I would rather spend ten hours with a person who is literate, has an opinion, and would be happy to talk about life than someone who putz around with a car, talks about "screwin'' and thinks fine dining is sitting INSIDE instead of hitting the drive-thru.
That said, there are people who do THINK for a living, and they are the ones who have always been the sexiest human beings on the planet to me.
Marc Maron, for one, is a thinker. Whether the topics is his cats, or Obama, he always has something interesting to say, and a great way of saying it. Very sexy. Very cool. He may not be the guy that you'd find at starbucks, but he certainly will tell you all ABOUT the guy at starbucks, who is working there, why they are there, and what they assume the world is about- and he'd be right. Coffee and cigs to Marc- he's earned them.
Henry Rollins is a thinker. He's a book-boy- the kind you find perusing the mom and pop used book stores, wondering if the next great find is just around the next shelf. He talks about politics from the perspective of a son-of-a-military man, and that shows in every event he's in. I listen to Black Flag with equal aplomb to his spoken shows- and he always makes me wonder why I didn't articulate as well exactly the words he uses.
Eddie Izzard- looks better in bright red lipstick than I do, but my favorite moment was sitting next to him for the entire showing of The Aristocrats in the Hollywood premiere...thinking..this is the sexiest man who has ever crossed dressed, and that's one tomboy I wants to play in the sane-box with. He makes thinking a way of life- and he's just stunningly sexy.
Now there are far too many stupid men on this planet. (mccain) There are so many that just starting a list of them (bush) seems useless as I think there aren't enough ink jets in the world to print that list up.
Stupid men tell you something you already know and try to make it sound like their original idea. They try to impress you with a vocabulary garnished from dictipedia, and amusing anecdon'ts. They will belittle the intelligent guy, and assume you will go along for the joke. To me, and many women, they are hideously boring. When a guy starts comments, "I just heard this..." you know that they're testing an idea that THEY find stupid, but want to see if it's acceptable to others.
Meanwhile, there's Dave Barry sitting at home, talking about his wife and kids with the same enthusiasm as Einstein talked about mathematics. My first crush was on Gene Wilder because he made me laugh.. and he was smart about it. Yes, he was in the most famous fart-joke movie ever, but he was still smart. Smart, funny. Witty, wise. These are the qualities of attractive men.
I bring this up because the other night I mentioned to someone I liked Sci-Fi nerds. I like them, and I find them very sexy. Kevin Smith is a sci-fi nerd, as is Seth MacFarlane- they could each recite lines from the FIRST Star Wars movie back and forth to each other, and then have a full conversation in iambic pentameter reguarding anything including shoe-horns, (a word I find quite amusing). One of my friends said, "Sci fi is for idiots", and I think I wanted to laugh at her, hard, and wonder if she has ever seeeeeen David Tennant in Dr. Who, or the equally gorgeous, yet somehow just too gregarious gay-boy-toy, John Barrowman in Torchwood.
Thinking boys are the best. They not only have read the Karma Sutra, they can tell you the Klingon sex games, and even offer you a handful of skittles as they do it. I mean do it.
I married a guy who is now a sci-fi nerd. He wasn't when I met him. Now when we're zoning on the couch, when he has the remote, which is always, he flips to the Sci-fi channel, the nerdiest movies, and he can recite EVERY line in Fargo, which isn't a Sci-fi movie, but is a good brain-man movie just the same. He was always a book-boy, though, and that's a huge thing with me, (writer and all), because it means he is still learning about life, and approaches the world anew with every turned page. Clancy, Ludlum, or King- he devours what he reads- and then joins me in the discussions of biographies- Beatles to single moms. He gets the idea that life is about what you don't know THEN about what you do.
That's smart boy sexy.
And he's funny. Not Izzard-Maron funny, but in a Farrelly Brothers Neurotic kind of way. That's a good sci-fi nerd trait.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Sammy Shore, and Short Bus Shows
It's been a long week with the husband dealing with post surgical stuff, one of my favorite sets of pals becoming engaged, and then a car accident- everyone is fine, (People 1, Car 0). Unfortunately it was the hubby's car that lost the battle, so that's another movie written. Lots of comedy in there. Just not tonight.
Friday night was the Short Bus Comics sophomore show- the second of a long great run at the Onyx Theater, in Vegas. Roman, the producer, is certainly one of the most talented artist hunters I've ever met. I emcee'd a room that was filled with great energy, great comedy, and great people. Some folks hit the stage for the very first time, some are storytellers, some are Aliens from another planet, and some are puppetmasters. But all of them are true to themselves, and do that special thing that makes comedy so much better live- they let themselves goof up, and the try things that others aren't willing to risk.
For this reason specifically, I expect the Short Bus show to last in Vegas for a very very very very long time. It's reminiscent of the Greenwich Village shows at coffee houses where you'd see Woody Allen play alongside Brother Theodore. (Yes, Gabriel, that was for you.) It's the melting pot of humor that works really well because there isn't a "You do comedy this way" method that seems to prevent other rooms from gathering heat. With the warm personalities- every one is there from start to finish supporting one another, and offering something amazing- a home.
After a few minor glitches with mics, and with the goofy emcee getting a couple comis out of order..(sorry guys).. the show was mostly a smooth run of the magnetic personalities and truly unique acts that made being on stage just a joy from start to finish.
This morning, I had to get up at 6am to prep for the book fair at the Clark County Library. (yeah, I know, zombies don't even get up at 6 in Vegas.) It was pretty insane, but it had to be done. Lots of print-outs. Lots of copes for the Las Vegas Quillkeepers table. One other member made it, and she was amazing, (thanks Wista). The guy who had the table after me is not unkown to comedy circles.
The fact was, I know his daughter Sandi. We met about 12 years ago, in Los Angeles, at the Comedy Store, when I wanted to brush up on my act after being off stage for 6 months. Sandi has a book about comedy and it's pretty good- we got to be friends and I even helped her with her website for a little while. She would bring her dog to the club, and her dog and I were also friends. His son, Pauly, was at the club when I was doing stage time for the first time there. He was a mere 17 years old, I believe, and still Rodney Dangerfield's favorite kid comic up until he died.
Mitzi was a terrific mentor, and I'd hear her telling other comics, "you'd be good if you just worked a few other rooms, then came back". I was lucky enough to be "passed" the first time she saw me, when she said, "You got something unusual kid, don't lose it." In the divorce, Sammy Shore gave Mitzi the Comedy Store, and she really made it into the home for most Los Angeles comedians.
