the E-MP

Hira-Lee Quintin set her jaw determinedly: today was the day. No…today was her day.

That morning she had spent forty-five minutes in front of her vanity mirror promising herself and her reflection that failure was not an option. This had been followed by some half-hearted Buddhist chanting, a dozen or so Hail Marys, a poorly-executed Sun Salutation, and a faithfully-reenacted voodoo ritual she had learned during last year’s visit to New Orleans. She was covering all of her bases today. Failure was not an option.

As she waitied to take the stage, she plucked a few orange cat hairs from her otherwise perfect ensemble: pantsuit of royal blue over a shimmery-but-not-in-a-slutty-way blouse with mother of pearl buttons. She had long considered mother of pearl to be the luckiest organic-inorganic composite material, and it was prominently featured in the namaste amulet, crucifix, and gris-gris she wore hidden about her person. She silently thanked the mollusks that had given their lives for her day of triumph. Triumph was the only option.

She did a mental checklist:

1) Vocal Warm-Up with special attention to the lower register of her already baritone voice: check.
2) Light Breakfast of tea and toast with HeartSmart butter substitute: check.
3) Anti-Nausea Pill to avoid embarrassing repeat of Light Breakfast of tea and toast with HeartSmart butter substitute: check.
4) Breathing (in through nose and out through clenched teeth): check.
5) Jaw Set Determinedly: check.
6) The Perfect Speech: check.

“Mrs. Quintin?”

The audio-visual intern had surprised her, unsetting her jaw and drawing nervously chewed chunks of HeartSmart-lubricated toast dangerously high up her esophagus. She spun on her sensible flats, dark eyes barely hiding her seething rage.

“It’s Hira-Lee Quintin. Hira-Lee Quintin. You have to say the whole thing. Do it now.”

The intern balked, sensing immediately and instinctively that he was in danger of being swallowed whole by a very dangerous predator. Her jingling mother of pearl luck implements sounded uncannily like a snake’s rattle as she vibrated ever-so-slightly before him.

“Mrs…Hira-Lee Quintin?”

Her dark eyes rolled up into her head, the sudden absence of pupils sending shockwaves of terror through the quivering intern. Hira-Lee Quintin counted to ten in her mind before speaking again. The pause was unbearable and heavy. When her voice finally did come out, it was in oddly dulcet tones that unnerved the intern in a different, almost dirty way.

“There is no…Mister…Quintin. There is only Hira-Lee Quintin. No Mizz. Certainly no Misses. Just Hira-Lee Quintin. Or…” Her pupils appeared again, snapping into the center of her eye with a faraway dreamy look in them. “…President Quintin.”

“But you’re not President ye–”
“DID YOU HAVE A QUESTION?”

The intern wished very much to look away from the deep pools of Hira-Lee Quintin’s stinkeye but found himself inexplicably unable to do so. Alerted by Hira-Lee Quintin’s roar, the entire backstage crew was now staring at the two figures locked in silent, mental, mortal combat. Bob the Sound Dude took a step toward the pair but was stopped by the outstretched arm of Angus the Lighting Guy, who slowly shook his head and mouthed the word “NO.” He had known Hira-Lee Quintin long enough to know that intervention at this point would only put them all at risk. Her deep-seated animosity toward anyone she felt beneath her stature was legendary– in fact, she was quite proud of her not-so-secret nickname, “Puddles”, bestowed based upon her uncanny knack for reducing subordinates to puddles in her wake.

The intern quaking before her could feel himself becoming one of those puddles, but was barely able to resist the urge because, in fact, he did have a question for Hira-Lee Quintin. It did seem, however, a particularly pointless one after her latest outburst.

“Are…you gonna need a microphone?”

Hira-Lee Quintin emitted a noise that was somewhere between a guttural growl and a high-pitched yodel as the intern scrambled away and the rest of the backstage crew pretended to go about their business. She catalogued this intern’s face in her steel-trap memory. He would pay for this transgression later….when she was finally– rightfully– the woman with all the power.

to be continued…

Last weekend I had a joke experience to top all others:

I shook my ass, and everything attached to it, in a crazy costume in front of thousands of people.

aka SF CARNAVAL 2008!

