Adventures in Willamsburg-ing

I've been coming to terms with the events of Friday night
all weekend long.

I don't go "out" much anymore,
and I'm fine with it.
I meet friends in bars, I go out to dinner, I visit people's abode.
I  really like staying in Brooklyn.

When my girlfriend Maddy asked me to go out and see some live music on Friday night.
I said Maybe.
I say Maybe a lot, but it usually means I'm prolonging the "No"
But this was different, and Maddy felt it.
She knew I was actually considering this.
And I honestly was.
I thought, "Hell, why not?"
"I'm up for an adventure!" I told her.

Plus the fact that our friend Meghan was going
and this totally sweetened the deal.
When the 3 of us are together, it's like we're back in Sixth grade.
Even though we've known each other less than 10 years.
Just a natural and fun friendship.
I was totally in the mood for friends.

We hail gypsy cab to Williamsburg to see Javelin play.
I really like Javelin.
I am okay with Williamsburg.

We get there and there is NO ONE there.
Like, no one.  Except the guy at the door and the bartenders.
Did I mention they had free wine from 9-10?
Thank. God.
(Which Meghan spilled all over the counter onto
some guys Blackberry by the by-hilarious if you
know Meghan.)

All of a sudden at about 10:30,
hipsters fill the joint.
Basically The early 90s are thriving amongst early 20 something posers and "fashionistas."
(What's the difference?)
To my right:  Madonna/Jean Paul Gaultier inspired sequin frocks and recreated 20's hairdo's,
To my left: some dude who looks like the lead singer of The Spin Doctors.
Just Go Ahead, Now.


We realize we'd better find a "home base" to see the show.

Meghan is a fucking pro at sitting wherever the hell she wants at a concert.
She's beautiful and nice and extremely passive aggressively convincing.
(Blink, Blink)
A true gift.
When that doesn't work, her eagle eye broadens to scope out a coveted spot to claim as her own.
No matter how drunk she is :)
The Eagle Eye Certainly Broadened in this case. in. point.

One Flight up
directly above the stage
what looks like a V.I.P. area that is clearly
up. for. grabs!
(At least to Meghan anyway)
Meghan just goes and sits there.
No questions, no regrets.

In the meantime,
I'm holding a table a few feet away
that The Spin Doctor actually gave up to Meghan a few mins ago.
With one flip of his dreds, he was out of our life.
But the table remained.
I know, right?
Bitch is good.
We have 2 prime spots in a sea of a hundred or so hipsters.

A pudgy, Brittish Kurt Cobain is finishing up his set of whine rock.
I'm half entertained and half annoyed.
Which is sort of my general consensus about life at this point anyway.

Amy arrives.
First time I've met her.  I like her immediately.  She seems to be no Bullshit.
We all decided to huddle in Meghan's "VIP" spot.
I pay the table forward.

This is amazing!  We have room to dance and no one is in front of us!
We can see the band.
and just enjoy ourselves.

Nope.
You know what they say about, "too good to be true?"

Meghan turns to me (she's a little tipsy-read; drunk) and says,
"I think I just got pushed."
I think she's just drunk and sort of staggery.
I say, "No."
But she looks serious.

"Are we going to get into a fight tonight?" -concerned Meghan
"No! Why would you even say that!" -disregarding self.
"But do you have my back?" -serious Meghan
"Of course." -still disregarding self.

A few minutes pass,
Then I see Meghan talking to the girl next to her
amidst the hum of the 'tragically hip' I hear;
"What's your problem?  Why are you pushing?" f-lustered but confident Meghan
"blah blah blah was here first!" -pushing girl #1
"Well can't we both just share the space?" -peaceful Meghan
"That cute little voice isn't gonna work with me honey." -bitchy pushing girl #1

That started it.  Unintentional Fire in my diaphragm.

"What cute little voice, honey?" -"I got your back" Tracey, coming right back at her.

