" ...The Trust Fund Cousins cancelled Thanksgiving..."
Baby Showers and Dead Starlets, May 15, 2001
I didn't need to see what I saw at my friend's baby shower. Really. Is it too much to ask that a woman who shares a 400 square foot apartment with her man, her dog and her career shouldn't be subjected to an afternoon in a 2000 square foot loft in Soho?
I don't think so.
Must I gaze through 10 foot tall windows that overlook an alley of brick houses built before the Revolutionary War? Is it fair that I got a sunburn from sitting in not the garden but the living room?
No, no, no a thousand times no.
I feel uncomfortable in a group of women, unless it is a group of female comics. Then I feel jealous, superior, inferior, fat, thin, pretty and ugly- and I am fine with all those emotions so it's no problem. But people who aren't comics often lack the kind of desperation that I identify with. They are satisfied with their lives, they like their children. The books on their shelves reveal them to be well rounded and cultured, and art hangs on their walls, which are painted any color but white.
it's all too much- I am only human. Yes, I can drive seventeen hours straight to make it to a gig. And yes I can code for eight hours, hit the gym and then make three spots (on public transportation!), but no, dear reader, I can't enjoy a baby shower in a spacious and well decorated apartment without crying on the train ride home.
Oh well.
The Trust Fund Cousins cancelled Thanksgiving, for my side of the family only. (In the Kilmartin Dot Com family tree, there is a branch whose twigs have a 65% unemployment rate but a 100% home and luxury automobile ownership rate. Ah, fate.) It would appear, darlings, that the country club where we were to have our home-cooked meal served to us by immigrants because ain't America great, can hold only 40 people in its banquet room, and the presence of my father, mother, sister and me would violate a fire law or something.
I think our tiny group of fallen leaves, plus boyfriends, should go to Ireland for the holiday. We're all Irish except the Russian, and November is not tourist season- it would be cheap and we've never been. The last time I took a vacation was in 1983, after I graduated from high school. (Is Industry reading this hoax? Make that 1993). We went to Mazatlan, and there's no partying like the kind of partying you can do with your parents, your twelve year old sister and an ID that says your seventeen.
Actress Jennifer Stahl had a dream come true last week- immortalized by the drug dealer named Sean, who executed her with a shot to the head in her apartment five stories above Carnegie Deli, during a robbery. Jennifer had, in her recording studio, $60,000 dollars worth of pot. Once just a bit player in movies like Dirty Dancing, Jennifer is now the subject of articles, exposés and a tv movie at least. The apartment, a crime scene, will not be available for rent until Sean is convicted of murder. All of New York is looking for him.
Well, expect the person who finally rented my old apartment Monday. It's been vacant since February, and the management company has promised to sue me for $5700.00 in back rent. Of the three lawyers-turned-comics I have consulted in this matter, two say that since they raised the rent from $1895.00 to $2150.00, I can't be held responsible for finding a replacement, and the other says that when your name's on the lease, they can fuck you no matter what. (They lowered the asking price each month until they found someone for $1825.00 and I suppose they will also sue me for the seventy dollar difference until the lease is up October.)
Pinky learned to swim last week in Central Park. I have
pictures, and if you feel I've gone overboard, know that I edited out at least twenty of the really cute ones.