Sitting with Sammy today was a complete accident. It turns out our table was to be his at a designated time, and I waited for him, to help him set up and to say hello- he is SAMMY SHORE after all. The peer to Moms Mabely, Phyllis Diller, Joey Bishop, and the opening act for Elvis for five years. There isn't a stage that Sammy didn't own, and to meet with him, after having dozens of chats with his daughter and son was just a thrill so hard to describe.
He was just the glowing dad when it came to talk about Sandi- and that was charming. Working with Tony Orlando is also something he was just excited about telling me...and he was just vibrant. The guy may be 81 on the outside, but he's about 35 upstairs. Smart, swift, and really a funny guy who has seen it all. His hearing isn't the best- and my low voice probably didn't help- but we had a great chat. Politics, publishing, comedy, the Store, his kids, his dogs- we just had a nice afternoon.
So for the last 12 hours I had a great immersion into the world that is comedy- part with new legends to be, and part with a true master of the form. It was a day that let me know "I'm doing the right thing, and these are my people."
It's a great feeling.
cbj
Friday night was the Short Bus Comics sophomore show- the second of a long great run at the Onyx Theater, in Vegas. Roman, the producer, is certainly one of the most talented artist hunters I've ever met. I emcee'd a room that was filled with great energy, great comedy, and great people. Some folks hit the stage for the very first time, some are storytellers, some are Aliens from another planet, and some are puppetmasters. But all of them are true to themselves, and do that special thing that makes comedy so much better live- they let themselves goof up, and the try things that others aren't willing to risk.
For this reason specifically, I expect the Short Bus show to last in Vegas for a very very very very long time. It's reminiscent of the Greenwich Village shows at coffee houses where you'd see Woody Allen play alongside Brother Theodore. (Yes, Gabriel, that was for you.) It's the melting pot of humor that works really well because there isn't a "You do comedy this way" method that seems to prevent other rooms from gathering heat. With the warm personalities- every one is there from start to finish supporting one another, and offering something amazing- a home.
After a few minor glitches with mics, and with the goofy emcee getting a couple comis out of order..(sorry guys).. the show was mostly a smooth run of the magnetic personalities and truly unique acts that made being on stage just a joy from start to finish.
This morning, I had to get up at 6am to prep for the book fair at the Clark County Library. (yeah, I know, zombies don't even get up at 6 in Vegas.) It was pretty insane, but it had to be done. Lots of print-outs. Lots of copes for the Las Vegas Quillkeepers table. One other member made it, and she was amazing, (thanks Wista). The guy who had the table after me is not unkown to comedy circles.
The fact was, I know his daughter Sandi. We met about 12 years ago, in Los Angeles, at the Comedy Store, when I wanted to brush up on my act after being off stage for 6 months. Sandi has a book about comedy and it's pretty good- we got to be friends and I even helped her with her website for a little while. She would bring her dog to the club, and her dog and I were also friends. His son, Pauly, was at the club when I was doing stage time for the first time there. He was a mere 17 years old, I believe, and still Rodney Dangerfield's favorite kid comic up until he died.
Mitzi was a terrific mentor, and I'd hear her telling other comics, "you'd be good if you just worked a few other rooms, then came back". I was lucky enough to be "passed" the first time she saw me, when she said, "You got something unusual kid, don't lose it." In the divorce, Sammy Shore gave Mitzi the Comedy Store, and she really made it into the home for most Los Angeles comedians.
Sitting with Sammy today was a complete accident. It turns out our table was to be his at a designated time, and I waited for him, to help him set up and to say hello- he is SAMMY SHORE after all. The peer to Moms Mabely, Phyllis Diller, Joey Bishop, and the opening act for Elvis for five years. There isn't a stage that Sammy didn't own, and to meet with him, after having dozens of chats with his daughter and son was just a thrill so hard to describe.
He was just the glowing dad when it came to talk about Sandi- and that was charming. Working with Tony Orlando is also something he was just excited about telling me...and he was just vibrant. The guy may be 81 on the outside, but he's about 35 upstairs. Smart, swift, and really a funny guy who has seen it all. His hearing isn't the best- and my low voice probably didn't help- but we had a great chat. Politics, publishing, comedy, the Store, his kids, his dogs- we just had a nice afternoon.
So for the last 12 hours I had a great immersion into the world that is comedy- part with new legends to be, and part with a true master of the form. It was a day that let me know "I'm doing the right thing, and these are my people."
It's a great feeling.
cbj
Thursday, October 2, 2008
good club, bad club
This past week, I had the fortune of visiting Los Angeles, my former home town for many years. I was doing workshops at a corp gig as part of the Atheist Alliance International, (there will be a post on this on the GodlessGrief Myspace page, and blog). But as part of my trip, I wrote to about 30 or so clubs asking if there were spots open that I could try some material in- and got some great responses, and some not great ones. But, I took two offers up, and I write about them as a warning and as delightful surprise that could aid my co-comics out in the future.
The first, is the good, because no one seems to talk about good stuff anymore. But there's a small room in a church basement of an episcopal church. I know, you don't usually hear ME talking about going to some church, but this was different. David Corrado runs a little show Friday Nights in St. Bede's in Mar Vista, with a combination of music and comedy as the theme for the evening, and it's just terrific. I didn't really bring A- material, because, really, had no idea what the room was, and didn't really plan for anything other than working out a brand new bit...but that was perfect.
David and I first met years back when I had a room in Westminster, in a Bennigans, (commence Butters imitations now), and people like Martin Moreno, Steve Marmel, and Courtney Cronin were regulars- along with Tanyalee Davis, Roz Browne, Julie Kidd, and a few other interesting folks. The room worked because there was no pressure on anyone. It was JUST a work out room and just a place where doing new material is the right thing to do. Headliners came down, did a 15 minute set, and then went back to the Store, the Factory, or the Improv, and killed. It worked because everyone was there from start to finish to support one another, and as emcee and host, I never wanted it any other way.
David's Church Basement show was more than that because there were musicians doing the same gig. I had never been in that atmosphere- and it was kind of hip and wild, and cool, and a throwback to all things I miss about "performance art" which I was so much ensconced in during the 80's. No one was there to do their auditions, and no one was trying to be a tv star, like you'll see ruining the comedy rooms around the city- it was just people who wanted to play on stage, and have a great place to do so. David brought that into fruition, big time. He's a humble host, and a funny guy, who gets why people do comedy. If you get a chance to do his space- DO it. The crowd may be small but it's just perfect. And, I'll be back, along with Grace Fraga, and Dana Snow, to do some newer and older stuff, and to feel at home again.
