priorities

Although some of the mystical ‘leading economic indicators’ seem to be recovering, don’t think this country is done with the nightmare. For the most part, I have been insulated from the economic crisis. A key reason for this: I had no money when the crisis began; I am exactly as broke as I was when all of this started.

But a some recent news items point out how dire things still are. In March, the Detroit Symphony Orchestra went on strike, and now it seems the Syracuse Symphony may have to cancel the rest of its season. What? We’re talking he cornerstone of the entire upstate New York classical music industry–how could we let this happen? I mean, GM is one thing–but the Syracuse Symphony?!  Where are the congressional hearings? Where’s the outrage?

I don’t think any of us can imagine where this will lead.  Fewer musicians working could mean that,  I think for the first time in our nation’s history, we could see musicians in the unemployment line. Less rehearsal time may mean that audiences will be forced to endure unevenly performed string quartets. And who knows–maybe they won’t even be played by quartets! Everyone knows that our nation’s cellists are the first to be cast aside in a crisis.

Of course, economic analysts often point to small regional orchestras as the true bellweathers of the economy–the proverbial ‘canaries in the coal mine.’ Just think what might happen next. Ballet companies having to dance in street shoes…operas mounted with NO incidental music… a production of  Wagner’s ‘Ring’ cut down to only three and a half hours!

If the SSO and other crucial groups are not bailed out by the federal government, the repercussions will shatter the very foundations of our society. We cannot leave our children a country in which community theaters, in the interest of ‘financial responsibility,’ have to mount productions of  “One Gentleman of Verona” or “Seven Angry Men.” Or a version of “The Music Man’ where the townsfolk can only sing about “55 Trombones.” Please, people. Demand that Congress save the Syracuse Symphony Orchestra. Or this great experiment, this America, will surely collapse.

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how does this work again?

I am extraordinarily lucky to  have found ‘the girlfriend.’  I had pretty much given up on the partner thing, since prior to connecting with She Who Tolerates Me, I hadn’t had sex in five years. While I’d like to attribute this to my incredibly high standards, there may in fact be other reasons for this drought.

When I was a younger man, I filled these dry spells with soul-searching, personal growth work, and porn. I never went to strip clubs, because I never understood the point—let’s, see, I’m lonely, and would really like to be with a woman, so I think I’ll go to a place that charges me a lot of money to LOOK AT what I want, which will get me excited, but I won’t be able to do anything about it. Sorta like being really hungry and going to a restaurant where the waiters SHOW you plates of food that you can’t eat.

Unfortunately, porn doesn’t do much for me, because the internet has made it too complicated. Used to be, you’d grab a magazine, and see pictures of people having sex. But while looking at those pictures, you didn’t have to deal with other pictures ‘popping up’ to get you to look at new pictures. I’m just saying, when the mood is just right, call me old-fashioned, but I like to focus on the couple I’m watching pretend to have sex.

There are also too many options with internet porn. I realize the spectrum of human sexuality is diverse, but are you kidding me? Two men, three woman, and an some kind of…sling? See I think what makes porn work is when the viewer can, at least on some level, imagine himself to be in the scene. Me, I’ve never mentally put myself in a sling.

The problem is that men get bored so easily with our simple man-minds, we have to keep making up new, more ‘out there’ types of porn. First it’s threesomes, then orgies, and all of a sudden we’ve got somebody with a camcorder uploading videos of alpacas masturbating.

You’d think, being bisexual, life would be a veritable Satyricon for me—a sexual smorgasbord. But no, it just means I can go into ANY bar and go home alone. By the way, I hate the term ‘bisexual.’ It sounds too clinical. I prefer my Native American name–”Dance With Anyone.” Or you could call me “donnyandmarie,” because I’m a little bit country AND a little bit rock and roll.

Before the girlfriend, the last time I had been in an actual relationship, Heather Locklear was starring in a series. Turns out, my sex life actually paralleled Heather Locklear’s career. I got laid a lot from 1981-1989 (’Melrose Place’ and ‘T.J. Hooker’), not so much from 1999-2002 (’Spin City’), and once in 2004 (’LAX’).  So until the lovely Miss Locklear gets another gig, I’m gonna have to find some way to get back in circulation.

I have thought about placing a personal ad, but I’m not sure I’m very ‘marketable.’

