May 7, 2005 - Wanted: Pet "Life Coach". I'm Dead Serious.
So all I need is for someone to teach my cats to sit on the toilet seat and take a whiz like a real little lady. Because their litter box stinks to high heaven after only a week. Because here in the supposedly civilized Kingdom of Spain, can you believe this, they don't have Feline Pine (TM) or any kind of pine-based cat litter resembling this wonderful invention that I first found at Trader Joe's. Yeah, I read that TJ's is opening a store in NYC. And I want to believe, but I just can't believe that Barcelona is next. Sure, it got the Olympics in ´92, but that's the Olympics. Trader Joe's is a totally different ballgame, and a lot more important. And that's why it ain't never gonna happen.
All they have here is the typical gross clay or clumping stuff that smells like bad deodorant on top of cat piss. And I'm sick of it. For a while I got excited over this new silica-crystal litter that looks like a luxurious bed of snowy-white crack cocaine for your super-glam rock star cat to soil at its leisure. It's expensive too, like cocaine, but they claim you get your money's worth 'cause one tray-full lasts a month. Well I'm here to tell you it's bullshit. After a week it's all jaundiced hepatitis yellow and stinks to high heaven.
I want my cats, both gay males, to be able to SIT DOWN like Aüdrey Hepburn and eliminate in a cultured, civilized manner that befits our newfound status as Europeeans.
HOLLYWOOD! (I like to spell it that way today, mixing the sign, the song, and the nostalgia) is packed to the gills with expert trainers who can teach dogs and cats to do nearly anything imaginable on cue: sing, dance, bark, run, jump, or — the most popular fad in HOLLYWOOD! pet education — say "yes" when they really mean "no". Surely they also know how to teach a cat how to perch itself over the porcelain pool. But in Barcelona, unfortunately, I've found no one up to the task.
My heart aches at the thought that the closest my cats will ever come to using the toilet is drinking from it.
April 30, 2005 - Subject: You always said you liked hard erections, nitrate.
Today, within the long list of spam crap I must spend 5 minutes deleting every time I check my goddamned mailbox, I found two emails that I consider to be a cosmic pair.
The first was from "Patrick Blackman". Subject, "How often do you jerk off".
The very next one was from Harold Ickes and Steve Rosenthal.
Subject: "Your voice is heard in the Senate. Don't stop."
They line up so splendidly on their own. You don't even need to listen to Dark Side of the Moon.
April 28, 2005 - Iberian Gladiators!
So I'm walking down the street in one of the "up-and-coming" sections of the old quarter when another fight breaks out. "Up and coming" means that it's a neighborhood inhabited by middle-eastern drug mafias; homicidal pre-teen gangs; fragile ancients who've lived there for decades and didn't get out when they should've, around 1976; and young, hip artists who've set up boutiques. This last group supposedly justifies the "up and coming" label, but I don't quite see it. When I'm walking down the street and 15 teenagers armed with sticks and knives start attacking someone at the ATM, I don't care how many "transgressive" silkscreened shirts and pop art acrylic paintings there are in the storefronts. They cannot help the poor schmuck at the ATM, and things are not "looking up."
I'm actually on a quite decent street, right in front of the museum of Contemporary Art, when up ahead of me I see a few young males grappling in front of an open, waist-high container filled with construction rubble. These containers are all over the city, especially in the old quarter, where renovations are constantly taking place. And these dudes are grabbing debris from the container and using it as weapons to try and kill each other.
The amount of gladiators seems to grow with each second. First it seemed there were two, then four, and now there appear to be eight swirling about, including one older Asian man in a business suit who's swinging a 5-foot piece of rebar at one of the youth's heads. Cars are getting crunched with bricks.
Suddenly, one of them starts running straight towards me, with the rest following, launching debris at him. A heavy terra cotta roof tile whizzes through the air and crashes on the street a few yards in front of me, sending shards sliding towards my feet like air hockey pucks. A couple diners enjoying lunch on the plaza lift up their feet as the debris whizzes under them.
That's it. They're coming toward me and they're gonna kill me too. I jump through the nearest doorway, and I'm inside a nearly deserted upscale café. There are two people sitting at a small table right inside the door having a coffee. I take it to be the owner and his wife. "Good afternoon," I say. "All right if I hang out here with you two while the neighborhood thugs maim each other outside?"
"Sure, go right ahead," said the owner. Then, perhaps in an attempt to calm my frayed nerves, he added, "It's normal."
"Normal?" I asked. "Like, it happens every day?"