Bitch turns away, into the her own little corner.
But I know this isn't over.
This is real, and Javelin hasn't even started playing yet.


Meghan is flustered.  She doesn't want to deal with this.  I don't blame her.  Neither do I.
But something came over me.  Something I have never felt.
Complete confidence in dealing with these entitled little C__ts.

So, I trade Meghan places.
I am now right next to that stupid bitch,
on guard.
I could still see clearly at this point.
In fact, I'm smiling.  And I mean it.
This is so not me.  But for this moment, it fully is.

As the concert progresses,
I am getting pushed
like a son of a bitch
by these two
asshole
bully
girls.

Which I knew was going to happen, because if they wanted to throw a punch,
they never would've retreated after mouthing off to Meghan.
Total Coward Bullies.
The worst kind.
Antagonizers with no action.
I've dealt with your kind before.
And won.

It would be so much easier to fight, but
this was set up to be a game of tolerance, patience, and stamina.
And ladies, I don't think you know who you're fucking with.
I have a lot of pent up aggression that I'm just waiting to take out on someone.
If given the opportunity.
Just Go Ahead, Now.


I grew up in a Steel Mill town in Southern Illinois.
A tough as nails town.
If I could make it out of High School without a fight,
we aren't ABOUT to have one here, pumpkin.
This might actually be fun.
The smile is growing.

"If you're not gonna dance, you guys should leave," -aggressive Fat Bitch
It immediately pulls me out of my daydream phase.
I realize my ass is clenched tight,
so tight I imagine it looks like as high as it did when I was 17 years old.
I just smile,
"Get out of my face." Bigger Smile, turn my head back to the band.
Just Go Ahead, Now.
I dare you.


Push after push, elbow after elbow, My psyche begins to slightly weaken.
We're talking 40 minutes here.
I look over and Maddy and Meghan are dancing.
I'm a ball of rage.
I cannot enjoy a minute of this concert.
I am on guard.
Something inside of me says,

"Hey, Trace.  This is a moment of truth.  You're strong enough to really piss these bitches off by not giving them an ounce of attention.  You can do this.  Breathe."
And I started laughing.  I felt another wave of confidence.
I also started mentally preparing to take a hit so I could fucking go crazy on their asses.
It's at this point that I don't really remember seeing anything but this other girls mouth.

Bitch with the gap between her teeth grabs my hand and tries to dance with me.
I push it off, "Don't you fucking touch me."
She retreats a little looking shocked.
The guys they are with are weakly holding her back.
I say weakly because it is clear she has no intention of doing anything
but being annoying.

What's wrong with these pussy bullies?!
I'll tell you, they're just entitled little beasts who want the space.
These are girls that are so used to getting what they want that they can't deal with this.
I love it!
But this
Is getting exhausting!

Finally I turn to Amy who more or less says,
"We're not leaving. We will NOT let them win, just dance and go crazy."
Ahhh-ha!
What I heard was, "I got your back."
That's when it happened.

I fucking went insane crazy.
I kicked their asses....with dance.
haha!  I know but it's the honest to God only way to describe what happened.
I was punching, and going absolutely crazy,
aimless yet poignant thrashing
like my high finally kicked it.
It did.
Adrenaline.
Those bitches backed up off of me.
I wish I had a videotape of the rage that came out
in form of 8 counts.
I imagine it looked exactly like this.....

Afterwards my stomach was in knots.
Aggressive little bitches.
I almost wish I would've just turned around and punched her in her gap toothed mouth.
But this was much more entertaining.

And after that
I totally felt like myself, again.

Oh Maddy!
An adventure indeed.
Just Go Ahead, Now.

Springfield, MO: Area code (417)

Our friend Andy had this horrifically fantastical
and disgustingly unique
coffee table,
back in college.

Boasting many coats of primary green paint.
Sitting lower to the ground,
Where Feet rest atop and legs stretch below.

Painted on the surface are tiny sperm,
shooting out from the corners toward the center
where a single egg waits,
anticipating a winner.