Then comes the opposite of the spectrum. In every year, since 1979, the first year I was on a comedy stage, I have never once did a show where someone said to me, "you must bring at least X number of people or you won't get on stage". Ever. These are prominent in the music community and it was not unusual to see bands walking up and down Sunset, or in Venice Beach, GIVING people money to go see their shows at the Whiskey or Palomino club- the bands did that- the comics didn't. Why? Comedy clubs HAD audiences... people wanted to laugh and didn't care if it was a black guy, a white girl, or a jewish nun doing the show.
So it's now 2008, and I got a response back from one club in North Hollywood, whose name rhymes with "Blah Blah", saying, sure come on down. Wednesday night gig. Okay. Weird night of the week, but okay. And, the only other thing in the email, "do you advertise when you play?" I wrote back, of course, it's all over MySpace, Facebook, etc... and people tell me they'll be there, and usually they make it. Well, Kyle Cease was at the improv, Gabriel Iglesias was at another improv, and the new Laugh Factory Long Beach was luring people with comps that night so I didn't have high hopes that there would be a big "me" crowd- just figured ah, they're open Wednesdays, they must advertise something, too. Silly me.
I told a couple of folks where I'd be...and heard crickets. Just nothing. No warnings. This is why I write. This place is the worst place for ANY comedian to perform for MORE than just a "bringer show" atmosphere. They charge comics a $5 per SODA fee. I have no idea what the liquor costs, but it wasn't that cheap, either I'm sure. There were comics getting charged a COVER fee..uhm... no. NOT cool. And, twenty minutes AFTER the show starts, no one was even told their times on the slots for the night.
A full twenty minutes after a show starts, someone needs to know the slots, and the comics need to know they are going up. But ten minutes after THAT... some guy who was doing part of Mark Pitta's, Jason Stuarts, and even a bit of K-von's act- mostly just posing and pretending he was cute- comes up to me and tells me, "You don't have any people up here yet. Do you expect them to show up soon?"
Uhm. I drove from Las Vegas specificially because on TUESDAY when I called the club to confirm I was told, "Oh yeah, we're doing a show at 9pm. You're set for the gig." I said, "My husband just got out of surgery, do you have any slots later in the week?" The nameless voice, (by the way, the email wasn't signed by anyone either..just blah- blah cafe.... ), saying, "no, we're booked solid two weeks so you have to take this or nothing." I say, "I'll be there an hour early".
I show up... there's a security guard. I ask who I check in with- he says the bartender. The bartender says someone named Eric, (aforementioned hack), and the Eric guy never made an appearance until well after the show began..so I just slunk into the back. Now, anyone will tell you- whether you are Dennis Blair or Celeste Davis, I'm going to stay from the first comic to the last because I know comedians need audiences. I learned when I was playing the 2am slots at the Improv ANY audience is better than NO audience..and never once have left a show before it ended unless I was scheduled somewhere else.
So that said... it's 45 minutes in- no one I know is there..and that kid goes up on stage to do the gay boy dancing routine. Uhm. It's an older bit, and Jason does it better. So does half the Logo TV comics where he probably got it from. And Ian Harvie does the "I'm coming to get you" line with more believability. It was not a great set. He disappears. Never returns. Never tells me I'm going up...and never says anything about me driving JUST for this show. Unproffessional on every level.
I have texts and calls into Roz, Grace, Gulden, and Ant. Gulden tells me to pass the phone to Jack. Well Jack is apparently outside getting screamed at or flirting with someone else on the phone. Never did acknowledge me..or welcome me...or anything..and he's supposed to be the big guy. Okay. So I have a place in Long Beach I have to get to by midnight because there are babies there...
The kicker? I got my cd which is part of the newer bit..the d-jay, aka the security guard, tells me "Oh you're not going on?" He didn't have a set list of who is up... not even the people WORKING know who is going up.
So recapping- Ant, Roz, Gulden, Grace, Dana, David- supportive and wonderful. St. Bede's Friday Night show... really fun, and David is an awesome host. DO that room. Blah Blah club is only in the business of making money OFF of the comedians, and although ONE guy (someone named Hutch? who looked a lot like Cabin Boy...) was funny and had some stage experience, the club wasn't paying attention to anyone. At all. Not worth going all the way up to North Hollywood unless you're looking for an overpriced drink and free parking. Seriously. You can do that on in Vegas- the drive is cheaper- or at your grandma's local bar.
Meanwhile- The Short Bus Comics Show opened this past Friday. I'm emceeing on the 10th. I hope to see the Vegas locals and visiting folks then. Should be a HOOT. GREAT comedians, GREAT body on the nekked one. And, no more cafe gig for YOU or me. (warning warning warning) Just hit the St. Bedes if you want to test material out..you'll be happy. Very.
cbj
The first, is the good, because no one seems to talk about good stuff anymore. But there's a small room in a church basement of an episcopal church. I know, you don't usually hear ME talking about going to some church, but this was different. David Corrado runs a little show Friday Nights in St. Bede's in Mar Vista, with a combination of music and comedy as the theme for the evening, and it's just terrific. I didn't really bring A- material, because, really, had no idea what the room was, and didn't really plan for anything other than working out a brand new bit...but that was perfect.
David and I first met years back when I had a room in Westminster, in a Bennigans, (commence Butters imitations now), and people like Martin Moreno, Steve Marmel, and Courtney Cronin were regulars- along with Tanyalee Davis, Roz Browne, Julie Kidd, and a few other interesting folks. The room worked because there was no pressure on anyone. It was JUST a work out room and just a place where doing new material is the right thing to do. Headliners came down, did a 15 minute set, and then went back to the Store, the Factory, or the Improv, and killed. It worked because everyone was there from start to finish to support one another, and as emcee and host, I never wanted it any other way.
David's Church Basement show was more than that because there were musicians doing the same gig. I had never been in that atmosphere- and it was kind of hip and wild, and cool, and a throwback to all things I miss about "performance art" which I was so much ensconced in during the 80's. No one was there to do their auditions, and no one was trying to be a tv star, like you'll see ruining the comedy rooms around the city- it was just people who wanted to play on stage, and have a great place to do so. David brought that into fruition, big time. He's a humble host, and a funny guy, who gets why people do comedy. If you get a chance to do his space- DO it. The crowd may be small but it's just perfect. And, I'll be back, along with Grace Fraga, and Dana Snow, to do some newer and older stuff, and to feel at home again.
