Atlas/Mustache/Nature Abhors a Twink

If you've never heard Teddy Atlas talk boxing, you should.  He's trained some of the best.  And he's passionate.

I love him.  He is so riveting.  He has the vernacular of an every man, with the wisdom of a sage and the eye of an artist for the fight game. He is to boxing commentary what Liebling was to writing about boxing.

I envy that because I feel so out of touch with what used to light me up.  Too many disappointments either make you work harder or they shut you down.  I did both, in that order.

I complain a lot.  I'm tired.  I resent the fact that my office job wears me down and drives me to drink.  You need time to nurture a creative career.  And as I get older, I don’t have the energy, even if I do have the time.  The problem also, is that I don't have a manager, and I haven't had a boyfriend in a decade. (it's longer than that but who's counting).  I think I need anti-depressants.

I know I am a creative soul and I know I have a lot to say/express.  But all of the disappointments have compounded and made my outlook sour.  After my divorce, I found what felt like a soul mate, but it was stopped in its tracks.  He had a heart attack at forty-four.  And then two years later, my father died.  All this while I’m trying to uphold a circuitous comedy career.

I do attend the pity party often because I just do.  This thin-mustached gay felt compelled and had the lack of taste to point it out to me one evening at a friend's cocktail party in Manhattan.  Everyone was swaying around the piano taking turns singing showtunes.  Someone had asked me why I don’t sing.... I felt a pang of resentment about the size of the Grand Canyon.  I responded, “just what I need, another endeavor that doesn’t go anywhere,” and without missing a beat, moustache blurted out, “bitter party of one.”  OK Mr. lanky twink with your ballsy retort.  First of all, you didn’t sing either, so GFY.  Second, you admonished me and a friend for catching up in the kitchen (he said, “um, the party’s out here”) like a strict housemaster in a reformatory school.  Um, who deputized you to be the kitchen traffic-controller. Third, go back to the South.  But then I thought, he’s probably talking about himself.  Most people are harboring self-loathing, unproductive thoughts, while others don’t even try to follow their passion outside of the 9-5.

Maybe his snark covers up the fact that he’s always a side piece and never the main dish.  He looks like a muppet with his glasses and big nose.  That, and he probably hasn't ever landed an audition.  I digress.  I am bitter, but I don’t need a bisexual lamp post to tell me in front of a whole room full of people.

It Ruins the Cocktail Party

There were some audience members at my show tonight that had been at an open mike earlier in the evening.  My advice to them was to quit now.  The audience laughed at the abruptness, thinking I was being coy, but I meant it. 

I assume people think it is glamorous to do standup.  The first thing I always get asked is, "how do you get up there?"  They get it wrong.  We love to perform.  We're broken people.  That might be the first indication of why we get up there.

The hard part is literally everything else. Trying to win over bookers, trying to make enough money, driving to Rochester for $200, for example, and then it gets deeper the longer you are in.  You begin to feel a psychic tear in the fabric of the universe if you are not on a sitcom.  Only a select few get the silver chalice and the rest of us hate those few.  We smile while the resentment poisons our soul.  THAT is the beginning of why it's hard.  And a sitcom isn’t the holy grail necessarily, but it kind of is.

It is probably not widely known that Phyllis Diller was a concert pianist.  She had given a show for the queen of England that was comprised of a 20- minute set of standup and a 20-minute set of playing a piano concerto.  When asked which was the more difficult of the two, she stated that it was the standup because when people watch the piano performance, they think, "wow, I could never do that." 

Somehow people secretly think that they would make a good comedian.  Generally some people deem themselves as pretty clever.  Comedy does not come from wit, it comes from pain.  These dabblers in writing and performing standup probably got a taste for the rush of performing, but may not be aware of just how slanted the business is, or how nobody calls you back.  Nor are they aware of how judgy it all is.  Which brings me to gender.

Women in comedy is a whole other issue.  The things I've heard many comics (male) state about female comics would surprise you.  The Golden Girls are funny because they are no longer viewed as sexual objects.  This paradox has got to be God's sense of humor.  Or it represents the small mindedness of people.

I insist that my friends never tell anyone that I do standup if we are among other people, because it, as I explain to said friends, ruins the cocktail party.  What happens is that people can't stop asking you questions once they hear that this is your career.  Any working comedian on the planet will concur that what follows is the Spanish Inquisition, and it's always the same questions.  Almost in the same order. 

how do you get up there (and) what got you started? (compete for first place)

where do you perform?

do you have an agent?

what's your comedy about?

do you have writers?

