Performance Art Piece at Salvation Cafe, April 1st, Newport, RI

I will be dragging a bowling ball on a chain wrapped around my ankle and wearing handcuffs. Otherwise, I intend to make appropriate small talk with party goers celebrating the first edition of a new magazine featuring one of my stories. I am honored to be included in the first edition of the Newpy News, and look forward to working with the editors on future issues. The bowling ball and handcuffs signify my mental state at the moment, and the confinement of said equipment will provoke a spontaneous and musically uplifting performance installation without signifigance although I will be suggesting that I am against slavery and the limitations of my First Amendment rights. Yes, it’s a powerful and physically challenging endeavor, as I recreate the most intricate dance sequences from “West Side Story.” The subtexts of both musical and magazine, being one in the same, will allow both audience participation and chanting. After singing “Somewhere” I will be reading from my latest vignette based on information collected during my Washington D.C. hotel visit with a Congressional Aide. He, may I add, is Hispanic and helped me to better understand reignited resentments of minorities in the United States. My performance installation, the first in a series of ten, will make absolutely no sense until, after three drinks, I write an essay explaining it in an application for an arts grant. The comedic value of this piece cannot be overstated.

Side Swipe from a Grief Drawer

Over and over, in your head, you say, what have I done? What have I done? What have I done? Standing in front of a bureau drawer you’ve been cleaning out, discovering your dead father’s driver’s license or a black and white photo of yourself, at a beach, standing knee-high to that father. You shut the drawer and go on. Maybe clean out the linen closet. Too late. The image of the face on the plastic weathered driver’s license is now lodged in the middle of your throat and when you swallow, the image sinks deeper and cuts into your center, the center from which all activity and motivation spring forth, and you want to sit down but the image might kill you, so you open the linen closet. Mice turds and urine sprinkled throughout the sheets and towels. The mice have eaten holes in your favorite sheets. Hands rip at the mess, pile it in the car for a later trip to the laundry. A temporary respite from the jabbing ache of longing, regret, loss, loss, loss. And you think, all is lost, so why bother washing the sheets? Dangerous thinking. Phone call from daughter driving a U-Haul cross country alone. Her cat is freaking out in the truck and has pissed on the seats, in her purse, on her lap. Ah, a problem, a smooth-out time-out. The gift of an unsolvable problem of the now. Will I have to pay to have the truck cleaned, she asks? Does vehicle insurance pay for cat piss cleaning? I offer to call the U-Haul people. There are no U-Haul people, just U-Haul recordings. What have I done? What have I done? Why am I standing in the middle of the living room asking what have I done? What does that mean? I have no idea. What am I going to do? What happened? What is happening? What is this? What is what? Let’s not walk to the mailbox today. Let’s not clean out any more drawers. I brush the mattes from the dogs paws. Mud season. Futile. The brush in my hand is weightless, the dog seems unreal, like a stuffed animal. In my head, full color, my father’s face on the driver’s license, resigned but dignified. One eye droops from a growing cancer of which he is unaware. Date of birth. Safe driver. Frayed, dirtied edges of plastic, a small square of plastic, impersonal, lawfully executed. My father is gone. And I will be gone. And my daughter may find my driver’s license in a drawer and your daughter or son may find your driver’s license in a drawer. But after all, we’re going to be dead and that’s perfectly natural. The lesson is: when we feel concern about mice eating our sheets, traffic jams, a neighbor’s gossip, lost job, bad credit, the inevitable broken heart, we can rest assured that someday all that will be left of us and our concerns is our driver’s license and maybe a building, some money, a novel, a good deed, our children’s and friend’s memories of our shenanigans. And so I suggest, don’t play it so safe. Live and die large. Fail large. What our children need are good stories about outrageous people who were ahead of their time. Be ahead of your time and make the discovery of your driver’s license in a drawer a cause for celebration and laughter.

Temporarily Out Of Order

I am writing lately and my microphone and amplifier are collecting dust in the mud room. I really miss entertaining you guys, but I can’t go back to singing in restaurants and bars and cabarets. My work belongs in a theater. My one woman show “This Can’t Be Happening” will be ready this summer, as will my Doris Duke performance piece. It takes time to regroup when you’ve gone way off track and it feels like absolutely nothing is happening, that you are locked in, trapped by your past, your resume, your pronouncements, your reputation. It appears that I am more of a misfit than you thought.

