Wednesday, July 12, 2017


I have a lot going on right now.  I live with awful roommates.  I’m always trying to not be home so I don’t have to see one of the pterodactyls.  That’s what it’s come to.  I’ve assigned a nickname of an ugly prehistoric bird to the people that I share an apartment with.  I live in an abundantly-tiled Greek house that resembles a fortress that begins with a nose-bleed angled, city code-defying cement staircase that leads up to the main floor.  The first floor is half in the ground.  They call that “garden level” in New York, which was probably invented by real estate agents, because all feasible square footage is rented out in this city.  In other states, what towns call a cellar, in New York is a shitty basement apartment.  

The landlord of said dwelling lives upstairs.  He is a plump, talkative Greek man who speaks as if he has a swollen tongue that’s gotten pinned while wrestling with the rest of his mouth to spit out the English language.   After he has spoken in his long-winded, overly self-indulgent manner in extreme broken English for what seems like an eternity, I often say, “what?!” 

I cannot begin to express the violence I feel for all of these people.  Because of this, I realize I do need to work on myself some, while simultaneously feel completely validated in imagining their untimely, somewhat horrific demise.

Yesterday I heard a knock at the door roughly around 5:30PM.   I had a sneaking suspicion Aristotle Onasis was on the other side of the door waiting to proclaim his case for bothering me in grunts that resemble communication.  Avoidance doesn’t really work with this fisherman.  After several tries at knocking with no answer, he walked back down the hallway towards the foyer, opened the front door to the house – a grown man mind you – reached his arm outside and rang the buzzer to my apartment.  The shrill, earsplitting decibels of the buzzer could wake up an entire submarine regimen.  He leaned on the buzzer too, to be extra annoying.  How quaint.  I still ignore it.  After the fourth or fifth time, I begin to reach exasperation, I virulently open the door to ask him what he wants.  I yell at him stating that I’m not really dressed and what the hell is so important (clearly he doesn’t get the hint that nobody wants to talk to him).  Even his wife sleeps in Flushing.  

First he asks if we have a washing machine in the house, which is just “THIS IS WHAT YOU WERE RINGING THE DOORBELL LIKE A FUCKING PSYCHO FOR ???????  REALLY!!??!!”  First of all, the pterodactyls can’t afford soap or paper towels, so it’s funny to me that he would even think that they bought an appliance.  Then he says he’s bringing the ladder for one of the roommates (the one I choose to call the Macedonian whore – she’s in a different blog).  I proceed to just yell at him, telling him to leave it in the hallway because I’m in my pajamas and then shut the door.

Lack of understanding American social moors or boundaries might be what he hides behind as a disguise to get people to interact with him.  That aside, describing him as wildly inappropriate doesn’t seem to stress enough what he is.  He tells the neighbors I’m his girlfriend.   He makes offers of taking me to Greece.  One time he and his family had come back from a wedding (this was before his wife retired to another part of the borough).  It was late.  The weather was nice, so I was sitting outside, smoking.  Most likely he spotted me from his balcony about, then rushed downstairs to bother me.  He was in a robe and his rotund, watermelon-like stomach was sticking out.  He made small talk and then quickly proceeded to show off his construction chops by showing me pictures on his phone of the Athens condo that he built out.  I may have been indulging him because the rent was late, I can’t remember looking back.  I am a comedian after all, I can’t really just walk away when people are being ludicrous).  But also I had had some wine and it was kind of entertaining.  In hindsight, I’m questioning why I was so polite toward Baklava.  Sometimes you have to be gracious in the face of others’ rudeness.  He has invited me to go live with him in Greece on more than one occasion.  He’s so lucky I don’t have a gun.  It’s just so wrong that I can’t even make it clever. 

I did get him back though.  He asked me how old I thought he was once, and I said seventy.  It’s not clear exactly how old he is, but he’s arrogant, so in his mind he’s still in his fifties, and by his reaction it’s clear I was way off (but not by much I suspect).  A hundred bucks says he’s sixty-nine.

