What is the point?

"What is the point?" you ask.
What is the point? Does divine inspiration need a point? The point is that I am compelled to create this thing. Creation is the only way to describe it. "The joy of creation," as David Lynch put it, is the point.
This is my way to pull myself out of the shit. My way of showing the world who I am; of selling myself so the world will sit up and take notice. This is my magic dance to call my destiny to me. That is the motherfucking point.

12 Red Flags At the Dentist

I hadn't had my teeth cleaned in probably ten years, and I thought, "Heck I'm probably due." So I kept my eyes peeled and sure enough I found a Groupon.  Great idea right?  Then I sat on the coupon for a few months thinking about not wanting to go to the dentist.  By I paid my by-God $35 and I sure wasn't going to waste it.

So one day a couple of weeks ago I called the clinic nearest me to make an appointment.

Red flag #1, the phone is answered by a woman saying, "Hello?"   "Is this the dentist?" I asked.  (Brilliant question, right?)  I then set an appointment for "...next Friday."

Red Flag #2: She doesn't ask how to spell my name, and she doesn't take my number.  When I call to confirm she (the dentist? office assistant? receptionist?  lady?) changed the appointment from 9am to 10am because she was coming from Bakersfield.

Red Flag #3: I roll into the parking lot and it's a strip mall.

Red Flag #4: The office is locked, no one is there.

Red Flag #5: A small woman walks up and unlocks the door, telling me she's just arriving, and shuts the door in my face.

Red Flag #6: When I follow her in she tells me I can sit and wait.  She bustles around turning on lights, and then turns the TV in the waiting room on.  Normally I would assume this is for my benefit, but the whole time she's choosing the channel she is holding open a door with her back, which completely blocks my view.  By the sound of it she eventually settles on a crime-recreation show on some low budge network.  I pull out my book.

Red Flag #7: She goes  into the exam room, which is partitioned off with a fake wall and looks out onto the parking lot, and  immediately turns on another TV.  The View is on.  What is the logic here?  Who is expected to be watching these two televisions.  If I weren't here would she have both on anyway?  Do the stoic interviews and police sirens of the crime show add something special to The View.  She still hasn't acknowledged me further.  I pick up the remote and turn off the TV in waiting area.  It's distracting me from my book (The Kid by Dan Savage).

Red Flag #8: When she finally gives me paperwork she uses no courtesies in her speech. "Here I'm gonna have you fill this out."  It takes me a moment to realize she's speaking to me; I'm immersed in my book, and she doesn't address or even look me in the eye.  At this point I'm really looking forward to having her root around in my mouth.  Fabulous.  But I'm resolved not to waste my $35.

Red Flag #9: Once in the chair the exam continues in a similar vein.  My dentist (wtf is her name anyway?) shoves a small square of cardboard in my mouth and tells me to bite down for the x-ray.  The cardboard is wedged down in such a way that I can't close my mouth.  I'm not sure what to do.  "You're not biting down all the way," she says from around another wall.  "I can't" I slur over the thing in my mouth.  As she's fixing it she chuckles, "You gotta gag reflex, huh?" What?  Um, yes?  I gag on things sometimes, but that's irrelevant because I wasn't just now.  I just couldn't close my mouth, and I didn't know how to fix the thing.  Not once throughout the entire exam does she ever warning me she's about to stick her fingers in my mouth.  She prefers a sneakier approach, bustling around the room and then flying in unexpectedly.

Red Flag #10: Looking over my x-rays she makes a number of cryptic and worrying statements:
"You gotta big cavity in the back.  You gotta white fill?" Is this a question or a statement?  Is she talking about something in the past?  I shrug.
"Your wisdom teeth trying to come through." I had all four wisdom teeth out when I was 17.
"Ooh.  Root canal." Okay, so you're pointing out the dental work I've already had... Yes, that's true.
"You got an infection, it coming through you're nasal cavity." What?  Is there something I can do for this?
"Root canal." Wait, another one?  No meds first, just straight to ripping out the roots of my teeth?  Fucking fabulous.  You wanna just dig in right now?
As she shoves a mirror into my hands: "Here!  The 8 and 9!" As if I'm an idiot for not knowing my teeth by number.  Wouldn't I have an inkling of that if I had an infection?

Red Flag #11: As she lays me back to begin the cleaning I'm wondering if I should just go right now.  But I sort of feel like it's been so long since my last cleaning that I really need to see this through.  As we begin I try to smooth things over and ask her how she long she's been a dentist. "Uuuuh, 15 years."  "Do you like it?" I ask, trying to be friendly now that she has me in a position of weakness.  My dentist answered by ranting about Obama-care, and how she's not going to advise her college-bound son to go into it, implying that it no longer pays.  Lovely, because I totally want someone who's concerned only about their paycheck cleaning my teeth.  No wonder she needed to sell Groupons.

Red Flag #12: During the cleaning she flicks toothpaste onto my face, and when I start she asks me what's wrong like I'm crazy.  Every time someone passes by she pauses to watch them.  I stare upside down through her goggles at her eyes as they follow each person and wonder if she thinks they're coming in.  Because I know for sure they're not.  She sticks the suction hose to the inside of my cheek and leaves it there while she goes to get something.  It dries my mouth out and I start to choke.  Then she abruptly sits me up.  "You gotta cavity.  Big one," she says, thrusting the mirror back into my hands.  She indicates a molar at the back.  I'm not surprised, I figured as much.