"Every day, no," he said. "But you know how it is. They see a construction container full of bricks, they have smack each other over the head." He waved his hand dismissively and lifted a tiny expresso cup to his lips.
I love the attitude of the people of this city. So tranquil, so "yeah, they have to kill each other, whatever. I will sit inside my café two meters from where it's all happening and finish my very flavourful coffee."
And no, actually, I didn't know that's how it was. I thought construction containers were simply for the garbagemen to haul off. It had never occurred to me that they served other, deep-seated community needs. Smacking-each-other-over-the-head needs, to be exact.
Some people have Tevo. Some have the X-Box. And the wayward youth of Barcelona's version of Highland Park have their construction containers.
That's entertainment!
Ponce & friends performing the poetry of Leopoldo Panero
April 21, 2005 - If It Ain't Got Mimes, It Ain't a (European) Open Mic!
I started a monthly open mic in Barcelona 'cause I got tired of feeling lonely. Which is how I tend to feel when I'm not surrounded by drunken, impoverished freaks with stars in their eyes. It goes back to my Lower East Side beginnings.
I'm inhabiting my own universe here. I do a weekly solo show, which is great fun, but there is no comedy "scene" of any sort, and I have no peers. So I started an open mic night, open to all "art" forms, including "comedy, poetry, music, mime, and porn." And can you believe it? In the first show, all those bases got covered.
Only one other comedian participated: a Brit who, like me, performed in bad Spanish. He was actually good. The rest of the participants were divided between the José María Ponce, the "Father of Iberian pornography" who read poetry by Leopoldo Panero; a guy named "Syd Barretina" who did acoustic covers of Pink Floyd songs; several twentysomething males who performed "spoken word" over King Crimson/Velvet Underground background tracks (I know... but what can you do?); an interminable poet; a batshit, anti-Semitic Fascist and conspiracy theorist who looked like Roy Orbison, and two tiny, adorable female mimes.
Yes, this is what you can expect in a European open mic: mimes. You know something else? They were fun! As was the batshit anti-semitic Fascist. His was indeed the most seamlessly hilarious, polished comedy act of the evening. Later, we discovered that he was dead serious. "Thank you for having me," he gushed. "I've been waiting so long to get onstage again. I've been banned in every theater I've ever performed in." I found out later that he was even banned in his hometown. Apparently he'd given a "performance" in which he named all the extramarital affairs in the community, destroying a number of marriages.
I am proud to be the only person in Catalunya open-minded enough to give the fellow a forum to express himself, even if I am of a greedy and inferior race. Funny is funny. It's a bt of a shame that the funniest person I've seen so far is not only not a Jew, but a Jew-hater. But you hafta start somewhere.
The mime-ettes somehow didn't realize that they could actually watch the show as well as participate, and trapped themselves in the backstage green room for the duration of the evening. Which sucks for them, because the green room has no bathroom. I searched and searched in the audience for the cute little mimes, but could find them nowhere. They were to do two separate numbers of 3 minutes each. I kept skipping the mimes and putting other people up.
Finally, I looked backstage and there they were: fully made up, wearing little Charlie Chaplin hobo suits, and squirming uncomfortably. "Please," one begged in a tiny voice, "may we go up soon? We have to shit." So I put the little mimes up next, they did their little number to great applause ... and went backstage again. (!!!)
That was the moment when I "got" it. So that's the purpose of mimes: they're meant to suffer! Okay, whatever floats your boat, ya buncha freaks. I had a blast!
James, The Other Spanish-as-a-Second-Language Comic.
April 19, 2005 - Still Haven't Cast the New Pope!
They're sending out black smoke from the conclave! That means that they've not come to agreement and, in the respected Vatican tradition, they've burned one of the more rabble-rousing cardinals alive.
Oh God, I hope they're not gonna pick Roberto Benigni. He is so annoying, and I thought everyone forgot about him. But he is an Italian, and the casting is in Italy, and they're gonna be at least a little biased in that direction, no matter what they say.
All right, if it's gotta be an Italian and they refuse to pick even the most manly of women (see my Lea Delaria suggestion below), then I prefer Dom Deluise. Is he still alive? Like I said, any new pope gots to be BIG! And likeability is definitely key.
I'm sorry to be going on about this, but as I've tediously pointed out like 60 times on every page, I live in Spain now, and I've got to pay attention to this stuff. Otherwise I may not "pass."
Besides, trust me: this is some of the most exciting entertainment we've have over here. Hollywood Boulevard? Beverly Hills? The historic Friar's Club? F all that. The Vatican is my new Kodak Theater!
