On the Lighter Side

Terri Schiavo, may you rest in peace.

This morning, a dear friend sent out an email instructing her closest pals, myself included, not to resuscitate her. We're even encouraged to call Kevorkian, Dr. Death himself. To quote, "just make sure I’m not hooked up to anything and if I am, one of you guys has to pull the plug, give me a lethal injection or get someone else to do it." She's not even 30 and the DNR is in place (informally).

If Terri Schiavo has left a legacy, it is this: she certainly got everyone talking. About life, about death, about what constitutes life and the quality thereof, about religion and the law, about the power of the Media to frame a story however they see fit. (Personally, I don’t think there is such a thing as The Media, but that’s a whole other blog.) We're finally freely discussing The End, how to plan for the inevitable, be it a surprise or a lengthy and painful process, and how to deal with it.

Folks, if there is a subject in which I am thoroughly conversed, it's death. I do funerals like others do breakfast or Happy Hour or a shit break. My best black is always pressed—2 outfits, one will never do—and ready to go. I grieve like a pro. For a while there in the early to mid 1980's, I was on the Chicago leg of The National Funeral Tour. It was sponsored by my family and Little Company of Mary Hospital. If it died in Illinois, I helped bury it. My childhood was spent at Brady Gill Funeral Home, and this was reflected in the strangest ways. For the longest time, I thought my Uncle Marty came with grey gloves, that he wore those pall bearer gloves all the time. My brother got whacked, too. He wasn't even 12 before he had to carry his first stiff. Lucky jerk. Healthy, normal Americans don't read the obits to find out what they're doing in the coming week. But morbid Irish Catholics do! Though it comes at a price, I won't shit you there, I've also discovered a few "perks" from the wealth of my experience. I am the Miss Manners of Croaking Rituals. Worried about what to say to the bereft? Come talk to me and I'll school you in a rehearsed, yet sincere, "I am so sorry for your loss." Do not forget the follow-up hug. Wrap your arms around the mourner as though yours are the limbs of healing. Literally hold them and their pain. I'm good, right? And I'm not faking it, by any means. It's straight from the heart y'all. I ain't frontin'.

In my family, we bond at funerals by telling racist jokes. Nothing brings estranged bloodlines together like the punch line of, "What did Jesus say to the black people before he died?" Fret not when fearing the awkward silences with Aunt Nancy and the twins. Fire up a Truly Tasteless Joke. Have at least 3 ready to go at all times. And mix it up, too. Don’t always go ethnic. Remember, homophobia is still hysterical. My memorable “how many dykes does it take to ______” zingers are the only reason any of my relatives talk to me at all.

Last but not least, there's booze. It can be found in the "kitchen type room" at most funeral parlors. That's where they also keep the juice and soda for mixing your cocktail, or drinking straight, but who would do that? In this space, you are encouraged to breast feed, snack on your grief with cake and cookies, smack your 5 year-old, meditate on familial violence and ponder the toll alcoholism has taken on your loved ones. If there's no booze there, run as fast as you can to the nearest gin mill and stock up.

Here are some suggestions you might want to chew on while you're obsessing about your death and the impending deaths of those you love:

What do I Wear? Prêt a porter, dammit! This is wicked vital. My grandmother, who had impeccable taste in clothing, got buried for eternity in a Pepto Bismol pink polyester suit, one she wouldn't normally be caught dead wearing. (I deserve to die for that pun.) Don’t let anyone else dress you! There’s no costume change, baby, so write that shit down! If you decide on hot pants and a Pistons jersey or your favorite pair of PJ's, make sure someone knows. Myself? I just wanna go out NOT wearing a bra, and if I could also get cremated in my favorite loafers (no socks), that'd be great.

To Funeral or Not to Funeral? Some peeps want to keep it all somber and dignified, while others prefer to party 'til they puke. We Irish Catholics have the best of both worlds: the wake and funeral mass are totally buttoned-up affairs, but we get to the funeral luncheon and it's an open bar-a-thon. If you're into folklore, this is when you whip out the mini-tape recorder, because you'll not likely to hear a geriatric family member use the words, “wrestled a chicken to the ground and pissed on it” ever again. PS—Little memorial ceremonies held weeks later suck ass. No body = no fun.

