Blue Collar

About eight years ago, I took a Solo-Performance workshop at Second City in Chicago a few years back, before I did Stand-up, before I knew myself or my experience like I do now. Before I could see myself.

The instructor had us write a monologue and perform it for our classmates. I wrote a story about being 10 years old, and my friend and I were playing on the playground near her house and this boy started  chasing us until he caught me on my bike and wouldn't let me go. My friend ran to her house and got her older brother who was about fifteen. He came storming down the street and hit this kid in the chest with his basketball.

The story sounds like a typical chivalrous rescuer fantasy of a pre-teen girl. Except that my friend's brother used to beat on my friend- who was also a 10-year old girl. And the boy menacing us was about 10 too. But at least he was male.

I thought of my friend's brother was a fucking psycho-path. Until he rescued me, and then I had a crush on him, ignoring that he was indiscriminate with his violence. And I would keep those blinders on in regards to the men I loved, or at least lived with from then till I sobered up in 1996.

There I was in the bosom of comedy and I picked some nugget from the Wally Lamb pocket of my brain to write about. (I'm a big Wally Lamb fan).

But I did the monologue and when the teacher asked for some words to describe my persona, someone said "Blue Collar", which shocked me. I didn't know I was working class. Really, who cares? We were at Second City, Chicago not Second City, Dickensian England for God's sake. Still, I had no clue who or what I was. It was the beginning of the dawn of truth about me and my life. I thought we were rich because no one in my family said "ain't". I thought my mom was just holding my money till she could be sure I wasn't going back on Heroin.

There have been no dime-bags in sixteen years but there ain't been no dimes either.

It is funny to me now that I was so shocked at being poor but not concerned with being an instigator of and attracted to domestic abuse.

And as I write this I remember that we teased this boy first, disrupting his basketball game by riding our bikes through it and calling him stupid. I started the ball rolling but my friend's brother didn't get that information. The boy just grabbed the back of my bike seat. I just wasn't prepared to get caught.

I see it now though. And I'm not anymore; attracted to domestic abuse. And I don't anymore; instigate domestic abuse. Because I got help.

Besides, my friend's brother might have been abusive but he put his hate to good use at least once. That counts. I suppose.

 I owe that boy an apology. Him and a few others.

Do It or Poo It!

It occurred to me that I might not go on eating binges if I would sit down and do some writing everyday. I'm supposed to be a writer and a comic and I only exercise my creative muscles under duress, which is the same condition under which I work on my abs. And my triceps - that's the muscle on my body that trying to tighten is akin to pursuing my comedy special on HBO- far from my reality and might never happen.

So let's keep it local for now. Two nights ago I found myself eating tablespoons full of vegan margarine coated with raw sugar until my stomach began to ache. I didn't even try to count the Weight Watchers points on it. And the whole time I'm horkin' down like some poor slob on a TLC show, I'm thinking about sitting down at my computer and writing. With every key I was not pressing, another chunk of Edens Buttery Spread (Light mind you!) I was pressing into my mouth, trying to shut up the signals coming from inside of me, that it was time to do the work. I have been plagued with the most noxious gas ever since, which are signals coming from without of me- "Warning! If you don't do the work, life really stinks!"

Laura Hugg: Low-Rise Pants & Hi-Rise Underwear: I Also Love the Way You Lie

Laura Hugg: Low-Rise Pants & Hi-Rise Underwear: I Also Love the Way You Lie

Bones: A Rare Little Bird

Early this morning a guy I know from "back in the day"in Cincinnati, was shot and killed by the Cincinnati police for waving a knife at them.

The details are murky, the rumors swirling. Cincinnati has a volatile  relationship with the Police, especially the poor people. There are some very hard parts to the city too, some very dangerous areas and drug markets that the Police have to deal with. It's not an easy situation.

And where my old acquaintance lands on those scales I cannot say because I haven't seen him in years. I've heard tell that he has struggled with drugs and booze, and getting bye and I also hear that he has been playing music and has a gaggle of admirers who follow him around. Between his good looks and his body art, he certainly was visually striking. He was funny too.

I met Bones when he first arrived in Cincinnati in the 1990's. He came with a couple of other people from New Orleans to survey the scene. At the time he was a straight edge, born-again Christian minister in addition to being a gritty looking punk rocker. That's what stood out for me, probably a lot of people is he that he looked like the nastiest gutter butter but he was smart, didn't drink or party and he believed in Jesus. On the back of his arms were the tattoos, "Jesus is Lord".

