometimes forgets great talents. I do not.

Fixing the blog!!!

RD wants me to mention that his birthday was Monday. So, I'm here to tell everyone who reads this that : RD's Birthday was Monday!!!



(There. I feel better now.)



In other news, sniping crap and garbage continues, but what did I expect? I'm two steps ahead of this. I know how to play this game. Push it off where it belongs, send the control freak back to hell, and keep emotional control. It's an office, we're not finding a cure for cancer. I don't jump, run, or dance for anyone unless they pay me well, keep their promises, and deliver. I'm not convinced in any of these things, so I ain't havin' it, as Amelia used to say.



Amelia was a wonderful friend in the theatre department of Brooklyn College, the only good memory I have of that place. She was sassy, short, and had new braids every week. One of her braids fell out near Hillel Place, so I wrapped it in a white tissue and sang "Ribbon in The Sky" while rocking it back and forth as a funeral offering. Amelia laughed until she cried.



Between this memory and the Painful 'Vette Improv (to the tune of "Killing Me Softly"), this has been quite a day.



Why oh why RD sold his 'Vette without ever giving me a chance to sit in it is just oh SO painful! How am I supposed to go on....



But, yeah, he turned 47 on Monday. Just thought everyone should know!



(there, ya big beast--happy now? lmao!!)

Forgive and forget? Nah, forget about forgiving and get the hell outta town..."

With those words of Debbie, the girlfriend in Gross Pointe Blank, I found a tiny bit o'salvation last night. I came home, tired as a dog, only to realize that the VHS copies I made weren't transferred correctly. I forgot the F1 edit button again. GRRRR...



Then, I make some dinner, and sit down to check on the president's "speech" and decide I don't feel like screaming at the tv. Then, I flip over to TBS and my slice of heaven awaits me. It's John Cusack as Martin Blank sitting with Adam Arkin, the therapist. A hit man going back to his ten-year high school reunion. This movie restores my faith in basically not giving a rat's ass about ridiculous and impossible situations. Witty, dark, political, filled with sharp dialogue...it's fabulous. Martin's "moral flexibility" allows him to be an independent hitman. Dan Akroyd chases him through the whole film, and they have a showdown in Debbie's kitchen before Martin asks her to marry him. In the midst of Joe Strummer, The Clash, Violent Femmes, Siouxsie Sioux, The Cure, and English Beat tunes! It doesn't get any better than this.



I immediately went to find the soundtrack and read the liner notes for the first time: he thanks Bill Clinton and Hunter S. Thompson. Yup, that's our Johnny! Doing it your own way is the only way. His rules apply to everyone except him. Just the thought I needed as I remembered that last night was the one year anniversary of my wallet being stolen in a movie theater. The zipper fell off the wallet I'm using now. Was that a sign or something? Not that it's done any real damage, the assholes that took it haven't tried anything. In this age of identity theft, it's good to remember that only amateurs hack into computers, professionals hack into people. My credit report's been clear, no fraud activity. Suze Ormann would be proud. And my, how I've been vigilant this year.



A quick search on amazon showed me that there is a Grosse Pointe part two, with even more songs from the film. That's how popular this movie was. My former best friend used to have Cusack film festivals back in 1988: we'd rent 16 Candles, Better Off Dead (two dollllaaars...), Eight Men Out, and One Crazy Summer and watch them back-to-back. There's one guy who'll never get an Oscar, he's simply not part of the Hollywood game. There is hope, however, if someone like Johnny Depp (that name again!) can be nominated for an Oscar for doing it his own way. Nothing is impossible to a willing heart.



Just don't lose your head. Between Depp, Cusack, and Weir? I think I watch the right Johnnys!



