Archive for January, 2009

This is Art.

Posted in Uncategorized on January 28, 2009 by Anoush

My second attempt to go into the city was better than the first that day. Our plans were to meet on the train and walk over to this place – see what this whole silent auction was all about.

At the Manhasset train station I ran into two girls i graduated with – both very, how do i put this… hot. They are the fun party girls – one of whom I can dance Greek with and fully pull off Greek, and the other i’ve always admired as a comedienne. There were lots of boots and dangly earrings and I contributed to this whole thing. On the train I looked for my Armenian entourage and there they were in the next car. i wished my High School girlfriends a pleasant evening and moved on to the next car with the girls with printed stockings and high heels. I have issues with those t-shirt/dresses – they’re just too short to be dresses. I still wear them though. Life’s tough.

All we wanted to do was dance – drunkdance. And Dane Cook was never mentioned, which I thought was a bold step. (no offense, but some things need a break – overquoting something/someone makes me aaaaangry. Unless it’s certain things.) I wondered, what if we danced too hard and knocked over art on the tables. That would be… awful/horrible/ironic.

Nothing

Posted in Uncategorized on January 28, 2009 by Anoush

Like, like, like, I read this play two years ago when a female character walks into the kitchen back at home and tells the people (can’t remember which relatives they were) “You know that feeling when you don’t wash your hair for a while and your head begins to hurt?” And.. I HATED THIS LINE SO MUCH. First, I thought it wasn’t helpful to the story or to what the scene was about. Second i thought it was the playwright trying to make her character do some kind of mini standup routine to make the audience react all: “Well I’ll be damned – your head DOES hurt!” I thought it was whoredom in the form of play. Then we ran out of shampoo this week and I hadn’t washed my hair for two days – no, a day and a half. And i’ll be damned – your head DOES hurt. So maybe I was being a little harsh? Maybe not. I know it doesn’t look this way, but I think i think I’ve lightened up about a couple things. I’ve relaxed about things I have very little control over. In the last 12 months, I think (Just glancing at my pie chart) I’ve gone a hair closer to “OK.” (KNOCK ON WOOD. DEAR GOD)

I also don’t mumble motherfucker that much anymore.

I enjoy not being able to see the skeleton of a joke. When I can see the bones, I feel uncomfortable. I know real-life people who do routines on me all the time and I can see bones and they scare me. You see “funny-attempt” in visible form. Somethign I hate about myself, so……psh why not dislike it about other people? I’ve seen very little skeletons lately and I feel kinda safe and laughing, kid-like. When you claim to know every bone of a joke, it means you’re cynical. (I should write that down – for myself, for myself – i won’t put it in a play or anything whory like that.)The comedians I say I hate, i’m usually jealous of. Most. Except for a couple, who i can’t unhinge myself wide enough to find funny. But mostly, I’m a supporter. (Like a bra.)

Unrelated, maybe related: A fear of mine is talking/emoting and then being asked to please shut up. Also, being thought of as mushy. Being thought of in that way is .. i dunno… a real shame, especially if I’m not. Not that it matters what people think – but you care every once in a while, you know? And if you don’t, you’re a lying motherfucker.

xoxo

Sound

Posted in Uncategorized on January 22, 2009 by Anoush

I feel bad every so often for our car. We have one old car and one older car. I take the old car to work – the older one’s for emergencies and/or last minute escapes. The old car squeaks, though. I turn the key so slowly whereas the usual key turners do it like they’re TRYING to twist it apart.

When dishes bang in the kitchen when he’s putting them away, he’ll say “sh” to them. I think that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. And it’s scary-weird. I almost wish he’d yell “Fucker” or something. Instead he tells the inanimate objects to “sh” as if it’s a joke. As if THEY’RE the problem. Not that we need to figure out whose fault it is in dishbanging craziness. But own it.

