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.