And I am truly jazzed about this new pope!
April 18, 2005 - Cast Your Vote for the New Pope!!
They're all behind those big wooden doors right now! Deciding who it's gonna be! Have you put your vote in?
I know, I know, the Vatican is not a Democracy, so your vote will make no difference. But a lot of you voted in the last presidential election too, so you should be used to it!
My top three choices are:
1. Morgan Freeman. You've seen him in the movies: always the wise and gentle friend (or President) you can count on!
2. Brian Dennehy... darn, he lost weight! Scratch that. A Pope's gotta be BIG!
Okay. Instead,
2. John Popper. A little young, but.. darn, he also lost weight! Never mind.
2. Van Morrison. I'm really not a fan, but he has the right "look."
3. Lea Delaria. This is who I would personally love to see win the Pope lotto. Probably too busy with Broadway shows and other stuff, though.
Who are your choices for Pope 2005?
April 2, 2005 22:57 - Un buen viaje
"So do you think the Pope's gonna go to heaven or to hell when he dies?" one of my dear ones asked Friday during lunch in a local restaurant. This is not such an outrageous question in Spain, where much of the population grew up under the Catholic dictatorship of Franco and is pretty burned out on the forced-religion routine. Only 30 years ago, such a question could land you in prison.
"Heaven," her son said.
"I agree," she said. "The Pope will definitely go to heaven. I have been praying for his soul."
"I think he'll go to hell," said her husband. "A man whose entire life is dedicated to oppressing people all around the world can only expect to go to hell."
"Yes, but that's the fault of the institution he worked for, not him," protested his wife. Meanwhile, the waiter placed our drinks on the table of this very gay restaurant, with huge, gold-framed oil paintings of Marilyn Monroe, Brando and James Dean flanking the stage where drag queens put on dinner shows in the evening. "I really believe the Pope was a good man," she said. "It's the church that is evil. The Pope is just a figurehead with no real power."
Her husband laughed at the notion of the Pope as a highly paid but powerless spokesperson, like Fergie for Weight WatchersTM. "The Pope would never go to heaven, even if there was one," he insisted.
"Well, anyway," his wife said, lifting her glass, "let's drink to the Pope's peaceful voyage. Un buen viaje."
"Un buen viaje," we all finally agreed, clinking our glasses together.
Rach in front of the Llantiol the night of the first show, June 2004
April 2, 2005 04:42 - Talent Trainwreck!
I got sick of being lonely for a "scene" to have fun in. After living in NYC and LA for 4 years at a time, surrounded by creative and talented peers, you get spoiled. So I started an open mic here in Barcelona. It's gonna be at the same theater where I do my shows every Thursday, the legendary Café Teatre Llantiol.
To publicize the open mic, I made posters with my friend Charles Ezell's face on it. (See his hysterical "Shot in the Balls" video to see why I had to choose his picture.) Now I find out he's doing a show, called Fern Bar, at the 1160 Lounge in the Ramada Hollywood, where I used to do my Discotown! shows. It's so funny how things synchronize sometimes. The 1160 is a charmed place, Charles Ezell is a charming and hilarious gent, and if you're in LA, go see his show!
There seem to be no open mics in Barcelona, at least of the "variety" and not-all-music sort. I'm very excited about it. There's a full list of participants already. One of the challenges of starting an open mic here --- at least the kind I want to start -- is that it seems to be an unknown concept. I want to model it on the Lower East Side NYC train wreck freak shows that Reverend Jen and Faceboy used to put on at Collective Unconscious and Surf Reality. These shows drew on the raw talent (and also the pathology) that was swimming all around New York City in the form of comedians and actors, but also drug addicts, sex workers, bums, eccentrics, geniuses, and plain old losers, jerks, pains-in-the-ass, and nutcases.
I remember one night at Collective Unconscious a quiet, introverted open miker named "John Y." (name slightly changed), in the middle of his allotted six-minute time slot, casually pulled out a real gun! He was banned from the theater after that. Even in that neighborhood -- which today is home to some of the priciest loft spaces for investment bankers -- some things were simply not tolerated. Unmedicated Chinese schizophrenics screaming Madonna hits? Eighteen-year-old strippers bringing audience members onstage to throw darts at their bare backs while their fiftysomething-year-old "dad" watched from the front row? No problem. Firearms? Uh, not really. Remember, this was pre-9-11, before assault weapons were made legal again.
Barcelona is a much more tranquil place, but not without its share of eccentricity. After all, it is the city of Gaudi, and Dalí. Them dudes were freaks. And the nice part is, the culture isn't as violent.