Forty-eight year old struggling writer and standup comic with limp seeks partner to share couch at friend’s apartment. Does not drive. Hobbies include playing the clarinet and blogging.

I’ve read that you can make romantic connections in places other than bars. But where? I’m Jewish, so I could cruise synagogues, but it always felt a little weird flirting with someone at a house of worship–I mean, God’s right there , for God’s sake. And I’ve heard that grocery stores are possibilities, but I’m not sure how you start that conversation (”I see you eat food, too. Maybe we should hook up.”)

It had been so long since I had sex, I wasn’t even sure if it worked the same way. Like they had developed some sort of…Sex 2.0 that I didn’t know about. I’m happy to report that it’s exactly the same as I remembered it, although I have  had to retire a few of my moves.

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you kids get out of my yard!

I’ve finally gotten old enough to get away with being cranky. See, I’ve always been cranky, but now that I’m in my fifties, I realize I’m gonna start getting cut slack for being a cranky old guy. I can now be the guy in line muttering angry shit about–anything. I can pull it off now, because I look the part. You have to age into crankiness–it’s like smoking a pipe–a twenty-five year old with a pipe just looks pretentious and–well, wrong.

And why do I feel so oddly empowered? Why do I suddenly look the part? It’s not the grey in my goatee, or the lines on my face. It’s because now I walk with a freakin’ cane! Due to some sort of hip thing (not Tower of Power ‘hip’–grandpa ‘hip’), I’ve got a limp. Basically, I move a little like a Weeble. Now, I’m not thrilled that my marathon-running days are over (before they could even start–tragic), but I’m starting to at least embrace the plus side.

The other day I hobbled onto a train and proceeded to tell the teenager (who was, I might add, terribly unkempt) to get his feet off the seat in front of him. And he did! So testing my newfound license to scold, I strongly suggested that the kids in the back should quiet down, and they did!

But for the best example of the power of the cane–I was crossing the street last week, and noticed a couple of young guys in one of their…hot-rod jalopies. They didn’t see me, and clearly had no intention of stopping before the crosswalk. So I let them pull all the way into the crosswalk, walked to the driver’s side window, planted my cane and yelled ‘this is a crosswalk, punk!”  They looked very frightened. They backed up, waited for me to cross, and then drove away (at the speed limit, I might add).

Now in that moment, they were probably cursing me, but I guarantee that they will remember the insane old dude the next time they come to a rolling stop. And that’s the beauty part, people. I call it freelance social engineering.

This newfound acceptance of my…enfeeblement is very cool, and almost offsets the fact that, in general, my body is breaking down at an alarming rate. I suppose some of this is related to smoking, drinking and not excercising. Anyway, yesterday I got out of the chair at my desk and thought ‘I’ve been sitting too long.’  What? YOU CAN’T SIT TOO LONG! Sitting isn’t an activity! I’ve actually said ‘Oy–my hip’–trust me, when you use Yiddish AND talk aout your hip, you’re officially old.

I wear reading glasses, have digestive problems, walk with a cane,and about three years ago I woke up one morning unable to lift my right arm above my head. I suppose that’s something I should look into. Problem is, I don’t do the doctor thing. It’s not the actual doctor, it’s the time before the appointment. Combine an overactive imagination with the fact that I haven’t exactly treated my body like a temple (maybe a rec room? a VFW hall?), and I always assume the worst.

Side note about my cane–I actually wanted a walking stick–they look less, I don’t know, orthopedic. I’d seen some very stylish walking sticks, but then I realized that I’d never seen a walking-stick store. Or walking-sticks in a store. I couldn’t imagine that everyone with a walking stick hand-carved it out of branches from their back yard, so I did some searching on the web.

Funny enough, the only sites I found for my walking-stick needs were…pimp-related. Pimphats.com . Pimpcostumes.com . I found it interesting that, apparently, the demographic group propping up the walking-stick industry would be none other than our hard-working pimps. Turns out there’s a vast selection of stick options, including one that can (no lie) be filled with a pint of your favorite booze. Now that’s being at peace with being an alcoholic-when you don’t even bother to hide the bottle, choosing instead to guzzle directly from your pimp stick.

Anyway, I should end this now. My leg’s hurting, I need to take my Benefiber, and I’m kinda tired. Besides, my stories are on now.

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