Category Archives: Solo Material

Launch

I thank those who came to my show in sub arctic armpit cold weather last week and those who flitted by in spirit, including Abraham Lincoln and Mrs. Edith Grovella, who died in a 1 BR on the lower east side in the late 1950’s.  Sorry I didn’t get to your bit Abe.  Will do next time.  Good show with a small but might crowd.

Video is up on my Youtube channel.   Now what?   Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat, gentle cycle, tumble dry low,  that’s the order of things this month with my material. It’s good to crack the egg salad open on stage; now I give all I can to it for the next 3 months and nothing else. At least this month, February, the moth of frolic and fury. A lot can change in a month.

When I was a teenager in Indiana I had a run of subpar Februaries; I became convinced February was a cursed month for me.   It was nothing extravagant but for me small things were painful, like depth perception shifts and other intangible psychic elements that dotted  my landscape. Part of it was probably the weather, living off Lake Michigan it got cold.  I can’t recall any event per se that got me into that belief but I held to it.  Parts of me were not happy and parts of me were fine, I guess the usual combustible mixture for a pubescent kid.  But with a real rushing undertow of rapids of latent living left untouched. I had some trouble with authority and yet ended up Class President in 7th and 8th grade, a bizarre mix that made me realize if I want something in life it seems I’d be best to answer to my own boss to do it.

However, this February I want to be the greatest month in my life.  If I were a jet, I would have crashed by now after running out of fuel for being in a holding pattern so long.  After the show, I had trouble sleeping because I hit some power grid in my soul and I know I can’t go back.   It’s a healthy fever, and one I want to break only after I run amok for a while. I’m due for a crazy stunt.  We’ll see what Rev66 Peachnuts (the name for my higher self) dials down over the next few days.  Could involve nudity. We’ll see.

My prediction for Puppy Bowl:  Golden Retriever puppy 7 kissies, Shitzu puppy 1 chew toy gnarled. I hope they have the Hamster Cam. I have big money on this game.

 

 

 

 

Nights of Harlem Granite

Sometimes characters I create feel more like me than I do.  Pure distilled parts of myself that don’t get ovations in the day to day world filled with the dents of my mind.   One of my favorites is Charley Who Horse, the trumpet player from Harlem in my play Whorapy, sort of the bartender of the speakeasy and when I need advice on something, sometimes I go back and read what he says. It sounds a bit vain, but sometimes when I get muddled by the maelstroms of the boiling blood in my veins, I go back to something I wrote to put my feet back on Earth or at least under my knees.  Sometime at the beginning of Act II he tells Madeline, the madame
“Don’t know. Colors and music’s all I see!
Don’t know much ‘bout no strategies!
I’m here but I ain’t, here but I ain’t,
that’s how I gotta be in this world.”

One thing is for certain no matter what happens in life from this point on and I have no idea what the hell that will be, but that’s a quote I live by. I trust my writing as more of a topography of my soul and the world and others in my life than what my brain tells me sometimes.  It’s honoring the Real. And on night like this, where every emotional condition seems to have a megaphone strapped to its lips, the night asks that I show up alone.  Last week I had a screaming session with the Universe, to express some what I feel are glaring deficiencies in the cosmic pruning of my life. It’s been a hard three years. Starting on an air mattress in Fall 2009 and ending a few days ago.  I feel slowly drilled into and I guess it’s necessary to enhance and unify my life and soul. Some nights you’re tied to the bumper and some you’re behind the wheel/Some nights the Guardians of the Mist tell you how to feel/The wicked servants burning from the shadows of the train/passing through the station to light that crooked path again…life’s a spinning circle.

My show is next Thursday. And that’s the beginning. After that, I eat and sleep and shave performance and acting.

 