One of my goals is to enlist the elderly. Now that I live in a society where you can actually see evidence of them, I am clearly inspired. The story is that there used to be a tiny, rotting nightclub right off the Ramblas called La bodega bohemia ("The Bohemian Club"). According to legend, this club was frequented by an almost exclusive senior citizen population who would put on cabaret shows. There was a stage, a mic, and an upright piano with a pianist who was always inches away from death.
All night long, these old folks would take turns getting up on stage, dressed up in folkloric costumes or what have you, and sing popular Spanish songs from their youth, dance, and drink. A friend of mine who'd seen some of the shows told me it used to give her goosebumps. Not because of the morbidity or the pathos, of which there certainly was some. More that these shows were totally special, something no one could create outside that time and that place and those people. There was a special life and energy in these shows -- and if it was the energy of these people's last hurrahs, so be it, it was beautiful. Sadly, the club closed down in the early ´90s. That's when Barcelona started to clean up its appearance for the ´92 Olympics, and places like La bodega bohemia began to disappear.
Anyway, I know we can't bring back the past, but maybe we can find some of those folks for the open mic at the Llantiol. And create our own happening time and place for all ages. The Llantiol is the perfect place to do it. Haunted by its history, it's also the most beautiful and charming cabaret theater in Barcelona. And not at all far from where La bodega bohemia used to be.
Rachel and Tania, the lovely Llantiol waitress
March 30, 2005 01:37 - Café de la Opera
I don´t know how long I've known this. Maybe I was born with the knowledge in my DNA, just like everyone else. But there's no sadder sight...
...nothing more melodramatic...
and thus nothing more heart-wrenchingly pathetic...
... than a huge, middle aged guy with a face like a crumpled paper bag...
- sitting alone at a table in a lively, well-lit cafe
- with one HUGE glass of beer in his paw, and
- another equally HUGE glass of beer, untouched, directly opposite him, where a wife or a lover or a friend should be.
For a good hour he sat this way. Just this gigantic, fifty-something guy with a kicked-in face, excruciating eyes, his glass of beer, and another, pristine glass of beer, the bubbles fizzing up to the surface getting ever slower as the beer gradually goes flat, and oh,
now the beaten-faced guy has lit a cigarette. It's clamped between two fingers, palm clamped against the forehead, eyes squinting shut as if he has a migraine. The cigarette farts smoke slowly and steadily through his curly hair. Could catch fire; he seems not to give two shits either way.
How do people end up that way, and how do they not control their body language so as not to look so garishly soap opera-like? Not for my benefit, mind you. For his. 'Cause he looks like the kind of guy who doesn´t go for the vulgar dramatics to get his point across. He'd rather suffer privately, in the dark, perhaps alone in his car in a parking lot at 3 am. He certainly wouldn´t appreciate the unwanted attention.
Except he's here, in the brightly lit cafe, filled with lovers and tourists and ancient drunken men who shout strange things and sometimes bother the ladies but are given their due respect by the dapperly-dressed waiters with black suits, bowties, and the same receding black hairline. Doesn´t anyone in this damn place -- of all the regulars here -- doesn't anyone know this poor, humongous man? Doesn't anyone care about him enough to turn out the lights or cover him up with a sheet or something? To protect his grief, which is so huge and simple it appears completely scripted, like in a reality show. I know it´s for real, but in this day and age, it could easily be construed as too melodramatic to be real. It just looks so ... clichéd. And that´s what makes it so unbearable to witness. Because it is all, really, so real.
I try to forget about this huge, sad man with the two glasses of beer -- the 2nd which he's started on. I just can't take it. I look at the other people. Then, 15 minutes later, the big man is lunking down at a table in front of me, setting down that second glass of warm beer along with his own. Someone at the crappy electronic slot machine in front of his table turns around and smiles that same crumpled smile.
It's his female twin.
She´s wearing a baggy grey sweater, she's half his height, but no mistaking it, she's got the the same ruddy, crumpled-up face. Grinning at him. The fault lines of his face are cracking into a smile. She takes a swig of the warm beer, and turns back to the slot machine. He stays seated, relaxed and contented. In my memory, he's still drinking. Is he drinking the same old beer, or did he order another? I don't remember. All I know is sometimes we watch too much TeeVeeTM for our own good.
A gov't agent acting for the camera; fake news reporter Karen Ryan.