(And Happy 33rd Birthday to AnnLouise Pozzolano! My name "buddy" on Cropsey Avenue! Sorry I missed you at the 4/3 reunion dinner. I still think you should have a space and an "e" though, ha ha ha)

Let it go, let it go, let it go...

on & on & on & on

wake the fuck up' cause it's been

too long



say, wait a minute, queen

what's your name

i be that gypsy

flippin' life game from the right brain

ascension maintained

rolling through like a burning flame



like a super nova star

she be the light

when they in the dark

morning

the moon pass the sun

4 constellations start forming

a cross up in the sky

but everybody wanna ask me

why



what good do your words do

if they can't understand you

don't go talkin' that shit badu

badu

said I'm a pisces

zika deka del

well well i'm raising hell



people always tryin' to

find the world i'm in

i'm the envy of the women

and i rule the men

2 fish, 1 swimmin' up stream

1 swimmin' down livin' in a dream

but when she loves she tends to cling



when incense burns, smoke unfurls

analog girl in a digital world

the rasta style flower child

za dip dip dow zip dip dow

the gold tooth smile

split them vowels

bling bloom bling

melinated

i'm 'bout to give birth to church

but everybody want to ask this earth

what...



i remember when i went

with momma to the washeteria

remember how i felt the day

i first started my period

remember there in school one day

i learned i was inferior

water in my cereal

badu in your stereo

holla if you hear me though



remembering is good if you don't

let it be the fear in you

wrap ya head with this material

mad props to god ja born

things just ain't

the same for singers



gotta sing on the beat

they bring us

but that's all i have ain't no mo

but everybody really want to know



lyrics by E. Badu/Divine Pimp publishing/tribes of kedar/bmg songs (ascap) © 2000 "Mama's Gun", Motown records



(it's easter for everyone else, but not me today. too many ghosts, i guess, and no table or place for us all)

The Power of Bunny Ears !

Well, I must say...that trip to my drug store really did me some good. I put in my metformin prescription and found a rack filled with white, pink, silver, and lavender furry bunny ears for Easter. At $2.50, how could I resist? Given the stressful bullshit of sniping this week (at work, not eBay), I thought to myself, "I'm gonna make these sons-of-bitches smile if it kills them." I wake up, off to work I go.



At 9:35 a.m., I do my usual coffee run and put them on. Matching iridescent makeup, the whole nine. My office manager thought it was hilarious, and the vice president dug it, too. Three other people acted like they didn't notice, but that's what constant meetings do to you: depletion of the spirit via conference call. I kept going straight through 3 p.m. and thought "Fuck it. Why not just wear them the rest of the day?" Errands with ears. A fun idea.



I pass 55th Street, and I recognize a face in the crowd. Turns out it's Brad from Samuel French, my former manager. I worked for him for two glorious months back in autumn 1997. Then they started bopping me around and basically I worked for everyone in that place before I moved onto HELL...oops, I mean the acting school. Brad looked smashing as usual, suit, tie, just gorgeous. I met his boyfriend, we chatted, and they loved the ears! Score 1 for outside my office. With a huge smile, I continue down 6th Ave. A stroke of absolute silliness hits me:the Ritz Thrift shop is on 57th!



Everytime I go by there, it's always closed. Not today. They looked at me through the glass, and I walked in. My opening line?

"Do you have anything in rabbit?




They busted out laughing, of course. I was amazed at the interior, since that shop has been at that location for 51 years. They specialize in mink (Taffy would JUMP for joy), but also do custom dyeing and sell a lot of things on consignment for the ladies who lunch bunch. I personally hate minks, knowing what they do to bunnies, which is stalk, pounce, and rip their throats out. Nice lil weasels, huh? Thumper gets to be lunch meat? I'll take a stole AND a coat, thank you. Oversized violent ferrets with sharp teeth need to die. Now. Take that PETA. (And I had veal for dinner, too, so go scratch.)



Then, I continued up 57th and went into Sephora at the new Time Warner building in Columbus Circle and spritzed all the latest perfumes. With the bunny ears still on my head. After asphyxiating two teenage tourists with Kenzo's "L'eau", a lovely tranny came over and commented, "You're in the spirit aren't ya, honey?" It made my day.