Another sound I hate (Which i can hear from upstairs) is the sound of the remote dropping from the arm of the downstairs chair. It’s unsettling because first – it means the arm of the chair is a Thing, now. It’s an actual home for this motherfucker-remote. Secondly because it means that the person who’s sitting in it has changed positions. The drop of the remote suggests a phase change, and it happens infrequently sometimes.

I need the old car to not die, is what i’m saying. I never go too far, but my out’s are imperative. Also i need music when I drive. The old car has radio but no CD player. TOTALLY FINE. The Older car has nothing. I just prefer to drive to work with those provisions rather than without. Picky? Maybe. It’s a place for now, and I need a place.

But I really hate that “sh.” Even “Shush” is better. Ugh, no that’s weird too. Weird, locked-in-a-closet stuff that makes me so uncomfortable. All when the dishes are just being themselves. And it’s not funny. It’s fucking weird. Uh, sorry.

I hear the sound of carrot chewing from the computer room at 8:30 am. Little morning snack, are we? Eating baby carrots out of a plastic bag, depending on them so much that lacking them would mean…errr… IMMEDIATE OBESITY!And we don’t want to be normal, non-100%-Fat-Free, now do we? That’s just not orange enough for us. Each crunchy-chew screams a not-happy-with-yourself’ness that I can’t be around or witness. Things that are not better than me, and I need things to be Better Than Me. I try to shake off the weird but it won’t go away.

“You hold the key…” Madonna might say in a Frozen song (and/or music video) and I don’t know. I do know that Love is a bird and She needs to fly, though. I don’t know what we’re talking about.

In other news, J and I went to a comedy show last night to see our improv friend perform. Was so good. Meeting the comics and talking afterwards was cool. Meeting the comics who WEREN’T in the show but who just came to see and… observe… was cool, even more. Recognizing them from other shows. It’s all interconnecteddddd. (Me lacing my fingers, scrunching my face, trying to show you how I can interconnect my fingers really tightly to make a point.) People constantly striving for higher. It’s good and I like.

Lemme tell ya why I suck as a salesman.

Posted in Uncategorized on January 21, 2009 by Anoush

It’s ok, just quit bitching about how you can’t sleep anymore. it’s getting old. Maybe you should send some kind of signal, let ’em know it’s not real heartlessness – just the pseudo-trying-to-be-something’ness. “You’re obsessed with reaching some kind of ultimate, waiting for that big ohhhh nod? while you sit there, working on 6 of your unbaked dreams.” Oh, that’s me talking to myself. Ah but little do I know that there are so many OTHER things to be angry about – not the usual self-things. You must open your mind.

You have to give more, the voice tells me. Giving will make your heart bigger/warmer. Ah, but here’s the thing. I’ve given. Been all warm. Be all warm with things, then they just start rotting cause all living things do when they’re left out for too long. So i kinda, you know, lose faith, kinda. If you want to call it faith. I say, What about Channeling? I’m a good channeler ’cause out-of-the-blue Givers are… too easy – I won’t be easy. What I also WON’T do is be a Giver while I have this semi-rotten heart. “Uh… uh, Here. this is for you. There ya go….yeahhhh… I know it LOOKS all black and rotten but I’m supposed to be GIVING, so… yeah water it and watch it grow. Like one of those tablets that grow into spongy animal shaped things. Aren’t we better now that we’re all giving people?

The voice angers me. Well, first it shatters my ego. Then it makes me feel gluttonous, and self-indulgent as if I ENJOY the uh… feeling. Gross. Vomit. It’s easy to be heartless… It’s because people with hearts have no power.

If I may use a Wizard of Oz analogy here…
Audience: “Booooooo” A beer can almost hits me in the face.
I say, If i may use a Wizard of Oz analogy here..
Audience: “Boooooo” I throw a chair back at them & they get quiet. Maybe they call a cop. Whisper: I never liked the tin man. Made me really uncomfortable. I’m scarecrow-and-lion-happy. Also fearful, nervous, silly people are just too wrapped up in their own stuff to worry about hearts. It’s why we get along.