The Sperm table.

On top of it sat a large ash tray
along with a stack of indivdual ashtrays.
Because we all smoked.
Marlboro Lights
Camel Lights
Camel Reds
No one smoked Parliaments.

Rolling Rock bottles.
The Boogie Nights Soundtrack playing in the CD Player:

"whoa, whoa,

You got the Best of My Love"

We are dancing.
Justin's painting of a woman hangs on the wall,
watching us.
Sort of like a Goddess.
Who has since retired up in Washington Heights.

The chance that
we have just gotten high
out of a bong
Is 100% probable.
I can see out of the patio door.
I'm sure it is snowing.

On the drive home from "Gay Manor,"
Doug and I opt to take the back route
down Oak Grove:

"Oak Grove."

Say it again.

"Oak Grove."

laughter.

Say it again.

"Oak Grove."

Light another cigarette,

Radio barely audible.

The sound of a senior citizen enjoying his AM transmissions.

We may have a test in the morning,
or a paper due?
but, I suggest we stop at the Amoco and get some beer.
Courtesy of the Petrillo Family gas card.
(sorry mom)
Yum! Funyons too.
Doug will pass on those.
But he'll take a Mountain Dew.
And another pack of Marlboro Lights
I owe him this,
because I've smoked all of his.
Again.

I can taste it.

Elm Street
Campbell
Battlefield Road
Sunshine
Glenstone
Catalpa...obscure.
Fine, National.
Mexican Villa is a blur in passing.
We arrive on Walnut Street.
The Big House
top floor
mid century modern furniture
and an orange ottoman.
The night continues.

We light another cigarette,
like it's our first
of the night.

I'm there.

It's 1999.

These memories make

My stomach feel empty.

and

I can't decipher if 

I'm overjoyed

or in complete 

and 

utter dismay.

Because, 

I am not There.

and

I will never be there again.

Not like this.

A college town
Continues pulsing
Continues breathing
Continues regenerating
without you
or your friends
or your history
like it
never
even
needed you.

The sperm table.

I wonder where the hell it ended up?

Pardon Me

The phrase, "Not to be rude,"
usually ends with something you should keep to yourself.

"Not be rude, but I can't handle his essence as a human being." :)

"Not to be rude, but she is so ugly that I can't imagine her being able to glance in a mirror." :)

"Not to be rude, but he smells like expired veggie cream cheese." :)

"Not to be rude, but if I could stab you repeatedly until the blood splatters all over the wall and then I'll never have to talk with you again, I would.  Fuck Prison, it's worth it."  :)

Not to be rude, means I'm gonna be rude by saying whatever it is I want masked with a deflecting phrase that allows me to say whatever I want and still look like a decent person when I say it.

Not to be rude, but I am bored with this entry.

Words You May Not Know

Chubes:
(noun) The little pieces of dry, balled up, gummy lip skin and food particles that gather in the corners of your mouth as the day progresses.  They also may mysteriously appear when you wake up in the morning.  They are commonly removed with the thumb and forefinger.

Use in a sentence:  
Dude, smell my chubes. They are ripe!

Other Terms: (Chubage)

Stop Asking.

Sometimes I wonder where my innocence went.
Not like that, you turds, get your head out of the gutter.

Sometimes I wonder where my youth went.
No.

Sometimes I wonder where my spontaneity went.
Why is it being suppressed?  Why am I letting it be suppressed.
Are women still suffrage-ing?

Sometimes I wonder if Donna Mills could come over and do my makeup.
Sometimes I step into the daylight wondering if she already somehow did.

Oh Donna.

Wait!  I've got it!
Sometimes I wonder when I lost that little spark of naivety.
The lush, green, reckless abandon that brought forth such unintentional BALLS!
Ahhhh, yes my big ol' unaware gonads.

