Snow for Dayzzz

Alright, folks, this is it! We've got a storm on our hands... and soon our streets and lawns. Winter storm Stella is supposed to make this city so white that it could pass as a Trump supporter. Because if you ask me, white out conditions are what Donald Trump's wet dreams look like (aside from the other wet dreams where women pee on him).

The city of New York is shutting down like a Windows 95 computer; unexpectedly in the middle of the night. And I for one am so happy to have an adult snow day. (Adult Snow Day is also a porno film I'm working on, where men do coke off of the women.)

A snow day as an adult is the best because you don't have to worry about homework or nothing. Just straight up watching TV and jerking off... er, I mean blogging. This is what my wet dreams are made of (literally). Anytime I don't have to go to work, I'm as happy as the government when they are looking at us through our microwaves.

Wow, I'm feeling political tonight. Maybe that's because all nonessential government employees are supposed to stay home tomorrow. That's me!! The day they do anything to make me  feel like an essential government employee is the day Donald Trump gets impeached! (Shit! I forgot peaches at the market. Ehh, they probably didn't have them anyway...)

All markets are swamped with bread and milk buyers. Cause that's the important stuff. Trader Joe's was so cleaned out I thought they were going out of business. I said Trader Joe's? I hardly know her... Joe's. That's a stretch, which is exactly what I was doing as I reached for the last red onion on the shelf right as an elderly woman swiped it. (P.S.A. Check on the elderly tomorrow. They may have onion breath, but it's the right thing to do.)

Trains are already messed up. It doesn't take much for the MTA to say "Screw it! You do it!" and walk out of the train. It's like the weekend over here. We got A's where Q's go and F's where J's go. Utter alphabet nonsense. (Alphabet Nonsense is my improv team, doing sold out shows right on the street corner of 33rd and 8th. Look for us!)

I'm all stocked up for a huge snow day, so I'll await my Stella like I told my friend "Get whatever is good at the bar." This is supposed to be a good one. And if anyone is against snow tomorrow, I hear there's a rally march on the 20th that will do a world of good. #notmysnowstorm

Anyway, as the snow comes down in sheets, I'll be three sheets to wind (I have a lot of alcohol at home.) See you on the other side of the storm. #AngelicaElizaandStella (Hire me Lin!) Stay safe everyone. You got this.  #HowStellaGotItsSnowBank

Ticket Brain

I guess I'm really into handing out diagnoses all of a sudden. I wonder why. Anyway, you can trust me; I'm a doctor. Actually, I'm not. But I know a couple, and they won't tell you this is a real disorder, so I will. Whenever people go to a theater to watch a show, but have to buy tickets beforehand at the door, they develop, for a very brief moment, a condition known as ticket brain.

Ticket brain is the condition of walking up to a box office or ticket window and instantly being dumbstruck to the point of not recognizing simple phrasing that you would normally be able to respond to. Things like "Hi, what are you here to see?" and "What's your last name?" and even "Can you tell me who my real dad is?" OK, that last one is a trick question, but I still use it as a third question cause it's funnier if people don't know the answer to three questions. Science!

I really think working the box office of any theater is doing God's work. In fact, that's my main view and picture of God. Just a man with white flowing everything sitting in a  box office selling dead people tickets to the greatest comedy show of all time, as performed by every dead comedian, or tickets to a theatrical adaptation of Hitler's Mein Kampf, performed in sign language by every dead deaf actor. Heaven and Hell.

Because the conversations at the box office between attendant and patron are so cyclical that ratio of how long they last and the information exchanged is 3.14159265359. (That's a math joke. Let me save that til Pi Day next week, actually.) it goes something like this:

Hi, what are you here to see? 

The 7:00 show. 

We have two; which one? 

Ummm........... the improv one. 

They're both improv. 

Ummm........ Josh is in it. 

I don't know who that is. 

It's at this theater. 

Yeah, you're in the right place, just tell me which show. 

It's improv at 7:00. 

No, I know. We covered that. Just which one? 

Let me text him.... it's this show (holds up phone). 