As she hustles me out of the office an hour since I came in nothing surprises me; my red flags have all been raised and I have no excuse for feeling abused.  I could've left at any time.  She offers me copies of my x-rays, but when I tell her that'd be nice she says, "It's gonna be $25.  It costs money you know." Great, I'll keep that in mind.  And I certainly won't be back.

Presenting my first video!

I am really excited today.  I wrote a short film, and it debuted on the web yesterday!  For the last year and a half I've been writing sketches and short stories and monologues.  I've started and stopped screenplays, and even collaborated on an entire webseries.  But none of that panned out.  Until now.  I conceived the idea, wrote it, created the costumes (!), and produced it.   The lovely Casey Gates filmed it (on her iPhone4!), edited it, and generally encouraged me - for which I am extraordinarily grateful.

This film is not trying to be fancy.  The production quality is low, but I think the whimsy and laugh factors are high.  This is the first of many: they're just going to better and better.   I hope that you'll enjoy this short film for what it is.  To me it is a triumph.

With no further ado I happily present you:  Space Cat Gets a Haircut!

If you enjoyed my film you can learn more about SpaceCat on Facebook!

xoxox

Thanks to Jaq Galliano for an afternoon's work well done.

 

Coming Out

This week I had a personal coming out party.  I came out as myself.  Recently I found something I feared I had lost forever.  Some part related to that 18 year old who dyed her hair black, and when it faded to blue she continued to dye her hair blue.  You know, that part of me that always wanted to date the Sandman:

I've been dutiful.  Working my fancy, corporate restaurant job in Pasadena, submitting my marketable, all-American headshots, and denying a very large side of my personality.  The largest side of my personality.  For you, dear readers, this probably comes as no surprise: I'm a weirdo and I like it.  I get really excited about listening to Neal Stephenson speak at the local indie bookstore.  I dance alone in my apartment in the middle of the night to Miike Snow.  I eat weirdo health foods, and photograph street art, and fear the Kindle.  Almost all my clothes were used before I bought them; I am passionate about gay rights; there are lots of pictures of nude people in my apartment.  I have been informed on more than one occasion that my dark side is very well-explored.  I call myself an artist.  I like tattoos.  

I like tattoos.  I like them on my friends and on the people I date, and I have a couple.  I know tattoos are not for everyone.  After all, moderation in all things, right?  Don't get me wrong: I'm not saying all tattoos tasteful ,or attractive.  But when thoughtfully executed they can be lovely.  I got a new tattoo this week.  Surprise!

The quality of the photo isn't great, but I'm not that concerned about it.  The quality of the work is excellent and I love it.  The idea for the hummingbird was around for a long time, but I never knew where I wanted it. In my head it moved from right shoulder to right lower back to right pelvis, but it was never the right time.  Until it was.  Like with all my other big decisions, one day I just woke knowing what I wanted to do.  If you have never experienced this brand of certainty, let me tell you: there is no more gratifying feeling than reserving judgement until you equivocally know the right move.  

Getting this tattoo was a big thing.  There were a lot of reasons - spoken and unspoken, not to.  As an actor I wanted to be marketable.  I didn't want to pigeon-hole myself, I wanted to be able to go out for any role.  That was mostly an excuse though.  I think I was hiding behind hypothetical roles because I was afraid.  Afraid of disapprobation.  I come from a very conservative upbringing, and I dislike conflict.  For a long time I have avoided bringing up certain subjects for fear of being disrespectful, or disrespected, or (worst of all) disliked.  Please understand: I'm setting out here to describe what is a very personal and painful process of self-realization.  No disrespect at all is meant to where or who I come from.  I love my family very very much.  I am more grateful to them than I could ever express.  But in some ways I'm very different from them.  I have different aesthetics, and in some cases different morals.

My little hummingbird makes me happy.  I love it.  I love looking at it, and noticing it out the corner of my eye while I sit here typing.  I love how it looks in pictures; in general I find it very aesthetically pleasing.  And somehow now I feel more like myself.  Most importantly, I have faith that this feeling will stay.  I'm glad I waited until now to get it, though.  I have thought long and hard about the repercussions and ramifications of having an image tattooed indelibly on my body.  Heck, I could've gotten breast implants or plastic surgery, but that's not me.  The body modification that speaks to me is an image, and I wanted it right there on my forearm where it would serve to remind me of certain things; where I couldn't hide it.

I feel like I spent a long time hiding.  I've been dutiful and marketable, or however you want to characterize it: approachable, acceptable, likable, friendly, blah blah blah.  Now, finally, I just want to be me.   Bleached streaks in my hair, cut up tee-shirts, visible tattoos and all.  Not that those other qualities aren't part of me, they're just not the whole me.  I'm tired of leaving the intrinsic parts of myself behind when I come to the table.  From now on, I'm bringing the whole thing.  Hopefully even if you don't always agree with my choices, you'll respect that my happiness doesn't always come in the same shape as yours.  I may do things that don't make sense to you sometimes, but that doesn't mean they are hasty decisions.  I'm working really hard to find those things that make me happy.  My new tattoo makes me happy.  This is my coming out party: I'm coming out as a weird, nerdy, gluten-free, sometimes spazzy, tattooed, artistic, eclectic, feminine, independant, contradictory person.