Note to self:
The time thinking about her? That is wasted time. The time thinking about her perfect auburn hair, long and wavy like a girl in a library in a J Crew ad. Her perfect setups and punchlines, so precious and perfect as well, as if crafted with small tools in a top-secret Harvard Comedy Graduate School, which for all we know may very well exist, those near demi-Gods being so reserved and appropriate, not needing to tell everyone about their attendance at an elite comedian breeding ground, which you know would be the first words out of my crusty red-lipsticked mouth. Oh world! Why have you rendered me so imperfect! My dimpled thighs and bucked tooth (just one bucked, the one on the right--not even my imperfection can be perfect!), my black-wire hair, my pockmarked and blackheaded skin! All to match my crooked speech and uncontrolled and lugubrious set-ups. Oh world! When will the mercy come! Make way for the mercy of the Lord! Give peace to me. Cease these days at the register. These days of typing blogs from beneath the sheets, lest the world (which is of course my roommate, my world so small) see the hideous beast I have become and incur a shock to the immune system, a temporary shutdown, as the system recalibrates after being exposed to such a horror. Oh God why have you made them all so attractive! And why must they all get on at one train stop! Certainly you could spread them out! Some on at Morgan, some at Graham. No! We must endure the concentrated assault, the shock and awe campaign that is Bedford Avenue. Oh please merciful Jesus! Draw our attentions away from the unending slim-legged beauty engrossed in the John Updike and deliver it to the four foot Peruvian curled up on the urine-soaked bench! This prayer God? Allow me to stop this prayer. Allow me to think no more of these children, these, okay, women and men, who haunt my dreams. And lord! Please explain to me why I murdered two men in my sleep last night, symbolized only by the rigorous slicing of a beet, and then entered into another nightmare, where I was awaking from that previous nightmare, filled with terror that I am the sort that is capable of murder in dreams, and then perhaps capable of murder in real life! And God! What happened the other day with the Viva paper towel commercial? The one with the son who sprays the mother with orange pop, prompting the mother to spray the son with the kitchen sink hose? The one that I couldn't get out of my mind, and when I prayed to you to make me stop thinking about it, pondering the perhaps misogynistic, anti-mother message of it, that only made me think of it more? And granted God this is better than some unending spirals of other more personal thoughts, for example those thoughts, those thoughts about them, the ones I took to Dr. Weiss. "I have got to know about them. Why didn't I put a chip in his sock the last time I saw him? Why wasn't I more proactive with this? Isn't there a detective you can put me in touch with? You have been doing this long enough! Certainly you can make a referral." And when she asked me which couple we were talking about now I laughed at the absurdity of it. Does it really matter Dr. Weiss? Does it really fucking matter? If I don't have a chip to place in a sock or the business card of a handsome and trusty gumshoe. Any one of them. I'll take any information on any of them. Restaurant menus and hotel bills and sexual positions and inside jokes. Calories consumed, parties attended, fights…please Dr. Weiss, maybe if we work together on this we can come up with something. "All we know about is you." Well that's no fun Dr. Weiss! We know about my acne and my gravel driveway and OH the pain that that caused. Oh the humiliation. The crunching sound as the clear-skinned wealthy beauties I considered my cohorts and colleagues pulled their Volvos and Grand Prixes (yes! I even consider a Grand Prix to be a vehicle for the upper crust!) into our humble, pebble driveway. Leading of course to that place. That house. Oh Dr. Weiss, if I could only present for you in power point presentation the horrors that happened in that house. Mostly involving denied shopping trips to TJ Maxx and literal crying over spilled milk. Oh to be the girl who spilled the milk! Oh pity her! For her night—and her snack of cookies and milk is ruined! Do you see the horrors Dr. Weiss? Do you see them in full color detail? Please deliver me from this insanity, Dr. Weiss. Wipe clean the dry erase boards of my mind. Thrust the erasers out the window and bang them together, releasing into the spring air the yellow dust I miss so much. Wring out the white cotton cloth and slap it against the slate tables of the Olive Tree Café. Oh Dr. Weiss! Write out for me a prescription for peace, wealth and a trip to Santa Fe. Santa Fe! Could you imagine! Do you remember the night Doug Milken and I ran through the Santa Fe WalMart, looking for underwear for him, and I felt so uncomfortable, because I was the 17 year old nanny and he was the 50 year old father? Of course you do not remember, you are not a God but a shrink, but oh how I do like to pretend that you know it all. How comforting.
Oh Lord, please look upon me with favor, and grant me a ticket to Elton John's 70th birthday bash. We have missed the 60th and that is fine and well. But please lord for these next ten years, let your light shine down upon my face and allow me to share with all the world what they need most: my coffee-stained, buck tooth smile.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Please, please take a look
http://www.stars-productions.com/index.php?ID=AR/artistroster
I was online shopping around for an agent, someone low level, someone to tide me over until ICM or William Morris comes my way...and I found this delicious line-up of talent. I don't know who I want to see first: Crystal Roxxx, Gradie Stone or Undisputed! So many choices.
I was online shopping around for an agent, someone low level, someone to tide me over until ICM or William Morris comes my way...and I found this delicious line-up of talent. I don't know who I want to see first: Crystal Roxxx, Gradie Stone or Undisputed! So many choices.
Monday, March 26, 2007
On the Downtown Train
On the Downtown Train
Last night, after drinking one margarita that left me nice and loopy, I ran out of Two Boots at 7:30, possessed by the idea that I had to do something. Something for my comedy career, something for my brain, something to get me back into first class again. A friend said she had an audition for Montreal at Stand Up New York on 78th, so I ran up over and down to the subway, jumped on the 5 and rode it up to 86th Street and Lex. Maybe I could strike up a conversation with the booker. Flirt, charm, wow, entrance. Yes. I rand down Lex, so fast the pen popped out of my back pocket. My lucky pen. Stolen from the bartender. "Screw it, keep running!" I ran from 86th Street to 78th when I asked myself, "78th and what, Kara?" "Well, you know, 78th and…comedy club. You know, 78th and…and…upper wsst sd…" said the thirteen year old with ADD who lives in my brain most of the time. "UPPER WEST SIDE, dear. Upper West Side. You need to go to the other side of Manhattan" said the Olympia Dukakis part of my brain. I then ran west on 78th street, over to Park Avenue, trying to simultaneously "be in the now" and enjoy the buzz and not too aggressively remind myself that being late and messing up directions can cost us valuable opportunities. I walked quickly across Central Park, remembering that in Jodie Foster's next psychological thriller (does she do anything else?) she plays a New York talk show host who is brutally attacked in Central Park. I'm still not sure where "walking through Central Park at night, alone and female" sits on the stupidity index, but I have a feeling it's up there. But there's something about running past the old oaks and under the glow of pink lights from the midtown skyscrapers that I can't resist. I finally got to 78th and Broadway, home of Stand-up NY, where the show had only recently started. Comedy clubs must post ads asking for "Big friendly black man to host comedy show. Must act "black" and not be especially funny." I'm sorry. I know I'm a type too. "Edgy, kinda cute comedian needed. Must be smart but not too smart. Must have one major physical flaw, eg big nose or teeth." As we all know, the bigger the flaw, the funnier you will be. No wait. I'm sorry. I mean the more I will like you. . Lucille Ball had a weird nose. Fine. Roseanne is big and squawky. Love it. But Sandra Bernhard, well, she's just a doll.
I'm sorry, but let me take a break to tell you all just how much I love Sandy B, as I lovingly call her.
Here is a list of things Sandy B will do:
- adopt a non-foreign baby.
- Give Rupaul a much-needed manicure on his show
- Go to the Bodhi tree bookstore (hello episode three of TKBS reference! I'm totally doing cross platform plugging, which hellooo, is so Sandy.)
- Wear a shitty Abercrombie and Fitch outfit to her House of Blues show and charge me $60 for it
- Pose nude even though she's got a really weird bod
- Pose with Madonna in matching ripped jean outfits
- Make comedy albums that aren't funny and know it
Pose with a fan with an active pustule.
Here's a list of things Sandy B will not do:
- marry a man.
- Cry if she makes a mistake on the register
- Murder somebody
- Get busted for a DUI
- Use a racial slur in a genuine and non-funny way
See! Isn't she great!? Anyway, I love Sandy and all her flaws and her assets. Jeremy used to play her for me all the time when we grew up, creating my one pleasant memory from my childhood. At any rate, I think what I'm saying is: black men need to be more like Sandy. But I'm not getting racist here. I think we could all stand to be more Sandy. More sensual, more brave, more bold, more honest.
After the show ended I was no longer at all drunk but still needing to make something happen. I went up to the booker and asked him if he wanted my dvd. Maybe I was still drunk. He appeared disinterested, and maybe even disgusted. Who was I becoming? Who was this girl? This classless, desperate girl? This is a girl who has felt the warm wet towel of first class rubbed across her body and she won't rest until she feels that feel again. I asked him for his business card and said "Cool, I'll send you my stuff." He seemed utterly unamused. "He has no idea who just talked to him." I walked outside, where several comedians were pointing to a car that was on fire. Had I done this? Did my new personality spark this?
Everyone went separate directions after the show. As always, I walk away alone. Sometimes it seems as if the whole world is in pairs, and I'm the girl walking down the street alone, staring into windows, staring into my reflection and wondering where things went so terribly wrong. How is that something is broken so badly in me but not broken inside other people? I was staring into a high-end card shop called La Brea, looking at their beautiful porcelain doggy dishes and irreverent 1950s postcards, thinking about the healthy and whole people who need to buy such things. I shoved my hands into my pockets. I felt something squishy in my right pocket. They were the earplugs from my flight from LA to NY. I pressed them between my fingers and smiled. I may not have a boyfriend or a girlfriend, but I have someone better than that. I have a best friend, a constant companion who has accompanied me on all my travels. On all of my journeys, she has been there, providing her lively commentary through the backroads of Cambodia and Thailand, the quiet, sad rooms of mental wards and the first class cabins of coast to coast flights.