I'm all, "woh, man.  I'm just trying to have a glass of wine at this New Jersey backyard shindig."  (you’re killing my buzz bruh).

Then they get defensive, "oh well, ya, I mean, I'm just so curious.  I have a curious mind is all.  So ..."  (and then that is followed by more questions).

The need at this point for a sedative is powerful.  You want to talk about show business?  I can't think of anything that I would like to do less.  People who are so fascinated don't know about the history of having an act.  Sometimes after a show, comics will share amazingly funny stories.  Numerous late evenings I have hung out in an empty showroom well after the show had finished, listening to older comics telling the funniest stories.  Woody Allen depicted this tableau in his masterpiece Broadway Danny Rose. The average person is not aware specifically of vaudeville or the history of the solo performer.   A magician isn't performing supernatural metaphysical procedures.  It's called misdirection.  It could be said that these question-riddled curious people have no manners, or at best are uncultured.  There is no other creative endeavor that creates such an annoying response.

What got you started in the mandolin?" 

"Do you have an agent for your gardening?"

"Where do you do your glass-blowing?"

"Do you write your oboe pieces?"

I suppose the fascination with standup is that people's biggest fear is being embarrassed, hence that thing about public speaking.  They're so terrified of that notion that you could be on stage and people aren't laughing, I guess.  They can't believe we take the risk.  Maybe that's it.  I guess they think we bomb regularly not realizing we are artists.  We're performers, this is what we love to do, now leave us alone.

You also, incidentally, can't tell people you're vegetarian

Wood Paneling

I ate at an upscale place tonight, but I would have preferred the place with wood paneling and an old bar that looks like it came out of the movie Goodfellas.

I love writing I just decided.  It can definitely be tedious, but I'm not married, and nobody fell out of my octopus, so I really have nothing better to do other than obsess about the trivialities of life that peck at my soul, particularly the drive to murder people who are boundary-less and the absurdity of life.  Might as well take that and put it in writing. Actually, that's probably a really bad idea, but here we are.

I'd rather be compulsive with writing than with murder, although murder would be more satisfying.  At least I can turn the aggravation of the pot-smoking housemate and the loud mouths on the block into possibly something funny or I could murder them, and it would be funny to me (only).  If I'm gonna be weird and on the fringe of regular people, I might as well write.  Some people are compelled to do a lot of things like have sex or shop too much.  Since coronavirus there are even more douchebags making YouTube videos.  I'm sure the list of compulsions goes beyond some simple indulgence at the mall.  There's a whole virtual world stimuli to get all wound up about.  But I don't particularly like being on the laptop and I don't care to participate in consumerism. 

I often think of taking everybody out.  My blogs have been about icing various landlords and other people who truly have it coming to them.  Think Kill Bill, Astoria New York.  My new thing is I make iMovies about killing other people’s ex-husbands.  A friend asked “are you ok?”  Idiot.

 

It seems like it’s not worth it to be in New York if you’re not coupled off.  The cost of living in NYC is too high.  The nature of roommates is hell.  Landlords are pieces of shit.  I need a husband.  Those women with soccer mom bowl hairdos have husbands.  I wonder if the prerequisite of Gen-X nuptials is weird hair.  This also is true for North Jersey.  I also wonder if the prerequisite to live in North Jersey requires one to have a wardrobe of garments that look like you raided Ru Paul's anal cavity.

No one reads this blog so I can write whatever I want. 

I'm obsessed with retro.

I’ve read that people who ruminate over the past have a deep inability to accept the present.  I've always had it; 50’s doo wop music, antiques; shoes from the 40s.  It's a compulsion all by itself.  I own three different kinds of percolators.  All of my furniture is vintage.  I have a 1920's men's dresser that I love.  It's beautiful.  I might need a trauma therapist. I love thrift shops.  My ovaries sing Oh Danny Boy as I let my hand sift through the polyester and faux fur 1940s hats at the local vintage shop.  My new thing is I scroll through eBay on the hunt for a mid-century sideboard, because obviously that will solve all my problems. I also search for china cabinets because my mother had mental illness and left when I was six and subsequently never owned one.  I have a collection of vintage martini glasses from the 50s.  After previewing my collection that I methodically unwrapped when moving into my brownstone, my gay Haitian housemate said with open eyes "okay."  When we became acquainted and he learned I hadn't had a boyfriend in a very VERY long time, he exclaimed, "Now I get the cocktail glasses."  The gays concur that it may not be mental illness as much as a deep need within the soul to buy stock in eBay, or perhaps have a sexual experience with a board member.  Can vintage shops serve as self-medication?  Why did that question make me think of Carrie Bradshaw?  I’ve never lived in the village in a brownstone, so Carrie Bradshaw I am not. My miliue is not current.  I should write about Tiger King to seem relevant but ah, no.

