The Wormlips Scrapbook

I really don’t know why I get like this on my b’day, all mournful. But things like this do help:

I’ll come back and finish this post at the other end of my birthday day.

Other End of My Birthday Day

To quote Yo-Nenny’s friend, Thomas, “Man, I’ve never been this old before.”

If it hadn’t been for my friends and family, I’d probably have been in the garden all day eating worms. But my real friends know how neurotic I am about my birthday, and they emerged to console me. I can’t begin to express my gratitude.

I am going to write about everyone, so I can come back and read this later when my spirits need lifting. This is of interest only to me, so you can stop reading here.

My sister kicked off the day by making me laugh really hard before I was even awake. Like identical cousins, we laugh alike, except she barks and I wheeze when we lose it. She also sent me a card extolling the beauty of the ancient redwoods and thanking me for planting them.

It must have been when we were yacking that Mark have left me that bouquet of flowers in a steel vase.

Oleg wrote a poem just for me: a really wonderful one. He said I could post it here. (He also sent me a quote from my hero, Mister Rogers.)

Despite imbalances that plague a life
and drivers yelling that I’ve lost a screw,
I’m glad glad glad that I’ve been treated nice:
I’ve never walked a mile in just one shoe,

Though sometimes asphalts have been stupid hot,
and I’ve been forced to touch a few,
a blister on my foot and on my dot dot dot…
I’ve never walked a mile in just one shoe

We’ve all been blind to chowder in a cup,
when all we wanted was a different stew;
I’ll live through many hungers — suck it up!
I’ve never walked a mile in just one shoe.

But if I see you barefoot, walkin’ tough,
I’ll struggle up beside you, “Howdy do?”
Without a blink, I’ll take my own shoe off…
I’d walk a mile in just one shoe, for you.

Happy Birthday, friend.

When Anna & Amy called from San Diego, Amy offered the suggestion that I make a list of all the worthy things I did last year. Great idea, though I haven’t thought of anything yet.

Jill and Lewis, one day back from Central America and still waiting for their luggage, sang to me from LA.

AG and MC came down Graves Mountain, Virginia, to where there was telephone reception to call me.

I got warm electronic greetings from Nancy and Y and Nikki in California and from Cheryl in Nepal. Bethie and BS called. So did Lulu (who knew it was my birthday) and Yo-Nenny (who didn’t). Frank called, and also wrote a silly message on a card: “Happy birthday to a wonderful and very fun person, who just happens to have a couple of very nice ta ta’s.” What’s a ta-ta, Frank?

Karen, Tom and Jane sent the perfect card for someone who should know better than to be Irish dancing at my age, with a photo of someone flinging one’s legs about hazardously. BS and my colleagues at SV gave me a card with a removable man who grows (all over, I think) when you drop him into a glass of water.

Mom’s phone message:

You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me. Ah, distinctly I remember that day: went in the hospital; it was icy cold. I came out; it was ninety degrees from then on. And along with your arrival came possums [that invaded our basement]. Spring and Ginna and possums… always linked together… Know how much I love you.

Syd’s phone message said such nice things about me (”You’re so dark and so funny and so twisted and so rare and so magnificent. Don’t ever forget it.”) that I had to re-listen several times. To my further amazement, she burst into a rendition of Happy Birthday in flawless, fluent Opp: “Hoppiboppy Boppirthstoppy topoo Goppinoppa!”

My birthday-mate Mo wrote: “Happy birthday to us. Happy birthday to us. Happy birthday dear noble sentient beings that inhabit these aging shells. Happy birthday to us.”

PT and JD made me an incredibly tasty dinner followed by a cake that looked like a breast, and later we went out of control laughing about absurd things. They maintain that this will be a very important year for me, because my age is the same as my birth year, which of course happens only once in one’s life, if ever.

But that’s not all. MF called from Sacramento after what I imagine was a horrendously long, nonstop workday, and despite his being somewhat mystified by why I’m so weird about my b’day. I came home to voicemails from my brother in Massachusetts and my best-friend-when-I-was-twelve in Delaware. And there was a book awaiting me on my front porch, brought by Larry and Susie: Healthy Aging.

You think this is overkill? Too much attention? Well, if these greetings were from garden-variety people, you might be right. They’d be little more than marks in a tally. But the aforementioned are those who matter most to me at this little frozen moment in time.

What it is that bugs me about my birthday, aside from the aging part, is the drone in my head: “I haven’t done anything with my life. I’ll never do anything with my life. I’m doomed.”

But by the end of my birthday, year after year, I keep coming back to the same thought: I must have done something right, to have the friends I have. I marvel at how I could have managed to earn such smart, loyal, funny and talented friends with so much filotimo.^Footnote What more could I ask, except that gravity stop pulling so hard.