March 14, 2005 03:44 - Expat's Blues
Even though I'm living in Spain, this "red states, blue states" jazz continues to resonate in my personal life. Today I set a dear family member, who can be gently described as a rabid Bush supporter, on edge by describing myself as an "expatriate". The terse questioning began. Finally, he rather diplomatically revealed that he had trouble with the word because it sounded to him like a person who didn't, oh, I don't remember the exact word, but let's just say a person who didn't love his country anymore. "You know, just the way it sounds, ex-patriot."
I spelled the word correctly for him (thanks, Carter-era public education!) and explained what the word really meant, in the days before the Bush regime: a person living outside his or her native country. Period. EX (outside) PATRIA (native country). This is what we can expect when our loved ones' main source of information is FoxTM News.
Speaking of fake news, I got to read this morning in NY Times online how dumbshit local TV stations have broadcast hundreds of government propaganda pieces, complete with fake news reporters using fictitious names, as bona fide news. These cleverly produced propaganda pieces, supporting the war in Iraq and other Bush policies, were packaged and presented as real news segments with absolutely no disclosure on the part of the TV stations as to who produced them, violating every ethical norm in journalism.
Anyone who tells me that America is not starting to closely resemble a facist, totalitarian state is living in a parallel universe. And watching a lotta FoxTM News. And liking it. What's not to like? The Bush administration is doing such wonderful things for all of us. Those who criticize its policies hate America and love The Terrorists.
Uh, for the record, I love America. What I hate is all the perverted things being done to it in the name of freedom. That, to me, is truly obscene. Yet in the Orwellian America of today, condemning this obscenity is offensive. My friend John Skipp sent me a joke a while back:
Q: How many Bush Administration officials does it take to screw in a light bulb?
A: None. There is nothing wrong with the light bulb; its conditions are improving every day. Any reports of its lack of incandescence are a delusional spin from the liberal media. That light bulb has served honorably, and anything you say undermines the lighting effect. Why do you hate freedom?
The longer I live in Spain, the more I feel that, at this moment, Europe is the land of the free (equal rights for everyone, including gays; freedom of expression; freedom from religion; protection of human rights and the environment; no damn guns allowed, except for police and military; government support of public education and health insurance) ...
and, at this moment, America is the new Old World.
March 10, 2005 03:30 - Jew Outta Water
I am a Jewish comedian. I'm sorry, I know that's redundant. That's like saying, "I'm a black African-American." But you see, I live in Spain now, where "Jewish" and "comedian" are mutually exclusive. Why? Simply because, well, there are no more Jews in Spain. Some shit that went down about 500 years ago or something. So there you go. Have I mentioned how weird it is being a comedian in a country where there are no Jews? I imagine you are beginning to grasp the surrealism of the situation. Good. I feel less alone. Don't get me wrong; I love being here. I am happier here than I've been in years. Partially, I must admit, because there is no competition. Have I mentioned there are no Jews here? Anymore? At all? I feel so alive. Every edge is so sharp. I look over my shoulder for danger. I feel so aware.
Catalunya, the part of Spain where I live, is a huge fan of Woody Allen. When they talk about Woody Allen's success in Europe, they're talking about places like this. He's an institution. Every day you can see one of his films on TV. He's like Lost in Space or The Brady Bunch for people here. The guy who dubs all his films into Spanish has a secure, six-figure job for life. That's how revered Woody Allen is here.
But even Woody Allen gets bitch-slapped by history. Of course he does; that's where all his comedy comes from. 'Cause he's a Jew. But anyway, I'll try to focus. Case in point: the other day, I happened to catch a few minutes of Crimes and Misdemeanors on TV -- dubbed into Spanish, naturally. When they got to the obligatory childhood-flashback-in-Brooklyn scene, where Woody Allen's relatives are all bickering around the dinner table about the existence of God, Woody Allen's dad says to the rabble-rousing athiest uncle, "Every Pesach you come here and stir up trouble." That was a very liberal paraphrase on my part, 'cause I don't have the script with me.
But this is nothing compared to what I heard in Spanish. Are you ready? "Every Easter you come here and stir up trouble with your questions." Easter? Easter??? But of course. How can you make a reference to something that ceased to exist, um, like 500 years ago?
So anyway. Here I am. A comedian in a country scrubbed clean of its Jews way before Louis B. Mayer even set foot in the Hollywood Hills. It's open country. I feel like Daniel Boone. Or Sitting Bull. We'll see how it all turns out. I have to admit, it's exhilarating, as long as I don't watch the comedy on TV. Depressing.
March 3, 2005 03:30 - Elliot Smith: the gift that keeps on giving!
