Teddy

the QUEERS of COMEDY...A Taste of Queer!

2008-01-30T15:07:00.000-08:00

QOC on RED CARPET

2008-01-13T22:39:00.000-08:00

The QUEERS of COMEDY Benefit Show

2007-11-02T00:14:00.001-07:00

RESERVE NOW! This show is selling out fast. There will be tons of FLAWLESS and I mean FLAWLESS giveaways.

Take A Hike!

2007-10-11T12:49:00.001-07:00

Do not ask me to go hiking. I hate it. I don't understand why anyone on this Earth would purposely don ugly heavy boots, a bulky backpack and just walk...uphill. Where is the logic? I cannot tell you how many of my friends call me on a regular basis to ask if I want to 'do Runyon.' For those of you not in Los Angeles this phrase refers to Runyon Canyon.

Runyon Canyon is three different walking trails in the hills of Hollywood with beautiful views, lovely foliage and even a Frank Lloyd Wright house along the way. At least that's how it was described to me the first time I was asked to hike it. All this was true but what was left out was the fact that it takes at least 60 minutes to hike it and it's on a 45 degree incline. Frank Lloyd Wright should have designed a critical care unit at the end; my fellow hikers had to put me in traction when I arrived. Forget the fact that I couldn't breath, I was seeing spots in front of my face not the changing of the leaves. As my friends were screaming at me to look at the view, I was screaming for oxygen.

"Fuck the view," I said. "Are you kidding me with this. What's the point? Is there a cocktail lounge up here?"

I just can't figure out why one needs to hike or walk with no destination. You might say, Teddy the destination is the view. Or the destination is the fact that I am doing a great thing for my body. Whatever. My idea of hiking is completely different.

I remember when I desperately needed a new pair of Christian Dior sunglasses. (Mine were white and we were well into September and I was still sporting them...oh the shame) My friend needed to check out the new duffle bag with wheels at Louis Vuitton, so off to Rodeo Drive we went. Imagine how pissed we were when there was no parking and we had to park a block away and 'hike' to Rodeo. Imagine our horror when, unbeknownst to us, they moved Louis Vuitton to the opposite end of Rodeo, you know, near Chanel. Once again we had to 'hike' from one store to the next. Then when feeling peckish, 'hike' all the way to Kate Mandolini's for lunch. You see, this kind of hiking has a purpose, an end result. Can one finish Runyon with a pair of champagne colored Dior's?

If you have the power...

2007-10-03T16:29:00.000-07:00

Please stop sending me comments on MySpace about how to get a Macy's card. If you really knew me you would know that I hate Macy's. I'd think twice about a Barney's card, but Macy's...Hell no.

Please stop sending me reminders about your party through Evites. I received the first one, I replied to it (in a witty manner I might add, which from me doesn't usually come for free) and that should be the end of it. I don't need them cluttering up my inbox over and over again for the same lame ass party.

Please stop complaining if you get a 'mass' email or a 'mass' text. I am a performer, this is how I alert people about my show. If you don't get a personal invitation, it means I don't really know you or I don't care to know you.

Please get rid of that blonde girl on MySpace from match.com with the gnarly skin and the big 80's earrings. I don't want to see her face again. I don't want to join match.com. Even if I did and was straight she'd be the last ho I'd want.

Pleaase stop texting me when you're drunk. Your T9 or predictive text cannot predict that your sloshed ass is in front of some bar trying to tell me you love me only for me to read it as..i 'i loud wou.' And p.s....you don't love me.

I said Please.

The FISH -- Promo

2007-09-05T11:27:00.000-07:00

This is the trailer for the sitcom/reality/drama of a train wreck I've been filming.

The Devil wears Costco

2007-08-29T21:59:00.000-07:00

I awoke very early to get to Costco before the crowds. Not early enough apparently. You see, the zoo-like creatures that line up in front of Costco before they open are the same folks that line up in front of CBS Studios and wait for fifteen hours just to be asked to come on down and be the next contestant on 'The Price is Right.'

I've included the shopping list of the person who had the cart before I did. I eyed her list and laughed. It exemplifies a Costco shopper. On her weekly inspirational paper, Ms. Costco managed to scribble down the very important items that she had to purchase from Costco and get there at an ungodly hour to buy them. Her misspelling of 'kielbasa' only hits my point home harder. She was probably in a rush trying to shove her enormous belly into her black biker shorts. Or maybe as she was buttoning up her chambray shirt with no sleeves and didn't have time to double check the spelling. Perhaps she was too busy putting her pack of Marlboro Ultra-Lights into her waist pouch tied tightly around what used to be her waist.

What was she going to make? I can only assume from the list, it was going to be a polish sausage & spinach quiche...for five hundred, for you can only buy things in bulk at Costco. So her list, translated from supermarket lingo to Costco jargon really read as follows: 250 eggs, 1 case of iceberg lettuce, 20 pounds of spinach & a 50 pack box of Hilshire Farms smoked Pol ska Kielbasa. Perhaps her church was having a pot luck. Maybe it was her turn to cook for the Polish club bingo on Thursday evening at the Knights of Columbus.

One has no sense of scale in Costco. Everything is huge so it all looks relative...until you get home. I have in my refrigerator as I write this the Heinz Bar-B-Q pack of ketchup, mustard & relish in the squeeze bottles. I have purchased this in the past at my local supermarket. I love mustard and relish on my hot dogs, I love to make my own tartar sauce with mayo & relish (and p.s. just a touch of cornichons.) Oh how I love tartar sauce. I would eat anything if it had tartar sauce on it. Christ, I'd eat pussy if it had tartar sauce on it, but I'm getting off track. When I arrived home and unpacked my value buy, it didn't fit in my fridge for it was giant. Enormous. Ginormous. It looked like the same three pack I normally buy, only at Costco it was supa dupa sized.

Why do I need 1750 Aleve gel tabs? I'll never use them up in my lifetime. Where does one store an 85 pack of Mach 3 razors? The jar of Hidden Valley ranch dressing doesn't fit in my pantry, and honey I've got a big pantry. In my will, I'll have to bequeath the 2500 packs of Ricola natural cough drops to my niece.

"And to my nephews, I leave the 45,000 boneless skinless chicken breasts that are in my freezer."

This is all so ridiculous. I hate Costco. I don't want to shop where I can buy a 76" flat screen plasma television, Lancome Renergie Lift face creme, Lladro figurines, a casket for my funeral & digital photos developed in an hour. Oh...and don't forget to order your pizza from the red phones while waiting in line.

My Idol

2007-08-12T11:48:00.001-07:00

I have related to Merv my whole life. I remember running home from school to sit in front of our television and watch "The Merv Griffin Show." My favorite episodes were the ones that were live from Beverly Hills. Merv would be having lunch with some starlet and interview them over some flawless salad. The episode with Zsa Zsa Gabor and Pamela Mason is my all time favorite. He paired these two divas up with two feminists and they just didn't understand each other. It had me choking on my P. B. & J. and shooting milk through my nose. I've learned my comic timing from Merv (and Bugs Bunny.) I've dreamed of having a show like Merv's. Merv went from a small radio singer to huge mogel. Wow. Friends and family members have told me I remind them of Merv. So it is with much sadness that I say goodbye to my idol. As the curtain closes on Merv's spotlight I hate to say goodbye. I hope to follow in his footsteps.

QUEERS of COMEDY demo reel (for real)

2007-07-17T10:29:00.000-07:00

Teddy @ the Improv

2007-05-15T12:59:00.000-07:00

...and the winner is.

2007-04-23T17:02:00.001-07:00

Cast your vote for my blog. Click the icon above. Type in "Teddy-M" in the search box and click for this blog. Vote in the humour category.

Teddy ate Rip Taylor

2007-04-19T13:09:00.000-07:00

Teddy's Interview

2007-04-17T17:26:00.000-07:00

Click the link "Teddy's Interview" above and scroll down to read my interview on the Pop-Culture Website.

Teddy RAW @ here lounge

2007-04-05T23:25:00.000-07:00

Teddy @ here lounge

2007-04-02T10:48:00.000-07:00

Come see TEDDY at here lounge tonight Monday April 2 @ 10:30 pm. He is filling in for Ms. Jackie Beat in her show "Here's Jackie". Tonight the show will be called: "wHere's Jackie?"

Teddy Live @ FUBAR

2007-03-29T22:50:00.000-07:00

Small cell phone vid clips of Teddy during his forever long set at FUBAR. Fuzzy and not clear but hold on...more to come.

Teddy Live @ the Improv

2007-03-22T13:43:00.000-07:00

2007-03-15T15:48:00.000-07:00

FUBAR once again peeps! Be there on Tuesday March 27th at 8 pm. FUN FUN FUN

Teddy @ the Improv

2007-03-01T09:34:00.000-08:00

Who's the hardest working comic in show business today? Huh? E mail me if you know. They're gonna have "green beer" which you know thrills me people. Make your reservation now. It's a drinking holiday so it's gonna fill up fast.

Cozy Morley

2007-02-27T13:06:00.001-08:00

Well, well, well, not that long ago a hot young comic walked into a bar and made out with the world's first supermodel. Now at same bar he's headlining in a wacky new show called: Beignet's. Whew! What a difference two years make, huh? Hey FUBAR is way funner than IMPROV (as far as cocktails and hottie bartenders go) so let's PACK the house.

Tuesday Feb., 27 2007 @ 8:30 pm
FUBAR 7994 Santa Monica Blvd
West Hollywood 323.654.0396

Rest in Peace Anna!

2007-02-08T15:02:00.001-08:00

The comics of the world will miss you dearly.

Encore! Encore!

2007-01-30T23:55:00.000-08:00

Well I've done it again. I wanted to tell everyone right away but I figured it would be better to wait it out and see if it was for real. Since it's been a month I can say it is for real. It's official folks...I have quit smoking.

I had been wanting to quit for a while, but feared the weight gain. I realized it was time to quit when I would gag with each drag I took. I cannot believe how easy it's been. Having been on every diet imaginable, quitting cigarettes was a lot easier than dieting. You just don't do it. Unlike food where one has to eat. One doesn't have to smoke. So you just don't smoke. Afraid of craziness, I did have a little help. I used the patch. I started the first day with the first level of the three patch system and realized I was getting more nicotine into my system than I would have had I been smoking (I elegantly smoked Ultra-Light cigarettes). I quickly moved down a level (or skipped a grade if we were in school) to the smallest patch. Nine times out of ten I would forget to wear it and would go through the day not smoking only to realize I was patch less. I then figured out it was more of a mind over matter thing and after a few days I just abandoned the patch altogether.

When people asked me why I smoked I simply stated that I loved it. I truly did. What I miss most, though, are the accessories. The smoking accoutrement, if you will. I loved the idea of holding a box of cigarettes. Just carrying around that little hard box made me feel good. To me it was like a Judith Leiber minaudiere. I would keep the bottom half of the cellophane wrapper intact to house my driver's license some cash and my beloved lighter. The lighter was like a piece of jewelry to me. I only carried the Bic lighter. Not the mini Bic, although handy and compact, not much to hold. The full-sized Bic was my cup of tea. It came in every color of the rainbow, like a box of Crayolas. Every month when I would purchase a new one, I would color coordinate my lighter with my mood. Or my outfit. Or the season. Come Summer I would only carry the white Bic. June, July and August wouldn't be complete for me with out my full-sized white Bic lighter and a pair of white flip-flops.

I purchased a silver sleeve with Turquoise stones embedded all over it to slide my lighter into and make it more fashionable. It was like a Bic lighter cozy. I think I purchased it somewhere near South of the Border on Interstate 95 at 4 am very up from diet pills en route to Florida. It didn't work for me. I felt more white trash than glamorous. I received as a gift a sterling silver cigarette case for special occasions but it just didn't have the same panache. I remember watching roadside waitresses on their break fishing out their cigarettes and lighter from a cheap imitation leather holder with a double-ball clasp at the top. This always seemed amazing to me. I searched the stores over for them only to find them at Wal-Mart or K-Mart or some sort of Mart. I slipped my box of cigarettes into the case, snapped it shut and slid my lighter into the front mini pocket. Holding it I felt like yelling, "Bingo!" I didn't buy it. I really loved the box the cigarettes came in; their natural casing. The box God intended them to have.

I loved walking into a restaurant or up to a bar and placing my box of cigarettes and my lighter down and taking a seat.
"I'll have an Absolut martini, straight up, two olives please," I would state as I packed my cigarette box firmly.
Bringing the ashtray close to me I would take out a cigarette, light it with my Bic and wait for my cocktail. Holding the cigarette between two fingers like the old Hollywood actresses did, I would take a long drag and let the smoke fill my lungs in preparation for the light-headed feeling. I would keep the cigarette in my left hand and use this same hand to lift my martini glass to my lips. While drinking I could see the amber glow of my cigarette reflecting off the icy vodka bouncing around like a prism. I'll miss that. I truly will.

Tide to go

2007-01-17T22:31:00.000-08:00

I urge everyone to run out this minute and buy a "Tide to go" pen. This pen is the best invention ever. I own several. One for the car, one for the house, one for my desk, one for my office and one to just carry around in my pocket so I'll never be without one. For those who are unaware a "Tide to go" pen is the size and shape of a magic marker but rather than being filled with ink, it is filled with Tide detergent. Oh my God! It cleans better than the Tide you use in the washing machine for it is highly concentrated. Take it from a slob.

