Here Comes the Sun

My mind races. I have many things I have to accomplish, but I am living in yesterday right now. Looking absentmindedly at the river, I recall the past couple of days.

I had a show last night at the number one comedy club in America. It was a show that I was promoting for one month. For all intents and purposes, this was going to be a great slot, a wonderful opportunity, and the best show ever.

Here's what actually happened: no one showed up for me. I was not able to perform. This was the first time I had been benched at a show. Any other time I had promoted a show and not enough people showed, my time was merely cut. I was still able to play.


How it works: when there are shows at a comedy club, you can either have a spot, be a regular, be featured, be an m.c. or it could be a bringer show (where you have to bring people). This was a bringer show, but it was also a showcase of new/up and coming comidiennes. The owner of the club was watching to see which comidienne he would 'pass' next. This means that he was looking for someone to add to his regular team of comics. This is also the third show that I have heavily promoted in the hopes that I could submit a tape that Comedy Central has been expecting since February.

How the night unfolded: Receiving numerous cancellations, I frantically got on my computer, sent messages, texts and talked on the phone for what seemed like hours, trying to get people to come. The only calls I recieved where from other comics calling to tell me to give messages to the booker. Never mind. I would face my fear. My people would come.
Arriving at the club 45 minutes before the show, I watched everyone arrive. Ten minutes before the show, I watched one comic down a couple of beers, another smoke 4 cigarettes, and yet another drink copious amounts of Robotussin and then chase it with a white wine spritzer. Five minutes before the show, I watched my colleagues' loved ones wish them well, as they took their seats. One hour in to the show, I watched many other newer comidiennes, take their shot and perform to a warm and lovely crowd. One and one half hours in, I watched my comedy idol perform. One hour and forty five minutes later, I grabbed my things and bolted towards the door. The hot tears that had been welling up all night could no longer be held back.

As I tried to make my elegant exit, my best friend in the business grabbed my arm, pulled me in to her arms and comforted me. The repressed tears rolled down rapidly with an intensity that almost made me wonder if steam was going to emit from them. As I was reduced to a second grader, she asked me what was wrong and I croaked out "I feel like I have no friends". The booker then saw me, and made a couple of light hearted attempts to make me feel better. They both said they knew that I was one of the hardest working comics there. Sympathy has a strange way of actually making me cry harder.

Gathering the last bit of my pride, I made a few weak jokes, grabbed my jacket and walked out the door. The sun had set and the air had a Spring chill to it. More comediennes tried to stop and chat, but I told them I had to run. Then, it happened. A comic who has a special and various t.v. shows under his belt grabbed me by the arm and began to talk to me. Apologizing for being rude, I made a comment that I was rushing home to work on my suicide plan.

"Some women masturbate to release the pressure, I cry and work out the details on how I'm going to kill myself". While he laughed, he handed me his card and told me that he wanted me on one of his shows. Tucking it in my pocket, I made a couple more jokes and said my final good byes.

Two days before: Mother's Day. Making my way out of town, I was off on my timing for the entire day. My family gave up in frustration (as they wanted me to visit the cementary with them). This was the first Mother's Day without my grandparents or favorite uncle. They talked about a family vacation, and offered me a 'discount' on it. I reminded them that I had no set income and that it would be tough to come up with the deposit right now. My sister snickered under her breath, "what else is new"? After a full day of activities, I had to leave right after dessert was served. "I have a show tonight," was all I could say when the disappointed looks were accompanied reproaches of "do you have to leave so soon?" I did.

Mother's Day, evening: Chris Rock dropped in to perform...yet again. This time, he patted me on my arm! I felt like I had arrived as a comidienne.

RIGHT NOW: The Hudson River lops before me at its languid pace. The sun shines brightly. There is not a cloud in the sky. I have several phone calls from friends who called to apologize about not making it last night.

HERE COMES THE SUN, I say. It's all right. It's all right. Little darlin, the smiles will return to the faces now...

Labels: Celebrity, drinking, Enlightenment, Rumi, sobriety

Celebrity, celosia and celibacy at Tribeca Film Festival '07

I was at the Tribeca Film Festival opening night. A launch party for a little film that a friend of mine was in. It was not as glamorous as certain high level movies by casa de Weinstein, but it was enough to make me want to cry out in anxiety all night. This ‘small scale’ event attracted big names in Mexican cinema and some actors that I haven’t met, but have seen and respect. They were all there, all swarmed by people, all being adored. I stood behind, watching in utter fascination. How much longer would it be before that was me? Is that what I even wanted? I saw the caterers go by, with their trays of delectable treats. One by one, the treats were turned down, in exchange for the smiles and looks of unending adoration and phrases filled with praise.

