Cassie: The little dead girl who lives in the attic.

She wore a summer print dress. It was brown and orange with specks of yellow throughout. Her hair was all curls. Thick, black curls that framed her face and rose on her head like a crown. She stood looking down at me. A small window behind her flooded the room in light, shadowing her features. I could not see her face clearly, but I knew it was a gentle one.

Her skin was dark, an olive-brown tint.

There were no shoes on her feet.

She stood above me, on the next landing. Her out-stretched arms on the bannister, she looked down at me, as I stared back at her.

The first time I saw her, she said nothing to me.

The second time I saw her, she wasn't so quiet.

"The problem is", I said, looking at my therapist, "is that I don't remember what she said".

"You don't remember anything?", she asked.

"No, I don't", I answered. "I know that we talked for a while...A long while."

"We talked about uncomfortable things", I continued, "...we talked about things that were important."

"like what?', she encouraged.

"That's just it. I don't remember. All I have is this vague recollection that she was pointing-out things that I didn't want to face, but had to, if I was to move ahead."

"And, you don't remember what those things were?"

"Not a one."

Meeting Leonard; Part II

"What's wrong?", Tom asked.

I must have been sitting there for a while, with my jaw hanging open, just staring at the monitor.

"Do you know who Leonard Nimoy is?", I asked him, slowly, incredulously.

"Spock?!", he answered.

"Yeah", I responded, looking at him and then back at the screen, and the E-mail I had just gotten from the R. Michelson Galleries. "I got chosen to be a model for his new photography project."

"When?"

"This Monday", I responded. "Which means, I need to take a Personal Day."

Then I turned back to the screen and re-read the E-mail, just to make sure I wasn't hallucinating.

Twist and Pout

Last Thursday night, I went to P.A.C.E. (Pioneer Valley Performing Arts Center of Easthampton). It's a neat little non-profit Performing Arts Space, and the people there are wonderful.

It was the second time I'd been on stage doing stand-up, this year. In fact, it was the second time within the last twelve months. And, both times were at P.A.C.E.

I keep telling myself that I'm doing it to get stage time, that I'm working on my new act, and that I'm getting back into the game. But, honestly, I'm not sure where I'm going with this. I just know that there is something left unsaid.

Thursday was a day like any other, at the Asylum. There was violence, verbal abuse, countless re-directions, screaming, spitting, drooling, seizures, toilet accidents, you name it. Pretty much a normal day.

So, after work, with a quick change of clothes, some make-up, and with M.B. in tow, I headed-up to P.A.C.E. I was ready for a diversion.

The great thing about spending your day surrounded by retarded kids, psychotic kids, and kids who are behaviorally challenged, is that your sense of the bizarre and the insane becomes dulled. Most other attitudes and behaviors seem quite tame -by comparison.

Except, maybe,for Comedy Open-mic Night.

M.B. and I arrived at P.A.C.E., at least forty-five minutes before showtime. Our friend Walter arrived twenty-minutes later. Comics trickled-in at a steady rate. And, what a ragtag, motley group they were -including me, the biggest freak in the room.

I never realized how 'spoiled' I'd become over the years, working at places like the Comedy Studio in Cambridge, Mass. Rick Jenkins runs his show there in a very professional manner, and most of the performers are professional. It's easy to take things like that for granted.

By contrast, Jennifer Mysokowski, host and coordinator of the P.A.C.E. Open-Mic, arrived fifteen minutes before the scheduled showtime -thereby delaying the beginning of the show- without a care-in-the-world.

She quickly sat down, made a list of all the comics in the room, and then, one-by-one, we each picked-out a number from folded pieces of paper that Jennifer had hurriedly set out for us.

I wound-up being number ten, in a field of eleven.

But, I didn't care.

Once Jennifer called-out the numbers and the roster was set, we al marched into the actual theater and found our seats.