I don't know how to say this, but Elliot Smith is haunting my life in the most positive way. He died a few days before I left for Spain for the first time. I listened to "Either Or" for the entire 12-hour plane trip to Heathrow. I was hooked. I don't find his music depressing. To the contrary, his music makes me feel acutely alive. Sad sometimes, yes, but there's so much else to it too. So many colors. I love colors because they make me feel, which makes me feel, well, alive. Depressing? Never. If it was, I wouldn't always be listening to it while running on the treadmill at the public gym, surrounded by 70-year-old Catalans doing cardio.
Anyway, on that first trip to Barcelona, in Nov. of 2003, my life changed radically, in a good way, and I decided I wanted to move there. So in. January, I did. I loved LA, once I'd found the right neighborhood to live in: Los Feliz. Just a few miles away lived Elliot Smith. Though I was excited to move to Barcelona, when I came back for a month to pack up, it broke my heart to leave my wonderful Vermont/Sunset Junction neighborhood, my apartment with a view of the Hollywood sign, my landlords who were like grandparents to me, my friends...
Another hard thing was leaving my piano behind. It was a gorgeous antique upright that had belonged to a Hollywood opera singer from the '40s, with real ivory keys and a booming, watery sound.More than just beautiful, it was my pal. It helped me through some excruciatingly lonely times. I'd sit there and play it for hours, alone in my converted-office apartment on Hollywood and Vermont, at 3 in the morning with no neighbors to complain. Though this was one of the saddest times in my life, it was also one in which I felt most alive. I was happy.
But to move on, I had to leave it behind.
Then, a few weeks ago, I was in a crowded Barcelona bar with two friends and I noticed an old upright piano in the corner. No one was playing it. Rather, it sat forgotten as the sardine-packed crowd chatted around it and used it as a drink holder. I sighed and told my friends of the piano-rescue fantasies I'd been having lately, whenever I saw an old piano in a bar. "I'm gonna start asking bar owners to sell me their old beat-up pianos. It's just not fair that I had to give up my piano and now, on top of it, I have to be taunted by constant Piano Abuse and Neglect."
"Why don't you go play it?" my friend Diana said. I hesitated 'cause the piano was mobbed and it would be hard to get in there.
"Go on, do it!" she said.
I pushed me way in, sat down at the piano and opened the scratched keyboard cover. The keys were sticky with booze. A bunch were missing their ivory laminates. The piano was way out of tune. But it played. It had that nice, booming, drunken sound. What was I playing? Why, Elliot Smith's "Bottle Up and Explode!" It's probably my favorite Elliot Smith song, and I even begged my friend Kevin Kataoka to sing it at my last "Discotown!" show in Hollywood last December. Kevin is a good friend so he did, even though he was embarrassed to be singing Elliot Smith at a comedy show.
Photo by Kill Rock Stars
A skinny young waitress appeared at my side, watching me play. I didn't know if she was there to enjoy it or to tell me to get off the piano, but I assumed the best and kept playing. Then I got a tap on the shoulder. It was the owner. "Please stop playing. The bar is closing and the city is always threatening to shut me down when I close late," he pleaded. I obliged, a little embarrassed. The owner strode away but the waitress remained, staring at the piano with an intense look on her face. I started to beg her pardon as well but she interrupted me. "Tell him not to throw away the piano," she blurted out.
"What?" I said.
"The owner is buying a new piano and he's going to throw this one away," she said. "It's so sad. Tell him not to throw it away."
In.32857 of a second, I was tapping the owner on the shoulder. "Hey, if you take it away, you'll be doing me a big favor," he said. "Just pay for the movers and it's yours." A couple days before the movers were to bring me the piano, I found a white piano bench in the street.
Life goes on. But not in a line, and not quite in a circle. This is starting to sound like a Hollywood spiritual tall tale, but don't worry, I don't believe in God. I believe in Elliot Smith. I will play "Bottle Up and Explode!" in the show tomorrow, on the theater's beat-up old upright piano, and it will work beautifully in a comedy show. You'll see. 'Cause God is just imaginary, but Elliot Smith really makes miracles happen.
Feb. 25, 2005 03:37 - Addicted to ActimelTM
I cannot stop eating (drinking) ActimelTM. Do they have ActimelTM in the U.S.? I was never aware of it there, but in Spain this stuff is everywhere, the supermarkets make special displays of it, pushing this stuff, everyone's secretary drinks it... it's everywhere.
