Closed Captioning for the Jive Impaired

Put This Black History In Your Pipe And Smoke It

2012-02-09T01:12:00.000-08:00

Rest in peace to the leader of the Jackson 5.

Play Auntie

2012-02-03T13:22:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite games as a kid was to play House. You'd get a group of children and we all decided who would play which role. There was always a mama, daddy, son, daughter and even a doggie. Your house was someones porch. The garden was a patch of grass. Everyone gathered food--twigs, berries, dandelions. A flattened cardboard box became the dance floor...the theatre. Where we performed for each other. Playing "house" was always my favorite game. It was a time of limitless imagination. A time where without really knowing it, we created family.

Ay man, that's my play brother. Don't talk like that to him.
My play sister hooked me up with the interview, and if I get the job I'm straight.
That's my play uncle. He usta come pick us up when my mama was too drunk.
You remember my play mama right? Girl yeah, she helped me get the down payment.
That's my play daddy-my god daddy....he fixed the engine leak.

It truly does take a village to raise a fucker--especially in a village ghettoland. We had such a great life growing up. Our mothers didn't play Bridge, or have pie baking contests at the local hall. But they did create a loving environment for us all. A fierce group of lionesses that watched their cubs, and would pounce at the first sign of danger.

I never felt unloved, and certainly unwatched. I don't know if it's a cultural specific thing, but I can only speak to my unique Black midwestern (by the way of the Mason-Dixon) upbringing. We all had "play" relatives. My play cousin. My play mama. My play brother. It's a term that basically means an adopted person with whom you identify as family. The Jones-Matthew clan were my play relatives. We have all been neighbors since 1980. I've known them all since I was a toddler. Our mothers were close friends, the kids even closer, and now there are even a few grandkid crumbsnatchers.

Cecilia Jones Aaron. Mae Mae as we affectionately called her. Wife to Dave, mother to Danielle, twin sister to Cynthia. Mae did not suffer fools gladly--but she did gladly make fools suffer. She was acerbic with that gatdamn tongue, and funny as hell. Watching Mae Mae, Pill, Sylvia and my mom sit on the porch cracking them Stroh's keeping a watchful eye over us all as we played from dawn til dusk. My childhood bestie Boom and I, kept a watchful eye on the adults, as much they did on us. All little girls, want to emulate the adult women: lipstick, coiffed hair and pretty perfume. But that ain't what we were after. We watched them like hawks because we knew the moment they finished one of those beers, who ever made it to the fridge to retrieve the new ice cold beer? Got to finish the suds from the old one.

Now I know some of you are thinking "oh my god, those little girls were drinking beer?" And to you I say: We sho in the fuck did.

Boom, and I would tear through my mothers house trying to knock each other down to get that new beer. No matter who "won" the race, we'd always share the suds with each other--licking at it like some goddamned cake batter. And by the time we made it to high school we didn't need to sneak liquor like some of our peers. I can remember the first time someone offered me some Malibu Rum. I remember quipping "Naw hammer, I'm straight. Got me some Jack Daniels waiting on me at the crib. Later dickheads, oh and try not to get pregnant."

Mae Mae and Pill (her twin sister Cynthia) took us to Girl Scouts on the weekend, and the YMCA during the week. Back when you had to be back in the house by the time the "street lights" came on. Back when if you were outside being "fast" with a little boy, you caught hell from your "play auntie". Your play auntie watched you off to prom, brought over a casserole of food to celebrate your graduation, and slipped 20 bucks in your pocket as you set off on a journey to conquer Hollywood.

We never stop playing House.

Life goes on, and roles change. Your play sister has a kid, and then you become a play aunt. Your play father gets a slowed down by Diabetes and you make sure to race up the stairs an offer him your cheek to kiss, so that he has always something sweet. Your play auntie gets plagued by cancer and you must now figure out your new role. My spirit was seized by her pain. I didn't know what role to play. While I sat back, terrified and deeply saddened. Cancer fucking sucks, no other way to put it. What kind of role does one play, when that awful disease disrupts life? While I sat back, I watched my mother take her new role to her play sister in the game of House. The play sister became Play Mother.

She help feed her food when she had no appetite. Rubbed down her legs. Watched tv with her. And naturally, told her dirty jokes to keep her laughing.

I talk to my Mami at least 4 times a day. And in recent months, almost every time I called, Mami was across the street. "I'm with my daughter. We drinking coconut water. It's gross as hell, but it works them white people say it helps."

When Mae Mae would get fussy and try to give my mother a hard time my Mami should "You don't tell me what to do. I'm the mama little girl. Now come on and eat one more bite..."

Last night, something in my spirit wouldn't let me sleep. I was restless, antsy and my thoughts were hazy and unfocused. I fretted over my back taxes, unemployment and need for health insurance. So I did what one does now a days when your thoughts race. I downloaded new apps, watched Braxton Family Values--I even tried sipping on some wine...but it tasted bad. It was a fine bottle, but it just didn't sit right with me. I got a few hours sleep, and before making my coffee I called my Mami. She told me that Mae had passed during the night-- along with my cousin Napoleon.

James Napoleon Hardy was my cousin who knew all the family history. I'd speak with him on the telephone ever so often, to ask him questions about where we came from. He told me about my great great grandfather Garfield Hardy who came over from England and married into my family. We also had a indigenous influence in our family tree. "Your great grandmother was red like brick. Stern eyes like a Indian. And her mother? Was just plain injun. Tall, long hair, flat feet. All them Cherokee was down in that area--Miss' sippi. Like it or not, we are apart of their history, and they ours."

Stories about my grandmother Josephine (my namesake), being a great athlete and had amazing arms earning her the nickname Hoss. She was always in the fields playing ball with the boys; she had no tolerance for girly things. That passed onto my mother, and naturally to me. I guess directing Mr. Rickey Calls A Meeting, a play about baseball has a totally new meaning to me now. And as for the love of alchohol, I'm just gone blame it on that white man. My great great limey grandpappy.

With each conversation with Napoleon, I learned more. He was my connection to my past. It always bothered me to not have ton information about my family tree. Sadly that's an adverse affect of slavery. Sometimes, I see those ancestry.com commercials and get to frothing at the mouth like a rabid schnauzer. I silently wish a plague of ear wigs munching at their brain matter, those fuckheads on those spots. I'd have better luck phoning up The Ghostbusters, and finding out about the past--before I called up ancestry.com.

I always reminded myself to call him more often. But then he died in his sleep. Just like that. I was shocked by his passing, and then angry with myself for not doing more.

Two relatives, gone. I sat quietly as my mother filled in the details. She wasn't maudlin or sad about it. No melodrama or harsh words. She just said "Well, they both doin' real good now."

Needless to say, it's been an interesting past couple of hours. 2 in one day is rough--I pray there isn't a third. I suppose this is how life Is. The sun sets and rises. Squirrels play in your tree and runs along the tight rope that supplies your home with electricity. We use that power for our computers, where we type words to one another. We use update statuses to let the world know how we are feeling...but today, I think I'll back away from that. I'm going to the nursery to grab a seeds to plant something for Mae Mae and Napoleon.