Oh that's actually at our other theater. :( 

See what I mean? Ticket brain. No treatment, no cure, as of yet. But I donate to the Mayo Clinic everyday. Cause if there's is one thing I believe, it's that Mayo cures everything. Just spread a little on and you're good. 

I've got a sketch show written and directed by me taking place on Sunday at the PIT Loft at 9:00 pm in Midtown. Come watch it!! It's really good. We've got special opening acts and everything. The works! It'll be the best. That's all. See ya next week!

Knife Elbow

I wouldn't normally talk about this kind of stuff, but it's now happened to me three times. By law, I have to address it (That's a pun, you'll see why below, laugh when you get it). Because I tend to think about things like this; once is an occurrence, twice is a coincidence, and thrice is pattern. So I'll admit this out loud. I don't just have cancer, I also have a condition known as knife elbow. 

What is knife elbow, you ask? It's the condition where an unexplainable rip forms at the elbow of your dress shirt. Think of it like if Edward Scissorhands tried to slip you shirt on over his scissorhands. My left elbow is cutting through my shirts like a warm knife through butter. It's the only reason I'm not rubbing elbows with the rich and famous. I'd kill them. 

Knife elbow is actually a lot like tennis elbow, except that chefs get it most commonly. At first, I thought it was some elbow eating moths in my closet, but the exterminator assured me that I "don't have a closet."  

Anyway, it's very frustrating. I wish that my left elbow was as dull as my right one. Come on left, you backwards. I'm sanding it down currently, but this hurts more than helps, in my opinion. Wikipedia was no help; didn't even know what I was talking about. WebMD says that I have elbow cancer, so I'm going to get that check out tomorrow. What are the odds, though? Can lighting strike twice? (Remember, thrice is a pattern!)

Some good did come out of it all. I've written a short film. It's a sequel to My Left Foot called My Left Elbow and stars Daniel Day Lewis as the titular elbow. You'll see it at next year's Oscars, guaranteed! 

Its the end of February, so I'll share my resolutions with you again, with some additions and updated statuses. Enjoy! 

1. Stop breaking out into Miley Cyrus songs (Complete)

2.  Have a recurring sketch show at a New York Comedy theater, with new sketches every time. (1/2 Complete - doing my show again!)

3. Craft a solid 10-15 minute set of stand up.

4. Perform regularly with 1 or more improv teams. (Complete)

5. Write a few episodes of a television show. 

6. Develop a late night television packet.

7. Write a play.

8. Release a book.

9. Attend the ever popular play 'Hamilton.' (Complete)

10. Begin regular classes doing pilates, tai chi, or yoga.

11. Join a bowling league. 

12. Get a new job. (1/2 Complete - promoted at work)

13. Beat Cancer (3/4 Complete)

😎 So far, so good.  😎

P.S. Knife Elbow, my new improv team, has 100 shows this month. Come see us!

Don't Panic

I want you to do something for a minute. Try to picture me having a panic attack. Go ahead, I'll wait. Can't do it, can you? You know why? I don't get panic attacks. I'm so mellow all of the time. I mean, I'm so mellow, weed has no effect on me. So when, on Tuesday, I had a panic attack at work, I thought, 'Hey, this is odd.." and "Is there a way to crawl out of skin?" No answer yet, but I'm still looking into it.

I'm going to walk you through how a panic attack hits me, or atleast the way this one did, cause it's very personal, embarrassing, and probably funny. It reminded me of tenth grade. Tenth grade is when my psychological problems really took off. I'm me because of them, but they really got-to-steppin' around that time.

In tenth grade, I took chemistry. Pretty innocuous start, right? I learned the word 'innocuous.' Everything was great. But every so often, I'd be terrified to speak in class. This is because I was convinced that when I would open my mouth, I would say the c-word. Not cancer, I was a long way from that. The other c-word. Cunt. That word. (I've written it, not said it. Don't ground me, Mom!) Now, as you can well imagine, for the teacher's pet to be unable to speak in class, well, that is a level of Hell even Dante missed. I couldn't talk. Every answer was the c-word. It was as if the classroom was transported to Britain, Dr. Who style. It terrified me. 