I hate to admit this for I am anal retentive in many ways, but when I eat...I spill. For real. Ninety percent of what I eat ends up in my mouth, the other ten percent on my shirt. This is not fun. I used to have to go home after eating pasta or mozzarella sticks. Why? Marinara and Teddy do not mix. Neither do putanesca and Teddy; or anything red for that matter.

"Gee, Teddy is that tomato sauce on that crisp, white, 100% cotton Gap button-down?"

"What is that white stuff on your kiwi Lacoste, Teddy?"
"Oh shit...bleu cheese dressing."

"Did you just eat chocolate?"
"No."
"Then I don't want to know what that is."
Teddy looks down to see evidence of the Reese's Big Cup he daintily put in his mouth whole like the petite flower he is.

Now we have "Tide to go." Just remove the cap and push down on the stain with the felt tip, releasing the detergent and gently rub the pen back and forth. Ta da. The stain is gone. I mean, where in the Hell does it go? It removes everything and I mean everything. Serial killers should invest in cases of it for it removes blood stains and doesn't leave a trace. Not that I've killed anyone but I've had the occasional nick from shaving press against my collar or a pimple that's popped or I've picked to death. I would love to send my shirt to the "lab" to see if it's removed the DNA as well.

I've discovered another use for it as well. Years ago Jean-Paul Gaultier made a cuticle pen for men that was seventy-five dollars, but worked like a dream. It was a sleek black pen with a felt tip to push your cuticles back with. It also cleaned the nail beds and underneath the nail leaving a healthy pink bed and a clean white tip. Can you feel where I'm going with this, people? For real, it works. Use your "Tide to go" on your cuticles and nail beds. You'll never get your whites whiter.

One of the select few who make me laugh

2007-01-01T18:11:00.001-08:00

walt disney's theadora

2006-11-08T19:25:00.000-08:00

'finding nemo' was on the other day and i watched it. it is always horrifying to me to see the beginning of this movie. within the first fifteen minutes marlin's wife, coral, and three-hundred ninety nine of their babies are killed by a barracuda. it never really sat well with me. i remember watching it the first time and not being able to get over this fact through out the entire film. as i watched this time i reflected upon all disney movies past. the conclusion i've come to is that disney is not fond of mothers.

we all know what happened to bambi's mother...assassinated. cinderella had a step-mother who was an evil bitch.(and flawless i might add) the little mermaid, ariel, didn't even have one. either did belle from 'beauty and the beast'; she just had a nut-case of a father. tarzan's mom was an ape, for heaven's sake. pinocchio didn't have a chance in hell for he was carved by a lonely old man. dumbo's mother was the ultimate mother, i loved her, she reminded me of my own mother; what happened to her? locked up, of course. sleeping beauty had a mother but she isn't even mentioned in the credits. i guess sending your daughter into the forrest with three wacky single old broads is cause for alerting child protective services. did alice have a mother? if she did she was on acid or lost in wonderland somewhere, for i don't remember her. mowgli, from 'the jungle book' had baloo; close to a mother yet a gay bear is not a mother. the children from 'mary poppins' had a mother but she was docile and let julie andrews run the house. for the record, where the hell was snow white's mother? letting that poor child roam around and stumble upon a house filled only with little men. horny little men if you ask me. where was her mother, huh?

hey disney, let's have a movie about a mom. let's have a movie where mom is normal, not evil, working hard to make her kids happy and healthy. like my mom. c'mon, we'd watch it.

teddy @ the improv...cross your fingers

2006-10-13T13:25:00.000-07:00

there will be music before the show this time so you need to get there early. hope to see everyone.

teddy @ the improv...not

2006-09-30T23:35:00.000-07:00

well well well...improv gig cancelled yet again. it seems that mr. wayne brady had such a huge success the last time he cancelled our show, he's done it one more time. i wonder if all my hard work promoting our show has anything to do with the sold out status of his show. do that many people watch his ridiculous duets show? i will let everyone know when i get a new date.

suri

2006-09-07T14:24:00.000-07:00

it seems the world wants to know what i think of suri cruise.

i think that her toupee should have been done by a professional.

peta bred

2006-08-24T23:38:00.000-07:00

while stopped at a red light in west hollywood i saw a woman pushing a stroller. i love strollers; babies look so comfortable and at home in them. i wish they came in my size. to my suprise, as i peeked into the baby mobile i saw a dog. no baby. just a dog. this insane woman was pushing her dog in a stroller and the dog was loving it; sitting up, looking around as if it hadn't a care in the world. this same crazy person was also carrying a diaper bag. a cute little peter rabbit diaper bag. in the bag i could make out a bottle of water, a leash and a dog bowl.

"are you kidding me? this is not for real," i thought, "she's probably a member of peta as well."

she noticed me staring so i asked, "what kind of dog is he?"
"he is a she and she is a puggle," she seemed annoyed.

i drove off shaking my head. what the hell is a puggle? she made that up. insane lady with whacked dog in stroller made up the name for her dog as well. it kept poking at me. i looked online to find if this was a real breed. people, it exists. a puggle is a cross between a pug and a beagle. as does a labradoodle (a cross between a labrador and a poodle). in fact i came across many 'breeds' that were crossed. back in the day we called them mutts; now we have a schnoodle, a goldendoodle and a cockapoo to name a few. they are actual breeds; so i came up with a few of my own.

cocker spaniel & maltese would be a 'cock-tease'
poodle & doberman pinscher would be a 'poo-pinscher'
alaskan husky & queenslander would be a 'husky-queen' (no comments, please)
shih tzu & indian spitz would be a 'she-spits'
shih tzu & gull pointer would be a 'she-gullps'
meliteo kinidio & nenets & brussels griffon would be a 'melanie-griffon'
mexican hairless & kuchi would be a 'mexican hairless kuchi' (my guess a rare breed)
giant schnauzer & shih tzu would be a 'giant-shit'
carpetian & munchlander & shar-pei would be a 'carpet-mun-shar'
shih tzu & lithuanian hound would be a 'shit-list'
miniature poodle & bichon frise would be a 'mini-bitch'
great dane & chihuahua would be an...'ouch'

could you imagine my breeds showing at the westminster dog show. i can hear the stuffy announcer talking through clenched teeth:

"please bring out the cockapoodle, the mini-bitch, the shit-list, the poo-pinscher, the cock-tease and the melanie-griffon. in that order, please. people often mistake the melanie-griffon for a cock-tease when in fact it is it's own separate breed. oh dear! can someone call sanitation. sanitation, please. it seems as though the cockapoodle has relieved himself on the showroom floor. sanitation! can somebody please get a janitor to clean up the cockapoodle doo."

celebrity encounter #3

2006-08-12T23:35:00.000-07:00

i was in circuit city the other day looking at digital video cameras. why is it that everything i want is so expensive? you'd think i drank wine with diamonds on the glass, by the case; the meaning of expensive taste. i ended up buying some blank discs for my computer. boring.

in front of me in line stood chastity bono. i was in awe. i couldn't stop staring. she was so sweet. her face was no different from that baby face i remember from long ago. she was so kind...she was such a dyke. i mean a raging bull dyke. i just wanted to slap her. i wanted her to 'snap out of it.' i felt like grabbing her from the lapels of her flannel shirt (cut off sleeves, of course) and shake her. i wanted to un-spike her hair and immediately attach extensions. i wanted to replace her leather wrist cuff with a diamond tennis bracelet. i felt like ripping off her combat boots and slipping on a jimmy choo mule.

"you are cher's daughter, damn it," i wanted to say. "why are you doing this? why aren't you in full make-up and sparkles? why? why? i mean, you are freakin' cher's daughter."

i've read that cher is very proud of her daughter, as she should be. i could only imagine if i had a bull dyke daughter. what if? that would be my luck. i would hate it. i would make her wear lip liner applied properly around the perimeter of her lips then blended into the fatty part of the lip with a complimentary color, feathering so as not to see an obvious line. i would force her to wear false eyelashes...individual ones with two coats of a black mascara. i would insist that her hair be flawless, silky, long and parted in the middle. i would teach my daughter about john galliano and christian dior. we would study tom ford and what he did for gucci; then dream about him at night. everyday after school i would teach her how to walk in a full length mink (we'd use mine) so that when she gets her own at forty, she wouldn't be clueless. i would explain the difference between the top note and the bottom note in a fine french parfum. her bookshelves would be lined with vogue, w, and elle magazines. i would punish her if she stepped outdoors in flats. i would banish her to her room and insist she spend the day there with lip gloss, cosmetic brushes, tweezers, stilettos, the proper hosiery and a beaded garment until she realized the error of her fashion faux-pas ways.

"you are not coming out of that room young lady until you've prepared three costume changes, given me the perfect brow and can prove to me you can do a fabulous smokey eye. do you hear me?"

did cher do this? huh? i don't think so. perhaps she did. perhaps she just let her daughter be who she is. the nerve of cher. i thought she was much cooler than that.

sample feinstein letter

2006-07-14T14:55:00.000-07:00

hello all! please copy this letter. insert your info. sign your name and send it off to dianne. for me.

First Name / Last Name
Address / Apt #
City / State / Zip

Senator Dianne Feinstein
11111 Santa Monica Blvd., Suite 915
Los Angeles, CA 90025

Dear Senator Feinstein:

I am writing as a constituent to request that you become a co-sponsor of the Uniting American Families Act, or UAFA. As you know, the Uniting American Families Act is a bill that seeks to amend the Immigration and Nationality Act by adding the phrase “or permanent partner” wherever the word “spouse” currently appears.

As one of your constituents, I want to bring this humanitarian measure to your attention. Because of California’s diverse workforce and significant lesbian and gay population, a relatively small but important segment of Californians find their lives disrupted and relationships torn apart due to our current immigration laws. I was heartened by your reaction to Senator Rick Santorum’s hurtful comments last year and appreciate your recognition of permanent same-sex relationships and the importance of equal protection under the law for all Americans.

I look forward to hearing if you will be taking a leadership role on this important legislation. Many of your constituents are directly affected by the discriminatory impact of current U.S. immigration law. The time has come to address this injustice; I hope you will become a champion of this effort.

Sincerely,

only in l.a. (part one)

2006-06-19T23:05:00.000-07:00

traffic in l.a. is a nightmare. it is something all of us angelenos live with day in and day out. a quick trip to the local 7-11 for a soda or a magazine turns into an ordeal. we all live with it and we all deal with it. it's a pain in the ass, but there is no alternative.

whenever there is an accident on a busy l.a. freeway or street, traffic pretty much stops. i was in this situation just five blocks from my house. in the sweltering heat i was stopped on fairfax avenue. i could see my house yet, i couldn't get close to it. it was very frustrating. fairfax is usually busy near my house for it becomes one lane, but rarely is one at a stand-still.

"there must be an accident," i thought to myself.

sure enough, as we began to crawl, i noticed the fender bender. an old, beat-up, white toyota tercel was pulled over to the side of the road. next to the car was a beautiful blonde woman giving her information to an old man. the old man looked frazzled as the blonde with the tercel was writing her information on a piece of paper. it seems she hit him from behind. not much damage. no big deal, right? wrong. the blonde giving her info was cinderella, i swear; she was wearing the blue dress, the opera gloves, she even had her hair in a princess up-do.

"she must work at disneyland," i thought. then i remembered that disney does not allow their costumes off disney property. it must really be her.

where was the coach and horses? where was her prince charming? where was gus gus? why was cinderella driving an old toyota tercel? has she fallen on hard times? i wondered where she lived now. did she write castle on the notepad for the old man? she seemed so calm and collective, until i noticed the sweat stains around her armpits making the robin's egg blue of her dress a darker turquoise. cinderella sweats like an ox. i cannot imagine why the old man was frazzled; she hit him from behind. he could actually sue cinderella and make some serious cash. that bitch is loaded, right? only in l.a.

teddy @ the improv

2006-06-15T01:32:00.000-07:00

sorry so last minute. this show is an early one. do not be later than 8 o'clock. i repeat...do not be later than 8 o'clock. i'm raggin' on the los angeles zoo tonight. fun times, fun times! you can print this pic of the flyer for reduced admission. love ya all.

clam dip

2006-05-26T15:51:00.000-07:00

i am being sexually harassed at work. yup, it's true and it's embarrassing. i feel ridiculous admitting it. it's almost stupid. i know sexual harassment is no laughing matter but i now know what it feels like.

it all started with my first paid writing gig. i was asked to write an employee handbook for a large restaurant in los angeles. for this i would receive a hefty sum. taking this very serious, i had to research how to word the handbook in the proper legal terms. it was during this research that i stumbled upon what constitutes sexual harassment. this is how i know it is happening to me.

i work with several people who are here on work permits. they speak no english, therefore it is very hard to communicate. i don't want to single out any one particular group so my fellow employee for all intents and purposes will be called foberto. foberto started washing dishes for us two weeks ago. the other day i noticed him drinking his morning coffee out of a mug shaped like a woman's breast. the mug had a big brown nipple with a hole in it. one places their lips on the nipple and sucks out the contents. foberto was in the kitchen with his lips on this nipple, sucking his coffee.