Sunday, June 18, 2017


Letter to Roommate #1

Dear Roommate #1 (aka the Jihadist): Everyone knows leaving hostile sticky notes is just bad form.  So, don’t take this the wrong way, but when you wonder why you’re floating up to heaven, the answer is that you didn’t belong on the planet.  The mere existence of your person is just completely wrecking my universe.  I’m sorry you have a lot of periods, but (a) I’m not sure why you want to share that with me and (b) there are things you can take for that (for fuck’s sake).  And why, mother of God, is every light in the fucking house on?  I swear to God if it’s the last thing I do on this earth, I’m going to disconnect the fucking awful florescent lights that you insist on keeping on 24/7 in the kitchen.  But let’s get on with the real issue. 

I know you’re European and everything (so you think tight jeans and boots is a great look, but I’m here to tell you, they don’t have rodeos in Queens.  Also walking around the kitchen back and forth in said thick-heeled, slut boots at 9:00 a.m. is weird and kind of rude.  You do this early in the morning on a Saturday when people are trying to sleep.  You do it in the middle of the afternoon on a Tuesday.  Does it make you feel thin, or more horse-like?  I just want to get a sense of why, particularly because I’m trying to get some god forsaken sleep, but I can’t, because I’m bewildered by your strange domestic patterns.  That, and what’s with you and the fucking kitchen.  Get a life.  You shouldn’t stay holed up in the house all day it’s not healthy, and your hair is greasy and there is an odor coming from your Etruscan cave of a bedroom.

You’re crashing dishes and whatever around too – my dishes, incidentally, because you don’t own anything.  You leave them in the sink until things are growing from them.  God forbid anyone make a request that the dishes be done more frequently, because then you blow up like a PMS-ridden-guerilla-psychopath.  It felt very satisfying to block you on my phone, by the way, because I refuse to read text rants, which until I saw them, I didn’t believe they existed.  Your generation doesn’t know how to do anything unless it’s on an app, so I get it, but it doesn’t make it valid.  My generation doesn’t text.  We want a face to face where I will break your nose.

I don’t even want to be writing this shit, but I am so exasperated, I’m about to buy firearms.  I suspect that is the nature of the roommate situation, but that is giving you too much credit.  To act like a cunt over a cabinet shelf and leaving bitchy notes around the apartment means you have mental issues.  I doubt you are in therapy considering you seldom buy anything that resembles a paper product, and you don’t seem to be getting any relief from that meditation class.  I’m trying to keep this light because really I’m praying that you get captured by ICE on your trip back from the motherland, because you’ve been nothing short of a tyrannical nazi whore.  PS – I don’t want any fucking Turkish coffee.  Americans don’t like that shit.  PS2 – no one will ever marry you.

* * *

Letter to Roommate #2

This is a sincere continuance of the roommate letter, but to the other, more pterodactyl-like one who has, and whom I will now refer to as, No Tits.

Dear No Tits:  I know you like to come home and talk on the phone really loud to whoever is on the other end, which, I find astounding that anyone would actually listen to you, because your voice makes me want to scratch my own eyes out.  I’ve never before felt the urge to run across a room and dive out a window than after I’ve heard a diatribe coming from your trachea.  And loud, loquacious vocalizations in the living room the way neurotic cats tend to do at 3:00 a.m. probably makes sense to your rather pigeon-like brain, I’m sure, because although you have a room you could go into to do such things, why not make sure the whole house is disturbed?  You laugh a lot, but it’s like a nervous, right before you lose touch with reality type laugh, and you have weird frizzy hair and seem somewhat dim-witted.  In my act I refer to you as Pennsylvania barnyard stupid.  But, since it creates a furrow in my being, I have stopped talking about you on stage, except to say the part where I believe you sleep upside down in your closet. 