The mental harassment of telling someone your dreams

But I’m doing it anyway, briefly; I dreamt I was riding in the passenger seat of a limo driven by Chewbacca.  I don’t care what it really means, that I want to touch my mother’s allegorical penis or who cares really;  Chewbacca was as cool hand luke as you’d expect. That’s all.  Once years ago while consulting at Schwab in San Francisco I told him I dreamt that Goofy and Brooke Shields were turning with their hands that circular space station in 2001: A Space Odyssey while it was rotating in space and they were disproportionately large.  My friend told me I was full of shit and I said many times yes and aren’t most of us but this was true.  Of course, I didn’t believe half the things I was doing at that time. Once I showed up to work still high on LSD and the same friend just laughed his sober ass off while I kept rebirthing with this faint smell of piss and blood around me; that was the comedown all the way to work on the bus; this slight chirping sound in my head of piss and purple materials;  that he believes.  The night before my ex and I, both impatient, took too much after waiting a lofty twenty minutes or so for the first batch to kick in and then both sent us to what I called Vegas Buddhism; when I looked in the mirror it was like an early cut of Sgt. Pepper; I walked around my apartment blessing everything like the pope I never wanted to become; when I looked at my ex on the bed all I saw was the devil, curvy, red and full of trouble.  When we were on top of each other, I couldn’t speak English; instead, I kept saying maybe in a precursor to rebirthing “Spangle wambee jampers.” After all these years I still remember that phrase to the syllable better than my ex roommates name.  My ex was not pleased; at times I would pull out of it and speak solemnly in my solemn bank teller exchange voice “hey, I think I have this under control now” then start laughing and reverting back to my own special language that only myself and my suddenly free on parole inner infant could understand.  By dawn I realized this was still happening and being a Capricorn I had to go to work even if typhoid ants with mental problems were biting my on the legs; I went to work and after downing as much Vitamin C that my bowels doth not protest I somehow programmed my way through a comedown and made many special floating friends that day that did Riverdance around my head.  They were very supportive. It was the only and last time I did LSD; there simply too many other substances to fit on the schedule and squeeze in a full time job.  In a capitalist sin or ultimate act of wacky compassion a homeless man outside my apartment, as there were the finest and most well informed homeless in the country holding symposiums in my neighborhood across from Ocean Beach, a homeless man and I struck up a conversation about the necessities of war or the effect of metals on aerodynamics when he mentioned he wanted LSD.  I gave him the rest of it and before I could recommend a dosage he down the rest and I luckily it only caused him to sprawl;  for me that would have turned my limbs inside out with a load of lips that I always wanted to kiss but never did so now were going to eat me from the outside inward. One day I plan to write a musical based on my brief history of drugs.  Everything in my life at the time was changing like a diaper and so I had to sink and swim and fortunately as an  Capricorn which is symbolized by the amphibious sea-goat I could do both.

Maybe it all began when I was an Alpha Bits junkie when I was in elementary school. I used to deal Alpha Bits to other kids in the cafeteria. That’s what I used to do; I was a sugar dealer during lunch time, like a floor runner on the stock exchange; I would get maybe three white cakes for my braunschweiger sandwich, which my mother made me every day after I probably merely eyeballed the enlarged squashy yellow log when we were at the meat counter one day and that gave her the green light to order a lifetime supply. Extra logs hidden behind the toilet, etc. So trading it was a necessity. And if you’ve had braunschweiger, you understand what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, well, it’s like certain drugs. I always tell people don’t ever let me catch you doing it. Because I’ve done them and the big rule is you don’t introduce anyone else to them. And I feel that way about braunschweiger. Don’t ever do braunschweiger, though I just lost the possibility for an endorsement if it ever makes a comeback. I’ve lost my first commercial gig. Eh, well fuck you braunschweiger!

When I was ten, I worked my way up to getting hooked on Planters Cheeseballs: round, softer, versions of Cheetos, like Cheetos for women, to the point I demanded like a trailer park mama to my mama there be at least two or three extra large size cans in the pantry so when I watched Flash Gordon I could get high off the powder and live Flash Gordon. My version of Pink Floyd’s The Wall. I imagine myself like Andy Dufrane in Shawshank Redemption, when he’s dropping bits of wall dust surreptitiously from his pants while he walks around the prison yard. I did the same with cheeseball dust in my backyard, with Morgan Freeman narrative.  There’s a magnet I now have that says “Leap, and the net will appear.” So looking back, I realized I did the monastic Zen thing and leaped from cheeseballs to crack.

Maybe we’ll continue this discussion on stage.  My friend asked me if I would ever take drugs again and I say only peyote or shaman initiatory drugs so I can see the great Lizard Queen and give her a pedicure and she can let me drink of her toe nail clippings and I will reborn as someone who can heal old cars.  When I was high years ago, it would make my heart pound so fast it felt like it jumped out of my mouth like a freaked out Bugs Bunny cartoon character and on the way back in it would have another hit and I knew if my cartoon heart was taking drugs on top of me, it was trouble and one night, Elton John’s pacemaker appeared to me in a dream and said “Lee, I have a cousin sitting in a box in Albuquerque and your resume appeared.”  Since then, I think about my heart and the general shit generating machine my life became and I don’t even think about it.  Jedi training is not what they say in the movies.