"foberto, you can't use that mug here," i said.

naturally he didn't understand so i had to get an interpreter. i explained that we work in a small environment and should a customer see him, they would be offended. foberto understood and emptied the mug and put it away. i took the mug and hid it on a high shelf, telling foberto he needs to take the mug home. the mug had as its handle, a naked woman with her body arched back. imagine, now, what this mug looked like. a giant boob with a brown nipple,topped off with a naked woman for the handle.

the following day i came into work and noticed the mug prominently displayed in the kitchen. i looked into the mug and it was filled with peanuts. i guess foberto thought it would be okay to use it as a candy/nut dish. i once again moved the boob to a higher shelf.

"gordito," foberto called to me. this is what he calls me. i hate it, but whatever.
"yes," i answered.
it was at this point, foberto gestured to the boob mug.
"i see foberto, you can keep your nuts in the boob, just keep the boob in your locker."

here's where the harassment happened:

foberto reached into the boob, pulled out a nut, rubbed the peanut on the crotch of the naked woman handle, smelled the nut, licked the nut with the tip of his tongue and finally popped the nut in his mouth.
"mmmmm," he said.

as i shook my head and walked out of the kitchen i couldn't help feeling used. i thought to myself, "is this where my life has brought me? you've got to be kidding me."
i couldn't stop thinking about it all day.
"is this what grown men do? is this what men talk about when they are alone with other men? does punanny taste that good?"
i know a lot of you are thinking, "yes, teddy, punanny tastes that good."

good enough to be used as a dip, i ask you?

i want a sourdough club sandwich

2006-05-20T00:55:00.000-07:00

i am back on a strict diet, again. i hate it. i have been on every diet known to man and the only one that works for me, fits into my busy schedule and is easiest for me to do is restricting carbs. i try to do it the healthiest way i know how. i don't do 'fatkins'. i try to eat plenty of greens and plenty of healthy proteins. i simply replace bread with lettuce. let me tell you something, if i have to look at one more salad i am going to bludgeon someone to death with a crusty french baguette. i do not know how healthy this really is for me; my urine smells like a baked ham. i flushed the toilet the other day and thought my cousin was eating pancetta. this can't possibly be normal.

i do get creative, though. little turkey breast rolls filled with cream cheese make a lovely midnight snack. splenda mixed into sour cream and dolloped atop the ever low-glycemic blueberries conquers the ol' sweet tooth. a small handful of almonds helps me when i crave a little crunch. atkins makes a whole candy store filled with low-carb chocolates and the like. they even make low-carb pasta that is pretty good.

all this is awesome, yet i crave bread and potatoes. i dream about bread and potatoes. sometimes i smell baked bread when i am nowhere near a bakery. the other day i passed a basket of mangoes and thought they were potatoes. i want a sandwich. i want french fries. i want a french fry sandwich. i want a piece of sourdough bread between two slices of ciabatta, with mayonnaise...a sourdough club, if you will.

i just want to be loved...is that so wrong?

2006-04-15T06:30:00.000-07:00

it seems that no matter what i try to avoid, i end up having to deal with it eventually. take, for example, bruce's. bruce's was a luncheonette across the street from my high school. i avoided it like the plague; i didn't want to be labeled a burnout. bruce's was the hangout for the wayward. the place was jam-packed with every disciplinary problem known to man. my bus stop was smack dab in front of bruce's. i had to wait for my bus everyday for four year in front of this place. i'd hold my breath waiting for the bus so as not to inhale the cigarette smoke pouring out of the front doors and overhear conversations.
"how long is tracy gonna be in jail for stealing that train?"
how the hell does someone steal a train, let alone a girl named tracy?
"yo ma, can i get a cheesefries?"
why do you call this woman ma; do you not get along with your own mother?
"hey gooch, i got some acid...wanna come over and listen to zepplin?"
please dear god make this bus come now!

cut to ten years later. my father purchases a pizza shop. i help him out and work the front. unbeknownst to me the pizza shop is two doors down from a private school. a school for waywards. a last chance effort school. if you can't make it there, you can't make it anywhere school. i am standing in a room full of waywards, thinking to myself about bruce's. why did i put so much time and energy into my not wanting to be labeled a burnout, for i am now feeding them and interacting with them daily.
"yo ma, can i get a cheesefries?"

i have an embarassing and dreadful confession to make. i have only voted one time. yup. once. why? i never cared. i never felt that it effected me. i've always believed that one vote didn't matter, for government is not really run by the people. the two party system doesn't work. one party is always trying to smear the other party and blah, blah, blah. besides i've always thought labels were for clothes and accessories.
"don't try to label me, man."
did i try to make a change? no. i have never tried to save the whales; someone else will do it. i have never really cared about peta; i love fur. i have never served on a jury; if you aren't smart enough to get out of jury duty, you shouldn't be on a jury to begin with. i have never seen a gay parade let alone marched in one. abortion; i'll never need one. i am not one for protests; i wouldn't know what to wear.

cut to the present. teddy is in love folks. head over heels, crazy in love. the kind of love that renders you stupid. the kind of love that makes you slur your words, drop your keys and bump into walls. here, let me pop that pimple on your back kind of love. the kind of love entitled to each and every human being on this planet. except me. there's a catch; like hestor prynne i've been labeled. i am one half of a bi-national same sex couple. eww! this is what i've avoided my whole life.
"dont try to label me, girl."
the love of my life lives in canada and therefore considered an immigrant. should this be a problem? i don't think so, this country was built by immigrants. do i have a problem with dating one? not at all, my grandmother married one. come to think of it, my mother and sister married one as well. in fact, several people in my family have married someone not born in the u.s.a.

here's the problem. this great country of ours will not recognize a bi-national same sex couple for citizenship status. therefore, we have to figure out how to make this work. do i move to canada? i could, for they recognize a bi-national same sex couple. they even allow them to marry. does he come here and marry a woman for citizenship status? it wouldn't be legal. does he just live here and not try to become an american? we've all read recently where that will get us. do we just settle for the way it is; endless phone calls and longing to be together?
"no!"
this is my country. this is where i fight. this is where i make sure i do everything i've never done in the past and take a stand. people, i ask you, what kind of fucked up, land of the free home of the brave country are we living in if i can't love and live with whomever i want? huh? all men are created equal is bullshit. it is unjust and unfair. who the hell does government think they are; telling me what i can or cannot do with my love life?

i've decided to fight. i ask you to fight as well. write your senators and tell them you want action. i have. search the web and find what angers you and do something about it. don't just sit back and waste time. scream; be heard. this is america. this is our country. it belongs to us. we run it. a government for the people, by the people. hello! i want to be proud to be an american. i want to be able to love whom i want. i just want to be loved...is that so wrong?

sudoku

2006-03-31T22:49:00.000-08:00

sudoku needs to be banished from earth. the inventor needs to be shot. it took me twenty years to finish a jumble and now this puzzle comes along. i've seen many books on sudoku and not one tells you how to pronounce it let alone solve it. i try to do one everyday in the paper and i end up with a migraine. today i tried to do one and my nose bled. i am over it. followers of sudoku are easy to spot. they are middle-aged, bored people; mostly women. they wear their reading glasses on a chain around their neck and have frosted hair. they're usually sporting a velour track suit, in lavender.

i left my paper on the counter at work while i ran to do something and this insane woman, who was waiting for an order, took my paper and finished my sudoku in five minutes. at first i thought, who the hell do you think you are lady? who gave you permission to touch my paper, let alone pull a pen out of your fanny pack and do my sudoku? the nerve. of course, being the perfect customer service person that i am, i didn't say a word to her even though she pissed me off. after she left i noticed that the sudoku was completed and correct. i wanted to run after her and ask her for the fifty cents back that i spent on the paper. i wanted to roll up the paper and hit her on the snout and firmly say to her...no! sudoku people need to get a life and leave me alone.

that's mr. teddy to you

2006-03-21T23:29:00.000-08:00

superstars say they never read their reviews. i think they lie. since i am not yet a superstar i couldn't help it. i only found out about it because everyone and their mother has been bringing it to my attention. it is a restaurant review, but a review nonetheless. before reading on, go to the links section on the right...click 'elmer dills review' under the improv link, click the mama voula's review, read it, then come back.

the following is not only a review of the review, but a review of the reviewer.

"you can't miss teddy," says mr. dills. really now, must we? i know this line can be taken a million ways. you actually can miss teddy...my family misses me, my friends and loved ones miss me. did he mean that? you can't miss teddy for he is so fantastic...be sure to get there when he is there. did he mean that? you can't...miss teddy; oh but i can and that's mr. teddy to you, sir. i'm sure he didn't mean that. we all know what he meant and mr dills, frankly, i think it's tacky.

this ancient man walked into the restaurant. i didn't know him from adam. he ordered every item on the menu. i suggested to him that it was an awful lot of food.
"i know what i am doing," he rudely stated.
i shut up and did whatever he wanted. he ran me ragged, asked me more questions than i think legally allotted one human being to another, constantly called me over to his table and complained about everything. he was by far the worst customer i've ever encountered...ever. for this he rated my service a 'b'. i can't imagine what i would have to have done for an 'a'.
"i lived in greece for six years," he grumbled at me. this apparently made him an expert.
"i am greek," i told him, hoping he would calm down.
"this doesn't taste like it did in greece," he kept saying over and over.
i had had enough. i finally broke it down to him.
"look sir, you're not in greece. you're in america. as a matter of fact, you're in west los angeles. of course the food isn't going to taste like greece...you're not freakin' there."
"well, i remember going to these little tavernas in athens and eating tiny little meals with my friends and having so much fun," he said.
you actually have friends, i thought to myself.
"look, it's very hard to please people with greek food. for some reason, more than any other culture, greek food has memories attached to it. it's annoying. you could've eaten the worst 'moussaka' on the planet, but you were eating it on an island, probably drunk, sitting next to the woman who agreed to sleep with your sorry ass last night. that's what you remember," i said.
"hmmm," crotchety old man hummed.
"i remember eating the best greek food at my grandmother's house when i was a child. as i got older and my palate was a little more refined, i realized her food wasn't all that great. i also had two grandmother's, an aunt and a mother, all whom claim to make the best 'spanakopita' in the world. each one was different and each one was fabulous. so if you are going to sit here and judge, i suggest you leave."
"what's your name?" he asked.
"teddy, what's yours?"
"elmer dills, abc 7 news. food critic. i think you are wonderful. you are absolutely right. this place is fantastic and the food is wonderful. i want to do a piece on this place. here is my info."

i stood there drained and dumbfounded. how can a respected food critic be so rude and harsh to the staff? he paid his bill and left. he didn't leave a tip, either. hey mr. dills, a little tip for you...tip. when they filmed the piece, he was a nightmare. he came in with his cameraman and his way too young for him wife at peak dinner time to film all the dishes and all the preparation. urgh! talk about stress. mama voula treated him and his cameraman and his way too young for him wife to dinner and they ate...believe me they ate. they drove the poor waiter crazy. (the other waiter this time) he didn't tip, again. hey mr. dills, a little tip for you...tip, especially when your meal is free and you're a big pain in the ass to the entire staff. an elderly greek lady recognized him and couldn't wait to say hello to him. he rudely ignored her. she turned to me and asked if the woman he was with was his daughter. i told this little 'yayoula' it was not his daughter; it was indeed his wife. she looked appalled.

i think mr. dills is now too old for this job. he doesn't realize how good he has it. what a great job. going from restaurant to restaurant eating the entire menu. paying for your meals on the abc7 card. directing your own piece with your own cameraman, writing your own copy and having every restaurant shaking in their boots when you walk in. i want this job. i know food much better than mr. dills does. i know how to make food look and sound good as well. if i had this job i would be nice, humble, kind and most important, always tip.

teddy @ the improv

2006-02-22T23:07:00.000-08:00

"improv" time again...click the link to make your reservations. thursday march 2nd @ 10 p.m. sharp.