The event was supposed to celebrate a friend of mine who was in the film. I was dressed to the nines, as they say, and should have been glowing from the excitement of being in the ‘inner circle’…or closer to it, anyway, but all I could think about was what I was not getting. Even yesterday when asked what the name of the film was, or where we went after, I drew a blank, because all I was focused on was my inadequacies and how far away I was from where I wanted to be, and how my date was getting more attention than I was. With all of these self-hating thoughts floating through my head, I turned to other thoughts.

It is amazing how much money goes in to these events. This was not even the A-list party, and the wait staff alone tipped the bill over in to the thousands. Each person must have spent, I don’t know, $200 at least, just to walk out of their door.

That took about two seconds. I went back to analyzing the events of the night. Cute boy. Check. That feels good. Film festival. Check. That feels good, too. Jealousy over actors in the lime light. Um, not-so-good. Feeling sorry for myself for having to take the back seat on this one, instead of being the guest of honor. Um, danger? Bad territory in the head. The amount of parties I must have missed in a life time due to bad decisions from my past life. Ugh. Get off this train of thought. The amount of tall blonder white women at that event and how badly I feel about my body when I compare it to people who have had plastic surgery and designer work-outs/meals. Danger, danger!!!! Approaching dangerous ground…will implode in 5, 4, 3, 2…!!!

How often do I go for the things that destroy me? The minute I began to obsess about the things that I did NOT have, the tapestry of my inner happiness began to unravel. By remembering that I can get off that run away train and be in the moment…I can approach terra firma and live. I chose to obsess over my date’s perfect lips and how they would meet mine by the end of the night. Celibacy be damned, celibacy be damned!

Labels: Boy Stories, Celebrity, celibacy, Internet Dating, new york, Rumi, sobriety, tribeca film festival

13 going on 30

I was at a bar mitzvah this weekend. Excuse me, I was at an ostentatious display of wealth, posing as a bar mitzvah this weekend. I was there, not as a guest, but as entertainment: singing for my supper, as it were.

Hired to dance, I found myself spending more time doing mental push-ups: fielding questions from horny 13 year olds, and having my teen-pop culture trivia challenged. Due to my perpetual struggle with a Rip Van Winkle-esque quest for enlightenment and media fasts, I was sorely lacking in my relatable topics. Since when, I asked myself, had the quality of conversation been contingent merely on consumerism? The pattern of these conversations were painfully traceable and remarkably similar to boarding school.

Approach. Introduction. Some interest in what I have to say. Try to impress them with my career. Ok. I got their attention. They ask for proof. “Tell me a joke” they say, one after another. The pattern is always the same. The answers change. As the night goes on, it gets better. My teen culture answers.

What the hell am I doing? If I show that I’m up on the trivia, I will be “accepted”, which means ‘ka-ching!’ at the end of the night and more events where I’m booked. At what price, though? Will I have to now go back and listen to the hideous music, watch the denigrating shows and learn the limited dialogue? This was the reason I went to sweat lodge to begin with. To purge myself of all of these illusions.

Something is different and wrong with the new generation, I thought. Children fed on the milk of instant gratification grow in to spoiled and materialistic adults. Housed in the gentrified neighborhoods of privilege, are nary concerned about ground water issues. Clothed with the sweat of third-world country children, they can never be truly be concerned about the world around them. Supplemented with a stream of gossip posed as news, have no choice but to be obsessed with celebrity. This is my generation.

The hostess is wearing a designer gown. She is a social x-ray. Painfully thin and over tanned, she runs around with a Di Vinci porcelain veneer smile, coordinating with the MC to hand out party favors, which are PSP’s. One child is complaining, “Can I change this for an ipod, I already have one of these?”

There is a mocktail hour. Mini alcoholics in training. Out of a sea of blue blazers and khakis, one child with an impish grin and flat Asian features and spikey hair, stands out. One of the children says, “Well, this one has no opinion on this subject. He’s poor.” All of the children laugh cruelly and say, “It’s true. He’s poor. Aren’t you?” He nods, dutifully, and answers the same. Immediately, I’m reminded of Kenny, the impoverished character in the SOUTH PARK cartoon. They have no idea what that is.

After a DREAM GIRLS show, the time approaches, again, to face off with these little turds. One brags of a party he went to in absentia of parental supervision. “The house was trashed and the parents arrived to a child peeing on the wall in the living room!” Another one whines, “I didn’t appreciate Devon taking a picture of my butt.” Yet another is in the bathroom, crying, because she defended her friend and the boy called her a tattle telling ‘douche’. She does not know what that word means, but bawls, “I’m so embarrassed. I feel as if I ruined your party and you are going to be mad at me.”