Sir, Would You Like Your Casket Open or Closed? Tough call here. I've seen a corpse or two in my lifetime that shoulda been kept under coffin only. Display a picture of the deceased from better days, for Chrissake. Otherwise, good luck eating ever again. But in most cases, I am all about the open coffin. If I do nothing else in this world, please let my lifeless form creep people out for hours on end. Extra points will be awarded to the brave souls who openly touch me. Bonus for the boobs, of course.

Oh Oh Oh, Listen to the Music! Pick it out ahead of time, or they’ll be belting out the old standards, “Amazing Grace” “Eagles Wings,” yuck! And who’s on the mic but the parish organist who can’t sing for shit and whose vowels are the most nasal in the land? Music feeds our souls, thus, gather the tunes you love and share them with your friends and family one last time. Dude, the playlist I have in mind guarantees waterworks 100%. I’m talking hidden death-themed classics like “Paradise City.” Go ahead, try not to cry. I dare you.

ONE MORE THING: BABY, I GOT YOUR MONEY. Divvy fairly now, you cheap ass. But do it in writing! Get ‘yoself a will, and don’t let any of those crazy fuckers fuck with it when you’re on your deathbed all retarded and incapable of rational thought. Money crap will destroy a family, trust me.

Have a real nice day.

C'est Spring. Je suis Sprung.

Dudes, it's sunny and gorgeous outside. Sunday we 'spring ahead.' All signs point to renewal and reawakening. Soon, we'll rise for work when it's sunny and come home when it's sunny. Unless, of course, you've got a real job, one where you work 50 or more hours a week. Suckers! The darkness continues to surround your unfortunate asses. My point is: Yeehaw! It's Spring, bitches!

What does Spring mean to me? Well, to start, I like to wear less clothing, lighter weight fabric and whatnot. Screw my turtlenecks and all that damn wool. This body wants her freedom. I've got great legs. Sure, they're a little hairy, pale and bruised, but that's nothing that a weed wacker, some sunless tanning lotion and protective padding can't fix. Then there's May sweeps and season finalies galore. Every TV show blows their proverbial "money shot" on weddings, shocking deaths and the odd guest star, i.e. Ann Jillian, Louis Gossett, Jr. and Jonathan Winters on a very special "The O.C." Truly weird shit like that is what sweeps is all about. And I love it. So much so that I'd titty fuck my TV if I thought it would make any appreciative noises.

But by far the most prominant sign that Spring has arrived--and speaking of titty fucking--is the constant tickle in my middle that no anti-depressant in the world could deaden. There isn't enough SVU fanfic in the world to further a cause like mine. (If anyone can tell me the movie I ripped that quote from, I'll give you $1.) I'm alive! Congratulations girls, if you've got a pulse and a hole, I will hump you. Well, not quite that random, but let's just say I am on The Pull. Now accepting applications, inquire within. EOE. D&D free. Wait, I don't even care. Truth be told, I love disease and drugs. Bring 'em on! I've got syringes, dental damns and a whole lotta Lysol. Yummm! Actually, I do have one teeny tiny itty bitty little caveat: no nail biters. That's really skank. So, to recap, Her qualifications: pulse, hole, well-manicured hands. God, I am needy.

What Could Save Terri Schiavo? Being Gay.

In the world where I live, things like this should happen: The Pope and Terri Schiavo meet each other on a commuter bus to heaven...

TERRI and THE POPE sit side by side looking healthy, alert and relieved.

TERRI: I AM SO GRATEFUL TO FINALLY BE HERE.

POPE: ME, TOO. YOU KNOW, TOWARD THE END, EVERYONE IN THE VATICAN'S INNER SANCTUM TRIED DESPERATELY TO CONVINCE THE PUBLIC THAT I WAS MERELY UNDER THE WEATHER. I WAS DYING, YET THEY SCHEMED TO GIVE ANOTHER IMPRESSION ENTIRELY. THEY ACTUALLY WHEELED ME TO MY WINDOW WHERE, EMPLOYING AN ELABORTATE SYSTEM OF PULLIES AND PROSTHETICS, I WOULD "WAVE" TO THE GATHERED CROWD. SUCH EFFORT FOR AN ILLUSION.

TERRI: I CAN TOTALLY IDENTIFY. MY LAST DAYS TURNED INTO A NATIONAL DEBATE. EVEN THE PRESIDENT GOT INVOLVED!

POPE: OH. WHAT WAS THE DEABTE ABOUT?