my favorite pic

2006-01-23T13:47:00.000-08:00

40 signs you grew up greek

2006-01-14T23:03:00.000-08:00

1. you have at least one member of your family with g.b.o. (greek body odor)
2. you have at least one family member who wore a black dress for a year after a funeral (or forever depending on the severity of the death)
3. every sunday was spent at your grandparents house eating "avgolemeno" and boiled chicken.
4. you were shocked to find out the food & drug administration recommends three meals a day...not seven.
5. your family pet understands greek
6. you experienced the phenomena of 50 people fitting into a tiny living room to celebrate someone's "yiorti" (nameday)
7. you were as tall as your grandmother by age six.
8. you thought everyone's last name ended in 'is' 'as' 'os' or 'ous.'
9. your mom washed the dishes, made your bed and did your laundry.
10. you thought everyone made their own dolmathes.
11. you thought that greek orthodox was the only religion in the world.
12. you thought everyone picked "horta" from the median in the boulevard.
13. you ate no meat or dairy for 40 days before easter. (remember spinach and rice?)
14. you thought digging a whole in your yard and roasting a lamb was normal.
15. you thought nylons were meant to be rolled at the knee, knotted and tucked.
16. you ate "salata" and feta cheese with every meal.
17. you were beaten at least once with a "koutala" (wooden spoon) or "pantofila" (slipper)
18. you thought every meal was to be eaten with a hunk of bread in your left hand.
19. you understand greek but don't speak it.
20. you have at least one relative who came over "on the boat."
21. you had at least one family member killed in "the war."
22. you thought talking really loud was normal.
23. you have relatives who aren't really your relatives, like "thea bessie," your mom's best friend.
24. you have at least six male relatives with the name "george" and four named "nikko."
25. you have some relatives that you've never spoken to.
26. your house had a yard with a peach tree or a fig tree or both.
27. at least one of your relatives had plastic slipcovers.
28. there was an "icona" in every bedroom.
29. you were amazed at your first "americani" wedding when there was no "kouvetta." (jordan almonds)
30. you accidentally inhaled the powdered sugar from a "kourambe."
31. you thought everyone's uncle shoved money in your pockets when they saw you.
32. you dreaded opening your lunchbox at school.
33. you called it "grass" yiayia called it "horta."
34. you couldn't date a boy/girl without getting your father's approval...and they had to be greek.
35. "going for coffee" meant going to a "thea's" house and staying all day.
36. you drank wine or beer before you were a teenager.
37. every condition, misfortune, memory loss, accident or ailment could be cured with "xamomili" (chamomile tea) or hot olive oil.
38. you were always careful of your actions for fear of "ollo tos kosmos" (the entire world.)
39. you thought everyone purchased their vegetables from the "bakali" (grocer)
40. you wished windex made a feta cheese formula. (ever tried to get smeared feta cheese off of a glass table top?)

celebrity encounter #2

2006-01-09T13:27:00.000-08:00

julio is a science fiction fanatic. i work with him and he always makes me laugh with star wars chat room stories. julio is a star wars geek. he is crazy about star wars. crazy is too mild a word for it; obsessed and insane may be better words. although he is about the size of yoda, he takes on the persona of darth vader whenever he dresses for a convention or a midnight showing of an episode. he has star wars ring tones on his star wars cell phone. he knows the saga inside and out. whenever i see anything related to star wars, be it darth vader slurpees or light sabers at target, i think of julio. playing around with him, i once told him my last name was vader and that i descended from a long line of vaders. he looked at me with awe in his eyes, knelt in front of me and called me his lord. i love julio.

you can imagine my excitment when george lucas walked through our front doors. it was amazing to see a genius in person. as soon as i saw him i ran to get julio. forget that he invented 'thx' or any number of movie magic applications, forget that he directed 'american graffiti', forget that he could put me in a lucasfilm production; he is star wars. he is the man responsible for many or all of julio's fantasies. he created darth vader. i ran into the stock room screaming julio's name.
"julio, quick...follow me."
"what is it?" he asked.
"just follow me."
i ran out of the stock room with julio running behind me. i can only imagine we looked like r2d2 and c3po. i tried to find mr. lucas to point him out to julio. there he was, rummaging through the sale box when i turned to julio to present: george lucas.

all of the blood from julio's body rose up to his face. i have never seen a person turn the color julio turned. it was a reddish purple orange. his eyes almost popped out of his head and he was frozen.
"say something to him," i whispered. "julio, tell him you love him. tell him how much his work has meant to you. julio. julio?"
not a word. julio was in a coma. he couldn't breath let alone move. george lucas looked up from the 600 thread count sheets, smiled at julio and left.
"julio, are you alive?"
"oh my god. i can't believe it. i owe you my life, teddy. that was him. that was my creator. in front of me."
"it was pretty unbelievable," i said.

i want to posses that power. i want to do something that meaningful to others. i want the julio's of the world to be frozen when they see me. it was a grand moment. george lucas had an aura about him that followed him throughout the store. it even awed me a little. the rest of the afternoon, julio had a smile on his face. whenever he saw me he bowed his head, grateful to me. i was his lord now.
"julio, you now have to call me...my lord, in a british accent."
"dude, you know what i should have done," said julio. "i should have ran out to the car and put on my cape. he would have been impressed."
"i doubt it julio," i said. "i don't think that would have impressed him. perhaps if you were wearing the cape and flew out of the stock room, he might have been impressed with that."
"yeah, i guess you're right," he said. "besides, i can't fly."
"i can," i stated.
"no, dude, for real?" said julio.

the red zone is not for dining anymore

2006-01-03T13:59:00.000-08:00

an end of an era has arrived. eating a meal on an airplane is now a thing of the past. there will be no more in-flight full service food available on all flights with the exception of first-class and international. this is sad to me. the two major food carriers 'gate gourmet' and 'sky chefs' have reported a decrease of thirty percent in sales. no more sorry salisbury steak. no more chicken a la king crepes burnt at the edges. i know people are going to be in an uproar over this.

for a brief period of time i was a travel agent. yes, i entered the glamourous world of travel. turned out to be not so glamourous. when booking flights for clients they all had a food preference. what most people don't know is that there is a vast array of choices to be had while dining in the air: regular, heart smart, vegetarian, asian-vegetarian, non-dairy, cholesterol free, vegan, wheat free, diabetic and even kid's meals provided by some of the major fast food chains. i had a corporate client who called me from the sky phone to ask what meal i booked for him.
"teddy, did you order me the asian-vegetarian meal?"
i assured him that, in fact, i did.
"then why the hell am i looking at chicken?"
he actually spent five dollars a minute on the sky phone to call me and complain about his in-flight meal. what the hell could i do for him at that point? he was in the air.

my aunt used to make us take early morning flights whenever we traveled together because she loved the blueberry pancakes. she would go out of her way to book an early flight, make sure they were serving blueberry pancakes, and try to get seated next to a child so she could steal theirs.

my grandmother rates the quality of her flights on the food. she once was on a plane that left late, was turbulant the entire flight, lost cabin pressure, circled the airport for two hours, basically made a crash landing only to stay on the runway for another hour. as she exited the plane, last of course, she was smiling.
"oh my god, are you okay?" i asked.
"my flight was lovely," she said. "they served fresh roasted turkey with all the trimmings, even cranberry sauce. i will only fly eastern from now on."
to make up for the horrific flight, eastern upgraded her to first class on the return flight. she left on time, arrived early, was the first person escorted off and had her luggage waiting for her as she entered baggage claim. she called to tell me how horrible the flight was.
"it was terrible," she said. "all they gave me was a shitty bag of pretzels. not even a glass of water. i was dying up there."
keep in mind her flights are no longer than ninety minutes.

i remember my flight to london. i hated the fact that it was going to be a long flight. i was nervous about it. not because i fear flying but i fear sitting in the same position for longer than three minutes not being able to move my legs. i had the perfect flight remedy: two grand mariner and a xanax. here's what you do if you are afraid to fly. have a grand mariner in the airport bar. once on the plane, order a double grand mariner and take your xanax. wake me in london. after i took my pill, i let the liquid fire of the drink burn my throat. i told my cousin, whom i was traveling with, to wake me up during the food service. what seemed like seconds later, i awoke to my cousin shaking me.
"teddy...teddy, wake up," she said. "we're here."
"what"
"we're here. we're in london."
"already, i just closed my eyes. how is this possible? gee, i am starving. i told you to wake me for dinner."
"i did," she said.
"oh, did i fall back asleep?"
"no, you ate."
"i did, what did we have?"
"look," she said pointing to the front of my shirt.
there on my shirt were random pieces of spaghetti, lots of tomato sauce and little bits of what looked like meatballs.
"oh, i guess we had spaghetti," i said. "did i enjoy it?"
"yup," my cousin quipped, "you ate mine as well."
i said you could fly on xanax. eat at your own risk.

so no more food on flights. no more stories to tell. no more fodder for stand-up comedians. when you think about it, it is a ridiculous concept. why do we need to be served food while flying? who came up with this idea? i always thought it was to make the time go by faster and to avoid dehydration at thirty-thousand feet. it did help pass the time. i would count how many heads were in front of me before they ran out of pot roast and i would be stuck with the trout almondine, before you knew it we would be approaching the airport. we don't expect to be served food on other commutes. we're not served on busses. there isn't a greyhound hostess asking us if we want coffee or tea. when we take long trips in our car, we don't pack food. well my grandmother does, but she also keeps stuffed cabbage in her 'i can't believe it's not butter' tubs, leaving you faced with a congealed mass of tomatoes and cabbage leaves when looking to spread something on your bagel.

i say this...be creative! stock up before you fly. if you need to eat on board, bring your own. pack a french air picnic. fill a flawless canvas tote with sparkling water, fruits and cheeses, crackers, artisian breads, some fabulous herbed spreads and delicious salamis. it's way better than dried up lasagna florentine.

psycho-allergenic

2005-12-29T22:55:00.000-08:00

since when has everyone in america become allergic to so many things? it is beyond annoying to me. i have come across so many people in the past five years who are allergic to one thing or another. in my day, when a kid was allergic to something he was considered retarted. growing up i remember only one kid who was allergic to something; eric. he was allergic to rubber. we tortured him about it.
"dear mrs. mason, please make sure little eric doesn't come in contact with his pencil eraser for he is allergic to rubber."
"ew eric...you are retarted."

standing in line at the local coffee kiosk i heard a woman ordering her latte without milk for she was allergic to dairy. a latte without milk?
eating at my favorite bistro i overheard the waiter assure the couple in the booth next to me that nothing they ordered contained shellfish. he went on to reassure them that shellfish hadn't even touched any surface that was used to prepare their meal. you see, the gentleman was allergic to shellfish.
a woman ordering a greek salad told the server, twelve times i counted, no tomatoes. "make sure there are no tomatoes on the salad...i am allergic to tomatoes."
at old navy, a father asked the cashier if there was polyester in a shirt he was purchasing. "my daughter is allergic to polyester." old navy, for christ's sake.
a woman told me she was allergic to zuchinni and walnuts. how random is that? where's the connection there? how did she find this out?
i know a gay man who is allergic to nuts. imagine that? what a sorry excuse for a gay; most gay men i know love nuts. please!

is it me or is everyone and their mother allergic to nuts? i think more people have a nut allergy than any other allergy. so many warning labels are on food items alerting us to the fact that there may be nuts in the product. even the innocent 'easy-bake oven' comes with a warning label stating that there are nuts in some of the cake mixes. the people at easy-bake warn us that even if a product doesn't contain nuts, it may have come in contact with an item that came in contact with an item that contained or may have come in contact with nuts. it's nuts.

i find it very hard to believe people are really allergic to these things. how has it come to pass, all of a sudden, that we as a nation are so allergic? is it the ozone layer? is it the fact that everything is processed? are there more chemicals in our products? is it wal-mart? i do not buy it for one second. i think all of these allergic people are pussies, not really allergic at all. grow some balls, eat a nut...damn it!

teddy's 3rd annual improv holiday show

2005-12-14T22:43:00.000-08:00

"once again my friends,
it's the show that never ends."

click the 'improv' icon on the right to make your reservations now. this show always sells out. tuesday december 20th @ 8 p.m. sharp. see ya there!

believe

2005-12-06T17:31:00.000-08:00

the first time i heard the buzz that santa was not a real person i ignored it like the plague. there was no way i was going to fess up to the fact that i thought my parents were sneaking the gifts around our holiday tree. if i let on i knew this secret, the gifts would stop. i was no fool. i remember, at ten years old, my cousin telling me that santa was a myth.
"no way," i said.
"it is true," he said.
"if it's true then how come i got the 'planet of the apes' tree house i asked for when my parents said i couldn't have it?"
" i don't know," he said. "all i know is that there is no santa."

this is a depressing scenario. children grow up so fast. we are so quick to tell them the truth about everything. this needs to stop. children need to stay young as long as possible. what's the harm in believing in santa? experts say encouraging a child to believe in santa is actually lying to them and could cause damage later in life. all these so-called experts get on my nerves.

i remember my mother asking me to help her take the santa gifts out of the car to arrange under the tree for my younger sister and brother. i was thirteen. i guess she figured i was old enough to know. she included me in the ritual and i felt like part of a larger picture. i put together the bikes and wagons. i wrapped the presents and signed them...from santa. i wrote the thank you note from santa for the cookies that we kids left him every year. i felt special. i felt important. i couldn't wait for my siblings to wake up and see what santa brought them. i wouldn't say a word. i wouldn't tell them santa wasn't real, for i believed in that moment santa was more real than ever.

santa is a spirit. santa is a frame of mind. santa is about giving and spreading joy. santa is a child's eyes, wide open with excitement, on christmas morning. the child in all of us. so when your child asks you if santa is real, tell them the truth. yes he is.

teddy @ the improv

2005-10-05T02:41:00.000-07:00

some of you last performance were turned away because of sold out status. bad for you, but good for me. if you buy your tickets online, that won't happen. click the "improv" icon under links and buy your tickets a.s.a.p. tuesday oct. 18th @ 8:00 sharp.

i see, said the blind lady

2005-09-28T23:40:00.000-07:00

a blind woman came into the restaurant and said to her blind friend, "this place is beautiful."
i couldn't comprehend this. they were blind. these two women sat down and had the time of their lives. i, on the other hand, didn't know how to react. i was very uncomfortable. i spoke louder than normal. i announced my every movement. each time the blind lady asked me a question, i would answer it while enunciating every single syllable in the sentence.
"are you new here?" she asked.
"not really," i said louder and slower than normal. "i've been here for several months."
"oh, i see," she said. "i guess our paths have never crossed."
she actually said, oh i see. how could she see, she's blind. she asked if i had wine. i didn't. she asked where the nearest place to buy wine would be. i told her there was a store across the street that carried some good wines. she rose from her chair, cane in hand and proceeded to walk to the store. i became worried.
"do you need help?" i asked.
"no, honey, i'll be fine."
her blind friend told me not to worry about her. i watched her wave her cane from left to right, banging objects so she could 'see' where she was going. i was worried she'd be hit by a car. i couldn't concentrate until she came back.