Temporarily Out Of Order

I am writing lately and my microphone and amplifier are collecting dust in the mud room. I really miss entertaining you guys, but I can’t go back to singing in restaurants and bars and cabarets. My work belongs in a theater. My one woman show “This Can’t Be Happening” will be ready this summer, as will my Doris Duke performance piece. It takes time to regroup when you’ve gone way off track and it feels like absolutely nothing is happening, that you are locked in, trapped by your past, your resume, your pronouncements, your reputation. It appears that I am more of a misfit than you thought.

Fat Britches for Slender Bitches

AP:Vermarvelous Headquarters: After months of desperate searching, I have found the antique Irish linen needed to begin manufacturing Vermarvelous Britches for Bitches. These pictures show how versatile these pants can be. Top Photo, my friend, Tara, just happily walking down the street without a care in the world. Next Photo, me, heading for a soiree, or searching for doggie droppings. Talk about versatility.

Slender women naturally gravitate to form fitting pants. This is a big mistake because you don’t look as good in them as you think, and even if you do, you look cheap, desperate and vain. My pants offer a more sophisticated, subtle sexiness. The narrow, elasticized waistband and enormous flowing pant legs accentuate your perfect butt without the embarrassment of panti-lines or wedgies. Knowing full well that this is not enough of a reason for you to forgo spandex, Vermarvelous will also offer very sheer, see-through silk and fine cotton eyelet pants with either matching or flesh colored underwear so that you will not be arrested for indecent exposure as you reveal perfect thighs, legs and ankles. These britches will not be sold in stores, only word of mouth, friend to friend. I look forward to taking your measurements. Prices vary depending on fabric: Antique linen: $450. Silks: $300, See-through Silk/poly blends with undergarment $250. Summer Cotton: $100. Vermont Maid-to-Order.

Bloody Mary Secrets

I never understood the “hair of the dog” concept. Why add insult to injury? Why delay the inevitable? Mythology suggests that drinking in the morning is a sure sign of alcoholism or terminal illness. Yet, stirring alcohol into a glass of tomato juice before noon, especially on Sunday, is considered wise. Why? Because the next day is Monday. Monday is a drag, so why not have a hangover during work hours and get paid for it? then again, why not ruin a weekend that is already a bust because we know it is going to end all too soon? These are questions that AA members of America consider inappropriate. Rationalization: The Eighth Deadly Sin. Civilized: The ninth deadly sin. I have conducted an experiment and would like to share the results. Drinking Bloody Mary’s before noon on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and/or Saturday does not ruin your life, especially if you don’t have one. The key is: horseradish. Lots of it. Celery salt. Hot sauce. Red Peppers. Celery. Soy sauce. Fresh squeezed tomatoes. Lemon slices. High quality vodka. Plastic glass. Take outside and sip under a palm tree. No palm tree? Go find one. Settle in. Get call from boss that you’re fired. Add extra horseradish. Apply suntan lotion. Allow house foreclosure. Do basic yoga stretches. Call 911 and report yourself missing. Throw cell phone in a fish tank. But what if, But what about, But how come, But they will, But it isn’t…………..oh, mantra’s  and then, the guilt. Adjust your schedule. Remove all alcohol from your beverages. It is just another ingredient no matter what they tell you and you don’t need it. What you need is freedom.  Write a note and color copy it. Note saying”I’m sorry” – renounce your God if He does not understand you. Take a few months off and remind yourself of what you have always wanted to do. Prepare to die penniless. Expect bliss.

Sarasota Visit TemporarilyTurns me Into a Full Fledged Snot Ass

Snot Ass Sarasota Attitude. It has less to do with the tan and more to do with the jewelry. Being that I was wearing Laurel Casey antique linen designer pants and a Laurel Casey antique linen designer blouse I was able to leave my diamonds at home and still look like a snot ass. Another detail: lip shellac. The gal to my right, Alex, daughter of Rebecca, is my designated driver for frequent trips to local “bistro” scene boredom. I have rediscovered the joy of staying home but I do like to go out and make the bitches nervous once in a while even though I don’t have breasts. What do I have? I have that snot ass attitude heightened by my swamp yankee thin lips and cheekbones genetically processed by the mix of Irish and American Indian blood-lines. I’ll work on my arm blubber later, but who cares? When I head back North tomorrow I can throw on my long sleeved cashmere sweater. Meanwhile, men continue to make me sick to my stomach. Please get off me, will you? You are not living in a 1930’s black and white romantic comedy. You are living in a 2008 color slide show of your vacations. Wear sun protection.