TERRI: I'D BEEN BRAIN DEAD, IN A VEGITATIVE STATE, FOR YEARS. AND MY HUSBAND DECIDED TO HAVE MY FEEDING TUBE REMOVED. MY PARENTS WANTED TO HAVE IT PUT BACK IN. A HUGE LEGAL BATTLE ENSUED, DIVIDING MY FAMILY, AND THE COUNTRY, IN HALF. EVERY HOLY ROLLER--PARDON ME, YOUR HOLINESS--EVERY EVANGELIST IN THE COUNTRY RALLIED BEHIND MY PARENTS. THE MERITS OF MY VERY EXISTENCE WERE THE SUBJECT OF ENORMOUS CONTENTION ON THE SENATE FLOOR. BUT THE ISSUE WAS QUITE SIMPLE, REALLY. LEGALLY, MY HUSBAND WAS MY NEXT OF KIN. AND THAT'S THAT.

POPE: LAUGHS OUT LOUD.

TERRI: YOU'RE NOT LAUGHING AT THIS, PONTIFF?

POPE: OH, TERRI, FORGIVE ME THIS TRESPASS, BUT THE IRONY IS TOO MUCH.

TERRI: WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

POPE: BEFORE YOU AND RESSURECTING THE DEBATE OVER EUTHANASIA, WHAT HAD THE CHRISTIAN RIGHT UP IN ARMS?

TERRI: GAY MARRIAGE.

POPE: CORRECT. I AM TRULY TICKLED BY THIS ONE...IF YOURS WAS A GAY MARRIAGE, YOUR SPOUSE WOULDN'T HAVE HAD A LEGAL LEG TO STAND ON. IN THE EYES OF THE LAW AND THE CHURCH, YOUR SPOUSE WOULD HAVE NO LEGAL RIGHTS WHATSOEVER, THUS, PAVING THE WAY FOR YOUR PARENTS AND THEIR ZEALOT SUPPORTERS TO PREVAIL.

TERRI: GOOD GOD. IF I WERE GAY, I'D STILL BE ALIVE.

POPE: WELL, THANK GOD YOU'RE NOT! BUT RIGHT NOW, MAYBE YOUR MOTHER AND YOUR FATHER, THE RED (FLY-OVER) STATES, TOM DELAY AND THE PRESIDENT WOULD PREFER YOU WERE.

By the Skin of My Teeth

Went to the dentist today for the first time in at least 3 years. I am retiring for the Holy Week to ice my gums and thank Christ for dying.

My Hands Are Small 

Work: It's Really Really Hard 

Sad Fulfilled Clown

Last night I had a show at Punch restaurant/lounge. Too bad if you weren't there. You really missed out on some fruitful shit. During my set, I shared a story with the audience that I had previously told only to my shrink. Never to another human being. Yet, there I was--"on"--revealing one of my most traumatic childhood experiences to 30 or 40 people with whom I have basically no relationship. And this morning I woke up feeling not unlike I did when I was drinking...a lot: embarrassed, shocked and full of regret. Another "I can't believe I did that" moment had arrived, only this time its invitation wasn't bathed in JackDaniels and Sierra Nevada. It was the direct result of freedom from fear and total honesty.

The one place I feel most comfortable is on stage. I am not a stand-up comedian because I want to be famous and make a lot of money, tho that would be sweet. But time and time again, I choose to get up on that stage, sacrifice my pride, risk being rejected, agonize over material and give everything I've got to an audience, not because I like to but because I need to. Don't get me wrong, I feed off every morsel of fleeting fame and adoration. Applause and laugher are my crack. I will do literally anything to make someone laugh. However, my creative process isn't wholly altruistic either. Any comedian who tells you that they just like to make people laugh has their lips puckered neatly around your asshole and they're blowing a constant stream of hot air right up your poop shoot. Trust me, we get as good as we give. Thank God people find our neuroses and crooked observations funny. Otherwise we'd have nowhere to go except maybe therapy. I implore the laughers to please continue supporting our varying degrees of insanity and need. Love us for we cannot love ourselves. How else can you explain the fact that, after bombing, failing miserably and feeling unfunny and worthless, we get right back up there. Again and again.