she returned with a brown bag and sat down next to her friend. they both ordered the grilled lamb with seasoned rice.
"i love the lamb here," she told her friend.
i placed their entrees in front of them.
"right now, i am placing the dish in front of you," i yelled. "the lamb is to your left and the fork and knife are to your right."
her pretty blind friend asked if i would cut her lamb into bite sized pieces.
"of course," i said.
"it looks great," she said.
baffled, i walked away and let them eat. they ate with such passion, enjoying every morsel. their conversations were normal. not once did they mention the fact that they were blind. they talked about how the food tasted. they talked about movies and dvd's they had seen. they talked about music. they talked about friends. they talked about men. they talked about sex. at times they were even catty and bitchy. they laughed.

i tried to put myself in their shoes and had trouble. i would be devastated. when asked what i wanted to eat i would probably reply, "does it matter...i'm blind."
"how's your lamb, teddy?"
"i'm blind."
"did you want more wine?"
"i'm blind."
"is everything ok? can i get you something else?"
"blind blind."

as i approached their table and tried to stop the pretty one from stuffing a whole bay leaf in her mouth, i asked if they wanted dessert. they didn't. they were full.
"just the check, honey."
i went to get their bill.
"i am placing the bill in front of you," i screamed.
she handed me her credit card and a rubber stamp with her signature.
"can you put three dollars on there as a tip then stamp the place where i am supposed to sign?" she asked.
"of course," i said.
they said goodbye. both of them just smiles and waves.
"see you next time," said the two blind ladies.
they didn't tip well, but their visit was priceless to me.

scrapbooking is the anti-christ

2005-08-29T20:48:00.000-07:00

the world has gone scrap happy. the demon is called scrapbooking and it is possessing too many people and something needs to be done. giant stores are opening up all over the country devoting their aisles to everything for your scrapbooking needs. stores with names like: memories, princess crafts, special moments, seeds of knowledge, scrapjazz, scrap your trip and scrap 'n sisters. the home shopping channels devote entire days to creating keepsakes, a company with nothing but thousands of items for scrapbooking. when i was a kid we called them photo albums; now mothers and fathers across this country are documenting every little thing their child does.
"oh honey, look, little karen's first poop. quick get the vial and the formaldehyde and let's put it in her seeds of knowledge page devoted to her intestinal tract".

my family is possessed as well. my sister sees herself as an unfit mother because she hasn't documented her children's schooling. the other mothers have pages and pages devoted to each grade of their child's learning years. my sister has none and these mothers are threatening to call child services on her. she called me in a panic.
"i have nothing to show for any of the boys' schooling," she said.
"did they take a school picture?" i asked.
"yes."
"bam...documented! no further documentation needed; that's all you and i have. who the hell wants to remember fourth grade?"
what i have to remember fourth grade is my class picture. what else do i need? i remember the day we took it. i asked to borrow a comb to fix my hair. i should have asked for a mirror as well. i didn't realize combing my wavy hair forward would make me look like buddy hackett after a night out drinking with the rat pack. i actually look like buddy hackett.

my aunt, who has always been into school supplies and the art of paper is possessed as well. she spent $19.99 on q.v.c. for the three-thousand piece scrapbook kit. it came with tiny little stickers, fancy borders, rubber stamps, hole punchers in different sizes and shapes, scissors with different blades to scallop edges, reams of pretty swirly paper, lots and lots of vellum, a solution to put on the edges of the paper and ignite it with a match or lighter to make it look old, dye to color the paper the same color as a frail document, letters that when heated with a blow dryer look raised and not one ounce of glue to do all this with. the glue is sold separately. here's where they get you; the photo-mount spray adhesive is $49.99 and comes with a gas mask. it is so toxic one needs to do this outside and wear a mask. my aunt was in her garage wearing her mask spray-mounting a scrapbook page and her granddaughter was turning blue watching her.

i am mesmerized by paper as well. i love the close-up shot in a movie of someone writing a letter. i love the grainy paper and how the ink from the pen flows as they write. it's so romantic to me; love letters written with a fountain pen on heavy paper, sealed in an envelope with a red wax disc, the bundle wrapped in ribbon and kept in a chest for years. i threw caution to the wind, decided i was going to hand write some letters rather than e mail and walked into a scrapbook store. i was disturbed by what i saw.

no sooner was i through the front door when i saw a woman standing by the counter freaking out at the person behind the register. she was dumb-founded as to what to do about her crisis. it seemed that her third grader won, for the second time this year, kewl kitty.
"i don't have room on this page to represent the double win of kewl kitty", she cried.
"what's kewl kitty?" the clerk asked.
"kewl kitty is a stuffed kitten that the class awards weekly to the best student. my sara won twice and now there is no room to show that. i can't make a two page third grade section, it won't match the one page i've used for k through second grade. is there a third grade page with room for several photos?"
"no ma'am, i'm afraid there's not."
"what am i gonna do?" she screamed. " i am still not finished with her second grade page and i am still working on billy's pre-k page."

this woman's head was spinning around and pea soup was shooting out of her mouth. i wanted to help her. i wanted to douse her with holy water and chant..."the power of christ compels you, the power of christ compels you, the power of christ compels you." there was no saving her. i wasn't powerful enough. i had to leave the store. as i was walking out, i held the door open for max von sydow. i knew in that instant everything would be fine.

big guy

2005-08-26T23:14:00.000-07:00

i do not like it when people refer to me as 'big guy'. i know i am big and i know i am a guy, but put the two words together and i go nuts. they think they are using it as a term of endearment but it bothers me. one of my managers at work calls me 'big guy' often. because he is my boss i do not tell him this upsets me. bums love the term as well. i was walking into my local 7-11 and this homeless guy shouts: "yo big guy, you got some change?" i smile and shake my head no, even though i want to kill him. it makes me want to point out every flaw on that person and refer back to them as such. i see it going like this:
"yo big guy, you got some change?"
"no, you homeless, no job havin', desperate need of a shower, moth ball smellin', ugly ass corn chip looking toenails, where the hell are your teeth, you moms mabley looking asshole, i don't."

bitter? maybe. i just don't see myself as a big guy. body dismorphic disorder is a real disease that plenty of los angelenos suffer from. people with b.d.d. look in the mirror and magnify even their tiniest flaws; perhaps see a pimple that isn't even there. a pretty, young, thin girl will look in the mirror and see an ugly, old, fat girl. she really sees this. i have the opposite of b.d.d. when i look in the mirror i think i look fabulous.

teddy @ the improv

2005-08-06T22:37:00.000-07:00

click the 'improv' icon and make your reservations a.s.a.p. tuesday august 16 @ 8 p.m. sharp

celebrity encounter #1

2005-08-05T02:21:00.000-07:00

hollywood is surreal. living here one comes in contact with the rich and famous on a regular basis. melanie griffith waiting in line at starbucks for an iced caramel macchiato, judd hirsch making a left onto the freeway, cher waiting in line at the movie theatre, diana ross eating sushi in the booth behind you, faye dunaway ordering eggs benedict at the table next to you, shaq dipping his auntie anne's pretzel in a little cup of cheese sauce are all commonplace. you become numb to it.

having a one on one conversation with the famous is another story. when you work in hollywood and they need your services, a little relationship is formed. they call you by name. they give you their phone number. they ask for yours. this is beyond surreal. you learn that they are just like everyone else. they are no different. they aren't so magical up close and personal. they are normal everyday human beings, like you and i.

miss dionne warwick came into the place where i work looking for powder blue roman shades.
"hi, i'm teddy, how can i help you?"
"hey teddy, i am looking for powder blue roman shades," dionne said.
"powder blue roman shades," i exclaimed horrified.
"what's wrong with roman shades?" she asked.
"they are over, honey."
"what do you suggest?"
"thai silk drapery panels that puddle on the floor."
"that's sounds gorgeous, teddy, let me see them."

dionne was now my best friend; although, i wasn't sure it was her. apparently the moment she wakes up, dionne no longer puts on her make-up. i noticed little bits of fried blonde hair poking out of her ratty baseball cap. her white t-shirt was stained and had two tiny moth holes in the center. she was sporting a fanny pack that only acentuated her little pot belly. she was wearing dark jeans that hugged her skinny little legs. she wasn't pear shaped, she was shaped like an apple on a stick. when she spoke, i knew it was her. her speaking voice is as velvety as her singing voice; and those nostrils. huge. definately dionne.

it was at this point ms. warwick started to get on my nerves. she was calling my name very loudly from every room in the place. she began asking me hundreds of questions. why doesn't she know the answers to these questions; wasn't she a psychic friend? we talked about what she was doing. she was decorating her brother's bedroom. what did i think of this, what are my thoughts on that? did i say on my nerves? her fanny pack was loaded with hundred dollar bills. loaded. she spent a fortune.
"i love spending money," she said.
she began singing along with the song that was playing on our sound system, a kind of mini concert for yours truly.
"teddy, y'all should be playin' my c.d. not this crap. i'll bring it to you."
i turned away from her, rolled my eyes and walked into the stockroom to gather up her requests. really dionne, no need to belt out a song on my account.

i brought all of her purchases out to the register.
"can y'all ship this shit to me so i don't have to carry all of it, teddy?" she asked
"sure," i said.
she gave me her name, address, phone number, cell phone number and credit card information. there it was. her name, dionne warwick.
"you've been very helpful, teddy, i am sure the place is going to look great. can i get your card to call you if i have any questions or maybe pick your brain some more?"
i handed dionne my card. she thanked me and left. i wanted to ask her if she knew the way to san jose, or if she was going to say a little prayer for me as she walked on by. i decided against it.

imodium imdb

2005-07-16T14:48:00.000-07:00

with the advent of the information super highway and the world wide web comes a whole new realm of fame. when i first moved to hollywood in search of the dream it was a big deal if you were famous enough to get your headshot on the wall at the dry cleaners or blockbuster video. (i go to the same blockbuster as 'camie' diaz and the dry cleaner who does my clothes does ashton & demi's as well) getting your screen actors guild or s.a.g. card was another indicator of fame. now-a-days people are talking about the 'internet movie database' or imdb for short.

the imdb is an encyclopedia of movies, television and the like. just type in a movie title or an actors name and imdb will list all information available. everyone involved on a legitimate project gets listed. it is many an actors goal to be listed on imdb. that being said, it became my goal as well.
"if i could only get listed on imdb, my career will sky- rocket", i stated.

i thought to myself i would only look for work that could possibly get me on imdb. at an audition, i would ask the casting director if this role would get me on the database. ridiculous. does it really matter? yes. to me is does. i want my name to last forever in some way. i want to be remembered on a global level. can one get more global than the internet?

being the egotistical person that i am, i often type my name on search engines. i have no idea what i hope to find. google has nothing on me; either does yahoo. one day they will, i think. one day i will enter my name somewhere on the web and there will be hundreds of images of me. thousands of articles about me. one day.

for the hell of it i entered my name on the imdb and lo and behold i was there. i had a small role in an independent film called 'valhalla' back in 1992. never thought it went anywhere. i forgot about it. i don't even think i still own it, but imdb does. i've been there all along. teddy margas as bob. check it out. in the links section of my blog, right there on your right, is the imdb. earth's biggest movie database. click it. type in 'valhalla' or teddy margas and see for yourself. my fame. on the web. for the world to see.

this aint the holiday inn honey

2005-06-17T20:04:00.000-07:00

if i didn't like what was on the menu on any given day in high school i would walk to gino's, home of the gino giant. gino's was mcdonald's biggest competitor in the northeast, until they went bankrupt. i think the evil that lurks at mcdonald's had something to do with it. the burger joint was a block away from school and school law stated that we couldn't go there. we high schoolers were not allowed off school property during the hours of learning, but nothing ever happened to those of us who broke the law. until one day in october of my freshman year.

my best friend at the time, marty, and i walked to gino's. he ordered the gino giant, large fries and a large dr. pepper. i had my typical ninth grade lunch...a large tab. i took my diet soda and walked to a booth in the restaurant. i had on my brand new britannia jeans and those nubuck shoes with the screaming yellow laces we called, shit-kickers. my giant comb in my back pocket stabbed me in the back, but i had become numb to the sensation by now. underneath my red ferrari paper jacket i wore my tight black sassoon t-shirt, the one with the hand signaling an 'okay' on the breast pocket. i looked too fierce for high school.

the buzz going around gino's was that there were two paddy wagons waiting in the parking lot ready to take any students who were off school grounds downtown. i overheard this information from a very reliable source. donna gabilovitz.
"let's get out of here," i said to marty. "they are busting kids who aren't supposed to be here."
marty laughed it off and said that couldn't happen. he had a nazi air about him. sure enough, philadelphia polices officers infiltrated the place.
"okay. all the girls line up on this side," said the officer pointing to the right of the restaurant.
"and all the men over here," he pointed to the left.
i tried to sneak out by acting like i was a customer who couldn't be bothered with this mess.
"hey pal, where ya goin?"
"i am going back to school, your honor, i have a class."
"you aint goin no where. go sit back down."