Although none of those girls drink anymore, I'm raising a beer to you right Mae Mae. And to you Napoleon, I'll pick up from where you left off. I will keep digging for my family history. Hopefully I'll discover that David Beckham is my cousin, and he'll give me some of that young fresh money. I'll say "Hey dude--we're family. You kick balls, and I like balls...so lets reunite fucker."

Familia. Ohana. Fam. Peoples. Clan. Tribe. Soror. Frat. Friend...whatever you call them, I hope that you pay tribute to them today. Just take a little moment, and smile--knowing that you have them. Good, bad or ugly--they're yours. And you are mine. Yes, YOU.

ciao for now fuckers,
x


Cecilia "Mae Mae" Jones-Aaron

Our American History

Good old English Black American 'hood values.

We Wish You Love And Peace Upon Your Soul

2012-02-01T08:24:00.000-08:00

Don Cornelius 1936-2012

Sometimes one is haunted by his own wings
and forgets how to take flight
to flock
to kiss the sky
and the bask in the golden time of day.
We forget that a broken wing doesn't mean
that you cannot fly.
We forget that some fly in circles.
Traveling without moving.

Still in my heart, he soars.

Rest in Power
Paradise sweet prince.
We bid you adieu
but not before we wish you
Love. Peace. And Soul.

If You Can't Fuck The Monkey? Then Make Friends With the Organ Grinder: 2012 & Other Victories For Us All

2012-01-28T14:48:00.000-08:00

Ciao fuckers!!!!

Oh my word, how are mum's little possums? I miss you all like I miss my virginity! I miss you like I miss McDonaldland cookies. I miss you like the Magikist sign off of the Chicago expressways. I miss you like hookers miss turning tricks in Times Square. Like an Englishman misses colonizing every dark nation. I know you have all been wondering "Where the fuck is that rancid slag? I need my dosage of Tom Dickery. I need to look at her ridiculous life so that I can feel better about mine." Well don't you worry baby. Just because it's a New Year doesn't mean I'm not the same dysfunctional, skirt chasing, dick joke making, bigoted, profligate--hell bent on making you laugh. So pour yourself a stiff one, and before you take the first sip---pour libation. Libations for the brothers that ain't here. Libation to honor your deity. Give over to this ceremony, and give thanks for life.

So it's a New Year! And many of you have avowed NOT to do that same old shit. You are ready to shed your old habits, so you make a list: You won't drive and text. Do more kegels.You won't check your Facebook account more than 5 times a day. You won't use so many contractions when you speak. You *will not* let him stick the tip in. You will no longer hoard food like a fat fucker in Anne Franks attic. You will not baptize people with racial epitaphs anymore...okay, just not as much while driving. You will not send cyanide to Newt, Mitt, Ron, and Mickey Bachmann anymore. Downloading porn has slowed down your laptop, so no more of that. You will speak your mind, and stop swallowing your feelings. You will run an extra mile. No more biscuits slathered with margarine and high fructose jelly from Popeyes. Add on 20 more sit ups. Enlist in Bikram Yoga. Stop eating so many fried foods. No more gossip & meddling. Smile at your neighbor even though you hate the smell of curried foods and cannot understand his/her culture. You don't understand WHY some Black people speak SO loudly into their cellphones when they're riding public transportation, but you will not give them dirty looks. Hold the elevator for that co-worker who seems to have a stank attitude every morning; knowing that it is not personal. You will smile at her, with hopes of infecting her with an inkling of happiness. All the markings of a New Year.

Just know, that you will FAIL at every single resolution that you make. Kidding. You're gonna be fine baby. I had plenty of moments in 2011, that I'm not too proud of. I wish that I could gather up all that awful shit, throw it on to my back seat...drive to the forest...and drop those problems like an unwanted pet--and drive off.

But life doesn't work that way.

I don't believe in resolutions myself, but I do believe in change...in evolution, atonement and forgiveness. Okay, that's a lie. I still hate my ex from waaay back. Voldemort, the talentless bait of falsehood who slithered amongst the lowest of men. Voldemort who had me shortsighted and debilitated. An infested bag of dicks, that one. I'd empty a hornets nest into his under roos if possible! I--**Remembers the words of Tony Robbins. Does a yoga pose, and lights a bowl.

Exhale...

So I'm not perfect that this game of life yet. But I'll be damned, if I spend yet another cycle terrified of everything. Terrified of failure. Poverty. Being miserly about my imagination. I'm bored with that bullshit. I've done it. And done it quite well. It's time for a change.

Something is a bit different this year for me. And I'm not referring to the mis-interpreted Eurocentric view of the Mayan calendar. THE WORLD IS NOT GOING TO END. Yes, I know we've damned the planet to hell with global warming, but we cannot subscribe to doom & gloom theories. I do believe it's a year where we will all experience a great change. A shift in the consciousness. A time of abundance, great fortune and power. It's the Year of the Dragon. In Chinese astrology/culture--it is my birth year. Some of you who don't know me well may think that the only part of Chinese culture that I celebrate is the fact that my hair is imported from there. Well, aside from P.F. Changs and wavy hair #4, there is a lot to be said about this mythic creature who rules me. This divine beast, in Western culture has always been feared--hunted, and slayed. But for those of us who know better, the Dragon is a free spirit that must be uninhibited. The creature is colorful and flamboyant and utterly irrepressible. A bundle of energy.

You don't have to be born in the Year of the Dragon to have Dragon like characteristics: innovation, passion, and enterprise to name a few. We can't all be Dragons...but wouldn't it be nice, if we all marched towards innovation? If we could all trust that we have the courage for unyielding greatness? Bruce Lee didn't wow the world, because he was a good looking Yellow man with high kicks. Sifu Bruce Lee was iconic, because he was an artist and philospher who shared his brilliance with the world. As a young Black girl growing up on the Southside he let me know that I could do whatever I set my mind to. Yeah, I know this all sounds like a bunch of Hong Kong phooey...but I learned a lot about myself in 2011, especially being in China. I learned how to re-direct my enthusiasm and hold fast to my creativity. It did not come effortlessly--I spent many a day doubled over in pain...and bless god, I always had someone to hold me up when I felt like I could not go on.

I am in a good place, right now. The ending of 2011 into 2012 has been jaw dropping. I was fortunate to present a production Mr. Rickey Calls A Meeting that I am very proud of at my artistic home Lookingglass Theatre. I met some of my childhood baseball heroes, Minnie Minoso & Johnny "Lefty" Washington. I spent time with friends and family. I've taken baby steps to get my finances in order. I've been showered with love by splendid people. I still have much cleaning to do in my "house"...which is what one does in the Chinese new year. You clean house, forgive trespasses, and light firecrackers to scare away bad spirits.