 

Blackbox of my soul

This is my tentative new title of whatever I do next on stage. When I was a teenager I wanted to become an airline pilot; hence the title.  Seems to fit.   I’m looking through my materials and my brain begins, even in the December haze, to activate like playing whack a mole with a tributary.  Not hat I’d whack a mole; I don’t dig on harming animal analogies; our species needs to shake those out I think.  I am amzed, to this point in my life, I am 1) still alive   2) healthy.   1) refers to the drugs I did in California and 2) refers to my three stomach diet I had as a teenager mostly in Philly.   My first year there, the worst year of my life, my USS Puberty attacked by Her Royal Majesty’s Navy when we moved from Indiana, during that year I would microwave two plumper hot dogs for lunch and chase that down with an ice cream block smashed between two brownies. For lunch, due my deep and unmusical case of the blues, I sat alone every day and ate four TastyKake fudge bars at .25 a piece, sometimes pushing it down with milk which I despise.  I needed the sugar to get me through the afternoon of a solitary hell.  I drank a lot of Pathmark generic soda ’cause it was .99 for three liters.  You can’r wreck your kidneys any cheaper or faster if you’re underage.  Ate burgers for breakfast on Saturdays.  I’m lucky I didn’t start drinking or smoking pot; I saved all that for later.  I did get high off bathroom cleaners, casually inadvertently, when cleaning bathrooms.  Pepperoni I ate by the stick.  Life seems for me to be constantly banging back and forth between a secret past and a past built on the naked eye.  Secret soul, secret pains, the neutron slicks I call them, the subtle invisible pulses that define your life and cause the things that happen, like me eating four fudge bars for lunch every day.

The glory of Facebook is that when someone from that past finds me, sometimes they’re shocked by what they see as one friend from high school said about my profile when he saw it; to me, the shock is if I don’t punch through the paper onion I sometimes feel wrapped around.  He and I started a band in high school called The Mammals. I was teased for it, which is like being teased for having a huge penis that organically vibrates.  I managed to get teased about being in a band; now that’s stature.  In the present rapture, I’m becoming a better singer I feel.  Had class tonight and we’re working on songs for our concert. I will hopefully film and post them on Youtube.  I look forward to composing soon.

 

 

 

Regifting a planet

My birthday’s coming on the 29th and that means my Solar Return; when I moved to New York nine years ago from San Francisco as a platter of plasma with ID, one of the first things I did was to find an astrology teacher so that I could not only figure out what the hell happened to me out in California but master the art of measuring the skies inside my soul so that senseless tragedies like what I endured need never occur again.

I studied two years intensely and over the years intermittently; I’m a triple Capricorn (sun moon and rising) with a gum wad of Scorpio planets; between the two I’m picked dry (or wet).  Every year I feel a little less Saturn (Capricorn’s ruling planet – the planet of anxiety, wisdom and late bloomers) and a little more Mars (Scorpio’s ruling planet –the planet of energy, war, competition, SEX, massive intensity): every year I can hear louder and louder pacing of symphonies waiting to be written; large engulfing projects that boil and then explode in spontaneous exotic and sexual floral arrangements; but you don’t fuck with these flowers; I have a saying with Scorpios that you don’t cross one; if you do, carry a basket around so you have somewhere to put your head when it gets lopped off;

We all have the same planets and same houses; it’s soul DNA, is astrology; it reminds me we all share the same ingredients;  and my chart is run by Saturn and Mars like two mob bosses fighting with each other and stalking other planets; Mars is starting to win the turf war; that’s why when I go to bed at times it’s just sort of a gesture, not really something that  leads to sleep;  in short, I am a fanatic (in the words of my teacher);