Then comes the opposite of the spectrum. In every year, since 1979, the first year I was on a comedy stage, I have never once did a show where someone said to me, "you must bring at least X number of people or you won't get on stage". Ever. These are prominent in the music community and it was not unusual to see bands walking up and down Sunset, or in Venice Beach, GIVING people money to go see their shows at the Whiskey or Palomino club- the bands did that- the comics didn't. Why? Comedy clubs HAD audiences... people wanted to laugh and didn't care if it was a black guy, a white girl, or a jewish nun doing the show.
So it's now 2008, and I got a response back from one club in North Hollywood, whose name rhymes with "Blah Blah", saying, sure come on down. Wednesday night gig. Okay. Weird night of the week, but okay. And, the only other thing in the email, "do you advertise when you play?" I wrote back, of course, it's all over MySpace, Facebook, etc... and people tell me they'll be there, and usually they make it. Well, Kyle Cease was at the improv, Gabriel Iglesias was at another improv, and the new Laugh Factory Long Beach was luring people with comps that night so I didn't have high hopes that there would be a big "me" crowd- just figured ah, they're open Wednesdays, they must advertise something, too. Silly me.
I told a couple of folks where I'd be...and heard crickets. Just nothing. No warnings. This is why I write. This place is the worst place for ANY comedian to perform for MORE than just a "bringer show" atmosphere. They charge comics a $5 per SODA fee. I have no idea what the liquor costs, but it wasn't that cheap, either I'm sure. There were comics getting charged a COVER fee..uhm... no. NOT cool. And, twenty minutes AFTER the show starts, no one was even told their times on the slots for the night.
A full twenty minutes after a show starts, someone needs to know the slots, and the comics need to know they are going up. But ten minutes after THAT... some guy who was doing part of Mark Pitta's, Jason Stuarts, and even a bit of K-von's act- mostly just posing and pretending he was cute- comes up to me and tells me, "You don't have any people up here yet. Do you expect them to show up soon?"
Uhm. I drove from Las Vegas specificially because on TUESDAY when I called the club to confirm I was told, "Oh yeah, we're doing a show at 9pm. You're set for the gig." I said, "My husband just got out of surgery, do you have any slots later in the week?" The nameless voice, (by the way, the email wasn't signed by anyone either..just blah- blah cafe.... ), saying, "no, we're booked solid two weeks so you have to take this or nothing." I say, "I'll be there an hour early".
I show up... there's a security guard. I ask who I check in with- he says the bartender. The bartender says someone named Eric, (aforementioned hack), and the Eric guy never made an appearance until well after the show began..so I just slunk into the back. Now, anyone will tell you- whether you are Dennis Blair or Celeste Davis, I'm going to stay from the first comic to the last because I know comedians need audiences. I learned when I was playing the 2am slots at the Improv ANY audience is better than NO audience..and never once have left a show before it ended unless I was scheduled somewhere else.
So that said... it's 45 minutes in- no one I know is there..and that kid goes up on stage to do the gay boy dancing routine. Uhm. It's an older bit, and Jason does it better. So does half the Logo TV comics where he probably got it from. And Ian Harvie does the "I'm coming to get you" line with more believability. It was not a great set. He disappears. Never returns. Never tells me I'm going up...and never says anything about me driving JUST for this show. Unproffessional on every level.
I have texts and calls into Roz, Grace, Gulden, and Ant. Gulden tells me to pass the phone to Jack. Well Jack is apparently outside getting screamed at or flirting with someone else on the phone. Never did acknowledge me..or welcome me...or anything..and he's supposed to be the big guy. Okay. So I have a place in Long Beach I have to get to by midnight because there are babies there...
The kicker? I got my cd which is part of the newer bit..the d-jay, aka the security guard, tells me "Oh you're not going on?" He didn't have a set list of who is up... not even the people WORKING know who is going up.
So recapping- Ant, Roz, Gulden, Grace, Dana, David- supportive and wonderful. St. Bede's Friday Night show... really fun, and David is an awesome host. DO that room. Blah Blah club is only in the business of making money OFF of the comedians, and although ONE guy (someone named Hutch? who looked a lot like Cabin Boy...) was funny and had some stage experience, the club wasn't paying attention to anyone. At all. Not worth going all the way up to North Hollywood unless you're looking for an overpriced drink and free parking. Seriously. You can do that on in Vegas- the drive is cheaper- or at your grandma's local bar.
Meanwhile- The Short Bus Comics Show opened this past Friday. I'm emceeing on the 10th. I hope to see the Vegas locals and visiting folks then. Should be a HOOT. GREAT comedians, GREAT body on the nekked one. And, no more cafe gig for YOU or me. (warning warning warning) Just hit the St. Bedes if you want to test material out..you'll be happy. Very.
cbj
Monday, September 8, 2008
That's So Retah-ded
So I'm having dinner the other night at a restaurant, with a pal from Boston. As is the way of our people, when we agree with one another, the phrase is "So Don't I", which means that you don't do something the same as someone else does, but in fact, implies the opposite. We also say "wicked" to mean "Very much", and we have been known to use the word "retah-ded" in the true dictionary sense, meaning, slow developing, or behind the times.
She- "I love Eddie Izzard"
Me- "So Don't I! he's wicked pissah" (pissah is en extension of wicked that means, quite excellent indeed.)
She- "My brother doesn't get him, he so retah-ded".
Me- "What a retahd."
Suddenly, a snippy barbie girl who must have been the result of a failed abortion in 1987, slams down her food and yells over to us, "That's an INSULT! You CAN'T use that word!"
Me- "I beg to differ. I can use a lot of words, that included. I have mastered the English language many years ago."
Snippy- "That's JUST rude!" (This coming from the eavesdropping child who yells across the restaurant.) "The word is MENTALLY CHALLENGED!"
Me- "Like you? Because, you do know you just gave two words, not one. Wasted a lot of time using adverbs and adjectives to state Re-TAHD." Of course, it was apparent, this kid was wicked mentally challenged.
Then I realized my pal was laughing hysterically- looking at the kid's shirt which had on it "Niggah Please". That was priceless, so we both started laughing.