So mummy's little possum--I do hope that you will forgive me for any slights toward you. I hope that you will accept that dragon in you, and work consistently to achieve your goals. And who cares if you weren't born in the Year of the Dragon. Like I said, if you can't fuck the monkey--then make friends with the organ grinder. Find a way to be Dragon-like, and release the bad spirits. And if you can't get with all this Eastern philosophy--then maybe the words of Mr. Belvedere will help:

Streaks on the china,
never mattered before,
who cares.

When you dropped kicked your jacket
As you came through the door,
No one glared.

But sometimes things get turned around
And no one’s spared.

All hands look out below T
here’s a change in the status quo.
Gonna need all the help that we can get.

According to our new arrival
Life is more than mere survival
We just might live the good life yet.

No body loves you like I do.

ciao for now,
x

New Years

2011-12-31T20:30:00.000-08:00

The best part of 2011? Was getting to know you. Yes, YOU.

Thanks for reading and indulging me.

Xmas, Chicago Style.

2011-12-24T19:50:00.000-08:00

And other vintage greats!

Happy Holidaze!

2011-12-24T13:11:00.000-08:00

Happy Christmas to you my love! From the production team behind Mr. Rickey Calls A Meeting. *And yes, hell has frozen over...I am standing on Wrigley Field.

He Ain't Dead You Jackholes! Besides, He's Gotta Colonize My Eggs First.

2011-12-19T20:50:00.000-08:00

Goodnight Jon Bon Jovi. Wherever you are.

~~Dead~~ or Alive.

With love,
Slick

Dr. Slick's Yuletide Clamdig

2011-12-13T20:06:00.000-08:00

Ciao you handsome fucks!

All is well here in Chicagoland! I'm entering week 2 of rehearsals for this production that I'm directing and I'm having a grand old time! And now that the holiday season has descended upon us, I thought it'd be nice to share a few videos and songs that make me smile. Seriously, these are the best fucking heart tugging make you want to go and do good videos! Man, if these videos don't cause anal leakage, then I have failed you as your rollicking wet nurse.

x

Field of Dreams

2011-12-08T19:55:00.000-08:00

Ciao fuckers!

Like my girl Badu says, "What a day, what a day..."

Peace and blessings good people of middle earth. Your rollicking wet nurse had to work for her title "Tits of Steel." Today was a whopper. It began with a breakfast meeting with the consortium working to support Mr. Rickey Calls A Meeting, followed by a photo & video shoot ON Wrigley Field, and a full rehearsal. I'd like to say I'm going to make it to the gym, but that ain't happening. If I got on a treadmill right about now--I can't even finish that sentence. I'm seeing double--as a matter of fact, I can't quite figure out what happened to that beautiful bottle of Chardonnay I just bought. I don't know how much I used to cook with v/s how much I poured into my water glass to drink. That's right. Your girl is drinking wine from a water glass--and you KNOW I'm a stickler for stemware. But hell, I did do a photo shoot at Helms Deep--I mean Wrigley Field, so errthang is topsy turvy. But for the greater good--I put aside my cross town rivalry and just enjoyed being on a field. A Major League field. A first for me.

And I'm grateful to our friends, the Ricketts family giving us all a rush! For Anthony Fleming, it was a dream come true. He's a die hard Cubbie, and I'm pretty sure his dad took him to games there. boy--I sure do miss Mr. Paul Fleming.

Wrigley Fricking Field. I thought the field was going to crack wide open and swallow me whole, the second I stepped on to it. But I must admit, it really did make the blood bubble with glee. I felt like one of those kids in The Sandlot. It was fucking thrilling. And for the record, I've never hated the Cubs. It's just the fans that give me the runs.

**And as a complete tangent, the great film maker John Hughes (rest his soul) was a fan of the Chicago White Sox Ball Club. The famous scenes filmed in Ferris Bueller's Day Off were filmed at Wrigley ONLY because Comiskey didn't have any day games while they were in production. Now put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Well, enjoy this video kids. Thank you to all parties that made today possible. You will forever have a place in my heart. I felt like I really could do anything, being on that field today. It is my wish for every child to have that feeling.

So go and do something specfuckingtacular darling. And remember: Don't give up. It's not your style.

ciao for now fuckers,

x


Yes. I look like the lone Black extra from Dr. Zhivago.

Flying A Flag For Ron Santo

Anthony Fleming III as Joe Louis

They Call Me Mr. Robinson!

2011-12-07T01:06:00.000-08:00

Lookingglass Theatre Company Presents: Mr. Rickey Calls A Meeting. A stage play by Ed Schmidt Directed by J. Nicole Brooks
Starring Ernest Perry as Bill "Bojangles" Robinson

Spotlight On: THE BROWN BOMBER. JOE LOUIS.

2011-12-06T23:09:00.001-08:00

Get 'em Chappy!

During the 30s & 40s To Play Baseball in MLB You Had To Be White. But To Play For The Negro Leagues? You Had To Be Good

2011-12-04T17:16:00.000-08:00

Skip the electronics, clothing and other wasteful Chrismahannaukwanza gifts. Buy a ticket to Mr. Rickey Calls A Meeting instead. Written by Ed Schmidt. Produced by Lookingglass Theatre Company. Director by J. Nicole Brooks and starring: Josh Gibson, Satchel Page, Double Duty Ratcliffe, Moses Fleetwood, Richard Pryor, Ira Aldrige, Paul Robeson, Bill Bojangles Robinson, Leo Durocher, Branch Rickey, Mickey Mantle, Ken Burns, Joe Louis, All Members Of The Harlem Renaissance and Jackie Robinson.

Tickets are on sale now!
www.lookingglasstheatre.org

A Little Boy's Game

2011-12-01T00:00:00.000-08:00

I can remember the first time I was hit in the stomach with an object traveling a good 30miles per hour.
I was 8 or 9 years old, and it was a family game of baseball at my uncle Che's house. He had a two flat on the Chicago's westside--and after a day of BBQ, running around and shit talking from the card playing toking adults, we played a game of baseball at dusk in his back yard.

My aunt Tutu was the pitcher. She looked like a giant to me as a kid. And for good reason. The women in my family actually have some height to them, unlike my hobbit ass. I may be short, but the common thread is that for the most part, we're all athletic in my family.

"Alright Nicky Pooh! Keep your eye on the ball baby girl! Put it on the board!"

I remember Tutu lovingly offering that piece of advice and encouragement. I loved my auntie Tutu. She was tall and beautiful--and always treated me like a princess. I was very trusting of her. She used to take me to the diner where she served tables and often filled in as the short order cook. I have memories of her letting me insert the freshly peeled potato into the cutter. I'd drop the potato, and pull the lever. The potato went from whole to French fries--come to think of it...that's how I got my Nickname: French Fry. Yep, even at the age of 4, I knew the power of potatoes.