I look at the sign. "La Brea." I walk in. Anything to be closer to California, but California isn't inside this store. California is inside my magazines at home. (The Hollywood Reporter. The Variety they handed out on the plane, as if this was a necessity, like beverages and earplugs.) California is inside Jeremy's apartment on Barnam Blvd. It's inside his car, where we laughed and talked, but mostly talked. California is inside my mind and I can't get it out. I want to be with it still. I want to carry parts of it around with me. I walk to a newstand. New York, US Weekly, In Touch, The Post. No Variety, no THR.
I get on the subway to go home, so I can be with California at home. At the Union Square subway station I look at their magazines. New York, US Weekly, The Post. I see a wrinkled copy of the Mark Walberg Premiere. Fine. I buy it, along with a Snickers Dark. The magazine is $4.50 and I have to dig for dimes in my bag in order to buy it.
I start reading the magazine as I walk. It's nowhere near as detailed as Variety or THR and it pisses me off. It's written for mainstream America, not for studio execs.
I walk through the tunnel leading to the L. There is a woman standing by herself in the middle of the tunnel. She has dirty blond feathered hair and the terrible skin of an acne patient who smokes two packs a day. She is wearing a lavender ribbed knit turleneck like you would find in the clearance section of TJ Maxx. She is belting out, at the top of her greying lungs, these well known lyrics:
.
-- never found anyone who fulfilled my neeeed
A lonely place to be and so I learned to depend on me
I decided long ago never to walk in anyone's shadow
I feel moved to drop my Premiere, and my choclate bar, and walk towards her and look into her eyes, and join her.
"If I fail., if I succeed at least I'll live as I believe"
No matter what they take from me, they can't take away my dignity
The few passersby have stopped to watch.
Because the greatest love of all is happening to me
I found the greatest love of all inside of me
The greatest love of all is easy to achieve"
A crowd of thirty has gathered, and all, even the most hardened Brooklynite is moved to applause and tears.
Unfortunately, I can't sing and so this didn't happen. It did make me realize something though. I am in New York now. And I need to be here now. And for this, I am so very, very glad.
Last night, after drinking one margarita that left me nice and loopy, I ran out of Two Boots at 7:30, possessed by the idea that I had to do something. Something for my comedy career, something for my brain, something to get me back into first class again. A friend said she had an audition for Montreal at Stand Up New York on 78th, so I ran up over and down to the subway, jumped on the 5 and rode it up to 86th Street and Lex. Maybe I could strike up a conversation with the booker. Flirt, charm, wow, entrance. Yes. I rand down Lex, so fast the pen popped out of my back pocket. My lucky pen. Stolen from the bartender. "Screw it, keep running!" I ran from 86th Street to 78th when I asked myself, "78th and what, Kara?" "Well, you know, 78th and…comedy club. You know, 78th and…and…upper wsst sd…" said the thirteen year old with ADD who lives in my brain most of the time. "UPPER WEST SIDE, dear. Upper West Side. You need to go to the other side of Manhattan" said the Olympia Dukakis part of my brain. I then ran west on 78th street, over to Park Avenue, trying to simultaneously "be in the now" and enjoy the buzz and not too aggressively remind myself that being late and messing up directions can cost us valuable opportunities. I walked quickly across Central Park, remembering that in Jodie Foster's next psychological thriller (does she do anything else?) she plays a New York talk show host who is brutally attacked in Central Park. I'm still not sure where "walking through Central Park at night, alone and female" sits on the stupidity index, but I have a feeling it's up there. But there's something about running past the old oaks and under the glow of pink lights from the midtown skyscrapers that I can't resist. I finally got to 78th and Broadway, home of Stand-up NY, where the show had only recently started. Comedy clubs must post ads asking for "Big friendly black man to host comedy show. Must act "black" and not be especially funny." I'm sorry. I know I'm a type too. "Edgy, kinda cute comedian needed. Must be smart but not too smart. Must have one major physical flaw, eg big nose or teeth." As we all know, the bigger the flaw, the funnier you will be. No wait. I'm sorry. I mean the more I will like you. . Lucille Ball had a weird nose. Fine. Roseanne is big and squawky. Love it. But Sandra Bernhard, well, she's just a doll.
I'm sorry, but let me take a break to tell you all just how much I love Sandy B, as I lovingly call her.
Here is a list of things Sandy B will do:
- adopt a non-foreign baby.
- Give Rupaul a much-needed manicure on his show
- Go to the Bodhi tree bookstore (hello episode three of TKBS reference! I'm totally doing cross platform plugging, which hellooo, is so Sandy.)
- Wear a shitty Abercrombie and Fitch outfit to her House of Blues show and charge me $60 for it
- Pose nude even though she's got a really weird bod
- Pose with Madonna in matching ripped jean outfits
- Make comedy albums that aren't funny and know it
Pose with a fan with an active pustule.
Here's a list of things Sandy B will not do:
- marry a man.
- Cry if she makes a mistake on the register
- Murder somebody
- Get busted for a DUI
- Use a racial slur in a genuine and non-funny way
See! Isn't she great!? Anyway, I love Sandy and all her flaws and her assets. Jeremy used to play her for me all the time when we grew up, creating my one pleasant memory from my childhood. At any rate, I think what I'm saying is: black men need to be more like Sandy. But I'm not getting racist here. I think we could all stand to be more Sandy. More sensual, more brave, more bold, more honest.
After the show ended I was no longer at all drunk but still needing to make something happen. I went up to the booker and asked him if he wanted my dvd. Maybe I was still drunk. He appeared disinterested, and maybe even disgusted. Who was I becoming? Who was this girl? This classless, desperate girl? This is a girl who has felt the warm wet towel of first class rubbed across her body and she won't rest until she feels that feel again. I asked him for his business card and said "Cool, I'll send you my stuff." He seemed utterly unamused. "He has no idea who just talked to him." I walked outside, where several comedians were pointing to a car that was on fire. Had I done this? Did my new personality spark this?
Everyone went separate directions after the show. As always, I walk away alone. Sometimes it seems as if the whole world is in pairs, and I'm the girl walking down the street alone, staring into windows, staring into my reflection and wondering where things went so terribly wrong. How is that something is broken so badly in me but not broken inside other people? I was staring into a high-end card shop called La Brea, looking at their beautiful porcelain doggy dishes and irreverent 1950s postcards, thinking about the healthy and whole people who need to buy such things. I shoved my hands into my pockets. I felt something squishy in my right pocket. They were the earplugs from my flight from LA to NY. I pressed them between my fingers and smiled. I may not have a boyfriend or a girlfriend, but I have someone better than that. I have a best friend, a constant companion who has accompanied me on all my travels. On all of my journeys, she has been there, providing her lively commentary through the backroads of Cambodia and Thailand, the quiet, sad rooms of mental wards and the first class cabins of coast to coast flights.
I look at the sign. "La Brea." I walk in. Anything to be closer to California, but California isn't inside this store. California is inside my magazines at home. (The Hollywood Reporter. The Variety they handed out on the plane, as if this was a necessity, like beverages and earplugs.) California is inside Jeremy's apartment on Barnam Blvd. It's inside his car, where we laughed and talked, but mostly talked. California is inside my mind and I can't get it out. I want to be with it still. I want to carry parts of it around with me. I walk to a newstand. New York, US Weekly, In Touch, The Post. No Variety, no THR.
I get on the subway to go home, so I can be with California at home. At the Union Square subway station I look at their magazines. New York, US Weekly, The Post. I see a wrinkled copy of the Mark Walberg Premiere. Fine. I buy it, along with a Snickers Dark. The magazine is $4.50 and I have to dig for dimes in my bag in order to buy it.
I start reading the magazine as I walk. It's nowhere near as detailed as Variety or THR and it pisses me off. It's written for mainstream America, not for studio execs.
I walk through the tunnel leading to the L. There is a woman standing by herself in the middle of the tunnel. She has dirty blond feathered hair and the terrible skin of an acne patient who smokes two packs a day. She is wearing a lavender ribbed knit turleneck like you would find in the clearance section of TJ Maxx. She is belting out, at the top of her greying lungs, these well known lyrics:
.
-- never found anyone who fulfilled my neeeed
A lonely place to be and so I learned to depend on me
I decided long ago never to walk in anyone's shadow
I feel moved to drop my Premiere, and my choclate bar, and walk towards her and look into her eyes, and join her.
"If I fail., if I succeed at least I'll live as I believe"
No matter what they take from me, they can't take away my dignity
The few passersby have stopped to watch.
Because the greatest love of all is happening to me
I found the greatest love of all inside of me
The greatest love of all is easy to achieve"
A crowd of thirty has gathered, and all, even the most hardened Brooklynite is moved to applause and tears.