I didn't think he was freaky for it, weird. He was a preacher but I don't remember him preaching. I remember feeling jealous because he seemed to have the courage of his convictions, although I didn't articulate it that way in my brain then. It was more like, "he is fucking cool. I wish I could be cool."

Many people I know have long and deep friendships and better stories to tell about him than I do. I really have just one, one little bird of a story about Bones.

It was a drunken summer night in Corryville on Short Vine. I was chasing my ex-boyfriend, a sexy, psychopath who shall remain nameless, from Sudsy's to the woods to the Sub Galley, tripping on acid, crying, out of my mind with sorrow and lust and that feeling of sinking I always had up until 1998.  It wouldn't be a Short Vine Saturday night without one emotional breakdown.  This was my night!

At some point I lost the scent of my ex-boyfriend and picked up the scent of someone else's ex-boyfriend. Just as the dude and I were getting into a cab together, my ex came out of nowhere and began attacking us, wailing on us with his fists, his feet and even his spit. The guy ran off, my ex ran off and I was back to where I started, alone, breaking down, and wasted.

  I was losing my shit as they say. I was so lost and unhappy. I had only been drinking again for a short time since having had a period of a year off alcohol and drugs and it wasn't turning out to be the party with nice people and good times I had hoped it would. I was sliding down into a rancid existence that I thought had been kind of a game of extreme dress up. But the hell was real and it was not going away. It was mounting and multiplying and eating me alive.

Suddenly Bones appeared and I asked him, "would you pray for me?" He said of course and we went over to the steps by Perkins and I put my head down, sobbing. He laid his hand on top of my head and began to pray, asking God to help me and drive the devil out of me and save my soul.

People were walking bye. It wasn't that late. I can only imagine what people thought. Maybe you are reading this right now, saying "WHO THE FUCK CARES WHAT PEOPLE THINK", or maybe you are reading this and are more like me, saying, "OH MY GOD WHAT PEOPLE MUST HAVE THOUGHT! " The point of this story is that I was one of those people who cared what people thought, to the point where it was deadly in many cases. I still have that hang-up. But in that moment, I put everything aside, all my false pride, and turned to God as only the desperate do. And God's messenger was this really cool, beautiful guy with dreads and tattoos and these big eyes, tailor made for such an image conscious , albeit failure at keeping up an image, girl like me.

Then I got in a cab and went home, I think. My life on the party, hah! did not end there but I believe Bones helped me. He sure didn't hurt me, like I hurt myself and others, over and over and over.  I know that people often tell the truth when they are really drunk because they do not have the courage to tell it and face it when they are sober and are so twisted within themselves that they don't even know what the truth is. What I was seeking from Reverend Bones in that moment was real, was genuine help and he gave it to me.

By the following winter, Bones was drinking and getting high. I hung out at his apartment once and we partied together with people and did not talk about the time he prayed for me. But whenever I'd see him, I'd think about how he prayed for me with a mixture of fondness and embarrassment similar to the feeling I get when I run into guys with whom I had one-night stands. Exactly like that - that I engaged in something very human and intimate in a very desperate way rather than deeply for a prolonged amount of time as it was designed for. Faith and love are meant to be tended and nurtured.

I'm pretty cleaned up. I have a very lovely life today. I don't know if Bones was living a lovely life but he died in a very ugly way. I cannot lay my hands on his head and ask God to help him. By the beliefs of some, he is with God now. But if anyone asks me, I will try to help them  as he tried to help me.

Rest In Peace Bones.

I Also Love the Way You Lie

First off, let me say that I wish I wasn't such an asshole when I was younger. But I can't skank into the past and change it. I have to learn to accept that I was a short-sighted, emotionally stunted ingrate who's only real loyalty was to eyeliner and beer, and try not to let it happen again.

 I never had a camera either in the 90's, to take pictures of my friends and my outfits. If I'd had a camera, I wouldn't have the money for film because I spent it on acid or one of the guys I played house with would've hocked it.

So when I see close proximity's of my youth I get really excited, often overwhelmed. Films like "Gummo" and "Kids", anything written by Harmony Corrine or filmed by Larry Clark stir up a mixture of nausea and nostalga, which I call, naustalgia, in me.

