I’m addicted to this, “What’s up what the fuckers? What the fuckettes? What the fucknots? What the fuck your word here, Mark Maron
wants to call me. I have probably listened to about 20 "WTF" podcasts back to back. Podcast addict, always an addict, this is a
healthy one. My WTF habit was instigated
by my friend Brian. First he pie-eyed me and then screamed across The Soho House, “YOU
don’t listen to Mark Maron?" Since, I’ve
heard Brain interviewed on "WTF" and Mark Maron interviewed on Brain's podcast, "The Moment" and realized a) he was right I’m a moron and b) he’s got a man-crush on
Mark. I have a crush on Mark Maron. I want to hold hands with him until my palm
becomes so sweaty I only let go to wipe it on my jeans. “I think you should do
a podcast,” came later in the conversation. The advice was to construct the thing with one
of my best friends, because we’ve been a notorious duo for decades, but alas, he’s
not interested. I let the idea radiate
and eventually fade away.
Months passed, as did this suck of an east coast winter and
suddenly I got bored with NPR. I know, I
know, I’m in my 50’s and I listen to NPR, shoot me now or put me out to
pasture, or shut up and don’t judge. At
some point I can only take so much of Middle East politics. The black girls on Orange is the New Black who imitate NPR
have become my visualization of NPR.
Wait, I can get "TED Talks" and "The Moth" as podcasts? What the fuck, NPR,
I only listen to you now when I forget to hook my iPhone up to my car speakers so I can lose myself in a podcast like when I was fourteen gorging on KISS
albums.
I wanted to put Maron’s head through a wall when Chrissie
Hynde mentioned MOR and he asked her what that was. It was the moment I realized my friend is
right and I should create a podcast. I
don’t know how to, but I’ll figure it out.
I didn’t know how to do A&R when I was hired to do that job either. In
my head I will be the female Mark Maron. I relish in the dream. I roll around in it like my dogs do in something
foul smelling. Failure has become something I’ve grown comfortable with. That’s the difference between me at 27 and me
today. However, should the podcast living in my head, fail, I will cry, stay in
bed and binge watch something on Netflix for two weeks.
Lately, there have been a few reoccurring themes in my life,
other then podcasts. One of them is painful. I keep being forced to spend a lot of money
on unforeseen stuff. This is another
difference between me at 35 and me of today.
At 35 all my money went to Marc Jacobs.
Lately, my money has gone to lawyers’ fees. Fees paid to defend myself in a petty matter
that I can’t write about now (no social media clause), but I will later. It has to do with the education part of my
life. Take my word. It’s so stupid I grade high school essays that make more
sense. And no, I didn’t do anything
harmful to a student. Not in my repertoire. I just pissed someone off, which is in my repertoire. And vet bills. Generally, the pups are fine, but they keep
hurting themselves and have to wear cone heads.
Pups, lawyers, mean school administrators; listen up, teachers do not
make money! I will starve this summer and have no money to start my podcast.
The other is writing.
I’ve been told, and I have read, put aside time every day to write. That’s the only way you will become a real
writer. I hate being a fake writer. My conundrum, or excuse, is morning is the
best time for me to write. I already get
up at 5:30 for work. I have a day job
(for now). What the fuck, I’ll have to
get up at 4:00 a.m.? Why can’t I write after work? These are not excuses, just the facts ma’am. Our charter contracts teachers from 7:30 a.m.
to 4:30 p.m. I have to do things for my
mental and physical well being every evening or bad things will happen. Take my word on this. In between I have errands or I’m taking one
of the pups to the vet. I will try it
and let you know how it works out. If
the bags under my eyes look like a Birkin, I’ll know precisely who to
blame. If the writing gets better, I’ll
thank them, while stashing my keys and wallet under my eye sockets.
Finally, a bit of shameless self-promotion, I am doing my
first reading in public. I did a
workshop with Lydia Lunch. Yes, the
Lydia Lunch of the 80’s No Wave movement, Queen
of Slam, Stinkfist, Paradoxia the book (one of them). Lydia Lunch, a woman
who has inspired fear, lust, and shock in many of us. My friend M. Raffaele who writes the blog
“Miss Anthrope’s House of High Drama,” a must read, put two very limited, to be
exact ten women each, workshops together this week and we are doing a
collective reading on Thursday April 23rd at The Treehouse on the
second floor of 2A in Manhattan. Lydia
named it Badass Babes on a Bender. Please
come.
Honestly, my piece isn’t great, no really it isn’t. When I start waking up at 4:00 a.m. and
writing everyday, when I work through The
Artist’s Way, that’s another thing that keeps coming up, things keep coming
up, like those ugly locusts digging their way up through the dirt every summer,
it will improve. But, I’m doing it
because I’ll hate myself if I don’t. However, there are woman performing at Badass
Babes on a Bender who will bring you to your knees with tears or laughter
or a hit of serious, “whoa, I’m thinking a deep thought.” So come.
I will not be on a bender, I’m just reading. And hey, thanks for reading this. I’m back.
It’s cool.
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