I drink like 6 a day, like one right after the other. The only reason I stop at 6 is that ActimelTM comes in 6-packs like Budweiser, but of course ActimelTM is more addictive. Is it bad for me to drink so much ActimelTM? I can tell it has a ton of sugar. That's why it tastes good.
In case you don't know what ActimelTM is, it's a drinkable yogurt that comes in teeny tiny bottles and tastes like the inside of the vagina of the sweetest, nicest, most magical fairy in the world. It really does! I'm specifically thinking of Glenda the Good Witch here, but you can substitute Tinkerbell or Peter Pan (remember, Sandy Duncan made him famous, so Peter Pan does have a vagina), or Michael Jackson if he weren't a child molester.
Jesus doing his "Whassup with all the assholes ruining the world lately?" bit, to a grudgingly appreciative "industry" crowd.
Feb. 24, 2005 01:36 - Jesus Lives!
This is so fucked up. I've always declared myself an atheist, even though I'm Jewish. And I certainly never in a million years saw myself seeing the light in Christianity.
Now I have to admit I was wrong... 'cause I've just discovered that Jesus lives. But I mean for real: he's a real man on the World Wide Web. There's photos to prove it. And not only that, but here's the freakiest part: he's doing standup. And not only that, but he's obviously very good at it, 'cause he's being filmed for local TV. I swear to God, I mean to Christ, he is! At least that's what it looks like he's doing; I mean, he has a mic and everything!
Now I gotta process all this new information. Jesus does standup. I do standup. It must mean something. 'Cause in the end, even if it's about Jesus, it's all about me. Wait, here's another one of him doing standup. I like this one a lot 'cause it's a closeup, and even though you can't see the crowd reaction, he's obviously killing 'cause he's so danged relaxed and confident. You can totally see it on his face. Or if he's bombing, then he's just that much a professional, 'cause you totally can't tell. He's just in the zone, you know wha I'm sayin'? At the end of this set, you can bet that he could hook up with any of da bitches in the crowd if he wanted to. I love the white chef's smock too: such a departure from all the clichés: "comic=black leather coat," "Christ=dirty robe." So utterly refreshing! Click on the link, I dare you. Can you handle the truth? I am like so freaked out. Now I'm gonna go wash someone's feet or make friends with some prostitutes or polish my "tight five" or something.
Feb. 20, 2005 22:57 - New Friends, New Movies!
Rachel practicing her midwifery skills on special guest Diana
Since I've moved to Spain in January, I've been doing a show every Thursday night, accompanied by the wonderful drummer Jordi Güell. I haven't talked much about it in my diary 'cause I didn't want to do a bunch of boring plugs for my show.
However, lots of exciting things have been happening here in Barcelona, and now you can see them for yourself. For example, I met a fabulous and talented actress-director from San Francisco named Diana Rivera. She did a couple guest spots in my show last Thursday and was a hit, singing a hilariously theatrical version of "Papa Don't Preach" and dueting with me on "White Rabbit."
You can see Diana's video clips on the login page and view 'em -- they're right at the top, complete with convenient subtitles! Also, you'll find videos of the Special Guests from the Feb. 10th show: writer-director José María Ponce and pop culture conoisseur Viruete, both originally from Madrid. Ponce is famous in Spain as the "father of Iberian porno" (one of the very first porno directors after the end of the fascist Franco dictatorship) and the author of the fun and fascinating book, El destape nacional ("The Uncovering of a Nation"). Our interview was very fun, as Ponce is not only a trailblazer and adventurer, but a lovely and thoroughly entertaining human being. Viruete, the author of one of the most-visited websites in the Spanish-speaking world, was also a treat. Like the good sport that he is, he not only agreed to be interviewed, but also sang a romantic, lounge-y version of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'". You can see Ponce's and Viruete's videos on the login page. They're both in Spanish, but I'm working on English subtitles for Ponce's and it should be up later this week.
Finally, this coming Thursday's special guest will be the lovely and talented Moises Sorolla, former drummer of Los Rebeldes. Looking forward to chatting and playing with him. Stay tuned for more exciting guests on "Cómo ser feliz todo el tiempo" ("How to Be Happy All the Time").
Feb. 18, 2005 22:36 - "Hedwig & the Super-Lame Centimeter"
I just saw the stage version of "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" in Spanish. So it was actually called "Hedwig & el centímetro cabreado", or "Hedwig and the Angry Centimeter." And that's a good marker for where the problems begin. An angry centimeter, being approximately 0.393701 of an inch, is not nearly as significant as an angry inch. If you had an angry centimeter of disturbed flesh in your genital area, it could easily be shrugged off as a superficial skin anomaly, or nothing that a few beers couldn't erase from consciousness. Which is exactly how I'd describe this Spanish-language adaptation of the hilariously entertaining and transgressive musical that I saw some years ago.