i thought all of this hysterical. i was about to get 'busted' for drinking a diet cola. my parents were going to think this all so funny. sitting in the booth waiting to be loaded into the wagons, i overheard some of the other crimial's comments. dago, the toughest kid in school, said we were going to be put in a sweat box for a couple of hours then released. i guess he had his share of run-ins with the law. he knew. sweat box, i thought. what was that? they couldn't possibly put me in a sweat box, i sweat in the dead of winter. imagine a sweat box, i would sweat through my shirt and ruin my paper jacket. then the philadelphia police would have a nasty lawsuit on their hands.

they put all the girls in one wagon and all the boys in another. as they were loading the wagons i was yelling at the officers.
"there are rapists, murderers and drug dealers running around the streets of our city and you are going to arrest me for drinking a tab? this is injustice."
dago nudged me and told me to keep quiet. "don't make waves," he said. he then proceeded to cry like a baby.
"my father is going to kill me for this," he sobbed. "one more time in jail and i am out of the house for good."
"shut up dago. they can't get away with this. what the hell did we really do wrong?" i yelled at him.
dago listened...to me. dago actualy listened to me. he took his seat in the back of the vehicle and was quiet. sitting in the back of the paddy wagon was the meanest, most dastardly guy in school crying in the lap of the boy with the fashionable paper jacket. we were taken to the round house, the police headquarters in downtown philadelphia. they escorted the boys into two holding cells. six boys in one and seven in another. i was in cell one with dago. he was going to be my bitch, i guess.

one by one we were lead out of the cells to give the chief our information. i told the chief my name.
"theodosios," i said.
"what?" said chief.
"theodosios."
"what's your real name, pal?"
"that is my real name."
i was offended. he didn't believe me. how dare him. i screamed back that it was my real name and they can call my father and ask him. i was named after my father's father. boy, they had their hands full with me. i was then escorted back to my cell. they lead me to cell number two, not my original cell. being the anal retentive person that i am i figured it was my civic duty to alert the officer of his faux pas.
"i was in that cell before," i told the cop, pointing to cell number one.
"well this is your cell now," he answered. "this aint the holiday inn honey."
well, i was mortified that this 'pig' would even think i would stay at a holiday inn. did i look like holiday inn material? was i not dressed flawlessly?

after recording all of our names, the police drove us back to school. we were lectured by our disciplinarian, mr. gaffney. he handed us notes to get back into our classes. i arrived very late to my english class and handed the teacher my note. i sat at my desk next to nancy, the tough white trash girl from the other side of the boulevard. i told her gino's was raided, in the coolest voice i could muster. she was aghast.
"was dago there?" she asked.
"yeah," i told her, my attitude all tough. "he was. and he was acting all mamby pamby, mama's boy. but it's cool, nance, i straightened him out."
Nancy was kind to me the rest of the school year.

foot replacement surgery

2005-06-05T11:17:00.000-07:00

whenever i get a pedicure, i feel like there is someone else's feet attached to my legs. when i lie in bed and my one foot happens to brush against the other foot, it doesn't feel like mine. it feels so soft and smooth. a stranger's foot. this is why i adore pedicures. kudos to the person who performs my foot replacement surgery. jay. she's the best. she had to have graduated top of her class at the 'asian persuasion school of beauty culture'. her real name is choi but all the lady's at yumi's day spa have these little stage names. how one gets jay from choi, i'll never know. i don't even know how to pronounce choi, perhaps it is pronounced jay.

if i let my feet go longer than three weeks without a pedicure, jay has her work cut out for her. i don't know what it is but as i get older my toenails grow so damn fast and my heels get so hard and cracked. my aunt told me it happens as one gets older. she has her pedicures performed at wal-mart (go figure) which is next to the home depot, and eventually she'll have to go to the home depot for her pedicures. this is so true. eventually a belt sander will be needed for my feet. my jay knows what to do in any case. i want to become so famous and so rich that i can keep her on staff at my compound. next to the guest house by the pool i want to have the salon, where jay will be on-call twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.
"jay, shave my heel a little right there. i am going to be wearing the louis vuitton flip-flops today."
"jay, start heating the wax, a strange hair has appeared on my big toe."
"jay, there's something funky in between the long toe next to my big toe and the toe next to it."

i cheated on jay once. only once. i found a place that was advertising spa pedicures for ten dollars. i had to try it. let's just say i didn't understand a word the woman was saying to me so i just sat there and smiled and said yes to everything. sixty five dollars later i was yelling at the manager for charging twenty dollars for spa powder.
"what the hell is spa powder?" i asked.
"you say you want it," she said.
"i didn't understand," i yelled.
"so sorry, but it sixty five dollar"
i paid and vowed never to cheat on jay again.

what is it that grows in the corners of one's toenails? it's so gross. it doesn't bother jay, she just gouges it out and wipes it on the towel. i make these faces like...ewww, gross. jay doesn't bat an eye. she makes my nails look like little glass tiles with rounded edges, placed ever so gingerly on my toe. she then buffs them making them appear extremely healthy. little bisque colored glass tiles sitting perfectly atop my toes. she scrapes, scrubs with aroma salt and finishes off the procedure with a five minute leg massage, which brings much needed blood flow to my feet. they look pink. pink feet with glass tiles. my feet. my brand new feet.

ass wipe

2005-06-04T13:43:00.000-07:00

have you noticed that everything comes in a wipe form. have we become so lazy that we can't carry around two products when tackling a task? oil of olay daily cleansing wipes, clorox anti-bacterial wipes, windex glass cleaning wipes and swiffer floor wipes. pledge dusting wipes gives us a choice of lemon or orange scented. charmin makes a personal cleansing cloth. don't let the word cloth fool you; it's a wipe. a wipe made by charmin. so it's for your ass. an ass wipe. there's a word i haven't used since third grade. have you tried these? i have. they come in a little discreet white box that sits behind your toilet. not so discreet i say. they are moist and cool so when used properly leave a tingling sensation down there. they are curiously strong. like an altoid. they are altoids for your ass.

i think it would be insane if everything truly did come in a wipe form. i say prescription drugs should come in wipe form. toothache throbbing, no problem try new vicodin wipes and wipe wipe wipe that tooth pain away. i can't imagine where one would wipe a viagra wipe. i can see the commercial for paxil wipes. feeling sad? has life thrown you a curve ball? don't fret. use all new paxil wipes and wipe wipe wipe your way to xanadu. paxil wipes are not for everyone. paxil wipes can cause headaches, nausea and diarrhea (see ass wipes above). side effects of paxil wipes can be insomnia, bloating and in some cases death. consult your doctor before using paxil wipes.

midnight in the olive garden of good and evil

2005-05-11T22:24:00.000-07:00

i am not a fan of corporate restaurants. i find the mom and pop operations much more charming. i prefer a meal created by a chef. a meal with personality. i like the authentic, home-cooked taste of bistro's, cafe's and intimate bar & grille's. applebee's, friday's, california pizza kitchen, cheesecake factory, buca di pepo and romano's macaroni grill are establishments serving mass produced junk; and people flock to them. these places are packed. in the time it took for me to finally be served my bloomin' onion from outback steakhouse i could have planted and harvested my own onion, cut it into a beautiful flower, breaded it, fried it and whipped up a tasty remoulade for dipping. yet i get asked week-end after week-end if i want to patronize these places. my friends love them. after much convincing, i gave in this week-end when asked to go to the olive garden.

we arrived at the largest strip mall i have ever seen. it was in burbank and housed the following establishments: krispy kreme, outback steakhouse, the olive garden, linens 'n things, best buy, the good guys, the great indoors, two (count them) two starbucks , target greatland (as if target regular wasn't big enough) and a ton of others. corporate hell. the entire length of the mall had to have been two miles. the parking lot was filled to capacity, we had to park so far away from the restaurant. i was complaining about the far walk.
"is there a monorail to the restaurant?" i asked.

i walked into the olive garden to give the hostess our name. she told me it was going to be two hours. two hours!
"are you kidding me?" i asked.
she smiled and handed me some big, plastic thing with little red lights forming a circle.
"what's this?"
"that will flash and vibrate when your table is ready."
i took the homing device and headed back to my friends.
"it's gonna be two hours," i said. "she gave me this thing."
"cool, we'll go shopping," they said.
i hate skinny friends. they can honestly wait two hours to eat. they get excited that they can put off eating for two hours to shop. go figure.

we started to walk to the stores which seemed like miles away.
"what's linen's 'n things?" i asked
"oh, it's a place that has discount sheets," my friend stated.
"great. i am always in the market for some bargain pratesi."
about a mile toward the linen place my homing device started blinking, flashing and shaking. oh cool. that wasn't so bad. our table was ready. we ran back the mile to the olive garden. i handed the device to the hostess.
"your table isn't ready," she said.
"but this thing went off."
"it couldn't have"
"but it did, lady."
"did you walk outside of the area?"
"i was going to check out the discount sheets."
"oh, you see, that's outside of our area. it beeps when you wander. your table will be another hour and a half."
"you mean to tell me i have to wait for ninety minutes within a radius. i can't even go to the stores. i have to just stand here and look at them."
she smiled at me. i wanted to kill her.

we decided to throw caution to the wind and go back to the linen place. we ignored the beeper at the halfway point. i wanted crisp, white pratesi sheets. we walked into linens 'n things and i was really dissapointed. i think they misrepresent themselves. they should change their name to nothing over 180 thread count 'n dried flowers for that's all i saw. i didn't bother asking the girl at the counter for pratesti, she was too into her slurpee. i figured she probably didn't know what pratesi sheets were; call it a gut feeling. we headed back to olive garden. this time the beeper was going crazy closer to the restaurant. our table was ready. the hostess walked us to our table. the restaurant was decorated to make you feel like you were in tuscany. it wasn't so bad. we sat down and ordered.

i am a big salad before meal person. i love a good salad. at the olive garden they have this salad called the unlimited garden-fresh salad bowl. with every meal you get this huge, chilled glass bowl filled with salad. when you are finished, they bring you another one. brilliant. let me tell you, it was the best salad i've ever eaten. the lettuce was cold, crisp and dry. there was just a touch of red onion. maybe four or five slivers, the perfect amount. a few black olives, some tomatoes and maybe eight chick peas. eight. awesome. not overdone at all. i realized, left to my own devices i work a salad bar all wrong. i load up on things. my plate is so heavy. one of the side effects of a salad bar shouldn't be a back injury. this salad had just a tiny amount of everything. perfect. i had three bowls. with every unlimited garden-fresh salad bowl, they bring these warm, soft breadsticks. they call them the never-ending breadsticks. oh my god. unlimited garden-fresh salad and never-ending breadsticks. i love this place.

by the time my entree arrived i was too full to eat it. i ordered the steak gorgonzola-alfredo. grilled beef medallions drizzled with balsamic glaze served over fettucine tossed with spinach and gorgonzola alfredo sauce. oh my god. amazing. i took a bite of the medallion and was blown away. so delicious. i had the waitress wrap it up to go. i was full. i left olive garden feeling happy. as i exited through the lobby i saw a placard above the door.
"olive garden...come hungry, leave happy."
how right they were.

around midnight i got a hankering for a snack. the steak gorgonzola was calling me. evil, i tell you. i shuffled to the kitchen in my sweatpants. i took the package from the icebox and put it in the microwave. there i was at midnight, standing over the counter finishing my olive garden meal. sheer heaven. i can't wait to go back.