Thanks, buddies. You can rest for the next 364 days.

Love,
Ginna

P.S. For closing decoration, here are photos of my hike yesterday to the top of Marin Avenue.

Footnote: I know this word because I was an honorary Greek (by marriage) for ten years. It translates very roughly into “honor.”

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I ended up playing hooky yesterday to go to the human rights demonstration in San Francisco.

This excerpt from today’s Christian Science Monitor gives a little context for the protest.

In Beijing, officials have expressed dismay that the torch has run into such political turmoil.

“People should respect the torch because it represents the common aspirations of all peoples,” BOCOG spokeswoman Wang Hui argued this week. “It represents the Olympic spirit.”

Other observers, though, say that controversy was inevitable, especially when people like the top Chinese diplomat in Britain carried the torch in London.

“For protesters, it represents the Chinese state and nothing else,” he adds. “The Chinese are investing so much meaning and symbolism in the relay that people are bound to fight over it.”

“Right now, the torch is being seen as a symbol of oppression,” says [a] PR executive, who asked not to be identified because of the sensitivity of the issue.

When I arrived around 11:00 there was already a huge and vocal pro-China contingent but only thin patches of others.

I’d signed up for a text-messaging service from Team Tibet, the biggest pro-Tibet group there, so my cell phone kept buzzing with reports from the rally’s front lines:

Good morning. What a beautiful day. Default meeting place is Ferry Park… 150 Tibetans have reached AT&T Park. Lots of police and pro-Chinese there… Remember to stay nonviolent and effective.

Gather at Ferry Building 11:30… March of 400 heading south on the Embarcadero form Ferry building…

There were tense shouting matches — and elbowing and pushing — between the pro-Tibet and pro-China groups, but luckily it didn’t escalate.

March of 1000 have taken both lanes of Embarcadero heading south… Full length of Embarcadero being shut down.

Pedestrian barricades being put in place… March has surrounded “official” bus at Embarcadero and Harrison.

That was an interesting moment. On a street closed to traffic, a tour bus — complete with police escorts — tried to slip by. There were immediate cries of “There’s the torch!” and “Stop the bus!” and a thundering of protesters trying to catch up to it. A dozen people hurled themselves in front of the bus, while others encircled it, pounding on the sides and chanting, “Shame on China! China is a liar!” A motorcycle cop at the rear kept yelling, “Let it go by. The bus is empty.” No one believed him. And once out of sight of the protesters, the bus, Trojan-horselike, did indeed disgorge torch runners.

That flame acted just like the Holy Grail: appearing on a distant horizon, only to vanish at our approach. With each new presumed sighting, the entire crowd turned as one unit, each of us like a scale on a gigantic, confused halibut.

100 SFPD with gas masks gathering at pier 48… Torch location: Shed near parking lot across from McCovey cove… Torch is moving to opening ceremony. May be inside stadium. Torch on police boat in McCovey cove. Not moving yet… Torch lit at Van Ness & Pine. Going up Van Ness to Bay Street… Torch just crossed Lombard and Van Ness, left on Bay… Possible 2nd torch at Bay and Gough… Torch bearer at Van Ness & Chestnut just pulled out Tibetan flag!! Had torch taken away… Fillmore and Marina: People swarming torch. Riot police mobilized… Torch is entering the Presidio heading west.

Eventually protesters from all sides joined torch-spotting hopefuls at Justin Herman Plaza to wait for the flame’s arrival. We waited. In the throng of about 10,000, things got tenser. People with huge Chinese flags tried to wrap them around Tibetan symbols — flags, signs, Dalai Lama images. Tibet supporters responded with taunts of “Killer!” I edited a :30 video of one of these moments, complete with surrealistically incongruous background music that’s blaring from the stage speakers.

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Finally, I got this text message:

Protests force cancellation of closing ceremonies. Torch on the run, on freeway headed towards the airport.

I hightailed it out of there. Call me old-fashioned, but I didn’t want to get trampled to death when the masses heard the news.

Many headlines focused on the anger and disappointment felt by some of the crowd, who asked only for the opportunity to see the Olympic flame. (Some of those people harangued me on BART on the way home.) Had torch-viewing been my sole objective, I’d probably have been disappointed too, though I hope I would have concluded that Constitutional and human rights are ultimately more important. Others say that the Olympics and “politics” are unrelated to one another; in my mind, that argument has semantic and practical problems. In any case, when the world is looking at China because of the Olympics, it’s a good time to speak out. Sadly, I can’t imagine it resulting in an improvement in China’s policies but it may boost awareness of the situation.

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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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