Recommitting to my conversational agenda, I realize that I am being paid to talk to children who are 13 going on 30. They emulate their parents by conversing about yachting this summer in the Riviera and Hillary Duff. Very close to giving up, I look around the room. I see the “poor” Asian child looking as sad as I feel. I approach him and whisper in his ear, “You may be poor in material wealth, but you are rich in the experience of being a survivor. Don’t ever forget that!” I walk away, and I see a group of children surround him. Later, he is on the dance floor and they are chanting his name while he raps an Eminem song. I may have to take my own advice.

Labels: bar mitzvah, Celebrity, parties, poverty, pride, Rumi, sobriety, teenage

Good vibrations

What do you get when you combine two of the hottest guys in Soho (my opinion, of course) turning 30, with another smokin’ 28 year-old-guy telling you about it and yet annnnother hard-bodied Euro hottie with a KILLER bachelor pad in the East Village? Why, the greatest sober party EVVVER! In a luxury condominium building in the East Village, on a blustery Spring evening this weekend, no less than 300 attractive/hormone racing alcoholics gathered in a spacious 3,000 sq. foot space with one of Manhattan’s best dj’s and cases of Red Bull and Poland Spring. There were people of all ages, shapes, colors and sizes throwing down to some of the hottest beats I’ve jammed to in a while. Around the room, there were chaises, a large flat-screen t.v. showing sports, a fully stocked fridge with non alcoholic beverages and a pool table with a bevy of beauties and beaus in tow.

As the base pumped, I felt a throbbing in my heart. I looked above me, and the majestic chandelier streamed light, which at my dancing vibration, seemed to emit prisms of light. I spun around and felt my wild locks swirl like an oscillating fan. The still shots that my mind’s eye focused in on, captured an awkward 16 year-old in faded low rise Diesel’s shaking what her mama gave her. A 20 year-old who was a dead ringer for Brad Pitt’s lost younger twin (circa Kalifornia, 1993). An East Village celebrity (lead singer for a popular band), a recognizable model and Lindsay Lohan look-a-like circling around a graceful African dancer and far-out Bohemian. Light surrounded the dance floor. Votives were carefully placed around the room. Beads of perspiration made their way from my scalp to my forehead, to cascades down my back. I took a sharp breath in and felt as if I had come home for the first time ever. I exhaled so much love, that I felt dizzy after. This was no dream. This was the heightened state that I first experienced in the circumference of the leather tee-pee this Fall…

I was directed to sit in the back…behind the elder. The smell of bear claw and sweet sage filled my senses. An athletic, chiseled Aryan man wearing Levi’s 501’s and a smile, carried large, heated boulders in to the center, where a circle had been dug in the Earth. He gently placed the scalding granite in the hole, and sparks flew. The elder calmly said, “Migwich” and gave him tobacco. He bowed in appreciation and retreated beyond the light. The woman sitting to my left let out a sigh after the steam filled the room. The woman to my right began to tremble beneath her wool blanket. A strange light warmed my spine, and I reached my hand out in the darkness and held it 8” from her neck and cooed, “The light will heal you, let it in”.

The pulsating base from the speakers seemed to lift the room to a new level, and everything became alive again. Light streamed from each body before me. I felt a large palm touch the base of my spine. I turned to the left and there, in the room full of light, stood the man I had seen from afar as I had counted days a year ago. He said, “Do you feel the vibration?” and smiled his broad, caring grin. I felt myself melt for a minute, and reminded myself that he was just singing the refrain from the song. In that instant, my girls came racing towards me like the teammates do to a quarterback, and as I was taken away in a jumping screaming frenzy…I could honestly say, “It’s such a…good vib-ra-tion-huh, it’s such a-sweee-eet sen-sa-tion-huh!” Feel it, feel it!

Labels: Celebrity, parties, Rumi, sobriety, Sweatlodge

Dumbo isn't just an elephant

This has been the week of elephants. It started on March 27, 2007 when the elephants marched through the city, as part of the yearly ritual put forth by Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey circus. I’m not going to get in to the debate about cruelty to animals, or particularly my interpretation of the elephants walking in the dark, clinging in a troupe, trunk to tail, avoiding the sting of a tazer gun. It is interesting food for thought to consider that women have the following in common with elephants:

We are the most intelligent species, have complex emotions and vary individually in temperament. We can be trained to work and to perform-if you’re Catholic, this REALLY applies. We are not truly domesticated because we don’t breed well in captivity-and as long as we don’t have the right to choose, aren’t we in captivity??? Finally,we have been extensively hunted –as are hot women everywhere annnd they’re endangered, (but they are now afforded protection in certain areas-hence, the meatpacking district and velvet rope situations all over the City).