Unfortunately, I can't sing and so this didn't happen. It did make me realize something though. I am in New York now. And I need to be here now. And for this, I am so very, very glad.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Jeremy's Still Sleeping
I went insane about three hours ago. We're back to sincerity. I think I'm a very troubled person. I think there are somethings in my life I will never get over, wounds so large they will never heal. Even if Jeremy wakes up now, we won't have time to order a pizza before we have to leave for the airport. Like even when I was in college, when I was fun and blonde and drank a lot, there was always a sadness, a distance. If we go back even further, to like third grade, I think we still find a very troubled, sad girl. Someone who never quite fit in, whose attempts to do so only made her weirdness and sadness that more glaring. Even if I put in an episode of Golden Girls, I'll still be sad because that will remind me of mortality, and of Florida, which I've never been to but I'm sure would result in a deep, deep depression. Maybe the world needs some people to be irretrievably, irrevokably sad. "When it is dark enough men see stars." Please. I'm not seeing stars. Certainly not in this apartment. Certainly not in this mirror. Sad girl, with my sad shaped head. Have you seen my head? Even my head is shaped sad, long and shapeless. No joy here. I think maybe it's just time for the lanai. Out on the lanai is where I do my best thinking. It's cold out on the lanai. Best to stay inside. What if I miss my flight? Should I wake Jeremy up? What if I stayed in LA forever, in this apartment forever? God, Richard Jeni. See. Us comedian types. You got to watch it. There is a darkness. Maybe it's just California apartments that are to blame. Well. Look at Chris Farley. Sexy Hancock pad and look what happened there. I'm trying to find a common denominator here and unfortunately I'm only finding comedian and death. Christ. Well. They didn't have hope. I have hope. I have hope that I get on that plane and get back to NY and wear my bathing suit on the job. Christ. See. Things are pretty bad. Maybe I just need to smoke a cigarette and have some diet coke. Oh, does anyone want to be my agent? We can just pretend. I think it would be fun. We can work that whole Dumbo angle. Believing=achieving. No? Fine. Maybe it was watching The View this morning. Rosie and her Kelly talk. People and their partners. I am so unwaveringly alone. Not a lesbo, not straight. Just this weird sad girl with a long face. Dear lord in heaven. Why did that Will Ferrell movie have to be so bad and make Jeremy fall asleep. Now I'm practically crawling over the lanai. Christ. Sorry folks. Gonna grab some diet coke and start up the chemical roller coaster. I better fucking get first class. After a day like today? You gotta have it.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Sleeping with the Stars
So I'm home now.
I am happy to report I did not wear my bathing suit at work today. I went ahead and wore dirty underwear. This seemed more mentally healthy.
As we all know I was in a deep, deep depression on Wednesday. This was prior to seeing the artistic tour de force lightshow that is LAX International Airport. As you enter the airport, green columns of light stand guard around an enormous white cement "LAX". You then realize there is no chance of you catching your breath any time soon when your Kia rounds the corner, and you feel compelled to rub your eyes, as what lies before you is something that can only be called "purple glorious spaceladytron", a purple lit control tower with four outstreched legs and a glass "eye-window" on top. Your car then glides over to the departure drop off, revealing the piece de resistance: beautiful Southern Californias in resort wear opening up trunks of Mercedes Benz. An instant shock to the system. All thoughts of credit card debt, relationship failure, and sexual dysfunction instantly vanish in the heat of this sweltering tableau. Seriously. I dare you to be depressed at LAX.
Besides, there's too much to be angry and anxious about. In a horrifying turn of events at Security Gate 3, I was stripped of my brand new Tom's of Maine Organic Whitening Mint Tooth Gel (purchased mere blocks from the Studio City sushi house where Vince Vaughn had his recent, loud lady-bashing!!) and my Duane Reade Contact Lens Solution (purchased in the Crysler Building…less excitingly.). That's at least $12 worth of goods! Then they started fingering my Proactiv. Well, you can imagine the reaction this caused. America hasn't seen so much chanting, praying and contorting since the Pentecostals faced the Dust Bowl. I cycled through at least three major religions prayers and customs before ultimately accepting that I had to let it go. I surrender it all. If it's meant to be, it will be. Well, guess what. The Proactiv was meant to be. I let it go and it came back to me. I can't tell you how many times this has happened to me and my Proactiv at airports. You may say it has something to do with Proactiv being exactly 4 oz and therefore in line with FAA standards, but I like to think it's maybe something else… Prior to going through security, I did check in on those kiosk machine, which are nice because it means one less person delivering bad news to you. In this case, the computer delivers bad news to you. "Chances of boarding this flight: Great, Good, Average, Fair, None. Your chances: Fair." I swallowed hard and told myself to be strong. Worse case scenario: I am sleeping in a motel and not wearing my bathing suit at work because I am fired. A pretty bleak picture but I happen to love motels and find them more picturesque than a Ritz-Carlton. Of course, serial killers and rapists find them aesthetically pleasing as well…
But bottomline is we now have a situation where it is 10:00 pm California time, I have a fair (ie slim) chance of getting on a flight, I have no lens solution or toothpaste and I have to be in NY at 10 am for a job I secretly love. Jeremy needs to sleep for an early morning class and is almost an hour and a half away. I really need to get on the plane.
This was a situation made bearable only by the fact that Jeremy let me keep his copy of The Hollywood Reporter, which if you're not familiar, is the most uninteresting entertainment magazine available.
Variety is a fluffy tabloid compared to The Hollywood Reporter. THR, as I'm going to call it from here on out--get ready--leads with tantalizing stories like "Celotta keeping office at NBCU" and "Supernatural thing at FX from Bochno" and the breathtaking "Web music royalty fee challenged." I love that I'm supposed to know Celotta and Bochno. I love that I'm supposed to have some emotion about web music royalty fees. You know, if it bleeds it leads…and that certainly is the case with The Hollywood Reporter.
The ads alone in THR could send shivers down the spine of even the hippest theater director. "The Mobile Entertainment and Advertising Summit 2007." "Insights on the Digital Delivery of Entertainment Content, Breakfast Series, March 29, 2007." "Levels Audio, the industry's first 5.1 Post Production HD Super-Boutique, is pleased to congratulate its partner American Idol, on their 200th episode." I have no fucking clue what a 5.1 Post Production HD Super-Boutique is, but the prospects are blowing my fucking mind. Seriously. Super-boutique? Part of me thinks I can only be disappointed. This is the Borat of ad copy.
An annual subscription to THR will set you back $269. But let's not talk in terms of "set back." I think we can only talk in terms of set forward. If I had this kind of shit fed to me each day I would be a better person. Driven, punctual…totally insane.
On page 20 in their Reviews section, Ray Richmond simultaneously scolds and nurtures The Whitest Kids You Know,
the latest in all white male sketch shows, praising them for their few strong pieces and admonishing them for their frequent use of peepee poopoo humor. He ends by saying that "it's easy to see the potential of this outrageously original bunch once they figure out how to evolve beyond mere shock value." Potential is code for "money-making ability" of course, in THR world—which is why I'm saving up for a subscrip. This is exactly the kind of thinking I need to be doing if I plan on using stand-up comedy to buy me Marc Jacobs jackets, prescription pills and the occasional dope.
So there's the backstory on THR. So you know that when I sit at gate 73 and "read" my THR, it can be nothing other than total and complete crap. It's my living out the fantasy of being in entertainment and traveling from LA to NY, NY to LA, and being connected to Hollywood. At some point of course I realize that I am in entertainment and that I am flying from LA to NY and I do know people in Hollywood and that somehow THR has found it's way to me organically, and I have become everything I've always wanted to be. This is all well and good but this does not change the fact that I have no business having THR out on my lap. I was starting to plummet into self-loathing when our most glorious God, creator of Heaven and Earth, sensed my despair and offered to me the perfect salve to cool my raging heart: Bob Balaban, star of For Your Consideration, A Mighty Wind andCity Slickers II: The Legend of Curly's Gold. Bob is the short, balding man with round dark glasses that shows up whenever the script calls for a "likable dweeb" who isn't Woody Allen. Here he is now:
You know him. You love him. So your head would be turned around a good 180 too if he were sitting, waiting, in the row behind you. I did a lot of constant turning, texting, turning, texting, as I tried to describe him to Jeremy. (Eventually he must have gotten uncomfortable with this, because he walked away. But maybe that's me thinking everything's always about me.I'm now getting dysfunctional with Bob Balaban.) I wasn't sure exactly what roles he played, just said "that nerdy guy who's always in Christopher Guest moveies." This didn't exactly narrow it down. Jeremy sent back "Eugene Levy?" "NOO!! The other one!!"
We eventually grow tired of this game, as there is the more exciting "will I get on this plane, will I get first class, will I get murdered in a motel" game. Jeremy calls and we try to have a normal status talk. We're both so stressed we can hardly talk. Our vocal chords are barely letting words out. We speak in monosyllables.
"So..what's…Is the…" "I don't knoooww. Do you kno--…They're saying nothing..I…" We are unusually inarticulate.
"BULLER. PASSENGER BULLER."
"I…me..saying my name…talk later. Okay. Bye."
I walk up to the counter. "Yes, I'm Buller." At this point I will take anything. I will sleep between the legs of the co-pilot. Okay, well duh, but like I will sleep on top of the terse gay Steward we all know and love. I will do whatever. Just put me on a plane. The lady hands me the cream-colored boarding pass. The moment of truth. I look at the seat number.
"1D"
I nearly faint. I am moved to hug this woman. I feel like I have so many people to thank. How can one girl have so many highs so high and lows so low? Tonight, Bob Balaban, you and I shall sail across the wine-dark sky, and dream the dreams of Hollywood dreamers. Come along now, Bob. The crew is waiting. And I've got a Bellini waiting for me with my name on it.
The bad news is that Bob was like 7B and in a different section. I ended up sleeping between a really sexy short Jewish man who slept face down (!) in his chair/bed and a hot alternative guy with a hoodie, an i-pod, and, this is such a drag, a wedding ring. Why are alternative people getting married and flying first class? Or is that married rich people are wearing hoodies and Converse? Ugh. Who has time to chart all these demographic trends. Certainly not me. I have industry dailies to pretend to read and bathing suits to wash out. Darlings, it has been wonderful. Sorry about the earlier drama with the suicidal depression. But you've got to mix it up from time to time. From basecamp, this is Kara.
I am happy to report I did not wear my bathing suit at work today. I went ahead and wore dirty underwear. This seemed more mentally healthy.
As we all know I was in a deep, deep depression on Wednesday. This was prior to seeing the artistic tour de force lightshow that is LAX International Airport. As you enter the airport, green columns of light stand guard around an enormous white cement "LAX". You then realize there is no chance of you catching your breath any time soon when your Kia rounds the corner, and you feel compelled to rub your eyes, as what lies before you is something that can only be called "purple glorious spaceladytron", a purple lit control tower with four outstreched legs and a glass "eye-window" on top. Your car then glides over to the departure drop off, revealing the piece de resistance: beautiful Southern Californias in resort wear opening up trunks of Mercedes Benz. An instant shock to the system. All thoughts of credit card debt, relationship failure, and sexual dysfunction instantly vanish in the heat of this sweltering tableau. Seriously. I dare you to be depressed at LAX.
