It's Alive!

Well, *live* anyway. The website for my new cabaret show, All I Wanted is up and running (and has been since Monday).

I am so far behind in updating my blog. Pictures and stories and absolutely no time to share. That will all change soon. My show is keeping me really busy (a dialect of crazed that I'm fluent in). The past few weeks, I've also developed conversational skills in hassled, frenzied, restless and nutsy. All these are indicators that a show is nearing its production date.

Speaking of production date—thank you for asking—it's on Saturday, August 6th at 8PM for *one* night only. Don't miss out! All the info and ticketing information is available at the show's site, www.alliwanted.com.

I promise to get back on the blogging... ball? stick? horse? No. Blogging ball. Anyway, I'll get back to it soon and often.

In the meantime, round up a group of friends, buy your tickets and I'll see you on the 6th.

Adjusting myself.

The results are in and after reviewing over 50 photographs, I am thrilled (and relieved) that there appear to be a few shots that I can use to promote my show (this won't be one of them, but I still like it). Many thanks to the patient efforts and talent of my friend Julie who put up with my vague direction and very poor modeling skills.

I used to laugh at the idea of modeling schools; institutions where characters like Zoolander learned their trade. Guess who's laughing now? Okay, it's still me, but I must admit that a few pointers might have yielded more images than the couple of moments that Julie captured where I don't look like a complete dork.

This afternoon, I boarded the J-Church to retrieve the pictures and my anxiety began to mount. When the train arrived at Church and Market about 10 minutes later, I had convinced myself that every employee at Photoworks had been given the opportunity to point and laugh at the disastrous results of my attempt to look natural in these pictures. As I walked through the door, it felt as though every other customer was smirking, sharing knowing glances with the people behind the counter.

I calmly approached the cash register and gave the attendant my first and last name. After a few taps on the computer, she walked over to a large bin of envelopes and returned with mine in hand. An uncomfortable and apprehensive look on her face—as though she were taking pity on me, fully aware that I was the silly sod with the silly photos and that everyone else in the building was desperately trying to suppresss their church giggles—she began to apologize and I was horrified.

*Please, just give my pictures and let me leave,* I thought.

As it turned out, she was apologizing because they had forgotten to scan the negatives. She offered to perform the scans and said that a disc would be ready in about
20 minutes.

I managed to pass the time hovering outside of the shop, returning a few phone calls and checking my email. As I stood there and pondered how far I could walk before I would need to turn around again, I noticed a store that I have passed hundreds of times in my eight years here but have never seen a soul enter or exit. Creepy. I was ready to pick up my disc.

I decided not to rush home afterwards. Instead, I walked up Market Street through the Castro and did a pass-through of Café Flore (a very sad story for another day) before jumping on the 24-Divisidaro back to Noe Valley where I now sit recounting the experience.

Thanks again to Jules for helping with this.

A nasty 7" prick.

Apparently, hatpins are alive and well here in San Francisco, and I'm not at all comfortable with the realization.

What's to stop some crazy from snatching this pointy, steel rod and ramming it into somebody's eye. It's all fun and games until, well, you know how that story ends. This *is* public transit we're talking about. I had all that I could do not to grab the little skewer myself and start poking, and not in the nice way, either. (Waiting for MUNI can make anyone a little edgy.)

I don't care how quaint...you *know* that thing would never make it onto an airplane. They won't even let us have nail clippers, which—now that you mention it—is just fine by me. There is very little that's more disgusting than being crammed next to some stranger trimming their talons; bits of toenail landing in your book, your hair, your orange juice. It's bad enough being subjected to it on a short bus or train ride, but between SFO and JFK? No thank you, I'll just have the peanuts.

Anyway, sitting there with my eyes darting from side-to-side watching, waiting for another passenger to lunge for the easy-to-grab knob floating in the back of this lady's head, I decided to move. I wanted to put as much distance as possible between me and a gruesome, painful death (but still make it to my destination).

Given past experience—even with a large, metal pin protruding from my eye, the painful wailing, profuse bleeding—there would likely be little or no reaction from the other passengers on board. That's almost worse than losing the eye to begin with. I know this because I was robbed, punched in the head and thrown to the floor of the J-Church on a full train, at 3pm in the afternoon, broad daylight. The other passengers barely flinched. I wasn't even offered a hand as I climbed back to my feet. It was like being surrounded by a herd of deer who think if they hold really still, the oncoming 18-wheeler won't see them. (Ironically and sadly, it often doesn't.) I know all about the bystander effect. Even so, these people were inches and feet from an assault/robbery and no one moved, let alone react. It was like a bad dream, though I would have preferred to be taking an engish test in my underwear.

I think that MUNI and BART should seriously consider refusing transport to individuals wearing hatpins. Barring that, maybe I'll start wearing them myself. At least then, I'll have a fighting chance.

This bites.

But thankfully doesn't sting, swell, itch or ooze. Not yet, anyway.

I've been bitten by the blog bug and like many, I never thought that it would happen to me (bad alliteration, that is). What's the big deal with blogging anyway? Isn't publishing your inner monologue for the world to see a mini-exercise in narcissism?

Perhaps?

No.

Okay, well maybe a little, but that's not the drive behind the desire to type. Journal writing has its purpose, and I'll likely still keep mine, but who's gonna listen to that. It's just you and, that's it, you. With blogging there is, at least, the potential to be heard. It's venting without the guilt of running on too long—a little problem of mine (the running on bit). Anyone who has had the misfortune of encountering one of my voicemails understands this first hand. Here, it just doesn't matter. Maybe writing a blog will purge me and spare future listeners the pain of my run-on messages; thinly-veiled, stream of consciousness ramblings that string from tangent to tangent. Okay, probably not, but for their sake, here's hoping. And for those of you who stumble across this, turn tail and run as fast as you can. Otherwise, best grab a bottle and hunker down.