I know this probably seems somewhat hostile, especially considering I smile and try to be pleasant, because that is, in fact, my nature.  But really it’s because I’m imagining your untimely and fairly brutal demise.  It’s the only way I can get through this phase of living in New York affordably, which clearly, I should have thought out better.  My hostility started when you began making comments about my furniture.   You wanted to organize my belongings which frankly are none of your business.  You made comments about my armoire.  The irony is that when you moved in, you didn’t own anything.  Not even a lamp.  You threw a fit because of a table cloth and then minutes later offered me some salmon.  Maybe your medication is off.  I can’t even list it all because I feel more gray hair coming in as I type.

And although I usually cringe at your stories that disclose personal information about your dumb life, when you told me that you had celiac and couldn’t shit, I nearly wept with joy.  I must admit, however fleeting, I was almost grateful for the debacle of my artist-led existence in this over-tiled Greek fortress of a house in stupid Queens.  I found myself almost faint.  Even though living with you has overshadowed other unfortunate living situations, such as the alcoholic who made puppets or the Hawaiian violinist who was in Cabaret on Broadway and referred to its star as “Al” (Alan Cumming) because they were buddies, your having an issue with your dairy air made me almost feel guilty for calling you NTBN – (which is short for No Tits Big Nose).  I would feel guilty except it’s caught on with all of my friends and it provides humor that clearly this household lacks.  And P.S. fuck you too.


Lately I want to quit standup almost every day.  It’s not performing itself that is driving me crazy.  I think it’s New York.  I have a lot of (don’t say irons in the fire!!!) things going on.  Maybe my problems have two prongs like a kangaroo (look it up).  Prong 1: I seem to get overwhelmed with unstructured time.  Prong 2:  people are generally awful.

There are so many things that suck about New York that I won’t even mention the constant smell of urine and halal.  I moved here going on four years ago.  My first set of roommates were great. One was an editor and the other made puppets.<---- sure they drank beer and whatever but they were nice guys.  My second apartment, broads, or as I like to call them - reptilian apartment dwelling sluts.  Actually the first set were heavenly.  Maybe that's what delineates everything else as so abhorrent.  The two girls that I met when I looked at the apartment, I clicked with.  I moved in and we all got along beautifully.  There were no petty quibbles or trivial objections about towels or shelf space.  I like to think that I am pretty easy going.  I never would comment about other people’s furniture particularly after having moved in last.  I would never break balls about an antique or a table.  You know who does that?  Bitches with no furniture. <----- I wrote about this particular topic having coined a new pseudonym for this specific roommate of “pterodactyl.”  The two girls that I got along with eventually left.  One went to Houston to get married and the other moved in with her Bulgarian boyfriend in a different part of Astoria.  Sadly, they were replaced by juvenile water dragons with perpetual PMS.

The Eastern European wears skin tight jeans with whore boots.  There must be a rodeo in town (I don’t believe Queens, New York hosts such types of activities but I suppose one never knows).  The other one is a textbook narcissist with an enormous rear end.  I must have been like a serial killer in a past life to have been given such a treacherous plight.    

Staying on the death/I want to quit theme, I did a show for a theatre in Massachusetts.  I don’t want to name names but I’ll say it something Center for the Arts.  It was in Natick.  After the show, the headliner and I were standing at the doorway greeting the audience as they were slowly filing out.  People commented how much they liked the show.  A friend of the headliner came over.  They greeted each other with a hug and then the friend proclaimed, “I was waiting for you to do that bit about the underwear.”  The portly female comedian replied “well there was enough filth that went on before me that I left it out,” implying that the other comedians, which - I was the only one standing there at the time, did too much dirty material for her to then follow with some stupid bit about underwear.  (insert gunshot noises grenades, rocket launchers & flame throwers) 

-the Albanian Detractor

Friday, June 9, 2017


This is my blog.  It’s sometimes about being an artist.  A lot of times it’s about people I want to stab.  This one is about the heart.  