04.23.96

2005-04-23T19:50:00.000-07:00

i remember vividly the day before he died. i went to the hospital around eleven o'clock in the morning. i parked in the visitor's lot and got my blue visitor pass. i went to his room to find him watching figure skating. rudy galindo was performing. his face lit up when he saw me. that made me feel good. i asked if he had eaten and he told me he wasn't hungry. i figured he should get something into his system and went to the nurse's station for juice. the nurse told me to help myself to anything in the large refrigerator in the back. i looked in the freezer and found some orange sherbet. i took the sherbet and a spoon and walked to his room. He was asleep.

i took his plastic water pitcher to fill it with ice and fresh water. i found a new styrofoam cup and straw. i filled the cup, placing the plastic lid on firmly. i took the paper off the straw, inserted it in the cup and bent the top slightly. water in the hospital looks so good. it tastes better than it does at home. when i returned to his room i sat in the huge chair next to his bed. i watched him sleep. i can't believe this is happening, i thought. he was the picture of health; ate right, exercised religiously. unbelieveable!
"i'm not sleeping, i'm just resting my eyes," he mumbled. "what did you find to eat?"
"orange sherbet."
"mmmmm, will you feed me?"
"yeah."
i sat on the edge of the chair and through the bars of his bed i fed him. the sherbet was a little melted, yet it didn't drip. it had the consistency of cool-whip. he kept his eyes shut, but would open his mouth just as the spoon was near it. how did he know it was there?
"this sherbet is fabulous. what kind is it?"
"orange."
"i know that, i mean what brand."
"oh, i don't know, generic, i guess."
he ate all of it. i've never seen anyone enjoy something so much as he did that sherbet. he told me he needed to sleep.
"go ahead," i said. "i'll be here when you get up."
i watched him sleep. i didn't recognize him. i couldn't see in his swollen face, the man who was my best friend. i stared at him for what felt like hours trying to find him. i wasn't able to.

he awoke in a panic. "what did you do?" he asked. "why did you move the furniture?"
i hadn't moved a thing. what was he talking about?
"what?" i asked.
"everything is so close to me; i don't like it. move it back!"
i told him i was sorry.
"go back to sleep, i'll move everything back," i said dumbfounded. oh dear lord, he's not going to lose his mind now, is he? please don't let him get dementia. he probably has a lesion on his brain. fuck. he woke up hours later and thanked me for fixing the room. the person who was to relieve me was coming soon; i could go home and sleep. i've never felt this tired in my life. drained. exhausated. i arrived home about midnight and fell sound asleep.

i awoke at three a.m. to the dreaded phone call. the phone call i hoped never to answer. the phone call that made me hate the sound of the ringer. it was his mother.
"please, call the doctor at the hospital. they said something about him falling and they need to move him to i.c.u. what do they mean? what should i do? call them, please, call them."
i did as i was told. the doctor informed me that he fell trying to use the restroom. "it looks bad," he said. "i suggest you get down here fast." without hesitation (as i've often done in the past) i called his mother and came right out and told her what the doctor said. she lived ninety miles away and wanted to know what to do.
"the doctor thinks we should be there," i said. "listen, i'll go and see what's up."
i hung up the phone and rushed to get dressed.

i was dressed, ready and at the hospital in fifteen minutes. record time. the front door was closed. i had to enter through the emergency room.
"who are you here for?" the guard asked.
i gave him the room number and the patient's name. "only family," he said. "how are you related?" "he's my brother," i lied. i was angry that i had to lie. angry that in order for me to be with the one i loved, cared for and nursed in the past year and a half, a story had to be fabricated. i was furious that it had to be this way. i didn't have time to fret. once in, i ran to the front desk for the stupid blue pass. the person at the desk told me they emptied his room and i needed to collect his things. i needed to see the guard in the emergency room. why couldn't the guard have told me that? i ran all the way back to the e.r. to collect his things.

"i.d.?" the guard asked.
"excuse me?"
"you need i.d. to get his things. how do i know who you are?"
"i was just here, that's how. look pal, i am here on doctor's orders. i ran out of the house because my 'brother' is dying and you're asking me for fuckin' i.d. keep the fuckin' clothes, asshole."
the guard gave me his little bag and off i was to his room. his bag smelled like him. patchouli. he loved patchouli. i ran into the attending on the way to the room, he talked to me about a ventilator.
"i don't think your friend understands," he said. "he's asking for a ventilator. he seems to think that it would help. has he discussed a d.n.r.?"
"i don't even know what that means."
"do not resuscitate. i don't think he knows what that means either"
"oh," i replied. "um. oh, i don't..."
"look you better talk this out with him and i'll get back to you."

i ran to his room; saw him lying there hooked up to tons of machinery. i held back tears as i put his things in the closet of his new i.c.u. room.
"hey, just like our apartment in los angeles."
he smiled. that made me feel good.
"listen, they are talking about a ventilator," i said.
he couldn't speak but motioned a no to me. he waved his hands as if telling the blackjack dealer to stay. i'll keep these cards. he understood just fine. the doctor started a morphine drip, this he said should stabilize him.
"this happens all the time in these cases," the doctor stated. i didn't know what that meant. i didn't know how to feel. i didn't know what to do.

around seven a.m. his aunt arrived. i left to get some desperately needed rest. i cried the entire way home. i knew this was the end. i could feel it. i slipped into bed, wiped my tear stained face and let sleep erase the ordeal. my brother shook me awake, told me to take his car and get to the hospital.
"did they call?" i asked.
"no, but i think you should go. take my truck."
"you're gonna let me take your precious truck?"
"yes, just go. what the fuck! smoke in there if you want to."
"wow," i thought. "this is insane. there had to be a higher power guiding us all." i did as i was told and arrived again at the visitor's lot in record time. i folded the blue pass, put it in my back pocket and ran up to his room.

his aunt was reading to him when i arrived. she smiled and left to get some coffee. where was he? i couldn't find him in that face. that swollen face. i sat in my huge chair, once again, but this time felt unbelieveably comfortable. i did. i felt calm. the room was cool. not cold, just cool; and unbelievably comfortable. i saw his brother and his cousin turn the corner outside the room. i felt like a float in the macy's thanksgiving day parade. i felt huge. i was sitting on this chair, this throne and felt completely in control. both his brother and his cousin were a mess. they didn't know how to act. they didn't know what to do.

"talk to him," i said. "he can hear you." i remembered these words as they were spoken to me once by my aunt when i was much younger and my mother was in the hospital. i remembered how those words empowered me then. his brother stated his love for him about a thousand times, talking in circles. "i love you little brother. mom loves you. she couldn't come, but she loves you and i love you. i love you and mom loves you. i love you," his brother bumbled. his aunt returned and said she needed to leave. a man of the cloth entered the room. "do you need me?" he asked. i was about to tell him no, when his aunt chimed in and said, "yes." i didn't know what denomination he was, i guess it didn't matter. he read from the bible over the patient. i crossed myself in the greek orthodox way. his aunt did her roman catholic thing. bible man did his thing. religion was all over the place. preacher man then left.
"i have to go too, call if you need me." his aunt said then turned to him. "marmalade, good bye. i love you."
"marmalade?" i whispered. how cute.

alone with him again. i loved being alone with him. i always told him how if it was just me and him, life would be perfect. now it's just me and him. not so perfect. the doctor entered and told me what to expect. he pointed to some numbers on the monitor and told me how the decline would be. his heart rate, his pulse and all the other numbers would slowly drop. "keep an eye on them," he said.

alone with him waiting for him to die. watching the numbers, waiting for them to decrease. hours passed like minutes. the doctor came back in to look at the monitor.
"boy, this little guy's heart isn't goin' no where," he said. "usually all the numbers kinda go down equally, but this guy's heart hasn't moved. was he an athlete?"
"he worked out a lot," i said.
"boy, look at that. a strong ticker."
okay already. what the fuck! what did it mean? now i couldn't stop thinking about his heart. why was it still going so strong? everyone has said goodbye to him. in his coma, what was he thinking?
"talk to him," i remembered. "he can hear you."

"i don't know what you want. i wish you could tell me. are you lost?"

i remembered a card he gave me for my birthday a year ago, before he became sick. the only card i've ever received from him. he wasn't into cards. i cherished it. on the front of the card was 'winnie the pooh' and 'piglet'. they were walking hand in hand into the sunset. inside the card read:
"pooh?"
"yes piglet."
"just checking."
it hit me. that's why i was given that card. he didn't want to go alone. i took his hand and spoke.
"look, i'm going to go with you now, but i can only go so far. you have to go. if i could go with you i would, but it's not my time. go ahead and save a place for me. we'll meet there later. you and i will be together again. i hope. hey, do me a favor. give me a sign that we'll be together. somehow you must let me know if heaven exists. please, i need to know."
i felt it, right then and there. i felt god. i felt heaven. i have never felt so good in my life. i can vividly remember the coolness of the room and the great smell. like a flower shop, like the cold, crisp floral smell of a flower shop. i was so comfortable. a light shined into the room from his window and i turned to it. the spotlight from the parking lot was shining on a blossom of a magnolia tree. a huge blossom wide open and gorgeous. i hadn't noticed it before. it was beautiful. the whole experience was beautiful.

"go," i said. "you have to. don't be afraid. i'll go with you as far as i can."

the numbers were really low as he slowly took his last breath. i watched as a man took his last breath. i stood next to a man as he inhaled for the last time. no exhale. just quiet. peace. it was beautiful. the room was cool, calm, comfortable and quiet. i cried. it was over. no more worrying about this moment.
it had come. it is over. he gave me a taste of heaven that night. i will cherish that forever.

mrs. hee (hee)

2005-04-20T21:50:00.000-07:00

i loved mrs. hee, my elementary school teacher. she passed out the homework assignment as she dissmissed the class. i ran home, ate my afternoon snack and plopped myself down in front of the television. cartoons, cartoons, oh how i lived for cartoons. i watched them until it was time for dinner. "c'mon kids, dinner's ready," mom would call. she lacked a triangle. that's all folks! off went the television.

after dinner was homework time. i grabbed my scoolbag from our rec-room and brought it up to the kitchen. my schoolbag was a pair of denim shorts with the legs sewed shut, complete with five pockets and a zipper. on the back pocket of the jeans bag was a leather patch similar to the 'wrangler' logo. instead of 'wrangler', the inscription said 'teddy'. i had my name on a pair of jeans, a long time dream of mine, way before it was the rage. i pulled out my assignment and showed it to my mother. "have your child write a paragraph about what he/she wants to be when they grow up," it said.

"teddy," mom said, "you have to write about what you want to be when you grow up."
i sat and pondered the question. it didn't take very long. i already knew what i wanted to be.
my mother was washing the dishes when i asked, "mommy how do you spell star?"
my mother looked at me in horror. "you want to be a what?" she asked.
"a star," i repeated, "you know like on t.v. and in the movies."
mom stopped what she was doing and dried her hands on the green checkered tea towel. she sat down next to me, looked into my eyes and said, "honey, you can't be that. actors make no money; think of something else."
my little brain couldn't think of anything else, but to make everyone happy i had to think quick.

"mom, how about an ice cream man?"
i imagined myself driving an ice cream truck in my crisp, white uniform, wearing a cute white hat, riding through the neighborhood ringing my ice cream bells, selling sweet treats to all the children on the block.
"teddy," mom said, "how about a doctor? don't you want to be a doctor?"
"i could be a baby doctor," i said.
this pleased my mother and that made me happy. i wrote my paragraph on how much i wanted to be a baby doctor.

the following day i ran into class to turn in my paper. i thought about my paragraph and was unhappy. it wasn't the truth. i didn't know what to do. then it hit me; i walked to the teacher's desk, "mrs. hee may i change something on my homework?"
she asked what i needed to change. i told her that i wanted to write the word famous in front of baby doctor. mrs. hee nodded her head and told me she would make the change herself. i smiled. returning to my desk, i figured once i became a famous baby doctor i could quit medicine and become a star. i would then be old enough and wouldn't have to ask my mother.

role of a lifetime

2005-04-15T00:10:00.000-07:00

i had no work yesterday, so i spent the day being miserable. what's going on with my life, i kept thinking. i am so broke, i have no offers for work coming in; why am i doing this? why am i putting myself through this just to be famous? i wanted to give up; abandon ship. the phone rang and it was my aunt. my beautiful aunt. her greek name translated into english means star. this is very true. she is a star. not the kind of star i've been dreaming about, the real kind. a true star. a light that guides you, like the north star. today she was not only a star, but a saint. mother teresa in chanel. she told me to hang in there. not to surrender my dream over a bad day.
"put it out into the universe what you want," she said. "work will come."
no sooner did i hang up the phone with her, i received a phone call offering me the role of a lifetime.

i was offered the role of a greek dishwasher. only not the kind of role you're thinking. not in a movie or television show, but a real live diswasher. working in a greek restaurant on the west side of los angeles. my cousin, george, whom i live with works at this restaurant and they needed a dishwasher for the night. my life is over, i thought. this is the end. it cannot get worse than this. he asked me if i wanted to do it. i told him i didn't want to; i needed to. so off i went to the west side to play dishwasher for the night. i brought my orange stick and my cuticle clippers, thinking my cuticles would soften in all the hot water, at least i could manicure myself while i was there.

i passed the bentley of beverly hills dealership on the way to the job. in the showroom window was a big, shiny white bentley. the beautiful car looked as if it winked at me, this is the torture of los angeles; i on my way to be a dishwasher, the car waiting to be adopted by some rich family. i thought to myself, this is truly paying your dues. i will make this a zen experience. i will go to the job, wash dishes, get my money, do my nails and be done with the day. i asked for work earlier in the day, now i have some. deal with it.

i entered the restaurant and my cousin showed me where my apron was. i put on the frock and took my mark in front of the big stainless steel sink. i filled it with hot water and soap while i waited for the dirty dishes to start piling up. i let the steam from the hot water dift up around my face. it was here that i heard the bouzouki. the sound of my youth. the greek music playing in the background reminded me of my grandmother, my mother and my aunt dancing at one of our family functions. i smiled. this wasn't so bad. i can get through this. it was very peaceful. until mrs. goodman entered.