She- "Do you know your shirt is more insulting? You're a blond haired white person and you're wearing a racial epithet."
Snippy- "I don't have no gravestones on my shirt!'
Me- "Why don't you get back to eating your happy meal, princess, and leave the thinking to people who discern words from places other than text messages and rap songs."
Snippy- "Are you saying, I ain't smart."
She- "No one has to. You obviously are a brain trust."
Me- "You just seem a little retah-ded."
Then Snippy took her Star-Wars™ toy off the table and hopped away into the kiddy-habitrail and ball-bouncy room. Meanwhile, my pal, who has Cerebral Palsy, just looked at me. Took a beat, and practically made me pee my pants when she responded.
She- "So don't I"
You can't beat days like this.
She- "I love Eddie Izzard"
Me- "So Don't I! he's wicked pissah" (pissah is en extension of wicked that means, quite excellent indeed.)
She- "My brother doesn't get him, he so retah-ded".
Me- "What a retahd."
Suddenly, a snippy barbie girl who must have been the result of a failed abortion in 1987, slams down her food and yells over to us, "That's an INSULT! You CAN'T use that word!"
Me- "I beg to differ. I can use a lot of words, that included. I have mastered the English language many years ago."
Snippy- "That's JUST rude!" (This coming from the eavesdropping child who yells across the restaurant.) "The word is MENTALLY CHALLENGED!"
Me- "Like you? Because, you do know you just gave two words, not one. Wasted a lot of time using adverbs and adjectives to state Re-TAHD." Of course, it was apparent, this kid was wicked mentally challenged.
Then I realized my pal was laughing hysterically- looking at the kid's shirt which had on it "Niggah Please". That was priceless, so we both started laughing.
She- "Do you know your shirt is more insulting? You're a blond haired white person and you're wearing a racial epithet."
Snippy- "I don't have no gravestones on my shirt!'
Me- "Why don't you get back to eating your happy meal, princess, and leave the thinking to people who discern words from places other than text messages and rap songs."
Snippy- "Are you saying, I ain't smart."
She- "No one has to. You obviously are a brain trust."
Me- "You just seem a little retah-ded."
Then Snippy took her Star-Wars™ toy off the table and hopped away into the kiddy-habitrail and ball-bouncy room. Meanwhile, my pal, who has Cerebral Palsy, just looked at me. Took a beat, and practically made me pee my pants when she responded.
She- "So don't I"
You can't beat days like this.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Whole New Me
It's been a rough five years. I mean five full years of happy marriage, and all of that. It's still going on. That part is working great.
It's also been a lot of surgeries, and hopefully no more for at least another five years. I don't know if that's going to be the case for long, but for now, no surgeries. Just think, only five years ago, Robert Downey Jr. was a white guy. How the world does spin.
You may be able to see in this picture, I have a nasty new issue. The problem is, this picture is over ten years old. The other problem is, no doctors picked up on it during that entire time. In 1990, I had a tonsillectomy, and the doctor also pulled a nice fist sized tumor from my pharynx. And no, that's not the part of your ass where poop escapes. Although, those who have seen my act wondered.....
I ended up on some iodine treatments, and some other things to ensure that the throat muscles wouldn't atrophy. If anyone ever offers you that, make sure they know if you're allergic to things like... iodine. I'm not but I've heard stories. I was also given prednisone for the first time. That is a steroid, and if given properly and monitored, should cause no issues except a bit of bloat and maybe a little bit of a moon face. It worked for Zappa, so I accepted.
Flash forward to 2001. I was off of all medications. I mean ALL of them. I used to drink "sleepytime" tea to fall asleep because the boy toy at the time was a horrendous snorer, and I wasn't able to attempt to sleep if he fell first. The tea helped. Sometimes I had Melatonin. It's not hippy, it's real, and it works. There were years, and I mean from when I was 12 to 29, when I was on anti-depressants. Some were great, some were vile. And, tegretal, a drug used for epilepsy was amongst them. I didn't like any of them and weaned off of them slowly...until I got married for the second time to a guy who had absolutely no interest in being married to me. After a few months of him, I was back on the meds. (Yeah, I worked three jobs to support us. I still don't know if he ever got a job.)
The meds did something weird. I gained weight. I mean not just a few pounds like the warning state, but a full two stone. (About 23 lbs for us Yanks.) The marriage was over, I was bicycling every day, and I still didn't lose any more than 15 of that. But, I was human sized. Not for me, but for the rest of the world. That's when I weaned off of the meds again...and voila, was back to normal tiny W.O.P. from Bean town doing stuff on stage, and feeling fine. Things worked out okay.
Then I started getting dislocations. I was put back on steroids. I hated them. Why? Okay so my shoulder stayed in place and the swelling went down- but I gained again. It made me depressed. I got put on antidepressants. Starting to see a pattern? The doctors didn't. I had a sinus infection right before I was getting surgery for a deviated septum- which I guess means nose job in Hollywood-speak. I gained another 40 lbs. Seriously. In less than two months. People thought I was pregnant since I was newly married. Not a chance... kids are something I am allergic to, thanks.
Flash forward to 2006. I went to an endocrinologist to find out why I was reacting this way. Why was it that a medical journal said, "may gain a small amount of weight" meant, "may change name to Orca" with me. He said, "Stop eating so much". I became afraid of food. I hardly ate as it was- one meal a day, and a snack or a small breakfast. That was it. What could I cut out? I knew. The doctor.
I dropped about 38 lbs, and started to feel human again. Next thing I know..I'm gaining 3-5 lbs a week. Again, "oh are you going to be a mommy?" No, I'm just a mother, thanks. I'm at the gym three to four days a week, and sweating like Meatloaf in a New Jersey stadium show. Back to the picture. You may notice this is a shot of my neck. It's a big neck. I swam for high school, and oh yeah, rode horses. I have a big neck and shoulders. But, it's bigger than that now.
What the smarty pants doctor didn't realize was- I was growing a big old Thyroid. The blood tests didn't agree with my symptoms at that time, so he became a smart ass, and I became sicker. All this time, had he JUST paid attention to my history, or even looked at my fingernails, the way the weight was presenting itself, some female issues, or oh yeah, the STEROIDS and antidepressants I was on- well he may have figured I had the onset of Hashimoto's Thyroidosis. In other words, my body was fighting me against me. Yeah. Just like a video game.
