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.

 

 

 

 

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