I need that stage time. It allows me to reveal more of myself, to see where I'm at in this world, to say what I have to say. Up there with a microphone in my hand, I have free reign and no shame. None. Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, I actually like myself. So, for 5 minutes, 8 minutes, sometimes 15 minutes at a time, I am bulletproof. Comedians notoriously live and die by audience reaction, but I've learned (the HARD HARD way) that it really doesn't matter if I "kill" or not. I win either way. My success is determined by my willingness to Just Do It. While I wish I knew that when I started, and while I hope I can always feel the truth of that statement, I know I won't. There will come yet another time when I feel like a fucking loser because I wasn't funny enough. But the rare occasions of clarity, like last night, help keep me going. Kind of ironic, isn't it? That a craft so inherently self-centered and self-obsessed has taught me how to be less so?

Ah, speaking of selfish, the rain-soaked sidewalks of Manhattan are no place for a goddamn golf umbrella! So close your fucking Traveller's Insurance JP Morgan KPMG American Express Summer Classic '02 nylon tent of a weather shield or I'll do it for you. And when I'm done, I'll save even MORE space and store that massive umbrella right up your ass! Keep it in the suburbs, Westchester. We don't want your kind here.

Tid Bits from Tiny

• On the subway, when seated upright and resting all the way back on my seat, my feet do not touch the ground. Thanks, flats I wore today, for reminding me that I'll never be a real grown-up.
• I'm fairly certain that our FED EX guy would like to host a party in my pants. He's 90. But I am still flattered! Thus exposing how desperately I crave attention and adoration. (Hell, if I thought love really existed, I might crave that, too. Thank God I don't. What an empty life that would be.)
• Ellen DeGeneres dancing makes me uncomfortable. The boogie in question is a staple on her show. After her monologue, the DJ "kicks it" and the audience claps along and just watches Ellen swish, strut and do The Butt all over the set, like a trained seal. And she doesn't seem to care, she even eggs them on, like a stripper (only this one's dressed lesbo casual). Armchair Psychologists, professional or crack-pot: I invite you to submit theories as to the cause of this discomfort. Help me escape the prison that is my inhibition. It's some strain of intimacy issue, that's for sure.
• If you haven't rocked out to Springsteen's BORN IN THE U.S.A or BORN TO RUN albums in a while, do yourself a solid and give them a spin as soon as humanly possible.
• Please pray for THE INSIDER'S anchor, Pat O'Brien (formerly of ACCESS HOLLYWOOD). He's drying out in some swanky CA rehab for pussies where they get deep tissue massages and decorate cupcakes to express their feelings. Pat, I wish you paper slippers, drunk dreams, awe-inspiring humility and a 5 star whack job for a roommie. I'll never forget you hosting Olympic Latenight on CBS from Lillehammer in '94. You nursed me through a nasty bought of Olympic Fever. You were there for me, so now I am here for you. Hey, I've got more than a year in "the program." If you need a sponsor, let me know, ya soak.

I've Got Gigs. They're Multiplyin' and I'm Losin' Control

Because the comedy I'm supplyin', it's electrifyin'!

The Comedy Cellar
Friday, March 18th at 7p.m.
MacDougal St. btwn. W. 3rd and Bleeker
$5 cover, 2 item minimum
They’re doing a contest and the winner gets ONE MONTH OF FREE SPOTS (i.e. - no bringers)

Jab@Punch
Tuesday, March 22 at 7:30p.m.
Broadway btwn. 20th & 21st St.
FREE. FREE FREE.
Go to the upstairs lounge. Possibly the final JAB ever...bye bye, Katie McCabe :(

New York Comedy Club
Thursday, March 24th at 9 p.m.
241 E. 24th St.
$10 cover

Improv Comedy Club
Saturday, April 9th at 7p.m.
318 W. 53rd St. btwn. 8th & 9th Aves
$15 cover, two item min.
$12 cover w/ res. Call 212-629-1781 or
Email: comedyreservations@hotmail.com
I am getting so close to breaking through at this place...

Inside Out

You are watching 'Dead Poet's Society' for the umpteenth time, it's the scene where they're standing up on their chairs in a show of loyalty for their controversial teacher, and you are in tears. But you're alone, so cry away.
You just sat down on the toilet to get some business done. As you're easing into top-of-the-can looking down on creation mode, a fart slips out. A loud and surprsingly powerful fart. And now, you're not just peeing, you are filled with sublime joy. That was great, wasn't it? Farts of the "gotcha!" variety are freaking hysterical. Our bodies are just full of surprises.

These are some examples of your secret moments, the ones reserved for you only. They're part of the quality time you spend with yourself, completely unguarded and candid as all hell. Saving the embarrassment and shame factor for another time, you savor every guilty pleasure right down to the bone. We all do it.