Besides, there's too much to be angry and anxious about. In a horrifying turn of events at Security Gate 3, I was stripped of my brand new Tom's of Maine Organic Whitening Mint Tooth Gel (purchased mere blocks from the Studio City sushi house where Vince Vaughn had his recent, loud lady-bashing!!) and my Duane Reade Contact Lens Solution (purchased in the Crysler Building…less excitingly.). That's at least $12 worth of goods! Then they started fingering my Proactiv. Well, you can imagine the reaction this caused. America hasn't seen so much chanting, praying and contorting since the Pentecostals faced the Dust Bowl. I cycled through at least three major religions prayers and customs before ultimately accepting that I had to let it go. I surrender it all. If it's meant to be, it will be. Well, guess what. The Proactiv was meant to be. I let it go and it came back to me. I can't tell you how many times this has happened to me and my Proactiv at airports. You may say it has something to do with Proactiv being exactly 4 oz and therefore in line with FAA standards, but I like to think it's maybe something else… Prior to going through security, I did check in on those kiosk machine, which are nice because it means one less person delivering bad news to you. In this case, the computer delivers bad news to you. "Chances of boarding this flight: Great, Good, Average, Fair, None. Your chances: Fair." I swallowed hard and told myself to be strong. Worse case scenario: I am sleeping in a motel and not wearing my bathing suit at work because I am fired. A pretty bleak picture but I happen to love motels and find them more picturesque than a Ritz-Carlton. Of course, serial killers and rapists find them aesthetically pleasing as well…
But bottomline is we now have a situation where it is 10:00 pm California time, I have a fair (ie slim) chance of getting on a flight, I have no lens solution or toothpaste and I have to be in NY at 10 am for a job I secretly love. Jeremy needs to sleep for an early morning class and is almost an hour and a half away. I really need to get on the plane.
This was a situation made bearable only by the fact that Jeremy let me keep his copy of The Hollywood Reporter, which if you're not familiar, is the most uninteresting entertainment magazine available.
Variety is a fluffy tabloid compared to The Hollywood Reporter. THR, as I'm going to call it from here on out--get ready--leads with tantalizing stories like "Celotta keeping office at NBCU" and "Supernatural thing at FX from Bochno" and the breathtaking "Web music royalty fee challenged." I love that I'm supposed to know Celotta and Bochno. I love that I'm supposed to have some emotion about web music royalty fees. You know, if it bleeds it leads…and that certainly is the case with The Hollywood Reporter.
The ads alone in THR could send shivers down the spine of even the hippest theater director. "The Mobile Entertainment and Advertising Summit 2007." "Insights on the Digital Delivery of Entertainment Content, Breakfast Series, March 29, 2007." "Levels Audio, the industry's first 5.1 Post Production HD Super-Boutique, is pleased to congratulate its partner American Idol, on their 200th episode." I have no fucking clue what a 5.1 Post Production HD Super-Boutique is, but the prospects are blowing my fucking mind. Seriously. Super-boutique? Part of me thinks I can only be disappointed. This is the Borat of ad copy.
An annual subscription to THR will set you back $269. But let's not talk in terms of "set back." I think we can only talk in terms of set forward. If I had this kind of shit fed to me each day I would be a better person. Driven, punctual…totally insane.
On page 20 in their Reviews section, Ray Richmond simultaneously scolds and nurtures The Whitest Kids You Know,
the latest in all white male sketch shows, praising them for their few strong pieces and admonishing them for their frequent use of peepee poopoo humor. He ends by saying that "it's easy to see the potential of this outrageously original bunch once they figure out how to evolve beyond mere shock value." Potential is code for "money-making ability" of course, in THR world—which is why I'm saving up for a subscrip. This is exactly the kind of thinking I need to be doing if I plan on using stand-up comedy to buy me Marc Jacobs jackets, prescription pills and the occasional dope.
So there's the backstory on THR. So you know that when I sit at gate 73 and "read" my THR, it can be nothing other than total and complete crap. It's my living out the fantasy of being in entertainment and traveling from LA to NY, NY to LA, and being connected to Hollywood. At some point of course I realize that I am in entertainment and that I am flying from LA to NY and I do know people in Hollywood and that somehow THR has found it's way to me organically, and I have become everything I've always wanted to be. This is all well and good but this does not change the fact that I have no business having THR out on my lap. I was starting to plummet into self-loathing when our most glorious God, creator of Heaven and Earth, sensed my despair and offered to me the perfect salve to cool my raging heart: Bob Balaban, star of For Your Consideration, A Mighty Wind andCity Slickers II: The Legend of Curly's Gold. Bob is the short, balding man with round dark glasses that shows up whenever the script calls for a "likable dweeb" who isn't Woody Allen. Here he is now:
You know him. You love him. So your head would be turned around a good 180 too if he were sitting, waiting, in the row behind you. I did a lot of constant turning, texting, turning, texting, as I tried to describe him to Jeremy. (Eventually he must have gotten uncomfortable with this, because he walked away. But maybe that's me thinking everything's always about me.I'm now getting dysfunctional with Bob Balaban.) I wasn't sure exactly what roles he played, just said "that nerdy guy who's always in Christopher Guest moveies." This didn't exactly narrow it down. Jeremy sent back "Eugene Levy?" "NOO!! The other one!!"
We eventually grow tired of this game, as there is the more exciting "will I get on this plane, will I get first class, will I get murdered in a motel" game. Jeremy calls and we try to have a normal status talk. We're both so stressed we can hardly talk. Our vocal chords are barely letting words out. We speak in monosyllables.
"So..what's…Is the…" "I don't knoooww. Do you kno--…They're saying nothing..I…" We are unusually inarticulate.
"BULLER. PASSENGER BULLER."
"I…me..saying my name…talk later. Okay. Bye."
I walk up to the counter. "Yes, I'm Buller." At this point I will take anything. I will sleep between the legs of the co-pilot. Okay, well duh, but like I will sleep on top of the terse gay Steward we all know and love. I will do whatever. Just put me on a plane. The lady hands me the cream-colored boarding pass. The moment of truth. I look at the seat number.
"1D"
I nearly faint. I am moved to hug this woman. I feel like I have so many people to thank. How can one girl have so many highs so high and lows so low? Tonight, Bob Balaban, you and I shall sail across the wine-dark sky, and dream the dreams of Hollywood dreamers. Come along now, Bob. The crew is waiting. And I've got a Bellini waiting for me with my name on it.
The bad news is that Bob was like 7B and in a different section. I ended up sleeping between a really sexy short Jewish man who slept face down (!) in his chair/bed and a hot alternative guy with a hoodie, an i-pod, and, this is such a drag, a wedding ring. Why are alternative people getting married and flying first class? Or is that married rich people are wearing hoodies and Converse? Ugh. Who has time to chart all these demographic trends. Certainly not me. I have industry dailies to pretend to read and bathing suits to wash out. Darlings, it has been wonderful. Sorry about the earlier drama with the suicidal depression. But you've got to mix it up from time to time. From basecamp, this is Kara.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
These Clothes Smell
These clothes smell.
I can't tell you how bad my pants smell. I was supposed to fly out on Monday. I'm still here, wearing my "yoga pants" that smell like crotch, pizza and cigarettes. It feels so reckless, so dramatic. Like I'm a Katrina victim or something. And tomorrow I have to wear my bathing suit as underwear when I go to work in the morning. I'm taking the red eye to NY tonight (this way I can definitely get first class and hopefully sleep with the celebs!) so I have to go straight to work from the airport. I'm going to miss Studio City, though. Each day I drop Jeremy off at school, then I come back to the apartment and write and read. Do my floor exercises. Talk on the phone. Go out on the lanai and look at the hills and the city below. Think about my direction, my motivations, my goals. Before I left last Wednesday, I formally took the third step with my sponsor. I formally handed my life over to an entity other than myself. My will no longer runs the show. My actions and my thoughts are to be guided by a higher being. This has made this a very different trip for me. I have tried to be selfless instead of selfish, tolerant rather than intolerant. Jeremy and I are different in many ways. He likes to stay home. I like to go out. He likes Univeral Studios. I do not. I have tried to 'be" with this, and not fight it. Surrender to this. It just is. I have started doing my step four, where I list all of my resentments, from early memory to today. I look at my role in it. Where was I selfish, dishonest, or self-seeking. Selfish appears on the list time and time again. I have gone through life trying to get my way, make others like me. It is always about my needs, my power, my ego. It feels very good to see my role in these situations. I go from being a victim to being just a human, doing human things. Speaking of addiction recovery, HBO has released their monstrous Addiction documentary. I was disappointed to see it addresses solely drugs and alcohol, not gambling, sex, love, food, shopping and other "process addictions." I obviously think these are very destructive as well. It also stresses that it is a biological and (therefore) medical issue. I see addiction as a spiritual issue. Most addicts are seeking to fill a void. At the root, this is not a medical condition. It stems from neglect or abandonment in childhood, an absence of love and safety. A doctor can't fix that. In order to fix any problem thoroughly and for good, you have to go to the root. Replace anger with forgiveness, hate with love, blah blah blah. But it's true. I'm really tired of non-addicts, (Dr.Drew, Dr.Phil, Dr anyone) talking about addiction. Talk about it if you've lived it. I think people are too wrapped up in the shame of it. I see no shame in it, obviously. This is who I am. This is who I will always be. You can like it or not. I'm never gonna stop. Roseanne Barr is coming back so of course I'm all reved up on that. Such an inspiration. The facelift at 39 though? Well that's fine. I like a little crazy. To have an imperfect role model, that's fine. Of course, that's all there is. We're all just so perfectely imperfect aren't we? Dear god I'm turning into Ilyana Vansant. If Ilyana Vansant wore crotch pizza pants. So gross. Really sorry. Better take it out to the lanai. Lots of love if you made it this far, Kara.