Now I will say that I didn’t go into this blindly…I’ve been taking Tania Santiago’s (HIGHLY RECOMMENDED) Afro-Brazilian dance class at ODC for months now. If the Greeks had had a muse for the art of Ass-Shaking, she would be it. She’s a ball of Afro-Brazilian delight and at this point I’ll do pretty much anything she asks, including dancing in the Brasil-Cuba SF Carnaval contingent.

I had little expectation going into this, and was really only counting on gaining 3 things from the experience:

1) excruciating physical pain and/or injury
2) emotional trauma, perhaps coupled with unearthed long-hidden memories of childhood torment and public humiliation
3) adulthood torment and public humiliation

That’s why it was going to be a joke experience…for all their faults, they’re great for stories later and pictures now!

At the end of the day, I didn’t get any of the things I expected to get from Carnaval. I got much, much better things. I got to dance and celebrate in the sun. I got to shake it harder than it’s ever shaken before. I got glitter on parts that have never had glitter before, and probably shouldn’t ever again. Best of all, I got to enjoy a beauitful day with some of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met.

Viva Carnaval!

Who’s in for next year?

–MAP

One month ago the price of my Comcast digital cable doubled when the special introductory period ended. Apparently Comcast, like so many others, shows its true colors when it feels that introductions are over. This, coupled with the fact that neither my housemates nor I had actually enjoyed any of our 500+ channels in several weeks, led me to make the call to cancel our service. I even called on the very last day of the billing cycle so as to make a clean break and avoid the exponentially increased new rate.

I was a fool to think it would be so easy.

The following is a set of helpful tips for your Comcast Extraction Process. Start yours today!

************************

The call I made to cancel my cable apparently NEVER happened. Comcast has absolutely no record of it. They have records of my call to START my service. They love the records of my service commencement. They’ve saved everything from that time…that time when we were innocent and very much in love. They were 500+ channels of promised entertainment, I was just foolish enough to think I’d ever have time to watch TV. Ahh, 6 months ago…we were so young then.

In that cancellation call that never happened I was informed that Comcast was expecting me to return the digital cable box they had given me as a gift six months prior. I was not surprised by this– I figured they’d get vindictive and I was determined to rise above. What was surprising was the fact that, while more than happy to bring you the cable box free of charge upon commencement, Comcast charges 10 bucks to do the exact same thing in reverse upon cancellation. That, or you can save your money and spend some intimate final moments with your cable box as you hoof it to the Comcast office yourself.

The Comcast office is built on an ancient Indian burial ground and the spirits are royally pissed. They’ve focused every ounce of their dark will on driving Comcast out and taking back the land that is rightfully theirs. In, say, a normal suburban home, such ill-willed spiritual intervention would manifest itself in the form of slamming doors, blasts of cold air, rumbling voices from the walls themselves advising the occupants to “GET OUT!” At Comcast…it’s just a Tuesday. Whatever your substance of choice is, take it. Whatever your higher power is, pray to it. Kiss the kids. Tell the old lady you love her. You just never know.

They’ll never admit it, but Comcast has some codependency issues that they’re obviously still working on. I mean…I did what I thought was right. I went to Comcast Incarnate. I waited and waited. I waited some more. I delivered the box. I waited. When they told me they hadn’t actually cancelled my cable when they were supposed to, I explained the call that never happened. I waited. I explained again to another Comcastian, this one with more power. I waited. I believed them when they told me it was over…truly over. I waited. I paid the final bill. I ran out screaming and tearing at my own flesh. I kissed the sweet un-Comcast ground. I looked in vain for the “I Survived Comcast” commemorative T-shirt booth. I went home a changed but free man. And today, a month later, I get a past due notice for last month’s charges attached to next month’s bill. WTF?!?!?

Today’s phone conversation with Comcast featured some of my finest acting to date. To convincingly pull off the part of a well-mannered, calm, composed former-and-yet-inexplicably-current Comcast customer called for reserves of strength I never knew I had. I faltered, yes, here and there, especially in the parts where the well-meaning but inherently evil gentleman on the other end of the line tried to make me pay money that WAS NOT GOING TO BE PAID(!).