Well, imagine my resistance when I was invited to LEAVE the City and go to DUMBO. Now, for those of you who DON’T know, DUMBO is NOT the cute little elephant portrayed in Disney movies, but an acronym for "Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass". Now, how down under would I need to feel to make the trek on the most coveted evening of the week? Thursday nights are for the City. Simple as that.

How did I get roped in? I’ll tell you how. A friend of mine is hosting a new entertainment night out there, and since he’s from Wisconsin, I felt it would be cheesy NOT to go. (I’m really cracking myself up over that joke). It actually turned out to be a GREAT night. [if you're interested in getting a visual, click on the elephants]. There were really cute guys.
The first ones I saw were “artists” slash hipsters. They were deep in a discussion about the lameness of heavy metal these days. I took a long drag off of the cigarette I’d just bummed from the hot blonde one with the Iron Maiden decal ironed on to his thrift store blazer and too tight courderoys and I said, “Whoa! Didn’t realize I’d "happenstanced" upon a hipster convention” They both said, “I’m NOT a hipster!” -like that response shocked me. To be fair, they weren’t classic hipsters in that one of the criteria is to be able to wear the same size pants you did when you were 12. So, the "chubsters" (chubby hipsters, for you slow readers) went back in but before they did, they told me “You’re going to love it here, they have really strong beer.” Great! I thought. Something to look forward to. Double teamed by chubsters and smelly beer grungers in an elephant graveyard.

I made my way up the wide staircase and felt like I had crashed an old set of the t.v. show “Friends”. It was one coffee mug shy of having Joey, Phoebe, Jen and the gang scream, “Norm!” (oops 2 sitcoms there, folks!) The sofas were an assortment of pastel and brightly colored velvet couches of the Louis the XIV variety. There were a TON of cute boys. I was really surprised. "So THIS is where they've all been hiding!" They were neither desperate nor gay. There were even Euro trash. Shit! This was Manhattan--under the bridge!

The night was for a monthly comedy show that my friend is putting on called 80 minute abs, and the headline comic has been featured on Comedy Central AND VH1! I ordered my coffee, and kicked back. There,along the bar, amid the row of votives was a community. As the jokes turned into acoustic guitar strums and then jazz, I felt that I had found a beautifully nuanced night of fun with my girls and flirtation with cute boys and sensual music. Almost paradise!

My experience in sweat lodge was brought back in full force. We sat in a semi circle as the elders of entertainment for the evening provided laughs, cohesion and community. Food was shared, and the design of the loft was airy and open enough to accept all talking, laughing and soul searching with room to spare. Sometimes, I thought, it's not about getting laid...it's about opening yourself up to new expereinces and connecting on a human level.

I stayed four hours longer than I thought I would. Light bridged with laughter and jazz. It was better than any glass of Merlot I’d ever sipped and closer to the tee-pee than I'd felt in a while.

Labels: Celebrity, DUMBO, Enlightenment, Rumi, sobriety, Sweatlodge

I am Rumi: Sober Woman in New York in search of Enlightenment or Celebrity

I am Rumi. As free as windblown pussy willows. In my innocence, I aspired to find a place, beyond right doing and wrong doing, where I could enjoy a camaraderie and sense of union only thought to be experienced with family, or a rite of passage that one is born in to. I am waking up to the discovery that life is all around me. There is a field of infinite possibilities and joy. I live this and make it my mission to bring this forward. There is a gentle portion of my heart that is reserved for humanity. I am waking up to the discovery of love in my surroundings. I feel powerful and strong, because I am humble enough to see where I was once proud. I feel loved and accepted, because I am awake enough to give more than I take. I am experiencing a renaissance, because I no longer fear the embrace of the universal light that is all around me... penetrating my existence and availing me to my connection to you. Thank you for being here and sharing in my human experience. I love you, my reader, I love my friends in this blog spot, and most of all... I fu%*ng lovvve New York!!!

This Fall, I enjoyed a spiritual awakening brought on by partaking in a sweat lodge. Have you ever experienced this type of connection? A sweat lodge is a Native American practice whereupon your body is purified and your soul is ascended to new spiritual heights. My experience took place on a yoga ranch in Upstate New York. The New York snob in me held haughty reprobations of what this would entail. The sober part of me was desperate for an awakening. To me, an awakening is a spiritual connection that is not contingent on a person, place or thing to fulfill me.