I continued onto the Performing Arts Library in search of my cd's, and to look at the Balanchine exhibit one more time, since it'll be down as of April 24. The ones I wanted weren't in, but I did manage to find an excellent out of print reference book written by reknowned skating coach Gus Lussi. I also found a pretty nifty copy of "Baryshnikov at Work" with his best photos from the 70's. So, that'll be my reading material for the next two weeks.



The best thing was when I got off my train to go home: a tiny Chinese boy with paper cut-out bunny ears on his head spotted me and shouted "YOU TOO!!!" We waved at each other and his grandmother laughed. This is what life is about: fun.



All in all, a good day. It's amazing how nice people can be when you give them something different to look at. Today was a little sociology experiment that worked. And that's the best, really.



Happy Almost Easter everyone!

Warm and fuzzy? I got yeh warm and fuzzy RIGHT HERE

Yup, kiddies, snipey pissing bitchfests have broken out at work. Not with me, thank god, but it's gettin' harder to hide around here. Caused by guess who? Oh, predictability is the kiss of death, ain't it. Taffy's laughing, I'm sure of it!



A certain guitar fixer-upper-er mentioned he was sick of seeing the Doggy Prayer entry, so I'm writing this for him.



SHAAAADUP, you crazy cannoli.



Here's a lovely request: if anyone can find a copy of Graham Parker anything that looks 70's-ish, send it to me?

Mr. Fixer Upper almost lost every hair on his head trying to find this on half.com, ebay, j and r, and amazon.



This little light is mine, and I'm gonna let it shine.....

Doggy Prayer

We should always pray for our pets. Here's a doggified version of a Catholic psalm (23 & 24)...



The Lord is my German Shepherd; I shall not bark. He maketh me to play dead in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the water dish. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteous dog runs for his name's sake. Yea, though I prance through the valley of the shadow of cats, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy squeaky toy and thy leash they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anoinest my head with pats; my dish runneth over. Surely goodness and doggie treats shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell at the foot of the bed.



The earth is the Lord's, and the fulness thereof; the world, and they that dwell therein. For he hath founded it upon the kennels, and established it upon the parks.



Lift up your heads, O ye gates; even lift them up, ye everlasting pups; and the King of glory shall come in. Who is this King of glory? Rin Tin Tin, he is the King of glory.



(St. Francis of Assisi would love my humor!)

Zu Zu Zu WA Zu WA

Well, what a wonderful thing faith is! I paid out all my bills, and once again found myself in the usual bind. Last night I said out loud, "Could someone something some spirits help me through the next two weeks?" Never fear, kiddies, they hear your call when you least expect it...



I wake up this morning to a phone call at the ungodly Saturday hour of 9:20 am, and it's my old manager. He needs me to take care of his cat, Bill. Turns out the poor old fuzzer has a thyroid condition. Awww...I'm a sucker for a sick animal, so I decided "yes." He and his wife will be away for 4 days, so I'll be spending time with Bill. I think Billy Boy just turned 12 or something. My dear departed Fluffy only lived to be 14 with a thyroid disorder, so they better prepare for the worst. He also pays me pretty well, and I so need the money now. So I get to hang out over at his pad with kitty on the couch. I think I have to check the vcr, his wife is taping something. Ok, that's at 7 pm.



If you're wondering what Zu Zu Wa means, I'm sitting here BLASTING World Clique by the long lost joy known as DEEE LITE! Can you say dee-gorgeous? What time is it? It's GROOVE O'clock! If you don't get up and dance to this? There's something really REALLY wrong with you. Infectious delectable funk ass beats. Uplifts the soul, puts your heartbeat back on track. Grunge killed the positive message from these happy club kids, it's really shameful. No one knows what Miss Kier and Co. could have really been. Sigh....