The star sang well. He had a pretty speaking voice. And he brought no energy or soul to the role. The show was performed in the Paloma, a gorgeous old art deco theater in Barcelona, whose spaciousness was utterly wasted because no one moved. Okay, Hedwig did a little bit, but only to do some very half-assed dance movements. Hey, I know how hard it is to sing well and dance about on the stage without a) losing your breath or b) lip-synching like Ashley, especially 'cause I'm out of shape. But this was a gay man, for God's sake! Or at least he played one -- kind of. Gay men, especially those in showbiz, spend hours and hours in the gym. And thus are in crack-ass shape (ignore the pun) to confront the physical hurdles of any stage role as well as Britney or Christina or the rest of 'em!
But this was the laziest, most vapid Hedwig ever. Not to blame everything on the poor star, because it was obvious that the director, writers, sound designers, et al., all shared the blame for an appalling -- nay, criminal -- lack of imagination. They simply took a well-known institution (ironically born of the very iconoclastic imagination of John Cameron Mitchell), translated it, substituted some cultural references, and stuck it in the Betty Crocker oven at 350o. This team managed to take one of the most exciting shows of the last few years and mummify it. The best thing about the show was that I got to wait comfortably indoors on a red velvet sofa sipping Sangre de Toro before flyering the exiting audience out in the cold, prostitute-covered street for my own show.
But bad shows can be fun to see. They can even be inspirational. Bad shows challenge me to imagine what I could do to improve on what I'm seeing. What I would do with that stage, with that space, with the audience in that lovely, old-time 1920's decadent room. Yeah, it's armchair quarterbacking, but every Thursday for an hour and a half, I get a chance to eat it too in my own show.
But I don't. Not yet anyway, and not the way this production did. Wait'll I'm rich and famous and a (pop) cultural institution. Then I'll have my chance to bore people to death. Oh, I hope, I hope!
Feb. 16, 2005 16:30 - Donate Your Organs!
I read a story in the NY Times today about a lady whose family donated her organs after she died. It described the whole process and the outcome, which was that another lady whose lungs were trashed could have them replaced. It was a fascinating and moving story.
I've thought about it a lot, and when I die, I wanna donate my organs. Why? Well, of course I like the idea of helping other people live longer. But I also have very selfish reasons, like my organs continuing to live for a while in other bodies. I also like the idea of the few extra hours of intense attention I'll be getting after I'm dead, with all those doctors and nurses skillfully working on me, putting me on tubes and machines and touching me everywhere inside. Death is scary and lonely, but with all those people flocked around you, it seems more like a party -- and a party with smart, talented people to boot! I've always liked meeting new people, and BOOM, I'll get to meet all these people at once, after I'm dead!
Besides, there will less of me to rot. Rotting is truly icky and I'm not looking forward to that. If I donate my organs, just my lovely outsides will have to deteriorate. Of course, cremation is the most glamourous and trendy option, and frankly, the one to which I'm most suited. Besides, not having to cremate your organs means less air pollution, and I'm all for that. Just 'cause President Bush doesn't want to clean up the air doesn't mean we can't do our part!
And then all the phone calls made about me -- or I mean my organs. The overworked but still comely nurses, looking so wholesome and professional in their scrubs, barking into the phone held with a bloody, gloved hand: "Are you ready for Miss Arieff's liver yet? Well, step on it! We've got her on a ventilator and her system's about to collapse!" The Hollywood side of me likes this part a lot, 'cause it's like having a manager that finally "gets" you and really, truly works for you!
Think about donating your organs. It'll be a blast; I promise!
Jan. 22, 2005 17:39 - A Sparklin' New Year's Tale
Way more than a month later ... but we're back! Let's start back up with a bang, shall we? So, since I've moved to Spain, my eating habits have changed. Naturally, 'cause the food has changed.
So like last month, I went Number Two, and when I got up to flush, I couldn't help noticing that my Number Two was standing straight up in the bowl like a person. (As I've said, my eating habits have changed.) Bizarre, but that's not all: it also had the face of late ex-President Ronald Reagan!
!!!!!
Well, when something this strange happens in one's life, one's tempted to think there's a message behind it. And in this case, I believe that message clearly was...
"We may be through with the past, but the past ain't through with us."
Be that as it may, here's to a brand spankin' new, sparklin'-clean year! Happy New Year, everybody!
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