The P.A.C.E. Comedy Open-Mic is not a slick, well-run, professional open-mic. And, it doesn't pretend to be. In fact, it's not so much a show as it is a free-for-all, a hang-out, and a place to kvetch, a magnet for every warped-personality that desires to amuse the masses. That's the P.A.C.E. Comedy Open-Mic....Take it, or leave it.

Once the lights dimmed, and Jennifer did her warm-up, the show began.

The first guy was strong, confident, and a total hack. Then came the Cowboy, a silver-haired guy who talked more than told jokes. He was followed by the first 'Virgin' of the night, who was awful. Then a guy who went on too long. Then another guy, who I don't even remember. Then the second 'Virgin', who didn't know when to get off -even after Jennifer blinded him with a flashlight, in an effort to get him off. Ethan, a regular, was next, and he seemed to be getting into a groove. Then some guy named Mike.

Then me.

Jennifer gave me an introduction that was serviceable.

I got up to stone-silence, the look of shock, and a smattering of applause. At certain points, nervous laughter.

I was reading off a legal-pad, stuff that I'd written the night before. It was raw. It needed work......And, I needed feed-back.

I accomplished what I set-out to do.

I was followed by a mysogynistic ukelele player, and a young woman named Annie.

And, then, it was over.

The lights came up. Jennifer said "Thank you", and "Goodnight." We all grabbed our coats and what was left of our egos, said our farewells, and headed for the door.

Eleven hours later, I'm at Bus Duty, at the Asylum, trying to put a pair of stinky socks and equally stinky shoes on a kid who is doing his best to pull the hair out of my head. When I deflect his grabs, he then proceeds to beat himself in the head.

It'll be another month before the next Comedy Open-Mic at P.A.C.E.

I can't wait.

Metting Leonard: Part I

I used to talk about meeting Leonard Nimoy. It was a great story. I was so excited about the whole experience, and how it went down. I mean, I met Leonard Nimoy. It was an amazing thing, especially for a girl like me.

Then, one night, standing on stage, relating my story, some guy yells out,"So What!........I blew William Shatner!"

Well, that kinda killed my enthusiasm.

I can almost see myself.

If you are covered in mud long enough, you start to think you are wet dirt.

I feel like wet dirt. Most of the time.

It's not like a 'pain'. It's more like a weight. It bares down on you. It makes even walking difficult.

It sucks.

But, there are moments......

Moments when the rains come.

Then, I feel fresh, and clean, and free. My essence shows through....And, I can see myself. At those moments, I am comfortable in my body, I'm confidant, and I'm happy.

Those moments are fleeting.

Usually, I'm covered in drool, trying to keep one kid from trying to eat another.

But, sometimes.......sometimes.....I can almost see myself.

My Accetance Speech

The whole episode with Lisa Lampanelli and her nomination for a Grammy Award got me thinking; Who would I thank, if I won a Grammy?!

I'd have to thank my mom -especially if she's in the room.
I'd thank my old Drill Instructor, Sargeant Johnson -because he'd definitely kick my ass.

I'd thank Richard Pryor.
And, I'd thank Mr. Spock.

If it wasn't for Bullwinkle, Ghandi, and Jack Daniels, I wouldn't be here, tonight.

I'd thank my dealer.
And, I would thank god -because I'm an atheist (and, the only transwoman in the room).

I would tear-up quickly...and my voice would crack and waver. I would sob, uncontrolably, as I choked-out the words "you really love me!"

I would be an embarassment of riches.

-At least, that's my plan.

Team Lisa

When I learned that my friend -and fellow comedienne- Lisa Lampaneli (a.k.a. the "Queen of Mean") was up for a Grammy Award for Best Comedy Album of the year, I was shocked......then amamzed. And, not a little jealous.

Lisa and I have kept tenuous ties over the years. Usually, through E-mails. So, though I always kinda knew what she was up to, I just didn't know all the details. In fact, I sent her an E-mail once I heard the news, to congratulate her and wish her the best of luck. She E-mailed me back, with a "Thanks".

