He Who Has Nil
Dear Sirs or Madams Who Have Nil -- Part 1. Hi there. Long time listener, first time caller. I write for two reasons. First, to thank you for your crackerjack blogging enterprise, which has filled my fat black heart with not a little cold comfort over the past few weeks. In related pursuits, I look to you for future advisement concerning improvement in matters of both professional and personal conduct. You should pardon the below prolixity which has forced me to divide my remarks into two sections. But, to take a hatchet to a particularly germinal excerpt via Ms. Gertrude Stein, "an introduction, is an introduction, is an introduction." I am, as they say in certain corners of the Equity lounge, a "character actress." I have enjoyed a small modicum of achievement on the Off (and doubly, nay trebly Off) Broadway boards. And I have secured employment in the capacity of "exposition taxi" for a goodly number of low-profile productions -- in a panoply of roles ranging from prepubescent boys, wise-cracking maidservants, developmentally delayed maiden aunts and wacky lesbian neighbors. Although not wishing to play the cockalorum, I can also point to some faded feathers in my cap when it comes the blighted fields of Madison Avenue gimcrackery -- in which I have galumphed for some time now. But let's face it Sirs or Madams, the TV ad world is really not much more than a vaporous bardo of flop sweat and meal penalties. So while other ladies in my "age-range" (47 - 47) may currently enjoy a "Career"... I petulantly trudge along in what might be more accurately termed a "Kareer." Where others may display the elusive "It Factor,” I often reveal a little something I like to call the "Oops Factor." You get my gist, but deets to follow. By way of further example, I don't even drive a car. Or prepare meals. Or clean my dilapidated home. Or know much about anything of import (or export). Or occupy my time in what others might call a “fiscal year.” Worse yet, when it comes to time-management, there is a discernible hitch in my giddy-up. Ambition? Sense of purpose? Task-oriented? -- A definite ping in the ol’ engine. About the hypochondria, I won’t even start. In terms of my meager skill set, if you can imagine a person being all thumbs and ham-fisted at the same time... then I am just such an imaginary personage. Now add a limp. Plus which, although purportedly of the female gender (dithering school-girl or soot-stained guttersnipe: you choose); if I stood very still (not likely) and remained very quiet (ibid); my dimly lit body would throw a shadow that could very well be mistaken for a cardboard box. Trapezoidal, no less. Meaning (if I may impose on the generous scope of your collective imagination once again, Sirs or Madams), that I -- aforementioned “imaginary personage” -- am able to maintain card-carrying membership in morphological departments both Ecto & Endo. Simultaneously! That is just how it is in the paradoxical back offices of me-ness. (continued)
Dear S&M WHN – part 2On top of which, I lug about with me a lantern jaw that reveals an eerie kinship with the medically renowned genetic expression of the infamously inbred & under-bitten Hapsburg lineage. Again, gender notwithstanding, I must gamely shoulder an unsettling resemblance to a pear-shaped version of the justly maligned over-bearing character actor, Sir John Lithgow. Or a latter-day Mr. Iggy Pop. Haircut-wise: The permanent NON-Hall-Of-Famer: Mr. Pete Rose.In terms of forehead real estate: think five-head.Bra size: a non-starter.On the vocal front: Are you a dog owner? Go find a chew-toy. Step on it. That's my demo reel.Still more not better, I also interrupt a lot, am plagued by chronic dyspepsia and am way too chatty with waiters. Moreover, not long ago on a subway platform, this lower case gothamite discovered that she lacks the judicious wherewithal to avoid stepping in a sizable log of anonymously manufactured human poop. And so, even though a strange (possibly indigent) man once stopped me on the street to say: "Well helloooo there, summer breeze!" (not on the aforementioned poop day, mind you) -- I remain, on paper (or plastic), a peevishly twitchy, dun-colored miasma of over-loud anxiety, under-nuanced expression, vituperative steam & abject despair. To wit: whether measured in terms tribal, legion or global -- a categorical flopapalooza in most arenas of adult mammalian comportment. This I know. That said exhaustively (enough with the horn-tooting already! Am I right?), you can undoubtedly surmise, dear Sirs or Madams, that it was just a matter of time before a thoroughly drained mild acquaintance shoved me in the direction of yooz who have nil. Needless to say, your posts are deeply inspirational and I find myself repeatedly heartened to read of your way-worse conditions. To discover that I am really not so bad off as say, The Cmmdr or The Ensign for instance, has been a balm to my troubled soul. As you surely know, dear S or M, Schadenfreude finds its purchase on the unlikeliest of barren slopes. And your prodigiously prolific grousing has been pudding-positive proof in this regard. Time and again, the proverbial shoe that fits the bill. For which, I must express my humble thanks. I'll sign off for now with nothing short of galloping gratitude, best wishes and an earnest hope that I may look to you in the future for tips & tutelage in the trade! yrs. sincerely,lower case gothamite PS: Thanks to your voluminous commentary section, I have ALSO acquired a goodly number of off-label Christian Loubiton sensible flats. Fist-pump to that!
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