So, for shits and giggles, I thought I'd share some of mine in the hopes of getting to know other people's. Confession breeds more confession, at least I hope it does.

1. When I am pressing one of my shirts--which I am prone to do quite frequently as I am addicted to ironing--and the hot iron sizzles over the armpit, I inhale as deeply as possible becuase I love the smell of my burnt body odor. Mmm.

2. Every now and then I sing along w/ the following at the top of my little lungs: The Chess Soundtrack, any Amy Grant, Shania Twain or Billy Ocean I can scrounge up, Barbra Streisand's Broadway album, every note Belinda Carlisle has ever recorded either solo or Go-Go.

3. Baseball movies rev me up & make me cry. For catharsis' sake I own The Natural, Field of Dreams, Bull Durham, A Laegue of Their Own, Eight Men Out and yes, even Major League can do it to me. PS--Without these films, I'd never allow myself the indulgence of crying. Not adult crying, which is stilted and self-conscious, rather I am talking about kid cry, which is so visceral an unabashed, you're exhausted when you're finished.

4. I fantasize about kicking the crap out of Katie Couric and Dakota Fanning. Sure, there are others who can inspire such violence in my soul, but those two bitches take the cake.

5. Beside my bed, strewn all over my bedroom floor (right now, as I type!) are at least 700 pages of 'Law & Order: SVU' femslash fanfiction. The appetite for this stuff will never be satiated. It's the only vice I have left.

And there you have it! A brief peek into my land of "Who Goes There?" I truly hope you've enjoyed yourself, had a laugh or 5. And I also hope that I've inspired you to celebrate your oddities, your hidden loves. Please, do feel free to share.

shannon.jpg 

Top of the Mornin' to Ya

Indeed, I am as Irish as the day is long, as Robert Blake is a free man and as certain as mass vomiting nation-wide throughout the day. But my pug nose, talent for storytelling, drinking problem, brooding temper and translucent skin aside, the mere fact that I am of Irish descent doesn't necessarily mean that I inherently know everything there is to know about the holiday's history and festivities. So don't ask me where the parade stops, or whether or not St. Patrick had any money (duh, the Irish never have cash, but we've always got a song in our heart). If that's what you want, tune in to the dude who co-hosts the NYC parade on TV. That man has shaken hands with, prayed beside and walked a mile in the shoes of every O'Johnny McPatrick in the tri-state area. He knows who cooks the best corned beef in Bergen County. And his brogue is offensive lineman thick. The first 9 or 10 sentences you hear out of 'your man' will be incomprehensible, but give yourself some time, b/c he's the best treat of the day. It's 3 solid hours of endless factiod commentary. Dick Vitale's got nothing on this fella. He could Celt-talk the back legs off a jackass. God Bless you, dude who's name I cannot recall. You're lovely, grand altogether!

Have a fekkin' brilliant St. Paddy's day, everyone!

HEAD SHOT 

I Knew This Would Happen

I'd start and not be able to stop. But I am compelled to share a perfectly appropriate example of how stupid people drive me nuts. Scott Peterson's death sentence was upheld today. And from the mouth of a grown person, I heard the following:

"You know, I'm glad. They'll appeal, but I'm glad. I'm not in favor of the death penalty, but in this case I am because it was just so heinous."

That means you're IN FAVOR of the death penalty, idiot.

And We Have Lift-Off!

I am so excited about my first attempt at blogging that I'm practically sliding out of my chair. Ah, 'tis grand, my own little forum. But what do I say? How might I best use the medium? There I go, getting lost in the big picture. Instead of approaching this new challenge one blog at a time (thanks, Bill W.) and keeping it simple, my natural tendency reveals itself: I must be profound, exceptional and incredibly popular. This prowess must be clear to everyone, so that yes, they will worship me, but more importantly, they'll fucking respect my ass and do what I say. I'm a giver like that. Even if you don't want my opinion, I am more than happy to give it to you. For free, with a smile and a note or two of total condescension. For I, Shannon Eileen Ennis, am a latent teacher longing to change this world, to will its inhabitants love, peace and a future that complies precisely to my design. This is my blog. And you are my minions. Are we clear? Then let us embark upon this journey together. Fret not, for I will raise you up on eagle's wings, bear you on the breath of dawn, make you to shine like the sun and hold you in the palm of my hand. Ready? Set? Fun!