Here we go--->It instantly turns you into an emotional catastrophe when you care.  When you don’t care, you have totall control, nobody can get to you (it’s pretty awesome).  The only downfall is oddly, in time, you find yourself having a strange hankering to play lacrosse. 

The cute ones get to ya.  I hate that.  It’s not fair.  I am not self-absorbed and I am not full of myself.  BUT, lately a lot of persons of the male persuasion have been barking up this tree.  (my gay boyfriend Eddie says “throw one of them a bone.”  None of them are even in the galaxy.  I don’t want to sound like a dick, but everyone is out of my league… except…  hence, where the trouble lies… the fucking good looking one.  That makes me sound superficial……… and I’m not.  I’m talking about the guy that makes you stop eating, hit the gym, shave your legs, do your toenails.  Let me tell you something: I have not had a boyfriend in ten years.  So, if I actually shave something or get my feet done, it’s fucking real.  My writing is suddenly taking on epic Maury Pauvich-like characteristics.  I’m not meaning to be dramatic  <--- RIGHT THERE !!!  I’m being dramatic !!!  OH fuck.  This is not good.  For several years, I’ve been dressing and acting like a gym teacher.  I don’t want to characterize, generalize or sound like there is anything particularly wrong with saying gym teacher instead of lesbian, but I do want to stress that morphing into a basketball coach is just a defense mechanism to protect me from getting hurt.  I’m no genius, believe me, but I suspect if someone makes you stop wanting to organize an indoor gymnasium kickball game, it is serious business. 

But when you really like someone, they ruin your life.  You begin to obsess about how you will get to see them.  You scheme.  You ask your friends.  You follow his stupid Instagram.  If he doesn't like stuff on your Twitter, you’re crushed.  That’s just weird and stupid.  And, when you don’t see him it hurts.  This is love my friends.  It doesn’t strike often.  The risk is you might have a fiery romance that can potentially end abruptly, and then you are left crying on the kitchen floor.  Funny, I’m already jumping to the breakup.  Another absurd symptom that you’ve fallen hard; oscillating between bliss and plummeting into despair, and disaster-izing about a relationship that doesn’t even exist.  Holy smoking ovaries Robin, I’m bat-shit!!!!  The stupid thing is I want this.  Love swoops in.  You can’t control it, you certainly can’t change it.  You can’t do anything about it.  You’re fucked.  

What I find completely recalcitrant is the other kind of swoop.  Love is never portrayed accurately in tinsel town.  When the girl character in a RomCom gets her heart broken, the ugly guy makes his move.  I’m sorry but, first of all, gross.  Second of all, this happens in Under The Tuscan Sun.  This got under my skin so bad that in an effort to assuage the ickiness that that particularly ridiculous Hollywood ending creates in my brain, I’ve coined the phrase the “ugly guy swoop.”  After the handsome guy doesn’t work out, she’s given up and begun decorating her Etruscan villa, the tall, goofy, big-nose, curly-haired doofus shows up and gets her when she’s vulnerable.  Um, Diane Lane is gorgeous.  She’d never fall for an ugly guy swoop, even if he is a writer.  It just wouldn’t happen.  Disbelief not suspended. 

Wednesday, April 19, 2017


The short version=I got a divorce and I haven’t dated. 

The longer version=

My tough girl shell is thick.  Recently I heard something on the radio that was describing men as distant and unemotional.  I grew up with my dad so I have taken on many male characteristics like drinking and watching boxing, and what they mentioned.

Writing about what is happening right now is really intimidating because you gotta be honest and junk.  It’s not that I want to remain a mystery (I suspect that is exactly what I want), but I will go as far as to say that I don’t like people knowing more about me than I want them to.  This is all me just prefacing.