I trusted anything Tutu said. So when she instructed me to keep my eye on the ball, during the family game, I'm not quite sure what happened. I must have gotten really excited...distracted. Tutu hiked her leg up, and angled that ball so quickly my brain didn't register the point of the game: knock the fucking ball out of the park.

She threw that ball like she was Satchel Paige. And though I wanted to pop that ball like Josh Gibson--I took that ball in the stomach. Like Curly on the Three Stooges.

Whhhhoooooooooooosssssh.
Splat!
Right into the kids stomach!

Oh I cried. I howled, and cried and cried and CRIED. Now you know family gatherings! By the end of the day, everybody's spent. After dranking, cussin, dancing and fussin the Carol Brady routine is nil. I was so hurt--no, I was humiliated that I got hit in the gut in front of everyone. I cried and whimpered looking for affection. Nothing. Cried some more and whined that "I wanted to go home." I guess I'd seen one too many episodes of Dynasty. No one babied me. I remember thinking "Hey I'm a girl! Fucking give me a lolipop you drunken asshole adults before I call DCFS."

I was done. I was hurt. I was embarrassed. I was DONE.
I was in a heap on the ground.
"Come on baby, stand up. You can't back down. That's the game. And when you see that ball comin, and you can't hit it? You got to slide to the side. Slide, real smooth like. Let that pitcher know you ain't backing down." I remember while she was explaining this to me, she wrapped her arms around me. Finally! Sympathy. Affection. I was being treated like a little girl. I was happy that she was comforting me.

So I thought.

"Come on baby. You gots to learn this. Slide. Move out the way. Then get back on the plate."
She wasn't hugging me. She was coaching me! She wrapped her arms around mine and dragged me to the side in a single motion. Teaching me how to get out of the way. In that moment Tutu was my sifu--my Shaolin master teaching me how to avoid getting my body chopped.

"Slide quick. Then step back to the plate. Lift that bat. And go again..."

It's 2am and I should be asleep. Actually I should be preparing a script and about 3 other time sensitive things due in the morning. But I can't sleep. Not because I have insomnia...but because I'm full.

I'm full. After going through a litost period, I feel as though I am waking from a coma. I was taking balls to the stomach constantly (wait--that doesn't sound right. Get your mind out the gutter!). I forgot that lesson on stepping to the side quickly and then reproach.

Oh--
(side bar counselor: Litost is a Czech word that doesn't really translate. But it means a state of torment upon by the realization of one's inadequacy or misery.)

I'm coming out of a dark period where I felt pretty fucking shitty every waking moment. I wanted to take my bat and ball and go home. But now, I'm starting to see a light at the end of the rainbow. Or however the fucking saying goes.

My brain is reformatting.
My five senses have returned--and I suspect a sixth one is forming.

I am doing work this week at my theatre company for our annual retreat. The hours are long and the brain power exceeds my normal capacity. Not to mention, I'm in pre-production for a play that I love desperately. A play about baseball.

I've got my bat. But baby, those balls are hurling fast.

The stats? Okay:
The script is amazing. The cast is stellar. The design team is magnificent. The theatre goers & patrons are excited. The producing company has a fucking Tony Award. And The director is scared shit less.

I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm frightened. Directing a production in the theatre isn't the easy thing to do. I know some are you are thinking "Fuck off, art doesn't save the world. 19 year kids in Iraq and Afghanistan are scared--not pretentious theatre ass hats." Well, that's fine if you are thinking it. But one thing I suspect I have in common with a solider is that I ain't backing down from a battle. And despite my fears I won't surrender. And I will not retreat.

I want to spread the gospel of the great past time of baseball. It's a game I respect, and love. Much like theatre. Baseball is a little boy's game. But it belongs to me too. I'm so grateful to have have my aunt and mother play such a huge role in my love of the game. And my big brother of course. He took me to White Sox games growing up. Man, it breaks my heart to think some kids grow up with out the thrill of visiting a ball park. Nothing excited me more that getting off the train at 35th. Buying peanuts from the hustle man outside the park. Handing over our tickets. Walking up that long ramp that led to glory. After walking at a 10 % grade, you finally got to see the beautiful green. The players looking smart in their uniforms. Tossing around that little fucker, a baseball.

I can't sleep because I'm excited. My brain is flooded with memories and fantasies. I have no idea how this production will turn out--but I ain't running away from the plate. And I ain't striking out.

"Baseball is like church. Many attend, few understand."
Leo Durocher.

"A hot dog at the ball park is better than a steak at the Ritz."
Humphrey Bogart

"Baseball is the very symbol, the outward and visible expression of the drive and push and rush and struggle of the raging, tearing, booming nineteenth century."
-- Mark Twain, author

ciao for now fuckers,
x

Moses Fleetwood Walker. First Black man to play professional baseball. Yep, 60 years before Jackie Robinson.

A photo still from the greatest fucking movie ever Bingo Long Traveling All Stars & Motor Kings

Thirsty On The Grind, Chi State Of Mind

2011-11-30T18:37:00.000-08:00

Ciao fuckers!

So I'm in Chicago. I'm dressed like a babe from Dr. Zhivago, and I'm eating everything in sight. I'm in pre-production for a play I'll be directing called Mr. Rickey Calls A Meeting. It's a shit load of work, and naturally I'm a ball of nerves. I'm working hard, but playing hard too. So for those of us burning the midnight oil, working third shift, suffering insomnia or just looking to unwind I hope that you will enjoy a few of my favorite tunes. Thanks for your well wishes and I do hope to see you at the theatre!

Mr. Rickey Calls a Meeting by Ed Schmidt
Directed by J. Nicole Brooks
Starring: James Vincent Meredith, Anthony Fleming III, Kevin Douglas, Larry Neumann Jr., Javon Johnson, and Ernest Perry Jr.
Tony Award Winning Lookingglass Theatre of Chicago
http://lookingglasstheatre.org
Performances begin Jan 4, 2012

My Spirit Animal Is Vodka (Explorations And Doing Whatever It Takes To Make 'Em Laugh)

2011-11-29T20:30:00.000-08:00

Hi kids,

This is a tribute to a man whom I adore. Patrice O'Neal was a gifted comedian and actor. He was a big man, with an even bigger mouth. He was a funny mothafucker, and though I did not know him personally--I was one of his biggest fans. In October he suffered a stroke--he was only 41. I was totally freaked out when I heard that news---I sent him a letter wishing him a speedy recovery, and I prayed for his health. Patrice died today, from complications of that stroke. I am sad for his wife, family and friends--but I must say. I am grateful to have witnessed his courage.

His courage to make us laugh.

I recently took up studying the art of Clowning --that's right, you can actually study "clown." It's not easy making people laugh. Whether you're a comedic actor, comedian, circus clown, writer--whatever...it ain't easy. My master teacher Phillipe Gaulier is a crotchety old Frenchmen with funny red glasses. My first go at studying with Monsieur Phillipe was fucking awful. I cried almost every night after class. It was hard. Clowning is hard. You see, clown is not stand up. Let it be known, I admire stand ups and I've always wanted to give it a go. And I certainly don't think one is better than the other. However there is a difference in the art forms. See with the clown, people laugh when he does not want or does not expect it.

