Mr. Mead, you may be in luck!

Once upon a summer visit to the parents, I went up to see some Javanese shadow puppets at the Asian Art Museum of San Francisco with Mama and Mike in tow. On our way back to the South Bay, we got stuck in a bit of a weekend traffic jam thanks to the Folsom Street Fair. This was one of the more amusing causes of city congestion for the streets were cluttered with all sorts of human scenery: lots of gents with assless-chaps, studded dog collars, and tiny Speedos. Even Mike was enjoying the leather-clad, and vinyl-clad and bears, Oh My!

We'd been caught in traffic for the better part of an hour, occasionally making comments about our favorite outfits or some naughty slogans cleverly waxed into some furry back hair. We all decided that the San Francisco gay community knew how to throw a decent party. That's when Mike chimes in:

"I think I'm going to be gay in my retirement."

We stopped for ice cream once we were out of the city. I was gifted the keys and took the wheel for the rest of the trip down 280. This would have been fine if my parents had not proceeded to make out in the back seat for the entire drive. At the time I was thoroughly embarrassed. Now I wonder if Dad was trying to prove that he was making a joke, or if he was trying to get it out of his system. When he complains that he's had enough of women, we jestingly ask him about his plans for retirement.

I even baked snikerdoodles...

The dishes are washed. The laundry is done. The apartment is clean. If my personal cosmic universe has aligned so these three statements are simultaneously true, it can only mean one thing:

My parents are in town.

Indeed, my parents have dropped in from the Bay Area to see the shows I recently dramaturged. I think I finally have them trained: come for the big 'uns, even if I'm not on stage. I remember the hazy outline of a conversation we had back when I was an undergrad. It went a little something like, "Oh, maybe we'll come up to see you acting in something someday somewhere sometime not right now what is this dramaturgy thing and how long will this phase last are you still listening please say no." The previous sentence is, of course, best read in one breath, spanning an octave or two with a fairly extreme diminuendo.

I'm not doing these two justice here. They're a fairly decent set of parents who do ridiculously cute things like walk down the street holding hands after 40 years of marriage. Though I am expecting a "Get a new job" lecture from Dad within the next 48 hours. I've been trying on authentic responses to this forthcoming tirade in the mirror since I dropped them of the the B&B around the corner. If only I could muster a more pathetic plea. "I'm trying!" Maybe one where I can get all the vowels including y into some double luxe tripthong sound. "I'm trauyoing."

It's only been a few hours, but I am already entertained. I prepared a short list of the evening's highlights:

1. Mama Crow calls the MAX the Maxi Train, which makes me think of a giant sanitary napkin on rails.
2. Dad already mistakenly called me by my sister's name three times, and our dead cat's name once.
3. Mama Crow totally ruined my crush on Tim Gunn by telling me, "I can see why you like him. He looks kinda like your dad."

I'd like to divorce that statement from my psyche, but it's been a challenge to "Make it work."



Here's a photo set for comparison. I like to imagine that Tim is about to say something like, "Mike. The hibachi hunchback isn't wearable, but it captures the set-in-bone travail of l'ouvrier. Still, you're going to have to resolve the Teva's and perma-socks. You've got some work to do. Carry on!"

"If I keep the ice cube trays filled...no one will die."

I recently decided that one's proclivity towards performance runs through the blood. A performer that's not living the life often seems to be a bit anemic, or at least more prone to metaphoric bruising. I'm certainly no exception. Though the performance vein is innate, my identity as a performer has passed through several incarnations. This must is part of the natural process that occurs before one finally figures out how best to fit in with the cosmic puzzle of the performance world.

To cite an early example, circa age four I wanted nothing more than to be a big bosomed blonde with a beautiful voice just like Dolly Parton. I got exactly what I asked for, in certain respects. But I'm no Dolly. And thankfully so, might I add.

In my adolescence, I wanted (very badly) to be a stand up comic. I studied up and became extremely well versed in the routines of big name comics in the mid-90s. As I learned more about comedy as a craft, I quickly realized that it is a very difficult reality. It's not an easy life and it's particularly difficult if you're not funny when you try to be. As I used to say, I wanted to be a comedian but it turns out I just needed therapy.

Like my more ambitious and confident self, my comedian persona now seems to be a semi-fictitious character from long ago and far away. I recognize it sometimes in passing. It's like running into an old acquaintance. I exchange a quick but awkward, "Hey... hey... What've you been up to? Ah... an early retirement! Sounds great. Oh really, it's terrible? I'm sorry to hear that. Well. Gotta go stare at the paint on my walls now. It's been great to see you. Look me up on MySpace, will ya?"

Of course, it was one of my closest friends from way back in my comedian days that introduced me to The Maria Bamford Show last week. I found that I really connected with the little viddy I've included below for the following reasons:

1. I've heard that badgering about makeup before.
   
2. Until recently I worked for the Portland branch of that temp agency.
3. I totally sing all of my anxieties goblins aloud to myself. All the time.
   

Without further ado, Mizz Bamford:



With this post I hope to get the crowcrastination ball a-rollin' again. If you, dear reader, could only see how oft the dreaded red DRAFT label clutters the admin page of this blog. I have a shameful pile of half written anecdotes; there might be a few that are worthy of brushing the dust off the cover.

No Title.

We sit at opposite ends of an old storefront—in its current incarnation as a neighborhood bistro. He is an elderly man who looks like he will never be accustomed to the blue jeans he wears. He makes me think about a book I read with an old man with an imaginary best friend. The book is one of my favorites and my face relaxes into a gentle smile at the recollection.

His own companion is quite real, but to me he exists as a gold-threaded voice reflecting off the opposite wall. The old man cocks his head to listen and together they drink hibiscus tea, red and steaming. They talk, as friends. They talk as allies when words do not come as quickly as they should.

“Rita Bullock is a remarkable woman,” he says. He is resolute in his statement, and the words stay perched for a moment before he continues. She is a music professor from Florida. She is woman who made it on her own working in Germany. The man’s friend makes a comment about money.

I busy myself rustling through old receipts with half-illustrated alphabets, not wanting to seem like I am paying too much attention. But my focus is constant— I want to be called a remarkable woman.

Soon, I realize these words are familiar. Someone already has spoken these words to me: An old man, an architect. A good friend.

Quickly, silently, I feel the heat on my face, the saltwater stains on paper.