Along similar but more glamourous lines, is the song and video of Eminem's, "Love the Way You  Lie" featuring Rhianna. Frankly IT'S JUST TOO MUCH! That old familiar theme of sick, deep co-dependency played out by Megan Fox and that sexy Hobbit-guy from "Lost", dressed in the requisite tattered denim and combat boots is so compelling, so well-done. When they beat on each other and alternately kiss/chew each other's faces, I can smell the stale beer, light b.o., sweat, cigarette smoke, sour-white-boy-aqua net- dreads and patchouli in the air; I can feel my new-wave romanticism shift into post-punk ennui slide into grunge era drug-addicted disillusionment; I am transported back to nights making out with someone else's skinhead boyfriend in bushes and basements all over Coryville.

And let us not forget our narrators, Eminem and Rhianna, cultural icons as much for their various domestic violence episodes as they are for their music. See Eminem stomping around in that field, holding up his big-boy pants and and cursing the Gods for his Ike and Tina appetites! Watch Rhianna wring her hands, with her boobs hanging out but wearing the hood of her sweatshirt up. So tortured!  So tortured!

It's like a snapshot of my life in the 90's except with a hair and make-up team.

I'm not like that now and I'm grateful because it's easier to age with hope and joy and enthusiasm than it is to toil on to the end with bitterness. Dissatisfaction is great for album covers, but to be an old, bloated throw-back still trying to whore in the bars is as ugly as it gets. Unless I were to become a full-on lunatic, morbidly obese, trying to wheel myself around in a wheel chair I found in the garbage, my legs stuffed into a couple of grocery sacks, rubber dish gloves on my hands, asking strangers to push me to the dollar store. There would be no blaze of glory for me. I'm not that cool.

I live a clean life, a sober life now. It's not perfect by any stretch, but my life is rich and beautiful. But I get it, that sick shit, I get it.

I Give and I Give...

Right now, I don't give as much of time or my money as I'd like to. I am in a good place with my budget but not quite there with my debt to incorporate a regular payment to any one charity. I used to support NPR every month but I was deferring on my school loan and a credit card bill so I had to end my membership and out that money towards the bills. I hope to incorporate a regular amount of money into my budget that I give to various charities soon.

And time? I have precious little. It's all I can do to sign a few letters to congress to save the wolves from BP or something similar. However, all the e-mails I now get in my inbox ever since I first tried to help Queenie the Elephant on Facebook is tempting me to unsubscribe from all the different Wildlife and Environmental and Free Press organizations I don't remember signing up for to begin with. 

What I do currently to give back to society, or help it out, or do something for something else for a good reason is recycle. I have 2 trash cans in my apartment. One is for garbage and one for recyclables. And I do not have a mud room or laundry room to store it in, nor a car to take it to the recycling drop-off in the turnaround driveway at the Peggy Notebart Nature Museum. The "trash" sits in my house till I am able to get a ride for my garbage from someone; foist it off on my do-gooder friends, Stephanie and Julie, because they have recycling pick-up in their neighborhood; or I walk it to the drop-off myself and try to get a little fresh air and cardio while saving the planet.

And now I also offer my comedic services at fundraisers. So far no one has found my comedy that helpful but I am supposed to do a a stand-up show at a prison to cheer up the inmates, (or warm them up for some Bible teachings). However I just found out the prison is on lock-down because of an outbreak of H1N1 virus so we'll see.

My dear friend, Marena reminds me that God made me funny to lighten the burden of others, which I do at least once a day. That's a good start. I wish I could make the whales and the wolves laugh while they try to cope with their vanishing habitats. I wish I could make corporations giggle themselves into fits of caring more about people than the bottom line. I'll keep trying and also write the occasional check.

Silence of the Lambs

Tonight, while I was watching "Silence of the Lambs" I experienced the strangest sensation. The movie took on the quality of an old film, a "classic" movie right before my eyes and ears. The music sounded big, sweeping - Grand! The color quality reminded me of technicolor films like "Sweet Charity" or "West Side Story. And of course Jodie Foster had more of dewey quality rather than sinewy.

I hope someone experiences me in the same way.

"Silence of the Lambs" is the only horror film I consider a comfort film.