Here’s his logic:
My cancellation call never happened. I summon courage from within and tell him in a firm, even tone that it most certainly did. I quote some of my favorite passages from this phone call. By the time I’ve convinced him that it happened I’ve almost un-convinced myself (this guy was GOOD). Then he proceeds to tell me that they don’t cancel the service until 7 days after you call (note how they cunningly circumvent my clever idea to call on the last day of the billing cycle…if only they would use their power for good rather than ILL)(also note: commencement = immediate, cancellation = suddenly sort of difficult, best left for some time later in the week…you don’t mind paying for that week, right?). So he tells me that he CAN go back and cancel it THAT far in the past (though he usually wouldn’t! not supposed to! big favor going on here!) but he’s going to need to cancel it 7 days after the call that didn’t happen.

This is when I crack.

Me: But…you…if you’re just going to backdate the cancellation anyway…why add 7 days? Why not just do it on the day I called? Just cancel it on the 24th!
Comcastian: But we need to cancel it 7 days after the day you called.
Me: (bending time & space in last ditch effort to not scream into mouthpiece) Okay. Then I called on the 17th.
Comcastian: …but you didn’t.
Me: But you don’t know that. You don’t have any record of WHEN I called. So if that’s what you need to hear, then I JUST remembered: I called on the 17th.

He tells me his hands are tied. He is utterly helpless. There’s not a thing he can do, unless I want to speak to a manager. Oh my God I’ve never wanted to speak to a manager more in my life…I couldn’t wait. But I did.
On hold.
I waited.
And waited.
And while I waited: a miracle. My seething rage slowly melted away into an uneasy but welcome docility. I think they put something in the hold music.
And I wasn’t the only one to experience a miracle: the voice that FINALLY picked up was the same fellow I’d spoken with, informing me that he had been suddenly freed of his handicap and was now capable of cancelling my cable on that now legendary last day of the billing cycle.

VICTORY!

…for now…

–MAP

I promised myself I would never blog about Britney Spears BUT:

I think we’ve all lost perspective when it comes to this young entertainer. I mean, amidst all of the controversy, the marriage, the divorce, the pregnancies, the soon-to-be delinquent outcomes of said pregnancies, the head-shearing, the puffy-faced tabloid splash pics, the drugs, the fits, the fights…have we all forgotten what it is that attracted us to her in the first place…the artistry?

Submitted for your approval: excerpts from that oft-overlooked first album gem, “E-mail My Heart”

I can see you in my mind, coming on the line
And opening this letter that I’ve sent a hundred times.
Here’s a picture of us two, I look so good on you
and can’t you please forgive me for the hurt I put you through.

E-mail my heart and say our love will never die
and that I know you’re out there and I know that you still care.
Email me back and say our love will stay alive.
Forever, Email my heart.

Wow. That one hits hard.

The very idea of Britney Spears sitting down to send one hundred copies of the same email to someone is hilarious….of course you have to picture her completely strung out while she does it. I also enjoy this referrence to a picture of she and I wherein she “looks so good on [me]”… is it wrong to imagine her in her ill-advised recent Video Music Awards costume in said picture, belly hanging dangerously low over her sequined thong?

This is a rough draft of the email I will be sending to Britney Spears’ heart:

Dear The Heart of Britney Spears,

M. Phillis

It all started with this:

(I’m in the yellow)

And luckily that ended with this:

(gravity=my bitch)

And then I went to an amazing pajama party with this guy:

(thank you Mama P for providing the evening’s attire…I love a gag gift that makes good)

Along the way I ran into one of my favorite trannies:

(Bebe Sweetbriar: standing at the intersection of sass & class…in 6 inch heels)

I also met an elf with an affinity for costume jewelry:

(as sweet as the cookies they make in his tree-home)

And I got to loll around in a huge bed with some incredible company:

(love these fellows)

And all the while we got to watch some incredibly powerful, hilarious, and just plain crazy performances:

(not sure where this stuffed animal orgy fit in but hey, why the hell not?)

This was one of those only-in-San-Francisco kind of days. HUGE thanks to the folks at Adventure Skydiving for making a man out of me and an even bigger thanks to III (www.visualsby3.com), the genius behind one of the best parties I’ve ever been to in all of my years.

Life…what’s not to love?

–MAP

Sometimes the life of the working actor is just so glamorous I can barely stand it.