I got off of the train today and walked up the steps of the A train onto Eight Avenue.
I can remember feeling like, "I'm in fucking New York City, bitch."
Now I think, "I'm in fucking New York City? bitch!"
Other times I think, "I'm in!  Fucking! New York City, Bitch!"
Okay, that last one was a stretch...but you see the emotional sliding scale that comes with living here.

I just recall in the days of yonder...
waking up and getting lost on my way to temp somewhere in lower manhattan.
I was always a little bit inappropriately dressed.
But looking prehhhhhhhhhtty cute.
Then I would go out for drinks, and get drunk, and dance, and my feet would hurt.
Because my shoes were also inappropriate for living in "fucking New York City, bitch!"

I saved up for LaDuca heels and Katrinawear unitards.
I frequented the performing Arts Library at Lincoln Center.
I dreamed of being able to afford an apartment in Midtown.
And I kept training to be better so that one day I could be on The B'way.
Did I ever really believe it.  That that is what "it" was? That I could attain, "it?"
I have a hard time believing.
But I had fun.

I miss fun.
Where is the fun?
I have to find the fun!
Again.
I will.

I never realized at 23,24,25 that life was at it's peak of "easiness."
I didn't have to worry about if and when to have babies.
Being an indentured servant didn't bother me it was just a day job.
It didn't occur to me that I might not "make it."
That I probably would not make it.
But I have made it.
I'm still alive.

The point of the story is.
If you want to take a bite of The Big Apple.
Be prepared to endure a little bit of food poisoning.
Although, like all things.
It's bound to pass.
(emotionally and through your butthole.)

All Encompassing. Never Ending.

Wants.
Weird but necessary.
Want.
I want it.
I don't want it.
Or
do
I?

I have a very hard time defining what I want.
Because, I want it all.
Everything.
I want it.

Sometimes I lie about what I want,
or "not knowing" what I want but the truth is simple.
I want it all.
Is that so bad?
I want a rock solid career and recognition as a performer.
I want to have kids and a house.
I want to be my own boss.
I want to get up whenever the shit I want.

The whole time,
LOOKING
AMAZING.

I want everything I want to no longer be "want."

I don't want you to tell me that having all of this simultaneously is impossible.

It isn't.
It is not.
I will prove you wrong.
As soon as I prove it to myself that it's insanely possible.
Because it is.
And I'm about to get up on top of that shit!

As soon as I get up off the couch.

But hey, it's what I want to do right now.
So eat shit.
Or don't.
If you don't want to.

Process of the Platform to the Prize of the Performance

I'm officially working on a solo show.
It's really helping me tame the voices within.
It's so much more psychological than I ever could've imagined.
In fact, it's therapy.

My process in discovering these characters is something I learned about through an amazing Solo Show Class here in New York City with Matt Hoverman (www.createyourownsoloshow.com) cheesy name, brilliant man.  Sort of pricey, but not really.  If you are interested in creating one, TAKE HIS CLASS.

There is no doubt what I wanted to do was less personal and more theatrical.
Shocking.
Me?  Want to entertain?  Go figgggguh!

FOCUS, Tracey.
Back to the Process!  (See why it's hard for me to write?)
This is from an article Eric Bogosian wrote about how he creates,
I stole it and modified it for myself.
I take a digital voice recorder and walk around as the character speaking.
THEN I write out everything I have said that I found useful (up to when I'm taking a breath.)
THEN I must erase all excess bullshit afterwards so I don't go revisit and get muddled in my intentions.
(Again, which as you can see can be very choppy and all over the place!)

So, In the midst of this talky-talkiness walking around like a former (present?) diva of the stage,
I dropped in.
Hard.
I found her.
She is a part of me disguised as an old woman.
She is me.
I snap out of it.
Here's what I said directly after I broke.....(laughing)

"I am schizophrenic, definitely.  Oh, (realizing) yeah.  (sigh)  Is this what they think crazy people are like?  Am I crazy? (realizing) yeahhh."

Therapy.
I should be charging myself.