FireVaney

The hibernation, at long last, has met with an end! Hence, the grandiloquent FireVan ity has therein appropriated and transmogrified that which once was merely FireVan ey . Who is to blame? Who ? Only The Stage… Merely The Stage… God, help us, The Stage… Yes, it is I: The FireVanity. And, here , will I record the trials, the tribulations, the conquests, and the epinician odes that shall most certainly ensue in these solenoidal days ahead. And, I promise, my observations, be they drawn in-way-ward or out-way-ward, shall be the substance that makes the mold for the model of Mother Honesty herself! I’ll tarry not a moment longer with my tale thus far… First, the audition. From my first footstep through the door of the auditioning space—nay, from the millisecond my aura seduced the breathing air within—I had the director in tears! As all are, he was overwhelmed by my numinous stage-presence. Indeed, it was this very numinousness which, in the first place, twelve and a half years ago, drov...

Watching her watching me watching her fold lingerie.

George Bernard Shaw lost his at twenty-nine. Two comments: first, this is yet another thing I have in common with Mr. Shaw; second, now I don’t feel so bad. Mark Twain lost his at thirty-four. This makes me feel even better. "Man is the only animal that blushes—or needs to," Twain said.

What you have to understand is, the FireVaney’s more insecure than you will ever know; more insecure than you'll ever want to know; and, anyway, more insecure than he will ever let on. And, what's more, he's definitely more insecure than he ever wants you to acknowledge in his presence—even though he's admitting to as much here . As far as you are concerned, the FireVaney, in the flesh, is a brick wall of strength and emotion. When you see him, in the flesh, nothing penetrates. So, don't even try. As for the veracity of anything you read here, question it. Always. Anyway, thank you for reading. But right now, the FireVaney's got a shit-load of snow to go out and shovel.

This afternoon, a quarter-sized spider crittered across the long locker room mirror. I didn’t do a thing about it.

Back in high school, you knew she was going to be famous. But, you—silly you—thought you were going to be famous right along with her. Now, every time you Google her name and find out what she’s up to, it floors you. Not that it should . She really has Made It. And you—silly you—really are a Loser. Everyone’s an example. Right? Now that you know what you are—at least, now that it is assured and proven beyond a reasonable doubt—set the GOD DAMN STANDARD. “Not everyone can be famous. But, anyone can be infamous.”

“Yes, thank you, this is what I really need: a picture of a dead woman I’ve never met.”

Why is it impossible to rid the kitchen of all its crumbs?

If the Little House seemed little when I was littler, it’s even smaller now. Familiarity shrinks everything. Including love. Including everything tangible and intangible. Though, Dad would tell you that nothing intangible exists. But, then, Einstein would tell Dad, “Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.” Which, perhaps, is to say that, ultimately, everything is intangible. Of course, everything, ultimately, is . Intangible, that is. Thus, if everything is an illusion, then, really, anything is tangible. No? Reality is Reality only at the mind’s insistence. Ultimately, you choose what to believe (as a result of whatever influences are acting upon you—which is to suggest that you never really choose anything all-by-yourself, at all) Any of this should not be news. Nonetheless, you “choose” what is Right and what is Wrong; for example: whether or not that war was a good idea to get sunk into, whether sleeping with that girl or that guy won’t (or will) have a last...

Some theaters, you can enter through an exit; thereby paying nothing for anything you choose to view. Do this only when a large group of moviegoers are, indeed, exiting. Someone stops you, say you forgot something; lost someone. Or tell them you didn’t see the Exit Only on the door.

Nine dollars is too much to spend on one movie. But on three, or four, and you’ve got yourself a deal. The trick, of course, as with all things, is in being prepared. You must be pocket-stocked with edibles. You must try to go Number One and Number Two before embarking upon your first feature. Another good idea: before departing for the cinema, perform a few full-body stretches. When you’ve got hang time between flicks, hide out in a bathroom stall. Have with you a paperback or magazine. Otherwise, if ushers aren’t around, or clearly they’re not paying attention (which is very often the case), pass from one auditorium to the next as quickly as possible. When you do this, look like you know where you’re going. Between features, you are not (although, of course you are) looking for what’s playing soonest; you are, instead, looking for a restroom. Or, you are, instead, meeting a friend who is seeing another movie. This is what to say in case any of the “show breakers” ask how they can hel...

Z, very apparently wasted, repeats several times, “I’m so loud I can’t hear myself!” Or, something to that effect. Then, she says to me, “Put that in your blog!” Or, something to that effect.

There’s nothing like a bar of “Gold Pressed Latinum” smeared over with peanut butter. That is, when compared to an Andrew Jackson, or a Susan B. Anthony, smeared over with peanut butter. And, yes, I’ve tried all three. Chipped a tooth, even, on the Susan B.

Many, many things I cannot react to at all at the moment of their occurrence. All these suppose-to-be-right- then reactions, they hit me and manifest themselves much, much later. And it’s a stinker, when, for example, you are, essentially, phaser stunned with kisses all over your face.

1.) Get laid. 2.) Get published. (And, yes, in that order.)