Not anymore, though. Lisa is a comedienne on-the-rise. She is one busy woman, and having time to respond to every correspondence that comes her way has got to be an impossible task. I get that. No problem.

Now, I get E-mails from 'Team Lisa'.

She has a friggin' 'Team'.

I want one.
-Think of the possibilities!!

And, then, I want to break-into the MySpace 'top ten friends list'. I don't know how it works. Is it a for-profit thing? Is it promises of fealty and blood? Is an actual 'like' of the person involved in the equation -and could that problem with smoothed-over with cash? I don't know. Just tell me who I have to blow to advance my picture up that social chain.

This won't be a tit-for-tat thing, either. Momma didn't raise no fool. You better have the keyboard in your hand, keys better be tickin' away, while my face is in your crotch.

"mm...mmmm,..mmm...mmm...mmmmmmm..mmmmmmm..mm..mmmmmmm!"

Feed Your Head

Whenever I would ask my mother about my birth, and about how I came into this world, she would inevitably tell me that I was an accident. In fact, I was one of several.

Here's some advice, from someone who knows: when your child asks you that question tell them that they were the product of love. Tell them that it was a moment of magic. Tell them that two people, deeply in love, united for one special evening, to produce the child that would be them. (I don't care if you have to lie). It'll do wonders for their self-esteem.

Me, I'm an 'accident'!

And, just how the fuck did this 'accident', occur?

What the hell does it mean?

I'll tell you what it means. It means that two people, motivated by sheer carnal lust -and alcohol- had sex....and never bothered to use a condom.

That's when you hear: "Hon, do you remember that Chinese New Year when we had sex in your mother's basement?"

(Quizzical look) "Noooooo........... Should I?"

"Did you wear a condom?"

That's what I am. An 'accident'.

Now, I have no problems with the circumstances surrounding my conception. It's the wording that bugs me.

An 'accident?!'

How about: In a moment of passion, we threw ourselves together with complete and utter abandon. It was a devil-may-care attitude fueled by our lust.

That would be better.

An 'accident' is when you stub your toe. An accident is when your mother-in-law forgets to eat her bran, or you back into another car in the Mall parking lot. Those are accidents!

Getting drunk.....and rutting like pigs....is not an accident.

-That's a plan!

What I have learned is that I am not an 'accident'. I am the result of a finely-tuned plan, that was executed with military-like precision.

I'm not an accident.

-I'm Collateral Damage.

Tammy in Fancy Pants

Just so you know who it is you're dealing with, and what you can expect from that who; a short introduction....of sorts.

My name is Tammy Twotone. I am anxious, neurotic, paranoid, and obcessive compulsive. If that's not enough, consider my past; my father abandoned me and my family when I was still in the womb;I was raised by a step-father who was abusive -both emotionally and physically. Not from this country, my mother, my three sisters and I were dumped into the 'projects' where the welfare state did it's best to cloth, educate, and keep a roof over our heads, when said step-father no longer did. This barely skims the surface of my dysfunction. But, it's part of where I come from. And, it's something you probably should know.

I've been a puppeterr, a retail clerk, an actor, a college student, a taxi dispatcher, a United States Marine, an independent bookseller, and -on one ocassion- a stripper. All of which is grist for my life as a transgendered stand-up comedienne.

Still with me?!

What I learned in Therapy

I learned that the only time that I am completely confident is when I'm alone. Alone. That's it. "No problem", says a little voice inside my head. More than one person, and it's "No way."

-Because, one of us is 'Wrong!'
It doesn't matter what that wrong is.
It just is.

And, maybe I am wrong.
Then, I start to question myself.

"Is this an isolated incident, or part of a pattern?" Not good.

This inevitably leads to the stark truth that my life is riddled with mistakes. Concluding with, "I don't deserve to live!"

- you can see why I like being alone.

Therapy is great.