I can't tell you how bad my pants smell. I was supposed to fly out on Monday. I'm still here, wearing my "yoga pants" that smell like crotch, pizza and cigarettes. It feels so reckless, so dramatic. Like I'm a Katrina victim or something. And tomorrow I have to wear my bathing suit as underwear when I go to work in the morning. I'm taking the red eye to NY tonight (this way I can definitely get first class and hopefully sleep with the celebs!) so I have to go straight to work from the airport. I'm going to miss Studio City, though. Each day I drop Jeremy off at school, then I come back to the apartment and write and read. Do my floor exercises. Talk on the phone. Go out on the lanai and look at the hills and the city below. Think about my direction, my motivations, my goals. Before I left last Wednesday, I formally took the third step with my sponsor. I formally handed my life over to an entity other than myself. My will no longer runs the show. My actions and my thoughts are to be guided by a higher being. This has made this a very different trip for me. I have tried to be selfless instead of selfish, tolerant rather than intolerant. Jeremy and I are different in many ways. He likes to stay home. I like to go out. He likes Univeral Studios. I do not. I have tried to 'be" with this, and not fight it. Surrender to this. It just is. I have started doing my step four, where I list all of my resentments, from early memory to today. I look at my role in it. Where was I selfish, dishonest, or self-seeking. Selfish appears on the list time and time again. I have gone through life trying to get my way, make others like me. It is always about my needs, my power, my ego. It feels very good to see my role in these situations. I go from being a victim to being just a human, doing human things. Speaking of addiction recovery, HBO has released their monstrous Addiction documentary. I was disappointed to see it addresses solely drugs and alcohol, not gambling, sex, love, food, shopping and other "process addictions." I obviously think these are very destructive as well. It also stresses that it is a biological and (therefore) medical issue. I see addiction as a spiritual issue. Most addicts are seeking to fill a void. At the root, this is not a medical condition. It stems from neglect or abandonment in childhood, an absence of love and safety. A doctor can't fix that. In order to fix any problem thoroughly and for good, you have to go to the root. Replace anger with forgiveness, hate with love, blah blah blah. But it's true. I'm really tired of non-addicts, (Dr.Drew, Dr.Phil, Dr anyone) talking about addiction. Talk about it if you've lived it. I think people are too wrapped up in the shame of it. I see no shame in it, obviously. This is who I am. This is who I will always be. You can like it or not. I'm never gonna stop. Roseanne Barr is coming back so of course I'm all reved up on that. Such an inspiration. The facelift at 39 though? Well that's fine. I like a little crazy. To have an imperfect role model, that's fine. Of course, that's all there is. We're all just so perfectely imperfect aren't we? Dear god I'm turning into Ilyana Vansant. If Ilyana Vansant wore crotch pizza pants. So gross. Really sorry. Better take it out to the lanai. Lots of love if you made it this far, Kara.
Whoops
I want to apologize for my earlier outburst of sincerity this morning. I'll try to keep it in check, but sometimes these spells just come over you. Jeremy is napping now. We did try to watch Stranger Than Fiction, starring Will Ferrel and people from Second City I would have liked to have slept with. This was very exciting for me, to see these near-famous faces but apparently not for Jeremy. He's fast asleep. That's the danger with watching movies in Hollywood. It's no longer exciting. It's like doing labs all day and then popping in a video of someone doing a nitrate reaction. You just think, "I wonder if the writing team got in on any of the cross-platform distribution revenue?" You start to put yourself to sleep. I read my Variety this morning then checked my voicemail to see if my agent called. Of course not. This is because I don't have an agent. But this shouldn't stop one from pretending to check your cellphone for her calls. I've decided my pretend agent is female, high-powered, overbearing, annoying. I need a follow-up punchline here, but sadly, we're not going to have one. I drove to UCLA today. Parking there is twenty-five cents for eight minutes. I decided that was too much to pay to walk around and see hot, educated twenty-two year olds prepare for lives better than mine. Back in my corporate Blyatt days it would have been no problem. I got back in the car and drove up Coldwater Canyon Drive, where I proceded to have a landscaping-induced orgasm. I have never seen such beautiful landscaping. And I lived near North Barrington! Then I picked up Jeremy at Studio City Plaza, which is our "home away from home." It has a McDonalds, a Trader Joes, Pinkberry and, my favorite, Manhattan Bagel. Studio City Plaza is right near "Radford" which is the nickname for the CBS Studio where Jeremy attends class each day. It's under tight security so I just drop him off at the gate. I can see through the gate a big painted wall that says "According to Jim" so the extra security makes perfect sense. Tonight I'm going to try to get Jeremy to drive me to the airport so I don't have to spend $50 on a cab ride. It's going to be hard to say goodbye, like a scene out of Color Purple, as Jeremy said. I don't want to leave LA. Especially since I know what awaits me. It's kind of like having to go back to Iraq after working at the Hustler store. Well, that's a bit extreme and a very awkward way to introduce the Hustler store, which Jeremy and I did go to and did love. They have a cafe there with drinks like "The Flynt" which is basically a carmel macciato. There's also the "Hedgehog", named after Ron Jeremy. They had an incredibly elaborate and categorized porn section. "Gonzo," "Ethnic" and "Anal" were all nicely separated, making shopping very easy. They also had t-shirts, leopard print jeans with lots of zippers, underwear, shot glasses, coffee mugs and a wide variety of soaps. I was pleased to see some candles as well. Parking is free in back. In front are several in-the-ground bronze stars, with porn star's hand prints in the cement. Jenna, Ron, all your faves are there. I had mixes emotions about it. Disgust mixed with pleasure mixed with jealousy. An odd blend. We ultimately ended up purchasing nothing, and I think that's for the best. I haven't written too much while on this trip. I created a detailed joke making fun of the British who stay at our hotel, as well as a joke making fun of sex addicts. They are both done with love though, of course. Well, maybe not the British one. I really can't stand the British. Last night I went to one of my twelve step meetings. It was held in a beautiful church. I just kept staring at people to see if they looked familiar. I got fed up when people's shares didn't reveal whether they had Hollywood jobs or not. You would think that would come up. "Today at the studio there was a hot girl, and I really wanted to reach out and feel validated, but instead I called my sponsor." Something! I'll take anything people. I keep telling Jeremy that I'm a "panty sniffer." I go around town trying to get a good whiff of Hollywood. Really hold those panties up to my nose and do a good inhale. I think that's what I've been doing my whole time here. But I'm like sniffing t-shirts and socks, not really panties. Got to find the panties! Next trip.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Am I a Lesbian?
I've decided to start a reality show called America's Next Top Lesbian. On this show, contestants compete to be lesbians. They have to compete in various lesbian-type activities like bandana-wearing, SUV-driving and being funny and also not being funny at all. One by one they get eliminated. They also do things like stick you in a hot tub with George Clooney and see if you make a pass. They give you a $10,ooo shopping spree at Fred Segal and see what you buy. I think I might just win. I've used this LA trip to find out if I'm a lesbian. So far, I have been attracted to Sandra Bullock (!), purchased t-shirts from Teenage Millinaire on Melrose, and toned my thighs. I think I might be a big old queero. I'm getting okay with this. An unexpected result of my spiritual journey is discovering that I'm a big old dirty lesbo. Who knew! But the weird thing is I want to have sex with old jewish men. Like fat, powerful jewish men. This is an unexpected result of my spiritual journey as well. I want to encourage everyone to start their own spiritual journey, but I do want to warn you about this unexpected consequence. God I can't wait to get back to NY. I think I am an insane person. Like more than we realized. But less than the media portrays it.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Hello from Brooklyn!
I live in East Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York, USA now. Here she is. Isn't she a beauty!
In this blog, I will keep the whole world posted on my comings and goings. Isn't that great!
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Planning Your Life
Imagine you are having a nightmare. In it you are baking crab cakes for a party. You buy the crab, the breadcrumbs, the seasoning, you add the egg, you pat them into perfect smushed discs, but then, inexplicably, an hour later, at your party everyone is eating dog shit and laughing about it. They are smearing it on their faces and laughing. In the sink, you see the eggshells, the bowl lightly dusted with breading, but in your living room, which you can see through the archway, there's not a trace of crab. The guests continue laughing and eating from their plates of dog shit. You begin to cry. You sob into your hands, more from confusion and desperation than from any heartache over the guests' not eating crabcakes. With this sobbing, though, it feels as if a lifetime's worth of stress hormone is floating off of you. Then you wake up from this nightmare, refreshed and reinvigorated but also relieved that all of it, especially the dog shit portion, was just a dream. And then you see in your living room a beautiful woman eating from her plate of dog shit.
That's how things can go. Like that. You can think things are horribly out of control, discover that they're not, of course your life was not going to be this bad, then--oops!--turns out it is going to be that bad. But not as bad as it could be.
This is why it's best to have no expectations, no plans, no dreams.
Of course that was sarcasm.
Here's the deal: you have to build the towers again. You have to replace the empty spot with another dream.
Folks, I don't know what's going on. I'm on a heck of a lot of drugs right now.
I'll be back later.
That's how things can go. Like that. You can think things are horribly out of control, discover that they're not, of course your life was not going to be this bad, then--oops!--turns out it is going to be that bad. But not as bad as it could be.
This is why it's best to have no expectations, no plans, no dreams.
Of course that was sarcasm.
Here's the deal: you have to build the towers again. You have to replace the empty spot with another dream.
Folks, I don't know what's going on. I'm on a heck of a lot of drugs right now.
I'll be back later.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Valley Girl Explains the Difference Between Sunni and Shiite Muslims
First off, let me say something about people who move to Chicago from the East Coast: I don't trust you. I think you're up to something. Why didn't you go to New York City? Are you weak? Are you scared? Do you think Chicago's "more real"? I don't know, I guess there are valid reasons, I'm just saying I have a weird feeling about you, and this choice you made. It's a little condescending, that's all. Listen, I'll get over it I'm just saying right now it's coloring our relationship. It's just something buzzing inside me right now, probably stemming from my own insecurity and it will go away.