"yorgos," mrs. goodman yelled.
'yorgos', i thought. who's 'yorgos'? i then saw my cousin run to the table. he was 'yorgos'. the role of 'yorgos' will be played by my cousin george tonight.
"what was the name of the lover that zeus had for three weeks?" she asked
"hmm, good question mrs. goodman, let me ask the dishwasher," yorgos told her.
"teddy," yorgos called. "what was the name of zeus' lover?"
"who?"
"zeus."
"zeus who?" i asked.
"the god, zeus." he said.

you've got to be kidding me. is this woman for real. i realized then that i was on next. i took the dish towel and threw it over my shoulder. i walked out of the swinging doors, like the greek dishwasher i was. i grabed the towel and dried my hands in front of mrs. goodman, a move i've seen done over and over and told her that zeus had many lovers.
"i know," she said. "but what was the name of the mortal he had an affair with for three weeks?"
i paused. i didn't have a clue as to what mrs. goodman was talking about.
who the hell knows what this mortal's name was. make it sound greek and she'll be happy, i thought.
"aphrodite," i said.
it worked. she felt satisfied. i turned and walked back to the sink. i couldn't help but smile. this was actually fun. 'yorgos' brought mrs. goodman's meze platter to be washed. mrs. goodman didn't eat all her 'melizanosalata' for it dried into a hard mass, a little greek sculpture. it was a bitch to scrub off.

i felt like i was home. something i needed to feel. being a dishwasher brought me closer to my family in that little bit of time. we lived in a middle class neighborhood. every family on our block was comfortable. my father was the star of the community for he owned 'the' restaurant in philadelphia. anybody who was anybody went to my father's restaurant to be seen, so working in this greek place brought me home.

growing up, each of my friends had maids; back then we called them maids. jefferey had mayora, michael had hazel, marc had alla and brad had lucille. we had my mom. the day my mother asked for a dishwasher we all sat at the dinner table waiting for my father's answer. everyone had a dishwasher. all of my friends, all of my sister's friends and all of my mother's friends had them. we had to have one.
"what kind would you like, honey?" my father asked.
"oh, it doesn't matter," mom answered, "just suprise me."
the next day my father came home from work with his mother, her suitcases and a bottle of palmolive.

daydream believer

2005-04-14T11:04:00.000-07:00

most of my day i spend daydreaming, consumed by this insane hunger for fame. as i pass the grand homes throughout los angeles, i dream about living in one. huge billboards on sunset do not advertise the latest thing to me, they are more props for my wandering mind, as are movie marquees. wait until i am up there, i think. perhaps my mind wanders a little too much. i feel as though i am playing a character whenever i am in public or on stage. most of the time, i actually believe what i am playing.

i was walking through the grove at the farmer's market in los angeles. this place is the disneyland of all malls. it is huge and overdone. i love it. my new haircut was perfect. choppy, uneven, heroine chic laid in place with my bumble & bumble wax. thank heaven for that wax. it seperates and makes my hair look chunky. my visage was hidden by flawless black louis vuitton sunglasses. the collar of my noir cotton richard tyler shirt was turned up. oh-so-chic. the tiny tag on my black twill jeans reads: versace. even though my gucci mules, custom dyed the color of midnight, appear heavy; not a sound is heard as i walk. i feel very european. i begin to imagine myself, not in this mall, but shopping in italy. perhaps i am in rome carrying shopping bags from prada. i pass the window of a top designer and can see my reflection. i like what i see. i look good. i feel good. i feel thin; until someone yells, "yo elvis."

telephone thespian

2005-04-06T16:44:00.000-07:00

the day my feet touched hollywood soil for the first time, miss bette davis died. i found this to be profound, some sort of sign. one legend dead, another one baptised by the hollywood smog. as i began looking through the 'times' to find a cute apartment, i stumbled upon a help wanted ad that read: actors wanted. how easy, i thought. people make such a big deal about getting work as actors and right here in the los angeles times there was a want ad for them. i was going to hit the big time immedately. right away i called the number.
"l.a. heat," a big queen answered.
i told him i was calling about the acting job.
"you are aware that it is a phone actor," he stated.
i didn't care. i studied acting. drama, comedy, shakespeare, it didn't matter to me. the queen told me i would have to audition. i should prepare a ten minute audio tape for my audition using as many different voices as i could. i didn't quite understand. queenie then had to explain to me that we were talking about phone sex.
"phone sex!" i screamed into the receiver, "how much does it pay?"
regular calls paid me ten dollars a call, but if i could get the caller to call back and request me, they'd pay me twenty-five dollars per call. twenty-five dollars a call, i thought. wow. that's some serious cash. if i did ten calls a day, i'd only have to work two or three days a week, leaving me free for real acting auditions.
"where do i send the tape?" i asked.
he gave me his address and told me to call him when i finished the tape.

i didn't know the first thing about talking dirty. the dirtiest conversation i've ever had involved mold and mildew. keep in mind this was before internet chat rooms and free phone sex lines. since i would be a phone whore for both men and women i had to be versatile. i ran to the newstand to stock up on porn. playboy, hustler, honcho and stroke. i simply read into the tiny tape recorder from the ficticious stories in these magazines.
"i want to take my hot, wet, pulsing love rod and caress it against your moist wetness until we both crescendo into a pile of withering exctasy."
i was done. i called the queen to arrange a time to drop off the tape.

i arrived at the seedy apartment complex and found my convictions to be correct. at the door stood a three hundred pound, raging homosexual with gray hair that looked like he just had a wash and set.
"hi i'm teddy, here to drop off a tape," i stated.
"c'mon in cherub," he said.
i did as i was told. he explained more about the job and asked for the tape. i handed it over, then got up to leave.
"where are you going?" he asked, "i need to listen to it first."
right now, i thought. right here in front of me. i can't do this. i'm gonna die. this is a scene out of the movie 'fame'. i'm irene cara, ready to take off my blouse for the sleazy guy shouting, 'et vous coco, et vous'. the queen put the miniature tape player up to his ear and pressed play. as he paced, i saw the look of disgust in his face. i thought this to be a good sign. i was wrong.
"don't use words like 'love muscle' or 'moist wetness', the key to phone sex is to call these things what they are. 'cunt', 'pussy', 'cock', 'dick', 'ass', 'hairy ass'. i wanna take my big fat cock and fuck your pussy til it's red," he said.
i was red. i knew i couldn't do this.

"well teddy, you have a lot of characters, a great voice and are very savvy. we like that. you'll do well here."
i was ready to do whatever he said just to get the hell out of there and never return.
"here's how we work," he said. "i'll call you with the names and phone numbers of the clients, and all their needs and wants, likes and dislikes. you call them back using your phone card we provide you with. try to get them off within fifteen minutes. keep a record of your calls so we don't make a mistake. we'll mail you a check every two weeks. i'm sure within a month you will build a big following. you can expect to make anywhere from five hundred to seven fifty a week."
i felt like a real whore when i asked, "do i need to fuckin' sign anything?"

chasing farrah

2005-03-29T22:26:00.000-08:00

my moron of a manager accidentally, on purpose, sent me on an audition for a reality show. he knows my feelings about these shows, so i was pissed off. i am over reality television. there is way too much of it on t.v. now and i am frustrated. the fact that there are no scripted shows on television takes my chances of fame away from me. i do not watch them. i will not watch them. it is ridiculous entertainment. who cares about these mundane untrained idiots? not me. except for one new show. chasing farrah.

as a teen i was obsessed with farrah fawcett. i didn't just love her, i wanted to be her. i remember thinking how fun it must be to be famous like she was. i remember scouring every sporting goods store on the east coast for the red, white and blue sneakers she wore in the famous skateboard episode of charlie's angels. i had every poster, magazine, shampoo, t-shirt and piece of jewelry she came out with. i remember one christmas my sister received the farrah head beauty center. it was a large head molded to look like farrah. you could apply make-up to her and fix her hair. i freaked. i loved her. we ran down our stairs on christmas morning and tore through all the gifts. when my sister opened the present that was the farrah head, i stopped everything i was doing and made her rip the box open immediately. there she was, in all her gorgeous golden glory. farrah. big smile, white teeth, a tan that looked like she was kissed by the sun and that beautiful blonde mane. i immediately tore the fake lashes off the plastic piece they were adhered to and applied them right away to farrah's mesmerizing eyes. i couldn't believe they let her in that box without lashes. a crime. at this point i decided, since it was christmas, i was going to give farrah a fierce up-do. after all, it was a holiday. no self respecting celebrity would be seen out and about on christmas day with her hair a mess. a few wisps here and some cheek colour there, and voila, farrah was ready.

my mother came downstairs to watch our faces as we opened our gifts. she saw me playing with farrah and told me to stop.
"that's your sister's toy teddy," she said.
i had to give it up and go back to my 'planet of the apes action figure tree house'. i couldn't stop thinking about farrah though. my sister did not know the proper make-up techniques to use. she couldn't tease farrah's hair to within an inch of its life, then smooth it into an elegant chignon. i had to get at farrah before she ruined her. her publicist would be furious at this amateur stylist working on his number one client. his star. i had a plan. i would wait until my parents left me to babysit. i would put my brother and sister to bed early, sneak farrah out of her box and re-do the damage done. her lashes needed to be straighter, her hair needed to be softer, her complexion needed an apricot glow.

one night my parents came home from their outing and my mother went to my sister's closet right away. she pulled the farrah box down from the shelf high above and pulled farrah out, almost ruining her edgy shag.
"did you play with this?" she asked.
"no."
"then how come she looks flawless?" mother asked.
i went to bed knowing farrah and i could never be together. the next morning my sister awoke and went to play with farrah. i acted like i didn't care, but it was a lie. each time farrah was played with i tried to keep a watchful eye on her; make sure she was being treated with respect. i never touched her. she never knew how much i cared. months passed and like most toys, my sister stopped playing with her. she remained in that box until it was time for the goodwill. that was the end. from there, i never knew where she went. as with any break-up in time i got over it; it was probably for the best. farrah went on to do some really good work. i'll always remember the good times farrah and i had. cute little sporty pigtails and a touch of lip gloss for her tennis match on 'challenge of the network stars'; gigantic hair and very smoky eyes for her photo shoot with scavulo; a ponytail and just a touch of mascara, to cook lee dinner; french braids and sunglasses, stolen from my grandmother, for her jaunts to the supermarket. good times.

recently i was scanning ebay and there she was. farrah in the original box unopened. i gasped. i immediately put a bid in for her and watched it like a hawk. i was going to win farrah back; farrah and teddy together again. think of the headlines. i bid way too much money, but i won her. farrah was mine once again. she arrived days later and i felt the rush again like i did as a teen. i opened the box and put her lashes on first, like i did those many years ago. i played with her for hours. friends would phone but i couldn't be bothered. "farrah and i were catching up," i'd tell them. they all thought i was crazy, but it got to the point where they would call and ask how she was. that's her allure, her star power. she was invited to many birthday parties, holiday events, barbeques and dinners. i never took her, what with the papparazzi and all. she was mine, all mine. i kept her in her box, high above my closet; just like where she used to be when i was a teen.

i had one more thing to do. i had to call my mother, tell her that farrah and i were getting back together and there was nothing she could do about it. i was an adult now. i had to assert myself. be a man. if i wanted to hang out with farrah that was my business, not hers. my hands shook as i dialed her number. she answered with her melodic hello.
"mom," i spoke proudly into the phone "guess what?"
"what?"
i felt the churning in my stomach. i felt the lump in my throat.
"nothing," i gulped, scratched my head, "just wanted to see how you were doing?"
so much for being an adult. farrah and i would have to remain secretive for the rest of our lives.

easter sunday

2005-03-27T01:09:00.000-08:00

it is easter sunday. although not for me. you see i am of greek orthodox decent and we celebrate easter later than the rest of the universe. i never understood why until i was much older. the greeks cannot celebrate easter until the jews celebrate passover. that was the order that it happened. we are sticklers for detail. as a child i thought this rather odd. i never really felt like i belonged. try to explain the order of biblical events to third graders. i was able to turn this into something fabulous. i would have easter week off from school for regular easter, then i would have my greek good friday off sometime later. this would cause amazement amongst my classmates. each time i was absent for greek good friday i would spend the entire holy day not thinking about god or religion or why i was even off. i would spend the entire day thinking about what i was going to tell the kids at school. why i was absent friday. i would enter the school on monday ready to answer everyone’s questions as to my whereabouts. one such monday i arrived to my third grade class with the perfect excuse. of course, i arranged to be a tad late. i stormed into the classroom in mock disarray. i handed my absent note to the teacher, a pre-printed form given to all the little greek children of the congregation by our priest. as i walked to my desk i noticed all eyes upon me; eyes of wonder. where was teddy last friday, i knew they were thinking. i sat at my desk waiting for someone, anyone to ask me 'the question'. the boy who sat next to me was the chosen one. “where were you on friday?” he inquired. “oh don’t ask,” i said. “i’ve been in new york all weekend partying at studio 54.” at recess the entire school was crowded around me listening to my stories about andy, halston, truman and liza. all attention was upon me that day.

fame

2005-03-26T20:53:00.000-08:00

what is this thing called fame i seek? who knows? i wish i did. i have read every celebrity biography to find the answer. (i read anne heche to find out about celestia). not one of these books ever delved into the 'way' to do it. no one knows how it's done.

why do i need to be famous? am i looking for love, acceptance, validation? it is a burning desire of such mass proportions it cannot be described. i will try anything for it to happen. i have done things no one in their right mind would do to achieve it. i am a talented person with so much to offer in so many fields yet i seek this stupid fame thing. help me through this, someone. this journal is to capture my feelings, thoughts and experiences through this insane journey into the world of fame. join me while i try to attempt to become famous. come along for the ride if you like. i can guarantee it will be crazy, sad, emotional and at times funny.

tony soprano meets dom deluise

2005-03-26T11:55:00.000-08:00