The Wormlips Scrapbook

A while back Brian asked me to perform at a Pacifica Radio Archives fundraiser on St. Paddy’s Day. I didn’t want to. He insisted. I haven’t danced since one broken foot and one screwed-up Achilles tendon ago. Plus, I’m not very good. I wish I was. And I wish I liked dancing in front of strangers, but I don’t, though I’ve done it a lot.

But at last we reached a compromise: I would teach a step to the audience. So I dusted off my ghillies and started practicing a few nights a week.

Not only am I out of shape but I couldn’t unearth the memory of reels gone by. Luckily, one night during practice with my dancing friend Karen, my muscles suddenly took over and there was the step, back in my feet if not my brain. Odd experience.

At last the fateful weekend rolled around. While waiting at the airport yesterday, I tried to teach myself how to use my new camera, with passengers as my victims.

The second I got to the hotel l I did like in the old days: turned the shower on hot to steam out travel wrinkles in my costume. I learned that trick after I melted my cape with an iron just before my first major competition.

I was lonely and feeling sorry for myself, which happens sometimes when I’m alone in hotels at night, so I went downstairs and bought a slab of chocolate cake. Then I went to Brian’s and David’s for arts and crafts.

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Today began with Web work at the Archives. An announcement came over KPFK’s loudspeaker: “Would the Black Jesus Hippie Freak please come to the producer’s office. Black Jesus Hippie Freak: please come to the producer’s office.” No one batted an eye; a day in the life at Pacifica.

After lunch with Oleg, he introduced me to his car and the contents of its trunk, including a book in Russian (because, as he’ll tell you, he’s an immigrant).

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As the afternoon progressed, I started to get nervous about tonight’s performance. The more anxious I became, the more irritated I got with myself: “Why are you so terrified about being in front of people when so it’s so easy for everyone else? How come they can do it and you can’t?” All afternoon my battle raged under the surface. Well, maybe not under the surface. I was asked at least once, “Are you ADHD?”

I pretended to be confident and worldly when I met Patrick Bristow, the director of tonight’s show, and Lynne Stewart, who played Miss Yvonne on Pee Wee’s Playhouse. That’s Brian in the background.

It was interesting to see how an improv show evolves. It’s quite different from its dance counterpart. At the Archives Patrick took me aside to dream up possible scenarios for my participation. Could I dance onto the stage? Could I teach people a sequence of steps leading to a grand finale? “Whatever you want me to do,” I finessed.

The event was held at the Groundlings Theater on Melrose, which I hadn’t heard of but which I now know is famous for its funny alumni like Phil Hartman, Paul Reubens, Lisa Kudrow, Jon Lovitz and a bunch of others.

Once at the theater, every time my stomach knotted I chanted, “this is fun this is fun this is fun.” I’m so tired of things being fun when they’re over. I want things to be fun a little before that, at least by the middle.

Oleg guided me to the stage so I could get used to it ahead of time. I was, in fact, as deranged as I looked.

I felt so unutterably cool when someone called, “Patrick needs you on the stage.” He gathered the cast and gave everyone a skeletal outline of what he had in mind — a taste, but not enough for them to sink their teeth into. He fine-tuned my part. “You’ll come through here and dance down to this area…” “Hey, I have an idea,” I offered. “How about we don’t waste time with me doing a solo dance. I could just walk on and get straight to the participatory part!” “Hmmm… that could work,” he agreed.

Backstage before the show I asked some of the others — all comedy veterans with whom I had no business sharing a dressing room or a bill — if they still get nervous before going on. “Every time” was the surprisingly unanimous answer.

Minutes before the start, my bit got moved to the first half, so I threw my dress on and whipped my legs around a little in preparation. Here, Brian and I consult shortly before our respective appearances:

As my moment approached, I stepped onto the floor of the stage, hiding behind the backdrop as instructed, listening to the comedians and their howling fans. “This-is-fun this-is-fun this-is-fun,” I feebly attempted. I made faces at myself in the little mirror there. I stepped back off the stage and did The Pony in the props room and then went back and waited quietly till called.