So like I always remember that there are more Shiites than Sunnis in Iraq by remembering "there's more shit than sun in Iraq." But of course that's like figurative because I think there is A LOT of sun in Iraq, as well as a lot of "shit." But there are, right now, more problems than happiness. Anyway, there are a lot more Shiites even though they did not for many decades have the political power that the Sunnis had. Saddam was toooootally unaccepting of them and their religious practices so that's why when the Americans came they were like, "yaaaay!" They could now practice their religious rituals and possibly enjoy more political power. ANYWAY, the difference between Shiites and Sunnis starts back in 632, with the death of Mohammad, their prophet. Muslims believe Mohammad was the last in a long line of prophets, including Abraham and Jesus. I sooo know there is a connection between Christianity, Judaism and Islam and I think it's Abraham...and the First Testament? Something like that. So Mohammad dies and leaves behind four sons, or like men, maybe they're just appointees, I'm not sure. But there's these dudes: Ali, Hassan, Habib and Abu. Okay, I made up all of those names except Ali. I remember Ali because he is very important to this. The Shiites believe that Ali was the special descendent of Mohammad. Listen, all sons were good, it just happens that Ali was the best--according to the Shiites. Are you guys still with me?
So like I always remember that there are more Shiites than Sunnis in Iraq by remembering "there's more shit than sun in Iraq." But of course that's like figurative because I think there is A LOT of sun in Iraq, as well as a lot of "shit." But there are, right now, more problems than happiness. Anyway, there are a lot more Shiites even though they did not for many decades have the political power that the Sunnis had. Saddam was toooootally unaccepting of them and their religious practices so that's why when the Americans came they were like, "yaaaay!" They could now practice their religious rituals and possibly enjoy more political power. ANYWAY, the difference between Shiites and Sunnis starts back in 632, with the death of Mohammad, their prophet. Muslims believe Mohammad was the last in a long line of prophets, including Abraham and Jesus. I sooo know there is a connection between Christianity, Judaism and Islam and I think it's Abraham...and the First Testament? Something like that. So Mohammad dies and leaves behind four sons, or like men, maybe they're just appointees, I'm not sure. But there's these dudes: Ali, Hassan, Habib and Abu. Okay, I made up all of those names except Ali. I remember Ali because he is very important to this. The Shiites believe that Ali was the special descendent of Mohammad. Listen, all sons were good, it just happens that Ali was the best--according to the Shiites. Are you guys still with me?
Thursday, October 06, 2005
The Jeremy Show Interview
EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH KARA FROM WWW.THEJEREMYSHOW.COM
Kara Buller has agreed to open up her life and her purse for The Jeremy Show. Kara Buller is a stand up comedian who has been tearing up the boards on the Chicago Stand-Up circuit for years.
From Kara's bio- "During her six years in Chicago, Kara Buller has done just about all you can do to a stage. She has been a theater critic, writer, actor, improviser, stand-up comic, story-teller, and instructor. She has written and performed three shows in Chicago: A Fag & His Hag, Work (both with Jeremy Wells) and Cowboy Crushes, Prank Calls & The Biblette. In response to her two-person show A Fag & His Hag, The Chicago Reader claimed Buller showed "great comic promise, with a self-deprecating edge to her carefully enunciated phrasing."
You've been doing stand up comedy for awhile now in many of the greater venues around chicago, you've even traveled the greater midwest spreading love and laughter...have you ever gotten busy in in a comedy club, how far have you gone, with who and how was it?
Yes, some business has been taken care of in the comedy clubs. It has always been
very tasteful and tender business, oddly enough. I think it's important to have feelings for the people you are with, and to then get overly attached and act inappropriate towards them.
What is your stripper name (first childhood pet, and
name of the first street you lived on)?
Brandy Unknown
You're planning a trip to southeast Asia. First, what
is Southeast Asia and second, why are you going there
and what will you do when you are there? What will you
buy me?
Southeast Asia is China's sexy little sister. She teeters around on clear plastic heels and drinks way too much. She is constantly making out with European and Scandinavian backpackers, entertaining pedophiles and making really good meals. Southeast Asia includes Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Malaysia, the Phillipines, the Krati Peninsula, the Galapagos, Puerto Rico and all Sandals Resorts.
I am going for the only reason I do anything: DRAMA! Angkor Wat in Cambodia is the world's largest religious structure. It was the crown jewel of the great Khmer empire--and is the only building visible from outer space! Then things started to go not so well for the Khmer: the Thai army came, the French came and in the 1970s the Khmer Rouge took over and ended up killing 2 million of their own people. It's a huge failure you can see from outer space. This moves me. The things that humans can do--and undo. I want to see it with my own two eyes (pointing two fingers to my eyes). Also, I have a friend over there in Cambodia who is very dear to me and I would like to see him.
You lived with me for 3 years, what was the grossest
thing about living with me?
There was a period there when it smelled like Jeremy was bowel-movementing iron ore. I don't know what was going on with him gastrointestinally, but it was not good. It was this weird metallicy-sweet smell that really worried all of us. It was strongest at our middle place: "2324" and subsided towards the end, at "1761." For a while I thought it was how our bathrooms smelled, but there were three of us and it wasn't happening with Geoffrey and me. Of course, now, I miss that smell.
You've told me you've had your purse stolen repeatedly
over the last year. What do you have in your purse?
Take your time and list all of the contents.
First off, I purchased a Le SportSac bag in NY. It was very expensive and, I thought, very French. I've only seen LeSportsac stores in Waikiki and NYC. I thought that meant "class." Then I started noticing that the only people who had LeSportsacs were overweight 50 year old women at museums.
Inside..there is
Ipod
palm pilot
FACE Stockholm pale pink lipstick
Black Honey Clinique lipgloss
Clinique powder
protective goggles for when I go tanning
a black Uni-Ball pen (micro of course)
a cool looking yellow mod notebook from Target
Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi
Aleve gelcaps
SuperGroom nail and cuticle groomer from Blisslabs NY
and
Eclipse gum.
Oh, and my wallet, which I received in the mail in April after having it stolen from me in November. People are good at heart! (Except for me--I just disparaged overweight 50 year old women. But it's not like I won't be one someday.)
Have you ever had an STD? I have. If you haven't which
STD would you choose?
I have not had an STD. I did at one point have an STP bumper sticker on the back of my car, which is, yes, very very regrettable. I would chose to have crabs. I think it's the cutest one to have. It's almost like having a musical in your pants. What STD did you have? Wasn't it crabs?
What is love?
Love is an endless, aching need. It is for me anyways. Did I quote Bette Midler correctly there? There are many types of love: mad, crazy in love love; brotherly, sisterly love; you work in the cubicle next to me and yell "oh momma!" and "whatta knucklehead!" and make me laugh love, i didn't want to be with you at first but now it's quite comfortable and great love....many types. They all make us feel connected to another and help to remove cinderblock by cinderblock the cylindrical wall that surrounds us. Maybe? I personally love love. I can't wait to love again. There is a sticker pasted around Wicker Park that says "Love Again." Please. Give me a break....(teary eyed) Thank you.
I need to go buy cigarettes but I'm not sure what time
Walgreens opens but I'm gonna go ahead and assume that
they are open. While I'm gone, please tell me who
you'd rather french kiss Katie Couric, Kathie Lee
Gifford or Condi Rice..set the scene.
I think there is something about Katie Couric. I hear she is evil--and she has no lips. There's something there. I want to explore it. It would have to involve a city, a big black car and too many glasses of chardonnay at a "gala."
I'm back. What is the biggest misconception about Kara
Buller?
Unfortunately, there are no misconceptions. Everyone is dead-on. One co-worker did tell me I always look very pulled-together, very stylish. I fear she was very wrong.
Well, we've all been reading about how you're going to
uproot and move to the Big Apple and take it by storm.
On March 25, 1911 the Triangle Factory Fire in
Greenwich Village took the lives of 145 female garment
workers, which would eventually lead to great
advancements in the city's fire department, building
codes, and workplace regulations. So, what are you
wearing today?
Oh, it's terrible. Red dress pants that hit just above the ankle, black strappy high heeled sandals that smell bad, a black sweater with a gold neckband and an orange and green scarf wrapped around my head. I woke up late and didn't have time to wash my hair. I smell very animally too. I kind of like it though.
Where were you born? Now, rearrange the letters of the
town you were born in and then try to make a word out
of them. Put that word into a sentence. Quickly..we
don't have all day.
Ithaca, New York. Chaita. I chaita do it but I couldn't.
Thank you for your time today, Kara Buller. Is there
anything you'd like to say to The Jeremy Show viewers?
Yeah, I took Jeremy's security deposit and went to Asia with it. It wasn't right. It wasn't polite. But we're going to work through this. I'm sorry if this in anyway hurt the show. We'll talk about it off camera.
Maybe you could buy me an Ipod and not one of those little pansy ones either. I want a big honker.
Where can our viewers come to see you live? What's
your schedule?
I am hosting at Gunther Murphys Aug 2. I do open mics at Bad Dog and Crush. That's it. When I get to New York, you'll be seeing me at all the big-name clubs. New York cannot resist a smelly girl in a scarf. I know it.
Kara Buller has agreed to open up her life and her purse for The Jeremy Show. Kara Buller is a stand up comedian who has been tearing up the boards on the Chicago Stand-Up circuit for years.From Kara's bio- "During her six years in Chicago, Kara Buller has done just about all you can do to a stage. She has been a theater critic, writer, actor, improviser, stand-up comic, story-teller, and instructor. She has written and performed three shows in Chicago: A Fag & His Hag, Work (both with Jeremy Wells) and Cowboy Crushes, Prank Calls & The Biblette. In response to her two-person show A Fag & His Hag, The Chicago Reader claimed Buller showed "great comic promise, with a self-deprecating edge to her carefully enunciated phrasing."