UNREQUITED LOVE + DEATH DON’T MAKE GOOD BED FELLOWS

When you get to the point where you feel you were meant to be with someone, particularly after the devastation of divorce and they feel that way too, and then that doesn’t work out either, you find yourself fluctuating between despondency and being really angry.  Anger is safer than hurt.  It’s easier to feel.  The energy wants to get up and out of you.  It helps if you are a kick boxer.  Sadness is harder to feel.  It threatens to drown you and make you want to leave the earth.  It has been difficult for me on the planet.  I have had so many challenges and I hate that freaking word.  The only way to use anger wisely is to kick something, otherwise you get mad at things like words.

The person I fell for died.  First, you cry for six months.  Your life is suspended in the air while you have to grapple with an event so heavy such as death.  The other thing that happens when the person you love dies, is you have the luxury of pining over what could have been.  That will haunt you for a couple of years.  It’s also that splendid place in your mind where you can idealize how it would be for the two of you, now.  You will never know.  You also never got to see the person at 2AM sick with the flu or completely lose their temper.  You never see them grow listless from too much or too little responsibility, or say, forget the gym altogether or give up on their dreams.  As a result, you can immortalize their persona of how perfect they were as if frozen in time.  But of course, no one is perfect.  Perhaps this is why trying to get with someone post-divorce in your 40’s is difficult.  You have an unrealistic idea of what the perfect man is, to begin with.  It’s warped by time, by how it was when you were young.  Also the gene pool narrows and the only men that age well are gay and there is a statute of limitations for them too. 

Maybe you have a type.  Tall and stalky or tough or athletic.  The kind of guy who has a lot of knowledge about obscure shit with a motorcycle or a Republican who likes to scuba dive or the guy who has a trike who’s into art.  <--- actually I don’t think those last two go together.  You come up with a lot of qualifications that if the person lacks become deal breakers.  “Well, he asks weird questions like how was your weekend? and I won’t live like that,” you think to yourself.  The staggering disappointment of losing something that seemed completely impossible to get in the first place sets you back.  I’ve developed permanent armor as a result.

Friends are not helpful.  They say “well you just really need to get laid.” 

So then you take personal inventory.  I don’t want to be toiling away at my career any more is part of my latest thinking.  I should be in the Hamptons yelling at the help.  “Everyone knows living room curtains go to the floor.”  (idiot).  I want an oblivious workaholic husband who’s never home but has five cars.  I want the house to be so big that I busy myself decorating and preparing for house guests.  I’ll design menus in my fabulous Cole Haan bathing suit, poolside sipping bubbly rose out of crystal flutes with the most gorgeous gay men in New York.  This kind of fantasizing is exquisite if you don’t want to feel.

I was so burned by the real one in the past and not just my marriage.  I mean when your heart is sensitive and shit just goes wrong, you’re left to deal with the fallout.  Growing up there was a suicide attempt, a divorce, a remarriage, moving to an awful suburb with an alcoholic step monster.  But the now is re-traumatizing me.  My parents have passed and I’m divorced.   I’m left on my own with a 49-year-old sibling who is developmentally disabled.  I’m talking death, disease, divorce and disability.  This is going to be the name of my one man show.  Or should I call it the one man show with tits.  Naw, that's too crude.  I'll think a somethin'.

                                                                             

TRYING TO WRITE A REVIEW

I hate everything.  That’s my new mantra.  I think I need a therapist but when I get a little extra money I’m ecstatic so I’m not sure about the therapist thing.  Money is not the root of all evil and money does motherfucking buy happiness.  You know when I’m happy?  When I have money.  You know who gets a lot of money?  Therapists.  I’m over it.  I’m so frustrated with the universe right now.  Fuck.  My buddy emails me his wife needs reviews written for her book and since I’m a huge fan of her work, first reading her articles in New York Magazine (you can find her articles here: Mandys Articles) and I've read her book (UnWifeable) AND I also love supporting fellow artists,writers etc., I’m committed to doing this. 