I haven’t even gotten to my career and my situation.  I’m still prefacing.  (Is that a verb?)  I am aware that I am guarded.  The most incredible human (this guy Michael who passed) told me so.  I don’t like anyone.  It’s kind of a problem.  So I’m writing this to figure out what is going on, so that I can get some insight and then maybe get passed it.  I have a feeling that the act of writing is going to assist me. (insert gunshot noise)

I love to go around the world with my ideas before I get into what is true, the core stuff, which is the meat of it all.  I should always be trying to go for that, because I am an artist.  Growing up with a sick mother who left, and a dad that was working and drank and then married an alcoholic monster, I learned to pretend everything is ok to such an exquisite perfection that half of the time, I don’t even know what I’m feeling.  I’m getting better at sorting it all out.  I’m figuring out that the stuff that is buried is where the gold is.    

I do stand-up comedy.  Kinda weird.  It sets me apart from the ordinary human inasmuch as I am a being, who writes and then performs what I write, and then people give me money for it.  Simply put, this is not a traditionally female thing to do (not my opinion and/or not me being sexist, it’s more of an observation of society and I’m trying to get to a hypothesis as to why I’m still single).  On stage, alone, on the proverbial soapbox, saying my plea to the masses is sort of what it is.  In old times vernacular they called it an orator.  It is not something that is yin energy.  It is yang/male energy.  Because I’ve been around comedy a while, I’m here to tell you that when a male person is doing the aforementioned type of performance, it is extremely attractive to women.  Not quite rockstar status, but in the same way.  Because, I guess, the person is taking control, they are performing, it’s creative and thus, a turn-on.  But when a woman is on stage, it does not have the same effect on men.

All of that is true, which is convenient if you are trying to sort of hide from your own sexuality.  (I wear men’s Adidas pants only, and lately I sexually identify as a janitor).  I don’t want to give my failed marriage the dignity of writing about it.  I want Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for that chapter of my life.  That was that movie where you could go to a place and they would erase all your memories from a relationship. 

It’s just that my divorce was so Shakespearean.  People used to ask me about it and I didn’t even know how to respond.  I was so traumatized by it.  If we had parted ways maybe two years sooner, it still would have sucked, but it wouldn’t have been so epically tragic.  (I kind of want to write this whole thing over again). 

Why is this so hard?  I feel like Carrie Bradshaw in Sex in the City, except I’m having no sex and my articles aren’t published.  Although ironically, I recently met Chris Noth.  His friend was hitting on my girlfriend Laura hard at Mimi’s on Second Avenue.  At any rate, Noth is still hot, albeit gray, but he’s Greek (they’re the worst) and married.   

If you truly love someone, like for reals, with all your heart and soul, and you love spending time with them, you go before God and all, I’m here to tell you: it still might not work.  What the hell kinda fucked up shit is that?

Now the article has started.  This right here is where I’m stuck.  I never got my answer.  I decided it was God’s fault (since we got married in the Orthodox church in Southie, with the candles and the procession and everything).    

This is a tough one because I don’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to write about it.  I want to be like Woody Allen.  His screenplays are so honest and are nothing short of brilliant.  In Manhattan, Woody Allen’s character tries to run over his ex-wife’s new lesbian lover.  The ex-wife is publishing a tell-all.  He is so specific in characterizing neurosis.  Instead of furiously posting to my zero followers on blogspot, maybe I should write a play.  Or try to run someone over.

Well let’s close out this debacle of a blog so I can write a play about a vindictive Albanian princess who plots the untimely demise of people who have wronged her and Chaz Palmeinteri will play the sleazy villan.   

Sunday, April 2, 2017

February Inspirational

Today was interesting.  You ever have one of those days? 