The one where I write about me

Posted in Uncategorized on January 17, 2009 by Anoush

The soft spoken waiter at The Pizzeria fills the napkin holder and pokes me in the shoulder. “You think too much.” I was probably doing that thing again where I phase out at the register and think about ideas and people and when I’m brought back to life, I realize I’ve been staring at a chicken roll for the past 10 minutes. (I have this idea for a movie but I’m not writing the actual thing yet. I did, some, but on paper, it looks like Confusion. Linearly, it makes no sense. Like the way I speak sometimes – stopping, starting, unfinished sentences. Better to figure out what I want to say. I mean HAVE you heard me when I’m trying to … say something with meaning/passion? When I’m trying to express need? All while shielding any vulnerability because… heh… WEAKNESS.

I’m writing a play, one act. Halfway through and with this, I’m more comfortable with the mental bouncing around and this is where I’ll play for now. Thursday night, I decided that Friday after work I’d hop on a train and escape. Coming back to this house and hysteria is painful. Miserable. Also, shame on me for feeling so miserable sometimes. Slap me.

Monday through Friday is theatrical distribution assistant (very cool) and Friday is phone girl at The Pizzeria (cool, but in a different way.) Both places keep me interconnected, I think. I got there at 10 30 and sat by the telephones .I wanted a whorehouse to go to afterwards or any kind of destination that didn’t mean coming home to my thoughts. (Not a horrible thing to come home to but you know.) Then I didn’t really want to go anywhere because of the cold and how my ipod wasn’t charged for a good train ride and… Theee Fact that I was going back on Saturday for two events. (I make up for lost time real well.)

Friday at The Pizzeria, though. 10 30 am and ready to cry. (WHY?) Ready to cry and cry because I knew it wasn’t something that would pass. So it’s kind of pointless. A stationary bike. So I’m there NOT doing that to avoid the forever-feeling-this-way of it all. Buck up. Draw. Write about your theory about people who yell “Boooo.” How minor inconveniences cause grown people to yell. How the expression scares me. How it sounds like a verbal deformity if we went as far as to personify it. Although when used sparingly is quite entertaining. “We don’t recycle here?” “Boooo!” “We’re out of Coke Zero?” “Boooo!”

Then A walked in singing Flight of the Concords songs and the laughing distracted me or gave me something new to be for a while. Us talking about writing projects and how some expressions are so overused in this language. “Awkward” “Random” <- All Whores. My boss walked over asking me if things were good. (Small talk, Me doing my thumbs-up and smile-face. Feelin’ good? Yep! Good. Awesome.) It’s the Sandra Bullock style of comic timing where you’re not sure if you should laugh at her or hug her. I miss our manager. He gets back from Egypt next week. I imagine everything he’s doing with the Sphinx in the background. (I can joke about Egypt ’cause it’s close.) Everything … with the Sphinx just there. We’re funny.

AK walks over with the last three delivery tickets I wrote out. This ticket says sixth floor and the bldg only has 5 floors. It’s a rooftop party. This place didn’t have the room number written on it. I said, Did you ever think of walking down the hall, screaming PIZZA!! And seeing who opens the door first? Laughs.

The cool, Russian body builder delivery guy calls me Armenian Pride. And his accent is so thick that when he speaks, I lean in and whisper, I don’t know what we’re talking about. The girl who was supposed to come in and help never came so A and I interwove cash register + phones. The room built up with so much smoke it started to look like … “Imagination.” I didn’t mind the extra work. But a lot of slamming down of phone after taking an order, yelling, AHHHH. I like when G comes in. He’s a fedex guy who can quote all my favorite guy-ish movies but can also discuss life. But sometimes he says things like “Eh you’re still young,” which I find unsettling. What does that mean? It’s like young age makes this whole feeling less “Killing yourself”-worthy. (joke) What happens when you’re NOT young and you’re still feeling this way? (God forbid, or at least Me-forbid.)? (Scary stuff.) That’s why I want crazy life to happen NOW while my hair still looks good. While my joints are still good. While I regret relatively FEW things.)