I’m having one of those fucked up days, however, that began with me getting overwhelmed from the jump.  I awoke to the “Ripples” alarm sound from my iphone at 10:45AM and hit snooze twice.  The alarm was set in order to attend to my car moving duties, which are militant regimens of egregious alternate side parking assigned to the Brooklyn neighborhoods to generate revenue for the city (Assholes).

Boy, if you can’t get up for 11:00AM.  That’s what I was thinking this morning when I was groggy and dragging myself in my Adidas track pants and flip flops passed Nostrand Avenue down a few blocks by the late night liquor store over to my parked 03 Camry.  But you know the real me hates anybody who conforms to capitalism (aka gets up early) and particularly when said capitalists look down on night people such as the aging senile dick of an attorney that I work for.   When you go to ask a question about work, he responds with snarky sarcastic questions, “what do you think you’re supposed to respond with…” and I’m thinking I'm asking YOU for fukks sake, and also you don’t pay me enough to think and frankly I don’t give a shit. He can actually be okay, I just work really hard and burn out quick.  I digress.  Part of my frustration with today is I have some big items that I have to take care of.  Rather than just start doing one of the things, I end up shutting down with a paralysis that causes me to do nothing.  So I’m excited to write my friend’s wife’s book review because writing leads to more writing and will at least get me started on something.  Any writer will tell you there will be a million obstacles in your way before you actually sit down to write like the bathroom needs to be painted or the cat needs to be scrubbed in a Lawrence Welk bubble-bath or you need more hazelnut in your coffee cake or whatever.  Hours of this can go on before you actually start, if at all. 

In my elation of landing this assignment, I go to get the book which I do remember seeing despite the fact that I recently moved and I don’t know where a lot of things are, except I can’t find it.  I actually go back out to my car (which is now conveniently parked across the street) because there are random boxes still in the car from the move and I could quite possibly have randomly put a book I had in my apartment, back in the car in a box.  I rifle through the boxes.  No book.  I go back to my apartment and start looking in weird places like the refrigerator and closets and in cabinets in the kitchen.  I can’t find the flipping thing and I know I saw it.  Now my mood begins to plummet because this one task was going to be a catalyst into other productive things!  This was going to rescue me from the pit of despair!  I can’t seem to focus lately and I’m not sure if I have ADD or ADHD or just have pure hate for things.  It could very likely be from lack of sex and over-working myself.  Yep.  Working for the man and no sex'll kill ya.  Not enough creative work and a lackluster work situation could drive anybody nuts.  Actually, it's a vampire blood-sucking, soul crushing day job.  It's only part-time, but still.  Then I go from those thoughts (which are true and quite rational) to:

Why can’t I ever make enough money?  Why can’t I get work in the arts?  Any time I’ve tried to work at a gallery it seems they either want an unpaid intern or a director.  There is nothing in between.  It’s as if there never was an assistant director position on the face of the earth, or any galaxy, ever in the universe.  The few listings I have seen require a Master’s degree which is plain bullshit.  Why is everything so frustrating?  and I want a Master's degree for fukkkkk.....sssss.... sake.

All these thoughts barrage me in lieu of the missing book.  I enter the pit of despair, but Billy Crystal and Carol Kane are not there cheer-leading my mis-adventurous tirade of storming the castle.  Then I have a meltdown.  A full-on, punch something, yell and then cry meltdown-to-immediate-depression.  My friend texts that it’s easy to get depressed.  It’s a depressing world and seems there are more douchebags than nice people and that he wants to adopt a dog and move into the woods.  This cheers me up some or at least validates the shittiness of it all.   Finally it dawns on me to ask my roommate.  I might have actually lent it to him.  Yep.  He has it.  Somewhere between the meltdown and the realization about the roommate, I stop to write this.

SHUT UP AND LOOK GOOD

I started comedy a while ago.   A long time ago.  I was married.  It was different.  I’m a comic in New York now, I’m single, and I am having a hard time.  Well, wait a day and ask me, and I will say it’s great.  A lot of my perspective hinges on where I got on last, how much money I made this month and if my new stuff worked somewhere.  But generally, and in particular, this week, things are shitty.

I’m not a new comic, but upon moving to New York I became new again in a way, having been unfamiliar with most of what goes on in the New York comedy scene.  It’s par for the course when moving to another city.

But when I ponder my situation a little deeper, what’s frustrating for me is my gender.  There comes a time when you realize, people don’t take you seriously if you are female.  People used to say “oh you do comedy that must be so hard.”  At the time I thought they were morons for saying so.  I used to think doing comedy was great.  You go to a club and work out ideas that you’ve been banging around i.e. funny thoughts, jaunts and stabs at people that irritate you.  It’s an activity that makes all the messed up stuff in your life have a shred of meaning and you make people feel better, including yourself.  It’s symbiotic and so creative.  But in time, I began to see what those annoying people meant.  Audiences are reluctant to like female comics.  And then there’s everybody else.   