Cut to Tuesday. Valentine's Day.  I had to go to a meeting that I didn't know was happening. It was in front of the guy in charge of everything at work. I was presenting. I hadn't felt that kind of pressure since tenth grade, when I did that chemistry experiment where the thing built up pressure. Anyway, I got nervous in the meeting, and a word took over my head. It wasn't the c-word, though. It was... the n-word. Now, please understand that I had no intention of using or being disrespectful with that word. I'm not even allowed to use it. My friends at work said I could say 'ninja,' but I don't even want to do that. Anyway, there I was, desperately trying to not make it sound like Richard Pryor came in and edited our presentation. My coworker was presenting before me, and at one point, I couldn't even talk. I tried to form words in my head and nothing happened. I took my pulse multiple times, and it was definitely high, unlike me, because as I've said, weed has no effect on me. I managed to make it through the presentation, speaking slowly, and that's slowly for me, because I'm already a slow speaker. I was sweaty, scared, and acutely aware of how many African American coworkers were in the room. Again, similar to tenth grade, I was terrified. 

The rest of the day was a struggle, cause the world didn't feel right, and I was alert from the aftermath of my panic attack. It's impossible to describe that feeling, so I'll just say that it feels like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. I couldn't focus, eat, sleep. Everything hurt, but in the weirdest way. I fell asleep in my clothes, after running from dinner to bed and hiding under the covers. I was peering out at my girlfriend with one eye asking "What's happening?"  Or my finest moment. 

I'm ok now. What caused it? I think it was the hormones, as it was the first day that I took thyroid hormones since my body doesn't have one of those anymore. So basically, I was raging with hormones, like the teenage girl that I'm slowly becoming. I seem to be adjusted now. It caught me off guard though, and ruined Valentine's Day. So there. Something personal. I opened up. Cause life's  short. Here's to a better Tuesday tomorrow than the last one!

A Pain in the Neck 2: Enecktrik Cancerloo

If you haven't read last week's post, please scroll down and read it, mom! (JK, i know you did.)

It's called papillary thyroid cancer, and it's rare in men my age. It's more common in women of child-bearing age.  That's not me yet, but it could be. #imwithher #iamher #iamonewiththetumorandthetumoriswithme

When I first heard the news from the doctor, I excused myself, went into the bathroom and punched a dent into the towel dispenser. That hurt a lot, and I'm on a simple repayment plan to cover the damages. Oh, the things Breaking Bad doesn't tell you! It was quite a shock to hear, but I quickly decided to do whatever was necessary to get rid of this cancer. I wanted to ditch this tumor like the annoying coworker at a work function. I was told a complete thyroidectomy was in order. "Don't I need my thyroid?" I asked. "Yes, but it's riddled with cancer. We need to remove it, ma'am, oh, uh, excuse me, sorry. It's more common in women... I thought you were a woman." Luckily, my "girl cancer" can be cured with some surgery and a pill. 

Surgery was fun. The anesthesiologist gave me some sweet medicine. I haven't been that high since I partied with Billy Rubin back in Hebrew school. I only remember a little soft rock playing in the operating room. Then, it's lights out.

Lights up on the recovery room. There I am wizard-of-ozing my family and friends. "I dreampt that I had a thyroid. And you were there, and you were there, and you were there too! "They monitored me over night, feeding me less than fulfilling rations of food. My calcium, much like everything else about me, was perfect. I was quickly discharged, like a cell phone running PokémonGO. From there, it's just your average major surgery recovery plan: $9.99 a month, no hard foods, percocets (which I'm high on right now), and some well deserved rest. Oh, yeah, and in a couple weeks I'll be radioactive, sound good?

I went back to work. I acted in a TV show pilot reel, I ate Chipotle. I'm becoming me again. Also, John Malkovich a little bit. Side note; my improv team, A Bit of Malkovich, has shows lined up at Triple Crown all this month. Recovery is going well. I'm being put on thyroid medicine as I write this. It'll be good. I'll be good. There will be more fun cancer updates soon, but for now, I think regular activities and rest are good for me. So, I'll end this the only way I know how. Praise, Beyoncé!!