You've been doing stand up comedy for awhile now in many of the greater venues around chicago, you've even traveled the greater midwest spreading love and laughter...have you ever gotten busy in in a comedy club, how far have you gone, with who and how was it?
Yes, some business has been taken care of in the comedy clubs. It has always been
very tasteful and tender business, oddly enough. I think it's important to have feelings for the people you are with, and to then get overly attached and act inappropriate towards them.
What is your stripper name (first childhood pet, and
name of the first street you lived on)?
Brandy Unknown
You're planning a trip to southeast Asia. First, what
is Southeast Asia and second, why are you going there
and what will you do when you are there? What will you
buy me?
Southeast Asia is China's sexy little sister. She teeters around on clear plastic heels and drinks way too much. She is constantly making out with European and Scandinavian backpackers, entertaining pedophiles and making really good meals. Southeast Asia includes Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Malaysia, the Phillipines, the Krati Peninsula, the Galapagos, Puerto Rico and all Sandals Resorts.
I am going for the only reason I do anything: DRAMA! Angkor Wat in Cambodia is the world's largest religious structure. It was the crown jewel of the great Khmer empire--and is the only building visible from outer space! Then things started to go not so well for the Khmer: the Thai army came, the French came and in the 1970s the Khmer Rouge took over and ended up killing 2 million of their own people. It's a huge failure you can see from outer space. This moves me. The things that humans can do--and undo. I want to see it with my own two eyes (pointing two fingers to my eyes). Also, I have a friend over there in Cambodia who is very dear to me and I would like to see him.
You lived with me for 3 years, what was the grossest
thing about living with me?
There was a period there when it smelled like Jeremy was bowel-movementing iron ore. I don't know what was going on with him gastrointestinally, but it was not good. It was this weird metallicy-sweet smell that really worried all of us. It was strongest at our middle place: "2324" and subsided towards the end, at "1761." For a while I thought it was how our bathrooms smelled, but there were three of us and it wasn't happening with Geoffrey and me. Of course, now, I miss that smell.
You've told me you've had your purse stolen repeatedly
over the last year. What do you have in your purse?
Take your time and list all of the contents.
First off, I purchased a Le SportSac bag in NY. It was very expensive and, I thought, very French. I've only seen LeSportsac stores in Waikiki and NYC. I thought that meant "class." Then I started noticing that the only people who had LeSportsacs were overweight 50 year old women at museums.
Inside..there is
Ipod
palm pilot
FACE Stockholm pale pink lipstick
Black Honey Clinique lipgloss
Clinique powder
protective goggles for when I go tanning
a black Uni-Ball pen (micro of course)
a cool looking yellow mod notebook from Target
Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi
Aleve gelcaps
SuperGroom nail and cuticle groomer from Blisslabs NY
and
Eclipse gum.
Oh, and my wallet, which I received in the mail in April after having it stolen from me in November. People are good at heart! (Except for me--I just disparaged overweight 50 year old women. But it's not like I won't be one someday.)
Have you ever had an STD? I have. If you haven't which
STD would you choose?
I have not had an STD. I did at one point have an STP bumper sticker on the back of my car, which is, yes, very very regrettable. I would chose to have crabs. I think it's the cutest one to have. It's almost like having a musical in your pants. What STD did you have? Wasn't it crabs?
What is love?
Love is an endless, aching need. It is for me anyways. Did I quote Bette Midler correctly there? There are many types of love: mad, crazy in love love; brotherly, sisterly love; you work in the cubicle next to me and yell "oh momma!" and "whatta knucklehead!" and make me laugh love, i didn't want to be with you at first but now it's quite comfortable and great love....many types. They all make us feel connected to another and help to remove cinderblock by cinderblock the cylindrical wall that surrounds us. Maybe? I personally love love. I can't wait to love again. There is a sticker pasted around Wicker Park that says "Love Again." Please. Give me a break....(teary eyed) Thank you.
I need to go buy cigarettes but I'm not sure what time
Walgreens opens but I'm gonna go ahead and assume that
they are open. While I'm gone, please tell me who
you'd rather french kiss Katie Couric, Kathie Lee
Gifford or Condi Rice..set the scene.
I think there is something about Katie Couric. I hear she is evil--and she has no lips. There's something there. I want to explore it. It would have to involve a city, a big black car and too many glasses of chardonnay at a "gala."
I'm back. What is the biggest misconception about Kara
Buller?
Unfortunately, there are no misconceptions. Everyone is dead-on. One co-worker did tell me I always look very pulled-together, very stylish. I fear she was very wrong.
Well, we've all been reading about how you're going to
uproot and move to the Big Apple and take it by storm.
On March 25, 1911 the Triangle Factory Fire in
Greenwich Village took the lives of 145 female garment
workers, which would eventually lead to great
advancements in the city's fire department, building
codes, and workplace regulations. So, what are you
wearing today?
Oh, it's terrible. Red dress pants that hit just above the ankle, black strappy high heeled sandals that smell bad, a black sweater with a gold neckband and an orange and green scarf wrapped around my head. I woke up late and didn't have time to wash my hair. I smell very animally too. I kind of like it though.
Where were you born? Now, rearrange the letters of the
town you were born in and then try to make a word out
of them. Put that word into a sentence. Quickly..we
don't have all day.
Ithaca, New York. Chaita. I chaita do it but I couldn't.
Thank you for your time today, Kara Buller. Is there
anything you'd like to say to The Jeremy Show viewers?
Yeah, I took Jeremy's security deposit and went to Asia with it. It wasn't right. It wasn't polite. But we're going to work through this. I'm sorry if this in anyway hurt the show. We'll talk about it off camera.
Maybe you could buy me an Ipod and not one of those little pansy ones either. I want a big honker.
Where can our viewers come to see you live? What's
your schedule?
I am hosting at Gunther Murphys Aug 2. I do open mics at Bad Dog and Crush. That's it. When I get to New York, you'll be seeing me at all the big-name clubs. New York cannot resist a smelly girl in a scarf. I know it.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Sokla
I'm convinced my love affair ended because of some bad karma arising out of the way I treated Sokla, a 27 year-old orphaned by the Khmer Rouge. For most of my time in Cambodia, Sokla was my driver, making 5 to 13 USD from me everyday. He had the face of a god in a Hindu sculpture: strong cheekbones a
I made the mistake of taking him out to dinner, breakfast, saying maybe I could go out to the country with him and see his grandma, yes I would come back to Cambodia, yeah, maybe we could go to a disco...the list goes on. The truth is I used him. I used him as company. When we went riding around on his bike, we sat with our thighs pressing against each other, making a double-layered "v" if viewed from above. When he told me he loved me and asked if I loved him, I didn't say no. I said, "sure."
I'm sorry, Sokla. I will dedicate my next performance to you. I will work my ass off so I can fly back to Cambodia and find you and tell you I am sorry. I didn't mean to lead you on. I didn't mean to make you dream of things that were never going to happen. And I'm sorry that then happened to me... but most of all I am sorry you are in Cambodia and want to come to America.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
You Gotta Do Wyoming
My friend Tracy just called to tell me I need to go to Wyoming. I would slay in Wyoming. The college kids would petition Hollywood and make me a star. That was very kind of Tracy. It is kind of her to look out for me. Unfortunately, I have more important things to tend to. Like fake apartment hunting and admiring my fading beauty in a hand mirror and googling love interests' ex-girlfriends for a half hour. Here, I am not kidding. Folks, how is a girl to make it?
A Vietnamese landlord hugged me today when I told her I just got back from Vietnam. Poor lady. Now she is in America, where yuppie girls fake apartment hunt for their own amusement. If you ever get tired of being you, just come up with a fake name, fake situation and start looking for Apartment for Rent signs. "Yes, I am looking for a three bedroom. It would be me and my two adopted children. My husband, their father, is out on the road. You guessed it, steak knife sales..." Am I really fake apartment hunting? Perhaps I really am interested...These cards. I hold very close to chest. Yes?
Folks, the book recommendation of the day is the beautifully written Night Draws Near: Iraq's People in the Shadow of America's War by Pulitzer Prize winning journalist Anthony Shahid. I'm only on page 27 so PLEASE hold your questions. So far, of note:
--"Nobody walks into a room in the Arab world without being greeted. Nobody." That's great. If it's true.
--"They're going to burn the forest to kill the fox," says one Iraqi artist nervously, days before the Americans come.
--You really get the sense that these Iraqis are far more sensitive, worldly, and informed than George Bush could ever hope to be. The absurdity of the situation sickens you--the idea that this nitwit from Texas has the power to terrorize these people in an ancient land on the other side of the world.
--Iraqis don't frequently use the word for freedom, but the word for justice comes up often. Here in America we're really heavy on the freedom, and not so into the justice lately it seems. We use the word for freedom in ads for cell phone plans and maxi pads and pills. Justice and fairness, that ain't our bag.
A Vietnamese landlord hugged me today when I told her I just got back from Vietnam. Poor lady. Now she is in America, where yuppie girls fake apartment hunt for their own amusement. If you ever get tired of being you, just come up with a fake name, fake situation and start looking for Apartment for Rent signs. "Yes, I am looking for a three bedroom. It would be me and my two adopted children. My husband, their father, is out on the road. You guessed it, steak knife sales..." Am I really fake apartment hunting? Perhaps I really am interested...These cards. I hold very close to chest. Yes?
Folks, the book recommendation of the day is the beautifully written Night Draws Near: Iraq's People in the Shadow of America's War by Pulitzer Prize winning journalist Anthony Shahid. I'm only on page 27 so PLEASE hold your questions. So far, of note:
--"Nobody walks into a room in the Arab world without being greeted. Nobody." That's great. If it's true.
--"They're going to burn the forest to kill the fox," says one Iraqi artist nervously, days before the Americans come.
--You really get the sense that these Iraqis are far more sensitive, worldly, and informed than George Bush could ever hope to be. The absurdity of the situation sickens you--the idea that this nitwit from Texas has the power to terrorize these people in an ancient land on the other side of the world.