Two years later, my blood tests are going kablooey. I have a rather large lumpy throat. I fortunately do not have to have surgery, but there is a chance that the nodes growing may have to cut out. (Go look that up on Austin medical and tell me it isn't the ickiest operation you've ever seen.) I'm now on synthroid.
SO what does that all have to do with comedy? I start a new show this year. It's called Short Bus Comics, and it turns out- I need one. Again. Pretty cool. More later.
cbj
Monday, June 16, 2008
People Don't Get It
They just haven't the ability to discern good jazz from bad jazz. I've discovered that the most popular music form in this household is unappreciated, and certainly under-appreciated, but most people who consider themselves Jazz Fans.
Both my husband and I are musicians. I listen to music that's more Bartok and Neil Young- and yes that combination is very workable. He is more apt to listen to Bill Evans and Oscar Peterson, both for influences and for sheer discovery of the proverbial soul of this music format. Just as some people can tolerate Kate Bush yet disdain Tori Amos, I am likely to put forth a Patti Smith tune the same day I write a four part choir piece. The hubby is far more inclined to push Caravan to places that are virtually impossible for any other human to master. It's who we are as musicians, and where we are in our skill, and comprehension.
Golf. I say the phrase, "He's Tiger Woods" whenever I'm asked how the most skilled player of the game manages to astound the masses. My husband understands the nuances of the game, can sit for hours discussing the traps, the eagles, and of course, the lack of beer involved. I am better suited to the stands in Fenway, screaming the disdain to the OTHER team, and drooling as Varitek and Ramirez round bases. That is the sport that seems sportsmanlike to me- Men sweat, teams bond, and the crowd is as in tune with the hot dog vendor as they are with the outfielder. It's the same with Jazz.
My husband has an ability to concentrate. I am what is kindly referred to as distracted, at best, and diagnosed improperly as Attention Deplete. Frankly, I enjoy things that have black and what outcomes, but spend most of my day drifting from writing, to music, to singing, to emails, to becoming entranced by the latest exploits of one, Anthony Bourdain. My goal in life is to not miss out on anything, and that leads me to many different venues, many different creative ventures, and far more greetings and meetings with the public.
The sidekick carrying the male version of our wedding ring can decide to do something and nothing in any way, shape, form, or design can move him from that notion. If he says, "I am going to lose some weight", he is deployed on a seven month mission to become the thinnest him there could be. For any artist he cares to hear, he doesn't become a fan, he becomes a historian. You can ask him any question regarding movies, and he can certainly out trivia any game show. His passion for the cinema is only second to his passion for chocolate- for which he can name sixteen varieties, the locations of the best shops in several continents, and will tell you the nuances from African beans to south American ones. When he states knowledge of jazz, he does so with authority, experience, and minute detail.
My taste in music is multicultural, multi-class, and very rarely excludes any tone of any sort. I've listened to shinai with the same aplomb as a Ringo Starr solo. The one tone that bothers me, surprisingly so, as I've studied the instrument as a child, is that of Violin. The shrill of the wires doesn't sit in my ear, or nestle in my head- instead it takes my ear drum and sizzles it like bacon, wearing it away like the ocean eats sandcastles. And yet, I am also a jazz fanatic.
My knowledge of the music was limited at best when I met Ravi Coltrane- who eerily appears as a clone of his late, great, father. He practiced his soprano sax in my living room at Calarts, and I had the balls to ask him "What kind of clarinet is that?" As I am a comedian, it fortunately fell like a joke in a great club. But, from that point on, my mission was to understand, learn, and devour jazz as some would decide to become parents. After several months, I understood that Dave Koz, and Kenny G are certainly not comparable to Stan Getz, nor Kurt Elling. In fact, I was so enthralled by the singers of this breed that I quickly bought any and all I could find- except Diana Krall or Billie Holliday, both of whom I have grown a bit weary.
It's been twenty years since I snapped on a 1- 3 measure. It's been just as long since I've listened to anything remotely titled "smooth jazz". And, thus comes the topic of this very blog. This is the music that the hoi poloi aren't able to comprehend. This is why a majority of jazz radio is sorely mistaken, and several of the programmers and disc jockeys should be sent to Gitmo. Annie Ross, Eva Cassidy, Rosemary Clooney, Etta- both Jones and James, Julie London, Mildred Bailey, and my favorite, Rachel Gould are in heavy rotation in the iPod and car, as I try to live every note Peggy Lee or Bessie Smith ever uttered. Julie London and Clooney share my range, but Annie Ross has my favorite playful way of making notes sound easy. The youngest member of my collection is carried by Renee Olstead, whose appearances on a comedy sitcom seem to belittle her enormous skill and talent as a jazz songstress.
Billie Holliday changed people's perception of jazz. She responded to notes by giving each personality. In this, she is worthy of history. She does however, grate on me, as a songwriter, for not actually hearing the notes she is supposed to sing, as she changes the reason for a song. Diana Krall once dated my husband, back in the days she was a Berklee student. She makes jazz very approachable, and is highly commended for her ability to take a tune, and make it available to the general population- especially those which were lost to history. However, she hasn't got the vocal range to carry off some of the better lost songs, so she kind of misses the mark with me. I think if she pulled out some Ada Jones, I'd be more impressed. But, I have heard a few dozen Diana Kralls-a-likes, and they really aren't changing the medium. Even Dana Owens, aka Queen Latifah, recalls Lush Life with the charisma and charm that demands attention. I'd take ten Dana Owens albums to one Krall, any day.
Rachel Gould isn't a household name, and doesn't get much rotation on any jazz radio. That's abominable. She has a voice that seems to tell the world, "This song was written JUST for me, and you will never hear it again without thinking of me." She seems to say this, but doesn't. She should. She's right. Eva Cassidy, who died far too young, as if there IS a right age to die, brings a bluesy feel to all her work, and has become what Janis Joplin aspired to be. When Eva carries a tune, you feel as if you want to be in her house, having coffee, with a cat on your lap, and doing nothing other than hearing that voice.
Don't forget, I like some pop musicians. I think Joss Stone, despite the vocalese, has mastered her voice that brings timelessness to songs. Alicia Keys, one of my favorite songwriters, pulls a punch as quickly as she seduces. Amy Winehouse, drugs be damned, works her shimmy out of nothingness. But, jazz radio has determined these artists are under the same umbrella as Duke Ellington, Miles Davis, and aforementioned, Coltrane. That's like saying my husband and I play the same music.