I was coming back from Boston – something us comics have to do.  Travel.  It’s cool because you make money but it gets rough.  For example, today I ate a hard boiled egg, chex mix and a donut.  I was coming back to New York to do a show with the same format as the Dating Game.  I was late so I’m booking it through the Bronx.  I get to the club and it’s just a regular show.  Shit.  I went to the wrong location.  Since I won’t make it to the Dating Game, I figured I’d hang.  I ended up chatting with a comic I knew and fairly quick into the conversation he was saying he’d reached a point where he figured out that you have to own what we do.  You have to let go of stress, in particular from a day job.  Most humans have to deal with some sort of similar job-type thing, but for us creators it is so useless and soul sucking.  It doesn’t serve us.  It was funny because we got right to it.  He said that weeks after leaving his job, he was still stressed out and holding on to the anxiety that this job produced within him. 

If you’re an artist you have to just make art.  If you’re a writer you have to just write.  May seem simple, but our brains do this thing where we second guess it all.  That was another part of the conversation too.  We can’t do our thing when we’re all frazzled.  He continued, “New York wants to kill you.”  The city will definitely take it outta ya.  It is not pleasant.  It’s noisy, you’ll be tortured by awful roommates, you’ll definitely be broke and you will experience a lot of rudeness.  All of that, along with your own self-doubt, will unite as a giant force trying to get you to question the whole thing.  This blog has been a place where I sort out all of the nonsense.  It needs to be done because these forces build momentum.  You have to talk to other artists and be like “dude, WTF.”  It helps.  It’s like being in the trenches together.  That’s how your crew is formed.  You kavetch, have coffee, hang out, drink wine. It validates why you’re doing this.  Every time I get on stage I remember, but I find myself still needing to be reminded.  That’s because everything off stage unites to offensively throw you off your game to the point where you have to have to talk to another comic, and when you do, it becomes this incredibly enlightening thing.  On the other hand, you can easily complain, but that doesn’t usually get you anywhere and becomes like all of the other forces that bring you down. 

We talked about trusting the universe that the money will come and that we are taken care of.  Deep stuff.  Lately I have had a lot of money and I can’t explain it because I don’t have two jobs any more.  Just stand-up.  I walked into the club that night, and we had that very specific conversation.  The universe cares about you.  It will provide for you but you have to believe it.  

We all could use a patron.  But when you can’t find one, you figure it out.  Do your art and remember that we all have something unique and special to share with the world, and no amount of intense urine smell or lame roommates is going to change that.  You have to believe in yourself.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

DREAMS DIE (posting anyway)

I was listening to NPR where a singer was getting interviewed.  When asked where she got inspiration for her music, she said “people leave and dreams die.”

How starkly candid.  It got me thinking.  Sometimes you spend more time trying to just get on, despite it all.  It might be something to actually slow down and look at the fallout.  People sometimes, in fact, leave and not always in the most affable of ways.  Dreams die, people disappoint you.  Avoidance is my M.O.  Alternatively, to look at and try to process it, so it’s not dictating your life under the surface, might be a thing.  <----wow that was honest.  Having a failed marriage under my belt seems to haunt me.  

I’m a romantic but I hide it really well.  I’m so unnerved about exposing myself in my writing, that I'm fighting to not make this particular post anonymous.  I’ve swayed so far away from anything “romantic” at this point in my life, I sexually identify as a golfer.

I will try to illustrate this next part without gushing, because I love Marc Maron so much I might not be able to pull it off.  He was interviewing Springsteen.  What is better than an informed, intelligent performer interviewing the Boss for fucks sake?  At one point Bruce was talking about the fire we all have inside.  He said, “. . . you get the burn, you aim it towards the right thing.”

I’m actually doing this process, (maybe) but it doesn’t feel like it, because I’m not painting.  I’m furiously writing about my frustrations with writing and living and performing in New York.  I’m trying to work on myself and not kill anyone (like roommates).  I keep writing about the art thing though, which means it’s trying to get my attention.  I mean, I write, and I average about 5 shows a week.  Depending on what else is going on, sometimes it’s less.  I’m writing, I’m performing.  But I’m the most honest when I paint.  What Bruce was referring to is life.  It comes at you and you have a choice.  Sometimes you definitely get overwhelmed by the dark stuff.  He’s saying do something with it.