A Pain in the Neck

Some of you keen readers may recall a long time ago when I spoke about my neck on here, comparing it to the love child between Kathy Griffin and a giraffe. I still stand by that, but my neck seems to have taken great offense to it, I assume, because recently it tried to kill me. Let me explain.

About two years ago, I caught strep throat (for the first time), or streptococcus bronchialsauras, as it's more technically known. Ever since then, my throat would get hot and scratchy, like a cat on fire. I didn't know what was wrong. Then, at the end of last year, my immune system got quite bad, like real bad. I caught colds and multiple stomach bugs. I almost listed "sick" as one of my professional skills on my resume. It was bad and I didn't know why. Then, my right lymph swelled to three times its normal size. Now, they tell me size doesn't matter. In this case, it does.

This enlarged lymph node worried me. I began wondering if my ego had gotten so big that I started to grow a second head just to contain it. Turns out it wasn't a second head, it was simply a big-ass lymph node, one that didn't respond to antibiotics. That worries me even more, so I ultrasounded it like a twelve week old fetus. Since then, I've had more ultrasounds than most girls my age (combined!). I managed to confuse a couple of doctors and get some sweet inner neck pics in the process (Do you think this node makes my neck look fat?) What I didn't expect to find was a nodule on my thyroid.  

That could be anything, we thought. Maybe my thyroid wanted to get 'swole' like my lymph node. The doctor disagreed and had me biopsy it, just to be safe. That's some halfway through the TV show "House" shit, like at 9:31 when someone starts bleeding from somewhere. But it was necessary, to make sure that it wasn't something more serious. Because, in an earlier test, my bilirubin was very high, which could mean cancer. I said "I haven't been this high with Billy Rubin since Hebrew school," but this was something different, the doctor told me as the results came in. That's when I found out that I had cancer. I said "Cancer? I hardly know her!"

To Be Continued............ 

Check Up

It's the end of January and you know what that means... I've turned one more year wiser. I don't see age, I'm progressive. So I just say your wiser. Like if I met a 38 year old, I'd say they were 38 years wise, like a really old owl, one that legitimately asks the question "Who???"

I've been to the doctor's a lot recently and I think that's expensive. But necessary. Ha! Butt necessary! Anyway, I'm fine, maybe, sort of, kind of, I don't know, we'll see. I'll explain everything at the right time. (I'm not pregnant, but that's not a far stretch from what it is. All will be revealed in due time.)

I've also started growing my hair long, in an effort to gentrify my neighborhood by attracting fancy Brooklyn barbers to wherever I am. Seems to be going ok so far. I've definitely added more guys with combs to where I live.

This week I'm doing what I started last year and checking in with you about how my resolutions are going. It's something that brings me joy. So I figured I'd share my joy with you. This is what my list looks like:

1. Stop breaking out into Miley Cyrus songs (Complete)

2.  Have a recurring sketch show at a New York Comedy theater, with new sketches every time.

3. Craft a solid 10-15 minute set of stand up.

4. Perform regularly with 1 or more improv teams.

5. Write a few episodes of a television show. 

6. Develop a late night television packet.

7. Write a play.

8. Release a book.

9. Attend the ever popular play 'Hamilton.' (Complete)

10. Begin regular classes doing pilates, tai chi, or yoga.

11. Join a bowling league. 

12. Get a new job.

😎 So far, so good.  😎

Good 'Ole R & R

Somehow, I ended up with a free night tonight. That's good, because I need all of the rest and relaxation that I can get.  You see, I have a hard time slowing down here in New York City. There is just so much to do all of the time, and I feel like I have to be doing all of it. Money? I need to go make that. Comedy? I need to go make that. Spaghetti sauce from scratch? I need to go make that. Do you get what I'm saying? There is so much to do and so little time to do it.