Like yesterday: the Day of the Dual Auditions (or as I’ve come to affectionately call it, Double Rejection Monday). Two different all-day auditions going on in the same building at the same time and I’m taking a crack at each: Computer Geek in the morning, Runner at 24-Hour Fitness in the afternoon. I’ve got my snappy business casual drag on in the AM, shorts & sneakers in my bacpack for the PM. I am fully prepared, professional that I am, to make that costume change in whatever roach-kissed gas station bathroom I can find nearby whose attendant will let me in without buying something.

I’m feeling extremely professional as I stride into my first audition and answer the auditioner’s first question of “How are you?” with “Twenty-five.”

?!

Now, I could have sworn he said “How old are you?”…which somehow only struck me as an odd first question after I answered it. His face got a little panicked, probably because I instantly turned beet-red and began sweating…it’s this thing I do (a lot) in these situations (which happen a lot…see earlier Irrational Fears post re: answering generic greeting questions with the incorrect generic responses. This one was a doozy though…who answers “How are you?” with a number?), As I clearly wasn’t in any condition to pull this small talk out of the gutter, he stepped in with: “Oh…you mean…24-Hour Fitness?”

Now…looking back, I think a fairly correct response to that question would have been simply to admit that I’d heard him wrong, perhaps make a light joke at my own expense, and proceed with our preliminaries. Granted, that response did flash through my mind for a nanosecond as I prepared to answer, but it was just as quickly rejected…I think my rationale was something along the lines of “don’t disagree with the auditioner or you’ll make him look stupid and then you definitely won’t get the part”. It all made so much sense at the time. I guess that’s why I said, earnestly and with no real hint of humor in my voice: “Yeah…am I in the right place?”

He politely replied in the negative, suspiciously eyeing my business casual as I proceeded to pretend that I’d somehow mixed up where I was supposed to be and what I was supposed to be doing. I should note here that this auditioner had just seen me about twenty minutes earlier when he gathered the group of us auditionees together to explain the part. Still, I didn’t attempt to make right my simple audial mistake– I suppose I was secretly hoping that the blur of faces he’d seen before me (two other auditionees and the director of the commercial, conveniently present and listening to the exchange) would obscure me from his memory. I’m not sure how well it worked or how much my sweaty beet-red face helped or hurt the situation, but the air stayed thick with unease as I plodded through Computer Geek, made my thank-you-goodbyes, and bolted out of there like Runner at 24-Hour Fitness.

Incidentally, that second audition went slightly better… but something tells me you won’t see me in any ads around Olympics time. Just a feeling us professionals get.

25-Hour Witless,

MAP

I learned the hard way when I was a horned-up teen misspending the half hour between the end of the school day and my mother’s arrival home from work— looking at free porn sites is like having sex without a condom. It can be terribly fun, but sooner or later it’s going to have terrible consequences.

Now, my half hour getting-to-know-me sessions in the late 90s had a surprisingly positive outcome…*ahem. Turns out when Mama P found a few unwitting mementos of me-time on the family PC (note to self: erase history), we got to skip through all of the hassle of me having to explain that her baby boy bats for the other team. In the game of Coming Out Monopoly, it was the equivalent of Do Not Pass ‘I’m Gay’, Do Not Collect $200, Go Directly to Body-Wracking Sobs and I-Still-Love-You Hugs.

Turns out karma really is a bitch— nearly a decade after free porn and I had our breathless, glorious first time together, I’m getting an unwanted and unpleasant taste of what-comes-around…*ahem. Long story short: my roommate surfed the choppy seas of free e-nasty and my computer experienced major w-w-w-wipeout. And no, this is not one of those I-actually-did-it-but-I’m-blaming-my-roommate-to-be-cute kind of things. I learned my lesson on that tear-streaked night with Mama P— nothing is free. Especially not the free porn.

I came home two nights ago to find my trusty, arguably virginal PC beset by bugs, pockmarked by pop-ups, and sluggish with sexually transmitted virus. It was so bad I had to call in the big guns (thank you David from McAfee for fixing my baby and being unsettlingly polite to me on the phone while you did it). My computer is now officially all grown up— nothing quite like an embarrassing infection to smack away that stubborn semblance of innocence and usher in unwelcome adulthood. She’s been through something now and she’ll never quite be the same for it…just like Mama P and I on that fateful night.

Moral: Abstinence is good, Imagination is better, but Partnership is best for all.

