I did manage to attend the Gala Night of 10000 Stars at Grand Saloon (brace yourself Terry Jinn, cause here comes the namedropping) for Jackie Clarke, Paul Scheer & Chad Carter's respective birthdays. I got there really early so I went to Duane Reed to get presents with the all of $10 I had on my person. Came very close to getting some girlie horse stickers for Chad, but decided the funny-to-cost index wasn't really tipping the right way so I told him about them instead. Got Jackie a card though; Hallmark cards are a baffling combination of stale sentiment and the contrived edgy humor of a particularly sex-obessed "Lighter Side of..."
So, I was the first one there and feeling pretty lame. I went across the street and watched bad Student animation in the SVA window... I wasn't a bit nostalgic for NYU Animation. Animation sucks to do and watching 18 year old beginning student animated films is trying.
Every class has to include:
1. One girl who does everything "anime" style but doesn't really have the skill to conceal the shitty lack of motion
2. A goofy self-effacing nerd who uses stick figures in all his slapstick movies.
3. A graffiti artist who spends all his time writing his "animated by" credit in a Byzantine tag style, but can't draw a human being to save his life. These guys always make movies about doing "rave drugs" or how the cops are pigs. Real cutting elge protests.
4. A guy who makes movies where all the female character have massive late period Marvel heroine jugs
I ate an empanada at Havana Pies, which I thought went out of business, but still has an outpost near SVA. Fried pies = good times.
By this time people were starting to show up and I felt less the gank. I was busily writing notes to myself on a cocktail napkin... trying to seem busy and important. The birthday people and Terry Jinn were the first there and Terry immediately started giving me shit about the journal but then we talked about the cartoon pitch and the fact that my main characters have no discernable shoe/pant division but rather a one-piece PJ bottom look to them.
I was feeling pretty OK at the wingding. I get pretty weirded out at parties and haven't been at a UCB function in months and months. It was pretty much the same as ever only people kept talking to be about: 1.) Where have I been for 4 months and 2.) The Journal. It was all pretty favorable, though.
Doug Moe eloquently wrapped it up with a ribbon when he said, "I know you haven't always felt like you've had friends here, but you do." Or something like that, I wasn't really paying attention. I was pretty relieved after talking to him and Jazzy James Eason that despite their recent flush with auditions they had not became boring actor machines. That would be the worst.
Ed Snible and Shannon Manning staked out a table away from the surging crowd and chatted with me and Doug (who is no relation to me by the way). Ed talked about doing an improvised one man show... a one man Robot TV. I demand it be called "I, Snible" and he seemed ok with that. Conversations with Ed are always odd I'm sure, but I've never really known where I stood with him just because he was clearly "Ludwig's Friend" and after Mike Ludwig and I broke up I kind of never saw him or never really had any reason to. He did come to an early Riot Nrrd, which I kinda feel bad about. That show sucked extremely up until the last two shows.
Mark Sarian appeared and immediately began to offer people drinks. I still had my $10 so I said go for it. He said he'd pay and I was like, "Do you have a job?" And he said "Uh, my wife does." I didn't want to impose but more I wanted to make sure I wasn't responsible for another round since I only had that $10. I didn't want to seem an asshole who doesn't reciprocate. Because, by God, when my articulated lorry loaded with money, jewels, furniture, and furs crashes in, this asshole will be reciprocating like mad. Next year in Jerusalem, bucko!
So I pounded a Makers rocks and immediately went light-headed. Fucking medication. I had been feeling queasy already, so nothing really changed except my tongue losened and I repeated myself free-wheelingly. I always though that part of the carte blache of writing off scenes with "Oh I was drunk" meant that I wouldn't remember anything. I was still mentally awake, recording my idiot moments as my judgement and balance was failing. I talked to people I knew and people I didn't, giving the same rundown of Gawd what a shitty year...I was raped a year ago and the cops didn't believe it... and oh, I'd like to be doing comedy again... I broke up with Junior... bla bla. It's pretty heavy stuff but I've been over and over it so many times it seems like its not even real anymore.
This week is the first anniversary of getting beaten and raped in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn in my apartment by a guy who followed me from the subway. The most depressing thing is that so little of my life has changed for the better since then but rather steadly declined and become consumed with the fallout -- moving, bills, insurance problems, getting fired, nightmares, pain, etc.
Having enough liquor to dull it a little bit was a nice change, I haven't achieved altered states chemically since New Years 2001... Junior hated alcohol and the idea of drinking was so repugnant to him and the X's on his hands. Mostly because his dad was a drunk and the other members of Dirt Bike Annie are huge lushes who do thinks like ride down staircases inside a dog kennel or run down the street naked when they're three-sheets.
I would have stopped at one but Sarian got me another. Then it was just painful and I slurred horribly through a conversation with Jake Fogelnest which was kind of like burying the hatchet but "you're drunk, Dyna" was clearly written all over his face. Dannah Feinglass has a huge heart. I talked to some other people I don't remember, but repeated the same alcohol-numbed details. Sarian then loaded me into a cab and gave me $20... he also referred to Junior as "the cute one" in my backing band... what exactly are his motives? What is that wily Armenian up to?
