Everything below 14th St

Knowing that I had fallen somewhat behind on my days to mics ratio, I had every intention of doubling up on Sunday. Having already expressed my feelings on the subject of time management, it shall come as no surprise that I did not, in fact, make the early mic I had hoped to attend, and instead went directly to Alter Ego, hosted by Killer Killy Dwyer the third Sunday of every month at Fontana's.

A regular on the line up, this is one of the few occasions where I do stand up and take my clothes off at different times in the same show. I is a difficult balance to strike, I must say, and the order is extremely important. Once an audience has seen you wearing nothing but sparkly things and a smile, it is difficult to convince them to want to hear you speak, though, when pressed, I can occasional combat this syndrome with the line, "the only thing more intimidating than a naked woman is a naked woman who talks." That's not just good comedy. It is the fuckin truth.

Lucky number thirteen was the relaunch of my weekly Monday show, Takin off the Ritz,which happened to coincide with the launch of "All About Aubrey," a reality show about someone named Aubrey. Reality shows are launched all the time without my being aware of it. I didn't think this beacon of a waste of time and brain cells would be any different. I was wrong.

In the grand history of bars double booking and mis communication in the service industry, my show was delayed an hour so that a fella on the show could watch himself have his 2.2 seconds of fame. All time low...definitely for me, and possibly also for humanity.

Try as I might to keep my "oh no you din't" in my head and off the stage, that shit was bananas, and though friends swore they couldn't tell, I had a sneaking feeling that I, temporarily, lost my funny.

I should also mention that right around then I was going through a casting process for a certain off-Broadway revival of a certain show that took place in a certain alphabet city in a certain early 90's, and I wanted the part so badly it felt like my eyeballs were bleeding. Why that has anything to do with wanting a part, is yet to be determined, but that's how I felt. Not just because I wanted the role, but because ever since I got really close to a steady gig last June (hosting a silly, pop culture news show on MTV. I lost in the final four, which was closed enough to make me believe there may, indeed, be a light at the end of the tunnel,) I have been desperate for the ability to make performing my job. Not my constant hustle, low balance alert, $70 cash in an envelope at the end of the night job, but my eight shows a week, pennies I nthe penny jar job.

Wanting things badly is the hardest part.

In a wave of drama, I swore off burlesque in the green room that night. It was, of course, a lie, but the more I glimpse what else is out there, the more I wish I were a part of it. That said, burlesque and cabaret are my life. I don't think I could ever live anywhere without them, and I would not be a fraction of the performer--wait. That doesn't make sense--I would be a very small fraction of the performer that I am today without everything that world below 14th St has given me.

In the words of a McDonalds drive through employee that my ex used to quote, "I is conflicted."