This entry is a nice break from cleaning. Dust bunnies are getting ready for Easter once again behind my couch. Don't tell Rumsfeld, but I think Bin Laden might be back there, too. I saw some turban-looking thing and it wasn't a bed sheet.



Smile on, kiddies! Pass it on...

The Very Thought of You...

According to today's New York Times Metro section, that was the song Kenny Barron played in the Steinway & Sons basement where they keep the "tweaked" pianos. They're all laid out, inviting, waiting for someone to give them life in Astoria, Queens. I am particularly fond of this song, especially the version played by Ellis Marsalis. He and Wynton, his son, collaborated on a brilliant 1990 effort, the third volume in "The Rhythm of Romance" set. All jazz standards. My father, who loved Duke Ellington's version so much, often hummed this tune under his breath. This song is like a soft breeze to me. Duke, who's middle name was Kennedy, called his piano playing "dreaming": These aren't notes, I'm dreaming. It's pictures, all of it. My father, in his incredible charming audacity, walked up to Ellington back in 1959 after a concert, and told him his name was WRONG.



"Kennedy should really be a last name," he said, with a cheshire cat smile spreading on his face.



Sir Duke spun around and said, "Huh? Was that meant for me?"



Dad answered, "Well, it is MY last name, so I figured I'd mention it..." With that, they began laughing. "You're quite a character, ain'tcha?" Duke asked. They later continued a very musical conversation at a bar and grill not far from 57th street. Perhaps this is where I get my ability to talk to anyone and anything without a care in the world? I wonder.

But, I confess, this piano "problem" is one of my regrets. I don't have many, but this one sticks out.



I remember vividly a sunny day in 1979 where I was told by one of the old nuns at my school that I would have a piano lesson. They were offered at lunchtime for those students who not only seemed to have musical interest, but whose parents requested a try-out, a "feeler" if you will. I sat down with a tall nun whose name escapes me, but I remember that her facial features were eclipsed by the squareness and severity of her habit and robe. I remember touching the keys and the sound didn't make sense. Then I looked at the notes in a primer and was even more lost. My feet dangled off the bench. I don't remember the rest of the lesson, but I do know it was my last since we couldn't afford a piano at home, and I was very upset that I couldn't go on the swings that afternoon. It was a nice Spring day, and I missed my friends.



The next time I seriously approached any keyboard-like instrument was 1991. An incredible musician by the name of Tommy Lepano let me "improvise" for about 2 hours to a Miles Davis recording. I don't know how I did it, but I found the notes. He played old jazz standards, and I sang. We fiddled with the idea of doing clubs or something of that nature, but the idea never blossomed. His energy was scattered between his jobs, his college classes, giving piano lessons, tuning pianos, and managing a few local bands. His voice, as I recall, was very similar to Donald Trump's. Everytime I watch "The Apprentice", I swear to GOD I hear Tommy's no-nonsense voice. We had a falling out over Mama's boy (they were best friends) and his insensitivity to women in general (he hated his mother and took it out on anyone female.) How interesting this memory is: today is Tommy's 36 birthday. Another Aries who graced my days and my life with some stunning memories. Thanks, Tom, wherever you are.



I feel like there is something inside me that has never truly been realized due to my lack of playing an instrument. I can sing, and I studied for a few years, but everyone has a voice. So what? When you play an instrument, you are playing everyone's voice because music is its own language. In this, I am slightly lost. Why did I not go back? I could have gotten a Casio or a Yamaha. Eh, I didn't. I kept going back and forth from the dance studio to the ice rink. I chose silence again. My infinite flaw.



All I know is I feel a sharp pang everytime I walk by Steinway's showroom on 57th Street. People regularly walk in off the street and are given permission to play those very instruments on display for possible sale. It's like a test-drive, but waaay better than any car. I have always wanted to go in, but I don't play. I can't. I probably never will. And Tommy is not with me anymore. Him on a Steinway? Those notes would be teardrops from heaven.

If I could turn back time...my god, what a strong clock I'd need.