I am very proud of myself because in the end, Show-Off Ginna did a pretty good job of winning over Shy-Ginna. It helped that the spotlights were so bright that I couldn’t see faces in the audience, except the cast at my feet. I don’t know if I looked nervous or acted obnoxious or what, but I managed to have fun. And because I was having fun, my legs didn’t go all wobbly the way they always do when I’m scared, so I was able to leap pretty high. I could hear the audience cheering, which made me fly higher. And as I flew higher, I noticed they cheered even louder.

Everyone should have the chance to be cheered.

Inexplicably, I walked onto stage and immediately pointed out a run in my stocking, before getting to my job of teaching audience members a reel. I hopped around the stage with The Artist Formerly Known As Miss Yvonne. By audience acclaim, she displaced me as reigning champion. My little number closed the first half of the show. Patrick came right backstage and said, “You were wonderful! You danced beautifully, and you were so charming.” I looked around. “Me?”

When the actors came back, they also said nice things. And while I don’t for a second believe the nice things, they were wonderful to hear, and it was a relief to think that I didn’t embarrass myself, or the Archives.

I was so glad to be done that I immediately pulled my off costume to get into my regular party clothes. Unfortunately, poor Michael McDonald and Jeremy Rowley were standing behind me. “Oh, sorry.” They fled at the sight.

Here’s the cast:

Let me look up their names. Okay — left to right in the second photo: Me, Ted Michaels, Lynne Stewart, Jeremy Rowley, Patrick, Karen Maruyama, Mindy Sterling, Brian, Michael McDonald and the Potato Wench. If you do a show like this, you need a director like Patrick. He’s the one who made everything alright for me.

Oleg: Thanks for coming back to say congratulations. Why didn’t you bring flowers and champagne?

Brian: You don’t read this blog, but thanks for getting me to do this. It was great.

Maybe the most amazing moment was after the show when I saw Pooh, whom I’ve known since kindergarten. “I didn’t know you could dance,” she told me. “I’d expected you to look like — you know — an amateur. But you are so good. I can’t wait to tell Sally [classmate]. I’ve seen a lot of dancing in my life, and it’s very rare that I see someone who has magic on stage, and you have it. You should have been a dancer.” I was stunned. I’m not used to praise, particularly not like this. And to get it for Irish dance, which has meant so much to me all these years … and to get it from someone from my childhood, and someone for whom I have such admiration — it made me unbelievably happy. We reminisced about Mrs. Bell, our heavily perfumed modern dance teacher who’s the reason I always hated dancing.

Pooh also said I had good legs. Everyone else tells me they’re scrawny. Really: tonight was a Very Good Night.

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I couldn’t bear the thought of paying an extra $100 to have my new treadmill brought from the driveway into my house. “I can do it myself,” I thought. Then I saw the eight-foot-tall box and what was written on it: 280 pounds.

The next day Mark came to the rescue, bringing over two of his powerful neighbors who wrestled the monster into my basement for twenty dollars a head. Later, over an ice cream sundae, I was riveted by Mark’s stories about these guys, particularly Thomas. Around sixty and missing several teeth as a result of a well-placed fist or two, Thomas almost died a few years ago of electrocution. He was in the process of stealing a 440-watt copper line from an abandoned warehouse, whacking at it with his axe while standing on damp concrete. After a week in the hospital his next stop was jail. When he got out, he returned to the scene of the crime and succeeded in making off with the cable by turning off the power first. One year Thomas was going through an acrimonious divorce, and it was looking like his wife was going to get the house. So what did Thomas do but rent a bulldozer and raze the place. He’s an avid country-western fan — a songwriter, in fact — who has complained to Mark about his inability to get recognized for his talents. “I’d like to hear some of your songs,” Mark asked once. “You can’t,” replied Thomas. “They’re in my head. If anyone hears them, they’ll steal them.”