You couldn't talk to Monsieur Gaulier, without wearing your clown nose. Even when he was lambasting for being "a horrible idiot!" you had to wear that nose. You see Gaulier is notable for his work in the areas of Clown and Bouffon. "Teacher" (as we called him) is recognized as the world's leading teacher in Bouffon, an art form which he holds as a sort of inverted Clown, where a balance is struck between grotesqueness and charm.

One of the first times Teacher made me sit down was after a game in which he deemed me the loser. And the loser of the game had to do what Teacher said. He handed me my sentence. I had to, of all things portray a washer machine.
The fuck?
I almost snatched my nose off. I'm like "Dude! Washer machine?"
I was ready to be like Harpo Marx in that motherfucker chasing a pretty girl throughout, and spraying people with water from a seltzer bottle. I wanted to be like Lucy, stuffing chocolates in my bra off the conveyor. But Nooooo. I had to portray a washing machine.
A washing machine.
Literally.
I had to stand in a circle and make the sounds of the machine. After years of rolling around floors of Drama School studios and discovering my spirit animal, I had to portray a household appliance. Now, I can be a pretty good mimic. I can replicate many sounds animals, celeb impressions, whatever--a novice talent. But this was nerve wracking. I had to resist the urge to slide into my normal modus operandi of "Get it right the first time Brooks you piece of shit, or go home! Just because you have a pussy doesn't mean you have to be one! Get it right! Razzle Dazzle them or you won't get to sleep with Bob Fosse in the next lifetime because he'll think you weren't good enough!" It was a new experience, and I had to try it.
Make 'em laugh. Make 'em laugh.
"Zzzzzzzzzphromphromprhomwooowwoooowzzzzpppfhrawu234ydwt%983*_++[}zzzwwoooommph".

So there I am in the middle of the circle, making all of the correct sounds of a goddamned Kenmore Maytag Sears special, and I even finished with a ding! Hey look at that! A feat.
The entire room stared at me. And I stared at them.
Then I stared at him.
Teacher.
Silence.
Staring. More. Stair. Ring.
Oh fuck...silence? Have I bombed? No. Okay relax. No, he's gonna start a slow clap. Yeah, like in all the 80s movies. This is my "Lucas" moment. All the football players are gonna applaud my efforts. I've lead the team to the championship. Yeah! I'm Rudy in this mothafucka. I'm Molly Mothafucking Ringwald, in Sixteen Candles. Monsieur Gaulier is my Jake. And he's about to hand me a cake and give me my first kiss.

But why is he just, staring at me? The silence is killing me. No one is smiling. Oh no. Have I come on my period, and my clothes are destroyed?? Is that why no one will look at me? Okay Bloody Mary. Think. Think. You're a clown. Think. Ooh! I know, I'll tell that joke about Amish people and--

"Her sounds are good. Very good. But she--she is fucking awful. Why? WHY?"

*If somebody else speaks up, I'm gonna clown these mothafuckas. An I don't mean haha clown. I mean I'ma clown them like the hood rat I am. I will show my zip code. Every last ghetto digit of it, if someone--

She is awful, because there is NO pleasure in her clown. She takes no pleasure in what she does. Sit."

Imagine Walter Matthau, Otto Preminger, Leona Helmsley, and the father from Gimme A Break all rolled up into one. With a French accent. And that's my teacher. He handed me my ass daily. It got to a point where I thought "Damn, is this what colonization felt like back in the day? Evil ass Frenchies kicking you in the labia? Poor Africans..."

You often hear tales from stand up comics about how awful and necessary it is to bomb. It builds character and teaches you a lesson. I learned many lessons during my time of study. One of the things I learned from Teacher is that a clown is a fantastic idiot. He is a beautiful human idiot. One should never be sorry as a clown. Even if you are bad, you are not sorry.

I believe Patrice O'Neal to be a beautiful human idiot. His personae was the epitome of a clown. He was grotesque and charming. His style wasn't for everyone, but it worked for me. So now he joins a line up of other dearly departed idiots--George Carlin, Bernie Mac, Mike DeStafano, Gilda Ratner to name a few. Like my buddy Don said "Man, God always gets the best comedy shows." Yep, he's got one hell of a line up.

It's a great honor to make people chuckle. I have many lessons left to learn, and plenty more times to bomb. I just hope that one day, I can make 'em laugh like Patrice. George. Gilda. Bernie and all the rest. Rest In Power fuckers.

x

Watch O'grady-01-Sweats in Animation | View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com

Zzzzzwompwompwompphomphom Fucking Idiot.

Stop Being So Hard On Yourself. My Rx For You....

2011-11-27T17:43:00.000-08:00

SAD--> S.A.D.--> Seasonal Affective Disorder--> Seasonal Assholes Descend.-->Sorry Already Damn.

2011-11-26T03:11:00.000-08:00

Ciao fuckers!

If you are reading this blog, then congratulations! You have survived the week! And in the Western world, in North America anyway--you have survived Thanksgiving. The holiday reserved for giving thanks for your family, friends and of course, life. Ya'll know I'm about as subtle as a porcupine, so lets keep it real. For many people, the holiday season is pretty fucked up. They have estranged relationships with loved ones, suffer from SAD (a seasonal disorder where your brain becomes infested with canker sores because it's cold, dark and people are fucking nuts.). Financial strains afflict you--because it's cold and you have stupid relationships with people, and want to buy shit to fix that fucked up relationship(s). Personally I get SAD when I have to wear a sweater. They're just so goddamned gross, itchy and expensive.

Or perhaps you're mourning the loss of a loved one. I'm sorry for this my love. Or a broken relationship. A broken transmission or a broken condom--sssesh. Good luck with that buddy. It doesn't matter--this isn't an easy time of the year for many people. But never mind all that. You can check your problems at the door. Consider this a cyber boudoir. I am your madame and I want to dazzle you with shits and giggles. You've fled the war and migrated to a land of Tom Dickery, seeking asylum! So go on, lock the door and let your hair down. Take off that breast plate you warrior. Fellas, let your balls hang. Or dress your balls in your lady's underwear. I don't care, whatever makes you happy. Holster that rifle cowboy. Girls, stop snooping on your man's Facebook account for five minutes whilst you read. You can resume snooping, but if I may suggest--give that boy a proper blow job, and when he's sleeping buy some shit on Ebay! Snoop into his finances, not his social media sexting. Go on, step away from the ledge. As my Chinese brothers and sisters say "Me-sho". Translation: No worries. Oh nononono...stop all that cussing and fussing mum's little possum. Don't worry, you're not in parochial school anymore. Sister Holy Ghost can't hurt you anymore. Now close your eyes, and grab your cankles, for I am ready to fuck the boredom out of you!
I bow before your majesty for I am your courtly jester!