--Iraqis don't frequently use the word for freedom, but the word for justice comes up often. Here in America we're really heavy on the freedom, and not so into the justice lately it seems. We use the word for freedom in ads for cell phone plans and maxi pads and pills. Justice and fairness, that ain't our bag.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Breakfast
It's six am Cambodia time and I am ready to go. Even though I went to bed at three. God this sleep disorder is out of control. I have jet lag embedded inside of a serious sleep disorder. So here we are again with the lonliness and the books and the not sleeping in the hotel room. I organize my stuff. I organize it again. I shower. I realize I left my shower products at the fancy hotel in Bangkok. Great. Now I have to use Khmer Rouge Shampoo. I fix my hair. I read. I readjust my hair. Do I look like a lesbian soccer mom? They do exist right? If they do they look exactly like me. I go down to the lobby and email. I tell them "On Jerome's house account, okay? On house account." This hotel is not getting one cent from me. I'm hungry now. Great. There is nothing I want more than a big Ann Sather breakfast laid out on a table full of my friends and a big tall man who loves me. But it's not 2002 or whenever stuff like that happened in my life. I am in Cambodia. Where Jerome did not let me crash at his place.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Jerome and Lucy
While Jerome was taking me to get Valium he was talking to his little Khmer princess on the phone. She would be joining us for dinner. According to Jerome she's the most beautiful girl in all of Cambodia. Well, this I have got to see. I am not even the most beautiful girl in all of Albany Park, Chicago so to say I am feeling insecure and intimidated is to say, well is to say I'm not loaded up on Valium.
Somehow I end up paying for dinner because I'm the only one with cash one me. This is suspect. I think I read about this in a Dear Abby article. If it happens again, I should act like I forgot my wallet as well. I'm having a Dear Abby moment with a sex casino operator and his former hooker Khmer princess girlfriend. There is so much to not like about this situation.
Later we go back to the sex casino and drink and watch satellite television. At some point Lucy starts freaking out about Jerome not giving her enough attention and something about past girls and affairs and I kinda wanna say "Honey, this is soo U of I 1998. He was pulling this shit then too." Then she mentions him hitting her. Well, this is a new element. And not one any Midwestern liberal girl can stomach. What the fuck is she talking about? She goes into detail about black and blue eyes and cuts to her face. I'm on my third gin and tonic so it's time to kick Jerome's ass. Although, that seems contradictory and also physically impossible given his six foot frame. So I just verbally freak out at him. He says of course she's lying. All Khmer do is lie. Hmph. Jerome and I did have a relationship as transparent as Simone de Beauvoir's and Sartre's and he never lied to me and never spared me any detail about his life so maybe he's telling the truth now. Hmph. I At one point I find Lucy in the bathroom freaking out again. "He not give me ten dollah. I say if you love me you can give me ten dollah. He sleep too with other women. He sleep with one Vietnamee, he sleep with two Vietnamee." Hey, wasn't that a Dr. Seuss book? "One Vietnamee, Two Vietnamee." Okay, Kara, no jokes, this is a defenseless girl losing her mind, breaking down crying, abused by an American and tortured by demons that seem waaay too familiar. I tell her that she needs to make a choice. He is a womanizer and a sex addict and she needs to either accept that or move on. "He not even give me ten dollah. I tell him I have no money." Well, I see my little Dr. Phil moment is not having the impact I thought it would. Fuck her. Learn some English. Get a job. And leave men that treat you like shit. Simple. As. That.
So then I go back to talk to Jerome. At some point Lucy comes back out and starts fighting with him again and he threatens to call security on her. Which honestly, made me sort of jealous. You know it's love when someone's threatening to call security. I never loved a man so much he had to call the police on me. Although, I hear my text messaging to a certain ex made him want to change his phone. BUT HE DIDN'T. You hear what I'm saying? Men love this kind of dramatic attention. It makes them feel like Blake Carrington. "All these crazy women! So in love with me! When will the madness stop?!" As soon as you decide to file a restraining order.
Jerome brings us to a bar that he says is the most intense and dangerous in all of Asia. Whatever that means. It looks like the homo bar Berlin in Chicago. Well, old school Berlin. Black and silver. The way a bar should look. Not all this sumptuous orange and red couch shit. I want it punk rock. And here, we got it. I guess people are doing a lot of drugs...Hmmm....and everyone is Asian and the music is this techno thrash speed metal type stuff that's kinda creeping me out.
At the end of the night, Jerome and Lucy head off to do whatever and he says goodnight to me. "Tomorrow! Royal Palace"
Whatever. Tomorrow I leave your sex hotel
Somehow I end up paying for dinner because I'm the only one with cash one me. This is suspect. I think I read about this in a Dear Abby article. If it happens again, I should act like I forgot my wallet as well. I'm having a Dear Abby moment with a sex casino operator and his former hooker Khmer princess girlfriend. There is so much to not like about this situation.
Later we go back to the sex casino and drink and watch satellite television. At some point Lucy starts freaking out about Jerome not giving her enough attention and something about past girls and affairs and I kinda wanna say "Honey, this is soo U of I 1998. He was pulling this shit then too." Then she mentions him hitting her. Well, this is a new element. And not one any Midwestern liberal girl can stomach. What the fuck is she talking about? She goes into detail about black and blue eyes and cuts to her face. I'm on my third gin and tonic so it's time to kick Jerome's ass. Although, that seems contradictory and also physically impossible given his six foot frame. So I just verbally freak out at him. He says of course she's lying. All Khmer do is lie. Hmph. Jerome and I did have a relationship as transparent as Simone de Beauvoir's and Sartre's and he never lied to me and never spared me any detail about his life so maybe he's telling the truth now. Hmph. I At one point I find Lucy in the bathroom freaking out again. "He not give me ten dollah. I say if you love me you can give me ten dollah. He sleep too with other women. He sleep with one Vietnamee, he sleep with two Vietnamee." Hey, wasn't that a Dr. Seuss book? "One Vietnamee, Two Vietnamee." Okay, Kara, no jokes, this is a defenseless girl losing her mind, breaking down crying, abused by an American and tortured by demons that seem waaay too familiar. I tell her that she needs to make a choice. He is a womanizer and a sex addict and she needs to either accept that or move on. "He not even give me ten dollah. I tell him I have no money." Well, I see my little Dr. Phil moment is not having the impact I thought it would. Fuck her. Learn some English. Get a job. And leave men that treat you like shit. Simple. As. That.
So then I go back to talk to Jerome. At some point Lucy comes back out and starts fighting with him again and he threatens to call security on her. Which honestly, made me sort of jealous. You know it's love when someone's threatening to call security. I never loved a man so much he had to call the police on me. Although, I hear my text messaging to a certain ex made him want to change his phone. BUT HE DIDN'T. You hear what I'm saying? Men love this kind of dramatic attention. It makes them feel like Blake Carrington. "All these crazy women! So in love with me! When will the madness stop?!" As soon as you decide to file a restraining order.
Jerome brings us to a bar that he says is the most intense and dangerous in all of Asia. Whatever that means. It looks like the homo bar Berlin in Chicago. Well, old school Berlin. Black and silver. The way a bar should look. Not all this sumptuous orange and red couch shit. I want it punk rock. And here, we got it. I guess people are doing a lot of drugs...Hmmm....and everyone is Asian and the music is this techno thrash speed metal type stuff that's kinda creeping me out.
At the end of the night, Jerome and Lucy head off to do whatever and he says goodnight to me. "Tomorrow! Royal Palace"
Whatever. Tomorrow I leave your sex hotel
Yes Hi, I Would Like Some Valium? Valium?
I walked down towards that freeway or whatever the hell it is but before I got there Jerome showed up on the back of a moped. Time had certainly written a story on his face, if you get what I mean. Time has written a story on mine too, but I edit it with an excellent anti-oxident mattifier from DDF and Chanel creme poudre in "claire." Men have no such weapons in their arsenals...although I am reminded of a certain gay friend from U of I who kept a wonderful stash of cosmetics going. He didn't use them, he just collected them and pulled them out every now and then to look at, like a box of one's grandfathers war medals. This whole experience is going to require me to book two dermatologists to deal with the stress effects on my skin. Jerome did drive me to a pharmacy to get the Valium I need to deal with all the bikes, sheep and palpable resentment I feel for him. Palpable like I'm sure he can feel it. Good. Things are weird between us. Maybe that's what happens when people don't show up in foreign cities like they are supposed to!
At the pharmacy I mess up and get Xanax. Xanax does take away the evil stepsister Anxiety but doesn't replace her with her hot distant cousin "Floating in Space." For that, you need Valium, which makes everything oooookaaay. But luckily this is Cambodia and you can just go right back to the pharmacy and for 2 dollars get what you really need. Flight crew prepare for take off.
At the pharmacy I mess up and get Xanax. Xanax does take away the evil stepsister Anxiety but doesn't replace her with her hot distant cousin "Floating in Space." For that, you need Valium, which makes everything oooookaaay. But luckily this is Cambodia and you can just go right back to the pharmacy and for 2 dollars get what you really need. Flight crew prepare for take off.
I Am Not Leaving This Khmer Rouge Hotel Room
I am readying myself for battle. That is what one has to do in these situations. Ready oneself for battle. Hunker down. Steel oneself. I have no idea what is going on outside on that "freeway." There certainly was no order I can tell you that. I've never seen so many people on mopeds. Well, of course not. I've seen those pictures of Asians on bicycles, sure. But here we have mopeds, cars, sheep and bicycles. I didn't see any pedestrians nor any sidewalks. Certainly no bicycle lanes. Plus, I think I saw an AK-47. It seems very dangerous outside this room.
I am not leaving my Khmer Rouge hotel room.
Yes I am. I'm not going to wait for Jerome any more. I know he said he was going to come find me but I've heard that one before. I am going for a walk. A Cambodian walk. And so I am readying myself for battle. A little daub of lipstick, some powder, we're ready to go. Cambodia, here comes Kara.
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