Day of Beauty Turns Ugly

AP: Sarasota, Florida: Southgate Shopping Mall on S. Tamiami Trail in Sarasota has been identified as cover for a popular drug smuggling cartel that was previously thought to have relocated to Orlando. Laurel Casey and Becky Baxter made the discovery while browsing the make-up counters in Macy’s. Rubbing themselves with various beauty creams containing heroin, and nose tweezers laced with cocaine, the undercover cover-girls experienced a retail-shopping euphoria unwarranted by their meager purchases. Just after this photo was snapped by the Clinique sales hawker, the girls began to foam at various entry ways to their innards until two plain clothed members of the Sarasota Police Brigade escorted them to a de-tox center where they are withdrawing from a variety of illegal substances.

Search for Rich Husband in Florida needs Fine-tuning

AP: Sarasota, Florida – My good friend, Rebecca, didn’t invite me down to visit but I mistakedly booked a ticket and rental car through price-line before asking if it was a good time. It was a good time for me, certainly, as March sub-zeroed in on Vermont and turned the Northeast into a multi-state skating rink. Rebecca, the social scene photographer for Sarasota Magazine, is over extended. This is society high season in the monied cities of Florida, and the bedecked matrons, faces stretched tight as trampolines, bodies bronzed to enhance their tennis whites and sequined silks, expect their photographs published before they have a final heart attack. I convinced Rebecca to allow me entrance to her guest cottage in exchange for cleaning her bathroom and giving her a couple of yoga lessons.

We went out last night, celebrating her birthday in style, at a Thai Sports Bar in a strip mall across the street from Dillard’s Department Store, where we invested in a new Guerlain face bronzer that sprays the make-up from an aerosol can. A must have. The owner, an ex-ballet dancer from Bangkok, served the sports bar fare with peanut sauce, which he sprayed on the hamburgers and salads from another aerosol can. Rebecca had photographed his recent wedding to a woman that his Thai mother nicknamed “Barbie” and there was Barbie’s photo on the wall, riding a motorcycle in a bikini. I asked the owner if he missed dancing and he said that he had replaced dancing with motorcycle racing. “They are much same.” he said. “Free and fast. Moving. Leaping.”

The bar was dark, but in the corner, on a couch, an older man sat and watched a younger man play a game of pool. We said hello to the man and he got up off the couch and started walking towards the bar. Out of the shadows. A nice, very old man in a blue cashmere sweater, dabbled with age spots and vein inflammations but sporting a well-preserved roman nose that suggested that he was, long ago, a real knock-out. He put his hand on my thigh. We drank a glass of saki served in a paper cup, toasting Rebecca’s birthday. The man said he hadn’t a birthday in ten years, but the last he remembered, he was 86. Impressive. An 86 year old hand on my thigh.

Another couple of saki’s and there was mention of ocean front real estate and the complications of property management. His son had taken over for him to help him out. “I’m sure he has.” I said, looking over at the mangy bum at the pool table.

“He lives right on the property for me, the six acres of ocean front, so he can keep an eye on everything.” the old man bragged. “That way, I can live here in town, in a condo and walk everywhere.” The mangy son came over to the bar to check us out.

“I hear you’re helping your father out with his property” I said.

“Yeah.” he mouthed.

“I just told your father how nice it was of you. You living there, on the beach, keeping an eye on things for him.”

“Yeah.” the son said.

“Yeah” I said. “Nice. Real nice of you….”

The son twisted his alcohol and sun ravaged face into a half-sneer; one eyelid, in perpetual half mast, clamped shut. His other eye zoomed in on my thigh and his father’s hand, which was now kneading at it, digging into it, as though it were play dough.

“Gotta protect the man.” he said. “From, you know, gold diggers.”

Fire And Ice Restaurant to Pull Middlebury out of the Dark Ages

AP: Middlebury, VT – Fire and Ice Restaurant in Middlebury, Vermont, has taken the lead by hiring a cabaret singer instead of a bearded guitarist. They are the first establishment in the state to provide their customers with an alternative to folk music sing-a-longs and Skin Head acid-rock covers. This picture, in focus, provides a clue. These people are nuts, but in a good way. I wasn’t sure whether to accept the unprecedented offer until I tasted their end-cuts. Negotiations are still under way. If I must live in Bridport, I will need an All-I-can-Drink complimentary bar pass to be used on nights when I am not performing, and for safety’s sake, an on-site futon mattress pad.