Buuuutttt I cannot do my job properly if there isn't a inkling of truth. So, the laughs in this post may not be HAHA--but hopefully they will be AHA. Or you may not like anything I have to say. But it's a blog, not a bible.

I really must lower my expectations.

Well, it's come and gone. That day of dysfunction and binging on carbs. That day where you pressure yourself to have a perfect and well planned day of--of....I don't know what. Its suppose to commerate the spirit of sharing (*giving Indians small pox from blankets) and a day to relax. Or be of service to others. Many of you, got up early--fed the homeless, saved a few whales and solved every side of the Rubix cube. Good for you.

But for some of us toys from misfit island? Thanksgiving can be like one of those fucked up ASPCA commercials. You know the ones where they show a starving three legged dog with locusts eating at his ears, and he's hobbling over landmines in some developing nation? Sara MacGlaughlin croons in the background, and you feel like a proper piece of shit because you're comatose from tryptophan and refined sugar. You want to turn away from the TV and not fucking deal with it at all. In fact, you'd rather look at wack ass soft porn on Cinemax. You'd rather watch fake pussy eating on Skinemax, over a dog hobbling around on a commercial quilting you into support. Dammit. That pooch with diseases only described in the book of Revelations, whimpering like Dino. You'd rather listen to Rodney Dangerfield reading the works of Shakespeare. You'd rather eat a box of Russel Stover milk chocolates that have that white film on the skin from the clearance section of Woolworth--and that fucking store ain't even in business anymore. Anything to avoid that damned dog. Anything to avoid the madness of the Holiday season.

The fucking time of the year where people forget about Occupy protests, geo politics, and pop culture bullshit for 24-48 hours. Instead we focus Black Friday deals! That day where retailers hope to be in the black. People wake up early in the morning, chomping at the bit to get deals on electronics, appliances, toys and clothes. Retailers lure shoppers with $50 X-Box's and flat screen TVs. People wait for opening and burst down the isles of WalMart like goddamned fools, as if they've just been chosen as a contestant on the Price Is Right. The outcome? Well, for the most part people are chill and get major hook ups. They might throw a few elbows, but they abide the law. We've all gone to a day after Thanksgiving sale. But this year? The shit is bananas. Increasing reports of bizarre--no horrible behavior. A shooting North Carolina parking lot (a robbery attempt) and the story I just cannot get over: some vicious mole of nature pepper sprayed 20 people in WalMart, here in Southern California. This ugly and venomous woman assaulted 20 fellow shoppers, ALL because she wanted to get to the X-Box games before they could.

Word?

Did this bitch think she was gone pepper spray people, grab the boxes and then get in line? Whistling like nobody saw that shit? And how in fucks name did she manage to flee the store? Didn't NOBODY clothesline this bitch? She was only 5'2"! Her victims could have included children and elderly people. I cannot wait until they catch this moron and put her in lock up. Have you seen Beyond Scared Straight? Yeah bitch, you getting fisted. Her sin wasn't accidental, it was by trade.
Is that holiday spirit? Pepper spray? *sips vodka.*
You know, it's real hard to love all of Jesus' children.

And let me go ahead and get this off my chest: if your child has a Wii and/or an X-Box but NO library card? Then what the fuck are you---*sips vodka*.

What is a holiday? Well for starters, it's a noun. A day of festivity or recreation where no one work is done. Well, that seems simple right? Holiday may also be defined by festival-leave-recess-retreat-day off or vacation. A day off from what exactly?

A day off from worry? Unemployment? Underemployment? Hateful co-workers?
A day off from reality to watch the Macy's parade? Football? Godfather marathon?
A day on to feed the homeless? Take your neighbor a plate? Invite orphans over for potluck?
A day to try that Iron Chef recipe? Catch up with old friends on the phone?

Whatever it is, Thanksgiving is magically fucked up. It's a stewed prune that's warm and sweet--but eventually it gives you the shits.

We all love our families. That's why we spend every last dime to fete one another with cultural yummies. Turkey, ham, mashed starches, greens, cakes, pies, cookies, cheap Eastern European dark liquors, chitterlings, macaroni, Jell-O surprise, surprise from your mother telling you she's divorcing your father after 402 years of marriage. Oh and she's converting to that religion where they believe in spaceships, and suddenly your trust fund is gone because she's giving all of the gold coins to this new found belief. Okay, scrap that scenario. Perhaps you're questioning everything in life, and it's putting you in a bit of a mood. But you have to put aside those feelings of inadequacy, jealousy, or whatever is making your dick limp for a few hours because that's what holidaze are all about.

Because you've got to deal with your imperfect family. Family...hmmm lets look up that definition. Again--a noun. A group consisting of parents and children living together in a household. Kin-household-stock-clan-race-tribe...and we all know, family can be blood related, or chosen.

Recently I've been taking a good hard look at family and holidays. I have plenty to be grateful for. 7 years ago my first Thanksgiving here in SoCal was awful. My dinner consisted of pot, a cheeseburger from Lucy's on Pico (and the MF's forgot the cheese) and a King of The Hill marathon. At the time it was painful, but I wasn't alone. I had my friend and at the time room mate Don with me. We were both in a lot of pain, but we shared the day with one another. And I'm grateful for that experience.

Things have changed--evolved I guess. In spite of missing my immediate family desperately, I had a beautiful, intimate and fun Thanksgiving with my loved one. But the past 24-48 hasn't excluded me from the pain, imperfection and ass chaffing of the holiday season. So I'm discovering that the season isn't only about food and "day's off"...it's also about adventure and risk taking. We have to deal with unfinished business if we want to move ahead. My mother always warned me of taking old bullshit into the new year. So, the next few weeks may not be easy. They may even be painful. But it's my pain--it's an honest pain. And I'm happy to deal with it--because I'm ready to live on the other side of the rainbow.

So my darlings, I am happy to admit that much like the Thanksgiving holiday, I am not perfect. And I don't strive for perfection--but I do strive to be the best De Anna Nicole Josephine Brooks that I can be. And if my very best isn't good enough for you? If my efforts undermine your expectations of me? *sips vodka. Well then I guess I'll just have to love you from where I am, even if you reject my love. During this solar eclipse I will my best to rebuild alliances. But I'm going to create the magic on my own terms. So I'm going to take "holiday" and enjoy what I have, and stop taking days off to worry about what I don't have. Life in absentia has been too easy a choice.

I'm going to choose innovation over stability.
I'm going stand up for myself. Finally.
It won't be easy, but then--what the hell is?

I hope you do too baby. It's never too late.
I love you. I admire you. And I give thanks for you.
Yes, you.

ciao for now,

x

"Do not worry if you have built your castles in the air. They are where they should be. Now put foundations under them." Henry David Thoreau.

A Little Tom Dickery For You Dear

2011-11-22T12:30:00.001-08:00

Easy Like A Sunday Morning.