When I first moved to New York a comic at Dangerfield’s said to me, “men in the Middle East have it right…women should be covered from head to toe in a berka and kept quiet.”  The same week another comedian gave me a spot at one of the clubs.  He was actually nice to me and happy to help me out, but the next night when I didn’t text him back right away, he texted, “Are you drunk or just a retard?”  Another time, in an effort to help me assimilate in New York, a friend of mine connected me with an established comic.  Long story short, the comic asked me to three-way with him and his girlfriend.

The problem starts when you actually want to make some kind of career out of it.  If you’re just doing your “sketches” at little dives here and there, it isn’t affecting anything.  You’re not challenging the status quo.  But when you have something to say, and when you want to be compensated for your work, now you are creating a wake.  In some cases, bookers don’t respect comics of the female gender, therefore, pay them less.  It is sort of known that back in the day, a now famous female comic was paid a lot less than all of the male headliners in Boston.  No wonder she left.    

In New York, it’s competitive.  Male comics will use their yang prowess to try and intimidate people they deem as inferior, I guess in an effort to stroke their own ego.  Either that or they’ll hit on you.  They’ll insult you.  At Times Square Arts Center, one of the comics said to me “I would never put two female comics on in a row…”  He really should just be embarrassed.  They also underestimate your  intelligence.  I don’t give a fuck what skinny, loser comics who are high have to say.  They are going for the easiest target which makes me question their intelligence and just screams insecurity.  They are trying to make me feel bad.  Look frightened little boy, it’s obvious you are steeped in self-hatred and exhaustion from having to suppress so many secret homosexual urges, that your shame only elicits intense insecurity, I’m here to tell ya, the rest of society takes care of my feeling bad about myself.  Women experience this constantly with sexist, objectifying images in advertising, in conversations and inappropriate glances.  Do you think your stupid comment is upsetting?  You’re just a buffoon, who’s clearly threatened by the possibility that a female comic will steal your shitty $25 dollar spot at a dump in the theatre district.  At the time I didn't respond.  

When frustrated with standup, I used to say “I should have been a dancer,” probably because society values women by their looks.  They really want us to just shut up and look good.  We are socialized to believe that women are second class citizens.  Female comics have to work hard despite this.  I think some women are confused about where their gender fits into performing.  They dress up too much.  They dress provocatively.  A lot of skin showing.  They look like a friggen peacock.  I like George Carlin.  He dressed in all black.  Like an artist should.  If you are a singer or a stripper, then by all means, wear the dress.  I just don’t see the connection with comedy.  You see minimalist theatre and they are in all black.  They’re not stuffed in a dress, in heels with their arms showing.    Everybody acts like I’m wrong because I want to be valued for my intelligence and talent and everything but my looks.  If I felt I was good looking, I wouldn’t be doing standup in the first place and female comics who use their looks are not into the craft and probably want to be an actress.  

This is a bigger issue than I thought.  Because a baby comes out of our person, we are somehow deemed as less than?   When you see a guy comic two years in, who automatically receives more credibility from the audience than your 14 years, it’s disheartening to say the least.  side note: I did read Gloria Steinem books when I was seventeen, followed by Camile Paglia, among others.  I blocked it out for a period of time.  I think for a while I chose to look the other way, for fear that I would be miserable if I was always thinking about this.  However, now that I do standup, and I’m a lot older, there is absolutely no escaping the staunch reality of sexism and inequality.  It only magnifies with time.

People have gone out of their way after a show to say “we don’t usually like female comics, but we really liked you.”  A booker of a big club in Boston said to me while we were backstage about a comic who was on stage, “she’s not that funny but she’s nice to look at.”   

Another time in Boston a booker told me right to my face that “all these paid comics are hacky…”  He was only referring to some of the funniest comedians ever on the planet.  He also mentioned my then husband.  Why would you say that to someone’s wife?  Was I supposed to be impressed by a guy who never paid comics upstairs from a Chinese restaurant?  Maybe people just think that my entire gender is dumb. 

[The word cunt doesn’t offend me at all.

