my cats get a world premiere of my show
Yesterday’s “Chubby Pamie and her Friends” entry generated quite a few e-mails telling me that I’m looking like Jay Leno. Last night I was passing by MTV’s Fanatic and some poor girl was talking to Celine Dion. I think, if you look again, you’ll notice that I actually look a bit like Celine.
I have a long weekend coming up, but I’m gonna fight with my home internet provider and try and upload on the days I’ll be at home.
When I was in Philly I heard fireworks going off the last night. I said, “Wow. You know, I haven’t seen one firework stand here at all.”
“They’re illegal,” Eric’s mom said. “You can’t sell them at all. Only the city sets them off.”
“Oh, they’re illegal to set off in Texas too,” I said. “But we still sell them.”
“You can sell them?”
“Well, I don’t do it, but some people just buy them and set them off when they think no one is looking. It’s illegal to shoot them and have them, but not buy them or sell them.”
“Texas sounds like an interesting place.”
I worked on my show last night for a couple of hours. I was standing in my living room talking to myself for over an hour. Well, I pretended that Lillith and Taylor were my audience, since they were sitting where the two sections of audience sit in the theatre. I’d say something to Taylor’s side of the house and he’d swish his tail. I’d say something to Lillith’s side of the house and she’d give me the lazy blink. I was killing ’em.
My show is still too long. I’ll have to make some cuts. It’s weird talking to yourself because I’m not sure if some of the things I’m saying are funny or if I only think they’re funny. Sometimes I’m pretty sure they’re funny and I’ll even hold for laughter, like a kid hitting an imaginary baseball in slow motion listening to the crowd going wild.
At one particularly detailed and intense story I was talking about growing up and how I felt about myself in relationships. I got to the part where the story came to a resolution and Lillith walked right over to me and puked at my feet.
I may not make them laugh, but I can bring the hairballs right out of a cat. And that says something. I’m not sure what, but I know it says something.
This show is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It really is. It makes me doubt myself as a writer and a performer. I just keep babbling and I find myself thinking while I’m doing it: “What the fuck do I think I’m doing? Who’s going to want to sit here for forty-five minutes while you babble on?” At least with Squishy if you get bored you can just close the window or go somewhere else. You don’t pay to read it. These people are going to be sitting here, and not only that, they just sat through the first forty-five minute show. See? That’s my problem, I talk myself into thinking that I’m up against something impossible, and then I just get myself all freaked out about it.
My insecurities make me so angry sometimes.
Tonight is Poker Night (or “liquor in the front, poker in the rear” as they are fond of saying (say it out loud for maximum dumb joke content)). Eric and I are both off work tomorrow, so he wants to stay up all night playing. This reminds me that I have to pull money from the ATM, since I always forget and then borrow all of this money from Eric that I eventually lose. It’s sort of a bad tradition between the two of us lately and I think his patience may wear thin.
Jaysus you spends all me money as if it was made out ah water and you knew you could find more in an alley, he says to me as we walk the long journey home, our shoes clack clacking since we’ve had no real soles for months and we keep nailing rubber from thrown out tires to the bottom to keep us from getting our toes wet. One day we’ll get out of here, he says to me, and then we won’t have to play Screw Your Neighbor or Follow the Bitch Montana with the dole money just to survive about our wits and pretend we like it so we can drink Chuy’s tay and get a bit ov an egg. He tips his hat, But I do like to follow the bitch, you know, he says as he pats me on my rear. Keeps me and you on our toes. He beings to sing a Kevin Barry song as he spills the last of his Bud Light over his shoulder for good luck.
Oh no. Wait. That’s the string of Irish books I’ve been reading lately where they don’t ever want to use any punctuation. Jaysus.