He has jazz critics come to the shows, leave jaw dropped, and writing reviews which would put tears in anyone's eyes for the joy of it. I have a habit of making people believe there are seven members to my band, that I am seeped in Earth Wind and Fire, and oh yeah, should be on a Motown label. Culturally, he's from Buffalo, and that's one step closer to Oscar Peterson-ville. I'm from Boston, and it seems I've learned much of my craft from the days spent with a guitar in a subway station. Yet, we're both considered jazz musicians.
The one thing that does frustrate him is my ability to write a song in as long as it takes him to think up a melody. I usually have all parts, done. All of what I write, I've written a million times for every artist I ever admired. He writes for himself, and it's always as if he spent years on something that takes him a few hours. He's Tiger Woods, and I'm the other guys. His sounds is timeless in ways that leave people heart-pounding and lost for words. My music is more pedestrian, and people often wonder what 1970's band I was in. I write music I wish I could get my favorite singers to sing- and he writes what only he can play.
And that is the power of jazz. It removes all pretense and turns to the heart for its purpose. It isn't some pretty little tone you hear whilst dining in an upscale restaurant, which spins around giving you a better view of the city. It isn't the comprehensive tonic to the fifth to the tonic that leaves the listener satisfied. It can be gritty, or interpreted. It can be followed the way a teen ager follows a cast member of a popular movie. It's the music which decides where we have left our broken heart, our secrets and our long lost relatives. It's Tiger Woods.
Both my husband and I are musicians. I listen to music that's more Bartok and Neil Young- and yes that combination is very workable. He is more apt to listen to Bill Evans and Oscar Peterson, both for influences and for sheer discovery of the proverbial soul of this music format. Just as some people can tolerate Kate Bush yet disdain Tori Amos, I am likely to put forth a Patti Smith tune the same day I write a four part choir piece. The hubby is far more inclined to push Caravan to places that are virtually impossible for any other human to master. It's who we are as musicians, and where we are in our skill, and comprehension.
Golf. I say the phrase, "He's Tiger Woods" whenever I'm asked how the most skilled player of the game manages to astound the masses. My husband understands the nuances of the game, can sit for hours discussing the traps, the eagles, and of course, the lack of beer involved. I am better suited to the stands in Fenway, screaming the disdain to the OTHER team, and drooling as Varitek and Ramirez round bases. That is the sport that seems sportsmanlike to me- Men sweat, teams bond, and the crowd is as in tune with the hot dog vendor as they are with the outfielder. It's the same with Jazz.
My husband has an ability to concentrate. I am what is kindly referred to as distracted, at best, and diagnosed improperly as Attention Deplete. Frankly, I enjoy things that have black and what outcomes, but spend most of my day drifting from writing, to music, to singing, to emails, to becoming entranced by the latest exploits of one, Anthony Bourdain. My goal in life is to not miss out on anything, and that leads me to many different venues, many different creative ventures, and far more greetings and meetings with the public.
The sidekick carrying the male version of our wedding ring can decide to do something and nothing in any way, shape, form, or design can move him from that notion. If he says, "I am going to lose some weight", he is deployed on a seven month mission to become the thinnest him there could be. For any artist he cares to hear, he doesn't become a fan, he becomes a historian. You can ask him any question regarding movies, and he can certainly out trivia any game show. His passion for the cinema is only second to his passion for chocolate- for which he can name sixteen varieties, the locations of the best shops in several continents, and will tell you the nuances from African beans to south American ones. When he states knowledge of jazz, he does so with authority, experience, and minute detail.
My taste in music is multicultural, multi-class, and very rarely excludes any tone of any sort. I've listened to shinai with the same aplomb as a Ringo Starr solo. The one tone that bothers me, surprisingly so, as I've studied the instrument as a child, is that of Violin. The shrill of the wires doesn't sit in my ear, or nestle in my head- instead it takes my ear drum and sizzles it like bacon, wearing it away like the ocean eats sandcastles. And yet, I am also a jazz fanatic.
My knowledge of the music was limited at best when I met Ravi Coltrane- who eerily appears as a clone of his late, great, father. He practiced his soprano sax in my living room at Calarts, and I had the balls to ask him "What kind of clarinet is that?" As I am a comedian, it fortunately fell like a joke in a great club. But, from that point on, my mission was to understand, learn, and devour jazz as some would decide to become parents. After several months, I understood that Dave Koz, and Kenny G are certainly not comparable to Stan Getz, nor Kurt Elling. In fact, I was so enthralled by the singers of this breed that I quickly bought any and all I could find- except Diana Krall or Billie Holliday, both of whom I have grown a bit weary.
It's been twenty years since I snapped on a 1- 3 measure. It's been just as long since I've listened to anything remotely titled "smooth jazz". And, thus comes the topic of this very blog. This is the music that the hoi poloi aren't able to comprehend. This is why a majority of jazz radio is sorely mistaken, and several of the programmers and disc jockeys should be sent to Gitmo. Annie Ross, Eva Cassidy, Rosemary Clooney, Etta- both Jones and James, Julie London, Mildred Bailey, and my favorite, Rachel Gould are in heavy rotation in the iPod and car, as I try to live every note Peggy Lee or Bessie Smith ever uttered. Julie London and Clooney share my range, but Annie Ross has my favorite playful way of making notes sound easy. The youngest member of my collection is carried by Renee Olstead, whose appearances on a comedy sitcom seem to belittle her enormous skill and talent as a jazz songstress.
Billie Holliday changed people's perception of jazz. She responded to notes by giving each personality. In this, she is worthy of history. She does however, grate on me, as a songwriter, for not actually hearing the notes she is supposed to sing, as she changes the reason for a song. Diana Krall once dated my husband, back in the days she was a Berklee student. She makes jazz very approachable, and is highly commended for her ability to take a tune, and make it available to the general population- especially those which were lost to history. However, she hasn't got the vocal range to carry off some of the better lost songs, so she kind of misses the mark with me. I think if she pulled out some Ada Jones, I'd be more impressed. But, I have heard a few dozen Diana Kralls-a-likes, and they really aren't changing the medium. Even Dana Owens, aka Queen Latifah, recalls Lush Life with the charisma and charm that demands attention. I'd take ten Dana Owens albums to one Krall, any day.