Most of the time when I use it, I’m referring to a man]

-Tweet from me:  @stacykendro

Often society’s message is we’re just arm candy.  How quaint.  A large part of being female (and this is deep in the psyche of most women) is the need to ingratiate yourself to people.  That’s the hard part – being so dam agreeable.  We are socialized to make others feel comfortable, which means if you are a jerk to me, I will smile.  Sometimes, that is the thing for someone with manners to do.  However, don’t mistake my politeness for passivity.  Now I’m talking about New York.  In an effort to take the high road, or to make you believe you didn’t really get to me, I might not retaliate right away.  But just know that I’m Albanian.  I will be planning your demise.  Well, at least I will go home and write about you, but take heed because if you catch me on a bad day, who knows.  Even though “vendetta” is an Italian word, just ask people in the Bronx and they’ll tell you which nationality is scarier.

originally published 12/10/17

THE BABUSHKAS (Astoria, NY)

This blog is dedicated to how I got out from doing HARD time for killing a Jihad Macedonian whore. <--- I didn’t do that but man I wish I did. I had a hostile roommate that had mental problems.  She and the other roommate fought viciously for six months about counter space.  I stayed out of it.  She eventually turned her irate angst in my direction.  After I told her “F U” it was silent hostility until I moved out.  She used to leave her bloody tissues in the toilet and left a sinkful of dirty dishes every day, just to name a few things she did around the apartment.  I nicknamed her Jihad.  She was a diminutive little peasant who is frightening without makeup and is the spawn of mountain people from a country that was formerly who gives a shit.  It was Macedonia.  She was a short swarthy little troll.  I didn't ice her, instead I moved to the other side of Astoria.  

I moved ALL OF MY SHIT into a 2 bedroom.  Finally (I thought to myself with naiive excitement)   I will have time alone !!!  The new housemate is not home many weekends !!!  This is going to be amazing !!!    I was ecstatic.  I had agreed to live with one, but ah, New York with its tramps that are always out to hustle you.  Even the most well-intended  people utterly just want to swindle you.  Alas, after a week or so, it was evident, the friend lives there too.  They were from Ajebejian (I just say Russian).  So I not only live with one, but two sluts ! yes! Two Babushkas !  It’s made me so crazy that yes! Now I make exclamations like the count! Yes! Five! F I V E breakdowns! (ah-ah-ah!)   You learn the swindle thing with time.  I’m a tough broad, but I have honor, somewhat.  I don’t stiff bartenders.  I let women walk first in a crowded store.  I’m relatively considerate.  I genuinely get pleasure out of helping people and I think it’s important to treat people with respect.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m Albanian, I’m not saying your body might end up in a box in pieces, but I’m not saying it won’t.  Jihad almost did.  But  New York wants to kill you, as my friend Momoh explained so eloquently to me at New York Comedy Club.  He's right.  It wants to stab you with a stake like Frankenstein (or is that Dracula?).  New York wants to rob you of the essence that made you want to be an artist in the first place..  Om mani padme hum, Om mani padme hum.

The Babushkas are out in the kitchen (on the other side of my bedroom door) speaking their hybrid Farci whatever the hell they speak.  So they’re speaking about God knows what in their potato language, all the while possessing very little regard for the fact that I pay half the rent and am on the other side of the door at 1:00 AM.

They’re not American even a little, and may I add, Americans never use the word “American.”  We just don’t.  We don’t think about it.  But people who just came here use it a lot.  They never assimilate.   The real question I should be asking myself is why the fuck am I in Queens?  Fuck.  I went backwards.*

The peasants eat root vegetables and have very little vision for their lives other than defecting to Canada which seems like a shit plan if you ask me.  One is sickly and really has the worst broken English.  She speaks as if she is on her deathbed.  I guess she has some neurological thing going on but her existence screws up what I thought was going to be a peaceful apartment situation.  Her dam Russian slut friend screwed me over.  “She’s like my sister.”  Well she’s not my sister and this was supposed to be a 2 bedroom.  That means TWO people.  Oh who cares.  But you know the friend (the sickly one, although very nice) she always wants to talk and I never know what she is saying.  “I will go.”  She never learned verb conjugation, the poor thing.  The other one (the lease-holder) is shtupping a chubby Asian in Brooklyn who has children.  How revolting it all is.  They’re lost souls, but maybe so am I.  I didn’t have the wherewithal to save enough money to begin my New York time with a sensible single apartment, but I’m learning that nobody really does unless you’re independently wealthy or your parents are bankrolling you. *sigh*  I don’t understand any of it.  I’ve never had a hankering for an Asian, or potatoes or anything Russian (other than vodka).  I just wanted to do comedy.