Back to middle-America where, as you may recall from a paragraph ago, my treadmill had found its way into my basement. Unwilling to pay the additional $200 to have it assembled (another “I can do it myself”) I spent hours doing a sort of hardware ballet: standing on tiptoe with one knee lifted to support the unwieldy console, I connected three sets of wires with my right hand while lowering the unit onto two sticky-up metal bars with the crook of my arm, and thwapping a bolt into place with my hip. I went into all kinds of contortions to get screws into hard-to-reach places:

Finished at last, I flipped the switch, and — nada. I read the directions again. I’d done everything right. All I could think was that a connection wasn’t secure, so I disassembled the entire bloody thing and replugged and reassembled everything. No luck. I re-re-reread the instructions until I found a small aside at the very end where no sane person would ever look. In submicroscopic letters was this: “Unit will not operate if you don’t put in that cheap little plastic red thing that is so inconsequential-looking that you thought it was trash so you left it in the box and were about to throw it out…”

Here’s my rationale for getting a treadmill: Going to the gym is a pain because of all that exercise it requires just to walk the mile there and back. Plus it’s always closed when I want it to be open, and it’s of no use to me on days when I have only half an hour free.

But as it turns out, the joys of treadmill ownership derive from entirely different sources. A world of possibilities opens when you’re bored and no one can see you. Within minutes my walks started to get silly. I sashayed and slunk and swiveled and skipped. I sped the machine way up to see how fast I could walk before I had to run (which looks sillier than it sounds). I slowed it way down and stood still until it dumped me off the back. I put on some 60s music and head-banged my way along for a while. I talked to myself about events of the day. I even tried doing a reel, which I don’t recommend.

I really hope my treadmill doesn’t end up on craigslist.org next month, with the same description they all have: “Used only eight times.”

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Yesterday I was talking on the phone to the executive director of an organization for which I do a lot of work. She said something remarkably perceptive about something she couldn’t have known. Amazed, I said, “Wow, you must be psychotic.” To make matters worse, I went out of control laughing and couldn’t stop. Maybe my best Freudian slip ever.

Speaking of psychic, last weekend I went with Teej to the Nevada City Psychic Fair. Actually, I think it was a Faire. Have a look around.

I got totally busted while trying to the following picture, which is one reason it’s blurry. Would you want to be on the receiving end of that guy’s look? He’s doing something called “deeksha.” It looks dangerous.

There were some interesting services and products.

The best were the Cherry Hot Packs:

My two favorite things:

• A polished pale-wood table, long and slender, and hollow underneath where it was strung like a harp. For ten dollars you could lie on it for ten minutes, while attending metaphysicians gave your soul a cleanse. Of course I had to try it. A woman sat by my shoulder and, reaching under me, strummed. That not only produces music, but sets the table to vibrating. At the same time she chanted in my ear — a surprisingly pretty voice — incomprehensible syllables except for, at the very end, the single word, “sweeeeeeet.” Throughout this her partner sat at my head and held his hands over whatever chakra’s up there, sending good ondas (that’s the one Spanish word I learned in Costa Rica: vibes).
• The jovial psychic tarot reader Auntie-Someone. I picked her out from an ocean of new-age (or as Michael says, “newage,” to rhyme with “sewage”) practitioners. She was the only one who didn’t have that creepy “I love everything” look, so I plunked down my fifteen dollars. She didn’t ask my name or even what question I might have. “It almost always happens that I answer people’s questions even when they don’t ask,” she told me later. And she did. I admit, I was awestruck by some of what she said. These weren’t your garden-variety, one-size-fits-all observations, like “sometimes people don’t understand you” or “if you build it, they will come.” She did a remarkably better job at describing my current situation than I could have. And she said I’m going on a big trip in October and November, which is when I’ve been planning to go to Nepal.
  
  She also forecast that I will soon meet a man with an accent: someone younger… and possibly — shorter? Should I go back to Guatemala? In the meantime, I’ve been entertaining myself all week by looking twice at every gas station attendant, delivery man and 7-11 cashier I meet.

I got to see my wonderful friends Syd and Jesse, and once again forgot to ask their permission to put their pictures here. So use your psychic abilities to imagine them. And as you’ve probably already divined, it was a pretty day.

Back at the Rancho after the fair(e), I showed Teejie the fabrics I’d brought from Guatemala for us to share. Here’s one possible use.

Here’s Stella in my car. She’s happy because she’s looking at Lulu, whom she hadn’t seen for a long time. And here’s Lulu, standing in front of the dorms that were evacuated a few days ago because explosives were found in one of the rooms.

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