Bug-free love,

MAP

Jesus loves me. This I know. For the Bible tells me so.

…well…actually…technically, the Bible didn’t tell me so, personally. I’ve never actually read it, except for the Illustrated Children’s Bible that I perused in the waiting room of my dentist’s office when I was seven. And even then, I was only looking for nudey pics of Adam & Eve in the Garden. And even then, I was only really looking for pictures of Adam. And even so, the guy totally loves me. Technically, my knowledge of His love for me is based on hearsay, but I’ve gotten it from some very reliable sources and frankly, I’m inclined to believe it. I don’t know too much about him but I tend to love anyone who loves me first so what the hey. The Big Jee ‘n me. We got a thing going on.

That said, I’m not into the giving up things for Lent thing. Let’s just say I skipped that chapter in the Illustrated Children’s Bible and I think you know why. Jesus wants me happy and the very thought of me giving up coffee– or even scarier, cereal– makes him a little nervous. If I was going to give up anything, I’ve decided it would have to be a color. Like orange. I think I could live without that one…and it could even be fun. I mean, I don’t want to see it, don’t speak it’s name in front of me, and if it touches me even a little bit I will freak out…speaking in tongues, spitting on the ground, maybe even a little hopping on one foot in a circle…I don’t know, I’ll just make it up as I go along. I don’t know how Jesus is going to take it, but apparently he’s going to love me no matter what.

What an awesome guy!

And some nice Jehovah’s Witnesses brought me the hottest picture of him today:

Not digging the fashion but everything else…mmm.

Happy Easter!

MAP

Do you have one million dollars?

Because I have a million dollar idea. Actually, I have many of them…in fact, I’m like a million-dollar-idea generator, constantly pumping out all kinds of brilliant uses for one million dollars. And all of these ideas are designed to take that start-up million (yours) and turn it into many more millions (ours). Sound good? Okay here’s today’s idea:

The Cutesy Woots

The Cutesy Woots are the latest girl group sensation that America doesn’t even know it needs yet…but it does! They are, in order of importance:

BooBoo- The frontwoman, the most beautiful and least talented of the Woots. Must have side ponytail. Often sings off-key but she looks precious doing it. Loves the tambourine almost too much.
LaLoLo- The sensible second fiddle. Of indeterminate South American origin, she is the Latina flavor of the group. Plays all instruments with varying levels of success. Wears several sets of fake eyelashes so she looks surprised even when her eyes are closed.
The Cheech- Lesbian hypochondriac midget drummer. No haircut looks good on her. Feels angrily sorry for herself, often beating her drums senselessly for no apparent reason.

The Cutesy Woots are a half-human, half-cartoon phenomenon (not sure how we’re going to work that…that’s what your million bucks is for). Their target audience is girls age 9-10 and their gay male friends. The first album, The Cutesy Woots: Unplugged at Chuck E.Cheese, will come to be known as the overlooked debut album of a prolific musical presence. Their later work will take a political slant, with song topics including such hot-button issues as sharing, cooties, and composting. At some point LaLoLo will develop a crippling addiction to cupcakes and the ensuing breakdown, rehab fiasco, and eventual recovery will revive the girls’ sagging popularity and catapault them to international stardom. For some reason they will be HUGE in Korea. A hurled bottle during a performance in Prague will send The Cheech into a berserker rage resulting in several audience casualties and a media frenzy that spans the globe. The Welcome-Back-from-Anger-Management-Counseling Tour will sell out worldwide in five minutes. BooBoo’s ill-advised slutty phase will cause several homely and embittered fans to refer to the group as the “Cutesy Whores.” Eventually the girls will disband, citing artistic differences and solo aspirations as the reason for going their separate ways. Surprisingly, only The Cheech will succeed in her solo career, deciding to abandon music and pursue her newfound passion for stand-up comedy after realizing that being a lesbian hypochondriac midget is pure comic gold. LaLoLo will disappear into the cupcake underground and the occasional photo of her fat and strung-out will pop up in the ‘loids from time to time. BooBoo will go through husbands like toilet paper, release an exercise video, endorse a new food dehydrator, make poorly-acted cameo appearances in several primetime dramas, and eventually retire at 17, penniless and alone.

But we will be RICH!

I accept cash, check, and PayPal. Let’s get cute!

–MAP