Rachel Gould isn't a household name, and doesn't get much rotation on any jazz radio. That's abominable. She has a voice that seems to tell the world, "This song was written JUST for me, and you will never hear it again without thinking of me." She seems to say this, but doesn't. She should. She's right. Eva Cassidy, who died far too young, as if there IS a right age to die, brings a bluesy feel to all her work, and has become what Janis Joplin aspired to be. When Eva carries a tune, you feel as if you want to be in her house, having coffee, with a cat on your lap, and doing nothing other than hearing that voice.
Don't forget, I like some pop musicians. I think Joss Stone, despite the vocalese, has mastered her voice that brings timelessness to songs. Alicia Keys, one of my favorite songwriters, pulls a punch as quickly as she seduces. Amy Winehouse, drugs be damned, works her shimmy out of nothingness. But, jazz radio has determined these artists are under the same umbrella as Duke Ellington, Miles Davis, and aforementioned, Coltrane. That's like saying my husband and I play the same music.
He has jazz critics come to the shows, leave jaw dropped, and writing reviews which would put tears in anyone's eyes for the joy of it. I have a habit of making people believe there are seven members to my band, that I am seeped in Earth Wind and Fire, and oh yeah, should be on a Motown label. Culturally, he's from Buffalo, and that's one step closer to Oscar Peterson-ville. I'm from Boston, and it seems I've learned much of my craft from the days spent with a guitar in a subway station. Yet, we're both considered jazz musicians.
The one thing that does frustrate him is my ability to write a song in as long as it takes him to think up a melody. I usually have all parts, done. All of what I write, I've written a million times for every artist I ever admired. He writes for himself, and it's always as if he spent years on something that takes him a few hours. He's Tiger Woods, and I'm the other guys. His sounds is timeless in ways that leave people heart-pounding and lost for words. My music is more pedestrian, and people often wonder what 1970's band I was in. I write music I wish I could get my favorite singers to sing- and he writes what only he can play.
And that is the power of jazz. It removes all pretense and turns to the heart for its purpose. It isn't some pretty little tone you hear whilst dining in an upscale restaurant, which spins around giving you a better view of the city. It isn't the comprehensive tonic to the fifth to the tonic that leaves the listener satisfied. It can be gritty, or interpreted. It can be followed the way a teen ager follows a cast member of a popular movie. It's the music which decides where we have left our broken heart, our secrets and our long lost relatives. It's Tiger Woods.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Thoreau-ly Convinced
I ran across a quote I hadn't read in some time- "The greatest compliment that was ever paid me was when one asked me what I thought, and attended to my answer." I have to agree with this statement, which stands as true today as it did in the 1860's, when written by the author Henry David Thoreau, (pronounced "thorough" for those who are unacquainted with the New England manner of correctly speaking French names).
Mr. T wasn't exactly the world's sweetest guy. There are great tales from Emerson, (Ralph Waldo, not "Lake and Palmer"), who called Henry just about every nasty name he could muster and some he hadn't even thought existed. Melville, Stevenson, and Hawthorne each thought of him as a well-spoken, albeit oft spoken curmudgeon whose love for his fellow man was greatly overshadowed for his love of solitude. My guess is that had he lived in this day, he would certainly never have a cell phone, would disdain the idea of "myspace" and "facebook", and probably would blog incessantly between his strolls through gardens and deserts, if not Manhattan proper.
I'm convinced I'm much like HDT in myriad ways. He never did speak a word without first thinking of its purpose. For him, the spoken thoughts were reflections of the mind, and using words carefully meant being responsible for their outcome. In this point we're united. I'm generally and willfully disgusted by those whose idle banter and chatter seem to carry on long after a point was placed squarely. It is unlikely you'll find me in small talk on a telephone, for any reason. If I don't have the punchline I won't ramble on searching until it appears on the verbal horizon. Succinct or nothing is my preference. Perhaps this is why some people think I'm not involved in a conversation, when the fact is, I'm more involved in listening.
When I was a teenaged girl, searching for meaning and purpose as one does at that age, I was introduced by a burly teacher to the intricacies of the words in Walden. I visited the Lyceum fairly often in Concord, Massachusetts, which sits in the spot near Henry's original wooden box of a home. The building stood barely giving the appearance of a residence, more resembling a large shed. I marveled at the simplicity of his life, and took many walks around the pond which shared the name of his greatest known essay. I pictured him grunting at the sales clerk in town as he got his weekly supplies, as his idea of greetings consisted of a nod, if any acknowledgment at all. He didn't speak with those whom he did not have reason to speak.
And yet, he was certainly full of thoughts, conversations, and deep insights. His essays carry readers into the concept of the Enlightenment Age, his salon chats with his peers, and the intimacy of the life of a hermit. The quotes he is well known for sit in a Wiki entry, http://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Henry_David_Thoreau but the greatest quotes are those that the readers discover when they find themselves mirrored in his thoughts. Ever timeless, he transcends far more than the written word, tapping into the human experience in nearly every paragraph.
I end this note with the concept of self-reliance. As he wrote a number of times, the efforts of man support mankind when man himself is solely responsible for his actions, words, deeds, and intent. He cannot demand others to supply him with worth, as it is his own to hold. Esteem, held humble, yet firm, is a stronger weapon against a venomous self-denial and negative introspection. As he walked alone, he didn't dwell on the life he left unlived, or the dreams he left unfulfilled; instead he carried the notion that his life was worth every moment, and worth every minute he spent spying the smallest of insects, or grandest of trees. The words of others, who certainly were not as keenly aware of their surroundings, didn't penetrate his shield of self worth, and self reliance. As townsfolk often bantered back about the strange man who lived in the shack- they still wondered how his great mind worked to create such wonderment. It was the idea that their thoughts weren't as important as the ones he held, and his own belief system which he lived truly to the last which caused him to be a greater man. He stood on solid mind as well as solid ground.
The lessons of the past must be apparent in the present for them to have any importance at all. Thoreau was a rabbi in the truest sense in that he taught millions to believe as he did, that the world is better when appreciated, and people are greater when understood. The quote at the beginning of this passage is certainly a statement to the idea that everyone and everything has a reason to be noted, and heard. Those who ask questions to give their own answers are missing the reason to care for a fellow man. If he wants to hear his own thunder, he should stay alone. If he wants to hear others, then listen intentionally. It will create a better respect. And, the one heard will be forever grateful for the chance.
cj
 | The Portable Thoreau (Penguin Classics) by Henry David Thoreau Read more about this book... |
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