Thought for the Day

The worst loneliness is to not be comfortable with yourself.
— Mark Twain

And the winner is...

Last night was the 79th annual Academy Awards show. It marked the 29th year in a row that I did not win an Oscar. I did not even have the honor to be nominated.

As I sat at home, wearing my vintage Valentino and cross-stitching away at the Pope, I remained hopeful that the Academy's failure to recognize my work thus far does not necessarily indicate a lack of talent or potential on my part. No, it probably has more to do with the fickle nature of Oscar himself. Just look at Martin Scorcese who, despite decades of unquestionable directorial skill, never took home an Oscar until last night. I look at Marty, and have hope.

(I am willing to admit that the Academy's consistent oversight in nominating me for an award may also be due to the "fact" that I have yet to actually appear in a major motion picture. But that's just conjecture, really.)

But you, my readers, know that I'm not in this business merely to garner glittering trophies. No - more than that - I do it for love of the craft. And I won't allow the Academy's continual snubbing to tarnish that love.

Lest I never get my moment on stage to thank the many people whose support has brought me to where I am today, I would like to take time now to offer up my heart-felt gratitude. First and foremost (and in all sincerity), I thank God, with whom all things are possible. And to my parents, who never pushed me into the family business but allowed me to follow my own dreams into show business.

Thanks also to my dear, dear friends, who encouraged me through thick and thin, aided me in my delusions, practiced sketch comedy with me at parties, helped me hone my improvisational skills in public settings across the country, and who listened to countless revisions of award acceptance speeches while walking down the city streets.

And thank you to all the people who have ever annoyed me - without you jerks I would never have had the opportunity to perfect my signature "eye roll of death," which won me the coveted role of Tiffany in "She's So Annoyed."

Thank you Trish, my Broadway Musical Jazz Dance teacher. Trish: you gave me the courage and chutzpuh I needed to dance my way into the hearts of my fellow Americans, through my role as Ida McKinley in "McKinley: a Musical Revue of a Doomed Presidency."

To the Brady Bunch, whose catchy vocal stylings taught me that "when it's time to change, then it's time to change. Don't fight the tide, come along for the ride, don't you see?" To Barbra Streisand, who taught me everything I know about comedy. To Will Ferrell, for taking a chance on an unknown kid from the suburbs and giving me a part in his hit movie, "Losing My Marbles." To Al Gore, for doing that voodoo that you do so well.

I also want to thank my dead dog, Grimley Angus MacTavish, who taught me a valuable lesson about giving. I love you, Grimsies. And finally, my most heart-felt thanks to the Polish-American community, for giving me their support, goodwill, and pierogies.

Thank you. All of you.

Wednesdays with Walt
My perusal through old emails turned up these verses that a friend once forwarded to me, and I've loved ever since. They are excerpted (slightly out of order) from Walt Whitman's poem, Song of the Open Road. Not entirely appropriate for today, as the Open Road is covered with "wintry mix" and I'm more in the mood for, say, Song of the Comfortable Couch Near the Fireplace, With My Book.
Nonetheless, reading over these words today made me pause and reflect on my recent attitude about possibly leaving New York, following God, and life in general. Maybe you'll take your own meaning away from these verses. Anyways, Enjoy!
"I do not offer the old smooth prizes, But offer rough new prizes... These are the days that must happen to you: You shall not heap up what is called riches, You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve. However sweet these laid-up stores, However convenient this dwelling We cannot remain here, However shelter'd this port And however calm these waters We must not anchor here, However welcome the hospitality that surrounds us We are permitted to receive it but a little while. Afoot and lighthearted, take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long brown path before me, Leading wherever I choose. Camerado, I give you my hand! I give you my love, more precious than money, I give you myself before preaching or law: Will you give me yourself? Will you come travel with me? Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?"
(from Song of the Open Road, Walt Whitman)

Out, out #&$* spot!

I have been visited by a ghost of my past - namely, the large, horrific cockroach of doom. This time he sought me at my place of work - the last place I expected him. And yet there he was this afternoon, sitting in the middle of the hallway, standing between me and my 2nd cup of coffee of the day. (Fine, who am I kidding? 3rd cup of coffee. But in my defense, Tuesdays are long days.)

The roach was every bit as big and noxious as I remembered him. Fortunately (?) he almost blended into the burnt-orange office carpeting, so I couldn't quite see his disgusting antenae but I'm sure they were there. I swear he looked right at me, and the look in his eyes called out, "Murderer!" It was really quite a Lady MacBeth moment. (That's a Shakespeare reference, y'all. No foolin'.)