I took the 3 plus hour trip to the deep country. The Catskills were brimming with the peak of autumnal promises. As I looked on the horizon, the hues filled me with a hope I had submerged in the recesses of my childhood. As a white tailed deer scampered by, I decided I would do this, without judging it. Upon sun rise, I was the first in line to experience the smudging. This is a ritual performed by an elder, where one's aura (or 18" of personal energy field surrounding your body) is cleansed with sweet sage and prayer. Refraining further from judgment, with my clothing neatly tucked in a pile by the pond, I quickly made my way in to the tee-pee. Upon entering, the elder asked me what my intention was for the ceremony. I honestly responded, "I have come to honor mother earth." Right there, I knew that any New Yorker in me had jumped the shark back in Chelsea. I sat behind the elder and let the smell of bear paw shavings and wood soothe me. It felt as if I had traveled back in to a womb. Not my mother's womb, or a time travel womb, but A womb of origin.

The rest of the details are something I will have to release as time goes on in this blog. I hope that you are interested enough to relish in the time-released discovery of what made that experience color my activities from then on and what made me sustain the teachings of that life-altering experience.

Labels: Celebrity, Enlightenment, Rumi, sobriety, Sweat Lodge

It's a book-turned-movie-deal that rivals "Bridget Jones' Diary."

"The Devil Wears Prada" is an even closer approximation. If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, authors Helen Fielding and Lauren Weisberger can pat themselves on the backs as first the novel "Because She Can" by Bridie Clark is released and now "Devil In The Junior League" signs Jennifer Garner to produce the film version and possibly star in it.

There are great characters to play:

*a spoiled, selfish debutante who invests her father's money in shoes and sweater sets (and, to be fair, runs an art gallery, even if it's losing money) but is robbed and abandoned by her husband

*a rough-around-the-edges divorce lawyer who takes her case in exchange for making his trashy wife Nikki a member of the Junior League, a charity group that is still invitation-only in this fictional Texas town (In actuality, the Junior League is no longer the closed netwoek of ladies who lunch. Females who want to do volunteer work and fundraise are welcome to join and give back to the community. Today, many are career women)

*Nikki, the poor girl who married new money, still wears leopard print and thinks it's a good idea to spike people's drinks

Jennifer Garner Joins 'Devil In The Junior League'

Jennifer Garner will produce and possibly star in the film "Devil In The Junior League." The movie, based on a novel by Linda Francis Lee, will revolve around a stuffy Southern socialite whose husband disappears with another woman and her fortune.

The woman turns to a lawyer who agrees to take on her case in exchange for helping his gaudy, less-than appropriate wife become a society lady who can gain entry into the Junior League, a women's educational and charitable organization.

It is not known whether Garner is likely to play the socialite or the woman in need of a makeover.

Labels: Books, Celebrity, Noelle

Film Review: “The Good Shepherd” with Matt Damon, Angelina Jolie and Robert DeNiro

“The Good Shepherd” is a powerful film with a strong cast, secrets, twists and historical background on the rise of the CIA. Reminiscent of “Ocean’s Eleven” and “The Departed,” it featured Matt Damon surrounded by an array of Oscar winners. Robert DeNiro, Alec Baldwin, William Hurt and Joe Pesci gave smooth performances as did Damon’s CIA-agent character, a quiet workaholic forced to marry Angelina Jolie. Surely it took all of Damon’s skills to convince us that living with her equaled torture.

One striking element in this film is the eye contact between Damon and the boy who plays his son. Damon chooses country over family and the neglect of his young boy creates heartbreaking tension as his son gazes at him with hatred, his questions unanswered, his chin trembling, and his eyes on the brink of tears, as mine also were several times during the 160 minutes in the theatre.

Jolie did a marvelous job of biting her tongue as the role of unwanted wife required. No doubt her reputation will improve with this sympathetic portrayal of a neglected beauty who devotes her life to being a mother. Secret societies abound in the plot, from the Skull & Crossbones to the CIA to Yale University (which, these days, is just as hard to get in).

Twists and turns take the storyline in unexpected directions and I sat on the edge of my seat for the entire film. The question of patriotism comes into play along with sacrifice. What values supersede family?

Set mainly around war (World War II and the Bay of Pigs fiasco), the film offers a behind-the-scenes look at history unfolding. By the time Jolie asks, “What are you going to do? Save the world?” the audience is confident that Damon’s character will do just that. But at what price?

“The Good Shepherd” is a universally entertaining film about espionage that appeals to both genders. It made me laugh, wipe my eyes, close my eyes (when an enemy was tortured) and bite my nails. The genre is drama; the rating is R.

Labels: Celebrity, Film, Noelle, review