A sits on the freezer his feet touching the floor and knees still perpendicular from the ground. I’d like to be 6’5’’ for a day, but I’m alright. I take one last Sicilian pie order and manage to say “15 minutes” without choking on my own throat. I slip A the ticket, he’s on the phone now and ask him to order this for me. I run to the bathroom, shut the door behind me and wail. My back leaning on the door, the toilet paper is cold, but it cools off my eyes just fine. (It’s onlyweird if i happens every week. It doesn’t) I relax and walk back into the Smoke, get a diet coke and put in a straw – I never drink from soda cans with a straw. G gives me a dollar and change saying some customer said to tip the nice lady on the phone. (I’m either bothered or cold/hopeless, wavering back and forth.) Nice lady?

The queasy moment passed and we were back to talking about Deuce Bigalow and laughing. G loading boxes on his knees under the counter. Me kneeling with him, in my whispery, phony voice, “Hey, did you ever think it would come to all this?” Me buried in boxes. I made a funny. It’s good. I did my special handshakes and was alright.

Something

Posted in Uncategorized on January 13, 2009 by Anoush

So I’m going to try something. Call it (HEY!) call it a New Years Resolution – A… rite of passage if you will. Being Hot Shit <- Ya know, I think i could pull it off, think it’d look good on me. I never thought of myself as "on-high-horse" material but WHO KNOWS! Maybe this horse’s always been high and I’ve just spent so much time, like, heh, cough, being scared of heights. Unable to enjoy the… trot. Ya know what? LET it be a fucking high horse. It’s a hiiiiigh horse with fucking tassles hanging from its butt. Pink tassles. Sequins around its eyes. Hot shit. i’m gonna try it. A lot of OTHER people of my age group, gender, who share the same interests as me… do it. So I’m GONNA. Don’t care if i’m……. imposing. Or lying.

Cause I’ve learned in my years – my years – that there’s very little pay back for the time you put into misery. If i tend to “get this way” – it’s in my genetics (ehhh people who say “it’s in my genetics” piss me off – so why did i say it?!) – well, then i’m going to at least pull off the “top-of-the-pyramid” … thing. Also? I EAT genetics then spit ’em out and say “Ehhh tastes funny” Same for rotten fruit or… clowns <- Uh Huh. Thing is, I want to fly somewhere (Figurrrrative) and not be bothered by famous Mean Reds. (THe non-Communist ones.)

*It’s not about family or genetics. It’s NOTHING about those things – they’re buffers (here). S’about the high horse.

xoxo sometimes

Nothing New (for the most part)

Posted in Uncategorized on January 12, 2009 by Anoush

I’m so angry and I don’t know why. No, I KNOW why. I use the word Cunt sparingly because it fades in the wash, but it’s the only word that really…arrrr… works here. Right here. (That’s wrong. That’s crass and a little unnecessary… Must find a better way of… emoting. For the future – for the future, let’s say.) Said it. Done. Wow, that felt great. Probably don’t need to do it again for a while.

I’m envious of people and like fighting even though there’s no (little) reason to (be). I’m always ready for one, too (a fight) and it’s scary when I come across people who…. *aren’t.* The ones who’re just… ok with… things. (As far as we know.) I don’t like/know healthy; I don’t like “good for me.” Oatmeal’s good for me, but it’s so… beige…; so is… I don’t know – whatever those people do to be “good to themselves.” A gross phrase. (Exercise: Say “Gross phrase” – it sounds disgusting saying it.)
(I say EW to all of those things!) Secretly needing it, but, you know, the way *I* want it to be. Cause I’m in charge.

I throw a brick at it all. Hopefully it’ll just fizzle away in mid air.