But, then again, when I get one of these rare, mysterious, easy going nights at home, I think to myself "This is nice..." Because it is. I'm one of these people who doesn't like to slow down, but acknowledges that slowing down might be a good thing. I especially need to turn down this week so that I can turn up this weekend. This weekend I turn 25. "Ahh to be 25 again," I'll say when I'm 26. The world is my oyster and my oyster is market price! (I'm working on making that a household catchphrase, thought the saying could use a 2017 boost.) Time for me to tear this town to pieces like Siegfried and Roy's tiger did to Roy's face. Who's with me?! (Runs outside naked through the cold rain, screaming at the top of his lungs.)

Whoops! I can't afford to get sick anymore! That was a bad idea. I'm freezing cold now. I guess I should stay inside the rest of the night and relax. Get some of that rest and relaxation that I won't shut up about. That good 'ole R&R railroad. (Sorry, just finishing a game of Monopoly, and by that I mean that the people that I'm playing with fell asleep. I should do that too.) Because remember, you can't spell the word 'relaxations' without the word 'rest.' (I added an 's' onto relaxation to make this work. I knew it wasn't going to on its own.) Have a good week. I'll see ya when I'm 25. 

Sketch Perfect

Tomorrow is the day. I've written and directed a sketch comedy show called Channel 1 with my newly formed sketch group SketchTV. This has been my goal from the beginning. You all should come see it (tonight if you're reading this Tuesday). It's all about what's on when TV goes off. You'll love it!

New York's been snowy recently, in a really pretty way. Usually, when you see a bunch of white stuff on the sidewalk, you're like, eww don't touch that! This has been just enough snow so that you need boots, but not enough snow to shut anything down. That's the right amount of snow.

Unfortunately, we inaugurate the schoolyard bully with a Twitter account on Friday. That'll be fun. So far the musical guests are an assemble of crickets and a couple of squeaky floor boards. What a concert! I'm looking forward to it. I hear they got a pocket sized bible to swear him in on since his hands are so god damn tiny.

Come to my sketch show on Tuesday. It's at the People's Improv Theater at 7:00. You'll be there, right?

 https://www.facebook.com/events/1815888955335872/?ti=icl

Get Down With the Sickness

If there's one thing 2017 is known for already, it's illness. According to the Chinese Zodiac signs, it's the year of the stomach bug/flu combo. I did not know that. That's cute. Also, I've had both and can attest to them. The stomach bug is like a cockroach, cause you try to get rid of one bug and they keep coming back. The flu is like Hillary Clinton, cause it's persistent and won't go away, no matter how much I rest and call it a nasty cold. Most recently, it's robbed me of my voice. I'm without my prized instrument right now, that sweet, monotonous, sultry voice that will put anyone to sleep unless I say something funny. It's just gone. I'm a wheezing, gravely shell of my former self. It's really no fun.

Everybody is sick, though. Like errbody. "How bad is it?" It's so bad, the office is now called the "cough"ice. Oh! It's so bad, doctor's are just asking guys to turn their heads now. Ow!! It's so bad, Kleenex has to outsource tissue production to Mexico. Ole!! Trump won't like that, I'll tell ya. No, but for real, it seems like everybody is coughing, sneezing, and wheezing their way through January. I think it has to do with the weather changes.

It's cold out, yo! (All my California readers can disregard this.) East coast, you feel me, right? I mean, you can't feel any extremities, but you feel me, right? That good, that's good. I have been out over stressing myself and exerting too much energy in the frigid cold. That'll stop. That's no way to get better, is it?

I hope you had a good first week of 2017. Last night was the Golden Globes. If you watched, it was pretty good. Meryl Streep is a genius. Jimmy Fallon was short and sweet and to the point. Trump took issue with the ceremony, but that's because it was something Golden that did it have his name on it. So, keep tweeting Mr. Trump, we know who's really doing the leading. Try to focus your efforts into productive efforts at change. And you know me, I love change. Ooh, look, a penny!

We can cross New Year's resolutions off at the end of the month. That'll be nice. Have a good week.