I wasn't sure what to do, so I made a face and fearfully stepped over him. I was worried that any other course of action would result in tears and/or screaming, and I figured neither was particularly professional.

When I returned with my coffee, Bugsy was nowhere to be seen. Had I imagined him? After all, it was somewhat incongruous that such a large specimen would be out in the open, mid-day, in my office building. I couldn't decide which was worse: sharing office space with a giant cockroach, or hallucinating about a giant cockroach. Me and my coffee mulled it over for awhile.

Later, on my way to the copy machine, I spotted the roach again, this time perched on the baseboard outside the ladies' room. I kept my distance as he taunted me, reminding me of my past misdeeds to his species. I hope he is gone by tomorrow, though if he is not, his presence in the hallway may be proper incentive for me to give up my coffee habit. That, or find alternative routes to the kitchen.

For the Love of Will & NYC

Sunday morning, after churching with my artsy Presbyterian set in the West Village, I headed over to the Lower East Side to visit my favorite Hasidic merchants, and there on Delancey Street I was passed by a man on a unicycle, riding fast as though on a mission (late for a dim sum date? heading for the Williamsburg Bridge to complete his bi-borough ride? who knows the plans of a unicyclist?) As he pedaled swiftly by, his unexpected presence reminded me that I love New York for all its unexpected weirdness. And I began to worry about leaving it; Vancouver, darling, I'm sure you have your charms - but can you compete with this island that seemingly has it all?

*******************************************

I found out this morning (how could I not have known sooner!?) that Will Ferrell has a new movie coming out next month. This alone would be reason enough to celebrate, but wait, there's more: this new movie is going to be about.....FIGURE SKATING! Two of my great loves - Will Ferrell and figure skating - teaming up at last for a full-length feature film. March 30th cannot come soon enough. Blades of Glory seems like it will be a stellar addition to the already sterling Ferrell ouevre of low-brow comedy. Can't wait!

(Traffmeister Jenneral - is this, or is this not, a good excuse to fly your little self home from SE Asia to see this movie with me?)

Once Lost, Now Found

Found another bit of unfinished prose, buried in old emails. This one was started back in my "I'm going to be a children's author" phase:

James Abednego felt that his life had become like a snow globe. A once-peaceful snow globe that was violently-shaken, throwing up a blizzard of confusion. The first twelve years of his life had been so average, so comfortably average. Life had been moving along as planned, no bumps or bustles. Now he found himself far away from home, living in Boston with a woman he barely knew, and he had the sneaking suspicion he'd just inadvertantly joined a gang.

Q Q Q Q Q Q

My slow-moving, on-going project to go through & clean out old emails has turned up a few writing samples of mine from my temping days in 2002 (motto: when life was simple, yet boring). I had forgotten about most of these bits of poems and prose (and probably rightly so), but through the miracle of a little thing called Hotmail, they have been restored to me. Here's the start to a short story I never finished, about a boy named Quentin.

The impetus for the story was a challenge from my friend Kyle to write something using as many Q-words as possible. I believe the eventual intent was to turn Quentin's story into an allegory for the book of Ecclesiastes (also known as "Qoheleth"), but that never happened. And probably rightly so.

There once was a guy named Quentin. He was your Average Joe, except that his name was Quentin. Not Joe. Quentin lived in Scranton, Pennsylvania, where he worked in a steel factory. He worked at the factory's snack bar, where he served french fries. Every Friday they had fish sandwiches. Quentin was in charge of the mayonaise supplies on Fridays. Steel workers love mayonaise on their fish sandwiches. Extra mayonaise packets cost a quarter.

One blustery, brisk autumn day, Quentin started on his mile-long walk to work. As the leaves swirled around his ankles, Quentin began to question the meaning of life. The meaning of his life, in particular. Was there meaning? Would anyone notice if he wasn't there? What should he do career-wise? Relationship-wise? Fashion-wise? In the midst of his quagmire, Quentin stumbled and fell into a septic tank.

Splash! "Well I'll be a monkey's uncle!" thought Quentin. He had never fallen into a septic tank before. He wondered (as perhaps you are wondering) why a septic tank would be laying open next to a sidewalk on a residential street. He splashed around for a bit, gathering his thoughts, and plotting his next course of action.

Suddenly he looked up into the sky, surprisingly blue and pristine above the funk-nasty brown muck that he was currently swimming in. A flock of quails (unusual in Scranton) flew overhead, and Quentin knew without a doubt that these quails were off to bigger and better things. "Fort Lauderdale, I reckon," reckoned Quentin.