2011-11-20T09:21:00.000-08:00

Ciao mumsy's little fuckers!

I hope this has been a stellar week for youse. I've been on the road working, and so I haven't been posting as much as I'd like. However, I will always make time to tickle your funny bone. Or give you the runs. So enjoy this stream of Sunday fuckery.

Ciao for now,
x


I'd donate my eggs to charity to get my hands on this tea set.

Mid Morning Fuckery

2011-11-18T09:10:00.001-08:00

Claire Huxtable Is A Legend In Germany

2011-11-16T21:54:00.000-08:00

I, Asshole.

2011-11-15T20:33:00.000-08:00

Ugh...I feel like absolute crap. I mean really, am I coming down with a cold virus on top of having stupid menstrual cramps? That Thai food was so white washed. I'm going to Thailand. Eat some real fucking Pad See Yuu. And you know what ass hole? I can order peanut sauce on my Pad See Yuuuu. It's not only reserved for stupid Pad Thai. I've been to China. I know that's a different country, but whatever. Asshole waiter giving me sass. I can feel my teeth moving. I need Invisilign. I hate Lakeview. Yuppies walking briskly as if they're important. So not self aware. Can't believe they put me up in this neighborhood with these sour twat heads. I've been working hard all day at the theatre. My life is hard. At least the hotel is nice. Boutique hotel. There's a flat screen and Keurig coffee maker. Ugh, that Thai food was SO underwhelming. Joy's Noodles. That don't even sound Asian. And my taste buds are going...I'm getting sick. I'm on the rag. God hates me. Damn. Look at all this corporate filth. The Gap. Jane Adams must be turning in her grave. RIP Hull House. Ppphft. Oh shit! I forgot I wanted to stop by Top Shop to buy some warmer clothes. Great. It's gonna be so cold tomorrow. I didn't pack properly and now I'm gonna catch consumption and rot away in some fucking alley like a Dickensian harlot. I could've avoided that by shopping today.

'Scuse me got any spare-
'Scuse me?
'Scuse...

I hate when it's cold. You can't look cute in a wool sweater. Especially if you have big knoobies. You just look big. I feel big. I hate my period. Or maybe it's the stupid Thai food bloating me? Why can't I have Mary Tyler Moore boobs? She and Rhoda had such perky knoobies under their 70s sweaters. Nic shuttup. You have healthy boobs. Be grateful for them. I think I'm hungry again. But I just left the restaurant. Fuck. I hate Asian food. Asian food only nourishes tape worms, not my appetite. I'm still gonna eat the left overs--

'Scuse me got any change?

Shit. The Black guy is begging for change. I'm the only other Black person on the street. I can't ignore him, or else I'll seem like that one black person amongst white people who doesn't wish to be acknowledged by other Blacks. I am not self hating. Okay some days, I don't like Black people. But they take so long crossing the street! And they spend $3000 on rims but won't give campaign money to Obama. I like him. Fuck all these people mad at him. Fuck Black people. But not Black bums. HE IS NOT A BUM NICKY! YOU'RE THE BUM. HIS CREDIT SCORE IS BETTER THAN YOURS I BET. SMILE AT HIM DAMMIT OR ELSE ROSA PARKS WILL SMITE YOU.

Fuck. Fucccck. Is he??? Yep. He's eating from the garbage can.

"Hey sister, got any change?"

Sister? Oh my god. Sister...I'm supposed to be a child of God, so this dude is my--brother. Then why am I still walking?

"Sorry brother, I don't!"
Yeah, that'll do. Deny that poor man spare change-- but soften the blow by calling him a term of endearment. Yes "brotherrrrrr" because amongst all these white people, they will see that though I am wearing vintage Albert Nipon, Stella McCartney slacks, Liseanne Frankfort jewelery and flat ironed hair--I am still in solidarity with you. However, I'm just not giving any money to you. NO I will not give you money. Not because I think you're lazy, or I'm better--but because while I'm here working in Chicago I am forced to take the bus. And if you give away 35 cents, that small gesture could fuck up your transit. If its the last bit of currency you have, then you're forced to go to some ATM and withdraw cash for the stupid transit card. And I don't want to load $20 on the card--you know homeless man, the ATM doesn't dispense $5 dollar bills. So it's an inconvenience. What in the name of Judas? I'm actually still walking. I can hear him asking other people for money--Jesus fuck! Am I actually standing here, 10 feet away watching him eat from the garbage can? Aha! Give him your food Nic. The leftovers! Give the poor bugger the left overs--he's looking at you again. Here's the moment. Now. Now. NOW. He's looking back in the bin. NOW!!!! The moment has past. And that moment. And that one. Another moment. Wowwww. Really? REALLY. Am I actually watching this poor man, this Black man eat from the trash?! What if he's a frog prince? What if he's God? I love that song. What if God was one of us? No. No Nic, you have not earned the right to sing that song you fat sack of American shit! You should be grateful for your period, because lord knows if you didn't have it, it would mean you were pregnant. And you are too selfish to care for another human being. You'd be mad that the baby would fuck up your booze diet. You have a bag of perfectly good greasy Thai that he may want. But I want it tooooo. I'm working at the Goodman theatre, and this could be my lunch! I'm poor. A poor artist. Who's this guy to expect me to sacrifice my dinner-lunch? Black asshole bum. Am I actually running my hands through my hair? Oh my God. That man is starving, and I'm concerned about my hair tangling. The box said Indian Remy human hair, but you know weave isn't regulated. Much like our food supply. It's sad the way Americans eat. Our food supply is tainted with toxins. So is my weave--it isn't organic. Oh my god, I'm still standing here. My period is doing this to me, I know it. I'm evil and confused. I see why Carrie killed a gymnasium full of people. Blood makes you crazy. Just yell out to him. Prove to him that you are amongst the league of extraordinary Negroes! And that you will not allow him to go hungry. In the name of Nipsey Russell--Call out to him!

SIR!
Sir? Suh?
Oh yeah Nic. Put on a Colored affectation so that he feels comfortable. Would you do this to a white bum? I mean homeless man?

Brother? I...well it's...would you like this? It's Thai! You know, Thai food. And the cooks were actually Thai. You know sometimes they're Latino in the kitchen and it's off putting. Not that I'm being racist. You probably don't get to go to restaurants often...I shouldn't assume that. I...I just--it's Pad Seeee Yuuuu. With peanut sauce. I hope you don't think that's weird. I like peanut sauce with everything. Hahah. Peanut Sauce is to Thai food like mild sauce is to fried chicken.

There you go being colored again. He might be vegan. Black. Bum. Vegan.

"Naw sis, this sounds good! Bless you. Thank you."

There are chop sticks in there too!
*That'll do pig. That'll do.
I helped a homeless man. I'm not like that asshole in the Phil Collins song. I DID think twice. So it wasn't just another day in paradise.
Wipe that smirk off your face Brooks.
Honestly, chopsticks? I offered that information like "hey there's health care in the bag for you brother!"