So every year I look at my Solar Return, an annual forecast we all have base don our Sun’s position; and this year is going to be one to burn holes in  The Secret, at least that’s the intent. Tonight where i take singing class (@BQCM) I saw a pianist and violist play several selections of modern composers, a couple I knew and a couple I didn’t. the violist, during one, snapped a string in an intense moment which I loved;  he was in fervor and during all of their pieces my mind turns on and I asked myself what I felt the greatest piece of American music ever written was and immediately I came back with George Gershwin’s  Rhapsody in Blue. Nothing else dropped by to claim the stake and I stick with that.  Of course Katy Perry’s Extraterrestrial is a close second;  something about being love addicted to an emotionally unresponsive alien makes me wonder if the feeder tube from American Soul to American Psyche needs a good cleaning;  I would not know the song if I wasn’t fond of conspiracy theories and watched the video for signs of Illuminati symbolism which one can turn into a drinking game or for me a chocolate game;  and every time I go into a thrift shop the song played;  I don’t know what’s going on with popular music;  I just think if I ever have a daughter and she came home singing lyrics about a love addicted girl who wants to be turned into a liquid drug so she could be shot into the veins of her boyfriend so he could shoot himself and bleed her all over his penis and then get orally pleasured by rabid sex starved aline monkeys or cause him to rectally bleed so she would know what it’s like to be eliminated while he’s having sex with her best friend whatever shit  I see hints of in some of these lyrics; I know I exaggerate but addiction is not something you want to peddle on teenage girls; that’s the sad flavor I get with some of these tunes when I energy scan;  black is black; 

I’m rambling with intent, on creating an exotic garden that reminds me what home smells like;  walls made of crushed petals, clay and shattered mirrors attached to certain reflections;

——–

‘Marry the emotional movement, Horatio, into the madness with the silliness and all the other spokes of the magic pinwheel; spokes of the magic pinwheel, dicing and slicing pieces of life into something such a mess it’s like sitting in a big pile of confusing confetti; a party that is life and every little piece matters and nothing is random; to the naked eye it looks like a piece of confetti; to the naked soul it’s Picasso.’

 

Slowly I return to the rumble in a capitalist haze

I just got a letter from my cable company that my promotional period has ended and bill is going up by about $35. I wasn’t aware it was a promotional period; I guess symbolically it is the beginning of my personal promotional period;  thank you Cablevision for your symbolic interlude with my life;   This means most likely no TV;  we’ll see; I’m starting to feel somewhat healed;  thanks capitalism;

I read tonight Ben Stiller is getting the British Film Academy’s award for excellence in comedy and he is quoted as saying that comedians don’t take themselves too seriously. I’m going to have to disagree — nay, take umbrage because I rarely get to take umbrage these days — with that statement; from when I’ve done stand-up and the others I’ve been around they’re the most serious cats in the litter;  great comedy comes from rummaging through the garbage of tragedy looking for art snacks;  I guess certain comedians don’t take themselves too seriously;  dipping the toe in the Lenny Bruce pond or Richard Pryor is like an unspoken ocean of human movement of chards and clamors and chains made out of plastic toys and imaginary friends and garage sales, well that’s my wacky taffy river; watching the Joan Rivers documentary which I loved her daughter Melissa flat out said comedians are damaged people; she didn’t seem to enjoy their company. I think I shall one day teach a discourse on the elements of humors. Or just doing it. I’ll be the first honorary professor to teach a course on my own work. How pompous and yet…so delicious. I take umbrage with thee Ben Stiller; speak for yourself; congrats on your award though.

I am going to smack down the Mystical flu tonight;  the mind can tyrannize you when you’re alone with yourself too long, creating super-solid myths about yourself that have no gods in them but martyrs and villains. And some of them are older than birth, some are a few years and none of them know how to dress well but just borrow costumes from your memory and show up as other people;  years ago after my nervous breakdown in Iowa I saw a psychotherapist who would scribble on a notepad and smile at me while I chattered away in horror at my life turning inside out; he had a beard and shot Zoloft out of his prescription beard into my mouth, or I imagined, as he looked like the Santa Clause from my 6th grade story after a year in Scientology or electroshock, whichever came first, and upped the dosage until my crown chakra felt like it was sliding off my head and into the nearest bar; walking around numb by legal means is not a joy;  but once, after another session where he said nothing and scribbled more notes and more notes until he had written his entire childhood through my life without knowing it, I asked him “how am I doing? I’m scared. These things seems real to me” (or something of the sort). He chuckled and said “tyranny of the mind” squeezing more Zolofts like blackheads into my orifi. That was the last time I went to him but I’ll never forget Scientology Claus saying that. Theater did more to save me and that was free. I have an illustriously silly history of therapists which I title A Brief HIstory of Therapists.  This is my life, egg shell crackers walking on egg shells around me while I pay them to do it. More to come; more to come;  more to come;  I said it three times, monastically they have to let me in now.

I want a car and tonight to be in the 1% so I can finance my arts.