He's walking away. He's happy! I caused his happiness. He's so sweet. No, I'm sweet! I'm awesome. He's actually kinda cute. If this were Down And Out In Beverly Hills I'd invite him back to my home to change my life like Nick Nolte. But that may not be such a good idea...he looks sweet, but I ain't nouveau riche...for fucking sure not Bette Midler annnd he looks a little rape-y. Not because he's Black--Oh God. I'm staring at him while he's eating.

What is wrong with me?
I'd really like something sweet. I deserve a treat. I'll go across to Ann Sathers and get some Swedish pastries.
Fuck me, they're closed?
Who closes up before 7pm??? Fucking turds, the lot of you Swedes!
I HATE MY LIFE.

x

Life Is Such A Prick Tease (And I'm Determined To Rub It Out!)

2011-11-14T21:22:00.000-08:00

Ciao fuckers!

So I was just sitting in the tub, taking a soak reflecting on the State of Me. Without fail every time I take a bath I find that it's sort of like a sweat lodge--minus the hallucinations. I rely on mushrooms for that. But seriously, I often find the hot water is not only soothing, but it's often revelatory.

Some people like Reiki, some meditate, tarot cards, practice yoga, participate in drum circles--it's all good. Me? I like to waste gallons of water, burn energy to heat the water, take a bottle of toxic Palmolive dish soap and squeeze it like a frat boy pissing in an alley after a kegger into the water, to make bubbles. I sip on a little Jesus juice, and listen to strange music. Gypsy Kings. And a lot of Christopher Cross. Chuck Mangione and Sinead O'Connor's attempt at reggae. I like to choose music playlists, that reflects variety (no matter how good or bad the selections), because my thoughts are often all over the place. And if you have a sad thought, trust me, you do NOT want to be listening to Adagio For Strings.

After the first two minutes of the soak, I reach for my glass of Jesus juice, and I think "Man this is the life! I mean it couldn't get better than this." Then my scurvy companion (better known as my brain) decides to get in the tub with me. "Hey Nic. Awesome that we're relaxing. Just gonna slide in here. Yeah, we are absolutely releasing endorphins. All these bubbles! You're taking an active role in your mental health. Speaking of active, remember the other day while working out your foot was bothering you? What if that's a tumor and not a bunion? On your foot. You should really consider getting a pedicure. You've got run away slave feet right now. We should eat that bag of candy corn from Halloween. Lets get on Twitter. No! Lets spread rumors about yourself on Facebook. Man this water is getting cold. Hey you've got the belly, why not become a belly dancer? Why not dance at a hookah bar? Is it hooker or hoo-kah? John Lee Hooker. TJ Hooker. You know, if you add vodka to Kefir, it's totally healthy. You know we missed the deadline for the Sundance Playwright Lab right? Yep, due tomorrow. So glad you let me, let you miss that. But don't worry kid. You've got a lot of irons in the fire. You've started many projects and partnerships and I'm here to make sure you don't see them through. Uh oh. You're kicking the water. Here love, drink more. Wouldn't it be nice to go to Wally World and ride roller coasters? Beverly D'Angelo. Now there's a classy broad. You could be the black screen version of her y'know? More Jesus juice please. So back to what I was saying, you'll be just fine. You'll wait until the 11th hour to start the work, and then won't be able to deliver. And you can always blame it on poverty. Or you can say you were at a Occupy protest. Yeah--that's fucking noble. No one will fuck with you for not getting a draft done, if you tell them that's where you were. OR you could say you were serving on some high profile jury duty. You told plenty of people you served on the Rod Blagojevich trial, and it got you out of a lot speeding tickets, paying tithes at church, attending baby showers. OOoooh my god! Babies. You should have one. YOUR vagina will be damned, but it will be worth it! Baby. Baby. Everyone has one. You don't have to raise it. Just, have it. Baby jam. Jammm. Ohhh jammmm. OOoph someone is texting us. I'm gonna go see who it is. Text messages are fantastic distractions. I'll be back..."

Wanna know why my brain goes off like that? It just occurred to me, that I feel like I've lost my ambition. I've lost that drive to succeed. I feel like I'm caught in survival. I know I've harped on this before, but it's my fucking blog and I can go 'round the round about if I want to! I have a beautiful life. I thank God for it all the time. But I can't give praise, without reflection. And that's where it gets messy. When I look back to my younger self, I laugh but I also get a little sad. I called and visited with family. I use to eat salads. Returned phone calls. I was punctual. I read books. I read the goddamned New York Times every day! I worked 2 and 3 jobs! I sent out postcards, and headshots all the time. And now, the thought of sending a casting director a headshot and resume literally makes me want to dry heave. It's like, that dirty little word NO didn't exist in my head. And now? I'm caught in this paradigm and I'm scraping at the mold to get to the goods. I feel like I'm dating a girl that constantly gives me a soft hard on.

Yes, that's it. The state of me is a soft hard on.
I haven't given up, but I am experiencing a moment of weakness.
The past few months have been wonderful with my travels and preparing for upcoming projects.
But honestly guys, sometimes I just feel a little queasy.

I love that I'm not perfect. I like to think of myself as a misleader of youth! An ambassador for all things burlesque. A weird black chick who enjoys graphic comics, Dr. Who and demands proper stemware. Honestly, don't pour my whiskey in a pilsner glass you uncouth degenerate.

There are days I'm absoultely sure of who I am--then there are other days where I keep wanting to press the restart button. I know I'm not Kafka, but I do want to make an indelible mark with my words--and actions. So I'm doing my best to work through the angst, by typing my thoughts--

*Knock knock.
"Hey Nic! Sorry I left for so long. I think you took some St. Johns Wort and it made me a little dormant. Nice try. Where were we?"

Well my brain is back. And now I have to feed her, or else she's going to take over. But it won't be with booze. I'm going to do some reading, and then actually get some sleep. And when I awake, I can thank the gods for yesterday. Because there will never be another day like it.

Thanks for listening darling. I do hope you win the battle of the soft hard on in this game we call Life.

ciao for now,

x

DO NO LISTEN TO THIS SONG IF YOU ARE SAD OR LIKE WILLEM DAFOE

BUT TOTALLY LISTEN TO THIS SONG JUST CUZZ. JUST FOR SCUZZ

A Little Tom Fuckery For You Dear

2011-11-10T15:57:00.000-08:00

This song (one my favorite songs of all time) is dedicated to you, my dear reader. A little thank you for dropping by the Island For Misfit Toys--and telling your friends, family members and clergy about this blog. You're always in my brain, and in my heart. Your rollicking wet nurse will return tomorrow with more tidings on my trip to China, my fashionable cankles and my ingenious invention: A blow up Herman Cain doll. And yes, you can shove hot pizza sauce right up his ass.

Ciao for now!
**and now, a little side boob for you ).
x
mum